The acrid stench of rotting flesh hung like a cloak of pure horror in the air of the night as Evil Charles and Panama Jack stood surrounded by a horde of masked undead. And though the dark power that sent this army of zombiefied luchadores to Thunderdome was uncertain, their mission was clear. Slaughter the HBW, no matter the cost. The chilling stillness of Jack and The Evil One stood in stark contrast to the brutal melee that was soon to come. To the untrained eye, it would have appeared as though the two were paralyzed with fear, as they remained utterly still amidst the ambling chaos of the circling zombies. However, these hardened veterans were merely sizing up their enemies, poised ready to strike at the slightest act of aggression. They were easily outnumbered 200 to 1. To them, the odds were roughly even. With terrifying ferocity, the two warriors waded into the endless sea of walking dead, leaving in their wake only broken, twitching remnants of their foes. But their fervent onslaught was matched at every step by the shear number of their unearthly attackers. Thunderdome swelled with their putrid masses, threatening to inundate Panama Jack and Evil Charles with every crawling second. However, the total desperation of this situation served only to fuel their fury, as wave upon creeping wave of the wailing undead crashed against them, only to be wholly dismantled, with appalling precision. You see, in the cold and sinister hearts of these two men, this much remained certain: Not all the armies of darkness combined could ever take this place. For this was their home, and here, in the nexus of their twisted universe, they were GODS. Those few that remained of the once great legion of luchadore zombies stood frozen in morbid awe. Not even in the deepest depths of hell had their cold, dead eyes witnessed a scene of such savagery and malevolence. For the first time in their unnatural lives, they knew fear. And fear, was the HBW. They tried to flee, but were cut down by a volley of light tubes, exploding into exquisite clouds of glass and violence against their mangled, terrified faces. As if in some last, futile effort to defeat their destroyers, the zombies unleashed a cacophony of tortured screams, as they clawed feebly at the shards of glass imbedded deep within their skulls. And then, quite suddenly, there was only silence. With their massacre complete, Evil Charles and Panama Jack surrendered at last to exhaustion, collapsing amongst the bodies of their victims, in pools of dark, fetid blood. As the sun made it's reluctant march above the horizon, light was finally shed upon the now muted field of battle. The grass was stained wet with brains and viscera, and the corpses lay hewn across the ground like some grim tapestry of death. And underneath the masks of crimson gore that covered our heroes- faces, there remained, as always, a pair of fiendish grins.