Chapter 3:

Insanarchy......


Their battle had been a tough one but despite the criticisms flying around from all sides over their actions since debuting for MCW, both Vitriol and Ambrosia managed to best eight other teams, finding themselves once again on the right side of victory. They’d seen that winning side before and had proved to be the tough and dangerous people they warned others of, proof indeed coming when it was they and not the defending champions or the Lethal Coalition who became the sole focus of every single person in that contest. All eyes were indeed on the Harlequin of Hardcore and the Avatar of Avarice and once that bell had sounded, so did the death knell for those involved, prolonging their agony by continuing their feeble attempts at taking on the pairing who represented anarchy and insanity, indeed some may call their brand of depravity a newly created buzz word from the mind of Vitriol himself and used in private between himself, Ambrosia and the evil genius that is her father Zolomon;

Insanarchy

It described perfectly the seemingly baseless desecration of human life, of emotion, of fears that these two perpetrated. Nothing was sacred in their quest to demoralize the world around them and gain notoriety for their actions, not for fame or all that comes with it but to help their cause, show the world that without material goods such as championships or money and without plans getting in the way of some good old fashioned fun and entertainment without an obstacle, like for instance rules and regulations on what is and isn’t illegal, things can be a lot more enlightening. Indeed, if the likes of Vitriol and Ambrosia lived by rules and had to stay at home taking drugs and sitting in straitjackets like others like them who allowed themselves to become trapped in such a way, it would be boring, beyond dull but being free to kidnap random people off the streets, show them a new way of thinking, mutilate and disfigure at their own pleasure? That’s what made them feel alive, that’s what fuelled them and spurned them on to even greater things.

That is why they went after the Tag Team championships and did everything they could to win them against the other teams, not even bearing to imagine what it would mean to suffer defeat as a team for the first time against those they saw as weaker than themselves, both as a unit and in a mental capacity. After all, those other teams still were not morally corrupt and it needed a team such as this Unholy Alliance to break through and become the winners, through tactics whether dubious or not. The satisfaction on the face of Ambrosia when both Jay Williams and Lethal Weapon were dumped over the top rope to the floor was a sight to behold, especially because of the pre-battle ranting from the Lethal Coalition camp, the whole ordeal made even sweeter when the new champions were announced in front of the baying crowd.

It didn’t matter that most of the fans were booing them, the only thing they cared about was coming out the other end with the knowledge they proved to be the best of all the alliances in the company. The only downside was that shortly after the victory, the two alleged deviants known as Dante and Savior decided to try and bask in the spotlight provided by Vitriol and Ambrosia by showing up holding the Tag Team championships aloft as if they were the ones who had won. Did they really believe that such a misdemeanor against two who lived through neurotihilism on a daily basis would be allowed, left to go unnoticed as if all was fine and dandy? No, they’d get their chance if they continued to ride the coat tails of the Unholy Alliance, they wouldn’t come out smelling of roses after that encounter, they’d smell more like death but that would be saved for a future time if they dared to show their faces around Vitriol and Ambrosia again.

Their locker room wasn’t exactly a locker room in the usual sense, more like a room barely used in the arena and thus unlikely to be disturbed by cretins who roam around working to pay their putrid families that were in desperate need of their “honest day’s work”. Due to the abandonment of the room by others, Vitriol and Ambrosia were free to “redecorate”, in reality a twisted style suited to Ambrosia’s personal and very unique tastes. She’d started out by first having Vitriol help her remove everything from the room then painting over the walls, first with a base gresso followed by a coat of black and then a clear coat to finish with a silver trim on the ceiling. Purple velvet curtains were hung in each corner of the room with a strobe light mounted in the wall behind each set of curtains. A taxidermy vulture hung from the ceiling in the middle of the room looking ready to strike at some prey while underneath, the floor was covered in black tiles with gold trim.

A large snakeskin couch rested against one wall along with a fouton while another yielded a huge cabinet with a lot of her favorite books, including “Lord of the Flies”....”Book of Nod”....”Dante’s Inferno”....”Malleus Malificarium”....”The Devil’s Notebook”....”Illuminatas Infernum”....Also in the room were glass cases with the actual quill used by the marquis de Sade, 19th century surgical equipment said to be used by Jack the Ripper, a movie prop from Fight Club – “I am Jack’s medulla oblongata” – plus another with a movie prop barber’s razor from Sweeny Todd.

The door had been slammed open out of anger by Vitriol, his tag team partner Ambrosia following and also looking displeased, the Tag Team championships carried by both into the room before they’re placed upon a makeshift table in one corner – said to be one used by John George Haigh when he dissolved his victims in sulphuric acid in 1940s England – and ignored by the dangerous duo. Ambrosia dived onto the couch while Vitriol stood and stared, fists clenched as his partner pounded her fist on a cushion and screamed in anger like a spoilt child who hadn’t got its own way, clearly frustrated over what had just happened. She stared at the titles they’d just earned only moments before, having decimated eight other teams all in the same match to prove they were the best but feeling the moment was soured by the aftermath.

Ambrosia: Those fucking fraudsters want to gain popularity and glory off our success? They want to try and send a message to the Harlequin of Hardcore, the Second Chapter of Absolution Reborn and the Avatar of Avarice? Let me tell you Vitriol, Dante will find himself in his own fucking inferno while Savior will need someone else to rescue him……maybe Segador will attempt it, kill two birds with one exploding stone, stand back and watch their body torn into pieces with bits of meat and blood raining down all over.

She sighed and began to feel slightly calmer, still wishing to tear somebody’s limbs off for fun but not as angry as she was a few moments before. Ambrosia rested the back of her head against the couch and sighed, beginning to laugh suddenly and for seemingly no reason as Vitriol continued his staring gaze at her.

Ambrosia: We have these Tag Team titles…….in two weeks time at Nightmare Before Christmas, we will reveal MCW’s biggest nightmare....We get to show what real team work is when we share the pleasure of fighting each other for the Hardcore title....then you will destroy Priest and force MCW to have you replace him when you win the World Heavyweight title....This show is going to be so much fun for both of us.....




A Warrior Fallen.....


He was a thing to behold, the very vision of triumph that had seen victory and conquest throughout the lands he placed his feet upon, whether marching alongside the others in his elite squad of tacticians and making their way by foot toward whatever battleground they were to occupy and fight for or even whether they filled the wooden vessels that sailed across the seas, taking them over crashing waves and rolling oceans before reaching dry land. All would embark on their sometimes perilous journey, losing some nights to the joviality that would provide their only entertainment before the more serious matter of warfare creeps up on them, sobering them up from the drinking and singing and forcing a change of mood.

This particular person was said to be the mightiest warrior in all of the known world, a battle hardened veteran who had seen death and walked away to tell the tale, stared the Grim Reaper in the eyes and frightened the spectral figure away with a battle cry that sent shivers up and down its skeletal form before turning its tail and fleeing. It was a tale he enjoyed hearing time and again, sitting as interested and amazed as those hearing the story of his challenging Death and defeating him in battle for the first time. The younger of the warriors who joined the mighty force that was their kingdom’s army were always so attentive, so eager to hear stories while the elders regaled them with tales of brave deeds and history making moments.

Their eyes always widened as they tried to move closer to the roaring fire around which the stories were conveyed, listening intently to their peers and enjoying particularly those mentioning the heroics of their mightiest warrior, not quite believing that the very god-like being that had helped conquer so much territory and do so much that had gone down in history within their civilization was actually sitting amongst them, savoring every word spoken about his own feats as if he suffered a sort of amnesia or seemingly wasn’t in his own body when it all happened. Indeed, after hearing such tales and then learning that this warrior was among them, the disbelief was indeed rife.

It was during one of these storytelling sessions that the call to arms came, bringing the males young and old, veterans of wars or newcomers to the fighting they’d been trained for since adolescence. The sound of a bell rang out as every male rose to his feet, rushing to grab his shield, his sword, a small dagger and their symbol, a reason for living and fighting, a symbol that represented this army and all that it stood for. The symbol itself was a V shape with the pointed ends at the top elongating into jagged ends, a shape said to be the vessel of life, the femininity ruling as the giver of creation, the jagged ends being the masculine side that provided and defended, worn as a pendant around the neck or etched into the metallic bracelets worn around the wrists.

They all gathered in their large groups, battalions forming and preparing themselves, daggers placed in hidden places within their boots or their belts ready to be withdrawn at a moment’s notice and used if necessary. Within moments, things had gone from a calm time around a fire telling stories to pandemonium with bustling and jostling to find their weapons and ready themselves for a fight to the almost serene calm as they all stood waiting patiently for that one loud singular cry from the front to let them know it was time to begin the march, trek to wherever the battlefield would be. As one and with a regular and steady pounding, their feet moved up and down to make them walk forwards along the ground, no need for a drum to keep them in time like other armies, such was the precision training they’d been put through time and time again, made to practice until it was so perfect that it became second nature.

The fields of battle themselves were already crawling with the enemy, both sides clashing with swords flying, metal meeting metal as the shields did their job to protect their carriers from harm, swipes and slashes hitting their targets at times with spatters of blood flying in the air, connecting with others locked in combat but no care paid to it, instead focusing on either trying to survive or trying to dispatch of the enemy and take another victory swiftly. The fight raged, casualties on both sides but it was that mighty of warriors who seemed to have the most attention, his enemies targeting him knowing full well that it was he who could sway the tides of battle for his own side.

With enemies swarming all around him, he fought bravely, swinging his sword with one hand and raising the other arm with the shield attached, blocking blows coming at him, feeling the thud and the tremor as the shield was struck hard by vicious attacks, the opposition wishing to cause him harm and put him out of commission to allow their own side to perhaps gain the win and take the land for themselves. As the warrior swung his sword, he found it colliding with the flesh of an enemy but left his own forearm exposed, a slice from an opposing sword causing him to drop his weapon, looking in horror as the weapon fell to the ground with a thud. Quickly reacting, he reached his hand towards his body, grabbing at the handle of the small dagger firmly placed in his belt and withdrawing it.

The enemy closed in but it was just perfect for his situation, plunging that blade deep into the flesh of whoever got closest to him without fear of consequence, doing what instinct made him do, defending himself whilst attacking others in the name of fighting for his own. It was the sort of territorial and tribal battle that had gone on for generations, each fighting to ensure the survival of their own kind by taking on whoever they came across and tried to halt the opposition in their tracks. There seemed nothing more satisfying to him than to feel the dagger pierce the flesh of his enemy, slicing into them like a hot knife through butter, leaving only a small incision and blood seeping out through the available orifice created by the blade.

More fell to his dagger but it wasn’t to last, the small blade coupled with the overwhelming number of the opposing army causing him to be blindsided by somebody behind him, a blow to the back caused by a heavy shield followed by another to the back of his head, shields and the handles of swords and other weapons, some even feeling like wooden staffs and clubs beating him down until his composure was completely destroyed, finding himself flat on the floor with no protection or a way to defend himself. The beatings continued, his own arms unable to grab at his weapons or fight back at all and so he used them instead to try and cover himself up the best he could, absorb the blows with his arms until they felt numb from the attack.

Black was all he could see for a few seconds before he no longer had feeling in his body and ultimately collapsed with his face against the ground. His eyelids seemed heavy as they opened, finding it difficult to keep them wide and releasing a sigh as he felt like he was lying on his back. Perhaps he was left on the battlefield with the enemy thinking he was dead or too injured to survive much longer? The truth hit him though, in more ways than one. A sharp pain like he’d been struck in the body awakened him fully, eyes widening and drinking in the surroundings but unlike what he’d initially thought, he wasn’t lying out in the middle of a battlefield under the elements.

Instead he was on a table, strapped to it with rope around his wrists, his ankles and his torso, stretching along his ribs to keep him held down tightly. Instead of being outside, he was in a room with people staring at him, almost as if he were a caged animal in a zoo. Every single pair of eyes fixed upon him, staring at this mighty warrior before them like a curiosity, a mystery that they had to try and discover the truth behind. He noticed that some of them were still dressed for battle with the armor and the insignia of the opposing army he had been fighting. He hadn’t been killed or left for dead, that was for sure, in fact he’d instead been taken captive but what would they do with him now?

That answer would be soon enough realized when one of the opposing army’s own warriors stepped forwards, wielding the very same dagger used by this now defenseless warrior on the table, allowing the sight of it to be taken in before the sharp blade was run along the thigh of this warrior, a sharp and stinging pain as blood rushed to form a line of crimson across the length of the wound. Another cut to the opposite leg again wielded silence, this warrior holding it all in having become accustomed to pain and hurt through many ferocious battles he had survived and help bring to the side of victory for his army. An elder stepped forwards, staring into the warrior’s eyes while his long white beard flowed down onto the warrior’s ribs, exposed due to the wrists being tied above his head.

Elder: This one truly is of another form of warrior, pain does not emit from his mouth. More must be done to show this heathen the error of his ways.

As one, several more of the opposing army made themselves known, removing their own daggers and slicing at the skin, tearing at the flesh of this warrior they had as a prisoner of war to try to make him cry out but no noise came, a highly trained and disciplined individual that knew this sort of treatment wouldn’t have him making a sound. When slicing at his skin didn’t work, thick pieces of leather wound into makeshift ropes were used, the air cracking as his body was whipped repeatedly, causing him to flinch but also still manage to hold in the cries of agony he was so desperate to unleash, focusing his mind on other things to ensure the beating he was taking was nothing more than temporary while his mind and soul were elsewhere in a more calm and serene place.

Noticing that this wasn’t working the way they hoped, the elder nodded towards somebody who was in a dark corner of the room, a small door being opened to reveal a fiery furnace inside what seemed to be an oven. An orange glow from the furnace lit up a portion of the room but the warrior ignored it, watching on as the elder once more nodded towards the person who opened the over door, observing this person as he took something metal and placed it within the grasp of some tongs, raising it high into the air to show that it looked like a face at first glance. The person placed it within the furnace, the metal quickly heating up and turning a bright red.

With a snap of his fingers, the elder stared hard at the warrior laid out before him like a feast or a sacrifice for his own personal amusement only the elder wasn’t smiling or sharing a joke at the warrior’s expense. Instead, he just had a hard stare of evil intent while the person holding the steel object in the furnace took it out, moving it towards a bucket of water nearby until the elder once more snapped his fingers, catching his attention as his hand waved him off, telling him not to cool off the object just yet.

Elder: Is it not that a mighty warrior shall have the mask of a killer thrust upon his face?

The mask itself was raised high into the air, still glowing and red hot from the fire and lighting up the room slightly, generating a gasp from some of those looking on wondering if this were really about to happen. After all, despite this man before them being the mightiest warrior known to history, he was still human and there were those who felt that the treatment he’d been given so far was more than enough. To threaten him with such an evil deed as this was maddening, pure insanity and almost went against everything they believed in. It was too late though, the mask being lowered towards the warrior, forcing him to see up close the frowning and unkind eyes of that mask, the grill that formed the mouth area, small slits in the steel that would enable breathing but not allow much oxygen to reach the lungs, forcing the wearer to struggle throughout the majority of the time forced to wear such a thing to be able to freely fill their lungs with that life giving air.

Struggling against his binds, the warrior attempted to weakly escape his situation, staring up at that red hot metal, the features and detail of the mask unseen to his eye thanks to the searing heat of the recently forged steel. He wondered what might happen next, staring up at that object and curious as to what they intend to do with it. Would these people just wave that thing around to threaten him, use it as a tool to further the mind games and mental torture he was suffering alongside the physical pain he’d endured at their hands? Would they just force him to languish here worrying what his fate might have in store until the moment they decide his life is not worth maintaining for their own pleasure and enjoyment?

That was the moment in which his struggling became even more erratic, trying to find a way out upon the realization that these people were going to force this mask upon him, seeing him as little more than a common fiend, a murderer who had killed thousands in battle and deserved punishment. If this were his own territory and his own people he’d be hailed as the greatest hero known yet these people saw him as the lowest form of life in the world. Slaughtering thousands in the name of victory was barbaric to these people and he was paying the price for it, the torture and the pain he’d suffered just a tiny aspect of the punishment due to him.

Rather than move that red hot death mask towards a nearby bucket full of water to cool it, the crooked grins surrounding him seemed to be of pure evil, showcasing malicious intent as they stared at him lying there helpless like a wounded animal. Without saying a word, the elder of the group made a motion and the mask was moved closer, the warrior lying there as he stared at the incoming object, still glowing as its moved via the tongs close to his head. He stared at it, feeling the heat emanating from it and warming his face, a heat that gradually became more and more unbearable. The shock was yet to come though and it would be something even more barbaric and sadistic than the deeds for which he was being punished.

Turning the mask so that its face was looking away from the warrior prone on the table, the glowing hot object was quickly and suddenly placed upon him, the unbearable heat searing his flesh, causing even some people watching in the room to turn their heads away or to flee from the scene altogether. The sickening screams coming from this once mighty warrior reduced him to little more than a piece of meat with a voice, the agonizing shrieks causing a terror within his captors while his head began to swell while the steel forged itself to his face, binding and causing it to blister underneath. Spots of bubbling flesh formed along the sides of the mask with dark streams of magenta where even the blood within him was seeping out and becoming boiled due to the immense heat of the mask.

The horrors of what he was made to suffer for doing what any brave warrior was asked, nay required to do for their land and people were too great, unconsciousness beginning to settle momentarily before the pain and agony hit home, awakening him back into that room, observed by those who remained to witness the torment and the pure desecration bestowed upon this warrior. There was nothing he could do but pray for the end, pray for this ordeal to finish, his body tensing against his bindings as the intensity of the pain forced every fiber of being to try to break free with force, causing rope burns upon his wrists and torso.

His suffering continued, the malice and evil from the people who incarcerated and tortured him and put this flesh-searing object, this hot mask upon his face somehow finding its way into the object, all of that hatred manifesting itself into the mask since it hadn’t yet been finished yet, the cooling liquid in the bucket the only way it could have had all of those hurtful feelings destroyed and taken away with the steam while the mask itself became solid and empty. The bad feelings, the ill will and intent to harm rushed into the warrior’s body, coming through the still flesh meltingly hot steel, merging with his face and causing not just the mask to become welded to his body but also allowing a channel to open up into his soul, the hatred becoming one with his own being and both that and the agony he was going through causing an insanity to emerge. His psyche became splintered, like shards of glass in a broken window it shattered into pieces, leaving him with the pure instinct to kill, to continue the savagery for no purpose other than fulfillment. Like a bad nightmare unleashed, these people knew not what they had done for this warrior, the mightiest in the land, had now became the bane of existence and insanity made flesh.....




.....lleH fo seriF ehT


.....His eyes saw nothing but black once again, his insides feeling as if they were toothpaste in a tube and squeezed and constricted, those enormous fingers clasped all around him as he was lifted into the Beast’s palm with a huge swipe, placing him down on the ground suddenly in a lunging motion that came from the Beast, a quick release as he stood in silent questioning. Was it a sign of approval or some sort of sudden attack of anger which caused that massive roar before the Beast stared at him as he stood watching it.

Beast: The main reason for your being here is that for years, Priest has claimed to have trodden the path through Hell itself and survived on the other side all the more stronger and wiser for it. As the ruler of this realm, I am not afraid to tell you that I see and feel all who walk this land of my creation but have never seen nor felt the presence of the so-called Priest even for a brief few moments. In essence, Priest is obeying a law of mine to lie, which is most impressive but like all who claim to be dark and evil and insane, this upsets me greatly and deserves punishment. This is why I fully expect you to do all you can to destroy Priest, to show him that true Hell is not a place in which he would wish to even witness for a second in a dream, let alone walk here as you have.

The only type of mind that can have safe passage through this realm is that which contains true insanity and true deprivation and you Vitriol…….you are worthy of my court. You are the essence of all those who paved the way, inside you is an amalgam of every evil entity who ever existed rolled up into one package and made flesh. That is why you wear the mask of evil and chaos in their purest form, a solid steel vessel that cloaks you in the darkness Priest could only hope to become engulfed in. Soon though, he will find himself engulfed…..not in darkness but in blood, baptized in fire as you show him what it means to be truly worthy of my attention. You have experienced true Hell and therefore must go and take it to your Motor City. I wish you well in your contest and will await your victory from my realm with a celebration when the side of anarchy wins out and proves to be more powerful than false diagnoses of darkness as your opponent likes to revel in.

He could only imagine that Heaven was also a mirror image, the polar opposite of this land that creates a paradise full of the kinds of beauty and wonder that made him sick to his stomach at how saccharine sweet and full of love it was. Of course, the Beast was correct because as he walked through this land to reach this very cavern, Hell seemed a mirror image of the world he’d known and walked upon but with a slightly more twisted and nightmarish vision creating this version.

Beast: I am pleased that you made it to my domain Vitriol. I am the source for all evil, the influence behind your actions, what most know as Abbadon……Satan…….the first fallen angel condemned to rule the fiery underbelly of humanity. The depths of your depravity know no bounds and for that, I am eternally grateful that my message is not lost in this age of anarchy, where crime has increased and those pathetic mortals commit atrocities daily. They all break the rule laid down by God on how humanity should act but do so for greed and wealth and fame……you though…….you see to it that the work laid down by others before you and continued by yourself and Ambrosia is noticed, that destruction and chaos are meant to be random acts caused by those who don’t have plans or goals but just do things on a whim.

I called you to this place to see for yourself the fiery depths that Hell itself wields, a realm very much like the world you know and recognize only instead of the gloom of your world, this place is more barren, more depraved.

The beast spoke in tones that were deep and guttural and seemed to rock his very soul. Time passed slowly as it snarled, its voice filling the cavern as he stared at this creature in awe while the beast itself stared right back at him, one of its teeth the size of his entire body such was the massive size of this thing. The statue of it in the courtyard earlier was only three times his height which made this all the more shocking, an idol that had looked down from its plinth as a tribute to the real thing, this living embodiment of that statue with its skull-like visage, grotesque features that seemed to be made of rock while razor sharp teeth filled its mouth and horns rested upon its head.

The entire size of this thing emerging from the lava almost filled the cavern, lowering down into its hot prison and escaping the confines of the depths of that fiery molten liquid. Another bellow echoed all around, a guttural roar that shook the foundations, magma rising up into the air before splashing back down while rocks formed in the hot liquid rock and rose up into the air, slamming into the roof of the cavern and sticking there. The cavern finally stopped shaking as a golden liquid seemed to rise up from the lava, rolling across the rocky floor and cleaning itself up as it went, forming into a pool around tiny fragments of broken glass shards, all of them coming together to create a glass jar with the golden liquid inside the container.

The golden liquid that seemed to be lost forever snaked back, the jar full of the swirling energy rising from its shattered remains on the ground up into the air, landing in his outstretched hand fully formed and swirling around in that container. His arm jerked violently back before he rose it up into his line of vision, a feeling of pure anger that had been coursing through his veins subsiding as he shook the jar to watch its contents move around, a childlike innocence in his curiosity in his observation of this strange object, starkly contrasting his more violent nature. He placed it down in an unusual movement before walking backwards away from the precipice on which the plinth containing the jar of golden energy rested, getting further with each step in reverse away from it.

He continued his unusual reverse walking away from the jar and through a large rocky entrance, away from this hollowed out rocky cavern which looked to be a relic of the mountain which this whole palace used to be before the Hellish architects went to work upon it. The ledge and the lava pit disappeared from his view the further away he got, not seeing anybody else around in the vicinity, unaffected by the supposed terror that roar he heard might cause others, curious as to what had caused it. The roars he heard suddenly interrupted the otherwise bubbling of some sort of liquid in the distance while he walked away from this strange new room, wondering what sort of creature could make such noises while an orange glow resonated in the curious room ahead of him. His curiosity slowly evaporated as he moved away from the area, stepping backwards through the doorway that wielded nothing but darkness.

Growing further away from the new doorway and backwards into the corridor, his legs took him in reverse past all of the objects either side of him, ignoring them as he moved and keeping his eyes facing directly ahead of himself. The hieroglyphs he saw were unlike anything seen on Earth, like brand new discoveries that meant something to those who occupied this realm. It was then that he noticed strange markings on the idols that stood on small plinths and pillars lining either side of the room at waist height, his close inspection giving way to ignorance, as there seemed to be nothing of note worth seeing in this long corridor. He came to the bottom of the stairs and proceeded to climb them in reverse, spiraling up with no end in sight, all the way out of the bowels of this palace until finally, he found the upper floor that these stairs led to, backing away as he found a set of stairs that led down while he walked past the damned souls.

There was no respite for the souls until the day of judgment when they would be free long enough to fight against the forces of good but for now, they were left to be beaten, blood curdling cries for help amidst the screams of agony but nobody would ever come. The screams rang out in the air as punishment for the deeds committed during their life, damned to all eternity here while the sound of cracking against flesh was heard followed by whips moving away from the backs of the souls and becoming slack and loose in the hands of the hideous looking creatures that wielded them, dark skin in hues that ranged between deep black all the way to ashen gray. They seemed to be demons as he walked backwards past them all, watching as people of all colors and creeds and sexes were punished by those vile creatures in what looked to be a dungeon, small and confined unlike the previous room he’d been in, only a quarter of the size of that massive courtyard. He walked out of this dungeon and into a small passage before ending up in the back end of the courtyard, moving away from the statue that stood tall in the center of this enormous area.

It towered over everything in the vicinity, gigantic and prominent in the courtyard and resembling something of importance due to it being the idol of the beast it represented, possibly the owner of such a massive palace. He felt no fear as he looked up at the features of this statue, the kind of features that would cause nightmares to those of a more nervous disposition. The skin looked rough and as if it had been chiseled out of the same mountain this palace had been carved from, a horn protruding from its forehead while its face resembled a skull and had a set of eyes, blackened and sunken within that face. Its bared teeth looked razor sharp and large, ram-like horns were set upon its head, curling towards the back of its own head, claws on the end of beastly fingers and hands. This thing clearly stood on two legs and the shadow was cast across it from the huge artificial orange sun beaming down its light onto half of the statue.

The madness inducing configuration of the stairs didn’t seem to affect him as he walked backwards looking around at this massive courtyard, noticing sets of stairs that led up to solid walls while others ventured upside down along with the more normal staircases that went up into rooms high above. The contents of the courtyard began to open up before his very eyes as he looked around at the area, bare walls of mountainous rock similar to the outside of the palace, the inner sanctum of the palatial building opening up and revealing itself to be the same inside as outside. He continued to walk backwards out through the large doorway, a pair of creatures made entirely of shadow with their heads bowed before raising them to look at him as he paused and stood before them, their eyes staring right through him as they stood in shapes unlike those seen by the human eye before, almost as if they were guards to this massive building.

It looked to him as if the very mountain that stood here had been carved and turned into a palace, something that could have been worked at for years or perhaps even centuries as he walked backwards away from the guards, looking up at the domes and the spiked roofs atop this massive building, windows all over but with no glass inside any of them, jagged towers littered all over the castle-like structure as he edged ever further away. It dominated the landscape but looked mighty and majestic from what he could see, looking as he could spot a large building in the distance, marching away from it and across the lands backwards.

He found himself walking backwards towards that fiery river, the lava continuing to flow as he looked towards the area where that branch had disappeared, simultaneously turning both to ash and singing to the bottom of that river as the wood had disappeared. His eyes remained fixated on the spot as slowly, the branch reappeared on the surface of the river of molten rock and magma, almost floating on the surface before floating away from it and towards Vitriol’s outstretched hand, catching it in his palm as the tree limb avoided the bubbling hot substance flowing past nearby.

He walked backwards away from that river and towards the tree, moving his arm and raising it up to the trunk of the plant, holding the branch against a snapped and splintered section as it melded perfectly, forming a fully stretched out branch that stuck out from the tree, the plant’s agony relinquishing as its broken limb was reattached to its body. He twisted his hand to release the branch as the anger at this tree’s defiance and lack of enough respect to speak and converse with him was subdued before he walked away, completely in reverse past other trees that stood tall and proud in the ground.

The branches of those trees looked like gnarled arms, reaching out to grab at anything that walked past them, leaves on the edges of the branches and mighty trunks topped with greenery much like the oxygen filled world he’d known for most of his life. He walked backwards away from them feeling surprised at having found actual trees as he looked all around during his reverse march, taking note of the landscape and realizing it was a sort of orangey-brown color with an almost concrete-esque substance that looked and acted like mud under his feet but was the wrong color seemingly. His feet were thudding on the ground with every step he took due to the surface of the ground beneath him, moving further away from this strange and unusual land, walking with purpose as he looked around at the giant flames that seemed to grow up from the floor like fiery trees, rising and burning at random across the landscape.

He spotted a fiery snaking river of pure lava that flowed with force and anger throughout the land, boiling and bubbling and causing steam to rise and the air above the river and along the banks to seem blurry and wave back and forth due to the intensity of the immense heat. Alongside it ran the ground, a scorched orange or light brown coloration that stretched out all the way out as far as the eye could see and rose up to form glorious mountain ranges on the horizon. He drank in the scenery and found it full of a beauty and wonder he had never seen before, a sensational landscape he’d awaited for so long, yearned to see with his own eyes after hearing and reading so much about the beauty of it all.

Closing his eyes, a darkness suddenly appeared as sounds floated into his subconscious, almost as if they were floating away from his own mind, starting out like he was in an echo chamber being attacked by noise but slowly, quietly subsiding. The sounds crawled to nothing more than a whisper until eventually, nothing but silence. Like a vacuum in reverse, he went from emptiness and nothingness to feeling as if life itself were being restored to its original order, coming out from its hiding place to present itself to him as all he saw was darkness and blackness.




Forgive Me Father, For The Sins I'm About To Commit....


The package was delivered on time, a testament to the delivery service it had been passed along to in the first place and their values of getting something through the mail on time and on schedule whenever it was needed. A pair of hands grabbed at the brown envelope, tearing at the side to find a video tape within, the packaging that contained it tossed into the recycling box near a desk at what looked to be a reception area. The male who held the tape looked at it again with a sliver of curiosity, wondering perhaps whether it might be yet another young rookie wanting to get a chance to be seen and perhaps even signed to MCW, be the latest in a long line of talented athletes to grace the halls of the company.

He walked along the reception area towards the elevators, pushing the button and stepping inside when the doors open wide, another press of a button inside allowing the time to glance once more at the tape, wondering if there was a piece of paper to go with it and remembering that this object was the only one in the envelope. Why would somebody mail a tryout tape without a little information about themselves, where they’d worked thus far in their career and what they wished to do with their life in future. His curiosity and concentration was broken along with the silence of the elevator when a ping rang out, the doors opening on his floor allowing him to step out and begin his walk towards his own office.

The journey was a short one, completely oblivious to his surroundings as he grasped at the door handle and twisted it with one hand, pushing the wooden door towards the room and stepping inside, nudging it closed behind him and striding to his desk. The seat behind that wooden desk was like sanctity to him, feeling soft and comfortable, allowing him to sit for hours and still not have his back aching thanks to the cushioned back and seat of the chair. It was a necessity since he had to sit there for hours every day sifting through paperwork and tapes such as this one that had arrived in the mail and other such matters relating to the great wrestling company that is Motor City Wrestling.

He plopped his carcass down onto that seat and used his feet to push on the ground and spin his chair around slightly, facing a television screen with a VCR underneath, still thankful it was working and wondering why people can’t at least attempt to record onto DVD if possible. Pushing the tape in and pushing a few buttons to switch the television on, the screen sprang to life with static, forming a snow-covered pattern all over the screen, following up by hitting another button with his finger to bring a green light onto the VCR. A remote control was nearby, close enough to easily grab it and use his thumb to hit the play button, sitting back in the chair to relax as he placed the remote back on the desk. Resting in the seat, he stared at the screen for a few moments, wondering why the tape wasn’t working and feeling frustrated, thinking that once again somebody had sent a dud tape or it had been damaged during delivery or even rarer, a chance that the VCR itself may not be working somehow. He grabbed at the remote again looking to push play once more before having to check the wires, desperate for this tape to work so that he can watch until he realizes that perhaps the static was meant to be there. That was when he sat back in shock.

The remote control slipped from his hand and fell to the floor with a thud, the batteries springing out when the back of the device fell off upon impact, the static on the screen giving way to an image of Ambrosia stood with a red t-shirt that has a black trim on the end of the sleeves and around the collar covering her torso, the words “Harlequin of Hardcore” scrawled all over the front in black permanent ink. She stares at the camera with a maniacal grin contorting her face as she stares at the camera obviously filming this, not knowing about the grainy picture making it look like a cheap horror movie. Her dark hair looks straggly as if there may be a chance it hasn’t been washed for a few days and hangs around her face and onto her shoulders like the most she had done to style it was pushing it back off her face with a hand.

A shadow falls across her body, coming from in front of her and casting shade upon her face and body as if somebody were holding the camera and not having it propped up on whatever solid surface she could find as she usually does. The MCW Tag Team championship she won alongside her partner Vitriol is absent, perhaps Ambrosia deciding it was best to leave it at home, wherever “home” was to her or maybe even due to her belief that chaos and anarchy are much more important than championship belts, seeing them as worthless objects for the mediocre to admire and try to attain while the long term effects of the destruction to property and the human psyche she and Vitriol prefer are a lot more worthwhile and satisfying.

Ambrosia: Hi fans, followers and stalkers, this is your newly crowned MCW Tag Team champion in a special Hollyweird that has extra added value thanks to several things. First, Vitriol and I won a battle royal and we got to show everyone just why we are a force to be reckoned with as the old cliché goes, becoming champions even though we didn’t really need them to prove we’re more dangerous than the others but oh well…..if it helps us send our message then who are we to stop ickle Jakey from handing over what’s now ours like he’ll have to when his brother asks for the keys to his office at Nightmare Before Christmas? That’s if he hasn’t been fried to a crisp and needs his charred remains to be prized out of that electric chair. Think I could have a mid-show snack if I toss a pack of popcorn at Jacob while he’s turned into a human microwave?

She giggles slightly at the image before looking over her shoulder at something, turning back to the camera quickly as her hair swings round like a whip across her shoulder.

Ambrosia: Now I was going to go over a few emails I’ve received congratulating the new Unholy Alliance between myself and a certain beautiful annihilation, the Avatar of Avarice and my very own tag team partner Vitriol on becoming MCW Tag Team champions but right now, where I am……it probably wouldn’t give me enough time to thank you all personally or list everybody’s usernames so instead, let my actions tonight be my own gesture of thanks to each and every one of you as a collective, as a deadly mass of misfits who just love to watch the depravity unfolding before your very computer screens. Especially you corpse_fucker23 and let me quickly answer your question, no I don’t.

She turns away from the webcam again and walks away, the view moving as if the camera has legs of its own to follow the Harlequin of Hardcore towards wherever she was heading, the sound of two sets of footsteps upon the ground with tough gravel crunching and the occasional stone accidentally kicked and bouncing across the ground. Ambrosia suddenly pauses and stands completely still, looking left and right as if on the lookout for something, waiting until completely satisfied about something known only to her before waving her hand towards the camera as a sign to continue walking, following her once again for a few more steps. Ambrosia halts once more then smiles mischievously like a naughty child and stretches her arms out either side of her, beckoning the camera to get a good view of a large building behind her. Upon moving up, the camera catching sight of it, large oak doors at the front, a stained glass window just above a huge crucifix with an icon of Jesus Christ, the Lord and Savior rested upon it and clearly revealing that this building is indeed a church.

With the camera moving back down to look at Ambrosia, it notices that she’s already bounding up the stone steps of the entrance towards the doors, grabbing at them and pushing one of them inwards to allow herself to venture inside. The camera soon follows, the sound of footsteps as whoever holding it follows with purpose, stepping into the open entrance to get inside the church, the sound of the heavy wooden door being closed behind the camera with a long, drawn out creaking before the slamming door echoes around the vast church insides. Ambrosia herself was already skipping down the aisle with the wooden pews either side of her, making her way towards the altar with yet another massive depiction of the crucifixion attached to the wall behind it, looking down at these intruders in God’s house.

Dancing and skipping around the altar, Ambrosia seemed almost in her element despite this being such an unusual place to find her, not being as religious as her father although then again, she hadn’t shown any sign of religious enthusiasm, instead focusing on her own wild ways and the activities she enjoyed to partake in alongside Vitriol. The camera was moved forwards accompanied by those heavy footsteps, moving closer as Ambrosia seemed delighted and enthralled by something she had spotted, rushing over towards it and the sounds of splashing ringing out. As the camera gets closer, it watches as she splashes around putting her hands in the basin of holy water and throwing it up into the air, watching as the liquid lands in droplets on her clothes and skin and all over the surrounding floor and basin. Her giggling and screaming betrays the amount of fun she is having with this most holy of items inside the house of God, her play time interrupted by a sudden noise and a shout from the left of the room, the camera twisting to catch the sight of a man with graying hair and wearing all black clothing with a white collar staring at both Ambrosia and whoever is holding the camera with an angry expression, burning a hole through both of them with his eyes.

Man: What is going on in here?!

The look on his face shows real anger and astonishment that somebody could desecrate something so holy, so sacred, splashing it like bath water and wasting every drop. In response, Ambrosia smiles at the priest and cups her hands into the basin, not tossing the clear liquid out as before but bringing some to her lips, drinking and slurping it up before swallowing, the anger from the priest becoming greater as she violated even more of the religious sanctity within these walls. He stormed towards the female, grabbing her by her clothes and looking obvious in his attempts not to grab at her, Ambrosia screaming and shouting the word “rape” over and over while the camera moved closer and a hand reached out from out of shot, a dark black sleeve covering the wrist and forearm as it seemingly came out from just underneath the camera, grabbing the priest by his collar, the male somehow slamming into the screen and causing it to turn black with no picture or sound.

The picture and sound return as abruptly as they disappeared, showing Ambrosia staring at the priest in a curious manner, cocking her head to take in his features as he sits with his arms and legs tied to a chair and a gag around his head to stop him from talking or making a sound. His eyes are widened and give away his absolute terror, not even struggling to free himself of his bonds, cuts and bruises on his skin and tears in his clothing show that a struggle had ensued at some point and perhaps that was the reason the priest remained still and forced a false calm in case he suffered any more. Ambrosia was a scary human even for most people but to somebody like this priest who had never known the horrors that the modern world could bring, she was absolutely terrifying. The way her eyes stared at him unnerved this saintly follower of God’s word but what made it all the more painful and mentally tortuous was the constant ringing of metal striking metal from an area of the room he couldn’t see to find out what it was. All he knew was that the fire behind him to keep the room warm was crackling, creating that same heat a few feet away from his back and causing an orange glow for half of the room, shadows dancing like strange ballerinas gliding across the room.

Ambrosia: Are you sitting comfortably?

She leans in closer to the priest, uncomfortable in his restraints but fearful of his life being snuffed out by this pale and psychotic woman. Ambrosia merely smirks and raises an eyebrow at the sight of this cowering male tied to a chair, staring into his horrified eyes and looking for something within as if she’d lost an object in those pools.

Ambrosia: Tell me, are you a typical priest?

He shakes, not quite understanding what she means, beginning to quiver as she shows hints of aggression forming and quickly shaking his head in response.

Ambrosia: Good, because I hate that. People like you, telling people to say a Hail Mary, repent, pray for forgiveness and all the while you’re hiding young boys to molest and do with as you please. It’s people like you and your kind who upset my father enough to do what he did when he was a child. I’m sure your kind whispered the story to one another, not quite believing it was real, right? You remember the name of the child in the story? Let me remind you.

She leans even closer, the priest shuddering and trying to move away for fear of her biting his ear off but instead, she just whispers to him, something inaudible to the camera but those words had a chilling effect on the priest, visibly shivering as if the very words she whispered to him brought about the greatest terror to be inflicted upon him. Ambrosia leans back, looking at the priest’s face and smiling at his reaction.

Ambrosia: That name, that figure in all of the myths and tales passed on by your kind, it’s all very real and I am the sequel to that chapter. I’m not sure if all of my Hollyweird viewers are getting this but I can see your eyes quivering, you want to shed a tear but what’s holding it back? Is it some sort of pride, some wall to keep up a pretense, a persona you fake to keep calm or do you really believe that some sort of God will protect you? My father taught me all about your God and from what I know, your God hates when people pretend to be something they’re not, like your friends who fake friendliness while behind the scenes they’re having their little fun with altar boys. That’s low even for my sick mind to comprehend.

You know something else I hate, something else that annoys me? The false pretense that another priest upholds day after day, making his career out of something he yearns to be but will never manage no matter how hard he tries. He runs around Motor City Wrestling spouting his diatribes of darkness and decay and how he will be the destructor of all who stand in his path. All the while he plays babysitter to a former Marine and fails to do anything of worth. Would you believe he spends all of his time whining and crying about how he wants the chance to be World champion? A real monster like Vitriol would just take it whenever he likes, the way Vitriol and I did at the last Mayhem when we destroyed all other teams to become Tag Team champions.

Priest was involved in that match and what did he do? He tried to avoid Vitriol as much as possible, only taking cheap shots before he could be annihilated by the Avatar of Avarice and staying as far away as he possibly could, pathetic as usual. Now he can’t escape, he has no way of backing out because he will be locked in battle with nowhere to run or hide from his destiny. My father once told me that he was the modern day Gabriel and had to fulfill his destiny by destroying the heathens and the liars, taking the greed and burning it all to start anew. Vitriol’s destiny is to watch those unworthy burn too, beginning with Priest.

He thinks he knows Hell, thinks he’s walked the path through the realm of the damned but he truly knows nothing of it. Just like you and your priests, he only read about it in books, saw depictions in movies and television shows and figured it was truth, adopting it as his own little world. I can only imagine what it must be like in true Hell from reading one of my favorite poems, Dante’s Inferno from the epic “Divine Comedy”, picturing the world that Dante Alighieri saw as he journeyed through all nine levels of the inferno. Vitriol however has seen Hell in all its glorious splendor and will soon show Priest his own man made version of that twisted world, making Priest into his own tortured soul forever scarred by the demons of defeat.

Just like what my father did as a child, Vitriol will lock Priest inside a so-called sanctity and create not peace and enlightenment but pain and destruction. My grandparents, the other 68 victims all locked in that church longing to escape but finding themselves trapped within the flames created by my father, washing their sins away with fire, they will be joined by another who commits sin with his blasphemous speeches of bringing about fear by simply looking at them. Priest seems to believe that all he has to do is just stand there and he will be instantly reviled and feared all at once but when I look at him, when Vitriol looks at him, all we see is a fraud, a fake, nothing but a washed up old man who thinks his pretense will still shock and frighten people in this modern age.

You really think turning out the lights and dragging your thumb across your throat will scare people like me, monsters like Vitriol? Tell me really, what makes you think we’d be terrified of the likes of you? The only thing about you that could be seen as scary is that massive ego of yours thinking you’re something that you’re clearly not and demanding your shot at the World Heavyweight title. You may have been given that opportunity Priest but first, you have to survive against Vitriol and since it’s pretty much guaranteed that he will end you in the middle of that ring, I guess he will be the one to replace you and defeat Dazz, Jay Williams and Angelica Jones to earn his rightful place on his thrown as the king of Mayhem.

Have you injured anybody in the ring? I’d guess you have at some point and you probably felt guilty about it, felt bad that you had hurt somebody else by sheer accident. Vitriol and I, we’ve tortured, we’ve murdered and killed in cold blood and enjoyed every last second of it, in fact the thought of what we might do to this child molester almost drives me to self-gratification.

She grins and stares at the priest, grabbing him roughly by the cheeks and shaking his skull gently before patting the side of his face.

Ambrosia: But I won’t, instead I’ll save it for Nightmare Before Christmas when Vitriol will get his chance to fight me for himself, test my own capacity for violence against the only true monster in MCW. You see, if people thought Vitriol destroying Priest in this Highway to Hell contest was scary, just imagine their faces once the fatal four way match for the Hardcore championship begins. Fatal…….four way……truer words never spoken because it really will be fatal for somebody in this match.

I mean, we have Golden Eagle attempting to get into some sort of winning way again and who exactly ended his little win streak after he returned? Why, that would be little old me along with the Avatar of Avarice! Don’t you people see that anyone who comes up against us always find themselves on the wrong side of victory. Is it any wonder that after he received Scarokinesis courtesy of us that the Golden Eagle suffered more bad luck and ended up lying at the feet of Malakai Laymon? I’ll bet he’s glad to have been drafted over to Livewire as a part of its staff because after Nightmare Before Christmas, I can guarantee just two encounters against us, he’ll be running straight to the other show and hide behind his little casino franchise to avoid the kind of fate that his people suffered when the pilgrims sent them all packing to run blackjack tables or dance and sing in the Village People.

I’d bet he’d rather face a lifetime of hell in prison until the day he meets his daddy again than have to look me in the eyes again and know that Vitriol and I can and will destroy him with whatever happens to be around to grab and use even though we’re both more than capable of eviscerating you with our bare hands. Just one look at your reflection in Vitriol’s mask will render you mute and paralyzed with fear moments before your still beating heart is ripped from your chest, stuffed back down your throat and then choked with barbed wire until your carotid pops open like a burst pipe and gushes crimson everywhere, giving us all a bloodbath. It’s that or you rot in a cell forever after your own Wounded Knee incident. You make the choice although personally, I’d prefer to pluck your feathers and roast you in the fires of the Highway to Hell, I wouldn’t mind violating that stupid act protecting golden eagles as long as Vitriol and I got to butcher one in front of the entire world.

But then of course, Golden Eagle isn’t the only pathetic little crybaby desperate for attention after finding himself in a slump having to face Vitriol and I in this match. There’s also that fruitcake Roman Steeler, a guy more concerned with what people think of his so-called abilities and trivial matters like Vitriol’s height than actually being entertaining and winning matches. You seem like somebody else fraudulently walking the halls of MCW, declaring yourself as one thing when in reality you are less than that. I’ve had Hollyweird viewers look you up and watch your matches for me because hey, I’m a busy girl, I have victims to terrorize and bodies to leave in my wake, I can’t be bothered to look at something I know I’m going to fall asleep to like your matches or your promos.

Listen to me very carefully Roman....or James....or Bernice or whatever you feel like calling yourself next, you have no idea what it’s like to be in the company of Vitriol and I like you will be at Nightmare Before Christmas. The battle royal last Mayhem was just a taste of what’s to come, last time we met you were lucky enough to be involved in a match where several other teams were all trying to throw us over the top rope to the floor but now? Now you’re in our domain, the realm of pain and agony and suffering. Little obsessed with concrete blocks are we Roman? If you like I could bring one especially for you since it seems you love them so much, give it to you as a Christmas present right across your disgusting little face.

You probably won’t enjoy it as much as Vitriol and I will but at least it’ll stop you running your mouth and trying to act like the fearless hero when you’re nothing more than a scared little boy way out of your depth amongst the monsters and the creatures your parents told you were only fictitious, a part of your imagination and incapable of harming you. That’s where we’re different Roman because while you were sheltered from the world and told that demons and monsters weren’t real, I spent my childhood learning from one of those very monsters. As an 8 year old, what did you do? Ride around on a bike? Play “Cowboys and Erics” with the few friends you had? Just typical of the sort of sheltered, silver spoon lifestyle you’re used to, that you’re trying to break away from by pretending to be an alcoholic stuck in a rut with an identity crisis.

Know what I did as an 8 year old? I lay on the bathroom floor and pretended that I’d slashed my wrists just to play a prank on my father. The look on his face when he walked in and saw me motionless on that cold floor was priceless and I still remember it to this day. It’ll be the exact same look of horror and shock that you will have when you’re backing away from me and bump right into Vitriol, knowing your fate will be to fall at our hand but who will get to claim you as yet another victim? Will it be me who gets to rip out your jaw and place it amongst my collection of the morbid and grotesque or will Vitriol kick your head off your shoulders like a football, slam your body onto tacks to turn you into a human pin cushion before he ties your stinking, rotting carcass to Golden Eagle so the two of you can slowly waste away together?

What I don’t understand is that MCW are willing to allow two deviants of destruction to tear apart two people they so obviously care about so much. Yeah, right. If they truly gave a shit about either of you, there’s no way they’d allow you to face the wrath and the punishment that we will inflict upon you. Lets face facts here, we hurt people, we kill people for our own pleasure and putting us in a match where inflicting injuries and using tools is perfectly legal, accepted and even encouraged then do you really think it’s a good idea to have people MCW cares about involved? Oh but that’s the point isn’t it? MCW doesn’t give a fuck if Golden Eagle or Roman Steeler get fed to the Avatar of Avarice and the Harlequin of Hardcore so long as people bleed, people cry out in pain and people end up with their leg torn off and shoved so far up their own ass that they chew on their toes?

As far as Vitriol and I are concerned, Golden Eagle and Roman Steeler and nothing more than bodies waiting to be raped of their lives through violence and destruction. I’m going to let you in on something. I used to play a little game called Demonic Wrestling Party Hour with my action figures and they all used to have so much fun being made to tear each other apart by my own hands and Nightmare Before Christmas is going to be my very own version of that, only instead of plastic action figures I’m going to be scarring and mutilating human flesh. Won’t that be so much fun? Just like the Indians lost all their reserves and the Roman Empire was eventually destroyed by disorganization, chaos and the power of Christianity, Vitriol and I will take what belongs to Golden Eagle and force him to have to live somewhere else and cry about how he’s a minority and being mistreated while Roman is picked apart like slaves in the Roman gladiatorial arenas.

As for the avatar himself, Vitriol knows that once we step into that ring, our ties, our bond will be as broken as our limbs might be in each other’s hands until somebody is declared the winner. That’s the nature of the match, all four of us will fight to the death until one is able to hold the Hardcore championship without being in as much pain and agony as the other three, weapons will be used but Vitriol and I know each other well enough to know that it will take a brutal slaughter to put one of us down and the two of us will show everybody just what real suffering is, even if we inflict it upon each other. That’s one thing that sets us apart from the rest, we don’t care that we are the Tag Team champions, we don’t get that the two of us are free to continue to wreak mayhem on Monday nights together, if the opportunity comes to destroy each other, you’d better realize that we will take it.

That must be why Roman and Golden Eagle are probably pleased at the fact that once Nightmare Before Christmas is over, whatever is left of them will be moved over to Livewire to avoid us causing them any more suffering. Inflicting physical pain won’t be enough for us though because Vitriol and I know that the two of you are already suffering nightmares about us and will continue to suffer those terrifying dreams of the suffering we cause for the rest of your putrid lives. Until then, watch and see how either the Harlequin of Hardcore or the Avatar of Avarice will take apart everybody in our way, including each other, to get that Hardcore title for our collection and then Vitriol will go one step further and decimate Priest too. That is why Nightmare Before Christmas will belong to the Mistress of the Macabre and the Crown Prince of Chaos. As my father used to say, pain is what you make of it……and I love making lots of pain, especially against people like Golden Eagle and Roman Steeler.

Grinning like a maniac, Ambrosia begins to laugh in the face of the priest, rising from her chair and grabbing at the camera to pull it from its position, showcasing some more parts of this room and revealing that they are in what looks like a basement, the metal on metal clashing sound still ringing out and finally, Vitriol himself is revealed, sitting concentrating on something on a table before him, striking it with a hammer repeatedly to create that noise. The orange glow and warmth of the church’s wood burning stove brightens this monster, light glinting off the steel mask adorning his face while his hair hangs low due to him being bent over this second metal object, grabbing it with his hand and raising it up to show Ambrosia, the camera unable to see her reaction as a mask very similar to the one Vitriol wears is shown on the screen.

Vitriol grasps the mask with tongs and holds it in the open flame of the stove, waiting patiently for a few minutes before bringing it out, glowing red hot and too dangerous to touch without severe burns suffered. He rises to his feet from that chair and looks toward the priest still tied to his own seat, Ambrosia moving the camera to watch as Vitriol moves to place that still burning metal mask upon the priest’s face, muffled screams and wide eyed terror emanating from this religious man at the thought of having his face burned off by that mask. With inches to go before it is placed upon the face of the priest, Ambrosia’s voice rings out from behind the camera, causing Vitriol to look at her.

Ambrosia: Now now....if he’s burned alive, he’ll never learn.

The camera is moved again, this time placed back down on a nearby surface as Ambrosia’s back is shown walking towards a corner of the room, the sadistic sequel returning with the basin containing holy water, planting it down next to the priest as Vitriol gets the idea and cools the mask in the liquid, steam rising as a hiss fills the air. Satisfied that the steel is cool enough, Vitriol brings it out of the holy water and holds it against the priest’s face, locking it in place around his head and hiding his visage behind that cold and evil mask. Ambrosia shows satisfaction with a smile then motions to her accomplice, the two grabbing at something dark and invisible due to the shadow of the room, only the silvery glint of liquid and the glugging noise that accompanies it falling onto the floor and other surfaces, splashing up on impact.

Once the objects are empty of the liquid, Ambrosia smiles once more and removes a small metal object from her pocket, flicking it open as a naked flame dances upon it. Vitriol stares and wonders what she wishes to do next, getting his answer to the silent questioning.

Ambrosia: Grab him and get him out, I’ll light the kerosene then we can get out of here.

Vitriol nods and grabs the priest and the chair he is still tied to, lifting them almost with ease and carrying them up a flight of steps while Ambrosia grabs at the camera, causing it to go black and have no image or sound. After a few seconds of dead air, the screen bursts to life once again, showing a view of the church’s main hall with its rows of pews and the altar at the front, only this time the view is from up in the rafters looking down. Fire rages all over the church, burning and charring everything in sight as screams ring out from somewhere, the doors bursting open below the camera while firefighters rush in spraying the flames with water. As the fire begins to die down, the camera and those brave enough to tackle the blaze get a better view of what is happening in the church, the figure of Christ having been torn from the large crucifix behind the altar and replaced, this time the priest serving as the idol, tied to the cross with the Vitriol mask still covering his face, the cross itself hung upside down.

The sounds of the firefighters talking amongst themselves as the priest is helped down from his position chilled the MCW executive, listening as he heard something that scared him and was very reminiscent of an incident that had happened years before. What had he done? What had he unleashed upon MCW? Would more casualties be suffered at Nightmare Before Christmas, would body bags be necessary for Golden Eagle, Roman Steeler and Priest?

Firefighter 1: Did you find out what blocked the door to stop us getting in?

Firefighter 2: Yes sir, it was a golden crucifix placed between the handles, if it hadn’t somehow come loose while we hammered the doors in, this guy would be dead.....





Pain Inflicted, Torment Awakened.....


Awakening from his forced slumber, Vitriol finds himself shackled to a wall, feeling his hands above his head being held by chains tied to a pipe above him to keep him upright and on his feet. Moving his upper limbs seemed to do nothing but rattle the chain against the steel pipe it was attached to, causing him to curiously look to see if a weak link could be found or else some other way to escape, if indeed he was thinking of escape. Maybe his mind worked in a different manner altogether, wanting to admire that which kept him chained to the ceiling of this room, eyeing it as if it were a beautiful prize of gold and covered in jewels or the way supermodels are admired and ogled by those who buy magazines that feature their photo shoots.

Only Vitriol himself would truly know but he’d never give up anything other than plans to bring about devastation, the destruction of sanity, the vile raping of all that is seen as safe and secure. His eyes cast across the room, taking note of the lack of features and wondering whether this was the first empty room that could be found to accommodate such a monstrous being as he was or whether items had been removed purposefully to enable he would have no distractions from whatever lay in store for him here. It seemed almost instinctive that he was chained here for a purpose, not knowing what that purpose was but the feeling was strong that he was meant to be tested somehow, some way, after all he’d been attacked by his own tag team partner and awoke to find himself here, chained up like a bear at a cheap Russian zoo.

He stared at his surroundings, trying to pick out a part of the room most likely to house the large form of Zolomon himself or the tiny frame that hid the vicious side Ambrosia was becoming known for, a portmanteau of both her father’s and her mother’s psychological profiling. He always showed respect to Ambrosia’s father, naming him as Zolomon both in tribute to his violent and spiritualistic attacks on others and also because he deemed himself as unworthy to speak the Oblivion’s real name. Indeed, to him the only people worthy enough to utter the name Saul Manning were either Ambrosia herself or those who had gained Zolomon’s respect, anybody else were blatant in their lack of courtesy to the great man and would more than likely find themselves among his next victims.

Alas, after scouting the room with its concrete walls, huge chips and holes in the otherwise solid frames where age had withered and worn the material over time, finding no sign of Zolomon and his little sequel lurking in the shadows observing him or challenging him in some manner, Vitriol relaxed for a few more seconds, not out of a misplaced fear of the pair - for he felt no fear - but to drink in the sight of the chains gently rattling against one another. He had to find a way to break out of this situation and find the Harlequin of Hardcore, see just why she used that taser upon him so readily, so easily while he wasn’t looking. The funny thing about it was, he felt no anger at Ambrosia for doing such a thing, no reaction other than bemusement that she could do such a thing to him and leave him in shackles. Indeed, if she’d done the same to her father, the Absolution would have simply awakened from his unconscious slumber, saw the situation he was in and shook his head with a smile on his face. “That’s my girl”, he would have uttered.

Bringing his hands down slightly, he felt the slack of the chains, allowing him to move his arms so that the palms of both hands were aimed diagonally in relation to the bare, dusty concrete floor. If only he could tug enough to have his arms perpendicular, a perfect correlation outwards as if pointing towards the opposite wall he might just be able to wrap the steel restraints around his fists and tug. With all of his might he could break the pipe and carry those chains with him until able to free himself of their weight, drag them along the floor like the stereotypical image of a ghost as first written by Charles Dickens in the classic A Christmas Carol. Vitriol didn’t feel like Jacob Marley though, no need to warn, to give heed of terrors that would come throughout the night to show a former partner the error of his ways.

No, if the Crown Prince of Chaos truly were Jacob Marley he’d have no need for such objects as rattling chains, after all, why waste the perfect chance to kill or to maim by giving the victim forewarning of your deathly approach? Continuing to look up along the lines of the chains, Vitriol noticed something slightly unusual, a part of the chain that seemed to be colored a shade of yellow, almost pale and cream and a stark contrast to the rest of the metal that had areas that glinted slightly despite the fact the chains themselves were rusted in parts and dirty, as if kept in regular use for decades. This certainly caught his attention and after looking down to the floor at his boots, noticing he had no shackles around his ankles, he decided to make his move.

Twisting his hands to wrap the chains around them, he used all of his strength to pull himself up the chains, one in each hand as he reached the ceiling of the room, staring at the oddly colored piece and easily holding himself up their with his hands, dangling above the floor several feet up in the air. Relying on the grip of his single hand, he used the other to grab at the chain by the pipe, pulling it as it began to open wider until finally becoming wide enough to pull apart, the chain it belonged to breaking and sending Vitriol plummeting to the floor. He landed on his feet and looked down, staring at the chains as they looked like steel snakes upon the ground, no longer stretching up high above him. He wondered what had happened, staring up at the pipe and then again at the floor, taking note of the broken part that had been seemingly painted almost blonde.

It was the weakest link in the chain, easily breaking when extra force was used upon it. It made sense and it meant he didn’t have to struggle with the chain or the ceiling, no need to try to break the piping or the solid concrete and finding it a lot easier to remove the shackles from around his wrists, which bound him to the ceiling. Tossing the shackles to the ground he listened as the metal collided with the steel of the chains, making a clanging noise, which echoed around this small and otherwise inconspicuous room. Vitriol stretched and bent his arms, getting the feeling back into them before carefully walking around at a slow pace, getting used to moving again after being confined to this one part of the room for however long it had been.

Walking around the room allowed Vitriol to check every nook and cranny, every dark corner seemed to wield nothing but emptiness and despair. All except for one corner of the room, upon which laid a small tape recorder placed on the floor, almost hoping somebody would find it. He picked it up, admiring the object and noticing the abundance of dirt and dust, a battered old cassette player that was small and handheld, easy to fit inside somebody’s pocket and act as a sort of Dictaphone whenever necessary. A small label had the instruction to press play, which Vitriol duly did, holding the recorder high enough to allow the voice on the tape within to fill the room. It’s booming tones sounded familiar, like those of the great Zolomon himself.

“Vitriol....my daughter’s acquaintance and vestige of vehemence....For every action there is always a reaction and this is my reaction to your brutality. You may have noticed that my daughter had zapped you when you least expected and left you chained to a wall, chains that housed a blonde weak link. In playing this tape, you have escaped the shackles and are now free to follow the path of destruction of which you are destined to tread....but you must first be tested further. Those who do not understand will find themselves underhand....triumph or perish, the test begins....”

Pushing the stop button, Vitriol tossed the recorder back down to the ground, looking around and wondering what to do next. There seemed to be no door in this room so there was no way of escaping yet the walls were grimy and covered in filth, literal filth that had built up over time with dust and flecks of other substances that had stained the concrete over time and not the filth of society that clogged up the world with their lies, with their pathetic attempts to seize everything through forgery, faking their own lives and attributes in order to impress and have everything they ever wanted handed over to them on a silver platter. It was funny how the dredges of society were those who accepted the norm, who reveled in it and while attempting to go against the grain and cause disruption in a futile attempt at seeming somehow “different”, they held disdain and scorn for those who truly broke new ground, who truly were a step away from the usual path.

Those same people complained whenever something different yet great was thrust upon them, not liking it one bit even though moments before they had stated they would not be so disgusted or angry or upset over such actions. Vitriol saw it as the reign of the hypocritical, something he despised with everything within. He decided to pat the concrete walls with one hand, trying to feel or hear a slight difference in texture but every section of the room felt rough and as concrete should, no hollow echo to give away a fake wall that led to an exit. Indeed, this room could have either been built after he’d been placed there many decades before or else Zolomon was secretly a master of magic, transporting him to this place through means not yet discovered by science.

The Avatar of Avarice was not one to be so easily fooled, trickery such as that would normally fail but this time, even he felt unsure. “Normal” people may feel unsure because of some sort of giddy unknowing of how they arrived at a room with no windows and no doors such as this but the mind of Vitriol worked differently, a trait that enabled him to commit such dastardly deeds with no remorse and no regret. Instead, the unsure feeling Vitriol felt was one of wonderment, how somebody could fathom such a room to exist let alone place somebody inside not even crossing his mind but instead curious at how long this place had existed. If he’d known of this before, it could have been the perfect place to bring Michelle Richards, knock her out cold and then let her wither and die, slowly becoming skeletal until her rotting corpse could be found by the next person he and Ambrosia wished to make suffer their own brand of entertainment.

It was during his walk around the room looking for a sign of an exit that he stumbled quite literally upon the answer. Something poking out from the floor had almost made him fall down, tilting his head down to see what it was, Vitriol noticed what could be construed as a makeshift handle. Reaching down and grabbing it, he pulled as the spike in the floor lifting and along with it, a hatch. He almost threw it aside, the spike landing hard upside down on the floor as Vitriol himself climbed down through the hole that had now appeared and dropped down into another room, his knees buckling upon the impact of the landing as he almost kneeled down. Pushing himself upright allowed him to fully observe his new surroundings, a similar looking room as the one above but with a steel door on one wall and a key hanging from the center of the ceiling on a piece of wire.

He tried to reach up but the key was too high for him, just out of reach as he tried to force his hand to grab at it, even wondering whether to rip his own arm out of the socket and then using it to knock the key down to the floor but choosing not to, after all, what good would a one armed monster be to anybody? It almost seemed as if the height of the key was positioned by somebody who was larger, perfect for somebody at least a foot taller than he was to simply stand there and snatch it away from the wire, but he found it extremely difficult to do the same. Thoughts drifted as he tried to formulate a plan but none came to mind that would work.

The only thing he had left was to simply rely on the one thing that had enabled him to become one half of the MCW Tag Team champions and the cause of so much talk, so many nightmares amongst the professional wrestling fraternity. Walking towards one wall, Vitriol raised his right leg off the ground and slammed the sole of his boot into the concrete wall, a thud sounding as dust rained down to the floor, more thuds as he kicked at that wall as if he were kicking somebody’s face inward towards their own skull, caving their features the wrong way without the satisfactory crunch of bone and the spatters of blood that would only serve to energize him to continue until there was nothing left to stomp.

After much kicking at that inanimate wall, the sound of his frantic thuds was joined by an echo of metal colliding and reverberating its impact upon the floor, causing Vitriol to stop and turn, coming face to face with the key lying on the ground in the middle of the room. Without hesitation, he reached down and grasped it tightly, holding it by the handle and staring at the other end, taking note of the idea that he could possibly keep it should he need it for more locked doors or even as a weapon should he need to pierce the body of somebody, utilize the key as a makeshift knife to stab at someone standing in his way. Striding over to that locked door, Vitriol placed the key into the lock and twisted it, hearing the metal of the lock as it was pulled sharply from its domain and allowing him to turn the handle of the door and open it wide, stepping out into the unknown.

Rather than finding another room with a task upon which he needed to pass, Vitriol instead found a blank canvas, pristine yet filthy walls and a door on the other side waiting for him to open it and leave while a second tape recorder hung on a wire similar to the key in the last room only at a height manageable for him, Vitriol easily able to grab at it, snatching with force to break the wire before glancing over it. Despite being grungy and grimy, the recorder itself was able to give a brief reflection in some parts of the metal casing, allowing him to see a glimmer of his own steel mask and dark hair as he cast his eyes over this piece of electronic equipment. His finger found the play button as it did with the very first recorder he found in the room with no door, pushing it as the object clicked and the cassette inside whirred into life, its reels spinning and revolving.

“I’m glad you made it this far Vitriol....very pleasing indeed....But this game isn’t over yet. Not by a long shot. You saw that all was not as it seemed and that brute force was necessary to overcome obstacles when others consider height as the true factor....Now, as a champion alongside my daughter you have shown that success can come your way but what is true success? Is it measured in gold, the weight of a precious metal and the hide of a bovine creature around a person’s waist....or is success truly measured in the way your depravity dwells deep inside the cerebellum....bores deep to create long lasting nightmares? The nightmares of those around you are blatant, you have helped terrify them to their absolute core but the question is....do YOU suffer nightmares or are you truly the perpetrator of the nightmares of others....?”

The tape finished abruptly, leaving him to wonder exactly what Zolomon had meant. Of course he was the subject of other people’s nightmares, otherwise he wouldn’t be the monster he truly was and besides, he and Ambrosia were the main talking point of MCW due to their actions since they’d first turned up in the company so if that wasn’t nightmarish then he wouldn’t know what else to do. He turned upon hearing the door through which he’d entered creaking, looking to see whether he’d knocked it but instead, saw the figure of the Absolution himself, dressed in a burlap sack and with hands bandaged and covered in cuts, sores and scars. He tried to ready himself but Zolomon proved too quick at this time, storming towards him with a massive blow to the mask that staggered him due to the incredible force and strength within this imposing figure.

He turned his head back in time to find another blow coming for him, rocking him back again as Zolomon simply laughed and continued his assault upon his daughter’s tag team partner, managing to strike enough times to pin him against the wall before slamming his knuckles into the stomach time and time again. With Vitriol winded, Zolomon stands back admiring the fact he’d taken down the monster but it’s only temporary as Vitriol lunges, grasping Zolomon around the waist and forcing him backwards against the wall, driving his shoulders into Zolomon’s abdomen this time but receives a clubbing blow on his back courtesy of the larger man’s fists. Shaking the Avatar of Avarice off himself, Zolomon nails a knee to the steel mask, sending the smaller man upright at a quickened pace that almost sends him toppling off balance.

Zolomon: YOU are the monster Ambrosia adores so much for your devious demeanor? YOU are the unstoppable beast that wishes to dominate MCW and show them what it means to be afraid? Looking at you now, I’d say you were as fraudulent as Priest, not enough to even terrify Roman Steeler into running away. You are NOTHING!

As he emphasizes the last word, Zolomon lashes out with a swift kick to the Crown Prince of Chaos, sending him to the floor clutching at his stomach. Another kick is this time blocked, Zolomon’s ankle grasped and the man himself tipped off balance, landing hard on the floor as Vitriol leaps onto him, leaning in close and removing the key that was used to open the door from its hiding place amongst his coveralls, wielding it in a threatening manner ready to plunge it deep into Zolomon’s eyeball. Unflinching, Zolomon merely laughed, staring at the masked monster prepared to blind him at a moment’s notice.

Zolomon: Congratulations....you’ve proven to me that you are unafraid of even me, something that will prove useful when you come up against my sequel. She is the only real test you will have at Nightmare Before Christmas and by staring Oblivion in the eye and looking all the stronger for it....you are more than ready to face her as so many others have and failed and for this, you have become worthy. Golden Eagle has already tasted defeat by your hand, as has Roman Steeler and the fraudulence of your other opponent will be exposed when you send him directly to the Hell that he claims to know very well.

He lies back, still laughing as if being threatened to be stabbed in the eye with a steel key was funny, Vitriol pinning him down to the floor fearless of any consequences despite the fact Zolomon could easily flip him over and snap his neck if he wished. Only, that wasn’t what he wished at all....Zolomon was anticipating the night when his sequel, his second chapter would face the villainous monster, the two battling each other along with Golden Eagle and Roman Steeler for the Hardcore championship, a match in which both were in their element before Vitriol would again find himself in a place he knew very well, trapped and confined along with Priest in Highway to Hell.....