The Blackwells are drawing nearer
On metal steeds they ride
They’ve come to take your life
On through the dead of night
With The Blackwells ride
Or choose your fate and die
Again, like I’ve done before… these are not my words… they are slightly modified by Metallica’s song, The Four Horsemen… But I find it fitting here. Derek Kronos and Colin Burn should be very happy that their leader, Marcus Collins chose not to go any further with the beating and humiliation that he visited upon The Blackwells’ Trouble Shooter, Steven Beckett, Esq. Honestly, it’s the only reason that any of them get to survive this day…
*Ascension leader, Marcus Collins finishes the rant he was just giving, the words that he hoped would rattle “The New York Nightmare” Trevor Blackwell to his very core… Collins hoped that his words would shake Trevor’s confidence and get inside his head. But his hopes were in vain, for none of the Blackwells were listening. They had already gotten a lock on Steve Beckett’s cell phone’s GPS. They were already on their way. But, even later, when The Blackwells sit in the comfort of their posh hotel room and watch the promo over on the WWG Network, they’ll merely toke on the blunt they pass between them and laugh. They’ll remember this as the last time Marcus Collins wore that confident smile. They’ll remember this as the day that Marcus realized that The Blackwells were not just the greatest threat he had experienced in his career… but the end of everything. The Apocalypse.
As the light fades from the day, the sun westering to it’s daily conclusion, Marcus Collins signals for the cameraman to end his feed but Derek Kronos grabs his arm. The nearly silent man speaking only one word that is more important than the entire ramble that his leader just gave.*
Derek Kronos: Listen…
*See, Derek Kronos has a talent that neither of his compatriots have. Because he doesn’t run his mouth nearly as much as the other two in his little cadre, he hears much more than they do. And because of that, The Ascension actually get some sort of warning of their impending doom. The sound is faint but Colin and Marcus would’ve heard it eventually, even over the loud quack that is Collins’s voice. Its an inhuman sound almost totally alien to this desert outback wasteland. It sounds like the purr of some giant rock cat. But there is a guttural tone to it that could never be matched by any beast.*
Colin Burn: What the **** is that? Some animal? This IS the Australian outback. Maybe we should get going before the night predators start to come out.
*From behind The Ascension comes a very sick sound. At first its nothing more than a choked, gasp… but then it becomes full throated, echoing laughter… mocking laughter. The Blackwells’ Trouble Shooter spits out a dirty stream of blood and mumbles out his words through dry, swollen, split lips.*
Steve Beckett: it’s the cavalry. I knew they’d come. You boys really are **** now… The Blackwells are coming and they’re coming for blood.
*A little more spooked then he’ll let on, Marcus Collins wheels on the fat, gory, bruised man, spitting out his words much in the same way Beckett just spit out his blood. His eyes are wild and conflicted.*
Marcus Collins: Shut the **** up, you fat piece of ****! **** The Blackwells. Let them come. We’ll be ready for them…
*The sound is growing louder despite any words that are being said. Steadily, relentlessly, it goes from the purr of some great rock cat the snarling growl of a Dire Wolf… which is like regular wolves… only DIRE. Steven Beckett, Esq. doesn’t shut up as this prick would like, he just laughs some more and coughs up more blood before speaking, his lips shining crimson in what’s left of the Australian sunset… obviously bleeding internally.*
Beckett: No you won’t… you won’t be ready for them. I promise. It doesn’t matter how badly you may want to convince your little pals that there’s nothing to be scared of here… if you had any intelligence at all, you’d be shitting your pants right about now. The Blackwells are a whole different breed of brutality. They are carnage and violence on a scale that none of you have ever experienced. You thought Trevor was bad before… now with Tony and Kristina, he’s going to be a Demon straight from the lowest circle of Hell.
*Marcus Collins’s face twists in rage, spittle flying from his lips as his voice cracks in fury.*
Marcus: SHUT THE **** UP!!!
*But The Blackwells’ Trouble Shooter doesn’t get a chance to obey that command of his own volition. He has his fat, torn, bloody mouth shut for him as yet another blow wrapped in heavy brass knuckles collides with his mouth. Two more follow it, knocking out his front teeth and shredding his gums against the remaining ones. Strangely enough, as this happens, all he can think is how he’s going to be sending The Ascension his dental bills. Both Derek Kronos and Colin Burn grab an arm, pulling their leader off of the tubby, whimpering, crying man. Yanking him backwards, Kronos having to throw Collins to the ground to stop him.*
Derek Kronos: Stop!
Colin Burn: He’s right. You’re letting this slimeball win. This is what he wants… to distract you. We should either get the **** out of here or get ready.
*The sound gets closer… what was once a snarling growl of a Dire Wolf is now the roaring bellow of a Dragon. Smoke and dust start to envelop the scene… the now-full darkness pierced by three oncoming headlights. The choking exhaust… the dust and rocks of the hardpan… and now the distinctly sickly sweet aroma of marijuana. Still faintly audible behind The Ascension, Steven Beckett, Esq. coughs up more blood and starts to drone on in a child’s taunting sing song kind of voice.*
Beckett: Trevor’s gonna kill you… Trevor’s gonna kill you… Trevor’s gonna kill you…
*Marcus Collins turns and starts towards Steve again, angrily, his fist raised. But Derek and Colin grab him before he can get more than a couple of steps. Beckett’s laughter rings out before he resumes his sing song mockery. Collins pulls himself free of his cohorts, dusts himself off, and hocks a loogie right on The Blackwells’ Trouble Shooter’s face.*
Marcus Collins: Fuckin’ Fat ****! You’re right though. But I’m not scared of these Blackwell assholes. Let them come. Hey, maybe they just want to talk and negotiate.
*Steve’s voice rings out behind him again.*
Beckett: Yeah! Negotiate his foot up your ass!
*Marcus Collins growls under his breath but ignores the tubby bastard. Instead, a sinister smile spreads his lips.*
Marcus Collins: yeah, I doubt it too. Brass Knuckle up, Boys! If they want a fight, lets give them all they can handle!
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*The hardpan ground of the Western Australian Desert rumbles and quakes with their coming. In the glare of their headlights, “The New York Nightmare” Trevor Blackwell can see those three Ascension shitbags waiting for them… and Steve Beckett trussed up like a Christmas turkey, laying in the dirt. Man, are these motherfuckers gonna pay. The **** Icon, his entire head completely obscured by a full black motorcycle helmet guns the engine of his Harley Davidson Fatboy. He glances to his right at his little sister, Kristina Blackwell. On the handlebars of her Harley Davidson Softtail sits the bleached skull of a kangaroo. She pats it’s head and he can just picture the satisfied smile beneath her own helmet. She always was the oddest one in his family. He looks to his left and sees his brother, Tony Blackwell on his Harley Panhead. He opens the visor just the tiniest inch, enough to make psychotropic smoke leak out as he spits out the wasted roach of his blunt. Yup, they’re ready. Ahead, The Ascension at first seemed to be standing strong, waiting for the coming storm (not Rayven). But now that Marcus Collins, Derek Kronos, and Colin Burn realize that The Blackwells aren’t slowing down, all Trevor can see are asses and elbows as they take to their heels. Now within jumping distance, The Excellence of Extreme tosses off his helmet, his brother and sister following suit and revealing themselves… screaming at the top of his lungs.*
Trevor Blackwell: HILE! BLACKWELLS! TO ME! UNLEASH HELL!!!
*With that, “The Xtremist” Tony Blackwell guns the engine of his painstakingly maintained Panhead and reaches into a sheath on his back… drawing a steel plated aluminum baseball bat like a Samurai would draw his Katana. He darts to the side of his sprinting quarry, swinging for the fences and cracking Derek Kronos across his shoulderblades, literally sending the guy airborne. On the other side of this killing field, “That Crazy ****” Kristina Blackwell stands up in her seat, bent over, her ice blue eyes focused on the fleeing Colin Burn as she attempts to ride him down. Suddenly, she cuts her Softtail to the side, picks up the kangaroo’s skull, and hurls it as hard as she can, whaling Burn in the back of the head as the sun baked skull shatters in fragments and dust and Colin drops in his tracks. At first “The Career Killer” Trevor Blackwell looks as if he’s going to head towards his Trouble Shooter, but instead he takes off after Marcus Collins. Blackwell reaches into his side bag and produces an enormous heavy steel chain with a hook on the other end of it. He twirls it over his head like a lasso before letting the monstrosity fly. At first you’d think that he missed his target… but then you realize that it hooked the belt on the back of Collins’s pants. Immediately, Trevor changes direction and all three Blackwells take off, leaving Colin Burn, Derek Kronos, and Steve Beckett behind… Marcus Collins flies into the air… literally by the seat of his pants… Trevor Blackwell trailing him behind for a moment in mid air like a little boy flying a kite before The Ascension’s leader comes down hard on his ass… dragged behind Trevor Blackwell’s Harley… bouncing off of hardpan and dirt and rocks… his clothes shredding and being left behind on the ground in tattered strips. By the time they reach their destination, Marcus has been dragged for a little over a mile… any further and it very well may have killed him. As The New York Nightmare releases the chain from his bike, Collins rolls end over end across the unforgiving hardpan. The former WWG Carnage Champion and Absolute Champion lays on the ground moaning… his shirt totally torn off… his pants barely there… his skin covered in road rash and blood. The Blackwells all laugh and shout indecipherable catcalls as they circle their Harley’s around him, coming to stop in a circle surrounding the man. The Excellence of Extreme hops down, shaking out his curly black hair as he pulls his Singapore Cane out of his saddlebag and approaches, his brother and sister flanking him. Tony slaps his steel plated aluminum baseball bat against his hand repeatedly on Trevor’s left. Their little sister, Kristina ties her ass-length jet black hair into a ponytail to keep it out of her face as she follows with a smile on The **** Icon’s right. Marcus Collins has gotten up to his knees… the left side of his face raw and bleeding from the road rash… pockmarked by small stones.*
Trevor: Hey there, Marcus… Nice to meet you… I don’t think we’ve been formally introduced… I mean, unless you count when I was unconscious or when my back was turned.
*But The New York Nightmare underestimates how close he gets and Marcus tries to rise up with wild swings but Trevor Blackwell easily steps back out of his dazed reach. Kristina Blackwell, however seems to take offense at this… or, maybe, like her brother, she’s just looking for an excuse to be vicious.*
Kristina: Did you just try to **** hit my brother?!
*The beautiful young girl, her face a mask of rage, sprints at the leader of The Ascension, agilely jumping up into the air and coming down with both of her heeled motorcycle boots in Marcus’s raw and bleeding face with a Dropkick that sends the man tumbling backwards to land on his stomach again. Groaning and suppressing a scream of agony, Marcus struggles up to his hands and knees, his arms shaking like a man in the throes of a seizure with the effort of just holding up his own weight. That Crazy **** tries to rush him again but her oldest brother holds her back with an arm.*
Trevor: No… stop… he’s actually trying to stand up. Let him. Maybe he wants to say something. I think we owe him that much…
*It takes a few moments but Marcus Collins is finally able to do just that. Once on a vertical base again, swaying side to side like a drunk, he spits out a stream of blood and starts to speak. But he doesn’t get the chance. Trevor Blackwell smirks and nods to his younger brother. That was all the invitation The Xtremist needed. He takes two giant steps like Alex Rodriguez going for a Grand Slam and buries his steel plated baseball bat into Collins’s ribcage, giving them bruises to match the rest of his body. The Ascension’s leader doubles over, frozen there in pain for a moment. But that’s plenty of time for the startlingly fast Kristina. That Crazy **** runs up the back of her oldest brother’s Harley Fatboy and leaps off, hooking Marcus Collins’s head under her arm and kicks out her legs to stand him upright so she can get a 720 degree rotation before DDTing him headfirst into the unforgiving hardpan. Tony Blackwell smirks and mumbles under his breath*
Tony: **** showoff…
*Kristina Blackwell just flashes her brother a playful smile and blows him a kiss. Chuckling, clearly enjoying himself more than he has at any other point since he joined World Wrestling Generation, The Excellence of Extreme approaches what’s left of his hated rival.*
Trevor: Alright… sorry about that… Go ahead, Marcus. Get up. We’ll let you for real this time. My brother and sister tend to be a tad overzealous at times.
*But no response comes from the motionless, gory mess of a man on the ground.*
Trevor: Oh, no no no no no. Sorry, Marcus. No time for sleeping now. Kristina, grab the smelling salts.
*That Crazy **** gleefully disappears to the saddlebag on her Harley Davidson Softail, returning with a small bottle that she puts under Marcus’s nose. The reaction is immediate and violent. Marcus does a pushup and leaps to his feet. He swings without even thinking first and catches Kristina Blackwell off guard, nailing her in the face with a roundhouse right. But Tony is right there, returning his strike in kind with a swift kick in the balls that has such impact, it takes The Ascension’s leader about a foot off the ground. As he goes to collapse, Trevor grabs Marcus by the hair and holds him up doubled over. The Xtremist smiles as Kristina looks on with pride in her brothers, watching Tony Blackwell do a standing forward flip into a Legdrop on the back of his head. As Marcus hits the ground on his raw hamburger meat like face once again, The Xtremist explodes into that trademark Blackwell rage and starts Nazi stomping him repeatedly as if he was trying to tattoo The Ascension leader’s back with boot prints like Tony had changed his name to Scott Carr.*
Tony: You… don’t… get… to… touch… her… EVER!!!
*The **** Icon stands back and watches for a few minutes before grabbing his younger brother and pulling him back with a smile. Kristina Blackwell wraps her arms around her protective brother’s waist in a warm, loving hug, peeking around his side as Tony puts his arm around her and produces a blunt. Quickly lighting it, the fragrant smoke fills the air as “The New York Nightmare” Trevor Blackwell pulls the barely conscious Collins to his feet, wraps his Singapore Cane around his neck and drops him to his back with a Side Russian Legsweep. Trevor practically floats over and lands on Marcus Collins’s chest. He picks up the smelling salts again and puts them under his opponent’s nose. As Marcus’s eyes snap open, The Excellence of Extreme blasts him in the face with a hard right hand, shattering The Ascension leader’s nose in a spray of bone fragments and blood.*
Trevor: That was fun, wasn’t it, Marcus? I’m getting a bit bored now so I’ll make the rest of this short and sweet. I hope this taught you a lesson, ****. We singled you out from the rest of your cronies for a reason. Not because you’re their leader… though that’s a pretty good reason. Not because you’re my opponent this week… though that’s a good reason too. But because I wanted to show you how a three on one beating is done. I wanted you to understand what it feels like to be on the receiving of such a beatdown when its done by true masters of their craft. This, my friend… and I use the term very loosely… is how it’s done. See, I don’t totally blame you for this. You had no way of knowing who exactly it was that you were **** with when you called me out a month ago. You just saw the new guy that was burning up the track with his momentum and thought you’d grab onto my coat tails for the ride. You had no idea what you were actually dealing with. But I still don’t feel sorry for you. No one who finds out about what we’ve done today will. Because you, just like The Family, deserve this. The Blackwells are your reckoning. We are the hammer of justice that WWG needs. OUR brand of justice. I’m ready to move on from you assholes now. I’ve knocked that big motherfucker, Derek Kronos out with The Full Throttle. I’ve choked your wunderkind out with the Manic Depression. And if you are foolish enough to actually show up tomorrow night, I will **** cripple you. Be smart. Don’t show up. Take this as a lesson learned and take a nice weekend stay at the hospital. Maybe you can get a bed in the same room as Nick Sadistic and Rayven. I’m better than you, Marcus.
*The Career Killer stands up and walks over to his bike, his brother and sister smiling at him proudly in approval. He reaches into his saddle bag one last time and produces a handful of items. He throws a bottle of aspirin that bounces off Marcus’s head… a bottle of water that cracks open and starts to spill… and a compass.*
Trevor: There, Marcus… don’t say I never gave you nothin’...
*Tony and Kristina Blackwell smile and hop on their respective bikes. Trevor Blackwell just laughs and steps on the compass, crushing it, before hopping on his Harley Fatboy. The Xtremist just shakes his head and hands his older brother the blunt before the three of them rev up their rides.*
Tony: You’re a **** ****, Trev…
