Out of the Darkness
Jun 27, 2012 21:35:29 GMT -5
Post by Vinny on Jun 27, 2012 21:35:29 GMT -5
OOC: Not my best work, admittedly. It's been a long week at the office and almost just blew it off entirely. Sorry for the lackluster effort.
A low chuckling is heard against an empty blackness. Then:
“Greetings, True Believers...”
The sound of a light bulb chain being pulled is heard, followed immediately by the illumination of a single bulb on a string hanging from a low ceiling. The light is low wattage and casts a yellowish glow in a circle of no more than two feet in diameter.
Sitting directly under the light on a steel chair, in the midst of the halo is Sean Fallon. Fallon has a black hooded sweatshirt zipped up with the hood thrown over his head, and a pair of black denim jeans over black Adidas Evolutions (with white bars and soles).
As the light weaves back and forth above his head, it casts strange long shadows over his face, and around the surrounding area where he sits. He appears to be in a much larger room, but the only illuminated area is directly around him.
Fallon, speaking in a hush barely above a whisper, continues.
“I'm sure all of you are dying to know just how Sean Fallon is holding up after his first loss ever in North America. I bet you're sitting there expecting a temper tantrum. You expect me to scream and yell until spittle flies from my lips and coats the camera lens. Well I'm sorry to disappoint you... Actually, I'm not sorry because nothing I could ever do would be inadequate enough to bring disappointment to the likes of you. Regardless, you won't see any hysterics from me today for one simple reason.”
Fallon leans forward and lowers his voice to a barely audible level.
“I... didn't... lose.”
He leans back with a smirk across his face, back resting against the steel chair.
“You can scoff and make preschool jokes about how 'Fallon must've really got his head kicked in to think he won last week.' But as always you'd be an idiot. And you'd be missing the point. I never said that I won last week in Edison. I said that I didn't lose. I'm sure the difference is far to grandiose for your simple minds to comprehend so let me spell it out for you.”
“Fact: I physically destroyed Micky O'Reilly. Fact: I ripped his arm to pieces. Fact: I put Micky O'Reilly in an unwinnable scenario; he gets his title match before me, but with a tattered arm too wrecked for him to possibly beat Blaine Harrison. Fact: O'Reilly is stupid enough to pursue his title opportunity even with his arm hanging on by a thread. Fact: He will fail and lose all claim to a title match. Fact: He will also soften up the Shine-Boy. Fact: I still have my title shot.”
Fallon smirks turns into a full-blown grin, looking like the cat that swallowed the canary.
“Is it starting to sink in yet? But wait, it gets better. Fact: I had O'Reilly handcuffed to the ropes and beaten to a bloody pulp. Fact: If the referee hadn't freed him, O'Reilly could've never won that match. Fact: O'Reilly used the outside interference of the referee and cheated his way to a victory. Fact: That is exactly what Mr. Heart, Mr. Goody-Two-Shoes O'Reilly had been criticizing me for all week.”
“See, I may not have won last week, but I certainly came out on top. O'Reilly has to live with the fact that I have molded him into a perfect little hypocrite. He has to accept his title shot with one arm and zero chance of winning. Oh, and O'Reilly has still never beaten me one-on-one without someone else's help.”
Fallon can't contain himself any longer and let's out a long, hard belly laugh.
“So you see, there's no reason for me to be mad. And to put the cherry on the top of the sundae of awesomeness which is my inevitable ascension to the top of FRONTIER, I have the week off this week. I mean, yes, I have a match but it's against some jamoke named Damien Spears. Ooooooh. Scary name, bro. Did you get that out of one of those online wrestling name generators?”
“You know I almost wish I was fighting someone of consequence this week. Because a little birdie told me that Mr. August Joyce is supposed to be in attendance, just to scout little ole me for our match at Collision Course. I'll almost feel bad that when I've ripped Spears arm off his torso and am slowly bludgeoning him to death with it, that I couldn't be making a more impressive sacrifice to “The People's Choice.” Almost.”
“Don't get me wrong, I'm glad you could convince your mom to drive you all the way up to New Jersey, buttercup. I'm sure it must be scary leaving that nursery you call a promotion down in Georgia. I heard your champion had to leave Peach Tree Nursery recently. Did he skin his knee? Did someone call him a bad name? Diaper rash? You know, I almost feel a tinge of pride wrestling on behalf of FRONTIER at Collision Course, because for as much of a shithole as this place is, at least it's not in George.”
Fallon pauses a moment.
“Almost.”
“I know you won't be able to appreciate the magnitude of what you'll be witnessing in Monroe, buttercup, since you'll be too busy pissing yourself, but if you live through Collision Course – if I LET you live through Collision Course – and you're not brain-dead from beating, you'll be able to tell your grandkids some day about how you saw a true master work in and out of the ring. Again, that's only if you don't succumb to your wounds while en route to the hospital. You'll get to say you watched Sean Fallon dismantle an opponent all while orchestrating his own meteoric rise to the top of the company. You'll get to say, “See that man? You see that Sean Fallon? He deemed me worthy enough to accept a brutal beating at his hands the likes of which I'd never received before. That man, that TRUE champion, ended my career in the best match of my life.” And your shitty little grandkids will have tears well up in their eyes because that's the closest any spawn of your spawn will ever come to achieving anything of note, Joyce.”
“So I hope you can appreciate all that before you go running for the exits in terror. But as for you, Damien Spears, you won't have such a future. You see, you're already dead. You're just too damn stupid to realize it yet.”
“Deuces.”
With that Fallon pulls the light chord again, but instead of returning to darkness, the room is all of a sudden bathed in light, revealing the much larger room that was hinted at previously. The room is littered with shattered furniture, broken tables, shattered lamps, pieces of glass, strewn garbage and debris everywhere. On the walls, spray-painted in big red letters are phrases like “Kill O'Reilly,” “Kill Harrison,” “Kill Joyce,” “Kill Spears,” “Maim,” “Disembowel,” “Destroy,” “Violence,” and a variety of other unsavory phrases.
Fallon flashes one last look at the camera, smirking, before pulling the chord again and plunging the room into darkness.
A low chuckling is heard against an empty blackness. Then:
“Greetings, True Believers...”
The sound of a light bulb chain being pulled is heard, followed immediately by the illumination of a single bulb on a string hanging from a low ceiling. The light is low wattage and casts a yellowish glow in a circle of no more than two feet in diameter.
Sitting directly under the light on a steel chair, in the midst of the halo is Sean Fallon. Fallon has a black hooded sweatshirt zipped up with the hood thrown over his head, and a pair of black denim jeans over black Adidas Evolutions (with white bars and soles).
As the light weaves back and forth above his head, it casts strange long shadows over his face, and around the surrounding area where he sits. He appears to be in a much larger room, but the only illuminated area is directly around him.
Fallon, speaking in a hush barely above a whisper, continues.
“I'm sure all of you are dying to know just how Sean Fallon is holding up after his first loss ever in North America. I bet you're sitting there expecting a temper tantrum. You expect me to scream and yell until spittle flies from my lips and coats the camera lens. Well I'm sorry to disappoint you... Actually, I'm not sorry because nothing I could ever do would be inadequate enough to bring disappointment to the likes of you. Regardless, you won't see any hysterics from me today for one simple reason.”
Fallon leans forward and lowers his voice to a barely audible level.
“I... didn't... lose.”
He leans back with a smirk across his face, back resting against the steel chair.
“You can scoff and make preschool jokes about how 'Fallon must've really got his head kicked in to think he won last week.' But as always you'd be an idiot. And you'd be missing the point. I never said that I won last week in Edison. I said that I didn't lose. I'm sure the difference is far to grandiose for your simple minds to comprehend so let me spell it out for you.”
“Fact: I physically destroyed Micky O'Reilly. Fact: I ripped his arm to pieces. Fact: I put Micky O'Reilly in an unwinnable scenario; he gets his title match before me, but with a tattered arm too wrecked for him to possibly beat Blaine Harrison. Fact: O'Reilly is stupid enough to pursue his title opportunity even with his arm hanging on by a thread. Fact: He will fail and lose all claim to a title match. Fact: He will also soften up the Shine-Boy. Fact: I still have my title shot.”
Fallon smirks turns into a full-blown grin, looking like the cat that swallowed the canary.
“Is it starting to sink in yet? But wait, it gets better. Fact: I had O'Reilly handcuffed to the ropes and beaten to a bloody pulp. Fact: If the referee hadn't freed him, O'Reilly could've never won that match. Fact: O'Reilly used the outside interference of the referee and cheated his way to a victory. Fact: That is exactly what Mr. Heart, Mr. Goody-Two-Shoes O'Reilly had been criticizing me for all week.”
“See, I may not have won last week, but I certainly came out on top. O'Reilly has to live with the fact that I have molded him into a perfect little hypocrite. He has to accept his title shot with one arm and zero chance of winning. Oh, and O'Reilly has still never beaten me one-on-one without someone else's help.”
Fallon can't contain himself any longer and let's out a long, hard belly laugh.
“So you see, there's no reason for me to be mad. And to put the cherry on the top of the sundae of awesomeness which is my inevitable ascension to the top of FRONTIER, I have the week off this week. I mean, yes, I have a match but it's against some jamoke named Damien Spears. Ooooooh. Scary name, bro. Did you get that out of one of those online wrestling name generators?”
“You know I almost wish I was fighting someone of consequence this week. Because a little birdie told me that Mr. August Joyce is supposed to be in attendance, just to scout little ole me for our match at Collision Course. I'll almost feel bad that when I've ripped Spears arm off his torso and am slowly bludgeoning him to death with it, that I couldn't be making a more impressive sacrifice to “The People's Choice.” Almost.”
“Don't get me wrong, I'm glad you could convince your mom to drive you all the way up to New Jersey, buttercup. I'm sure it must be scary leaving that nursery you call a promotion down in Georgia. I heard your champion had to leave Peach Tree Nursery recently. Did he skin his knee? Did someone call him a bad name? Diaper rash? You know, I almost feel a tinge of pride wrestling on behalf of FRONTIER at Collision Course, because for as much of a shithole as this place is, at least it's not in George.”
Fallon pauses a moment.
“Almost.”
“I know you won't be able to appreciate the magnitude of what you'll be witnessing in Monroe, buttercup, since you'll be too busy pissing yourself, but if you live through Collision Course – if I LET you live through Collision Course – and you're not brain-dead from beating, you'll be able to tell your grandkids some day about how you saw a true master work in and out of the ring. Again, that's only if you don't succumb to your wounds while en route to the hospital. You'll get to say you watched Sean Fallon dismantle an opponent all while orchestrating his own meteoric rise to the top of the company. You'll get to say, “See that man? You see that Sean Fallon? He deemed me worthy enough to accept a brutal beating at his hands the likes of which I'd never received before. That man, that TRUE champion, ended my career in the best match of my life.” And your shitty little grandkids will have tears well up in their eyes because that's the closest any spawn of your spawn will ever come to achieving anything of note, Joyce.”
“So I hope you can appreciate all that before you go running for the exits in terror. But as for you, Damien Spears, you won't have such a future. You see, you're already dead. You're just too damn stupid to realize it yet.”
“Deuces.”
With that Fallon pulls the light chord again, but instead of returning to darkness, the room is all of a sudden bathed in light, revealing the much larger room that was hinted at previously. The room is littered with shattered furniture, broken tables, shattered lamps, pieces of glass, strewn garbage and debris everywhere. On the walls, spray-painted in big red letters are phrases like “Kill O'Reilly,” “Kill Harrison,” “Kill Joyce,” “Kill Spears,” “Maim,” “Disembowel,” “Destroy,” “Violence,” and a variety of other unsavory phrases.
Fallon flashes one last look at the camera, smirking, before pulling the chord again and plunging the room into darkness.