Changes

One week until Glory.
One week until the second PPV, of ACW's revival.
One week until the culmination of the previous six to seven weeks of television.
One week until a nervous breakdown.

William Laguna sat, were he belonged, in his office, in the arena for the evening. His plan for the evening was of a mix agenda, but tonight, was a crisis meeting for the ACW staff.

Laguna, Hillary Duncan and Adam Kent all sat around a large oak desk in the middle of the headquarters for the evening, and they were settled in for the night. ACW road agents and writing staff were in charge of the nights events, because to be honest, Laguna believed that this was a lost show...it didn't matter anymore.

What mattered?

Glory, and the weeks after that.

They had to change what was going on, or else ACW was doomed, again.

"OK, I would normally say the quicker we get this started the quicker we get this done, but tonight, we will be here for a long long time, so let's just take our time shall we."

Duncan agreed, as Kent flicked his pencil into the air and caught it, before flicking it up again.

"Firstly, let's give a quick ten minutes about tonight, and also about Sunday...word is being put around the locker room as we speak, that during the next two shows, the best match of the night, the competitors will be recieving a cash bonus."

"How much?" Kent asked.

"$100,000."

Both Kent and Duncan suddenly sat up in shock. "William, you can't go about giving the talent bonuses like that, you'll bankrupt us," Duncan exclaimed, as she looked over at her boss.

"It's coming out of my own pocket Hillary, and I want to see the kind of reaction I receive from the roster, no doubt the money signs will be flickering in their eyes and they'll push themselves...we will have to wait and see. Next thing on the agenda...the king of ages tournament."

With an agenda 4 pages long, and the doors shut, the trio were in for a long long night.

Early Arrival

The anticipation stemming from earlier in the night was intense. The crowd was fired up, for what they had already seen, and they were ready for more. As John Weaver made his way to the ring, to announce the next match, the screen above the entrance ramp came to life, displaying bright Technicolor’s as the back entrance of the ACW arena became visible.

The scene was calm with no movement, the door stood still and the glare from the small glass window cast a bright light on the screen of the camera. As a figure began to come clear through the small glass window, the door pushed open and an unfamiliar figure pushed through the door. With two bags dangling from his grasped hands he began to walk down the entrancing hallway. Nearing a man standing toward the side hallway, he began to relax, yet his nervous voice was evident.

”Have you seen Alias in the arena yet?” The words came out of his mouth with haste, but the tremble of his scratch voice, showed his nervousness. Looking around towards the opposite direction as he heard a sound, he turned back to the man he was once directing his attention towards.

”No, actually I don’t think he’s arrived at the arena yet.” Senior staff member and ACW road agent Ricky Hawes replied back with his answer as a devastated look came over the new stars face.

”Just tell him, I’m in Locker Room 4D when he gets here, we need to talk.” 

Without another word being spoken, he turned towards the side hallway once more, readjusted his grasp on his bags, and started off towards the locker rooms. Disappearing into the blur'ish gray and white of the sparkling clean walls and concrete floor the camera shut off and turned off and the screen above the ramp, faded black as the mid-night sky. Again, the fans were ready for what they could see next.

Take Two. One Fortified Ring. One MAD World Champ.

“Courage” by Alien Ant Farm plays through the arena.

The fans are going carazy for this All-Star Championship Wrestling event, maybe even more so… thanks to the fact that, you know, there wasn’t one last week.

Adding to all the anticipation that would hopefully fill this action pact show, that looked to make up for two shows in the span of one… well, we had the World Champion in the ring. Live mic in hand, and a grim look etched across his face. The glistening gold ACW prize hung across his shoulder, but that fact wasn’t the most important thing that came with the Original Pulp Hero…

… the most important thing where the words, statements and veiled threats that where set to come out of his mouth.

“I fucking hate surprises…” The Pulp Hero started off, a growl of anger in hand. Now… for a man with a past like his though, he maybe should have seen this coming.

“I hate surprise, but admittedly… shit like that aren’t as bad as the odd sneak attack or said comeback of the harbinger of my doom. I’m confusing you by jumping off on this right away, though. I’m not entirely explaining why I’m out here, saying what I’m saying, and why I’m giving you more vague statements then I’ve been given these past few weeks.” Alias started to pace from one side of the ring to the other now, piecing together how he was set to put… what he wanted to say.

“I was attacked last week… and now, I might be a notoriously marked man, but it was by no person from this neck of the woods. I was beaten, upside the head, with a goddamn lead pipe… and not only that, but the son of a bitch set it upon himself to lay out… through the night, whatever the hell his intentions where… towards me. This man left me notes through the night, clues… and when he thought I figured it out… bam. Once upside the head to knock me down, and once across the face to knock me out… but only after I got myself a good look at whom exactly this was. Mask or not.” As the Pulp Champion talked about the attack to his head with the lead pipe he motioned to the heavily bruised parts of his face.

“You one said that you’d rip me limb from limb… that I, some green ol’ rookie, would be nothing but fodder for the mighty Grand Slam champions comeback. Guess what… that never really happened, did it? That ironman table match? You walked away, but barely. Our best of seven series? People called my end… before that thing even began… and in the end, I almost finished you. You couldn’t do anything else… but walk away from all of this, walk away… and become a pawn in the Union.

Sure… I never could tear you down, in the end, but holding me back… hell, it made you less of a man then people could have ever predicted. So what?

You back to finish me off!?” Alias yelled… losing his characteristic cool, he had stopped and now stared directly into the camera. With his small slip into his true feelings towards his attacker revealed, he looked to straighten himself up before continuing.

“Well… the balls in your court, it was always… and is again. You know where to find me, and I’ll be ready and willing, cause they’ll be no length that I won’t go to once and for all… defeat you…

Ravnos.” 

*OFF CAMERA*
Throwing Down The Gauntlet

"A face like thunder"  would be a perfect way to describe Marcus Steiner as he strode down the hallway of the arena with a purpose. Marc reached the door of Patrick Marshall's locker room and paused for a moment facing the door that stood between him and the man he hated and feared at the same time. He pushed the door open with force and stepped in to the room. Patrick Marshall sprung to his feet, one boot half laced up. Patrick lunged across the room and got right in the face of Marcus who barely batted an eyelash. It seemed that the fear that had once consumed him was gone.

"Listen, Pat." Steiner snarled,"I haven't come here for a fight, well, not yet at least."

"What do you mean?" the rough voice of Patrick Marshall retaliated.

"Well see there's a jackpot on the line tonight to the tune of 100,000 dollars, remember?" 

Marcus was easing off now; the noses of the men were no longer pressed in to one another's.

"So I figured that tonight me and you, we go at it on air in a no disqualification, pin falls count anywhere to prove just who the REAL man is.?

Patrick rubbed his jaw for a moment as he gave it some thought before standing firm once more, clenching his fists tightly.

?Boy, I wouldn?t degrade myself like that.?

?So that?s a no?? Marcus asked once more to reinforce the response.

?Get out of my locker room.?

It was short and to the point. Marcus began to back towards the door but couldn?t resist giving one last line.

?I guess we already know who the real man is around here, huh chick??

With that he turned and left the locker room, closing the door behind him. As Steiner walked down the hall with a smirk a hefty crash could be heard along with a deep screaming. Patrick Marshall was pissed.

He Is *SO* Drunk

And one year ago, at GLORY 2003, the world witnessed an event that was jam-packed with incident. The infamous Steel Cage Match for the US Title, between A*Dubbs and Dante Inferno, where the sides of the cage fell apart. The climactic chapter in the storied rivalry between Alias and Vince Jacobs, in Pounded and Fused. Hell, who could forget the tooth-and-nail battle between Gabriel So'ialu and Vincent Pembridge for the Scorpion Fighting Title?

Or, how about the war known as Homicidal Tendencies, where El Janitors just barely pipped .vindication and the Kole Brothers in a tag team Iron Man Rules bitch of a match to become the first ever Tag Team Champions of the organisation? That was a classic that most will remember, surely.

One can also talk about the return of the TV Title from the land of vacant occupancy. After Alias had relinquished it, officials tried to find someone suitable to place the strap on. And finally, that matter was resolved in a Battle Royal. And in that Battle Royal, a new champion in Quinton May was crowned.

That was a nice moment.

What wasn't, however, was Quinton May stumbling down the hallways of the arena, with the stench of liquor lingering heavy in the air. Not a very good example being set by the TV Champion, now was it? Quinton didn't seem to be bothered about being a role model; all he cared about at that very instant was one simple thing.

Which was -- not throwing up.

"God damn, I thought today was Wednesday!" a beleagured Quincy Mama mumbled semi-incoherently to himself just as he passed a room. To Quinton, it was empty. What he didn't know was that the door of the room was open, giving its occupants a great view of a possibly drunk Quinton May staggering by, struggling to keep his balance.

To make matters more interesting, the 'occupants' of the room were backstage officials. They had convened in the room to discuss their thoughts on what William Laguna had cooked up for the rest of the show, in a bid to make up for the previous week's shambolic accident in terms of the ring collapse. Which led to the cancellation of Courage last week, in case you people forgot.

Want to know what made the situation more intense?

One of the officials in the room was Kellog Anderson; the same man who followed up on a gut feeling that something was terribly wrong with Quinton May, and thus found out that maybe he wasn't wrong in jumping to conclusions way too easily.

Funny how things work out, eh?

"Wasn't that Quinton May? Was he... drunk?" one of the officials asked of his two colleagues, not quite believing his own eyes. Kellog didn't open his mouth to answer; he was having a flashback to when he spied on Quincy the week before.

The other one, however, was quite the chatterbox. "Yeah, man. That was Quinton. I can smell the liquor from here, so I'd dare say he's more drunk than an Irishman on St Patrick's Day!"

... Lame joke, yes. Bear with me.

Just as the short chatty official finished his retarded attempt at making with teh funny, the sound of a body crumpling down to the floor was distinctly heard. All three officials jumped out of their seats and rushed out of the room, surprised to find Quinton May sprawled out on the floor, coughing away like a madman. He'd lost the battle against anti-balance, it seemed. How sad.

Shaking his head, Kellog Anderson motioned for the taller colleague of his to help him, while the shorty went off in search of Laguna; it was part of the job description to inform the boss when a talent is too wasted to compete on the night.

"Let's take him into the room!" Kellog ordered as he and his colleague lifted Quinton up from the ground, dragging him back to the room. May simply groaned and moaned, still resisting the urge to barf.

Something was definitely wrong with him. No doubt about that.

Accession of Perfection - Part One

To put it into primitive terms… 

Perfection had arrived. 

His golden locks sparkled under the light of the well-lit entrance to ACW’s home for the evening. He walked with grace. He walked with passion. He walked with a sense of purpose. 

He walked as if he belonged. 

The smile that complimented his face revealed a set of pearly white teeth, and healthy pink gums. He spoke crisply and matter-of-factly as he passed a stagehand. 

“Hello,” the deep Alaskan voice boomed. The stagehand nodded and tipped his cap. 

Resting safely in his hand was the handle to the suitcase that he was towing along behind him. The wheels on the luggage compartment clicked as they forced themselves over a break in the cement pad. He continued his expedition as he spotted a man standing twenty feet or so at twelve o’clock from his current location. He made eye contact with the man from a distance, and approached at a steady pace. The man was adorned with a dress shirt, and a pair of Tommy jeans. His black leather dress shoes, and his gelled back hair suggested he was significant.

He would receive a visit from the Diva of Masculinity thought the Alaskan. 

His beige leather trench coat hung down to around his knees. Underneath his jacket he wore a dress shirt himself. The maroon colored shirt, as well as the dark colored dress pants gave off an impression of importance. 

He approached the man as he slowed himself. His luggage came to a stop just behind him. 

“Hello,” the man greeted the Alaskan. “I don’t believe I’ve seen you around here before. You mind pointing your name out of the list, here?” 

The Alaskan smiled politely, he didn’t expect they would know who he was, but he was little disappointed, none the less. He took a step beside the smaller man with the clipboard, and ran his finger down the list. He passed names of superstars such as Alias, and Phil Atken. 

His finger came to a stop; the gentleman stared up at the tall blonde man, and nodded. 

He stepped aside and the Blonde Warrior of the North confidently walked passed. He advanced down the hallway, toward the oncoming dressing rooms. The paintings and the framed artwork on the wall signified a distinct history for the arena, and the area. The tall Alaskan eyed them as he passed. 

On he went, dragging the suitcase behind him. 

He approached a small table, on top were many bottles of water. He came to a stop once again. He picked up a bottle, and stared down at the label. Approaching from behind was an eager Hillary Duncan. She slowed her pace as she neared the table. She didn’t recognize the man, who was standing there, inspecting the bottle of water, as if he were checking if it were up to par. It wasn’t even her intent to make a stop at the table, but a quick detour could be made for perfection, she figured. 

She examined the tall Alaskan before he finally turned to face her. She smiled a little as he came into full view. 

“Hillary Duncan,” she said, “I don’t believe we’ve met.” 

The Alaskan smiled assuredly. 

“Flawless,” the man began, “Kelly Flawless,” he said, taking her hand.

Blazed and Intoxicated

The ring of condensation that the cold beer bottle left on the table began to seep into the wood. Simian Kade bit his lower lip, as an old friend in Ecks tempted him and turned his stomach upside down. 

Ecks was well aware of Kade's alcoholism. However, he wasn't exactly sober as a rock himself. Both men had trouble saying no to a cool glass of brew. But, somehow, Simian had gone a week without one. 

He sighed, imagining the foam pressed against his lips. He pictured the ice-cold drink running down his throat. How refreshing that would be, how refreshing indeed. 

Ecks finished the bottle as quickly as he could, partly because he heard somebody outside, and partly because he knew his friend was being tortured every second of the day. And this, well that didn't really help matters.

"I'm sorry man," Ecks said softly hanging his head, "I'm done." 

"It's OK," Simian said with a bit of a smile on his face, "I'll have it pushed in my face again, one of these days. May as well get used to it." 

"Ah men," Ecks said with a sigh. 

"This is the hardest thing I've ever done," Kade said with disdain in his voice. 

A hatred that had consumed him, a hatred for the thing he - ironically - loved the most, was as strong as ever. 

"I hate myself for what I've done," Simian began, "I hate myself, I hate the alcohol. I regret every second of my life…" 

"And I'll die a younger man because of it," Kade said staring deep into the floor. 

"We've all made mistakes Steve," Ecks said addressing Simian by his real name, "I've made my share as well. You only live once, you know. I guess we have this need to experiment with everything." 

"Don't get me started on experimenting my friend, that's how this damn addiction got started," Kade laughed a little recalling what some would say were the good old days. 

"So you'll die a younger man, look on the bright side, you lived your life to the fullest," Ecks said optimistically. 

"We were just kids, man," Kade began, ignoring Ecks' previous statement, "I'd seen my father drinking all the time, of course he smoked like a chimney too, that's what killed him… or so I'm told."

Ecks listened intently as Kade began to open up a little. 

"Whenever he hit me, I'd wish to God that he'd die," Kade smirked, "be careful what you wish for."

Ecks finishes off the sentence, “You might just get it.”

Ecks stood up and threw away his bottle and looked back at Kade, “Didn’t we have something to do?”

“Nah.” Kade replied looking at his cigarette box.

Jesse Ramey Vs. Azrael Asesino

Azrael Asesino, a masked luchador, and his manager Torres, coined the "Greatest Manager from Mexico City" stood at the center of the walkway as 'Crossbearer' by Cave In began to blare over the sound system. The two walked in stride down towards the ring. This would be their defining moment. Azrael knew how important first impressions were and was ready for anything.

Torres, on the other hand, was showboating like a madman as he screamed wildly at the crowd. The two finally made it towards ring side and Azrael slid in, awaiting his opponent, Jesse Ramey. 

'Eyes Wired Shut" by Edgewater declared Ramey's entrance as the fans erupted in cheers. Ramey quickly paced towards his opponent. Ramey circled the ring dealing out high fives to the crowd. As he passed Torres, Ramey simply shook his head in disapproval. Jesse then slid into the ring concentrating on Azrael.

The ring bell was sounded and the two immediately circled each other. Both wrestlers were of equal height; Azrael only outweighed Jesse by a few pounds. Azrael was the aggressor as he slammed into Jesse, tying him up with a simple hold. Ramey quickly countered this by putting Azrael in a headlock, but Azrael back peddled, pushing Jesse into the ropes and making him release the hold. Azrael bounced off the opposite ropes and went for big roundhouse kick but Ramey ducked out of the way.

Asesino jumped back up to his feet only to find Jesse to level him with a huge clothesline. Torres, from ringside, screamed in disapproval. Jesse wasted no time as he captured the masked luchadore in a side headlock. Asesino fought up from his knees, and rocketed out two elbows to the rib cage of Jesse Ramey. 

The hold weakened as Azrael muscled his way out of it. The two stood toe to toe as Azrael leveled Jesse with a hard punch to the face. Ramey staggered back into the center of the ring, giving Asesino enough time to ascend to the top rope and come leaping down with a huge splash. Ramey fell to the canvas as the referee immediately made the count.

One...

Two...

Kick out by Ramey. The crowd erupted in cheers. Azrael lifted Ramey back up to his feet, but Ramey became the aggressor as he delivered two hard lefts and rights to the face of Asesino. Ramey then delivered a kick to the midsection. The masked wrestler staggered back, and immediately Ramey connected with a huge super kick to the chin!

The crowd went berserk as Azrael fell to the mat like a ton of bricks. Torres screamed at Azrael to get up, but his pleads were not answered.

Ramey picked up the limp body of Asesino, and immediately brought him back down again with a snap suplex. The crowd continued with cheers. Jesse Ramey positioned Azrael in the center of the ring.

It was time to get fancy. Ramey climbed to the top rope. It appeared as if he was going for Touching the Sky, a split legged moonsault. 

But, while the ref was checking up on Azrael who appeared to be knocked out cold from the superkick in the center of the ring, Torres, the master cheat, took Ramey's legs out from underneath him. Ramey came tumbling down to canvas as the crowd screamed at Torres.

The boo's were heard all over the stadium. The ref had no idea what happened. Azrael sure did though as he began to get back up to his feet. A win is a win he thought as he ventured over towards the tangled body of Jesse Ramey.

Azrael faced Ramey as he crossed Ramey's arms. 

Judgment, a Belly to Belly Crossed Arm Trap Cradle suplex. Azrael bridged for the pin and the rest was history.

One..

Two...

Three!

Azrael got up to his feet, as Torres ran into the ring joyously. The first win in ACW was secured, although it surely wasn't legitimate. Torres and Asesino walked back up the aisle as the fans violently boo'd. 

Winner > Azrael Asesino

The Necessary Confrontation?

Torres, the stout Mexican manager of the newcomer Azrael Asesino, wandered down the back hallways on ACW's Courage. Azrael just picked up his first win here in the ACW and it was showing on the face of his manager. With every passing door he murmured something to himself. "Ugh," he snorted, "where the 'ell is this guys damn room?" Torres continued to search, dealing out stares to everyone who happened to pass him by. 

"I can't stand this place, all these damn amateurs," Torres huffed quietly, hoping no one would hear. Finally Torres stopped. A gold plaque read 'El Gato Negro' on the oak door. "Aha," Torres exclaimed, feeling quite accomplished. The past week on Courage El Gato Negro and Azrael Asesino had a simple stare down, and Torres and the Black Cat exchanged some words. Torres seemed like he wanted to take care of some business as he rapped twice on the door, and then boldly folded his arms. 

"You can't escape now, Black Cat," Torres said proudly. 

The door opened, and the robust Poncho Sanchez, aka El Gato Negro, stood in front of him in tighty-whitey underwear. "What chu want mang?"

"What do you think I want? And don't call me mang, mang," Torres snapped back at him.

"What do you think I want that you want that I want that you want that I want that you want?" EGN replied, purposely toying with Torres.

Torres just stood there in a state of confusion. He finally replied, "Ai, ai ai... you're fortunate Azrael isn't with me now. He smack you like you've never been smacked."

Torres paused.

"I came here to talk about last week," Torres said.

"Whatchu mean last week mang? That wasn't no big deal anyway puto! We just look at each other for a long time... anyway mang, I'm gonna go jack off my paeker to a picture of your mudder." El Gato Negro turned to leave, but of course was interrupted.

Torres grabbed the arm of El Gato, and turned him around violently. For some reason Torres erupted in a bizarre fashion, "NOBODY LOOK AT AZRAEL LIKE THAT. Who do you think you are, mang? You think you are some prince? EH?!" Torres finished screaming, his veins bulging. El Gato stood there puzzled, he couldn't believe that a simple staredown would set somebody off like that. But, it surely set off Torres. 

"Geet... jer haends... off me mang."

"And what would someone like yourself... a sellout to thee Mexican culture... do if I didn't take my hand off your arm?" Torres smirked, deliver quite the proverbial low blow.

"I will kick joo man's ass at GLORY, THAT'S WHAT PUTO!!!" The response got a boo from the crowd.... maybe it was just cause they hated EGN that much? "Whatchu t'ink about DAT SHIT!?"

"I pressed a button, eh?" Torres chuckled. "But, you're forgetting something... I don't wrestle. Azrael Asesino does, and at Glory that's who you'll be facing. Now what do you think about that?"

"I don't give a shit." EGN frowned. "GOODAY!" 

Torres found the door slammed in his face.

It didn't make much sense. It seemed as if Torres came to El Gato Negro's locker room looking for a fight... and a fight is what he got. Azrael Asesino and the Escape Artist would do battle at the upcoming pay-per-view Glory.... all because of a stupid stare down?

Returnal Part I

I'm winning, You're losing.
I'm falling.
Your agony,
lower, than lower.
Before, your forgotten memory.
Heaven, Your Hell.
I'm killing your fantasy.
More, and more.
You follow, your deepest reality.

Everyone knew what to expect next. That’s right; Lancett came from the backstage, but this time ruining everyone’s high hopes of him on crutches. He did his routine entrance by spreading his arms into the air absorbing the negativity within the boos.

He climbed the apron and looked into the attendance to tonight. He slowly got into the ring as chants began: “You suck! You suck! You suck!”

He quietly let the chant calm down and the boos go into a hush, for the time being. Lancett was all use to this bullshit from the fans. He raised the mike to his lips and started to speak to his people.

“Go ahead call me names. Tell me I suck. Do anything you want! Truth is you are jelouis of a man of my kala-bah!” Seemed that he rephrased caliber and all the start of his own dictionary. He scrolled back and forth from the north to the south side of the ring. He licked his lips issuing that he was going to start speaking again.

“Why do you people dislike me for me being… me? And then, oh this was a good one, you people have the dignity to boo me when I was on one leg risking my ass to give you a show!

“I have been inactive to for too long. Now it is time to change this. How am I going to do this? I’m going to disclose an open challenge to anyone! I mean I’ll fight you.”

Lancett kindly points to a skinny man in the front row who looked about twelve.

“I’ll fight village idiot.”

He points to another.

“Shit how about that federation drunk! Simian Kade? He’s a dumbfuck now isn’t he? I mean you people even cheer him! How freaking dumb cans you be you incompetent dumbasses.”

I would swallow my pride,
I would choke on the rhines,
but the lack thereof would leave me empty inside.
I would swallow my doubt, turn it inside out,
find nothing but faith in nothing.
Wanna put my tender heart in a blender,
watch it spin round to a beautiful oblivion.
Rendezvous, and I'm through with you.

Kade friend Ecks came from the backstage. He had a beer in hand as he walked up to the ring, nothing special. A seldom chant came from the hardcore fans: “Blood-Weav-Er! Blood-Weav-Er! Blood-Weav-Er!”

“Who the hell are you?” Lancett asked before Ecks got into the ring.

Ecks got onto the apron and already had a mike. “None of your damn business.” Ecks threatened Lancett. Ecks tried to go in between the ropes but every time he tried Lancett would kick the rope next to his head.

“You may not enter my ring?”

“Your ring?”

Ecks hoped over but Lancett ran forward and shoulder blocked him making him tumble to the outside.

“I am a man of my word. Am I not?”

“Okay Greenhorn. You are trying to hard.” Ecks stood up. Lancett looked down to him. “Now you going to stay out of my ring?” This was very embarrassing for Ecks return to the camera to be like this.

“You are really what all those people start in hWo say you are. Aren’t you?”

Lancett face cringed. “Why don’t you accept my match and I’ll show you first hand, son-of-a-bitch.”

“Why else would I come out here, kid?”

“What ever, I’ll see you next week.” Lancett left the ring as hWo chants rang his ears. Obviously, Ecks hit a weak spot on Lancett. So he isn’t unbreakable… as he states.

*OFF CAMERA*
He Is *SO* Acting Weird.

"Oooooh, my head hurts."

That was Quinton May, slumped in a chair in a vacant locker-room, as Kellog Anderson paced around with folded arms. His hawk-like eyes had been fixated on Quincy Mama ever since the latter stirred out of his short nap, and Kellog was out to get some answers from the Television Champion. The one and only, who had decided to walk into the arena on an alcohol high.

And as a result, passed out. Right in front of the astonished eyes of several ACW officials. Needless to say, Kellog Anderson's nagging feeling and suspicions about Quincy had been totally confirmed now; there was zero doubt lingering, Kellog thought, as he walked over to May, who was quite out of it. Possibly still under the influence of alcohol, too.

"You feeling any better, Quinton?" Kellog asked as he crouched down in front of May, his eyes still piercing through the latter's soul, trying to unravel the mysterious mystery.

Quincy simply grunted, more than answering the question. Still, he talked. "I've been better. I still feel like throwing up all over, but that short nap did me some good. I don't know what's going on, though. And I still see spots in front of me.

Hell, you look like a polka-dot bikini right about now!"

Anderson managed a chuckle, watching as Quinton leaned back further in the chair, gently massaging his own temples.

"I know how that feels!" Kellog emphatised as he stood up. "But hey, I got someone to make you a nice hot steaming cup of coffee. That should snap you right of your drunken stupor. Not that it'll change the fact that Laguna is pretty pissed that you reported for work drunk, since he did schedule a match for you and all.

What in the name of baby Jesus were you thinking of, friend?"

Another groan enemated from the larynx of the Canadian Gladiator. He wasn't in the mood for answering questions, but he knew he owed it to his employers to at least try and explain the situation. They were, after all, signing his checks and putting meat on his plate. Heh, the plate on his table? How do you think he could afford to buy the plate, AND the damn table?

That's right. The privellege of being on the company payroll. It has to be earned, you know.

* somebody in the back snickers, pointing out the infamous 'revolving door' problem *

"Like I said, I don't know!" May re-iterated, a little irritated by now. Understandable. "I didn't expect to show up drunk. I didn't even drink a sip of liquor the last two days. Being in two companies where the weekly shows are only seperated by one day in between makes it hard to do anything remotely fun.

If I was truly drunk, I woulda not shown up, now would I? Eh? EH?

Answer me, you feeble fool!"

Kellog nodded his head, digesting the information, but he rolled his eyes once he turned around. Anderson just knew that May was up to some kind of tomfoolery-ness again. Once more, Kellog ran over what he'd heard in Quinton's motel room last Thursday when he followed and spied on the Canadian Gladiator. And the more Kellog thought about it, the more sure he was.

The more sure he was that May wasn't acting like himself.

A statement and a gut feeling that was more concretely supported by Quinton's actions in tSC, just two days prior. But maybe, Kellog had dug too far and thought too much about it.

Quinton seemed to think so.

Because, he suddenly jumped out of his seat and charged at Kellog... 

Obviously, being a Courage card with its own instilled unpredictability… it was proving to be one hell of a night. It goes without saying that Laguna hadn’t had the best of times tonight, either… with not even chief among them, his angry World Champion. Bad to see that this was a position that he regularly found himself in. He'd already made his presence known earlier in the night, starting off the show, and now… well we’d have to see what kind of developments… where liable of being made.

While on the topic of ACW’s one World Champion... he had just been pulled aside by a staff member. Now that staff guy had just come jogging down the hallway towards the Pulp Hero… so he evidently had something important to say.

“Alias… Alias, there’s someone looking for you.”

See… important. Without replying, the staff tech pointed him in the direction of said wondering party, currently looking for the Double World Champion. Alias gave a polite nod and was off his way, now back in the opposite direction in which he was heading.

Many thoughts had to be rushing through his mind… could this be yet another mind game? Would Ravnos be waiting just around that proverbial corner? As was know, there was always a million things running the mind of this new age philosopher… but we’ll just keep you privy to those two, for now.

Alias looked both ways as he walked towards said room that he had been directed towards… anticipation of seeing Ravnos… after these last few years, made him nervous, yet being the champion, the Champion of these ACW faithful, he was calm and confident that he could hold his own. He knew he could.

Approaching the door, Alias stopped and booted at it with carefree authority… it was time to get into ‘character’, get into that zone. The big decision now… was wait for a word or start a swinging all willy nilly once the door was opened just a crack, aiming for the skull.

The door swung open as the occupant looked on in disbelief at who was standing before him. The past two years of ACW's history flashed through his head, the thoughts of Alias and Jason Kain battling it out in the best of seven series played out, which happened to be the ground breaking match that brought him to ACW.

"Whoa, it's umm, uhh, A-A-Alias." His voice trembled with fear as the words barely made it out of his mouth. Looking around the room, to make sure the atmosphere he presented the champion was accommodating he turned his attention back towards the world champion.

The Original Pulp Hero cocked a quizzical eyebrow. Oooookay… this wasn’t Ravnos, that’s for damn sure. Now the kid was lucky too, what with the stammering and all… already prevalent, that Alias didn’t pick plan B and pop him in the face with a solid right hand once he opened the door.

"I umm, man I don't know even what to say. Your Alias, one of the biggest stars in wrestling today, I'm your biggest fan, jeesh. Umm, I'm new here and have no idea what to do for a gimmick, help me, what do you think I should do?" This time he spoke more confidently of his talent. Questions pondering his future with ACW were the goal to be answered.

“Ummm… gimmick? Who… who are you? Thanks and all, but yeah, who are you?” Alias said… still in a state of, well, of a bit on confusion.

“Oh ah, Gabriel Malik Walczak.”

“Alright… so Gabby, please don’t put me in a position to kill you next time.” Now it was Gabriel’s turn to look confused, not exactly aware… of the position he had put himself in. “Sooo… no idea for a gimmick?”

Alias grinned a bit. “Baby steps, Gab… just don’t try and bleed all over the place, and then you can go from there.”

"Oh… alright, thanks… so you’re thinking you found out who your mystery man is, eh?" He spoke inquisitively of Alias' answer to his question. The thought of who this mystery man was had been playing over and over through not only the fans minds, but also the talented roster of each and every company in the wrestling business.

Things had almost become uncomfortable for the Pulp Hero in this situation… as this kid seemed mighty questioning, for his liking. Especially on a day like today… where he only had so much patience. If, say… he kept this up, maybe that old salt would in fact decide on giving him a good smack, just to lighten his mood. “That I did.”

"Alright Alias, thanks for helping out such a young rookie, it means a lot to me, I'll look forward to talking with you in the future." The young rookie superstar spoke with a look of satisfaction on his face. For he had not only been face to face with his role model, but he had also spoken in a one on one conversation with him.

“Nice speaking with you too.” Alias said with a pat on this kid’s back as he turned away from him. The Pulp Hero placed his hands in his pockets and threw his closing remark over his shoulder, at his bright faced… possibly over enthusiastic kid. 

“Maybe next time… you’ll catch me at a better time.” 

*OFF CAMERA*
Throwing down the Steiner 

Marcus sat on a folding steel chair in an undisclosed location within the arena walls, it was likely that he was in some kind of refectory area as around the room tables were set up with all different arrays of foods from greasy fast food to sleekly presented lettuce leaves. Marcus was sat filing his nails which says a lot about him the truth be told. He is a man that loves to keep care of himself. What?s the word? ?Metrosexual?? I think that?s it.

Anyway, as he sat there innocently giving himself a well needed manicure he became aware of another presence within the room but before he had the chance to turn around and face the second body he was caught in the back of the head with a crowbar. Blood spatters across the white carpet that covered the floor of which Marcus?s limp body now lay across. 

Towering over him stood a snarling, angry, fuming Patrick Marshall, in one hand a bloody crowbar that he dropped to the floor not a moment later, and in the other a rather stomach turning sight. He flicked a switch and out slid a six inch blade, the lights of the room catching the glimmering metal and sparkling in to the eyes of a slowly recovering Marcus Steiner. 

Patrick waited for Marc to get up to both knees and face him before he raised the knife to the level of Marcus?s face. Marc raised both hands as Patrick pounced forwards, slashing the knife in to the face of the ACW roster member. The attack was intercepted by a third party who dove across the room and wrapped his large arms around those of Patrick Marshall, tackling him to the ground.

Crackle, crackle. -- Cut to a higher view of the scuffle from a CCTV camera.

The knife slid across the room and came to a halt under a nearby table covered with a healthy platter. The third party turned out to be none other than long-term friend of Patrick Marshall?s, Steven O?Leary, better known as ?the Mammoth?.

Patrick managed to cut himself loose from Steven and scurry across the room towards the knife, picking it up, but as he began to stand up Steven tackled him once more, this time turning the table over at the same time. Steve managed to take the knife out of his friends? hand and get to his feet thus gaining full control of the situation. Meanwhile across the room Marcus stayed on his knees in the same position as he had been left in, hands still in front of his face. Frozen.

Steven?s mouth was wide open, shocked once more at the situation he found himself in he flicked the knife back up in to its holdall and tucked it in to his pocket. Patrick looked across the room at Marc and seemed to want to pounce on him once more, but Steve came from behind and locked him in a full nelson. Pat began to writhe and kick but it was no use, his friend seemed to be screaming something at him but the camera had no sound.

-- Cut back.

(The wonders of technology)

?FUCKING LEAVE IT! YOU NEED HELP, YOU?RE SICK. YOU?RE SICK!?

And this was from a friend? Steve dragged Patrick out of the room kicking and screaming, leaving Marcus Steiner there to simply stare in to open space. Frozen.

Paiste Saban Vs. El Gato Negro

"Bury Me With It" by Modest Mouse

The lights dimmed in the arena, aside from the entrance, which was now being highlighted, awaiting the arrival of one of ACW's more "colorful" stars. After moments of anticipation, EL GATO NEGRO stepped out into the spotlight, smiling at all in attendance. And then, out of nowhere, he grabbed his 'package' and paraded down to the ring.

He slid into the ring, and the referee checked EGN for any illegal objects...not that he'd need them, being the perfect physical specimen that he is. In his mind, he would win this matchup in the matter of seconds, because Paiste would be frightened at the fact that EGN is such a great technical wrestler, causing him to tap out the second he entered the ring...

life is a waterfall
we're one in the river
and one again after the fall

swimming through the void
we hear the words
we lose ourselves
but we find it all

A heated reaction is given, as "Aerials" by System of a Down plays through the arena speakers signifying the arrival of the Meductic Maniac...

P A I S T E  S A B A N

He stood out on the stage as he made his way out into the arena and he scowled at the fans, staring a hateful glare into their hearts and smiling a sadistic smile that would make the milk on your cereal curdle. Then, looking down at his opponent for the night, El Gato Negro, he smiled, thinking this one would take a matter of minutes.

'cause we are the ones that want to play
always want to go
but you never want to stay

and we are the ones that want to choose
always want to play
but you never want to lose

He made his way down to the ring confidently, just peering at the fans ringside and giving them a mouthful on his way down, which helped the reaction from the fans grow a little more heated.

He slipped under the bottom rope and scurried to the top rope just staring at the fans whilst the chorus played, and he shut his eyes to enjoy the chorus and gain his composure for the confrontation at hand.

aerials
in the sky
when you lose small mind
you free your life

aerials
in the sky
when you lose small mind
you free your life

The Meductic Maniac hopped down off of the top rope, as his theme song slowly faded away into the silence of the arena. The referee patted him down, to check for illegal items, and then signaled to the timekeeper that the match was ready to begin.

DING!

The two cruiserweights walked to the center of the ring, face to face. The tension in the building was mounting, and everyone was anticipating the first big move of the contest...

SLAP!

EGN had cocked back, and slapped the taste out of Saban's mouth, much to the dismay of the fans, who were expecting more of a 'high-spot' beginning. Like EGN cared.

The contest now escalated into a fistfight, with both wrestlers trading rights and lefts, although Paiste was getting the advantage, due to his size. EGN was now backed into the corner, and Saban was laying into him with hard kicks of all kinds. EGN eventually slumped down to a seating position, while the referee tried to pry Paiste from EGN.

EGN took advantage of this situation by nailing Paiste with a hard uppercut, sending Saban's head snapping back, right into the referee's forehead, knocking the poor guy out!

El Gato Negro took advantage of the opportunity, nailing a dazed Meductic Maniac with a devastating low blow, doubling him over. EGN stood up, and hooked his arm around Paiste's head, and then planted it into the ground with a hard DDT.

Saban was now lying on the ground in pain, not so much from the DDT, but moreso from EGN's low blow. EGN wasn't going to let this opportunity go to waste, so he locked Paiste's legs into a Texas Cloverleaf. He was trying to flip Paiste over, but in return was catapulted into the turnbuckle, resulting in a bloody lip.

The referee had now come back to his senses, although wondering how he had gotten knocked out. He continued the match as if he had never been out, though. Paiste stood up, and delivered a bridging German Suplex to the dazed El Gato Negro...

1!

2!

The bridge had helped, but not enough to keep EGN down for the three count. Paiste tried hooking both legs and attempting a pin again...

1!

But this time, EGN kicked out after the first count! Paiste was going to have to work harder to keep the quick Mexican down.

EGN had now gotten to his feet, and got Paiste's attention by smacking him in the back of the head. EGN ran and slid outside the ring, only to have an enraged Paiste sprinting after him.

He made his way around to the opposite side of the ring, and slid in. Anticipating Paiste's arrival, he got into a 'kung-fu' stance.

"GOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOAL~!" he screamed, as Paiste slid into the ring.

SMACK~!

Paiste's eyes went from a confused look, to rolling into the back of his head, as El Gato Negro nailed him with his patented soccer kick to the side of head. Paiste was down and out, but EGN wasn't taking any chances...

...He applied the Strangle Hold ALPHA to Paiste, although he was clearly gone by then.

The referee didn't even have to check on the Meductic Maniac, as he signaled for the bell, and "Bury Me With It" rang throughout the arena again.

EGN had racked up another win, a very impressive one at that. He thanked the fans in attendance with a flash of his Mexican ass, before he left the ring, and made his way backstage.

Winner > El Gato Negro

Mount up!

He took a deep breath as he walked back toward the dressing room. His first confrontation in ACW wasn't anything that significant, but it was a confrontation none the less. He rubbed the back of his neck, and then brought his hand back down to his side. He noticed he was trembling a little. However he was not shaking because he was afraid of the one they called Lancett. Rather the adrenaline that was pumping through his veins. This is where he belonged, fighting for this federation, but more importantly fighting for himself. 

He approached the locker room door, he turned the handle quietly, and pushed the door in slowly. On the inside sat a rather happy Simian Kade. Ecks looked at his friend sitting across from him. They made eye contact and the smile grew on the face of Kade. 

"What are you so excited about?" Ecks questioned. 

"Thank you." Kade said, with a sense of gratitude. 

"It wasn't anything." 

Kade just smiled as Ecks walked over to a steel folding chair and sat down. The water that he had been carrying since he left the ring area was half empty. He took another sip from it, and sighed.

"Get ready," Kade said calmly. 

"What?" Ecks asked. 

"I said get ready, Lancett isn't just going to turn the other cheek and forget about this one."

"I didn't expect him too." 

"Good," Kade said assuredly, "mount up. This is gonna turn into a war." 

This Is *SO* A Strange Night.

His heart was pounding.

His leg muscles were cramping up.

His breath smelled like a skunk's pile of poop.

Suffice to say, Quinton May had weird fetishes. OR, he was running away like a little girl and at one point, tripped & got his head dunked in a pail of mop water. Which would clearly explain his wet hair, but the crowd were nonetheless confused; the last time they saw Quincy Mama on the night, he was passing out from being too fucking drunk. Now, he was running?

Word had filtered through to the crowd that a match involving Quinton May and an un-named challenger was cancelled due to May's alcoholic problem, but despite that, no other news engaging the Television Champion had been made available. So naturally, it was quite perplexing to see Quinton fleeing away like a scared little bunny from a ferocious & mad tiger.

"Got to get out of here!" the Rising Star grumbled as he continued to stumble down the hallway, constantly looking over his shoulder, for whatever reason.

Turning a corner, May stopped running. He doubled over and plastered his hand to the wall for support, all the while panting like a greyhound. Obviously, something must have spooked Quinton real bad, but as he suddenly quietened down and looked around him, a new type of fear crept into his eyes. There was something eerie about the backstage that he'd just noticed.

The arena appeared to be absolutely... empty.

Quite the conondrum, don't you think? Usually, there'd be officials hanging out in every nook & cranny of the arena. But on this night, the backstage area was seemingly devoid of life. Almost as if the ancient Martians had done what they should have done to the Wong Family... errr, yeah. Either that, or there has been a recent reprisal of the BLACK PLAGUE/DEATH!!11.

Within a matter of seconds, though, the awkward silence and emptiness had dissipated.

How come, you ask?

Streams of officials and security came barrelling down the hallway, with one of the officials yelling out orders for paramedics to tend to Kellog Anderson. Once again, the crowd -- watching this on the video wall back inside the arena -- were left scratching their heads. Quinton, though, panicked. He knew he was in serious trouble now, more than ever.

He simply *had* to make his getaway. Easier said than done, though.

Quinton underestimated the amount of shit he was in. Having spun on his heels to run, a single lifeform lunged out from the shadows and tackled May down to the floor. The two men -- the attacker wearing a black hoodie of sorts accompanied by a mask-like veil -- crashed into the wall, a portion of which broke upon the impact of Quinton's head meeting the less-than-sturdy slab of crap.

Just as the assailant rolled over and mounted May, though, the officials and security officers had reached the scene, with a new agenda to tackle now. They quickly pulled the assailant off of Quinton, but the masked outsider was like a rabid dog, scratching and clawing at whoever dared to lay his hands on him.

At one point, a scuffle with the most senior of security officers resulted in his mask being ripped off, partially. It was at this juncture that the outsider kicked the officer in the groin and retreated, but not without a couple more security officers giving chase.

Meanwhile, Quinton May writhed about on the floor, a huge gash having been opened up on his forehead. Some of the officials immediately started helping him up, but there were two of them who were more interested in talking about something else.

"Didn't that assailant look a bit like Quinton here?" one of them asked.

Before the Canadian Gladiator could hear the answer, though, he passed out. Again.

What a strange night it had been.

Memoirs of the Visible Men

One last promo. But for who?

James Lavelle’s instrumental remix of The Verve’s Bitter Sweet Symphony broke the silence inside of whatever arena ACW was in this week, signalling the entrance of Chris Messiah of course. A Chris Messiah with a huge smile on his face. A Chris Messiah who was carrying a signed contract by Phil Atken from the previous week. And a Chris Messiah who had just lost 5 lbs in the previous week thanks to Atken’s Diet. Irony.

“Finally, after weeks of plotting, failing, plotting again, failing, plotting again, failing, then dressing a friend up as a woman, I succeeded in getting Phil Atken to sign a contract that explicitly states that if he fails to win at Glory, then it’s bye-bye Philip, see you in the next one, have a good time. But of course, if I fail to win, the exact same thing will happen to myself. Which isn’t good. But, at least you’ll be rid of one of us forever and ever.”

Perfect Stranger’s “Deep Purple” erupted throughout the arena, interrupting Chris, and Phil Atken wandered out from behind the curtain. He received typical bad-boy heat on the way to the ring, etc., etc.

“Chris, you mother clucking fecker, you’re a devious bastard!”

“And you’re an idiot Phil, for falling for that.”

“Yeah, well when you lose, you should be locked up in a cage and never be allowed out in public again, you cruntmaster.”

“Cage, Phil? How about we make this match interesting? How about we have it inside of a…”

“…Inside a pool filled with chocolate sauce? I like your style Chris, I like it a lot. You know, I don’t think you’re such a bad guy after all…”

“…No Phil, not in a pool filled with chocolate sauce, you crazy bar steward, but inside of a 15 feet high steel cage.”

“Chris, I hate your fecking guts. I always have. But sure, I’m in an accepting mood, I got lucky last week.”

Phil smiled as he tenderly rubbed his backstage. Misty water-coloured memories.

Then, as if anything that possibly could happen in this storyline hadn’t already happened, there was Joe Soap on the ACW Big Screen. Phil and Chris didn’t see him, so he coughed meekly until they both turned round.

“Hello Chris!”

“Joe, why are you still wearing that maid outfit?”

“The soft, soft cotton is so soft against my skin, Chris.”

And then Phil had something to add to the conversation.

“Hey, there’s that attractive maid from the hotel last week!”

Both Chris and Joe ignored Phil, as the pair of them continued their chat.

“Joe, what are you doing here?”

“Well Chris, I thought that we had been through a lot in the past, and since you’re about to enter a pivotal moment in your career – pivotal because it might be your last ever match – that I should wish you good luck. Also, I have a message from Lowest Common Denominator, out former C-Team comrade!”

Joe held up a large piece of paper, which made Chris’ eyes fill up.

“Well gee wilbur Joe! What does it say?”

“Well, he said ‘Good luck.’

“Wow. What an awesome guy. He always knew how to express himself deeply. What about Amadeus, did you speak to him?”

“No, sadly, Amadeus wasn’t available. He got exported.”

“Don’t you mean ‘deported,’ Joe?”

“No, Chris. He got exported. He was sold as a mail order bride to Russia. It works the other way too you know. Oh, and let me tell you a little secret about Amadeus: he was just a hobo I picked up off the street to complete our fantastic foursome. He could only shout ‘Fubar!’ because that was the only word of English he knew. He was actually Welsh and was fond of his woolly friends. Well, I’d better be going Chris, because this segment is running a little long and we’re not exactly Rock and Foley, are we?”

“No Joe, we’re not. Goodbye forever, dearest Joe. Maybe we’ll buy a farm and grow chickens for a living whenever I retire, together, like it’s meant to be.”

Chris waved at the fading image on the screen, as the tears gently rolled down his face. He turned to Phil Atken, who was laughing hysterically at him.

“You pansy feck!”

But just at that moment, somebody from Phil Atken’s past turned up too on the big screen. Oh, my, my, if it wasn’t typo legend, Phil AKTEN.

“Phil!”

“Phil!”

“What are you doing here in ACW, Phil?”

“Well, Phil, after I got fired from cWo when they realised that I was a fictional character created due to a typographical error, I’ve followed your career very closely. I’m here to wish you good luck also. And next time, when you’re creating a gimmick, be sure to name yourself something that everybody can spell easily. Good luck, farewell, and goodbye, real Phil.”

“Goodbye, typo Phil!”

Phil waved at the fading image on the screen, as the tears gently rolled down his face. He turned to Chris Messiah, who was laughing hysterically at him.

“I don’t swear, you loser.”

The two of them drew close, but not into a clinching embrace. No, they were just having the generic stare-down before the culmination of a heated rivalry that has endured for years. Courage cut to commercials, as the fans wondered who was going to come out on top, and if anybody cared.

Returnal Part II

The double doors swing open revealing Ecks and Kade going to their transportation to the hotel. They seem to be in mid conversation. Kade laughs at a comment from Ecks, “Those where good days, Alex.” Kade calling Ecks by his real name.

“Sometimes I miss those days.” Ecks replys. He readjusts the strap on his shoulder to comfort him.

A voice from the parking lot comes into play, “Well look what we have here.” 

It was Lancett inside his limo. “You guys going to another bar?”

“Nah.” Ecks replies calmly. That doesn’t sit with Lancett too well.

“What do you mean, ‘Nah’?”

“What? You want to me to get all ticked off and get in your face Lancett? You’ll learn how it is to face a real man next week. Not a very hyped match, but it will be a good one. You are a good wrestler and I respect that. But you have an attitude I won’t stand by and let be … continued.”

“You could of just said – Wait you respect me?”

Ecks and Kade shake their head and walk off.

“I thought Frost was fucked up. Sheesh.” Lancett rolls his window up and rolls off.

Alias vs. Ravnos…?

Now… the Original Pulp Hero, champion of ACW, had to ask himself? 

How did he just find himself in such a situation? 

All night long can consisted of one thing for him… a hunt for one man that he knew would be in this building, the one man who had attacked him before. He had even grabbed a referee to follow around, towards the one and a half hour mark of the show… and even against the consent of ACW’s current owner, William Laguna, Alias was going to have his match against Ravnos… and it was going to happen tonight. Who fucking cared if Ravnos, Alias sure didn’t… and he wasn’t set to back down from this fight. Not tonight. Not next week at Glory. Not ever.

This man, the history they had… that one nagging loss after another at the hands of Ravnos. Alias had to get the deciding victory over this necessary evil. He had stuck his nose in Alias’s life again, this monster, so the Pulp Hero was sure he was going to leave his life… just as quickly as he entered.

But now the Pulp Hero asked himself, how did he find himself… here? There he stood, that striped shirted official by his side, and Ravnos, yet to see Alias, in the darkness of backstage area… among the dim lights and the technical crates.

Now… had this proven to be, well, to easy. Let’s just say that thought was the furthest from Alias’s mind.

One thing was evident in Alias’s mind, as he charged towards this long forgotten nemesis in the dark… he stood have stayed buried and gone.

The Pulp Hero was set to devoid all facedom tonight, after what happened the week before… and blindsided the pale skinned monster. Sending several forearm shots into his head, while wailing at his midsection with knees… as he pummeled him unmercifully with no warning. Picking up a crate beside the fallen body of this returned foe, Alias showed no remorse in sending it crashing into the midsection of Ravnos… not once, but four thunderous times.


BOOM!



BOOM!



BOOM!



BOOM!


Quickly picking up the bloodied body of his old enemy, days of the limo incident, the epic battles, and hauntingly unfinished business, fresh in the Pulp Hero’s mind… Alias threw Ravnos out from under what now appeared to be the undercarriage of a massage set-up… through black curtains…

And onto the arena floor, in front of the roaring crowds, to a ruckus cheer. It seems like Ravnos had been watching intently from under the entrance stage all night long… but now found himself beside the steelramp way, sprawled across the cold and unforgiving concrete of the steel floor. Well… between that and Alias’s fast charging size 12’s.

Alias lay the boots into Ravnos’s head several times… before picking him up once again and walking him towards the ring, this would be a moment for everyone to see. He gave several shots to the masked head and face of Ravnos, though the thing that confused Alias… just a bit, was that Ravnos was never one… ever… to hide behind a mask. Hell, the man’s mug was intimidating enough. Still, as stated before, that was the furthest from Alias’s mind.

“Ghosts might haunt, but so do there decisions, fucker!” Alias yelled at his beaten and bloodied masked attacker, who was never really given a chance in this fight from the get go, thanks to Alias’s preliminary sneak attack. Alias threw him into the ring… and was soon to follow.

Alias grabbed at Ravnos’s mask… which drew the ACW faithful to the very edge of there seat.

This would only clinking the fact… and making this man stare Alias eye to eye… before the Pulp Hero could get some final, utter, closer for this haunting situation.

Alias tugged at the material, pulling it up and over the chin. Only for…

darkness. And a voice.

“Alias… we still unfinished business. Hope you enjoyed this little present.”

The crowd stirred for a moment, not knowing what to expect, not knowing what any of this meant… before lights turn back on to reveal…

Alias holding the mask AND…

Nothing else.

The Pulp Hero now stood, alone in the ring, with a look of mixed anger and sorrowed emotion on his face. He threw down the mask in frustration… and turned around franticly, looking around the crowd for no one really in particulars… but ghosts. Alias finally plopped down, sitting on the canvas in utter exhaustion.

The night though, it wasn’t over. This main event never happened… buuut

Winner > No Contest

retribution

There was no music.

No rapturous applause.

No pryo.

Nothing.

Until a figure appeared from the shadowiness of the backstage, and that man was SilverHAWK. Alias, along with the other arena inhabitants looked on in confusion, as HAWK gently walked down to the ring, his cane in hand, scratching the surface of the cold steel ramp for guidance. HAWK looked visually beaten, a large gash subsided over his right eye, which was also blackened, and a bandage over his chin.

He slowly got into the ring, as Alias stood motionless, still fuming from earlier exploits with Ravnos, as a microphone was passed over to SilverHAWK from a stage hand who entered the ring, as HAWK gazed into infinity.

"I've been biding my time, waiting for this moment Alias, but now, it's finally here."

Alias looked on quizzically.

"Incase you guys in the arena didn't know, the heads of ACW are at this moment locked away in a room, discussing the future of ACW, why? Because the men and women that you call ACW Stars aren't up to the job of taking this fed out of crap holes like this...and here is one of the biggest culprits."

Everyone knew he was talking about Alias.

But nobody could believe it.

"I may be visually impared, but I'm fucking sit of arrogant fucks like you, coming into ACW thinking your the business, and then doing fuck all when we actually give you a chance Alias. What have you done since Revival?

Nothing.

You've not taken that belt to the next level, hell, you've probably taken it down a peg with your self wallowing and constant leaving for other promotions."

Alias, could be seen walking around HAWK, even if he didn't know it, but Alias' fists suddenly became balled up.

"I couldn't even begin to count the number of guys who have fucked ACW over in the past, and I've seen them all son, and you are possibly the cleverest at it that I've ever seen. Looking back, the Se7en Series for that belt was a joke, you and Jason Kain fucking pussy footing around and making sure you were both OK after that match, and then he proposes after losing the belt to you?

I would have wrapped it around your scrawny neck."

Alias face said it all, as he stopped and got in HAWK face, who seemed to turn straight to him.

"The fact of the matter is Chris, you are a waste of space...and a waste of my time."

He had had enough.

Alias took a step back and with venomous haste swung a right hand at HAWK's jaw, to the amazement of the fans.

What was even more amazing.

HAWK DUCKED.

"What the fuc..."

breakDOWN.

SilverHAWK stood over the fallen champion and threw his cane to one side, before looking all around his and sneering to the booing fans that had been betrayed by HAWK, again. He clutched the gold by Alias side, and raised it into the air as the screams began deafening.

Had he been scheming all along?

Perhaps Glory was going to have a Main Event after all.

As it seems that SilverHAWK's path has just been lit up in front of him, while the champion, is now the blind passenger.

glory.

seven. days.

things. will. happen.

trust me.