X-treme Wrestling Federation

"I hardly see why I'm required here," Samuel says in the calm, snakelike tone he exhibits only when he knows he's in control. "You can already see what happened."

"You're required here because you know how serious a situation this is."

"Do I now? Is she dead? She doesn't look dead to me."

"She very well could've ended up that way."

"All I hear are possibilities. The could'ves and would'ves. Fact of the matter is that she isn't. She isn't dead. She's alive and well-"

"I hardly call that well," Shadowy Figure Two says, and though I can't see him, I can just tell that he's pointing to my body laying on whatever platform it is holding me up. I pull my good hand up to my raw hamburger patty of a face and feel around. Of course, as it would happen, the first place my flopping hand lazily falls upon my nose. Or, more accurately, what I thought were the battered remains of my nose, lazily hanging around under my epidermis because there wasn't a big enough hole for it to fall out of. In reality, it wasn't. No, it was a wet rag that hung over my nose and cheeks. Its rough texture grates against the skin of my fingertips as I run them over it, until Daniel grabs me by the wrist and places my arm back where it was; where it "belongs".

"That's enough of that," he mutters under his breath. I see the face of Shadowy Figure #2 much more clearly now, fittingly enough right as he turns away from me and walks across the room to where Samuel stands rested against the tile wall. Daniel sighs, grabbing at something below the operating platform/table thing I'm laid on. If I were to guess, given the circumstances; I'd assume it to be a gun he's reaching for.


"I don't like the way you're looking at me, Abraham. I'd suggest you stop--" Samuel starts to say before Shadowy Figure #2/Abraham grabs him by the front of his shirt and pulls him in close. The hand that isn't busy clutching onto him is curled up in a fist. Out the corner of my eye, I see Daniel's arms slowly raise up. Definitely a gun.

"What in the Hell--"

"Get off me, you crazy old bastard!" Samuel almost screams, shoving with all of his might. Abraham's grip doesn't falter in the slightest; in fact, the crumpling of the shirt around where his hand was gripping looked even more prevalent. Was he tightening it?

"That all you got?" Abraham asks, throwing a punch that connects with Samuel's jaw and knocking him down. There, now he's let go.


"Son of a bitch!" I scream against the better judgment of my slightly strained vocal chords. I see smoke float off the end of the barrel of the pistol in Daniel's hands. In front of me, Abraham grabs onto his stomach and collapses to the floor. I can't tell if he's bleeding or not; the red shirt he's wearing is the perfect shade to cause confusion. Samuel's widened eyes and smirk makes me believe that in some way, he's as shocked as I am. My good hand balls up into a fist and turn my body in some foolhardy plot to attack the armed man in the room.

I throw a punch that barely connects with him, and likely feels like little more than a soft tap. He doesn't even react, instead focusing all of his attention to the man bleeding out all over the floor.

"If anyone asks what happened to your face; he did it to you," he says at me, pointing his gun to Abraham.

"Sc-" I start before cutting myself off.



"You... ...fucking... ...psychos..."

"Yeah yeah, shut up and die already. Daniel!"

I close my eyes.

And cover my ears.


"Ah! You fucking idiot! What the fuck?!"

Immediately upon hearing that, I can't help but open my eyes and look over to where Samuel now sat, with a bullet in his stomach.

"Oh shit!"

"Oh shit's right! Ah, god fucking dammit!" Samuel presses both of his arms against the wound, hoping to stop the bleeding with twice the force. His eyes wander over to where I'm currently sitting, in time to see me smile in his direction. He sighs through gritted teeth and diverts his attention from me to glance over to Daniel. Once he gets Daniel's attention, he nods in my direction.

"And don't shoot me this time."

"You motherfu--"


The grip of the pistol smashes hard against my cheek, jerking my head even further to the right and knocking the rag off entirely. It falls to the floor, some of the water coming loose and forming a puddle around its perimeter. I taste copper in my mouth and spit into my hand only to find blood staring back at me.

"Come on Daniel, wipe him off the face of the Earth! Every second he's still breathing is a liability to our plan!"


"You two... aren't... getting--"

"Keep your mouth shut, Abe--"

"No! ...You two won't-- ah~" Abraham grabs at his wound, which has to be pouring blood right about now.


"There we go!"

And just like that; Abraham's dead. He has to be. Two bullets in the head -- one in each eye.

That's when Samuel hops up to his feet. Well, not necessarily "hopping," on account of his own wound. He reaches into a holster attached to his belt and pulls out a gun of his own. With a few careful, precise movements, he slides the gun into Abraham's cold, dead hands.


The tightening of some length of what I presume to be rope around my hands is what ultimately brings me out of my self imposed state of distancing myself from this unfolding situation. Samuel, placing one hand over his bullet wound, lopsidedly pulls open the door and stumbles into the hall.


"Now, what's a pretty little thing like you doing involved in this shit?"

"I'm not involved."

"Oh, right. You just so happened to be kidnapped and then mouth off to Samuel. Yeah no Princess, that bullshit isn't going to fly here."

"Ask Samuel; he'll tell you the same thing. I'm not involved."

I sigh. No use hiding the truth here, when he literally is able to figure this out with one question to his psychopath friend.

"I'm the niece of one David Duke--"

"Rockwell?"

I nod.

Then for the second time in the last few minutes, I get pistol whipped. Only this time, it's the opposite cheek that gets hit.


He points the gun right at my face; somehow it was till smoking. Either that, or the smoke hadn't quite dissipated yet and was still floating freely around the room.


Tied to a chair, staring down the barrel of a possibly still smoking gun was most certainly not the way I expected my last few moments ago.

And yes, while my imminent death was staring right in the eyes; my mind starts to wander to the various ways I expected to die.

Car accident. Staring at the blindingly bright white walls until my heart slowly stops beating and my lungs draw in their last breaths. Having a tube shoved down my throat so I could eat. I wonder what happens when someone with one of those things dies with it jammed halfway into their bodies. Do they just wipe it off and stick it in the next person?

Choking to death on my own vomit after a particularly wild bender. Anything, but what's actually happening.

Daniel grabs me by the back of my head and jams the gun into my mouth. The metal's still warm, and I wonder just how much time has actually passed since the last time he fired that thing. Then, almost like clockwork, my eyes lazily deviate from him and instead look over to Abraham's bloody, now eyeless corpse. The blood still leaks from his eye sockets and dribble down his cheek, past his throat, and down his shirt, while some still collides and blends with the red of his shirt.


"Keep it nice and steady, and we won't do the same to you," says Daniel, as he stands ready to give me a free back alley root canal to match the number he did on my filling. The barrel of the gun presses further against the floor of my mouth, allowing my tongue to flop around atop it. I'm guessing he caught my little fixation with the blood splattered canvas to his murderous magnum opus.

"And I can trust you, because...?" I ask, my already weak voice muffled further by the instrument that'll more than likely be capable for my gruesome demise. Gunpowder (or at least, what I think to be gunpowder) leaks onto the bottom of my mouth, a sharp, metallic taste stains my tastebuds.

"You really wanna play this game?"

I feel as his hand wraps tighter around the grip of the gun, and he pushes slightly further into the bottom of my mouth. Looking down; I see his index finger creep up, away from the pack and closer to the trigger.

"No," I mutter, without any of the nerve I had prior.

"Better. Now, you gonna cooperate?"

I attempt to nod, which probably looks as awkward as it feels as the gun bobs up and down with my head. Slowly, cautiously, he slides the gun out of my mouth, revealing to both of us how much saliva now coated it.

"But, first," I say, weakly.

"What?"

"May I please make a phone call? I swear I won't call my uncle."