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And A Little Piece Of Thrylla's Life Crumbles Nomad: Hey bartender, gimme a mug of Jack Daniels. Bartender: You want a MUG of Jack Daniels? Nomad: ......Yes, I do. Bartender: Suit yourself, buddy. -=- The bartender hands Nomad a mug filled with Tennessee whiskey -=- Bartender: That�ll be....eh, about six bucks, I figure. -=- Nomad pulls a $100 bill out of his wallet and tosses it at the bartender. He then picks up the mug of JD, stands on the stool, and sits on the bar with his feet resting on the stool. He takes a swig of the whiskey followed by a deep breath to alleviate the burning -=- Nomad: So, I came here for a- -=- Nomad sees that some of the patrons of the bar are still more concerned with their beloved Shane Battier being picked sixth, instead of the number one spot they were sure he would get -=- Fan 1: Sixth?! Battier�s the man!!! Fan 2: I know!!! Kwame Brown my ass!!! Fan 3: Well, Brown is good, but he�s not as proven as Battier. Shane�s got four years of college ball under his belt, Brown ain�t got shit!!! Fan 2: That doesn�t matter. College or not, good players are good players. They don�t need to play the college game just to prove that. Fan 3: That�s horse shit! Fan 1: Yeah. Some of these punks comin� into the NBA straight outta� high school don�t have the maturity, the presence of mind you need on the court! You watch the guys in college ball, you can see �em get better year by year! Fan 2: They can get just as good by force-feedin� �em that experience. They get the same exposure in less time when they hit the NBA early. Fan 3: I sat back for four years and watched Battier perfect his game. From freshman to senior year, he went from an unpolished stone to a fuckin� DIAMOND in that sport. That�s the edge college gives ya�. And that�s why these kids shouldn�t be jumpin� the gun like they are. Fan 1: Damn straight! We�ve all seen some o� these kids crack under the pressure! - C - R - A - C - K - Nomad: Are you guys through? -=- Nomad�s hockey stick is resting between the two pieces of what was, until a second ago, the table the three sports fans were sitting at. Nomad�s eyes are flaring with anger at these three fans� disregard for his �authority�. The three fans sit in their chairs, arms at their sides, listening intently to anything Nomad has to say. So, too, is everyone else in the bar -=- Nomad: Alright, shit-suckers, I�m here to say my piece. I�m here to prove a point. And I�m SURE AS HELL NOT HERE TO BE IGNORED. -=- Everyone in the bar, now fearing for their well being and their very lives, nods slowly. Nomad strides back to the bar and perches on it with his feet back on the stool. Nomad sets the hockey stick on the bar to his right, and pats it once before picking up his mug of Jack Daniels. He takes another swig, swallows, and addresses the whole bar -=- Nomad: Who here has heard of a man called �Serial Thrylla�? -=- Most people in the bar slowly and cautiously raise their hands. Those who don�t look like they want to, but are afraid of Nomad�s presumably angry reaction. Content that all of those in attendence tonight are familiar with High Impact Wrestling�s top face, he continues -=- Nomad: Okay. And who here is a FAN of Mr. Thrylla? Don�t worry, I�m just taking a poll. You know, trying to field out my audience so I know how to proceed with my little soapbox rant. I won�t bite, just give me the truth. Who here likes our friend Serial? -=- Everyone in the bar now raises their hand, although still cautious -=- Nomad: Alrighty. How many of you folks watch HIW Sunday Night Showdown? Anyone? -=- A good portion of the bargoers, maybe around sixty-five percent, raise their hands -=- Nomad: Not bad, not bad. Do you guys know who I am? -=- Everyone nods, and one man raises his hand. He quickly glances around and realizes no one else has their hand raised, and his hand drops faster than Thrylla in a Journey�s End -=- Nomad: Do you have a question for the teacher, little boy? Bargoer: No....I, uh, no sir. It�s just that, you know, everyone�s been raising their hand, so I, uh, I....you know, I raised my hand for....your....uh, question. You know. Nomad: Okay, you know, so you were, you know, raising your, you know, hand to, you know, let me, you know, know that you, you know, knew who I, you know, was? Is that....you know....correct? Bargoer: Um, yes sir, you kn....I mean....yes, yes it is. Nomad: Ah, okay. Well, would you care to let the gallery know just who I, you know, am? If you�d be so kind, that is. Bargoer: You....you�re Nomad. -=- Nomad leans forward a bit with a mockingly shocked look on his face -=- Nomad: I AM?! You mean THE Nomad? The former three-time and CURRENT Extreme Wrestling Association International Champion who, I might add, was NEVER beaten for the belt?! The former EWA World Champ who beat BOTH Serial Thrylla and Chandler at the SAME TIME?! The soon-to-be first ever HIW World Champ?! The man who, this Sunday, is going to KICK SERIAL THRYLLA�S LITTLE DICK-LICKIN� ASS THREE TIMES?!?!?! THAT NOMAD?!?!?! Bargoer: *In a very dull and slightly mocking tone* Yeah. THAT one. Nomad: Okay. Thanks for clarifying that for everyone in attendance tonight. That�s right, people!!! I am Nomad, and I am your GOD. -=- The faces of everyone in the bar are now slightly skewed from fear into anger. Nomad ignores them, and takes another swig of whiskey -=- Nomad: I don�t play for fun anymore. I don�t do whatever it takes to make you mindless sheep cheer for me. I play for KEEPS. And I do whatever it takes to WIN. Not too long ago, I was a man of the people. I was angry, I was disturbed, and I was bordering on insanity every second of my existence....but I still fought for the cheers. I used the fans� approval as a way to make myself feel better about my own life. But I realized something when I won the inaugural Royal Rumble at the first ever Showdown. I realized suddenly that winning was more important than that cheer I got when I ran down the isle. The old me might have eliminated Joey Fury by, say, giving him a Journey�s End all the way to the floor. Sure, he would have been out, but SO WOULD I. Kill my chances for a World Title AND for revenge, just for one pop from the fans. And this Sunday, it would be Serial Thrylla and OX for the World Title. Does that make sense? Does that make the old Nomad better? I DON�T THINK SO. Because this Sunday, it�s Serial Thrylla versus NOMAD for the HIW World Title. I�ve waited for years and years to get Thrylla in the ring with me. JUST THRYLLA. One on one. No Chandler. No razor-wire dome fifty feet in the air. No Hell on Earth. I mean, it was fun destroying both their asses at the same time, but still....it wasn�t gratifying enough. -=- Nomad picks up his mug to take another sip of JD -=- Woman: That�s bullshit, you gothic little testicle!!! -=- Nomad is interrupted in mid-sip. He swallows, and looks over at the woman -=- Nomad: ......Excuse me? Woman: You heard me! I watched that match live on pay-per-view, and you�re full of piss!!! Serial Thrylla gave Chandler a DFA straight through the floor of that cage, he eliminated himself! If he had stayed in that match, he would have kicked your ass six ways from Sunday!!! -=- Nomad picks up his hockey stick, hops off the bar, and begins to spin the stick in his hands as he talks -=- Nomad: Let me explain something to you, miss. -=- Nomad begins walking towards her -=- Nomad: He eliminated himself. He eliminated HIMSELF. Tell me, what kind of moron takes himself out of his own match? What kind of brainless fuck removes himself from the equation for no reason? We all went into that match knowing how dangerous it was, and knowing exactly what we had to do to win. And one of those things, I remember thinking, was to AVOID FALLING FIFTY FEET. If Thrylla wanted to kill himself just for the crowd�s approval, that�s fine. But I went into that match with the EWA World Title around my waist, and I wasn�t going to let ANYONE ELSE walk out with it. I DID WHAT HAD TO BE DONE. Does that mean that I didn�t win the match fairly? Does that mean that I should have a shadow looming over my victory because I didn�t pin both men at once? A triple threat match alone is one of the hardest matches in the business to win. Every time you think you have it won, the other fuck runs up from behind and kicks you in the fucking head, or pulls on your foot, or some other such bullshit. When one man finally wins, no one QUESTIONS it because he only pinned ONE of the participants. It�s how the match is, it�s how the game is played. When I pulled myself from the rubble, hauled Chandler�s limp carcass back to the ring, and pinned him, does that mean I didn�t win? Does it mean I�m NOT WORTHY OF THAT VICTORY?! -=- Nomad is now right in the woman�s face, both hands gripping the hockey stick tightly. His knuckles turn white as he continues ranting -=- Nomad: I won that match. I WON THAT MATCH. I WON, THE OTHER TWO MEN IN THAT MATCH LOST. CHANDLER....AND THRYLLA....LOST. DID EITHER OF THEM WALK OUT WITH THE EWA WORLD TITLE?! WELL, DID THEY?!?!?! Woman: *Terrified beyond belief* N-n-nn-n-nnn-no. Nomad: RIGHT. DID THEY WIN? Woman: N-nn-no! Nomad: RIGHT. DID I WIN?! Woman: Y-yy-y-YES! Nomad: DOESN�T THAT THEN MEAN THAT I BEAT THEM? Woman: I-I-I sup-suppose, y-yes. - C � R � A � C � K - -=- Nomad slams his hockey stick straight down onto the floor handle-first and leans against it. He bends over, putting his weight into the stick, and whispers directly into the woman�s ear. His lips are less than an inch from the side of her head, and she is visibly shaking -=- Nomad: Can you refresh my memory and tell me who the other two men in that match were, miss? Woman: *Also whispering* Ch-Ch-Chandler an-and S-Serial Th-Thryll....*swallows hard*....Thrylla. Nomad: *Still whispering* So if I beat the other two men in that match, and Serial Thrylla was one of the other two men in that match, doesn�t that mean that I BEAT Serial Thrylla? Woman: Y-yes....I g-g-guess, yes. -=- Nomad stands back up and picks his stick up in both his hands -=- Nomad: THANK YOU. According to this lovely young slam-pig here, I did officially defeat Serial Thrylla in a sanctioned wrestling match. I�m glad we cleared up any confusion. And miss....when you�re dealing with a slightly off-kilter gothic wrestling icon, do NOT question him. -=- Nomad catches everyone off guard, especially the woman, when he swings the stick handle-first into her pretty jaw, shattering it. The woman spills backwards out of her chair, blood spweing from her mouth, and falls on the floor. She�s barely conscious, rolling and almost silently whimpering in pain as blood runs down her now-mangled cheek. Nomad cocks the hockey stick up above his head, and prepares to bring it down across the woman�s midsection. A man sitting next to her throws himself across her body -=- Man: NO!!! THIS IS MY WIFE, SHE�S PREGNANT WITH OUR FIRST CHILD!!! PLEASE DON�T!!! Nomad: Awww, how cute. The filth is multiplying. -=- The blade comes down on the man�s shoulder, dislocating his left arm and tearing the underlying tissues -=- Man: AHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!! OH GOD!!!! -=- His cries are silenced as another swing from the hockey stick crushes his throat and sends the man spinning a few feet across the bar -=- Nomad: Somebody had best ram a Bic pen into his throat, or he�s going to suffocate. It would be a real shame. -=- Nomad walks back to his spot on the bar and sits down as someone nearby, hopefully an off-duty medical professional, performs a rudimentary tracheotomy with a Swiss Army Knife -=- Nomad: Bravo, man, bravo. If he dies now, it�s on YOUR conscience, �cause God knows I don�t have one. -=- Nomad takes a large swig of his Jack Daniels -=- Nomad: Now then, where was I? Oh yes. So beating both Thrylla and Chandler at the same time wasn�t gratifying enough. I need Thrylla in that ring one-on-one. I need to destroy his entire body, bit by bit, through and through. And President Fenichel has been nice enough to let me do it not once, not twice, but maybe even THREE FULL TIMES!!! That is, if I feel like laying down and draping Thrylla�s motionless body across my shoulders in the second match. It might be nice to job it out just to get Thrylla�s ass a THIRD TIME in one night. The point is, I have too much riding on this....pride, revenge, that World Title....I have too much to lose. I�ve been repressing my hatred for THREE YEARS. Waiting for THREE YEARS to get my opporunity for revenge on Serial Thrylla. And no one....NO ONE....will stop me now. Man: What about Serial Thrylla, bitchbox? -=- Nomad spins around to see his bottle of Jack Daniels smash into his face. He falls back off the bar, and lands hard on his left shoulder. His veteran ring experience allows him to roll through the fall and rise back to his feet in one fluid motion, all while still holding onto his hockey stick. Blood is dripping down his face from several large cuts, and his face is a mask of pure, unadulterated rage. The bartender is standing behind the bar with the shattered remains of the bottle in his hand -=- Bartender: I don�t care HOW dangerous you think you are, Nomad. No one talks shit about Serial Thrylla in his favorite Boston bar. No one. Nomad: Oh really?! Well you won�t have to worry about that for very long, since in a few minutes he won�t have a favorite bar LEFT!!! -=- Nomad jumps forward, sets the handle of the hockey stick on the floor, and uses it like a pole vault to do a kick across the bar. The bartender catches Nomad�s foot square in the nose, and he flies backwards into the wall of alcohol behind him. The back of his head shreds upon impact, and he slumps down in a bloody, unconscious mess. Nomad turns to everyone else in the bar with his stick clutched tightly in his hands -=- Nomad: NOTHING LEFT. NOTHING. - LESS THAN AN HOUR LATER - -=- The door to the bar opens, and Serial Thrylla begins to walk down the steps -=- Serial Thrylla: Spend a night in my favorite bar, get relaxed before the.... big........match................ -=- Thrylla sees the bar, and his jaw drops. It�s utter chaos, bodies and debris strewn everywhere. Moans can be heard from deep within the darkness. Precious few of the lights remain working, and in the dim lighting it looks almost like nothing is left. At Thrylla's feet, written across the floor in what appears to be blood, are six words -=- Serial Thrylla: *Reading* All journeys come to an end.... -=- Thrylla clenches his fists tight as he mutters something to himself -=- Serial Thrylla: Bastard. 
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