Name: My slave name is Michael. Date of Birth: 18th February 1991 Favourite Superstar & Why: Mark Henry because eh fights people and doesn't afraid of anything How long I've been a fan of wrestling: Depends how long this forum has been open Favourite Wrestling Company: KILL CORPORATE GREED Will I be active here: Prolly not The story I actually didn't even expect this to be as long as it is, but I got omega carried away into some Stephen King type shit. You don't actually have to read it, it literally has nothing to do with me and is a complete work of fiction. The year is 1987, the air is humid and cold as winter passes. The trees glisten with frost and the cars sleep blissfully, covered in snow, unable to move. Disturbing the quiet, white mood is a distant scream. A woman of African descent makes her way out of the house, heavily pregnant, holding her stomach as she walks. Behind her, a startled and confused father-to-be panicking and edging back and forth trying to do every one thing at once. He is also of African descent. As the woman edges closer to the car, the man finishes putting essentials in the boot and hastily makes his way to his wife's aid, opening the door and easing her into the seat. The man speeds towards the hospital, unable to think steadily and scarcely concerning himself with road safety. Everything is a blur, sounds are distant and echoed. Over the screams from his wife, he looks in the rear-view mirror to realise a police patrol car hastily following behind, lights and sirens flashing. He wasn't sure how long they had been there, much less did he care. All he wanted was to get to the hospital. He pulled up at the side of the road, edging in his seat. He removes his seatbelt, and through sheer panic places it back in. He does this multiple times until the police officer approaches his window and taps on it. The man rolls it down. "Have you any idea how-", the police officer starts, but is cut short by the screaming of both the man and his wife. "She's having baby, must get to hospital!" the man shouts. "Sir, I'm going to need you to calm down." The man hands the officer his credentials. This officer, pale, broad shouldered. Very fare and light hair, but with eyes that suggest deeper, darker thoughts. A very well-kept individual, always making sure his badge and name-tag are properly shined before going out on patrol. After nearly an hour, the officer was finished, leaving them with a ticket. The pregnant woman now screamed in agony as her baby was more than ready to come out. They made it to the hospital and the woman was rushed into care to remove the baby as quickly as possible. The man waited nervously in the lounge, sweating. 45 minutes passes, as a gentleman in a white coat comes from around the corner, into the lounge and over to the man. He sits, looks into his eyes with utter-sadness and gently whispers the words that will haunt the man for the rest of his life. His wife, and child, had died. -- Officer Burns is out on patrol, scheduled to pass through a neighbourhood he never did enjoy. The temperature outside is extremely cold, and he took relief in thinking the neighbourhood would be scarce of street-rats in this temperature. He was right, he made it through the hood without having to stop, which is always a good thing. He arrives home, waiting in his parked car before making his way into the house. He always enjoyed the tranquillity and silence that his neighbourhood provided, however today the silence was disturbed by the distant cries of a child. His child, he later realised. This did not much disturb him, as he chose to ignore the cries, assuming his wife would attend to the baby sooner or later. "After all," he thought, "I'm always the one fucking looking after it when I'm at home anyway." Ten minutes pass, the crying still as loud as ever. He angrily swings the car door open, exits and slams it shut. making his way over to the house and fumbling in his pocket for the keys. He opens the door wide, and is hit with a pungent and dry smell. He edges closer, stumbling to his knees by the sight lay in-front of him. He feels a sharp pain in the back of his head, and his vision is filled with darkness as his helpless body makes it's way to the floor. -- Patrol cars are scattered across the lawn, detectives and medical staff scouring the scene. A young female detective, Trisha, is late on the scene. She makes her way over to another detective interviewing neighbours. "What have we got?" she asks. "Two victims, male and female, both killed quickly and messily. Neighbours say they saw and dark-skinned man fleeing from the scene. I looked it up, the coroner matches the time of death roughly around the same time they saw our suspect. I've got LAPD on it." Trisha makes her way over to an ambulance treating a baby covered in blood. "Is he alright?" she asks. "Physically, yes. But this much mental trauma is going to leave this baby very disturbed. Watching your parents killed in cold blood is an image that will haunt this poor child forever." She examines the toddler, oftentimes parents would print the name and contact details of their baby in the tag of their clothing in case the parents were too inadequate to take care of a child and it were to go missing. She got lucky, she pulled back the tag and sure enough she saw the details. Written on the tag in black letters was one name: "Michael." Merry Christmas.