...In other, more disturbing news, the Los Angeles Police Department has yet to release any information on the increasing number of ‘organ-abductions’ that have been plaguing the city. Once again, ‘organ-abduction’ is the act of abducting a random pedestrian off the street and taking them to an unknown location, where these people are drugged and atrociously violated by way of having an internal organ actually taken from their body, until they are released back on the street an undisclosed amount of time later with no word of who or why or what has happened to them. Over the past week, eight missing persons have turned up�all victims to having their kidneys, livers, and even an eyeball or two, taken from them against their will. While the District Attorney declined to comment on the situation earlier today, our sources tell us that the LAPD are making progress on the case and hope to finish.

"I THOUGHT I SAID NO DEPRESSING SHIT WHILE I'M WORKING! YOU THINK FOX NEWS IS GOING TO PUT ME IN A GOOD MOOD, YOU STUPID FUCK?"

"Sorry, boss." It reverberates down the hallway from the TV room, where an unknown and faceless goon passes the time by channel surfing. While he found ‘unprofessional protection’ to be a satisfying and high-paying job, it was the moments like this that the bodyguard resented in his field of work.

Then again, protecting patrons of the Black Market doesn’t leave much room for moments like this.

"You were saying? Oh, right, yeah. I agree. We COULD do with two more feet of small intestines. Open him back up again, Menzy."

Surrounded by dingy and deteriorating concrete, leaky pipes, dusted windows and general creepiness, Our Protagonist, the Cult Icon, stands at the side of an operating table with a bloody pack of dental floss and a sewing needle. His assistant stands across the opposite side of the unconscious body with a scalpel (complete with matching blood!), ready to fulfill Dr. Icon’s order.

As Menzy begins to cut back into the recently sewed up half-dead guy (how the hell could this person be under anesthesia, anyways?), the Champion of the People lets out a sigh. "Damn. Kidnapping random people, drugging them, performing Black Market Surgery to steal their organs, then dumping them back on the street is a lot tougher than those self-teaching surgical videos lead on!" SC wipes his forehead with a portion of his sleeve that isn’t stained red.

"Meh. On second thought, Menzy, intestines are full of poop and I can’t have that shit on staining my stainless steel operating table. Sew him back up, I’m going to get my mind right."

Menzy the voiceless assistant glares at Shawn Christopher as he relieves himself of the bludgeoned medical scrubs, forcing himself through a tireless routine of opening and shutting, opening and shutting. He takes the thick sewing needle and mint-flavored floss to the still-breathing, still-sleeping, completely violated human being.

SC walks into the TV room, where he notices that the faceless bodyguard is now watching the E! channel, with his and Derek Hardaway’s name gracing the ticker. Ryan Seacrest douchebags up the screen and the room with his lame ass voice, but what he has to say is, apparently, important. SC takes a stand behind where the bodyguard is sitting.

The Hollywood feud between pro wrestling partners Derek Hardaway and Shawn Christopher seems to have taken to the back-burner as of late, now that recently announced Michael Mann-helmed "More Than Just Hardcore" is back on the production schedule. But even though Hardaway is back on the set, not much progress has been made of Christopher's and Oliver Stone’s zombie flick, "The Walking Dead." Insider reports say that the director had to impose a 500 foot restraining order on SC from the crew in order to make any headway on the film, although it has not been announced officially if the Cult Icon has been removed from the project completely--

"WHAT THE FUCK DID I SAY?!" SC says, reaching over the chair and snatching the remote control. He turns off the TV, then bitchslaps the back of the guard’s head with the crude plastic shape. "NO DEPRESSING SHIT WHILE I’M WORKING! IF I’M NOT HAPPY THAN MY PATIENTS AREN’T HAPPY."

"I’m pretty sure they aren’t happy in the first place, boss."

Shawn slaps him again, the batteries break loose and scatter.

"DEPRESSION IS BAD. ZOLOFT IS GOOD. Jesus what does it take to lighten the mood around this bleak facility of deceit and unspeakable violations?!" Shawn’s cries were enough to attract the bodyguard’s attention, more so to the point where a few expected visitors could slip inside unseen and unheard.

"Maybe you should try telling a joke. I’ve got a killer one."

From under a purple top-hat curved down, placed so SC can’t see the man’s eyes, a sinister grin (one that can’t be removed) shines through the darkness. With two thugs of his own behind him, the man tilts his head up to reveal green eyes, red lips, purple hair and lips stretching from cheek to cheek.

"JACK NAPIER, MY FRIEND! Looking snazzy in purple as always!" SC gives his friend a hug, and Jack continues to smile. And boy do I mean smile. "I was worried when you wanted to meet on such short notice, but I’d do anything for a joker. Tell me what you need and it’s yours."

"Well," Jack says with a displeased voice, one that betrays his smile, "It seems that my reputation has gone soft in the underworld. I’m looking to establish my dominance once again! People don’t understand that I am not a joke, and I think the only way to get that through their heads is by changing my appearance�making myself look more menacing."

"Well it is true, Jack. Your looks are NO LAUGHING MATTER!! HAHAHAH!" Shawn slaps his knee and clutches his side, hunched over while telling himself to stop because he’s killing him...self.

"That’s not funny." Jack Napier replies.

"Then why are you smiling?"

"Because I have no choice!"

"Oh, yeah. Well we can get a payment plan started for you later. Let’s take you back to the Room so we can prep you for some super safe and happy fun time surgery, shall we?! HEY MENZY! CUT OPEN THAT PED, AGAIN! WE NEED TO GIVE MY BUDDY HERE SOME MAN-BOOBS TO INTIMIDATE."

***

In an eerie scene, Jack Napier lays face-up on the stainless steel operating table with his eyes wide open and a smile even wider. The fact that he’s alive and unconscious is even creepier, but the fact that the dude can’t even form a frown paints the picture in a pathetic, pitiful light.

Shawn steps into the Room, clad in the same crimson-stained set of medical scrubs he tossed on the roach-infested floor only minutes earlier. Menzy waits at the side of the table as the Face straps his self into a pair of gloves and a mask, retrieves a scalpel and steps over the body of Jack Napier.

"NO LONGER SHALL A MAN BE DEFINED BY HIS CHEEKS! NO LONGER SHALL SHITTY CHARACTERS USE DEFORMATIES AS A COP-OUT FOR AN INTERESTING GIMMICK!"

Lowering the knife to Jack’s skin, Shawn begins to press into the top layer when, all of the sudden--

CRASH

"NOBODY FUCKING MOVE! HANDS ON YOUR FUCKING HEADS."

The windows are kicked through by SWAT members who had repelled from the roof of the building. A sea of patrol officers and trench-coat clad detectives bust through the front door and fill the void of the sticky and grotesque floor. Menzy and the three body guards fall to their knees, placing their hands behind their heads cooperatively as the cops place their wrists in hand-cuffs.

Shawn is a different story. He sighs, removes his mask and gloves, withdraws a joint tucked from inside his pocket, and lights up.

"I’ve got to make someone’s career, asshole." He replies to the lead detective, who has since holstered his gun to replace it with his badge.

"Detective Landry, Missing Funds Division. I take it you’re S. Christopher? The guy who’s brains behind this operation?"

"Who wants to know?" Shawn puts the joint out on the man’s badge. WHAT A FUCKING BAD ASS >:O

"Wise guy, eh? Alright wise guy, let’s see how you like going downtown!"

As the detective and his cohorts grab SC by the arm and lead him out to the squad cars, SC screams and kicks and whines. Resisting every step of the way, he makes a bigger scene out of the already ridiculous happenings by screaming.

"I KNOW MY RIGHTS YOU SONS OF BITCH! YOU SONS OF BITCH I KNOW MY FUCKING RIGHTS! YOU GUYS ARE SO FUCKING FIRED FOR THIS, I’LL HAVE YOUR FUCKING BADGES! NOT EVEN THE CORPSE OF JOHNNY COCHRAN CAN SAVE YOUR ASSES NOW YOU MIRANDA VIOLATING MOTHER FUCKERS."

Whatever that means.

***

The whole ride to the Police Station wasn’t very comfortable. Squad cars’ backseats are bucket-style and made of plastic�not ideal for the Cult Icon’s exaggerated form of scoliosis (hint: he has none).

The interrogation room isn’t anymore accommodating, either. They may as well have shackled him to the wall instead of handcuffing him to the table, facing a mirror that doesn’t exactly compliment his figure.

"I DO NOT LOOK THIS FAT IN THESE JEANS, YOUR MIRRORS FUCKING SUCK!"

The cops decided to give him a moment to cool-off, as his shouting has not stopped since he was first arrested. With enough time passing, finally the detectives enter the room. One of them is older, dirty blonde hair and tired. He looked like he’s been doing this job for 28 years and it certainly hasn’t gotten any easier. The other detective was casual, gritty, and smoking a cigarette. His eyes stay low and near-shut the entire time as he glares at Face-Eater from across the interrogation room. The third detective was clean-cut, well-shaven and dressed to match. Obviously the douchebag, he stands quietly in the back of the room while the good cop/bad cop dynamic begins to play out.

Detective Number One, the Good Cop, takes the seat across from SC and sets the file down, opened.

"So, Mr.... Shawn Christopher......." He looks the Cult Icon in his eyes. "Know why you’re here?"

"YOU FUCKING DO, NOT ME! I DIDN’T BREAK ANY LAWS THAT YOU KNOW OF OR HAVE ANY PROOF OF SO THERE IS NO REASON FOR YOU TO BE KEEPING ME! FIRST YOU FUCK UP MY SPINE WITH YOUR CHAIRS OF UNCOMFORTABLE DEATH AND NOW YOU TRY TO SLICE MY WRIST OFF BY TRAPPING ME IN THIS COLD AND SHINY ROOM. YOU KNOW MY ASS IS SMALL�PEOPLE CALL ME A CRACK BACK�WHY IS IT THAT YOUR MIRROR IS ALLOWED TO TAUNT ME WITH CHUBBINESS! THERE’S YOUR CRIMINAL, ARREST THAT MIRROR!"

"Let’s get to the fuggin chase." Detective Number Two, Bad Cop, slams his hands in front of SC to get some attention. "We know what you did. We know exactly what you took. You’re caught. You can either make this easy on us, and give us the confession we want to here, or you’re going to be taken down. Hard. And trust me, dick-wad, you’re not going to like it when I come down on you."

"NO SIR PLEASE DON’T COME ON ME I SWEAR IT WAS AN ACCIDENT!"

SC begins to breakdown as the two cops (that matter) smile to themselves, seemingly cracking their perp. He realizes he’s trapped in a corner with no way out, so with little choice, he decides to spill his guts.

"Alright, I totally didn’t mean to do it but Eric Anderson called me up and was like ‘hey, dude, come over,’ so I was like ‘okay,’ only Eric didn’t really invite me over because I was on mushrooms and hallucinated that he did so I go over there and ring the doorbell only no one answers but I hear someone say "COME IN!" so I try to walk in but the doors locked so I yell out "the door’s locked!" and someone yells back "Just go through the window!" so I broke the mailbox out of the ground and through it through the window just because I didn’t want to get cut by all that broken glass so I ripped the decorative American flag he had hanging out to hang over the shards and so I climbed inside and there was this dog there growling and shit, well I thought he liked me so I pet him but he tried to bite me so I picked him up by his tail and through him out a different window because I’ll be damned if I let a murderous dog rampage throughout my friend’s house! Anyways I start looking for Eric but I hear this alarm go off so I decide to put in the code only the code doesn’t work, probably because Eric never told it to me, and then some voice starts coming out through the keypad and the voice asked if I was alright and I told the voice it was a false alarm and that he could kindly fuck off so he did but said he’d send a squad car and I was like no it’s okay and he said no it’s company policy and I said "listen up, idiot face, you’ve got two seconds and two seconds only before you hang up this fucking line before I shit down your fucking nasal cavity" and was all like "word" and hung up and finally let me continue my search for Eric, so I go up the stairs and I see this room where the front door is decorated with marijuana leafs so I’m like "sweet! Eric’s smoking room" and I go in and boy was I right because there are bongs and Bob Marley posters everywhere so I decide to toke up when I hear a knock at the front door. I tell who’s ever there to go home because the owner of the house is dead and if he keeps bothering me I’ll kill him too and I hear someone yell "it’s the police! Come out with your hands up" so I sneak out to the balcony over the cop where he can’t see me and I threw a bong at him but I totally didn’t mean to knock him out but apparently people are pussies when it comes to glass being thrown at their head but hey what are you going to do? Anyways I grab Eric’s sack of Durban and I began to go out the front door when I see Eric pull up and boy is he pissed because he thinks I destroyed his house and killed a cop and his dog when the truth is I didn’t do any of it, well okay I did but the point is it’s his fault because he told me to come over. He says no he didn’t and I say yes he did he told me to come over so we could smoke and no one was here so I went inside the front door but he said the front door was locked and asked how I got in so I showed him the window and said "you told me to go through the window" and he said "no I didn’t!" and I said yeah you did but the window was locked so I threw your mailbox through it because it gave me bad vibes and he was really pissed because he said he had to mail anthrax to George Bush or something and now he has to use FedEx and he hates their service so he went to look for his dog because his dog cheers him up whenever he’s said but he can’t find him because I threw him through a window so then he’s really depressed and he tells me to leave and I say "we’re not going to smoke?" and he says "get the fuck out!" so I leave but not without his sack of Durban because come on! That’s bullshit. People aren’t supposed to invite you to come over and not be there when you show up. It’s rude. In fact, if anyone committed a crime, it’s him. Go arrest Eric Anderson."

SC folds his arms and nods. The cops jaws are both on the respective floor.

"That... that’s not what we were talking about." Good Cop says.

"Jesus Fucking Christ." Bad Cop mumbles.

"We’re talking about the funds you stole from Derek Hardaway. This has nothing to do... oh God, I’m speechless."

Both of the cops begin to rub their faces in agony, not realizing the scope of idiocy they were dealing with.

"I can’t do this anymore. It sounded fun at first but... fuck it, I quit." Good Cop says, and goes to leave the room.

"Me too." Bad Cop replies, following closely. The third and useless cop looks on, still confused.

"You’re supposed to leave too." Shawn tells him. The cop nods and leaves.

Just as the Cult Icon begins lighting up another joint, Derek Hardaway busts in the room unexpectedly.

"WHAT THE HELL DID YOU DO TO MY ACTORS?!" Hardaway screams, infuriated.

"Actors?! I thought those dudes were cops." Puff. Exhale. In Derek’s Face. That’s how he says hi.

"NO, those were ACTORS, you imbecile. I hired them for a revenge scheme in response to your little suicide stunt you pulled in order to teach YOU a lesson in acting like a fucking fool. BUT NO, YOU’RE TOO STUPID AND INSANE TO EVEN FEEL GUILTY. And then you drive off my actors with that inane account of breaking into Eric’s?! JESUS CHRIST YOU ARE ONE DENSE INDIVIDUAL!"

Shawn gets pissed.

"YOU MEAN I’M MISSING SURGERY FOR YOUR PRACTICAL JOKE?! THAT’S BULLSHIT DEREK!"

"Let’s not forget that it was your practical joke that almost ruined my career, toots."

"That’s beside the point, a man’s life is at stake! Hurry, you must uncuff me if we are going to save a man’s career from being nothing more than a gimmick with freakishly wide cheeks!"

"Who?"

"No, Jack Napier."

"The Joker?"

"Dude, can we go?"

Derek thinks for a moment and then withdraws a handcuff key. "Alright, let’s go."

***

The two rush back into the room where there are no body guards and no Menzy, but a television set left on and Jack Napier still laying unconscious on the operating table.

"Ooh. E!’s on."

"Derek! Now’s not the time for distractions!"

Derek nods and they approach the operation table. He looks slightly disturbed at the sight. "Don’t we need the proper tools? And gloves? And Medical Degrees?"

"There’s no time, man! This man is nothing more than a deceiving appearance. We have to get to work." Shawn holds his hand out to Derek, who looks at him confused. "Scalpel."

Shawn hands him the scalpel and turns away with clinched eyes, keeping his composure and forcing Shawn to go the operation alone.

"This could get messy... but someone’s got to make this guy’s career. If not me, then WHO!?!"

fifteen minutes later

"FINISHED, FINALLY. Jesus that took forever." Shawn says, wiping his bare and bloody hands on his pants before rubbing the sweat off his face.

Shawn wakes up in a pool of blood and drool, obviously unable to take in the sights that his reluctant partner seemed incessant to bestow upon him.

Jack Napier’s body shoots up from the table, finally awake after what seemed like an eternity of delay.

"Jack! Buddy! Those bandages have to stay on for another three days, but by that time you’ll be as good as new" Shawn stops himself, noticing that Jack has already unwrapped his mummified head.

"Mirror." Jack says.

"Um, okay." Shawn grabs the mirror.

"MIRROR!" Jack screams.

"Jesus, I got it right here. Calm the fuck down."

Examining his face, Jack takes a moment to react.

And then he breaks down, sobbing. He sets the mirror down and places his hands on the palms of his face.

"WHAT DID YOU DO TO ME?!!"

"I fixed your cheeks, dude. I thought you said you didn’t want to be a gimmick."

"THE CHEEKS WERE MY GIMMICK YOU ASSHOLE!!! DON’T YOU GET IT?!? THAT’S WHO I WAS! JOKER! SMILES! THE CHEEKS WERE A TESTAMENT TO MY PERSONALITY!!! NOW WHO’S GOING TO KNOW I’M THE FUNNIEST CRIME LORD IN THE WORLD, HUH!?! NO ONE! I WANTED YOU TO GIVE ME A PEC IMPLANTS OR SOMETHING!!! BECAUSE I DON’T HAVE MY FUCKING CHEEKS! JESUS IF ONLY I WORKED ON SOMETHING INTERESTING IN MY LIFE INSTEAD OF RELYING ON OTHERS TO DO MY BIDDING, I’D ACTUALLY HAVE A HOBBY I’M GOOD AT AND I WOULDN’T HAVE TO STARE AT MY CHEEKS ALL DAY! ALAS I HAVE NOTHING LEFT TO LIVE FOR!"

Jack grabs the scalpel and cuts his wrists. He dies instantly.

Shawn sighs at the sight. "He could have just cut his cheeks again."

"What the hell just happened?" Derek Hardaway asks as blood pours from Jack’s wrists and begins to stain the already disgusting floor. They’d better leave before they drown...

"What, that?" Shawn gestures to Jack Napier’s dead body. Derek nods.

"That was me preparing for a last man standing match. I’d say I’m ready."

before you fucks start arguing about semantics or whatever that word means and what not, YES THERE IS A BLACK MARKET IN LOS ANGELES COUNTY. it’s called Pepperdine University [if that’s in LA... if not, go to hell. or another fed under the experts].

*****

"So.. I have everyone questioning Shawn Christopher. My opponents are wondering where I'm at. Well lemme explain myself to you all.

When I came over to the Anarchy brand, it was in shambles. There was no real talent, the ratings were down, and no real money were being made. The moment I showed up on Anarchy, everything changed. I wrestled five star matches which raised ratings. Merchandise sales went up.. I carried the brand on my back.

For the last few months, I was the standard bearer for Anarchy. When all the so-called big starts left, including that bitch Famine of the Vile.. I stayed. Before that lesbo Megan the Monster showed her ugly face.. I was here. I did everything for the Anarchy brand. I carried the banner. I had so much pride in the Anarchy brand.

But something killed it. Rather...

Someone.

No matter what I did... no matter how good I was, Jonathyn always had a problem with it. Why? To this day, I don't know. But the night, he took it upon himself to nail me with a steel chair and effectively cost me my World title.. my pride in Anarchy died.

See Megan, you are right. This is bigger than me and you. But answer me this... why would I go out and try to win a match for a brand that doesn't want me? Jonathyn has made it crystal clear that he can't stand me...

So fuck him.

Fuck Anarchy.

After all I've done, I don't deserve all the bullshit I've gotten. So I'll be damned if I sell myself out... to make his brand look good.

It's just not worth it.

Fade to black.