XWF FanBase: The IWC (gets varying reactions in the arenas, but will be worshiped like a god and defended until the end by internet fans; literally has thousands of online dorks logging on to complain anytime they lose a match or don't get pushed right)
If it bleeds, we can kill it. A saying from Predator. How true it usually it is. While it seemed like Cain had perished, he still came back. Emerick's life had been claimed. Shade's life and servitude claimed. However, something made it apparent...
The scythe can be too long for some areas.
So, with little training, the mastering of the Kama had begun. It was time to find a place that would allow me to be in closer quarters than normal. However, he needed a place to test them out. The handles specifically made so that there is a hollow inside for both, with one holding four inch hook, and the other having an opening wide enough for the hook. So if he needed something to kill more than one person, one swing could cut and tear out the throats of several, and make sure the follow through tore more chunks of flesh out.
The one place he could think of, is one of the swanky privileged apartments of the college youths that had the money of their moms and dads watching over them. The ones that could do no wrong, and if they did any, their parent's lawyers would call libel, slander, defamation of character, and get cases ended before they even began. The kind of privilege that Tank had met in that bar.
His leg had healed, he had lost the Anarchy championship belt, but honestly didn't care. He was on one mission, to take the X-Treme championship belt from Unknown Soldier. He would have it.
He stood before the opened doorway of the apartment. He didn't wear his half-skull mask, but he had in his sclera contacts. Hidden tucked under the waist of his black pants, were the Kamas, and he looked to the door, closing it after him, locking it. He make sure to jam the locks, to keep everyone within. He moved quickly through the part of nearly a hundred people, varying from ages eighteen to thirty. The older ones were just there to pretend they were younger so that they could say they bagged an eighteen year old college girl. Some were simply there to drink.
This was a party for the true money and fame hungry. Those only seeking to make their lives stay ahead of the 'poor' people.
Once a child like them, but once he chose the life of being on the road, of never touching a single penny, even when he had the money to make his life on the road much sweeter, he saw how those without much money to their name lived. Most of them lived better lives than he, than his wife, than those he met and wrestled on his long way to XWF. These people, however, they'd never subject themselves to being poor, even if it meant more money the next day. He hated this kind of people. He had the money to go to many charities, the money to spread over the global if need be, but there were those stubborn folk who would not take hand outs. His home is full of these people, even though he could let go of half the staff in his home, and it'd still be the same look, he'd rather make sure their families were taken care of, that they were kept off the streets and with food in their bellies.
These people would never choose to help their fellow man.
That is why their families, themselves, needed to be taught one specific and harsh lesson about life:
Death cares not for how much rich in wallet or life, you are.
He brought a hand to his waist, lifting the shirt and pulling it while the other grabbed the kamas and took his mask next to them. He slid it on and walked through the apartment, going for the closest near windows, and he started first with two, a man and his boyfriend. He brought the left kama to the right's throat, the right kama to the left's, then brought them across, cutting them from throat to throat, tearing a huge chunk out. College linebackers heard the screams around the corner of the room, saw Ghost Tank standing there over the two bloodied corpses, with the crimson lifesource spilling out onto the floor. They charged but Tank would leap over one, bringing himself down to the ground, with knees spread apart and his upper body nearly touching the ground as one flew over his head. Both men slammed into a wall, Two more charged, but Tank popped from the splayed kneed position onto his feet and hooked the kamas together and hopped while spinning around slamming one end into the back of one's spine, the other end slamming point first through the top of the skull.
The three hundred plus football players were dead, with the hooks digging into their bodies. He unhooked the kamas, and with a growl he spun around, and flung the two across the room, causing one to crash into the other two men, the other flying into a solid marble kitchen island. More screams sounded out, but Ghost Tank began to rush through the crowd, slashing two people at a time. At one point, he'd seemlessly transition the singular kamas into one, and spun about slashing chunks out of bodies. Gore covered his body, chunks of skin, fat, muscle and blood, littered him from head to toe. Even the black of his clothes seemed to get stained crimson. His mask and mouth splattered with blood.
Hel would be proud of all the souls being sent to her realm. Fenrir would be envy of the blood flow. Hades would be disgusted by the armade being sent to live in the Underworld. Ares would revel in the carnage by this warrior spirit. Ra would mourn the dead as a Pharoah sent mortals to their death.
Every life claimed, it made him grin wider and wider. WIth some of the men, he'd pin them to a wall by his foot, slam the points of his kamas into their chest, breaking through the chest plate, then ripping their chests apart. Some he'd simply slam them into their guts and rip open the flesh, disemboweling them. With the women, he'd end more quickly, usually. The ones that attempted to fight back against his massive frame would be forced to endure torture, as he surgically cut them, took parts of their body parts. Some would be left to bleed to death without an eye, several fingers, one less or no breasts at all. The ones that cowered, would be given quick deaths, with points to the brain.
Some of them would leap to their deaths, some would find knives in the kitchen and end themselves.
It took Ghost Tank an hour and thirty-seven minutes to end most of the lives that had been at the party, leaving only five.
"Out of every single one of these people, you few were the ones that had decent hearts. Still spoiled little brats, but at least you helped those less fortunate while getting what you want. Death shall leave you alive this night. However, I will come back for you.
Death comes for us all."
With that pulled his mask off his face, and put the kamas underneath and tucked into his waistline once more. He kicked the door down and left the apartment without much incident. The music still blaring like the obnoxious little entitled shits liked to do.
The sounds of that which was being drowned out, being the cell phones of the deceased, with family and friends calling to see where they were at, and if they were having a good time...
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