Everything is Broken, and Everything Hurt
May 11, 2012 17:56:56 GMT -5
Post by Vinny on May 11, 2012 17:56:56 GMT -5
Everything is Broken, and Everything Hurt
Rahway, New Jersey.
Four blocks south and three and a half blocks west of the Rahway Recreation Center – the site for FRONTIER's special Saturday evening DVD taping – is the Rahway Public Library and 2 City Hall Plaza.
The library is exactly what you would expect on the inside: rows of stacks, ample lighting, long tables with chairs and benches, and the occasional computer terminal usually occupied by either a pre-teen student or a perverted-looking, possibly homeless older gentleman.
The last vestiges of the afternoon sun stream through the windows along the western facing wall, lasting long shadows through the stacks and along the work-tables. It is at one of these long wooden work tables that we find – seated in a chair – Sean Fallon.
Fallon is attired rather formally, at least by his standards, in dark khaki chinos and a black pinstriped button down dress shirt, which remains untucked. His usual mop of dirty blond hair was been styled up into a rather ostentatious faux-hawk, giving him more the appearance of a frat boy ready to hit the clubs than a studious library patron. Nonetheless, and ironically enough, a copy of How to Win Friends and Influence People is open in his hands.
Fallon's eyes slowly scan across the page before darting up. Catching sight of the camera, he beckons it closer. And then closer still, leaning in to whisper so as not to disturb the usual mausoleum-esque silence of the library. The camera pulls in up-close to Fallon.
“Greetings, true believers,” he begins with his usual opening in a just-above-hushed whisper.
“You find me here in the Rahway library because unlike the cavalcade of buffoons in FGA, I don't need to spend every waking second training. Unlike those green boys, my skills don't need any whether honing or sharping. They're deadly enough as they are. Instead I'm here, because I've been pondering something. Something that's been bothering me since I landed in FGA. I've been thinking about subtly.”
Fallon leans back in his seat, casually tossing the book onto the table, and forcing the camera to follow him back.
“Subtly is a lost art, don't you think? It seems like in order to get noticed you have to do something grandiose to get the attention you deserve. Sometimes you have to send a not-so-subtle message, like for example... oh, I don't know... snapping the arms every half-wit between you and a title shot. Something like making them scream for mercy and pound their hand on the canvas while screaming until they're red in the palm and raw in the throat. And sometimes, you have to add an exclamation point just to be sure that you're still not being too subtle. A chair shot will usually do. Especially if it is effective enough to shatter every bone and rip every tendon in a man's elbow. And once you've done all that, you just have to step back and ask one simple question...”
Fallon abruptly launches the chair he's sitting in back, and as it hurtles toppling toward the floor, he leaps up into the air, landing flat-footed on top of the library's work table with a loud clap of his soles against the wood, echoed by the chair striking the floor. Naturally, every eye in the library turns towards the disturbance. Their fingers at the ready to Shhh.
“HAVE I MADE MYSELF CLEAR YET?!” Fallon screams into the camera, before glowering at every turned face in the room. The meek library patrons turn their gazes away, pretending absurdly not to notice.
“Apparently I have to ask because someone running the show in FGA hasn't gotten the message yet! I guess the FACT that two-thirds of the men I've faced thus far have had to quit this piss-hole promotion to go lick the wounds and tend the broken egos that I gave them. So long, Johnny “Tard-boy” Brave! So long, “Cry” Baby Bling! Good riddance! From the second that Sean Fallon set foot in FRONTIER, I've made my intentions known. I am here for the FGA Heavyweight championship. I am here because every other promotion would kill to have a man of my talents, but none of them have enough balls to take the risks involved. The risk that at any time I could break every bone in any man's body, just... like... that.”
Fallon snaps his fingers and finally hops down off the table. He grabs the sides of the camera and thrusts his face in close.
“But apparently that hasn't sunk in yet. Because for some reason, I'm not in the Main Event. AGAIN! Despite being the only undefeated wrestler in FRONTIER, despite being the most electric man in this promotion and despite being the only person in this company with any real talent, I'm still not Main Eventing. IN FACT, I'm not even the goddamn number one contender! I have to *share* that title with Micky freakin' O'Reilly. O'Reilly?! O'REALLY?! Didn't I snap that relapsing sack of human refuse's arm only a few weeks ago? Hasn't he crawled into a bottle and died yet?”
“I guess the FGA brass wants me to finish the job on pay-per-view. If you were ever wondering when the first televised public execution in American history was going to be the answer is June 1 at the Westchester County Center in White Plains, New York, at All-Star Showdown. Because if O'Reilly has killed enough brain cells by then to actually step into the ring with me again... he will NOT be stepping out.”
A twisted scowl has contorted the face of Sean Fallon, as he finally eases back from the camera, but only a little.
“Until then the FGA thinks they can just toss me in nothing matches with nothing opponents and all will be fine because they've dangled that number one contender carrot in front of me. I am NOT some idiot who will be pacified with empty promises and useless tokens. The number one contendership is mine by rights. I shouldn't have to kill Micky O'Reilly to get my title shot. The brass is just lucky that I happen to enjoy grinding the drunken Irish slob's bones into pixie dust.”
“And speaking of pixie dust, it looks like Tinkerbell is my goddamn opponent this week! Another reject from the Island of Misfit Toys has come to get his parts ripped off at Santa Fallon's workshop of horrors. Matt Shields... a soccer player? A pro soccer player. Ooooooooh. I suppose I'm supposed to be impressed by his athleticism or the B.S. about how soccer players prance – I mean run – however many miles per match. I suppose I'm supposed to be afraid of his powerful kicks, too, right?”
Fallon makes an obnoxious display of rolling his eyes.
“Soccer. The only quote-unquote “sport” that has participation trophies. Everyone's a winner... except they're all losers. Soccer. A sport where flopping on the ground and pretending to be hurt is a celebrated past-time. You know what I think of soccer? The same thing I think about soccer players, and the same thing I think about Matt Shields. They're a joke. Utterly and completely pathetic.”
“Let me promise you this, Tinkerbell, when you flop to the ground on Saturday night you won't be faking an injury trying to draw a penalty... you'll actually be injured. You'll be crying. You'll be screaming. More likely than not, something will be broken. But unlike soccer, there won't be a referee to save you. Just look at what I did to Baby Bling. The referees here in FGA are as useless as... well.. as useless as soccer players.”
Fallon shoulders his way past the cameraman, finally exiting the library and leaving all the befuddled patrons in his wake.
“Another thing you haven't been made wise to yet, Tinkerbell, is exactly who you're stepping in the ring with. Someone out there, someone besides me, must obviously hate you. I'm the goddamn Grim Reaper of FGA. The Career Killer. Micky O'Reilly is the only man I've faced who has survived his time in the ring with me. But that will be rectified on June 1. You're a green-as-gooseshit rookie. You're a “red bull” being sent to the slaughter. You're being fed to the wolves. You're dead already and you're too damn stupid to know it.”
“I don't resent you because you play a little girls' hobby. We all have things we're not proud of. I resent you because you aren't on my level. You don't deserve to be in this match. You don't deserve to share the spotlight with me. You say you earned everything you got in soccer? Well, here in pro wrestling you're already getting more opportunities than me. I had to work my way to the top in Japan. And then I got back-stabbed and politicked out. Exiled back to America with a blacklisted black spot next to my name. FRONTIER was the only back-water stain of a promotion that was low enough to take me. And even then I started working dark matches and killing my way up the card. You? In your first match, you get the rub of facing the rightful number one contender and the future Heavyweight champion in the semi-main event. I hate you for that. I resent you for that. I am going to break and maim and cripple you for that.”
“You say I've got a chip on my shoulder, well you're damn right I do. Because idiotic promoters keep letting candy-ass non-wrestlers like you into my sport. And its left up to guys like me – wrestlers, real goddamn wrestlers – to give you green-ass rookies the rub at our own expense to make someone else a dollar. I'm not a star-maker, Tinkerbell. I'm a star-breaker. Last time I broke Baby Bling's arm. I took away his career. Outside of his plastic bimbo, I took away everything he had to live for. With you this week, I think I'll take away your legs. I'll pound your patellas into paste. I'll tear out your tibulas, and I'll fracture your fibias. Forget about wrestling. Forget about soccer. You should start praying and begging and hoping that I ever let you walk again.”
Fallon stops walking abruptly and turns back to the camera.
“Like I said before, Shields. You're already dead. You're just too stupid to know it."
"Deuces.”
With that, Fallon turns his back to the camera tossing up the peace sign over his left shoulder as he walks off, quite literally, into the sunset.
Rahway, New Jersey.
Four blocks south and three and a half blocks west of the Rahway Recreation Center – the site for FRONTIER's special Saturday evening DVD taping – is the Rahway Public Library and 2 City Hall Plaza.
The library is exactly what you would expect on the inside: rows of stacks, ample lighting, long tables with chairs and benches, and the occasional computer terminal usually occupied by either a pre-teen student or a perverted-looking, possibly homeless older gentleman.
The last vestiges of the afternoon sun stream through the windows along the western facing wall, lasting long shadows through the stacks and along the work-tables. It is at one of these long wooden work tables that we find – seated in a chair – Sean Fallon.
Fallon is attired rather formally, at least by his standards, in dark khaki chinos and a black pinstriped button down dress shirt, which remains untucked. His usual mop of dirty blond hair was been styled up into a rather ostentatious faux-hawk, giving him more the appearance of a frat boy ready to hit the clubs than a studious library patron. Nonetheless, and ironically enough, a copy of How to Win Friends and Influence People is open in his hands.
Fallon's eyes slowly scan across the page before darting up. Catching sight of the camera, he beckons it closer. And then closer still, leaning in to whisper so as not to disturb the usual mausoleum-esque silence of the library. The camera pulls in up-close to Fallon.
“Greetings, true believers,” he begins with his usual opening in a just-above-hushed whisper.
“You find me here in the Rahway library because unlike the cavalcade of buffoons in FGA, I don't need to spend every waking second training. Unlike those green boys, my skills don't need any whether honing or sharping. They're deadly enough as they are. Instead I'm here, because I've been pondering something. Something that's been bothering me since I landed in FGA. I've been thinking about subtly.”
Fallon leans back in his seat, casually tossing the book onto the table, and forcing the camera to follow him back.
“Subtly is a lost art, don't you think? It seems like in order to get noticed you have to do something grandiose to get the attention you deserve. Sometimes you have to send a not-so-subtle message, like for example... oh, I don't know... snapping the arms every half-wit between you and a title shot. Something like making them scream for mercy and pound their hand on the canvas while screaming until they're red in the palm and raw in the throat. And sometimes, you have to add an exclamation point just to be sure that you're still not being too subtle. A chair shot will usually do. Especially if it is effective enough to shatter every bone and rip every tendon in a man's elbow. And once you've done all that, you just have to step back and ask one simple question...”
Fallon abruptly launches the chair he's sitting in back, and as it hurtles toppling toward the floor, he leaps up into the air, landing flat-footed on top of the library's work table with a loud clap of his soles against the wood, echoed by the chair striking the floor. Naturally, every eye in the library turns towards the disturbance. Their fingers at the ready to Shhh.
“HAVE I MADE MYSELF CLEAR YET?!” Fallon screams into the camera, before glowering at every turned face in the room. The meek library patrons turn their gazes away, pretending absurdly not to notice.
“Apparently I have to ask because someone running the show in FGA hasn't gotten the message yet! I guess the FACT that two-thirds of the men I've faced thus far have had to quit this piss-hole promotion to go lick the wounds and tend the broken egos that I gave them. So long, Johnny “Tard-boy” Brave! So long, “Cry” Baby Bling! Good riddance! From the second that Sean Fallon set foot in FRONTIER, I've made my intentions known. I am here for the FGA Heavyweight championship. I am here because every other promotion would kill to have a man of my talents, but none of them have enough balls to take the risks involved. The risk that at any time I could break every bone in any man's body, just... like... that.”
Fallon snaps his fingers and finally hops down off the table. He grabs the sides of the camera and thrusts his face in close.
“But apparently that hasn't sunk in yet. Because for some reason, I'm not in the Main Event. AGAIN! Despite being the only undefeated wrestler in FRONTIER, despite being the most electric man in this promotion and despite being the only person in this company with any real talent, I'm still not Main Eventing. IN FACT, I'm not even the goddamn number one contender! I have to *share* that title with Micky freakin' O'Reilly. O'Reilly?! O'REALLY?! Didn't I snap that relapsing sack of human refuse's arm only a few weeks ago? Hasn't he crawled into a bottle and died yet?”
“I guess the FGA brass wants me to finish the job on pay-per-view. If you were ever wondering when the first televised public execution in American history was going to be the answer is June 1 at the Westchester County Center in White Plains, New York, at All-Star Showdown. Because if O'Reilly has killed enough brain cells by then to actually step into the ring with me again... he will NOT be stepping out.”
A twisted scowl has contorted the face of Sean Fallon, as he finally eases back from the camera, but only a little.
“Until then the FGA thinks they can just toss me in nothing matches with nothing opponents and all will be fine because they've dangled that number one contender carrot in front of me. I am NOT some idiot who will be pacified with empty promises and useless tokens. The number one contendership is mine by rights. I shouldn't have to kill Micky O'Reilly to get my title shot. The brass is just lucky that I happen to enjoy grinding the drunken Irish slob's bones into pixie dust.”
“And speaking of pixie dust, it looks like Tinkerbell is my goddamn opponent this week! Another reject from the Island of Misfit Toys has come to get his parts ripped off at Santa Fallon's workshop of horrors. Matt Shields... a soccer player? A pro soccer player. Ooooooooh. I suppose I'm supposed to be impressed by his athleticism or the B.S. about how soccer players prance – I mean run – however many miles per match. I suppose I'm supposed to be afraid of his powerful kicks, too, right?”
Fallon makes an obnoxious display of rolling his eyes.
“Soccer. The only quote-unquote “sport” that has participation trophies. Everyone's a winner... except they're all losers. Soccer. A sport where flopping on the ground and pretending to be hurt is a celebrated past-time. You know what I think of soccer? The same thing I think about soccer players, and the same thing I think about Matt Shields. They're a joke. Utterly and completely pathetic.”
“Let me promise you this, Tinkerbell, when you flop to the ground on Saturday night you won't be faking an injury trying to draw a penalty... you'll actually be injured. You'll be crying. You'll be screaming. More likely than not, something will be broken. But unlike soccer, there won't be a referee to save you. Just look at what I did to Baby Bling. The referees here in FGA are as useless as... well.. as useless as soccer players.”
Fallon shoulders his way past the cameraman, finally exiting the library and leaving all the befuddled patrons in his wake.
“Another thing you haven't been made wise to yet, Tinkerbell, is exactly who you're stepping in the ring with. Someone out there, someone besides me, must obviously hate you. I'm the goddamn Grim Reaper of FGA. The Career Killer. Micky O'Reilly is the only man I've faced who has survived his time in the ring with me. But that will be rectified on June 1. You're a green-as-gooseshit rookie. You're a “red bull” being sent to the slaughter. You're being fed to the wolves. You're dead already and you're too damn stupid to know it.”
“I don't resent you because you play a little girls' hobby. We all have things we're not proud of. I resent you because you aren't on my level. You don't deserve to be in this match. You don't deserve to share the spotlight with me. You say you earned everything you got in soccer? Well, here in pro wrestling you're already getting more opportunities than me. I had to work my way to the top in Japan. And then I got back-stabbed and politicked out. Exiled back to America with a blacklisted black spot next to my name. FRONTIER was the only back-water stain of a promotion that was low enough to take me. And even then I started working dark matches and killing my way up the card. You? In your first match, you get the rub of facing the rightful number one contender and the future Heavyweight champion in the semi-main event. I hate you for that. I resent you for that. I am going to break and maim and cripple you for that.”
“You say I've got a chip on my shoulder, well you're damn right I do. Because idiotic promoters keep letting candy-ass non-wrestlers like you into my sport. And its left up to guys like me – wrestlers, real goddamn wrestlers – to give you green-ass rookies the rub at our own expense to make someone else a dollar. I'm not a star-maker, Tinkerbell. I'm a star-breaker. Last time I broke Baby Bling's arm. I took away his career. Outside of his plastic bimbo, I took away everything he had to live for. With you this week, I think I'll take away your legs. I'll pound your patellas into paste. I'll tear out your tibulas, and I'll fracture your fibias. Forget about wrestling. Forget about soccer. You should start praying and begging and hoping that I ever let you walk again.”
Fallon stops walking abruptly and turns back to the camera.
“Like I said before, Shields. You're already dead. You're just too stupid to know it."
"Deuces.”
With that, Fallon turns his back to the camera tossing up the peace sign over his left shoulder as he walks off, quite literally, into the sunset.