Campbell shook his head. "Something's not right."

Karen Pembridge looked around, still somewhat surprised to find herself within the confines of an arena housing an Asylum event. For months, she was on the run, searching for answers to the questions she had, uncovering mystery after mystery. And generally trying to stay alive. She never could have imagined such an ending to the year 2003. The Lassie still considered herself a relative tenderfoot to the whole concept of fighting and/or wrestling.

But, since her professional debut in tFZ in April 2002, The Manucian Girl had been making waves with her edgy and gritty fighting, coupled with a no-nonsense attitude and rounded off with tenacity that'd make most men awe in wonder of how she could endure so much punishment, yet dish out even MORE.

Maybe being the brother to a callous and sadistic bastard could have had something to do with that?

Karen continued to ambulate about backstage, getting reacquianted with the surroundings that had been home to her since March 2003 to October 2003. She'd fought many a foe in a rather short time in theAsylum, and undoubtedly caught the eye of Joe Campbell for many reasons. One of 'em being Karen was a woman. In Joe's eyes, women in tA were only meant to suck his dick. He'd remembered the brutal, long-standing war with Nerva and her movement.

Campbell did not want a reprise at any costs.

Several officials greeted Karen, who acknowledged them with a fake smile and a slight nod of the head. They were all Joe's lackeys, and right now, she had the yearning to visit the degenerate and perverse owner, to gloat in his face. But she wasn't in the best physical condition following the savage showdown with Fejona Min & Natalie Quinston at pAin IV. She wasn't even expecting to fight, much less regain her job.

But certain things had a way of working out, and it was just retribution for Joe Campbell in the end. Plus, with Karen managing to tie up some loose ends while on the forced sabbatical, she was left with nothing to do. The one 'mission' she had was also now hanging in limbo, due to some ghastly and murky circumstances.

Meaning, she'd be going crazy with boredom if she hadn't, unprecedentedly, regained her job back.

Karen walked slowly, trying to decide if she really did wanted to barge into Campbell’s office and gloat about how she spent her New Year's NOT being in jail, not paying much attention to what was in front of her as she walked. Accidentally, she bumped the shoulder of a stranger and both stumbled back a little. Karen looked up and saw a girl that she had never seen before.

"I’m sorry," the lady said. "I wasn’t paying attention to where I was going."

“Quite alright, I was doing about the same m'self, really!" Karen smiled. "I’m Karen. Karen Pembridge.

"Oh, hello Karen, I’m Heather Vergas," she replied, flashing her teeth as well. "I just started working here, actually."

Well, Karen wondered to herself, she was either one of Joe’s whores or a new fighter; and The Lassie didn’t think she had the look of one of Joe’s whores, but with his tastes, it was hard to tell. He had the money and the revolver to coerce any woman he wanted to sleep with him.

"Ah, interesting. I just got my job back here m'self. Long story, but one thing's simple enough; it’s definitely a strange place to work. Just make sure to steer clear of Campbell, as he has this thing about being a bloody sleazy cockhead. That actually sums up how I was fired in the first place, heh."

Heather nodded, taking Karen's words to heart.

"That’s what I’ve heard, but I’m not too worried about Joe Campbell. I’ve dealt with a lot worse people then him. My father is probably one of them, unfortunately," Vergas sighed.

Karen frowned and put her arm around the disconsolate-looking Heather, to comfort her. Seeing that the father thing was seemingly like a touchy subject. Nothing lesbian here though, so don’t get your hopes up. Although... wait, never mind. Perverts. Get laid already, will you?

...

Back to this, then.

"So are you new to the fighting circle, then?" The Lassie asked as the two began walking to the cafeteria.

"Not entirely, though the fighting style of the Asylum will be something that might take some getting used too!" Heather smiled a bit at her last comment though; she didn’t care the means by which she had to fight, as long as she got to fight.

The chance to step out of her father’s shadow was something she wanted, something this was going to provide.

"It’s not as bad as you think, although it’s not a fast moving process. I’m still getting used to the style m'self, but don’t worry. You now have ME to help you along now too."

Heather cocked her head to the side, looking at Karen with a little bit of question and a little bit of shock in her dark emerald eyes. She didn’t expect anyone in the entire hellhole of the Asylum to be nice to her. Attempt to rape was almost something that was a given, but kindness and friendship was something that took her back.

It was an offer she wasn’t going to refuse though, as she didn’t have many friends in her short life and this was something that almost made her heart leap for joy. She hadn’t been looking for this, but it kind of fell into her lap. Other business needed to be attended too, though; business Heather couldn’t put off.

"Wow, that's just great. Thanks, Karen. Listen, I have to make a couple of calls, personal matters. But if you want, we could meet up at the end of the show and have a quick chat about how you got fired. Seems like something I should know, since Campbell's an utter bastard."

Pembridge smile and nodded. The two shook hands and mouthed their goodbyes to each other. The Lassie looked up and realised she was just outside the cafeteria room.

Peering inside, she saw that all the food was gone. Shaking her head in dismay, thinking that Campbell's greedy lackeys must have horded the refreshment for themselves, Karen proceeded back to her room. Still thinking about Heather, and how she seemed entirely different from the other women in the organisation. She really only knew of Fejona, Natalie, and Jada Marie Hunter. All three seemed psychotic to her, and the Manucian wouldn't consider 'em friends even if her life depended on it.

Vergas appeared to be a genuinely good person. Which, of course, brought Karen to her next problem?

"What the sodding hell am I to do tonight?"

Sighing, she trekked back dejectedly to her locker-room. Pleased that she'd managed to make a new friend and act like a big sister at the same time. Iffy because she had a very big problem on her hands. Sure, she was bloody glad to be part of theAsylum again.

But the question she had on her mind was...

Where would she go from here?

As he saw a stage hand he took the headphones from his ears and walked up to the worker. "Is Campbell here tonight?"

"I‘m not sure really. I haven't seen him at all today." The man barely got the words out and Burton had already started walking away, shaking his head back and forth unhappily. He looked around and took in the sights as he put the headphones back on, once again oblivious to the sounds of his surroundings.

Burton, even though he hadn't gone to pAin, had heard all about what Campbell has gotten himself into. Though quite honestly, he figured Campbell would've gotten himself out of the situation, and been back to his pointless day to day rituals.

Ah well. Looks like Burton's got to deal with his issues himself.

In Avenger's mind this was a time for reflection and jubilation. He had managed to get in, get out, get what he wanted and get Joe Campbell back into this paper mache seat of power. All in enough time to where only a couple of fighters would question his whereabouts. 20 minutes or so into the show he would take his promotion at the reign for the last time.

Avenger's stroll was that of a man in charge. His thoughts lay on vengence for a murder. Justice. Probity. He had to keep reminding himself of that.

"YOU DID IT."

Avenger stopped dead in his tracks. As if he heard something of a second meaning in the excliamation.
Avegner turned around and an old man in his 50's or 60's was walking towards him in an off-gray suit. He quickly grabbed Avenger's hand and shook it.

He was obviously some kind of public official.

"You did it. No one knows you did, but I do. And son, I just wanted to thank you. Thank you for upholding what the law in this country means. Apparently Campbell got off on a technicality. But, from this moment on he might learn to respect the law. So, again son, thank you from the bottom of my heart."

The old man was gleaming like a fanatic child. Avenger just smiled fatherly.

"I was only doing my job as an American."

He then continued his confident stroll.

Campbell blinked, and shook his head. He'd just five minutes berating Fejona Min over the whole situation regarding Karen Pembridge, but all the Cambodian Femme Fatale cared about was gaining vengeance on Santos Salvatore. He looked up at Fejona, then shifted his focus over to Natalie Quinston who was leaning against the office door, then back to Fejona. The two assasins who had failed him had looked past the disappointment of not accomplishing the mission, and was now concentrating on somebody else.

The man that had a helping hand in ensuring Karen Pembridge got her job back.

"Yeah, okay, you and Santos... tonight. But I don't feckin' care about that idiot. I care about the TWO of you, because not only is that cunt Karen alive, but she's a bloody employee of mine again! Sure, I could fire her arse a second time, but I have no assurance that she won't come back and kill me.

Hence, the part about ME making a deal with YOU TWO, where the aim was... let's see, what was the aim?
Oh yeah; KAREN WAS SUPPOSED TO FUCKIN' DIE!"

Fejona, wearing a black sleeveless tanktop with blue jeans and black pumps, cleared her throat and looked over her shoulder at Natalie, who bit her lower lip and shrugged. They were hoping that Joe wouldn't bring that up, but considering it was a major issue, all their praying was in vain. Nervous, Fejona turned and looked back at Joe, who was drumming his fingers against the surface of his table, waiting for an explanation.

Min sighed silently, and gave in.

... No, she didn't explain. She simply did the ol' show some cleavage trick, as she rested her hands on Campbell's table and leaned over. And it garnered the intended target, as expected. Joe suddenly gulped and began to imagine the nasty things he'd like to do to Fejona, as he stared at her tits. But despite being the biggest pervert ever and a highly-sexed bum, Joe Campbell wasn't quite in the mood for his 'little general' to be called into action.

And Fejona knew exactly the dimensions of Joe Campbell's 'little general', as per events of pAin IV.

Plus, Joe wasn't in the best of moods, what with the
little problem known as Avenger. His eyebrows creased and the Brit snapped himself out of the trance, looking back at Fejona's face. Min smirked knowingly, before leaning in even further, hoping to 'seduce' Joe even more. Now even Natalie was smiling, realising what Fejona was up to. Of course, neither woman realised that Campbell had miraculously gotten the bulge in his pants to... simmer down.

"Listen, Joe, it was an unprecendented turn of events. Everybody makes mistakes. And I know you're a man who doesn't like mistakes..." Fejona started, which brought an immediate snort and a rebuttal from Campbell. "Oh, I'm fucken glad you know of my policy to deep six those who have the cheek to cheat me out of some money by bollocking me about a bloody SIMPLE task that they eventually, miserably enough, fail at accomplishing!"

Fejona took her hands off the table and bore a hole straight through Campbell, who was raging mad now. He'd been in a torrid mood all week, and the cunt standing in front of him was going out of her way to agitate him even more. But he'd struck a sensitive nerve in Min, who was slowly starting to take this whole Karen Pembridge deal a little more personal than she'd expected.

And for Joe to imply that he was going to kill her and Natalie? She had a problem with that. A big one.

"Right, and you hired us WOMEN to do your dirty work, which was killing a WOMAN. Why is that, exactly?"

For the first time in a while, Campbell realised that he had no smart-ass answer to fire back with and simply sat glued at his chair, his eyes locked with Fejona's in something resembeling a Western showdown. Scratching at his facial hair, the Brit noticed that Natalie Quinston was now standing alongside Min, both of them sporting giant smirks on their faces.

Joe, however, knew that he'd have the last laugh eventually, thanks to the blowjob clause in Fejona's contract that the Cambodian Femme Fatale didn't even know about. So, he decided upon a 'compromise'. If you could even call it that.

"Shite, I don't really have a good answer for that. But you listen to me; I paid you good money to get rid of Karen Pembridge, and I've given you bloody good contracts with reasonable salaries, considering you're a pair of dykes. I'm going to make this clear -- I don't care how you do it, but one way or another, I want Karen Pembridge out of my hair.

And if she ain't dead by the time FightHell comes around, I'll have every right to fire your sodding arses! As for that tosser Santos; you want him, you've got him. Feck, I'll make it a Handicapped Fight. The poof's not even in the arena now, but I'll have someone inform him of the latest developements.

Anything else?"

Natalie beamed, happy that she'd be able to get her hands on Salvatore too, but Fejona surprisingly frowned.

"Yes. I'd rather it'd just be myself against Santos, if it's alright with you?" Min queried, drawing a weary shrug from Joe, indicating that he didn't really give a fuck.

Naturally, Natalie Quinston was taken aback. She definitely gave a fuck.

"Um, hi; I was the one Santos beat on during the fight. Had I been there, Karen wouldn't have won and whatnot. It's his fault for taking ME out of the picture, how could you NOT want me there?"

Fejona turned to her partner and gave her a reassuring smile, while Joe secretly smirked, rather enjoying this sudden dissention between the two assasins. Or as the Asylum owner termed them, 'dykes'.

"Because, you're still rather raw. Joe wasn't supposed to even put you in a fight until I deem you're ready. That was our deal if you remember. I do, and I've kept MY end of the bargain. I'd like to think that you would do the same, considering the nature of our relationship and how it has grown. It's nothing personal; rather, I'd just like to punish Santos, and I think between the two of us, I have more of the capability to harm him, yes?" Min responded matter-of-factly.

Natalie had no response, and half-nodded, before turning and dragging herself towards the office door. Fejona glanced back at Campbell and nodded at him, before she and Natalie took her leave. Joe put his feet up on the table and began to ponder about whether Fejona & Natalie could actually achieve the target set by him.

Then, he shook his head and silently berated himself.

"Women in theAsylum. Bah. When will I ever learn?"

Those lines ran through the head of Thanh Vactor all week long after his encounter with his new “partner” Carson Nash at pAin 4. Thanh had been Joe’s sole bodyguard for quite awhile now and he was used to things running as so. Now it was apparent that he would have some competition and Thanh wasn’t so happy about that. He spent the entire week in somewhat of a pissed off mood wondering how things would go down the following week on The Show.

Now The Show was currently underway and things were going pretty much the same as always. Joe was located behind his desk swigging down some whiskey with one hand and playing with his gun in his other hand. He also had on the porn that he loved to watch oh so much while drinking. Thanh was located in his usual spot in the corner next to the door waiting to pound anyone that came in to the room that wasn’t welcomed. Joe could sense his slave was a little down and out though because Thanh wasn’t his cheery looking self. Instead he was standing there looking sad and like he wanted to do something about it. Joe wondered to himself if it was just the booze making him imagine things or not because the way Thanh was acting wasn’t much different from normal but he thought he sensed a little difference in him, so what the hell he might as well find out what’s going on.

“Thanh, Thanh my friend. What’s going on over there in your head? You look like you’re down and out. You not getting any pussy lately or what? That the problem? Haven’t had any in awhile?” Joe spat out a little sloppily thanks to the booze. He also let out a slight chuckle at his own words.

Thanh just stood there and continued to stare at the door with his intense “I’ll kill you if you fuck with me” look.

“Hey you bloody cunt, I asked you a question. You not getting enough pussy or what? Is that your problem?” Joe said once again, waiting for an answer from his slave/bodyguard.

Thanh stood there for a second staring at the door then he turned his gaze to his employer and looked at him with an intense stare for a few seconds. The look almost made Joe a little uneasy but he was heavily intoxicated so he just shrugged it off with another swig of booze.

“If you’re having problem getting pussy over here friend I can arrange for some women to pay a visit to our little office here. It would be no problem at all. Just give me the word and you’ll have all the women you could ever want. You know why? Because I respect my employees and show my appreciation to them when I can, that's why.” Joe said with another chuckle at the total lie he had just let out.

“Fuck you, Joe.” Thanh let slip out of his mouth out of no where.

“WHAT THE FUCK DID YOU JUST SAY TO ME?!” Joe yelled out as he spilt booze on himself at the same time. Joe then hopped out of his chair and stalked right over to the corner where Thanh was located and shoved the gun right in to his face.

“What the fuck did you just say to me, you shit head?” Joe asked again. Keeping the gun leveled right at Thanh’s face, ready to shoot if needed.

“I’m gonna ask you one more time you sack of shit, and if you don’t answer me then you’re gonna get a fucking bullet in your head. Do you understand me? So what the fuck did you say to me?” Joe barked out angrily waiting for a response.

“Nothing. I said nothing.” Thanh responded with keeping his eyes focused on Joe’s eyes staring in to them intensely. Thanh wouldn’t be intimidated by Joe or his gun and he wanted Joe to know that.

“That’s good, that’s real good. That’s what I thought you would say.” Joe said as he lowered the gun and turned around and returned to his chair behind his desk ready to swig some more booze.

“Now when you figure out what the fuck your problem is, you let me know alright? Because we’ll take care of it like we always do. You got me you cock knocker?” Joe said looking at Thanh who just continued to stand there.

Thanh gave a slight nod and returned his attention to the door and his job of keeping Joe safe. For now he would keep his mouth shut about his problems and do his job.

Fejona Min Vs Santos Salvatore

And the crowd were on their feet, jeering, with the arrival of Fejona Min on the scene. Six days removed from a gruelling battle with Karen Pembridge in which she lost, Fejona seeked to gain revenge on the person that actually had a helping hand in Karen's victory. With Natalie Quinston asked to stay behind, although it was because of HER that this fight was even going to take place, Fejona looked a little... 'naked' in a sense.

Nevertheless, confidence was written all over her face as she climbed into the cage, her attire unchanged sans footwear; she was barefoot. Min looked out at the audience with a hateful smirk, dying for the fight to commence. Vengeance was on the agenda as far as Fejona was concerned, and she was feeling a little paranoid about people mocking her, for the Cambodian's defeat to Karen Pembridge. After all, Fejona *did* say that she was going to eclipse whatever legacy and status Karen had built up in theAsylum.

But how was she supposed to do that if she couldn't even beat The British Lassie? Fejona didn't have much time to think about it, however. The arena's lights dimmed, and the crowd's jeering was quickly drowned out.

"Donuts & Porno" by KoRn.

Despite the fact that he had YET to win a fight in tA, the fans were beginning to take a real liking to Santos, who was showing a different, more fearless side to himself. A bit of a contrast to his previous tenure in the organisation, when he was dealing with the maniacal and psychotic Jada Marie Hunder. In any case, Santos raised his arms in the air as he appeared from the back, decked out in a pair of black jeans and black shoes, deciding to go bare-bodied on this occasion.

Needless to say, Fejona simply snorted, not impressed at the sight of Salvatore's upper-body. Nor did she really care for too much chest hair on a man. But hey, chest hair is secksy.

Anyways, as Salvatore climbed into the cage, the official got the fight underway, giving the crowd something to roar about. Santos & Fejona locked eyes as they circled each other, both parties running strategies in their respective minds. After about twenty seconds, Santos decided to play around, feigning a lunge at Min, who was forced into a defensive stance. Santos laughed out loudly at that and so did the crowd, which obviously didn't go down well with Fejona.

"Come on, old man, I haven't got all day."

Santos simply shrugged, still smiling, and began to actually move in on Min. The latter did the same, and without warning, lashed out with left roundhouse that was aimed at Sal's right shoulder. The Cambodian had obviously done her homework, but Sonny was one step ahead, managing to swat the kick away with his right forearm. Fejona immediately tried to follow up with a left hook, but that too was blocked. Right hook? Blocked again. Frustrated, Min went for another hook with the left hand, only to have it act as a decoy while she let her right fist crash into Salvatore with an uppercut.

Wait, that's not what happened.

See, Sal blocked the fake hook with his right forearm and before the uppercut could connect, the Brazilian pitfighter managed to get his right hand back up again, catching Min's arm and slightly twisting it. Min was naturally surprised, allowing Santos to execute a classic palm heel strike, directly into the middle of Fejona's face! A wonderful karate technique performed to perfection by Santos Salvatore, who again grinned as Fejona staggered backwards. Sensing that he had a genuine chance to pile on the pressure, the Survivor Of CEG rushed at Min and attempted to score with a good ol'-fashioned clothesline.

Unfortunately, Min managed to duck underneath it and retaliated with a hard chop to the back of Sallie's neck, following up with a well-timed sidekick to the back of the Brazilian's right knee. Santos dropped to his knees in an instant, allowing Fejona to take half a step back... before almost decapitating Santos with a sidekick to the back of his head! The catch here was that Sal's head crashed into the mesh of the cage hard, as a result of the power behind Min's sidekick.
The Brazilian was on his back, motionless, and the official got the count started as Fejona -- prematurely enough -- raised her arms in the air;

One.

Two.

Three.

Four.

Five.

Six.

And Sonny was up, albeit still dazed from Fejona's attack. Annoyed, Fejona brought her arms down and moved forward, watching Santos like a hawk as he stumbled closer to her. Once he was close enough and still stoned, Min struck with a quick hook to Sal's face, before quickly attempting an armbar takedown. Sonny managed to jolt himself back to real time in the nick of time, however, and offered resistance which took Min completely by surprise. And as if that wasn't enough, Santos smashed his fist into Min's face by way of a crushing jab, before he turned the tables on the Cambodian and slammed her down to the ground with a flipping armbar!

A move that all started to applaud for, until Fejona -- who'd just made impact with the canvas -- raised both her legs up in the air and forcefully shoved her bare feet into Salvatore's face. Santos was sent reeling once again, and Min decided to waste no time in following up, rolling on her back. The second she was upright, the Cambodian Femme Fatale charged at Sonny, who was more interested in tending to the minor cut below his right eye.

Either that or he was playing possum. Probably the latter, as documented with his sudden double leg-trap trip, more commonly known as a drop toe hold. Min's face crashed down onto the rim and she gasped for air, part of her neck having made unprotected contact with the rim as well. Santos kickflipped his way up and noticing that Fejona was practically bending over the rim, trying to regain his marbles, the Brazilian decided to kill two birds with one stone.

He *grabbed* Fejona's arse and squeezed it, before shoving her over the rim and out of the cage. The deafening roars of approval from the crowd pleased Santos and he turned around, raising his arms in the air, jubilant that he'd finally won a match AND he'd managed to feel a woman's arse of his own accord.

BUT.

What he didn't know was that only one of Fejona's foot touched the ground. Min herself was thankful that the shove from Santos didn't have enough behind it and sent her legs soaring back over the rim, although she then found it hard to actually COMPLETELY get back into the cage.

Santos judged by the official's vigorous head-shakin' that Min was actually still in the fight, and as he turned around to see for himself, Fejona Min's legs snaked out towards his head, locking it in something of a headscissors choke! Taken aback, Salvatore tried his hardest to squirm out of the unique hold but Fejona wasn't budging. Not one bit. And considering she had it locked in tightly from such a precarious position, it was no wonder a small section of the crowd were actually busting their nuts over what was happening in the cage.

Sal, however, knew that there was always Plan B.

Plan B?

Plan B.

What is Plan B?

Wrap hands around attacker's thighs (mmmm, thighs) and whilst exerting pressure, taking a few steps backwards. Once opponent starts to tense up due to panic, slam oppponent down onto the ground.

*KA-BLAM*

Maximum impact desperation move, and Santos Salvatore looked like he had this one in the bag. Fejona wasn't moving, and the fans were going nuts.

Time for the count;

One.

Two.

Three.

Four.

Five.

Six.

Seven.

Eight.

Surprisingly enough, the Cambodian Femme Fatale had recovered. Aching all over, yes. Determined not to give up so easily? Hell yeah. She stumbled forward, seeking to balance herself by resting against the cage wall, but the support appeared to be miles away from her. The counter-slam by Santos almost flattened her like a pancake, and she was having trouble getting her head on straight.

This suited the Survivor Of CEG perfectly, and he rushed forward, attempting to finish Min off with a running jumping sidekick.

Fejona's quickness and ability, however, enabled her to duck and roll underneath Salvatore. And once she popped up back to her feet, Santos had inadvertently got himself into position for a Muay Thai attack from the Cambodian Femme Fatale; a thrusting heart kick, to be more specific. Salvatore flew backwards, crashing his lower spine against the rim of the Asylum cage! Fejona wasn't content with just the heart kick, though. With her opponent in an even more vulnerable position, she leapt into the air and connected beautifully with a outward axe kick.

Game, set, match.

Santos Salvatore found himself bundled over the rim of the cage, and that was all there was to it.

...

Well, no, not really. As did Fejona moments before, Santos defied the law of physics and gravity and some other mumbo-jumbo, grabbing the rim of the cage just a *nanosecond* before his head got acquianted with the arena's concrete floor. Fejona was wide-eyed with disbelief, and was basically seething mad.

You'd be too if you performed a kick-arse move, and it STILL didn't get the job done.

Thankful for his instinctive reaction, Santos hoisted himself over the rim of the cage like a seesaw and smashed both his feet into Min's face, who was about to launch a knuckle missile at Sal's gonads in hope of completely knocking over. Min collapsed to the canvas, and Sonny decided that he had an opportunity to really settle the contest.

So, once his feet his the canvas floor, Santos found himself jumping back onto the rim of the cage, balancing himself as cautiously as he could before standing up. The crowd held their breath in anticipation, and Sal's eyes twinkled with malicious intent, as he taunted Fejona to regain her vertical standing. Despite blood flowing freely out of her nose like fresh lava out of a very active volcano, the Cambodian found the strength to do *exactly* what Santos wanted.

And then, everybody got to watch Air Salvatore take flight.

...

*SMACK*

Flying kamikaze headbutt, as the Brazilian's head crashed into Fejona's face! Both bodies collapsed to the canvas, with both fighters hurting like fuck from that risky move. But the crowd didn't care. They were delirious, and couldn't quite believe what they had just seen.

"SANTOS ROCKS! SANTOS ROCKS! SANTOS ROCKS!"

He deserved every chant he was getting, simply because of how temerarious the move was. And as Santos got to his feet, he raised his left arm in the air, acknowledging the crowd.

Meanwhile, admist all the excitement and chitter-chatter, the official got the count underway;

One.

Two.

Three.

Four.

Five.

Six.

Seven.

Eight.

Nine.

...

Te-

"AWWW, DAMMIT!" Santos lamented purely out of disgruntlement.

In the back, Natalie Quinston, who'd obeyed Fejona's orders and subjected herself to watching this fight on a monitor, breathed a sigh of relief. Shaking her head, she got off the steel chair she was sitting on and folded it, before trekking towards the arena. She couldn't bear to sit idly by and watch Santos dismantle Fejona.

Back in the cage, Santos shook his head as he picked up the bloodied and limp lifeform of Min, who'd collapsed back down to the canvas after rising to answer the count. Fejona, however, had a little surprise waiting for the Brazilian in the form of the classic low-blow. The customary booing followed seconds after but Min had more in store for Santos. She intended to shame him with a Brazilian Jitsu move; Golpe de la Entrepierna being the name.

And she did it with such style, too, rolling off Santos once she made sure the knee-drop connected cleanly. Santos writhed about on the canvas, completely not expecting such an expert move like that from the likes of Fejona Min. But the Cambodian was smiling sinisterly as she glanced at the official.

Who had the count started;

One.

Two.

Three.

Four.

Five.

Six.

Seven.

"Cheebye," Fejona muttered under her breath. Basically, she said 'cunt' in the Hokkien dialect of Chinese.

... But you knew that already, I guess.

...

In any case, Santos Salvatore had managed to recover, but it had to be noted that he was panting, almost as if he was running out of gas. Fejona wiped away some of the blood on her face and nodded, as she proceeded to stalk Santos, waiting for him to turn around. Once he did, Min went to work, rapidly connecting with a snap roundhouse kick to the injured right shoulder of the Brazilian... followed by a half spinning heel kick that knocked Santos back down.

"You're starting to look jaded, old man!"

A cheeky taunt from Fejona, who backpedalled a bit, wanting to have enough room to pull off her next move. Santos growled as he regained his standing, and it was that renewed intensity that had been brought on by the cheap taunt from Min that saw him catch the Cambodian in his arms. She wasn't intending on that; in fact, she wanted to hit a jumping side-knee smash.

With Fejona in his arms, Santos saw fit to grab her arse again as a form of revenge for the taunt, before he threw Fejona over his head. However, it wasn't going to be as easy as that; the entire fight up to that point demonstrated that fact wonderfully. Min managed to land on her feet, although she didn't manage to get a good enough standing. This allowed Santos the liberty of launching a jumping front thrust kick at Min.

But, Fejona appeared to have a counter for that; she caught Sal's right leg with her left hand, and proceeded to execute another jitsu move that seemed to be a variant of the half pump handle slam ; once Salvatore hit the ground, however, Fejona revealed another part to the move.

A kneebar submission.

Correction. Make that an *ATTEMPTED* kneebar submission. Santos reacted quickly and sent his free leg flying upwards, into Fejona's face. A direct hit, and Fejona promptly collapsed onto Salvatore. Who, being the opportunist that he was, didn't hestitate to lock in a submission hold of his own.

Half-nelson choke!

The crowd went ballistic, believing that the end of the fight was finally upon them! But surprisingly, the Brazilian pitfighter rolled over and got himself vertical, bringing the Cambodian Femme Fatale with him, with the choke still in place. Fejona Min thrashed about insanely, trying to get herself out of the hold. But Santos wasn't looking for a submission win.

That was obvious when he leaned backwards and threw Fejona over his head.

*CRACK*

"HOLY SHIT! HOLY SHIT!"

He wanted to knock the fuck out of Min, as the back of her head flew into the rim of the cage! She let out an exhausted grunt as her body crumpled down to the canvas. Much to the crowd's dismay, she wasn't quite out of it, as she started clawing to her feet mere seconds later.

Santos Salvatore didn't seem dejected or frustrated. On the contrary, actually; he was DEMANDING for Fejona to get up.

And once she did, the Survivor of Casa El Gavriel (long story, you wouldn't be interested) scooted over and slapped on a side headlock. Sallie's eyes gleamed as he clenched his right fist, balling it up, before he raised it in the air to get a rather cheap but deserved chorus of cheers from the crowd.

The fiery intensity in his eyes indicated he was ready to finish Fejona off, once and for all.

Acabadora I (read the bio, you lazy cunts) was about to be unleashed.

*CRUNCH*

First punch.

*CRUNCH*

Second punch.

*CRUNCH*

Third punch.

*CRUNCH*

Fourth punch.

Now, a little showboating... the wind-up....

And here it came, the fifth punch; the powerful uppercut.

"What the hell?" Santos murmured, as a sudden movement caught his eye. He cocked his head to the left and moaned.

The crowd too shared his dismay and chagrin; Natalie Quinston had appeared, and with the chair in hand. She was looking all testy, determined to get her a piece of Santos. The Brazilian sent a couple of Portuguese vulgarities her way, before showing her the middle finger.

What did Natalie do in return?

She stood there and smiled. The job was done.

Fejona took advantage of the distraction and sprung to life, moving her weight around slightly and wrapping her arms around Sal's waist, before forcefully dragging him a complete 360º and shoving him into the cage wall. Santos Salvatore screamed out in pain as his lower spinal area was reintroduced to the rim of the cage. Halfway there, Fejona then huffed and puffed, before lifting Santos over her head...
And slamming him down, chest-first, onto the rim of the cage.

Seconds later, the bell rung. The Brazilian's body rebounded off the rim and down to the concrete, triggering a barrage of jeers. Fejona Min had won by ring-out, and she fell down to the canvas, completely exhausted and bloodied. Natalie Quinston immediately tossed her chair away and raced into the cage, tending to her partner.

On the outside, once Santos Salvatore stopped coughing like a madman, he balled his fists and pounded them against the arena's concrete flooring, coming to terms with what just happened. He gritted his teeth and looked across, furious at the sight of the victorious Fejona Min being helped out of the cage and to the back by Natalie Quinston.

A brand new year, but the same old script.

Santos Salvatore had succumbed to YET another defeat.

"Fucking hell."

Knock, knock.

And of course, that fateful tapping on the office door abruptly interrupted things. Joe frowned and looked back to Nash, who shrugged and went back to his reading. He then turned to Thanh, who just stared back like a statue. Too lazy to get the door as always, Joe called out with a sigh.

"Yeah, what is it?"

The door slowly opened, and in stepped Thurston Aubrey - the Asylum's resident new guy/hippie. Thurston smiled. Thanh stared back coldly. Nash did a double take. Joe didn't blink.

"What do you want Thorton? I'm not in the mood for your shit, quite frankly."

Thurston cleared his throat uneasily.

"Well actually it's 'Thurston'. And I've come to discuss me possibly getting some time on television to address how I can bring peace to the Asylum. I think if I were given some airtime, I could really make a difference. What I have to say is really simple, and it wouldn't take but a few moments to get my message out to the nation. Think of the impact that could have, sir."

Carson scratched his head in the backround, not knowing what the hell was just said. Joe looked down at his desk and pinched the bridge of his nose, clearly not giving what Thurston said much thought.

"You've really got some bloody gall, you know that? You just barge in here like you own the fuckin' place. And you don't - I do. Not to mention the bloody fact that I just gave you a fucking contract."

Carson began snickering. Thurston looked down at the floor - at his tattered sandals. Campbell stopped and ran his hand over his goatee, as if he was assessing the situation with deep thought.

"Hmm. Well I tell you what Mr. Audree, you want some airtime? What better way to spread your message than in a fight, yes?"

Thurston nodded his head slightly.

"Good. You need an opponent though."

Campbell turned and looked at Carson. He looked up from his magazine, slightly taken aback.

"What... you mean me?"

Campbell smiled.

"Certainly. Give you something to do for the night."

Carson pompously got up from his seat and came right up in Thurston's face. Aubrey moved back a bit, clearly uneasy. Nash eyed him and sneered.

"Yeah why not, I'll take his hippie-ass out."

Nash laughed as he walked out of the room to prepare for the match. Thurston watched him leave and followed suit, glaring back at Joe and Thanh before leaving. As he shut the door behind him, Joe gave the two-finger peace sign and smiled.

"Peace, Mr. Auburn."

He then laughed to himself and looked back at Thanh Vactor cheerfully.

"Tonight is going to be a fun night."

TMM and Slapnutz are deep in conversation. You know, in your heart, that it’s going to be mind numbing, but you have to listen. You have to!

“So, I said ‘No, suck your own dick’ and he ran off in tears. Typical kids.”

The filth coming out of the mouth of Slapnutz is nothing new. In fact, it had been getting worse over the past few weeks. Sucking this, anal that. If Hitler was alive, he’d probably blush.

“But why were you at a recording of Barney in the first place?” TMM asked his partner.

“I explained this in great detail ten minutes ago and I don’t want to go into it again. Suffice to say, I’ll never trust David Copperfield again. He should die.”

As they walked along, a locker room door swung open and out walked a beleaguered looking Joe Campbell. He looked started as he bumped into Splink. It hadn’t been an easy week for the boss and Splink wanted to have some fun.

“Hey fuckheads, where were you at Pain?”

“Yes, Joe, about that. See, we thought we were the number one contenders,” TMM began. “Yet, we seem to have missed the shot. Instead, you give it to those two hookers you brought in.”

“You snooze, you lose, cunts.” Campbell interrupted TMM.

“Well, we thought since you gave us the chance to have the night off, we’d give you a present. I think you’ll find is useful in the next few weeks.”

Slapnutz took this as a cue to take the package out of his jeans (no, not THAT package). He handed the parcel to his boss and stepped back.

Campbell tore the paper off his ‘gift’, looked at it and then stared at Splink.

“See, boss, soap-on-a-rope. Now you can choose when you get fucked up the arse. Just make sure you find a nice husband in there. Prick.”

Campbell threw the soap on the floor and stormed off in search of some sanctuary from the madness. Splink continued on their treck.

“Slap, where’s the strangest place you’ve ever had sex?”

“Dude, what kind of question is that? Right out the blue.”

“Well, I was just thinking about this time, over Romania, where I had this chick on a plane. She slipped onto my seat and we had a great ride on a huge seat. Pilot thought we were flying through an air pocket with the fuss we were causing.”

“Did the stewardess not mind?”

“Slap, I’m a national hero in Poland. So naturally I was in first-class. They let you do anything in there. I saw a guy sacrificing a goat to an effigy of Michael Jackson on the same flight. Bizarre. I mean everyone knows it’s a llama for Michael Jackson, not a goat. Idiot.”

Slapnutz looked on in disbelief. He was shock and amazed at the same time. He had never seen big seat on a plane before. Unbelievable.

“So, start your story. Strangest place and who with?”

Slapnutz swallowed and took a deep breath.

“Yeah, with Naomi again. Remember I told you about her a few weeks ago? Well, we fucked in…yeah…in a bush.”

“Everyone’s fucked in a bush before. Part of growing up so it is.”

“Yeah, but…this was at a golf course.”

“And everyone’s fucked at a golf course. In a bunker or in a bush.”

“Well, it was during the British Open.”

“Everyone’s done that too.”

“At Royal Troon. Up the arse.”

“Fucking ‘ell. The Royal Troon? Kinky stuff, squire.”

The face of the Scotsman continued to glow as he recounted his story of sexual prowess to his team partner. They would share stories for their journey. Well, actually, TMM would tell more stories and Slapnutz would reminisce about behind hit by Ernie Els’ balls as he was riding Naomi up the arse.

Filth, pure filth.

Say hello to the Asylum

"Hmmm. Figured I run into you tonight." Spoke Inmate as he slowed.

Purpose seemingly interrupted as Sebastian Thompson stalked down the hallways hands shoved into the pockets of his leatherjacket. He looked up into the face of Inmate, a look of resentment masked his face. Two good friends about to catch up on old times… maybe not.

"You know why that is, you fucken cunt? It‘s because I earn my damned paycheck. You cry to Campbell get him to give you some bullshit interim Black title, and you haven‘t done shit since.. " Inmate reiterated himself, while cutting off Thompson.

"I somehow knew you'd be here tonight. Probably gave up on some assignment just in time to catch a flight here huh?" Inmate smirked. He knew that making fun of the Carnage ordeal would piss Thompson off.

"You know what. Fuck you. Go find some thrasher to defend your Black title against." and with that Thompson shouldered Inmate aside before walking away.

"Oh, I've found someone... They just don't know it yet. In the meanwhile, I have something I’m sure one of your other ‘friends’ might like to hear about."

Aubrey sat in his locker room, pondering. He was nervous about fighting because he knew inside he didn't want to. But there was no turning back now.

Suddenly, a voice rang out.

"Well, well, well... hey Thurston, the 70’s called... they want their style back."

Behind him approached a cocky ‘Untouchable’ Carson Nash. Thurston frowned.

"Who the hell do you think you are? Jesus? Cut your hair, for fucks sake.

Plus, everyone in the Asylum knows that I’m the only resemblance to Christ in this company.
Steve who?"

Nash brushed his shoulder off, cracked his neck, looked Thurston in the eye and winked.

"Look Carson. I'm sure you're a really great guy. To be honest, I'm only going out there to fight you because Campbell is making me. If I had it my way, I would be spreading my message of pe-"

Nash put a finger to Aubrey’s lips and a "shhhhhh" noise shushed the Montana native.

"Negative.

The only message that’ll be getting across tonight is that I truly am Untouchable."

Thurston rose to his feet. He looked to his left and his right. He stepped into Carson Nash’s face before backing off a bit.

"You know I love you dude, but you need a Listerine breath strip."

Thurston laughed playfully. Nash sneered. He then reached out and shoved Thurston.

Thurston hesitated before shoving back. As Nash stumbled, he tripped over a nearby bench and fell backwards onto the cold cement.

Caught off guard, he began turning red - slightly embarrased. Thurston smiled at him on the floor and gave the Peace sign, before exiting the locker room for his first fight.

Nash watched him leave and muttered to himself,

"You... you’re going to fucking die."

In any case, Santos had half a mind to storm into Campbell's office and demand another fight with Fejona Min, with Natalie probably either barred from the arena OR being thrown into the fight. It suddenly didn't matter to Santos. In his mind, he'd fought one of the best fights of his life. Considering how sloppy he felt he was and the nagging shoulder injury of his, the Brazilian was proud of himself. But, he would have been more content had he actually gone on to win.
Bottomline? Santos was screwed, and Fejona went home victorious.

Biting his lower lip, Salvatore wondered to himself about just what it would take to win a fight. Many times during the fight, he felt that he'd done enough to keep Min down but the Cambodian Femme Fatale surprised him, recovering when no one thought she would. That made Santos think even more. Was it that fighters nowadays had a higher threshold of pain, compared to experienced veterans like him who'd begun training in their teens? Or, was it that he was really past his prime, such to the extent that his venom had no more sting to it?

The Brazilian sighed, pondering these questions that plagued him. But as he turned a corner and looked up, he stopped in his tracks and squinted at the lifeform in front of him. Looked very familiar, he thought.

T'was Angelica Dawson.

Yet again, Angelica had resorted to mindless galavanting, not really wanting to get involved in the usual Show activities; which included fighting, taunting, and sex. In any case, Dawson -- wearing a white ribbed muscle shirt, tied off at the waist, and black leather pants which ended right above black combat boots -- was looking as forlorn as she'd looked the previous week. Still trying her hardest to get over her troubles. Still aiming to drive the lonliness out of her heart. Desperately striving to exile the void in her life, to get back on track... but to no avail, it appeared. Santos, however, wasn't interested of the expression on Angelica's face.

The cuts on her arms caught his eyes more than anything.

Without another moment's thought, Santos threw his black duffel bag onto the ground and ran up to Angelica Dawson, cutting in front of her and generally blocking her path. Naturally, Angelica was rather taken aback, but as she looked up to see who it was, a low sigh was escaped her mouth. She didn't need anyone piling crap on her, much less the 'concerned dumbass from last week'.

"You again."

"Yes, again. Who cut your arms?"

Angelica blinked, looked down at her arms, and nodded her head.

"Oh. That."

Looking back up, she glared at Santos before pushing past him and storming off, choosing NOT to answer the Brazilian. Santos frowned, not appreciating the lack of a response. It just irked the hell out of him.
Before, of course, he had another train of thought.
And his eyes widened, not really wanting to believe his other theory. But, it seemed completely plausible.

"Hey, wait!" Santos exclaimed as he jogged after Angelica. She ignored him, of course, now wanting to get the fuck out of the arena and back to her hotel. Not like there was anything for her to do, really.
But Sonny wasn't going to give up so easily.

"Did... YOU cut yourself?"

That did the trick. Angelica came to a screeching halt, and her shoulders drooped. She shook her hand, not quite believing how brainy Santos was, managing to figure it out all on his own. She turned around and sighed exapseratedly, rolling her eyes at the same time. Santos gulped, feeling a little uneasy. Angelica pretty much answered his query right then and there, without having to even open her mouth.

Came as a bit of a shock to Santos. He couldn't fathom why Angel would resort to slashing herself. Sure, she might have been dealing with problems and without a shoulder to cry on, the stress and the burden was just too much to handle. But that's why the Survivor of CEG planned to probe further, to understand what Dawson was going through and to find an avenue where he could offer some help.

"But, why? Why did you cut yourself?"

Simple question. He didn't know how else to phrase it.
Angelica Dawson smirked, thinly. She knew how to phrase her answer. And it was a simple one, too.

"Kills the pain inside of me."

With those ominous words, Angelica Dawson turned on her heels and walked away calmly, hoping that she'd struck the right chord with Santos that'd make him stay away from there. Salvatore stood rooted to the ground, bewildered. And at the same time, astonished. He suddenly felt Angelica's immense grief overwhelming, and his knees started to shake. He himself couldn't explain it, but it was freaking him out.

Why was he so compelled, more so than ever now, to help Dawson?

He didn't know her. She didn't know him.

She didn't *want* him to help.

She didn't want *anyone* to help.

But why was the Brazilian even bothering?

Turning around, he went to retrieve his duffel bag, while furiously thinking of a way he could help Angelica. There had to be a way to help her get over whatever had plunged her to such depths of misery and helplessness. And Santos was going to try his hardest to help her.

The question still remained, though. Why?

For now, this question and some answers remained unanswered.

... For now.

Carson Nash Vs Thurston Aubrey

Is there anyone home?

The mellow lyrics of Pink Floyd's "Comfortably Numb" blared over the PA as Thurston Aubrey made his way down the aisle. His entrance was rather generic, and it appeared he was fighting back some nervousness for his first fight. Before climbing into the cage, he sheepishly gave a Peace Sign salute to the adajacent fans.

The Asylum fans, of course, had a salute of their own for him.

Undetered, Thurston made his way into the site of many brutal fights and prepared as “Counterfeit God” by Black Label Society claimed the speakers.

Out strutted the ever cocky 'Untouchable' Carson Nash. And maybe he did have a lot to be confident about. Afterall, being Campbell's new bodyguard was quite the badge of honor. And because of that appointment, he was asked to get Thurston Aubrey out of Joe's hair.

And so we have a fight. Hooray.

Nash's Hippie-Hatred was running rampant as he made his way into the cage, staring daggers at Thurston. As they drew closer, Nash smiled and extended a sportsmanship-like hand out to Thurston.

And he took the bait. The fool.

Nash jerked Thurston forward and sunk a knee into his abdomen. Aubrey doubled over as Nash kicked the shit out of him, sending him down. Carson continued the vicious strikes until Thurston managed to jerk a leg out from under him and start posting some offense. Thurston shoved him backward and into the cage meshing.

For a split second Thurston hesitated, nervous about throwing a punch. Nash took this as an opportunity, and lunged forward, spearing the pacifist to the mat.

Nash didn't hold back either, a barrage of punches raining down on Thurston, who could only cover up.

Nash was in full control, and he jerked Aubrey up by the hair and tossed him into the steel meshing.

Shoving his face into the cage, he kicked the
living 'Peace & Love' out of Thurston, effectively executing the 'Bulletproof' trademark.

Carson backed off to survery his damage. Thurston was busted open on the nose, fresh blood pouring onto his face and shirt. With a sadistic smile Nash prepared for the final deathblow, a wicked kick to the skull.

But then something happened.

Thurston's psyche snapped.

Unable to deal with the shear punishment, he let his rage get the best of him; he attacked.

He dove at Nash, taking him completely by surprise. On the mat, he unleashed his pent-up emotions on Nash. He swung ferociously, landing punch after punch upon a stunned Nash. Like a crazed animal, driven to kill it's prey.

Aubrey began choking Carson madly as he fought to keep the pacifist at bay.

As the fans went nuts, Aubrey had a chance to realize what he was doing. He released his grip from Nash and got up in a dazed state, wondering what he had just done muttering "I'm sorry.. I'm so sorry...". It appeared his compassion had gotten the best of him.

While this was going on, a confused Nash quickly got back on the attack. He cocked back and shot a leg forward.

His target: Thurston's face.

His accuracy: 100%

The massive Superkick shot Thurston down to the canvas. Hard.

One.

Two.

Three.

Four.

Five.

Six.

Seven.

Eight.

Nine.

Ten.

No magical get up.

No movement.

No nothing.

Just an unconsious man on the mat, and a vindicated Carson Nash raising his arms in victory.

Nash left the cage, muttering cursings as Thurston laid in a bleeding, broken pile.

Broken, in more ways than one.

Joe Campbell looked at the young man standing on the opposite side of his desk. Thanh at his side, the two of them looked the kid over as Joe struggled to keep a straight face.

“I wa… I want to be an Asylum Fighter.” The kid replied.

Joe looked at Thanh and mouthed “is he serious?” then looked back at the kid, and immediately burst into a fit of laughter.

“HAH! Did you hear this git? He said… he.. hahaha… he said that… haha” Joe paused, holding up one finger to indicate he needed a moment.

He took a minute to regain his posture, then looked up at the kid again, and burst out into a second fit of laughter. It wasn’t that the kid looked goofy or mentally retarded (at least no more so than the Freak in Campbell’s eyes), but he just looked… well…

Like a pussy.

“I guess I don’t see what’s so funny.” The kid replied, and as Joe looked at him again, it almost looked as though his eyes were welling up with tears.

“It’s just… well… look at you? You’re a skinny bitch, wearing a t-shirt that says “death cab for cutie.” Wait a second, you’re not…” Joe paused and looked at Thanh as he raised his arm and let his wrist go limp.
Thanh nodded as Campbell pointed to the kid with his other hand.

“Are you a poof? Because I finally ridded myself of Ender and Caprino, and I really don’t need anymore gay sex on this show. We fill that quota with Token Weed matches…” Joe smirked at the kid, and Thanh crossed his arms.

“No, I’m not gay.”

“Then why are you wearing faggot, er, bitch, er, skank… Damnit! What’s the word?” Campbell looked at Thanh, who shrugged his shoulders, “Girls. That’s it. Girls pants.”

“It’s my style.” The kid replied, looking down at his express jeans.

“Style? Are you one of those emu freaks?” Joe asked, snickering.

“It’s emo.” The kid replied, as a tear fell down his cheek.

Campbell’s face became an angry expression, “Aw, don’t cry you bastard. You may infect my office. So you want to work here? Really?”

“Yes.”

“It says you want to work here to become tougher? So essentially you want to stop being a bitch?” Joe asked, straight faced and serious.

“Yes, I guess you could put it that way.” The kid replied, another tear falling down his face.

Campbell looked at Thanh and raised an eyebrow. Thanh shrugged again, and Joe looked at the kid. It wasn’t the girls’ pants, or the crying, or the tight death cab shirt, or the weird scorpion shoes. The kid wasn’t even that weak looking. It was just, just something else. But Joe couldn’t come up with that something, so he just stamped the piece of paper in front of him.

“Fine. Welcome to hell.”

The kid’s face lit up, and he extended his hand to Joe, “Thank you. Thank you so much! You won’t regret this!”

Campbell looked at the hand, and lightly touched it, grimacing. The kid then turned to leave.

“Wait a second,” Joe said, “what’s your damn name anyway?”

The kid turned back, “Oh. Well. My real name is Lacey Phillipe, but I guess my fighting name will be Kid Disaster.”

Campbell grimaced again, “Kid Disaster? No. God no. What a faggoty name. No. That won’t do at all. Fuck. Get out of here, I’ll come up with something better.”

“Oh, okay. Have it your way. Whatever you say.” The kid replied.

As the kid left the room, Joe looked at Thanh, disgusted, “Rhyming faggot. I guess I really will hire anyone.”

Thanh just nodded.

It was better than being alone in Michigan.

Turning a corner and heading towards the local pubbing district, Salvatore suddenly heard footsteps, indicating someone was behind him. He wouldn't have been bothered, normally, but a gut feeling told Santos to be on his toes. Shifting his duffel bag from his right hand to his left, Santos looked around whilst walking. Nothing that the streets seemed pretty empty. The Brazilian frowned, frustrated at still not finding a taxi.

And the thought of someone following him for whatever reason wasn't very appealing.

"How may I help you, friend?" Santos abruptly questioned as he turned around and let his duffel bag drop to the ground. The man that was behind him froze in his tracks, obviously, and a slight smirk crept onto his face.

For a couple of seconds, awkward silence followed while the man tried to find a way to reply. Santos was growing impatient but at the same time, had this innate feeling that he'd seen the man before. Maybe at a supermarket or even while in the Netherlands during the last month of 2002.

"I'm sorry, I don't know how to really say this. I was just in the arena, catching The Show. Saw you during your fight. Amazing display, by the way, I really thought you were going to win it. In any case, I decided I'd sneak to the back and probably catch up with you, but someone told me you'd left. Figured I would try and look out for you before you went back to your hotel.

My name's Nanchrit Illenhart. Not sure if you remember me, I worked in thReat?"

Santos did a mental snap of his fingers and exorcised the mean demeanour from himself. The magic word was thReat and Salvatore suddenly remembered who the man was. Smiling, Santos extended his hand out to Nanchrit and the two shook hands, before the Brazilian picked up his bag.

"You could have said something instead of following me, you know!" remarked Sonny as the two began began to slowly walk down the sidewalk. Nanchrit laughed and took a quick glance at his watch, his eyes widening slightly as he did so. "I wanted to, but I couldn't quite come up with what I wanted to say!"

The two men saw a cab and both intended to flag it down, but as it turned out, it was already occupied.

"So, Nanchrit, you were the guy that did the reports and journalistic writing for thReat, yeah?"

Illenhart nodded.

"Yes, I did. I remembered you from one of the house shows, where you and DeVante lead psycho-Rio into the arms of the police. A bit of a mystery, how he got out, but I hear it was only because someone bailed him out right after. I think he's rotting in some prison now, his trial was a very secret one."

Gulping, Santos Salvatore started to panic just a little bit. Helping Vincent Pembridge get rid of psycho-Rio was one of the things that he wasn't proud of. Add to that the promise by the Cuban Sociopath that he'd exact his revenge one day, and Salvatore had every right to be nervous. Truthfully, he'd forgetton everything he'd did while serving as Vincent's lackey, especially the assignments pertaining to thReat.

But now, he had a reason to worry. Even if Nanchrit was feeding him information about the Cuban, finally, being in jail.

"Funny thing is, I was getting paid handsomely in thReat, and I never did have a match there. Got to love Vincent, when he's on your side. The man has a lot of power. Anyways, where you heading off to?" Salvatore replied, wanting to get to the airport in time but also not wanting to act like an ass to Illenhart.

Who spotted another taxi down the road, and silently cursed when he noticed an old lady had flagged it down.

"Oh, I'm going to go to my hotel and collect my possessions, then head off to the airport. I love how hotels work; you can check out at noon, but leave your luggage there if your flight is like ten hours later. I don't get charged for the new day, and I get to roam around the area one last time WITHOUT dragging my luggage around!"

The two men shared a laugh, although Santos didn't really grasp the concept. But, he figured, a question for another day.

"Interestingly enough, I'm going to the airport too."

"Wow, interesting. Next thing you know, I'll find out you're going to Boston too."

Santos blinked and turned to Nanchrit, completely astounded.

"DUDE. I am going to Boston! It's my home!"

"Mine too. WHOA!"

So, as it were, the two men had become fast friends, finding out that their residence was in the same city. Seconds later, as they began blabbering about where exactly in Boston they lived in, a taxi magically appeared for them. They decided to go to pick up Illenhart's luggage first before heading off to the airport, realising that they were on the same flight. Amazing how the world works, eh?

Truly.

But, didn't it seem a little too coincidental?

...

Or are you just paranoid?

...

We'll see. For now, Santos has a new friend. Not too bad of a start to 2004, then.

Joe was still situated behind his desk with his almost empty bottle of whiskey. It had been a long night for Joe Campbell and he was counting on that whiskey to wipe all that anguish away. Joe took one more swig of his booze and looked over at his bodyguard once again who was still situated in the corner watching the door.

“Ey, Thanh…I think I know what your problem is. I think I finally figured it out.” Joe said as he wiped his mouth off, then licking the excess booze off his hand. It was alcohol abuse to let any go to waste and Joe wasn’t in the business of wasting stuff. Well…he wasted people but that was another story. He had more important matters to attend to at the moment.

“Let me give a go at this one. You tell me if I’m wrong. You ready for this one you Asian fuckface?” Joe said staring at Thanh who turned his gaze towards Joe with an annoyed look on his face.

“Sure Joe.” Is all Thanh had to say before he returned his attention to the door.

“Alright, it’s obvious you’re not getting enough pussy and you haven’t gotten any in awhile so that’s got you all pissy but that’s not the problem right now. That’s just helping fuel the problem, but the real problem is your new partner. Yeah, that’s it. You don’t like Carson Nash and you don’t want him as a partner, that’s it isn’t it?” Joe said smiling from ear to ear thinking he was the biggest genius in the world.

“Sure Joe.” Thanh said once again, not turning his gaze away from the door this time. He didn’t give a shit what Joe had to say and didn’t want to get in to another altercation with his boss so he just kept quiet and did his job.

“Well, since that seems to be the problem I think it’s about time I took care of the problem.” Joe said, getting down to business.

Thanh turned his attention back to Joe after that statement, he was interested in what Joe was saying now.

“So…what I’m going to do is…nothing. Ahahaha, I’m a genius. You see, Nash is a crazy fucker but for some reason he wants to work for me and be my bodyguard. That just means more protection for me and less things to worry about. I’m not going to turn down free bodyguarding services from a big crazy lunatic like him. So instead of doing something about this situation I’m going to let you work it out yourself. You two are going to be a team whether you want to be or not. So you better figure out something quickly or continue to be an angry Asian fuck. Either way, it doesn’t matter to me.” Joe said pleased with himself and his decision.

Thanh just continued to stand in his corner and stare at Joe with a pissed off look on his face. He didn’t have anything to say and knew there wasn’t anything he could do. He couldn’t quit his job as Joe’s bodyguard. He couldn’t leave the Asylum. He had to do what he was told so he was going to have to work with Carson Nash whether he liked the guy or not.

“But…since I know you’re a good guy and you’re going to follow my orders I will do you a favor and make you happy for now. I’ll get you some pussy that you’ve been craving for so long and haven’t had in awhile. I know that’ll lighten you up and put you in a cheery mood.” Joe said as he picked up his phone on his desk and started to make a call. After talking on the phone a few seconds he hung it up and looked back over at Thanh who hadn’t moved or changed his mood at all.

“Alright Thanh, it’s all settled. We have some entertainment on the way for you. You better enjoy this you little Asian asshole otherwise I’m gonna kick your ass for wasting my free favor and free pussy. So you go have a good time and cool your ass down. I’ll see you next week and hopefully you’ll be ready to cooperate by then. So get your ass out of here and go get your free pussy.” Joe said as he motioned for Thanh to leave the room for the night.

Thanh did as he was told and opened the door and left. Now Joe was left alone in his office with some peace and quiet. Had Joe taken care of the problem between his old bodyguard and new one? He wasn’t even sure, but he was going to find out next week when he arranged a little chit chat between Nash, Thanh and himself. Until then it was back to the booze and porno on his television.

Joe Campbell sat in that plush leather chair he always sits in, behind that thick oak desk that he didn’t need, with that fifth of Wild Turkey he can’t live without. Ice cubes melted together in a complex structure that supported it all, surrounded by whiskey in the sea of Joe Campbell’s pleasure. But the glass, was a little taller, a little wider, and the walls just a tad thinner. Those traits alone, it wasn’t hard to realize Joe was pissed. You can always tell his mood by his drink.

With New Year’s being spent in jail, some had to wonder if Campbell through a different kind of party. Another time, another place, and hopefully, another guy named Joe Campbell. Because this one, he ain’t no catcher.

It was another annoyance, to pile on to the constant bickerings of faggots like Carson Nash and peace cries from wastes of space like Thurston Aubrey. This annoyance, though, wasn’t undeserved fighters that wouldn’t have even been considered for tA, about a year ago. No, this was the brash tone of his private phone, in his desk drawer, next to the emergency glock.

When he remembered what the phone was for, the importance of said object came to the forefront of his mind, and Joe set the glass down and the bottle aside. Reaching in to his drawer, he withdrew and looked on the multi- colored screen that lit the oddly- dim room ablaze. JO, it read.

Answered.

“Updates, mate?”

“Afraid not,” Pointless gritted, through his teeth. The cell phone Joe gave him for this special task whispered through the wind, harsh sounds and cackles of static. “Just arrived in Buffalo, in the rental and heading to the address Jimmy handed off. My guess he isn’t there, but the property trail should give us another clue.”

“Sound,” it was the best news Joe had all day, despite there being no real news exchanged. That’s how shitty a week it’s been. “Take all the time you need . Just remember; Cunt- Damon still needs to be taken care of.”

“Oh, I will be there next week. And the week after that. Just think of this as... extracurriculum.”

“Right,” Joe hissed, as he stopped for a moment to take a drink out of his tall, wide glass. It was down to its base, capping the last ice cube. “Out.”

“Out.”

The phone call was ended, and the Wild Turkey found itself tipped up to fill the big, tall, wide glass up, just that much more. If we couldn’t get faded on New Year’s, the Show was the next best bet. After all, its always a party in the Asylum.

Asher Rollins© Vs Velorium 12
(T.V. title)

A bell tolled. Fans shifted about their folded chairs. Masses crowded around the barricades, gates, rafters and gates as the sound of children playing took over. “If Winter Ends” began. The sound came like waves, even still. After three weeks of disregard, a phone call brought him back to all of these people--the ones that loved him for what warrants only hatred in the real world.

Then there was Velorium, hidden in the ashes and dying embers of Asher’s reaction--a blazing star on the darker half of the sun. He came out to a song no one remembered, in a shirt no one cared to acknowledge. This was a formality--something to welcome Asher back to the reality of the Asylum after feeling he could withdraw himself for whatever amount of time.

Both men readied themselves, but both knew one could never be truly ready for something of this magnitude. The mesh swelled and bent, regardless of the impersonal nature of this confrontation. Knuckles white, thick like stew, soles pressed harder against the canvas and legs spread apart. Asher smiled, the lesser anticipating this. Velorium saw a shot.

The sound of steel against hollowed steel--a bell rang a second time. The empty sound of sneakers against the canvas echoed as Velorium charged. Two steps forward was Asher’s only approach. He ducked a violent clothesline and stepped, crouching, toward the center of the ring. Velorium turned around and thrust a quick foot into his chest. Asher’s face contorted. He hacked and heaved.

“A little aggressive, aren’t we?” he said with a smile. A quick knot of bone and flesh caught Velorium in the cheek before he could continue. His violence was only fettered but not stopped, until Asher dug his knee into his kidneys. The sharp pain of his body shutting itself down--

the bruise or damage to his internal being caused a wince of pain. A casual spin, and Asher rapped his foot against a thin layer of skin and bone. He turned around and ran his fingers through his air. It was wet with sweat and rough under the burning spotlights. Merely seconds, the reminder of the conflict at hand overcame him. Velorium held a bucket with a brightly colored red “3” on the side.

Sounds of malleable skull caving under force, Velorium forced Asher to the ground with the object. He placed it near the mesh wall and found his foot slamming into Asher’s chest and stomach. Asher’s skull began to bleed, stomach began to ache and blood push up his esophagus and out in a cough.

In a frantic state, he hugged his stomach and hoped the kicks would end their relentlessness. Finally, when they did, Velorium stood back to let the referee count. Tiny little fingers locked onto the steel. Asher pulled himself up and saw children, women, men, families, people staring into his hopeless eyes and cheer him on. He forced himself to his feet and turned to see Velorium rushing from the corner of his eye.

He sidestepped.

Velorium placed his hands on the top of the cage to stop himself. He leaned over slightly, but steadied himself. Asher came and quickly kicked the back of his knees. Velorium felt his legs cave and he caught his chin on the top bar. He fell to his knees and Asher pushed his face deep into the mesh.

The fans watched his pressure flesh near the brink of puncture--like a face cut to diamonds instead of shreds. Asher allowed him to sulk sideways in a nearly unconscious fit. He put his arm to the ground and readied himself to stand up.

“What the fuck?” Asher said to himself. Before Velorium could rise, Asher violently swung his foot into the back of his head. It slammed against the mesh again.

A slight movement.

Another kick.

A shiver, a nervous twitch.

Another kick.

Blood was spilling out of Velorium’s nose even though it hadn’t been touched. Blood seemingly poured from his eyes, his mouth. He was covered in it and the origin was unnoticeable in this moment.

But the referee counted to ten all the same.

Asher walked out with a sense of confusion about him.

Avenger knew the voices owner without having to turn around. “What do you want?” He dismissively asked while he continuing down the corridor with his back to his unwelcome company.

“You don’t sound too happy to see me.” HardCase commented, as he followed Avenger.

“I’m surprised you’re being so cold. Especially for someone who sprung me from the kit kat just the other day…a gesture I’m still quite unclear about. Care elucidating that one for me friend?”

“Well. I figured your people have been enslaved by the ‘man’ for far too long. So I emancipated you. Thank me later.”

“So you’re fucking Lincoln now huh asshole? How noble.”

“Yes. Well, I was just glad I could lend a hand. I know how rough it’s been for your kind since that sweet cotton picking gig you all had fell though. I feel your pain my 'brotha'.”

Avenger had turn around to deliver that last lil wisecrack with the obligatory raised fist and faux seriousness that accompanies most mocking gestures of the black rights movement. Most strange.

HardCase smirked.

“Cute.”

Avenger turned his back to HardCase and continued resuming his previous leisurely pace. HardCase followed behind. A little too closely. Though Avenger didn’t take notice.

A negligence he’d soon regret.

“You know I think you’re empathy for the plight of the black man is commendable. Allow me to reward you. In private.”

Before Avenger could manage much in way of defense, he found himself grappled and dragged into an auxiliary tool room. With Avenger still within his grasp, HardCase tossed him to the ground and kicked the door closed behind him.

It was pitch black. Even in the darkness Avenger instinctively knew he had to attack. He allowed himself to be put into this position by making the mistake of turning his back on the proclaimed Innovator of Wrongness, now he’d have to compensate.

Avenger shot to his feet in the darkness poised to pounce…

*lights on*

…then he realized how fucked he was.

See, HardCase and Avenger weren’t alone.

Surrounding Avenger were about 11 men, big, strong, thugged out in hoodies, army fatigues, Oakland Raider jerseys, boots, and du-rags worn in a compilation of silver and black the “Thill Kill” colors. Most also wore the silver and black gang flags around their fist or hanging out the back pocket.

It is safe assume these fellas weren’t with the lolly pop gill. And the ominous bulges protruding from their waist lines certainly weren’t candy canes.

“Before we veered off into that delightful slavery chat. I asked you a question.”

HardCase gestured for his boys to grab Avenger.

Avenger struggled but to no avail. HardCase’s—or as he’s known while in this capacity—The Hustla’s goons had him locked up. The Hustla paced back and forth. He had Avenger at his mercy. He’d let him sweat a little. Maybe that’d loosen his tongue. And if not…

“You had me on possession, trafficking, intent to sell, illegal possession of a firearm—fuck. If you waited a while you might a been able to nail me on public lewdness. I’ve been known to whip out “Bad Andy” once I get few in me. But what I’d like to know is: why am I free right now?”

The Hustla waited for an answer. All he got was a shrug.

“Please don’t bullshit me. I know you’re the one that let me skate on all charges. I want to know why. Is Joe planning to flip on me? Is Sean? Deal with the DA? Not that I couldn’t beat the case. My money’s long and my lawyers are Jewish. I’d walk regardless. But this vaguely concerns me. Why you of all people went out of your way to set me loose?”

The Hustla again waited for an answer.

…and again he got none.

“Ok then.” HardCase held his hand out and a monkey wrench was promptly placed within his palms.

“You have two choices. Spill your guts. You watch me bash them in. Decide now please.” HardCase said in a mercilessly calm voice.

Avenger hesitated for a second. Then sealed his fate by hawking a loogie into HardCase’s face.

The Hustla casually wiped off the spit, and raised the wrench in his hand. “You see how you just spat in my face? That really didn’t help you any.”

*CRACK!*

The Hustla came down on the side of Avengers face with a brutal blow across the cheek and jaw. Avenger dropped to the unforgiving concrete, his faced face already leaking crimson.

The Hustla looked down at him. Then looked at his men who were doing the same.

“…Do you need a fucking invitation?”

They got the hint and began viciously tearing into Avenger. When they were finally done the Hustla held the door open and directed them out of the room.

“Ok friend. It’s a shame it had to end like this. Me lookin pretty, you looking like the elephant man bobbing for apples in goats blood. But shit. If that’s how you wanna play it. Whatever.”

The Hustla left, leaving Avenger’s brutalize body laying in the dark. Still clutching to the last threads of consciousness Avenger managed a bloody toothed smile. “Oh we’ll play. We shall definitely play.” He barely managed to whisper into the shadows before succumbing to his beating.

(At this point You may wonder how someone can be said to smile while in pitch blackness…well keep wondering jerk off. No body loves you.)

The room was white, but seemed to have a red hue. Everything seemed to have a red hue. The sight of blood seemed to be as strong as the smell of it. Novocain and hemoglobin, an olfactory concoction worked up only inside a doctor’s office, permeated through the room.

Campbell was never one to dish out cash for the sake of his employees. A lime green towel, a scrub, a tab of alcohol, he cared to the wound with blacksmith hands--like he was reworking an object. He sewed up a wound on the forehead and allowed a few locks of black hair to fall over it.

“You’re okay.”

Asher sipped an espresso. “My forehead still stings.” He muttered like he’d just taken a shot of whisky, and his brow furrowed in a similar fashion.

“Alcohol does that to open wounds.”

“I’m glad you’re funny,” Asher remarked. He walked past the door and grabbed a corduroy jacket a few sizes too small for him. It climbed up to his wrist, revealing a collage of black, yellow, orange, pink, and green jelly bracelets. On this given night, he eyed the two Xs on the back of his hand and laughed to himself.

Tin foil rectangular boxes, uncovered and filled with whatever was written in felt tip marker across the dry erase board that was clearly out of sight. Asher walked toward the place and pause in a concrete circle. The Earth stopped and turned only where he stood.

Velorium sat at a table with untended, open wounds with square pieces of gauze carelessly taped over. He ate and devoured food as if unfazed. Sipped the beverage, touched the table cloth with an nervous or regretful hand--he couldn’t tell.

“I thought I might’ve killed him.”

Yet, he seemed unfazed. Asher sipped his espresso and sat at a nearby table.

He watched.

Sit back, bare your cross to me.
Oh won't I listen?
God damn, have I burned my hands?
On what's been missing?
I feel... unreal...
Everytime I try and stop to feel.
Pick me up, my friend...
Let me start again.

You fucked with me...
Behind this garden.
Don't fuck with...

MEEEEEE!!

But as she climbed into the cage, Karen instantly pondered over what lay ahead for her in theAsylum. What would she be up against, now that she was back? In her short time in the organisation, she'd come across several foes; Mercy, Nick Brandish, Reggie Harrison Willis, and Fejona more recently. They were all taken care of, and with the exception of the Cambodian, The Lassie knew that they wouldn't be coming back for more. Of course, she knew that Campbell would be constantly monitoring her like a hawk, trying to utilise any opportunity to deep-six her.

What else, though, she wondered.

Looking at the fans that had settled back into their seats, Pembridge nodded her head, trying to deduce who would be the next hitmen deployed by Campbell, since that was the only agenda she was sure of battling in the months to come. She'd been mulling over various ideas in her head since she arrived at the building, but had come up with nothing. Which basically meant that she was, yet again in her life, lacking direction.

Not like that's entirely a bad thing, Karen mumbled to herself, just before her theme was drowned out, and the only constant source of commotion available in the arena were the chants and expectant murmurings of the spectators in the stands. It was good seeing Karen back, yes, but what was she doing in the cage? They knew she wasn't physically up for a battle. Was she going to put out an open challenge?

The Manucian Girl would answer that.

"Well, some wise bloke once said you can't go home again. To me, theAsylum has become my home. I mean, where else do I turn to if I wish to fight bloody murderers and barbaric sods, eh? Only one organisation in this country can boast of an employee sheet that is responsible for nearly half the unsolved crimes out there.

That is the pure encorsellment of theAsylum, ladies and gentlemen. And, I'm willing to bet, the cynosure of many an enterprising businessmen wanting to follow in the footsteps of a certain individual known as Joe Campbell. And why wouldn't they? This little empire that Campbell has built has been bleeding profitable for him. The fact that all you people are here
today, now, means that that ponce Campbell has come up with something bloody marvellous here.

And let's face the sodding fact. You are all living vicariously through all the drama that occurs in this organisation. Every fighter that is employed here has his or her own struggles, that usually spiral dangerously out of control. Hence, drastic measures are taken. Measures you people don't have the bloody guts to resort to. Simply because, you lot are aware of the amount of legal complications it could get you involved in."

The mumbling amongst the crowd got more tense, as Karen lowered her microphone to take a breather, pacing around the cage as she did. Rubbing her right temple with her right hand, almost as if she was contemplating what to say next, to get her point across more fluidly and potently.

The fans? They were confused.

Was Karen insulting them indirectly, or leading to a point they would agree with.

"But.

The members of theAsylum don't give a fack about the law. And frankly, in this day of age, the idea of the governmental jurusdiction constricting us to be civilised citizens much like drones is... simply put, facking laughable. Because, simply put, we are the generation of humans that only have one absolute purpose in mind.

We live to smite.

We live to fight, and fight to live. And if you're going to bloody fight, you might as well make sure you win.

That's our main purpose. To win.

Now, don't get me wrong, people. I may sound a tad bit psychotic now, I'm afraid. But I'm just presenting raw facts to you lot. To get on to the point; I'm a different person than when I was given das boot in October of 2002. I'm sure you all know why Campbell got rid of me. He made me an offer I had to refuse. Basically, I had to play the pink oboe and judging
from what I was dreadfully exposed to last week at pAin, his knobber is smaller than a ten-cent coin."

The crowd went wild. Fucking obviously. The women in attendance all turned to other and shared jokes like the conniving, gossping vixens that they were brought up to be. The men with low self-esteem stroked their beards and laughed, feeling mighty proud that they had bigger dicks than the owner of the company.

Of course, Karen chortled and simpered to herself. It wasn't as if she was telling a lie, but it was evident that she had a kick out of making a mountain out of a mole hill and exagerrating about the exact size of Joe Campbell's pecker. The Manucian Girl ceased her pacing and leaned her lower back against the rim of the cage, running her left hand through her hair as she seeked to resume her rant.

"Alright, let's give the poor sod a break. JAIL is where he spent his New Year's in, unfortunately enough for him. But anyways, getting back to the main idea here.

All of us in theAsylum have a purpose. We all have an idea on who we want to target, to move up the ladder and climb towards the bloody prize that is the Asylum championship. Those of us who do not have anyone to scorn and prey on will eventually let our own twisted demeanours make something happen. Because if everybody on this planet got along, we'd all be shiny happy
people who've lost the right to make our own decisions. In short, we'd be disallowed of our bleedin' free will.

Thank God, then, we'd rather have the power to control our own lives at the risk of possible world peace, eh?

The quandry here, for me, is simple.

I have no direction. No ambition. At this point in time, I've got nothing to look forward to.

Why am I in theAsylum?

Now, I'm not so sure.

I originally joined this organisation because it was overflowing with the type of pricks I described so eloquently earlier. It was THE place to come to, if you wanted to toughen yourself up and become a machine. That was why I trekked back to the United States from jolly ol' England, and eventually found myself here. I wanted to get ready for a personal
grudge. Something so incredibly twisted, you'd only see it in some Van Damme movie.

Now, however, my target has vanished. And hence, I'm left hanging in limbo.

What do I do now?"

Karen Pembridge lowered the microphone again, mulling over how to continue her little spiel. Some sections of the fan cheered, respecting the British Lassie for airing out her personal feelings. Others waited patiently, eager and intrigued over what the Lassie was trying to drive at.

But, there were definitely a few people who were growing incredibly wreary of Karen's rambling.

So true for one certain individual.

"Jerk Off" by Tool.

Maybe you know of the fellow? Sure you do, you see him on Asylum programming almost every week.

Sebastian Thompson stormed out from the back, microphone in hand, wearing dark blue jeans and sporting a look that indicated he was baffled by the, in his opinion, ridculous babbling of Karen Pembridge. In the cage, Karen shook her head and sniggered, locking eyes with Sebastian who'd stopped at the top of the ramp. He looked pissed, and the Phoenix had every right to be.

Losing twice on the biggest event of the Asylum calendar, pAin? Not good.

In his mind, Sebastian Thompson was thinking that he'd try and redeem himself for making a fool out of himself at pAin, especially with regards to the miraculous ease Pointless defeated him with. The crowd jeered and hissed and screamed at Sebs, some even tossing garbage at him. They hated him, simple as that.

"Do me a favor, you fucken cunt, and shut the fuck up. You act as if we don't get enough of this bulldagger wants to change the world shit on the View. Instead you have these assholes in here, eating your ass because you're willing to speak out. Talking about how Joe's got a small 'knobber', now hell, I have no idea if he does and I wouldn't want to know. But maybe the reason his seemed so small, was because you held it into direct comparison with your own, you back alley cunt. Hey, I've got an idea, since everyone wants to fucken get rid of you, how about you suck me off, so you can show the world how big of a dyke you are while you walk right out those doors? Whadaya think?

'Bloody' terrific, I'd say!"

Karen didn't flinch. Even with the sight of Thompson laughing maniacally staring back at her, taunting her to reply foolhardily. The crowd once again jeered their hearts out for Sebs, who was clearly enjoying taking out his frustrations on the British Lassie.

Who had but one simple thing to say.

"Sebastian, this just in over from BBC studios -- you're an absolute prize idiot."

That got over, big time.

Thompson narrowed his eyes and his eyes burned with fiery intensity, as cheers for Karen rained down all around him. He sneered to his left, tempted to mouth off to the fans, before he returned his icy glare towards Pembridge. Who remained cool, calm, and collected in the cage.

But she had a feeling of what was to come next.

"Real funny, Karen. British humour. Wow, doesn't take a fucken genius to figure that one out. But listen, I'm getting tired of standing here. Let's just say if you aren't going to shut the fuck up, then I'll have no choice but to go down there and shut your cunt up!" Sebastian stated matter-of-factly, slowly beginning to stroll down the ramp.

But he wasn't quite finished. Not when he saw Karen about ready to reply.

"Or are you just scared, Karen?

Oh, wait! You've probably got your period or some shit today, yeah?"

Karen frowned.

If there was one thing she despised, it was the degredation of women. Naturally. Not because she gave a flying fuck about the females in the world and such. Hell, for being a woman, it was ironic that most of her troubles over the last couple of years were because of some cock-hungry sluts.

She took the degredation as a personal insult. And for someone who knew she was good...

That. Just. Didn't. Go. Down. Well. With. Her.

"You know, Sebastian, one of my early fights in theAsylum was against you. In fact, it was my third bloody fight. And I believe that I was required to win the bleeding thing if I was to secure a contract from Campbell, since he wasn't overly keen on someone who wouldn't suck his knobber.

And, if I do recall, I did beat your sorry arse with minimal ease. A thrust kick did it, actually.

So.

If you want to fight."

Karen stopped. The crowd were getting excited now, while some of them had their concerns -- Karen wasn't at a 100%. She herself said it.

"Then bring it on, you magnificient poof!"

Sebastian Thompson growled and threw his microphone down.

It was so on.

Karen Pembridge Vs Sebastian Thompson

"I've had enough!" he grunted to himself, jumping over the rim off the cage and landing on his feet.

Karen Pembridge tossed the microphone out of her ring and turned around slightly, reaching under her shirt and tapping her bandaged ribs. She hadn't anticipated actually fighting, nor did she have a desire to lock horns with an adversary on the night. But that's what theAsylum is all about, unpredictability. You'll never know what may happen. Thinking that she'd be just fine, Karen closed her eyes and got herself focused.

She'd beaten Sebastian before, she could do it again.

Both fighters weren't a 100%. But she had the mental edge.

The Lassie was going to exploit it.

A third straight defeat for the ponce would bloody shatter him.

Turning around, Karen's eyes twinkled as the fight official too made his way into the cage, and the Lassie retrieved her hand from under her shirt. Thompson wasted no time in advancing on Pembridge after hurling himself into the cage, but found his wild swing evaded by the Lassie, who responded deftly with a quick jab to his ribs and a left uppercut to his... believe it or not, right armpit! It packed punch, though, and took The Phoenix completely by surprise.

With Sebastian reeling, The Manucian Girl followed up with a cheeky little stepover heel trip which sent Sebs down to the canvas hard. Karen directed a uber-stiff kick to her opponent's ribs, before realising she still had her sneakers on. Frowning, she kicked Thompson in the head, before opting to remove her sneakers. Her bare feet had won her many a fight in Asylum, and she was going to stick to the formula that made her feared. Thompson seized the chance to ameliorate himself, but he hardly even had the chance to peel himself off the canvas, as the Lassie kicked him in the head again.

This time, with her shoes off, and a cocky sneer imprinted on her face.

Sebs groaned, his head immediately swelling up and twinging severely. It didn't help that Karen was completely focused on wanting to attain victory, as she jumped down on him and started firing away with rapacious hooks, driving the crowd into a euphoric frenzy. Punch after punch rained down on his head, and Thompson felt blood seeping out from a fresh cut under his left eye. Enraged that some WOMAN had managed to nip him open so easily, The Phoenix roared and spat at Karen. Watching as she screamed in horror, Sebastian took a moment to blink, needing to get acustomed to the throbbing of his head.

With Karen preoccupied with wiping her face cleaned, Sebs clenched his fist and cracked Pembridge with a bonecrushing jab, before grabbing her head and pulling her head downwards. At the same time, raising his own, smashing it into Karen's cranium! A powerful headbutt that knocked the Lassie off him, buying himself a couple of extra seconds. The fight official cringed at
the sight of the former tFZ Female Champion rolling around, holding her head in obvious agony. Watching as Sebastian scrapping to his feet, drops of blood trickling down his left cheek. The official gulped at the sight of Thompson roaring and crouching down, as he grabbed Karen up by her hair and flung her in the air, treating her like a rag doll.

"YOU STUPID CUNT!"

Karen almost blacked out as she opened her eyes, which were burning. Her face had been brought smashing down onto Thompson's knee, and laying on the canvas... looking up at the rafters, she wondered in her state of excruciating delirium,if Sebastian's knee was made of lead. She felt her bangs being tugged at again, instantly knowing that she'd get another chance
to find out. True enough, she found herself being flung up into the air, suspended, before The Phoenix barbarically slammed her down onto his right knee.

And down she was, pretty damn motionless.

The official shook his head, but one look at Sebastian and he gulped, prompting him to start the count;

ONE.

TWO.

THREE.

FOUR.

FIVE.

Karen blinked. This was it? This was all her body could take, she pondered venomously to herself?

I'm tougher than this.

Wait, where's the count at now?

EIGHT.

NINE.

Better get up.

And so she did, rolling to her right and using the mesh of the cage to hurriedly pull herself up. Lost in her thoughts, she'd almost cost herself the fight, but it didn't matter to Sebastian. He crouched down slightly and waited for Karen to lead herself to him like lamb to the slaughter, which she eventually did by way of drunken stumbling. Either which way was
fine with him, Thompson reckoned, as he rocked the former IOW stalwart with another devastating hook, that sent Karen down to her knees. Naturally, the pro-Karen crowd detested it but Thompson half-shrugged, smirking sinisterly as he did so.

Realising that Karen was taking an awfully long time to get back to her feet, The Phoenix nodded his head, knowing what he had to do if he wanted to win this fight. He strolled over to Pembridge, getting in front of her, and expertly catching a desperation hook from her with his left hand. Twisting the hand, he laughed and drove another vile hook into Karen's face,
before resorting to pulling her up by the hair. He leaned in, looking as if he might plant a wet one on the Manucian Girl's cheek, but decided it at the last second.

And instead, knocked her back down to the canvas with a calculated elbow-smash to the back of her head.

Thompson had managed to exploit a weak spot of Pembridge's that HE had inflicted upon her. And hence, feeling proud of himself, Sebastian took a few steps back and drew more jeering from the crowd, by stomping viciously on Karen's head! The Lassie writhed on the canvas for a bit, in obvious throes of unexpected pain.

The official, as always, had to do his job.

ONE.

TWO.

THREE.

FOUR.

FIVE.

SIX.

This poof's gotten loads stronger since last year.

NINE.

The official held up his hand, indicating it was only a nine count, as Karen Pembridge pulled herself back up. Still shaking, head still throbbing. But the way the official saw it, Karen was operating purely on drive and desire. He watched as she ducked a rounding jab from Thompson and rolled underneath him, before magically jumping up to her feet and launching herself at the bewildered Sebastian with a capoeria attack tactic; Mealua Colume! Sebastian Thompson's jaw got the brunt of the attack and he crashed down to the canvas, letting out a growl due to the searing sudden pain in his neck area. His eyes met Karen's for a fleeting second, and she looked down at him with disdain.

Karen had effectively turned the tables with one simple move.

ONE.

TWO.

THREE.

FOUR.

FIVE.

SIX.

SEVEN.

EIGHT.

Sebs leaned back and wrapped his fingers around the mesh of the cage, pulling himself up thereafter, utilising his leg muscles the most. Almost immediately, he had to think fast and catch Karen's foot, as The Lassie attempted to dump him out of the cage with a running jumping sidekick. Guffawing, he directed a snap uppercut into the back of Pembridge's
left knee, sending her staggering back howling. A jumping knee-smash from Thompson knocked Karen down to the canvas, but she quickly pulled herself up. Even if her bearings were completely askewed.

No surprise, then, that Sebastian Thompson popped up behind her and got her into a full nelson, ready to launch Karen into the air and back down to the canvas. The girl from Manchester was able to save herself with a classic mule-kick, unfortunately enough for The Phoenix, who had to bellow out in agony as his crown jewels got squashed. Safely slipping out of the full nelson, Karen Pembridge struck with her classic Windpipe Smash, catching Sebs squarely in the throat.

Following which, it was all academic.

Sweeping snap roundhouse kick with right foot. Deft leg-sweep using the left leg as the right foot came down. Entanglement of feet with left foot. And the coup de grace; the execution of a unique elevated ankle-lock.

One word, folks.

RANCOR.

I got him! I've got the tosser!

Within a matter of seconds, Thompson did what he really didn't want to do, as immense pain seeped into every nook & cranny of his anatomy. He had no choice, really.

None at all.

*TAP*
*TAP*
*TAP*

Karen relinquished the hold as the official rang for the bell, and she collapsed to the canvas. Jubilant over having picked up the victory. It may not have been a classic fight, but it was a real gritty and methodical one right from the start. Thompson stopped grunting in pain and dragged himself away from Karen, tending to his ankle. Yet again, he had to come to
terms with being slapped in the face with another defeat.

Not good times for The Phoenix, admittedly.

"Unreal" by Soil started to play over the speakers and the crowd celebrated joyously, with The British Lassie having picked up another victory. The official waddled over to Karen and looked down at the victorious Lassie, who was breathing heavily and murmuring to herself for some strange reason.

"You okay, Karen?"

She blinked.

"Get me a bloody microphone."

The official nodded and went along to collect a mic, while Karen slowly pulled herself up, raising her arms in the air to acknowledge the support she was receiving from the crowd. Thompson was still huddled in one corner, checking on whether his knee was broken. Passing Pembridge the microphone, the official exited the cage, wondering why the Lassie wanted to speak.

He signalled to the AV team to cut the music, while the crowd watched Karen drag herself towards the center of the cage.

Looked as if she was intending on finishing her spiel from earlier.

"Now, before I was rudely interrupted by some twat with a broken ankle, I do believe I was saying something along the bleedin' lines of myself lacking direction and a purporse.

But you know what? I just realised what my new aim is."

She patted her ribs with her left arm, sneering at Sebastian as she did.

"I want to win the only thing worth winning.

... the all-important Asylum Championship is my bloody target..."

With that, Karen Pembridge threw down the microphone and limped out of the cage, the crowd exploding in a chorus of cheers. The Lassie had laid down her intention, and it was a big one. Surely, she must have factored in how irate Joe Campbell would have been upon hearing that, but the Manucian Girl wasn't caring about Joe. Nor was she caring about Sebastian Thompson.

And she sure as hell wasn't caring about herself.

Only one thing was on her mind.

Only one simple thing.

The prized possesion that was, the Asylum Championship.

That's all I want.