As he remained in the realm of victory, Joe failed to understand that the world around him and the people in it would continue to move forth... perhaps not as captured by the mood as he was.

"Ladies and Gentlemen." He began, as the attending fans cheered the first action of the night as the video wall flickered into action. "I'm Mike Westwood and tonight I bring you a very special interview with Asylum owner; Joe Campbell... I'm hoping to capture some words from Joe regarding his amazing victory at Persecution... and hopefully a run down of what we will see on tonight's Show... something we haven't had...

in erm... well.

Ever." Westwood said, rubbing his chin for a moment before twisting the handle on Joe's office door and pacing in.

"WEEEEEEEEEE.. ARE THE CHAMPIONS... MY FRIEND!"

Westwood stepped aside as a crushed can of Carlsberg flew beyond him and into the corridor, as he stepped back into the doorway and moved into Joe's office, he found himself caught up in the party atmosphere.

Dez Aragon sat at Joe's desk with a mountain of beverages surrounding him, as Joe danced jovially with two anonymous females across the room.

He turned to Westwood as he entered the room, and threw his arm around his neck.

"Alright pal, what can I do for you?" Joee remarked, swigging from another now empty can of Carlsberg, before crushing it into his forehead and tossing it across the room.

"Well erm... Joe... I was wondering if I could ask you a few questions." Westwood said nervously, shifting away from Joe.

"Shoot." Joe said with a smile, stumbling across the room and picking up another canned beverage as he went.

"First of all Joe, I and the fans out there would like to know... how does it feel now that Chris Universal has gone?"

Joe opened the can, and poured the contents over Westwood's head.

"It feels fucking great squire, but you know what they say... good things come to those who wait, and I didn't fucking steal that from a beer ad either, I just know that it's true... cunty boy is gone, that's all that matters." Joe exclaimed, grabbing one of the women by the head and pulling her into a kiss.

"Right... but is it indeed, all that matters Joe? Tonight we have a Show going on... care to elaborate as to what we'll be seeing in the main event?"

"Nope." Joe replied.

"Nope?" Westwood asked. "What do you mean nope... you mean there is no main event?"

"Don't ask me mate... I don't really care, tonight is the night of victory... there will be no fighting, well... not unless people want to fight, I'll be damned if I book any fights tonight... err... unless people want to fight, yeah... so whatever Chris."

Westwood loosened his collar.

"That's Mike."

"Yeah... whatever Mike, fancy a beer mate?"

Westwood was amazed, he put the microphone to his lips.

"You mean to say... you aren't angry that I came in without knocking... you aren't angry at how many questions I asked... and you aren't angry at my rubbish hair cut?" Mike pondered, scratching his head.

"Nope." Joe replied, the grin on his face still a mile wide.

"And you aren't doing to get Dez over there to break my fingers?" Mike enquired, peering over at Aragon, who was busy cracking open another beer.

"Nope." Joe replied again.

Westwood smiled insanely.

"FUCK YEAH I'LL TAKE A BEER!"

Campbell tossed Westwood a beer... and the strangest Show in history began.

Little did Joe know... an original individual would soon arrive, who would more than dampen his spirits.

The door swung open, and Von DeThatt found himself rapping his knuckles against thin air. Air, above the head of Oddball.

“And what the fuck do you want?” the ginger manager asked, having to look up… and up, to make eye contact with the massive monster of a man.

“I want to talk to Brian, I have a message from Joe.”

The door opened further, and The Freak stepped out of the shadows, his fists ready taped and his trenchcoat hanging from his shoulders.

“What is it, and why do you have to bring it to me? Couldn’t he say it to my face, or does this information concern me?”

“It concerns you and I, both. He wants us to take out the Legion of Dairy, to take their tag titles… he says that they’re an embarrassment to the division…”

“Right.”

“Right what?”

The Freak took Alexander by the hand, and yanked him into the locker room. Oddball darted out of the area and The Freak slammed the door behind him, twisting the key in the lock and breaking it off.

“I’ll do it myself, thanks…” The Freak said, as DeThatt pounded from the other side of the door.

"So why is he here again?"

egg NOG smiled. "Say it with me now: per-son-al se-cur-it-y. We're, like, the rulers of tag team fighting. We's gots ta have us a bodyguard and shiz-nat. People be wantin' our power and stuff, yo."

cHEESE nodded, stroking his beard, "ok, so why him?"

"Why not?" egg NOG replied with a shrug. "He just... fits."

cHEESE stood there for a moment before saying, "It's because you couldn't get anyone else to take the job, isn't it?"

egg NOG hung his head in shame, scratching the side of his head as innocently as possible.

"Yeah." he mumbled, hoping cHEESE wouldn't hear.

cHEESE sighed. "It's nice to have him back in the posse, I suppose. You think he'll do something this time?"

"He should." egg NOG said with a nervous chuckle, "you know, unless I forget he exists again."

"You mean like YoGuRt?" cHEESE replied with a smirk.

"Who?" egg NOG asked, a look of confusion etched on his face.

cHEESE waived his hand toward NOG as he rubbed the bridge of his nose with his other hand in frustration. "Nevermind."

NOG was quick to change the subject. "Well think about it this way, he's already done something. You know, at Persecution. He beat up all those guys, remember?"

"Yes I remember, I was there. Try not to be so stupid all the time."

"Dually Noted" egg NOG said, adding two thumbs up to boot. "So whatcha wanna do now?"

"Got me," cHESE said, looking around the locker room. "Any ideas?"

"We could let him go beat someone up." NOG replied, pointing to the large man standing between them.

The man looked at the two of them and smirked.

cHEESE stood looking at the giant of a man and inquired, "hey, I've always wondered, why doesn't he talk?"

"Who?" egg NOG responded.

"MIDOL."

egg NOG repeated, "who?"

cHEESE groaned, pointing to the large man between them. "Your freaking bodyguard."

"Oh, right," egg NOG said with a devilish grin, "that's my job. He just beats people up."

"Right." cHEESE said with a nod. "Shall we go now?"

egg NOG smiled. "We shall."

And just like that, this little ditty of incredible unimportance was done and the Show. Moved. On.

Obviously, in an environment like that, there had to be casualties and Keegan Carrahar was one of them. After pondering which option to take in order to effectively end Jeff Garvin’s career, it was he, not The Original, who took the plunge from one tier to another and in the process took a potentially fatal fall.

Since then, Special K had been a permanent fixture in hospital due to Doctors being very concerned (or so they say) about his condition and at present he has been ruled out of action for at least a month.

Nevertheless, on the back of such a tremendous triumph, the Englishman believed that he owed it to everyone, most of all the supporters, to at least make an appearance even though he was damned to being a mere spectator, a capacity that he has never been able to enjoy.

As he passed through a corridor, he saw a familiar face from a distance and his face lit up as he saw Tapestry move towards him and give the walking wounded a kiss on the cheek: “Hello. How have you been? I hope it is not too serious?”

A smiling Carrahar, which had been somewhat of a rarity while getting treated this week, was about to answer but his acquaintance Warwick Hunt had to interrupt: “It is serious. He shouldn’t even be here. The Doctor has told him not to fight for a week.”

The Geordie groaned: “Hey. If I was cooked up in the house for a month all I’d do is toss and then I’d be in hospital for an even more painful reason so I need to get out. He didn’t say there was anything wrong with that did he? Plus this bonny lass right here has cheered me right up.”

She smiled and patted him but that was the wrong thing to do as it was followed by a squeal that could shatter windows: “I am sorry,” she said not meaning to put him under more distress while Warwick only saw it as evidence to what he had said earlier: “See. You can’t even take that from a woman. Not to be sexist or anything. So what would happen if a Fighter hit you in the back with a weapon?”

“Fuck off will you. Honestly, you put Peggy Mitchell and Pauline Fowler to shame. Fuck’s sake. I’m fine. I admit that my back, neck and shoulder are in places that they shouldn’t be and it still could have been worse but the last thing I need is a fucking excruciating ear to go with it!”

He then turned to Tapestry: “No need to be sorry. I would just like to thank you for getting me out of there. In fact, I would cuddle you, not that I’d need an excuse anyway, but I cannot even do that which shows how bad I am. But I’m very grateful to you for not leaving me behind. You’re a lady.”

The Venice Beach Vixen seemed to be rather flushed and flattered by this, something uncharacteristic of her, but she soon snapped out of it anyway: “Do not forget your half brother. He helped you as well.”

“Go on. Get out of here,” he stated in an assertive manner.

Unfortunately, she took it to heart and started to walk away when he cleared the minor misunderstanding up: “Tapestry, I was only kidding. I’ll see you soon?”

She nodded.

“Good lass. Take care of yourself now.”

He spotted an official, who haven’t had the best of luck lately, and called him over: “Alright mate. Can you tell me where my dressing room is?”

“Sure. What’s your name?”

“Keegan.”

“Okay. Give me a minute.”

He disappeared, albeit momentarily, to find out more information concerning Carrahar’s billet for this evening: “Fuck, you’d think they’d have this all sorted out by now wouldn’t you? You know it’s not like we’ve just turned up at the last minute is it? HELLO! We’ve got nowhere else to go so we thought we’d just take over here for a few brews and a good laugh. They’ve got weeks to do this and they still can’t be arsed to treat us properly. I bet you Joseph doesn’t have this fucking problem though.”

Warwick didn’t reply to his accomplice’s rant and on that note the backstage worker returned: “Sir, are you sure?”

Carrahar chuckled: “Hang on.”

He unveiled his driving licence: “Oh yes. It says here see. My name is Keegan. What kind of a fucking question is that?”

“Well someone’s already in your lounge.”

Hunt stepped in: “Now are you sure? Look don’t listen to my client he’s just trying to be funny. Someone has already checked in?”

The Englishman mumbled to himself: “No don’t talk to me. I’m just the one who breaks bones and comes up with countless catchphrases in order to make the fans laugh at how lame they are.”

“Sir, I have just spoken to someone and he assures he spoke to someone under the name of Keegan Carrahar.”

“Ha. It’s a fucking joke this like. Christ, I’ve never met another Keegan Carrahar yet we’ve now got two in the same promotion! Jesus, you’ve got to hand it to Campbell.”

Just as the official was about to leave, feeling his job was done and that he couldn’t help The Prince of Palermo anymore, he was promptly prevented from taking the easy option: “Hey. Where the fuck do you think you’re going you monkey-faced little twat? We haven’t got this sorted yet and I’m still standing like Elton John. So the least you can do is get your bum chum to take ME, Keegan Carrahar, to where I’m meant to be and I’ll sort out what you’re supposed to be paid for. Honestly, you’re useless bastards. Are you from Sunderland by any chance?”

“One moment…”

“No, no, no. Not one moment. NOW! Howay… you sad Mackem bastard. I could have been in my room now having. You’ve kept me waiting long enough.”

Therefore, he consulted his colleague and the pair of them accompanied the big-mouthed Newcastle native and his acquaintance Warwick Hunt to get to the bottom of this petty problem…

“Faget” by Korn, and The Freak wandered out onto the entranceway to a chorus of cheers. The fans hopped onto their feet and applauded him as he raised a single arm into the air, his head still stitched and plastered from the epic battle he suffered the night prior. The back of his blood-red hair was partially removed to make way for his stitches, whilst his left arm was totally wrapped in filthy bandages from his various encounters with glass. Love him or hate him, nobody could deny his heart in the battle last night.

They also couldn’t deny his ruthlessness.

His trenchcoat fluttered behind him as he and Oddball, by his side as usual, began to walk slowly down the ramp. Upon reaching the cage, he rolled over the rim and stood dead centre, eying his fan reaction blankly as if they weren’t really there. Oddball nodded slowly, as he was handed a microphone… which he, in turn, passed to The Freak. The sound of Korn faded out just as the “Faget” chants hit up…

“It seems that I have quite a following of fabulous Asylum drones. Rednecks, hillbillies and uneducated heathen are we, eh.”

The fans roared, and cheered him… as they were too drunk to actually realize that he insulted them.

“Well, my untutored friends, the events of last night were only the beginning of my onslaught that begins as of now. This Asylum shall become my feasting ground, a place where I feed from the annihilation I cause in order to satisfy my appetite for violence. I’m here to cause suffering, and I’m here to cause pain. I don’t care whether you abhor Joe Campbell or not, he’s my supervisor and I shall do my job. If you don’t like what I do, then fuck you. If you do, then I don’t care.

“It won’t make a difference anyway. I’m not going to back down from any challenge and I will do anything, any crime or atrocity in the name of this place. Last night, I’d have killed Stranglehold…”

The fans cheered, and The Freak paused for reaction prior to his continuance…

“I would have burnt them all. I’d have bathed them in fire one by one and watched them die. Why? How can I do this? I’ll let you in on a little furtive, shall I?

“I disassociate. I’m not a member of the human race, I’m above it. They’re just animals. You kill cows for food, you kill foxes for pleasure. Well, that’s no dissimilar to me, torturing human beings… in fact, I’d say that my method is more civilized. Which brings me, successfully, to tonight’s task. A task, you may ask? Indeed. A task from the desk of Joe Campbell.

“The Legion of Dairy.”

The fans erupted in cheers at the mention of the tag-team ‘legends’ name. Oddball sneered at the fans whilst The Freak remained almost totally blank. His raised the microphone to his mouth again, and sighed.

“Yes, of course. Cheer them.”

The fans obliged, and continued to cheer for the LoD… and they weren’t even here yet. The Freak clapped the crowd sarcastically, and whilst a few of those in attendance laughed there was still several boos from the arena’s upper tiers. Oddball sat on the rim of the cage and threw a middle finger salute to a group of fans in “SNAP~!” T-shirts in the front row, causing them to boo… then he shut them up with a wave of his hand. The Freak started again.

“Thank you for that interval, people. It was very inspiring and I’m sure the Legion of Dairy are bawling with joy backstage from that implausible reaction. Really.” The Freak said, nodding his head sardonically with each word. “Anyhow. cHEESE. egg NOG….

“God, I feel so much stupider just for saying your names. You are the holders of the Team Titles. The Champions of the Asylum should represent honour, credibility, dignity and class. All qualities that I possess and you don’t, thus… I believe that now would be a PERFECT time for me to take matters into my own hands and relieve you of your championship duties. If you have one testicle between you then I ask of you… not only to bring your titles to the fight, but everything that you’ve got. And let’s see if you can put this wounded animal out of it’s misery.”

SELLOUT by Biohazard.

The stadium shook, the foundations rocked and the cage vibrated as the Legion of Dairy, with their tag straps tightened firmly around their waist and a microphone in their respective hands, strolled out of the curtains. The fans started up a small “ELL OH DEE!” chant as cHEESE and egg NOG nodded and smiled. Well, sort of… they looked more confused than anything else.

“Uh… you have class? Sorry, last I checked and that was, let me see… one second ago, you were covered in stitches, wearing some totally filthy, infected brown rag on your arm and had dyed-red hair. And what is up with that face-paint, man!? You look like you dribbled whilst eating a strawberry slushy. Is that why you called us out here, so we can clean up for you?” cHEESE said, as the fans burst out with laughter. Oddball darted about the cage, hissing and shouting at the fans, whilst The Freak simply kept his red, glazed over eyes locked on the pair.

“Do you talk or anything, or just stand there looking all tripped out and scary? I mean, dude… you look like you’ve just got back from the stoner room, circa 1965. In fact, I’ll hazard a guess and say that you were AROUND in 1965, you old fart.” egg NOG added to his partner’s comments, also to much hilarity from the fans.

“You comment on my dress sense and my age, yet you don’t realize that these jeering remarks are compliments to me. Why compare me to the other humans around me when, in fact, I am a totally different species of animal? Do you compare say… cats to dogs? Tigers to lizards? Or even…” The Freak pointed to himself… “Fighters to…” The Freak pointed at the LoD… “WRESTLERS?”

The fans didn’t quite know whether to boo or cheer at that, but there was a loud reaction of mixed jeers and support nonetheless. egg NOG blinked once.

And twice.

“And who cares whether we’re wrestlers or fighters? We are the ULTIMATE, UNDISPUTED and INVINCIBLE Tag Team Champions of the Asylum. We’re fucking TAG LEGENDS, we’re the apex of this division. We’re the absolute Gods of Tag Team wrestling, the top-dogs of tandem action, the Princes of Pairs!” NOG continued… only to be cut off.

“Okay, shut the fuck up. NOW. The Freak here, does not have the TIME to listen to your shameless self-promotion. So how about you take those fucking shitty titles there, that are practically meaningless having been won by a fucking Mexican-English asshole jobber and his poor-buzz-cut-sporting chum, and put them on the line. You’re a pair of worthless comedy central poster-boys with not an iota of talent to either of your names in any field. Now get in here and fight.” Oddball hissed down the microphone at the pair, his ginger hair hanging in his eyes.

“Wow, look. I’m hurt. I’m crying. Those insults hurt me to the bone.” cHEESE said, as he rolled his eyes. The fans cheered. “egg NOG, my faithful companion. Let’s show these miscreants the…”

Oddball cut them off.

Again.

“Um, didn’t I tell you to shut up a second ago? Can you hear the chanting, can’t you see what I’m screaming in your fucking face, you pair of comically-redundant has-beens?” Oddball snapped. Then… he began to chant. “Fight. Fight. Fight. Fight. FIGHT. FIGHT. FIGHT. FIGHT.”

The fans couldn’t help but join in, and soon the whole arena were chanting along in unison.

“FIGHT!”
“FIGHT!”
“FIGHT!”
“FIGHT!”
“FIGHT!”

egg NOG and cHEESE shrugged, and dropped their microphones. The Freak took off his trenchcoat and assumed his boxer stance, and oddball hopped out of the cage.

But the referee was having none of it.

“No, I’m not sanctioning this as a title match. You’re obviously fighting alone and that does not constitute a valid Tag Title bout, as per the Asylum rulebook.” The referee said, as the LoD ambled down the ramp. Upon the referee’s decree, The Freak looked bemused whilst the LoD sniggered to themselves… they took their belts off, dropped them onto the commentary desk and the match was on…

Legion of Dairy Vs The Freak
(Handicap Match)

It was The Freak, with a spear to egg NOG’s stomach before he could even prepare. cHEESE jumped in to try and rescuer his partner from any further blows, and certainly did so- at his own expense, as The Freak turned and planted a cracking Capoeira Vaulting Kick on cHEESE’s jaw. The smaller half of the Team Champions fell backwards as The Freak’s foot snapped into his face, shocked at how fast he had been dispatched.

Meanwhile, egg NOG had succeeded in clambering over the rim of the cage, still coughing and spluttering from the impact to his stomach. He draped his arms and neck over the cage, as he tried to gather his breath and regain somewhat of an advantage in this bout… he should have turned around.

It would have been quite beneficial to his health.

As The Freak ran, from one end of the Asylum to the other and upon coming within a yard off NOG… leapt into the air, twisted his body and planting a TERRIFYINGLY hard back-elbow smash across NOG’s neck… hammering his throat into the cold, steel rim of the cage. NOG toppled backwards, his throat searing with pain, as The Freak hurried to Oddball’s side of the cage.

“ODDBALL, CHAIR!”

He didn’t even need to shout, as by the time he got there Oddball already had a chair at hand and passed it to The Freak in a hasty manner. The Freak gripped it tightly, and just in time it seems… as cHEESE ran towards The Freak.

The Freak swung, cHEESE kicked, and The Freak dropped the chair, stumbling back with a re-opened stitch over his nose. Well, good going Freak. You may clap The Freak now, if you like.

Or, you may do what cHEESE did and smack the living fuck out of him with a denting, evil chairshot to his stitched forehead. The Freak screamed in agony as the steel smacked against his head and tore at his stitches… then, a SECOND chairshot by cHEESE, supplemented by a combination sweep-kick by the notorious NOG, had The Freak flat on his back.

egg Nog and cHEESE celebrated with the fans, raising their arms in the air and clapping eachother. They turned to face The Freak…

And The Freak kipped up. He extended both arms and charged into the pair, slamming into their necks with a double-clothesline that turned both Team Champions inside-out and back again. Retrieving his chair with one hand and mopping the blood from his forehead with the other, The Freak set up the chair in the corner of the cage and…

He turned around, and egg NOG was already back on his feet and charging towards him. With a snap and a twist, The Freak dropped down onto his back and hit a drop toe hold to the NOGular one…

CRACK!!

And NOG’s face was smacked against the steel chair.

The Freak au’ed back to his feet, grabbed a handful of cHEESE’s blonde hair… and locked him in a standing headscissors.

With a signal to the fans he cried; “THIS is how, you fucking WRESTLE.”

And locked his arms around cHEESE’s waist. He lifted him up like a rag doll, throwing him up into the air with a Powerbomb rivalling the Last Ride… and…

SMACK!

cHEESE was powerbombed onto egg NOG, who in turn was slammed into the steel chair. Both LoD members looked worse for wear as they slumped besides eachother, next to the chair. The Freak, after taunting egg NOG whilst he got back up, wrapped his arms around NOG’s head and arm and…

A head-and arm suplex. But he held on, and hit another head and arm suplex. However, The Freak was now playing egg NOG’s favourite game and that, of course, was wrestling. egg NOG spat in The Freak’s eyes and raked them to boot, also throwing in a kick to the Red Ripper’s shin for good measure. egg NOG slammed his foot into The Freak’s sternum, then put a hand under each of his arm pits. With all of the power that he could muster, he threw The Freak into the air and…

THE NOG DOWN~!!

egg NOG retained his seated position , as the freshly-risen cHEESE leapt up onto the rim of the cage and with a perfect twist, landed leg-first across The Freak’s throat. The LoD got up and played to the fans as the referee counted the Emasculator down…

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

…

The Freak was up. Wasting no time, the current Asylum Team Champions moved in for the kill. Egg NOG was the first to strike, charging forwards with a clothesline…

That was promptly ducked.

*Smack!*

As egg NOG found himself behind The Freak, The Freak turned slightly and shot his foot backwards into a superkick that connected with NOG’s jaw with a dull thud. cHEESE ran in next, but The Freak was fast enough to duck down and wrap his arms around the Dairy Warrior’s waist and throw him up and over…

Culminating in a loosely-executed and devastating Kryptonite Krunch.

OooOOooooooh!!

As egg NOG dragged himself upwards holding his aching jaw and cHEESE rolled around in utter agony in both his neck and head areas, The Freak once again leaned over the cage and barked orders to Oddball. Surely enough, shortly after The Freak asked for his weapon Oddball handed him a Kenpo Staff. egg NOG ignored The Freak’s new armament as he heroically charged into war…!

Idiot.

And what did The Freak do?

He swung the staff low, in a perfect arc… and with a CRACK, it connected with the side of NOG’s knee. The Eggy Emperor was forced onto the mat clutching his knee, screaming in pain from the blow. The Freak then walked over to the limp form of cHEESE, dragged him up by his hair…

“Breathe~!” The Freak hissed, as he began to choke the life out of the much smaller fighter with his staff. cHEESE coughed and spluttered as the staff was wrenched back on his neck, The Freak grating his teeth and rocking the staff to and fro to inflict as much damage as possible. After cHEESE was seemingly fast asleep, choked out by the wooden object, The Freak turned and disposed of it…

SNAP!

By breaking it across egg NOG’s back.

The Freak did his trademark spin, as the referee began to count.

1!
2!
3!
4!
5!
6!
7!
8!
9!
…Te…?

Nah. They’re tag team champions, like they’re going to lose THAT quickly. Be serious.

egg NOG got back up, and instantly threw a kick at The Freak. However, as he was still feeling the effects of having a thick wooden stick broken over his back it wasn’t up to much, and thus The Freak was able to catch his foot. Spinning him around and taking him down, The Freak quickly locked his powerful arms around NOG’s leg and applied a dutiful Standing Knee Bar.

SMACK!

cHEESE was awake too. And he hit The Freak with a chair, from behind.

However… much to cHEESE’s dismay, The Freak pulled off his personal favourite manoeuvre. The… No-Sell.

The Freak released his grip on egg NOG’s leg and turned to face cHEESE with a blank, vacant look on his face. cHEESE looked to the left and saw no help. He looked to the right and saw no aid…

He threw the chair into The Freak’s face.

CRACK!

And out of nowhere, came egg NOG’s foot with a spinning heel kick!

The VanDairynator~~!!

The referee counted, as cHEESE dropped the chair into the middle of the cage and flexed his invisible muscles, whilst egg NOG did the RVD-esque thumbs taunt… to which the fans cried: “ELL-OH-DEE!”

1!
2!
3!
4!
5!
6!
7!
8!
9!
…If you think The Freak is going to be knocked out by a kick to the face, you’ve got another thing coming. The Freak staggered up to his feet, and spat out a small drop of blood, before readying his fists… egg NOG charged in and slammed a shoulder into The Freak’s gut and wrapped his arms around the Ripper’s legs before he could even fight back.

NOG hurled The Freak into the air, and cHEESE ran in to try and complete the move with an Ace Crusher, which effectively would have dropped the Freak with a Dudley Death Drop.

But, The Freak simply pushed cHEESE away, and with an almighty and evil growl, he slammed his knee into NOG’s face with a Shining Wizard reversal. The Freak managed to land perfectly on his feet, only for cHEESE to grab The Freak’s arm and drag him down into a standing armbar.

The Freak struggled and tapped at his shoulder trying to escape, but found that his best method of getaway was to pull himself to his feet. With the aid of the railing, The Freak got himself to a vertical base and backflipped, releasing the pressure on his shoulder and generally neutralizing the armbar. cHEESE held onto The Freak’s arm however…

SUPERKICK FROM egg NOG!!

…to cHEESE!

What?

Yes, The Freak ducked. The oldest trick in the book, and egg NOG had splattered his own partner all over the place with a perfect superkick. egg NOG’s jaw gaped open and he gasped as The Freak moved towards him.

But cHEESE was on the floor, on all fours, behind the Emasculator.

Do you remember how schoolyard bullies used to kneel behind you while their friend pushed you over them?

Yep. Flashbacks. egg NOG pushed The Freak, The Freak tripped over cHEESE and BAM. The Freak was rolling around the mat, holding his head that had, quite unfortunately, connected with the cage.

cHEESE got to his feet and the pair looked out at the fans… they raised their arms… and the fans jumped to their feet. They pointed at The Freak, and as one they screamed: “SELLOUT!”

“Different Problem Same Solution”; A Violent Work of Art.

And as that music hit the speakers and distracted the Tag Champions, out came a violent work of art in himself. Looking VERY pissed off, and with bloodied hands, came Alexander Von DeThatt. It seemed that he had escaped the locker room that he was locked in and was now… not too happy at all. He trampled down the ramp with his eyes locked on the LoD through his shades. Having seen his debut at Persecution, the fans had nothing but a positive reaction for him.

The referee had only reached four on The Freak, who was now clinging onto the cage dizzily. But egg NOG and his partner were totally preoccupied by their six-foot-nine-inch interferer. NOG made the first move on the giant, only to be grabbed by his tights and flung into the rim of the cage. cHEESE then attempted a clothesline, only to be ducked. Before he knew it, he was hoisted onto DeThatt’s shoulders in a fireman’s carry… then dropped into a neckbreaker.

The DeThatt Driver.

egg NOG got back to his feet dizzily, only to find his head and leg locked in The Freak’s grasp…

And, the fans screamed out for The Freak’s blood, he drilled NOG’s head into the mat with the Cradled DDT often known as the Anti-Nature.

Thank you and Good Night.

1!
2!
3!
4!
5!
6!
7!
8!
9!
10!

The referee called for the bell and raised The Freak’s arm in the air, but The Freak brushed the official away. He was far too content with staring at Alexander Von DeThatt, who now stood before him with an angry look on his face.

“Well, congratulations in fucking up Joe’s chances at winning the Tag Titles back for Team Campbell, moron. What are you, the fucking product of anal birth, you retarded asshole? It takes TWO to be tag champions. And we’ve failed because of YOUR jealousy.” DeThatt said, in a calm but venomous manner. After much staring, DeThatt finally stuck out his hand to The Freak. “Shake my hand, forget this, and I’ll forget it too.”

The fans cheered DeThatt’s honourable gesture, but The Freak didn’t. He hated it… he hated this playing to the fans, the role that DeThatt was playing…

But he extended his hand nonetheless. DeThatt smiled as their two hands met…

But his smile disappeared, as The Freak reeled DeThatt in and kicked him in the stomach.

Anti-Nature.

With that, The Freak leapt over the railing and, accompanied by Oddball, made his way to the back.

“See it wasn’t that hard lads was it?”

They looked at one another: “Seriously, cheers for your help. And to show you how I’m grateful for your help I’m going to pay you with some unique advice for the pair of you - get your lugs pinned back. It’s not fair on Dumbo really is it?”

They couldn’t wait to get away from the Englishman’s abuse and didn’t even offer to stay around to resolve this mess.

Hunt hesitated: “Who do you think it is?”

“Fuck knows. We’ll take bets on it eh? Two to one that it’s a babe, five to one that she’s naked and ten to one says that I’m fucking her in ten minutes. What do you reckon?”

“How about none of them?”

“A long shot. If it’s anything else, it’s at least one hundred to one, but you’ve got to specify.”

Warwick passed and then Keegan opened the door, which hadn’t been locked, to see a familiar figure. He was seething and Hunt just shook his head: “WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING HERE?

“Alright Keeg. Long time, no see.”

“Aye. Five and a half months ago but also a lifetime too soon.”

Lharn Huscroft, a mate of his from Primary School but also a perpetrator in the scam that allowed John C. Willis to relieve The Yardstick of The Fighting Zone trophy back in July, had the audacity to invade his territory.

“I’m waiting you little cunt. You didn’t answer my question. What the fuck are you doing here?”

The Real Deal, as he called himself, tried to reason with his furious ‘friend.’ “I heard you were here now and I thought I’d call in to see how you were doing.”

He had to be blunt about it. Lharn had really hurt him when he decided to side with Willis at The Prophecy: “For your information, the Frog Splash didn’t inflict any extra damage physically though it did break my heart, metaphorically speaking of course.”

Huscroft didn’t know where to put his face: “I’m sorry.”

Carrahar intervened: “Oh. You’re sorry. You’re fucking sorry? So what’s supposed to happen? You turn on the water works, I fall for it hook, line and sinker and then we have a cuddle and kiss and make up? It doesn’t work that way I’m afraid. First of all for that to happen you’ve got to have a great pair of tits and a lovely arse and not that I’ve checked, but I don’t believe you have either, so I’m sorry about that.”

“Don’t be like that.”

“Don’t be like what? Come on then… what should I be like? You take the easy option out and side with the blokes I hate more than anyone else on the planet, even more than the Mackems, and as a result my fiancée left me. So please tell me how I’m meant to act. You see I don’t know. I really don’t fucking know.”

There was a hush after that before Keegan spoke again: “You’re fucked up in some sort of way aren’t you? And you thought you’d come to see me? Well no can do bonny lad. Why don’t you go and ask that bloke you spoke to earlier where Willis’ room is instead. Although it might take as long as a Virgin train travelling from The Town to Cockneyland I’m sure he’ll get you there in the end.”

Once again, his fellow Geordie who now resides in Beverly Hills didn’t answer. He appeared to accept his punishment as if everything The Prince of Palermo said was correct and it probably was in all honesty: “Say something then you scrawny shit.”

“What’s the point? What good will it do?”

Keegan mocked him: “What was the point in coming here? What good will it do?”

He replied: “Fuck off.”

“Oh. That’s rich. This is my room and you tell me to fuck off. You’re the one that betrayed me and now you’re telling me to fuck off. When you did that, while I was down as well, it was like someone had cheated on me.”

Lharn ushered in a comeback that didn’t go down to well: “You would know all about that.”

Carrahar was now incensed and approached the sitting ‘intruder’ to get the point across: “So we’re going to be funny now? Eh? You’re a fucking hypocrite. I know you used to shag sluts behind Kelly’s back. OH! Is that why you’re here? Has she found you out?”

“Yes,” he murmured.

Keegan laughed and looked at Warwick: “Did you hear that?! Fuck me. He thought he’d come here for some advice in spite of writing the book ‘How to bonk pig-ugly bimbos and get away with Parts one to ten.’”

Lharn put his hands over his face. He was undoubtedly ashamed about his actions over the last few months. 2002 had been a bad year for him and Keegan in terms of their respective relationships.

Carrahar once again glanced over at Warwick, presumably hoping the scapegoat but dear friend of his could offer an answer to this very messy situation. He insinuated that he should console his fallen friend and forgive him. The stubborn Zone member had to think about this for a second before he moved closer toward TRD: “Howay then,” he said extending his hand.

They shook hands and then Keegan pulled his former tag team partner up as he gave him a massive hug.

Warwick had been powerless to prevent Lharn betraying his countryman and companion and while he shared his anguish, albeit momentarily, he knew that forgiving and forgetting was the way forward.

Meanwhile, from one Newcastle supporter to another, the Asylum employee gave Huscroft a bit of advice, just as he had earlier to the aforementioned officials: “Lharn, don’t ever fuck me over again.”

What a difference five minutes can make.

“Are you that fickle? Only one week ago I triumphed over Stranglehold, the week prior I defeated Ruben Ross… yet one failure and you have my number at hand, ready to berate me? Joe, I had my doubts when you recruited Villam Ender into our stable folds, but I didn’t complain. Now, I show you a hint of weakness and you…”

“That’s the whole point, Team Campbell is not weak. Team Campbell must not be weak, at all, EVER, NONE OF US. You might have won today but I wanted those fucking tag titles under my control. And because you’re jealous of DeThatt, you…” Joe would have carried on, but The Freak cut him off. Campbell hissed, as he hated to be interrupted, but it was all the same.

“I’m far from weak and you discern that. And why should I be jealous of DeThatt Campbell? Because he’s bigger than me or taller than me? No thanks, I’m not that inconsequential. I just loathe the man’s conduct and attitude. And how, may I ask, can I prove myself to you when I have no actual mission set for myself now that I have defeated Stranglehold?” The Freak pondered aloud.

Campbell thought to himself, his fingers stroking his beard thoughtfully and his face plastered with a grin. “Hmm… well… the janitor has quit and the toilets need cleaning… I could kill a cup of coffee…”

The Freak rolled his red eyes in their sockets and sighed, before throwing his blood-soaked towel into Campbell’s lap and leaning over his desk, his eyes boring straight through the Asylum owner. Campbell slid further under his desk as The Freak drew closer, the irony smell of blood filling the room.

“I came here, to do my job. I shall do my job. But do not play games with me Campbell, and if your previous comment was meant to be a joke please note that I have no valid sense of humour. Things just aren’t funny anymore after you’ve seen what I’ve seen. I’ve done everything before, whether I’m proud of it or not. But in not giving me a task to carry out you are wasting you greatest resource: I.”

“You’d do anything for the Asylum you reckon, eh? Well how about I give this a little test drive. Ty Hughes.” Campbell said, with a half-smile. He was twisting a pen around in his hand, and upon finishing his sentence he rested one end of the biro on his lip. “He’s a cunt, basically. I can’t stand him, and he can’t stand me. I don’t even know why the fuck he’s still here other than to advertise his Nike shit. And to make matters worse… he’s holding MY Extreme title, so I can’t fire the fucker. So, your first mission…”

“Take his title?”

“No… not just that. I want him fucked up, Brian. I want him locked in a fucking mental Asylum babbling about a guy called The Freak. I want you to *break* him.” Campbell sneered, then broke into a smile.

“I can do that. I will do that. And I’ll take pleasure in doing that for you. By the time I’m finished with Hughes… he’ll be a tattered and destroyed man. His hell starts tonight.” The Freak said coldly and vacantly, like a robot, before leaving the room.

Campbell kicked his feet up on his desk. While he wanted to believe that The Freak would solve his problem so soon and easily… could he be so sure?

“He seems confident. He’s an experienced guy, he claims to have done everything. But is he as reliable in this kind of situation as me?” came a raspy voice from the dark corner of Campbell’s office. Joe didn’t seem startled, in fact, he was totally calm; he knew of the man’s presence.

“Yeah, I know… he seems like a fucking fruitcake to me, he might have some potential just ‘cause he’s a psycho. But what do you think? This is your field really, isn’t it…” Campbell replied, thoughtfully.

“He has potential, yeah. He’s one fucked up, tough son of a bitch. I could teach him…” the man said.

“I tell you what mate… would you keep an eye on him, for me?” Joe said, turning to look at the shadows.

“With pleasure.”

Then, the man stepped forwards… his blue and blonde hair tousled and dirty, and his cigarette lodged between his lips.

Token

Weed.

Token smiled as the smoke rose into the air and swirled… “I’ll make a criminal of him yet.”

There was a pause after that before Michael broke the silence: “That’s Keegan Carrahar for you. You never know where you are with him and only thinks about himself.”

At this minute in time, Mr. D’Alessandro has a point.

In any event, Max Danger had made it perfectly clear that he did not want to have anything to do with the Asylum. He couldn't risk messing up his face another time. So he opted to just sit at home and get paid, much like the big name WCW stars did at one time or another. Of course, Danger was neither a big name nor, um, a star or something. But still, Joe Campbell was paying him and he was happy.

He had Action! to fall back on. Reed Young, being the idiot that he was, though of Max as a big star and paid him as such. So he was in no big hurry to re-enter the Asylum. His health was more important to him than any type of glory he could achieve by participating.

Bradley Duncan, however, had nothing else to go to. He had only the Asylum. And even though Jessica had told her husband, 'The Danger Man', that they had to go and work The Show every Sunday, she hadn't left the house either. As went Max, so did she.

They were married afterall.

So Bradley Duncan, 'The Silent One' as some had called him. On account of his mute/deafness, you see. But believe you me, when he wanted to, he could make a loud racket. But usually, yeah, 'The Silent One' was very apropos.

And so he was there, doing, um, squats in the hallway. He was bending up and down. Very odd looking, especially since he was facing the wall. He wasn't booked for a fight, but he was hoping he could get in for a meeting with the man in charge, Joe Campbell. Of course, there was still that little problem of him not beign able to talk... or hear.

As Duncan kept preparing himself for his potential fight, two men, if you could call them that, came walking down from the other end of the hall.

Dead.

Perfect.

The FtfWo.

They were in some sort of heated discussion, though, really, I don't think the world is ready to fall into a coma, and thus, you'll be left just with the final part of it, you try and figure out what they were talking about.

"But, as I said, all you have to do is lick it twice, stick it in straight, and pump," said Dead. "And with that, you have yourself a-"

He had been cut off by Perfect, "Who's that chap?"

Dead gave him a strange look. 'Chap?' Had he really used that word? After a shake of the head, Dead replied, "I dunno. New guy?"

"Perhaps," Perfect drawled. "Maybe we should introduce ourselves and have a jolly good time?"

Dead gave Perfect yet another weird look, "Yeah, let's go have a jolly good time with that big brute." As they started towards Duncan, Dead muttered, "I can't believe just how gay you are."

Bradley still had his face directed towards the wall in front of him. Behind him FtfWo stood. Both Dead and Pefect cleared their throats, but Bradley didn't turn to acknowledge them. The two looked at each other and shrugged their shoulders. Perfect asked, "Maybe a bloody demon has possessed his ears and now the blighter can't hear a word we speak?"

Dead shook his head, "Are you cr-- no, wait, sorry, forgot who I was talking to. Um, why would Joe sign a deaf guy?" He scoffed at Perfect's stupidity and then quietly, with a hint of fear, said, "Tap him on the shoulder."

Perfect went stiff and began to shake his head vehemently. Would you want to tap that big man on the shoulder? Of course not. So, Perfect didn't. He was, though, pushed into the big man by Dead.

"You TWAT!" shouted Perfect as Bradley turned around and faced the two men. A big smile crept across hsi face and he signed, "Hello!"

"Why's he bearing his teeth like that?" asked Dead worriedly.

Perfect's bottom lip was quivering. He couldn't speak. Duncan again signed, "Hello." And then he added, "I'm Bradley Duncan. You are?"

Dead gasped in shock, "What did you say about his mom?"

"What?" replied Perfect. "Did he say something about my mom?"

"Oh yeah!" said the wide-eyed Dead. "And I'm not even about to repeat it! I mean, it was all offensive and stuff! He's such a meaniehead."

"Does he even have a mom? What if the demon possessed her, too?"

"Definitely! I bet his mom is a big ugly demon now."

Bradley, of course, could read lips. But he was keeping from making any more movements with his hands. Just sitting back and enjoying the conversation between Dead and Perfect.

"Bloody hell!" Perfect breathed, putting his hands to his mouth. Duncan then smiled even broader and signed, "You're a cigarette." And held his stomach as if he were laughing heavily, and the look on his face said he was.

"Dear lord!" screamed Dead. "That's, like, so totally disgusting!"

"What? What the bloody hell did he say?" said a concerned and frightened Perfect.

"I don't want to repeat it, it's all mean and stuff. I say we just take this man into the Asylum and give him what for!"

Dead then got chest to chest, er, face to chest with 'The Silent One'. "We're going to mess you up! Like a Pikachu beating up a Squirtle! I mean it!"

Perfect, from behind Dead, shouted, "Yeah, you're going to be messed! It'll be the dog's bollocks for you!"

Dead grumbled, "Dude, you're so gay."

The two then shook their fists as Duncan, and told him they see him in the Asylum. Bradley just waved them goodbye. He was smiling from ear to ear. His first fight alone. Against two men. Two very strange men, the thought. But a fight was a fight.

He didn't, however, feel too comfortable about Perfect's warning of him being a dog's bollocks or something. Then again, nobody would.

Jamal Wilson looked over at his manager, Frank Allen Greenberg (F.A.G), and his tag team partner, Chino Hernandez. The idea of Asylum Idol sounded completely ludicrous to Jamal Wilson, but his manager and partner seemed adamant about it.

“Trust me, Jamal, this thing will blow you guys up in the team division.” F.A.G stated assuredly.

Jamal took a deep breath before checking his clothes out again. Pink bubble wrap pants, and a pink “Assylum” belly shirt. He was sure he was looking good, but looking at his partner almost nauseated him. “Hot Stuff” Chino Hernandez wore a purple suit complete with purple undershirt and purple tie.

“Come on, Jammy, let’s go an’ show dose guys who th’ real Assylum Idols are!” Chino shouted enthusiastically.

Jamal took a deep breath before stepping out of his locker room with his teammate and manager, and began the trek to the Asylum Idol stage.

Ty Hughes Vs Dream
(Extreme Title)

*BANG*

“It Really Don’t Matter” by Confidential, a shitload of pyrotechnics and the appearance of Ty Hughes. He thrust his arms in the air, but was disappointed by the crowds reaction. There were cheers, but not as many as he’d hoped, but who could blame them. It seemed the crowd were growing restless of Hughes’s antics, and if he was going to win them back, it would be by in ring fighting, not by long absences and theatrical returns.

Ty reached back through the curtain and grabbed the Nike gym bag full of weaponry, and he grabbed his Nike steel bat and walked down to the cell. He threw the bag in and rested the bat on the side of the wall, waiting for the official to ring the bell and start the bout, however instead of the bell he heard something far more galling to his ears.

“So, you’re finally back, ey Hughes?”

Joe Campbell.

“Well since I’m running things round here again, 100%, all Campbell, I’m gonna give the fans a little treat… and fuck it, I’m gonna enjoy this as well. This…”

Campbell retreated backstage momentarily, before emerging with an item that neither of the fighters were particularly happy to see.

“This… is now a ladder match! Have fun, Fuckhead.”

The crowd roared, and amidst the cheers the bell rang, and the impromptu ladder match was on it way, as the official tied the extreme belt to its cable and soared into the rafters, Hughes was caught off guard as Darren floored him with a double leg takedown and proceeded to unleash a flurry of right and left hand aimed at the temples of Ty Hughes, and while Hughes tried to cover his head he still managed to spit out the insults, “What’s with the nail varnish faggot?” rung out as Hughes managed to spin his body, and just like that the momentum switched as Hughes was the one raining his fist down on Mitchell. Ty got up and went over to his “bag of tricks” and pulled out a hockey stick. He swung it hard into Darren’s ribs, who let out a cough as blood flew from his mouth. Ty continued the offence as he picked up Mitchell about half a foot off the ground with the end of the stick and dropped him again, the hooked end of the stick driving itself back into Darren’s ribs.

With Darren Mitchell temporarily incapacitated Hughes left the cell and went for the ladder left by Campbell up at the top of the ramp. The Hypnotic One picked up the ladder and turned round, only to see Mitchell with his steel bat in hand swinging. The sound of steel on steel crashed around the arena as Hughes fell to the floor, the ladder landing squarely on top of him. Darren wasted no time in taking the initiative as he drove the bat down into the ladder another four times. Darren lifted the ladder off of the fallen Hughes and took a few steps back. Planting his foot on the third rung, Darren planted the ladder down and pushed with his standing foot, riding the ladder over and onto Hughes.

As both men lay in the aftermath of the move, Hughes managed to pick up the bat and hid it under his body. As Darren tried to pull Hughes to his feet, Ty swung the bat into his ribs, doubling the DreaM member over. Hughes followed it up, placing the end of the bat in Mitchell’s throat, lifted his head back, and thrusted it forward, driving the opposite end of the bat into the floor, driving the bat into Mitchell’s oesophagus. As Darren Mitchell gasped for air, Ty placed the bat across Mitchell’s throat choking him out some more, before executing a Russian leg sweep with the bat.

Hughes decided he’d had enough as he picked up the ladder and marched towards the cell, and the extreme title belt hanging up above it. What he didn’t count on was Mitchell having a lot more fight left in him, and as Hughes made it to the cell, Mitchell was close behind him. Hughes placed the ladder inside the cell and leant it against t wall before jumping over. As Hughes reached for the ladder he saw Darren in the corner of his eye, but it was too late. Darren had trusted the ladder down, causing the end Hughes was going to pick up to soar upwards, connecting with the side of Hughes’ jaw. Ty stumbled backwards and spat out a mouthful of blood as Darren charged with the ladder, driving the end into Hughes’ chest, and as Mitchell kept the momentum going, Ty toppled over and out the cell.

Mitchell stood in the cell, still mildly breathless from the earlier attack on his windpipe. Mitchell placed the ladder down in the centre of the cell and began his ascension… but a fight with Ty Hughes is rarely that simple. As Darren climbed his way to the top, n an instant Ty Hughes was climbing he other side. Darren reached near the top, but realised stretching for the belt would only open him up to an attack, so he prepared to fight Hughes on the ladder. As
Darren threw his first punch Hughes ducked underneath it and grabbed Mitchell, ready for an overhead belly-to-belly suplex, the “Ringout”. Hughes tried to throw him, but Darren locked his legs in the ladder, and after two successful blocks… Mitchell reversed it, and Hughes flew over Darren Mitchell’s head as both men fell over ten feet to the floor below.

Both men lay on the floor motionless as the crowd burst to life with their obligatory “Holy Shit” chant. As both men slowly stirred to life, they began to crawl towards the ladder once again. As Darren Mitchell climbed up one side, Hughes followed him up the same side. Darren looked around trying to spot Hughes, before realising he was underneath him. Hughes struck with a low blow, which doubled Mitchell over, over the top of the ladder. Hughes turned Mitchell over, and hooked up his legs in a Texas cloverleaf. Hughes leant back hooked his legs under Mitchell’s arms, executing a modified version of his “Submission” on the ladder. Mitchell roared in pain as Hughes leant back, wrenching the move in. Hughes let go of the move, as Mitchell still lay relatively motionless on top of the ladder. Hughes hooked his legs in the ladder, and grabbed Mitchell’s legs once more, before abruptly leaning backwards, catapulting Mitchell off the top of the ladder. Darren Mitchell was launched out of the cell and came crashing down on the arena floor. Ty Hughes reached up and grabbed the belt, and the match was over.

Ty stood atop the ladder, the belt raised high in his right arm, as the crowd cheered. They hadn’t expected his to be as high a quality match as it turned out. Hughes strapped the belt round his waist before pointing down at Darren Mitchell on the floor. It seemed that he wasn’t quite down. Hughes balanced precariously on the top of the ladder, as the crowd took over, they knew what they had to do…

“JUST DO IT!!!”

Hughes looked back at the crowd, flashed a grin, and leapt off, executing a Moonsault from the ladder, down onto the fallen Mitchell. Hughes literally bounced off of Mitchell, clutching his ribs as he did so. Mitchell curled up into a foetal position, the wind literally crushed out of him, and he began to bleed from some small lacerations on his chest, from the belt. Hughes stumbled to his feet and tentatively raised his arm as a “Hyp-no-sis” chant broke out. He was back.

The scene would have been perfect. Hughes celebrating with his fans, and the Extreme title defended successfully.

Over the speakers… a bell chimed.

Then, “Faget” by Korn. The music rocked over the PA system as The Freak, a chair being brandished in his right hand, charged down the ramp. The fans reacted in a mixture of cheers and boos as the Red Ripper grew closer to the cage. Hughes looked confused by The Freak’s appearance, but nonetheless put up his dukes and readied himself for battle. The Freak jumped onto the apron and flipped over the steel rim of the cell, whilst Hughes scurried over to the alternate side of the circle defensively.

“Ha. You are denying a challenger of his first assault? Don’t back off, Hughes… come along, you’re a man, not a flea. Although I perceive little difference between the two. Fight me.” The Freak hissed, his eyes wide and expressionless. He clung to his chair in one hand, as Hughes looked at the fans pleadingly. The fans responded with cheers… and in reply to that, Ty shot up a thumb. Then, with a glance at The Freak…

“Just Do It!” he grinned.

The Freak smirked falsely and complied, barrelling at Hughes with a giant swing of his chair.

*Block*

Hughes used a forearm to block the shot, and smacked his foot into The Freak’s knee brace. He extended both hands and pushed The Freak back against the railing, prior to popping him in his jaw with a pair of massive closed-fisted uppercuts. The Freak shook his head from side to side trying to disperse the impact, which in turn gave Hughes enough time to spit in his hand… aim his fist, and

CRACK.

Punch the steel chair that The Freak had thrown up, just in time to parry the punch. Hughes cried out in agony, holding his hand and his aching knuckles…

SMACK~!

…and his knuckles ached even more when The Freak hammered them with a chair. The Freak spat and swung the chair again, this time clobbering Hughes’s skull, twisting the metal over his cranium. Hughes dropped to his knees, his head sliced open and dripping with claret. The Freak held the chair high in the air, and sneered.

CRACK~!!

The fans gasped, as the chair was smashed over Ty’s head. The seat crumpled and detached from the frame, flying into the shocked fans. The steel frame was wrapped around Hughes’s head like a steel talisman, and Ty’s eyes were closed as his neck rocked back and forth dizzily. Satisfied with Hughes’s incapacitated state, The Freak picked Hughes up on his shoulder in a jack-knife position…

Turned. And powerbombed Hughes over the rim of the cage, head-first, onto the steel ring steps. The steps were ripped from their hinges and smashed apart, as the fans once again gasped… not knowing whether to cheer or boo The Freak.

Hughes lay, twisted and motionless, at ringside. The Freak leaped over the rim like a cat, and stood next to the corpse-like body of Ty on the concrete floor. Then… he dragged Hughes over to the separated steel ring steps, and lay his head across the largest. Hughes’s blood dripped over the steel as The Freak picked up another step, and lifted it into the air…

SMACK~~~!!

Skull sandwich. Replace bread with “Heavy, steel ringsteps”. Replace ketchup with “The Extreme Champion’s blood”. The Freak then grabbed a handful of Hughes’s… erm… bald head, and dragged him to the bottom of the ramp. From there, he hauled Hughes onto his shoulders and departed the arena via the fire exit, having waded his way through the fans…

However, that was all in the past now, as was conveyed by their constant chanting for the last half an hour or so, songs that they used to sing at Football matches and on the local estate on a Friday night with their mates after they’d downed numerous bottles of what can only be described as ‘puff’s drinks.’

“We’re Geordies, we’re mental, we’re off wa fucking heads” was the chant currently echoing around not only the room, but also everywhere within a mile radius it seemed.

Unsurprisingly then, as his younger peers were to engrossed in shouting like wolves after ten bottles of ‘The Brown,’ it was up to Warwick Hunt to respond to the knock at the door, which was definitely loud enough.

He opened it to reveal “Tapestry!”

“Hello Keegan.”

Carrahar put his bottle of Dog down, albeit momentarily to introduce his closest companion in The Zone to the returning ‘Real Deal’ who had been his dearest friend for a long time. Well when they were younger: “Tapestry, meet my mate Lharn Huscroft, he was also in The Fighting Zone for all of five minutes. I don’t think you’ll remember him, but here he is.”
Like the gentleman that he can be, Huscroft kissed the terrific but tough lady’s hand and politely proclaimed that he was proud to meet her, which probably meant he wanted to get stuck into her as soon as possible or perhaps that’s just my cynicism showing.
For no apparent reason, Keegan started running around the room and that prompted Tapestry to ask: “What on earth are you doing?”

He beamed with delight: “I wrote you a poem. It’s here somewhere. Just let me check my coat.”

She looked at Lharn, who laughed, and then at Warwick, who shrugged his shoulders before shaking her head and then putting a smile on for The Yardstick who had a piece of paper in his left hand and a Cheshire Cat grin on his face intent on paying tribute to her.

“Are you ready?”

“Yes.”

He moved closer towards Tapestry, who looked rather bemused by the Briton’s baffling behaviour, and looked at her, who happened to be a wonderful writer of rhymes in her own right, prior to nervously blurting out the opening sentence.

“I know a woman called Tapestry
She happens to be hard as nails but she’s also lovely
I know that I probably sound mad, daft, silly and stupid
But when I see her face it’s as if I’ve been struck by Cupid.”

Lharn couldn’t help but giggle at this ridiculous rhyme reserved for Keegan’s newfound ‘friend’ who didn’t do anything but stand there with her right hand resting on her chin looking up at Keegan.

“To me she’s nothing short of fantastic
In comparison, I feel like a no-hoper, a cowboy, a bit of a spastic
I feel I have to express my feelings someway, hence the poem
But each time I look at her I freeze and feel like a garden gnome.”

By this time, Huscroft was in hysterics: “That didn’t even fucking rhyme!”

“I’ve heard she can cast spells
If you ask me she has a much better pair than Nell’s
I am smitten with her, especially her big brown eyes
And I almost pass out even if she only says something like ‘hi.’

“ So ultimately, what am I trying to say?
And I don’t care what you may say, as I’ve already been called gay
The thing is the hold this woman has on me, I know, is such a farce
It’s getting so bad that I constantly think about taking her up…”

Lharn was laughing so hard that he had bother breathing and even Warwick, though he tried, was practically reduced to tears. Meanwhile, the so-called Geordie Genius glances up from the small note, apparently horrified; yet she hasn’t said anything. She now has her arms folded however in a stance that demanded an explanation.

He looked at Huscroft, who he suddenly realised had actually written the filthy and final verse while he had been drunk, but Carrahar, in typical fashion, got himself out of a hole: “It’s getting so bad that I constantly think about taking her to another place more deserving of her, somewhere such as Mars.”

The Real Deal’s face dropped as Tapestry then gave Keegan a brief round of applause and thanked him for his gift to her.

After all, he couldn’t do anything else in his present state...

“What can I do for you two? I feel sort of indebted to you both for kicking seven shades of shite out of Biggs last week. Did you enjoy it?” Joe asked the two somewhat bemused fighters standing before him.

“Of course we did, Joseph,” TMM replied. “There’s nothing better than beating some washed up wrestler with a mop. Hell, I’ve tried it in the street before but apparently the ‘Hitman’ doesn’t like to play any more. Damn Canadians.”

“Ummm…yeah. Right, anyway, why are you two in my office, disrupting my relaxation? Which, might I add, I deserve for that gruelling fight with that Universal guy.”

Slapnutz fumbled around in his pockets for a moment before the man who is supposed to be looking out for him clipped him around the ear.

“Oww, you Polish bugger. What did you do that for?”

TMM sighed and kicked Slapnutz in the shins. Joe getting slightly bored by all of this decided it was time to go for the gun. However, just as he was ready to inject some life, and probably some humour, into the proceedings, TMM broke the silence.

“Joe, remember how you said you would promote the winner of ‘Asylum Idol’?”

“No,” came the reply from the millionaire businessman.

“Well, anyway, you did.”

“Prove it.”

TMM checked inside his pockets for any incriminating evidence, but to no avail. But, just as he was ready to do an impromptu mime of Joe Campbell agreeing to promote the winner, Slapnutz handed him a Dictaphone.

“Ahh, here it is,” the Pole yelped excitedly.

TMM pressed the play button and what came out really had to be heard to be believe, the transcript can’t really do it justice. But, we can try to convey just how surreal it was:

”Hello, Joe Campbell, owner of Asylum, I am TMM, member of Splink and I want you to promote the winner of Asylum Idol. It would be really swell, don’t you know”

“Hello TMM of Splink, I am Joe Campbell, owner of the Asylum. I am grateful you could take time out of your busy schedule to visit me today.”

At this point, it should be stressed that ‘Joe Campbell’ was sporting a somewhat peculiar accent. An accent that was a hybrid of Scottish, Lancashire and Pakistani.

”Well, Joe Campbell, I have been busy lately, but I do think that if you promoted the Asylum Idol, it would make you and me lots of money.”

“Oooh, that would be lovely, TMM of Splink. Imagine all the money we could have. We could swim about naked in it. I’ll do it!”

“Damn it Slap, Joe wouldn’t say th…I mean yes Joseph, you could do whatever you wanted with it. I would buy whores and drugs with mine because I am an evil mofo.”

“And I’d subscribe to Gardeners World magazine. You do know if you subscribe for six months, you get a free trowel and tulip seeds. It’s a great offer.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, really.”

“Wow.”

Before the nonsense could go any further, TMM pressed the stop button. By this time, Slapnutz was giggling like a schoolgirl and Joe was drinking more and more whisky.

Upon hearing the click of the button, Joe sat up and decided to pay attention to Splink.

“Are you finished?” Joe asked.

Slapnutz and TMM both nodded in agreement and Joe stood up and walked round towards Splink. He put his arms round both men and walked them towards the door to his office. He opened it up and ushered Splink out with these parting words:

“If I said I’d do it, I’ll keep my word. All I ask is that you prove yourselves to be real fighters next week. No run along my puppets. The boss has a lot of paperwork to do.”

As both parties left, they had evil grins on their faces. Campbell bore one of greed, TMM bore one of smugness and Slapnutz was ignorant. Blissfully ignorant. He was just happy he was getting to be famous.

Lucky bastard.

The Freak finally reached his destination of a Capri… a nice little car, with a Nike logo painted up the side. The Freak had picked this one out as, of course, it was unmistakably owned by the man in his grasp. The Freak towed Hughes to his feet his ear, and slammed him up against the car. Then, with his free hand as he choked Ty against the door… he reached into Hughes’s pocket, and low and behold, there were his keys.

Attached to his wallet.

The Freak first de-activated the alarm, before making his way to the back of the vehicle and opening the trunk. Hughes seemed to be slowly regaining his senses, so The Freak slammed the trunk over his head a few times just to make sure that he wouldn’t be getting back up. With a puzzled look on his face, The Freak looked through Hughes’s wallet…

Pictures. Addresses, of Hughes’s family. The Freak was surprised, as up until yet he was certain that The Freak was certain that Hughes’s parents lived in England. With a smirk, The Freak pushed Hughes’s wallet into his pocket… that might come in handy.

The Freak looked down on Hughes, whose blood was dripping, revoltingly over the edge of the trunk.

“Where do we go from here, son?” The Freak said, as he pulled a set of handcuffs out of his pocket…

“We know Asylum Idol is over, but we’re here to perform for you guys to see if we can win a recording contract… or something. These Asylum Team Titles are harder to win than I thought, so we’re trying to get something easier, know what I mean?” Jamal spoke up.

TMM and Slapnutz continued to ignore the San Francisco Connection, so Jamal, thinking that it was a cue for them to begin singing, turned to his partner, Chino, and the two began to sing.

“Humidity is rising…” Jamal began.

“How high?“ Chino continued.

“Barometer is getting low…”

“How low Jammy?”

“According to our sources…”

“What sources now?”

“The street is the place to go…”

“We better hurry up.”

“'Cause tonight for the first time, just about half past ten, for the first time in history, it's gonna start raining men! It's raining men! Hallelujah it's raining men, Amen! It’s….”

“Good God. Absolutely dreadful,” came the reply of TMM, who was still reading through a Teen People magazine looking for the slightest thing that could be related to Asylum Idol. “You guys are certainly not as good as the Cheeky Boys. Your looks are dreadful as well. And what is that thing that’s with you?” TMM finished, pointing towards F.A.G.

“I’m Frank Allen…”

“HOLD ON A SECOND RIGHT HERE!” Jamal screamed in anger. “I beg to differ. I think that Chino, Frank, and myself, are the REAL Asylum Idols. The fact that you guys are claiming that those inbred, trailer trash hicks, The Cheeky Boys, are Asylum Idols… well, it irks me!”

“Dat’s righ’, Jammy. Let me tell jou somethin’, tonight, we want you two big boys in the cage. We’ll settle dis dere!” Chino added in, trying to sound forceful.

TMM looked at Slapnutz and shrugged. It looked like they had a match.

Jamal stuck up his middle finger at Splink before saying “HMPH!” and leading his buddies out of the Asylum Idol stage area.

At Persecution, they were finally laid to rest. The Zone came out victorious in their empty arena match up, one of the most hellacious and brutal matches to ever grace an Asylum pay per view event. As it stood, the Stranglehold had come up short one too many times. No one thought they would ever see their faces around there again, not after such a defeat.

Those who thought that… were dead wrong.

“All My Life” by the Foo Fighters roared over the arena sound system, foreshadowing what was to come. Jeff Garvin pushed through the curtains and walked out onto the staging, greeted with a chorus of boos. Jeff smiled, looking from side to side, soaking in the hatred from the crowd.

Cameras panned back to ringside just as the Original began to take a stroll down the ramp while his new wife, Julie Garvin, sister of former Action! Champion, Joey Malone, came strutting out. She followed her husband down the ramp way. He stopped occasionally to taunt the fans, piss them off even more than they already were. Up the steel steps he marched, Julie not far behind, and entered the cage.

After collecting a microphone from the announcer, Garvin walked back to the centre of the ring and put his arm around his wife. He brought the mike up to his mouth and began to speak- the first time he had ever stood in an Asylum ring without the Stranglehold. The crowd booed louder than they had all night, unsure of why he was back here. Nothing had been put down on paper, but much speculation stated that if the Stranglehold lost it would be their last match.

“Please, shut up and let me speak…” Jeff spoke up. The fans quickly responded with even more jeers. “I said, shut the fuck up… I have something to say and it’s important, unlike all of your pathetic, little lives.” The bitterness in his voice was that of a distant memory, during his tenure with the Stranglehold, he had never been given the time to truly get out his feelings.

But tonight was the night. It was time to get a few things of his chest and into the open. Julie sneered at the fans. She hated Jeff Garvin, they had only been married for about a week and she already couldn’t stand him… it was a true match made in hell, but for some reason, she didn’t want anyone else trashing her husband but her.

Garvin gritted his teeth together and gave it one last try, “…You see… It’s about departure from the Asylum.”

Cheers. The audience stood and began to clap, whistle, and hoot. Ever since they first saw the Original on Asylum television they had been waiting for this day. The day when they could at last be rid of him. He was everything they hated ten fold… He was a coward, he was arrogant and cocky, but most of all he was a wrestler… and he was proud of it. The crowd quieted down, hoping that his final words would be short and sweet so they could get on with the show.

“…Which… Will not be happening anytime soon.”

Garvin put on an unstable, wry smile and gave a slight cackle. He loved this part of the job: getting the fan’s hopes up, jerking with their emotions… fucking with them. It was the next best thing to being in that ring competing. Much booing followed, they still weren’t sure what he meant but they knew it couldn’t be good. “Don’t get me wrong, ever since I first came here I have wanted to leave. Simply put, this place is a shit hole. It’s not suitable for the scum, for insects, I’ll even go as far as to say this place isn’t good enough to dump trash in. Though, I see there is quiet a few pieces of trailer trash lingering around…” Garvin said, looking out amongst the audience.

“However, a few days before the Empty Arena match at Persecution, I started to see holes in our plan to take down the Zone. I could almost envision our inevitable loss at the PPV but I kept my mouth shut. I was never a major player in the Stranglehold, I damn sure should have been but I wasn’t… Others, less qualified others, were given that privilege and look where it got us,” Garvin pointed to his black eye, his split lip, and the other countless lacerations decorating his face. “…I didn’t agree to join the fucking Stranglehold so I could sit back and watch us fuck up time after time…

“I joined because I thought we were here to do one thing, and one thing only… to bring the Asylum to its knees and have it beg for mercy. Our plan resembled that of a true wrestling match- start out strong and beat it into submission… lock in a hold and don’t let go. We had that hold synched in and what did we do? We fucking let go.

“Correction… THEY let go. I’m Jeff fucking Garvin; I’m the Original… When I have a submission hold on an opponent you better be damn sure they’re not going anywhere. They are the reason the Stranglehold is no more, not me! But, who gives a shit, I don’t need them. I don’t need any of them! My mission from day one was to fight for wrestling, not for 21w, not for Action!, and not for the fWo, but for WRESTLING! To prove that MY sport is far superior… and that objective still stands. The 21w losers failed, my Stranglehold team-mates failed, but I…will…NOT!

“I’m not through with the Asylum or it’s poor excuse for a roster just yet. I haven’t proved my point! That is why I had my good friend, Chris Universal, draw me up a brand spanking new contract before his ownership was relinquished. That’s right, I’m not going ANYWHERE! I’m here to stay for a long, long, LONG time! I will bring class, tradition, and honour to the Asylum, it’s as simple as that. I won’t be satisfied until there is nothing left of the Asylum competition and I stand at the top… holding YOUR world heavyweight championship belt…

“…Which I will then have publicly destroyed. Why? Because NO fighter deserves to be called a champion.”

The crowd erupted in boos, as the infamous ‘Ass Hole’ chant began. Though it didn’t last long…

‘Smack Ma’ Bitch Up!’

Yes, the song by Prodigy… the Asylum owner’s personal entrance theme. Joe Campbell marched from the back, a microphone in his hand and a blatant pissed off look on his face. There was no denying, this news hadn’t made his day.

“No! No! NO! You get the FUCK out!” Joe waited and he didn’t budge. “Fine, then I’ll just have security throw your ass out!”

Once again, Joe waited but no one came. He was furious, he turned back around just as the Original began to speak.

“Oh,” Jeff began, “don’t worry about them… I had a little talk with the your goons earlier. Gave them a quick run through of the contract…”

Joe immediately blew up after hearing that, he just couldn’t hold it back any longer. There’s usually three modes to Joe Campbell; there is pissed, super pissed, and finally, pissed (as in drunk). At this moment, Joe was stuck between column B and C.

“Fuck you! I can fire who ever the HELL that I bloody want! You’re no different!”

“Oh, really now? Shall we check the contract?” He dug in the inner pocket of his jacket and produced a thick document. Flipping through, he came to a page in the middle and put his finger down to mark the spot. “It reads: Said employer must have a viable excuse for terminating the contract of the employee. Basically what that means, for all you dim wits out there, is that Joe is powerless. As long as I stay out of his way, I’ll be here for quite some time.

“And there isn’t anything you can do about that.”

“Oh really? Well, we’ll see about that… We’ll see how long you fucking last when my fighters get a hold of your pansy ass! Then we’ll see who has the power… Bitch.”

‘Smack Ma’ Bitch Up!’ by Prodigy.

As the music cued up, Joe Campbell backed out. Leaving a somewhat weary Jeff Garvin standing in the cage.

“…What does he know anyway?”

FtfWo Vs Bradley Duncan
(Handicap Match)

Then "Born of a Broken Man" by Rage Against The Machine hit. He walked out through the entrance. The Fans engulfed him. His eyes were set only on the demonic structure that was the Asylum up ahead of him. The Fans, still not really knowing who Bradley Duncan was, though some of the old PIW Fans knew him and cheered wildly. He walked into the Asylum.

The butterflies? Squashed. The sweating? Sponged up. He was calm. He was in his element. He was home.

He had intruders. "Fuck the fWo comin' straight from the underground!"

Of course, that signified the entrance of Dead and Perfect. FtfWo.

"Fuck that shit 'cause I ain't the one..." continued the song, as Dead and Perfect entered the Asylum. They stood opposite 'The Silent One'. Dead then whispered to Perfect, "Remember what he said about you're momma. Tear his ass up!"

And then the fight was on.

FtfWo were about to charge at Bradley, when Perfect grabbed Dead's arm. "What?" Dead asked. "We've gotta get all Pikachu on his ass for what he said about your mom!"

"I know," said Perfect, "but I need to apply the ring."

Dead nodded, "Okay, I'll keep him busy."

Perfect dropped down onto the floor and began to pull off his left boot. Dead charged at Bradley and shouted, "ARRRRMMMMDRRRAAAGGGG!!!!!" And, just like he had said, he went for an armdrag. Of course, he grabbed Duncan's arm, and Bradley, well, he didn't move. Duncan slammed Dead hard across the face with an elbow smash.

Dead dropped to his knees holding his face. "OW!" he screamed, "That hurt!" From across the Asylum Perfect shouted, "Stop getting hit!"

Dead shot back, "I'm working on it!"

BAM!

Yup, another hard elbow smash. Dead wasn't feeling too well. But Dead had to give Perfect time. The Power of the Big Left Toe. That would suredly knock Duncan the fuck out.

Duncan pulled Dead from the ground and drove his knee hard into his gut. Dead let out a loud "Omph!", and then Perfect called out, "You're doing great! Keep it up! I've almost got the ring out!"

What? Almost got it out? Out of where? Where was he keeping the thing?

Bradley wasn't one to worry about such things. He pushed Dead into the mesh cage, and went to charge. Dead was quick like a cat. If that cat had a sudden case of "deer-in-headlights", because Dead was flattened into the cage with a spear. He tumbled to the floor when Perfect jumped up, like he had just won a race or something.

"I've done it! Power ring, activate!"

He leapt up, and began to hobble over towards Bradley. The ring caused him to walk funny. He then tapped Duncan on the shoulder, as he was ramming his knee into the face of Dead.

"Eat brass, you bleeding twat!!!"

He kicked at Duncan.

The crowd let out a gasp.

Had 'The Slient One' been knocked the fuck out?

Not exactly.

Okay, not even in the damn ballpark. It was a big swing and a miss. It sounded exactly like,

"WHIFF!"

He fell flat on his back and Duncan just shook his head. Perfect then stood up as Bradley turned back towards Dead. Perfect said, "Oh ho ho! So you want some more? Then you'll get some!"

Xyqznik! Yup, Dead had jumped up and given Duncan a roundhouse kick. Ok, that was the plan. It hit Bradley, sure, just, well, not anywhere that it could do some damage. Duncan gave Dead an open palm strike in the chest, knocking him back into the mesh.

Bradley then turned and Perfect went at it again. Duncan, however, caught the foot on the second time. Perfect then poked Duncan in the eyes and ran. He ran like only a man fearing for his life could. But the ring was slowing him down. Slumped against the mesh, Dead yelled,

"Lose the ring, Perfect! Lose the ring!"

"NEVER!" shot back Perfect. He was just running in circles. Duncan just watched him. He finally just put out a foot and tripped up Perfect. He tumbled into his partner, as 'The Silent One' walked towards them.

"Oh dear lord!" screamed Dead as he leapt into the arms of his partner, Perfect. Perfect looked at Dead, and then down at his groin area. "What did you do?" he asked. Dead gave him a shy, embarrassed smile, and batted his eye lashes. He had soiled himself. Perfect then put down Dead, and the two of them ripped off their right shoes.

Duncan was coming closer.

They tossed the shoes!

THUMP!

THUMP!

Dead's bounced off Duncan's chest, while Perfect's missed by a good foot. Poink had failed them. Which, actually, wasn't that surprising.

Bradley then grabbed their heads and slammed them together. As they fell, Dead said, "I'll never forget you, Perfect." Perfect shot back, "Shut it you stupid twat!"

Dead then pulled off his other shoe and thew it at Perfect. It missed. They were so screwed. They had no shoes left! Only the ring!

"USE THE RING!" cried Dead. But it was too late.

Duncan had put Dead in the Figure Four Leg Lock. Perfect tried to get away, but the ring, it prevented him from doing so. So he tried it again.

The Power of the Big Left Toe!

Duncan blocked it! Ankle Lock!

What were they going to do? Get free. HA!

Tap Out. That was the only option.

Well, there was crying. They did it. They had lost.

Bradley Duncan had won his first fight without 'The Danger Man'. It felt good.

Ty Hughes’s car drove over the wood, snapping branches under the wheels. But as the driver’s door swung open, it became apparent that Ty Hughes was not the driver. With a red gleam in his eyes and a sheen on the black leather of his trenchcoat, The Freak stepped out into the headlights. His face lit up a pale yellow in the light, and in his left hand Hughes’s car keys dangled.

The Freak strolled around to the back of the car, his breath puffing out white steam in front of his face, and inserted a key into the trunk. The lid popped up, and there, squirming and wriggling, was Ty Hughes. His hands were cuffed behind his back, and his eyes were taped shut.

“Hello Ty… have we had a good sleep back there?” The Freak said, sarcastically.

Ty shot his boot upwards and smacked The Freak in the face with a heavy kick. The Freak hissed and grabbed Hughes’s leg, dragging him out of the trunk and sprawling him across the floor. Hughes laughed crazily as The Freak laid in boot after boot to his back.

“That look on your face when I kicked you… priceless, just priceless!” Hughes chuckled to himself, as The Freak rained boots down on him. The Freak was getting frenzied, smacking Hughes with his heavy soles over and over.

“Get up, you dog!” The Freak rasped, grabbing Hughes by the scruff of his neck and throwing him into a tree.

“Ahh! Fuck, where am I? Your garden?” Hughes shouted, stumbling around in the darkness.

“The world is my garden. You are the weed, corrupting it. I think it’s time that I kept the flower alive and disposed of the parasites,” The Freak said, as he reached into the passenger door and pulled out a steering lock. He stalked behind one of the trees nearby, making sure not to make to loud a sound… as Hughes wandered about aimlessly. “Look at me!” The Freak laughed.

Hughes spun around and kicked out, hitting only a tree.

“Look at me!”

This time, Hughes was CERTAIN the voice was coming from behind him. He was wrong, as his boots struck nothing but air.

*THUNK*

The Freak smashed the steering lock over the back of Hughes’s neck, knocking him to his knees. Hughes heard heavy breathing, not breaths of exhaustion but almost as if The Freak was sucking in the oxygen… as if it was a pleasurable thing.

“You humans taint this world. Our gas of life, oxygen, is breathed in and spat out as Carbon Dioxide by you; humans are poison. You take so much for granted, nature… breathing, water, food, life itself. We are the hunting animals, living in a world of supermarkets, Hughes. Us humans… no, you humans, taint the atmosphere. You are the ruin. Humans… the pox on animalkind. Consider themselves so important, SO above the rest of the world.

“Well you’re not. Humans are below rats. Below lake scum. Below frogspawn. Below amoebas. Because whilst animals got the world right…

“We got it wrong, and pretended that we are right.”

Hughes dragged himself to his feet by leaning his head against a tree as his feet found footing. He didn’t dare lash out, in case he once again was struck with the metal object that The Freak had bludgeoned him with but minutes before. Hughes instead tried to keep quiet, trying to figure out where The Freak was…

“You like this don’t you, your enemies not bein’ able see you?” Ty grunted.

“Ah. It isn’t I that you should worry about… no. You shouldn’t be worrying about anybody. You should worry about your isolation, in the middle of a woods… with no eyes or arms. Ty… welcome to nowhere.

“Population- you. Thousand of trees, and a pack of wolves howling in the distance.”

With that, The Freak hopped into the driver’s door of the car, and slammed it behind him.

“Goodbye Hughes.” He said, as he twisted his key in the ignition and started the engine.

“Wha…? You’re LEAVING ME HERE?!” Hughes wailed, as he attempted to run at the car and tripped over a twig… landing flat on his face. His teeth were jarred together, and Hughes once more descended into unconsciousness as The Freak drove away.

No sight, no arms. No heat.

Hughes was asleep in forty acres of green.