-"Who am I?" by Royce da 5'9

The bastard himself sat comfortably behind his massive cherry- wood desk, a desk that was economically huge, and probably had more compartments than Joe knew about. Some would question why Joe would have such a huge desk, but then they'd remember he's a bastard and takes any chance he gets to kill Mother Earth.

"I have a job for you," he said, as he uncrossed his legs at the ankles, then pulling himself closer to the desk with his feet. He hadn't shaved in days, the stubble on his face in the dim lighting made Joe look dirtier than he was, in all actuality. This, and his three day binge- drinking breath made the man who sat across from him, the man to whom he was speaking, cringe.

"Anything." The man's reply was instant, despite being offended by Campbell's self- maintenance.

A fox like grin emblazoned Campbell’s jowl, it’s sinister nature impossible to be hidden, “Good,” he nodded, “Good. Too often twats around here, don’t know who’s fucken boss. I need you to clean up some loose ends, you familiar with a cunt by the name of Cornelius Corteia?”

"From the tapes," the man replied, his head tilted down. His eyes drifted across Joe's desk, finally falling upon Joe's stack of business cards. Joe has business cards? "I know him from the taped I watched. Carnage, before my time."

The man took one of the cards from the small, plastic display that gathered them all neatly. He rubbed his thumb over the embossed Fuckhead, as he stared at Joe Campbell's name.

"I know who Corteia is."

Joe’s hand slid across the stubble, his right hand dropped and he dribbled his finger tips off the desktop, “Well because of a certain fuck-up, he’s loose, and I’m going to need you to go find him. Not just find him, I want that twats head on my fucken mantelpiece.” Joe leaned back in his chair and folded his arms across his chest, “Can you do that?”

"Let me see." The man ran his hand over his chin, contemplating the job, perhaps. "You want me to find Carnage?"

"Yes," Joe replied, rather annoyed. 'Didn't I just say that, ya blooming idiot' he thought.

"And you want me to kill him...?"

Although it was more of a statement, the man still asked the question. Joe was even more pissed, as he could feel an alcohol- induced blackout coming on.

"Yes..."

More moments of silence passed, as the man withdrew a pocket watch from inside his black coat. Flipping open the cover, he noted the time, and quickly returned it to where it once sat.

"You want me to find... and kill Carnage?"

"Yes, yes... Fucking YES!" Joe screamed, his tolerance level capped. The man looked at him with question, as Joe's blood- shot eyes struggled to stay open.

"OK. When do you want him dead?"

The door behind the guest burst open almost eschewing the hinges from the door, Joe blinked unawares of who the unwelcome entrant, until the black hood flipped back, and the dirty blond hair peaked on the head. “Joe, I need to talk to you, alone. I think I might know where the fucker is.”

Joe motioned to the man sitting in front of him, and then looked past him towards Thompson, “I’m fucken busy, now why don’t you go somewhere? You see, I’m going to do something about this problem you left in my lap, you little shite, now why don’t you go and bugger off?”

Thompson’s left hand went to the nape of his neck, and rotating it to the side he heard the cracking, he shook his head swiftly, as he looked at Joe. “If I wasn’t smart on this, I’d think I was unwanted here Joe, that ain’t the case is it?”

“Yeah, that’s exactly the fucken case, Thompson. You fucked up one time too many,” Joe’s eyelids flickered, and he looked back up at him, “Now get the fuck out of here. Now!!”

Thompson brow tightened as he started approaching the desk, each stepped resonating thickly against the ground, his boots clicking as he went. He placed his hand on the chair in front of Joe. “You think some fucken cocksucker is gonna do my job better than me? Fuck this guy,” Thompson kicked the back of the chair, “You’re not me buddy, you’ll never be, and you won’t have him, Carnage is mine.”

"Anyone can do your job better than you-" the man said. He took a deep breath, placing his palms on his thighs to help himself to his feet. He turned around, facing Thompson, who was somewhat shocked in learning the guest's identity.

"-when you can't even do it yourself."

Pointless, Josiah, grinned widely as he placed his hands in the front- jacket pockets.

"Joe needs a job done, and he's hiring a professional. What more needs to be said, other than 'fuck off'?"
Thompson smiled and shook his head, laughing under his breath, “You must not know who I am, I’m the fucken Phoenix. And there’s no way, I’m going to be shaken by you. That’d be like one of the prison cellmates, being scared by Michael Jackson, ain’t happening you cuntrag. Now you’re gonna get off of this deal, you’re gonna go home, and you’re gonna like it.” Sebastian poked his finger into the Josiah’s chest, “Got that?”

"I'll tell you what I did get; a suppressed faggot who calls himself 'the Phoenix', and uses Michael Jackson and prison in his metaphors.

"I'm finding Carnage. A PRO is finding him, and a pro is killing him. Children and women, such as yourself, needn't be concerned with such a mark any longer. Got... that?"

Josiah emphasized his sentence via returning the poke.
Sebastian’s hand slipped into his pocket, and a flick was heard, he raised the switchblade to waist level, “Kid, I earned my stripes, and I finish my jobs, do yourself and Joe a favor, since he must have some type of faith in you.. Don’t make me have to take your life here, we don’t want to make God cry now do we?”

Joe was up from his desk, and tossed his hands up shoving both men away from one another, quickly he got in Thompson’s face. “I told you to get the fuck out of my office, it’s not your job anymore, you fucked it up. Now get out of here now!” Joe’s words fumbled across his lips as he was pushing Thompson backwards, the switchblade slapped shut as Thompson walked backwards out of the room with Joe’s aide.

“Yeah, sure, uh huh, yeah” Thompson said half interested, “Whatever you say Joe.”

Thompson looked over Joe’s shoulders and directly at Josiah, and blew a kiss, “See ya later hotlips.”

"Keep adding to your own sexual dilemma, man, I'm not stopping you." Josiah called back.

As Thompson left the corridor, Joe turned back around, facing Josiah.

"Bloody hell," he mumbled, "Well, I suggest you get started. All the information you need is in that folder on the desk. Take it, take off as much time as you need to, and make sure you get this job done."
Pointless took the folder, lightly thumbing through its contents.

"My pleasure."

Splink sat in their locker room, admiring the view. Campbell had given them a room with a view. Fair enough, the view was that of a back alley that was littered in shit and needles, but that’s not the point. It should also be noted that Splink were wearing their necklaces. They’re not gay or anything. They think the necklaces make them look dashing. Dashing like highwaymen, with masks and necklaces. Not like gays.

“So, Numbnutz, gonna tell me about your favourite fuck or am I gonna have to beat it out of ya?”

Slapnutz looked down at the floor and shuffled his feet. His beige Timberland boots scuffed off the floor, drawing the attention of TMM.

“You like my new boots?” Slapnutz asked his partner.

“Yeah, but they’re the same ones you ALWAYS buy. You said they were good for kicking people in the face.”

“Yeah, but I tied them differently. I zigzagged the laces this time. They look proper bo.”

TMM examined the boots of his partner but couldn’t honestly give two fucks about the laces. He was humouring him. Something that was strictly a foreign concept for Splink. Still, if they were to time travel or sell snow, it would get them over, but they weren’t cheap like that. They did things the hard way. Nudge nudge. Wink wink. Have we lost you yet? No? Then keep on going.

“But what about your favourite fuck, Slutnutz? I’m desperate to add new material to the spank bank so ‘fess up and we can get on with the night.”

Slapnutz took a deep breath and thought carefully about his answer.

“You remember Naomi?” TMM nodded his head.

“Well, she was a right goer. Irish birds usually are, it’s the whole Catholic thing. Fucking ace. Anyway, after a show one night, we got back into the ring and fucked like animals. I took her every which way and then we collapsed on the mat. It wasn’t only my blood staining the ring that night.”

A dirty grin crept over the face of TMM. He had kinky thoughts that would last him more than a fortnight. He would simply replace the image of Slapnutz in his head, with an image of himself. Naomi was fucking hot and he would have loved to have fucked her in the middle of the ring.

“You not going into any more detail, bitch?”

Slapnutz looked uneasy. The whole concept of this made him feel somewhat uneasy. It wasn’t in his nature to boast about things like this. He was the one that would talk about fighting all the time. He might mention that a fan in the front row looked pretty, but he wouldn’t reveal that he longed to have rough, unprotected sex with her. He wouldn’t say that the cute blonde in the second row with the pink top on deserved to be fucked from behind and then fed his dick.

That wasn’t his way. He kept that bottled up. Not his thing.

“Let’s just say she was walking like John Wayne for a fortnight after that session. I was damn proud of it. Stuffed her like the Christmas turkey.”

“You sly bastard. I didn’t think you had that kind of thing in you.”

Oh he had it in him alright. He longed for a dirty fuck. He pined to get dirty with the bitch he saw last Sunday. He was fucking horny...

So fucking horny.

Santos Salvatore couldn't stop blinking as he got out of the taxi and shoved the change of the fare he paid into the right side-pocket of his blue jeans. The taxi sped away into the night, and Sal was shivering with excitement as he took small steps towards the Pontiac Silverdome. After a few months out on the sidelines without any reason, it appeared as if Santos Salvatore was back. The man whose goal was to, by orders of his master/employer, scout -- and if required, maim -- Ty Hughes. However, Santos never did get into the groove of his 'mission' and instead, got embroiled in a nasty rivalry with Jade. One that lasted for quite a while, too.

Why, you ask? Let's just say... their pasts had a common denominator.

In the weeks leading up to the final showdown at Severed in September, Santos had been dodging Jade, having seen what she was really capable of; and with Jade out for blood, Santos really had no other choice. He still had his all-important mission to tend to. Jada Marie Hunter, however, managed to take Sal hostage once in a bid to derive some vital information, but the Brazilian eventually escaped. At Severed, Santos finally decided to get over the fear of Jade, and fought her. The fight ended in a draw, but in the end, Santos walked away with JMH's on his hands. And, with a couple of injuries as well.

He pushed past the doors of the arena and a sense of pride overwhelmed him. Over the years, he'd been involved with various organisations, some of which were backed up by the greatness of tradition. But as far as Asylum was concerned, Santos always thought of it as a place where he could reinvent himself and possibly recapture his former glory. Years ago, he was one of the best at what he did; fighting. Now, there were hordes of other fighters who had their own unique style. Hordes of other fighters who perfected their technique to the point where they seemed almost untouchable to the common folk.

Then again, Asylum was overflowing with people who were, in no way at all, common.

Walking down the hallway, Sonny looked at the officials who were lazing about and smiled at them, half-expecting to get one in return. Instead, the officials simply showed Sal their respective middle-fingers. You'd think that Salvatore would frown; not the case. His sheepish and schoolboy-esque grin grew even wider. In some way, he'd missed Asylum. And considering the events of the past couple of months, Santos Salvatore would be forgiven for thinking that he'd be safe in tA. Where some of the world's most dangerous psychopaths resided.

"Well, first time 'round, I put off talking to Mr Campbell. Gotta talk to him now; no other way possible."

Out from the wilderness, and straight into the lion's den. Santos Salvatore certainly seemed intent to make a fresh re-entry into theAsylum. In his previous stint, Santos was actually somewhat a member of Team Campbell, but his cowardice ensured that he never spoke to Joe. Funny, since the degenerate owner wanted so badly to be rid of Ty Hughes, and Santos was hired to do the exact same thing.

Fireworks impending.

Eddie Cheno, the new California Stoner, walked into the venue of today’s Asylum show, gym bag in one hand, a large steel pipe in the other. His eyes told a story of loss, of hate, of love, and endless timeline of events that have happened to him, that he can no longer remember.

But he feels them in the pit of his stomach.

And in a moment of anger, he slammed that metal pipe into a fire extinquisher, spraying the fumes all around him. He stepped through the smoke, unfazed, back once again to his calm and cold demeanor.

Every second added another drop to the glass.

And every now and then, that glass would overflow.

This, of course, was something she’d never admit. She’d die before she’d let them know that she yearned for their approval.

Unfortunately for her, due to her lengthy and unexplained absence from the promotion that she, along with her partner Nikki, had declared war on many weeks earlier, the only way she’d probably ever get their approval would be to, well, die.

It was an irony that she, along with everyone else who actually knew that Woman’s Intuition ever existed, was aware of. However, it was also an irony that would take months, if not years, of hard work inside of the cage to erase.

The view of the excited crowd, who were eagerly anticipating appearances from fighters who were actually active, became too much for the young Storm and she backed away from the curtain meekly.

Why did she let it go this far? Why did she allow herself to throw away everything that her team had going for them?

Renee’, who had always known everything, couldn’t even begin to respond to those questions, which had been running through her mind since she had filed into the arena with the other fighters earlier in the day.

Shaking the brown tresses from her eyes, Storm looked at Nikki Carlson, who sat in a nearby folding chair with her head in her hands.

She didn’t have the answers either. Then again, when did she ever?

The Show went on around them as they sulked there. It seemed as if the Asylum had passed them by.

“Holy shit!” Came a voice from out of nowhere. “Woman’s Intuition!”

Or maybe, it didn’t.

Renee’ and Nikki raised their heads, a glimmer of wide-eyed hope appearing on their faces.

“What in the FUCK are you two doing here?” The voice, male and deep, exclaimed. “I thought Joe fired your lazy asses weeks ago!”

Ok, scratch that. It definitely did and this guy, who was just as unknown and worthless as Woman’s Intuition appeared to be, was doing a fine job at pointing it out.

Renee’ stammered with her words, trying to find the right thing to say before yelling back. “Yeah, well, he didn’t! And we’re here!”

Nikki, who rarely spoke a word, felt the need to back up her friend and chimed in. “That’s right! And we’re going to make an impact!”

Chuckles emerged from the man’s mouth loudly and ferociously. They stung the ears of Renee’ and Nikki like so many bees. They hated being laughed at.

“Please!” The man screamed at them in between fits of laughter. “You couldn’t make an impact even if you won the fucking titles!”

It was then that the proverbial light bulb went off in Renee’s head, which had successfully been pounded on for many Shows in a row before the team pulled their disappearing act, probably because of the beatings that they were taking.

“That’s it!”

Her voice screamed confidence at the top of its lungs. It was a characteristic that neither of the members of Woman’s Intuition had been familiar with since they signed on the dotted line and became Joe Campbell’s whipping girls.

“That’s what?” Nikki asked, confused.

“No time to explain!” Renee’ said in a hyper fashion. “Just come with me!”

And at that moment, having made their return to an organization that they so openly despised, Women’s Intuition were off and running to Lord knows where, leaving the man who had just unknowingly inspired them with a few last words.

“An impact.” He laughed. “Yeah, right…”

Already, however, Joe had judged Santos. By the clothes the latter wore; black leather jacket, white t-shirt, blue jeans and black boots.

Campbell: My verdict is... you're a cunt!

Salvatore frowned. Joe had not remembered him, but it was expected, since the two never officially met. Santos gave himself a mental asskicking for thinking he could just barge into the owner's office and announce his return, in addition to a request for a fight. Sal cleared his throat and gathered his thoughts, aware that the impatient Joe Campbell was growing wreary of his presence.

Sonny had to say something, and fast.

"Uhum, okay... I'm the chap Vincent Pembridge hired to take care of Ty Hughes. Remember? I came in at Everything Or Nothing, after you talked to Vincent. I was supposed to scout Ty's movements and behaviour, and report all my findings to Vincent. He wanted to get back at Ty for the little double-cross back in thReat in May."

Joe's eyes widened, and seconds later, he motioned for Santos to close the door of the office. Sal nodded and duly obliged, before returning his attention to Joe, the man that held his future in the palm of his beer-stained hands. Campbell shifted about in his seat, finally getting some recollection of the identity of the man who was in his office.

"Ah yes, you're the Brazilian twat. Or are you Spanish? Doesn't matter; you were supposed to have a meeting with me, weren't ya?" Joe queried.

And the answer was, well, simple enough.

"Y-Yeah, but I didn't."

"Why the feck not, you arse?"

Santos gulped, as Campbell's tone of voice was raised a couple of notches.

"I was occupied! On one hand, I had to deal with Vincent's grunt work, which eventually included me joining thReat. And of course, I had the mission to think about; that Ty Hughes is one slippery snake. BUT, that damn Jade got mixed up with me, and I had to deal with her hunting me down everytime I reported for work!"

Joe's right eyebrow arched upwards a wee bit. This was all breaking news to him.

"You and Jade were, what, doing some sort of bondage thing?"

Santos fought the urge to laugh, but found it hard to keep a straight face. Campbell remained as confused as ever, awaiting an answer to keep him from kicking Sonny out of the arena.

"No. I wish. She's got a perky ass. But anyways, I did something to this friend of hers a few years back and she recognised me, so the psycho-bitch decided to get some payback. We fought at Severed after I got some advice to stop being so fearful, and yeah, that was the last time I was involved with Asylum. Now, I'm back!" Santos explained as slowly as he could, hoping the boss would understand just what the hell was going on.

Campbell nodded, but the annoyed look was still on his face. He opened up one of the drawers of his table and rummaged about for a while, before pulling out a thin folder. He flipped through it, before slamming it down on his table... Santos waiting expectantly for the Brit to carry on the conversation.

Joe knew exactly what to say, now.

"See, before Severed, doing that long break we had, I did a little sprucing up. And as far as I can fucking remember, I didn't even come across your folder. Today is the first time I've seen your sorry arse. WHY THE FUCK DID YOU NOT COME TO ME TO TALK ABOUT TY, YOU CUNT?!"

Santos cringed. Joe was still pissed. Quite understandably, really. Sonny opened his mouth to try and answer, but Campbell raised his right hand up, as if to halt the Brazilian-born street fighter.

"No, forget about it, I don't have time. So, you're back. Yay, slap my arse and call me Arsene Wenger. Where the sodding hell did you disappear to, eh? Severed took place at the end of September, and it's the middle of December now. Almost three facking months, mate!

And oh, whatever happened to Pembridge, huh?"

Joe was continuing to ramble angrilly, causing Santos to sweat profusely. The latter gulped yet again, realising that he couldn't quite the answer as truthfully as Joe expected him to. This was THE banana skin Santos had feared, but he had it covered.

Or, at least, he thought he did.

"Well, I injured my right shoulder and my left leg during that fight with Jade, so I took some time off. thReat had closed by that time, so I was basically doing nothing. I then had to... um, go into hiding because I didn't want to work for Vincent anymore. But surprisingly, after a while, his lackeys stopped hunting me down.

Actually, I'm not even sure what happened to Vincent. It's like he just disappeared or something, for some odd reason. All connections to him have also vanished into thin air. But that's a good thing for me; means I'm safe to come back out in the open and continue my life. I cleared all my debts, and I wanna start afresh!"

If this was the Hallmark Channel, Joe would have broken down in tears, and some upbeat music would be playing in the background, while Santos stood there proudly. But, this wasn't Hallmark.

It was theAsylum, and the degenerate owner of said organisation stared at Salvatore, as if to say --

My God, do you really fucking think I give a flying fuck about your life?

"So, you want to fight tonight, eh?"

Sonny smiled, and his eyes sparkled in anticipation.

"Yeah, if it's possible."

Joe shook his head and for the first time since Santos walked in, grinned.

"I think I can arrange something for you. Anyways, welcome back to theAsylum.

Now, get the fuck out of my office."

It was official; Santos Salvatore was back! But, who would his first opponent be?

Stay tuned.

Nicole caught up to Eddie and lightly touched him on his elbow. He pulled away quickly, and Nicole was having a hard time to keep up Eddie’s pace while backing up to look Cheno in the eyes. “Where are you heading?”

“Ain’t worth shit,” Cheno didn’t return Carson’s glaze, and picked up the pace. This forced Carson to twist her body and walk alongside Cheno, no longer in front of him.

“Just stop. Think.”

And that’s when Cheno stopped. He turned to Carson, and simply said, “Nah. Time ta funken dink be over mang.” And with that, he shoved her to his side. She became a part of the background in Eddie’s mind, much like the chair or the vending machine adorn over his other shoulder.

And he slammed his hand into the door three times. His custom knock that he’s always used.

…

…

…

The door opened. Finally.

And Eddie Cheno clocked whomever was on the other side. No words. Just actions.

He shot a glare toward Carson, and turned away, continuing on his path.

Carson raced down to the fallen Asylum fighter, holding them up just a small bit.

Reveal: John C. Willis. A small cut on his lip.

But the cuts ran deeper than that on the inside.

Osyrus sucks.

Or so he had been told his entire career, but Osyrus never minded the bollocks.

Osyrus sat on a rust covered steel chair; that left little indentations in his browned skin ass, as he tried to situate himself in a comfortable position… sliding off his black shin guards over his Maui Thai kick boxing boots, while freshly stepping through the black Asylum curtain.

“Aren’t you getting sick and tired of our current situation in the Asylum? Training so hard to be the best but treated like we don’t give a shit, whether we are here or not? Campbell knows we deserve better competition. I know for a fucking fact Isis, that I am better than everyone in tA. Past, present and future… but why am I stuck in this continually loop of nothingness like the Eddie Cheno’s, the Nicole Carson’s and the Women Intuition’s? Haven’t I proven myself to the Asylum masses; making a mockery of their heroes, their heroes’ values and everything that they hold dear?” Isis’ beautiful tan shoulders just shrugged a neutral response, as she walked the across the corridor, to the object of her immediate attention… which lied on the disgusting, stained ground, very still.

A Vogue magazine.

“I can see that your paying attention to me,” He replied in a sarcastic tone, as Isis flipped the page. ‘Bitch,” Osyrus snatched the magazine from her grasp… motioning as if he wiped his ass with it. “Why am I even wasting my time talking to someone that can’t do a damn thing about getting me what I really want right now.” Isis lifted her head quickly as Osyrus just shook his head in disgust as he threw the fashion mag at her head. “I’m not talking about that. I had that last night… Fuck, I have always owned that. But I am not talking about your puss hun; my obsession for success is much greater than a mere quickie that you so easily provide like a slut on a street corner. Sooner or later, everyone in the Asylum will truly recognized my greatness. I will hold them in my arms like a small child, before I shake them violently…giving into my demands.” Osyrus pushed Isis down the hall as the couple continued onward.

“But enough talk, it’s time for us to prepare for leave.”

Eddie Cheno Vs Santos Salvatore

Whatever the case, Santos wasn’t perturbed by this. If anything, he’d have to be a bit worried with his opponent.

“Smoke two Joints” by Sublime played over the pa system this time, and Eddie Cheno stepped out from the back haroled by a choir of cheers. He raised a bong up high, but his face was stern with anger, before throwing it into the nearest wall and shattering it to pieces. He turned his attention back toward Santos, and raced down toward the cage.

Climbing in, Santos was eager to attack with a swift shuffle kick to the skull of Cheno. Before Cheno’s feet could even touch the mat, Santos was on the offensive, kicking a teetering Cheno on the top of the cage. He grabbed Cheno by his red “Funk you” t-shirt, and tossed him into the ring in an overhead slam. Cheno landed hard on the canvas, but spun onto his stomach and recovered just as Santos turned around.
Santos went for a couple of mid-kicks, but Cheno blocked them with his massive forearms. After the third try, Cheno delievered a vicious right hand to Salvatore’s temple, sending him sprawling back into the cage wall. Eddie let out a cry, and charged forward, looking for a shoulder block that he’d hope would drive Santos through the cage.

Unluckily for the stoner, Santos dodged, and Cheno rammed his own head into the cage wall instead.

Santos was there to capitalize, grabbing Cheno by his head and shoulders and STOing him down to the mat. Santos wasn’t able to capitalize on it, because he seemed to use the same shoulder he injured, and it was anything but one hundred percent. The stoner saw this, and raised his feet to kick Santos in said shoulder and send him off. This allowed Eddie to recover, and unleash a burrage of right and lefts. Most were directed at Santos ribs, but once he covered up there, Eddie began firing on all cylinders, targeting Salvatore’s head and injured shoulder.

Santos raked the eyes of the former Television champion, which sent Cheno spinning around defensively. But once there, Cheno sprang with a beautiful Needle Jab(superkick)

That was caught by Santos Salvatore. Using his position, Santos dragon screwed Cheno into the steel cage with force. Cheno let out a cry now, but this one was of pain.

Santos hammered away with stomps toward Eddie’s knee, and then lifted him up by the leg as best he could. With his free hand, Santos fired with rights to Eddie’s knee, his bone cracking Eddie’s, until that offense began to hurt him.

Eddie spat in Santos face as he cared toward his hand, and that stunned him just like a mist to the face would. That’s when Cheno leapt with a dangerously positioned Clearin’ da Funken Table(Rising Uppercut)
That was powerful enough to send Santos off his feet and flop him back down to the Asylum canvas.

1…

2…

3…

4…

5…

6…

Santos recovered, wiping the spit off his face, and tossing it down toward the Asylum canvas. He stopped, brushing himself off, and prepared in a judo stance for Eddie’s attack.

Eddie threw a right and a left that was blocked before Santos caught Cheno with a forearm to the gut, and then delivered an uppercut of his own which sent Eddie back. Eddie clutched his lip, which he thought would have bled but did not. That’s when Santos delievered another kick, but Eddie moved, and the toe of his boot latched onto the cage wall.

With Santos prone, Eddie delivered a vicious Needle Jab that rocked Santos down to the canvas. That Needle Jab was directed directly at Salvatore’s injured shoulder, as he laid on the mat clutching and gasping in pain. Eddie delievered a few insincere stomps, and then lifted Santos by his injured arm.

He ripped off the sleeve of his t-shirt and then draped Salvatore’s arm over the cage wall. He tied it to his wrist, and then tied that wrist by the sleeve to the cage wall. Salvatore was prone to say the least.

And that’s when Eddie delivered right hand after right hand to Santos’ exposed shoulder. He cried out in pain, and after the fifth blow, Santos caught Cheno’s arm. Cheno however, kept the onslaught on, kicking Salvatore’s shoulder now. Santos shoved Cheno’s arm away and delivered a right hand which sent the Stoner to the mat.

Santos quickly turned his attention to his tie, and began to rip at the threads of Cheno’s shirt. His wrist was bloodied from the tugging and pulling that had been caused, but his free hand was able to pull himself out.

Just as he turned around successfully, Eddie Cheno caught him with another VICIOUS Clearin’ da Funken Table.

Which sent Santos airborne again, this time, the cage wall acting as a center point of a sea saw.

And Santos sea sawed his way out of the Asylum cage.

Cheno refused to have his hand raised in victory, and immediately left the Asylum cage. Seems he had other business to attend to.

As for Santos? Well… his return was less then enjoyable…

“Finally...” She sighed, ruffling through the pocket of her tight flared jeans with her free hand and pulling out what she had been craving since Renee’ had let her know that they were returning the day before.

A small white pill lay silent, but deadly, in her soft, pale hand, which she raised to her face after partaking in the water that was now no longer flowing.

She swallowed it eagerly and leaned against the wall with a satisfied smile on her face, feeling the drug go down her throat.

Up until now, she was the feeble follower known as Nicole. Now she was Nikki Carlson, a force to be reckoned with.

She closed her eyes in sheer ecstasy, flexing the same muscles that she’d soon be using to spill some unfortunate soul’s blood as her chosen vice began to run through her veins.

It was like a dream.

However, after only a few brief moments of surreal tranquility, the dream was interrupted by the hand of her partner being draped across her shoulder.
Back to reality she went.

“Nikki?”

She stirred slightly and then opened her eyes, shaking off the cobwebs that the pill had thrust upon her.
Renee’ Storm looked up at her suspiciously. “Something wrong?”

“No, no … I’m fine.” Nikki lied. “Just a bit tired, is all.”

“Well get it together!” Renee’ said, patting her partner hard on the back. “We’ve got to go see Joe in a little bit.”

Nikki had no idea what Renee’ was talking about, nor did she care. All that mattered was that she once again had the one thing that made her true self emerge from underneath the shyness known as Nicole Gallagher Carlson.

Walking behind Renee’ Storm, like an eerie shadow, Nikki smiled and felt complete for the first time in a long time.

It had done its job. Now it was time for Woman’s Intuition to do theirs

Joseph Campbell sighed. He thought he fixed the problem of random fighters bursting into his office just moments ago.

“What the bloody hell is it Eddie.”

Eddie stood there, awestruck. His jaw dropped, and he looked down at his hands. They were still covered in a bit of blood. A small mixture of his own, Santos’, and no doubt, John C. Willis.

Most of this blood however, was all in Eddie’s mind.

“Bloody hell Cheno, I’ve got a lot of business to fucking attend to.”

“Everyding dies…” Cheno muttered, still looking down to his eyes. “Nada can be survivin’ here yo. Ya have built a funken kingdome on the hearts and funken lives of funken honorable men.” Cheno looked up toward Campbell, with fury in his eyes. “Ya be makin’ profit on da deaths of innocentn mangs yo.”

“No one innocent is in the Asylum Eddie.” Campbell sneered. “Not even yourself.”

“Funk dat!” Cheno forced himself into Campbell’s face, his hand grabbing at Campbell’s attire. “Ya built ya funken self on a breathin’ funken graveyard.” Eddie’s head left Campbell’s glare. “Everyding we touch be dyin’ a horrible funken death,” Eddie returned his gaze. “Ain’t it?”

“W-what do you want?” Campbell was a bit scared to say the least. Eddie had threatened his life before, but he never thought that his life was truly in danger. Not since the first time when Eddie lowered his gun in mercy.

This man didn’t seem to have that anymore.

“Willis.” Cheno sneered, his lips contorting in rage and pain. “I be wantin’ da kill someding funken beautiful mang.”

“Yeah? What the fuck is so fucking beautiful here?”
Eddie released Campbell from his grasp. “Love.” Eddie turned away. “ Funken love, someding dat be left ya long funken ago Biznitch.” Eddie grabbed the door by the handle.

“Fine! You want Willis. You got him. pAin!” Campbell dusted his suit off. “You’ll fucking be there.”

“I be always der mang.”

Joe Campbell chuckled haughtily in his well known and excruciatingly thick British accent, trying desperately to get his words out in the correct way and still manage to laugh at the same time.

“You heard me Campbell.” Snapped back the light female voice of Renee’ Storm. “We want Fuck the Mind. We want those Team Titles.”

So this was her master plan? To barge into the Asylum owner’s office and demand a shot at championships that they obviously didn’t deserve?

She had to be kidding herself.

Joe laughed once more. Evidently, he thought she was kidding too.

Yet, her stern glare remained and showed Campbell that she was dead serious. Woman’s Intuition, despite their almost two month long retreat from the Asylum and their lackluster performance while they were actually competing actually, honestly wanted and felt they deserved the chance to compete with Jakob Gianni and Aryen Silens.

An equally as stern look replaced the smile that was on Joe Campbell’s face. He wasn’t impressed and he knew that the fans wouldn’t be either…

…or would they?

Woman’s Intuition faded away as Campbell drifted off into his own little world. The last time Fuck the Mind met up with Renee’ Storm and Nikki Carlson, it was a completely one sided fight that resulted in the complete physical destruction of the two women.

The fans, being mostly male and as chauvinistic as possible, ate it up like a bum would a Christmas Ham if some rich fucker laid it in front of him.

This gave Joe Campbell’s promotion solid ratings for his Show, which he of course took all the credit for, and in turn provided him with money, which was his language.

Joe nodded and began to write something down on a piece of paper.

“Here’s what I’ll do.” Joe began to explain slyly, resembling a car salesman. A hairy, British, car salesman who carried a gun. Good combination, yes? “I’ll give you your match at pAin…”
Renee’ and Nikki smiled. They had won. They had gotten one over the man who supposedly couldn’t be gotten.

“…Provided you go and ask Fuck the Mind for it yourselves.”

Now it was all becoming clear. He was going to send Woman’s Intuition to Fuck the Mind so that they could be brutalized a week earlier than expected and gain his ratings. Then, because they’d be too busy being fed through a tube in some hospital; he’d get out of giving them the shot that they wanted.

It was called killing two birds with one stone…

…and it worked every fucking time.

Woman’s Intuition said nothing. They didn’t protest. They didn’t whine. They simply smirked smugly and marched out of the room.

They weren’t going to back down this time.

Yes, that’s the worst weakness you could depict in Eddie but it really was a horrible habit to have in a world full of ferocious Fighters who will do absolutely anything and everything to get ahead and make money. In that case, Cheno was very vulnerable and an easy target in spite of his abundance of ability to compete in any environment.

Certain sums did not add up in Nicole’s opinion though. Despite causing Cheno to see the kiss between her and John C. Willis, who was confused by the entire episode, in a desperate bid to allow him to see what he was missing out on, Eddie blamed the behemoth and not her. Why would he do that?

Well, she wanted to know and she was going to.

Currently, Carson had her arm around the massive waist of Willis as she helped him along the corridor. The punch courtesy of Cheno hadn’t hurt him much but mentally it was enough to affect his entire world. For those of you that know, John has never been the most stable individual. Then again, you can’t be sane if you’re contracted to Campbell’s company.

“What is going on?”

Willis, who held his head to exaggerate the extent of Eddie’s blow, physically at least, turned to her and moaned: “What do you mean?”

“I kissed you. I kissed you deliberately the other week you bastard and Eddie saw it. That’s why he hit you. Now, what I want to know is why he blames you for it as it’s not your fault?”

He shrugged his shoulders: “What the fuck are you asking me for?”

Call it a woman’s intuition or whatever, and I’m not referring to the tandem, yet Nicole knew that by the tone of his voice Willis wasn’t as dumb as he sounded, in this case at least, and actually holding information to himself.

“John, just tell me.”

“I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about bitch.”

“TELL ME! I love the stubborn bastard!”

And, then it happened. The magic words, well virtually, that Nicole so badly wanted to hear though thought would never arrive: “He thinks he loves you too.”

Carson wanted to squeeze the life out of Willis, which isn’t easy for a female to achieve, and that summed up her ecstasy. Nevertheless, John wasn’t very reliable and even he had thrown a spanner in the works with one particular utterance…

“Thinks.”

Therefore, while she was elated inside that there could even be a remote possibility of Eddie reserving affection for her, Nicole maintained a stern exterior so that she didn’t reveal her true feelings: “So what has he said? How do you know?”

The desperation in her voice was evident for all to hear and see, except Willis, but she didn’t care. All she wanted was answers: “He told me.”

“He told you what?’

“That he thinks he loves you.”

“And?”

“And what?”

Willis was extremely irritating and uncooperative, especially under the circumstances, or perhaps that was Carson’s constant questioning.

“What else did he say?”

The big man stumbled in his response: “I… I can’t remember woman. We were drunk most of the time. He used to ask me things.”

“What things?”

“Stuff. He used to ask me for… what’s the word again? Advice.”

She was intrigued: “Eddie used to ask YOU for advice? God, he must have been desperate. What about?”

He began to march away due to her apparent ignorance and arrogance until she apologised: “Sorry John. Tell me what he asked you about.”

In an instant, he turned around, prior to moving on after ensuring he had played his part in the season of goodwill by cheering up a member of the fairer sex: “He used to ask me about you and what I think he should do. I didn’t tell him much.”

However, as he walked away, Nicole knew that John had done more than enough.

Now it was up to her and Eddie to do something about it.

“Make your lazy ass useful and try to find me a clean towel in this shit hole. Fucking place smells like your ass on your period.” Isis obediently scurried away, leaving the burly San Diego native to his own devices. Somewhat depleted of his energy, the former ACW champion took a moment to survey his surroundings. The accumulative funk of stagnate piss began to resonate from one of the nearby corners, leading him to question his ability to endure the primal nature of these uncivilized Neanderthals any longer.

While covering his flaring nostrils, he took a mental note of yet another grotesque display of human depravity; A running trail of white fluid, sliding along the locker’s surface and seeping into the partially matted carpet underneath. Privately, he muttered to himself as he ventured forward towards the bathroom.

Mentally, he could not even to begin to fathom what ungodly horrors lied in store for him as he entered the porcelain-laden domain. Already, he would be greeted by the looming stench of post-colonic warfare. “Jesus. Fucking. Christ.” Osyrus stood at the verge of retching as he noticed a sickening collage of soggy toilet paper and human excrement, speckled along the rim and the epicenter of the toilet. Carefully sealing the man made version of Chernobyl shut, he scoffed at the grungy film that adorned a large portion of the bathroom sink. Unable to stand for this any longer, he exited the area with great haste.

Isis had returned and extended one of two towels out to him, in which he would ungratefully snatch the closest one out of her hand. He gave both Isis and each towel a visually through inspection before drying the perspiration from his body. Quietly, she watched him as he swung his personalized locker room door open.

“I’ll tell you this; I can’t wait to get the fuck out of here. Did you see what the fuck happened in there?” Osyrus mentioned while pointing towards the restroom. Looking in that direction, she offered a distasteful frown. “Go. Take your ass in there and look at that shit.” Reluctantly, she tiptoed her way toward the entrance before being repulsed by the demonic fumes within. “I mean this is fucking beneath me. I’ve been in plenty of ran-down establishments before but goddamn, this takes the fucking cake. I know that this is unsanitary on my part but, in this case, I’ll make an exception; When we get back to the hotel, you better have my shower water running. You hear me?”

Refusing to ingest the swarming potpourri of bodily fluids and wastes, she quickly nodded. “I’ll be damned if I venture back into that motherfucker, let alone shower here. Fucking Campbell.“ Taking his time rummaging through his personal effects, he abruptly kept himself to sitting on the elongated bench. Glaring at it’s wooden surface, Osyrus threw the sweaty towel at her face. “Here. Take care of this.“ Relying on his upbringing, he motioned for Isis to cover the bench with the fresh towel before taking a seat. Quietly, she walked away to carry out his command while using his cologne as a ‘makeshift air freshener’. Slipping on one of his Black personalized shirts on provided a soothing warmth to compensate for the shitty air conditioning. While sifting through his wallet, he began sorting through a number of 50s and 100s to make an account of his remaining funds for the evening. A personal bit of luxury would be welcomed for this evening compared to the vast display of nonsense, he would immerse himself into on a weekly basis.

Hearing his slave making her return, he quickly dumped the meaty stack of crisp bills back into his bag before standing up to a vertical base. “Since your gonna be up for little while tonight, you already know that you are going to have my shit washed, starched, pressed and ready for me in the morning, right?

“……..”

“Am I fucking talking to myself? HEY?!”

Nothing.

Immediately, this bothered Osyrus as he slammed the locker door shut. All the while, his attention was directed towards an apparently skittish Isis. The sight of her purse, falling from her shoulder and spilling along the carpet, bothered him. More or less, ticked him off.

“What the fuck is your problem? All the sudden, you turned retarded on me and shit?! Answer me when I’m talking to your stupid ass!”

The intensity of his glare decreased slightly as he discovered that her attention was focused on something else. Left subdued within a moment of confusion, she continued to slowly back away from the hulking mass of hatred, standing directly behind him. Driven by rage, Osyrus reared back his fist only to have his forearm trapped by arm of an unfamiliar presence.

“Who the…?!”

An ebony fist quickly found it’s mark, slamming head-on into Osyrus’s left temple. The impact of the blow sent him tumbling over the locker room bench before collapsing violently along the floor. The tingling sensation was overwhelming as he sought to reacclimatize himself back into ‘Fight Mode’.

“Motherfucker!“

Before being able to catch a firm glimpse at his attacker, Osyrus found his head abruptly sandwiched in-between the locker’ cool surface and a Size 14 Timberland Boot. A brazen tandem of knuckles would quickly careen against the stunned Californian native’s exposed jaw & lips, summoning a splash of blood to decorate the bench and the floor. Painfully gnashing his teeth, the pain motivated him to retaliate while he was still conscious.

“Get your punk ass up, bitch!” Upon recognition of the voice, Osyrus responded with a malicious chuckle. Using his forearm to wipe away the fresh crimson away from his lip, he quietly worked to seize his 2nd wind.

WHAM!!

WHAM!!

WHAM!!

WHAM!!

WHAM!!

Shielding himself from the hail of knuckles, dancing across portions of his face, he managed to bring the onslaught to a halt by quickly trapping his attacker’s forearm within his clutches. Standing nose to nose with a rival he was become all too familiar with…

“Fucking Damon. I should have known. That must have been you hiding in the bathroom stall all this time, huh?” Keeping the massive forearm from pinning him against the locker exhibited a mutual strain on both ends.

“I’m through fucking around with your faggot ass, Osyrus. First, I’m gonna beat the motherfucking brakes off your ass for that little stunt you pulled at Man Hunt. Then I’m gonna find your boy Willis and bounce his monkey ass all up in this bitch…”

“Oh, is that right?”

“Naw, nigga. …That ain’t even the half. You best believe I’m gonna fuck every last one of ya’ll niggas up…tonight. That goes for you too, bitch.”

Isis cowered away to the safety behind the column of lockers. Osyrus kept egging Damon on as he was beginning to regain his depleted strength.

“Please, ‘Mr. Big Bad Marine’ “ Osyrus uttered in a blatantly mocking fashion. “I think I’m gonna shit my pants.”

“Fuck you, bitch!”

"Attack By Drawing"

As Damon lashed out with a Left Hook, Osyrus quickly muted that attack by attempting a Wrist Lock. While looking to topple his attacker over into an uncompromising position, Damon grasped unto Osyrus’s wrist and drove his own forehead forcefully into Osyrus’s mouth. Disgusted by the lukewarm swill of blood, swishing within his mouth, he spat the contents into his enemy’s visage. Given the window of opportunity, Osyrus did what he had to do…

"Single Direct Attack"

Damon’s spine ricocheted soundly against the legion of stained lockers after receiving a crushing blow to the jaw. Immediately, Osyrus shifted into high gear…

"Nowhere to Run, Nowhere to Hide"

Flashing his canines, Jackson offered a strained grimace as Osyrus, violently wedged Damon between himself and the lockers. The impact left a moderately noticeable dent along it’s frame. Jackson struggled to regain all the wind driven out of his body as Osyrus, hurled his victim up and over unto the wooden bench...

WHAM!!!

“AHHH!! SHIT!!!”

The Hard Way

Desperate to maintain his fighting spirit, Damon trapped Osyrus’s head into a Front Headlock. A series of retaliatory Elbows to the nearest shoulder blade, prompted Osyrus to lug his attacker up and against the lockers once more. Osyrus began punishing Damon’s midsection with a bevy of Body Blows before a Knee to the Groin, crushed his defenses. Osyrus’s legs gave out from under him as a Punch landed flush against his Kidney. Both men continued to aggressively tussle along the bench before collapsing unto the matted carpet. Isis scurried over towards the towel, laying several feet away from the scuffling duo. The fatigue factor was beginning to resurface on Osyrus’s behalf.

“I’m gonna kill you, nigga!”

SMACK!!!

SMACK!!!

“Fuck you, Damon! You hit like a little bitch!”

SMACK!!!

SMACK!!!

SMACK!!!

The last series of blows propelled Damon away, giving a weary Osyrus some breathing room. He refrained from looking at the splatter pattern of blood, smeared across his knuckles. He didn’t need to see what he could inevitably feel. Damon’s nostrils began dripping blood along the floor, setting off another level of rage within. Lunging forward into harm’s way, Damon failed to connect with a Sweeping Right Hook. Osyrus was quick to retaliate…

"Attack By Combination"

Seeking to belt Damon in the eye with an Uppercut, it managed to scrape the cleft of Damon’s Right Cheekbone. A mistake that would ultimately justified by an Open Palm Strike to the Right Eye.

“AAAAHHH!!! FUCK!!!!”

“Is that all you got, bitch?!!”

WHAM!!!

WHAM!!!

“SON OF A BITCH!!!”

WHAM!!!

THUMP!!

WHAM!!!

One of Osyrus’s punches landed soundly into Damon’s exposed palm. Quickly digging his fingers into the back of Osyrus’s fist, Damon flashed a brief display of amusement.

“Nigga please.”

Philly Fake Out

As Osyrus staggered blindly before collapsing over the bench, Damon found himself open for a perfectly timed ambush…Well, sort of.

“YEAAAAHHHH!!!!”

Isis leapt from behind and attempted to use all of he weight and the towel, around Damon’s neck, in hopes of choking him out. Growing more agitated by the second, Damon’s patience would eventually exceed it’s limits.

WHAM!!!

Using his own weight and a battering ram, he drove Isis spine first against the concrete wall. The jarring pain forced her to collapse in a battered heap. Her loyalty to her master summoned the relentless woman slowly back to her feet.

“Oh. Now you wanna be ‘Super Woman’, huh?”

Quickly wrapping the towel around her neck, Damon bundled both ends into one single fist before swinging her skull first into the side of the lockers. The first collision left her heavily shaken from reality. The second left a decent crimson dent along the metal exterior. Upon release, her lithe frame collapsed against the floor.

“Silly bitch. Hey! I’m talking to you, faggot!! Get the fuck up!”

Stricken by a complete lack of energy and fading consciousness, Osyrus painfully pulled himself to a knee with the aid of the somewhat sturdy bench. Damon mercilessly stalked after his prey, who had reached into the confides of his locker.

“Naw, nigga. I don’t think so…”

WHAM!!!

Kicking the opened locker door, it purposely slammed against Osyrus’s skull, toppling him over unto his back. The swelling around his eye was beginning to darken slowly as he spat up a sickening amount of blood from his lips before uttering a number of incoherent barrage of slurs to Damon. All of the muffled babbling shrank as Damon wrung the towel tightly around Osyrus’s throat in a noose-like fashion. The veins in his enemy’s neck began to bulge to horrific proportions as he dragged him over towards the concrete wall.

“Look at you now; you’re just another pussy…without the hair. I oughta kiss you in ya hot mouth. You better pucker up, Osyrus. I waited two weeks for this shit to go down. Now you realize that you ain’t shit without your boy, punk ass motherfucker.”

Osyrus frantically began tugging the tightening fabric away from his through but to no avail. Damon managed to loosen up the tension, teasing him with a false sense of grace.

“Well, since you’re all about lending a nigga some advice, I think turnabout is fair play; If you wanna do you part, in this war against Black on Black crime…Stay the fuck outta my face, nigga….

BAM!!

……

BAM!!

BAM!!

Using the towel as both a measure of control and brace, Damon rapidity sandwiched Osyrus’s head against the wall’s surface with his knee. The speckled traces of blood soaked into the fabric of his Jeans before releasing his chokehold of his prey. Osyrus’s foot jerked infrequently as he quietly embraced the reality of a full blown concussion. Watching Osyrus slump against the carpet, Damon hocked back some phlegm in his throat before spewing it unto Isis’s face.

“Fuck ya’ll niggas.”

No, instead, it was to knock on a wooden door which read in bold, black print: Fuck the Mind.

Renee’ sighed, standing behind Nikki for once rather than the other way around, no doubt to avoid any confrontation with either member of the tandem that they wanted to face at the upcoming Pay Per View.

“I guess being the champs has its perks, eh?”

Nikki smiled and agreed. She drifted away in the thought of the extra money she would make if she were a champion. Think of all the pills that could be bought and then popped. It would be like Heaven for her.

Knocking on the door once more, she vowed silently that Heaven would be a place she’d reach at the expense of Fuck the Mind. She had it on her side. She could destroy them. She knew it.

Renee’ knew it too. That’s why she returned in the first place. She saw the hunger in Nikki’s eyes. However, did she know why that hunger was there in the first place?

As the small pills shook around in Nikki’s right pocket and Renee’ simply stood there oblivious, the answer to that question was a triumphant no.

Nikki grew tired of waiting for someone to open the door and pondered kicking it in. Yet, the thought of Aryen Silens throwing her like a football into the side of the cage immediately distinguished that idea.
She raised her fist once more and right as she went to bring it down across the wood, a voice that wasn’t Renee’s came from behind her.

“I’d stop knocking if I were you.”

Jakob Jonathan Gianni. “The Good Doctor”.

“Nihil is resting.” He spoke softly and sarcastically. “And he doesn’t like to be woken up abruptly, especially by people as unimportant as you two.”

Renee’ scowled, but somehow managed to end up behind Nikki once again. Gianni sensed her fear. You could tell by the look on his face. It was what he wanted.
He smiled. “Now, what can I do for you? And please, make it quick.”

Storm went to speak, but was cut off by Nikki, who walked right up to him so that they were face to face and spoke.

“Woman’s Intuition. Fuck the Mind. Team Titles. pAin.” She said, getting straight to the point. “Yes or no?”
She clenched her other hand into a fist now, preparing for battle in case he decided to take a swing.

Gianni, however, nonchalantly leaned against a nearby wall and picked one of his teeth with his index finger. He could wait to destroy them.

“You’re on.” He said plainly before laughing sadistically, pushing through them to get into his locker room, laughing all the while.

Slamming the door, Woman’s Intuition had a match. Fuck the Mind had done the unexpected and spared them - for the moment.

Chances are that the two ladies wouldn’t be so lucky in a week.

The prodigy of the cage, Frank Minio, glared into the stone eyes of Token Weed. Token looked onward, a smile creeping across his face. "So, how’s that apartment of yours?" Token said as the smirk grew larger.

"Fuck you!" Minio shouted defiantly at Weed who let his sadistic smile continue to grow.

"What, I told you I want my fucking belt back, how is it doing by the way? Is it ready to come back to it’s rightful owner?" Token stated as he continued glaring into Minio’s eyes.

"Fuck you Weed, I won this belt off of you. I fucking BEAT YOU!" Minio said, his eyes never leaving the presence of Weed’s. Token grinned.

"See boy, but I get another shot. I’ve beaten you bloody before, and you know that for a fact." Token said, his eyes never leaving Minio who just took a huge breath in. Frank remembered the fight like yesterday, his ass was handed to him royally.

"That was then, this is now Sean." He mumbled as his gays went down to the rest of Token’s body. Token cocked back and back handed Frank Minio, as Frank glanced upwards. Frank was stunned.

"See Frank, this is my fucking world, this is my fucking show. Try to beat me again, come on fucker. Let’s do it tonight even." Token said angrily, Frank shook his head from side to side.

"Frank, I’ll ruin your life. I’ll take whats left, then you can feel how I felt." Token said coldly as he walked away from Minio who was left to ponder exactly what was going to happen between the two at pAin.

It was gonna be one heck of a battle, that's for sure.

On this occasion, though, he was right.

"I didn't want you to suck my knobber until AFTER the show, love..." Joe mumbled out loudly as he circled his desk and plopped himself down on the seat. A chuckle ensued, and true enough, a figure stepped out from the only dark area in the office.

And as Joe implied, it was a woman.

"You don't remember me, do you, Joe?"

Campbell squinted at the Asian-looking woman that had just pressed her palms down onto the owner's table, before his gaze was directed to the cleavage of said woman, who grinned as she leaned over a bit more, enjoying the way Joe was squirming about in his seat. Could you blame him? His pants just got tight.

... Yeah. TMI. Okay.

Joe cleared his throat and returned his focus to the woman's face, who winked at him cheekily. And almost instantly, a lightbulb lit in Campbell's head, as he remembered who she was.

"Ohhh, Fejona."

"Ahh, there you go."

Standing upright again, Fejona Min folded her arms and watched as Joe suddenly grinned and nodded his head vigorously. Now, he was excited in a non-sexual way. Why? Because, he'd originally hired Fejona Min to take care of this particular individual he did not really care about, since she wouldn't give in to his sexual requests. Then, Joe decided to simply fire her, but was afraid of the backlash. So, he altered Fejona's mission requirement.

And told her to return only when Karen Pembridge was as extinct as a dodo.

"T-This would mean that you've eradicated the slag?!" Joe stammered, the adrenaline in his bloodstream flowing faster with each passing second. He was close to jumping up and down in a show of utter jubilation.
All Min had to do was arch her left eyebrow up and smirk.

"Yes."

And of course, say the magic word.

Joe clenched his fist and brought it down on the table, hard, unable to contain his excitement anymore. He started to laugh maniacally and at the same time, opened up one of the drawers of his table, before pulling out a document. Fejona's eyes sparkled as she saw the words 'Asylum Contract' printed in bold at the top of the document. Campbell quickly grabbed a pen and after a wee bit of scribbling, pushed the document towards Fejona.

"Sign it, and the deal is complete."

At Severed 2003, Karen Pembridge -- who was quickly becoming reputable as a fierce female fighter with tremendous resilience -- defeated Reggie Harrison-Willis in an Extreme Rules Fight. It was a bloody and gruesome affair, with both fighters going all out to settle the score. In the end, a brave Karen Pembridge put her own body on the line and spectacularly finished RHW off. Later that night, however, she was mutilated by two women with unknown motives. Two women who weren't even part of theAsylum, as far as anyone knew.

But apparently, they had some sort of agenda.

And that agenda, was doing Joe Campbell's bidding. But surprisingly, the Brit degenerate told the women to back off after Severed. He had a plan, and he wanted to see if Karen could live up to a small test. A loss in Thanh Vactor in the preliminary round of the Black Title Tournament settled it for Campbell, and the following week, after Karen turned down another sexual request, Joe fired her ass.

Then, he gave the go-ahead for his two female assasins to exterminate Karen. He wasn't too keen on wanting to deal with her backlash, and Joe knew Karen had the resources to him him where it hurt.

But, he had a condition for his two assasins.

Return only when she's dead. Then, you'll be under my protection and I'll even throw in the contracts, since that IS what you really want, innit?

Those two women, if you haven't quite figured it out yet, were Fejona Min & Natalie Quinston. Who met under the freakiest of circumstances at tA's July PPV, Everything Or Nothing. Both women were planning to expand their horizons, and both women were fans of theAsylum. The catch was, Fejona knew how to achieve BOTH their dreams, and invited Natalie to join her. Needless to say, the latter was more than enthusiastic about the whole thing.

"My pleasure, boss."

Fejona took the pen from Joe's hands and promptly signed the contract. Without reading it. Mistake? Maybe, but being a businesswoman, maybe she had nothing to fear. Maybe she trusted Joe. Maybe she'd already read the contract before, and the signing was a mere formality to proceedings.

"Where's your friend, that Natalie girl?" Joe asked, finally realising he hired TWO assasins.

Fejona replied as she slipped the contract back towards Campbell, "Outside, with the car. Got her shoulder hurt pretty bad thanks to Karen. That 'lassie' is one heck of a fighter, I've got to admit. But you won't have to worry about her anymore. There's a new femme fatale in town.

And I'm going to eclipse whatever 'legacy' she ever had."

Smirking, the Cambodian businesswoman swiftly turned on her heels and walked out of the office, Campbell helping himself to a great view of her ass. Once the door of his office was closed, Joe picked up the signed contract and filed in his Min's all-new folder. One that Campbell would definitely be checking up on often. Sure, she had accomplished his goal of getting rid of she who wouldn't give him a blowjob.

But as far as Joe was concerned, he was going to expect a blowjob from Fejona too.

... After all, it WAS in the contract that was JUST signed.

The Asylum Championship

While adjusting the Black Velcro straps on both kneepads, the Chicago native paused long enough to listen to the random dialog, being spread beyond the storage closet. He was able to scout out and prepare this location, among others ahead of time. Obviously, Joe Campbell and company worked on CP time.

Although taking full responsibility for not ‘sticking to the script’, he refrained from creating excuses for himself and mentally sought out ways to adapt to this barbaric environment. Trust could never become a common virtue. He already knew that from jump. Despite being able to ‘convince’ Joe into putting back into action full time, Campbell had yet to make his move. After careful consideration, this really began to bother him. Seriously. From now on, there would have to be a set of guidelines set aside for any and every situation. Beating his padded knuckles together, Damon allowed the notion, to cement itself into his mental ‘to do list’.

Bringing his personal affairs into the public eye was a complete no-no. His thoughts remained on Duchess, as she was still shaken up from the transition of one problem to the next; From an abusive boyfriend to being kidnapped and constantly humiliated to suffering a miscarriage, the mental scars were still fresh. Only time would heal such wounds. Immediately, he shredded his remaining concerns about her condition. As much as he rebuked the notion, it was to be a necessary evil. As with life on the battlefield, the merest distraction from any mission at hand, ultimately would prove fatal. The Asylum was no different.

“Come on, D. Got to stay the fuck on point. Fuck.” Aggressively rubbing his eyes, he reached down and touched his nose. He could feel the stream of crimson, flaking up by the moment. Picking away at the flakes with his index finger and thumb, he would mentally flood his psyche with premeditated thoughts of violence.

Six million ways of taking his aggression out of a number of individuals: Token. Osyrus. Campbell. Willis. Everyone. The whimsical theme to Sports Center came to mind as he mentally recapped his acts of vengeance upon Osyrus with vivid detail. His goatee conformed to the devilish smirk, forming across his lips.

…Only a fool is unable to obtain victory in his dreams…

He understood that the road to Asylum Championship would be a long, not to mention, treacherous…O.K. maybe even slightly far-fetched but one thing that Damon knew for certain…

He was ready.

Call it a new instinct, but Jade chalked her own up to stupidity on this occasion, for whatever reason. Rather than stand around and think about it any more, which was nothing more than a waste of time, Jade began to collect her things from about the small locker room and stuff them into a bag slung over her shoulder. It had been a long, drawn-out and utterly boring night. She had to get out, and fast. Maybe that's why her nerves were starting to get the better of her. One last, fleeting glance over her shoulder and Jade opened her door.

As the light betrayed to darkness, a cold palm clamped over her mouth. Once again, instinct reared its head as Jade made all efforts to scream, though it could only be heard through the flesh of throat and hand. Panic was being sweat through pores, as another arm came across her shoulders, shoving Jade's back closely against the body of another.

"Don't say a fucking word," they said.

Jade was quickly thrusted against the wall with such force, she didn't get the chance to eye her new admirer, who had just shut the door to close off peering eyes.

“Well, you’re ear-”

Snap.

Jade was quickly silenced by their hand, striking firmly across her cheek. They quickly returned one of their hands to cover her mouth, also forcing her head to the wall. With their free hand, they began to un- hinge the buckle holding their pants tight. Jade’s eyes peered down, as her hands stayed planted against the wall. She eyed their hands working furiously, as they finally set their pants to theirs ankles.

In one swift strike, she shot her knee straight in to their balls, forcing their hand to fall, as well as take a few steps back. Jade quickly darted for the door, swinging it open and once again letting light enter. Looking back, she saw a man wearing a ski- mask on one knee, desperately pushing to his feet. Jade took off down the hall, and as he tried to pull his pants up, he persued her.

Jade wasn’t even down the hall when the attacker tackled her, both bodies’ momentum forcing them in to an unknown room.

Crack.
The door broke open. They tumbled in the darkness, while the light from the outside revealed only a small amount of the room. The man forced his way on top of Jade, holding both her arms down.

Jade looked up, in to her rapist’s eyes through the twilight threads of the ski- mask. After a moment of recollection, the man dropped his head, and began to kiss her bare neck. Jade lay there for a moment, with no room for movement. The man’s weight allowed her to stay put, and she knew if the man kept kissing her neck with the mask on, she’d get a rash.

“Just...-”

She began, until the man pulled up. His cold stare reached her eyes, as both hands unclasped on her wrists. She reached up, gripping the top of the mask, and slowly pulled off.

“-wait, Josiah.”

Pointless eased off of her body, as she stood to her feet. They both waited in the darkness of the empty locker room, as Jade rubbed away the sting from the earlier slap.

“Did I do something wrong?” Josiah asked, as he scratched his bald head.

Jade shook her head no, as she approached him. Shoving him in to the corner of the darkness, hiding them once again, she was pulled in close to his body.

“No, I just want to get this over with.”

After sharing a rather aggressive kiss, both Jade and Josiah unbuttoned their pants as they became lost in their surroundings, lost in each other. Luckily, the activities soon to follow weren’t seen by anyone, because if they had, a certain blue haired man would be quite angry.

Token Weed Vs Damon D. Jackson
(Main Event)

DDJ climbed into the cage and grimaced slightly, as his right hand shot up to his lower ribs, holding it gingerly. The crowd churned out a rather mixed reaction for the massive Jackson, as he set his eyes on the entrance. They were burning with intent and any fool could see that Damon appeared to be completely prepared for this. Maybe he wasn't at a 100%, but he was still going to dish out as much corporal punishment as he could.

Then.

The drumbeats. The loud frantic cheers. The scream.

"Halo" by Soil.

Token Weed stormed out from the back, making a beeline for the cage, as the fans roared in anticipation. They figured this would be a great battle, even if Damon Darnell was a little worse for fear, and even if Token Weed seemed completely preoccupied with his impending showdown with Frank Minio. But once Token jumped over the railing and into the cage, he pushed Frank to the back of his head and quickly ducked a charge from the massive DDJ. Once Damon turned around, Token smacked him with a ferocious right hook, before unleashing a flurry of hooks. Damon was reeling, and a swift kick to his gut saw him suddenly gasp, purely out of agony.

So, what did Token do?

Aimed a stiff kick at Damon's left thigh, then drilled him down to the ground in a snap DDT.

"TOKEN ROCKS! TOKEN ROCKS!"

Okay. But.

Damon Darnell Jackon wasn't even out cold. Although he was mighty stunned, the big man was slowly rising to his feet, the anger inside of him threatening to erupt at any second. Not that Weed cared, as the former champion sent a sidekick crashing into the side of Damon's head, before grabbing hold of Jackson's neck and sending him sprawling into the mesh of the cage! DDJ grimaced, the crowd went ballistic. Token simply trodded over and waited for his opponent to pull himself up. Following which, the icon of Asylum proceeded to raise hell.

*SMASH*

"FUCK!"

*SMASH*

"FUCK!"

*SMASH*

"FUCK!"

Who says the basics don't work? Token was smashing Damon's head into the railing, and doing a good job at it, although the big fella from Chicago wasn't bleeding. And of course, everybody knows blood equals ratings. But, back to the point; Token was owning DDJ, and in a way, not many expected he would. Sure, Token was the experienced veteran, but Damon had the size.

It was that very factor, combined with a bit of naiveness from Token, that led to Damon managing to turn the tide; as Damon staggered backwards, his head throbbing from the impact of those shots to the railing, Token slapped on a rear waistlock. He was gonna try and possibly hit a german suplex on the monster DDJ. Jackson smiled and absolutely mutilated Weed with a reverse elbow shot. Some fans were afraid that Token might have been beheaded.

Okay, so he wasn't.

"Get up!" Damon growled, as he turned around and watched Token struggle to his feet.

And once Weed was vertical, Damon ran at him.

*CRACK*

German suplex from Damon Darnell Jackson, sending Token's head crashing down onto the steel-railing! Irony and payback, all wrapped in one deft move. Token slumped down to the ground, his heads holding his head, while Damon stumbled around for a bit, the vigours of the night finally taking its due effect.
However, he managed to stay on his feet, allowing the official to start the count;

ONE.

TWO.

THREE.

FOUR.

FIVE.

... No. Token was up.

Damon growled and charged at Token again, who duly ducked the clothesline. Turning around, Damon himself had to evade a wild swing of the arm from his opponent, before he turned around and expertly picked Token up, cradling him on his shoulder! The fans screamed wildly, while Weed struggled to free himself from Jackson's clutches. There appeared to be no escape, however, and Damon chuckled as he ran ahead.

And dropped Token face-first onto the railing.

Oh, wait, sorry. That didn't happen. See, Weed DID squirm out of that tricky predicament, and figured he'd save himself a buttload of trouble by trying to end the fight early. So, he used Damon's own momentum against him and shoved the latter over the railing and out of the cage. Damon fell down onto the concrete, and the official rang the bell. Token turned around and raised his arms in the air, the jubilant victor!

"TOKEN ROCKS! TOKEN ROCKS!"

Just one problem, however.

Damon didn't even go over the railing.

... Not good for Token Weed, then, who had no idea. Jackson pulled himself back into the cage and grinned widely as he crouched, simply waiting for the former champ to turn around. And once Token did, still bloody oblivious to what was going on, Damon decided it was time.

Right hand snaked out, found itself a cosy home in the form of Token's neck.

CHOKESLAM TIME~!

But, there's something better than the chokeslam.

... Come on, you should have guess it by now.

Kick to the 'nads, baby. Damon doubled over in pain, and Token breathed a sigh of relief, having saved himself. With the crowd urging him on, Token struck away at Jackson, his fist making fast friends with DDJ's nose. But after five of those ol' punches, Weed decided he'd put his opponent away, for good. He had bigger fish to fry, in the form of Frank Minio and the Asylum Championship. So, another kick to the extremities ensued.

Followed by a double-underhook overhead suplex!

The crowd went ballistic, and Token himself looked a little surprised that he pulled it off. But being the veteran that he was, he focused himself again. Damon may have been down, but he wasn't out. Documented by the big Chicago native scrambling to his feet, shaking his head and cursing at himself. Weed waited until Darnell had turned around, before letting loose with an inch-perfect spinning heel-kick!

This time, Damon didn't even go down. He simply staggered backwards.

So, Token spat at him, sent a low kick to the back of Damon's left knee, and sent him crashing down to the canvas with a devastating roundhouse kick with the left foot! Seconds later, the count began;

ONE.

TWO.

THREE.

FOUR.

FIVE.

SIX.

SEVEN.

Damon was up. His back facing Sean Williams.

Token frowned, then grinned. Then crouched down.

The fans roared even louder now. There was that magical glint in his eyes. They all knew what it was. They had seen it for years, now. They saw it at seVered, when Token finally won his prize.

"TOKEN ROCKS! TOKEN ROCKS!"

Time for the trusty Jumping Pump Kick. Token was so ready for it. But wait! What was with the jeers?! Sean himself was taken aback. The massive jeering and hysterical screaming by the crowd happened so suddenly, and Token didn't quite know why. Unless, of course, something was horribly wrong.

Seconds later, it registered in his head. Weed's eyes widened, and he spun around.

"Too late, bitch."

*CRAACKKKKKK*

Frank Minio. You know, the champ? With a steel chair.
Over.

Token's.

Head.

Token collapsed to the canvas, blood pouring out of his head, while Frank made his quick exit. Damon finally turned around and saw his opponent laid out on the ground. He himself didn't know why, but considering the long night he'd had, Jackson didn't quite care. He took a few steps back and leaned against the cage.

While the official, quite begrudingly, admist a cloud of loathesome boos, began the count;

ONE.

TWO.

THREE.

FOUR.

FIVE.

SIX.

SEVEN.

EIGHT.

NINE.

TE-

Hell no.

"TOKEN ROCKS! TOKEN ROCKS!"

Damon gritted his teeth, and eyeballed Token as the latter struggled to his feet. One chairshot wasn't going to keep him down; Minio should have known better. Or maybe, that was the plan. Because a running thrust kick to your shoulder can really hurt a fucking lot. And that's exactly what Damon Darnell Jackson intended, as his right boot made contact with Token's left shoulder. A sickening crack was heard throughout the arena, and Weed fell to his knees, feeling almost numb.

Clutching his shoulder, which he was sure was broken.
Damon, on the other hand, motioned that he really wanted Token to get back up... and that's exactly what Williams did.

The result?

One fucking juggernaut of a clothesline!

Token Weed was on his back again, in a world of hurt. His eyes were burning, his head felt as if it was going to implode any second, and suddenly, all of his muscles ached. Sean was almost bordering on paralysis, with his body finally deciding to give up. Damon peered down at Token and grinned, showing off his... uhh, great teeth, before he reached down and pulled the former champion up by the hair.

And just like that, Token Weed was back in business. He wasn't going to take shit from anyone. Not Damon Darnell Jackson, and certainly not Frank Minio.
Before Jackson could even do anything, Token lashed out with a wicked headbutt, taking Damon by surprise. Weed's own head hurt like a bitch, but he was running on pure adrenaline, as he spun around and knocked Damon silly with a spinning backhand. A couple more punches to the face was followed by YET another kick to the groin region. Jackson was being overwhelmed right now, but Sean Williams was far from done.

Hard kick to the face of the doubled-over Jackson. Damon staggered backwards, and his lower back crashed into the mesh of the cage, as his left hand instinctively went up to his nose, checking to see if he was bleeding.

He wasn't.

But Token tasting his own blood was enough for him to get back into the fight, though. And within the blink of an eye, as Damon stumbled forward a bit, Sean Williams let fly with his Jumping Pump Kick.

"TOKEN ROCKS! TOKEN ROCKS!"

Damon Darnell Jackson was out, the count was on;

ONE.

TWO.

THREE.

FOUR.

FIVE.

SIX.

SEVEN.

EIGHT.

NINE.

TEN.

That's all she fucking wrote.

Damon's eyes fluttered open as the bell rung, and his clenched fists pounded the canvas in frustration. The manner in which he lost to Token Weed was, to say the least, not too impressive. Then again, he had the funny feeling that the night wasn't quite over for him.

As for Token? He didn't even bother to celebrate. He climbed out of the cage and calmly walked to the back. He'd done what was needed to be done. He'd won, end of story.

Now, only Frank Minio stood in his way.

The prize was in touching distance.

I want it.

So close, Token could smell it.

I need it.

Could he do it?

I must have it.

Only time... would tell.

AAARRGGGHHH!!!!”

BAM!!!

EEEEEEK!!!

…….

“What the fuck?!!”

Damon had hauled off and tattooed an imprint of his knuckles into one of the random bathroom stall doors, abruptly revealing something quite disturbing; One of the civilians, jerking off to a Play Girl magazine. Damon stood both dumbfounded and even more ticked off than before.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t…”

“Man! What the…! Get the fuck out of here with that shit before I rip your ass out this motherfucking stall!

The frightful pervert scrambled out of the stall, nearly tumbling along the floor before getting the fuck out of Dodge. An angry sigh foreran a tandem of uninhibited slander.

“Comin' in here with that bullshit! First: Minio tried to Pearl Harbor Token, costing me the fight and just my luck, I end up barging in on some metro-sexual Queer Eye for the Straight Guy fucker, redecorating the restroom….Fuck!!“

A muffled electronic ring could be heard from Damon’s athletic bag. By the third ring, he was able to retrieve the cellular flip phone and accept the call.

“Yeah. What up?”

“What’s up, man? It‘s me. Bennie Franks. Remember?”

It was Damon’s personal contact, Bennie Franks. Bennie works lower end security for Joe and usually comes through with the hook up from time to time. As a favor, Damon takes him out and connects him with a neighborhood turnout or late night piece of ass. Whatever is needed at the time. Where as Bennie is looking to make a honest friend, his actual purpose is but a necessity.

“Yeah…yeah. I remember. What’s up?”

“Your boy is about to leave the arena but he’s still waiting for the limo to arrive. Whatcha want me to do?”

“Where’s he at and how long before the limo gets there?”

“I dunno. About the next five or ten minutes. Give or take on traffic but he‘s located near Section G -17 still. I‘ll keep an eye on them till you get here.”

“Good looking‘ out. I’m on my way. One.”

*click*

“FUCKING DAMON!”

A large scream bellowed into the unusually quiet tA corridors, as a green circular trash can, filled to the brim with garbage… rolled to a hard stop against a cob web covered vending machine. The fuzzy weeds growing out of the walls already made the Asylum seem like a jungle… in addition to all the creatures that inhibited tA, it wouldn’t be a surprised that the two places were one in the same. At this point; with all the continually roaring going on from down the pathway, it would be no shock that at any moment… hidden animals would have emerged as they ran for their lives in fear of the unknown.

The enraged outbursts of course belonged to the former ACW superstar, as he pissed and moaned down the claustrophobic sized hallway. Osyrus kicked anything that lied in his way, moving onward to his unknown destination. Isis on the other hand, did not move so swiftly… as Osyrus’ obedient valet had her right hand place on her arched back, due to shooting aches and pains. Isis’ run in with Damon D left her in a bad situation; moving a slow as a elder woman, minus the walker… and Osyrus pushing her faster down the corridor by the back didn’t help either.

“Come on bitch, can’t you move any faster?” He snarled as Osyrus took his strong right hand off of Isis’ lower back, only to wipe the perspiration and bits of left over blood off of his brow… that was the result from his earlier encounter with Damon in the locker room area. Osyrus huffed and puffed like the big bad wolf, as his frustration grew… reminiscing about the whole night in general. From the lack of competition in the tag match, to the stank conditions provided by Campbell; followed by the assault from Jackson that left Osyrus wanting to get the hell out of this shit hole of a town.

“You got the keys? Because the faster we get to the car… the quicker I can wash away these memories with a hot shower, which better be prepared by you. Got me?” Osyrus shoved Isis from behind, to make sure she was paying attention as she was knocked into the upright structure of the building. The young woman nodded, which an involuntary response after being exposed to Osyrus, for as long as she was. If she even turned her head wrong in her master’s presence… he could snap and Isis would wind up in a worse situation than a mere bruised back, and a few scratches.

The couple continued to walk; but Isis seemed to be walking a little bit ahead of Osyrus now, instead of pulling up the rear like she was used to. She looked back as Osyrus propped his right arm against the termite infested, stucco wall. Isis walked back down the corridor; just before ‘the Beast’ snapped out of his James Dean stance… now scratching his temple as if something had been bothering him the whole time.

“It’s your fault.” Osyrus moved toward Isis as he pointed his finger at her in an accusing fashion. ‘I think you knew Damon was going to jump me in the locker room; that’s why you took so long to come back… delaying our departure, making for the perfect time for Damon to strike. It’s that right bitch? “ Isis couldn’t believe her ears as she still held her back in pain, which should have been enough evidence in her favor. But for a detective like Osyrus... Where you were guilty until proven innocent, and maybe still guilty in the eyes of Omar Christensen. The mute response that Isis was giving off again; started to piss Osyrus off for the second time tonight, as he shoved her to the grime and dust covered ground. Glaring into her piercing hazel brown eyes, the Asylum fighter saw the facial expression of fear, that she had trapped in her heart… when face to face with trouble. That ‘deer in headlights’ look made Osyrus turn around quickly, while moving his nose into the air as a figure stepped through the darkness… then into the dim light of the hall.

Sniffing the air; as he moved his whole body in the direction, from which he came. Osyrus sarcastically yelled out, “I thought I smelled you coming. “What did you do? Go back and lick the locker room clean after I left?” Osyrus snickered while cracking his knuckles as Damon prepared himself as well, for another confrontation.

“Now I hope you two motherfuckas didn’t think I was finished with ya'll...So now, I only got one question; Whatcha wanna do, nigga?”

“What the fuck I tell you, you Orlando Jordan looking motherfucker? Guess you gotta learn the hard way that your bitch ass can‘t fight…”

“Shut the fuck up. I don’t take advice from anyone! Let alone some black-ass Dr. Phil wannabe mother fucker.”

Osyrus jarred the bottom half of Damon’s jaw with a malice head butt; striking swiftly as he combined the forehead attack with his crafty “Hand Immobilization Attack”. DDJ tried to struggle free, but ‘the personification of talent’ had his limbs locked up, and now was kneeing him in groin with his right quadriceps muscle…. Damon energy was depleting with every blow.

“Don’t feel so hot, do you Damon?” The San Diego native stood over his adversary; the black steel toe boot on Osyrus’ foot crushed DDJ’s internal organs… making Damon an invaluable donor. Throughout the Mexican Hat Dance on his chest; Damon was starting to regain his strength… and slowly plotting his comeback. He snatched up one of Osyrus’ legs, pulling it away from the other, as the former ACW champion fell to the ground. Damon mounted Osyrus’ chest… straight jabs crashed into the flimsy nose cartilage, as Osyrus’ nose started to bleed profusely while Isis watched on in dismay.

“How dat feel, bitch,” Damon snarled back… and punctuated it with a hooking right jab, that violently knocked Osyrus’ skull to the left. Damon looked over his shoulder as Isis cowered behind the vending machine; scarred to find out what would happen if she tried to play heroine again. That few seconds of delay was all that Osyrus needed to regain the upper hand…. Or a hand full.

“AAAGHH!! FUCK!!!” Damon D yelled out in agony as ‘the Beast’ had a hand full of crotch, twisting and turning his wrist in a circle motion. Osyrus let go of his death lock on Damon’s manhood… stumbling toward Isis, so he could distance himself from retaliation, but he didn’t move fast enough.

SMACK!

Osyrus’ face rammed right into the corner of the food dispenser, when Damon grabbed the left ankle and pulled back with all his might. The infamous Asylum heel used his right bicep to wipe the blood from his forehead and eyes; that didn’t increase sight in Osyrus’ already blurred vision. DDJ hobbled onto his feet; finally reaching a vertical base… as he held himself and kicked Osyrus in the groin multiple times. That seemed to be a pay back of sorts for the foul play… but this was anything goes. And whoever could walk away from this encounter, would be the victor. Damon reached down to pull Osyrus off of the ground by neck; quickly slamming his left quadriceps into his Osyrus’ mouth… as blood spewed onto the sweat laden ground.

“Oh, you done fucked up now, nigga.”

DDJ dove deep down into his street fighting roots; he used his bulging biceps, as they were clasped around the throat of Osyrus… in a rear chin lock.

“Go to sleep, motherfucker. Sleep!”

Damon pulled furiously backwards as the veins in the Osyrus’ neck started to grow and expand in various directions…. He scratched and clawed Damon’s fingers as he tried to escape, kicking his legs spastically. Suddenly the squabble came to an abrupt halt.

THUD!

Damon staggered forward, releasing his grasp on Osyrus’ windpipe… both men laid on the ground partially stunned, and in shock. Osyrus was the first to twitch; wondering what had happened to the mighty DDJ, who held the back of his cranium, where a contusion appeared. ‘The Beast’ slowly looked over his shoulder, coughing as air was replenished inside of his lungs… to see a large 2X4 held loosely in the arms of Norma Morales.

Also known as Isis to the rest of the world.

Osyrus smirked, but his temporary satisfaction of the moment was interrupted, as he coughed up a bit of blood… and grabbed his rib cage. “It’s about time you did something, rather than standing around, and being a fucking spectator. Don’t just stand there; Help me up. god damn it.” Isis leaned down, as she helped her master to his feet… Osyrus snatched the 2X4 out of his valet’s arms, slowly sulking toward Damon’s position on the ground. Exhausted, Osyrus waited a few seconds before raising the wooden weapon in the air, before smashing it int0 Damon’s cranium maliciously. ‘The Beast’ lifted DDJ onto a vertical base; he was thrown into the vacated vending machine, cracking the Plexiglas… knocking it onto the ground with a loud crash.

“Had enough, fucker?” Osyrus snarled, but Damon only replied with a flick of his middle finger.

“Fuck you…pant…pant…”

“So it’s going to be like that, huh? Isis, show him what we do, to people that don’t obey the hands that feed them…” In Osyrus’ mind, the only reason why Damon was still employed in the Asylum… was because Osyrus hadn’t killed him yet in cold blood. Isis leaned down as she grabbed DDJ by the right wrist and sank her sharp incisors into his digits.

“AHHHHH…. BITCHHH!” Jackson yelled out as he punched Isis in the face, just seconds before Osyrus started to advance on him.

SMACK!

Damon uppercut Osyrus’ groin from a squatting position, ‘the personification of talent’ slumped to the ground but not before a Timberland boot to the head… floored Osyrus for good.

CLUMP!

CLUMP!

CLUMP!

CLUMP!

“TAKE EM’ DOWN!!”

“Aw shit!”

The sounds of feet running down the hall caught Damon’s attention, but not as intuitively as the nightstick that struck the top of his Jaw, from the first guard.

SMACK!

Ricocheting off the wall, Damon was able to connect with a Swinging Right Hook to the owner of the Nightstick..

WHAM!!

Immediately, a random fist introduced itself to Damon’s right eye.

BLAM!

Heavily reeling from the blow, Osyrus sought to interject himself back into the fray…

“Nowhere To Run, Nowhere To Hide”

The cement wall broke Damon’s less-than-graceful fight into the air. Damon painfully arched his back as he landed on both knees, setting him in position to embrace the incoming fury of a Tazer Gun to the Neck..

BZZZZ!!!

His jaw sought to unleash a bloodcurdling yell but a flurry of hatred, would speak on his behalf…

THUMP!

THUMP!

SMACK!

THUMP!

SMACK!!

THUMP!

SMACK!

CRACK!!!

A Nightstick to the Stomach lurched the Chicago native forward…Right into the path of another incoming Nightstick to the Jaw!

THWACK!!

The hostile swarm of Asylum armed guards surrounded Jackson, striking any limb available to further punish Damon. The adamant stomps and kicks continued until Damon’s animated limbs fell silent. After checking Damon’s vitals, they began lifting him to his feet as the Joe Campbell's personalized security disappeared from the hall. The head of security took one long look at Osyrus before following suit.

“We’re looking for a Black 2002 Ford Expedition. Mr. Campbell order us to personally escort this motherfucker back to his car. Ox: Make sure he makes it to his vehicle with the utmost care, will ya?”

………..

……….

SKISH!!!!!!!!!!!!!

The presence of a 387lb. Swedish behemoth snatched DDJ up into the air and pressed him over his head before hurling him spine first into the front windshield.

Dusting their hands off from a hard day’s work, the entire security detail retreated to the much warmer confides of the Pontiac Silverdome arena.