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SpineTwister · **01-03-2015, 08:08 AM**

London,, England. A warehouse on the Thames, in one of the rougher waterfront neighborhoods.

Steps lead down to the multilevel compound of Room 101, Ministry of Discipline gym/dojo/fetish parlor. Central dojo area.

SIMON LYSTER, “THE SPINE TWISTER,” dressed for sparring in plain black trunks and boots, looks around with satisfaction at the remodeling.

While he did not win the Christmas Shove-It elimination match, the promoters deemed his showing worthy of a modest signing bonus. Between that and the highly anticipated release of Twisted Spine Productions’ SCAT SLUT CRIPPLES TAKE IT IN ALL HOLES 6, money is flush for the present.

He turns to one of the flat-screen TVs, takes a remote from a nearby bench, turns on the TV, then connects to the joint XWF/Ministry feed. He then turns on the footage of TYROIL SMOOCHIE-WALLACE’s Punks off the Block. He speaks into the webcam.

“Well, well, well, something showed up on my Netflix queue.”

"Hey Tyler! Tell your mother I said 'Hi'.", a woman says from her porch

Tyroil waves at her while he walks on. Some African American punks sit on the street corner. Tyroil passes by them and gives them all fist bumps.

"Keep up the good work, Tyroil!", they say.

"Man, I love Miami.", Tyroil says to himself as he walks past them.

LYSTER pauses the footage.

“I think this is the part where we’re supposed to shed a sympathetic tear for the boyz n tha hood keepin’ it real, yo. You’ll forgive any misspeaking on my part… I was educated in the Received Pronunciation and am poorly versed in your… dialect.

“It’s of no real consequence, though. You’re not showing me anything I haven’t seen a million times prior. We have ‘hoods over here – we call them council tenancies. Rio has its favelas. Paris has its banlieues. Even a sterile postmodern shithole like Shanghai has its pinminku.

“Which goes to prove mainly that the boring drama of riffraff losers like you is pretty much the same around the world.

“Trust me, I know. Rentboys have to come from somewhere.”

LYSTER hits the fast-forward button on the remote:

They both take a seat on the chairs in front of the gang members.

"You got the money?"

"Right here."

BJ takes $200 out of his pocket and hands it to the gang member. The gang member starts to pull out the weed when the police sirens are suddenly heard.

"This was a setup!"

"Looks like you're not just another dumb jock, are you?"

LYSTER rolls his eyes.

“The story arc: All very afterschool special. The fallen athlete. The neighborhood hero. The sting. The betrayal. It’s mythic, really. Joseph Campbell would be touching himself in his coffin.

“Does it have any relevance whatsoever to our match on Monday?

“Maybe instead of trying to make a career as an athlete… a profession in which you’ve proved to be a washout across two sports… you should sell your screenplay to Spike Lee and… wait… like your storyline, he hasn’t been relevant since 1996, has he? Though Malcolm X was actually a pretty good movie. It’s about due for a remake. You could audition, but you’d need to lose about 200 pounds…

“…and on that note…

“…if you’ll indulge me in possibly veering into the entirely tangential topic of wrestlers wrestling on a wrestling show…

"In reviewing your dossiers and footage, one point has occurred to me...

"Seems you, Mr. WALLACE, are 173 centimeters and 25 stone... I'm sorry, 5 foot 8 and 350 pounds. I forget the caliber of the audience I am addressing.

"However you measure it, you're quite the porker, aren't you, Mr. WALLACE?

"In a one-on-one fight... the type I might actually, should the Fates be so kind, be booked in one day... this works to my advantage. All that weight, tiring you and tiring you until I lock on the Paralyzer and grant you the mercy of never having to struggle under it again.

"Problem is, all that blubber might actually add a few seconds to the time needed to find proper pressure points for the Paralyzer. Time I won't have if Mr. DEADLY is still up. So, as much as it pains me, I am in the process of developing a fallback option for these types of matches. In this case, specifically for you.

“Permit me to demonstrate.”

LYSTER turns his head toward a door in the far dojo wall.

"GIIIIIIIIMMMMMMMPPPPPPP!!!!!!!!!!!!"

The door opens. From beyond can be heard a din of animal squeals and grunts, a clattering of hooves, over which a pathetic mewling voice whines: "This lowly worm has gone to market and brought the Master his sparring partner."

Terrified squeals and hoofbeats grow louder, finally reverberating off the dojo walls. An enormous HOG, sickly whitish pink in the UV lights of the dojo, gallops into the room, its hooves on the dojo mats sounding like a hailstorm. The dojo aroma, redolent of stale sweat at the best of times, is drowned out in a reek of unwashed animal stink.

"This lowly worm groveled and wheedled and abased himself before the wholesaler until he obtained one of the proper 30-stone [420-lb.] weight, as it pleases the Master," GIMP ZERO calls out as he limps on crutches into the room.

LYSTER doesn't bother to reward his slave with the proper contemptuous dismissal -- the HOG is running around the dojo in blind fear, careening off the machines, weight benches, whipping posts, shibari harnesses, and other equipment like a giant lard pinball.

Maneuvering himself into the path of the 420-lb. flesh-missile, LYSTER sprawls and catches the HOG in a guillotine choke. A man of lesser strength, who hadn't calculated the angle of impact perfectly, would be bowled over and trampled. As it is, even LYSTER is shoved back a meter, but digs in on the sprawl with an angry growl and stops the HOG's momentum, pulling up, up, up on the beast's windpipe to subdue it.

When the animal's struggles momentarily subside, LYSTER adjusts his choke into something as close to a front chancery as can be put on a quadruped. Then -- with a half snarl, half groan -- he deadlifts. Spine and quads cracking with the effort, he hoists the HOG bodily off the mat and into a vertical suplex position, grabbing a roll of pig-fat to stabilize the creature.

The HOG thrashes and screams and it's all LYSTER can do to keep his balance, treelike legs straining under the unfamiliar weight and nonhuman center of gravity. But he does, and then he rotates the HOG in the hold, facing the beast inward, stoically ignoring the animal’s rancid stench.

The terrified beast kicks its hooves, wails, writhes in mortal terror. Over the horrible butcher-shop cacophony, LYSTER looks into the camera and says, "This, Mr. WALLACE, is..."

In one explosive drive, like a thunderbolt from the God of Pigs, LYSTER slams himself into the mat in a sitout position while simultaneously drilling the HOG down from over his head, through his legs, in a piledriver!

The HOG's screams end in a sick squelching crunch. Skull shards, brains, and blood explode like shrapnel from the pressure wave of impact. The dojo looks like a slaughterhouse.

LYSTER sits, covered in gore, contemplating his handiwork. The hog's spine has been driven straight through the jagged plate of bone and meat that used to be a head. Combined with the HOG's corkscrew death erection, Room 101's new centerpiece looks like a pornographic unicorn from a vintage GWAR video.

"...the Compressor," he finishes. "One-hit killshot -- spine torn from its anchoring tendons and driven through the foramen magnum of the occipital bone." He picks up the unhinged lower jaw, a few teeth and tusks sticking in all directions, looks through the hole in its midst, nods in satisfaction. "More merciful than I'd care for, but a man must make allowances for circumstance.

"That'll do for you, I fancy, Mr. WALLACE. Then the Paralyzer to Mr. DEADLY."

(OOC: New secondary finisher: COMPRESSOR: vertical suplex lift-->sitout tombstone piledriver)

LYSTER looks in disgust at the mess.

"GIMP!!!! Lick all this up!" His sweeping gesture encompasses the entire spray of splatter. "Then butcher the carcass. Lean cuts for me, fatty portions for the Rottweilers, offal for that new batch of Croatian orphans down in the lower dungeon. Feed the orphans plenty, though -- they need to be strong for their upcoming... ordeal.

"Speaking of which... mix in an additional dose of aphrodisiac with the Rottweilers' meal, and make sure all the filming equipment is in proper working order."

"This lowly worm is eternally grateful that the Master sees fit to add much-needed protein to his slave's diet." The emaciated GIMP ZERO begins licking the HOG's brains off the mat, pausing to pop in and chew an eyeball. "This lowly worm loves the combination of salty and bitter," the GIMP notes.

Ignoring the GIMP, LYSTER faces the camera, pig brains and blood oozing down his face.

“Going back to your little melodrama, Mr. WALLACE, my instructions to my slave prove a fundamental point:

“You came from your… circumstances. I came from some but not endless means. We both wanted pleasures that the straight and narrow could not give us. So, like many rational economic actors, we ended up involved in crime.

“The difference between you and me is:

“I’m smart enough not to get caught.

“Yet it seems as though getting caught is the leitmotif of your squalid little life.

“In the ring against me, my friend: A propensity for getting caught serves you very… very… poorly.

“Compressor or Paralyzer. Fast or slow. But in the end:

“Snap.

“Pop.

“You’re done.

“You will break…”

LYSTER leaves, headed to the showers.

The SUBMISSIVES enter the camera frame. Over their various fetish/bondage/kink gear and medical braces they wear cut-down, sexed-up Miami Hurricanes jerseys.

They chant as one, a cold hollow monotone:

SUBMISSIVES [all]: “Like all the rest.”

[fade to black]

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