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The United Center was rocking as Summers was getting both cleaned and dirty at the same time from Williams action. The Main Event McRauder was spitting soap out of his mouth and flopping about when he was able to grab a used towel to wipe his face off. The referee had finally made his way over to the chaos where he would slip onto the hard floor holding his back in pain. He was out of this one. Fat Charles Robinson sprung into action, having been keeping up with the match as an old school fan.

The Coaching Staff concocted a separate plan as the trashing was going on. "Alright kid, now's where you come in. Pull the machine out and let the boss work." Paul mutters into his headset. It wasn't immediately clear who he was talking to as the Coaching Staff nodded at each other thinking they had a hit on their hands.

The young up and comer from Kay Beck, French Canada 'Milquetoast' Emile Rizzoto pops out from the nearby maintenance closet wheeling a shoddily built mechanical contraption with an unclear purpose out. It appeared to have a flat top grill, mechanical spatula arms, and some computer functionalities. It was the McRauder QPC Machine. A fine piece of technology for the emerging McRauder fast casual chain with questionable make up. Rizzoto would place the machine by the entrance into the seats, not far from the action going on.

[rizz]"Hon hon boss Súmmęrs! Every ting is on place for chu!"[/rizz] Emile would yell out to the leader of the Marauders before darting off to avoid any distressing situations Williams would try and bring towards the fresh face to WWFG. Summers would try sliding his towards the machine while trying to make his way to his feet.

The Archangel took the smart way towards Summers avoiding the the slippery surface of the ground. The Main Event McRauder completely forgot that would be an available option for Williams, but he managed to get up to his feet to face Nick. Seeing as the deadline was coming up, they were about to push out all the stops in a burst here by QPC Fairy Machine that the young man from Queue Beck, French Canada Emile Rizzoto had programmed. To start the final push off SIZZLIN' HOT, SIZZLIN' HOT looked to begin a yayboo with the Archangel and trade fists back and forth.

Summers sending out the first strike, Williams reactively struck back and was given another one! Nick kept sending back fists, as much as he could receive them, the two sent out their exchanges faster and faster! Whipping up noise of onlookers, that couldn't help to be drawn into this intriguing storm of mess these two men created here tonight!

The Archangel seemed to be dealing in with reception better than SIZZLIN' HOT! After all, one had to wonder how many prison fights Nick had waged!

"..hur.." Was all The Archangel could utter, being blinded and falling to his knees, with McRauder punting the Williams boys straight up into Nick's esophagus! By natural instinct, Williams brought hands over groin, even though there was only now just a lonely noodle residing 'tween his walking sticks.

Then a Grimace cup shot out at break neck speeds, bopping off The Archangels thought processor and dropped him to the floor! One would feel bad, but you can't feel bad for someone who's bad! Fans cheered in laughter, as the early released criminal on some sort of deal, was getting his deserved shots!

Summers up high in a beloved classic old school Top Fist Drop! Fans loved it! Be it unnecessarily loaded, a low move indeed, sending out a cranium cracking strike that ba-thumped vinyl ground and the body of The Archangel took a left to go limp! No resistance against Summers leg hooking him, while in his slumber!

One!.. Rotund Lil' Naitch started the count!
Two!.. Rotund Lil' Naitch began to profusely sweat! This was hard work!
Thr-! Oh no, Rotund Lil' Naitch gripped his chest!
He's having a heart attack! Wait! What's this?! With shaky hand, he lifted from his chest..!
Thuh-ree! Such dedication to his job! Rotund Lil' Naitch collapsed for a nap!

The Archangel stirred, while The Main Event Marauder made his crawl away for safety. Williams rolling to his side, hand to temple, seeing he was split open with a light trickle of blood escaping from behind it's skin prison. The foulest look of evil befell his face, it being so horrid, there was no earthly way to describe it! And then he opened his mouth..

"Brantleeeee..!" Slurred words, as Nick rose to a teetering stand. "Think winning saveths you?! YOU'RE DYEAD!" Walking was staggered, with his after match continual in pursuing Summers. "Gonna wash you in baptism of.. darkness! Join your fffffFREAK friend!" More threats spewed out the zombie strutting Williams!



Nick Williams movement halted, back arching slightly, a bizarre look of confusion froze his face in a feature of dumbfoundedly fear and pain! Blood suddenly drizzling out his mouth, shocking one over sensitive onlooker to scream. Nick fell to his knees, shaking loose a perfect encirclement chunk of flesh and bone! Chin flopping against his bare chest, able to look directly down at the cup sized hole in him!

A trembled hand rose up slowly from beside, gripped the lip and slipped out a cherry syrup streaked Grimace cup, with some chunks of cherry bits and stems, I'm sure.. but what's this? Movement in the cup? Oh, it stopped and so did Williams vision, as eyes took a roll up nap, dropping the Grimace cup.. The Archangel fell wayside, good and tuckered out!

"......Narrative Control......"

Russo clenches his fist, gripping the purple emerald on his hands as he becomes drunk with power, standing on top his his hand holding the crystal in the air of rays of light shoot out from it. Those had had gotten their refreshments from the QPC machine begin to double over foaming from the mouth as the camera cuts away from this zooming in on the puddle of blood and milkshake on the floor next to the body of one of the organizations greatest foes. Fans clap their hands to the rhythm of the beat as the mixture of fluids begins to swirl on the ground. On the PA system, the sound of the beat flows through the arena. The remainder of the Summers camp, Paul, Jack James, Emile Rozzoto, David Otunga and Michael Tarver appear at the side of the head honcho. But one person was missing. As the music builds to the crescendo the Voros twins appear at the side of Summers in their airbrushed Ariana Granda tights leaning down to lift up their champion onto his shoulders. The music gets louder and louder.

Go, go, go, go, go, go
Go, shorty
It's your birthday
We gon' party like it's your birthday
We gon' sip Bacardi like it's your birthday
And you know we don't give a ******** it's not your birthday

A Mercedes Benz pulls up on top of the ramp and the suicide doors on the passenger side of the vehicle open up. The puddle of milshake and blood continues to swirl until the lumps grows into the size of a large, jovial and hairy purple being wearing a pimp hat and walking cane. Gangster Grimace emerges from the viscera of the Marauders fallen foe, hoes, tricks bitches and sports of all sorts emerge from every which side as confetti rains down from the ceiling, Grimace, wrist limp, c-walks up the ramp putting has arm around Summers as everyone files into the Benz. Tarver pops a bottle of champagne, shaking it up and spraying it on BS through the sun roof.

At long last, the psychic vampire that had haunted Freakshow for his entire career had been vanquished at the hands of his greatest student. But questions still remained. Where did Delabonte fit into all of this? Would this lead to the preferential treatment Summers and his camp so desired? Or was it just another game of hide the ball from a management was doing everything in its power to undermine the most intelligent, non-political entity in the history of WWFG? As the Benz was put into drive this was all that anyone could think about. Three word. Echoing through the mind of every Marauder. Why Foley Why?