The View From Down Here – Fantasy Fantasy Booking

EDIT: I put this up on Friday, and then the news came that Randy Savage died. I was going to rip this down and write a column about my favourite wrestler of all time, the matches I love (Savage v Warrior WM7 is my all-time favourite), but I couldn’t. I could not do it. This one has affected me. Sorry, guys. So here is the column, some escapist fantasy… and maybe that’s what we need right now.

For something different, a work of fiction. I wrote this in 2005, and so it is based on wrestlers and characters around at that time. The idea was based on a comic (unpublished) I read in 2002, plus the Ultimate Warrior comics. (Sad, I know.) 5000 words, give or take. Hope you enjoy a change of pace…

WORLD OF HEROES – Fantasy Fantasy Booking


The huge man looked down at his fallen opponent and wiped his hands on the youngster’s clothing. Barely half his age, and yet already dead. Dead at his hands. For in their world of war without weapons, he was a legend.

Maybe the legend.

  For years he had bestrode this world, taking on all challengers, becoming what he was now…


 He bowed his head and kicked once more at the body before him. For so long these kids came to face him. And he defeated them all. Once he had been their ultimate Hero, then he had joined two from the Outside, and now he was in a no-man’s-land of fleeting glory and past heroics.

  The world had changed.

  Gone was his world, the world he had helped create. A world of Heroes, matched by equally powerful forces of Darkness. But now… now there were no true Heroes. And no true Villains. The New Breed were warriors, to be sure, but out only for themselves. The people they fought for were secondary. Power was all that mattered.

  And his old friends and foes, spirits of that bygone Age…

  They were gone.

  The Giant, dead. The one known simply as Warrior, lost in his own psychosis. The Brothers of the Dungeon of Hearts, one dead, one injured beyond all. The Savage, fighting on the fringes, but rejecting all he had fought so hard for, also mentally lost. The Rowdy One, still in there somewhere, but so far past it he was no good even to himself. Same with the Dream. The Hammer, he was sure that he had heard of him on the edges as well, still holding onto the Old Ways. The Body, a ruler of some far-off land. The Stinger… he was a priest now, preaching to all who would listen.

  He ran his hands over his bald pate, through the thinning yellow-blonde hair that hung to his shoulders, and walked away from the youngster whose life he had so easily extinguished.

  So few of the old were left. The Dead Man, once his most hated foe. The Heartbreaker, also a preacher, but still out there. The one known only as T, a minor player at best. And the Sheriff, the one once known as Stone Cold, though he was injured more often than not.

  And, of course, the traitor. The one who had now aligned himself with the Hunter, self-proclaimed leader of this new breed. The one known as Flair.

  But it was not over yet.

  He was Hulk.

  He was the very stuff of legend.

  No, he was more than that.

  He was… Legend.

  And he would have his day once more…


The Hunter stared from his balcony at the people below. They hated him, but he was their ruler, their leader.

  Their champion.

  He had fought many, had taken one of the Old Warriors as his own, and he was still here.

  But sometimes…

  Sometimes even he wished for the Old Ways. When it was about the combat and the people they lorded over. When everything was so clear, so black and white. A time his greatest opponent, his challenger, harkened back to. The Rock. It was he who stood in the way of ultimate power. He had the people and knew how to use them. Just like the Old Ways.

  He raised his head and gazed over the expanse of the city, the land created by the Son of Mahon, which was now his. Out there, in those streets teeming with people of all nationalities, from all walks of life, were others. Men he had battled and befriended and turned on. The son of the Cowboy, Randy; the bard Cena; the former revered Batista; the brothers Dudley; the Crippler, a man the Hunter had never bested; the youngest Guerrero warrior, Eddie; the Lionheart of Jericho; the huge Wight; the One on the Edge and his brother the Christian; and countless others. Too many others…

  Their battles had been numerous and bloody, drifting further and further from the combat of the Old Warriors.

  He himself had his warhammer; he was as guilty as the rest.

  And he turned and strode back inside.

  Suddenly it did not feel safe to be out here.

  And in the crowd below going about their daily business, Hulk watched from beneath his cowl. There had to be a way to end this reign of terror and return to the Old Ways, the way of true Heroes.

  A second set of eyes also watched the balcony.

  They then drifted to the huge man under the robe, watching the tower.

  This was good. A battle between the Old Ways and the New Breed.

  And there could only be one winner.

  The hidden figure smiled.

  For he would be the winner. He… and all he represented.


This was uncomfortable.

  For both men.

  But finally the huge Dead Man accepted the hand offered by Hulk. Beside them the dark-skinned T nodded his approval and covered their paws with his own.

  Past animosity had to be put aside. They understood that. For the Old Ways to be once more dominant, the New Breed had to be destroyed.

  For good.

  Another figure entered the small, out-of-the-way hotel and eyed the three men at the table. He came towards them without fear. His gait was bowlegged, and unfamiliar to the three men. And as he approached them, all stood. All others, the people, moved aside as these titans readied themselves.

  But the new arrival was unbowed.

  He stopped before them, paused, and then pulled his hood back.

  The other three did not relax.

“What do you want, Foley?” spat the Dead Man.

  The new arrival smiled, his toothless grin shining through his thick beard and swept his dark hair from his face. “We’ve had our issues, Dead Man,” he laughed insanely, “but this is serious.’ All mirth faded from his visage. “This goes beyond all that. I know why you’re here. And I can help.”

 “How?” Hulk was intrigued; the more they had the better, but what could one as insane as Foley do for them, besides bring a personal vendetta against Flair?

 Foley took out his white gauntlet, symbol of his most recent fights, and placed it on his burly fist. He held it aloft. “The Rock,” was all he said.

 And the others nodded their understanding. The alliance between the two was well-known. And if the Hero of the People would join them and the Old Ways…


 The four of them each placed a hand in the middle. The Old Warriors were about to make a comeback. And heaven help the New Breed.

 In the darkest corner a man took a draught from his mug, watching carefully. He knew what they were up to and was impressed by their organisation and what they felt they stood for.

  But it was not what he felt was needed.

  Still, he just had to bide his time.

 For his time would most surely come…


He was called the Big Red Machine. Scarred by fire, killer of his own parents… and for years he claimed to be the brother of the legend who was the Dead Man. But, in these current times, it was not wise to claim kinship with any of the Old Warriors. Rumours abounded about the deaths of the Hurricane, the younger of the Hardy brothers and Paul of London, all at the hands of the Old Ways.

 The people were confused.

  Those like himself were worried. Three deaths. Three of them were gone in a week. But, of course, none of the rest thought they could be next.

  Yet, out here, in the dark of the night, in a deserted street, even one as large as Big Red Machine could feel the twinges of panic.

 “This one’s mine.”

  The voice was deep, like gravel, emotionless. The Machine turned and faced the building from which it had emanated – an old shop, disused since the demise of the Old Warriors – as an enormous shape grew out of the shadows of the doorway.

  The Big Red Machine’s eyes widened.

 “We meet again.” The voice was cold as blank eyes regarded him, until one final word was spat out: “Brother.”

 “No…” But the other was on him before he could get the word out. Fists rained down on his head, shoulders and back, but the Machine was not a simple man. He had defeated champions. And his own, huge hand snaked out and grabbed the Dead Man by the throat, squeezing tight.

The taller man struggled under the grip, arms flailing a little.

 And then his foot shot forth, a cobra against a hapless victim, burying itself in the Machine’s stomach. His grasp relaxed. A second kick doubled him over.

 Within a second, the Dead Man stood astride the other and wound his arms about the waist. He swung the Big Red Machine up high and held him there briefly, to allow him to realise just what was about to happen, one last moment of terror before the inevitable, long enough for him to mutter, “Enjoy your last ride.”

  And, with a resounding crack, hammered him neck first onto the concrete.

  The Big Red Machine twitched once, then was still.

  And the Dead Man was joined by his companions.

  All gazed down at the carcass before them, nodded, and then melted once more into the darkness.

  Another set of eyes showed pleasure at this turn of events.

And so now was time for him to make his own move…


The Hunter looked over the men assembled before him.

  There was no trust in this room

  Glares were angry, body language tense, muscles straining for release.

  Finally Randy, son of the Cowboy, stood. “What is he doing here?” he demanded.

  The Hunter looked at the man seated beside him. Flair swept his fingers through his albino white hair and smiled. “I’m a high-profile, stridin’, struttin’ Legend, and I do what I want when I want.” He paused to look around, grinning maniacally. “And I know who’s behind this.”

  This finally brought silence to the table.

  All wanted to hear this.

  And Flair stood and started to strut like a peacock behind the Hunter. “I have fought him in the past. We had epic battles, wars. In cages, on beaches, inside, outside, we did them all. Whoo!” Some of the others looked around; Flair was old and his faculties seemed impaired. A senile old man unable to let go of past glories. Why the Hunter kept him on was a mystery to them all. “But I can beat him!” Flair finished with a wild flourish.

  “Who?” sneered the remaining Hardy brother, embittered with the death of his sibling.

  Flair’s smirk widened and he leant on the table. And he said but one word: “Hulk!”

  Time seemed to stop. None moved. Then:

 “I thought he died.” The One on the Edge’s voice was full of awe.

 “Dead after he tried to impose a New World Order on the land,” his religious brother added.

  Flair smiled again. “That was just the beginning. He went to the Holy Woods. ‘Twas there I last fought him. But he did not die.” A pause. “But I know him!”


 The name was whispered.

And there was only one way they could combat him and those who were with him.

  It was something that went against them and their natures. But it had to be done.

 They had to fight together, to stand together… to die together…


Rikishi was alone. He had been battling with the Sheriff, but since the Sheriff’s accident he had been rejected by most of the others.

 He fought alone now.

 And his only friends were…

 …were people.

  Normal people. The Grandmaster had trained well and liked to think he had reached their level, but he had not; he was just a person.

  Of course, there was always the Worm.

  A colleague, not a true friend, but it was something. And that was why he was out here on this cold night. For the Worm would only meet with him under the privacy of darkness.

  Rikishi rounded a corner and smiled. Even in the shadows, the familiar hairstyle and clothing marked one of the smaller members of their caste.

  Then the shadow moved, suddenly, in fear…

A second figure seemed to form out of the darkness itself. Taller and more powerful than his friend. The two stared at one another for just a second. And then the taller of the two thrust his leg forward with the speed of a lightning bolt. The foot connected with Worm’s jaw, sending him flying backwards with barely a sound.

  And then the figure was gone, once more a part of the very night…

  Rikishi ran as fast as his oversized physique would allow… but he slowed when he saw the body on the ground. It lay there motionless, blood covering every surface for a metre in each direction. The jaw was not just dislocated. It had been half ripped off, severing the jugular vein as it moved.

 Riskishi backed off, unable to take his eyes from the bleeding, torn corpse.

  Some-one bumped into him from behind. He turned with a start, expecting to see one of the people there.

  But the person who stared out at him from beneath the hooded top could only be one of his own kind…

  This man smiled and opened his arms, revealing two medallions of solid gold about his neck. “Who…?” the larger man started, but the other did not give him a chance. He scooped Rikishi onto muscular shoulders, then turned and slammed him hard to the ground. He felt ribs give way and the taste of copper filled his mouth.

  Then the man grabbed his ankle and locked his forearms around it. He pulled up and twisted it.


  Rikishi had never felt such pain. And as the bones ground together and snapped he screamed long and loud, but this man did not stop. Not until…

  With a tearing, ripping sound, sinew, muscle and tendon came apart. And the screams of the large man echoed in the night like the howls of a dying wolf.

  And the hidden man left the foot of Rikishi in plain sight before disappearing once more into the night…


It was a case of wrong place, wrong time.

  And T was there.

  Hidden beneath a long robe, nothing, even at dusk such as this, could disguise the fact that this was not as normal men.

  And so it was that the brothers Dudley saw him.

  And as the two approached, the people recognised them and moved apart and left the area until they were on their own. But T had seen the movements of the normals, saw the two men approach, and when they were close enough he leapt into action. He scissored his legs, hitting the dark-skinned brother Devon in the back of the head, and then he spun and lassoed his straight arm across the throat of the lighter-skinned Ray, sending him crashing backwards. And the brothers lay on the ground, motionless, as T spread his arms, then spun on the ground in a dance of victory.

  But the brothers Dudley had been ready. T was a legend, his moves well-known. And Ray lifted him high, then slammed him to the ground, forcing the air out of his chest while Devon climbed to the top of a marble table.

Ray held the legs apart and Devon leapt down, connecting hard with T’s lower midsection.

  He stood up and did his own victory dance before Ray pushed him in the chest. “Table,” was all the lighter-skinned man said.

  Devon smiled and leapt over the hard stone structure he had just jumped from. Ray hefted T up and fell backwards. At the same time Devon grabbed his neck and forced his face down.

  Hard and fast.

  The table cracked and splintered, sending shards of marble in all directions.

  And the Dudley brothers stood. T was not yet dead. But he was gone enough to leave a message.

  T would not be bothering them.

  And they left the scene to tell the Hunter.

  Two sets of eyes watched them depart.

  And then their owners stepped out of the early evening shadows. The taller lifted the prone form up and slung it across broad shoulders. The smaller merely nodded.

  And T was thrown and spun around until he was driven face first into the concrete, a spray of blood signifying his final demise.

  The hooded figures left.

  Everything was coming together just fine.


The music was loud, spilling into the streets in wave after wave of sound. Flair stood outside, listening to the female singer croon to the clientele gathered within. There was no mistaking that voice – Hulk’s lovely daughter. He had known the child her whole life; but she knew him as well and would never trust him.

  But that did not matter.

  For wherever Brooke was, Hulk would surely be close by.

  And even just being out here would surely…

 “Flair, brother.”

  The voice was unmistakable as his daughter’s.

“Hulk! Whoo!”

 And they stared at one another. Then, with a roar, they clashed, chests smashing into one another with a sharp slap of flesh. And they pushed against each other until Hulk worked his arms up, forcing Flair to his knees.

  Flair then rammed his upper arm upwards between Hulk’s massive legs. The blonde man moved backwards quickly, wincing as Flair stood and swung his arm in a back-hand. The hand hit like a blunt knife across Hulk’s massive, tanned chest, cracking like a stock-man’s whip, sending the huge man to his back on the ground. Flair immediately grabbed a leg and spun his own limbs around it, the rolled himself backwards, Hulk’s leg entwined within his own. And Flair pulled back.

  Almost immediately Hulk felt the bones start to bend painfully. Only his own musculature prevented an immediate snapping…

  But Flair had not reckoned on the man he had tormented for so many years being also present. And Foley came charging out of the darkness, dropping down on top of the albino blonde man, his elbow striking hard across Flair’s throat. Hulk managed to disentangle himself as Foley helped him to his feet.

 “We should stop here,” he panted. “Flair is one of us.”

 “And I say we kill him,” Foley hissed.

 “The Rock says we stop this now.” A third figure joined them, his every muscle rippling. He was younger than the other two, but the sense of tradition instilled in him by his grandfather the Chief and his father was there in his eyes.

 “What?” Foley spat.

 “Foley, Foley, Foley! Use Flair. There is one way for this to stop. And the Rock says we should do it.” The Rock’s aura of power could be felt by both the men before him. “And this has to stop or else the people will suffer!”

“I don’t understand you, brother,” Hulk muttered.

  Rock raised an eyebrow and his eyes drifted to his left.

  The other two followed his gaze and immediately understood. The home of tradition, the roof of the holy shrine of the city rose above all other buildings. Called the Square Garden, it was their ultimate place of worship.

 The Rock was correct.

  And this would have to end the only way they knew how.


The men sat once more in the tower of the Hunter. And, again, the room was tense. It was Hardy who broke the silence. “How do we know he hasn’t returned to the Old Ways?” he sneered, his anger barely concealed. But there was more running beneath his facade now than the death of his brother… and it was plainly obvious.

 “I trust him,” the Hunter growled, slamming his hands down.

 “I dealt with him in a past life,” the Crippler stated in his own quiet, methodical manner. “I don’t.”

 The Hunter stood and all noticed that his trusted warhammer was now in his grasp. “Flair is no traitor,” he growled, striding around the table. “The traitor is here, among you.” And he stopped behind the Crippler, fingering the iron-headed weapon he held almost tenderly.

  The Crippler grit his teeth but made no attempt to move.

  Slowly the hammer was raised to a solid shoulder.

  The Crippler froze, scowling.

  The mallet swung down.

  The One on the Edge’s head exploded in a spray of red and grey, hair and bone. “How can we work together,” the Hunter growled at the corpse, “when you are stealing another’s woman?” He now looked across at the Hardy brother. “And if you” – he pointed with the head of the hammer – “go public again…” he began, but did not finish. The threat was there for all to see.


 That voice echoed across the whole city. The people below stopped and looked up at the tower before scurrying away from what they felt would be a bad situation. Since the Old Ways had faded, bad situations were all that happened to their world.

  The men in the room rushed to the balcony and looked out.

Hulk was there, on the roof of a nearby building, with the Dead Man, the Heartbreaker, the Rock and Foley. At his feet lay the prone form of Flair. “I want my city back!” Hulk roared.

 “It’s mine!” the Hunter returned. His companions looked at him warily, but said nothing.

 “Then we must fight for it. Last team standing wins the city of the Son of Mahon and its people.”

“Never!” On cue Foley and the Dead Man lifted Flair and held him over the edge of the building on which they stood. The Hunter looked at them and saw all were serious. If he did as they asked, then all of this would be over, and the deaths that he did not approve of would cease. Otherwise guerilla warfare would rage for… what? months? years? And what of Flair? “I agree!” he roared and those with him finally managed a smile. “Team against team!”

 “The roof of the Square Garden,” the Rock added. “On the morrow!”


 Two sets of eyes watched from below. “Done,” one said.

 “Done,” his companion agreed.

 And all was set…


The rain fell in a light drizzle as the five men sat on the edge of the roof of the venerable building, the centre of all worship in their world. It was here the Son of Mahon first set into motion the events that would lead to the formation of the Heroes. And, some said, he was still here, wandering the halls, creating new Heroes as he saw fit. It was he who truly ran this city… if he still existed. For he had not been seen for many years…

  The door in the corner opened and the Hunter strode forth. Behind him followed the Crippler, Flair, the Christian, the last of the Hardys, the brothers Dudley, Batista, Randy, son of the Cowboy and Lionheart of Jericho. Only the big Wight seemed to be missing. But it was still ten against five. But that was fine. Hulk would not have wanted it any other way.

 “Before we begin,” the Hunter growled, “what was with the ripping off of feet?”

The expressions on the faces of the others told him all he needed to know.

 “If not you, then…”

 “Me.” Two figures moved out of the shadows of the door, removing their robes as they did so. Gold medallions adorned the neck of one, the other was larger and wore a single gold medallion about his.

“The Pure Ones.” The Crippler knew who they were. Fighters of the pure arts.

 “Angle and Lesnar,” said the smaller, the one called Angle. “And we’re in this too. We want this city as much as you. You’ve served your purpose, had your time. Now it is ours.”

  “You want it?” the Hunter rumbled. “Then come get it.”

  Seventeen men.

  On the roof.

  Last team standing wins.

  Those eliminated…

  It was a long way down. And elimination was forever.

 Always forever…


The first move came from the Lionheart of Jericho as he hurled himself at Hulk. But Hulk was ready for anything – years of experience had taught him that one must always be prepared for the worst – and he sidestepped the rush. The Rock was waiting and dropped a shoulder into the brave youngster’s midsection before lifting him up high. The Lionheart tried to grasp the edge of the building, but the Heartbreaker kicked his hands out and it was over…

  All froze as his scream filled the night air, cut short only by the wet thud against the ground beneath.

  It really was on; this was all too real. This was it.

  And caution overcame the men as they circled…

  Suddenly the Christian screamed and grasped the Hunter by the hair, dragging him backwards, towards the edge of the building. “You killed my brother!” he screamed pathetically, but Flair was there to stop him, and the Crippler was involved, and suddenly the New Breed seemed to be fighting amongst themselves. And the Old Warriors waded in…

  The Christian was indeed the next to fall, as Flair hefted him over the side, sending him plummeting to his destruction many storeys below. The one named Angle grasped the Crippler about the waist and hurled him backwards over his head, slamming his head against the cold, hard floor. But the brothers Dudley were there and lifted Angle up. Lesnar came across and pulled his own partner down and the two of them kicked the brothers with both feet, sending them to their doom over the side.

  The Dead Man ran at the huge Batista, but met an elbow for his problems. He staggered back and Batista tried to lift him. But the Dead Man grasped his neck with a gloved hand, much the same as the Big Red Machine had tried days before. But it was Randy, son of the Cowboy, who struck the Dead Man in the back of the head. He turned, and that was all the opening Batista needed. He lifted the Dead man up and slammed him back first against the edge of the building. And Randy followed through with a sliding kick which pushed him over the edge and into the darkness below.

 The two youngsters looked down and saw him staring up at them as he fell, defiant to the last. Neither felt happy about this; that was too frightening for words…

  Hulk surveyed the scene. The Crippler grappled with Angle while Lesnar traded blows with the Rock. The Heartbreaker was… a scream filled the air and the last of the Hardys was sent sailing, his voice not stopping until the very end…

  And then the Hunter was there, in the Heartbreaker’s face. They had been friends once, and the Heartbreaker went for his kick. But the Hunter was ready and caught it before it could strike. And he lifted the other up and threw him sideways. He tried to catch the edge, but his fingers slipped…

  Hulk stood, stunned… and failed to notice Batista and Randy coming at him until it was too late. They hit him hard until he was teetering over the edge. He struggled against their youth and strength, and went for the only thing he could – he ground his thumb in the eye of Randy, son of the Cowboy, until blood flowed over his hand. He let go and Hulk managed to wriggle sideways out of Batista’s grasp. “Hey, brother!” he called to Randy. The younger man turned wildly and swung a solid fist… connecting with Batista. On instinct the other man lifted him high and that was when Hulk charged.

  The two of them flew sideways, and down.

  Foley looked around wildly. There he was, the man Foley sought, standing off to one side. And he hurled himself at Flair. His whole body connected, his arm wrapping around Flair’s neck. He felt himself start to topple, but he let it go. If he was going over, then he was not going alone. And who better than this man, the man who had tormented him since the Old Ways. And the rolled together over the edge, falling and hitting the ground as one…

 And now there were six.

  Suddenly the door burst open and the Sheriff stumbled in. He was covered in blood and smelt of beer, but the smile on his face was unmistakable. The Rock ran to his side. “That bastard Wight’s gone,” he coughed, blood coming out from between gritted teeth. “Need some help?”

 “Always from you.”

“Good.” And suddenly he was on top of the Rock, pounding him with solid fists. But Hulk was there, and lifted him off. The Sheriff gesticulated to him and the older man pushed him away… into the arms of Lesnar. Stone Cold looked briefly amazed at this huge specimen of a man, then grasped him around the neck and dropped down himself. Lesnar’s neck snapped back, the vertebrae shattered, and stumbled backwards off the edge.

  He was dead before he hit the ground.

  The Sheriff went over to look down but his feet were suddenly in the air, and the Rock and Hulk threw him down after the dead Pure One.

  The Crippler and Angle finally separated, bleeding and breathing hard.

 “Are you sure you’re not a Pure One?” Angle asked.

  The Crippler did not answer, he just ran his thumb slowly across his throat. Angle went after his leg, but the Crippler grasped his head and arm, and trapped them, then pulled back hard. He felt muscles start to spasm beneath his grip, then they relaxed. And so did he. But Angle was waiting, and grabbed the ankle, twisting with all his might. The Crippler reached up and wrapped the head in his own solid arms…

 But by now they were beside the edge of the building…

  And one hard and violent twist from each sent them over the edge to the earth beneath.

  And now the Hunter faced the Rock and Hulk.


The three men circled warily. Then the Rock pointed to his left and Hulk nodded.

  They enclosed the Hunter. He walked backwards until his back was against the door they had entered through. His hand snaked backwards, opening the door, then coming out again.

 “Hulk! Watch out!” the Rock screamed as the warhammer swung through the air. It hit the older man a glancing blow on the shoulder, but enough to send him to the ground in pain. The Hunter smiled evilly and raised the weapon again.

  Suddenly, it was no longer in his grip. He turned and the last thing he saw was his own weapon smashing him between the eyes. And in a river of blood, he was sent down.

  And the New Breed were no more.

  The Rock helped Hulk up and to the edge where he looked out over the city beneath him. And he smiled. Once more, after so long, it was his.

  He was here again. Just as he had been at the beginning. At the Square Garden, victorious.

  He did not notice the door opening behind him nor the Rock taking a step backwards.

  He did not see the man who had first made him the Hero he had always been nod to the Rock.

  But he felt the warhammer strike him between the shoulder blades and feel the air stream through his thinning hair as he took the final dive…

  The Rock threw the hammer after him and faced the Son of Mahon, himself a Hero, built like any of the Heroes, his face set in stone.

  “Just you and me, Rock,” the Son of Mahon rumbled.

 “Yeah, The Rock and you.”

“And we start again, here, now.”

 The Rock smiled. “Until you decide once more to create new heroes?” he asked.

 “It’s up to you to see to it that I have no need,” the Son of Mahon responded evenly as they walked to the door and left the empty roof of the Square Garden.

  But somewhere down below a body stirred. The fall had been a long one, the landing painful… but not even that could keep a Hero down.

  And now this Hero had a mission…

 And he would go through Hell itself to see it through…


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