Flagellum Dei Part I - Birth of a Tyrant

[The Sky King]

“Quem deus vult perdere, Dementat prius” – Whom the Gods would destroy, they first make insane.

The room was dark. A bitter chill hung stiffly in the air. A young man gave a small whimper as he looked ahead.

Deep inside Maynard Hetfield’s mansion, this young man had found himself in a frightening predicament. A burlap sack covered his head. His hands were bound by an unknown material, presumably twine. A leather messenger satchel was strapped across his body, hanging freely from the left side of his waist. His shirt, clearly emblazoned with the logo of the Asylum, indicated that the madness of Maynard Hetfield had extended so far that he no longer cared about his fellow staff in the Asylum.

The young man shuddered violently, feeling an awful chill run down his spine. He was here just to deliver the card to the newly-christened Maynard Hetfield, and to show him that the first opponent he was going to deliver his sick brand of judgment to would be Immanuel Taylor, a man whom had impressed the Asylum on numerous occasions.

Impressed all but Hetfield, that is, who was becoming an increasingly bitter man without the calmness of Dave or the logic of Zack to guide him across a more noble path, a path that would at least not be puddle with the blood of those who so much as stood in his way.

The young man gulped loudly. He just wanted to hop back onto his motorcycle, collect his paycheck, and ride home. Not suffer under the hands of a sadistic, maddened tyrant. A hand grasped the burlap sack, pulling it off. His head twitched right, watching as a man in a black suit and wearing sunglasses slowly walked backwards, melting into shadows. The room was too dark to even make out a face, and not one slither of light gave him the opportunity to scan whether his predicament was horrifying or whether he would at least live, albeit with a few scars.

The young man gulped. A sudden fit of adrenaline filled his chest as he stared ahead at the darkness.

Man:: “THIS ISN’T FUNNY!! CUT THIS SHIT OUT, MAYNARD!!”

The room remained silent, until a cold voice pierced the air. A voice so cold it could freeze water. A voice so filled with hatred that it could boil the very Earth itself. A voice that seemed so disconnected with reality and consequences that it was amazing the speaker even sounded human.

Voice:: “Do not speak my name with your wastrel tongue…”

The room fell deadly silent the moment that icy voice pierced the relative silence. The young man gulped, giving a guttural whimper. He felt his bowels loosen, he felt fear coat his heart like ice itself descending upon him.

Man:: “H-Hetfield?..What is wrong with you? What the fuck have you become—“

Voice:: “Neither dead nor alive. Neither sane nor insane. I am a man who lost it all and gained it all.”

Man:: “Cut the fucking bullshit!! I know your voice!! I know who you are!! This isn’t funny!!”

A light flicked on, revealing Maynard Hetfield’s face.

It was merely one week after Scars and Stripes, but Hetfield had clearly began to spiral down into the chasm of madness: His eyes were engrained with deep, dark bags, his beard had started to grow out and turn into a wire-like mesh, while his hair was shaven roughly, with patches sprouting out of his scalp randomly. His forehead dotted with small silver scars from the violent battle he had just walked out of.

In his hand was a bottle of Sailor Jerry’s Rum. He swung his head back, draining one quarter of the bottle before slamming it on the table, glaring at the man opposite him. It was unclear as to whether the glazed look in his eyes was because of the alcohol or because he wasn’t firing on all cylinders sanity-wise.

He gave a small belch, one which smelt sour and unlike the preened gentlemen who had previously graced the hallways of the Asylum. The man gave a small, displeasured cough, shaking his head.

Hetfield:: “If I forget thee, O Jerusalem, let my right hand forget her cunning..”

Man:: “What the hell are you harping on about, Hetfield?”

Hetfield:: “I lost. I lost it all. I lost my empire. I lost my threat. I lost my match. But most importantly, I lost myself. Lost myself in a haze. Lost myself after losing. Lost myself after..just lost myself. Lost myself. Every so often, I see silver flashes from out of the corner of my eye. The flashes of ghosts, perhaps? Undead spectres coming to claim my soul? Am I a dead man? Am I? Am I dead?”

Man:: “Cut the bullshit, why am I here?! WHAT DO YOU WANT?!”

Hetfield gave a small, quiet yawn, drinking some more of the rum before letting out a loud belch, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a cedar handle with a silver button upon it. Pressing the button, a blade flicked out with a slicing sound, glinting maliciously in the light hanging above them. Hetfield slammed the switchblade down in the middle of the table, glaring darkly at the young man.

Hetfield:: “O daughter of Babylon, that art to be destroyed; happy shall he be, that rewardeth thee as thou hast served us. Happy shall he be, that taketh and dasheth thy little ones against the rock.”

Man:: “WHAT DO YOU WANT FROM ME?!?!”

Hetfield:: “You. You are a member of the Devils Due.”

Man:: “Hang on—No! NO NO NO! You’ve got it all wrong! I’m not one of them! I’m just a Courier!”

Hetfield:: “You drive your peasant transport to my doorstep. You, the cub, walk towards the cave of the wolf, expecting to be left alone. My friend, Zack, hospitalised. Kept alive by machines. Your people drove him to the edge. I am going to start repaying the debt. Right now. Right now. Right now by cutting your throat from ear to ear.”

The man looked at Hetfield as he snatched up the switchblade, lunging across the table and laying on it, grasping the young man by the neck of his collar, pulling him close. The man yelped violently, looking into Luck’s eyes.

Hetfield saw the panic. The fear. The feelings that fed him. That drove him. It was the very thing he was going to look for when he faced his opponent this week.

Luck:: “If your people interfere in my match against my opponent this week, then I will kill you. I will cut your throat. I will find where you live, take your kids, and smash them against rocks until they resemble nothing more than a bloodied pulp. I will take your wife, and I will remove her tongue so she cannot speak ill of me, and remove her eyes for daring to look upon me with the same eyes that hail a person like you as her husband.”

Man:: “WHAT?! I haven’t done anything to you!!”

Hetfield:: “There are men and there are women out there who wrong me every single day by sullying my name. All of them wastrels. All of them who believe a championship belt is what measures a man. No-one gave praise to the battle me and Oblivion underwent. As such, no-one paid attention to Zack or Dave. No-one cared. No-one cares for gladiators anymore. No-one. I’m the last of a dying breed. I’m the Last Emperor. The last of his kind who is willing to at least stand up and fight, rather than sit down, claim a title and settle for mediocrity. Last of his kind, I am. Last of it.”

Man:: “I’M JUST A COURIER! HERE! I CAME TO DELIVER THE CARD AND TICKETS!!”

Hetfield fell silent, staring at the man before giving a Cheshire Cat-like grin.

Hetfield: “Then slide it over, cunt.”

The courier gave a shaky gasp, reaching into the leather satchel that still clung to his waist and pulled out a small envelope, the back of it sealed with a wax stamp. Hetfield’s nostrils flared upon seeing such a garish display of wealth. The courier slid it over the table and towards Hetfield who snatched it greedily, roughly pulling the envelope open and pulling out the card before flicking it across the table at the courier, who gave a small, helpless yelp.

Hetfield: “Immanuel Taylor, really? Immanuel fucking Taylor? The man who does not do anything to truly make the federation seem like a Coliseum? The platonic son of a bitch who is content with that piece of shit Hardkore Title and nothing else? The same piece of shit who puts people into comas? I WANTED A REAL OPPONENT, DAMMIT! THIS IS AN INSULT TO ME, TO ZACK AND TO DAVE!

..And these tickets. First class? FUCK THAT! I WANT BUSINESS CLASS! Do I accept this lowly offering? No! I am going to fight Immanuel Taylor, and that means I do not lower myself to his standards. He may love being seen as a worthless superstar with all the future and potential of an ice cube, but I refuse to be seen as someone on his level. Upgrade these tickets, NOW.”

Man:: “…What?”

Hetfield:: “YOU HEARD ME, YOU FUCKING PLEBEIAN!! Get on the phone and change the tickets right now, while I get my head around this. I have to fight Immanuel Taylor? Why? Why do I have to waste my time with a man who has not even bothered to climb out of the shadows during his time with the Asylum? Why do I have to bother with a man who believes a Coliseums walls are made out of barbed wire?”

Man:: “I-I don’t know..”

Hetfield:: “Immanuel Taylor. Great. Haven’t even heard of him, nor have I actually came face-to-face him. How utterly pathetic the man must be. I mean, I know he’s the Hardkore Champion, I know he’s the kind of wrestler that believes swinging chairs is what makes a wrestling match, so why should I bother with him?”

Man:: “He-He-He’s actually q-quite…tough…and uses his fists….and submissions…”

Hetfield looked up, his nostrils flaring dangerously and his eyes glinting maniacally.

Hetfield:: “Get on your phone. Change my tickets to Business Class, or you will have your eyes cut out.”

The young man gulped, not actually sure as to whether Hetfield would or not. Reaching into his satchel, he pulled out a small mobile phone, hastily pressing in the wrong order of buttons. He gave a small gasp, quickly pressing the cancel button and entering the numbers again, holding the headset to his ear as Hetfield stared down at the metal desk, grumbling under his breath.

Hetfield:: “..Immanuel Taylor…Typical..If what the cunt says is true, and this guy does have some technical abilities, then that just means he is even worse, settling for nothing more than being at the bottom of the food chain, just so he can hunt on the weaklings..Too bad for him that I won’t just lie back and accept mediocrity..I’m going to go out there and hunt the fucker down, make him bow to me, a true gladiator, a true emperor, a true warrior..and not some garbage wrestler whose only experience is fighting in bingo halls..”

The young man slipped the phone into his satchel, breathing out a heavy sigh.

Man:: “…The tickets are in the post…The cost will be subtracted from your paycheck..”

Hetfield flicked his wrist, sneering.

Hetfield:: “Go, get out of my sight, you little wastrel, and tell Immanuel Taylor that he had better prepare for our match, because I am going to tear him into tiny fucking pieces.”

The young courier gulped, nodding and getting to his feet, looking around. Two men in black suits and sunglasses walked over to him, nodding at him before turning around and walking into the shadows. The young man gave a heavy breath out, the tension easing from his chest as he followed the men, who opened a metal door and allowed natural light to flood the room, which appeared to be little more than a small room with whitewashed walls and a metal table in front of it. Rather than mull over what kind of monster would have such a plain room in his house for, the young man instead hurried forward and through the windowless door.

Hetfield tipped his back, taking another quick swig of rum before letting out the combination of a yawn and a belch. The form of Josef Nzogbia strolled into the room, his hands clutching the half-moon-shaped handle of his maple cane as he eyed Hetfield cautiously, adjusting his purple silk tie.

Nzogbia:: “Hetty.”

Hetfield:: “Immanuel. Fucking. Taylor. What kind of name is Immanuel? Stupid name. Profligate’s name. He’s a technical wrestler as well? What the hell is he doing wasting his time flinging chairs and shit around? ‘Look at me, I have the Hardkore Title, I’m so great!’…Makes me fucking SICK!..Stupid peasant..settling for the bottom and refusing to ascend up the ranks. I hope he enjoys it at the bottom, because when we get into the ring, I’m going to make sure he leaves it on a stretcher with his neck snapped in half and his ribs turned into fucking dust..”

Josef:: “Brudda, maybe you should actually get some sleep and drop the booze. Whether you like it or not, Immanuel Taylor is one tough nut to crack. I’ve seen some of his matches when we broadcast it in the casino. He was pretty tough at Scars and Stripes, put away Tyreke Bell easily--”

Hetfield:: “WHY SHOULD I CARE ABOUT TAYLOR?! DO YOU THINK THE MAN IS VALUABLE TO ME?!”

Josef:: “I was just sayi—“

Hetfield:: “What? Don’t you think that I’m good enough? Don’t you think I’m mentally stable enough? Do you think I need sleep? I need no sleep. I only need the flames of war to stoke this beating heart! What’s Immanuel Taylor going to do to me? What could he possibly do to me? Hurt me? Take my fist and force me to hit myself? I know, perhaps he can tell one of his war stories and impresses and intimidates SOMEONE WHO GIVES A SHIT!! Look at me, Josef….I SAID LOOK AT ME!!!”

Hetfield grasps Josef’s lower chin, turning his head to face him. Josef’s eyes furrowed, breathing out angrily as two of the bodyguards who were flanking Josef, quickly reached into their jackets, eyeing Hetfield cautiously. Hetfield looked over his shoulder, his tongue sticking through the gap between his teeth as he gave a small, shrill giggle, looking at them.

Hetfield:: “Oh my, methinks I pissed them off.”

Josef:: “Do you no’ see, my man? You’re mad!! You’ve gone bonkers!”

Hetfield’s head snapped around, his eyes bearing into Josef’s.

Hetfield:: “Mad? Me? No, the whole worlds gone mad, no me. Immanuel Taylor is mad, not me. Let me tell you about Immanuel Taylor. There was once a man named Immanuel Taylor. He existed in the federation. He didn’t live, he never went above and beyond the call of duty, nor did he ever aim for anything more other than to look for a belt which he could proudly polish. This aging man, whom had fought in countless wars, believing himself to be doing God’s own will, cut through the federation, defeating such titanic opponents like Tyreke Bell, Jackal, Tyreke Bell, Tyreke Bell, Jackal, and that guy whose name I can’t remember but probably wasn’t all that important. Opponents whom formed such an obstacle to him that he barely broke a sweat when defeating them. Now, despite defeating the consortium of opponents who are generally seen as the wrestling equivalent as that dark dirt that accumulates under your fingers after several days without bathing, this man thinks he can stand before me, and defy me. He thinks he can beat me. Why? Because I used to be a man who wanted gold. I used to be a man who wanted his name to be in lights, so the profligates could gaze up at the Coliseum, point at my name and go “I want to see him torn limb from limb by the lions.”. He thinks I am a weak man, grounded by my defeat at Oblivion, grounded down by seeing my two best friends and greatest allies bow out and get the rest they so fully deserve. Do you know what I think? I think he’s the mad man. I think he’s absolutely insane for daring to stand in front of me. But the problem for little ol’ Taylor is that I’m not in for the gold or the money, and I’m certainly not in it for that tacky little strap that adorns his waist. No, I’m in it to hurt him. It’s men like Taylor who need to be punished for looking down on me. I can see him sneering at my name right now. Can’t you see it, Joe? Can you not see it? Immanuel Taylor sneering at the name of Maynard Hetfield as he drinks his watered-down coffee and still-frozen Pop Tart? Can you not see it?”

Josef:: “…I can’t say I do—“

Hetfield:: “Because you are blind, my handsome Jamaican friend! A blind man! But it’s alright, because I will hold your hand on Sunday, and I will lead you towards the shores of Babylon’s rivers. We will sit at the rivers, and spit the poison that is Immanuel Taylor’s name from our tongue. We shall curse him, curse him like the inhabitants of Jerusalem were cursed when there home was destroyed and burnt to the ground. We shall curse him like the Roman’s cursed the Germanic tribes as they pounded down the door and overran the beautiful city. Why shall we curse him, Josef? We shall curse him BECAUSE HE IS THE FUCKING ENEMY, A PROFLIGATE TO MY CAUSE, AND A MAN WHO DESERVES TO BE HURT!!”

Josef:: “Why does he deserve to be hurt?!”

Hetfield:: “Because he does.”

Josef:: “That’s not a good reason.”

Hetfield:: “Why do we need reasons to hurt people? Why can’t I just shove my fist into Taylor’s mouth and knock his teeth loose? I’ll do it on Sunday. Hell, on Sunday I’m going to kick his fucking head in, lay him down on the mat, and stomp on his chest until his ribs crack, cave in and pierce those feeble lungs of his. I look forward to doing it, but I don’t look forward to explaining my actions. Why should I? He just deserves it. I suppose a reason could be that he was a soldier and probably killed civilians, thus meaning that me placing my boot into his mouth and forcing him to choke on tanned hide appeases the tortured spirits that follow him wherever he goes….In fact, yes, that will be my reason. A reason indeed. Do you like that reason? I think it’s a good reason. Now I can look forward to reaching down Taylor’s throat, pulling out his lungs, and playing ‘Flower of Scotland’ with them as if they were bagpipes. A good reason, yes? A good reason.”

Josef:: “You aren’t all there, Hetty—“

Hetfield shoved Josef away lightly, not enough to hurt him. Josef stumbled back, sighing loudly as Hetfield spun around in his chair with a violent screech of wood off of linoleum, facing the two bodyguards.

Hetfield:: “Shoot me, boys!”

The bodyguards look at eachother uneasily as Hetfield opens his arms, cracking a small smile.

Hetfield:: “Shoot me, you little pussies. Do I look afraid? I’m not afraid. I want to prove something to Taylor right now, just in case he is having some out-of-body experience. I am fearless. Do I fear Taylor? No. He’s just some garbage wrestler. A man leeching off of the popularity of the federation. He is nothing to me, least of all a worthy opponent. I don’t even see why I have to face him.”

Josef:: “Hetty, why the fuck are you actin’ like this?!”

Hetfield:: “Acting like what? An emperor who is sick to his back teeth of being shunted aside while my best friends fall to the ground, while these fucking degenerates praise some fat fuck who has a World Championship, or some little weakling who has a Hardkore Championship? I’m sick of it. I took out Oblivion..Yes, I lost, but I did destroy him, made his body little more than a cracked shell, and yet this…this…thing believes that he can stand in my path? BULLSHIT!”

Josef:: “Can you no’ just tell me why you’re acting like this?! Hetty, they’re gonna hate you! You..you’re going mad!”

Hetfield looked over his shoulder, giving a small, lopsided grin at Josef.

Hetfield:: “I do not care if they hate me, but it’s time that they fear me, and that they suffered retribution for encouraging the downfall of my two best friends. It’s time that these gutless cowards stepped into my world. When Immanuel Taylor is crushed, so will their favourite federation. I want my name to be venom upon their tongue. That is how a fighter is measured: By fear, not by belts.”

Josef: “What are you on about?!”

Hetfield looked at Josef, giving a small smile.

Hetfield: “My friend, It’s time that we measured a mans legend by his strength and by the amount of men he puts into the cold, hard Earth, not by the belts he wears or if he has a Hall of Fame ring upon his finger. Men like Immanuel Taylor believe that a belt is the way to measure their greatness, and they believe that it gives them an immediate pass into infamy. I don’t believe that for one second. I believe that I will show Immanuel Taylor what it means to be a true legend and gladiator of this business, and that will involve tearing him piece by piece. Fuck his belt, it’s time that the true fighters of this business got their recognition.

After I took down Oblivion, was it on everyone’s lips? No. Only to talk about my defeat, and not about how I beat him to the point where he could barely stand. Did they talk about me fighting for my friend and for my honor, as opposed to one, lousy, stinking belt? No. They talked about the Royal Rumble. Do they talk about Zack Cornell and Dave Markinson, the tragic heroes? No, they talk about the aftermath of Scars and Stripes, and what will happen with the World Championship. I’m sick of it. I’m sick of the belts in this federation, and in this business, being treated as grails. What happened to the times when you could beat a man to within an inch of his life and become famous for it? What happened to the times when we measured a man by the pain he dealt out and how he went about fighting for his honor, as opposed to how many ticks he had besides the belts he had won? I’m sick of this fucking thing taking center stage. It’s time the gladiators took center stage. When I pound Immanuel Taylor into the dust, we’ll just see how much the fucking belt means. He can keep his little Hardkore strap and polish it up, because it doesn’t mean shit to me. All it means is that the man is platonic, and refuses to step up above his game. Well, we’ll see about that, my friend. We’ll see how Taylor reacts when he’s in that ring with a cold-hearted son of a bitch, as opposed to a fucking glory hound!”

Josef:: “…Fine, you do what you want, I have no desire to be wound up in the madness!”

Hetfield:: “Then go. I will fight Taylor alone. I know someone else who will help me. Go. Go now.”

Josef scoffed loudly, turning around and slamming the door shut as he walked out of it, allowing the room to be swallowed in darkness aside from the light shining down on Hetfield, who turned around and scuttled over to the table on his chair, grabbing the bottle of rum and taking a quick swig.

He needed to find some information on Taylor, but with Josef believing him to be nothing more than a broken wastrel, he needed to turn to a man whom he had trusted several times before. Reaching into his pocket, Hetfield pulled out his mobile phone, quickly inputting a phone number before holding the handset to his ear.

Hetfield:: “Hello? …Yeah…Hey, Tony, it’s me—No, no pleasantries….Yeah, we’ll meet up sometime…No, look, are you still a whiz on the computer? Script kiddie and all that—Right. Okay. Tony, TONY!….Yes, I am drunk..kinda..look…Tony…..I need help…..Yeah…His names Immanuel Taylor….Dig up all you ca—Tony, just do it…..Yeah, I will pay….Oka—Bye.”

Hetfield slipped the mobile phone into his jeans, sitting back in his chair and laying the side of his head on the cold table, giving a small grin.

Hetfield:: “Just a few more days, Dave..A few more days and I get to wear Taylor’s intestines as a necklace..”

Hetfield gave a small, cold giggle, closing his eyes with the grin still etched on his face.

===

LOCATION: Veliky Novgorod,
Russia.
TIME: 11:07am MSK

The plane that held the final stragglers of Asylum staff, as well as various other tourists and businessmen on their way to Moscow, buzzed over Veliky Novgorod as it began to reach the final miles towards its destination.

True to the young mans word, Hetfield’s newfound violent attitude worked a beauty, allowing him to sit in the Business-class cabin of the jet, smiling happily to himself as he drank ice water from a crystal tumbler, setting it down on a wooden desk that was currently set over his lap, upon which sat a folder that had arrived mere hours before Hetfield drove to McCarran International Airport, fresh from the hands and research of Tony Diamanza.

Violence may work, but money was still a king.

He took a quick swig of water, setting it down before opening the file, scanning the contents, which consisted of little more than a few scribbled notes on lined paper, slipped in by Josef preceding a lecture on why Hetfield should not underestimate Immanuel Taylor, two pages of information and a photo paperclipped on top of the entire thing.

Hetfield sneered at the photograph. There stood Taylor, photographed all clean and pristine in desert camouflage. A proud warrior, who made his living out of watching the blood of men, women and children scatter the sands while oil wells burnt and fathers choked on their tongues.

Hetfield gave a small smirk. The match might be equal after all. If Taylor had seen the things that Hetfield had heard about in the Gulf War, then he might just be facing a brilliantly ruthless opponent after all. Hetfield licked his lips at the prospect of his first match as a new man being one that would be fought tooth and nail.

The phone rumbled in his pocket. He quickly pulled it out, answering the call.[/i

Tony:: “Hey, Hetty! How goes it? Did’ja get the folder?!”

Hetfield:: “Of course I did.”

Hetfield carefully flicked through the two pages consisting of the information that Tony had managed to uncover of Taylor: Absolutely nothing of value.

There seemed to be a lot of red tape surrounding Taylor. Either that or he was the most uninteresting person to have ever existed. There was absolutely nothing, just forms indicating his constant moves around the country and his fondness for keeping in shape, just like every single other goddamn wrestler out there. Hetfield thought that Taylor would have some secretive past, but the myth is more interesting than the reality, where Taylor simply isn’t worth the time of day.

Hetfield flicked through again. Nothing to use. Nothing to exploit. Hetfield had hoped he could unearth information about a deceased family member or a sensitive event that he could bring up during the match to really demotivate Taylor and leave him open for a violent onslaught, but there was simply nothing there. Not one crime, not one sin, nothing.

Tony:: “How is it?? Good, huh? I kno—“

Hetfield:: “This information is highly romanticized, frumentarii. What is the meaning of this?”

Tony:: “Simple: We know nothing of Immanuel Taylor. What you see before you is his history. We know he was in the military, he fought in the first Gulf War, didn’t register for medical help in the years following it so we can assume he didn’t suffer any mental degradation as a result of combat. After the war, he turned into some normal civvie. Skated around a few jobs in Baltimore, moved between American and Canadian cities, and eventually settled into the Asylum—“

Hetfield:: “You have a lot of nothing to say. Look deeper.”

Tony:: “Excuse me??”

Hetfield:: “What you have is useless to me. I don’t care about his library card in Arkansas, nor do I care about his gym memberships and the like. I want to know about the mans military background.”

Tony:: “Hetty, you don’t understand. I’m already pushing the boundary glancing at these things, if I dig deeper they could find me—“

Hetfield:: “Do it.”

Tony:: “C’mon man, this isn’t Wikipedia I’m looking at. These are military files—“

Hetfield:: “Tony, I’ve got nothing here. How am I supposed to fight the bastard when all you’ve given me is gym memberships and a military service record that is so clean I could eat dinner off of it? There’s got to be something. Dig deeper.”

Tony:: “Hetty, I am one hundred percent serious. There is NOTHING to him. You’d have a better chance of getting to know him watching his matches.”

Hetfield gave a small sneer, shaking his head.

Hetfield:: "Are you kidding me? This is it? This is all that constitutes the great Immanuel Taylor? What a fucking joke. Nothing there to even bother with. Moves, submissions, a clean record? The man is nothing to me. Absolutely nothing."

Tony:: "Hey, I tried my best.."

Hetfield:: “…Thanks anyway. The cheque’s in the mail.”

Without wasting time with pleasantries, Hetfield hung up, placing the phone beside the folder and giving a small sigh, looking around. His hands began shaking. He raised his right fist to his mouth, biting so deep into his knuckle that he drew blood. He felt an overwhelming sense of rage flood through his body, a rage that Hetfield no longer had any control over.

He looked out the window at the canopy of emerald forest that covered the land as they began to descend slightly as they neared Moscow. He had left behind Zack and Dave, and it was beginning to drill into his head. He still couldn’t get over the irritation that scratched at his brain as he looked around at all these businessmen. Men who probably hated him, even though they had never met him.

He scratched the back of his head, crossing his hands over eachother on the desk, letting out a shaky sigh and looking out the window. He was ready to fight. He was excited to fight. He WANTED to fight, but he could feel his mind pull itself apart under paranoia.

Maybe just one drink.

Hetfield’s hand snaked inside his jacket, but he quickly stopped himself. How would he be able to face Taylor if he was drunk to the gills? He had to be sensible about things. Neither Zack nor Dave were here to clean up his messes..

..which meant he could destroy Taylor as violently as he pleased and there was absolutely nothing that Zack nor Dave could do to stop him.

Hetfield opened the file once more, expecting to see some information spontaneously appear before his eyes, but nothing did. It was the same old story: Immanuel Taylor, former soldier with a past so bland it made gruel look like Steak Tartare. There was absolutely nothing to him, and even the small scribbles of notes that Josef had left were tantamount to useless. Hetfield didn’t care what moves he could do, or what his wrestling style was. It wouldn’t matter when Hetfield waltzed into that ring and erased the sour memories of Mister Luck once and for all by kicking Taylor’s skull in.

The plane descended further. A small chill began to fill the cabin. Hetfield tapped the folder impatiently. Punches, submissions, a hip toss, suplexes, kicks, whips, the man was so systematic and predictable that he may as well hold a neon sign that stated “I am not dangerous in the slightest”. The only way Hetfield could ever find Taylor dangerous was if he somehow managed to ground Hetfield and lock in a submission. Aside from that? Taylor was useless, absolutely useless, unless he could reach deep within and pull out any rage left over from his days as a soldier and unleash it on Hetfield.

But Hetfield thrived on pain, the misery that was beginning to sink into his skin fed his new attitude, breathing life into him. He wanted the rage. He fed off of it.

His hands started to tremble slightly. His old brain flashed glimpses of Zack frowning, shaking his head. Flashed glimpses of Dave watching neutrally with his arms folded. What would they think if they laid there in their hospital beds and witnessed Maynard Hetfield tearing chunks of flesh from Taylor’s body like an enraged beast?

They’d probably react like the fans: Sit there in stunned silence, unable to comprehend what they had just witnessed.

Hetfield gave a small smirk, taking a quick drink of water, his hands still trembling as they got used to sobriety. Hetfield gave a small sigh, setting down his glass before wiping his sweaty palms on the thighs of his jeans, glancing at the folder once more before shutting it, hiding the face of his opponent.

Hetfield:: “Maybe just one drink when I land. Loosen up for when I face Taylor.”

===

LOCATION: Moscow,
Russia.
TIME: 1:08pm MSK

Landing in Moscow, and left to waste away in a hotel room all by himself, Hetfield turned to the one constant that had since sprung up since losing Dave and Zack.

Drink.

In his right hand was a bottle of vodka, bought from a nearby department store, an obvious choice considering their environment, and simply because it was the only thing that gave Hetfield a buzz, aside from kicking someones head in. Even with the fiery liquid burning his stomach and throat into a scorched crisp, the thoughts of destroying Immanuel Taylor at Sunday Night Vengeance refused to subside. They clung to his brain, whispering to him: ‘Destroy him, and prove your dominance’, ‘Destroy him, and prove that championships are not how a man is measured’, ‘Destroy him and begin to restore the honor the Commission lost’, ‘Destroy him and avenge your friends’.

Hetfield gave a small hiccup, pushing his wooden chair away from the desk upon which was placed the folder with the scarce details of Immanuel Taylor. Hetfield had had enough of reading about a man who was the equivalent of dust in the wind, an absolute nobody with no past and not much chance of a future, either.

Hetfield had to—No, he WANTED to destroy Taylor. Only the blood flowing over his knuckles could ever make Hetfield something akin to a basic emotion. Only knowing that he, a meagre peasant in the eyes of the roster and the fans, could destroy a champion and prove that gladiators still lived, still gave him the ability to feel emotions.

Hetfield felt sick from the sheer amount of rage, adrenaline and vodka coursing through his body. He stumbled forward, shoving open a folding wooden door and out onto the balcony, overlooking the Red Square. Hetfield gave a small retch, doubling over before grasping the cold stone railing, looking over the swath of Russian citizens, guards and tourists who had flocked to the city. Hetfield gave a small sneer: Most of those tourists had came for the Asylum. They came to jeer Hetfield. They came to curse his name. They came to cheer Taylor to victory.

Hetfield gave a bright, albeit drunken, smile. Oh, how they were going to leave Moscow disappointed!

Hetfield:: “Look at you..fucking profiligates..fucking little bastards..”

Hetfield threw his head back, taking another deep drink of vodka and letting loose a belch that scorched the inside his throat, the bile beginning to bubble and surface from the pit of his stomach.

Hetfield:: “Taylor..Immanuel Taylor..What does that prick have that I don’t? Aside from toughness?...Who said that?...I did……Shit…Maybe Joe was right..No, he wasn’t…Who said that?...I did again…..Fuck…”

Hetfield stumbled backwards, landing on his rear on the carpet of his hotel room. Rolling back and tucking his knees into his stomach, he pulled back enough to lunge his feet out, kicking the balcony doors shut before rolling up onto his rear, staring at the glass doors.

The tired eyes and pale complexion that had constantly greeted him glared back at him with gaunt features. Hetfield looked down at the vodka, shaking his head and screwing the top back on, rolling it under the hotel bed and stumbling up to his feet, slamming his hands against the glass as his legs trembled in a drunken stupor.

Hetfield:: “I’ll be fine for the match, Zack, Dave. Don’t worry.”

Despite talking to a person whom obviously wasn’t there, there was a truth in Hetfield’s voice, something that simply confirmed the sad truth that he was beginning to believe his own lies.

Hetfield couldn’t fight nature anymore. Nature wasn’t his opponent: Immanuel Taylor was, and even in this current pit of depression, with these feelings of sadness sinking into his skin as he realised that the only company he had in his room was the sound of an unknown wrestler in the room above his doing press-ups on the floor. Hetfield gave a sad sigh, rubbing his eyes which had now began to ache with such a fury that it felt as if he had rubbed red-hot coals into them.

Hetfield stumbled forward, holding his hands out and shoving the en-suite bathroom door open, moving forward and latching his hands onto the edge of the sink as he doubled over it. He slowly lifted his head, looking into the mirror: The man looking back at him was a man who was in absolutely no shape to fight Immanuel Taylor. Taylor was a man trained in the art of war. The man in the mirror was a man trained in the art of looking good.

If this was the old Maynard Hetfield, then he might crack a grin and say ‘Hey, It’s alright. Look at me compared to him: Taylor has the fashion sense of a walnut! Plus, the boy bores crowds into a coma! Why should I care?’ but this wasn’t the old Maynard Hetfield in the mirror. This was the new and broken Maynard Hetfield, a man who had aged not like fine wine, but like milk.

His right eye twitched, pulsed, the eyelid vibrating from tiredness and stress. Hetfield gave a small yawn. This man wouldn’t win against Taylor. It would be like a hobo fighting a lion. If Hetfield wanted to go out there and gut Taylor, then he needed to wake up and smell the coffee: Zack wasn’t here for him, and neither was Dave. If he was to fall, then absolutely no-one would catch him. He had to catch himself and be his own support, his own man, his own boss.

He wanted to go out there and simply hurt Taylor to feel something. To feel that he could earn some retribution for Zack and Dave, the fallen heroes in his life. Winning wasn’t an option. It wasn’t even a preference: It was a perk. An extra. Nothing more. If he could go out there and hammer fists into Taylor’s skull, then he could at least walk out happy, and then he could show the crowd that for all their jeering and all their laughing, they had simply fuelled a beast. They had fuelled the destruction of two innocents who did not deserve their current pain. They would finally fear Hetfield as opposed to freely saying his name. He was going to make his name a poison upon their tongues.

The Asylum and its fanbase deserved no mercy. They deserved a destroying angel to descend from the heavens, fuelled by the flames of vengeance, to smite every single superstar who simply stood back and let Hetfield’s friends fall without even bothering to lift a fucking finger. Was it fair to Taylor? No. Not really. But vengeance wasn’t fair, and neither was the fate that befell Zack, a man who could barely defend himself.

Hetfield ran the cold tap, filling the basin halfway before dunking his head under the water, swallowing some of the icy water as he did before pulling his head up, letting out a guttural gasp and rubbing the water into his face, staring at the gaunt creature that looked at him.

‘A slap in my face demands punishment.' it said to him. Was the punishment to be inflicted on the Asylum unnecessarily cruel? Probably. But maybe if Zack wasn’t laying in a hospital bed with his brain drugged up as it flushed out his system, then maybe he wouldn’t be here. Maybe if they helped, but they didn’t. Maybe if they didn't judge based on titles, but they did. Maybe if they gave the strongest and most ruthless a chance to thrive and survive, but they didn't. Maybe if they didn't sneer at Hetfield when he walked past them, but they did.

Immanuel Taylor was simply going to be the first victim of a man who had enough, and who had promised to inflict pain on everyone he came across. The same pain this tired man suffered.

Hetfield stumbled backwards through the open door, the backs of his legs hitting the edge of his bed and allowing him to collapse on it spreadeagled. Hetfield gave a tired yawn, staring up at the mauve lampshade.

What was the point of going for a title without beating the living hell out of opponents like Taylor, anyway? Winning a championship wouldn’t bring Zack or Dave back, nor would it change the attitude the fans had towards him. It wouldn’t change the years of physical and mental scars Hetfield had to endure while not one of the fans or crew of the Asylum lifted a finger. He was just a scared little child when he began, and yet they left him to rot. They didn’t care for him. This wasn’t just the smiling character of Mister Luck they hated, it was Maynard Hetfield himself. They wanted him to die.

But if he could become their personal scourge, then it might all just change. He might just get the respect bred from fire he so desires.

Hetfield closed his eyes, and it all came flooding back.

‘I hope you die’, ‘You suck!’, ‘You’re a worthless human being!’, ‘You disgust me!’, ‘I hope your friends die and rot!’, ‘I hope you rot in a lonely grave, you sick fuck!’

No more. When Hetfield stepped into that ring with Immanuel Taylor, then the fans would pay witness to a change. He was going to show them the true meaning of anger and retribution. Their jeers would increase in volume, but Hetfield would not care. He was going to dismantle Taylor limb from limb, in the hope that hurting him would allow him to feel relief and forgiveness, while simultaneously punishing the fans and Taylor for ignoring the plight that all three men had suffered. He wanted to make sure that they feared him more than they hated him.

No more mercy. No more holding back. Now was the time to awaken, to spread his wings and to unleash the punishment that the Asylum had avoided for too long. Their corruption would be punished, and their hatred would be used against them.

They hated Mister Luck, but they were going to fear Maynard Hetfield. He was going to tear Immanuel Taylor apart. He was going to cut through the locker-room with the strength of ten thousand men. He was going to leave a trail of bodies behind him, wearing their precious belts. He was going to prove that titles meant absolutely nothing unless you had the power and the devastating ruthlessness to secure your place in history. He was going to create a climate of fear that would finally make him smile once again.

Mister Luck was dead, but Maynard Hetfield was more alive than ever.