----Excerpt from the journal of a young civil war soldier.

He wasn't impressed by the people hailing him as a hero. He wasn't affected by the way people looked at him with a fear and uncertainty as he meandered the halls of arena. When he told the reporters that he was just doing his job as an American - he was serious. When Mike Westwood questioned him about the certain appearance of Avenger verses Sylo on the card - he just shrugged.

Rick didn't care how big Sylo was. Jay Sylo was just another Low-born law-breaking hayseed. He'd do what he had always done. He'd slam the door on his locker, walk out there front of those blood-lusting misfits and dominate.

Adjusting his mask, Richter Reinhardt became Avenger.

He stared intensely at that image and tried to shake the pleasure of pain from his mind.

"You know, it's funny..." a voice from behind said.

Avenger turned to his left and saw Thanh Vactor coldly staring at him. But that voice didn't come from Thanh.

It came from Campbell.

"...I thought you'd look like some kind of monster under that mask. But, you've got just a regular yank-face." Joe said finishing his sentence.

Avenger smiled. "Campbell."

"The one and only." Joe quipped back. Joe leaned against one of the lockers and crossed his arms, taking every conversational liberty with Avenger.

"You know what's even funnier? The sudden increase of police presence in my organization. Now, I never had that problem before...unless you count that slut Carson...

...which I don't.

But, what's even funnier than *that*...is that a fighter - one of *my* fighters - actually aided the bloody police. Now, Rich...I've never been one for American humor so I'm wondering exactly why I'm finding this as funny as a heart attack. Maybe you can enlighten me?"

Avenger, who chose to ignore being called "Rich" shrugged and chuckled a bit at the end for effect.

"I don't know, Campbell. You want my opinion? The cops have probably been trailing Escobar for years. He was young and insipid, so he got caught. Not only did he participate in illegal activities by he was flashy about it. The Laws of society should burn valiantly like the fire in our passions. Escobar chose to play with that fire. So he caught burned."

Joe cocked his scowling head to side. He didn't appreciate Avenger accusatory and very pointed tone. "...and?"

"...and what, Campbell?" Avenger questioned. "I was serious when I said that I would be cleaning up the Asylum. What I did to Escobar should come as no surprise."

Bang. Joe's fist slammed against one of the lockers. "I'm still not fucking convinced. And if I find out that you're doing anything dodgy - if I find out that you're trying to fuck me. Then, you're fucked. You hear me? I'll terminate your contract. I'll terminate your life. I don't care how big and strong and heroic you think you are.

Heroes fall.

..and I will be the one that makes *you* fall if you're screwing with me.

I hope we've reached an understanding.

Let's go, Thanh."

Joe took his leave but turned his head just slightly over his shoulder as he approached the doorway..."By the way.

Good luck against Sylo tonight.

Wanker."

“Stop listening to the voices that echo deep inside your mind’s eye, and understand the situation for a moment here. You worked so hard to get to the top; only to be shafted by the lack of structure, the absentness of the rules that surrounded you… when you truly needed them most. Screwing you out of another opportunity, when they seem to arise as often as a leap year. But your sadness is now replaced by the joy of your achievement. You played the game of uncertainty by their rules, instead of your own… and this time,… the dice of life did not come up ‘snake eyes’. If I were you… I would shout my success to the world; scribbling my victories on my sleeve for all to read, for everyone to truly feel and understand why this cocky and aggregate ass smile will never go away. Sadly, I am not you. Nor will I ever be… because I have too much talent to wallow in self pity, waiting for the approval of others before I toke my next course of action.

Too much talent indeed because I am ‘the personification of talent’. And that isn’t just some smarky moniker that goes well with my name… that is something that is more true than life itself within the Asylum. So when I succeed after I had clearly stated it was going to happen, I would really hate to say I told you so…. But nah, you fuckers deserve a good tongue lashing.”

“Creep” by RadioHead.

Right on cue as the voice over that filled the ears of the Asylum fans, came to an end as Osyrus and company strutted down to the dome triumphantly. The wrestler known as Osyrus seemed to have a peppier bounce in his step; some what smiling and jovial as he held a piece of paper in his right death grip of a hand, while he waited for Isis to open the cage door for him. Willis followed closely behind Osyrus’ lead inside as he had his arms crossed against his wide chest, which resembled a giant mass of humanity… and that of course was John C. Willis to the Y. Osyrus waited impatiently as he snapped the middle finger and thumb on his left hand, while the fearful Asylum technician carefully handed ‘The Beast’ the microphone… then tried to scurry out of harm’s way, but didn’t move fast enough as Willis grabbed him by the white collar on his shirt.

“What’s the rush mi amigo? We aren’t la migra hommes, this is a time for celebrating esse!” Osyrus snarled as Willis’ bear hug increased in pressure, keeping the Mexican technician put. “Ahem,” Osyrus cleared his throat while straightening out the paper that he still held a grasp of. “In case you feckers didn’t catch the pay per view; here are the standings from the event… Slapnutz. TMM. You got yada yada yada points. So that means that you got,… well we will just skip over that part because it’s not important. “ He went back to reading. “Osyrus, that’s me. You got twenty points. A black title match is yours.” The former Joe Campbell body guard crumpled up the Manhunt standings into a little paper ball, where he tossed it over his right shoulder… mule kicking it with his right foot as well, it rolled onto the tA canvas. “The rest is definitely something I don’t want to be reminded of… so that’s all you people get, that can hear the sound of my voice. So Jose, or Pedro or Miguel Angel… whatever you beaners call yourselves, you’re excused!” Osyrus motioned to Willis to get rid of the garbage; seconds later, the technician flew through the door as he crashed onto the outside. Willis was even kind enough to pick up Osyrus’ litter, kneeling down for the paper ball… as that too found its way out of the tA dome, after bouncing off of the unnamed tech’s head.

“What I just read to you illiterate fuck heads, means that I have another shot at the black title. Putting my body on the line against tA’s worst and walking away with out a scratch with my black championship shot in tow… like I planned all along. But before we get to how Inmate’s championship reign is now fucked in the process; with my glorious victory, let’s talk about Manhunt shall we. Well, I’ll talk and you idiots will listen as you sit in the crowd; picking your noses and eating your boogers,… like normal people with the intelligence level of a kindergartener.“ That last rib on the audience from Osyrus pissed the people off big time as fans ringside shook the safety rail, trying to get to the ring… but kept at bay by the security guards that were dressed in all black. Similar fashion apparel sported by mobsters and gangsters alike. Osyrus waited for the jeers to die down before he continued where he left off.

“… How stupid was Manhunt? As a matter of fact, it has always been stupid in my opinion. What is the point of fucking someone up; just because Campbell hits a stupid buzzer, that deems that special individual a fuckhead? What in the hell is fuckhead anyway? Is it someone that has nothing in their fucking head? Is it a sexual term, where you assholes pull down my zipper… as the drool runs down your face… as you wait for me to fuck a hole in your skull? Whatever it means, I won that damn match and now I got Inmate again for the third time. And the third time is going to be the charm; when I beat that sorry wannabe wrestler within an inch of his life, like he should have done to me.” The crowd was silent as they replayed Osyrus’ last thoughts over in their mind. Did he say, ‘like he should have done to me?’ The night grew more and more puzzling as it went on.

“Did Inmate really think that he could screw me twice; costing me the only championship that is everything I stand for? The first time when I was kicking the shit out of him, I increased his fear of knowing that his belt was really mine. Inmate knew himself that he could not defeat me by himself, so during our Interim championship match… enter Sebastian Thompson.” Osyrus paused as he started to seethe under his clenched teeth, reminiscing about past events. Isis; dressed in her all black leather attire, walked up behind her master to comfort him… but was pushed away violently. “You’re not helping,” he motioned for Willis to pick Isis off of the ground while Osyrus paced in the center of the dome as he returned his attention to audience. “…You twats aren’t helping either. Your chants of Inmate is only infuriating me more, and when I see your champion… I’ll make sure I rip his head off of his fucking shoulders. Tyler should have done the same to me. When he had me down at Retribution; Tyler Burton should have finished the job, instead of acting like the pussy hero that is… and hope that I would take defeat like a man, and just walk away. NO BITCH! I won’t stop coming for your arse until that ugly ass strap, is on this muscular right shoulder… where it should be.”

Before Osyrus could get out another word, etch wise… the unstable wrestler was interrupted. To the fans’ surprise, it wasn’t “Disposable Teens” by Marylyn Manson that stopped Osyrus from speaking… it was the slight thumping of a finger, tapping against a microphone. The kind of tapping you hear when someone is testing a microphone; before replying with,
“Is this thing on or what?” Seconds later, the black skull curtain on the top of the entrance way was parted as Fiend made his way down to the dome. In the background you could see Osyrus mouthing the words, ‘Who the fuck is that, to Isis and Willis.’ “Well Osyrus, I’ll tell you exactly who I am… the name is Fiend. “ Osyrus got back onto his microphone.

“Like I said the first time, WHO the fuck are you? And why are you interrupting my interview time?” Fiend chuckled to himself as he cautiously walked up the steps, and entered the fighting structure. “I just came to give you a warning; as you can see, I am a hit man for hire…. and I heard you back there saying something like, ‘I’ll make sure I rip his head off of his fucking shoulders’. Well if I came across the right customer like Inmate,…. I could be the man that would rip your head off your shoulders man.” Fiend tried to step nose to nose with Osyrus, but Willis stood in his way like a brick wall. ‘The Anti Social Hero’ paced behind Willis as he rose the mic back to his bottom lip.

“…Is that right? Well at least you have come to the right place for employment... the Asylum is full of fuckers that can’t fight for themselves. I bet you will make a decent living,… but you are stepping to the wrong, my friend. I can guarantee that your body will end up in a hefty bag; in a blue dumpster outside like Damon experienced, but your head would be separated from your shoulders… as Willis drank the blood from your skull like a pitcher of brew. Since you’re obviously new to the Asylum, I am sure you didn’t get the memo… the people that stand before you are the most dangerous that the Asylum will ever see. We are the ones that run things around here… fuck Campbell and everyone else. We are the army that everyone fears, and you should be lucky that your presence here has humored me… because if it didn’t, you would be lying in a pool of your own blood thanks to John ‘The Creeper’ Willis. But enough of this chit chat, get the fuck out of here because I got a promo to finish… and it would go a lot smoother if you were not here fucking up the rotation.”

All three man began to argue, before the crowd roared in excitement as Slapnutz and TMM, collectively known as Splink ran down to the cage... quickly entering the the Asylum done.

“Now what the fuck is going on? Is this ‘Everyone interrupt an Osyrus promo day’? Osyrus replied as he kicked the dome’s metal structure. Slapnutz yanked the microphone out of Fiend’s hand as he jumped up and down as he pointed to the microphone, yelling ‘I got it’. “So Osyrus; how could you forget to mention anything about the best team eva in the Asylum…” TMM butted in, “The Legion of Dairy? I love those guys! There super secksey.” Slapnutz slapped him in the back of his head, “No… US!”

“OH okay.” TMM coined in as Osyrus shook in disbelief in the background. “What the fuck are you guys doing here? You trespassers are seriously pissing me off now.” Slapnutz rose the microphone back up to his face, moving himself away from TMM so he wouldn’t saying anything else idiotic. “The reason we are out here is because; we heard you say something about the Manhunt standings, and well… we’re just curious if we won a tag title shot? We didn’t hear them announced at the pay per view. SO did win them Osyrus? Did we huh?” The annoyed wrestler moved toward the duo as he blew air out of his nose as he approached them.

“The reason you losers didn’t hear what happened at Manhunt, is because you two were unconscious… and just to answer your question about whether you won or not,… NO, you didn’t.” Osyrus snarled in laughter as Splink could be heard saying ‘Darn’ as they snapped their fingers. “…But I’ll tell you what you did win, and you claimed that prize with the greatest of ease. By interrupting my promo; exposing me to your idiocy, you have won a match next week… where you are going to get your asses kicked by Willis and myself. Next week, I am going to make an example out of you… and Fiend, don’t think I have forgotten about you. You’re in the match too. A triple threat tag match and I can assure that you are not going to have a fun, good old time Splink.“ Osyrus dropped his microphone and that must have been some sort of hidden signal... because out of nowhere, Willis clubbed Fiend in the back with his massive bicep. ‘The Creeper’ burst into a charge as he double clotheslined the tag team of Slapnutz and TMM to the ground, almost decapitating the famed duo. Isis, then Willis and finally Osyrus exited the dome as they left everyone else still on the ground. “Creep” by RadioHead returned as the trio walked up the entrance ramp...finally disappearing behind the curtain.

Osyrus was on a roll, could he keep that momentum going through next week?

Although he hadn’t been invited to attend and didn’t really have a reason to do so due to his defeat a week ago, the young lad born and bred in Bogotá had been downbeat and dejected ever since and seriously needed to be put out of his misery.

Why? I mean surely he should just get on with it. The stipulation was simple enough to understand. Win, you’re in. Lose, you’re out. Even David Beckham could work that one out.

One incident had thrown a spanner in the works though and might, just might, have handed the stylish South American another opportunity to prove himself.

Escobar had been arrested.

Somehow, he had convinced an official to give him access to the backstage area because he had arranged a meeting with Mr. Joseph Campbell, which was an obvious lie to begin with, and now found himself roaming the quite corridors in order to locate the main source of activity and tension besides the steel structure itself – the Owner’s office.

After a minute or so of sauntering down a lengthy hallway, he saw the Manchester native’s name on a hanger and braced himself for five or six seconds before knocking, politely but so that the Boss could still hear it, twice and entered as he heard the Englishman yell: “What the fuck now? If it’s my Wife, I’m not in.”

Thankfully, it wasn’t yet, as always, he wasn’t exactly elated either. Ali shouldn’t be here and Campbell could care less that Amore was still keen to procure a contract.

“Who are you?”

Well that wasn’t the start Ali had anticipated, envisioned or desired. Nonetheless, the promising prospect did not let it deter him as he poured his heart out to the cold, calculating and callous creature they call Campbell.

“I’m Ali Amore Sir.”

Joe, whose eyes were permanently black because of the booze rather than being beaten up, had that blank look on his face and unfortunately the intimidated adolescent didn’t possess the required confidence in this particular predicament at least to press on and stake a claim.

Luckily, the hand that rocks the cradle clicked his fingers repeatedly and pointed at the confused Colombian: “Yes. You’re the lad who… shit. I had it a minute ago. Aye. You’re the jobber that Escobar beat aren’t you?”

Ali nodded not realising that the twat who celebrates his birthday in little over two weeks was in fact insulting him.

“Well what the fuck are you doing here then Alfred? The deal was that you had to WIN or you were out on your ear. Now I don’t know what your definition of winning is but, believe me, you didn’t. So sling your hook son.”

Being a non-Englishman, especially one that had only just learned to master the basic phrases that would enable him to brag to most of the watching world about how brilliant he is, Amore didn’t understand the meaning behind the Briton’s words but he did know that it wasn’t the response he’d been dreaming of for the past seven days. Therefore, he decided to plead his case, albeit not very well.

“Sir, I didn’t win but Escobar didn’t too. He got taken away by the police so that means you should give me it.”

“Does it really? Is that what you think? Well fuck it. You don’t matter and I wasn’t impressed so piss off before I clip you round the lug. Go on. Get out.”

The audience gave a unanimous ‘Awwww’ as Amore stared at the bloke who had broken his heart without any remorse and then put his head down prior to trotting off like a schoolboy who had been bollocked by his Mother or the Headmaster for vandalism.

Ali had nowhere to go but home.

However, he didn’t have any money.

Anyway, in spite of losing his job courtesy of an outcome that he didn’t have any influence over, the ‘Prince of Palermo’ was prepared to be present for this week’s Show as John hit the home straight en route to the residence that the Asylum would call home for a few action-packed hours.

On their way there, the Newcastle native noticed a gloomy-looking lad clad in a leather jacket and jeans standing on the side of the road apparently appealing for someone to pull over and give him a lift.

“Pull over.”

Wills was oblivious to why ‘Special K’ had requested that: “What?”

“Just pull over.”

Eventually, the ‘Kokomo Colossus’ concurred with the Englishman’s wishes and Carrahar pulled the window down in the back seat to address the hitchhiker.

“Hey. Over here.”

He spotted the ‘Height of Humanity’ and hesitated for a second but the Briton waved him over so he picked his bag up and slowly approached the vehicle.

“I’m Keegan,” he stated as he extended his hand to the stranded party.

“I’m Ali Amore.”

They shook hands and Carrahar continued: “You’re from the Asylum aren’t you?”

Amore stuttered and nervously whispered: “I was?”

“Was?”

“I had to win last week and I didn’t. I came to talk to Mister Campbell because Escobar got taken away by the Police and thought that there may be a chance for me but he told me to get out.”

John grunted, probably because his brother was wasting time and letting the cold air in, yet ‘The Yardstick’ was ignorant to this and he kindly offered Ali a lift – physically and psychologically.

“Alright son. Give me your bag and get yourself in the front seat alongside the nasty man. Don’t worry though son. His bark is worse than his bite. Mind you, I reckon you’re his type.”

“Fuck off.”

Ali was unsure of this but he’d already give the ‘Geordie Genius’ his bag and didn’t want to appear ungrateful. The journey would be short and he could always slip out while they were having an argument about whether Willis preferred Jennifer Lopez or Ben Affleck.

In typical fashion, the former Fighting Zone Champion welcomed him by placing an arm on his shoulder and letting him know that he was okay: “Don’t worry about it bonny lad. I’m here to grovel as well. Just let me do all of the talking.”

Ali was still uncertain about what the broad Geordie was talking about so he smiled and not just to be polite but because it sounded good.

But would it be good enough?

Geez, not one person on this roster knows what manners are.

As the door open Joe prepared himself for the usual fighter-bust-in-makes-a-demand-Joe refuses-demand-fighter-damn-near-kills-him-Joe-grudgingly-gives-in routine we've seen so many times. It's almost like an initiation right here in the Asylum.

As the unannounced visitor slowly opened his door, Joe had an epiphany. Why not beat the shit out of him before he even has the chance to attack? As the unknown visitor stepped into the room Joe ordered Thanh Vactor to strike preemptively.

"Thanh!! Now!!"

Like the well trained machine he is, Thanh pounced landing a hard right to the face of who ever walked though the door.

*smack!*

Thanh stood there with his fist held in a follow through. The man he struck just stood there. With his face spun to the side from the blow. He held his jaw. He slowly turned to Thanh. Then to Joe. Then to Thanh again.

"Thanks for that. But next time you want to tell me you love me a card will do." HardCase said while wondering just what the fuck he did to deserve to be punched in the face randomly…well actually if there was anyone who deserved that sort of treatment it was this bastard but still, a warning at least would have been nice.

Thanh readied himself to pounce yet again, but he noticed HardCase didn't flinch or attempt to fight back. What the hell?

Thanh was ready to attack regardless, but Joe Campbell thought his point had been made.

"Don't bother Thanh." He told his bodyguard "What exactly do you want?" he asked HardCase.

HardCase stopped rubbing the throbbing side of his face, and focused on the business at hand.

"Well it has to do with business." HardCase then dug out something from his pocket and set it on Joe's desk. It was a piece of paper to be exact. A pay check to be even more exact.

Joe examined it suspiciously. "If you're coming up here asking for a pay raise or an adjustment you’re wasting your time. In case you haven't noticed I run a respectable organization..."

…ok now that's just too easy, I think we'll just let that one pass.

"...and you're still new around here. Sure you beat two other queers at the PPV, bravo you get a gold star. But you're still utter shite in my eyes. I don't even think your pussy ass was in the Manhunt match. Just be happy you're getting a paycheck at all."

Joe handed the paycheck back. To which HardCase shook his head and shoved it back toward Joe.

"Cute lil' speech Joe, but I'm not asking for shit. I don't want this paycheck. As a matter of fact I don't want you to pay me period."

Joe did a double take. This guy can't be serious. First he gets punched in the face and doesn't bother to strike back. Now he ordering Joe not to pay him???

"Hahahahaha. Fuck, it usually takes a few months in the Asylum before you're beaten retarded. Guess you've had a head start haven't you?"

"I'll be first to admit I'm not exactly all together "right" but I know what I'm doing here. Allow me to explain."

"Please do." Joe said while leaning back and waiting.

"You may or may not be aware of my semi-legal pharmaceutical endeavors."

"Heh, quite aware indeed. Everyone needs a 'hobby'"

"Yea, you could say that. Anyway, this 'hobby' as you put it requires that I account for my funds. I need to launder the money. That's where you come in."

"I'm listening." Joe said with growing interest.

"I want to receive a blank check every week form the Asylum" Joe started to call him fucking insane but HardCase held up his hand and continued. "I'll write in the amount I need just to account for my other business, then I'll pay it back to you with 3% interest. I have the paper work with me right here. It's all gravy, and I have the same deal with Action! Just be cool, and I'll be paying you to fight under tA."

HardCase handed Joe more papers.

"These are just the copies; I'll have the real one into you soon. Have your lawyers look at them."

Joe examined the papers. They seemed legit. And 3% of what HardCase or "E the Hustla has he likes to be known for some god awful reason, makes on a weekly basis would probably come out to a healthy amount of loot. But he couldn't quite believe what was going on here.

"Ok, HardCase. This looks ok. But how can I trust you?"

"You can't."

"…Pardon?"

"I'm a vile, greedy, violent, depraved sociopath who would stab someone in the back without hesitation and cop a squat and shit in your grandmother’s mouth if it would make me a buck. I can't be trusted."

HardCase said that as if it was the most perfectly normal thing for him to say.

"…ok…than just why the FUCK should I do business with you?"

"Because you're the exact same way."

Joe had to smile at that. He was kind of liking this kid.

"Heh heh. Well met. Alright. I'll bite. I think I can do this for you."

"Nice."

HardCase got up to leave. When…

"As a matter of fact. I have a proposition for you."

HardCase turned toward him.

"Do you think you could get your hands on some Heroin?"

"Heh. Can a baby get its hands on led paint?"

"…I'll take that as a yes." Joe smirked "Well I have some prime clientele for you."

"Do you now?"

"Yes mate. There's a certain fighter amongst us with an undying love for the heroin known as…er…heroin."

"Nice pun."

"Thank you. Anyways, I get you hooked up with him, you take care of the rest, and all I ask is in return is that you don't forget your buddy Joe when you're spreading your wealth."

Joe hand out his hand, flashing a smile no one in their right mind would trust.

HardCase shook it - grinning a grin only a grave robber would look about amiably.

And thus…

An arrangement is made.

Sliding through the wall, down and across the hallway, in a completely other room...Avenger sat with a receiver in his ear and a microphone wrapped over in front of his mouth.

"Eagle to tooth fairy. Did you get all of that? Over."

***Toothfairy to eagle. Yeah. Every. Word. Over."

"Good." Avenger said.

"Very good."

He took a deep inhale from a joint he had rolled with tonight’s Asylum card written on it. He let out a small cough, the weed getting to his lungs in this cold winter air.

“You shouldn’t smoke,” a voice from just outside the room, female in origin. “Unless you’re trying to kill yourself.”

Cheno turned his attention, and he saw Nicole Carson, hanging on the doorway, leaning to her side and her arm raised high, slightly crazing the pane. Cheno turned away quickly, as Carson walked into the room. “Listen, Eddie, I’m sick and tired of this.” Cheno didn’t return her gaze, so Carson fell to her knees in front of Eddie and lifted his head up by her light touch underneath the chin. “You’ve got to make a decision. Right now.” Carson batted her eyes a bit. “Do you want me, or don’t you?”

Cheno let out a grunt, as Carson tilted her head to the side. “Listen Eddie, I’m not saying forever, and I’m not saying just for one night. I’m saying I want this to go somewhere. I never gave you the chance before… and really...I don’t think I was really truthful when we broke up.” She got up, and began to pace. “I was just being defensive. That’s all. So you’ve got to ask yourself, can you let go of the past. Can you look beyond what’s happened and see what’s here? And can you fucking figure out what the hell you want?” Carson paused. “Because I won’t be here forever.”

Eddie tilted his head back into the wall, and he took another hit off his joint. He closed his eyes, and then fell back off the wall, and simply blew the smoke out of his mouth.

Another few seconds, and Eddie lowered his head to the side, away from her. She sighed, “Fine. Be that way.”
Exit. Stage left.

“Where’s your manners Miss? What if I’d been getting changed?”

“Then I wouldn’t have noticed it. I’m sure. What I want to know is what you were playing at?”

She was, of course, alluding to Wills but the ‘Height of Humanity’ to intervene: “We were taking care of business bonny lass. It seems that you’re playing with people’s minds and trying to use your tits to get what you want.”

“At least I’ve got assets that you can see. John, what is wrong with you? What kind of a stunt was that?”

Carrahar was the first to react: “Look here. It wasn’t a stunt. We made it perfectly clear that we wanted to slap the piss out of you bonny lass and I’m just sorry that we didn’t get it done even if your time will come.”

John finally contributed: “I’m not playing at anything. You’re a whore who needs fucked up in the right way.”

Keegan commented: “Aye. Fucked up via a good kicking you tart.”

Nicole warned them: “I’d be nice to me if I were you. You bastards. Where do you get off in telling me I’m a tart you fudge packers? You’d better watch what you say or I’ll get Eddie…”

Willis told her: “You’ll get Eddie to what you whore? He doesn’t fucking want you. Get used to it.”

Carson scowled prior to leaving: “You’ll see and when you do it’ll be too late because Eddie can – and will – have you both. Bye.”

Thereafter, she walked out and Keegan chuckled as he gave Amore another bit of advice: “Did you see that lad? If there’s one thing that you need to learn it’s that you’ve got to put your career before women because with your career at least you have control of what do you. Put your faith in a woman and you get loads of PMT-related decisions that’ll ruin her life and yours. Then she’ll dump you.”

Once again, Ali merely nodded and let the ‘Latin Luminary’ believe he was right whereas, in fact, he was talking absolute shite.

But at moments, this privacy isn’t exactly a welcomed feature of life. Like now, when Eddie Cheno was left alone in his locker room to ponder the direction of his life. How he’s been wading socially ever since last year when Nicole Carson shot him in the face. It’s hard to trust people when everyone you’ve ever trusted has broken that vow. And it’s hard to love someone when that person either shoots you or gets shot.

Sometimes he wished the bullet would have killed him. Not shot at a weird angle and jutting out the side of his cheek, but bam, up throw his skull and into his brain. Take a hit. Smoke some weed. That feeling doesn’t go away. In fact, sometimes it’s gets stronger. He can feel the weight of the world pressuring down on him. He never realized how heavy Gravity actually felt.

But the main thing racing through his mind is not the fact that he’s been living dead for over a year, but… what if.

What if he could love Nicole Carson?

He vowed he could never love again after he lost Jett during a routine apartment robbery. She was there trying to talk to Eddie, to work out their problems. But they were never able to. Not when her bodies folded up in the laundry basket.

But is he doing the same thing with Nicole? Sure, he’s been shot in the face, sure, she’s been the persuer, but maybe it was time to let it all go. Just like everything else in his life, maybe it’s time to just forget it.

But it’s hard, when you can still feel the scar smoldering on your face as if you’re the cattle, and Carson is the owner.

But love isn’t rational. And in that moment, he realized something.

The scar isn’t all bad. It helps him remember his life. It’s like his body is like the body of Memento, keeping tabs on himself like a human notepad.
And that scar allows him to remember Nicole. Allows him to remember Jett. To remember portions of his life that would otherwise be lost and gone forever.

And he loved that.

So if he could love a gunshot wound… how much of a stretch would it be to love Nicole?

Or at least give her a chance.

“I’m sick of these simple surroundings,” Asher muttered to himself. Reposed on the bench, he shifted his weight to the side in a languid fashion and leaned over to fumble with his shoelaces.

Outside, Frank sighed outwardly. Every nook and cobble scratched, searched, and empty, he grew weary of this endless search. The words played on his mind like fingers tapping a face-paced beat and ached his head as such. He wanted release and, finally, he thought to check the men’s locker room.

A long corridor, a step into a doorway, and he had found him. “Hey Asher, buddy. You mind if I come in?”

Cue an outward sigh. Asher paused in the tying of his shoelaces for a moment, but then continued. "I'd rather you not, since I don't particularly enjoy your company."

"How can you not enjoy the company of the man carrying the two greatest titles in this shit hole? Let’s not beat around an old woman's silver bush, Rollins. We both despise this company and the employees in it. I mean, shit, you got the crap kicked outta yourself at Manhunt! Walked away with basically nothing."

Asher allowed himself a little giggle--such was his nature. "Ha, you're a man of so many words and so little to say."

"I got a lot to say... basically, the fact that you have a lot to say and so little to back it up, obviously. I mean, Hardcare and Pointless basically used you as a wiffle ball bat."

"Do you think I didn't know that was going to happen? Both of them were on me from the beginning, so I devised a plan to get them off of me. Now, they're going to be pecking at each other's respective bread and not mine. I'm not a man of many 'actions', as you'd call them, but I'm far more intelligent than anyone else in this place."

There was a slight pause. Frank stepped back a little bit at this calm revelation, as he was shocked by the apathy. For another man to touch him, that was insult. To this man, it meant nothing. Physical contact was like some fake, altered reality. This ideal was new and, like most that was new, intriguing.

Nevertheless, curiosity passed disregarded. "Intelligence is overrated kid. Not to mention being intelligent and being street smart are completely different, and guess which one means a rat’s ass in the walls and halls of the Asylum?"

"Well, intelligence can obviously get you pretty far, pretty fast--I've been here for less than two months and have already earned a shot at one of your two GLORIOUS (bolded for sarcasm, kids ^_^) pieces of tin. So... is intelligence the one that matters?"

The feigned sense of confusion brought a slight annoyance. "Fuck you, Rollins. If Token wasn't clearing you a path, you wouldn't have lasted five minutes in the Manhunt match. I've been more then a success in this rotting bucket of cock drippage!"

For a second, Asher just sat there in quiet contemplation. "...didn't I knock out Token a couple times? I don't really remember--it's all very insignificant to me."

"Insignificant to me too. You're just choc-fulla funny tonight kid, you're so funny that I'd like to get a front row seat to your comedy special in the cage, you game?"

"You'll be the one I'll be fighting, buddy. Not only are you allowed front row, but you're also allowed to stand right in the ring."

There was a short pause. For a moment, neither of the two said anything. It was a lingering moment, but one none of the less. Asher rolled his head up and pushed a measure of black hair out of his eyes. "How amazing is that!"

He didn’t return to tying his shoes--that task had been completed. Instead, he propped his back up against the wall and ran his hands against the wooden bench. A small, almost inaudible sound came from the friction between his skin and the reflective linoleum.

"...I can't be sure, because you couldn't threaten Eddie Scott Poser if you had a pistol in his jaw, but... were you attempting to scare me?"

Suddenly, his hand quit its little dance about the place. His face contorted, appearing perplexed in a manner. "...what kind of intellectual anomaly are you? You're dumber than the average bear, buddy. That's not scare tactics--IT'S THAT SARCASM THING THAT EVERYONE'S BEEN TALKING ABOUT."

A quick, similar, and complacent sigh escaped his barely opened lips. "Are your done talking to me yet? You're interrupting my sitting around and doing nothing."

"Haha, you're not nearly as smart as you think you are Rollins, its... 'Smarter than the Average Bear', not dumber, asshole!"

The feelings came, but the look remained dormant. "...I'm confused. Is this part of your 'thing', being all dumb and shit?”

“Fuckin’ A!” Minio exclaimed. He looked like he was getting a bit angered--the hot flushed look about his face.

"Man... I bet there's something really interesting out that door." With a genuinely serious look on his face, Asher leaned forward and pointed toward the door Frank entered through.

"You should go out there and see what it is! Quick, it might escape!"

Frank took a step closer. For a moment, the florescent lighting caught the two titles in a beautiful manner. Small fractions, corners, squares of light danced about Asher’s black locks like scattered stars--much like the night outside.

"Asher, I'm not quite that dumb. I'll see you tonight, boy. Bring your courage, you'll fuckin' need it."
Sinking down a bit, Asher crossed his arms and smiled. "Ha, maybe not quite that dumb... but definitely below average. Have a nice night."

"Nice enough to watch you bleed, bitch."

A simple yet dramatic turn, a few paces, and all seemed quiet again. Asher pushed himself back into the corner and placed his head against the bag. “I should demand a cot of some kind, or something.”

With that, he closed his eyes, free of worry. A title match was minutes away--

...free of worry, like stated.

Avenger Vs Sylo

"Skrying" by Mudvayne

Avenger came out to healthy mixture of boos and cheers. People were truly undecided on how they felt about Avenger. On the one hand you've got a roid-freak with obvious anger problems stomping down the ramp towards the cage. Then on the other hand you've got a guy willing to take the fight to the criminal element in the Asylum. A patriot. An American. A man who looks over the crowd as if he's willing to give his life for each and every *good* person out there.

"Kill Tomorrow" by Mushroomhead.

7'1

380 pounds.

Coming out to boos.

Pissed off and just generally not giving a fuck.

This was the "man" Avenger was fated against. A monster that dwarfed the definition of the word as it applies to Avenger.

"Hurry the hell up, boy." Avenger yelled as Sylo slowly plodded up the steps.

Sylo growled. "I'd be usin' this time to pray for death if I were you."

Sylo lifted one oak tree of a leg and brought it over the rim...then the rest of his gigantic body followed.

Avenger and Sylo stood face to face.

Well, as "face-to-face" as their respective heights would allow.

If it was raining outside, a thunder-clap would have sounded as a foreshadowing to the confrontation of these two titans.

"Well?" Avenger asked.

"Well, what?" Sylo replied with a push.

The crowd was out of their seats as they just saw Avenger get pushed to the ground.

Avenger sprung right back up and rocked Sylo's face with a fist. Sylo punched back, Avenger stumbled backwards, Sylo kept punching and followed through with a big boot sending the supposed hero to the canvas. Sylo was quick to pull him to his feet only to pound him with vicious forearms and fists. Avenger was down on the canvas again...Sylo put a foot on his back to the booing/cheering of the crowd.

In Sylo's mind this was about asserting the dominance of his size and power over Avenger's overwhelming strength.

Sylo pulled Avenger to his feet again and threw him into rim and wire mesh. He slammed his open palms into Avenger's chest - trying to cave his upper torso in with chops. Grabbing both sides of Avenger's face Sylo sent hurled him halfway across the cage. People were in awe. Avenger - who they saw throw Dillon into the announce tables from the cage at Manhunt - was now being manhandled himself.

It was ironic and completely justifiable.

Which made it even more ironic.

Avenger got to his feet, charged Sylo and started punching him in the face, following through with some shots to the body.

*punch punch punch, kick punch kick punch punch*

Avenger looked up at an unaffected Sylo.

Sylo roared and leveled Avenger with a clothesline.

Pulling Avenger up again Sylo lifted the big man up and drove him into the mat with a military press into a power slam - Goldberg-style.

Avenger wasn't putting up much of a fight as Sylo pulled him to his feet again and shoved his head between his legs into a powerbomb set-up.

Sylo lifted.

The crowd held their collective breath.

...at the last second Sylo grabbed Avenger's neck and drove him into the canvas with his trademark powerbomb/chokeslam simply known as: "Sick"

"Sick" as in: the impact of Avenger's upper body crashing into the mat was absolutely "sick".

Sylo waited for the ten count.

1.

2.

3.

4.

5.

6.

7.

Avenger started to stir and rolled over onto his stomach.

8.

Avenger pushed himself onto all fours - he was up!

Sylo snarled again as he walked over and...

*crunch*

That was the sound of Sylo's testicles being smashed into his rectum.

Now Sylo was on all fours, nursing the damage to his reproduction organ.

Avenger wasted no time in calling for a steel chair.

He picked it up...reared back...and...Smash. Right on the crown of Jay Sylo's head. Smash. Again. Smash. Again! Blood started to drip from a cut in Sylo's forehead like a leaky faucet.

Smash. Smash. Crash!

Avenger obviously didn't care.

Discarding the bloody and dented steel chair - Avenger resorted to his good old fists which now seemed quite effective in bloodying up Sylo. Pulling the giant to his feet Avenger caught a punch across his lip which caused it to start bleeding. This just enraged the roided out patriot more and more and his fist turned into a painful extension of that rage.

Avenger pulled Sylo up, setting him up in a suplex-like position.

Avenger seemed to stop a bit. A tab unsure that *he* might not even be able to pull his off.

Avenger lifted....

...the crowd cheered him over as he had the 7'1 380 pound man above his head and he was making it look easy.

Avenger jumped.

That's right. JUMPED. Motherfucker.

And when he came down Sylo's head was all about being driven into the canvas with a brainbuster.

Hung Jury Driver.

For the first time in this match Sylo lay flat on his back and the ref began counting.

1.

2.

3.

4.

5.

6.

7.

Sylo started to get back up.

Avenger was back on the attack. He had to be. He just couldn't let Sylo get a second wind. But, the rabid Sylo was fending off Avenger's rage - swatting his fists away. Sylo started punching his way to his feet until he had the undercover cop reeling. Avenger tried to fight back with his own punches but instead caught a huge Sylo boot.

Into his groin.

"Grrr...Fucking bitch." Sylo snarled.

Sylo motioned for his finisher.

This one is over folks.

Sylo did the logical thing and scooped a barely recovering Avenger into a reverse-DVD position.

...and he hit the Systematic shutdown and that was it.

Oh, wait.

No it wasn't.

Actually, Avenger slid down Sylo's back. Before Sylo could turn around Avenger jumped on - looking like he was locking on a regular sleeper hold.

As Sylo bucked around the ring like a bull on red, Avenger's hand slid into Sylo's mouth - locking in the mandible claw.

"AAAAHHHHH~!!!"

Those screams weren't coming from Sylo.

They were coming from Avenger. Apparently Sylo was biting down on Avenger's fingers - but the patriot held on for dear life - just forcing his hand deeper and deeper into Sylo's face. The tumbling went on for a while longer until Sylo decided to fall backwards crushing Avenger under him. But. He. Did. Not. Let. Go.

Sylo was weak and choking on own saliva. Eventually Avenger had enough strength to drag Sylo across the cage to the wire mesh. His claw still in Sylo's mouth...Avenger slammed the back of his against the rim. His leg muscles pushing his arm into Sylo roaring mouth, throttling the giant. Sylo punched back, his fists cracking off of Avenger's head. But, it was just too much.

Eventually, Sylo was tapping out.

Avenger pulled his claw out of Sylo's mouth and played to the crowd as his "Skrying" By Mudvayne pumped out over the PA.

Joe Campbell did not like this.

As she walked through the door, a hostile reception was probably expected and it wouldn’t have been unjust though ‘The Yardstick’ detected her miserable mood immediately and called Amore over: “Ali, do you fancy going to Joe’s office now?”

Not for the first time, the adolescent exerted a shy shake of the head and they departed with the ‘Prince of Palermo’ patting Nicole on the back as he held the door open for his newfound friend en route to Joseph’s office where they would surely experience a similar sort of tension in the air too.

Meanwhile, John wasn’t used to this. He was a mountain of a man whose main means of communication came through his fists and feet. Very rarely in his life had the gigantic figure ever been confronted by a frail female in desperate need of his assistance. He possessed a chiseled chest custom-built for a woman to lean on and a pair of arms that could comfort and crush in the same instance.

“What happened?”

She couldn’t cry, even if she wanted to, though it was clear that Nicole was hurt by the rejection even if you brutal bastards find it funny: “I went to go and see Eddie to talk about, you know, giving it a go. He turned me down. I don’t want to discuss it. I just want to say sorry and ask if you’ve got any.”

Willis froze. Others may’ve been enthusiastic by that remark, particularly if it was protection that she was actually referring to, but she was speaking to a dense derriere-damager.

“Any?”

“Alcohol.”

Ah. So it’s a good job he hasn’t got a filthy mind like a certain stepsibling of his. He pondered for a second and kept her waiting: “Give me a second.”
He unzipped Keegan’s bags and rummaged around, desperate to uncover the perfect tonic to Nicole’s trauma, to find a bottle opener and an entire crate of Stella Artois to subscribe to Carson.

“Great. That’s exactly what I wanted. Aren’t you going to have any?”

“No. It’s Keegan’s.”

What kind of an excuse is that?

“So?”

Yes! You tell him Nicole.

She stared at him, holding one bottle in her left hand and another in her outstretched right that had his name on it: “Go on. Be naughty.”

Succumbing to temptation, he took it away from her and they clashed bottles presumably to propose a toast to the here and now, which meant getting smashed at Keegan’s expense.

He wouldn’t mind would he?

Hardcase looked over at who was walking to him and laughed. "I've decapitated a man and sent his severed head to the widow for stealing my Sunday paper. But you don't see me bragging about it asshole." HardCase dismisses Avenger with a gesture and continues stashing the H-Vials into the duffle bag.

Avenger frowned. "That's nice, Tupac. But aren't you even slightly concerned about the authorities? I guess you're content with becoming another black statistic. You black hoods make me laugh. You complain about "the man" and yet you jump at the idea of participating in illegal activities."

Hardcase, seemingly ignoring Avenger, held up one of his vials to the light - rubbing his face in the illegality. "Ha! Me? A hood? Sir I don't associate with the riff raff...I just sell them the shit that makes their problems go away. And if you're looking for someone to give a fuck about the well being of the black race call the NAACP or something."

Avenger looked down his nose at Hardcase, like he was the lowest form of life.

"It's ironic that you sell them the stuff that makes their problems go away when *you're* their biggest problem. When you bring your own race down, you bring the entire human race down as well. Didn't your dad teach you anything?" Avenger smiled as he was sure that Hardcase didn't know his father.

Hardcase shrugged. "Pfft, like I have any idea who my father is. But I do know it isn't you. You're too butt ugly to give birth to one such as myself. So please. Save the "you're not doing the right thing" bullshit for when you guest star on 7th Heaven or something. I have smack to sell if you don't mind."

"Jamile!" Hardcase commanded. "Take this shit. You know what to do." he said as he handed off the duffle bag.

Avenger watched this, angry that he hadn’t gotten through to Hardcase. "That's just fantastic. You've got quite a mouth on you, boy. Let's hope it doesn't land you in prison."

With that Avenger slammed his locker shut, adjusted his mask and left.

"I hope so too...I look awful in stripes." HardCase quipped back at Avenger as he left.

He obviously wasn't taking any of this seriously

...that just might change however.

‘I can’t believe I fucking lost!’ Sylo yelled.

THUD!

Sylo punched the wall and that was the cue for Blackheart. He started off down the hallway heading right towards Sylo. Sylo’s back was turned, as he was oblivious to the fast approaching Blackheart.

Blackheart eyed Sylo as he made his move.

Bump right into Sylo’s back.

‘Watch the fuck out you over grown smurf,’ Blackheart barked.

Sylo quickly turned around with rage filled eyes. He looked around and didn’t see anyone…until he looked down. There stood Blackheart with squinty eyes and all. A bit shocked Sylo stood a foot over Blackheart and sort of laughed. Did this man have a death wish?

‘What don’t have the balls to reply Papa smurf?’ Blackheart grunted.

Sylo’s eyes widened as he heard Blackheart continued his little onslaught of words. Apparently Blackheart was pretty sure on wanting to die today.

‘That's funny, coming from a guy that's about the size of a smurf,’ Sylo replied as he glared at Blackheart. ‘Now move the fuck on before I make the smurfs extinct.’

Sylo pushed Blackheart aside as he began to walk off.
‘Oh is Papa smurf afraid of a little confrontation?’ Blackheart said with a smile.

Sylo came to a screeching halt.

Time out. I would like to take a second to review the situation. Here we have a 5’8 252lbs. man talking shit to one of biggest men in the professional fighting business. Sylo stands in at a heft 7’1 380lbs. Now as we all known there is only one obvious out come to this story but hey this is the Asylum. Miracles can happen…right? Oh well time in.

Sylo quickly turned around to see Blackheart with a huge grin on his face. Sylo’s breath was slowly getting deeper as he stared a hole through Blackheart.

‘Oh now I got your attention. I guess we have found Papa smurf’s sore spot,’

‘I’ll show you fucking Papa…,’ Sylo was cut off by a hard two piece from Blackheart.

SMACK!

What the fuck was he thinking? Sylo stumbled backwards as he felt his face. Slight swelling had already begun…and it had done nothing more than piss of the huge man beast. Sylo roared as he grabbed Blackheart by his throat and lifted him off the ground.

‘Big fucking mistake!’

Sylo snarled as he sent Blackheart flying into the concrete wall. Blackheart’s body made sick thud as it smacked the wall. Blackheart tried to get up but was only met by a massive boot to the face that sent his head bouncing off the wall. Sylo stood over Blackheart but oh no he wasn’t done. Sylo picked up the almost unconscious body of Blackheart and delivered one final blow. Systematic Shutdown.

‘There is your fucking Papa smurf,’ Sylo yelled as he walked away from the unconscious Blackheart.

I guess this just proved miracles don’t happen in the Asylum…Stupidity gets what it deserves…An ASS kicking.

The Newcastle native knocked on the door and nodded to his extremely quite companion for the day: “Remember, I’ll do the talking.”

I’m sure the Colombian was happy for the ‘Height of Humanity’ to assume the lead role in an attempt to appeal to Joe’s good nature.

“Come in you cunt.”

Two of them actually walked in and the ‘Geordie Genius’ grinned: “Well I’ve got to give credit where it’s due Joe. They reckon you’re a clever get but I think you’re better than that. You’re fucking telepathic!”

“Keegan, what the fuck do you think you’re doing here? And what have you brought in with you? Christ, you’ve brought a bloody Afghan in with you. Next time, stick to a Dalmatian. They’re like Bobby Robson you know. Black and white all over and, wait for it, deaf too!”

Carrahar played along with the Owner until his compatriot terminated his silly laugh: “Here’s the deal Colin Bell. We want our jobs back and we’re going to stand here and laugh at your pubic hair that you call a goatee unless you give us what we came here for.”

“A good kick up the arse? Gladly.”

‘Special K’ smiled: “Aye. You’d love to but you’re not big enough. Now why don’t you just be a nice boy for a change and give us our jobs back. PLEASE.”

“You seem to forget Keegan. We don’t want to be like the WWE we do? I made a stipulation and I’m sticking to it. Now that you’re taken care of let’s discuss the other fellow you’ve got. What’s that? He lost too? Plus, he never had a job to begin with so how can I give it back to him? You’ve got to fucken’ think about these things you fucken’ thick Geordie twat.”

Ali was looked worried but his minder remained focused on the task at hand: “I’ll give you something to dream about for a few hours or so when I knock your lights out you cheeky cunt. You EVER speak like to me again and, believe me; I’ll send you back to Manchester so quickly that you’ll wonder if they really did get rid of Concorde.”

Campbell, clearly sick of Carrahar, gazed in the direction of the overawed Ali who has his hands behind his back and his face fixated on the floor: “Aren’t you going to say anything?”

Not unlike earlier on, Joe Campbell couldn’t succeed, just as Nicole Carson couldn’t, to shut ‘Special K’ up: “He’s got nothing to say other than: Suck my knob and give me my job.”

Amore smirked and the Owner was determined to make it disappear: “And what are you fucken’ laughing at?”
Sure enough, the ‘Essence of Extreme’ defended the Colombian’s corner: “He’s laughing at you ferret-features.”

“You’re a loud-mouthed arsehole aren’t you?”

‘The Yardstick’ smiled: “It takes one to know one. So what are you going to do?”

“Nothing.”

Carrahar was cross to say the least: “Well I’ll tell you what I’m going to do if you do nowt about it. I’m going to take you back to Manc, hang you from the upper tier of The Bell End, let everyone laugh at your maggot’s eyelash and allow the City fans to castrate you live on Sky Television. How does that sound?”
Although he didn’t concern himself with the idle threat, Campbell was beginning to get bored of them and devise a solution that would keep them all sweet: “This is what we’ll do. You’re playing under my rules and don’t fucken’ forget it. You two come to next week’s Show and I’ll fix up a fight for you. I’m not telling you who it’s against. Come up to see me when you get here to remind me what I’ve just fucken’ said.

“Now this is your last chance Keegan. And its Mister Bean’s too. If you win, you’re in and I’ll sign you to two-year deals with no stupid stipulations in between. You’ll sign for the two years and that’s it.

“If you lose, you only ever come here when you’re invited, such as Manhunt, and you fuck off forever unless I contact you. I don’t want to see you turn up at an Asylum event unless you’ve bought a ticket like all the other piss-artists out there. Do you understand?”

Keegan nodded his head in a resounding ‘YES’ fashion: “Absolutely Boss. Can I call you that?”
“We’ll find out won’t we? Now piss off before I bray your arse.”

“Can I have that in my contract as well?”

“GO!”

They wandered out and he punched the air before turning to an ecstatic Amore who could barely speak. Thereafter, they collided for a celebratory hug as Carrahar assured him: “We’re back in the big time bonny lad.”

Those words, in any language, would have been music to the ears of Ali Amore

Nicole was giggling constantly, the majority of which was a direct result of nothing, and Willis, if you can believe this, looked even less intelligent than he ordinarily does failing to string two words together rather than three or four, which is his usual standard.

She suddenly ran out of the room, once again with no apparent purpose, he followed suit and shouted whilst stumbling: “Hey. Wait.”

John found her out on the floor and smirked: “What are you doing there? Cleaning the floor?”

Carson told him off: “That’s an unfair stereotype. I don’t clean floors. I kick ass.”

Quite a statement and a remark that a lot of people, men included, would not disagree.

The behemoth, known to be a callous character, showed some warmth as he helped her up in spite of his stumbling state.

She stood up, wobbled from side to side and almost fell over but Willis caught her before she lost her balance. More giggling ensued and as she glances over John’s shoulder who did she see?

None other than Eddie Cheno.

Eddie, who had ‘rejected’ Nicole’s request of a full-term relationship, had seemingly searched for Carson since seriously reconsidering his decision and now that he had found her he wasn’t sure if he had wanted to see her in this state.

Nevertheless, this would prove to be an educational exercise for Eddie. It was blatant she was drunk but how would she react to seeing him? I mean he couldn’t tell her about how he really felt now. Not tonight. She was way too gone for that. But would she start hurling abuse under the influence? This could easily happy in the future with Carson drunk and Cheno was now as sober as a Judge. Would she remain dignified?
It was a test only she didn’t know.

And she failed.

In an attempt to make Eddie jealous and come to his senses, Nicole wrapped her arms around the enormous neck of the Indiana native and pressed her soft lips against his to the chagrin of Cheno.

He couldn’t believe it. Well he could really. This is the sole reason why he didn’t accept her advances in the first place and she had confirmed his suspicions.
Not that it made it any more comforting mind. He wasn’t heartbroken exactly but he was certainly saddened by the sight of seeing her conduct herself in such a cheap way.

John did not see Eddie at all, who turned around and decided to set off back to his dressing room, while Nicole saw it all. With her true love out of the way, she halted the hold and uttered: “That was perfect.”
Willis, who now had lipstick over his mouth, didn’t say anything as Carson suggestively caressed her top lip with the bottom one and took him by the hand: “Let’s finish the rest of those bottles.”

A nightcap was on the cards.

Frank Minio Vs Asher Rollins
(Television Title)

Pace, pace, two steps through a black curtain; the cheers resonated off the walls, the floors, the steel piping. Sounds of the foundation shaking, the seats vibrating, it filled the place. He walked the deadbolt path toward the ring with a passive smile across his face.

All of this--the solid wall of cheering fans, the passionate music, and the atmosphere--was cut down by “Phantom” by Mr. Lif. Frank Minio poised himself at the head of the ramp, two silvery belts brandished on his waist and shoulder respectively. Asher could not help but eye the gaudy proclamations of greatness, an ideal he had no delusions of embodying. Frank pandered to the mixed crowd, some of which did not know how to react to this man. Over the weeks, he had been a source of confusion to many.

Slowly, he entered the ring. Slowly, he handed each belt to the referee while glaring at Asher. The reciprocation of a smile did not serve to make Frank a happy man but he was beginning to understand Asher’s little game. Instead, he waited for the bell to toll. One strike, and Asher would get his third, fourth, whatever lesson in why it wasn’t a good idea to make so many enemies in a place like this.

The motion of a hand brought down the hammer and the sound fashioned a zipper over the mouths of the rambunctious audience. Frank charged at full speed while Asher remained in a loose, unfettered stance. As he reached him for a punch, Asher threw his body to the side to dodge it but found a sharp, angular knee soon pushing his kidney in his stomach. His legs fell out from under him and he fell like a building when its support columns are knocked out.

“I really need to work on remembering that people have legs,” Asher whispered in a hack, a cough, and a wish for deeper breaths. The sharp pain of Frank pulling on his long black hair was prevalent in his reasoning for standing up, but it was all for naught. A balled roll of flesh with hard knuckles twisted and rolled inside of his stomach. Everything about his body collapsed and ceased to function for a moment.

Asher hacked even more as Frank tacked his palm into the side of his hunched body. For a moment, the world went to shades of gray. For a moment, the urgency of such filled Asher. He shot up from the ground immediately, and Frank stumbled backward. Instead, he looked at the arena for a moment. His blinks were slow, or so they seemed in first-person. Slowly, the world returned back to a vibrant, teeming mass.

“You fucker,” Asher said. Something about him was altered--the attack on his vision was enough incentive. Frank smiled and stalked forward in a similar fashion. Asher’s movements were much more rigid now and, in the same fashion he had done earlier, he swayed to one side to block the punch.

A smile. “Predictable,” Frank whispered as he raised his knee into Asher’s side. Something changed, something fixed and locked, and Frank saw this moment transfixed. His eyes roamed a freeze-frame arena and saw Asher’s left hand smack down his leg.

First shot, but it was a big one. The dumb and nearly inaudible sound of cartilage snapping was masked. The screaming fans, the patter of blood against bony flesh, Frank heard all of this as he stumbled backward two steps and tripped over himself. His hand found his face and his hand found the warm embrace of his own inner workings. The oxygenated form ran down his arm in veins, glistening wet and obvious.

Asher walked over and drove his street shoes into the gut of Frank. “Your goal here is to kill people, eh?” he stated in a complacent voice while kicking him toward the cage wall.

“Sorry, Frank, but that doesn’t fly with me. This is a fucking job for me, not some pity party or pride-fest. I’m not here to deal with your attempts to kill me. I’m here for a paycheck and a job.”

Foot, foot, foot and Frank could feel his ribcage pushing up against his lungs. Each kick made his breaths shorter and shorter. He searched for something, anything to end this relentlessness.

Finally, he caught Asher’s foot as one of his kicks missed his mark. Asher felt it slam into the mesh with Frank’s arm wrapping around it. He stood up and kicked at the inside of Asher’s other knee, causing him to crumple like a folding accordion. Another flash of white light, but this time Asher feared his knee had been broken. He was sick of this shit.

“If I could get up, I would fuck this guy up. Fucking conditions...” he muttered until Frank slammed his thick boot into his temple.

He smiled, trying to cave in the skull and end Asher’s petty little existence. “I’m not here to mess with you, Asher,” he said, continuing to kick at whatever he thought would kill the man. The fans cheered at this display of violence, but those cheers were chameleonic. They fixed themselves to the backdrop of Token Weed and slowly changed to jeers of disapproval.

Asher rose. A gift of wood, Token caught the eye of the referee just before slamming the side of the bat against the soft back of Frank’s skull. A sharp pain, he stumbled forward into Asher’s quick right hook. The flesh on his face was red, mouth trickling with blood. The fans stood up and all leaned forward, attempting a closer vision of what appeared to be the fallen corpse of Frank Minio.

No movement, chest barely heaving, the referee stood back in shock.

“Count it!” Token screamed.

The referee looked at Asher. He shrugged, “Listen to the man.”

A hand raised and fallen ten times, and the fans cheered regardless of the tainted win. Token looked at Asher as the referee placed the Television title on his shoulder and raised his hand in the arm.

“Congratulations, kid,” he stated with a devilish smile. “You’re a champion now.”

Asher Rollins, Television champion? Guess so.