The Deadliest Conflict

deadly adj (deadlier, deadliest) fatal; implacable; (inf) tedious. * adv death-like; intensely

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Darkness. It's all that can be seen, pure black with vision lost completely, having to rely entirely on other senses. Hearing making the slightest noise into a loud and almost terrifying sound, ears pricking up at the slightest shuffle, a pin dropping could have the same effect in this light consuming darkness as the noise of a bomb exploding to somebody who could see. A fidgety, nervous jump, uncontrollable body movement every few seconds until a hand is felt tightly gripping the upper arm around the tricep, another grabbing the other arm and the sound of his own feet being half dragged, half briskly walking across the ground, marched forwards to an unknown destination. A loud noise that seems to drone on, continuously pouring into the eardrums. A rustling as something is yanked off him, allowing a brilliant white light to wash upon his face, soaking his eyeballs to the point he has to squint and almost fully close his eyelids tightly, unable to bring a hand up to shade himself as he's still gripped tightly. Eventually his sight is returned, the light not so harsh to him and he becomes used to the brightness, able to open his eyes wider to look around. What he saw was certainly not unusual to somebody who had made his career as a rock star and a professional wrestler.

A vast sea of people, all seated and cheering in rows that started at the bottom going all the way up as far as he could see. The very bottom row of people seemed to be upon a plain black yet shiny polished floor while those at the very top were metres away from a ceiling with steel pipes and rigging above them where lights, speakers and microphones were held. Every single person seemed to either be cheering, applauding or otherwise shouting things out although the words blended together into one loud noise. Looking to his left, he saw a burly security guard in uniform holding onto his tricep for all his worth, ensuring he couldn't attempt to escape. The guard's hair was cut short, no facial hair on his face but a mean stare emitting from his features. To the left, a similar looking guard, same fixed gaze, same stocky build and broad shoulders, lack of facial hair but also a lack of hair altogether on his scalp. The two stood as if guarding a condemned man, unmoving in both emotion or physicality. A shorter, grey haired man in a grey suit and white shirt stood nearby, his red tie almost covered by his right arm as he held a microphone to his mouth and seemed to provoke the baying crowds into their loud reaction almost like a television presenter or a televangelist. He waves his hand up and down to get silence, the crowd doing so like he were some sort of leader or dictator.

Presenter: Welcome one and all to The Running Man, the greatest game show in network history. Tonight we have a treat for you all because we have not one, not two but THREE runners all ready to be thrown down the gauntlet and try to reach the end. First of all, let me introduce the woman who has defied the odds and somehow managed to defeat the finest genetically created tag team for their titles, breaking the law by leaving the chosen profession for females. Are any of you females here tonight proud that she has left the confines of the kitchens to enter the realms of the alpha male?

The people boo loudly, not just the women but the men too, all of them giving the middle finger to the left side of the stage or pointing their thumbs down. He tries to lean a little forwards, craning his neck to see and watching as a brunette woman with a sort of figure hugging grey jumpsuit with pink and yellow stripes covering where her ribs are. Either side of her are burly guards gripping her arms and marching her as she struggles against them, trying to free herself but finding escape impossible, being dragged onto a black seat and strapped down with metal shackles on the wrists and a thick brown leather strap like a seatbelt in a cross formation from each shoulder and across her chest. Continuing her struggle in the seat, the presenter waves at her then pushes a button, the sound of an engine roaring as the people cheer and watch her shoot into a tube with lights in strips all the way down, the female disappearing out of sight. This came as a total shock to him, wondering where this poor woman had gone and why being a champion was considered such a bad thing when surely it should be something commended that she'd overcome a tough obstacle.

Continuing to look around, he spotted movement to his right, two more guards leading a somewhat small but athletic looking man with long brown hair and a goatee beard, a similar looking jumpsuit to the female but with red and yellow rather than yellow and pink on the ribs. Like the woman before him, this person was hauled into a seat and failing to struggle out of it before an engine noise again and the chair and the person both disappear down a second tunnel. The baying crowd just cheers as he leaves their line of vision, out of sight and into an area unknown to him, still trying to comprehend what might be happening.

Presenter: As you all saw, a boastful man who made the mistake of holding several championships simultaneously and daring to side with the enemy has been sent to run and attempt to survive. But my people, we have a treat in store for you. The biggest criminal of the trio, one who is the most known and seen by some as a leader of sorts, something most certainly frowned upon by this great and civilised society of ours. Bring him to the hot seat.

He couldn't help but be forced towards a seat in front of him, even though he strained every muscle to move in a different direction the force the guards had upon him was too much to bear, too much to overcome. The seat looked inviting despite the ominous feeling emanating from it, not wanting to be seated in it despite the comforting aura oozing from that chair. No matter how hard he tried, it seemed as though the guards were either incredibly strong or his body had all the weight and gravity of a feather, easily thrown harshly into the chair with his back flat against the back of it, arms held against rests while metal clamps strapped him in as if it were an electric chair. Butterflies in his stomach began to flap around, flying in such a confined space that it started to give him the feeling that he might vomit at any moment, his head feeling dizzy all of a sudden as well as light headed. He might as well have been strapped into an electric chair, it seemed like these people cheering him being strapped in would enjoy watching close to a thousand volts coursing through his body until it stopped his heart and fried his brain, leaving him just a corpse with smoke coming from him.

There was no choice but to watch as the seatbelt like straps were pulled over his shoulders, down over his chest and snapped into place between his legs on the seat, tugged to ensure it wouldn't come loose and allow him to escape or fall out before his time. Ahead of him was the tunnel, rings of light all the way down as far as he could see that ended in a faint glow and darkness. He stared as the guards took a few steps backwards away from the pod that the chair was attached inside, making sure they were at a safe distance and completely out of his vision, unable to turn his head to look any further over his shoulder. All he could do was lean back in that seat, watching and listening to the people in the crowd cheering for whatever fate may lie before him as he rested his head back, awaiting whatever may come his way, not wishing death but if that's what was about to happen then there was really nothing he could do about it at this moment in time, not now he'd been strapped to this chair unable to move. The cheers for his possible death and boos at the mention of his name by the presenter became distant, drowned out by his own wild thoughts and images of what may happen to him next, what he'd do if he were able to somehow unbuckle himself, cast off the wrist shackles and leap out to attack the guards and the presenter. Before any plan could formulate in his mind, before he could figure out how to break the shackles and attack the guards, suddenly the roar of the engine behind him kicked into gear, an ear splitting, deafening noise of epic proportions and suddenly he was hurtling towards the tunnel at high speed.

The wind rushed against his face, stinging his cheeks with a cold blast, forcing his eyes shut due to the pain from hurtling at what could have been terminal velocity through this long and winding tunnel, only wind rushing past his ears with a loud and vicious whistle in this otherwise silent and somewhat eerie confined space, this claustrophobic encasing. The loud engine like noise of the wind stopped, leaving just the whistling you might expect when at a high altitude but at a steady pace with a window open or even in a windowless area, such as a ski lift. Not daring to open his eyes, he waited until feeling his body rock violently in all directions, the thudding impact followed by the sounds of metal scraping against a surface and the heat of something rising up from underneath, forcing his eyes open to see what was happening and spotting sparks flying everywhere from underneath the pod as he careered along what looked like a concrete floor, speeding towards a concrete wall that looked to be falling apart with a huge ice hockey style net as the only thing to collide with. Bracing himself for instant death against this, he began to grit his teeth and force his eyes shut tightly again, hitting something but when he finally plucked up the courage to look, he was safe inside the netting, red cushions like those found on American Gladiators between the back of the net and the solid grey concrete wall. His head fell back against the seat, a sigh of relief followed by laughter, glad to still be alive.

With trembling hands, he fumbles and manages to unlock the buckle on the leather harness, tugging it off and rubbing his wrists, staring at the open shackles that kept him attached to the seat, part of him wondering how they unlocked whether it be due to the impact or an automatic thing while the other part was just glad to be free of the restraints. Leaning forward to rub his thighs, he felt glad to get the blood pumping in them again, hauling himself up and out of the seat as he leaves the pod, almost falling to the floor as he stumbles over the edge. Picking himself up off the ground, he dusts himself off and takes a look around, spotting the man and woman that had disappeared in their own pods walking towards him. The man spoke first, scratching at the facial hair adorning his chin and upper lip.

Man: Hey, you ok buddy? Nasty ride down here huh?

That was one hell of an understatement but due to the fear that had overtaken his emotions on the way down, somehow it seemed funny. He smiled, nodding his head and he gently rubbed the back of his skull to make sure he didn't do any damage to it when he was forced back against the seat due to the speed he was reaching going down that tunnel or the slight whiplash effect he got upon landing on the concrete floor before skidding towards the net. Realising he was ok and unhurt, he let his arm come down to his side again though not for long as the man outstretched his right hand.

Man: Name's Axl, this is Kayla. I'm as shocked that we were picked as you probably are, total surprise but I guess we gotta somehow deal with it and come out on top. I assume you're Dazz then.

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conflict n a fight; a contest; strife, quar-rel; emotional disturbance. * vi to be at variance; to clash (with); to struggle.

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A woman is shown with long dark hair, piercing blue eyes and a grin adorning her face, staring at the camera. It pulls back to show her behind what looks like a white counter top, leaning forwards with both hands planted firmly on the surface with a big bay window behind her showing a cityscape at night, lights shining brightly although no landmarks visible in this window. The woman continues to smile and stare towards the camera as she opens her mouth to speak.

Woman: Hi, I'm Lilith and welcome to the weekly cookery programme, Hostile Bakeover, where we show you the viewer just how to take ingredients and turn them into what I hope will be a fantastic tasting result. Now, please welcome to my apartment two men who want to use my skills and walk away with their own masterpieces to be proud of. Please welcome, Denile Partis and Nick Cagero!

A studio audience that has thus far been unseen and unheard suddenly burst into life, applauding as a guy in a tight t-shirt and dark hair covering half of his face walks in from the right side while (DENILE DESCRIPTION, HE'S AMNESIAC WHO DOESNT TRUST PEOPLE OR WANT TO ASSOCIATE WITH THEM OR FORM BONDS FOR THEIR SAKE) comes from the left. Meeting in the middle, they shake hands then turn to Lilith and repeat the same gesture to her, smiling as they stand either side of her behind the counter. The applause dies down while the two continue to stand there glancing at the studio audience and at Lilith, the female flicking her hair back over her shoulders before turning to Nick first.

Lilith: So Nick, what have you been up to recently? Anything interesting to tell the audience before we begin?

He looks at Lilith then at the audience, nervously brushing his hair away from one eye as he shifts on his feet.

Nick: Errr, yeah, I've mostly been sitting in dark rooms thinking of ways to try and get myself noticed and given a World title opportunity.

Lilith: And how is that going?

Nick: Not so good, while I was champion before there was hardly anybody around but now there are so many people that have returned or joined and now I don't think I'll ever get the chance, it's not fair, IT'S NOT FAIR!!

Stamping his feet on the wooden floor, he seems to have a tantrum, sighing heavily and crossing his arms in front of his chest to hug himself, tattooed arms wrapped around his own torso, quickly spotting and eyeballing a knife, Lilith noticing and like a cat she grabs it and snatches the sharp object away from Nick, just in case. Turning to Denile, she smiles at him, still tightly clutching the knife to her chest.

Lilith: Denile......sounds an awful lot like penile which is funny cause I've heard you're a complete dick, is that true?

Partis looks at Lilith and leans against the counter with one hand, using his palm to hold all his weight up.

Denile: No Lilith, it isn't true. Not one bit.

Lilith: But the rumours go around that you hate everyone, sounds like something a dick would say.

Denile: Again, not true, I just try to keep away from other people for their own good.

Lilith: Why, you some kind of dangerous killer or something?

Denile: No I just don't like to form bonds with people.

Lilith: Haha, I remember once a friend of mine dressed like James Bond, it was funny.

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STATIC


HOSTOLE MAKEOVER

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Propaganda death ensemble
Burial to be
Corpses rotting through the night
In blood laced misery
Scorched earth the policy
The reason for the siege
The pendulum it shaves the blade
The strafing air blood raid

Infiltration push reserves
Encircle the front lines
Supreme art of strategy
Playing on the minds
Bombard till submission
Take all to their graves
Indication of triumph
The number that are dead

Sport the war, war support
The sport is war, total war
When victory's a massacre
The final swing is not a drill
It's how many people I can kill

Sport the war, war support
The sport is war, total war
When victory's a massacre
The final swing is not a drill
It's how many people I can kill

Be dead friend from above
When darkness falls
Descend into my sights
Your fallen walls
Spearhead break through the lines
Flanked all around
Soldiers of attrition
Forward their ground

Regime prophetic age
Old in its time
Flowing veins run on through
Deep in the Rhine
Centre of the web
All battles scored
What is our war crimes
Era forever more...war

Propaganda war ensemble
Burial to be
Bones shining in the night
In blood laced misery
Campaign of elimination
Twisted psychology
When victory is to survive
And death is defeat

Sport the war, war support
The sport is war, total war
When the end is a slaughter
The final swing is not a drill
It's how many people I can kill

War Ensemble - Slayer



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The camera slowly pulls out on a shot of a large field, all green grass and blue skies, perfectly sunny with not a cloud in the sky. Slowly.....surely......the left of the screen wields an image of a figure standing looking out at the wide open spaces, the emptiness being gazed upon by the recognisable man standing alone and still. Dazz with a silent respect oozing from his pores, a gentle breeze causing some of his long hair to dance in the wind, having the same effect on the blades of grass he is staring at while what looks like the white line of light and wind caressing the surface of the field from one side to the other, almost like a sonic boom but without the noise and power. The arm of a pair of Armani sunglasses is visible disappearing behind his hair to the side of his head, showing that his eyes are once again covered as usual, not just for a visual aid of this man's style, elegance and unique look but also to shield his eyes from the sunlight pouring down upon everything below, soaking everything in its warm glow, bathing this glorious specimen of humanity and highlighting him in slight silhouette to those watching this at home.

His feet are adorned by his usual black work boots, the type of footwear he's worn most of his life whether on stage with his old heavy metal band Havok Rising (of which his trademark backflip uranage is named) or lounging about the house or filming promos such as this. That is, unless he wishes to convey his dress sense in a formal occasion with designer shoes to match his designer suits. Today, to go with his casual footwear, the suits are a no-go, instead deciding to wear a pair of black jeans with a black leather and silver studded belt around the waist, steel chain hanging along the side of his right thigh from his belt loops. His upper body and the perfectly crafted abdominal region he is known for is covered well by a long sleeved Megadeth jersey with the band logo down the side of each sleeve and the band's mascot Rattlehead covering most of the back, tour dates underneath him.

??

Dazz: Deadly Conflicts. London, England. What could be the be all and end all for Motor City Wrestling and for Jacob Laymon and while there's another match that's considered the biggest of the night, I'm of the opinion that my match, this battle against Hostile Takeover will be the one that decides whether Jacob will remain as our leader or be ousted by a bunch of idiots who seem to think they'll do a better job. Guess what guys? I've seen people come and go in this business, not just in MCW but in various companies all over this planet since I got my start and every time I see a bunch of incompetent jackmonkeys run around claiming they're gonna take charge by any means necessary I just laugh at how pathetic it all is.

You see, it's nothing new to me. Groups forming, groups who try to do what it takes to become the sole owners of a company thinking they're doing the right thing for themselves. Not many have been successful, in fact only a few have accomplished their goal and if I'm absolutely honest, I was at the helm of the most well known group, the most feared gang of all.....that group was Chaos A.D. and whenever we said we'd do something, we did it. The one thing that set us apart from what you guys are attempting to do is simple. Not only we were ruthless, we were also smart, a trait that seems to be lost on the three of you, obviously not counting your honcho Malakai Laymon. He seems to get the idea, just a shame his idea is as old, as lame and as cliched as it comes. Factor in the combined IQ of his team adds up to a number lower than the people actually in your corner come sunday and well, you don't need to be a mathematician to figure out the sum of all parts and the final equation.

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The End