View Full Version : LPW Presents: ALTERED REALITY 8! Live from San Francisco Voting and Promo Thread!

Macho Mourn
07-29-2018, 09:40 PM

Inside the regional offices for Lords of Pain Wrestling, located in beautiful downtown San Francisco, Mikhail Nabakov sits at his desk looking off into the distance while listening to a phone call. Once hung up on, The Kid slams the phone down and looks to the ceiling.

Kid: I don’t ask for much god, just employees that listen to directives. That’s all.


The Kid presses his intercom.

Kid: Yes Susan?

Secretary: One, Sixx King, here to see you.

The Kid sighs.

Kid: Oh, yeah… send him in.

Sixx King strolls in. He sits down across from the Kid. With both men looking to the other to start, The Kid clears his throat.

Kid: So, no word on Storme? Between him, and other talents not being where they need to be… Altered Reality is mere weeks away and a challenger to a championship ups and vanishes…

Sixx: Not my day to babysit. Thought that crap was behind me when I kicked Golden to the curb.

Kid: Literally.

Sixx: Besides, I can take them both.

The Kid laughs.

Kid: I bet you’d try, but that isn’t how we’re handling Altered Reality. You must find a partner. I don’t particularly care who, but they must be currently signed. You do not get the benefit of finding a random guy off the streets.

Sixx: I don’t play well to threats.

Kid: Is everything a threat to you wrestlers?

Sixx blinks emptily.

Kid: Okay, point taken… My decision stands. You must find a partner.

Sixx: I don’t give a fuck who my partner is. It is Thornridge and Bronx. I CAN BEAT THEM MY-


Kid: Yes Susan?

Secretary: One, Mathew Kazama, here to see you.

The Kid looks to Sixx. Sixx rolls his eyes.

Kid: One sec, Susan. You need a partner, I’m putting him with you.

Sixx: WHAT?

Kid: Send him in Susan! Have you found Storme? No? Then, he’s your partner. Since you “don’t give a fuck who your partner is.”

Sixx: When I mop your tag champs with a second rate partner, you better hope Storme doesn't pop up. Altered Reality may end up being a night you’d want to forget.

Sixx looks to the door where Mathew Kazama looks on confused.

Kazama: I thought we had a meeting planned?

Kid: Yes. We did. You wanted to talk about having something at Altered Reality. Well… Mathew, meet your tag partner for a World Tag Team Title Match at Altered Reality. Sixx King.

Kazama and Sixx lock eyes. Kazama smiles. Sixx storms off muttering every curse word known to man under his breath.





Triple Threat for the Martinez Cup!
(Winner becomes the International and Heavyweight Champion)

LPW International Heavyweight Champion Al


LPW World Heavyweight Champion ”The Desperado" Mourn Despana (w/ Kassandra)


Owner of the Mount Vesuvius Torch "The Contract Killer" Chris Austin

Western States Heritage Championship Tournament!

Round 1:
(Winners face later in the night to determine the new Western States Heritage Champion)***

"Darwin's Last Soldier" Bobino VS Reece Raymond

Caeser Osiris VS Ozzy Crerar

LPW Hardcore Championship Ladder Match!

© "The Sovereign" David Gideon Smith


Joe Citizen


"The Soldier" Bane Uzzah


THE David Maverick

LPW World Tag Team Title Match!

©”The Professionals” Bronx & Steven Thornridge


"The Maniacal Monarch" Sixx King and Matthew “Silver” Kazama

Special Grudge Match!

Sean Jensen VS "The Harvester Of Sorrow" Phantom Lord

PLUS! Introductions, returns, and surprises galore! Information about Homecoming! ALTERED REALITY 8! All roads head to San Francisco!

Promo Only until Thursday, August 9th, 2018 at 11:59pm PDT, Promo and Voting only until Saturday, August 11th, 2018 at 11:59pm PDT, Voting Only until Sunday, August 12th 2018 11:59pm PDT

(***) NOTE: Vote for a winner in both matches and a finals pitting those winners against each other.

Caeser Osiris
08-01-2018, 01:00 AM
Wrestling prides itself on storytelling. It would be foolish to think there’s not a story to this match too.

Stories typically have five major parts. Firstly, you’ve got exposition. The characters are introduced, you get to know them, and figure out what it is they want. Not just what they want, but also what’s keeping them from getting it.

After that, you have your rising action. That’s where our hero goes out on his quest, he encounters a road block that keeps him from accomplishing his goal. He’s made a plan…but the plan has gone off the rails.

Then we have the climax. Our noble hero has to adjust against the changes and maybe make an unexpected sacrifice to reach their goal.

After that is our falling action. The consequences of the hero’s sacrifice are dealt with, finally culminating in our last part;
The conclusion. The hero returns home, having met their goals, their life forever changed.

Wrestling is no different, and if you pay attention you can make out the kind of story that’s being told.

What’s upsetting is that the story I’m involved in isn’t one about me.

Imagine the frustration of knowing that the story you’re a part of isn’t really your own. It’s maddening, but it’s the truth. I’m part of this great story, but the problem is Bobino is the protagonist of it.

See there’s a narrative to this feud we’re having, and it’s…honestly, predictable.

Let’s start with our exposition; Here we have our hero, Bobino. The year is 2016, and he’s the LPW Hardcore Champion, and my God, is he ever eager to prove himself. He walks and people tremble. But then, disaster! Our worthy champion is defeated by one David Gideon Smith. How will Bobino prove himself?

Logically by moving up in the world, and challenging for the Western States Heritage Championship. The problem? There is none! The championship has become vacated! Alas, what is poor Bobino to do? There’s our rising action. Bobino must prove himself a worthy challenger, and he does just that. He earns his way into the tournament, and because this is HIS story, he’s the number one seed. There’s some plot armour If I’ve ever seen it. Main character status has its benefits after all.

The climax; Bobino fights and vanquishes his foes, on the grandest stage of them all, Altered Reality. Tomorrow, his sacrifices are dealt with, his wounds are iced, and Bobino returns home, elevated by his newly won championship.

Tell me I’m wrong.

Tell me that’s not the way you expected this to go.

Tell me “It’s anyone’s night!” “Anybody has a shot!” or hey, how about “Any man with two hands has a fighting chance!”

Those statements are true, I can’t dispute that, but I’m also not trying to. I’m telling you right now that just because anyone has a chance, doesn’t mean they are equal chances. I’m trying to tell you that Bobino is a fraud, a man who is being given every advantage, and granted every short cut to the top. I wouldn’t be surprised to learn that Bobino is already on posters for events months from now, as the Western States Heritage Champion. They probably have the name plate ready and everything.

There’s a reason I’m here talking about Bobino, and not Ozzy or Reece, it’s because I, not them, have been cast as the role of “The Devil Himself” in this little narrative. Ozzy and Reece, they just entered the story over the past couple weeks. They’re minor characters. They’re the subplots, the road blocks. Me? I’ve been here since the start of the quest. And this “Devil Himself” business is a joke too, I’m not such a bad guy. Just because I want to win against Bobino, I’m the villain? When did wanting to win become so heinous?

Anyone who’s really watching knows what I’ve done. I beat Golden, a former world champion, to get into this match. I beat Drew Michaels months before that, and we haven’t seen him since. Most importantly, last month when this all began, I took Bobino to his limit, in a match that he cheated to win.

They set up this little tournament, and said that everyone’s got a shot. They lied.

They tell you there’s a choice, but they’re lying.

To quote the great George Carlin; “You don’t have choice. You have owners. They own you. It’s a big club, and you and I aint in it.” The establishment wants Bobino as their champion. They’ve decided it’s best. They set up this whole tournament so that if someone like me comes along and says “Hey, this table is tilted!” They can sit there and say “Well it was anyone’s night!”

But they’ve lied.

But it’s ok. It doesn’t have to be this way. See they gave us a chance. They think that we’re ok sitting back, and letting the machine follow its path. We need to show them that we’re not. I’m here, but I can’t do it alone. I need you, wherever you are to stand up, put your hand up to the screen and pledge your support for me. I need you on my side, and together we can show them that THEY DON’T CONTROL US.

I’M NOT A PART OF THEIR NARRATIVE, AND NEITHER ARE YOU! Take back control of this story, and stand with me.

Altered Reality is synonymous with controversy, and together, we’re going to create a whole new one, when we pull off the heist of the century, reject the way that we’re being told things have to be done, and I walk out of San Francisco with The Western States Heritage Championship.

By now you’ve heard it before;

They say that there are three sides to every story. Your side, my side, and the truth.

The events of the Scorpion Killer are told in three ways.

Excerpts from the writings of Caeser Osiris (Osiris, Caeser. “My Side of the Story” Buffalo, NY: Scribner, 2019 )

Excerpts from the writings of Justin Dike (Dike, Justin. “Catching the Scorpion Killer” New York, NY: Random House, 2018 [Biography])

and as told by an impartial, and omnipresent narrator.

These are those events.

From “Catching the Scorpion Killer” by Justin Dike.

Since Cassie had come on as my partner, I was enjoying my job a lot more. We had made a pretty good team, all things considered. Her trip to San Francisco had been planned for months. She was attending a seminar on body camera technology, and everything had gone well. From that very first moment you hold your daughter in your arms, you realize just what it means to be a father. It’s this feeling that can never truly be put into words. The best way to describe it, is that it’s like your heart is running around on the outside of your body. You get to be proud, and worried. You see little bits of yourself, and your partner in all of their movements and it breaks your heart; but fills it up all at the same time. For all of your shortcomings, maybe she has a chance at doing it better than you ever did. Every mistake that keeps you up at night, or error in judgement, she might get them right. If nothing else, kids give us hope for the future.

From “My Side of the Story” by Caeser Osiris
Altered Reality was one of my final shows in LPW before my arrest. Unbeknownst to me, a conspiracy was being set up, one that would frame me for the horrific deaths of more than a dozen victims. It sickens me to know that so many people could be swayed by the words of a liar like Justin Dike. What’s worse, to me is that the real Scorpion Killer is still out there, hiding.

It’s been a tough month for Kerry Koya. She felt foolish thinking it, but it never occurred to her that murder would make her feel so guilty. She had worked up her nerve, starting small; animals and insects mostly and felt practically nothing. She had looked down at small rodents and pests, and just seen herself as nothing more than a custodian, removing something worthless so that something worthwhile might have a chance to thrive.

People…human beings were a whole different story though. The first one hadn’t been so bad. They had killed a maid, and buried the body in the woods. It had been an accident, although not hers. In his passion, Caeser had forgotten to lock the door. In fact, since she had come along, she noticed more and more that the former perfectionist had been making more and more mistakes. The realization had only made her feel even more guilty. She had vowed to be even more vigilant to keep their partnership alive, but now she didn’t even know if that’s what she wanted. Everything changed when she murdered her parents.

She had hated them. Passionately. But seeing them laying on the ground, motionless, foaming at the mouth, Kerry Koya felt the unmistakable pangs of regret. It was days later that she realized she never really wanted them dead. She wanted their love, their admiration. She didn’t want hate, she wanted reconciliation. And now she would never have it.

She hadn’t slept in weeks. They had gone on a bit of a vacation across the country, but that hadn’t helped. Questioned by that horrible Justin Dike, she had barely managed to keep herself in check, but she could feel herself falling apart. Even now as they hunted for a fresh victim, she could feel herself being torn apart at the seams.

[B]Osiris: There. The drifter

The car slowed to a stop. Kerry took a moment to get the full picture. She was slender and frail looking. She looked like she had been through hard times, her leathery skin looked rough and worn. Make up tried, and failed to cover up the scars of hard living.

Osiris: Stay in the car.

Before she had the chance to act, he was out of the car. They hadn’t even checked to make sure it was clear. It was late, sure, but not so late that nobody would be around. She panicked. They had played it so fast and loose, getting bolder and bolder each time, but what if this was it, the final straw that got them both sent away forever. So many states still had the death penalty, and here they were in the middle of a crime that would certainly see their lives taken away. From behind her, a knock came, and she screamed, but found that it was Caeser banging on the trunk. The woman had barely even made a sound. She reached down, and popped the trunk. Osiris threw the body inside, and dashed to the front seat, keeping his head down all the while, adjusting his hat.

She drove.

Her hands gripped the wheel tightly her brown skin now practically bone white. She could feel her heart racing in her chest. Anywhere but here, she thought to herself. I want to be anywhere but right here, with this man.
She hit the breaks hard. A woman had run up to the car door and had started to pound on it. Where had she come from? Kerry turned to her, and froze in disbelief. It was the cop from Washington. Not the man, Justin, but the younger one, the girl. His daughter.

Why was she here. What had she seen?

Cassie: Open the trunk!

That settled that. The officer was done asking. She drew her weapon.

Osiris: Get out. Calm.

Caeser and Kerry opened the door, hands in the air.

Cassie: Turn around, on the ground, hands behind your back!

They complied. Kerry looked over, panicked, she could feel her heart pacing, like she was only seconds away from blacking out. She looked over at Caeser. He nodded. She knew that look. Inside that mans head, the gears were turning. Was he hatching something? If so, what?! What could he possibly do to get them out of this.

Cassie reached back, and pulled out a pair of cuffs. She slung them around Kerry’s hands. Droplets began to form at the corners of her eyes. This was real.

As Cassie reached down to cuff Osiris, Kerry watched as she recoiled, and stumbled. Osiris was back on his feet in an instant. He caught Cassie as she fell limp. From within his hand he revealed a tiny needle of the scorpion venom he had made infamous. Cassie clutched at her throat, struggling to breathe.

Osiris: Get up, we’ve gotta go. I’ll drive, put a jacket over your wrists and keep them down.

Kerry did as she was told. They popped the trunk, and stacked Cassie over top of the other woman.

They drove.

From “Catching the Scorpion Killer” by Justin Dike.

For anyone, losing a daughter is rough. You should never outlive your kids. Never. The problem is knowing that when your daughter is in a profession like ours her life is at stake.

You constantly see the worst of people, and very little of their best. It’s easy to judge, but much harder, and much more fair to recognize that if people are seeing us, it’s usually the worst day of their lives. Finding out Cassie had been killed. Killed by him. That was the worst day of my life. People ask me all the time if I blame myself. Of course I do. I think that’s only normal. I put a bit of the blame on myself, but I put the majority of it on him.

Caeser Osiris is the scorpion killer, and I know that my little girl can rest a little easier knowing that her death helped bring him to justice.

Four eyes stared blankly back at her. The drifters body had started to decay from within the Alkaline Hydrolosis machine. She was dead, but the cop was still very much alive. Kerry saw her body convulse every couple of minutes as the poison made it’s way through her body.

Kerry: How much longer?

Osiris: There’s no telling. Could be a couple days, could be a couple hours.

He looked down at her, her hands still bound.

Osiris: We were sloppy today. This is a goddamn cop. We can’t afford any more mistakes.

She turned her head away from him. More mistakes? How could he sit here like that, like this wasn’t a fucking lighthouse signal in the dark that they were done. How could he want to go on any further?

Kerry: Do you think you could get something to break the cuffs?

She had managed to get them in front of her body, but the knives they had in their hotel room hadn’t been able to break the cuffs.

Caeser grabbed her hands, and looked them over.

Osiris: I think we’ll need a hack saw. I’ll run out and grab one. Are you ok here?

She nodded.

Osiris: The drifter will be done in another couple hours. After that we’ll figure out what to do with her.

She nodded again. He shut the door carefully. The silence of the room was only broken by the slow and steady pulse of the machine in the corner. As she heard their car pull away, she realized just how alone she really was. Only she wasn’t truly alone. She looked over at Cassie, flat on the ground practically paralyzed. Her eyes wide, Cassie mouthed one word to her.

Cassie: Please.

Kerry crawled closer to her, and looked down at her unexpected victim. This was the end for her. They both knew it. This woman had been full of fire only hours ago, and now she was taking her last breaths.

Kerry: I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.

Cassie had no response. If she heard, she gave no sign. Her lip trembled, covered in saliva.

Cassie: Please.

Cassie’s eyes darted to a nearby pillow. Her head moved ever so slightly, and then her eyes shut, starting to well up with tears.
Kerry took a deep breath, and reached over for the pillow. She thought of the suffering. This venom wasn’t just deadly, for the first time it occurred to her just how cruel it really was. Just thinking of these final moments so full of pain, her heart broke. She grasped the pillow thrust it over Cassies face.

She thought of the nature of cruelty. It was a cycle. She had created this monster; Ceasar Osiris, The Scorpion Killer. She had forced him, threatened to blackmail him even, if he didn’t help kill her parents, the parents she simply wanted reconciliation from.
There was no denying her responsibility in creating this monster. For that, she might have to pay. That was an issue for another day. For now, she knew what needed to be done.

She also knew there was no chance in hell she was going to jail. Not for him. Not for this.

She pulled the pillow up, Cassie gasped for air.

Not dead yet, Kerry thought to herself. Good. It wasn’t too late then.

It was less than an hour later when Osiris returned to the motel, he found it empty. Scattered on the floor was a pair of broken handcuffs, only inches away from the now twisted jagged metal of the motel bed frame. It was safe to say they wouldn’t be getting their deposit back. The cop was gone, as was Kerry. The only thing left was the Alkaline Hydrolosis machine, and the half- decomposed body of the drifter.

He frowned.

Kerry hadn’t gotten far before realizing she didn’t have a plan. In fact she hadn’t even gotten out of the motel parking lot. Examining her wrists, it was clear they had been lacerated. The pain was excruciating, and having to force Cassie to walk with her, step by step only exasperated her situation. She had gathered her belongings and made it out the door, but they had only made it to a park bench on the far end of the motel parking lot. The sun had set, and she watched, frantic as Caeser’s car pulled back into the parking lot, backing up into the closest parking spot to their room. He got out, small shopping bag with the wooden handle of a small hacksaw in hand, and made his way into the room, careful to close the door behind him.

Kerry thought about escape, where could she go? How could she even get there, dragging this walking corpse with her along the way, was it even possible?

The realization struck her in an instant, and she dug through her bag, searching desperately for her prize. A grunt came from the poisoned detective beside her. She ignored it, and pulled out her spare car key. If they could make it to the car, they would be home free.

Kerry: Listen. We need to move. We’re getting into the car, and we’re going somewhere safe. I need you to move, I know it hurts, but if we do this, there’s an antidote we can use. He keeps it at his house back in New York.

Cassies eyes grew wide and she nodded. As quickly as they could, the pair moved across the parking lot. Kerry opened the passenger door and hurled Cassie inside, careful to close the door as quiet as she could. As she opened the door to the drivers side, she turned and looked, only to see Caeser standing in the motel doorway.

Osiris: Kerry? What are you doing?

Kerry: I’m sorry Caeser. I’m so sorry. I’m the reason for all of this. I’m the reason it’s gotten this far, and I know I’m the only way there can be an end to this.

Osiris: Kerry, I don’t understand. I don’t WANT this to end. This isn’t because of you, this is us. I can do this without you, but I don’t want to. Kerry I love you. I never used to feel…anything. I used to just be numb to the world, day in and day out, killing just to feel ANYTHING. But you came along, and I swear it was like the world going from black and white into full color. Kerry, whatever it takes, we can get through this. Come back inside.

She hesitated. She turned to look at Cassie, wide eyed in anticipation. She looked back to Caesar. There was that look again. She could see the gears turning. There was no end on this path. It was quite literally a dead end. It would end with one or both of them dead, or locked away. She knew they couldn’t fix each other by taking pieces away from others.

Kerry: I’m sorry Caeser. We can’t make a whole when we’re both so broken.

She shut the car door, and started to drive.

She drove for a full day. She knew she was supposed to get tired, but she never did. Her head raced, not really knowing where she was going, but knowing exactly where she needed to end up.

Gasport, New York of all places. Home of Caeser Osiris. She hopped out of the car, wounds on her wrists slowly healing. She looked up at the modest size home, and made her way inside with her spare key.

Trust; it gets you every time.

She guided Cassie, who had gained back a little bit of mobility. The door swung in the breeze, as she walked with Cassie down to the basement. There, on the cement floor were glass tanks, filled with scorpions, specifically the Arizona Bark Scorpion. Terrariums filled with the scorpion and rows of vials filled with its venom.

Cassie: Is this…his?

Kerry nodded.

Kerry: This is his base of operations.

Cassie looked around, struggling to take in her surroundings.

Cassie: Cure?

It was all that she could manage to get out. Kerry put her hand up to her face, closed her eyes and let out a heavy sigh.

Kerry: I’m really sorry.

Cassie nodded. Expectantly.

Cassie: I know.

Kerry took a step back, up onto the bottom stair. She reached beside her and with the side of her elbow, nudged over one of the tanks filled with scorpions. It fell to the ground, the glass shattering. Scorpions scattered everywhere.
As they did, she walked up the stairs, and shut the door.

When the screaming stopped, she pulled out her phone, and called the police.

From “Catching the Scorpion Killer” by Justin Dike.

Osiris’ girlfriend came over to grab a book, and found Cassie’s body in the basement. There’s no knowing just how long the body had been there. When I think about the pain my baby girl went through, it sickens me. We had him, practically red handed. All that was left to do was to move in.

08-09-2018, 09:59 AM
Hardcore Championship Ladder Match


Lillehammer: REF! BANE WASN’T READY!!!

Phoenix: Bane gets to a knee but Reece hooks it! HALF-NELSON SUPLEX FOLDS UP UZZAH LIKE AN ACCORDION!!Bane is on dream street, and Raymond measures him!

Uzzah gets to a knee, and Reece advances.


Lillehammer: WHAT THE HELL IS THIS!?

Phoenix: THAT’S LIGHTS OUT! Raymond with his Shining Wizard! COVER!!!




Chapter One: Divine Intervention

And, just like that, I am out of AR8. God fucking damnit. The noise of cars and taxis hooting, or of scooters, flying past is deafening. I moved along the busy street, scowling under my hoodie as I squeeze through the sea of people.

“Sir, would you….” There was a man at the intersection. I peeked for just a second from under my hoodie. He would have been white if it weren't for all the freckles. His face was brown with small pale spaces here and there, adored with a great white beard. His old maroon t-shirt was a small, but on him it was clinging where it shouldn't and hanging loose in other places. I pinch my nose as he draws closer.

I push the homeless man aside. I am in no fucking charity mood.

Despite the hustle and bustle, all I can hear is count of 3, the defeat echoing in my ears. I take a sharp right turn and enter the restaurant.

Pulling back my hoodie, I shift my weight around in the chair. I grip my fist tightly as my knuckles turn white. Images of my recent losses flash across my mind. The restaurant is packed with patrons, and a few even glanced across from their tables, muttering among themselves at the sight of the LPW superstar.

From the corner of my eye, I see a figure limping unsteadily into the restaurant in his usual attire. A short suit, black hat, round glasses and a cane. I lift my right hand and waves, flashing a quick smile. The old man returns a wide grin, and I rises from my chair to pull out a seat for him, nodding to the rabbi with a smile as I does so.

"Glad you could make it, rabbi."

Despite the rabbi’s frail appearance, his eyes twinkled as he takes the seat I pulled out, and he speaks in a raucous voice. “Shabbat Shalom! You are looking better already."

My smile broadens. I motions for the waiter as I return to my seat.

"Wasn't sure you'd come, Rabbi.... After you left me at the hospital that time."

The Rabbi shakes his head. "Well, my son, I will never abandon you. But I meant every word I said. You… you walked into the realm of impossibility. Where divine wars are fought over ideology, idolatry and faith."

“Rabbi, I know. I know now.” I grip my fist tight again as the image of my losses flash across my mind. “I’ve… been through some stuff, and I believe you.” Banes motions to the waiter. "Rabbi, the usual?" The Rabbi nodded. “Okay, a glass of bartenura moscato for him, whiskey for me.” I return my eyes back to the Rabbi. "I… need your help. Anything to get out of this rut I am in. I don’t even have a match at the biggest show of the year."

"Bane..." The Rabbi leans forward, and speak in a low, raspy whisper. "I can’t help you...no. All this that happened, it’s a wake up call for you, my son. This is the start of something bigger than you can imagine, Bane. Do you understand the magnitude of all these? The LORD is stronger in your life than ever, Bane."

I raise an eyebrow. "What can I do next?"

"It’s never about you alone, Bane."

"Then what?"

The Rabbi laughs sharply. "You are only one small pawn in His grand plans." He gives an inquisitive nod, "Tell me, honestly, what matters to you most in your life?"

For a brief moment, I look out the window. I grip my fist again and replies, "There’s nothing left in my life that matters anymore. Maybe John, maybe you. Nothing beyond that."

“That’s why, Bane, you need guidance. Look outside the window.” The Rabbi takes a slow sip of his moscato.

Chapter Two: The Dove

You know, I really couldn't say when I first saw the birds outside the window. I didn’t notice at first, but towards the end of the meal, the rabbi prompted me to look outside again, onto the busy street. This time, I saw them for sure.

A shining white dove perched on the top of the traffic pole was staring straight at my window. And just across the street, a depressive black crow was also staring at my window. As I continued my lunch, the 2 birds stood there, not moving an inch. The rabbi nodded knowingly at me across the table, but I didn't ask anything - it just seemed too silly.

Regardless. After I noticed them, I couldn't help it. For the next few days, I saw them everywhere. Two birds, white and black, etched into the background of every street and building I am in, like they were unanimated statues. No one else could see them. I'd commented on them once, to Lillehammer, and he looked at me like I was crazy.
But I watched, as they wove their way in and out of my life for a full week.

And, as one does, I inevitably found myself overwhelmed with the need to investigate them, to see why they are there, and where they led.

The next day, after my gym practice, I grabbed my gym bag and walked towards the street. There they were, the black crow perched on top of the supermarket roof to the east, and the white dove casually resting on the roadside to the west of the street.

Doves speak of holiness, the spirit of God Himself. Naturally, I ran towards the dove. It took off into the air, and a mighty wind gushed through the street. I could hear a low, gurgling croak from the crow behind me, but I ignored it, steadily running after the dove, which was leading me somewhere.

It had taken me on a winding, twisting path, deeper and deeper into the city, until at last I found the dove resting on top of the mansard roof of a big mansion. I stepped forward and was about to buzz the intercom - when I saw a familiar face coming out the side gate…

“Hammer! What are you doing here?” I spoke.

Lillehammer looked just as puzzled as I am. “What are YOU doing here?”

We took a stroll down garden outside the premises, and Lillehammer took out a letter from his jacket.

“Well, since you are here, might as well… This is a production crew memo for LPW announcing staff. You know, the usual prep work we do before shows. I was back there in the mansion… with the boss himself. Good news for ya.”

“What good news?” I stopped walking.

“Well, well, you gonna hear about it soon anyway. The boss is planning to add you to the Hardcore championship ladder match.” Lillehammer beamed at me, smiling widely.

I merely nodded, not saying a word.

I was actually thrilled.

My interest was piqued. I looked at that white dove with newfound respect. It’s a bringer of good news.

So I followed it again.

Over and over, I followed it over the next few days. And time after time, I was rewarded for it. It took me to the front door of a gym where I met the owner Christian, one of my old pal from IDF and he gave me full access to his personal training facilities. It led me out of danger, as a kitchen fire burned out of control in my apartment block. It led me to little things that would light up my day, help my training and preparation for the ladder match.
This week was perfect. Really perfect. All thanks to that little messenger of God.

But I couldn't help it. I was bored.

Chapter Three: The Crow

This whole week, I followed the dove without hesitation, trusting it to take me where I needed to go.

Now that I had time to stop and think about it, I wondered if this had all really been for the best. Had I just taken the easy path? Is this dove even a messenger of God?

And through it all, the crow wandered, in the corner of my vision. That dark shadow. It creeped into my sight like it was an evil spirit. It demanded attention, begging for me to give it the shot I'd only ever given its white brother.

That curiosity that took me on this journey was back.

It was night time. I looked out the window and there the 2 birds at opposing directions, beckoning me to follow yet again.

I slipped out the door, and slowly walked towards the crow, as it nodded at my direction with a harsh grating shrill.

Once again, it led me into the city, deeper and deeper. But where the dove had taken me straight towards the center of the city, bustling with life and energy, the red line seemed to be taking me right to the worst part of town. I flinched away from seedy glares, eyeing my bag and the make of my coat, as I hurried forward.

I hoped this wasn't going to be the last mistake I ever made.

The buildings around me loomed higher, the roads and streets giving way to narrow alleys. Finally the crow Ianded on top of a broken fence, in front of a destitute building. The smell of grease and smoke covered my senses as I gazed at the broken signage that reads “Maines’ Automobile Manufac...” I slowly stepped into the building, illuminating my way with my mobile phone. It was a vast manufacturing line, with crates and crates of boxes with rusted metal car parts lined on conveyor belts of silent, broken machines.

I heard the crow letting out a shrill, high up from the roof of the factory. I found the roof access ladder, and carefully lift myself up to the top.

The moon beamed on me as I looked around the roof. With no one in sight, I was about to give up, to declare this a fool's errand and turn back.

And then I caught a glimpse of a small figure, sitting at the edge of the parapet. The maroon colored shirt seemed mildly familiar…

“HEY! What are you trying to do?” I screamed, shining my light in the direction of the figure.

"Please. Please, no. Just let me go in peace."

It stopped me in my tracks. It’s the homeless guy who stopped me on that day of the meal.

The crow was flying above my head, croaking, inviting me onwards.

Almost against my will, I found my feet moving forward. And then I saw him, His legs dangling over the edge. He was right there, no more than twenty feet in front of me. Before I had time to think, I was running.

I swore colorfully as I stumbled. The man grunted in surprise and pain, as I ran headlong into him. Turns out I pushed him off the edge, but my arms reached out in time and grabbed onto him tightly.

"What the fuck?" He cursed, "Dude, fuck off. Let me die..."

I pulled him back up the parapet onto the roof.

The man was a mess, eyes all red and sniffling desperately. But he pulled himself together.

"Eat shit, you asshole, I just saved your sorry ass." My voice was low and rugged. He glanced up at me, confused. Then he cried.

"Thank you. I wanted to die, it was my one last hope. This place, I lost everything here. I don't know what would have happened if you-"

"Well, don’t go getting yourself in this mess again. Ever.” I cut him off before he could go on. I then took out some cash, and placed it in front of him on the ground.

He nodded, accepting my offer with a grateful nod, and stumbled onwards down the ladder.

I glanced upwards, as the crow flew closer to me.

It stared at me, and shrieked loudly. My stomach roiled. More?

I hesitated.

The crow was turning, down a different alley. It led half a block down, and then cut straight up to the front door of a little shack.

I could see a tiny, hazy tendril of smoke, rolling out from under the side door.

The crow was screaming loudly in its urgency. It casted a shadow into my vision as I looked down the alley. I paused, caught deep in thoughts. The answers had suddenly become apparent.

The dove took me where I needed to go.

It showed me the easy path.

The path that I needed to take.

What if...What if the crow showed me the hard path?

Not the path that I needed, but the path that people needed me to go?

The paths where Yahweh, my dear LORD,
can use me for greater good?

My eyes were still locked onto that little building. The smoke was growing, swelling by the second.

I nodded to the crow.

And then I broke into a run.


08-09-2018, 01:20 PM
Everyone Hates Nazis, Part Three: The Finale

Ozzy sat at his desk, poring over every bit of internal documentation the Right Boot of Justice could find. Every arrest he’d helped the police make had thus far turned into nothing. One more white supremacist terrorist off the streets, but not one of them giving up any information about their higher-ups. The rest of his team were out working with police to try to find more leads, but the past few weeks, Ozzy was finding it harder to suppress a truth he’d been running from: someone in his own organization was a mole. Someone who might be guarding his base, or might be out right now working alongside his allies in the FBI and local police forces the nation over. Someone of some importance, and someone who definitely knew where Ozzy slept at night. On paper, he knew that the scope of damage that person could cause was limited, and that it probably didn’t extend to murdering him in his sleep, but nonetheless Ozzy found himself more likely to catch a nap in his armoured vehicle with the doors locked than to get a full eight uninterrupted hours laying next to Faye. So this was how he spent his days: looking over every form, every report, and every background check to try to spot a weak point. As it turned out, this was all useless.

“Ozzy,” Faye announced, walking in to his office, “We found him.”

“His name is Ricardo Valencia, born in Colombia, joined in 2015,” Faye explained as they walked hurriedly down the hallway.

“How did we find out?” Ozzy asked.

“He just cracked,” Faye responded, “One of our privates found him crying in the bathroom, and when they asked what was wrong, he froze, then he started to run. Once others rushed in to break up the fight, he started admitting that he was the mole. We’ve got him locked up in this room; we thought you’d probably want to do this yourself.”

“What do you think ‘this’ is?” Ozzy asked.

“I don’t know,” Faye answered, “But whatever it is, know that I’ll forgive you.”

Ozzy kissed her on the cheek and went inside. Despite not being an answer, her answer was probably closest to the truth. He had no idea what he was going to do either. He looked across the room and saw a mess of a human strapped to a chair, his face soaked with tears and the slightest bit of crust on his chin that hinted at vomit already cleaned up. Regardless of the situation, Ozzy hated seeing anyone like this. He fought back a single tear, successfully to his relief, and sat down opposite him. Whatever he was going to do, it wasn’t going to be easy.

“Is it true?” Ozzy asked.

“Please don’t,” Valencia responded without answering.

“I need to know, from your lips, is it true?” Ozzy asked.

“It’s true,” Valencia shuddered, “I am the mole. Please let me explain.”

“That’s why I’m here,” Ozzy informed him, “But if you know even half of what I’ve gone through, you’ll know that it better be good.”

“They threatened my family,” Valencia told him, “They sent me pictures, taken outside the bedrooms of my children. They left a DVD on my doorstep, two hours of them following my wife around. They told me exactly what they needed, and I gave it to them. I’m sorry, Ozzy, please believe me. I didn’t want to do it, but to protect my family, I would do it again in a second if I had to.”

“Why didn’t you come to me?” Ozzy asked, “We could’ve kept your family here, with extra security measures. We could have made sure they were safe.”

“They assured me that they’d kill all of them before you got the chance,” Valencia answered, “And believe me, I would not doubt that they could.”

“I’ll be right back,” Ozzy assured him.

He got up and left, heading toward Valencia’s room. Once inside, he tore apart his belongings until he found a disk. He took it back to his desk and put it in, and sure enough, he saw footage of a woman driving to work. He fast forwarded, but always the same. Just a woman, going about her day to day life, and an undetected cameraman from whom the footage emanated.

Ozzy walked back into the interrogation room. “Go,” Ozzy sighed.

“What?” Valencia asked with a hint of relief in his voice.

“Get the fuck out of here,” Ozzy responded, “I’m going to tie you loose and then I want you to get your shit, and walk straight out the front door. I understand why you did what you did, and so I’m not going to punish you for it. But understand why you can never be welcome here again.”

“I understand,” Valencia sighed, his eyes welling up only slightly, this time out of sadness, not fear.

“But first,” Ozzy grimaced, dreading what he was about to do, “I need you to tell me everything you know about the men who threatened you.”

“I can’t do that,” Valencia assured him, “They will kill my family.”

“You know I could just torture it out of you,” Ozzy threatened.

“You could,” Valencia responded with a false bravado that barely covered up uncertain fear, “But you won’t.”

Ozzy hesitated, thought it over for a second, then sighed. “Fuck!” he whispered, as he walked over and untied Valencia. He accompanied him to his room, waited for him to pack, and then led him out the front door.

“Send a hidden guard to his house, his parents’ house, and the houses of any siblings he might have,” Ozzy instructed the nearest sentinel, “He might still be in trouble just for outing himself to us.”

“You’re too kind,” the sentinel responded.

“Thank you,” Ozzy said.

“I didn’t mean it as a compliment,” the sentinel retorted walking off.

As soon as Ozzy heard that there was an alt-right rally in Portland, he flew out. But after spending the day interrogating anyone who looked like they might be a Neo-Nazi, he was no closer to answers than when he’d flown out. None of them knew anything, or at least they were really good at acting like they didn’t know anything. A similar event in Toronto that weekend yielded the same results. Ozzy started to feel the low, pulling feeling in his gut, the feeling of desperation that came when you realized you had hit a dead end. Then it hit him, a Hail Mary pass: he had to interrogate Richard Spencer. Who would be more likely than him to know anything?

By hacking into Spencer’s credit card information, Ozzy figured out that he’d booked a plane to land in NYC on Monday. When Monday rolled around he was there to meet him at the airport. As the plane unloaded, he caught a glimpse of the famous white nationalist’s hairstyle, and headed off in his direction. As he did, he felt a burning sensation in his side, followed by a blow that knocked him to the ground. When he turned in its direction, he saw a man in a ski mask crouched over top of him, his arm holding onto a handle, the handle attached to Ozzy’s side. As security swooped in and grabbed the man, Ozzy realized that he’d been stabbed.

“Hey cockwobbler,” Ozzy spat at him through gritted teeth, “Thanks for letting me know that Spencer definitely knows something.”

“Oh, he doesn’t,” the man responded, “We just saw an opportunity and we took it. Enjoy death.”

A dozen similarly masked men stormed the area and freed the first one from the guards. Ozzy staggered to his feet, holding the knife in to minimize his risk of bleeding out. He limped toward the entrance he’d come in through, dialing the number of the captain whose platoon he’d stationed outside. He’d gone in alone, to avoid attracting suspicion. Ironically, that same strategy, employed by his enemies, was responsible for the knife in his side.

He felt another hot pain engross his leg, and he looked down to find his calf slashed. As quickly as he’d noticed it, his leg gave out and he went down.

One of the terrorists perched over him, removed his mask, and knelt down to slash Ozzy’s throat. “Bullets are fun,” he laughed, “But I wanted you to see this coming.”

Those would prove ironic last words as Ozzy watched his captor’s head explode from one of the small metal objects he’d just described as “fun”. His own backup had arrived, and the airport was now the site of an active shootout. The Right Boot contingent played defence, and managed to back the Nazis up long enough to carry Ozzy to safety quickly. Within twenty minutes, he was at the hospital.

“The good news is, the first stab wound managed to miss all the worst spots it could’ve hit,” the doctor informed him, “And the slash wound to your calf avoided ligament damage. Assuming the knife removal goes smoothly, and everything heals up normally, you should be better in time for your title match.”

“Always nice to meet a doctor who watches wrestling. I’m sure you get this question every time,” Ozzy asked, “But how does the knife come out?”

“Well,” the doctor replied, “Every OR has their different ways of doing it, but we’re going to put you under to avoid the risk of going into further shock, and then we pull it out carefully, being sure to avoid causing further damage, and stitch the wound up immediately.”

“I can’t go under,” Ozzy insisted, “I need my wits about me. I don’t know how much you follow the news, but I’m kind of worried that anyone I meet might be trying to kill me. Hell, no offence, but I can’t even dismiss the possibility that you might be working with the Nazis.”

“I mean, I am black,” the doctor retorted, “So you can probably rest pretty easy.”

“Yeah,” Ozzy responded, “But as I found out a few weeks ago, they can be pretty persuasive. No anaesthetic. I’m sorry, but it has to be that way.”

“Suit yourself,” the doctor said, putting a hand on the handle, “Now I’m going to go on three. Ready? One, two, three.”

The doctor began to slide the knife out. Ozzy’s face contorted with pain, although the actual pain he felt was minimal and it was mostly fear doing the work. Once the knife was out, the doctor started stitching him up.

“You’re good at this,” the doctor smiled, “I’d almost believe you get the shit kicked out of you for a living or something.”

“Hoping to do a little more shit kicking than shit-getting-kicked,” Ozzy laughed, immediately regretting his chuckle as his sides started to twitch.

“Stay still,” the doctor instructed him.

“Sorry,” Ozzy replied.

“You know the other three are probably preparing by hitting the gym or working out outdoors or something,” the doctor suggested, “I’m not a sports doctor by any stretch, but I’d have to imagine getting stabbed is not part of a solid training regimen.”

“I’m definitely taking the back route,” Ozzy smiled, “But it’s what got me here. I’m sure that Bobino and Reece are in the gym right now. Caesar actually might be getting stabbed, I have no idea what he gets up to when the cameras aren’t on him, and he gives me a pretty weird vibe. But me? I used to be the kind of guy who lived at the gym for weeks before a big match, and it worked out pretty well, but it’s nothing compared to the results I get now. Right Boot of Justice might get in the way of the rest of my life, might even consume it, but it gives me something to live for. I’ve never felt more alive, and not just more alive, but more like I’m a part of the universe. It’s with me everywhere I go, and when I’m in the ring, I’m Ozzy Crerar, flesh and blood human who’s looking to write his story in the stars, staring across the ring at another flesh and blood human. It used to be that when I locked up with someone, all I felt was the force of the match, the energy of a winner or a loser. But now I feel skin. I feel skin, and I feel pressure against me, and I feel the slow collapse of my opponent’s muscles as I overpower him. We are two human beings, in all the depth and complexity that two consciousnesses have to offer, struggling to write our names in the record books of an entity that exists in the loudest possible definition outside of ourselves. For the first time, I feel the story of Ozzy Crerar being written with every step I take, and I see the story of LPW being written in part by my every action. If I win this championship, not only do I forever add the belt to my history, I add my name to its history, and it will never exist without me somewhere in its story.”

“I’m done,” the doctor informed him, finishing his last stitch, “Now go win a championship. I probably don’t have to tell you, but you need to take it easy until these heal.”

“I’ll do what I can,” Ozzy replied.

“He was lying, you know that, right?” Faye asked Ozzy.

“Maybe he was, maybe he wasn’t, we’ll need to try to play it both ways,” Ozzy replied.

“There’s no way they hide for this long, then only out themselves when you go after Richard Spencer if Spencer’s genuinely in the dark,” Faye insisted.

“That makes sense,” Ozzy agreed, “I just don’t want to jump the gun until we’re absolutely sure.”

There was a bang upstairs. A guard ran into the office seconds later, “We’re under attack. Front door’s been blown off.”

“Everyone into defence mode!” Ozzy commanded. He pulled out his phone and held down the “2” button. It rang for a second.

“Go time?” the voice at the other end asked.

“Go time,” Ozzy answered.

He’d been counting on this. After going they’d gone on the attack in NYC, it was only a matter of time before the terrorist cell came for him here, and with three of their men in custody following the shootout, that time would rapidly shrink. He stayed downstairs, and closed the door, barricading it behind him. This was a time to follow doctor’s orders.

Outside, five thousand soldiers of the US military emerged from hiding and engaged with the Nazis. What followed could only be described as a massacre. Armed with machine guns, the Nazis managed to take out a few, but they were almost comically outmatched by tanks and snipers. The Nazis had brought snipers of their own, and they were the first to go, having set up a full fourteen hours after their military counterparts had. The fight lasted all of four minutes, before all of them were either dead or captured. The captured ones were the ones Ozzy was interested in. He waited for hours before there was a briefing ready.

“They really shit the bed on this one,” said the detective, “It was public knowledge that you were working with the US government, and they walked in with maybe three thousand guys armed with weaponry that hasn’t been impressive for nearly a hundred years.”

“You mean Nazis were stuck in the 1930s?” Ozzy joked, “Anyway, what do we have?”

“Everything, as it turns out,” the detective responded, “We know that they’re called the Aryan Masters, and we know where they’re headquartered, and who’s in charge. There’s a small but rigid bureaucracy at the time, headed by a guy who calls himself Klimt.”

“Like the painter?” Ozzy asked.

“Presumably not a real name. Or maybe it is, who knows? Point is we know where he’s hiding, we know what he looks like, and we’re preparing a squad to go over there now. Half military, half police, give or take.”

“I’m coming with you,” Ozzy insisted.

“No the fuck you’re not,” Faye retorted.

“I get it, there are a lot of reasons it’s a stupid idea,” Ozzy assured her, “But I need to see this happen. After the mole, there are two people I trust right now, and we’re it. I need to see him go down with my own two eyes. Otherwise I’m going to spend the rest of my life wondering if it was a setup.”

Faye paused, thinking it over, “I get it. But you better come home in one piece.”

Ozzy nodded, kissed her goodbye, and left.

The fight was on before they even got to the door. As they walked up to the abandoned warehouse that was serving as the Aryan Masters’ headquarters, they were met with gunfire. This time, the snipers had been there the whole time, and the building was barricaded properly. A tank fired at the building, and a football-sized projectile flew from the building to meet it in the air, detonating the payload prematurely and blocking the shot. They advanced slowly, Ozzy wincing every time a bullet whizzed by, hoping it hadn’t hit his side.

They were winning, by a hair, and when they got to the entrance, they broke the door down with only a small amount of difficulty. Once inside, the bloodbath really began. Ozzy radioed for more troops as the two sides battered each other with high casualties of uncomfortably close to even number. As before, they were winning only slightly, but what had previously been a matter of single-digit bodies was amounting to hundreds in short order. Ozzy did his best to duck, engaging only occasionally when attacked, and responding defensively, guarding his side while returning enemy gunfire and managing to score a few kills. He felt disoriented. He was used to fighting through the threat of death, and admittedly a well-placed bullet was just as likely to kill him without the side wound as with it, but for some reason it still made him acutely aware of his mortality. Despite being covered in body armour, Ozzy was subconsciously naked.

All of that dropped from his psyche when he saw Klimt, a perfect match to the description he’d been given. He was on the other side of the room, and Ozzy took off running after him. The air was thick with bullets, but Klimt saw him coming and started running. Ozzy gained on him quickly, but not quickly enough to stop him from darting into another room, and slamming the door behind him. Taking out the guards at the door with a few well-placed shots, Ozzy picked up his pace and tackled the door, coming through it with a loud cracking noise. He hit the floor with a thud and audibly cried out as he felt a small amount of blood seep from his side. At least his leg had held up.

Ozzy pointed his gun at Klimt, only to find that Klimt had had the same idea at the same time. They stood, motionless and silent, until a loud bang filled the air, and a shockwave knocked them both off their feet. The doorway caved in, and they were trapped.

They both got to their feet, and resumed pointing their guns. “You’re not as well off as you think you are,” Klimt snarled with a hint of an English accent, “Seven people have gotten as far as you are now. Every one of them is dead.”

“Guess I’m lucky number eight,” Ozzy replied, “Wait, no, it’s supposed to be lucky number seven. Goddammit, can you tell me that actually one of them survived or something so that I can use that?”

“Always with the jokes, Mr. Crerar,” Klimt sneered, “You might not let them define you anymore, but you still rely on them to make yourself seem interesting. It’s not working, by the way.”

“You know this ends with my guys breaking down that wall and coming in here, right?” Ozzy challenged him, “We’ve got you outgunned, outmanned, and we’re operating on only a small amount of both compared to what’s at our disposal.”

“They’ll win out there,” Klimt conceded, “But this wall is so reinforced that it will take hours to break it down, at least without using force that would kill us both. So what we have now is plenty of time for me to kill you, then escape using any of the myriad of paths that I know and you don’t.”

“I’m not sure you know how Mexican standoffs work,” Ozzy retorted, “But we’re basically both on even ground, and with no way of changing that. This is a waiting game.”

“You act like I haven’t done this before,” Klimt sighed, “I’m one hundred percent certain that you are going to die and I will walk free. Look, ask me anything. I’m so sure you won’t live to tell it, I’ll give you all my secrets.”

“Studied with the best action movie supervillains Hollywood has to offer, did you?” Ozzy jabbed.

“What? It’s a good idea,” Klimt responded, “I get to tell someone all my secrets, get them off my chest, and then kill them before they give any of them away. Ask away. It’ll make me feel better, and if you can’t let go of this insane delusion that you might actually be walking out of here, just imagine yourself getting to tell the world all about me. Besides, it can’t be a supervillain cliché when I’m not the villain.”

“Fine. Was Spencer really in on this?” Ozzy asked.

“Oh, fuck no,” Klimt answered, “When you have someone as pretty as Richard Spencer, you don’t ruin him with knowledge. I like Richard, and I’m sure he’d like me too if he knew who I was, but he’s the most useful to us if he just keeps doing what he’s doing, and spreading our message of his own volition. He doesn’t need to know what goes on behind the scenes.”

“So you really were just picking that moment to fuck with me?” Ozzy asked.

“Didn’t you listen? I like Richard. Of course we were protecting him. Just because he has no information to give you doesn’t mean we can risk him getting cold feet because some roided up SJW tries to play bad cop,” Klimt explained.

“Just one more question then,” Ozzy asked, trying to ignore the slight, “And I’m sure you get this a lot. Are you a real Nazi, or is this just some useful idiot game you’re playing to get something else?”

“Mr. Crerar, I am a simple patriot,” Klimt answered, “I do this for nothing more than love of my country. My country, a white, Christian country, unspoiled by all the barbarian hordes that have invaded it for centuries. I stand for the greatness of Western values, and if my methods are unpleasant, then that’s a sacrifice I have to make, and the good will outweigh the bad in the end. You know it as well as I do, that this experiment in diversity has been failing since it started, and it will continue to fail until we return to a white nation. Gang violence, drugs, political unrest, they could all be brought to an end, and you know that I’m only telling the truth about how to do it.”

“You dipshit,” Ozzy spat.

“Very witty retort, Mr. Crerar,” Klimt responded.

“You fucking dipshit,” Ozzy repeated, “You’re chasing a fantasy. You say you stand for the West, but you don’t even know what the West is. Spoiler alert, asshole: the West has been defined by conflict. The good, and the bad. From the moment Martin Luther nailed a sheet of paper to a piece of wood, we’ve been arguing. Catholic vs. Protestant, Kantian vs. Utilitarian, empiricist vs. postmodernist, colonizer vs. colonized, we have always been a culture of clashing ideas, and clashing identities. The last time we were actually all on the same page, we were living in huts made of hay and cow shit, and fucking our own cousins. And even then, we argued about which slightly different narrow interpretation of the same book to follow, and we killed each other over which family of sociopaths had actually been ordained by an all-loving God to rule over us. The only difference between progress and bloodshed has been whether we embrace it or whether we fight it. The enlightenment happened because people decided to talk their ideas out over coffee, not fight it out in a duel. Slavery ended, though I’m sure you’re not happy about it, because people started listening to the people working in the field and realized they were wrong to think of them as less than human. Women got the vote, fighting on the streets and facing brutal violence from an overpowering opponent, just trying to break through the unwillingness of those in power to sit down and have a conversation, to recognize the mental equality between the sexes that had somehow existed unnoticed for millennia, because we were too busy killing each other to spread our version of the truth instead of thinking about what that truth should be. They say that diversity is our strength, and to be honest, I don’t know whether that’s true or not. But I do know that our strength has never come from being afraid of it. We gain nothing from refusing to listen to people who are different from us, or by refusing to let them into our lives.”

“You lecture me like you’re somehow better,” Klimt insisted, “As though you don’t represent the left, the ones who are taking every measure to silence debate.”

“Some on the left do try to silence debate,” Ozzy admitted, “And so do some on the right. No ideology has a monopoly on trying to shut out the others, and like everyone else, I feel that my position is the correct one. But those who disagree are not the enemy, they’re just people in a different place, with different experiences, and different perspectives. The enemy will never be those who try to spread their ideas and share their experiences through honest conversation, it will be always be those like you, who try to spread them through violence, and fear, and lies.”

“You run a fucking army, you little shit!” said Klimt, replacing his calm disdain with genuine anger for the first time.

“I may run an army,” said Ozzy, “But Right Boot of Justice has never started the violence, only met it. I’m not so naive as to think that words will always be louder than bombs, sometimes only bombs speak as loudly as bombs, but always, every single time, when the dust has cleared and the bombs are exhausted, I will support going back to talking.”

“Everything you’ve said is wrong,” Klimt laughed, “But none moreso than when you’ve said that you aren’t naive. You actually expect this to work. That I’m going to listen to your insane, politically correct ramblings and abandon my cause, my fight. I’ve considered my path longer than you can imagine, and I shall entertain you no more. It’s time.”

A shot rang out behind Ozzy. Whether by luck, or because he saw it coming on some level, he ducked, and the bullet flew by him and into the wall. He turned and fired, hitting his assailant in the throat, and threw himself to the ground as he did so, anticipating correctly that Klimt would fire as soon as he turned. Klimt’s bullet missed, hitting the wall a foot to the right of his compatriot, who was quickly bleeding out on the floor. Ozzy ignored the spectacular pain in his side for just long enough to turn, fire, and hit Klimt in the gut. Klimt dropped his gun and fell to the floor in pain. Ozzy continued to ignore his own pain for long enough to get to his feet, snatch Klimt’s gun off the floor, and pull Klimt to his feet, applying pressure to the gunshot wound.

“You’ve got about an hour if I do this right,” Ozzy informed him, “and you know how much I’m into minimizing my death toll. So maybe you want to tell me about these exits.”

“The whiteboard at the back of the room,” Klimt managed to get out weakly, “It’s got a tunnel behind it.”

Ozzy carried his fallen enemy to the whiteboard and pulled it up to reveal the tunnel Klimt had told him about. He held the gun to Klimt’s head. “If this is a setup, you know what will happen.”

Klimt nodded. Ozzy dragged him through the tunnel, which led outside. The police were waiting.

“Holy shit, you got him?” the captain asked, “Good on ya.”

“He needs medical attention,” Ozzy told him, “What do you want to do with him?”

“He’s your prisoner,” the captain responded, “You know that the contract you signed gives you that authority. You can turn him over to us if you want, but I can’t make you.”

“I still can’t believe I got that in the contract,” Ozzy laughed, “I guess occasionally Trump is unconventional in a good way. You know what, though? Take him.”

Klimt laughed bitterly. “Look how they got you to sell out, Ozzy. The man who started his own army because he thought he could do it better than the government, and here you are surrendering authority to them like a goddamn bootlicker.”

“Oh no,” Ozzy replied, “What I’m doing is actually much worse. See, I can’t compromise my beliefs. I know that you know a metric fuckton of dirt on a metric fuckton of terrible people, and I know that you won’t give up that information no matter how nicely I ask. And I know one other thing: I know myself well enough to know that I’ll never be able to bring myself to torture it out of you. But for some reason, my conscience will allow me to cheat just enough to hand you over to someone who will. Enjoy waterboarding, enjoy sleep deprivation, and hell, enjoy the death penalty when you’re done.”

“No! You can’t do this to me! You’re better than this, Ozzy, I’ve always respected you!” Klimt begged, as the police cuffed him and took him into a waiting ambulance.

What a terrible liar, Ozzy thought to himself, I’m glad I’m not. Ozzy would, of course, insist that the death penalty be taken off the table in exchange for turning over all his evidence. But he didn’t have to tell him that.

Ozzy took to the podium as a crowd of reporters clamoured to get closer. He raised the microphone stand to his level, and began to speak. “First of all, I’d like to thank the United States Government for allowing me to be the one to do this. We have caught the man responsible for the recent rash of attempted Neo-Nazi terrorist attacks, a man we’ve now identified as Robert Carrington, but who was known even to his innermost circle only as Klimt. The raid on his organization, known as the Aryan Masters, has left a sizeable chunk of its membership either dead or in custody, although it is currently unknown whether this represents a majority. In the coming months, I will leave it to the FBI and the United States Military to divulge more details, as I assure you they are still little more than a hazy blur to me. In the meantime, we will be working to take down the remaining members of Aryan Masters. Following this, I will be dissolving my formal relationship with the United States Government. Any questions?”

“Did you make the arrest yourself?” one reporter from Fox asked.

“I did,” Ozzy responded, “And there was a brief shootout beforehand.”

“How is your side?” asked a reporter from ESPN.

“The stitches did suffer a lot of damage,” Ozzy explained, “But I’ve added no serious length to my recovery time.”

“What are you planning on doing next?” a reporter from CNN asked.

“Well since I just might have saved Western civilization,” Ozzy boasted only a bit hyperbolically, “I think it’s about time I save the Western States Heritage Championship.”

08-10-2018, 03:06 PM
Ex Nihilo
The Final Promo of Al
King of An Undefined Kind

I just wanted to be one of those ghosts.


But now my eyes are heavy,

lids like lead,

and the weather is getting ugly.

What exactly have you been dreaming these days?

When all the dreams have been fulfilled -

save the one which won’t come without that extended slumber.

Under the earth in jewels, a suit and a hammer.

A show, a fight -,

your yells five nights a week.

I've never thought in a million years...

We pondered all of the questions,

and just managed to miss all our marks.

We shared the Honeymoon sweet.

When the moon moved behind our room,

it became dark enough for us to dance.

And as we gaze skyward,

It isn’t me you see.

It’s everything we can’t grasp.

Nothing at all that we can hold.

Nothing at all we can even begin to comprehend.

An unseen speck in a cosmos ever expanding exponentially,

As I whither.

And whither.

And whither.

Friday. 8/10/18
Moment One


36 Cunningham Pl.
San Francisco, CA

When he finds himself at the precipice of a great jump, looking into the abyss, breathing in a gasp before the dive, he often returns to this place.


The place of comfort and uncomfortable memories. The place that molded him. The place that cradled him in infancy continues to rock him to sleep when the hounds are in his ear, letting fly a beasts yelp and yawp, hungry for blood, hungry for the better parts of his soul. He’s returned at in the days preceding every Altered Reality. Before he defeated Eddie B. to win the International Heavyweight Championship.

The warped floors of what seems like a television set lay under his feet. Sunbeams still spin yellow through the kitchen window above the stainless steel sink that he was once bathed in. Down the hall the bedroom in which Al and his cousins slept head to toe, never not waking up with a bruise or two from knees knocking body parts from eye socket to ankle. The house is unaltered by the undefeated Father Time, as of yet at least. The game still being played. And while the result is known - the family continues to act as if they have a fighting chance. Often it’s all you can do.

Without doubt, the momentum of the contest had recently swung in the way of the undefeated.

Al walked through the doorway, above the warped floorboard to leave.

“Mijo!” he heard his Grandmother call. He couldn’t ignore it. She was dying. Soon, he’d yearn to hear her speak that word even once more. He’d do anything for a five dollar bill.

She sat smiling. A proud smile. Her fist folded. Green sticking out.

He bent over to kiss her cheek.

“Adios, abuelita,” he said.

“MIjo,” she spoke back, placing a crumpled ten dollar bill in his hand. On the note Alexander Hamilton raised a pensive eyebrow in brotherly concern…

“Para tu novia” she said. “Rosa”

For your girl. Rose.

Before the house was their family house, it was a Whore House. In the first months and years, before the children were born, men would still stumble up the stairs skunk drunk and ask if their favorite mistress was available. You could hear them from from down the block, a couple dollars in their pockets, a condom (two if they felt bold), and a stiff-one ready to get deflated. Their eyes varied between two states - sunken and empty or filled with love and lust and life. They were railway workers, manual laborers, some, even, were the Grandfather’s coworkers. When that was the case, the lustful love in their eyes would widen, sink, and come to a rest at my Grandfather’s feet as he opened the door. Often, he greeted the would-be lovers with a cold beer in hand, let them down gently, handing them the glass bottle as part distraction and part parting gift. A bribe so the lust might subside into the bottles suds.

When Al’s Grandmother would answer the door, it was with a cocked shotgun aimed at their kneecap and a calm, quiet demand that they forget about this house, say a prayer, and get back to their puta, pinche wife.

This was Rose’s first journey to the San Francisco home. Work had saved her the journey earlier. But now, work had some to Al in his honor. She hadn't an excuse.

At the kitchen table, the nucleus of their family, sitting in complete silence was her, Al, and the Grandfather. They sip from red and golden restaurant style tumblers. The ones with texture like a painted wall. Leftover from Al's uncle's failed restaurant. From which was left only the cups, the recipes in his head, and a few hundred thousand he hadn't told anybody about from the sale of the land.

One day this land, this house, would be sold. And Al's family would argue about what should be done. How the money should be divided. The fortune will be heal nothing. They understand and have worked to accept that.

No amount of money could pacify watching the Family house ripped apart floorboard by floorboard, the walls caved in by day laborers, unenthusiastic civic planners walking through what's now referred to as the "worksite". Al couldn't bare to think of it.

Too much witnessing had been done in this place.

It had witnessed the family grow from two to two dozen. Had witnessed them enter the house infants and grow through trails and tribulations. It had witnessed decades of neighborhood turmoil. Good times and bad. And the hardest of all things to witness - Al's Grandfather watching his Bride enter the door for the first time optimistic, a young woman and over the span of 60 years grow into a matriarch, chase a generation of grandchildren through the hallways, cook for the block when she needed to, and the slowly, year by year, degrade until she was confined to a single bedroom and finally a single bed. In the end, when she passed in Al's arms, she smiled at her favorite Grandson. And though none of the family could know this, this was her final thought:

"The strangest thing. I feel lonely but surrounded. I'm only six feet beneath the moon. And I think I'll jump."

Behind the Grandfather an ornate frame with flowers at the base - a picture of Al’s Grandmother looking indescribably beautiful decades and decades ago. She isn’t in frame. She isn’t there. She’s 15 miles away in a box in a wall, her casket pushed back so soon the Grandfather can join her for that eternal sleep - even in the afterlife they’d prefer to sleep in different beds.

The Grandfather only shook his head these days. His main method of communication was a general dissapointment.

In everyone.

In everything.

But he was happy Al was visiting. Even if knew it was only because work had forced him into San Francisco.

"This City is filled with parasites, Mijo."

"This week more than usual."

Saturday. Morning. 8/11/18
Moment Two


181 Fremont.

The elevator doors ding that they’re ready to receive him. He steps inside. He attempts to press the floor, realizing he hasn’t been told which the LPW Offices are on. He sees that there are no buttons. The 6x7 silver square room is completely buttonless. The doors close. Wires begin to lift the receptacle. Al feels himself rising and rising and rising and then the door dings once more, opening to the lobby of the offices. Somebody took care of the work for him. He guesses.

He’s a little unsure of what just happened.

“How did,” he says to the secretary. A toothy filipina in a Cal-Berkeley hoodie and yoga pants.

“...Hi, Al.” she says.

He turns to her. Recognizes the reaction she’s having.

“What’s uuuup,” he says flatly.

“Hi. Um. Wow.”

“You want to take a picture with me?”

Her eyes widen with excitement before quickly being slapped back into place. That wouldn’t quite be professional.

“With you? No. Do you want me to take a picture of you?”

“Why would I want you to take a picture of me?”

“Right,” she says, looking around her desk for anything else to focus on but the source of her awkwardness.

“You found us!” Al hears alongside sliding glass doors opening.

It’s Mikhail.

“It’s the third tallest building in the City.”

“Uh-huh!” Nabakov says giddily.

“You know buildings like this, the companies inside of them, and the vermin grinding their gears inside of them are destroying my City, right? To a T, none of the families I knew growing up can afford San Francisco anymore. We’re one of the last old school San Francisco families still here. And my Grandfather thinks of hitting the escape button every goddamn day. You know that right..?”

“I do…”


“And we’re enacting efforts to give back to this great City where we ca-”

“These high rises are a taunt to the minority groups who built this City’s port system and brought it into wealth. I mean, Goddamn, there’s no escaping it. You can see the building from across the Bay, from the other side of town, it’s unavoidable, Kid.”

“I know, awesome, huh?” The kid smiles big, waving for Al to follow him before turning back through the automatic sliding glass doors.

“It’s awesome for you, Kid. Yes. Hey, what was the deal with the elevator? No buttons?”

“No buttons. Mr. White and his Cypress Security team control all flow in and out of the elevator. And not that they needed it, because your face is known worldwide, but this is a goddamn fortress, Al. Facial Recognition running on anyone who walks the square block. Lifts controlled remotely. Keycards only activated with thumbprints and retina scans.”

“You’re not fuc-”

“We’re not fucking around, no.”

“Someone who spends this much on security…”

They walk into a boardroom. Men and women in power suits all look up from a long table. The conversation, the laughing, the humanity stops and they stare.

“.......usually has something they need to be secure from…”

“Groupies, mostly. You know the lifestyle!”

The room erupts as Kid grins widely, disarming Al, who has been in enough rooms like this to know the game. Two chairs are open, one at the head and one in the center. Kid takes the head of the table. Al recognizes what that means and has a seat in the spotlight.

Saturday. Afternoon. 8/11/18
Moment Three

She opens the door and it clanks off the railing of a double bed. This is Al’s basement bedroom. Smaller than a jail cell, and yet, felt more often than not like his own little wide world. Imperceptibly large. Privacy an escape from these walls constantly which constantly, perpetually witnessed him day after day after day.

It’s the same generic Virgen de Guadalupe quilt Al slept on and under as a teenager. Same pillows Rose had to dust off upon their arrival. The same boxes of mementos, heavily used shoes Al refuses to throw away, baseball cards, and school work he’s been saving for anyone interested in seeing his error ridden high school essays and mathematics. The only difference, one Rose demanded. New bedsheets.

The ones on the bed when she first pulled back the blanket, to her surprise, had piss stains from top to bottom.

Maybe, maybe not from Al. Their Grandparents had a habit of renting out his bedroom to cousins, uncles, and neighborhood street rats down on their luck.

In hotel rooms, Al would often fill a dresser top within hours of arrival. His wallet, receipts, fanmail, random cash and change, which he often left for the maids. At home, this proved to be the same. His dresser top overflowed from years of accumulation. Pushing to the brink quarters and scraps and the Marlboro red tabs he used to collect for mail-in rewards.

Rose made it her mission to clean it up before Al got home from his meeting.

She rolled up her sleeves, shuffled some things around, and before she could even get started… there it was. Handwritten. Not pristine. Tossed aside. Clearly handled and poured over a few thousands times. She flips to the end.

Beli Jimenez.

She had heard the name. Didn’t know the story. Had gone to the archives of LPW.com, of all places, to learn more about the women who had made Al a widower. His big love. His first Wife. The Woman who walked out one day, who he chased around the world, only to find a grave, a tombstone with her name and a bill for the services he never got to attend.

She had found the Holy Grail of understanding Al. The last piece of understanding the man as a puzzle.

She knew it wrong to read.

She knew it was an invasion.

She hoped it would make her able to love him more fully.

To understand whether he knew her, wished to know her, like he knew Beli. The Girl from the street that first took Al from the wrestling world.

She sat on the bed, on the old blanket, the new sheets, on top of the hidden storage beneath the bed Al dreamed on thousands of times.


Saturday. Evening. 8/11/18
Moment Four

Night falls upon the San Francisco Skyline. And the lone light on this Saturday Night that shines in the middle floors of 181 Fremont is that of the LPW Headquarters Executive Boardroom. Inside of which, the suits that once lined the desk have trickled to only a handful. An exhausted owner pours himself a glass of water. Al reclines in his chair, fingers threaded through one another, resting on his expanding gut. The frustration in the room is apparent. And aimed at the Champion.

“I’d like to leave at some point, Mikhail,” he says.

“We all would, Al… we’ve been here for goddamn hours.”

“Six...” says an impatient exec.

“Six hours? Wow. That’s…”

“An eternity…” says another.

“Busy people like you… wasting a quarter of a day. On lil old m-”
“Ok, Al…” says the Kid.

“I’m just saying, I’m only a baby millionaire but I know time is money and ya’ll…

Have invested….

A lot…

Of time…

On me tod-”

“ENOUGH---!” the Kid commands.

The room falls silent. Al smiles, reclines back further, though he didn’t think it possible. The Executives

“What we’ve been trying to express to you, you, you, you,”

“... you, you, what, Mikhail? What?”

“You are valuable to this company, a cornerstone of our past, present, and future. And for you to walk away now-”

“Leaves your investment less valuable than it was when you all made the purchase. You’ve made the case repeatedly, my God. I’ve seen your charts and figures and projections,” Al fights back, exhausted.

“And your mind-”

“-is made up.”

A mutual quiet comes over the room.

“Besides…” Al begins, “If I hadn’t went espionage on the old regime, you never would have had the chance to swoop in and buy it for cheap, would you have?”

A mutual quiet comes over the room.

“I exposed the sins of my old employer to break down the company brick by brick, layer by later. I witnessed the fireworks from the front row knowing that I lit the wick. And you all picked up what was left on the scrap heap.


Random rich folk.

I am nothing but a piece of discarded detritus from the ashes of the old LPW.”

Silence. Ponderence. Quiet. Al is happy to stew in the moment.

“You can’t possibly believe that,” says the Kid.

“It’s not a matter of opinion,” Al says, “It’s mere facts.

I stood across the ring with wrestlers who have been forgot by even the most knowledgeable of LPW fan. I tagged with TJ Rage. I won my first title from Boss Foxx. I was hand picked by both Stone and SoL as opponents in their final LPW match.

Where once I stood on the shoulders of Giants… I’ve crushed their clavicles and pounded their legacies to smithereens under the weight of my heavy boot and crown.

Somebody, please, tell me that anything I’ve said has been wrong.”

Again. Silence.

“It’s over, Mikhail. This is as close as I get to a storybook ending. Two incredible opponents. Second straight Martinez Cup. My beloved IHC over my shoulder. Carried out of my hometown arena the greatest of all time.

Dread it, run from it, and LPW without Al comes all the same.”

The silence this time is different. Heavy. Tension palpable. Al even grows uncomfortable.

The door of the room opens and from the crevice, like waves, the stillness crashes and rushes out into the corridor. The girl from earlier walks in, somehow her relaxed attire has gone from inappropriate to just fine as the sun set and her (probably unpaid) overtime hours overtook her day. She hands Mikhail a manilla file.

“Fax.” she is able to utter, monosyllabic. She looks at Al, annoyed. The admiration has ended.

“Isn’t it annoying, Al.”

“What is, Kid?”

“Faxes. Business people who refuse to join us in the modern age. This is San Francisco, man! Silicon Valley is a birds shit away. And these realtors… need to send over closing documents via fucking fax. It’s kind of… pathetic, isn’t it?”

“Whatever, Mikhail.”




“You closing on some more LPW Office Space? More high-rise, secure to the neck monuments to gentrification?”

“Not quite, Al.”

“What, then?”

“Well… I got word on a possible rare opportunity to buy from a motivated owner.

Older man.

Been in San Francisco for quite some time and needs the seed money, quite literally, to break ground on a farm he can till in his old age. Back in the home country.

Many of my relatives retire in similar fashion.

The story tugged my heartstrings, to be honest.”

“You’re a goddamn saint, Mikhail,” Al says sarcastically.

“Patron Saint of Capitalism, maybe.

Anyway, the buyer was motivated, as I said. And the sale moved quickly. I guess the man couldn’t stand to spend another day in San Francisco. Didn’t recognize it, he said. Wasn’t the same after… after his Wife had passed.

People visited less.

And the house was too big for him to handle.

Called the people of San Francisco…


If I recall correctly…”


Al stands. His face flushes white.

His fingertips go numb. Hands trembling. Teeth clasped closed to the point of chipping under the pressure grind.

“Mikhail. What have you done?”

“When chances like that arise… you have to take advantage, you know?

Poor old man.

Here’s a picture.

Right in the heart of the Mission District.”

Al backs towards the door. He’s stumbling. Unable to compose himself. The dread overtakes him and tears stream down his eyes.

Mikhail takes a pen from his front shirt pocket. Adjusts his glasses, and looks to find the dotted line.

“Below market value, can you believe it? Old man hardly understood the papers he was giving his signature to...”

“You’re pure evil….” Al is able to whisper.

“I think you know the place, Al.

36 Cunningham Pl.
San Francisco, CA”

Mikhail signs the papers. He looks up at Al. Stone faced. The new owner of a San Francisco Victorian House.

“And if I can’t have you, Champ…

I will have my revenges on you...”

Al stumbles from the room. Towards… where? Home. Home?

Home no longer, I suppose. The poor bastard.

Why do we hurt him like this?

Not much longer now, anyway.

Saturday. Late evening. 8/11/18
Moment Five

“Rose. Rose. ROSE! Goddamnit, Rose. Pick up.”

The end of an unanswered line can cause extreme dread, can’t it?

There’s few feelings quite like it.

Will make even the most lonely man feel even more isolated.

“Hi, babe…” he hears her say. She sniffles.

“ROSE. God-damnit, Rose. He- he-”


“Mikhail. He…”

“Are you ok?” she asks. Her voice already quivering. Already broken.

She’s already crying. Answered the phone crying.

“Rose, what’s wrong? You’re crying. What happened?”

“Nothing. Nothi-what happened with Mikhail?”

“Forget it. He’s a piece of shit. Why are you crying, darling?”


There’s that silence again.

IN moments like this, silence can feel like it’s own character. It clings to moments like a dry heat. The loudest silence he’s ever heard was the Doctor telling him Beli had died not moments, not hours, not even days before he “found her”. But months ago.

Beli was on his mind as Rose said.

“I didn’t mean to. I was just trying to clean when… I found a note and Al… I’m so so so sorry about what happened. You never deserve that hu[size=.5]rt you must have fe-----”


The old friend.

For quite a while.

He recognizes that she’s talking.

Recognizes the kindnesses spilling from her brilliant mind through her soft lips.

Recognizes the pure admiration, concern, and love that these thoughts come from.

And the realization that no -

And this was the part that hurt the most…

But that they’d both have to accept…

Al could never love Rose like he loved his first love.

“Rose,” he begins.

The house is a house. It contains 6 bedrooms. It contains furniture and silverware and drywall.

“Rose,” he tries to get her to stop.

The house is just a house. He’ll miss the house. He’ll even mourn the loss like a loved one.

“Rose,” she’s already quiet.

But the house isn’t home. It hasn’t been for a long time. He came back hoping it’d feel like home again. But it couldn’t.

“Rose… I… I came back to wrestling because she asked me to. I came back to wrestling because otherwise I wouldn’t be here to speak these words or feel each and every feeling I’m feeling in this moment. I came back to wrestling… and I met you.

The house is just a house. And before it was a house it was a green field. And after we’re gone, not just my family but all families… it’ll be a green field again and nobody will remember we were here.

“Rose, I came back to wrestling and I met you and somehow… from beyond the fucking grave... she led me to you. And you can’t imagine how that makes me love you.”

So the house wasn’t home.

“I can’t comprehend how I can feel this love once more. How or what that means.

I truly can’t comprehend.

But I do.

I feel it.

I love you.”

She was home.

“I’m walking up. Meet me out front.

In moments, they’re embraced on the front steps of a property Mikhail owns. Just another in a file cabinet of deeds a lonely, sick man can claim is his. But Al and I know the truth.

Everything is temporary.

The International Heavyweight Champion looks at his watch.


9 minutes to the Sunday of Altered Reality.

He speaks towards the camera.

“And here we are.

On the precipice of the void.

My last moments won't be about you.

I've given LPW my life.

Chris Austin. Mourn Despana. It'll be an honor to share the stage with you at the end.

I hope you believe me when I say that.

I've given LPW everything I had to offer.

But the dreams have been fulfilled.

And the weather is getting ugly.

Know that I've enjoyed sunshine.

And I pray you all get to see me whither.

I love you, LPW.

I hope you believe me when I say that.


And that's a wrap. CUT.
The Final Moment

08-10-2018, 10:21 PM
Control your own destiny … or someone else will.


I used to think that the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do was to survive.

I’ve since realized that the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do is … regain control of a narrative where the end has already been written. Regain control of myself after losing it. The last time I was at Altered Reality, I lost control of myself for a brief moment. A split second. When I woke up, I had lost to Golden.

Hadn’t happened before. Hasn’t happened since… until this cycle. Until Nabakov decided to rip the torch away from me and place my EARNED title opportunity in the hands of mealy-mouthed fans, and outside of mine. From that point, some of the most athletic, most accomplished individuals in LPW today were merely reduced to child’s play. Cannon fodder. Open-hand material to smack around.

Champions, past, present, soon-to-be ex… all of them, dealt with at one time or another by yours truly.

Mourn Despana, you know about it. Al, you know about it. Both of you have felt the embrace of unconsciousness following a run-in with these hands of mine.

Everyone assumed that I’ve suddenly reached down and found a more violent, vicious, animalistic side to me. Psychotically precise, even. I’m here to admit something … I was never more out of control. I was never more susceptible to defeat and embarrassment.

And STILL … NO ONE had an answer for Chris Austin.
I guess that even when I cannot control myself, I remain in control of anything I touch in LPW.

And now … on the eve of the most sacred piece of tradition in Lords of Pain Wrestling, the Martinez Cup match. On one side, the longest-reigning International Heavyweight Champion LPW has ever seen. A man with a legitimate case as the greatest of all time in Al. So resilient. So enduring. So fucking crafty. Set to put the pen to paper one final time in hopes of exercising creative control over his ideal ending to a story that was always going to end with him on his back.

On the other side, the World Heavyweight Champion. Perhaps the best pure fighter of his generation, surely the most decorated. Mourn Despana. So dogged. So determined. So fucking fundamentally perfect in what he does. Set to try and lay his claim to the crown of LPW’s best in his fashion by winning a match that he set forth, that he set into motion, that he stupidly convinced himself he’s in control of. He’s set the board for his ultimate checkmate.

And then there’s me. Merely unbeaten in any variation of a singles match since I stepped foot in this place.

Spoiler alert: that will not change at Altered Reality 8.

In the interest of full disclosure, the Martinez Cup itself means nothing to me. Being the best is a different matter.
So to level with both of you … perhaps I don’t deserve to be in this match. But deserve has nothing to do with why I’m here.

I am here because deep down, deep down … it was always going to be this way. Stomping Morpheus, winning the torch. Pick a moment, any moment. That’s when it was decided. It was written that sooner or later, so long as I handle my business, there would come a day where an Altered Reality main event NEEDED Chris Austin to actually accomplish what it's supposed to. I’m here because destiny dictates it.

I’m here because I handle business like nobody has ever handled business, before or since.

It’s why you fought for this match, Mourn.
It’s why you tried and failed to come for my head after feeling the power, Al.

Why? Because the truth is that as long as I’m here, no one will believe either of you are the best. The truth is that you both know people aren’t asking who is going to win, but which one of you am I going to beat to do it. Both of you will fight me as you feel like you have everything to lose, not knowing that you already lost the second that Nabakov decided that tradition, as it stood, wasn’t good enough to stand as it was.

Having two first ballot LPW Hall of Famers -- one a beacon of longevity and evolution, the other one of the most superior pure fighters this game has ever seen -- main-eventing Altered Reality was not enough to exclude Chris Mother Fucking Austin from the fray. You people can debate among yourselves why that is.

Al, Mourn Despana … know that for your ability, I have unwavering respect. It truly will be a great honor to annihilate both of you in San Francisco. And the best part is that the entire fracas will truly be out of your hands. Nothing you do to change that will be enough. I know you will make me bleed. You will make me suffer. You will maim me.

It will not be enough.

I don’t give a fuck if it’s Al’s last day, or Mourn’s greatest day, or LPW’s most sacred day.
I will destroy you and take what’s yours because your best days … aren’t in the same stratosphere as my typical day.

That said, beating you both at Altered Reality 8 will be the hardest thing I do in LPW to this point. But come hell or high water, no matter what it takes, how you try to fight it, I will do it. I will absolve you both of your obligations as champions and placeholders atop LPW. This will be my moment.

As I’ve said before, perhaps the greatest lesson I’ve learned is that if you control what you can control … the rest takes care of itself.

But in this epic clash of the three biggest control freaks LPW has ever seen … You two are fucked by the fact that you lost control of your destiny -- and by extension, yourselves -- the MOMENT I got added to the match.

Thus, you have no chance of controlling LPW's baddest mother fucker in the most important match in LPW history. And as a result … I don’t have to worry about the rest.

You will have no other choice but to fall into place. Beneath me.

After all, you both are already on top of the mountain ... there's nowhere for you to go but down.


No one realizes how hard parenthood is. Now, I’ve never expected it to be easy. But it’s not for the weak-hearted and some days, I wonder if it’s for me. Today is one of those days.

I’m lucky enough to where it will never be the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do. The hardest thing I’ve ever had to do is survive. And every day… I survive. I survive the constant attempts on my own sanity, my career … my life.

Today, I have to survive a parent-teacher conference with the aforementioned principal, my daughter’s third-grade teacher, my princess Zoey … and the cunt who pushed her out.

“So Mr. Austin. Ms. Miller… I’ll just cut to the chase. Zoey has been … acting out frequently over the past few days. She’s been standoffish, a bit flippant to Mrs. Nowinski. And today well, you can just view our footage here.”

And so Principal Ross turns her laptop to face mother, father and daughter. The screen shows recess from earlier today. I watch a young boy and three others playing four square. Kylie watches intently. I study Zoey, who keeps her head bowed. I glance to the screen.

The quartet carry on their game, and I watch my daughter walk toward them. The words said aren’t picked up, but it’s clear she approached the boy and wanted in. Whatever he said couldn’t have been nice as my daughter slouches -- as she is now -- and starts to trudge away.

The ball bounces just out of his grasp. He runs to get it. While bending down to get it, I see Zoey run toward him and … well, she kicked him in side of the head. Kylie leans forward, eyebrows raised in surprise, hand over heart. I sigh as my head drops into my hand, and I turn my eyes to Zoey, whose neck cranes just so to avoid my gaze.

Principal Ross decides that’s enough.

“I have to admit that this is HIGHLY unlike Zoey. She’s generally been a model student and pleasant little girl. But this … this is unacceptable. We’re concerned about ...”

“About what,” Kylie asks, a hint of offense in her tone.

“Typically, when a child resorts to behaviors like this … it’s indicative of an even deeper issue, perhaps in the home,” Mrs. Nowinski chimes in. “Children are very perceptive individuals, and someone with Zoey’s precociousness …”

“Let me stop you right there, Patricia,” Kylie says. “Now, whatever that was, that’s not my daughter. She doesn’t behave like that, and I have no clue where she got that behavior from. Have you talked to the parents of the boy involved? What did he say to upset Zoey like that?”

“Kylie, I -”

“No. Now I’m not excusing the behavior. Zoey CLEARLY did something she shouldn’t have done, and we’ll handle it when we get home,” Kylie says, glaring at Zoey during the latter part. “But I care to know what the boy said to …Chris, say something...”

I rest my hand around my girl’s shoulder, trying to keep her calm and win brownie points.

“Zoey, look at me. Tell me what happened. Remember, no secrets.”

She looks to me with her mother’s eyes. Much warmer, but her mother’s nonetheless. I sense she thinks I’m upset. Disappointed.


“I just did what you would have done, Dad.”

My eyes widen as I feel Kylie’s acidic gaze on me now.

“I’ve never told you to hit anyone. That’s not how you’re sup-.”

“But that’s what you do, right? You beat up people that hate you.”

“Zoey, that’s dif-” I begin before Kylie cuts me off.

“No, let her finish. No secrets, right?”

This bitch...

“Daniel wouldn’t let me play four square, so I kicked him like you kicked that cowboy one time in Idaho. Like when your boss said you couldn’t be champion, you beat up the champion. He could have just let me play, too.”

I cover my mouth. It’s taking everything in me not to hug and kiss my daughter and tell her I’m proud of her for using Occam’s Razor on some snot-nosed brat who thought he could treat her any kind of way.

I shouldn’t be proud. But goddamn, I am.

“What does Zoey mean by that,” Principal Ross inquires.

“I’m a pro wrestler.”

“Well then… surely you’ve discussed with her not to-”

“Mrs. Ross, I can see where this is going. I’ve never instructed Zoey to strike anyone when she’s upset. Ever.”

“My question is,” Mrs. Nowinski interjects, “What kind of environment are…”

“That’s enough,” Kylie says, standing up and taking Zoey by the hand. “I’m not going to sit here and have my parenting ability questioned because my daughter did something she saw on TV. We’ll talk with Zoey, discuss what happened and make sure she doesn’t misbehave anymore. Thank you both for your time. Let’s go, honey.”

Zoey gets up, and I shrug, shaking Mrs. Nowinski’s and Principal Ross’ hand while rising to my feet as well.

“I didn’t mean you.”

“I’m aware, Kylie,” I mutter. “Ladies I … apologize. Thank you for bringing this to my attention.”


They argue all the time … I don’t know what a “cunt” is but Dad said it to Mom once and she flipped out. Dad was weird the rest of the day after that.

I wish they didn’t hate each other.

I wish Dad was here more. I miss him.

I wonder if Mom misses him at all … I just want a normal family.


“So what are we going to do about Zoey?”

Sometimes, I hate parenthood. Not because of the gig, but because of who I was forced to do the job with. I lean against the wall of my living room as Kylie reclines on the sectional, cradling her head, eyes shut in thought.

“Kylie. You fu- … you hear me talking to you. What are we going to do about our girl?”

“I’m trying to think, ass-”

“SHE’S IN THE OTHER ROOM. Just once, can you keep it together? Just once? For her sake?”

“And what were you going to say before you cut yourself off? Exactly. Don’t tell me to keep it together when you can’t.”

“Can you blame me? I’m in the same room as the bitch who shot me.”

She snatches up and gives me an evil glare.

“And I’m in the same room as the piece of shit who fucking violated me.”

“You REALLY want to keep score?”

“Do YOU?”

Silence. The nerve, the gall … I hate her so much. I’m ashamed of the fact that I craved her, loved her. I … I’m ashamed of the fact that I thought I could trust her.

I should have killed him … I just … I’m embarrassed I still cared enough to spare that bastard. Why?

“... We have to stop. This is about Zoey. We have to stay on point.”

“I know that, Kylie.”

“Then why did… nevermind. What are we going to do?”

“Will grounding her work?”


I trudge over to Kylie, both of us exchanging icy stares. I sit down beside her, hands clasped. We look at each other and for once … I don’t want to choke the shit out of her.

“What about punishment?”

“Hell no. That would set a horrible precedent. Stupid idea, Chris.”

I want to choke the shit out of her.

“Do you have a better one?”

“... Well …”

“Fucking typical,” I grunt as I stand up and pace.

“You know what … get the fuck out. I’ll take care of it,” Kylie spits.

“She’s OUR child. WE take care of this. I’m fucking trying here.”

“Oh, so this is you trying? Doing more? You just swoop in a couple times a month, play super dad and all is well? Meanwhile, I do all the hard work on my own?”

“How am I supposed to fucking do more when you don’t tell me that Zoey needs more?! Everytime you and I are in the same goddamn room, we’re at each other’s throats! And this time, when I try to put Zoey first, you play victim. As if Zoey was something I FORCED on you.”

She says nothing, head buried in hands. And I don’t fucking give a damn.

“And you know what? I want to destroy your fucking life too. If it were up to me … I’d be doing some real hateful shit to you right now,” I say with a smirk. “You are a real piece of work, you fu-”

“You fucking … I just … WHY DOES SHE LOVE YOU MORE THAN ME?”

I … wasn’t ready for that.


“I paid for the house you and her live in. I paid for what you fucking drive. I paid for you to get through nursing school so you can get the job you work. The bed you tuck her into? I bought it when she said she wanted it. Anytime you can fix your mouth to ask me for something for her, I do it. Who fucking cares how you fucking feel? Parenthood isn’t a fucking competition!!”


“Let’s talk about fair, then! It’s not fair that you’re pissed about how our child feels toward me, when I NEVER wanted to make a child with you,” I say, leaning into Kylie’s personal space and lowering my tone as she spirals from rage into despondence.

“It’s not fair that I have to fucking play nice with the sanctimonious cunt who raped me. And it’s not fair that no matter how hard I try, I can’t … It’s not fair…”

I sigh. The realization hits me. The hatred subsides. Is this is what I’ve been searching for? Catharsis? Healing?. I think … I think I’ve won. Finally. Vengeance.

The child she forced me to help create, appears to have chosen me.

So why don’t I feel like it’s enough?

“It’s karma. And that’s not fair to you, Kylie. You’re right. It’s not fair to you.”


“But I stopped caring about what’s fair to you the night Zoey was conceived. You’re the better parent … but you’re still a broken piece of shit.”


My eyes widen. Kylie’s do as well. We lock eyes, and the anger is gone. Now it’s just embarrassment. Dread. I stand up and turn … there Zoey stands, tears streaming down her face.

“JUST … STOP…” she says between sobs. “THIS SUCKS!”

“Sweetheart, I …” I start to say, walking toward her. She backpedals away from me.


I say nothing. My head drops. I look to Kylie. Guilt dancing in my pupils.

Say something. Anything. Throw me a bone … I just … FUCK.

“Honey, come here.” Kylie says, standing up. “Zoey, it’s OK.”

“It’s not …” she wails.

“Come here,” Kylie says, slowly advancing toward our daughter. Zoey remains frozen, her eyes on me, making sure I don’t move toward her. As Kylie gets to Zoey, she kneels down and hugs her tightly. “It’s going to be alright. Your father is just stressed out by work. He doesn’t hate you. He never could.”

“Why does Dad hate you so much,” she asks with anguish. “Why?”

I sit down slowly, hand over my mouth. I feel my chest heat up and my eyes sting. Kylie stands up, Zoey in her arms. They join me on the couch as I drop my head and watch my own tears drip onto the floor.

“Dad,” Zoey says with a sniffle. “Why?”

Kylie knows that I have lied to, exploited or misled every single woman that has ever crossed my path at one time.

And she knows I’ve promised to never do that to Zoey. Under NO circumstances.

Chris … please. Don’t … just … Goddamnit. Please don’t tell her.

“Zoey … I’m not sure if this is the time...”

“No secrets. Remember? You promised.”

“Chris, I’m beg-...” Kylie desperately whispers to me. I hold my hand up to silence her. I look to Zoey and reach out my hand to her, hoping she’ll take it. She does. I gently pull her away from her mother and she nestles into me.


“Zoey … your mother ...” I start, looking to Kylie briefly. I can feel her heart being ripped out of her chest. She starts to look away, shame enveloping her in its ugly embrace.


“Your mom used to be my best friend,” I say, my voice cracking. “She used to be my favorite person. All I ever wanted to do was be around her. I loved her. But above that, I trusted her, sweetheart And at one time, before you came along … I hoped that maybe we could be together. But I wasn’t ready. I didn’t know how to tell her.”

I look into the eyes of my rapist. She cannot believe what she’s hearing. I can’t believe what I’m saying. But if I’m saying it to Zoey, it has to be true.

“I lied to your mom. I failed her, betrayed her trust and then…”

“And then what?”

“Your mom … she stole something from me that I cannot get back.”

“Mom, you could have just given it-”

“No, Zoey. She couldn’t have. I don’t want it back. Because if I did … you wouldn’t be here. And you mean everything to me,” I interject. “So, no, Zoey, I don’t like Mom, and she doesn’t like me either. It’s been this way for a long time now because she really hurt me. To a level that not even she understands. And I’ve tried so hard to forgive her, but ...”

“... Do you want to?”

“Forgive her?”

“Yeah,” Zoey says. “Do you want to forgive Mom?”

“Zoey, it’s complicated ...”

“I think it’s pretty simple. You can do whatever you want. You can do anything.”

“Zoey, just because you CAN do something doesn’t mean you should. Like that boy you kicked at school. It wasn’t right to do what you did. It was wrong. You shouldn’t have done that.”

“Yeah, but -”

“Your father’s right. You don’t hit people just because they said or did something you didn’t like. It’s not wrong to be angry, but there’s a better way to go about it.”

“Fiiiine,” Zoey says. “I won’t do it again.”


“But still, Dad ... you can forgive Mom.”


“Please? I want you to forgive Mom. I don’t know what she stole, but it can’t be that bad if you don’t even want it back. So why not forgive her? I mean, she apologized, right? Please, Dad? I just want you to stop fighting.”

I kiss her on the cheek and hold her tightly. I stare a hole into Kylie, who remains as bewildered as I am.

“I’ll try for you, Zoey. Love you.”

I … I’m sorry, Chris. Thank you.

“I love you too, Daddy.”

The hardest choices really do require the strongest wills.


A few days later…


“Just a second…”

Kylie looks through a window in her front room, seeing me standing outside, head bowed and hands in pockets. She sighs heavily and answers.


“May I come in?”

“I guess,” Kylie says, standing aside as I trudge in. She closes the door behind her.

“Is Zoey here?”

“No. Out with Jaime and James for the day. Just left a few minutes ago.”

I know.

“Oh. I wanted to check on her. See how she had been since she last saw us together.”

“She’s been better. Mrs. Nowinski says she’s improved her behavior.”

“Good, good.”

“Anything else, Chris?”

“Yeah, actually. I wanted to talk to you.”


“Us. Well, what Zoey said. What you said.”

Kylie crosses her arms and rubs her shoulder.

“Chris, you don’t … I mean, I understand if … Fuck…I mean, I wouldn’t be able to ...”

“Our daughter’s right.”


“Just let me do this before I lose my nerve. Look … I know that things between us will never be good. I get that. But for Zoey … I don’t know what exactly we should be, but she’s counting on us to be better”

“I know, but...”

“Kylie… For fuck’s-”

“Let me finish. We need to be better. But I just don’t see how. I mean … what I did to you… ”

I sit down and rub my hands through my hair to get my words together. I look straight ahead. Kylie approaches me and takes a seat beside my increasingly unnerved form as inner demons start to best me and my breathing becomes more labored.

I can’t believe I’ve been driven… no. This is my choice. Deep down, I always knew this was the answer. I always knew. I just hoped ...

I hoped I was wrong. When I visualized this moment, I always wondered if I had it in me to choose better.

But there was never going to be a better choice. Not with her. I choose poorly with her. And … Goddamnit I just can’t help it.

“As much as I hate it … it starts with me. So ...”

“Chris, listen. There’s nothing I can say to change what happened, or to convince you that I’m ... I carry that with me, too. I carry that hurt. I’m reminded of it every time I see Zoey,” Kylie says, a single tear streaming down her face. “It could never compare to yours. And … Chris, I’m truly sorry. I’m sorry for breaking you. Had I known years ago that this is what you’d become, I would have never done it.”

I say nothing. I clench my jaw and try to fight back tears. Kylie, don’t do this now. Please don’t do this now. I’ve waited for years for this and … please don’t.

“No matter how heartbroken I was, I just… I was so crazy about you,” she continues. “I just wanted you, craved you so badly. Ever since you first dated Jaime. I loved you. And I didn’t know what to do when you tore my heart up... it hurt so badly… I just …” she starts before hesitating. The water works flow freely now as she tries to compose her thoughts. I say nothing.

I toyed with your emotions, exploited our friendship and made you believe something that wasn’t there. Maybe … I had it coming.

“No matter what you did, no matter what you believe … you never deserved THAT. No one does, Chris. Please know that.”

Can this broad HEAR my thoughts??!?!?

“It was a choice I made, and it was the fucking wrong one. It was selfish, it was evil, and I haven’t been the same since. I wish I could take it back. For Zoey, for myself and for you.”

Why now, Kylie? WHY NOW?

“You don’t have to forgive me, and I don’t expect you to. I know this does nothing to fix anything. I don’t deserve for you and I to ever be OK, and I understand why we won’t be … but after you protected me with Zoey … I got out of my own way. I owed you that, way before now.”

“... How am I sup-”

“Honestly, you’re not supposed to. You’re not supposed to believe me. You’re not supposed to trust that I’m truly sorry. I don’t know if I’m meant to understand the level of hurt you told Zoey about, but it’s time I tried to.”

“Kylie, don’t say that. To understand it is to live it.”

“But I need to try…”

“A part of me died that night, and I’ve been trying to make you finish the job since. Are you happy now?”

You don’t mean … I didn’t mean to … damn it. Just God-fucking-damn it. What have I done to you?

I slowly stand up, it taking more than what I have to do so. My comment about wanting to die has clearly rocked her. I look toward the door, but my feet won’t carry me there. I hear whimpers as Kylie buries her face into her hands.

Walk toward that door, Chris. Leave. Come on.

Kylie stands up. She stares into my teary eyes. I return the gaze. For the first time in a while … I feel like she actually cares about me.

It’s not enough.

She reaches toward my face, trying to wipe away a tear. I recoil and turn away.

“Hey, let me,” she says, undeterred. Her thumb gently brushes away a drop of of my sadness. My hand envelops hers, slowly lowering it. Our hands intertwine.

For the first time in eight years … I feel like I’m looking at my best friend.

It’s not enough.

Because she has no idea that I came here to rape my best friend.

My hand fires underneath her jaw. Her eyes widen, surprised. Her hands go around my wrist, trying to free herself. Her knee flies toward my nether region as a last-gasp defense, but my free arm parries it. I force her against the wall. My hand trembles with the amount of force concentrated within my clutch, so much so that only the tips of her toes can taste the floor.


I look at her, my face into a twisted grimace … I hear her plea.

It’s not enough.

“CHR-AHOW… FUCKING PLEASE, DON’T,” she stammers out through pain.

“Why … is this the only way,” I ask, eyes burning with hatred and depression. Hatred of her. Her actions. Myself. Everything. “WHY?”

She shakes her head as best she can and squeaks out, “it’s not… Chris it’s not! I’m begging you, please!”

It’s not enough.

I grab the front of her yoga pants and pull, ripping them beyond repair. Her body contorts and shivers as the cool air contacts her bare, exposed skin. I feel her body finally acknowledge the danger its in.

It’s not enough.

I drag her down to the floor, crouching with her. She tries to squirm away. She kicks, she flails. She tries to summon a cry for help, I squeeze harder and use my body weight to keep her still enough, using my other hand to rip her tank top at the shoulder, exposing her breasts. From there, my hand goes south.

Her eyes slam shut, her tone a desperate, terrified whisper that shatters into a teary, tragic realization that there is nothing she can do.

“please … i’ll do anything… please don’t do this to me…”

I’m so close. I can feel the heat between her legs, akin to a siren that beckons me. Just go forward. Get it over with. Have your revenge. You finally have full control of her.

All I have ever wanted, was one moment of full control of her.

“GODDAMNIT,” I say, my voice cracking as my psyche did that fateful evening.

I hold her tight as my body convulses. I sob savagely. Her eyes creak open as she realizes I … can’t. To my surprise, she embraces me too. Either in relief, disbelief or who fucking knows anymore.

“I can’t,” I whisper into her ear. I offer a soft peck on her cheek, salty from her fright-induced tears. Gravity rolls us on our sides, and we just lie there in each others arms as one. Her body contracts and crumbles into mine as her hand flies to her mouth to muffle the wild cry that escapes her throat.

As much as I wanted it ... all the years I felt I needed it …

I need control of myself more.

“I forgive you, Kylie… I forgive you.”

Macho Mourn
08-11-2018, 12:50 AM
A Tokyo backlot. A perfectly groomed Japanese interviewer addresses the anticipating audience. He explains that a translation will appear on the video screen. This obedient crowd dies down as a colorfully insane graphic flashes.

“Please welcome for this special taped interview, LPW World Heavyweight Champion, Mourn! DESPAAANAAA!”

The eruption from the crowd welcomes a gothic jacket clad, sunglass wearing, Gabriel Jimenez onto stage. He shakes the hand of the small interviewer and they exchange bows. Mourn politely bows to the excited audience before taking his seat.

“Welcome. World Heavyweight Champion!” The interviewer smiles warmly as the crowd dies down. “Why pick Tokyo for this interview when you are going to be wrestling in San Francisco?”

“Much needed rest and recovery and something came to my head.” Mourn calmly replies. “You mind?” He motions to the crowd

The interviewer smiles. “I’m simply a bystander.”

Mourn rises from his seat. “When strolling through the world’s largest metropolis, Tokyo, I find myself looking at you in admiration. I share a lot of your qualities. A sense of discipline, work ethic, honor. Look Japanese... ”

Mourn pauses and inhales deeply.

“My name is Gabriel Jimenez. I do not know your plight. I do not know how to communicate with you…” He adjusts his sunglasses. “I will likely never be accepted as one of you. Not as family. Too western. A wild orphan who has been pointed at as an impure half-breed for all his life. My wife is an American who got assimilated into your culture. Harshly. I lament the thought it brings but am unable to escape the reality… I wish I had been too...”

He takes another deep breath and forces himself to continue.

“It is because of this, I find an understanding in those that are outcast. A common theme in my life. Those people you demonize are human just like you.”

The crowd murmur as they catch up.

“There is one such outcast in LPW that I recently fought for. He attempts to hide his own confidence issues while stalking a man’s wife. Looking at the woman’s body like a prime cut of sirloin with thoughts of, ’How did that boring motherfucker catch… that?’ Jealousy is a dangerous drug. Even a most diligent thinker, like the perpetually bitter Chris Austin, is unable to resist its temptations.”

Mourn takes a moment to look around.

“Attacking him from behind was not in revenge. He was using the torch as a weapon. So, I took it to remove a reason for The Kid to get rid of him. I have a proven moral code. I am a man of integrity!” Mourn shakes his head in disgust. “I told him I would do everything in my power to get him to Altered Reality. And that is what I did. This is a level of nearsightedness that a man of his mental quotient should see past. Yet, he is blinded by the shame caused be the fans and the owner of the company. I am in the head of the man with the perceived mental edge heading into AR.”

A smile precedes a brief chuckle as Mourn paces the stage.

“You may not like my ‘questionable’ tactics. Tactics that will be 100% legal at Altered Reality mind you. Well…” Mourn looks around the crowd with a particularly gnarly sneer. “When compared to Al I am a saint. I know from personal experience of this man’s ‘heroism’… The ebullient kindness that emanates from within is a show. Al Boo Boo is a politician who shakes hands, and kisses babies in public; yet dismisses his constituent’s passion while exclaiming he did all the work.”

The audience responds with jeers. When the interviewer starts trying to hush the crowd, Despana raises his voice.



The small explosion from behind the stage pours smoke into the studio. Then the electricity is cut.

“LET ME-” Mourn’s muffled.

This brings on screams from the crowd. Seconds feel like hours as the echoes of hand to hand combat pierces the heavy air. The crowd panics as people blindly run for the exit. When back-up lights flicker on, everyone looks at the stage in horror. Security and staff lay on the ground in various degrees of pain. But nowhere to be seen is Gabriel Jimenez.

“You’re a fucking cop! DO COP THINGS!” In a traditional Kimono, Kassandra shoots up from the couch. “He’s out there somewhere! OVER HERE ACTIN’ LIKE YOU’RE INVOLVED!”

Takuma Kawasaki, her older brother and Tokyo Police Superintendent, scolds her. “Do not raise your voice woman!” The sandy haired man responds in broken English. “Maybe gang related?”

“FUCK YOU!” Her face crimson in rage.

Takuma motions to the door where two non-descript goons stand by. “Not here for me. After Mourn, you next. Must be patient.”

“I don’t need your fuckin’ protection!” She presses a finger against his chest. “I can find him Better than the jack-offs at the station. It’s been seven fucking hours!”

He flings her hand aside.“Tokyo police is very good! We do job correctly!”

She ignores him and walks towards the door. The two men step in her way at the order of her brother. She pushes the larger of the two men.

“120 kilogram celebrity taken in broad daylight! You think you safe?” He grasps her wrist. “This is Mourn. He do dumb things. Be smarter than husband!”

Incensed, the kimono clad woman slaps on her brother hard on the jaw.


Takuma returns the favor, dropping the furious woman to her rear.

“I AM HEAD OF FAMILY!” Takuma stands over her. “YOU WILL SHOW RESPECT!”

Kassandra stumbles to her feet only to be pushed back down by him.

“YOU STAY HERE! SAFE!” The cop fixes his uniform and storms out the door.

The furious woman pulls herself onto the couch. “Can I get a FUCKING moment?”

Once the men take guard outside Kassandra goes into action. After composing herself she grabs the landline phone from the desk and stretches it into the bathroom.

“Shit…” She whispers as she checks her face in the mirror. “Well, Takuma showed up before I could get changed… Bastard has me under protection... You’ll need to alter plans, quickly... Do what you need to do.”


Athena Malih, know LPW fans under the persona of Allana Maemorth, stands nervously in front of a desk. The half-Iranian former manager of the Mourn Despana is a stunning woman; 5’2”, hourglass figure, cream skin, and thickness in every place that’s prefered. Insanity dripping from her pores.

“I’m next!” Her bottom lip trembles. “When?”

”No one knows you in Japan.” A distorted male voice replies through her phone’s speaker. “As soon as possible.”

“Heart you sweetie!” She waves at the phone as if he could see.

”Same. Later.”

Athena closes the phone. She spins about on her heels and soon the worry in her eyes dissipates as her feet carry her across the dark house towards the game room. When she reaches the middle of the room her dreams of a high score on Dance Dance Revolution is interrupted.

“Who was on the phone?” A familiarly dry voice calls. “I came alone. No one even knows where I am. Kind of kidnapped.”

She slowly pirouettes to the voice. “Ga-ga-ga-GABRIEL?” She stutters out. “Why are you-”

Mourn strolls out from the shadows staring at her incredulously “Your daughter’s not here again...” The Desperado closes the distance.

“She’s in New York. Mom.” Allana nervously replies. “Samantha talks now. We talked this morning. She likes carrots, and blue cheese.” Her eyes panicking. “Sh-she wants to come home though. Longest she’s ever been away from her dad-doggy…”

Mourn blinks rapidly.

Realizing her critical error, Allana tries to disarm him with a smile. “Slip of the tongue! She has a stuffed doggy in the other room. Left it here.”

“Seriously... “ Mourn’s brow furls. “Tell me you’re fucking with me…”

Allana studies his eyes. Away is the angry, spiteful man. In his place is a hurt soul bubbling at the surface. Small trickles drips down his cheek as his mouth hangs open. Allana slowly walks over to him with her hands up like she would to a wild animal.

“We were-” As she gently grabs his hand.

Mourn yanks his hand away. “WHO?”

“I...” She squeaks out.

Mourn grabs her by the collar of her gown. “TELL ME!”

“Gabriel.. please....” The beautiful woman grabs Mourn’s wrist. “You’d kill him…”

“MAYBE THAT IS A GOOD THING!” He starts to wring the collar tighter. “NO ONE KNOWS I AM HERE! NOW!”

“Please!” She pleads as the fabric digs into her skin. “Gabriel! Stop! It’s Takuma! Takuma!”

Mourn shoves her away. “THAT LYING SACK OF SHIT!” Mourn rubs his face. “After all that I did for you! All that I sacrificed!” He places his hands on his hips. “THE CHILD IS HIS? After you killed his father? He… THE YAKUZA?!”

“We… He wanted his father dead. Did it himself.” She winces. “Made it look like a gang hit. Takuma sent something to his mom to legitimize it... But I got compensation for it so that was nice!”

”COMPENSATION?” A disgusted Mourn replies.“Takuma hired Kassandra to kill me.”

“And you felt bad for her…”

“Yet, you stayed with me!” Mourn shoots back. “Until you found out the timeline was off on the pregnancy...”

“I tried… You were always sweet. But, way too plain for a girl like me.” She sighs lovingly. “Just, Takuma and I have chemistry. We didn’t. Him and I, we have been together off and on for about seven-eight years.”

“THE WHOLE TI-” Mourn inhales deeply and takes a step back. “Listen, Athena…” Mourn drops his hands. “This does not matter.” He looks down. “I thought I was a father… Wanted to do the right thing… To be there...”

This causes Allana to raise an eyebrow. “Look at you, being benevolent. That’s a YUGE step.”

“Amazing.” He deadpans. “Only took for me to get you alone and to find out there is no reason to care about you.”

“Guess What?” Allana pipes up. “I got new meds too! Experimental stuff! Really expensive-”

Mourn looks at her sternly. “Paid for with the money you stole from me when you burned down my house-’

“There was evidence there and the Yakuza was closing in on that money. I figure you’d be relieved they have no reason to hate you anymore.” She stomps. “HEY… You hated that house...”

“And New York…” Mourn scowls “And the lie about hitting you?”

She sighs. “Takuma was inside. If he found you coming in, things would have gotten bad. Had to play up. For effect. Like you taught me.”

Mourn’s eyes narrow. “That house though… If you only knew what some of that stuff meant to me-”

“You know the game… Had to tie up loose ends.” Allana blinks innocently. “Kassie would one-thousand percent agree. She’s a thief in the night, just like us. You two work well together.” She winks.

“You could have done me a little less dirty...”

“But what’s the fun in that?” She seductively smooches the air. “You happy with her?”

The question causes Mourn’s face to soften. “If you knew how much I love her-”

The two are stunned by the turning of the doorknob. Mourn prepares to strike only for the Ronin’s eyes meet Takuma brandishing a gun.

“MOURN?” Takuma’s eyes light up.

Allana gets in between. “Put the gun down Takuma! He was just leaving. Riiiiiiiiight Gabriel?”

Mourn slowly nods.

Takuma gestures with the firearm. “Back.”

Mourn takes a measured toe/heel step back.

“They’re hard to come by in Japan.” Allana chimes in.

“Yep.” Mourn replies. “On my way out. Just needed to see Allana. Everything is good.” Mourn starts motioning for Takuma to calm down.

Allana smiles at Takuma. “No one knows he’s here.”

Mourn’s eyes dart to Allana.

She shrugs. “What?”

“Really?” Takuma raises an eyebrow.

“Yep, sweetie!” She replies charmingly. “Not a soul. You can let him go.”

Mourn eyes her with a particularly incredulous stare.

“Fake kidnapping?” Takuma nervously asks.

“A distraction.” Mourn replies. “You had your people on me. Hard to escape the eyes of a superintendent...”

“Gabe’s not great at plans.” Allana says playfully.

Mourn ignores her. “When was I going to find out you were fucking her?”

“Never planned to tell.” Takuma says from behind the gun.

“Figures…” Mourn brings his hands to his sides “And the Yakuza and your father?” Mourn sighs. “Allana already told me you were behind it, I just want a motive. I lied to keep her safe. You owe me.”

Takuma’s eyes scold Allana. “Oh, that night. Money. And father deserved it.” Takuma replies coldly. “Enjoyed every second. Sent his head to mom to ‘confirm’ it was Yakuza. He dishonored our family and she had the audacity of standing by his side...”

Mourn sneers. “You stole money from the Yakuza and used ME as bait!”

“Takuma?” Allana looks back and forth nervously . “Papa Bear? He’s harmless. Let him go. This is over.” She walk over and pulls down on his arm. “Please. For me.”

Takuma studies Mourn’s posture, shakes his head, and reholsters the gun.

With Allana’s tugging tugging to the side, the officer cautiously moves out of the way. The man’s conflicted as he points towards the door..

“Get out of Japan. Permanently.” Takuma says with a hint of dissatisfaction. ”Before I change my mind.”

Mourn defensively backs towards the door. He forces a smile, bows, and darts quickly out of the room.

“Takuma?” Allana says as Mourn rounds the corner.

The Desperado quickly traces his steps back through the pitch black home.

Rendezvous point. Will have to get some of the boys to pick up Kassandra. I hope these two-

POP! ... POP!


At the sound of gunfire, Mourn flattens himself against the wall. Upon seeing a shadow move Mourn launches himself into a roll around the corner.


Mourn stumbles as a bullet whizzes by his head. With frantic feet he stumbles again when heading towards the game room. His mind racing as continuing thumps of footsteps on his tail. A spray of POPS miss as he jumps inside the room. His surroundings fail him though, realizing the game room is a dead end. Mourn, thinking quick, grabs the nearest item and chucks it out the door.

The X-Box controller nails the unsuspecting Takuma right on the side of his face. Mourn follows in behind the attack and bulrushes the man into the far wall. Takuma groggily tries to aim the gun at Mourn in the tussle. Gabriel slams the his combatant’s hand against the wall as shots go off. Once The Ronin hears an empty ‘click’ from the firearm, Mourn starts teeing off with punches to the man’s midsection. Takuma fires back with a few shots to Mourn’s head before the pain of the body blows start to register.

Feeling the increasing damage to his ribs, the superintendent covers his midsection. Mourn takes advantage and hits home with a sharp elbow that drops him clean.

“Sweet dreams sweet prince.” Mourn leans the unconscious man against the wall.

Then, Mourn hears it. Wheezing. Sniffling. A babbling cough. Gabriel frantically heads towards the sound. Allama looks back with tears in her eyes and blood seeping through her gown. He slides to a knee and grabs Allana’s hand.

“S-aa-ma-manth-a.” Her face blank. “Sa-” .

“Shhh.” His body shaking. “S-sleep. It… it is okay. Samantha’s safe.”

He squeezes her hand softly as her head slumps over.

You were the one that taught me patience. Thank you. I wish you safe passage Allana. May you finally be at peace.

Such is life.
Such is death.


“WAKE UP!” The Ronin screams.

The slap causes Takuma to groan. The cop digs his hands into the arm of the chair and jerks about trying to free himself from the ropes that bind him to the heavy oak chair.

A disdain filled Mourn sits across from him. “Time to tie up loose ends.” into the distance. “You know she loved you, RIGHT?”

“I am protected.” Takuma replies confidently.

“Patience. My help is on their way with Kassie.” The Ronin stares off into the distance. “Thanks for the bruises. The headlines about my escape will be quite advantageous. And people like you think I am unable to come up with a plan...”

Takuma grumpes under his breath.

When cars show up Mourn heads to the door. A line of six suited Japanese men of varying ages enter Allana’s home. Just behind Kassandra enters. The kimono clad woman leads her step-mother inside. The older woman, Takuma’s mother, starts to yell in Japanese when she sees Takuma tied up.

“FOR ONCE!” Mourn interrupts. “JUST ONCE! WILL SOMEBODY GIVE MY ASS THE BENEFIT OF A DOUBT?” Frustrated, Mourn nods to his wife

Understanding the silent command, Kassandra faces the wall. Her Kimono comes down to reveal her back. Etched on the maiden’s skin is a vivid tattoo of a blossom field. The centerpiece being a striking cobra. The tattooed markings of a member of the Yakuza.

“Had them finished a this week.” Mourn says. “A double headed snake. Goes all the way around and finishes at her navel. My favorite is the scenery. Simply stunning on a stunning woman. I would have gotten some myself, but my field of work makes me exempt.” Mourn steps to Takuma. “Now… to official business. Spin a tale, pig.”

Takuma spits at him.

“Fine.” Mourn places his hands on his hips. He slips his left hand into his pocket and pulls out a small metal audio recorder and quickly presses play.


“Made it look like a gang hit. Takuma sent something to his mom to legitimize it... But I got compensation-”

Mourn stops the tape of Allana’s response as a rumble washes over the room. Takuma shakes his head in defiance.

“That’s Allana. Takuma shot her.” Mourn bites his lip. “She’s in the game room. Going to kill us both so no one would find out.” Mourn fast forwards the tape. “But this here? This is you, right?”

“Oh, that night. Money. And father deserved it. ”

“ ... Enjoyed every second of it. Sent his head to mom to 'confirm' it was-”

”TURN IT OFF!” Takuma’s mother shrieks.

Mourn quickly obliges.

The stunned woman’s eyes drop in shame. “Do what you want with his body. He is no son of mine...” As she tries to leave, Takuma’s mother collapses to the ground in a shriek.

As the broken woman is lead out of the room, Kassandra stands eyes closed and head slumped over listening to her wails. While holding back tears she is tapped on the shoulder.

“Love?” Mourn softly says. “He is dying. He stole money and made it look like a hit. You once told me that no matter what else in life, you wanted to get the person who killed your father. Well… He is yours if-”

Kassandra places a single finger on his lips. She leans in, kisses him softly on the cheek, then heads towards the kitchen.

“You fucking abominations…” Takuma spews out.

After a few moments of silence, the kimono clad woman enters and moves a coffee table in front of Takuma. She produces a roll of duct tape and covers takuma’s mouth.

She returns to the kitchen only to return a short while after with an antique tea tray. She places the delicate items on the coffee table. After she pours a small cup of tea the woman slowly walks to the eldest Yakuza member. With a bow of the head, he accepts it.

After she repeats this with each of the Yakuza members in the room, she diligently returns with the tray to the kitchen.

Mourn looks around confused.

A few minutes later she returns with a refilled teapot where she repeats the same exchange with Gabriel. When Kassandra goes to sit down, she abruptly stops. Kassie reaches inside the fold of her kimono, produces a meat cleaver, and embeds it into the coffee table. She does this while coldly staring into the eyes of a scared Takuma.

Kassandra casually retrieves the duct tape, approaches her brother again , and roughly grabs his head. She wraps the tape around Takuma’s face over and over again until his nose is tightly covered. Realizing he can’t breathe Takuma starts fighting to get free.

Kassie slowly returns to the chair and sips her tea.

“Brother.” Her eyes never leaving his. “Your life is without meaning. Everything you have accomplished will be forgotten. Your own daughter will forget your name. It will be as you never existed. You will die alone. No prayers will be sent.” She places the tea cup on the tray. “And the last thing you’re gonna see is my face.”

Her long fingers reach for the teapot. She rises emotionlessly and slowly pours the scalding liquid over his head. As the burning, suffocating man thrashes about the woman swiftly grasps the meat cleaver. In a fluid motion she chops off his right hand, then his the left, before embedding the cleaver in his neck.

She quickly pirouettes, exchanges bows with the elders, then leads Mourn out into the night.

The flight was been a quiet one. An uneasiness of how to start a conversation. Allana and Takuma had damaged them.

The only way Mourn can see starting a conversation is to try to relate. He would gaze at her face and sees her raw, exposed, and prickly to the touch. The thought of mentioning Allana quickly leaves him. To mention his former lover would be suicide.

To Kassandra, this had a consequence. That night, when looking up at the hotel’s ceiling, the pain hit her. Takuma was still her brother. Yet, if she brought that pain up with Mourn, she’d have to mention Allana. To her, the thought of exposing his rawness is a selfish one.

Mourn sits stoically inside their San Francisco townhouse with the room illuminated by a classical song in the background. Kassandra does the only thing she can think of to help. Walks over and plops down next to Gabriel. In her hands are two bottles of Whiskey. The Dark Maiden looks over at The Desperado and offers him one.

Mourn gives her a pained smile. “Thanks-”

Before his word finishes, she has her bottle open. Mourn watches her chug down three large gulps.

Mourn raises an eyebrow. “Impressive. Want me to catch up?”

She wipes her mouth with her sleeve and rolls her eyes.

Mourn takes this as a yes, and starts guzzling. Mourn soon finds himself coughing violently. This causes some of the liquid to shoot out his nose. Kassandra breaks her silence with a snort filled laugh.

After Mourn recovers he feels a hand grabbing at his far shoulder. He follows her guidance and soon find his head resting against her bosom.

“I’m here.” She runs a finger around the outside of his ear.

“You good?” He asks.

Kassandra looks at her bottle. “About a third of the way there.”

Mourn smirks. “I was starting to worry that you would never speak again.”

“Same...” She replies.

“Sorry.” He sighs. “Been trying to get my mind off of things. You know, what happened-”

“Don’t.” Kassandra tugs at his ear. “The alcohol. She’s a satisfactory mistress. You should try her out.”

Mourn sits up and takes a small sip. “Who doesn’t like Whiskey?”

Kassie shrugs. “Heartless fools that don’t understand the joys of alcohol.“

Mourn nods. “So, Chris Austin.”

Kassandra chuckles as they toast. In unison they both take a hearty drink.

“Drunk yet?” Mourn playfully asks.

She fakes being offended. “You know nothing about my alcohol tolerance.”

“So, place you down for a liver transplant in 20 years?”

“More like 10.” She deadpans. “You thinking about the match?”

Mourn squeezes her thigh. “I’m hardly unaware of its importance you know.”

“Well…” She reaches over the arm of the couch for her duffle bag. “Uhem, Tempo. It is in everything.”

“Oh boy…”

“Al.” She produces a computer tablet.

“What about Al?”

“His tempo is similar to how you operate.” She points at the screen. “Somewhere between equal and slightly faster. Depends on the opponent. His big problem is he’s not a superior athlete, easily the lesser of you three. So he tries to needle you into pressing harder.” She opens the notebook. “For instance, baseball.”

Mourn rubs his eyes. “You and baseball, this will be good-”

“You want me to help or not?” She sternly interrupts.

Mourn takes a drink of the whiskey.

“Good.” She clears her throat. “Al would be a control pitcher. If the ref’s-”

“Ref?” Mourn laughs heartily.

She digs her nails into his arm. “If the ump has a wide strike zone, Al’s king. He finds a way to get an out but never overwhelms. He tests the edges of what you can do. He allows you to feel comfortable then turns it on you. Mind games.”

“I thought that would be Austin...” Mourn shakes his head in confusion. “You hate baseball.”

She shrugs. “It’s your favorite sport. I either get used to it, or be bored. Also, show’s at a fuckin’ baseball stadium…” She rolls her eyes. ”Back to this shit, Austin likes things slow. Intense, but slow.”

“Wrong, He’s the fastest man-.” He stops when she shoots him a glare.

“If he can make you think curveball, his fastball’s better.”

Mourn blinks. “Huh?”

“Stop being dumb…“ She taps the screen. “Think... If you are used to things being a certain speed...” She pauses to lead him on. “You… are thrown off by it changing pace…”

Mourn’s face sours. “Please… I am not stupid...”

“Dammit Gabe…” She sighs in frustration. “Both men have wronged you. They expect you to lose control. Right? They’re gonna attack your hubris. What they did to us. To Allana.”

Mourn looks away.

She gently strokes his chin and guides his gaze back to her and kisses him softly on the lips. When she pulls away he sighs.

“Then what does this have to do with it?” His voice wavers.

She holds up the tablet. “I watch people. Like a ‘ninja’s’ supposed to do. These are similar to findings I needed for life and death. I took the time to look things up, and put them in here in analogies you can comprehend. So the words don’t get lost in translation. I wouldn’t try this shit with an idiot. Gabriel, I’m helping you to beat these two assholes the best I can. By teaching you. With knowledge. Still angry, just more Zen. And baseball requires loads of it.”

“Me with a Zen approach? Rich.” He painfully smirks. “But, maybe you have a point.”

“You have no need to go for extra aggression, that’s for sure.” She smirks back. “The violence will come naturally. Besides. If you were a dumbass, you’d be dead dumbass by now.”

He takes the tablet. “Can I look at it when I am sober?”

“Together. 8am tomorrow.” She replies sternly.

“That’s a huge sacrifice for you.” He replies. “Waking up at 8? The things you do for love.”

She shrugs. “Yeah. Love or some bullshit.”

Mourn takes a drink before shaking his head. “The intelligence thing reminds me of something I’ve never told you about.”

“Oh no…” She rubs her temples.

“Years ago Sixx and Co. started calling me Mr. Roboto.” Mourn chuckles. “Now I know it was about my speech patterns and my perceived lack of emotion, but being called Mr. Roboto is pretty apt and definitely not an insult. Mr. Roboto was a guise, not who he was. The song is actually a pretty good too.”

Kassie blinks confused. “The fuck?”

“Internationally iconic.” Mourn continues. “35 years in and professional dance troupes use the dance move it inspired in award winning performances. It is an honor to be considered that influential.” Mourn says proudly. “Lyrics like: Thank you very much for doing the jobs nobody wants to. OR: I’m not a hero, not a saviour. Forget what you know-”

“You’re just a man whose circumstances went beyond his control.” She folds her arms.

“Exactly!” Mourn nods.

Kassandra holds in a chuckle. “Looks like your mind’s back on course.”

They both take time to nurse their whiskey bottles.

“Thank you.” Mourn raises his bottle. “For your company. I needed this.”

Kassandra smiles his way as she sways to the classical melody.

“Kassie,” He sheepishly smiles. “You liquered enough?”

She giggles. “Why-”

Kassandra yelps as Mourn roughly grabs her hair and cranks her head back.

“I am about to give you the best two to three minutes of your life.” He says flashing the cheesiest grin he can.

With her face red in embarrassment from a full on snort filled laugh, Mourn roughly pulls her in for a tight hug as Kassandra nuzzles into his chest.

This match is why I am a fighter. I live for this. Dreamt of this opportunity. This is the mountain top. It is inhabited by faces of an old guard. One from LPW. The other from FMW. Examples of the past…

As it is… As it should be...

Chris Austin… Our ”last PERC standing.”

A patient man waits for his opportunity. A scared man fakes being patient in turn missing all opportunities. Stunted by your search for the perfect everything. Just so we understand this clearly: Austin, you had three years. Three. To cash in that torch. You reffed a match with the International Heavyweight Champ in it. Remember this: I took a risk on you when you were too afraid to take a risk on yourself. I feel zero sympathy for you.

Professionally and personally, Austin, you can go to hell.

You have money. Order your own Asian wife. One that is okay with the school shooter look. You’re an over extreme caricature of today’s forgotten youth. No, we did not forget you, you are not unique by simply existing, the world does not owe you a goddamn thing and you cannot always get what you want. I know this may trigger you, but, life's not fair.

But hey, allow me to make it up to you. Prove my charity. Post match, when both championships are over my shoulder and the Martinez Cup in my hands; there, in your possession, will stay that fucking torch. It is yours and you deserve it. A crippling reminder of your lack of ambition.

Then there’s… Al. A champion of high regard. The people’s champion. On a run we may never see again. A white collar criminal who stole documents from his employer then swooped in to be a hero after watching people lose careers. Used prison to gain an ”edge.” “Sympathy.” Fame. His career never skipped a beat. As if all he had was a vacation.

Al, I would say more about you... your dreams, integrity... anything. But those things left you long ago. Gone since Bobino tested you. Hell, probably before then. Possibly once you realized your co-workers were starting to see through the bullshit. Remember, Al, you willingly sided with Storme after he did that shit to you. Took side with Carter. You are a low key Ex-PERC. Just never got your Members Only Jacket with your name embroidered on it. So, in a way, you betrayed your own flock. Betrayed both sides. A snake, like Kevin Durant.

Yep, you are the hero of the tale… You are a joke. A champion that should be without a title. I hold by that. I dare anyone else to do prison time and keep their accomplishments...

Yet… I have to admit. Even with all this chutzpah emanating from within me, I cannot mask the truth. You two are of the best competitors I have ever seen. Austin, you specifically have a few moves that could end many a man. In any other contest, either of you could be considered favorites.

Against anyone, but the World Heavyweight Champion.

All the kidnapping, assaults, treachery, and downright ignorance you two have collectibly shown me over the years has given me every reason to fight with every bit of virulence as needed. Of course, heeding the words of my wife.

Moderation is key.

To win, I must deploy the best me possible. Using my biggest advantage. No, not my weight, though true. No, not my strength, though massive. No… And it is not something that is learned by watching people.

Passion from within.

Passion is not indicative of recklessness. Passion can be controlled with the right amount of practice. Passion, true passion is tangible. You can feel it. Harnessing it can propel you to heights that were once unobtainable. This passion has helped me to survive. To open up. To accept myself. Passion has been my calling card for the back half of my career. It is the soul of an individual. Something you both lack. To fight with passion you need a reason to do so. Other than it being a final match. Other than the feeling of shame for being a procrastinator.

I look forward to our time together. This match... This seminar, for you both, will be an eye opening experience. I have a PHD in passion. You will be taught the intricate details of what I’ve learned via a metric fuckton of determination and absolutely zero remorse. This will be something you will pass onto future generations. You both are about to find out that there is more to life than faking your way through school and believing your own bullshit.

Class Dismissed.

08-11-2018, 02:32 AM
I won’t sit here and pretend beating Phantom Lord means something other than one of the easiest Altered Reality paychecks I’ve ever gotten. I won’t sit here and act like beating him would be like beating Mourn, Al, or Austin, either. I won’t complain about my placement in the card, and I surely won’t bitch that I didn’t get a match I quote/unquote “deserve”.

I won’t beg and plead, asking “where’s my title match?”
I damn sure won’t go behind the scenes, asking why I haven’t gotten the spotlight.

I won’t walk around, pestering everyone backstage “why am I not getting over?” and be so dense to not know I’m not at all God’s gift to wrestling.

What I will do, however, is make people pay attention.

Phantom Lord
08-11-2018, 02:22 PM
The shot opens just before Sunset somewhere in the California mountains near the Aurora-Bodie volcano. The camera continues to pan until it stops and we see Phantom Lord sitting on the ground as he admires the setting sun

Phantom: Beautiful, isn't it? In film they call this the Golden Hour. You have that nice golden light from the sun just as the blue sky starts to turn to red to signify that the day is over and night is upon us.

Phantom pauses and stands back as he continues to look toward the setting sun

Phantom: This setting sun is symbolic in many ways. I've enjoyed my time away from the ring. Every wrestler see's their career as a sun in the sky. I knew when mine was about to set so I made my exit. I thought I left things in good hands with the next generation of talent. All the blood, the stitches, pain just laying in bed at night...I thought it had all been worth it. That was until I saw what had become of my legacy. My legacy was beginning to crumble. Well, when you see a building starting to crumble you have two options. You can either just say the hell with it and knock it down or you can fix that foundation and make it stronger.

So I made some calls and there's people within the company that agree with me. They didn't like what was happening either and someone had to do something. I had to make a grand entrance. That's where you came in Sean Jensen. Now, talent wise I have nothing against you. You're a decent wrestler. You're what we call a good hand. But being a good hand and a decent wrestler will only get you so far in this business. You have to be willing to go for the jugular when the moment is right. I saw my moment and took it.

Phantom pulls a box of matches out of his pocket and starts to strike it. He lights the book on fire and throws it behind him and a huge fire rises up on the ground

Phantom: I'm sure you still feel the sting of that fire Sean. When it hit your face and blinded you. You didn't know where you were or what was about to happen. Well, imagine that feeling times ten and multiply that by ten and so and so forth. At Altered Reality, your Reality will be Altered and so will the entire Reality of the LPW. This isn't a nostalgia tour. I'm not back just so my Indy booking fee can go up a couple extra grand. I'm here to make a fundamental change in this company and it starts with you Sean Jensen.

In San Francisco, right next to the bay at AT&T Park the reality of the LPW is changed forever.

I am The Harvester of Sorrow. Fall to your knees and bow before The Phantom Lord.

Phantom walks off camera as the fire continues to burn in the background

Mr. Maverick
08-11-2018, 05:40 PM
In walks a smartly dressed David…we mean THE David Maverick. Must get that right. He’s wearing a typical suit with bow tie as if he’s about to enter an award ceremony or a prom date. The LPW Altered Reality 8 logo shines brightly in the background as THE David Maverick straightens his tie glancing down the lens of the camera grimacing to himself, admiring his own stature and beauty.

“It’s Altered Reality season!” started THE David Maverick “You would expect that THE David Maverick would give you an exceptional promo telling you why he should win the LPW hardcore Championship. To be honest with you he wouldn’t give a flying fuck HOWEVER my interest has peaked slightly.

You thought that I couldn’t made it? You fuckers didn’t think that THE great David Maverick would make it to Altered Reality let alone be involved in a fucking ladder match for the Hardcore title. THE David Maverick has made bullet points in his brand spanking new shiny notebook on how he will become the hardcore champion but in the interest of boring the living shite out of you and the reader I cannot be bothered.

HOWEVER if you bear with me…”

THE David Maverick moves out of shot and reappears with a trashcan and his brand sparkling new notebook saying...

David Maverick

How original. Opening his notebook, THE David Maverick shows us three pictures showing three familiar faces.

“You know these people. THE David Maverick won’t bore you with their names HOWEVER THE David Maverick knows what to do with these pictures.”

While THE David Maverick chucks his notebook out of his sight. THE David Maverick gets out a lighter and sets all of the photos on fire and throws it in the trashcan.

“I don’t give two flying fucks who you all are. I’m after for one thing and that’s that god damn Hardcore championship belt. DeepNet, TV, Pure, don’t give a flying shit throw it all at me.”

THE David Maverick’s interest is then suddenly peaked even further by a set of steel ladders near a fire exit door.

“Fucking steel ladders, are you fucking serious? If that’s how THE David Maverick is going to win then my fucking god I hope you fuckers have got health insurance…”


“You cunt!” screamed Maverick at the Producer hiding behind the camera. The cameraman was on the verge of bolting towards the nearest exit possible when the producer in question stops him in his tracks. Annoyed, the LPW producer just simply shakes his head in frustration.

“Your promo skills are shocking…”

“Your shocking.” interrupts THE David Maverick “Where’s my fucking monologue? Don’t LPW superstars have amazing monologues to end the promo?”

“The Kid requests that you don’t have an monologue…”

“Are you fucking serious?”

If looks could kill THE David Maverick would of already killed the LPW producer by now.

“You heard me David…”

“THE David Maverick.”

“Whatever. The Kid doesn’t want you to do a monologue. It bores him to fucking death.”

Flabbergasted THE David Maverick waves his arms in the air like a fucking muppet because only THE David Maverick can do that. Trying to calm the situation the producer stupidly remarks “Throwing your arms in the air doesn’t help the cause.”

“Fuck you. Pay me.” Screamed THE David Maverick.

“Not my problem.” Replied the LPW Producer “Door’s that way.” as he points towards the fire exit with loads of steel ladders in the way.

Before THE David Maverick makes a dramatic exit, a monologue because it’s LPW and every promo has to have a monologue apparently…


THE David Maverick will keep this short and sweet because apparently short monologues aren’t deemed popular anymore and the only way to state your case for such an important matchup as a pathetic ladder match for the Hardcore Championship for example you have to go big or go fucking home.

First off David Gideon Smith, how the fuck are you? You cannot be bothered to show your face and show off such a prestige championship belt. Where’s your parade that your fans are so desperate to see? Ready for round 2?

Joe Citizen? The less said about you the better. Why are you in this match?

Bane? Thought you were dead mate how the hell are you? Have you sorted out Batman yet? Old joke I know but do me a favour and stay out of my way for your sake and mine.

Got nothing else to add lads, just do me a favour and stay out of my way while I climb a steel ladder towards my title. Cheers, thanks, bye. No hashtag needed. Amazing monologue Mr Maverick, ten out of ten.


With that THE David Maverick makes his way towards the fire exit leaving behind him a group full of confused LPW producers and script writers.

Silver Kazama
08-11-2018, 08:31 PM
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Let This Be My Last Chance

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Appeal For A Chance - San Francisco, California
Afternoon - August 3rd, 2018

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”I’m sorry, but right now we just don’t have anything lined up for you.”

Those had been the parting words from LPW’s talent management team after the disastrous events of Supercycle. That night in Oregon definitely wasn’t the highest of highs for Matthew Kazama. In less than thirty seconds Reece Raymond capitalized on the growing tensions between The Last Kazama and Bane Uzzah, delivering a clobbering blow to the back of Uzzah, which would send Kazama flying from the ring.

’And just like that...it was over…’

It was almost comical with the way it all happened, and he was the fool. Despite the boasts of bravado, nothing had changed. He was still the foolishly arrogant man he was two years ago. His fists clench involuntarily at his sides as he walks through the long white hallway.

”Things change today.”

It sounded tacky and cheap, even coming out of his own mouth, but it doesn’t matter. It’s a simple truth. After all, that’s the whole reason he came out to LPW’s main office in the first place. As he stepped onto the elevator a small smile creeped onto his face. Today was the day that he spoke to The Kid about being booked on Altered Reality.

”I’m not going to change anyone’s opinion of me from my couch in New Orleans, that’s for sure.”


The elevator comes to a stop at the top floor of the building. The doors pull apart to reveal and elegant looking office. As he steps out of the elevator and onto the landing he takes a moment to admire the decor of the office. With an almost approving nod, Kazama lets the grin slip back onto his features as he proceeds to the waiting area before him.

’So...this is what the corporate side of things looks like.’

He smoothly approaches the receptionist area, his eyes resting upon the woman seated comfortably behind the desk. She wasn’t a ugly woman by any stretch of the imagination. Slightly older, long hair, and a warm smile on her face.

”Can I help you?”

”I have a meeting with Mr. Nabakov today.”

The woman nods her head before looking down at her computer screen, presumably looking over the schedule for the day.

”Mr. Kazama? He’s currently in a meeting with another talent, but I’ll let him know you’re here. Just wait over there.”

She points over to one of the chairs across the room, all the while smiling at him. Matthew nods his head with a small grin and a quick “thank you” before moving over to the chairs.

’I don’t know how one person can stay so...pleasant all the time. Especially in this business.’

A small chuckle escaped his lips as he shakes his head and goes to sit down.

”Mr. Kazama?”

His eyes shoot up towards the receptionist’s desk, his eyebrow quirked up slightly in a questioning glance.


”Mr. Nabakov will see you now.”

He nods before rising to his feet and making his way to the small hallway beside the receptionist's desk. He stops next to the desk and flashes a smile to the woman.

”Thank you very much Ms...er…”

His face flushes pink as he realizes he didn’t get the woman’s name.

”Susan. My name is Susan.”

Fighting against the embarrassment he cheeses up the smile on his face.

”Well, Susan. Thank you very much!”

He proceeds to the office door at the end of the hall, but stops before opening it as he hears arguing inside.

”...No? Then he’s your partner. Since you ‘don’t give a fuck who your partner is.’”

His hand rests on on the doorknob as he recognizes The Kid’s voice. His eyebrow quirks up wondering who else was in the room.

”When I mop your tag champs with a second rate partner…”

Sixx King. He recognized the voice. Anger flooded his system as he turned the doorknob and swung the door opened. He didn’t know what was going on, but he wasn’t going to let someone else undervalue him.

”...you better hope Storme doesn’t pop up. Altered Reality may end up being a night you’d want to forget.”

So...that was it. He was Storme’s replacement. But...if that’s the case...where the hell was Steve Storme? His confusion must have been shown on his face as Sixx and Kid both look at him. Playing dumb seemed to be the best option at this point.

”I thought we had a meeting planned, sir?”

”Yes, we did. You wanted to talk about having something at Altered Reality. Well, Matthew, meet your tag team partner for a World Tag Team Title Match at Altered Reality. Sixx King.”

Kazama’s eyes turn towards Sixx and the two men lock eyes. He could see it in King’s eyes. Disgust. Anger. Revulsion. A small smirk spreads on Matthew’s face as King storms out of the room muttering under his breath. The two men bump shoulders, which seems to only agner King more, but nothing is said or done about it. Kazama steps fully into the room and swings the door shut behind him.

”You had something else on your mind, Kazama?”

He raises a hand to scratch the back of his head lightly as he shrugs his shoulders to his boss.

”It’s not like I’m not grateful, sir. I’m just curious as to why you’d put me with Sixx. I mean, first it was putting me with Osiris, even after everyone knew about Gavin being my student. I’m sure we all remember how that turned out. Putting me with Sixx just doesn’t seem like a smart move. Especially...”

He doesn’t finish his sentence, but his boss didn’t want to let it go, it seems.

”Especially….since what, Mr. Kazama?”

Kazama’s eyes harden as he stares at his employer. All embarrassment and bashfulness gone as their eyes lock.

”Especially when we win. He doesn’t like me. I don’t like him. Regardless, I’m not going to go half ass in that ring. We are going to win those Tag Team Championships, and then you’re going to have two men who can’t stand each other as Champions. I’m not sure that’s something you want or need.”

The statement seems to catch him off guard as his hands steeple together in thought. He leans forward in his chair with a thoughtful expression on his face.

”Have a seat. I’m going to be frank with you, Matthew.”

Matthew’s eyebrows quirk up slightly as he moves forward and takes a seat in one of the chairs across from The Kid’s desk.

”This is going to sound a bit harsh, but quite frankly this is the last time you’ll be receiving an opportunity like this from LPW.”

Well that certainly got his attention.


”Indeed. You see, when LPW brought you in after O’Connor’s departure, the company had high hopes. A seasoned veteran such as yourself, with accolades from around the world, seemed like a solid investment from our standpoint.”

It makes sense, especially considering the near fifteen year career that he has had.

”However...that’s not quite what we have seen from you in these last few shows. I think we can both agree to that.”

He feels himself nodding as he listens to his boss. He wasn’t lying. The level of competition that The Last Kazama brought to Lords of Pain was definitely not his one hundred percent.

”However...I am not one to give up on an investment as easily as others. I’ve seen that glint...that spark of desire in you. You’ve fallen, and you know it, but you’re determined to rise up, and I like that.”

”You’re not wrong.”

Kazama runs a hand through his hair as he blows out a huff of air.

”The adjustment to LPW has definitely not been the smoothest for me. Especially considering I was content teaching new wrestlers until I saw Gavin get hurt. Coming here looking for revenge for a student was an idiotic and shortsighted idea, and we both see where it got me in the long run. Now? Now I’m here for different reasons.”

”And that is?”

”To prove myself...again. I’ve ruined my credibility in this business over the last two years, and it’s up to me to rebuild it. It’s why I came here today to ask for a match. I can’t rebuild what has been broken sitting at home and doing nothing.”

The two men smirk and nod to each other as they both stand and shake hands.

”I think we both can both agree on that. Good luck at Altered Reality, Mr. Kazama.”

”Luck is not something I wish to rely on, Mr. Nabakov. Sixx can have all of that.”

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The King And His Jester - Chicago, IL
Evening - August 8th, 2018

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”Hey! What the fuck was that?!”

Backstage at one of LPW’s House Show events finds one Matthew ‘Silver’ Kazama storming backstage in pursuit of his newly found ‘tag team partner,’ Sixx King. The aforementioned ‘King’ continues his strut through the backstage area, towel draped over his bare shoulder. Kazama reaches out as he catches up to him, grabbing him by the forearm and spinning him around.

”Seriously, dude, what the fuck was that out there?!”

King looks pissed as he rips his arm out of The Last Kazama’s grip.

”That was me getting the job done just like I said I would.”

”No, that was you being a stubborn ass and refusing my help. You could have tagged me in multiple times against those guys, and instead you went out and got your ass kicked.”

”We won. Simple as that.”

Kazama lets out a frustrated growl while shaking his head.

”No, it’s not that simple. Putting a referee in harm's way to cheat is not the same as getting a win. It’s shitty, cheap, and cowardice. If you had just let me help you...”


The enraged voice of Sixx King reverberates through the backstage hallway. The two stand nose to nose now as tensions rise between the two. Two men who are supposed to be tag team partners, and the two men who are challenging for the LPW Tag Team Championships at Altered Reality, stare each other down in the middle of the hallway. Before the two can come to blows, Kazama backs up slightly with his arms in the air.

”Look, I’m not trying to start a fight, but the whole point of them putting us together on this House Show loop is for us to get on the same page. We have a legitimate shot at winning the Tag Team Championships at Altered Reality. We just need to work tog--”

”I don’t need your help to win the Tag Team Championships from Bronx and Thornridge, Kazama.”

That causes Matthew to blink stupidly towards his tag team partner.

”You legitimately believe that you can beat two men all on your own. Not just any two men, but Bronx and Thornridge, the Tag Team Champions. Two men who have, legitimately, had each others backs as far back as I’ve researched. I can’t tell if you’re just that arrogantly cocky, or plain stupid…”

”I’m that good. Something you know nothing about.”

Kazama’s fists clench at his sides. Again, his partner putting him down and underestimating his value.

”I’m trying to show you that I have legitimate value to this team, but you’re the one refusing the slightest bit of help. How do you expect me to prove that to you if you--”

”I don’t want you to prove shit to me. I want you to stay out of my way while I rack up another win. Now, I’m going to walk away from this pointless conversation. Don’t follow me. You won’t like the result if you do.”

With that, King stalked away. Despite his urge to prove the former World Champion wrong, Kazama stays rooted on the spot. Escalating their argument into a fist fight wouldn’t do any good. A loud, long sigh escapes from Silver’s lips as he runs both hands through his sweat-drenched hair.

”We are so fucked…”

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Redemption & Reclamation - New Orleans, Louisiana
Morning - August 10th, 2018

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”Thirteen years I’ve been in this business, and after all this time this process still hasn’t gotten old for me.”

The scene fades in to Matthew ‘Silver’ Kazama walking from his large walk-in closet towards his neatly made bed. A large suitcase is open on the bed. An assortment of folded casual and formal clothing is placed neatly within the suitcase as Kazama adds a large, empty gym bag next to what is already on the bed.

”I remember when I first started my career as a full time traveling wrestler. I thought the idea of living out of a suitcase would get old and tiresome. Yet, I found something quite therapeutic about it. You find out a lot about yourself when you look at what you consider ’The Essentials’ of your travel belongings. As a kid, you wouldn’t catch me dead in formal clothing. No...back then you’d see me in a lot of these…”

Kazama reaches into the suitcase and pulls out one of his more plain t-shirts and a pair of basketball shorts. Together they were just as bland as they were separate. A low laugh escapes Matthew’s lips as he shakes his head before returning them to their proper place.

”It’s hard to imagine a younger version of myself showing up to meet a company official dressed so haphazardly. Now, I use those as my workout clothes, or even to lounge around the hotel. Call me an old man now, but I prefer to show up looking as...‘Professional’...no pun intended, to these events.”

Kazama’s eyes and hand move over the formal wear in his suitcase before a rueful smile spreads across his face.

”The Professionals. Bronx. Thornridge. I need the two of you to understand something. I respect the hell out of both of you. In my short time here in LPW, I’ve seen the two of you face trials and tribulations both individually and as a team. I’ve seen you, as human beings, rise to the challenges that this business has put in front of you, and I’ve seen you become Champions. I respect you because, no matter how shitty this industry can be to you, the two of you uphold your team moniker. You’re as Professional as they come, and that’s not an easy thing to do in today’s wrestling world.”

Kazama closes his suitcase and places his empty gym bag on top of it. Next to the bag and suitcase rests Kazama’s ring gear. Everything from his boots to his elbow pads and entrance jacket laid out neatly on the large bed.

”I didn’t leave my suitcase open just to show off my wardrobe or to make some silly pun. I meant what I said when I said that you learn a lot about someone by what they take with them on the road. Some people take books with them. Others may take video games or booze on the road with them. I am neither of these examples, and I wanted you...all of you...to see this.”

One by one, Matthew begins to move his gear from the bed into his gym bag. His boots go first as he is speaking. Then his knee pads and gloves. He begins folding his pants as he looks back up to the camera.

”There are no distractions for me. No booze. No games. No entertainment. This trip...this business...it’s just that for me. It’s all business. I’ve spent the last few years squandering the legacy that I have built over these last thirteen years. I’ve grown lazy...complacent...and I refuse to allow complacency and disappointment to become the lasting impression of Silver Kazama in the wrestling world.”

Kazama’s pants make their way into the gym bag and his black leather jacket is quick to follow behind it. He zips the bag closed before taking a deep breath and turning his full attention back towards the camera.

”So...allow me to reintroduce myself to the masses of Lords of Pain Wrestling. My name...is Silver Kazama. I am the Last Kazama, and I am the hardest god damned worker that you’ll ever see in a wrestling ring. I could list my accolades but, let’s be honest, they mean nothing in LPW. No, instead, you’re all going to sit back and watch as my path to redemption and reclamation of my legacy is laid out before you. It starts at Altered Reality when I team with Sixx King to face The Professionals for the LPW Tag Team Championships.”

A hand comes up to run through his shoulder length hair as he flashes a smirk.

”Sixx King, a man who has made it very clear that he neither needs nor wants my help. A man who would rather me step aside and sit idly by while he bites off more than he can chew and gets his ass kicked for the world to see. I hate to tell you this, King, but I can’t let that happen. If I do that then it’s a first class ticket to a loss at Altered Reality, and I refuse to lose because of your stubbornness. If you can’t get over your stubborn pride and realize that you need my help, then I’ll have to take matters into my own hands.”

Kazama shrugs haphazardly as he throws his gym bag over his shoulder and pulls his suitcase off the bed and plants it firmly on its wheels behind him.

”That leaves the Tag Team Champions, Bronx and Thornridge, doesn’t it? I’m sure the two of you have a great deal to say about how the two of you will walk into Altered Reality as Champions, and how you’ll do whatever it takes to walk out as Tag Team Champions. Truly, I commend you for that. How could I not? If I were you, I’d be doing the exact same thing. I expect you’ll be fighting Champions to the end.”

The camera follows Kazama as he walks out of his bedroom and through the halls of his home towards the front door.

”Alas, Altered Reality is just that for the two of you...The End. In order for my redemption to begin...for my words to become anything more than just a hollow, empty shell...your Championship reign must end. It isn’t personal, guys. It’s just business. I know the two of you know that. I know that when the time comes...when the two of you are left face up on the mat and staring up at the ceiling...the two of you are going to take this loss just like you’ve taken every other trial and tribulation you’ve gone through in this business…”

Kazama opens the front door and steps through the walkway. He stops to look back at the camera one final time with a rueful smile spread across his face.

”Like Professionals…”

The door swings shut behind Silver, leaving the camera to fade to black at a still shot of The Last Kazama’s front door.

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08-12-2018, 12:27 AM
… all right. All right.

Mister Smith?

What the – what the hell is this, huh? What’re we doing, here?

… we are out to drinks and a late lunch. Is something wrong with your meal? We can certainly have them –

No. That’s not – no.

Just… six months. You’ve been shadowing me for six months. Every city, every hotel, every day. Every time I go for a run or hit the gym, you’re there; every match I’ve wrestled, for LPW or otherwise, win or lose, you’re there.

And this is a problem?

YES, it’s a –

… caution, Mister Smith. In situations such as these… I would advise caution.

Now, tell me. What exactly is the problem my presence causes?



Six months you’ve been stuck to me… and that’s it. You’ve done nothing but sit, and watch, and make small talk with me for six fucking months. I don’t know what it is you’re playing at, exactly, but I’d really, really, REALLY like to. And given the way things ended the last time the Sixth Yamaguchi-Gumi assigned one of you mooks to me, I’d really rather hear the truth – the whole truth, here and now, at the beginning of this – than at the end, when one of us has a gun pointed at the other.

… hm.

What’re you –

Oh, excuse me. I’d like to finish this last bite before we, ahem… proceed.

… ah. Now – before we go any further, Mister Smith, I’d like to draw your attention to just how out-of-character this is for you.

How – what?

I’m being serious. Take a step back, Mister Smith, and look at yourself for a moment. You’re usually so… so stoic. So dispassionate. So calm and composed, no matter the occasion or circumstance. More than anyone else I’ve ever seen, especially in the pathologically violent circles your profession has you running in. And yet…

And yet what?

Hm. And yet here you sit, at a pleasant little eatery in one of the nicest parts of South Beach – it’s a perfect day, the oceanside view is beautiful, and the food and drink are both immaculate – looking for all the world like you’re being tortured.

You’re sweating, Mister Smith. You’ve hardly touched your meal – which was by no means cheap, I might add – and you very nearly made a scene just a few minutes ago, in full view and earshot of, last I counted, forty-seven other patrons. Now, I acknowledge that in the grand scheme of things, six months is not very much time to get to know a person. But I’ve been watching you, Mister Smith.

You… you what?

I’ve been watching you – studying you – much more closely than you realize. And after six months of doing exactly that, I feel exceptionally confident in saying that this change, this… radically anomalous behavior you’re displaying… has nothing to do with me.

… is that right?

It is.

And what makes you think that?

Because I’ve seen it from you before.

Do you recall what happened in Eugene, Mister Smith?

You mean… ?

No. No, I’m not referring to your match with David Maverick. Do you remember what happened after said match, at the airport?

I do. I was there, after all. Our flight out was delayed – inclement weather, both there and at our destination. An hour turned into two, and then three, and then five, and by the time we began boarding the plane you were ready to kill someone. I could see it in your eyes, in the way the moved, the way you carried yourself. Simply sitting there – idle, for five hours – very nearly drove you mad.

It… it was time that could’ve been better-spent.

Oh? How so?

I could’ve been training. Lifting, running. I could’ve been reviewing tape.

Why? The sense of urgency, I mean. Are you worried about defending against Joe Citizen?

Don’t be absurd, of course not –

What about Bane Uzzah, then? Or David Maverick?

Neither of them are –

Rhetorical questions, Mister Smith. Don’t bother. I already know why, even if you yourself do not.

What… what’re you talking about?

Another question – if I may. How, Mister Smith, would you describe yourself? If you had a single word, a single noun or adjective to sum yourself up in totality, which word would you choose?



I… I’d say I’m a, um… a wrestler.


I – what?

To say you are a wrestler, Mister Smith, would be inaccurate. A better term would be fighter – it doesn’t carry the same connotations of falsity, of posturing, of empty words and showmanship – but even that doesn’t do much more than scratch the surface.

As I said, Mister Smith, I’ve been watching you very, very closely. You’ve always professed a distaste for these sorts of things – you balk at meals such as this, where breaking bread is treated as anything more than the simple intake of nutrients, and in our six months’ acquaintance I’ve yet to see you attend a game, movie, concert, or recreational event of any kind. As far as I can tell, you don’t even follow the news or watch television.

Get. To. The point.

For a long time, Mister Smith, I thought it was as you said – you simply had no interest in such things. But I have, as of late, come to realize that there’s more to it than that. I’ve come to see that it’s not a matter of desire, but of ability.

… what?

It’s not that you choose not to partake in these things, Mister Smith… it’s that you can’t.

To say that you’re a wrestler is to say that you play at battle, that you dress martial prowess up in a mask and cape, and send it out to music and pyrotechnics while the crowd roars. To say that you’re a fighter is to say that you’ve studied battle, that you’ve practiced martial prowess, in an endeavor to understand and master them. But to say either of these things about you – you, David Gideon Smith – would be to lie, nakedly and without shame. Wrestler, fighter… no. No, Mister Smith, you are a warrior. A destroyer. A breaker, and killer… and eater of men.

– !

Battle… martial prowess… the art of violence, and the science of war… you’ve twined yourself so closely with these things – made them so integral to yourself, to the core of your very being – that you are no longer capable of doing anything else. Something so simple as enjoying a meal for its own sake, or sitting idly in an airport – all while strength fades, muscles decay, and blades grow dull – has become anathema to you.

That’s… no. No, that’s not…

Do you disagree with my assessment, Mister Smith?

No… no, I –

… yes?


… what’s the point of all this? Why are you here, Gato?

The specifics are, unfortunately, not for me to disclose at this time. What I can tell you, however, is that you are a very unique and interesting man, Mister Smith, and that the powers guiding my hand – the Sixth Yamaguchi-Gumi – are very uniquely interested in you.

For what? What about me could possibly…

In due time, Mister Smith. For now, though, you are free to go.

I – what?

I apologize for not being entirely truthful: my inviting you here today was a sort of… final check, to verify that my superiors’ decision was a wise one. To that end, you have given me exactly what I need, and you may rest assured that I will not deign to take up any more of your time between now and Altered Reality. It is a noteworthy occasion, after all – you debuted at the show’s last iteration, did you not?

I – yeah. Yeah, I did.

Mm, good. Yes, that’s very good. My superiors and I look forward to a similarly dominating performance this time around.

I, um… all right, then.

… oh. When’s the next time I should, uh… check in?

That won’t be necessary. As I said, Mister Smith, I’ll take no more of your time between now and Altered Reality. Rest assured, we’ll be in contact after.

Hm. All ri – wait. We?

Indeed. Exciting things are about to happen, Mister Smith. I suggest you do everything in your power to be ready for them.

Are you ready?

Ready? For what?

The convergence. The reunion. The culmination of all for which you’ve long-striven.

… yes.

You must be certain. Resolute. What comes next is not for the weak, or lowly, or faint of heart.


Are you ready?

I am ready.

Good… then let us commence.

Hello, Joe. Bane. David.

How are you? Well, I hope.

I need you to be.

Altered Reality… I made my debut here, you know. A long while ago – years – I entered LPW through its biggest, grandest, most lauded and prestigious showcase. I stepped into the ring opposite Azrael, a man over one-hundred pounds heavier than I, and tossed him around said ring until he was no longer able to stand under his own power. Since then, I’ve made something of a name for myself, carved out something of a niche – not as a man of the people, or a warrior of God, or an egomaniac, or a pure fighter or a control freak or the greatest of all-time… but as something else. Something different.

Something more.

But there are very few, I’ve found, who are willing to acknowledge it. Very few willing to do much more than peg me as a midcarder on a hot streak, or a strongman with some above-average technical chops.

But that’s all right. I’ve never been particularly interested in being things – much less what others see me as being – anyway. Anyone who’s been paying attention knows I exist more in the doing, that who and what I am can be better-found in the act than the word or the state.

And that’s the key, gentlemen – what happens next, what I do next, at Altered Reality and beyond.

The first act is over. The second is about to begin, and you three – you precious, chosen three – are going to help me raise the curtain.

That’s why I need you at your best, gentlemen. Everything you have… everything you are… come Altered Reality, when the lights are on and the bell tolls, I need you to come at me with all of it. There’s no point to all of this if you don’t.

I don’t want you coming at me to win the Hardcore Championship.

Joe, you’ve had a great deal to say about my worthiness and legitimacy as champion since I took this… this thing back from you, and all of it has centered around the belt itself. You place too much stock in a material thing, in a trinket of empty and arbitrary value, and if you come at me with that as your impetus – with reclaiming the belt I wear around my waist, all so you can wear it around yours – then you stand not a shadow of a chance. You’re not the only one so misguided in his priorities, though – far from it, in fact.

I don’t want you coming at me for the prestige it’ll bring you.

David Maverick – excuse me, THE David Maverick – concerned, as always, with the value of a name and nothing else. Engraved on a championship belt… printed in bold on the card… embossed in lights on the marquee for Altered Reality… wherever you can get it, right? I’m sure you’ve already shrugged off what happened in Oregon, already rationalized it away as a fluke or freak accident. It taught you nothing, David – that much is clear, and I am left therefore with no choice but to reapply the lesson in a much more liberal and painstaking fashion. You’re putting much more on the line in this one than a simple name, THE David Maverick, and I can only pray you become wise to this simple truth before it’s too late. Unfortunately, for this match’s fourth man it may already be.

I don’t want you coming at me because it’s your only option.

Bane… the search for purpose can be an arduous one. Trust me – I know. But here… in this match, on this night, against me… you’ll not find what you seek. In this match, on this night, against me… there are no birds to follow, no signs to heed, no paths to walk. There will be no higher power at work in this contest – only you, and they, and I. Such blind faith, such reckless and feckless hope that you’ll be steered rather than steering yourself, that you’ll simply be presented with your path and purpose rather than forced to find them for yourself, will only lead you to despair.

A prize. A name. A purpose.

These are the things for which you fight, and should you persist, these are things for which you will fall.

Joe. Bane. David.

I implore you – do not come at me with such trite and pithy motivations. If these things are all the fuel you’ve fed your fires – if, when stood across from me at Altered Reality, the Hardcore Championship suspended overhead, such weak resolve is all you can bring to bear – then it will all have been for naught.

All you’ve said… all you’ve done… all you are… will be rent to smoking, ashen ruin beneath my feet.

The first act is over. The second is about to begin.

Great things are on the horizon, at whose grandeur neither you nor I can even begin to guess, and we all have our parts to play in their coming.

All I ask, gentlemen – all I can ask – is that you make this turning of the page worthwhile.

Don’t make it easy for me.

Make me work for it.

08-12-2018, 12:28 AM
Faye: You want me to do what?

Faye didn't look too pleased when Thornridge came up with the idea of attaching flamethrowers to the top of F.A.D.V.O.S. for The Professionals entrance at Altered Reality, Thornridge coiling a little in fear as he explained the idea.

Thornridge: Look, I don't want you to get mad about it. Altered Reality is the biggest wrestling night of the year, and I've made a name of wanting to do something that people never forget.

Faye: I understand that. What I don't understand is that you want me to do something of that magnitude within a week! Haven't you heard of preparation, planning, government approvals?

Thornridge: I already have that sorted.

Faye: What do you mean you have it sorted?

Thornridge held onto her shoulders and turned her around in her spot as he walked over to a desk that was covered with a loose sheet, pulling it off to reveal two large bazooka-like flamethrowers, blueprints on how to attach it to F.A.D.V.O.S., and government approval from the state of California.

Thornridge: Those are the bazookas, that is how I want them mounted, and that is a favor from Arnie coming through at the clutch.

Faye: H-how would you know of...

Thornridge: I'll give you a hand lifting the flamethrowers and positioning them, I can't expect that to be done without help and besides, I need to get some training in before the match. It'll be difficult trying to find a gym in San Fran especially with the craziness of my schedule.

Faye walked up to Thornridge, still surprised as she poked him in the chest.

Faye: You continue to surprise me you lug.

Thornridge: I'm glad I can, Shiela.

Faye quickly grabbed him by the ear and twisted it, making Thornridge coil in pain.

Faye: Call me Shiela again and you won't be able to hear your adoring crowd ever again, got it?

Thornridge: Ow ow ow, of course. No more.

Thornridge reached to rub his ear as Faye walked over to the gear, studying over it as Thornridge heard "My People" by The Presets playing on his phone, answering it quickly.

Thornridge: Ahoy hoy.

??: Thornridge, it's The Kid.

Thornridge: Ah Mr. Nabakov. To what do I owe the pleasure?

Mikhail: There's been a change of plans. We haven't been able to get hold of Storme.

Thornridge: Oh, not good at all. Is there anyone searching for him?

Mikhail: I'll keep you posted on that, but the show must go on. He's been replaced by Matthew Kazama. So it'll be Sixx and Kazama challenging The Professionals for the World Tag Team Championship.

Thornridge: Of the world.

Mikhail: Heh, I appreciate you trying to elevate the titles higher than they should, but they aren't on the level of World Championships yet.

Thornridge: Yet. I'll let Bronx know of the development. Thanks for the heads up, very Professional.

Mikhail: Just get to San Francisco in one piece.

Thornridge: Will do.

Thornridge sighed as he hung up the phone, rubbing his neck as he turned around tiredly.

Thornridge: Well, it seems that Storme has been replaced...

Thornridge was stopped in his tracks as he saw the flamethrowers already mounted to the top of the motorhome, Thornridge staring wide eyed and surprised.

Thornridge: Wait, how did you do that?

Faye: Your plans were very straightforward. Just used the engine crane, welded it, attached the wiring harness and it's good to test.

Thornridge: Oh come here you beautiful creature!


Thornridge: Yes! Next question!

Announcer: You're over the time limit Thornridge, Despana was supposed to be here by now.

Thornridge: But he isn't. He never does promotional stuffs.

Bronx: C'mon bring on more questions.

Announcer: If you insist, but please stop drinking.

Thornridge: NEVER!

Mike Announcer found a gentleman in the audience who was seemingly having a great time with the shenanigans that The Professionals had put on for the last hour.

Gentleman: Yes, Steven. Why did my parents get a divorce?

Thornridge and Bronx looked at each other as the crowd laughed about the odd question. Bronx turning to take another mouthful of his beer, the gentleman in the audience laughing a little at the reaction.

Thornridge: I think I know a little something about this.

Bronx: Jeezus...

Thornridge took a stern look at the question giver, taking in a deep breath.

Thornridge: First of all, you were the cause of all the arguments.

Bronx: Whoa!

Thornridge: No matter what you think, your dad hit your mum because of you. Alright? It's all your fault. Your dad, was hitting your mum from behind right, and one little sperm happened to drip down. And that is how you were born you f***.

Bronx: Thanks for coming to the Q&A.

The crowd were in hysterics, standing up and applauding the answer as Thornridge quickly jumped out of the seat, giving the man a hug and a fistbump before quickly coming back to the stage.

Thornridge: If I knew he was that tall I might have toned down on the aburptness on that one.

Announcer: We have time for one more question, yes, I'll pass it to you.

A young lady picked up the microphone, looking towards the stage while Thornridge finished the last of his wine bottle and Bronx finished the last of his beer.

Lady: Yes, hi I'm Stacey.

Bronx and Thornridge: Hello Stacey.

Stacey: Have you guys come up with a team name for Sixx and Kazama yet?

Bronx: You mean Silver Sixx Shooter?

Thornridge: Sixx Barreled Silver Revolver?

Bronx: The Silver Kingdom?

Thornridge: The Silver Jubilee?

Bronx: The Crumpet Face?

Thornridge: And 2nd Place?

Bronx: It doesn't matter what they call themselves.

Thornridge: We are the World Heavyweight Tag Team Champions...

Crowd and Bronx: ...of the world!

Thornridge: And they have not faced anyone as focused.

Bronx: Skilled.

Thornridge: Passionate.

Bronx: Not to mention handsome.

Thornridge paused for a second as he stared at Bronx, the crowd laughing for a moment before Thornridge thought for a second before nodding his head.

Thornridge: They are walking into the Professional fire and they will end up burnt. Because we are The Professionals.

Bronx: And we always get the job done.

Thornridge: G'night ladies and gentlemen!

"Guerrilla Radio" by Rage Against the Machine played as the crowd cheered, Thornridge and Bronx standing up and holding the titles up high, waving to everyone in the audience before making their way down to sign autographs.


I want to take a step back for a second and look at the bigger picture here. This is history being made right now. The moment that the bell tolls to start the match, I will have become the ONLY superstar in Lords Of Pain Wrestling history to have walked in as one half of the World Tag Team Champions at successive Altered Reality pay-per-views. I wouldn't have been able to say that I would have been able to do that without help. It doesn't take one person to make a tag team, let alone a successful one.

That is the reality.

The Ngarrulans was my first tag team, my first taste of championship glory. I was partnered with a gentleman by the name of Jardup Ba. A masked figure, a dark figure. Hell, I even piledrove his ass to the mat before we became World Tag Team Champions over the illustrious Troublemakers. I walked into that season's Altered Reality as a proud tag team champion. Management decided to throw us a nice curveball. Justus returned and teamed up with Damien Blaze and they took a shot at us. We lost the titles just as quick, and we lost outright. The loss shattered us and knocked my confidence for a loop. Whatever I suffered, Jardup suffered more as he decided to pack it in and retire and become a banker. Such was the domination, such was my lack of foresight and preparedness that night.

That is the reality.

We fast forward a little and low and behold, I find myself tagging with a person who I defeated to obtain the World Tag Team Championship in the first place. My brother, my Jedi Ninja, my partner Bronx. We were what was left of the two tag team champions prior to Justus and Blaze, who were dominant in their reign. We could have been called The Leftovers, we could have been called The Relics, The Remnants... But we didn't want to dwell on the past. We wanted to start anew, fresh, and focused on the future. We tore through the tag team division to EARN our place to stand in front of Blaze, in front of Justus in a two out of three falls match for the World Heavyweight Tag Team Championships of the world. We got the job done, and we truly became The Professionals that night.

That is the reality.

Mere seconds after that, we were jumped by two hooded individuals who revealed themselves to be Steven Storme and Sixx King. Now I won't declare that those two aren't smart. They were smart, and badasses. They waited until Bronx and I decimated the tag team division and presented themselves at the front of the line without as much as a thank you basket. They had their eyes set on the titles, firm, focused and took the best shot to get themselves noticed. They got noticed.

That is the reality.

Over the last few events, my eyes and focus have been directed in several different directions, but first and foremost, I've been in the corner of my partner Mr. Bronx. He's taken some hits but I never left his side. Hell, I've been taken to the hospital courtesy of one Mourn Despana, and we haven't faulted in our partnership and friendship. Storme and Sixx lost one match together and all of a sudden Storme is absent without leave. As a result, management were left scrambling to get Sixx a tag team partner at the last minute and airdropped Matthew "Silver" Kazama into the match.

That is the reality.

So Bronx and I were preparing this whole season for Storme and Sixx, to face them at the grandest of LPW's stages, and instead, we need to focus on the easily tamed Sixx King and the man who was handed a consolation prize for failing in his quest for the Western States Heritage Championship. NEWSFLASH BOYS! The World Heavyweight Tag Team Championship is not a consolation prize! This is the pinnacle of the tag team profession! It's where you bleed, sweat and pay the price for yourself and your partner. Sacrifice, hard work, endurance, these are three buzzwords that are thrown around as if they mean nothing, but they mean everything to a successful tag team. Sixx, Kazama, you wouldn't spare your own breath to help the other. I have for my brother Bronx, and he has damn sure done it for me.


Bronx and I are going to ride on top of my Fully Articulated Motorhome into AT&T Field as World Heavyweight Tag Team Champions of the world. Bronx and I are going to pick you two apart as World Heavyweight Tag Team Champions of the world. The Professionals are going to have their arms raised in victory as World Heavyweight Tag Team Champions of the world while you two, The Crumpet Face and 2nd Place, can sit there, exhausted, flabbergasted, and possibly bleeding or whimpering and clutching at your balls. Because, when it comes to the World Heavyweight Tag Team Championships of the world, you aren't in our league. You are facing The Professionals, and we always get the job done!

G'night to you.

08-12-2018, 01:06 AM
Date: August 11th, 2018
Location: New York City

*Reece Raymond is seen looking out over the New York City skyline on the top of his apartment building. He solemnly gazes as the sun pulls itself back behind the massive skyscrapers and towers as the lights of the city begin to turn on.*

Trauma is a funny thing.

One moment, you’re fine, you’re all good, you’re yucking it up with your friends and the next second WHAM! You’re life changes forever. Usually never for the better. But it gives you a lot to digest.

When I was on the shelf after DGS broke my neck, I had a good, long ass time to think about why I began wrestling in the first place. And my reasoning was that I wanted to show the world how good I was; that I was the superior athlete with the superior moral code. And all that got me was a couple of expensive surgeries and a few mean scars that will never fully heal. Was the trouble of proving that I was a top dog and not a big rooster from a small pen worth my career now being shortened?

That’s what I grappled with the entire time I was rehabbing. Every morning I woke up, I asked myself “Was it worth it?”. Every day I went to the doctor’s office, lying face up at the ceiling as the guy is making sure the surgery is healing me and not leaving me a quadriplegic vegetable “Was it worth it?”. Every single damn night, trying to sleep in a way where I wasn’t going to accidentally hurt my vertebrae and risk losing all progress “Was it worth it?”. Nonstop, on the hour every hour I would not let up with that thought in my mind.

The day I finally came back and beat down DGS into the puddle of shit he truly is, I looked as he walked to the back. The hate, the pure darkness in his heart, the absolute misery he was in; that gave me my answer: No.

This business doesn’t give a fuck about what your morals are. You don’t walk into LPW thinking you can just “save the world” and expect you to be handed success. You don’t walk into a promotion with guys like Bane Uzzah, Mourn Despana, and Chris Austin expecting your flimsy moral righteousness to carry you; you will get put down and put down hard. What some people know already coming in, it took the hard way for me to learn that lesson. Who cares about being the best “Old school” guy when this promotion is filled with drug addicts, sexual monsters, murderers, crime lords, etc. etc. etc. I was a goddamned idiot for even signing that contract, not knowing that I was in for a job that was going to take years off my life.

So why am I back here? After everything that happened, why did I go through that rehab and end up back in this ring, at Altered Reality of all places?

*He pulls out a sonogram*

This guy right here.

This wasn’t planned. This wasn’t supposed to happen until much later, or so I thought. This little dude here popped into my wife about 5 weeks ago, before that three-way. Funny how life works like that.

I’ll be perfectly honest, I’m in over my head. I don’t know how to be a dad at all. I don’t know if I’ll be there half of the time for him. I don’t know when I am there I’ll be any good. But I know I can do one thing for him and his mom: that’s to be able to make sure that their future is secured. I have to take it upon myself to make sure those two live their best lives possible. I have to protect my family financially and keep a roof over their heads and food in their bellies.

That’s why I’m fighting. It’s not about bullshit pride or ego anymore, it’s about my wife and son.

And that’s where Altered Reality comes in.

At Altered Reality I have a 25% shot at winning the Western States Heritage title. The other 75% are made up of a good friend, someone I don’t have strong feelings for, and someone who just knew how to piss me off.

Ozzy, you were there for me, checking on me as much as you could during my surgery. I’m sorry that that put a cramp on our tag team, but I’m very proud to see where you went without me and if this was any other situation, I’d be in your corner cheering you on. But there is a good chance we may have to face off against each other in the end. You’re a good man, and I hope to see you in the finals where the best of us wins, but I won’t take it easy on you and I don’t expect you to take it easy on me.

Caesar, have a fun time with Ozzy.

But now I want to focus on the douchenozzle that decided to crack a chair across my head on the last show, Mr. Bobino. The former Hardcore Champion himself. You didn’t waste any time coming after me with that steel shit, huh? As soon as I got a seed into this tournament, you just came out and BAM right on top of my dome. Probably could have aggravated the injury or given me some serious CTE. But you don’t care about that, huh? You just go along and try to hurt any one that threatens you in anyway you can, fuck the consequences. I like that. You’re upfront with your awfulness. You don’t go behind people’s backs and wait to stab them, you go for the jugular as soon as you can. You don’t pussyfoot, you take action. I respect that in a man. Bad news is that you pissed me off something major. Before, I was going to try and go into this with a competitive, but admirable spirit. You chucked that out the fucking window. Now I’m out for blood.

But don’t think that I’m going to go into this with blind rage. I understand what is at stake; the Western States Heritage title. Having that title around my waist isn’t about looking cool or showing it off. That title will guarantee me several more thousand dollars into my purse every night. That title shows that I deserve to be paid like a champion. And if all that is between me and that cash that will provide me with the ability to care for my family better is three men, there isn’t a chance in hell I’m letting this slip by.

I want you all at your best in San Francisco. Because this isn’t “Old School” Reece Raymond coming to fight. This is a husband and father coming to take home the prize for his wife and son.

08-12-2018, 01:48 AM
Citizen's promo


Do you remember that day?

That one magical day where the birds were singing, the sun was shining and everything you touched turned to gold. Where the all the moves setting up plans you had made over months just… fell into place.

Months of back and forth leading to one final showdown. Mano-e-mano.

No place for you to hide.

No one else you can pin.

Just you, me and ladder and a belt.

I remember that day too. Like it was just last week…..Because it was last week.

Then it all fell apart.

For some reason beyond belief two more fuck knuckles with nothing to do with this got added into the picture.

All my planning turned to dust and blown away on the wind

So here it is.

The end of the road.

With a whimper.

Remember how you tried to tell me you cared less about this Championship than I do? Well guess what fuck face… you lose. I am done with your Hardcore Championship and I am done with you. Don’t let that make you feel special. I am done


But even that’s gone to shit. Al stole my thunder on that one.

Thanks for the memories LPW. It’s been…. Something.

08-12-2018, 02:41 AM
“Careful what you wish… you may regret it… Careful what you wish… you just might get it…”
King Nothing, Metallica


9:32pm - One Night Before Altered Reality


“What are you waiting for, Bob? I’m giving you what you wanted… he’s right through that door…” Blood trickles from the eye and nose of Krisko, as he struggles to sit on the ground, leaning against the wall. The swelling around his face and clutching of his ribs show the signs of the battle he has endured.

“I’ll kill you. If there’s anything wrong with him… one hair out of place or one mark on him… I’ll kill you.” Bobino’s eyes are wild and wide. His fists clenched and swollen.

Krisko just smiles, his red tinted goggles hanging around his neck as he flashes a sarcastic, bloody grin. “Don’t waste your time threatening me. Your wish is right there. Go get him, Bob.”

Bobino takes a few more moments to stare at his battered brother, wanting to make him pay and ignore what he told him. The thoughts continue to dwell, but the realization overcomes him. His son was right in the next room. The son that was taken over nine months ago and has been missing since. He fights his urges to continue to stomp on his fallen brother and turns toward the exit.

“Just remember…” Krisko’s words have no effect on Bobino. He continues in stride to open the door and look frantically for his son. “I did this for you…” The door slowly closes as Krisko’s words fall on silence.

The poorly lit room is bigger than Bobino expected. He was expecting to peer directly in and spot his child. There’s an ominous lack of sound.

“Bobby! BOBBY! Where are you?” Bobino’s calls go unanswered as he slowly steps through the dark room, trying to find anything resembling good news.

“This better not be a trick, Kris… He better be here or I’m going to --” Bobino’s thought is interrupted by an unusual noise as he can feel his feet lose traction. “What did I just step in?”

Bobino reaches out and finds a small table and spots a lamp. He fumbles blindly until he clicks it on and looks towards his feet. “What the fu--”

Red viscous fluid coats the floor around Bobino’s feet, dripping from the soles of his shoes. He looks at the puddle and follows the trail. “No…. No no no no no….”

Laying against the near wall in a pool of crimson liquid, a small blonde boy not responding, splattered with blood. “Bobby… NO!”

Bobino quickly runs to his side, the color draining from his face as he grabs his sons shoulders, calling his name…


Two days prior


“Where’s Jensen? We were going to watch the match from Oregon and make fun of people.” Bobino isn’t even asking a specific person. He’s walking through the hallways yelling at random workers carrying clipboards.

“Ugh, that guy is always late…” Bobino stops in front of one of the promo sets, a chain backdrop with a monitor emblazoned with the Altered Reality logo. “You, how many promos am I booked for? Can I get this done now?”

The random stagehand looks like a deer caught in the headlights. He’s terrified, and tries to force the words to come out. “I--uh--- You see-- Uh---”

Bobino just shakes his head. “Just go, kid. Send someone over to run this camera. I’m getting this done. I’m not trying to be here all day.”

“Sir, we’re about to film here, can you let us get staged?” Another person with a clipboard tries to clear the area. This one has an earpiece and looks like he may know what’s going on.

“You’re right, you are about to film. I’m not using a script, just hit record and I’ll take care of the rest.” Bobino cracks his neck and takes his spot on the set, staring down the camera.

One of the free stage hands goes to talk to let him know he isn't who they were talking about, but the earpiece puts his hand up and shakes his head, knowing it’s more trouble than it’s worth. “You heard him, just start rolling.”


The day is almost here.

The day that The Kid’s savior swoops in and picks up the Western States Heritage Championship from Despana’s trash can and works his magic to raise it above what it currently is, simple waste.

The fact of the matter is this, you all need me carrying that prize way more than I need to carry it. You see, The Kid waltz in here and thinks running a wrestling show is gonna be just super fun, guys! He thinks it’s all pandering and spotlight and doing what you people, the fans, want.

Then, he was faced with the harsh reality. Your precious Mourn Despana isn’t the stand-up hero that you all imagine. He’s not this beacon of goodness and morality. He’s just like every other one of these complete wastes of space in this locker room. Despana doesn’t care about putting on a show or making you people happy. He just wants the money and the glory.

Despana took a moment that the fans could’ve praised and decided instead of being a man and leaving that title with any decency and prestige, he was going to toss it to the curb and make it into a mockery. He decided that the legacy of LPW meant nothing compared to adding another zero to the end of his paycheck. He decided that what’s important to you people, the ones that praise where he walks, he decided you were after thoughts.

Now, that normally shouldn’t be an issue. A -REAL- leader would’ve taken this problem and solved it before it got out of hand. They would’ve forced Despana to defend the belt, they would’ve crowned a new champion, they would’ve made the champion EARN his way to Altered Reality. Instead… what did the Kid do? What I’m sure he does in most aspects of life… he choked and phoned it in.

Instead, the Kid makes this so-called “tournament” and waits entire weeks to have the new champion at Altered Reality. He comes up with the ass-backwards booking because he needs to control the matches because he has a plan.


I’m The Kids solution. He’s a super fan, he’s watched for a long time. He saw what the Evolution of the Hardcore Championship did for that division. He knows that -ANY- title in my hands is instantly legitimized, and that’s why he tossed a group of pushovers into this tournament. Think about it, the FINALS of this could see me defeating the person I BEAT in the first round! Raymond, Crerar, and Osiris. Three men I have beaten time and time again. Three men that pose literally zero threat to me. Three men that are nothing more but the mode of transportation to carry Mourn’s trash to my feet.

Kid, I want you to look at me, right in the eyes. I’m going to tell you what I think of your plan. At Altered Reality, I destroy Reece Raymond, and then sacrifice whomever survives between Caesar Osiris and Ozzy Crerar to become the Western States Heritage Champion… and then… I want you to remember this is what you wanted. I want you to remember everything that happens is on you. At Altered Reality I teach you to be careful of what you wish… because you just might get it.


“aaaand...CUT!” We got it, Bobino, thank you. Earpiece says over to Bobino who is clearly not paying attention.

“AND THAT’S HOW IT’S DONE, KIDS!” Bobino declares to all four people that are nearby backstage.

Suddenly three members of the medical team run past their position and shove through the few people blocking their path, including Bobino. “Move, we have someone down!

Bobino, always the nosey body decides to follow, then as he gets closer begins to keep pace, recognizing the person face down on the ground. “Sean!”

Bobino approaches the group of medics trying to sit Sean Jensen to a stable position. His eyes glazed over and he’s holding the back of his head. “Ugh… get off of me.”

“Jensen, you alright? What happened?” Bobino kneels beside him, pushing one of the medics out of his way.

“No clue, I was walking trying to find you, and then something hit me in the back of the head, and I was gone. Never saw who or what it was.” Jensen is trying to pull himself to his feet and is clearly not in shape to be standing yet. When he stumbles back down, Bobino steps to catch him.

“Take it easy, guy. Just take a couple minutes.” Bobino starts to ease him down and spots a lead pipe on the ground directly behind him. There’s spots of blood decorating the end. “I may have found what brought you down.”

Bobino leans and picks it up, and finds a note taped to the side. He rips the note off, and brings it up to read.


I’m sorry your friend had to be part of this, but I can’t really walk up and give you an invitation in person, can I? Tell him it’s all part of growing into the chaos. You’ve been searching for me and Bobby for months, Saturday night, I grant your wish. We’ll be waiting where you first put yourself before me. 9pm. Don’t be late, Bobby misses you.

Get Psycho.

Bobino looks down at Jensen, then balls the note up in his fist before storming off in anger, leavign Jensen with LPW’s Medical team.


8:59pm - One Night Before Altered Reality


Bobino stands outside the tall broken, worn down building. The lettering has long since fallen off, but the structure looks like a public school. Bobino slowly approaches the main entrance and sees the “NO ENTRANCE” sign discarded and padlock and chain on the ground.

He found the right place. He found them, most importantly… he found -HIM-

Bobino shoves the door open and looks around frantically. On the desk just inside the main entrance, on top of the layers of dust, he finds a single photo. His son, Bobby, sitting with his brother, Krisko. Bobino hustles down the hallway, looking for his goal, hunting his own brother. “WHERE ARE YOU?!” He calls out.

Minutes keep ticking by and he sees nothing. Just as he begins to give up hope and think this was another elaborate ruse, he thinks back to the note. “Where you first put yourself before me… Of course…”

Bobino turns and starts running, coming to a quick realization, as he remembers what those words meant. He finds the doors to the cafeteria, and kicks them open, and just as he suspected, sees the shadowed image of the man that has been torturing him from afar for over nine months.

“Hello, Bob.” Krisko’s voice is frantic.His words don’t follow a normal pace and his excitement is is evident with his tone. “We’ve been waiting… as I’m SURE you have been, too. Heh.”

Bobino immediately starts to charge at his own brother, the rage of everything building up. He’s waited so long to get some measure of revenge, and he’s not waiting. He dives at Krisko trying to tackle him down. Just as he gets mere inches away, he feels the thud in his ribs. Krisko turned and slammed Bobino directly in the gut with another lead pipe, driving all the air out of Bobino’s chest.

“You never did think LONG TERM, brother. Did you really think I was just going to let you charge in here and impose your will? This isn’t how the story ends, Bob. I’m the good guy here. You are the one that is here to pay.” Krisko shoves his brother over, letting Bobino gasp for air on the ground. As Bobino takes a deep breath, Krisko charges forward and nails a sharp soccer kick into the midsection of Bobino.

“That’s why we’re here, Bob. You remember that day? You remember when you decided that I was worthless? Do you remember hurting that girl?” Krisko kneels down and grabs Bobino by the cheeks, squeezing his face as he talks directly into his eyes.

“You hurt her and them them take me away for it. You decided on that day, that -YOU- were more important… and -I- decided on that day… that you were wrong.” Krisko shoves Bobino down, letting him lay there, helpless.

“I’ve dreamed of this moment, Bob. You, helpless, begging for your freedom, begging to get what you want… and me here… stopping you.” Krisko hops up on a table, old and dusty, quietly laughing to himself.

“I’m---sor--” Bobino gurgles as he tries to talk, the air not coming to him.

“What was that, brother? Were you trying to tell me something?” Krisko leans down, and pulls Bobino closer, again, using his face and head to pull him close and talk eye-to-eye.

“I said… I’m sorry…” Krisko’s eyes sparkle for a moment, hearing the words he always dreamed of, but his moment was fleeting, as he felt a knee buried into his groin. Krisko doubles over, and the two kneel, holding each other up. Bobino leans back and finds the energy to plant a fist to krisko’s face, and starts raining the punches down.

“I really am sorry, Kris… I just want my son back, that’s all.” With each syllable, Bobino throws more and more punches, blood springing from the eyes and face of his brother.

“Stop, please!” Krisko begs for mercy, but can see it’s not coming anytime soon. “He’s here, let me go… and you can get him back. Bring him home.”

Bobino finally pauses. The onslaught stopping. He just stares at Krisko, finally throwing him against the nearby wall. “R-really?”


“What are you waiting for, Bob? I’m giving you what you wanted… he’s right through that door…” Blood trickles from the eye and nose of Krisko, as he struggles to sit on the ground, leaning against the wall. The swelling around his face and clutching of his ribs show the signs of the battle he has endured.

“I’ll kill you. If there’s anything wrong with him… one hair out of place or one mark on him… I’ll kill you.” Bobino’s eyes are wild and wide. His fists clenched and swollen.

Krisko just smiles, his red tinted goggles hanging around his neck as he flashes a sarcastic, bloody grin. “Don’t waste your time threatening me. Your wish is right there. Go get him, Bob.”

Bobino takes a few more moments to stare at his battered brother, wanting to make him pay and ignore what he told him. The thoughts continue to dwell, but the realization overcomes him. His son was right in the next room. The son that was taken over nine months ago and has been missing since. He fights his urges to continue to stomp on his fallen brother and turns toward the exit.

“Just remember…” Krisko’s words have no effect on Bobino. He continues in stride to open the door and look frantically for his son. “I did this for you…” The door slowly closes as Krisko’s words fall on silence.

The poorly lit room is bigger than Bobino expected. He was expecting to peer directly in and spot his child. There’s an ominous lack of sound.

“Bobby! BOBBY! Where are you?” Bobino’s calls go unanswered as he slowly steps through the dark room, trying to find anything resembling good news.

“This better not be a trick, Kris… He better be here or I’m going to --” Bobino’s thought is interrupted by an unusual noise as he can feel his feet lose traction. “What did I just step in?”

Bobino reaches out and finds a small table and spots a lamp. He fumbles blindly until he clicks it on and looks towards his feet. “What the fu--”

Red viscous fluid coats the floor around Bobino’s feet, dripping from the soles of his shoes. He looks at the puddle and follows the trail. “No…. No no no no no….”

Laying against the near wall in a pool of crimson liquid, a small blonde boy not responding, splattered with blood. “Bobby… NO!”

Bobino quickly runs to his side, the color draining from his face as he grabs his sons shoulders, calling his name…

Suddenly. A cough and a moan as his little eyes open. “Where’s… where’s Mommy?”

Bobino cries out, relief at hearing his own son’s voice. “Mommy’s at home, but Daddy’s here. I’m here to bring you home, Bobby.”

Bobby starts to stand, and looks oddly ok. Bobino starts trying to find where his wound is from, to stop the bleeding. “Bobby, where’s the boo-boo? Where are you hurt?”

“I’m ok.” Bobby answers quickly and confidently.

“Are you sure, there’s lots of mess here, it looks like you had a boo-boo.” Bobino is still looking everywhere, not finding a source of the crimson puddle.

“Mommy had the boo-boo. Can I kiss it so it will be better?” Bobby looks around the room, trying to find his mother.

“Mommy’s not here though… why do think Mommy has a---” Bobino’s eyes suddenly catch it. He was so focused on making sure Bobby was ok, he didnt even see HER.

“Don’t look Bobby.” Bobino quickly covers his son’s eyes and stands, slowly backing away. His face is frozen in shock as he tries to escape.

“Kris…. What did you do…?”

Bobino slowly retreats, leaving the building as the scene turns back. As it pans back to where we found Bobby, we see the source of the bloodstain, the words “FOR YOU” written in blood on the brick wall, underneath it, the motionless bloody mess that was once Bobino’s ex-wife, and the mother of his child, beaten and bloodied, lifeless on the ground.

“What did you do….”

Silver Kazama
08-12-2018, 02:41 AM
Hey look. This was Bob's promo, but he got his shit working. Now this is my votes!





Triple Threat for the Martinez Cup!
(Winner becomes the International and Heavyweight Champion)

LPW International Heavyweight Champion Al


LPW World Heavyweight Champion ”The Desperado" Mourn Despana (w/ Kassandra)


Owner of the Mount Vesuvius Torch "The Contract Killer" Chris Austin

Western States Heritage Championship Tournament!

Round 1:
(Winners face later in the night to determine the new Western States Heritage Champion)***

"Darwin's Last Soldier" Bobino VS Reece Raymond

Caeser Osiris VS Ozzy Crerar

"Darwin's Last Soldier" Bobino VS Caeser Osiris

LPW Hardcore Championship Ladder Match!

© "The Sovereign" David Gideon Smith


Joe Citizen


"The Soldier" Bane Uzzah


THE David Maverick

LPW World Tag Team Title Match!

©”The Professionals” Bronx & Steven Thornridge


"The Maniacal Monarch" Sixx King and Matthew “Silver” Kazama

Special Grudge Match!

Sean Jensen VS "The Harvester Of Sorrow" Phantom Lord

Caeser Osiris
08-12-2018, 05:55 AM
Reece Raymond
Caeser Osiris
Osiris overall

Thanks LPW!

The Dude
08-12-2018, 06:05 AM
Owner of the Mount Vesuvius Torch "The Contract Killer" Chris Austin
"Darwin's Last Soldier" Bobino (Bobino to win)
© "The Sovereign" David Gideon Smith
©”The Professionals” Bronx & Steven Thornridge
Sean Jensen

08-12-2018, 09:48 AM
The small crowd cheered as Mike Announcer came onto the stage of the Question and Answer session at AT&T Park, the crowd amped up for the LPW Altered Reality Axxess event.

Announcer: Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to LPW Altered Reality Axxess!

The crowd cheered again, as Announcer nodded his head.

Announcer: We have a star-studded line up for you today, but first up to answer your questions this morning... They are LPW's World Tag Team Champions.

Crowd: ...of the world!

Announcer: Bronx and Steven Thornridge, THE PROFESSIONALS!

'Guerrilla Radio' by Rage Against The Machine hits as Thornridge and Bronx came up to the stage, proudly holding high their World Tag Team Championships to the cheering crowd, Bronx looking rather casual whereas it seemed that Thornridge was dressed to the nines with a full suit and red tie get up. They smiled at each other before taking their seats at the desk, Thornridge picking up a microphone.

Thornridge: Ah, what a lovely reception Brother Bronx!

Bronx: They've been good to us all week!

Thornridge: Indeed they have, very welcoming and pleasant all week, except for that one guy but he's all good now.

Bronx: Which guy are you talking about?

Thornridge: Which guy? The unpleasant stratocumulus known as Steven Storme, that guy.

Bronx shook his head, looking incredulously at Thornridge before facing the crowd again.

Bronx: That's why he got replaced then...

Thornridge: That's not true. I actually have no idea where he is at, but on behalf of myself and Bronx, I do hope everything is alright with him. After all, I was excited to face him here along with Sixx, but alas the old adage 'card subject to change' reared it's ugly head.

Bronx: Speaking of ugly heads...

Bronx pointed at Thornridge, laughing the joke off.

Bronx: Where are our drinks?

Thornridge: Mr. Announcer?

Announcer: Yes Steven.

Thornridge: Where are our beverages of choice for this morning?

Announcer: It's ten in the morning...

Thornridge: Which means it's ten in the evening somewhere in Australia. C'mon, bring it out!

The crowd cheered as an attendant brought out a silver platter, bottles of beer for Bronx and a large bottle of red wine for Thornridge, along with a wine glass. She placed it on the table as Bronx looked over at Thornridge, while Thornridge uncorked the bottle, and pouring himself a drink.

Bronx: Bustin' out the good stuff are you?

Thornridge: I am a man of Professionalism, good sir! And I will not be denied showing said Professionalism in front of our adoring crowd, right here, in San Francisco!

The crowd cheered again, as Bronx and Thornridge smiled knowingly at each other.

Thornridge: So let's get this started! Just two ground rules of this Q&A. Rule number one, hugs, photos, gifts, shout outs, signatures, handshakes, offers for marriage can wait to the end and we will see every one of you.

Bronx: Rule two, have fun. We don't take offense, we do the offending. So come at us with your questions.

Announcer: We have a young lady here, Karis, what is your question to the gentlemen?

She stood up with a microphone in hand, giggling nervously, Thornridge swishing his wine in the glass and smelling it.

Karis: First off I'd like to say that I'm Thornridge's biggest fan!

Thornridge: Thank you very much.

Bronx: Yeah... you're welcome...

Bronx shook his head, taking a drink of his beer as the crowd laughed.

Thornridge: You're Bronx's biggest fan too right?

Karis: Of course.

Thornridge: WOOHOO! Awkwardness averted! What is your question?

Karis: How are you guys preparing for the match at Altered Reality?

Thornridge: With wine.

Bronx: And beer.

Thornridge: And chatting to you fine folks as well!

Bronx: On a Professional note though...

Thornridge: The best note.

Bronx: There's a lot more that happens behind, you know? Training, scouting, eating right.

Thornridge: I've had a hankering for a barbecue for months, but I've had to tone it down a bit with the hot dogs in preparation for this challenge. Always do everything in moderation kids. Who's next?

Karis smiled as Announcer found another female fan.

Announcer: And we have a question here for Michelle.

Michelle: Hey guys!

Bronx: A pleasure, truly.

Michelle: This question is for Bronx, no offense Thornridge.

Thornridge: None taken.

Michelle: Bronx, have you thought of doing American Ninja Warrior or anything like that?

Thornridge put his glass off to the side as he grabbed the bottle of wine and began to drink from it while Bronx answered.

Bronx: Well since there is a bit of downtime between these events, I'd have time to do something like that around my Twitch and responsibilities at The Danger Zone gym in Seattle.

Thornridge: You train a lot with those sorts of obstacles. The salmon ladder is the absolute worst!

Bronx: I could definitely see myself doing something like that and be the first ever Ninja Warrior World Heavyweight Tag Team Champion.

Crowd: ...of the world!

Thornridge: I told you that would catch on Bronx!

Mr. Maverick
08-12-2018, 12:12 PM

Triple Threat for the Martinez Cup!
(Winner becomes the International and Heavyweight Champion)
LPW World Heavyweight Champion ”The Desperado" Mourn Despana (w/ Kassandra)

Western States Heritage Championship Tournament!
Round 1:
(Winners face later in the night to determine the new Western States Heritage Champion)***
"Darwin's Last Soldier" Bobino
Caeser Osiris

"Darwin's Last Soldier" Bobino

LPW Hardcore Championship Ladder Match!
THE David Maverick

LPW World Tag Team Title Match!
©”The Professionals” Bronx & Steven Thornridge

Special Grudge Match!
Sean Jensen

08-12-2018, 09:50 PM
Caesar Osiris
Bobino finalist
The Professionals

Good luck everyone!

08-12-2018, 10:06 PM

08-12-2018, 10:17 PM

08-12-2018, 10:26 PM
also Bobby know
David Gideon Smith
Sixx King/Kazama

Macho Mourn
08-12-2018, 10:32 PM
LPW World Heavyweight Champion ”The Desperado" Mourn Despana (w/ Kassandra)

Western States Heritage Championship Tournament
"Darwin's Last Soldier" Bobino (and winner)

Caeser Osiris

LPW Hardcore Championship Ladder Match!
© "The Sovereign" David Gideon Smith

LPW World Tag Team Title Match!
©”The Profensionals” Bronx & Steven Thornridge

Special Grudge Match!
Sean Jensen

08-12-2018, 10:45 PM

Triple Threat for the Martinez Cup!
(Winner becomes the International and Heavyweight Champion)

LPW International Heavyweight Champion Al


LPW World Heavyweight Champion ”The Desperado" Mourn Despana (w/ Kassandra)


Owner of the Mount Vesuvius Torch "The Contract Killer" Chris Austin

Western States Heritage Championship Tournament!

Round 1:
(Winners face later in the night to determine the new Western States Heritage Champion)***

"Darwin's Last Soldier" Bobino VS Reece Raymond

Caeser Osiris VS Ozzy Crerar

Reece Raymond Final Winner

LPW Hardcore Championship Ladder Match!

© "The Sovereign" David Gideon Smith


Joe Citizen


"The Soldier" Bane Uzzah


THE David Maverick

LPW World Tag Team Title Match!

©”The Professionals” Bronx & Steven Thornridge


"The Maniacal Monarch" Sixx King and Matthew “Silver” Kazama

Special Grudge Match!

Sean Jensen VS "The Harvester Of Sorrow" Phantom Lord

08-12-2018, 11:27 PM
Bobino final winner
Phantom Lord

08-12-2018, 11:38 PM
Triple Threat for the Martinez Cup!
(Winner becomes the International and Heavyweight Champion)

LPW International Heavyweight Champion Al


LPW World Heavyweight Champion ”The Desperado" Mourn Despana (w/ Kassandra)


Owner of the Mount Vesuvius Torch "The Contract Killer" Chris Austin

Western States Heritage Championship Tournament!

Round 1:
(Winners face later in the night to determine the new Western States Heritage Champion)***

"Darwin's Last Soldier" Bobino VS Reece Raymond

Caeser Osiris VS Ozzy Crerar

Final Winner: Ozzy Crerar

LPW Hardcore Championship Ladder Match!

© "The Sovereign" David Gideon Smith


Joe Citizen


"The Soldier" Bane Uzzah


THE David Maverick

LPW World Tag Team Title Match!

©”The Professionals” Bronx & Steven Thornridge


"The Maniacal Monarch" Sixx King and Matthew “Silver” Kazama

Special Grudge Match!

Sean Jensen VS "The Harvester Of Sorrow" Phantom Lord

08-13-2018, 01:29 AM
Mourn Despana
Reece Raymond
Caesar Orisis
(Reece as the overall winner)
Bane Uzzah
The Professionals

08-13-2018, 02:38 AM
Bronx' votes!


Triple Threat for the Martinez Cup!
(Winner becomes th International and Heavyweight Champion)

LPW World Heavyweight Champion ”The Desperado" Mourn Despana (w/ Kassandra)

Western States Heritage Championship Tournament!

Round 1:
(Winners face later in the night to determine the new Western States Heritage Champion)***

"Darwin's Last Soldier" Bobino

Ozzy Crerar

Bobino overall

LPW Hardcore Championship Ladder Match!

© "The Sovereign" David Gideon Smith

LPW World Tag Team Title Match!

©”The Professionals” Bronx & Steven Thornridge

Special Grudge Match!

Sean Jensen

08-13-2018, 02:53 AM

08-13-2018, 06:08 AM

Triple Threat for the Martinez Cup
(Winner becomes the International and Heavyweight Champion)
Mourn Despana
Chris Austin
All 3 wrote masterpieces, but the Allana arch is too irresistible.

Western States Heritage Championship Tournament!
Round 1:
(Winners face later in the night to determine the new Western States Heritage Champion)
Bobino VS Reece Raymond
Caeser Osiris VS Ozzy Crerar

WSHC Finals
Bobino VS Caeser Osiris
Good showing from all 4 involved.

LPW Hardcore Championship Ladder Match!
David Gideon Smith
Joe Citizen
Bane Uzzah
THE David Maverick
To be honest, I worked really hard on the story, and even though I might not win, i just hope people at least appreciate the narrative.

LPW World Tag Team Title Match!
”The Professionals” Bronx & Steven Thornridge
Sixx King and Silver Kazama

Special Grudge Match!
Sean Jensen
Phantom Lord