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The Demon of the Savanah

The Demon of the Savanah

Poachers, some fool hardy hunters who choose to hunt big game on the open plain. They’re dangerous to the ecosystem, killing, and maiming the world around them. They bring traps and other sundries to gain an unfair advantage over nature. They believe the tools they bring are greater than the power of nature around them.

However, to paraphrase Doctor Ian Malcolm, “Nature, finds a way.” It finds a way to achieve and maintain its order, to bring down these intruders into their homes. Namely in the form of a pack animal, the cunning and dangerous Lion. The Demon that stalks the plains. While these poachers have stepped foot into their home to potentially hunt and kill the lion when threatened those lions will do the same to protect their home.

And now the plains of the OSW have been beset by a group of poachers. Attempting to hunt the animals that were here before them. They want to seize trophies by taking down Albert Shaw and bMf.

Now here’s the thing I typically do not care about defending the honor of bMf. They’re a pack of hyenas that aren’t really much better than the poachers themselves, and Albert Shaw has become one of them.

But these poachers have turned their talents and traps upon the lion of OSW, the demon of these plains, and I will not stop until they’ve been torn a-fucking-sunder. These wanting Jet Setters, these dubious Dynamos, these sham Sultans. These carefree poachers believe that they can come into the Savanah that is the Slaughterhouse and with limited planning, good looks, and a miserly arsenal of tools.

When men like Tag want to live life on a razor’s edge, and wants to step into the lion’s den. You’re the poacher likely to set out for a rhino horn because you heard it makes you harder for longer or you just may think you’re playing Jackass here Steve-O but you’re in real fucking danger.

There are no paramedics to patch your wounds until I’m done with you, no one to call yield until my hand is raised in victory. I swear to the Slaughterhouse itself, I will make this mauling look like something out of the Revenant. You will walk into this match looking like Leonard DiCaprio and I will make damn sure you walk out look like him at the end too.

Then you have the poacher who’s out for the trophy. He wants the big hunt so that he can post it on his social media, and prove to the world that he’s not like his parents. So, he can show that he’s made something of his life other than slinging dope on a street corner. He believes he needs something more. Well, you’ve drawn the short straw boyo. Because you’re in that ring with Impaler, the Demon Legion, whatever name I choose to call myself it all means one thing.

If you can walk out of this by next week, Wolfgang will be back on that street corner, and happy to do the same job your parents did.

The Impaler