Brain Rich is unhinged. Mad. Masochistic. He laughs at nothing. He bursts out into song. He staggers, and wanders, and gazes at the world with bulging eyes and a flicking, serpent's tongue. He slinks behind bars and in and out of shadows. In short, he is sick, hungry, and delightfully deranged, like a Stephen King character just before the final chapter. He is also lean, tattooed, and itching from within for a drug that can only be administered by another man of equal or greater strength. In short, Brian Rich is in need of some suffering. It's his medicine. His comfort. His only driving desire.
"So you're the one they've told me all about," comes the voice that beckons to Rich from within the yellow-roped ring. "The one that likes pain...that likes suffering."
"Make me suffer," Rich cackles sadistically, pleadingly, ropy arms outstretched in supplication.
"I intend on making you suffer in ways you've never experienced before," says the voice. "This is my ring. You step in here you take your life into your own hands."
In a flash, Rich is in the ring, where Jeremy Prophet awaits. Prophet is a smooth, dark, beautiful wish-granter with stunning arms and pectorals that cast shadows. Suited up in pro gear, he stands over the begging Rich in deep contemplation of the myriad agonies he means to inflict on the deranged lad, who cackles, quoting song lyrics and rising to his feet. Both men rear back, like charging beasts, to rush together like cymbals crashing, arms intwining. Both will get what he wants in this dark and dismal palace of pain. Let the suffering commence!
Arms lock around necks. Bodies are dropped to the floor. Legs twist and crush, and hair is pulled so hard it's nearly ripped from the head.
"Pull harder!" begs Rich. Prophet obeys, gladly.
Arms are twisted behind backs. Hands are gripped squarely around jaws. Heads are pulled into unnatural angles, hands are bitten roughly, faces are shoved into the floor.
"Make me beg!" roars Rich, as legs are locked firmly around him. He fights back, administering a torturous headlock that seems to say thank you for my pain! A crushing sleeper is the call...an agonizingly twisted foot is the response.
"More!" screams Rich, body bent into an air restricting, crushing shape. Prophet's hands are everywhere, pulling and pushing and tearing and mangling, all the the chorus of Rich chanting the words "rip me apart!" over and over again.
This is more pain than any normal wrestler could withstand. But Rich is anything but normal, his eyes alight with the flame of pain and suffering that drives him to lash out like a demon, hand shooting out to grab a handful of Prophet's long hair, wrenching his head back, gut punching and grinding, until Prophet sinks his teeth into Rich's taught neck. Soon they are rolling on the floor, and the roles of master and slave are reversed again and again, until the balance is restored by a debilitating, crushing, agonizing figure four head scissor that causes the deranged man to turn purple, but not before he breaks free and attacks Prophet's nipples with the same vicious violence the he so enjoys. Within moments they are so twisted and entangled, all sprawling legs and arms and struggling bodies...so mixed up it's impossible to tell where one man begins and the other ends.
This is a match like nothing you've ever experienced before. When has a victim been so willing, so gleeful, so eager to hurt and scream and suffer? When have we ever been so happy to indulge one man's wish for pain?
"Finish me!" cries Rich, over and over again. "Finish me!"
It's back to the cackling shadows for Rich...but not before he suffers even more...