How did he receive this power, however? All because he was simply . . . THE ABSOLUTE BEHEMOTH!

Geoff Yates, Yuri Yates' brother and self-acclaimed manager, had scheduled an appointment with the main man in ACW, William Laguna. Apparently, after Yuri's big win on his debut, Geoff had felt as if it were time for Yuri to be involved in "bigger things" already. Sure, this was only Yuri's second week in the ACW. Geoff was -- or shall I say is? -- a greedy, selfish, self-centered individual, however.

As usual, Geoff had not even consulted Yuri on the matters at hand. Completely oblivious to all of Geoff's dealings, Yuri was never one to question or speak out against him. Yuri felt it was better to just keep his mouth shut and go along with everything. He knew that was not exactly the greatest quality or personality trait a person could have, but it was the way he was and there was not any changing it. At least, not now.

The hired assistant of Mr. Laguna had finally arrived in the empty office of which contained Yuri, Geoff, and three chairs. Mr. Laguna's assistant pulled a chair out to face Geoff before sitting before him. Yuri remained standing next to his younger brother -- arms crossed, eyes fixed on the wall parallel from him.

"Good evening, Mr. Yates," the assistant had said very generously glancing at Geoff. "Good evening to you also, Mr. Yates," he repeated, now looking at Yuri.

"Please, call me Geoff."

Yuri made no reply. He continued to stare off into oblivion as business was about to be conducted. Perhaps Geoff had warned him not to speak a word during this meeting. Or perhaps, Yuri felt it would have been best if he just listened as he habitually did anyway.

"Mr. Laguna apologizes he could not meet you in person. He was sort of . . . tied up at the moment."

Geoff nodded signifying his understanding.

"Anyway." Mr. Laguna's representative had paused. "Mr. Laguna has a nice proposition for you."

Nice proposition? Who knows what he could have possibly meant by that statement? There are a million and one proposals that could come out of that, and a bitch ain't one.

. . . Oh, sorry. Anyway . . .

As soon as the phrase "nice proposition" had been uttered, almost immediately Geoff's eyes grew in size. If there were any phrase a businessman of Geoff's caliber (which is not saying much, to be honest) would like to hear, it would probably be along the lines of "nice proposition."

"Since Yuri here," Mr. Laguna's secretary uttered with added emphasis, "Made such a great impact last week coming off of a debut victory, Mr. Laguna has asked that he completes a small mission for him."

Ah, now we are getting somewhere. To Geoff's dismay, he knew there would be a clause he would dislike in there somewhere. Oh well. Sacrifices were in order to achieve the ultimate goal.

Meanwhile, Yuri remained stonewalled next to his younger sibling who was executing business as usual. He was not allowing any of the utterances stated to sink into the depths of his cerebrum.

"What exactly is this 'mission'?" Geoff inquired, losing interest in the deal already.

"Well, as you may or may not be aware of, the Feared Ninja Assassins have been a thorn in Mr. Laguna's side recently. Their intent is to destroy ACW. Obviously, we cannot allow this to happen. And since Yuri defeated one of the Assassin's own last week, Mr. Laguna feels as if he could demolish the entire crew."

Taking an entire 180-degree turn, Geoff was liking this prearrangement once more. If he had the opportunity to inflict pain onto any living soul, Geoff would gladly take anyone up on his or her offer.

"Now, in return for Yuri's accomplishment, should he accomplish this goal, Mr. Laguna has granted him a championship title shot at any title of his choosing."

Oddly enough, this did not alter Yuri's posture one bit. By now, he had probably actually heard the key points in this business transaction, but it seemed as if he could care less what he had to do, as long as it was done. Even if a title shot is involved somewhere down the line or not, apparently it did not mean anything whatsoever to the Paramount Colossus.

"As a matter of fact, Mr. Laguna has granted him an ACW World Championship title shot tonight against . . . Alias. This is more of a 'thank you ahead of time' gift that should allow you to be more serious about this deal. This does not affect the title shot of his choosing, as he will still have the opportunity later on down the road should he succeed. This is merely just to show Mr. Laguna's appreciation."

Geoff's eyes were glowing as he produced a toothy grin. A toothy grin that any self-respecting individual would want to destroy.

"Thank you, so much. Send Mr. Laguna, Yuri's and my appreciation," Geoff had said ecstatically.

Mr. Laguna's representative stood up from his chair before making his departing statement, and exited the void that was the office. Geoff glanced over at Yuri, who was now cracking his knuckles.

He had apparently heard mention of his title shot match tonight. He knew it was going to be a tough battle, so he knew it would be best to prepare now.

"This is good coffee." Fejona Min remarked.

Oh, hi! Welcome to another edition of COURAGE!, the cowardly dog. Yes, ahem. And if it wasn't the two resident femme fatales who'd jumped ship from theAsylum. The Enchanting Delinquent, Fejona Min, and her trusty sidekick, Natalie Quinston.

Natalie nodded at Fejona's statement, taking a sip out of her own styrofoam cup of coffee. The two ladies were in the catering area, injecting some caffiene into their respective system, after a hard week's work.

Sure, Fejona Min may have sold her corporation to the father of once-rival Heather Vergas, but a rich woman like Fejona is ambitious. And has a lot of free time on her hands.

Plus, being out of theAsylum meant that no more missions for the (rumoured) dead Joe Campbell.

That basically freed up a lot of time for the Cambodian Femme Fatale, some of which she dedicated to helping her boyfriend and soon-to-be fiance (they're getting engaged on November 15 this year!). Annnd, with the insatiable fire for competition she garnered whilst in tA, Fejona soon found herself in another fighting promotion.

Which, incidentally, enabled someone sinister on the sidelines to take notice of her, and thereafter, a deal was struck. One involving Quinton May. One which is now unfolding; has been since the GLORY PPV. Pay attention, slackers.

"Yes, who knew coffee from a vending machine would be so heavenly?" Natalie Quinston -- wearing a simple pink short-sleeved t-shirt with dark blue pin-striped pants and black pumps -- finally answered Fejona, as the two women moved out of the catering area. The people there, who were the officials and some local wrestlers who'd worked several dark matches, were staring at them.

Not in that lewd sense, no.

The glares were laced with hatred. This was, after all, Canadian country. And, Quinton May = Canadian.

Fejona giggled as she flicked strands of her ethereal hair out of her eyes. "Yes, we never had the good coffee in Asylum, despite the swank accomodations. Funny, that. But hey, I heard that it was BORST who killed Campbell, because Campbell didn't give Borst the green light to kill Villam's son a year prior, when they were at loggerheads.

Either that or my sources are joshing with me again. Heh.

Anyways, enough of Asylum. The experience was fun while it lasted, but I suppose we're better off without it.

Although, I have to admit, I am a little bored here. When I was on that recon mission back in April, this place was crawling with more people on the roster.

Now, that same roster has been stretched to the bare bones, and everybody have got their own agendas. Meaning, no matches for either one of us. Meaning, I'm booooored. I want to do something else other than screw with Mr Quincy 'Herooo' Mama."

Natalie grinned. Then frowned, for she had finished her coffee without knowing it. Huh.

"I know the feeling. I demand to have another chance to prove myself after that fiasco with Azrael." Quinston pouted, remembering how Quinton May cheated her out of victory and the Scorpion Fighting Title in the process. "But it looks as if the powers-that-be aren't exactly keen on us being in the ring.

Or, maybe, Quincy pulled some strings. You know how goody-goody he is."

Fejona Min -- donning a black leather coat (the bottom of which tapered down to just below her fiiiine arse) that covered a black sleeveless tanktop and dark jean leather jeans (Buffy wore the same sans the coat in the penultimate episode of Buffy Season 3!) -- shook her head in disgust. She knew EXACTLY what Natalie was hinting at.

Having reached their locker-room, Fejona held the door open for her partner, before she closed the door shut and sat down on the couch right next to where Natalie had plopped down on. Natalie, by the way, was eyeing Min's half-full cup of coffee.

"Quite surprised he slayed Osyrus." Min answered, somewhat bitterly.

Yes, see, two weeks ago... the beast known as Osyrus was brought back for ONE NIGHT ONLY to try and wrest the TV Title out of his grasp. But, noooo, that wasn't the main objective at all. The TV Title was merely secondary.

Leaving Quincy Mama in a pile of broken bones; now, that was the primary.

Fejona shook her head, smiling wryly to herself, and continued: "But, I can't blame Omar. I probably wore him out with all that... begging, heh. Anyways, he did what was needed to be done. He softened Mr Hero up for the biiiig kill. And, hey, sources tell me that May's left arm? Not in a very good shape at all. It's better off dead, instead."

"These the same sources that told you that nonsense about Borst and Campbell?" Natalie Quinston fired back cheekily.

Fejona raised an eyebrow and turned to glare at her partner. Not that she could STAY mad at Natalie, especially after Natalie rather cutely stuck out her tongue in mock protest at Fejona. The Cambodian Femme Fatale giggled again, but made a mental note to fuck Natalie hard with a strap-on later on.

... Like I keep saying, highly horny male population I have to cater here. Plus, I myself am a man, and I like some motivation when I transcribe these seemingly endless dialogues. I don't get paid for this, you know. Ahhhhem.

Gulping down the rest of the not-so-scalding hot coffee, Fejona stood to her feet. "Wellll, yes. But I doubt they're wrong on this one. We saw what Omar did. In any event, I'm hoping our boy does another one of those in-ring tirades about we are evil and he spits in the face of evil, and so on.

If he doesn't? No big, tonight was supposed to be an off-night anyway.

... Unless, of course, the left arm doesn't NOT work the way it's supposed to work. Then I'll be angry, but it'll also give us something to do later on. Heh, double-edged swords; you have to love them."

And with that rather murky message, Fejona crushed her styrofoam cup and tossed it into the dustbin. Making Natalie realise that she'd been holding an empty stryofoam cup for several minutes now, for no apparent reason. Shrugging, she crushed hers too and threw it away.

It was going to be a leisurely night for the two women. Or at least, for the time being.

Good thing or bad thing? We'll see. 

“I love you too Victoria baby, now hold the phone up to Jasmine for a second… let me say good bye to her.”

Vince Jacobs. The wrestling world’s Superstar. Veritable asshole. Soldier of the Fifth Seal (for all you fWo buggers). Sourpuss son of a bitch. Mr. Chip on my shoulder. The last CWL Champion. Faithful husband. Father of one… little girl. Speaking of those last two bits… that’s coincidently who he was speaking to on the phone. It was a side we very rarely if ever saw of one Vince Jacobs at a show. Courage or not, people.

“Hewo pumpkin, I’ll se you in a little while okay? Okay? Daddy loves yo—“

Which is when he got cold cocked in the side of the head. Sending the phone whipping from his ear… to the wall, shattering. The phone took the brunt of the impact, sure, but Jacobs still fell to the ground dazed… hitting on his side. He half turned, to his back, and looked up at the guy who sucker punched him.

“Hey Vince, how goes it?”

Alias. The Original Pulp Hero. Self induced veritable good guy. World Champion in two different feds, at the same time. Boy scout playboy with a smoking habit, if there ever was one. Father… of one little girl (for all you tSC buffs). Someone who’s more haunted by his past, then you’ll ever know. The Pulp Hero pushed up his right sleeve, seeing as it knocked itself loose from his elbow and slid down to his wrist when he had punched SVJ in the head. Still standing over him he continued, taking in this situation they found themselves in... the face sneak attacking the heel for the sake of maybe their first sane conversation in at least five years. (Ironically after tonight, the trend would continue. Aaah, good ol’ freaky timeline... you know what I mean.)

"Vince... when did this all get so gray?"

"I wasn't aware that this was ever straight cut black and white, Chris."

Jacobs quick retort quieted Alias for a moment, before a small smirk came to his face.

"Good point."

That bit of a moment they just had though, it really didn’t last long. Even in this never ending battle that these two have had against each other, this war, for more then half a decade. They slipped into there own back and forth in no time. Alias with the advantage, standing over Vince… and Vince with his position on the ground, wondering how to get up and away for another day. Biting commentary included, course Vince broke the silence.

“What? Aren’t you going to kick me while I’m done? Wouldn’t be the first time…”

“You try to move, react or get up… and yeah, I’ll give you a good swift kick in the ribs. It’ll be my right in self defense.”

“You’re right? Yeah… cause you’re the one with the bionic knee, lying on the floor. Your right.”

“You put yourself there…”

“Eye for an eye, Chris…”

“Yeah, and neither of us’ll stop till the other goes blind.”

There was a break in the conversation, Alias having just finish Vince’s section in the acid-tongued witty-banter round. Sooo… Alias continued.

“Why’d you come back, Vince? I know why you came back last time… and whatever happened then should of stayed as it was, anyway. I mean hell… that’s almost ten years. Almost our entire careers ago and no, I’m no where near that same brat that allied himself with you… I’ve been through a whole shitload of bad luck since too, I’ve learned from the mistakes I made then. Still, you came back, you’re healed… thank god, but you came back. Here! Why here? Your chance in the lime light was done with… I mean… you should have died with IOW when Scum put the first nail in it--”

“Wow, Chris, I mean fuck. Anything to help out your god damned holier then though diatribe? You had to bring up that?” Jacobs said, a twisted look in his face.

“It was in the damn point I was making, Vince! Why’d you have to come back here?! Not just once… but twice! After it was finished with Pounded and Fused. I’m sure you love the newly renewed face time… but that shit before, the beatings, the druggings… and hell, all this now… it’s killing me. You, my friend are the main reason I won’t live to see fifty, I imagine.” The realization of what Mike Randalls, a man who knew Alias and his path all to well, had told him last week… that this war on three ends, the World battles in ACW and tSC… and the WAR in fWo, it’d be the Pulp Heroes end, well the fact had just struck hold… and in the passion of this conversation with the greatest enemy he ever knew… he voiced it. A sneer grew across Vince’s lips as the emotion now drained from Sheff’s face, he knew Vince would never truly know what he was talking about. At least he assumed.

“Here’s hoping, Chris… here’s hoping it’s forty.”

Something snapped for a moment in the Pulp Hero, though hey that’s what Vince wanted. Alias just starting kicking at the midsection of SVJ though, sending him against the wall. He had won the war of words… but he wouldn’t be walking around with a good feeling in his head, Alias’d make sure of that.

Joe Bishop wouldn’t however, because the imposing staff member had come up the hallway and dragged Chris Sheffield off of Vince, he pressed the Pulp Hero away from Vince and against the wall. What better man to break up the situation, hey?

“You let him get to you like that again, you lose Chris. You lose… and you’re one more step down in Laguna’s favor. Got that?”

Alias finally looked away from the spitting and moaning Jacobs on the ground, looking straight into the eyes of the other third of ACW’s early 90’s stable The Vintage Establishment.

“Yeah.” So… Bishop continued, pushing on Chris’s shoulder so he turned away from Jacobs, as they both walked away from this guy… who… would always be locked in the endless battle with this Pulp Hero.

“Anyway, Laguna does want to talk to you… hell, I’d like to know what’s going on with you too, haven’t talked with you since you and Kain pulled that shit during the Best of Seven…” Alias looked at Bishop a bit cock-eyed but still chuckled.

“Yeah, that wasn’t exactly the best of terms, was it?”

“Exactly… and what Laguna wants to talk to you about it a World title match… tonight… and against that new guy, odd name, debuted last week…”

“Yori?”

“No... Yuri... like with a 'u' not an 'o'. Think fury. Anyway yeah, William’s thinking that an entirely new opponent for yourself, would make for an entertaining fight.” The two old old stable mates, lives going down different paths cracked identical smiles for a moment… and continued walking towards the office of ACW’s owner, William Laguna. 

“…dawg, it was amazing, chicks to my left, honeys to my right, ladies everywhere man, you would have loved it… no wait, I forgot. You really wouldn’t’ have!” Tyson Osario laughed in his own inward manner.

“For once Mr. Osario,” Winston’s well spoken tone, for once showing signs of detestation, “Please do not refer to me in that sexually derogative manner, furthermore, the shoot was merely an opportunity to get you some exposure. Now, onto tonight’s match.”

“Why with the seriousness? Dawg, you’re always so… so… tense. Just chill, hang, relax do whatever you do, tonight is all about me, so lets keep that focus.” T.O. remarked, his arms flexing revealing an awesomely toned physique.

“Arrogance will get you nowhere.” Winston shook his head as he muttered.

“Who you calling arrogant, motherfucker? In your Gucci suit, smarmy ass bitch. Mr ‘I’m gonna inherit billions’ shiiiiit dawg, call me arrogant?”

“Do you even comprehend the phrase, Mr. Osario? I, as my partners also feel, that you sir, are over confident. In addition, this will be your downfall.”

Stifling a laugh, “HA! Man… I’ll wrestle, you do the other shit?”

Tyson turned abruptly, and strangely finding his locker room door ajar…

“Tyson, I remember the door being locked.”

“Me too mang…”

Tyson opens the door slightly, and sees a figure rummaging deep through his travel bag. Tyson opens the door with a resounding thud, his shadow engulfing the culprit, surrounding him in a wall of darkness.

“WHAT THE FUCK?!” Tyson bellowed the expletive…

The culprit turned… his hands enmeshed in ring attire.

“Yo, yo, yo, wassup mah nigga?!”

Tyson raised an eyebrow… “Dawg… what the fuck are you?”

“My name be Tyson Osario, who you hommes?”

Tyson raised his eyebrow further… who in fucks name was this?

Tyson, coughing… “No you’re not.”

“Word bitches, get out mah locker room ya heard?”

Tyson turned to Winston… who greeted him with a bemused look.

“You find this funny? Shit… he ain’t even black. He lacks blackitude dammit.”

Winston, leaning into Osario, “This is Vance Starks… apparently he’s well… mad.”

Tyson nodding, with a wry grin on his face, “So, Tyson! T.O…”

“Yes homefry?”

“Homefry…motherfuck…” Tyson calms down. “Right… dawg… uhm… where was you born?”

“Detroit, Michigan.” Vance snapped…

Tyson nodded… “Whose your mother…”

Vance, “LaToya Osario.”

Tyson’s eyes shot over to Winston’s glazed face… how the heck did he know that?

This unsettled the cocksure Osario… he knew a little too much for comfort. Who was this Vance character? Why was he here? Many more questions danced around in the miasma of thought that Osario…

“What’s that… someone shouting Osario?” Tyson nodded to Winston…

“Oh yes, one hears it also…” perhaps the worst acting possibly imaginable.

“Looks like the public wants you dawg…” Tyson nodded, “Best be off?”

“Ya, word to ya mom, I came to drop bombs…”

Tyson mouthed ‘House of Pain…’

Vance, in a somewhat confused throwback dress sense… strutted out from the locker room leaving a confused Winston and a deeply unsettled Osario…

“Dude… what the fuck just happened?”

Winston replied in a somewhat callous manner, “Mr. Osario, I have no idea.”

“Mang that bitch is whack…”

Jenna McMullen was new to the job.

Oh, SIGH, you go. Another random interviewer-type person being introduced to the world. Biiiig whoop. Well, Jenna's here to stay, unless dementia and senility set in. But, forget about that. Dressed very formally, almost like a nun, Jenna looked to the left, then to the right.

Then she got up from the toilet, pulled up her panties and her (audaciously long) skirt, and flushed the 'bowl. No, she was not wearing pantyhose. Why do you ask? Let's move on, eh?

The young Canadian woman of course washed her hands before exiting the restroom, and pleasantly found that the geekish intern who she'd instructed to hold her things (gun, microphone, packet of Ribena) was still there. With the sweetest smile she could muster, Jenna pecked the boy on the cheek, collected her things, and marched down the hallway.

The intern? Oh, he fainted. Screw that fag. In fact, fuck him. This segment is about Jenna's quest to earn her keep in ACW, deep into its Canadian tour. Sure, the fans hadn't been pouring into the building, but two weeks ago, as the show progressed, the watching audience and those at home found that maybe there was inherent entertainment value in ACW programming.

Only one real reason for that.

The mammoth and titanic clash of a former powerhouse who was one of the early drawing stars of the company and a current Rising Star who redefined the meaning of the word 'tenacious'.

Yes, the Osyrus/Quinton match two weeks ago. Some say that match has now regenerated interest in the whole ACW product.
Jenna was one of those people who believed in that theory, and right about now, she intended to find out more from one party of that match. The party who won and retained his Television Title, but in the process, got his left arm utterly and completely obliterated.

"Alright, Mr Quinton May. Time for you... to share!" Jenna reaffirmed to herself silently.

Awww, how cute. BAH. What is she, a fuckin' carebear? Pffft.

Having reached her destination, Jenna took a deep breath and stared at a door. The door. The door behind which awaited Quinton May. The man was preparing for his big KOA 2004 Quarter-Final and upon arriving at the arena, told officials that he didn't want to be disturned at all. Jetlag, you know? Makes a man grouchy and grumpy. Jenna didn't care.

She wanted her scoop. Selfish bitch.

KNOCK

KNOCK

KNOCK

Six seconds later, the door swung open, and Jenna was ready, armed with a microphone and having motioned for the cameraman to come closer. Quinton May, however, wasn't really keen on giving any interviews and upon seeing the camera, the Canadian Gladiator tried to slam the door shut in Jenna's face.

Jenna, though, swiftly raised her hand up to prevent the door from closing.

"HELLO, MR QUINTON MAY!" she screamed at the top of her voice like some insane bitch with a watery cunt. "I AM JENNA MCMULLEN, AND I AM HERE TO GET YOUR THOUGHTS ON WHAT HAPPENED TWO WEEKS AGO.

DID YOU HAVE A STRATEGY IN MIND FOR YOUR MATCH WITH OSYRUS?

DID YOU THINK YOU WERE DOING THE RIGHT THING IN COSTING FEJONA HER MATCH TWO WEEKS AGO?

HOW IS YOUR ARM? STILL WASTED?

WILL YOU GO OUT WITH ME TONIGHT? I LIKE FRENCH FOOD.

DO YOU THINK I'M FAT?

WHAT DO YOU THINK FEJONA MIN HAS IN STORE FOR YOU NEXT?"

Quincy Mama blinked, as he clutched his left arm. Yes, the same one which got decimated last week at the hands (and feet) of Osyrus. Jenna noticed this and opened her mouth to unleash another string of weird questions. But, Quinton stopped her.

How? By slapping her in the fucking face.

Wellll, I lie. He simply raised the index finger of his right hand to his lips, non-verbally telling Jenna to shut the hell up. McMullen did just that and thrusted the microphone into Quincy's face. Answers were a-comin'.

"No. Yes. YES. No. Yes. Don't know, don't care." the Rising Star replied in the most stoic of voices, effectively answering every single one of Jenna's questions. Two of the answers, of course, made Jenna pout like a little girl.

But, hell, the Canadian Gladiator was not in a good mood.

And he had more to say. "Listen, Jenna. I'm sorry for being blunt. I'm not in the best state of minds. It seems that whenever I'm at an ACW event nowadays, there's always something going down that involves me.

I'm sick of it, personally. These cryptic sayings by Fejona Min? Getting on my nerves. All this secrecy, all the mystery.

Plus, my arm is hurting like hell. Two weeks, and it stil fucking hurts. I suppose that's what you get when you're involved in two promotions. In a way, last week's show being cancelled was a godsend, but then, perhaps we should have been told SOONER?

Bah, I'm just ranting now.

I have to go. Preparation for my match, and all. Later."

With a shrug of the shoulders like he was sorry for being so crass and whatnot, Quinton May shut the door on Jenna McMullen, and retreated back into his own shell. Jenna, somewhat furious but keeping her cool, turned to the cameras and shrugged her shoulders too.

Then, she fucked off. End of story.

... Um, yeah. End of segment, too, boyo. 

“For most of human history we have searched for our place in the cosmos. Who are we? What are we? We find that we inhabit an insignificant planet of a hum-drum star lost in a galaxy tucked away in some forgotten corner of a universe in which there are far more galaxies than people. We make our world significant by the courage of our questions, and by the depth of our answers. - Carl Sagan"

As twilight crept across the skies of the Canadian backdrop; outside of the venue, which hosted the fourth stop on All-Star Championship Wrestling’s tour…a certain sulking enigma sat perched on top of a four door sedan type vehicle, watching spectators for tonight’s upcoming future proceedings meander by, as he let his thoughts drift into a dangerous & subconscious state of mind. A place where his hatred rose to an extreme boiling point; seeing the ACW loyalist standing in line for something that should of died a long time ago, tightly squeezing his right hand into a righteous fist, simultaneously stabbing himself with his long un-manicured fingernails in the process. Despite the physical displeasure he felt, opening his taped hand to reveal small healed incisions in his palm, the emotional pain was the most damaging factor to God’s Forgotten Son.

Only if he had the strength within to truly reveal himself to them, exposing those skeletons in his preverbal closet, the people could identify with GFS for the first time. Experiencing similar emotions they may drive anyone at anytime to the brink of insanity; the possibility of undying love not returned, the feeling of being shun after all your selfless dedication to the cause. Feelings that left you with the empty, incomplete feeling in the pit of your stomach, wondering why fate had dealt you a bad hand…as you ponder if the cold steel in your back; could get any colder. Especially when something like unexpected death reared its hideous form, crippling your beliefs, and you knew that there was no one that could set thing s right.

But sadly, even if the populace could relate, the virtual unknown knew that the people would never accept his reasoning for what had to be done in the end of his journey. By that time, God’s Forgotten Son would have obtained all the metal & physical power that he ever desired.

The population that inhabited the continental United States of America and some parts of the European countries only cared about themselves, and one life or existence meant nothing to them, as long as they survived as whole. Including the death of the oddest individual, who continued to impress ACW fans in the KOA tourney…although the masses did not appreciate the fact that GFS was reborn anew, before he could actually return to the young company. That revelation made the multi-colored hair youngster shake his head in the disgust, whilst the howling winds from the North caressed him, gently brushing past his broad shoulders which were covered by the torn leather material of his jacket-hoodie.

An extra gust of air made the pages of his journal, in between his spread legs; dance about while God’s Forgotten Son jotted down an important note. These notes were more like an encrypted hieroglyphics, depicting the terrorist type of actions that GFS would have no choice but to inflict on those who stood in his way, if his questions were not answered in the manner…he always envisioned them would be uttered, from the lips of the guilty party. When that day would finally arrive, the liable will realize that the dangerous people are the ones least expected, and the creatures would aid GFS on his quest for knowledge would be godlike.

Would it be wrong if numerous men & women who felt the exact same way, about what needed to be done, even if one person or numerous people had to die in the process…so the wrong doings could be set right? Confidently striding over all obstacles together as one, like Moses separating the great oceans in half, rather than simply treading water like a skipping pebble…before sinking to the depths of the unknown. God’s Forgotten Son would make sure that he would succeed in his ultimate goal, closing his notebook temporarily as the monstrous Wallace turned to him.

Motioning to the watch on his left wrist; the faithful guardian reminded his client that it was time for the duo make their leave, as GFS stood on the hood of some ACW audience goers’ vehicle before leaping off as the concrete nestled itself in the crevices of his steel toe boots.

Suddenly his composed, brooding and emotionless demeanor gradually chipped away as God’s Forgotten Son clinched his right fist when something disturbing crossed his path. A few steps way; a young couple drunkenly staggered toward the entrance of the arena, stumbling with each stride whilst their alcohol induced breath, polluted GFS’s environment…before he charged forward having had experienced enough disrespect. While his young suitor walked off, the gargantuan trainer looked down, there laid the intriguing journal. As God’s Forgotten Son only confidante, he began to become curious as to what was written on those old black pages, which could reveal all the mysterious inner demons that plagued his former student over years & years of torment.

Wallace swiftly pushed back the decorated cover red covering; admiring the devilish facial expression of the half demon & half innocent child drawing, whose sinister eyes reminded him of GFS, who reached the couple as the made their way to the cement staircase that leads downward into the venue. Returning his attentive eyes back to the piece of paper, Wallace began to read to himself:

this is where is all begins; a great person once told me that I should write down all my inner thoughts, so someday when I am long gone, dead and buried…they will understand what I was going through. Understand my trials and tribulations as I travel along this unexplainable journey into the unknown. Will I become successful in my search for knowledge? Who knows, except for the higher beings above? Will I survive in my quest for answers?

Again, I have no idea what is going to happen.

The truth needs to be exposed, because it’s been far too long. A very long time indeed, since I first felt this coldness in my heart and an empty feeling in my soul. But I’m not doing this completely for myself. You know who I’m doing this for; all the pain and anguish, disappointment as another stone is unturned. I can not let all this greatness forced upon me go to waste, he would not accept anything less than perfection.

Wallace’s reading was interrupted by a woman’s alarming shriek as he began to run to its point of origin. When he finally arrived; God’s Forgotten Son stood triumphantly over the fetal cradled female bystander, who was still petrified but more worried about her male counterpart, half way down the stairs. That man’s blood stained the flight of steps, some DNA on the walls as the woman began to cry to herself, whilst looking up at the fuming hooded ACW grappler. God’s Forgotten Son glanced at the recovery chap, before he glared at the female fan of the wrestling promotion, and then slowly pointed into distance.

“Go home, you don’t belong here.” GFS stated softly as he calmly walked away, Wallace shook his head at the unprovoked assault as more folks walked up to check on the couple. Face to face with his bodyguard, God’s Forgotten Son looked down at his prized possession in Wallace’s right hand, before GFS looked his giant guardian in his crystal blue eyes. Wallace did not want to set off the youngster, so he slowly extended out his arm and handed over the journal, easy as that. And the duo disappeared into the shadows that lead into the Canadian venue, as more questions circulated amongst traumatized ACW fans.

Was ACW safe anymore?

Winston Smith Junior, the manager, albeit a somewhat estranged one, strode effortlessly down the corridor before hearing the now accustomed tirade of abuse from a certain Mr. Osario’s mouth.

“Motherfucker, home-motherfucking-fry bitch ass… bitch!”

“His vocabulary could do with articulating…” Winston smiled to himself.

As he came to the door, he noticed a pile of clothes on the floor, some his own…

“Tyson, what has happened here?”

“It’s gone!”

“What’s gone?”

“IT… dawg IT!!!”

“And, ‘it’ would be?”

“My dad’s jersey… shit… it’s the only thing he ever gave me… where is it?!”

“I’m sure it’s here somewhere…”

“THAT THING IS ALL I FUCKING HAVE!”

“Tyson, please… calm down.”

“Calm down?! CALM DOWN?! Motherfucker…. If I don’t find it… I’ll lose, shit it’s my good luck charm, it’s everything!”

“Is that it?”

“NO! You idiot…”

Time seemed to stand still as Tyson’s face contorted a million times over… his face screwing into the tightest of balls… eyes dilated, feeled with abhorrence…

“He took it…” the words caressed the ears of Winston…

“Vance… is going to die.” Tyson spoke as solemnly as he ever did.

“Oh… yes…” Winston seemed to hesitate. “Tyson, must I remind you that you have a bout next? Seriously, you should focus.”

Tyson had already lost… in his mind… the jersey was his key to winning… giving him energy… it was everything… everything… fuck… fuck… the biggest night of his life… and… this…

He independently crept towards the ring, eventually sliding underneath the bottom rope. The fans, astonished, watched his every move. Azrael quickly pulled out a microphone from his tights.

All the eyes encircling him grew wide.

"I have been silenced long enough!" screamed Azrael into the microphone.

The crowd could not believe what they witnessed. Azrael Asesino brought the microphone up to his masked face and began to speak in a Mexican accent. "Since day one in ACW Torres has controlled my actions and thoughts to the point of abuse. And on the last Courage Torres crossed the line. He ridiculed me in front of you fans, people that I actually care about.

"Back in June when talks of joining All-Star Championship Wrestling came to the table Torres told me that he had this idea that would quickly get me to the top. Like any young kid I went with the idea. I was desperate to make it big somewhere, and at that time I would have done anything. So, Torres told me that he would handle everything and anything in ACW... contracts, matches, money... you name it and he would control it. I basically would be his tool for success. And, I was."

Azrael paused and looked around to the fans.

"But, it's been going on long enough. I can't stand around and let a maniac control my life any longer. I have this Scorpion Title around my waist right now, but I haven't even defended it yet because of him. Well, that's about to change...."

Suddenly the lights dimmed and a spotlight shined on the entrance ramp. Torres stood with a grim expression on his face, and a microphone in hand. He immediately began to speak. "Hold it right there, Asesino. I was the best thing that ever happened to you, mang, and you know it. Your career has skyrocketed since I've taken you under my wing. And God dammit I'm the greatest manager to have ever lived. You need me, Azrael."

Torres walked closer and closer towards the ring. He seemed as if he was pleading for Azrael not to break away from him.

"I might have said some inappropriate things last week on Courage, but I didn't mean them. I was furious. That EGN character is a bastard, and together we're going to dispose of him."

Azrael, in an act of defiance, cut Torres off.

"Hold it right there, Torres. Together? I have fought your battles long enough. I've been a champion that hasn't defended his belt long enough. I want to make a difference. I want to make the fans happy. You're not part of the solution anymore, Torres. All you do is get in the way," Azrael stated.

"You are a moron," Torres spit out. He now seemed irritated. "You first come crawling to me in June looking for work, and now you treat me like this after you have seen a glimpse of glory and success in ACW? I've made you, Azrael. You're nothing without me. And you're obligated to stay with me until the pay-per-view. It's under contract...Meaning I control your every move up until King of Ages. So how do you like that?" questioned Torres with a proud look on his face, who was now at the edge of the ring.

Azrael spat on the ground, and stated coldly, "You are a snake." After a brief pause he began to speak once again, "Yet, I'll fulfill my obligation. Now if you'll excuse me I have a match, I don't want to waste the fans time any long with your bull crap." Azrael threw down the microphone. Through his mask you could see his eyes narrow as he looked at his manager. Torres stood at the edge of the ring and could not believe what had happened. Everything he had worked for had fallen apart in a second.

Jenna McMullen was out to make an impression.

"SILVERHAWK, A FANTASTIC WIN THERE TO PUT YOU TO THE NEXT ROUND OF THE TOURNAMENT, WHAT IS YOUR SECRET?"

"I don't have any secrets, what you see is what you get with the HAWK."

"BUT WHAT ABOUT YOUR CHANCES OF WINNING THE TOURNAMENT, SOME PEOPLE ARE EVEN ASKING WHY YOU ARE RISKING YOURSELF TRYING TO WIN THE TOURNAMENT WHEN YOU CAN'T GO FOR THE WORLD TITLE AGAIN."

SilverHAWK sighed.

"Who gives a fuck about Alias' little title, I'm in this for the US Title, it'll bring back some memories for me to hold that title again, and hopefully bring some sort of respect back to the title."

Jenna fixed her tit, and then looked into camera.

"SO HERE FROM RINGSIDE, THIS IS JENNA MCMULLEN, BACK TO YOU JR!"

Perpetually Divine - For Now Untold Truths Shall Stay Untold 

The events that unfolded during last week’s edition of Courage between Simian Kade and Lancett didn’t leave a lot of questions of peoples’ minds. It became abundantly clear that the two aren’t exactly best of friends, as Lancett cost Simian his King of Ages match against GFS and Fejona Min. However, Kade wasn’t too kind not to return the favor, as made it his business to exact revenge later that evening in their tag team match up.

However, wounds of the chance that was left behind still bleed one week later. And those very same wounds seem to be in the forefront of the mind of Simian Kade.

“Randy…” Simian called as he marched down the long corridor. “Tonight is judgement day, my friend.”

He ran his hand along the wall that was parallel to him. As he peaked around the corner to check if Lancett was coming his way, he stopped. The search that had been going on for the last ten minutes or so was halted, as the telephone in Simian’s pocket began to ring. He sighed; he knew who this was.

He let it ring for another moment before reaching into his pocket and abruptly pressing the power button on the phone.

This night was shaping up to be one that he would not soon forget.

"Bullshit!"

The voice of Lancett roared over the routine negative reaction settled in as Lancett held a microphone backstage wearing a 'Lancett Is The Future' shirt, of course. Everyone knew what he was talking about because only one big thing has happened to Lancett in the past couple of events.

He continued, "I was purely cheated out of the win by that Mexican, El Gattah-take-a-shit, but this isn't the end of Lancett in King of Ages; BECAUSE I AM THE TRUE KING!"

He seemed confident and pretty sure of this statement, but the fans didn't agree (not surprising), "I mean the ACdub couldn't put more weight on me with my trainer coming and messing my career up in ACdub just like he did in hWo." He looked too the side and then got even more focused to his speech, "Not anymore."

"Vincent can beat me into a massacre to make the Valentine's Day Massacre look like a softy, can do anything he wants to do, but one thing is for damn sure: he will never ... and I mean never ... keep me down. As much as he tries, I will come back for him to make him wish he was apart of the Valentine's Day Massacre."

He eyes were locked on the camera, he breathed hard, he meant every word, and the proof was the flame you saw in his spirit through his flaring eyes.

"He pushed me around in hWo, but he wont push me around in ACdub."

He took a breather and moved on, "So if that isn't enough, Simian Kade, he is going to try to make me look bad, eh? He is going team up with Alias, whom only has the title nowadays due to me passing out and not giving him one hundred percent of pure talent and a defeat. He will never - ever - be able to beat me one, two, three." He counted along with his hand.

"Time and time again I get chances to make it become Lancett's Legacy! But time and time again it slips from my fingers; a lap in destiny slips away. 

Without a shadow of a doubt, I have always had it in my grasp.

First off, hWo Championship: I touched it during the ladder match, then that gosh forsaken Vince Jacobs screwed me! Screwed over his own student! Out of a title he didn't deserve to hold. Second, Carnage World Championship: The event before I had my title match it folded. Life's a bitch.

Thirdly, ACW World title: I passed out, I PASSED OUT during the Alias/Lancett main event match. Which is the only reason why Alias didn't go down to a legendary Lancett-ation. Fourth, ACW US title: I was eliminated from the King of Ages, which everyone here in Canada thinks is totally bullshit - am I not right?

Finally, ACdub Television Championship. Way back in early May, I ha--"

"--What about it?" Off-screen to the right, Lancett was interrupted by the man who proudly wore the gold, and the fans cheered wildly for that man, who was about to go out to the ring and do what he did best.

Lancett and... Quinton May were face-to-face, sharing the same microphone now, the TV Title glimmering as it was draped over the right shoulder of Quincy Mama. Lancett looked at the title, then to Quincy, the former's eyes narrowing. This was the second time in three weeks the two men had met backstage.

Two weeks ago, in an unaired segment, Quinton arrived in the backstage area after having gotten a bit of revenge on Fejona Min in the second KOA quarter-final, and ran into Lancett, who was still seething over his loss to EGN. The two men had a staredown, before Lancett made fun of Quincy's hair. May, in return, called Lancett 'Randy' and went on his way.

Yeah, that was it. Weird bastards.

"You. You were the problem, Quinton." Lancett replied, allowing his acid tongue to speak freely again. "Maybe you were too good back then, or maybe you just got that damn lucky, but who knows. Maybe we should figure out... I do need a warm up 
before my match-up against Ecks, who is almost at the back of my mind in worries.

How about it, Quincy?"

Quinton May chuckled, somewhat disbelievingly. "I'm not a warm-up to you, Lancett. And you're one to talk about luck, heh. You're the lucky one to get all these title shots, and yet, you don't take advantage of them. You choked. Example? Sayyy, how about that time when you had a shot at the ACW's World Title, eh?"

Lancett interrupted, getting agitated now. "Like I said, I passed out due to the brutal match-up I had with Frost and a brutal one it was. I didn't have enough in me. I left hWo with my head low, and I left the arena that night with my head hung low for not having defeated Alias...

... but I'll win that title off you with my head held high; also my hand will be raised high over you as you look at the lights, or maybe you'll look at the champ - 'The Megastar' Lancett. Because, simply put, it's MY time to shine."

Quincy butted in, completely bemused. "Randy, mate, you run your mouth a hell of a lot but you haven't really shown anyone what you claim to be made of. In any event, if you want a shot at me and my TV Title, AGAIN, you're going to have to wait in line. Maybe, after the KING OF AGES PPV, eh? I've got a long list of enemies, if you didn't know."

"Ooooh, how convenient." Lancett fired back, getting right into Quincy's face now. "Screw the small talk, like you said. I want my match with you next week. I don't care if you have one next week already, and I don't care who it's against. I have had two matches in one night, and so have you. You've got nothing to be afraid of, right?

Unless, the big Canadian hero is too damn chicken?"

Quinton May raised an eyebrow, tickled by Lancett's brand of humour. Somehow, Lancett had managed to get under his skin, though, and without really even thinking things through, May foolhardily reached a decision. That thing called pride? Yeah, it rules us all.

Quincy Mama was no exception.

"Yeah, OKAY. We'll see what happens next week, eh?" Quinton finally quipped back.

And without waiting for Lancett to reply, Quinton walked off, to prepare himself for his match. Last-minute stretches and such; you know the drill. Lancett, meanwhile, watched the Canadian Gladiator disappear down the hallway with a smirk on his face and his arms all folded up.

The man was confident. "Thus the legacy, the lap of destiny, and ACdub's real purpose and future begins ... next week."

Maybe TOO confident? As Quinton himself said, we shall see. 

Somewhere surrounded by the excited crowd, he crouched down near the guard rail, watching the action take place before his unresponsive gaze. As unknown individuals passed in front of his unwavering observation, God’s Forgotten Son kept a close watch, especially if his point of interest truly intrigued him deeply. He had waited for this moment long enough, virtual year after year and now he had enough power & confidence to move onto the next stage in his plan. Would it turn out the way he envisioned it, their first face to face meeting, although he has known this man for years? God’s Forgotten Son learned everything he could about this mysterious person; where he ate, where he slept and what exercise was this individual’s favorite, thanks to detailed research.

Now was the time for the duo to ‘make a move’ so to speak as God’s Forgotten Son leapt from his hiding place, the crowd roared in admiration as he slide into the ring swiftly in the blink of an eye, unbeknownst to the ACW Legend who had use the ropes to regain his vertical base inside of the ring. SilverHawk sneered as he looked out in the crowd, not knowing that a visitor stood right behind him, in addition to larger behemoth on the arena floor cracking his fat knuckles. As Hawk continued to play to the crowd, back pleading while using various hand gestures, he bumped right into the unyielding GFS, whose cold gaze looked down upon the former ACW champion…who froze in place.

Thinking it was the lousy referee trying to steal his spot light; Hawk immediately unleashed a vicious backfist that cracked GFS upside the face, but the youngster stood his ground, unaffected by SilverHawk’s surprising attack. When Hawk realized who it was; at first he smiled but that smile slowly washed away as he waited for a counter strike, which never came. The ACW veteran looked deeply into the emotionless eyes of GFS, who seemingly stared a hole through Hawk until smiling thinly. Taking a couple of steps back, the Miami native finally noticed Mr. Wallace on the outside, in addition to the fresh blood, which stained the sleeves of GFS’s jacket and taped fist, then and only then Hawk decided that he would take his leave…dropping down as he rolled under the ring ropes.

SilverHawk never took his eyes off the duo for one second, who did the same to the aforementioned, not until Hawk reached the black drapes as the fans yelled for him to come back to the ring, before ultimately disappearing backstage. Still in the ring, God’s Forgotten Son watched the stage, before finally being snapped out his trance by Mr. Wallace who motioned their departure. Pushing the fans out of their as the moved through the crowd; what else was going to happen between ACW’s greatest legend, and the enigma who claimed to be the past, the present and the future?

So, there they were.

Who? The Feared Ninja Assassins, that's who. All four of them were walking down the hallway, decked out in their gear. Apparently, they weren't in a good mood. Want to know why?

Their quest to run over ACW was failing. Miserably. More than miserably, really.

"So, Raphael. You said you would make up for your disappointing loss to Yuri Yates two weeks ago. We've been waiting for two weeks to find out how exactly you are going to do that. Care to let us in?" Donatello, the leader of the gang, asked.

Raphael grunted. "Okay, well. We're going to find Yuri Yates, and we're going to insult him and his mother, and his mother's mother. Simple? Sure. Effective? It will be."

Michelangelo was incredulous. Raphael's big plan seemed quite weak. And, stupid.

"Dude, your plan sounds kinda weak. And, not to mention, stupid!" Michelangelo exclaimed, as the quartet turned a corner and proceeded down a hallway that was even narrower. "And what's this talk about 'WE', huh? This is supposed to be YOUR OWN MESS you're supposed to fix!

Has nothing to do with us, bro."

Raphael chuckled sardonically. "You're wrong. It does involve us. Because, let's face it, the vandalism thing two weeks ago didn't work. No news was generated. Every act we've ever attempted since showing our faces here has garnered little to no attention at all.

This thing with Yuri? Ohhhh, trust me, it'll be the talk of the town.

Yuri *is* already the talk of the town. One win over MOI and he's got a match with the esteemed Champion. Who, I hear, takes it up the bum every single god-damn night. But hey, we're not here to pass judgment. Not on him, anyways.

He's a waste of breath and time.

Yuri Yates, though, is something special. Unlike the three of you, I have had this planned since two weeks ago, when I told you all I was going to book myself in a match. I thought ahead, and planned accordingly. Me losing to him? Okay, sure, that wasn't quite part of the scheme, but it opened up some possibilities.

These possibilities, my dear comrades, is what *WE* are going to exploit right now."

Donatello genuinely seemed impressed by how confident Raphael sounded. The latter came across as someone who had really taken measures to plot everything out nicely. Granted, all the FNAs had done since they decided to declare WAR~! on ACW was to plot meticulously, but even without being executed, Raphael's plan had momentum.

Michelangelo was suddenly at a loss of words, sharing the same thoughts as Donatello. Leonardo, who'd been quiet the entire time, wasn't quite on the same page, though. But, with nothing constructive to offer, he remained tight-lipped. For now.

Obviously, Raphael was pleased at the lack of objections.

Having neared their destination, Raphael held his hand up, motioning for his comrades to freeze in their tracks. Which they did. Peeping around a wall, Raph giggled, before turning to face his betheren with a serious look on his face.

"If I could be serious for a moment." he stated, a'la Lance Storm. Donatello nodded. Fag.

Raphael cleared his throat and leaned in, the four Ninjas forming a circle now. "Yuri and his manager are around the corner, down the hall. Talking about chicken. We are going to go up to him and unload a quickfire series of harsh insults aimed at his mother.

The idea is to make sure these insults sting as badly as possible, so that they will ring in his head for the remainder of the night. And thereby, once he gets beat by Mr Jennifer Garner later on, he'll have no one to problem but his conscience. I mean, there HAS to be a reason why he keeps hearing the insults in his head, right?

What he doesn't know won't kill him, though. Simple as. You guys got it?"

Donatello nodded. Leonardo nodded. Michelangelo... also nodded. All three of them understood, but whether they saw the sense in the plan or not, was a story for another day. Especially since I'm late with this, and stuff. Koff koff. Hi Ben!

... Annnnyways.

With everything set in place, the Feared Ninja Assassins bowed at each other, and proceeded to turn the corner, advancing on Geoff and Yuri Yates.

"Hey, buttfuckers!" Raphael shouted at the two.

Geoff turned and frowned at the sight of the FNAs. Yuri simply folded his arms. Raph smirked, and snapped his fingers, the signal for the rest to begin with the childlish insulting and all.

"YOUR MOTHER IS A TRAMP!"

"SHE TAKES IT UP THE BUTT FROM A MONKEY!"

"YOUR MOM IS SO FAT, SHE BLOTTED OUT THE SUN FROM THE SKY WHEN SHE JUMPED FOR JOY!"

"... YOUR MOM SUCKS MORE COCKS THAN JENNA JAMESON!"

Cackling like a bunch of teenagers who'd just found out what 'vulva' means, the Feared Ninja Assassins scampered off into the night, disallowing Yuri and Geoff a chance to rebutt or even make heads and tails of what just transpired. Geoff's frown just grew, and he rolled his eyes.

Yuri, though, seemed somewhat distraught, for whatever reason.

"Don't listen to them, Yuri. Let's get back to the strategy for your match." Geoff advised. Yuri nodded, but, no, he couldn't shake the nagging feeling. The insults now resonated in his mind, bouncing off the walls of his brains.

Mission accomplished, then, FNAs? 

“Sorry about the…” Kade paused and smiled, he was visibly nervous. He made a slow punching motion in front of his stomach, recalling the events that had taken place just a short time ago. They both shared a laugh.

Becky, as beautiful as ever even with the ice pack pressed against her skin ran her free hand through her hair. She wasn’t exactly on the calm side of the fence either.

Both had been through a lot with each other, and not just tonight. But it was this journey that had made Simian realize something. She saw something in his eyes. Something she didn’t like. It was a look she had never seen from him during the time that they had been apart. It was a look of…

… Of closure.

He now knew the cause of his anger. He now knew the cause of his pain. For the last few months he had been blaming both of these on the alcohol. That was until tonight. He now knew better. As her silky hair glistened in the white light Kade began to see through her for the first time. Sure he had hated her before, but for entirely different reasons. When they split up, and up until this point, his hatred for her was derived from one thing – jealousy.

She was no longer his, and that angered him. However, he now saw through her divine exterior. He saw who she really was.

Satan had a new name.

Satan had a new figure.

Satan was…

Beautiful.

But sadly, Satan was still Satan. Evil as ever, sinister as could be.

He watched carefully as she removed the ice pack from her swollen eye. She reached forth and clutched his hands. He looked down for a second, wondering how long he could last until he struck her again. Except this time, he thought, it may be purposely.

He raised his head up so their eyes met. She again saw the look, and she now knew this was the time the news had to be broken. She sighed heavily as Simian kept his stare. As she lowered her head her next words would pierce his heart much the same as a thousand daggers.

“I’m pregnant,” she said, slowly raising her head. The expression on the Fallen Angel’s face was one of mundane emotion. But his stomach had turned over a good three times by now, and his mind was racing with so many thoughts speaking was a near impossibility.

She patted his hands gently as his head lowered.

He was seeking closure, but what he got was the gateway to the next chapter of their lives.

Defeat… he’d never tasted it before.

Never in his life had he lost.

He was a competitor, down to his very last breath.

He’d given his all…

No wait.

He hadn’t, and that was what disappointed him the most. This whole thing about always being prepare, always being focused.

Like the façade of the night, shattered into a million shards of empty glass. Each one a barbed sting in the soul of one, Tyson Osario.

He sat… for once, alone, for once, silent, for once defeated.

Looking for answers…

Looking deep within…

Nothing…

…

…

The darkness in the room cloaked him… as he immersed himself deeper and deeper…. Sliding away.

The silence was broken by a slight knock on the door.

…

Tyson did not move nor uttered a single word.

Again, the same rap on the door.

Light slowly pierced the darkened room… casting a gloomy shadow of Osario on the far wall.

The effervescent voice of Winston Smith Junior broke the decadence… “Tyson, are you feeling okay?”

…

Nothing.

“Really, it could have happened to anyone tonight…”

His assurances meant nothing.

“Would you…”

“Vance.” Tyson cut off Winston.

“Vance?”

“Vance.” His voice jagged, and cutting…

“What about him?”

“He’s dead…”

“No, I can assure you he’s very much alive.”

“He’s cost me the chance of immortality Junior…”

…

“How so?”

Tyson jumped to his feet from the chair with which he was seated, and crashed through Winston… he was loose…

“I hope this Vance chap is hard to find…” his laugh was almost satanical…

Carter look at his watch.

"He's late."

He looked at the empty seat beside him.

He scratched his recently shaved dome, long hair was never his thing, but he had kept the beard somewhat...his recent influx into civilization meant having to groom himself a little better.

Wide life didn't care if you had growth or not.

Suddenly he felt a shift in weight as the next seat was now filled.

A large man with a gray hooded jumper sat down, and leaned forward, making sure his face was covered as he looked into his huge palms.

"I thought you weren't going to show..."

A large man grumbled.

"Why watch this trash when you can be outside, watching the sun set."

Carter shook his head.

"I never knew you much back in the day, but you are definitely weirder than I thought."

He pulled back and darted a look of anger into Carter's face, who looked straight back at him, along the line, one of the kids caught a glimpse of the man, as he widened his pupils and growled at the young boy.

He started to cry.

"Make sure you make Alias cry."

He sniggered.

"I'll break anyone who stands in that ring by the end of the night."

Azrael wandered the halls aimlessly, wondering where he went wrong in his match against Silverhawk in the Quarterfinals of the King of Ages tournament. His deep thought was soon interrupted by Torres. 

"Pathetic, Azrael. Absolutely pathetic. Look what you've started. You're going to be a time bomb without me around. Things could have been different, but you had to go open your big mouth," Torres finished extremely disappointed.

"Hah. You act as if tonight was a total loss, Torres. But, it was not. Tonight will mark the day that I finally broke free from an egotistical tyrant of a manager. Tonight will mark the day that I finally stood up for myself and did what was right, rather than what I was told to do. This is my greatest feat," Azrael stated.

Torres just simply shook his head. 

"I could have made you into something great. Something unstoppable in this wrestling world. I could have made you into a legend, Asesino. Now you'll be nothing."

Azrael simply picked up his pace as he walked away from Torres.

"Don't walk away while I'm talking to you!" Torres screamed. But, Azrael continued to walk away. He finally had turned his back on Torres. He would not be held down by Torres any longer, not after King of Ages at least.... 

As the last security guard piled into the room, the bloodied fist of Tyson Osario was finally restrained… his body kicking and screaming… beneath his wake, Vance ‘Osario’.

“I swear I never took it…” Vance’s face was a bloodied mess… his hands clutching the priceless heirloom… the jersey covered in blood.

“Motherfucking thieving bitch!” Tyson bellowed

“I didn’t… it was here…”

“You cost me immortality bitch!” Once more, Tyson dived onto the sprawled Vance, nailing him across the nose… security intervened.

“Tyson…” Vance spluttered… “I didn’t take shit…”

T.O… raged on further still, “Explain this then!? Explain it!”

Vance stuttered… “I can’t…”

Security ushered Osario from the room… “This ain’t over dawg! Ya hear me?! Next week… you cost me… you cost me!”

The security team move Tyson along the corridor…

From the confines of the shadows… Winston Smith Junior emerges…

“Hello Vance…”

Vance moves his head slowly…

“Did you like my stunt?”

Vance slowly listens in more…

“You see, Tyson has so much pent up rage. It needs to be released… and released in such a manner that will make him great. Whether he likes it or not… this is all for his own good. I see, it perhaps is not for your own good.” The evil smirk grips his face… “And… to fulfil his potential… you will feel the full force. I could care less about his father, or his mother or him. He shall catapult my managerial talents into national fame… and well, if he hurts people in the way, then so be it.”

“You piece of crap…Why?”

“You see Vance… Mr. Osario is in debt to my family… and… well, as you can see, I can manipulate the fool to do any of my wishes, as I so desire. He obviously, is too fuelled on testosterone to see clearly, so I shall abuse him as I wish.”