In the center of the room sat a large rectangular table. It had a soft, maroon velvet over the top of it, similar to a poker table at a casino or a pool table billiard hall, except a different color. The room was massive, lit by dim torch light which hung on the walls in elegant brass fixtures. There was a cloudy aura to the room, as the reminence of cigar smoke filled the air. The table had several ash trays, all shining glass, of which many were filled nearly to capacity to grey and black ash.

The table was large, but small enough for a collective group of people to sit at and still be able to communicate without shouting, but larger than your average table that would be in a room of this size. There wasn't much else in the room, and there were no windows. All of the chair had the same velvet covering, with brass beads lining the stitching of the chairs to give them an up-scale look. The only other thing in the room was a small bar, with a sign above it that read
"Las palabras de un hombre borracho son los pensamientos de un hombre sobrio".

--“A drunk man’s words are a sober man’s thoughts.”

The floor was a marble base, a shiny and elegant off-white with grey and black swirls, similar to the ash trays. The ceiling was piping, unfinished, as if this room was a basement of some sort that somebody never got around to finishing.

Truth is, it was on the ground level.

There was one door in and one door out. A big, metal door with bolt locks and industrial grade hinges. It squealed opening and shutting, and even the faintest of closing made it echo like a slam around the room.

Many of the men who sat in this room were donned in robes, hoods up, all the same velvet color as the table top. The other men had suits, fancy high priced dress shirts, or vests covering them that costed more than the table itself did. To all of these men, money was a small issue. The least of their worries.

But on nights like this one, money is what would get them killed.

From the outside it looked like a normal house. A front door, a well manicured lawn, a white picket fence surrounding a green and sprouting garden. Ideal. Pristine. Paradise.

A long driveway, well paved which was unusual in this part of the island, led down to a gate at the bottom of the huge yard. The letters etched into the steel between the bars said VIVA DOMINICANO, but did not reveal a name. To the average person, this would look like a politician's house, maybe the president or someone of that stature.

Rolling up the the gated entrance way was a black BMW, full limo tint to hide whoever was inside, with 25 inch custom chrome rims and the BMW logo customized to show the colors of the flag from the country they loved so much.

A small voice box sat where a mailbox would normally be. A beep, some static, and a voice.

"Dí tu nombre" a deep voice said, almost as if it were a robotic recording. The dark window rolled down and a man with a suit and a yellow tie turned his head towards the box. His hair was slicked back, jet black, and there was a scar on his face.

"Dí tu nombre" the voice said again in the same cold tone.

"Fernando" he said.

"¿Tu negocio aquí?" (your business here?)

Fernando sat still for a moment, his eyes colder than the arctic. A hand came up, resting on the panel where the window would normally be. A gold shiny watch with diamonds around the circular plate glowed in the sunshine.

After what felt like an eternity--in reality it was only about a minute and a half--he spoke.

"El juego" (the game).

Sitting at a standoff with the voice in the box for another agonizing minute that felt like a week, the gate began to creak open. The BMW revved the engine and the car lurched forward.

At the top of the driveway, the car rolled to a stop. A man exited out of a side door, wearing a vest and cheap looking pants. His shoes were scuffed. On his name plate, which also read "Juan", it said "Ayudante". He was the valet.

"Llevaremos su automóvil a un lote seguro, señor, y le daremos un número. Cuando salgas, dame el número y lo recuperaré". (We will take your car to a secure lot, sir, and give you a number. When, if, you come out, give me the number and I will go retrieve it )

Fernando stepped out of the car, fixing his tie and his cuff links. The back doors opened, and two other men got out, dressed equally as nice. The two men were Tomás and Hanari.

They also fixed their ties and cuff-links. Hanari adjusted his belt, and for a brief second there was a flash of silver from the gun in his waistband. Juan didn't seem to notice.

When the three men walked up to the door, Juan jumped into the nicest car he had ever been in, and admired it for a few moments. He ran his hands across the wheel with a wide eyed gaze, before making eye contact with the cold eyes of Fernando and putting the car into reverse. The men continued to the door, as the car rolled off around the house and to somewhere unknown.

"IF you come out" Fernando thought to himself. That was the risk you ran when you played the game.

He knocked on the door, his two associates behind him. After another long wait, the door opened, but whoever was inside must have stood behind it because there was nobody at the door--just a long dark hallway that led to another door. This door had a red-x on it. It seemed almost as if it were put there with blood.

Fernando looked back at his men, they all nodded to each other and entered the corridor. The door shut behind them, but they didn't hear footsteps. There was nobody behind them.

Who opened the door?

When they got to a large metal door at the end of the hall, he knocked again with the same pattern he used on the front door. This one opened much quicker. When this door squealed open, they stood in awe of the massive room in front of them and the giant table covered in velvet that would spell their fate.

Trying not to show any sign of emotion, they entered the room.

Tomás and Hanari went straight to the bar, and Fernando made a bee-line for the table. A hooded man in one of those cloaks stood up, and the two shook hands.

"¿Confío en que estás aquí con las mejores intenciones?" (I trust you are here with the best intentions?) The hooded man asked. Fernando looked over the mans shoulder at the picture on the wall. It was a portrait of Centurion, the Roman officer (whose real name was Quintus Dias), that had led his men to slaughter.

"Confío en ti con lo mismo" (I trust you with the same).

The two men broke off their hand shake and Fernando pulled out a chair, sitting down. Hanari and Tomás made their way back over, and found available chairs in which to sit--not near each other like they had planned.

The men conversed with the others who were there, mostly making small talk, drinking and smoking cigars. On the table sat a gun, but nobody seemed to mention it.

Hanari overheard Fernando telling one of the men that his car had been imported to the island from his contact overseas. It had some from a place called Budde Automobile, in Warstein, Germany.

"Es un pedazo de mierda, sinceramente. Se ve brillante y nuevo desde el exterior, pero nunca funciona de la manera deseada. La misma mierda de siempre con un abrigo exterior brillante." (It is a piece of shit, honestly. Looks shiny and new from the outside but never works the way you want it to. Just the same old bullshit with a shiny exterior coat.)

The man he was speaking to nodded, and replied that he had heard of the cars that came from this town in Germany and that they were always in the shop but never seemed to be truly fixed.

"Voy a reemplazarlo pronto" (I am going to replace it soon.)

Hanari and his childhood friend began to wonder after some time what this game was. It appeared to them that this was nothing more than an ultra-exclusive country club filled with the rich business men and mafia members of the island and used to blow off a little steam. What the hell was the game here? Surely there had to be a catch.

Just when they began to get a little on the tipsy side after more trips to the bar than they could count on their appendages, the big metal door opened once more. Everyone's head turned towards the Main entryway........

One way in, one way out, and they would have to get through this main door to escape. It was the only thing keeping them in, and they knew, at some point or another, they would have to get through it.

The person standing in the door way was one of those hooded figures, only his was black in color. Had it not been for the torch light directly above him, he may have blended in with the surroundings and become invisible.

The man (at least, they assumed it was a man) signaled to someone, or something, behind him. After a few moments of suspense he stepped to the side and more people, dressed just like him, entered the room. Collectively they carried a large board, a giant wooden slab, which took four or five of them to carry. On top of it was a pig, a lamb, several rabbits, one or two birds, and an array of fruit.

The men set the large board down on the table, and other hooded figured, who seemed to just appear out of nowhere, set down plates and silverware next to each of the people at the table.

Next to the pig on the table was a giant . Surely this was going to be interesting. One small for all of those animals....one blade having to pierce all that flesh. Hanari's eyes shot to the gun, still on the table. Compared to a gun, a didn't look so bad.

The hooded minions began to slice and cut, putting a piece of meat on everyone's plate. Each person was given something to drink as well. However, this time, the drinks didn't come from the bar. Hanari and Tomás had poured their own drinks from the small bar in the corner, watching as the liquid slid out of the bottle. These drinks, they weren't sure where they came from. They made eye contact and nodded at each other.

They weren't going to drink.

Many of the men in the room laughed and cheered, toasted to each other. Hanari and Tomás held their glasses up, but they did not share in ingesting the unknown beverage.

Almost immediately, the men who did drink began to fall. Many fell forward, their faces planting hard into the food filled plates, splashing sauce and bits blood from the meat in each direction. Some men fell sideways and out of their chairs. Others were much slower, their eyes going wide as they grabbed at their throats, gurgling and convulsing until they too joined their heads on their plates.

When the commotion died down, there was only a handful of men left. Fernando, much to Hanari's relief, was one of them.

The same druid looking figures who brought in the food and drink came back into the room. Through the door with the red x on it. Everyone seemed to get through that door rather easily, despite the thick locks and bolts.

They began to drag the dead men out, many of them leaving a snail trail of food, drink, urine and vomit behind them. The marble floor was stained with the remainder of what had just taken place.

After the figures had gotten the other men out of the room, another group came in and cleaned up the plates, taking many of them away with food still on them.

The man that Fernando had spoken with earlier stood up, his arms extended.

"Ahora que hemos reducido nuestros números, comenzaremos el juego." (Now that we have narrowed down our numbers, we shall begin the game.)

Hanari stared in disbelief. That wasn't part of the game? This man, whoever he was, had poisoned over three quarters of the room's occupants just so that he could have better numbers for this game? Why invite them at all? Why not just have a select number, and let them play. Why did these other lambs have to be lead to slaughter, with no chance to survive simply because they trusted someone else to be there for them.

It didn't make any sense.

After the large slab and all of the plates were cleaned off, the man sat back down. The gun on the table pointed at Hanari. He knew it couldn't fire without the trigger being pulled but it still made him anxious. He felt his hand reaching down, holding onto his within the confines of his waistband.

And if this place was so concerned with security and being secretive, why wasn't he patted down and his weapon confiscated at the front door?

Much of this wasn't adding up.

Fernando lit a cigar, his fourth since they had been there, and the hooded figure dealt out cards, face down. He instructed the group to look at their cards, and when he gave the signal, to drop them face up in front of them on the soft velvet table.

Hanari looked at his card. His hand was shaking a bit. What was the purpose of this?

Each of the men looked at their cards, some of them groaned a bit under their breath, others gasped excitedly. Apparently, many of them had the same idea as to what their card meant.

After a few moments of bliss, anxiety, and in some cases sheer terror, the hooded figure flipped over his outstretched hand, signaling for the men in the room to drop their cards and reveal their fate.

They all did, despite what they said.

Hanari exhaled, relieved. His card wasn't the highest, but it wasn't the lowest. 8 of Hearts. Some men got 2, 5, 7. Some got 10's, one Jack, one King.

Fernando got the Ace.

The hooded figure looked at the man with the lowest card, and he didn't need to speak. The man knew what it meant, and he reached out and grabbed the gun that sat on the table. A beat of sweat ran down Hanari's brow......he sighed in relief, mostly because the weapon was no longer pointing at him.

The man inhaled heavily, and grabbed the gun. The air was tense, almost as if it had gotten thicker in the moment. The strong smoke smell from Fernando's burning cigar was almost too much....as it mixed with the other thick smoke smells. There was no ventilation in the room, and there was enough left over smoke to set off a fire alarm, that is of course, if there was one.

There wasn't.

Everyone in the room stared at the man as he stared at the gun in his palm. His hands shook ever so slightly. The man in the hood was staring the most intensely, almost staring through the man, and it was clear he was growing impatient.

The man put the shaky, pistol-bearing arm to his head. The barrel touched his temple, the cold steel mixing with the hot body temperature. He flinched a bit.

Everyone sat still. Nobody wanted to move. Some of them thought for sure they were about to see another man die. Many of them also knew that if he did not, then they very well might.

In this Game of War, everyone gets a turn.

The man put his finger on the trigger.

What is going through your mind at that moment? When you know that there is a chance that this room, this place you have only been for such a small amount of time with people you barely even know, could be the last place you ever see.

It could all fade to black. You could become just a memory.

You're nobody, really, until somebody kills you. Or you kill yourself. You aren't remembered until you're gone.

The man was clearly struggling with his decision. Hanari knew that this man did not anticipate this being the game. Some people just don't have the heart to risk it all.

Hanari saw pain in the mans eyes. He saw a family, kids, a wife, a house on the coast, pets relied on him, and a job that would collapse if he didn't go to it. A family would starve.

Could he risk it?

Hanari had nothing to lose. Always an outcast, always looking out for himself above all else. Survival had always been his mantra, but in that survival came a risk. All of the times he did a job for Fernando, he was risking it all. Death, mostly. If he wasn't a step ahead of everyone else around him, he wouldn't have survived many of the jobs.

What is life without a risk, however?

The hooded figure's stone cold voice cut through the silence like a dagger shoved through cartiledge, ripping and tearing at tissue.

"Hazlo. Hazlo ahora o vete a la mierda." (Do it. Do it now, or get the fuck out.)

The man, shaking harder now, inahled deeply. His finger began to press down, almost as if in slow motion.

"Lo haré, dámelo" (I'll do it, give it to me).

After another eternity of silence, the man gasped out loud and threw the gun down on the table.

He was breathing heavy.

"Juego terminado. Usted puede irse ahora. Vamos. Vete a la mierda." (Game over. You may leave now. Go. Get the fuck out.)

The man exploded out of his chair and raced towards the big door. It opened, and he spilled out into the hall way.

The door shut hard behind him.

"No hay lugar para el fracaso aquí. La siguiente carta más baja, por favor recoja el arma. Sigamos." (There is no room for failure here. Next lowest card, please pick the gun back up. Let us continue.)

However, before the hooded man could continue to speak, there was a gun shot from the hall way. Muffled from behind the door, it was still as clear as day. Everyone in the room flinched, some of them winced. They all knew what happened.

While everyone's attention was on the door, Hanari had popped the chamber of the revolver. His eyes narrowed to slits. Before anyone turned their head back, he closed the barrell.

Hanari had a full hold on the gun now, and everyone looked at him. He didn't have the next lowest card.

Hanari put the gun to his head anyway. The hooded man smiled. He didn't truly care about the rules of the game, he just wanted to see if someone was willing to actually pull the trigger.

Just as Hanari's index finger was about to press the trigger all the way down, he stood up with lightening quickness. He pointed the gun and fired.

It hit the hooded man square in the chest, knocking him off the chair. Everyone in the room gasped, and many of them got up to check on him. Fernando, however, smiled.

"Falta una bala. El arma estaba cargada." (A bullet is missing. The gun was loaded.)

He popped the chamber again. One bullet was gone. They were playing Russian Roulette with a fully loaded pistol. The object, of course, was to take out everyone in the room in this twisted game of "chance". Who was going to get lucky.

The answer was nobody.

Hanari whired around and shot the poster of Centurion, putting a bullet square through the the head of the former Roman leader.

"Corremos este juego ahora. Cualquiera que quiera unirse, de nada. Cualquiera que no lo haga, vete ahora." (We run this game now. Anyone who wants to join, you are welcome. Anyone who doesn't, leave now.)

Fernando smiled again. Hanari had become the leader he was grooming him to be. All of the men in the room, though there wasn't many, stood and looked at him. They were now his and ready to follow his leadership.

"¿Cómo salimos de aquí?" (how do we get out of here), one man asked. "Detrás de esa puerta hay un pasillo lleno de matones. Viste lo que le pasó a ese otro hombre." (Behind that door is a hallway full of goons. You saw what happened to that other man.)

Hanari looked at the man with a snarl on his face.

"Es simple, salimos disparados". ("It's simple, we shoot our way out.")

He tossed the gun to the man, pulling out his own from his waistband. Tomás and Fernando both had theirs brandished.

"Primero, Tomás, revisa sus bolsillos." (First, Tomás, check his pockets.)

His friend ran over to the down man and began to frisk him. Hanari cocked his pistol.

Fernando grinned again. Hanari had played the game of chance, and had won. He had done what he needed to do in this game of war to come out ahead. Now, it was up to him to survive the next stage. His team behind him as their new leader, Fernando was confident that Hanari could do just that.

He had played game the of life, of risk.

What's life without a risk.

He knew what it was.

Life's a gamble.


"This is the day of reckoning, the moment we have been waiting for. Well, at least I have. An event like War Games, so important to the landscape of XWF, and I have the luxury of being a captain and picking my squad. I know that I am going up against some of the best in this business, and some of the worst. That is the gamble you play when you choose this game. I know their motives, I know what they are thinking.

Red-X, he wanted to be a captain so he had a scapegoat. He wanted to be a captain so that when he failed, he had someone else to point the finger at. When he didn't get it done, it wouldn't be all on him. The team behind him dropped the ball, and he would come out of the shit smelling like roses. Well, I hate to be the one to break it to you hombre, but you are going to smell like shit regardless.

You knew that IF you got picked at all, you'd be picked last like the fat kid in dodgeball. Now you've guranteed yourself a spot with a little insurance policy behind it. Hermano, you are going to have a lot of people mad at you when your team is the the first one's elminated. You don't have what it takes to be a leader, and your motives are off base. You should have just stayed home in that cardboard box you wither away in, and left the leadership to the adults.

Speaking of losers. Shane . Sure, you used to run this joint. Some would argue it was the best era XWF ever had when you took the reigns. You are a hell of a businessman, I'll give you that, but in the ring you're about as useful as Stevie Wonder's sunglasses. You beat Centurion, though, so I guess that's a plus. All the shit jokes you can make won't help you when you step in that ring. Your entire team is gonna be your Hired Guns and some washed up burn outs who used to make your company look good. Key word, used to. This is a new era, and you're stuck in the past. So bring these hired guns, bring your sex puns and poop jokes, and be prepared to be eliminated....just like the fading memory of the company you used to call yours.

Now onto the real "competition". Shawn Warstein, I knew we would meet again. After you snaked your way out of Savage with your title after I had it all but won, I knew I'd get a chance to beat your ass again. I already know you're gonna pick that waste of a pair of tits in Atara first, because you're thinking with the wrong head. I may just pick her with the first pick, just to fuck you up. Put a little pressure on you. You see, my team is gonna win this little shindig regardless, so maybe by having your personal blow up doll on my team you will actually have to EARN this YOURSELF. Think about it. All of the top competition are captains, who else do you trust besides her? Shawn, you're a fraud, and I've been saying it since the moment you stole that title. You and I are far from through, and War Games is just another chapter in the storybook. When my team wins, you will have no choice but to give me the one on one title match I deserve. Though, you'll probably find a way to snake out of that one, too.

Centurion, I'll be honest, I don't know much about you. All I know is what Chris Chaos pointed out...you've lost against good competition and beaten a whole bunch of nobodies. Now, I know what you'll say....that you just beat Chaos and Mastermind to retain your belt, but wouldn't that contridict your own argument since you called them both trash to begin with? I think you've coasted so far for so long, you don't even know what good competition is anymore. Robert Main and Shane are both in this match.....try not to let your PTSD affect you too much. You are about to find out who Hanari Carnes is, and at the end of War Games, you are going to have no choice but to respect me.

Robert Main. You know, I've heard so much about you. I've taken a few pot shots here and there, but it just seemed like the trendy thing to do. I already know that if you get the first pick you're gonna choose your buddy Page, and that is fine. The buddy system is always encouraged. Unless you're Shawn Warstein, fuck that guy. Anyway. Chris Chaos and I have a match on Savage, and when we win, best believe we are coming for those tag straps. You may not know too much about me now, and we have only been in the ring together a couple times in matches that don't matter, but when the chips are down and War Games comes to a close, you will know exactly who the man coming for your belts is.

I may not have the glitz and glamour as some of the men in this match. I may not have the accolades, but I sure as shit have the heart. You are all scrambling to have the first pick so you can fulfill your little agenda's and add your sandbags to the forts you've all been hiding in, but lets talk truth here.........

Don't hunt what you can't kill.

For years now Robert you've been the face of this place. You've been the one everyone has buzzed about. For better or for worse, you've been the name that has drawn the most ire when mentioned. Many people have tried, and many have have failed, when they have gotten into the ring with you. You're damn good, I'll give you that.........

But you aren't the best.

On Warfare, sure it would be nice to pick first, but at the end of the day, at the end of War Games, it will be MY fiesta that you'll be attending........

And you don't strike me as much of a party person.

To be the best, you have to beat the best. All I can say is good luck.

Viva la Republic!
Viva la Dominicano!
Viva la Hanari Carnes!

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