Chapter 5:

Voyage of the Damned......


Stepping up to the edge of the docks created a sense of awe, an overwhelming feeling that made him think that he didn’t deserve to be here, like this place was too much for him to bear emotionally. The kind of feeling that he was insignificant and undeserving of this place as he’d last felt when he bore witness to the birth of his children, watching the miracle of life being brought into the world after months of his own creation growing inside the womb, thinking that standing there watching his child entering the world made him extremely small and not very important in conjunction with the rest of the world’s happenings that were vastly more important than his own existence. The same could be said here with him standing waiting for something, looking all around and feeling like a tiny ant on a giant landscape, barely noticeable in the greater scheme of things and wondering if he felt worthy of such treatment.

There was indeed a part of him that wished he could’ve gone to the other place, saw how that looked with its brightness, its tranquillity and light helping make the mood so happy and peaceful. He’d heard stories from those who were waiting alongside him and had spent time talking to the variety of people they had all had great conversations with or especially when they got to take time to meet up with long lost friends and family before they went their separate ways forever. Alas though, he was here, having spent a hundred years in the misty and murky realm after death in the waiting room of the deceased where all those who had passed over into the spirit realm awaited their final judgment. He’d gone there automatically as every person did, finding himself in the smoke and the mist before it cleared away and he found himself face to face with all of the friends and family members who had also died long ago, holding a massive reunion that lasted for some time where they could all talk and reminisce before they had t o part ways for the final time, some going back to where they’d been sent upon death a long time ago while others would find out where they had to spend eternity.

He’d felt sad after hearing all of the stories about how great that other place was, the bliss felt knowing that they were blessed with getting to spend forever in that magnificent place and yet here he was, being sent to the darker depths due to his actions while he were alive. That was then and now here he was, standing on ground that was a mix of brown and orange, the smell of sulphur in the air as he watched a sort of silvery, shimmering river flowed past him. Continuing to stand on the bank of this unusual river, he wondered exactly what his purpose for being here was, what he’d done to be sent here rather than that blissful and serene land of brightness where love overwhelmed and everything was perfect. His mind wandered as he tried to cast his thoughts back and figure out what he’d done wrong but before too long, he was interrupted by a booming voice and a loud creaking noise that awakened him by force from his thoughts.

“Get on before you’re left here and find yourself stuck in Limbo for eternity.”

Shaking himself away from what he was thinking, he looked up and saw that where there had been an empty space above the silvery river, now there was a huge wooden boat, one that rocked in the gentle ebb and flow of that water and caused the creaking and groaning sound thanks to the wood that seemed incredibly old and worn. The prow was an intimidating sight, cutting through the water as the boat itself came to a slow halt, resting still and veiled by an eerie silence with only that groaning of wood and gentle lapping of water to break the void of serenity. The figurehead fixed upon the prow was carved out of wood, almost as if it had been made alongside the boat as if the entire thing had been crafted from one giant tree with everything on there in a seamless carving, no points where it looks as if a piece has been attached separately. The figurehead itself was an ugly and creepy looking thing, depicting a sinister looking person with large wings and a face that’s distorted in anger and hatred, as if that person depicted in wood were somehow wronged and mistreated somehow to cause such rage upon its face.

A large wooden ramp seemed to appear from nowhere as he turned his head to look back at the boat itself, mist swirling around it like the ramp had been placed there while his attention was diverted. Curiosity overcame him and he cautiously placed his foot upon the wood, stepping up onto it and beginning a slow trek along what was a short ramp but was beginning to take a while to traverse due to his innate fear and caution in case anything were to lurch out from the deck of the boat without warning, surprising him with a sudden attack but as he drew near to the top of that ramp, nothing appeared before him. His suspicions became even more roused due to the anticipation and then subsequent let-down, waiting for something to leap out of the mist atop the deck of this old boat but instead, he saw a silhouette lurching through the swirling atmosphere, moving towards him in an almost floating and ethereal manner.

The figure came closer to him, cloaked in what seemed to be a long gown that swayed underneath him with an inch or more of space between the bottom of the long cloak and the deck of the boat. The figure moved closer, revealing that the cloak was a grey colour and covered every inch of this strange person’s body, save for the head which was covered by a hood. The face was revealed as that of a skull with no eyes, just blackness with the skeletal hands clutching an object that looked to be a boat’s oar. The figure moved even closer to him, mere feet from his face and staring intently, allowing him to see that the skeleton wearing the hooded cloak and carrying an oar had a sort of swirling mist behind those eye sockets, perhaps the creature’s essence somehow trapped despite the many areas it could escape from its body, perhaps the same mist that surrounded the boat, he couldn’t be sure.

“I am Charon, the ferryman. Allow me to take you across the river Acheron to your new home for the rest of eternity.”

He watched as Charon turned and floated away, noticing that as he spoke, those otherwise empty eyes looked fierce and feverish as if somehow powering him to allow speech as well as the movement that allowed him to float toward this confused traveller. With Charon standing at the opposite side of the deck, he walked away from the ramp he’d trodden on and heard a noise, looking back to see that the ramp itself leading onto the boat was slowly vanishing, becoming clear before finally disappearing for good. He didn’t know how it had managed to do such a thing or where it had gone but this wasn’t the first time he’d been surprised and bewildered in this unusual realm. Before he knew it, the boat began to rock and move along with the current of the river, the force of the Acheron as well as the skeletal ferryman’s oar allowing the wooden boat to follow the direction of the strange, silver water. He walked towards Charon, watching as he gently moved his arms to push the oar as it pierced the surface of the river and propelled the boat and its passengers past the rocky outcrops that surrounded them, along the banks of the Acheron that seemed to sprawl out until finally, a large hill covered in boulders that seemed to be the very end of the outcrop that had covered a majority of the land he’d stood upon whilst waiting for the boat gave way to a majestic sight that went on for seemingly thousands of miles.

The landscape seemed incredible, beautiful in its own way despite the horror stories about this realm in comparison to the “Other Place”. It reminded him of the time he’d sit in the summertime on the roof of his uncle’s house in more rural country, staring out and enjoying the view of the fields, the land sprawling as far as the eye could see. Vast mountain ranges that rose up out of the land like daggers piercing the ground and rising up with their very peaks looking almost like the points of a sharp knife. The mountains themselves must have been enormous, bigger than anything he would’ve seen back on Earth while he was alive because despite them being in the very distance at a sort of range akin to the continent of Africa was in relation to Detroit, Michigan they were still huge and tall. It was as if somebody had taken the height of Mount Everest from base to peak and multiplied that height by thousands.

Vast swathes of landscape were mostly of a reddish brown colour, slightly different to the palette seen on the banks of the Acheron due mainly to the perceived emptiness as he looked out over this realm, as if the lack of life or activity along these fields of dirt had ensured that the land would not be constantly trodden down or disturbed as the Acheron’s surrounding land was after many millennia of souls walking and standing upon that area awaiting their journey aboard this wooden boat. He continued to stare in awe at this landscape, trying to guess how big this realm must be to house such huge mountain ranges and far-reaching landscapes. Finally managing to tear himself away from such a stunning view, he looked back at Charon, watching the ferryman use his singular oar to push them along the river as another silvery snake of water shimmered in the distance, like a line drawn across a blank sheet of paper. Charon seemed to notice his passenger staring at this other body of water and spoke as if he could read this mortal’s mind.

Charon: That over there is the river Styx. I sometimes use that to ferry the souls who will rest forever in certain other levels, one you will not ever see nor reach. The rivers Acheron and Styx each hold portals, four each of alternating numbers that access the different levels for new occupants to this realm.

Passenger: But what of these portals, do they change position or are these portals to the levels fixed and permanent?

Charon: Oh yes, they are very much fixed in place. You cannot access certain levels by journeying across the Acheron as you cannot when you travel along the Styx.

He gently nodded, appreciative of the explanation and looking out as the silvery line eventually trickled away from sight, its end disappearing from view as it continued to move across land in such a way that left him unable to see where else it ran. He noted that trees were peppered in areas across this vast landscape but seemed as skeletal in appearance as the ferryman taking him to whichever destination he was headed, their branches like limbs reaching out as white as their trunks and devoid of leaves or other signs of life visible on trees back in the mortal realm. He thought more of those portals, wondering to which levels they lead and what Charon meant about levels in the first place. He’d been just a regular person when he was alive and had no such knowledge of such a thing and so all of this was new to him. After all, why would a regular Joe from Detroit care about anything other than the things immediately affecting himself and his life? It was this kind of selfish attitude that his acquaintances had warned him about before they parted forever moments before he found himself standing on the banks of the Acheron and now, a small part of him wished he’d looked more into it so that it wouldn’t be new to him.

Charon: Do you have any idea why you’re here?

Passenger: Oh, err, no I don’t. Could you enlighten me?

Charon: Alas, I cannot. I only ferry souls to their correct portal, I have no wish to discover why they are here.

A disappointment washed over him as he stood unsure of why exactly he was sent here, hoping somebody or something could swoop down and halt Charon, informing him that his passenger was sent to the wrong place accidentally and would indeed be moving to that place of light and love. His eyes turned toward the skies, their reddish orange glow with dark almost brown clouds floating past in his field of vision as he searched for something to save him but his search seemed to go on forever with nothing in sight. What had he done in life to end up here and which “level” would he end up within?

Passenger: You say you can’t tell me why I’m here but how do you know which portal to take me to?

Charon: Ahh, I was expecting such a question. You give off a glow as every newcomer to this realm does and though you cannot see this, I can. The glow corresponds with the colour emanating from each portal and despite the portals seeming the same colour as the skies above to your own eyes, again, I see them as different in clarity with only the ninth portal giving off an emotion rather than a colour.

Passenger: Wait, ninth? I thought you said each river had four portals each?

Charon: Yes indeed but do not worry; the ninth portal is not for you nor for most souls entering here, that is only a special place for the most devious and wicked.

Passenger: Which type of souls go there to that place then?

Charon: The portal reaches the lowest level, Treachery. That is for only those who committed betrayals to family, community, guests and lords. Such people residing there are Cain, who betrayed his brother by murdering him, Antenor of Troy who betrayed his city and people to the Greeks and saw their downfall, Ptolemy who invited guests to a banquet and then had them all murdered and finally, those who betray their rulers, physical royalty and leaders as well as the ultimate in royalty, Adonai, who resides over all in the “Other Place”. That is where, amidst the lake Cocytus, Lucifer resides in the very centre of the hole made when he was cast from the “Other Place” and impacted with the Earth below to create this realm we are currently in.

He was taken aback but instantly knew, remembering that sight of the figurehead that looked down from the prow of the boat down at the silvery water as if feeling more important than anything that might dwell below, an expression of rage as if it were forced against its will to occupy the very front of the boat as a sort of punishment for whatever misdeed it had committed. He would never forget the look on that figurehead’s face and dared not meet with the person whom it was depicting. A feeling ran through him that made his spine tremble and his blood run cold, whether or not he had blood within him didn’t particularly matter as he compared the prospect of coming face to face with the person depicted upon the prow of the boat as akin to meeting a serial killer in a very dark alley with nobody around to help if things turned nasty.

Passenger: L-Lucifer? As in....?

Charon: Yes, the very same. But fret not, you will never come face to face with him.

Passenger: How do you know? Do they not call him Satan here?

Charon: I know because only those sent to his level or those invited meet him face to face and yes indeed, they call him Satan here but he revels in the other names that the mortal world give him even if he was never originally named as such when the universe began.

Passenger: He invites people? What kind of people? And how is it that names like Lucifer are given to him if he….

Charon: Pardon my interruption but allow me to answer your last question first. For some reason, the mortal world placed names such as Lucifer upon him as they do for other things they know nothing about. While it is true that he was cast from Heaven, the stories that Lucifer and Satan are one are falsehoods created by early Christians. As for your other questions, he sometimes invites people to meet with him as happens in that other realm we are permitted to mention by name.

Passenger: You mean Heaven?

Charon: I do indeed and please, do not utter such a name again in future. While this realm is seen as lawless by the mortal world and by those religious leaders who scare their followers with tales of this place, we do indeed have strict laws and one of those forbids the naming of that realm.

As I was saying, Adonai meets with those in his realm and Satan does the same here, even if on rare occasions some of those who visit are not a part of this realm. One such visitor goes by the name Vitriol, a beast in human form who stalks the mortal realm like a shadow that appears just before he strikes upon his victims. I am not too sure whether you have seen Vitriol or not but he has been invited by Satan to be spoken to regarding his actions and although I do not know details of these meetings, I do know of his life thus far. Do you wish to hear of this tale? I only ask because we still have a long way to go until we reach your particular portal and wish for you to listen closely as a way of passing the time here.

Nodding his head in agreement and feeling a sense of interest slowly creeping into his very core, the passenger watched as Charon bowed his head and motioned with his arm to take a seat upon a piece of the boat that resembled a barrel shape. With the passenger settled and ready to listen to the tale, Charon turned back to face forwards and continue with the gentle rowing with the oar, his voice somehow still managing to be heard clearly as if the two were face to face and a little closer to one another.

Charon: Vitriol is a creature that personifies every level of this realm and wears a steel mask to cover his face, a mask forged by a distant tribe of dwellers who were at war with their neighbouring civilisation. Their army once caught the mightiest warrior from the opposing side and tortured him, ending his days as a warrior by forging a mask that represented his evil deeds in war and placing the still hot metal upon his face. Thus, thanks to the metal not cast in water to cool first, all of the anger and hatred of the civilisation formed within this mask and caused those feelings to not only become one with this warrior, it also ensured that his mind would become warped, turning him insane with agony and anger.

He was sent back to the mortal realm in various guises for many centuries where he could ravage the land with his own form of violence and anger directed at whoever may be unlucky enough to be in the vicinity wherever he may travel. Many have suffered thanks to his actions over time but it wasn’t until his appearance in the more modern world you came from that his actions were more widely known thanks to the age of global television as you call it.

Passenger: How was this possible? I’ve heard of Vitriol, read about him in newspapers and saw him on tv whenever I had chance to watch MCW but what’s he got to do with this place?

Charon: Your head is filled with constant questions. You see, Vitriol is said to be a physical monster and yet that wasn’t the case at all. Vitriol is more of an essence, a creation concocted by Satan almost immediately after he was cast down from that “Other Place” as a sort of weapon to use against Adonai’s own creations. Since I can sense your wonder on who Adonai is, allow me to explain that He is the ultimate creator, the one known to most living souls as God.

Vitriol was created as a way of helping to plague and corrupt mankind by finding one mortal with whom its ultimate devastation could become realised and latching on tightly, eventually finding the right moment to allow the curse to fully develop. Every generation holds one mortal that succumbs to the Vitriol curse and this generation is no different, seen above all others thanks to your former world’s penchant for information being reached to more people at once. The curse rages on and eventually turns the host insane. But lo, the curse cannot be stopped or destroyed, for even if the host dies the Vitriol creation becomes free and lies dormant, awaiting the next generation’s host. Many have felt it, male and female, some of whom you would be surprised. Such hosts as Genghis Khan, Alexander the Great, Caligula, Napolean Bonaparte and Vincent Van Gogh to name just a small number of previous hosts.

This generation’s host I do not know much about him, save to say that he is a very conflicted man who seems to have been cursed with both the Vitriol creation as well as Adonai’s own reaction, a similar curse which also passes down from generation to generation. These two curses are meant to find two separate hosts so that they may find each other and fight as bitter enemies, as arch rivals but somehow, both found their way into the same host. I can only imagine how that host must feel since both curses carry an insanity all of their own, one a vengeful, angry and vicious persona while the other carries a persona full of respect and honour and light. To have two such beings within the mind must be a form of torture.

He continued to row in silence, pausing to allow the passenger to have all of the information so far sink into his mind. It seemed weird hearing about this so-called “curse” that affected generations, especially to hear some of the names it had ravaged over time. He thought he’d known madness and insanity through watching tv shows and movies or by reading about it but after hearing about the curses created by both Satan and Adonai, he could only wonder just how bad it could be to have to live with such a thing, especially whoever was unlucky enough to have to live with both curses at the same time as some poor soul apparently had to now. He’d seen Vitriol in MCW and with this new information provided by Charon, he was curious as to who this person might be, knowing that whoever it was could potentially be in some serious trouble as far as their mental health issues with such a war inside their head.

Charon: It’s a shame you’ll never get to see the capital city of Dis, it’s a very beautiful place. I haven’t visited for a while due to my duties here ferrying souls to their correct levels and eternal resting places but it is a magnificent city. Very big, vast and full of the realm’s citizens, the gates that house the only entrance are about the same height as your former realm’s Mount Everest I believe.

Passenger: Please, tell me more of this Vitriol.

Charon: Such an impatient soul, makes me wonder if you are truly reaching the correct level. Ok, I will continue my tale. This person suffering the Vitriol curse of this generation, he became something of an adoptive child for a man born Saul Manning but with a preference for being called Zolomon due to his ideal that a name such as that will strike fear into the hearts of others and give rise to a mythology surrounding him and his many varied victims, much the same as Jack the Ripper. The only difference between those two is that while Saul was ready to show his face in the media, allow the public to bear witness to the face of Zolomon, Jack the Ripper chose to hide herself well and allow the legend to continue long after her death.

Feeling the passenger’s confusion, Charon stopped rowing momentarily to turn and face this soul, looking toward the frowning eyes and questioning face.

Charon: Yes....Jack the Ripper was a female.

Passenger: But how....?

Charon: She was a smart lady, with a name such as that and the victims being prostitutes, it was easy for her to remain free when the finger of blame rested entirely on males only. Such is the naivety of human existence.

Anyway, Saul had long searched for his way through the many texts written about the occult and religion, having believed himself to be the human incarnation of the Archangel Gabriel and wanting to find a way back into the “Other Realm” despite the futility of it all. In doing so, he came across a long forgotten text that contained teachings of the Vitriol curse and began to search far and wide, hoping to take some of that essence for himself. Eventually, he discovered the host for this generation and approached with an offer to come together as one, even allowing his young daughter to join the fray whilst Saul himself hid behind in the shadows, watching events unfold as if he were a puppet master.

Vitriol and the daughter of Saul became close, enough to share a deep bond that would see them as a sort of twisted family, looking upon themselves as brother and sister as they continued their path of destruction. They gained their highest achievements when first they defeated many other teams who thought they could be stopped to become Tag Team champions, making them the best and most dominant team in existence before then becoming willing to destroy each other when their insatiable bloodlust manifested itself in a match for a new championship coincidentally named as such. Ambrosia, daughter of Saul, gained that Bloodlust championship and watched as Vitriol dominated a pretender to the dark throne in Priest. That was the last time Vitriol visited the ninth level by the way, receiving the blessing of Satan in victory.

Passenger: Vitriol visited of his own free will?

Charon: Oh no, his physical form would never be allowed here unless he were to die while still playing host to the curse, under which circumstances his soul would be claimed as a part of this realm, although which level he would be sent I have no idea due to the curse making the human host participate in every one of the sins represented by the nine levels. All I know is that the essence of the curse itself, that which jumps into the host body can move between realms and venture here to speak with its creator.

Passenger: I remember those events, I watched them on tv but tell me, what happened to Saul and Ambrosia?

Charon: They do not belong to this realm as you are probably thinking. They are still very much on your former realm, the land of the living, where I have no idea. All I can tell is that Ambrosia suffered an injury of sorts and Saul chose to take his leave and pursue something else, taking his daughter with him once she was healed as a result of an attack by a misguided female who may find herself trapped for eternity in the level that represents Anger.

Passenger: I think her name is Lilith Evans. I remember the attack well, I saw it on MCW Mayhem when I was still alive but tell me, do you know if Vitriol is gaining revenge on her for attacking the woman he saw as a sister?

Charon: No, he has not and will not.

Passenger: Any reason? I mean, if she attacked Ambrosia....

Charon: No, the host would not attack Lilith Evans because she is his half sister through blood links.

The passenger was taken aback by this shock revelation, not guessing that anybody could be truly related to Vitriol, especially that such a relation could be found in the same company, competing on the same show and attacking a woman who tries to get into her head by becoming close with the young daughter. It started to make sense that when he last watched MCW before his death, he couldn’t recall Vitriol even being near Lilith Evans during his entire time there let alone face to face with her. It was then that he wondered how he could remember something so clearly as if it happened recently if he’d spent a century in that waiting room for souls to depart to their realms as chosen by the judges who looked upon each person’s life and decided based on what each did during their time alive.

Charon: We have arrived.

The passenger stood up from his makeshift seat, noticing that they were still in a similar looking landscape as when he first moved past the rocky outcrop although those enormous mountains in the distance looked slightly different as if the journey on the boat had taken him to a place that would allow this unique view of the range when compared to his first sighting of it. The ramp had been lowered and was waiting for him to cross and set foot on the ground below where a white shimmering portal stood awaiting his entry to whatever may lie beyond. He stared at that portal, unsure of whether he should truly venture through it, an uneasy feeling brewing within him with second thoughts running wildly, perhaps even a part of him still hoping that this was all a mistake and that somebody would appear and take him to where he felt he truly belonged. With a look back toward Charon, he had just one more thing t o say to the skeletal ferryman who brought him here to this destination.

Passenger: Tell me, if I spent one hundred years after death before I came here, how come I remember things as if they weren’t too long ago?

Charon: Time passes much faster when you are dead. For those living, only two months have passed; for you, one hundred years.

The passenger nodded, wondering if he noticed a sort of smile upon the ferryman’s face despite no flesh adorning it to be sure. A sigh escaped his lips as he began his walk off the boat and down that ramp, the gentle thudding of his footsteps ceasing the moment he touched down upon the soft ground, his feet treading upon the strange coloured dirt that many others had walked upon to enter this portal. With a nervous gasp of air entering his body and being pushed back out by a slow and unsure exhalation, the passenger had one last look at this desolate yet beautiful landscape before walking into the portal into the level he would spend an eternity to be punished for his sins.....




Mirror, Mirror.....


Clinical and clean, that’s how he’d describe it if he could. The place awakened a sense of disgust at how pure and sparse it was, not the surroundings of abstract destruction that he was used to. If there were only large chunks of plaster missing from the walls, paint blotched on as if the decorator didn’t seem to care about perfection and instead felt the need to throw on patches of colour randomly, cracks in the walls and chunks of rubble from the crumbling walls littering the floor, that was the sort of general disarray that he liked, mostly because the decay and deconstruction of something so perfect interested him, whether it be a room, a building or a person. It also gave him something to look at when boredom set in, after all, if he needed to pass the time for any reason then what better than to use his vision to follow a crack in a wall from top to bottom like a sort of game. Another favourite was to count how many pieces of concrete or plaster he could find strewn about the ground after falling off and striking the floor like meteorites impacting with the Earth.

The looks he’d received as he marched through this place were similar to the looks he’d become accustomed to over the last nine months. If he could laugh he would because it seemed that those who stared with a sense of wonder were frightened and somewhat bewildered by the sight before them while those who seemed to mock were even more obvious in their utter cowardice. Nevertheless though, the strange glances he noticed as his eyes moved left and right behind that steel, cold, unforgiving mask gave a twisted pleasure, knowing that his presence here was very much discomforting to those around him. They say that opposites attract but this was the case even more than usual although not by choice. If possible, he’d never even visit a hospital unless doing so to intimidate one of his latest victims or put the frighteners in someone who could potentially upset the balance and halt or delay his plans.

Indeed, it was a very strange combination, this monster clad in black with heavy boots upon the white, polished floor, his long, dark, wet hair hanging loose over his shoulders and the mask that seemed to be the only portion of brightness adorning him thanks to the reflections of the ceiling lights striking the steel while all around him was the very clean and tidy hospital. Usually very busy and yet in this instance, quietening and becoming both silent and eerie thanks to the presence of this dark soul lumbering with purpose down the hallways and corridors past various treatment and recovery rooms, patients, visitors, doctors and nurses, all with a similar expression on their faces; mouths agape in terror, eyes widening and skin trembling and forming goose bumps upon the surface, as if a chill wind had forced its way into their soul and buried itself deep within their very core.

His march led him towards a particular room, no light emanating from it like the other rooms in which patients were recovering form injuries or surgeries. In fact, thinking about the other patients being around made him wonder if he should take a look, see if he can discover some sort of gruesome ailment to satisfy his bloodlust, getting that craving for broken bones and injuries of the most disgusting and brutal. He missed that aspect, hadn’t been a part of it for a short time, even wanting to have Wormwood cower and snivel in his presence like the pathetic creature he was, not to see Wormwood perform a task that would delight his monstrous need to make somebody suffer but to see the gruesome results of Saul’s previous entertainment when he doused Wormwood in gasoline and set him alight just to show him the utter power he held over people such as that.

No, he couldn’t, he had something to do and would have to put his need to see people suffering in pain aside. Although come to think of it, he may get to see just that whilst he was here. The darkness and shadow that filtered through the small slit window in the wooden door he was stood before seemed to almost beckon him inside, welcoming him to open that gateway and step through the portal to another realm away from the brightness and light of the rest of the hospital. Staring down at that handle, made of steel and then chromed to give it a smooth finish and a shine that would glisten under the lights above and from inside the room if the occupant had it switched on, he couldn’t help but run his fingers along the metal, feeling a kinship between the handle on this door and the mask that perpetually covered his face. With a slightly tightened grip, he pulled that handle downwards and used the momentum to push the door inward.

Like a frail house of cards stacked high against the wind, the door gave way with ease with almost no effort needed to open it on his part. Swinging open, he couldn’t help but feel annoyed and irritated by the accompanying silence that door gave upon opening, preferring noise whether a harsh, dissonant sound that lasted mere seconds or a slow, creaking groan from a well used hinge, he wanted that kind of noise to break the otherwise quiet atmosphere. He desired that sound – any sound – purely because it greatly pleased him when a helpless victim could be located in a room, hear his entrance to their sanctity and feel unable to do anything as the sound marking his appearance was followed by the vision of him standing in the doorway staring inside, their thoughts racing as fast as their pulse due to the worry and wonder of what he may do to them.

He stood there, still as a statue and just as imposing as he stared at the contents of the room. It was just as clinical and devoid of decay as the rest of the hospital but brought about a chilling feeling that made him feel welcome where others may be uncomfortable. There were no lights on save for the reflections of street lights outside bouncing against the wall near him while the far side from where he stood had a bed situated by a large window. Two mirrors were facing the bed, one aimed at the foot of the bed with a television set next to it, both of them planted atop a white desk with drawers for clothing and other belongings as if necessary should the occupant need to stay in hospital longer than a few hours. The second mirror was attached to the wall that also held the doorframe, again facing the bed to give a sideways glance of it and the person lying under the blue covers. He looked closer and couldn’t believe his eyes, entering the room properly and closing the door behind him to prevent escape should the occupant of the bed wish to try and swiftly leave but it seemed as if that person wouldn’t move even if they wished.

There lying in the bed was a blonde female, her face slightly masked by the shadow and darkness of the room but the dreadlocks that her hair was styled in seemed familiar. The pale skin of her arms as they lay on the covers rested upon the lump where her body was situated in the bed gave a slight glow thanks to the absolute white colouration. Her skin was so pale that it was as if she were a corpse, placed here to recover yet forgotten as she passed away and felt her soul leave her body and cross over to the next life. The still and calm of the room encroached upon him as if it were he being stalked by an unseen force rather than himself creeping towards the female in the bed. Looking around to ensure he was truly alone with this female, he moved almost too silently for such a ravenous and dangerous monster across the floor and closer to the bed, his lack of noise due in part to the experience he had sneaking up on unsuspecting victims before pouncing like a tiger hidden in the bushes all teeth and claws bared ready to scratch, slice and bite at the carcass of its prey.

Moving ever closer to this female form lying prone in the bed, he stared at her face as he became more aware of her features, noting that her eyes were closed and she seemed to be sleeping. Should he wake her from this slumber and allow her the chance to see his mask moments before he struck? Was she even alive and not lying empty and soulless, a shell of a body reduced to just a hollow husk? Leaning over the figure in the bed, he moved closer but halted in his movement as a realisation came across him. That long blonde hair……the pale skin that covered her arms, throat and face……the feminine features that could be so very attractive to others staring upon her visage…….for the first time ever, a feeling of absolute dread and terror swept over him thanks to his sleeping victim, a total role reversal of what usually comes to pass. Lying there in that hospital bed, with eyes closed to the world……was his tag team partner.

It was Amber Manning.

The vision of Amber in that bed brought about feelings within him that he didn’t wish to experience, hadn’t truly experienced until more recently. A sense of abject disappointment and mistrust washed over him, bathing him in doubt as he stared at the daughter of Saul. She looked every bit the eighteen year old she was yet that vicious streak, that love of violence and of hurting people physically and psychologically, the regular use of extreme language, none of that seemed to fit the woman laid out before him. No, the Amber he saw here in this bed looked as innocent and sweet as the Amber he discovered half naked in a freezer during one of Saul’s tests, the same Amber that gave an aura of desperation and vulnerability, two traits that the female he’d become close to since October would never have revealed. He looked around the room, trying to make sense of this and see if there was a glimmer of…..something caught his eye coming from the direction of the mirror near the foot of the bed.

He turned his head to look but saw nothing apart from the bed, Amber lying in it and himself leaning over her. His eyes remained fixed on that reflective glass in case he saw anything else but after what seemed like forever looking, there was nothing there but the mirror image of what was inside that room. He turned back to face Amber, wondering how somebody who looked so pure could do things so evil and devious. Was this really the same person who was bullied and teased at school, leading her to throw the bully over a balcony to her death in school? Was this really the woman who hosted her webcam show “Hollyweird”, peppering it with the coarsest language imaginable while a hostage sat tied up nearby struggling to escape her clutches?

There was just something about this girl in the bed that made him disbelieve that she was the one who lay in thumbtacks laughing after their first meeting when he hit her with a powerbomb from a ring apron down to the solid floor. This Amber looked too precious and fragile to take pleasure in pain, too……a sense of foreboding rushed over him and he quickly swung around to face the mirror directly behind him, suspecting there was somebody stood behind his back but looked to see just his own reflection and the side of the bed, his body contorted slightly to remain at the bedside while simultaneously looking to see what he felt behind him. Suddenly, a slight flicker of red in the mirror, as if something had rushed past at speed.

He started for just a second before turning back to the bed, looking over the covers to see if there was anything there but again, nothing except the bed, the window and….ahh, the window. Perhaps a vehicle had driven past, its brake lights reflected through the window and into the mirror as it stopped and turned a corner. If that were truly the case though, why wouldn’t the amber of the turning signals show too? In fact, the only amber he had seen was the female lying in the bed with her eyes closed as if dead to the world around her. His eyes fixed on the window, waiting for a red light from outside the hospital to show itself in the glass but saw nothing, only hearing a faint giggle that he instantly recognised, tilting his head so that it almost touched his shoulder, something he’d done a lot when feeling curious at something he could see or hear or when surveying somebody as he weighed up whether to turn them into the next victim.

This time though, his curiosity was aimed toward the person he was next to, staring to see if she was somehow playing a trick on him by pretending to be asleep but there was no sign of facial movement, no lines that had formed to show she had even smiled. Considering he had been surrounded in the strange, the unusual, the downright weird for a long time, he actually felt confused and curious as to who giggled. Was it another patient in another room? It couldn’t possibly be that, although it was faint, that laugh was the exact same noise that came out of Amber’s mouth almost all the time whenever she saw somebody in agony or felt pain herself. His eyes traced all the way from her face to her feet at the bottom of the bed and that’s when he saw it again, the red flash out of the corner of his eye rushing from one side of the mirror to the other like a blur. His head turned as quickly as it could without his neck snapping but once again, he missed it, whatever it was. Keeping a fixed gaze upon the mirror hoping to see it happen again, something gently tapped and prodded him on the shoulder, causing him to turn around the other way to look behind him.

“Hi”.

While the steel mask showed no emotion, he had a sense of confusion at seeing who was before him. Looking over his shoulder, he saw Amber Manning lying peacefully and unmoving in bed tucked in tightly under the covers and upon turning back, there was that person who tapped him on the shoulder standing there, smiling at him with a huge grin. A female with big blue eyes that seemed to smile as much as her mouth was, staring past thick black makeup around her eyes, more black on her face courtesy of the lipstick that had her mouth look prominent compared to the pale complexion of her face. Her hair was black while her body was adorned in a red and black jester’s outfit, the costume she’d begun wearing in contrast to the gothic style dresses or the jeans and leather corset combinations she’d worn when they first met. This was the person he was hoping to see, the person he’d become accustomed to and familiar with over several months of close contact, the psychopathic yin to his malevolent yang.

Ambrosia.

He stared in disbelief, wondering exactly what was going on, how Ambrosia could be here dressed the way she had until Lilith Evans had put her in this hospital when she was also lying in the bed without the makeup, without the outfits and the dyed hair and the devilish grin on her face as if she’d watched another snuff movie and found the contents hilarious whilst also giving her ideas. His head kept swivelling back and forth looking first at Ambrosia and then at Amber, continually finding each in his line of vision until she grabbed his head and forced that mask to stare directly at her face, Ambrosia leaning in closer as if to plant another kiss upon the steel.

Ambrosia: What’s wrong? Looks like you’ve seen a ghost.

He truly wondered if he was indeed staring into the eyes of a ghost, this whole episode being very intriguing. His mind ticked away wondering how it was possible to see two of her at the same time in the same room mere feet if not closer to each other. It was at that moment that Ambrosia moved her head to look over his shoulder to stare at her sleeping alter ego, beginning to tut loudly and shake her head at the sight, making him turn to look at Amber too.

Ambrosia: Look at her, pathetic little cunt. I’d never let myself get into that situation. Pretty little bitch needs to be awake to watch me slice open her throat then smash her face in with a hammer, see how long she needs in hospital then.

He turned to stare at Ambrosia again, see if she had a sneer on her face like the one she usually had etched across her features whenever she spoke of committing extreme acts of violence for fun but when he looked, she’d disappeared. There was no trace of her whatsoever like she’d vanished into thin air, as strange a disappearance as the one he perpetuated himself last October when he’d been buried alive by Priest, had the grave area blown up and set on fire but when people dug into the dirt to drag his carcass out, there was no sign of him, leaving people scratching their heads and wondering how he managed to do that. That was the same feeling he was having right now at this very moment, curious and trying to figure out how Ambrosia had even appeared in the room, let alone how she then managed to disappear a second after she’d finished speaking.

Continuing to look around the room for perhaps a shadow betraying her hiding place or to see a leg or arm showing underneath or behind an object while he imagined her giggling at this little game of hide and seek, he happened to move his eyes across the mirror facing the foot of the bed for only a moment but it was enough to make him quickly twist his head back to stare at it, finding something not quite right about it but unsure exactly what until he had a chance to take a good look at it and that’s where once again, he discovered another apparent trick of the mind, even though his head told him that it was perfectly normal and not playing tricks to make him look foolish. That’s to say, his mind was as normal as it could be for him considering most people didn’t enjoy violence, pain and suffering inflicted on others nor did they find pleasure or enjoyment in even the thought of being wrapped in barbed wire or slammed hard into thumbtacks or set on fire.

If his mind wasn’t playing tricks on him then something was happening at the very least because otherwise, how else could anybody explain the sight of the mirror showing a fully costumed Ambrosia lying under the covers in bed, a massive smile on her face with teeth bared before rolling over and over in fits of childish laughter and glee as the covers became loose and fell off the bed and onto the floor. He turned to look at the actual bed and saw Amber still there sleeping and oblivious to what was going on despite the oddity taking place in the mirror, where he saw Ambrosia now on all fours smiling at him with a sinister look in her eyes, crawling ever closer to the mirror and contorting her body around so that she could slink off the bed feet first. She rose from the bed, standing up and creeping ever closer silently as if trying not to wake the blonde girl sleeping in the bed.

The darkness of the room seemed to gather and become even darker around that mirror, engulfed in shadow but not enough to hide Ambrosia’s creepy movement until she finally reached the mirror’s edge, the reflective glass shimmering like liquid as if it was being disturbed the same way a stone splashing into a body of water until she moved her leg to step over something. From out of the mirror came a black combat boot with pale white skin attached to the leg, a purple gothic style skirt following along with the purple bodice covering her torso, ample cleavage showing as Ambrosia stepped out of the mirror as if the portal that allowed her back into the room also allowed for a quick costume change into the sort of clothing she wore when she first appeared in MCW. As soon as she left the confines of the mirror, the ripple effect upon its surface slowly died out until it once more became still and solid. For a moment he wondered if Amber had indeed died and that her ghost was appearing to him as her true self, the vision she wished the world to see her as but if it really were a ghost then surely the souls the pair had tormented and made to suffer would also have appeared to him by now as well?

Ambrosia: What the fuck’s the matter with you, cat got your tongue?

Ambrosia knew he never spoke, even questioned it herself but resigned herself to the reasoning that he seemed to showcase a very real meaning of that old saying that “actions speak louder than words”. He perpetuated that notion almost every day, victims being tied to chairs or wooden posts even since the days when he had that pointless blonde Michelle Richards at his side, all of them asking why they were being treated the way he treated them and pleading for mercy but he never answered them, instead allowing them to squirm and feel anguish at his hands with not a word or a sound or a muffled groan escaping the confines of that face of evil adorning his face, that mask with distinguished features to terrify people at the mere sight of it. It was almost as if those who managed to survive hurried away recounting horror stories of the monster in the steel mask that haunted their dreams and waking nightmares, others fearful in case they too saw that mask as a menacing sign that they could be next as his new plaything.

Ambrosia: Isn’t this what you wanted, to see me like this instead of that pathetic piece of shit laying there like Sleeping fuckin’ Beauty? Have you forgotten your mistrust of weak little blondes with no ambition, who put their own selfish desires above your master plan and forget the reason they were chosen by you to be your assistant in destruction? Look at Michelle, wanting to use you to get famous and be chosen to appear in Playboy, kick start her modelling career. Where did that get her? Huh?

It was true, Michelle seemed at first the perfect choice as a sidekick as some might call it, a beautiful blonde that would have everybody’s eyes on her so that all attention could be placed upon her as she distracted Priest, taunted and teased him about his so-called “supernatural” powers being weak compared to the true monster that would show the world that the man who liked to spend time in graveyards was as terrifying as the Nightmare On Elm Street movies were to a young Ambrosia, the girl who watched such movies at the age of 8 but found them to be hilarious and not scary at all. Michelle seemed a dead end though, flinching when he pretended to attempt decapitation with the edge of a shovel as she knelt on the ground, something Ambrosia would have never done. In fact, Ambrosia would’ve known the mock decapitation was coming as Michelle did but had a smile on her face and even dared him to actually do it. That’s what separated the two women and why Saul’s daughter replaced Richards, first when Ambrosia kidnapped Michelle and kept using shock paddles on her then threatened to cut her with scalpels, the two of them having fun at Michelle’s expense until finally the fun ended with an attempted crucifixion and almost burning her alive as she was still tied to that cross ready to have nails driven through her palms.

The experience he had with Michelle and the fun he shared with Ambrosia at tormenting this woman over the period of a month was the very reason he became so shocked when he first saw Ambrosia as her true self, as Amber Manning, the blonde daughter of Saul who lay vulnerable on that cold floor almost frozen to death and begging for help through icy breath and shuddering words. He couldn’t bear to think that the same woman he’d partnered with and defeated those who fooled themselves into thinking they were tough or evil alongside would be as pathetic, as weak, as fragile as Michelle Richards had proven to be. The reason he was at this hospital was to see for himself which persona was resting here after the fall from the stage courtesy of Lilith, whether it was the fair haired and innocent side that revealed itself to him in that freezer or the dark and fearless side he’d known and associated with.

His head became bowed as he stared at the floor and closed his eyes for a moment, reflecting and wondering what to do next before forcing his eyelids open and looking back up, seeing only his own reflection in the mirror staring back at him, those blue piercing eyes looking from behind that mask while he could see that behind him, Amber was still lying in bed with Ambrosia leaning over her, stroking the pale cheek on her beautiful face. He turned around to look at the real thing rather than a reflection in a mirror, watching as Ambrosia continued to stroke Amber’s face gently with the side of her finger before turning to look at him, another smile forming as she quickly grabbed the covers on the bed and yanked them so hard that all he saw was the white fabric being hurled at him, landing over his head and preventing him from seeing any more. Reaching up quickly and pulling the bed covers off his head, it seemed as if a theatre’s stage curtain had raised to reveal the set behind it, hidden from plain view until the moment was right as the covers fell to the ground in a crumpled mess at his feet, rising suddenly at the mere shock of what he saw upon taking that thing off his head.

Rather than the hospital room he saw as he walked through the door, he looked around and now saw that since the covers had landed over his head, the surroundings had somehow changed, morphed into something entirely different. Looking around, he saw what looked like a vast arena, packed from floor to ceiling with thousands of people all holding signs and chanting words that he couldn’t quite make out, deafening cheers and boos raining down as he saw that he was standing inside a ring with ropes all around him and turnbuckles and steel posts conjoining them at each corner. Looking down at himself, he noticed his normally all black coveralls now had what looked like vertical white lines painted on the torso section like a referee’s uniform, his hands reaching up quickly to his face as he felt the hard metal mask still attached to his face. Looking to his left, he saw an announce table with two people seated behind it, both looking exactly the same as if they were twins with subtle differences. On the left side of the table was Saul Manning, sitting with a burlap cloak around his torso and a bandaged hand while next to him was the exact same person only he was wearing a black velvet hooded cloak with a Z etched in red, this being Saul’s other persona Zolomon, the name under which he’d also competed as well as his own name.

As much as he was confused at the sight of Saul as both himself and his other name by which he was known sitting side by side behind an announce table, turning his head to the right also yielded another surprise when he saw that Ambrosia was facing a corner of the ring raining down blows upon Amber Manning, who was stood backed against the turnbuckles trying to defend herself, wearing knee high boots, black fishnet tights, a short leather skirt and both a black fishnet top that covered her torso and arms as well as a black sleeveless top underneath, a stark contrast to the hospital gown she was wearing as she lay sleeping in that bed. Her long blonde dreadlocks swayed with every move she made to block the punches being thrown by Ambrosia as the deafening roar of the crowd egged on both women. Somehow, despite their distance he could hear Saul and Zolomon clearly as if they were right next to him.

Saul: I’m not sure Amber can make a comeback here, Ambrosia’s just beating the life out of her.

Zolomon: That’s true, this is why she’d never be able to cope at even the thought of being slammed through a table, let alone cutting someone into tiny pieces like Ambrosia has.

Saul: There are times I look at her and feel ashamed that she’s my daughter.

Zolomon: I know your pain Saul, that’s why I’m with Ambrosia all the way.

Playing to the crowd, Ambrosia climbs to the second rope and gives the middle finger to the fans who seem to cheer her on as if they are on her side as well as Saul and Zolomon, seeing Amber as the weaker side who needs to be destroyed and put away where nobody can discover her remains for eternity. Hopping down onto the canvas, Ambrosia begins slowly licking along the cheek of her blonde opponent before dragging her away from the turnbuckle and connecting with an irish whip that sent Amber into the ropes, the momentum and the rebound as the ropes snapped back to their original position snapping her back towards Ambrosia who just stands waiting with arms outstretched as if to hug her opponent. The extremely surprised referee watched, recognising in an instant what the Harlequin of Hardcore was about to do as he’d seen it any times before, sometimes even as he knelt to one side on one knee to have the opponent’s spine crushed across it. Amber found herself rushing towards Ambrosia’s waiting limbs with no way of halting herself, Ambrosia sweeping the blonde up off her feet, swinging around and using the extra momentum caused by nature’s force of perpetual motion to add extra impact when she slams Amber down hard with S.C.A.R. while the fans cheer her on.

Saul: Second Chapter of Absolution Reborn, what a move!

Zolomon: What a girl Saul, we were Absolution for a number of years and now here is our seed, our handiwork, daddy’s little sequel on the verge of making yet another snuff movie starring that weakling that tries to overpower her thoughts.

Saul: Wait a minute, we may see yet further punishment, that’s my girl, break her in half!

Zolomon: If she weren’t so busy trying to snap Amber into pieces with that single leg crab, she’d be making jokes about filthy little blonde whores getting crabs.

The fans cheer and chant while Amber lies face down, trying to struggle out of the move wracked in agony while Ambrosia keeps hold of Amber’s leg, clenching her teeth and wrenching back as hard as she can. Amber ignores everything but the pain and the fight t o reach the ropes, seeing them not too far away while the masked referee stands watching nearby, wondering what he should do about this situation, trying to act like the usual referees do but unable to due to the fact they would be concerned about a person in obvious pain and try to ask whether they could continue or not, a task made harder by him not only speechless all the time and never making a sound plus he was quite enjoying watching Amber suffer and scream out. It were as if Ambrosia was doing something to please him again, humiliating the side to her that came first, seemed vulnerable like she was until that moment she murdered a fellow classmate for daring to mock her once people found out who her father was at the same time that she was also told.

Ambrosia: Let me hear you scream you worthless bitch!

Almost as if a call and response and in reply to the demand, Amber lets loose an agonising scream, piercing through the air in a way he hadn’t heard since he and Ambrosia slowly cut and sliced somebody after parading them in front of the webcam for Hollyweird, the two finding the pleas and blood curdling shouts amusing and part of the fun of torturing people even if most of the time it was by Ambrosia’s hand since she got more pleasure from cutting somebody and seeing their blood seep out. His memories were quickly halted and interrupted midway through by another excruciatingly loud scream, this one more orgasmic in tone. Lifting his head from the pain on Amber’s face, he stared at Ambrosia’s back as her head was tilted towards the rafters, her eyes closed tight and mouth wide open as a continuous and high pitched scream emitted from within her, audibly enjoying causing this pain even if it were to a side of her she despised.

Saul: Amber’s about to crack like a walnut, the look on her face is just priceless.

Zolomon: I don’t think we’re the only ones enjoying this, Ambrosia’s just as thrilled.

Just as it seems Amber is about to give up, she finally manages one last crawl and pushes herself just close enough to the ropes to touch them with her fingers, forcing Ambrosia to break the hold. The Harlequin of Hardcore doesn’t look too pleased, kicking and stamping all over Amber’s legs and back while screaming that she’s going to “seriously fuck you up you stupid cunt!” and threatening Amber that she’ll wish she’d given up when she had the chance. Grabbing her by the dreadlocks, Ambrosia sneers in her opponent’s face, spitting in it but awakening something deep down inside Amber, the diminutive blonde showing the exact same facial expression as Ambrosia, an aggressive tinge coming across her face as she drills the Harlequin of Hardcore with a vicious headbutt that stuns her momentarily, just long enough to leap into the air and bring her down with a Codebreaker.

Lying back staring at the lights, Ambrosia seems almost out of it as Amber rolls her over, kneeling on her back and grabbing at the long black hair of her opponent before pulling Ambrosia’s head back and sitting down with a camel clutch. The crowd’s roaring becomes even harder to distinguish, just a solid wall of noise with no idea to tell whether it is cheering or booing, all the while Amber is pulling back on Ambrosia’s chin as much as possible until she falls backwards, landing on the mat flat on her back between Ambrosia’s legs as she continues to lie face down but as the blonde sits up ready to lock the move in again quickly before Ambrosia can escape, she notices something in her hands. Ambrosia’s head, still wracked in the mix of pain and pleasure she was feeling from the harsh camel clutch but completely detached from the rest of her body, blood pouring out of the open wound on the neck as if a hosepipe had been left on, soaking the canvas in crimson as the sound of a bell rings out and Amber stands with her hands raised high in the air in victory, clutching Ambrosia’s head in one hand as a sort of macabre trophy.

She’d done it, Amber Manning had defeated Ambrosia and now it seemed that the dominant personality really was that blonde woman that he saw as weak and pathetic. How could this have happened? Ambrosia was the toughest, most violent person he’d known, second only to her father Saul yet somehow she’d been defeated in combat by the one person who could defeat her: herself. It seemed surprising to say the least, considering Ambrosia had been undefeated in her time in MCW’s rings – even if she herself questioned him after the contest in which they had to face each other as well as Roman Steeler and Eric Sailes for the newly created Bloodlust championship at Nightmare Before Christmas, feeling the honour of being the very first to hold that belt but asking whether he’d thrown the match in her favour since she honestly believed he had the match won himself – and yet here she was, a headless corpse lying in a pool of her own blood in the middle of the ring, losing to herself and suffering perhaps the biggest, most abject defeat she possibly could. Maybe this proved that perhaps blondes weren’t so weak and helpless after all?

As suddenly as he’d discovered himself standing in the middle of a conflict between the two personalities trapped within the same body, he now found himself back in that hospital room with Amber lying asleep in the bed, still wearing the hospital gown, still tucked up under the white covers as if the battle he’d just witnessed had never happened. He looked around the room, staring at the mirrors on the walls for what seemed like hours to ensure that he was truly alone with Amber, that he wouldn’t again see Ambrosia standing on the other side of that glass smiling and waving at him with her head reattached to her torso but no sign nor trace of her seemed to exist. He realised what he had to do, rising to his feet after discovering that he was kneeling at Amber’s bedside and stood looking down upon her face. The monster moved his hand closer to her face, as if he were about to strangle her to death as she slept but in a rare show of affection, the Avatar of Avarice instead gently moved his fingers through her long blonde hair, almost caressing it as a lover might despite him seeing Ambrosia as nothing more than a sisterly figure. He’d never shown Ambrosia any kind of emotion, even when she gently kissed his mask and now here he was stroking her hair as if it were the last time he might ever see her.

She stirred in her sleep, unaware that a vicious and violent monster was standing there with a gentle touch upon her, not wishing her harm as he’d tried to keep her from harm while they were tag team partners and regularly spending time together on their immoral crusade to help the degenerates and supposed “lesser people” find their moment to shine where all others abandoned them or glossed over them in favour of the more popular and “picture perfect models” that society generally accepted despite the vacuous nature of such “beautiful people”. How ironic that although he saw Ambrosia as beautiful, without the makeup and the dyed black hair, she was even more radiant than usual. He finally finished the gentle caressing of her blonde dreadlocks and moved away from the bed, making his way to the door and gripping the handle for a second time, pulling the door toward himself and standing in the entrance to the room. With one last look over his shoulder at the sleeping female in the hospital bed, he turned and walked away, leaving her alone....perhaps forever.....




Testing the Effects of Madness.....


His eyes opened as if her were in a deep slumber for a lifetime, seeing only the edges of the eyeholes that were cut from the mask that he wore and the grey, decaying ceiling above him with a singular light bulb hanging down and lit, emitting a dark orange glow due to the amount of dust, dirt and grime upon the glass surface that housed the innards that caused such a glow. He sat up, finding that he was seated on the dusty ground with its bare concrete that spread out to all corners of this room, crawling along the walls to the ceiling above and creating a concrete prison, a box from which he couldn’t escape save for an iron door that was rusty and far from looking clean itself, like it had been used and abused for decades. Using his bare hands with no thought to what may lurk on the ground to cut and infect him such as rusty metal, broken glass or whatever else may be lying nearby on the floor, he used every strength within to twist his torso to one side and make his way onto one knee.

With every fibre in his thigh at full force and the blood pumping through the tightened muscle, he used his leg strength to push himself upright, standing on both feet to survey the room further. What he found was both disorienting and welcoming all at once, a strange duality that more than personified his own dualities in life and mind. While he found it inviting due to the decay of the walls, the crumbling pieces of concrete and dust emanating and leaving a fine powdery residue upon the floor, it was also nightmarish in tone due to the absolute silence that filled the room, the uneasy feeling that the decaying room gave off as well as the feeling that he may be trapped here for a long time, if not until someone or something entered through that door to put an end to his life. The conflict inside his mind regarding how he should react to being placed here for whatever purpose troubled him as he continued to look around the room, past the mound of burlap lying against one wall and back to that door, deciding that he should at least attempt to open it and see what would be on the other side, perhaps even walk away and forget all about this room.

Walking towards it, he thought he could see the burlap mound move slightly, stopping and turning his head to stare at it but seeing nothing as if his eyes were playing tricks on him. It certainly wouldn’t be the first time that had happened. Ignoring it to continue his attention on the door, he turned and came face to face with something he hadn’t noticed in the dim light in the room before, something he should be used to seeing whenever he awakes in a strange place under unusual circumstances; a tape recorder, dangling from the ceiling by a thin cord of string, still and lifeless with no sign of movement in any direction. Reaching out and grabbing that recorder in his hand, he tugged and snapped the string with ease and looked down at the object. It was silver and grimy with signs of abuse like it had been dropped or thrown multiple times over its lifespan with the buttons within easy reach of his fingertips. He pushed the play button, watch as the recorder whirred into life the moment the button was depressed with a click, listening as a familiar voice emanated from the small speaker surrounded by the hiss of a cassette within the plastic casing.

“Welcome to your new nightmare Vitriol. For months now you have run roughshod over the competition, striking fear into the hearts of all who come across you due to your physical appearance and your actions of brutality and remorseless violence. There was a reason that I stood in the shadows watching and guiding your every move, along with the moves of my own flesh and blood. You see Vitriol....Absolution is coming to an end. My task was to see you become my successor, to watch you take my mantle by force and sit upon my throne of decadence as the most violent monster in existence.

Do not fret at my slow march towards death for I do not fear it and you, as my surrogate son, have nothing to fear when I pass. Ambrosia is finding out this same information through a test I have given her but for you, consider this your final task. I am leaving you for my place in the immortal realm and I have spirited away my daughter; in doing so, you will both learn to lead your lives alone. It may seem strange considering my tests for the two of you that are geared more towards teamwork but I don’t want you to get too complacent in relying on others.

That is why you have this one last task. You need to learn the art of being alone in the world and still maintaining your dominance and overall presence upon the world. Upon your arrival to MCW, you were flanked by Michelle Richards until you rightfully replaced her with Ambrosia but now, with her gone and you still holding the Tag Team titles, you must prove yourself worthy as I know you are. The Avatar of Avarice was a name bestowed upon you with great honour and respect due to your determination to win no matter what the cost and that has been proven with the amount of body bags lying in your wake and the number of high profile victims added to your tally but don’t take your next challenge lying down.

Complacency is the downfall of mankind, the seed that is planted whenever somebody holds a position near the top for a long time or whenever a person consigns themselves to the same fate day after day. While it is true that SkaFace hold no challenge compared to what you are truly capable of, do not make the mistake of seeing them as an easy ride. The so-called Lethal Coalition saw everybody else as an easy ride when they walked into the battle royal that determined the team that would stand above all others but their sheer arrogance and ego led to their downfall at the hands of yourself and Ambrosia. Neither of those members have done anything interesting to stake a claim for the Tag Team titles since then and it was only when you relayed the message that you are ready to defend those championship belts against SkaFace on your own that a team was forced to step forwards and accept the challenge.

Even so Vitriol, you have the credentials for a truly horrific and bloody victory to fall into your hand but never allow them to be seen as an easy victim as those who fell foul of your antics with my daughter were. SkaFace may be just as pathetic and weak as those others seen on Hollyweird over the months but until you are announced as the winner of the match and have both championships handed back to you where they belong, never give them room to contemplate their next move. Remember the creed of our family, of The Trinity and remember it well for it will serve you not only in your test shortly but in your outright victory over the team who dare to make an attempt at your titles. There is nothing more I could teach you Vitriol and I feel proud to have looked upon you as a son. You are worthy of becoming the next Absolution but to do so, you must overcome the overwhelming loneliness that will encompass you as you strive to continue your journey, your quest for merciless animosity toward those who would stand before you and block your path.”

The recording ended and Saul’s voice left the room, the echoes of his booming voice evaporating into the atmosphere to be replaced with just the gentle hissing of the cassette. His finger pushed down the stop button and he continued his fixed gaze upon the equipment, placing it down on the floor and rising back up still staring at the recorder. Saul was dying? How? Why? What could he do to change this? He’d viewed Saul as a father figure, mostly because he’d never known his own father and since finally meeting the vicious monster that had called himself Absolution for several decades, he felt the need to try to impress Saul, make him feel as if he were worthy to partner with Saul’s daughter. It were as if he was trying to impress a parent and allow them to see him as a grown adult, make that parent feel proud and consider their achievements worthy.

There were times when he thought he’d done something wrong and possibly angered Saul, given the feeling that he should continually look over his shoulder in case Saul was there ready to strike for upsetting him or shaking his head in a disapproving manner. One such time was when he threw Ambrosia around the room like a sick little game between two children trying to hurt each other for fun and Saul walked in, spotting his daughter lying flat on her back atop a table giggling while the masked monster stood before her ready to strike again. One other time was just after Nightmare Before Christmas, the pair in a sort of confrontation with Ambrosia still covered in blood and with holes puncturing her body from the slams onto thumbtacks and the barbed wire that snaked around her during the Bloodlust title match the pair were involved in and still unable to move properly due to the horrific fall she took from the top of the Highway to Hell structure courtesy of Priest that sent her crashing through an announce table.

Ambrosia had become angry, yelling at him as to why he held the Bloodlust title in his hands as if he were somehow jealous or wanted it for himself, screaming in frustration as she thrust that title in his mask and seemed desperate for him to snatch the belt from her and prove that he wanted that object more than their partnership and having to watch as he did indeed take the championship from her hands but immediately discarded it. She’d watched as he tossed the belt into a corner of the room and clutched her wrists harshly, staring into her eyes and letting her know where his loyalties lay while Saul watched from the shadows. He’d told the pair of them shortly after that he’d felt disapproving at first until he saw that the Avatar of Avarice cared not for titles but for the alliance he held with the Harlequin of Hardcore. It wasn’t that he wanted the Bloodlust title and felt a jealousy that Ambrosia had held it, it’s just that while he fought hard to get it, there was still a sense of pride in Ambrosia attaining that belt and proving herself the toughest, tougher even than Eric Sailes and Roman Steeler.

At least the belt was a part of The Trinity, that’s the way he saw it, whether he held the Bloodlust title or Ambrosia did although he had to try to convince her that he hadn’t thrown the match to allow her the win. The pair had an “all for one” mentality that most other teams never had, which would be surprising considering the chaotic and anarchic nature of the duo. Even if they wanted to watch the world burn just for the fun of it, their partnership was tightly knit, not necessarily attached at the hip but still respectful of one another and aware of each other’s needs, whether one wished to commit an act of violence or whether one of them needed to be aided during battle. He wondered what Ambrosia was doing now, where she was and whether he’d get to see her again. He’d never had a sister in his life even though he’d discovered – and kept hidden – the fact that Lilith Evans was a half-sibling but even then, he and Lilith were never close nor could they be due to his very nature and intimidating appearance.

No, Ambrosia was the closest he’d ever felt to having a female sibling and he was beginning to miss her already. Nevertheless, he had a test to pass, the apparent final test by Saul to help aid him in the abject loneliness that Saul had informed him to get used to now that The Trinity – so named by Saul in reference to the Holy Trinity but twisted in such a way to have it as “the Father, the Daughter and the Unholy Vitriol” as he would occasionally joke but more compared to the Unholy Trinity of Satan, the Antichrist and the False Prophet by some – was now going to be no more. It felt strange but....was there movement again from that burlap mound? He moved closer, wondering if he was going insane already without Saul and Ambrosia and deftly prodded the burlap with his boot. No reaction. Doing so again, he felt as though he were indeed going crazy but decided that he might as well remove the burlap so that he could be reassured and never have those tricks being played on his mind again, especially since he associated burlap with Saul thanks to the cloak he wore and the sacks full of thumbtacks that Ambrosia brought out during her matches.

It was the kind of thing they’d do, especially Saul with his mind games. Make him go through a test to learn the art of surviving on his own and yet be hidden underneath his distinctive burlap in the same room the entire time, observing his protégé up close. He knelt down and grabbed at the burlap, clutching it tightly and tugging it away but what he saw was a shock to the system, more than the shock he received when Ambrosia zapped him in the back of the neck with a taser to help set him up for a test. Lying there was the pale face of his tag team partner smiling at him, her black hair looking tousled due to the burlap placed over her plus the fact she was lying on the ground. He stepped back slightly shocked and definitely not something he would have expected despite his suspicions, watching as she lay there not even attempting to move and throw the burlap off her torso.

Ambrosia: Hey Vitty, did ya miss me?

He continued to stare, his eyes meeting hers as she fixed her lopsided grin with teeth bared, not aggressively but in a gesture of pure, unadulterated fun. She could be like this at times, the playfulness that many had seen courtesy of her promos was nothing compared to how she could be in private when it was just herself, her tag partner and her father, at least she could be extremely playful when she didn’t have a lust and a craving for extreme violence and pain, whether to herself or others, she didn’t mind which.

Ambrosia: Hey, I can read your thoughts you know. You don’t have to think such nice things because I’m around. Oh and all you have to do is just think something and it’ll be like a nice conversation, sounds good huh?

“But how are you able to do this?”

Ambrosia: I don’t know, I just am. Now come on, anorexic supermodels taking people on boats? Me taking on my birth personality in a wrestling match and losing? Standing here for ages in an old dusty room with thoughts running through your head like a cliché, are you really this desperate? What next, a whole part dedicated to somebody in the future writing about you like you’re some sort of god? Please.

“Then what else would you suggest? Maybe if you hadn’t walked away after Lilith threw you off the stage and gone to do whatever it is you’re doing now I wouldn’t have to rely on myself to defend the Tag Team titles that WE won TOGETHER!”

Ambrosia: Don’t get mad at me Vitriol, come on, you’re the Avatar of Avarice, the cause of so much destruction, do you really think you need me when you’re just as capable of continuing alone?

“You know very well that I never speak because I prefer actions instead of words. How else am I meant to let people know what I want?”

Ambrosia: How about you just walk right up to Lance Williams, stuff a barbed wire baseball bat down his redneck throat and take the World Heavyweight title? Isn’t that a great way of letting everyone know what you want?

“No one will get that message though, especially Rayne Young.”

Ambrosia: Excuses Vitriol. You were never full of them before. Lets face it, you should be the World champion, not Lance. How did he even get a title shot before you anyway? Now Priest, PRIEST has a chance at becoming what you should have been a long time ago? It just shows right there that Rayne is more willing to put people he knows he can beat at the top so that when he decides he’s bored with sitting around holding a tea party with cancer, he can come back and have a big Rocky Balboa moment and beat the odds to win the belt again.

“What are you trying to say?”

Ambrosia: You know exactly what I’m trying to say Vitriol. Is it any coincidence that you’re only now having to defend the Tag Team titles and haven’t had your rightful shots at the Bloodlust, Motor City, World Heavyweight titles? You’re too powerful, too destructive and MCW are running scared knowing that if you held anything, even if you was alone, there’d be nobody that could defeat you. You’re a monster but right now, it’s not the impression I’m getting.

“I’m still a monster, you just haven’t been around lately to see that.”

Ambrosia: Oh yeah, sure, blame me not being around for “not seeing it”. Excuse me while I tell you to go shove that up your fucking ass. What kind of monster gets placed in a handicap match that’s obviously only there to allow a guy to watch his son try to get over with fans when talent and personality obviously have never met Jake so far while the long time enemy is partnered up with a true monster like you in a situation where it’s pretty clear what’s going on.

“And what exactly was going on then if you’re so in tune with the way the world works?”

Ambrosia: Rayne wanted to weaken Priest and stop him getting near the World title and by putting him in an alliance with you, he was hoping you’d do the job for him and rip Priest limb from limb like you should’ve when you had chance and had him at your mercy.

“Easy for you to say, you was lying in the rubble of a broken table slipping in and out of consciousness with a stupid smile on your face.”

Ambrosia: That means what exactly? That you did all you could? Don’t make me fucking laugh, you let Priest get away without butchering him and putting him in his own grave so now here you are acting like part of you has no confidence. I swear to whatever god wants to try and claim my soul, if I could hurt you myself to bring back the unfeeling psycho I know you can be then I would.

“This coming from the woman who stopped acting the same way and cried in my arms after you’d been in the freezer.”

Ambrosia: You take that back!

“Why? Does it upset you?”

Ambrosia: Shut up, I’m Ambrosia, the woman you called the Harlequin of Hardcore, I’m not that snivelling and pathetic bitch Amber, not any more.

“Gonna cry Amber?”

Ambrosia: SHUT THE FUCK UP! I’m NOT Amber, I’m Ambrosia, get it right you stupid cunt. AM-BRO-SIA!

“Like the food of the gods, right? Cause I’d say right now you’re more like a side order of salad that gets left on the edge of the plate untouched.”

Ambrosia: Well I’ll show you, just you wait and see what me and daddy have planned for some bitch whose only experience in feasting are to either provide clients with a table full of food or let them snack on that disgusting area between her legs. Besides, I wasn’t the one who pictured a fictional character called Medinas finding ambrosia at the home of the gods and watching an evil that represents you fighting some pointless representations of Eric Sailes and Segador am I?

“Just get this over with, tell me what you have to say and be done with it.”

Ambrosia: Fine. Remember how daddy would talk about D-Day, the moment when everything ends and all the riches and extravagances of the world would be destroyed? You have to be a part of that, the instigator of your own D-Day by taking down SkaFace and shattering the hopes of anyone foolish enough to believe that you can be stopped and toppled by anyone other than by your own hand.

“Huh?”

Ambrosia: We were always told by dad and his constant lectures that the only things that could stop the two of us were ourselves, right? That’s why I left you alone with the Tag Team titles, so that I could beat my weaker side by corrupting it, making Amber as bad as the Harlequin part of me. You have that same power, only you can truly defeat yourself, no one else has that ability. SkaFace are nothing but a bunch of pubescent teens thinking they can take on the nightmare of Vitriol and survive as new champions when there are a lot of people tougher that have all fallen thanks to you.

It was you that did all that work Vitriol, you got us the Tag Team title win, you earned me the Bloodlust title even though the win was attributed to me and my own abilities. You showed Priest just who was the true terrifying monster capable of destruction and now guess what? You made such an impression on him that he had to steal your crucifixion idea, the one he stopped as we were about to nail that bitch Michelle to a cross – and guess what? He got recognised for doing it and awarded a chance to challenge for the World title while you wanted to crucify just for the sheer joy of watching Michelle in agony and to look at the shocked and horrified faces of those fans when they saw a steel nail smashed through solid bone.

Now SkaFace think they can take on the beast who attempted that for fun? You know the worst part? I heard that everybody was supporting SkaFace, that those two are the favourites to defeat you and take the titles as if the name Vitriol means nothing any more. Can you really live like that, knowing that your chaos and devastation so far has all been for nothing, with people more concerned about a jumped up B-movie actor or some British bitch who can’t even speak English properly? Seriously Vitriol, find a mirror, look at yourself in it and then headbutt the glass and take a piece to slice open their throats and show the world that YOU are the dominant one, YOU are the champion and YOU are gonna be the one walking away with the win.

Really, they should take a page out of your book because not talking will help them since Matt Davis can’t string words together without sounding like a moron and Richard Fairplay needs to speak up because nobody can hear him over those loud Hawaiian shirts he wears. Their in ring actions though, if you lose to them you deserve to be burned alive with hot oil and join Wormwood as dad’s pathetic servant because lets face it Vitriol, SkaFace are people who get lucky in matches. They were lucky that Green Order were so bad they make Plan 9 From Outer Space look like a Best Picture Oscar winner and lucky that Lethal Coalition were so shocked from their ego crushing loss to us that they proved incapable of gaining a win, like it’s somehow humiliating to be beaten by a monster and the daughter of someone who knows them well.

“Matt Davis beat Dazz though, that proves something doesn’t it?”

Ambrosia: Proves what, that he got lucky against a drug addict? Didn’t you see that Dazz had him beat but decided to stare at the pretty colours in his head instead of following up? I know who you are Vitriol.

He was taken aback slightly by the comment, wondering what she meant by it. He continued to stare at her, unsure how to react and waiting to see if she had anything more to say about it, quickly finding himself satisfied and certainly not disappointed in his expectations of her reiteration.

Ambrosia: You’re a monster, a destructive force that can steamroll over anybody you wish to crush so what makes SkaFace any different? You could destroy them whenever you want and that’s exactly what you have to do at D-Day and prove that all of the doubters are typical of this pathetic world. That the non-conformists like us will get the last laugh by defeating the favourites put forward by the pathetic fucks who revel in mediocrity as long as it looks the way they prefer instead of banking on those of us with the ability even if we don’t fit their special little mould.

“You could fit their mould though, you’re beautiful, even without the makeup and costumes.”

Ambrosia: Aww, really? That doesn’t mean you wanna fuck me does it?

“No of course not.”

Ambrosia: Shame....Oh well, look at how close we’ve gotten, our partnership making us like a demented family and this is the first time I’ve heard you be so doubtful. Lighten up Vitty, we both know deep down that when they’re clearing the rubble of the Joe Louis Arena after D-Day, they’ll find the corpses of Matt Davis and Richard Fairplay with the imprint of the sole of your boot planted firmly into their bodies while you will just be a shadow in the distance still carrying two gleaming pieces of gold in your hands.

His head tilts to one side, his hair dangling with his ear almost reaching his shoulder as Ambrosia looked up at him with a massive smile on her face, her attempts to reassure and motivate him having done their job. Moving her face to try and bite at the piece of burlap that covered her head, she looks up in the hope he will take the hint and cover her back up, watching as he leans down and grabs at the material before looking back up at her, almost taken aback as he sees that Ambrosia’s face has lost the makeup, shed the black in her hair and left her looking natural with the blonde locks of her other self, Amber Manning. He keeps staring before looking down at his hand to see that he is gripping the burlap so tightly his hand has become tense and the joints of his fingers white.

Loosening his grip, he looks back at her again one last time before covering her upon her silent request but gains yet another shock, one big enough to knock him backwards into a seated position on the ground, heart pounding a mile a minute. Amber’s head had been entirely replaced, this time by another female with tanned skin and black hair, blood red seen in parts of her hair as if her scalp had been cut in specific areas and ran in perfectly straight lines, not staining other areas of her hair nor even the flesh of her face or neck. This was....no, it couldn’t be surely? Why would she appear before him, HOW could she appear before him? His eyes grew wider behind the mask as he clambered to his feet, his back to this person as he tried to calm himself, deciding to look back but upon doing so, finding that she had gone to be replaced by nothing. The area where he had seen Ambrosia, seen Amber, seen....her....was empty. He searched wide amongst that pile but found nothing other than empty burlap sacks heaped on top of each other as if to create the illusion of someone lying there, no sign of a quick escape. He’d been alone in this room the entire time, even the conversation he had taken part in was all in his head. Was this the test to get him used to being alone?

Perhaps he was truly going insane.....




A Writer's Torment, A Monster's Lament....


The strangest of the strange, the unusual aspect of life, both things he felt at home within, like a cocoon of the weird engulfing him, keeping him warm and safe encased within its confines like a straitjacket. It seemed quite odd that he could recall an object such as that in an endearing manner, especially since most people consider the idea of wearing such a thing as horrific and nightmare inducing. That was the nature of his mind though, that dangerous mind that yielded nothing but torture and murderous thoughts, the same mind that nobody – not even Saul and Ambrosia – could ever hope to fathom. Even those two souls who shared almost every waking moment with him since October never knew fully what he had in store or what he was truly capable of, only the Avatar of Avarice himself could tell whenever a silvery strand manifested within his subconscious, slowly swirling until it became clear what this thought was trying to tell him.

It was a good thing this monster was never considered “normal” from the outset because a “normal” person would feel terrified whenever that feeling washed over their brain as if their very essence was bathed and submerged in water, feeling a gentle current move from the front of his brain all the way to the very back and bringing along a slightly fuzzy and prickly feeling as it swept across his head. That was the feeling that allowed him to know that a violent thought was going to come to him, showing him an action he could perform for his own amusement and fun – if he ever felt such emotions, he wasn’t entirely sure even now – or ideas that would shock and disgust most people but would allow him the freedom to prove to himself that he could get a feeling that could pass as enjoyment. It was this kind of violent thought process that allowed him to come up with the idea to try and literally nail his former manager Michelle Richards to a cross late last year, almost managing to drive the first nail into her open palm and straight through her hand into the wood until Priest rushed out to stop it happening.

The fact that Priest had helped Michelle escape a violent fate such as crucifixion mere weeks after defeating Vitriol in a Buried Alive match where he tried to blow him up once in the grave……add to that the bloodbath that had taken place in Highway to Hell V at the Nightmare Before Christmas event, the first time that match had taken place between two opponents with no World title on the line, only the lives of the two locked into that demonic structure and the fact that during the match, Priest showed his own wicked and violent streak by clutching Ambrosia by the throat atop the cage after she tried to help her tag team partner and ended up connecting with a devastating chokeslam that sent the Harlequin of Hardcore crashing all the way down through an announce table…….

It was then slightly bewildering that on an edition of Mayhem, Vitriol would see himself in his first match of 2010 as part of a team with his partner being his bitter enemy Priest. It seemed especially strange considering that the Avatar of Avarice had debuted in MCW purely to target Priest, first by sending Michelle to torment him for several months until the sinister steel mask was first seen. Could it be that Mayhem’s General Manager had an ulterior motive, knowing that putting the two bitter rivals together in a partnership against his son Jake and the familial pairing of Kayla Jones and Glory Braddock in a handicap match would see to it that while the monster and his bigger enemy could decimate their opponents, they would be more likely to implode their own temporary “one night only” bond due to their sense of wanting to put the other out of the circle of life forever.

“Misery acquaints a man with strange bedfellows”

That was a phrase he’d heard several times before, even being uttered by Saul himself at one point when shaking his head and smiling at the surrogate son he’d taken under his wing and the daughter he loved both interacting with each other, playfully attacking each other with vigour and unrestrained violence. The pairing seemed unusual anyway to outside eyes but the things they did privately amongst the dangerous trio and away from the outside world would’ve received even more furtive glances than usual. Both Vitriol and Ambrosia liked to indulge in the type of sibling rivalry enjoyed by countless others only their play fighting degraded into a real desire to hurt one another. That was what separated them from other tag teams, the fact that not only were most teams single sex with two males or two females while this pairing involved one of each, they also didn’t share the same respect for each other’s bodies in trying to keep each other away from harm.

No, Vitriol knew of Ambrosia’s strange needs, the sexual arousal she felt from being beaten up, crashed through tables, thrown back first onto thumbtacks and the maniacal, almost orgasmic laughter that followed whenever she was delivered a blow that could cause injury. This was why he loved to throw her around a room, pummelling her with his fists until a cut opened up on her forehead before wrapping cords and wires around her throat to almost choke the life out of her while she giggled and struggled to escape but not too much that she’d escape before she received as much fun and pleasure as possible. In return, Ambrosia would suddenly smash wooden chairs or bar stools across his back while he wasn’t looking and burst into spontaneous laughter, rush at him with her arms flailing wildly to attack him until he threw her off and stared at her from behind that mask as she sat on the floor looking up at him before rising to her feet and pulling his head down to plant a gentle and tender kiss upon the temple of that cold harsh steel mask.

It was the sort of strange partnership he shared with Ambrosia where they showed a love for each other through violence and a mutual enjoyment of causing as much destruction as possible. What made Ambrosia laugh more than seeing somebody suffer through physical or psychological torture was the constant rumour that the two were embroiled in some sort of love affair, that their relationship went beyond a tag team partnership. While it’s true they were extremely close, they viewed themselves more as a brother and sister duo than anything deeper. They were known for being one and the same despite them not coming face to face until several months into Vitriol’s reign of terror in MCW which was made all the more surprising when Ambrosia got hurt at the hands of Lilith Evans and never reappeared as Vitriol’s fellow Tag Team champion, instead the duality of Vitriol coming to the fore as his enemy became an ally, albeit for just less than a half hour.

This was such as the tale will forever tell, of the monster that paired with his bitter enemy and found himself walking that lonely path of destruction until finding himself all alone in the face of a pairing who worked just as well together as he had with Ambrosia. It was such that

Why couldn’t he write? The story was there, the history and yet he was struggling to keep up with how to continue. He was a writer so how could he be drawing a blank on something so rich and textured as the tale of Vitriol? It didn’t matter that all of those events surrounding the monster known as the Avatar of Avarice, the Despicable Decimator and the Crown Prince of Chaos all happened a very long time ago but it still happened within this writer’s lifetime. He’d written and published best selling biographies of celebrities, some of whom were long deceased before he was even born and yet something like Vitriol’s story, something that took place during his early childhood and helped shape and define not just professional wrestling but also the world since the events finally ended couldn’t be talked about because of a difficulty in conveying how it all happened. Writer’s block happens to the best of people but working to a deadline with the publisher looking to read the first draft before approving it and sending to the printer….They needed it by Friday at the absolute latest but while he’d written most of it, there was still the final chapter yet to finish.

He sat back in the chair, leaning his head right back so that he could feel the back of his skull propped up on the back of his neck thanks to the skin and muscle that make their presence known whenever a person wishes to sit in such a manner. Looking up at the ceiling for a few seconds, the writer closed his eyes and released a slow exhale, trying to rack his brain and figure out how to word this properly to keep the interest of whoever might purchase this book in future, wanting to allow the consumer to reach the end and feel satisfied that they could now know the history of such an unusual if dangerous creature as Vitriol after reading such a piece. The thought of reviewers writing negative responses, calling it a prolific example of a biographer who has run out of steam and with nothing more interesting to say as they had with his last book, an account of British musician John Lydon in his days with the band Public Image Limited after he’d left the Sex Pistols and dropped his Johnny Rotten moniker.

The thing was, even a subject as interesting as Lydon, as talented and in tune to popular culture in such a way that he could leave a genre defining and influential punk band and form something that became one of the early New Wave bands and then influenced what would become trance and its more mainstream counterparts just didn’t seem too interesting to a lot of people and as such, he suffered heavy losses with piles of unsold books lingering in stores for a long time. He’d already written all he could about Nelson Mandela, Abraham Lincoln, Joseph Stalin and other known figures as diverse as Ghandi and Arnold Schwarzenegger and now, after deciding that history had maintained a sort of romantic vision of this monster named Vitriol that terrorised professional wrestling for less than a year but who left a long lasting impression that remained for decades since, he’d started to write but now here he was, stuck on where to take things.

He wondered if this trouble happened when the book The Romance of the Three Kingdoms was written hundreds of years after the Three Kingdoms period of China had taken place or when all of the stories and Gospels that helped shape the Bible caused a delay to the person who originally decided to put it all into one singular book for the masses to read, believe in and worship. If such history defining moments and books as those had hiccups along the way from conception to the first printed and published copy then surely a book about something as defining and important to world history as Vitriol’s story could progress no matter how many hours this writer spent trying to think how next to continue this chapter. A feeling rushed along his spine, like a dull ache that seemed to make him feel good opposed to being a bad thing, like his back had spent too much time slightly hunched as he sat with fingers against the keyboard, staring at a computer monitor as the words tumbled out through his hands, using both his own imagination to conjure up the images as best he could as well as the documents he’d acquired from other brief mentions in books already printed over the years and the internet’s vast source of content to aid him in making this book as accurate and true as possible. He didn’t want to have the book released and then discover that he’d got a small fact wrong or that he’d forgotten to include something that helped part of the overall story. That was the mistake of amateurs or those who wished to release books of a slightly biased opinion, he wasn’t like those people at all, his previous works and the high praise he’d received as one of the best biographers assured him of that.

Another sigh escaped his lips, his eyes opening as he lifted his head up the right way, staring at the computer screen before deciding that rather than risk headache and stiff joints by remaining here, he’d take the opportunity to have a slight break from typing any more. Pushing the chair back slightly allowed him to rise to his feet, stretching his legs, back and arms before leaning over the desk and moving the cursor towards the “Save” function, clicking on it once, a second time to make sure then pushed the keyboard drawer back into the desk and turned his back on the piece of wooden furniture. His throat and mouth felt dry anyway so why not have a coffee break since he needed time to think anyway? He walked barefoot across the carpeted floor of his office, out through the open doorway into the hall and then walked along that towards the kitchen, feeling the change in temperature as his skin touched down upon the tiles that adorned the floor. The window was open just slightly, enough to allow fresh air inside but not enough to have a blast of wind rush into the house.

From inside the kitchen, he could hear the sounds of the outside world, the almost quiet solitude of his neighbourhood with barely a car moving along the road and only the faint conversation of two older looking females across the street, hearing their voices but no coherent words at this distance. He didn’t wish to eavesdrop anyway, just feeling grateful that he could hear voices from those who were still wandering around in the world and not cooped up having to work to a strict publisher’s deadline as he was. Turning away from the window, he moved towards the kettle that stood on the counter, flicking the switch on the wall and then pushing a button on the kettle itself, hearing the water inside begin to boil as he reached for a cupboard door and opened it wide to grab a cup and plant it gently down. Closing one cupboard door and opening another to reach for the coffee jar that awaited him, he couldn’t help smiling to himself and remembering that old adage that “where one door closes, another one opens”.

Could that be true in life as it were when making a drink? He wasn’t sure as he reached for a spoon, planting it into the brown substance, ground beans packaged into a glass jar finding their escape route via the curved metal of the object he would soon use to stir them together with boiling water and sugar. After readying his drink, all he had to do now was wait for the kettle to finish boiling, preferring this method of making coffee due to his loathing of coffee makers and other such devices that he felt didn’t come close to the slight satisfaction in making a drink by your own hand. As he waited for the water to boil, his thoughts drifted to what more he could do for the book, how else to write about the events which he was sheltered from as they originally happened while he was a small child but had become more interested in as time went on. It almost seemed as if the biographies he’d written and released over his career as a writer so far were all practise for this one book about Vitriol, a book that could be his own masterpiece as “War and Peace” was to Leo Tolstoy or “A Christmas Carol” was for Charles Dickens.

Perhaps this work about such a prolific monster could be his version of Charles Darwin’s “Theory of Evolution”, albeit based more on facts as written by others in parts and not entirely created through his own discoveries as Darwin did when he was one of the few wanting to find out how and why things existed the way they had in his time. He’d certainly studied and thoroughly researched everything from Vitriol’s first murmurings courtesy of Michelle Richards making mention of a force greater than anything before seen right up until the last time people saw Vitriol with his demonic steel mask. It had fascinated him for a very long time and now finally, here was his chance to get that fascination and almost lifelong study into the public domain so that others might become as interested in it as he was. His thoughts were distracted by the click of the kettle and the slight rumbling caused as it came to the end of its boiling cycle, steam emanating from the spout and heating the air immediately above it before sighing as the water inside became more settled.

At this, he moved closer, finding that he’d propped himself against the counter as he waited and allowed his mind to drift and now had to take the few steps to grab the milk from the refrigerator, moving back towards the cup he’d laid out and pouring some of that milk inside before replacing the lid and putting it back, grabbing the handle of the kettle as he created his very own science experiment right there in his kitchen, different chemicals reacting with one another with the presence of heat before being stirred together via the spoon, seeing the results of his scientific experiment coming to life as a light brown liquid inside the cup. He grabbed the handle and lifted it to his mouth, taking a sip and swallowing that warm coffee, delighting in its taste and hoping that the caffeine kick it provided would also awaken something in his brain to aid in finishing this last chapter in his book. If that could happen, he’d be extremely pleased, especially if he managed to get it done before the day was gone and he had to retire for the night to bed, meaning that he could have some extra time to relax and clear his head for a few days until the publisher’s deadline, see if ideas came to the fore and made it necessary to edit or add some more text.

The pangs of hunger hit him as his stomach felt empty and yearned for food but he ignored it for now, wishing to use it as inspiration to help quicken the writing process although he had a feeling that before too long, the hunger would overtake his thoughts and distract him until he had something to eat. Deciding to have a quick snack, he grabbed an oat bar with pieces of strawberry embedded in it and walked back with both hands full towards his office again, placing the coffee down on the desk before unwrapping the oat bar and taking bites as he glanced over the words he’d written on the screen. So far it seemed a little good, trying to be as objective as possible considering it was his own work and readying himself for any criticism that might come his way from the publishers. There was a part of him that couldn’t quite figure out what to do next, knowing that he’d reached as far as Vitriol’s final few matches but unsure how to make them sound as interesting as he’d discovered they were to watch. It seemed funny that back when he was a small child and Vitriol existed, people used to talk about how books would be replaced by video archives so that certain events that couldn’t be properly described and had that “you had to see it for yourself” mentality would be more accurate than ever when that would be made possible but so far, despite him being a middle aged man now, the technology didn’t exist and people still had to rely on descriptive words and nouns and verbs to relate things such as movie clips and great sporting or historical moments such as man first landing on the Moon or Vitriol’s matches that changed the face of wrestling and opened people’s eyes worldwide.

It seemed slightly at odds that Vitriol could have influenced so much of the world and helped define the way things happened all over the planet, especially with the way he departed from MCW when considering his actions during his brief time there and how sickening some of those things were, from trying to nail a woman to a cross on live television to causing injury or being nearby when murder was committed by Saul Manning, things that would’ve had him go down as one of the most notorious monsters in history alongside the likes of Ed Gein and the Boston Strangler but instead saw the Avatar of Avarice lauded as someone who the population of Earth looked up to, took heed from, found hidden meanings within his work even if Vitriol didn’t intend for messages to even be portrayed. It was as if somehow sections of the population took his attempt to crucify Michelle Richards as a symbol of the boredom and death of the age of the bottle blonde, silicone enhanced female as the ultimate symbol of beauty and a shift towards the more natural look typically found in the streets rather than the glossy magazines.

What was even weirder to him was that Vitriol was nicknamed the Avatar of Avarice by his closest associate Ambrosia even though both by hers and Michelle’s admittance, Vitriol wasn’t too keen on earning championships and was more concerned with causing as much mayhem and chaos as possible. By that token, considering that avarice was another name for greed and a lust for the good things in life such as riches and even championship belts, it was strange. Saying that though, he remembered the stories he’d read and the old footage he’d seen of Vitriol’s final ever match where he defended the MCW Tag Team championships by himself against SkaFace. It had started with that team being young, hungry for glory and cocky enough to believe themselves as threats to Vitriol and Ambrosia, especially after defeating two lesser teams whose members were never remembered to become contenders to the championships. As history told, it took a few months for those title shots to be awarded with a battle for the belts but by then, Ambrosia had been injured so severely that she could no longer continue as Vitriol’s partner, choosing instead to move away and become a live-in maid for a wealthy socialite who housed parties of a certain nature for high flying clientele.

From what he remembered – although he’d probably have to research again to make sure he had all the details before typing it down as part of the book – Vitriol took it upon himself to defend those titles completely alone, even going so far as to prove he could by taking on yet another nameless team thrown together at the last moment comprising of the two best at such short notice, both hoping to rest the belts away from the monster but failing, the subsequent victory celebration being interrupted when a SkaFace member by the name of Richard Fairplay appeared from nowhere to attack Vitriol in the back with a single steel chair shot that did nothing but enrage the monster. It was meant to be a message that the contenders could strike anywhere at any time without Vitriol knowing until it was too late but from the varied sources that mentioned the events of that time stated, when it came to the match between champion and contenders at an event named D-Day, it proved that the naming of such an event would become prophecy.

The writer sat in the chair, relaxing and taking a sip of coffee as he polished off the last of the oat bar, feeling a slight ache in his wrists, especially the bone of the left arm, due to the massive amount of typing he’d done in such a short amount of time to try and reach that deadline. Gripping both hands around the cup as if cradling it to use his own body heat to keep the liquid within warm, he began to lean back deep in thought, remembering the texts written about that fateful D-Day event, remembering the many times he’d seen the footage from that history defining moment over and over in appreciation of the monster that helped shape the world he lived in today. SkaFace had seemed confident to begin with, almost picking up a win during several moments of that match but as time went on, they realised just how overwhelmed they truly were with the situation, that they were in over their heads with no way of escape. It was a moment that both they and some members of the public thought would belong to SkaFace but when it was all ended, Vitriol stood tall and proud clutching the Tag Team championships in his hands while both Richard Fairplay and Matt Davis lay decimated and broken on the ground, suffering pain and defeat.

SkaFace had suffered their own D-Day that night, the D standing for “Defeat”, “Decimate”, “Domination”, whichever of those the particular writers who recounted the events of that night wished to use. It all depended on whoever wrote their accounts or their version of events and their own feelings on what happened, just like with all history books and articles written about a past event it was subject to the feelings of a particular author. As far as he were concerned, despite being one of many across the world who looked to Vitriol as the person who helped change the world through his actions, he tried to be as impartial as he possibly could, presenting the story of this fascinating monster with both the good and the bad, the positive and the negative that makes up all forms of life and shapes all historical events. After all, there were many books published over the years talking positively about Vitriol and one or two from cynical people who tried to disparage the Avatar of Avarice as a bad influence on all just as there were people discrediting the life and work of Jesus Christ, Barack Obama and others through history. In fact, he still remembered childhood memories of George W Bush being mocked constantly until 2021 when it was revealed that Bush had subsidised a charity which eventually helped eradicate AIDS, making way for the worldwide adulation of the man and a large statue to be erected to honour him after his death.

He was a prolific writer and thus wouldn’t be coerced into such one sided bias, he would write the entire picture and leave out no details, spare no expense as far as the story telling aspects of that past time to ensure that anybody reading his newest piece of writing so that rather than a half-hearted version of events based on personal experience or feeling, he would present full coverage of every aspect regarding Vitriol to allow readers to interpret however they wish. The only trouble was coming up with a great way to convey those final moments, still struggling to end the chapter and the book in a way that made it as exciting and interesting as the rest of this book. Taking one more sip from his coffee, he felt a brainwave, striking him at just the right moment. Almost instantly, he was placing the cup down on the desk and watching as his fingers moved across the keyboard at speed, the sounds of tapping as his fingers struck those letters echoing around the room as he managed to describe the victory over Craig Chalmers and Brandon McCree, the subsequent attack by Richard Fairplay, the revenge Vitriol gained days later on Livewire by striking back at Fairplay after Richard’s match against Jay Williams and then finally, the latter half of the chapter talking about the emotions felt in that building when Vitriol went head to head against both members of SkaFace by himself and defeated both at the same time to retain the Tag Team championships as well as the aftermath of the match and the cult following that grew and evolved into a global worship that shaped the way the world worked, becoming even bigger than Christianity as a religion.

Within minutes, he’d managed to finish several paragraphs of text, finding that the rest of it was coming easily to him, pouring out and making him feel a satisfaction that he still had it, still had that inner talent for writing that had initially propelled him into becoming one of the world’s best writers and biographers. His reputation would be intact and a smile formed on his face as he carried on with his working, not even really thinking about what he was typing and just allowing it to flow naturally while his fingers moved at rapid pace all over the keyboard, performing a dance that happened to allow words and sentences to form before his very eyes. Before long, he was looking up at the screen while his hands were given chance to rest, re-reading what he had put down and finding that to his mind at least, it looked perfect. A few more seconds of typing and he was finally finished, his book done and ready to be sent to the publisher within a matter of days. His latest work was complete, a work that began with Michelle Richards first entering MCW to warn Priest over a period of time that his time would come to an end, included the arrival of Ambrosia and the pair’s domination, saw the pair torn apart by a woman who would be revealed as Vitriol’s real life half sister and end with SkaFace meeting their utter defeat at MCW D-Day 2010 in their failed attempt to snatch the Tag Team championships away from the Avatar of Avarice before he disappeared, leaving behind the mask that represented so much and meant a lot to those who would follow the path for the rest of their days.

After hitting save again, he sat back in the chair, sighing with relief that he was done and polishing off the rest of the coffee lying dormant in his cup nearby. Looking at the time on a clock hanging up on a wall, he noticed that he still had plenty of time left for today, which was a good thing because he didn’t wish to be late. In just a few more hours, the worldwide festival celebrating the life of Vitriol would begin with an amazing fireworks display, marking the start of a week of celebration and worship as it had been for decades, as commissioned by the world’s Government and Church Society, a group that overlooked the political and religious aspects of everyday life all over the planet. It was they who set up the annual week long tradition of worship and this week would also be the induction to the Vitriolic Sect for many thousands in a variety of countries, a ceremony that allowed youngsters of a certain age to be brought into the biggest religion on the planet in a similar fashion to the baptisms of the old religion of Christianity that existed before Vitriol’s impact was felt. The writer smiled, thanking the Avatar of Avarice for allowing such a feast of the body and soul upon the world, remembering his own induction into the Vitriolic Sect and looking forward to watching his young daughter commit herself to the same religion. He looked at a framed picture on a shelf that showed his daughter, smiling as a 17 year old, the daughter he loved more than anything, who he was dedicating this new book to in the opening credits. A daughter he named after the great Vitriol’s closest ally.

Her name was Amber.....