introduction - the past one hundread  shows have been filled with murder, betrayal, and all sorts of elements and acts which would constitute as illegal in many states and countries all over the globe. As the one hundredth edition of Courage begins to tick over, ACW stands at a proverbial crossroads...but what many don't know is there are more roads leading to nowhere than anywhere else.

we could make jibes at the feds that have come and gone.

the feds that have said they are better.

the feds that have said they are bigger.

the feds that have said that they are stronger.

form is temporary.

class is permanent.

four years in the making...courage 100

Trouble On The Horizon

Paperwork, everywhere. All over his desk. On the floor. Stuffed in between the encyclopedias on the bookshelf across the room (said encyclopedias have never been read, most are still covered by a sheet of thin plastic).

Lowell sat at his desk, nearly pulling his hair out as he peered out over the documents and unopened envelopes.

Miles Stout, Chief Financial Officer, paced the floor. "Lowell, we're really fucked now. I mean, fuck fuck fucking shit... did you even THINK that this kind of illegal activity might attract attention?"

Lowell hovered over his desk, snorting lines- grabbing handfuls of coke and shoved them into his face. SNOOOOOOORT. "Ofcourse not! I didn't even know it *WAS* illegal! I just figured it was something rich people do in order to STAY rich! Why didn't you tell me!!"

"I THOUGHT YOU KNEW! THIS ISN'T ROCKET SCIENCE! ACW IS GOING DOWN IN FLAMES AND IT'S YOUR GODDAMN FAULT!"

"DON'T SAY THAT!" SNOOOOOOOOOORT. "DON'T YOU FUCKING SAY THAT!" Deep calming breath. "ACW... ACW's gonna be fine. Just- just sell wunna my houses or some of the shit IN my houses..."

Miles stared at Lowell, stone-faced. "Lowell... they've taken EVERYTHING.

"You don't have anything left to sell... as of eight o'clock this morning your mansions, your private jet, your cars- THEY'RE BEING PREPPED FOR AUCTION!"

Lowell sat back in his chair, arms drawn over the sides... he thought for a second, just a split second- before the coke-induced haze returned- and replied, "Okaaaay, this is what we're going to do...

"Pack my bags."

>.>

<.<

Miles replied, "What!? You think you're going to leave me here to pick up the pieces?"

"Leave you here?" Lowell answered. "No, nooo- you can come, too! We'll fly to some lawless country and rebuild my empire! WHUTTA BOUT IRAQ???"

"Iraq!? I'm not going to fucking Iraq!"

The Lord was already on his feet, walking around the office taking things off the shelves and stuffing them into his duffle bag. "WHY? WHY WON'T YOU COME WITH?" Lowell pouted, while holding a golden globe in his hands (an actual globe, not the award).

Miles freaked out, "BECAUSE THIS IS INSANITY!! IT'S OVER, LOWELL! YOU'RE BROKE! IT'S TIME TO FACE FACTS: YOU'RE GOING TO JAIL."

"Jail? Nuh-uh, nooooo way... I've heard the horror stories. I've seen Prison Break. I know "wassup". They aren't taking ME to jail! Fuck that shit! I'll give them every reason to shoot me before I allow them to haul me off to the big house! THERE'LL BE A FIREFIGHT UP IN 'HURR BEFORE I DO HARDTIME!!!" Lowell picked up a chordless phone. Small, compact. Sleek. He held it up, turning to Miles, "What if I threaten 'em with THIS?"

"A phone?"

"No....

A phaser.

Like offa' Star Trek and shit!

PEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEeeeeeeeerr!!

Ye ye YE!

Boiiiiiiiiii!"

Here Again, Part One

It had been a long time since he had been...here. Six months to be more precise, the last time he had been anywhere near a wrestling arena, and that didn't turn out too well.

Him, fired. Him, arrested in his hotel room. Him, nearly dying in the police car due to an immense overdose. So yeah, things could have went better to say the least.

But six months can change a man you would say...but not this one. Bitter, twisted, reptiles like him never change, they don't know how to, neither do they have the will power to even think that there is anything wrong with them to change in the first place. It's societies fault, not there's. He is your smirking revenge, the devil on the right hand side shoulder. You are the one who is fucked up in the head, they are the completely normal beings of society. Yeah right...

As he walked towards the Nationwide Arena in Columbus, his appearance was far from anything that you would expect of an ACW wrestler, hair down to his shoulders, a beard which was scabby and unclean, a three quarter long trench coat with black jeans and boots, his intention was not to wrestle, hell, it wasn't even to talk about wrestling...infact, his purpose here was purely a means to an end...an end that result in his going through a door in a secure hospital room in New York and repeatedly stabbing it's inhabitant in the heart until it pulsed no more...but that was a while away.

He had yet to figure out one main topic of this whole mission; how exactly to get inside the ACW arena? 

Then the answer came with the slamming of a car boot.

Someone up there does love me...

About one hundread yards from his current position outside the arena, stood what could only have been a local wrestler looking for his big break, a wide smile on his face and a skip in his step as he started to walk towards the main technical entrance. With "STARLET" sketched on the back of his tracksuit top, the young "Starlet" went on his way. Quickly, the unknown figure stepped up his pace as he went to meet him half way, looking left and also right, making sure there was nobody around to see what he was about to do.

Creeping behind the young man, who heard the skittle of a road stone behind him, but as he turned around a sharp thrust into his throat caught him off guard, and begging for oxygen. "Starlet" was then thrust against a parked car as he grasped his throat, gagging for an intake of breath, and as he looked up, and seen the green of his attackers eyes, his own eyes widened, until the last image he witnessed was the swinging of an arm and the impact of a fist which would knock him out cold.

He panted for breath as the young rookie lay unconscious underneath the parked Subaru truck. 

I only need thirty minutes, he'll be here until then.

Rummaging through his bags, he quickly got what he needed, the "Starlet"s papers for the night, ensuring his entrance into the building and also his VIP badge for backstage. He was in...all that was needed now was the main reason he was here; find Lord Lowell.

LAST WEEK
The Deal

The scene changed to LLB who paced back and forth in the backstage area. Mic in hand, the crowd knew he was going to talk and cheered instantly upon seeing it.

Leaning towards the camera, ‘The Law’ glanced in.

They knew what he was going to say.

“OBJECTION!”

Cheer.

“Two weeks ago… after my match… well something I didn’t see coming took place.”

The crowd chanted something along the lines of “Enron” but it couldn’t be made out.

“Some red headed jackass came out and thought it would be cool to beat me up… that’s strike one.

Let’s move on to strike two.

Then this red headed freak said something along the lines of… ‘who told you you could win matches’.” LLB paused. He smiled. “Oh, clever. Let’s take a shot at my losing streak. Wow that’s real witty-OBJECTION. My losing streak ended a while ago. So that’s strike two.

Now strike three.

I don’t understand what this red headed freak wants. Last I checked he beat me which also was a long time ago and that was the end of it. I don’t know if it’s just publicity he wants… or maybe just some hype… but whatever the case, that’s strike three, for pulling off some ridiculous bullshit that wasn’t even needed.”

LLB paused and pulled out a box-cutter.

“But if you just wanted to get a tattoo on your other eye, all you had to do was make a fucking appointment.”

‘The Law’ grinned evilly and walked off.

Gangsta Shit

It was official. Lowell was a felon. Fleeing from the cops. Down the hall he ran, duffle bag slung over his shoulder, constantly looking both ways, not wanting to fall victim to an ambush.

Miles Stout chased after him, screaming, "COME BACK HERE, LOWELL! YOU CAN'T DO THIS!"

Lowell put on the breaks. Spun around. A trembling forefinger shoved in Stout's face. Stout threw his up as well. Two shaking fingers pointed at each other's noses. Lowell hunkered down- not wanting to get caught in a hail of gunfire. "Stout," Lowell's eyes shifted from side-to-side, "You don't understand... I'm a man of great wealth--"

"Not anymore you're not."

Lowell shot him the evil eye. "That being said... I can't allow them to lock me up. There's so much more I want to accomplish.

"Have I ever told you of my dream to build an amusement park in downtown Tokyo? --THING IS..." Uh-oh. Lowell's brain had just kicked into overdrive. "THE RIDES AREN'T SAFE! SHIT'S ALL LOOSE! THE TRACKS ARE MISSING PIECES! THERE'S BLOOD ALL OVER THE CONCRETE BELOW THE FERRIS WHEEL! SHIT LIKE THAT! PEOPLE ALWAYS SAY HOW SCARED THE ARE OF ROLLER COASTERS! CHICKS ESPECIALLY! BUT-BUT WHAT IF WE GAVE THEM A REASON TO BE SCARED? LIKE-LIKE T'SHIT ISN'T SAFE! HAHAHA! IT'S LIKE A FUCKING DEATHTRAP! HEY! THAT'S A WICKED NAME! THAT'S WHAT IT SHOULD BE CALLED! YA READY FOR THIS? LORD LOWELL'S FAMILY DEATHTRAP_! YEAH! THAT'D SELL Y'KNOW? LIKE A FUCKING AMUSEMENT PARK WHERE THE FATALITY COUNT IS LIKE ADVERTISED THERE ON THE FRONT GATE!!!"

Miles blinked. 'He's lost it.'

Twenty yards away a man in an FBI jacket was asking a stagehand where "Dustin Graham" could be found. The stagehand spotted Lowell out of the corner of his eye and pointed. The FBI guy turned and saw Lowell booking it down the hall, Stout a few feet behind, wheezing thanks to his asthma.

LAST WEEK
Change

Coming directly back from a commercial break… Scary Spice’s voice was heard.

“HAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!”

Yo I tell you what I want, what I really really want.

So tell me what you want, what you really reallllllllllllyyyyy wwwwwwww--

The music began to slow down, and then it was cut off. Instantly replaced by “Say Anything” by Mariana’s Trench.

I never took you for a trick but sometimes I don’t know what you want.
I could take it if you need to take this out on someone.

Music.

Cheers.

Lolicon.

He came out in bandages wrapped around his forehead. He walked with a bit of a limp, but as the crowd cheered, he put his fists in the air and almost felt like he could fly down to the ring.

The announcers were stupefied. Was this segment booked? It clearly wasn’t on the Courage-timetable… and one could only wonder how long it would take for Mickey and Jimmy to come down and cut this thing off.

Regardless, the fans were cheering as Lolicon walked up the steel steps and entered through the bottom and middle rope. He walked over to the corner of the ring and was handed a microphone from the ring announcer.

The fans still cheered as Lolicon’s music slowly faded out. But seconds later the jobber made sure to get down to business. This was not a publicity stunt on his behalf.

“Thank you, but it’s time I got into business.” He said. His voice was low and angry. He meant business and was not going to take his time.

“I’m sick of it.” He said looking into the camera. “I am sick and tired of jobbing and being told what to do.

I’ll tell you what else I’m sick of.

I’m sick of Mickey Laroche and Jimmy Righthand… and they’ve only been around here a couple of weeks.

Hell I’m more sick of them than I am about jobbing.”

There were a few light cheers, but the crowd knew Lolicon’s tone was very serious, and he only paused to quickly calm himself down.

“Now before we go any further I came out here by myself. Just me, Lolicon, the ACW jobber. I’m not representing any other jobbers in my speech… just to make that clear.

And you know what, that’s fine with me… because I don’t even care anymore about how anyone else feels. I’m sick and tired of jobbing… so I’m going to come out here and complain about it.

People have come up to me and they ask me, ‘But Lolicon… you were fine with jobbing before. Why did you change your mind?’. And you know what… I don’t know exactly how to answer that right now other than I just got tired.

What’s my job? Why should I HAVE a job?

I go out there and make a bunch of new wrestlers look good. But how can I make them look good if I can NEVER look good.

But you know what started it?

False hope.

We have a jobber tournament… where the winner gets a chance to take on the ACW CHAMPION.

Sure, one of us was only meant to win that… but we all worked hard. We put out incredible matches and we got the fans to stand up and cheer.

What does everyone else do?

Half the fucking roster doesn’t even WRESTLE anymore… and we’re the ones keeping people in the seats.”

Big pop!

“Things were looking up! We were actually being watch-able. Better yet we had a fan base!

Avis Flyfield wins the tournament and yet there still is seemingly hope for all of us.

We put out a great ladder match with Iceman last pay-per-view. Fans were raving that we all looked like superstars.

Excuse me. Let me bold that for you.

Superstars.

But what do we get in return?

Lord Lowell says the hell with us? He hired some douche bag, Mickey Laroche, responsible for creating the prototypical jobber… or whatever the hell he was rambling about. And he wants to put us down and shut us out.

Fine. Whatever.

But that doesn’t make sense when we take up HALF THE GOD DAMN ROSTER!”

Big pop!

“With exception from last week because our stuff got pulled, we have be a mother fucking staple in ACW TV for about two months now…

YET WE ARE LOOKED DOWN UPON. We are yelled at for not being the ‘best’ wrestlers…

Well then my message to ACW is: hire some more god damn talent so we can be drown out again.”

Lolicon paced back and forth in the ring. He took a deep breath and then continued.

“You know what, times have changed. That’s why I don’t want to be a jobber anymore. I have seen the light and I want the light.

If I had to pick between being a joke or being off TV and living on the streets… well call me crazy but I’D PICK THE STREETS.”

The Crowd: “YYYYYEAAAAHHH~!”

“And another thing… I might be called ‘The Japanese Pedophile’ but I don’t even look Japanese. I’m fucking French, man, fucking French. And that might be another thing all in its own but at least I’m not a god damn pedophile.

Oh yeah… and ONE MORE THING…

I don’t want to be called Lolicon anymore. Since I’m not Japanese I want to be called by my real name. Jason Pa--”

Cut off.

By the music of “Millionaire”, Queens of the Stone Age.

“BBBBOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!”

Mickey Laroche and Jimmy Righthand emerged from the entrance way. They both sported big cocky grins on their faces… while Mickey took a deep ddddrrrrraaggg of his smoke and then tossed it on the ground.

“Well well well.” Laroche said as his black teeth showed through his unshaved face. “Lolicon’s pouring his heart out!”

Mickey turned to Jimmy. “Aaawww poor guy. He has it SO tough too. And when he was about to say his real  name I was marking out sssooo much…”

Sarcastic. Lolicon hated sarcasm.

“Well mother fucker, this is your LUCKY day!” Laroche turned to Mickey. “Because Jim and I have decided we’re in a war we might as well drop the first bomb!”

Righthand liked that comment and high-fived Laroche before he continued.

“So on pay-per-view… which is our NEXT show…” Laroche turned to Righthand and muttered. “Whenever it comes out…” He then went on. “You and your jobber friends can FIGHT for FREEDOM! Yes that’s right… three of your friends, Lolicon, AND yourself will do battle with Jimmy Righthand!”

The crowd went wild, thinking it was actually going to be a 4 on 1.

Not a chance.

“Yeah.” Jimmy Righthand said. “But not just me. You see, last week we went out and actually got some people. You know, like, real jobbers. And I’m proud to announce my team right now!”

Righthand turned to the apron and smiled.

“First off, he’s big, he’s fat, and he’s pretty loud and obnoxious… please welcome LIAM MOONEY!!!”

A big, tubby guy walked out. He yelled and screamed into the crowd and danced around like an idiot. He seemed Irish, which only made things worse.

“Second I’d like to welcome what he calls himself… the ‘Human Pinball Machine’. He’s little. He’s bald. He’s not to be confused with the baseball player --because he’s 100000 times better-- please welcome TODD HHHHHEEEEELLLLLTON!!!”

A short, stumpy bald guy came out. He wore a black piece suit and slapped Jimmy Righthand a high-five. The fans laughed as they thought his name, Todd Helton, was very amusing. But Todd was not pleased by it, as he walked over to Liam and stood with folded arms.

“And lastly… she fights for WOMAN jobbers. She’s smart. She’s sexy.” Righthand turned to Mickey, somewhat “off-topic. “But she has this really ugly gap in the middle of her teeth. It’s kind of gross. You could almost sick my dick thro--- aahhh anyway… please welcome Diana ‘Gappy’ Locks!!!”

A somewhat tall, slender woman walked out. She didn’t look half-bad until she smiled… but whatever.

Jimmy tossed the mic back to Mickey.

“On Doomsday there will be an elimination-style 8-man tag team match. If Righthand’s team wins you jobbers MUST go back to jobbing. But if Lolicon’s team wins… you guys get to portray your own characters… the way you want.”

Laroche threw the mic to the floor as “Millionaire” played over the PA, leaving Lolicon standing silently in the middle of the ring.

LAST WEEK
Who’s it going to be?

“Alright guys. This is our chance… but it’s going to be tough. I’m not sure I can take everyone.” Lolicon stated as he looked into his troops. They had been in Lolicon’s locker room for a while now, and were trying to decide which of the other three would fight for their rights (no, not to party) to rid the jobber name.

“It’s okay.” Mac McDeezy said. “I’m not as popular as some of you guys so I’m okay with stepping down and just throwing on my pompoms.

Lolicon looked over to a discouraged Avis Flyfield who sat in the corner. He still hadn’t talked much since he was told he would not be getting his match with Seymour Almasy anytime soon.

“You’re in, Avis.” Lolicon said. Flyfield looked over and forced a slight grin upon his face. Then he took off his propeller hat and spun it once around.

“We need some size.” Preston Baxter said as he glanced across Mr. Wrestling Pi and Mac McDeezy. The Nookie Monster stood there and nodded in approval.

“Alright. You’re in too, Nookie. We need someone to counter Jimmy Righthand’s size.” Looking back towards everyone, it was just down to Preston Baxter and Mr. Wrestling Pi now.

“Rock, paper, scissors?” Preston proposed.

Mr. Wrestling Pi nodded.

“On my call.” Lolicon said. “One, two, three.”

Baxter: rock.

Pi: paper.

Baxter took his loss in stride, as he looked over at Lolicon and laughed. “You know paper shouldn’t reallllly beat rock… but you know.” He smiled and took his place on the bench beside Avis, who still sat on the floor. Preston patted Avis on the head but it didn’t get his attention.

“Yeah, but jobbers aren’t supposed to beat normal wrestlers…” Lolicon added. “But we will.”

“Actually…” Nookie Monster spoke up. “They aren’t normal wrestlers. They’re jobbers too… well, other than Jimmy and Mickey.”

For the first time in a while, Lolicon grinned in reply.

**The scene switched to Mickey Laroche’s office**

“Alright troops…” Jimmy Righthand stated as he marched down the line of three: Liam Mooney, Todd Helton, and Diana Locks. “Tonight is a big night. I fight Avis Flyfield and I EXPECT a victory.”

Righthand looked over at Laroche, who wasn’t really interested since he was trying to get his lighter to work.

“But I know this won’t come easy. Last week Mickey and I had a plan and we were lucky it worked. This week we better have a plan too.”

Jimmy stopped in front of Liam Mooney, who was just itching to act like the big loud idiot he was.

Righthand turned and looked dead into his eyes. “Don’t.”

Jimmy leaned back, as he was much taller than all of them, standing at six-foot-six or so. Liam was only five-nine. Todd Helton was luck to be taller than four feet… and although she was tall for her slim build, Diana was still a good five inches shorter than Jimmy.

“So here’s what’s up.” Righthand continued. “You guys are going to come down to ringside with me. The jobbers will already be down there, because they don’t get an entrance. They’re just supposed to JOB.”

“Fuck. Finally!” Mickey said. His lighter worked.

“Just watch my back… and if Avis tries to fight back, well, I got him. Just watch the others… alright?”

Everyone nodded, although Todd Helton didn’t seem too “thrilled”.

“Is there a problem?” Jimmy asked.

“Oh, no. Not really.” Helton replied. “Just that my name is Todd f’n Helton. You know, that no-talent washed-up clown from the Colorado Rockies? Sure sure he used to be good… but what’s he batting now? Like .280? Pft my grandma could do that. I mean why couldn’t my name be Joe Mauer? Have you seen his average this year? Not to mention he’s dating Miss USA-”

“I don’t care.” Righthand said. “It’s just a name. Half the people here don’t even watch baseball… alright?”

Helton didn’t really agree, but he nodded nonetheless.

“Aaahhhh.” Mickey said as he took a seat in his broken down chair. “Now boys, go out there and make me proud!”

Shit Hits The Fan

Huddled behind a storage crate Lord Lowell and Miles Stout sat catching their breath.

Lowell was the first to speak, "That was a close one! Phew!"

Stout glared at him. "You're damn right it was close. And if it'd been closer we could have ended this whole debacle. I hope you realize the only reason I'm following you is to prevent you from doing something stupid and sticking me with this whole mess."

"Yeah, yeah, whatever... SAY," Lowell's face lit up, "what do you suppose the quickest way out of this place is? I don't want to wind up ensnared."

"LOWELL!!"

Lowell got ready to bolt outta' there – it was surely the cops, come to take him away – but upon further inspection (a 90 degree head turn), he saw that it wasn't the FBI at all.

He let out a girlish squeal, "UUUUUUUUUU. BBBBBBBBBBBB." He jumped to his feet and ran over to meet his 'golden boy.'

U.B. Reynolds -- the crowd jewel of the House of Lords -- stood with the same paranoid look etched across his face. "Lowell, what's going on? I've been questioned, Lowell! They have my name and address! What if they find out about all the jewerly we shoplifted from Charmed Diamond Center!"

Lowell drew his finger up and place it over U.B.'s lips. "Ssssshhhhhh... they aren't going to find out ANYTHING. In fact! You should come with!" Lowell turned to Stout. "We got room for one more, y'think?"

Stout shrugged and gave him a look that basically said 'I want nothing to do with this.'

Lowell turned back to face U.B. and nodded enthusiastically. "YOU CAN COME!"

"Yeaaah, 'bout that..." U.B. nervously scratched the back of his neck. The gradient in U.B.'s Jericho-esque short-sleeve open-chested shirt shimmered beneath the flourescent light. "...I sorta' agreed to tell 'em where you were if I came across you."

"So? Tell them I died in a firey car crash off I-95! Tell them I fucked Jenna Jameson 'till my heart EXPLODED! Go on~! Radio back and tell them to suck a fat cock for trying to take away my "in's". GO ON. TELL THEM."

U.B. stared Lowell in the eye as he dug out the walkie-talkie from his pocket and held it to his mouth. He exhaled and pressed the button allowing him to speak. "It's Reynolds."

Static_ "OK REYNOLDS WHERE ARE YOU?" _Static.

Wringing his hands together. Eyes flushed with hope. Lowell waited anxiously for U.B. to assert his allegience with him.

"We're by catering. Do you know where that is?"

"YOU SONUVABITCH!!!"

Lowell lunged at U.B., tackling him to the ground – getting ontop, he punched U.B. in the mouth, twice. "YOU DISLOYAL FUCK!" Slugged him in the mouth, again. "I GAVE YOU EVERYTHING!"

"GET OFF ME~!"

The exchange was broadcast over U.B.'s walkie-talkie, prompting the FBI agents to come running from their position on the far side of the arena.

Footsteps, like a snare drum.

Six of 'em.

Lowell jumped to his feet, leaving U.B. blood-mouthed and injured from his head smacking against the concrete. Lowell turned to Stout. "LET'S GET OUTTA HERE!"

LAST WEEK
CHALLENGE MATCH
Jimmy Righthand vs. Avis Flyfield

Dean Matthews vs. the 80s Synth Pop Monster, or: How to Keep Cool in the Face of Simon LeBon

"You know you're something special and you look like you're the besssst.."

Ch-click.

Clunk.

"DEAN, you're here just in time, come on: HER NAME IS RIO AND SHE DANCES IN THE SAAAAAAND~!"

"Turn that shit off, Madison. We've gotta work on some stuff."

The Duran Duran was put on pause, as Dean grabbed a folding chair and pulled it over for Maddi to sit in. Leaning against a wall, he unzipped his hoodie and tossed it on top of the girl's bag, dropping his cigarette and stepping it out into the carpet.

"If you're going to be worth anything, you've gotta get some actual practice in, some training."

"Oh! Oh! I called up my dad about some training and he was all 'Madison you should--'"

"Madison, your dad sells Volvos."

"Yeah, but he says that if I want, he--"

"So you're going to get into the ring and actually do something. It's the only way to get--"

"AGAINST SOMEONE IN ACW?!"

"--into the swing of things at the right--"

"IS IT GONNA BE ALEX CREED?!"

"--caliber and capability level. You need to prove--"

"JIMMY CAIN?!"

"--that you're able to hold your own, however you want, against dangerous guys. I'll give you a few weeks and then--"

"IS IT ANDY SHARP?!?! IT'S ANDY SHARP ISN'T IT!! I'M GONNA FIGHT ANDY SHARP!"

"Madison, would you shut the fuck up? You're not fighting Andy Sharp."

"Why not?!"

"Because the purpose of you getting in the ring is so that you can learn to fight things that <i>don't</i> have vaginas."

Dean reached down and grabbed a bottle of Mountain Dew from next to his feet. Twisting the top off, he took a good, long swill of it. Coffee tastes like shit, and if he was going to have a conversation with the girl, he needed a solid source of caffeination.

click

"OH RIO RIO DANCE ACROSS THE RIO GRAAAANDE~!"

State of Disarray

ACW staff and talent milled about backstage, confused as to what was going on and why it was happening. One thing they did know: Lowell was responsible.

FBI agents busy taking things from the arena – stripping Lowell of all of his assets. Cameras, tech equipment, furniture, etc. Wrestlers were being made to hand over their boots and were standing around bare-foot, completely bewildered.

The only thing left in catering were cups of tap water.

Kenjamin, who'd been hanging around backstage for months not getting paid, snuck up to the table and began downing cup, after cup, after cup, screaming, "MINE MINE MINE!"

Several yards away Rory Hayes was being interrogated.

The backstage was BARE. The interior of rooms completely stripped. Guys in FBI coats were walking off with TV monitors, microphones, and sections of the interview backdrop.

MEANWHILE...

"THEY'VE GUARDED ALL THE EXITS! MOTHERFUUUUCKERS!"

Lowell and Stout were inside a bathroom stall. Lowell was taking a shit; Stout was turned away.

"What do you expect?" Stout said. "You think they're just going to let you walk out of here?"

"WELL I DIDN'T EXPECT THEM TO GUARD THE EXITS! WHO DOES THAT? ATLEAST GIVE ME ONE FOR LOWELL'S SAKE!"

"Doesn't work like that."

"Well DUH! I know that now! Where were you twenty minutes ago?"

PLOP.

"OK. Let's get out of here."

Just as Lowell was about to turn and leave- a gun comes through the glory hole.

"HANDS UP LOWELL~"

"OH SHIT! A TALKING GUN-PENIS! RUUUUUUUN!"

Lowell grabbed the barrel of the gun and started wrestling with it until -- BANG!

"OH MY GAWWWWWWWD!

STOUT!"

Miles had been shot in the leg. Blood was seeping from the wound onto the tile floor, making it hard for Lowell to maneuver around inside the tiny stall.

Miles slipped on his own blood and SMASHED his face off the toilet seat, cracking the porcelain.

Miles, semi-conscious, said, "Go... on... withou--"

The sound of the stall door slamming shut and someone sprinting out of the bathroom could be heard, along with an FBI agent shouting and chasing after him.

"HEY COME BACK HERE~!"

Not Backing Down

Lolicon stood quietly in his locker room as he carefully wrapped tape around his hands. He was getting ready for his big match later on tonight against Jimmy Righthand. Jimmy would make his ACW debut. And as it was set, he was going to take a lopsided victory against the jobber known as ‘The Japanese Pedophile’.

Lolicon didn’t know how to go through with it. He and his friends had confronted newly appointed jobber-advisor Mickey Laroche. They wanted more of a chance. They wanted to step out of the shadows and prove their worth to ACW. With All-Star Wrestling in the state it’s currently in, no time was better than the present to do so.

However Mickey didn’t see the glass half-full, at least from the jobber’s perspective. He was going to make the “canvas-huggers” (as he puts it) suffer just a little more.

Enter Jimmy Righthand. Mickey’s long-time friend. Together they are responsible for creating the prototypical “jobber”. They are the ones who employed people like Lolicon. And for so long, people like Lolicon never complained.

So what gave them the right to now?

The camera switched to Jimmy Righthand’s locker room. He was standing there, jumping back and forth, throwing hard punches in the air. Mickey Laroche sat on the bench beside him, taking a big long drrrraaaggg of his cigarette while nodding in approval.

Back to Lolicon. He was all ready now. He turned to exit his locker room, but was stopped when most of his friends were waiting outside.

“You don’t have to do this, Lol-” Said Preston Baxter before he was cut off.

“It’s alright.” Lolicon replied.

“We can walk out and leave right now.” Mac McDeezy stated. “Fuck ACW. Who cares? We’ll find something better… I know it man. Man I f’n know it.”

Lolicon forced a smile on his face. “No guys. I’m going to go out there. I’m going to go out there and job. In order to get what we want… we have to stay and fight for what we believe in.” Lolicon took a sip of his water bottle before going on. “If we pack up our bags and let Mickey win… jobbers from other places will never get a chance to do what they want to, either.”

The jobbers nodded as Avis Flyfield shook his fists in madness. It was clear he was the most angry of them all… and almost wished it was ‘The Aviator’ going into the match instead of Lolicon.

“Stay here and watch guys.” Lolicon stated before walking off. “Stay here and watch… I’m gonna go out there to do the best job I can…”

Although as Lolicon drifted away into the hall… he muttered one final phrase.

“But I have a plan.”

It's All About Respect

Tonight was meant to be one of the greatest nights in all of ACW history. All-Star Championship Wrestling had finally reached 100 editions of Courage, shutting all the doubters the fuck up.

ICU.

SilverHAWK.

Osyrus.

Alias.

Khristain Keller.

“Superstar” Vince Jacobs.

Just a few of the many names that had been seen over the past 100 shows, all former ACW World Heavyweight Champions. Fast forward to today.

Tonight was going to be headlined by two people who had a VERY tough feud in the making. These two had waged war approximately four times thus far in ACW and when it came to ACW’s World Heavyweight Championship, one held onto the gold while the other man was on the outside looking in. And standing by with ACW interviewer Steve Lisham, we were going to see both of these men.

The camera faded in to Steve Lisham, dressed in a formal black suit and white tie as he held the microphone up.

“Ladies, gentlemen, stupid LoC fans…”

A huge pop of laughter erupted from the crowd in the Nationwide Arena of Columbus, Ohio.

“Tonight, what you are about to see is a battle between two great athletes. Both men have traveled up and down the road together, fought together, bled together. And tonight, on Courage 100…you’re gonna see it one more time. To my left…”

The camera panned over to see the visage of the Spirit of ACW, Andrew Sharp. The fans let the hatred flow for one of the most tragic stories in all of All-Star Championship Wrestling; the story of the kid with a heart of gold and a bright future turning to the dark side. He was clad in his ring gear with the Spirit of ACW Championship over his shoulder. The belt he’d held since Legends II was nestled up there as he looked into the camera.

“This is the challenger. Former TV Champion and eight-month reigning Spirit of ACW Champion, Andrew Sharp!”


Andy stood there and held up his title. Nothing more was said, but the absence of the Blue Rogues around him was very peculiar. The camera panned to the right of the interviewer.

“And to my right…” Lisham continued. “This is the former TV, Scorpion Fighting Champion. End Game 2005 winner. And the REIGNING. ACW World Heavyweight Champion…

…SEYMOUR ALMASY!”

Clad in his wrestling gear and the title over his shoulder, this was Seymour’s first appearance in a few shows, recovering from injuries sustained in the Battle Arena match at Holocaust. But here he was, ready to go and physically able to compete.

“My first question goes to Andrew Sharp,” Lisham began as he turned to the much taller wrestler. “What have you got to say in regards to this huge opportunity for the ACW World Heavyweight Title?”

Andrew slowly turned to face Steve, then sighed…finally…

For the first time in a while…

He spoke.

“Well…it’s about damn time,” he said bluntly. “And you all may be wondering…where are my Blue Rogues?

…Those assholes walked out on me. They claimed that I was doing nothing for them when it was THEM who did nothing for me. I’ll admit it. I didn’t show up for the last two shows because I was trying to sort this all out. I tried to call them, but no answer. Then I pick up my cell and it’s a text from Codemaster saying for me to go screw myself with a Keyblade. That he was taking his business elsewhere…”

Andrew raised the Spirit of ACW Championship above his waist.

“Then I looked at this thing…This…this is a symbol. This is a testament to what I realized…I DON’T NEED THOSE ASSHOLES!”

A small pop for Andrew.

“I won this title all by myself and I’ll be DAMNED if I listen to all the crap about how I’ve let my talent go to waste. I’m the single-greatest rising star that ACW has EVER seen. I’ve done it all and I’m only 23 years old. BUT…”

He turned to Almasy. “Seymour… you’ve evaded me ONCE. You got lucky at Holocaust and you decided that you were going to ignore me. Now? This match has been made. I learned from my mistakes last time and when I get my opportunity, I’m going to put it as simply as possible:

THAT. TITLE. IS. MINE.”

“If you can beat me for it this time, that is.”

Almasy’s words cut right to the quick as Andrew stood there, fuming at the World Champion. Lisham turned the mic to The Final Fantasy as he spoke up.

“Sure, you beat me for the TV title. But I was exhausted. Sure, you may have got one over on me in a ladder match, but you needed Khristain Keller to help you. Then when it came down to just you and me, I beat you fair and square. You’ve got one last chance in front of you, Andy. I know you’re still a good person at heart, even if I have to beat the dickhead out of you. There are no Rogues anymore. There is no cage. There’s no Khristain Keller anymore. There’s just a few things to remember…

Four turnbuckles…

Three ropes…

Two men…

One Championship.”

Almasy raised the title to a loud pop.

Lisham turned back to Andrew. “Your rebuttal?”

Andrew let each and every word sink in. They burned him, but the truth was right there in front of him. A clean win over Almasy? Never happened. Tonight, he had to show that he could do it, no doubt. He was tired of all the talk. He wasn’t ready. He was a bad contender. He was second-rate compared to the fighting Almasy.

Sharp balled up his fist and glared at it. Was he gonna knock out a bitch?

No.

Sharp turned on his heel and left, blowing off the interview completely. Lisham was shoved aside as the Spirit of ACW blew right past him and his opponent tonight.

Meanwhile, Seymour just continued to stare in the direction of his challenger. Surely, his words had struck a nerve with the Champion.

That was a sign to Seymour as a small smile etched across his face

He had reached him. Somewhere, Andy was still alive in that egotistical being.

CHALLENGE MATCH
Jimmy Righthand versus Lolicon 

Untitled

Somehow, despite being terribly out of shape -- strung out and thin – Lowell had managed to out-run a trained FBI agent.

Now he was crawling around in the ventilation system.

The air ducts were CRAMPED. The smell of dead fish and head lice hung in the air. It had to be over a 100 degrees in there, it was like a fucking sauna... perspiration had jeweled on his forehead and he was having to constantly wipe it off, soaking the sleeve of his VERY expensive dress shirt.

It was awfully noisy in there, too – his hands and knees were making a raucous by repeatedly hitting the metal beneath. He wondered if someone had heard him.

Lowell turned the corner. Deciding to take a short break, he sat with his back against the ventiliation shaft wall. Panting. Hair drenched with sweat. Coke looking like wet baking soda on the tip of his nose and around his nostrils.

"I'm sooooooo hungryyyyyyyyy," he groaned.

Then, a strange voice answered;

"You can have some of my Whopper!"

Lowell turned his head and just WHO do you think he found?

The Lowell Dot Commie.

Lowell's eyes grew wide.

In disbelief, he replied, "Commie!?!?

"What are you doing in a damn air shaft?!"

Commie naunched on a piece of mayo-y lettuce. "I could ask you the same thing." The Commie's head went up and touched his face, like the Phantom of the Opera. Hiding from the outside world..."

"Riiiiiiight...

I guess, ah... yeah, YEAH ME TOO! FUCK THE OUTSIDE WORLD!"

Commie finished up his burger and crawled closer to Lowell.

"After you cast me aside I developed a severe case of agrophobia... I now only feel safe in very confined spaces... like shafts."

Lowell chuckled. "You big queer. You like shafts. Heheheheh."

Commie didn't even crack a grin. He touched his metal surroundings. Running his hand down the wall – closing his eyes. "Yes I do, very much... I feel safe in here."

"Say Commie... what if I asked a favor of you? Would you do me a favor?"

Commie crumpled up the Whopper wrapped and stuffed it down his shirt, increasing the size of one of the two lumps. "Soon I won't need anyone else...........I'm changing."

Commie seemed to snap out of a trance as he turned and looked at Lowell – his former idol. (He's NAMED after Lowell) "For you? Anything."

"Great, 'cause—"

Commie cut him off- "I always felt terrible about how things ended between us... I should've never listened to Kenjamin. I should've followed my heart. And my heart says 'Follow you'" A look of seduction – pursed lips – inching closer. "I'll do whatever you want.

Whatever

You

Want."

Lowell slid back away from Commie.

"Well, heheh... ahhhhh... if you could, like... put on my clothes and walk around a bit that'd be great! I'd appreciate it muchly!"

Kenjamin's eyes shot open, as if he'd discovered he'd won the lottery. "Wear...... your clothes?"

Lowell nodded. "Yeah. Just put on my clothes and walk around a bit. Try to draw attention to yourself. Have them believe you're ME."

The Commie didn't need to be persuaded. He was IN. "YES YES YES. I'M YOUR- well... heh... I'M YOU."

Lowell was feeling a little uncomfortable now. "Yeah, you're me." He rolled his eyes.

Lowell started undoing his belt and pants. He looked up to find the Commie eyeing the fuck out of him. "Dude. Turn _the fuck_ around, please."

"Sorry."

Here Again, Part Two

Many an eye had met him since he entered the ACW backstage area...many an eye peered deep into his to try and figure out just who the rugged and rather dirty looking fellow who was walking the halls really was.

But he never stayed long enough for them to find out.

He kept his voice hushed, and to a minimum, to make sure nobody noticed him, but as he looked around for the ACW owner, all he could see where FBI agents, ripping apart the ACW backstage.

Cock suckers.

He wasn't a great fan of police, never mind federal agents...

TAP TAP

A FBI agent tapped him on the shoulder as he turned around.

"Are you on the ACW roster?"

A smirk.

"Not anymore, why?"

"Do you have any items in which you would deem to be the possession of ACW?"

"Yeah, my cock."

...

SILENCE.

"Pardon," the agent was stunned.

"I've fucked so many people over in this place, my cock should have ACW written all over it."

A scoff from the agent meant he had had enough.

"See you punk..."

Turning back around, he scoured the backstage for Lowell, or anyone that could help him get what he needed.

...

...

...

"Fuck this."

THIS WAY TO STAGE >>>>>>>>>>>

He followed the signs.

Who You Gonna Call?

Jimmy Righthand jumped back and forth in the midst of Mickey’s office. Jimmy was pumped. Fresh off his victory over Lolicon, the ‘Right Hand Man’ wanted to see more action tonight. (So basically that’s why he was fighting thin air).

“Man, Mickey, man.” Jimmy started, taking a quick breath in-between shots. “Did you see me Mickey? After you nailed Lolicon with a chair shot I totally KILLED that S.O.B.”

Mickey was more interested in his cigarette right now, but he nodded and looked over to Righthand with a smile. “Yeah. You weren’t that bad.”

“You’re god damn right I wasn’t.” Jimmy grinned. This time he pulled down his shades. “But this isn’t over man. I know those bitches are going to try and screw me again. And we’re not talking screw like all those woman at the club last night. Brother did you see me dance it up? Man she was all over my cock. I know, I know, kind of a big ass and all that but I was willing to look past it.”

Mickey was listening in now and grinned as he turned to Jimmy. Finally Righthand stopped throwing fists in the air. He knew something was up.

“Oh I know it’s not over, brother. Those fools are going to try and pull another fast one on us…”

Laroche paused. He took a looooong drag. His shifted eyebrows rose as he rubbed the long hairs on top of his left eye. “But we’re the creators. We made the original jobbers.”

Jimmy nodded.

“So we can fight fire with fire. Tonight it was just Lolicon. Next week maybe it’s Avis Flyfield, Lolicon and Mr. Wrestling Pi. They clearly outnumber us… but you know what?”

Righthand shrugged. Sometimes he was slow.

“You know some people. I know some people.”

Jimmy smiled sadistically.

“Grab your cell phone. I’ll find my rolodex.”

It's Good To Be Lowell

"HEY BITCHES," the Commie snickered, straightening his new "duds" given to him by his idol, "LOWELL IN DA HIZZZOUUUSSEEE."

The grotesquely obese, acne scarred Commie announced that he was "Lowell", strolling down the hall in flashy designer jeans (that Lowell bought in the womens section) that were way, waaaay too small for him.

His fat gut hung over the white belt straining to hang on by the very last notch.

The short-sleeve dress shirt looked ready to POP. The threading in the seams was beginning to show. Still, he marched on.

"I OWN DIZ FED.

HOS HOS HOS.

CRACK CRACK CRACK.

I _ AM _ LAWWWWWWD."

"Lowell" walked straight up to the female make-up artists whose make-up kit had been taken from her amidst the anarchy of the FBI swarming ACW.

"HEY BABY. I'M LOWELL."

The girl looked "Lowell" up-and-down. "Ewww, get outta here you creep!"

"BABY. SUCK MAH DICK. I'M A BIG MAN. I HAVE CARS AND HOUSES AND I DON'T LIVE IN VENTILIATION SHAFTS!"

MACEYOUFACE~!!!

OH NOEZ~!!

"Aaaaahhhhhhhhhhhhhh!!!!"

"Lowell" hit the floor. He flopped around a bit, his arms flailing in all directions, clawing at his eyes. A few kicks to the ribcage. The point of a high-heel shoe to the face~!

All of a sudden he was surrounded by half a dozen gun-drawn FBI agents.

"Get up, fuckface!" one of them shouted.

"Look at this shitstain! I heard he let himself go but fuuuuuck..."

"Did he piss himself?"

"What's that growing from his neck?"

"That's his head."

"DEAR GOD."

"I'd pray, boyz, but after seeing this I'm beginning to doubt the existence of any sort of higher power."

"Should we shoot him?"

U.B. Reynolds pushed through the crowd. A bloody hankerchief pushed to his face. He growled, "That's not him, you idiots!"

"But-But that's what you said he was wearing."

U.B. replied, "Well OBVIOUSLY he switched clothes with this man! Turn him over so I can see his face!

"...Mmmmhmmm... just as I thought... the Commie."

Reynolds mounted the Commie, straddling his torso. He gripped by his collar, lifting his head off the floor. "WHERE. IS. LOWELL?"

The Commie, eyes swollen shut, grinning, replied, "YOU'RE LOOKING AT HIM, FOOL."

~SPIT~

U.B. postured up- a loogie oozed down the front of his face. His expression turned cold. Turning around, he asked the make-up artists for her mace, which she would then give to him. "Open your mouth.

"I SAID OPEN YOUR FUCKING MOUTH!"

The Commie did as he was told.

Placing the nosil inside his mouth, U.B. glared down at him, "NO ONE spits in MY face." fsssssssssssssssss.

Coughing, gagging, choking, the Commie's throat was coated in mace.

The FBI agents stood laughing.

MEANWHILE...

The real Lowell watched from afar, sitting astride a chair next to a table that blocked him from their view... peering over, he shook his head. "What a callous sonuvabitch," he said, snapping his fingrs. "Why couldn't he be on MY side?" *tear.

CHALLENGE MATCH
Dean Matthews versus Jimmy Cain 

Dean Matthews completely butchered Cain/Calypso II, probably the most highly-anticipated rematch in recent ACW history.

Why?

Eh.

Because those two annoy him.

But it represented more than that. A changing of the guard in ACW, if you will. There was a message there, perhaps even deeper than the blunt statements that Dean Matthews made. There was once an underground of passion for ACW among the ranks, a fire, an enthusiasm. The days of Lowell Dot Com, Keller, the Original Pulp Hero Alias. That torch had been all but been extinguished due to the negligence and apathy of the ACW veterans.

Leave it to the most apathetic motherfucker on the roster to be the gung-ho company man, right?

Anyway, as compensation to the fans that got screwed out of their rematch, Dean Matthews was *officially* in the mix, making things a lot more.. well, fucked up.

And as the opening chords of "Roots Radicals" by Rancid boomed through the arena, the audience's target made his entrance.

Turns out Calypso went bye-bye. Whatever.

"Fuck-you-Matth-ews *clap-clap clapclapclap* Fuck-you-Matth-ews *clap-clap clapclapclap*"

Dean flicked his cigarette into the first row or two from his position at the top of the ramp and slowly stomped down to the ring, yanking his arm away from Madison, who was sneakily trying to interlock their elbows so as to walk to the ring in some kind of morbid pseudo-wedding procession. Or something.

The amount of attention Dean paid the fans (read: none) was inversely proportional to the volume of their chanting; the fact that he completely ignored them seemed to inspire them to really let him have it. Madison loved the attention, though, blowing kisses to everyone in the audience and doing a cute little hop-step onto the apron.

The Lip began his usual ranting about his ol' pal Dean Matthews: "You know, I'm really starting to get tired of this kid. He offers nothing to the promotion. He's nothing but a.. a <b><i>damn thug</i></b>. He's a.. a.. an addict, he's a pusher, he cares about nothing and he will sacrifice anyone for his own amusement. Everything about him is just.. disgusting."

Suddenly, Refused's "New Noise" blared out of the speakers of the arena and soon enough, Cain emerged from behind the curtain. There he stood at the top of the ramp, as cocky as ever, ACW Scorpion title slung over his bandaged right shoulder. And, for once, the audience got behind him. They truly did, whether it was out of respect, sympathy, or just spite toward Lowell and Matthews.

Yet, despite the confidence that radiated from the Scorpion champ, the facts remained the same. He'd taken a nasty headshot from Dean at the last Courage, and of course he wasn't at one-hundred percent. How could he be?

But don't worry about Jimmy Cain.

For every trick Calypso had planned, Cain had two. For every chemical Dean had imbalanced, Cain had three. Few were as psychotic, violent, and downright dangerous as Jimmy. Especially when he was motivated.

The shocker was thrown in the air, a shocker that soon turned into a lone middle finger, extended in the direction of Matthews, who stood in the opposite corner of the ring. Taunting him, he held up the Scorpion belt, gave a casual "come get it" with his index and middle fingers.. and soon moved his free hand down to his crotch, grabbing it in a lewd, unnecessary gesture. Fact: Jimmy Cain = Charming.

His attention was shifted to his right, toward little Madison sitting atop the security rail.

"What's up, slut? You smell good. Stop by my dressing room, you're gonna need a new horse to ride after I kick your boyfriend's balls up out his nose."

Of course, he spit at her when she rolled her eyes. He tossed his belt over to the timekeeper and climbed up onto the apron.

As the bell rang and Cain began his entrance into the ring, Dean eagerly crouched and waited to pounce on the American Psycho.

The second Cain was through the ropes, Dean nearly took his head off with a stiff lariat, quickly following up with an elbow drop across his chest. Using the ropes as leverage, he began to stomp away at his opponent, first at his chest and ribs, then progressing upward to his injured shoulder and head. Matthews jumped and, holding onto the ropes, double-stomped Cain across the chest. He was officially "not fucking around."

Lipton's two cents: "Dean Matthews is absolutely going to town on Jimmy Cain. Cain seems to be in some serious trouble early, if he doesn't figure out some way to fight back, I'm not sure how long he'll last, considering his injuries."

The only thing that saved Cain from the relentless barrage of kicks and stomps was his close proximity to the outside. Quickly sliding under the bottom rope, he crawled over to the security railing and held on, gaining composure. Madison and Matthews began jawing at one another, allowing Jimmy ample time to get his act together, and as soon as he did,

THWACK. Superkick

Yeah, the American Psycho got flattened by something with girly parts.

Ah! A springing Dean Matthews a popped over the top rope for a corkscrew suicide dive onto a slowly-rising Jimmy Cain!

Of course, all didn't work out well, and not only did Matthews miss a moving Jimmy Cain, he connected dead-target with the security barricade! Clutching his stomach, Dean fell to the concrete and shoved off Madison, who attempted to comfort or aide him. How she hoped to do this is anyone's guess.

"Oh my God!," Reid started. "Did you see that one, Lip?! How can you hate Matthews? The son of a bitch is crazy, I love watching this guy."

"He's a rat bastard."

"Eh, all right."

As the crowd commenced "Ho-ly shit!" chants, Jimmy Cain walked around the ring, shaking his head quickly to get back into the right frame of mind and focus. He slid into the ring and squared off with Dean, who soon entered, preemptively chopping him across the chest in order to prevent the striking flurry that he'd met earlier.

Jimmy chopped.

Dean kicked.

Jimmy chopped.

Dean kicked.

Jimmy chopped.

Dean kicked, with Jimmy Cain finally throwing a knee up to block the kick and catch it, turning it into a Dragon screw and turning around with a quick dropkick to Matthews' head.

"I'LL FIGURE YOU OUT, CAN'T TRICK ME, FAGGOT."

Matthews quickly dove toward Jimmy, who swiftly kicked him in the face.

"Ha-HA~!"

The crowd was clearly in support of Cain, giving heavy chants of "Jim-my, Jim-my, Jim-my," to which he responded with his trademark Shocker.

Cain lifted Dean by the head and whipped him into the ropes, dropping down so Matthews could hop over him and spring off the opposite ropes.

BOOM

Snap powerslam into a cover.


1


2

Kickout. Cain lifted him up once again, whipping Matthews <i>hard</i> into the turnbuckle. Backing to the other corner, he began his run toward Dean, perhaps going for a splash, or a

CRACK

"MADISON WITH A SPRINGBOARD DROPKICK, MATTHEWS' PATENTED 'HABIT KICK,' SAVING DEAN FROM CAIN! Wow!"

"That's not all, Lip, she's really putting the hurt on Cain. I can't even IMAGINE the pain Cain's going through with each one of those stomps to the head."

THUD

THUD

THUD

The unmistakable sound of a steel-toed boot against the head echoed through the stadium in Saskatchewan.

Madison began choking Cain with her boot, holding on to the ropes just until Dean returned and accompanied him with hard kicks to Cain's midsection. Dean returned to his feet, looking over to Madison, who seemed to be signaling something to him, which he promptly shrugged off, opting instead to deliver a hard 360 kick to Cain's back. Lifting Cain to his feet, Dean ran, sprang off the ropes and

SLAP

Nailed Cain with a hard clothesline, following up quickly with a standing moonsault.

"It's clear that everything is going according the Matthews plan. He had a strategy, and he's executing it. That upper midsection of Jimmy Cain's can't take too much more of a beating."

Dean gave repeated little kicks to Cain's head, which Jimmy continuously tried to slap away.

"GAH! Knock it the fuck off, fucker! I'M GONNA FUCKING KILL YOU~!"

Another HARD double-stomp across Cain's chest left Dean in a great position. Cain was on his knees in the center of the ring as Matthews watched him in anticipation, waiting for his chance to really drive the match home.

Backing off, he let Cain slowly crawl to his feet...

CRACK

"JIMMY CAIN HAS BEEN BUSTED WIDE OPEN WITH A VICIOUS CHAIRSHOT BY DEAN MATTHEWS!! He's laid out on the canvas!"

Thanks, Madison.

Of course, he soon wiped his hand off and looked to Cain with a good old headshake and an eyeroll.

"MADISON--get me a fucking towel."

Our favourite blonde Harley Quinn looked under the apron and over toward the announcers table, looking up to Dean with a failure shrug.

Sighing, Matthews took off his black Operation Ivy shirt and first wiped off his hands. I mean, seriously. Jimmy Cain's been in some shifty-ass places. We know this. Snuff-film dungeons and child-porn gangbangs and stuff. Who knows what's floating around in his spit.

"FUCK YOU MATTH-EWS! FUCK YOU MATTH-EWS!"

Dean was catching his breath in the corner, taking a moment only to kick the bloody, broken chair out of the ring to the floor.

Apparently, the referee had long since decided not to interfere in things at ALL.

Cain grabbed the ropes and pulled himself up just in time to see Dean Matthews charging him..

Back-body drop! Matthews was catapulted over the top rope and onto the floor below, landing hard on his tailbone. Madison immediately rushed over to tend to her.. whatever, and just as she did..

TOPE CON HILO!

Jimmy Cain took every bit of energy he had left and vaulted himself over the top rope into a somersault plancha onto both Dean Matthews and Madison.

That's right. "JIM-MY! JIM-MY!"

"Good God! All three of them are lying on the hard concrete after that death-defying move from Jimmy Cain. I didn't even know he had it in him!"

A shirtless Dean Matthews was lying face-first on the ground, Jimmy Cain's heavily-breathing body face-up on top of Dean's back. Little Madison was scrunched up in an uncomfortable little ball underneath the announce table.

It would take a solid amount of time before Dean made the first move, reaching up and pulling himself up with assistance from the ring apron. As soon as he was up, he ran a hand through his hair, pulling it out of his face, his chest noticeably rising and falling with his breathing. Momentarily, he wondered if he had enough time to get a quick smoke in before Cain got up, but those thoughts were put to rest around the same time Cain caught him in a fireman's carry and landed a HARD Death Valley Driver, right on the concrete.

Dean felt it. Oh, yes he did. It was the kind of pain that started as a burning in the back of his head, traveled down his neck, and detonated in an unspeakable sting once it hit the shoulders. Jimmy Cain wasted no time, climbing onto the apron and jumping off onto Dean with a double-knee drop. He was soon knelt next to Dean, repeatedly jabbing him in the eyes with hard elbows.

"THIS'LL TEACH YOU TO STAY OUT OF MY FUCKING BUSINESS, HUH.. I'll put the fuckin' stamp on your bitch-ass and then fuck your girlfriend over there with a Michelin tire!! BET SHE'D LOVE THAT, DON'T YOU DEAN??"

Speaking of Madison, she was now up and swung her leg around, catching Jimmy Cain right in the ear with a HARD kick.

"GOD FUCKING CHRIST WHORE DOUCHE FUCK!!!"

And Cain was quickly to his feet, clutching the side of his head in absolute pain. Madison capitalized, running and hitting Jimmy with a front dropkick to his lower back, sending him bloody head-first into the metal guardrail. Dean was still out of commission on the concrete, holding his head in agony. Madison crawled over to him and cradled his head, running a hand through his bloody hair. The blood was most likely an unholy concoction of his own polluted bodily fluids and the crimson that had been steadily flowing from Jimmy Cain's forehead since Dean split it with the sharp metal chair.

"Do you need something, love?? Come on, we should go, we'll get him later, okay? I'll wrap your head, we can--"

Jimmy Cain was back.

"OUCH! Cain just unleashed a fury of kicks to a completely oblivious Madison, and now he's got Dean Matthews rolled into the ring.."

Jimmy reached under the ring and dragged out a table, lifting it and pulling the legs down, propping it between the ring and the security gate. After the lumber was situated, he slid under the bottom rope, only to get low-blowed by a momentarily-recovered Dean Matthews, who quickly fell back to the mat. Jimmy was soon up, however, and as soon as Dean was up on his knees, Cain had his arms wrapped around his torso.

Up to the top rope Dean went, with Jimmy climbing up shortly thereafter.

Superplex?

Super-canrana?

Nope.

Between Cain's legs went Dean's head.. Dean was soon up for.. a super-powerbomb. Shit.

Seeing what was going on, Madison soon leaped to the apron and in one quick jump, she, too, was on the top rope. Apparently, she thought she was going to be able to pull Dean down somehow, as she climbed onto his back and held on for dear life.

Did this stop Jimmy? Of course not.

Jimmy stepped up one more level to the top rope..

And dove. Off the turnbuckle. Out of the ring.

Holy fucking shit. The added weight ruined the original plan, however.

CRASH

"OH MY GOD! REID, DID YOU.. OH MY GOD!!!"

In an instant, Madison flew, off of Dean Matthews back, over the barricade, and INTO THE FIRST ROW OF SEATING.

Dean Matthews, meanwhile landed DEAD against said barricade, flopping forward and rolling into a broken mess on his back.

And Jimmy Cain? He had misjudged the distance and landed square THROUGH THE TABLE, getting a face-ful of concrete and splinters.

"DEAR LORD!! ALL THREE MUST BE TOTALLY BROKEN IN HALF!!"

Yes, Jimmy Cain was left in a puddle of his own never-ending puddle of blood on top of the destroyed, cratered table. Dean Matthews? His hair was covering his face, plastered down with blood. And Madison? With the air she got, she was probably lying somewhere in the parking lot.

Crime scenes don't look this horrid.

The rundown:

Clearly, no winner and a ring/surrounding area full of losers.

Nothing accomplished. Nothing settled.

Cain and Dean Matthews (and Madison)? Not unlike ACW itself; all somewhat alive, but still with a score to settle, a lot to (re)prove, and probably necessitating some sort of breathing apparatus/feeding tube for continued survival.

Here Again, Part Three

The area was silent after the last match, waiting for the next part of the show, until a murmur from the crowd got the rest of the places attention, as an unknown figure stood at the top of the ramp way.

Murmurs swirled around the arena, as they tried to see exactly who it was.

He reminded some people of someone.

But who?

They couldn't put their finger on it as the rogue individual started to walk down with very little resistance, until two security guards from either side started to make their way towards him. 

Bad move. 

A kick to the groin followed by a reverse elbow to the nose soon dealt with the two guards, as the man got closer to the ring...as the chaos seemed to continue on the show.

But it wasn't until five more guards at the top of the ramp appeared when the unknown man stopped in his tracks...and quickly surveyed the scene.

His ears piercing with the screams of the fans.

The guards got closer.

Who the fuck is that shouting...

As he looked to his right, and young boy, no more than seven years of age was shouting all sorts of abuse at him...and before that young man knew what had hit him, he had been yanked over the guard rail and was now in the mans hands, as his mother screamed at the top of her lungs and waved for the security to move into action, nearby gentlemen obviously scared shitless of the figure who stood before them. The security moved,  but as they got closer they watched as the man dangled the young boy in the air, threatening to do him damage unless they moved away.

They did.

The newly formed duo entered the ring, where a microphone sat in the middle, as the boy was strapped against the ropes with the sleeve of the rogues coat, as he unearthed his rather large physique, and one image on his body that got people talking. he stood in the middle of the ring, silent, until the mic was pressed against his lips.

"If you cunts don't know who I am by now, you can all fuck off and die."

A cheer, a boo, a gasp.

The reaction changed from person to person, but there was a reaction from everyone in the arena as the sound boomed with mixed reaction...as Khristain Keller's six month ACW hiatus was over. The former fWo star strutted around the ring, checking on the boy as he made sure he had enough time to talk before being tossed out of the arena.

"I came here tonight, to do one thing, and that was meet the new boss man, but obviously, with everything going tits up backstage, that isn't going to happen, so fuck it, you can't have a historic Courage without me here can you?"

Keller waltzed around the ring like he had never left, but his appearance had definitely changed, the shaggy hair and massive beard put many people off, and didn't make him so menacing to the eye.

"A lot has changed around here," he said as he looked around. "For one, I didn't think a shithole like this could creep down the totem pole much further...but it seems to have done the trick, good job on that, whoever is responsible. You know, for the past while I've been up to a few things...most of them I would probably be better not discussing, but I've seen a few shows here and there, and my god they are dreadful..."

The ACW fans boo'd Keller, as he smiled.

"Back in the day seems like so long ago around here, might as well close this fucker down!"

That, didn't help.

BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

As the young boy cried loudly, Keller dropped the microphone and whispered in his ear.

"If you don't shut the fuck up, I'm going to kill your mother when we leave."

SILENCE...

"Are you beginning to get my point people? The D.E.A. and F.B.I. are all over the place, the owner is a fucking retard in a dressing gown, and the champ...man, I can't believe I lost to that homo, but hey, I guess we'll see his monthly appearance on the show later tonight right?."

As a cup flew past Kellers face, he knew he was back...loving every single minute of it.

"But hell, if ACW is on the way down, that Legacy of Champions is on the way up, fuck, anyplace that can make half of those cretinous shit bags on the roster look good, has to have something going for it, hell, it can even debut "retired legends" of the business and bring them out for one last trip to the well like the gimped up donkeys they clearly are."

The ACW fans smirked as they knew that Alias and Vince Jacobs were Kellers targets.

"Watch your children boys."

Keller winked.

As more security assembled at the top of the ramp, as the small boy cried tears of woe onto the rings canvas, it was Kellers time to go.

"Well...it looks like my time is up, it's been a privilege and a pleasure to entertain and taint the minds of you fuck bags, Courage one hundread might possibly be the most fucked up show I've ever been a part of, but am sure you will all have fun by the end of the night...."

Keller dropped the microphone and smiled, as he moved over to the young boy and untied him, as he sped off back to his mother, K2 stood in the center of the ring, as the guards surrounded him, the noise in the arena lifted as they watched the first three enter.

Headbutt to the first, broken nose.

Kick to the kneecap on the second one, ligament damage galore.

But the third...the third cracked him over the head with a truncheon like there was no tomorrow, as Keller was quickly on the canvas, and cuffed, as the squad of security fled the scene with the former ACW Champion in their possession.

And as they walked up the ramp, Keller smiled...a rebel till the very end.

Down With The Ship

"MILES," Lowell exclaimed.

Lowell ran down the hall with a limp (his leg had fallen asleep while inside the ventiliation shaft).

Miles had dragged himself out of the bathroom stall and was flaccid in a chair beside a wall.

Miles looked up, pressing gauge into the wound. "Lowell, you treacherous bastard... leaving me back there like that..."

"Miles- we BOTH know I'm not to be trusted! Just look at me! Hell, I'm plotting my eventual stabbing of your back as we SPEAK! But I am glad they didn't, y'know... finish you off." Lowell crossed his arms over his chest. "That's how they do. It's all an ACCIDENT to them. You would've been fucked had I not driven the coppah outta' there! Seems to me like YOU. OWE. ME."

"Shut the fuck up, Lowell," Stout coughed. "It should've been you! You should be the one with a bullet in your kneecap!

"Y'know, I've been trying to get you to stay behind and pay for your misdoings this ENTIRE time... and it seems that you simply don't give a fuck... so if you want out of here so bad- GO. I saw an exit not far from here that didn't have anyone guarding it. Run out on your fucking mess! Go!" Stout slumped over, his upper body draped over the table. He shouted at the top of his lungs, "911! I NEED SOME FUCKING HELP! SOMEONE GET ME A FUCKING DOCTOR!"

And yeah... Lowell was already gone.

CHALLENGE MATCH
LLB versus Alex Creed 

An Unwelcome Guest

The bell continued to ring, announcing the disqualification as Alex Creed rolled out of the ring, stumbling away, un-sure of what exactly was going on not only in the ring, but also outside. LLB had rolled outside of the ring as well, but instead fell to the mats belong with a heavy thump. The questionable cameraman took off his hat, revealing that the mullet on his head was just a wig. The crowd already knew who it was. They knew last time. LLB already mentioned his name. He was an unwelcome guest, at an unwelcome time.

Eron the Relentless.

With about a dozen of ACW’s finest security now on the ring apron, Eron walked to the middle of the ring, hand out, urging them to stop.

“Hold it, hold it, let me speak! Just let me speak, and I’ll be on my merry way” Eron said, as the security guards were ready to enter through the ropes. They slowed down from entering the ring as Eron tried to hush them down with his hand. He couldn’t hush a loud, bolstering crowd, however.

“Thank you, thank you, and fuck you all” Eron said, directing his last comment to the crowd. “I have never liked you, you have never liked me, but you still buy tickets to come see me, so you can at least give me the respect to speak my mind. I think everyone here, and especially a man border lining on a poor, traumatic concussion deserves an explanation from my actions. So hey, I’m a fair man, so I’ll give an explanation… if you people would shut up with your ridiculous chants.”

The audience wasn’t ready to let Eron come in and get their time. Chants of “YOU SCREWED FRENCHIE!” were loud throughout the crowd. The smark marks in the crowd were only a little familiar with Eron chanted, “JUST GO HOME!” while slapping their thighs and hands together. Eron adjusted his bandanna in his corn row hair, thick and red, hair that hadn’t been this thick since the late 1990’s. Finally, with the crowd tired of imitation soccer chants, Eron began to speak again.

“Good. For those wondering where I’ve been since the energy pop closed down, I’ve been in Europe. See, in Europe, they beg for superstars, and the ones who come, become the biggest stars in their country. I have taken over Europe like Alexander the Faggot only dreamed to do. I am the biggest name in every country in that crowded continent. I’ve become the biggest thing in Germany since David Hasselhoff. I invaded Poland like Adolf and Stalin could only dream to have invaded Poland. I bent the Brits like Beckham, and then I slammed that Spice Girl til she cried for me to stop. Similes aside, I get a lot of time off, and recently got myself a satellite, flipping on the Wrestling Channel. And what do I get? ACW Courage. What do I see?”

Eron pauses, as the crowd has now silenced, waiting for his response.

“I see LLB… winning matches.”

The crowd began to cheer hearing LLB’s name mentioned, as Eron gave off a trademark sneer.

“The last *I* remember, LLB was on a losing streak. What a great time that was! And seeing how ACW has never had a degree of quality in their superstars, I guess *someone* had to come in and put an end to it. So I left Europe, leaving the door open in case they wanted me to return and steal their women and fame again, and flew back to North America, to do what I had to do. But ACW, they didn’t like the idea of me just walking in and destroying LLB. Nah, they wanted me to bring this company the respect it has never deserved, and sign a long term contract. Quite frankly, I’m sick of lining lawyer’s pockets, so I decided I would shut up LLB the quick, easy, and at least for me, the most painless way: Unannounced, and with a steel chair.”

Just as Eron completed, his attention was then drawn to LLB, who had obtained a microphone of his own and was holding his head at the top of the ramp, oblivious to the scene around him. All he had focused on, was Eron, and the security that were ready to take Eron away.

“Get him out of here… in a minute.”

LLB’s attitude was stern, direct. He hadn’t been this angry in a while. The fans seen that pain seemed to course through LLB’s head, him squinting his eyes in pain for a brief second, shaking the steel chair. LLB continued.

“I’m going to politely ignore all of the ridiculous comments you made about All-Star Championship Wrestling, since if you’re delusional enough to think people buy tickets to come see you, you will most certainly be delusional enough to think ACW wants you around”.

The crowd cheered as LLB burned a whole into Eron’s eyes, deadlocked onto them.

“And you see, its funny you never signed a contract, because I was really hoping to get in the ring with you at Doomsday. I can’t challenge someone not on contract here in ACW. However… I can lay down this challenge. I want you to come to Doomsday, Eron. I want you to come to Doomsday, and if you do, you find me. You find me, and we’ll go one on one, in an unsanctioned street fight. No rules, no referee, just lets see how well easy it is to bash me in the head while I’m looking!”

The crowd cheered, as Eron smirked at LLB. LLB didn’t react, just kept an ice cold stare towards Eron’s direction. Soon, Eron’s smirk slowly formed into a widening smile, and soon, a laugh.

“Oh dear, look at the time. I’m sorry Harvey Birdman, but I got a plane to catch. I’ve said what I needed to say, and it seems clear that from the look in your eyes, you’re concussed. No condition to perform. It would be unsanctioned because there is nothing inside of you to fight. You’re just a zombie. Anyway, security? I need an escort to the exit. Have a good one!”

Finally, LLB’s reaction changed from permanent concentration to confusion. The crowd was confused as well. Eron was… leaving? All this, and he is gone? The security began pointing Eron in the direction they wanted him to go, as the barricade was opened, and Eron looked back over at LLB with a smile, before being escorted out of the ring. Not LLB, not the crowd, not anyone knew exactly what happened here. And they knew answers would come about as fast as the answers around them.

A + B + C = ALIAS

Thirteen Courages.

Two Pay-Per-Views. Honour and Glory. Holocaust.

This was the skeleton of a timeline since Legends II.

Since the last time you heard this song on ACW television.

Sympathy for the Devil

Funny when you think about that, aye?

Columbus hadn't been this excited, since he found the new world!

...

What, you think I'm using my best material on Ohio?!

The ACW faithful rocketed out of there seats, of all the things that they never expected at All-Star Championship Wrestling’s century mark… they weren’t expecting to see The Spirit and The Ghost of ACDub’s last decade.

A L I A S

That was for a number of reasons, too.

He had just been signed for a long-term deal, with the competition no less, Legacy of Champions. Speaking of which his PPV debut with them had just ended the night before, at No Turning Back, down in Orlando. Something he was set to talk about, sure enough. Also the fact that Lowell had let security let him through? Then again, he wasn’t exactly contracted… so he very well have bought a ticket, before hopping backstage. The lights dimmed, the crowd CONTINUED to demolish the general surrounding for there two-time World Champion, Legend, and… one of three… current Hall-of-Fame members. Strobe lights lit the entrance, making The Original Pulp Heroes methodical pace out from behind the black curtains, oddly stop motion.

Almost unrealistic.

Yes, again, Alias at a Courage was unrealistic. What was the world coming to?

His face was obscured by the black hoody he wore, with the large Anarchy ‘A’ splashed across it. From under the hood, first came a spark, then a cloud of smoke that drifted into the strobes of bright white. Picking up his pace from a slow stride, to a sudden sprint, the two-time United States Champ, and it’s last holder, rocketed towards the ring like he had never left. And in every bone, as his outreached fingers, attached to his outreached arms, touched the hands of the fans on the aisle… for a moment it felt like he hadn’t.

Almost.

Suddenly he came to a halt at ringside, grinding in his heels for a stop, picked the cig from his lips with his index and his thumb and flicked it to the padded mats before stamping it out. He looked at the Courage logo on the apron. He looked to the crowd, at the posters, “See More of Almasy?”, “I’m Apathetic for Dean!”, “Sharp As The Spirit”, “OBJECTION! I’M LLB’S STALKER!”, and so forth. Alias smiled. Then rolled into the ring, as Jagger, Richards and company murmured Sympathy into silence.

A mic had already been left in the center of the ring for him, he didn’t even need to ask. Alias bent down and picked up the microphone, and standing back up he also drew his hand over his hood and pulled back what had been convering most of his face.

And that left eye. Or what was left of it.

If you where a diehard fan of ACW, the last image you would have seen of Alias, was the Original Pulp Hero standing in the center of the ring before the World Championship Main Events and after his Legends Match against ‘Superstar’ Vince Jacobs. The driving image was the scar that was thought to have taken Alias from ACW for ever, the large scar over the left eye, and the blood from that same cut that left that eye, the milky white kind of mess that it was now. The crowd was taken aback for a moment, but then roared for the final cap of Alias coming to the ring, as he winked a devil-ish wink towards the camera. He was up to no good.

A-LI-AS

A-LI-AS

A-LI-AS

Whatever he was up to, those in attendance where just glad he was back, for however long that was. He brought the microphone to his lips. Yes, it had taken him this long to say this first words. The crowd wasn’t letting him speak other.

“One man… with Courage… makes a majority.”

An Andrew Jackson witticism, though the crowd roared more for what the words meant to the man who had said them just now, and Alias continued, running a rough hand across his bearded face (another change since last you saw him) and up through his now slightly longer mess of hair. He smiled.

“How the FUCK do you expect me to miss the century mark, huh?! Come on!” *ruuuuah! “In the last ninety-nine shows, including those since my departure at Legends II ‘course, I’ve had sixty-one matches within these Courage ropes. I enjoyed every god damn minute I’ve spent within these walls…” Alias paused for a second, “Well most damn moment, because even some… I could live to forget. I walked into this federation a young man, a confident, but still… apathetic young man. I knew I had something great about me, I was just not of the greatest drive to use that thing inside of me that was GREAT… as much as possible. And it took hell, and it took pain… and most importantly, it took COURAGE to get that out of me. It took a whole hell of a lot to get me to this point, to who I am, to what I can do today.

I debuted in ACW, as Alias, on the ninth edition of Courage. This show, this national exposure, that was the brain trust of Dunn and Boyd, two names not mentioned nearly ENOUGH for what they did for this company, brought a new environment to what was an ever-growing… always widening road show. It made us stars, and it still makes them stars.” Alias said, pointing to the back. “It gives us the opportunity to build infamous in-house talent, and giving them the space to becoming something extraordinary, while also giving space to those who’ve already become known as some of the best in the world!" Alias held a tight fist in the air, a triumphant decleration, before continuing.

"ACW's Foundation of Ironsides, SilverHAWK, Jimmy Gonze, Joe Bishop and that man,” The Tin Angel said, pointing with a grin to the play-by-play man of Courage, "'The One' Jimmy Reid, made the Courage Generation possible. Myself, Osyrus, SVJ, ICU, Khristian Keller, Dante Inferno and Jason Kain would have never have walked through that entrance and into the national spotlight. We wouldn't have opened the door for Quinton May or Seymour Almasy or Andrew Sharp, excuse me but I still want to call that kid Andy. That would have been a damned shame, though then again, we would have also left ACW's ME generation out to, your Jimmy Cain's and Lowell Dot Com's and Sars The Clown's." Alias nodded his head, a small smile on his face, nodding his head for a short while.

"You take the good with the bad, and you always hope for the best from the good...", before slowly letting it drop towards the microphone at his chest.

“Here I am, sounding like an infomercial for ACW’s Courage, though… when I’m not even part of the roster anymore.” There was a reflective pause in his words, and also on his face, the crowd murmered and some even jeered from far in the back, “I signed a contract with Legacy of Champions, as of July fourteenth, when I became part of there roster as someone know as the Sixth Man… and I caused quite a lot of trouble there, I got a lot of people talking, and then I helped in taking there World title of sorts, that Legacy strap, off of that giant son of a bitch, Sylo.” Cheers once again, though mixed up with murmers and jeers... LoC got Alias?! Boo-urns, said the faithful.

“And now, I’m in the running for the Legacy title. Now sure, that’s all well and good. But being there, means that I’ll no longer be here… after tonight. Not until I expire that exclusive contract or the contract expires itself, but truuust me... when I signed it… I did make sure to leave that one clause. That ability, that necessity, to WRESTLE at Courage 100.

And GOD DAMN, do I ever want to!

Come hell, high water or ACW’s… owner, feck… Lowell Dot Com. Where ever… he just miiight be.” The Pulp Hero turned his gaze at the cameraman on the apron. “And I ain’t calling you Lord Lowell, you money-grubbing little coked-up capitalistic bitch!”

ROAR!

“I am wrestling tonight. Now maybe it would even be nice to fight someone who I have a little history with, aye? On this, the century-mark of Courage, it would only be fitting. History, making history, for histories sake. With all that’s happened recently though that leaves two men, though no?

Andrew Sharp and Seymour Almasy. Your Spirit of ACW and your World Champion…” the crowd rumbled in anticipation, “But some how, I just have to believe that they’re to busy with each other. Finishing what they have to finish. Don’t you?” Alias paced around the ring for a few more moment, eating up THIS, what some never thought might be his last Courage, after Legends II. Courage 100... he had come out of nowhere, always welcome sure, and ended up inside it's ropes.

“Courage 100 was something that most never said could happen, just the competitivness of the industry was to much for the product to survive. But no, we thrived. And we fought our way up… so hey, speaking of fights…

Alias versus Dean Matthews?” The crowd roared, once more, though some even booing. Still grasping to really like Matthews for his approach, when it came down to it atleast. I mean, they might have been happy he had brained Jimmy Cain and Calypso last week (god rest there maggot fettered souls wherever they might have ended up, and my money is on some painful dildo induced death for Calypso within the last week… but hey, it’d be in character for him…), but that still didn‘t make him there hero. Yet. All in the approach.

“Though that’s all in the approach,” Told you, Alias turned to the entrance, “so… I’m told I’m left with a debuting superstar. Someone I’ve got a touch of history with, even. Someone stepping into the ACW spotlight while I step right back out, waiting for another day. Or that company versus company supercard, where after I double cross everyone and come back to ACW.” Alias peaked from the entrance, to the camera, from the corner of his eye… wink.

“I’ve bled for this company, I’ve bared it all on this show. I won my first title as Alias, inside these VERY ropes, on the doorstep of the first Legends. I have been scared, I have been battered, I have have been broken… and I’ve been bruised!” The Original Pulp Hero tore the hooded sweatshirt up and over his head, and threw it from his body and into the crowd. Sweated dripped down his brow, he had worked himself into a fever. His gravely voice echoed out of the PA system, as he gripped the mic and every muscle up his recently tattooed arms rippled.

“And after all of this has been said and done... I’ve waited one-hundred shows for a match like this.”

Dropped mic, static on sound system.

And…

Snow.

Snow falling from the rafters of the Nationwide Arena and into the ring.

Yes, you heard me correctly.

On Courage 100... there was snow falling...

Into the ring and onto Alias. The Tin Angel had a charmed smirk, to himself. Who the fuck brought snow to Ohio, at what's only the start of August? Oh, the Pulp Hero knew who.

The lights cut completely black as the charming voice of Dennis Hopper slowly crackled out of the PA system.

Gold pyro shot off from all sides of the entrance way in a circular spiral, illuminating the Neighborhood Lunatic in an exploding nebula of light.

The tA/21w Immortal Champ, the last known fWo World Heavyweight Champion, was here in ACW, microphone and sledgehammer in either hand.

Snow continued to fall from the rafters, as High Flyer stuck out his tongue to catch a flake. But, it wasn't REALLY snow, so it tasted like crap, and he immediately started to spit and clear his mouth, before raising the microphone to it.

"Hey A-List," Flyer said, throwing his palm in front of his face, "You can't see me!" doing his best John Cena impersonation, before chuckling slightly to himself. "Cuz you're blind! Get it. It's a good'un." And here come the boos. "I'm kinda an expert at the subject B-List, so here's my advice. Don't touch large crosses laced with dynamite. Narrow your job opertunities... Become a Pirate, oh, you should totally get a parrot. I love parrots. They talk to you whenever you want. Except they always seem to say the same thing. And those claws. They can be dangerous. Maybe you should get a teflon parrot. I hear from Vogue that they're 'in'.

Also, if he starts kicking...."

"Get out the way?" Alias interjected from the ring.

"Or shoot him or something." Continued Flyer, with a shrug.

Alias stuck out his hand, so as to keep him from rambling any further.

"Hey Flyer. You go from selling snow to pirate fashion design all in the span of five minutes?" The question was retorical, but as Alias paused for a moment to brush the white 'snow' flakes from his shoulder, Flyer was right there with an answer.

"I go where I'm needed, and you need some accessories to distract the viewer from your bloodshot corneias." Flyer said, pacing slightly at the top of the ramp. "Ha," Flyer laughed, pointing toward the ring. "You've got dandruff. ANYWAYS, Hi Alias, it's been a bit since we've tangoed mano e mano, hasn't it? I think the last time was the only time. Let's just say you couldn't handle the crazy. Then again, I couldn't handle your pulpnicity." Flyer paused, retreating in moment for a second. "I hate pulp. Not because I hate the pulp in orange juice, I just hate orange juice. But enough of my dietary excersises, I just figured now was the perfect time for me to come out and say that my no complete clause has been reworked... and I've just recently signed a contract to ACW." A mixture of cheers and jeers from that statement. He IS a world class competitor, even though he's not exactly gotten onto the goodside of ACW's faithful. "Recently as in like," Flyer pulled out a calender. "five minutes ago."

"Congrats on that, so now you're the proud owner of an ACW contract," Alias started pacing a bit himself, "Makes me all nostalgic..."

The Pulp Hero broke out of his pacing, though, and jumped onto the bottom rope. Leaning towards the entrance way, he ushered with one hand with the mic in the other.

"I'm about done with all these nicities, though, Flyer. What can I say, I'm looking far to forward to round two between us... and I can just imagine, that if I let you, you'll ramble on till someone comes from the back and drops you on your head." Alias winked at Flyer, "Which means I wouldn't get the chance to first, bub. Though final question... what's up with the mask?"

The camera cut back to High Flyer, and yes, he now had a mask on. Remember folks, he's crazy. Though... he is also lucha trained... I guess.

"What's with YOUR mask, C-List. I don't come out here and list YOUR faults." Flyer stopped for a moment. "Okay, ignore that last sentence... but you're right. I really SHOULD stop ranting and..."

CHALLENGE MATCH
Alias versus High Flyer 

Bustin' Out

Seemed Stout hadn't been lying. There was an exit and it didn't have one of those gun-toting foolios guarding it.

Lowell had slipped out and was running across the VIP parking lot.

"Car car car... I need WHEELS," Lowell spoke to himself.

Up and down rows of cars, smashing windows with the hub cab he stole off Sharp's Corvette. "HOW COME NONE OF THESE HAVE THE KEYS IN THEM!"

38 cars. 38 windows smashed. Six tires slashed (motive: revenge).

Lowell came to the end of the line. "Fuck fuck fuck fuuuuck."

Then, he saw something that caused him to start running: the driver of one of the 18-wheelers that haul set equipment from arena to arena had got out of the cab of his truck and left the door open. The grumble of the engine was a good indicator that the keys were still in the ignition.

Lowell rolled underneath the truck and got up, whacking his head off the bottom. Then, slipping into the driver's seat, he shut the door gently.

Trying his best to shift the thing into gear, it took OFF~!

He started to roll forward.

"HEY THAT'S MY TRUUUUUUUU—"

SMAAAAAAAAAAAAAASH!!!!

The truck plowed through the steel fence and side-swiped a transit bus!!

Fuuuuuuuuck.

Pure. Chaos.

The driver of the bus immediately got out and started bashing the driver's side door of the 18-wheeler with a tire iron he had by his feet.

"ARE YOU FUCKING CRAZY! YOU COULD'VE HURT SOMEONE! WHERE'D YOU LEARN TO DRIVE!"

-- Out jumped a half-naked Lord Lowell dressed only in a pair of maroon boxer shorts with champaigne glass pattern.

From inside the cab "Ridin' Dirty" by Chamillionaire played.

Lowell bobbed his head to the 'muzak' completely disinterested with the current situation. (He'd done a few lines off the dashboard and was feeling GOOOOOOOD.)

"Stop shooooouting... you're killing my high."

"I'M GONNA KILL MORE THAN JUST YOUR 'HIGH', STUPID FUCK!"

A SWING AND A MISS.

AND A RUN.

Lowell sprinted off in the direction of the arena.

BACK INTO THE LION'S DEN.

>.>

<.<

Draamaaa.

ACW WORLD HEAVYWEIGHT CHAMPIONSHIP MATCH
Seymour Almasy (c) versus Andrew Sharp 

IN THE EYES OF LORD LOWELL... I SAY KA-BOOM!

So, the main event for Courage 100 was over. The world title had been decided. And the stage was being systematically torn down by five or six FBI guys - though they looked to be having a bit of trouble.

In the ring, Almasy and Sharp both watched as more and more similairly dressed men filed out, aiding the others already there in dismantling the video wall.

Then, the curtain flew open, and - BOOOOOOOOOO! – Lowell was on the scene!

Fending off the FBI agents with a cellphone, Lowell spun around in circles, keeping them at bay, as he stagged down the entrance ramp toward the ring. He rolled gingerly underneath the bottom rope and got to his feet.

Between pants, he screamed, "MUTHAFUGGAS LOWELL HERE!" Fist in the air! Freedom fightin'.

He went and grabbed a microphone and stood dead-center in the ring, hair matted down with sweat, blood stains on the cuffs of his pants, robe in tatters... "OK! So... about that," he said, pointing to the stage and the men surrounding it. "Yeaaah... I kinda fucked up.

And by kinda, I mean I fucked up horribly... but it wasn't my fault! My money was just like, going away! One minute I have a hundred mill in the bank, the next the banker guy is telling me, 'Lowell, have you considered selling your twelve< sports cars and purchasing a 1992 Toyota Tercel? It's great on gas.'

GREAT. ON. GAS?

Who the fuck am I? I'll tells ya! I'm Lowell! People know me! I have expensive things and I fuck me some hos! That's just how I am! Asking me to change these things is like asking Max Danger not to---uuuuuh what's the use!!

Max has been gone for however long it's been! He's in the past! Gaaawd, this is why I am where I am! Because I won't let the past die!

When those assholes at Nike and BMW and all those other companies I use to advertise decided to rat me out and call me a liar- sayin' I wasn't REALLY their spokesperson- well that fucking HURT! It did! So when I bought this place, I said to myself, I sez... 'Lowell, don't throw those motherbitches a bone! Don't do it!' SO I DIDN'T! You all got two hours of WRESTLING ACTION EVERY. SINGLE. WEEK. Granted, two hours is a stretch- a lot of times it was more like 45-minutes... and wrestling action was, AT TIMES, sacrificed for the odd man-on-man handjob or a half hour of Flawless and myself talkin' MAD SHIT about a bunch of guys that probably never even watched the show! BUT STILL... THE FACT IS... TWO HOURS. I GAVE YOU TWO HOURS A WEEK OF MOSTLY HETEROSEXUAL ENTERTAINMENT!

You people don't even know the shit I had to put up with to bring you such ingenious ideas as Holocaust – WE SET A NEW WORLD RECORD FOR MOST BLOOD SPILT IN A THREE HOUR SPAN! – but what-ev, right? I'm just a big cocksucker who sucks cock and nibbles on grape-sized clits – nubby penises... what-ev, I should rot in hell for all the fucking awesome stuff I gave to you people.

What. EV.

Fuck all of you, FUCK YOU. That's how I roll!

I bust skulls! I drive around in all-black neighborhoods with "NIGGER-SMACKER" scrawled over the hood of my car!

I harrass rape victims and build up their trust and tell them I'm not going anywhere – then when we finally have sex I make it uncomfortably rough!

That's just me! For better or worse, that's Lowell! The Truth, niggaz!

I'M GOD'S GOD! WHEN GOD WOULD COME HOME SHITFACED, I WAS THERE – AND I SMACKED HIM AROUND GOOD. GAVE HIM THE KIND OF BRUISES THAT GARNER THE TEACHER'S ATTENTION AND CONCERN.

Then he came up to me one day – I was fucking Mother Nature and doin' lines off the crack of her ass – and he said to me, "Pop, I wanna create this thing called earth."

So I look at him as I rub Mother Nature's clit as if it were the joystick on an N64 controller and I'm playing Mario Party – and I replied, 'God, do whatchu gotta do.'

I *SAID* THAT SHIT.

T'shit came outta my mouth!

So after I got tired of fucking mythical creatures and what have you, I decided to take up residence in my son's creation – seemed like a cool place just to sit around, smoke hash, and pick fights with mentally challenged teenagers in wheelchairs.

The milky way was created when I pulled my cawk outta the universe and skeeted over her black, boundless surface~!

...I did all of this... but still I get no respect.

...

Thus it is YOUR fault I dabbled in tax evasion and money laundering and now ACW's going to have to close because of it!!

If I could, I'd hide in the back of all of your cars with a strand of packaging twine and I'd CHOKE you to death! Then I'd drive your car to a chop-shop and CASH-IN!

What looks like "down and out" is really---fuck my mouth is dry.

Y'know what? Maybe the problem is I haven't given enough! That's gotta be it! I haven't give you enough!

Here, someone, pass me a razor and I bleed myself dry in the middle of this very ring! DOES SOMEONE NEED A VITAL ORGAN TO GIVE TO A LOVED ONE? JUST ASK! I'LL REACH IN AND PULL ONE OUT, SLAP IT DOWN, AND YOU CAN TAKE IT!

YOU FUCKERS ALREADY TOOK MY HEART, YOU MIGHT AS WELL HAVE IT ALL!

ACW IS CLOSED as of right-the fuck-now!

Those bastards up there are taking down the stage, they've already taken all the tech equipment and shit from backstage, and soon-" Lowell turned and looked at Sharp and the ACW World Title. "They'll be coming for THAT."

Lowell dropped to the mat and started rolling around. He then took out a bag of cocaine and sprinkled it over himself as he slapped his hands together like a seal.

The crowd wasn't even booing anymore, they were just watching this sad, sad sight.

"NO ONE HERE IS BETTER THAN ME!

YOU'RE NOT!

FUCK YOU YOU'RE NOT!"

Lowell slid his hand down his pants to play with his balls.

"DOES THIS ENTERTAIN YOU???

FUCK YOU SHARP, FUCK YOU ALMASY. YOU BOTH SUCK. SUCK SUCK SUCK.

AND SO DO YOU GOVERNMENT.

TAKIN' MY SHIT.

THINK YOU'RE BAD TO THE BONE.

YOU AREN'T BAD TO THE *ANYTHING*!!

Y'KNOW??? HAHAHAHAHAHAHA!! FUCK 'EM RIGHT?

FUCK EVERY LAST ONE OF YA~!

I'M LOWELL, DAMMIT! I ALWAYS BOUNCE BACK!!

MY RECORDS'LL STILL BE POPPIN' UP ON STORE SHELVES LOOOOOOONG AFTER I'M DEAD!"

Sharp and Almasy stared at Lowell.

It was then that a suit-clad man walked down the ramp, entered the ring, made his way over to where Sharp was standing, and snatched the ACW World Title from his hands.

"ACW property; it comes with me," the man said as he turned and left.

Sharp's expression turned cold; Lowell, upon getting to his feet, threw up the double bird in the direction of Andy and Seymour, laughing hysterically.

"BUHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA! AAAAAAHAHAHAHAHA!

YOU FOOLS!

THAT TITLE WAS WORTHLESS ANYWAY!

YOU WANT YOURSELF A WORLD CHAMPIONSHIP?

*HERE'S* YOUR WORLD CHAMPIONSHIP!"

Lowell dug in his pocket and threw a condom package at Sharp. "SLIP THAT ON! CAREFUL THOUGH, IT MAY BE EXPIRED! I DON'T USE 'EM!"

More side-splitting laughter from the 'King in Waiting'.

Sharp throttled his temper. He'd tossed the condom package away and balled up his fist.

"I'm an outlaw now, don'tchaknow!?

TRUTH. All those faggots up there, millin' about- they alllll want a piece of Lowell! But y'know something? THEY CAN'T HAVE HIM! HE'S A FREE SPIRIT!

Stickin' it to THE MAN.

I'll fight you ALL.

One-on-one.

PISTOLS.

G'yeaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah!"

From the back walked the ENTIRE ACW roster sans the few that had already fled the scene.

Lowell turned and saw them approaching... "Ah good! My slaves! Come to create a circular barrier around me as we fight our way outta the arena! Where are your priminitive tools and make-shift weapons?

LLB, where's your Law book? The one you never intend on reading but instead open to page 12 and slide your dick in and out of the pages!"

He fell to the canvas, coked out of his mind and unable to control his laughter.

"I ORDER EVERY LAST ONE OF YOU TO TAKE A BULLET FOR ME! NOW GO, TAKE A FUCKIN' BULLET FOR YOUR MAAAAAASTAAAAAAAAAHAHAHAHAHAHA!"

No one moved.

He sprang to his feet again.

"That's an ORDER!"

All at once they took a step toward the ring. They circled around it – some climbing up on to the ring apron, others sliding beneath the bottom rope.

"I SEE HOW IT IS! THERE'S A MUTINY AT FOOT! HOOOO YEAH! LET'S DO THIS THING!"

Lowell rolled up his sleeves, puke up his dukes – he Thai clinched the air and threw two of the weakest knees anyone had ever seen. He then announced, "I AM A MAUY THAI PRACTIONER - I BOUGHT THE INSTRUCTIONAL TAPES OFF SHERDOG.COM! FEAAAAAAR ME!

FAAAAAACE THAAAA PAAAAAAIN!"

Andy Sharp had seen enough. He charged forward and knocked Lowell down from behind with a Benoit-esque double forearm smash! Mounting him, Sharp pelted Lowell with forearms, while Almasy kicked Lowell in the knees!

Sharp got up, allowing everyone, as a collective unit, to stomp the fuck out of their former boss!

As they relented, Lowell lay lifeless on the mat, arms stuck up like a T-Rex, likes trembling. He then felt it fitting to quote Dave Chappelle-doing-Rick James, as he stared up at the mob, "You were cold as iiiice. *cough cough*"

Dean Matthews stepped forward, knelt down, and said, "They shoulda' nevah gave you niggas money."

Lowell, with tears building up in his eyes, stared back at Dean – his ex-drug dealer/locator/whatever he was... a sudden sense of realization washed over him, and he began to cry. "N-no, they should've haaaave... *sniffle* I-I ruuuined everything! I'm a bum! I'm a bum that belongs to someone who doesn't properly wipe and has a bad case of hemorrhoids!

Dean... be a pal and cradle my head for me." He swallowed hard. "Cradle it, dammit! Can't you see this is HUGE? This is me admitting my wrong doings! Fessing up! Being a man, for once!"

Dean's reaction to this unusual request was like that of a high school jock being propisitioned by the goth chick that offered him a blow job.

Dean got down, ran his hand through Lowell's hair, mumbled and stuttered, and went, "I, uh... Are you sure you're flat broke, man? I know a guy around here that's dirt cheap, I just have to run to the Taco Bell and talk to him.."

At this point Lowell was bawling like a child. He stared up at Dean with big puppy dog eyes, and replied, "Deaaaaaan-o... *sniffle, snooooort* stay with me, OK? I need you to stay with me! You're the only thing solid in my life right now... without you I dunno what I'd do, maaan." The tears just kept on coming, rolling down the sides of his face.I can't quit you! You're the nicotine in my cigarette! The gin in my flask! The little bits of coke that get stuck in my stubble, that I can always count on to get me high when I'm outta cash and don't wanna run to the ATM! You're my everything! I laaaaahhhhhhhhv—"

~~[C/U of Lowell's eyes, glossy with tears- tears of love...

Cut to: a cheesy montage set to Brian Adams' "Heaven"—

Oh - thinkin' about all our younger years
There was only you and me
We were young and wild and free

"haHA!! THAT'S RIGHT DEAN-O, THREE POINTS MY NIGGA~!"

Lowell ran over, grabbed the ball, jumped back in his seat, and gave a chair-fadeaway, shooting the Official Spalding NBA-licensed basketball across the room. As the camera panned over, it caught the ball thudding against the wall and dropping to the floor, with no actual basket or target in sight. Furthermore, several dents and marks left on the wall indicated this wasn't the first time Lowell had decided to play this game.

"Dean, I am KILLING you out there! MEDICS MEDICS OUT THERE MEDICS COME ON IN HERE BECAUSE DEAN MATTHEWS IS GETTING KILLED~!"

He grabbed the ball, shot, thud. He did this several more times.

Dean Matthews leaned on the two back legs of his chair, not paying much attention.

"Dean, you gotta make your comeback soon!"

After the next shot, Dean clanked the front two legs of the chair down and ran up, kicked the ball with his boot, SLAMMING it against the wall. This obviously did its damage, leaving a long crack in the white wall.

"Touchdown."

And there, he sat back down.

"DAMMIT, Dean, you ALWAYS fucking beat me."

Now nothin' can take you away from me
We bin down that road before
But that's over now
You keep me comin' back for more

Lowell walked up to Dean in the hallway, his "I want drugs" wool toque twisted sideways on his head.

Lowell simply nodded, and Dean pulled out a bag of coke mixed with acid mixed with apple cider.

"You know... you can borrow my 8-Ball jacket anytime, bro, it's just sitting in my closet – who knew David Puddy was that FAT?"

"This is the third time this week, Lowell, you have a problem."

"Wh-wha what was that? Oh I'm sorry, I was admiring my baggy of drugs!"

Baby you're all that I want
When you're lyin' here in my arms
I'm findin' it hard to believe
We're in heaven
And love is all that I need
And I found it there in your heart
It isn't too hard to see
We're in heaven

"Hey yo fat girl, com'ere are you ticklish? Yeah I called you fat, look at me I'm skinny. That ain't never stopped me from gettin' busy. I'm a freak. I like the girls with the boom. I once got busy in a burger king bathroom, I'm CRAZY. Allow me to amaze thee!"

"Whoa, whoa, Dean. You write all these lyrics YOURSELF?!"

A long drag from a Benson and Hedges cigarette, along with a drawn-out, confident nod.

"..Yeah.. I do, man."

"And that one was called the 'Humpty Dumpty'?"

"The Humpty Dance, man. Yeah."

"God, you're clever."

Lowell picked up a phone and, to no one in particular, held the phone about a mile from his face and yelled

"HEY TAKE SOME OF THE MONEY AND START LOWELL RECORDS, I'VE GOT PLATINUMMMMMMM IN MY EYES!!"

Another drag.

"I'm in it for the love of the game, Lowell."

Lowell dropped the phone.

"You're right, Dean-o.. ......The love."

Oh - once in your life you find someone
Who will turn your world around
Bring you up when you're feelin' down

"Dean-o... I can't get an errection – it just won't go UP... think it has something to do with me tying a brick to it at night and hanging it over the side of my bed?"

Dean thought about the question. "I dunno, man, but I'm sure using motor oil as lube ain't good for it."

"DOOOOOD I WAS OUTTA KY! THE ROLLS WAS COCK FULL OF THAT SHIT!"

"Heh, you know you just said *cock* instead of *chock* right?"

"Did I?? Fuuuck, 'cock full of that shit' – hehe – that's what YO MAMMA SAID~!!!"

Ya - nothin' could change what you mean to me
Oh there's lots that I could say
But just hold me now
Cause our love will light the way

Dean wandered into Lowell's office, huge paper bag in hand, which was soon propped down on his desk.

"Lowell, who dresses you? That shirt is brutal. Liberace dressed like a clown after being gang-raped by KISS ugly, bro."

Lowell's eyes nearly bugged out of his head. He grabbed something, anything made out of metal and gave himself a superficial examination.

"Dear Moses, you're right.. WHAT DO I DO, DEAN?! I can't be made a fool of~!"

"Um.. Glue some of those red cotton-ball looking things to the front of it."

N' baby you're all that I want
When you're lyin' here in my arms
I'm findin' it hard to believe
We're in heaven
And love is all that I need
And I found it there in your heart
It isn't too hard to see
We're in heaven

Lowell and Dean sit at Lowell's breakfast table, eating cereal and staring at the Frosted Flakes box.

"Y'know," Lowell said, "I bet Tony molests children... he just has that *way* about him........ like he molests children, y'know?"

Dean simply nodded. "Mmmhmmm."

I've bin waitin' for so long
For something to arrive
For love to come along

Lowell and Dean bump into each other in the stacks at a local library – for ever reason Lowell is dressed like a female, and Dean is wearing college kid clothes.

"Lowell, this is really getting weird... I'm all for coming over to your house to eat Frosted Flakes, but this, man, whhhyyy?"

Lowell seductively reached down his blouse and pulled out a wad of twenties, stuffing it in the waistband of Dean's slacks. "'Cause I'm rich and I'm bored."

Now our dreams are comin' true
Through the good times and the bad
Ya - I'll be standin' there by you

"DEAN-O!!!! COME HERE! I've got a surprise!!!"

Soon, Dean groggily walked into Lowell's office.

"Dean-o, I want you to know how much I appreciate everything you do for me.. and for ACW. We're nothing without you!"

Dean coughed and looked up to Lowell.

"I don't know about that, man."

"IT'S TRUE! And I've done something for you.. CLOSET BOY!!! COME ONNNNNNNNNNN DOWWWWWWWWWWWWNNNNNNNNNNN!!!!!!!"

And soon emerged a large tattooed man with his hair slicked back.

"Jesus, I've been in that fucking closet for 20 minutes."

"Yeah. Sorry. I forgot about you for a little while. Dean. I know you're a big fan of the uh.. Social Discretion?"

"It's Social Distortion."

"WELL, HERE HE IS!!"

"Actually, I'm Mike Ness. But I'm in Social Distortion.

There was a trace of emotion on Dean's face for once, something between shock and confusion. Out popped a camera from Lowell's pocket.

"Look, Lowell, I appreciate it, but did you spend mone--"

"HIS MIKENESS! I'm sure Dean wants a picture with his hero! Do you mind?"

"No, not at all."

So, Lowell tossed him the camera and posed with Dean for a picture.

Bunny ears stuck up behind Dean's head.

[Cut back to LIVE ACTION

Cue the sound a record player makes when the needle slides off the vinyl horizontally.]~~

Dean dropped Lowell's head against the mat, gulped, and ran a hand through his own hair. The look on his face screamed "I just saw Liza Minelli's twat." Backing up a bit, hand still in his hair, he looked down to Lowell with huge eyes.

"Listen, Lowell, man.. I uh.. You know, you're a friend of mine, no matter what you do or what happens.. I support you, man. I like the Smiths as much as the next guy and all. I get it. 'Shoplifters of the world unite,' and stuff. But.. Y'know, I have that whole thing with Madison, d'y'know whatImean? .. Shit, now that I think about it, if you need some love, I can run to that same guy at the Taco Bell on Oak Street.."

The ACW wrestlers could have gotten a few more shots in... but was it really necessary? As bad as Lowell had made their lives over the past 8 months, Lowell was going to probably get fucked in the ass by some big black guy for saying the N-word during excercise period.

No, instead the turned around and exited the ring.

...A few did spit on him as they left...

Lowell watched Dean and his roster walk back up the ramp, as FBI agents cut through them, preparing to storm the ring and haul him off.

Lowell, still unable to move from the stomping he'd taken, let his head drop back to the mat.

He opened his mouth and dropped a pill down his throat, uttering the words...

"They'll never take me alive."

It was a <b>cyanide pill</b>.



...



(Actually it was just an E tablet but what-ev)

The Lowell era was over.

And so Courage 100 ended with a dual shot of the ACW sign falling, and Lowell being dragged off...

What was to happen to ACW? Was this truly the end?

...

DUN DUN DUUUUUUUUUUUUUN.

...

But 20,000 miles away, in a secured hospital room, a middle-aged man opens his eyes.

The light attacking his retina's like sharp blades to the nerves.

As his vision unblurred, the face of a young blonde nurse assembled in from of his face.

"How are you feeling Mr. Jones?"

...

"Where the...where the fuck am I?"

...

DUN DUN DUUUUUUUUUUUUUN.

...

2002-2006