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Freakshow is dropped taint first on the barricade. If he wasn't going to be pissing blood later, he would be now. Except he was going to be pissing blood later. Just not because of the barricade. In reaction to his unpleasant landing he opens his mouth allowing the fork to fall out of his mouth as he emits a scream that doesn't make any sound because of his balls.

The chair crashes over Freaks head. He sits there perfectly still for about five seconds, the weapon wrapped around his skull, he slowly slumps over to the other side of the guard rail. On his feet he stands erect, turning around and taking three steps forward falling forward onto his face, the legs of the chair catching the ground and jarring the steel right into his neck.

"HRGH!"

Thing weren't going very well for the mack daddy. After the third chair shot, which hurt as much as the first one but not as much as the second one, Freak began to entertain the idea that perhaps he had made a mistake somewhere down the line in either his planning or execution of the hunt for Mad Dog McLennon. When a man is diagnosed with hepatitis C often he is lead to do things that he wouldn't ordinarily do. If one had asked Freak several years ago whether he would have wanted to step back into the ring with the Hardcore Icon, the answer would have been a very firm no.



Unable to formulate much of a strategy in the immediate moment the manager slides himself down the ramp like a slug intermittently stopping to receive a chairshot.

Everything was upside down. The novelty of it wore off once he hit the ground. He sits up upon impact, blinking through the blood Freak looks forward to see several gelatinous pink blobs obscuring whatever there was to see. Separated from the outside world by a thick layer of violet stank juice the boy from the hood rolls over face down on the cold metal of the ramp trying to take the pressure off of his back. It didn't matter because his back still hurt really really bad.

Clawing at the ground Freakshow is locked and humbled in the Camel Clutch. As the chains pinch at his neck he emits a gurgled cry his desperate attempts to reach the ring only tightening the hold around his throat as well as the torque on his back.

"Shiiiiiiiiiiii-.."

Eyes wide and face bright pink the blondes mouth hangs open as the taste of iron, piss and salt all commingles in the back of his esophagus. It was a sensation at once repulsive and eerily familiar. A lump rises in the back of his throat. The butter wanted out.

As McLennon pulls back on the Camel Clutch Freakshow sends out a torrent of projectile vomit. In the past 24 hours he had eaten at tube steak, some french fries, two oxycotin, some tequila, a tylenol P.M to help get to sleep, a slice of cheese, an egg mcmuffin and some popcorn butter. Not all of it was recognizable as it spilled out onto the ramp with the exception of one french fry which remained undigested.

Freakshow is nailed with the second suplex of the night directly ontop of the undigested french fry. Landing with a splash he is immediately struck by deja vu. Many a times he had been in this very position, half naked in a pile of his own viscera, never before had it been televised or even relatively close to a professional wrestling ring.

Bouncing off the ramp he slides down to the ringside area. Frantically he crawls towards the squared circle not knowing where he wanted to go except away from the psychopath that had been in complete control of the match thus far. His hands reaches for the banners, clutching the fabric in his fists he attempts pulling himself underneath the ring with difficulty due to the temporary uselessness of his legs. Perhaps it would smell better there.