'My Heaven Is Creating Your Hell.'
Jun 14, 2012 0:13:45 GMT -5
Post by Vinny on Jun 14, 2012 0:13:45 GMT -5
'My Heaven Is Creating Your Hell.'
Boston, Massachusetts.
1997.
It is lunch time at a small preparatory high school. A junior high student with long dirty blond hair and a pair of glasses heads toward the cafeteria in gray slacks and maroon sweater uniform with his backpack slung over his shoulder. The student, either through absentmindedness or possibly hunger, walks accidentally into the back of an older, much larger senior.
“Watch where you're walking, Fallon!” rumbles the larger boy before shoving Fallon down into the grass. Fallon mumbles some sort of apology before trying to get back up, only to met with another shove sending him back down and followed by derisive laughter.
Looking up with a blush of anger and embarrassment, and mumbles something much different.
“What did you say?”
“I said: Don't shove me again.”
The older boy laughs and as Fallon attempts to get back up again, he shoves the smaller Fallon back down. Fallon falls back to the ground and this time he does attempt to get back up. Instead, he hauls back and punches the most larger boy directly in his testicles.
The derisive laughter turns abruptly to a howl on pain as the senior falls to the ground; no longer towering over Fallon. It is then that Fallon gets up... and delivers a kick directly to the downed boy's testicles. It would be determined later that it was the kick that ruptured the older boy's right testicle. It would also be determined that the barrage of additional kicks to the boy's head, face and torso should result in Fallon's expulsion.
Power, as they say, corrupts.
---------------------
Edison, New Jersey.
Present Day.
A few blocks away from the Inman Sports Club in Edison is Molly Maguire's; an Irish pub in the neighborhood of Clark. It is once again right around lunch time, and the timely barroom is sparsely populated with no more than a handful of patrons. Amidst the yellow painted walls and green-cushioned bench seats, seated at the bar, is Sean Fallon. Fallon's dirty blond hair is tucked under a Los Angeles Kings baseball cap and he is attired in sneakers, black jeans and... a green Micky O'Reilly “The Slammer” T-shirt (available at FGA Shop).
Fallon sips on a neat glass of some brown liquor with a Guinness back that sits half-empty. He turns sideways on the barstool before speaking.
“Greetings, True Believers,” he begins as always.
“Since apparently it's Impressions Week here in FRONTIER, I figured I'd do my best Micky O'Reilly impression, fella. Granted, when I'm done with these drinks I'll actually be able to stop. I won't destroy my life and crawl up inside the bottom of a bottle like a pathetic waste of carbon molecules. I won't continuously fail at every aspect of my life and fall off the wagon more frequently than stolen electronics. So I guess my impression still needs a little work.”
Fallon takes another sip of the brown liquor and follows it with a sip of the Guinness before continuing.
“They say imitation is the sincerest form of flattery. So I suppose in some ways I should look kindly on Micky O'Reilly. He's really pulled out all the stops in an effort to be as much like Sean Fallon as he possibly can. All he lacks is... well... everything.
“On the flip side, there are some cultures – rather Draconian in nature – that believe the punishment for thievery should be to severe the offending hand. I fall much more in line with Draco and his ilk. Ironic then, that Micky O'Reilly should choose to steal my words and my idiosyncrasies in a desperate, vain attempt to get himself over. Ironic because instead of taking off your hand, “fella,” I'm going to take your whole, damn, arm off.”
Fallon pantomimes the snapping of a stick between his hands to illustrate his point.
“Delusion is the name of the world that Micky O'Reilly lives in. Desperation is where he lives; slowly drowning in his drink and in his inadequacy. He knows deep down inside, in places he doesn't like to talk about at parties, that he knows he can't beat me. For all his peacocking and for all his strutting and grandstanding about what a tough guy he is, what a great “hardcore” wrestler he is, and how much bigger and better he is than me, the truth remains that Micky O'Reilly is a terrified little boy.
“For as stupid as you look and as stupid as you act, sunshine, I know that there's no way you're actually stupid enough not to fear this match. Or perhaps you've simply forgotten my pedigree; a pedigree that no one else in FRONTIER comes even close to matching. I was thrown out – blacklisted – from the whole damn country of Japan for being “too violent,” “too extreme,” “unpredictable,” “a loose cannon.” I caved in my own tag team partner's skull with a steel chair.”
Fallon absentmindedly punches his fist into his open palm with a clap before settling back and leaning against the bar. He adds, almost as an after-thought:
“Oh, but you wrestled a cute little match here a couple weeks ago. That's adorable.
“Sean Fallon was born amidst the blood and barbed-wire of Japan's most violent promotion. And I was Samurai Pro's certifiable King of Violence. “Street Fights” are for boozed-up, bar room brawlers like you, Mickles. “Street Fights” are for wannabes and pretenders who think swinging a chair and donating a pint or two the hard way makes them “hardcore.”
“This, sunshine, is a Death. Match. Emphasis heavily on the former. Death... is what Sean Fallon was born to do. So while you're whining about how I don't fight fair and complaining about what I say, I'm trying to figure out how to wrap barbed-wire around a baseball bat. I'm memorizing the section of the Grey's Anatomy textbook that deals with the arm. I'm fantasizing about tortures that will make the Dark Ages look easy like Sunday morning.”
A wicked grin crawls across Fallon's lips.
“You say I don't have heart, but that's where you're wrong. Close-minded fools like you think the only way to have heart – to have passion – is in your pigeon-holed, fairy tale, good guy boring old mold. I have heart. My passion is your pain. My dreams are your nightmare. My heaven... is creating your personal hell. What you don't understand, “fella,” is that feeling you get from hearing idiots like the ones here in Edison cheering and chanting your name... is the same feeling I get when I watch the blood leaking out of your body from the wounds I've inflicted.
“So enjoy your cheers, and enjoy your... heart. We'll get to see how much of it you have... when I rip it out of your chest.”
With that Fallon downs what is left of his brown liquor and closes...
“Deuces.”
Boston, Massachusetts.
1997.
It is lunch time at a small preparatory high school. A junior high student with long dirty blond hair and a pair of glasses heads toward the cafeteria in gray slacks and maroon sweater uniform with his backpack slung over his shoulder. The student, either through absentmindedness or possibly hunger, walks accidentally into the back of an older, much larger senior.
“Watch where you're walking, Fallon!” rumbles the larger boy before shoving Fallon down into the grass. Fallon mumbles some sort of apology before trying to get back up, only to met with another shove sending him back down and followed by derisive laughter.
Looking up with a blush of anger and embarrassment, and mumbles something much different.
“What did you say?”
“I said: Don't shove me again.”
The older boy laughs and as Fallon attempts to get back up again, he shoves the smaller Fallon back down. Fallon falls back to the ground and this time he does attempt to get back up. Instead, he hauls back and punches the most larger boy directly in his testicles.
The derisive laughter turns abruptly to a howl on pain as the senior falls to the ground; no longer towering over Fallon. It is then that Fallon gets up... and delivers a kick directly to the downed boy's testicles. It would be determined later that it was the kick that ruptured the older boy's right testicle. It would also be determined that the barrage of additional kicks to the boy's head, face and torso should result in Fallon's expulsion.
Power, as they say, corrupts.
---------------------
Edison, New Jersey.
Present Day.
A few blocks away from the Inman Sports Club in Edison is Molly Maguire's; an Irish pub in the neighborhood of Clark. It is once again right around lunch time, and the timely barroom is sparsely populated with no more than a handful of patrons. Amidst the yellow painted walls and green-cushioned bench seats, seated at the bar, is Sean Fallon. Fallon's dirty blond hair is tucked under a Los Angeles Kings baseball cap and he is attired in sneakers, black jeans and... a green Micky O'Reilly “The Slammer” T-shirt (available at FGA Shop).
Fallon sips on a neat glass of some brown liquor with a Guinness back that sits half-empty. He turns sideways on the barstool before speaking.
“Greetings, True Believers,” he begins as always.
“Since apparently it's Impressions Week here in FRONTIER, I figured I'd do my best Micky O'Reilly impression, fella. Granted, when I'm done with these drinks I'll actually be able to stop. I won't destroy my life and crawl up inside the bottom of a bottle like a pathetic waste of carbon molecules. I won't continuously fail at every aspect of my life and fall off the wagon more frequently than stolen electronics. So I guess my impression still needs a little work.”
Fallon takes another sip of the brown liquor and follows it with a sip of the Guinness before continuing.
“They say imitation is the sincerest form of flattery. So I suppose in some ways I should look kindly on Micky O'Reilly. He's really pulled out all the stops in an effort to be as much like Sean Fallon as he possibly can. All he lacks is... well... everything.
“On the flip side, there are some cultures – rather Draconian in nature – that believe the punishment for thievery should be to severe the offending hand. I fall much more in line with Draco and his ilk. Ironic then, that Micky O'Reilly should choose to steal my words and my idiosyncrasies in a desperate, vain attempt to get himself over. Ironic because instead of taking off your hand, “fella,” I'm going to take your whole, damn, arm off.”
Fallon pantomimes the snapping of a stick between his hands to illustrate his point.
“Delusion is the name of the world that Micky O'Reilly lives in. Desperation is where he lives; slowly drowning in his drink and in his inadequacy. He knows deep down inside, in places he doesn't like to talk about at parties, that he knows he can't beat me. For all his peacocking and for all his strutting and grandstanding about what a tough guy he is, what a great “hardcore” wrestler he is, and how much bigger and better he is than me, the truth remains that Micky O'Reilly is a terrified little boy.
“For as stupid as you look and as stupid as you act, sunshine, I know that there's no way you're actually stupid enough not to fear this match. Or perhaps you've simply forgotten my pedigree; a pedigree that no one else in FRONTIER comes even close to matching. I was thrown out – blacklisted – from the whole damn country of Japan for being “too violent,” “too extreme,” “unpredictable,” “a loose cannon.” I caved in my own tag team partner's skull with a steel chair.”
Fallon absentmindedly punches his fist into his open palm with a clap before settling back and leaning against the bar. He adds, almost as an after-thought:
“Oh, but you wrestled a cute little match here a couple weeks ago. That's adorable.
“Sean Fallon was born amidst the blood and barbed-wire of Japan's most violent promotion. And I was Samurai Pro's certifiable King of Violence. “Street Fights” are for boozed-up, bar room brawlers like you, Mickles. “Street Fights” are for wannabes and pretenders who think swinging a chair and donating a pint or two the hard way makes them “hardcore.”
“This, sunshine, is a Death. Match. Emphasis heavily on the former. Death... is what Sean Fallon was born to do. So while you're whining about how I don't fight fair and complaining about what I say, I'm trying to figure out how to wrap barbed-wire around a baseball bat. I'm memorizing the section of the Grey's Anatomy textbook that deals with the arm. I'm fantasizing about tortures that will make the Dark Ages look easy like Sunday morning.”
A wicked grin crawls across Fallon's lips.
“You say I don't have heart, but that's where you're wrong. Close-minded fools like you think the only way to have heart – to have passion – is in your pigeon-holed, fairy tale, good guy boring old mold. I have heart. My passion is your pain. My dreams are your nightmare. My heaven... is creating your personal hell. What you don't understand, “fella,” is that feeling you get from hearing idiots like the ones here in Edison cheering and chanting your name... is the same feeling I get when I watch the blood leaking out of your body from the wounds I've inflicted.
“So enjoy your cheers, and enjoy your... heart. We'll get to see how much of it you have... when I rip it out of your chest.”
With that Fallon downs what is left of his brown liquor and closes...
“Deuces.”