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Battle Royale: 72 Hours

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Disclaimer: This diary features strong levels of violence. If you are easily offended by death or similar material, it is recommended that you skip this diary. While all characters in this diary are based upon real life personas, all actions portrayed in this diary are purely works of fiction. The author wishes none of them any harm in real life.

“You’re a free man Foley…you’ve earned it.”

Mick Foley awoke with a start. How long had he been asleep? He surveyed his surroundings, trying to find some clue as to where he was. From what he could see, he was in a small room, devoid of furniture save the bed he was sitting on. A single doorway on the opposite wall appeared to be the only way in or out. Foley tried the door. It was locked.

He sat down on the bed, trying to recall how he ended up in this room. He remembered something about a contest, in which forty wrestlers had been forced to fight to the death. Had he dreamt the whole the up? Foley looked down, and for this first time since he awoke, realized that his entire body was covered in scrapes and bruises. It had been no dream.

The door opened, and two burly men stepped into the room. One of them carried a tranquilizer rifle, the type used to bring down large animals. He raised the gun and pointed it at Foley.

“Looks like our prisoner is awake,” the man with the gun said. “Not for long though.”

“Just hurry up and shoot him already.” This was the second man speaking. “The Boss looked real pissed, we don’t want to be the last to reach the new island.”

"Alright already, quit the bitching." The man with the gun squeezed the trigger twice, as two darts flew across the room and struck Mick Foley in the chest. Blackness engulfed him, as he collapsed back upon the bed.

“Poor sob. He should have gotten off the island when he had the chance.”

48 Wrestlers Remaining

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Contestant List for Battle Royale 2005 II

01. Arn Anderson

02. BG James

03. Big Bossman

04. Billy Gunn

05. Bill DeMott

06. Brian Danielson

07. Christian

08. Chris Kanyon

09. Chris Sabin

10. CM Punk

11. Dean Malenko

12. Diamond Dallas Page

13. D’Lo Brown

14. Edge

15. Funaki

16. Garrison Cade

17. Jerry Lynn

18. John Cena

19. Jonathan Coachman

20. Justin Credible

21. Ken Shamrock

22. Konnan

23. Low Ki

24. Mick Foley

25. Nathan Jones

26. New Jack

27. Nunzio

28. Randy Orton

29. Roddy Piper

30. Ron Killings

31. Scott Hall

32. Shaggy 2 Dope

33. Shane Douglas

34. Spike Dudley

35. Steve Corino

36. Steven Richards

37. Super Crazy

38. TAKA Michinoku

39. Tazz

40. Teddy Hart

41. Terry Funk

42. Test

43. The Undertaker

44. Tommy Dreamer

45. Vader

46. Vince McMahon

47. Violent J

48. Zach Gowen


“Good evening gentlemen, and welcome to Battle Royale!”

48 pairs of eyes focused on the man standing before them. He was dressed in a red t-shirt and black jeans, along with a black leather jacket. Once he saw he had the complete attention of everyone in the room, a wide grin broke out upon his face. While he cared little for most of the contestants, there was one man in the room whom he was especially interested in. Unsurprisingly, he was also the first of the participants to speak up, his voice loud and commanding. His name was Vince McMahon.

Vince: “I don’t know what exactly you’re up to, but I demand you release us at once!”

Several others in the crowd echoed their support. The man in the leather jacket waited for them to quiet down before continuing on.

“Alright, let me explain the situation. The reason why the 48 of you are here today…is to kill each other. ”

The man looked at his audience. Some of them were in shock; others were shouting words of protest.

“You still don’t believe me, do you?” the man continued. “Alright, bring him in.”

The man turned to the entrance of the room, as three more men walked in. They were dressed in combat fatigues, and each of them carried an AK-47. They were followed by two more guards, along with a man in a black suit. Without warning, one of the guards pulled out a pistol, shooting the suited man in the back of the head. The man fell to the floor, dead.

The room immediately became quiet. The man in the leather jacket sighed to himself. Such acts of violence disgusted him, but his promised reward would more than make up for whatever acts he had to witness.

“He was the previous instructor,” the man explained. “Unfortunately, he messed up during the previous Battle Royale, and had to be thought a lesson. I suggest that the rest of you pay close attention, unless you want to end up like him.”

Nobody said a word.

“Now, the rules are simple. The 48 of you will fight to the death, and the last man standing gets to go home. Other than that, there are no violations.”

The man gestured to the front of the room, towards a row of kit bags. “These are you kit bags,” he explained. “Each pack contains food and water, along with a randomly selected weapon. On your way out, each of you will collect a bag. You will also receive a map of the island. Study the map closely, because starting at six o’clock, I will be reading out a list of randomly selected danger zones. If you are caught in a danger zone after a certain time, the collars around your necks will explode. In addition, these collars will monitor your heartbeat, enabling us to determine who is still in the competition. The collars are waterproof, shockproof and fireproof, and any attempts to remove them will result in instant termination.”

Those who had been fiddling with their collars quickly lowered their hands.

“Finally, I will be making announcements every six hours, informing you of the latest deaths and danger zones. Now, any questions?”

CM Punk raised his hand.

Punk: “I don’t know what kind of sick joke this is, but I refuse to participate in this game!”

The man laughed. “Sure, but don’t blame me if you wind up dead. Don’t forget that in this game, it’s kill or be killed.”

Vince McMahon stood up. Everyone in the room turned to him, hoping that he was about to put an end to the contest.

Vince: “As you know, I am a very rich man. Just name any figure, I’ll give you anything you want, just let me go!”

Vince McMahon had let them all down. The man laughed, shaking his head. The contest hadn’t even started, and already Vince was begging for mercy.

“Sorry Vince, but I’m not interested in what you have to offer. I’m being offered a lot more than you can possibly give me. Besides, it wouldn’t be fair to everyone else if I let you go.”

The man checked his watch. It was exactly five minutes to midnight.

“Alright, each of you has been assigned a number, starting with Arn Anderson and ending with Zach Gowen. At exactly twelve midnight, Arn Anderson will collect his pack and leave the room. Two minutes after him, it will be BG James’ turn, then the Big Bossman, and so on. Once you leave this room, you are free to do whatever you like. However, please note that at exactly two o’clock, this bunker will become a danger zone, so don’t linger around after you’ve left. And one more thing, if the contest isn’t over within 72 hours, I will detonate the collars of all remaining wrestlers. Good luck.”

The man smiled to himself. He would ensure that nothing would go wrong, or his name wasn’t Eric Bischoff.

48 Wrestlers Remaining

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Hour 1

Day 1

0000 to 0100

The contest had begun.

Arn Anderson was the first one to leave the room. He calmly walked to the exit, where a guard handed him his kit bag. Without saying a word, he grabbed the bag and walked out the door. Two minutes later, he was followed by BG James. After him were the Big Bossman, Bill DeMott, Billy Gunn, and Bryan Danielson.

However, when Christian’s turn came to leave, he turned around, dropping the kit bag that had been given to him.

“How do I know the weapons aren’t rigged?” he asked, looking at Bischoff.

Bischoff: “I assure you all the weapons have been randomly selected. Now if you don’t mind, please hurry up and collect your bag, we haven’t got all day.”

Christian: “In that case, I’m sure you wouldn’t mind if I choose my own bag.”

One of the guards raised his weapon, but Bischoff waved it down. Christian walked to the end of the line, grabbing the last kit bag instead. Satisfied, he left the room.

The process continued, as Kanyon and Sabin left the room without incident. However, when it was time for CM Punk to collect his bag, he refused to accept it.

Bischoff: “Don’t tell me you want to pick your own bag too.”

CM Punk: “You can’t force me to play this game. I refuse to collect my weapon.”

Bischoff: “Suit yourself. Like I said, it’s your loss.”

CM Punk stormed out of the room. Meanwhile, Tommy Dreamer slumped down in his chair. It would be more than an hour before his turn came. It was plenty of time for the killing to begin.


BG James, known to the gambling world simply as Wrestler #2, made his way north. His target was the residential area, where he hoped to find additional supplies. He hadn’t gone far when a voice called out behind him. He recognized the voice instantly. It was his old tag partner, Billy Gunn.

James: “What do you want?”

Gunn: “Look, I know we’ve had our problems in the past, but I think given the circumstances, we would be better off if we worked together. Like they say, there’s safety in numbers.”

As Gunn neared him, James realized that he was carrying a gun. It was a Colt XSE .45 Caliber. If things were to turn ugly, there was no doubt that Billy Gunn would have the upper hand. No, the best option would be to team up with Gunn, at least for now.

James: “Alright, I agree. But if it comes down to the two of us, I’m not going without a fight.”

Gunn: “Fair enough. What weapon did you get?”

BG James opened his kit bag. After some digging about, he withdrew a lead pipe, about 40 centimeters in length. Behind him, he thought he saw a smile creep across Billy Gunn’s face.


Justin Credible made his way across the island, flashlight in one hand, Walther PPK in the other. As far as weapons go, he definitely had the advantage. He paused to catch his breath, when he heard the rustling of bushes nearby. He switched his flashlight off, allowing his eyes to get used to the dark before heading towards the noise.

He saw the Big Bossman, back turned, taking a piss by a tree. He couldn’t help but snicker, the poor sob must have pissed his pants in fear. For a moment, he was tempted to shoot Bossman in the back, but decided it would be better to conserve what precious little ammo he had. Instead, he quickly grabbed Bossman’s kit bag, before disappearing back behind the bush. The Big Bossman, too preoccupied with relieving himself, didn’t even notice until Credible was long gone.

Credible knew the secret to success. Those who fought alone were hardly a threat. No, it was the groups that would inevitably form that worried him. Through sheer strength of numbers, they could easily overpower him, or any other individual. Instead of fighting them, he had a better idea. He would avoid the groups, and concentrate on those who were alone. He would take their food and supplies, and once he had enough, he would find a place to hide. And then, he would wait for the moment when all trust would go down the drain, as former friends turned on each other. And that was when he would strike.


Nunzio stood at the entrance of the bunker, not daring to move. New Jack had left before him, and Nunzio had the feeling that he was playing the game. From what he could see, he was alone, but that didn’t rule out the possibility that someone was nearby, ready to ambush him.

As he pondered over what to do, he heard footsteps behind him. It was Nathan Jones, another man who looked like he could squash Nunzio in an instant. Panicking, he made a mad dash, heading towards a nearby cluster of trees. Upon reaching his destination, he waited. There were no gunshots, no screams, no shouts. As far as he could tell, nobody was following him.

Nunzio suddenly realized how tired he was. Opening his bag, he found an ice pick. Silently, he cursed his bad luck. Tired and poorly armed, his chances of survival were slim. If he was going to make it, he would need both the mental and physical energy to come up with a plan. Surveying the area, he chose a tree that looked easy to climb, yet offered enough leaves to hide him. He finally found one that suited his needs, and with some effort, hoisted himself up. The intercrossing branches would allow him to sleep without falling off, and the thick canopy would make it impossible for anyone to spot him. Wiggling about to make himself comfortable, he soon fell asleep.


Christian’s eyes widened as he opened his bag. His gamble had paid off. Afraid that his original bag was too light to contain something useful, he had swapped bags. At first he was worried that he had made the wrong choice, but once he felt the weight of his new bag, he was confident that he had received one of the better weapons. In fact, he now had with him one of the best weapons in the game, one that could possibly lead him to victory: an Israeli made Uzi submachine gun.

42 Wrestlers Remaining

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Hour 2

Day 1

0100 to 0200

If there was anyone who had a big disadvantage in the competition, it had to be Mick Foley. Somehow, he had managed to outlast 39 other superstars in the previous contest. Still beaten and worn out from the previous Battle Royale, the odds of him winning again were next to zero. Despite that, Foley had been one of the top picks for winning the competition, and was currently the third highest wrestler in terms of bets. Of course, he had no way of knowing this.

What he did know, was that he wasn’t going to play this twisted game again. Fortunately, Lady Luck had been kind on him; his weapon was a small tranquilizer gun, which would enable him to defend himself without having to hurt anyone.

He heard movement nearby. Pushing aside some bushes, he saw someone in the mud, crawling about on all fours. It took awhile for Foley to recognize him in the darkness, but it soon became apparent that it was the Big Bossman. He was groping about randomly, muttering something about finding his bag. Suddenly, he noticed Foley staring at him. He began to back away slowly.

“Please don’t kill me,” he muttered. “I don’t want to die!”

Foley approached him, with the intention of helping him up. However, this only spooked Bossman even more, as he began to scream his lungs out.

Bossman: “I don’t want to die! Please! Don’t kill me! I don’t want to die! I don’t-”

Mick Foley realized that if he didn’t shut Bossman up, someone would follow the sound of his voice and kill him. “Sorry,” was all he could offer. “I’m afraid this is for your own good.”

Raising the tranquilizer gun, Foley fired three darts into the Big Bossman. Within seconds, he was out cold. Foley considered dragging him to a safer location, but by doing so, he would be left defenseless. Leaving Bossman to sleep, Foley disappeared back into the dark.


Konnan slowly made his way across the island. Like many others, he was heading towards the residential area, in the prospect of finding some additional equipment.

He paused to check his bearings. It was almost pitch black, which made distinguishing landmarks a difficult task. He had a flashlight, but he had opted to use both hands to carry his weapon, sacrificing visibility for better control. Fortunately, thanks to the buckshot of his SPAS12 Shotgun, accuracy wasn’t much of a problem.

He heard somebody coming up behind him. He spun around, pointing his shotgun straight at his stalker. There was no way he could miss.

“Don’t shoot! It’s me, Killings!”

Konnan lowered his shotgun, as Ron ‘The Truth’ Killings approached him.

“Nice tool you’ve got there,” Killings said, patting his belt. “All they gave me was this lousy army knife.”

Konnan looked down at Killing’s waist. Sure enough, an army knife was clipped to his belt.

Konnan: “Sorry bout the shotgun, I thought you were going to attack me.”

Killings: “Alright man, here’s what I want to say. Both of us know each other real well, and I swear I would never try to kill a friend. So if you’re cool with it, we should team up and try to work together. But if you think I’m going to screw you, then you might as well shoot me right now.”

Killings raised his arms, inviting Konnan to shoot him. Instead, Konnan lowered his shotgun, embracing Killings in a tight hug.


Meanwhile, inside the bunker, it was Vince McMahon’s turn to leave. He grabbed his kit bag, but instead of heading for the door, he walked up to Eric Bischoff. Leaning close so that the guards couldn’t here what he was saying, he whispered into Bischoff’s ear.

Vince: “After this is over, I’m going to kill you.”

Bischoff: “I could detonate your collar right now Vince, but where’s the fun in that? I can’t wait to see you killed by one of the many people you’ve screwed in the past.”

Vince scowled, his face turning a deep shade of red. After a few more seconds, he stormed out of the room.

Bischoff: “See you Vince, and don’t let the door hit your ass on the way out.”


Nathan Jones slowly pushed his way through the foliage, completely oblivious to the threat meters behind him.

New Jack had been following Nathan Jones ever since he left the bunker. His flashlight was switched on, making it easy for New Jack to follow him at a safe distance. Rather than rushing him at the start, New Jack had decided to let Nathan Jones wander away from the base, minimizing the odds of someone coming to the rescue when he finally attacked.

Jack looked at his watch. It was almost two. He figured now would be as good as a time as any to strike. He raised his supplied weapon, a 2 by 4 board of wood, and charged towards Nathan Jones.

Jones, suddenly aware that he was under attack, quickly turned around, raising his crowbar. Barely deflecting the attack, Jones stumbled back. Quickly regaining his posture, he spun the crowbar around, motioning for New Jack to attack.

New Jack came in fast and hard, but Jones sidestepped the attack, slamming the crowbar into Jack’s gut. As Jack clutched his abdomen in pain, Nathan Jones lifted the crowbar above his head, ready to strike the finishing blow. However, before he could bring the crowbar down, New Jack threw himself at Nathan Jones, causing him to lose his balance and fall to the ground.

Nathan Jones quickly sprung back up, but New Jack was ready for him. With all his might, he swung his 2 by 4.

With a sickening crack, the impact shattered his nose and jaw. He opened his mouth to scream, only to choke on his own blood.

New Jack swung his 2 by 4 again, crushing the skull of Nathan Jones. After a few more attempts, Nathan Jones’ face had been reduced to a bloody pulp. Blood was oozing out of every pore on his face.

His killer let out a primeval roar of intense satisfaction. First blood had gone to New Jack…and he was proud of it.

47 Wrestlers Remaining

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Hour 3

Day 1

0200 to 0300

Chris Sabin was the first to reach the residential area. Unknown to him, on a giant display screen hundreds of miles away, his name rose up alongside New Jack and Vince McMahon as one of the top picks for winning the contest. But as far as he was concerned, all he wanted to do was find a way out of the game.

When he first left the bunker, he had been surprised at how cold it was. Dressed in only his wrestling gear, he had made a point to find some proper clothes. It took him awhile to find some clothes his size, but after going through three houses, he eventually found something he could wear.

His shirt also served an additional purpose, concealing the bullet proof vest he wore. Despite the protection it offered, Sabin couldn’t help but feel a little insecure. While his vest could provide adequate protection during a gunfight, it was pretty much useless in a melee battle. Unless he could find a weapon fast, he would be an easy target.

Wondering why he hadn’t thought of it earlier, he ran into the first house he could find, heading straight for the kitchen and throwing open various cabinets and drawers. Finally, he found what he was looking for. He held the knife close to his face, trying to determine the sharpness of its blade. He looked around, trying to find something he could test it on, but the kitchen was devoid of food, plus all the furnishings looked too hard to scratch.

Suddenly, a loud crash sounded by the entrance of the kitchen. He spun around, spotting Low Ki by the doorway. A broken vase lay by his feet, most likely the source of the noise. Sabin raised his knife, pointing it threateningly at Low Ki.

“Stay back!” he warned, “I’m not looking for any trouble, but I’ll fight if I have to!”

Low Ki: “Relax, I’m not here to fight. Listen, in this game, there’s strength in numbers. We’ve got to work together.”

Sabin: “And then what happens once it comes down to the two of us? You shoot me in the back? No thanks, if that’s the case, I rather work alone.”

Low Ki paused, trying to determine his intentions. All he could see in Sabin’s eyes were fear.

Low Ki: “Fine. But if you get in trouble, don’t expect me to come and rescue you.”

Low Ki started at Sabin, who was still holding onto the kitchen knife. After a few more seconds, he turned around and walked out of the house, leaving Sabin alone again.


Jonathan Coachman stumbled through the residential area, cold sweat dripping down his face. He held in his hands a Smith & Wesson M19 revolver, swinging it about wildly at the slightest noise.

He was already beginning to regret his decision to come here. He had only reached the residential area minutes ago, yet he had already seen at least 3 other wrestlers come by. Fortunately, none of them had spotted him.

He spun around, pointing his gun towards a nearby bush. A squirrel darted out from underneath, startling the Coach. He breathed a small sigh of relief. It was only a squirrel, nothing to worry about. As long as it wasn’t another human being, he would be safe.

At least, he hoped he would be.


BG James trotted after Billy Gunn, clinging tightly to his lead pipe. Gunn didn’t seem to mind BJ James walking behind him, or at least James didn’t think he did. So far, he had heard no objections from Gunn, so he saw no point in endangering himself by walking in front. Besides, Gunn had the Colt .45, and BG James was pretty confident that he could take care of himself.

James paused, hearing some voices nearby. Gunn continued on, unaware that James was no longer following him. James closed his eyes and listened, but all he heard was the chirping of crickets.


Billy Gunn threw his compass against a tree. According to the map, they should have reached a small hospital by now. Instead, the only thing he could see was a small gazebo.

He took a deep breath, telling himself to calm down. Picking up his compass, his circled the gazebo, hoping to find a path leading to the hospital. Finding none, he realized that the gazebo was covered in vines, indicating that it hadn’t been used in years.

Realizing that BG James wasn’t behind him, Billy Gunn looked around, trying to find his lost partner. Spotting a figure crouching by a bush, Billy Gunn approached him, thinking it was BG James.

Gunn: “Stop slacking, we’re moving on.”

The figure turned around, and Gunn realized that it wasn’t BG James, but Ron Killings. He quickly raised his gun, warning him not to move.

“Drop the gun! Now!”

Another figure approached Gunn, thrusting the barrel of a shotgun in his face.

Billy Gunn froze.


Chris Kanyon pushed his way through several bushes, heading away from the residential area. Like Jonathan Coachman, he was more than a little bit unnerved by the number of participants in the area.

His weapon, or rather, Christian’s weapon, was a small meat cleaver. Of course, this meant that Chris Sabin held Kanyon’s designated weapon, whatever it was.

With the moonlight barely penetrating the treetops, Kanyon didn’t even realize that he was about to walk right into the Coach until it was too late. By the time he realized what had happened, Jonathan Coachman was pointing a gun right at him.

A gunshot sounded in the distance, and instinctively, Coach squeezed the trigger.


BJ James stood over the body of Billy Gunn. Distracted by Konnan and Ron Killings, he had failed to notice James sneak up behind him and knock him out with the lead pipe. The Colt .45 had discharged upon hitting the ground, but fortunately nobody was hurt. BG James picked up the gun, and aimed it at Gunn’s head. However, Ron Killings grabbed his hand before he could kill him.

Killings: “It’s alright man; he’s no threat to us.”

Konnan: “Yeah, I know this game is twisted, but we should kill only in self defense.”

BG James slowly put away the gun, before turning to face Killings and Konnan.

BG James: “Good to see you two. Looks like 3 Live Kru is in the house, huh?”

Konnan: “Definitely.”


Too shocked to move, Kanyon couldn’t believe what had just happened. Looking down, he saw he had been shot not once, but twice. Ironically enough, had Christian not swapped bags, he would have received the bullet proof vest. Of course, the Coach probably wouldn’t have gotten a gun either, so the point was moot.

The Coach, horrified at the sight of blood pouring out of Kanyon’s chest, took off into the woods. He had been the first to fire a gun in the Battle Royale. He was most certainly not the last.

47 Wrestlers Remaining

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Hour 4

Day 1

0300 to 0400

Steven Richards pressed himself against a tree, not daring to move. Just a few feet away, Nathan Jones’ corpse lay twitching in the darkness, the glow from his flashlight casting shadows on his mangled face.

He had seen the Original Gangsta mercilessly bash Nathan Jones’ face in. He wanted to interfere, but his weapon, an Australian boomerang, wouldn’t stand a chance against New Jack’s 2 by 4.

He was about to leave, when he heard the roar. It was the roar of a madman, the roar a seasoned killer. It sent a chill down his spine. Too afraid to move, he had been in the same spot for almost an hour. He wasn’t sure what New Jack was doing, but he had no intention of finding out. Finally, he saw New Jack slowly walk off in the opposite direction. He let out a deep breath. New Jack hadn’t seen him.

He was about to walk off, when New Jack suddenly turned around. Richards quickly darted back behind his tree, hoping that New Jack might have missed him.

Meanwhile, New Jack casually picked up the crowbar. He swirled it about with one hand, before ramming it into the tree Richards was hiding behind. As expected, Richards bolted from his position. He didn’t get far, as panic caused him to trip over his own feet.

New Jack moved in for the kill, raising his new weapon above Steven Richards’ head. However, before he could bring the crowbar down, two gunshots rang out. Turning around, he saw Edge emerge from behind a bunch of trees. He held a Beretta 9mm in his hand.

“Drop the weapon!” he shouted. “I don’t want to shoot you, but I won’t hesitate to fire if you do anything stupid!”

Edge realized how stupid he sounded, but it seemed to have some effect. Even the Original Gangsta knew he was heavily outmatched. As Edge fired another warning shot, he quickly took off into the night.


Chris Sabin was the first to reach Kanyon. He was slumped against a tree, trying to stop the bleeding with his hands. Though the bullet had missed his vital organs, he was still loosing a lot of blood. A few seconds later, Garrison Cade ran into the clearing, kneeling down beside Kanyon.

Cade: “Who did this to you?”

Kanyon took several breaths, before finally mentioning the name of his attacker.

Kanyon: “Coach…shot me…”

So Jonathan Coachman was playing the game. Cade made a mental note to stay away from him. Opening Kanyon’s bag, Cade handed him his bottle of water. As Kanyon took a sip, Cade turned to Sabin, who was standing there with his mouth wide open.

Cade: “There’s a medical clinic just down the road, get some supplies. I’ll watch over him, hurry!”

Sabin obediently ran off, as Cade put a shoulder around Kanyon to help him lie down. While he didn’t know much about first aid, Kanyon’s wounds didn’t look too bad. Quickly, he set to work.


“Hey, are you alright?”

Edge looked down at Steven Richards, extending his hand to help him up. Richards declined his offer, instead opting to get up by himself.

Richards: “Thanks, I thought I was dead.”

Edge: “No problem. You’re lucky though, I heard the scream and I thought someone was in trouble.”

Richards: “I’m ok, but I’m afraid New Jack already killed someone.”

He pointed at Nathan Jones’ body. The blood had begun to dry, but it barely made a difference. The sight was as nauseating as ever.

Edge: “Well, I guess that confirms it. There are people playing the game. I don’t know about you, but I also heard some gunshots just now.”

Richards: “It’s sad. I don’t know why anyone would do such a thing.”

Edge: “Fear, maybe. None of them want to die, so they kill others in the hopes that they might survive.”

Richards: “I heard something like that once. There are people who kill others to gain ‘life credit’, in the hope that it would extend their own life. Pretty sick, eh?”

Both men kept quiet, as they thought about their situation. After a few minutes, Richards broke the silence.

Richards: “So what are you going to do?”

Edge: “I don’t know. I don’t want to kill, but it looks like we don’t have a choice.”

Richards: “I know. I was hoping of gathering a bunch of people, in the hopes that we might find a way to escape.”

Edge: “Well, I guess it’s worth a shot.”

Richards: “So are you in?”

Edge grabbed Richards’ hand, shaking it firmly while patting him on the back.

Edge: “Let’s go.”


Garrison Cade stood up, wiping Kanyon’s blood from his hands. Kanyon was dead, after choking to death on his own blood. It was funny; he felt no sense of panic or remorse. Instead, staring into Kanyon’s blank eyes, all he felt was a sense of calm and solace.

Cade looked around, wondering if Sabin would ever return. That idiot had probably gotten himself hopelessly lost. He was about to leave, when he heard the snapping of a twig. Someone was approaching. Had Sabin found something after all? He turned towards the source of the noise, as Low Ki stepped into the clearing. Somehow, he didn’t seem that surprised to see that Kanyon was dead.

Low Ki: “Sabin told me to help you. Is he alright?”

“He’s dead.” Cade replied, his voice as cold as the night. “Bled to death.”

Low Ki: “Oh.”

Cade was about to leave, when Low Ki called out to him.

Low Ki: “Hey, like I told Sabin, there’s strength in numbers. If we work together, we would have a better chance of survival.”

Cade smiled. While his original plan was to work alone, having somebody with him would definitely prove useful.

Cade: “Alright, I accept.”

46 Wrestlers Remaining

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Hour 5

Day 1

0400 to 0500

Justin Credible looked down at the body before him. It was Billy Gunn, no doubt about it, but as far as he could tell, he appeared to have been knocked out. While that wasn’t particularly strange, given the nature of the contest, what bothered him was that he had heard a gunshot from this area slightly more than an hour ago. But if that was the case, why didn’t Gunn have any bullet holes in him? Or was Billy Gunn the one who fired the gun? He looked around the area, but he couldn’t find any traces of blood. He gave up, realizing that none of this was important anyway.

Dismissing the thought, he concentrated on the task at hand. Whoever had knocked Billy Gunn out took his weapon, but had left his kitbag. Bending down, he quickly unzipped the bag, and began to stuff the food into his own bag. Once he had taken all the food, he grabbed Gunn’s map and tore it to shreds. Without it, it was only a matter of time before he walked into a forbidden zone.

Justin Credible chuckled to himself. This was almost too easy.


Arn Anderson leaned against a tree, catching his breath. He had been walking ever since the game began, and he was pretty exhausted. Taking a look around the area, he caught sight of a figure moving towards him. He quietly cursed to himself; he was in no condition to fight. Plus, he weapon wasn’t of much use either. As the figure approached, he thought of hiding behind the tree, but it was too late. As the man stepped into a ray of moonlight, Anderson caught sight of his face. It was Dean Malenko, an old friend of his. From the looks of it, he was here to talk.

“Nice weapon you got there.” Malenko grinned, revealing a huge fire axe.

Anderson raised his weapon, a battered cookie sheet. Compared to Malenko’s axe, it was nothing.

“It’s good to see you,” Anderson replied. “For a moment I thought someone was going to kill me.”

He sighed, punching the tree with his other hand. “All I want to do is go home. I’m getting too old for this.”

Malenko: “So what are you planning to do?”

Anderson: “We don’t have much of a choice, don’t we? In the end, it’s going to be the last man standing who gets to go home.”

Malenko: “So you’re playing the game?”

Anderson: “I don’t have a choice. In this game, it’s kill or be killed.”

Malenko: “In other words, you’re playing the game.”

Anderson: “Yeah.”

Malenko: “Hey, Arn?”

Anderson: “Yeah?”

Malenko: “Sorry.”

Before Anderson could answer, Malenko grabbed his axe, swinging it right at Arn Anderson. Anderson barely got out of the way, as the axe crashed into the tree. Malenko struggled to pull it free, as Arn quickly got to his feet. Taking advantage of Malenko’s distraction, Anderson quickly charged Malenko, knocking him to the ground.

Arn Anderson quickly went for the axe, but Malenko shoved him aside, finally freeing the axe from the bark. He swung it in a wide arc, missing Anderson by mere centimeters. Before Malenko could regain his balance, Anderson tossed the cookie sheet into his face, temporarily blinding him as his grabbed hold of Malenko’s hands. He kicked him in the gut, managing to pry the axe from his hands. The victory didn’t last long though, as Malenko kicked him in the groin, causing him to drop the axe. Malenko made a wild scramble for it, but Anderson kicked him in the face, forcing him away from the weapon.

Malenko dove at Anderson, grabbing at his throat. His offensive didn’t last long though, as Anderson poked him in the eye, before kicking him off. Rolling over, he forced himself back on up.

Dean Malenko sprung to his feet, only to get socked in the face by Arn Anderson. Anderson followed up with several hard right hands, breaking Malenko’s jaw. As Malenko stumbled back, Anderson followed up with a huge roundhouse punch, sweeping Malenko off his feet.

Picking up the fire axe, he threw it right at his opponent. Malenko had just started to sit up when the axe hit him square in the forehead, splitting his skull into two. He was killed instantly.

Watching the blood squirt from his friend’s forehead, Arn Anderson wondered if he’d made the right decision.


Hearing the sounds of battle, Shane Douglas quickly altered his course to bring him to the scene of the fight. His weapon was a paper fan, which he had crushed in a fit of rage. This wasn’t fair, how was he supposed to kill anyone, even Spike Dudley, with just a paper fan? He wanted a real weapon, one that he could wreck havoc with.

He got there just in time to see Dean Malenko get his skull sliced open. He waited for Arn Anderson to leave, before rushing out and removing the axe from Malenko’s forehead. Blood gushed out of the wound, but Shane Douglas hardly cared. All that mattered was that he had a weapon, a real weapon.

He raised the axe above his head and brought it down, chopping a log in two. He grinned. This was going to be fun.


If anything, Christian was sure that he had to be the luckiest man in the competition. Not only did he posses an Uzi submachine gun, he had also been given enough ammo to kill everyone in the competition three times over. There was no way he could lose.

Hearing the rustling of bushes nearby, Christian raised his arm and fired his gun in a sweeping arc. Bits of bark and flora flew into the air as the bullets tore threw the greenery. He heard someone scream, followed by the sound of him running into the distance.

Even though his kill had escaped, it meant little to Christian. There was still plenty to go around.

45 Wrestlers Remaining

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Hour 6

Day 1

0500 to 0600

Diamond Dallas Page wandered through the hospital, trying to find some medical supplies. He was more than a little bit freaked out by the empty hallways. This was a place of death, and as he walked down a corridor, he couldn’t help but feel that he wasn’t alone. He had tried the light switch of course, but the power seemed to be cut off.

He shone his flashlight into each room he passed; hoping that one of them would be the supply closet. So far, the only thing he had found was a discarded bouquet of flowers. He wasn’t too concerned about the light giving away his position, as he was certain his GLOCK 21 could deal with any incoming threats. Besides, he doubted he had the courage to search the hospital in the dark.

As he moved through the abandoned hospital, he couldn’t help but wonder if he had made the right choice by coming back to wrestling. Could all of this have been avoided if he had just stayed home? He sighed. It was much too late to be thinking about things like that.

DDP suddenly realized that he had no idea where he was going. Glancing around, he came to the conclusion that he was hopelessly lost. He darted down several corridors, only to find himself at a three way junction. Disorientated, he spun around in circles, trying to find his bearings.

Suddenly, a loud gunshot tore through the air, amplified by the hollow corridors. The bullet missed DDP by inches, tearing a gaping hole in the plaster wall. Page barely ducked behind a wall before two more shots rang out. He crouched down behind a couch, waiting for his attacker to round the corner. He heard footsteps, followed by two more shots. Feathers flew everywhere as one of the cushions exploded, literally torn apart by the impact.

DDP quickly rose up, catching a brief glimpse of his attacker’s face. It was none other than Roddy Piper. He quickly squeezed off a couple of shots, before ducking back behind the chair. One of the bullets struck a display cabinet, shattering the glass. He heard Piper cry out as several shards of glass imbedded themselves in his cheek.

Thinking he must have hit him, DDP rose up to finish the job. Before he could fire, Piper stuck out his Desert Eagle and squeezed the trigger.

The effect was instantaneous. The bullet struck the side Page’s head, blowing away an entire fragment of his skull. What was left of his mangled face was covered with blood and grey matter, along with multiple fragments of bone. With a sickening ‘plop’, his eye fell out of his socket. Even his killer couldn’t help but feel a little bit sick.

Trying not to puke, Piper pried the GLOCK from Page’s dead hands. Unable to hold it in any longer, he quickly rushed into a nearby toilet and began to throw up.


The sun was beginning to rise, lifting the shroud of darkness engulfing the island. In a small shack not far from the southern tip of the island, three men sat in a circle, discussing their plans.

The group consisted of Terry Funk, Tommy Dreamer and Vader. After he had left the bunker, Funk hid himself behind a rock, as Test and the Undertaker headed off into the night. Once he saw Tommy Dreamer, he called out to him, inviting him to come over. After that, he did the same with Vader, before the three of them had made their way south.

As far as weapons went, none of them had anything particularly good. Dreamer had received two hand grenades, which despite being powerful, were somewhat limited in use. Vader had received a sledgehammer, which he could easily swing about with one hand. Meanwhile, Terry Funk had received the worst weapon of the three, his being a regular dinner fork. While he was confident Vader could stop any melee battle, he was worried that should they get into a gunfight, they would be slaughtered.

“So what’s the plan?” Dreamer asked.

Funk: “To be perfectly honest…I have no idea. I was hoping one of us had some idea of getting off this damn island.”

Vader: “I saw some boats patrolling the island. Maybe we could lure one of them here and steal the boat.”

Dreamer: “No use. They would probably detonate our collars once they realized we’re gone. The other option would be to attack the bunker directly, but once again, the collars would prevent us from coming close.”

Funk: “You’re right. If we want to do anything, we’ve got to find a way to remove the collars.”

Vader: “How? You heard what Bischoff said, if we try to take them off they would explode.”

Funk: “Well, he could have been bluffing, but I doubt it.”

Dreamer: “In other words, we’re screwed.”

Vader: “How about we meet up with some others? Surely not everyone is playing the game.”

Dreamer: “It’s risky, but it looks like we don’t have much of a choice. We should be careful though, we’ve got to be certain whomever we meet won’t turn on us.”

Funk: “So, who can we trust?”

Dreamer: “On the island? Well, I know Steven Richards and Tazz pretty well from my ECW days; I doubt either of them would be playing the game. I can vouch for them working with us.”

Funk: “I trust Mick Foley more than anyone else on this island. I’m pretty sure a man like him wouldn’t kill, no matter what happens.”

Dreamer: “I don’t know, did you see the wounds on his body? Something might have happened to him. Vader, what about you?”

Vader simply shrugged. “Mick Foley, I guess. But there’s something I’ve got to tell you. This contest, it’s happened before. They tried to get me, but I fought the kidnappers off. I know, I should have been more careful, but this time they learnt their lesson and got me while I was sleeping. But I did manage to get a glimpse of the previous competition, just before the authorities shut it down.”

Dreamer: “You mean the wrestlers who disappeared; they were all forced to go through the same thing as us?”

Vader: “I think so. Unfortunately, the authorities were too late. The contest was already over, and the winner was about the leave the island.”

Funk: “Who was it? Who won the first contest?”

Vader: “Mick Foley.”

44 Wrestlers Remaining

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Hour 7

Day 1

0600 to 0700

Sunlight began to creep over the island, bring forth light to the dead and the dying. Dean Malenko, Diamond Dallas Page, Chris Kanyon and Nathan Jones were dead. Everyone else was dying, in some way or another.

Test was dying both physically and mentally. A bullet had torn through his right arm, and another had imbedded itself in his right leg. He was lucky though, of the 32 bullets Christian had fired at him, only two had met their target. Then again, getting shot in the first place doesn’t constitute as lucky to most people.

None of this really mattered to Test, whom perhaps through his wounds, lack of sleep, or the insanity of his current situation, had begun to lose his mind. Maybe it was all of the above. He hardly cared about where he was going, or why he was running in the first place. Everything just felt so dreamlike, he was almost sure it was a dream. At least, he would have been sure, had he still been capable of reasonable thought.

Meanwhile, Bischoff’s voice boomed over the island, though the meanings of his words were completely lost to Test.

Bischoff: “Good morning gentlemen, and what a fine day it is…for Eric Bischoff! Today, we will be experiencing some hot and sunny weather, but it looks like four of you won’t be able to enjoy it! First off, we have Wrestler #25, Nathan Jones! Next, we have Wrestler #8, Chris Kanyon, and Wrestler #11, Dean Malenko. Last, but certainly not the last, we have Wrestler #12, Diamond Dallas Page. Now, for this morning’s danger zones, we have H=8 at 7, B=4 at 9 and J=2 at 11. Got that? I hope you marked that down, because one wrong step, and boom! There goes your head. Good luck to all the remaining contestants; this is Bischoff, signing off.”


Nunzio stretched his arms, having been woken up by the announcement. His back was aching, from having slept on the hard bark, but otherwise, he felt as good as ever. He took out his map, crossing out the forbidden zones. His position was nowhere near any of the new zones, so he figured it wouldn’t hurt to catch a few more hours of shut eye.

He was about to doze off, when he heard the sound of someone approaching. Peeking through several layers of leaves, Nunzio saw Test walking right towards him. His body was covered in blood, thought Nunzio couldn’t see if he was bleeding or if the blood belonged to someone else. In any case, it was highly possible that Test could have killed any of the four mentioned in Bischoff’s announcement.

Nunzio waited for Test to walk pass, before jumping down from his tree. As silently as possible, he sneaked up behind Test, before jamming his ice pick into his right shoulder. Test screamed, dropping the Machete he was carrying. Nunzio quickly snatched it up, and started to run. It was an unnecessary precaution, as Test simply stumbled about blindly, before shambling off into the distance, leaving a small trail of blood behind him.


Chris Sabin was beginning to lose hope. He had searched the area for the clinic, but the only things he found were Low Ki and a crazed Jonathan Coachman. He had told Low Ki to help Cade, and he had run away from the Coach. Now, he was tired, and he still had yet to find any medical supplies.

Tired, he made his way back to the clearing. Upon finding Kayon’s body, he fell to his knees. He had failed. He called out for Cade and Low Ki, but nobody replied. He was on his own. For a moment, he regretted not taking up Low Ki’s offer, but he shook his head, coming to his senses. No, it was too risky. In this game, you couldn’t trust anyone. The only person you could rely on was yourself. Clutching his knife close to his body, he returned to the residential area.


A few days ago, Vincent Kennedy McMahon had been filthy rich. Now, forced to get down in the mud and fight to the death, he was just plain filthy.

At least his weapon wasn’t that bad. Thanks to Christian and CM Punk, he had managed to walk away with a Remington 12-Gauge shotgun. Whatever his original weapon was, he doubted it could get any better than this. Vince made a point to thank Christian, should he see him again. Then again, it wouldn’t matter much, since should they meet, Vince would probably kill him anyway.

He was afraid, but it was relatively minor compared to the rage he was feeling. Unlike the 40 or so other contestants, who were probably going to die in few years anyway from some fatal ring accident, Vince McMahon still had so much to live for. This was completely unfair. Let the wrestlers battle it out, just leave the billionaires alone.

But if was going to play this game, he was going to play smart. Guessing that most of the workers would head towards the residential area, he had opted to head the other way, towards the south end of the island. It was a smart choice. So far, he had only encountered Tazz, who leaning against a rock. It was still dark then, and Vince easily snuck past.

Soon, he reached a small shack, which coincidentally, also happened to be the shack Terry Funk, Tommy Dreamer and Vader had left less than an hour ago. The shack was devoid of any furniture or decoration, save a small boarded up window that was letting in a few beams of sunlight. It was perfect. He could camp here, at least until the number of workers declined to a number that was more reasonable to deal with. If anyone opened the door, all he had to do was squeeze the trigger of his gun and it would take care of the rest. Everything was foolproof.

And after he won this damn competition, he would kill Eric Bischoff. Oh yes, that little bitch was going to pay.

44 Wrestlers Remaining

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Hour 8

Day 1

0700 to 0800

Brian Danielson gripped his crossbow tightly, ready to make his first kill. When he first discovered he had been assigned a crossbow, his heart sank. Not only did he not know how to use it, he felt sure that he had received one of the weakest ranged weapons in the game. However, a few hours spent experimenting with the thing was all it took for Danielson to regain his faith.

It wasn’t long before he stumbled across Ken Shamrock. Seeing that he was only armed with a small switchblade, Danielson was confident that he could easily dispatch him without any trouble. However, just before he squeezed the trigger, he was struck by a brilliant idea. He would trail Ken Shamrock, allowing him to take care of anyone they encountered, while Danielson would sit back and enjoy the battle. He was more than confident that Shamrock would win his fights. After all, he was the world’s most dangerous man.

If everything went according to plan, Danielson would easily pick Shamrock off with an arrow to the back of the head. Danielson would win, with hardly any effort on his part. Congratulating himself for coming up with such a great idea, Danielson began to stalk Shamrock.

However, as the darkness began to disappear, Danielson was beginning to grow more and more worried. With the sun rising, it had become twice as hard to follow Shamrock without being seen. What if he were to turn around? His entire plan would be ruined. Finally, he convinced himself that he had no choice. He had to take care of Shamrock now, while he still had the chance.

Nervously, he raised his crossbow, aiming at Shamrock’s head. Taking a deep breath, he pulled the trigger.


Still in the land of slumber, Billy Gunn failed to notice a second visitor had arrived. His guest, known to wrestling fans as John Cena, crouched down beside Gunn’s body, checking his wrist for a pulse.

Upon finding one, Cena breathed a sigh a relief. Gunn was still alive, at least for now. He shook Gunn, and then slapped him a few times in an attempt to wake him up. However, despite Cena’s best efforts, Gunn remained unconscious.

Getting up, Cena looked around, hoping that nobody had seen him. Tucking his weapon, an aluminum baseball bat, into his pants, he grabbed Gunn by the legs and began to drag him to a safer location.


Ken Shamrock was massaging his legs, when an arrow flew overhead, imbedding itself in a tree. He quickly ducked, scanning the area for his attacker.

Danielson swore to himself. He had just lost his only chance to kill Shamrock. Now he was aware of his presence, and would most likely counter attack first chance he got. He fumbled with the crossbow, trying to reload it as quickly as possible. He dropped the arrow three times, before finally setting it up right.

He sprung out from behind a rock, taking aim and releasing another bolt. His hands were shaking with panic, causing the arrow to go horrendously off target. As the second arrow landed 3 feet next to him, Shamrock caught sight of his attacker. He quickly charged forward, narrowing the distance between him and Danielson. Danielson let loose with another arrow, this one soaring too much to the left. Shamrock was almost on top of him now. He quickly grabbed another bolt from his quiver, trying with trembling hands to reload the crossbow. His foot got stuck in the stirrup, causing him to drop another bolt. As Shamrock drew nearer, he finally pulled the string back, and quickly inserted another arrow. Shamrock was right on top of him now, his knife gleaming in the morning sun. There was no way he could miss. Closing his eyes, Danielson pulled the trigger.

The bolt struck Shamrock’s right shoulder, causing him to twist back from the impact and collapse to the ground. Danielson lowered his bow, breathing heavily. He had done it. He had killed Ken Shamrock. He breathed a sigh of relief, realizing how close he had come to death. He inched over to Shamrock’s body, kicking him with his boot. So much for the world’s most dangerous man.

Suddenly, Shamrock sprung up, jamming his knife into Danielson’s boot. He screamed, yanking his foot up, which only created a huge gash in his foot. Trying not to lose his balance, he stumbled back, trying to load the crossbow. Ignoring the pain in his foot, he pulled the string back, loading another bolt. The second bolt struck Shamrock slightly below the first, but this time, it barely had any effect. Shamrock just kept coming, his face twisted in a scowl of rage. How the hell had he taken that last shot?

Before he could reload the crossbow again, Shamrock swung his knife right at him, slashing his chest wide open. He plunged the knife into Danielson’s abdomen, and then withdrew it, kicking Danielson to the ground. He crawled on top of him, ramming the knife into Danielson’s eye. Bits of gray goop splashed out, as blood began to pour. Shamrock picked up the crossbow, casually loaded it and aimed it right down Danielson’s mouth. The half blind Danielson continued to scream until Shamrock released the catch, silencing Danielson permanently.

Seeing as the bolt could still be recycled, he yanked it from Danielson’s throat and wiped it against a tree. In this game, every shot counted.


Shaggy 2 Dope was crouched behind a nearby bush, watching the entire ordeal. There was no doubt that Shamrock was a twisted individual, almost worthy of his respect. Should they ever meet, 2 Dope promised himself to kill him quickly.

As Shamrock left the scene carrying Danielson’s crossbow with him, 2 Dope crouched down next to Danielson’s corpse and removed the knife from his eye. A pool of blood had begun to spread around Danielson’s head, leaking from the newly formed hole at the back of his mouth.

Stuffing the knife into his pocket, 2 Dope took out his assigned weapon, a golf club. More specifically, it was a 5 iron. For a moment he considered using Danielson’s head as a ball, but soon reconsidered. There would be plenty more opportunities for him to have some fun.

A lot more.

43 Wrestlers Remaining

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Hour 9

Day 1

0800 to 0900

Teddy Hart held his weapon up to the sun, watching the light bounce off every facet. It was an ornamental dagger, its hilt gleaming with precious stones. The jewels shone brightly in the morning sun, sparkling with color. It was such a beautiful weapon. Too bad it had to get stained with the blood of his enemies. He returned the dagger to its sheath, and continued through the forest.

It wasn’t long before he came across Bill DeMott. That clumsy oaf was making so much noise, it was a wonder that nobody had killed him earlier. Readying his dagger, he moved into position behind DeMott. Somehow, he couldn’t help but think of DeMott as his sacrificial pig. He was getting nearer to DeMott with every step. Soon, he could smell his horrid body odor. Teddy Hart tried not to choke on the smell.

Raising his arm, Teddy aimed for the back of DeMott’s neck. One quick stab and it would be all over.

Suddenly, he heard a twig snap behind him. He spun around, where he saw Jerry Lynn. He held a thick cord of rope, and by the looks of it, he was getting ready to choke Teddy Hart. Good thing he had spotted him before he could strike. Unfortunately, DeMott also heard the snapping twig, and was now looking at both of them in confusion. For the first time since he had started following him, Teddy saw his weapon – A small Hand Axe.

Baffled at what was going on, DeMott raised his axe, then realized he didn’t know who to attack first. Finally, he asked, “Why are you two following me?”

Hart: “I uh…”

Lynn: “He was going to kill you! I was trying to stop him!”

Of course, the truth was far from that. Lynn was planning on waiting for Hart to kill DeMott, and then kill Hart. After which, he was planning to exchange his rope for a more useful weapon. The opportunity was too good to pass up. He needed to get a real weapon, and fast.

Hart: “Liar! You wanted to kill him too!”

Lynn: “See? He admits he wanted to kill you!”

Hart: “No, that’s not true! I…uh…wanted to form an alliance!”

Lynn: “Then why are you holding your knife like that?”

Hart: “That’s because you were sneaking up on me!”

Lynn: “You were going to kill him!”

DeMott: “Enough!”

DeMott raised his hands, silencing Teddy Hart and Jerry Lynn. Not knowing who to trust, tried to think of a solution. Unfortunately, the only one he could come up with was to kill them both.

DeMott: “Both of you, hand me your weapons.”

Hart: “What? Why should I?”

DeMott: “If you’re telling the truth, you can have your weapon back.”

Lynn, eager to prove his innocence, quickly handed DeMott his rope. Besides, he doubted it would make a difference anyway. Afraid that Lynn might actually convince DeMott he was telling the truth, Hart quickly handed over his dagger.

DeMott: “Thank you.”

DeMott couldn’t help but smile. Now that he had both of their weapons, they were powerless against him. He raised his axe, intending to bring it down on Teddy Hart’s head. However, Hart was fast to react, rolling aside and running away.

Lynn laughed, thinking that DeMott had bought his story. However, DeMott soon turned his attention to him, swinging his axe in a horizontal arc. Lynn barely managed to duck before the axe whizzed overhead.

DeMott swung the axe again, this time missing Lynn by mere inches. All Lynn could do was back away, as DeMott brought the axe crashing down again. However, just when Lynn thought he was doomed, DeMott suddenly fell to the floor, unconscious.

Jerry Lynn began to thank his rescuer, but stopped mid sentence as he realized that it was Teddy Hart. He was holding some kind of object in his hands, most likely a rock. Lynn shut his eyes, cursing himself for breaking the twig. He was dead, unless…Quickly, Lynn made a dash for the axe, but Teddy Hart kicked his hand away.

Hart: “Nice try, but I’m in control here.”

Picking up, his dagger, Hart considered killing Lynn right away. Instead, he came up with a better idea, one that would make him pay for causing him all this trouble. He swung the rock at Lynn, knocking him out cold. He then grabbed the rope, using it to tie Lynn’s arms and legs behind his back. But no, that wasn’t enough. Using his knife, he carved several lines across Lynn’s forehead, causing him to wake up screaming. With the constant pain in his head, there was no way Lynn could gather enough concentration to break free.

Next, he checked on Bill DeMott. That idiot was still unconscious, despite all of Lynn’s yelling. Hart carefully placed the hand axe in between Lynn and DeMott, so that it was in plain sight of Lynn, yet remained out of his reach. Once DeMott regained consciousness, there was no doubt that he would kill Lynn. It was perfect. The best part about the plan was that Teddy Hart didn’t even need to do a thing.

Whistling to himself, Teddy Hart unzipped Lynn’s and DeMott’s kit bags, grabbing the food and stuffing it into his own bag. Congratulating himself for coming up with such a brilliant plan, Hart wandered off, leaving a screaming Lynn rolling about the floor.

43 Wrestlers Remaining

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Hour 10

Day 1

0900 to 1000

While Shaggy 2 Dope was running around with his 5 iron, Violent J was having the time of his life. He had been assigned a Colt Python Elite, and had spent the last few hours blowing huge chunks out of trees. Of course, so far he had yet to actually hit anyone he was aiming at, but he guessed blowing huge holes in tress was fun too.

He first few attempts were fruitless, as he missed Edge and Steven Richards by a wide margin, spooking them off. He didn’t have much success with New Jack either, who took off the moment he saw a nearby shrub explode. He had also run into Randy Orton, but the Thompson M1A1 submachine gun he carried had discouraged Violent J from shooting at him.

However, his aim was definitely improving with each shot. He had come close to killing The Undertaker, blowing away a good portion of his kit bag. Unfortunately, Undertaker had fled before Violent J could do any more damage. It meant little to Violent J, who was certain his next shot would claim a life.

He was right.


Vince McMahon sat in his shed, shotgun pointed at the door. With each passing moment, Vince grew more and more afraid. Faced with the constant threat of being attacked, every hour felt like years. Now, he was even starting to wish that somebody would attack him, if only to remove the tension.

At first, he had entertained himself by thinking of creative ways to kill Bischoff. When that had gotten boring, he started coming up with fun methods of torture. The thought of prying off Bischoff’s fingernails and sticking needles in his eyes excited Vince, giving him the motivation he needed to continue playing the game. Sure, he would have to kill some of his workers, but hey, they were expendable. He could always find new ones, and make new stars. After all, he had taken two WCW jobbers (obviously, Bischoff was too stupid to realize their potential) and turned them into main eventers, where they had remained until they disappeared a few weeks ago. Again, Vince had cared little for their disappearance (though his daughter was upset over the loss of Paul). If anything, the loss of the world’s top wrestlers only convinced him that his rivals would go bankrupt within the next few months.

Suddenly, he caught sight of movement behind the boarded up window. He fired his shotgun twice in quick succession, punching several holes into the wooden wall. He waited for his attacker to retaliate, but nothing happened. He thought he could hear the faint sound of somebody running away.

He smiled, slowly reloading his shotgun. As expected, victory had come easy to him. After all, he was Vince McMahon, damn it.


Lying in a small puddle of piss and mud, the Big Bossman continued to sleep, unaware that his life was about to come to an abrupt end. Through sheer luck, he had managed to remain unseen for the first few hours of the game. Unfortunately, it was also the same dumb luck that led Violent J to trip over his body, which would eventually lead to Bossman’s demise.

While he was somewhat disappointed at the lack of a challenge, Violent J had no problems with pressing his gun against the side of Bossman’s head and pulling the trigger. The subsequent explosion sent bits of Bossman’s head flying off in all directions, staining the paint job of his magnum. The rest of Bossman’s body flew up from the impact, before hitting the mud again with a soft thud. Violent J fired the gun again, as Bossman’s jaw and the rest of his face disappeared in a spray of blood.

Blowing away the trail of smoke emerging from the barrel of his gun, Violent J ripped off part of Bossman’s pants, using it to clean his gun. A few specks of blood remained, but for the most part, it was as good as new. Looking down at Bossman’s headless body, Violent J laughed. He had scored his first kill, and there was plenty more fun to be had.

Unfortunately, he wouldn’t get to have any more fun, at least for the time being. Just as he was about to leave, a tranquilizer dart struck in him in the back of neck. He had barely begun to turn around before the drug kicked in, causing him to fall harmlessly to the floor.

Looking down at the two bodies in front of him, Mick Foley shook his head. While he regretted Bossman’s death, he fully understood the consequences of the game. Violent J just happened to be playing it.

Foley himself cared little for the outcome of the game. All he knew that he wasn’t playing it, even though it pretty much sealed his fate. He had lingered around the area, with no clear idea where to go or what to do. If he was lucky, he could join a group and follow them around, until they killed him or were killed by somebody else. He didn’t really care. He had had enough of the game.

However, he couldn’t leave Violent J hanging on to such a dangerous weapon. He picked up the magnum, its gold finishing gleaming in the sunlight. He tried to wipe off the blood stains, but gave up after several attempts. Even then, it was still such a beautiful weapon. Foley couldn’t help but wonder why one had to construct a tool in such a manner, considering how ugly its primary purpose was. Maybe they just wanted to compensate for all the death and suffering it inflicted.

He tossed the magnum into his kit bag, preferring to stay with the tranquilizer gun. However, he was running low on ammo, with only four darts left. He feared that he might actually be forced to use the Colt Python. He shuddered at the thought.

With Bossman dead, there was no reason for him to remain any longer. He checked the map, wondering if he should head towards the north, where he figured most people would be heading, or isolate himself in the south. Taking a deep breath, he left for the residential area, in the hopes of finding someone he could talk to. He walked slowly, like a man making his way down death row.

Had he known his decision would change the fate of the entire game, he might just have walked a little bit faster.

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Hour 11

Day 1

1000 to 1100

Breathing heavily, the Coach worked his way though several layers of dense foliage. He had no idea where he was going, having lost his kit bag a few hours ago. Defenseless, he had begun to panic. A loud gunshot sounded nearby, and Coach immediately took off. The branches whipped against his face, but he ignored the pain, running as fast as his legs could carry him.

He tripped over a rock, grazing his knee. He carried on, half-limping, half-running. The pain was only temporary. He could deal with it later. Anything was better than death, he figured. He pushed himself harder, to the extent where he was simply plowing through the forest, leaving a trail of broken twigs and branches in his wake. His clothes were a tattered mess, leaving little to protect his body from the jagged branches.

He entered a clearing, just as his legs gave way. He collapsed, gasping for breath. Grabbing a nearby branch, he pulled himself to his feet, but fell down again, his legs unable to support him. He closed his eyes and took several deeps breaths, calming himself down and trying to regain his energy. Finally, he managed to stand up straight. He took another deep breath, trying to think of a plan.

Unfortunately, his few seconds of solace were shattered as Shaggy 2 Dope stepped into the clearing, ready for some action.


More than ever, Scott Hall wanted a beer. If he was going to die, he was going to make sure he didn’t die sober. Just a short while ago, he had come across a small shack, hoping to find some left over booze. Unfortunately, two shotgun blasts quickly changed his mind.

He was confident he had received the most useless weapon in the entire game. When he pulled a coat hanger out of his bag, he was sure it had to be some big mistake. He turned his bag upside down and shook out the contents, but he couldn’t find anything else that resembled a weapon. Furthermore, it was made of soft plastic, making it all the more pathetic. Hell, even his torchlight could provide more offense than a stupid coat hanger.

All of a sudden, Justin Credible appeared in front of him. He looked confused for a second, as he debated whether he should attack his friend. Once he saw what Hall’s weapon was, he decided he might as well take him along for the ride. Chances were that he would get killed before Credible would have to deal with him.

Quickly, he told Hall of his plan, conveniently leaving out the parts that involved Hall’s inevitable death. To his relief, Hall agreed to tag along, if only for the protection Credible could offer.

Credible smiled, which Hall misinterpreted as a sign of friendship. Maybe it was, but in the Battle Royale, Credible knew friends were just another liability.


Shaggy 2 Dope approached Coach slowly, taking his time. There was no need to rush, and he wanted to savor every moment. He put aside his 5 iron, withdrawing his switchblade. Jonathan Coachman stumbled back, tripping over his own feet. He rolled over and started to crawl away, but he didn’t get far before 2 Dope kicked him in the stomach, knocking him over.

2 Dope tapped his foot on Coach’s throat, toying with his victim. Every now and then, he would increase the pressure, allowing Coach’s face to turn blue before releasing his foot. In an act of desperation, Coach kicked 2 Dope in the face, causing him to stumble back. Coach quickly got up and started to run, but 2 Dope grabbed him by the collar, yanking him back. Trying to get away, Coach charged forward, tearing his clothes off in the process. Unfortunately, before he could get away, he tripped again, bouncing his head off a nearby rock.

2 Dope crouched down beside the unconscious Coach, raising his knife and carving the letters ‘ICP’ into Coach’s chest. However, as he started on the ‘P’, Coach awoke screaming, flailing his arms about like a madman. Unable to hold him down, 2 Dope ended up carving a long streak across his chest. Between the pain, panic and fear, Coach was filled with a sudden burst of strength, a last ditch effort to avoid death. With a powerful kick to the face, Coach sent 2 Dope tumbling back and landing on his ass. Before 2 Dope could retaliate, Coach was off again, rushing into the forest.

2 Dope was furious. Once again, he had been deprived of a kill. In frustration, he grabbed his 5 iron, smashing it against a tree. He started to swear loudly, promising to slaughter Coach if they ever meet again.


Drawn to the source of the noise, Zach Gowen couldn’t help but take a look at what was going on. He saw Shaggy 2 Dope in a clearing, vigorously attacking a tree with a golf club. Deciding to capitalize on his distraction, Zach Gowen sprung out.

As he moved in behind 2 Dope, he carefully unscrewed the small vial of Sulphuric Acid that he had received. He kicked 2 Dope with his good leg, getting his attention. 2 Dope turned around just in time for Zach Gowen to throw the acid in his face, permanently scarring him. 2 Dope screamed as the acid burned his face, eating away his left eye and disfiguring a large portion of his neck and face. He covered his face with his hands, in an attempt to wipe away the acid, but he only succeeded in burning his hands.

Meanwhile, ignoring the screaming 2 Dope, Zach Gowen grabbed the gold club and started to limp away. He had barely left the clearing when a knife struck his wooden leg. Ignoring it for now, he continued to limp away.

2 Dope swore loudly again, this time directing his threats towards Zach Gowen. His face was a complete mess, with only the upper right portion of his face showing any signs of normalcy. Luckily for him, Gowen’s crutch would make it easy to trail him through the forest.

He was going to kill that little bastard.

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Hour 12

Day 1

1100 to 1200

The moment Super Crazy saw his opponents, he knew he was dead. While one would think that with an Ingram Mac10 he could easily take care of himself, his opponents were equally – if not better equipped.

He had stumbled across 3 Live Kru by accident, thinking it was some solitary wrestler he could prey upon. Instead, not only did he get three times more than what he could handle, they also out gunned him – no small feat, considering the firepower of his weapon.

Slowly he backed away, swinging his Ingram about. Konnan immediately raised his Shotgun, aiming it at Super Crazy. BG James followed suit, pointing his Colt .45 at Super Crazy’s head. Konnan shouted out a stream of Spanish, warning Crazy to drop his weapon. Crazy ignored him, continuing to back away.

Konnan tried again, but Super Crazy wasn’t listening. With two guns pointed at him, rational thought was completely beyond him. He might have heard Konnan say something, but he couldn’t make out their meaning. All he knew that they were pointing guns at him, and they were going to kill him. He continued to swing his gun from person to person, while at the same time slowly backing away. Not looking where he was going, he bumped into a tree.

Panicking, he squeezed the trigger of his Ingram, spraying the area with bullets. BG James and Killing managed to duck aside, avoiding the onslaught, but Konnan wasn’t so lucky. A bullet struck him in his chest, knocking him back. Instinctively, he squeezed the trigger of his SPAS12.

Super Crazy’s body caved in, as the impact tore his stomach apart. Blood began to pour out, followed by his intestines, stomach and other internal organs. The Ingram, still in his hands, continued to fire in a harmless arc. Killings waited for the clip to be depleted before reaching out and prying the gun from Super Crazy’s hands. He waited for BG James, but realized he was busy throwing up. Quickly, he ran over to check on Konnan.

He was in shock, though Killings wasn’t sure if it was because of the bullet or the fact that he killed another human being. What he did know; was that Konnan needed medical attention, and fast. Pressing his shirt against the wound in an attempt the slow the bleeding, Killings and BG James began to slowly drag Konnan to the hospital.


CM Punk leaned against a table, taking a slow sip of water. He was hiding inside a house, where he had gone to sleep, hoping that everything was just a dream, and by sleeping in his dream he would wake up. Unfortunately, that didn’t happen, and he was coming to the sickening conclusion that everything was real. Already it was confirmed that four people were dead, which meant that there were others who were playing the game. Thinking about it made him sick.

He soon set about doing the next best thing – trying to find a way to escape. So far, he had come up with nothing.

All of a sudden, the door to the house swung opened. Punk instinctively made a grab for a kitchen knife, but dropped it once he realized what he was doing.

“It’s you.” The intruder announced.

Punk: “Foley. Surely you aren’t playing the game, right?”

Foley looked at Punk, shaking his head.

Foley: “I’ve seen enough killing. But for you, you don’t have a choice. If I were you, I’d kill me right now.”

Punk: “What are you saying? That we are doomed to fight to the death?”

Foley: “Yes.”

Punk: “C’mon, there’s got to be a way to escape. Surely they must have forgotten about something!”

Foley: “It’s no use. We’ve already tried.”

Punk: “What do you mean?”

Foley: “This isn’t the first time they’ve run such a contest. You know how a few workers disappeared awhile ago? They too were forced to play the game.”

Punk: “Wait a minute, you mean you…killed somebody?”

Foley: “I had no choice! There’s no escape, don’t you understand? They have complete control of the island, and you’re forced to play by their rules. They can hear everything you say. If you do something they don’t like, they can blow your head off in an instant. You’re better off just going along with it!”

Punk fell silent, taken aback by Foley’s rage. After a few seconds, Foley sighed, bowing his head.

Foley: “I’m…I’m sorry. It’s just that, we’ve tried it before, and all you’ll be doing is giving yourself false hope. If you want to live, you’ve got to play the game. You see, we tried to escape, Chris Benoit, Chris Jericho, Rey Mysterio and me. We were going to bomb their base, and escape during the chaos. We were all so sure it would work, that we would finally be free. We found a truck, and loaded it with gasoline. The plan was to ram it into their headquarters, destroying whatever was controlling our collars.”

Foley took a deep breath, as he thought about the deaths of his friends. Tears filled his eyes, as he continued to narrate the story.

Foley: “Benoit…he was killed before we could launch the truck. Hulk Hogan killed him. He had befriended us at the start, but in the end he turned on us. I guess he accepted the truth. We all probably did too, but we refused to believe it. We all clung to that bit of false hope, thinking we could get away with it. In the end, we killed Hogan, and we blew up the school. Thinking it was safe, Jericho, he pulled at his collar. He…he…died.”

Foley stopped, as the image of Jericho’s head tumbling to the ground filled his mind. Forcing himself to continue, he wiped the tears from his eyes and carried on.

Foley: “You see, there’s no escape. Just when you think you’ve achieved victory, they snatch it out from underneath your feet. I had no choice. Mysterio was killed, and in the end, it came down to me and Triple H. I…I…killed him. He would have killed me if I didn’t, but that doesn’t matter. All that matters was that I killed him.”

Foley finally broke down, tears streaming down his cheeks. Punk nodded, finally understanding the grimness of the situation. Patting Foley on the back, he took his leave. After six hours of thought, he finally knew what he had to do.

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Hour 13

Day 1

1200 to 1300

It is midday. The sun hangs high above the island, spreading it’s warmth across the blood stained lands. The pools of gore begin to dry, leaving behind a brownish residue. Meanwhile, the voice of Bischoff engulfs the island, as he reads out the daily update.

Bischoff: “Alright gentlemen, according to my watch, it is now officially twelve noon! Unfortunately, I have to say I am disappointed in all of you. Six hours and only three deaths? C’mon, you can do better than that! You better pick up the pace…or else. Now, joining the dead, we have Wrestler #6, American Dragon! In addition, we also have Wrestler #3, Big Bossman, and finally, we have Wrestler #37 Super Crazy!”

Edge crossed out the names of the recently deceased. As he did so, he couldn’t help but feel a tang of guilt, scratching out their names like that. This wasn’t like the news, where the victims were people you didn’t and would never know. These were people he knew, people he even worked with before. The thought of them dying was…he didn’t want to think about it.

“We’ve got to hook up with the others.” He said at last. “I can’t stand watching people die. We’ve got to stop the contest.”

“How?” Richards replied. “We’ve already gone over all the possibilities. They’ve got everything covered. We don’t stand a chance.”

Edge: “We can always hope.”

Richards was about to point out that hope couldn’t save them, but changed his mind. In a game like this, you have to be careful of what you said. Even the tiniest speck of morale could mean the difference between life and death.

Richards: “I guess your right.”

Edge: “Maybe some of the others, they’ve found a way to escape. Maybe that’s why the death count is getting lower.”

Richards turned around, hiding his sigh. Still, joining up with other groups was still a good idea, even if they couldn’t escape. If they worked together, it would guarantee the survival of at least one the members, who could alert the authorities and shut the contest down for good. Turning around, he helped Edge up and they continued on their way.


Low Ki smiled to himself. At the rate things were going, there was no way he could lose this contest. He swung his nunchakus around playfully, even though he barely knew how to use them. It wouldn’t matter, he would get a proper weapon soon enough.

When he first saw his weapon, he was pretty excited. He knew how deadly they were, if handled correctly. Unfortunately, a few hours spent experimenting resulted in more bruises than anything else. Changing his plan, he decided he was better off wrapping the chain around people’s necks, choking them to death. It was simple. He just needed to sneak up behind someone and toss the chain around their necks. Then all he had to do was kick (and boy, was he good at kicking things) their knee to they fell to the ground, and then place his foot on their back, yanking upwards with his hands. If done correctly, his opponent would be dead in seconds.

However, he soon realized that sneaking up on people was harder than he had expected. He was all set to kill Sabin, but he had clumsily given away his position. Thinking fast, he proposed an alliance, but Sabin had wisely declined his offer. He was definitely smarter than he looked.

He was going to kill Cade, but changed his mind, realizing how useful an actual alliance could be. Garrison Cade would make a good human shield, if nothing else. And should he ever become a trap, Low Ki could easily dispose of him and take his weapon. Plus, Garrison Cade had blindly followed all of Low Ki’s orders so far, and that pleased him to a great extent. Dispatching of Cade wouldn’t be much of a problem at all.

After all, Low Ki was a cunning individual. He had already planned exactly how he would win this contest, and what he would do once he was done. If he got the opportunity, he would kill Bischoff, but he didn’t really care either way. To him, this was just another test of his ability. One that he would beat without any pro-.

He heard a faint ripping sound, like the sound of cloth tearing. He felt something warm on his neck, just before he collapsed to the ground, dead.


Garrison Cade smiled. Deceiving that arrogant fool was easier done than said. He had pretended to act clueless, quietly obeying Low Ki’s orders. Little did he know that Cade was playing the game, and had a much better strategy than he could ever come up with.

He surpassed a laugh, as he thought about Sabin. He wondered where the poor fool was now. As far as he knew, there was no medical clinic. He had made that up, just so Sabin would leave him alone as he completed his work. Despite how bad he looked, Kanyon wasn’t going to die, at least not for some time. Cade just gave the Grim Reaper a helping hand. Ironically, his appointed weapon, a sickle, was sort of a miniature version of the Reaper’s scythe. He had been meticulous in his work, slashing the back of Kanyon’s neck, so should Sabin return, he wouldn’t expect a thing.

What he didn’t expect, was for Low Ki to come along. At first he was worried, knowing that dealing with both Sabin and Low Ki may result in trouble. Fortunately, Low Ki quickly offered an alliance, claiming that Sabin wanted to remain alone.

Of course, Cade was far from stupid. He knew from the start that Low Ki was using him as a tool to attain victory. Playing along, he waited until Low Ki had let his guard down – before inserting his sickle in Low Ki’s neck and tearing it in half.

He didn’t even know what hit him.

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Hour 14

Day 1

1300 to 1400

Just keep putting one foot in front of the other. That was it. At first even walking had been painful. He couldn’t feel much pain now. Why was he here? He could vaguely remember something about a contest, but he guessed it didn’t matter much anymore. Step after step, he trudged on, marching to some invisible rhythm. Just keep putting one foot in front of the other. It was simple. His name was Andrew. Or was it Martin? Maybe it was both. The last person he had seen had yelled the word ‘Test’. Andrew Martin wondered what was wrong with him. After all, he knew what to do. Just keep putting one foot in front of the other. It was all he had to do.

And then, he couldn’t. He fell to the floor, his legs worked beyond the point of exhaustion. Blood starting pouring out of his back again, staining the grass a crimson red.


Tazz looked down at Test. He was curled in a fetal position, with an ice pick sticking out of his back, in addition to two bullet wounds. Blood was slowly leaking out of his wounds, soaking his body in a sea of red. Truly it was a pitiful sight.

He was about to leave, when he noticed the gradual rise and fall of his chest. Test was still alive, although barely. Tazz paused, wondering if he should end Test’s suffering now, or leave him to his slow death. Mercy got the better of him, as he raised his mace, swiftly bringing it down upon Test’s windpipe.

Unknown to him, he was being watched. Randy Orton had stumbled across Test just in time to see Tazz end his life. Shaking, he ducked behind a tree, having witnessed for the first time an elimination, or more bluntly put, death.


Spike Dudley hid in an attic, arms wrapped around his legs. Despite the time, he couldn’t help but feel a little cold. Even before the contest began, he knew he was at a disadvantage. He had prayed for a gun, knowing it would more than make up for his small stature. Unfortunately, all he they give given him was some tracking device. Sure, he would be able to avoid getting caught for now, but what would he do if he made it to the final two? He wouldn’t stand a chance.

He was afraid. Afraid of being attack, and afraid that he couldn’t defend himself if that was to happen. He started to shiver, as he thought what his opponent would do to him. He had listened to the announcements. Seven people had already died. He could be next.

Then again, he could get lucky. Maybe he could avoid the runner-up until his opponent gave up and kill himself. Or maybe he would get caught in a danger zone. Or if he was really lucky, he could sneak up and strangle him while his back was turned. Maybe he should leave this spot, and find a weapon somebody dropped.

No, it would be too risky. He was better off staying here, unless it seemed that someone was getting too close for comfort. The tracking device could allow him to keep his distance, but if he was spotted, he wouldn’t be able to outrun his attacker. It was better to hide here, with the door safely locked. As long as this place didn’t become a danger zone, he would be fine.

Suddenly, he felt tired. He realized that he had been awake the whole night. Checking his watch, he saw he had four hours to the next announcement. Plenty of time to catch a quick nap. He let out a deep breath and closed his eyes, letting sleep wash over him.


Jerry Lynn rolled about, trying to free himself. It was no use; Teddy Hart had tied the knot too tight. The most he could do was prod the knot with his fingers, but of course, that wouldn’t amount to anything. He had tried everything he could think off, from rubbing the ropes against a fallen log. He had begun to make some process, but the throbbing in his head prevented him from continuing.

His next hope was the axe. If he could just wedge it someplace, he would be able to use it to cut the ropes. After much wiggling, he managed to get the axe within biting distance. He tried using his teeth to pick it up, but it was too heavy. The most he could was drag it along the ground, but again, he felt too weak to continue.

The drowsiness was starting up again. His vision began to blur, as warm blood poured down his face. He closed his eyes, and took several deep breaths, trying to clam down. The pain began to fade, and after awhile, the bleeding began to stop.

It would start again soon, he knew that for sure. But for now, he had to make the best of his situation, and think of a way to escape. Maybe he could trick DeMott into letting him free. No, to dangerous. He probably wouldn’t even listen. Unless, he could persuade DeMott to go after Hart.

No, what good would that do? DeMott would probably kill him first, and then chase after Hart. Lynn wouldn’t even get the satisfaction of revenge, being long dead. Unless, if he was really lucky…he could persuade DeMott that he would be useful.

Again, common sense crushed his hopes. If he wanted to escape, he had to do it before DeMott woke up.

Just as Jerry Lynn completed the thought, that was exactly what Bill DeMott did.

Jerry Lynn began to scream.

39 Wrestlers Remaining

Edited by Gongsun Zan
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Hour 15

Day 1

1400 to 1500

The first thing he saw when he woke up was Jerry Lynn rolling about on the ground screaming his head off. The screaming soon gave way to a bunch of excuses, pleading for mercy. Bill DeMott couldn’t really care. Whoever had knocked him out had gotten away, so it looked like he just had to take out his frustrations on the next best thing.

Grunting, he picked up his axe. Lynn continued to beg for mercy, giving DeMott an entire list of reasons why he shouldn’t kill him. Annoyed, DeMott screamed at Lynn to shut up, but that only prompted him to scream even louder. Frustrated, DeMott delivered a hard kick to Lynn’s head, knocking him out cold.

Now he could get back to work. Rolling Lynn over, he shifted his body so that his neck was nicely exposed. With any luck, he would be able to decapitate Lynn with one stroke. He raised his arm, ready to make the kill.

Suddenly, the bushes parted, and a figure burst out, charging right towards him. It was a horrific sight – the man’s body was covered with cuts and bruises, and his clothes were a tattered mess. Intimidated, DeMott backed away. The man, whom he recognized as Jonathan Coachman, continued to come closer. Blood was leaking out of a corner of his mouth.

Help. He was screaming for help. DeMott panicked, dropping the axe. He turned to run, but Coach gripped his shirt, crying for assistance. Scared out of his wits, DeMott shoved him away and started to run away – right into a tree. He collapsed, unconscious once again.


Ron Killings was running as fast as his legs could carry him. He carried Konnan on his back, while BG James was following a short distance behind. Konnan had been slipping in and out of consciousness, and Killings was starting to get worried. Recently though, he had spent the moments of lucidity spitting out long streams of Spanish, which Killings took as a good sign. At least he wasn’t dying…yet.

He came to a stop. They had reached the hospital. It was larger than he had expected. How many goddamn people lived on this island anyway? He started forward, noticing that the doors were already open. It didn’t matter, they had to find some supplies, even if it meant running into somebody else. Besides, they had enough firepower to take care of anything in their way. Charging in, he ran down the first corridor he saw, rushing past several wards. He finally came to a door marked ‘supplies’, which he kicked open before entering the room.

He gently set Konnan down, before tearing open several boxes and emptying their contents onto the floor. Outside, BG James loaded the shotgun, guarding the room from any intruders.

Meanwhile, Killings grabbed a bottle of painkillers, handing a couple to Konnan, who managed to swallow them down. He then grabbed some antiseptic solution and bandages, and began to take care of Konnan’s wounds.

A few minutes later, the job was done. The bandaging was amateurish, but it was better than nothing. Konnan had dozed off, drowsy from the painkillers. Killings quietly left the room, shutting the door behind him.

James: “How is he?”

Killings: “Fine…I think. Have you seen anything?

James: “Nope, it’s kind of creepy though. Wonder why there isn’t any light in here.”

Killings: “That’s good, I guess. Hopefully nobody will see us.”

James: “So what are we going to do?”

Killings: “I guess we have to wait here until Konnan wakes up, who knows how long that’ll be. Until then, we better stay alert.”

James: “Only one of us needs to be awake. Why don’t you get some sleep, I’ll guard the area.”

Killings: “Good idea, I haven’t slept all night. Just be careful though; just yell if you see anything.”

James: “Gotcha. Sweet dreams.”

Killings went back into the supply room, snuggling up against several cardboard boxes. A short while later, he fell asleep.


Nunzio crept through the forest, hacking and slashing his way through with his new (stolen) machete. That the fact that its original owner was now dead meant little to him, or rather, would have meant little to him he had known. He had come up with a plan, a simple one, but a plan none the less. He would find someone violent, and let him do all the hard work.

It wasn’t long before he came across another superstar, a man by the name of New Jack. Nunzio knew him from his ECW days. A former bounty hunter, Nunzio was confident that New Jack could get the job done, and even more confident he could rush him at the end and hack his head off. Had he known that the late Brian Danielson had thought of the exactly the same thing, he might not have felt so confident. Of course, he had no way of knowing that. After all, Danielson was well, dead.

Nunzio looked at New Jack. If the Original Gangsta knew that Nunzio was following him, he showed no signs of it. Rather, he seemed fixed on something – or someone nearby. He twirled his crowbar, getting ready for some action.

Meanwhile, Nunzio took a swig of water, and slowly crept after him. He took extra care in choosing where to place his feet. Even the slightest sound could give his position away. Despite that, he walked with an added spring in his step. Victory would soon be his.

On a giant score board hundreds of miles away, the odds of Nunzio winning plummeted drastically.

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Hour 16

Day 1

1600 to 1700

New Jack closed in on his target. So far, he had not spotted him, which was a good thing. As he neared his opponent, he realized it was D’Lo Brown. It wouldn’t really matter much anyway; he would end up dead all the same. He was looking at his map, scratching his head. Obviously, he was lost. New Jack smiled, getting ready to swing his crowbar at D’Lo’s head. It would be over before he knew it.

Just as New Jack was about to hit him with the crowbar, D’Lo turned around, pointing a finger in his direction while glancing at his map. When he realized New Jack was behind him, he simply looked at New Jack in dumb surprise. After catching sight of the crowbar hanging above his head, the truth soon set in, and he quickly shoved New Jack away, while at the same time, readying his weapon – an antique Scramasax from medieval times.

He quickly swung the blade about randomly, slashing at the air in front of him. His attacks were slow and clumsy, and New Jack easily avoided getting hit by simply stepping back. He waited for D’Lo to pause, before charging in, smashing his crowbar into D’Lo’s arm.

D’Lo screamed, gripping his arm in pain. However, he still held the sword tightly with his other hand, and soon began to mount another offense. This time, New Jack wasn’t so lucky, as the tip of the sword nicked his chest. Spurred on by his successful attack, D’Lo brown pushed forward, continuing his offense. He scored another hit, this time grazing New Jack’s chest.

Unfortunately, all he had done was make New Jack mad. The Original Gangsta charged forward, getting behind D’Lo’s area of attack. With a loud ‘Oof’, both men fell to the floor. The Scramasax flew up into the air, before getting stuck in the ground a few feet away.

New Jack raised his own weapon, but D’Lo brown poked him in the eye, causing him to drop the crowbar. In was a minor setback, the only difference it would make was the time it took for him to kill D’Lo Brown. He grabbed D’Lo’s throat, choking the life out of him. Just as his face began to turn a deep shade of blue, D’Lo managed to kick him off, before rolling over and gasping for breath. New Jack paused, allowing him to crawl a short distance towards his sword before getting up and attacking again.

D’Lo Brown quickly rolled aside and sprung to his feet, as New Jack came for him again. With a hard right hand, he managed to send New Jack stumbling back. Gathering his strength, he bum rushed the Original Gangsta, tackling him against a tree. He continued to push with all his strength, squeezing Jack against the hard bark. However, after several double axe handles, D’Lo was forced to let go. He stumbled back, taking several deep breaths before New Jack came at him again. He managed to block a few of New Jack’s fists, but there were too many of them. The best he could do was cover his head, hoping to block as many shots from New Jack. Unfortunately, New Jack’s blows came raining down all over his body. Following a kick to D’Lo’s groin, New Jack managed to knock him down with a hard shot to the head.

D’Lo was just beginning to get up when he lunged again, grabbing his head with both his hands and twisting it to the side, exposing his vulnerable neck. D’Lo Brown screamed as New Jack’s teeth sunk into his skin, tearing out a huge chunk of flesh. D’Lo gagged as blood filled his throat, as New Jack spat out the chunk of meat.

Meanwhile, wiping the blood from his mouth, New Jack casually retrieved the sword. Standing above D’Lo’s body, he raised it up above his head, like a hero about to slay some foul dragon. He brought it down hard, smashing it through D’Lo’s ribcage, lungs and out the other side. D’Lo, now pinned to the ground, writhed about in pain until he finally died a few minutes later.

Retrieving the sword, New Jack chopped off D’Lo Brown’s half eaten neck just for the sake of it. He held his head up, before throwing it into the bushes. It landed next to Nunzio, who covered his mouth with both hands, trying his best not to throw up. After some effort, he managed to swallow the vomit, trying hard not to look at D’Lo Brown’s head. Finally, he kicked it away, where it bounced off a cliff, disappearing for good.

New Jack was certainly a very, very dangerous man. Nunzio was beginning to wonder if his plan would be able to work. He thought of D’Lo Brown’s severed head, and wondered if he would share the same fate. He quickly dismissed the thought, clearing his mind. The last thing he wanted was for paranoia to get him.

He had to get rid of New Jack. He was too dangerous to keep alive. The next fight he got into, he would interfere, costing New Jack his victory. It would mean finding another wrestler to follow, but if it meant getting rid of New Jack, he was all for it. Hopefully, the next wrestler he found wouldn’t be as competent as New Jack. Maybe someone driven by fear, whom he could easily outsmart.

Lost in his thoughts, Nunzio almost didn’t see New Jack taking his leave. Quickly, he got up, following the Original Gangsta once more. Except this time, Nunzio was going to be taking a more proactive approach.

38 Wrestlers Remaining

Well, that's all for the repost. I'll continue my daily updates starting tomorrow. If you guys want me to repost the original diary as well, I don't mind. I don't really see a need to though, since the first was of a different caliber, and you can always find it on the .400 boards anyway.

Edited by Gongsun Zan
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