Two shirtless men with taped hands circle each other under harsh fluorescent lights. They size each other up. The smaller man cracks his knuckles and twitches, looking for a weak point on his much larger opponent. His eyes are drawn to the stylized dragon tattoo on his opponent’s chest and the flames tattooed on the man’s forearms.


The old slaughterhouse is packed with well-dressed spectators and barely-dressed women, some arm-candy girlfriends, some pros and some working for the house collecting bets. Voices shout out their wagers in Russian, English, Chinese and several other languages lost in the chatter. The crowd lets out a collective cry of excitement as the larger man charges, spearing his smaller opponent to the concrete floor.

The smaller man connects with several punches to his opponent’s skull, but is pinned to the floor. The larger man breaks his nose with several punches, then grabs a fistful of the smaller man’s hair and begins pounding his skull into the concrete.

As his vicious assault continues, the crowd’s cheers gradually diminish to a few scattered cheers and screams. An older man almost as large as the fighter and carrying a pistol in his belt finally steps into the circle.

“Enough, it’s over!” he says loudly.

The larger fighter looks up, breathing heavily, his shaved head spattered with blood.

“He’s dead or dying, the match is over.”

The larger fighter lets go of his opponent’s limp body, which collapses to the floor, and stands, putting himself within inches of the older man’s face.

“When do I get my money?” the fighter asks.

“Shortly after you are declared the winner,” the man replies, and takes one of the fighter’s bloody hands, raising it.

“Your winner – Drakus!”

Behind them, two men drag away Drakus’ barely-breathing opponent. When he’s done posing for the crow, Drakus put a blood-stained hand on the older man’s shoulder, staining his expensive silk shirt, and whispers into the man’s ear.

“I’ll be in the back waiting for my money.”

***********************************************

Drakus sits in a dark living room watching his TV from the only chair. The flickering images illuminate his blank features. He flips aimlessly from channel to channel, until finally something catches his attention – an episode of TCW. His jaw clenches at the sight of Matt Strikmore in mid-promo.

“I'm Matt Strikmore. I'm the man who's had the Transcontinental Title more or less tattooed on his waist for the better part of two years. I'm the winner of the first ever Majestic Tournament. I've been in the ring with Darkness, Freya, Hawthorne, DeSean, David Hardy, Highone, Drakus, Titanium Insomniac, and several more. I walked into the ring with those names, and I walked out the winner. In my two years here, I've been pinned exactly once.”

A surge of anger floods through Drakus, and he tastes blood. After trying for a long time to forget life in the pro wrestling business, he suddenly finds himself desperately wishing to be back in the cameras’ eye.

Several months and broken bodies later, his wish is answered with a phone call.


***********************************************

CHINA

TCW security chief Russell Simmons and road agent Jason Fragg are waiting for Drakus backstage at one of several house shows before Extreme Measures.

“We all tried to tell Deng not to bring you back,” Fragg says. “We told him you were a dangerous psycho.”

“But I’m back anyway – I guess he doesn’t care.”

Drakus opens a locker and tries to hang up his jacket, but it’s slammed shut by Simmons.

“You and me need to lay down some ground rules,” Simmons says, looking down on Drakus and cracking his knuckles.

Drakus sneers and cracks his neck, rubbing the back of his shaved head.

“Don’t you get it? There are no rules for me.”

Simmons leans in close.

“There are as long as I’m here on your ass, and the first one is stay the hell away from Loop today.”

Drakus looks at Simmons and Fragg for a few seconds, then chuckles once.

“That piece of human chum they’re feeding me for the pay-per-view? I don’t need to soften him up. No, a few minutes in the ring, that’ll be enough. I’ll just see Strikmore’s face when I’m tearing him to pieces in front of millions of screaming fans.”

Fragg steps forward.

“Save your psycho trash talk for the ring, Drakus, and keep it all there. And don’t think you can hurt any of the boys out there like you do in those underground matches, not even the curtain jerkers, got it?”

Drakus cracks his neck again.

“The weak don’t deserve mercy.”

Fragg looks at Drakus, disgusted.

“That’s why it’s not up to you. Where’s your handler?”

“Old news – no one’s holding my leash anymore.”

“Don’t be so sure,” Simmons says. “We’ll be watching.”

Drakus spots Loop down the hall.

“You just watch me.”

The boy was thin, he had scars enough to pass for a rag doll. That he was missing an eye only completed the image. He held in his hands a bag that contained all of his possessions.

"I know why they've sent you."

Drakus didn't give a shit about the thoughts of the lamb. It was meat. Sheep always protested their fate, but walked into it all the same. "I could kill you in one move." An observation, not a threat. He nodded towards Simmons and Fragg. "Don't count on their protection. They're only keeping you alive for one reason, to make us money."

Loop thought it over. "Yeah, I guess you're right." His hand tightened, began to shake. Shit!

Drakus saw something wrong with the picture. The boy wasn't blinking. He stared with his one good eye, shaking. Fighting tears. His hand remained in his bag. He was trying to work up the courage...

Drakus leaned in close. Whispered. "Gun? Knife?"

"I'm not going to be a victim again."

"It looks like you are a victim. I don't know who got to you first, but they still have you, don't they?"

Loop couldn't answer. It was all true.

"This won't do, no, not at all. I don't want someone's sloppy seconds. I want you to be thinking of me, these next few days. I want to be the nightmare that keeps you up at night, the hallucination you see waiting around every corner - "

"Fuck you."

Simmons had been nervous this entire time watching them. The longer the moment lasted without an explosion, the more nervous he got. His conscience weighing in, telling him that they had crossed a line in booking this match. "Hey, Drakus, leave the kid alone."

Drakus ignored him. "And you're going to help me do that."

"What?"

The lamb hadn't said no. He was the perfect prey. So Drakus explained to him. "You're going to walk out of here with me. In exchange, I promise to take away all your old fears..."

Loop's finger squeezed the trigger of the gun.

"Better keep ahold of it. You don't want to know what I might do to you without it."

Loop released the pressure.

Looked up at the man, defeated. "Okay." A flatline whisper.

Fragg stepped over to them. "Do we have a problem here?" Simmons called security, told them to stand-by, but be prepared to take a man down.

"No...no problem." Said Loop. "No problem at all."

He walked out the door, with Drakus by his side.

All he could think about, was the promise Drakus had made.

New fears for old.

Could it be true?