Universal’s office… littered with paperwork, a total mess. He’d gotten himself into quite a pickle with his documents lately… it wasn’t that he’d been getting more of the paperwork to do, he was just getting worse at it. The wheelings and dealings, the contracts and the payoffs… it was starting to get to him. He used to have such a knack for it. He was a born businessman… the wrestling aspect of wrestling wasn’t the interesting part to Christopher Universal.

But he’d become so disorganized, his tidiness and efficiency was going to pot. He dropped his pen and clasped his head in his hands… he knew where this sudden muddle had come from. It was his worry.

His worry that Exxa would die tonight. His worry that he’d be faced with a rebellion. The worry that Campbell would take over his little empire, that the scum himself would reclaim his kingdom.

Universal felt like a king in the fWo… but here, was just sitting on a throne of shit.

Universal closed his eyes and rocked back and forth, trying to nurse away the migraine that he’d acquired in the last few hours. He whistled to himself, trying to soothe his aching brain…

“Why hello there, Mister Universal.”

Universal opened his eyes… and his look of serenity turned to a look of disgust. Standing in front of him, as if nothing had happened six days ago… were The Zone. Tapestry, Splink, The Freak, Keegan and John C. Willis. All of them.

“What are you doing here!?” Universal hissed, baring his teeth out of rage. He sat upright in his seat, taking a defensive position against his enemies. “I FIRED you, with a capital F. You can’t just walk in here… get out.”

“Well, I hate to burst your proverbial bubble here but, my dollar-venerating, scum-slurping comrade; we have as good a right as ANY to be standing here.” The Freak said, waving a thin wad of papers through the air. Universal clutched at the air to see them, but The Freak wouldn’t let him get a whiff. “Nope, no touching… these are ours. By OURS, I mean THE ZONE’S. These are our contracts. And, regardless of what you appear to have persuaded yourself… you do not have the power nor right to conclude them. You cannot terminate us, as easily as you expected.”

“Listen. You fucking… fucking… FREAK, I rolled your contracts through the shredder last week, now you’re in here, trying to tell me that I…”

“You’re a appalling liar, Universal.”

Chris shut his mouth, as The Freak continued.

“Our contracts are not unto the Asylum itself. Joe isn’t that dim-witted, you must recognize; not after the Ruben Ross occurrence. No, instead he signed us to a PERSONAL contract. He owns us. The Asylum doesn’t. No matter how much of the Asylum you may perhaps own, you CANNOT own us.”

Universal dropped his head into his hands once more, running his nails through his blonde hair.

“Right. So why are you back here?” His snarled half-heartedly.

“A match… in fact a succession of them, tonight. Best of five, against Stranglehold… and since I’m in a rational mood and I’m somewhat secure in my companions’ prowess, I shall even put our contracts in the line of fire.”

Universal sighed. Fucking lunatics.

He shook The Freak’s hand, and the series was on.

Eddie Cheno tied his boots. He wrapped his fists in tape. He cracked his neck.

He was getting ready for his fight with ArchAngel.

He wasn't in Joe Campbell's office, unsure how exactly to react to the boss who had been missing for quite some time. He didn't have his own locker room.

He simply got ready where everyone walked in. The added bonus? Cheno'd get his first glimpse at ArchAngel before anyone else would. And Cheno may even be able to throw a few punches.

Then again, plans don't always work the way you want them to. Duncan Fletcher was the next man to part the curtains, a stern look of anger on his face, much like usual, and most notably, alone. Cheno quickly got to his feet, and stared his former friend down.

They didn't move from each other, each looking the other in the eye ready to pounce. Cheno raised his left arm and snapped his fingers, as out of nowhere wandered Eddie Scott Poser, the King of Poland.

"Hey Cheno, I heard the call, whatcha ne..." Poser started before taking glimpse of Duncan Fletcher before him. His eyes went wide and Poser's teeth began to clatter. "This... this wasn't... HEY! That's not fair!" Poser yelled to Cheno. "This guy's a freakin' PSYCHO!"

Cheno turned his attention to Poser, and raised his fist. Poser quickly fell in line. "Uhmm... can I ask you something Fletcher?"

This time, Fletcher turned his attention to Poser, and simply cracked his neck. "I'll take that as a yes. Listen, My friend Eddie Cheno wants to know... what the hell is going on. Why the hell did you do what you did? And if everything you said was true." Fletcher didn't respond to Poser, turning his head back to Cheno and simply nodding his head. "What the hell was that!" Cheno got what Fletcher was saying, but Poser had no idea. "Can't you ever answer us straight?!? I mean, first I ask you to play dance dance revolution, you know, bust a move with the King, and you were all RUAHH~! and I was all AIE~! and then there was the hurting..."

"...Didn't I kick your ass a while ago?" Fletcher asked, then he shrugged and punched Poser right in the face. Poser fell to the ground as Fletcher and Cheno exchanged one final look, before Fletcher walked away.

"Ah! The memories!" Poser screamed in agony. "Someone get me an ice pack? Please~!?" Poser asked, as Cheno simply turned and walked away.

"Smack My Bitch Up" by Prodigy.

Campbell was back.

Stepping from behind the curtain with a wide grin plastered across his face, he clutched a microphone in his hand as the crowd cheered his return, it'd been a few weeks... but he was back.

"Alright knobheads, calm down." He uttered as he paced around at the top of the aisle, collecting his thoughts.

"Well people, we did it... year three, who would've thunk it? Certainly not the government... certainly not the critics, but here we are people... pAin 3, living breathing proof that some turds just won't flush no matter how hard you try." Joe said, wiping a fake tear from his eye and sharing a false moment of emotion with the crowd.

"Damn it feels good to be back, how long has it been since we've started things up with a good old fashioned ramble? Long enough... but you know boys and girls, as happy as I am to be back... as happy as I am that Asylum is about to enter it's third year in business... I still can't help but be filled with so much sadness, on this tragic, tragic day."

Joe shook his head, before taking a his deep breaths and sighing.

"Yep... it's been exactly one year since our beloved Forever Champion, Kenny Rock... exited this world in a blaze of gunshot glory... he was a good man my friends, behind all of the backstabbing... behind all of the conniving conceited things that he did... and behind the fact that he was a complete and utter twat." Joe stopped for a moment to shrug.

"I guess he was alright." He said again, his bottom lip quivering... once again, in a taunting manor.

"So what kind of man would I be without setting up some sort of memorial on this fateful day? An act to remember the great Kenneth Rockefeller by... something that you can all take away with you from this arena, something that you can look down at and think 'I was there'."

Joe paced around a little more... before reaching conclusion in his mind.

"Well I have just the thing people... something that you people will never forget once you've witnessed it once... everyone at pAin 2 saw it last year and tonight... everyone will see it again... someone is going... TO DIE!"

Suddenly shock and confusion filled the arena, women screamed... men screamed as well, because Joe had reached into his pocket and pulled out a handgun.

"Doesn't this all have a familiar feel to it?" Joe began, laughing insanely "A madman waving a gun about? And hmm... lets see if I can remember what happened next... oh yeah... something like this!"

The crowd continued to gasp and look on confused, as Joe took the gun... and pointed it toward his mouth.

"Don't do it! Don't do it! Don't do it!" Chants echoed through the arena, as Joe blinked furiously... trying to squeese the trigger.

More screams... and then silence.

Bang? More like click.

The crowd had mixed reactions, some sighed with relief... others laughed insanely... and some booed furiously at the mindfuck they'd just been subjected to.

Joe pulled the trigger... and from the end of the gun, extended a toothpick.

"GENIUS!" Joe cried out as the crowd continued to go insane, he picked his teeth with the new contraption for a moment or two... before listening to some of the boos coming from the crowd.

"Come on people! I told you tonight would be about taking something away with you that would make you remember old Kenny, and here it is... the Kenny Rock memorial handgun toothpick! RRP $10.99 at all merchandise stands... buy one now!"

The crowd continued to be mixed in reaction to the in poor tase joke which Campbell had made.

"What? You didn't actually think I was going to off myself did you? Don't be fucking silly... only sad people do that... no, by 'death tonight' I was on about the bloody death match main event you fuckwhits... honestly, you yanks... give you an inch and you take a yard."

Joe paced around a little more, before finally folding the toothpick away and putting the gun back into his belt.

"There... it's gone now, just don't forget to buy one on the way out... anyway... onto tonight, what about this deathmatch eh? See that down there... that's the Asylum, and if you look just past it you can see a wrestling ring... take a photo people, take a photo... because that's the last time you'll ever see one of those fucking retarded things at one of my events... why? Because Villam has tonight's match in the bag... think about it... how many deathmatches has he had? Loads... and how many times has he died? Exac-BLEH!"

The boos in the arena increasted tenfold, as Ruben Ross wrapped a sleeperhold around Campbell's neck... and the rest of Stranglehold surrounded him... with Universal leading the way.

"Let go of me you cunt... I... I... I...." But he never finished, as the last of his air supply ran out and he slowly faded into unconsciousness.

Stranglehold snatched him up, Dez Aragon taking one arm and Ross the other as Noah Hawkins and Jeff Garvin grabbed his legs and Biggs Dagsta along with Carter lifted his torso.

They carried him through the curtain high in the air for all to see, as Universal stooped and picked up the microphone.

"Say goodbye to your leader for the last time, with him out of the way... Stranglehold will reign supreme once again."

The microphone dropped to the ramp with a loud thud, as Universal turned and made his way to the back.

It looked as though Stranglehold intended to get rid of Campbell, once and for all.

A month ago, The Zone made their initial appearance at Manhunt. This evening, they were pitted against The Stranglehold in a ‘Best of 5’ series and with a partisan crowd behind them, the new inhabitants of The Asylum could not come up with the short end of the stick against The Stranglehold. Failure was not an option.

That was usually a phrase you’d associate with Keegan Carrahar but after making an impression in MSG, the most famous facility anywhere on the planet and also not too far from where he used to live, a pair of below-par performances had dented his confidence and credibility.

Nevertheless, it was still the festive season and you’d better believe it as Keegan, after approximately quarter of an hour searching, had found himself - with a vast amount of alcohol in tow - outside of his dressing room. Oh and Warwick Hunt was in the background.

“Warwick, did you get that key then?”

“Yes.”

Carrahar was clearly impatient as he held the booze against his chest: “Well fucking open the door then.”

As Hunt tried to locate the key, Keegan chuckled: “I hope they’ve included everything I’ve asked for. If not, I’ll turn green and wreck this fucking place.”

The Lawyer put the key in the door and turned it: “You’re getting like Elton John and Jennifer Lopez.”

“Whey no man. I’m not gay nor have I got a cracking arse. I’m better looking than them both though,” he said arrogantly while stroking his facial hair.

“You wish,” Warwick muttered.

“I didn’t know you had a crush on Elton”

A lack of confidence in the squared circle and steel structure maybe, but away from there?

No chance.

Providence took his time to walk the hallways of the Arena with his TV Championship around his right arm. The Fans booed in sight of him, as he turned the hallway corner and continued to hold a small sneer across his face. Tonight LLB was booked to get his Rematch against Providence for the TV Title... but the Champion hadn’t seen LLB since after the ManHunt Match, when the lawyer was taken away on a stretcher.

And though LLB still appeared in his other promotion, Action Wrestling, the rumor was that he feared to actually fight Providence again... regardless if the Title Belt was on the line.

Given LLB’s past, and his fears towards anything medical... this could’ve been true. The thought... the feel... of having anything penetrate his body made himself quiver... for it brought back the verdict of what he was born with, and the life that he went through.

Providence entered his locker room, light on his feet. He had just shot up some time ago and was still feeling the effects of it.

But he was sure LLB wasn’t going to show...

So it didn’t even matter, anyway.

Honestly, you would have thought it was Christmas Day, not three days afterwards as Keegan’s peculiar requests had been warranted…

“Warwick man. Look at the fucking tree. Fuck me. It’s mint.”

His buddy was bemused by it all: “Who did you spend Christmas with?”

“I’m spending it with you.”

Warwick thought this was sad. In years gone by, Keegan would have spent it with someone close, well he was now, but on the actual day itself at a location he was familiar with, unlike this arena.

“This spread’s superb isn’t it?”

Hunt had been dreaming: Sorry?”

“The table’s nice isn’t it?”

“Yes.”

You see The Yardstick had not only ordered a Christmas Tree, but had also asked for a full-on dinner to compliment his booze and to round things off they also had a television.

“Howay then, Warwick, sit your Jacksey down and I’ll be with you in a minute.”

The table was in the centre of the room. To the immediate left was the television so they both had a good view. In the middle, there were two plates with the usual cutlery and in front of those was the bottle of bubbly that Carrahar had also asked for. And two Party Hats of course, which Keegan was already wearing. Warwick took the seat nearest the door, so he had his back to it. The tree was on Keegan’s right hand side and for some reason or another didn’t have a star or angel on the top…

“Keegan, why is there a Newcastle badge on top of the Christmas tree? I mean they’re not top of the League are they? No. Or you’d have been wanking over it.”

“HEY! You’re not allowed to use lingo like that. Anyway, we were top last year.”

“You were?”

“I. So suck my dick.”

What a way to talk to your elders.

Special K had looked over at his Lawyer and noticed that he was unsure whether to start or not without him so he started to divide his food up into smaller bits…

“Warwick, do you mind not playing with your meat and two veg?”

He looked down to see that a couple of his Brussels sprouts had strayed and were now adjacent to his helping of Turkey.

The look on Warwick’s face was a picture while all Keegan could do was laugh: “Aw come on man. Laugh. It’s Crimbo. Anyway, you’d better drink the Bubbly because I don’t like it, tastes like Cat’s piss, and I spent a few hundred quid on that stuff so get stuck in.”

“You spent hundreds of pounds on Cat’s piss?”

Keegan, just about to begin eating, gave his acquaintance a telling-off: “Hey. Don’t talk about Cat’s piss at the dinner table.”

“But you sai…”

“Hey. What did I say? Where’s this language coming from and don’t answer back. Shut your cakehole and eat your fucking dinner before I slap you.”

Hunt put his head down like a sulking child and began to tuck into his portion. Meanwhile, Keegan just looked at his Lawyer and laughed. He could sense that tonight was going to be a good one…

How odd, the champions were coming to the ring first. As many a "smart" fan would point out, it was a time-honored tradition that the contenders should come first. Then and only then the champions would follow suit.

However, this was the Asylum, the only tradition they had centered around death.

cHEESE and egg NOG, collectively known to you and I as the Legion of Dairy, made their way to the ring, their title belts on showcase for the world to see. You wouldn't know it by just looking at them, but it was buried in the back of their mind that this was very possible that it could be the last chance they would have to show off their month old belts.

You only have one way to go once you hit the top.

The Legion of Dairy slowly made their way to the ring, eyeing their fans and the ring. To the two, it seemed like it was almost a homecoming. They had spent the better part of five years in a ring similar to the at the end of the isle. It was how they became "known." It was what got them here. In the Asylum.

True to form, egg NOG rolled in under the bottom rope as cHEESE circled to the side and made his entrance there. The fans cheers grew as cHEESE and egg NOG mounted opposite turnbuckles and played off the rush the fans gave them.

"THEY KNOW WHO YOU ARE!"

As the line from PM5K's song of the same title ripped through the arena a tapping of a high hat followed as TRUSTcompany's "Downfall" came into play.

Here came the challengers.

In the ring, egg NOG threw his belt aside as he and cHEESE took their fighting stances, setting their sights on the entrance awaiting the competition.

Nothing. No one walked out.

cHEESE and egg NOG started to ease from their positions as they looked to each other, confused as to the whereabouts of the number one contenders. "Downfall" was nearing the end of it's first run and there was still no one to show for it.

Then a figure emerged from the backstage. Duncan Fletcher, in street garb, microphone in hand. He paused just a few steps removed from the curtain as "Downfall" wrapped play. He looked at the champions in the ring and smirked.

He tapped the top of the mic, prompting feedback and loud hisses over the PA. He nodded as he raised the microphone to his lips. "Sorry, boys, but my partner had other matters to deal with. He did want me to inform you that we're not fighting. Why? Because we have more important things to do. Mostly involving NOT wasting time with you. However, never fear.

You'll see us again. Really soon."

Fletcher turned and started to walk away. Just as he reached the curtain, he turned back to face the Legion of Dairy and -with a smirk- added, "we'll say hello to your brother, too."

And just as quickly Fletcher appeared, he was gone. cHEESE and egg NOG more lost than before, started to exit the ring when they heard a faint cry.

"Fuck."

Zuh?

"Fuck, fuck, fuck the fWo! Fuck the fWo!"

Porno music followed. Fans were on their feet cheering, cHEESE and egg NOG still trapped in a state of confusion.

It couldn't be.

It just could not possibly be.

Yet, there they were.

Perfect.

Dead.

Wilson.

The FtfWo.

"Hey, you wankers! Turn that bloody porno music off! It's making me think of Peter North's ungodly member!" Perfect yelled.

Well, I didn't say it was the actual FtfWo...

Anyhoo, the porno music shut off. And there it was, a standoff between the Asylum Team Champions, the Legion of Dairy... and the team that, though known as Mega Job, were apparently back to playing the FtfWo once again. They stared at the Legion of Dairy. Wilson then handed Dead a potted plant, and the other microphone.

"You two. You prance around in your little dairy costumes all day, only without the dairy costumes. Now, obviously, we don't like this. In fact, it makes Wilson over here steaming made. Have you ever had Wilson mad at you? Well, Perfect, here, has. He got on the receiving end of the infamous and dreaded Headliner From Shanghai, and BOY, was he sorry!" Dead said.

egg NOG and cHEESE had no idea what the hell a "Headliner From Shanghai" was, but they had a feeling that it had to hurt, with Perfect clutching his balls, remembering the pain.

Dead continued.

"You see, you have crossed paths with the wrong individuals..."

"Hey, Dead... I hate to point out the bloody obvious, but I don't think we've actually crossed these blighters before." Perfect interrupted.

"Shut up, Perfect. Who did the 1-800 Collect commercial? Me."

Perfect sighed, and let Dead continue.

"Anyway, you... whoever your names are, you have crossed paths with us. In case you have forgotten, nine out of ten people say that crossing paths with us is like getting hit by a train."

cHEESE has apparently gotten a microphone, "What happened to the tenth guy?"

"Er... um..." Dead stumbled, he had no idea how to respond to this one, "Ahhh, I dunno. It was probably Ken War."

"hardkorr!!111" Ken War shouted as he walked out. Sad to say, Ken War got the biggest pop of the night so far.

Then again, Stranglehold DID run this show...

Of course, it did us all good to know that Ken War was no longer protected by a Christmas miracle, and as soon as he walked out, a flying sledgehammer came out of nowhere to kill Ken War deader than a Richard Dang chat room.

The FtfWo and the Legion of Dairy proceeded to continue on as though nothing had happened.

"Look," egg NOG said, "Are you quite done talking? cHEESE and I would like to go backstage and try to get Devoid to sing Margaritaville with us."

Dead and Perfect entered the ring.

"Actually, we wanted to challenge you. For something shiny!" Perfect said, with a smile.

"Shiny?" egg NOG asked, scratching at his goatee. He looked around for something shiny, but couldn't seem to find anything. He turned to cHEESE with an eyebrow raised, but cHEESE had apparently failed to find anything shiny, either. So, egg NOG turned back to Perfect, "We know not of this shiny that you speak of."

Dead pointed at their titles.

"OH!" egg NOG said. He then scratched his head. This WAS the same team that lost to them incessantly back in July and August, after all. Surely nothing could go wrong?

"Um, sure?"

cHEESE just shrugged.

Once again, Mega Job, currently known as the FtfWo, attempted their usual opening tactic.

This was to wear out the opponent's fists with their faces in the attempt to make them weaker, and eventually take them out with their brilliant attacking maneuvers.

And this was pretty much why Mega Job has only won one Asylum match in the nine months they had been members of the Asylum.

egg NOG and cHEESE easilly routed the attempted offense from the two members of the FtfWo, and sent them right to the outside, where law was cast aside, order was given the finger, peace was subjected to some pelvic thrusts, and harmony took a kick in the nuts.

At this point, the writer of this match, being a depraved little bastard operating from a Ted Kaczynski-like shack somewhere on the outskirts of a little pimple on the Earth called Oakland, would like to mention the fact that for some god-forsaken reason, Wilson entered the ring, tore off his FtfWo shirt(revealing an fWEo shirt in the process), and started to do the Snoopy Dance.

The writer has no idea why he'd bring this up, but it was worth noting.

In any case, Perfect and Dead from the team that was apparently the FtfWo, were having their asses kicked on the outside by the Legion of Dairy.

What, you expected something NEW to happen? This is MEGA JOB. Hello?

Eventually, Wilson finished doing the Snoopy Dance and left the ring, allowing for the FtfWo and the Legion of Dairy to re-enter the ring.

Once there, Dead decided that enough was enough and went for the only move in his arsenal that had any sort of effect on anyone.

KICK WHAM STUNNER.

Down went cHEESE, and off came the kneepad.

It was time... for the Epic Dead Drop.

He ran into the ropes. He did the four hops. He did the Macarena. And he didn't get any further than that, before cHEESE began to remember just how ridiculous this move was and decided to do something about it.

WINDOWS™~!

And down went Dead.

Meanwhile, Perfect managed to hit egg NOG with a good-old fashioned kick in the bollocks.

He then ran over to cHEESE, but couldn't remember which arm to use when going for a clothesline, so when he tried to hit him with his left arm, and cHEESE was on his right, that didn't exactly do much except make cHEESE give him a look of "WTFMF!?".

Oh, and then cHEESE nearly decapitated the one hundred and fifty-nine pound British-Mexican with his shoulder. Without even moving!

NOG pulled himself together, first making sure everything down there was in order. He looked to cHEESE, who sighed, and then looked at Dead and Perfect. egg NOG rubbed his eyes in frustration as Dead tried to get back to his feet, only to slip on some water and fall back down. Enter Wilson, trying to save his compatriots. Exit Wilson, via a kick to the face from the God of Wrestling slash Fighting. egg NOG looked to the fans, this would perhaps be the only time he could do this, he cupped his mouth and let out a might yell.

"TREE-OH-FO'!!"

The fans stopped cheering. The world stood still. The roof came crashing down. Literally.

Enter Cap'n Pimp. The crowd echoing his name as he landed in the center of the ring, fully garbed in his pimp attire. He looked to egg NOG, surprised to see it actually worked. "Where mah money beetch?" Cap'n Pimp questioned of NOG. NOG blinked. Cap'n Pimp asked a second time. "I, uh, I'm a wrestler Cap'n Pimp." He replied quietly

Wrong answer.

Cap'n Pimp extended his right hand, which grew to ginormous proportions. Pimp slap to egg NOG. cHEESE tried to save his partner, pimp slap for his efforts. Dead stood, one pimp slap later and he was down again. Perfect was back up, he avoided the first pimp slap, but wasn't expecting the backhand. Perfect was down. Cap'n Pimp readied himself for another round of pimp slaps, but heard faint cries of help in the distance. He told the four men he'd be back later as he floated off to save the world once again.

And the stupidity ceased for a few moments. cHEESE and egg NOG were the first to their feet, Dead and Perfect too clumsy to actually get back on a vertical base of and sort. Wilson had made his way back into the ring, just below the radar behind cHEESE and NOG. As cHEESE and egg NOG turned around, they saw him, but it was too late.

"PAIN."

Dual Clothesline From Shanghai. cHEESE fell to his knees, wincing in pain. NOG staggered back, tripping over Dead. Somehow Dead managed to roll egg NOG into a school boy. A shocking pinfall attempt that caused the fans to gasp.

1.

2.

3.

3? You are correct, sir. Too preoccupied with the hurting of his testicles, egg NOG never had a chance to kick out from the pinfall. The bell rang. The porno music started to play once again as FtfWo were announced the winners.

And NEW Asylum Team champions.

Tag Team Fighting has just hit a new low.

“Universal said to Keegan will you come and sign for us
Universal said to Keegan will you come and sign for us
Universal said to Keegan will you come and sign for us and this is what he said…

“FUCK OFF!”

Lads and lasses be warned. That is what two bottles of Newcastle Brown Ale; four cans of Carling and two shots of Vodka can do to you if you have all of the aforementioned in under quarter of an hour. Unbelievable I know, but then that’s the same word he would use for himself.

“WHO THE FUCK ARE THE STRANGLEHOLD?”

Hunt groaned. His client and comrade had a much in the not-so-distant future. At this rate, he’d be lucky if he could get out of the dressing room, let alone win a fight.

“WHO THE FUCK ARE THE STRANGLEHOLD?”

Warwick couldn’t believe it. Of all the nights to get drunk and down half a Christmas dinner, the conceited Keegan Carrahar had to choose a Pay-Per-View, one where he had to compete. He wasn’t the only one who was worried about the Englishman’s health. Everyone in The Zone and Fighting fans had a right to be.

“WHO THE FUCK ARE THE STRANGLEHOLD?”

If I hear that one more time, I’ll scream…

“AS THE ZONE GO MARCHING ON, ON, ON!”

A minute of silence succeeds Keegan’s chants, variations of songs used in Soccer, before he starts fumbling around in his pockets…

“Oh fuck. Warwick, my son. I forgot to put my notice up on the door. Will you do it for me?”

“Okay,” says the Lawyer not even questioning what Keegan is up to, which he would have done had he not been that relieved in the aftermath of his colleague’s unnecessary noise from just a minute or so ago.

Carrahar unveiled a small piece of cardboard and grinned before handing it to Hunt, who didn’t look it. After all, he does what he’s told, when he’s told.

As Warwick is about to attach the small item to the doorknob, he reads the message and rolls his eyes: “Do not disturb… unless your tits are superb.”

“Typical,” he says to himself.

Ricky Wasp looked to be the signature of contempt and pure hatred. His eyes were closed, his face grim and flatlined. A month, a month and a half, two months had it been? There had been so much time. Stranglehold had struck at him, and he was going to strike back. The mind games leading up to this night had been played by both sides -- now the physicality of it all was going to be performed.

Biggs Dangsta, in Ricky's mind, was the target of all hatred.

"Son?"

Richard Williams, the second in the family line, spoke up from behind the 6'9" beast.

"Tonight... you prove that niggers are nothing more than slaves! That they're nothing but the least of the world's worth! That --"

"... Quiet."

"Excuse me?"

"Quiet. I'm... concentrating."

Richard's face was flush.

"How dare you, you little ingrate --"

"SHUT UP!" Ricky spun to face his father, towering over him like an eagle to a fish laid on land to be eaten. "I am doing this for our people... our people. I'm doing this for myself, for any of our kind that has been slapped in the face by those damn liberal shits!"

"... I know, son, but you've got to learn discipline!" Richard countered.

Ricky leaned in to his father's face.

"Fuck discipline. I'm going to go out to cause pain. And not for you... but for others.

Including... someone special."

"Someone special? Son, you're not seeing some whore, are you?"

Ricky simply glanced at his father as he walked away. Leaving Richard Williams with questions. Only questions.

"So now what Chris?"

Carter rubbed his head as the rest of Stranglehold tied Joe's arms and legs down to a chair in Universal's office.

"Now what!? You tell me gentlemen... I don't pay you for nothing, we need to get rid of this cretin... he's the source of all our problems, I'm more than sure that he has something up his sleeve that'll ensue Villam Ender the win in tonights match with Exxa Decimal... I can't afford for that to happen... we can't afford for that to happen." Universal said frantically... finally collapsing in his leather chair, clutching his temples.

"He could have an accident... plenty of flights of stairs around here for him to fall down." Garvin spoke out, walking toward Universal.

"I could always throw him off the roof... he won't be any problem to us then." Dez Aragon added.

"No no no! We can't kill him people, we just need to... what's the word... incapacitate him."

Biggs turned his head "I can do that... give me a bat and five minutes." He grunted.

"I still say we kill him." Aragon seered.

"NO! No killing! We'll leave that to Exxa later tonight... now..." Universal went on, only to be cut off.

"Ha... you wankers don't have a clue, I'd go with that lanky streak of piss there..." Joe spluttered, pointed at Aragon "Kill me... gonna be your last chance at it... and if you don't do it to me, I'll do it to you." Joe said, spitting blood down his top... and glaring at Universal.

"Somebody shut him up." Universal barked, as Ruben Ross obliged... cracking him into an unconscious state.

"So what are we gonna do?" Ross spoke up, cracking his knuckles and looking frustrated.

Universal looked across his troops... before coming to a decision.

"Dez." Universal barked.

"Yeah?" Aragon replied.

"You solve problems, right?" Universal questioned.

"Yeah." Aragon replied, again.

"Good... solve this one, put him down however you can... as long as he doesn't cause us any problems."

Aragon nodded his head, before turning the swivel chair that Joe was situated in... pusing it out of the doors of Universal's office.

"Oh and Dez... don't kill him." Universal said with a sigh.

"I won't... well... not quite."

Aragon wheeled Campbell out of the room, and Stranglehold relaxed.

Problem solved.

Having dispatched of their dinner, Warwick and Keegan sat down to a game of Cards in an attempt, on Warwick’s behalf at least, to sober Special K up ahead of this evening’s encounter against Jeff Garvin, a talented 23-year-old Wrestler with ties at one time or another to Action! 21w and OSW - all recognised as top Wrestling outfits.

“My fucking word! This hand is as nearly as good as my right hand,” Keegan announced.

Warwick, closely looking at his cards, looked up: “I bet you’re bluffing.”

“Well fucking try me bonny lad. Try me.”

There was $500 on the table. Truthfully, Warwick did have a decent hand, one that could be difficult to beat and he was quite rightly confident. However, he took for granted that Keegan was TOO confident and made the assumption that he probably had fuck all.

“Okay. Let’s go Warwick.”

“What?”

“I need to get ready for Ron Garvin’s in-bred nephew. Jesus, I can remember ‘Rugged’ an’all. He was a right fucking jobber. So show me what you’ve got, not in your pants, but put your cards on the table.”

Hunt hesitated before doing so: “Three Queens,” he said while laughing.

Keegan looked at his friend and laughed.

“Come on… you can’t beat that. I know you cannot. You’ve just said you want to get ready so give me the five hundred dollars and then get ready for your fight.”

Warwick put his hands on the money and was about to bring it to his side of the table when Keegan prevented it: “What the fuck are you doing?”

The Lawyer laughed: “Come on Keegan… quit and we’ll…”

“Three Kings.”

Warwick’s jaw dropped as ‘The Yardstick’ cruelly snatched the five hundred dollars, laughing while he pocketed it.

“You lucky bastard.”

A knock at the door disturbed their discussion, but the expression on Hunt’s face told the story. He couldn’t believe it.

“You can’t come in here unless you have the criteria described on the door. So fuck off.”

A soft voice replied: “But I do.”

Carrahar looked at his acquaintance and whispered: “I knew you were good for something. So while I sorted out the food, you ordered a fucking stripper! Warwick, you’re a good’un.”

Of course, Hunt hadn’t and was bemused while Keegan got out of his chair, rubbed his hands like a little kid on Christmas morning and prepared to open the door…

“TAPESTRY!”

She looked at Keegan and grinned, moving past him and stepping into the dressing room.

Behind her back, Keegan clenched his fist and was grinning like a Cat who had got the cream miming ‘Come on’ in a very childish manner.

“What have you been up to?”

Keegan looked at the table: “Well me and Warwick have just had some Christmas dinner and a few brews you know. The season of goodwill isn’t it?”

She walked back towards the Geordie Genius: “A few brews?”

“Yes.”

“Okay. Well do not let it affect your performance,” she provocatively said.

Looking down at her chest as she went out, Keegan commented: “I won’t.”

“I’ll use the boy. We’ll use the boy. We’ll use the boy and I’ll be the one that emerges… and I’ll feel so much better.”

The Freak picked his head up off his desk in his locker room, and stared into the mirror. He realized that Oddball was in the room again, watching The Freak intently… studying him.

“Brian… you need your fix, don’t you.” Oddball said, quietly… like one would talk to a small child.

“If you can call it that why yes, yes I do… before my fix gets me and the lalala…” The Freak trailed off as his head hit the counter again. He was trying to block them out, but they wouldn’t leave him alone. The Hanged Man, the Cross Bearer and the Emasculator, that’s what he called them. Them, and Tanya. Not just dreams anymore.

“Then give them what they want and you’ll be better.”

Cheno sat in a dark hallway, perching himself against the corner. Cheno held his head in his hands, and that's when a simple small box was thrown to him.

Cheno looked confused, taking the box up from the ground and opening it. Inside was a simple note.

"Do him in Cheno. - Joe Campbell."

Cheno's eyes narrowed, and he simply placed the note back down into the box, and down into the corner. He sat up from his position, and took a slow walk. His fight was next.

So, the kick-off to the Stranglehold vs. The Zone best of five match. The fans rose to their feet, wailing and waving their hands frantically at the sound of the well-renowned Zone battle cry… which then gave way to “Every You, Every Me” by Placebo. The lights dimmed slightly, and Tapestry appeared at the top of the ramp, clutching a chair in one hand and a lantern in the other. The fans had yet to see this woman fight, but judging by the other Zone members… they were surely in for a treat.

Tapestry walked down the ramp blankly, not stopping to acknowledge the fans whatsoever.

She just trudged down, hopped into the cage and took of her gown… which, due to the predominantly male section of the audience, got her the best reaction that she could have possibly received.

What didn’t get a good reaction from the Asylum faithful, was the spooky guitar intro of “Magdalena” by A Perfect Circle, announcing the arrival of Stranglehold’s first warrior… Ace Carter. Why Stranglehold had sent Carter down to face Tapestry was disputable as Carter was wrestler through and through, whilst Tapestry was a pure fighter.

Maybe the contrasting styles would result in a win for Stranglehold? We shall see.

The fans booed as the obnoxious (in the fans’ eyes anyway) Carter stepped up into the cage and took his shoot fighting stance opposite Tapestry. Tapestry began to perform her basic stretches, kicking her legs outwards and bending backwards, making sure that she was ready for the battle about to commence. Carter didn’t bother, on the other hand… instead choosing to scope out his opponent.

As the referee declared the fight underway, Carter was quite bewildered.

In her corner of the cage, Tapestry sat cross-legged. Her arms clutched her steel chair…

“Oh, fuck it.” Carter muttered to himself, as he threw a kick towards the head of the seated “Modern-day witch”. But Tapestry, seemingly expecting the kick, fell back… and the kick totally missed her. Bucking up from the canvas, Tapestry kicked out both legs and slammed both of her heels into Carter’s face. Ace rocked backwards holding his nose…

Tapestry got to her feet, and stood silently, a slight smile on her face… as Carter regained his senses. As soon as Ace seemed ready to get back into the fight, Lulu Kobrakai did… nothing. She just stood across from Carter.

Ace once again decided not to worry about it, and told himself that she’s just a stupid bitch entertaining herself. He reared back, and ran into Tapestry looking for a sidekick. Tapestry dodged, spun, and hurled her chair into Carter’s face.

That wouldn’t hurt too much, right? It’s only a woman with a chair…

Wrong.

Carter stumbled backwards, holding a series of bleeding scratches on his face. The chair hit the mat, and huge collections of pins drop out of it’s frame… much to the fans’s delight and Ace’s horror. Tapestry took advantage of Carter’s predicament like a vulture, by hoisting her leg into the air and delivering a deadly downwards thrust kick to Ace’s right shoulder.

Carter went down again, coughing, spluttering and swearing quite loudly.

Tapestry stood in the corner, doing nothing.

Ace got to his feet soon after, and gave Tapestry an odd look… for obvious reasons. The woman is not right. She’s barely doing anything… she’s making Ace Carter fight himself.

Ace decided to simply stand around and wait for Tapestry to make a move. But she didn’t. Both combatants simply stoodd around for a total of three minutes.

Carter, becoming quite frustrated with Tapestry’s strange passiveness, settled on the fact that evasive action must be taken, and again ran into Tapestry. As he went for a left hook, Tapestry dodged and Ace felt a stinging pain in his arm. When he looked down at his bicep, he noticed a huge bleeding gash…

And in Tapestry’s right hand was a razor-edged fan.

“Fight like a NORMAL WOMAN, you FREAK!”

Tapestry looked at Ace with her head tilted to one side.

“Normal?”

Carter simply could NOT stand any more nonsense, and threw a jab into Tapestry. Tapestry dodged the first blow, but the second jab hit her face. Tapestry rocked back, and a quick armdrag from Carter…

Took her down?

Tapestry lay, flat out on the mat. She appeared to be completely knocked out.

By two punches and an armdrag.

“Fragile girl, shouldn’t be in here fighting someone of my calibre.” Rose says.

1!

2!

3! Tapestry still lay, flat on her back…

4!

5!

6! Carter seemed to think he had won…

7!

8! Still out cold.

9! Tapestry, in one smooth motion, rose to her feet again, touching her face.

The fans are perplexed.

Carter? He wasn’t perplexed. He was just pissed of with these stupid headgames.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” Ace asked, with a spit towards his female opponent.

Tapestry said nothing. In fact, even worse. She STARED at her FEET.

Anger rose in Carter’s throat and was released in a blood-curdling primal scream, as he charged into Tapestry and dove at her with a dropkick. Tapestry was actually hit by the move but it was, thankfully for the fans, only glancing and thus she was able to keep standing.

Carter focused his energies into pinning Tapestry against the wall of the cage upon rising, but all he got for his efforts was a scissor kick to his stomach and a lurching sweep kick to his calves.

Tapestry stepped behind her enemy and struck him with a triple-palm combination to the back of the head, however Crater was able to catch the third strike and whip Tapestry over with a wristlock takeover. Tapestry kipped up to her feet and backflipped to relieve the pressure on her wrist, then hit a diagonal downward cross-chop, landing on Carter’s face.

She then leapt up onto the rim of the cage with shocking agility, and spiralled down with a palm strike to Carter’s face and a second to the back of his head… “Invictus Fier Capedorium III”, as she likes to call it. Carter hit the mat like a sack of shit so who gives a fuck what she calls it.

Tapestry stood, leaving the groggy Ace for the count. She waited in the corner, a smile across her pretty face.

1!

2!

3!

4!

5…

Carter managed to get to his feet, holding his aching nose and also favouring the back of his head. As he turned, Tapestry clocked him with another open palm strike, twirling her hand in the process. As Tapestry reeled back for a second profound blow, Ace managed to swiftly get his senses together, and then he dodged it. With Tapestry committed, Carter used her momentum to his advantage by flipping her over by the arm, and down to the mat ferociously.

To add insult to injury, Carter then dropped a legdrop over the wrenched body part, causing Tapestry to murmur slightly and kick about trying to escape...

He immediately applied an arm-bar, tugging back as hard as he could, hoping for a submission win in the early stages. Tapestry writhed in pain from the move, but the hours of training had obviously paid off on her reversal strategies as she yanked her arm free.

Once both were at a vertical base, the more aggressive of the two (that being Carter) blasted Tapestry in the chest with a solid roundhouse punch, and then hooked her up for a DDT.

Tapestry managed to oppose the move by delivering a couple of knees to Carter’s stomach, and thereafter she locked Ace into a wristclutch, possibly ready for another of the three IFCs.

Carter moved violently to break free, but he was still rammed into the mat as Tapestry tripped him forward into a variation a Judo throw. Tapestry then jockeyed above to her legs and applied an unbearable leglock, twisting the joint of Carter as strenuously as possible. On this occasion, Ace managed to articulate a negative response to relinquish to the official. “La, di la, di la, di dahhh…” sang Tapestry eerily as she increased strain on the clutch. Carter managed to grab Tapestry’s shin, and reversed the hold into an ankle lock in his favour.

Tapestry, rather than screaming in agony or pounding the mat… simply stared into space.

Soon, she sat up and gets a grip of Carter’s wounded knee. Eventually, Ace released the hold and rolled onto his stomach. Tapestry grabbed his leg, brought it up, and delivered a high kick to the knee joint… causing Carter to yelp out.

Carter rolled over onto his back, clutching his knee… obviously a fresh injury there. Tapestry bent over, and yanked his hands away from his knee… exposing the joint for three more toe kicks and a spinning stomp to the kneecap.

Tapestry then stepped back, and allowed Carter to return to his fighting stance… although he was still relatively hunched, due to the injury to his knee. He hissed as he tottered around the ring, trying to walk off the nasty blows to the joint. Then… Ace was back on the charge.

He leapfrogged over Tapestry’s Yakuza kick with stunning agility, but Tapestry brought Ace down from behind with a spinning back torso kick. Tapestry stomped away at Carter’s leg once more, until the referee pulled her away and laid the count on Ace.

A four count later, and Ace was back in it. However… it wouldn’t last very long, as a high heel kick reminiscent of Low Ki knocked Ace back down.

Carter got to his knees and stopped Tapestry from inflicting any further damage with a leg hold. Tapestry broke the hold quickly but took an elbow to the knee and an uppercut to the jaw for her efforts. Carter then comes back by locking his arms around Tapestry’s powerful legs, and throwing her back down with a Spinebuster that would make Faarooq proud. In fact, it’d make him envious, because Faarooq’s spinebusters are shit.

Then, grabbing a clump of Tapestry flowing black hair, Carter brought Tapestry to her feet…

And slapped her across her face.

“I will NOT be beaten by a BITCH like YOU.”

The smack echoes through the arena and sends Tapestry down to the mat. A leg drop across the throat later, and Tapestry is out for the count…

1!

2!

3!

4!

5!

6!

7!

8… but Tapestry crawled to her feet just prior to ten. Carter stood poised, and then attempted the move that he classed as one of his favourites… the piledriver. After setting Tapestry up in the standing headscissors position and making many a derogative remark about her proximity to his genitals, Carter prepared to strike her head into the mat… only to have both of his legs taken out from beneath him.

Tapestry then rained down rights and lefts and soon after, Carter began pummelling her back. Choking Ace with both hands, Tapestry tried to garner a submission win to no avail.

Tapestry then released the hold as quickly as she had applied it, and stood in the corner of the cage as Carter recovered.

Ace stood back up, and the pair charged at one another like fearless warriors. They quickly developed a heated scuffle, battling for supremacy of a headlock.

Tapestry discus punched Carter in the face and grabbed two handfuls of his deep red hair, only to have two handfuls or her own hair locked in Crater’s grasp. The pair struggled to take eachother down, but eventually Carter was dominant… pounding Tapestry’s head into the mat to a chorus of boos.

Carter rose, and took a step away from Tapestry… before charging at her with a Buzzsaw ki…

Blocked, as Tapestry forward rolled out of the way. Ace went for a lariat on the Lady Killer, but Tapestry ducked and dropped into the splits behind her opponent…

LOW BLOW.

Carter coughed up his guts in agony, and leaned against the edge of the cage for stability…

A bad place to be when you’re fighting Tapestry.

She hopped onto his thigh, she hopped onto his shoulder, she brought the foot up…

But Ace caught the striking foot, meaning that the Invinctus Fier Capedorium II was not executed. Tapestry’s alternate leg dropped back onto the canvas, as Ace held the other leg high above her own head… forcing her to do a mid-air splits. Tapestry wasn’t going to stay in that bawdy position for long however… leaping up and delivering a POWERFUL enziguri to Carter’s face.

Carter slumped back over the cage, Tapestry was only moments away from the Ring-Out win… she had to think fast.

She attempted a downwards palm strike to finish him off… but Ace caught the hand. He pulled her head under his arm, and leapt up onto the rim, taking her with him over the side…

With a Tornado DDT!

Carter clutched onto the rim as Tapestry fell to the outside… the fans erupted in boos as Carter had claimed the first win for his tribe.

1-0

Blinding lights raced by, rocking the car violently as she traveled on. With one hand swerving the wheel and the other tightened on a beer can, Nicole Carson drove through a reckless world. Thousands of pounds of sheer metal shot by like bullets. She spun the wheel in circles, while other frantic drivers broke out of line to save themselves and their passengers.

“Shadow on the Sun” by Audioslave played in the car as she went on a wild ride in the starless night, one that could very well be her last.

Once upon the time I was of the mind
To lay your burden down
And leave you where you stood
And you believed I could

A car horn blared past following twin lights in her blindness. She rested the beer down, death gripped the steering wheel, and slammed down the gas.

You’d seen it done before
I could read your thoughts
Tell you what you saw
And never say a word
Now all that is gone
Over with and done - never to return

People who wanted to share the holidays with friends or family, now found themselves on a collision course with the car and there was only one way to save them, swerve off the road and pray to God that they didn’t hit a thing.

Carson leaned back, sweat oozing from her body and tears streaming from her eyes. The bitter taste flowed into her mouth and she spat it out onto the windshield. She eyed the tipped over beer and tried desperately to drink the contents, but there was none, so instead she licked the remains off her fingers. All the while, tragedies followed in her path.

Staring at the loss
Looking for a cause
And never really sure
Nothing but a hole
To live without a soul
And nothing to be learned

Sparks hurled into the air as she struck a barrier on the highway. The side was being torn apart like the wheels were, slowly but surely they were sending her spiraling to her doom.

Lifeless eyes watched through round, gaping holes as an enormous chunk shred off and tumbled dangerously into the air. It flipped past her headlights like a razor blade, skimming across the ground to wherever it happened to go.

I can tell you why
People go insane
I can show you how
You could do the same
I can tell you why
The end will never come
I can tell you I’m
A shadow on the sun

And this all came together perfectly.

The past resembled the future. The same mistake repeated itself.

An ear shattering pop was heard and soon Carson was taken out of control. The car’s tire, a cheap material that only was used for profit, couldn’t take the punishment and now she was spiraling off the road, being steered into the oncoming lane. Small moments were enough for her to realize she was going 80 miles per hour, and it was likely that she’d fly through the windshield, in just a matter of seconds.

The headlights cut through the darkness but there was nothing seen, except for the dense fog covering the road. She swerved the steering wheel but it was no use, this was her doom.

She had to watch the events leading up to her death, possibly the death of innocent passengers in the car, who hadn’t asked for any of this for the holidays.

A blinding light overcame the car, and for a moment she thought it was heaven saving her, but only seconds later did she realize; this was another car.

Death filled her eyes.

People going through glass, people bleeding, people slamming heads, in a violent whirl that soon went out.

Because she too, was taken into it.

Unsurprisingly, the current kingpin Exxa Decimal and former FWO franchise Ruben Ross have grabbed all of the headlines during the course of The Stranglehold’s short but sweet and successful spell in the corporation so far.

Things haven’t been differently in The Zone either. The group, made up of competitors who used to work for the underworld organization known as The Fighting Zone, has made an instant impact and already they’ve built a rapport with The Asylum’s contingent of supporters, but still The Stranglehold undeniably rule the roost.

Although Keegan Carrahar, a two-time titleholder of The Fighting Zone trophy, has endeared himself to thousands of fans as a likeable person it cannot be overlooked that the twenty-six-year old has endured two devastating defeats at the hands of Television Champion Providence and then fellow newcomer Dez Aragon last week.

Based on principles and passion for the sport, Jim Garvin is the ideal Stranglehold member in every way.

From the day he was born, Garvin was destined to wrestle. It was fate you could say. His Father had been an independent worker while his Uncle Ron was a mid-carder in the WWF in the eighties. The Garvin family trade is certainly Wrestling and they all specialised in the art of the game, mastering the elementary aspects and carrying them out to perfection. He’d made his debut at 16 and is now already a young veteran - at the age of just 23 - having competed in some of the outstanding organizations in the industry. He certainly isn’t a pushover.

Meanwhile, Carrahar has made his life as a Fighter, having started as a seventeen-year-old getting into the world of organised crime, in Italy no less, and has broken bones on two continents.

Both grafters, also extremely charismatic, define what they stand for and this evening have the opportunity to make a difference. Garvin can extend The Stranglehold’s advantage to 2-0 and make it an uphill struggle for the opposition or The Yardstick can make it a case of ‘third time lucky’ and bring things back to level terms, albeit briefly. This is a make-or-break battle.

They dare not lose.

The long silence is soon ended as the familiar phrase of ‘United By Violence, Divided By Death’ echoes around the arena. The fanatics are unsure of who will be joining them momentarily, but whoever it is would get backed all of the way anyway.

“Woke up This Morning” the theme of hit TV Series The Sopranos graces the airwaves and many of the diehards stand up upon hearing it in appreciation not only for Keegan, but what he and his comrades are trying to do. A minute passes before he emerges to a warm reception from the capacity crowd who are firmly behind particularly after the previous result in this ‘Best of 5’ programme.

As he walks down the ramp, followed by his Lawyer and loyal acquaintance Warwick Hunt, he starts to unbutton his shirt, obviously eager to get this encounter started as soon as possible, and upon entering the steel structure he is now in his ‘working gear’ and quickly urges the audience to get behind him and they gladly oblige.

Contrastingly, Garvin’s theme ‘Sober,’(which doesn’t apply to Keegan Carrahar) can barely be heard, not that it bothers him, and he walks out to a hostile reception in hostile territory, but what’s new? Sporting yellow tights with a multi-coloured pattern on the left side makes Carrahar chuckle: “Where the fuck did you get them? Oxfam? Fuck’s sake.”

Jeff doesn’t listen to him and instead, like the consummate professional he is, walks into the cell, which does put him at a distinct disadvantage, and audaciously looks for accolades and praise from the blood-baying bona fide Fighting fans who hiss at him for his bare-faced cheek.

Keegan, merely wearing black shorts and trainers, looks at his rival with absolute contempt but his focus is briefly disturbed as he notices the official is about to lock the door.

“Hey. Leave that open.”

“I’m sorry sir, but…”

“Don’t give me any shit son. Just do it…”

His hesitance has already gave The Garvinator an early opportunity to assume the lead and he gratefully accepts by delivering a delightful Dropkick to the back of the Englishman’s head, which in turn receives more advantage as he falls into the referee and they’re left in a heap on the floor.

‘The Arrogant Asshole’ lives up to one of his many monikers by revelling in the damage his Dropkick has done and he infuriates the thousands in attendance by pointing at the Newcastle native and laughing, circa Brian Christopher 1997.

After thirty seconds or so, Keegan lifts himself up, but already the official is in a bad way and he’s clearly taken a terrible tumble underneath the 282-pound frame of the Fighter though this doesn’t bother ‘The Saviour of Wrestling’ who could live up to that tag to an extent if he were to secure a scalp here and he takes a step to making that earlier than maybe everyone anticipated by hauling his opponent up and dropping him with a devastating DDT.

Chris Universal and company are probably enjoying this backstage as their associate embarks on a series of Star jumps, but they’re the only ones in the arena who are as the 21W Submission Champion is subjected to some serious abuse from the angry Asylum aficionados on the outside of mesh, some of which need to be restrained by security, and as a result he taunts them even more as they’re powerless to prevent this.

Keegan isn’t though and he finally ‘pulls his finger out’ and grabs Garvin from behind and lands a couple of brutal blows to the back of the head, just as he was caught earlier, before taking the Action! employee to the ground with a well-executed Russian Legsweep.

They now have something to shout about as Carrahar resorts to good old-fashioned fists following the Wrestling move to blemish and bruise the Tennessee Technician’s face.

With his energy, eagerness and enthusiasm restored, Keegan quickly helps Jeff up to his feet with the intention of knocking him back down again and he does so with a rigid right hand to the forehead, which forces the Geordie to shake his hand vigorously and violently after apparently inflicting some sort of damage on himself in the process.

That’s quickly erased though as he again takes too long to make up his mind and The Original traps him in a Drop Toehold, which causes Keegan to lose his balance, and that’s successfully supplemented by the application of a Waistlock as the Brit gets back to his vertical base but that’s soon quashed as Garvin lands a gorgeous German Suplex, then a second, then a third and an emphatic fourth that gives his larger adversary a serious headache - figuratively and literally.

This has also sapped some of the sound strategist’s strength and he applies a Side Headlock. You sense that as he has endurance in abundance, as has Keegan who completed a 60-minute clash with Pat Walsh in his Fighting Zone days, that this could be a long one.

Just as it seems that the English Exocet is about to escape the hold, Garvin ushers in a thumb to the eye and as he attends to that, it allows Jeff in again to plant The Zone affiliate with a beautiful Bulldog. It might not last that long after all.

And then it begins. As if on cue, the aggressor shows shades of Bret Hart by depicting a certain body part and gradually weakening it. It was usually the leg in Bret’s case and with Keegan, all six feet five inches of him out on the mat, The Original opts to follow The Hitman’s trend.

Quicker than you can say ‘Twat’ and he is on the leg like an itch inflicting six or seven stiff kicks to the point of the knee, each one with more force than the preceding effort, and by the time the excruciating instance has ended, Keegan is in all kinds of trouble - as if he wasn’t to begin with.

But if anything is certain to sober him up, this is it and with the loud-mouthed lout on his back and the official beginning to recover, Garvin treats everyone to one of his typical traits by unveiling what he calls ‘Politically Correct’ or a low blow to you or me. Either way it’s cheap…

but perfectly legal.

At this point, Keegan finds himself in yet another precarious predicament and his cause isn’t exactly helped when the Tap Out titleholder slaps on a Figure Four Leglock, which as I’m sure Carrahar will tell you now, does hurt.

Like Ric Flair, Jeff urges the official to ask Carrahar if he feels like surrendering, an unlikely outcome, and further antagonizing his opposite number with several slaps to the face and judging by the Geordie’s expression, he’s ready to explode.

First of all, he has to get out of this and with the way it’s locked on it’s certainly easier said than done.

The referee keeps asking Keegan if he would like to submit and on every occasion, so he doesn’t give him any ideas of stopping the scrap, he assertively shouts ‘NO’ so everyone can hear him, rather like a pregnant woman in labour.

Eventually, after more than two minutes of torture, the former Fighting Zone luminary, also of DWF fame for as long as Boris Becker’s sexual prowess, uses sheer strength in his long legs and rather than use the standard reversal, upon freeing his legs, he lands a left boot right to the forehead of Garvin, hence giving himself time to regroup.

Jeff ensures it isn’t that long and is back up quickly and just as rapidly back on the offence, attacking the Prince of Palermo’s pins with nothing but callous kicks to the legs, the left one in particular, and he is soon on the deck and flat on his back again - rather like a pregnant woman in labour.

To test the water, excuse the pun, the relentless student of Wrestling decides that another submission hold is appropriate and this time it’s something that surpasses the Figure Four - the Sharpshooter.

It’s amazing how easy he is able to turn the twenty-six-year-old ex-Mafia member over, whether it’s to do with Garvin’s flawless offence or Carrahar’s consumption of alcohol or a combination of the both is arguable, but one thing isn’t: Jeff Garvin is turning what is meant to be a tough task into a walk in the park and is in a superb situation with the Sharpshooter locked on and all of this with not even ten minutes gone.

As the nephew of ‘Rugged’ Ronny Garvin, currently in charge of a lesson in how to Wrestle, keeps applying more and more pressure, the more agony that is being placed on the ‘Underworld Untouchable’ and the less it looks likely that he can muster up enough to prevent The Stranglehold from maintaining their 100% record and making it two out of two.

In the mind of the recipient of this painful manoeuvre the only way to address and overcome it is full-on and in another admirable display of determination, after managing to elevate himself into a Press-up position with a load of 242 lbs on his back, he is then able to get Garvin off him by using the immense power stored in his legs, despite having some of that drained from Jeff’s elementary but efficient onslaught in the early going. This one isn’t over yet though.

Keegan’s hurting, that’s obvious as he struggles to get his feet while the official makes the first count of the encounter, but it’s promptly terminated as Jeff, still relatively unscathed in spite of experiencing some solid shots before, gets up at 3 and again targets the injured limb but on this occasion he isn’t allowed the freedom to cause anymore pain at the Pay-Per-View of the same name, well not for the time being, as Carrahar, whilst on the floor, ushers in a boot to the midsection that bides him some time to get up, which he does, and from there he brings the crowd, who for most of the match have been silenced, back into the equation by lifting ‘Wrestling Personified’ into a Vertical Suplex and effortlessly holding him up there for what seemed to be an eternity, well for Garvin anyway, similar to his late compatriot Davey Boy Smith, but with a twist as he brought him down face-first, meaning a modified Facebuster of sorts.

Maybe there was hope yet for The Yardstick and his thousands of supporters, well if there wasn’t nobody was telling them, and he now seemed to have real purpose as he brought Jeffrey back up for more, this time in the shape of a couple of rib-tickling knees and two power-packed punches that bust, maybe even broken, his rival’s nose.

Still, he hadn’t knocked The Saviour of Wrestling down to the mat yet, but a third brutal blow to the nose ensured that he was not only introduced to the floor but a certain trip to the hospital as well.

This was turning out to be a fierce and furious fight that was beginning to attain momentum and Carrahar added to this by turning it up a notch, reducing the pace again though in the process, as he gripped Garvin’s pins and negotiated a painful move of his own - The Texas Cloverleaf.

And the fans loved it. Ordinarily, they wouldn’t but many of them were standing as they watched Keegan, who’d already been written off, return the favour and terrorize Jeff with a move that belonged to his art, his field and his profession. It was an insult to say the least.

But you reap what you sow as the old saying goes.

For all of the physical pain Garvin was in it still couldn’t compare to the embarrassment he was currently undergoing. Dean Malenko had taught him this move and surely he would be seething at this particular point.

However, Jeff surprised everyone when he was able to turn the tables. Taking a page from his opponent’s textbook, he managed to raise a foot into Keegan’s ribcage, which staggers Special K somewhat, before taking his legs from underneath him and setting him up for a Catapult into the mesh.

Using a vast amount of energy left in his anatomy, and there’s a lot left, he completes the Catapult, prompting the former Fighting Zone franchise player to meet the unforgiving wire, face-first, with considerable force that seems to worry the observers, but even more concerning is when Jeff, ever the opportunist, assists the Geordie Genius in hitting the ground harder than he wanted to do with a masterful Chop Block.

With Carrahar writhing around in agony, Warwick is certainly anxious but also clueless as to what he can do. Unlike LLB, he’s only competent in the Courtroom, and he can only cringe as a clearly riled ‘Garvinator’ demonstrates how you apply the Texas Cloverleaf properly.

It’s locked on in such a way that Malenko could only admire. Keegan’s been both fortunate and fantastic in quashing the Figure Four and then the Sharpshooter, but it appears to be ‘third time unlucky’ with the submission manoeuvres as an escape route looks unlikely on this occasion.

But his blood-baying backers, eager to see him maim Jeff Garvin so much, begin a slow but steady rhythm of clapping in order to egg him on and perhaps save this series.

Thus far, there have been few counts by the official, as the participants have preferred to keep the action moving or slow it down by executing these excruciating holds, most of which have been deployed by the Host of Wrestling 101.

Speaking of which…

The Saviour of Wrestling realises that though Carrahar probably cannot get out of this one, he will not give in to it either and it may take a while for him to pass out, thus he decides to cash in on the damage and relinquish the hold, if only to dish out more punishment given The Yardstick’s stationary stance.

He then tells his rival to get up and this angers the audience even more, as the official commences a count. At six, for some reason unbeknownst to us, The Original intervenes and picks the Prince of Palermo up off the mat and sports a smug smile, maybe suggesting that he feels that this is too easy or the end is imminent.

Holding the exhausted European up, Garvin grins and then kicks Carrahar to the gut, the umpteenth time that this has happened, before completing the World Class Cutter in a world-class manner. Thereafter, he retreats to a neutral corner, content with his work and allows the official to confirm what now seems to be an inevitable scalp for The Stranglehold.

Carrahar has other ideas though and without any help from his foe in this fight starts to stir as the referee reaches six. The leader of the RTW movement is a little bit bemused, but doesn’t allow it to affect him too much, and as Keegan, to the delight of the Asylum supporters, gets back to his feet Jeff is waiting and from the blindside he nails the Newcastle native with a shot to the kidney, which in turn leads to another Irish Whip as the Fighter’s face meets the mesh once again and that ultimately paves the way for ‘The Garvin Bomb,’ which stuns everyone. It’s getting grimmer by the minute for the Geordie.

And on that note, Carrahar, who is crawling and taken a lot of abuse in the aftermath of downing a lot of booze beforehand, brings up his Christmas dinner before everyone’s eyes.

Jeff Garvin cannot believe it, but rather than be disturbed by the instance like most people would be, he rubs it in, literally, as he puts Messrs. Carrahar’s face in his own vomit.

Admittedly, this is right down the average Asylum fan’s street and they’ve seen far worse than this, but what remains to be seen is how the so-called Special K, who has been a major disappointment in his month tenure so far, reacts to being brought face-to-face with the food he digested earlier on.

Garvin then joins Keegan on the ground and begins a bombardment of Headbutts to the gut, maybe sensing that this is another weak spot to exploit, but by doing this he exposes himself to a counter attack that the millionaire, who despite being victimised for the majority of this match, musters up enough strength to halt Garvin’s momentum by sitting up and negotiating a Headbutt of his own, but to the face of the Arrogant Asshole and not the midriff.

This bides the Brit some time, some much needed time, and the referee begins a count regarding both men. Unsurprisingly, on four, the aggressor regains a vertical standing and tries to shake off that minor blip, but Keegan is also up.

Jeff, for some inexplicable reason, tries to negotiate a Tie-up, which baffles Carrahar, but he doesn’t hesitate to punish this elementary error in this anything-goes affair as he knocks The Garvinator down to the ground with another hellacious Headbutt and the crowd get to have a laugh at the major mistake on the behalf of ‘Wrestling Personified.’

Carrahar looks at the audience and holds his hands up in the way a person would in an apologetic manner, but he certainly isn’t sorry for turning this tie on its head and temporarily giving people hope that this isn’t a lost cause, but rather than immediately make the most of this breakthrough, he seems to want a breather and goes over to the cage door.

“Warwick.”

Hunt comes to greet him, but Carrahar, who is breathing very heavily punches his chest in order to get the words out: “Go back… go backstage and get some stuff… weapons… for me and… and bring them out here as soon… as you can. Make sure you bring a bottle.”

“Don’t you think you’ve had enough?”

“Yes. Precisely. So… so do as I say and f… fucking go and get me one.”

His Lawyer-cum-Manager is unsure what he means by the remark, presumably everything will come to surface later on providing The Zone member can hang on, and Warwick obliges with his request. He’ll do anything to get his ally out of this mess at the moment and, after all, Keegan knows best - or so we are led to believe.

At this point, Garvin is back on his feet, but is still a bit shaky and Keegan hits him, from behind, very harshly to the back of the neck twice prior to following in the Walking Wrestling Move Machine’s footsteps and, literally, sweeping the Original off his feet, not in a romantic context though, and Catapulting the Arrogant Asshole into the steel structure, which the fans eat up with enormous pleasure.

Just like The Garvinator, The Geordie Genius isn’t prepared to allow his ‘mate’ any time to rest at all and Jeff, who is still standing, isn’t much longer as Keegan utilises another Russian Legsweep. His original version seems to have been a lifetime ago.

Nonetheless, the lad who was originally born in the North East of England, is relentless and maintains control over The Saviour of Wrestling even after riling him with the Russian Legsweep before finally letting go, but not until he’s pulled off a sublime Swinging Neckbreaker to round off a crucial combination for Carrahar, one that could lead to a comeback, not only for him but for his team-mates too.

A two hundred and eighty two pound spectacular splash, well by his standards anyway, ruptures Garvin’s ribs and deprives him of a lot of oxygen, something that he could do with right now.

As ‘The Mayor of Mayhem’ stands in the cell, he looks to the outside. Maybe he could win out by the Ring Out rule, but Carrahar doesn’t want that. Yes, he is in dire need of a victory, but for someone who used to specialize in rendering his opponents unconscious, he needs it to be a knockout to rebuild any kind of credibility, confidence and momentum. This bout means as much to him as much personally as it does to his faction and fans.

Therefore, rather foolishly, he opts to go back to the well and try to damage The Original internally even more with another Splash, but it’s too predictable and predictably, at the last minute as well, the grounded Garvin raises his legs to warrant a lousy landing for the self-proclaimed ‘Latino Lovelies Lord.’

Seemingly, The Tennessee Technician cannot be stopped and in spite of what now appears to be a setback, the Wrestler regains power over proceedings and prohibits the referee from counting, well just yet, and he brushes him aside before delivering three well-placed kicks to Keegan’s kidney, quashing the valiant efforts of the twenty-six-year-old to try and get up even though his brief adrenaline rush was abruptly ended easily but effectively and emphatically.

Garvin, for the better part, has been in command of this contest but even he must accept that now is the time to end it, while he has the chance. Granted, Keegan’s never been permitted enough time to assemble any kind of offence for a significant stint of time, but there is a hint that he still has enough in the tank, presently speaking, to cause The Garvinator problems if the Memphis Marvel doesn’t put him away now when he has a wonderful chance to do so.

Once again, he illustrates the unbelievable endurance he’s been blessed with as he picks up ‘The Prince,’ quite effortlessly too and Carrahar’s only a stone or so shy of the three hundred pounds mark, and dumping him like a piece of garbage with a fabulous Fallaway Slam.

The next move is almost nonsensical. ‘Asking for it’ is probably the best way to convey it or maybe ‘Fucking stupid’ is more frank.

Anyway, to the chagrin of Garvin and amusement of everyone else, he attempts a Splash, just as his adversary did earlier, and Keegan, instead of using his legs to thwart the 23-year-old, has the presence of mind to move, at the last minute to boot, leaving The Garvinator to injure his ribs even more and also taste the mat, which as I’m sure Garvin would tell you, isn’t quite as appealing as a Bolognese Pizza, irrelevant of whether you’re vegetarian or just don’t like it.

Sorry about that distraction. Needless to say ladies and gentlemen, the pair are both horizontal and probably considering their next move in what could be compared to a game of Chess in terms of strategy though maybe not physically, and as the official approaches eight, which is on the brink of danger and also suggesting that we might be only one big-time move away from finally determining a winner in this, the second instalment of a five-part one-off.

Jeff just edges out Keegan in returning to an upright position, which could insinuate that this is now taking its toll on the aggressor as well, and he grabs Carrahar and is apparently poised to make the marks miserable with what looks to be a Belly-to-Belly attempt.

He hasn’t really employed many variations, which is startling as he puts Tazz to shame in the Suplex stakes, but that could be meaningless if he carries this one out. The result of this spot could effectively end it.

Whether it’s a Belly-to-Belly or not, we don’t know as the brave Briton blocks it and then breaks it before burying a boot deep into the lower abdomen of his opponent and, yes you’ve guessed it, rattling The Original with a brilliant Belly-to-Belly Suplex of his own.

This technical tie could be deemed as one based on one-upmanship, tit-for-tat too, as they’ve utilized the same spots and also used manoeuvres that the other has been unable to, for one reason or another, perform. Of course, it could be considered as a mere coincidence.

Ironically, as his acquaintance has just thrown another twist in this tale of technical Wrestling and brief glimpses of brawling, Warwick Hunt’s return to the battlefield gets everyone off their feet. Accompanied by a couple of Security members, the camp Legal Worker has the infamous bottle of Newcastle Brown Ale in his left hand and a couple of dishes, still a little bit dirty from their late Christmas lunch, while his two assistants carry the table, unfortunately without the cutlery except for one fork and that could be interesting, towards the dangerous domain. As Jim Ross may say, “Business is about to pick up.”

The referee, who started a slow count and is now up to four is ordered to stop by the Englishman, obviously desperate to terminate the affair in a particular way or just to attain some payback for the amount of anguish, which may have surprised a lot of people, he has taken at the hands of Garvin in HIS environment. God knows what could have happened if the confrontation had been conducted in a Wrestling ring.

Carrahar passed through the open door to consult Warwick: “Jesus, I didn’t expect you to get the table. Where did you meet these two? On the Chippendales World Tour?”

The Security members, still out in the main area for unknown reason, look at one another unsure of what the Gangster-Cum-Fighter is trying to imply.

“I can take it back if you want Keegan. I just thought you’d want it. That’s all.”

“Don’t be fucking silly. Leave it here. In fact, get your boyfriends to bring the fucker in.”

While Carrahar was in the heat of discussion and the Security Workers heard his message loud and clear and indeed started to take the table into the actual battlefield, Hunt noticed that Garvin was up and rapidly approaching his comrade: “Keegan, look out.”

But it was too late. Having procured a steel chair from nearby, the Englishman was rocked by an artillery-assisted blow to the back, still it couldn’t take him off his feet, but he then escorts him off his feet and is about to plant him with a Bodyslam onto the ramp, which would hurt enough as it is, but instead, while in mid-air, converts it into a Reverse DDT, very similar to The Yardstick’s patented move ‘The Underworld Untouchable, forcing the Englishman’s equilibrium to be hit for six upon hitting his head off the rock-solid steel ramp and extracting a collective chorus of ‘Holy Fuck’ from the capacity crowd too, despite their absolute contempt for him and his principles.

Rather than let the referee clarify that The Stranglehold are now two-nothing up, he ignores him, which both of them have done for the entirety of this encounter, and then puts on a Dragon Sleeper. He might be looking for a submission, which isn’t too smart after knocking someone out, or he could be waiting for the official to stop the scrap and that is certainly possible at this point with Keegan showing no signs of recovering just yet, nor will he if Garvin maintains the Dragon Sleeper.

Strangely enough, obviously incensed and on the verge of psychotic, Jeff is expending himself in trying to choke the life out of Carrahar and is struggling to speak through his account of the hold: “Now… Now you see. The Dragon Sleeper is a basic move isn’t it Keegan? It’s like putting a headlock on someone while they’re sitting down and in… position for… a Reverse Chinlock but bending them back… and… and… applying PRESSURE on their neck and… throat. Once you’ve got it… right… like I have here… all you have to do is sit back and CHOKE THE LIFE out of your opponent.”

The vague account of how to deploy a simple submission move synonymous with Dan Severn has had an effect on Hunt, not known for his physical prowess, but so concerned for his colleague that he breaks the move up and drives the masses wild with a kick to the face of ‘Wrestling Personified.’

Jeff doesn’t take it too well and releases the hold in order to address the interfering party, who now retreats and regrets his moment of madness, but there’s no point in reasoning with the Old School student who is now on the prowl for more crimson having withdrawn some claret from Carrahar over the course of this clash.

Warwick is uncomfortable and that’s understandable. As a middle-aged man with less athletic ability than a baby Elephant against an angry first-rate Wrestler, his chances of remaining unscathed are slim. Even the duo who helped him bring the table out attack Garvin from behind, but he quickly dispatches of them with two stiff Clotheslines and then reverts his cold stare back to Warwick, who then makes a dash for it.

Ultimately, at the top of the ramp, Hunt falls over and Garvin catches up with him, thumping him right in the nose, which leads to heavy bleeding on Hunt’s behalf.

This has clearly got out of hand, as the official neglects to count Carrahar out and instead checks on him. Although he is still stationary, the sound of coughing means he’s conscious and when asked if he’s okay to continue he delivers a firm reply: “For fuck’s sake, what kind of a question is that? Weeaye. I’m going to fucking maim the maggot when I get up.”

While he continues to cough very violently, Garvin, to the amazement of anyone watching this event, nails the Lawyer with The Original Slam, perhaps a signal of intent from The Arrogant Asshole? Probably.

As Jeff, proud of what he’s just done, returns to finally wrap this one up, he is oblivious to the fact that Special K has just seen what has happened and he is absolutely seething. The action is about to get more intense…

And with The Garvinator now under ten yards away from The Yardstick, he gets the shock of his life when The Geordie, from out of nowhere, sprints towards him and unleashes a scintillating Spear that takes all of the air that The Saviour of Wrestling may have had left in his anatomy right out of him.

Now near the bottom of the steel entranceway, Carrahar picks his opposition up and propels him into the outside of the cell, not once, twice, three or even four times, but on five occasions and then kicks him, all directed at the face, the rest of the way back to the cell and through the door.

This is a side of the Englishman that hasn’t been seen since he was in Italy, let alone The Asylum and it’s one that Asylum fans everywhere welcome, even though Garvin doesn’t as it’s now his turn to plead for mercy.

Still it’s nothing a low blow cannot halt, then again that can stop anything, and an outstretched leg does just that as the Geordie checks to see if his gonads are still intact.

A chorus of boos cannot stop the grinning Garvin from yet again taking the lead in this seesaw bout and he looks at the table, no doubt with visions of violence dancing in his mind.

‘Wrestling Personified’ then puts Keegan’s head between his legs, no not for oral, but what could be a Pedigree, Piledriver or Powerbomb. It doesn’t matter if it’s A, B or C because if he connects with any of the three through the table it’ll be a case of Au Revoir for the Englishman.

He gets him, but only halfway as Keegan, understandably, refuses to comply with the Wrestler’s wishes. Jeff tries again, but this time cannot even get him off his feet.

In the end, power prevails and Carrahar elevates The Saviour of Wrestling into the air but rather than executing the expected Backbody Drop, he brings him back down to the mat, in the aforementioned vomit too, with a sensational Spinebuster as the crowd goes crazy.

They’re all roaring him on, encouraging and urging him to bring The Zone back to one-all right now and the decibel level increases as he punches the air and screams: “COME ON!” He then unveils a Knuckleduster from his shorts, which means that his aptly-named (?) Five Knuckle Shuffle may not be too far off the horizon.

The ex-Mafia member gazes to the outside of the cell and obtains one of the dishes that was used for his pre-match meal and anticipates Garvin’s return to a vertical stance, even though the official is up to seven… and counting.

That’s soon terminated as he threatens to ‘kick the fuck out him if he doesn’t shut the fuck up.’ Honestly, you wouldn’t think they wanted to win it, but believe me, they do. They just want to do it in a certain way and they’re intent on accomplishing exactly that.

Eventually, The Garvinator is back up and almost ready to have his brains bashed but being an intelligent individual has its advantages, and he definitely wants to preserve that and as he sees Special K raise the item above his head, he ushers in an American Football/Rugby tackle of his own that sends Keegan, and the potential weapon, down, where he cannot hurt The Stranglehold member.

He hauls his opponent up and attempts to whip him into the mesh, but Keegan somehow reverses it and propels the former 21W Softcore Champion into the steel structure with phenomenal force. Thereafter, it’s the turn of the former two-time titleholder of The Fighting Zone trophy to try and terminate the tie and he, just as Jeff tried merely a few minutes ago, puts him in position for a Powerbomb.

Unlike The Original, he hits it, but maintains the move and is successful with a second one, but this seemingly isn’t over and Carrahar, with Garvin still in his grasp, slowly moves over towards the table, looking to make the third tumble a traumatic one.

Thankfully, for Garvin, who is grimacing, shows tremendous resolve in not only gutting it out but to escape the precarious predicament by turning it into a positive via a dazzling Headscissors.

From there, he begins a barrage of blows to the Fighter’s face, which repays the treatment he suffered earlier, but after the fifth the powerful punches turn into soft slaps that are blatantly mocking the entire industry and art that Keegan represents.

In sheer rage, he kicks Jeff off him, so that his back strikes the steel, but as Carrahar sits up, The Original improvises and rapidly recovers from any harm that may have been done to his spine to deliver a delectable and devastating Dropkick right to the chops.

People are silent, stunned and sense that this one could all be over now. After all, following approximately three quarters of an hour of action that has been back and forth, more so recently, and Garvin turning out a great and gutsy performance that he is so close to victory, which Keegan would have claimed had he been able to land the elusive Powerbomb through a table.

Jeff looks confident and this is justified as he, even after a gruelling battle, gets the Geordie up into the air with ease and is about to execute the Original Slam…

But at the last second, typically, Keegan uses another one of his multiple lives and gets out of the metaphorical back door.

In the two ties so far, two that has resulted in Carrahar getting his clock cleaned, he has missed with two Roundhouse Punch attempts…

Not tonight though.

As Garvin turns round, Keegan, with a knuckleduster on his right hand, connects with a five-star Five Knuckle Shuffle, right to the jaw.

Everyone is in ecstasy, but it’s not enough for the Englishman, not yet, as he inadvertently spots what The Saviour of Wrestling has done to his comrade Warwick at the top of the ramp.

He’s in two minds as whether or not to stop inside the cell or go and check on his fallen friend. A win or his mate? Both.

With his face dripping of sweat and practically red with anger, he clenches his fists and drags the highly-rated Wrestler, still only 23 remember, up by his neck and finally executes what would have been the third Powerbomb through the aforementioned table. You know what they say. Better late than never.

Through fatigue, he falls down. But he’s soon back on his feet and stares at the official: “Fucking count the cunt out then.”

“Finally,” the referee mutters under his breath, just enough so ‘The Height of Humanity’ cannot hear him.

He trots off leaving Jeff Garvin, who dominated very early on, a mess. No remorse though, but he’s a Fighter and he’s injured, not just a Wrestler, but also a man who has hurt his friend.

The official finally reaches ten prompting a massive cheer from The Asylum ranks. All that matters to them is that they’re back on this because two-nil would have been probably fatal.

And what about the loser?

Well after forty-odd minutes of amazing energy, remarkable resilience and showing maturity beyond his twenty-three years as well as dominating his larger and older opponent all Jeff Garvin has to show is a broken nose, the loss of a lot of blood and an injured neck.

All in a night’s work for Joe Campbell’s company.

Christmas - the season of good will to all men, women and even children and goats. Splink were a gang of brutal, bloodthirsty fighters but that doesn’t mean they don’t have a heart.

This Christmas they wanted to give something back to the world, a world they had taken so much from.

Slapnutz sips IRN-BRU from a polystyrene cup before making his speech “If you want to do something charitable at Christmas then the usual rule is to give to those not as fortunate as yourself, for those whom Christmas is the worst part of the year”.

“We’re not giving fuck all to Shop Workers,” shouts TMM back to Slapnutz.

Slapnutz shakes his head. “No, no, no, no, no. I agree that shop workers don’t need our charity, but think of those poor people who have spent Christmas as miserable specimens.

Sad people with ‘T’ for Tosspot printed on their head. Those people who have led their life by the lies of a 2-cent carneys. Those people who are the real victims of our brutal actions, the physical injuries we cause to our opponents can heel over time but mental injuries incurred by these people could last a lifetime. The people Splink, with a little help from the rest of the zone, have made miserable. The same people who….”

TMM interrupts “You’re talking about the tramps from last week yeah?”

“No” replies Slapnutz.

TMM has another go, “Gypos?”

“Nope”

TMM takes another stab, “Keith Abela-Wadge?”

Slapnutz shakes his head at TMM and lip-syncs the word ‘no’. TMM goes to say something else but before any noises can leave his mouth Slapnutz reveals the answer.

“Wrestling Fans, we’ve made Christmas a misery for your regular fan of wrestling”

TMM nods in agreement. “We’ve so made Christmas horrible for them!”.

Slapnutz steps up from where he was sat, “They say the hardest thing about giving something to those less fortunate is finding them or letting them know where to find you. But we’ve not got that problem! pAin is a flytrap to these losers, they’ll go religiously to get even more depressed and see Wrestling move another step closer to it’s death. With all due respect to the rest of the zone we’re single-handedly causing this death, and whilst killing wrestling is good, these people we’re making miserable are not bad people really, just misguided people who we can help and maybe one day they’ll see the ray of hope that is fighting and want to be like Splink and make us millionaires so we can retire to a world where we’re waited on by legal Catholic school girls in uniform and…”

“You’re going off the point aren’t you”, Interrupts TMM.

“Yup”

“So tell me, what are we going to do to help these losers?” asks TMM.

Slapnutz goes into deep thought for all of 6 seconds before shouting out “We’ll open a soup kitchen!”.

“Oh yeah, there are loads of them in Poland”, shouts TMM. He jumps to his feet and goes on, “Tell you what, I’ll get on the phone to our old scouse mate, Denisco, he’ll know all about soup kitchens being from Liverpool”.

TMM pulls out his phone and dials away, Slapnutz goes to the top deck of the bus. TMM is still waiting to be connected as Slapnutz comes down with a large brown box. He gets a knife and cups it open, out falls thousands of sachets of Chicken cup-a-soup. “I thought they might come in handy one day, sure they’re out of date by a 18 months but it’s soup and there are 11 more boxes upstairs”.

Splink are going to give something back and it feels great.

It's what they do.

That's why Actions always spoke louder than words. We don't have to give an action meaning. We only can try to explain it using empty words.

That's why you always have to be there for the big moments in a person's life.

"Angel Mode Remix" began over the pa system of the Asylum as the fans let out their jeers to the sadistic dangerous ArchAngel. Angel walked out from the back with nothing planted on his face, but a look of desire that was shielded behind it. He was quick to climb into the ring, quick to get the fight going.

Quick to prove that he was never expendable.

"Set it Off" by Audioslave played as the fans weren't sure if it was indeed Eddie Cheno to be walking out from the back. When he did walk those curtains, fans let out a few cheers, a few jeers, but with the recent Campbell actions in the Asylum, Cheno was receiving more cheers than jeers.

He didn't really notice, his eyes focused on ArchAngel, even if his mind was focused elsewhere. He quickly climbed the Asylum cage in much a fashion that Hulk Hogan used to climb his way up into his cage matches back on Saturday Night Main Events, before dropping down onto the canvas and peering into the oncoming eyes of his charging opponent.

The bell rang as Angel caught Cheno with a stiff right hook to Cheno's face, already disrupting the healing process of his bandaged wound from Immortals. Almost like the D'Lo chest protector that would never go away, but there was reasoning behind this.

With Cheno dazed, excruciating pain shooting up the left side of Cheno's skull and his neck, Angel immediately went for his Vengeance, in the form of his patented eye claw/nerve hold maneuver. Cheno swatted Angel's hands away quickly when he felt Angel's fingertips graze his wound, before opening up Angel with a few rights and lefts off his own. A quick shuffle step later, and Angel was backed off, only to receive what could best be described as a leaping uppercut.

Or more properly termed, as Clearin' da Funken Table. A huge ovation as Angel landed back first early in this contest, and Cheno only expected this to be the end of what he thought to be an incredibly quick squash.

Angel got up quick at the count of three, locking his arms around the waist of a taunting Eddie Cheno. Angel tried to grab a half nelson, looking for Absolution, but Cheno was quickly to fight out of the hold, driving his elbow into the back of Angel's head. Cheno locked in a headlock, before running toward the edge of the cage for a bulldog.

ArchAngel threw Cheno off, who collided with the top rim of the cage chest first, and almost fell forward and out of the cage. Cheno hooked the top rim with his hand as Angel tried to toss Cheno's dangling feet over the edge where they would meet up with the rest of his opponent's body. Angel tried to swing Cheno's body, but Cheno would have none of it, hooking his legs around Angel's skull. Angel tried once more, attempting to thrust him off his shoulders and over the top, but Cheno held his head firm and in turn, slammed Angel into the side of the head head first. Angel fell to his knees, allowing Cheno to simply teeter back inside the cage.

A sigh of relief when Cheno's feel awkwardly hit the canvas. It almost looked as if Eddie's ankle may have twisted, and this was almost like a second bulls eye for Angel. He immediately tackled Eddie down to the mat with a rising forearm to the chin and neck area.

This not only stunned him enough for Angel to enact part two of his master plan, but it was also one of the most bearable amounts of pain one can have.

Then again, Eddie's pain threshold is higher than yours or mine.

Angel immediately went to work on the right ankle of Eddie, placing it between his knee caps and giving Cheno a sinister grin. Angel quickly jumped off the canvas, not too high, before trying to Pilmanize Cheno's ankle between his very knee caps. Eddie was quick to rip his leg out from Angel's, which was painful in it's own right but a worthy sacrifice compared to being pilmanized.

Angel's knee's landed hard on the canvas as Eddie hobbled to his feet. Cheno went for a right hand to the fallen Angel, but ArchAngel stopped and then tomahawk chopped Eddie's ankle in an odd style of offense. Cheno fell back to his knees, where Angel originally was.

ArchAngel hooked Eddie around in a front waist lock, before lifting him up in a gutwrench, and driving him down with a ddt.

ArchAngel was getting his Retribution.

Cheno lied face up on the canvas as Angel got to his feet. He never took his eyes off the fallen Cheno, and once he started to stir at about a five count, Angel was quick to pounce. He immediately attempted to bring his boot down onto the skull of Eddie Cheno, who rolled to Angel's inside in between his legs. With Cheno in that position, Angel dropped his entire weight, attempting to sandwich Cheno's throat between his buttocks and the canvas. Eddie pushed himself away, sliding out from underneath as Angel hit nothing but canvas. Angel didn't let up, quickly twisting his body in position to block two lefts thrown by Eddie.

Angel threw a palm strike that was swatted away, and followed it up with a right hand that was barely dodged. Cheno caught Angel in the side of his ribs by ducking underneath his body entirely, which caused Angel to be folded forward. Angel followed up with a clubbing blow to the back of the neck that Cheno just barely dodged. With Angel doubled forward, Cheno tried for a ddt, but when he fell, Angel stayed standing. Angel went for another straight stomp to Cheno's chest that Cheno rolled out of the way of. With Angel's foot planted, Cheno punched him in the side of his left knee cap, buckling the knee and sending Angel kneeling. Cheno rose up to a sitting position, before trying for a back elbow which was ducked. With Cheno flailing, Angel locked in Vengeance.

The crowd let out a gasp as Cheno's lowered his body onto the mat. Angel quickly rolled on top, positioning himself in a way that Cheno would not be able to escape, and pinning his shoulders to the mat. Too bad this wasn't a wrestling match up...

Cheno, falling and fading on the mat, tried to wrestle his knees underneath ArchAngel's body. Angel forced his knees back down, but Cheno was able to get his right hand free.

He tried to shove Angel off with his only free hand, pushing at ArchAngel's neck to relent.

Then again, that wouldn't even work with the referee that was currently officiating. He let out a sigh, ready to tap and admit defeat.

But that's when Hans Krueger came out from that back to a roar of mixed disapproval. He had a steel chair in hand, and swung the chair at the side of the cage to get ArchAngel's attention. Angel turned his head up towards Hans, and that's when Cheno saw his opening.

Clearin' da Funken table. Right to ArchAngel's throat.

Angel flew backwards and off of his opponent, landing on his back and clutching for air. It doesn't matter how big you are, because anyone falls from a shot like that. Cheno got to his feet quickly, grabbing Angel up off the mat by his hair and hooking him in a inverted side headlock.

ArchAngel just took a hit from Cheno's Bong.

Or more properly called Cheno's Bong Hit.

ArchAngel lied face down, but Cheno wasn't finished. He wasn't finished because he knew ArchAngel wouldn't be finished. Cheno grabbed Angel by his hair, slowly pulling him to the side of the cage and lifting him up.

Sucks to be you.

ArchAngel landed face first in the cage, bleeding from the forehead as Hans Krueger looked on from outside the ring. He tilted his head to the side before Cheno caught him a glaze in return. Krueger nodded, as he simply turned around and walked to the backstage area.

It was academic. It was simply a matter of patience.

Cheno looked down at the fallen ArchAngel, who still held his throat in pain. He tilted his head sympathetically, before walking over to him. He extended his hand to the fallen ArchAngel, who didn't seem to have the desire to take it. He simply stayed on the mat, gasping for breath.

Cheno must have dropped him neck first on the top of the cage.

Cheno extended his hand again, and Angel once again shook it off. Angered, Eddie Cheno's eyes narrowed, and then he raised his foot, and stomped one time onto the fallen ArchAngel's neck.

Cheno took a slight limp while walking out of the cage. He turned around, walking backwards as he shook his head at the results of his battle. Shaking his head at his very own actions.

Someone, Joe Campbell's smile musta been a mile wide.

Outside in the car park, The Sex Bus/S-Express is all set up in Soup Kitchen mode.

Downstairs has been totally cleared out, only there now is a large table at the back with TMM stood behind, To the left hand side of him is an old rusty bath tub, which is full of warm Chicken cup-a-soup and on his right is a box full of polystyrene cups.

The queue for the soup is already very long. Slapnutz has developed a very efficient system where as the wrestling fans come in through the main door, when they get to the counter they made a ‘donation’ if they can afford it, TMM then takes a cup and ducks it into the bath of soup. Those who make a donation get more soup, those who don’t make a donation only get a half-cup and nice women with big tits get the most. After getting their soup and thanking TMM the wrestling fans leave by the emergency exit at the back. It’s running like clockwork.

The donations are slowly building up, around one in five people donate something and they have already had 300 people come through, some more than once. TMM is running at serving 15 wrestling fans a minute - allowing double time for nice women with big tits - his scooping hand protected by a pink washing-up glove.

Slapnutz is stood on the top of the bus spreading the word. With the help of the microphone and amplifiers he stole from the Fighting Zone he’s telling everyone within an 800-metre radius of the soup kitchen. Slapnutz being Slapnutz delivers the message via the medium of song. Moulded on the Band Aid record “Do they know it’s Christmas?” Slapnutz bellows…

Slapnutz takes a bow, “Free soup for all wrestling fans here!”. He starts another charge towards the bus by hungry wrestling fans.

Do you see? For evil, bitter, bloodthirsty fighters Splink can be nice to those who bat for the other side. For their own piece of mind though - and to add a little flavour - they pissed in the soup.

Oh, what a tangled web we weave.

As tonight, Noah Hawkins was scheduled to face The Freak himself. One on One… The Freak’s rules.

“Climbatize” by Prodigy… into “Feel Good” by Hed PE.

The fans exploded in a mass of hatred towards the specially-designed pAin entranceway, as Noah Hawkins appeared at the top of the ramp. Translucent grey wisps of smoke leered upwards from his dangling cigarette in his hand… his head was hung low.

Noah stared at his feet for a while, standing atop the ramp… soaking up the fans’ revulsion.

Then… he looked up. And the crowd gasped in unison, it was like a public display of sheer shock. For Noah’s face…

Was totally distorted. The “X” that was carved into his once-presentable features by The Freak was still scarred into his features, caked with blood. The gaping wounds were held closed shut by thick stitches that lined his lesions. Noah cringed… maybe it was the fan reaction that made him do so; maybe it was the pain still evident.

Noah took a long puff on his cigarette and slowly dawdled down the ramp, shaking and shivering slightly- possibly due to the rage he was containing over the aforementioned incident. Noah hopped into the cage and began to warm up, despite the trash projectiles being hurled at him…

“UNITED BY VIOLENCE…”

Join in, everybody!

“…DIVIDED BT DEATH!!”

Then… “Faget” by Korn.

The fans jumped to their feet to hurl praise and cheers at the ramp, as the anti-Stranglehold Zone member, The Freak strolled out of the curtains. Wearing his usual hooded trenchcoat and holding a steel, folding chair in one hand, The Freak twirled to the fans. Behind him, Oddball pushed a mini-dumpster… full of the usual objects of mass destruction. Noah grated his teeth together as The Freak drew closer to the cage, although his look of determination soon turned to a grimace of pain… grating his teeth was making his stitches ache.

The Freak dropped his trenchcoat from his shoulders and allowed in to drop the floor, before circling the cage. Oddball pushed the dumpster alongside the cage, as The Freak slowly made his way up the ring steps…

He didn’t even make it into the cage.

Hawkins flew over the rim of the Asylum with a lariat, knocking The Freak back down the steps from whence he came with a brutal thud. Usually, as Hawkins was propelled over the Asylum rim, this would result in a Ring Out… however, as The Freak had not yet set foot in the cage, the referee allowed it to continue.

Hawkins, to a chorus of boos from the fans, then hurled The Freak against the guardrail and followed in with a crossbody, hammering The Freak between himself and the steel. Hawkins was practically frothing with rage at the prospect of getting vindication on his marauder… his anger manifested in his upturned, narrowed eyes and his scrunched up nose. Hawkins shot a kick to the stomach of the much larger man, before yanking him away from the railing and hitting a pair of uppercuts to the face.

The Freak shook his head from side to side, trying to disperse the blows effects, but a Hawkins spinning heel kick to the back of the head saw that he never quite managed it. Noah continued his assault with an Irish Whip into the ringsteps, breaking the steps apart with a mighty CLANG.

The Freak toppled upwards, slowly…

Leaving himself open for Noah to charge forth with a stunning Shining Wizard knee attack, before backflipping out of it prior to The Freak’s hitting the concrete. Noah raised his arms in the air and shouted to the fans, whom jeered back in reply.

“HAWKINS SUCKS!”

“HAWKINS SUCKS!”

“HAWKINS SUCKS!”

Hawkins returned the favour by flipping the bird at his tormentors, before turning back around to face his enemy. The Freak was dragged upwards and socked with two back hand blows to the neck, setting him up for a DDT onto the concrete that made a dull thud against the hard floor.

At this point it certainly wasn’t looking good for The Freak, but the fans still kept hopes high with a chant of the Emasculator’s name. Hawkins drove several stomp-like kicks to The Freak’s midsection, and concluded the combo with a legdrop across the fighter’s stomach.

The Freak spluttered slightly as the air was knocked out of him, before clasping a hand around some of the hanging material around the cage apron and hauling himself upwards… as fast as possible.

Hawkins went for another kick, this time directed at the Original Outcast’s spine… but, much to the crowd’s glee…

This time, it was reversed.

The Freak caught Noah’s foot in mid-blow, and used the Junkie’s own momentum to heave him up and onto his shoulders. The Freak carried Hawkins around in this fireman’s carry position for a while, before dumping the rookie stomach-first across the railing.

The fans released an elated howl that their hero was finally on the offensive, and The Freak obliged by smacking his fist against Hawkins’s face with a stinging right hook… knocking the youth all the way over the railing and into the fans. Capitalizing quickly on Noah’s predicament as he rose, The Freak stepped back and hopped onto the guardrail, turning in mid air…

and connecting, with both feet, in a flying, spinning Capoeira Double-Bau kick.

As the fans jumped to their feet, Hawkins hit the floor. His stitches were already beginning to bleed slightly, much to his own displeasure.

The Freak chucked Hawkins back over the railing and flung him onto the ringsteps, sitting “Junkie 5403” on the top step and perching himself on the apron. The Freak ran along the apron of the cage and leapt of at the last minute… with a brutal, scintillating back spin kick to Hawkins’s face. Hawkins lurched back and very nearly fell from the steps, but The Freak caught the wrestler prior to his descent and threw him into the cage, following suit and thereby officially beginning the match.

The Freak exploited Hawkins’s downed state by dropping an elbow onto the small of the teenager’s back, and on the way up… grabbing one of Noah’s legs. The press-proclaimed “Red Ripper” then tangled Noah’s legs together around his own, and applied pressure… locking the cruiserweight in an elevated Indian Deathlock.

The referee hurried over to Hawkins, asking the screaming wrestler if he wished to quit. With each cry of “NO” Hawkins offered, The Freak reared back on the deathlock even harder, trying desperately to integrate enough pressure and force to make Hawkins tap. However, after much deliberation over whether to tap or not, Hawkins managed to reverse the hold by dragging himself up the cage and throwing The Freak off.

The Freak kipped to his feet and hopped from side to side, assuming a boxer stance, ready for battle. Hawkins watched silentlt for a while… then decided to try and take the offensive with by running towards the Original Outcast. The Freak shot out a leg in a front kick, attempting to catch Noah in the chin with the heel of his boot… but instead his foot met nothing but air, as Hawkins ducked under the foot and wound up behind the Crimson Crippler.

With his back turned, The Freak was left open for a scalding dropkick to the back of the head that knocked the sense out of him. As he staggered forwards, Hawkins hooked his arms around the fighter’s head and leapt up onto the cage… before spiralling down with a picture-perfect Acid Drop that would have made Spike Dudley envious. The Freak bounced up from the mat on impact, attempting to roll the blow off. Hawkins quickly scrambled to his feet, as the referee started the count.

1!

2!

3!

4!

5!

6…?

The Freak was back on his feet, courtesy of a backward roll. He steadied himself against the cage wall, but had little time to recuperate as Noah leapt forwards, placing his hands behind The Freak head and kicking against his chest… flipping all two-hundred and sixty pounds of The Freak up and over with a hard-hitting Monkey Flip.

The Freak was instantly on his feet despite the blow, but Hawkins was sure to put him back down again with a dropkick…

Well, maybe it would have taken The Freak down. Maybe.

But it didn’t, as The Freak caught Noah, by his legs, and launched Hawkins up and across his shoulders in a Lex Luger-esque torture rack position… although, of course, The Freak did it far better as Lex Luger is a god-awful grappler. From there, The Freak flipped forwards and planted the youngster flat on his stomach with the Schematic Collapse.

The Freak hopped up and executed his trademark twirl to the fans, inciting more cheers, as the referee started the count once more.

1!

2!

3!

4!

5!

6!

7!

…

Hawkins managed to use the cage to steady himself, as the referee halted his count. The Freak took it upon himself to school the Junkie in kickboxing at this point, hitting two, hard knees to the stomach and an upward thrust kick to the face. Hawkins hissed with pain as each clout connected, and attempted to reverse The Freak’s subsequent Sidekick into a Dragon Screw.

However, The Freak managed to remain standing on one leg, and clocked Noah with a face-splitting enziguri for a four-count. Upon rising again, Hawkins retaliated against The Freak’s onslaught with a knee to The Freak’s stomach… only to have his favour returned with a double elbow strike from his red-clad enemy. The Freak then grabbed the seat of Hawkins’s pants and hurled him against the cage face-first, causing a thin line of blood to seep from between the lad’s stitches.

Hawkins slumped over the cage lifelessly, trying to shake off his haziness… however, this left him open for a rear-applied waistlock. Noah struggled to get out, but The Freak hoisted Hawkins off of his feet… leaping onto the cage rim, and flying backwards from it with a FLYING German Suplex.

Hawkins’s neck slammed against the mat at a sickening angle, causing the fans to gasp. The referee checked on Hawkins to see if the wrestler was okay, but a grunted reply of “Oh, fuck…” told him that Hawkins was indeed alive and kicking.

The Freak lugged Hawkins upwards and clasped a hand around the rookie’s throat, but he was reversed with a scorching elbow to the orbital bone. As The Freak swayed backwards, Hawkins landed a powerful sidekick, sending spittle flying from The Freak’s mouth and putting a mild dent in The Freak’s cheek. Hawkins took a few steps backwards, ran forwards and leapt directly onto The Freak’s shoulders, looking for a Hurricanrana…

But The Freak was having none of it. As soon as Hawkins landed on The Freak’s shoulders, the Emasculator locked his powerful arms around Hawkins’s spindly legs and powered him into the canvas, Liger Bomb style.

The count began once more.

1!

2!

3!

4!

5!

…

Hawkins was up again.

The Freak shouted to Oddball, and the bizarre manager handed The Freak a chair diligently. The Freak raised the chair into the air, to a deafening amount of cheers, and…

CRACK

CRACK

The steel object was dented across the kneeling Noah’s head.

The Freak swiped the steel across Noah’s face once more for good measure, this time making sure that his skull became lodged between the seat and frame. Hawkins’s head was locked tight in the metal framework, and despite his struggling, he was unable to free himself in time to evade…

SMACKCRACK

…a Buzzsaw kick from The Freak, belting the chair into Noah’s face and condemning him to the mat.

The Freak once again motioned to Oddball, who threw in a second chair - which was masterfully caught by the Red Ripper. The Freak banged the chair against the mat and swung it towards the grounded Noah…

But Noah shot his legs into the air, locked them around The Freak’s head and brought him crashing down with a gravity-defying Hurricanrana!

The Freak dropped his chair in favour of holding his head, and kipped up to cling onto the cage in order to secure himself. On the opposite side of the cage, Noah slowly regained his equilibrium…

Hawkins charged forwards into The Freak and slapped the spit out of the bigger man’s mouth, before attempting to hurl him into the cage… but Noah was reversed, and found himself locked in a waistlock courtesy of The Freak. Noah sent two back elbows to The Freak’s shoulder to cause the hold to be released, then turned with a cracking high-kick that slammed The Freak’s face 180 degrees. Noah then scurried across the mat and picked up the less-dented of the two chairs…

Noah somersaulted onto The Freak’s shoulders, still wielding the chair in his hands… perhaps in attempt of a mounted chair shot. The Freak, however, had other things in mind… pushing Noah backwards from his shoulders. Luckily for the grappler, Noah landed safely on his feet with little damage to his balance, but as he turned; he was gifted with an incredibly rigid Sidekick to the face, slamming the chair into Hawkins’s features and sending him toppling to the mat.

The Freak, wasting little time, set up the two chairs (although one was so dented that it could barely stand) across from eachother and grabbed Hawkins in a front facelock. After making a brief signal to the fans, The Freak hopped onto the first chair and bounced from it… flying through the air and DESTROYING the second chair by hitting a colossal Tornado DDT onto it. Hawkins’s head was awash with blood as he lay in the broken metal shards of the furniture…

1!

2!

3!

4!

6… Hawkins began to stagger to his feet…

The Freak attempted a standing moonsault on Hawkins, but as he reached the pinnacle of his jump Hawkins rolled out of the way. Fortunately, The Freak had his wits about him and was able to spot this… quickly landing on his feet rather than slamming himself into the floor.

Hawkins went for a kick to the midsection, but The Freak caught the leg and stepped over for a high kick…

Noah ducked, Noah came, Noah saw, Noah clotheslined the fuck out of The Freak with a discus lariat.

Both men were out. However, the referee refused to administer a count… realizing that for the Best Of Five to work, there must be no draws.

Slowly, gradually… both men got to their feet. Hawkins struck first, a heavy-hitting right hand to The Freak’s face… but The Freak blasted back with a right-fist, left-fist, right uppercut combo. Still determined not to go down, Noah fired back three punches to the face, stalled…

And took The Freak down with a sensational spear!

Wait, no he didn’t… as The Freak instantly backward rolled to his feet on impact. Noah turned and attempted another spear, but this time The Freak caught the attacking arm and SLAMMED Hawkins into the mat with a Arm-whip takedown into a Painkiller armbar!

Hawkins grovelled in pain from the hold, but was quick to reverse the move into a headscissors of his own. The Freak soon powered out of that and reapplied his armbar… only to be reversed once more into the headscissors. Realizing that his armbar attempts were going nowhere fast, The Freak hoisted Noah up onto his shoulders into an electric chair position…

However, before any move could be executed, Noah rolled forwards, taking The Freak with him and hooking his legs on the way… thereby executing a Victory Roll.

The crowd booed and laughed.

Yeah, Noah forgot that this was a fight. No three counts here, wrestler-boy.

The Freak powered out of the useless pinning predicament and slammed his foot into Hawkins’s stomach, keeling him over. As Hawkins regained his breath, Oddball uncovered a table from beneath the ring and hurled it into the cage for The Freak’s usage. Acting quickly, the Red Ripper set up the wooden object, mid-cage…

Only to have his face slammed, repeatedly into the wood by the freshly risen Hawkins. The Freak wasn’t going to take this beating forever, of course, and countered with a cracking elbow to Noah’s stomach. Thirty seconds later, Noah was wrapped in The Freak’s clutches… being hoisted in the air in an AlabamaSlam position. A forward flip later… and Noah was once again pressurized into the canvas.

The Freak hoisted the youngster to his feet and bounded onto the table, holding Hawkins by his hair… however, Noah still had enough sense left in him to fight off The Freak and jump up onto the table… alongside his aggressor.

What followed was a series of punches, and a gigantic dropkick that sent The Freak down… and out on the canvas. Noah remained on the table, waiting for his opponent to get back to his feet…

And when he did, Noah leapt from the table, wrapping his legs around The Freak’s head and sending him hurtling across the ring with a roof-raising Flying Headscissors takeover!

The Freak recoiled from the impact, staggering around the ring trying to regain his bearings… but a cracking chair shot from the already-dented object saw Hawkins increase in advantage. A second chair shot sent the seat of the chair flying into the audience, as The Freak dropped face-down.

“WOO!” Hawkins wailed in an almost desperate, celebrative tone… to a mass of hate from the ticket buyers. The referee started his count…

1!

2!

3!

4!

5!

6!

7!

8?

The Freak was up, his hand clasping his forehead and his teeth gritted in pain. However, the moment passed… and The Freak reverted back to his no-pain, fanatic self.

Until Hawkins used the edge of the seatless chair frame to slice The Freak’s throat, yeah… The Freak didn’t like that much either. Hawkins attempted to follow up, but The Freak yanked away the frame and threw it the outside, before slamming up against Noah and getting nose-t-nose with the reserved teenager.

“I don’t feel pain, child. Nerves are for the weak.”

“Do you have nerves in your dick?” Noah snarled.

“What…?”

Hawkins replied with a full-on kick to the testes, causing The Freak to double over in pain.

Noah saw the opening and leapt to the rim of the cage, coming back down with…

The Corkscrew Stunner.

No, wait.

The impact was never made, as The Freak hooked Hawkins’s head and arm, throwing him up into the air with an exploder suplex…

THROUGH the table.

The fans hopped to their feet and roared in harmony.

Neither man was moving.

Slowly… they made their way to their feet. Slowly.

The Freak was the first up, and he, in turn, hoisted Hawkins to his feet… but Hawkins fought back.

Left fist from Hawkins.

Left fist from The Freak.

Left fist from Hawkins.

Left fist from The Freak.

Left fist from Hawkins…

CAUGHT.

The Freak used the arm to whip in Hawkins, dragging him into his clutches. Hawkins attempted to escape, but it was no use; resistance was futile. The Freak locked his arms around Hawkins’s cranium and leg, and

THUD..

Hawkins’s skull was blasted into the mat at top speeds at an awkward angle, with the Anti-Nature.

The Freak hung onto the cage to remain standing. The count was superficial.

1!

2!

3!

4!

5!

6!

7!

8!

9!

and…

10.

The fans ruptured into a mass of cheers as the epic battle was finally complete… and The Zone were now ahead in the series… 2-1.

Stranglehold, fuck yourselves.

The Freak slowly stalked circles around the unconscious frame of Hawkins, stepping over the destroyed and broken debris of the smashed weaponry… the teenager remained totally motionless, as the fans continued their standing ovation for the twenty minute battle they had just witnessed. Oddball stepped into the cage alongside The Freak, standing in the corner of the cage.

Hawkins groggily rolled over onto his back, his chest rising and falling in the air. Blood trickled from betwixt the stitches in his face, and a look of serenity that one can only bear in unconsciousness was upon his face.

The Freak stopped at Hawkins’s side, and tilted his head to the left. The Freak’s face was still displaying no emotion… in an almost eerie manner. Oddball reached into his coat, and pulled out…

A switchblade. In fact, the very same one that was used last week, six days ago… as the blood wasn’t even washed off properly. It glinted in the spotlights, dazzling the viewers at home, as Oddball handed the object of pain to the Emasculator himself. The Freak took the blade in an almost dainty manner between his thumb and his forefinger, staring at his reflection in the mirrored metal.

Hawkins’s shirt was torn from his back by Oddball, who followed up by leaning Hawkins in a seated position against the cage. Oddball then passed The Freak a microphone, and stepped back down the steps hurriedly.

“I… admire you, Hawkins. I admire your youthful, perfection. You have yet to earn the scars and battle pox that life will bestow on you. You’re so… pure. A societal virgin. You have yet to see the… horrors, that this world can illustrate to you. Your life is simple and plain, so innocent and untouched. Maybe your… innocence, reminds me of a person that I once was.

“I hate it. I hate you. I apologize…

“It’s not your fault. It really isn’t. It’s society’s fault for giving you everything and me nothing. I have to take some of this… some of this…”

The Freak stopped and wiped the beads of seat from Hawkins’s cataleptic forehead, rubbing the moisture between his fingers.

“I have to take some of this incorruptibility away from you. I’m doing this for you, Noah. For your benefit. I’m doing this out of compassion. This is my gift, a gift from me to you, a bond between us.

“You’ll never forget me. I’ll make certain of it. Because I’m bequeathing my mark upon you…”

The Freak twirled the switchblade between his fingers, admiring his own dextrousness with the blade. Oddball looked on from the outside, a slight glimmer of worry in his face… but Oddball knew that after this, The Freak’s visions would go away… if only for a little while.

The fans in attendance cheered for they knew that their hated enemy in Hawkins was going to be punished… but there was still an uncomfortable aura in the arena, an aura of perplexity and uneasiness towards The Freak’s words. Nonetheless, he was doing them a favour by disposing of Hawkins… so why not cheer him?

The Freak ducked down next to the hunched form of Noah Hawkins, and reached out with his switchblade…

Snap. Snap. Snap.

One by one, every stitch in the young man’s face were sliced in half. The thick thread became frayed and snapped… soon, all of Hawkins’s stitches were re-opened, in the same bloody “X” of sacrifice that The Freak had etched upon his features but six days ago. The Freak looked at his reflection in the bloody blade, watched himself in the claret flowing life of his chosen innocent one.

Hawkins’s face was totally re-opened. The gaping slashes were once again seeping and weeping their liquids out across the Junkie’s visage. The Freak, like an artist at work, tilted his head to one side to respect his masterpiece. Then, The Freak took a firm grasp of Hawkins’s spiked hair and dragged him into the centre of the cage… dumping the teenager face-first on the floor.

The Freak raised the blade in the air to a cheer from the bloodthirsty fans, then he gave them… exactly what they wanted.

…sort of.

With the accuracy of a surgeon, The Freak knelt down beside his victim and began to trace the thin blade across his back. Noah’s flesh was only lightly cut, just enough to release the blood from his skin… The Freak carved in circles and lines, almost as if he was writing with a fountain pen. Inscribing letters into Noah’s back in thick, red ink.

It’s because he was.

When he was finished, Noah had the word “CHILD” sliced perfectly into his back. Blood dribbled from the message, forming a small puddle on the canvas beneath him, and then…

The Freak pulled down the upper part of his costume, revealing his great scarred chest. He dipped his fingers into the blood lake forming in the dip of Hawkins’s back like one would dip a quill into an inkpot, and then dragged the bloodied finger across his own chest…

He continued doing this, dipping his finger back into the proverbial inkpot of blood several times, until a second word was written across his own chest in Hawkins’s life.

“FATHER.”

The referee gazed on worriedly, as The Freak knelt beside his prey. The fans were on their feet for the gruesome scene, whilst The Freak was totally still. He stooped down, totally motionless, amidst the bloody gore that he had created… he, the father, and his wounded… the child. The switchblade was released from his hand and hit the mat with a tinkering noise.

If it wasn’t for the standing ovation from the fans, maybe you’d have heard the blood dripping from The Freak’s chest.

Or the worried mutters from Oddball.

Or the whispering voice of The Freak, talking to himself softly about how everything was going to be okay.

Hit the music.

“Faget” by Korn played.

The Freak didn’t move. It took several minutes and several unwilling security guards to finally get The Freak on his feet, and another six to get him walking back up the ramp, as the medics started work on Noah. It was like a gore-inflicted catatonia.

“Good Rats” by The Dropkick Murphys screamed over the PA system. The lights went black and the crowd immediately sprung lightly to their feet and filled the arena with an eruption that almost conquered the theme song of one...

Gwen O’Reilly.

She’d been gone for weeks, on a journey to find her ‘stalker.’ More importantly though, it was a journey to find herself. She had all but faded from the minds and memories of the fans, but now she was back, and had she succeeded in her quest?

The lights illuminated all at once, momentarily blinding the fans. Sure enough, however, once the lights dimmed down...there was Gwen.

A different Gwen than what they were used to seeing though. She laid on the ground, crusted with her own blood, yet still leaking more of it. She was immobile, completely and utterly immobile. Her quick gasps for air were hardly noticeable. Her left arm was grotesquely bent backwards at the elbow, clearly broken...the protruding bone was the signature that gave it away.

Fans in the front row were dry-heaving, and some had even given into the need to rush to the bathroom. The stench of Gwen was horrid. Her own excrement was old and rotten, burning away at her rear thighs and buttocks.

And sure enough, she had found her stalker. Actually, it was quite the reverse-her stalker had found her.

The hulking man loomed over her now, looking out at the crowd with a snide smile broad across his square face. His greasy blonde hair was held back in a ponytail, and he had a beard. However, the fans still knew who this man was from his past endeavors in IOW.

He was one of the biggest names in the short-lived 2nd version of the federation, and in the insignificant amount of time which that rebirth had lasted, this grizzly bear of a man had made quite a name for himself.

Chad Stalin.

His clothes had maroon stains on them, one would think they were stains from Gwen’s blood.

One would be correct.

The crowd was shocked to the point that they hadn’t yet let a boo out of their mouths, but now, the jeers started to rain down towards the ring. Chad simply took it all in with a smile.

He pulled a microphone out of his pocket, and he raised it to his lips.

“And a good evening to all of you.”

The crowd only answered with more boos. Chad only smiled more.

“For those of you who’ve been living under a rock, my name is Chad Stalin.”

He looked out the crowd waiting for more boos, and he wasn’t disappointed.

“You see, since her arrival, Gwen here,” he gives her a hard nudge with his foot that sprawls her over onto her back revealing nasty gashes in her face, “she’s been bragging about her streak in Ireland. She went undefeated as an underground fighter apparently, and that’s one of the reasons why asylum scouts took note of her. How do I tie in with that? Eh...more or less jealousy. I’m undefeated as well in the underground circuit. Why the fuck wasn’t I noticed? I’m a man...an undefeated man...and instead of bringing me into the Asylum, some drunk cunt like Gwen was brought in? I couldn’t allow that to proceed forever, now could I?”

More boos. Ear-piercing boos.

“So, after some careful planning, and getting the spotlight pointed on my name for awhile, I decided to set my scheme into motion. I’ll spare you the gruesome details...afterall, Gwen’s condition speaks volumes. Knowing this company though, they’ll be dying to get their hands on a talent like me...especially after I’ve brought one of their workers near death. Heh. Even if I’m not contacted, I’ll keep showing up...Gwen here is my little downside guarantee. See, I’m gonna keep hold of her...while you asylum higher-ups pretend you don’t give a shit what happens to your employees, I know you wouldn’t dare let an outsider get the better of one of your people. It...well...it just wouldn’t look too good on your continually declining public image.”

BOOOOO

“Frankly, I don’t know who’s in charge around here anymore...Joe? Chris? Peewee?...but whoever it is...contact me.”

“Spit It Out” by Slipknot hit the speakers now....and the crowd booed louder than ever.

Chad picked up Gwen and threw her limp body over his shoulder and started heading up the ramp. Security started to step out from the back, but to the entire arena’s surprise, Chad pulled a colt .45 out of his pocket. The security fanned out and Chad headed through the backstage area...and he left.

The fans didn’t know what to think.

And with that battle cry of The Zone, came the primary protagonist of the aforementioned stable. The fans erupted in a roaring, screaming ovation as all three hundred and fifteen pounds of John C. Willis. “Here Comes The Pain” by Slayer blared over the speakers, and the Terrifying One trampled down the ramp, his TFZ Championship strapped around his waist and his manager by his side. Michael strolled around the outside of the cage in anticipation of the match, and gave some encouraging words to his client.

Willis threw his arms into the air, causing an explosion of cheers for the terrifying man-beast. Indeed, with a look upon his face so daunting and a physical stature to match, the fans were positive that even former fWo champion Ruben Ross would be no match for their hero…

On the subject of Ross, “Serve The Servants” by Nirvana announced the Black Plague’s arrival. Ross hopped down the ramp, more energy in each step than the last… as if fuelled by the hatred he was receiving from his aggressors in the audience. The camera panned outwards to so just how colossal the boos were… Ross’s mere appearance was getting under the people’s skin. They hurled various items of trash towards him to no avail; Ross’s sprightliness caused each piece of garbage to be evaded successfully.

Ross somersaulted over the rim of the cage and instantly got in the… well, chest of Willis.

Ross was evidently not afraid of the big man whatsoever… in fact, Ross looked *happy* to be against someone of such a large build and imposing presence. Maybe he wanted to finally prove himself as not just a wrestler… but also a fighter. Not that the fans gave two fucks about whether Ross could fight or not… to them, it was simple. Ross was a spoilsport. And he must, certainly, no buts… be punished.

The referee called for the bell.

The fans jumped to their feet in eagerness of what Willis would do to the far smaller Ross… but were quite shocked to discover that Willis had absolutely no intention of making the first move. Instead, he merely stood, flexing his colossal muscles at his opponent and grinning with his toothless jaws.

Ross looked at John sideways and did a double take… the guy was a freak.

After much contemplation, Ross hurled himself forwards, perhaps attempting a spear to the stomach… but Willis countered masterfully by simply locking his arms around the smaller man’s waist and dragging him upwards with a dazzling Gutwrench Powerbomb.

Ross thundered into the mat at shocking speeds, bouncing up and rolling against the cage with sheer impact… Ross rolled onto his stomach, a palm clutching at his back to try and stifle the pain he was experiencing. Willis laughed insanely, before taking a firm grasp on Ross’s neck and, with the delicacy of a sledgehammer, hurling the Black Plague into the cage. Ross tried to retaliate with a right fist, but Willis caught the fist and instead whipped Ross into for a short arm clothesline.

Ross rebounded from Willis’s arm with sickening impact, practically backflipping and landing on his neck. It seemed that Ross had no offensive tactics that could possible work against this behemoth of a man… everything he tried, Willis would hurl straight back at him with twice the gusto.

Ross staggered to his feet, breathing heavily. The main-event pro wrestling star walked around groggily, trying to march off the blows to his neck and back…

But he got no respite. Instead, all he got was a gigantic boot to the spine and an uppercut that struck him straight under his chin… with such power and strength behind it that Ross rocketed up off the mat, flying high into the air… and jacknifed into the canvas at thrice the speed he ascended. The fans were expressing nothing but cheers, as it seemed that Ross was already on his last legs… so early in the match.

With a revolting cackle that made the stomachs of even a few Zone supporters turn, Willis hammered his foot into the spine of the downed figure of Ruben Ross. With each cry of agony that Ross released, Willis appeared to be slightly more thrilled, and a final, blood-drawing kick to Ross’s face caused the big man to rejoice so much that he actually broke into hysterical laughter. Eventually, the referee realized that if this were to carry on the match would become stale… and thereby decided to warn Willis about his repeated kicks.

Willis made a fake punch to the referee, causing the referee to cower away… but then thought better of it and instead complied, by allwing Ross to get to his feet.

Ross clung to the cage, his eyes wide and his face the essence of frustration… never in his career had he been dominated in this manner. Upon finally reaching his feet, all he could muster in the way of offence was a bewildered stare.

Willis obliged, by charging directly into the stomach of Ross with a shocking, powerful spear…!

CLANG

Oh wait.

Replace the word stomach, with “unforgiving, harsh barbs of the steel cage”. Ross had equivocated the Gore just in time, and intended to take advantage of the now reasonable-dazed Willis…

Ross ran into The Terror, picking up velocity with each cheetah step. He extended his fists upwards and aimed his clenched hands into Willis… blocked.

But Ross still had usage of his *left* hand, and intended to use it accordingly… swinging his fist in a wild hooked punch. The fist connected with Willis’s jaw, and despite the surely non-ambidextrous qualities of Ruben, still had enough power in it to sock Willis… rocking him backwards and leaving him open for two more left-handed straight jabs from the fWo Superstar. Willis stumbled back, and very nearly trips over… but rescued himself by leaning against the cage. Ruben took a few steps back and eyed his opponent, to check out the damage he’d done to John’s face…

Only to discover that in fact, there WAS no damage to Willis’s face. Apart from a few missing teeth and a certain lack of eyebrows, but Ruben was pretty sure that Willis came IN like that.

Willis snarled at Ruben and dragged himself away from the cage, his face contorted with rage. The fans egged the Big Man on to finish the job… as did Michael from the outside, wielding his nightstick around in the air.

Ruben, making sure to take advantage of the opening, ran towards John as fast as possible, swinging his arms in all directions in an almost karate-charge-like manner… although the fans were pretty certain that this was purely by coincidence rather than skill. Willis span out of the way, grabbing the tights of Ross and chucking him, with perfect timing, in the direction…

Of the mesh.

Ross met the fencing full-on, all four feet of the mesh hammering into him up to his chest… Taking the initiative, Willis delivered a terribly vicious roundhouse kick to the back of his opponent’s head. John’s leg came crashing down on the cranium of his victim, practically smashing Ruben’s skull to smithereens. Willis, not masterfully but still unquestionably brutally, then swept Ruben’s legs out from beneath him in the follow-up low back kick.

Despite being perhaps the most disgusting man Ruben had ever, and WILL EVER see, the monstrous animal of a ‘man’ known as John C. Willis was actually holding his own quite well… not something that Ross hadn’t anticipated, but Ruben was still quite marvelled at the agility of such a big man.

Well, Ruben was well known as a very confident man. And no way was he going to go down to this… this freak, without a fight.

Willis awaited Ross’s regaining of his vertical base with a grin smeared across his features. He banged the mat feverishly, striking his feet against the cage and stomping around… not just psyching himself up, but also psyching up the fans in attendance. Ruben staggered upwards and swung a fist towards Willis…

Blocked.

Then, Ruben was knocked ALL the way back down again with a vicious uppercut that would have made Muhammad Ali wince. But before Willis could even gloat over his demise of Ross, Ruben was back on his feet…

“FUCKING STAY DOWN!” Willis roared, swinging his leg in a perfect arc that almost decapitated his weary opponent. Willis then rocked Ruben with a discus punch to the face, and followed up with a startlingly high-velocity tornado kick that landed on Ross’s temple and knocked him flat on the mat. Blood began to trickle from a small dagger-like cut over Ross’s eye.

The wrestler wasn’t used to this. He’d been in shoot fights, bar fights, hell, PIT fights. But this guy, Willis… Willis was just too strong, too big. A dog like Ross may not have realized how small he really is, but when he’s against a pit bull like Willis… maybe it’s better to have known what his own weaknesses were.

Ross’s eyes crossed and rolled around in his head, and he tried desperately to get to his feet… but the lights were so hot, and the mat was so cool…

1!

2!

3!

4… Ross stumbled back to his feet, only to have Willis kick him back down again in a sloppy Buzzsaw-like spinning hook punch.

1!

2!

3!

4… Ruben, refusing to give in to the dazed nausea forming in his eyes, wrapped his fingers between the wire of the cage and dragged himself upwards, every little climb making so much of a difference.

Willis attempted the same discus punch…

This time, Ruben was clever.

This time, Ruben ducked the fist, causing Willis’s hand to connect with nothing but metal rim… and this time, Ruben was able to kick his larger opponent straight in the arse, knocking him into the cage at terminal velocity. Willis yelped in reply to the dull ache now in his chest, and tried to lift himself off the cage rim…

But by now, Ross hand a handful of Willis’s filthy hair.

SMACK

“Stop…”

SMACK

“It…”

SMACK

“Mother…”

SMACK

“Very…”

SMACK

“FUCKER!”

Ross slammed Willis’s face off the cage rim, becoming more enraged and furious with each blow… Willis was incensed by the attack and tried to retaliate, but every time Willis tried to fight back he was socked with another callous slam into the steel. When Ross was finished bouncing John’s face from the metal, he hooked Willis’s head and leg, falling back with a Russian Legsweep to take the big man down~!

Ross kipped to his feet expecting cheers for his feat, but instead he was barged with trash.

Oh well… who gives a fuck WHAT people are throwing at you when you’re a super-talented fWo megastar?

Super-talented? Back that up, asshole, I hear you cry.

And Ruben certainly did.

Leaping onto the rim of the cage with a single jump, Ross catapulted himself into the air… dropping his legs across the railing, and slamming his body down, full-force across Willis’s stomach with a Split-Legged Moonsault.

The fans let out a gasp, but seconds later it was just another round of boos… as the official made the count on Willis.

1!

2!

3!

4!

5!

6!

7!

…

Fuck the nine-count, Willis got up before eight. He staggered up, and instantly hammered himself into Ross… getting nose to nose with his opponent.

“FUCK YOU. You can’t touch me. No wrestler has shit on me…” Willis hissed, baring his teeth… well, all three of them. Ross snarled right back… then, mysteriously, Willis hunched over.

Courtesy of a low knee to Willis’s Little Johnny C.

“So you have somethin’ down there after all?”

Willis coughed and lurched about, his hands clasped around his crotch… leaving himself perfectly open for Ross to once again hop onto the cage, taking advantage by bounding off and catching Willis’s head in mid-air… perhaps in a vague attempt at a Slingshot Bulldog.

The fans will never know. Willis caught Ross perfectly, even making sure to hook under his leg, and began to fall back in an attempt, well, MAYBE it was an attempt at a back suplex.

We’ll never know that either, as Ross flipped over Willis’s shoulder and kicked him in the back. Willis arched back slightly… slowing Ross to hook the big man’s head in a reverse Chinlock.

The fans screamed out in hatred, as Ruben spun around, transforming the reverse Chinlock into a Diamond Cutter…

That never landed. Willis pushed Ross away from him just before the blow was delivered, causing Ross to bounce into the steel wire and hammer into the rim. Ross rebounded backwards from the steel, right into Willis’s clutches. John locked on the waistlock, and hurled Ross into the air, slamming Ruben down in a release German suplex.

Willis turned and quickly scrambled to his feet, only to find that Ross was already standing behind him… as Ross had totally evaded impact from the suplex by backflipping out of it altogether and landing on his feet. Ross threw a foot forwards, only to have the unlucky hoof caught by Willis…

But unlucky Willis, was smacked upside the head by the other hoof… in a stunning enziguri. Willis, stunned, began to sway from side to side. Ruben saw his opportunity, and took it…

he hit a stiff toe kick to the stomach of Willis with his lucky green boot, and as Willis bent forwards he was locked in a DDT position… Ross tried to lift Willis, but didn’t get much altitude. Nonetheless, the climax was that Willis, already stunned by the enziguri, was driven face first into the mat.

Via? The Dance Of Death.

The referee started the count on the already slowly-rising Willis…

1!

2!

4!

5!

6!

7!

8!

9?

Maybe. But fuck ten, ten sucks.

Willis was up, spitting and cursing, and flailing his arms about as he charged towards Ruben. Ruben ducked the culminate clothesline, however, and as Willis stormed past the Black Plague managed to plant a superkick to the back of Willis’s skull. Willis didn’t go down, but instead turned and clobbered Ruben upside the head with a blistering right hand, then finally completing the clothesline he attempted some 20 seconds ago. Ross spiked into the mat, the fans jumping up in jubilation.

Willis, rather than allowing the official to make the count, instead hauled Ruben over to the railing and walloped him with three right hands and a nasty left uppercut. John finished by turning Ruben around, putting one hand between his legs and one on his shoulder, and turning him upside-down. With an almighty heave, Willis then planted the FAR smaller man head-and-neck-first with a death-defying Michinoku Driver.

Rather than leave it there however, Willis proceeded to pick up Ruben by his short hair… Willis was smiling with bloodstained teeth. Gripping the Black Plague in his humungous arms, Willis swung Ruben in a brutish bear hug. After shaking him quite violently, he then slammed the Superstar into the cage rim not once…

CRACK!

CRACK!

CRACK!

Yes, count them. Three times. Ross should really have had a broken spine, but, these wrestlers… y’know?

Still not satisfied, Willis once again raised Ross before throwing him to the mat with an earthquake-inducing Front-slam.

“Count him. It’s fucking O-V-E-R.” Willis commanded, beginning to smirk.

1!

2!

3!

4!

5!

6!

7!

8!

9!

Te…

Ten?

TEN!?

NO.

Ross had a hand above the cage, gripping with all of his might… hanging on just long enough to stop the count.

Despite the bone-bending combination from the Terror, Ross managed to slap certain defeat in the face and keep on moving. And the fans… were pissed.

Willis, undeniably miserably, pulled Ross up, and once again locked him in the firm grasp of his arms. Willis pushed up under Ross’s frame, and suspended him high in the air… almost seven and a half feet from the ground. This time, via a gorilla press, Ruben was once again hurled into the cage, and landed in an upturned position with his neck twisted at a very odd angle.

1!

2!

3!

4!

5!

6!

7!

8!

9…

You’re fucking kidding me.

I’m not kidding you.

Yes you are.

No… Ruben Ross got up before the ten count, and despite being dazed, battered and bruised… he was ready to fight. Ruben quickly made his first move, using his intelligence advantage over his Neanderthal-like opponent, throwing a dummy punch to elude JCW’s balance. As Willis looked back up, Ross threw a fist towards the big man’s face… but, luckily for Willis, he had the speed to duck the punch and plant a fist of his own square on Ross’s teeth.

Ross tried to shrug off the blow, but whilst he was processing his damage Willis threw a mighty boot into the young man’s stomach. Willis slammed Ruben into the standing headscissors and signalled for it…

“LAMB

TO

THE

SLAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAUUUUUUUUUUUUGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHTER!!!”

Willis threw Ross up over one shoulder, and ran forwards… before THUNDERING Ross head-first into the mat with a vicious Ganso Bomb. It was over. Willis got to his feet, leaving the crippled Ross in a heap, his neck twisted at a vile angle and his feet practically touching his nose.

“Just make the fucking count, I’m out of here.” Willis hissed.

No count was made.

Willis turned, and had three simultaneous heart attacks and an epileptic fit… the referee was lying on the floor, knocked out. In actuality, Ross had craftily smacked the referee in the face with the heel of his boot on the way up in the Lamb to the Slaughter… a veteran heel, wrestling manoeuvre.

“ARGH! ARGGGGGHHHHHHHH!” Willis screamed, spitting and snarling. The fans counted as one, as did the commentators… but it didn’t matter. They reached fourteen. It didn’t matter. Willis hadn’t won.

With an exasperated look on his gnarled face, Willis began to pull Ross to his feet… but then, he noticed something out of the corner of his eye…

JEFF GARVIN, standing on the apron.

Willis let out an animalistic roar as he dropped Ross back down and charged, like a raging bull, towards his second enemy. Garvin hopped over the mesh and turned to face Willis, but just as Willis was about to emaciate the Original, John saw a shimmer of metal…

Garvin pulled an iron pipe out of his tights, and clubbed it across Willis’s temples. Willis dropped to one knee, blood streaming down his face… as Garvin drove ANOTHER blistering pipe shot into Willis’s skull, knocking the big man to the canvas. Garvin helped Ross get to his feet, as the fans showered the ring with trash.

“ASS-HOLES!”

“ASS-HOLES!”

“ASS-HOLES!”

“ASS-HOLES!”

“ASS-HOLES!”

Ross leaned back against the cage with a smug, yet somehow intoxicated look on his face. Garvin stepped back outside, as the referee woozily administered the count…

1!

2!

3!

4!

5!

6!

7!

…

8!

…

9!

…

…

…?

WILLIS WAS BACK UP.

Ross’s face was the picture of astonishment, his eyes wide with disbelief and his bloodied mouth agape. Willis faltered around torpidly, but with a brief shake of his head Willis seemed to be back in the game.

“WILL-ISS!”

“WILL-ISS!”

“WILL-ISS!”

“WILL-ISS!”

“WILL-ISS!”

The fans cheered and stomped their feet for their hero and TFZ Champion…

Willis barrelled forth into Ross, attempting a clothesline. However, Ruben was slightly more awake that his 315lb counterpart and was able to duck the arm, slipping behind Willis and attempting a neckbreaker. Willis wasn’t about to let that happen though, and elbowed Ruben away from him… Willis turned around and aimed a kick to The Black Plague’s midsection, but Ross caught the foot and swung John around…

NO.

Oh, god no… the fans were screaming, begging for mercy.

As Ruben Ross… had locked on the Reverse Chinlock.

He spun, he SPIKED THE RATINGS.

Ross hopped to his feet, content that Willis was NOT coming back this time. The referee made the last count of the match…

1!

2!

3!

4!

5!

6!

7!

8!

…

9!

…

…

…

TEN!

TEN!?

TEN!

TEN!?

NO.

Willis had his hand above the railing, he was pulling him back up… there was NOT a ten count.

John C. Willis had SURVIVED the Ratings Spike.

The fans were on their feet, screaming so loud that they were drowning out even the COMMENTATORS, as Willis looked to carry on his onslaught. He spat out another tooth and a huge globule of blood, before slowly and gradually making his way towards Ross, who was absolutely and totally horrified by this point.

Willis, practically a walking corpse by this point, swung a right fist towards Ross. Ruben ducked once again, but this time Willis shot a kick backwards to catch Ruben in the stomach.

Ross hunched over holding his abdomen, allowing Willis to set up the Black Plague for a DDT…

But Ruben grabbed onto Willis’s arm and yanked his own head free, ducking under the arm and using it to pull Willis down once more…

BOOS.

BOOS, BOOS, BOOS, and the RATINGS SPIKE. This time, Willis’s face landed SQUARE on the pipe. Ross got to his feet and slumped in the opposite corner to his opponent…

1!

2!

3!

4!

5!

6!

7!

8!

…

…

9!

…

...

10!

10!

10!

The bell rang. Ruben sighed a breath of relief, whilst Willis rolled over onto his stomach and clutched at his face.

So… it was 2-2. Stranglehold and The Zone were tied.

They had to go to a fifth and final bout.

The scene change went to Miles Blunder’s locker room, as he sat on the floor in front of the bench, rolled up in a ball. He was scared... terribly scared. Steve Christ had taken it upon himself to book a Four-Way Ladder Match for the UK Championship tonight... and Joe Campbell agreed to it.

What luck.

This time in ‘The Germ Gestapo’s’ hand, he did not hold his Windex. Instead, he held a poster promoting this Ladder Match with all of their mugs on it. It just hung from his hand too, as he dug his face deeper and deeper into his legs... trying to think of a way out.

But there was no way out of this one... and add on the fact that all three of them would want to seek revenge upon Miles’ actions from the past Sunday Show, this was more than likely going to be the worst night of his career.

So there he sat... rolled up in a ball, praying once more for just a little bit of luck.

For his mind could only backtrack... remembering when he fought .desolate... remembering when he fought DVD... remembering when he fought Nicole Carson and Faith in a Triple Threat Match...

“God.” He sighed, lifting his head to look at the Pain poster in his hand. “Those Matches were nothing compared to this.”

He threw a small fit, crushing the paper into his fist as he stood up and looked down at the bench, tipping it over as it made a loud smack against the floor.

There he stood again... breathing heavy, as Miles looked to the ceiling and placed his hands on his head, as if begging God for a final time to get him out of this Match.

Then kicking the crushed up poster against the side of the wall, Blunder fell to the floor and wrapped himself into that tiny little ball again.

Staying in this position was the best he could do.

The door to Chris Universal's office slammed open, and tumbling through it... came "No Way Out" Dez Aargon.

Clutching his head, as blood poured down from it into his face.

"Jesus! What happened Aragon?" Universal cried, leaping out of his seat and rushing forth.

"I don't fucking know... I was fixing up to break Campbell's legs, and then someone clocked me... and well... he got away." Aragon grunted, blood still pouring from between his fingers.

Universal's mouth dropped open.

"HE GOT... AWAY? WHA... WHO THE HELL DID THIS?" He roared.

"Well, it was dark... but he looked like..." Aragon uttered, still rubbing his head.

"Like who? Come on!" Universal cried.

"Like Ross." Dez replied, looking up with concern in his face.

"That son of a bitch." Universal snarled "Right... you find Campbell, I'll deal with Ross."

"What about my match?" Dez said, slowly making his way out of the room.

"Shit... well, win the match... then find Campbell!" Universal bellowed, as Aragon left toward the Asylum.

"You'll pay for this Ruben." Universal sneered to himself, as he made his way out of the room in search of the Black Plague.

The white hat. A symbol of goodness, prosperity, honor, dignity. The fight will always be the good fight, at least for that white hat. And no matter the war that is waged, the man under that hat will survive to wipe the dust away from the fabric and walk on to another day, another fight.

To the Asylum's fans, the people that enjoyed the stringent violence that the promotion provided... the white hat was Ricky Wasp. Funny that the white man was the antithesis in the real world -- the blackest of black hats -- but to the Asylum, Wasp was a hero.

Biggs Dangsta, the Asylum's black hat. Part of a gang of black hats. He was so evil, to these fans of fighting, that his skin color was just an outreaching of that hat. To himself, to those who had been wrestling, to anyone who's skin color was the opposite of his KKK-member enemy, though, he was a white hat. A sparkling new one.

But... the sides are your own to choose. As so many already have.

"Ambitions As A Ridah" by 2Pac. A fallen hero. Biggs Dangsta entered, and he stared down at his enemy's domain, the Asylum's cage. The lights shining bright, the sweat on the mat, soaked in, mixing light and dark colors in a warped colorblind camouflage around the center skull.

He shook his head, sweat already having built up, sending it soaring down onto the metal of the ramp. The night was going to be long, was going to be bloody and painful...

But, at the same time, there would be joy in the three words that he planned to have the racist fucker say.

So Biggs walked down, and entered the foreign world of the Asylum.

The moment he did, though, 2Pac's hip-hop sermon ended.

And "The Shawshank Redemption" began to play... only to fade.

A lone man, in the white cloth of a cult group of evangelists against mixed races, strolled out, a heavy brass cross hung around the neck, clutching the fabric around it.

He stopped at the bottom. Bowed his cloak-covered head.

And, instead of "The Shawshank Redemption", things got a little... Disturbed.

"Prayer".

The Asylum fans exploded. It was a purely religious moment, where the answer to their prayers was coming through a curtain, and into the light of his home.

Ricky Wasp, alone, appeared. His pale white skin was shining under the oil and the spotlights.

He saw Biggs. And a sickly smile appeared on his face, the kind one gives when Tom Green or Jackass passes beyond good taste. He took steps, strides, towards the Asylum.

Respecting Biggs was the last thing on his mind.

Ressurrecting a lynching was foremost.

He entered the Asylum.

A bell rang.

And so, the white hats and the black hats were thrown out the window, into the breeze, and all that was left was gray. Soon to be mixed with red.

For a moment, neither man made a movement. Biggs had one hand held absently on the chain-link mesh that surrounded the two, and his eyes were staring, conceding nothing, no fear. He was staring into Ricky Wasp. Ricky stood tall, a lighter man the same size.

Biggs crouched down -- and rushed forward. Clipping Ricky's knee, wrapping around as his momentum pushed him behind, throwing Ricky backwards against the mesh, the rattle of steel resounding bit by bit through every seat. First move -- Biggs. He climbed atop Ricky, straddling him, and cracked his knuckles. He threw one punch, than two. His fist went up, and came down, making a violence arch.

But Ricky caught his hand on the fifth arch, and pushed him off-balance. The next thing Biggs knew, the white man was on his feet, and Biggs was on his side -- then there was a boot in his stomach. Phlegm shot out from the recesses of his throat. Everything went a little bit dark, but then the lights regained their brightness. He felt himself being lifted, being thrown against the mesh. He could feel the sound of Ricky's boots slamming against the canvas.

So he moved.

And the One Man Klan slammed against the link, the chink playing the role of an unforgiving bastard.

He fell back, a bit woozy. Clutching his shoulder. Biggs pounced, rattling Ricky's head with a swift bulldog, holding on until he felt a few bumps against the floor. He spun onto his stomach, onto Ricky's back, and clutched in a front facelock. Well, it was a rest move, but the fact was, Biggs needed some thinking time.

He didn't get any. He felt the vibrations of Ricky's lungs as the man let out a primal roar. He found himself on this gigantic man's shoulders, all 329 pounds of him being held as handily as perhaps a woman's wrestler would in the grips of this Anglo-Saxon Protestant. He was seeing the other end of the Asylum get distant very quickly.

And then, he was spinning. The lights were there, there was the floor -- the lights again -- the floor. He saw the floor when he landed outside the Asylum, his body making sickening thumps as he bounced and rolled on the cement. He held his head as he woke up out of an inner monologue, mainly curse words and several different definitions of pain running through his head.

He saw a shadow.

He saw the shadow jump.

And he felt Ricky Wasp's elbow connect with his sternum. Biggs sputtered again with the shot, and Wasp was quick to grab him and lift him up, throwing him into the exterior of the mesh. He dragged Biggs over to it, threw his head against it, and picked up his body and threw it like it was made of rags.

Each time, Biggs felt a sting.

Ricky left the man, and he fell into a heap. The racist beast walked around the floor, looking for something to maim Biggs with.

He decided on, of all things, a wrestling weapon.

A steel chair.

He smiled when he picked it up. He'd never actually used one before, and this would be like losing some type of virginity. He turned and ran towards the mesh --

-- To find himself running towards a pair of boots flying towards his face. He ducked, and Biggs landed behind him. Reacting like a cougar, Biggs spun around, facing Ricky's back, grabbed Ricky's hands, and brought the chair into his own face.

You could say Ricky Wasp lost his steel-chair virginity in a form of his own violent masturbation.

The shot itself left Ricky woozy. He dropped the chair, and Biggs picked it up.

"Alright... let's see... do I hurt you like this?"

*CRANG!* He brought the chair in a diagnol manner across the side of Ricky's head. Ricky stumbled onto one knee.

"Naw."

*CRANG!* Now the shot was right on top of Ricky's head.

*CRANG!* And to the other side of the his head.

"Whadda ya say, honkey? Had enough?... Do you... respect me?"

"... Fuck you, nigger." Wasp muttered.

Biggs eyes swelled. And the chair went straight into the face of Birmingham's least-favorite boy -- outside of their multitude of Asylum fans.

Biggs threw the chair into the Asylum, and then stopped in front of Ricky.

He jabbed Ricky in the face. His fist brought back inklings of blood slipping between his knuckles. He did it again. More and more, Ricky's nose brought blood upon the fist of Biggs.

And he loved it.

He grabbed Ricky by his short-stalk hair and threw him into the Asylum's exterior mesh. He picked the boy up and tossed him back into the thing. He climbed onto the top of it... and dropped a knee into Ricky's abdomen. Ricky squirmed after the hit connected, rolling onto his stomach, clutching it tightly.

Biggs got back onto his feet, and slapped the end of his boot against the small of Ricky's back. Ricky squirmed again.

He then grabbed Biggs's leg, and bit into it.

Biggs screamed. The little worm! The little white cornbread-stealing worm! He had bit him!

Biggs was defiantly angry. He tore his leg away -- bringing blood free-floating through the arena air, the recycled nitrogen-oxygen mix quickly giving it a rusty aged odor. The splats across the mat went like breadcrumbs following Hansel and Gretel.

Ricky, in this case, must be the witch. He got to his feet -- a bit woozy, his back shooting fluroescent tubes of pain through his front and back sides -- and charged at Biggs, tackling him right into the Asylum mesh. He roared, lifted, and Biggs was sitting on the top of the cage now, jarred and lost from the spear.

Burning Cross.

And Biggs toppled like a Trade Center. He crash-landed on the outside, back where he had just escaped from. And he heard air rip as a man jumped into the air with about all the might he could muster.

He was on his hands and knees when Ricky's body collapsed him back down to the cement.

Ricky grabbed Biggs by either side of his head, and began to slam it right into the floor, over and over again. He was laughing.

"Respect... RESPECT! YOU'VE GOT TO HAVE THE FUCKING RESPECT!"

He took one hand and tore Biggs onto his back. Ricky's back, not Biggs.

"Because, nigger... no matter how much you get... THE WHITE MAN MARCHES ON!"

Ricky launched himself backwards.

And Biggs locked an arm in front of Ricky's face. The smell of sweat made Ricky practically weep as Biggs's armpit was right on his nose. But he didn't notice it for long. The two of them hit the outside of the Asylum mesh at maximum speed. And both fell to unconsciousness.

Neither got up. Not for a while. They just laid there, exhausted, half-dead. Maybe one was travelling through the innards of their mind, trying to reassemble whatever was left. Which had to be, at this point, not much.

It was Biggs who got up first. He got up for a few seconds, took one falsely secure step forward, and fell to his knees. The colors were all so... colorful. No white among them.

He gave a half a smile.

It all seemed to go into slow motion then, for a second. At least for him. He could've sworn that he felt someone's arms wrapping behind him... being lifted in the air, the muted sounds of the crowd roaring for bloodshed, evil, horror, the worst in all people, anything and everything they could get to see on a night like tonight... he barely remembered that it was almost the New Year as he reached the top of his ascent...

And then found himself hurtling at about two frames a second towards a massive concussion as his head cracked against the floor.

"AW! FUCK!" he screamed.

Sensible words. Especially for a man who's brains turned to mush in the same moment.

Ricky stalked after his prey and lifted Biggs up. He placed him on his shoulders, and began to take him through the crowd.

Some idiot began to chant "Ee-See-Dub! Ee-See-Dub!" and was promptly shitkicked by the fans around him.

Ricky lifted Biggs off his shoulders, gorilla pressing him. He kept a man some 40 pounds heavier than him above his head for a few seconds.

Only to collapse. To fall under the weight. His strength had been sapped for the moment, and he ended up falling onto the steps that he had just walked up, with a 329 pound black man landing on top of him. The only man that would want those words to be said about his current situation would be... Pat Patterson. But, to regress. Besides that thought, something else was happening.

Someone tossed a beer at Biggs' head as he got up. Then another one.

"nig-ger... nig-ger..." a few chanted.

And they descended upon him like vultures on the dead. Were racist fans attacking Biggs Dangsta for his race?

That was put to rest when the crowd stopped chanting one word and started using initials.

"Tee-A! TEE-A! TEE-A!" They were chanting, a cult that had followed this group of miscontents and outcasts since their outlandish beginning. And now that they could help the threat be stopped, they were.

Someone had brought a skillet. It was grabbed by one fan, who appeared to be a Hell's Angel or a ZZ Top member who was taking steroids, and brought down on Biggs's head with furious anger and great vengeance. Biggs fell down. And many fans followed. At this point, arena security showed up. They began to tear at the fans, pulling them apart, trying to get them off of this wrestler.

Biggs did manage to escape, running down the steps, out of the crowd, back into the ground level area. He jumped clear over the Asylum wall, where he fell into the mesh and took deep breaths.

Ricky was getting a little awake. He was getting to his feet a few seconds after. As he got up, he looked down to the Asylum. Biggs was down there... weak... easy to make respect. A little ass-kicking, a little nigger-hating... not too tough.

But then someone kicked out the back of his knee. He yowled in pain.

"STRANGLE-HOLD! STRANGLE-HOLD!" this one man yelled. Another man joined him, and the two of them began to kick and stomp at the fallen superracist.

And then they were tackled by an Asylum fan. A few more broke through arena security, and they formed a wall around Ricky, bracing themselves for battle.

Helm's Deep? Immigrants vs. Nativists? The Clones vs. The Battle Droids?

Fuck 'em all. Here's a battle to remember. Asylum fans vs. Wrestling fans.

The two tore into each other, seats being torn out in the upper levels and being tossed at each side. Skillets were everywhere all of a sudden. It was wrestling vs. fighting once again, this time between the fans. Fistfights everywhere. People with 21w shirts, fWo shirts, PIW shirts, PCW shirts, OSW... nearly every major wrestling promotion, were facing the mass of black skull-shirts.

Somewhere, a punk with a money symbol mohawk was getting his head shaved.

And some idiot pulled a fire alarm. But, oh, no one heard it, because the sound technician decided that the chaos in the main arena area needed special music. And, of course, what else would wrestling and fighting fans be doing... but "Working For The Weekend"?

"EVERYBODY'S GOING OFF THE DEEP END~! EVERYBODY NEEDS A SECOND CHANCE! YOU WANT A PIECE OF MY HEART... YOU BETTER START AT THE START!"

Somewhere, a homosexual fan was shaking his fanny to the song. But, otherwise, the battle was going on strong, and arena security was quickly being joined by patrolling officers. The insanity was getting higher and higher... Stranglehold supporters had stopped chanting "Strangle-Hold!", now they were choosing their respective promotions... it was getting dizzy and things barely made much sense. The Asylum fans pressed on, leaving bodies on the stands, blasting through everyone, not caring if they were an authoritical figure or not.

They're fans of the fucking Asylum... why would they?

Ricky, in the midst of this, had gotten down through the crowd, taking a few fWo fans down with him. Getting over the barricades, he walked towards the cage. It was time to fight. It was time to kill. Maim. Destroy.

He got down into the Asylum, and Biggs was on his feet.

But... Biggs was being deceived. He was watching the man the same size as him, but didn't notice the much-smaller man climbing in behind him. The one dressed in nothing but white.

This man had removed that heavy brass cross he was carrying... and he had it leveled for Biggs.

He ran forward.

Biggs ducked at the perfect moment.

And the man kept on running, jumped, and swung the cross baseball-bat style into Ricky's face, tearing his cheek open. Blood poured down, Ricky fell back. His eyes were wide with shock.

The man turned around to see Biggs clenched fist flying at his face.

BAM!

Knocked the fuck out! The Non-Hypnosis way.

Biggs picked up the long-laid chair on the canvas. Biggs swung the chair, and again, nearly tossing the thing out of his hands as he swatted it into Ricky's chest. Blood went shooting everywhere as all the breath was forced out of Ricky's body.

Biggs picked up a chair and decided to make it go "clang" against the top of Ricky's head.

Ricky didn't yowl, didn't say anything.

Instead, his eyes seemed to glow.

Biggs had the chair again. He hit Ricky's head the same way he did before, only harder.

And Ricky pulled himself up.

”What the fuck?” Biggs said backing up slowly. "The fucker's a zombie, practically." Biggs swung for the fences, and Ricky went back one step, then two... and then launched forward, taking both men off their feet. Ricky tore the cloth from Biggs’ body, leaving him in his Stranglehold shirt and baggy jeans. He took the cloth, wrapped it around Biggs’ neck, and picked him right up into the air.

"Lynching time!" Ricky said. He held Biggs there for about ten seconds, the man clawing and catching his breath every few seconds. Ricky heard a tear from the shirt and he dropped him.

After a short maniacal laugh he picked Biggs up again, clear off the ground, with his bare hands.

Biggs coughed and gagged…

His eyes begun to get woozy…so he kicked…and kicked…

…the kicks got weaker…Biggs saw something. A white light and his own hand reaching for it.

The Asylum fans cheered louder as they saw Biggs reaching out to nothing, and it was the cheering that led him back to consciousness.

He looked down at Wasp and kicked him again, and again, and harder. Biggs kicked until he nailed Wasp square in his family jewels, then lifted up his knee into Ricky’s jaw. Ricky dropped Biggs and the two backed up to their own corner to catch a breather.

This left it down to Biggs and Ricky once more, to stare at each other.

And it led to tore into each other like the match was just beginning. Punches, palm strikes, knees to the ribs, throws, everything you could imagine was exchanged in about thirty seconds. It ended with Ricky on top of the heap, Biggs hunkered into one of the supposed corners of the Asylum, Ricky walking towards him with a greed and pathological hatred in his eyes. This would be the end, would it not?

No. Biggs threw his foot forward, hitting Ricky’s exposed crotch again. Ricky fell to his knees.

Biggs swung his foot forward once more, and Ricky went flying onto his back. Biggs stumbled forward, and covered Ricky for the pin.

Only, well... he had forgotten something.

"This isn't a wrestling match, IDIOT!" A fighting fan screamed.

Biggs looked up at him, his eyes glazed over a bit. He shook it away. He grabbed the chair again, instead. And he dropped it on Ricky's face. Then he climbed up to the Asylum's top, and jumped...

Legdrop. Chair. Face. Blood. Shed. Quickly. Fluently. Stomping. Repeatedly. Blood.

Multiplies.

Biggs threw the chair off of Ricky, climbed over him, looked into the man's closed eyes.

"Say that you respect me, bitch."

No movement from Ricky.

"Say it. SAY IT! SAY IT! SAY IT!" Biggs screamed. "DAMN YOU AND YOUR GODDAMNED SUPREMACIST ARYAN RACE, YOU MOTHERFUCKER! YOU RESPECT ME! SAY IT! FUCK YOU, SAY IT! WAKE UP!"

Ricky's eyes popped open.

Biggs smiled.

This was it.

Ricky's hand clenched Biggs's around the throat. Then his other hand did the same.

Fuck.

From the ground, Ricky sat up, clutching Biggs, and got to his feet. Biggs went only a few inches off the ground, but it was enough.

"Say... you... respect me..." Biggs asked, trying to regain his breath.

"..." Ricky made a syllable... maybe two... but then two other syllables took the attention away. Biggs lowered his ear to listen to it. “Fu-

Fuck you nigger.”

That was it.

He pulled out his knife. Carnage's knife, at one time, and this one, now carved with the symbol of Stranglehold. He looked at his bare chest, with the giant scar that Carnage left him at Immortals. Biggs’ eyes glistened, with the lights reflecting off his eyes into the giant blade.

He dropped to his knees. His eyes were bloodshot, there were swells and dried blood all over his face.

But this was all he could do.

“Fucking say it Ricky or I’ll cut out your heart.” Biggs threatened. He pressed the knife against Ricky’s heart. Ricky opened his eyes in response to the cold steel pressing against him.

“…”

“I’ll do it mother fucker!”

Ricky said nothing. Only for him to finally scream a warcry as Biggs stabbed down…

…hitting the Asylum ground. Biggs breathed hard and looked at himself in the reflection. He pulled the knife out and slashed Ricky twice, deeply on his chest, one across his chest from pec to pec, and one down from his upper pec to his belly button.

A cross.

Ricky screamed under the pain and adrenaline burst through him. Blood smeared over the two he pushes Biggs off, the knife flying. The two, both on the ground, look at each other, than the knife, than each other one last time before both lunging towards it.

Biggs grabbed it by the handle only to have Ricky stomp on his fingers. Ricky picked up the knife and as Biggs got on his knees he kicks Biggs across the face having him flip onto his stomach.

Ricky mounts himself onto Biggs’ chest and punches him repeatedly until Biggs sees stars.

Ricky pulls the knife high in the air and stabs down!

“AHHHHHH!” Biggs screamed.

With one hand on Ricky’s wrist and his head slanted sideways, he pushes the force sideways only to have the stab barely miss him. Ricky pulls Biggs’ hand off his arm and pulls back up and stabs downwards again. With another scream, from both men this time, Biggs’ grabs Ricky’s hands, with the knife slowly going downwards his throat.

Biggs thought, Is he going to ask if I’d respect him? And he realized that Ricky wasn’t there for respect, he was there for murder.

The knife inched slowly until it reached Biggs’ throat. With eyes closed, his mouth opened wide with pain as blood trickled from the tip.

Wasp grinned widely however it disappeared as his arms slowly begun to bend back up.

Ricky used more of his weight to push it down, but Biggs groaned and the blade handle, with both his hands swung up hitting Ricky in the nose knocking him off Biggs.

Biggs quickly rolled to his stomach and scrambled towards the loose knife. Ricky kicks him in the face as he crawls, however, Biggs grabs it. Ricky gets a hand on a chair and he swings it sideways as Biggs, catching him in mid-lunge.

Ricky slowly gets to his feet, his eyes dazed from the loss of blood. He walked over to Biggs and looked down, he reaches over to pick up Biggs only to have him jump up and tackle Ricky down, with knife in face.

"... Say it." Biggs whispered. "I want you to say it..."

"... I'd rather a nigger kill me than me respect one."

"Oh, would you...?"

"... I'd rather have anyone kill me."

"... You would?"

Biggs pulled the knife away. He got to his feet. He stared at this fallen man, who had just faced death... and had simply said he would rather die than be forced to respect someone he didn't. Biggs looked around, fans on their feet with eyes wide for death. He closed his eyes for a brief moment, and in that brief moment something in him changed.

... "I respect you."

And he did.

A bell rang.

The "gang" war had stopped in the moment Biggs had said those words. It was over between Biggs Dangsta and Ricky Wasp. Biggs dropped the knife. He kicked it towards Ricky.

"But, Ricky.... I do feel the same way. Go ahead. Kill me if you want."

Ricky looked down at the blade. This was the one that had sliced him earlier. He could feel the faded scars on his face, throbbing as if there were the brand-new pain a month or so ago that they had been.

He shook his head. He kicked the knife aside.

And held out a hand.

"AHHHHHHHHHHHYOUSONOFABITCH!" someone yelled. It was Richard Williams.

He raced down. Hopped over the Asylum's mesh, and grabbed the knife. He charged towards Biggs, who tripped him easily. He clutched Richard's hand, pulled the knife away.

And police barraged the ring. Coming from their spots in the stands, from behind the curtain, they rushed in, grabbing the knife from Biggs and throwing him to the ground. One pulled out handcuffs. And Biggs, in a short few moments, had come from respect to arrest.

But why?

There was a clapping sound from the curtain. Slow, complete, echoing claps. Out stepped Joe Campbell. One man was down, one Stranglehold member was gone. He had been waiting for this. A win against the damn hyenas. And, it had all paid off.

He looked towards Ricky. Who shot him a thumbs up. Joe came down to the Asylum.

"Told you I wouldn't screw you." Ricky said as Joe entered it.

"You'll get what you want before you know it." Joe replied.

They shook hands.

And Joe Campbell looked down at Biggs, and smirked. “Did you really fucking think you would get the benefits my fighters get? You’ll never be a part of the Asylum. Only those on my payroll are able to kill each other you dumb nobody.” Joe spat on Biggs. "Take that piece of shit away."

The police did as they were told, and Joe walked to the back, following the envoy, with Ricky... leaving Mr. Williams, Ricky's father, to stand, confused, in the middle of the Asylum.

As lost as the entire crowd was.

It. Was. Time.

Faith was seen in her locker room, as she jumped up and down throwing rights and lefts.

She was ready.

Steve Christ’s locker room was seen, as he threw hard right handed uppercuts while swearing immensely.

He was ready.

Token Weed’s locker room came into play... as he stood from his bench and walked to his locker room door, only to punch the side of the wall, shocking the Crowd.

He was ready.

Then Miles Blunder’s locker room was seen... but the thing was, he wasn’t even there.

Well, until the camera panned down.

And he was still rolled up into that tiny little ball.

He was ready?

Regardless, the first theme song cued up in the Arena.

“The Other Man” by Sloan.

But Miles Blunder didn’t come out. The Fans even stood to boo him... waiting to get rid of their trash as he would walk down the entrance... but nothing happened. The camera then changed to his locker room again, however, not only did the cameraman lay on the floor... but the camera did too, with Windex covering them both, as Miles Blunder was once again positioned in the middle of his own locker room, rolled up into that little ball. The Commentators were dumbfounded... but it wasn’t too hard to figure out that Miles had taken the camera and cameraman down when the scene was in the ring.

The guy’s in the truck just shrugged, playing the next theme song on tap.

“Halo” by Soil. Out marched Token Weed. The Fans stood and they booed, as Token rolled into the ring, waiting for the next theme music to sound. Then it did. “Heresy” by Nine Inch Nails began... and the people boomed up out of their seats, cheering for by far their favorite fighter in the upcoming Match.

“Thou shalt not fuck with...

Steve Christ.”

He came out to a massive pop, as Christ stormed down the pathway, past the ladder and into the ring. He didn’t wait either... and nor did he care to. Going right after Token Weed, Christ tackled him to the floor, starting to hammer his boots down upon him. The Fans screamed each time he did this, only to hurl Weed into the ropes and eject him out of the ring via a hip toss.

“CHRIST! CHRIST! CHRIST!”

For the third coming had arrived.

And now the forth and final member of this puzzle would be called out. The UK Champion...

Faith. Her theme song cued over the PA as she walked out to a fair pop... it wasn’t one that a Steve Christ would get, but it was a nice response regardless. She saluted the Crowd as she walked down the pathway, only to get to the ladder... and stop?

WHACK!

“Fu- fu- fu- fuck y- you... BITCH!”

Miles Blunder. Steel chair in hand.

He smiled at his handiwork, only to begin to ascend his eyes and find Steve Christ watching him in the middle of the ring. Christ didn’t look to happy... in fact, he smiled an evil smile... one that scared Blunder right out of his madness. One that put him right back into his nervous one.

Gulp.

Steve Christ took charge, sliding out of the ring, as Miles Blunder just stood there... a froze figure now asking for his.

Christ ran to him... but stopped once he got there. He looked at the dangling chair that ‘The Germ Gestapo’ held. He slowly reached across, taking the chair from his left hand without any trouble at all.

“FUCK YOU!”

Pop.

SMACK!

Down went MB.

“CHRIST! CHRIST! CHRIST!”

The Referee ran out of the ring too, as Christ walked over to Faith, picking up her fallen body as he unlatched the UK Championship around her waist, and shoved it into the Referee’s gut. “There you go fucker. NOW HANG IT!”

“CHRIST! CHRIST! CHRIST!”

The Ref rolled back into the ring, and began to do as told, hanging up the UK Championship.

On the outside Steve Christ stood... over all three opponents. He then grabbed the ladder and began to walk towards the ring... however, he was stopped. Token Weed had shot to his feet and wheel kicked the ladder into Christ’s face. ‘The Third Coming’ fell as the Crowd booed, surprised by what just happened... and Token Weed ran up to the top ring rope.

Only to dive off, landing an elbow into Christ’s face.

“BBBOOOOOO!!”

The ladder bounced up and down with Christ’s body, as Weed took it and slipped into the ring... only to set up the ladder under the now hung Championship Title... and attempt to climb, taking a shot to retrieve what was once his.

Enter Faith.

Who ran her shoulder into the ladder.

“HOLY SHIT! HOLY SHIT! HOLY SHIT!”

But Token didn’t just fall to the floor... instead, he fell out of the ring. He fell to the ground as he rolled up against the side of the guardrail... not moving, nor able to. He was down and out because of that... and now it was Faith’s turn to climb.

Halfway up, she was also halted.

By Steve Christ.

Christ grabbed her tights, as they pulled down just enough to get a quick shot of her bottom, while Faith fell to the mat with authority soon after. The Fans all cheered, as Christ looked on and put a hand over top of his privates.

“I’m turned the fuck on!”

They went wild. And so, he climbed.

“CHRIST! CHRIST! CHRIST!”

Christ reached up... but he was just a little too short. He took another step up the ladder... but to everyone’s shock and surprise, they did not see Token Weed regather himself on the floor... nor did they see him climb the turnbuckle and wait for the right time to strike.

Now, was that time.

He landed a dropkick square in the chest.

Christ slammed against the mat right beside Faith, as Token Weed hit the mat across the way too... looking to be out for at least another minute.

Then, suddenly, on the outside a body rose. It was Miles Blunder. He not only rose... he looked fully recovered from the Steve Christ chair shot from some time ago. The Fans booed at seeing this, as Miles Blunder and his blue and green eyes, almost fell out of their sockets comic book style, seeing that everyone was down in the ring... and the ladder, was still...

Up.

“Dear... God...”

Very silently, like a stealth soldier, Miles walked to the apron and got into the ring... only to look around him and take a big gulp. There they were... all three of them, still knocked out.

They hadn’t seen him just yet.

So as quietly as possible, Blunder placed his right foot on the first step of the ladder, and climbed. The Fans all stood, trying to awaken Steve Christ or someone to their feet. This was going to be a robbery they didn’t want to see... and they’d even take a little Token Weed ass kicking over a Miles Blunder victory.

Blunder got halfway up, as his foot almost slipped from trying to focus too much on the climb.

It did, though, make a noise... and that’s when ‘The Germ Gestapo’ feared for the worst.

Looking on the mat again... to his surprise, everyone was still knocked out.

Miles breathed a sigh of relief, as he once again started to climb the ladder... the Fans all stood by now, yelling at the top of their lungs to wake anyone up... but all three others had suffered a good deal of impact already, no matter how quick into this Match that it was.

Blunder was almost there, too, so he reached. He prayed for it...closing his eyes as he felt a breeze glide throughout his fingers.

He looked up.

He was one step away.

He took that step, reached out... and couldn’t help but think that he was now a second away from becoming noticed.

That’s when he slipped off the ladder.

The Fans cheered like never before in this Match, as Miles Blunder thumped on the mat, only to get up and begin to cry. “MOTHER FUCKER!” He screamed as he ran into the ropes, kicking them as hard as he possibly could. “MOTHER FUCKING MOTHER FUCKER!!”

He had the Match won. His prayers had come true.

But he misjudged his timing... he thought about it too much, and that’s when the nervous kicked in... that’s when he slipped.

“FUCKER!!!” Blunder screamed for all it was worth once more... but then he stopped. Then he looked around. Then he saw that Faith, Token Weed... and Steve Christ were still knocked out!

He had one more chance!

He had one more chance... and this time he’d make it count!

He climbed the ladder... as the Crowd stopped their cheering, only to yell in the direction of Christ, Faith and Token Weed to wake up and push the little germ freak off of the ladder. But for now that didn’t look possible, as Blunder took another step up, and reached for the Title.

The Fans popped.

Clearly that wasn’t for him... was it?

Poke.

Blunder felt something in the side of his leg.

He reluctantly looked down, ready to cry.

Steve Christ.

“GOD DAMN MOTHER FUCKING FUCKING MOTHER FUCKING GOD DAMN MOTHER FUCKING...

FFFUUUCCCKKK!!”

For once I think it was safe to say that Miles Blunder just showed a whole new world to Steve Christ, regarding the potty mouth.

‘The Third Coming’ grinned evilly. “Someone should wash your mouth out with fucking soap, germ freak.”

Smack.

And off of the ladder Miles Blunder went... along with his chances?

Not yet. Token Weed got up and drilled Christ out of the ring with a clothesline that sent the both of them to the mat. Weed then hurled Christ into the steel stairs, as Faith was the next to rise, and decided to set the ladder up in the corner, climbing it from there.

Once up she had two choices. Take out Miles Blunder in the middle of the ring... or try for a suicide diving leap at Token Weed on the outside... who wouldn’t see it coming.

“Ah. What the hell.”

She took off, nailing Token with a flying body press.

Both bodies whacked off the mat to a massive smack that was heard throughout the cheering, as Faith rolled around on the floor, literally screaming for some EMT’s to come down. And they came faster than ever before...

But as they rolled into the ring, taking the short cut instead of going around it, Miles Blunder had recovered... and started to beat them all up. “What a little brat.” was the slogan of this night, as Miles had destroyed all four of the EMT’s, while Faith still screamed on the outside like she was in some severe pain. And she was. The replay showed that she had jammed her hand into the floor as she fell, only to roll on it funny, adding even more insult to injury.

‘The Germ Gestapo’ walked around the ring, only to stop and spit into the Crowd from each corner of it. The Fans booed... nevertheless they could do nothing,. Miles Blunder had another chance in this Match... and hip tossing all four EMT’s out of the ring, to hear the hard drilling smack on the outside... this surely HAD to be the last chance that he would get.

He set up the ladder in the middle of the ring... and climbed it.

Wait... then there was Steve Christ.

He rolled in with a chair, clutching his right arm that had rammed itself into the steel stairs outside. Nonetheless, Christ threw the chair at Blunder’s knee... forcing him to fall off the ladder having it land on top of him. “FUCK YOU!” Steve shouted, only to slam MB with the chair again. “FFFUUUCCCKKK YOU!” The mock of Miles worked too... as the Fans broke into the loudest “CHRIST! CHRIST! CHRIST!” chant yet.

‘The Third Coming’ picked up the ladder and positioned it once more in the center of the ring.

He then ascended. The Crowd came to another halt though, as they told Steve Christ that Token Weed was entering the ring. And realizing he did not have enough time to take the Title Belt, Christ leapt off, waiting for Token to enter. Weed rushed in, only to duck a right hand from Christ and fire him with one of his own. Token took to the ropes but was caught with an outstanding powerslam that made the ring shake... and Christ stood on his feet... screaming into the Crowd.

“THOU SHALT NOT FUCK WITH STEVE CHRIST!”

‘Save Yourself’.

Though, for Token Weed... it was already too late.

Christ, once more, started to climb.

The entire battle around the ring was immense... as it finally looked to be over when Steve got to the second highest step, and reached out...

Low blow.

Somehow, someway... Token Weed still wanted it more than ever before.

Christ stayed on the ladder, as Weed ran around to the other end and quickly climbed it, shooting lefts and rights in the face of the former Extreme Champion, hoping that he would fall, but if not, Token was sure he would steal the Title Belt right in front of his eyes. He nailed Christ with another fist... and then one more... only to pull back his hand, and hit the hardest right he had done within mere months. Yet, Christ didn’t fall... the Fans cheered at that.

It made him want it all the more, too. Hearing all the calls from the people, ‘The Third Coming’ fired his own right hand back.

Thus it began... the battle on who was going to stand... and who was going to fall.

Right, Christ.... right, Token... right, Christ... right, Token...

“CHRIST! CHRIST! CHRIST!”

Christ... Token... Christ.... Token... Christ.... Token...

SSSMMMACK!

Faith, limp arm and all, rolled into the ring and pushed the ladder over... as both of them fell to the floor on the outside.

“HOLY SHIT! HOLY SHIT! HOLY SHIT!”

Even Faith couldn’t believe it.

She set up the ladder again, and decided to go up it... however, what she didn’t see, was a full awakened Miles Blunder on the mat below. He smirked as he dug into his shorts’ pocket and pulled out his mini spray bottle of Windex. And as the camera showed... the bottle was just big enough for one spray...

Miles stood. He wanted to make this one count.

God, unfortunately, gave him too many prayers in this one. He at least had to cash in one of them... right?

MB snuck under the ladder, as Faith was glancing up at the Title. He then positioned himself directly behind her. The Fans booed when Miles took his right arm up...

And demolished her with a right hand into her on private area.

The Fans screamed, booed, and tossed their garbage into the ring, as Faith took both hands to place them upon where she was hit... that’s when Blunder took the Windex with his left hand, and sprayed her in the eyes.

She fell off the ladder, directly to the floor beside him.

Then dusting his hands off as he threw the mini Windex bottle down, ‘The Germ Gestapo’ Miles Blunder started to climb.

Halfway... he reached. He just missed.

He took another step. He reached... he just missed again.

He took another step.

He reached.

He took the UK Title.

The Crowd kept booing as “The Other Man” by Sloan played... and Miles Blunder had his first official victory since Realm a literal year ago. He jumped off the ladder, only to see Steve Christ and Token Weed fighting in the middle of the pathway... and then he looked at Faith, who rolled on the mat, clutching her area with the blue Windex liquid rolling down her face.

He finally looked at his newly won Title.

His first ever Title.

His fist victory in the Asylum.

Sliding out of the ring, Blunder split past the fighting Steve Christ and Token Weed, straight to the back, to the exit door... and into his car, only to speed off down the road, forgetting his gym bag in his locker room... and forgetting to check out with Joe Campbell before he left.

He. Miles Blunder. Was a Champion.

And as the celebrating car honk could be heard while Blunder drove off into the distance, the scene changed to show Faith once more... with new EMT’s attending to her.

Ricky Wasp, walking amongst the fighters and the wrestlers. Not bothering to look at either side, for he was above them. He knew that for a fact. He had just left a quick meeting with Joe Campbell to discuss the future... and exactly where Ricky would be going in terms of salary and status in the company.

He didn't have to say that it was all an upbeat conversation, at least in financial and merchandising terms.

He turned the corner, and could hear what sounded like a tiny speaker playing a song... his interest piqued, he walked down the hallway.

And didn't see it coming.

The TV set, that is.

It cracked him right on the back of the head. He stumbled forward, and banged the front of his head on a catering table.

A magazine on the table slipped off and covered his face.

An old issue of a magazine called "Propaganda".

The attacker dropped the set, and walked away.

“UNITED BY VIOLENCE, DIVIDED BY DEATH!”

Then…

“You’re the Best” by Joe Esposito.

TMM strolled out of the entranceway, quite a bewildered look on his face, with Slapnutz by his side. The fans ruptured into cheers of support for their final hero… and TMM could use all the support that he can get. He laughed off the fans’s cheers with Slapnutz, Who looked equally perplexed at the fans’s positive reaction.

“Marks,” chuckled TMM, quietly to Mr. Nutz.

They didn’t even reach the ringsteps, before the official theme music of their opposing fighter began…

“FIEND FOR THA FANS AND FODDER FOR THA PA-RESSSSS!”

Boos. Boos. And more Boos.

Dez Aragon.

The big man flicked the blood soaked hair out of his eyes and stomped down the ramp intimidating… each step sounding like a gong on the bell of Death for TMM. Slapnutz began to rub TMM’s shoulders enthusiastically, giving his partner a miniature massage… until TMM called him gay, then Slap sulks off into the distance.

Aragon climbed into the cage… and the final bout was on.

Both men were relatively tall compared to the other members of Asylum. TMM stood at 6’ 4” and his opponent only one inch taller. However, as soon as the bell rang, Dez made sure that those two inches counted.

He instantly took it to TMM with three slobber knocking uppercuts, one after the other, showing his fighting prowess over the slightly nervous TMM. As Teem reeled from the stiff blows, he found Dez’s fist meeting with his face once again in a left hook. Simon was barely standing only seconds into the fight, and Aragon was looking twice as strong as his outing last week.

Taking the stunned TMM by his dodgy bleached hair, Dez threw the pit-fighter face-first into the cage not once, but three times. The impact on the solid mesh caused a slight cut to open above TMM’s eye. With a laugh, as if revelling in Teem’s agony, Dez spun TMM around and smacked his knee into the Team Fighter’s gut. Seconds later, Teem found himself on the receiving end of another two punches. First to the face, the second gifting his throat.

TMM was barely standing at this point, despite Slapnutz egging him on from ringside… having to cling to the cage just to stay on his feet. Aragon saw his opportunity, and with one huge right fist to the jaw, knocked TMM down and out.

1!

2! Dez began to play to the fans, thinking that he may have had the fight won… although the fans knew better, and booed the wrestler.

3!

4! Teem rolled around, holding his battered face…

5!

6!

7! TMM managed to push himself up from the mat…

8! Teem stands, albeit on one knee…

9! Simon Mitchell Simon is up.

Dez drew back... coiling up his arm and preparing to unleash a hard right hand, but TMM was back up, and as Dez swung TMM ducked. TMM, like a hawk, noticed that this would be a perfect opportunity to take the advantage… and he did so, by running into Aragon and executing a spectacular bulldog that slammed Aragon’s head into the mat with a crowd-pleasing THUD.

TMM watched with what can only be described as relief, as Aragon toppled to the mat with blood streaked through his greasy hair.

“HA, you couldn’t do that Slap. You’re shit.” TMM ridiculed his tag partner, as the referee started a count.

1!

2!

3!

4!

5!

6!

7!

8…?

He was up.

As soon as Aragon was on his feet, TMM sent him back down to the mat with three consecutive toe kicks to the skull… Aragon was able to avoid the count this time though, by bouncing from the mat and making sure that he didn’t land awkwardly. A second later, he was on his feet.

TMM once again went for his powerful kicks, but this time Aragon has other ideas. He caught TMM’s foot as it was about to hit, and then as TMM’s other foot came over in the following enziguri, Aragon ducked and TMM flattened himself, face-first, onto the mat!

Aragon was holding TMM’s leg in the perfect positioning for an ankle lock. Unfortunately for TMM, Aragon realized this too and applies the crippling manoeuvre. TMM shouted in pain as Dez put pressure on the hold, but soon managed to counter the lock by kicking out backwards and landing a foot to Dez’s um… more private areas.

Aragon evidently had tears in his eyes as he grovelled in pain from the well-placed boot, allowing TMM to get back to a vertical base…

Bloom recovered, only to have first a well-aimed kick to the chin and then a kneeling punch to the stomach delivered to him. TMM then hooked Aragon’s head and powered him down with a fierce, crowd-elating DDT as Slapnutz shouted directions and advice on the deliverance randomly.

As the madness continued in the Asylum, suspicions grew backstage.

BAM.

A locker room door flung open, and Chris Universal came steaming through it.

"Betray me will you Ross? Betray this!"

He threw a wild right hand, but Ross quickly ducked... as the other Stranglehold members rushed to restrain them both.

"What the fuck are you talking about, betrayed?" Ross snarled, trying to struggle free.

"Don't play the innocent Ross... you attacked Aragon, you set Joe Campbell loose! Dez just told me!"

"Ross hasn't done anything!" Carter piped up "He's been with us since his match earlier on!"

Universal slowly stopped struggling.

"He has?"

"Yeah." Carter added "Dez must be mistaken..."

"Mistaken... alright, I'm sorry Ruben... but he was so sure, now... I need help from all of you, we have to find Campbell and fast."

"What do you mean, find him?" Garvin questioned "Didn't Dez get him back?"

"No... no he didn't... what makes you think that?"

Garvin looked concerned.

"I just saw him walk by here dragging Campbell with him... couldn't have been more than two minutes ago."

And so, the penny dropped.

Universal's eyes widened.

He struggled free of the Stranglehold members... and rushed toward the Asylum.

Back in it... TMM staggered to his feet and leaned over the cage to ask Slappy for advice. The microphones made out some talk of ‘hitting Aragon with a Woj’ and ‘delivering a CCT Sleeper, Mountie-style’, but eventually they came to the mutual conclusion that TMM would use the *Jackie Wilson Says…* to end the match.

But his attention was quickly caught by Chris Universal, who rushed out onto the ramp with a microphone in his hand.

"I have an announcement to make!" Universal roared "I want this match ceased right now... Dez Aragon is a fak-"

BAM!

Universal never finished, as Joe Campbell staggered from behind the curtains to blast him around the head with a chair.

Finally turning his attentions back to the Asylum... TMM turned around and…

SMACK.

He found that he couldn’t. Because a hand was locked around the back of his neck.

“Oh fuck.” TMM said apathetically as he was hoisted into the air by the scruff of his neck, courtesy of Dez Aragon…

And put back down again.

Dez turned TMM around by his shoulder, and shook his hand… Teem was completely baffled and flabbergasted by the situation.

“When all of this is over, never forget... I had that won.” Dez said gruffly… before hopping out of the cage.

The bell rang… Aragon walked up the ramp. Slapnutz hopped into the ring with just as confused a look as TMM himself…

“The winner of this match, via Ringout… and to WIN the Zone Versus Stranglehold SERIES… TEE, EM, EEEEEEEEEEEEM!” The announcer wailed, to a standing ovation from the fans.

At the top of the ramp... the deal was sealed, as Joe Campbell leapt around victoriously, patting Aragon on the back as he continued to wipe the blood from his head.

Universal turned over... trying to push himself up in a dazed state.

"You traitorous son of a bitch!" He snarled at Aragon... who continued to wipe the blood away.

"See that you twat?" Joe laughed "Plenty of blood but no wounds... you my friend, have been done... done good and proper, remember that shit that you pulled with Ross? Where he stabbed me in the back and sided with you? Well he didn't kill my Chris... so I pulled the knife back out...

... and stabbed you with it." Joe said, sending a final boot to Universal's ribs for good measure as he... and apparently the newest member of Team Campbell, Dez Aargon... backed through the curtain.

What goes around, really does come around.

Providence walked to the ring with his TV Championship Title around his waist. He seemed cocky... even more-so than other days, as all of the time throughout this Pay-Per-View, LLB wasn’t seen backstage. He was sure ‘The Law’ wasn’t going to show... so a simple “come down to the ring, wait for his theme song to play, they reply, then reply again... and then leave to go shoot up”, was nothing to worry about... and no matter who you were... it would put a smile on your face.

The Champion entered the ring, taking off his Title and handing it to the Referee. “See you in five minutes.” He said softly to the Belt, only to snicker when the Referee looked up not understanding what he meant.

So it played.

“Still Waiting”, Sum 41.

Nothing.

“Pft.” He looked over at the Ref, who told the announcer to replay LLB’s theme song again.

So he announced the truck to.

Nothing.

After another minute, they tried to give it a final go, as Providence walked to the corner of the ring, and waited it out. It wouldn’t be too much longer, now.

“Still Waiting”, Sum 41.

And... nothing.

“Alright.” The TV Champion said as he walked back to the Referee. “Can I have my Title back?”

But just as the Referee began to collect the Title Belt out of the ring... “Still Waiting” began again... and out came... the lawyer.

Providence didn’t believe what he was seeing. There LLB was, coming out of the curtain, the Fans roared while he did. He pointed to Providence, before lifting up his hand like a judge with a mallet and crashing it down to the ground. The ‘Jury’ replied with another cheer, as “Still Waiting” kept ringing throughout the Arena... and LLB then took charge to the ring. Dropping his Belt that was handed back to him, Providence waited for him to enter...

And once he did, the fight was on.

Providence tossed LLB to the ropes across the way, as he bent down and looked for a hip toss, sending LLB to the canvas as Prov fell executing the move, too. ‘The Law’ got right back up though, and this time blocked the hip toss with his free arm, clubbing the TV Champion in the side of the face. Providence flung back into the corner, as LLB rushed in and nailed him with a clothesline from hell. LLB then looked into the ropes, and ran himself off of them.

A spinning heel kick connected with the edge of Providence’s head, as he landed flat on the mat in the middle of the ring. ‘The Law’ looked down at him before sprinting into the ropes and dropping the elbow across the back of the TV Champion. LLB got up, only to bring his foot across the body, and ala The Rock, nail a short version of the people’s elbow, without the running off of the ropes instead.

Providence’s body shook on the canvas as LLB rose... the elbow had dug itself right into the spine of his neck... and that wasn’t sitting well with him. LLB knew this, picked up Providence, and back broke him down again. Then he pointed upstairs... starting to climb. It was going to be a turning point... and maybe even the turning point in this Match if LLB would be able to hit his high flying move or not.

He went for it...

And he landed the splash.

One.

Two.

Kickout.

The Fans sighed, as LLB stood up again and tossed Providence into the ropes. However, this time Providence shot across the ring, as he jumped off his feet and landed a clothesline to the neck of LLB. The both of them fell as Providence used the ropes to get back on his feet, turning to see if LLB also got to his.

Side Russian leg sweep.

Down went the lawyer once more.

Deciding to go for it, Providence took a pinfall attempt.

One.

Two.

Kickout.

But this time it was he who sighed, as Providence rose, and rifled LLB into the corner of the squared-circle. He chopped him across the chest... but the Fans just booed. He chopped him across the chest, but, still, the Fans just booed. He went for another chop across the chest-

It was reversed.

Chop.

“WHOO!”

Chop.

“WHOO!”

Chop.

“WHOO!”

LLB not only slammed his backhand into the side of Providence’s upper body, he made sure to hit him as hard as he could... and it showed. By three mere chops, Providence’s stomach was already three times a deeper red than ‘The Law & Order’s’ was.

LLB liked that.

Chop.

“WHOO!”

However, that’s when the momentum once again shifted, as Providence kicked LLB with a low blow, and the lawyer fell to the ground after a DDT. The TV Champion grinned, lifting himself onto the second rope as he dove, looking for an axe handle smash.

It connected.

One.

Two.

Kickout.

“LLB! LLB! LLB!” The chant for the lawyer slowly started to surface again. The people believed in ‘The Law’... and they realized that they had to get him, and themselves, back into this trial.

As Providence rose, LLB did too. The TV Champion was the first to move as he ran into the ropes and came off them with a clothesline... only to be caught by a ducking LLB who rolled to his feet and fought off Providence with a number of left hands.

Taking two steps back, LLB hammered Darren Bishop out of the ring along with himself. Yet LLB landed on his feet, and he didn’t stop the assault on Providence either. He remembered what happened at ManHunt... he didn’t want to have that happen again. Hell, he couldn’t have that happen again.

So he was not going to give Providence that chance.

LLB rushed him into the ring post, as the smack made the entire Crowd stand up in “awe”... it was a loud thud, and it only helped bring even more life back into the Courtroom... the trial at hand.

The Challenger walked over to Providence, taking him by his hair...

CLING.

“BBBOOOOOO!!”

Providence had connected with ‘The Schism’ against the guardrail.

And this wasn’t the first time that LLB had suffered from it. His neck had two big red marks in them for weeks after he was dropped across the barricade during ManHunt’s TV Title Match twice. This was nothing new... but it not only hurt, it was an instant move that was hard to defend against.

And as LLB rolled around on the floor, gasping for air... that point was already a given.

Providence took him and rolled the lawyer back into the ring, as he entered too, smiling and grinning the entire way there.

Brainbuster suplex.

He tried for a cover.

One.

Two.

Kickout.

Just barely.

Once more, faint and silent cheers of “LLB! LLB!” could be heard within the Arena.

Providence showed his respect to that too, as he stood up and gave them all the middle finger. Of course, that stopped the chants... and gave him all the attention he wanted.

Until he was rolled up.

One.

Two.

“THREE!” Was the scream of the Fans, but as the Referee rose he lifted two fingers and called out what he thought the count was.

“It’s two!” He cried. “Two!”

Providence breathed a sigh if relief as he nodded in approval, only to jam the heel of his boot into LLB’s neck when he wasn’t looking.

“Idiot.”

Thus Providence picked up LLB, hitting him with a gutwrench powerbomb. But Providence wasn’t done... he wanted to make sure that this next pinfall would secure him the victory... so it was time to pull out another one of his moves. ‘The Fall’. And Providence laughed... he couldn’t really help it. For this time he didn’t even need the help of his needle to put the lawyer down.

He covered.

One.

Two.

Kickout.

But he didn’t hook both legs.

Screaming, this time, he did.

One.

Two.

Kickout.

But it was already too late. LLB had kicked out, and the Fans, once more, had a life.

Providence twitched from the right side of his neck... things were going good, now he just needed to finish them off and leave with his TV Title again. But that’s when a real life hit the Crowd... one that had lived from Christ/ LLB, and Wasp/ LLB... one that had them standing throughout the entire contest... not wanting to see an end.

Now it graced the ring... and the TV Champion.

LLB had jumped to his feet, yelling in the direction of Providence to “Testify, dammit!”.

Providence sneered. He now knew what he had to do.

Driving his body towards ‘The Law’, the two grappled, as LLB quickly tossed Providence into a hammerlock and sprung to the ropes... only to look for the spear, but miss.

However, LLB didn’t wait. He went directly off of the next set of ropes and hit a spinning heel kick across Providence’s head. LLB got up, screaming again, as the ‘Jury’ was now alive more than ever before... but what they didn’t see, what that Providence had rolled out of the ring...

And gone under the apron.

He frantically searched around, though LLB had already positioned himself on the apron and dove off, clubbing the current TV Champion in the side of the head. The Fans cheered, as the reoccurring theme of LLB leaping to his feet took place again.

“OBJECTION!” He cried.

“ERECTION!” They replied.

LLB climbed back onto the apron, about to reenter the ring when Providence regained his composure and dove his arm under the apron again...

Only to pull out...

The needle.

He ran at LLB with it, but ‘The Law’ knew this was coming. He turned, kicking the object out of Providence’s hands as it fell over the guardrail, into the Crowd, and beside some older women’s seat.

LLB smirked. “Objection!” He looked dead into the eyes of a pissed off Providence. “Go get it.” Then ramming his foot into Providence’s face, LLB hopped off the apron and pushed him back in.

It was time for the lawyer to go to the top rope.

It was time for Providence’s long awaited verdict.

A groggy TV Champion rose, as he searched the ring for LLB... but couldn’t find him. He looked at the first corner... no one. He looked at the second corner... no one. He looked at the third corner... no one.

Then, he turned to the forth... muttering one small little word.

“Shit.”

‘Erroneous Conclusion’ off of the top rope.

“YYYEEEAAAHHH!!!”

By then, the Arena stood, the camera shook... and everyone along with the Referee... counted along.

One.

Two.

Three.

“OBJECTION!”

“ERECTION!”

“Still Waiting” began... and LLB was handed his brand new Championship Title... and his first in the Asylum. ‘The Law’ was written off from claiming the Asylum’s World Championship a number of times before... thanks to Joe Campbell, the Inmate, and others... but this time, he had won. And though it was not the World Championship... it was a start.

A start that LLB would vow to finish.

No matter what the odds.

As the Fans erupted even louder when LLB held the Title above his head, and walked up the turnbuckle to raise it in the air, the Referee checked on the fallen body of Providence in the ring.

The trial was over.

And for Providence.

He was.

Guilty.

After a hard-fought victory, Keegan has left the arena in order to take his friend Warwick Hunt, who was knocked out by Carrahar’s opponent Jeff Garvin, to a hospital but a phone call distracts him…

“Hello?”

No answer.

“Hello? Who is this?”

An instantly recognisable voice responded: “We won.”

“Hello Tapestry. Oh. Before I forget, you DO fit the criteria. Anyway… what do you mean?

OH. We beat The Stranglehold?”

“Yes.”

He smiled: “Hang on a second…”

Carrahar pulled the phone away from his mouth: “FUCKING GET IN! WE BEAT THE SCUM THREE-TWO! WE BEAT THE SCUM THREE-TWO! YES! WHOOH!”

She laughed while he coughed and then returned: “Sorry about that.”

“No problem. Just thought I would tell you. Goodbye.”

“Tarah bonny lass. Take care of yourself… and your tits.”

As they both hang up, Keegan turns the music up in his car and embarks on another round of chants, which prompts everyone on the roads to look at him like he’s shit: “THREE-TWO TO THE MIGHTY ZONE, THRE-TWO TO THE MIGHTY ZONE, THREE-TWO TO THE MIGHTY ZONE, THREE-TWO TO THE MIGHTY ZONE!”

Of course, this was just the tonic Warwick needed. If anything could wake him up it was his comrade’s chanting and as he regained consciousness to hear Special K singing for England, he quickly put his head back down and closed his eyes again.

This time without Jeff Garvin’s assistance…

Until now it seemed that the word and the concept was losing all meaning.

This time was different however.

There seemed no way to escape the possibility of death in this match. If Exxa lost he'd not only lose his life but he'd lose his shot at vengeance and he'd lose Chris Universal's stock in the company. Exxa couldn't die. For him this was a must win situation...justice had to be served. Sin had to be purged. Though it was only recently that he had started to question his method of purging sin and serving justice. He would not let those demons interfere with what had to be done tonight.

Villam had to die.

Villam however, welcomed death with open arms. The fact that Exxa was some disillusioned step-brother of his was lost on him. If Villam lost his life, then it would not only mean his death. But it would also mean the death of the Asylum.

Good.

Being the position he's now in...he would've gladly just given his life just to see Joe have a heart attack. But, he couldn't. He wanted to live, he wanted to kill his step-brother and after it was all over he would be the Asylum Champion. Something he wasn't quite sure if he wanted. He didn't want to wear a belt that represented the man he would have to confront...

The "friend" that sold his life for the Asylum.

Joe Campbell.

If there was a reason to live and to fight for his life. This would be it. He didn't have to live...but there were certain principles of treachery to be dealt with. That and the simple fact that Villam is a chronic self-hater and his hatred for his own past knows no bounds. The father he hated. The mother he loved. The family that he remembered. They were only bits and pieces, but those jagged little pieces were enough for his cause of fear. He had spent years of his life in question of who he was only to decide that it would be best for himself and his sanity if he took everything one day at a time. The time of the mute amnesiac was over.

History was dead.

And when Exxa took his last breath. The past would be buried.

The only thing that bugged him now is that this line of thinking is exactly what Joe was counting on.

Villam shook his head...

It doesn't matter anyway.

"Orange Rolls, Angel's Spit" by Sonic Youth.

The crowd cheered him on, because they believed that as much as the reluctant hero he was...he was a hero none the less. He was their hero. Their psycho. And he would kill Exxa Decimal here and now and keep the Asylum safe. Villam wondered if they would've cheered as loud if they knew that he wasn't even thinking about the Asylum?

Villam made his way to the re-erected cage and waited for his doppelganger.

Exxa Decimal.

"Climbatize" By Prodigy.

The crowd busted into a series of gasps as Exxa tore through the curtains. While Villam came to the ring with his bare hands as his weapon. Exxa brought with him a harness with a pistol fitting snugly into the holster. And in his right hand was a sword. Chinese in it's design it's usually accompanied by an equally deadly twin. Exxa used the butterfly sword like a hand and pointed at Villam standing in the center of the cage.

Making his way down the ramp Exxa avoided paper cups and cans of beer. Before entering he nonchalantly hung his harness on the rim of the cage and then he carefully, but violently stabbed the sword down into the apron.

The air buzzed with anticipation as Exxa strode up to Villam...and Villam meeting that rhythm strode up to Exxa.

And there both men stood.

Face to Mask.

"You know that I really don't care that you're my step-brother right? You do realize that I hate my family about as much as you do? You do realize...how utterly useless this is right?" Villam said.

Exxa sharply inhaled.

"How dare you question my resolve, brother?" Exxa seethingly questioned. "Your entire family is a curse. I truly believe that we should not be. You should not be. Yes, you. Don't you realize that none of this would be - we would not be standing here - if you had proven to live your life with the progression of mankind in mind. I'm not talking about developing pro-moral, Christian ideals. I'm talking about simply daring to not exist as a wart on the face of the society. That was the thing about our family, Villam.

We were lay abouts and do nothings. There is not one of us that have contributed a damn thing to society.

We are stagnant.

Lazy.

Sloppy."

"So?" Villam said. "Isn't enough to just exist, to treat everyday like just another day until you die?"

"No. Idle hands are the devil's tools. Stagnancy promotes decadent attitudes towards society.

It causes atrophy. You see, by killing you I cancel out so many birds with one stone...."

Exxa pointed to his pistol.

"Our father was like you. Idle. He was very much into his artwork, his ideals. So much that he ignored the needs of his children. His family. Eventually, he ignored all that was right. He ignored common decency and respect for God's creatures. His idleness bred evil within him just like it breeds evil in everything. At the core at that idleness is selfishness the cause of all evil, Villam. He took only what he wanted that night. I will clean this stain, generation by generation. I will show the world that progression lies not in the dirt. My mother will rest in peace."

Villam laughed.

"Man, I really hate to fuck up your day. But your mother was a delusional whore suffering from a battery of mental diseases. You entire ideology is built on a lie, you fuckwad. And it got that way, by you chugging along on your little 'progression' trip. All that's happened so far and you haven't questioned a bit of it? You're nothing more than a product your mother's own seduction of my drunken father.

Your live boils down to hot flash from a woman who was perpetually trapped in a fever dream.

Deal with it."

Silence.

Angry, angry silence.

And then the first blow came.

Hard. Fast.

Exxa’s cranium slamming into Villam's nose - immediately breaking it and causing blood to quickly trickle down onto the canvas.

"YOU LIE!" Exxa said as he launched a wicked series of punches Villam's way. Each one slamming right into that broken nose.

"YOU'D SAY ANYTHING TO SAVE YOUR FILTHY LIFE, DOG!" A kick caught Villam in the side of the head, followed another and another. Exxa switched to his right leg and leapt into the air smacking Villam right in the face with an outside crescent kick.

Villam stumbled to his left and as Exxa landed on his feet his stance changed to something the crowd has never expected.

His feet were pert and on the up and up. Ready to pounce. Ready for the slightest of movement. His arms were curled and knarled in front of him.

His hands.

Were like the heads of snakes.

Alot of the martial art marks in the crowd knew this as the gung-fu southern snake stance.

But what would happen next would leave an imprint on their brains and send them straight to their VCRs and message boards when this match was over.

Exxa's skilled hands leveled out at a 45 degree angle and with fingers slighty spread and palms out...his arms...began to dance.

Like Cobras.

Villam recovered from the kick and cocked back a left handed punch, but Exxa merely stepped through and curled his hand to wear his wrist jabbed out right into Villam's throat.

With the other hand with hit Villam with an awkward looking palm strike into his jaw. He once again sent another headbutt into Villam's nose - sending more blood flying...

Villam was knocked into the rim of the cage and Exxa followed through with the exact same combination! Villam had it scouted and tried to return a right hook but Exxa's body weaved completely backwards and with the insides of his wrists touching he erupted into Villam's chin with a upward double palm strike.

Villam spilled out of the ring.

The crowd was now in a quiet awe.

Villam was completely outclassed.

Exxa returned to a normal, but intimidating stance in which he looked down on Villam like a boy with a magnifying glass would look down on an ant. Villam crawled to the barrier and used it as a crutch. He looked up at Exxa and smiled.

Then...

Middle finger.

The crowd started to cheer. And Exxa for the third time tonight...started to seethe.

He leap right out of the ring and missed a jump kick intended for Villam.

This gave Villam a chance to open up on Exxa with some punches of his own. Exxa blocked, Villam continued with the other fist before Exxa could react. The punches were coming fast and furious and Exxa was being forced to otherside of the cage...towards the announce tables. Villam tried to finish his combination off with a wild right hook, but Exxa ducked and returned to his Cobra stance. Villam wouldn't have any of it as he attacked the trunk of the stance itself with a loud slapping kickboxing-style kick to the thigh.

Exxa fired off some strikes. Villam took some, blocked some and came back with alternating kicks to the ribs and thighs. Exxa blocked more of Villam's unrelenting kicks and came back with cobra strikes...Exxa wound back for a reverse punch...and Villam moved his head and rolled completely out of the way letting Exxa momentum send his hand right into apron of the cage.

Crunch.

Exxa nursed his hand, but still dodged a kick to the back from Villam.

Villam shot out a roundhouse that was easily blocked. But that was only a distraction...as soon as the kick was blocked Villam dropped to his back and sent a girly kick right into Exxa's testicles.

A bitch move. But it was what Villam needed.

The crowd was behind him, 100%. Villam grabbed the back of Exxa's head and sent him over the announcement table right into the laps of JPP and Mike Malone. Both announcers were quick to....

...begin pummeling Exxa.

Huge "pop". If you've gotta use wrestling terms.

Those men were fighting for their jobs.

Exxa however, took the blows like they were playful baby kicks and promptly sent them into the crowd - an uppercut for each man.

Exxa turned around to meet the man who had thrown him into such a situation and WHAM! WHAM! WHAM!

There Villam was standing on the announcement table, rocking Exxa's head with chairshot after chairshot.

WHAM! CRACK! WHAM!

WHA-

*Grab*

Ah, yes the sound of grab.

*Kick*

"Keep it." Villam said as the bluntly kicked Exxa in the teeth.

*Kick*

Another.

Only this time in the nose.

Breaking it.

"Now, we match." Villam said hopping down from the table and reaching under the Asylum.

Exxa growled and threw the chair into the crowd. Exxa climbed on top of the table completely consumed by his rage and launched himself off of it...

WHACK!

Baseball bat.

Right in the chest.

Exxa fell to the floor, but sprung right the hell back up....fired a kick....No. Villam used the bat to block and hit Exxa right in the face with a straight punch sending his step-brother tumbling back onto the announce table. Villam - baseball bat in hand - dove on top of Exxa and jammed the bat right under Exxa's Adam’s apple.

"Die."

Exxa's air cut off and the all too recognizable sounds of choking rang throughout the arena.

Hacking, coughing, foaming at the mouth. It was all but over.

Or not.

Using ever ounce of strength in him Exxa rolled Villam over on the table and now held the bat to *his* throat.

"You Die." He said.

"After YOU!"

WHAM!

Knee to the balls.

Villam sprung right up and grabbed the back of Exxa's head and began slamming Exxa - face first - against the table.

SLAM! SLAM! SLAM!

Crunch!

A punch to the back of head.

Villam backed off a bit...Exxa - now leaning across the table - rubbed the back of his head and slowly pulled himself off...

Villam locked, loaded and chambered his right fist.

The crowd knew what was coming, but Mr. Decimal didn't.

Exxa turned around.....

POW!

One Winged, Angel Kiss.

Exxa was propelled upwards into the air and landed squarely on the table snapping it into pieces underneath him.

Perhaps had this match been standard ruling that would've meant something. After all, an uppercut like that might knock you out...but it definitely won't kill. Villam grabbed at one of Exxa's legs and dragged him off of the rubble and onto the floor. Leaving him there Villam walked over to a set of steel steps and pried them lose from their fixtures. Walking over to Exxa he raised the step above his head and uttered "I'm not paying for your funeral."

SMAAASH!!

SMAAASH!!

SMAASSH!!

SMAAAAAAAASH!!!

The crowd was silent.

Exxa was still.

Villam looked down on his brother with sad eyes.

The mask was torn just under the nose. And his step-brother's teeth were all bloody and missing. A sickening gash on his lip made itself known with a crimson glow.

Villam didn't care.

SMMMMMMMAAAAASSSHHHH!!!

And this time the eunuch left the steps there on his face. Villam then fell back against the barrier, breathed deeply...

...and closed his eyes.

Exxa was dead.

Villam stood there with the ref and his hand was raised to air. The people were celebrating hard. Villam even smiled a bit for the people as they shot champagne rockets into the air.

Harmonious roars rocked the arena and an official handed Villam the Asylum title.

His brother was dead. The Asylum was safe. And Joe would pay.

He didn't want to think of anything else.

Especially not the sudden shaking for the ground.

Villam's head snapped left and then right...the rafters fell on a row of fans in the back. From behind the screen it seems as if blood was contained there...flowing and sloshing around looking to come out. Villam heart started to beat faster and faster...

BOOM! The arena was rocked by an explosion and a firestorm ripped through another half of the arena. The ceiling cracked open, debris fell like rain and all the while...

Everything was quiet.

Not a sound was being made by the events around him.

Locked in a perpetual state of disbelief Villam turned to get out alive with his Asylum title.

A rip. A tear.

A sword pierce upwards and blocked his path.

He turned to escape.

Another pierced the canvas cutting the ring in two.

The was the audio that came in first.

Gasps of amazement. Sighs of shock.

Villam had no choice.

As much as he didn't want to....

Villam opened his eyes.

His brother stirred.

And this was no simple stir. There was growling. There was anger.

There was the steel step flying upwards and landed back on the floor with a clanky thud.

The crowd couldn't believe it.

Exxa lived.

And as his mask barely hung over his mouth in bloody scraps. You couldn't quite make out what Exxa was saying.

Maybe he wasn't saying anything.

Villam stood up and faced his beaten and bruised psuedo-twin.

"MUGRUUUUAHHHHHHH!!!!" Exxa roared as he charged Villam. Villam swung a punch, but it was ducked and he was speared into the barricade. Villam hammered away at Exxa head as Exxa pounded away at Villam's kidneys. Rage and will to live have turned a fight into an all out brawl. Villam continued to pummel away even as Exxa lifted Villam off of his feet...turned him around...and rammed him into the pole where the steps were taken.

CRACK!

Sound of Villam's back as Exxa charged the pole a fourth time.

Villam bit his lower lip and hammered away.

"GRRRRR...."

THUD!

Exxa turned Villam around and sent his lower back into the barrier! This time Exxa dumped Villam over it. Villam struggled to get back to his feet only to find Exxa charging toward him with a chair in hand...

SMASH!

Villam's lights were put out.

Dropping the chair under them...Exxa pulled Villam to his feet and laughed.

Snap Suplex.

Rolled though.

Snap Suplex.

Rolled through.

Lift.

Stalled.

Brainbuster onto chair.

...

Exxa Deathlock.

Villam was locked and Exxa wasn't letting up. The more the eunuch resisted, the more pressure Exxa applied.

Then...he let go...

...and jumped over the barrier making his way towards the Asylum.

Villam didn't get it.........

OH SHIT.

'The sword.' Villam said to himself as he struggled to his feet, fighting the pain in his neck and jumped the barrier and climbed into the Asylum right on the heels of his step-brother.

Exxa picked up his speed and grabbed the sword...but before he could turn around Villam dove and tackled Exxa sending both men tumbling over the rim of the cage.

The struggle to not get chopped up into little pieces was on. They rolled about, each one gaining the respective advantage for a moment...finally Villam was in position where he was mounted on Exxa and tried to snatch the sword away...

Villam pulled back hard......

Big mistake.

Exxa let go of the sword and let Villam tumble backwards, in which Exxa simply hopped to his feet and kicked the sword out of a disoriented Villam's shaky hand. Exxa growled again and started to stalk toward his weapon...Villam quickly rolled over onto his stomach and grabbed one of Exxa' ankles.

WHAM!!

Instant kick to the teeth.

Instant black out.

Seconds later...Villam spit out a tooth and some blood and struggled to his feet.

'Shit.' Villam muttered to himself.

Exxa was gone.

Or at least, he wasn't in front of him...and if he wasn't in front...then he must be....

But it was far to late to think of that now.

He heard the blade even before he felt the cold heat of it slash diagonally down his back.

With a gut wrenching scream Villam turned around and caught the comet tail of the sword once again diagonally down his left breast and with a skillful twisting of Exxa's wrist the blade whirled like a windmill and caught Villam with deeper gash just over his right collar bone.

Exxa held the sword above his head with two hands and leapt into the air, letting gravity drive himself and the sword down Villam's chest. Villam's Nirvana shirt was torn into ribbons and fading black was turned a bloody darkening purple.

Exxa drew the sword back...

And swooped in for the piercing kill...

A miss?

Villam darted off to the right as the blade slid just barely scraping the left side of his stomach...

Villam rushed in and grabbed for Exxa neck, charging into him with such force that he hacked blood into Villam's face. Villam took his hand off of Exxa's neck and used both hands to wrench that sword from his hand. This was spotted right away however and Exxa knee up straight away into Villam's chin...

Villam was sent into the side of apron and Exxa swung the sword looking to behead the eunuch,

CHANK!

The blade caught nothing but wire link cage and Villam rolled out of the way. Exxa pulled the sword out and turned around and swung downward at an already gone Villam who sought safety by hopping over the barrier. The crowd cleared out right away with the help of security.

Villam picked up a chair and turned to meet his doppelganger who had already hopped the barrier and wasn't looking like he was going to stop using that now bloody blade anytime soon.

They stood there and stared each other down for a moment.

But only for a moment as that silence was broken by Exxa leaping onto an empty seat and launching himself into the air with his sword raised overhead he sought to split Villam in half.

CLANG!

A no-go.

Villam held the chair above his head and the sword jetted through it, just inches away from his face. Without any regard for anyone in the audience, Villam shifted his entire weight and sent the chair with the sword stuck in it into the scattering crowd.

No moment of rest was given as the two brothers tore into each other with punches. Villam's fist were landing harder and coming faster and he eventually gained the upperhand. Villam cocked back, wound up and sent a straight punch right into his step-brother's eye. Exxa tumbled over the barrier second before Villam jumped on top of it.

No skill.

Villam just recklessly dived onto Exxa and began slamming fist after fist into his face. Exxa took every blow and responded with punches to the ribs. The two had reduced the fight to a brawl...both men scrambling around on the ground, looking to gain any meager advantage.

Exxa and Villam soon scrambled away from each other, letting themselves get to their feet and catch their breaths.

Exxa's mask clung to his face in jagged-bloody chunks of cloth. Villam took out the time to rip his vest jacket and shirt off revealing the heinous damage that Exxa's sword had done.

Jagged and bloody scars that stung the eunuch with each drop of sweat that fell into them.

Silence, sprinkled with the crowd's muttering echoed through out. The brothers just looked at each other. Took a quick moment to stare into each other's souls...and maybe even get a little rest.

Then...

...Exxa laughed.

Long and hard bellows in which he held his stomach.

"You do realize that I'm going to stop playing with you now, right?" Exxa said.

Villam gulped, then cracked a smile just before spitting blood. "Yeah."

Exxa peeled the dreaded black mask from his face...

...and revealed the heinous damage done.

He smiled a smile that had three bottom row teeth missing. Exxa hadn't opted to crack his nose like Villam did and rightly so...his nose was jarred slightly off of the side of his face.

Various cuts and bruises wrapped themselves around his bald head. Despite the bloody and gruesome appearance. Exxa eyes till shone like two suns. Exxa reached up to his broken nose.

-crack-.

He spit out a tooth.

-clink-.

And put his guard up. The same as at the beginning of the match. A snake stance, but with palms showing.

"AHHHHHHHH!!" Exxa screamed as he charged...

WHAM!!

And sent a flying knee right into Villam's chin. Landing on his feet, Exxa spun and buried an elbow into Villam's stomach...and...

And nothing.

Nothing except for the knife shoved into Exxa left upper shoulder bone.

"I'm done playing too."

CRUNCH!

A spray of blood for Villam's face.

Villam had smashed that nose right back into Exxa's face. Promptly removing the knife from Exxa wound.

Villam turned the knife about and looked to stab downward, but Exxa caught him with an inside block from the right hand. Exxa stepped in - scratching his hand along Villam's forearm and jamming his wrist into his throat.

It wasn't enough for Villam to drop that knife, but that was yet to come.

Villam recovered and slashed out horizontally. Exxa rolled back, hopped to his feet, leaped into the air and smashed Villam in the face with a jumping front kick. Once Exxa fell back to the ground he continued his leg assault. Kicks crushing Villam's thighs, ribs and head at light speeds.

The fight had meandered it's way back towards those announce tables and this time Exxa had full control of the match. Kicks were coming faster than Villam could counter them and he was slowly being back into a situation where Exxa could easily take that knife and gut him.

So, Villam did the only think he think of.

He turned tail and hopped the barrier.

The crowd couldn't believe it. Villam was armed and Exxa still had complete control of the match. So much control that his opponent was retreating. Exxa laughed and jumped up onto the barrier.

And leapt into the sky.

Rocketing a couple of feet into the air.

And placing a kick right into the back of Villam's neck, causing him to slide into empty seats.

The knife?

Gone.

Villam?

Fucked.

Villam recovered and scrambled for the knife, looking for his only chance to win this bout.

There it was. Right under a chair, shining like hope.

Villam dove right through the empty chairs......

No.

Exxa grabbed Villam's ankle and dragged him away.

"Oh, no you don't." Exxa said. Villam tried to get to his feet.....but soon found his air cut off and his world going mysteriously dark.

Exxa had his arms wrapped around his half-brother's neck. Not in a chokehold, but in a sleeperhold and Villam wasn't doing much to fight it. He had loss too much blood and this fight had carried on for far too long.

Darkness consumed him.

Exxa let go.

Exxa laughed.

The crowd boo'd.

It was over.

Or rather...it would be.

Exxa lifted his sleeping brother to his feet and put him on his shoulders. Then he dumped him out on the other side of barrier before hopping over after him and putting him back on his shoulders again. Then - while carrying Villam - Exxa stomped up the steps and emptied his half-brother out into the cage.

Propping Villam up on the wire mesh, Exxa turned his back and walked to the opposite side of the cage. He lifted the leather strap to the air and gazed longingly at what would end his brother's life.

The crowd began screaming.

Yelling.

Throwing drinks into the ring.

Anything to wake Villam up.

But, it was all in vain.

Villam's destiny had taken the form of a six shooter and Exxa now held it in his able hands.

People cleared out of the first few rows behind Villam again, but stayed just close enough to see what was basically a public execution of not only Villam Ender...but the Asylum.

Exxa slowly walked forward - revolver in his hand and hate in his heart.

He stood in front of Villam and looked down on him...

...he took aim...

...pulled the hammer back...

...and stopped.

The people were on the edge of their seats, every face that looked ever so innocent now savored the taste of death. They savored that possibility of blood. That's why they paid for the event in the first place.

To see two men fight to the death.

And now, Exxa paused.

If the Asylum was going to end this would be the way to do it, wouldn't it? In a death. A true deathmatch. So do it, Exxa.

"Do it!" One fan said. "Do it!" Another one called out in some sick mating call.

"Kill him!" A fat teenager yelled.

"We want blood!" A middle aged man said.

Kill.

Kill.

Kill.

"Kill. Kill. Kill. Kill. Kill. Kill. Kill."

The chants poured over his eardrums like raindrops on windows. Dripping down into the sill that was his soul. Tainting him, changing him and re-making him into...

'NO! This is my revenge. This is justice. This is what's needed.' Exxa proclaimed to himself.

He leveled the gun out, right in-between Villam's eyes. Eyes that were now blinking...and looking up into his.

Those eyes.

They were familiar. Very much like his own. But even more like the people he knew. The people that in some small way, he let down because of his mission. Because of his quest for justice. Was he wrong? To stake so much faith in his ideals? Was he wrong?

No.

He wasn't wrong.

They were wrong.

And that's what the problem was. These people were wrong. Each and everyone of them wanted this death. This death didn't belong to them, it belonged to him. It would be symbolic; a purgance of retrogression. But if he pulled that trigger now...he'd be feeding the beast he sought to slay.

His heart wrenched.

There was doubt.

What if what Villam said was true? Why would he lie? This is his brother. This is his half-brother and he is standing over him with a gun to his head. All in the name of God? In the name of justice? Didn't God punish to the brother who killed his blood? What would become of him? It was too much. It was far too much.

That gun in his hand...he was testing the winds of fate.

"Testing the winds of fate? That is something that you should not do."

He could hear his masters voice in his head.

Was he the disruptor? Hadn't he become a hero for people that didn't want to be saved?

That didn't even need it?

"No." Exxa put the gun down.

He spoke words, that could only be heard in the silence of the arena.

"I can't. This taints my ideals. This taints my will. I can't understand this at all, but I know it's not right. Any normal man should never remain so faithful to his ideals and his beliefs. It is at that point that you consider yourself above man. It is at that point that you consider yourself God.

You become a false idol unto him. And he looks down on you and proclaims that you have sinned.

And thusly, you, a lowly man...are a sinner."

He dropped the gun.

"I can't kill you." Exxa said as he wept.

"I failed you mother."

The crowd of everyday people didn't know what to think. They didn't know what to think of this situation or of themselves. Is this what life was too them? To take the pay earned for a long hard day and spend it on watching real life and death unfold before their eyes? At point would they realize that this wasn't entertainment...and that this was real...?

*clap*

It was a woman at first. Then a man 15 rows behind her. Other seats responded the call.

*clapclapclapclapclapclap*

Half the arena supported the decision and the other half still didn't know what to do with themselves.

"I didn't really wanna see some guy die anyway." One spectator said.

"Yeah, how he even makes these matches legal is beyond me anyway." Responded another.

"What the fuck? The ticket was 250 hundred DOLLARS, guys. I think we've paid to see what we came here for." Said a young man.

"Shut the fuck up."

"No, you!"

Petty arguments broke out here and there...but Exxa was in another world. Somewhere far removed from what was happening.

Villam looked up at him with eyes that were always sad and cold...and smiled. Exxa felt warmth in side. The warmth of his blood. The warmth of commonality. He reached with his left hand...

"Need help?" Exxa asked.

"Yeah." Villam said as he grabbed with left hand.

Exxa slowly pulled him up...

...they embraced...

"AHHHHHHHHHHHHHMYGOD!!"

The arguing crowd turned to the stage. But, it wasn't there...it was above on the big screen.

The camera had shot at such an angle that you could barely see the knife lodged in Exxa's heart.

From the back rows it looked like a silver gleam protruding out of Exxa's back. Exxa collapsed into his half-brother's arms.

"Wha-Wha-Why..."

Twist.

"Shhh..." Villam whispered.

The crowd was in a frenzy. Half of them cheering Villam on, Half of them calling for his head. Villam didn't hear, but instead he shoved his brother to the ground ripping the knife from his chest. Villam stalked over to Exxa and stared into tearful eyes. Tears that fell from their ducts, past his temples and onto the canvas. The crowd still didn't quite know what to think...

Then.

A smile.

And now they knew.

Jeering erupted throughout the arena. Cups filled the cage, hate smelled like beer, soda and blood. Villam's smile etched unbidden across his face as the knife dripped blood onto the canvas...Exxa coughed crimson in a cry.

An official came into the cage and handed Villam the Asylum title. The crowd was on their feet now, threatening to charge the cage and rip Villam limb from limb. But he cared not. His eyes were focused on his brother and his arm - the one holding the Asylum title - was raised in victory. True victory.

And then...

Stillness.

Death.

Exxa Decimal no longer moved. But, hatred moved around Villam's being in it's place. And all Villam could do was smile. Smile for the pretty cameras flashing for pretty pictures. All he could do was smile for the people, and the image on the Asylumtron.

These people hated him with all of their being now.

But, no one saw the single tear fight to free itself from the scarred eye.

All they would ever be left with was this gruesome scene.

Heart torn open.

Brother dead.

Cain and Abel at it's climax.