Battle Royale: 72 Hours

[Guest Rich F]

Pretty good.  I liked the conflict Credible was going through, but I was kinda disappointed when he didn't kill Hall, but I guess thats made up for by the fact that someone's going to attack anyway.

[Krazy_K]

I was going to flame Rich F for bumping it =p.

But now I have to go back to the start and read through it all becuase I've forgotten everything that has happenend.

[Guest Captain Foo]

OH HELL YES more BR more BR more BR....

[sirdavinator]

Good update :thumbsup:

[Hellfire]

awesome, one of my favorite diaries in the dome is finally back. I'm glad your continuing this, and I cant wait to see who's gonna win in the end, but thats awhile from now.

[Gongsun Zan]

Hour 41

Day 2

1600 to 1700

Violent J looked at the sky. The sun had begun its descent, marking the start of the end of the second day. Considering he had spent a large portion of the contest unconscious and weaponless, the fact that he had made it thus far gave him great pleasure. Of course, it was completely insignificant compared to the pleasure he would face after he tore his opponents limb from limb.

He was weaponless, but what did it matter? He was a juggalo, he could slaughter his opponents all the same. Besides, doing it barehanded made it even more…fun.

Had he not been so preoccupied in his thoughts, he might have seen Shane Douglas charge through the forest, but as luck would have it, the one-eyed Franchise remained undetected, until it was much too late to do anything.

Violent J screamed, as his right arm fell to the floor, a fountain of blood spurting from his side. Shane Douglas swung his axe again, but Violent J quickly spun around, allowing the axe to pass harmlessly through thin air – and coating Douglas’ face with a streak of fresh blood.

Pain soon turned to rage, as Violent J soon begun a counter-offensive, squeezing Douglas’s face with all his might. The Franchise flailed about with his axe, but with his target right in his face (literally), swinging it about was proving much harder than expected, let alone actually hitting his target.

Finally, a kick to the gut soon separated the two combatants, opening up a whole new world of possibilities for the Franchise. Not wanting to waste any time, he rushed forward, swinging his axe in a graceful semi-circle in front of him. It would have cleaved his foe in half, had Violent J not already telegraphed his intentions, easily avoiding the attack with a backwards roll.

A kick to the wrist soon forced Douglas to let go of the axe, a second kick to the shin brought him to his knees. A third kick to the back of the head introduced dirt to the Franchise’s mouth, as a triumphant Violent J stood next to him, his foot placed squarely on the Franchise’s back like a Hunter posing with his prize.

Slowly, he let his foot crawl up his spine, before resting ever so slightly on Shane Douglas’ neck. A little pressure, and he would begin to feel his lungs crying for oxygen. A little more, and his miserable existence would come to and end.

Victory at last. And he had done it weaponless, too.

Suddenly, he felt himself falling, thrown off balance but Douglas’ sudden rise. How had he become so weak? Had he lost that much blood in battle? He looked at his arm – blood was still dripping freely down his side.

In fact, if he had done any damage to Shane Douglas at all, his enemy showed no sign of it. Rather, all his efforts seemed only to have enraged him, as opposed to slowing him down.

Violent J could only back away, as Douglas charged, hands outstretched. Intimidating for sure, had he not clumsily grasped at thin air, fooled by his lack of perception. Violent J laughed, tickled at his foe’s display of stupidity. Casually, he scooped up a rock, before dropping to his knees and ramming it right into Douglas’ groin.

Shane Douglas let loose a deafening scream, as blood began too ooze out from his busted scrotum. Meanwhile, Violent J joined in with some maniacal laughter of his own, allowing the entire area to be overcome by madness. Taking his time, he carefully retrieved the fire axe. It was heavy, and felt awkward in his left hand, but was deadly all the same.

Shane Douglas was on his knees now. Time for him to die, execution style.

Laughing even louder, Violent J brought the axe crashing down on Douglas’ neck. It soared right past without any resistance and soon found itself buried in the dirt once more. Was Shane that weak? Of course, he was already dead, rendering the point moot.

Or had he…

Violent J looked down, into the grinning face of Shane Douglas, still attached to the rest of his body. That was impossible! How could he have avoided the attack? Still in shock, Violent J could only watch as he felt the axe being pried from his grasp, and then, crashing through both of his kneecaps.

For several long seconds, he stood still, not daring to move. It wasn’t long before gravity got the better of him, as the rest of his torso fell to the ground, his two legs still sticking up like two blood stumps.

Violent J panicked. He wasn’t going to die, not here, not like this! Not to some half-blind fool with an axe. He flailed about wildly, but his fear only seemed to amuse Shane Douglas, as he closed in, axe held high above his head like the executioner of old.

All he needed was music and the setting would be complete.

Violent J screamed again, letting his spit rain on Shane Douglas. He wasn’t going to go without a fight, he may be dead, but he was going to bite back every step of the way. Desperate, and with no chance of escape, he thrust his thumb towards Douglas’ face…

…Right into his other eye.

The Franchise screamed, as he brought the axe down as hard as he could, splitting Violent J’s skull clean in half. The heavy metal axe-head tore through the skull was ease, before embedding itself on the ground below. Tiny jets of blood spurted out from around the edges of the axe, before finally pooling in a semi-circle pattern around his head.

In a slow and graceful arc, his thumb fell to the ground, Douglas’ eye sticking out like a plum. Upon contact with the dirt, the eyeball turned to mush, accompanied by a pleasant squishy noise.

Then again, none of it mattered, considering that Shane Douglas was now completely, and helplessly blind.

21 Wrestlers Remaining

[sirdavinator]

LOL, J killed himself by making Douglas blind. I'm sure Douglas will die sooner or later when Foley comes a-visiting, but heck, you never know who's going to win now.

[ValiantJoey]

Awesome!!! Glad to see this back Gongsun! Great couple of updates too.

[Protoman Version 2.5]

Great update, the franchise is screwed. My only real complaint is violent J is dead

Ah well...still got shaggy in it.

[Hellfire]

awesome update, and im glad you finally killed one of those god damn juggalo's off. Hopefully you take out the other one next.

[Dingle]

Awesome, your back. Been too long and Ive missed my feed of BR :| I had to read through most of it but meh, it was worth it

[Blehschmidt]

Shane Douglas let loose a deafening scream, as blood began too ooze out from his busted scrotum

[Guest Trifecta's Jeff]

Gohung....i'd let you have me if you wanted.

Welcome back to updating

[Hellfire]

Like them or not, a deranged Shaggy running around with half a face is just cool imagery!!!

[Protoman Version 2.5]

Don't be dissing no wicked clowns hellfire. You know you mark for what shaggy did to that one legged bastard gowen.

[Ace]

YES YES

HHHHHHHHHHHEEEEEEEEE"SSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS BACK!!!!

Now die Franchise

[Gongsun Zan]

Hour 42

Day 2

1700 to 1800

Sundown. The purple and orange glow marks the closing of another day, but whatever sense of relief these men might have had is long gone. They have seen death, and have come to embrace the morbid truth of their situation. No longer does the night come bearing safety. Rather, it only serves as a cruel warning to their impending doom, as the game launches into its final phase.

Twenty one wrestlers remaining.

And only thirty more hours to go.

One will reach zero first.

But which one will it be?

---

The Undertaker, a legend among wrestlers, grasps a tree, panting for breath. He’s won more Wrestlemania matches than anyone else, but in the final moments of his life, his accomplishments seem woefully pitiful. Beads of sweat form on his forehead, rolling pass milky white eyes, and an even whiter face. Except this time, there’s no makeup to thank. In a matter of hours, the Deadman will truly be dead.

He raises a hand to his forehead, wiping the sweat from his brows. If his brain was still capable of logical thought, the heat of his scalp would have reminded him of a fever. Instead, he carries on, an empty shell, as he makes his way down the green mile to his final resting space. Finally, consumed by fatigue, he drops to his knees, and with a final gasp of breath, collapses to the ground.

Dead, but not quite yet.

---

Spike Dudley inches through the concrete jungle, towards what could be possibly his only hope of survival. The lighthouse, standing tall in the distance, lights up, sending out beams of light washing across the island. Beams of safety, taunting him, drawing him closer. All he needs is to reach the lighthouse, and all will be right once again. The heavy iron doors, the reinforced concrete…it is there he will be safe…assuming he can even reach it.

He pauses, sensing movement nearby. A short rustling of the leaves, followed by another. Footsteps. Coming towards him.

“Hello?” he asks nervously, betraying his location.

“Hello,” comes the reply, all smiles.

And Spike Dudley runs.

---

Vince McMahon cowers in his shed, watching the blazing sun disappear past the horizon. The shotgun remains in his grasp, fully loaded and ready to go. There is nothing now, nothing but the vast plains of solitude and loneliness. All the while, Bischoff’s voice rings in his head, mocking him, fueling his rage.

He has played the waiting game. Waiting patiently in his shed, waiting to sweep the rug out from under the winner. Waiting to put a hole in his rival’s head. He has played the waiting game, but he has lost. Time to take the initiative.

Slowly, he gets up, placing on foot in front of another as he lets his vengeance and ruthless aggression take control. He lets his shotgun lead the way, twin barrels of unyielding firepower. It was time to go on the hunt. He was the hunter, stalking his prey.

Wabbit, thy name Bischoff.

This night would be his last.

---

Ken Shamrock creeps through the jungle, unhindered by the elements of nature. They call him the World’s Most Dangerous Man, and with good reason. After all, he’s already proven his nickname through ten times over already. By the end of the game, he would have done so another couple times.

He stumbles into a clearing, empty save for the unconscious body of Bill DeMott – and the panicking Jerry Lynn. Tied up with his own weapon, all he can do is look on in absolute fear as Ken Shamrock nonchalantly strides towards him. A quick flick of the wrist introduces Lynn to the barrel of his weapon, but Shamrock has other ideas. A second flick puts the barrel of the gun in his hands, so that the handle is facing towards his downed victim. Lynn tries to scream, but no words come out as Shamrock slams his foot into his gut, exposing Lynn’s venerable back. A whimper, then silence.

A quick whip to the head, accompanied by a loud crack, easily does the job. Lynn’s eyes droop of their sockets, a pool of blood forming in his mouth. If he’s still alive, he doesn’t have much to live for.

With the witness taken care of, Bill DeMott is next. Though he does not know it, his time on earth begins to dwindle into the minutes, and then seconds. This time though, it takes not one, but two hits to silence the larger man, leaving nothing but a bloody crack in side of his head. Bits of gray matter stick to the gun, but it’s nothing that can’t be wiped off with a piece of clothe. DeMott’s shirt does the job nicely. Satisfied, Shamrock walks off as though nothing had ever happened, leaving nothing but death in his wake.

A few minutes later, another would stumble upon their bodies, and fill them with a coat of lead. He was lucky, though. Had he reached them ever so earlier, it might have been him lying motionless on the ground.

But it’s ok. His time will come, just like all those before him.

For the night is still young, and there is plenty more death to be had.

19 Wrestlers Remaining

[Kaney]

Another good update there Gongsun. I'm half and half about SHamrock walking around murdering people with no remorse, since it doesn't really show any character, but Shamrock is my pick to win, so I can't really complain.

Oh, and well done, now I have an image of Vince McMahon as Elmer Fudd

[Mr Muggy]

Be very, very quiet... I'm hunting Bischoffs!

*evil Elmer laugh*

[Guest Trifecta's Jeff]

I still love this...alot.