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[Scarred For Life]The Butcher Vs Payne Fosters

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The Butcher

League Member
Jun 29, 2005
The cleaver comes down with a sharp thud.

(The Butcher reaches behind him with one hand, blindly looking for the light switch, and continues to chop with his other hand. After much fumbling, the light is switched on, and his arm returns to his side. The Butcher stands wearing his apron, and an insanely blank expression on his face, one of frustration than anything else. This can only be seen momentarily as the faulty light bulb continues to become dimmer with every flicker. The Butcher, meanwhile, maintains his position and his action, moving through chicken, lamb and beef. This is something he like’s to do to calm his nerves, though there has rarely been an occasion in which The Butcher’s nerves have been calm.)

(As the last piece of meat has been cut, The Butcher stands blankly for a few moments before dropping his cleaver and walking towards the sink. He looks at his hands, covered in blood, and uses a tea towel to turn the tap. The towel itself is thrown straight into the running water, before The Butcher lowers his hands and begins violently scrubbing at the blood stains.)

The Butcher: Look at these hands...

(The back of his hands are covered with scars, short and long, new and old. Through wrestling and butchery, although The Butcher treats them as one and the same.)

The Butcher: These hands are records of every time somebody thought they could strike me down… and they’ve always found out that it takes a lot more than this to make me drop to my knees.

(The Butcher lifts his hands from the water, but continues to let the tap run, which now washes the tea towel stained with blood. He holds his almost raw hands up to his eyes, and stares them over, over and over again.)

The Butcher: I wash blood stains from my hands, my clothes and my face every day. But it’s never my blood, I could never even tell if it’s my blood. I wash and wash, but I can never be clean.

(The Butcher begins to laugh, pretty much your typical evil villain laugh. At this point, the light bulb burns out completely, and the camera is forced to follow The Butcher’s silouette which is cast only by the moonlight coming through the window. He drops his hands to his side, he then reaches ahead of him and aggressively pushes on another light switch. The sudden influx of light draws attention to The Butcher’s facial expression, he has an insane smile on his face. He paces back and forth along this small room, which has only a wooden table, a sink and a small chair visible. The Butcher continues to laugh insanely as he moves back towards the table and picks up the meat cleaver.)


(He slams the cleaver against a raw piece of beef, sending blood splattering across his face, his apron and even up onto the lights, causing the room to light up red.)

The Butcher: My hands are my most trusted tools…

(Now sounding manic and unstable.)

The Butcher: I work with the flesh of animals, and the flesh of men. I have two jobs in perfect harmony with one another.

(The Butcher stops chopping meat, and begins laughing again. He reaches under the table, and pulls out a tenderiser.)

The Butcher: And the end of each job always has the same outcome. Wheather it’s meat or man, it’s going to be tenderised.

(The Butcher sends the tenderiser crashing onto the raw meat, as he continues to laugh. He then drops the tenderiser to the floor and looks longingly into his hands.)

The Butcher: These hands have survived some epic battles. It’s been stained with the blood of opponents, and blood from myself. Whenever I cut meat, I wash the blood off. But, when their covered with blood from opponents, I savour it. I get a thirst, and I have to more. That’s when I’m on my game, when I have my first taste of blood from the hWo, I won’t be able to stop. Only this time, it won’t be my hands that do the real damage.

(The Butcher pulls out a piece of barbwire from under the table, and begins wrapping it around a two by four piece of wood. As he wraps it, it begins to cut his hands. Blood drips from a small wound on the back of his right hand, as The Butcher seemingly doesn’t notice, like it happens all the time, and finishes wrapping up the barbwire.)

The Butcher: This causes real damage. Cleavers for cutting meat, barbwire for tearing flesh.

(He paces up and down the room, hitting the table and all four walls. The look in his eye tells you that he isn’t quite all there. Psychologically, he hasn’t offically been declared insane, but no one has had the guts to get close enough to him to perform a diagnostic. Perhaps even more interesting is his unusual ability to ‘hear’ things. Cuts of meat to be exact… I told you he’s insane.)

(With his unhealthy obsession with blood, anything that bleeds is likely to grab his full attention. Anything that bleeds, will bleed even more.)

(Blood continues to drip from the wound on The Butchers hand as he begins to calm down. The sight of opponents blood sends him into a sort of trance, and he has proven very difficult to stop in this situation. However, the sight of his own blood causes him to become very agitated and crave the blood of who did this to him. When he cuts himself, he doesn’t even notice. If you let an insane man play with a meat cleaver, there’s bound to be some blood, one way or another.)

The Butcher: You can still smell the blood on the barbwire, and the bad news for the hWo is that none of it’s mine.

(The Butcher smiles and looks longingly into the camera.)

The Butcher: I’m The Butcher, and on Sunday I’ll show you exactly why.

(Still, blood trickles from the wound on his hand, as well as the fresh stains on his apron. The Butcher is in a dark place right now. He craves blood, and he’ll get it, because there is nothing to stop him. He originally started to wrestle to help him deal with his anger, but over time the anger hasn’t deminished, only developed. The Butcher now has blood lust, and with blood already on his hands, he’s diving in at the deep end with the hWo. The is the beginning.)

(There is a brief pause as The Butcher begins to smile and look down at a raw piece of meat, that he is preparing to chop.)

The Butcher: God I love my job.

Raw Piece Of Meat: Which one Butcher?

The Butcher: I only have one…MWAHAHAHA!

(This man ain’t right. He’s a butcher, he’s a wrestler, he carries sharp knives, and he talks to pieces of meat. What more do you want out of a new 21st Century hero?)


League Member
Jul 7, 2005
"Payne... Payne.... Pain, what does the word mean, why does he spell it with a 'Y' instead of a 'I'?
To answer your first question, he would simply have to say it means what it says, pain is what you will feel after he has walked over you, after he has overcome what ever desperate attempt you made to keep your self-esteem from crashing to an all time low, It's the word you remember when someone asks you..."What was your match with Fosters like?" It's not a word, a description, it's a symbol, a symbol of a man who doesn't care about anything, not you, not his family and especially not himself; but that's ok, that... that doesn't frighten you.

Why is there a 'Y' instead of an 'I'? The same reason there's a letter in your name, because it's his name. However, could that be wrong? Could it be a gimmick, a hoax a broad out lie? Yes, it could be, but it shouldn't change your opinion, your belief, because wither you know him as Jason, wither you know him as Payne, or just simple Fosters... At the end of the night, you're still ****ed. That's simply how the universe twirls, how it spins....woooooooo don't you just love the ride?

Now when I say he, I really mean I, because I am the man who destroys your exterior who breaks your interior and leaves you lying in a pool of your own blood, I am Jason Fosters, I am six foot eleven, I am three hundred twenty five pound, and of course most of my upper torso is covered in tattoos. Does that make me a goth, a sad depraved monster who didn't get enough hugs and kisses from Mommy and Daddy as a child? No, it makes me a fan of art, in fact I bet some of you have your own art attached to your skin, be it a piece of metal, a dab of ink or a little bitty sticker that Mommy gave you to certify you as the number one faggot of your school. So I ask you... How are we so different?"

Fosters stood out of the chair, specifically placed in front of a new Cannon GL2 Video Camera. Smirked at it devilishly as he twirled around it, His shirt off showing his ripped abdomen, and his large upper body physic.

"We my friends are different, because I'm better than you. To be more specific, better than the one man meat sickle sucker whom happens to talk to his meat while impersonating a real Butcher."

He snickered, halting his tracks behind the steel black chair.

"A man, who talks to his meat and thinks it replies is clearly too unstable to be in a organization based upon sports and entertainment; No matter how hardcore it may or may not be. Never the less, in the past few years I have become a fix it kinda guy, So I will remove him from the confides of Wrestling, I'll make sure he gets the medically attention he needs, I promise."

Fosters kneeled down, and fondled the camera, zooming into till only the blue glimmer of his eyes were in focus and continued on.

"When we go at it on the 19th... Barbed wire match, I will be making my return to wrestling and together you and I will plan your retirement, it's best for you, you got your whole life of psychiatric care and talking to pieces of meat ahead of you; Besides, I'm sure hWo has a pension plan for you."


The red light dimmed to a black ball or nothingness as Fosters turned the lights out in his basement. It was the beginning of the end for all things living in hWo, Payne was about to make a impact.
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