Campbell would swear that he'd travel to the ends of the earth to reclaim that piece of history... little did he know, that he would have to.

"You can't believe it? I can't believe that I have to come with you to that shithole teeming with aids, we'll probably die as soon as we step off the plane." Villam sighed shaking his head.

"You've got to be there, that was the deal... fucking fWo scumbags, nothing's ever easy with them... oh hey Joe and Villam, why don't you come and take care of Kinkade for us? like it's a fucking walk next door or something, I haven't had a jab for about ten years...

... so yeah, I probably will die as soon as I step off the plane... you'll be alright though." Joe said, narrowing his eyes in Villam's direction as the Asylum champion cracked his knuckles in reply.

"And that's supposed to mean?" Villam snarled.

"Err... nothing, I was just saying like... ahem, anyway... private jet, we should arrive there for Sunday, which will give us plenty of time to get to Cape Town, or wherever the fuck it is we have to be... so right, have you got everything that you need?" Joe asked Villam... who promptly looked down at his fists before replying.

"Yep... and you?"

"Sun tan lotion, gun, brass knuckles... handcuffs, yep... looks like it, we're alright for time anyway, I'll stay here and make sure things don't go ass over tit... you might as well go and get some sleep, no point both of us having jetlag when we arrive... if we can get there for tomorrow we can be back here by Monday night, this is only Kinkade we're talking about... we're not exactly kidnapping Mike Tyson, this cunt doesn't have any entourage to protect him, they hate him over there... in fact they'll probably hold the doors open for us while we carry his arse out." Joe Campbell said as he rolled up his sleeves.

"Yeah, whatever... I'll see you later." Villam replied.

"Wicked... it'll be like taking candy from babies during easter mate, first we snatch Kinkade from the fWo, then we snatch the Immortal title from Kinkade, simple." Joe said with a sinister grin as Villam left his office.

A few digits on the cellphone later, Joe sealed the deal.

"Alright Dave... been a while, remember that crap with Natwest? Yeah... the shite with the shotgun and the ten year sentence, well... remember when you said you'd do anything to pay me back for getting you off the hook?

Time to pay up, I want a private jet and a flight to Africa, ta." Joe said, promptly hanging up the phone and grinning to himself.

"Twenty four hours Kinkade...

... twenty four hours."

As usual, he was accompanied by Warwick Hunt and Lharn Huscroft, just like the old days he thought to himself, when TRD, who had been distinctively quite throughout the entire journey, posed a question: “Keeg, are you really serious about this Tapestry or what?”

“I suppose so. She’s a great woman like. Not the type I’d normally go but that’s why I think I like her. She’s different and also understands the business, something that Adele certainly couldn’t.”

Lharn looked at Hunt and pulled a face to suggest that last week’s prank could backfire before he decided to change the subject: “What happens this week then? Are you going to leave Garvin alone?”

Special K smirked as he was pondering for a spot to park in: “You’re a funny one Lharn son. You say fuck all for hours and now you’re asking questions. Well. I’ve not really thought about it. We’ll just see what goes on eh? The poor bairn is already shit scared of me so I might let him off the hook the night. Don’t worry though lads. We’ll have a good laugh anyway won’t we?”

The team behind The Yardstick decided to ignore their leader, which annoyed him: “Howay man. Fuck’s sake. Cheer up. You’ve got a face like Maine Road’s temporary stand. If you’re going to be like this I might have to go and wreck Jeff and Julie’s marriage before it’s even started.”

Huscroft muttered under his breath: “You’d know all about that.”

“What the fuck did you say? If I were you, I’d keep my hole shut because this is a trial period and derogatory comments don’t cut it with me. As for you Warwick…”

“What have I done?”

“Well how do I even know you’re a Lawyer eh? I mean after I heard what happened with LLB, you could have just been on the dole when I met you and happened to have a giant gob on you. Jesus, the world’s gone mental!”

His Brief took great exception to that: “I’ve represented you on numerous occasions and been involved in some horrific cases, ones that you’d have put your money on to be guilty, but thanks to me, bare-faced liars are still roaming the streets. I’m a Lawyer, not a Wrestler Keegan.”

While he had produced another decent speech in his defence The Prince of Palermo would have the last word: “Well you’re a criminal then aren’t you? Getting bastards off the hook and before you act like you’re the big man, I’ve never committed a crime for the sake of doing it. You name what I’ve done and I’ll justify it. Fuck, I could have defended myself and still got off. Anyway, both of you get out of my fucking car. I need to think.”

They did as he wished. After all, neither of them was in the position to stand up to him, especially in this kind of mood, but it did allow them to exchange a few words: “What an ungrateful twat. I’ve been with him since school, except for these last few months, and now I know why I stabbed the bastard in the back to begin with. Who the fuck does he think he is?”

Despite his verbal berating, an aspect of life he wasn’t accustomed to, Warwick adopted a less cynical view of the Newcastle native’s current mood: “I don’t know. He’s probably got a lot on his plate and you’ve got to be careful. If he finds out about those poems you wrote and it ruins his chances with Tapestry, you’ll be out.”

And the Lawyer was spot on more times than not…

“No, no, no, no, NO!” TMM shouted as Slapnutz fished reading out his latest offering. “That was utter bollocks and you should be ashamed of yourself.”

It had been a long day for Splink. They had spent ages locked up in the upper-deck of the S-Express, trying to create a masterpiece. They wouldn’t have complained, but the bus still had a strange aroma of fish lingering in the wallpaper. It really wasn’t nice.

Anyway, Splink needed a song for Slapnutz. If he was serious about his singing career, he needed a fantastic song to launch him to stardom. Anyway, Campbell wouldn’t be happy if Slapnutz came out into the Asylum and started to sing some crap that a trained chimp could’ve written. But, TMM and Slapnutz were about as successful as Michael Barrymore at the World Swimming Championships. Being lyricists was not what they were being paid for. They were paid to kick shit out of people. They could do that right at least. They managed to do that against Jamal Wilson and Chino Hernandez. Fighting was a walk in the park compared to writing an award winning song. Ask Elton John about that one. Apparently, he loves to be beaten about the ring instead of writing songs.

“But those lyrics were heartfelt and beautiful. Imagine the video we could make for the song. I could poke someone in the eye and they wouldn’t hit me back. All they’d do is cry. It’s a stroke of genius,” Slapnutz moaned. He’d always wanted to poke a woman in the eye. It was a strange fetish thing. You know, like wanting to have sex with a midget or sticking a dildo down someone’s throat. Kinky.

“You really have lost it, haven’t you?” Came the response from TMM.

Slapnutz shook his head and TMM let out a sigh as he went back to trying to compose a masterpiece. It wasn’t going to be easy, but they’d do it. Honestly, they would.

Garvin was stretched out on the couch in his locker room, sipping some unclassified non-alcoholic drink, because as we all know, a true athlete does not even taste the nectar of the nitwit. It was so peaceful, the whole room to himself, no ‘ball and chain’ to tell him to pick up his socks or take a shower.

Just complete and utter bliss… and he hadn’t been booked in a fight tonight, so everything was swell. He figured he would show up, scope out the scene and watch his competition on a private monitor. It never hurts to know your opponent’s weak points, as well as their strengths. Jeff was casually dressed in jeans and navy blue sweater, just taking it easy.

As long as he remained in here, nothing could get him- not with the door locked several times with the best pad locks a twenty dollar bill could buy. The Original continued watching the show until the Legion of Diary came on. He wasn’t going to subject his highly intelligent mind to their idiocy. He grabbed the remote, a bulky old thing it was, and flicked off the television.

“Time to get some much deserved shut-eye,” Garvin muttered, already beginning to close his eyes with his arms curled back, his hands planted under his head for extra support. It was time to dream the dreams that only a world class champion was aloud to experience.

Naked girls, and lots of ‘em.

Garvin began to slip off into dreamland when a sudden knock startled him. It came from the door, the only entrance and exit to his dressing room. His eyes shot open. “Keegan…” Yes, it must have been him. He was coming for him, ready to break down the door and strangle him with an extension chord! Oh dear!

Okay, settle-down Jeff; settle down… calm those nerves. “I must defend my territory!” He shouted, a bit of apprehension in his tone. He turned and snatched up whatever object he could find; a lamp… he was going to lay the pain on Keegan with a damn lamp? Boy, he sure had this all planned out…

Creeping to the door, his ‘weapon’ stuck behind his back, he began to turn the knob… slowly, slowly… nervousness beginning to build up. He gulped for air, and jerked back on the door- ready to strike!

“AH! I’LL KILL YOU, MOTHERFUCKER!”

Oh shit… You’re in for it now, Jeff!

With the lamp above his head, preparing itself to be shattered over Keegan’s noggin, something stopped Garvin.

Julie, his wife: with a terrified look on her face.

“I mean…” He choked, “I’ll love you… baby?”

“You fucking idiot, you scared the shit out of me!” Julie said, a hand at her chest as she tried to calm herself, walking into the dressing room as Jeff quickly shut the door, however, forgetting to lock his set of locks… his ‘only’ protection against the outside world of crazed fighters that most likely were plotting his death.

Julie turned and smiled, “Jesus Christ, Jeff… You’re more worked up than a sixteen year old boy about to see his first pair of tits.” She laughed.

However, Jeff Garvin wasn’t. He had almost put his own wife in a coma, and why? Because he was becoming paranoid with this Asylum shit… and why was that? Because he was well aware that a large majority of its ‘employees’ had a gun collection bigger than Santa Clause’s fat ass wife.

Oh well, better paranoid than a pile of meat lying on the cement floor…

There was no way those loons were getting to him.

No fucking way.

Joe was too busy to look up.

"What do you want, bugger?"

"Er... um... nothing, sir."

"... Why the fuck are you wasting my time, then?"

"Just saying hello, sir."

"Stop calling me 'sir' before I tear your balls off."

"No problem, si... sis."

"Excuse me?"

"Nothing."

Joe finally looked up.

Some thick-glassed, wire-frame tool stood in front of him. With a sweater on. It was practically getting to be springtime outside, and this dumb fuck is wearing a sweater.

With a whistle, Joe rolled his eyes and went back to work.

"And what the fuck do you want?"

"Well... I'm here to fulfill the rest of Richard Campbell's contract."

Joe put down his pen. "Now... what did you say? What the fuck happened to Ricky?"

"Oh... he's in court for copyright infringement by some rock band. Said that it wasn't worth it to be in a hellhole like this -- his words, not mine, no, definitely not mine -- and, well... he... expelled himself from here."

"... Expelled?"

"Um... quit."

"Oh, fuckin' shit. Great. There goes a moneymaker."

"So... the agency sent me in."

"Agency?"

This tool nodded his head.

"Since when the fuck is there an agency for this type of shit? I mean, bloody crackin'... who the hell are you?"

"My name's Christopher. Christopher Oberst."

Joe snickered. "Sounds like one of those emo losers."

Christopher didn't respond. He just rubbed his right sneaker -- a Keds brand -- against the floor. And he ran a hand through his jet-black, straight-lined hair. Joe watched him do this.

"Oh... dammit... this is too good to be true. A fuckin' emo boy in the Asylum. Like blood in the water. Forget about that retarded Southern hick, boy." Joe got out of his seat. He walked around, put a hand on Chris's shoulder. The boy was Joe's size.

"You've got to be kidding me," Joe said. "You're... you're my size. You've probably been dating some rat with a wig on, haven't you?"

"Um, well... no... actually..." Chris pondered the blankness of the walls. "Um..."

Joe waited for a moment, and then screamed. "WHAT?!"

"Um... I haven't ever had a girlfriend. I've never had sex."

"Oh... fuck. Fuck!" Joe began to laugh. "This is too goddamn good. Hold on... oh... that's too good. You'll fit right in."

"I will?" Chris asked. You could see in his eyes that he really believed Joe.

Moron.

"No. Now get the fuck out of my office." Joe pointed to the door. And, like a puppy dog scorned by it's master, Chris Oberst walked out the door. Joe slammed it behind him, walked back behind his desk. He sat down. Picked up a pen.

He put the pen back down. "... Never been laid?" he asked aloud. And roared with laughter. "Fuckin' loser."

Cheno still nursed his injury, not looking up as Joe continued his rant. "Listen, you've got this weird kick going on through your head like you have to defend your title this week. Come on Eddie, give it some rest, take some shut eye. Rest yourself up and heal that wound. The television title won't go anywhere, cuz then it wouldn't be defended. And it’s not like I’m gonna strip it off of you." Cheno shot a glare at Campbell, and immediately looked down to his shoulder at the title belt that adorned it. "That's right Eddie. We just have to work through tonight and we'll be good. I think a little Dez-Freak action'll suffice." Joe paused a bit, turning his back and looking out a window that was behind him. That's when his attention was caught by three words.

"Funk you mang."

Crystal clear. Joe turned around in amazement. His eyes wide in shock. Did he hear that or was the pressure of running an underground federation getting to him? The last time Eddie spoke was last September at Immortals, before the now deceased Nicole Carson blew a hole through his face. Cheno sat up from his chair, folded his arms and sternly looked forward. "Dis be my funken reign mang, and I be funken runnin' dis shiznit wit only me."

Eddie turned around to exit the locker room, as Joe simply hadn't moved since he heard those three words. Eddie slammed the door behind him on his way out.

No one knew who, and, to be honest, in the Asylum none of the Fans really gave a damn. The man turned a corner, revealing himself to be wearing a Batman cape. The Fans laughed at this, as, once again, the man walked very cautiously, as if he didn’t want to be seen by anyone.

Then came another turn in the hallway, and as he did this, his “utility belt” was shown to be that of a real one.

The Asylum UK Championship.

Could it be? The man that was only seen once on tA television after winning the Belt, has finally bothered to show up?

Getting to a locker room door, he opened it up and entered. Once the door closed, the man set down his scepter, pulled off his Batman cape... and showed himself to be none other than ‘The Germ Gestapo’ Miles Blunder.

The Fans booed in a pissed off rage, wondering where in the hell he had been over the past two month.

But Blunder, he was more than likely too nervous to show. After all, any day with the UK Title, could be his last... and he liked this Belt. He had shined it up so well, it looked as though it was fresh off the press.

Blunder glanced down at his Title, grinned uncomfortably, and walked over to the table that sat in the corner of the locker room. Within the hours before each Show, Joe Campbell would normally get one of his staff workers to run a copy of the nighting’s events to each locker room, to show each fighter if they had a Match or not.

It had been a month - and then some... where each show Blunder would sit at home, too scared to head down to where tA was holding their event. It had been a long time, but fearing for his job now, Blunder thought he’d actually appear.

Maybe, just maybe... he’d get lucky tonight.

Blunder picked up the sheet of paper, hands trembling as he did... and red it over.

“For- for the number one con- contendership...” He read it to himself. “T- to gain a- a shot at th- the U- UK Title on Pay- Pay-Per-View, Mi- Miles Blunder versus Me- Merc- Mercy.”

His eyes shot opened. Mercy, rumored to be the women in Dawn Van Dammage, was his opponent for tonight. And even worse, if she was to win... there’d be another battle with them on Pay-Per-View.

Blunder didn’t swear this time... he didn’t cry, nor want to die. He just stood there, motionless... resenting the fact that he decided to come back tonight, and not next week.

Anyway, here we were again and as the former Fighting Zone franchise of the Female division knocked on The Yardstick’s door and granted permission to enter the Englishman moved over to greet her in a friendly manner when she gave him a gesture that he’s had a few times himself - an almighty slap to his right cheek that echoed around the room and left both Huscroft and Hunt stunned. But this was more fierce than usual given Tapestry’s toughness.

“What the fuck was that for?”

She then unveiled a couple of cards: “Here’s why.”

With his left hand, he took them from her as he was holding his cheek with his right paw prior to reading the contents: “Erm… I didn’t write that.”

“I thought you would say that.”

Special K was seething: “I didn’t. Because I gave you only one card, which was massive, and if you read that you’d realise it was different writing. Hang on…”

And then he clicked, turning round to look at Lharn: “You did this didn’t you?”

The Real Deal held his hands up and was about to explain himself but it was no good: “Don’t give me any shit. Just be honest. It looks very similar to your writing so just give me one word. That’s all. Yes or no?”

Rather sheepishly, with his face fixated on the floor, he answered: “Yes, but it…”

“Don’t fucking want to hear it. Get the fuck out now.”

“Howay…”

Carrahar cut him off again: “Howay Keeg what? Look. Call me a sad cunt but I’m getting tired of your antics Lharn. They’re becoming monotonous. The fans out there might love them, Christ I act like a bairn out there an’all, but that’s in the name of entertainment. This is just not on. Now piss off.”

Like a child being sent to the Headmaster, Lharn trotted off having been told off and slammed the door shut behind him and neither Tapestry nor Warwick knew what to say to the Newcastle native: “I apologise for that. I may’ve been harsh but he just does my head in sometimes like.”

Tapestry chipped in: “It is okay. Maybe I should come back another time.”

Keegan, who was now seated, nodded: “I’m sorry about that babe. It’s my fault as much as his. But we’re sweet that now eh?”

She nodded.

“Let me make it up to you. Can I take you out to make up for this mess? Nothing serious like. Jesus, we can just cool out and read The Bible if you want,” he said in a sarcastic manner but also somehow he kept a straight face.

“Yes. That would be great. Well I will see you later.”

Warwick just put his hand up as a sign for goodbye but before she left the Venice Beach Vixen had something else to say: “Thank you for your card by the way. It was really nice.”

As she opened the door, an official was stood there and allowed her to out before entering Keegan’s hostile home for the evening: “And what the fuck do you want? To sue me or something?”

The gentleman had no idea what the Geordie Genius had implied, hence he ignored it and passed on the message that he had been assigned to deliver: “Joe Campbell wants to see you Sir.”

“It just gets better doesn’t it?”

More God-awful lyrics from the pen of Slapnutz. He couldn’t really get to grip with what TMM and Joe wanted. They needed something mainstream and Slapnutz wasn’t giving them it.

“But imagine the video for this one,” was the reasoning Slapnutz gave TMM.

“So, all you want to do is write a song that means you can do something sexually explicit in the video?” TMM asked his team partner. He already knew the answer to the question, so he wasn’t surprised when Slapnutz confirmed what he had been thinking. For TMM, this wasn’t about the fame. He couldn’t care if Slapnutz became the next Bimbo Baggins or the next Britney Spears. All he wanted was the money. Money makes the world go round. Money, money, money. Money talks, it can’t sing or dance and it can’t walk. But, money was also the root of all evil.

TMM stood up from the table where he had spent the past 24 hours. He waded through the copious amounts of paper lying on the floor of the S-Express and went to get himself a cup of coffee. He didn’t normally drink coffee since it WAS a Yank drink. However, these were mitigating circumstances. He needed to stay awake and write that award winning song.

“You know, Teem, we could always do a cover of an old song. Y’know, like that stuttering bastard on the telly. Or like that faggot with the Jimmy Hill chin. Bet his dick is Everbrown, not Evergreen.”

“What in the name of God are you talking about? We need to write a song because that’s where the royalties are. I take credit for writing the song and I get lots of money when it gets played on the radio.”

“Where do I get my money from?”

TMM thought about it for a minute. He hadn’t taken his team partner into account when he budgeted everything. He knew where his money would come from. He knew how much Joe would be entitled to. But, he didn’t know where the Scotsman would get his money.

“You, my dear friend, get your money from the massive advertising deal that we have lined up for you. We’ll also start your own line of clothes and other wonderful things. It’ll be grand. Do you see?” TMM lied through his teeth. There was no sponsorship deal. There were no clothes in the pipeline and there sure as hell weren’t any other wonderful things to get his hopes up for.

“Woooop, clothes and money. I can be like J-Lo, but without that fat arse. In fact, I’m much better looking than that Latin-whore. I can sing, dance AND kick arse. She can only kick arse. Therefore, I’m three-times as good as her. Remember that, pob.”

Slapnutz began to shimmy over the floor of the S-Express. If La Parka had been there, the Scot would have been done for gimmick infringement. However, he was not and Slapnutz continued to shimmy. It was a shimmy for the ages, especially since this one was motivated by the idea of sponsorship deals and his own range of clothes.

Ignorance was bliss.

He wished he had remembered his retainer and his inhaler. Now his teeth would get all crooked. God damn, Chris, what are you doing here? Snap out of it, boy, wake up. This could be very bad for you. It probably would be. God help me. He thought all of this over.

He realized he was near the curtain.

"MOVE!" screamed a really really big guy. Chris damn near wet his pants. He rushed away from the curtain, towards the darkness.

"Oh... oh man." Chris wiped some sweat from his brow. "I wish I had joined that band when I had a chance. I coulda been the new Weezer bassist, but no..."

‘The Germ Gestapo’ Miles Blunder Vs Mercy

Leaving the cape and the scepter behind, “The Other Man” by Sloan began, and thus, out walked the UK Champion... nerves setting off as he did.

“Fuck, why am I here?

Fuck, why did I come?

Fuck, why all of this?”

He just kept muttering to himself, as Blunder entered the Asylum’s cage, and walked to the corner, awaiting his Mercy.

Or so he wished.

“Bullets” by Creed. Out came Mercy as she marched down the pathway... her eyes locked on Miles Blunder, which would only make him feel more uncomfortable. And she knew this, so that’s what she did. Mercy entered the cage, walking a slow pace towards Miles Blunder... while the UK Champion backtracked... only to run out of room and whack into the side of the mesh.

Mercy drove forth, nailing him with a right hand. Miles turned around from the shock, as Mercy took him and connected with a high angle German suplex. The Fans cheered in seeing Miles out... and, normally, that was all it was going to take with the skills Blunder actually put out in a Match.

But Mercy, didn’t want to show that just yet. In picking Blunder up, she smacked him with a roundhouse kick that flushed him into the mesh. Then pacing over to ‘The Germ Gestapo’, she hit a Dragon suplex that made the cage shake upon the landing.

With Blunder out... and praying for his embarrassment to just end, “DVD” nailed one of her signature moves... the ‘Fallen Angel’.

And now, it was totally academic.

‘Mercy Killing’.

From that the Referee counted to ten, and the Match was honored in the favor of Mercy... who was going to the Pay-Per-View, to fight Miles for his Title now.

Leaving the ring, Mercy walked up the ramp as the Referee checked on MB... who had recovered, but rolled himself into a ball and hid at the side of the cage.

“Get it together man, nothing is going to happen. Nothing at all, you just need to stay calm. Count some fucking sheep, named off all the wrestling holds you know, just do something to get your mind off Keegan!”

Well, he had begun talking to himself. That was a sure sign he was beginning to go nutty. Garvin cracked his neck back and let out a deep groan of pleasure; stretching and relieving some built up tension in his muscles. Where was Julie when he needed a massage anyway?

“BOO!”

“AH! DANGER! DANGER!”

Garvin screeched and fell off the couch after giving one of the strangest and wildest jumps anyone had ever seen. Jeff lay sprawled out on the floor, covering his head while he waited for the surprise beating to commence.

…But all he heard was laughter- the laughter of ‘woman’. The Original rolled over onto his back and stared up at his attacker. It was Julie… that was the second time she had scared the living daylights out of him. This time it was intentional. She actually found it funny.

And so did the Asylum fans.

Garvin got to his feet and dusted himself off. “That’s not funny, Jewels! I was in full ‘crouching tiger, hidden dragon’ mode… I was ready to whoop ass at the instant someone dare mess with me and you just threw it all off! I’m back to square one, babe! Do you know how long it takes to get to that level of fuckin’ Zen? HUH? DO YAH?”

Rolling her eyes, his wife gave a “PSH” and walked off into the nearby bathroom.

“Right, well, I’m growing tired of your annoying antics Jeff, grow a penis and a pair of balls… I’m taking a shower.” And with that, she disappeared into the bathroom…

Wait a second.

Jeff grinned insanely.

He had the perfect plan.

Keegan was going down.

The Order of Blundia wasn’t able to set foot tonight... and, if he wasn’t to beat Mercy on the upcoming Pay-Per-View, the Order of Blundia would never see a birth.

His nerves were gone for now... because now all that sat in Miles’ mind was anger... the anger of being a failure. A loser. The anger of not even bothering to show up on the past Asylum shows... where he *could have* started the order of Blundia. Where he *could have* shown off his Title Belt to people.

But now... it was as good as gone. In only his second show from winning the Belt, yet almost two months worth of time, ‘The Germ Gestapo’ would be at the bottom again.

He sighed.

When he’d get home, Blunder would give his Title a final washing, and then just kiss it goodbye... to the scum entitled Mercy.

The next UK Champion.

“Well if it isn’t my favourite Geordie. Come on Keegan. Take a seat.”

Carrahar clearly wasn’t in the mood for games but took a seat anyway: “Alright Joe. Why am I here? Get bored of taking the piss out of the other dimwits who can’t understand your insults let alone back answer to them?”

The Owner laughed: “No. I was interested in your opinion actually.”

Special K sighed: “Okay. First of all, I think you should drop the Hawaiian shirts and then get a shave, I mean I’m not against facial hair but you just don’t suit this mean look. After that, maybe drop the Melanie Sykes accent and maybe, just maybe mind, you might just pull a Poodle. Can I go now?”

“Fucking funny that one. I’ll have to tell that one to your handsome half brother. Speaking of which, I suppose you’ll have heard by now…”

Campbell’s compatriot intervened: “He’s dead? What a pity!”

“No. Well not yet but he could be after tonight.”

Keegan hadn’t actually meant the previous comment but he was now intrigued: “Go on…”

“The fucker’s got himself a title match just for looking mean! Amazing I know but that’s this fucking federation for you. You could punch like a fucking pansy but be in the main event just for being an ugly bastard. Christ, in a few years time, we could have Michael Jackson and Vanessa Feltz headlining Fight Hell!”

“Aye. I agree. I suppose he’s been given that role for being a toothless wonder. So I guess it’s your mate Liam’s chance next week then? From Oasis.”

Joe shook his head: “I hate that bastard. Fucking blue isn’t he? And he thinks he’s hard. Like he’s Joe Campbell or something. So what do you think?”

“Of Willis or the other prick?”

“Willis.”

“Well good for him. I mean I couldn’t give a shit really like Joe. But it’s laughable if he’s got a shot for missing two front teeth, particularly when I fucking removed them for him, so he should be coming into my dressing room and sucking my dick. The bastard.”

“You removed his teeth?”

Keegan was clearly proud of this: “Aye. Dropped him on a fucking toilet.”
“What were you doing in the toilet? Up to some gay incest sex, circa George Michael?”

Rather than react, Keegan chuckled: “You’ve got a filthy mind Joe. Typical Englishman, which probably explains why you’re such a cunt, but while I’m sorry to disappoint you, no it didn’t happen like that.”

“How do you rate his chances? Do you think he’ll win?”

“You never know. He’s big, strong and ugly enough to do it but if you asked me to back him, I wouldn’t do it. That’s not to knock the cunt but you’ve not seen the best of him like. He’ll be hyped, no doubt about it, and determined to make amends for getting his arse handed to him by Burton and Ruben but my guess is that he’ll go out there like a possessed madman, fall on his arse like The Shockmaster and tire himself out quicker than The Ultimate Warrior trying to sprint the ten thousand metres.

“John performs better when he’s not pissed. When he’d relaxed, you see he’s not the brightest, he hurts you more. When he’s not disciplined, he just goes mental and while he does hit you harder for a few minutes, it’s far easier to knock him out as he practically does that for you.”

Joe was now able to get a word in, not that you’ll see that much, in order to dismiss Keegan: “Okay. You can go now. Go on. Get the fuck out. Go and torment that wanker Garvin or something. The twat outside will show you where he is if you want him now go on. Get your ugly arse out of my room so I can get pissed.”

The Manchurian loved nothing better than having the last word and then drinking himself stupid.

As Keegan said, in that respect, he epitomised the English.

Eddie Cheno© Vs Bradley Duncan
(T.V. Title)

Duncan walked out from the back alone, Max Danger nowhere to be seen. Slowly, this view was becoming less and less, weird. Just like it’s hard to pull two people apart who are so closely associated to one another, here, it’s slowly begun to take that turn. Duncan climbed into the Asylum cage, shaking his shoulder to loosen the joints.

“Smoke two Joints” by Sublime played next, which caused the crowd to rise to their feet. Now, whether this was in cheers or boos was up to interpretation, because the crowd seemed to be rather split on the issue. He was one of the most beloved Asylum competitors, but lately, he hasn’t been acting like himself, most notably, taking LLB and showing no remorse in stealing the Television championship. Cheno walked out from the back, the title draped over his shoulder as he simply hung his head low and to the side. Slowly, he craned his neck so that he stared at his opponent inside the cage, and took his slow walk to the cage. He shrugged his shoulders before taking the title belt off once entering the cage. He cracked his neck from side to side, and handed the belt over to the referee.

Duncan shot in shortly after, trying to hook Eddie’s leg and drive him into the cage wall. Eddie however, used his left foot as a wedge, and hammered down on Duncan’s back with vicious forearm shots. The final shot, a stiff right hand, was aimed and caught the kidney of Duncan, who went down to his knees in pain, his face contorted as if he had just eaten a sour lemon.

One.

Two.

Duncan didn’t stay down long, catching Cheno with a low blow from his now crawling position. Cheno dropped to his knees which led to Duncan getting to his feet, and kneeing Cheno in the face. He repeated the process, delivering blow after blow to the television champion. The fans counted along all the way up till ten, until Duncan lifted the dazed Cheno and charged forward for a yakuza kick.

Cheno ducked the maneuver however, and hooked Duncan’s leg on his shoulder. Duncan tried to fight out of it, hammering with a couple of right hands but it was pointless, as Cheno sprung up from the mat to drive Duncan backwards and into the cage wall. Bradley’s head collided with the steel mesh and sent out a clang. Eddie stayed on top of him, throwing himself in what could be considered a Lou Thesz press and hammering the challenger with repeated fists to the gut, shoulders, and facial area. Duncan tried to cover up at first, but found that to be pointless for a man who was once a boxer. Instead, Duncan used his strength to actually stand, Eddie Cheno still on top of him, and hook him in a beer hug. Once in that position, Duncan swung Eddie’s legs behind him and drove him back first into the mat. Cheno let out a cry of pain as Duncan got to his feet, shaking off the effects of Cheno’s blows.

Duncan reached down and picked Eddie up off the canvas, and locked him in another belly to belly. Duncan then tossed the dreary champion overhead in a belly to belly suplex, almost sending him out of the cage but instead, slamming the smaller area of his back into the top of the cage rim. Cheno fell back into the cage, landing neck first on the canvas and rolling his body so that his stomach was on the mat. Duncan looked at his fallen opponent, and immediately reached over, grabbing his legs and locking him in a single-legged Boston crab. Cheno let out a cry of pain as Duncan rared the hold in further, and the referee’s were in perfect position to hear the cries of “I Quit” or the slamming of Eddie’s hand to the mat, if he should choose to do said things to have Duncan release the hold.

Cheno strained his eyes trying to reverse the move, as he reached behind him blindly. All he could grab were Duncan’s tights, and he didn’t have enough leverage to pull himself out of the move. Instead, he used this grip, and his other hand to push himself up off the canvas, and roll his head under his body. He then used the momentum and his leg strength to send Duncan into the cage wall, where he crashed into it ribs first.

Duncan hung on the side of the wall, his arms draped overtop as Cheno recovered with a slight limp. Cheno charged forward then, ramming his shoulder into the back of Duncan, and then grabbing at his legs. Almost like a scene out of the royal rumble, Cheno tried to toss Duncan out of the cage, but Duncan instead wrapped his legs around the midsection and under the arm pits of Eddie. With his midsection exposed though, Cheno laid in a swift kick to his hurt ribs, followed by another, and then lifted him off the cage wall and planted him in the center of the canvas with an inverted face first powerbomb. Bradley hit hard, and rolled over immediately onto his back, clutching at his ribs in immense pain.

Cheno lifted Duncan up quick before the official could even start his count, and Duncan fired out of it with a couple of shots to the midsection. Cheno stumbled, and Duncan then twisted his body and…

Dangerous III. Roaring Elbow. It sent the television champion stumbling backwards and into the cage wall. He almost tipped over, and Duncan looked to finish him off and win the television championship.

He charged forward, and Cheno ducked his shoulder at the last second, back body dropping Duncan up and out of the cage.

Duncan landed hard but recovered quickly, slamming his hand into the steel cage mesh in frustration.

Eddie took a look at his own reflection in the television title that was handed back to him.

It was dim in the light, but the reflection came in stronger now than it did last week. Piece by piece he’d rebuild, until it was crystal clear.

No matter the case of how he won it, he defended it this week by himself.

Max Danger.

He carried with him a giant three-foot tall trophy. He had gotten it for winning Action!'s King of Submissions Tournament, which culminated with a win over 'The Original' Jeff Garvin at Blood, Sweat, & Tears.

'The Danger Man' stood walked into the Asylum, a place he had said he was never going to step foot in again. But here he was, standing with a microphone in hand. He had placed his trophy down at his side, and was looking at Cheno. He just scoffed as he looked at his title. He then pointed with his eyes for Eddie to view his trophy and was like, 'Heh. Yeah. Niiiice, right?', though.

Then he turned to his partner, Bradley Duncan. He just shook his head, while looking down at the ground. "I'm disappointed," he told Duncan. "You've been going on and on about how you're doing so great without me, and then, you lose to Eddie Cheno. Eddie Cheno? Come on, Bradley, you're better than that, aren't you?"

Bradley had begun to do sign language when Danger stopped him, "Now, Bradley, you know I don't know what the hell you're saying. So don't even bother."

He went to his partner's side and put his arm around him. "But, I'm going to do something. I'm going to get that TV Title for you."

Eddie gave Max the look, 'Oh you are, are you?'. Danger then walked across the Asylum and got within a few feet of the Television Champion.

"My friend there, well, he's not as good as he claims. I, on the other hand, am. Hence the large trophy there. So, this is what I'm purposing. You and I, in a fight, at Bloody Valentine. Just shake my hand."

Eddie Cheno stood there a moment. He adjusted his title on his shoulder and then took 'The Danger Man's' hand. Max smiled and was about to pull his hand away when Eddie pulled him closer to him. He just smiled, but didn't say a word. Max looked nervous. But soon Cheno released his hand and walked to the back.

Max Danger then turned to Bradley Duncan. He shook his head and picked up his trophy before leaving 'The Silent One' all alone in the ring.

No, he wasn’t going to end up like that. He had a plan and it was fool proof… Er… As long as nothing went wrong and Keegan reacted as he planned he would. Still though, even with said plan, you need to keep your eyes peeled. When you’re a marked man like the Garvinator you need to stay alert.

All of the lights had been turned off in the dressing room, all but the lamp that Jeff had sat back down on its stand. Jeff waited anxiously for something to happen, staring at the door as knelt on the couch.

“It’s time,” he said in a whisper as he gazed at the door knob that had begun to turn. He waited and who would show? The janitor…

Garvin groaned.

But wait!

How does he know that this so called ‘Bill the Janitor’ is really who his name tag and… uh… eighty year old face say he is? That’s right people, it doesn’t.

It was Keegan!

“…It has to be.”

The janitor began straightening the pictures hanging from the wall, not minding Jeff who was staring at him awkwardly. He then began calling out Keegan’s name under his breath. Perhaps Keegan’s stupidity would catch up to him and he might answer to it.

“Keegan… Keegan…” He quinted, “…Keegan?”

Finally, the janitor heard him and turned. He looked puzzled as to what exactly Jeff was doing.

“AH-HA! I KNEW it was you!” He sprung into action, grabbing the short, elderly man and shoving him against the wall. “You may think you had me fooled with your… disguise… but I’m way too smart for that, jerk off! I’m alert! I’m ready! And you’re in for a world of hurt!”

Garvin grabbed his hair and pulled an ‘Austin Powers’ as he tried to pull the poor guy’s face right off.

“Ow. Ow! OUCH!” The old man whimpered.

Confused as to way the mask wasn’t going off… and realising he MAY have made a mistake. Jeff straightened the old man’s collar and went to sit down.

The janitor was scared to even move, and he was shaking.

Jeff cleared his throat.

“…Uh… You can get back to work now.”

“We’ve failed, haven’t we?” Slapnutz asked his compatriot.

“Well, it’s not like this is the Krypton Factor, but, yes, we’ve failed. You should be ashamed of yourself. No song means no money. No money means no sponsorship deals and no range of stylish clothes. I’m embarrassed for you. I really am.”

TMM looked at Slapnutz was contempt. He was legitimately disgusted by his partner’s inability to write a song. However, he was more disgusted by the fact that he wouldn’t make the millions and millions had had envisaged.

“And why is it my fault exactly?” Slapnutz queried.

“Because I do everything else and all you had to do was write three verses and a chorus. Not exactly rocket science, is it? I mean, look at the Spice Girls. Thick as two short planks but they had loads of hits. It’s easy.”

“They didn’t write the songs though. They had people to do it for them. Do you see?”

“What do you mean? You’ve shattered every illusion I ever had about that wonderful group of women. I think I need to have a lie down. Bastard.”

TMM goes over to the only couch on the bus and pushes Slapnutz off of it. As he lies down, the sound of ‘Jackie Wilson Says’ comes out of his trouser pocket. Well, not the exact sound, but a high-pitched beeping version of the song.

“You should really change your ringtone. This one sounds shit. Worse than the ‘Ducktales’ one you had before. Just hurry up and answer the call,” Slapnutz begged his partner through gritted teeth.

TMM flipped down the front of his phone and answered the call.

”Hello…I’m sorry, who are you…Oh, right, never heard of you…I see, you think that would work…okay then, do you know where to find us…you do, great, when can you be here…now…okay then, just open the bus doors and come on up.

TMM ended the call, flipped the front of his phone back up and lay down on the couch. Things were about to take a change for the better. Slapnutz was still oblivious. He was happy playing with his Team WTF figures. He was setting them on fire.

Burn, Team WTF, burn.

... But no lettuce. No cabbage. No broccoli. Nothing. This was so bad for a vegan.

Chris Oberst nearly threw up when he saw it. Chickens -- poor, hopeless chickens! -- cooked, fried, marinated, everything except living. The horror was shocking.

"It's like Madame Butterfly. Oh... oh... poor... poor chicky-poo. Why did you have to die? To be somebody's food? No, no, it shouldn't have happened to you. Oh, poor, poor chicky-poo."

He picked up the breast of the chicken, looked at it. Twirled it around.

And another fighter stepped up behind him.

"What are you doing?" the fighter asked. "Looking for the pussy on that thing?"

Chris just about wet his pants again. The fighter behind him reached one bear claw over and snatched the breast from his hands. "Leave the big food to the big boys, bitch."

"... Poor chicky-poo," Chris's mouth sang. Without brain consent, either. He knew he had just signed a death warrant with those words.

"... What?"

"... Uh..."

"What are you, a fag?" the fighter asked. He grabbed Chris by his sweater, and hoisted him up in the air. Then the fighter launched Chris over three tables, into the last one -- the desert cart, of course -- and sent both the boy and the cart toppling to the concrete. Cheesecake and chocolate ice cream stained Chris's clothes, and he could feel the slime of Jell-O pudding all over his hair. His glasses were somewhere out of reach. He couldn't see anything. He could hear the fighter walking away, though, walking far away, chuckling to himself.

As he crawled out from under the cart, his hands snaked over his glasses, and he put them on, just in time to see a man in a coat flick the orange-ended butt of a cigarette into the alleyway beside the arena, and re-enter the building. Joe Campbell.

Joe noticed the mess, and easily recognized that emo boy under it. He walked over to Chris. The smell of mixed food on Chris was kind of intense and ugly at the same time. "Damn it, Oberst... you know what? Clean this up. I should make you the Asylum janitor before we have to get some real ones... hell, that's a good idea. I'm gonna buy a pair of coveralls for you... and a bloody mop. Oh, that's too fucking good. Virgin emo janitor!"

Joe walked away. Chuckling, just like one of his prize fighters. Chris watched him walk away. And, defeated, he took one of the bowls -- half-empty with some type of punch -- and put it on his head, before lowering his head onto the ground.

“HELLO!”

Understandably, Julie, who had just got out of the shower, made sure her towel was wrapped tight around her bare body, particularly around her chest, and was clearly embarrassed by the whole incident: “Do you mind?”

“Not at all bonny lass. I don’t mind if you want to get changed. I’ll just stand here.”

Malone felt rather uncomfortable, especially with no Jeff Garvin in sight, and tried to avoid looking at her husband’s antagonist, who could not keep his eyes off her: “You’ve got a nice body Miss Malone if you don’t mind me saying. Not that your miserable excuse for a partner would know anything about that but he certainly doesn’t know what he’s missing if he hasn’t marked his territory. Maybe we could help each other out eh? What do you think?”

“Yes. Why don’t you go now before Jeff comes back and throws you out? You’re annoying me so why don’t you leave in one piece?”

The Yardstick laughed: “So what have you got in store for me? We all know that you wear the blob in your marriage, not that I’m saying your masculine because as I can see you’re certainly not. What do you say? I mean give me a minute and I can make sure you get a proper rubdown. There’s got to be some places that you can’t reach, which I can help you out with.”

He moved close towards Julie and put his hand on her hair, which started to frighten her and she seemingly froze in his presence, frighteningly isolated as the Geordie whispered: “You can do a lot better than J…”

Carrahar wasn’t allowed to finish his sentence as out of nowhere a brick smacked the head of Special K with considerable force.

Her knight in shining armour had arrived - and about time too.

“Hello my love. You were blinding.”

She screamed at Jeff: “I WAS NEARLY RAPED!”

“Don’t be so silly. I would never let anyone touch my Wife, let alone a stuck-up douche bag like Keegan ‘I’m so tough because I can piss on a classy Championship Carrahar.”

“Whatever,” she said in a slightly pessimistic way.

“Anyway, let’s get out of this fuckin’ place. And you said Keegan was scared of me? He’s bricking it! Do you get it? Bricking it?”

Julie, whether she actually found the joke amusing or was just relieved to see her husband save the day, smirked and even smiled when he put his arms around her as they left Keegan, clad in a thousand dollar suit, face down in the shower and with a nasty gash on the back of his head.

A marriage made in heaven or a marriage made in hell?

On this evidence, maybe Jeff and Julie could ensure it was the former and not the latter.

Because he’s looking for Joe Campbell.

But how could he expect to find Campbell, if he couldn’t tell one locker room from the next? A small male staff member walked hastily towards Thompson looking back and forth at his clipboard, Sebastian had to find a way to get his attention.

“Hey.. uhm.. Hey faggot!” Sebastian screamed bringing the smaller man to a halt. “Uh, shit.. Sorry, I haven’t really used the public speaking methods recently. Tell me where Campbell is.”

“And who do you think you are to just come in here, and request to see Campbell?” Sebastian’s hand snapped down and he grabbed the smaller staff guy by his arm.

“What you think I’ve got all night to just walk around and look at every single door in this place? No, I don’t, I have to talk to Campbell because he called me, and said I had a fight.”

“Who are you?”

“I’ll be damned, who are you Bob Costas? You don’t need to know who I am. I’m Sebastian Thompson, does that do you any good? No it doesn’t, so tell me where Campbell is, or I’ll embarrass you in front of your little queer friends here. Got that?” Sebastian gripped the staffers arm tight and he shook him violently.

“Yeah.. Yeah.. I got it.. But Sebas..Sebastian.. I’m not gay.”

“Then what the hell are you doing with queer friends?” Sebastian looked almost disgustedly at the staff member, “Ah, I don’t care about that. So where’s Campbell at?”

“Down the hall, take a right, go down further, take a left, and then it’s the first door to your left..” Sebastian slung him towards the wall allowing him to bounce off of it.

“Looks like I’m in business,” He clapped his hands, but as he got to the end of the hall, “Now what did he say, left, right, left, right? Or was it, right, left, left right? Ah to hell with it.. I’ll find it myself.” And so he was off to see the owner, the owner of the Asylum.

Until he appeared at the top of the ramp, totally trussed in bandages. His arms and chest were totally blamed in hot, sticky bandages, much like his head. He wore a wrap around his neck to hide the lacerations caused last week by the disgusting barbed wire crucifixion. His shades were still firmly perched on his knees, and his stonewashed jeans were smeared with blood… his work jeans, perhaps?

Heh. I guess he wouldn’t find that funny.

Not judging by the look on his face. No sarcastic or cocky smile, just outright indifference. He hardly acknowledged the fans that loved him so much as he limped, awkwardly down the ramp. He was obviously in pain, as he adjusted his Extreme Title belt over his shoulder and pulled a microphone out of his pocket, hobbling up the steps and into the cage.

The fans…

“HUGHES!”
“HUGHES!”
“HUGHES!”
“HUGHES!”
“HUGHES!”
“HUGHES!”

Tyler looked around into his followers… and sighed. He had to crack a smile, as they all pumped their fists into the air, beaming with smiles. The “HUGHES” chants rained down on the Extreme Champion, as he strolled awkwardly around the cage. To a chorus of cheers from the fans… he raised a single fist in the air.

Respect.

If there’s one thing that Asylum fans aren’t lacking, it’s respect. Respect for a man who’s’ sister was kidnapped, who’s body had been battered and hung in vicious, flesh-tearing wire. Respect, for the Extreme Champion that had shown them brutal outings, that beat Steve Christ in a test of brutality to gain his coveted silver strap.

Respect, for a man that loved his sister.

And would FIGHT to get her back. Ty Hughes was determined… he WOULD regain his sister. He WOULD rescue her from the sick and twisted Freak and Token Weed. And he was going to do it, as soon, as fucking, possible. He raised the microphone to his mouth again, his split and slightly puffed lip touching the plastic…

“I am fucking pissed.”

Four words. Four words, and the fans were screaming for Hughes again, their chants and adoration being hurled at him with cheers and support. Tyler raised his hand in the air to silence them, and they gradually clamed down for him, in order to allow him to say what needed to be said. He winked at the crowd as a ‘thank you’, before beginning to speak again.

“You can take my pride; you can piss off Ty Hughes. You can take my dignity; you can fuck with Ty Hughes. You can take my title; you can beat Ty Hughes. You can TAKE my SISTER? No. You can fuck off and DIE if you think that you have ANY RIGHT to bring her into this. Louise, I’m sorry. I’m sorry for not being there last week, for not ending this shit when it needed to be ended. But this week, I’ll make *sure* that I save you. That I’ll fuck The Freak and Token BOTH. Are you listening to this your pair of fags?

“What is it you want? Do you want my title, do you want this fucking piece of shit?” Hughes said, throwing his title to the floor and kicking it straight. The barbed wire on it glistened and the silver sparkled, it’s red leather like blood… like Hughes’s blood, dripping on the mat, last week. “Well you can fucking HAVE it.

“I’ll put it on the line, at Bloody Valentine. A match, Token and The Freak, against ME. Two-on-one, I don’t give a shit. But if I win, you will give me my sister BACK. You will give her back, and you will never lay another finger on her ever again, and by God you will fucking never come near me again. You will leave me alone for the rest of my life and not even LOOK at me, as I pass you in the corridor.

“Not only that. But, you want to play with barbed wire? Then sure, let’s play with barbed wire. How about we play with three tons of it? I’ve already contacted the Asylum construction committee and told them of my plans… what do you say Freak, Token…?

“We could fight, inside a four-walled, twenty-five feet high HELL IN A CELL, made purely out of BARBED WIRE. You want to tear me up? You want to shred me to pieces, rip my fucking heart out and eat it? Try me, motherfuckers, because I’ll do the same to you TEN TIMES WORSE. So COME ON. My title. Versus my SISTER. WELL!?”

The fans screamed loudly, deafeningly at the prospect of a Barbed Cage match for the Pay Per View, drowning out whatever Hughes said next. After a while he gave up and allowed the fans to scream away, wailing their approval.

Then…

The bell chimed.

BOOS CHEERSBOOS CHEERSBOOS CHEERSBOOS CHEERS

“Faget” by Korn.

The fans were split on their decision again, this week, after the vile crucifixion last week it would seem that he was more a bad guy this time. But eh. That’d change before the end of the night, wouldn’t it?

The lights dimmed and flickered crimson as The Freak entered from behind the curtains, his chair hanging at his side and his trenchcoat shining black leather. Oddball was at his side, as ever… and so was…

Token Weed.

“YOU, YOU PAIR OF FUCKS! Where’s my sister…!?” Hughes roared into the mike, over the booing and cheering fans.

Token Weed reached back behind the curtain… and there was Louise, strapped into a wheelchair. Her mouth was once again bound shut with blood-caked, claret smeared tape and her hands were cuffed tightly to the arms of the chair. Her feet were bound, and heavy, thick leather belts strained against them, causing her cream-brown HI BEN!! skin to turn white with pressure. Her eyelids were wide, and when she saw her brother a blood-mingled tear trickled down her cheek.

Almost instantly, Hughes darted towards the rim of the cage, his eyes wide with a tingling sensation of nervousness and desperation. The fans cheered…

*click*

Then the whole arena, went absolutely, quiet.

The safety was off, and Token had a shining silver revolver to Louise’s head. Louise closed her eyes and blubbered uncontrollably through the duct tape, tears streaming down her cheeks and dripping off her chin. Token quivered his finger on the trigger, and his blue hair cast a grey shadow over his vile red grin. His teeth like pearly tombstones set in his gums…

“One move, she’s fuckin’ dead. Got it?” Token rasped, pushing the gun harder into the terrified girl’s temple. Hughes stopped dead in his tracks, standing perfectly still in the middle of the Asylum. The Freak strolled, slowly, the tap of his shoes echoing in the empty arena… and stood next to Louise. He bent down, looked her in the eye… and kissed her cheek.

“Pretty girl, Hughes. Your family seem to have some great genes in their pool, it’s just a shame… that none of them were gifted unto you. Your sister is a perfect, untainted little girl… she has not one distorted or deviant pore on her skin or hair on her head. Apart, from her eyes. She’s seen so much, Hughes… she’s taken so much damage and heard so many horrible things. She’s disturbed. But then that’s not her fault, is it?

“No. The blame is entirely, solely upon your shoulders. You did this to her, you soulless scum… you’re the one that took such disregard for your family and was so hopeless at protecting them that I… we… could kidnap her. If it wasn’t for your… cooperation… we wouldn’t have her at our mercy here today. Tyler Randall Hughes, you have sinned against your family, you have sinned against yourself and you have placed bane upon your sisters head. Do you repent?” The Freak said, his eyes wide and his mouth a flatline… displaying no emotion. It was like looking into the eyes of some robot, some heartless machine.

“MY FAULT? You think that this, this torture that you’re putting my sister through is MY FAULT? No, I’m not having that. You can shove that idea up your fucking ARSE, you sick bastard. Louise… stay calm honey, I’m here to help…” Hughes said, pointing a single finger at his sister.

Token’s finger quivered on the trigger, that little bit more…

“You don’t repent, I see. Ha. A sinner, that will not admit to his crimes, serves twice as much time in purgatory. The Asylum is your purgatory, Hughes. But you have dragged you sister into this, and she shall not escape our grasp until we reach a resolution. If we do not reach a resolution before I feel adequate a time, we may have to allow your sister to depart this purgatory…

“With a bullet through her head. She won’t feel a thing, don’t worry…” The Freak said, a slight smirk on his face.

“WHAT!? YOU… NO!!” Hughes screamed, as Token levelled his gun… the fans screamed with fright, as Token’s finger pressed down onto the trigger…

CLICK

The barrel turned emptily in it’s cell, no bullet firing forth to make Louise’s life complete. Louise’s head dropped down, and tears welled out of her eyes, smearing grey eyeliner over her cheeks. She looked physically beaten, sucking sharp breaths through her bloodied nostrils… and Token laughed a hollow laugh, throwing his head back and grinning widely.

Hughes dropped to his knees in the middle of the ring, his sister’s life flashing before his eyes. She could have died that very minute, had the gun been loaded.

“That brings me… to tonight’s game, son.” The Freak said, his head slanted to one side, as if trying to focus on his surroundings. Tyler looked up, and his tone broken and whispered… he spoke.

“Fre… no. Brian. I don’t want to play games any more. Sean, drop your gun and walk away. What you’re doing… is wrong, it’s past being mind games. It’s just fucking unbelievable. You can’t do this. I don’t want to play your games, I don’t want to gamble on my sister’s life. In this Asylum I may be a cold, callous bastard but… I can’t. I can’t fight on the life of someone that I love. Stop this, now.”

Token laughed again, and pressed the gun harder into Louise’s temple. She wept like she was attending her own funeral… and maybe she was. The Freak raised his microphone again, willing to do the speaking on behalf of the pair.

“There is no two ways about this. You play my games, or she dies. You have no choice. Here is, this week’s game… in Token’s revolver.

“In his six-shooter. There is a single bullet. The other five barrels are empty. Tonight, he shall be backstage, whilst you are in the arena… in the Asylum. And, one by one… you shall fight six, successive opponents. One after the other, a gauntlet so to speak. For every match that you lose… Token shall fire a shot from his revolver, directly into your sister’s head. If he should fire the single bullet into her head, you have lost everything. If you win all six matches, there isn’t even a minuscule chance of her dying.

“You know, you always play the cocky, confident hero to these fans. Let’s see, if you live up to your billing. Play the Russian Roulette Run, and show them what you’re worth.”

Hughes hung his head down, still on his knees. Token knocked Louise’s head to the side , and pressed the gun into her cheek. The Freak merely silently awaited Hughes’s reply…

The fans cheered. They began to chant “HUGHES” again. But the fans didn’t matter, this was all up to Hughes…

“I’ll play.”

With those two words, Hughes dropped down onto his hands and felt sick to the pits of his stomach. As The Freak and Token wheeled Louise out of the arena, Hughes couldn’t stop retching. He was physically sick…

Physically sick, trussed in bandages, injured… and about to play the most dangerous game in the Asylum.

The Russian Roulette Run.

“Don’t be so shocked, Joseph, you told me to come.. So here I am. What you didn’t think I would come? Come on, our beef is finished. Right? Yeah I thought it was.” Sebastian walked up to the desk, as Joe was wiping the sleep out of his eyes. Sebastian took it upon himself to sit down in the chair in front of Joe. “I’m here so lets talk.”

“Impressive show.. You make it here, and you want to treat me like I’m the twat? No no no.. I’m Joe Campbell, I crushed people..” Sebastian interrupted.

“Please spare me Campbell. I heard how you got this company started, the old man you.. Uh..” Sebastian made the slashing sound as he dragged his finger across his neck. “I know, you did.. But you helped fighting. And now I’m going to help it even more.”

“Fuck yeah you will.. Know how many shite fighters come here? Know how many achieve any success?” Joe stopped and thought, and A.D. popped into his head, “That’s right, the answers are a lot, and none. Fuck, look at you, look like a homeless crackhead..”

“Hey, hey.. I’m not a crackhead. But you see about the homeless part Joe, you haven’t had to live like I have, all this fancy pancy shit.. All I had is what you see now. That’s why I’m perfect for this place, I’m going to be the World Champion.” Queue laughter, from Joe Campbell who was spewing spit all over the place..

“..Haha! HAHA! Tell the truth, you came here to reveal that you downed a pint of Guinness, you fuckin piece of shite. I know your ‘plan’ you and Carnage, are coming here to screw me, before you ask.. I’m not bringing that tosser back, so you can go and make AIDS or whatever you faggots do.”

“No.. no.. Joe, you misunderstood this, I used him.. I used him to get here. Don’t you fucking get it? I was a homeless piece of shit, who fought for nothing but fighting, that’s all I’ve got.. Besides what you see right here. I’m a fighter.. Fuck Carnage. You hear that? Fuck him. It’s not about him, it’s about you and me, we go back a whiles Joe. Remember when I killed that undercover for you? You never paid me back.. You owe me..”

Joe rotated his chair and looked to the wall holding his hands on his chest, he sat for a few minutes thinking, then finally he turned back around. “Okay, I’ll give you a chance, but you know what? You’re going to have to earn your keep, don’t bring back up anymore of that fuckin past shit. I won’t be arsed by any of it. Now get the fuck out of my face.” Sebastian stood up barely able to contain his smile, he began to walk towards the door, and he nodded his head confidently. Joe looked down, thinking, and he smiled, he knew exactly who he was going to have Sebastian face.

"Crashing around you," by Machinehead hit, and the crowd stood on their feet to see who exactly was coming, but the moment the man walked through the fans immediately sat down seeing that it was someone they don't know. Someone who happened to be Sebastian Thompson, slowly he scanned the mass of humanity in the stands, and but he continued to the ring with mic held tightly in hand. He seemed overwhelmed by the atmosphere, when he almost stumbled on the steps and had a hard time getting into the cage. But when he stood in the middle, and raised the mic to his face, the thought of it overwhelming him instantly escaped, just like the words slithered out of his mouth. The music faded out.

"Why am I out here? I'm out here to start my career, and since Joe doesn't want to believe me… That means I have to go head on head with the Freak."

Mixed reaction comes from the fans, another eerie even split, even after last week's events.

"I don't know who anyone is, don't know where they're from, don't know their family is, don't know their hair stylists, or what exactly their gimmicks are. Because you see, where I'm from there were no gimmicks, no spoils, no women throwing themselves at your ankles… It was two men, in a cage, trying to kill each other. Not this hardcore wrestling crap that's going on now…

"But hell, I'm not complaining, because if you give me weapons, that makes me that much better in that cage. You see, where I was from, I was the number one fighting in all of the Smilthy's market. No I never fought Angel Dalton, but I heard of him… Never fought Providence either, but I was still the guy who everyone wanted to fight. But know what I heard every Smilthy's I went to?"

The crowd was pretty much sitting on their hands, as Sebastian continued on.

"They said, 'You couldn't do this in the Asylum,' they said some piece of shit Borst was better than me, some asshole Inmate was better than me, some freak Kenny Rock was above me… That some motherfucker Villam Ender was better than me. And each time I heard it, it ate away at me.. I mean, just because this is held in arenas, just because the fighters are paid money, just because it's on pay per view, does it actually mean that these fighters are any better than me!?"

Being bored by the rantish type speech by the newcomer, Sebastian Thompson, who was now walking circles around the inside of the cage.

"See this arm?"

Sebastian motioned to his right arm..

"These are the tally marks, which records each and every win I've ever had in my 10 years of fighting. Almost from shoulder to wrist, I lost count of the shit, but hey it's a lot of fucking wins, I'll tell you that. But that right there proves.. That I can, and will beat no matter who wants a piece of me..

"Because no matter what you throw at me, no matter what you think is so extreme for this place, trust me when I say… I've witnessed, and experienced the baddest things that this place can dram of providing, I just know that because..."

The bell chimed.

Once again, the torrent of cheers and boos rained down onto the stage like the chants of angles and demons, as the lights dimmed down and flickered a devilish red. The whole arena was lit in crimson as…

“Faget” by Korn.

And The Freak, strolling past the curtains with a chair, a microphone and his manager Oddball at his side. Some fans threw trash, some fans cheered wildly. The Freak wasn’t too intent on the fan reaction though, instead preferring to lock his glistening red eyes on the man that challenged him… Sebastian Thompson, who stood in the centre of the ring, his chest muscles flexing in and out at the prospect of a fight.

“Excuse me, did you summon me, son?” The Freak said, in a monotonous… creepy tone. Sebastian nodded slowly, and flexed his muscles at The Freak, attempting to intimidate his prey before a match even got underway. The Freak saw straight through his act, of course… “Are you trying, to overawe me? I’ll have you know that there a few things that scare me, I have seen everything, fought everything and toppled EVERYTHING once. Some, small-time folk that has good muscle definition and a few scars still doesn’t match me. You still don’t frighten me. And I still, am totally indifferent to you.

“Do you know how many scars I have? Yes, well mine aren’t self inflicted, son. I don’t keep tally counts of people that I defeat, I lost track of that a long, long time ago. But, the amount of scars and warps of the flesh I harbour upon my body are surely far more than enough to convince you of my prowess, my scars are not self-inflicted but instead tributes to each of my felled opponents’ skill. Whilst all of my opponents may have had skill, none… has ever had the skill to defeat me. I am still alive.

“Unlike you shall be, after this bout. For all of the power in your body, you could never conquer me. You seem to think, that you have the right to simply walk into this arena and challenge a fighter as immense as I? You think that you have the proficiency; the refined and honed aptitude to take me down and dispose of me? Do you honestly believe that?” The Freak asked.

Sebastian nodded, and the fans reacted neutrally.

“You, shall be the next victim to succumb to my challenge. You, shall be my next sacrifice. Pray to whatever God you may have that you do not suffer the same fate as my previous opponents… because I don’t pull punches, I don’t fake my moves or pretend to have skill. You’re in the Asylum now, you average Joe, and I am Asylum through and through. I am the epitome of this place, I am your alpha to your omega… and I shall finish this. Do not doubt my words.

“You fight The Freak, and you lose your dignity… your reputation… your health, pride… and any chance of making a career in this place that you ever had. Sebastian Thompson, I believe it is time for me to show you, why I am called the Emasculator. I won’t relent.” The Freak said, removing his trenchcoat and letting it drop to the silver ramp. He cracked his neck from side to side, and made his way up the ring steps as Oddball pushed his shopping cart of weapons around to the other side…

“Sebastian Thompson, you seem to believe in the power of the ancient mythological firebird, the Phoenix. The Phoenix would rise from the ashes upon being burnt, a new version of itself, a young and revamped rejuvenation. But, I am sorry to say, birdie… the fire of The Freak burns so deep, that you shall never live again.

“Stump your hopes and shorten your life, let the fight commence… you fruitless nothing.”

The bout was on, and the Fuck Up Challenge commenced.

The Freak Vs Sebastian Thompson

The Freak didn’t even bother warming up. He cracked his knuckles, rotated his neck to ease out the kinks and began to walk, backwards, slowly around the outside of the cage… eyeing up his opponent. Sebastian had a good record at Smilthy’s, but would he be able to make a good impression… in the Asylum itself? Joe Campbell’s developmental territory was far more easy a place to earn your living than the confines of the steel Asylum…

Sebastian made the first move, charging into The Freak and grabbing at his legs in an attempt at a takedown. The Freak casually avoided it by grabbing a clump of the smaller man’s brown hair, rearing it back and slamming his kneecap into his face with sickening haste. Thompson stumbled backwards, and The Freak moved in with a kick to the stomach, causing Sebastian to keel over… then slamming him with a Dupla to the face. Thompson rocketed backwards but managed to stay standing, clinging onto the cage to keep his balance.

The Freak put his hand under Sebastian’s chin, and lifted up his head to look him in the eye… the Ripper reeled back his hand for a punch… and

BAM

Sebastian socked The Freak straight in the mouth. He took advantage of his first bit of offence in the match to the fullest, rearing back and absolutely lamping The Freak with a discus uppercut. The Freak stumbled backwards… which was perfect for Thompson, who saw the opportunity and grabbed The Freak’s arm, lifting it up… and slamming his fist into The Emasculator’s chest with a ferocious heart punch. The Freak held his chest with his right hand as Thompson ducked down, and jumped from the mat with an uppercut…

Blocked. The Freak grabbed Sebastian’s forearm and inserted his elbow into that of Sebastian’s, whipping him over with a Sumi Otoshi and keeping the arm tight in his grasp, delivering a knee to the same joint. Thompson screamed in pain as his elbow was struck with knee attack after knee attack, culminating in a kick to the shoulder…

*SNAP*

No, that wasn’t Thompson’s elbow, that was The Freak snapping up his chair from earlier.

CRACK!

And that, was The Freak slamming his chair down as hard as he could, directly onto Sebastian’s elbow. Thompson rolled over, lying across his elbow to protect it… only to get another stomach-churning chair shot from the Red Ripper, this time bending maliciously over his back. The Freak raised his chair into the air, and the fans cheered…

CRACK!!

A chair shot to the skull. Sebastian dragged himself closer to the mesh and began to haul himself to his feet with his good arm, as The Freak set up the chair in the centre of the cage. The Freak turned around…

And was speared by Thompson, who charged into The Freak and powered him straight through the chair with a brutal gore-like manoeuvre! The only problem with this move…

Was that Sebastian, showing his rookie mistakes, used his right arm to deliver it. The Freak found himself in a heap of crumpled steel, rolling around trying to regain his senses and evade a count by the referee. Meanwhile, Thompson was in absolute agony as his right arm contacted with The Freak’s solid frame, causing more pressure than need be on the already injured joint. The fans booed at the mistake by the newbie, but nonetheless… Sebastian got back to his feet, and the ref started a count on The Freak.

1!
2!
3!

But as Sebastian had already wasted so much time on the mat, The Freak was up shortly after. Sebastian charged at The Freak again…

The Freak extended his arms, and hurled Thompson directly overhead in one powerful, fluid motion. Thompson found himself hurtling through the air, and landing back-first across the rim of the Asylum cage. He dropped back into the ring, head-first, and lay in a slumped foetal position. The Freak hurried over to Oddball and made an order…

And the Insane One replied, by handing The Freak a table and a baseball bat. The Freak set the table up on all four legs in the centre of the cage, and took the baseball bat in his palm as he made his way over to Sebastian…

But Thompson was already ready for The Freak, jumping to his feet and landing a hard headbutt to The Freak’s nose. As the startled Freak held his nose in pain, Sebastian grabbed his baseball bat and jabbed it into The Freak’s chin, like a wooden uppercut, no give in the blow. The Freak’s teeth clattered together and he found himself at the mercy of Sebastian once more, as Sebastian swung the baseball bat…

And pitched, all over The Freak’s face. The bat smashed into the Emasculator’s cheekbone and devastated him, almost wrenching his jaw from its sockets it struck with so much force. Sebastian didn’t stop there, wanting to claim vengeance for the searing pain in his elbow and shoulder; he swung the bat again, this neck swiping it straight across The Freak’s neck and causing him to splutter in pain.

Sebastian dropped the baseball bat, extended his arm…

BAM, clothesline.

The Freak instantly kipped up, almost like an automatic defence mechanism, only to have Sebastian club him in the back of the head with a forearm. The Freak slumped over the cage, as Sebastian picked that baseball bat up again… and swung it down across the back of The Freak’s neck.

CLANK!

No, he didn’t. The baseball bat hit nothing but mesh as The Freak used the Souples Sear Reiere to vault out of the way. As Sebastian turned around, swinging his bat in an arc to try and hit the Emasculator again, The Freak ducked under Thompson’s arm and slipped behind him. With Sebastian’s arms hooked, The Freak yanked him up and over… spiking him down, SHOULDER-first, with a diagonal Dragon Suplex. Sebastian moaned, as once again his right arm was being targeted.

The Freak raised his arms to the fans to another mixed reaction, as the referee started a count.

1!
2!
3!
4!
5!
6!
7!
…

But Thompson was back up, albeit holding his shoulder. The Freak rushed in, with a sprint in his step, and attempted to catch Sebastian off guard with an elbow to the face… but just prior to impact, Sebastian ducked down and reached his arm under The Freak’s two-hundred and sixty pound frame, flipping him up over the mesh with a picture-perfect backdrop…!

The Freak soared over the rim of the cage behind Thompson, could this be a ringout win for the rookie…?

Nah.

The Freak grabbed onto the rim as he flipped over, turning, and landing neatly on the apron. As Sebastian turned to face The Freak… the Emasculator leapt onto the rim of the cage and powered from it with a flying Saut Kick, smashing into Sebastian’s face and driving his head into the canvas with both feet. The Freak followed up by dragging Thompson to his feet… hooking his arm, swinging it over his own head and jumping, cracking his feet into the elbow joint with a scissor kick. Sebastian once again found himself dropped to the mat, gripping his arm…

The Freak took advantage of Thompson’s kneeling position, like only he could.

Buzzasw kick, to the face. Buzzsaw kick, to the face. Buzzsaw kick, to the temples. Buzzsaw kick, to the arm… three times. Then, a Shining Wizard. Thompson fell back from the flurry of moves, and the referee counted as The Freak made his way back over to Oddball, to retrieve a chair. The Freak set the chair up in the corner of the cage…

1!
2!
3!
4!
5!
6!
7!
8!
…

…

Sebastian was up. The Freak grabbed a clump of Thompson’s hair as he made his way to his feet, and yanked him forwards. Sebastian yelped as his hair was tugged, but soon found himself in a butterfly position. The Freak hurled Thompson up, and attempted to release him overhead…

But Thompson reversed. At the last minute, much to not only The Freak’s shock but his own, The Phoenix rose and turned the move into a devastating elbow drop to The Freak’s own throat. With no further ado, Thompson dragged The Freak over to the chair that he’d set up earlier in the corner and…

SMACK SMACK

SMACK SMACK SMACK SMACK

SMACK SMACK~~!

Drove The Freak’s face into the chair, over and over with powerful and forceful blows. Thompson was on a role, battering The Freak down and hammering him about all over the place. It seemed, at least to Sebastian, that this ‘Asylum’ shit wasn’t as hard as it first appeared… as he hauled The Freak up to his feet, and locked his arms behind his back…

Full Nelson Slam!

Onto the chair~!

The referee made the count as The Freak recovered from the nasty blow to the neck, whilst Sebastian wandered around the cage, attempting to milk the fans of some sort of reaction.

1!
2!
3!
4!
5!
6!
7!
8!
9…

No nine. Or ten, as The Freak kipped to his feet and instantly darted up onto the table that he had set up earlier. Thompson tried to catch The Freak out by sweeping his legs out with his arm, but The Freak jumped… and landed again, on the very same arm, feet-first. Sebastian screamed out as the arm found itself smashed up once more, and The Freak continued his assault on the limb by jumping off the table with a flying Bonesaw… striking Sebastian straight in his right shoulder, rather than his head.

The Phoenix Fighter’s arm was already bruising, and he had to cradle it under his left forearm as The Freak grew closer, a sinister tap in each of his steps, each one foreboding Sebastian’s future at his hands. In an attempt to make the most of his dire situation, Thompson shot out his good arm, his left arm… only for it to be caught. The Freak twisted his arm around, dragging Sebastian towards him… and levelled him with a Heart Kick.

Thompson found himself flat on his back, with practically no mobility in his right arm and a throbbing in his temples. But, he didn’t want to lose, he refused to lose. Not in his first match. He bit down on his lower lip and crawled to his feet, his eyes set in a vicious snarl at the Emasculator, who seemed blissfully emotionless. Sebastian ran at The Freak, and swung his left arm out again, desperately trying to hit something, anything.

He hit, The Freak’s forearm, which was used to block the blow. With a single scoop, The Freak dragged Thompson to his feet and hauled him onto his shoulders in a fireman’s carry. He stopped Thompson from struggling by tightening his grip on the Phoenix’s body, and he then stepped up onto the table…

And jumped from it. The fans gasped. The referee gasped. And, disturbingly, Thompson screamed… as The Freak dived from the table and planted Sebastian head-first onto the opened chair with a flying Death Valley Driver. It was sickening to see the move executed with such disdain for the rookie’s health… but that was what the Asylum was all about. Sebastian slumped to the canvas and The Freak leaned back against the cage, raising his fist into the air to a chorus of boos/cheers, mingled as one giant noise.

The referee counted.

1!
2!
3!
4!
5!
6!
7!
8!
9…

…

But Sebastian wouldn’t bite the bullet. He staggered, blood seeping from his head, to his feet and spat a globule of mucus and claret to the mat. The fans were shocked that the newcomer could absorb so much punishment and keep on going, and erupted into cheers for him. He nodded silently at The Freak, and charged at him with his right arm held close to his side.

The Freak dodged out of the way, but Sebastian managed to make the timing correctly and turned on his heel, spinning to sock the Red Ripper in the face with another headbutt. He continued by slamming his fists into The Freak’s stomach in one-two combos, and completed his burst of punches with a forearm to the face that caused The Freak to reel away somewhat. As he did so, Sebastian flew upwards and rocked The Freak with a stunning left-handed cross to the jaw, and a leg trip to boot. The Freak now found that Sebastian was on top of him, showering fists all over his face.

The Freak pushed Thompson away and backward rolled to his feet, but Sebastian came back fighting… he just wouldn’t give up. The Freak took another two punches to the jaw, then decided that this had to come to an end…

The Freak jumped into the air, and slammed his feet TWICE, into the injured shoulder of the Reborn Warrior with a Reverse Hurricane Kick. Then, he charged into Thompson and grabbed his wounded arm, hauling him up by it… and slamming him onto the table with a judo throw. Sebastian tried to fight back as The Freak pulled him to his feet atop the table, but couldn’t muster enough energy to finally fend him off…

The Freak hooked Sebastian’s leg, and hooked his head… and the fans erupted into cheers. However, The Freak didn’t execute the Anti-Nature as expected… he lifted Sebastian up, much like a fisherman’s suplex, then released his head… jamming him down, shoulder-first through the table.

“AAARGH!” roared Sebastian, as his shoulder was mercilessly jammed into and through the wood. The Freak watched as Sebastian rolled, and squirmed in the piles of broken wood… and tried, desperately, to get up.

Oddball handed The Freak another chair, and the fans began to boo. Why didn’t The Freak just leave Sebastian be? Instead, he grabbed the first chair and set it up in the centre of the cage. He dragged Sebastian’s arm across it… raised the second chair…

CRACK!

OooooH!

CRACK!

OooooH!

CRACK!

OooooH!

CRACK!

OooooH!

Sebastian’s arm was smothered, battered between the two steel objects to a sickening angle. The Freak, still not satisfied, laid the chair on top of Thompson’s arm, sandwiching Sebastian’s arm in the two chairs. The Freak jumped onto the rim of the cage…

And elbow dropped the chairs together.

Sebastian screamed again, but still tried, desperately to get to his feet, to make something of himself and win this match. He had the desire, but unfortunately didn’t have the skill. The Freak dragged the limp body of Sebastian back to his feet, and kicked him in the stomach.

Leg hooked

Head hooked…

The Anti-Nature.

Sebastian’s head smacked into the canvas, littered with splinters and blood with a sick thud, and that was the last thing that he remembered that day. Other than total, absolute blackness.

1!
2!
3!
4!
5!
6!
7!
8!
9!

…

No, he’s not getting up.

10!

The referee thrust The Freak’s arm into the air as Sebastian lay, unconscious, in a pool of blood… his arm possibly dislocated. The kid had heart, he had desire… he had potential.

But what he lacked, was the sadistic nature, of The Freak.

Lubię to wobec rozważać przez chwilę mój piłki. JA miłość wobec kołysać mój piłki i JA won't zatykać robienie ten do JA zostać łysy. Oprócz wola ty współpracownik mi rozważać przez chwilę mój piłki? JA wola miłość ty na zawsze i JA wola rozważać przez chwilę twój piłki. Podobać się potrzeć mój piłki rezygnować twój ciepły , zapraszając dłoń. Mam pewien ryba.

Mój koza jest wykonane od sałata zielona oprócz JA nie martw się ponieważ Mam mój w mordę jeża rozważać przez chwilę. Mój koza gry rezygnować mój piłki i JA dziękować jego pod kątem ono. Oh oh oh , piłki , piłki , piłki. Ten największy rzecz wszystkich. JA miłość im wessany , JA miłość im uderzony , JA wyrównywać podobny wobec mieć wtedy ścieśniony. ŚCISKAĆ Mi!

Lubię to wobec rozważać przez chwilę mój piłki. JA miłość wobec kołysać mój piłki i JA won't zatykać robienie ten do JA zostać łysy. Oprócz wola ty współpracownik mi rozważać przez chwilę mój piłki? JA wola miłość ty na zawsze i JA wola rozważać przez chwilę twój piłki. Podobać się potrzeć mój piłki rezygnować twój ciepły , zapraszając dłoń. Mam pewien ryba.

Throughout this rambling and God-awful singing, Slapnutz had his fingers in his ears. Not that it helped. The man had such a strong voice that the entire population of Poland would have hard this. Well, only if the entire population of Poland had been outside the S-Express, but that’s beside the point. After he had finished, TMM slapped the man. He whispered something to him in Polish and then threw him out the window of the bus.

“What was all that about?” Slapnutz asked his compatriot

“Well, first off, his song was shit. Second, he was really a gypo that got my phone number. He claimed to be a famous songwriter from Poland. Can’t believe you believed him. You can be so ignorant sometimes,” TMM replied.

Slapnutz stood up and scratched his head. He knew something was wrong with that last sentence but he couldn’t think what it was.

“Anyway, since Polish is your first language, what did the song translate as?”

“Well, it went a little something like this,” and TMM began to sing:

I like to play with my balls. I love to cradle my balls and I won't stop doing this until I become bald. But will you help me play with my balls? I will love you forever and I will play with your balls. Please rub my balls with your warm, inviting hands. I have a fish.

My goat is made of lettuce but I don't worry because I have my balls to play with. My goat plays with my balls and I thank him for it. Oh, oh, oh, balls, balls, and balls. The greatest thing of all. I love them sucked, I love them stroked, I even like to have then squeezed. SQUEEZE ME!

I like to play with my balls. I love to cradle my balls and I won't stop doing this until I become bald. But will you help me play with my balls? I will love you forever and I will play with your balls. Please rub my balls with your warm, inviting hands. I have a fish.

TMM finished rendition and noticed Slapnutz was asleep. He slapped his partner and the Scot woke up, looking startled. TMM knew it was time to give up trying to keep Slappy awake. It wasn’t worth the hassle.

“Slap, we need a song and we need it fast.”

“Well, I still reckon we should do a cover version. Remember that one I used to sing in that chorus line in Wales? Well, I sang it once until they found out I was Scottish and I wasn’t an ex-miner named Taffy.”

“I vaguely remember it,” TMM lied.

“Then it’s settled. Come the PPV, I’ll do that, but in a rap-stylee.”

TMM sighed. Doing a cover of a song was bad enough, but a rapping Slapnutz was the icing on the cake. A 256lbs, white, Scottish rapper? It wasn’t the best thing in the world.

Slapnutz didn’t care. He would be a hardcore Vanilla Ice. The fans would love it.

Wouldn’t they?

Cheno stood there now, the television title strapped over his shoulders. He nodded to Poser who stood before him. “Well, I know you can’t talk right now, but congratulations man! You’re that much closer to, well, kingliness.” Poser said, puffing out his chest to make it seem like he was bigger than he was. “So, do you come your fro in that thing or what?”

Eddie sighed, shaking his head at the complete idiot before him. “Cuz that’s something I’d do. I mean, you could like, never have to use a mirror again! Think of the amount of money you’d save! Not to mention you could put it on your coffee table and have it be a conversation piece! And it wouldn’t be something awkward like an arm in a box; it’d be some proud accomplishment!” Poser looked up and smiled. “Like my crown. Cuz Poland, we’re one of the top three powerhouses in the world…” Poser paused. “Of countries in Europe…” He paused again. “That has a name that starts with the letter P.”

Cheno groaned, before simply pushing his way through. Poser twisted his body from the blow and called after him. “HEY CHENO~!” Poser lowered his head and sighed. “My hair’s a mess.” He let out a frown before turning the other direction and walking away.

Ty Hughes Vs Daniel Mitchell
(Russian Roulette Run 1)

The Hypnotic One powered his way down to the cell, his name being chanted, but he had to ignore it. He was in his zone, and he would have to stay there. He dropped his bat at cellside, and climbed in. There he stood, in the cell, preparing for the sickest game he’d ever played. His sister’s life on the line in seemingly every match. Hughes might be able to get away with five losses; on the other hand, he might have to win every match. Which barrel the bullet lay in was as big a mystery as who the five men he would be facing.

The Asylumtron flickered on, Token Weed’s face emerging from the static. The fans booed religiously, whilst Hughes was riveted to the spot, gripped to Token’s every flux and movement. The camera lowered, and strapped into the same wheelchair as earlier, was the distraught form of Louise, her face ravaged with eyeliner streaks and dried tears. Her eyes were clogged with dark make-up, washed all over the place by her sobs and her cheeks were laced with bruises and caked-up, dried blood. Token opened up the six-shooter’s barrel…

And it was empty. He pulled a single bullet out of his pocket, a silver twinkle of light with “Williams” carved into the side, and slotted into a single one of the six slots. It was a nerve-wracking process for Hughes to watch… precisely why Token was doing it. He then locked the barrel back up, and span it… it span almost five rotations, but it was impossible to tell. Then, with his thumb, he stopped the barrel… and aimed the end of the gun at Louise’s head.

“Each time you lose, I pull the trigger. If she dies, she dies. Got it?” Token hissed, as a familiar figure appeared in the background…

Trenchcoat. Red hair. The Freak. The Freak turned and faced the camera, his soulless eyes glaring into Hughes through the Asylumtron…

“Let the games begin.”

…

“Dream on” by Aerosmith.

So one of the matches was no longer a mystery. Daniel Mitchell strode down to the cell. In the last few weeks him and his brother had become mixed up in the Hughes/Freak battle, seemingly on the losing end, and it looked like Daniel wanted some revenge. He jumped into the cell and so the game began.

Ty wasted absolutely no time in charging at Daniel Mitchell. All the hate and animosity he had built up for the Freak was being exhumed onto Daniel Mitchell. Don’t you feel sorry for him. A torrent of rights and lefts shot out at Mitchell’s head and torso as Daniel did the best he could to block them, but as Mitchell blocked low, Hughes damn near took Mitchell’s head off with a thunderous lariat. The crowd roared in approval as Hughes started stomping away on the fallen DreaMer. Hughes looked down and in his eyes, all he saw was the blood red hair of Brian Fenn-Grail, the sick demonic eyes, which led to his dark soul. And with every second he grew more and more irate. Hughes reached down, but was surprised with a sudden boot to the gut and poke to the side of the nose.

A poke?

Well not exactly, Hughes began to stumble back, his orientation completely lost, and blood began to pour from his nose. “Nightmare”. While Hughes might have been an animal in the cell, he was still human, and a victim to the many pressure points that we have.

Hughes rested against the cell wall and tried to get his wits back about him, but as he cleared his head Daniel Mitchell had grabbed his leg and executed a Dragon screw leg drag. Hughes grabbed at his knee, which was now being stomped away on. Hughes couldn’t let this happen. If he had a body part targeted now, what chance would he have in the next FIVE fights? Hughes roared as swept the legs out from underneath Mitchell.

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Both fighters got to their feet at about the same time, as Hughes stumbled back, he realised that he was starting to tire already and he couldn’t afford to. He needed to end the match quickly. And then came the opportunity. Mitchell kicked him in the gut, but Hughes had tensed his abdominal muscles, he just faked the double over. Mitchell pulled Hughes up by the, uh, scalp, and went for a double underhook suplex. Bad mistake.

Hughes dazed Mitchell with three consecutive underhook head butts, before freeing his arms, and sent Daniel soaring over his head.

“Ringout”.

Which leads to… a Ringout.

The bell rang, and Hughes had got the first victory, as he sat leaning against the cell, the crowd cheering him on. And he knew he was going to need every last drop of enthusiasm the crowd were raining down on him if he and his sister were going to make it out of this game alive.

The Asylumtron, flickered on again.

“Well, that was certainly a nice little, cheap, victory there. You certainly did well in bending the fucking rules and cheating your way out of losing that one, you good-for-nothing fraud. You know what? I think that maybe I should pull the trigger anyway, just because you’re so fucking shrewd. What do the fans back in the arena think?”

The fans booed unremittingly, and started up a “HUGHES!” chant again. Tyler looked out into the fans from his seated position against the cage, and the referee handed him a microphone.

“I won Token. You can’t fucking do this. You’re making up the rules as you’re going along, I beat that shithead fair and square. You pull that trigger, and all hell breaks loose.” Ty said, grating his teeth and wiping some of the blood from his upper lip. “You can’t just play with my sister’s life.”

“But I can. If I wanted to I could load all six of the fucking slots in this six-shooter and blast her brains out of her ear in a shower of gore and shit. Her whole head could be plastered across this wall six times, and who would stop me? You know what… as Daniel Mitchell got the MORAL victory… I think I’ll take a shot anyway,” Token sneered, his black eyes showing his soullessness plainly. He was evil… and his finger was twitching all over the place…

“No… don’t… fucking… dare…” Hughes said, as Token’s finger squeezed and his smile broadened.

Then, his finger wrenched back all the way. The trigger was down.

“NOOOOOOOO!!”

*click*

It was empty.

Token laughed, and one barrel was down. Now, all Hughes had to do… was make sure that there were no more opportunities for his sister to die. He breathed heavily from the shock, as the referee summoned his next opponent from the back.

Ty Hughes Vs Darren Mitchell
(Russian Roulette Run 2)

Darren ran down to the cell, seemingly not wanting to give Hughes any more time to recover. As he jumped on to the cell wall he propelled himself off and floored Hughes with a diving shoulder block. Darren proceeded to pound away at the head of Ty Hughes, which had been taking relentless punishment in the last few weeks, and once again, his stitches were torn open, and out poured a torrent of blood. A feeling Hughes was getting strangely used to. As Hughes tried to get to his feet, Darren positioned himself behind Hughes and took him down with a chop block on his left leg. Hughes’ worst scene scenario was coming true, as Mitchell locked in an Indian Deathlock on said leg.

The mighty Hughes snarled as he tried to fight off Darren Mitchell, but to no avail. Hughes slowly pulled himself closer to the cell wall, and began raising himself off the ground, taking some of the pressure off. The veins on the sides of Ty’s head looked like they were going to pop as with mighty adrenaline surge, Hughes thrust himself up in the air, knocking Mitchell off balance and forcing him to release the hold.

Hughes stood, his weight on his right leg, as he measured up Darren Mitchell. He ran, or more kind of hopped and limped his way quickly, at Darren Mitchell while he was still getting up and drilled him back down to the mat with the running DDT, his 21w finishing move.

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And Darren Mitchell was back to his feet.

What a shame this ain’t wrestling.

Hughes waited for the incoming Mitchell, and as he released a right hand Hughes grabbed it and took him down to the floor, tying him up in a Canadian Crossface. Hughes wrenchd back with all his might… but with the way the two had gone to the mat, Hughes back was to the entranceway. He heard the sudden rise in crowd reaction, but had no idea why. As Hughes released the hold and stood up, the man who’d introduced himself to the match was standing directly behind Hughes. Hughes turned and was met by a chair shot to the kneecap, thanks to The Freak.

Hughes fell to the floor in agony, as The Freak placed Hughes leg in the chair frame, and leapt in the air, driving his weight down on the chair legs, crushing Hughes’ leg in the frame. Darren Mitchell capitalised and executed a single leg boston crab. Hughes writhed in agony as one question ran through his mind.

Tap out, and save your leg for later matches… and risk Token taking one shot at you sister.

Or fight on, and try and win.

As Mitchell wrenched back, Hughes felt the tendons in his knee beginning to stretch, and made a choice he never thought he would be able to make.

He tapped out.

“You are gambling with lives, son. When you play cards, or bet on horses… you win some, you lose some, it’s all the same… and you move on. But when you gamble with lives, you seem so distraught… so greatly troubled by these experiences. Why is this? Lives are no more important than money when you think about it, are they Hughes? I’ve said it before and no doubt I shall say it again, but humans… you overestimate your own worth. Lives are nothing. Pointless. You shed them faster than skin. Why do you even care?

“If that gun is loaded, if a bullet tears into your sister and ends her life… why should you care at all? What did she ever do for you, and what will she ever do for you? She wasn’t even beneficial to you Hughes; she was a weakness. Personally, I think… that if that gun is loaded, that my friend Sean is doing you a favour. So watch, as you become stronger… with the taking of a verve.”

Hughes took a swing at The Freak, but The Freak quickly ducked it and slammed his braced knee into Tyler’s stomach, causing him to cough up blood onto the canvas. The Freak then pulled back Hughes’s head, and made him watch the scene on the Asylumtron…

Token breathed a deep breath and smiled, before holding the gun to Louise’s head once more. In the cage, Ty was in agony, having to watch his sister’s potential execution. Token’s finger pressed deeply on the trigger…

The fans gasped.

*click*

And breathed out again. Ty dropped to his knees, hissing into his hands about how ridiculous this was, as The Freak chortled. Token whispered into Louise’s ear: “Don’t worry, your brother will lose again, and I’ll paint the walls grey…”

The Russian Roulette Run continued.

Ty Hughes Vs Alexander Von DeThatt
(Russian Roulette Run 3)

“Different Problem, Same Solution” by Violent Work of Art, and the fans erupted into an absolute torrent of screaming cheers. Hughes looked at his feet and wished that he could have received someone like Avo Chavez as an opponent, because the chances of him retaining his sister’s life weren’t looking too good, at this point. Alexander Von DeThatt made his way down, all six feet and nine inches of him, and threw his shades into the audience.

The Freak didn’t even leave the cage. He stayed there, leaning politely against the rim in his trenchcoat, as DeThatt leaped over the rim and eyed Hughes.

But it appeared that nothing was quite as it seemed. DeThatt pulled a microphone from his trunks… and shot The Freak a disgusted glance.

“Brian… what is this? What are you and Token doing to this guy, do you realize how sick and twisted this is? You’re torturing him. I won’t participate in this… it’s fucking EVIL. Ty, I’m going to give you the win…”

DeThatt was cut off by The Freak, who slapped the microphone out of Alexander’s hand with a snarl on his face. The fans gasped, as The Freak got in DeThatt’s face… Hughes looked on from the side of the cage, hoping that this escapade would play out in his favour. DeThatt looked totally infuriated and incensed, his bald head turning a shade of red in the events that had transpired between he and The Freak. The Freak raised his microphone…

“You will fight, like I told you to, Alexander. As for my plans being evil, sick? Who are you to judge? I live my life the way that I want to live it and you cannot, you will not criticize it. You WILL NOT RUIN this for us. Joe Campbell TOLD YOU to help me, and help me you shall. Now let the fight commence.” The Freak rasped.

DeThatt looked into the fans, who started up a large “DEE-THATT!!” chant… and turned to The Freak with furious eyes.

“You can’t tell me what to do, you prick!” DeThatt shouted down the microphone. He then turned… and began to walk out of the cage. What he didn’t anticipate, was The Freak attacking him from behind with a chair.

CRACK!

DeThatt didn’t even flinch as the chair dented against his back, he merely turned around and like a frenzied demon from the pits of hell, he bellowed a war cry that would make the bravest fighter scarper. Hughes stood next to DeThatt and the pair looked to be standing defiant against The Freak, a rarity seen as of yet in the Asylum. The Freak smiled in a detached manner, and tilted his head to one side. Then, he raised his chair…

But didn’t have a chance to use it, as DeThatt powered The Freak down with a clothesline! The Freak doubled over and bounced from the canvas as Hughes laid in the stomps to him… but The Freak grabbed Hughes’s foot, scissored his leg and planted him face-first across the railing with a drop toehold. DeThatt was fast to counter The Freak’s attack, getting a handful of The Freak’s trenchcoat and dragging him off the mat… high into the air…

And wrapping his hand around The Freak’s throat.

CHOKESLAM!

The Freak ricocheted from the mat, his head colliding with the canvas and bouncing up as he contacted. Hughes then picked The Freak up…

And The Freak sweep kicked him in the face. Alexander Von DeThatt was already back on the scene, locking his thick arms around The Freak’s waist and hauling him into the air with what could have been a German suplex - had The Freak not backflipped over the man-mountain’s shoulder and landed behind him, on the mat. Before DeThatt had enough time to turn back, The Freak picked up his chair and slammed it into Alexander’s spine. This time, DeThatt was hurt.

As Alexander turned around, The Freak slammed the chair over the bid man’s head with a stomach-churning CRACK, and then jabbed it into his stomach. As DeThatt keeled over, The Freak hit another powerful shot to the back of DeThatt’s neck, slamming him face-first into the mat. Hughes tried to stop the destruction as he got back up, but he too found himself on the receiving end of a brutal chairshot.

The Freak dropped the chair onto the mat, and hooked Hughes’s leg and head. With no fanfare at all, The Freak drilled Hughes’s skull into the steel with his trademark Anti-Nature cradle DDT. Hughes was flat on his back, knocked out cold from the jarring blow. DeThatt was dragged to his feet by the Red Ripper, who propped him against the cage as the referee made a count…

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The Freak breathed a breath of relief, and then turned to Alexander Von DeThatt… the traitor. With a cruel, malevolent look on his face, The Freak slammed his boot over and over into DeThatt’s face, pummelling him down into the canvas. The Freak looked ready to explode as he got a firm grip of DeThatt’s trunks and his head, and hurled him, head-first, into the cell door. The metal buckled and splintered as DeThatt connected…

Then The Freak slammed him into the mesh again. And again, and again, and again, until the door was torn completely off of it’d hinges and the bloody mess that DeThatt had become rolled down the ring steps and to the outside…

“Look, dare not you look? Don’t you want to see the disaster that you’ve created, or don’t you want the burden resting upon your shoulders, knowing that she died because of you? Look, watch, and learn of how trivial human life is, Hughes. Look, and learn of why you must submit to the calls of the monsters from over the mountains. They want you to become one with them Hughes, they want you to die with them.

“They want to take your sister’s soul and use it as cannon fodder. Do you believe in souls? Because if you do, I believe you’re about to witness the ascension of one,” The Freak rambled, as Hughes spat out a globule of blood and his eyes began to focus on the Asylumtron. On the image of Token’s weeds finger on the trigger…

It eased…

It eased, and Token’s finger grew weary. He let out a vile, heartless laugh and The Freak held Hughes’s eyelids open with bloodied fingers…

…

*click*

…

And the fans in attendance could breath again.

Token hissed out a swear word as once again the bullet never came. The Freak slatted Hughes’s head to the floor and rolled over the railing to kick the fuck out of Alexander Von DeThatt some more, whilst Hughes gradually got to his feet…

He had another two fights to go through.

Ty Hughes Vs Keegan Carrahar
(Russian Roulette Run 4)

As Keegan got to the cell, Hughes realised this would be no easy fight. His adversary was 6’5 and 282 lbs. Normally Hughes would have to rely on speed to beat such an opponent… but he was fatigued. He’d just have to gut this one out.

Thud, Thud, Thud, Thud, Thud, Thud. THUD!

Apparently gutting this one out would be a hard task as well, as he was completely levelled with Keegan’s English Exocet, six jabs and an uppercut. Hughes wipe he blood away from his mouth, before spitting the rest in the general area of The Freak who had decided that subtlety was totally unnecessary, and was now just standing at cell side. Hughes could do nothing about it without losing the bout via Ringout.

Keegan looked down at the fallen Hughes an couldn’t help but feel superior. He decided from the look of the bloody mass that was the extreme champion, that his one move was enough to soften up The Hypnotic One, and went to finish him off with his Latin Luminary, a Texas Cloverleaf.

Bad move choice.

Hughes felt his legs being wrapped into the Texas Cloverleaf and a blood soaked grin adorned his face. If there was any move Hughes knew how to reverse it was the Texas Cloverleaf, it had been his finisher for over 3 years. The move was locked in and Hughes let his rage build up. He needed it. Hughes thrust himself up with his arms, before shifting his momentum forwards, making Keegan fall forwards to the floor. And just like that Hughes had his own Texas Cloverleaf locked in… and he inched higher and higher up, until the pressure was on Keegan’s neck.

“Submission”

And Ty Hughes just sat there, waiting, pouring his soul into the move, waiting to feel Keegan tap. In fact Hughes was so focused he’d forgotten about The Freak, who had gotten off of the chair, stained with Hughes’ blood, which he had been sitting on. Climbed into the cell.

CRASH

And just like that implanted it into his skull.

Hughes’ last thought as he dropped to the mat unconscious? “For fuck’s sake”. Hughes plummeted like a rock and was seemingly not getting up… but neither was Keegan. The Freak continued to pound the chair agitatedly into Hughes’s battered body as the referee made the count.

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It was over. Hughes’ eyes completely glazed over as his face was held up by the Freak, so he could watch his sister’s possible demise. The Freak sighed, as this time… death would surely come.

“BULL-SHIT!”

“BULL-SHIT!”

“BULL-SHIT!”

“BULL-SHIT!”

“BULL-SHIT!”

But The Freak wouldn’t release the hold, and Token couldn’t stop smiling. Louise’s face was totally drowned out with her own tears, the tape sealing her mouth shut dirty and peeling. Token growled like the animalistic psychopath that he was… and pushed the gun closer.

Hughes tried to close his eyes, but The Freak grabbed his eyelashes and pulled his lids apart, forcing him to bear witness.

“Hughes. There is a thrity-three percent chance that this shot will eradicate your sibling and make you an only child. If she dies, you are guilty of murder…”

Token…

…pulled the trigger…

…

…

*click*

Hughes collapsed again, and The Freak rammed Ty’s head over and over again into the canvas until he was nothing but a bloody mess, a mangled and distorted slosh of blood.

“Hughes. The next match is your fifth, and there is only two slots left in that six-shooter… therefore it MUST contain the bullet, it MUST. If you lose this match, she has a 50/50 chance of dying. Understood?”

Hughes began to drag himself to his feet, and looked up at the entrance ramp as The Freak stepped out of the cell.

Ty Hughes Vs Tapestry
(Russian Roulette Run 5)

Hughes swung wildly at Tapestry, possibly the worst possible attack on a fighter trained in Aikido. Tapestry swayed to her right and thrusted two palms into the back of Hughes’ neck, toppling him to the floor. Hughes rose back to his feet and swung again wildly… the same outcome.

Hughes slowly regained his vertical base and took a mental step back. He’d need to actually fight this woman, not just lash out at her. He’d learnt basic Kung Fu. He’d have to use it.

Hughes leapt up with a right kick to the temple, which Tapestry easily avoided. Hughes however kept the spin going and as Tapestry regained her posture, Hughes’s left foot whipped round and smacked into Tapestry’s jaw. The move knocked Tapestry to the ground, probably 60% pain and 40% shock.

Hughes stomped away at Tapestry, whose martial arts were useless while on the floor… as all fighting styles are. Or so Ty thought. Tapestry caught Hughes’ foot, his left foot, and twisted it rapidly. The sharp pain shot to Ty’s knee as he pulled back, in distress. Hughes waited for Tapestry to get to her feet and then, from out of nowhere, (the hometown of some classic moves)…

Wrestlemania!

Kick, Wham, Stunner!

Rock Bottom!

Eradication!

Angle Slam!

F-5!

Genocide!

And then perhaps the most humiliating of all…

IMMORTAL LEG DROP!!!

Hughes stood above the fallen Tapestry, with a smirk on his face, the adrenaline once again surging through his body. Hughes picked up Tapestry into a fireman’s carry, turned around and

CRASH!

The sound of steel chair on his head. We know where that came from, don’t we, Mr. Freak?

Hughes dropped Tapestry and fell to one knee.

CRASH, CRASH, CRASH!!!

Three more chair shots, but as unconsciousness seemed the only outcome, his pure grit and determination made him stand… turn round… and got crushed into the cell wall with a Frontal Chasse kick. With one swift motion, Tapestry climbed Hughes like he was a stepladder, that she really despised. Right foot to the thigh, left foot to the shoulder and the exclamation point was a right heel to the orbital bone.

The count was insignificant, Hughes was out cold.

And dreaming of his sister, screaming in pain.

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CRACK!

CRACK!

And put two more dents into it with a pair of lacerating shots to Hughes’s already unstitched, infected, and crimson forehead. Hughes could barely open his eyes, having fought five fighters one after the other, The Freak always ready to stick a thorn in his side and twist it. Hughes closed his eyes and thought of his sister when she was a baby… when she was a toddler… he’d watched her grow up. Now, he imagined her with a bullet hole, dead-centre of her head.

The Freak pulled something shiny and metallic from his pocket… it was the handcuffs. He clamped them around Hughes’s wrist, and locked the other side through the blood-soaked wire mesh, robotic in his task and unfeeling. Hughes dropped onto his arse, his hand suspended above his head and locked in hopelessly. He saw the beaming face of Token once more, as The Freak strolled around the cage like a tamed lion.

“Fifty fifty, Hughes. Fifty, fifty. The Earth is calling your sister in broken screams, demanding that her corpse rejoin with the ground and become the rot and filth that only she is worthy of becoming. This is, your sister’s becoming. And this image, the image of your sister with a bullet lodged in her temple and spraying hot red blood onto Sean, will be with your forever. It will wrap you, twist you and fuck you as you sleep.

“You’ll wake up screaming at night, wondering why this happened. And then you’ll finally realize, it’ll finally hit you that I was right all along. You… are… the sin. She… is… the sacrifice.” The Freak hissed into his microphone.

The trigger was pulled…

BANG

WAIT

NO

*click*

Nothing, again.

The Freak looked angered at first, but then he realized… the barrel only has one slot left. And that slot must contain a bullet.

Hughes closed his eyes and mourned, for he couldn’t win this final match. He could try, but he was too far gone now.

He’d killed his sister. The Freak was right.

Ty Hughes Vs Ricky Wasp
(Russian Roulette Run 6)

“The Shawshank Redemption” by Thomas Newman.

The fans erupted in boos, and Hughes found himself wondering what chances he had left, as Ricky Wasp… 6’9”, 292lbs… methodically walked down the ramp. Tyler had fought this monstrosity before, and very nearly had his own head handed to him on a silver platter. But tonight he was fighting for far more viable a cause. He was fighting for his sister’s life.

Wasp stepped through the door, which was hanging from it’s hinges and splattered with DeThatt’s blood, and slowly, frighteningly plodded towards Hughes. Wasp raised a single open palm into the air and screamed at the top of his lungs…

“WHITE POWER!”

Oh, FUCK Hughes thought to himself, the tight cuffs cutting off the blood flow to his wrist. He struggled and clattered with the cuffs, but had no use… Wasp walked up to him, and locked a single hand around his throat. Hughes’s face turned blue as the flow of blood was cut off to his head, and his eyes bulged out of their sockets.

“I’m going to kill you, you filthy nigger,” Wasp said.although you are sort of pasty!

Ty Hughes tried to gulp, but he couldn’t even breath. The referee asked him if he wanted to submit, and Hughes replied with a croaked ‘NO!’, his words garbled by Wasp’s great hand. Eventually Wasp released the hold, and Hughes slumped against the cage.

BAM!

An uppercut to the jaw sent Ty flailing, although his hand was still locked onto the mesh. Wasp then grabbed Hughes’s head and bounced it off the rim of the cage, repetitively, until his ‘filthy half-breed blood’ was spraying all over the mesh and causing the cage to turn red. All the while, The Freak watched from the outside.

Wasp slowly walked away from the semi-conscious, totally blood-soaked figure of the Hypnotic One… and then charged at him with a rebellious scream…

Wasp charged.

Hughes ducked down, and with all of the strength left in his half-dead body he put his arm underneath Ricky, and heaved. Wasp couldn’t believe it… as he found himself flying over the rim of the cage, and all the way down to the arena floor. The fans absolutely erupted as the referee called for the bell, and Hughes’s single hand was raised into the air.

The Freak’s jaw dropped open, and he charged at Ricky Wasp and began stomping him out of sheer rage. Wasp tried to fight back, but found himself slammed up against the guardrail and socked with a a flurry of right fists that sent him out into the fans.

Hughes had saved his sister.

Or had it?

Token stroked the barrel of his gun, and looked at the obviously relived but still painstakingly distraught Louise. She murmured something to him, and Token pistol-whipped her across the face viciously. Blood flecks sprayed from her cheek onto the wall, as Hughes watched from his handcuffed state in the cage. The Freak was soon in the cage, having decimated Ricky Wasp for his infidelity on the outside and into the fans.

“Well, Hughes. It appears that you have won out game. You gambled with us, and you won the bet. You defeated your final opponent and for that I applaud you, you are a master of your game…” The Freak stopped to slap Hughes, knocking the spit out of his mouth. “Now that you’ve won the Russian Roulette Run, yes, Token and I shall accept your challenge to compete in the Barbed Wire Cell. But that was never a concern anyway, was it? No, the far greater concern… was your sister. Unfortunately for you, it seems that she’s still at our mercy, as her return was never a part of the deal in this game.

“Now, the question that you have to ask yourself, is what will we do with her until Bloody Valentine? We could, in the spirit of Valentines… rape her, although I’m not too fond of that pastime anymore and it’s becoming rather clichéd. No. I say we go for the spirit of Bloody instead… and I’m sure my friend Sean will agree.”

Token nodded, backstage, and began to speak.

“You may have won this fucking game, but you haven’t won the war. And as we still have possession of the little girl, this little broken doll here… and as far as I’m concerned, I can still do whatever the fuck I want with her. In this gun, I still have an unused bullet and I’ll be damned if I’m goin’ to waste it. I’m going to pop this sucker into someone, before the night is out… and as Louise here is the closest living thing to me…”

Hughes’s dimmed eyes widened and he gasped, his blood stained teeth hanging out of his gums and his face torn to shreds… but he was still awake.

“No…” Hughes muttered, as he pulled against the mesh with his handcuffed wrist. Token held the gun with both hands, turned, and pointed it at Louise’s head once more. Hughes pulled at the mesh… and pulled…

*SNAP*

And it tore. Hughes’s hand was free, and he stumbled forwards, landing on his knees. The Freak darted towards him to try and stop him from escaping, but Hughes quickly clotheslined him over the rim of the Asylum, following him over with the move. Token laughed maniacally as Hughes charged, a limp in his step up the steel ramp… leaving a trail of crimson in his wake. Soon after, The Freak chased after him…

***

Hughes ran down the corridors and eventually found the room that Token was hiding in, interrupting the execution of his own sister.

“STOP!” Tyler roared, lunging at Token…

Token laughed. He turned, and it was no longer the revolver in his hand… it was an automatic. Tyler had been set up. His sister was no longer in the room, it was just he and Token.

“…fuck.”

BLAM

A bullet was fired from the gun in a blinding white flash, skimming Tyler and tearing a bloody, dripping gash down his side. Hughes dropped to his knees, his hand covering the wound to try and minimize blood loss. Token then put the automatic on a table with a soft tap of metal on wood, and kneed Hughes in the face, causing him to rock backwards.

“Head games. You told us that these were beyond head games…”

Tyler hissed at the sound of that voice. It was The Freak, from behind him.

“Well from me to you. This is just the BEGINNING.” The Freak hissed, unleashing a powerful boot to the back of Hughes’s head, forcing his face into the floor. Tyler feinted at this point, unable to take any more of the bullshit he was being put through. Token had already vanished to pump up the SUV, which surely contained Louise in the back seat. The Freak dropped down next to Hughes, and picked up his head…

Whispering softly in his ear.

“Allex dormir, Tyler. Allez dormir.”

And The Freak left.

Ty Hughes’s last hope, is Bloody Valentine. And we’ll see you there.