Serbia. May 20xx. 0115 hours.

*The body lies flat in the snow. A dark red puddle has formed beneath him & melted the snow. Two of the three Serb guards approach with caution. The 3rd one would have been wise to follow suit. He kicks the dead American's boot. It flops from one side to the other where it remains still. The brash Serbian laughs out loud.*

Serb1-Watch this.

*As he shoulders his gun, he reaches down for the fly on his pants. Lowering the zipper & sticking his hand into his pants, he suddenly shrieks as the 12 inch long titanium blade is jammed through his hand & into his crotch. He drops to his knees as the formerly dead, now seated upright American solider pulls the knife from the Serb's flesh & jams it straight up through the lower jaw, past the tongue & into the skull & brain. The screaming instantly stops. With the strap still over the soliders shoulder, the American pulls at the stock, tilts the weapon & ducks his head, snapping off a shot that pierces the skull dead center on the 2nd serb, killing him instantly. The 3rd guard drops his weapon & runs away screaming. The American solider pulls his knife from the 1st guard & sheaths it. He rolls onto his stomach, pulling his rifle up from the snow & sights it up. He counts in his head for 10 seconds, then cracks off a shot. The 3rd guard falls dead before his face touches the powder.*

Now

*Scott Jones rolls down the road in his Jeep wearing a pair of cargo shorts & a sleevless shirt. His sunglasses reflect the rays that are bombarding his eyes. The windows & roof are out. His knapsack rests on the seat next to him. The warm sun & even warmer breeze cause his skin to shine in this midday moment. As he pulls up to a red light, his cell phone blurts out a text message.*

Acolyte v Scott Jones v Titanium Insomniac-Home Depot match

*Scott furls his brow & returns his sunglasses to his eyes as the light changes to 'go'. He shifts & pulls from the line.*

"Not sure who Acolyte is. Titanium Insomniac was a complete badass back in the day. Have to see if he's still got it. And we're having our match in a Home Depot? This is slightly odd, but it should be a fun second match for me."

*Scott rolls down the road, pulling away from the traffic.*

"I guess it's time to meet my opponents. Hope they aren't as...high maintenance as Dimes."

-------Just a short one to get started. Sorry--------

Endgame. The crowd is still hot following the return of one of their...well, one can't really say "favorites." "Most confounding." "Most intriguing." Come up with your own. Nevertheless, he hasn't lost their reaction. He knows that. And so do the men now swirling around him, patting him on the back and congratulating one another as they head back through the curtain.

Now that he's out of the view of the crowd, Titanium Insomniac loses some of his smirk and swagger. The rest of Infinity is just beginning to show theirs. At any moment, it's hard to judge who the real TI is. Is it the arrogant intellectual snob now once again immortalized on the Endgame DVD, or is it the brooding loner now creeping back into view, largely out of the public eye? He'd struck fear into others with either one once upon a time. Infinity obviously has some confidence that he still can.

Highone: That couldn't have gone any better, man. That was a great way to make a splash back in the game.

TI: My reputation precedes me, Highone. But memory only serves itself. People can't merely remember, they need to re-live.

Shadow: Well, you've got the backing for it now, my friend. Say the word, and whatever resources you need are at your disposal.

TI stops. Somewhat perplexed, the others slow to see what's going on. Hardy keeps walking until Highone gives a loud, "Psst!" Somewhat embarrassed, Hardy moves back in close. TI is staring right into Shadow, who is unsure of what's coming. The smirk returns to TI's face.

TI: A penthouse, a case of Cristal, and a list of the all-night hotspots in town.

A big toothy grin appears on Shadow's face.

Shadow: I love this guy. You'll get it by the end of the show.

The group resumes its celebration back down the hall to the locker room. The Insomniac is still smirking. Time to get back to doing what he does best...
_____________________

Some five months ago, Dr. Scott Daniels peered over his spectacles at his most famous and most inflammatory patient. He still wore all black. He still had little to no sense of propriety when it came to sharing his feelings. But the mask was gone...burned in a small effigy and forgotten, as he and his patient both wanted it. And yet, he was still here, still occupying that chair for an hour every week...well, most weeks...and no explanation for the no-shows.

On this particular afternoon, The Insomniac seemed angry, as if someone had tried to pick a fight with him mere moments before the session began. TI picked at the edge of the chair's arm, at first absent-mindedly but then with an increased furor and determination, as if he wanted to skin the leather off. Daniels watched this go on for 15-20 minutes with fascination and worry. He didn't make any notes, lest he might miss something.

Without missing a moment of his task, TI spoke...

TI: I'm having a little bit of an issue right now.

SD: An issue?

TI: Okay, not an issue. A...revelation that has taken me back into memories that I thought I'd resolved for myself. Except this time, I view the whole thing with new eyes. Maybe that's an issue after all.

SD: That sounds like an issue. It's a blanket term, it applies.

TI: All right. Fine.

Ti continued to work at the chair arm. Daniels was concerned about the cost, both for re-upholstering and for what this was a sign of to him personally.

SD: What memories? And what revelation?

TI stopped picking and looked straight at Daniels.

TI: What fucking memories do you think?

Daniels had no answer. He could have guessed. He just wanted confirmation.

SD: So...a return to the drinking, the long nights, the smoking?

TI: What makes you think any of that ever stopped?

TI resumed his picking. Daniels resumed his peering. It would be like this for the rest of the hour. Daniels expected as much. This patient took a long time to fully confront his "issues." One step at a time, no matter how small, was a step in the right direction. This was a breakthrough in its own way. TI would leave, Daniels would finally make some notes, and it would start over in 167 hours.
___________________

"Yo ho, yo ho, a killer's life for me..."

Okay, so Scott Jones would never actually sing that. Well, actually...maybe he would. But that's for him to tell you. And to Titanium Insomniac, he seems more like the type of guy who, if you did on the off-chance hear him singing it, it'd be the last thing you heard before your ears got ripped off.

So instead, TI is perfectly content not to hear such a song and instead takes in the pulsing beat the DJ puts down. The scene could induce a seizure to the unsuspecting: lights manically dancing in what is an otherwise dimly lit fortress doing its best to keep everything INside, rather than out. The sweat of wall-to-wall grinding bodies is a unique aroma, and in this culture you either get used to it-even come to savor it-or you get out.

TI is not the most familiar, but he knows enough not to question it...at least not now. There are more pressing concerns at hand. Amidst the anonymity of the crowd, two men lean against the bar: one a calm, former Marine with a ruthless cold streak, the other a calm, painted nightowl with a ruthless cold streak. Those around them barely take a second look, even with TI's face. Just another one of the freaks out for the evening. He can live with that.

Jones is very aware of The Insomniac's presence. He sips his drink, and without even looking over...

SJ: I hadn't expected to meet up with you so soon.

TI: I hadn't expected to find you in a place like this.

SJ: It's not a frequent occurance. How'd you find me, anyway?

TI: You'd be surprised what I'm capable of.

SJ: Yeah, well, prepare to be surprised yourself. You and Acolyte both.

TI: ...Who?

SJ: Acolyte. The other guy in our match.

TI: ...Oh. Sure. Listen, let's focus on us right now, Scotty...

The blade is right on SJ's ankle. Just for that, he could cut off this clown's nose and add a dash of red to his ridiculous silver face...

TI: ...I can appreciate a guy with a temperament like yours. How wonderful to let loose, even in a room full of people. But what's harder to pin down is your motivation...make a move here, and you're an exhibitionist. Make a move in the alley out back, and you do it for vengeance without any questions to answer. Wait until the ring calls for you, and you're simply a performer.

Now me...I'm an artist. Sure, it's a lot of fun doing what I do. But as much as I get the personal satisfaction of watching people squirm in the throes of their own self-realization, it is the act of creativity that gets my blood pumping. I can't say that I've ever had to work with a borderline sociopath, so this will be a tad...different. But make no mistake...what you do to satisfy a craving, I do to make you throw up at the mere thought of what you crave.

And really...well...I guess that WILL be fun. I love a challenge.

"There signs, lamentations and loud wailings resounded through the starless air, so that at first it made me weep; strange tongues, horrible language, words of pain, tones of anger, voices loud and hoarse, and with these the sound of hands, amde a tumult which is whirling through that air forever dark, as sand eddies in a whirlwind."

Get set for the wailing to begin.

Jones has had enough of this. He turns back down to his ankle, but that's all his guest needed to slink through the crowd. Jones turns back to his drink, muttering into the glass for his missed opportunity. It shouldn't be hard to track him down. In fact, Jones would wager that his trenchcoated antagonist wanted to be found...

"Sweet dreams are made of this
Who am I to disagree?
Travel the world and the seven seas
Everybody's looking for something
Some of them want to use you
Some of them want to get used by you
Some of them want to abuse you
Some of them want to be abused

Sweet dreams are made of this"

The words, lyrics, and instruments of Marilyn Manson's cover of 'Sweet Dreams' whizzed through the wiring in Acolyte's 4 gig iPod into the headphones and straight into his head.

It has always been his favorite Manson song. It's especially cool to listen to when you did exactly the title of the track. It was a "Sweet Dream" to be the only
person to have a match with Infinity, at EndGame, and win.

Of course, some okay alot of credit goes to the "Phenomenal One" AJ Styles. But that's a minor detail, not like Acolyte brought AJ in or anything.

Wrestling was a always a good reliever to get your mind off of tragic things like deaths and diseases, and just focus on putting your all out on the line.

Or sometimes that can be a bad thing and you might forget that you're the body guard for the New World Heavyweight Champion, but it didn't because seriously, you're never THAT focused on something.

Selenia joked once to Dante that Acolyte was his good luck charm.

But all three knew that was complete bullshit, it was just a good thing to say at the time.

Anyways it was not only beating an Infinity member that made the victory so tasteful for Acolyte, it was DeSean Blackwell that he beat.

The man who proclaimed him as "Captain Emo" over the airwaves of nation wide satellite and that he wrote in an online journal/blog, but once again crap- Acolyte
never even logged onto MySpace.

One valueable thing that Aco carried over from his experience in Ghetto Grass was that, don't try to be cool, just do what is cool (to you).

And that's what he's done, just been himself. If he's ever had to make a decision it was always his own....

Like signing a six figure DanteCorp contract, that was all him.

**At the moment Acolyte is just sitting on a street side bench with his white colored (nano) iPod with 587 songs to keep him company. He can afford the 60 gig one
but he likes to save his money.**

But let's back track back to the part about "doing your own thing". Well yesterday at a minor house show stop in Miami Beach Acolyte felt like people didn't know a funnyside of him.....Well maybe he doesn't really have one so I guess you could say that he wasn't being himself, after he saw a commercial for 'Nacho Libre'.

~ 24 Hours Ago~

Sammy: "Ladies and gentlemen I'd like to introduce to your first competitor of the match, Lionsmane!!!!! And his opponent..."

The music to Armor For Sleep's "Car Underwater" blares out the house speakers and everyone including Sammy Eubanks are bewildered as to what the fuck is going on.

Then a man with a pure black mask and a red cape, with a black shirt that has three letters on it:

"E.M.O." appears.

**The ring announcer looks like he's getting a live feed in his earpiece**

Sammy: "And hailing all the way from "Sorrow City, USA", Capitán Emoción!!!"

**For you illiterate types that's Espanol for "Captain Emotion"....I cannot find the tape for that particular match, but I'm sure it was awesome.**

~Present~

As the 'Currently playing song' changes from Manson, it switches to GNR's "Sweet Child O Mine." And Aco-man takes this oppurtinity to look at fixtures he printed out for Friction:

Home Depot Three way: Scott Jones vs Titanium Insomniac vs Acolyte.

"What the hell, home depot?"

Was his first thought.

His best guess was that he had to pick up two of the guys standing outside it and take them back to the ring before the other guys.

But who knows?

[Acolyte thinks] Well time to go find those guys. What's the best place I should look for two wrestlers.......a club of course!

The guitars grinding in his ears, the drums jarring his jawbone, Acolyte is hitting his groove with the help of his earpiece. It sets the tone for the evening, or at least he wants it to. An impending confrontation with his two opponents needs a little warm-up music before he unleashes his plan. Whatever that plan might be is only known to him...and he's too preoccupied with 'Symphony of Destruction' to let you in on the deal.

So the evening begins for him, after a perplexing text message about his match. The possibilities for a bout framed by Home Depot rules...he's intrigued, to say the least. At least one of his opponents is as well. In an age where ladder matches have lost their novelty due to such frequency and the table shot now an almost daily occurance in most promotions, at least the bookers are getting more creative, right?

Home Depot. What, like bring your own chainsaw?

Be the first to hang your opponents from ceiling fans?

First to add a deck to their hou-

Between his own speculation, the metallic squeal in his eardrums, and the hypnotic passing of the streetlights, he'd almost run over one of his opponents...

Aco: ...which wouldn't have been a bad thing, really...

...who calmly stands, lighting a cigarette, the headlights adding a nice sheen to his painted complexion. His eyes...what can be seen of them...are lazy, as if he either knew he wouldn't be hit or didn't care if he was. Acolyte has the same reaction whatever the case is, especially now that The Insomniac has rested a boot on the front bumper...

Aco: What the hell is your deal, man?
__________________

Mid-summer of last year. Titanium Insomniac had just done two things back to back that he hadn't anticipated doing. First, he helped Demolition Man secure sole commissionership of a fed TI thought was better left for dead or moved to a trailer park with its stockholders.

Then, he turned right around and wrestled a one-off against a high-and-mighty CEO, 90 degrees out from Demo, but just as much an arrogant prick. He succeeded at both, because one never really loses the nature of such a setting, what it takes not just for a victory by wrestling's standards, but victory over another human being. To truly beat someone, and watch them realize that they are beaten...he never lost the taste of that, nor the trappings to accomplish it.

The Insomniac had his head back in a plush suede couch overlooking Central Park in New York. He'd felt the need to treat himself, toast his most recent conquests...and then realized that that's what he always does. More or less. He closed his eyes, savoring the most recent sip of his dry vodka martini, taking a deep breath...where would a post-wrestling life take him? Would the late-night prowls mean the same?

What a silly question...

That's when a soft scratching roused him from his dreaming. TI's demeanor went from satisfaction to disbelief. There was no way a place like this had mice. They couldn't be losing their touch. He lifted his head just enough to glance toward the sound and noticed an envelope lying at the foot of his door.

TI leaned out to scan the hallway. Whomever had left the envelope had more than enough time to make his or her escape. It had been so long since someone had tried to play Cloak and Dagger with him...he didn't play it very well...he usually ended up being the dagger and ruining everyone's fun.

Still, the envelope remained, and TI was irritated that his evening was being hijacked by someone wanting to send him on a scavenger hunt. Unceremoniously, he ripped open the seal and read the four simple words...

Hotel lobby
11:30 p.m.

Someone knew him. TI didn't care about that. Who had the audacity to think he'd respond? Curiosity demanded it at this point...
_____________________

Highone was nervous, to put it mildly. There's a feeling one gets when something major is on the line....your intestines become tangled such that it feels like a balloon animal. The catch mechanism in your throat is working overtime, trying to keep your macaroni and cheese from making an encore. And you have to suspect, the way your hand is shaking, whether Parkinson's is in your future. Highone experienced all of this as he sat in the black BMW, awaiting the arrival of his latest ally...he hoped.

We were a long way from New York at this point. In fact, Highone was a long way off the beaten path in general: the fed's latest tour had zigged and in order for this meeting to happen, he'd had to zag 500 miles out of his way. The Insomniac had migrated to the west coast by this point. It had taken many of Shadow's connections to make contact, but TI was open to hearing the pitch of a group purporting to be made up of the best.

(The Insomniac openly laughed at Highone over the phone when Infinity was introduced to him as such..."Well, then, a group like that CAN'T be complete without me!" This had raised the group's spirits up until the first detection of sarcasm...clearly, he wanted them to prove something to him)

Highone had more at stake here than a "yes" or "no" from TI. He'd assured the rest of the boys that this was a good decision...that they'd be unstoppable...that he'd be a team player. Even Hardy was hesitant to agree to all this. A history that included one of the longest world title reigns in 411 also included a lone mercenary style. No one was really interested in breaking out the "No I in Team" speeches the first instant TI went outside the lines. But they reluctantly agreed, agreed to what he'd add rather than possibly take away.

And so Highone sat, a briefcase in the backseat: the first installment of what was proposed to entice such a prize horse to race for them. And now he could hear hooves approaching...

The passenger door opened, and The Insomniac climbed in. TI looked over at Highone, and smiled a smile only described in terms of "vindictive" and "tormenting."

TI: It's been a long time, Highone. How've you been?

The condescension dripped from his lips. Highone knew that he needed to take control.

H1: Look...I don't have time for this. I need to know if you're in or out. You've heard what we have to offer...and we want what you have to offer. We can promise you success beyond-

TI: Success? Gee, a group that can promise me success? That almost makes me forget that I've been marvelously successful on my own my entire life. I'm amazed that you would try to use that as a selling point in this instance, my boy. What else you got?

Highone stammered for a moment, but regained his composure out of necessity.

H1: You know your own tastes: fine hotels, food, liquor...

TI: In large quantities...

H1: ...well, Infinity can provide you with all of that. We know you can produce for us. We'll produce this for you. You'll never have to worry about it again.

TI's demeanor changed from bemused to a glare. Highone hadn't noticed until he finished his second attempt. A long silence passes. It feels like an eternity when so much discomfort surrounds it.

TI: I'll explain something to you. No matter how you slice this, I don't need you. I don't need your group. I don't need your cute little decoder rings. I don't even need your money. But I know how much you need me: my name, my myth, my ability. I know how fearsome you WANT to be and it's clear that the fear you want has been lacking. Consider the kid in high school who wears the leather jacket but weighs 102 pounds soaking wet. That's why the asshole star quarterback still shoves him into lockers.

H1: We aren't getting shoved-

TI: With fear comes power. With power comes money and fame. And with money and fame comes more power. I appreciate what you want. It's the same thing I wanted once. Nowadays it's a perk.

You've got a deal, if only because what you want is blessing and curse. You only see blessing. The curse has yet to be realized. As for me, "when I am dead, I hope it may be said: 'His sins were scarlet, but his books were read.'"

I'll paint the ring, the locker room, the arenas, the country, the world scarlet again. It won't be glorious, but it will be necessary.

TI glances at the briefcase in the backseat.

TI: Is that for me?

Highone nods. TI grabs it by the handle and is gone a moment later.
Highone exhales deeply, guns the engine, and grins ear to ear.
_________________

Back in New York all those months ago, 11:30 came quickly. The Insomniac sauntered out of the elevator lazily, as if he might as well step forward since the doors had opened. His appearance raised the usual eyebrows among the other clientele, for some of whom the evening was just beginning. They left the lobby in twos and threes, dressed in tuxes and sequinned gowns, patting themselves down to make sure invitations were secure. TI watched them all for a few moments; took in the subtle panic that their destinations instilled in them...how to look, when to arrive, who to make sure to see or be seen by.He wondered what it was like...but not for too long. A man sitting at the bar caught his eye. This must have been his note writer.

TI approached, sizing him up. He was in a black sport jacket and pants, his silver dress shirt hanging open. His features were handsome and relaxed, clean cut, like a poor man's David Boreanaz. The attempt to look the casual businessman took TI back to his reflections on the hotel's socialites as he took the stool next to the man, who didn't even look over.

Man: You always wear the paint?

TI: Is that really why you called me down here? To ask me that?

Man: Not really. I was just curious. I just think it'd get old having to reapply all the time, not to mention how broken out your face must get...

TI: Fasinating stuff. Really. What makes you think-

Man: -that I can shove notes under your door and that you WILL come crawling downstairs out of curious amusement and irritation? Because I know that you can't help yourself. Because I know that you'll come either to try squeezing the most out of me for maximum benefit or that you'll play one of your little mind puzzles to prove how superior you are, neither one of which you'll pull during this meeting.

True to form, TI was both amused and irritated. The man had balls. But TI didn't feel like waiting very long to bust them.

TI: Wow. A guy who does his homework. How sweet. It means you care. Hell, I figured that out after you left me your love letter.

Man: You're a little off your game. How about we cut through the bullshit?

TI: I was hoping you would. I've got a night planned, and it doesn't involve picking up a gigalo in a hotel bar.

Man: Good. Mine neither. And I'm afraid that you'll have to cancel your plans, because you WILL be spending the evening with me. I'm going to tell you some things, and you're going to want to hear them.

TI: Things about what?

The man took another drink and for the first time looked at The Insomniac, right into his eyes. TI appreciated the gesture, even if he wanted to put his head through the mirror behind the bar.

Man: Your wife and daughter.