The events of Friday Night Helios were drawing to a close, the high-impact main event between Bison and Major Devastation having ended. The fans were gearing up to leave the arena when the lights went out, a loud crashing sound following the abyssal darkness. The massive screen that broadcast all of the events of the night as they happened was cut off, and instead replaced by the image of a tall mountain...
The scene on the screen was slowly revealed by crackling lightning through the sky. Burnt ruins made a path to the base of the tall mountain, Skeletons of the fallen littered the camera's path, their remains burnt and scattered through the cobblestone street. The stone buildings that dotted the sides were broken down and falling to pieces; tattered banners clinged to the ruins of them, like a child holding on to the last memory of their desolate childhood. Ash-covered wooden stalls laid destoryed in between the buildings, with old, ruined items lost among the wreckage: torn leather straps, dented golden plates, even banners similar to the ones attached to old buildings. Banners of names and faces, all forgotten or destroyed. A burnt village that once prospered. A ruined lifestyle that was once thriving.
The camera stood still as a lone figure walked into the path, blending into the darkness with his thick leather trench coat and black fedora. His frame was massive in width and height, suggesting to be a rather muscular man. Only his back was seen by the camera as he began to walk down the desecrated cobblestone road, heading towards the mountain... He even whistled a tune quietly, following with the words, "It's almost easy...", as he paced towards the path leading up the mountain. The last image the camera panned in on in the village was a tattered banner clinging to a post by it's last thread, the words "The Outcasts" inscribed into the material. With the last gust of harsh wind, the material broke loose and flew into the wind, lost forever to the elements.
The scene changed completely as the quiet sounds of footsteps echoed in the arena. It was now moving up the mountain, but not behind the coated figure... No, it seemed as if the scene was being played through his eyes. Rain began to drizzle down as the man continued his ascent up the path, making his way in between the broken down pillars and archways. Occasionally, his head would turn to spot a banner, one of the more noticable ones being of a chiseled man holding a belt high, the text on the fabric reading "FFA: U...", being as the other half of the text was ripped off and nowhere to be seen. The occasional skeleton was also passed, his eyes turning downwards to glance at them during his ascent, "Joseph... Oh, brother...", his deep voice mumbled at the sight of a skeletal figure with a hole through the skull. A sigh followed, as did his footsteps.
The scene faded away, only to be revived as the man reached the top of the mountain, his feet landing in the ruins of an open temple. Lightning pierced the nightsky once more as he looked up at the entrance archway, the word "Punkology" barely visible in the flashing light and increasing downpour. He shook his head quietly as he walked into the temple and made his way to the center of the room. There, on an altar surrounded by a dozen or more robed skeletons on the floor, was a single baseball bat. Blood was thoroughly caked on the wooden material, with clear indications of it's use by the cracks in the wood. Still, it seemed... unique. Like an artifact of a lost time. Like a hidden weapon, too powerful for mortal use.
He stepped up to the altar to stare down at the weapon, his eyes tracing over its image. The lightning struck again, this time lasting longer to thoroughly light up the room as his eyes rose to look about. The banners hung to the pillars surrounding the room; tattered, but they withstood the test of time. His eyes rotated to show each one: EEW, ICW, WWFG, RWA, OECW, FFA, and even EWA, inscribled into each banner and each holding the respective colors of the different societies. The different cults... The different homes.
The rain progressed even heavier and was easily heard at this point, mixing in with the crackling of the lightning bolts that lit the room. Finally, the man's eyes turned back down to the baseball, the weapon placed ceremoniously on the altar. In the flash of the lightning, the engraving was clear on the weapon:
=Punk-ville Slugger=
Like a bad memory, scenes suddenly began to play transparently as he stared at the weapon. A tall figure smashing a baseball bat into the back of Freakshow's head. The same figure using the baseball bat agaisnt Mike Landry's torso, sending him to the ring's mat in a world of pain. The man bringing the weapon crashing down on a kneeling Saint Joey. The wielder of the weapon hitting a home-run with a massive swing to the side of Brandon Damone's skull.
This was the weapon a man had used many times in his past. A weapon that had achieved so many victories. A hallowed weapon. The man's gloved hand reached down to grasp the handle of the black baseball slugger, his grip firm on the base, "... One last time."
The camera faded to darkness as lightning struck the sky one more time, illuminating the engraved text on the weapon. Punk-ville Slugger. A weapon lost to the sands of time...
[End]
The scene on the screen was slowly revealed by crackling lightning through the sky. Burnt ruins made a path to the base of the tall mountain, Skeletons of the fallen littered the camera's path, their remains burnt and scattered through the cobblestone street. The stone buildings that dotted the sides were broken down and falling to pieces; tattered banners clinged to the ruins of them, like a child holding on to the last memory of their desolate childhood. Ash-covered wooden stalls laid destoryed in between the buildings, with old, ruined items lost among the wreckage: torn leather straps, dented golden plates, even banners similar to the ones attached to old buildings. Banners of names and faces, all forgotten or destroyed. A burnt village that once prospered. A ruined lifestyle that was once thriving.
The camera stood still as a lone figure walked into the path, blending into the darkness with his thick leather trench coat and black fedora. His frame was massive in width and height, suggesting to be a rather muscular man. Only his back was seen by the camera as he began to walk down the desecrated cobblestone road, heading towards the mountain... He even whistled a tune quietly, following with the words, "It's almost easy...", as he paced towards the path leading up the mountain. The last image the camera panned in on in the village was a tattered banner clinging to a post by it's last thread, the words "The Outcasts" inscribed into the material. With the last gust of harsh wind, the material broke loose and flew into the wind, lost forever to the elements.
The scene changed completely as the quiet sounds of footsteps echoed in the arena. It was now moving up the mountain, but not behind the coated figure... No, it seemed as if the scene was being played through his eyes. Rain began to drizzle down as the man continued his ascent up the path, making his way in between the broken down pillars and archways. Occasionally, his head would turn to spot a banner, one of the more noticable ones being of a chiseled man holding a belt high, the text on the fabric reading "FFA: U...", being as the other half of the text was ripped off and nowhere to be seen. The occasional skeleton was also passed, his eyes turning downwards to glance at them during his ascent, "Joseph... Oh, brother...", his deep voice mumbled at the sight of a skeletal figure with a hole through the skull. A sigh followed, as did his footsteps.
The scene faded away, only to be revived as the man reached the top of the mountain, his feet landing in the ruins of an open temple. Lightning pierced the nightsky once more as he looked up at the entrance archway, the word "Punkology" barely visible in the flashing light and increasing downpour. He shook his head quietly as he walked into the temple and made his way to the center of the room. There, on an altar surrounded by a dozen or more robed skeletons on the floor, was a single baseball bat. Blood was thoroughly caked on the wooden material, with clear indications of it's use by the cracks in the wood. Still, it seemed... unique. Like an artifact of a lost time. Like a hidden weapon, too powerful for mortal use.
He stepped up to the altar to stare down at the weapon, his eyes tracing over its image. The lightning struck again, this time lasting longer to thoroughly light up the room as his eyes rose to look about. The banners hung to the pillars surrounding the room; tattered, but they withstood the test of time. His eyes rotated to show each one: EEW, ICW, WWFG, RWA, OECW, FFA, and even EWA, inscribled into each banner and each holding the respective colors of the different societies. The different cults... The different homes.
The rain progressed even heavier and was easily heard at this point, mixing in with the crackling of the lightning bolts that lit the room. Finally, the man's eyes turned back down to the baseball, the weapon placed ceremoniously on the altar. In the flash of the lightning, the engraving was clear on the weapon:
=Punk-ville Slugger=
Like a bad memory, scenes suddenly began to play transparently as he stared at the weapon. A tall figure smashing a baseball bat into the back of Freakshow's head. The same figure using the baseball bat agaisnt Mike Landry's torso, sending him to the ring's mat in a world of pain. The man bringing the weapon crashing down on a kneeling Saint Joey. The wielder of the weapon hitting a home-run with a massive swing to the side of Brandon Damone's skull.
This was the weapon a man had used many times in his past. A weapon that had achieved so many victories. A hallowed weapon. The man's gloved hand reached down to grasp the handle of the black baseball slugger, his grip firm on the base, "... One last time."
The camera faded to darkness as lightning struck the sky one more time, illuminating the engraved text on the weapon. Punk-ville Slugger. A weapon lost to the sands of time...
[End]
