Babysitting
Apr 24, 2012 16:08:08 GMT -5
Post by Vinny on Apr 24, 2012 16:08:08 GMT -5
Babysitting
Eleven A.M. finds the sun shining brightly off the towering buildings and over the busy streets of New York City. The hustle and bustle of an average Tuesday in this city makes most other cities seem like ghost towns. Pedestrians bump shoulders, taxis bump fenders, and crackheads bump rocks on every corner. There's a smell to New York City. Not exactly a pleasant smell, but it gives the sense that the immense city is living.
Or dying.
On the Lower East Side, where the smell of blows in off the water, sits the Mayor Hotel on Division Street, not too far from Pier 36 and the Basketball City arena that will play host to FRONTIER's next DVD Taping. The hotel is a square, brick building of modest external decoration, affordable rates and unimpressive accommodations. Inside one of the rooms we find Sean Fallon, perched on the edge of an unmade queen-size bed.
The curtains to the room are open, allowing the room to bathe in natural light. A shoe-less Fallon is attired in a simple, blank, black T-shirt and dark blue jeans. His hair is slicked back from a morning shower, and his head is inclined to his left, as he holds a cell phone to his left ear. His brow is furrowed into a look of frustration as he listens to the voice on the other end on the line.
“Well, have they been watching?” Fallon interjects into the conversation, and again after listening to the response. “Well, I'm two-and-oh, Stevie, that's gotta account for... Yeah, I know it's only two wins but... What do you mean 'that bridge is burned?' You and I both know that all Bronco cares about is the money, and who can draw more money than me? Uh-huh... I know I'm banned, but it's not like I'm banned for life, right? Right? Oh come on, Stevie, there's got to be something you can do. I mean you should see the shit-holes they're having me wrestle in. It's embarrassing. Oh, I should've thought about that before? Well maybe you should think about me kicking your fucking teeth in!”
Fallon tosses the cell phone across the room, striking one of the chairs and causing the battery to pop out the back, effectively ending the phone call.
“Prick,” he mutters under his breath.
Some Time Later...
Times Square is the beating heart of New York City. An overwhelming cacophony of lights, sounds, tourists, traffic and enormous advertisements assault the senses. It is here, in the center of it all, that we rejoin Sean Fallon (who has deigned to add a black leather jacket and a pair of black sneakers to his outfit). An increasingly recurrent smirk is plastered across his face as Fallon extends his arms, and takes in the whole scene (in doing so, almost smacking a Japanese tourist in the face).
“Greetings, True Believers,” he begins. “It is nice to FINALLY have arrived in a place worthy of seeing the sensational Sean Fallon perform. After my matches in Hicksville and Crackton, it is practically a pleasure to be in the city that never sleeps. Practically, but not actually. Because as bad as the cow fields of Virginia stank, and as much as the toxic fumes of New Jersey made me gag, no stench is more vile than that of wave after wave of unbathed sub-85-IQ troglodytes that cover this city like a bad rash.
“Bad rashes are something I'm sure my opponent, Baby Bling, knows all about considering the two-cent gutter-trash he parades around with. You see, Baby Hewey, this city is a lot like you. It is a white sepulcher. On the outside it is all glitz and glamor. It is flashing lights, neon signs, loud noises. It is a fancy house, fancy cars, stupid-ass jewelry and a life-size Barbie doll to carry around your jock. But on the inside is a rotting corpse. A putrid, stinking, sweating sack of bile, guts and death. It is sewer rats and crackheads. It is the smell of garbage bags lining the streets and waste spilling over in the gutters on a hot summer day. You see, sunshine, you're all flash and pizazz on the outside, but on the inside – where it counts – you're just sh*t.”
Fallon spits out of the side of his mouth, just missing a passing child walking with her parents.
“Make no mistake about this, ghetto-fabulous, I do not like you. In fact, I hate you. 'Why is that?' you might ask, since you're about as sharp as a plastic spoon. It is because you have what I want. You have what I deserve. All the money, all the prizes, all the accolades. Those belong to me. They should be mine. Not yours. MINE. Because, unlike you, I have the talent. Unlike you, I have the charisma. I don't scream unintelligible drivel into a camera lens and lace it with F-bombs to make myself seem intense. I hate it or despite it, I am the genuine article. I am the best in FGA. I am the best in the world. And as long as you stand there, trying to claim that title for yourself, I will keep coming after you.
“I will do to you what I almost did to Micky O'Reilly last week. I will your career. I will snap your bones like brittle kindling. Ask Micky O'Reilly what it's like to be in the ring with me. If he ever stops crying about his poor wittle elbow, he'll tell you that I'm a terror. That I'm relentless. He'll tell you that when I look on that Chimera submission, the only thing that will ever get me to break it... is me.”
Fallon lifts his hands in front of his face and pantomimes breaking a bone in his hands.
“The earliest anyone has gotten a title shot here in FRONTIER is after three wins. You're my third, sunshine. You're the only thing standing between me and where I belong. You're the only thing between me and a Main Event spotlight under which I can kick in Shineboy Harrison's teeth. If I have to kick in your skull, I will. If I have to snap Micky O'Reilly arm off, I will. If I have to turn out the lights of the three remaining brain cells of Johnny Brave, I will.
“The FGA brass have made a big mistake. They've put their shiny new toy in the ring with me. I just hope you're still under warranty after I snap you in half. Deuces.”
With that, Fallon walks out of the picture and the scene closes on the massive television in Times Square.
Eleven A.M. finds the sun shining brightly off the towering buildings and over the busy streets of New York City. The hustle and bustle of an average Tuesday in this city makes most other cities seem like ghost towns. Pedestrians bump shoulders, taxis bump fenders, and crackheads bump rocks on every corner. There's a smell to New York City. Not exactly a pleasant smell, but it gives the sense that the immense city is living.
Or dying.
On the Lower East Side, where the smell of blows in off the water, sits the Mayor Hotel on Division Street, not too far from Pier 36 and the Basketball City arena that will play host to FRONTIER's next DVD Taping. The hotel is a square, brick building of modest external decoration, affordable rates and unimpressive accommodations. Inside one of the rooms we find Sean Fallon, perched on the edge of an unmade queen-size bed.
The curtains to the room are open, allowing the room to bathe in natural light. A shoe-less Fallon is attired in a simple, blank, black T-shirt and dark blue jeans. His hair is slicked back from a morning shower, and his head is inclined to his left, as he holds a cell phone to his left ear. His brow is furrowed into a look of frustration as he listens to the voice on the other end on the line.
“Well, have they been watching?” Fallon interjects into the conversation, and again after listening to the response. “Well, I'm two-and-oh, Stevie, that's gotta account for... Yeah, I know it's only two wins but... What do you mean 'that bridge is burned?' You and I both know that all Bronco cares about is the money, and who can draw more money than me? Uh-huh... I know I'm banned, but it's not like I'm banned for life, right? Right? Oh come on, Stevie, there's got to be something you can do. I mean you should see the shit-holes they're having me wrestle in. It's embarrassing. Oh, I should've thought about that before? Well maybe you should think about me kicking your fucking teeth in!”
Fallon tosses the cell phone across the room, striking one of the chairs and causing the battery to pop out the back, effectively ending the phone call.
“Prick,” he mutters under his breath.
Some Time Later...
Times Square is the beating heart of New York City. An overwhelming cacophony of lights, sounds, tourists, traffic and enormous advertisements assault the senses. It is here, in the center of it all, that we rejoin Sean Fallon (who has deigned to add a black leather jacket and a pair of black sneakers to his outfit). An increasingly recurrent smirk is plastered across his face as Fallon extends his arms, and takes in the whole scene (in doing so, almost smacking a Japanese tourist in the face).
“Greetings, True Believers,” he begins. “It is nice to FINALLY have arrived in a place worthy of seeing the sensational Sean Fallon perform. After my matches in Hicksville and Crackton, it is practically a pleasure to be in the city that never sleeps. Practically, but not actually. Because as bad as the cow fields of Virginia stank, and as much as the toxic fumes of New Jersey made me gag, no stench is more vile than that of wave after wave of unbathed sub-85-IQ troglodytes that cover this city like a bad rash.
“Bad rashes are something I'm sure my opponent, Baby Bling, knows all about considering the two-cent gutter-trash he parades around with. You see, Baby Hewey, this city is a lot like you. It is a white sepulcher. On the outside it is all glitz and glamor. It is flashing lights, neon signs, loud noises. It is a fancy house, fancy cars, stupid-ass jewelry and a life-size Barbie doll to carry around your jock. But on the inside is a rotting corpse. A putrid, stinking, sweating sack of bile, guts and death. It is sewer rats and crackheads. It is the smell of garbage bags lining the streets and waste spilling over in the gutters on a hot summer day. You see, sunshine, you're all flash and pizazz on the outside, but on the inside – where it counts – you're just sh*t.”
Fallon spits out of the side of his mouth, just missing a passing child walking with her parents.
“Make no mistake about this, ghetto-fabulous, I do not like you. In fact, I hate you. 'Why is that?' you might ask, since you're about as sharp as a plastic spoon. It is because you have what I want. You have what I deserve. All the money, all the prizes, all the accolades. Those belong to me. They should be mine. Not yours. MINE. Because, unlike you, I have the talent. Unlike you, I have the charisma. I don't scream unintelligible drivel into a camera lens and lace it with F-bombs to make myself seem intense. I hate it or despite it, I am the genuine article. I am the best in FGA. I am the best in the world. And as long as you stand there, trying to claim that title for yourself, I will keep coming after you.
“I will do to you what I almost did to Micky O'Reilly last week. I will your career. I will snap your bones like brittle kindling. Ask Micky O'Reilly what it's like to be in the ring with me. If he ever stops crying about his poor wittle elbow, he'll tell you that I'm a terror. That I'm relentless. He'll tell you that when I look on that Chimera submission, the only thing that will ever get me to break it... is me.”
Fallon lifts his hands in front of his face and pantomimes breaking a bone in his hands.
“The earliest anyone has gotten a title shot here in FRONTIER is after three wins. You're my third, sunshine. You're the only thing standing between me and where I belong. You're the only thing between me and a Main Event spotlight under which I can kick in Shineboy Harrison's teeth. If I have to kick in your skull, I will. If I have to snap Micky O'Reilly arm off, I will. If I have to turn out the lights of the three remaining brain cells of Johnny Brave, I will.
“The FGA brass have made a big mistake. They've put their shiny new toy in the ring with me. I just hope you're still under warranty after I snap you in half. Deuces.”
With that, Fallon walks out of the picture and the scene closes on the massive television in Times Square.