Quote:Blizzard kicks out and Cain roars in anger before ripping him from the canvas! Blizzard is able to shove him back and Cain gets tangled in the ropes while Blizzard argues with Luna but Luna slaps him! Blizzard gets grabbed and spun around by Cain who has gotten free from the ropes! Rage is pouring from the demonic beast's eyes as he hits Blizzard with multiple Rib Breakers! From there, Cain pulls Blizzard up and tosses him towards the ropes. Blizzard bounces back after meeting them and flies right into Das Boot! Blizzard crashes to the canvas and Cain finishes things up with The Devastation of Man! 

Devastation. One. Two. Three. In a moment, your career can turn around. Don't it feel right like this? All the pieces fall to his wish.

Hounded by a group of excited teenagers with eight by ten photos, he wondered who his publicist was. He didn't expect to be surrounded at a gas station of all places. You know, getting gas and such. For his silver, two thousand fifteen Mustang. Which wasn't supposed to even be released yet, but when Cain proved his worth as a huge star in our business. He'd done the impossible by the standards of some people. People like Pest who doubted the power of Cain. To some people, his clear and decisive win over one Aidan Collins would have been an upset. But not these Cainaanites. The impressionable young teens surrounding him at this very moment. Enigma watched from afar as Cain signed autograph after autograph, flashing his elongated canines for pictures with jailbait teen girls. Yum.

One girl even flashed her breasts at him, though they were covered with a black silk bra. This narrator would say they were C-cup, being a good tit judge. She said in her melodius tone.."Please sir, could you sign my boobies?"

Cain had to laugh. He'd not heard them called boobies in...forever. Tits. Fun bags. Milkman's pride. Never boobies. "Most certainly, darling." and he pressed down hard, causing the girl a bit of pain. He enjoyed it, being the man he was.

She groaned a little bit, the slightest bit of ruby red blood trickling down her left breast. She immediately grinned and took a "selfie", posting it on Facebook. "Thankies!" she skipped off, allowing the next lucky recipient to run up to Cain. Whom he promptly signed another "Mammograph" for. She was a fatty though. Oh well, fat bitches need love too. Peter Gilmour. Your mom. This narrator digresses.

Cain couldn't understand his recent surge of popularity. That night when he faced Blizzard, they all gave him a mixed reaction when he won. It was the whole "Let's go Cena"/"Cena sucks" scenario. All of a sudden, everyone adored him. He didn't want their adoration though. He wanted their fear. Their respect. To him, the two were one in the same. Fear equals respect. He he turned to see a young man with jeans, a Star Wars t-shirt, and big black glasses. Due to PR reasons, he didn't laugh. No. He signed the young man's eight by ten gladly. The young man flashed him a big smile. "Thanks Mister Arkham! My dad is gonna love this!"

"It's not for you?" Cain asked, arching a brow.

"No...I'm sorry..." he replied, a sadness in his green eyes."...my dad is a huge XWF fan. He can't be here today because he's bed ridden but he has been a huge fan of your's since you beat Ace Steel for the King of the Dungeon championship up north."

The Last Son of Eden's career had been an international. He'd wrestled everywhere in the states, in over fifty countries, and yes, Mexico City. But Canada was where he truly got his start. His name back then was "The German Giant". Because Cain was an evolved human, he'd always coined himself from Berlin, Germany. Master race. He would be Adolf's dream of perfection if not for the fact that he was a jew. He thought back to those days, when men would blatantly try and avoid matches with him. Ace Steel was the worst. In a move worthy of a Merry Melodies cartoon, he put Cain in a wooden crate and shipped him all over the world for a few weeks. Then came the pay per view. The referee would go on to count, you know, for a forfeit win for Ace Steel. But at the count of six, "Here Comes The Pain" by Slayer hit, and Cain entered through the audience. He beat the shit out of Steel and TOOK his title. Steel was never heard from again.

Cain just looked at the boy. "Sooooo...you want me to cry for your dad, kid?"

"It'd be nice if you'd show sympathy."

Cain suddenly burst into a fit of laughter. "Hahaha...no no no...haha...you want sympathy go to a pussy like Gilmour, or John Cena. Gilmour, when he's not telling other men to suck his dick..." he slapped his knee. "...is crying about something to management! Surely HE will shed a tear for your dead father!"

"He's not dead!"

"He will be! You humans are so fragile. You all die!"

Okay. So Cain alienated a would be fan. But did he give a fuck? No. The young man just shook his head and walked away, making way for the next "fan" to come and get their autograph. The next one to come was one of those effeminate goth kids, who wore all black. The young man(woman?) also had his(her?) nails painted black and wore black lip gloss. Cain just swallowed down yet another fit of laughter and took the man's eight by ten. "So...do I make this out to..." he hesitated and asked with a straight face. "Robert Smith?"

"Robert" just narrowed his eyes. "Why are you being such a douchebag? We're your fans! We buy tickets that make sure you get paid!"

"Eh, I never said I wasn't a douchebag. I never said I was a good guy. You don't like it, I don't have to sign your picture." Cain stated quite plainly. Of course, he signed theeight by ten for the man slash woman. He wasn't sure which it was but the man was right. Fans equaled money. And fame. A legend could never spread without fame, right? These people DID after all believe in his legend. He handed the eight by ten to the young man slash woman and pointed away from him. "Alright. Go. Get out of my sight before I murder you."

Cain looked around. The landscape was littered with a few more of his adoring fans, but by now it was beginning to thin out a bitm ome had to wonder where all of these people had come from. After all, this was just a small seven eleven on the outskirts of town. He grinned though, because he onew he had gotten into their heads. He'd gotten under their skin. He'd ended a streak of a man who had consistently beaten some big names over the past few weeks. But on the next Warfare, he knew he had an even greater test. Two men, both XWF regulars. Two more big names. Two more men who would feel the Devastation of Man. He didn't need to beat them from a professional standpoint. He was already the number one contender. From a personal standpoint though? He HAD to beat them. Once again, he would prove his worthiness. As he thought, he heard another young girl's voice from waist height.

She was "cute". A little girl, wearing a My Little Pony Tshirt. He was a little nauseous at her attire, but he kept his cool. "Hi."

"Hello."

"My mommy wanted to know if you could sign this picture for me?" she held up the big headshot picture in her tiny hands.

He looked around as he took the picture. Confused, he asked "Okay. So where is your mother, child?" as he signed the eight by ten.

"She's over there in the truck, Mister Cain." the little girl answered truthfully. She pointed to a pink Dodge Durango. Hot pink, like what Peter Gilmour signed his autographs with.

"Ugh...who painted that truck?"

"Ummm...I dunnooooooo..." Said the little girl, shuffling her feet.

"That's so gay. Be gone with you, child. Tell that dyke mother of your's to get that truck painted. It's ugly and it reminds me of Peter Gilmour. Gay."

Awww. He made the little girl cwy. Yes, cwy. He watched her as she took her signed photo back to the truck, crying her eyes out. What did Cain do? He chuckled. He loved this. He could treat these people like shit and what would they do? Worship him. As a God. After all, that's practically what he'd becomr since felling the Legend of Blizzard. The next fan stormed up, a fat nerd boy wearing a Monolith t-shirt. Long black hair, acne covered face. Yes. A dork if there ever was one. This young man was brash. He poked Cain in the chest with his finger really hard, yelling. "Who the fuck do you think you are?!"

Cain pushed back, bucking his chest at the young man. "I'm mother fucking Cain Arkham you fat little prick! I'm the man made for this world to fear! I'm the fucking number one contender, and if you touch me one more time I am gonna break your fucking neck and shove your head down in your chest!"

The young man tilted his head. "Dude, how is that even possible?"

Cain smirked. "Warfare, bitch. Anything is possible. Hell, I might just skin Monolith alive and make a coat out of his hyde."

"Dude, Monolith is gonna kick your ass. He's a legend!"

"Haha...so am I. I am a legendary legend killer. Have you seen what I do to legends? You're OBVIOUSLY out of the loop, fatso. But then again, maybe if you'd stop sitting in your basement, masturbating to Monolith photo shoots then you'd know exactly who the fuck you're talking to. Believe it!" The fans who did love Cain pumped their fists into the air, quoting the Last Son of Eden. His eyes flashed with pure evil, his influence over them growing. The Monolith fan stood there in awe as the twenty or so people waiting in line started surrounding him like flies on shit. Cain looked around at his Cainaanites, giving a thumbs up, then slowly turning his thumb downwards. "End him."

His command was heard loud and clear. The teens became entranced, their eyes beginning to get a dull red glow as The Emperor of Evil leaned back against his bad ass car. He watched them as they began to mercilessly swarm the young Monolith fan, the screams filling the air. But something else filled the air as they began ripping body parts from the fat ass. Chants of "Cain" filledthe air. Over and over. The chants grew ever louder and blood began to spray from the mass of humanity, and then...silence. needless to say, those Cainaanites began bring the body parts of the slain non believer to Cain. Everytime, he signed them. Not with a pen. No. Too easy. He signed them with a talon, scratching his autgraph in every piece of soft, rubbery flesh. One fan brought him the Monolith shirt and he looked at it momentarily. He sneered and held the shirt, the fans watching every move he made.

The Emperor of Evil pulled out a gold monogrammed lighter, and flicked it at the bloody shirt. The fibers slowly caught fire, and then all at once, the shirt was in a blaze. He dropped the shirt on the ground. He listened to them, his chin inclined as he took in the chants of the blood soaked crowd. The camera suddenly cut to a shot of the burning tshirt, the image of Monolith on the frontthe last thing seen. Burning.

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