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A.D.
Not even a trannie gypsie with a blistered pussy could make The Man squirm more uncomfortably. In fourteen seconds, a man sitting crosslegged on his desk had wiped out a squardron of four. May, Muttley, Roderick, McCabe all unknowlingly the prey to the man in black, the one they once called pepperjack and his whimsical, artificial and articulate ways. Early afternoon, they descended to the basement room perhaps for a little snooze. Then from the shadows, without a sound that echoed an ether rag relaxed and soothed.
"so what do you do? When a swordwielding, drugstreaming, suicidedreaming man sits above you?"
Left alone to arise, The Man opened his eyes to find the curator of last week's Heroin prize. Startled more by the question than the now daily distractions, The Man thought long in deliberation.
"I pull out my gun and fucking shoot him." the tinnied electronic voice beeped, now hiding his once shrill, manic mancunian speech. Expectations fell short for the man in black did not retort, all the while his smile engorged. The Man searched silently, trying to understand the point of this man's identity. Every now and again, conclusion cloudy. More often than not, to the gasmasked grime, the doritos confused the plot.
"your now lidless eyes cannot hide you from my mind. there's questions to be asked, like why we've both chosen our masks. certainly, you've had the mental capacity to understand the striking subtlety of our symphonic similarities."
"No, you bloody loon," The Man's voice crackled with feedback, "you know who I am and that's fuckin' grand for yourself. Quite an advantage in the situation..." The Man kicked his feet up on his desk with a loud thud, flicking a few pieces of dirt on the man in black. "If you had any balls, you'd return the favor and then we'd see who can scare whom."
"ironically, you so eloquently illustrate my point. concealed faces almost always saves those close to us." blackpepperjack remarked while touching the tip of his blade, "its a fascinating fear of mortality that you do not possess. not one shade of degree that my hands will cause your death. proudly you exhude, but once again have forgotten to conclude that it is i that knows the secret you repress. identities are easy to believe, look at you..." the man in black laughed, "look at me. or look just around the bend. villam ender pumped with lead, joe campbell supposedly lost his head. mad marx, token's trackmarks, a good riddle of how do you kill the asylum's dead?"
The Man's laughter garbled through his voicebox, when suddenly he reached under his desk and whipped out a gun. His hand shook slightly, but the barrel was placed directly on doritos man's head. "I've been waiting a long time for this you fucking freak...you're a fucking pedophile and if you think I'm falling for another round of your red herring theatre, I'll have you know Angel Dalton is fucking dead. And in the next click of this trigger, you're going to fucking join him and maybe get to watch Muttley wake up for some hors d'ourves."
"it is immortality and legendary weaponry that's no doubt been told to thee. someone you cannot kill, someone you cannot stab, someone you cannot burn, only letting you live...until you learn."
The Man shrugged, "Oh well."
CLICK.
CLICK.
BOOM.
"WHAT THE FUCK!" The Man shrieked in shock over this man in black's inquisitive chin stroke post-headshot.
"you fail to understand the forces of nature, that our duality and identity forms from tribal scriptures. angels and devils fight for their pride, but the likes of myself don't have equal sides."
CLICK.
CLICK.
BOOM.
"you seek the messenger through all the wrong aliasi's, constantly assuming your mind maintains few fallacies."
The Man took a step back, lowering his gun and wanting to rip his mask off, "Stop talking like that! Fucking christ, I'm sick of you! Aliasi's isn't even a real word!"
"was it the devil's don that sought to run hell, or was it in fear of god's voice shunning him from heaven's bells. fatality can be escaped, but your fate cannot. from proton to electron, positive to negative, wrath to spirit and the judgement that surrounds it."
BOOM.
BOOM.
...click.
blackpepperjack stood up off the table, putting his sword away. The Man furiously went to his desk drawer and dug into a box of bullets...
"you think those bullets will kill me?"
"I don't fucking care! It might wake some of these motherfuckers up!"
"well, they might. ...those aren't blanks."
The Man paused for a moment, before laughing uproariously. "You're fucking dead! BLOODY FUCKING DEAD!" The Man spun the chamber, clicked it back into place and swung the gun upwards into...Roderick's unconscious face.
"you wouldn't shoot a man with glasses would you?"
A moment's hesitation let Doritos Man shove Roderick into the Man, causing the desk to topple over. The Man rushed to his feet aiming at Doritos Man spastically...
BOOM.
BOOM.
BOOM.
"FUCK!"
POW!
"AHHHHHHH! MY BLOODY HAND!"
"its not bleeding, just a casualty of sparks. it seems you were wrong as your bullets did not quite find their mark."
The Man staggered around, shaking his hand vigourously. "Who the fuck expects anyone to flip around like some wanking ninja on PCP!? I'm starting to find it annoying that you don't have the sausage to kill me! That's your only way out of this, you better fucking know that! I'm sorry I'm not impressed, I've killed forty men in one night without lifting a bloody finger!" doritos man rushed forward blasting The Man with a front kick to his chest that knocked him two feet into the air and subsequently hitting the wall with a loud crack. The Man barely could breathe before doritos man grabbed him by the mask and slammed him on top of his desk, the quicksilver revolver used to disarm the Man, now pointed on the bridge of his face.
"i couldn't shoot you without seeing your eyes, but make no mistake that one day I shall rip off this disguise." blackpepperjack pistolwhipped The Man across the face, then twirled his revolver holstering it in its place. the man in black grabbed The Man's arm, rolling up the sleeve, while pulling a needle from his jeans. "your skin makes me bitter," blackpepperjack grabbed the Man's hand, "this finger feels like murder." with a wrench blackpepperjack back his index trigger, The Man howling and writhing like some primal critter. "the wretched deserve infection, which means you earned eternal affliction. we'll begin with a prick and omittance of the knowledge of token and my existence."
"...fuck...you." The Man would've spit on the man in black as he dizzily watched him fill the needle from a vial, but instead internally cursed his masked condition for awhile.
"for instance, we must start with the disease. for who we are, and who i claim to be. the letters A.D. may deal with identity, but a closer look could mean everything. i'm not an angel, but an agent of god. his vengeance for the venemous you've ignored with much moralless regard." blackpepperjack flicked the needle, and started swiping the arm, "i am the disease that seeks the cursed and the damned, it was your finger that made me a vested interest for death's dealer hand. keep him alive, satan pleaded. let him suffer, god conceded. you're a foul spirt pawn in an endless war, i shall spread under your skin like a red light whore. i warned token of AIDS, he must not have told...A.D. is a disease, that's what you needed to know.
The Man's blurrily gazed at the man in black starting to inject something into his arm, wishing he had the motor skills to stop this maniacal masked man. doritos man looked up slightly, sniffing the air and withdrew the needle while whipering something almost inconceivable.
"i should've known you were the brave one."
blackpepperjack backflipped out the scene, just as something leapt and unfortunately landed on the Man's spleen. The table cracked in half, but that didn't stop Muttley from scrambling to his primal stance.
"easy boy, i'm your friend..."
blackpepperjack held out his hands to the growling, twitching primal beast of a man. Muttley ran ferociously, skidding past the man in black who avoided him deftly. the beast yelped from a piercing pain, before the juice from the syringe started swelling his brain. Roderick, May and McCabe stood to their feet ensconed in ether haze. Groans from the Man were heard from the rubble on the floor, blackpepperjack quickly ran to the door. Roderick tried to focus, but couldn't find his gun. May from a lying position tried to hold back Muttley, who was trying to get intimate with McCabe in quite a dominant position.
"Its Haiti all over again!"
The Man stood up slowly, holding his ribs in pain and pulled out the needle blackpepperjack left in his veins. "If this is fucking dirty..."
"god still wouldn't be satisfied, or so i'd guess, but i've always felt that the concept of heaven and hell is modernized folklore at best. in the end of the beginning they told us about the beginning of the end. everything becomes nothing to become everything again."
Roderick scrambled to his feet, clutching his gun and fired, but it was too late blackpepperjack's visit had expired. The Man slumped into his chair amidst the frantic screams of McCabe. May choked on the collar of Muttley, Roderick paced nervously as the Man gazed into the needle. Half-Full, Half-empty he didn't wish to perceive, just the desire to know if he got HIV.
TO BE OR NOT TO BE
"BEWARE!"
Those standing in the area around the cage spun to see an individual making his way down from the balcony, dressed quite bizarrely in nothing but his birthday suit.
"Beware... of entrance to a quarrel; but being in, bear't that the opposed may beware of thee. Give every man thy ear, but few thy voice; take each man's censure... but reserve thy judgment. Costly thy habit as thy purse can buy but not express'd in fancy; rich, not gaudy; for the apparel oft proclaims the man."
"For fucks sake..." May 32nd rolled her eyes and sighed "...now what?"
Muttley strained on his leash as the bizarre looking individual made his was slowly through the crowd, closer observation revealed him to be naked but for a stupid wig and pair of cheap sunglasses.
"State your business." Roderick made his usual enquiry, firearm levelled at the newcomer.
"State YOUR business." The figure replied.
"That's what I just said." Roderick responded, clearly unimpressed.
"Nay!" The individual yelled "That's what I just said."
Roderick pulled the hammer back on his gun, the figure held his hands up.
"My name is Brain Dolittle, poet, philanthropist and purveyor of the fine arts!" Dolittle responded confidently.
"Since when was quoting Shakespeare a means of purveying fine art?" May 32nd remarked.
"I hath heard not of this Shakespeare fellow of which ye speak!" Brain Dolittle replied defiantly "The lady doth protest too much, methinks."
"Get ahold of The Man." May spoke to Roderick through gritted teeth "We've got another fucking escapee on our hands."
Roderick mumbled into his walkie talkie as Dolittle took a moment to step atop of a steel folding chair and make an announcement.
"Alas my fellow men... let it be known!" He cleared his throat and spoke from the heart "Cowards die many times before their deaths; the valiant never taste of death but once!"
"Hope he believes what he says..." Roderick sniggered behind his hand to May "...just got done talking with The Man, this poor bastard is fighting Muttley."
"Ha!" May laughed to herself before looking up towards Dolittle "Alright Mr. Valiant, get your dumb ass down off that chair... by the prickling of my thumbs, something wicked this way comes."
Dolittle stepped down off the chair before May allowed a little slack on the leash she was clutching... allowing Brain's opponent to lunge forth with his teeth bared.
"O... woe is me..." Dolittle sighed as he set eyes upon the snapping snarling Muttley "...to have seen what I have seen, see what I see!"
MUTTLEY VS BRAIN DOLITTLE
"Five hundred bucks on the dog!" A voice cried from the bustling crowd "This fucking retard is dead meat."
"I can't even watch." Another figure spoke as they turned to walk away.
"You fucking fanny." Metal Mickey scoffed as he munched on a cheeseburger "That cunt was nearly sick on my shoes the other week... if any of you lot are sick on me I'll fucking temple jolt you."
Trent shook his fist as a few people stood close by elected to take a few steps back.
"Save your bets fellows!" Brain Dolittle spoke out to the crowd from the cage before pointing at Muttley as May lead him toward the cage "Like as the waves make towards the pebbled shore, so do his minutes hasten to their end."
"How about you save your breath?" May sneered into the cage "In fact no forget it... sound off all you like, you've got nothing to save your breath for. In about two minutes you're never going to need it again."
"VERY WELL WENCH." Dolittle exclaimed "If that is so then I shalt leave thee all with my finest work."
He cleared his throat.
"To be, or not to be... that is the question! Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune or to take arms against a sea of troubles, and by opposing end them? To die... to sleep... no more! And by a sleep to say we end the heartache and the thousand natural shocks that flesh is heir to,--'t is a consummation devoutly to be wish'd. To die, to sleep... to sleep: perchance to dream: ay, there's the rub: for in that sleep of death what dreams may come, when we have shuffled off this mortal coil. Must give us pause: there's the respect that makes calamity of so long life; for who would bear the whips and scorns of time, the oppressor's wrong, the proud man's contumely, the pangs of despised love, the law's delay, the insolence of office and the spurns that patient merit of the unworthy takes. When he himself might his quietus make with a bare bodkin? Who would fardels bear, to grunt and sweat under a weary life, but that the dread of something after death, the undiscover'd country from whose bourn. No traveller returns, puzzles the will and makes us rather bear those ills we have, than fly to others that we know not of? Thus conscience does make cowards of us all; and thus the native hue of resolution is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought, and enterprises of great pith and moment with this regard their currents turn awry, and lose the name of action."
Dolittle took a deep breath and bowed.
"Very good." May commented with sarcastic applause "You write that one yourself?"
"That I did fair lady." Dolittle replied "Now cry havoc... and let slip the dogs of war!"
"No problem." May cringed slightly as she turned to Muttley and removed him of his collar.
She leant forth and whispered "Muttley..." in his ear before rounding it off with "...cats."
The feral monster's eyes grew wide.
May exited the cage as Muttley suddenly rushed at Dolittle... prompting him to throw a fist at the crouched beast.
"GAAAHHHHHHHH!" Dolittle screamed... as Muttley caught his fist with his teeth and proceeded to chew off his pinky and ring finger with one shake of the head, swallowing them as Dolittle screamed in agony "My fingers... how now shalt I grip my quill and finish my upcoming play... Stud 2 Blood: Men who love their fellow men."
Dolittle furiously lunged at Muttley... but the feral monster rose on hind legs and quickly dwarfed the advancing playwright, suddenly leaning forth and appearing to kiss the confused looking Dolittle.
"The fuck is going on?" Someone in the crowd roared.
"UGH!" Someone else wretched, covering their eyes.
Blood began to spray from Dolittle's mouth... down between he and Muttley and onto the canvas as Muttley continued to twist his head from side to side and gnash away. A final sick grip and pull later... Muttley had pulled Brain's tongue clean from his head in a sickening attack that saw people rushing for the bathrooms to empty their stomachs.
"Soft bastards... what's up with you?" Metal Mickey sneered, munching his burger enthusiastically despite the fact that Dolittle was being ripped to bits right before his very eyes.
Muttley swooped in as Dolittle spewed blood from his mouth onto the canvas, first knocking Brain onto his back before pouncing on him and taking a firm bite into his nose... after several more seconds of twisting and gnashing the nose had been removed completely from his face and swallowed.
Screams, wretches and cries of joy from the gamblers who'd placed bets filled the arena as Muttley applied the killer blow... latching onto Brain's jugular like a limpit and biting down until a pop brought about another steady flow of blood onto the canvas.
Dolittle struggled briefly... but moments later was dead.
May 32nd rushed in to administer a sedative as the feral monster continued to chew away at his dead victim.
A lesson learned for Dolittle... imitation is not the sincerest form of flattery but rather the simplest form of plagiarism...
...and crime does not pay.
WINNER: MUTTLEY VIA DEATH
LUCK IS FOR THE UNSKILLED
“Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Ryuu Maeda, a member of the Yakuza and I am here to collect my sum.”
JP Roderick stood behind Maeda in The Man’s office, deep within the bowels of the old Asylum arena. Beneath his gasmask, The Man was seething at the audacity of the individual who stood before him, but at the same time he knew to take caution.
“Sum for what,” The Man asked. Under the desk his hands played with a magnum handgun, loaded and ready just in case the occasion arose. He also knew that Roderick was ready at his signal to fire as well.
“The death of Hayden Ashcroft,” Maeda said with complete conviction.
From behind his mask, The Man smiled. “The bounty was not in effect because Hayden was needed on mission in Mexico. I took the bounty off of his head, otherwise, he would have been killed by one of my other men. I apologise, but there’s nothing here for you to collect.”
Maeda stood firm in his demeanor and his goal. “You know who I work for. As a matter of fact, I believe you are also currently somewhat employed by him, last I knew. Boss Junichiro would be very, very displeased to know that you’ve failed to deliver on a pact the two of you had made regarding the Briton. And regardless of the Russians making an impact here and in Mexico, there are many more men that could be sent here. That is something that I feel your small operation is not ready to handle. I think you know what the correct decision is here. I deserve the bounty, I want it now.”
Roderick removed his Desert Eagle from the inside of his suit jacket and waited for the signal. However, as quickly as Roderick removed his, Maeda spun around and produced one of his own. “I can match you, American, don’t do anything stupid. You’ll both be dead before your boss can even get the gun in his lap into his hand. Put the gun away.”
The Man nodded to Roderick, who in turn returned the Eagle to his jacket. “How about this, Ryuu, if you can win a match tonight in the cage, I will give you your bounty. If you lose however, you leave my business and tell Boss Junichiro that Ashcroft is still alive.”
Maeda nodded. “Beggars cannot be choosers. However, I will grant your wish. Who is my opponent.”
“A man by the name of Alderghast. If you can defeat him tonight, the bounty on Ashcroft’s head is yours,” The Man smiled beneath his mask again. “Good luck.”
Maeda slipped a slight smile at The Man. “Luck is for the unskilled.”
“Oh, one last thing before you go,” The Man stopped Maeda as he approached the door. “If you do indeed win, I want proof that Ashcroft is gone. I want his body, his head, something that will prove to me that you did indeed kill him.”
Maeda nodded. “That won’t be a problem.”
TO PLAY WITH
Anyone else would've turned around, run or walked away at a ridiculous clip, or would have at least knocked on the door. But when May 32nd approached the room and heard muffled cries of pain, she simply pushed the door the rest of the way open and walked in.
"Hey, you in there?" she asked, knowing full well that he was.
"Shhhh," replied Dez Aragon.
He was crouched on the floor in the middle of the room, with a knife in his hand. No big deal, that was par for the course for Dez. The living, breathing, squirming in fear human being that was hogtied with tape over his mouth in front of him wasn't even enough to rattle her.
"The Man said you're fighting Blunder tonight?"
"That's right," said Dez, as he traced his knife across the man's bare abdomen, drawing a thin red line, "he's afraid of germs, we're gonna help him get over his fear."
He poked a bit harder, causing the voice behind the tape to whimper even more.
"Even if it kills him.."
May 32nd smiled. "Well, try to not kill him. The Man has some plans for him that would really get screwed if he was dead."
"Like?"
"Like... like the Man will tell us when he fucking wants us to know," said May, "like every fuck time. And he's got something for you, too."
Now, Dez turned around. "Oh?"
"So stop fuckin' around here," said May, "and go do your thing."
RODERICK’S DISCOVERY
Roderick had spent hours researching. The notes Dr. Teller had made on Grail. Grail’s diaries, his fractured pieces of psuedo-literature, he’d studied them all under lamplight with coffee cup in hand, with his marker pen circling and editing. Making notes, trying to dig up information.
Fenn Grail. Once known as The Freak for a brief spell of six months in the Asylum, between 2002-2003. A remorseless killer completely under Campbell’s control - near unbeatable, near indestructible. Fearless and obedient. The Man needed someone like Freak, someone who he could use to fight against the Syndicate - who seemed more powerful every day, or maybe against Kinkade, a troubled ghost that haunted the corridors of the Asylum.
Roderick had found that Grail had at some point been romantically involved with a hooker, Paige Johnson. Born and raised in Kentucky. Roderick had meticulously scoured missing persons files until something had come up, something promising.
He’d found them.
Nestling together like newborn puppies in sick middle-aged love, in a dingy apartment in the Bronx. He’d found them, and his little quest could finally come to an end. He’d hand the Man that dossier he’d compiled with a big smile on his face, and what that gasmasked freak did with the information, who cares.
But Roderick was pleased. He felt a sense of accomplishment in knowing that the Establishment ranks would soon be bolstered.
Brian Connor Fenn, AKA The Freak, AKA Fenn Grail…
…would soon be making his presence felt in the Asylum.
RYUU MAEDA VS ALDERGHAST
Amazingly, it seemed The Man considered the latest Asylum nutbag - Alderghast - to be hard based entirely on the virtue of him being a purple-haired freak in a rubber mask. Ryuu cracked his neck and assumed an unusual elaborate fighting stance, eyes locked on the new Asylumite.
“Aha, ‘tis not the flesh of the man that makes his name, ‘tis the complexities of his mind and the girth of his talent. I am Gregory Alderghast, for those unacquainted with me from my numerous televised and staged appearances; and tonight I am here to present to you a show most bountiful in the philosophy of the spirit.”
Alderghast - white rubber mask, buttoned up 1800s style garb, blackcurrant hair smashed into haphazard gel spikes. Unknown to the spectators, unknown to The Man until not too long ago.
Ryuu Maeda - claims to have ended the young life of the promising Hayden Ashcroft. Sword in the corner of the cage, eyes hard and permanently disgusted by the American ignorance and their cultureless neo-bliss. Growing more and more annoyed with Alderghast’s thespian ramblings by the minute, he stretched his arms, flexing tight muscle fibres, creaking with pent-up viper-like power.
“You, the uncultured, may be blind to the talent you see standing before you. Refined and gentlemanly yet transgressive and raw. The potency of the mind will triumph tonight over…”
At this point Alderghast’s cheekbones were SLAMMED with the boot of Maeda, courtesy of a flying kick… Ghast dropped to a knee, holding his possibly busted eardrum. Ryuu followed up by squatting low, balancing himself with his arms…
THWACK.
Buzzsaw-style kick to the temple.
THWACK.
Again.
THWACK - THWACK - THWACK
Alderghast screamed and scuttled around the cage, shaking his head and rubbing at his face with his palms. Shockwaves from the lethal blows having vibrated his skull into dust. Ryuu stalked Alderghast like an unlucky black cat, gently hopping from foot to foot, his arms like winding snakes. The spectators cheered - having already taken a liking to this precise and hard-hitting Jap bastard.
“Fucking” - *gasp* - “heathen!”
Ryuu sighed.
Grabbed a tuft of hair, and smacked Alderghast’s face into the rim of the cage - and then his body became a blur, and from a lethal angle, Ghast’s jaw was nearly wrenched from its socket via a spinning kick. Ghast stood up instinctively and began to amble about the cage, drunkenly almost, swinging fists at thin air.
He slapped Ghast from behind to let him know where he was… and as soon as Ghast threw an idle fist his way, took him down with a deadly judo throw and, holding him by his wrist as he kipped up into a standing position… began to ferociously kick Ghast under his armpit, aiming to tear his arm off his body through the force of his cleaver-like kicks alone.
“ARGH, plebian THUG!”
Needless to say, nobody had placed any bets on Alderghast.
Ghast sneakily tried to unhook a stinger from his belt - a hooked, sharp surgical tool - but Ryuu just laughed softly to himself and kicked it out of his hand before he could use it. He pulled Ghast up by one arm and slung him against the cage… Alderghast trembled, in shock, his arm locked close against his body.
“Such weak competition. Americans, they like to think they’re tough. But toughness is nothing compared to discipline and strict routine.”
Ghast coughed up blood into his palm, pulled another stinger, which was attached by a thin, razored chain to his belt. “Skilled you may be, but showmanship eludes you.”
Ghast threw out the stinger, but Ryuu dodged - the stinger swirling around behind him. Ghast laughed and with a sharp YANK, the biting blades of the chain swung back and wrapped around Maeda’s torso, sinking deep into his abdomen. Ryuu concentrated away the pain, eyes jammed shut and teeth grated together, as Alderghast tugged on the chain to keep it tight and threw a second stinger from his belt - Ryuu however was too quick, and it was caught in his bare palm.
“Weapons are for those who have no trust in their body and the spirit that fuels it.”
Ryuu threw the stinger back at Alderghast, who quickly found the hooked blade lodged underneath one of his ribs, having shredded through his outer clothing. Gasping with horror, Ghast let go of the chain he had leashed Ryuu with…
“But,” Ryuu concluded, “I am not above playing your filthy games.”
Maeda leapt into the air, a length of sparkling knife-edge chain stretched between his fists… somersaulted, and landed behind Ghast, who was still trying to prise the stinger from the gruesome hole in his chest. Ryuu pulled the chain around Ghast’s neck, and to the repulsion of the spectators…
…began swinging him around by his head, the chain carving into Ghast’s neck and blood droplets flying all over the mesh, all over the sporadic groups of punters around the cage.
Ryuu let go, and Ghast flew into the side of the cage and folded… gasping, choking, bleeding. Ryuu clenched his fists slowly, cracking every single knuckle, and with a primal roar, tore his shirt from his body with one hand. Deep lacerations all around his body from the gimmicked chain.
Ghast was positively shitting himself.
Rightfully so. Ryuu spun around and BAM, a brutal foot to the face. Spun again and CRACKED Ghast with a whip kick, jarring his head to one side abruptly. Then… he pulled Alderghast to his feet, holding him by his face… Ghast’s hands clawing at Ryuu’s body to no avail.
“And a true man of honour, my friend… fights face to face.”
And Ghast’s rubber mask was torn in half by the Japanese Asshole’s powerful hands. Ghast’s face caused many of the spectators to hiss and shudder with faux-concern. Horribly burned up one side, skin peeling and flaking, pink and raw.
“So this is what you hide. Deformity. A burn on your face, a burn on your soul. Learn from this, Alderghast-san. Learn that you are a decoy, a caricature. Without soul, and without meaning.”
A fiery, earth-shattering Dragonfist uppercut rocketed Ghast into the air, and he plummeted back down to the floor like a sack of shit. Pulped, smashed, and maimed.
Roderick administered the ten, and this pensive Yakuza assassin had found his first victory.
WINNER: RYUU MAEDA VIA KNOCKOUT
WHAT’S THE DEAL WITH YOUR FACE!?
“What… what the fuck is that.”
“No fucking clue… it’s like… a woman? No, a man…”
“That dude’s face is a nightmare.”
If you bought the tapes, you’d have probably seen this man before. Made a brief appearance in Battle Royale before it folded. But to these spectators, ignorant of BR and its history - some even new to underground no-holds-barred entirely, the man standing in the cage looked like nothing on Earth. Like nothing they’d ever seen before.
Pouty lips, defined cheekbones, silver hair. Botox here, fat injections there - his face was barely even discernable as male or female. Standing six feet six, barely a percentile of body fat to his name - scarred, mutilated. Some scars torn across his chest still visibly scabbed over and rough with dry bloodflakes.
Patchwork Grimes. Scalpel modified freak, addicted to plastic surgery. Here in LA - the home of knifemares like himself. Jocelyn Wildenstein has nothing on this fucker.
And with green eyes to the gutturally shocked spectators - he speaks. Another limey. Like Asylum needed more of them.
“So some shoe-cunt tells me this place is where all the fighting’s at these days. But I’m walking around like the fuckin’ social butterfly that I am, and I’m seeing pussy everywhere. Some of it’s real pussy that would be fuckin’ MAGNIFICENT if it was seeping cuntgunk all over my face, some of it is MANPUSSY - read: every single ‘fighter’ this dirty musky scrote-fold of a shithole has. So like all fine connoisseurs of the vulva, I’m here to taste some of either pussy. But, that fruit in the gasmask hasn’t booked me in a fight ‘cus I’m all, EX BATTLE ROYALE OH NO, and all that shit. Thinking I might be a ‘mole’ or some such bollocks.
“What I’m sayin’ is. Anyone want a piece o’ this fine, refined, gent? Ya know. You all got a choice. Come down here and get bumfucked or facefucked. I ain’t really too concerned.”
Roderick watched from the balcony, talking to The Man over his earpiece. The spectators grumbled amongst themselves - the freak in the cage was wasting time. Muttley growled on his leash, but it wasn’t the dog-boy that answered the challenge.
May 32nd handed the leash to Roderick. “You need to hold him tight. If he gets angry, just stroke his hair. That calms him down.”
“What?” - Roderick’s surprise was met with a leather leash pressed into his palm and May walked down the balcony steps, rolling tape around her fists. You probably don’t know this, but the self-maiming femme fatale fruitcake was a kickboxer - once upon a time, in her old life. And there was something… something, that she’d seen in this surgically altered modern horror, had irked her to the core. A core that she thought had died a long time ago.
“Oh look at this. A fine piece of axe wound ready for the penis pummelling. That tape might chafe the awesome totem-cock sweetie, if I were you I’d go and grab some moisturiser instead. I like my birds’ hands to be soft like silk and their pussy to be smooth like velvet - YA DIG?”
Roderick wasn’t concerned - surprised maybe. He called for bets to be taken… May 32nd against the queer in the leather pants.
MAY 32ND VS PATCHWORK GRIMES
May’s blank slate face and dead eyes sparked to life with the fighting spirit. The fire. “Sure thing honey. But be warned, I like to play rough.”
“Really,” Grimes said, “that’s fucking fantastic, because you’re about to get the hair-pulling, titty-squeezing devil-may-care romp of your fucking LI---”
THUD.
May’s fist connecting with Patch’s face. Patchwork reeled back from it, holding his eye and screaming, which left him open to a low kick to the knee by May. She swung her leg up and CRACK - a shin kick to Grimes’ face.
“MY FACE, MY FUCKING FACE, YOU BITCH!”
THWACK. Another shin kick. Getting a handful of Grimes’ white hair, she did it again - THWACK - and again - THWACK - Kawada style, before Grimes eventually managed to grab May’s leg and lift her with it… swinging her into the air by her thigh, and slamming her back first to the mat.
He mounted her, MMA style… grabbed her by her hair, and pulled her face towards his crotch.
“A woman’s place… ain’t in a cage,” he said, wiping blood from his eyebrow. “It’s on her knees with a mouthful of coc---”
*CHOMP*
May bit Grimes’ dick through his pants. Patch screamed - his face and his knob, his two most precious assets, were already both damaged. May followed up by elbowing him in his bollocks, giving Grimes good reason to get off her and retreat to the other side of the cage. The punters, they cheered - not even because they’d put money on May, but because she was showing this sexual Frankenstein who the fucking BOSS was. It was all coming back to May, bit by bit - her training. Standing in front of the punchbag for hours on end.
Speedbag. Kickbag. Her trainer yelling obscenities into her ear. “FIGHT HARDER, YOU CRAZY LITTLE BITCH.”
Patting her on the back when she won her first pro kickboxing match.
She charged at Grimes, spinning and managing to raise her leg high enough to clock him with an electric-sharp roundhouse kick. Grimes practically flipped from impact, but May realised that although she had the intestinal fortitude to take Grimes to the limit… there was one problem.
Grimes is a man, she is a woman.
He got up before Roderick had administered a two-count.
“You fucking whore. YOU FILTHY FUCKING WHORE, YOU WILL BE GAGGING ON HOTCOCKTM BEFORE THIS FUCKING NIGHT IS THROUGH.”
May jabbed at Grimes and went for a right cross, but her arm was grabbed and slung over his shoulder… and he threw her down to the floor with a brutal head-first judo throw that saw May fly through the air like a rag doll. Grimes mounted again, but this time - rather than taunt the self-harming drone-girl - he unleashed a savage row of eight slicing elbows into her face. And then…
He leaned in, and started to kiss her.
At least that’s what it looked like… until those in attendance noticed the blood oozing from her mouth, down her cheeks, pooling around her. Until they heard the muffled screams and saw Grimes’ grinning unnaturally white teeth sunk DEEP into May’s lip.
He was trying to bite her fucking lip off.
May’s hand hovered above the mat - maybe tapping would be the easy way out, when you’ve got a two hundred and fifty pound man pinning you down under his weight, gnawing on your face like a starving animal. But instead, that hand balled up into a fist and punched Patch square in the temple. He ripped his face away from her, small holes punched through her lip, blood painted in psycho murals on his chest.
Grimes took a handful of her hair. May thrashed and spat at him, sending wild rights and lefts - none connecting - as he dragged her up to her feet, and then grabbed her with both hands and lifted her high into the air, parallel to the floor…
Before dropping her back-first across his knee.
Her spine folded in half. She lay, snapped and broken, over his thigh - the shock paralysing her in an instant. She wouldn’t walk for the rest of the day - or tomorrow, for that matter. Grimes elbowed her, like a dagger straight into her nose, and she flopped off his knee and onto the floor.
Roderick counted to ten, and she was done.
But Patch wasn’t.
WINNER: PATCHWORK GRIMES VIA KNOCKOUT
SNUFF (FOR REAL THIS TIME)
“Fucking bitch, trying to make yourself look like one of these tough-arse feminist hardcase whores. Been reading the Scum Manifesto, been listening to Valerie Solonas. Well what you need, to even out your mood… is some crotch-splittin’ cock.”
She was awake, wide awake, but she couldn’t move. Her arms were sluggish, her legs were dead. Eyes open, she watched Grimes tear at her dress - watched the spectators shower the cage with their trash. Ripped up tickets and beer glasses that shattered into sparkles. He lifted her like she was nothing and bent her over the cage rim.
She heard the sound of his knife leaving his wrist sheath, felt his hand pull at her hair. A knife pressed against her throat, a statement of dominance… and he leaned in, whispered in her ear: “You’re gonna learn. You’re going to see what you were fuckin’ missin’ out on.”
Roderick considered pulling his gun on Grimes, or calling in The Vet to put a bullet in the back of his facelifted / botox injected skull. But he knew that, sad as it was… this shit was what sold the tapes. Patch pulling her underwear over her ass, rubbing his hand against the unresponsive warmth between her thighs.
May screamed.
For the first time since she’d appeared in the Asylum, she screamed until she could taste the rawness of her throat and couldn’t scream any longer.
Spectators tried to jump down into the cage but it was futile, the Syndicate’s security holding them at bay. Uncaring for the already fucked-up May 32nd, resident of Seattle, daughter of someone, sister of someone, maybe even mother of someone, whose life was about to get fucked up a whole lot more.
Grimes giggled. Women. Pathetic creatures. They try to hide it, but they’re all the same. Needy, wanting, soft and vulnerable. Penetrable. Impregnable.
He unzipped his fly and pulled his leather pants down to his knees. The spectators turned away - it wasn’t just Grimes’ face that had been under the knife. His dick…
…let’s not even talk about it.
May thought of somewhere safe. Tried to take herself back to her old life, comfortable and predictable.
“I’m going to fuck you until your cervix is dust, then… I’m going to slit your fucking throat and bleed you until you’re halal meat, cut up your body, take you home to England and feed you to Pakis.”
Muttley let out a howl, gruff and raw - he’d already tasted blood tonight, his body still caked in maroon and red. But like all dogs, he served his master, and she was screaming herself hoarse, brutalised and about to be raped by a walking acid trip hallucination.
Grimes prised her apart with two fingers, licked his lips and gripped his dick ready for insertion.
But Muttley’s simple eyes had seen enough. Running on instinct, like always. There was no battle of morals in his head, no ‘should I’ or ‘shouldn’t I’. His master was in danger, and the only things that meant anything to the dog-man were hunger and loyalty. Roderick wasn’t strong enough to hold him back… Muttley tore his leash out of Roderick’s hand and dived off the balcony, landing in the cage with a whine and whelp from the pain.
Grimes turned, pants still around his knees, knife in hand.
Looked at Muttley.
Looked around.
Looked at Muttley.
“What in the fuckin’ hell are you?”
Muttley said nothing. He doesn’t even have the mental capacity for speech, his mind a forest fog of survival, impulse, hunger. He lunged at Grimes with teeth bared… Patch screamed like a girl and stabbed wildly with his knife, piercing Muttley’s skin and wedging it into his side.
Muttley rolled, his hands clutching at the knife… then tore it out. Blood sliming the mesh of the cage, spurting out of his wound. But he didn’t care. His master was in danger, and that was all that mattered. He charged again and Grimes, positively shitting himself, dived over the rim… falling over as he did so, and tottered away at full speed - pants around ankles. Muttley gave chase but the stab wound was enough to slow him down, and he passed out in the aisle.
The crowd got to their feet in a thunderous standing ovation, cheering the feral beast that had saved the day for the traumatised woman curled up in the cage - lost in her own head, fading in and fading out, shadows from the past and future fleeting.
Grimes spoke to himself quietly as he got outside. Pulled up his pants and zipped them.
“What have I got myself into?”
FRIEND OF A FRIEND
"You sure this is the place your friend specified?"
Idion Sallaken was a bit wary of the building Leon and himself were walking towards. Mainly because for an organisation whose existence hinged on the secrecy of its whereabouts, Id expected one of their regular events to be held in some rundown bar or a warehouse. Not in an actual arena, as dilapidated as it appeared. Idion was having doubts.
His buddy, usually a bag of jangled nerves, was strikingly confident. "I'm positive. We followed the directions carefully, and even asked a couple of people on whether we were going the right way. Heck, does that not look like a building where brutal fights are being hosted by a bunch of criminals and miscreants? Relax, Idion! My friend wouldn't lead us down the wrong path for no reason."
"Yeah, right." Idion shot back as he and Leon walked around the building towards one of the rear entrances. "I still say you asking those bums for directions like a tourist was a stupid thing. What if one of them was the police or somethin'?"
Leon shook his head as he pointed to their destination, which looked like it was being guarded by a shadowy figure. "Firstly, had I not asked for directions, we wouldn't be here. Secondly, I don't think any of those vagabonds are undercover cops. They smelled too bad. And finally, I think all this will work out in the end. Especially since it appears that our contact is already waiting for us. Happy now, Idion?"
Indeed, he was. The sight of a man playing with a pocket lighter in the shadows was reassuring, because Leon's friend had told them such a person would be awaiting their arrival. All the arrangements had been made; all Idion and Leon had to do was show up, and let destiny take care of the rest. Destiny, apparently, was packaged in the form of a sneaky Irishman with the stench of lager all over him. Leon and Idion stopped a few feet away from him, with Leon clearing his throat loudly to indicate his and Id's identity.
Jack McCabe looked up from the lighter he was fiddling with, and flashed his trademark grin. "Alright dere bays... nice sideburns fella, pair a fuckin' caterpillars. Looks like yous found this place alright then so ya did? You ready ta get scrappin' or should I hit yous in the face in send yas back to yer mammys?"
Idion looked at Leon, and Leon recipocrated. This was indeed the place. Irishman with a pocket lighter, top hat, and certain pikey charm to boot; all check. For Idion, this meant that everything was in order. Nothing was going to stop him from following up on a lead of a lifetime, except himself. And considering his pitiful predicament, there was no chance in hell Idion was going to go anywhere else.
"Yeah, we're ready. We came all the way from freaking San Francisco to be here today, to start my journey of legendary money-making. You damn right we're ready!" Idion replied, all fired up and raring to go. He could already envision himself rising up the ranks, becoming the top prize fighter. Taking on all comers with relative ease. Years of duking it out on the streets had prepared him completely, Id felt.
On the other end of the spectrum, Jack McCabe chuckled. He thought Idion was a deluded cunt. "Aye, okay fair play then. Follow me bays."
PAYCHECK
“Congratulations,” The Man sneered beneath his gasmask. He was not pleased. “You won your match. Didn’t seem to be much of a challenge for you at all, Ryuu.”
Ryuu Maeda once again stood before The Man, with Roderick as always, standing between the visitor and the door leading out.
“There is a challenge in every battle. There is no such thing as an easy fight,” Maeda responded calmly. “I believe that you owe me something now.”
“Well...” The Man started, but was quickly cut off.
“I’ve completed your task, as was our agreement earlier this evening,” Maeda interjected. “Whether it’s money or a check. I want it now.”
Roderick circled around Maeda and joined his boss behind the desk. Whispering into his ear, both of them smiled. The Man opened his desk and produced a checkbook and quickly wrote down an amount. He folded the check in half and handed it to Roderick.
“This is well deserved Mr. Maeda,” Roderick grinned. “We would both like to sincerely thank you for ridding this business of a scumbag who had no need to be here to begin with. Let’s remember that this, this is a victory for Koji Tamura, The Man, Ryuu Maeda and Boss Junichiro. This is a victory for the Yakuza. A victory for all of us. Congratulations on a job well done Mr. Maeda.”
Maeda nodded and took the check as Roderick ushered him toward the door. “Thank you, both. Next week I will return with proof of my bounty. I will bring you Hayden’s decapitated head.”
The Man grinned wide behind the mask. “Excellent. Have a good evening, Ryuu.”
Maeda left through the door and walked down the corridor. Reaching into his pocket he pulled out the check Roderick had given to him moments ago. Maeda came to a halted stop as he read the amount on the check.
“Fifty dollars...”
Maeda spun on his heel and rushed back to The Man’s office. Banging on the door loudly until Roderick opened it.
“Can I help you?” Roderick asked.
Maeda sneered, “What is the meaning of this? Fifty dollars? Fifty dollars for killing a man you wanted dead? What kind of a joke is this?”
Roderick motioned Maeda into the office. “That was the price on his head,” The Man chuckled. “I never told the other fighters what the bounty was. I never told them because the more that is left to mystery, the hungrier they were to try and get it. Besides, fifty dollars is a goldmine to these wastes. It’ll pay for their next fix. You on the other hand, you were not expected to be in this picture. The bounty is fifty dollars. Roderick, see Mr. Maeda out of my office.”
Maeda glared at The Man and Roderick as Roderick tried to usher him out of the office. Maeda reached into his belt and pulled out his sword, Nobu. Roderick stepped back for a moment, stunned that Maeda had this weapon hiding on him.
“Mark my words,” Maeda seethed, but kept relative calm. “The two of you will pay for this injustice. May God have mercy on your souls.”
Maeda turned and walked away on his own, slamming the door behind him. The Man smiled at Roderick. “It’s too bad we’ve already sold them.”
MILES BLUNDER VS DEZ ARAGON
"Twenty on Blunder."
"I'll take that bet."
"He's gonna spike 'em."
"No way."
Conversations such as these had become standard faire at the old BR Arena, as the too - rich and too - bored would occasionally show up by invitation to watch men and women (so the rumor goes) fight each other in a no-holds-barred setting, sometimes to the death.
With little else to do, these people would wager on everything under the sun, who would win and who would die, who would run and who would cry. At the moment, Miles Blunder paced the cage as he waited for his opponent. This was a highly - anticipated fight, as both Miles and his opponent were capable, deadly men who had shown little concern for their opponents to this point. He had hung his trenchcoat on a wire hanger on the cage - so the only thing actually making contact with the cage was the hook on the hanger. And he could live with that.
Shrieks of disgust filled the air, subtle and understated as it was so nobody would appear to have a weak stomach, but Dez Aragon just stepped into the arena.
He was covered from head to toe in some kind of... stuff... that upon further examination was a combination of blood, entrails, and shit.
No shit, it was shit. He had smeared excrement all over his arms and hands, and had clumping, coagulating gore on his face, chest, and back. Miles Blunder was the only one with a close enough view of the strange covering on top of Dez' head, to note that it was a removed human face.
Dez enjoyed the reaction his appearance garnered from the crowd, but moreso from Miles Blunder. The obsessive-compulsive Germ Gestapo had a look of pure horror on his face - for a moment.
Miles swallowed his disgust as he remembered he was wearing a full bodysuit. The bodysuit and gloves would have to be replaced after this fight, but he was protected. He pulled the ski mask over his head, and held his Swiffer tightly in his right hand as he paced back and forth, waiting for Dez to make the first move. He finally did, pulling his trusty hunting knife out of its sheath in the back, and drove it roughly into the soft arena floor.
"Drop it, Miles," said Dez, "let's do this old-school." Miles was only too eager to oblige. He tossed the Swiffer aside and lunged towards Dez, and landed a forearm into the slippery grime on his rib cage. Dez stumbled back a half step and swung at Miles' head, but missed.
A man who avoided physical contact at all times had certainly become adept at keeping the only exposed part of his body away from anyone who wanted to do him harm. He swept Dez' leg and landed two swift punches to his face, dazing the insane fighter. Dez shoved him off and grabbed at the mask, but Blunder drove a knee into his side and connected with another fist. He scrambled away from the downed Dez as quickly as possible to survey the damage - barely able to wipe the gore from his full body suit, even with his covered hands.
His fixation on his suit, however, left him open for a vicious takedown, a roar from the crowd, and the slippery feel of gore - on - latex was overcome only by the crash of the landing. Dez wasn't so much trying to hurt him as he was trying to rub himself over Miles' entire frame, covering him with as much of the filth as he could. It was a different tactic, to be sure, and while Dez absorbed plenty of shots to the head and the back of his neck, he was mostly protected.
"I'm gonna tear that fuckin' suit right off'a ya."
Until he said that.
Panic filled Miles' gaze as his goal was now simple escape. He managed to slide out of Dez' grip due to the mess of the man, and kicked him hard in the face as the psychopath held onto his ankle.
"GET OFF ME! LET GO!"
Dez just kept on smiling, his teeth stained red with blood and... whatever. He tried, in vain, to claw through the protective covering but he found the latex too slippery.
Boos erupted from the gathering at Miles' screams, but they quickly turned to cheers when he grabbed the Swiffer, his finger on the trigger.
"C'mon," said Dez, as he put his hands behind his back, "you get a free shot."
Miles eyed him suspiciously, and the crowd cheered the iminent sight of flowing (as opposed to stale) blood. He held the Swiffer steady, and sent the spike square into his abdomen--
--except the spike glanced off his side, most likely missing all of his vital organs. Dez had sidestepped him, grabbed him by the arm, and sliced liberally with his knife.
Except he didn't quite get him with the knife - he got the latex bodysuit. But in this case, that was probably just as bad, or worse.
Dez felt his legs go weak - the shock of the puncture wound, coupled with the mixture of stale blood and shit with his own innards would do its job very quickly. But he grabbed the only thing he was able to in order to break his descent - Miles' bare arm.
"GET OFF GET OFF GET OFF GET OFF GET OFF GET OFF GET OFF GET OFF GET OFF--" repeated Miles insanely, as Dez grabbed him with his free hand and flipped him over his shoulder, holding onto the latex as he fell, tearing the covering even more.
"You don't know where I've been, Miles," said Dez, as he ran his hands over his own wound and grabbed onto the Germ Gestapo's bare flesh again, "You don't know where I've been!"
At this point, saving the suit was secondary on Miles' mind towards getting to the soap and disinfectant that was in his trenchcoat. He pulled away as roughly as he could, trying to escape at any cost.
Dez saw and felt the latex giving way, and he reacted.
So did everyone in the crowd.
Dez gave a rough tug to the latex he held, pulled Miles in close, and leaped up on his back, biting into the ski mask. Panic washed over Miles in waves, as he pounded the ground with his fist with the intensity of the obsessively insane.
Finally, Dez let go and stood, raising his hands in victory. Miles scrambled towards his trench coat and began the arduous task of cleaning himself up.
The irony of this fight, that was not noted until much later, was that Miles Blunder was physically unharmed. Dez had simply gotten inside his mind and twisted it.
Of course, Dez, the victor, was bleeding fairly freely from a hole in his side, and who the heck knows whose innards had snuck inside that wound.
Welcome to the new Asylum: where psychological warfare was just as significant.
WINNER: DEZ ARAGON VIA SUBMISSION
REDUCE REUSE RECYCLE
Grimes sat on a dumpster outside the jaunting exhaust-stained BR arena. Shadows cast and stars ignorant to the sick spectacles that the Asylum had seen already so far tonight. Patch's face, covered in May 32nd's dried blood, gobbed in chunks around his mouth - he smoked a cigarette through venom-injected lips and rubbed his acid dreamer's eyes. Three tabs down and coke on his nostril hairs. He'd been humiliated enough already - made to look a fool by some fucked up goth bitch and her sick pet man-dog.
The doors to the arena swung open behind him.
"Thought I might find you out here." Kellen Kinkade remarked as he stepped from the light of the arena, which faded as the doors closed behind him "Kind of warm in there... stand still for too long and a guy like you could fucking melt."
Grimes turned and shifted down off the dumpster with the quick reflexes of a gearhead. Stared Kinkade up and down with green eyes, the only part of him that ISN'T fake - "What the fuck Cyclops, did you lose your eye up your momma's arse? Fuck do you want - I'm here, all enjoying a cigarette, CHILLING, and you're invading my space, my SPACE! Can't you give a man his SPACE!? Didn't you see what I did to that bitch in there, I BIT HER LIP OFF. Do you want some of that shit!?"
Patch stood, ropey and gangley - four inches taller than Kinkade. Flies only half-done up, twitching, stand-offish.
"Funny you should ask." The Jersey Devil continued his approach "It just so happens that I'm looking for a rapist... so there I am ambling about the place trying to figure out which sick fuck about town didn't do it when I glance down at the cage and what do I see? I see Joan Rivers with a dick about to claim another victim."
"Oh, OH. We have a fucking vigilante with a teenage goth haircut, I'm fucking terrified. What's up sonny, got penis envy? Or are you some fucking faggoty yank queer like this shithole country seems to be TEEMING with that can't stand the sight of a man balls-deep in some delicious weeping pussy?" Grimes danced a bit, took a drag from his cigarette. "Fucking 30-year-old POSER, get out of my pretty face you giant one-eyed purple BELL END."
Kinkade sighed... and slowly removed his jacket.
"That classic scathing English whit I keep hearing about." Kel remarked as he tossed his jacket to the floor "Probably a product of the fact that god pisses on you people twenty four hours of the day and all your women are hideously ugly... still it's nice to know that you Brits can actually speak your own language and it isn't just a myth, for a while I thought Metal Mickey was some kind of retarded Australian."
The Jersey Devil slowly rolled up the sleeves of his sweater as he continued "...the question of course is how smart your mouth will be with my fist in it and how wise your ass can stay with a boot shoved up it."
Grimes looked nervous. Wiped some of the matted blood out of his bristles, clouds of red puffing
up around his face. "UHH - what the fuck? Why is everyone HATING on me today, what is this, BEAT A PRETTY BOY WEEK!? You fucking troglodyte, just 'cause the gorilla you stole your face from don't want it back is none of my concern and certainly none of my dick's concern - and any news that doesn't concern my dick AIN'T NEWSWORTHY AT ALL. Get the hell out of here and go back to the haunted house you came from, Layne Staley."
Grimes turned, eyes twitching - thinking about maybe going to a strip club to terrorise some whores. Or find a dealer to dish him some more coke / speed / acid (who cares). As he began to walk away, he said, "Oh, and by the way, your boots TOTALLY don't match your pants, if you can't even match your clothes then I'd get the hell out of LA, Skeletor."
CRUNCH.
Turning his back had been the second mistake Grimes had made, the first mistake having been not running while he'd had the chance.
Kinkade's boot came up between Grimes' legs and nailed him directly in his oversized groin, dropping him to his knees just long enough for Kinkade to grab a handful of his hair and bitchslap the cigarette out of his mouth.
POP.
The Jersey Devil smacked grimes directly in the mouth... not because it was the most efficient place to hit him but merely because he wanted to see if Grimes' balloon like lips would explode upon impact.
A shower of blood later he'd dragged Grimes over to the dumpster he'd been sitting at and proceeded to set about smashing his skull into it.
THUD.
"DID..."
THUD.
"YOU..."
THUD.
"RAPE..."
THUD.
"MY..."
THUD.
"FUCKING..."
THUD.
"SISTER!?!?"
Grimes' mouth bubbled and popped with blood - vomit rising in his throat. His head hanging loose, hair being torn out at the roots by Kade's fist.
"I..." he splutters, "I don't fucking know man, who's your fucking sister? Is she fit? Actually... looking at you, I'd guess she isn't."
THUD.
"DAWN..."
THUD.
"KINKADE..."
THUD.
"RING..."
THUD.
"ANY..."
THUD.
"BELLS?"
"AAARRRRGGGH FUCK, stop doing that, it fucking HURTS! Think about the cheekbone implants man, THE CHEEKBONE IMPLANTS, do you have no soul!?" Grimes coughs, spitting blood up the side of the dumpster - "NO, I don't know a fucking Dawn Kinkade and FACT IS, if I did know her then I'd have probably FUCKED her just to PISS YOU OFF."
The Jersey Devil relinquished his grip before dragging a much relieved Grimes to his feet and dusting him off a bit.
"Sorry about that buddy." Kinkade remarked wearing an expression of true regret "Hope you can forgive me... I'll leave you alone now."
Grimes contemplated a parting smart remark but didn't get a chance... Kinkade had suddenly hauled him up and tossed him straight into the dumpster and onto the stinking heap of trash within.
"Shit." Kade scoffed down at Grimes before throwing the dumpster lid shut "Should I have thrown you in there or recycled you?"
MASSACRE
"Interesting tactic," said The Man, as he tossed a beer to the gore-splattered Dez, "not something I'd have figured on but it got the job done."
Dez cracked open the beer and drank, without making any attempt to clean his face. He sat down in the chair across from the table that served as The Man's desk, and put his splattered boots up on the edge. "I love the smell of brain tissue in the evening," he said without a hint of irony.
"Good, good," replied The Man, as he handed Dez a manilla folder, "because I've got a job for you."
That caused him to sit forward. "I thought I was doing a job for you."
Burton, standing by the door next to Roderick, bristled slightly.
"You are," assured The Man, "and this is a part of it for the greater good of the Establishment."
There were a handful of polaroids and letters inside the folder, that Dez thumbed through liberally, smearing gore and chunks of shit all over them. "New York, huh? Why not send Outcast back there?"
Neither Dez nor The Man saw Roderick grab Burton by the arm to hold him back.
"You know, if that bitch sees me there I'm fucked," he continued.
"So be better than that," replied The Man, "Odds are she won't be in town and beyond, you aren't in her neighborhood. But do us a favor, son... and don't fuck it up."
WE'RE ALL CRAZY NOW
"Stheresyerfeckinfightincageandtheresyerfeckingamblinringandtheresyerfeckincrowd." Jack McCabe rapidly pointed around the arena as he completed the quickest, shittiest guided tour he could possibly have given Leon and Idion.
"Er... thanks." Leon responded as he handed McCabe a bottle of Jack Daniels "I guess I owe you this."
"Cheers fella." McCabe smiled a gammy smile before whipping the bottle out of Leon's hand and unscrewing the lid before bizarrely pouring some of the contents into his eye and twitching slightly "Heheh... straightinyerfeckinbloodstream."
McCabe scuttled off with his earnings as Leon and Idion observed their surroundings.
"So whaddya think?" Leon asked Idion.
"Uh..." Id responded, catching a glimpse of the absolutely blood soaked cage canvas "...gimme a minute to think about it."
The two continued to gaze around the Battle Royale until an irksome noise filled the air around them.
"I SAID MAHMA BUT WE'RE ALL CROIZY NAWUH."
Id and Leon turned to the sight of Metal Mickey, perched on a nearby folding chair strumming an imaginary guitar.
"CUM ON FEEL THE NOISAH... GIRLS GRAB THE BOYSAH... WE'LL GIT WOILD WOILD WOILD... WOILD WOILD WOILDAH!"
The two looked at one another confused before looking back at Trent, who was still strumming his imaginary guitar. Suddenly he stopped and looked up with a smirk "So you from Birmingham or what then Jasper?"
"You asking me?" Idion enquired with a scratch of the head.
"Yeah." Mickey responded as he stood up from the chair "Although I realize now you're just a fucking yank like the rest of these fucking tossers around here... what's the crack with them muttons, you taking the piss or summink?"
"Hey man... listen..." Leon began only to be cut off by an index finger hovering an inch away from his nose.
"I WEREN'T FUCKING TALKING TO YOU BIG EARS." Mickey sneered viciously with eyes wide "IF I WANT TO TALK TO YOU... I'LL ASK NODDY HERE... SO SHUT THE FUCK UP."
Leon backed up a step with a scowl on his face as Trent turned his attention back to Id "As I was saying before your pet turd opened its mouth... you taking the piss guv or what? I'll have you know that geographical location aside... Noddy Holder is a personal fuckin' hero of mine and I won't have you nibbling his nuts."
"I... wha?" Id had no idea what the fuck the aggresive Englishman was talking about.
"You and me Noddy, in that cage next event." Mickey snarled angrily "I won't have nobody wearing the muttons if they don't respect the master."
"Whatever you say." Idion replied with a shrug "I don't mind fighting you now if your beef is as serious as you say it is."
"No chance." Mickey quickly snapped back.
"Why not?" Idion asked.
"Cause I need a shit, you've wound me up." Mickey snorted with disgust, undoing his belt and marching off to leave a bemused Idion and Leon to discuss the bizarre incident they'd just been embroiled in.
THE THRILL OF THE HUNT
Steven Haunt was positioned on the upper tier of the arena, usually reserved for the upper tier of the audience who came to watch the fights. He leaned over the railing, watching the empty stage below. It was between fights. He eyed Roderick, who was gaining orders from his boss. He noticed that the suited man would listen in his earpiece, and occasionally glance his way. They had not been notified that Haunt was in the building until he appeared.
Behind him, he felt the presence of anger and rage. He did not need to turn around to know who it was.
“You know who it is. Tell me.”
Haunt lowered his head and chuckled. His easiness no doubt feuling the burning fire.
“You know I do, Kellen. And you also know that I cannot tell you.”
Perhaps too much. A hand grabbed his shoulder and wheeled him around, turning him face to face with the Jersey Devil. Haunt's relaxed pose quickly turned into mounting annoyance as Kellen Kinkade grabbed him by the shirt collar.
“Fucking asshole!” Kinkade shouted. Haunt fixated his dead gaze into Kellen's and slowly took his hands away from his neck.
“Stay yourself. Of all the wrath in this building, you don't want to invoke Mine.”
Kellen took a step back, almost reluctant to do so. Haunt looked him over and nodded in approval.
“Fury burns deep within you. This is good. Now you may want to know exactly why I won't tell you. It's simple, Kinkade. It's the thrill of the hunt. You'll find that coming to the ultimate conclusion of what stands before you problematically will be highly entertaining. Trust Me when I say that it becomes a useful tool for passing the time. Use your brain, boy.”
Haunt's gaze drifted to someone on the lower level - a shifty man wearing a dark hat, laughing and drinking and pickpocketing people who are not aware. Kellen followed it. Below, Jack McCabe had no idea of what was going to transpire next.
“First, find out who would have the information you need. Next, execute your plan. Take your measure on your informants, however. Save the true This is your next lesson.”
Again he stared Kellen in the eye. The cold deathstare that most people shun. Images of killing entered Kellen's mind. Scenes of the most vulgar acts of violence, and he did not flinch, and he did not turn away; for it was he that committed them in the utmost joy.
“Hunt your intruder, stalk him, and tear him apart. Make them suffer as you have suffered, and make them suffer still long after your pain has gone away.”
Kellen regained his composure, until he reflected Haunt's own coolness.
“I will.”
 
MISSING PERSONS
“Funny,” Burton said, approaching cautiously, “how that Hayden kid - one week he’s kicking my ass, showing some promise. The next week you’re doping him up full of shit, he’s a nervous wreck and then poof… he’s gone.”
Scum sat cross-legged on a seat at the rear of the spectator’s balcony. Sucking the cigarette and snorting cocaine out of the crook of his thumb. “What’s your problem Burton?”
“My problem, you fucking taped-up lazy-eyed piece of whore shit. Is that Hayden Ashcroft, the guy you were so fucking big on? Calling him your boy, promising him the motherfuckin’ world? Well my friend. I was down with that guy in the Mexican jungle and he was a shivering wreck, sweatin’ all over the goddamn place. And ‘cause he was off guard, that sonufabitch got himself nabbed by some fucking Jap bastard. So what are your thoughts on that, huh? Because of you, some poor little shit got his throat cut.”
The Inmate was seething. Scum’s bodyguards kept him at bay, as the drugged-up human waste took a long drag and a soothing exhale of his Bensons. “I’ll tell you somethin’ squire. My lad Ashcroft can take care of himself, and I know more about him that you do. I know more about him than he does. I’ve been doin’ my reading up on that boy, and I’ve been putting two and two together, if you know what I mean. He’s alive, mark my fuckin’ words. But yeah, even if he wasn’t… I can’t say I’d be fuckin’ crying my eyes out. Because just like you and everyone else, he’s expendable.”
“Fucking EXPENDABLE?”
“Yeah Burton… don’t think for a second that The Man… whoever he is… thinks of you as anything more than a fucking pawn. I know you may reckon you’ve got some history together, may think that he’d never stab you in the back as soon as you’ve lost your use… but remember Burton, and this is somethin’ you should have learned a long time ago. Nothing is ever as it fucking seems.”
Inmate wiped his nose on his fist. “I’ve fuckin’ had enough of your shit.”
He jostled against the bodyguards, swiping for Scum, but the wall of suited muscle kept him at bay. As Inmate was distracted - Scum opened up his little black box and slipped an electric pink pill onto his tongue. The warrior’s ambrosia. Gusto.
“Let him go lads… I’ll show this fuckin’ canuck wankpot who the boss is all by meself.”
The bodyguards shrugged, and parted… and Burton lunged forwards, teeth bared, fists flung like a thousand daggers in Scum’s direction.
But not a single one connected.
Scum dodged the every blow with reflexes incapable of an Olympian, let alone your average drug-addled human being - and responded with a flurry of bone-busting fists, each one denting a hole in the Inmate’s face and temples. Inmate spat out a tooth and went for a tackle, only to be met by a thunderous knee that sent him sprawling up against the railing… Inmate teetered, precariously, over the balcony. Blood and spittle mixed and oozing from between his lips.
Scum, with a wide grin, folded up the chair he’d been sitting on.
“Keep the fuck away Burton. Keep the fuck away, or find yourself wrapped in a binliner, cut into pieces, with maggots nestling up your arsehole.”
CRACK.
CRACK.
CRACK.
CRACK.
CRACK.
Each blow splintering, shattering and crushing. Inmate dropped down into a sitting position, eyes rolling, mouth agape. Bruised, bloodied, and beaten.
“Get ‘im the fuck outta here, I want to enjoy the rest of the fuckin’ show in peace.”
TRUTH OR CONSEQUENCE
"McCabe."
Jack McCabe narrowed his eyes and turned slowly, he took a swig back on an almost empty bottle of Jack Daniels before belching and scratching his head beneath his tattered hat.
"The fuck da ye want Cyclops." McCabe sneered upon sighting Kellen Kinkade "Come ta stab me in me other foot have ye ya fuckin' shitehouse."
"No..." Kinkade spoke calmly as he stepped forth, the crowd parting as the two grew closer "...but someone told me that you know who raped my sister last week, so you're gonna tell me who it was."
"Hah." Jack grunted insolently "Maybes I will... but it's gonna cost ye fella."
"It isn't gonna cost me anything." Kinkade insisted as he continued to edge towards McCabe "Maybe it's the Jack Daniels or maybe it's just your fucking dumb Irish brain, but you seem to be forgetting that I'm with Haunt now... you've no backing from the man and no sniper waiting to gun me down."
"Ooooh awwww hahahah!" McCabe's grating laughter filled the air as he belittled Kinkade's claim "Why don't ye got and get yer fuckin' hocus pocus ghosty man then ye stupid twat, and I'll get me leprechaun and we'll all have a big feckin' game of dungeons and dragons so we will."
McCabe knocked back the rest of the Jack Daniels and scratched the fleas out of his beard.
"I tell ye what." McCabe began his effort to barter "You get me one of them fancy jackets ye've got on... and a pair of them shoes since ye fucked this pair up..." McCabe stopped for a moment to look down at his shoes, one of which still had a hole in it from when Kade had knived him in the foot "...and I'll tell ye who done it."
SMACK.
SMASH.
SLICE.
BANG.
In the blink of an eye the conversation had turned nasty, Kinkade swooped forth and cracked McCabe directly in the jaw... staggering him back briefly before lightning quick reactions saw him smash the Jack Daniels bottle and swipe at Kinkade's face with it. The bang of Roderick's sidearm brought the brief scuttle to a temporary state of stalemate.
"Best feck off..." McCabe sneered, waving the broken bottle menacingly "...while ye've still got the legs to carry ye."
"What seems to be the problem gentlemen?" Roderick asked as he slowly lowered his weapon, without being naive enough to holster it.
"This fucking gypsy bastard knows who attacked my sister." The Jersey Devil snarled as he wiped blood from a cut on his cheek that McCabe's bottle had influcted "He's going to tell me who it was one way or another."
"There's only one way around here Mr. Kinkade." Roderick insisted with his pistol aimed Kinkade's way "That's the cage... the other way of which you speak will involve you being shot again."
"Then you tell the fucking Man that I'll see this Gaelic piece of shit in the cage..." Kinkade insisted as he backed away into the crowd "...and if he doesn't arrange it, motherfucker, you're gonna HAVE to shoot me."
 
PUTTING THE G IN BATMAN
CLANG.
The Vet twitched nervously and spun to take aim at a nearby alley where the sound of trash can lids rolling had caught his attention. He removed the lens cap of his rifle scope before settling into position... taking a deep breath that he would hold until his target had been eliminated.
He waited for the perfect moment between heartbeats to take his shot.
MEOW.
"God damn motherfucking motherfucker." Vet hissed quietly to himself as a cat raced from the trash, knocking a few more trash cans about before scurrying off into the darkness.
"I'm gettin sick of this bull-she-at." Gorman grumbled to himself as he removed a cap, this time off the top of a canteen that would usually be filled with water but on this occasion was brimming with potent whiskey "Fuckin' bootlips, carpet pilots, ching chongs and now I got a fuckin' he she running around... I seen enough of those fuckin' freaks in Nha Trang."
The Vet settled down and knocked back some of his whiskey, even though he knew it'd be his head in a jar if The Man discovered he'd been drinking on the job.
And then there was another familiar smell in the air. Not the stench of booze, but the rich vibrant smell of good ganja flooded his nostrils.
The Vet pivoted and withdrew two colt 45's in a swift motion. The hammer's cocked, he peered down the barrel of his guns toward…
Nothing?
Well, unless you count the shadows created by the moonlight sky as something. For a moment, the Vet let his guard down, unsure of if he had really smelt the smoke before him.
And that's the worst thing a sniper can do, question his very own vision.
The Vet returned to a standing position, his head slightly lowered from his own distrust. And in that moment, a large, cape/winged individual slowly floated to a rest on the edge of the roof behind him.
Seeing the relfextion of the winged creature in the barrel of his gun, he dropped them almost immediately and turned in fright. Could this truly be a vision before him of a comic book superhero?
Outstretching his arms, the man smiled before blowing out a single puff of smoke. "I'm da Batmang."
And with that, Eddie Cheno, dressed up as Batman, simply threw himself back first off of the rooftop, and disappeared…
The Vet stood for a moment, caught in a long stare with nothing. He glanced slightly towards the liquor bottle before him, before rubbing his eyes and returning to his rifle. He could still smell a bit of marijuana remain in the air, and for this, he knew Eddie Cheno was back.
At least, it was real enough to him.
I GET BY WITH A LITTLE HELP FROM
Grimes lay with banana peels in the seat of his leather pants, hypodermic needles jabbing into his arse and the reek of rotting chicken unbearably filtering itself through his every pore. Garbage water and pitch black darkness, with his forehead sliced open courtesy of Kellen Kinkade - bleeding into trash, he lay with the blackness pressing into his eyes, locked in a dumpster.
Then, a thin shiver of light from outside… and the lid was lifted by a man clutching half of a twisted, torn rubber mask over his burned face. Alderghast got a good grip under Grimes’ arms, and dragged him out - Patch was slimed. Soaked through with waste.
“This place is a dangerous quarter indeed, my friend… you and I, we are midunderstood. I… I saw what they did to you, that despicable creature chasing you from the building. But fret not, my new companion - I understand you. What you were doing was not for your own sexual pleasure, but in the name of art… am I correct?”
Grimes opened an eye and looked up at Alderghast. “Yeah. I guess.”
“Excellent! You are just like me, an artiste of the finest calibre, searching for his place in this word full of bestial ingrates and cultureless slime - am I correct!?”
“Yeah… YEAH!” Grimes sat up, cradling his eye with his palm. “You’re fucking RIGHT. These people aren’t worthy of me! I’m like the fucking BEES KNEES and these bitches don’t know a prime piece of meat when they see it… I’m prettier than Angelina Jolie and twice as fuckin’ tough as Tomb Raider!”
Alderghast clapped delightedly, and slung Grimes’ arm over his shoulder… carrying him away to his car. “I feel, my silver-haired brethren, that this shall be the start of a most exquisite companionship!”
“YEAH… and LOTS OF PUSSY AND DRUGS AND… oh… oh man. I’m gonna hurl.”
REVELATION
Burton had enough. Bloodied, beaten, degraded. Walking through the car park behind the old BR arena - moonshine and gutter-people scuttling away from him. He had a tire iron in his hand and thundering blood in his temples. Scum… Scum… would pay for this. He found what he was looking for - a black Alfa, waxed and polished by hand, license plate SEB-CRIS.
Unguarded. Scum hadn’t got back here yet. Burton spat out wadded up mucus-blood and swore at the stars. “You fucking son of a bitch, WHERE ARE YOU?”
No reply but the echo of his anger. Frustration. Burton swung his tire iron into the rear window of the car, glass breaking into crumbs and dashing across the concrete, and screamed aimlessly. The alarm blared around in circles. Tyler felt sick - maybe the blood in his belly.
“SCUM!”
No reply.
“SCUUUUUUUUUUM!!”
Dead night silence.
Burton reached through the broken window and unlocked the door. He didn’t know what to do - Scum was nowhere to be seen. Maybe steal his car, maybe blow it up. Who knows? But before he could decide - he found a stylish leather attaché case, the lock flipped open, in the back seat. Curiosity killed the cat - he’d heard that before. Burton shuffled into the back seat, reached around the front and ripped the alarm wires out. The siren died a slow and painful death, and all was silent again.
He looked at the case, his breathing slowing down.
And then flipped it open.
First he found documents in handfuls, a few vials of chemicals fizzing in greens and pinks. A few tabs of acid and a scrunched up foil spilling dusty white coke. He pocketed the cocaine - for resale. And then, underneath a cardboard folder of paper…
He saw something else.
His breath caught in his throat and welled there. And the jigsaw pieces all started to fit together, the equation in Burton’s mind was solved in an instant.
He knew Joe Campbell was The Man - initially maybe. He’d helped Joe get himself together after his throat was gashed in two. He’d put Joe on steroid treatments to beef him up, and helped him out at the gym every day. He’d even helped Joe create this new identity - ‘The Man’ - anonymous and faceless, to rule his roost with a shadow fist.
Those first few months… it was Campbell, of that Burton was sure. But then something terrible happened. Joe’s ex-whore, his brief fling when he was coked out of his skull, smacked up to his tits and lost in the radio waves of his own disillusion. Pleasure over pain. Wasting away, he conceived a child with Terri…
…a child that was torn out of her dying belly and eaten alive by Testament, only a month ago. Maybe that had been enough. Maybe that had finally put Joe straight - he didn’t want the pain anymore. He didn’t want the threat of violence always hanging over him, didn’t want the horror that his twisted freaks would show him on a weekly basis.
He just didn’t want it anymore.
So… Joe, The Man… he found a replacement. Someone that could fake a good Northern accent, someone with the same build, same reckless abandon and sly misanthropic tactics. Someone with the natural thoroughbred power…
…of manipulation.
In the briefcase… there was an old gas mask, and a monotone lying side by side.
Joe had given up the mantle. Burton knew it. Maybe he was in New York, getting smacked up like the old times, letting hours blend into days blend into highs and lows, orgasms and collapses. Maybe he was home in England, trying to start a new life. Maybe he was on an oil rig somewhere, cut off from the world at last.
But Burton knew one thing for sure.
Joe is gone.
And Scum… is THE MAN.
KELLEN KINKADE VS JACK MCCABE
"Have ye got me feckin' shoes then fella?"
Jack McCabe removed his cap and started to unbutton his shirt as a Kellen Kinkade seethed just feet away from him in the cage.
"Oh... I've got your fucking shoes alright." The Jersey Devil snarled... stepping forth with a football punt that caught McCabe directly between the legs and lifted him about a foot in the air. McCabe fell to his knees clutching his testicles and gasping for air as Kade rushed forth and absolutely nailed him in the face with a knee that snapped McCabe's head back and sent him to the canvas in a heap.
"Tell me." Kinkade demanded as he stood over McCabe.
"Fuck awf." The Irishman slurred back.
Kade didn't waste much time, grabbing McCabe by the belt and the collar of his shirt before tossing him head and neck first into the mesh with a sick crunch. Keeping hold of McCabe... Kinkade repeated the feat a further three times until McCabe's shirt ripped clean off his body and he smashed head first into the mesh a final time before slumping in a heap on the canvas.
CRUNCH.
CRUNCH.
CRUNCH.
Three stiff kicks to the ribs courtesy of Kinkade.
"There's your fucking shoes you lousy spud licker." Kinkade sneered furiously as he wrapped his fingers in McCabe's tangled matter hair and proceeded to to shred his face across the mesh... grating it like cheese.
"Tell me." Kel insisted as he continued to dice McCabe's face.
"Kiss me arse seppo." McCabe growled defiantly as his face continue to be ripped to tatters.
The Jersey Devil hauled McCabe up by the hair and rammed his head sickeningly into the thick steel rim of the cage... McCabe staggered back so hard that the hair ripped clean from his head and remained in Kinkade's hands as Jack fell face flat on the canvas, a deep wound on his forehead absolutely showering blood onto the mat.
THUD.
THUD.
THUD.
Kinkade knelt over the face down McCabe... grabbing his hair once again and pulling up his skull before driving it down into the canvas again and again, making the wound on his head all the worse and staining the canvas a crimson red.
"Tell me." Kade asked once more... pausing briefly with McCabe's bloodied battered head hovered above the canvas.
"Naw." Was all McCabe could muster this time... unable to speak properly but still able to maintain his stubborn refusal to answer.
THUD.
Slamming McCabe's head down into the canvas a fourth and final time... Kinkade got up to his feet and paced furiously around the cage for a few moments, weighing up his options and next move as McCabe squirmed on the canvas... slowly and shambollically making his way up to a vertical base despite having had the sense knocked out of him.
McCabe staggered about on jellied legs... a mixture of Jack Daniels, concussion and blood loss contributing to the fact he couldn't stand up straight. Just as his vision began to align he saw a blur of furious mass sprinting towards him and lifting him off his feet.
CRUNCH.
Kinkade swept McCabe up and drilled him spine first into the mesh with the same Killing Spree spear that'd stunned Villam Ender to defeat a few Snuff events prior. Those attending that'd placed bets on Kinkade roared with delight as he grabbed McCabe by the face and roared "TELL ME."
"Feck yerself." McCabe slurred.
Seconds later he was being carried through the air again.
CRUNCH.
A second Killing Spree spear into the mesh... the cheers were now making the transition into mumbles of disbelief at the fact that McCabe was not only able to still speak a defiant word but the fact he was still conscious at all.
"TELL ME." Kinkade once again demanded.
"Kiss my arse."
CRUNCH.
Kinkade spun... carrying McCabe a few steps through the air before driving him down spine first into the canvas with a third Killing Spree spear. McCabe's limbs went limp as a furious Kinkade rose to his feet bright red with rage... veins ready to burst and blood pressure boiling.
"TELL ME YOU FUCKING IRISH PRICK." Kinkade once again shouted as he grabbed McCabe's hair and sent several hard fists into his face before the Irishman finally relented.
"Alright..." McCabe coughed and spluttered blood as he tried to get the words out "...I'll tell ye."
Kinkade slowly backed away... still breathing heavily with his fists clenched as McCabe held his hand out submissively.
"I raped yer wee sister... and she fucking loved it so she did." McCabe answered before launching into a demented "Aheh... aheh... aha."
The Jersey Devil silently exited the cage.
McCabe was victorious via ringout.
There weren't however any complaints coming from the surrounding audience... none of the gambling men were confronting Kinkade about the money they'd lost on him blowing the fight. The reason for this was that they were too afraid... Kinkade sauntered through their midst with a look on his face that could only be described as murder in the form of a facial expression.
Moments later he returned to the cage with a fire extinguisher.
And snapped beyond repair.
"YOU FUCKING LIAR... YOU FUCKING LIAR!" Kinkade screamed... raining down the fire extinguisher into McCabe's face relentlessly.
CLUNK.
CLUNK.
CLUNK.
CLUNK.
CLUNK.
"TELL ME WHO DID IT... TELL ME WHO FUCKING DID IT YOU RANCID PILE OF GYPSY SHIT... TELL ME OR I'll FUCKING KILL YOU." The Jersey Devil continued to roar violently as he slammed the heavy extinguisher down into McCabe's face again and again.
CLUNK.
CLUNK.
CLUNK.
CLUNK.
CLUNK.
Finally Kinkade stepped back... tossing the blood drenched extinguisher down to the canvas with a thud and wiping his face due to the fact that McCabe's blood had sprayed up and hit him during the impact.
He looked down at McCabe on the canvas... arms and legs twitching slightly... nose completely shattered, teeth mangled amongst his gums, one eyebrow hanging almost completely from his face and both eyes swollen near completely shut.
McCabe took a deep breath and coughed a mouthful of blood before smirking a lunatic smile and speaking the word that Kellen Kinkade had waited all night to hear.
"Testament."
WINNER: JACK MCCABE VIA RINGOUT
copyright ©
asylum 2000 - 2010
site scripted by tom
site designed by joe
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