"They Say Evil Prevails When Good Men Fail to Act. What They Ought to Say is.....Evil Prevails"

Hospital, Havanna Cuba
Directly after the Dillinger Match

The smoke was thick, nauseating. It was mixed in with dust and grime, as well as paint and wood chippings. Chris Chaos woke up and could barely breath, as he inhaled this concoction and didn't have a clue where he was. His head was bleeding, but he didn't feel it. He felt the blood on his face, but not the pain of the cut itself.

Through the misty soot he saw a black shadowy figure coming towards him, and he clenched a fist, ready--like a trapped animal--to attack if necessary.

It was Bruce, who reached down to check on his fallen client.

"Bruce" he coughed "where's my belt! Give me my belt and lets get the fuck out of here"....cough

Bruce shook his head, helping a wobbly Chris to his feet.

"There is no belt, Chris. You lost....."

"Bullshit. Give me my belt you old bastard!"

Bruce shook his head. "Let's go, you've got a plane to catch".

His entire body ached. These were the type of matches that alter careers, as he himself pointed out. It takes years off of careers. There is only so much punishment that the human ananity can take. His body screamed at him. Every step was agonizing. His lungs burned like lava. His head was spinning like funnel. He felt as though his skin was falling off. Chris hadn't felt this way in a long, long time. But as much as every step was wince inducing, something, somehwere deep down in the buried occult of his soul-----he liked it. He needed it. He desired it. This was the type of chaotic match that made his career. A win would have been nice, but the fact he pushed Dillinger to the limit, that brought a grin to his bloodied lip.


"Señor, señor, usted necesita permanecer aquí! Se lastima , se han destruido nuestro hospital ! No se puede dejar !"

It was a woman in a suit. She was barking in Spanish. Chris had no fucking clue what she was saying. He didn't care. He just wanted to get the fuck out of Cuba, and now.

"¡Señor! No debe ir. No puedo dejar ! La policía está en camino!"

"Shut up with that filthy pig latin!" Chris shot out. "I don't wanna hear it---where is the fucking exit!"

"¡Señor! Te lo advierto, no salir a la calle !"

He spun around and grabbed the woman by the shirt, ripping her blouse and lifting her up aainst the wall.

"Translator!" he yelled, "give me a translator!"

A man walked over, claiming to be one.

"Tell this bitch this......."

He looked her dead in her dark eyes......he saw fear in them.

"I am not the man to challenge. I am not a good person. I thrive off chaos, destruction and carnage. I enjoy hurting people. I enjoy destroying others for my own benefit and advancement......"

The man was speaking all of this in Spanish to the terrified woman, his voice a little shaky as well.

"I am walking out that door and I am leaving this flea bitten shithole of a country. If you want to try to stop me, by all means go ahead. If you want to call the police, by all means go ahead. Just know this.....if you get involved with me leaving this hospital you will experience more pain than you have ever experienced in your miserable life. Worse than a bone break, worse than childbirth, worse than motherfucking cancer. So, I will set you down and spare you now, but the choice of getting involved is now up to you."

He set her down, and she slumped against the wall, crying. Chris turned, walked towards the door and kicked it open. The air outside was nice, there was a cool breeze but it was humid. It reminded him of home.

Chris took a few steps and his vision began to spin. His legs felt like jellow.......

"Bruce" he said shakily...."where is my belt! I am the Intercontinental Champion, where is my belt!"

Bruce turned to look at Chris, "there is no be---"

His sentence was cut off by Chris who collapsed down onto the pavement in the hospital parking lot.

"Fuck, HELP! EMS! Someone!"

The world was going dark. Was he dying? Part of him hoped he was.......

The words were going in slow motion....."hhheeeeeelllllppppp......sooooommmmmeeeeeeonnnneeeee". It sounded like the devil talking....like a record being slowed down and played in reverse. The last thing he heard before it all went black was an EMS officer, in broken English, ask if he was okay. Chris flipped him off before his lights went off.


=_==_==_==_==_==_

Sunday, September 1st, 2016
Tampa International Airport, Tampa, FL.
1:09 PM

Chris limped off out of the terminal and into the airport. He was finally home. His dark shades covering his bruised face, and his hair tied back in a ponytail. Bruce followed quickly behind him, keeping up with him for once due to Chris's limited stride.

He was home. All he could think about on the short flight home was the Dillinger match, or what he could remember of it. A lot of it was a blur. Even now, as he gimped to baggage claim, he was trying to remember. His arm was taped, his wrist broken or close to it.

*Dillinger then slams Chris back into a wall and laughs as he picks up the pipe that was previously dropped. He limps over to where Chaos is standing, and hammer fists Chris in the eye with the pipe in hand. Chris throws his hand up to his eye, and Dillinger pulls the hand back with his free hand. He looks at for a second, and then throws it free, limp. Without pausing, he presses the pipe into his hand, and pushes them both against the wall. Holding it in place with his knee, he grabs it with his hands, and bends it to the right until the wrist breaks. Chris looks down at the limp piece of meat hanging from his arm with his good eye, the other one swollen shut. Dillinger drops his knee, and picks up the pipe. He smashes it directly into Chaos's skull again, and then repeats this. Both men are pouring blood, and still battling. Dillinger raises his pipe once more, but Chris uses all of his massive frame to shove himself free.*

Chris winced as he tried to pull his cell phone from his pocket with his injured arm. "Goddamnit" he said to himself.

*Dillinger turns around to meet his opponent, this time Chris has the advantage as he presses his splinted hand against Dilly's gut, a shoot pain soaring through the Psycho's body. He looks down to see blood flowing. Chris slams Dillinger's head into the cabinet and then steps back. The knife that Dilly first drew still resting inside of his abdomen. Chris laughs and turns to walk out of the room. Dillinger stands there in shock as he pulls the blade out of his stomach, and begins to wrap it up.*

He remembered that. Damn that Dillinger was tough. That would have killed most men.

Chris's brain hurt to think this much, his concussion taking its tole. But he needed to. It would both him if he didn't.

*Dilly starts to get to his feet, but Chaos stabs him in the leg with the knife. No reaction from Dillinger as Chris picks up a broken piece of table, and begins to slam it onto Dillinger's leg. Over and over. He then pulls the knife out, and throws it on the bed. Dillinger starts to stand up as Chris backs off. Only to get smashed in the head by the hunk of wood, and collapse on the ground again. Chris starts to stomp on Dilly's chest, and laugh. Dillinger laughs too, but not for the reasons that Chris is expecting. He prepares another stomp, but Dillinger stops it with another blade going into Chris' heel. Chris backs up and holds grabs his foot, the blade still stuck in it. Dillinger seizes the moment to stand up and look directly into Chris Chaos' eyes.*

Quote:"Remember this moment. The moment your career changes, Christine."

Those words sliced through him worse than any knife ever could. He grabbed him bag with his good arm and limped through the power doors, where Bruce was waiting with his pickup truck.

Getting into the truck, Chris looked at Bruce. "Let's go."

They drove about 15 minutes, just getting over the Courtney Campbell Bridge that separates Tampa from Clearwater.

"You know, Bruce, I think what happened in that shitty hospital was good for me. I think it helped me. I think I was better off to lose."

"Good to lose? That concussion must be fucking with you bad. I have NEVER heard y0u say that."

"Bruce, it is what Dillinger said to me in that room. It was his words. 'Remember this moment. The moment your career changes, Christine.' He was right. This match will define my career, and I think it has. I didn't just learn that Dillinger is a crazy son of a bitch, but I learned what I need to change about myself. I learned my flaws. I learned that maybe I tend to over look opponents. I have always prided myself on being the smartest motherfucker in that ring......not just the toughest. He outsmarted me Bruce. That wheel chair trick was something you could normally expect out of me. But he did it. I learned what my career is, was and will be. Dillinger, weirdly enough, has helped me."

Bruce shook his head, but smiled at the same time.

"Should I take you to BayView Urgent Care? You can't be feeling right."

"No...I'm fine. But I'll take a Jamba Juice".

=_=_=_=_=_=_=_=

The hotel in Vegas was nice, but then again, it is Vegas. Everything is nice in Vegas---or at least that is the general consensus. But Chris didn't want to see the "nice parts". He wasn't in a nice mood. He wanted to see the not so nice North Vegas. He wanted to walk throuh the hood. He came from a hood, why not go back to one? If he truly was going to pick up the pieces, he needed to start fresh.

This week he would be facing Legend Killer 2.0. Who? Some Duck Dynasty looking juice head who barely speaks English and seems to think he is some demonic reaper of souls. Oh was he in for a surprise. This big bastard has never run into someone like Chris Chaos before, especially a pissed off version.

The cab let him off infront of a dingy looking 711. He could see the lights from the famous Vegas Strip in the distance. He was in a whole different atmosphere now. He was in the cut, so to speak. He threw a wad of cash at the driver, much more than the fare was, and shut the door. He was going to stir up some shit tonight.

He was a wounded animal, and any ghetto hood rat could see that. His wrist was heavily bandaged and he had a gauze patch on his head. He began to walk towards one of the lower income parts of town. There was no Bruce, no help at all. He was on his own. He needed this.

It didn't take him long to get confronted by bums looking for money. He grinned and kept walking. Bums weren't worth exuding energy, thats what Saturday night was for.

After about 30 minutes of limping around the slums, he was confronted by a rough looking man wearing dark clothes. "Whachu doin here holmes?" the man said, broken English. "Chu not in a good part of town".

"I think I am just in a fine part of town. I don't much care for the stuffy strip, too many tourists. Maybe I will spend my money here....is there a good pool hall around here?"

The man looked at Chris with a deviant look. "Chea man, I think I can show ya one."

Without hesitation Chris followed the man around a dark corner. He didn't seem nervous at all.

Why would he be?

He had A LOT of reasons to be.

But like a star QB under pressure, he was calm cool an collected. He was a veteran ass kicker, bum wrist or not. Concussion or not.

He followed the man through a door and down stairs into a grimey looking makeshift pool hall. There were what looked like bikers, gangsters and overall scumbags in there. The entire placed smelled like smoke and the floors were sticky.

The pool tables had stains on them. This was certainly not the strip. Chris ordered a drink. 3 muttled lemons, muttled, with water and absolute citron. It was $7. Definently not the strip.

"Rack 'em up" Chris said, grabbing a pool stick. The men all stared at him, and he knew something was coming. "Come on."

A sketchy looking biker guy racked the balls. Chris made sure nobody stood behind him. He hit dead center, sinking two solids in corner pockets. Now for the shit talk. "Gonna be a long night, gentleman".

3 games and 3 Chaos wins later, the men were grumbling.

That is when what he wanted to happen happened.

A man charged Chris from behind, prompting Chris to spin and break a pool stick over his head. The others jumped in. Chris took one man and threw him across the pool table, as another went after the injured hand, hitting it with a pool ball. Chris grabbed it, wincing but still managed to boot the man in the face. Another man grabbed Chris around the neck from behind, and Chris flipped him onto the pool table--hearing and audible crack noise. He wondered for a split second if that was the old table or the mans back. He didn't have much time to think as he had a pint glass smashed over his head.

Chris wobbled, and put a hand down on the creaky table.

The man charged again, this time with a full beer bottle. Chris grabbed it, twisted it from him and hit him with it.

Being shoved from behind he fell forward into the bar. It took two men to flip Chris over the bar. Landing with a crash on his sore back he popped up surprisingly quick. The bartender approched him and Chris tossed him back over the other side.

He looked at the bar and said to himself, under his breath, "pick up the pieces." He grabbed a few bottles and proceeded to hit every attacker over the head with a full bottle. There was glass everywhere, and his hands were bloody by the end. "Pick up the pieces....." he huffed. The men were all passed out, except the bartender. Chris walked over and told the man he would take care of it. It took him a while but he picked up every piece of glass. Every.Single.One. At the end he grabbed the bartenders hand to shake it but much to the surprise of the man he lofted him up.....and hit an Equalizer on top of the bar. He then dumped all the pieces of glass on top of the man.

"THATS WHAT THE FUCK I DO!" Chris yelled. "I PICK UP THE PIECES THEN I TEAR IT THE FUCK DOWN!"

Huffing and panting he left the bar and wandered out into the night.....a limo was waiting for him. He was headed back to the part of town he deserved.

=+=+=++==+==
"You know, it felt good to bleed this week. It felt good to get my ass taken to hell. I needed it. I was too cocky, too arrogant. I hadn't earned what I was given. Now I know what I have to do. Now I get to face you, and I feel like I'm being punished. You look imposing, but your skill set is disasterous. You are a joke in every sense of the word. But I won't overlook you, I learned my lesson. I learned. So what am I going to do? I am going to systematically tear you apart. It should be ME walking to the ring with that belt, but I got outsmarted. Now I am going to take my frustration out on you. I am going to dismember and disembowl you. I am going to torture you. I am going to make you suffer. I am going to rip every one of your joints out of alignment and slit every muscle in your body down the middle. I am going to make you scream and beg me to stop as I feed you your own intestines. I will be a regular old Vegas show. I will string you up like Jesus on the cross and display your broken body to the world. I will cut off your beard and wipe your tears with it. THAT is the kind of mood I am in. That belt is MINE. Legend Killer? Pssssht, I AM A LEGEND MAKER. In fact I will make you a legend. People remember losers more than winners sometimes. They will remember this epic disaster on your end. They will remember how badly you were pillaged and plundered just like the English did to your people, you Irish prick. It is not even worth it to continue this discussion......I am going to kill you, literally."

Quote:"I was watching some tape of your previous promos in this company. It was a solid bit of entertainment, for real. "HAHAHA i killed them, i burned the house down and took away the evil people, the evil people but that is nothing compared to what i will do to the people who have or will enter my domain, i will make them all pay, i will come when you all least expect and take all that is important to you, fear me for i am coming."

Really? Is that the best you can come up with? I have been more afraid of 3rd graders at a Halloween dance. You are a clown, a joke, a jobber. I am going to punish you and love every minute of it......and maybe, just maybe.....like me, you will learn a little something and love it too.

Tomorrow night, in Vegas, you blood will be on my hands, and I couldn't be happier. Prepare to be equalized."