The Irish Curse
Apr 10, 2012 17:44:33 GMT -5
Post by Vinny on Apr 10, 2012 17:44:33 GMT -5
The Irish Curse
Atlantic City, New Jersey.
A solid two hour drive south of the Monroe Township in New Jersey, is the "Las Vegas of the East": Atlantic City. The city is famous for its legalized gambling, mafia ties, glitz, grime and vice. In other words, a perfect encapsulation of the state of New Jersey, thoroughly doused in glitter. Two blocks from the Tropicana Casino on the famed Atlantic City boardwalk is 2600 Pacific Avenue, the only pink building in Atlantic City: A.C. Dolls.
The building is painted a gaudy matte pink with life-size posters of scantily clad women decorating the exterior like movie posters along the side of a cinema. Flashing neon lights and scene advertise the “Live Nude Dancers” and the Atlantic City motto of “Always Turned On.”
Inside, Warrant's “Cherry Pie” is blasting over the sound system as a redhead in a white bikini works the main stage. Lights flash in white, blue, yellow, green and pink. A bar sits directly inside the entrance, despite the establishments acceptance of B.Y.O.B, and the stages sits off to the right surrounded by a few faux-leather couches and chairs. The strip club is as busy as you'd expect for 7:30 on a Monday night; in that it's almost empty.
However, there is one man sitting in front of the center stage on one of the couches. A tall thin brunette in a tasseled, neon green outfit that looks like some part-bikini, part-fishnet hybrid sits to the man's left, and a slightly chubby, short blonde sits on his right in a tube top and denim shorts, running her hands through the man's dirty blond hair. The man for his own part, is attired in a slate-gray sports coat over a black hooded sweatshirt, dark blue jeans, bright white Adidas sneakers and large aviator sunglasses. A self-satisfied smirk settles in on the face of Sean Fallon as he admires his surroundings before taking a quick sip from a bottle of beer.
“Greetings, True Believers,” he begins in earnest, “and welcome to the victory dance. I've never been much of a dancer myself, but these lovely ladies obliged to pick up my slacks... I mean slack.”
The smirk transforms into a wicked grin before Fallon dismisses the blonde dancer with a quick slap on the ass.
“For those of you uneducated troglodytes at home wondering, the Sean Fallon Experience is broadcasting to you from A.C. Dolls in Atlantic City, New Jersey; the only part of New Jersey that isn't an open cesspool of decaying Italians and rub-on tanning oil. Of course, it is still New Jersey and I'll have to remember to burn these sneakers for having set foot in this God-foresaken Guidoverse, but duty calls. And since FRONTIER can't seem to pull any markets that aren't located in states filled with putrid mouth-breathers even with my gorgeous face gracing all their banners, I find myself once again subjected to plying my craft in front of slack-jawed yokels.”
With his free hand – the one not around a stripper's waist – he removes his sunglasses, tucking them into the top of his sweatshirt before continuing.
“But much like I'm doing with FGA, I'm making some good out of something lousy. I get sent to New Jersey, I make swing through Atlantic City and see the lovely A.C. Dolls. I get stuck wrestling for a backwater promotion against talentless hacks, and I slowly but surely turn it into a legitimate reputable promotion. After I wiped the floor with Johnny Brave last week, he came begging me for pointers backstage. Don't believe me? He said so himself earlier this week. I gave him the only pointer he could possibly use: quit. Quit wrestling and open up a chain of discount laundromats. It's not my fault the idiot didn't listen. But putting aside Johnny Brave and the two nameless cowards that didn't have the cajones to show up and get their asses kicked by me at Spring Breakage, I'm ready to move on to bigger and better things. At least... I thought I was, until I found out I'd be facing Micky O'Reilly on Wednesday night in the Monroe Township.”
With his glasses now removed, Fallon makes a big show of rolling his eyes.
“Micky O'Reilly? Really? Hey, FGA, you didn't notice that I WON the my match at Spring Breakage, right? You've finally moved me up the card to the second from the top – not the Main Event, where I belong, but I digress – yet you stick another curtain jerking jobber in front of me? Do you want me to give permanent brain damage to your ENTIRE roster? Or do you just want me to put the lowest of the low off your payroll? I mean, at Spring Breakage I draw a kid who was maybe born with ten functioning brain cells, and now I get a guy who killed the fifteen he was born with via alcohol poisoning.”
As if to add an exclamation to his point, Fallon takes a quick swig of beer before continuing.
“And what does Micky O'Reilly have to say about all this? Unsurprisingly, nothing intelligent or intelligible. He shot his little promo in between shots at – what else – an Irish bar. You can take the Mick out of the bar, but... oh wait, I guess you can't take the Mick out of the bar, after all. So Micky says that he and I are in a 'special' match this week. What kind of match is that, sunshine? A 'Fall Off The Wagon' match? Because honestly that's the only match you could ever hope to beat me in. No one is more adept at falling off the wagon as Micky O'Reilly. When it comes to being a complete failure, Micky O'Reilly is the heavyweight champion of FGA. And that's saying something.
“Seriously, Micky, how long did that sobriety kick last for you? I think it was over faster than your blind date with that trainer you had there, Earl Grey or whatever his name was. The only thing shorter than your sobriety will be the amount of time you spend upright in our match at the Monroe Community Center on Wednesday night.”
Fallon rolls on, ignoring the stripper who has begin fidgeting with her hair, uninterested in the on-going promo-cutting.
“And it's not even just because you're a useless, gin-blossomed, boozebag... though, that's certainly part of it. Even when you're not poisoning your liver with booze, you still don't have your mind anywhere near where it needs to be. Allow me to use this strip club to illustrate my point to you, Mick. This strip club to me is a distraction. Come Wednesday night it will occupy a tiny postage stamp of real estate in the furthest recesses of my mind, filed somewhere in Memories under 'Skanks.' Your strip club is named Michael Tomkins. On top of that being a terrible name for a strip club and putting aside all the obvious jokes and the fact that you and Mikey clearly love each other and should go run away to San Francisco; unlike this joint, Mikey Tomkins occupies enough space in your brain that you could land a 747, towing another 747, on it. With enough room left over for a Starbucks, a McDonald's and the entire Mall of America.
“And the proof is in the promo. You spent the better part of your time penning an oral love letter to Mikey-boy, and then did what? Told a few short jokes? That's the best you could come up with? I'm sure they were hilarious to you while you were three seats to the wind, but those of us with functioning cerebral cortexes who don't make a regular habit of falling off barstools and pissing ourselves were not amused. Even the sub-85 cameraman tried to save you from rambling on like a baboon, but either you were too drunk or too stupid to catch it.”
Fallon gives a dismissive snort as he eases back into the couch.
“And you've got the audacity to refer to yourself as the 'Irish Giant?' What Internet Nickname Generator did you pull that gem out of, slapnuts? Irish Giant. Sounds to me like somebody is overcompensating for a little case of the old 'Irish curse.' Not that I'm sure it would matter all that much, because even you do drag home some three hundred pound slampig you're probably too sauced to get it up anyway. The only thing left to figure out is when Big Bertha takes a gander does she ask 'Is it in?' or 'Does it exist?'
“That tells you all you need to know about you and I, Mickles. You look at me and all you can come up with is that I'm shorter than most of the neanderthals in the locker room. That's all you've got on me. You on the other hand, are a barely-walking, barely-talking trainwreck of humanity. I haven't even mentioned your sad little arm that I'm going to snap like a twig with my Chimera arm-lock. I haven't mentioned the lack that you've gone from contender to pretender in the span of a few weeks. And frankly, I don't have to. Because after Wednesday night at the Monroe Community Center in Monroe Township, no one is going to ask who won our match. The only thing left to figure out is if they'll ask 'Is it over already?' or 'Did it even begin?'
Deuces, booze-bag.”
With that, Fallon throws up his “deuces” and turns his attention back to the stripper on his lap, before standing up after her and following her to the VIP room.
Atlantic City, New Jersey.
A solid two hour drive south of the Monroe Township in New Jersey, is the "Las Vegas of the East": Atlantic City. The city is famous for its legalized gambling, mafia ties, glitz, grime and vice. In other words, a perfect encapsulation of the state of New Jersey, thoroughly doused in glitter. Two blocks from the Tropicana Casino on the famed Atlantic City boardwalk is 2600 Pacific Avenue, the only pink building in Atlantic City: A.C. Dolls.
The building is painted a gaudy matte pink with life-size posters of scantily clad women decorating the exterior like movie posters along the side of a cinema. Flashing neon lights and scene advertise the “Live Nude Dancers” and the Atlantic City motto of “Always Turned On.”
Inside, Warrant's “Cherry Pie” is blasting over the sound system as a redhead in a white bikini works the main stage. Lights flash in white, blue, yellow, green and pink. A bar sits directly inside the entrance, despite the establishments acceptance of B.Y.O.B, and the stages sits off to the right surrounded by a few faux-leather couches and chairs. The strip club is as busy as you'd expect for 7:30 on a Monday night; in that it's almost empty.
However, there is one man sitting in front of the center stage on one of the couches. A tall thin brunette in a tasseled, neon green outfit that looks like some part-bikini, part-fishnet hybrid sits to the man's left, and a slightly chubby, short blonde sits on his right in a tube top and denim shorts, running her hands through the man's dirty blond hair. The man for his own part, is attired in a slate-gray sports coat over a black hooded sweatshirt, dark blue jeans, bright white Adidas sneakers and large aviator sunglasses. A self-satisfied smirk settles in on the face of Sean Fallon as he admires his surroundings before taking a quick sip from a bottle of beer.
“Greetings, True Believers,” he begins in earnest, “and welcome to the victory dance. I've never been much of a dancer myself, but these lovely ladies obliged to pick up my slacks... I mean slack.”
The smirk transforms into a wicked grin before Fallon dismisses the blonde dancer with a quick slap on the ass.
“For those of you uneducated troglodytes at home wondering, the Sean Fallon Experience is broadcasting to you from A.C. Dolls in Atlantic City, New Jersey; the only part of New Jersey that isn't an open cesspool of decaying Italians and rub-on tanning oil. Of course, it is still New Jersey and I'll have to remember to burn these sneakers for having set foot in this God-foresaken Guidoverse, but duty calls. And since FRONTIER can't seem to pull any markets that aren't located in states filled with putrid mouth-breathers even with my gorgeous face gracing all their banners, I find myself once again subjected to plying my craft in front of slack-jawed yokels.”
With his free hand – the one not around a stripper's waist – he removes his sunglasses, tucking them into the top of his sweatshirt before continuing.
“But much like I'm doing with FGA, I'm making some good out of something lousy. I get sent to New Jersey, I make swing through Atlantic City and see the lovely A.C. Dolls. I get stuck wrestling for a backwater promotion against talentless hacks, and I slowly but surely turn it into a legitimate reputable promotion. After I wiped the floor with Johnny Brave last week, he came begging me for pointers backstage. Don't believe me? He said so himself earlier this week. I gave him the only pointer he could possibly use: quit. Quit wrestling and open up a chain of discount laundromats. It's not my fault the idiot didn't listen. But putting aside Johnny Brave and the two nameless cowards that didn't have the cajones to show up and get their asses kicked by me at Spring Breakage, I'm ready to move on to bigger and better things. At least... I thought I was, until I found out I'd be facing Micky O'Reilly on Wednesday night in the Monroe Township.”
With his glasses now removed, Fallon makes a big show of rolling his eyes.
“Micky O'Reilly? Really? Hey, FGA, you didn't notice that I WON the my match at Spring Breakage, right? You've finally moved me up the card to the second from the top – not the Main Event, where I belong, but I digress – yet you stick another curtain jerking jobber in front of me? Do you want me to give permanent brain damage to your ENTIRE roster? Or do you just want me to put the lowest of the low off your payroll? I mean, at Spring Breakage I draw a kid who was maybe born with ten functioning brain cells, and now I get a guy who killed the fifteen he was born with via alcohol poisoning.”
As if to add an exclamation to his point, Fallon takes a quick swig of beer before continuing.
“And what does Micky O'Reilly have to say about all this? Unsurprisingly, nothing intelligent or intelligible. He shot his little promo in between shots at – what else – an Irish bar. You can take the Mick out of the bar, but... oh wait, I guess you can't take the Mick out of the bar, after all. So Micky says that he and I are in a 'special' match this week. What kind of match is that, sunshine? A 'Fall Off The Wagon' match? Because honestly that's the only match you could ever hope to beat me in. No one is more adept at falling off the wagon as Micky O'Reilly. When it comes to being a complete failure, Micky O'Reilly is the heavyweight champion of FGA. And that's saying something.
“Seriously, Micky, how long did that sobriety kick last for you? I think it was over faster than your blind date with that trainer you had there, Earl Grey or whatever his name was. The only thing shorter than your sobriety will be the amount of time you spend upright in our match at the Monroe Community Center on Wednesday night.”
Fallon rolls on, ignoring the stripper who has begin fidgeting with her hair, uninterested in the on-going promo-cutting.
“And it's not even just because you're a useless, gin-blossomed, boozebag... though, that's certainly part of it. Even when you're not poisoning your liver with booze, you still don't have your mind anywhere near where it needs to be. Allow me to use this strip club to illustrate my point to you, Mick. This strip club to me is a distraction. Come Wednesday night it will occupy a tiny postage stamp of real estate in the furthest recesses of my mind, filed somewhere in Memories under 'Skanks.' Your strip club is named Michael Tomkins. On top of that being a terrible name for a strip club and putting aside all the obvious jokes and the fact that you and Mikey clearly love each other and should go run away to San Francisco; unlike this joint, Mikey Tomkins occupies enough space in your brain that you could land a 747, towing another 747, on it. With enough room left over for a Starbucks, a McDonald's and the entire Mall of America.
“And the proof is in the promo. You spent the better part of your time penning an oral love letter to Mikey-boy, and then did what? Told a few short jokes? That's the best you could come up with? I'm sure they were hilarious to you while you were three seats to the wind, but those of us with functioning cerebral cortexes who don't make a regular habit of falling off barstools and pissing ourselves were not amused. Even the sub-85 cameraman tried to save you from rambling on like a baboon, but either you were too drunk or too stupid to catch it.”
Fallon gives a dismissive snort as he eases back into the couch.
“And you've got the audacity to refer to yourself as the 'Irish Giant?' What Internet Nickname Generator did you pull that gem out of, slapnuts? Irish Giant. Sounds to me like somebody is overcompensating for a little case of the old 'Irish curse.' Not that I'm sure it would matter all that much, because even you do drag home some three hundred pound slampig you're probably too sauced to get it up anyway. The only thing left to figure out is when Big Bertha takes a gander does she ask 'Is it in?' or 'Does it exist?'
“That tells you all you need to know about you and I, Mickles. You look at me and all you can come up with is that I'm shorter than most of the neanderthals in the locker room. That's all you've got on me. You on the other hand, are a barely-walking, barely-talking trainwreck of humanity. I haven't even mentioned your sad little arm that I'm going to snap like a twig with my Chimera arm-lock. I haven't mentioned the lack that you've gone from contender to pretender in the span of a few weeks. And frankly, I don't have to. Because after Wednesday night at the Monroe Community Center in Monroe Township, no one is going to ask who won our match. The only thing left to figure out is if they'll ask 'Is it over already?' or 'Did it even begin?'
Deuces, booze-bag.”
With that, Fallon throws up his “deuces” and turns his attention back to the stripper on his lap, before standing up after her and following her to the VIP room.