Tales of a Leprechaun
Apr 9, 2012 11:57:35 GMT -5
Post by Micky O'Reilly on Apr 9, 2012 11:57:35 GMT -5
4/01/12
I woke up to the taste of blood. Laying in bed, not moving because I know the kind of pain I'll be in, I probe around my mouth with my tongue. On the inside of my left cheek I feel a gash that is now stinging like hell since I'd aggravated it, more importantly I could feel that one of my top molars was dangerously loose. Despite the all over soreness from my fight with Tomkins last night I know I'll have to get up. I push away the cheap, shitty motel covers with my right arm, surprised at how freely it moves, then push my body up with my left. Or tried to anyway. I couldn't bend my wrist to put my hand down, when I attempted to I was met with pain and resistance. And what the hell is that noise? I'd only just become aware of it but I felt sure it had been going on a long time, an annoying beeping every couple of seconds, over and over again. I open my eyes to a set of blue curtains, this isn't the motel.
Two second later the curtains move back and a guy in blue clothes walks over to me.
Man: Good morning Mr. O'Reilly, I'm Tom. Glad to see you're awake, welcome to the Salem Medical Centre…
4/02/12
When I got back to the house in New Jersey I didn't what to expect. It seemed that in the last 48 hours since the fight John had completely turned on me. He'd come out the ring and sucker punched me after my destruction of Tomkins then they'd both taken the boot to me. After I'd been discharged from hospital Bobby Grey had met me and told me that he'd cut me off financially too. No more training sessions, no more cars and probably no more accommodation. Bobby paid for my coach home and told me to give him a call when I was back on my feet. I walked slowly up to the front door, the muscles in my right ankle had all but seized up because of swelling, the anti-inflammatories hadn't helped. I put my key in the lock and turned, the door opened. The locks hadn't been changed which I took to be a good sign. I dropped my bag and went to the phone, there were two messages waiting for me. I hit the play button.
Alyson: Hi Mickey, look I'm really…
I skipped the message, I couldn't be bothered to deal with that bitch right now.
Voice: Hey Micky it's Tony, your landlord. Mr Brown called and said he ain't paying your rent no more, lucky for you he'd already paid up until the end of May so you got almost two months to find a new place or get the money to stay there. Either way I'll drop the paperwork round next week. See ya.
I deleted the message, I wasn't surprised but at least I had a bit of time to sort things out. John Smith, Timmy Brown, seemed they were the same guy. Whatever. I limped upstairs to the bathroom, told the FGA cameraman to fuck off, and stripped down to fully assess the damage. My left cheek was swollen and bruised but my eyes and nose we're somehow in perfect condition, I had 5 stitches on the back of my head from the post fight chair shot, my left forearm and wrist had been put in a strap that I wasn't allowed to take off for six weeks but Bobby told me it was just muscle damage so nothing much to worry about, there was bruising all over my chest - nothing unusual, and my right ankle had been sprained but that would free up over the next week or so if I stretched it out after a hot bath every day. The strangest part to look at was my nutsack. After John or Timmy or whatever his name was had given me a groin stomp my plums now actually looked like plums, purple and swollen. I was battered but I should still be able to fight, albeit with a wrist brace, and I took comfort in the knowledge that Tomkins would be worse off. I ran a bath and jumped in.
After my bath I did my ankle exercises and went to my bedroom where the cameraman was waiting, he was a good laugh sometimes but it could get annoying being followed 24/7. I sat on the side of my bed and opened the draw of my bedside table to reveal a small bottle of whiskey, I'd started drinking again but not as much as I used to. That's not to say I wouldn't get drunk, I could sure as hell do with the release that drunkenness gave me right now, but I would make sure to stop before I couldn't stand up on my own. I swigged straight from the bottle, bad idea. The resulting pain was a sharp reminder that inside my mouth was a mess and that there was a gap where I'd pulled my own tooth this morning. The hospital had told me to go to a dentist but I'd done it myself once before and didn't want to spend the money. I tasted blood again. I looked over at the cameraman, while he was here he might as well make himself useful.
Micky: Put it on.
Cameraman: What?
Micky: My fight, put it on the telly.
Despite my slurred words from my swollen mouth we we're watching the fight on the TV in my bedroom in a matter of minutes. We watched as I put my boot to Tomkins face, threw him over the top rope, slammed him onto the concrete floor and took a steel chair to his back, yet he kept getting up. I had to hand it to him, the kid knew how to take a beating. At the time it pissed me off but now, in the aftermath, I enjoyed watching him get back up just so that I could put him down again. I watched with a smile as I slowly but surely destroyed any hope that Tomkins had of wrestling for the next few months, possibly ever again. I even enjoyed watching as Smith/Brown jumped me at the end because it meant I was free from following his instructions. I could finally be me.
4/09/12
I pulled my trainers on and opened the door to the home gym, with my damaged wrist I still couldn't do any weights but my ankle had been pain free for 48 hours so I could at least attempt to use the treadmill. I had a fight against a new guy called Sean Fallon, he'd won his first match but now it was time for his trial by fire. I'd done some research into him, he was short, arrogant and liked to cheat. Someone else who was going to be put in their place by The Slammer.
I started the treadmill, walking slowly at first to warm up and stretch out my ankle, gradually building to a jog and allowing myself to plateau there. I didn't want to over do it. Whilst researching my opponent I'd also discover that Tomkins would somehow be fighting this week. How he'd been cleared by the FGA medics was beyond me, they'd tried to stop me fighting just because of my arm, I was sure that Tomkins must have covered something up. No one could take that kind of a beating without having some kind of serious injury to show for it. Enough about Tomkins, I was fighting in two days and needed to focus.
________________________________________________________________________
The scene opens outside of an Irish bar. O'Reilly is standing there in his faded blue jeans, white t-shirt and steel toed boots, a sight we're gradually becoming accustomed to. It's dark outside but O'Reilly is standing in the light of a streetlamp. He has a glass in his hand and a big smile on his face, slightly lopsided by the still evident swelling of his cheek. He is tipsy and happy, still able to stand without support.
Micky: Are we ready yet lad?
Cameraman: Filming now Mr O'Reilly.
Micky: Good. Hold on I've got some paper…
He starts patting his pockets, spilling the remainder of his drink on the floor.
Micky: Shit. Ah well, I'll just make it up. Tomkins! I saw your video, I hate your fucking guts but you've got balls fella. After the arse whooping I gave you, you should have been out for months boy. You took your beating like a man and still asked for more. That night, at the supershow, I saw a little bit of myself in you. My dick as I shafted you good and proper. Anyway what else was I going to say…
Cameraman: About him taking advantage of you while you were down.
O'Reilly's face goes dark and he gets right up in the camera.
Micky: That's right, you jumped me. Attacked me when I was down. There's another reason the fans should hate you, you're a fucking coward. I would never do that. When I fight people I make sure they see me coming. But you? You waited until I was exhausted from the biggest fight in my FGA career so far, and after I'd given my all and taken my win you assaulted me like a pussy. You tarnish the gloss on a night that should have gone down in the history book, but whatever. At the end of the day I did what I set out to do. I exposed you for who you are and systematically destroyed you in front of those idiots that worship you like some kind of god. Idiots who aren't even worthy of kissing my arse crack.
O'Reilly relaxes slightly, stepping back and spreading his arms to present the bar he is standing in front of.
Micky: Now Sean, I'd like to show you the Emerald Bar. It's a traditional Irish pub and I thought I'd bring you here in light of our special match in Monroe. You're probably thinking "Shit, I didn't realise we had a special event match" but don't worry, it hasn't been announced. The specialty of our match is that it has an Irish theme. Look at the competitors. First off there's me, the Irish Giant. And secondly there's you, the leprechaun, how tall are you again? Three foot two?
Cameraman: I think he's five nine dude.
Micky: Exactly, he's tiny. How do they expect me to find you let alone fight you? It'll be like hitting a child, that's Tomkins' niche not mine. Seriously fella, I'd give you the Big Boot but my foot is bigger than your entire body. All this talk is making me hungry now, in fact I think I'm craving some SHORT cake. And just out of interest where do you buy your clothes? The baby section of Walmart?
O'Reilly starts laughing, the poor jokes reducing him to tears in his intoxicated state. He eventually regathers himself.
Micky: Oh shit, that was good. Anyway, in all seriousness, in forty eight hours time you're going to find out why I'm the most dangerous man in the FGA a fact that the so called Superstar Mike Tomkins will happily confirm. I might be wearing this brace…
O'Reilly gestures to the blue strap on his left arm.
Micky: But based on your size I'm gonna go out on a limb and say I only need one arm to slam you anyway. How much could you possibly weigh? The same as a carton of milk? You might have won your first match but you're messing with the big dog now, and I'm rabid. Anyway I'm off to get another drink before I call it a night.
O'Reilly turns around and is halfway through the pub door when he pauses and looks back at the camera.
Micky: See ya soon small fry.
The screen fades to black and the FGA logo appears.
I woke up to the taste of blood. Laying in bed, not moving because I know the kind of pain I'll be in, I probe around my mouth with my tongue. On the inside of my left cheek I feel a gash that is now stinging like hell since I'd aggravated it, more importantly I could feel that one of my top molars was dangerously loose. Despite the all over soreness from my fight with Tomkins last night I know I'll have to get up. I push away the cheap, shitty motel covers with my right arm, surprised at how freely it moves, then push my body up with my left. Or tried to anyway. I couldn't bend my wrist to put my hand down, when I attempted to I was met with pain and resistance. And what the hell is that noise? I'd only just become aware of it but I felt sure it had been going on a long time, an annoying beeping every couple of seconds, over and over again. I open my eyes to a set of blue curtains, this isn't the motel.
Two second later the curtains move back and a guy in blue clothes walks over to me.
Man: Good morning Mr. O'Reilly, I'm Tom. Glad to see you're awake, welcome to the Salem Medical Centre…
4/02/12
When I got back to the house in New Jersey I didn't what to expect. It seemed that in the last 48 hours since the fight John had completely turned on me. He'd come out the ring and sucker punched me after my destruction of Tomkins then they'd both taken the boot to me. After I'd been discharged from hospital Bobby Grey had met me and told me that he'd cut me off financially too. No more training sessions, no more cars and probably no more accommodation. Bobby paid for my coach home and told me to give him a call when I was back on my feet. I walked slowly up to the front door, the muscles in my right ankle had all but seized up because of swelling, the anti-inflammatories hadn't helped. I put my key in the lock and turned, the door opened. The locks hadn't been changed which I took to be a good sign. I dropped my bag and went to the phone, there were two messages waiting for me. I hit the play button.
Alyson: Hi Mickey, look I'm really…
I skipped the message, I couldn't be bothered to deal with that bitch right now.
Voice: Hey Micky it's Tony, your landlord. Mr Brown called and said he ain't paying your rent no more, lucky for you he'd already paid up until the end of May so you got almost two months to find a new place or get the money to stay there. Either way I'll drop the paperwork round next week. See ya.
I deleted the message, I wasn't surprised but at least I had a bit of time to sort things out. John Smith, Timmy Brown, seemed they were the same guy. Whatever. I limped upstairs to the bathroom, told the FGA cameraman to fuck off, and stripped down to fully assess the damage. My left cheek was swollen and bruised but my eyes and nose we're somehow in perfect condition, I had 5 stitches on the back of my head from the post fight chair shot, my left forearm and wrist had been put in a strap that I wasn't allowed to take off for six weeks but Bobby told me it was just muscle damage so nothing much to worry about, there was bruising all over my chest - nothing unusual, and my right ankle had been sprained but that would free up over the next week or so if I stretched it out after a hot bath every day. The strangest part to look at was my nutsack. After John or Timmy or whatever his name was had given me a groin stomp my plums now actually looked like plums, purple and swollen. I was battered but I should still be able to fight, albeit with a wrist brace, and I took comfort in the knowledge that Tomkins would be worse off. I ran a bath and jumped in.
After my bath I did my ankle exercises and went to my bedroom where the cameraman was waiting, he was a good laugh sometimes but it could get annoying being followed 24/7. I sat on the side of my bed and opened the draw of my bedside table to reveal a small bottle of whiskey, I'd started drinking again but not as much as I used to. That's not to say I wouldn't get drunk, I could sure as hell do with the release that drunkenness gave me right now, but I would make sure to stop before I couldn't stand up on my own. I swigged straight from the bottle, bad idea. The resulting pain was a sharp reminder that inside my mouth was a mess and that there was a gap where I'd pulled my own tooth this morning. The hospital had told me to go to a dentist but I'd done it myself once before and didn't want to spend the money. I tasted blood again. I looked over at the cameraman, while he was here he might as well make himself useful.
Micky: Put it on.
Cameraman: What?
Micky: My fight, put it on the telly.
Despite my slurred words from my swollen mouth we we're watching the fight on the TV in my bedroom in a matter of minutes. We watched as I put my boot to Tomkins face, threw him over the top rope, slammed him onto the concrete floor and took a steel chair to his back, yet he kept getting up. I had to hand it to him, the kid knew how to take a beating. At the time it pissed me off but now, in the aftermath, I enjoyed watching him get back up just so that I could put him down again. I watched with a smile as I slowly but surely destroyed any hope that Tomkins had of wrestling for the next few months, possibly ever again. I even enjoyed watching as Smith/Brown jumped me at the end because it meant I was free from following his instructions. I could finally be me.
4/09/12
I pulled my trainers on and opened the door to the home gym, with my damaged wrist I still couldn't do any weights but my ankle had been pain free for 48 hours so I could at least attempt to use the treadmill. I had a fight against a new guy called Sean Fallon, he'd won his first match but now it was time for his trial by fire. I'd done some research into him, he was short, arrogant and liked to cheat. Someone else who was going to be put in their place by The Slammer.
I started the treadmill, walking slowly at first to warm up and stretch out my ankle, gradually building to a jog and allowing myself to plateau there. I didn't want to over do it. Whilst researching my opponent I'd also discover that Tomkins would somehow be fighting this week. How he'd been cleared by the FGA medics was beyond me, they'd tried to stop me fighting just because of my arm, I was sure that Tomkins must have covered something up. No one could take that kind of a beating without having some kind of serious injury to show for it. Enough about Tomkins, I was fighting in two days and needed to focus.
________________________________________________________________________
The scene opens outside of an Irish bar. O'Reilly is standing there in his faded blue jeans, white t-shirt and steel toed boots, a sight we're gradually becoming accustomed to. It's dark outside but O'Reilly is standing in the light of a streetlamp. He has a glass in his hand and a big smile on his face, slightly lopsided by the still evident swelling of his cheek. He is tipsy and happy, still able to stand without support.
Micky: Are we ready yet lad?
Cameraman: Filming now Mr O'Reilly.
Micky: Good. Hold on I've got some paper…
He starts patting his pockets, spilling the remainder of his drink on the floor.
Micky: Shit. Ah well, I'll just make it up. Tomkins! I saw your video, I hate your fucking guts but you've got balls fella. After the arse whooping I gave you, you should have been out for months boy. You took your beating like a man and still asked for more. That night, at the supershow, I saw a little bit of myself in you. My dick as I shafted you good and proper. Anyway what else was I going to say…
Cameraman: About him taking advantage of you while you were down.
O'Reilly's face goes dark and he gets right up in the camera.
Micky: That's right, you jumped me. Attacked me when I was down. There's another reason the fans should hate you, you're a fucking coward. I would never do that. When I fight people I make sure they see me coming. But you? You waited until I was exhausted from the biggest fight in my FGA career so far, and after I'd given my all and taken my win you assaulted me like a pussy. You tarnish the gloss on a night that should have gone down in the history book, but whatever. At the end of the day I did what I set out to do. I exposed you for who you are and systematically destroyed you in front of those idiots that worship you like some kind of god. Idiots who aren't even worthy of kissing my arse crack.
O'Reilly relaxes slightly, stepping back and spreading his arms to present the bar he is standing in front of.
Micky: Now Sean, I'd like to show you the Emerald Bar. It's a traditional Irish pub and I thought I'd bring you here in light of our special match in Monroe. You're probably thinking "Shit, I didn't realise we had a special event match" but don't worry, it hasn't been announced. The specialty of our match is that it has an Irish theme. Look at the competitors. First off there's me, the Irish Giant. And secondly there's you, the leprechaun, how tall are you again? Three foot two?
Cameraman: I think he's five nine dude.
Micky: Exactly, he's tiny. How do they expect me to find you let alone fight you? It'll be like hitting a child, that's Tomkins' niche not mine. Seriously fella, I'd give you the Big Boot but my foot is bigger than your entire body. All this talk is making me hungry now, in fact I think I'm craving some SHORT cake. And just out of interest where do you buy your clothes? The baby section of Walmart?
O'Reilly starts laughing, the poor jokes reducing him to tears in his intoxicated state. He eventually regathers himself.
Micky: Oh shit, that was good. Anyway, in all seriousness, in forty eight hours time you're going to find out why I'm the most dangerous man in the FGA a fact that the so called Superstar Mike Tomkins will happily confirm. I might be wearing this brace…
O'Reilly gestures to the blue strap on his left arm.
Micky: But based on your size I'm gonna go out on a limb and say I only need one arm to slam you anyway. How much could you possibly weigh? The same as a carton of milk? You might have won your first match but you're messing with the big dog now, and I'm rabid. Anyway I'm off to get another drink before I call it a night.
O'Reilly turns around and is halfway through the pub door when he pauses and looks back at the camera.
Micky: See ya soon small fry.
The screen fades to black and the FGA logo appears.
