Michael walked out of the restroom in the crowded bar, wiping his hands on his jeans to get the excess water the paper towels didn't quite get. Michael and Rowland didn't like those snooty bars where some guy named Vern was in there with you the entire time you were pissing - it kind of made them feel awkward. Michael was making a bee-line back to the booth where his brother sat, sliding between people, 'pardoning' and 'excusing' himself as he brushed against the backs of women clad in jeans and halter tops; this definitely wasn't a snooty bar, or even the stereotypical foam party joint, just a hole in the wall tavern with good Guinness and decent music for once.

Michael was just a few tables away from his booth when a large man stepped out in front of him - seemingly on purpose. Michael, his head ducked and eyes on the floor, didn't have time to put on the perverbial brakes and ended up crashing into this big, smelly, leatherclad biker with tattooes running up and down his arms, up over his face and skull, and right down his chest and back. If there was a piece of skin on this man that WASN'T covered with tattooes, you didn't want to see it.

"Hey, watch it, Mick!"

Michael looked up at him, putting his hands in the air even though he somewhat wanted to rub his neck.

"Yeah, Bruno, sure thing."

Michael ducked his head again, this time trying to scoot by the large man. The loud music seemed to stop as the biker seemed to push Michael over with his gut, slamming him into the back of someone's chair, spilling the man's drink all down the front of his shirt. Michael's eyes grew wide as he looked foward, realizing what just happened. Michael started to shake his head as he turned to the large biker.

"Well, that wasn't very nice of ya, Mick! I think ya owe this man a new Bud Light, right pal?"

The biker slapped the man 'Michael accidentally' bumped on the shoulder. As the man stood up, Michael could tell the other man was almost as big as the first. Michael stood between the two men, anything but scared, even when they tried to intimidate him by cracking their knuckles. Michael simply walked forward, patted the two men on the shoulders, and smirked.

"How about I just walk over to me table and enjoy a pint while yeh two smoke yer feckin' cigars and jerk each other off on yer bar stools, aye?"

"I think you should watch who you're talkin' like that, you potato eating fuck."

Michael shook his head, looking over the two men, obviously growing angry as this man's blatent biggotry. Michael looked as though he would rear back and punch one of the men, when he looked across the bar and saw his brother, Rowland, shaking his head. Michael sighed, again patted the two men on the shoulders and walked to the bar - quickly being chased down by his brother.

"Michael, what the hell are yeh thinking about doing?"

Michael looked over his shoulder at his brother, before slapping a five dollar bill on the bar, holding up two fingers and pointing to the Bud Light cooler.

"Well, since Bruno and Junior decided to off and be racist faggots, I'm goin' ta break these bottles over the two o' their heads and until they bleed on me shoes."

Rowland looked at his brother as the bartender slid two bottles down to them, each brother grabbing one and turning away from the bar.

"You can't go around and do that to any random yankee twat that doesn't like Irishmen. That's feckin' insane"

The brothers were walking to the two men now, each discussing why and why not that wasn't a good idea. As Rowland and Michael got there, Rowland looked at the man Michael dubbed Bruno and smiled, somewhat.

"Yeh'll have ta excuse me brother. He's gotta little mouth on him and doesn't know when ta shut it."

Michael shook his head, rolling his eyes as the two men reached for their respective beers.

"Yeah, yeh'd better watch the mouth on that shamrock nigger or I'll sh-"

Quickly, before the man could finish his sentence, both Collinses drew back their beer bottles and smashed them over the top of the man's head, causing everyone around them to jump up and move away. Bruno fell to the ground, unconscious with blood running down the side of his head. Rowland had snapped by the sound of 'shamrock nigger', a durrogatory term that insulted and irritated everyone around the world.

"Shamrock Nigger, is that right, Bruno?"

"Yeh'd better watch who the FECK yer talkin' to like that, ya dumb fuckin' Swamp Yankee. And that goes for the lotta yeh!"

Rowland looked around the bar, waving his hand at everyone in the room.

"Just cause yeh think yer big and bad, doesn't mean yeh wont piss off the wrong feckin' Pogue and get yer arse handed to yeh."

"Somebody get this heap o' shite out a here. And all his fairy friends, too."

Michael kicked the man when he was laying down, before Rowland grabbed Michael by the shirt and dragged him out of the bar, quickly. Michael smacked Rowland's hand away from him, before turning back to the bar and screaming one last thing.

"And we're not payin' fer our feckin' Guinnesses either!"

Rowland spun Michael around as they began to walk on the sidewalk, down towards the Las Vegas strip.

"FUCK!"

Michael quickly ran to catch up with his brother, patting him on the back.

"See? What the feck did I tell ya? Bruno and his biker friend deser-"

"I don't care how much they deserved it, it wasn't feckin' right, Mikey. That's another bar we can't show our faces in, all cause the Collins temper got the best a us.""

Michael looked at his brother, grabbing his arm and pulling him to a stop. Michael nodded, smirking.

"Yeh... but it was fun, aye? Watchin' that fat feck drop the floor like a... like a... sack o' potatoes?"

Rowland tried to brush the question off, he tried to ignore his brother, but more and more the thought of the large biker crumpling to the ground made him smile. And before long, he was smirking.

"Aye, Mikey. It was a lotta fun."

Michael smiled at his brother, again, before wrapping his arm around his brother's neck/shoulders and walking down the strip, talking about their past escapades.

* * * * * * * * *

Michael and Rowland were in their dressing room at the Thomas and Mack when the camera opened up. They weren't in their wrestling attire - it looked as though they just jumped out of the shower, though Michael was just putting on his shirt and Rowland was fully clothed. Rowland turned to the camera, smirking ever so slightly.

"The Redemption Rumble is just over 24 hours away, everyone knows that. Everyone's out, talking shite to the fans, talking shite to the media, talking shite... to each other. Some of it is long, and boring - like anything Osbourne Kilminster does, some of it short and incoherant - like everything involving Eli Storm, and some of them are so coherant, so intriguing, until yeh get to the end, until they proclaim themselves the winner before the match even started - Kenji Yamada and Jonny Johnson, here's lookin' at yeh."

Michael looks at the ground, shaking his head and laughing.

"Yeh know, Kenji, it's kind of funny how you talk so much here in yer first match - a rumble, nonetheless - and expect to be taken seriously. Really, bringing the Yakuza into SHOOT Project again? Fantastic! I know yeh've heard it hundreds of times by now, everyone talkin' about how yer way over yer head here in SHOOT Project, even coming from being the Outlaw Pro-Wrestling Champion. If I could be honest with yeh fer a bleedin' second...

"They're right. Yeh see, the competition here in SHOOT Project is one hundred times better than in OPW. We know, we were there - until Rolly blew out his shoulder. Aye, but now his shoulder is fine, and Rolly's back to 100% health. Yet, yer here, a victim of your own demise, in some kind of RIP OFF of the Hardcore House of Pain you contrived with a former Rumble winner, Azraith DeMitri. Here you are, scootin' along the ground, grabbing some Agent Orange painkiller shit from the Yakuza, and in return, yeh make 'em money."

Rowland chuckled, looking at the camera.

"Seems like a bad investment ta me, Yamada. What would anyone want with a man gimping around in a Rumble? What are yeh gonna do, Kenji, when someone 'accidentally' kicks yeh in th side o' yer knee and sends yer arse over the top rope? Limp back to the Yakuza and hope they don't cut yer head off fer bein' such a feckin' failure? If history means anything now a days, good luck with that. Good luck with 'Fate' and good luck with yer plans of teachin' us anything."

"How many feckin' times do yeh think we've heard ya dumb fecks say 'yeh know nothin' of hell, and yeh know nothin' o' the devil'? C'mon, Kenji, yeh gotta be smarter than that if yeh wanna win this rumble. Every - Single - Match, whoever it is, people try and tell us we don't know hell, we don't know the devil, we don't know shite. And every - single - match, we have to say the same damn thing. We don't care if yer family was offed one night, we don't care if yer pseudo-child was hung and killed in OPW, we don't care if yeh have some kind of Asian concoction yer gonna spew from yer mouth and blind everyone in the ring. We know what Hell is, we lived in Hell. Dare I say we 'Dined in Hell'? C'mon, lad. We've been through Hell and back, and THAT is why the people of Dublin call us the Devils."

Rowland nodded, crossing his arms over his chest as he looked to the camera.

"Arion Catcher, as Chivalric said, coming out of left field and calling us Super Mario Brothers from Dublin. Except the fact that neither one of us is fat, or taller than the other, or Italian, for that matter. Neither one of us have goofy mustaches, neither one of us live in a make believe world with giant turtles or whatever. And, amazingly, neither one of us ride on a feckin' lizard who shoots shit out o' his mouth. Filler spots, aye, Arion? Maybe if yeh weren't so damn... blah... yeh'd be worth a shite, but yer just like Kenji. Delusional and repetative."

Michael looks at his brother, thinking for a second.

"Who's left?"

"Osbourne."

"Meh. That's about all the guy gets out of anyone, though."

"Eli Storm."

"Ah, right, I fergot the quitter came back. I don't think I want to waste me breath on the lad."

"Jonny Johnson."

"Nah. Too oblivious to the real world, too many people sucking on his taint."

"Jester Smiles."

Michael's eyes grow wide, almost as if money signs hitting him in the face.

"The $10,000 Man. Everyone's going to be gunning for him, everyone wants that nice 'pay day' from Ainsley Lake. Knowing Ms. Lake, the lass wont even pay out - but that $10,000 does sound good..."

"Bigger apartment, better furnature."

"Our own rooms..."

Michael looked at his brother, scowling.

"But really, Jester seems like the epitome of marked man. Who hasn't the lad pissed off? Who isn't cooning over Ainsley's every word trying to impress her or get her cash? Even Kenji Yamada remembers what Jester did to him, which is like Osbourne remembering that the Norse invaded Ireland and most of us are decendants of his 'wanna be' ancestors."

Michael laughed at his brother, scratching his face.

"And Obsidian and Sammy are kind of close now. Aparently Obsidian is the Keymaster to Sammy's Gatekeeper or some shite..."

Rowland looks at his brother, with that 'icky' face.

"Watch Ghostbusters, ya dumb feck. Regardless, those two brutes are scary as a team... thank God there'll be more than one twat to throw each o' them out, aye?"

Rowland nodded, then shrugged.

"I just don't wanna look inside that doll's head. Lord knows how many knuckle babies the lad has in there."

A collective 'eww' escapes from their mouths.

"Who else... who else... who el-"

Right then, there was a knock at the door. Rowland turned to his brother as he stood up.

"Why, fer who could that be?"

Rowland walked to the door, opening it quickly. As the door opened, Rowland sighed.

"Oh, Jesus, why don't yeh just walk in."

"I don't know what the feck yeh two are doin!"

Maureen Collins, their sister, walks through the door; she wears a hooded sweatshirt and a pair of blue jeans - obviously extremely conservative.

"What the feck do yeh think, we're makin' out with each other? We're cuttin' a feckin' promo - regardless, yeh interrupted us."

"Aye... but she did make me remember something... someone."

Michael's stern voice caused the camera to turn to him, zooming in on his face.

"Kid Lightning, regardless of what your partner wants to tell you, regardless of what false hope he puts in yer head, regardless of whatever love connection you might have with me sister, yer still not allowed to touch her, as a matter of fact, I don't even like yeh lookin' at her... but alas, yeh do - and yeh still play that puppy dog shite around her, and yeh want ta be all up on her at ring side, and it pisses me off.

"That table yeh went through last Revolution? The way yeh felt, helpless up on me shoulders as I planted yeh through the wood, the way yeh feel every time I drag me sister away from yer childish, grubby hands? All those horrible horrible feelings will be like walkin' inta Chuck E. Cheese's if ye don't feckin' stop it.

"I don't like yeh, and yeh know that. I definitely don't want yeh harassin' me sister - I will not stand for it. And Rowland I are prepared to do anything to mke sure yeh realize what yer gettin' yerself inta. Tag team gold or not."

Michael looks over at his sister, nodding with his arms crossed over his chest. Maureen walked over into the picture, shaking her head.

"Sooner or later, yeh'll let me be me own person."

"Sooner or later, yer gonna end up gettin' me a sandwich. Now get me a feckin' sandwich."

Michael almost screamed at her, causing her to stand, shocked.

"No, wait. Wait. Look at us. Look at us tearing the family apart because Maureen can't tell the boyo to bugger off."

"Feck yeh! Feck the lot a yeh!"

Maureen turned around, storming out of the room. Michael looked at Rowland, who both kind of smirked.

"There's a lot of stuff riding on this match. $10,000. A title shot. Braggin' rights. Re-debuts, debuts, etc etc. It's going to come down ta heart, pride, and determination. Not FATE. I don't let me life play out to fate, I take control o' it. I don't let some other 'entity' control me life, no matter how Catholic I am. I determine my future, I determine my now."

"I am not afraid of a SHOOT Project Hall of Famer, or some hot shot main eventer who's won titles and accolades. I am still Michael Collins."

"And I am still Rowland Collins."

"And one of us will still win this rumble."