Stream 1


A room filled with folding steel chairs, lit by strip lighting, has filled up over the last fifteen minutes. The bustling of agitated journalists fills the room with a low buzz. On the stage, front and center, a long table is dressed with a black tablecloth that hangs over the front like a ring apron. Stood on the table are placards running all along, advertisements for some of the worlds largest brands: Budweiser, Chevrolet, Pepsi…

A man walks onto the stage from behind the black curtain, which dangles from a small scaffold erected against the back wall. He leans into the microphone of the podium that sits on top of the table, front and center.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” he mumbles, “C.E.O of Entertaining Wrestling, Mister Ryan Johnson.”

Ryan bursts through the curtain, clearly expecting a round of applause. When none comes the spring leaves his step. He is dressed in a mid-grey tshirt with the ‘ew’ logo emblazoned across the front, a pair of light denim Levis jeans and some Asics trainers in white and blue. He clasps his hands together and rubs them, a smile plastered across his face, as he wonders towards the podium.

“Ladies and gentlemen, welcome, thanks for coming, take a seat…”

A few of the remaining journalists take their seats.

“Entertainment Wrestling, or ‘ew’ as people are calling it, is a large-scale, arena filling professional wrestling product. We have signed a sixteen episode deal with FOX in their prime time slot of 8pm, Monday evenings.”

Ryan glances down at the papers in front of him.

“Whilst certainly the production values match its largest competitor in terms of quality, the format is very much different. We will bring to our audience an exceptional product filled with drama, and that drama will push the athletic element of the programming, rather than the other way around.”

“We launch on Sunday, March 4th with our first live televised show, Stream.”

Ryan reaches down to the table and picks up a glass by its rim before taking a sip. He replaces the glass on the table.

“Stream is our fortnightly episodic programme. This will run for four shows before the 5th show is replaced with a Pay-Per-View event. The first of which is our debut Pay Per View, available for twenty five dollars, ‘Legends’. ‘Legends’ will see the culmination of some, and continuation of other dramatic stories both inside and outside of the ring.”

“I will now take any questions the press may have…”

As the first journalist is handed down the microphone Stream’s introductory sequence fades over the top, ending the press conference and beginning the show.



The music of the circus begins to play and on the stage appears a circus ringmaster. His long coattails are a crimson red, along with his suit pants and waistcoat. His crisp white shirt is open at the neck and he holds in his hands a cane and a white top hat. He presents his hat to the audience and theatrically flips the hat onto his head before turning his back on the audience and spreading his arms out wide. As he does a large mustachioed man in a leaped skin singlet walks out, his shoulders broad, his head bald. He flexes his arms just as a clown unicycles unsteadily onto the stage. He is followed by a gown-clad bearded lady and identical twins who are each juggling three bowling pins. The Entertainer turns back to the audience, a wide grin on his face, and starts to walk towards the ring, his circus following behind him.

Reaching the ring the entertainer takes the steel steps to the ring and his circus remain outside, spreading around the ring. The Entertainer steps through the ropes and is handed a microphone at the far side of the ring as the circus music fades.

“Roll up, roll up! For tonight the circus comes to town!”

The audience cheer.

“I am your Entertainer. And here, with me, my circus are here to amaze and astound each and every one of you here tonight!” He points out to the crowd a few times, “wonders of the world surround me for your entertainment and I am here to lead the circus in your honour.”

“Cast your eyes here upon the amazing juggling duo, Chad and Ernie!”

The Entertainer spreads his arm outwards, aiming his fingers towards the twins who, on the outside of the ring, burst into a brief but elaborate juggling routine, tossing their pins to each other and upwards into the sky. They complete their brief routine and turn out to the audience who cheers as the pair bow.




Sheriff Marshall, in his beige police outfit, places his nightstick and cuffs in his corner. His opponent, Surfer Loco, a young Luchadore dressed in skin tight blue lycra and a blue mask with wave-like wings flaring from each side looks worried already

The bell has barely been rung and Sheriff drives the side of his knee into the gut of Loco, who crouches over holding his stomach.  Without allowing his opponent a moment to catch his breath Sheriff clubs him across the back with a hard shot, sending Loco crashing to the ground.  Quickly, Sheriff is on the back of Loco, sitting him up into a CAMEL CLUTCH! Loco’s back is almost at a 90 degree angle! Loco is tapping out! The bell has sounded and this match is over already!

Sheriff Marshall looks releases the hold and drops Loco’s face to the mat. Loco is motionless, but Sheriff isn’t finished yet! He goes to his corner and grabs his handcuffs, which he holds in the air for the audience to see.  He is willing Surfer Loco back to his feet, waving his hand, goading his defeated opponent to get back up!  As Surfer struggles up to all fours Sheriff grabs him by the laces of his mask and yanks him to his feet. He snaps a cuff onto one wrist and pushes him against the ropes.  Sheriff pushes the arm over the top rope and cuffs it to the other wrist, around the ropes, so that Surfer Loco is chained to the ropes!

Sheriff is moving back to his corner now. He picks up his NIGHTSTICK! He moves back to a limp, breathless Surfer Loco and holds his chin up with the nightstick.  Sheriff is yelling in the face of his opponent, spit flying from his mustachioed mouth.  He pulls the nightstick from under the chin of Loco and SMASHES HIM IN THE HEAD! A nightstick shot, straight to the center of Loco’s forehead and Loco’s body goes limp!

Sheriff STILL isn’t finished with his opponent! He takes a few steps back and charges at Loco, driving the edge of the nightstick deep into the ribs of his opponent, who slouches forwards, falling to his knees. He is held up only by his limp arms, which are shackled to the ropes by the handcuffs.  Sheriff holds the nightstick in the air proudly, the audience boo him loudly.  He does not appear to have any emotional response to that of the audience.  He returns to his limp opponent and the referee dives in between them telling Sheriff Marshall that Loco has had enough, but Sheriff shoves the referee to the ground!

Sheriff again holds his opponents head up with the nightstick, but Surfer Loco is out cold, his entire body is limp! Sheriff uses his spare hand to SLAP Surfer Loco! No response. Loco simply drops off the nightstick and slouches into a heap, falling from his knees to his back, his arms twisted, facing upwards to the top rope.  The referee again puts himself between Sheriff and Loc–BAM! The referee takes a shot to the face from Sheriff’s nightstick! The referee falls out of the ring and Sheriff takes a long, slow glance at his unconscious opponent before turning, and raising his nightstick into the air victoriously.

Sheriff Marshall picks up a controversial but emphatic victory tonight over Surfer Loco!


On the big screen above the entrance a video starts to play.  A patient is lying on a dentist’s chair, the large light bulb shining in her face.  Her mouth is open wide and tears are trickling down the side of her face, tickling her lightly tanned skin.  Leaning over her, the curled hair of a dentist covers the tools the dentist is about to use.  A loud whirring drill pierces the ears of the patient as the broad shouldered dentist inserts his tool with precision.

She screams a genuine blood curdling scream as the dentist goes to work in her mouth.  Her knuckles turn white as she grips the side of the chair, then her arms flail around.  She is pushing the dentist, her muffled screaming changes from sound to instruction.  “STOP!” she is screaming, “HELP!” she begs.

But no help comes, and her attempts at escape are hopeless. The dentist is a broad shouldered, tall man. Between that, and the small amount of Novocaine in her system, she doesn’t stand a chance. Eventually she faints. The drill whirrs in her unconscious ears until the dentists work is done.  At which point the dentist lays his tools down, snaps off his gloves and turns from the now noticeably paler patient, cackling.

His teeth, bent out of shape, disfigured, and brown with discolouration, his safety goggles cover mismatched eyes – one a sharp green, the other without pigment at all.  His curled brown hair is overgrown and unkempt, and his Smock is covered in blood.

“Ee-Dubyah,” he says through his softening cackle, which now subsides, “Next week, you have an appointment with Doctor Extractum. Don’t worry now…” his voice trails, he looks up at his office ceiling.  The lights flicker. Then, the room is lit only by the light bulb above the dentists chair. A light warm orange glow backlights the doctor and illuminates the blood-spattered pale face of his unconscious patient.

“You won’t feel a thing.” he snarls.


Both Rhian Blake and Vigour meet face to face in the ring, the two men lock eyes – trying to measure each other up before the bell rings. The referee separates both men, standing in between them as he lays down the rules of the matchup. A traditional singles matchup that ends by either pinfall or submission, with a lack of tolerance for cheating. The referee forces both men into their corners. Blake fixes his mask on tightly in his corner. Vigour leans against the turnbuckle in his corner and looks up at the glaring lights above. The bell rings.

Both men rush forward at each other – and it’s Rhian Blake who takes the upper hand as he strikes a Calf Kick. Blake leaps to his feet and lets out a roar towards the crowd. Blake turns around and is instantly met with a strong uppercut that sends him stumbling backwards into the corner of the ring. Vigour makes his approach towards Blake who springs up and leaps at him,hooking his arm around the head of Vigour. He lands a Tornado DDT! But Vigour spikes the landing and flips back onto his feet, giving a mocking bow towards the kneeling Blake.

As Blake rises to his feet, Vigour strikes a Buzzsaw Kick sending a groggy Rhian Blake against the ropes. Blake bounces off and walks right into another Buzzsaw Kick sending him sprawling out across the floor. Vigour begins to move in for the pin – but Blake rolls out of the ring and clutches the back of his head whilst leaning against the barricade for support. Vigour slides out of the ring as the referee begins to make his count. The crowd are in suspense as Vigour charges towards Blake.

Blake ducks and flips Vigour over the barricade into a swarm of fans and chairs – the clattering of his body against the chairs echoing loudly. Rhian Blake rolls back into the ring as the referee continues his count. The referee reaches the count of 6 when Vigour rises and leaps over the barricade and onto the apron and then springboards into the air… and hits a Springboard Hurricanrana onto Rhian Blake! He hooks the leg for a quick pin, the ref dives to ground and begins the count! ONE… TWO… KICKOUT! Blake lays sprawled out as Vigour rises to his feet, looking at the top rope with temptation.

Vigour begins to ascend and looks down at Blake with a smile. Vigour goes for a Double Rotation Moonsault! But Blake gets his legs up! Vigour crashes into the knees and shins of Rhian Blake and springs to his feet clutching his ribs, stumbling around the ring before flopping to the floor and writhing in pain. Vigour sits against the corner and begins to take a breather as Blake rises to his feet. Rhian Blake points towards the downed Vigour and breaks into a sprint – Hesitation Dropkick! Blake begins pump his fist in the air and hauls Vigour to his feet,hitting him with a chop across the chest and pushing him to the corner again.

Blake climbs on top and hooks his arm around the head of Vigour. He leaps off the top turnbuckle. Tornado Stun Gun! Vigour clutches his head and throat. Rhian Blake hops to the top turnbuckle. Blake leaps off looking to hit his finisher – the Top Rope Curbstomp, but Vigour leaps out the way and Blake lands on his feet. Buzzsaw Kick from Vigour! Vigour hooks the arms of Rhian Blake and pulls his head between his legs, hitting the Grand Delusion. Vigour quickly covers Blake. ONE… TWO… THREE!

Vigour has achieved a strong victory over Rhian Blake today. But this certainly will not be the last time these two high flyers butt heads in the ring.


There is tension in the air as Rhian Blake stands, hands on hips, shaking his head slightly. The crowd can be heard in the main arena, but they are dulled by the thick concrete walls, making the atmosphere feel muted. Kerry-Ann Steed, the backstage interviewer, holds a microphone and has one finger to her left ear. She nods and drops the finger to her side.

“You join me backstage, where I am joined by Rhian Blake,” she starts, motioning to him with her free hand. “Rhian, you’ve just taken part in your first eW match, where things seemed pretty even between you and your opponent, Vigour.”

Blake picks the microphone from her hand with a sharp tug and looks at her intensely. “Do you really think so?” he asks. “Because you must have been watching a completely different match to the one I recall.” Kerry-Anne, brushes her fringe to one side, looking awkward without the mic in her hand.

“No, what happened is I dominated that match and Vigour got a fluke win. There is no way he could beat me on a level playing field. Maybe he cheated. He probably did. I mean just look at him, the degenerate. He only dyes his hair bright red because it’s a way for him to get noticed. Just like his cheating in our match. He fades in with his background otherwise.”

He stops for a second to take a breath. “It’s true.” He continues, now peering straight down the camera. “He is a nobody, an average joe. If he had normal hair you wouldn’t know him from a stranger on the street. He doesn’t deserve to be in that ring and he certainly didn’t deserve the win today.”

Rhian relinquishes the microphone, and Kerry-Ann takes it back. She doesn’t waste a second and interjects with another question. “Are you saying you were beaten by a rookie?” she asks, deadpan face. “Doesn’t that make you a rookie too?”

“No!” Blake retorts, quickly. “And I’ll prove it. He might be a rookie but I am a legend, and I will be going straight to the office after this interview to speak to those who make things happen. Me versus Vigour at Legends. Then we will see if he still has that stupid grin on his face.”

Before she can say anything else, Blake is gone.

“Well, ladies and gentleman, it looks like we have already got some competition on our hands, and maybe our first match for the upcoming Pay-Per-View, and the first show isn’t even over yet!”


“Maaaaan, this burrito is too hot!”

Ethan Rose, Great Grandson of the legendary Phoenix Rose, walks down a corridor backstage. Crew are scattered around, large metal boxes carrying heavy equipment line the white walls of the lengthy, well lit corridor.

Ethan is wearing his trademark rose tinted round glasses, a tshirt that reads “#DTF”, and his black flame covered tights and boots. He is eating a burrito straight from the foil and he isn’t enjoying it.

A man who is used to living every moment of his life with the expectation of perpetual immediate gratification, the burrito being too hot to enjoy without delay was a tiresome ordeal.  Therefore, he tossed it over his shoulder, to the ground, where it made a heavy splat.

Unfortunately, before making contact with the ground, it made contact with the chest of Sheriff Marshall, who had been following closely behind.  The sound of the heavy splat was not, as was originally thought, the floor. Rather, it was the sound of a burrito hitting a large, angry, weapon carrying cop.

Ethan turned slowly to see the reddening face of The Sheriff.

“Ah– Ehh– Uh…” Ethan held up a finger, then put it down again, “Soz?” he apologised.

Half a second later, Ethan was slammed against the corridor wall, a nightstick under his chin, followed shortly afterwards by the spit of a man with, in Ethan’s opinion, the wrong jawline for a moustache.

“You littering punk! You’re gonna do some hard labour to put this crime right! Now you pi–”

Suddenly Sheriff Marshall began to bleed.

He had felt a sharp pain in the back of his head, heard a loud crack, fallen to the floor and as his eyes closed he was certain of it now, he was definitely bleeding.

Standing over him is an old man with hair too thin to sport the ponytail that clung to the top of his head like a cat clings to a cat box to avoid a trip to the vets.  He is wearing a maroon three piece suit, a crisp white shirt, and a skinny red tie.  In his hand, leant across his shoulder, is a glass cane.  He is the great grandfather of Ethan Rose. Phoenix.

“Cheers Pops!” Ethan beams, hugging his great grandfather.

“No thaaaang like a chicken wang*, my little man!” Phoenix exclaims back, taking his grandson around the shoulders and leading him up the corridor.

*He meant wing.



Flanagan drunkenly dawdles behind partner, Conan Doherty, en route to the ring.  In stark contrast, Damon Somner executes several star jumps and Greg Matthews does the Farmer’s Walk.

Conan takes the initiative for his team, which disappoints fans who want to see the likeable Flanagan start.  Damon starts off, much to Greg’s annoyance, though a Side Headlock keeps his more powerful partner onside momentarily.

Damon is in control with the Headlock, though Conan shoves him off into the northern set of ropes and Damon’s Crossbody Block is promptly countered with a Slingshot Backbreaker.

Rather than give into fans’ wishes to see Flanagan, Conan presses home the Irish advantage with a Kneedrop and a Diving DDT, extracting a 2-count following the latter.

Eventually, Doherty makes way for Flanagan, whose first thought is to set Somner up for a Vertical Suplex.  Unfortunately, the Irishman dizzies himself with Damon in mid-air and Somner lands on his feet, able to punish the ill-advised tactic with a Drop Toehold and a tag to the stronger Matthews.

Greg bowls in and puts the boots to Flanagan, stunning an already lit-up Irishman, before plonking him over his shoulder and scoring with a Smith-esque Running Powerslam that Flanagan barely kicks out of.

Matthews runs through his repertoire of Suplexs in the following order:  Gutwrench, Deadlift German, Belly-to-Belly and T-Bone to soften the out-of-it European massively.  Surprisingly, a cover isn’t forthcoming and a flexing of the muscles doesn’t draw the praise and approval the 6’4 brickhouse is craving.

Matthews tags Damon back in and the first thing ‘The Engine’ does is go for the cover, though Doherty is on hand to prevent what appears to be a definite debut defeat.

Doherty implores the audience to get behind his suffering other half, which they willingly complied with.

In the meantime, Damon not only builds on Greg’s handiwork, but also starts his own project by working over the pisshead’s arm, turning a standard Hammerlock into a slam, complementing that with a Single Arm DDT.  Thereafter, Somner slows the pace down further still with an elementary Armbar.

Buoyed by the crowd, Flanagan fights back with fists to the breadbasket before being cut off by a thumb to the eye that earned Damon a telling-off.

However, Damon gives Flanagan some space to change the contest’s complexion with a DDT.

From there, a race to the corner ensues with Somner safely getting home to Greg.  Matthews can shift for a guy of 270 pounds and he kills two birds with the proverbial stone, knocking Doherty off the apron and out of the game and preventing Flanagan from making a much-needed tag.  In fact, the energy drains out of the arena in that moment.

It’s one-way traffic here on in.  Matthews tags to Damon and Somner scales the turnbuckles as Matthews readies Flanagan into the Electric Chair position.  Damon completes the RUNNER’S High combination with a nasty Neckbreaker to wrap up a convincing victory for Health Fanatics.


“Golden” Allan Miller, a third generation superstar stands in the center of the ring. He finishes tightening the belt on his long, ornate red sequined gown and flicks his thick, long golden hair back over his shoulders with the back of his hand.  The crowd are quietening down, waiting to hear what the unquestionable legend of professional wrestling has to say on his arrival to ew.

“Thank you, thank you…” he grins into the microphone, flattered by the reception he has received on his way to the ring. “It’s ju-”

‘Gol-den-Boy! Gol-den-Boy! Gol-den-Boy!’ the fans chant, interrupting Allan’s train of thought.  He allows the hand holding his microphone to drop to his side and he chuckles to himself before rubbing his face.  Soon enough the chant simmers to a quiet murmur.

“It’s just such a great honour to be here in front of you all.” he begins, gesturing out into the audience, “you know, all those years ago when I first started out, I had no idea how this was all going to turn out.  How you would all react to me, whether I could live up to your expectations.”

The crowd cheer lightly to indicate he has lived up to their expectations.

“I admit, I admit…” he continues, holding his palm out to the crowd, “I had a head start on a lot of the guys in the back. My dad being who he was, and my grandad too… They gave me a leg up, I admit.  But over the years this business has changed. It has grown into a spectacle. Evolved into a huge enterprise. A multi-billion dollar industry.  And over the years I’ve worked in the professional wrestling industry I’ve been fortunate enough to work with some of the all-time greats.  And that’s because of you.” he points out into the crowd, who cheer for themselves, “you guys.  And I am so thankful for you all. Each and every week you buy a ticket, you go to the merch–”

Suddenly the lights in the arena are switched off. Even the microphone that Allan is holding stops working. Suddenly, and without warning, there is nothing.

A few moments pass, the audience are silent, then Symphony of Destruction by Megadeath begins to play through the arenas speakers. A single spotlight illuminates the stage and a man, a giant, steps forward. His skin is ice-white, and he is wearing a black mast, a black t-shirt with a red ‘V’ sprayed over the chest, sleeves cut off to show off his huge arms. Then, a moment later a frail, older man steps out with thick-glassed spectacles. His hair is slicked back and white as well as a gray beard that reaches down and touches his chest. He wears a white button-down shirt and black pants. The two stand at the top of the ramp for a few seconds, motionless, expressionless. Then another spotlight clicks on. It illuminates “Golden” Allan Miller, who is still stood in the center of the ring but is now looking up the ramp at the beast and his handler.

Above the man’s head, the screen comes to life. In dark red writing it reads


Vorbote and his handler leave the spotlight and a moment later they enter the spotlight of Allan.  Vorbote’s hands immediately grasp the throat of Allan and he is lifted into the air.  Allan’s legs kick and flail as his face reddens.  Then the spotlights go out.

After a few seconds the arenas lights light up. Vorbote is standing over Allan, who is on the ground, his face still red, gasping for air. His eyes widen as he looks up at the monster looming over him.

Allan bends his knees and leans up on his elbows. He backs away from Vorbote by pushing himself across the canvas with the soles of his boots.  His hands are raised and he is talking to Vorbote.  Soon he finds himself in a corner. He sits up, his hands still raised. Then he stands.  He extends a hand out to Vorbote and beams his smile.

Vorbote smashes Allan in the face, sending him back into the corner. Vorbote quickly goes to work with right and left hooks to Allan’s face, busting his nose open with one of the very first shots!

As Allan slides down the turnbuckles Vorbote begins to stomp on Allan’s chest. Allan is slumped in the corner, blood gushing from his nose, across his lips and chin. Some blood stains the feather trim around his red gown.  Vorbote takes a few steps back.  Vorbote’s handler screams in his ear, pointing at Allan.  Vorbote charges, smashing his knee into the bloodied nose of Allan, who topples to one side, limp.

Vorbote stands over Allan, looking down at him in silence.  Over his shoulder, his handler gives him further instructions.  He lifts Allan up to his feet and again grabs him around the throat with both hands.  He lifts Allan into the air and hits him with a double handed chokeslam into the corner!  Allan stumbles out and Vorbote hoists him into the air, high above his head! He drops Allan to the ground in a heap! GLATTEIS! GORILLA PRESS SLAM!

Allan is motionless, lying flat on his back, his rope hanging open, blood down his face and chest.

From the sides of the ramp EMTs rush towards the ring, a stretcher in tow.  Some referees slide into the ring and stand between Vorbote and his handler, and the unconscious and bloodied legend, “Golden” Allan Miller.



Vorbote stands in the ring with his gigantic arms folded across his chest. His handler, Doctor Schwender, stands on the apron with a devious grin as he points across the ring. Standing there is Shayne Walker who is jumping up and down to get himself prepped for the battle ahead. Vorbote’s eyes are visibly boring a hole through his opponent across the ring. Shane removes his shirt and throws it aside as he tries to get the crowd invested.

The bell sounds as Vorbote steps towards the center of the ring and beckons for Walker to join him there. Walker seemingly gulps as he steps towards the towering figure standing before him. A moment of nothing as they just stare at each other. Vorbote reaches up a hand with a slight chuckle as he tries to engage this test of strength. Walker reaches up to interlock his fingers and does, only to instantly regret it! Vorbote unleashes all of his strength into the hold as Walker’s eyes light up in pain as his other hand clutches his own wrist in pain.

Vorbote yanks Walker in close before hoisting him up before drilling him into the mat with a vicious spinebuster! Shayne Walker rolls over to the ropes and begins pulling himself up as Vorbote just smirks down at him. Walker bounces off the ropes with a head of steam before leaping up with a huge dropkick! Vorbote is blasted backwards a step or two as his head turns to Walker with a glare. Shayne gets back to his feet only to be flattened by a fierce clothesline! Walker bends over backwards, but Vorbote just yanks him right back up and sends him into the corner.

AVALANCHE! A huge body splash in the corner as the entire size of Vorbote eclipses the body of Shayne Walker who just collapses to the mat in a slump. Vorbote lifts him up and raises him up above his head before walking around the ring with poor Shayne Walker elevated in a gorilla press position. HE THROWS HIM ONTO THE TOP ROPE! Shayne lands across the top rope long-wise before letting out a cough of pain. The Bringer of Death points at Shayne before lumbering towards him and raising a boot! BIG BOOT! Walker is sent off the top rope and to the floor below!

Vorbote raises his hands in victory as Shayne Walker is laid out on the outside of the ring! The Bringer of Death steps over the top rope and to the outside. He steps down and lifts up the dead weight of Shayne Walker before slamming his head into the apron! He rolls him into the ring and climbs back in. Walker is barely responding at this point as Vorbote wraps his meaty hands around the throat of Walker and hoists him into the air before sending him into the corner with a chokeslam! THE BLUE DEATH! Walker’s momentum carries him out of the corner and into the arms of Vorbote who lifts him high again for a gorilla press… SLAM! GLATTEIS! Shayne Walker isn’t budging as Vorbote finally puts his boot across his chest. One…Two…THREE!

The Bringer of Death proved himself as just that as the broken body of Shayne Walker isn’t moving with the exception of shallow breathing. Doctor Schwender steps into the ring and raises his creation’s hand into the air as Vorbote just stares straight into the souls of the audience.



Doctor Schwender reaches up to put his hand on the shoulder of Vorbote. He speaks into the ear of the beast who turns his head to look at his handler.  The doctor nods.

Vorbote turns to face the ramp, steps over the top rope, and marches with purpose towards the curtain, followed by his handler.  He rips back the curtain and storms into the gorilla area. Ryan Johnson is sat behind a desk, headset over his ears as Vorbote rushes through the area. He tosses his headset on the desk and rushes over to Vorbote.

“What are you doing? Stop. Stop! Vorbote, St–!”

Vorbote slams his elbow into the face of Ryan Johnson, who slaps against the floor, his forehead torn open and blood seeping down his face immediately.  Vorbote has just knocked ew’s CEO out cold with one devastating blow!

Officials rush out of doors up and down the corridor begging Vorbote to stop, but Vorbote has one destination in mind, and nobody can stop him.  He continues down the hall, a muffle group of voices grow louder as Vorbote silently strides the corridors, down a concrete ramp, and into the parking lot of the arena. An ambulance comes into view further down the parking lot, and EMTs are loading the back of the ambulance with a gurney on which “Golden” Allan Miller is strapped. The EMTs rush out of the way and Vorbote palms a couple of officials to one side.  The gurney is half in the ambulance, the EMTs have dropped it at such an angle that Allan is leaning at a 45 degree angle, looking right into the eyes of Vorbote and Doctor Schwender. The doctor gives his orders, “Finish him off!”, and Vorbote charges from a distance of a dozen footsteps, hitting a running splash onto the gurney, which then rolls and collapses to the floor of the parking lot, taking both men with it.

Vorbote rolls to his feet and looks down at his groaning nemesis. He launches his huge body into the air and hits a big splash! Back to his feet again and he and his handler look around the sides of the gurney. A few clicks later and the gurney is raised back up so that it can be pushed by Vorbote against the concrete pillar a distance up the parking lot.  As Vorbote positions the gurney the engine of the ambulance starts.  It’s Doctor Schwender behind the wheel! He is laughing maniacally as the wheels spin on the ambulance and it charges towards the concrete support pillar, and “Golden” Allan Miller.

Just in time, an EMT returns, shoving the gurney out of the way. It rolls across the parking lot and tips over onto its side as the ambulance slams, at speed, into the concrete pillar! The siren drones quietly as Vorbote surveys the scene before him. He seems conflicted for a moment. Will he rush to the aid of his handler, or finish the job they started together?

He heads over to the gurney but as he looks down but sees only a few trickles of blood.  “Golden” Allan Miller was gone.


* * *


DDS – Sc00t
LEGENDS & GIANTS – Sc00t & The Raddmann!
WRATH – sc00t