And Severed begins to take shape.

He had been an alcoholic far to long to fall prey to Whiskey.

So Campball was deep in thought, reflecting on booze, something he didn't do all that much, when he heard the formiliar knock at his office door. It wasn't formiliar in a good way, matter of fact he related that knock over and over to the time he had a rod shoved up his pisser during a Syphilis examination.

"What the fuck do ya want?" Campbell shouted out, gulping down the whiskey, feeling he would need the edge for whatever conversation he had ahead of himself.

"Its Hughes, your damn Champion. Let me in." The voice on the other side rang back.

"Half of the damn Champ that is, CUNT." Campbell sat silent for a second, hoping Hughes would just fade away, and the knocking began again. "ALRIGHT COME THE FUCK IN!" Campbell screamed.

And Hughes did. He entered, in his fighting gear, shades hiding his eyes, and he shut the door behind him.

"I want Weed in the Asylum." Hughes said, sternly.

"Congrats." Campbell replied, pouring another glass. Hughes sat silently, and Campbell was once against content in his whiskey.

"Tonight." Hughes added.

"Sounds exciting." Campbell replied flatly, sloshing the whiskey in the glass. A moment of silence past. Finally, Hughes leaned back, slap kicking the whiskey from Campbell's hand and the bottle from the desk, smashing the brick wall beside them in a glorious explosion of brown and glitter.

"YOU FUCKING CUNTWAD! I SPENT TWELVE DOLLARS ON THAT!" Campbell shouted, standing up and pointed at Hughes in rage over his desk.

"Wow, twelve whole dollars." Hughes said, obviously fed up with Campbell already.

"THATS ALOT IN EUROS YOU COCKY ASSHOLE! Thats like... fifteen, in euros! FIFTEEN!" Campbell was still trying to figure out the conversion.

"Give me Token in the fucking Asylum, Campbell, tonight." Hughes repeated himself.

"Fine, fine. Just don't spill anymore of my fucking life blood. Get the fuck out. I don't want to see you. I hope you two blow each other to all hell, or something, do something, just get out of my bleeding office!" Campbell shouted.

Hughes grinned, walking out of the door, slamming it behind him. He had his wish. A match with Token Weed.

Tonight.

TMM wasn’t paying too much attention, instead, he was checking out the cast on his arm. The whole of Team Splink had put their own message on it. Mr Pink wrote something in Italian (note: Mr Pink isn’t Italian, he just likes to pretend he is). Zippy had written ‘I’M GLAD YOU’RE FUCKED’ in black Magic Marker. Wincy had written ‘Take care PISSFLAPS SHIT and get better COCK VAGINA SPUNK soon, Love WHORE ARSE Wincy. Slapnutz, on the other hand, drew a few lines and claimed he wrote something. He was getting so bad that he couldn’t even write his own name. Or a rude word. It really was a bad time for both men.

“Mouse?” TMM replied. “Well, that bastard there didn’t show up. I found him lying in his bed with some pron, an unopened box of Kleenex and a Toblerone.

So I went around the rest of Team Splink and they didn’t want to fight. Well, Wincy said something about cunts and shit but I tend to ignore her. Stupid bitch. So, I had two choices: Fight alone, or take the mouse and have a slightly better chance.”

Campbell looked on in disbelief. What he was hearing was not only incredulous but also a crock of shit.

“Where did you get the idea that having a mouse team with you would give you a slightly better chance? That’s just fucking insane. I mean honestly, it’s a small furry thing. There is no way ANYONE would lose to an animal. I don’t care if it’s a mouse or a stupid fucking giant pink cat. NO ONE LOSES TO AN ANIMAL!”

TMM tried to interrupt Joe.

“I thought they might be scared of…”

“Scared? Scared? Scared of what? These men are paid to put their life on the line every week and you thought they’d be scared of a fucking mouse? What planet are you from?”

“Poland.”

“Poland is not a planet you crippled retard. I should have you put down for being lame. You’re no use to me with an arm like that.”

TMM looked down at the floor. It wasn’t ever day you get told you should be put down. Slapnutz, meanwhile, was letting all the words flow over him. To him, it was just noise. Noise that was preventing him from sleeping. That was all he wanted right now. He didn’t want his titles back. He didn’t want cheese or any other dairy product. He didn’t even want sex…well scratch the last one, sex was still on his mind. Anyway, he needed rest. The guardian angel for the Scotsman must have been watching down, admittedly for the first time in a good few months.

“Right, fuckers, since you are of no use to me in this state, I need you to do me a favour. I need you to deliver a message to the Asylum Fan Club.”

“There is a fan club? Where about? New York? Las Vegas? Dairytown?”

“No, no and there’s no such place, idiot. I want you to deliver this message to the Asylum Fan Club in South Africa. Can you please go there and read the message in the envelope. It’ll mean a lot to them.”

Campbell handed TMM a red envelope. On the front it was marked: ‘African Fuckheads’ and the Asylum logo was printed on the front of it.

“Right, you useless bastards, fuck off now.”

Campbell ushered Splink out of his office. TMM got up to leave, Slapnutz didn’t move. After an awkward moment of waiting, TMM dragged his Scottish partner out of the room with his one good arm. Once outside the office, he dropped Slapnutz in a heap on the floor. He opened up the envelope and read the contents.

Dear African Asylum Fans,

YOU ARE ALL FUCKING CUNTS.

Regards,
Joseph Campbell.

Splink were going to Africa. Say a prayer for the wildlife. You just know something is going to die.

“Lesbians should not be afraid of who they are!” Reggie snapped in a stern tone. “I think Karen should just come out of the closet. Everyone knows now, thanks to me. She shouldn’t be ashamed of it!”

“I agree!” a man in the audience hollered.

“See. A man with sense”

“Actually.” Another person added. “I think homosexuality is wrong.”

“What!?” Reggie seemed dumfounded. “Have you not seen Lesbian porn? Not only is it a sexual choice. It’s an art!”

“Why are you so defensive about gays anyway? Are you a faggot?”

“WHAT!? NO!”

“You are wearing a pink T-shirt!” Someone else said.

“Yeah and you do go on about yourself a lot.” Another piped up.

“No, I don’t. I hardly ever talk about myself compared to how much I should be talked about. I am a great athlete…” The point was proven. “Anyway! Karen is a lesbian and she’s so far in the closet she’s in fucking Narnia. I believe that Lesbians should declare who they are. So if you see Karen, folks, tell her how you feel about how she should not be oppressed by her heterosexual cover up. Now I think we need to start a chant.”

People look around, what was there to chant about?

“About how Lesbians shouldn’t be oppressed, Mr Willis?”

“God no.” Reggie splutters. “About me! R-H-W! R-H-W! R-H-W!” No one else decided to join in they just parted away and left Reggie with the view of Karen getting out of a cab. He ran whilst he dropped Pro-Lesbian posters and leaflets with Karen as the star.

The Lassie furrowed her eyebrows as she walked over and saw Reggie fleeing into the arena for dear life. Crouching, she picked up the leaflets, growled, and crushed them in her fist.

"Bloody twat."

"Well, it's not as if you're immune to it. You've gotten your ass kicked more times than that Brooklyn Brawler, and that's utterly sad, really! I won a freakin' handicapped fight! I'm better than so many of those other... fighters!"

The Enlightened have been slowly disintegrating since their exodus from fWo's Survivor 3 competition. Eventually won by The Uprising. Maybe not the best team to have won it, but hey, if you're underhanded and sneaky... you get far. Now in theAsylum, Matthew Karst and Banderas were finding each other's ideals and mindsets to be completely contrasting.

When the relationship is built on mistrust and deceit, however, what else can you expect? Matthew had lied to Bandy about having landed contracts with tA right from the start, but it was only after a month or so of trying oh-so-very-hard that The Enlightened got officially signed. It was secured after a guest showing at Action!Wrestling's Presure Point. That, in entireity, is a whole complicated novel.

But, two things were settled then. Bandy's knowledge of the situation at hand, and the contracts finally being obtained.

"Well, who being the one that winning at Everything Or Nothing?!"

"I tapped out so that you could get a notch on your wall. You're not exactly the fighting sensation, and combining the matches we had in Survivor 3, your victory over me was your first one this year!"

Now, a standoff was ensuing in the locker-room, as Karst stepped inside. He'd only managed to throw his bag down before Banderas, in the midst of his own thoughts, had risen off his bunch and shoved Matthew. That got the arguement started, and it was quickly heating up.

"You also only winning one match this year!"

"I'm a fucking newbie!"

Both men were now nose-to-nose, and their fists were clenched. A farcry from when they had decided to become partners, as Banderas promised Matthew Karst a wonderful journey on the road of enlightenment, and to find out the meaning of life. It appeared as if the team's main objective had completely evaporated, and now, Matthew Karst had been sucked into a web of greed and deceit.

While Banderas continued to hide how much he really knew about happenings around him, bottling up many things inside of him at the same time. It wasn't healthy, but the Colombian didn't have much of a choice. The events that had happened between August 2002 to January 2003 were very confusing... but at the same time, difficult to talk about.

"Okay, Matthew. Tonight, you not going to do anything to Brothers Brown! I going out there, and I going to apologise to them. For the jackets, and for you attacking them last week! Look at us. We being here some time already, but we not yet making a run at the Team Titles!"

Matthew sniggered as he backed down and picked up his bag, throwing it onto the bench. He didn't really care about the Team Titles, since the division was rather dead. He wanted to be victorious and have the titles in his hands by having fought valiantly. Of course, all Karst actually bothered about was ensuring that he'd have a long and successful stay in tA, that would secure his future and help support the family.

He didn't look the part, however.

"Yeah, forget the fact that they left me floundering in a pool of my own blood two weeks okay. Forget that they almost killed you and broke your neck last week. Yeah, go out there and make wonderful bumsex with them! GO!"

Bandy didn't have quite the grasp on sarcasm, so he simply scratched his head and stared at his partner, before turning around and storming out of the room. Karst rolled his eyes, and sat down on the bench, plotting the next course of action to take against the Brothers Brown.

They had fucked with him, and he was going to fuck back.

Business had now officially become... personal.

Jeers rained down on poor Banderas. Nobody was too keen on listening to a foreigner from some Third World Country speak. But instead, they were subject to listening Bandy talk, which was a thousand times worse. The Colombian BadArse -- wearing a black t-shirt with blue jeans and black sneakers -- continued to smile in spite of the jeers, however, as he paced about the circumference of the cage.

"I am being here to formally apologise to Ritchie and Ordell, actually. See, my team partner, Matthew, stealing their jackets a few weeks back. It being part of a plan to getting us into theAsylum full-time. And then, they getting signed by Mr Campbell, who managing to stir things up a little.

That resulting in me getting beaten up last week. I understand why, and me not being angry. Maybe my neck is hurting a lot, but I understanding completely! So, Brothers Brown, do you accepting my humble apology, which I do on behalf of Matthew as well? Please?"

Banderas then cleared his throat and looked out to the back, as he awaited Ritchie and Ordell to come out and accept his apology. In his mind, since both teams were basically even stevens in terms of sneak attacks and whatnot, there was no way Brothers Brown could turn down his apology. Especially since Bandy made those 'puppy dog' eyes. Naturally, the crowd got on his case.

How? Oh, the usual. Derogatory name-calling, the hurling of rubbish, the leaving of the arena which made Joe Campbell choke on his tea in the owner's office. Banderas, however, was adamant on standing his ground. He wanted official confirmation that Brothers Brown were a-okay with everything. And finally, after several seconds, the crowd's jeers transformed into cheers as Ritchie & Ordell Brown appeared from the back and slowly made their way to the cage. No music, no fanfare, nothing.

They were gonna settle business.

The brothers were dressed identically -- white sleeveless tanktops, blue jeans, and black boots. But it was Ordell who looked more pissed than anything, and he was the first to climb into the cage, his brother mere seconds behind. Bandy smiled, and could hardly contain his excitement, but that soon died as Ordell grabbed the microphone out of his grasp...

And knocked the Colombian down with it!

"Apology NOT accepted, punk! Time to show you a lesson in respecting your elders!"

Ordell tossed his microphone away and traded high-fives with his brother, as they began to eye the recovering Banderas up. Naturally, the Colombian took a bit of time to pull himself up, seeing how he was in a state of shock. But imagine his surprise when he turned around and saw an official climbing into the cage.

Brothers Brown Vs Banderas

"Oh santa maria!"

Squash time? Squash time!

Banderas vs Brothers Brown

You might say... he was screwed.

Ritchie and Ordell wasted no time in signalling their intentions as they quickly charged at Banderas, who squealed in fright... but managed to duck the two clotheslines that threatened to decapitate him, and as the Brothers Brown turned around, Bandy somehow managed to connect with a standing dropkick... that sent both Ritchie and Ordell sprawling to the canvas!

Feeling rather proud of himself, Banderas pulled himself up and flexed his muscles, as the crowd reverted back to the jeering. Surprisingly, a small section were rather positive and that delighted Bandy, who must have guessed that the section were Spanish-speaking homies of his. Eager to follow up on his great move, Bandy rushed at the recovering Ordell and knocked him back down with a clothesline to the back of his head, before letting fly with his fists, as he aimed at weakening up Ordell's spine. Ritchie, by now, had managed to pull himself up.

And naturally wasn't too happy about the Colombian BadArse beating on his brother.

SO, Ritchie charged at Banderas, eventually striking with a running sidekick, sending Bandy flying across the cage and head-first into the mesh of the structure. He yelped in pain, and as he helped himself up, Banderas realised he was bleeding. Ritchie smiled and raised his right arm in the air, as he took a few seconds to tend to his brother. Ordell waved Ritchie's arm away, and motioned for Ritchie to knock Bandy's arse out of the cage.

And Ritchie obliged, running at Banderas like the sucker had a bullseye on his chest.

But, Bandy's survival instinct took over, and he lowered his head, sending Ritchie flying over and out of the cage! Half the battle had already been won, just like that, as Ritchie slammed down to the concrete and immediately clutched his right shoulder, while howling out in agony. The crowd was rather stunned.

As was Ordell, who managed to keep his cool and continued to play possum, drawing a jubilant Banderas towards him. Once the Colombian was close enough, Ordell sprung up to his feet and sent his right fist crashing into Bandy's jaw, almost knocking the latter off his feet. Banderas staggered backwards, his head throbbing immensely with pain. Things were about to get worse for him, as Ordell quickly sent a stiff kick into his gut, and followed up with a snap DDT!

"ORDELL ROCKS!"
"ORDELL ROCKS!"
"ORDELL ROCKS!"
"ORDELL ROCKS!"

He was indeed rocking, and he raised his left arm in the air to acknowledge the crowd, as the official got the count started just seconds after Matthew Karst was spotted in the crowd, a steel chair in his hand;

1.

2.

3.

4.

5.

6.

7.

8.

9.

OHMYGOODNESS! Banderas had survived!

The groggy Colombian used the mesh of the cage to help himself up, and Ordell wasn't too pleased about it, and he cracked his fingers... simply waiting for Banderas to turn around and walk into his path. Meanwhile, Ritchie had peeled himself off the conrete on the outside, and had gotten into the act of cheering his brother on, until a certain Matthew Karst appeared behind him.

*CRACK*

And sent the steel chair hurtling into the back of his head.

Inside the cage, Ordell had lifted Banderas up onto his shoulders, looking to hit a death valley driver, but Bandy had squirmed out of the move remarkably and had the Birmingham native locked in the position for the reverse DDT! He was distracted by Matthew on the outside, however, allowing Ordell to strike with a desperate wild swing, breaking up the move. Bandy staggered backwards, cupping his nose in agony.

Before Ordell Brown kicked him in the gut, and shoved the doubled-over Colombian in between his legs. The crowd's cheers grew louder, but within seconds, the sight of Karst raising his chair up again forced half the audience to boo massively. Karst knew what the crowd reaction would do, and he wasn't surprised to see Ordell turn around and finally spot what was happening on the outside.

The Angry Young Man was *counting* on the old timer to take notice.

"Hey Ordell! Make a move, and I'll bash your brother's skull in!"

Ordell now had a decision to make. Would he or wouldn't he?

"DON'T DO IT!"
"SAVE YOUR BROTHER!"
"PULL YOUR PANTS DOWN!"

Deep inside, Matthew was secretly hoping that Ordell Brown would make the ultimate sacrifice. It would be better if Bandy didn't win, because the Angry Young Man wanted to have a sense of superiority over his partner. So, Karst actually grinned as Ordell spat in his direction, and pulled Bandy up.

BARN BURNER!!

Turning around quickly, Ordell was just in time to catch Matthew begin firing away with shots, just as the official started the count;

1.

*CRACK*

2.

*CRACK*

3.

*CRACK*

Ordell was growling, he wanted to go out there and help his brother, but the victory needed to be obtained.

4.

*CRACK*

5.

*CRACK*

Ordell Brown screamed for Matthew to cease the madness, as his nails dug into the steel rim of the structure. Karst ignored the plea, and continued to laugh at the bloodied body of Ritchie Ordell.

6.

*CRACK*

7.

*CRACK*

8.

*CRACK*

"COME ON!" Ordell screamed, as he turned to glare at the official.

9.

*CRACK*

10!

*CRACK*

Ordell jumped out of the cage within an instant with the victory secured, and immediately rushed at Matthew Karst, who appeared as if he was tired of brandishing the weapon. However, with Ordell Brown running at full steam towards him, the Angry Young Man did the only thing he could, as the arena was almost being enveloped by jeers.

*CRAAAAAAACK*

A vicious shot to Ordell's head, sending him down to the ground, and unconscious.

Pleased, Matthew raised the dented chair above his head, as he stood tall over the two mangled and bloodied lifeforms of the tandem that made up The Brothers Brown. In the cage, Banderas had rolled to his sight, and gritted his teeth in anger, catching a glimpse of Matt's attack on Ordell. Paramedics came rushing out with stretchers and other respective equipment. Everybody in attendance had been sickened, and were on the verge of vomitting.

Matthew Karst had just defined himself as a human being.

"I'm such a badass."

And the fate of The Enlightened... hung in the balance.

Having just seconds ago watched a seVered promo on a backstage monitor, he was walking backstage seemingly with a purpose, and as he walks up to the Team Campbell leader, we can only assume that we're about to find out what that purpose is.

"Hey Burton..."

"Hey Joe."

Inmate grabs a water from a table nearby and cracks it open. After taking a drink he wipes the corner of his mouth.

"I've got a proposition for you."

Campbell was busy doing something when Inmate had walked up, but now his attention was on the former Asylum Champ, even more so now that he'd heard
the word proposition.

"Oh yeah, and what's that?" questioned Campbell.

"Well I know about your problems with Carnage..."

Joe's facial expression changed, and not for the better.

"...and"

That was exactly what Inmate had hoped Joe'd say.

"...and, I can take care of it."

"I've already got someone on the job. Besides, I didn't let you into Team Campbell so you could off taking care of my other problems. I hired you to help me take care of problems inside the cage, where you're best used."

Inmate's face moved slightly, but his emotions exploded inside. In this new era of problems in Asylum, fighters needed to take care of things more outside the cage than inside... Token Weed and Kinkade for example.

"I can take care of more than the fucking problems in the cage. I'm not just
some show horse to be used for TV, Campbell."

Joe had realized he'd just said the wrong thing.

"OK, you want to try Carnage, I have a feeling Thompson might need help anyways, so go ahead and make my problems disappear. But if you get hurt, you're completely on your own. I may need you elsewhere in the future... and don't forget that."

And that was it, Inmate set down his bottle of water, and walked off hoping to change the way he was seen in Joe Campbell's eyes.

Eddie Scott Poser, the supposed King of Poland, took a deep in, feeling the cold Asylum air surrounding him. Hands on his waist, he looked around at the familiar surroundings, and realized that, even though this place has gone through hell, it hasn’t changed since Fight Hell.

He would have never know the Red Army had taken control of this place just a month prior.

He sighed, pulling out an ace of spades and flicking it toward the nearest hallway. It curved, rounding the corner and a small flick was heard. A clanging with steel.

And that’s when Eddie Cheno, Asylum Television champion, turned the corner. The two stared eye to eye for a moment, sizing one another up.

“Wow Eddie. I heard stories, but,” Poser took another look up and down Cheno’s physique, mostly taking a gander at the Television Championship. “You seem to have done well in this barbershop of horrors. And here I was, desperately running away from this place. Look at you. Look at the man you’ve become!”

Cheno twisted his head away from Poser’s glance. He didn’t like what was being said, for whatever reason. “You did all of this with help of the Asylum.”

That’s when Cheno turned back around, staring Poser in the eyes. “Nah funk dat shiznit yo. I be doin’ dis shiznit in SPITE of da funken Asylum yo. I bleed and I funken die fer dis shiznit, but I be risin’ above it yo. I ain’t gonna be havin’ dat funken Asylum skull eatin’ my funken heart mang.” Cheno patted the television championship. “I be winnin’ dis belt cuz o’ me mang. Not cuz wat dat funken skull didta me.”

Poser stood back a bit sharper than usual. “Look at what this place has done to ME? Remember? The bumbling idiot that had no idea what life was actually like? This place CHANGED me for the better, and you’re trying to take its credit. Face facts Cheno, without this place to guide your life, to show you were to go, you wouldn’t be HALF the man you are today. I’m not going to say I’m the most serious guy ever, cuz, hello, I’m still the King of Poland, but there’s a difference between delusion and denial.”

Eddie lowered his head. How the hell could Poser be so right? But Poser didn’t have time to gloat, because Eddie threw him a vicious right cross that sent him flying into the nearest wall. His lower lip bled just a bit, as he slumped up against the broken pieces of drywall, and saw his own blood. “You know Eddie, there was a time where that would have made me cry. And a part of me will always cry inside.” Poser sighed. “Because you never treated me with an ounce of respect. You were never my friend Cheno. You were just as annoyed with me as everyone else in this forsaken world. But you know what they were that you weren’t?”

Poser stood to his feet, rubbing the back of his head, before actually getting into Eddie Cheno’s face. “Honest.”

Poser twisted away, continuing his walk that he had started down the hall way. He picked out yet another card from his pocket, and threw it down the hall, flicking it so it flew.

Just like time.

And time changes everything.

And time changed him.

Luckily, it started to ring and as it did Lharn paced up and down the short corridor waiting for a certain someone to pick up: “Hello Keeg. Is that you?”

His question was promptly answered: “Is it me he asks? Who else would it be besides me, Nikki Nova, Aria, Sky, Devon, Jenna...?”

“Keeg, where the fuck are you? And where were you last week man for fuck’s sake? I was expecting you.”

He apologised: “Well I am sorry about that. I was there last week but I couldn’t find you. They put me in a dodgy locker room though Slap managed to find me. We had a few brews, he was wrecked and I fucked off to leave him in peace. Poor bloke. Did you…”

Huscroft stopped him in his tracks: “Fuck him Keeg. Where are you now?”

It was an awkward one to tackle. Where did he start? So he didn’t.

“Look Lharn. I don’t want to do this over the phone. I’ll call you in midweek but the bother in Beverly Hills has not gone away yet…”

“What the fuck do you mean?”

Special K was quick to reassure him that he would not be affected: “Calm down. It’s nothing to do with you and it involved jail and I’m not having you on either. I swear down on Carmen Electra’s life. He knows something.”

“Who?”

Carrahar whispered: “Campbell.”

“Fuck. How?”

“He just does. I’ve spoke to him about it but before you go running your mouth nobody else knows and I’d rather they didn’t. As I say, we’ll have a proper chat during the week and go out Cunt Hunting somewhere. How does that sound?”

Lharn laughed: “Aye. How can I turn that down?”

“Good lad.”

There was a brief silence but Special K quashed that: “So what’s Willis up to? I’ve heard that he’s been following that Victor Fanny or whatever his name is. Honestly, who thinks of these names? Why can’t they pick normal names like Lharn and Keegan?”

“True. I can’t understand it either. I think he’s following this pussy, which makes a change doesn’t it?”

“Aye. Willy loves his willy.”

They both giggled at this stage until The Yardstick reverted to a serious tone: “Lharn, keep an eye on him will you? I know that we’re not exactly best brothers like Michael and Latoya but he is blood and Campbell has told me what Fanny is capable of.”

Huscroft howled: “Sorry Keeg. I had to laugh there. What Fanny is capable of? It can be the end of the world if you stick your finger in a faulty socket.”

“David Beckham’s living proof of that. Honestly. Only he could get himself well and truly under the thumb of a pencil battery. So what has Johnny really been up to then?”

“Fuck knows really Keeg. He went off to Joe’s office after getting beat off Karen Pembridge and then him and Michael just disappeared. They said that they were going on holiday or some shit. I don’t care what you say. I reckon they’ve still got a very hush-hush relationship behind closed doors.”

The Essence of Extreme was amused: “He got beat off Karen Pembridge? Fucking hell man. How did he manage that? She must’ve promised him oral sex. Or, better still, promised him that her brother would do it.”

TRD agreed: “That sounds about right. So what was Joe’s patter?”

“I’ve told you man. When we’re in person. Actually, that reminds me. He did say John followed Fanny all the way to Thailand.”

“Lucky for some,” Huscroft mumbled.

“It’s not when you’re forced to travel thousands of miles.”

“Trust me Keeg. It is. You haven’t seen their Red Light District. In fact, neither have I. I didn’t get past the first shop window.”

“Look Lharn. I’m going to have to dash. It’s been a pleasure speaking to you. Take care. I’ll see you later.”

“Bye.”

One moment they were having a laugh and the next they were bidding a fond farewell. The abrupt termination was uncommon and uncharacteristic of Keegan Carrahar, which led Lharn to one conclusion…

He was in deep shit.

“I’m taking you off…”

Sebastian’s eyes lit up with fury, “You’re what?!”

“…I’m not going to fuck around, and argue.. I have high aspirations for Team Campbell, and I can’t afford to have my men out and about, I need you here, no twatting around.”

“So that’s it? That’s it? Fuck it, let me stay here and protect you, while he tears everything on the outside down?” Sebastian started to pace around the room, stomping his feet harder with each step he took, he stopped and turned back towards Campbell. “Doesn’t matter if the kingdom burns, just as long as the King’s men die with him, right? Humpty Dumpty wins this round, I’m guessing.”

“No.” Joe said, as he scratched at his head, “I’m replacing you with Inmate. He’s working his way back into the fold, and I need him to prove himself.”

“Fuck that.. That’s my job Campbell. MY JOB!” Thompson pounded at his chest, as he moved closer to Joe’s desk, throwing a chair to the side. “I see what you want, you want your Golden Boy Inmate, who screwed you over so many times, to do what you put me out to do. That’s great Joe, just great. Lovely, you want him to do it so I can look bad, fuck that Joe. I’m not going to be the whipping boy this time, find someone else.”

“You’re not going anywhere you bloody cunt!” Joe fumed, “You’ve got a match tonight!”

“That’s great, I guess it’ll just be my first no show then, boss.” Sebastian stalked towards the open doorway, and he stopped inside the door as Joe’s words stopped him for a mere second.

“If you leave, and you don’t bring Carnage back in. You won’t breathe another breath Thompson, trust me, I’ll make sure of it.”

"Sorry"
"Sorry"

Their faces and moods transformed as they made eye contact. Carson bit her lip with disappointment, as she looked to the ground. Chester felt the clash as some kind of fate, as his face lit up with unrivaled delight; furthering his ideal that they were meant to be together. The time spent apart since last weeks meeting simply thrown them together even harder on this encounter.

Ramis was a dreamer, which irritated Nicole as she looked at his blank face. Her eyes widened as she poked Chester in the manner of a frightened 5-year old, testing whether a department store dummy was real or not. Ramis escaped his daze and looked down at her.

"Sorry again."

"Don't worry about it. I should have watched where I was going."

Chester nodded, frowning slightly with her glum voice.

"Are you all right?" Ramis asked; a popular question of his when conversing with Carson.

"What's with you?" Carson shot back. "Why do you always think something's wrong with me?"

Ramis' facial expression turned to a puppyish state as his eyes lowered to the concrete.

"I dunno." Chester whispered in a hardly audible voice.

"Quit worrying about me, Chester." Carson said as she paced off. "You're getting annoying---"

"Thanks for not zapping me last week," Chester remarked quickly, hoping to extinguish her expressions of disinterest.

His sincerity made Carson smile as her head swiveled back in his direction.

"No problem!" Nicole chuckled. Her beautiful smiled didn't fade as she left the room.

Eddie Cheno© Vs Eddie Scott Poser
(Television Title Match)

“I smoke two joints in time of peace
And two in time of war”

“Smoke two Joints” by Sublime, and out walked Eddie Cheno, calmly strutting to the even louder cheers of the fans. He held up the television title, and then climbed over the Asylum cage, much like Hulk Hogan used to do during any cage match he was in. Once at the top, he dropped the title to the outside, and fell to the Asylum’s canvas.

The two stopped in their tracks. They had each been playing to the fans cheers, but now, the only thing that was left was the two of them. They may have been “friends,” at one time, but Poser always felt rejected.

Just like what happened to Cheno when he first entered the federation.

The stopped in the middle of the ring, gazing into each other’s eyes, before Cheno went for a right hook. Poser ducked underneath, quickly kicking Cheno in the knee and sending him down. Once there, Poser locked in a front face lock, trying to ddt Cheno into the mat, but not having a lot of luck. Instead, Poser wrenched the hold in harder, withstanding the painful punches Eddie threw to his midsection. That doesn’t mean his face didn’t swell with pain from the blows.

Eddie used his position and began to force his way to the Asylum cage. Lightly, Poser slammed against the back of the asylum cage, which gave Cheno enough time to pull his head out. Cheno rammed a back elbow into Poser’s skull, trying to force him out of the cage, but instead, just arched Poser’s back over the steel’s edge. Poser groaned in pain, and raked at the eyes, sending Cheno into a blind stumbling rage.

Cheno went for a wild right hook, which if connected, would have knocked Poser clean out. Lucky for Eddie, he was just out of reach. And once there, Poser charged forward, driving his head and shoulders into Cheno’s rib, and then raising his skull up and shoving his head into Cheno’s chin. Cheno fell back, clutching his mouth as he spat blood, the result of biting his tongue from the maneuver, as Poser held the top of his skull in pain.

Cheno charged forward, but Poser ducked underneath his attempted grab and wrapped around Cheno’s waist with a lock. He tried to shove him over his shoulder in a german, but Cheno simply had the weight in his favor. Instead, Poser kicked Cheno in the back of his left knee once again, and then placed his foot in front of Cheno’s and forced him down to the mat in a front Russian leg sweep type move. Cheno bounced off the mat, and Poser stayed on top, locking in what could have been a camel clutch, but Cheno wouldn’t allow it, so Poser just locked in a fujiwara arm bar.

Yes, Poser locked in a fujiwara. Hell if he knew what he was actually doing, he was desperately scrambling for positioning and wanted to keep the advantage, and keeping Cheno on the mat while pulling Cheno’s arm back in an awkward position was the best way to do it.

If you asked him, he’d probably say he just locked in a powerbomb.

Cheno tried to fight out of the hold, and then turned onto his back somehow, due to Poser’s lack of knowledge at submissions. But in this hold, Poser just kept the arm hooked and began to deliver right hand to right hand to Cheno’s skull. Cheno blocked, and then caught Poser with a knife edge chop to his chest, which sent him reeling. Once there, Cheno hit Poser with a back fist, right into an uppercut that sent Poser flailing out of the hold and into the steel cage behind him.

He could feel the cut from earlier bleeding once more, and Poser knew that Cheno was getting to his feet, and was going to be none too pleased. Once he did, Poser looked from side to side, in an “Uh-Oh” situation, before bolting around to the opposite side of the cage. Cheno gave chase, but Poser was much too fast, and we had a smaller version of the Indy 500 in the Asylum cage.

Cheno was within reach, but every time, Poser just turned up the jets a little more. This went on for at least a minute, until Cheno seemed to grow frustrated. Right at that moment, Poser leapt to the cage wall, and used it as a springboard, corkscrew dropkicking Cheno square in his jaw. That sent Cheno down to the canvas hard with a thud.

1…

2…

3…

4…

5…

Cheno stood up to his feet, spitting the blood from Poser’s assault on the stained asylum canvas. He squinted his eyes, not sure of what he was seeing. Eddie Scott Poser was giving him one hell of a fight.

I guess Mercy’s influence was quite positive, if Poser really wanted to make a career out of this thing.

Cheno stumbled to his feet, but Poser locked in a modified headlock, forearm wrapped under Eddie’s neck and then wrenching the head to the side. Once there, Eddie fought to his feet, but Poser used his position to slam him down in a sort of neckbreaker drop. Poser looked to grab the fallen Eddie by his feet, work over the knee he had started earlier, but Cheno rolled out of the hold and returned to his feet.

Poser wrapped Cheno in a rear waist lock, but Cheno delivered one hell of a back elbow which sent Poser sprawling toward the nearest cage wall. Once there, Cheno stood to his feet, delivering three right jabs, a left jab, and a finale which would be the end of anyone…

Clearin’ da Funken Table.

Hit nothing.

Cheno stumbled into the cage wall for support, but he turned around…

Clothesline from Hell, Michigan. The patented superkick sent Cheno sprawling up and over the cage wall to gasps from the fans.

…

But Cheno only teetered on the top, and then fell back into the asylum canvas with a thud. He tried to recover to his feet, but the jarring blow to his skull and chin had affected him so that he couldn’t, and he collapsed on the floor.

1…

2…

3…

4…

To tell you the truth, Poser couldn’t believe that he had put Eddie down with his major maneuver. However, he could taste Television title gold, and the taste felt good.

5…

6…

By now, Eddie had began to recover to his feet, but wasn’t there yet. Poser, dejected, reached over the side of the cage and demanded a steel chair, which he was promptly handed.

7…

8…

And Eddie returned to his feet.

Only to be brought to his knees with a vicious chair shot to the skull. The chair, dented now, was driven into Cheno’s face again.

And again. And again. And again. And again.

Before Eddie fell to his hands as well as his knees. And that’s when Poser took the steel chair, and swung like a golf star, wrapping the chair around Eddie’s head and neck, the seat popping out as if it’s japanesse.

Cheno gasped for air, as Poser yanked the edges of the chair up, choking Cheno to his feet by the back rest. Once there, Poser used the foot holds to slam the chair back into the mat, driving Cheno’s neck into the steel chair violently.

Cheno wasn’t expecting this.

And he couldn’t have planned for it even if he did.

Eddie Scott Poser had never been like this.

But Eddie Scott Poser’s vendettas were hardly ever voiced in the Asylum cage. And he had never had the chance to reconcile his previous ailments in a fight.

Until Mercy.

And he was showing none.

Poser wrenched the chair out from Cheno’s neck, wrenching his head to a weird angle as he did so. With the shattered frame in his hand, he tossed it aside as if it was nothing.

1…

2…

3…

4…

5…

6…

7…

8…

9…

Eddie Scott Poser… new television Champion!

But not if Eddie Cheno had anything to say about it.

He stood there, his face was a 1.0 on the Muta scale, stumbling around and waving Poser to him. ESP couldn’t believe what he was seeing. He was the new violent Polish Empire.

How could Eddie Cheno be standing after all of that?

But Cheno did, spitting blood into Poser’s face, which infuriated him immediately. He took out his deck of cards, and began to throw each one at Cheno until Cheno just stomped forward, looking to end this now. Cheno was inches away from Poser when he reached into his long trenchcoat…

And back whipped Cheno in the face, sending him to the canvas with large Wolverine like claws.

Cheno stood up, shocked, three cuts on the same side of his face as the bullet wound he received from Nicole Carson last year at Immortals. The referee tried to get Poser to put the claws down, and in that instant, Cheno clocked Poser square in the jaw with Clearin’ da Funken Table, sending Poser into the Asylum cage wall, and the glove flying to the outside. Cheno, reached to his cheek, feeling the blood that had been sprayed, before delivering a right hand to Poser’s skull, standing on his feet to keep him inside the ring. Poser became Eddie’s own personal punching bag, one of those clowns that just got taken down, but always bounced back to an upright position.

Right hand, left hand. Right hand, left hand. It was on repeat, and by the time Cheno was finished, Poser’s face was a shattered picture of what it once was, his nose easily broken. He slumped down to the asylum canvas, as did Cheno, the blood loss finally getting to him.

They each were there, on their hands and knees, weak, vulnerable to each other’s onslaughts, but unable to capitalize.

That is, until Poser pulled out a lighter, and tried to light Eddie Cheno’s shirt on fire. Emulating Pyro now it seemed.

Cheno, in a sudden burst of energy, nailed Poser square in the jaw with a vicious right cross, and immediately patted himself out. Poser held his chin in pain, and stumbled to his feet. Cheno was much slower; the wounds in his forehead and on his cheek and his lips had really been spouting the blood like faucets, and covered the Asylum’s canvas in red patches. His punches had truly been affected, but even so, he was still a lethal boxer.

Poser and Cheno half stood there, eying each other up, when Poser screamed out “ANIMALS OF THE SEA… ATTACK!”

…

Nothing happened.

“Crap, no wonder that superpower sucks ass,” before Eddie caught him with HIS own version of the superkick, the needle jab, sending Poser sprawling down to the Asylum canvas.

“Funken Heart yo!” Cheno shouted, making note of their former allegiance as the Planeteers from over a year ago on Asylum television. Eddie walked over to the side of the cage, and lifted Poser up by his long blue hair. He could almost see himself in Poser now. He once started out as nothing more than a joke, looking for acceptance. And looking in the mirror, he realized that he had become everything he hated. At least, when it concerned Poser.

But for that moment, Cheno had victory in his grasp. Poser, upside down on the top of the steel cage. Cheno began to teeter, unable to balance himself due to the blood loss, but he leapt off into the ring, but drove his upper back and hand into the steel cage wall.

But more importantly, drove Poser’s skull in as well.

He bounced off, landing on the outside of the Asylum cage with a thud.

But no one would question the fight Poser gave Cheno that night. The thoughts of Poser as nothing more than a joke have now been changed.

The only thing they question now… are his methods.

Cheno collapsed inside the Asylum cage, before being handed his television championship. The belt rested on his back, as Cheno breathed heavy, a print of his face being left in the canvas as he rolled over onto his back.

He’d been through a lot of fights before…

… but it had been a long time since he had been fought like this.

1, he HAD to talk to Campbell sooner rather than later.

2, he had to approach the Ty Hughes thing from a whole different angle.

What Santos was required to do was to do recon. Keep tabs on The Forever Challenger, who'd finally managed to claim the biggest prize in the land, but without the added incentive of having completely done the job with Steve Christ being the co-holder of the prize. What Santos was doing, however, was blatantly announcing his intentions to take out Ty Hughes, for some odd unknown reason.

Naturally, Vincent Pembridge gave Salvatore a tongue-lashing regarding the situation, and gave Santos various new ways of approachment. So, as Sallie -- wearing a long-sleeved blue shirt that was tucked out, black jeans, and black shoes -- reached his locker-room, he opened the door and threw his backpack down on the floor, swearing to be more involved in the research aspect of the situation. Seeing how he had THREE people on his hitlist.

Ty Hughes, Jada Marie Hunter, and Karen Pembridge. The latter two being for personal reasons, especially Karen.

And speaking of whom.

"Good evening, Sal."

Turning around, Santos felt his heart skip a beat, with Karen Pembridge standing outside his room, hands behind her back and a pleasant smile on her face. Shuffling backwards, Sal tripped over his own bag and fell to the ground, cursing in Spanish as he did so. The British Lassie stiffled her laughter, before stepping into the room and closing the door behind her.

Sonny, in the meanwhile, scrambled to his feet and threw himself at the bench, picking up the towel that was on it. With an idea quickly forming his head, he stood up and turned around, waving the towel angrily at Karen... who continued to smile and folded her arms, faking surprise and shock at the 'audacity' of Salvatore's 'menancing course of action'.

"Stand back, Lassie! This towel was made in Taiwan, and has the power to turn anyone I want into stone! STONE, I SAY! Now, I don't think you want to live the rest of your live as a stone, right? RIGHT?"

The Manchester Girl had about enough of Sallie's humourous antics, but wanted to see what the Brazilian would do if she decided not to stand down. So, Karen cracked her knuckles and took one step towards Sal, whose eyes widened in shock once again. His brilliant plan was failing.

What next?

He threw the towel away and dropped to his knees, clasping his hands together.

"PLEASE! SPARE ME, THE INSOLENT ONE!" Santos begged.

Karen couldn't help herself any longer, and burst out laughing, as Sonny looked on. Bewildered.

His to-be-attacker had a sudden case of the laugh-zies.

Stopping herself, the Manchester Girl motioned for Santos to get back to his feet, and Salvatore -- still a bit afraid -- slowly pulled himself up, telling himself that he had to strike within a blink of an eye should Karen even take a step forward. Karen had finally calmed herself down, and felt that she could, at last, continue.

"So. Did Vincent say anything?"

"Uh... not really, no. He just r-r-reprimanded me for losing and for doing a horrible job on my mission so far."

Karen snorted, and shook her head. She almost expected that her brother wouldn't quite care if his lackey in theAsylum got trounced, but she at least wanted some sort of reaction, to gauge how volatile the situation was. Sallie's answer just proved that to be worrying and sounding the alarm bells would be a bit premature.

There was surely a long way to go before both parties were ready to meet each other, face-to-face, and get the party underway. What a party it would be, too.

"I see. Well, I'd actually... like to... apologise."

Santos dropped his guard, and blinked. This was a bit surreal to him. The kicker of his arse last week, and the newest bully to ruffle the Brazilian's chest hair, was apologising?

Whatever for?

"W-Why?

"For beating you up. At least, for the wrong reason."

Santos Salvotore remained in the state of confusion, and Karen Pembridge realised this, as she bit her lower lip and tucked strands of her hair behind her ears.

"I figure you may not have remembered me other than being Vincent's sister. Early last year, I was under the training of a Thai martial artist with his own personal agenda. We'd flown to Australia, and he managed to convince the management of the Outback Fighter's Guild that a little 'fan interaction' would help the company. So, for one night, the fighters could take on fans who were filling.

I portrayed an eager fan and fought you, but I duly lost. I was massively ashamed at the time, and still am now for what little resistance I put up. So, that's one of the reasons why I went bloody murder on you last week, although I didn't really remember this incident until a few weeks ago.

The mind's subconscious works in mysterious ways, eh?"

Santos blinked again, as he slowly sat himself down on the bench and ran his right hand through his head of hair. Suddenly, it all started coming back to him. Of course, Fan Appreciation Night in the OFG. The fighting group that had been his home for the longest time. And also, the cause of his current situation, in a way.

Shuffling her feet, Karen cleared her throat, and continued to gaze apologetically at Santos, who finally looked up and smiled. Giving the indication that all was okay. Suddenly, he understood why the Lassie went psycho on him, in addition to the hatred she had for her brother.

"Anywho, I'm truly sorry, again. But remember this -- if you do get in my way with orders from Vincent, I will not hestitate to bash your skull in."

Santos shrugged his shoulders.

"Understood."

With that, Karen turned on her heels and helped herself out of the locker-room. She did what she had wanted to with regards to Santos Salvatore, and now, she had a pest by the name of Reginald Harrison-Willis to exterminate. Santos Salvatore stood up and again scratched at his beard, which he had allowed to grow fully over the last week.

He was happy.

Sonny was happy. He could strike one name off the list. Until a later date at least, he thought.

But, as Santos turned around and put his right foot up on the bench, as he aimed to take off his shoes and soak them in some hot water, the door to his locker-room was kicked open again, and another femme fatale rushed inside. The Brazilian didn't have time to turn around and see who it was, because that femme fatale had a lead pipe in her possession.

*CLUNK*

And duly clobbered Santos over the head with it.

With her target finally acquired, Jade grabbed Santos by his limp arms and pulled him out of the locker-room, dragging him down the hallway at an alarming rate.

"... Time for a little interrogation."

Inmate collapsed into the porcelain urinal, he tried to fight back but his attempt was stopped as the bat was jabbed into his kidneys. And then something inside Sebastian snapped as he started slamming the bat down onto Inmate, harder and harder, Inmate’s body slumped to the ground and Thompson began applying harsh boots to his back. Blood began to cover the ground, Sebastian took a step back and watched as Tyler Burton pushed himself up as blood rained down his face.

“Come on Inmate, you want to know who did this, right? Three guesses, no it wasn’t Borst, it wasn’t Campbell, it wasn’t anyone you ran into before. It was me, Tyler.” Sebastian held the wooden bat and swung it at the urinal, with such a force that it exploded on contact, causing water to rain down onto the floor. Sebastian stomped down on Inmate’s back splashing his face in the rising pool of water. He grasped a hand full of Inmate’s hair and yanked him back out of the water as he now sat on the former champion’s back, Thompson placed the bat on Inmate’s throat, and held it hard against his Adam’s apple.

Inmate groaned trying to use his strength to push out, but it felt like his strength was completely sapped, he couldn’t speak, all he could do was moan, and grunt.

“I’m not like the other guys who walk around here Inmate, I don’t care how bad you used to be, because everyone has an expiration date. Everyone has someone they fear running into in a dark alley. Everyone has an acquaintance they won’t fucken cross, because they know the guy if pushed the wrong way, won’t explode, he’ll just rip them a part and leave a little piece of them on each of the seven continents. Why? Just because that motherfucker wanted to travel the world. I’m weird like that Inmate, I’m weirder than anyone knows. I have a plan, a plan that won’t be fucked up.

“I don’t care if you’re Team Campbell or not, if you cross me, if you go after Carnage, to win brownie points with Campbell.. I’ll murk you, in a way people like you would fear, I’ll kill you, so that no one will know. Not even your poor little Nursie Worsie.. Got it?!”

Sebastian lifted the bat from Inmate’s neck and he collapsed into the water, fighting for oxygen, swallowing the water from the urinal by accident. Thompson grasped Inmate by the back of his shirt and lifted him to his feet and slammed his abdomen into the sink, “Oh yeah, one more thing.. The name’s Sebastian Thompson, I can’t tell you, how long I’ve been wanting to meet you. I’m one of your biggest fans.”

Sebastian walked out of the bathroom dusting himself off, he looked down the hallway and nodded, he was headed back on the hunt for Carnage, his body itched for success on the hunt. Joe’s threats weren’t what was eating at him, instead it was his own. What would he do to himself, if he failed?

But the results would be different, as he stood in front of a locker room door. He grabbed the knob, attempting to open the door, but deciding not to. That is, until the door swung open, Ramis walked toward it, and he bumped into him.

The Asylum Television champion.

“Wat da funk be ya doin’ here yo.” Eddie said, adjusting the belt that rested on his shoulders. Ramis caught his reflection in the belt for a few moments, forgetting where he was, before snapping himself back to reality.

“Hi Eddie,” Chester said, rubbing the back of his neck. “I just came here to tell you last week was fun. And hell, we should do it again. You should DEFINITLY call me.” Chester chuckled to himself. Seemed as if he was in a good mood for whatever reason.

Cheno tilted his head to the side, unsure as to why Chester was beaming as if he was in a stage spotlight on Broadway. Whatever the case, Eddie groaned. “Look mang, I ain’t got time fer dis shiznit. I gotsa get goin’, prolly got some big funken match dat I ain’t gonna lose cuz I be a clutch fighter yo.” Cheno held up his television title, raising it off his shoulder, as Ramis’ cheery face turned solemn due to last week’s no contest. “So, unless ya got some big funken publisher’s clearin’ house check, step outta da funken way fer da real funken champion.”

Ramis did as such, allowing Eddie to pass. But he didn’t allow Eddie to go, shouting out, “Hey, you know, that broad Nicole is QUITE tepid.” Cheno stopped in his tracks, but didn’t give Ramis the satisfaction of turning around. “I’m thinkin’ of showing her my “Oh” face.”

There wasn't much color to be found leaking back into his visual field. Mostly hues of gray and brown and nothing else decorated the cement room. Overhead was single light, encased in a green lampshade. It looked like those lamps that swung back and forth over pool tables in pool halls. As he tried to take in his surroundings and get used to being conscious again, Santos tried to move.

His hands wouldn't budge...and neither would the rest of him for that matter. Duct tape, and lots of it. He slowly realized that his hands were bound to the steel chair, as were his ankles. There was nothing he could do but flop around like a helpless flounder, washed ashore. None of this was making any sense. All that Santos knew was that he had one hell of a throbbing headache that he couldn't explain.

Having lost all of his senses for a good ten minutes, Santos would never remember what had happened in that time span...where he was or how he got here. As if sent by heaven(or hell) to answer that question...a voice spoke.

"Finally awake, are you?" it said. The voice was distinctly female.

Santos squinted, trying to clear the little bit of hazy film from over his eyes. A shift to the left, then to the right. Ah...there was all of his answers, rolled up into one dreadlocked package.

Jade.

She half-sat on the edge of a folding card table, arms folded over her stomach. With the look of a drill sargeant ready to chew into a new private, she eyed him. Santos had no idea, but Jade had been waiting for this moment...no, carefully planning this moment, for the past six years - ever since her pseudo-father, William Randolph had almost been killed on a trip to South America.

Without flinching, the woman reached into her pocket and pulled out a crumpled pack of cigarettes. She plucked a bent one between her lips and lit it. Jade always seemed to have the cool confidence of some TV cop. And how appropriate was that now that she was playing the role.

"I would have sent you nice little invitation with an RSVP and everything, but that really isn't my style." Jade continued. "Besides, you probably wouldn't have shown up anyway. This was the only option, just so you know."

The pain in his head felt like enough to make him pass out. Still, Santos maintained his resolve and finally said something, though it wasn't his first choice for making the right impression.

"What the hell is going on here?" was what slipped out.

"A friendly game of detective, Mr. Salvatore. Nothing more, nothing less. You see, this is how it works..." she answered, walking towards the bound man. "I tape your ass to this chair here, ask you questions and you answer them. Not exactly brain surgery...and I'm sure you can deal with that."

"I'm not answering shit until you take this tape off my hands!" he shouted, feeling more pleased with that response than the first.

Jade chuckle heartily. There was something in it that Santos did not like one bit. It was one of those laughs that seemed to come straight from the stereotypical crazy people in the movies. Only, he had a pretty good feeling that this one was completely genuine and certified. Santos could tell that things were going to turn bad very fast.

"What? And risk losing the man whom I need to talk to? Nice try. You're staying right where you are, Santos. You, however, can choose to make this very easy, or very hard."

Taking another drag from her cigarette, she leaned down to eye-level with him.

"So what's it going to be? Easy, or hard?"

Here was mistake number one. Santos drew his head back a touch, and spit right on Jade's cheek. She failed to react and let the translucent glob slide down the deep groove of the scar on the flesh there.

Jade pushed herself back up to full height and took the cigarette from between her lips and held it between her thumb and forefinger. The lit end stuck out in Santos's direction.

"Alright, then. You've made the choice that I was hoping for, Mr. Salvatore."

With that simple statement, Jade marched around behind Santos and grabbed his taped wrist, snapping it upward so that the palm faced the ceiling. Santos gritted his teeth at the sharp pain. That didn't prepare him much for what came next. With a twisted smile that looked more like a sneer than anything, Jade pressed the lit cigarette into his open palm.

Santos screamed out in shock and pain. His hand tried to jerk away, out of instinct, but there was nowhere for it to go. Jade finally brought the cigarette away and flicked it to the ground, sending a tiny spray of ashes out onto the concrete. He began to call out in pain. Jade remedied the situation very fast...with a punch like a brickwall to the face.

"In 1997, you permanently fucked a man over..." Jade stated the following facts much the way the Terminator outlined his many objectives.

Another fierce punch, this time to the other side of the head.

"His name was Bill Randolph. He was my trainer and the best damned pit fighter around, back in his day. No one fucked with him. Stupid assholes all knew better."

This time, she got him on the spot of the previous punch. The bruise was already forming. Santos groaned as his head reeled back. Pain surged up from his seared palm.

"You remember Bill, don't you Santos?" Jade asked flatly.

For a moment, it looked as if Santos was going to answer...eventually he did.

"F...fuck you..." was what he muttered. He was not about to crack so easily. There was more at stake here than he would let on.

Jade worked the sore spot again, this time, busting the bruise wide open. Blood poured from the wound, staining Santos's flesh and clothing. She was more than adept at doling out this kind of punishment and it showed. Being a six-foot, one hundred and eighty-three pound woman had its advantages.

"Don't you?!" she screamed. Another hard left followed. The blood sprayed onto her own skin in tiny droplets.

"Because of you, he can't walk anymore! I had to end up being the one to take care of him when it should have been the other way around. You fucking ruined his LIFE! No. You stole it from him! He can't even get his own revenge...so you know what? I'm forced to get it for him!" she spat with a venom tongue.

She clocked him again. More blood. The world was coated in red for Santos by this point. The pounding of his head and the burning flesh of his palm seemed magnified by at least one hundred times.

Jade couldn't have been happier. In fact, she had always fantasized about this day and so far, it was meeting all of her expectations.

"You will tell me everything that I want to know before this night is over. There is no way you can last much longer without breaking, or dying. I promise to make the later happen should you keep up with this silence bullshit." she promised.

"Besides, your worthless life in exchange for even a shred of satisfaction would be worth it. Even though I know you weren't acting alone when you beat Bill nearly to death, getting rid of you would be enough closure for myself and Bill. Your life, or some answers...and we'll call it even."

From her pocket, Jade produced a small switchblade knife. Santos looked at it with widening eyes and squirmed.

Before this little session was over, Jade ripped the tape from his ankles, cast his shoes aside...and made small cuts between the webbings of his toes with that knife. When that didn't produce anything but more bleeding and blood-curdling screams from Santos, Jade plunged the knife into his thigh. The combined pain of all those elements had made him lose consciousness again. In that time, Jade smoked about six cigarettes and tried desperately to come up with a way to make Santos talk.

And the crowd jumped to their feet, cheering wildly for The British Lassie. For the first time in weeks, she wasn't scheduled to compete, which was almost unheard of. Karen Pembridge, not fight? She who would go around demanding a fight every Sunday night? Something must have been wrong her.

Actually, she was just a little worn out, and had more pressing matters at hand. Karen -- who'd changed to a blue short-sleeved t-shirt, blue jeans, and black shoes -- had been attracting unwanted attention lately, as the antics of one Reginald Harrison-Willis became more loudmouthed and sinister. See, Reggie wanted to get chummy with the Manchester Girl, but Karen wasn't down with that.

SO, Reggie proclaimed Karen was down with the muff.

... Which was actually somewhat true; the Lassie had gone through a period of time in her life where she prefered the muff to the knobber. But hey, who are we to judge, right? Like we wouldn't watch two lesbians rolling around in caramel, licking each other furiously, setting up a grand finale with strap-on dicks? Come on, if you say NO, you're the biggest liar on the face of this planet, and you deserve to get raped by Dr Zoidberg of Futurama fame.

Ahem. Back to the point.

The point was that as Karen Pembridge stepped into the cage, she was boiling mad with rage. Reggie's bitterness and sore loser attitude drove him to spread propaganda about how Karen was a flaming homosexual. Now, the Lassie wouldn't have cared if the fact was indeed true and still valid, but no longer did she engage herself in such activities. And it wasn't as if she had actually done anything to RHW other than turn down the irritating twat.

As she got a microphone from the official on the outside, the crowd continued to cheer for the Manchester Girl, who had quickly amassed some sort of cult following. She'd been rather sensational in her time in theAsylum thus far, on the backs of an impressive stint in the IOW. Sure, a wrestling company. That was actually run by one of Campbell's lackeys for the final part of its existence.

... So, wrestling? Nah, more like unadulterated violence.

"One week away from seVered, and it appears as if I don't have a fight. That pales horribly in comparision to the events just about a month or so ago, as myself & Mercy were continuing to up the stakes, in preparation of our highly-anticipated battle. But, as I stand here inside this cage tonight, there is someone whom I'd like to destroy just as much as I envisioned destroying Mercy.

Guess who?

That's correct, Reginald Harrison-Willis.

The twat's been trying so bloody hard to try to become my friend. Undoubtedly, he simply wants a shot at my cunt, and go around bragging about it. See, Reggie's an attention seeker. If no one pays attention to the sodding prick, he isn't going to be able to survive. He's like a child, who needs constant attention and the love of everyone. He's that insecure, everyone. And lately, due to a rejection, he's been spreading rumours about me.

About me being a dyke."

The crowd was silent now, listening to every word Karen Pembridge had to say. The smarter fans, who had 24/7 access to the Internet and l33t surfing skills, had managed to procure a copy of Karen's professional fighting biography which details her life before fighting. And they knew that the Lassie had actually been a lesbian before.

But, as the Manchester Girl looked down at the shoes and continued pacing, she knew she had nothing to be ashamed about. A certain redhead by the name of Nerva had been a militant lesbian in her time in theAsylum, and she was always respected because of her great her ass looked. And, of course, for her incredible fighting spirit combined with the skills she possessed.

"Now, I'll admit. I was one. Not anymore.

And hence, you people can quite imagine why I'm rather peeved about Reggie continuing to spread assinine rumours about my current orientation. Fact of the matter is, the cunt can't handle getting rejected, and his tiny ego has been crushed. He now feels the need to justify himself, so that when he returns home every night, he can get his knobber off and wank off to pictures of his mother!"

An explosion of cheers rang out, as many envisioned Reggie jumping around angrilly in the back.

Karen continued, "So Reggie, in the spirit of things, I'm officially challenging you to a fight NEXT WEEK at seVered, and we'll get this little matter sorted out!"

Standing to their feet, the fans began chanting for Karen, while at the same time demanding for RHW to come out and answer the challenge. Karen's fighting record at PPVs had been quite remarkable thus far, and the crowd were intent on seeing the Lassie crush the annoying idiot known as Reggie Harrison-Willis at seVered.

But as the seconds passed by, there was no answer. Dissent grew in the crowd, and Karen scowled.

As she raised the microphone up to her lips again, however...

BEEEEEEEEEEEEP!

Uh oh.

BEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEP!

Everybody covered their ears and turned towards the entrance area.

BEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEP!

Unmistakable. Within seconds, "Rep Your City" by E-40 began playing over the speakers, and out Reggie came, with his trademark airhorn, and a rather nasty grin on his face. The jeers immediately rained down on him, as several women in the crowd stood to their feet and began heckling him. Reggie just shook his head, and began to strut down towards the cage.

Stopping halfway, realising that Karen could probably cripple him if the attention-seeking egoist stepped inside the cage.

"Karen, darling! I'm glad you're out here to LIE about you not being a lesbian! Now, I normally don't accept dinner invitations from dykes like you, but if you insist, I'll be happy to fight you at seVered next week! However, I have several conditions to throw at you, because I'm smart like that!"

The British Lassie folded her arms and tapped her right foot against the canvas repeatedly, as if to indicate that she didn't really care and wanted Reggie to continue.

"Right, let's get on with it.

Firstly, no submission moves at all! Secondly, this fight is going to have Extreme Rules, so that it'd favour a muff-muncher like you! Thirdly, you have to become my love slave if you lose! Fourthly, you will have to openly proclaim your lesbianism on The Show after the PPV if you lose! And lastly, did I mention love slave? HELL YEAH!"

The abuse that was hurled at him by the fans summed up the crowd's thoughts on the stipulations, as Karen pondered over them in the cage. After a few seconds of thinking, she'd decided.

Sure, the first condition would put her at a disadvantage. But this was a woman who fought 10 matches in one night in the IOW once. If she could do that, she could do anything, you would think.

"I'm fine with all your conditions," the Lassie started as Reggie squealed in delight, "... but I just have one final thing to say about our arrangement."

The crowd hushed, as Reggie raised his arms in the air, jubilant over how incredibly well he'd handled the situation. He felt as if he deserved a truckload of Olympic Gold Medals for his brilliant negotiation skills, but kept his ears open for what the Manchester Girl was about to say.

"If it's a lesbian you want... then, bloody look behind, cunt."

Reggie was rather confused and turned around, just to humour Karen Pembridge. Imagine his shock and the crowd's delight when... well, when...

A 300 lbs woman wearing a shirt which had 'I R LESBO' imprinted on the front came running out and clothesline the ego out of RHW, as his precious airhorn fell to the ground! Karen chuckled as she tossed the microphone away, admist deafening cheers from the crowd. The fat-ass lesbian now stood over Reggie, and started kicking away at his face, before inexplicably jumping up into the air...

...

AND DROPPING HER ASS ONTO REGGIE'S FACE! OH, THE HORROR!

"HOLY SHIT!"
"HOLY SHIT!"
"HOLY SHIT!"
"HOLY SHIT!"

As the fat lesbian picked herself up and waddled to the back, Karen Pembridge coolly walked towards Reggie, who was writhing around in pain and shame. He'd just been humiliated on national television, but with the Manchester Girl picking up the airhorn and smiling devilishly, there was definitely more to come.

She brought it right next to RHW's left ear...

BEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEP!

And almost caused his eardrums to explode! Again, the fans went ballistic with jubilation, with the Manchester Girl twirling the airhorn in her hands and retreating to her back, the objective having been achieved. Reggie wanted attention, and he'd gotten it, in the most horrifying way possible. Karen, however, had one last parting shot.

"Faggot."

She'd done it. She had set the stage for her vengeance the following week at seVered, albeit with several conditions slicing her chances by half. But as RHW lay there, a shell of his cocky self, he swore his own brand of revenge.

And you could see he was serious by the glint in his eyes.

Joe Campbell.

Inmate jumped to his feet and had Joe not been in the company of the other members of Team Campbell, Inmate would’ve surely ripped Joe a new arse.

“Campbell...!?!”

“Look Burton... hold up mate, I don’t know what’s going on. Seems you and Thompson had a mishap, what the fuck was that about.”

Joe was using anger to fight anger, but was that a good idea? Inmate was still bleeding from the vicious attack from Thompson.

“Don’t fuck me around, you told him I wanted to take out Carnage didn’t you!”

“I may have mentioned it.”

“Mentioned it! Look... Team Campbell or not, this guys getting his ass handed to him. You give me the fight, or I’ll make it happen on my own!”

“Burton, make up your mind, I brought you into this group to be a somebody
again... but you can’t decide who the fuck you want to be! First you want a
piece of Carnage... now you want Thompson. Make up your damned mind and then show me your choice.”

With that Joe turned and motioned to the other members, it was time to leave.

Inmate no doubt wanted badly to grab somebody and break them in half, but he
didn’t.

Not yet anyway.

The reluctant giant, who was accompanied by Michael D’Alessandro, did as he was told and sat there waiting to hear what his employer wanted with him.

“Now it appears that Victor Thanh isn’t here. I wouldn’t expect you to know where he is as you’ve already fucked the whole situation up. Therefore, you’re fired.”

Michael objected immediately and stood up: “Wait a minute. What the fuck did you say?”

“I wouldn’t get too upset Del Piero. I’m sure you’ll find a job in a restaurant or as a Rentboy.”

Willis was about to have his say: “You can’t do this Joe. You fucking cunt. I went to Thailand for you. We did as you said. We watched him and gave you notes. We didn’t do much…”

“You can say that again,” Joe sneered.

D’Alessandro was bursting with frustration and anger in the same instance: “There wasn’t much to do you fucking faggot. He was as exciting as a Miles Blunder match.”

“Excuse me. So why isn’t this notebook full? You’ve got a fucken’ cheek to call anyone faggots.”

The Italian was keen to cut to the chase: “You’ve just fired John for no fucking reason and we want to know why.”

John wanted to put his point across without the influence of his annoyed acquaintance: “We went over there for a week. You told us to get our asses back here for the next Show. So we did. He’s still over there. What do you expect us to do? You told us to come back and leave him alone. We did. Is that enough to fucking fire me over? I don’t fucking think so.”

Campbell reassessed the situation and came up with another bombshell: “Maybe not. So this is what we’ll do. John, you’ve already won one important match and I want to see if you can do it again. Except let’s make it a little bit more interesting. The first fucken’ fight arranged for Severed. Victor Thanh against John C. Willis and if you lose…

“Keegan leaves.”

Nothing needed to be said and it wasn’t. This time the stakes were even higher as Victor couldn’t be evicted even though Willis’ job itself wasn’t on the line.

The Height of Humanity would not be happy about this.

Would he?

Sebastian Thompson Vs Keegan Carrahar

“Jerk-Off” by Tool hit the PA system, and John jr. shouted out loudly using language that would make Popeye blush, “Fuck you Sebastian,” the young lad yelled, his voice merging with those of many voices replying in the same way. John jr.’s face grew red, but he noticed something was wrong..

No Thompson, and his song concluded. The entire arena buzzed and began to boo even louder. Jr. turned around and patted his father on the shoulder, “Dad, they can’t just not come out can they? They’ve got to fight, don’t they?”

“Huh.. Wha.. Ah.. Yeah, Johnny, the other guys going to come out first, and then he’s going to jump from the crowd, they do that all the time in wrestling.” John jr. turned slowly away from his drunken father as he looked towards the metal cage right across from him, as he looked at it’s harsh frame, he could just feel that it wasn’t fake, it wasn’t wrestling, he didn’t want to tell his father that now, if he couldn’t tell it wasn’t wrestling now, he’d never be able to.

“Jerk-Off” played yet again, and once again the crowd rose to boo, and then it stopped without Sebastian coming out. The jeers rose to an all time high, for the Pittsburgh, PA native and he wasn’t around to appreciate it. “Come on you fucker! Come on!” Johnny began to grow impatient as he shook the railing that rested in front of his seat, continuing his yells, not having the slightest idea of the fact that Thompson went back on his hunt for Carnage. Only two people in attendance knew, them being Campbell and Inmate, and Campbell only knew because of this no showing.

“Woke up this Morning” blared over the PA system, and everyone jumped to their feet cheering on Keegan, a definite fan-favorite, and a saint in their eyes, a saint only in the world of the Asylum. But then suddenly the crowd along with Jonathon noticed that perhaps he wasn’t coming. The music cut halfway through, and then it started up loudly once again, and John jr. cheered loudly. “YAY! KEEGAN~!” And this time the music didn’t stop until it concluded, and John jr. sighed in anger. He kicked his chair collapsing it and it fell to the ground. Young Johnny Mitchell finally garnered an opinion on the Asylum, in his mind right now the only real the fighting promotion was, was a real rip off. He turned grasping the railing with his fist, and as awkwardly as possible he climbed over the railing and only a few saw him.

The 12 year boy grabbed onto the steel cage and started pulling himself up using all his strength and then he stood in the ring triumphantly. The referee who was assigned to the match, threw his hands up as he looked to the announce table, they motioned for him to leave but as he did, John jr. charged from behind and booted the ref right in the jewels and the crowd exploded in approval. He slammed the ref’s head into the rim, and the people didn’t know if it was planned or not, and they cheered the kid on. And then three large security guards charged the ring and surrounded Johnny, who slowly got up and looked at the guys, “It’s fixed!” he screamed putting his hands up celebrating, all three men then charged and gave him a beating he would never forget. Sad part?

The crowd cheered even louder. Oh yeah, and John Sr. was too drunk to notice any of this. That’s the Asylum, what else can you expect? Even those who believe it’s fake, blend right in with the rest of the animal that’s the fan base.

Jade was reaching her breaking point. She was throwing every sadistic trick she had at Santos Salvatore, but the Brazilian was unrelenting. His threshold for pain was surprisingly high. You wouldn't think so after his previous fights in theAsylum thus far, but one must realise, this man has had a history for being one of the toughest fighters to beat.

He's been all over the world, breaking bones when at his peak, still managing to inflict some damage when in the dumps. Santos 'Sonny' Salvatore, at one time, was hailed a hero in Spain, for the way he fought in the country's burgeoning underground fighting scene. Alas, a man that was now his employer had ended that good run, and Santos had been in a downward spiral ever since.

"S-Screw you."

Jada Marie Hunter's patience and tolerance had just about run out, however. She looked around and picked up the lead pipe she had brandished earlier, before running at the bound-and-gagged Santos Salvatore, her eyes burning with anger and malevolent intentions.

Santos' own eyes widened in disbeliving horror at the sight of the madwoman and the lead pipe. He knew that she meant to hit him, no, knew that she meant to knock his head clear off of his shoulders with a swing worthy of the major leagues. His quickening heartbeat, clenched teeth a squinting eyes were the only things at this point that could count for some kind of defense. The last thing he saw was Jade, rushing towards him.

She took that swing...but with a precise control that Santos no doubt did not believe she had, she stopped the pipe. The cold steel was pressed into his cheek, hard and prodding. He practically yelped and jumped back in his chair with surprise.

"I'll give you a choice, Salvatore. You see, I'm a fair woman, despite some things you might have heard on the subject."

Jade leaned in close, her lips mere inches away from Santos's right ear. As she spoke, she not-so-gently dug the end of the pipe further into his cheek.

"I can either shatter every bone in your face, right where you sit. The shock alone should be enough to kill you." She said, quite matter-of-factly. "Or, in keeping with Asylum tradition, I can bend you over my knee and shove this pipe right up your ass. Trust me, I wouldn't mind one bit."

Apparently, Santos believed her and he began to squirm. Hell, he practically jumped out of the chair when she pretended to go to flip him over. Of course, the bands of duct tape around his wrists prevented any sort of escape. Instead, words came out in a flash...mere reflexes at the prospect of that cold steel burrowing in a place where it just did not belong.

"A-Alright! I'll talk!"

For a moment, Jade wasn't sure if she was hallucinating, or hearing actual words. But, as she stood there, letting his sudden speech register, she realized that he had, in fact, finally cracked. Who knew that all it would take was one little threat like that. It all seemed too good to be true. The past six years were filled with relentless manhunts, sleepless nights and way too much booze...most of it all a direct result of the man sitting in front of her.

Santos Salvatore had done something so wretched and so despicable to the man whom Jada Hunter had considered a father. The only problem with that, aside from the obvious, was that she knew who had done it...but not what it exactly was. Bill Randolph sure wasn't going to be talking about it any time soon. This, right here, was the culminating point of years spent obsessing over the man, and the incident.
Jade stepped back, still clutching the pipe in her hands. She made a circle with her palms touching her fingers...and thrusted the pipe through the opening. A friendly reminder. Santos finally began...and took the opportunity to begin working with the loosening tape around his hands...

"Colombia, many years ago. Late 1990s, I can't quite remember. Your friend Bill was involved in a shady deal with some druglord. Alvarez Brande was his name; he's probably dead now. Bill hired me as muscle, but I was actually a spy for Alvarez, who wanted your pal dead because of how... blackmail-ish he was.

I didn't kill Bill, I just hurt him very badly, and the drugs in question went to another buyer for double the price. That's all Alvarez wanted, to sell his merchandise at the highest price possible and as quickly as possible. Bill was cocky, he knew why Alvarez wished to offload so quickly, and resorted to blackmail to try and get them for a cheap price."

And the truth came out. Jade looked stone-faced at Santos. Unbenounced to her, his left wrist was free. The pipe relenquished to just one hand now, Jade turned her back to her new sworn enemy. Like anyone dealing with a giant helping of the truth on her plate, Jade began to pace, her mind racing through a million different lanes concurrently. Santos smiled...

With the complete use of his left hand regained, it was easy to free the right hand. Just to make sure that his impending escape was not botched, he kept both hands back, as if they were still securely bound.

"I always wondered what I'd do with the fucking cunt who double-crossed Bill...thought about it for the past six years..." she said, back still turned.
Another little smile, and Santos just listened.

"To be honest with you...there are just too many things that I can think of right now. But, whatever I settle on as the perfect means of payback, my friend...I can promise you, its going to hurt."

When she was just about to turn around, Jade was blind-sided by a hard right that nailed her right on the ear. The dim overhead light seemed to blaze bright white, and all she could hear was a piercing ringing noise. Santos wasted no time, and grabbed the dazed Jade by the back of the neck and planted her face into the folding table behind her.

Rather than risk his chance to get the hell out of that room, Santos stopped and went for it. Jade was now getting back up and noticed his figure running for the door. She would have ran after him, but the room was spinning around on a wobbly axis.

"I'll fucking kill you! Do you hear me Salvatore! You're a fucking dead man! I found you once already! You can't hide!" she screamed.

He heard the threats as he tore off down the hallway. It would not be the last time he would hear that voice, that was for sure. At least his asshole was saved.

"Well, Joe," Lucas reeled back, "I'm here for the flower arranging class, could you give me directions?"

Lucas smirked back at Joe, knowing he got under his skin. Campbell's eyes were full of contempt... He may not have seen eye-to-eye with Borst, or Villam, but at least they fought like men, fought with their hearts... And not padding.

"Just as well," replied Joe, continuing their verbal joust, "Because you ain't fighting here tonight, or any other night."

That was how Joe would solve the problem, albeit a little over simplistically. Lucas can't fight a tainted match if he has nobody to fight. But immediately, Lucas started to chuckle, making Joe turn red and growl.

"And there I was thinking you were a businessman," Lucas remarked, taking a long look at his surroundings, "Or do you put THIS place over a commercial goldmine?"

Joe didn't answer, and instead looked with a mixture of anger and bemusement at the hated fighter.

"The fuck are you babbling about now?"

With confidence oozing off of him, Lucas held his arms out to his side. "The fans hate me," he proudly boasted, "They WANT to see someone rip my "attire" off and kick the crap out me... Fuck, they probably want me DEAD!"

"For once," Joe sneered back, "I agree with those twats."

"But more importantly, Mr. Campbell," Lucas went on, making sure to sound detrimental when saying his boss' name, "They'll pay money to see it, buy a ticket to see it, tune in to see if it happens... While I'll keep picking up my winner's fight purse."

Now THAT got Joe's attention.

"You may be a complete and utter wanker," Joe revealed, "But you're a complete and utter wanker I can make money from..."

For once, they were in agreement. Lucas took pleasure in riling, in antagonising the Asylum fans... And the more they hated him, the more they’d watch to see him beaten... And the more Joe's bank account would swell.

"So, I'll take up your 'offer' of not working tonight," Lucas suggested, "And save myself for PPV... Throw me someone then, and watch me get those Neanderthals baying for my blood... Spending the greens to see the red."

Joe seemed impressed, nodding in agreement at the bizarre business plan.

"If I'd have thought making money, and you being beaten to a bloody pulp could go hand in hand," Joe went on to say, "I'd be a richer man, and you'd be dead."

"I'll take that as a yes?"

They shook hands, Joe making sure to wipe his palm well afterwards.

"Here's to your bank balance."

"Here's to you being beaten shitless."

For the Asylum, though, this wasn't as bizarre as it sounded.

She'd finally be able to tear RHW apart the way she wanted to. True, she could have simply destroyed the egotistical maniac out there earlier, in his vulnerable position. But no, the Manchester Girl wanted to get Reginald inside the cage, one-on-one, and settle it like true gladiators. However, with their battle now set to be contested under Extreme Rules with the use of ANY submission holds prohibited, some might say that Reggie had a chance of actually winning.

The odds seemed stacked against Karen.

She stood up and picked up her duffel bag, all ready to retire back to the hotel for some rest. But, as she started towards the door, Karen saw the door being kicked open... as two Mexican-looking men who were holding each other's hands and thrusted their respective pelvis out lewdly slowly walked into the room.

Scowls on their faces.

"Eduardo, dear. Reggie said this is the lesbian who said that all gay men should be castrated, right?" the tall guy asked of the small guy in the coyest way possible. Shorty replied, and continued to glare at Karen, who was mighty confused.

She placed her bag down on the floor and was about to open her mouth, before the appearance of two equally gay-looking men propped up behind the first two, and they look rather incensed as well.

And then, it hit her.

Reggie was fighting fire with fire. Karen had called him a... faggot.

So, Reggie was giving her a faggot. Four faggots.

"Bloody hell," Karen mumbled, as she kicked her bag away, just as the four men charged into the room, hellbent on getting revenge on the woman who'd dissed their sexual orientation.

Of course, that wasn't really the case. It was all the trickery of one Reggie Harrison-Willis, who'd somehow found these four men outside the arena and delved into his bag of propaganda, to smear Karen's name further. He'd been massively humiliated on the night, and there was no way the Manchester Girl was going to walk away scot-free.

Reggie chuckled as he walked past the locker-room, as the Faggots 4 pinned Karen down to the ground and began to viciously attack her, ramming their feet into her upper-body. The Lassie managed to catch a glimpse of RHW standing in the doorway, applauding the action, and that spurred her on like never before. Within seconds, two of the four men were down on the ground, cupping their crotches. The other two were now getting their asses whooped badly. RHW panicked, especially since Karen sent one of the two men flying into the other one, ending her remarkable comeback. All the four faggots lay on the ground, coughing and groaning in pain. And now, the Lassie had her eyes set on Reggie.

She ran at him.

He shrieked, and slammed the door of the locker-room shut.

...

Karen never got a chance to get her hands on him, and Reggie breathed a sigh of relief, as he fumbled with the door knob, using the skeleton key he'd managed to steal from the janitor a while ago to lock the room door. But, as he smiled once again, something deep inside him told him to duck.

So, he did. And just in time.

*CRASH*

Karen Pembridge's fist had flown through the door, and would have connected with RHW's face had the latter not hit the deck. However, as Reginald looked up, he was pleased to see her outstretched fist disappear into the room, before her screams became very audible.

Faggots 4 had regrouped.

And Reggie Harrison-Willis got up, dusted himself off, and walked away... having achieved HIS goal for the night. He didn't really care what happened to the Manchester Girl.

The orders he'd given were crisp and straightforward.

"Annihilate her."

Token Weed Vs Ty Hughes©
(Hughes half of the Asylum Title)

SCREAM...

"Halo" by Soil blared forth as Token Weed emerged from behind the curtain. He pulled his shirt off and launched it to the crowd. His scared body glared off of the lights. Token Weed made Sabu look like nothing but a two bit pussy bitch. Token stepped into the cage and glared deep into Hughes' eyes.

These two men had met time after time. Neither of them coming out a sure victor. Hughes hated and despised Weed for helping Brian Fenn-Grail kidnap his sister. Weed was always the gun man, always the one who scared Hughes. He knew Weed wasn't afraid to pull the fucking trigger.

Now?

There was no trigger to be pulled, but Hughes knew the Pump kick could be cocked back and released just as fast as a bullet could fly from a chamber. Hughes knew any moment in the fight Weed was a dangerous man. He knew he'd need to get the advantage early and fight his ass off to keep his title. Weed was like a viper sliding through the jungle. His strike was quick and deadly, and he knew this.

The bell rung as the two paced in the middle of the Asylum. Circling each other, Weed went for a quick strike jabbing his right arm forward. Hughes dodged firing a right hand of his own that connected with Weed. Weed looked up the grin still plastered across his face. He didn't show any signs of the jaw shot hurting.

Weed struck forward throwing a right jab out once again, Hughes ducked under it again and went for a right hand. Token dropped to his knees and took Hughes' feet out from under him putting Hughes on the canvas of the Asylum. Token wasn't going to let Hughes get to his feet if he could. Weed instantly mounted Hughes and hooked his legs from the outside.

The fists came pouring down into Hughes' face. Right hand, left hand, there was no technique to this. Beat the fuck out of your opponent until he couldn't breathe was basically Token Weed's strategy. Right now? It sure as fuck looked to be working. Finally Weed began to tire a bit as he lay off Hughes for a moment to take a breather. Hughes took this opportunity to strike, grabbing Weed by the back of the head and Hughes sat up connecting with a huge head but that knocked Token. The spray of blood that followed could almost describe the ferociousness of the hit. The sound of impact proved to be a better scale.

Hughes brought himself to his feet as Weed lay on the ground holding his face. Hughes brought his foot up and crushed Token's clasped hands into his nose. Token let out a yelp as Hughes looked down, a smile spread across his face. The corner of his lip was bleeding, as was his nose. But that wasn't enough to ruin this moment.

"Come on ya pussy! You wanted to play with guns back in March, now you don't wanna fight?" Hughes screamed at Weed as he drove another hard boot into Weed's chest. Weed let out another yelp, as Hughes glared down. Hughes cocked his boot back and went for another sharp stomp but this time Weed responded. A punch to the balls shocked Hughes as he stumbled backwards and lay against the cage wall.

Weed slowly got to his feet, his face covered in blood, which ran down across his chest. Weed wobbled a bit before regaining his composure. By this time Hughes was up on his feet as the two glared across the cage. Hughes charged forward a bit unexpectedly as he tackled Weed against the cage wall. Token screamed in pain as he drove right hands onto Hughes' back.

Hughes returned the pain, jabbing his shoulder into Token's ribs over and over again. Token finally stopped fighting as Hughes took a step back and planted a stepping back kick into Token's ribs. The smack that echoed from the shot could be heard in the cheap seats. Hughes took a step back once more and went running forward. He was going to try to exit Weed from the Asylum with Weed's own finisher. Token quickly ducked under it as Hughes went flying crotch first into the Asylum. Weed responded after the duck with a lightning fast hook kick that caught Hughes in the side of the head. Hughes was knocked side ways and back into the cage.

1...!

2...!

Token wiped the blood away from his nose

3...!

4...!

Hughes slowly pulled himself up to his feet, a fresh cut had appeared across the side of his face. Hughes wiped some blood from under his nose as Weed charged forward unexpectedly. That's when Steve Christ decided to throw a towel from over his head and storm the cage with a chair in his hand. Instantly he waxed Weed across the back sending him flying into the mesh of the cage.

Hughes looked up and was about to say something to Christ, but the words never came from his mouth as a solid chair shot shut Hughes right up. Christ climbed to the rim of the cage and held the chair high into the air, as cheers echoed through out the arena.

Then the boo birds came out as Token Weed tripped Steve off of the rim of the cage sending him crashing to the outside. Token hopped over the cage and began to pummel Christ, as Hughes followed a moment or so later.

Finally Hughes got a grip on the chair and clocked both individuals over the noggin with it. Hughes stood glaring and walking backwards up the ramp as the show came to an end.