Vladimir Strife Vs. Nicholas Carson

[Vladimir Strife]

The lights dim down, the hearts of the arena's 1,219 loyal jumping a beat. In the lockerroom, the rest of the roster are joined together tonight, all eyes focused on the televisions in the back in anticipation of what will happen tonight. Following the humiliation at the hands of the Imperfects, Vladimir is going to be in tip top shape, ready to kill, destroy, maim and repeat. The P.A. crackles, coming to life as the sung words seem almost screamed within the arena's silence.

"I know you're trying... to go home!"

The warlike drums kick in, bass kick sending the arena seats jumping a slight bit.

JP: "Here we go folks, this is what we've been looking forward to all night and we're about to witness this PPV caliber match live only on Wednesday Night Genesis!"
Ray: "Damn straight! No hobo's or ditzes over here on Wednesday's, so be glad that these stars are both the namesakes of WNG!"

The curtain is ripped aside, Vladimir Strife standing in it's place and taking a few slow paces out towards the ring. He stands there, his eyebrows furrowed down in an overwhelming rage, his fist balled up tightly. Lizzie picks up her microphone, announcing him as the entire arena looks on, feeling the hatred in his gaze.

"An... And introducing his opponent! Standing at six feet tall and weighing in at two hundred and sixty-nine pounds... he is the Hardcore King, the 46-0 undefeated behemoth... VLADIMIR T. STRIFE!!!"

As the King is about to make his way down the ramp, a voice calls out from behind.

"VLADIMIR! WAIT!"

As he turns, Alex Stall comes rushing up to him. Surprised at the sight of one of his enemies and former stable mates, Alex reaches his hand out, the thick linked chain hanging from it. He nods to Vladimir and The King takes it.

"I know you hate me... and I hate you... but I hate that sick fuck in the ring a hell of a lot more. Beat his fucking brains in, Vlad."

Alex turns and leaves, Vladimir looking down to the chain in wonder. Vladimir looks down at the chain in wonder, Nicholas growing impatient and running. He slides out of the chain, rushing at Vladimir to start the devastation that will take place tonight. As he nears, Vlad pulls his fist back before unloading forward, the steel chain around his knuckles and colliding with the skull of the Maniac Mauler. Carson collapses nearly lifelessly, Vladimir stepping over him and holding his hand up. Lizzie chucks the microphone to him, Vlad catching it simply before turning to the camera.

"Send your children to bed. If you are weak at heart, turn off the television. If you are weak at stomach, get a bucket. This will not be quick. This will not be pretty. This will not be morally, politically, or religiously right. Viewer discretion is advised and what you are going to see here tonight is going to be VERY VERY GRAPHIC! Just like this piece of shit here..."

Vladimir rushes at Nicholas, slamming the sole of his boot across the side of his head. Carson's neck jerks as he slams down on the ramp once more, Vlad taking an early advantage.

"YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED!"

Vladimir spikes the microphone off of the back of Carson's skull, a loud thud and feedback filling the arena speakers as it bounces off. Strife picks up the larger man, a grasp on his hair as he drags him towards the ring like an unruly child. Nicholas rams forward, shoving Vlad and sending him stumbling. He crashes down, his jaw rocked across the edge of the ring apron and making him lay flat on the outside mats. Nicholas rubs the top of his head, looking down on his prey with demented intentions.

TBCB Nicholas Carson

[Vladimir Strife]

The Hardcore King finds himself back upon his feet at the count of 6, his Imperfect counterpart close behind in this quest. The Manic Mauler is there by the count of 9, Strife staring him in the face with a vexed expression. What kind of a man put himself through this kind of pain? How could he defeat someone who only relished in the agony inflicted upon his tortured soul and twisted form? As a revelation clicks within the mind of the undefeated behemoth, the end of his bloodied lips curl into a deviant grin. The balled fist of Nicholas Carson swats it away, the King struck down by his might. He lays upon the black mats, his forearms supporting and propping him up. A chuckle escapes him, amused at the time it has taken to understand what he must do to bring the sickest mind in the wrestling world to it's knees.

The necrophiliac reaches down and grabs Strife by the scruff of the neck, using the vantage spot to yank him forcefully up to his feet. He throws his foe against the apron of the ring, driving his kidneys against it, Vlad wincing only slightly at the sharp twinge. He laughs it off, much to the confusion of the Imperfect, who twists his neck to the side, tilting his head as he looks into the face of the God-King. A hand shoots up, catching his turned cranium across the cheek, the slap heard throughout the arena as Carson's head goes upright, his own hand covering the spot. Vladimir puckers his lips and leans forward, projecting a wad of saliva and mucus into the adversary's face, the fluid splattering across his nose and cheekbone.

"HARDER, YOU FUCKING PUSSY!!! MAKE IT HURT!"

Perplexed momentarily, a glee overcomes the heavier man, like that of a child running down the stairs on Christmas morning. His arm comes around his body once more, knuckles bashing the jaw of his prey and causing him to stumble into the steel ring steps, nearly tumbling across them. Nick looks on for approval, giving EVPW's resident bully a chance to turn and face him again. Not a word is needed, his swollen lips immersed in a prideful smile. Rushing like a stampeding rhinoceros, the challenger lunges and plants the point of his shoulder into the abdomen of a man long corrupted by his own power and dominance. The duo unhinge the stairs and send them blasted aside. They barrel down into the metal railing that separates the paying from the paid and straight into the venue's patrons. The human collateral damage is plowed through, a few of them crushed down by the combatants. A long moment of silence passes before jeering fills it to the brim, the clown of all chaos himself stirring first from the wreckage. A flow of blood runs the expanse of the fallen king's cheek, some internal, some not. His movement is prolonged, eyelids slowly peeling back, the irises in his head focusing on his tormentor. His hand comes up from the concrete, albeit a long process. It appears as though he is asking for a bit of assistance, perhaps mercy from his foe. Appearances are deceiving. As his hand comes out to help the smaller man up to continue the grueling contest, he finds not an open hand, but rather a fist - all balled up, save one finger.

Ray: YES! That's my baby! Nicholas is giving him everything he's got in that sick and twisted mind and how does Vladimir respond? The VTS way, that's how!
JP: Really, I must admit, a powerful statement by The King himself, who is enduring hell and stick up his middle finger to Nicholas Carson in response to it all. If he hopes to win this match instead of pissing his opponent off though, he's going to have to start going offensive. I like him too, although not as much as my broadcast partner, but noone ever won a match by getting their ass handed to them like this!
Ray: Honestly, JP, when will you learn not to doubt this sexy god of a man?
JP: I don't doubt him a damned bit, but Nicholas might just be Vlad's first opponent that's even sicker than he is! The Imperfects have been next to unstoppable ever since their formation and undefeated or not, Strife is still JUST a man at the end of the night. EVERYONE has a limit and I think Vlad might just find out what his is tonight..

Not one to be dejected, Carson snatches the wrist of his fallen enemy and helps him up to a vertical stance once more. Vlad's legs aren't strong enough in this instance, however, and he finds himself landing on the downed fans once more, an 'Oof!' escaping one as he does. Not completely out of it, the king reaches nearby onto a seat, clinging to it and climbing up the side as a size 18 boot steps on top, pressing it down and making it stable for him. Lurched over but standing, Vladimir looks as though he's on the verge of unconsciousness. The psychopath before him is enjoying every second of it, finally feeling accomplished in his mission. Seconds later, he begins to feel a sadness inside, left out on the fun of it all. He grabs one of the surrounding seats and folds it shut, holding it out in front of him, a gleam in his eyes. As he whips it back towards his forehead, the progress is halted and the object is yanked from his grip. Strife moves it about, getting his hands onto the legs as his twisted pal seems lost once more. The Czar of Scars tightens his grip and Nicholas bends down, flipping his hair over the top of his head with his hand and displaying a perfect spot to aim the weapon. As Vlad draws it back, he fires it against his target, the sound like a gunshot as it carries to the very ends of the building. He stumbles back, forehead welting a deep shade of red from the self inflicted chair shot. Victim 47 goes upright, enraged at the actions of his co-worker.

JP: What the hell is going on!? Vladimir Strife just blasted himself with that steel chair! What the fuck is he thinking!?
Ray: He's not thinking! Obviously, that monster has damaged my precious Vlad's brains and sent him as messed up in the head as he is!? OH CHRIST! Is insanity contagious!?! Tell me, JP, TELL ME!!
JP: Ray, you idiot, if insanity was contagious, I'd be in the loony bin by now!
Ray: Oh yeah.... HEY!

Carson reaches for the chair, but the king denies him, tossing it aside. He extends his middle finger again, holding it inches in front of the unstable entity.

"FUCK YOU! You don't get the god damned chair! You can fucking have it when you earn it!"

Another slap rings to the rafters, crimson smeared across the face of insanity incarnate. Angered again, he bows over, scooping his forearm across the inner thigh of Vladimir and turning him around as he lifts him. As he looks on and forward, his stomach resting on the monster's shoulder, he points to the corner of the squared circle. "There, you stupid sack of shit! Throw me into that turnpost!" His request is met, the crown of his skull colliding with the solid cylinder and glancing off. He catches himself from a horizontal outlaying, having been released and projected like a dart. The upright status is temporary, not being able to support his weight after the abuse. As his knees give out, his bottom lands upon the metal steps, giving him a seat. Giggles emit into the air, the red lifeforce inside his gullet bubbling at the opening and popping, speckling his shirt and face. Dumbfounded, Nicky looks on and approaches with caution. The zebra striped official has had enough, exiting the ring and making his way over as well. He gets in close and begins to berate the man who made hardcore hip.

"Listen, if you're not going to fight back, I'm going to end this match. These people came here tonight to see a match, not a slaughter!"

Vlad's gazed eyes move up to meet his and focus gradually, spaced out still and his head buzzing like an internal alarm.

"You end this match... I'll fire you... CARSON! Fucking panzy... GRAB ONE OF THOSE CHAIRS! THAT ONE - RIGHT THERE!"

The referee is unhappy about the circumstances, but moves away as Strife points out his poison of choice. Though failing to understand, the monster complies. The chair snaps shut in his hands, a clap coming from it as the legs slap together. "Now... scramble my brains." The God tilts back, leaving his face exposed for it, his fingers across the edges of his seating to brace himself. The flat square of metal is greeted with a sick grin. The meeting of the two cries out in a flat thud that splits the skin over his mouth further. A flap of lip hangs like a 'snake bite' piercing, swollen and purple from a lack of oxygen. Rocking backwards, the tyrant of torture keeps himself from falling, but only barely. His pupils drift towards the rafters, rolling in their sockets and almost out of visibility. Regaining his composure, the king gulps down a mouthful of his own blood, a tooth scratching his esophagus on the way down.

"...Not... good enough..... ladder. Ladder!"

While a handful of fans begin to search for the building exits, Carson peruses the underskirts of the structure these men would usually be fighting in, his hands drifting to an aluminum rung. He brings it to light and allows it to lay beside him a moment. He takes to the sides of the bottom rung, carefully lifting with a grimace on his face as he's far from it's center of gravity. Moving a palm up the side towards the middle, he finds a better leverage and maneuvers it up and behind him. The legend juts out his chest, expressing his desires on where to swing. The monster nods and pushes from the middle, bringing it around in a semi-circle to it's final destination. The clatter of it is tremendous, the object vibrating, the top rung nearly caving in the sternum of WNG's first round pick and reverberating. Strife is bowled over, the back of his head almost getting a second impact with the ring apron. His pose seems as though the blow has killed him, arms crossed in an 'X' across his chest as he copes with the agony.

JP: Please, Vlad, for the love of all that is holy, FIGHT BACK!
Ray: I think he's finally snapped, Jimmy... I honestly think we're seeing the greatest wrestler in wrestling history... just give up. He doesn't think he can beat someone THAT demented and I know he's wrong. We believe in you, Vlad! We believe!!

Ray White suddenly jumps from his seat, snatching a microphone greedily from Lizzie Morna.

"VTS! VTS! VTS! Come on! VTS! VTS!"

It's not long before the audience has joined in on the chant, the sounds of the three initials booming all around and shaking trembling the concrete ground of this jam packed arena. It's practically Greek to the villain of our story though, who is humored by the show of support more than anything. The referee begins his count, the action finally relenting enough to allow him ample time.

"One! Two! Three! Four! Five! Six! Seven!"

"How disappointing..."

The King is stirring at last, sprawling himself across the steps he'd been sitting on minutes before. It becomes his crutch until he has risen enough to turn and clasp hands onto the outskirts of the ring. The soles of his boots are flat with the ground once more before the official can finish his count of nine. He presses his pelvis to the edge, turning on it slowly until he is able to look at the attacker again.

"I came here tonight... looking for a fight. Now, kind sir, if you would kindly walk into the back... I'd like to ask you to send Demon down here. Tall fuck, goofy fucking mask, holding a dead puppy... you'll know him. I'm tired of getting sissy slapped by some fruitcake with a shitty makeup artist."

Vlad raises a hand to his mouth, trying to wipe away the red fluid that is dripping from his chin. The action is to no avail, only managing to smear it across his face and coat his cover his jawline. He looks at his hands, reminiscent of Macbeth. He mutters "Out damn spots!" and musters up a a light guffaw at himself. The painted protagonist hastily rushes him, landing his upper arm across the ribcage of his antagonist and drilling him into the turnpost. Both men collapse to the ground, Carson quick to attack further, squatting down on the torso of the Kingdom's leader and dropping a ball of knuckles to his lips. Again and again the outline of his clenched fingers imprint the face of the Asylum Messiah and rip away at his consciousness. By the time the flurry is over, the lunatic stands and takes in the sight of his god given weapons, each looking as though they've been dipped in the drainage of a slaughterhouse. A count from behind him startles him, causing him to spin on his heels and stare at the referee. At the sound of "Four!", an applause rises. The attendants are silent however, a slow clap coming from the god himself as he rolls onto his front and begins to ascend once more. Furious, the unloved spawn of Mr. and Mrs. Carson watches him pick up the microphone as the counting ceases.

"What's wrong, Nicky? Can't get the job done? You can't put me down for the count, can you? Poor, little, incompetent Nicky.. No wonder mommy and daddy never loved you!!! No wonder no girl ever wanted to talk to you! You'll never be cool, Nicky! You'll never be more than a fucking freak!!"

The monster holds his palms against his ears, shaking his head in denial. The voices within screaming at him, reflections of his past and the words they'd all told him again and again. Vlad tosses the microphone under the bottom rope and into the corner of the ring. As the Maniac Mauler looks back up, he finds his bully displayed in front of him, arms held out in a pose like that of Jesus upon the cross. A stomp to the stomach doubles over the messiah. All 269 pounds are manhandled as the boy picked last in his gym class tosses him into the ring under the lowest rope. The plastic covering to the side of the ring is flipped up, resting on the apron as he browses a selection of torturous weapons, his gaze shifting between them in an attempt to pick a favorite. A tribute to his partner, he decides upon a sledge hammer, the head of which has been wrapped in barbed wire. Sliding into the ring, he leaves it resting while he tugs at the follicles upon the impaler's head. Dragging him to the corner, he rests him against the padding, his face against the middle turnbuckle. A rage driven knee smashes across his side of his cranium, black drifting in from the outside of his vision.

JP: I don't like this one damned bit! Nicholas Carson is absolutely DOMINATING this match... I honestly don't see Vlad coming back from this and surmounting any kind of an offense against him..
Ray: ...I believe though..
JP: I know you do, Ray... it's okay. Look, I think he's moving a bit!
Ray: YAY!

The celebration is cut short as the top of the solid steel head is rammed across the ear of the King, ripping a strip of flesh from the back. The loon pulls back, slamming forward again into a car crash of a collision with the forehead of the man who has never tasted defeat. As he tears new wounds jerking back, Nicky raises Demon's signature weapon above his head with evil intentions burning in his eyes. The onslaught continues, the barbs and chunk of steel implanting into the section of Vladimir's cranium where the piece of skull meet: the proverbial 'soft' spot. His body slinks down, now donning more crimson around his mouth than his opponent. Jimmy Pate covers his mouth in disbelief, tears streaming down Ray White's face. The referee rushes in, grabbing the violent Imperfect by the bicep and separating the two. Facing a man's worse nightmare, he tries to find his courage and speak the words. "Please, I'm begging you, just let him be! He's done! He's out! It's over! Just let me count and end this!" Request denied. A smirk overcomes the dried and cracked cherry painted lips before the hammer collides with the officiate's ribs. As though his lower body were completely sweeped from underneath, the zebra stripe clad man drops flat on his front, holding his midsection and screaming as the neurons in his body send alarms of danger to his brain.

A sudden idea overcoming him, the Maniac Mauler comes through the middle of the ropes and takes to the outside, leaving his current means of destruction behind. Digging below the ring, he produces a black cloth sack and raises it up, looking on in wonder. Setting it on the side of the ring, he heads towards Lizzie Morna, who leaps across the commentary team in a quick means of of escape. Working out fine for him, the joker grabs her chair and flips it shut, turning to toss it into the middle of the ring. He makes his way up the set of stairs still intact and throws a leg over the second rope and onto the canvas. Making his way back in, he walks over and picks up the blunt weapon once more. He grabs at the seat with his dirty and grungy fingers and pulls it out, setting it down on it's legs before moving it slightly to just exactly how he's imagined it. Turning his attention back to the black bag, it's diverted away from the suffering Strife. As Vlad pulls himself against rope after rope, the microphone in his hand, he tries to get his legs straightened and feet set flat. The drawstring is pulled into the rim of the bag as the epitome of horror opens his sack of goodies. Overturning it, piece of glass mixed in with thumbtacks and salt rain down upon the black matte seat. Carson shakes the bag, making sure to empty it of the hardcore trail mix. Behind him, the microphone raises up to the mouth of the blood soaked hero.

"You got a present for me there? I-"

The King turns and juts his head over the top rope, his mouth shooting wide open as his stomach empties. A horrible lurching sound sends shivers up the spine of everyone nearby. Too much blood has run down his throat from a mixture of a bloody nose, mouth, and internal damage. Rich with the substance, the vomit is nearly pitch black, a light red hue to it. Head hung over the top, Vlad feels better despite the sight below him. A front row spectator mimics him unintentionally, his gut churning at the sight and sound before leaning forward and puking himself, pouring his digested dinner besides Vlad's pile of bile and blood. Strife gives the man a thumbs up before turning back around, his tummy feeling much better now.

"Where was I? Oh yeah! You think that's going to hurt? Please, I got worse beatings than that from my grandmother when I was a baby! Why don't you just go home and stop embarrassing yourself!?"

Nicholas runs in, pivoting on his right heel and pointing his elbow out, stabbing it into the cheek of his adversary, leaving him prone in the corner once more. The microphone plops down and feedback resounds through the public announce speakers stationed around the building. He begins yelling at Lizzie, calling for the red jug he spotted beneath the ring earlier. She protests at first, but another raising of his voice ends her defiance as she grabs the container for fear of her safety. She hands it up to the monster, the crowd jeering as he spins the cap around. His mind rampant with the abuse of his peers back during his school days, the devil's right hand man pulls the cap off and takes a whiff of the gasoline inside. He jerks it towards his masterpiece in the ring, spilling the gas across it. His mouth now in a twisted grin, 277 pounder pours more onto the glass, tacks, salt and steel. Having enough to his liking now, he sets the container aside and digs through his pockets, finally coming back out with a matchbook in one hand. Opening the box, he takes a single match out, striking the head across the side and igniting it. His eyes fixate on the tiny flame a moment, before he tosses it into the mix, fire shooting up the chair and the surrounding canvas.

JP: WHAT THE HELL IS HE THINKING!?! HE CAN'T DO THIS! SOMEBODY HAS TO STOP THIS MAN!!!
Ray: He's beating down probably the best man in that entire locker room, Jimmy! Who the hell CAN stop him!?

Tepes is finally stirring again, holding himself just barely up with the ring ropes as the ever smiling madman closes in. His left hand shoots forward, fingers clasping around the throat of the Hardcore King, whose eyes grow wide. Pulling him out of the corner easily, the grungy looking for wraps his other hand around the scruff of the man longest reigning champion from GHW history. Turning around with him, the Maniac Mauler brings him near the burning diabolic landing he's prepared. As a referee comes rushing down the ramp to replace the previous official, Carson clamps down tight, prevent oxygen from reaching the lungs of the Romanian. Summoning his strength, he lifts the Legend high up, twisting him around to face his worse nightmare. He releases his hold upon the man's throat, retracting his arm quickly and shoving Strife down to the hell awaiting him.

Strife's face slams against the steel chair, tiny metal points and shards and slivers of glass ripping and tearing and stabbing into his facial features. The seat, unable to handle the force with which it has been met, gives way, forced unnaturally into an awkward angle. The hardcore trail mix pours down the slant and onto the canvas, the undefeated behemoth with it as he writhes in vicious crippling torment. His body begins to shut down, suffering the effects of shock as his mind is unable to cope with the overwhelming amount of signals to indicate he is hurt and wounded. The referee raises a finger into the air, screaming "ONE!" at the top of his lungs.

The crowd is uneasy, but silent, their thoughts and prayers with the EVPW co-owner in this moment.

"TWO!"

"THREE!"

There is still no signal of life from Vlad as a security member moves in and sprays the scene with a fire extinguisher, ousting the flames across his hair, upper body and the mat beneath.

"FOUR!"

"FIVE!"

JP: Ladies and Gentlemen... I am in absolute shock... Vladimir Strife has been manhandled and dismembered by Nicholas Carson...
Ray: No.. this can't be happening. It can't!
JP: A vicious Nicky's Coming Home onto that steel chair... which was covered in tack and glass and who knows what else!? And on top of it, doused in gasoline and set ablaze.. Folks, I have been an avid fan of Vladimir Strife since I began this job.... but some things you just don't come back from.

"SIX! SEVEN!"

Not even a blink from the King.

"EIGHT!"

JP: This... THIS! Ladies and Gentlemen... has gone too far. Plain and simple. It never should have gone this far but it has and I only pray in this moment that we will see Vladimir Strife grace this ring again one day and give this sick son of a bitch EXACTLY what he deserves..

"NINE!"

As Strife lays still ever prone upon the canvas, splayed out like a martyr for hardcore wrestling, many fans alongside Lizzie Morna and Ray White have begun crying, terrified for the safety of a man they all grew to love and especially to hate.

Ray: ...but I believed.

TBCB Nicholas Carson

[Vladimir Strife]

"NO!"

The King's plea rings out before the official can strike the count of 9. The zebra stripe clad young man stops dead in his tracks, for the word of the King was nothing to pass by. Vladimir forces his eyes open, despite their overbearing will to clench shut and embrace the blackness within his view.

"Not this way... This wasn't Devin's fight... this is mine. Let me give this match some honor... respect for these fans."

The King rolls out of the ring, plopping the sole of his boots on the mats below. He had no business on the outside of the ring, but it wasn't in him to simply pull himself to his feet. For once in his career, his energy had finally run out. His body wavered side to side in a slow dance on the line of consciousness. He snaps his head back, hair flipping out of his face so the referee can see the severity in his eyes. Reluctantly, he nods to the Czar of Scars, understanding his need for this match to end at the hands of the men who'd given their all here tonight and not their general manager.

JP: What the fuck!? These men have blown all the energy they can, given it their all, and Vladimir still wants more!!!
Ray: While I love my baby, I must say that I don't agree at all! He should have told the referee to count and end it there. He had this in the bag! I think he's been hanging around you and KingBear too long, he's starting to think with his heart instead of his head!

The Sighisoara native climbs the side of the ring, rope by rope slowly and cautiously. As he steps into the ring once more, his stride is no longer that of a broken and battered man. His body straight, head held high, the King has yet to forget his nobility. Step by step, he makes his way toward the fallen mauler. He sweeps the follicles of died green hair into his palm and clenches tightly on them, his face emotionless and uncaring. Using the leverage, he pulls until the unworthy subject is vertical once more. Unable to hold his own weight, Vladimir assists the maniac by thrusting him into the corner of the ring, leaving him with his arms splayed over the top ropes. The nylon cables support his 277 pounds, the dictator of destruction casting him aside in his mind as he retrieves his favorite weapon once more, the microphone.

Spitting an almost neon red wad of saliva aside, he brings his cracked lips to the receiver. The lights cast a shadow on his lowered head, a black mask devoid of light over his nose and emerald eyes. A sinister appearance, befitting his mind frame. The deep, vampiric accent cackles at first through the speakers of the gymnasium.

"As co-owner of Eagle Vision Professional Wrestling... I am ordering security to block the entrances. Not a man, not a woman, not a single soul... will stop me. Nicholas Carson.. you begged me for death, a bold request to the King. Your request is granted."

Security moves in to the entrance ramp, blocking all way just in time as the Legendary KingBear throws himself into them, the huddled mass detaining and holding him back as he screams at his former friend. Despite a hatred for both men in this match, the Legend was sternly against murder - always a good man at heart. Strife tilts his head back, glancing over his shoulder to his mentor as he yells incoherently for him not to do this, that it doesn't have to come to this. It is not doubt that crosses the undefeated behemoth, but rather a smirk. He slides his right leg over the middle rope and ducks below the top, stepping out to the apron and then off, dropping to the floor.

JP: I can't believe this! Vlad just told that freak that he would 'grant his wish', he plans on actually killing him!
Ray: GOOD! The world would be better without men like Nicholas Carson, without men like the Imperfects in it!!
JP: How can you sit there and justify taking another man's life!?
Ray: As though Carson would spare Vlad's life!? He nearly killed him just a few minutes ago, damnit! I believe in decency as much as the next person, but this is far beyond a match, Jimmy... this has gone too far and there's only one way this madness will end!!

As the plastic siding again flaps into the air, the anti-hero grabs the handle of black tool case in one fell swoop. It's sent flying over the top rope, bouncing across the canvas as Vlad follows it in, sliding on his stomach on the dust and blood that covers the EVPW ring. He makes his way up, the case in hand. Popping the clasps on the end, he flips the top over, revealing his weapon of choice to the world. A cordless power drill, all too familiar to his past victims in Alex Stall, Brian Brooks and Matthew Oliveira. As he liberates the tool from it's holdings, the plastic box falls to the ground, kicked out of the ring and hitting the guardrail as the Impaler gets it out of his way. He raises the weapon slightly, squeezing the trigger and being rewarded with a high pitched shrill like that of nails on a chalkboard.

Ray: The drill! YES! I love it when Vlad drills his opponents!
JP: Is there anything in the world that actually turns you off, damnit?
Ray: You. And females, women just kind of make me mad because they don't understand how good they have it.
JP: What am I going to do with you?

As JP shakes his head in disgust for his commentary partner, Vladimir Strife hungrily eyes his prey, still lying prone in the corner of the squared circle. As he nears in, he plays with the trigger, quick whirls of noise filling the air, a precursory warning to the clown faced freak at what's in store for him. The SCW original comes in close, getting face to face with the man of a million nightmares. The bit of the drill intercepts the men's view of one another, Nicholas coming to slightly at the noise rings in his ear. The Kingdom leader leans in close, eyes bugged out and fixated on his foe.

"DO YOU HEAR IT, NICKY!? Don't you know what that means? Please... did you think you were the only sick fuck in this business? You don't make it 46-0 without doing some VERY VERY fucking drastic things. You're just another copy of an imitation and you're looking at the one and only original!"

The drill is jerked back swiftly, coming back like a boomerang to unceremoniously blast the side of Nicky's temple.

"I AM THE MAN WHO MADE A CAREER ON TAKING IT TOO FAR!! I did that and more... I made this sport bloody, I made it violent, I made it dog eat dog... and I did it before ANYONE gave two shits as to who you are! I gave birth to the chaos, the destruction, the ruthlessness men like you covet... and tonight, I KILL IT!"

The balled up fist of the Imperfect speaks that he's had enough, clubbing the ear of his foe barbarically. Tossed aside, the 269 pound body teeters backward. His hair spreads in the air like the wings of an eagle as he soars down to the mat. Dust shoots up around his form as the boards, padding and canvas depress beneath his weight. The tide has turned again in this hurricane swirling with bloodshed, violence, and emotion. Towering over him once more, the monstrosity is feeling powerful again, each booming step taking him closer to finally putting away the man that represents all that is wrong in his world. Vladimir was every bully that'd ever tormented him in his school years, he was the insults that spilled from his father's lips, telling him he was worthless, nothing, a disappointment. If he could finally defeat this monster that had spouted right from the nightmares of old and into his present once more, the score would be settled, revenge would be taken.

As Carson bows over, his sausage like fingers grasp the esophagus of the tormentor, cutting the oxygen from his body. He wouldn't be beaten again. Never again would Nicky be left crying in the corner, dabbing the blood from his lip and replaying the beating of the day over and over in his memory. Bulging out, the brilliant green eyes look into his and there it was - the fear. The terror he'd been subjected too his entire life. It was Nicky's time to play, to give the pain he'd endured senselessly over and over. There was something different in those same eyes, however, an ice cold hatred, emotional blankness that ate away at Carson's soul. No matter what he dished out, Vladimir would never feel remorse for his actions, he would never truly be sorry for the sins of his past, the suffering he'd doled out time and time again. A whirring buzz shrieks through the building, teeth grinding in annoyance as the drill sprung to life. The Maniac Mauler begins to breathe heavier, nostrils flaring in bursts of air. His eyes well up, coated in a liquid layer as he begins to cough, hyperventilating as he attempts to cope with the pain in his abdomen.

He releases Vladimir, letting him lay there as he draws back, a stream of tears rolling down his cheek. His arms shake as he brings his hands to cover the hole now leaking inches above his hip. Blood torrents out, slipping through his fingers and dripping onto the ground. The monster's feet betray him as he stumbles backward toward the ropes, grabbing the top with one of them before slouching against the uppermost turnbuckle. The King rises before him, as he's always managed to do. Carson looks to see his own bodily fluid trickling down the drill bit, the device having as little mercy as either of the competitors. Strife throws it through the ropes and to the outside, it's purpose served. Silence befalls the crowd, all noise hushed in the moment as these the unstoppable force and the immovable object gaze upon the other, a single flash from ringside capturing the epic moment.

JP: Vlad... just drilled right into Nicholas's gut... He very well may have achieved his goal in the long run. The stomach, the liver, appendix, kidneys, there are just so many things that could have been hit that could result in death for the Imperfect if he doesn't get medical treatment!!
Ray: Show all the pity you want, Jimmy, you'll see none from me or my Vladdy! Carson asked for this and now he's getting just what he wanted.

The King's steps are slow, methodical. His mind clear as the beast of a being charges him. He wraps a single arm around the brownie maker's and pulls him in, jutting his knee across the wound he's just inflicted upon him and doubling him over. Stepping away and leaving his opponent weak, Vlad gladly accepts the offering of a fan in the form of the nail gun that was left laying about previously. He nods to the boy and turns, making his way up the steel steps and once more entering the hellhole that has become he and Carson's battleground. As the psychopath raises back up from the knee to his stomach, the God-King takes him by the hair once more. Pulling him back, the nail gun comes into sight as the barrel is pressed into his forehead, lined up to give a carpentry style lobotomy. Fear devours his mind, the bully had won again. He'd been beaten down and now he was going to lose the last lunch money he could pay. Split and blood-caked lips make their way to his ears.

"I'm going to kill you, Nicky. They are going to bury you in the ground and the last thing anyone will remember is you could never beat the demon in your closet, the bullies that plagued you your entire life. Then I'm going to go home and fuck the girl that never looked your way with the homecoming trophy on my headboard. I won't just kill you, I'll kill everything you ever dreamed of, everything you ever prayed and hoped for. The world will forget your name and you'll be nothing more than an ant in the shadow of the God-King."

The voice is surprisingly calm, as though this were an everyday conversation, nothing short of the ordinary. Terror rampant in his mind, Carson is feeling helpless like he always had. The monster he had become wasn't helpless, he was fearless. He had become terror itself and nothing could touch him. The God-King's miracle - he was no monster to Strife, simply another nuisance, a mere man and a punching bag. He was, once more, the very thing he hated the most... weak.

JP: My god... I think he's going to do it, Ray.. he's got the nail gun to his head and he's going to fucking kill him! Stop it! Just fucking stop it!!
Ray: Please Vlad.... Don't do it... he's the monster, not you!

The King whips his arm back, releasing the nail gun and sending it sailing across the ring. He slams his fist shut before reversing his motions and bringing it cracking across the jaw of the EVPW boogie man. It sounds out like a slap, the skin of his knuckles and the man's face flushing ruby. Nicky boy's feet stammer and his legs surrender, spilling him onto his bottom in a stupor. Instinctively, he fires back, hooking his fist to the teeth of the ultimate bully as he bends down. The uppercut takes him off of his feet, leaving him crawling the length of the center stage toward the ring post. The Maniac Mauler has had enough and takes onto the top rope, using it to pull himself up. Lurching over to the right, he grabs ahold of the nearest weapon, the choice of the God-King he plans on dethroning. The steel links are thick, even the bear like paw of this villain only able to hold on to it by 3 of them. Poising his arm behind him, he steps forward, sending the chain in a circular motion above and reigning it's fury across the lower back of the wrath of Romania.

Vlad cries out in agony, his skin bubbling into welts almost immediately as he collapses. An extremely personal assault, his own weapon turned on him again in a blast to his left shoulder blade, chipping a minuscule piece of bone from it in it's sheer blunt force. Finding his hands and knees again, Wednesday Night's first draft pick makes quick use of them as he heads toward the ropes, distancing himself from the onslaught. Nicky's not done though, far from it as he follows, able to move quicker by the upright stance as opposed to his enemies downed state. He dangles the bindings before looping them around the neck of tonight's martyr, who has been on the verge of dying for what he and the fans believe in. As he wretches back, the links go taut across the throat of the undefeated behemoth, who sputters and chokes in a quest to acquire precious oxygen. He's unable to match the attacker's strength, being ripped up into a kneeling position as the monstrosity displays his dominance. The seeming successor to the throne leans in, offering his own words to the mouthy Strife.

"Maybe after I beat you and end that precious little winning streak... I'll go to your home and fuck that pretty little girl. Maybe THEN she'll look my way, Vlad!"

The words enrage the sinner and he begins swinging futilely as a hue of dark purple swells in his flesh. The botched brownie baker tilts his head toward the sky, emitting a high pitched and maniacal cackle of laughter. What was set to be a simple match had turned into a display of chaos, madness, and the dark truth of humanity and what one will do to achieve their goals. A silent secret spoken to the world of what a man without morals, virtues, cares can do. What a crack in the system could bring.. one simple fucked up individual driving a man they revered to being no better than he, to being as fucked up, as evil and soulless as he. Nicholas was a monster and he'd taken their hero and made that hero no better than himself, the man they prayed to be saved from. The only sweeter thing this moment could bring is the sound of their tears, of their hearts and wills breaking, their hope drained. The sound fills the air, one much different than the bringer of chaos had wanted.

"STRIFE! STRIFE! STRIFE! STRIFE!"

Rage boils in his head. Even now in control, they still continued to cheer his opponent. Their King, their God, their hero was now on his knees at the mercy of the monster they feared and still they screamed his name - how curious. He strangles tighter, hoping to witness the eyeballs of this overrated champion spring out like jack in the boxes and hang their for the world to see. He would do the unthinkable and leave the world in a dark haze, scattered and lost without their faith in the glorious Legend. Spiking his knee into the back of Vlad's head, he presses on it, the steel links crushing his larynx and his skin tone finally deprived to the shade of a Smurf. As Strife's eyes roll backward, and his arms drop to his sides, dangling lifelessly, a smile covers the clown painted mouth of the nightmare he'd underestimated. A gleeful squeal escapes Carson and he releases the chain, watching intently as the Kingdom's head comes to rest with the mat in an anticlimactic plop, fans crying and covering their mouths with the worst of fears in mind.

JP: No... no! Fuck the count - someone get in there and make sure he's breathing!!!
Ray: Come on, Vladimir... spring to life like you always do... please... one more time... you're going to make me cry.

The referee moves in, looking upon the carnage and feeling sick at the unnatural color in Vlad's face. He raises his hand into the air, beginning his count as the fans watch on still in horror.

"ONE... TWO... THREE"

The Legend's complexion begins to lighten, turning back to purple as oxygen finally reaches the skin and brain.

"FOUR.. FIVE.. SIX!"

He begins to cough as he takes in oxygen, his lungs spasming at the feeling as they fill back up at last. His arms slowly begins to wave across the mat, many fans leaping up and celebrating in the simple victory that he managed to live through the assault.

"SEVEN... EIGHT!"

It is Nicholas, not Vladimir, who breaks the call as he moves in and takes control of the biggest star in wrestling history once more, lifting him up. He couldn't feel satisfied with any kind of a victory that involved his bully being able to move, it had to be absolute or none at all. Battered but never truly broken, the King's fight persisted. The clenched tight knuckles connect with his foe's chin, breaking his hold and teaching him an important lesson. No matter what he took from the Legend, he could never take the fight out of him. As the monster bumps into the nylon ropes, Strife's head jerks up, ready to strike as he springs forward and leaps at the only slightly bigger of the two titans. The Imperfect seizes him in mid-flight and raises him overhead like a trophy to the world. A symbol to the world of how he could manhandle their savior. Turning, he sends him flying once more, straight to the outside of the ring where he careens upon the announce table and brings it to ruin. The man lover Ray weeps openly, his idol fallen before him in a mess of wood chunks and a twisted metal frame that held the table together.

Ray: My baby! My Vladimir! My King!!!
JP: My God - look what these men have done to each other!! And the one man who could save us from the wrath of the Imperfects is laying broken right in front of me.. this is perhaps the darkest day in EVPW history.
Ray: Don't speak like that! You have to believe!
JP: Believe? Vladimir Strife is broken right in front of us at the hands of one of these Imperfects and if he somehow manages to actually be a god, because he would need a miracle at this point to win... then what? He goes on to End Of Innocence to face yet another Imperfect in Demon. Some wars just can't be won, Ray.

"One! Two!"

The count has begun as the patrons in the arena feel their hearts sink, their stomachs churn in a sense of disgust at what is happening.

"Three! Four!"

The Imperfects, spawned in the mind of a master unknown to the world, seem to have done it. Now, as the referee calls out for the midpoint of his count, hope is lost and the scourges of the Earth have destroyed the symbol of perfection. The perfect streak of Vladimir Strife is coming to an end.

"Six! Seven!"

"...Jimmy.. Ray... help me up... this is far from over."

The announcers offer their hands, no rules to the match forbidding outside help to the stars. As they help pull up the mass of two hundred and sixty pounds of muscle and man, the referee shrugs, having to end his count as both feet touch the ground. The God stumbles, his feet uneasy beneath him as Nicky makes his way toward him again. He doesn't hear a single footfall over the ringing in his skull. His first warning is the grip on his upper arm, to which he turns, driving his elbow back and violently smashing it across the bridge of the unpredictable and unwanted beast. Carson turns from the impact and covers his face, dropping to a single knee and resting against the apron of the ring. Ray White already has folded up his chair, offering it to his crush with a blush in his cheeks. The unconventional hero of the day takes it and spins on his heels, lashing out with the crude, blunt weapon in a brash thundering boom across the back of his arch-enemies cranium. The force sandwiches his face to the edge of the ring, sending him shooting back and covering his head with his forearms, feet kicking in a tantrum. The seat bent and the chair rendered useless, the undefeated behemoth hands it back to the fanatic Ray White, who promises to cherish the object as a souvenir.

Ray: Christmas has come early! Vlad gave me a present, JP!!
JP: And he's given Carson quite the present too - a headache he will NEVER forget!

As the two continue on with their commentary, now without a table, Vlad rolls his rival into the ring and follows in. The referee has no time to count though, as neither is ready to give in even still. They scramble to their feet, the King finding the dragon that plagues his kingdom first. His guard is lowered at the moment, feeling exhausted from the nights action thus far. Carson makes quick advantage of this, grabbing the shorter star by the wrist and ramming himself shoulder first into his upper arm several times, the feeling seeming as though he will burst through it and rip the limb clear off. While he fails to remove it, the damage is still noticeable as a loud whip-like crack escapes the joint of the Impaler's shoulder. He shrieks at the sharp stab of pain, pushing the deviant away and looking on with a horrible grimace at his arm as it dangles uselessly, now separated from the socket. He runs his still mobile hand through his hair, his mind rampant and rushing at the moment as the agony consumes him.

As the Maniac Mauler giggles and watches on in satisfaction at what he's done. Vladimir grabs his own wrist, causing the monster to twist his head to the side in confusion, eying the sight like a dog waiting for master to throw the ball. The King pushes the arm up into the air, recalling what to do from his bouts with the Steel Savior in GHW. He jerks the arm with snap down and across his body, rewarded with a loud and wet pop as the knob clicks back into it's housing. A few fans begin to gag, the sound of yet another patron surrendering their digested dinner to the main event being heard. The Legend moves his arm around, sighing in relief as it works just fine once more, only a twinge of pain left in it.

JP: UGH! GOD, THAT'S SICK! I fucking hate that noise! I couldn't stand it when we saw Brett go through it and I still can't stand it!
Ray: I'm gonna be sick...
JP: Oh, suck it up, you baby!

Angered at his destruction undone, the heavyset monstrosity storms in, rushing straight into a boot from the royal adversary. The King steps up to the crazed clown and hooks him arm around his head, pressing it to the side of his ribcage, the audience cheering them on and jumping in their seats. The two time tag team champion lets his neck go limp, his head falling backward to take the lighting above into his sights. His free arm raised beside him in a familiar pose to veteran Strife fans, foreign to the newer ones, he pays tribute to a former friend. In one swift motion, he snaps himself and the Imperfect back, throwing all of his weight into the momentum. The crown of the foes skull lands first, the impact firing out like a gunshot to the furthest reaches of the building. The titans lay prone on the bloody canvas, the Impaler's energy and strength zapped from his body, his opponent's brains scrambled and vision blurry.

JP: MAGNUM DDT!! Echoes of a man who was imperfect before there was a word for it!
Ray: YES! Knock his fucking head off, Vlad!

"One! Two!"

As the tyrant forces himself up one last time, the referee continues his count, a sly smile on his face as he's rooted for the King all along.

"Three! Four! Five!"

The undefeated behemoth pushes the referee out of his way, going back for more yet again.

"Stupid bastard... I didn't say this was over. The fuck is still breathing."

Vladimir brings his subject to a vertical base, slapping him across the face sharply to wake him up. Hindsight is always 20/20 however and he finds himself shoved away forcefully, almost taking a tumble as it happens. Nicky moves in quickly, doubling down and ramming his shoulder into the gut of the Czar, both men spilling across the mat once more as he nails his signature spear and nearly splits Strife in half. They're hardly down at all, as Carson is back in control and has no intentions of relenting whatsoever. He throws the monarch through the ropes and leaves him rolling against the guardrail, cursing and muttering. As he gets to the outside himself, the Maniac Mauler bends over and picks up exactly what he's been looking for, bringing the object to his lips and puckering them against it in a kiss.

Aiming the nail gun at Vladimir, he pulls the trigger, firing a single nail out and sending it stabbing through the tag champion's collarbone. An animalistic cry fills the air, sending chills up the spine of the onlookers. The nail sticks out from his chest, pinning his shirt to him as he looks down and begins to breath deeper and faster, panicking at the very sight. His bloodstained fingers grip at the head of it, holding tightly and then yanking upon it. It fails to free the nail and he screams once more as another surge of pain sends him writhing. Taking a tighter grasp, Tepes holds onto the protruding object and pulls with all of his might. It's to no avail however, the point stuck through the bone and held tightly in place as he continues to frantically try to relieve the pain, serving only to make it worse.

JP: OH MY FUCKING GOD!!! HE SHOT HIM! CARSON SHOT HIM IN THE CHEST!!
Ray: No!! My Vladdy waddy!! Somebody stop this monster!!

Nicholas grins and lets out a burst of laughter as though this were the punchline to a great joke. He looks to the machinery in his hand and sets his sight as he points it at the resident bully once more, closing one eye to focus upon his target.

[Vladimir Strife]

As Nicholas stands from the hole, pulling his catch in closer and closer, Vladimir rolls onto his back, accidentally ripping the wounds on his leg deeper, more blood spouting across the gunmetal teeth. The ever-smiling clown man reels him in, threatening to pull him straight down to hell with him. As he now has Vlad within his grasp, he reaches out for him. What he gets, however, is the heel of a boot to his face, knocking him back against the opening of the hole as he loses hold of the chain. He steps back in once more, rewarded with another vicious kick that sends him teetering back. The King was hurt without a doubt in the world, but he was anything but out. His bones, skin, body - all broken, his determination anything but. Strife runs his fingers through his hair, tugging at it as the pain begins to remind him of the past. The thoughts of Asari run his mind, of the things he endured, of all he's lost since then. His fame, his fortunes, the woman he was going to marry, his child, his friends, all gone. His mind began to follow them out, the Czar pounding the back of his skull against the canvas as it all reruns like a bad nightmare. Worse than a nightmare, not a bit of it was made up in his mind, all of it 100% real.

Our hero sits up, grabbing onto the sides of the entrapment. He summons his strength, arms shaking violently as he pulls with all of his might, slowly separating them. Finally getting an opening, he slips his leg out and releases the vice, it slamming shut with a chomp of the teeth, left empty and hungry. The Kingdom leader grabs the device and throws it to the outside of the ring, making distance between himself and it. As he stands, the knee down of his pants are now soaked, a red gloss to them in the light. His maniac foe begins to climb out of the opening they punched in the canvas. Fueled on by his agony, Vlad looks almost drunken, his body disoriented. He stumbles about, trying to focus as he begins seeing double, his mind racing with thoughts of revenge. He moves in towards the mauler, who grips his belt buckle and pulls him towards the ring's crater, sending him down into the depths. His jaw glances off an edge of it, bouncing his head as he slinks down.

Ray: Come on, Vlad! Get out of that hole and kick this prick's ass!!!

Nicky boy reaches into the gape and finds a handful of hair, pulling up and retrieving his play toy. He picks him up high into the air, holding him above like a title belt of his own before flatly dropping the prize right in front of himself. Vlad careens with a thud, letting off a cough as the wind bursts out of him, laying helplessly again. The Imperfect smiles, stretching the clown paint even further across his face as he does so. He steps forward, placing his fight foot across the face of his opponent and pressing his head to the ground. As he relents, it's not the mercy it seems. His foot stomps down, slamming onto the temple of his foe, squirting the precious fluid of life out of his opponent's mouth, being already full of the crimson substance. He steps up again, lifting his left foot up to focus all of his weight down unsteadily on the crown of glory itself. He brings it up and over the downed champion, unable to balance as he brings the free foot onto the ground once more. He walks to the ropes, leaving the Impaler free to move. He does so, writhing in pain and clutching his skull, feeling as though he may have suffered a fracture in the madness.

Carson picks up the red container used in the attempt to bake the baker himself previously, raising it proudly for the world to see. The cap is already removed, Vlad having done that for him. He walks over to the arsonist and flips the jug over, dumping the remaining liquid across the expanse of the legend. Convulsions take the undefeated behemoth by storm as gasoline leaks into the many wounds down his body. He screams into the mat, his body racked in misery to the delight of our Imperfect attacker. He picks the lighter man up with ease, being a very strong individual. Shoving him to the corner, which has become an all too important crutch throughout the bout, Nicky follows in with a flurry of shots, reigning punch after punch across the Czar of Scars head. As Tepes' head jerks aside, he raises his hand to sweep his hair out of the way between a couple of punches, begging the bullied turned bully to continue. He obliges with fist after fist, knuckles cracking on the scalp of our anti-hero, wearing him down with every pop. He halts the attack finally, a response coming with no pause, landing on his cheekbone. The stiff punch sends him dropping to his bottom, shaking the ring. The clown makes his way back up, reminding himself not to do that again. Despite not being one of the biggest guys around, Strife packed a punch that contended with the best of them.

Ray: YEAH! KNOCK HIM ON HIS ASS AGAIN!!!

Vladimir is still waiting in the corner, battered and not able to pull himself out alone as the twisted man shakes his head to clear his head of the proverbial cobwebs. He turns, fury in his eyes. His feet slap the ground, undeterred. He pops into the air, body on the line. The skulls collide, his weight following, unstoppable. Strife is pancaked as his mind swirls, consciousness fading. The crazed clown steps back, surveying the damage he's caused as his opponent's arms drape over the top of the ropes, holding him up as his knees bend, begging to rest. Carson already has his next plan of action buried in his mind, rushing out of the ring to obtain that which he desires in this moment. Sliding back in, the drill in hand, it looks as though yet another weapon from the arsenal of the epitome of hardcore himself will be turned upon him. The longest reigning champion of one hardcore title, the only champion of another finds his esophagus depressed, a forearm barred across it, a crusty and hideous face pressed near his own.

"Vladimir.... wake up, buddy. Come on, yeah.. wake up... WAKE UP!"

Carson's voice distorts, his scream booming and demanding of Strife's attention. He licks him licks audibly, almost as if chewing over his own words. He raises the power tool up for the King to see, looking at himself and then nodding to him near comically.

"See what I've got? Now, I've just about got you figured out, your highness. You're not a maniac... you're an asshole with a God complex. You don't want to save these.."

The psychopath points the tip of the drill bit towards the crowd, moving it in a circle to show who he's talking about.

"ingrates. These people are worthless, even to you. ...You see, YOU just can't stand for anybody else to have the attention for once. You don't hate me and my brothers for beating you up... or for embarrassing you or even because we don't give a shit about them."

He waves around the bit again, motioning out the crowd once more.

"You just don't want us to become more feared, more watched than you are. So... you become their hero. Because as long as you're that.. you can beat little ole me up and then WHA-LA! Then you're the biggest name around again. I'm pretty smart, you know? I figured that all out by myself."

Nicky points to his temple with the bit now, using it for emphasis of his intellect. The King has a burst of energy, struggling beneath the forearm that holds him down and grinting his teeth, trying to get at the foe.

"EH-EH!"

The spiraled shaft waves right to left, correcting the God-King on his mistake. The abnormally red tongue reaches out, sliding across his lips again.

"You behave now, got it? You made this decision, after all. You really did.. You see, you could have just left us alone, stayed out of the way, but no... you HAD to intervene, you HAD to be a hero. Vlad, you see all these people... they think of me as a demon, no pun intended... straight out of hell. They think Rhapsy is the devil, but we both know that's wrong. We're what happens when men give up their silly preconceived notions of morale and decency."

Nicholas squints his eyes, looking into Vladimir's as he lowers his head to do so. He is met forehead to forehead, Strife smashing his skull to Carson's and rocking it back. The maniac mauler shakes his head again, the headache he's suffering getting worse now.

"Vladimir.. these people think you're their Jesus. So, I'll tell you what I'm going to do.."

Nicky lowers his head once more, a cold emptiness in his gaze as he moistens his cracked and dried lips once more.

"I'm going to help you be just that."

The undefeated behemoth screams out in protest as his wrist is seized and now controlled by the anarchic adversary. He squeezes down on the trigger, pressing the end of the drill bit into the palm of the fear stricken Skesis master, the skin swirling around the spiral as it is ripped off from his hand. Blood coats it, lubricating the surface as meat spins from the limb and down the hardware, providing next to no resistance. It pokes between the inside of the ring finger and Vlad's most favorite finger, crushing a small portion on the side of the bones into dust, tiny white sprinkles being added to the hand-kabob. A horrifying scream fills the air, the sounds of man being subjected to a torment no one should be made to endure. The akin atop his hand begins to rise, the form of the end of this sadistic weapon being observable below it. It burrows it's way out, splitting through the flesh and shredding it in it's path. The spinning stops, the shrill ceasing and leaving the stage open solely to the King's screams.

"See, that wasn't so bad now, was it?"

The scream persists, the maniac mauler wincing at the sounds of it, seemingly rather annoyed.

"Fine, fine!"

He presses down on the trigger again, bringing it to life once more as he removes it from Vlad's hand, strips and chunks of meat and flesh still decorating it's length. Nicky raises it up to his mouth and clenches his teeth onto a piece of meat, yanking it free and chewing it slowly, taste testing the raw piece of homosapien. His eyes widen and he turns to the torture ridden competition, bringing the end of the drill toward his face again.

"Want some? It's actually pretty good."

Having had enough of the man, Vladimir kicks his leg hard, driving it into the crotch of the taller being once more and sending him into a coughing fit as he turns away and drops down to a single knee, the drill discarded and forgotten on the mat in his moment of hurt.

"YOU COULD HAVE JUST SAID NO!!"

Ray White, who has made friends with the nearby bucket for the last couple of minutes, brings his head up from the vomit filled cylinder and wipes his mouth, turning back to his job.

Ray:"Fucking kill him, Vladimir! This man doesn't deserve to live! Kill that sick fuck!!"

As the Impaler moves in for the drill, he stops suddenly, his mind flushed as he dizziness kicks in from the blood lost on his leg. He takes the lip of his shirt and pulls up on it, lifting it up and over his head, some of the female bold enough to stay the length of this contest so far rooting as he does so. He twists it until it looks reminiscent of a rope and brings it down to the wounded limb, wrapping it just above the leaking gashes. He ties the ends into a knot tightly, cutting off the flow of blood to the extremity but also potentially saving his life considering the amount of blood he's lost. A bad enough infection and the doctor's might have to remove the limb to save him, but this concern was the furthest thing from our savior's mind. He picks up the weapon he'd made famous and moves in, looking to finally put and end to this contest for once and for all.

He is met with resistance, however, as the man nightmares are made from turns to face him, batting away the attack plan with his bearlike paw, it bouncing to the ground where it can't harm him. His other hand clenches down on Tepes' shoulder, squeezing tightly. He opens his closed fist and grabs the King by the opposing armpit, leaving him in control of his upper body. Before he can resist, Strife is pulled forward, Carson whipping him into the air and flipping him as he projects him into the void of the ring. The tag champion disappears as falls into the pit, back crashing across concrete and a barrage of weaponry. Pitiful whimpers rise back out, the stronger of the two and only one left standing for the moment perusing the ground in search of what he now needs. Passing it the first time, his eyes drift back to the matchbook, recalling the flammable substance he's doused upon the Titan. He opens it slowly, as though this were the greatest present he'd ever receive. Ripping the bottom of the match free, he looks over the head of it as he turns the book around to observe it's striking surface. Introducing the two, a small flame overtakes the head, releasing sulfur into the air. From the undertow of the ring comes a flying force. The barbed wire glints in the light as his eyes capture a single glimpse of the brick wrapped in the material before it catches him between the eyes. He falls as stiff as a board backwards, his weight shaking the structure and the piece of masonry nearly colliding with him once more as it drops to next to his ear.

Ray: YES! There is a God and he is making a comeback here tonight, folks! Why am I still talking? Oh, wait! That's what Jimmy would do!

Crouched down, Strife's arms plop onto the charred surface, nails digging in as he pulls himself from the depths of the hellhole. He steps up onto the higher ground one foot at a time, slowly, methodically. His first concern is not what he will do to this man, but the message he has to send. The microphone becomes his weapon of choice in this moment, as he swings his body up straight, misplaced steps as he stumbles in a stupor, thoughts racing.

"Nicky boy... OH NICKY! We have a problem!! You think your crazy.. YOU WANT TO SEE CRAZY!? I'LL SHOW YOU FUCKING CRAZY!!! I'LL SHOW YOU WHAT IT'S LIKE TO BE CRAZY!!!"

The microphone is spiked down, sending feedback through the speakers as he leaps forward, bringing his weight into the air before planting it squarely in the chest of Mr. Carson. He begins to pummel the brownie maker, blow after blow befalling the deranged mug of possible the most twisted man in wrestling. Drawing fresh blood, Strife places his palm flat on it and begins to wipe it all around, coating his hand in the opponents life force. He raises it up, seeing the fresh liquid atop his own that is already caked upon the skin, it seeping through the opening in his left palm. He brings them to his own face, pressing the hands flat on it and dragging them back to his ears, smearing the blood all across and into his own wounds, a mixture of villain and hero blood creating a mask of war paint. He stands up and slides his fingers across his scalp and through the follicles atop. He tugs at them, ripping some out as he laughs in maniacal stupor. Enticing his own insanity, his eyes shift quickly around the building, taking in everything as he listens to his own thought process, muttering it lightly and incomprehensibly aloud. Like a possessed madman, Vlad is driven back towards the hole, this time of his own will as he drops down into it and bends over, beginning to search for the things he will need.

Ray: Oh no... my baby is cracking! He's becoming just like the sick fuck he's trying to beat!! Please Vlad, you have to snap out of it!

A wrapped up ball of barbed wire flies over his shoulder and next to Nicholas as he decides it will come in hand. The next object he pulls out glints in the light as well, an aluminum kitchen utensil that has not seen light in the wrestling ring yet. Making his way out, eyes bulging and teeth clenched shut tightly, Strife rushes to the clown, who has begun regaining consciousness. As he sits up, he's plowed right back down by a kick to the face, his eyes rolling about in their sockets. As the Czar of Scars is set to show the world exactly why he is known as the hardcore king, he yanks a handful of green hair and brings Carson to the position he'd just denied him a second ago. Standing behinds him, the former wrestler of the half year presses the potato peeler down just above the eyebrow of the maniac mauler, the bladed edges splitting it. With a forceful sweep upward, he slices a piece of flesh free from the Imperfect's forehead, a cry for mercy escaping the larger man as agony succumbs him. The point upon the end of the maimer of usually vegetables is driven into the top of his head, leaving gashes amongst the roots of follicles. He flattens the utensil against the flesh once more and strikes up with it once more, clearing another ribbon of skin off of the surface.

Ray: HOLY SHIT! HOLY SHIT! VLADIMIR STRIFE IS FUCKING CARVING HIM!!!

Screaming in unimaginable horror as a piece of his own body falls across his nose, hanging off carelessly, this bully has gone further than any that preceded him, the papa Carson included. His body is being separated strip by strip and certainty strikes him that the onslaught won't be finished until he's cleared the cranium of the man for boiling. His hair is yanked back, jerking his face up towards the light for Chef Strife to examine. He seems amused and drops to his knees, bringing the point of his elbow across the brow of his opponent and whipping him back to a resting point once more, leaving him prone and dazed. Vlad is quick to sit across his chest once more, his patellas pressed down on the biceps of the necrophiliac as he reaches aside and takes hold of the power tool nearby. He raises it to his lips as the crazed clown shakes his head below, not wanting to believe what is happening. Snatching a piece of his own flesh off of the surface, the King chews it up and then spits it into the face of the Maniac Mauler.

"Tastes divine."

He forces his fingers into the gullet of the fellow heavyweight, pulling down on the bottom of his mandible and opening it wide. Nicky attempts to bite down, but Strife shakes his head, holding firmly to the bottom of his mouth and already knowing that he controls the part needed for the motion to bite. He presses on the button in the crook of the device and brings electricity surging through it, springing to life as the bit spins once more, hungry for more blood and flesh. The villain turned hero lowers himself in close to the fellow psycho's face, looking almost as though they will share a moment of passion. Their eyes are locked upon one anothers, the upper man's a cold and uncaring stare filled with the desire to torment his foe. The bottom totem has a wide, stricken glance, not sure what the master of macabre has in mind and not wanting to find out anymore. The hellish pain shoots through his cheek, pressing into his mouth and narrowly avoiding his tongue as it stops. Blood flows down the innards of his jaw and into his throat, gagging him. Not a man of mercy, the Czar feels no need to turn it back on as he removes it with a stiff yank, splitting the cheek open further.

Ray: YES! Now the temple! End it! Make his brain a smoothie!!!

The Hardcore King does not go for the death blow of the temple. Instead, he presses the dripping point into the forced open and sputtering mouth of his for, pressing the inside of his other cheek outward in what could be misconstrued for a gay joke, a reference to the larger man's made up desire to fellate something. His eyelids peeled back and wide with shock, Carson attempts to repeal, the cries falling upon deaf ears. The undefeated behemoth slowly depresses the trigger, smiling with every bit of pressure he puts upon it. Once given full power, it whirs, puncturing the flesh and protruding sickly through the man's jaw, a trickled stream below it drifting back towards Nicky's ear. The deranged man with a plan pulls the device free once more and sets it down beside them, making sure to place it conveniently where his foe can see the end result of what's been done to him.

As he gets off of the man's chest, Vlad quickly grabs his hands before he can use them to nurse his wounds. He brings one under his shin and uses his weight to hold it down as he grabs the spool of barbed wire off of the ground, finally ready to reveal his plans for it. He begins pulling it loose, leaving the Maniac Mauler with a free hand to try to soothe his pain with. Once he has unwound a length of it, Strife grabs the free wrist of Nicholas Carson and begins running his hand around it over and over, blood dripping across him from the barbed stabbing into the King's palms. He wraps it again and again until he is sure it is bound tightly enough, then lowers his skull to collide with that of the resistant subject. The sound of bone smacking bone rings out several times as he scrambles both of their brains by colliding the sides over and over in a fighting style much like that of a giraffe. Sending his world spinning and the foes darkened, the fan favorite brings the wire wrapped wrist into his control and drags the heavier body towards the ropes, jutting the hand out through it. He slides to the outside with the wire and stands there in front of the nearly unconscious clown, the mission still on his mind.

Ray: What the fuck is Vladimir doing!? I've seen some weird shit before, but this seems pretty deliberate and yet not... I don't understand him sometimes, freaking men!

The Czar of Scars brings the hand up next to Nicky's face, taking the thread of wiring and manuevering it through the hole in the side of Carson's face and into his mouth. He pulls the jaw slack once more and reaches inside cautiously, bringing the end of the strand over to the other hole and poking it out, finding only slight resistance as a barb slices the hole only a miniscule bit further open. He grabs hold of the end and pulls it through, leaving little of it between the first hole and the bound wrist. He grabs the arm not yet donned in the barbs and begins to wrap what has become the weapon addon of most men's choice and fervously begins to spin it around and around until he has made it similar to the other side. He begins to lace it over one wrist and across to the other, binding both wrists together as well, his diabolical plan finally far enough along for people to understand. As he backs up, he takes in the sight, a still out of it Imperfect not understanding the danger he is currently in.

Vlad paces to the timekeeper's table, snatching a bottle of water and a microphone from the station. He makes his way up the steel steps and climbs into the ring, coming over to Nicholas and unscrewing the bottle cap. He overturns it, spilling out it's contents onto the head of his opponent and waking him up at last. As the clown begins to move, the sharp pain fills him, realizing the predicament he's in. He is trapped in place, his hands bound by his face from the wire, his arms set so he can not pull back into the ring without the ropes stopping them. The King has trapped him, he doesn't want any motions from the subject and so has forced him into subduing.

"Nicky... Nobody fucks with the King.. You DARE to challenge me... to embarass me.."

Vlad chuckles, a sense of insanity burning in his mind.

"YOU THINK YOU'RE FUNNY!?!?! HUH!?! You walk around... wearing that... that STUUUPID CLOWN SMILE ON YOUR FACE!! God, how I HAATE that fucking smile.. You want to smile, Nicky? DO YOU!? DO YOU FUCKING WANT TO SMILE NOW!?!?!"

Vlad laughs as he takes a few steps back, using his foot to separate the legs of the Imperfect, to the confusion of Carson and the majority of the audience. He seems to be calming down, finally happy and satisfied, all of this unbeknownst to the victim that can't see him, forced to gaze out upon the crowd before him.

"Then GODDAMNIT, LET'S PUT A SMILE ON THAT FACE!!!"

The King's voice is heavily distorted, deep and twisted, an animalistic growl as it booms through the air. He runs only a short distance forward before driving the tip of his boot squarely into the testicles of the Maniac Mauler. A scream from the Imperfect rings out loudly as his mouth shoots wide open in a scream, jerking his hands back towards the impact zone instinctively. The barbed wire is forced taut and brought forward with his force, splitting the meat and flesh of his cheeks in half, extending his lips an extra inch on either side. The shriek becomes louder as this happens, the jagged points of flesh flapping with the force of the exertion. The lower half of the cheeks fold over upon themselves towards the front of his mouth, revealing the bottom set of teeth on the brownie baker, each a light pink from the crimson that's been painted over them time and time again tonight. The motion of the mouth opening wide to let out the horrific sound stretches the cheeks of his face, a wet rip audible to those nearby as it splits the wounds back another inch to the terror of Nicholas Carson and the audience before him.

Ray White is unable to share his thoughts, reacquainting himself with the white bucket that's already half filled with his vomit.

TBCB Carson or Probably End Of Match

[Vladimir Strife]

The intense pain rushes upon the King's senses, a burst of fresh life taking him over. Offering little resistance, the plywood and padding ringtop is robbed of the spike. As the bloody and impaled wrist rises slowly into the air, trembling violently, all sounds
become hushed within the Solid Core Gymnasium. Both sides of the foreign object are seen to all, one side a thick silver head, flat and squared; one side a crimson painted taper. The official becomes faint, his strength lost in the surreal moment. His body hits the mat slack and unconscious, a handful of the many gathered fans reacting in similar fashion.

The pain is near unbearable, Strife's eyes wide and bulging in the agony, drool runs down his cheek, sprayed out breath after jagged breath. The world is blurry and spinning in this new realm of misery, a world that is a few pints short on blood. His shaking hand clasps onto the bound limb beside him and he uses what strength he can muster to rip free, pulling the nail out with him as the hardware become accessories in the madness. A scream comes from his lips, a roar of animalistic proportions, face scrunched in it's effort. Pulling his feet from one another, he finds no value to the motions, stuck together firmly. Relenting and yanking over and over, he finally rips the nail free from the bottom foot, still stuck through the other and protruding from the bottom of his boot.

Ray White is found speechless for once in his career of wisecracks and sharp tongued jokes. Vladimir claims rope by rope with every grasp, climbing them one by one until he can place the flat foot upon the surface below him. As he sets the other down, his leg wobbles, the spike stabbed through proving a most troublesome menace. Carson watches from the side, frozen in awe and horror at what he is seeing. Tepes tries to stand and tumbles against the ropes, wrapping his arms wildly around them to keep from leaving his vertical positioning. He raises the problem foot up before stomping down on the canvas, shoving the spike back through and finding a level placement at last. He bends down carefully, still holding the top rope with one hand as he removes the oversized nail with the other. He falls into the corner, holding himself up with only minimal strength.

Ray: I... I can't believe what I'm seeing... the Messiah has risen..

The Maniac Mauler slaps himself in sheer disbelief. This wasn't right... this couldn't be true. He had scalped the man before him like the white men who had laid seige upon the land centuries ago and there he stood, the slick white dome exposed with a glint of the high powered beam above glancing off of it and the barbed wire wrapped around the perimeter. He had stabbed him in the scrotum ala Julius Caesar and the King mightily defied the grim reaper, propped up right there in the corner. He had crucified the supposed god and the Messiah had risen, not even needing the full three days to rest first. It was the kind of thing legends and myths were made of, the stuff of fairy tales and yet here it was, unraveled right before the eyes of Concord, California and every man, woman and child that stuck around to tell their friend they were there when a man died in the ring.

As Nicholas Carson rose to his full height, the man who has defied all odds of death moves in to meet him. The attempt is, however, a failure, the unlikely hero slipping in the dark crimson that leaks from his sole and flopping flat upon his face like a fish out of water. The bout of the night has come down to a scene from a B-level horror film, two zombies duking it out as they struggle to stay literally composed. Zombies they had indeedly become, men that were not dead, but not alive, a sole purpose on their minds driving them to continue on. The Monarch pushes himself back up, helped by the adversary that seeks to end him. The brownie maker straightens him out, preparing to finish the foe once and for all. Though the Impaler's body is diminishing slowly to nothing the longer the night goes on, his spirit is still alive and strong as his fingers wrap around the idle flap of skin that once was called a cheek. He yanks hard and separates the flesh
further from the Imperfect's face, the piece now a curtain swung low from his chin.

Screaming in an unimaginable scourge of a sensation, Carson is surprised to say the least at the resistance he has found. He twists back around, throwing a clenched fist into the flat top of the railroad spike and receiving a cry for the simple action. As his knuckles ache from the contact with the steel, Strife feels a fresh spurt of liquid down his hand and a new surge of searing disphoria. His majesty swings his arm around in a hook, catching the corner of the spike's head across the lower eye of his opponent and tearing the flesh open, adding another tick to the list of wounds suffered tonight, though the toll has long been forgotten now.

The better for wear, Nicky plants a hand on either side of the King's skull and pulls, leading him to the ropes before carelessly chucking him over to the outside. The undefeated behemoth crashes to the floor without an ounce of grace, left sprawled out before the commentator that has long been his number one fan. Ray White has to turn his head away from the action, unable to cope with the sight of the pearly white dome where lush thick hair had once covered Strife's head. Carson follows him out, not content to simply wait for a new official to make their way out and replace the fainted one in making the count. The weakened and demolished monarch offers no resistance as he is picked up and leaned against the ring where he has ruled for far too long now.

"This is it, Vladdy boy! It's time to give everyone here what they came for! It's time for someone to die.. And if that person were to be me, just like we'd planned, well.. that just wouldn't be fun, now would it? It's be planned, structured out, and Mr. Strife... I hate order."

Nicholas grabs a steel chair, slamming the legs together as he folds it shut. Raising it high into the air, he rains it down upon the exposed dome of the Romanian, trying to crack the egg that encases his brain. Vlad tilts and starts to careens towards the ground, but the bear like paw of the Imperfect stops him and props him back into place for the second attempt. He lifts the steel seat above his head once more, shooting forward with full force as it blasts the cranium of tonight's fallen hero. The skull, as hard literally as most joked it had been metaphorically, doesn't break, much to Carson's dismay. The Impaler leans into the turnpost and slinks down it, coming to a seated position on the ground. His face looks lifeless and pale, mouth slack at the right side as though he'd suffered a stroke. His lips begin to quiver as he sits there, helpless at the hands of the monster.

"My necklace...."

The Imperfect is so amused by the simple gesture that he begins to laugh loudly, the cackle bellowing throughout the still air. He looks around and spots the piece of jewelry close-by, lying idly by his foot. Despite the onslaught and all he had done and was about to do to the undefeated behemoth, it was this petty little necklace he cared about. It seemed that Vlad didn't want to die without the precious item, Carson finding a shred of sympathy perhaps as he kicks it over to him. The King smiles and picks it up, forcing himself off of the post enough to loop it around his neck.

"Consider that your last request."

"It's all I could ever need.. Nicky, before you kill me, would you like to know why I wanted this necklace?"

Carson smiles and prepares to explain it to him, already understanding the symbolism behind the only accessory the famed legend had worn in his career.

"It's the Sword Of Mars, Vladimir. The sword Attila the Hun is said to have sold his soul to the devil for. Any man who wielded the sword supposedly couldn't be killed in battle. That however, is just a trinket, your majesty. No matter what you think, that silly little thing isn't going to save you from the fate I have in store for you."

Vlad finally has wrapped his fingers around and identified the object he's dug through and found under the ring, the process unseen to the rest of the world thanks to the plastic tarp that hangs off of the ring side. He whips it out quickly as he leans forward and presses the prongs against the flesh of the Maniac Mauler's leg and presses down on the button with his thumb. A blue bolt fires from the prongs and buries into the skin of the Imperfect, sending him convulsing as the steel chair drops behind him. He soon tumbles after, landing upon it as Strife rises against the odds yet again. He smiles as his enemy lay disoriented at his feet.

"Not quite, Nicky. Deception, clown boy, The Art Of War."

The crowd is sent into pandemonium as the Kingdom leader bends over and presses the prongs into the disfigured gullet of the Imperfect. He centers the ruby red tongue of the hell spawn between the prongs and grins into his face, almost daring a movement or action to push him to do it.

"Did you know that saliva is a conductor of electricity, Mr. Carson? That means it carries the surge and intensifies it. You see, while you were getting your ass handed to you in school, some of us were learning these things. Science, history, the works. I even remember some math. Let's see... you take one clown faced fuck... add some electricity... take away the mercy... and what you get is one - dead - son of a bitch."

Strife clutches down on the item again, sending the volts through the tongue of his opponent and throwing him into fits as he jitters and spasms on the ground. As he begins to lose control of bodily functions, his teeth clamp down tight on the taser, his eyes roll backwards and an amber liquid seeps the front of his boxers, causing the King to relent. He begins roaring in laughter, the audience unable to find any humor with the grimness of this match. Without them, Vladimir slaps his knee and continues to crack up. He grabs a microphone and tosses the taser out to the crowd. He didn't simply want to talk to Nicky anymore, he wanted to speak to the world.

"HEY GUYS, LOOK! NICKY PISSED HIMSELF!!!"

The Undefeated Behemoth gets into the face of his stunned and down adversary and tries to get into his brain, simulating how things must have been for him as a child.

"HAHA! NICKY PEED!! Awww, does somebody need a new diapey? I think he does. Quick, we need a diaper wipe and a new pair of panties for Ms. Carson on aisle I'm-A-Big-Girl-Now!"

Tears stroll down from the eyes of the monster, feeling the old childhood embarrassment that he'd always hated. The cruelty of men had never ceased to amaze him, but this man, this God-King, had taken it further than the physical beatings, torture and hatred and dared to force the maniac into the dark corners of his mind, ripping at the mental scars that hadn't been opened in years. Tepes leans down to his ear, the microphone between them as he began to whisper.

"I'm going to call mommy and have her bring you a new fresh set of clothes, Nicky. It's going to be just fine. It's just fine, baby, don't you worry. Mommy is going to make it all okay and she's never going to let them hurt you again."

In the strangest of gestures, Strife sits down next to his opponents head and begins to stroke his hair, watching the tears escape him.

"It's okay, it's alright. You're my big boy, Nicky, your mommy's big boy."

Delusional from the night's beating and the loss of blood, Carson turns and clings tight, wrapping his arms around the 269 pounder in almost a death grip as he lets it out to the mommy he's long lost.

"Wait... what's this? The door shut. Nicky, daddy's home... he's home. Do you want to go tell him about your day?"

The Maniac Mauler begins to violently shake his head, not wanting 'father' to know about what occurred today on the playground.

"Oh, don't be so silly! He'll march down to that school and set this all straight. You know you can tell daddy, he'll understand!"

Nicholas continues to gesture 'no', almost shaking now as his mind begins to break down in shattered and repressed memories.

"Oh, no... He doesn't seem to happy. Daddy has to 'talk' with mommy. He has to teach her a lesson for making you weak, for babying you too much. It'll be okay, Nicky, he's just a little angry. No, really, he's not hurting mommy. See? She's okay, it's just a little blood, just a couple of bruises."

The psychological torment is wearing down the beast and he is no longer in Solid Core Gymnasium in Concord. He is a young man trembling before his abusive father again and praying for mercy. No matter how far back you pushed the demons in the closet, they were never truly gone.

"WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH YOU!?!"

The whispering is done and now Strife's voice booms all around him through the speakers.

"YOU PISSED YOURSELF!? YOU'RE NO SON OF MINE!!! I DIDN'T RAISE A PUSSY!! I'LL TEACH YOU TO PISS YOURSELF, YOU LITTLE UNGRATEFUL BASTARD!!!"

Carson is cowering and trying to hide the tears on his face as the first ball of knuckles rocks his head aside. His hair is yanked, lifting his head for 'daddy' to see and send his anger rising. Vladimir slaps him and topples him over, Nicky laying on his stomach and praying the man is tired from beating mommy. As Strife unbuckles his belt and slides it off, the Maniac Mauler crawls on hands and knees away from him. The leather strap slaps him across the lower back with barely any physical effect upon him, but a world of emotional pain.

"COME BACK HERE, YOU FAGGOT!!"

"No! No, daddy, no! I'm sorry! I'm sorry! It won't ever happen again, I SWEAR!!!"

"THE HELL IT WON'T! YOU'VE NEVER BEEN NOTHING MORE THAN A DISAPPOINTMENT!! I TOLD YOUR MOTHER SHE SHOULD HAVE ABORTED YOU!!!"

As the King lashes out with the belt once more, it is stopped abruptly, caught in the grasp of the Imperfect's palm. Nicholas Carson rips the belt from Vlad's hands and stands tall, leading his opponent slowly back away now. The abuse has back-fired and Nicky is no longer the boy he once was, but an enraged and empowered bull of a man, standing up to his bully and raising to his height. A flurry of punches befall the undefeated behemoth and he is taken to the ground, the unrelenting hell spawn dropping down onto him to keep going. He pulls the strap of the belt taut across Tepes' throat and begins to choke the life from him, raising his head towards the skies.

"ARE YOU PROUD NOW, DADDY!!?!"

"He... should be... you've bec... become.... just like him!"

The King chokes the words out, Nicholas Carson's eyes shooting wide as the fall upon his ears, the epiphany hitting him at last.

TBCB Carson or EOM