ACW COURAGE
07 OCTOBER 2004

ONE.

TWO.

THREE.

NEW TELEVISION CHAMPION, NATCH!

Fejona relinquished the pinning hold and darted out of the ring. Exhausted, yet victorious. The entire arena was stunned silent. Quinton May lay flat on his back, blinking furiously. Had just what happened really actually transpired?

Perhaps it didn't. Quinton sure as hell hoped so. But, the playing of "Lucky You" by the Deftones dispelled any thoughts of this being a dream, and Fejona Min raised her arms in the air. She had done it. She had conquered Quincy Mama, and ended his legendary reign as ACW's Television Champion, while defending her Scorpion Fighting Title against the man who'd held it twice. Seven days after winning said title.

If this isn't the age of Fejona Min, I don't know what is. Oh, right, it's the age of fucking darkness.

As if the night wasn't already laden with surprises, there was to be but one more.

Quinton May stood to his feet, absolutely shellshocked but also curious at the sudden flickering of the lights in the arena. As were the fans, who had been muted by the unexpected title change that just occured. Fejona Min was a wicked competitor, there was no doubt. But nobody gave her a chance against Quincy Mama, whose reigns of the Television Title have reached legendary status.

Now, more so than ever, considering he was finally beaten. The first time, EVER, he had been defeated in a TV Title match-up, and... yes, the loss of the title went hand-in-hand. Now, though, there appeared to be a new problem. Lights? Still flickering.

Fejona Min and Joseph McMillan decided not to stick around to see what was happening, and duly made their hasty exit through the crowd. Wasn't the wisest of choices, since some of the more outraged fans took to hurling their trash at the two of 'em, and from point-blank range... it was always going to be tough for Fejona and Joseph to remain unscathed for long.

Finally, as May propped himself against the ropes -- obviously displaying signs of turmoil from the war that just concluded -- the lights stopped flickering. And on the stage was a wrinkly old man. Not at all American-looking, and with a cigar in between his chapped lips. Dead ringer for Abe Simpson, sans the yellowness and the hair. Otherwise, though, pretty spot on.

Old man had a microphone in his right hand, too. And, YES, he was going to talk. "Hello 'ere, Quinton. It's been a bloody long while and some change, eh? I suspect it'd be a long shot if ye even did remember me. Judging by how ya're looking at me, I'll take that as a NO.

Well, then. No surprise 'ere. Quinton, I am CORNELIUS. Do ye remember now?"

Quinton's eyes narrowed, as he tried to assess the man with the thick Irish accent that was speaking jibberish to him. Shaking his head from side to side, to indicate that he did not remember, the Canadian Gladiator almost slipped back down to the canvas, by way of his legs nearly giving out on him. Boo hoo.

"Bugger that. Nonetheless, Quinton. Do I 'ave a surprise for ye, or what? Listen, I've been watching ye for the better part of seven months now. Everything ya've been through in ye life this year? I bloody know about it, heh!" Cornelius continued, taking several steps down the ramp as he did so.

Now, Quincy Mama was really puzzled. Who the FOCK *was* this joker? Nobody in the stands knew. "And I have to admit, ya've been one resilient arse. Never have ye let ya'self down. Always fightin' the good fight, no matter the bleeding consequene. Which are indeed present, but ye have chosen not to think about them, aye?

Unfortunately, therein the problem lies. I 'ave made a solemn promise that when the time was ripe, ye would start to feel the brunt of the actions ye have committed in the name of honour. Guess what, Quinton? Tonight is the night."

A lump formed in the bottom of May' throat. He staggered to the middle of the ring, suddenly having a vague flash of just who Cornelius was. It had been many years ago, but if Quinton wasn't mistaken, the man currently talking to him now? He was key. He was the one, who possibly had the answers, yet was the source of all the pain and suffering.

"Quinton, I am proud to present to ye..." Cornelius resumed as he halted at the bottom of the ramp, with a giant smirk on his face. "... the one they call the Destroyer. An animal so vicious, that his return to this environment could spell absolute bloody chaos for many, and which will be on your hands. He is the one who seeks vengeance, Quinton.

I unveil to ye, the most evil bastard on the face of this planet, and in the history of mankind...

...

...

... Pembridge.

Alexander Pembridge, that is."

You could hear a pin drop. If you weren't distracted by a lanky man, bald headed and with small scars littered all over his upper torso (which was bare), sliding into the ring and taking to a kneeling position behind Quinton.

Oh, and the Canadian? His mouth was hanging open, in utter shock. All the old-school ACW fans in attendance were shitting themselves, while also being thoroughly confused. Vincent Pembridge, the scourge of ACW last year, was rumoured to only have a sister. And was far too young (26ish) to have a son that would fit what Cornelius was hyping this 'Alexander' bloke to be. So, yes, much confusion was afoot.

Cornelius himself started cackling like a mad genius, and motioned to Quinton to turn around. May did just that, being numbed by the news he had just received. And quite obviously, what came next would prove to change the landscape of Quincy's life from here on out.

The bald and lanky man? Yes, he was Alexander Pembridge.

And he leapt up from the canvas, obliterating Quinton with a pivoting/spinning uppercut. Quinton's body was jerked up from the canvas, and floated in mid-air like a feather for a few seconds, before crashing down to the canvas. Face-first. Highlighting just how much force was packed behind the uppercut, heh.

Cornelius's insane laughter started to get drowned out by a massive eruption of buzzing and quasi-jeering, as the man everybody was led to believe was Alexander Pembridge dropped to his knees... a bloodthirsty scowl eteched on his face. What he had to say next was the last on-air bizness for the moment, for COURAGE had to go to commercials. Everybody heard it, though. And all of them, at that instant, became extremely frightened.

"You killed my father. Now, you shall pay."

Don't you just love it when the son of your most hated nemesis pops by for vengeance?

Even if it was hard to comprehend, the evil Vincent Pembridge -- rumoured to be trapped in a vegetative state following the events of last year's Tribute Show -- managed to father a son. And, somehow, the son had come a-knockin' to finish what his daddy started. And yes, Alexander was a full-grown man. Oh, the headaches. I'd imagine some people with the initials WM will be questioning this turn of events until the cows come home.

Quinton May, though? He had taken to trashing his locker-room. Nothing was spared. Even the usually comical Rickino Martino knew the severity of the situation, and was hiding under a table. So as not to get hit by whatever May was throwing around.

To be honest, it was a trainwreck of a night for Quinton. TV Title? Lost, to a nemesis in Fejona Min. The appearance of the son of his all-time hated enemy? Made matters worse. Not to mention, the super leaping pivoting/spinning uppercut Alexander delivered to Quinton; May's jaw had been popped out of place ever since the fist of Alexander struck him. So, yes, excuse Quinton for not being in the best of moods.

"I-Is there a-anything I can do, Quinton?" Rickino asked meekly, once he realised that Quinton had stopped throwing things around. May grunted as he sat himself down on the only piece of furniture he hadn't decimated.

Sighing as he did so. This was all too much for him to handle. "No. Actually, yes. Tell me how it is possible that Vincent Pembridge, who I think is only about three or four years older than I am and is assumedly in a coma for what doctors say is forever, has a SON that looks and feels like he's *my* age? How in the name of FUCKING HELL is it even possible? Can you find that out for me, eh?"

Rickino dragged himself from under the table, seriously chewing on May's words. He himself, although not fully equipped with the whole background on Quinton's deal with Vincent Pembridge, was quite the perplexed bunny. And he was thinking if he could do some research and come up with some answers, the Castaway would be able to soothe himself.

"Yes, I will go ahead and try that right now! I am, after all, an expert at research!" Rickino announced proudly, en route to storming out of the room. Off to do research on this entire Alexander Pembridge situation.

Quinton leaned back in his chair and shook his head, unaware that just as Rickino left the room... someone else was outside, waiting to come in. And since Martino had not stopped to question him, ALIAS figured it would be alright to go right on in.

"Quinton." May twisted his head around and looked at this man who was entering for just a moment, before putting his head back in his hands. Certainly, the Canadian had not expected this visit.

"What are you doing here, Chris? I had assumed you were dead." May mumbled with a concealed grin. There was a bit of contempt in his voice, but who could blame him with the day he had had so far? Plus, he was also spot on with the analysis, considering Alias's troubles over in tSC.

It was taking its toll on Sheffield, but hey, the man's a tough bastard. "Heh, I had assumed the same about Pembridge!" Alias was quick to reply, effectively changing the subject. And oh yes, he had been there that night… not with Quinton, the Pulp Hero was in the ring when it allll happened... but he was there that night.

"That… wasn’t Vincent." Quinton clarified as he removed his face from his hands and locked eyes with Sheffield.

Alias, now pacing about with puzzlement written all over his face, nodded. "Just how many Pembridges are there out there?"

"You aren’t the first one who wants to find out." Quinton shot back, shaking his head. This was trickier than a man finding his wife riding the dick of his deceased father. No, I am not sick. Yes, that is some goooood ganja.

"Soooo… he’s got a brother? I wasn't really paying attention, what with being shocked and such." Alias posed to Quincy, stroking his goatee in a paternal way that makes him so secsky.

May was now replaying what just happened in the ring moments ago, still in shock. "Son. Vincent only has a sister, as far as I know. Karen Pembridge. She and I are... were friends. Haven't been in touch with her lately, but yeah, pretty sure Karen and Vincent don't have any other siblings."

"Is that… possible?" Alias asked, again. Inquisitive, ain't he?

Quinton's eyes narrowed. He too was full of questions, and he didn't want to be the one answering them. Such was the nature of the situation. "Again, you aren’t the first one to ask that question."

This drew a exasperated shake of the head from Alias. "Bizarre. I mean… Vincent was no older than I am, I believe… and my daughter is only seven years ol…d.” Alias caught himself, knowing he’d let slip that secret he’d been keeping since the Squared Circle’s first show. It had just seemed more natural to talk about Izzy since he had finally saw her for the first time. And her, her mother Monet and Chris had started hanging out every once in a while outside of shows.

Quinton looked over to him again, pivoting in his seat this time. "You have a daughter?"

"I’ve been keeping it a secret for a while, you're one of the only ones that knows now… but yeah. It’s that hard to believe, huh?" the Pulp Hero confirmed, a slight burden having been lifted off his shoulders.

Quinton thought for a moment, about his son Dylan, and how all that happened. "Actually, no, I’ve heard harder things to believe."

Alias grinned for a moment and nodded his head, he leaned against the wall of Quinton’s locker room, surveying the damage. Quinton had already stood up and was pacing a bit, his hands on his hips and his back to the Pulp Hero. He wasn’t so much surveying the damage as he was… lost in thought.

“Quinton… if anyone knows what that TV title means…” Alias started, a solemn knowing in his voice.

"Except I never gave it up..." Quinton muttered, not so much in contempt as it was. Okay yeah… in contempt.

Alias peaked an eyebrow. “What was that?”

Quinton now headed towards the door, but turned back to look at Alias. "You. You’ve been given so much these last two years… and how much have you thrown away? Please, I'm not in the mood. I'm out of here."

Alias was caught off guard, as he just stood there… frozen. Quinton just shook his head and snorted at the Original Pulp Hero. They didn’t talk much… but when they did, it was most uncomfortable. Sheffield knew tht May harboured some odd and unfounded resentment towards him, albeit on a small scale, but still, the former 2-time ACdub Champion couldn't quite understand it.

Quinton, meanwhile, walked out the door, and closed it behind. Leaving Alias… in the chaos that was the Castaway's current world.

Or at least, a fitting symbol of it.