"The Asylum Arena?  You fucking loser."

Borst's words taunted Campbell as he lay in a heap on his desk, grumbling "Fuck off." under his breath in reply.

"I remember the beginning, when we used to sell out the big places... but look what you've done to the place now.  You've turned into a sad little drug addict yanklander, and you've made Asylum a fucking joke.  The big clown and his fucking joke of a promotion... I hope you rot and die.  Aha, you already are."

"I SAID FUCK OFF!" Campbell screamed as a gunshot ripped through the silence of the office and toward Borst, upon impact however instead of piercing Pete's skin it simply prompted him to disappear into thin air.

"Thankyou." Joe sneered as he slumped his head back down onto the table.

"I fought you, I fought your impurities because I knew I was the only chance of salvation for this hell that you've created.  I died fighting for it but here you are today to prove that what I was fighting for was right."

Campbell's laugh grew steadily into an almost maniacal roar.

"I don't have enough bullets for this shit and you don't even have a heart for me to shoot you in.  What do you want me to do motherfucker?  Do you expect to shit my pants, pull out my hair and run out of here screaming?" A sarcastic return from the Asylum owner who waved his gun around with every word.

"No." Exxa Decimal replied as he drew out the very knife that Villam had used to slaughter him "I expect you to cower in fear, sinner."

Exxa rushed at Joe and the Asylum owner screamed out and covered his eyes, only to find that when he opened them, Exxa too had disappeared.

But he'd been replaced by the rotting sight of Rave Caprino, dousing the room and himself with gasoline before removing a pack of matches.

"No no no." Joe's words were insistent "You were a fucking pussy, you died peacefully, bringing peace and love along with the rest of that shit.  You aren't gonna do this."

"You can be whoever the fuck you want in the real world." Caprino growled "But in hell there's no escaping who you really are... guess that means we're both fucked."

"NOOOOOOOOO!" Joe screamed as Caprino dropped a lit match and erupted in flames, Campbell dived to the floor to take cover... but he didn't feel the excruciating burns he had expected.

A feint tapping arrived in the room, a tapping that grew louder and louder.  Joe peered out from behind his arms to witness a sledgehammer coming down and impacting the ground to create a daunting beat.

"Did you miss me, shithead?" Kenny Rock laughed as Joe's eyes widened with terror.

"You're not real." Campbell's shaken voice replied.

"I'm real inside your head." Kenny was quick to reply "I'm real inside a lot of peoples heads, just ask Steve Douglas why he cuts himself.  Ask anyone who knew me, anyone who I touched, anyone who got hit by brain matter when I ended things at pAin.  Ask them what I do, what I can make them do, I can make them suffer or I can make them see, I can motivate or desecrate them.  I can turn up in their dreams...

...or their nightmares."

Joe was laughing again, this time insanely.

"So tell me Kenny, what are you going to do for me?" He asked.

"I'm going to offer you the ultimate irony, I'm going to offer you Asylum." Kenny rested the sledge hammer over his shoulder "The same kind of Asylum you've offered everyone you ever employed, the same Asylum that totally defies the meaning of the word.  You'll find your Asylum over there, your safe haven, your sanctuary... it's in that syringe, waiting to course through your veins."

Joe crawled slowly over to the table where an already prepared heroin hit was waiting for him, he picked it up and glanced over at Kenny who nodded back at him.

"I understand." Joe spluttered as he plunged the needle into his arm.

Kenny Rock's demonic laughter filled the room, as Joe slipped out of his nightmare reality.

A dim orange glow shone on the outside of the locker door as Omar Christensen closed his Zippo lighter, inhaling the nicotine from his lit cigarette. Blowing the smoke upward as Osyrus looked to the cosmos above for a brief second, he opened the entry way with his right arm to unforeseen surprise.

“…what the fuck are you doing in here?”

That was about all the wrestler could utter, dropping his large travel bag to the ground as a dust cloud rose to the ceiling. Removing his black leather jacket, as he threw it onto an unoccupied bench, Osyrus’ unwanted visitor could see his muscles tensing up under his Asylum black tank top. But that person was not intimidated by the San Diego native as she continued to file her nails sharply, instead Isis looked in Osyrus’ direction before picking up a near by magazine.

“Did you not hear what the fuck I just said, bitch? What are you doing here?!”

Osyrus’ patience must have depleted itself upon arriving to theAsylum; because the Television champion wasted no time snatching the magazine from his former valet’s grasp, as he threw it into the hallway. As much as Omar would love to get into a heated discussion with the woman, whom he had spent the last seven years with on the wrestling scene, Osyrus didn’t feel like being bothered this early in the night. Standing his ground firmly, Omar pointed the vacant corridor, hoping that Norman would finally get a clue and make her exit. It was either the easy way which meant walking out of that door; before Osyrus would have to throw her through the entry the hard way as easy as he did the magazine.

“Hey, I was reading that!” Isis shrieked.

“I don’t give a fuck; you should know that better than anyone. Now answer my question, before you make a nice little dent on that wall behind me. It’s too fucking early for this shit okay Isis. So enough of the mind games, enough of the parlor tricks, just tell me what the hell you’re doing in my presence.”

A coy expression over came Norma Morales’s face as she glanced over an annoyed Osyrus, who’s arms were crossed against his broad chest…while he tapped his steel toe covered right foot on the floor as the TV champion watched seconds pass by on his expensive Rolex.

“Norma, I’m waiting…”

It was the only thing Osyrus said before he ran over to Isis, grabbing her by those brown roots connected to her scalp.

“Okay, okay I’ll talk. The reason why I’m here is because I wanted to see how you’re doing. You know I miss you baby and after you recent match, I was worried about you. How long has it been since we’ve been together? About three weeks, almost month or is it about a month and a half? I miss you Omar…”

She instantly stopped in the middle of her sentence as her Omar raised his hand. Norma looked into those cold and remorseless bluish-silver eyes, which did not blink as the current Asylum champion bent down into her face. Norma thought she would never be put in this situation; nose to nose with the man she once loved, remembering numerous times where she was on the outside looking in. Norma knew that when Omar was this close to someone…he meant business and was as deadly as any crazed animal.

“Cut the bullshit Isis. And when you refer to me, the name is Osyrus not Omar. Got it? I’ve seen you play these stupid games with people before, do you think I have forgotten what you have accomplished in your illustrious wrestling career? I fucking made you everything that you are today…don’t you ever forget that! I molded you from a piece of shit into the most desired woman athlete in wrestling business today. So how can you sit here and tell me that you miss me? Well I don’t give a damn about your well being frankly.” Osyrus smirked while Isis frowned, which made Omar smile again.

“Since I dumped you to the side of the curb, like the garbage that you are…my career has done nothing by soar to new heights. Instead of carrying your one hundred and thirty pound sack of shit frame, I’ve lighted my load to a twenty pound silver championship, which rightfully belongs across my bulging shoulder blade.”

Isis looked past Osyrus to the travel luggage on the ground, where the Television championship could be found. But Norma did not look for long as the Anti-social hero grabbed her by the face and brought Isis’s attention back him.

“What the fuck do you think you’re looking at huh? I should break your cute little nose for looking at my property…but you know what I’ll do instead. I am going to release you from my services Norma. From this moment on, you are a contracted Asylum fighter. You’ll have to earn your own pay around her…no more attaching yourself to me like a fucking parasite. Either you’ll get into that cage and make a name for yourself by fighting or by doing what comes naturally…getting on your knees or lying on your back.”

Isis frowned as she got up from her seat, finally making her departure after all the verbal abuse.

“Good riddance Norma, I hope I never see you ever again.”

Osyrus yelled uncaringly as he slammed the door shut behind his former partner. But to say that Omar would never see Norma again was a premature statement, especially with all the intertwining personalities within the Asylum. Standing in the corridor alone; Norma began to smile wickedly before she laughed hysterically. This story was just unfolding.

Nicholas Morphy stood backstage, cold and lonely. He was an anomaly if anything; his eccentric CATSUIT that he'd just purchased made him stick out like a sore thumb from the rest of the goings-on. But he proclaimed this fine garment suitable for snagging all the ladies in sight ( even if it did make him look like Liberaci minus a piano).

Nicholas himself wasn't a bad looking guy. He had a nice tan, an attractive face. He had a perfect haircut, short, straight, and shaggy - jet black and sexy. His eyes were a vibrant green. So why was Nicholas so sexually frustrated?

His teeth.

That's right. His teeth. They were the fucking worst. Yellow and brown tinged, rotting out of his very skull. It was disgusting. Although, the reason why was quite evident. He was British, and he lacked proper dental care. He also lacked a toothbrush, toothpaste and any form of hygiene.

Nevertheless, Nicholas was always on the prowl for a hot, vivacious blonde with big tits. He always had been ever since he emerged from the womb. But he was seemingly aloof that he was a repulsive and repellent man to many women. Nicholas himself thought that women should be so lucky as to even come close to him; after all, he was Nicholas Morphy. He was the hottest thing since sliced bread.

So when Morphy didn't have a raging erection he was duking it out with the best of them. Morphy was a very interesting fighter - not necessarily that he was any good, but he was quite the spectacle. His flamboyant actions and random remarks often made him a fan favorite. And aside from watching Nicholas prance around in his unique attire (from tight leather to green gator boots) they also liked to watch Nicholas get brutalized.

Because when it came to fighting, Nicholas was shiiiiiiiiiiit.

Seriously, Nicholas couldn't fight for fucking anything. His punches were awkward, his form was completely off. He had no formal training. He once knocked himself out by running into a guy in the cage. That's how fucking awful he was. Yet somehow, by some unfathomable choice, Nicholas decided to join the Asylum. He decided that, in his FUCKED-UP mind, that he was the best fighter in the world.

So, through some completely shady drug affiliates, he found himself talking to Joe Campbell and a couple phone calls later, Nicholas was on the Asylum Fighting Roster.

WHAT THE FUCK.

So this leads us to the current scenario. Nicholas, backstage, just finished snorting a fresh line of coke. Well, okay, three lines. What's the difference?

SUDDENLY...

A hott blonde with big tits walks by. She seems lost... Nicholas notices this and...

LIGHTBULB!

"Excuuuuuuuse me, miss. Can I help you?" The annoying British accent screeched out from the shadows and ambushed the poor woman, like a child molester cornering his prey.

The blonde seemed not to notice Nicholas foul smell or horrid teeth. In fact, she didn't see to notice him at all. She just looked around and bit her lip, continuing to look like the damsel in distress. Nicholas cocked an eyebrow.

"AHEM. Allow me, can I help you my dear ladie?"

The woman finally turned to Nicholas. She probably noticed his extremely gay catsuit, but didn't say anything about it, instead asking for some help.

"Yes, I'm looking for a Joe Campbell's office, but I don't know where it is." She spoke in an extremely sexy voice, sultry and boner-inducing. Morphy didn't realize that she was probably another one of Joe's dirty sluts, and started making his advances.

"Wwwwhy yes I do... seeing as how I'm a MEMBER OF THE ROSTER and all... " (^_^)

Morphy grinned large at his phrase. It seemed to be a great pickup line. I mean, chicks dig HARDCORE asylum fighters, right?

"Oh great, could you tell me which direction it is?" the woman spoke.

*NOTE* The following is probably something you shouldn't do unless you're an idiot...

"OOOH YEAH. IT'S RIGHT DOWN HERE BABYYYYY!!!!!111"

Nicholas proceeded to point down to his stiff rod.

That's when the woman ran off, screaming for help. :(((

Slick Nick wanted to run after her, he really did. But for some reason he found himself looking at a man.

NO NOT LIKE THAT.

This guy was annoying Nick. He didn't know him, and for some reason he had the urge to punch this guy in the face. He didn't know why, and he didn't care.

So Nick walked over to this goon, whose name was Jabez...

"WHO THE FUCK ARE YOU?" A raging British voice boomed backstage. Nicholas Morphy cast an ice cold glare at a man doing nothing but biding his time.

What made Nicholas Morphy gain such bravado will never be known, but what would follow would be a huge mistake on his part.

"Speak boyo... who the fuck are you looking at my woman????"

His mind skipped a beat, once, twice, thrice, huh, what, who? All he could do was stare.... was it repeating, please no. He looked the part.... he looked, no.... he looked, yes, maybe, possibly? A vignette of humanity he was not, but what he was, was perplexity in its simplest form.... Jargon, Jabez.... why the Jargon?

His gaze was stagnant, omitting from the sight of the British onslaught. Keep the faith Jabez, it'll pass soon. The storm is over, remember? Consciousness, conflicting with sight, with reality. What was real? He didn't know anymore. Jabez's mind curled up into the foetal position.... please go....

"Please.... go...." He muttered almost incoherently.

Morphy laughed. He had found someone to pick on, someone weaker than him.

"SOOOOO... You think that you can just sink your ship into MY WOMEN!?!? I have half a mind to fuck you up you bloody wank!!"

Nicholas grinned his yellow and corroded smile, as if preparing to strike.

Jabez's hand gripped the rosary hanging from his crestfallen neck.... it burn his skin to the touch. Keep the faith.... how could he, when he'd been wronged against? Robbed of a life.... nothing around him seemed real, except that he was thinking. "I think therefore I am...." A famous man once said, but all he could think of was the abhorrance greeting him. Left, right, left.... like an army marching to the beat of one drum, his mind span, cogs turning.... why? He half prepared himself for the attack....

"Please leave...." His voice sounded weak, broken.... like that of a child robbed of its innocence.

Nicholas pulled out a cig and lit it. Took a couple drags and threw it down, making a huge deal out of stepping on it. PUTTING IT OUT. As if to say "I'M PUTTING YOU OUT."

He then dusted off his catsuit, flexed a bicep, turned around three times, did the moonwalk, followed by a cartwheel, rolled around on the ground, began to howl at the moon, scratched his ass, tied his shoe, put on his shades, took them off, and then proceed to smack Jabez in the face.

"OOOOOOOOOH YEAAAAAAH!!!!!!11 WHOSE THE MAN NOW?!?!?????" >:D

The strike was like an epiphany to his life, the thunderous slap reverberated around his cheeks. Saliva up down, south north, inside outside, mixing with blood to form a cocktail of stinging shame. Why? Why? Strike his soul, strike his being, like a child, like a beaten dog. He sat, motionless, he couldn't move. Didn't want to. His first day and already it was starting over. A butterfly effect, he could not change. He was trapped in a body he could not live in, cojoined at the hip of surfdom, slave to a master of depravity. Jesus is my homeboy....

Jabez covered up his soul.... and sat in a heap in the floor. Hoping his attacker would pity his mind, and leave him intact. Dismantled already as a minor, as a major.... as a lieute.... reality seeped further away, as the blows rained down, like april showers.

Nicholas was beaming. He'd finally knocked someone out (to him on the floor counted as a TKO). So Slick Nick was in the driver's seat and he knew it. He could do anything from this point. He was God. He decided to get a few more shots in.

He started kicking Jabez on the floor, sloppily. His foot hardly even touching Jabez half the time - missing and kicking the wall.

"HAHAHAHAH YOU LITTLE BLOODY FAGGOT, I OWN YOU!!!!!1111"

Was the pain real, it hardly manifested in his brain. Perhaps his receptors had stopped working? Well, last time.... he made them stop, the pain was unbearable. Scars of war, scars of the poor, scars of a life of holy sin. Ambiguity, lies and deceit ruled his religious being.... who was he? Some mixed being, an eternal spot on the soul of the world. He was a pimple on existence. The light? He'd seen it, blue, green, white.... stay away from the light, the shadows brought comfort.... no, no they didn't.... Manichean Symbolism had no downpour on the waterfall of Jabez. The world was wrong.... and this was just the start. The Asylum of an asylum seeker, the irony was apparent, even to a fool such as Nicholas, whose beaming smile, shattered illusions, shattered the safety of the mind, shattered all.... Jabez was down, already. His. First. Day. Random, streams-of-consciousness rumbled like a ravine through his skull. His thoughts a far away place, on easter island, where the men are mere statues, a product of their time.

By now, Nicholas was out of breath from his major ass kicking. So he decided to humiliate the new recruit just a little more. He reached into his pants pocket and removed THREE AMERICAN DOLLARS. He proceeded to throw them down upon his fallen prey.

"HAHAHAHA YOU POOR FUCK. YOU COULD USE THIS!"

After a moment, Nicholas looked down Jabez. He scratched his head and picked up two of the dollars. Then he began to walk off, laughing.

...Only to return to pick up another dollar.

"ILL SEE YOU LATER YOU WEAKLING!! YOU EVER TOUCH MY WOMAN AGAIN i will FUCK you UP!!!!11"

And with that, Nicholas spit down upon Jabez, to walk off into the arena. But the damage was done, and Jabez was scarred.

Soul, burning. Mind, torn. Body, bruised. We learn from the past, but history repeats, time is circular.... or straight, it really doesn't matter anymore. So many directions, so many places to go, people to see, minds to cleanse.... souls to sell. Keep the faith, keep the faith.

The rosary burnt deep into the chest cavity of Jabez.... as it's acid touch burnt the very foundations of life as he would know it. A war had begun.... why? The ego of God. Laughable.... just comic. Jabez, a heap on the floor.... Jabez a heap on society. A slight trickle of crimson gushed like old faithful from his own yellowstone.... lifes a new.... lifes a old.

Same old, same old.

It’s not unknown for Joe Campbell to suffer from the odd case of paranoia, because lets face it, over the past few years, how many people have wanted to close down theAsylum?

Hundreds you say.

That’s about right.

Most of the night, anyone walking past the boss’ locker room would hear violent conversations…again, not unknown in this place.

But it is when you’re the only person inside the room.

Campbell sat in his office, alone, as he plotted his latest scheme and the effects of his latest “fix” began to wear away. But his work was put to rest, as his door began to move slowly…so slowly in fact, that even after he got up from his seat, it was still not open.

“What the fuck…”

THUD

“Who the…”

Khristain Keller fell to the ground with a thud, face down, as Joe watched on in sheer amazement as Keller groaned and coughed violently.

Campbell looked down at the now motionless man in his office.

No blood.

No bruises.

But unconscious on the floor.

It all added up…

BOOT

“Solid as a rock, you're no ghost... get the fuck out of my office!”

Keller rolled over, and something switched on inside Campbell’s mind.

“I know you from somewhere…”

Campbell circled Keller, and went for something instinctive, the pockets. He pushed his hand in, delving for anything he could to identity the man, and he found a wallet. He flicked it open, before pulling out a few cards, before finding an ID…

“Khristain Keller huh, well arsehead, you are now looking at, with cloudy pupils I may add, your new boss…welcome to hell.”

Damon D. Jackson was a reasonable man. Meaning that he would always think within reason. A man who is confined by the logical boundaries, DDJ jumped to no conclusion. A good man to have in problem solving-situations.

It was D-Day. The Asylum come-back extravaganza. And DDJ sat in front of his, due to the circumstances, assigned ally. Citizen paced back and forth in his locker-room, having just told Damon about last night’s meeting with Josiah.

The same meeting that forced a pretty gruesome mess that needed some deep cleaning.

“You couldn’t wait?”

Citizen yawned under his mask, while DDJ rubbed his eyes.

“No, seriously, you said you’d wait for me. And then you just fucking do it?”

Citizen shrugged a single shoulder, then returned to his thinking. “Joe will not be pleased if he finds out it was us.”

“Us? Nigga, you didn’t even wait for me.”

“You arranged this meeting. You may have dodged death in Campbell’s shape, but when he actually has merrit to kill you, he can do it at any time he pleases.”

Damon’s cell phone began to ring, and with manners, he politely stopped the conversation to answer his phone.

It was Benny. According to Benny, Pointless, or Josiah, has just walked in the arena, and is looking for Damon D. and Citizen.

Yes, Pointless was walking, that means his breathing, that means he’s alive. He is alive.

Damon hung up his phone.

“So, uh. You killed Josey? Well, I just got a phone call that says he is here, looking for the two of us.”

Citizen laughed a single, cold, breath. “Impossible.”

“Okay, you say you kill him, my contact says he’s here. What the fuck?”

“He isn’t here, he can’t be.”

Now, Damon is a reasonable man. A man who can understand the logical value of situations and results.

Not someone who believes in zombies or ghosts. Obviously, someone was lying, maybe?

“You better not chuck it on my carpet fuckhead…”

Joe Campbell watched his new pet in the corner of his office, convulsing and spluttering all over the floor. It filled Campbell with happy thoughts, because there was a bugger who was in a worse shape from sweets than himself…

Campbell > Keller.

In his own mind anyway, if he'd been able to find a mirror and see his rotting teeth, missing fingernails and thin frame he may have reconsidered.

In seamless good timing, psycho-Rio entered the fray.

“Mr. Campbell, my good friend, not only am I looking forward to my match this evening, but I’m looking to make a little bit of moolah on the side.”

…

Campbell looked on as the crazy motherfucker stood in the centre of his office, looking down at his pet.

“Who do we have here?”

“It doesn’t matter what we have here…but what do you have?”

psycho-Rio moved back to business…showing Campbell his good goods, but it didn’t make Joe happy.

“Fuck that, those are all kiddie-drugs, you gotta get yourself some stronger smack my friend!”

But as Rio motioned to leave, Joe pulled him back.

“Hold on, gimme some of those anyway…”

He pointed to a various bundle of painkillers and ecstasy, and it could have had other various stimulants in it also, but he took the lot, and then motioned for Rio to “piss off”, but he stayed, as Joe got up from his seat.

He stumbled into a bookshelf, and then into a lamp, and around 2 minutes later of stumbling and backtracking, he found himself at his pet’s cage…where he fed him for the day.

Keller coughed up most of the ingredients, but Campbell made sure that he took every last drop, because he noticed Rio was still in the room.

“Gotta keep this fucker sedated, dunno what he will be like when he wakes up…hehe.”

Campbell sat on the floor, giggling violently.

“Is he a fighter?”

Campbell stopped for a moment, and contemplated the question.

“I dunno…let’s see, you want a shot at the human punching bag?”

And Keller’s fate was sealed.

Citizen had been pacing since he heard the news. Damon still didn’t know what to think.

He had been wanting to leave the room for a long time coming, but still found himself compelled to stay in that slight fear for his safety. Safety in numbers, strength in numbers, whatever you want to call it. Two heads are better than one, and Venoma Star was on her way to accompany them.

Safety, or fear.

Last night, Citizen put a bullet in Josiah’s brain. He saw it. He spent the better half of the night getting the blood stains from his shirt. He called the clean up crew and watched them dispose of the body and the mess. He licked the brains off that splattered in the inside of his mask.

He picked the bone off of his clothes fibers, all with a smile on his face.

Despite what the skull that donned his face said, he wasn’t smiling. He was scared.

Safety, or fear.

“He’s fucking here.”

Damon muttered, while shaking his head.

“He’s fucking here, and I’m hiding in here because you got me spooked with some ghost shit.”

Damon then scoffed.

“This is some bullshit, nigga.”

As Damon stood up, Citizen stepped in front of him.

“What are you doing?”

“I’m leavin. Its a fucking pay per view and I don’t have a fight. Unless you wanna dance, I gotta go find a partner to tear up. Maybe that Josie-bitch will have the balls to go another round.”

“I’m afraid I can’t let you leave. Not at least until Venoma gets here. She shall secure the area, make sure that God-sent is still 8 and a half feet under.”

“I aint waitin for no groupie bitch to back up your hallucinations, you crazy asshole. You got a problem you want to regulate? There’s a cage outside for situations like this.”

The door was kicked off the fucking hinges, crashing to the floor, the door slamming hard. Both men looked towards the void, seeing the sillouhette of the ghost they had been fearing this whole night.

“Well, gentlemen. I say we put that cage to use.”

Before either man could react, Josiah sent a fist that put Damon on the floor, hard. Citizen made little effort to move, or attack, or defend. He was in shock.

Just last night, he liquified the very man’s face that attacked his partner.

“No.”

Damon spit blood as fist after fist slammed in to his face. While he murmured on the ground, Josiah turned his head upwards towards the man who killed him 24 hours ago.

“Yes.”

He took his gun, a .44, from the back of his pants. It wasn’t the Ruger that he planned on using last night, for both guns had been taken by the two man whom he was attacking at this moment. He pulled the hammer back, then pointed at Citizen’s covered face.

“Walk. Outside. Now.”

As Citizen obliged, he scanned over the man’s face and body. Was it really the same man, he thought? Was it really Josiah, the man he killed.

The tattoos of the guns were gone. The words on his abs were gone. All of his tattoos and scars were absent from the night before, aside from the black ink that touched his chin. An angelic symbol.

As Citizen took the orders like a school girl, he was followed by Josiah who drug Damon D Jackson by his collar.

Citizen felt the barrel touch his spine, causing shock and pain within.

“Go. To the cage.”

The fire-exit door opened, before Khristain Keller came flying from the arena orifice, slamming into the wall nearby. He lay motionless on the dirty concrete, trying to pull anything he could from the last 24 hours, but it all seemed a blur.

How did he get to the arena?

Why did he go to the arena?

Why the hell was he fighting psycho-Rio?

They were all questions that would be answered in time.

Keller pushed himself to his hands and knees, unaware of his location, he pulled himself to his feet with the help of a hip-heigh brick wall which ran parallel to the arena walls.

Stumbling forward, he found himself moving towards the road, unknown of his destination or even his purpose. He fell into the arena wall, and dragged his left shoulder along it’s markings as he made progress towards the road, until he was met by a shadow in front of him.

Hazy eyes met the man in his face, before he collapsed to the ground in a heap.

The shadow towered above him.

John C. Willis towered above him.

Another moment of horror?

Or a ray of light?

Only Willis knew the path.

The gray dimmed on the face of the fans. For the Asylum’s return, it was a glorious day. Blood shed and pure hate all in the form of taped fists and mesh wire.

The day began today, again.

As if unprovoked, as if unprecedented, as if unexpected, the symphony of a broken man played.

Write these words back down inside...

The Chosen Hand of Campbell was expected, but not seen in the forefront. Stepping out from the curtain, to the dismay of the onlookers, was Citizen, his hands upright. It was not the confident, deft aristocrat they had seen in the past. This was a man haunted by his own mind, his own experiences.

Within a day, this man was a shell of his former self.

Citizen was quickly joined by the man who held the 44 to his back, hunched over and dragging the fallen body of another.

Pointless dragged Damon D Jackson behind him, while forcing Citizen ahead with the gun.

“Go to the cage, wait for me.”

And Citizen did, with no hesitation. Josiah turned his head to the man that had made himself matter in his life, the fallen DDJ looking up at his attacker with more hate than before.

He kidnapped him. He tortured him. He threatened his family. He broke him.

And from that point, stranded for three weeks, bound to a chair in the middle of Gary, Damon D vowed to destroy Josiah. Last night, he had his chance. Obviously, the opportunity train has long since departed

“Get up, and get in the cage.”

Damon gritted his teeth, blood oozing from his gums and between his molars. A collage of ivory and crimson.

“You really think you have a will in this?”

To illustrate his point, Pointless pointed the gun next to Damon’s head, and fired. The bullet traveled through the mat he lay next to, an inch away from his head.

The gunshot took a reaction from the crowd, some cowered and dove while others began to run for the outside. Once they saw this was no shooting rampage, being the blood thirsty pieces of trash they are, they returned to their seats to watch what potential carnage this could be.

Damon quickly burst to his feet, and hopped to the ring, collapsing on the cage mat in an effort to gain his breath. Citizen stood still.

As Pointless’ theme died out, he hopped in the cage. The gun danced from Citizen, down to Damon, and back and forth. He dropped the pistol to his feet, the thud making Citizen flinch.

Pointless left to the side of the cage, reaching out and taking a microphone from a random stage hand.

“Last night, this man killed me.” Josiah pointed at Citizen.

The fans, well, they didn’t know what the fuck he was talking about. They weren’t supposed to.

“This man helped him.” Pointing at Damon.

“What they don’t realize, is that I am the only fucking constant here in tA. Ordained by Joe himself, I am the Asylum’s sense of vengeance. I am the Asylum’s hand that strikes the wicked.

I am the fucker that kills anything that pisses tA off. You think you can kill that?”

Pointless leaned in close to Citizen’s face.

“Do you fucking think you can kill me? You tried. YOU FUCKING SHOT ME.”

Citizen blinked under his cold steel.

The fans still bathed in confusion like a fucking pig in mud.

“The truth is, you can’t kill me. You have to understand who I am, why I am what I am, and why I can’t leave. Citizen, you little fucking bureaucrat. I’ll tell you who I am.”

Josiah held up his right hand.

“I am God’s hand. I am the fucking will-in-action of God. Your wish, my command type shit. Soddom and Gomorra? Me. Plagues of Egypt? Me. I am the fucking force of the divine your momma warned you about.

And you want to fuck with that?”

Josiah leaned in to Damon.

“You little shit. You little defy-to-be-different shit. Always against the grain, always begging to be a problem. Damon, you coon. You want your chance at my throat because of a little business? A little business you brought on yourself? You fucked with the unfuckable Joe Campbell, what did you think was going to happen?”

Josiah was screaming at the two men.

“You two want this so much. You want to kill me? Here’s your shot. But if you do, let it be by your bare hands. I want you to be so sure that you killed me yourselves, so when I come back, you’ll realize that I can’t be touched..”

Both men looked hesitant. Josiah smiled a bit, revealing his darkened teeth.

“Come on, come fuck with God Himself.”

Damon sprinted to his feet, but was quickly equalized by Josiah’s knee to his face. Pointless went to work, stealing HardCase’ Retro Active Abortion.

Damon’s hand fell limp, as he could no longer struggle against Josiah’s brute force, until his savior came in the form of a skeleton that seemed forgotten.

Citizen drilled his boot in to Josiah’s ribs, knocking the wind out of him. Before another move could be made, Josiah jumped to his feet, tackling the man, colliding his skull with the steel mesh.

The move caused him to shut his eyes, as Josiah stomped on Citizen’s chest as hard as he could.

Damon climbed to his feet, smashing Josiah from behind with his forearms. As Pointless turned around, Damon tried to connect with another hook, which Josiah caught. Pointless took him over his shoulder, launching him overhead and outside the cage.

Pointless turned his attention to Citizen, who was breathing heavily under the mask. Pointless drug him to his knees, and began to speak softly in to his ear.

“When you look back from purgatory, and you think of this last breath, of these last blinks, I don’t want you to be in regret. You have more of a glimpse of what you are up against, more than anyone else here. You have merit in your fear. And for that, you will die in a way that shall gain you the honor you’ve dreamed of.

Goodnight, Citizen.”

He reached down, hooking Citizen’s head by the mask, ready to jerk back and break this asshole’s neck.

As he prepared for the turn, he heard the faint screams of a woman. Looking down the aisle, he saw his girlfriend Nurse being clutched in the grips of the woman who had made Citizen’s cause her own, as of late.

Venoma Star.

She held a night close to Nurse’s throat, which caused a bit of hesitation on Josiah’s part.

“Let go, fucker, or I blood-let this bitch.”

While Nurse struggled, Josiah could only mouth words to her.

I’m sorry. I’m sorry I made you a liability. I’m sorry I made you a plot device. I’m sorry I left you vulnerable. I’m sorry I made you a way to get to me.

Pointless released Citizen’s neck, who quickly crawled out the cage and behind the protection of Venoma. Damon quickly stumbled behind, as Venoma let go of Nurse, pushing her towards Josiah.

The three retreated to the back, as Nurse ran in to Josiah’s arms.

She was becoming a liability, as much as Pointless hated to admit this.

The fans still were soaked in their confusion and fear. But one thing was certain.

This was a hell of a pay per view.

24 hours ago, I died.

23 hours, 59 minutes, and 59 seconds ago, I wasn’t born again. I was created again.

You can’t kill the hand of God. You cannot kill the Will of God. You cannot kill fate, destiny, or the path to get there.

I am the air you breathe. I am the lint in your pocket. I am responsible for all the significance you hold in this material world, and I am responsible for your follies and trials. Tribulations. Erroneous judgements. Money makers. Financial success.

And you don’t even know I exist.

I was created by God Himself. Crafted with His eternal love and never ending compassion and understanding. He made me to be perfect, comparable to Jesus himself. God didn’t just take two people, let them reproduce to make what chaotic offspring civilization has known to become.

Parents created you, imperfect from sin the second you were conceived. Me, I am the work of a fine carpenter on a tool that can save humanity.

That can save you.

A vessel, a mind with a template, to become the perfect avenger. A template, a guide to self-richeousness with a rather malacious talent.

On that road to perfection, the long path to walk, the trail is dirty. Hence, your boots will get dirty. Blood on your hands to get results, and every analogy that goes with it. With destruction comes creation, and a full circle in between.

Death is an envious mistress. No matter how good you are at painting your murderous pitcure, the pale hue and stiff strands of hair start to become a fate longed for when you paint the same picture time after time.

And the most wicked form of wicked has yet to come.

My saviour, is my Hell. My gift, my curse.

Without warning; the Anti-social hero tore through the black Asylum curtain, strutting down the aisle as the Television championship glistened in the bright spot light from the strobes above. “Ice Cold Man” performed by Probot blared into the awaiting ear drums of the Asylum blood marks who jeered intensely as Osyrus reached the base of the fighting structure, taking his time going up each steel step before touching down on tA’s tough canvas interior. The current and reigning champion looked over his right shoulder; he didn’t even have to say a word as he motioned the Asylum technician to come fourth. The technician knew what Osyrus wanted, so it wasn’t a surprise that this time around, Osy didn’t berate him with insults…just a calming and cool demeanor as the man known as Asar took the microphone into his grasp. Seeing Osyrus this way was more terrifying than his normal behavior. Because everyone knew that this man was a ticking time bomb, just ready to explode.

“You disgusting people don’t deserve to see me come out here and speak to you, but I wanted to this time. I thought to myself while I was backstage; I knew that you all deserved to see what it is like to witness greatness with your own naked eyes. Witnessing a winner like me in the flesh; that you could be proud of, a champion that you could name your kids after…because you were dumbfounded by their excellence. Or should I say my excellence. You filthy fucking people, who smell like the garbage my butler, takes to the corner every Tuesday night…should put your grubby hands together to applaud every time you see ‘the personification of talent’. But you do not. That will change however.”

Osyrus paced for a few moments as he tried to gather his thoughts, thinking how he could articulate each sentence carefully, so Omar could describe beautifully, the vicious details of what he had in store for the third coming of theAsylum. Halting in his place; the Television champion raised the microphone back to bottom lip as the audience simultaneously boo’d.

“Oh how you fucking people warm my heart with your malicious retorts. I don’t think I will ever get tired of the jeers, boos and my personal favorite of the ‘fuck you Osyrus, I want you to die’ chants. For the past year I have heard these things from you revolting dim wits, who can’t even sit straight up in their chairs because their grotesque bellies hang over their damn belt buckles. But I don’t want you people to stop…keep it going, all you’re doing is inspiring and encouraging me more.”

Ask and you shall receive when Osyrus’ heat quadrupled ten fold. This however garnered a smile from the Anti-social hero as he placed the microphone under his left arm, adjusted the TV strap while he clapped.

“TheAsylum, you’re my inspiration for continuing. Since I stepped foot in this shitty ass promotion, booing the best athlete to ever walk under that Asylum banner…you’re helping me whether you realize it or not. When I don’t think that I can possibly carry on in a match; with people the likes of Eddie Cheno, one of your heroes by the way, thanks to your negative reactions…I find the strength to pull myself to my feet before I break every bone in Cheno’s useless arm. When my head is throbbing due to numerous chair shots, it’s because of your encouragement, that makes want to be the very best I can be, by defeating another Asylum superstar like Asher Rollins…to become the Television champion.”

Christensen raised the championship into the sky as trash soared overhead, barely missing the monstrous Osyrus, who was enjoying himself at the fans’ expense. He returned the favor by flipping the live audience the bird as a piece of stale pizza almost collided with his face.

“Hey, you fuckers better keep that, because then you won’t have to eat out the dumpster for a few days. And finally but most important point of all; when my biceps are just throbbing with pain after smashing ‘the God of Fight’ over and over and over and over again with a steel chair…it’s you people that deserve the credit when as I dig deep within my soul, to find that one shot that will annihilate the eunuch as he is rendered unconscious. I couldn’t do it without you.” Osyrus smirked and shook his head in a sarcastic fashion.

“Here’s to you, the fans of the Asylum for a great first year…”

Osyrus dropped his title and microphone to the ground momentarily as he lifted both middle fingers in the air, rotating in every direction, before reclaiming his possessions.

“…I couldn’t have done it without you."

Joe Campbell lifted his head from his desk and as he did so pulled away from a sticky mess of vomit and blood that'd stuck to and matted his hair.  The vomit a means of his body telling him he needed to reject the drugs he'd been abusing and the blood a means of his nose telling him that if he put any more cocaine up it, it'd fall off out of protest.

In the past couple of hours he'd taken just about everything, downers and uppers, depressants and anti-depressants, smoked, snorted, drank, injected and ingested.

After fumbling around in his desk and pockets for a few moments, the drug search came up dry and he was forced to mess around with his phone in a desperate attempt to dial up some more drugs.

"I bet the cure for aids is in my blood." He spluttered to himself with a chuckle, observing just how many empty prescription and non-prescription drug packets were laid out across his desk "I'll nip down the ward in a few hours, the female patients can suck it out of my dick."

Throwing his phone down with frustration, Joe flipped on a monitor just in time to catch the crew fixing up the Asylum for the main event... he looked down into the trash and saw a snapped cigarette, which he promptly picked out and lit up.

"Better than nothing." He declared as the main event got underway.

They nodded to him as he drove through the estate, through each barrier, greeting each of the security guards that he personally hired. He was greeted by an in-house staff that served as a replacement for Campbell's old one. The mansion was sheeted in rain, and the flowers he had ordered to be planted in Campbell's name; Baptisia - St. John's Wort and Black roses - they seemed to become one with the atmosphere and him.

Huge double doors opened for him in greeting.

This was Campbell's main hall. Joe enjoyed the finer life from this estate. Sitting atop a hill with a crown on his head, his administrative finger never growing tried. His barking voice always shouted orders and never gave way to rasp. Campbell shouts and the world shouts back for a fee.

The two guards at the door to Campbell's office knew their master's face.

"Tell Campbell I'm here." the man said.

The guards nodded. They went inside and over the stormy noise you could hear the taller one whimper:

"Villam Ender is here for you, sir."

When the guards came back, Villam put his hand on one of their shoulders and whispered in this ear.

"I was never here."

The guardians nodded to each other. Villam was the man they took orders from. He wrote the checks. Campbell was too high to pick up a pen.

The Asylum Championship hung from one hand.

A sword hung from the other.

Campbell himself made note of the weapon, but felt no harm when he was around Villam.

"Mr. Ender how are you!" Campbell said in a drunken and friendly tone. He had ditched the Token/Villam match early to celebrate. It was 4am and he was going to ride a heroin needle into sleep. His knight was champion again and that slumber would be blissful.

"I'm fine Campbell." Villam said, standing directly across from the pinewood desk where Campbell sat so leisurely.

"Good fight with that twat, Williams." Campbell said. "Great fight even, m'boy. I must say you've far exceeded my expectations of you."

Something about that stung. Villam ignored the sting. No need to reveal the hand just yet.

"Well....anyway...what brings you by? I thought maybe you'd be sharing this victory with Thursday and Dounia, yeah? Or did you want to celebrate with ol' Campbell eh?" -Joe was a lucid and cheery mood. Oh, but that would soon change. Villam thought- unbidden.

"No, no. Thursday and Dounia are far, far away. I have something else I need from you. Something that's been bugging me lately. Something I gotta ask you." The eunuch's body shook a little bit. He couldn't help it. Joe didn't notice. He never did.

"ANYTHING. Anything for you Villam. You ask it and if it's within my power...and it is....you'll receive it ten fold. Only the best the God of fight, right mate?" Joe exalted, near ecstatic.

"Right." Villam replied.

Joe pulled out his little heroin kit. "So what is it, Villam? What did you want to ask."

Villam shivered. "I just want to know......"

"Yes....." Joe said, hurrying Villam to continue. He had a spike to attend to.

The eunuch gulped. Out of fear?

"I want to know....what....

....what happened to my brother?"

Joe dropped what he was doing. "What? W-w-what did you say?"

"TELL ME WHAT HAPPENED TO MY BROTHER!!!" -Unlike speech, more like a scream. Less like an ask, more like a demand.

Campbell, visibly shaken, stirred in his throat, gulped and twitched. "Y-your-your brother!? Exxa!?"

"NO!!

XEARO."

Campbell's heart skipped a beat. A hiccup in his shallow conscience that could be seen in his eyes.

'He knows. Villam *knows*. And he probably knew the whole bloody time since he returned.' Campbell thought.

But Joe figured that he could talk his way out of this. How much did Villam know? Joe looked at the sword. Then looked deep into Villam's face. He didn't want to do anything rash. He could talk him out whatever plan he had. Surely.

"Alright. I--I'll tell you everything. Please, Villam just put the sword down."

Villam lowered his brother's sword as another thunderclap applauded this climax. Damned rain. Trite, trite rainfall. Joe straightened himself and stood up walking over to his desk and pouring himself a glass of scotch. His rapidly shaking hands only caused him to sweat the sweat of fear. The sword. He wouldn't have brought it if he wasn't looking to hurt him. If Campbell knew what Villam knew and if he were say something now that would deny Villam's knowing...

...then Villam would deny him painless death.

But, if he sat down now and told Villam the truth.

He was still dead.

His hands kept shaking as he sat down.

'I'm dead. I'm fucking dead.' Joe Campbell thought as he sat down behind his desk. He loosened his tie and took another sip of scotch.

"I'm waiting." Villam said raising the sword.

Campbell quick cleared his throat a couple of times and wiped the fear-sweat off of his forehead with a handkerchief.

"Well, Villam. You see...

I-I have other forms of business - side businesses - that keeps the Asylum running. Drug dealing, money laundering, racketeering, the whole bit. I mean, do you know much it costs to finance an Asylum Champion?"

Villam had suddenly closed the distance between him and Campbell. He was closer now and in his hand he held the icy-sharp finger of death...

...and that finger was pointed at him.

"---well, um, that is to say Villam. That...that..." Campbell cough--gulped. "...you have to understand. -Ww-We were only into our second year, at the time I needed all the fighters I could. It was really rough....so I turned to someone. A man. An old friend of Smilthy's...."

"What was his name?" Villam asked pointedly. He knew where this was heading and he was hungry for Campbell's confession.

"....chien...." Campbell said, solemnly.

"That's right, Joe. That was the name of the man who enslaved me and my brother." Villam face shook with memories. Suddenly he was back at those apartments in Long Beach where he couldn't wake his mother up from her deepest of heroin induced sleeps. How old was he? 9? 10? Maybe 11 or 12. It doesn't matter.

His twin brother, Cicero understood what actually happened that night and what it would mean. He didn't understand that night up until now, in his feral adolescence he secretly thought his twin had done something to his mother, but he was wrong. Cicero knew, but spared him the shame. He was so compassionate.

"W-w-what...what did you say?" Campbell mumbled.

"He was so compassionate." Villam repeated, lost in sorrow upon sorrow. The sword lowered, bowing before the eunuch's new-found emotional weakness.

"V--v--v.....vill-"

"How!? How did this happen?" Villam snapped, interrupting him. He knew Campbell had something to do with his twin's death...but he didn't know what.

Campbell gulped. "W-w...we were short........on.....fighters....like I said." Be still you stupid leg. "Right so....I knew Chien from Smilthy's....he had this fighter. Chien said he was a Haitian man...he spoke french, fought well. Chien said that I could have him for the right price."

The doom thunder made its presence known, as if the sky itself condemned Campbell now with all the fire of then.

"Keep going...." Villam said raising his brother's sword - ever so slightly.

"So...I-I...I bought him." Campbell said.

Villam laughed. "You bought him?

You bought him, like a slave?"

Joe broke back in, "No, Villam you don't understand....."

"Oh, I understand." --Villam took a step closer. "No, trust me...I know "how it is." You have a precious business to run, you fucking blood merchant.

What I don't understand is what happened next.

So enlighten me, Campbell. The faster you spit it out, the faster this tormenting suspense ends."

Joe's sweat stank like drug chemicals and disease. He was unhealthy. Miserable. "---I....well.....he fought. And he fought good Villam, when his mind was on the right track he...."

"Why couldn't he speak? Why was he mute?" Villam coldly asked.

Campbell shivered. "B-b-because....th-they said that they had conditioned him against speaking. He said that he liked to talk alot...so they did something...I assume psychologically...to make him not want to utter a word. It was the perfect gimmick at the time.

-----A mute. Not being able to speak, he can only communicate through his fists.-----

I marketed him like one would market a wrestler....and it worked! Except he was different becauase the gimmick itself was real. There was nothing like it. A mute fighter."

The eunuch noticed how Campbell's eyes glowed then he talked about marketing or money. He knew that in the end it was all about power. And it made him sick for so many different reasons.

"Then what, Joe? Then what?" Villam got even closer now - standing against the front of his desk as the sword kept Campbell seated.

"Then..." Campbell's voice grew weak and scared..."Then he went through some things. I don't know...it was like he was going crazy. Did you know he killed a priest? He had this journal he wrote in.....he thought the priest was someone he knew. Then he fought Steven Fury....went crazy again....ended up in prison.

Then....

Then....

You know how prison is.

He...

....he was never the same after that........." Joe just trailed off...trying his best to sound sad or concerned. Villam saw right through that too, and oh god did it burn. Magma and bile and venom - nothing burned him like this. Nothing ever burned him like guilt did.

"...he was mad....I had to give him back...." Joe finished.

Then it made sense.

Joe gave "Xearo" back to Chien, knowing that he was coming out of his brainwashed state. There must have been something about Chien not being around that made it easier for him to remember his own will. His twin must've made the decision to take both of them off of that island.

"Now, Villam be sensible, really. Think about it, mate....you don't have to kill me. No matter what, your brother is gone. For all we know he could be back with Chien, very alive. You and I could go looking for him. We could put the whole Asylum on hold, just for the reunion. Think about it. I could hire and fire the roster as I see fit....and you just got the Asylum Championship...THINK ABOUT IT....you could become the true forever champion! Never losing the belt in your entire career...you'd make Kenny Rock look like some stupid rock star. AND you could have your brother back. You long lost twin. I had intended to do this from the start, Villam. It was just going to take some time...I needed a bit more power. I was going to inquire into where you were and maybe grabbed your brother up and try and bring him back - but Token got in the way...it can be different now mate....please...."

Joe had said all that in order to convince Villam....but all it had done was make the eunuch angrier...it was more proof that Campbell didn't care their lives in the slightest. He lacked the concepts of sympathy, compassion and guilt. He lacked mercy, charity and he regarded human beings as a form of plaything. Campbell and powerful men like Campbell truly don't care about anyone but themselves. Their ideals, their wants.

And everyone be damned in the process.

Villam's grip tightened around his brother's sword.

Joe stood up quickly. "Villam....wait...please.....I didn't know. I'm sorry. I didn't fucking know."

The truth was Joe did know.

Villam knew that he knew.

"So...one last question before I splash your blood along these walls, Joey." Villam said raising the sword.

Joe suddenly stood up, tried to dart to the right, sword came down the papers were split like atoms.

"Hands on the table, friend." Villam said. The eunuch then pulled the edge of his brother's blade out of the wood.

"So....how did you find me?" Villam asked, smiling a psychotic's smile.

"I.....it.....it was luck." Joe muttered. "It was just mere chance.

You were in a park in Los Angeles, fighting with other drifters in the middle of the night."

Villam remembered that day now, even though before he hadn't...he had blocked it out.

He was beaten into a bloody mess by chuds and transients and Joe took him in. Pulled him from an alley with an extended hand. Even then Campbell had dollar signs in his head. It must've been perfect, pure godsend that he'd be able to save his investment on the first failed slave with a man that was his exact double.

Ender shook his head.

Pure chance. In Villam's mind, grace of God and the curse of fate.

The lightning in the distance rattled off, almost speaking to his innermost urges. Oh, but to draw a sword here and actually finish what he set out to do...it was something different. Something difficult. So now...he shook.

And as the eunuch's body sweated and vibrated, so did Campbell's.

"Luck." Villam said bitterly.

"Explain luck to me Joe.

Is it luck when you pull some destitute nigger offa the streets and throw him into the cage to become a wild animal? Is it luck, when you separate loved one from loved one? Is it luck when a grown man gets raped in the middle of your cage and you rake in the profits and publicity? Is it luck when you shoot some poor pathetic woman without even a hint of remorse? Is it lucky when you take people like Borst, Nerva, Token Weed or the Inmate and twist them to your will? Is it luck when you turn a man into a monster? Is that luck? Or is it just good business sense? Or do you even know the fucking difference!?"

"Now, Villam....I'm not perfec---"

The desk was thrown aside completely. Adrenaline gave Villam this superhuman appearance. His gray eyes sat in their sockets to transmit nothing but pure fear. An ocean fell in sheets over the mansion. The guards outside the door listened closely. Campbell sat in his seat, on trial; finally -tears welled up in both their eyes.

"You took my entire fucking life away." Villam uttered.

Joe interrupted. He'd be damned if he was going to die here, like this. Literally. -"I DIDN'T. Chien did. Fuck knows how he got your brother. I'm not the man to fucking blame for Cicero's death, Villam. If you want to cut someone open with that sword, then go find Chien - as a matter of fact, I-....I'll fucking help you, Villam. Please. Let me help you! You're just confused, that's all mate, you've got a lost brother out there and you think I've wronged you. I understand that. I really do. Just listen to reason. Just sit down and we can..."

"It's too late." Villam replied. A smiled twisting into his un-emotive face.

"What? W--..what are you-" Joe started.

Ender finished. "Chien's dead.

Cicero. Is dead."

And that meant Joe would soon join them.

"Chien had some dogs. Hounds. The big sort that are bred to scare you shitless. All they do is eat and bark and bite and shit. Oh and master feeds them. Just enough to keep them hungry. Keep them angry. Restless. Never at peace. And the master goes on, never giving those dogs a second thought until feeding time, or when he needs to be entertained by the disposal of flesh. The master never seems to foresee the day when the dogs become so hungry that they bite the hand that "feeds them". Everyone forgets that fate's greatest weapon is irony."

Joe stood from his seat and tried to run, but Villam was too fast. The eunuch's left hand, clawed Campbell's face, reached for this collar and throttled him with tremendous force. Slam. Pow. The hilt of the sword dotted itself along Campbell's face.

"I heard them screaming Joe. As you fed them, us, those hounds, those dogs....on each other's flesh. We screamed for you. We bled for you and this.....what should I call this? A zoo? A kennel? Let's call it what it is, old friend. An Asylum. We aren't human to you. We're toys. We're fodder. We're dead the moment we step foot into this fucking place. And there are no poetic acrobatics that need to be at play here...because it simply comes down to two things.

Apathy.

and Selfishness.

Human flaws that everyone has and really they are very tender and small. But every once in a while a man comes along and they equal to pure evil.

That would be you, by the way."

"Villam...please...you're just like m---" The hilt slammed into Campbell's face again and blood dribbled of his mouth.

"That's just the thing though, Campbell. I'm no fucking dog. I'm proud. I'm a big bad, black ass wolf with gray eyes. I'll tear up the flesh of my own brothers and beg for seconds. You think you've got power? You think *you* treat people like objects? You're just a piece of meat to me. Made tender and fat and juicy with greed and consumption. You're fat and disgusting with wrongdoing. And you're not like me...don't even try to utter it.

I do what I do because I have to. It's my instincts. It's law of the fucking jungle. I was an animal before I stepped foot into this fucking cage. And I'll be an animal when this place comes crashing down. Laws of civil society don't apply to me. I don't like what I do. I don't like myself. When I look in the mirror. I see the people I've killed and the shit I've done and I gasp in horror at the ugliness in my heart. When I lay in my bed at night, I don't sleep...

I suffer."

Campbell's head lowered pathetically. "...please...i'm begging you....please don't kill me...."

"You never suffer. You can blast old Zoe in the face and not feel a fucking thing. What about Jordon? How's Rico doing in jail? You knew what I'd do to Archangel and you served him right up to me for the slaughter. Rave. Exxa. Avenger. Token Weed. Where's Nicodemus? Sanjuro? - Your wife? Your own fucking wife!!! Your wife who's only crime was being smart enough to the fuck away from you. Who else have you fucked over in your time?

Oh, yeah.

Smilthy.

HAHAHahahahAHAHAHAHA.

Smilthy."

Villam's laughter, his sick and feral laughter rocked the walls of the rain outside. His conviction made the wind sway and blow, made the trees creek to and fro. The flower fields outside danced on their feet. "KILL HIM." They said.

"They're all gone Joe. None of them are here to testify. But it's alright. I'm a speaker for the dead. And they cry out, Mr. Campbell. They cried out when I saw Cicero slain at the hands of another blood merchant like you. And Chien, I think he even cries out for your head. Zoe wants me to tear your skull apart. Rave wishes that he didn't take my dick so I could fold you right over the balcony and show you what all the fuss was about.

But, I shouldn't threaten you with a good time.

Your wife wants me to fill your heart with a needle full of battery acid. Oh, how they cry for your death."

Villam's watered eyes took on a ghostly unlife of their own. And Joe saw deep, deep, deep into the future. His throat froze at the truth. "Oh, God....please..."

The eunuch chuckled and giggled until it turned into a shrill noise. "Praying!?"

Suddenly Joe was screaming and Villam was jamming the hilt into Campbell's mouth. Busting up and breaking every last tooth in his gaping maw. He hammered away at face muscles and the cartilage in his nose. It was torture. A divine suffering where Joe felt every fire hot blow to the brain. He was thrown into book shelves. Kicked about like a doll, or more to the point, a dog. It seemed to last forever and maybe it did.

Finally, Villam picked him back up.

"You're a miserable bastard. And you deserve this. Don't you dare pray for God to save you.

Because he's the one who sent me."

With that, Villam pushed Joe away from him.

Joe staggered back and the last thing he saw was lightning reflected on steel that had been folded onto itself many times. The sting in his throat was sharp and cold. The blood that erupted like lava splashed the adjacent wall like the tail of a comet. His eyes rolled back into skull. He dropped to the ground holding his neck, trying to keep the crimson from escaping. By that time Villam was off like a mockingbird into the night sky. Joe tried to cry for help but found no voice under a full moon that looked down on him from so high up.