Firestorm gets an Eyefull

Enter a local Palm Springs gymnasium. "Firestorm" Johnathan Mills has taken to some light lifting on a bench press. He has maybe a hundred pounds or so on the barbell. It isn't much for seasoned wrestlers, but he was never really seasoned.

As he lifts the weights, he comments to himself.

Mills: "I got my debut match for Hardkore World. A guy named aaahhh something Khaos. Some guy who hasn't said word one about me, so he must be a scrub. Much like I was."

He pushes the weight up with relative ease, counting on repetition more than anything to help him get back into shape. He nearly drops the barbell on his head when a sculpted young woman walks by in tight workout tights walks by.

Mills: "Holy freaking camel toe, Batman!"

Johnathan manages to recover himself, but doesn't notice that the woman smirked at his reaction.

Mills: "You know I can't help but to notice that most of the guys here talk about brutalizing their opponent. Of beating them into the ground. Of crippling. I don't condone such behavior. I think you face an opponent, it isn't personal. It isn't about destroying someone. It's about evolution."

Johnathan grunts, setting the barbell down on the stand for a moment. He sits up and wipes at his brow.

Mills: "You see. Evolution in a wrestling environment is simple. You fight other opponent. If you win, you've probably learned something from the experience to help you in the next match. If you've lost? I bet you've learned even more from that than you would have if you had won the match. Then you go into the next match stronger than before. You learn new moves, and evolve into the next step of wrestling. I am unhindered by 'styles'. I am unhindered by such limitations. If we face in the ring, I will tap into the vast history of wrestling to try to defeat you. If I win? Great. If I lose? Great. I'll be even better the next time around. I once faced this one guy like a dozen times before I evolved enough to soundly beat him in the ring."

Johnathan lays back down to pick the barbell back up again.

Mills: "It's all about respect for your opponent and overcoming one's own limitations. I did it once and I will do it again. This Khaos guy. Or is it Kaos? I forget. Will be the first to face what an evolved wrestler can be. The first to (hopefully) fall before my great rise to the top. I think that I'll be able to go far once I can just get past the foolish bloody mindedness of this place. The thinking that a steel chair (or whatever) is part of a normal wrestling move set. I'll show that a traditional move set is no longer needed. What the?"

The lady that had walked past Johnathan before is back by again in a tight shirt and short, short skirt. She walks especially close by Johnathan's head as he's lifting weights, giving him an exclusive view up her skirt to the pantyless treasure underneath. Johnathan's arms go slack and were not for his quick reactions, he would have simply dropped the barbell on his throat. As it is, the barbell lands on his throat and his face goes red as he struggles to get the barbell back off of him. The lady pulls the weight off with one hand and sets it on the stand. She drops a motel key on his chest from the same motel that he's staying in.

Lady: "You're too cute. Come by tonight at seven. Bring something nice to eat...and some food too."

Johnathan lays on the bench with the room key on his chest, blinking in amazement.

Mills: "Um. Well...you see...Khaos. Yadda yadda yadda. I will win...with the right um strategy. I gotta go. Bye!"

Johnathan snatches up the room key and finds his way to the showers.

Tarrasque: Fight for Life

The lights in the Akira Dome shine on the ancient wrestling ring in the middle of a wrought iron cage designed to keep the bloodthirsty crowd from the night's talent. The ring is worn with old bloodstains splattered about. The turnbuckle padding n the corners are long gone and the ring rope padding is bare in places.

A dozen men in wrestling trunks are herded into the ring by Shocktroopers with assault rifles. The aisle way to the ring is also enshrouded by cold iron. At the ringside commentary table, Memphis Dallas sighs. Another bloodbath for an opening bout.

“Roughly a dozen slaves get to feel the wrath of Bolt.” Memphis intones. “Why do we always start with senseless executions?”

Robert Penrose shrugs. “Why not? Wet the crowd's appetite for bloodshed early on and then get to the action. Bolt just does it so well.”

“Bolt” Queren Fianis walks down to the ring with a wide, arrogant grin. He shakes a few hands on the way to the ring, basking in his fame. He has on a black sorcerer's robe with bolts of lightning flashing across it.

When Bolt climbs into the ring, he flings his arms into the air and a flash of light changes his sorcerer's robe into a pair of wrestling trunks with yellow lightning bolts on the side.

Memphis Dallas chuckles, his voice full of sarcasm. “The Amazing Bolt. Changing into fighting gear s he doesn't get his good robes dirty with splatter.”

Robert Penrose laughs. “Splatter.”

The bell rings to get the fight started, Bolt holds both hand out in front of him and shouts something in an arcane tongue. Lightning streams from his fingertips, striking the slaves and chain arcing from cone to the next until all are struck. The crowd cheers the falling, smoking corpses, but hold their breath n stunned silence as one slave is left standing. He looks at Bolt with an amused expression, unharmed by the spell.

Robert nearly flies out f his chair to point. “He missed! Bolt missed one!”

Memphis flips through notes. “It says here that this one is a failed experiment from Twilight. He was to be turned into a super soldier, but something is wrong with his brain. See? The mind of a child or an animal.”

Bolt looks furious as the slave stands in happy ignorance. A microphone is passed to the sorcerer in the ring.

“What?” Bolt shouts. “How could any man withstand my chain lightning spell? No matter. My friends, you will witness a first! My sustained lightning blast spell. It can fry an elephant in seconds.”

Bolt holds his palms parallel and begins chanting. His volume increases as the cackle of electricity between his palms increases. Finally, he shouts a single word and sends a thick lightning bolt at the slave.

The slave doesn't budge as the spell strikes him and sends power through his body. The cheering crowd gasps suddenly as the massive bolt entering the slave's chest exits through his belly and strikes Bolt himself. The two stand in the ring, channeling and rechannelizing power, both men glowing like new stars in the night sky until.

Memphis Dallas jumps to his feet, slapping Robert Penrose on the top of the head. “Bolt is down! Bolt is down! Somehow the slave sent Bolt's spell back at him! And look! The slave is almost unharmed from the experience!”

Bolt lays in the ring smoking and twitching from his own power. The slave looks around and roars to the delight of the crowd. Bolt slowly works his way up to his knees, his eyes go wide as the slave rushes him and leaps. He catches a knee just below the throat and is sent back to the canvas again.

The slave picks Bolt up roughly by the hair and flings him to the turnbuckles. He rushes at him again, leaping high into the air and landing his chest on Bolt. The slave backs away and allows Bolt to fall limply to the mat.

“Bolt's only been with us a few years, but no one has ever done this to him.” Robert breathes in awe. “Not a slave anyways.”

The slave kicks Bolt over, reaches down, and grabs Bolt by the privates. He squeezes and begins lifting Bolt's hips off of the ground.

Bolt lets out an ear splitting scream of pain and flails his arm to motion his surrender.

Robert Penrose's jaw drops. “A slave has beaten a gladiator. What's his name?”

Memphis Dallas doesn't even look at his notes.

“Tarrasque.”

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

Backstage, Queren Fianis fidgets as medics wrap the burns he received as a result of his own magical attack. He grumbles at the medics, lamenting over his defeat. A man in a green business suit walks into the room. He has a bright yellow tie with dark green skulls on it. His hair is black and is cut short with a short goatee. Queren Fianis looks up, startled at the man's entrance for he is Valis Tsimaar, the Master of Games and second-in-command to his father, Asmodeus Tsimaar.

Valis shakes his head with a grin as he regards Queren's many burns. “So you were defeated by a slave. A failed experiment of the Seven Shadows. A being worth nothing more than scrap flesh to be killed and sent to Twilight's protoplasmic DNA soup for the creation of more monsters which in turn are killed and recycled. You were beaten by raw materials.”

Queren Fianis bristles at the insult. “What sort of failed experiment can reflect my magic on me? Other than being stupid. How did he fail?”

Valis shrugs. “That's officially classified, but it's an open secret that the Seven Shadows were trying to create a super soldier. An elite Shocktrooper cloned and bred t war and pain. Who knows what they built into Tarrasque.”

Queren grits his teeth, a spark flies out from one of his unbandaged wounds and touches the medic. A flash of flame turns the unlucky medic into ash.

“That freak got lucky!” Queren shouts. “If his meat hadn't turned my spell back, I would have killed him! I will still kill him! Just get me in the ring with him and he won't last five minutes. I can overpower any built-in defense!”

Valis watches Queren with interest. “Well. He was fairly popular with defeating you. Still, I'd want a rematch to be interesting. I'll have to test him against some of the lesser talent to see how well he does. If he passes, you and him can main event a show.”

Queren raises an eyebrow. “Main event? Maybe a crack at the Cannibal King down the road?”

Valis smiles. “If all goes well Bolt against the Cannibal King could be a future main event. Just be patient.”

Queren sits back and smiles. “Me as Akira Dome Champion. I like the sound of that. I will wait. Who will the freak be tested against first?”

Valis flips through some papers. “Well. Charles Ingram, the accounting embezzler, has been aching to pay off his debt. If he survives, he can go home.”

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

As the lights in the Akira Dome come on, Charles Ingram is seen standing in the ring. He looks to be middle aged with thinning dark brown hair and a pair of glasses that appear to be ore duct tape than frame. He has a bloodstained and tattered Warhammer Corporate business suit on with an insignia on the right breast that reveals that he is from the corporate headquarters in Hong Kong.

Over at the commentary table, Memphis Dallas grumbles. “You would think that after three months of fighting that they would give him an outfit to wear.”

His partner, Robert Penrose laughs. “Then he'd have to pay for it! When you embezzle millions from the company, that company takes it out of your ass. He ain't earned enough to buy an outfit. Those perks are for proper gladiators and would-bes.”

Charles Ingram nearly falls over as he watches Tarrasque walk to the ring. The slave is almost seven feet tall. A mountain of muscle. The best in a combination of raw potential and science.

Tarrasque steps over the ropes and motions for Charles to come hit him. Charles stares at Tarrasque in disbelief, but rushes over and punches Tarrasque into the jaw. Tarrasque's head snaps to the side at the impact, but he only grins and asks Charles to try again.

Memphis Dallas nudges Robert. “This Tarrasque is pretty arrogant already.”

Charles Ingram unloads with a series of lefts and rights to Tarrasque in the head, body, and groin. Tarrasque reacts briefly at the impacts, but otherwise maintains a happy, glazed expression.

Robert Penrose frowns. “So what is it exactly that Tarrasque is doing? Is he confused? He looks high.”

Tarrasque catches Charles fist with a wide grin and pulls him into such a hard headbutt that sends Charles staggering and shatters his glasses. He whips Charles into the ropes and when Charles returns, Tarrasque grabs him and lifts him high into the air by his throat and thigh.

“Press slam position!” Memphis Dallas shouts. “But Charles has a lot of momentum with him still!”

Tarrasque flings Charles Ingram out of the ring like a spear. He smashes face-first into the iron cage surrounding the ring and falls to the concrete floor where he rolls around on the ground, holding his face.

Memphis Dallas puts his hand to his own face. “I think that his cheek bone caved in from hitting that cage!”

Robert Penrose just laughs. “Wicked cool!”

Tarrasque waits patiently in the ring for Charles Ingram to stand, blood pouring our of his mouth from the shattered cheek bone. Then without warning, Tarrasque runs at full speed and dives over the top rope. He catches Charles' face with both hands and uses his momentum to crash the back of Charles' head back into the cage.

“What the f-”

“Robert!”

Tarrasque is the first to stand, absently wiping blood from his eyes after his own contact with the iron cage. Charles Ingram looks to be dead on the floor. Tarrasque picks him up, listens for a heartbeat, and rolls him into the ring.

Memphis frowns. “Charles is finished. What is Tarrasque doing now?”

Robert Penrose is loud enough to be heard over the cheering crowd nearby. “Finish him!”

Tarrasque rolls Charles onto his back and reaches down between Charles' legs and grabs him by his privates. He then lifts Charles up nearly four feet and drops him to the mat without letting him go. Once Charles bounces, Tarrasque rips him back into the air again, bouncing him off of the mat and lifting him again.

Far from screaming in pain, Charles Ingram flops about on the mat like a rag doll. Once Tarrasque realizes that he has won, he throws his arms into the air and roars to the delight of the crowd.

“An impressive showing from Tarrasque tonight.” Memphis comments. “Maybe a real opponent is in his future.”

“Maybe.” Robert shrugs. “I'm happy with an indentured being crushed. Hey. What's the Shocktrooper doing?”

Memphis frowns. “That's no ordinary Shocktrooper.”

The white armored Shocktrooper dons a black robe and hooded mask as he walks to the ring.

He stand silently in the ring, waiting for Charles Ingram to come to and sit up. Fear sets in once he realizes the Shocktrooper is there. Tarrasque leaves the ring, unaware of the people inside.

“So what is?” Memphis gasps. “Isn't that an executioner's robe and mask?”

His question is answered when the black robed Shocktrooper pulls a sidearm and shoots Charles Ingram in the head.

“Well?” Robert grimaces. “At least he gets to go home. One way or another...”

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

Tarrasque walks through the back hallways, escorted by two armed Shocktroopers, as he heads back to the den where the important slaves are kept. “Bolt” Queren Fianis steps out of a side door, blocking their path. He gives an exaggerated bow to the guards with a grin.

“Gentlemen, before you take this man to the back, I would like to try a spell out on him.”

The guards look to one another before one of them answers.

“Whatever. He's just a slave. Just don't be killing him when he ain't in the ring. You know what would happen to you then.”

Bolt just shrugs. “I will not be killing him here with out my audience watching.”

Tarrasque chuckles. “You try. You no can kill me even if try. You weak. Me strong.”

Bolt grits his teeth. “You freak! You reflected my ranged spell. You won't deflect my contact spell!”

Tarrasque just shrugs. “You try.”

Bolt walks up to Tarrasque, his left hand glowing a dark blue. He lays his hand on Tarrasque's shoulder, the glow flowing into Tarrasque's body. Bolt laughs in triumph when he begins screaming. Tarrasque's glowing body changes to bright red and the dark blue transfers to Bolt.

“Nooo!” Bolt screams. “You cannot do this! It's not possible!”

Bolt tries to remove his hand from Tarrasque's shoulder, but his hand is rooted to the spot. Tarrasque laughs and tears Bolts hand away. Bolt begins to fall backward to the ground when Tarrasque catches him the front of his robes and lifts him off of the ground.

Tarrasque grunts as he brings Bolt's face near to his own. “Now you know. You magic weak. Me strong. You fight. You die.”

Tarrasque spins while holding Bolt and flings him twenty feet down the hallway where he slides into the wall. Bolt struggles to get up, but collapses to the floor. Tarrasque laughs and walks past him with his Shocktrooper escort.

“Maybe you try again. Go fighting place. Die like man.”

Once Tarrasque passes by, Bolt slowly gets up to his feet, cursing as he rises. He spits blood on the floor from where his face had impacted the wall.

“I will kill you somehow, freak! This I swear!”

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

In the pens where the slaves are held, Tarrasque lounges in a cot while the remaining forty or so slaves huddle in different corners of the room. They cast sullen, hungry looks at Tarrasque, who blissfully devours the food of everyone in the pen as he relaxes. A bloodied floor and nearly a dozen broken bodies hints at the carnage that took place in the room.

Outside of the pen, beyond iron bars, two Shocktrooper guards are joined by a dozen more. Valis Tsimaar walks in behind them. One of the Shocktrooper guards points at Tarrasque.

“That one. He fought everyone off, killing those on the ground and stole everyone's food. Word is he also attacked Bolt in the hallway while being brought back here. He should be shot.”

Valis waves the guard off. “Queren got what he deserved. I told him to be patient and he will get his chance at vengeance, but he had to try out his magics first hand. It's a learning experience for him, and should make him a bit more humble as well.”

Valis points to the dead slaves. “Now this. This I did not expect. You say he stole the food rations for everyone in this room? And that's all that is left? Such a wild appetite...”

The Shocktrooper guard who had spoken shuffles nervously. “Sir...such behavior is rebellious. If he can take down so many slaves and cow the rest, he could become a problem.”

Valis frowns, glaring at the guard. “Nonsense. You just have to know the proper method of control. Watch.”

Valis Tsimaar walks to the bars of the pen and bangs on them lightly with his sidearm.

“Tarrasque? Tarrasque. Come here. I need to speak to you.”

Tarrasque gets up from his food and walks to the pen bars. A quick growl at his back stops any movement to rush and steal as much food as possible. He grabs the bars near Valis and grins sloppily.

“What want? Me fight again?'

Valis grins. This will be simple. “Yes. Would you like to become a gladiator? Would you like to be given a fair chance to fight in the ring instead of being expected to go out there and perish? You would get your own room and as much food as you can eat. Our gladiators are well taken care of.”

Tarrasque grins. “Me like fight. Me like eat. Me do.”

Valis Tsimaar looks at Tarrasque for awhile as if gauging his intelligence and eventually shrugs. “Good. You'll have two more fights. The first will be again a serial killer that plagued Russia not long ago. He was captured and sentenced to die here. If you live through the experience, you will fight Bolt once again. Though this time it will be just you and him. How does this sound?”

Tarrasque doesn't look as if he heard very much at all. “Mmmm. Two fights.”

Drool runs down and off of Tarrasque's chin as he stands in contemplation of the violence to come. Valis frowns, growing impatient.

“Tarrasque.” He begins firmly. “Do you understand?”

Tarrasque snaps to the present with a lopsided grin. “Fight Russian. Fight Bolt. Me know. Life good.”

Valis shrugs. “Whatever. You're why we have handlers here. To point you in the right direction.”

Tarrasque pounds on his chest and roars. “Me go right direction! Me am strong! Russian and Bolt weak!”

Valis laughs as he turns to leave. “That we will test for ourselves, Tarrasque. That we will test.”

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

Tarrasque stands in the ring waiting for the Russian who is to fight him so he can earn a spot as a gladiator. The crowd responds with a cheer every time Tarrasque stops pacing in the ring to beat on his chest and roar.

Memphis Dallas consults his notes. “Now it says here that the man that Tarrasque faces tonight was a serial killer in Russia. The Akira Dome purchased his death sentence from the Russian government so he can fight to the death for the fans. He calls himself the Iron Mangler because he sought to fight his victims with his bare hands and mangle their bodies. This is one sick puppy, Robert.”

Robert Penrose chuckles. “Then he'll fit right in with the others. Won't he?”

Memphis considers briefly and then nods. “True. Sanity and normality are rare here in the Akira Dome, and when found they do not last long.”

The Iron Mangler comes from out the back, striding to the ring with purpose. He is nearly seven feet tall with a muscular build similar to Tarrasque's. Deep scars cover his body. A legacy of fighting inhuman creatures in the Siberian wilderness when suitable human victims could not be found.

He steps over the ring ropes, meeting Tarrasque in the center of the ring with a growl. The two men begin exchanging rights and lefts until the Iron Mangler drops down a bit to slam his shoulder into Tarrasque's midsection. He lifts Tarrasque up, turns, and slams him back down onto the mat. He follows this up by kicking Tarrasque in the ribs and face.

Memphis winces as the Iron Mangler stomps on the side of Tarrasque's face and drags cleats across his cheek. “The Iron Mangler isn't wasting any time to get into this fight.”

Robert taps his temple with a smirk. “I know something you don't! The Iron Mangler was told that if he defeated Tarrasque then he could become a full time gladiator instead of fighting simply to die. It's a huge difference in his lifestyle.”

The Iron Mangler picks Tarrasque up by the hair and throws him over the top rope to the concrete floor below. Tarrasque grunts, his head bouncing off of the floor. The Iron Mangler holds onto the top rope and waits for Tarrasque to slowly get to his feet. He pulls down on the top rope and launches himself over the rope. Tarrasque catches the Iron Mangler around the waist and suplexes him backwards, crushing the Iron Mangler's face into the iron cage.

Tarrasque stands up, wiping at the bloody wounds on his face with a grin. He looks at the blood on his hands and looks around. He licks the blood off of his fingers as if no one is watching.

Memphis grins. “That was a heck of a belly-to-belly overhead suplex by Tarrasque. Not many have the strength to catch someone in midair.”

Robert grunts in approval. “I wonder where he learned to wrestle. Since he was a failure, you know. Why bother to train someone that's going to die?”

Memphis shrugs. “Maybe they left a television on to entertain him and he watched wrestling. Do you care so long as someone bleeds?”

Robert laughs. “You got me pegged right there!”

Tarrasque picks the Iron Mangler up and shoves his back into the cage again. He grabs the cage on each side of the Iron Mangler and rings his head into the Iron Mangler's belly. He swings his head up to slam his head into the Iron Mangler's chin.

Robert bounces in his seat. “Headbutt Uppercut!”

Tarrasque goes back to the belly, but the Iron Manger shifts and turns Tarrasque head first into the cage. He whips Tarrasque's back into the ring apron, and rolls him into the ring. The Iron Mangler follows Tarrasque into the ring, taking his time to climb over the ropes and take in the cheers of the crowd. He is greeted in the ring by Tarrasque, who kicks him in the gut and lifts him up by his shoulders. Tarrasque turns, takes a few steps towards the center of the ring, and throws the Iron Mangler down on the back of his neck.

Memphis makes some notes on a bio of Tarrasque. “Well. We know a little of his typical move set. Then again from his build, it was kind of obvious that he was going to go for a strongman kind of move set.”

Robert raises an eyebrow. “A flying strongman move set?”

Tarrasque rolls out of the ring and begins climbing the cage. He gets up twenty-five feet of the fifty foot cage before he notices the Iron Mangler starting to rise. He flings himself ff f the cage wall, catching the Iron Manger in the chest with his shoulder.

Memphis sits in stunned silence. Robert breaks the silence with a whoop of joy.

“That's a flying shoulder we ain't seen in this place ever! No one ever uses the cage! They're all afraid of being attacked by the seething crowd that is just beyond those iron walls!”

Despite the high fall, Tarrasque is quickly up on his feet. He feels the blood on his face, but frowns when he finds no fresh blood. He digs at his face a little, but the wounds inflicted there are now gone.

“Where have the wounds in Tarrasque's face gone?” Memphis asks.

Robert scratches his head. “Erm. Somewhere else? He seems to be getting stronger as well. What is this?”

Tarrasque waits for the Iron Mangler to start getting up when he laces his fingers together and bashes the Iron Mangler back down to the mat. He pulls the Iron Mangler's face up off of the mat by the hair, and with a vicious grin, he begins biting at the Iron Mangler's forehead.

The Iron Mangler screams, trying to escape Tarrasque's clutches. He does so, but at a cost. Tarrasque spits a chunk of flesh onto the mat from the Iron Mangler's forehead.

“Looks like we got another Cannibal King on our hands here!” Robert shouts. “Get your dinner on, Tarrasque!”

Memphis shakes his head. “That's just so wrong.”

The Iron Mangler goes white, feeling the large section of his forehead that's been ripped to the bone. He looks up to see where Tarrasque is, but is picked up and slammed down on his head. Tarrasque rolls the Iron Mangler on his back and sits on his lower back. Tarrasque pulls the Iron Mangler's arms over his legs and places one hand on the Iron Mangler's chin and one on his forehead.

Memphis frowns. “That looks like a text book Camel Clutch, but the placement of his hands is wrong. How is he going to pull back on the Iron Mangler's head unless he locks his fingers under the Iron Mangler's chin?”

Robert shrugs. “Maybe he just got confused? Oh wait...WOW!”

The question is answered as Tarrasque takes the Iron Mangler's head and viciously snaps it to the side. He rights the Iron Mangler's head quickly so he can snap it to the side again. In quick fashion, Tarrasque twists the Iron Mangler's head over and over again.

“He's going to break the Iron Mangler's neck!”

With a roar, Tarrasque slams the Iron Mangler's head into the mat and stands up. He kicks the Iron Mangler over, and raises his hand into the air. The crowd eats it up, cheering madly for the man who was at one time destined to be cannon fodder. He reaches down and grabs the Iron Mangler by the privates and begins lifting the Iron Mangler into the air with a quick jerk. The Iron Mangler comes immediately to life, flailing his arms to indicate that he gives up in this fight. Tarrasque drops him back to the mat, and kicks the Iron Manger in the head to knock him out.

“Another victory for Tarrasque, Robert.” Memphis comments with a smile. “I wonder how far he can get.”

Robert laughs. “Whatever they had done to him at Twilight to try to make him a super soldier, some of it had to have worked. He looks as fresh and unwounded as if he had never been in that ring tonight. I think that Bolt is going to regret trying to pick a fight with this one.”

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

“Bolt” Queren Fianis sits in his dressing room at his table. He has a small assortment of make up products to make him look good before his fans sitting out in front of him as he gazes into the lighted mirror. He opens a door in the dresser and slides all the make up supplies into them with a grunt. He closes the door and chants a soft spell. When he opens it, the make up supplies are replaced by a small cloth bag that's tied with a golden thread and a scalpel. He sets the knife on the counter and hefts the bag in his hand. He closes the door and chants another small spell.

The view in the mirror blurs and is replaced by one of Tarrasque laying on a weight bench and pressing a whole raw leg of cow over his head. The other slaves that he shares the room with remain on the outskirts of the room, watching him warily. Tarrasque benches the raw meat and occasionally brings it close enough to take a bite out of it. Blood drips across his face and chest, but he merrily chews and sings a happy nonsensical tune to himself. Queren retches, but manages to keep his stomach at bay.

“What a disgusting freak!” Queren says to himself. “And they feed him like he's already defeated me and has become a gladiator! I'll show him...I'll show them all!”

He unties the cloth bag and dumps the contents on the dresser. A dozen multicolored stones sized several carats each drop onto the table, each glowing softly.

“These stones are meant to be installed into rings of power to enhance a wizard's power. Normally only one can be used at a time and such rings are not allowed into the ring. However, there are ways around such limitations...”

He picks up a single blood red ruby and smiles as he hears the screams of the tortured soul contained within. He sets it down and proceeds to check all of the the stones, grinning in delight as each one bears the sounds of a trapped spirit within.

“The slaves that I have slain over time have served their purpose. Each stone has a spirit bound to it and into my service. They will lend the power of each stone to me so I can access all of their full power at once! Now to bypass the rules a little bit.”

Queren picks up the scalpel and slowly makes an incision in his chest, he grits his teeth as blood begins to trickle from the wound. He sets it down and picks up the ruby, turning it in his hand. He then slides the stone into the self-inflicted wound. Nodding to himself, he makes eleven more incisions and places each of the stones in each wound. With a murmur of a spell, he passes his hand over his chest and all of the wounds close up. Silently, he calls to the trapped spirits of the stones, causing them to glow through the skin in his chest. He grins at the sudden influx of power. As the mystic energies build in intensity, the mirror begins to form spider web cracks and then shattering apart. He laughs.

“Such magical strength! That combined with the new spells that I have crafted for this upcoming fight will spell the doom of that freak and establish me as the strongest in the entire world!”

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

Tarrasque stands in the ring, waiting for his opponent. He paces around the ring like a caged tiger, casting glances at the entrance to see if his final opponent before becoming a full fledged gladiator has shown up yet.

Memphis Dallas glances at his watch. “Bolt really wanting to make an appearance today doesn't he?”

Robert Penrose shrugs. “You can't rush pure physical genius like Bolt, Memphis. He won't be on the top of his game if you make him come out before he's ready.”

Memphis raises an eyebrow. “Pure physical genius? He casts spells, Robert. I hadn't seen him do to much actual fighting in ages. It's more likely that he's figured out that he can't win and is trying to get out of the fight now.”

The crowd cheers as “Bolt” Queren Fianis comes out of the back. He's wearing only his wrestling trunks as he floats just a few inches above the ground, levitating towards the ring at an even pace. He casts Tarrasque an arrogant look as the his opponent watches him with an open mouth.

Memphis curses. “Pure showboating this is and Tarrasque is taken in by it! Bolt flies over the top rope and softly lands next to Tarrasque with that damn grin on his face. What's he got planned for this fight and why is it that his chest is glowing in many colors?”

“I don't know.” Robert admits. “But I do like the effect! Bolt's getting a microphone handed to him.”

Bolt grins with the microphone in hand while Tarrasque stands dumbfounded on what to do next.

“Freak! I have come up with a solution to my problem. My spells won't work on you. In fact, they have so far backfired upon me in spectacular ways. Today? I will use the spells on myself and crush you underfoot like the first day I met you. Like it was always intended for you to be.”

Bolt begins shouting magical words of power and the stones in his chest begins to glow brightly enough that Tarrasque shields his eyes from the light. Bolt begins to grow in height, adding weight and muscle until he's ten feet tall and muscle-bound as if he had worked out his entire life to that point.

“Now face me, freak!”

Tarrasque chuckles and snatches the microphone from Bolt.

“Me like. You grow, but still weak me bet. Me am strongest!”

Bolt's answer is to punch Tarrasque in the face, knocking him to the mat with such force that he bounces. Tarrasque quickly sits up, grinning as he wipes blood from his nose and mouth. Bolt grabs Tarrasque and body slams him to the mat hard enough to bounce Tarrasque back up three feet into the air. Bolt brings down an elbow, slamming Tarrasque back to the mat. He palms Tarrasque's head, drawing him up, and whips him to the ropes. He waits for Tarrasque's return and throws him high into the air. A roundhouse kick sends Tarrasque out of the ring where he bounces off the cage and falls onto the concrete floor in a heap. Bolt laughs as he slowly makes his way to where Tarrasque is laying.

Memphis frowns. “Something seems wrong here. Bolt shouldn't have the power to cast a spell of this magnitude. He would be a security specialist or a security leader if he did have this ability, but instead all he could hope for was some fame here.”

“Maybe he just learned some new tricks to fight Tarrasque?” Robert supplies. “I mean it was learn new tricks or get his ass kicked. Right?”

Bolt leaps over the ropes, landing next to Tarrasque. He grabs Tarrasque by the throat and slams him into the cage wall. He laughs, leaning near Tarrasque's face with a leer.

“How are you feeling now, freak? Do you feel strong now?”

even as Tarrasque's face turns blue from the lack of oxygen to his brain, he begins grinning. Bolt growls and releases him before grabbing his hands in a test of strength. Bolt forces Tarrasque to his knees and kicks him in the belly while maintaining his grip.

“Who is strong now, freak? Tell me? Who's strong now?”

As the two struggle for dominance, arcs of electricity begin circling around them. Bolt keeps Tarrasque down, but it seems as he has to put more and more effort in keeping him down and the kicks to the midsection are starting to have less effect.

“Maybe Bolt should change tactics. He may now be wondering to the real answer to that question.” Memphis Dallas muses aloud.

Robert points at the pair, oblivious to what had just been said. “Looks like some sort of magical side effect. Look!”

Bolts of electricity begin streaming from Bolt's chest and striking Tarrasque in the chest. Unlike Bolt's other spells, this power is not returned. Bolt laughs as he begins bending Tarrasque's wrists to the breaking point.

“I am the strongest there is now, freak! So tell me...once and for all...who is the strongest?!”

Tarrasque grins widely. “Me.”

Bolt frowns as Tarrasque bends his wrists straight again and begins rising to his feet, pushing against Bolt's form with all his might.

“Bolt's starting to panic now!” Memphis shouts. “The last time he panicked, he took out several hundred of the crowd by mistake!”

“Crap!” Robert shouts as he dives under the desk.

Tarrasque rams his head into Bolt's gut, doubling him over. He grabs Bolt in a side head-lock, and wraps one of Bolt's arms behind the back of his neck before reaching for Bolt's trunks.

“What the hell?” Memphis rises to his feet. “Robert see this! Tarrasque is lifting Bolt up, and dropping him in a brain buster! Oh my god!”

From below the table, Robert adds to the conversation. “Bolt is bleeding all over the floor.”

Tarrasque rolls into the ring and appears to be leaning on the ropes on the other side of the ring to gain his breathing back. Bolt stands up, wiping blood from his eyes. Tarrasque leans back on the ropes and runs full speed across the ring. He slides under the bottom rope where Bolt is and kicks him with both feet to his midsection.

Tarrasque's quick to get back into the ring where he climbs to the top turnbuckle. He leaps as Bolt is starting to stand, but Bolt catches Tarrasque around the midsection. He turns and throws Tarrasque face first into the iron cage. He palms the back of Tarrasque's head and drags his face across the wrought iron bars. Bolt picks Tarrasque up over his head, tosses him into the air, and on Tarrasque's way back down, palms his back to slam him into the concrete floor. Tarrasque bounces off of the floor and is still.

“Oh my god! Bolt may have done it right there!” Memphis exclaims. “He may have brought Tarrasque down low!”

Bolt stomps on Tarrasque's back a few times before picking him up and tossing him into the ring. He levitates back into the ring and picks Tarrasque up with one hand to the top of his head. He laughs as Tarrasque makes an attempt to punch him, but can't reach and doesn't have the energy to break free of Bolt's claw hold.

“Now who's strong, freak?” Bolt laughs. “You are defeated!”

Tarrasque only grins and slowly reaches both hands up to grab Bolt's wrist.

“You no understand. ME AM STRONG!”

Bolt looks pained, using his free hand to bash Tarrasque's hands to try to free his wrist from the beasts grasp. With a loud snapping noise, Bolt gasps in pain and releases Tarrasque.

“What the heck drives that man?” Robert comments, looking on in awe.

Bolt uses his unhurt hand to bash Tarrasque to the mat, but Tarrasque brings his forearm up between Bolt's legs sharply. Bolt squeaks and backs away. Tarrasque is on him with lefts and rights to the midsection that eventually double Bolt over so that Tarrasque can reach with a double ax handle uppercut that levels Bolt.

Tarrasque starts to pull Bolt back up, but Bolt catches him around the throat and slams him to the mat. He pulls Tarrasque p into the air, and though he winces in pain with his broken wrist, he locks a mid-air bear hug in place and begins shaking Tarrasque about.

“He's got Tarrasque locked up in that bear hug. His arms are even pinned to his side.” Memphis comments. “I'm not certain that Tarrasque can escape this one.”

“No!” Robert points. “He's still trying...and look!”

Lightning begins to flow heavily around the two combatants, not striking either one. Still, as Tarrasque's face betrays his pain and struggle to escape, Bolt begins to show signs of pain as well.

Memphis frowns. “Is...is Bolt shrinking?”

Robert nods. “He is! And look at Tarrasque! His wounds are healing and his muscle are growing. Bulging beyond what they would for just putting in effort to escape!”

Bolt slowly shrinks until he lets out a scream of pain, blood splattering away from between their chests. Bolt drops Tarrasque to his feet and backs away, blood streaming from a dozen wounds on his chest. He becomes his normal size within seconds. Tarrasque stands with a grin as a dozen bleeding wounds on his chest close up quickly, hiding multicolored glowing lights within. Bolt looks as if he had seen a ghost, and doesn't react quickly enough as Tarrasque rushes over and levels him with a simple clothesline. He throws his hand into the air, hearing the roar of the crowd. He reaches for Bolt's privates, but Bolt flails his hand in surrender before he can be touched. Tarrasque turns away from Bolt to face the crowd with his arms in the air.

“Tarrasque has done it!” Robert screams. “He has defeated Bolt to become a full fledged gladiator!”

Bolt stands up, furious at the loss of the fight and his hidden power stones. He chants a quick spell, a sword materializing in his good hand. He quietly advances on Tarrasque, murder in his eyes.

“Tarrasque! Behind you!” Memphis warns.

The warning isn't needed as Tarrasque side steps the thrust intended to run him through his kidneys. He traps the flat of blade his arm and turns, ripping the sword out of Bolt's hand. He grabs Bolt and pulls him into the sword tip. He reaches back to grab the handle, tilting the sword tip up as he does so, and runs the blade into Bolt to the hilt. The tip of the sword appears from between his shoulder blades.

Tarrasque releases Bolt, allowing him to fall dead to the mat. He turns back to the crowd, raising his hands, and roars with the renewed cheers of the crowd.

Robert sighs as Memphis tosses out a paper containing the information on “Bolt” Queren Fianis away.

“It's too bad you know?” Robert says as lights to the arena start to fade. “I rather liked Bolt. Let me say something. Bolt. Slave Executioner. Warrior. Stupid Dead Man. Thank you.”

“He was a bloody idiot.” Memphis agrees. “But I guess we did need a Slave Executioner to off the excess slaves before they required medical care.”

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

In the back, a large black man (about nine feet tall) sits and watches as Tarrasque is being escorted to his brand new room in the back. He grins as he presses a remote control button and rewinds to watch the closing minutes of Tarrasque's fight with Bolt. He watches the transfer of power from Bolt to Tarrasque with particular interest, a bit of drool dripping off of his chin. He shuts the television off with a laugh.

“Soon enough you will be facing me, Tarrasque. When you do...I will kill you and devour your heart. Your strength. Your amazing will strength will then flow into my veins.”

"Firestorm" Johnathan Mills, Contemplation of Training

"Firestorm" Johnathan Mills walks out of a local game shop, grinning as he had just defeated some poor sap in a hard fought Yu-Gi-Oh match and was examining the card he won from him.

As he slips the card into the box with the rest of his play deck, he decides what to do to get back into a training regime for his upcoming match with Kevin Kaos. Also some other guy had challenged him? Some foreign guy? Johnathan shrugs and starts for his bike that's locked up on the street light, when a shout catches his attention.

A man is striding towards him with purpose. He's carrying a tire iron and the young boy he just defeated (maybe 14 years old) along with him, a cruel grin plays across his face while the father looks enraged.

"Hey you!" The man shouts. "You beat my son?"

Johnathan frowns. "Yes, sir. I beat him fair and square. What's the-"

The man gets within arm's length of Johnathan, that tire iron looking very threatening.

"You lay your filthy little hands on my son!" The man screams, his face starting to go red. "What kind of fucking moron are you?"

Johnathan opens his mouth, but stops. What the hell is he talking about.

"Sir," he begins. "I didn't touch your son. I beat him in a card game. All I did was touch his deck when I took the card that I won. We agreed to these terms before the match."

The man's left eye begins twitching, the veins in his temple and neck grow and pulsate. It seems he has heard very little of what had just been said. Finally, he explodes.

"YOU TOUCHED MY SON'S DICK?! I'LL FUCKING KILL YOU!"

Johnathan ducks as the man attempts to takes his head off with a swing of the tire iron. He side steps another swing that connects with his bike, knocking the handle bars clean off the bike. Johnathan takes a deep breathe.

"Okay. I can see that you're mad."

Johnathan dodges another swing that's meant to rip his belly open. He backflips to get out of reach, but the man is on him with the tire iron. Johnathan throws a handful of dirt into the man's eyes and runs. The boy screams after his father.

"Daddy! Don't let him get away!"

Johnathan runs down the sidewalk with the boy's father hot on his trail. He leaps, grabbing a light post, swings into the air over the street. He plants his feet on a moving car's hood, and springboards to the sidewalk across the street. He lands as the car comes to a screeching halt. The driver comes out cursing, but the father brains him with the crowbar and hops in the car. Johnathan's eyes go wide as he realizes what's to happen next.

"Aahh crap."

Johnathan runs into a little side street/alleyway while the man manevers the car to chase him. Johnathan leaps onto a dumpster, jumps up to a fire escape ladder, and climbs onto the first platform as the man plows the car into the dumpster. He waves down at the man who gets oput of the car, cursing and screaming.

"It was just a card game, friend." Johnathan yells down. "I beat your son in a freaking card game. I won a card from him. Nothing sexual. Nothing abusive. Thanks for coming though!"

This time, the man must have heard and understood. He grabs his son by the arm and leaves, cursing all the while. Johnathan sits down and breathes deeply, glad to have escaped death.

"Gods!" He exclaims. "How am I to train for Kevin Kaos and that weird guy?"

Just then the window behind him opens and a large muscular man leanes out.

"You can start by getting away from my place! Then eat a god damned sammich. You look crack addict thin for a wrestler!"

Johnathan shrugs and works his way back to his bike. He unlocks it and starts walking with it back towards his hotel. Maybe it's time to eat and hit the gym. Kevin Kaos may still kill him, but not for the lack of him trying to fight back.

"Firestorm" Johnathan Mills, Intro to Hardkore World

A young man nervously enters an office and takes a seat in front of a young lady in professional dress. He has light brown hair and won't make two hundred pounds even if soaking wet and carrying a filled backpack. He gives the lady a warm smile, who does not return it. She looks at a resume that she is holding, glancing up at the young man.

“Johnathan Mills? Also goes by the name of Firestorm?”

The young man nods. “Yep. That would be my name, miss. Am I in? When do I start?”

The lady looks sternly at Johnathan. “You have not had an interview yet, Mr. Mills.”

Johnathan looks down at the floor. “Oh. Right.”

“It says here that you have been in wrestling before. What was your status in the places you have been in? What kind of winning streaks have you had?”

Johnathan grins nervously. “Winning streaks? I won...um, well. I won like two in a row before.”

The lady raises an eyebrow. “Two? Were you a low mid-carder? When did you normally wrestle?”

Johnathan shrugs. “Well normally? Like before the curtain went up. I like got stage fright a lot so not having the television camera on me was a big help.”

The lady frowns. “The hell, boy?! You weren't even good enough to be a jobber? You were a dark match clown? Tell me...are you counting those as part of your streak. Did you not even win more than two dark matches in a row?”

Johnathan opens his mouth to speak, but the lady waves him off.

“You know what? I don't even want to know anymore. Tell me. What's your wrestling style and typical move set? I can't even see how this resume even got to my desk it's so incomplete.”

Johnathan begins to shrink back. “Well you see...my wrestling style has evolved into a perfection of styles. So I couldn't put down a single style, because I would be woefully misrepresenting my skills as a wrestler. As for my move set...I don't really have one. As the next evolutionary step in wrestling, I can pull from any wrestling move ever created. Therefore, I have saved you the time to have to go through and read them all by not listing every single wrestling hold in history. See?”

The lady looks at Johnathan Mills for a long time before finally exploding in a rage.

“What the fuck? What kind of shit is this? Are you an actor? Is this Punk'd? This better be fucking Punk'd!”

She looks underneath the desk and around the office for a hidden video camera.

“Fucking Valentine had better have fucking set this up with fucking Punk'd because I swear to God, I will fucking sue for having to sit here and listen to a fucking wanna-fucking-be come in here and try to become a Hardkore World wrestler when he wasn't even a winning Dark Matcher in the minors! Where's the God damned camera, Johnathan! You had better be Ashton Kutcher under a fucking mask!”
Johnathan has slid his chair back somewhat during the rant, and is now starting to look to the exit. The lady notices this and snarls.

“This isn't Punk'd. Is it? You really want to become a wrestler? Don't you? D you realize that at your size, I could take you down and pin you for the count without even breaking a sweat?”

Johnathan smirks, but the lady cuts him off.

“Not that kind of take down! Do you understand the kind of wrestling that goes on in Hardkore America, boy? Let's take a quick look just so you understand.”

Johnathan shrugs. “It's wrestling. Right? How hard could it be?”

The lady glares at Johnathan as she turns her computer monitor around. “I think you might be in for a bit of a shock.”

She turns on a random match with Windows Media Player and lets Johnathan watch the match proceed. His eyes go wide with a shock that near borders on terror. The lady grins with a certain amount of malice.

“He can't do that!”, Johnathan protests. “That's like illegal! It's at least immoral! Someone could be crippled for life!”

“Limp bloody, maimed defeated wrestlers leave this ring. Boy.” The lady smirks with a glint of cruelty in her eyes. “Are you certain that this is the life that you want to lead? Judging by your size, you'll be in a wheel chair by the end of the month.”

“So...” Johnathan begins haltingly. “When is my first match?”

The lady snorts. “At the end of the month.”

Johnathan watches the end of the match, a fitting and bloody ending. Someone leaves in a stretcher. Johnathan swallows hard, going pale. “Right. So then you think that I'll be crippled in my very first match then?”

“I think that within five minutes...you'll be screaming for your momma just before you get your neck broken.”

Johnathan breathes in deep. “Well. I need to raise money. Mother says that I need to get a job and move out of the basement. I mean...I am the next evolutionary step in professional wrestling. Right? I am innovation personified.”

The lady stifles a laugh. “Well then. You will be facing your first opponent soon enough so get ready.”

She stands up and motions for Johnathan to rise. “Your paperwork will be ready the night of the show so you can get everything signed.”

She walks around the desk and holds out her hand for Johnathan to shake it. When Johnathan reaches for her hand, she swerves and grabs Johnathan up. She body slams him on the floor and kicks him in the ribs with her high heel shoes.

“Yup.” She comments as Johnathan gasps for breath. “Let's make that three minutes before you can't feel anything below your chin. You may want to consider steroids. Call Barry Bonds for some help.”

As the lady walks past Johnathan to leave the office, she aims a kick at his face to add insult to injury. Johnathan lays on the ground, feeling blood from his temple pool around his head on the floor.

“Got my ass kicked by the secretary. Yup...welcome to Hardkore World.”