i'm still standing

It had been a long time since he had done, this.

For the night, it was his show, and that single fact couldn't do much but bring back memories of late 2003, where HAWK more or less ran the federation with the help of his friends.

Happy days.

But now?

Anything but, happy days.

But was he really running the show? As he sat in his office for the evening, a small rented space in the corner of the arena, he listened as Joe Bishop, long time friend and occasional tag partner, rustled through some documentation for the night, which were mainly match sheets which had been revised over and over and over again.

HAWK never did miss organising matches.

HAWK sat silently, until his head cocked to the one side as he heard the slide of Italian made soles.

"How are you this evening William?"

Laguna smiled.

"You know, I always wondered if the old saying was true about blind men, and how their other senses are heightened when possibly the most important one is lost, I guess I have someone to ask now..."

HAWK leaned back, relaxed, and clasped his hands behind his cleanly buzzed head.

"It's true, as I can hear the saliva popping all over your gums with that huge smile on your face."

"I'm happy HAWK, I believe in you...out of everyone who was pulled out of that hat a few weeks back, you are the only one with experience of this, the way to run a show, the way to handle a crowd, timing of matches, timing of promo's...this should be a breeze, and a good show."

SilverHAWK cocked an eyebrow and looked in the general direction of Laguna's voice, he never wore shades, he had nothing to hide.

"I would say the same thing boss, apart from the fact I'm doing this in the dark...turn the light off and see how well you can prepare a two hour show..."

Bishop looked up at Laguna, a small smirk on his face.

"He's got an answer for everything you say boss."

"He has."

SilverHAWK smiled.

"Now...boss, if you don't mind, myself and Mr. Bishop here and trying to organise your show, and we were just in some very important discussions."

Laguna got the message, and as he left, he didn't take his eyes off HAWK, before leaving.

"I don't think he likes you that much HAWK."

He sighed.

"Feeling's mutual."

Handcuffed To The Past… Without A Key – Part One

The crowd erupted to see the ACW and tSc World Heavyweight Champion, Alias walking into the arena with gym bag in hand. The champ had been representing this company very well since regaining his World title back from SilverHAWK. Though, honestly, he the Pulp Hero felt something was still missing. The champ strolled down the hallway toward his locker room.

Alias passed a few ACW workers shaking their hands and getting pats on his back from them, because hell it was always nice to see an old face… and a respectful one at that. He strolled down the hall waving and speaking to some more of the staff, Joe Bishop and Jimmy Gonz among them. He approached his door and saw an envelope attached to it.

Cocking a questioning eyebrow, Alias snatched the envelope off the door and walked into his room. He threw his bag on the sofa and opened up the envelope.

Alias’ eyes grew wide as he read the note. Yeah… this, this was all he needed, just when he expected to put his past behind him in an environment such as this ACW… and it’s new world of possibilities. Lack of challengers for the World title, sure… but still possibilities. Still, putting on a brave face he smirked as he set the note on the table in front of the sofa. Alias walked into the bathroom as the camera panned closer to the note. It read…

“Ghosts still haunt you, Chris.”

What does it all mean?

A Toast to ACW

The broken down hotel room told the story, as did the smell of alcohol in the air. It was a bit of a strange site seeing Simian Kade sitting on the floor next to the bed that was situated in the fifty dollar room. A bottle of Jack Daniels sat beside his left arm, a shot glass next to his right. 

He leaned his head back against the bed spread, his hair was a mess, and his torn shirt gave a hint to what had gone on that night. Kade repositioned his head, and looked down at the bottle of J.D. - his drink of choice - that sat 
there ever so still. 

"Well, my friend, it looks like it's just you me," Kade said quietly to the glass bottle. 

One may wonder why Kade was in this ugly hotel room in the first place, being as ACW was putting on an event at this very moment in time, but believe me, Kade had his reasons. "Fuck ACW," he yelped, as he began to twist the lid off of the bottle. 

"You heard me," he said sternly as if someone had dared doubt him. 

"I said fuck," he paused for a second. 

"A..."

"C..."

"W..."

He let out a burst of laughter as he placed the shot glass in his lap. He picked it up, he saw an emblem on the side of it, whether it was laziness or a lack of concentration he was unable to make out what it said. 

"Well J.D., what should we do tonight?" Kade asked of the alcohol as a large smile began to shine across his face. 

"We could... take a walk?" He smiled once more. The idea had been shot down by the alcohol. How? Let us not question the mysterious workings of... uh, God. 

"We could... go to the ACW event that I'm supposed to be at?" He glanced toward the floor then back up at the bottle. "No? Ok then, we'll save that for next week...

"Because tonight... tonight is our's my friend." 

He dropped the lid to the floor, and bypassed the shot glass. He pressed the bottle to his lips and readied himself as the alcohol flowed freely and 
gracefully down his throat. 

He slowly removed the glass container, he peered up to the ceiling, almost paranoid that someone was watching him. 

"Cheers," he said to the bottle. "Cheers to... ACW."

The smile returned to his face as he pressed his head against the bed once more. He had succumb to temptation, but this time no one was aware of how severe the consequences may be.

Volker Baldwin Vs. blind

With this being SilverHAWK's show.

This was going to go by SilverHAWK's rules.

The only rule?

No bullshit.

Two men and one ring was the theme for the night, and as Volker Baldwin and blind locked up, and the bell rung, you could have been mistaken for thinking this was a true "old-school" wrestling federation as the fans cheered the start of the first match of the night, in a card which had nothing but promise.

A collar and elbow tie up left the duo jostling in the middle of the ring for the first piece of contact, and it came in the way of blind's foot to Baldwins thigh as blind thought about getting his opponent on the mat with a sweep. Baldwin crashed to the mat and then soon took the full impact on an elbow to his chest as blind then repeated the action to double the damage in quick succession.

blind pulled Baldwin to his feet, trying to use this early momentum to place him in good stead for the rest of the match, but his hopes were dashed as Baldwin reversed the Irish whip and then followed it up with a large clothesline to the corner. With blind dazed in the corner, another Irish whip was put into action, this time to the opposite side of the ring, as blind smashed into the turnbuckle with full force, the collision sent him back into Baldwin's path...

"Holy shit..."

A group of nearby fans screamed, as the ring post had bent out of shape such was the collision, Baldwin, who had blind on the ground after a clothesline from the rebound, looked over and then looked quizzically at the referee, who couldn't do anything but shrug his shoulders.

blind was up on his feet after the moment on confusion, but was aware enough to keep him at bay, as a kick to the stomach sent him down to a knee. Facing the un-bent ring post, Baldwin hooked up blind, and then held him up high for a clothesline...he had no idea what the consequences of such a move would be.

As blind toppled to the mat, the impact not only sounded a clattering of the mat, but also a large amount of wood breaking, and then the sound of the ring post falling clean off and smashing into the crowd barrier as the ring ropes drooped down towards the post.

HOLY SHIT!
HOLY SHIT!

The referee checked both men before sliding out of the ring and looking at the damage...as a complete corner of the ring had fallen away...and had therefore made the ring un-usable.

Winner > No Contest

what now?

"What the fuck do you mean you can't fix it?"

The crowd were buzzing as they looked on at the mass of people around the ring, all inspecting the nights damage.

"The axel HAWK, it's totally snapped, and we don't keep a spare, because, well we can't afford to."

SilverHAWK couldn't believe it, and neither could Joe Bishop who was on his hands and knees looking under the ring, before for the second time in the night, those Italian leather shoes crept up on him.

"What are you waiting for Nate, get it fixed."

Laguna.

"Could you hold on a minute please?"

HAWK's tone wasn't a pleasant one, and Laguna instantly caught on. "Don't mind me HAWK, it's only my ring that is in tatters in front of me, can't you see the kind of damage that could be done if this isn't fixed?"

Anger increased by 20%.

"I can't see much these days boss...and Nate says it's unfixable, given the fact we don't keep a spare front axel for the corner there, because we can't afford it."

Laguna looked on in disbelief, as Nate's nod seemed to back up HAWK's statement, as the trio pondered on what to do next not long after Bishop rose to his feet and brushed dust off his shirt.

"Yep, it's fucked."

HAWK laughed...which was maybe a little out of order given the current predicament, as Laguna stepped up.

"Does anyone have any ideas?"

Silence, as Kent and Hillary Duncan came down to the ring, a few wolf whistles directed at her also.

...

"Anybody?"

...

"We'll have to cancel," said SilverHAWK, as everyone looked around, and the small group of fans behind him that could heard gasped. "What else can you do? You don't have a ring, so you don't have any wrestling, which would void the whole point of it being a wrestling show, am I right?"

He was right, and everyone in the small circle knew it, as Laguna asked for a microphone, he began to address the crowd.

"Ladies and gentleman, I..."

SilverHAWK planted a hand on his shoulder.

"This is my show, I'll do it."

As the mic was pressed into his hand, a small group of wrestlers took to the top of the stage to see what was going on, this truly was an awesome sight, and as HAWK rose the mix to his lips, a small cheers went up for the oncoming stars.

"Fans of ACW, it's my sad task to tell you that the ring has been deemed unfixable, and therefore the show will have to be cancelled," he tried to fight through the disappointment. "I'm sure that I speak for William when saying that all tickets will be valid for the next time we come down, and I hope it's very soon."

HAWK dropped the mic to the ground as the fans nearly didn't know what to do, with the impatient parents in the crowd quickly collecting their stuff to beat the crowds.

"What was it you were saying Laguna...it should be a breeze?"

Esse?

Backstage crew members were working diligently to clear out the arena, getting ready to relocate for the next event. Various wrestlers were wandering around the halls, the majority disappointed that there would be no televised event for this evening. All of a sudden throughout the quiet halls came a scream of extreme pleasure.

"Esses... why all the glum faces?! The great, AZRAEL ASESINO is in the building!" This came from a short man with a thick Mexican accent. His brown hair matched his brown suit jacket, and pants- a white collared shirt and a maroon tie balanced off the outfit. This man was pointing towards a masked man of average height.

The short man continued to yelp in joy, "This is Azrael Asesino... he is your future!" The man known as Azrael walked with distinction. A few of the backstage workers peered at Azrael. He showed up in his wrestling apparel, white boots, black tights with a neon lightning bolt down both pant legs, and a white belt. Azrael was shirtless showing off a strong build. A tight mask covered his face, except for a mouth opening. The mask was made up of blue, white and black coloring.

The short man literally pulled a crew member aside. "'ey chico, I want you to meet my boy," he said obnoxiously.

"And who are you," questioned the backstage worker.

"Hah! You're a sad man if you don't know who I am. I am the greatest manager from Mexico city! I am the great, Torres. Now show some respect, and stand up straight," stammered Azrael's manager in a deep Mexican accent. He continued to talk, "I'll disregard your down right disrespect for me and introduce you to the soon to be hottest lucha libre in the business... Azrael Asesino."

Azrael calmly nodded at the backstage worker. 

A look of utter disgust appeared on the face of Torres. "This is not some casual get together! Show Azrael some respect," Torres finished infuriated.

"What are you talking about? I don't know who both of you guys are... what do you expect me to do?"

"Kiss his feet," Torres demanded. A look of confusion was displayed on the face of the backstage worker. Azrael just stood silently next to the loud mouth Torres. It appeared to be quite the odd pairing, a dignified wrestler out of Mexico and a self promoting manager like Torres.

"Are you serious," questioned the crew member.

"Do it," said Torres, almost psychotically. The heavily tanned Mexican manager was dead serious as he stared into the crew members eyes. Why was he doing such a thing? Did he really believe Azrael was deserving of an act like this?

Torres once again began to speak, "What you see in front of you is the definition of might, power, strength and greatness. Azrael Asesino when in the ring will bring all of this to the table. I do not joke with you." 

Torres paused, his face plastered with the absolute truth.

"Azrael is the angel of Judgment. Now, kiss his feet," finished Torres. Azrael continued to stand still, arms crossed, breathing heavily.

The backstage hand wiped his mouth, "You're crazy, man. Go back to Mexico."

Immediately Torres threw a right hand at the backstage worker, which connected on his jaw. He fell limp into a trash can. Torres spat on the fallen man and began to speak, "Nobody talks to us like that, Azrael. Nobody."

The two continued to walk down the hall ways. Torres, the manager, seemed to forget the past encounter with the crew member and began to once again announce the arrival of Azrael to the ACW. Torres was insane- one minute he was jubilantly introducing Azrael to the backstage workers of ACW, and the next minute he was giving a lecture on Asesino's caliber in the wrestling world. 

Second Thoughts

Time was moving faster now as the whiskey found its way down the throat of Steven Klein. The glass bottle of Jack Daniels fell to his side. 

He wasn't quite intoxicated yet, although a bit of a buzz had come over him. 

"You know, J.D.," Simian began, "we've been through a lot he said." 

He tapped the bottle on its neck. He blinkly slowly as he stared down at the bottle of whiskey. In the back of his mind ACW was calling him. He almost longed for the atmosphere, he even felt a little guilty about not showing up that evening. 

But as far as he knew there were no matches on the sched for him, so he figured it would be clear sailing. Hell, no one would even notice he was gone, right?

He sat up uneasily. It was getting to him, the look in his eyes told the story. 

"Fuck," he said loudly. 

"I don't approve," the whiskey bottle butted in. 

...

What. The. Fuck.

...

Simian shook his head quickly staring down at the bottle with a look of surprise. Suddenly he calmed himself. 

"Shut up, Jack," he said to the bottle of J.D. 

"Aye," the bottle complied. 

He took a deep breath. 

He wasn't upset about the fact that ACW might be missing his presence, - ha! - he was upset about the fact he felt he was cheating himself out of an opportunity. 

One week removed from an ACW Title shot, and now this. 

He stared at the bottle of alcohol with a look of disdain. 

"You're letting yourself down, Steve," he said ashamed, "you're letting yourself down." 

He picked up the bottle again, and took another long sip, it seemed guilt didn't have the ability to render him sober. So what did? 

hard times

As he stood at the curtain, HAWK could hear the grinding and clattering of the stage being put away, he couldn't believe it. The one night since Revival when he had a chance to show that he was no different from the rest, and it seemed that fate, would have other ideas.

As he stood, leaning against the entrance frame he felt a large hand rest against his shoulder, but it was none other than Joe Bishop, his long time friend and now, his most dependent friend.

"How's it going bucko, this must be a little tough for you I would think?"

"You know, since Revival I've been needing something to keep me going you know, something to keep a point in this life, and that was tonight, and now...it's all fucked."

Bishop felt his heartache, ever since the collapse of ACW in late 2003, his work at the federation has been deteriorating every week...he also needed a purpose.

"Well...there is no point both of us standing here, wallowing in self pity, let's get a move on shall we, get back to the hotel for some well earned rest because we've been planning this show all day...great use that did."

SilverHAWK's face suddenly lit up.

"Joe...you know as well as I do, plans and ACW do not mix."

Handcuffed To The Past… Without A Key – Part Two

Alias had been pretty loose throughout the night as he continued to walk around the arena. There was no reason for any of the ACW superstars to be in the arena tonight since the ring collapsed earlier. But Alias was no ordinary man, he was the leader of the federation and he was going to stay until the show ended, lend a helping hand where needed… after an occurrence that obviously jarred most of the backstage technical personnel. Another person that Chris Sheffield worried about, after the collapse, was SilverHAWK… this was his week to run the show after all, and obviously the backlash to what happened in the ring would be coming in the next few weeks… and directly at his now blind ally.

With SilverHAWK currently awol also, Alias was stuck to himself… lost in though if not lost in work for most of the rest of the night.

That was good news for whoever was watching the champion, evidently the same man who had left him that note earlier. Someone was looking for Alias and he didn’t know who it was. It could be several ‘ghosts’ from his past. Pick one. It was no secret that the Pulp Hero was infamous for skeletons in the closet. Not helping the fact, Alias knew he was a marked man every since he won both the tSc and ACW Heavyweight Championships… on that weekend in May. It couldn’t get any better for the champ, honestly.

He had to deal with any number of unknown challengers within All-Star Championship Wrestling… in the current environment, this ‘wild west’, anyone could come out of the woodwork and challenge him at his weakest position. Though, the only person he could really rule of this was SilverHAWK… right? 

He had to deal with… well, a host of people looking to take him apart with the Squared Circle. Brandon Youngblood, Sonny Silver, Dave Morey, Deft, Duel, Lester Gatts and even the eVo champ KSZ had unfinished business with him. That’s two stables and the secondary champion shooting for his head, incase you’re keeping track. ;)

There where always the Osyrus’s of Alias’s world too… men, though not under the same umbrella of federations at the moment, he knew would willingly gun for his head.

And to top it all off… he had to deal with the biggest pain in his ass, in Vince Jacobs, at the fans Wrestling organization.

Now he had some other person that was trying to put Alias down. He went to the cafeteria and grabbed himself a cup of coffee, cream, and two sugars. Alias took the cup and walked back to his locker room. He noticed that the door was slightly ajar.

Alias looked into the room making sure nothing was out of place. He searched the room and found that everything was fine. Or was it?

He turned slightly to see a torn piece of paper lying on the chair across from the sofa. He picked up what was now, evidently, a piece of a flyer… and it read ‘WWRPG: RAGE IN A CAGE… featuring Ruben Ross and Charlie Owens in a Final Elimination Match, Alias and the WWRPG’s only Grand Slam Champion, Ravnos, in Match Six of there Best of Seven, and many more…’. He crumpled up the header of the flyer, which had been torn free from the rest of the advertisement and threw it in the garbage before storming out the door.

Someone was really playing mind games with Alias… and, for the first time in several years… someone from Alias’s WWRPG past, was now opening old wounds. 

Judgement Day - Part One

Glass shards lay around the adjacent wall to Kade, a brand new bottle of Jack Daniels had been cracked open by Simian, and a lot of it had made its way down his throat. The last bottle was a distant memory at this point.

He checked down at the bottle, just to make sure it was still there, and it was still doing good. He sighed a little, checking his watch. He rubbed his face and a little burp came from the way of his mouth. He tightened his lips. 

"I gotta tell you something Jack," he said, he seemed a little more serious then he just had been. 

"I'm considering quitting ACW, my friend," Kade confessed. 

There was no response from the bottle of whiskey 

He sighed, "a lot has happened, you know?" 

"That whole bullshit deal with Ber... I mean, Becky," he said a little confused, "and then of course Rome. 

"I just don't know where to turn Jack. I mean I faced that guy, Alias, last week. But, I lost. Nothing seems to be going my way," the stress had finally taken its toll on Simian as it does on many wrestlers. 

"I wish I could erase that night," Kade stared at the floor, referring to the first night he came to ACW, when... - well, you'll see. 

He stepped through the coffee, and over the cell phone, as the tiny dressing room echoed his footsteps. He entered the bathroom he peered about inside. He sighed, as rolled the ring around between his fingers. He looked down at the diamond, and then over towards the sink. He stared into the mirror as he turned on the tap. The cold water ran into the off-white sink. He sniffed a little, as a few more tears made their way from his eyes to the floor. 

He brought the ring to eye level, he bit his lip a little, he was really going to try to forget her just like that. 

“Back to wrestling,” he repeated once more. 

He let his fingers go. 

The ring fell, it chimed as it hit the ceramic sink. It bounced around a little, before being swept away by the water and down the drain. 

He slowly turned the taps off, as his head sunk. He rested his arms on the edge of the sink and he watched as another of what would not be his last tears fell down the drain. 

"I guess this is judgement day, isn't it Jack?" He asked of his good friend. "I've met the fork in the road." 

Which way shall he turn? 

Hope...

The sun kissed his neck with venomous lips as he collected everything he needed for the day. His bucket of water and collection of mangos would keep him for a while, but he didn't know how long he had if he was being truthfully honest.

He had surprised himself.

Staying alive this long.

But how long was it?

He was over 100 days at his last count, but he had no idea how long he had been out for after the crash, but he still had hope.

Hope to live.

Hope for someone to come this way, and save him.

Hope.

Some say it's a four letter word to which many wrong decisions are made, but for him...it was the only thing he had. Looking on at his small but sheltered home, he looked at his hope...which had been 50 days in the making.

It was nearly time for it's maiden voyage.

It was nearly time for him to see if he truly was a survivor.

A small craft was his getaway from this god forsaken island.

But...he had to try.

I Came Here for SQUAT?!

I swear, I'm never skateboarding here again."

Glancing at his wristwatch with a scowl, Quinton May hurried down the halls of the arena, looking like an absolute mess. And, in addition to his duffel bag that was assumedly packed with his wrestling gear, Quinton had a skateboard in his possession. Kneepads as well, actually.

Seems as if somebody's too much of a scrooge to pay for taxi fare. What a slut.

Anywho, after dismissing the fact that the arena appeared empty to him, Quinton finally came across his locker-room. With one hearty kick, the door of the room flew open and the Canadian Gladiator carelessly tossed his bag & skateboard into the room. He didn't even bother entering it himself. Instead, May let the door slam shut before storming off, in search of something.

Or maybe, he was seeking someone.

"I am looking for someone." Quinton spoke up, to himself and no one else.

Well, that debate got solved quickly. In any event, the Rising Star continued to scour the arena for whoever the hell he was looking for, and started to clap loudly as soon as he saw someone coming out of a room. The unidentified fell down, surprised by the clapping, causing Quincy to roll his eyes in incredulous-ness.

Quite a special moment. You had to be there to really appreciate it.

While waiting for the man to get up, Quinton decided to just go ahead with the questioning. "Hey, you... err, strange backstage official whose name I have forgotten. I've got a question for you. Three questions, actually. One, are you SO poor as to wear ACW-sponsored socks? And three, have you seen SilverHAWK around? I wish to talk to him about something important.

Lastly, who the hell do I have to fight tonight?"

So, first, the unidentified man now identified as a backstage official fought the urge to cry.

Then he got up to his feet and dusted himself clean, with Quinton May advancing closer and closer to him. "Oh, err, SilverHAWK's not here. He's at his hotel, I think, and I don't know the name of it, unfortunately."

"Ahh. Okay. So, when's my match, then?" Quinton asked, slightly annoyed at the response to his second question.

The backstage official just looked at Quincy like he was Jewish. "AH! You must be late."

"No, my name is Quinton May. Television Champion, and proud Canadian. Please do kindly tell me my match details, and I'll give you money for a new wardrobe." the Rising Star shot back.

HAHA, he made with teh funny.

The smile on Quinton's face would soon vanish, however. Yes it would.

"You don't understand..." the official started, "... I know who you are. I'm just saying, you missed all the commotion. The ring collapsed, so Laguna cancelled the show. Everybody's allowed to do whatever they want to do tonight. We'll convene next week as per normal and make no mention of this absolutely weird night."

Suffice to say, Quincy Mama was taken aback.

"O-Okay. So you mean to tell me I skateboarded all the way here despite all the crazy traffic out there, only for you to tell me that the two things I have to do today -- talk to SilverHAWK and wrestle whatever match I've been placed in -- is not within my power to do?" Quinton asked menacingly, aiming to re-iterate.

The backstage official simply nodded his head, prompting Quinton to throw up his arms in the air.

He wasn't pleased. "I CAME ALL THE WAY HERE FOR SQUAT?!"

See? He wasn't happy. The backstage official cowered in fear at the Canadian Gladiator raising his voice, before the former simply ran away like the insignificant piece of monkey crap that he was. Leaving Quincy Mama to stew in his scathing rage.

There wasn't much else left for him to do, so Quinton turned around and tredged back towards his locker-room. The night was still young, as it was, and May decided that he'd go and find SilverHAWK at whichever hotel he was cooped up in. It was a matter of utmost urgency.

But as he turned a corner, someone was waiting for him.

"Pity what happened tonight, eh? Can't say I'm not a little relieved for the lucky break, though."

Only one person.

ALIAS.

Quinton looked up, blank face and all, and folded his arms. "Uh, yeah. Since you have a busy schedule with two other promotions to work in. But, hey, funny things happen all the time, don't they? I'm just mad I couldn't have been informed of this while making my way here.

OR, maybe, the ring should have collapsed earlier on in the afternoon. Either way, big inconvenience."

Christopher Sheffield nodded his head, seemingly agreeing with Quincy Mama.

"Yep, I agree. Shame, too, since we don't come to Uniondale often. Fans must be rather pissed with us and I don't blame them. Anywho, where are you heading off to now?" Alias started, as the two started walking and talking.

May shrugged. "Off to find SilverHAWK. Know where he is?"

"Don't know, and don't quite care. You know the deal between us."

For a minute, Quinton May was confused. Then he had that 'oh-I-KNOW' look on his face and nodded furiously, before glancing at his wristwatch. Alias chuckled, almost amused that May would forget the hostilities between the champion and 'HAWK.

Weird, isn't it? Hmmm.

"Anyways, I better jet now." Quinton announced as he turned to face Christopher. "I guess I'll see you next week, champ. And a word in your ear; never skateboard to work again. It isn't all it's cracked up to be. I'm going to sue those bastards on that stupid Oprah Winfery show.

Time-saver, MY ASS. Morons."

Without even waiting for Alias to say goodbye, Quinton dashed off, turning around another corner to collect his things from his locker-room. The ACW Champion simply shook his head and spun his heels, walking off in another direction.

And so, the weird night continued on for the stars of ACW.

hard times part //

For one of the only times in the last month, he was glad he didn't have his sight.

He fucking hates motel rooms.

"They all look the fucking same," is what he once said to his old tag team partner, Giraldo, in a late night drive rant. "Same fucking bed, it's too fucking high and hurts your next. Too fucking hard as well, you don't sink into shit and then you have the same set up, bed here, table, lamp, clock, cabinet, mirror, soap..."

Being 19 and slightly drunk is not a good thing.

As he sat down on the "rock hard" bed, and slipped off his shoes, he listened in as he could hear Joe doing his usual in the room next door, turning around the mirror face.

It seemed that turning professional in the business of wrestling turned most guys crazy, and many a road story would be told were some wrestler would freak out, or do the strangest thing for a rib.

Joe Bishop.

Hates mirrors.

What the fuck is that?

HAWK laughed as he thought about it, before launching himself back onto the bed, diagonally across the bed as he rubbed his face, he was weary of more or less everything in life and if he was to really think...his next step would be his major point of confusion and worry.

CLUNK.

BEEP.

"What the fuck..."

He immediately sat up, and looked in the direction of the sound...but as he waited for something else, he heard next door, as Joe let him friend know what's going on.

"HAWK...is your door locked?"

He sighed.

"Gimme five minutes and I'll tell you Joe! Fucking hell!"

He could hear Joe laughing.

"Alrite then smart ass, I'll phone reception."

Looks like making you crazy isn't the only thing wrestling does to you.

Too many chairs shots...

Esses'?

The camera crew cut to footage in the hallway, and the fans began booing immediately as they saw El Gato Negro was the one the crew was following. He wasn’t in wrestling attire, but instead a white t-shirt, jeans, and sneakers. 

“YOU THERE, FELLOW MEHICAN~!”

This time, the loud mouth wasn’t El Gato Negro.

The man seen earlier, Torres, was walking beside his client: Azrael Asesino… The Black Cat turned and faced Torres, stroking his mustache as he did so.

“What chu want mang?”

The short Torres grinned, “The question is: What do YOU—” 

“No caen do mang. I gotta get goin’. I don’t got no match tonight, so I feegure, no point in stayin’. Flip you on the catch side mang.”

EGN started to walk off again, but Torres grabbed him by the shirt.

“Just who the hell do you think you are, El Gato Negro? Huh? Huh? Just because you’re mehican, you think you can just insult Azrael Asesino like that?”

The Escape Artist laughed and turned to Azrael, “Asesino? Who joo kill mang? You kill this guy’s bully or somethin’ mang? That why he’s got his head so far up joo fatass mang?”

Torres immediately began to show sides of his short man syndrome, and he stood toe to toe with EGN… sort of. “You want some of me esse? Cause I promise you I will kick your ass with the greatest of ease.”

“So says the man on the flying trapeze.”

“…That didn’t make any sense.”

“Damn, those were my last mints.”

Torres’ face turned red, in an angry sense. “Are you rhyming with what I say?”

EGN paused for a second, “Are you stacking those bells of hay.”

Torres, “Lick my wang.”

“Fuck joo mang.”

The two stared each other down, before Torres finally snapped his fingers. “You’re beneath me.”

El Gato Negro chuckled, “What chu talkin’ bout, midget? My paecker’s beeger than you mang.”

“YOU WANNA RUMBLE!?!”

“Naw mang, I got three, thanks though.”

EGN blinked.

Torres blinked.

This is where Azrael intervened, stepping in between EGN and Torres. Torres stepped back, and Azrael stood toe to toe with El Gato Negro.

"What chu' looking at, eh?" snapped EGN.

All the Black Cat received back was a stare. The powerful stare of Azrael Asesino. A mans eyes tell a lot about a person, and the brown eyes of Azrael continued to burn a hole into the head of the man standing before him. The relationship between Azrael and his manager Torres was an odd one, nothing knew what held the two together; the two were almost complete opposites.

EGN broke the stare and spouted, "You're out of your mind, mang. Get out of my face." The Escape Artist pushed past Azrael, and made his way past Torres. The scene cut to the next segment.

hard times part ///

Possibly, any other man would be panicking at this point, but not HAWK. He just lay back on his rock of a bed and thought away to himself, not a worry in the world as Joe began to thump his wall.

"HAWK my man...we....found....doors....so....gotta.....now."

HAWK sat up, a screwed expression over his face.

"What the hell did you just say Bish?"

"Huh? I can't hear you too well...the rooms are...locked...wait till they can fix them."

"Fine..."

He didn't care.

Until the question hit him, in his mind.

"What am I gonna do now?"

How deep that answer was going to go, depended on how long those doors would take to fix.

Judgement Day - Part Two

"Dark days, I tell ya Jack," Simian began. With a lit cigarette between his lips and the bottle of J.D. in his left hand, he recalled the incident with Jason Fox and the near suspension that was laid down on him.

"If only we hadn't come across each other Jack, maybe things would've been different."

Crash.

The bottle of JD hit the pavement. The glass shards spread across the wet ground. Simian stared down at them with a look of drunkenness. He couldn’t believe he just dropped a bottle of alcohol… although it was empty.

He breathed in deeply through his nose; he was preparing for another edition of Courage. It seemed nothing more then a job to him at this point, something to pay the rent.

He shrugged his shoulders and looked out across the bushes towards the highway. Cars roared by, it seemed a blur to the intoxicated Kade who wasn’t exactly looking forward to tonight. He was fighting Jesse Ramey for the second time in his ACW career.

Pfft. I can take him Kade thought. Drunk or not, Simian’s undying attitude still held true. He was determined to do whatever it was that he needed to do to win, and tonight was going to be no different.

He took another glance down at the bottle of JD that lay in pieces on the pavement.

“Good for nothing slut,” Kade mumbled the way of the bottle of whiskey. Yes, he was talking to alcohol.

He took a look to the left of him, he saw the entrance to the arena. He sighed a little.

“Here we go,” he said rolling his eyes as he stumbled towards the door. He turned the handle, and entered a night that was sure to be full of surprises.

The night had began terribly, and it was sure to end the same.

"I'm basically on probation now, J.D., and it's all thanks to that bastard Jason Fox," Kade grunted.

“Kade!” Fox screamed at his fallen roster-mate. He stared at the closed eyes of Simian who lay passed out on the floor, due to his intoxication.

“Someone get some help!” Fox screamed to anybody who was listening.

“Simian, don’t move! I’ll be back in a second with EMTs!” Jason quickly got up and charged out of the small locker room that they were in.

Kade lay motionless on the ground, with only his thoughts buzzing around in his mind.

What the hell?…

Ah shit. Jason better not have gone for help.

If Kent finds out I’m screwed.

I know as well as he does if you’re caught drinking on the job here or any place for that matter, it’s grounds for suspension, or even dismissal.

This isn’t good.

Come on Simian, wake up. Once the EMTs arrive, if that’s where he went, they’ll be able to declare you drunk in a heartbeat.

Open your eyes. Open your eyes.

Fox came rushing back into the small locker room with two medical personnel at his side.

“He just fell over!” Fox said, he was noticeably frightened. “What the hells wrong with him?”

“I’m guessing he’s been drinking, I can smell the whiskey on him,” the EMT said matter-of-factly as if it were a common occurrence.

“Mike,” she said, “go get Adam Kent, tell him what’s going on.”

Ah, fuck.

"That's all it took, one second of misjudgement on that ass' part, and now I'm in trouble with management," Kade said with disdain.

"And that power-thirsty Adam Kent laid down the punishment," Kade began, "apparently I'm not a high enough priority to even get a hearing with Laguna."

"Figures."

“How could you do this to me?”

Adam Kent’s voice boomed throughout the small room. Simian Kade rubbed his head, it was still in pain from his fall.

“Simian, you were drunk at an event,” Kent said with anger in his voice.

“You disgraced yourself, you disgraced ACW… but more importantly you disgraced.”

“And I don’t like to be embarrassed,” he said looking deep within the eyes of Kade.

“Look, Adam, I made a mistake. I screwed up,” Simian said looking for a bit of sympathy.

“You’re trying to draw blood from a stone!” He yelled across his desk, “Kade! You don’t understand! You don’t embarrass me like you just did.”

“… You just don’t.”

He put his hands on the top of the mahogany desk. Kade was still a little drowsy.

“You’re on probation Simian. Another incident like this… another incident period… and I will suspend you,” Kent threatened. “I will suspend you on the spot.”

He leaned in even closer.

“Do I make myself clear,” he asked of Steven Klein.

“Yes,” Kade said, visibly disappointed with himself.

“Good,” he said abruptly, “now get the hell out."

"God help me if Kent finds out about this," Kade said with a crackle in his voice.

He took another sip, it seemed not even fear could keep him off the bottle.

A phone call home

“Dude, I swear it.”

A slightly muffled voice replied at the other end of the cellular telephone pressed against the blonde stallions ear.

“No. No show at all. Damn it, I’ll have to wait ANOTHER week to get my revenge on that scrawny piece of—“

“Mrrphhh urmmm grrrmmph!” The feminine voice retaliated sharply.

Steiner pulled the receiver away from his ear for a moment before moving it back.

“Sorry chick, but it’s unavoidable.”

“Mrrpmh hrrmph?”

“No. I’m going to stick around a while.”

A pause, a light voice at the other end of the phone said its goodbyes.

“Later.”

He flipped the phone closed and slid it in to the back pocket of his jeans.

Handcuffed To The Past… Without A Key – Part Three

Alias had had a very interesting night so far, even though he hadn’t wrestled. Someone was stalking him from an old defunct federation he used to be in, and to top it all off… it seemed to be the man that the Pulp Hero had never truly defeated one his own grounds. Alias grabbed his gym bag and headed out of his locker room. He walked down the hall toward the exit of the arena. He approached the door and opened it, walking toward his rental car. He would head to the hotel that ACW had supplied for the talent, and finally get some rest today.

Suddenly Alias fell to the ground with a big crash. His bag slid across the ground toward his car. The sound of metal hit the ground as a lead pipe crashed to ground. Alias held the back of his head in obvious pain as the large figure now stood over top of the ACW World Champ.

Alias tried to focus on the figure’s face but couldn’t get a clear picture.

The figure laughed manically at Alias as the champ tried to recover his bearings.

“The fun has just begun, Chris. It’s been a long time. I intend to finish what was never finished. Ironman Tables… Ironman Guanlets? Your worst nightmare has arrived. From one old union friend to another, kid… I’m going to rip you limb from limb.” The figure said as he stood over Alias

Alias looked up once more as he tried to recognize the voice, the clues within the rough baritone. Suddenly, it all clicked. It was him. But… why? The figure got closer to Alias, as the Original Pulp Hero tried to mutter some words.

“Ravn-- “ 

Then… all went to black… and when he woke back up, bleeding from the temple, he’d be alone with himself once again. 

hard times part ////

"Fresh air..."

SilverHAWK and Joe Bishop stood at the doorway of a Sunset Inn, as Joe looked around for a good place to eat. Their rooms had been locked for over an hour, and even though it was a short period of time, restrainment seemed to take it's toll on most people.

"Well HAWK, we've got the usual really...Denny's, McDonalds, BK, Wimpy, Checkers and I think I see a Ponderosa just up the street."

Losing a sense and all that jazz really did increase his others, therefore, HAWK needed something that his pallet and his taste buds would like. "Let's walk a little and see what we can fine Joe?"

"No problem."

They ventured on into the night sky, their bellies rumbling and their minds ticking over...but this night was about to get worse. 

Judgement Day - Part Three

The bed spread was a mess, sprawled across the top of the mattress was Simian Kade. He lay in a pool of his own vomit - apparently this was better then going to work.

His eyes were closed, and the second bottle of Jack Daniels was half empty. It was laying at his waist-side, dripping onto the sheets ever so slowly. As Kade breathed heavily the thoughts in his mind were still plagued with the review of sorts of his ACW career. His judgement day or sorts was upon, he was at a fork in the road.

Crack.

The swift kick from Kade right to Vile’s face brought blood. Both men were cut both men were dazed. However Kade still had the stableness to smack Rome across the face.

Rome’s nose was clearly broken as he was still on his knees holding his crimson toned face.
Kade looked down with his hands on his knees.

“You like mother fucker? How’s it feel to be spit on and tossed to the curb?” Kade yelled.

He spit right in the face of Rome, and by the hair, tossed him to the canvas.

Kade turned to the fans and screamed obscenities.
Bad move.

The Great Depression.

Kade’s own finishing maneuver had just been used against him. Rome’s shoulder had gone straight into the ribs of Simian, knocking him down and out.

… 1

… 2

… 3

Rome got to his feet. Bloody nose and all, he would walk out of Revival the victor. He was on the right track, and the smile across his face proved that.

The memories of the climax to the saga of Simian and Rome brought back tears to the mind of Steven Klein. Scars that were barely weeks old had tried to heal themselves. The loss of his girlfriend Becky had been one of the worst defeats he had sufferred in ACW. She was his life; she was his world.

“Look Simian,” she said nervously, “we have to talk,” the words shot right through the phone and into his chest. His throat tightened, and his mouth dried. On some level he knew what was coming. He probably realized it within his mind as well, but he refused to let the truth be told.

“No,” he said with a crackle in his voice, “Becky, no.”

She stopped. There was a long pause.

“Don’t say it,” he said, “please, don’t say it.”

“Simian,” she started, “you and I both know this isn’t working. We’re too far apart.”

“No!” He cried, “it is working, and it will work, it has too!”

He sniffled a little, as a single tear ran down his cheek. More were too follow.

“Simian, listen to me, it’s over,” she said. Another pause.

…

“But… why?” He said. The words were muffled in with frequent sobs.

“I’ve met someone else.” She said.

It was what seemed to be the final straw. He collapsed down onto the ground. He closed his eyes, as the tears began to flow even thicker now. They ran down his face and onto his black T-shirt that meant nearly nothing to him at this point. Reality had set in, and wrestling was all but an after thought.

He was speechless.

Click.

She hung up the phone.

It was a reasonable assumption that these memories wouldn't exactly make Simian a happy camper. Hell, his first long term relationship had ended in a way that nobody's relationship should end. But still he kept on trekking. Never one to say no to a fight, he didn't back down.

His eyes opened, he smelt the vomit underneath his face. His head shot up from the pillow as he heard the rap on the door. He shook his head, some of the vomit fell to the sheets, he cringed.

He removed the remainder of throw up from his cheek with the pillow case, as he rolled uneasily off of the bed.

"Yeah, yeah. I'm comin'," he said, his speech slurred.

He stumbled towards the oak door of the cheap hotel room. He turned the handle slowly, using it to keep his balance. As he leaned back, almost losing his footing, he slowly swung the door back toward the wall. On the other side of that doorway he saw the man who had gotten the better of him just one week ago - Alias.

The ACW World Champion, now with a slightly blood soaked piece of gauze over his right eye, looked down at Simian Kade with a face of slight anger... slight dissapoint, and well he just wasn't to keen on the smell that hit him once Kade had opened the door. Evidently, as ya already knew... he hadn't been the best night for the Original Pulp Hero. Why was Alias, of all people, here?

Let's just call it heightened interest in ones federation... cause see, even with the lack of any real show pretty much, Chris Sheffield had noticed that Kade didn't even bother to show up this week. Now couple that with the fact that he had been reprimanded for showing up drunk the last show, before there match in the main event... and ol' Alias, not a stranger to alcholism itself, but two and two together.

He flicked a boot into Kade's lower leg, looking to get his attention. Kade's head snapped up towards the silhoutte of the Champion in the doorway, but squinted his eyes in slight pain... due from the hallway lights agrivating his headache. It had taken the scare of Jason Kain possibily ODing on heavy perscription pills in the midst of suicide scares on top of that, during the Best of Seven last year, to scare Alias away from his steady crutch on drinking. Now that part of his life was just a mentioned part of the gimmick... this at the moment, this worried him. It made his mad... if he could help with a kick in the ass, then he would.

Maybe he'd have the right timing... and what he'd say would matter.

"Kade... what the fuck are you doing with yourself? Now I'm not sure if you can even hear me, or if it's all just one big mess for you to sift through when the morning comes around, but if you keep this shit up... if you don't atleast try to straighten yourself out... then you're going to be out of a job."

"Alias!" Kade said with a smile on his, not exactly aware of the previous week. "Come in, come in! Join me for a drink." Kade told the ACW Champion.

"And if you're fired now for what you're doing... well, it’ll blacklist you from a lot of places in the future," Alias told his fellow roster member. Kade began to listen. Alias crouched down, more so he knew Kade was listening, looking at him eye to eye.

"What does another shot of whiskey or scotch mean to you? Does it mean that you'll be fine selling your body to a place like the Asylum one of these days?" Kade scratched the back of his head, taking in the information.

"Kid, ya gotta clean yourself up." The Pulp Hero advised Steven Klein.

"Think about it," with that, Alias closed the door, leaving Kade to his thoughts.

Action! League to stick around...

“So, what do you want to do? Most of the guys are sticking around from what I hear.”

Steven kicked back and relaxed on a deck chair that lay randomly in the center of a stretch of corridor, his tag team partner and long time friend Marshall stood in front of him peering down.

“I’m sticking around, you can do whatever you like though.” Marshall said to his accomplice.

“I guess I’ll stick around as well then, I’ve got nowhere to be.”

“Well I do. I hear there’s a weights room downstairs, I figured I’d check that out.”

“Mind if I tag along?” Steven asked already on his way to his feet.

Marshall didn’t waste his breath replying but rather he turned and walked down the corridor towards the stairs that lead downwards towards the boiler room area.

Manny, the Tranny.

"And so, yeah. I'm glad I found you when I did!" Quinton murmured as he took another shot of bourbon whiskey.

The setting? A bar. What kind of bar? The seedy kind. Not one that you'd find in the lobby of a hotel. More like one in the bad part of town, which is usually a stone's throw away from the good part of town. It always works that way. Didn't matter for Quinton; all he wanted to do was find his man, tell him what needed to be told, then go back to the hotel for some rest.

Simple enough plan, wasn't it? Seemed like it.

So, then, having followed a tip from another official, Quincy had tracked SilverHAWK down to this amazingly disgusting bar, but got into trouble before he could even enter. Apparently, May didn't have the look of an alcoholic with an 'adam's apple problem', as the bouncer put it, but that was before SilverHAWK saved the day for May.

"Anyways, I have to talk to you." Quinton spoke up again as he motioned for the bartender to refresh his drink. "I've recently signed on with another promotion. Same one as Alias, actually. I was supposed to debut the day after Revival but I told them that I needed some time.

No, it's not fWo. God no. The Squared Circle, actually.

Just thought that I, uhhh, owe it to you to know what I was up to. Since ACW have Thursday shows and tSC have Tuesday shows. Travel arrangements are going to be a huge hassle, and yeah, I figured I'd give you a heads up."

SilverHAWK wasn't listening, though.

Instead, he was simply scratching his crotch while staring at this really old lady on the other side of the bar. Now, all of you must be thinking - isn't HAWK blind and shit? Quinton had the same thought.

And naturally, found it weird. "Uh, HAWK? Aren't you blind and shit?"

"Who the fuck is HAWK?" SilverHAWK answered back coarsely, which was so obviously unlike the SilverHAWK of ACW Quinton May had come to know of.

Quincy Mama turned to face HAWK, and blinked. Then he realised he wasn't talking to the ACW Hall-of-Famer. He was, in fact, conversing with some bald guy with a huge potbelly and seven gold teeth. And girlish hair, to complete the ensemble. Not to mention, the skirt that he was wearing - UGH.

Another royal cock-up for Quinton.

"Oh, uh, forget that. If you're not HAWK, then who *are* you?" May posed, rubbing his head.

"Manny. Manny, the tranny. I love you long time?"

Taking a moment to digest the information, Quinton nodded his head, before getting up from his seat and dashing out of the bar as fast as he could. Not only had he SOMEHOW mistook an absolute loser for SilverHAWK (stop snickering! yes, you! in the background!), Quincy had managed to get a proposition from a transvestite. Manny the Tranny, his/her/its name was.

There's a lesson to be learnt in all of this, May muttered to himself as he stumbled down the sidewalk, glancing over his shoulder to check and see if Manny had followed him. His entire night's plans had gone down the drain, and with SilverHAWK virtually unreachable, the Canadian Gladiator decided to head off to another place he absolutely had to go to.

He didn't know, though.

As Quinton flagged down a cab and got into it, he wasn't aware of someone spying on him.

The plot thickens, then. 

One Day 

Alias was gone, head in hands Simian Kade tried his best to contemplate his message. Although, being as he was intoxicated, it was a little difficult.

He shook his head slightly, he had thought about this once already tonight, but decided that it was better to drink the night away then to travel down to the arena and compete for ACW.

The guilt had grown on him once again, but this time, it wasn't going to subside. The bottle of Jack Daniels lay tipped over on the floor, a sign of things to come one would assume.

"Damnit, J.D.," Steven Klein began, "look what you've done to me."

He stared down at the bottle of Jack Daniels with a very angry look on his face. One week removed from a shot at the biggest prize in the federation and now this, he thought.

"I was there last week," he said, lightly throwing a closed fist the way of his forehead, "I had my shot!"

Kade ran forward, Alias became defensive, he moved to the right but Simian's shoulder block to the knee still caught him. It was enough to knock the Phoenix off balance. It was the opportunity Kade needed as he locked in a waist lock and tossed Kade over his head with a perfectly executed belly-to-belly suplex. Alias hit the mat but popped right back up with an amazing display of toughness. As the Pulp Hero turned Simian fired a knee into the gut of his adverary. Alias doubled over, Kade capitalized. He brought the Champion into a fireman's carry, and then swiftly dropped him onto the mat with a modified ace crusher. The crowd groaned, as did Alias as he held his neck.

The Champion stared up as the challenger briskly positioned himself behind him. Alias suddenly felt the torque in his arms and legs as a surfboard was applied by Kade. He lifted the Pulp Hero into the air, as the tension and pain grew in the body of Alias. He screamed; the fans booed.

Kade could feel the gold, it was on his finger tips!

Tap MOTHERFUCKER!

It was his! He had the gold on his palms! It was practically around his waist!

"Break the hold!" The referee cried, as somehow, someway Alias had been able to reach the ropes. His hand held it, which in the end put more of a strain on his body.

One.

Two.

Three.

Four.

Kade let the hold go just as he was about to be disqualified.

He backed off a little, letting Alias regain his footing, at this point the blood was beginning to dry on his lip. The rusty substance stained his skin. He set himself, he was like a football player readying himself to make a tackle. He stalked Alias as the Pulp Hero approached him.

TH-MOTHERFUCKIN'-UD! ... Sorry kiddies. No babies for Alias.

For the second time in the match a blatent low blow had gone uncalled by the referee. The fans screamed, pop bottles rained down on the ring, Pepsi splashed on Kade as well as Alias. Both men looked up wondering what was going on. Alias' balls also wondered why they were about 95% sludge.

"I had the upper hand, J.D., I could feel the gold! It was touching my finger tips!" Kade cried, sinking back into the bed.

Kade was astonished, there wasn't a referee, he had Alias, the title was his! He pounded the mat in sheer frustration. He could now taste the gold, but lets not forget a little thing called destiny. Kade was on his knees, he yelled for a referee to come to the ring and award him the title, no such luck. Instead he got what surely was not his second option...

Anarchy's Lullaby.

Remember that thing I said about destiny? Well, here it comes. Kade's cries did not relieve the pain, the submission hold was as painful a move that anyone in ACW could apply. Kade's neck was being stretched, the pressure was enough to bring tears to even the toughest of men's eyes.

Kade's arms flung wildly, he smacked the mat. "I quit! I quit!" He screamed as loud as he could. Nothing was happening. Wait... *Que destiny* the referee rolled over, he saw the pain that the wrestler was in. He looked over at the timekeeper.

"Ring the bell! Ring the bell!" He called.

Alias let the hold go. Kade's limp body fell to the mat, the rusty substance that was crusted on his skin opened up a little. More blood trickled onto the mat as Alias looked down on him. He walked over to the turnbuckle and collected his title. Alias had gotten the best of Simian on this night, but for Kade's sake, lets hope these two meet again someday.

The noble effort that Simian put forth was worthy of a victory on most nights. However that is often not the case when you are battling the best the business has to offer. Alias climbed out of the ring, and slowly trekked up the entrance way, leaving Kade in a small pool of his own blood. Alias turned, he looked toward the fans, and towards his opponent. Simian had put up a valliant effort, and his eyes told the story. He was as close as he could have come without capturing the title.

Simian sighed. He was coming to realize something Alias himself had came to realize. Some things had to be sacraficed - in this case, alcohol - in order to achieve the bigger prize. He was on the wrong path, he was headed straight for rock bottom, and now one may wonder... did he get the message?

He looked down to the floor once more. Seeing the glass bottle of Jack Daniels that still had a bit of alcohol left he raised it up to eye level.

"Well, old friend," Kade sighed, "you've been with me since I was seventeen. You helped me through the good, the bad, and the ugly, but now... now I have something more important then you."

Kade smiled. He was still intoxicated, however he was determined to not let it effect him.

"For once in my life I actually have some motivation to put you away. For once I actually have something to shoot for... Good-bye old friend." Kade said solemnly.

He turned quickly, he threw his arm back, snapped it forward and catapulted the bottle towards the wall. The remaining whiskey splashed to the floor. Glass shards flew across the room. Kade didn't seem to mind however, for he only had thing on his mind.

ACW.

"One day that title will be mine," he said nodding a little.

One day.

The past couple of months had been nothing, but torment in the ring for me. I didn’t seem to be putting anything into the game like I had been doing, and quite frankly I was letting not only myself down by doing this, but every single person walking into that arena with a ticket in their hands.

These were the thoughts running through one man’s mind at this very point in time; he didn’t know what to do with his career in the ACW and things weren’t looking any better.

Tonight was a different night though; himself and the rest of the ACW roster had been given the night off due to a ring collapsing.

Instead of spending this time as he normally would be doing, working out and preparing himself for the next week to come, we found this man located in a local bar.

The man was Jesse Ramey.

“Bartender,” Jesse let out, “pour me another Crown on the rocks.”

The bartender slowly made his way over to Ramey, a glass and cloth in his hands, cleaning out the glass he rested his arms on the counter, “Don’t you think you’ve had enough?” The bartender asked Jesse in a very calm manner.

Searching through his pockets Jesse pulled out a big roll of money and tossed a fifty on the counter for the bartender to see, “Just keep ‘em coming, okay? I know how to hold my liquor.”

Pulling himself back up and slipping the fifty into his pocket, “Whatever you want.” He pulled out the bottle of Crown and poured Jesse another round.

Taking the glass in his hand, “You know, sometimes life is really strange.” Jesse tipped the glass up and took a drink.

“How so?” The bartender asked, while cleaning out his glasses.

Jesse began to chuckle a bit, “Something that you spend your entire life doing, or at least the better part of it.”

“What cha talking about mate?” The bartender questioned Jesse.

“Oh, nothing really.” Jesse said as he swirled his drink around.

The bartender brought the bottle of Crown up once again and poured Jesse some more, “No, come on, continue with your story. I get paid to hear stuff like this.”

Jesse took another drink, smiled, and rubbed his hair, “All right, I guess I could tell you some of the stuff I’m going through.”

Jesse sighed a bit, “My line of work is something that a lot of people don’t get themselves into and is something extremely hard to really make a living off of.”

Jesse took another drink of his Crown, “I’m a professional wrestler, and I’ve been in the business for a little over twelve years now.”

“Well, at least you seem a little dedicated to your line of work.” The bartender said as he motioned for another round.

Raising his hand, “No thanks, I’m done for now.” Letting out another sigh, “Yes, I am pretty dedicated to the sport I guess you could say, but for some time now I’ve been wondering why in the world I do what I do, considering I’m not really even the best.”

“A couple of years ago, maybe you could have considered me at the top of my game, but now things are beginning to decline at a very rapid speed. I’ve not been in an upper card match in I don’t know how long, and as for when it comes to winning matches, I’m at the bottom of the list as well.” Jesse continued with his story.

“Well, can’t you just talk to like your boss about things?” The bartender questioned.

Jesse chuckled, “It’s not exactly that easy.”

Blinking, “How hard could it be?”

“Some things in life are a little more complicated than others,” Jesse continued, “the reason I chose to work in this sport was because I wanted to entertain people and I’m not even sure I’m doing that now. That’s my biggest fear, not being able to put on a match like I was once able to do.”

“How old are you?” The bartender asked.

“I’m twenty-eight years old.” Jesse responded.

Chuckling, “You’ve not even hit the middle of your life yet. What do you think you’re going out of your prime already?” The bartender chuckled a bit more, “I believe you just need to analyze your life a little more and look at how good you actually have it.”

Jesse smirked, “How good I have it.” He then tipped up the glass and finished his Crown, rummaged through his pocket once more and pulled out another fifty and tossed it on the counter.

“Thanks for the talk, but I think I’m going to head on out of here.” Jesse turned and began to make his way out of the bar.

Taking the fifty from the counter and placing it into his pocket, much like the other, the bartender turned shaking his head and began to clean his glasses again. 

Why Waste My Time?

Marcus Steiner cracked his wrist with his spare hand before giving yet another sigh of boredom. He slumped to his feet from the pine bench that he had been shifting up and down on for the last 15 minutes or so before giving a slow, lingering pace around the room.

“I should work out I guess, seeing as I have some spare time and all. I mean I’ve lost a little chest definition. Check it out.” He said to himself before giving a little flex of the chest muscles that hardly bulged through his black ACW vest.

Steiner picked up his black duffel bag and left the room, heading towards a familiar flight of stairs.

The Plan

“I thought you were going to be wearing the costume!”

“Joe, you know that I’m the brains behind this operation. I’ll be waiting here and I’ll be listening-in the whole time on the microphone strapped to your chest. I have complete faith in you. You will not screw this one up, despite your track record of complete and utter failure.”

Now, what exactly was going on here? Well if it wasn’t Chris Messiah and Joe Soap, standing a secluded area of what appeared to be the hotel that Phil Atken was currently residing in after having perhaps left Courage in a fit of rage after the show was cancelled. Appearances can be deceptive, but not this time, because I know what’s going on since I wrote this whole storyline. Screw you; I don’t care if it sucks.

Joe Soap stood in front of his mentor decked-out in a dress in a hat – the kind of clothes that sexy room service women would wear maybe. But Joe is neither sexy or does he deliver room service for a living. And I suppose he isn’t a woman either.

But not tonight. Tonight, he was all three, plus a whole chicken.

“Okay Joe, just take the elevator upstairs to the third floor and go to room 311. Knock, and hopefully he’ll answer it. Take this trolley in there with this stuff on it, and get him to sign for it on this piece of paper that I have cunningly created to look like a room service document, but it really isn’t. Remember, get him to sign it using any means necessary.”

“Okay, Chris. But this is turning into our trip to Mexico all over again.”

“Joe, I swear I didn’t know they were transsexuals. How many times do you need me to tell you that? Did your one ever give you that engagement ring back? You can tell me later; there's no time now - You’d better get moving.”

Joe Soap turned away from the thReat International champion and wheeled the trolley towards the elevator door. He pressed the button to call for it, and while he waited, he turned to look back at Chris. Chris just gave him a big goofy thumbs-up as the doors opened, and Joe stepped inside.

It was now or never. 

We've Got Ourselves a Problem

Kellog Anderson was a smart man.

By some twisted luck, he left his high-paying job at a gas station to pursue a career in wrestling. He couldn't quite hack it as an athelete because he didn't have the looks, so Kellog became a backstage official. He was, more specifically, involved in making sure all the talent knew their schedules for the entire arc and the feedback management had from them.

Thus far, with barely five weeks into the job, Kellog found himself loving the thrill of the work. Now, though, with his binoculars in hand and his car radio blasting out another one of those catchy Maroon 5 songs, Kellog Anderson let the excitement of the chase grip him with vice-like tightness at the throat. He'd been following up on an intuitive thought from the previous week, and decided to further investigate.

Kellog just knew that there was something off with Quinton May. And it wasn't the fact that he'd decided to sign on with another company while staying on in All-Star. No, Kellog didn't care about that.

He cared about a totally piss drunk Quinton May talking to three hooded men in the lobby of a dingy motel, in the good part of town. Wait, what is a dingy motel doing in a good part of town? That's irrelevant to this tale of suspense and mystery.

Putting the binoculas up to his eyes again, Kellog saw no new developments in the situation, until the hooded men suddenly bowed at Quinton and scooted off into the dark of the night, leaving the Canadian Gladiator all alone in the lobby. Displaying panther-like speed, Kellog threw his binoculars down and turned the ignition off, ready to trek his prey.

Sad to say, it was the most exciting moment of Anderson's life.

Standing there for a few seconds, like an idiot, Quinton finally decided to move -- and he did so in the direction of the metal steps that led to the second level of the motel. Quietly, Kellog slipped out of his car and tiptoed up the same set of steps, not taking his eyes off of Quinton May at all.

Kellog watched as May fiddled about with his keys, before finally stepping into his room and closing the door. At this time, Anderson conquered the final two steps and stealthily made his way towards May's door, smiling as he saw that the door was actually still open. Slightly ajar, albeit, but open nonetheless.

How was this possible?

Anderson, being the crafty bastard that he was, did his groundwork and slapped on some duct tape over the bolting of the door. Naturally, Kellog was proud of himself, but he still had work to do.

So, with his pinky finger, Kellog pushed the door open just an inch or two, before crouching down and peeping inside. Unfortunately, he couldn't see anything, but he could hear Quinton May grunting and hissing, before silence suddenly reigned supreme inside the room.

Kellog's heart skipped a beat. He was afraid.

Then, he was afraid no more. May was talking, it seemed. Maybe he called someone, Anderson thought.

"Yeah, it's me. Listen, the Covenant said that Pembridge has been taken care of. He won't be returning anytime soon. As for my deal, I have to admit - it's hard but going smoothly so far. I haven't made the expected progress I was supposed to achieve tonight due to extunuating circumstances, but that can be rectified next week.

I think I may need more physical preparation, however. It's imperative that I do this right."

Kellog's eyes widened, and he strained his ears to catch more, but May had taken to mumbling incoherently, before the distinct sound of a phone receiver being slammed down greeted Anderson's ears. Frowning, Kellog turned around and crawled away, digesting the information he'd picked up while eavesdropping.

Why was Quinton talking about physical preparation? And what was the bit about Pembridge?

Vincent Pembridge?

"We've got ourselves a problem." Kellog mumbled, taking out a cellphone and dialling Laguna's number as he slowly climbed down the steps and got back into his car.

What he wasn't aware of, though, was that he was being spied on.

Oh yes, he was.

Quinton May chuckled as he watched Kellog Anderson get into his car and speed off, before the Canadian Gladiator removed the duct tape from his door and tossed it into the dustbin. May now knew of what had happened, but judging by the confident smirk on his face as he switched off the lights in his room, the Rising Star wasn't afraid of the ramifications.

He was looking forward to it, in fact. "Bring on the night, then." 

The Part that comes after the Planning Stage of the Plan

“Room service!”

“I didn’t order any room service, feck off!”

The former was of course Joe Soap (Joanna) doing the best feminine voice he could muster (which wasn’t really that difficult because Joe had to do a feminine voice for his current job as a phone sex operator), and the latter was Phil Atken.

Joe was afraid this would happen. So he used what little wit he had, and responded rather intelligently for a man with an IQ of which rivalled that of a Penguin on smack.

“Err, it’s compliments of the hotel! You are the manager’s favourite wrestler. As a matter of fact, I believe that you are currently in the ‘Atken Suite.’”

“Tell the manager he’s gay and this place sucks my dick.”

“Of course, sir. Now, I’ve got a trolley of food here. Could you open the door please?”

There was a loud sigh and the sound of a zip being pulled up. Then some scampering about and the sound of a door being closed. Then there was the sound of a door being opened and somebody saying “I forget me feckin’ trousers!” and then the door being closed again. God knows what Phil was doing in there, the big homo.

The door swung open and there was Phil, standing with a rather impatient look on his face, wearing nothing but a pink woman’s robe. He ushered “Joanna” into the room and turned to face her.

“Listen: I’ve just had the worst evening imaginable. Not only do I work for this shittest wrestling promotion this side of Timbuktu, but after travelling for six hours to get to the arena tonight, that big twat SilvershiteHAWK buggered up the fecking ring and the show was cancelled. So now I have to spend the night in this hellhole of a place. What was it you wanted?”

“Who is it, Phil?” spoke a rather manly voice in a Scottish accent, which came from the bathroom. Phil’s eyes opened up wide and his jaw hung low. Joe didn’t know what to say, so he just answered Phil’s previous question.

“Uh, I have some room service, compliments of the hotel.”

“I don’t want it – get the feck out! I have company!”

Joe had prepared for this of course. He turned and began to leave, but made sure he made one final remark in an audible tone:

“I guess I’ll just have to throw this cheesecake out.”

A squeal of delight erupted from behind Joe, who spun around to see Phil bounding towards the trolley with his tongue hanging out of his mouth.

“Cheesecake you say. I’ll have that. Gimme here.”

“Of course, sir. Now, if you’ll just sign this here form, and it’ll be all yours.”

Joe handed the document to Phil, followed by a pen. Phil didn’t even bother to read it, and signed on the dotted line.

“I’ll just leave this trolley in here and you can collect it later.”

“Good! And hang this “Please Feck Off” sign on the door handle of my room. I don’t want to be disturbed for the rest of the evening!”

“Of course, sir.”

And with that, Joe walked briskly out of the room and closed the door behind him. After he had hung the sign on the door as Phil had asked, he ran down the hall yelping like a dog and clapping like a seal, with the signed contract in his hands. 

Another showdown

It had taken Marcus Steiner an oddly long amount of time to get down these stairs, don’t you think? I mean it’s been over an hour since he headed off in the direction of the gym facilities. Nonetheless he had finally arrived at his destination and he pulled on the silver handle of the door, opening the door. He entered the room and felt his cheeks grow a little red as he saw the person across the room and his spotting partner (who by the way didn’t notice Marc.)

Patrick Marshall gave a final grunt before lowering the bar down a final time, resting it on the two metal hooks conveniently set out for him. Patrick sat up and at that moment both members of the tag team that had become re-known as “Action! League” noticed the new entrant to the room. Marc’s eyes locked on those of Patrick’s and he paced across the room dropping his duffel bag to the floor right in the center of the room before sitting on another bench identical to Patrick’s.

“Put on an extra ten, Steve.” Patrick instructed his sidekick without looking away from Marc.

Marc got to his feet and took the lock off the end of the bar before lifting more weight on to the bar. Steven worked on adding weight to Patrick’s bar and before you knew it there was no more weights left on the floor in the area of the two benches. Marcus took his seat once more before biting down on his own teeth, grinding them together and giving a final snarl across the room at Patrick.

Both men lay down and clasped their hands around the cool metal bars before dragging the weights from the hooks and began to do presses, each lifting their bar simultaneously with the other person. Grunts from both men roared around the room making their chests (and Steven’s for that matter) shudder.

Steven began spotting his friend who gave a disapproving snarl and a vicious headshake as soon as Steven headed towards him.

“Leave.*grunt*It.” He insisted.

The two men continued to lift their weights in a battle of masculinity. Patrick looked up for a moment and noted that Marc was very involved with his own weights. Seeing this he placed his weights down and pounced across the room, pressing down on Marc’s set of weights, choking his work colleague until his face turned blue.

Steven stood back and watched on in sheer horror as Patrick let go of the weights and stood back to his feet only to watch Marc and the heavy weights topple to the floor below. Marc knelt up choking heavily and grasping at his throat. Patrick looked down by his side and a spare curling bar lay on the floor beside him. He knelt down and picked the metal implement up, raising it above his head as if he were a Celtic warrior charging at an oncoming barrage of opposing troops, war cry and all, before driving the bar down in to the back of Marc’s head. Blood spattered backwards, droplets of it caught Steven in the face as Patrick began to lunge in a second blow to the back of a downed Marcus Steiner’s cranium and a third, and a fourth until finally his blonde hair was a pinkish color and his long strands of hair matted to his skull. A pool of blood formed around the face of Marcus Steiner.

Patrick breathed heavily, strands of saliva blowing out with each heavy breath. As he realized the scale of what he had done Patrick dropped the bar and widened his eyes. He turned to look at his shocked friend who still stood there rooted to the spot.

“Shit. Come on.” Patrick directed as he ran towards the main door of the gym. He turned his head to see his friend who was still stood there looking down at Marcus. “COME ON!” 

Patrick left the room and Steven slowly began to walk towards the door, his eyes hardly leaving Marcus’s carcass until he reached the door. He left the room backwards, guilt and terror consuming his body.

hard times part /////

"My god Jones, please fuckin' decide."

HAWK smiled, as he knew he was pissing off his old tag partner.

"But I just don't know what I want man, this is an important decision."

The dummy, had been spat.

"What the hell do you mean?!?! They all serve the same crap, just in a different wrapper and then in a different box, that's it."

WHACK

Bishop fell to the ground, as SilverHAWK's head cocked and flicked from side to side in a manic fashion. "Joe, what the hell just happened? Joe? Joe...."

He was helpless.

A wrestling champion.

A true hero of a man.

A peoples champion.

Now stood, scared for his life, before a bloody impact with the back of his head pushed him to the ground. SilverHAWK fell to the floor, but his hands softened his fall, as he felt the back of his head, a crimson patch forming over his skull, and then he felt him.

A hand rummaged through his pockets.

A common thief had laid out two wrestlers.

"Joe...can you hear me?"

SilverHAWK was still conscious, as he felt around him for his fallen friend, but a foot now trapt him, as the man above chuckled...flicking through HAWK's wallet and then dropping what he didn't need, before moving onto Bishop.

"If I ever find you...you are a dead man."

Kick to the stomach.

"Old man, how can you find me, you're blind!"

The thief manically laughed as Bishops belongings were dropped to the floor, cash and jewelry placed into the thieves pockets, before he picked up the large pole in which he had attacked the duo with.

"Say night night..."

Another swing to HAWK's head laid the champion low, as HAWKs head was drowning in his own blood. 

Tag team partners in professional life.

Friends in their personal life.

Now sharing a common bond in their finite life.

Was this the end?

Finis