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The mixture of infectious 1980's Breakbeat kick drums and the very present force of 2 trotters lightly colliding caused a stir from the eyelids of Dean Johnson. The dusty light bulb swinging steadily, casting light on to his face just take take it away just as quickly. Shadows being summoned and destroyed by pure movement. He began to look around as at first he didn't see any human life, just ways to end it. Instruments of pain covered in dust, sweat and tears. Dean was always vigilant of the news and happenings in his company and he had recognized this facility before. It was etched on every news station for weeks...

The breakbeat continued as a women's voice carried the song. A seemingly happy voice bouncing through the walls made the whole mood very haunting. synthesizers glazed as...

Children, behave
That's what they say when we're together

He couldn't even remember his last memory. He remembered being stuck with Rosario as the protective custody they were in caused nothing but division between the two. Rosario did what was best for business. And Dean felt deceived. He understood the purpose but he wasn't in on it. It made him money, and he wouldn't take it back, but it was disrespectful and it was a massive lie. Dean has busted his a** off every second in the ring and now he had a smudge against him he didn't have. But no man was able to legitimately take him out except for the champion, and that was something he was going to have to remember. It was bullshit what was happening. Rosario did not behave and now he was being hunted. That's what this was.



He put a hand on the rope next to him, using it to aid himself to his feet. Looking around the darkness, seeking to find a silhouette or a noise. The weapons once again being lightened up by the light. Revealing wood planks with nails, a rake, a shovel, bolt cutters, and a box of assorted lightbulbs. He guessed the one swinging in the air must of had problems staying on.

The haunting lyrics were masked by a...

THWACK

The baton rupturing against Dean's shoulder. A large grunt escaped his mouth as he stumbled forward, grabbing his shoulder out of pure visceral reaction. He had felt this before but never with so much force. This wasn't for the fans, this wasn't for people. This was a real fight.

The blood money laid on the floor as he thought about what Blackjack had to do to even acquire that amount of money while on the lamb. It wasn't wrestling. Hell at this point Dean doubted if the man could even wrestle, with so much ring rust he would have to rely on...

The stinging persisted as the music echoed. Another grunt escaped the rookie as he headed for the opposite turnbuckle. He needed a way where Blackjack couldn't just sneak around him. He wasn't a mythical figure. He wasn't Batman. He was a god damn normal criminal.

Trying to get away into the night

*I've taken it upon myself to finish this event. It's not the tone I was looking for, but I feel like it achieved the narrative ending I wanted. If you read it, I hope you enjoy. Opinions and critiques are welcome via DM.


Blackjack could see how unnerved Dean was. He was enjoying this bizarre torture, it was as close to sexual arousal as the psychopath could get. As he started to advance, the look of concern and confusion turned to resolve. Dean charged forward to attack, like a cornered animal lashing out. He shifted his target, aiming to brain Dean with the baton and knock some sense into him.

Blackjack's smug grin changed to panic as Dean, rather that blindly attacking Blackjack, caught him by the wrist. The moment of shock cost him as Deancs other fist came driving hard into his mouth. He tasted blood, his own blood, and felt the slick warm trickle from the split in his lip as it dripped down his chin. A slow wide grin grew across his face.

"That's the spirit De…"

Dean wasn't interested in hearing Blackjack's taunts. While his captor was reveling in spilt blood, Dean hit Blackjack in the wrist forcing him to drop the impact baton which clattered the the floor outside of the ring.

A boot to his midsection forced Blackjack to double over leaving the back of his neck exposed to a double axe handle, and when that didn't drop him a second, followed by a third. It took three double fisted blows to the back of Blackjack's neck to force him down to a knee.

Wasting no time, knowing just how deadly Blackjack had proven, Dean grabbed Blackjack into a headlock and threw himself backwards, hard. The snap DDT planted Blackjack's head directly into the mat aided by Dean's not inconsiderable bodyweight. Dean rolled back to his feet and backed off to work out the numbness now spreading through his arm.

Blackjack started pushing himself back up. He was back to his feet and steady despite just having his head driven into the mat. His yellow and blue mismatched eyes focused on Dean, a wide grin split his salt and peppered beard.

"You're getting the idea. Fight back and survive, the cops will be here soon I'm sure. Beat me, and you can walk out of here with the cash. There's more there than Rosario would have ever paid you. Enough to treat your son. Enough to cure him."

Blackjack saw the snap in Dean's attention when he mentioned the man's poor sick child. The explosion of muscle went off like a gun. Blackjack, still halfway rising to his feet, charged forward, much like an offensive lineman in football. Between the distraction of his kid's plight, and the suddenness of Blackjack's charge Dean was caught into the [lifting spear]. Blackjack heaved Dean up onto his shoulder and carried him the rest of the way into the rope of barbed wire.

The thicky wound strands of barbed wire that served as ring ropes had almost no give. Dean was slammed into the top most rope and pinned against it while barbs dug into his flesh. With one hand pressed against Dean's bare chest, Blackjack cocked his other fist back and slugged Dean in the face.

Blackjack's punch was hard, his fists felt like sledgehammers; his knuckles, covered in thick ropes of scars from a lifetime of fighting, felt as solid as brass and just as unforgiving. He was much more powerfully built than he had been in the past. Nearly all of his free time was spent lifting weights, or fighting.

The impact hit hard enough for the camera's poor microphone to pick up the sound, and brought with it a terrible crunching sound. Dean's head was knocked back; he rolled over the top rope and fell to the threadbare apron portion of the ring before tumbling to the floor below. There was a small wad of flesh sticking to the barbs where they had gouged trenches in his back. Fresh blood dripped from jagged rusty spikes.

Delighted at the display of power Blackjack had just unleashed, he leaned over the ropes and looked down at Dean. The poor man was struggling with his busted nose. The bridge of his nose was split spilling blood down his nose, more oozed from his nostrils, and blood was clearly draining into his sinuses as Dean was gagging and spitting up mouthfuls of blood.

Clucking like a matronly only barn wife, Blackjack hopped the ropes and dropped to the floor next to Dean. He knelt down and reached out, "Here. Let us take a look at that."

Dean slapped his hands away, kicking and gagging, trying to put some distance between himself and his assailant. Blackjack ignored him, reached out and grabbed him by the head; and, using both thumbs, Blackjack forced Dean's crooked nose back in place.

The blood didn't stop, but it was the difference between a leaky faucet and a busted water main.

Something peculiar happened when Blackjack landed outside of the ring. A light buzzing humming sound filled the air. Three drones started buzzing around the room, bright led spotlights mounted to each. These were high end sophisticated A.I. drones that targeted Dean and Blackjack; illuminating their immediate area.

At the same time, the video feed being displayed over Unforgiven's broadcast switched views. No longer the grainy film camera from a singular angle, the feed came from the drones as they focused in on the action.

Standing up, Blackjack walked towards an upturned kiddie pool, the plastic molded kind, not the inflatable variety. He toppled it over and looked at Dean who seemed woozy. "You know, I may have read some where, once, about some barbarians. The kind the Romans slaughtered. These were some barbaric guys. And they liked to hurt people."

Blackjack walked over to Dean who again started to struggle to get away. He was holding his hands to his nose which was starting to swell up. "Oh boy, look at that nose! It's swelling up like a clown nose. It's just as red too." He spoke with relish. "Keep that up and we'll have to start calling you the Clown. Goof the Clown. You could even start a stable with that Stalker fellah. " Blackjack bent down and slapped Dean's hands away. When he continued to struggle Blackjack punched him.

Not in the face this time. Not in the diaphragm, something one would do to stun their opponent. Blackjack punched Dean in the ribs, directly over his heart. The look in Dean's eyes sang of the pain that had caused. Something akin to a small heart attack, and that was not counting the cracked rib.

That stunned Dean more thoroughly than a gut shot would have, and it even sent an arena wide cringe through the audience. Only the cosmicly aware could feel the collective shudder world wide.

Blackjack breathed it in.

He grabbed Dean by the back of his head and pulled him up. "Where was I?" He asked as he started dragging Dean towards the empty pool. "Oh right. Barbarians. You see, these guys would torture their captives for fun. They had one method. Oh boy, you're going to like this.

They would take shards of broken pottery, shavings of metal, anything abrasive." He strolled to a pallet, it has been set up with hundreds of fluorescent light tubes. He picked one up, examining it in his hand. "They'd fill a pit full of these materials. And then thro…" Blackjack turned around to face Dean as he was talking. He was met with a charging Dean spearing Blackjack into the pallet of lights!

The glass shattered in a most satisfying crunch. Blackjack was driven back first into the construction, slamming into the quickly forming mound of powdered glass that accumulated beneath him. The explosion of glass filled the feed with a sparkling cloud of silicates. From deep within the cloud, Blackjack was coughing out laughter.

"Yes! Oh boy now it's beginning!" Blackjack rose from the cloud of glass, like Dracula rising from the most. The heavy particles started settling fast, revealing a glittering dust covered Blackjack standing over Dean. Blood dotted the back of his neck, and the tattered remains of his white dress shirt.

Dean came out obviously worse off. His entire torso was speckled with droplets of blood, his skin pierced by thousands of nearly microscopic shards of glass. Blackjack stepped away grunting in delight. "I'm glad to see how eagerly you're embracing this lesson."

Blackjack picked Dean up, holding him chest to chest, and then flung Dean over in a sloppy belly to belly suplex that sent Dean landing awkwardly on his side, back into the pile of broken glass. Chunks of glass tubing shattered even more, and a new wave of minut lacerations peppered Dean's torso.

Again and again, Blackjack pulled Dean out of the glass, and then found some new way to slam him back into it. Each move was different, a German suplex, a fireman's carry, military press, even a powerbomb. The assault was brutal, and each move was poorly executed, but it continued until the pile of white powdery glass was a pink paste.

To the fans it looked as if Blackjack was suffering a decade of ring rust. To the newest generation it looked as if Blackjack was bad at performing his moves. The veterans however, understood what was happening, Blackjack's incompetence was hurting Dean more than a skilled opponent would. He was landing wrong, at awkward angles, and on spots that couldn't absorb the impact as well.

The outside world waited in rapt terror as Blackjack used Dean to grind the glass to dust. When it was over, Blackjack stood panting, blood smeared in the rags of his jacket and shirt. He tossed them aside.

"Death by a thousand cuts. Most of the victims died long before they reached the thousandth cut. You would consider them the lucky ones." Blackjack grabbed Dean by one of his boots and began dragging him back towards the kiddie pool.

Dean was relatively motionless. His entire body glistened with blood. Glass shards sparkled in the crimson wash, and a smear of blood left a trail as Blackjack pulled him along.

"The ones that survived. Like yourself, very commendable by the way, were then put through an even more agonizing experience."

Blackjack set Dean down and turned towards a small pile of burlap sacks. He hefted one up onto his shoulder and walked back to the pool. One of the cameras focused on the script on the sack. 50kg NaCl. He dropped the bag into the pool and fished a balisong from his pocket. A flick of the wrist and the chrome blade spun, he used the knife to slice open the sack and poured the salt into the pool. Three more sacks were dumped in, until the pool looked like a sandbox full of cocaine, or salt.

"The survivors were tossed into a pit full of salt."

Blackjack turned on Dean and crouched over him. His attitude shifted, he seemed suddenly frustrated.

"No no no. Stay here with us Dean you're not done yet. See this knife?" Blackjack waved the blade before Dean's closed eyes. "This is your knife Dean. It's even got your name etched in it." When Dean didn't respond, Blackjack growled and placed the blade to Dean's face, and slowly sliced a line down his cheek.

Blackjack knew blades. An accomplished knife fighter since boyhood, he had sharpened the blade to such a fine edge that Dean did not feel the 3" laceration that was etched down the side of his face.

Not at first.

The pain did come, along with another wash of blood. Jerked from his dazed stupor, Dean jerked away from Blackjack. He was grabbing at his face shouting out from the agony. His feet kicked uselessly, an involuntarily attempt to distract from the pain.

"There we go, welcome back to the show Dean.

Now where was I?" Blackjack stood idly for a moment thinking, while Dean rolled around, screamed, and bled.

"Oh right. Salt. So have you ever gotten salt in an open wound?" He asked as he picked up a fist full of salt from the pool. "It burns like the Dickens. That's what they used to say.

Not the barbarians.

Old nans."

Blackjack knelt over Dean and slapped his hands away from the bleeding gash. "It feels something like this!" Dropping a knee into Dean's gut, Blackjack held him with a fist full of bloody hair and roughly ground the salt into the wound.

Never in the history of Ford Field had the multitude of people at attendance been so quiet. Not a single soul made a sound, barely anyone moved. For a moment, the building collectively held it's breath. You could have heard a pin drop on a pillow from the other end of the field… if it weren't for the inhuman screams.

Gritty grains of salt, table salt, uniodised table salt, mashed it's way into the fresh cut in Dean's face. It spilled over his whole face; his mouth was coated in salt, salt poured into his nostrils pulled further into his sinuses by negative pressure as he screamed, and it even got into his eyes. Crystals of salt scratched at the surface of his eyes, it dissolved into his moisture, seeped into the myriad of lacerations from the glass. Every damaged and exposed nerve on Dean's face exploded with agony.

Dean's screams sounded like that of a dying animal. People got sick. The audience broke and started screaming and jeering. Their outcry thundered throughout Detroit. Blackjack stop grinding the salt into Dean's face. He rose to his feet, head tilted upwards towards the ceiling and he inhaled deeply. "Can you sense it? They're rooting for you."

Blackjack turned his gaaze on the camera and it zoomed in on his mismatched blue and yellow eyes. "If you think that was traumatic. The rides just beginning."

Dean was nearly clawing at his face when he was lifted and tossed unceremoniously into the kiddie pool. The second he hit the bed of salt the pain in his face subsided; only in relation to the rest of his body.

Blood and salt mingled and dissolved, salt seeped into hundreds of small lacerations, many of which still had glass embedded in them.

Dean couldn't help but flail. Even if he'd had the conscious thought to hold still and not spread salt all over his body, his wild jerking scramble to try and get out of the salt was unavoidable. It got everywhere. It coated him. Every single open wound was quickly inundated with the flash of pain.

Dean scrambled, screaming, got to his hands and knees, reached the very edge of the pool; Blackjack caught him in the mouth with the tip of his scuffed and tattered oxford.

Dean slumped into the sand, writhing as fresh blood oozed from his mouth. The fight seemed to wear out in him, but his ordeal was far from over. Blackjack was standing over him after a moment, another 50kg. sack slung over his shoulder.

"They tossed their victims in the salt and left them to die of the pain. Pain, after all, can actually kill you.

Let's hope for your sake, it gets you before I do!"

Blackjack hoisted the sack on high, and slammed it down onto Dean's body. The shock washing through the audience at what they were seeing was overwhelming. People were leaving the stadium in droves, though they were quickly replaced by the multitude of fans that craved this level of violence.

This show alone would make the year for nearly all of Detroit's ticket scalpers. The ppv audience that tuned away were miniscule compared to the number of last minute subscriptions.

The sack was lifted, raised high and brought down again. More than 100lb. of dead weight in a burlap sack was slammed onto Dean's body again, and again. Dean stopped struggling after the fifth time. The outraged audience went silent again.

He stopped breathing after the tenth.

The beatings only stopped because the sack split open and spilt salt everywhere around them.

Blackjack examined the bloody mess that was Dean, and clucked again. "You had one job Dean. We haven't even gotten to the good point." Blackjack looked to the camera and shrugged. "Sorry everyone. I had high hopes for him too. He's let everyone down."

He walked off into the darkness as the camera zoomed in on the motionless Dean.

WWF:G technicians were scrambling to find the source of his intrusion. They had made every attempt to override his broadcast or replace it. It seemed like the only way to end it would be to cut hard lines, but FBI pressure prevented the board from taking action because they were able to trace his broadcasting location.

The camera remained steady and the world stared into the face of a man they'd just watched beaten to death.

The camera pulled back suddenly and Blackjack yanked Dean from the salt. "There's no way I'm letting you give up this easy." He tossed the smaller man to the floor, landing him next to a car battery. The camera didn't focus on it, making it hard to distinguish what was happening. All the audience saw was Blackjack dragging a pair of wires over Dean's chest. Sparks sizzled on his flesh and steam rose from the contact point… and Dean sprang to life, screaming from a parched dry throat.

He lay there, weakly coughing salt and blood. Blackjack prowled around him.

"Good man Dean. I knew you could pull through. You had us all scared for a minute. It looked like you'd died. Maybe you did. Maybe you still have. Death is more of a process than an event. Yours just isn't over yet."

Blackjack stepped away again, and walked over to the pile of money he'd set up. Blood spattered most of it. He dumped the contents of a gas can over the stack and looked back towards Dean.

"You didn't hold out. I thought you would have. You, who is tough enough to claim a submission victory over The Number Three." He scoffed, "Three would have considered this warming up. You don't deserve that accolade." He lit a match and tossed it on the money. The pile went up in a flash, flames flicking up to the ceiling, illuminating the rest of the room for the first time.

There was enough money that it would take a while before it all burned away, and there were multiple fire extinguishers stationed around the blaze.

Grabbing Dean by the wrist Blackjack drug him back towards the ring. Dean offered no resistance and Blackjack easily rolled him into the filthy ring again. He stopped halfway up on his way into the ring. Looking at the windows he grinned broadly.

"It's time for the end game Dean. The police are here. It'll take them a few minutes to bust in the doors. So we have time to finish this game."

Blackjack hopped into the ring, he pulled Dean upright to his knees. He faced Dean towards the old camera, and the feed changed again, following closely on Dean's face.

"Submit and die. Tell the world you're ready for death and I'll end it now. Quick. You won't even feel it." The tip of a blade pressed against the back of Dean's neck. "Give up."

Dean gasped, and spat salty blood. "******** you." His voice was hoarse and barely above a whisper. Tears streamed down his face.

The blade flashed so quickly the camera almost missed it. Blackjack raised his arm and struck down, stabbing Dean in the stomach. He yanked the blade out, blood giving it a metallic red sheen. "That's not asking." Dean groaned, and sobbed, blood was already looking at his ******** you!" He tried shouting but salt had shriveled up his throat.

The blade flashed again,

and again,

and again.

Blackjack stabbed Dean three more times, ensuring he had killed the man. Now it was just waiting for him to catch up. The final stab was punctuated with a twisting of the blade, the implement itself was left in his stomach.

"It's a foregone conclusion now. So what's it gonna be? Ask me and I'll end it now and quick." Blackjack reached two fingers into Dean's mouth and pulled back at the corner, stretching his mouth to its limits. "Or I can rip your face off!"

Dean gagged on blood that his body was forcing out through his esophagus. He looked into the camera, in the darkness, with the acrid smoke filling the room, he could see very little. But the large glass lense held his reflection. Fear and pain had consumed him. He couldn't believe Rosario had suggested he ever face this man.

Tears streamed down his cheeks flowing with the realization that he would never see his son, that these moments would be witnessed by the world; replayed endlessly for his son. The only saving grace in that thought was that the boy wouldn't last long without him. He wouldn't have to live with the horrors of seeing his father murdered live.

Dean broke in that moment, fully sobbing he nodded against the hand pulling painfully at his cheek. "Ki.. k.. kill me!"

Blackjack grinned, and laughed a booming barking laugh. He yanked hard and Dean's cheek tore. The sound of flesh tearing is horrifying. It's hard to describe as there is no other sound like it. Dean screamed in agony as an inch and a half long chunk of flesh from his mouth to his ear was torn open.

"Gladly! You heard it hear everyone. Dean Johnson.." Blackjack reached down and pulled the knife out, a chunk of lacerated tissue stuck in the clamped hilt. He raised the blade, poised to stab it into Dean's heart. He relished the moment, the wonder just before the kill.

A sense of calm and peace washed over Dean. His pain seemed to fade, at least it seemed much less important. At least his son wouldnt have to grow up without a father, he just wouldn't grow up. Dean couldn't have ever afforded the cost of his treatment; and despite Rosario's insistence, Dean couldn't exploit his fans for preferential treatment over other kids in the same condition.

But as the blade dropped towards his chest time seemed to slow for Dean. His son didn't have to die. There was a way. It was burning up, but there was a way. He could grow up!

Without thinking about it, Dean's arms came up and blocked Blackjack's strike. The blade tip stopped just past the point of piercing his skin. He shoved the arm away and, predictably, Blackjack raised his arm to strike again.

Summoning the will from the ethereal, Dean rose to his feet, hooked an arm around Blackjack's and spun on his heel spinning himself behind Blackjack.

The psychopath hadn't expected this much life in Dean. The brief moment of confusion and hesitation opened him up. Dean had one arm raised and trapped and quick as a flash Dean was behind Blackjack.

The struggle for Blackjack's other arm was harder. Somehow he had managed to throw the knife into that hand and proceeded to stab Dean several more times in the side. But the blade eventually fell away as an arm slid under his free arm. Dean was trying to lock in his signature full nelson.

He could feel his strength fading, he was bleeding even more now than he had after the lights. His guts felt like a mess, his core was wrecked, and everything still burned from the salt beating. He didn't have a choice. Even as Blackjack fought against him, struggling to pull his arms forward, Dean pulled them back reaching his hands together.

Blackjack's strength was phenomenal, it was overwhelming; it seemed like there was no end to it. Dean roared, tears and blood streaming down his body. Caked salt fell away as man struggled against monster. Dean's fingers brushed, and he felt that slip. Blackjack started winning, he thrashed back and forth; forcing Dean to hold on like a rodeo cowboy. Could he last another second, let alone eight?

It was here in this final moment, after he'd accepted death. He'd realized what and who he was. What mattered most in the world. A sharp inhale later and Dean cried out and faith a final effort clasped his hands together behind Blackjack's neck. He'd done it! But this was only the first step. The easiest part.

Now he had to hold on and break the will of a beast who would likely be enjoying the hold. He applied pressure but Blackjack still thrashed. Dean was going to lose his grip if this kept up. Blackjack ran him backwards into the barbed wire ropes. More barbs tore his flesh, blood gushed from his stomach and face. Dean held on.

He struggled and kicked his foot into the back of Blackjack's knee and the larger man dropped. Now Dean had all the leverage. He screamed in agony as his muscles tore themselves with the effort, but Dean cranked back on Blackjack's arms. "Submit!" He choked out through the salt and blood.

"I'll kill you!" Blackjack was screaming like a wild animal. He was stuck tight but he still fought. Dean had never in his life experienced this level of ferocity. He cra ked harder straining Blackjack's joints to the point that any more could shatter bone.

If that's what it takes!

"Tap you b*****d!"

"I'm going to rip you to pieces!"

There was an audible snap as a bone in Blackjack's shoulder broke. The bone came loose, his arm bent at an odd angle, and Dean's grip lost some of its torque.

Blackjack was screaming, words lost. His eyes were rolling wildly and he was foaming at the mouth. Dean clenched, and raised a leg up between him and Blackjack. He pressed his foot against the small of Blackjack's back and pulled, at this point he intended to rip the man's arms off. He pulled and pulled and Blackjack stopped struggling. Dean pulled and Blackjack stopped moving. Dean pulled and slowly noticed the sensation. The tapping sensation.

In a dreamlike state he looked up to see Blackjack's working hand tapping rapidly at his arm. Three quick taps, repeated, over and over.

It took him a moment to register what was happening. Then he dropped his hold, and Blackjack fell to the ground. The doors to the gym exploded inwards and dozens of armed men stormed into the room.

Dean staggered away, tripping through the ropes. Agony meant nothing to him anymore. Just his last singular goal. He found the pile of burning money. Shrugging the hands of cops off of his shoulders, Dean sprayed the fire with an extinguisher.

He passed out before he accomplished anything. Paramedics rushed to him in a daze, they worked feverishly to stem the bleeding. Someone did put the money out. But by then it was just a pile of smoldering ash.

Blackjack lay on his chest laughing as cops held automatic weapons drawn on him. Cuffs were being shackled to his wrist, one arm bent at an odd angle. He laughed like a lunatic, shouting incoherently.

"Wh 's th oof w De !"

The camera rattled, fell over, and then the broadcast ended… the show returned to its scripted content, and Grace and Kelley stared dumbfounded into a TV off screen..