Saint Row: Part III Blood and Bullets Broken… A suitable title for your career Galen, was I supposed to impress because you finally showed up? While others are quick to believe in the reincarnation of Galen, I see nothing but a flash in the pan. You had to show up for this, otherwise all the bitching and moaning between yourself and Dominic would air you to be nothing more than a pure grade A bitch It was great to see yea again Galen, I look forward to the next line of work…Six months down the road Your whole career, you’ve done nothing but faded in and out retirement. Faded into obscurity. When was the last moment you mattered in the wrestling world? The last moment you mattered in the spotlight? The last moment anyone but your roving show of freaks and fucks knew who the fuck you were? When was the last time anyone cared? This week, you don't have to worry about the deep inner workings of my psyche, what I do, why I do it, how it relates to what happens in the ring or how you could use that information to hide whichever obscure mental handicap makes you spew what you spew onto the video screens of Funyun eating spectators worldwide. This week, your tremendous strategy of begging your opponents to rip out your intestines, show them to you, and skip rope with them double Dutch style long enough for you to stand at their shooting locations, find a clever riff on their background music, print out a copy of their promo, and leech off of it, responding point by point in exact order like a sleazy politician reading a statement without so much as a few transition sentences to mask your naked assbaggery finally pays off for you. This week, I focus on what you and the biggest mouthbreathers in professional wrestling care about - hurr hurr, Galen sucks and this is why. And you get to focus on doing what you do best - embarrassing yourself in front of a camera slightly less than you do inside of a wrestling ring. And once I'm done writing a blueprint on how to make you sound like a moron, and once you're done showing off how you're the perfect blueprint for a Perpetual Failure Machine, you just might realize that insisting on my personal attention was roughly as smart as signing onto this place to begin with. By the way, Galen, before I introduce your self-esteem to the same black hole this company will vault into the second your pimple ridden sausage fingers leave dead skin cells against any match of significance in this company - you can really stop with the faggot stuff, OK? Point well made - juvenile antics can't get you over. Nothing can. I did not arrive here via a fucking fluke. I didn't showcase my amazing ability to bend my ankles behind my head. I am really, really, really better than you, and it pains me that your own pride won't allow you to admit it. I don't mean to brag – Wait. What am I saying I mean to brag I mean to irritate you I mean to frustrate and annoy you I mean to be insufferable, because nothing is permanent and I might break my ankle next week or get hit by a bus so who knows how long I'll be this much better than everybody in the company. I mean to preen. I mean to make you envious. I mean to make to desire with all your exhausted heart to shut me up, and I mean to get a little bit of security in the knowledge that unless you come to the ring with two handguns and a really biased referee that there's absolutely no chance of it ever happening. And even then, can you fit your fingers around a trigger? Doubt it. In the end, I mean to ruin you. I have dozens of ways to embarrass you, Galen. I'm not exaggerating. Dozens I've worked with, worked against, beaten down and destroyed people who that don't sound like dollar store magicians and I'm on the roll of my career, and I will NOT be stopped by, because of somebody named Sean Galen Allan Marshall: I still cannot believe it. Eric Mayhaus: Dude, she was ready and willing. I don't get ass every day of the week like some of you. Marshall: You think I do? Still, do I look like I fuck whores in my free time? The taller of the two shakes his head in somewhat bemused frustration, before looking up and down the street again. They were waiting on either side of an nondescript door attached to a building with boarded over windows. The smile slowly faded from Eric's face, as the decrepit neighborhood surrounding the two seemed to weigh down on him. Marshall: Cole picked a hell of a location, didn't he? Also glancing around in the hazy twilight, Marshall nodded quickly. Next door was a long-closed cafe or coffeehouse of some kind, while another door down loomed the garish lights of a strip club. Eric's expression seemed to fixate on those lights for a moment, before Allan shook his head. Marshall: Maybe afterward. Wait...this looks like our guy. The two men straightened, as they both turned their stares onto the approaching man, who slowly crossed the street toward them. Man: You the guys callin' about the rental? The two wrestlers nodded, Eric seeming to relax somewhat, while Allan continued to stare intently at the man. He dressed rather grubbily, a worn and faded tee-shirt under overalls which were splotched with stains of paint and oil. His hair was thinned on the top, with patchy facial hair all over the lower half of his face. In the back of his mind, Allan Marshall did believe that this man would rank on the top ten of ugliest people he'd had the displeasure of seeing. The man smiled widely, extending a hand toward him. Man: Wester Shackleford, call me Wes. Marshall: Allan Marshall, and this is Eric Mayhaus. Our friend Cole called about this place. Shackleford: Yeah, he's some kinda wrestler, right? You guys the same? The two nodded, as Wes produced a key and opened the door to the building. It creaked open, obviously not often used, and with a flip of a switch, several fluorescent lights slowly flickered to life on the ceiling. It seemed to have once been an office or a small business of some kind, but now was just a large empty room, the walls unfurnished, nothing but the stone exterior walls, and a concrete floor. Allan Marshall's glance lingered for a moment on the drains in two corners on the floor. Shackleford: You gonna use it for some kinda wrestling, trainin' or somethin'? Marshall: Yeah, we just need a place for a week or so. The price still the same? The man nodded, as Marshall handed him a wrapped stack of bills. Shackleford: Jesus, son! Marshall: Is something wrong? Shackleford: Naw, just didn't expect it in cash. Fine by me though, here's the key. I gotta spare, so just lock it inside when you’re done. The ugly man handed the key to Eric, before drawing a cigarette from his pocket and lighting it. Under the harsh fluorescent lights, Wesley seemed even more comical in appearance. Shackleford: If ya guys are interested in buyin' at any point, just lemme know, 'specially if you got that kinda cash lying around. He exhaled a small cloud of smoke, before taking a final glance around the interior of the building and heading out the door. Several seconds after he did, Eric turned to Allan Eric: Look like it'll do? Allan: I gave him the money; it looks fine. He stepped back outside, flicking the lights off as he did, while Eric followed closely. There was a harsh transition between the bare white and gray of the interior, and the hazy oranges and blues of the twilight outside. Allan Marshall pulled his cell phone out, checking the time on it with one hand, while staring at the key in his other hand. Marshall: Now we wait for sunset, and then give Cole Marr a call. Every thought you've ever had could be translated into computer language. Binary. On and off. Ones and zeroes. The universe speaks the same language - voluntary actions and involuntary actions, the ego and the atman, positive, negative, good evil, whatever. They exist in flux, and one never destroys the other. Some people go through life trying to create a "positive" life experience for themselves. They think positive thoughts and say positive things and associate with positive people. But instead of bringing them peace, these people end up being the most oversensitive, and generally unhappy people you'll run into. There is a weakness here; an inability to adapt. And the problem with this line of work is that for the last decade or so, the ones have really really, really wanted to be zeroes. Everybody is a brooding loner who'll cut you the fuck up if you come too close. Everybody hates authority. Everybody is promiscuous. Nobody sticks up for Grandma and Apple Pie and the American Flag. Too hard, too lonely, too many people cracking you in the back of the head. But. It takes that much more effort to be a compelling zero anymore. You have to become something that repulses even an amoral man. I've been thinking lately, that I might be something unique to the world. Something that transcends binary. Something divine, in a sense stronger than a mural of Zeus on a cathedral wall, I mean. I've wondered if, even to a small degree, the world is made for me. And I would like to find out. Good afternoon, NLCW. My name's Cole Marr. I have the following weaknesses: • I'm difficult to motivate. • I have a habit of underestimating opponents. • It's hard for me to keep friends for a long period of time; I tend to view them as tools rather than people. • My trust in a person is directly proportional to their ability to display humility. I'm easy to manipulate once you know this. • I'm pathologically terrified of other men. • I still live with my mother. • I'm not sure I'm mentally prepared to harm likable people yet. • I fell in love with an android once, and fell into a deep depression when a rival hit the self destruct button. Now, a couple of those deep emotionally crippling bits of me are highly exaggerated and a couple more are completely made up, but fuck it. Take it, record it, write it down, build your wisecracks around it. It's the most interesting way I can handicap myself short of having my legs broken this week, partially because I don't think any of you could embarrass me armed with my mother, my high school year book, and a copy of my first promo, but mostly because I really can't bear to see you intellectual titans ramble about Vampires and Twilight jokes you can cram into one promo and/or treat your impending beating like a opportunity. People who do this always end up getting fresh dents in their heads, but strangely enough, there's always someone new willing to vault face first onto those train tracks. And although there are big names in this tournament, I'm not expecting anything to change. The nature of this business is pretty set in stone. My signature on the contract of a major wrestling tournament means I've volunteered myself to listen a near-endless string of speeches about what you've done, what titles you've won, who you've beaten, what your mission is. And that same rulebook would tell me to spend a month or so killing jobbers that either put out a pathetic effort or don't bother showing up at all, pretending to care about the AmericanTitle and absolutely NOT looking into the camera and acting like I'm going to be World Champion come Slamfest. All I got to do is make it out of a star-filled tournament "Win and You're In." Put simply, all you long suffering veterans who hoped they'd get to crawl up from the sewers of their own mediocrity and sneak their way back into polite society thanks to this little population purge get to strap the gimp mask back on and suffer just a little bit more. I've recently gained an interest in things that just don't happen in this line of work. I'd like to see the unlikely happen, the transformative. And generally speaking, people don't vault to the top of a company in one night. This is partially for their own protection - nowhere to go but down and all that. Let's shake that up. There's isn't too much in the way of threats. Coleman and Jaden London are going to have to worry about inbred vodka pissers turning them into speed bumps. As for the rest, the verdict is still out there Jason Stylez Let's nutshell this one : you don't have the mental capacity to know what you're getting into, and you don't have the physical capacity to get out of it with the full use of your limbs. Professional wrestling is a fucked up business sometimes. There are so many places out there and the talent pool is so thin that practically anybody who shows up and signs a waiver form gets gnome tossed head first into the meat grinder. Can you imagine this kind of ridiculous shit in any other professional competition? 'Hey, it's cool that you saw MMA on TV. Put on these tights and this generic Affliction shirt, we're gonna stick you in a cage with Fedor on national TV. Oh and also? We're gonna give Fedor this big fucking brick, just in case he's feeling frisky.' 'Hey, we need a world sprinting champion, but we need to fill out a few slots, so we brought in Cletus from the sports bar downtown. Tuck in that beer gut, try not to scrape your thighs too loud while Mr. Bolt is warming up.' Time will tell, I suppose, whether you take time away from your twitter page and type something that helps you cement this tournament, of course this just isn’t going to happen if we meet. If we meet you will simply be outmatched, outclassed, outsmarted, and out of reasons why you wouldn't be a particularly fucktarded stain on my windshield before you even get to pry open that fist containment mechanism you call a jaw. And with all that you still have a better chance of winning this match than this other guy does. So why don’t you do the right thing and tuck yourself into the fetal position until I'm ready to deal with you. Now. Carmine Vestieri. To be honest, I don't feel like I really need to say anything to you. If I wanted, I could replay your promo and just add a little card that says "seriously?" at the end of it You came to a place like NLCW, pretty much oozing contempt for this place with a generic "I'm here to dominate" promo that would have worked perfectly in any generic federation for any generic leather strap. Welp, time for you to develop a Plan B. I suggest you head for your nearest Wal-Mart and check out the toy aisle if you're looking for something shiny to distract you from those feelings of total inadequacy. You know where that aisle is, right? It's right next to the tacky Scarface paperbacks you ripped your promo off from. And that's without even touching on your history lesson. Take notes, cocksucker Actually, your first note should be that you don't get over here unless you call people faggot, just ask Galen But your second note should be that if I need a long boring history lesson on things I could not possibly care less about, I'll pick up a Ken Burns documentary - much better production values, and I don't need Grunting Fucktard to English subtitles when I watch it. I'll speak for the entire roster here when I say no, nobody knows who you are, where you're from, or what you were doing two years ago. The sex scenes can’t help you win matches bro It was only a little over an hour later, with the neighborhood growing more and more menacing by the minute, that Allan Marshall and Eric Mayhaus spotted the shadowy figure of Cole Marr making his way up the sidewalk toward them. Marshall: The sooner we can get this over with, the better. Mayhaus: No kidding. I swear that last guy who came by trying to sell me pot was going to shoot me. Marshall: I am thoroughly surprised you turned down the offer Mayhaus: Come on, that's low! The two were interrupted by loud arguing from the opposite direction as Cole's arrival, where in front of the strip club, two bouncers tossed out a weasley looking fellow, while a stripper followed them out, screaming at the man all the while. The stripper glanced around for a moment, before rushing back inside after realizing that her tits were hanging out in public, free of charge. I'd apologize for you guys having to wait, but clearly the entertainment is decent. Eric nodded, while Allan stepped toward Cole, dropping the key in his hand. Marshall: Only entertaining for low-brow over here with his crack whore flashbacks. Are we really doing this, Cole? Depends...is the building sufficient? The shorter man nodded, as the trio headed toward the door, which Cole unlocked with the key, before heading inside. He glanced around for a moment in the darkness, before hitting the lights. Stepping to the center of the room, he nodded slowly, as Eric and Allan waited closer to the door. Casanova: This will do. Is the door sturdy enough? Eric swallowed anxiously, as Allan nodded slowly. He began to step toward the center of the room, toward Cole. Marshall: Are you sure there is no other way? Hell, I'm not sure that this is even the right way, but as long as I have no antidote to my withering. Either it leaves with the blood, or it doesn't leave at all. He glances to the drains in the corner of the room, before slowly extending his wrists. Either way, this will lead to some things that you simply will not be able to account for. I'd tell you it will make you believe, but then again...you wouldn't have volunteered if you didn't already believe, with some part of yourself. Marshall: Perhaps. Or I simply take my word and honor for more than others do in this day and age. Regardless...I hope you are right. Cole's stare settled into his eyes, as Allan reached to his sides, and glanced over his shoulder at Eric, who waited at the door, obviously very nervous. Don't forget about the gun. Once the instincts take over, I can't guarantee your safety. Don't miss, Allan... With a nod from Eric, Allan sprang into action, drawing the long knife from his belt and in one smooth motion shearing half of Cole's neck open. Beyond even the gaping wound stage, it was a fatal blow to any human. With near superhuman quickness, Marshall's next swing tore diagonally across Cole's wrists and forearms. The vampire dropped to his knees, his eyes nearly going blank as his head hung awkwardly from one side. Allan Marshall stepped back quickly, before breaking into a sprint for the door. But the vampire had already risen, his pupils sliding from white to black, a near-roar of wind throughout the building as Cole was suddenly not only on his feet, but gaining swiftly on Allan! The sound of a silenced shot was barely audible over the sound of Cole roaring forth, but the splatter as it tore into his left knee was clearly heard. Then another shot into his right calf, and the great vampire stumbled to one knee. Having halted the advance, Allan Marshall leapt through the door, glaring back at the vampire, his expression obviously shaken, yet he blocked Eric from closing the door immediately. His eyes hardened somewhat though, as he pumped the remaining shots into Cole's torso. The vampire responded with a tortured wail, before suddenly rising back to full height and staggering forth toward the door. It was only then that Allan Marshall finally slammed the door shut. The two backed away from it quickly, Eric raising his fists, and Allan putting the gun away and drawing his blade again, yet there was no crashing escape, only the muffled thump of a half-hearted tackle against the door, which didn't budge. Another inhuman wail, and then sounds faded completely from within. Allan Marshall and Eric Mayhaus glanced at each other warily, and then back to the door, before finally heading down the street, both sweating and looking considerably weary. Inside, the kaleidoscope faded quickly to the darkest shade of grey, illuminating the interior of the building. The only visible color was that of bloodstains on the floor, and the starlight-bright shimmering spots he saw when he glanced down to his body, where slashes, gashes, and bullets had rent his flesh. The blood seemed...everywhere. Which was good. Somewhere in the back of his mind, Cole knew that against all logic...that was a good thing. This...isn't happening. I'm not like those two...you will NEVER take me... Then the grays and blacks and reds seemed to fall further down the spectrum for a bit, for Cole. His eyes suddenly seem to focus before him, and he rises slowly, painfully to his knees, leaning against the locked door.