ALLOW ME TO INTRODUCE MYSELF

Christopher Sheffield wasn’t sure how he felt about this.

It would have been more comfortable if it was raining. At least that would have washed away the stink a bit.

He gave it ten minutes, at best, until he was shot.

A man has to barely step foot within the Asylum to realize that death is inevitable. Not even to the length of that ol' chestnut, we all must die one day. Oh no. You will die, and it might be quick or it might be slow, but it will certainly be at another man's hands. It's the personal war of simply living.

Sun rise, sun set.

The sun was setting on the shanty town, giving the cardboard, metal refuge and wood siding an even more morose look in the dusk.

As he made his way through shanty town, Whiskey Jack knew what he had to do tonight. Get to The Man. He suspected that it wasn’t going to be an easy task. He puffed out his chest. Exhaled that deep breath. The dark green, ragged and old army jacket that he wore, ruffled. He drew a cigarette out from the pocket.

World War Two trench stories went that the snipers get you on the third light.

The Vet shuffled back into his perch, the grey hairs on the back of his napalmed neck where itching. He lay there, some twenty feet above the shanty town on the deteriorating roof of a crumbling house. It was part of the long forgotten housing district that was pushed aside and built over, by the Los Angeles Freeway, still, he saw the light and recognized the face, as he was trained to do.

“Son of a bitch! We’ve got a delta-level threat on the path! I repeat, an unfriendly has entered the perimeter!”

They see you first when you strike the match.

“Legion?” The Man’s slightly angered drone hissed across the com.

Then a site is take on that orange ember of the first inhale.

“Negative. Darwin Collingwood’s old muscle, sir. That wrestler, Sheffield.” The Vet replied, watching the man without an Alias exhale the cigarette smoke and squint towards the setting sun. Sheffield removed the green jacket, and tossed it to a bum to his left. And he stood there, in a white t-shirt, blue jeans and shitkickers for cowboy boots, looking around this ramshackle construct of civilization.

He just stood there, up to his ankles in scum. As if he was waiting.

The Man grunted, though it was more of a guttural noise because of all that weird throat shit he had going on. This was NOT coincidental and he did NOT need to risk repercussions from the muscle of someone he dumped back in Las Vegas in a rather unscrupulous fashion. The Man shrugged.

“Put him down.”

Sheffield closed his eyes, and drew in another long toke of his cigarette. Then took a step forward.

The third light is when they get you.

BANG.

Sheffield half stepped, slumped to his knee, then fell. Crimson oozing from onto his shirt, across his right shoulder. Smoke drifted from his open mouth.

The Vet grumbled, if Sheffield hadn’t have moved, then he would have been able to watch his heart explode. Still, he was down and out. No use wasting bullets on a dead men. There was many more things to keep an eye on, as it was.

Scrambling over to Sheffield’s body, an old homeless man by the name of Craig stole his cowboy boots before running back into the huddled masses.

Six minutes had past. Sheffield was four short.

As far as a full introduction to the Asylum, it could have been worse.

HEY JUDE

"Mr. Williams..." Token Weed observed his surroundings as Alexei Romanov continued by gesturing with a nod "...do take a seat."

"Classy joint." Token remarked as he pulled out a chair "Hope you're not expecting me to get the cheque."

"Of course not comrade." Romanov replied as he perused a menu.

"So where's the girl?" Token enquired as he looked confused at a breadstick before using it to pick his nose "I hope she's gonna be eating with us cause if not these waiters are gonna think we're a pair of fags."

"Ha." Romanov shook his head at the notion "The girl has requested time to negotiate a deal with some of her runners. I shouldn't worry though comrade. This is my resturaunt and these are my waiters. They know that such accusations would lead not only to them losing their jobs but most probably their heads as well."

"Good." Token relaxed a little "The last thing I need is people thinking I'm a fucking fruit."

"With hair like that I shouldn't worry." Came a rather wry reply from Romanov.

"So what's the deal then..." Token asked as he skimmed through the menu "...we gonna talk business?"

"Yes comrade." Romanov responded as he clicked his fingers and a waiter promptly arrived "But first we eat... waiter... mine will be the poached sturgeon and a glass of gaston."

"Very well..." The waiter replied before looking to Token "...and you sir?"

"Uh..." Token stared at the menu looking fairly disgusted "...get me a steak and a beer."

THE MINISKIRT FOOLED ME

“Right then, I've taken a few deep breaths and composed myself a bit so we'll try this again shall we.” said The Man, as he pored over his security monitors, “I see that we're all set... given my tirade earlier on I don't think I need to stress this but I'll say it anyway... don’t... fuck... up.”

It was often the case that The Establishment was too good at what they did to fuck up, but the recent slip in standards had left The Man's confidence somewhat damaged. A decent sized crowd had gathered for the fights around the derelict tents, and they’d already identified about half of them for later use.

“What should we do about Dez?”

Everyone was thinking it, but only Roderick asked.

“What the fuck do you think,” sighed The Man, “Find something for him to do. We don’t need his people around, not tonight.”

“They helped us find that shit in the tunnel,” pointed out May 32nd, “they’re useful.”

“Dez is useful,” replied The Man, “when he’s not as feral as your pet dog over there."

Muttley scratched behind his ear and chewed on something unidentifiable but visibly disgusting.

"An army of junkies and fuckups who listen to every crazed thought that goes through his brain is a detriment to everything we’re doing here. What I want is to be able to count on Dez when I need him, and to know he won’t eviscerate me when I don’t.”

“Good luck with that,” said Roderick, as he turned towards the door-

-only to nearly get hit with it, as two Dezites entered, holding the door for their God.

“Dez,” said The Man.

“Sir,” replied Dez, “What do you have for me tonight?”

There was a long moment of tension that ran through the entire room. The Man could see everyone behind Dez exchange a nervous look, but Dez’ face never wavered. Of course, they were all thinking the same thing:

Did he hear us?

“Security is not a concern tonight, Dez,” replied The Man, “Go with May 32nd, she’s got a special job for you.”

Behind Dez, May 32nd stared daggers into The Man’s mask, pointed a finger at Roderick and back at herself, all the while mouthing something that was probably the X - rated equivalent of “Why me?”

Fortunately, the tension broke when The Vet pushed the door open.

“Sir!” he said, as he saluted, “I found Charlie sniffin' around the perimeter outside. Do I have permission to execute?”

Everyone’s eyes went to ‘Charlie’ except for Dez, who remained locked in on The Man.

Until ‘Charlie’ spoke.

“Dude! Are you like having an Amsterdam flashback or something?”

"Shut your fuckin' pie hole gook!" The Vet sneered as he levelled his weapon at Credible.

"Easy Gorman." Roderick intervened "I think the idiot means Vietnam."

"Vietnam... Amsterdam... Birmingham... Kazakhstan... Alakazam." Credible held up his hands high "All I know is I had some bad acid somewhere one time and I was totally trippin' like this dude... he thinks I'm a Chinaman or something... a Chinaman dude? Try getting chased down the street by a giant fucking CLOWN sometime."

Amidst the confusion the grin had swiftly left Dez’ face. Somehow, no matter how terrifying his grin was, he was even moreso when he had a serious look on his face. He turned around, and looked straight into the eyes of the man that he had previously been assured was dead.

“Where the fuck did you come from?”

Cue a trademark Credible deep breath.

“I was at the carnival and I saw the big guy in the bear suit there and he asked me if I like games and I was all DUDE I AM THE GAME so he said he had a really great game to play and it had something to do with grapes and I remember he shoved me into this port-a-potty and I was all I SEE NO GRAPES and he was all CLOSE YOUR EYES CHILD AND COUNT TO A HUNDRED when I got to fifty three he was gone and I think he broke my ass again but then he gave me a taco and I said where’s the grapes and he said it was okay he’d have more grapes next time he saw me then he saw the cops and ran away and wait... guys... do you have any grapes here?”

"You took acid how recently?" Roderick asked somewhat confused.

“I see,” replied Dez, as he turned to the two men who came in with him, “Carlesi, Jones… come with me.”

“Where are you going?” asked May.

“My children told me this motherfucker was dead,” replied Dez, as he pointed to Chris Credible, “and I believed them. Obviously, I need to see the body.”

“Holy shit,” said Credible.

“What?” asked Dez.

“I’m dead?”

“…Yes.”

Credible's complexion suddenly turned sheet white.

"Dude I think I just pooped a grape."

Dez grabbed Credible by the beard and walked out the door with him, his two children following. The rest of the room was silent for several seconds.

“Well,” said Roderick, finally, “That solves... that... I think.”

PICTURES OF WHAT NEVER WAS

"Getting tired of this."

Donaven Winters paced a frustrated circle around the glow of a lit up oil drum.

"Tired of?" Kellen Kinkade enquired, his face glowing red before the flames of the fire.

"Tired of waiting." Winters informed "Tired of waiting for the killing to begin."

"Patience, friend." The Jersey Devil tried to put Winters at ease "You'll get your carvery as promised. A veritable banquet of blood. I'll even let you sit at the head of the table."

"And what if I can't wait..." Winters pondered as he came grinding to a defiant halt, staring The Jersey Devil right in the eye "...what if I won't wait?"

"You'll wait." Kinkade replied confidently "There are things you need to see... things you need to fuel the fire... things that... well... why don't I just show you?"

Without warning The Jersey Devil sprung forth and placed both hands on the sides of Donaven's face. It was a grip that allowed him to stare Donaven directly in the eyes. A stare that almost seemed to entrance The Fallen Angel.

"But she's..." Winters "...we never."

"You're looking at what could have been." The Jersey Devil revealed "What should have been."

"It's beautiful." Winters exclaimed.

"You and I share a common bond, Donaven." Kinkade insisted "We've both lost the things we loved."

The Jersey Devil suddenly released Winters, leaving The Fallen Angel looking short of breath and visibly disoriented.

"We can't have them back." Kinkade insisted "But every now and then we can afford a glimpse."

"Can I see her again?" Winters asked excitedly.

"Not yet." The Jersey Devil denied his wish "There is work to be done."

SCORING LUCK

"Why you trippin', homie? This is pretty good, shit, it's better than what that nigga Tony got anyway."

Unknown to the Man, Villam was all too familiar with the slummy warehouse district downtown. This was the only place in walking distance where he could trade crack rocks for dime bags to the tweakers freebasing their lives away on piss soaked bus benches. With the tonight fights scheduled here, he could get stoned before picking up a bout. The infected scrapes and bite marks still stung from the sweat that clung to him and he needed something to take his mind off the pain.

Villam glared up two inches at the lanky addict, who was so skittish he couldn't hold the bag without shaking it and taking it in and out of his pockets. "So whatchu say man? Come on, m'nigga this shit ain't the dankest dank, but you wanna get high, right? Then come on then nigga, let's get high."

"I don't know about this." Villam said. "What's all this brown shit?"

He snapped his mouth. "That's the weed, nigga. That shit get you high. Trust. Trust on that. Don't I always get you shit?"

The fighters mind flashed back to last week’s baggie of shake. He thought of bringing it up, but Villam didn't feel like being around this guy anymore. He was talking too fast and the needy look in his eyes made him nervous. Taking the bag, he took a huge whiff. "Glad I ain't hooked on drugs. Here fool. Take this. You ain't seen me."

The eunuch walked down half a block and sat on a curb. Setting his jacket down, he opened up his shoplifted 40oz and started drinking. Picking through his bag of weed he shook his head. "Seeds. Stems. Fuck." ---He rolled a joint anyway. The ex-champion, so caught up in his task, didn't hear the footsteps in the distance. Suddenly he was surrounded by 5 men in suits. Big guys, shades, each skin a color of the human spectrum.

A voice past the group spoke: "Is this him?"

"Yessir." the white one said. The two syndicate enforcers parted ways for what Villam first thought was a girl. Under a fancy white collared-shirt, the build was all masculine, the face however, was distinctly feminine.

"You're Villam, correct?" The man didn't give him a chance to answer. "Of course you are. Calypso sees that you are very ugly now, though you were beautiful once. No doubt wild, running on blood splattered plains. Calypso now sees why he calls you a dog. Calypso, also, has a message for you."

Villam took a swig of his beer, twisted the cap on it and set it down. Looking around he said: "Ok. Where is he?"

The man in front of him smiled. Even Villam had to admit, that it was a pretty smile. There was a genuine happiness beset in the corner of his lips. The grin of a man who probably didn't have a care in the world. "The message is this: Good luck in your fight, tonight."

Villam's scowl turn into an expression of surprise as the men, now armed with chains and brass knuckles closed in on him. The eunuch, operating on an instinct regained in the fight with Muttley, rolled back and was suddenly on his feet- his back to storefront that had been locked off by steel shutters. The biggest, tallest and loudest screamed as he charged throwing a punch. His brass-cast knuckles rang on the shutters as Villam ducked. The eunuch swung madly, clubbing him with punches devoid of technique. The chain put an end to that as it whipped out and came down across the side of his head. The eunuch winced, unable to remember the last time he had been struck with a chain.

The three other weaponless goons advanced directly in from of him, but Ender ran between them and across the street to climb onto the roof of a car. "What the fuck, guys? Seriously? What the fuck. There ain't nothing lucky about this shit, now fuck off."

There was that laugh again. Restrained chuckling that Villam now recognized as hollow and fake. The beautiful man spoke. "Oh? Ah Ha ha. Calypso doesn't think his brother cares truly-much for your victory, boy. Now....." Something golden and long almost appeared to Villam to slither out of his skin. The effect was so mystifying that by the time he realized what happened it was too late.

The shining snake lashed out and wrapped itself around his calf. It stung. Villam resisted and the moment he did there was the sound of a charge, a hiss, then a pop, then the eunuch's body was on fire. Lord knows how many watts pulsed through every fiber in his muscles. His back was suddenly on the pavement and he was being dragged to the blonde man, who still had that lovely smile on his face. The man leapt and when he came down upon him he felt something cold and sharp in his left shoulder. They were so close their noses almost touched. He spoke: "Gray eyes. So dead, that they are the only thing beautiful. Calypso sees you joining those eyes soon. But for now....."

The five syndicate enforcers were on him now, beating him senseless, but the jolt, the knife and those chilling words had long since sent him on a path to unconsciousness.

WE DON'T BITE

Candle moved cautiously through the area, eyed by homeless men, women, and the occasional child as they poked their head out from their cardboard box home or makeshift tent. The smell of urine hung in the air, as did soiled underwear on clotheslines made out of blue twine stolen from Home Depot. A few wayward souls stood around a burning garbage can; they turned and gawked at him a second, pegging him an unfamiliar face, a new arrival to their encampment, perhaps.

"Hey kid!" one shouted, prompting Candle to stop, turn, and look. "Yeah, you. Ya new `round `ere `er somethin’?"

Candle walked toward them. "Yeah, I guess you could say that..." He felt it best not to answer the man’s question with utmost disclosure in case the thought of an outsider trespassing through their territory was grounds for a full-on assault. After all, he had enough to worry about, what with an impending showdown with Jimmy Cain loosely scheduled for the night’s line-up of fights.

"Well, come on over and chat with us a while! We don’t bite!" the same one barked, before erupting with laughter; soon joined by his comrades.

Candle walked over.

ERROR

This is not an exit.

My children have failed me. More, they lied to me. I was informed that Chris Credible was dead, but then why is he locked in my trunk as I’m driven to the house?

Too many pigs around, too dangerous to end him myself.

Besides, The Man has me worried. He’s listening to Roderick, and Roderick wants me out of the way. Soon, but not too soon, Roderick will no longer be useful or entertaining, and I’ll have to remove him.

Then…

Then…

Then what? He works for The Man. Do I need to remove The Man too?

There.

That’s not an undercover pig. That… looks like Slade’s men.

How do I know? Because I know everything. Because I am their God. Because everybody in The Establishment and outside it live and die at my whim and whimsy.

They won’t find us. They can’t stop us.

Once we find the man behind the mask I can remove Roderick. Once I have seized power from The Man, I can remove Burton. But not before I remove his bitch.

Should I remove The Man? Can I?

He gave me purpose. He gave me the means to reach immortality.

Of course I can.

Kill one man, you’re a murderer. Kill a million, you’re a king. Kill them all, a God.

I am already a God.

Kill a man, and I’m a murderer. Kill The Man, and I’m The Man.

What was I saying?

Chris Credible is in the trunk, and he’s going to help me pick out which of my children failed me...

THEATRE OF LIES

Karen Pembridge felt the cold steel of the blade press against her throat.

"What do you want?" She asked with a slight tremble in her voice.

A moment of silence passed.

"Blood." Came a chilling reply from her unseen assailant.

Immediately Karen contemplated every escape move she had in her arsenal. There was something different about her predicament this time however. The pressure of the blade had already drawn blood from her throat.

She knew she was going to die.

Until he arrived.

"You really shouldn't play with these." Kellen Kinkade sighed as he clutched the knife in his hand "You'll have someone's eye out."

Donaven Winters smirked and scurried into the shadows, his part in the act played to perfection.

"Not a wise thing to be wandering around here at night alone." The Jersey Devil informed Karen "Plenty of unsavouries about."

"Tell me about it..." Karen replied wiping blood from her neck and adopting a defensive stance "...you're one of them."

"I'm very flattered that you may think so." Kinkade revealed as he handed Karen the knife that had been used against her "But I can assure you what I did to your neck was merely a means to an end. I could see your desire to take my title burning in your eyes. I can still see it now."

"Yeah well..." Karen slowly backed away "...thanks for the help but all the same I'd rather not be anywhere near you."

"Very well..." Kinkade sighed "...I just thought I'd let you know that your desire, that same desire that almost killed you when you fought me, that same desire is going to cost you your life."

Kinkade paused for a moment.

"Much sooner than you think."

Karen stopped in her tracks.

"Is that so?" Karen shook her head "I get it Kinkade. I get that you're the resident fortune teller and all that shite. But I'd appreciate it if you didn't peddle that nonsense at me and expect me to believe it."

"As you wish." Kinkade shrugged his shoulders and made his way past Karen "Just know that I have spared your life on two occasions now. The next time I do so I will consider it a personal property of mine. Remember that the next time we meet when they've left you for dead and I offer you my hand."

Kinkade turned and directed a rather arrogant wave in Karen's direction.

"Until then."

THE KISS

"So comrade..." Alexei Romanov dabbed his chin "...how was the steak."

"Kind of..." Token used the table cloth to wipe his tongue before quickly rinsing the remaining debris down his gullet with a swig of beer "...tasted weird."

"Ah." Romanov sighed "Probably because it was cooked as opposed to the usual cremated stuff you Americans prefer."

"Yeah it was kind of warm." Token sneered "Like this fuckin' beer."

"That is unfortunate comrade." Romanov chuckled to himself "Perhaps next time you might chose a suitable location for business lunch... Mcdonalds... KFC... Burger King?"

"Very fuckin' funny." Token shook his head "So business... with the plant going down the pan it's clear we need a plan... so what do we do?"

"I've spoken to The Man." Romanov informed Token "He has assured me that he will send one of his best men to-"

"Hey isn't that..." Token suddenly cut in with a sharp nod as Romanov turned to look over his shoulder, failing to notice Token drop a full sachet of powder into his wine "...never mind it isn't him."

"Who?" Romanov demanded to know as he turned back.

"Oh just thought I saw one of Lowell's fucking goons." Token said with a stroke of the chin "Been kind of anxious since if that slippery fuck finds out we ratted on him to The Man he might try and get the first hit in there and axe one of us."

"Do not be concerned comrade." Romanov reassured Token "My men are posted all around us. I have eyes and ears everywhere. I will see to it that no harm comes to either one of us."

"Hey..." Token raised his glass with a relived but rather sinister smile "...I'll drink to that."

So drink they did.

EVERY BLUFFER HAS HIS TELL

"Evening."

Every gun in the room was trained firmly on Kellen Kinkade.

"Don't try any nonsense you cunt." The Man's slightly edgy drone warned.

"Such as?" The Jersey Devil calmly enquired as he jostled the Asylum Championship on his shoulder "Rather flattered that yet again I warrant the sort of reception Adolf Hitler would get at a Bar Mitzvah. I can assure you however that I've no intentions of testing the rather questionable aim of your ever incapable task force. Is it cold in here or did your entire goon squad develop alzheimers? I find it rather ironic that the only one that isn't shaking like a shitting dog in here is the actual shitting dog."

Kinkade cast a quick nod in Muttley's direction.

"Shut your fucking trap wise arse." The Man snapped angrily "I'm not going to beat around the bush so I'm going to come right out and say it. I think you've got something to do with this Legion business. The guy turns up and saves your scrawny arse against Karen Pembridge and then starts fucking me about. It don't feel irate enough for it to have been anything to do with Doritos Man. It smacks of the sort of elaborate sentimental revenge stuff you're all about. Quite frankly the whole fucking thing stinks of you."

The Jersey Devil drew breath to exhale a massive sigh.

"This again?" Kinkade yawned "I'm not sure what makes you think you're so special that I'd devote such a vast amount of time to seeing you suffer. Lest you forget that I've got your precious Asylum Championship. Does the term stalemate ring a bell?"

"It does." The Man replied with a nod "Don't think for one second that I believe you're not trying to move the pieces while I'm not looking at the board though... you twat... as long as I've got the Immortal Championship and there's breath left in your body I'm not going to trust you any further than I can push you with my piss."

Another elaborate Jersey Devil yawn and stretch followed.

"Maybe I do want you dead." Kinkade scratched his chin "As things stand however I think I'm at the back of a very long line. You can rest assured of one thing though. If and when I am there to see you perish I won't be watching you from behind a mask."

The Jersey Devil took a few steps forward and leant a little closer to The Man.

"You'll be able to see my smiling face."

The Establishment's guns remained fixed on Kade's every movement as he grinned and took a few steps back.

"Brilliant..." The Man tapped his fingers in an agitated manor on the desk before him "...are you going to give me a spoon to eat all of this bullshit with? I've already told you that I think you're up to something... nothing you've told me has convinced me otherwise... but if that Legion fellow turns up again tonight you can be assured of one thing."

The Man withdrew his own sidearm and pointed it directly at Kinkade.

"I'll hold you responsible."

The Jersey Devil failed to register so much as a blink.

"I know you didn't just call me here to tell me that you've got your eye on me." Kinkade informed "So why don't you tell me what cunning plan you've devised?"

"It's very simple." The Man informed "You say you have nothing to do with Legion? Fucking prove it. I've put the word out there that you've challenged him to a fight."

The Man couldn't contain the smirk behind his mask.

"Kill him." The Man insisted "And I'll consider you absolved of any guilt."

The Jersey Devil turned to make an exit before delivering a parting acceptance.

"Very well."

FIXER

“Wake up…”

He heard the voice, but it was distant… almost dreamlike. He tried to remember who it was and where he was, but all he could return to was the blissful numbness of brown highway.

“WAKE UP!”

“…g’way…”

“Eddie, wake up.”

Eddie slowly opened his eyes, the world still blurry around the edges. He looked into a familiar face, one with a lot of worry in its eyes.

“Ray… what the fuck, man? Dez told everyone to leave me alone when I’m in here.”

Ray shifted his eyes to the left. Twice. Nervously.

“Lucky for you, the fact that you were so specially singled out means you’ve got an unprecedented opportinuty.”

Eddie’s voice caught in his throat as Ray stepped aside, and he stared into a new pair of eyes. Sunken, hollow, black.

“You can explain yourself.”

Dez stood with his arms crossed, Carlesi and Jones stood at the doorway with some guy between them. The guy between them was the only one in the room who didn’t look worried that Dez might suddenly turn around and put all eight inches of his blade into his throat. He looked like he was entranced by one of those hand held pinball - type games.

Well, bully for him.

“What’s your name again, son?” asked Dez.

“E-Edward,” replied Eddie, “Edward Henderson.”

“And why is it you’re in one of my private rooms with your… toys?”

They both looked at the medical kit open on the floor next to Eddie’s couch. There were a pair of bent spoons, a Zippo lighter, and three syringes. Two were in their case, one was out, looking as if it was recently used. Of course it was, Eddie’s right arm was tied off at the bicep.

“Well… you said whoever killed that person you wanted dead got special privilege.”

“And did you… kill… the person I wanted dead?”

“Of course I did.”

“Really… what was his name?”

What’s he playing at? Eddie tried to think, but the junk had clotted his brain. “Chris, wasn’t it? Chris Credible.”

“Yo!” said the vacant - looking man with the pinball machine.

“I don’t understand,” replied Eddie.

“You lied to me,” said Dez, as he knelt down and picked up one of the syringes, “I might’ve forgiven a fuckup, but you fucking lied to me. Don’t you know what I do to people who disrespect me?”

If he didn’t, he was able to figure it out quickly, as Dez had the syringe an inch from his eye.

“But-but I did!”

“Where’s the body?”

“Two doors down.”

“Carlesi.”

Without a word, both of the men next to the dim guy who answered to Chris Credible left the room. Dez pulled Eddie to a sitting position on the couch and crouched behind him, holding onto him with one arm across his chest. It could’ve been perceived as a gesture of affection, if it wasn’t for the syringe that was precariously waved about his face.

“Dude.”

They ignored him.

“Dude?”

“What is it?” asked Dez, exasperated.

“Can I have that?” asked Credible, as he pointed to a single unopened can of Cherry Coke on the floor near the couch.

Ray looked at him, and back at Dez. He could feel the tension.

“Sit on the floor by the door, and don’t say a word,” replied Dez, “or I’ll take it away from you.”

“Dude, that’s-“ started Credible, before he caught himself, put a finger to his lips, and shot Dez a thumbs - up. He took the drink and sat where he was told to sit, trying to figure out how to open the can and keep playing his game without putting either of them down.

“This is what was in there,” said Carlesi, as he reentered the room with a stiffening figure, sans - head. Jones walked in behind, holding a severed head by the stringy blonde hair still attached to it.

Dez stared at them both.

“She fit the description,” pleaded Eddie, “Blonde hair, miniskirt, vacant look on her face, answered to the name Chris Credible.”

“Yo! Crap, sorry!”

“I also said big - ass bushy hippie beard,” reminded Dez, “and I also said he. HE. This is the fuckin’ idiot’s wife, not the fuckin’ idiot.”

“How was I supposed to know?”

Dez didn’t answer.

Not with words, anyway.

“Holy-“ started Ray. Eddie didn’t have as much coherence, as Dez plunged the syringe into Eddie’s right eye.

“Hold him down,” ordered Dez, as Carlesi and Jones dropped their body/parts and grabbed Eddie’s arms. Dez stepped out from behind him as they pushed him down, the syringe still flailing about in his eye.

“You keep moving around like that, the needle’s gonna move too,” cautioned Dez, “that’s gotta hurt.”

“Please!” shouted Eddie, “Please let me explain!”

“Shhhh,” said Dez, “There’s nothing to explain. You couldn’t finish a simple job, and you obviously are too blinded by your need for what’s in these needles to be of any use to this collective. So since you can’t see… you don’t need eyes.”

The second needle plunged into Eddie’s left eye. He screamed in pain until he choked from throat irritation.

Dez smiled.

It’s the only thing he does that terrifies everyone in his collective to equal degrees.

“But you’re not a total loss,” whispered Dez into his ear, “you have one final use to me… as an example.”

He pulled his serrated blade out of its holster and grabbed Eddie’s nose by the tip, and sliced it off. Of course, he used the serrated edge, which meant he couldn’t do a clean slice - he had to saw for nearly a minute.

Maybe he didn’t have to, but he did it anyway.

“One needle,” he said, as he took the third - the one that had recently been used, and sent it, blade - first, into Eddie’s now - exposed nasal cavity. He pushed as far as it would go with his hand, and listened to Eddie’s screams become more animalistic and guttural.

Dez sighed, grabbed the needle in his right eye, twisted it sideways, and pulled it out, flat - side - out. It might’ve actually been less painful to have pulled Eddie’s eye out completely, because the needle simply tore through the outer edge of his pupil with brute force.

Then he did it again to the other side.

When all three needles were shoved into what used to be his nose as far as they could go, Dez backed up, measured him, and stomped all three down with the heel of his boot. Ray looked away as Eddie’s screams suddenly stopped, replaced by a strange sucking sound from his throat, and involuntary muscle spasms due to the trauma to his brain.

“Take him downstairs,” said Dez, “so the others can see what happens. Ray, please take Mr. Credible upstairs.”

Ray was silent.

“Ray?”

“Ummm, Dez?”

“What?” he asked, as he turned around, but he saw the same thing Ray did.

Chris Credible was gone. And he’d taken both parts of his wife with him.

And he’d even taken the cherry Coke.

“Should I seal off the building?” asked Ray.

“No,” replied Dez, “don’t bother. I know where he’s going.”

AGENT OF ALIAS

“Evenin’, I’d like to talk to The Man.”

Sheffield smiled at Roderick, who stood inside the deteriorating house that held The Man, with what could be described as a considerably crooked grin.

He was, after all, a man presumed dead, who now stood in front of the Human Lie Detector in the fine bureaucratic agency issue suit, shoeless with a gapping shoulder wound on his right shoulder. The sniper fire wound had spilled a considerable amount of crimson on Christopher‘s white t-shirt. If you thought in terms of Rorschach Patterns, you might see on a dog on Sheffield’s shirt.

Then again, if you see that, you might be crazy. And even if you might be it, Christopher Sheffield sure did look it.

“You'll have to excuse me for a moment.” Roderick stated blankly at Sheffield, holding back any surprise or freak-out deep inside. He’d seen worse, of course "It's just that-"

“Glancing shot.” Sheffield interjected with a grunt, while nodding to the wound some three inches down and to the left, in his shoulder.

“Damned Gorman. Vietnam grade syphilis rotting his brain…” Roderick muttered to himself, before looking back up at Christopher, "...I'm afraid I'm not authorized to let you pass. The Man has no desire to see you, Mr. Sheffield.”

Christopher Sheffield took a step forward, crunching something old and brittle under his rough and dirty, bare feet. “Kinda guessed that, Roderick. Doesn’t mean he won’t, though…”

Sheffield looked to push past the man who he had met once before, when Darwin Collingwood met The Man during The Tournament for the Asylum Championship.

Roderick took Sheffield’s right hand and bent back his middle and index fingers sharply, breaking the fingers with a swift snap and bringing the man once known as Alias to his knees. Roderick was well aware of Sheffield’s infamous pain thresh hold, so he continued pushing back on the broken fingers, until they almost touched the back of Sheff’s hand.

The Spirit was of course, brought to one knee, growling and frothing in pain. Spit dangled from his mouth, as he gritted his teeth something fierce.

Then twisted his hand down and around and lunging up at Roderick, connecting with a sickingly thunderous head butt across the nose of The Man’s right hand man.

Fragments of the plastic black shades shattered in every direction, a nice size shard even imbedding itself into the freshly broken nose of Roderick.

Sheffield followed up the first head butt with a second, and as he hit the second Roderick groped for his chest holstered Desert Eagle, pulling it out and then taking a close-quarter right hook with the butt of it. Sheffield had broke his nose against Roderick’s chin on the second head butt and appeared to be woozy. The Asylum’s resident spook was taking a vicious right pistol whip of a hook, and he was a hell of a boxer.

Except it didn’t connect.

Thing is Christopher Sheffield had broken his nose so many god-damnned times, that thought the blood still flowed, it didn’t quite faze him like it used to. Roderick knew everything that was wrong with people around these parts, he just didn’t know what was right.

The man the Cree call Wisakedjak then gave Roderick a solid knee in the groin, and elevated into the air, as The Suit doubled down in even more pain than he had been in previously. This led to an inevitable conclusion, for a person that had ever enjoyed watching Alias wrestle.

A shotgun blast of a Tiger Crush knee strike to the face.

Roderick was rocked by the full force of it and flew back into the crudely made house of cardboard and cinderblocks, to the left of The Man‘s housed location, knocking down most of the propped up blocks and causing the homeless man behind them to scurry away.

Walking over to the battered and barely conscious suit, his eyes already puffed and blood covering his face, Sheffield bent down and picked up the Desert Eagle. Just in case Porky regained enough of his senses any minute, and decided to was best to quickly put a bullet in Sheffield’s head. It would certainly be unfortunate for plans… and generally messy.

"I let you see what I needed you to see, so don't feel too bad about being caught by surprise. This game was fixed before we started playing, Roderick."

That’s when he heard footsteps behind him. Could be The Vet, thought Sheffield. Coming down off the roof of the battered house. He dragged Roderick’s body behind the other side of the cinder blocks. Then covered the rest with cardboard.

Karen Pembridge walked up to the door of the house, and almost surprised that there was no noise made to greet her and bring her to The Man, she simply entered the house.

Sheffield’s planned deal with the devil, would have to wait.

JOBS FOR THE BOYS

"Fair play to you girl." The Man remarked as Karen Pembridge stood before him "Last time you fought you got a right pasting, lucky not to get your neck snapped you were. I dare say if this mysterious Legion cunt hadn't got involved, you might even have won the damned thing."

Karen replied with a simple nod...

...it'd been a while since she'd even been able to do that.

"So here's what I've got for you." The Man continued "It's a reward for you keeping Kinkade occupied for me... complete opposite of that for you tonight... bit of a jobs for the boys... or girls if you will... type fight."

"Oh yeah?" Karen broke her silence with a little curiosity.

"Yeah." The Man confirmed "Proper straightforward. You fight Dick Face for the Immortal Championship. Make it look nice and authentic for a few minutes and then take a dive. I'll pay you handsomely for your services and you can rest up that neck a bit more until you're back fighting fit."

"Sounds good to me." Karen replied.

"Good." The Man nodded "Don't let me down."

"Don't worry..." Karen turned to leave, concealing a wry smile "...I won't."

KELLEN KINKADE© VS LEGION
ASYLUM CHAMPIONSHIP

"GAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHH!"

It was a scream that swiftly accompanied the whooshing sound and choking stench of burning flesh.

"Jesus Christ!" One of the crowd roared as he and another dived out of the way of a blinding bright object that staggered past them before falling a few feet later.

The surrounding mob swiftly found themselves covering their mouths and pinching their nostrils at the sight of a figure bathed in flames... rolling helplessly in the dirt before coming to an ominous halt... a disturbing stillness that confirmed they had been overcome by the fire.

"Apologies if the scream chilled you to the very bones." Kellen Kinkade's voice spoke over the muttering crowd as he stepped out of it "At very least the fire will provide a little warmth to compensate."

A secondary woosh followed as The Jersey Devil tipped the remains of a can of gasoline onto the burning body before stepping back to admire his handy work.

"The Man asked that I bring him Legion." Kinkade informed the observing ensemble "Here's the mask."

The Jersey Devil held a black and white mask aloft that was all but identical to that Legion had worn at the previous event.

"There's the rest."

A nod towards a charred corpse still burning beneath the cackling flames.

"Goodnight."

WINNER AND STILL ASYLUM CHAMPION: KELLEN KINKADE VIA DEATH

A PHOENIX FROM THE FLAMES

The Man watched the fire die down with some curiosity.

Had Kinkade really done in a few minutes what The Establishment had failed to do over the course of an entire night?

In spite of his gas mask The Man still felt a rotten smell tickling at his nostrils.

Quite literally...

...he could smell something burning.

A swift turn back from his monitors to his desk found the latter arranged somewhat differently to how he had left it.

Everything had been removed but for a single sealed envelope and more disturbingly a black hand print.

The Man examined the print and found it to be comprised of ash still warm to the touch.

"Brilliant." The Man rubbed the ash between his fingers and picked up the letter "Fucking brilliant."

A tear of the envelope later and all was to be revealed.

You killed us.
You killed us before and you'll kill us again.
You will not stop us.
You will pay for what you have done.
YOU WILL DIE FOR WHAT YOU HAVE DONE.
TO US.
OUR NAME IS LEGION.

FOR.

WE.

ARE.

MANY.

"Wonderful." The Man seethed as he slammed the note down on his desk "RODERICK!"

MY POKER FACE IS THE FACE OF A MAN NAMED POKER

“You're not Roderick… MAY! RELEASE THE HOUND!”

The Man loudly droned through his mic, almost screaming from the other end of his desk. Anyone who had ever gone to this trouble to see him, never wanted anything good.

“Leash the mutt, holster the gun, and just relax why don’t ya?” replied Sheffield with an almost animalistic growl. His nose had once again been broken and the blood had poured down from his nose, onto his white shirt. The blood running down the center of the shirt mixed with the blood from where a right shoulder wound should have been, but where now just was a bloody shirt over a scar.

Two of fingers where also broken enough to visibly noteworthy as such, and that just meant that the cigarette hung from Sheffield’s left hand. The Man kept an eye on the Marv-looking son of a bitch, and slowly began to sit down.

"That retard Darwin had it coming. I DO NOT want any of those fucking wannabe gangsters coming down from their casinos with snub nose uzi's for a fucking gunfight at the O.K. Caral... I've got enough on my plate as it is... so why don't you just turn around and-" The Man had said it before but it bared repeating.

“I’m not here for him.” Sheffield stated bluntly, then took a drag.

“Brilliant... but you've barged your way in here for something which poses the question... am I going to bury you now or later?” The Man was now pointing his gun at yet another entirely unwanted guest, “If there’s one thing I need with the parade of psychotics running through here on a blood vendetta, it's a psychotic running through here on a blood vendetta. Understand where I’m going with this or I do I need to shoot you in the face?”

“I’m not here for you either.” Sheffield growled again.

“Interesting.” The Man sighed through an electronic buzz. The gun wasn’t lowering one bit "What are you here for then?"

“I want a job.”

The quiet intensity of Christopher Sheffield held, and held steadfast. That’s when the gun dipped down a bit, as The Man waved it left and right while replying.

“Oh... well then... I’ll just give you a job." The sarcasm resonated through The Man's electronic voice aid "Does this look like a fucking job centre?”

Christopher Sheffield tossed Jack McCabe’s right hand onto The Man’s desk.

It was a hell of a deal breaker.

The Man looked at it, and then looked at Sheffield. Then looked at the hand again. He knew it was McCabe’s hand because of the various stolen sovereign rings on the fingers, and the lack of half a pinkie.

“I didn’t even notice the gippo cunt was missing his fucking hand. Then again, I make an effort to ignore the thieving bastard altogether. Still… I’m impressed... even though he's not going to take that very lightly.” There was a tickle of wonder in The Man’s voice. When was the last time he got a hand?

“I'm sure he must be pissed about it. But after what he did to Darwin, what I did in return to McCabe was simply the end of my contract with Collingwood. Now. I need a job.”

“I see.” The Man chirped back in an electronic click, he was going to enjoy this, “Let’s see, you’ve walked away from getting shot by my sniper, seemingly disposed of Roderick for the time being and all of this after stealing the hand of my best thief. Don’t know who the hell I thought you where, but you’re obviously one nasty little cunt aren’t you?”

Christopher Sheffield, bloodied and bruised. Scarred. Dirty, and all together more then a little rough looking, simply grinned a devil-ish grin.

“Yes.”

The Man slammed down a heavy hand, on his desk, “Thought as much. You want a job? I'll give you a job. Villam Ender. Quite frankly he pisses me off for reasons I won't go into. Every time I think that alcoholic piece of shit is going to vanish for good he keeps on coming back. It's a matter of time before he gets his act together and becomes a pain in the arse again. Tear that fuckhead apart. I coulda sworn that wankerless wanker was on his last leg not long ago; but then he went and gave Muttley a kicking. Despite him walking around like a gin-soaked rag there's obviously still a bit of fight left in the fucker yet.”

“Send the message out that I want to fight him tonight, then.”

“You don’t talk much... straight to the point... ready and willing. I like that. Keep that up and you and I will get along just fine. Do a good job with Villam and I've already a good idea who I’d like you to grease next.” The Man was looking forward to the new muscle acquired by the Establishment. Though he’d have to keep a short leash on Sheffield for the moment, and make sure McCabe didn‘t try anything stupid because of one little hand.

After Cain Maxwell proved less to be a less then reliable sociopath in acquiring the Asylum Championship, Dez Aragon's increasing lack of sanity and with what was happening with Burton… it was nice to have some fresh fire power in front of him. Speaking of fire, The Man looked back down at the black hand print on the desk before him... and chills ran up his spine.

“Legion." The Man was quick to enquire "Heard of him?”

“I remember the old wrestling organization, sure, but I didn’t realize it was a man too.” replied Sheffield, seemingly confused but otherwise disinterested in the reasoning behind the question.

"It's a man..." The Man confirmed "...I think."

The Man squinted at Christopher Sheffield from under his gas mask, eyeing him from head to toe, then shook his head.

“Need shoes for the fight?”

NO CHOICE NO CHANCE

Villam awoke, eyes still closed, with the feeling of being baptized. Some one was pouring water on him. When he forced open his heavy lids all he saw was the sour and ugly face of an old man. The eunuch grimaced. "Your breath smells like shit."

"Morin' t'you too, sunshine. Had a good lil nap time, didn't ya?" said Old Joe. Villam, suddenly remembering something, sat up, ignoring the fact that he lay on concrete. He began looking left and right, Old Joe laughed. "What's wrong?"

"My...my weed-AW MAN FUCK." Villam looked down at the source of a sudden pain on his left side. His shoulder was wrapped with a rag, but he bled from a spot below the collarbone on his left breast. Calypso missed on purpose.

Old Joe helped Villam to his feet. "Meant t'tell ya. You've been stuck. I poured some vodka into it and wrapped ya up before ya got good'n bloody."

'So that's what that smell was.' thought the eunuch. ---"You got anymore of that vodka?"

The old man pulled out the 2 pint bottle and Villam took 3 or 4 liberal swigs. The burning in his throat reminded him of Calypso's attack. Villam walked over to a curb and sat back down. He was hurt. 'Fuck this! Everything is getting weird on me. Johnny got some pretty boy brother who fights with a whip with a god damn tazer build in. And those syndicate enforcers get bigger every time I see them. And since when does Johnny give a fuck about my fights anyway?'

Villam noticed the Old Joe staring at him, but the old Englishman spoke up before the fighter could bark at him. "Some fancy cunt in shades came up to me just now while you were out. He said you have a match."

The eunuch between to rotate and work out the kinks in his limbs- seeing if they still worked enough to get the job done tonight. Looking into one of the side view mirrors, he winced at a scar under his eye and said: "Well I already know that. Against fuckin' who?"

The old man thought about it. "I think his name is Sheffield. Something like that. Chris."

Villam drank the rest of the bottle. He knew that name. Some wrestler. It didn't matter. "Oh well. Looks like that's it then, shit. Showing' up like this is like showing' up to pretty much get my ass kicked."

"A-a-are you serious?" Old Man started. "I don't fucking believe it. I used to watch you fight through pain every week on the television. You're telling me you're not going to at least try to fight?"

Villam handed the old man the bottle- a mere shadow of what was given to him. "That was a long ass time ago, man. Why do you keep bringing up old shit? So I'm not going to fight him, so what? Why's it your fucking business?"

The Old Man looked down at his bottle. "Well...I guess it's not. I was just...surprised...that didn't want to fight. That fancy fucker made it pretty clear, anyway. According towhead he said, anyway."

"And what's that? What did he say?" Villam was interested now.

Remembering Roderick's words, Old Joe recited as best as he could.

"Either you show up or you can kiss the Asylum Championship goodbye."

VILLAM VS CHRISTOPHER SHEFFIELD

Villam Ender scanned his opponent from head to toe. Dried blood was caked among the wiry hairs of his golden beard. He too had a shoulder wrapped up but in much cleaner bandages. The fighter could tell by the way his fingers were taped on his [left or right] hand that a couple of them were broken. He knew this man.

Villam smiled. "You look like shit."

The man without an Alias known as Chris Sheffield sniffed. "Right back at you."

"So what the fuck, Alias? Word is that you're supposed to kill me. Don't know what you heard when you sitting on the laps those of oiled up faggots at fWo or where the fuck ever, but I ain't fell off so much that some whiny turd dressed like some gay-rodeo cow-bitch, sportin' a jizz and piss-stained beard is gonna coming within the same area code of taking my life." ---The eunuch, feeling his blood boiling over, took off his jacket. "To let a walking dead retard like The Man talk you into something so fucking stupid- is a sign of really poor decision making skills which are no doubt a side effect from being a product of incest. So here's what I'm gonna do. I'm gonna turn my back and count to 3. When I turn around you better have made like Casper and ghosted your lilly-white ass on the fuck out of here, or I'm gonna turn you into an example of natural selection."

"Alias is a name better left on television, Villam. And what's in store for you, and for me... well that's a different life, altogether." said Sheffield over the noise of crowd that surrounded them.

Villam's eyes narrowed and his mouth drew to a thin line. He was not amused. Turning, he began to count. "One.

Two.

Three.

'Kay, I'm turnin' 'round."

As the eunuch did, he could see no trace of the man who once stood in front of him. Smiling to himself and a little bit relieved he muttered. "Wise decision..."

Suddenly the noise of the crowd swelled, something flashed in the corner of his eye and when he turned around- WHAM! A full-force haymaker nearly knocked Villam to the ground. 'He was aiming with that one.' he thought as he rubbed his jaw. But he had no time to consider the pain as Sheffield was charging for him. The eunuch, utilizing his renewed instincts, cut him down mid-path and sweep kick to the right knee. Sheffield didn't go down, but it bought Ender enough time to get his guard up. In another life Villam would have just pulled out something sharp- like the scythe given to him by Dez Aragon- and just mowed an annoyance like Sheffield down. As he threw angry punches trying to blow through his opponent's guard, he couldn't deny the piece of him that longed for that kind of simplicity.

Christopher's counter punches came swift and hard. The ex-Asylum champion could not keep up and this was amazing considering that Sheffield carried similar injuries. He wasn't used to someone with so much fire in their veins. Fighting back the envy of something that he once had- he crashed into him- trying to bury knees into his midsection but only getting elbows. Ender felt Sheff's arms part, but it out to grab him around the waist, pop a step forward and drive his spine into the concrete in a simple wrestling takedown. It was there that Sheffield served up the old ground and pound.

Drowning in an under current of punches, a voice cut through those of the on-lookers. "COME ON, DAMMIT! YOU'VE GOT THE INSTINCTS! BUT HE WANTS TO WIN! YOU'RE NOT FIGHTING!"

Old Joe. Heat rose to his face at the idea of a one-armed geezer coaching him in a fight. But for some reason- and it was something that Villam couldn't shake- the advice seemed perfectly natural. As if this old Englishman had been yelling in his ear for his whole life. Growling, Villam broke his guard and let Sheff's punches obliterate his face. The crowd roared as Villam's nose popped out of place and dripped blood. More blood flooded the bottom rows of his teeth as his lip busted.

The fact that he was being allowed to easily give out such damage confused the man once known as Alias. But only for a second. 'I know you're planning something, Villam.' -- And sure enough the eunuch, with all of his might sat up and fashioned his fore and ring finger into a beak, aiming for his eyes. Sheffield had seen this move before in karate and grabbed the middle finger- twisting, snapping, breaking. The lack of surprise in Villam's eye startled him, but by then it was too late. The eunuch's teeth hooked into his collar bone and the free hand wrapped around his neck...Sheffield's eye bugged out of his skull.

"AARRRRGGGGHHHHHH!!!"

Villam's middle finger probed through the bandage surrounding his bullet wound. It was a pain unlike anything Christopher had felt. All available hands now went to ripping that finger out, but Ender's teeth gripping his collarbone brought with it more pain and brought even more confusion. His finger still in his wound, Villam used what was left of the other hand and grabbed a handful of Chris's hair. Sheffield knew what was coming next but there was nothing he could do to stop it. Villam's head only reared back an inch and drove itself into his nose in what could only be described as "the one-inch punch of headbutts". A practically (see: not quite) knocked out Sheffield collapsed onto his side.

Boom. Boom. Boom. Villam's stomps fell from skull, to shoulder, to skull again with all the force he could muster. Face down with Villam's knee in his back, Sheffield could feel the eunuch's desperation. From the stories that Sheffield heard, he knew he was in a bad position. With his opponent prone and suffering, Ender was most at home. Sure enough, the ex-champ took out this time to liberate Sheffield of the bandage around his shoulder. A bloody grin was plastered on his face as he dug his thumb in there.

Foam flowed from Christopher's mouth in a silent scream. Villam laughed. It surprised the eunuch much more than it did Sheffield however. 'When was the last time I laughed? Is this something else that I've forgotten? This...Joy?' --- Putting his arm around Sheffield's neck in some sort of clutch, Villam spoke into Sheffield's ear. "Tap out you fucking pretender. You think I'm gonna let you win? You know how close I am to the belt, motherfucker?" Villam dug deeper, Sheffield responded with a moan. "Fuck you, Alias. Fuck you for steppin' to me."

He went to dig his thumb in even deeper but felt something tugging at his hand. Yanking his thumb out he eyed the wound, a wound which almost seemed to be drying up before his eyes. Realizing he was probably drunk, he laughed and hammered it again and again until it bled to his satisfaction. Villam got up and grabbed a handful of hair with his good hand. Dragging Sheffield over to a tent, he threw him up on a table littered with assorted oils and incense. Ender reveled in the renewed sense of gratification he got from slamming the back of head against the table over and over.

"Yo man! What the fuck!?" ---Now that Villam thought about it, someone had been yelling for quite a while. Now this man was in his face, screaming about his merchandise. No doubt it was the owner of this little stand. Villam turned around and gave the man a Russian style push kick to the face. The crowd turned on him in that instant, but it was something else that told him that he shouldn't have done that. He'd find that thought to be correct because as he turned around----SMMMAAACCCK!!!----A board, that was probably used to display the bottles of incense oils, ended its arc across his jaw line.

That alone nearly knocked him out, but Villam was determined to remain on his feet. The second blow came down vertically on the shoulder that Calypso stuck a knife in. With both arms useless, he dropped to one knee---WHAM!---Re-lifted to his feet with a punch, kick to groin, KNEE TO THE FACE.

The eunuch stumbled back now stars in his eyes, yet somehow able to remain on his feet.

Sheffield cursed. 'He should've gone down with that. Whatever. Time to finish this.'

Villam saw things now in slow motion, shrouded in a cloud of black. Is this how it was going to end? He could barely lift his arms to defend himself and the punch that came flying towards him now looked as if it could kill. Sheffield was ignoring pain, pouring every last bit of what he had into ending him. The fear of death, while prevalent, was nothing compared to the fear of loss he felt. Was all that desperation was for nothing? If he went down here, what would happen? He could die, but worse for him was living on as the loser inside of him that he now spent every breath of his life trying to suppress.

'No! No! NO!'

With no knowledge of what he was doing, Villam right leg shot up and suddenly came down hard on Sheffield's shoulder with an AXE KICK. Gritting his teeth, his body on some kind of hate-filled automatic pilot, he positioned that leg once it came down and fired out the other one catching him in the temple with a deadly ROUNDHOUSE KICK!!!

The look of surprise on The Spirit's face quickly sealed itself off once his eyes closed. He fell to ground as Villam fell to his knees.

The count was started and to the casual viewer, with Villam on his knees, it seemed he was literally praying for his opponent to not wake up. When the count reached 10, the crowd erupted into half boos and half cheers.

Villam fell face first and rolled over onto his back, staring up at a starless night too tired to sigh relief.

WINNER: VILLAM VIA KNOCKOUT

IN THE FLESH

"You know, I thought I had it bad. But, Jesus H. Christ, did you get dealt a bad hand, son," Craig--the oldest of the three homeless men that Candle had spent the last forty-five minutes getting to know--said, shaking his head.

"Yeah, I guess so. I try not to think about it. I’ve lived a lot longer than any doctor had given me hope for. No doubt it’s going to catch up to me sooner rather than later--I mean, I can feel it, you know?--but I can’t dwell on it. I’ve gotta live my life, no matter how shitty it may be." Candle chuckled; it was the first time he’d done so in months, and it felt good. The rest had a good laugh, as well; they could sympathize to an extent. All had seen more downs than ups lately.

"Well! I gotta piss!" Scott, one of the three homeless men, said. Scott was a thirty-five-year-old former machinist who’d suffered a broken arm on the job; he was deemed temporarily unfit to work, and was penniless following a dispute over unemployment insurance. Some loophole, he’d said, was the cause of his financial woes. Unfortunate, Candle thought, as he seemed like a nice guy.

Scott left the circle, disappearing into the shadows.

The remaining three continued to talk and laugh for several more minutes, before...

A bloodcurdling scream tore through the shadows, prompting them to turn their heads... concern quickly manifesting itself as a feeling of nausea deep down in their stomachs.

"It’s him--it’s gotta be," Craig said, an utterance of intense fear.

"Who?" inquired Candle.

"The man in the suit," he began. "An evil motherfucker--a real sicko."

The three walked slowly toward the darkness; a gap located between two tents made out of found blankets. Craig continued to talk. "A woman who used to live `round here said she saw him getting out of... a Porsche, I think it was... and when he returned, she said, he was covered in blood. That next day, the police were all over this place, but the investigation didn’t last long. They were gone within a few hours. We’re not a priority, you see."

The eldest, the one who’d initially called him over to the fire, added, "There’s been more than a few killings `round `ere."

Just then, to the shock and horror of the three, a body collapsed at their feet. It was Scott. He lay flat out on his stomach, making gargling sounds, as he fed a hand beneath his body; when he withdrew it, it was covered in blood.

Before anyone could react, someone stepped out of the shadows:

"Jimmy."

"In the flesh."

Jimmy Cain smirked, wiping the blade of a knife on the sleeve of his blazer. "Say, Phillip, what’re you doin’ at my ol’ fishin’ hole! Socializing with the fish, I see."

"YOU!" the eldest--whose name was never offered to Candle--shouted, pointing an accusatory forefinger at the Jimmy. He trembled with rage, advancing toward him. Candle held him back, sticking his arm out horizontally across his chest, an act that most likely saved the old man’s life.

Jimmy looked at the eldest with disdain. "Ah, shut your fucking trap, y’ole geezer! The Jimmy ought-a face-fuck you with his blade for even speaking to him!" Jimmy held up a finger; then, without missing a beat, stabbed the knife downward into Scott’s vertebrae. Smile. Twiiist.

Craig slowly backed away from the confrontation, before sprinting off.

Cain let the blazer slip from his shoulders and fall to the ground; beneath, he wore one of those obnoxious designer Ed Hardy tee shirts. He continued to smirk, not taking his eyes off of Candle. "You look like you wanna try something-try it. Hit me, faggot."

JIMMY CAIN VS CANDLE

Candle dove forward and tackled Cain to the ground. Jimmy’s face disappeared beneath the shadows cast by the adjacent tents, as did Candle’s fists as he rained down punches.

Candle was quickly bucked off, thrown to the side. Jimmy stood up, greeting Candle with a vicious elbow to the side of the face, sending him stumbling back into the tent beneath him, collapsing it as he awkwardly fell over and quickly scrambled back to his feet.

"Here’s the thing, Phillip--I’m physically superior to you in every way. I’m athletic; you’re... well... you know what you are."

THWACK! A well-trained right hand found its mark on the cheek bone of Candle, drawing blood.

"And I’ve had it up to HERE with your wise-cracking, bitch-eyeing BULLSHIT! You go around eyeing the Jimmy’s bitch, and you might as well put a gun in your mouth and pull the trigger!"

THWACK-THWACK-THUD! A right-left-right uppercut combo sat Candle down, blood flowing from both nostrils, lip torn open.

"Which--" CRUNNNCH! Push-kick to the nose. "--probably would’ve been a whole helluva lot easier and far less painful. But mistakes--we make ‘em! Humans make mistakes! Your first mistake was talking to Kim; your second mistake was talking back to me; and your THIRD mistake? Thinkin’ for ONE SECOND that you could best me in a fight! Now look atcha! You’re a fuckin’ mess! You’re..."

Jimmy’s eyes bulged and his throat pained. He...

...was being choked?

"YOU SICK BASTARD! I’LL TEACH YA!"

The eldest bum had pulled off his belt and wrapped it around Jimmy’s throat, and was now using it to choke the life out of the ‘Violence Fetishist.’

Jimmy struggled, winging elbows back in defence, all of which were effectively avoided.

Candle was disoriented. He slowly sat up, and, as his eyes began to focus, he saw exactly what had saved him.

Unfortunately, the belt used to choke Jimmy had worn over the years, and SNAPPED just as Cain was beginning to pass out. The eldest fell onto his back, as Jimmy spun around, gasping for air.

"YOU USELESS FUCKING BUM! YOU DRAIN-ON-SOCIETY FUCKING PRICK! HOW DARE YOU INTERJECT YOURSELF IN MY BUSINESS!" snarled the Jimmy, standing over him. He cocked back his right hand. "I’m gonna fuckin’... I don’t even KNOW YET! But you’re gonna get put through the meat-grinder! You’re..."

Victim of another blindside attack.

Candle hung onto Jimmy’s neck, a rear choke applied, legs wrapped around Cain’s torso. Cain staggered round, out of the shadowy area, into the congregating area where the lit garbage can was located... Cain reached back and FLIPPED Candle off... into the flames of the garbage can. The garbage can pitched and fell over, as Candle rolled around frantically in an effort to put the flames out. A soccer kick hit him in the temple, and he suffered a flash knock-out. A moment later, however, and he’d recovered, and was crawling to safety.

Cain’s rage and want to kill was so great it had effectively blinded him to his surroundings... which had filled with a throng of homeless people, some carrying weapons, others nothing--all intently watching.

Craig stood out from the crowd. "There he is! He’s the one!"

That was all it took. The crowd enveloped Jimmy, practically swallowing him whole. A whirlwind of fists and blunt objects brought Cain to the ground. Every inch of his body was wrought with pain. "AAAACCKKKGGGHHHH!!!!" he screamed beneath the dog pile, but his voice was quickly drowned out by the collective war cry that preceded a barrage of feet, some connecting with his head, others with his groin... any vital spot was fair game.

For the first time ever, Cain felt completely helpless--at the mercy of his attackers--and his eyes welled up with tears. "ACCKKKGGGHHHH!!! SOOOMMEEBOOODDDYYYY HELPPPPP MEEEEE!!"

Suddenly, the beating came to a halt.

Candle was standing again. "Let him up."

His request was met with some hesitance, but soon the mob backed off.

Cain gingerly got to his feet, barely able to stand. He spat a mixture of blood and mucus onto the ground and smiled at Candle. "Thisss issss greaaaat! That’s reaaal cool! Reaal fair!" More blood and spit. "LET IT BE KNOWN--IT TOOK FIFTY-ODD PEOPLE TO BRING THE JIMMY DOWN! I’m the most bad-ass motherfucker around! I take a beating from a fucking MOB of FILTH and I still get up to finish my bid’nizz."

Candle charged at Cain. His attempt at spearing Jimmy to the ground was countered by an expertly timed Judo throw that found Jimmy in side control. From there, Cain elbowed Candle in the face repeatedly. Candle scrambled back to his feet... a right hand blocked, Candle instead KNEED Jimmy in the balls as hard as he possibly could. Every ounce of strength went into the blow. Jimmy collapsed, his testicles already damaged by the shit-kicking he got at the hands (and feet) of the homeless he’d hunted like animals for years.

"You son of a biiitch!" Jimmy grasped at Candle’s hair, but found that it was rather easy to pull out.

Candle hammered him in the face with a right hand as he knelt beside him.

Candle mounted Jimmy. From there, he hit him with another right hand, then a lift, then another right... soon Candle’s fists were a blur as blood spurted from Jimmy’s cheeks and his eyes swelled shut.

Candle was in the process of ending Jimmy Cain’s life.

The crowd hollered and cheered. It was deafening.

Candle reached back and withdrew the knife Jimmy had used to kill Scott. Candle had grabbed it off the ground and slipped it between the waistband of his jeans and his belt. He held it like a dagger over his head, the tip aimed down at Jimmy’s Adam’s apple.

Cain closed his eyes. His arms pained as he tried to lift them off the ground; they were surely too weak to block the final blow.

Candle hesitated a moment as he stared down at his defeated foe, and it was in that moment--that short period of time--that his body fell numb and his chest pained; his lungs felt as though they were filling with battery acid; and his vision became blurred and off-centre.

The only thought to enter Candle’s mind was: "This is it."

His disease--the disease he’d suffered with since he was born, the disease that had robbed him of a normal life--had finally overtaken his body.

The knife slipped from Candle’s fingers and stuck in the ground.

Candle slumped over.

Cain felt the coolness of the blade against his cheek... and the warmth of Candle’s against his own on the opposite side. And yet he sensed Candle wasn’t breathing. It still hadn’t donned on him what had happened, or how lucky he was. But when it finally did, all he could do was laugh and laugh and laugh.

"Heh-hah-Ha-HA-HAHA...

...AHHAHAHA-BUHAHHAHAHA!!!"

He rolled Candle’s lifeless body off of him and sat up slowly. He turned to him, smirking, and spoke the very satisfying words, "I win."

And though he had, in a sense, "beaten" Candle... in that he was the sole survivor... he still had the crowd of angry homeless people to contend with, and they were closing in FAST.

Jimmy held up his hands as if asking for mercy. But before he could utter any words:

BANG!

A gunshot.

"...the fuck?"

Kim Grim stood on an overturned barrel with a Magnum--yes, a Magnum--clutched between her two hands, the end of which was pointed at the crowd. "EVERYONE JUST FUCKIN’ COOOOOOL IT OR SOMEBODY’S GETTING A HOLE THE SIZE OF A TRAIN TUNNEL IN THE FRONT OF THEIR HEAD!"

Jimmy wasn’t wasting any time; he was on his hands and knees crawling as fast as he possibly could to safety, that being Kim.

Kim sneered as she hopped down off the barrel and helped Jimmy to his feet.

"Now, you’re all going to stay exactly where you are, and we’re going to get out of here... if we stick to this plan, nobody else gets hurt," Kim announced, as her and Jimmy backed up toward a parked black SUV. Jimmy opened up the back door and flopped down across the backseat. Kim climbed into the driver’s seat. The door closed and the engine started up, but the SUV didn’t move.

The driver’s side window rolled down and the Magnum emerged.

BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG!

She’d emptied the clip into the crowd. Bodies dropped, and Kim obnoxiously laid onto the horn as the SUV sped away.

WINNER: JIMMY CAIN VIA DEATH

THE BEGINNING OF THE END

There was a murmur that ran through the entire area. Two men had already been killed for nonspecific crimes; one had been shoved to the ground, his arm stomped on until the bone splintered, the entire appendage removed with a knife, and the sharp splinters of bone were shoved through his neck.

The other had been shoved to the ground, face first, had bits and pieces of his scalp torn off with that same knife, had his skull chipped and fractured with the butt end of that knife, and had pieces of his brain sliced off and out.

There was a pretty good crowd around both of these happenings, but nobody dared interfere.

DEZ was back, and he was pissed.

“Way to go, psycho… why not leave a trail’a fuckin’ breadcrumbs for the pigs?”

Dez didn’t look, his bloodstained hands and face were focused forward as he walked towards the Establishment’s bunker. “They were in my way, Burton.”

Inmate paced him, staying far enough away so Dez couldn’t surprise him with a sudden attack. “Where’s my girl, motherfucker?”

He stopped. “Is that what this is all about?”

“It’s what made it personal.”

Dez laughed. “Fuck you.”

Burton balled up his fist, but didn’t attack. He believed he could take Dez in a one on one fight with a level battlefield, but there were still numerous patrons milling about and he had no way of knowing how many of them were his people, and even the greatest fighter in the world wouldn’t take the odds against another highly dangerous man and an unspecified number of his lackeys.

“Once I find her…”

“Don’t threaten me, Burton,” replied Dez, “Your bitch is alive, marginally safe, and relatively healthy. Isn’t that enough?”

Dez started walking again, but Burton didn’t follow.

Jessica might be in danger, but she was still alive.

“Hold on a bit longer,” he said to nobody in particular, “I’ll figure something out.”

“Dude!”

Burton spun around, but not in a defensive stance. It was only the idiot, after all.

“Hey dude, can you like, hold this for a second?”

Chris Credible handed a half - empty can of Cherry Coke to Burton, who took it, mainly out of bewilderment for the rest of his adornments.

“Thanks,” replied Chris, as he pulled another piece of duct tape off the roll on his wrist, “My little dudess is always losing her head... the other day her social worker was all YOU'D LOSE YOUR HEAD IF IT WASN'T SCREWED ON and she was all PAH... now look at her.”

He was actually duct taping Chrissy Credible’s head back onto her body. “Hey, Chris? You do know she’s de-“

“Holy crap!” said Credible, “I almost forgot dude. That girl you know, she was there too! You’d better go get her, dude. Dez was about to make a real mess outta Chrissy here before I swooped in and rescued her. Hopefully nothing suck ass happens to your lady.”

He continued to tape.

“Wait, you saw Jess?”

“That’s her name!”

“Listen to me, you fuckhead,” replied Inmate, “Where is she?”

“She’s at Dez’ house. It’s like a clubhouse, only there’s no trees and there’s a lot of guys and girls who cough but that’s because they’re always trying to put too much powdered sugar on everything. It might be a hospital, there’s always people with needles. I don’t really like needles, it reminds me of the time I had to get a shot after I licked that rusty staple gun and the guy was all RELAX THIS WON'T HURT and I was all OUCH YOU FUCKING DOUCHE THAT KILLED and he-“

“Shut up,” replied Inmate, as he clamped a hand over his mouth, “Nod your head yes or no. Were you at Dez’ safehouse?”

Credible nodded.

“Good,” replied Inmate, as he removed his hand, “Can you show me the way?”

“Totally dude.” said Credible, as he got a better grip on Chrissy, and took three steps back the way he came.

Then he stopped.

“Wait,” he replied, and thought about it for a second, “No.”

Inmate sighed. “Just get outta here before I hurt you.”

Credible hesitated. “Can I have my soda back?”

“No.”

“Dude! SO not cool.”

Credible hoisted Chrissy and walked away. Inmate took a sip of the drink, then threw the can as far as he could. He turned around -

“Is he gone?”

-and once again, nearly crashed into someone. He assumed a defensive stance for half a second, before he recognized the person in front of him.

Jamie Brent. She worked for Token and his drug smuggling. Relatively tough, mostly harmless.

“Who?” asked Inmate.

“The crazy guy with the eyes,” she replied.

Dez. “Yeah, he’s off to suck on The Man’s dick for a bit. Why?”

She turned around and started to leave, her entire body shaking. “He’s going to kill me, I know he’s going to kill me.”

“Why would he even give a shit about you?” asked Inmate.

Brent turned back around and looked at him, her head cocked curiously to the side.

Tyler Burton was a ruthless fighter, a merciless killer when he had to be, and a tough son of a bitch. But she also noticed something else in his eyes.

He was still human. It was a rare thing here.

“If I tell you…”

“If you tell me,” insisted Inmate, “maybe we can fix both our problems.”

He was still human, but he was always planning.

Well, what the fuck, thought Jamie. What do I have to lose?

THE LAST SUPPER

The wine and conversation had flowed.

Alexei Romanov had found Token Weed to be a rather more charming and insightful business partner than he had ever believed possible. Over their meal and several drinks they had laid out new plans that would see them seize control of the heroin plantilla and put it right. Lowell would be forced out and under their administration the plant would produce more product and revenue than even The Man could have expected.

The night was growing late however and Romanov had began to feel a strange tiredness.

"You'll have to forgive me comrade." Romanov covered his mouth as he late out a gaping yawn "I feel somewhat exhausted. Perhaps the large banquet and the alcohol were somewhat overdone. It may be time to call it a night no?"

"No." Token replied with a shake of the head.

Romanov noted a sudden change in Token's demeanour.

"I'm sorry I think you misunderstand." Romanov insisted with a rub of the eyes "I feel a little lightheaded and queasy and shall be retiring. This was a good business meeting and we shall certainly converge again. Until next time."

"Next time?" Token smirked to himself as he rather smugly chugged back his beer "Who says there'll be a next time you fuckin' squat dancin' monkey?"

"How..." Romanov narrowed his eyes angrily but struggled to focus "...how dare you?"

"How dare I?" Token spoke rather calmly and quietly so as not to alert Romanov's surrounding men "I'll tell you how I dare you fuckin' commie piss stain. I dare because there's diddly shit you can do about it. You gonna try and cut my head off again Boris? Go right ahead."

"Very well..." Romanov hissed as he reached to his side only to find his trusty blade missing and a serious feeling of discomfort overwhelm him "...I-"

"Looking for this?" Token smiled as he held Romanov's blood stained blade up by his side "Seems you haven't been paying attention so how about a little refresher course to bring you up to speed? I tossed a bunch of painkillers into that expensive vino you've been knockin' back. Then I went ahead and talked to you about a future you don't even have while I watched your eyes glaze over and your words begin to slur. Then I took this blade of yours and I stuck it in your fuckin' guts and you didn't even notice. And now... you stupid fuck... you're bleeding to death because of that condition of yours and there ain't shit you're gonna do about it but sit there and die while I finish this beer."

Alexei's face grew red with rage before suddenly becoming devoid of all colour as he slumped face first onto the table.

"Guess I was wrong about the beer." Token sighed as he knocked back the remaining mouthful and made his hasty exit "Dasvidanya shithead."

DICK FACE© VS KAREN PEMBRIDGE
IMMORTAL CHAMPIONSHIP

"So you've spoken to The Man..." Dick Face whispered under his breath "...you're cool?"

"Cool as a cucumber mate." Karen replied with a smirk.

"Make sure it looks authentic." Face insisted "These idiots need to think it's real."

"Oh I'll make it look authentic." Karen promised "This lot won't be disappointed."

"Excellent..." Facey trailed off before suddenly raising his voice "...OUT OF MY WAY BITCH."

"Excuse me?" Karen scowled.

"Go with it..." Dick Face whispered "...I'M IN THE ESTABLISHMENT YOU UGLY BRITISH MARE... GET OUT OF MY FUCKING WAY... OR I WILL HAVE YOU SHOT WHERE YOU STAND."

"Fuck off." Karen snapped back "Go and take your face for a shit."

"HOW DARE YOU?" Came an angry query from The Face.

"You're Dick Face right?" Karen enquired "I can understand you being a Dick but I reckon that's more your persona than your physical appearence... I'd say your mug far more resembles an arse than a face... doesn't it Arse Face?"

"Brilliant... they're biting..." Face whispered "...ARSE FACE IS IT? WE SHALL SEE HOW YOU FEEL IN FIVE MINUTES TIME WHEN YOUR FACE IS IN MY ARSE."

"Put your money where your bumhole mouth is..." Karen insisted "...Immortal Championship on the line?"

"AS YOU WISH YOU DISGUSTING JIZZ RAG." Dick Face roared.

The gamblers had already started to put their money down. Almost all of them had seen the previous debacles that were Dick Face title fights. They knew where the easy money was and they were wise to the farce that was about to unfold.

THUD.

The first shove to Karen's chest saw her stagger and had the betters scrambling for their easy money. The British Lassie steadied herself and shoved back however and it became clear that the viewers would be in for yer another brief pantomime before the inevitable dive took place. Face shoved Karen again before suddenly copping for a quick jab to the lip.

"Fuck!" Face clutched his lip before whispering "Take it easy that almost drew blood."

CRACK.

A second right fist did just that.

Blood streamed from the nose of a rather confused looking Dick Face as a solid blow popped his nose like a blood filled balloon.

"YOU STUPID-" Face sneered only to be cut off by an even worse blow.

One that caught him directly between the legs.

"Gawwwwwwwwwwwwwww." Face groaned as his eyes rolled back into his head.

A fairly audible murmur of confusion began to filter through the crowd as Face staggered left and right clutching his damaged testicles. Karen circled aggressively as a few betters scrambled to change their stakes. The first to do so would prove to be the lucky ones.

SMACK.

Rancor.

The roundhouse kick connected firmly with Dick Face's skull and sent him toppling to the dirt in an unconscious heap. Face was a capable fighter on his day but in what should have been a staged fight with his guard down he was an easy picking. Karen Pembridge just so happened to be the vulture prepared to make a timely swoop.

Karen raised her newly acquired Immortal Championship high above her head as a chorus of cheers for those that'd changed their bets drowned out what was an inevitable scream of blue murder from The Man.

WINNER AND NEW IMMORTAL CHAMPION: KAREN PEMBRIDGE VIA KNOCKOUT

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