NvL Hosts a Haunted House

[Kyle]

"I'm not afraid of werewolves or vampires or haunted hotels, I'm afraid of what real human beings do to other real human beings."~Walter Jon Williams

"Keeping up with the Halloween theme, I bring you the WCF Haunted House. Prepare yourselves for the worst WCF has to offer. Guard yourself against the disgusting, the ugly, and the scary. And most of all. . .

Enjoy your stay in hell."

Visual feed follows, and viewers find themselves at the view point of a random Dark Saint member, whose glasses had a camera built into them. Ahead of him is a plain door, with "WCF Haunted House" scrawled above it in a suspicious red liquid. And other than that, he was alone. Nothing else was found in the small room that the young man was standing in; in all honestly, he didn't even know how he had gotten into the room. He was alone. Or so he thought. . .

"Your walk through hell is about to begin, Shane, but you will not be walking it alone. I am watching you, your angel in the shadows. If you find yourself frightened at any time, call out, and I shall answer. I will erase the illusion of fright, and show you the truth behind the fear.

The door is open; step forth, my son."

Before Shane entered through the door, he took one last look at his surroundings; NvL was no where to be seen. So was the Devil's Right Hand truly an angel, or demon, hiding until needed? Nope. He was merely sitting in the control room, watching Shane from above. And torturing him with the rooms he had designed himself. Shane steps forth.

The first room was masterfully designed to look like the yard of a hillbilly. A rusty '66 Mustang rests on its rims under an oak tree. From that tree hangs a tire swing, which Waylon Cash found himself sitting. Or, at least, an actor portraying Cash. With his overalls and Juggalo shirt, the actor looks the part of White Trash. And, to further set the tone, Banjo music begins to play. And then "Waylon" speaks.

"It seems ya hav' stumbled upon my turf, you city slicker. So, tell me, are ya here to smoke a blunt or take an ass whoopin'. Don't matter to me, I'mma get stoned later anyway. But I'm up to kick ya ass anyway; its about time I beat somebody. Yea', I know I beat Eric Price for his television title belt, and I'mma former World Champ. But, ya know, I'm not that good. I called myself the champion of television, but really, I excel at short title reigns. Man, I fuckin' suck."

Shane doesn't even flinch at Waylon's words, merely yawning. NvL takes the hint though, and the tree tumbles over, crushing "Waylon" underneath it. A door has been revealed behind the fallen tree, but before it opens, NvL speaks.

"I may have underestimated you, Shane. Or maybe I overestimated Waylon. Because in all honestly, he doesn't frighten anyone. What have you done, Waylon, lately? At War, you couldn't even beat FPV. And no girl distracted you either in your draw with him. Then you had a decent outing in the War match; Adam Young had a decent outing, too, and he eliminated Black. So really, you did shit that night.

And then you pinned Eric Price; a feat many people have yet to achieve. But than you let your big head swell. You thought you were hot shit, when honestly, you were just recently released shit; in the beginning, its hot, but it cools off eventually. And in only your second defense, against a man who had fought one match before that day, you lost. You fucking lost.

Quite honestly, you were just a package deal in the formation of Genesis. Frankie and Roy wanted Orbit, who has at least been legitimate these past few months. You, Waylon, were just an add-on to the main deal. On paper, you appeared good. A World Champion in 2012, something only five other men can boast. You did beat Price, who has been hot lately for his title. But really, when people take their eyes off the stats and look at the person, they see the real picture.

Waylon Cash fucking sucks.

There is no way getting around it before our match. You're going to talk, smoke some weed, and step into the match at a disadvantage. And then a tree is going to fall on top of you. Except it won't be just a tree; its going to be an Odin Balfore or an Oblivion. And it won't just break your bones; its going to break everything Waylon Cash has become."

The door opens, and Shane steps over the tree and into the next room. Strobe lights are flashing constantly, and all the poles in the room are being mounted by the "Orbiters," otherwise known as Steve Orbit's hoes; all three of them, totaling over nine hundred pounds, are attacking those poles like they would Twinkies. And there was Orbit, seated in a plush chair, smoking a cigar and sipping a glass of malt liquor.

"Ah, we have a visitor. Ladies, pleasure the man. This is all I can do at the moment; use other people to make my name better. Kinda like me joining Genesis. Alone I wasn't worth shit, but alongside the names of other shitty people, my name looked better. Sure I can't win a World Title like FPV and Cash, and the only man I wanna face is Jay Price. I wanna test which one of his hands is better. On my dick!"

The three girls, their fat rolls bouncing, make their way towards Shane. Unlike the previous room, Shane finds himself scared. Not because of Orbit, but because of the ugly, fat chicks running at him like he was a hamburger. Shane hated ugly chicks. Like these girls, and Sarah Twilight. Hated them with a passion.

"NvL help me!"

NvL answers by switching on the lights; no more darkness pierced by the blues and pinks of strobe. Just plain, white light. The girls halt, and notice Orbit for what appears to be the first time. They swarm him like zombies would to a human. Orbit it toppled over, a girly scream the only they he can release, before the girls smother him in their "love handles."

"In the darkness, when the only thing the relied on was the voices of other, they listened to Orbit's requests. But the lights came on, and they picked him over you, Shane. Why?

Because imperfections seek each other out. These girls, who by no means are perfect, found something else that was fucked up. They found Orbit.

Orbit, I don't exaggerate when I say that you're fucked up. Not in the body, but in the mind. You beat me once, long ago, and in your mind, you thought that it was all over. Beat me once, beat me every time afterwards. Then I beat you. You talked shit and I made you eat it. I shut your mouth.

And then you opened it the very next week, talking the same shit as before.

When are you going to learn, Orbit, that you got lucky in our first match? You caught me at a time where I thought I was invincible. You knocked me down to size, like I did to you. Technically, we're even; we're equals. But you continue to talk as if beating me is an easy task. You'll learn at this Sunday, that I'm not just some easy bitch you can buy on the corner.

But flash your bills anyway. And those pearly whites, too. I need a nice target when I kick your face in."

A door, which had been revealed when the lights were switched on, opened on the other side of the room. Nathan made his way over there, stepping through. This room is rather plain, like the basement of a house. Seated upon the couch, was "FPV," who was making out with a girl that looked mighty similar who had interfered with the People's title match two weeks earlier. FPV frees himself from the lips of the girl, standing with an angry look on his face. Oh yes, this looked exactly like the twelve-year old from Slam.

"Hey, hey, who said you can just barge in here and mess everything up? Kinda like Stacy here did two weeks ago when I was fighting scary old NvL. I'm quite proud of her, since she did something that I could never do; she prevented NvL from beating me. But I'm not doing anything wrong here. Just enjoying my time with a friend. Maybe later I'll watch more Youtube so I can make another retarded video. Maybe Nyan cat or Annoying Orange. Not that I'm not already annoying. Being annoying is all that I'm good at. I mean, I've tried other things; knitting. Hell, I even tried out being a World Champion. But I fell into the same boat as Cash did; I fucking sucked at it. Honestly, I sucked worse than that; Waylon beat me for the belt. Man, that was a failed experiment on my part. So, you see, all I'm good at is being annoying."

By this point, Shane had realized that FPV could go on forever about how annoying he is. Shaking his head, he calls out.

"NvL, please shut him up!"

NvL obliges, but it was Stacy who ultimately shut FPV up. She leaps onto his back, similar to two weeks ago. But FPV didn't resist; he merely accepted this defeat, hoping to stay healthy for his next World title defense (his excuse for losing the week before War). One Straight Jacket Drop later and FPV was out of commission.

"I completely understand, Shane, why you'd want FPV to shut up. The man is quite annoying. Thankfully it is quite easy to shut him up; he does fucking suck. I've beaten him twice already in our career, and it would've been a third time had that pesky girl not jumped on my back. But that shows another aspect of FPV. Even when he has an opponent distracted and ready to be beaten, he still fails to capitalize. He had a win over me, regardless of circumstances, and he fucked up. There is no other way to put it. He screwed himself.

And to sweeten the deal, I caught him with his own move.

You cannot redeem yourself, FPV. In my eyes, your name will always mean Fucking Pathetic Venable. You surround yourself with other individuals to make yourself look stronger. But really, you're nothing. If Pantheon, the 'greatest' stable in the WCF, wouldn't accept you to their ranks, are you really any good? Your own friend, The Polar Phantasm, wouldn't even extend his hand out to let you in his ranks. He sees the potential you have, FPV.

Or, should I say lack of potential?

It doesn't matter, really, because you made it to the Main Event anyway. But you're entering a cage, FPV. No Stacy to run in and save your ass. Just your teammates, who I wouldn't trust. Not because they aren't loyal to you.

Its just because Genesis fucking sucks.

I'll be waiting for you, FPV. I still need to give you the Straight Jacket Drop you skipped out on two weeks ago. And a little more, too, because you won't be saving yourself for any world title match. Or anything, really, after the Church is done with you."

The door to the upper levels of the house opens, and Shane walks up the steps into the next room. This room consists of all things "badass." Manly posters like Harley Davidson and NFL cover most of the wall. On shelves there are fake skulls, barbed wire, and other "hardcore" objects. And there, in the middle of the room, stood "Roy Speede", with his hardcore title strapped to his waist. He is wearing all leather, with a skull bandanna, and aviator sunglasses. He was a wannabe badass.

"Welcome to the lair of pure awesomeness. Please tell me how the Hardcore title belt looks on me, please? You don't know the lengths I went to keep it. The easiest way for me to keep it was to actually beat Oblivion when I defended against him. But anyone who actually knows me knows I can't beat Oblivion. No, I had to beg on my knees to get my title back. But really, I'm used to being on my knees. Not because I suck dick, of course. Roy Speede is straight! No, I've been on my knees for a long time, begging for people to see me as a credible competitor. But all of it has paid off. I'm now a total bad-ass."

Throughout the entire rant, Shane had been covering his nose. But, despite all his effort, he can't stand it anymore. He calls for help.

"NvL help me! I can smell his penis breath from here."

Nothing physical happens. NvL merely speaks.

"Call him a boudle."

Shane is puzzled at first by the simple statement NvL makes, but a connection is made in his head. Then, Shane smiles.

"Roy Speede is a boudle."

Roy Speede whips the aviators off his face immediately, like a bad-ass would when he was insulted. But Speede, a mere wannabe, doesn't avenge himself. No, the tears starts flowing, and Speede runs away. He opens a door, the door Shane will soon enter, and disappears.

"Ah, I remember the days when Roy Speede disappeared, a victim of FPV. I thought he would be gone forever; you can see why I don't have happy thoughts very often.

They never come true.

Roy Speede is back, and badder than ever. Badder as in he still fucking sucks. I mean, the only reason he is still hardcore champion is because of a mistake of management. He didn't beat Obi-Christ. He couldn't beat him. So why, if he couldn't handle one Church member, does he think facing four of them is a smart idea?

When has Speede ever been considered smart?

Last time he and I was in the ring, he ignored me presence. But I guarantee you my presence was felt after that night. He had to sit there, backstage, watching me as I outlasted everyone else besides two. I fell short, but Speede fell shorter. He fell straight into the hole where the idea of Genesis was discovered. Not a place where reality could be considered and true logic could be taken into account. Nope. Roy Speede was in a fucking hole, looking for the first rope to pull him free, regardless of who held the other end.

This Sunday, Speede, you're going to wish you were still in that hole. You don't deserve to be in the ring with the Church. You don't deserve anything. You've gotten this far with your dick-sucking ability, Speede. But this Sunday, it all ends.

Because its going to be hard to suck a dick with a broken jaw."

Shane enters the next room with haste, ready to get on with this haunted house. At first glance, it was easy to tell this was the room of Sarah Twilight. Hundreds of pictures of the women hung on the walls. A golden statue of the women stands in the middle of the room, flanking it two six-foot tall mirrors. Sarah Twilight was admiring herself, but she notices Shane, and turns to face him.

"Who are you, another fan asking for my autograph? I don't see why you don't want it; I'm the best wrestler the WCF has to offer. I'm sure you know that I Main Evented two PPVs in a row, and I wasn't even World Champion. Of course, I was fighting for the prestigious belt, and both times I failed to win it. But I was there, therefore I'm amazing. It just doesn't get better than me. I didn't win many titles or feud with big superstars. In all honestly, Famine was my only feud, and I considered him inferior. So does that make me inferior? Not at all! I'm damn good, and back forever. . ."

Shane yawns again, bored with the current proceedings.

"Is she ever going to stop?"

NvL replies immediately.

"She should quit any moment now."

And indeed she does, stopping mid-sentence completely. Twilight quits speaking, and exits the room through Shane's next route.

"It seems Sarah Twilight is back to finish what she started months ago.

She wants to continue in her losing ways.

I mean, Sarah, what did you do during your first tenure here? A lone tag team reign? Adam Young's done that too, so that isn't impressive. But in the little you actually accomplished, you sure overdid it. Anybody can lose, but you wanted to go further. You wanted to Main Event. You wanted to be in the World Title scene. But twice Fly put you down. Twice you failed. And yet people still thought you were good.

But, in reality, you fucking sucked.

And know you're back, ready to repeat your previous failures. You're once again in the Main Event, once again of a big fight. But this time, the focus isn't on you. This fight is about stables, not Sarah Twilight. In this match, you're just another wrestler. The spotlight isn't on you anymore, so that means your actual wrestling ability has to get you to the forefront.

Which is exactly why you won't get anywhere in this match, Sarah.

If you had any ability like you wanted the WCF to believe, you would've toppled Jonny Fly for his belt. And yet you couldn't even pin Jay fucking Price when he held the belt. In the mid-card and your tag team title reign, your talking built up a golden statue around you, making you a goddess. But, in the ring, you repeatedly stumbled. And this Sunday, nothing is going to change. You're going to lose.

And then, if you even bare WCF any further, you're going to continue to wrestle.

And you're going to continue to lose.

And eventually, when you've had enough, you're going to quit again. You're going to step back, make excuses about checking your priorities. And you're going to leave. Why? Because you hate losing. Everyone does, and eventually, if you lose enough when you get so close, it wears on you. Some people, the weaker ones, quit. The strong adapt and get better. But you cannot adapt, Sarah, no matter what you tell us. You're the same person you were the first day you stepped into the WCF, and the same person you were when you left.

People called you a witch, but the words were misconstrued at some person and widely accepted.

In reality, you're just a quitting bitch.

A bitch who thinks she's a walking god.

A bitch, who in reality, isn't even fit for vermin to walk upon.

And most importantly, a bitch whose lack of wrestling ability is going to give her her third PPV Main Event loss."

Shane steps through the door, tired of all the Sarah Twilight. In the next room, an IWF Banner covers an entire wall. A wide-screen television rests on a separate wall, with highlights of Black's career in the company. Shane admired the graphics for IWF '13, the time and effort those designers put into the game, to make Corey Black look so good in the ring, but his attention soon settles on the real Black. CB is standing at a podium, preaching to anyone who would listen to his rants. So, really no one, except maybe Shane.

"Bow down before me, you mag. . ."

Shane doesn't even cry for help, but NvL steps in anyway. A man who looked like Creeping Death, Black's counterpart, explodes from the darkness, tackling Black. The two men crash into the IWF banner, knocking it from its roost, revealing the door.

"I apologize, Shane, for not allowing you to hear what Black had to say. But, really Black has nothing important to say. I mean, what has he done in the WCF this year?

Go on and tell us, Black. Tell us how you jobber-killed Adam Young. Tell us how you hung onto the coattails of Polar Phantasm and Jonny Fly to stay legitimate in this company. Or go your usual route, and mention your multiple world title reigns and your accomplishments in the IWF. Say whatever you want.

You still fucking suck in my eyes.

You're nothing more than a veteran who is past his prime. You try and keep up, but you're slowly falling behind. And yet you consider yourself legitimate. Be like Gravedigger, Corey. Go train rookies or something. Go and spend the rest of your days in small-time IWF. Go off and die for all I care. But be gone. Pantheon has been around for too long; it needs to leave.

So take the hint like Johnny Reb did and fuck off, Black.

Or stay and get fucked up.

Either way, you're getting fucked.

And you're going to like it too.

Not because you want to.

But because, for the first time in a long time, you're going to be in the spotlight.

The Church's spotlight as they stand over your broken body."

The door opens, and Shane steps through. In this room, there is total darkness. Except for a single light atop a Hall of Fame plaque for Dake Ken. Shane steps forth, his camera noticing the dust that had collected on the plaque. And where is the fabled Dake Ken? Who knows.

"The unknown element in this match. Hall of Famer, former world champion, a name who comes up in talks of greats from the past.

Emphasis on the past.

You've haven't wrestled for years, Dake, so why start now? Are your memories kicking in, forcing you to relive the glory days? Or do you honestly believe Pantheon's cause is a good one? They're nothing more than a few average wrestlers who had the champion on their side. They had no goals other than to fuck around and waste WCF's time. Now, with their centerpiece gone, they're scrambling to stay legitimate. One of their ranks has already disappeared. Another, the World Champion of this company, won't answer a simple challenge; making excuses of Seth booking matches. And the Unstable Elements?

They're fucking worthless.

So, do you have it in your head than you can help these people, Dake? That one man, a man who hasn't fought in years, can keep them afloat against men such as myself and Oblivion? This wasn't the WCF you made a name for yourself in; we live in the Era of the Rookies. More than half of the titles in this company are held by men in their first year of the company. Contenders are constantly men who only know your name from the talk of veterans. You're stepping back into the ring at the wrong. This is the transition from your era to our era.

And knocking a memory of the past to the ground isn't beyond any of us.

No one in this match cares about what you've done in the past, Dake. Your Hall of Fame status means little. In our eyes, you still need to prove to use that you're legit. And you can't; not in the circumstances you're walking into. This isn't some clusterfuck Seth threw together for fun. The men in this match have it out for each other. We're aiming not for just a win, but to destroy our opponents.

And you're in the crossfire.

You're no Odin Balfore, the enforcer on my team. He's a veteran, but he's a veteran whose been wrestling consistently for months. You, Dake, are someone trying to rekindle your wrestling ability in the heat of battle. And by the time you do, it'll be too late. In this Era, we don't wait around for veterans.

Either with us, or under us.

So consider this my first 'welcome back' to the WCF. My second will come this Sunday, when I drop you on your head.

Maybe then you'll realize that trying to become a foundation for a crumbling Pantheon wasn't such a good idea."

The lights switch on, revealing an open door for Shane to walk through into the next room. At first glance, it may appear that this was a NvL room, but with further observation, that belief could be considered false. Posters of NvL cover the walls, with darts and knives embedded in them. A dummy of NvL lays on its back, its eyes gouged out and its right hand chopped off. And, above the bed that Nightmare was laying on, a framed picture of Phantasm standing tall over NvL is seen. The hatred that Nightmare had for Nathan was clearly evident.

"I'm gonna get you, Nathan, like I dream about. I'm going to slice your neck, cut your balls off, and do other hardcore things to you. Because I was Deathmatch Champion in GEW, bitch! Of course, when I'm fighting you, I'm like a little kitten. I mean a tiger cub! But it doesn't matter because my hubby and I are tag team champions. I could never win a singles belt, mostly because I couldn't escape Nathan's imprisonment. But even when I got back, it wasn't going to happen. Nope, I had to get help, but eventually, I got gold around my waist. And I'm going to use it as a grater on Nathan's face. Because I'm the Hardcore Queen!"

Shane, who has had enough, doesn't even bother calling NvL.

"How's your ass, Nightmare?"

Shock crosses her face, and she runs out of the room. Where to? Probably her parent's house, where she hides when the going gets tough.

"I branded your ass, bitch. What else do I have to say?"

Before Shane can exit the room, Polar Phantasm barges in, blocking the exit.

"Why do you have to scare my wife, dude? She didn't do anything to nobody. All I dead was kick a stupid rat, and Nathan retaliates by kidnapping Nighty and making her dress up in a rat suit. Do you know how many nights I had to beat my own meat to her image to make up for all the sex I was missing? Uh. . . I mean I worried a lot about her! But did I do anything about it? Nope! Of course, I moaned and complained, but it was Jeff Purse who had to step up and win her back for me. I've had multiple chances to face Nathan to avenge my girlfriend, but did I? Nope! And then Nathan branded Nighty on the ass. Did I challenge him to a battle to the death? Nope! No, Nathan has to make the challenge; I merely have to answer. Am I going to? Nope! I ain't getting nothing branded on me."

"Throw the stick, Shane. Throw it!"

Shane reaches into his pocket, pulling out a freshly-rolled blunt. "Polar" begins to salivate. And when Shane throws it, he runs for it. Straight into the wall.

"Just like in that instance, Polar is about to run head into a wall. And all for something that is going to give him a 'high'. Your match this week won't be contested for some weed, but a victory will earn you some satisfaction. You are now the leader of Pantheon, Polar. You're leading your comrades into Hell.

You're leading them straight into a failure.

Polar, there is no way you're going to beat the Church this week. We're stronger, crueler, and most importantly, more committed to our cause. Pantheon has lost two of its members already. How much longer until more disappear? This has happened many times in history, Polar. A strong army keeps the loyalty of its troops. But when it begins to weaken, the loyalty also begins to weaken. Polar, by no means were you the strongest member of Pantheon. You were the People's Champion, a title recently created to spice up the WCF. Jonny Fly was a three time World Champion. And he's gone now. Johnny Reb, another former champion, has also deserted. Why?

Because Pantheon has an untested leader stepping up in the middle of a war.

It wasn't like you had a lot of time to prepare, Polar. You're the general of the Pantheon army now, on the dawn of its biggest fight ever. You're unproven, but full of potential. So the question is being asked. Will you step up and take care of business.

Nope.

You have yet to do it once in your career, Phantasm, so why start now? I've tortured and marked your girlfriend and you won't seek revenge. I've make my own challenge, and you won't accept. I've walked all over you, and you have to stand up and fight back. Instead, you let others fight for you. This worked when Fly was around; people expected you to be inferior. But now, you're suppose to be the best. But, in my eyes, you're not the best.

In my eyes, you're still a Kid, Phantasm."

With that, Steve walks through the door. The next room is completely white. The walls, the floors, the furniture. All white, and all spotless. And perfect, in both symmetry and design. This was Jeff Purse's turf; any imperfection would drive him crazy. The man himself steps forward, a duster in his hand to knock off stray particles on Shane's clothing.

"My, my the filth that I have to live with on a daily basis. But who cares? I'm the fucking World Champion. And already I've held it longer than FPV, Waylon Cash, and Jay Price. And its not because I haven't had to defend it yet, no matter what Synn says. I could beat anyone I face, even NvL. Of course, he's beaten me more in our past match-ups than I've beaten him. But I don't live in the past; unless that past says good things about me. Oh I remember my wins over Gravedigger and Eric Price, but heaven forbid that I remember losing my television title without holding it once. Forget my pitiful outing at One. Just know that I'm going to Main Event One next time, with my world title belt still around my waist. Unless I have to defend it, that is."

NvL breaks Purse's rant over his intercom.

"Challenge him to a match."

Shane obliges.

"Jeff, how about you and I have a fight. It doesn't even have to be for the belt."

A simple request, but to Jeff, it appears to be the end of the world. He clutches that duster to his chest as if it were a babe, constantly shaking his head.

"No! Not before you eat dog shit! And fly to Jupiter! And tell me that I'm pretty! No, you won't get this belt. Its mine. MINE!"

Purse runs away like the coward he truly is, and exits through a door.

"Thatis the WCF World Champion, Shane, in all of his glory. Take what you saw and magnify it by ten and you have the bullshit Purse has been going on about on twitter. Heaven forbid he go out and prove he's a champion. No, he sits on his butt an enters twitter wars. Is that what the WCF has come to? This ain't the Internet Championship, Purse.

But, for your sake, because it probably should be.

That belt is all about shit talking.

And everything that comes out of your mouth is shit.

Jeff Purse, you truly disgust me. How dare you call yourself a champion when you have to defend the belt? I mean, do you remember the last time you made the mistake? When you won the TV title, you sat down with Fly and talked about how you were going to be the best champion to hold that belt all year.

And then you lost it in your very first defense.

So what makes this anytime different? That more time has passed between winning and defending? You're pathetic, Jeff. Worse than Speede. Worse than FPV. Worse than anyone else in this match. I've played in sewers, dissected rats, and talked to myself many a time. I'm a monster. And this monster is disgusted by you.

I want the old Jeff Purse back. The mid-carder who was just happy to get a win. The man who was more worried about his girlfriend than anything else. I could walk out there right now and bitch-slap Kari across your face. And you wanna know how you would react?

You'd tell me 'I hope you don't expect a title shot for that.'

Gold has changed you, Purse, and not for the better. So I'm going to introduce you to a new color.

Red.

Purse, you better pray that I don't get my hands on you. Because if I do, your blood will be spilled. And it won't be done for titles. I could care less about the gold you carry around. This match ain't a title match; it is the Church's chance to take out its enemy. I know, if I wanted to, I could take anything and everything from you, and you couldn't stop me. Not because you wouldn't try like Polar, but because you can't.

But, even by chance, some time down the road, I have the desire to take the World title from you, it'll be too late.

By then, you would've already defended the belt.

And lost it."

Shane makes walks through what should be the final door. And it appears it is, as the young follower climbs the steps into the main auditorium of the Portland Chapel. He had made it through the Haunted House unscathed.

Or so he thought.

Behind him, Odin Balfore shuts the door from which Shane came. Walking forward, the lights been to dim. And Shane begins to move faster. He looks to the left, there stands Synn. He looks to the right, there stands Famine. His only exit is the double doors straight ahead. Until Oblivion steps through them, shutting them behind him.

"Shane, you are in the same predicament Genesis and Pantheon will be in come Sunday. They will be surrounded by my brethren, trying to fight on our turf. And as always, the bigger targets are the ones seen. Synn, Odin, Famine, and Oblivion are always the threats in the eyes of opponents. At first, it bothered me. Why was I was always ignored, demoted to the weakest link? But I got over that, looking at the positive side of it.

My opponent's mistakes allow me to sneak right up behind them. And they never know it until it is too late."

Shane whips around, and a red hand catches him by the throat. No more sarcastic acting and goofing off. One serious NvL held Shane by the throat. His gasping for breath could be heard, but Nathan's voice overshadowed all other noise.

"Walter Jon Williams said it best when he stated he feared the things human beings did to other human beings. In reality, it is cruel, but necessary. The things the Church has planned for this Sunday will be sick, sadistic, and crazy. But it is something the WCF needs. For too long have we been toiling in the light, and getting no where.

It is about time to give the darkness a time to reign."

Darkness on the video screen follows