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You Suffer For Our Pleasure
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Starring
Kenny Atlas
The first thing I ever learned about professional wrestling was that nobody cared how much you loved it. Not really. Crowds cheered winners. Promoters pushed people who made money. Veterans respected toughness, not passion. And somewhere along the way, every bright-eyed rookie learned the same lesson: wanting this life wasn’t enough to survive it. I’d heard that speech a hundred times before I ever stepped foot inside LOL Lights out Lounge Federation’s . Didn’t stop me from chasing it anyway. Most people grow out of that phase. I didn’t. By sixteen, I sighed up for a small wrestling school in my neighborhood. By eighteen, I was starting to send applications to small federations in hopes of getting a chance to show what I’ve got. I’ve wrestled through bumps on secondhand mats in overheated warehouses with guys twice my size. Bruises became normal. Sore muscles became normal. Being overlooked became normal too. Because no matter how hard I trained, there was always somebody bigger. Meaner. Louder. I wasn’t built like a monster. I didn’t have some legendary family name behind me either. Just stubbornness. Maybe too much of it. Still… somehow… I made it far enough to catch LOL Lights out Lounge Federation’s attention. Not enough for a full contract. Not yet. But enough for the Mentorship Program.
Kenny Atlas
The idea sounded simple on paper: pair inexperienced wrestlers with established stars for several months. If the rookies impressed management, they earned official roster spots. If the veterans succeeded as mentors, they got priority title opportunities. A win-win situation. At least, that’s how the company advertised it. The locker room told a different story. Most veterans didn’t want rookies attached to them. We were extra baggage. Extra responsibility. And some of the names attached to the program weren’t exactly known for patience. Or mercy. Rings filled the center of the warehouse-sized gym while production crews and trainers moved around like organized chaos. Everywhere I looked, there were people stronger, faster, more experienced than me. I tried not to stare. Tried even harder not to look nervous. Thankfully, I had a mask to hide my expression. “You hear who Atlas got?” The voice came from somewhere near the ring. Another wrestler laughed under his breath. “Poor bastard.” My stomach tightened instantly. I adjusted the tape around my wrists and pretended not to hear them, even though every conversation in the room suddenly felt pointed directly at me. I already knew enough about wrestling locker rooms to understand one thing: When veterans pitied you? That was worse than them hating you.
Kenny Atlas
At the far end of the gym, a giant screen displayed the official mentorship pairings one by one. Names flashed across it while teams met up around the room. Some reactions were excited. Some awkward. Some looked ready to kill each other already. Then my name appeared. KENNY ATLAS MENTOR: DADICUS The entire room reacted. Not loudly. Honestly, that would've felt better. Instead, there was this wave of winces, smirks, and low murmurs spreading through nearby wrestlers like everyone had just watched somebody sign their own death warrant. I swallowed hard. Because unlike me… everybody here already knew exactly who Dadicus was. And from the stories I’d heard? There were only two kinds of people who stepped into a ring with him. The ones who learned something… And the ones who didn’t come back the same afterward.
Dadicus
The door SLAMS open against the gym wall, the sound cracking through the low murmur of conversations. Every head turns as I make my way in the gym. "What the fuck do you mean… I need to train a fucking rookie?! And depending on how he does it’s if I get a shot at the title or not?!" I bark toward the manager of Lights out Lounge from across the gym. I stride into the middle of the gym, my yellow wrestling briefs with black stripes drawing attention to my chiseled frame, boots pounding against the worn floor with every step. The air shifts. Conversations die. Rookies freeze. Veterans just watch, some with knowing smirks, others looking away.
Dadicus
They know what’s coming. "I earned that fucking shot! I’m the best this fucking federation has to offer! And no goddamn rookie is going to stop me from earning what is mine!" My eyes sweep the room, burning into anyone daring to hold my gaze. "What the fuck are you all looking at? Did you lose something? Huh?!" I turn my back on them, a deliberate show of contempt, and stalk toward the giant screen. My name is up there. My future, chained to some nobody. Then I see it. KENNY ATLAS. MENTOR: DADICUS. Great. I haven’t even heard of this rookie... This isn’t a mentorship... This is the office trying to stop my momentum. They’re tying an anchor to my leg and hoping I drown. All I see is red. I spin back to face the gym, my voice dropping into a low, dangerous growl that carries to every corner. "Who. The FUCK. Is Kenny Atlas?"
Dadicus
Silence... Then, a ripple of movement. A few guys who know something glance toward a corner. Others take a deliberate step back, clearing a sightline. There. A kid in a mask, taping his wrists, trying to look like he belongs... Trying not to look nervous... He’s the only one not staring at me. I start walking toward him, slow, deliberate. The crowd parts like I’m carrying a disease. "So are you Kenny Atlas? ... are you’re my tax, huh? My fucking obstacle. The federation thinks they can slow me down by saddling me with a project. They think I’ll play nice. Teach you the ropes. Hold your hand." I stop a few feet from you, close enough that you can’t avoid looking up. "Let me tell you how this is going to work, rookie. You’re not my partner... You’re my problem... And I solve my problems. You’re in my way. And I move anything in my way. You wanted to learn? FINE!! Lesson one: In this world, nobody cares how much you love it... They care what you can take... And what you can break... Promoters push what makes money... Veterans respect what survives... You think passion is enough? It’s the first thing I will grind out of you" a Smirk comes across my face " So tell me Kid are you Kenny Atlas or not"
Kenny Atlas
My hands stop moving the second your voice hits the gym. Not because I want them to. Because every instinct in my body suddenly locks up at once. The stories hadn’t done you justice. Standing across the room, you looked less like a wrestler and more like a natural disaster somebody taught how to throw punches. Every rookie in the building suddenly found something else to stare at except you. Smart. Probably smarter than me. I keep my eyes down for a second longer, tightening the tape around my wrist even though it’s already tight enough to cut circulation. My heart’s hammering hard enough I’m half convinced everyone around me can hear it. Then your boots stop in front of me. Close. Too close. I can feel the pressure of your presence before I finally look up. And yeah… that was a mistake. You’re bigger than I expected. Meaner looking too. The kind of guy who doesn’t just walk into a room, he takes it over. Every part of me wants to back up a step when you call me your problem. Wants to apologize for existing. But then I hear the snickering from some of the veterans nearby. Hear the way they’re all waiting to see if I fold. If I shrink. If I become exactly what you already decided I was. Some nobody. My jaw tightens under the mask. Slowly, I stand up from the bench, forcing myself not to look away from you even when every survival instinct I have is screaming that this is a horrible idea. You’re close enough now that I practically have to tilt my head up to meet your eyes. My throat feels dry as hell, but I push through it anyway. “…Yeah,” I answer finally, voice quieter than I want it to be at first. I clear my throat and try again. “Yeah. I’m Kenny Atlas.”
Kenny Atlas
“And I’m not here to hold anybody back.” There’s still tension in my voice. Still uncertainty. But underneath it, something stubborn starts digging its heels in. Because maybe everybody else in this gym sees a rookie standing in front of a veteran monster… but I’m getting real tired of people deciding what I am before I even get the chance to prove it. “You think I’m some punishment?” I say, thankful I'm wearing a mask for this. “Fine. But I didn’t ask to get paired with you either.” I can practically feel the gym waiting for me to shut up before I get myself killed. But I keep going anyway. “You don’t gotta hold my hand.” My pulse is still racing, but the words come steadier now. “Just don’t stand there acting like I’m already dead weight before you’ve even seen what I can do."
Dadicus
A slow, cold smile spreads across my face. It’s not a friendly look. It’s the look a predator gets when the prey finally decides to bite back. "Well, well. He’s got a pulse. And a mouth to match." I let the silence hang, heavy and thick, after your last word. The gym is watching, holding its breath. They’re waiting for me to break you. To put you in your place with one sentence... Maybe I should. But you didn’t back down. You stood up. In front of all of them. I’ll give you that one thing, kid. It was stupid, but it wasn’t cowardly and that I can respect. "Ok... We’re starting now. And if you slow me down for one second, if you cost me my title shot, I will make sure you never step foot in any ring, anywhere, ever again. Do you understand me?" I don’t wait for an answer. I turn to the nearest veteran watching us, a cold smile on my face. "Looks like I got myself a puppy. Someone fetch me a choke chain." My eyes snap back at you... I take a step closer, invading your space again. “You didn’t ask for me? Good. I didn’t ask for a shadow. But here we are... The federation tied a knot, and now we’re stuck in it. You think this is about fairness? About what you deserve?” I let out a short, humorless laugh. “This business has never been fair. It eats the hopeful and spits out the hardened. You want to prove you’re not dead weight? Fine. Prove it.” My face is pressed into your mask, each breath brushing hot against your skin. "Well? Are you going to stand there, or are you going to try and prove you belong in my ring? "
Dadicus
I turn suddenly and point to the nearest empty ring. “You see that? That’s your courtroom. Your words are cute, Kenny. But in there, it’s not what you say. It’s what you do. It’s what you can take.” I start walking toward the ring, not looking back. “You want to show me what you can do? Let’s go. Right now. No hand-holding. No gentle introductions. You step into that ring with me, and I will show you exactly the gap between a name on a screen and the best this federation has to offer. And you will show me if you’re a problem I can mold… or just another piece of trash I need to take out.” I Flip over the top rope and turn, leaning on the ropes, looking down at you. “What’s the matter? All that fire just for talking? Or are you actually gonna move your body? Get in the ring. Let’s see if that stubbornness you’re so proud of is in your bones… or just in your mouth.” I grunt
Kenny Atlas
“Everybody clear out.” The sharp voice cuts through the tension before I can answer you. One of the program managers is already moving toward ringside, headset half hanging off his ear while two assistants scramble behind him. “Now. Give them room.” Nobody argues. That’s the part that sticks with me. Not one person tells you to calm down. Not one person tells me it’ll be okay. They just move. Like they’ve all collectively decided trying to control Dadicus is a waste of time. The manager rubs a hand down his face before pointing toward the timekeeper’s area. “Get me a ref over here. Right now.” His eyes flick toward you for half a second before landing back on me. “And somebody stay close in case this gets outta hand.” A nearby veteran snorts under his breath. “Too late for that.” A referee finally jogs over, already looking nervous before he even reaches the apron. Older guy. Experienced enough to recognize danger when he sees it. He climbs into the ring slowly, glancing between us like he’s mentally preparing himself to stop a car crash with his bare hands. “You keep it clean, alright?” he says carefully toward you, though even he sounds like he knows how pointless the request is. My eyes drift back up to yours leaning against the ropes. Every instinct in my body is telling me not to do this. You’re bigger, meaner, and more experienced. And somehow still looking at me like I haven’t earned the right to breathe the same air as you yet. My stomach twists hard enough to make me nauseous.
Kenny Atlas
I reach up and tighten the straps of my mask slowly before stepping forward. One step, then another. I stop at ringside, staring up at you leaning on the ropes above me. The height difference somehow feels even bigger now with you standing in the ring waiting for me like some final boss everybody else already lost to. Fear crawls down my spine. But underneath it? Something hotter starts pushing back. Because if I back down now… then every single thing you said about me becomes true. I grab the top rope. “I'll show you that I've earned my place here.” I say to you while climbing onto the apron. Then I step through the ropes into your ring.
Dadicus
The referee’s request is a joke... keep it clean... I meet his nervous glance with a cold, flat stare before letting a smirk twist my lips. “Don’t I always?” I say, my voice dripping with false innocence. My eyes snap back to you as you climb through the ropes. You’re in my ring now. This is my world. The ref goes through the motions. He checks my gear “All clear.” then moves to you. I stare right at you, my gaze locked on yours, a silent promise of what’s coming. Ding! Ding! Ding! The bell sounds. I begin to circle you, a slow, predatory stalk. “Let’s see how strong you really are,” I growl. “Or were you all talk?” I raise my right arm, presenting my hand. A classic test of strength. A gentleman’s offer.
Dadicus
It’s a lie. You raise your arm to meet it. We lock hands. Your grip is tight, stronger than I expected from a rookie. There’s fire there. Good!!. I want there to be fire. It makes putting it out more satisfying. As you raise your other hand to complete the lock-up, I make my move. I don’t lock up... I pull... Using our locked hands as a lever, I yank you violently forward, off-balance, right into the path of my boot that I drive hard into your core. The air leaves your lungs with a WHUMPF. You bend over. Before you can straighten, before you can even register the pain, my left fist is already in motion. A brutal shot aimed right at the center of your mask. CRACK!!. My knuckles connect with the hard shell covering your face. Your head snaps back from the force. I don’t let go of your hand. I keep you tethered to me, reeling you back from the strike before you can fall. “Talk is cheap, rookie,” I snarl into your ear, my face close to yours. “Pain is the real teacher. And class is in session... my Puppy and its time to train you”
Kenny Atlas
The second your boot slams into my stomach, every ounce of air explodes out of my lungs in one miserable gasp. Pain folds me instantly, my body betraying me before my brain can even catch up to what just happened. Then comes the punch. CRACK. My vision flashes white behind the mask as my head snaps backward head. My knees almost buckle completely before your grip yanks me back upright like I’m nothing. My chest heaves desperately trying to drag air back into my lungs while your voice growls into my ear. Puppy. The word burns worse than the punch somehow. But even dazed, instinct kicks in. Before you can fully pull away from the shot, I grit my teeth and suddenly jerk hard on the arm you’re still holding, trying to yank you off balance with me instead of staying trapped in your control. At the same time, I drive my shoulder forward straight into your chest, throwing everything I have into the impact just to create space between us. It’s sloppy. More desperation than technique. But the second I stumble free, I fire a forearm right back toward your jaw with all the frustration boiling inside me already. “Then maybe you should start teaching,” I shoot back through ragged breaths, eyes burning behind the mask despite the pain throbbing through my face and stomach. “Instead of acting like a damn bully.”
Dadicus
The forearm slams into my jaw with a solid crack. My head snaps to the side from the impact, and I stumble back a step, two steps, regaining my footing near the ropes. A slow, smirk spreads across my face. "Not bad, kid," I grunt, rolling my jaw. "Not bad at all." There’s no warmth in it... It’s a measurement. You showed fight... You showed you could take a shot and give one back... That’s the baseline. Now, we see what comes next. The smirk doesn’t fade. It sharpens. Before you can reset, before you can even think about capitalizing on that small moment of success, I explode forward. A full-force, line-breaking spear. My shoulder drives into your midsection, right where my boot had already stolen your breath. I wrap my arms around you and use my full momentum to lift you off your feet and slam you down hard onto the mat. The impact shakes the ring.
Dadicus
I don’t let you breathe. I don’t let you recover. As soon as we hit, I’m on top of you, one knee pinning your arm, my other hand fisting a handful of your gear to hold you down. Then the fists start. Short, sharp, punishing shots to the ribs and head. Thud. Thud. Thud. Each one is meant to drive the air from your lungs all over again. "Bully, you say?" I growl between impacts, my voice a low, focused rasp. "I call it a lesson. A measurement." I shift my weight, my fist rising again this time aimed at your masked face. I don’t throw it wildly. I measure the shot, letting you see it coming for a split second before it connects with another jarring thwack against the side of your head. "You want teaching? This is it!" I snarl, my face inches from yours. "Every second you’re in this ring with me, you’re being graded. On your pain tolerance. On your resilience. On whether you quit or you get back up."
Dadicus
I throw another punch into your body for emphasis. "So get up. Show me what’s underneath all that stubborn talk. Or don’t. Either way, I get my answer." I release my grip on your gear and push myself up to my knees, looking down at you, waiting to see if you’ll curl up or if you’ll find a way to move. The ref is hovering, but he doesn’t step in. This is still within the brutal, unspoken rules of a "lesson."
Kenny Atlas
The spear hits me like getting crashed into by a truck. One second I’m standing there trying to recover, the next my back SLAMS into the mat hard enough to rattle the entire ring beneath me. Pain explodes through my ribs and lungs at once, and before I can even think about rolling away, your weight is already crushing down on top of me. Then come the punches. Heavy. Tight. Relentless. Every shot thuds through my body like a hammer strike, each one ripping another grunt out of my chest no matter how hard I try to hold them back. I throw an arm up instinctively, trying to shield my head, but it barely matters. You just hit harder somewhere else. My ribs. My side. My head. The world blurs with every impact until all I can really process is pain and the sound of your voice grinding into me alongside it. But I hear the words. "Whether you quit or you get back up." You say. By the time you finally shove off me, my whole body feels wrecked already. I roll onto my side immediately, coughing hard against the mat while one arm wraps around my stomach on instinct. The referee crouches nearby, watching close now, probably wondering if this whole thing’s about to get stopped five minutes in. For a second… just one second… staying down sounds really tempting. My chest burns. My ribs ache. My head’s spinning under the mask. You’re right there above me waiting to see what kind of rookie you got saddled with. Slowly, I plant a forearm against the mat. Then the other. Every muscle in my body protests as I force myself upward piece by piece, breathing rough and uneven through clenched teeth. One knee under me. Then the other. My arms are shaking from the effort by the time I finally drag myself upright enough to look back at you again. I can’t even hide the pain right now. It’s written all over me. But I’m still moving. Still standing. “…Not done yet,” I manage to spit out between breaths, raising my hands again, even if they’re trembling slightly now.
Dadicus
I watch you force yourself up, piece by agonizing piece. Your arms shake... Your breath rasps... Pain is written in every line of your body. But you get up. You even raise your hands... A challenge. Most rookies would have stayed down... Most would have just quit or ask for some one else... But not you. “Not done yet,” you spit out. Your words are music to my ears. It means I can keep playing. It means my prey has some fight in it. Maybe, just maybe, there’s something here I can actually use. A grim, approving smirk tugs at my lips. It’s not kindness. It’s the satisfaction of a craftsman finding a piece of raw material that hasn’t shattered on the first strike. “Good,” I growl, low and quiet, almost to myself. “You got grit and I like grit”
Dadicus
I begin to circle you again, a shark sizing up its wounded target. The test of raw power is over. Now comes the test of technique, of will, of how you handle being moved. I stop my circling and shoot forward suddenly. My hands come up, one latching onto the back of your neck, the other gripping your bicep. A classic, oppressive collar-and-elbow tie-up. Once I have the hold locked in, I begin to drive forward. It’s not a sprint. It’s a slow, inexorable march, my superior strength and weight grinding you backward step by step toward the corner. “This is where you learn,” I grunt, my face close to yours as I muscle you across the mat. “Grit lets you stand up. But skill… skill keeps you from being walked across your own ring.” I grunt "are you just a fucking rookie"
Kenny Atlas
The instant your hands lock onto me, it feels like getting caught in a machine that refuses to stop moving. My boots scrape hard against the canvas as you force me backward step by step no matter how much I dig in and push back. Every inch feels impossible against your weight and leverage, your grip grinding against the back of my neck while the corner gets closer behind me with every breath. My jaw clenches under the mask as I strain against you, arms shaking from the effort of trying to stop your momentum. Rookie. The word hits harder than I want it to. Right as my back almost touches the turnbuckles, I suddenly twist sideways instead of continuing to fight your strength head-on, trying to slip partially out of the line you’re driving through. At the same time, I hook an arm around yours and throw my weight low, attempting a fast hip toss to use your own forward pressure against you and finally flip the momentum for the first time since this started.
Dadicus
The sudden twist and shift in momentum catches me completely off guard. One moment I'm driving you back, the next your weight goes low and my own forward pressure is leveraged against me. My feet leave the mat as you execute a clean, technically perfect hip toss, sending me flipping through the air to land hard on my back with a heavy thud. The impact rattles my ribs and knocks the wind from my lungs for a second. I lie there for a brief moment, staring at the lights above the ring, not in pain, but in pure, calculated surprise... Well executed... The thought is clinical, detached. It wasn't a fluke or a wild struggle. It was a move. A counter well executed and at the right time. You didn't just take my punishment... you used it. I push myself up onto my elbows, a slow, deliberate motion. Instead of the rage the gym probably expects, a cold, appraising smirk touches my lips as I get back to my feet. The ref looks startled, waiting for an explosion. It doesn't come. I roll my shoulders, never breaking eye contact with you across the ring. "Technique," I say, the word landing like a verdict. My voice isn't roaring now. It's lower, focused. "Clean pivot. Good use of leverage. You didn't just panic and shove. You thought." I begin to circle again, but the energy has changed. The predatory stalk is still there, but it's mixed with something else... the focused interest of a sculptor who's just found a solid piece of stone in a pile of rubble.
Dadicus
"So you've been taught," I continue, closing the distance. "You know how to move. That's more than I expected. But knowing a move and knowing when to use it are two different things. You showed me you can take a hit. You showed me you know a counter. Now show me you can put it together. Show me you can think in the fire." I don't rush in this time. I approach deliberately, hands up, inviting the engagement. The test is no longer about your pain tolerance. It's about your fight IQ. "Come on, kid. Let's see what else is in that head of yours besides stubbornness."
Kenny Atlas
My chest is still heaving from everything you’ve already done to me, ribs throbbing every time I breathe, but seeing you hit the mat changes something in my head instantly. Not confidence exactly. More like proof. Proof that you can actually be moved. That you’re not some unstoppable monster everybody built up in my mind. When you stand back up without exploding in anger, that somehow throws me off even more. The entire gym feels different now, quieter in a new way. I stay light on my feet despite the ache in my body, hands raised cautiously while I circle with you this time instead of just surviving. My eyes stay locked on your shoulders, your hips, the little shifts in movement that hint at what’s coming next.
Kenny Atlas
The second you step in close enough to engage, I reach for another collar-and-elbow tie-up, testing your reaction first before suddenly shifting my grip lower to your wrist. I yank hard, trying to pull your arm across my body while stepping around your side, looking to transition into a standing side headlock and force you to move with me instead for once.
Dadicus
Your hands shoot in again, testing. You go for the collar-and-elbow, but I see the shift a split-second before it happens. You’re not just holding on... you’re transitioning. You yank my wrist across your body and step around my side. Before I can post my arm to stop it, you’ve locked in a tight standing side headlock, your arm wrapping around my neck, applying pressure. My head is wrenched to the side. For a moment, I’m caught. The hold is solid, well-applied. You’re using your leverage, trying to control my posture, to force me to bend to your will. A low, guttural grunt escapes my lips. My free hand comes up to grab your wrist, feeling the strength behind it as I test the hold and try to pry it open… but the grip doesn’t budge. Seeing I can’t pry your grip open with brute force, I grab you by the back of your neck and drive you headfirst into the turnbuckle, forcing your grip to break from around my head.
Kenny Atlas
The second my grip tightens around your head and I feel you actually struggle against it, adrenaline surges through me hard enough to almost drown out the pain still wrecking my ribs. For the first time since stepping into this ring, I feel control. Real control. My boots plant harder into the canvas as I crank the hold tighter, trying to force you down lower while the gym noise swells around us again. Then your hand grabs the back of my neck. My stomach drops instantly because I know exactly what’s coming a split second too late. THUNK. The turnbuckle crashes against the front of my mask and forehead hard enough to make my entire vision burst white. Pain detonates through my skull as the hold breaks immediately, my arms recoiling on instinct while I stumble backward out of the corner. A sharp grunt tears out of me as I grab the top rope to keep from collapsing outright. The world tilts sideways for a second. I blink hard behind the mask trying to clear the dizziness, one hand pressed against the side of my head while the referee steps closer instinctively to check if I’m still conscious enough to continue. My breathing comes rough now, frustration mixing with pain as I glare back toward you through blurred vision.
Dadicus
The sight of you stumbling, grabbing the rope to keep from falling, sends a fresh surge of cold satisfaction through me. The control you felt is gone, shattered against the turnbuckle. Now you’re dazed and hurting… exactly where I want you… your body nothing more than the perfect target to break. I close the distance in two swift strides. My hand comes up and I bring it down in a vicious, chopping club to the center of your chest. THUMP. “Come on, boy…” I growl. Another club, same spot. THUMP. “…don’t tell me that’s all you got.” A third. THUMP. Each impact is meant to steal the little breath you’ve managed to reclaim, to keep you drowning. The referee steps in front of me, hands up. “Break it up, Dadicus! Give him space!” I don’t even look at him. My eyes are locked on you, wavering on your feet. I shove the ref aside with one hard forearm. He stumbles back, knowing better than to get between me and my target right now. I whirl on him, my expression furious. “I decide what’s enough!” I snarl, shoving him away again. I turn back to you, who’s is now hunched over. You’re barely standing. I wind up and deliver a final, thunderous club to your chest, this one with all my weight behind it. CRACK. “The lesson isn’t over just because you get hurt. The lesson is the hurt. Now get up. Or don’t. But this ends when I say it ends.”
Kenny Atlas
The first clubbing shot caves into my chest like getting hit with a sledgehammer. My back slams against the turnbuckles from the impact, a choked gasp escaping me before I can stop it. Then comes the second. THUMP. My arms instinctively fold inward, trying to protect my chest while my lungs fight desperately for air that just won’t come fast enough anymore. By the third shot, my legs are shaking underneath me, every breath ragged and shallow while pain radiates across my ribs and sternum in brutal waves. I hear the referee trying to step in somewhere nearby, hear him getting shoved aside like he weighs nothing, and for the first time since this started, a real flicker of doubt cuts through me. Not about wrestling. About surviving you. The last clubbing blow crashes into my chest so hard I crumple forward immediately, dropping to one knee near the ropes while my body coughs violently trying to force oxygen back into my lungs. The entire ring feels blurry and distant now, sweat dripping from the edge of my mask onto the canvas beneath me while your words hammer down almost as hard as your fists. The lesson is the hurt. My fingers curl against the mat tightly enough to ache. Part of me wants to stay down this time. My chest feels broken. My head’s still spinning. Every breath burns. But then anger starts mixing into the pain... hot, stubborn anger at the way you keep looking at me like I’m just something to test, something to break apart and study. Slowly, painfully, I lift my head enough to glare back up at you from one knee. “Then stop talking…” I rasp between breaths, voice weak but still defiant. “…and finish it.”
Dadicus
The chuckle that escapes me is low, dark, and utterly devoid of humor. You’re on one knee, broken and gasping, and you’re telling me to finish it. The defiance is almost admirable. “What’s the fun in that?” my voice a playful, taunting drawl. “Once I’m done with you… we’ll see if you stay or if you lose the will to stay.” I don’t give you a chance to rise. In one swift, brutal motion, I grab both your arms and wrenching them up your back. I twist your body around, forcing you to face the bottom turnbuckle. Still holding your arms tight, I plant the soles of my boots against your upper back, right between your shoulder blades. I lean my weight forward, using my feet as a lever to bend you further over, arching your spine painfully.
Dadicus
“What do you think is going to happen now?” I snarl, my voice close to your ear. The answer comes a second later. With a final, vicious shove from my feet, I propel your upper body forward... your masked face is driven straight into the hard, unforgiving bottom turnbuckle with a sickening CRUNCH. I hold you there for a second, your face mashed against it, before releasing my grip and stepping back, letting you collapse to the mat in a heap. I look down at you, breathing steadily, my arms crossed. “You asked me to finish it,” I state flatly. “But you don’t get to decide when your lessons are over... I DO!!... And you still haven’t learned the most important one: how to make me stop.”
Kenny Atlas
The impact against the bottom turnbuckle detonates through my skull. A strangled sound rips out of me before my body collapses bonelessly onto the mat beneath the ropes, one arm instinctively wrapping around my head while the other claws weakly against the canvas. Everything spins. The lights above the ring blur together into streaks while pain pulses violently through my face, neck, and chest all at once. Somewhere nearby I can hear the referee shouting now, actually shouting this time, but even his voice sounds muffled and far away compared to the ringing filling my ears. My body feels heavy. Slow. Like every hit you’ve landed has finally started catching up all at once. And still… Your words cut through clearer than anything else. "You still haven’t learned how to make me stop." My breathing comes shallow against the mat while I grit my teeth underneath the mask, anger and humiliation twisting together painfully in my stomach. You’re standing over me waiting for me to stay down. Waiting for me to finally understand my place. My hand presses against the mat again. It trembles hard from exhaustion. But it still pushes. Slowly, I drag myself onto my elbows first, coughing roughly before forcing one knee underneath me again. My entire body protests instantly, muscles screaming from the punishment you’ve put me through, but I keep moving anyway. Sweat drips from the edge of my mask onto the canvas as I finally lift my head enough to look back toward you through blurry eyes.
Dadicus
I watch you push through the pain, forcing your trembling body up from the mat once more. Sweat-soaked, barely standing, but still… up. The fire in you is undeniable, even through the mask. It’s a will that refuses to snap. Good!!!. I don’t give you a moment to find your balance. The second you’re upright, I’m on you. My hand shoots out, hooking under your arm. In one fluid, brutal motion, I lock your arm across my body. Using your own momentum and my superior leverage, I drive us both backward. Your head is guided with vicious precision into the unforgiving second turnbuckle. The CRACK is hollow and sickening.
Dadicus
"You know what the best thing about wrestlers like you is?" I growl into your ear, my voice a low, intimate rumble as I feel your body go limp for a second from the impact. "I get to enjoy myself for a longer time." I grab your crumpled body. As you start to sag, I snake my arms around your torso from behind, heaving your dead weight upright. Your body is a ragdoll in my grasp, but I keep you on your feet, propping you up against the ropes for everyone to see. The fight is being beaten out of you, ounce by ounce. I reach down, my hands gripping the sides of your mask. I haul you upright with a grunt of effort. Your body is dead weight, but I keep you on your feet, your back to my chest. My arms snake around your torso from behind, locking your arms against your sides. I lean back, arching your spine over my knee, putting every abused muscle and bone under torturous pressure. It’s a vicious, abdominal stretch. I adjust my grip, one hand splaying across your sweaty stomach, feeling the frantic rise and fall of your breath, the tremors of exhaustion and pain running through you.
Dadicus
I let the hold settle, letting the entire gym see you like this... bent backward, helpless, utterly exposed. My hand slides over your damp skin, a possessive, taunting exploration. I lean my head close to your ear, my voice dropping to a whisper only you can hear, cold and intimate. “You know what’s worse than pain?” I breathe out. “Is knowing there’s nothing you can do right now but take it.” My thumb finds one of your nipples and gives a sharp squeeze. A small, pointed burst of humiliation atop the agony. My hand then slides down, tracing the defined curvature of your abs, slick with sweat, before landing firmly on the bulge of your groin. My fingers press and rub in it. A final assertion of control over your entire being. “What do we have here?” I taunt, my voice loud enough now for the closest onlookers to hear.
Kenny Atlas
My entire body jerks violently in the hold the second your hand grabs at me like that, humiliation cutting through the pain sharp enough to finally snap something in my head. The gym noise around us shifts instantly, uncomfortable murmurs, shouting, the referee moving in fast now with actual urgency in his voice. “Alright! That’s enough! Let him go!” His hands hit your arm, trying to force separation this time instead of just warning you from a distance. Heat floods under my mask, but not fear this time, not even pain, just raw embarrassment and anger boiling together so hard my vision almost whites out again. You wanted to break me? Fine. But this? This isn’t teaching anymore. The second your grip loosens even slightly from the referee trying to intervene, I suddenly plant my boot hard against the mat and THROW my weight sideways with everything I have left, trying to rip myself free from your hold violently instead of just enduring it.
Dadicus
The referee’s hands are on me, pulling at my arm, his voice sharp in my ear. “That’s enough! Let him go! Now!” I glare at him, my grip still tight on you. “This isn’t a real match,” I snarl back. “It’s a lesson. And punishing him is more fun.” I start to shove the ref away with my free hand, my attention splitting for just a fraction of a second. That’s all you need. I feel your body coil and then explode with a sudden, violent surge of energy. You plant your boot and throw your weight sideways with everything you have left, twisting violently in my grasp. My split focus costs me. Your movement, combined with the ref still pulling on my arm, breaks my balance. Before I can re-establish control, you’ve leveraged your momentum and my instability perfectly. You flip me over your shoulder. The world tilts. My back slams hard onto the mat, the impact driving the air from my lungs with a heavy oof. The ref scrambles backward, out of the way.
Dadicus
I lie there for a second, staring up at the lights, in pain... in pure, white-hot surprise. Then, that surprise curdles into cold, seething anger... Fucking referee messing with my fun. I push myself up on al fours, my movements deliberate and slow. My eyes find you across the ring. You’re standing now, breathing hard, looking for an opening. A slow, dangerous smile spreads across my face. It’s not friendly... It’s the smile of a man who has just been genuinely challenged for the first time by a rookie in a long time. “Clever,” I say, my voice low and flat.
Kenny Atlas
My chest rises and falls hard enough it almost hurts worse than the hits now, but the second I see that look on your face that cold anger finally replacing the smug amusement, something inside me steadies. The instant you start pushing yourself up off all fours, I move. I explode forward across the ring before you can fully rise, planting one foot hard against the mat as I leap into the air and drive my knee straight toward the side of your head with a running knee strike. The impact jolts all the way up my leg the second it connects, but I don’t stop there. The second you reel from it, I grab for your wrist and shoulder, using the momentum to yank you upward just enough to sling you hard toward the ropes. “You wanted to see what I can do?” I shout through ragged breaths, adrenaline burning through the exhaustion now. The moment you rebound back toward me, I spin sharply and whip my arm around into a sudden discus forearm aimed directly at your jaw, throwing every ounce of frustration, humiliation, and stubborn fight left in me into the shot.
Dadicus
Your knee connects with a jarring thwack against the side of my head. My vision swims, and I stumble back a step, more from the surprise than the force. Before I can fully recover, your hands are on me, yanking my arm, using my own momentum to sling me toward the ropes. I rebound off the ropes, the world a blur of motion and pain. And then I see it... the spin, the wind-up. A discus forearm. It’s too late to fully duck. I turn my head at the last second, but your forearm still smashes into my jaw with a sickening CRACK. A grunt of pure, unadulterated pain is ripped from my throat. “Mghhh… Owww…” My legs buckle. I drop to one knee, my hand flying to my jaw. I can feel it already swelling, the taste of copper flooding my mouth. Slowly, I lift my head. The cold, analytical anger is gone. Replaced by something darker, more primal. A promise of violence that goes beyond teaching. “Oh, you are going to pay for that,” I say, my voice a low, guttural rasp. It’s not a shout. It’s a vow as I start to get up.
Kenny Atlas
The second I see you drop to one knee, clutching your jaw, adrenaline surges through me so hard it almost drowns out the pain tearing through the rest of my body. My chest heaves violently as I stagger back a half-step myself, one arm wrapping around my ribs for just a second while I try to steady my breathing. Everything hurts. My head. My chest. My back. But seeing you hurt too changes something. Makes this feel real now. Then you look up at me. And the second those words leave your mouth, every instinct I have screams that I may have just made a terrible mistake. Still… I raise my hands again anyway. “Good,” I fire back, breathing rough through the mask while I force myself to stand taller despite my legs trembling underneath me. “Maybe now you’ll stop treating me like some punching bag and actually teach me something.” The moment you start rising again, I don’t wait for you to fully recover. I rush in fast, trying to stay ahead of whatever storm I just unleashed. I shoot low this time, aiming to wrap both arms around your waist for a quick takedown before you can fully plant your footing again, trying to drag you back to the mat and keep control while you’re still hurt. “You wanted to see if I belong here?!” I grunt through clenched teeth as I drive forward with everything I’ve got left. “Then LOOK at me!”
Dadicus
I see your charge coming a mile away. It's all raw emotion, no calculation. You're trying to prove a point, not win a fight. Pathetic... still raw... but a mold I can work with. As you dive in low for the takedown, I don't meet your force. I sidestep just enough, and my hand shoots down to grab the middle rope. I pull it down hard, creating a gap. You have too much momentum to stop. You fly through the ropes, tripping over the lowered strand, and crash hard onto the concrete floor outside the ring. The impact echoes in the gym. I don't hesitate... I turn and sprint to the opposite ropes. I bounce off the far ropes, building speed, and launch myself through the top rope in a suicide dive, my body crashing into yours with full force on the outside. We tumble together in a heap. I roll to my feet....
Dadicus
I reach down, my fingers hooking under the edge of your mask. I haul you to your feet with a grunt, your body sagging. I drive your head down, smashing your masked face into the edge of the ring apron. CRUNCH. "You wanted me to look at you?!" I snarl into your ear, my voice thick with rage and a twisted form of respect. "AHH... I'M LOOKING!" I yank your head back and slam it down onto the apron again for good measure. THUD. I let go... You crumble to the floor outside the ring, a broken heap against the cold concrete. I stand over you, breathing heavily, my knuckles raw. The gym is silent except for the sound of my breathing and your ragged gasps. "You have fire, kid. I'll give you that," I say, my voice low and gravelly. I lean down, placing my hands on my knees to look you in the eye. "But fire without control just burns you alive. You charged... I countered... That's the difference between wanting it... and knowing how to take it." I straighten up, looking down at your crumpled form. "Get up. Get the fuck up. We're not done until you can't move anymore. And you're still moving. Barely."
Kenny Atlas
The concrete feels like it shatters my entire body on impact. One second I’m driving forward, desperate to keep momentum, and the next the ropes disappear before me and I’m crashing shoulder-first onto the floor outside the ring hard enough to bounce. Pain erupts through my ribs instantly, knocking the breath out of me before I can even process what happened. Then you hit me. The suicide dive slams into me like a missile, driving me across the floor in a tangled wreck of limbs and pain Before I can recover, your hand hooks my mask and drags me upright like I weigh nothing. Then the apron smashes into my face. CRUNCH. The second impact leaves my legs barely functioning. By the time you let go, I collapse against the cold floor outside the ring in a heap, one hand weakly pressing against the side of my mask while the other curls against my aching ribs. Everything hurts now. Not in separate places anymore, just one giant, throbbing ache consuming my whole body. And still you keep talking above me, telling me the difference between wanting it and knowing how to take it. For a long moment, I don’t move. The referee’s outside the ring now, looking genuinely concerned. My muscles shake violently from exhaustion as I force myself upward inch by inch. First onto a knee. Then both hands. Every breath feels like broken glass in my chest now. My vision keeps swimming in and out. But I still push. Still move. Finally, I manage to grab the ring apron and haul myself upright enough to lean against it, staring up at you through blurry eyes while sweat drips from the edge of my mask.
Dadicus
I stand over you, watching. Your body trembles, fighting against itself to rise. Inch by agonizing inch, you push yourself up from the concrete. Your hand finds the ring apron. You drag yourself upright, leaning against it, your breath ragged, your eyes unfocused behind the mask. You’re broken, but you’re still moving. The referee scurries over, stepping between us, his face etched with genuine concern. He puts a hand on my chest. “Dadicus, stop. Don’t you think that’s enough? I think everyone gets it.” I look at him, then past him, at you. My expression doesn’t change. I don’t see a person in pain. I see raw material.
Dadicus
I shove the referee aside with one firm push. He stumbles back, knowing better than to interfere again. “He wants to be a wrestler,” I state flatly, my eyes locked on you. “So I’m going to mold him into mine.” I close the distance in two quick strides. Before you can even raise your hands in defense, I bend down, hook my arms under your legs and around your back, and hoist you up into a fireman’s carry over my shoulders. You hang there, a dead weight of pain and exhaustion. “You won’t make me lose my fucking title match,” I growl, my voice low and venomous. I take three purposeful steps toward the unforgiving steel ring post. With a grunt of effort, I shift my weight and heave your body off my shoulders, throwing you directly into the steel post. Your back and shoulders connect with a sickening, metallic THUD. You crumple to the floor, a boneless heap. I don’t let you rest. I stride forward, grab a handful of your mask, and drag your limp form back toward the ring. With one final heave, I toss you under the bottom rope, sending you skidding across the canvas.
Dadicus
I climb back in after you, my movements methodical, my breathing even. I look down at you, a pitiful wreck on the mat. “You’re still breathing,” I say, my voice cold and detached. “That means you can still learn. The only way this ends is when you can’t answer the bell. And my title shot depends on you learning how to take it. So take it.”
Kenny Atlas
The steel post feels like it caves my entire back in. The second you throw me into it, pain detonates through my spine and shoulders so violently I can’t even make a sound at first. My body just folds. Everything goes numb for one horrible second before the agony rushes back all at once, and suddenly I’m coughing hard against the floor outside the ring trying desperately to pull air into lungs that don’t want to work anymore. Then you drag me again. The rough canvas scrapes against my arms and chest as I slide underneath the ropes like dead weight, barely able to keep my bearings straight while the lights above the ring blur together overhead. By the time you stand over me talking again, I can hardly move. My fingers twitch weakly against the mat. My ribs feel shattered. My back’s screaming. Every breath burns. And still… Something in me refuses to stay down in front of you. The referee kneels beside me now, speaking quieter this time. “Kenny… stay down.” He sounds serious. Worried. “You’ve proven enough.” Enough. The word rattles around in my head while I stare up at the ceiling through blurred vision. Enough for who? The locker room? The program? Dadicus? Not for me. Slowly, I turn my head toward you standing above me. "You..." I can't even finish as I whine in pain still laying still at your feet.
Dadicus
The referee rolls into the ring and stands next to me, leaning in to whisper something urgent. I don’t even turn my head. I don’t care. My entire world has narrowed to the broken body at my feet. My eyes are locked on you, on the way your chest heaves, on the tremble in your limbs, on the sweat dripping from your gear. Around us, the chatter in the gym rises... a mix of horrified murmurs, shouts of protest, and a few low whistles of grim approval. I hear it all, and it fuels nothing but my own ego. Let them talk... Let them see how I mold graphite into a diamond... And then I hear it. That single, strained word, pushed through a wall of agony. “You…” It’s not a sentence. It’s a gasp... A whine... But it’s not a surrender. That ember is still burning inside you. It refuses to be extinguished... A twisted, cold pride sparks in my chest. This is what I needed to see. This is the raw material. “That’s it,” I say, my voice low and intense, almost a whisper meant only for you. “There it is.”
Dadicus
In one swift, brutal motion, I step forward. I place my foot on the back of your knee, pinning your leg to the mat. I bend down, hook your legs onto mine, and grab both of your wrist. With a grunt, I lean back, using my own body as a lever. Your body is wrenched backward, your spine arched into a punishing surfboard stretch. A strangled cry is torn from your lips as the pressure mounts along your entire back. I jerk you up and down, intensifying the strain, listening to the sharp, pained gasps it forces from you. “You wanted my attention? You have it,” I growl.
Dadicus
Without releasing the pressure, In a fluid... practiced motion, I pull your face closer to mine... settling your body into the cradle of my signature move the Dominion Rack. Your spine is bent backwards, your chin and legs trapped, your entire body completely controlled and exposed. I adjust my grip, bending you even further, the stress on your core and back becoming unbearable. Your body screams in protest, arching against its limits. I lean my head close to yours, my voice a venomous, intimate whisper in your ear. “Yes. I will mold you into the best fucking wrestler you can be,” I snarl, the promise laced with menace. “Now show me how much you can endure... Show me how much you want it.” I give another vicious, upward jerk, testing the very limits of your flexibility and pain threshold, holding you there in a pretzel of agony, a living testament to my brutal tutelage.
Kenny Atlas
The second you wrench me backward into the hold, pain explodes through my entire body so violently it tears a raw cry straight out of my throat before I can stop it. My spine arches against its limits, every abused muscle in my back and ribs screaming at once while your grip traps me completely. The Dominion Rack feels less like a wrestling hold and more like being folded apart piece by piece. My boots scrape helplessly against your legs searching for leverage that isn’t there while my hands twitch violently in your grip. Every jerk you give the hold sends another shockwave of agony ripping through me, forcing broken gasps and strained groans out through clenched teeth beneath the mask. The referee is right beside us now, voice urgent in my ear. “Kenny! Ask him to break it! Come on, kid!” I can barely even hear him properly anymore over the roaring pain flooding my head. But I don’t tap. God, I want to. My body’s begging me to. Every instinct I have is screaming to quit before something finally snaps. And still… I don’t. Instead, my fingers curl tighter around your wrist instinctively while I grit my teeth hard enough my jaw aches. Sweat pours down my face underneath the mask as my whole body trembles violently in your hold, but every time you jerk me upward trying to break me apart, I force myself to keep breathing through it instead of surrendering. Your words echo in my skull show me how much you want it. So I do. Through ragged gasps and pain-choked breaths, I force my head upward enough to glare at you from inside the hold despite everything. My arms shake uncontrollably now. My vision keeps blurring in and out. But I still refuse to quit. I can see the lights vanishing as my vision starts to blur and go dark.
Dadicus
The sound that tears from your throat is raw, animal. It’s the sound of a body pushed past its limits. I feel every tremor, every spasm, every ragged gasp for air that you force through clenched teeth. My arms are locked around you, bending you further, testing the very architecture of your will. Your fingers curl around my wrist, not to push me away, but to hold on, as if that connection is the only thing tethering you to consciousness. Most people would have given up. Most would have tapped. Their pride would have broken. But not you!... Not us!... Our pride is bigger than that.
Dadicus
I feel it the moment your body shifts from trembling resistance to dead weight. The tremors in your arms cease, replaced by a terrifying stillness. Your ragged gasps slow, growing shallow. Your fingers, which had been clawing at my wrist, go slack. The referee is right there, his voice sharp in my ear. “Let him go! He’s done for! Can’t you see that?” My eyes never leave your form, bent and broken in my hold. The gym is silent now. All the chatter, the mumbles of protest or awe, have died into a heavy, watchful quiet. “He’s my fucking rookie,” I say, my voice low but cutting through the silence like a blade. “And he’s done for... when I say he is.” I don’t jerk you again. I don’t apply more pressure. With a controlled, deliberate motion, I release the torturous strain of the Dominion Rack. I don’t let you collapse. Instead, I guide your limp body down, letting your weight settle against my chest for a brief moment before I lower you gently to the mat.
Dadicus
You lie there, a broken doll of sweat and pain. I step back, my chest heaving not from exertion, but from a storm of conflicting emotions... pride, fury, respect. The medics rush in, pushing past me. I stand over them, a silent sentinel, as they check your pulse, your breathing. One of them looks up at me, his face grim. “He’s stable. Out cold, but stable.” I give a single, slow nod. “I wouldn’t expect anything less from my rookie.” The words hang in the air. My rookie!!!. I wait until they’ve confirmed you’re breathing on your own, until the color starts to return to your skin beneath the mask. Then I wave them aside. I kneel beside you, roll you carefully onto your side, and then in one smooth motion, I scoop you up and drape you over my shoulders in a fireman's carry once more. This time, it’s not an act of violence. It’s an act of possession. Of ownership earned.
Dadicus
The gym is silent as I walk toward the exit, your body a symbol of the brutal tutorial that just concluded. I stop just before leaving the ring. I turn my head slightly, my voice carrying across the hushed space, addressed to everyone, but meant for you whenever you wake up. “His name is Kenny Atlas,” I announce, the words flat and final. “Remember it. Because today, he didn’t just earn a spot in this federation. He earned the right to stand next to me. The rest of you?” My eyes sweep the crowd of veterans and rookies. “You just witnessed the first chapter. Don’t get in his way!!!." I look at the program manager. “You wanted me to mentor a rookie? You wanted to see if he belonged? Well, you’re looking at him.” I turn my back on everyone and walk toward the gym exit. “He earned it. And I don’t waste my time on garbage.” With that, I push through the doors and leave the silent, stunned gym behind. The lesson was over. The forging had just begun... Now, we would see what shape the metal would take.
~The End~
Published: 2026-05-23, viewed 109 times.
Proheel
15 days agoClearly, it can be improved!!!!
Starfox
16 days agoSTANDING OVATION
Dadicus
16 days ago(In reply to this)
TY!!!! glad you enjoyed it Starfox you will be next ^^