Post by Finn Whelan on Jan 22, 2018 20:49:55 GMT -5
I SET MY FRIENDS ON FIRE // 01
•••••
DATE/TIME: JANUARY 21ST, 2018 // 4:58 PM
“Finally booked after two months off. You’ve been busting ass here, training up, doing whatever you can to reinvent yourself.” Kei Hideshima’s Japanese accent wasn’t thick, but it was still there. “I have to admit . . . your arsenal of attacks has widened.”
“Isn’t that what you should be doing?” Finn questioned, sharply. There was too much in their history to have their conversations be civil, but the Irish-American was, by all means, not a fool. He’d made his way here when Kei said he had a deal for him -- if you wanted to call a second lieutenant in the Yakuza's schemes “deals”. “Bettering yourself so that your opponents don’t know in which way you’re going to strike?”
Kei rose to his full height, pushing himself off the bannister, looking directly at his mentee. Some would say he looked a little bit like a punk-rock Cloud Strife . . . but there was virtually nothing good in his disposition otherwise. “Been listening to your wifey, haven’t you, Kyodai?”
Brother. After all they’d been through, he still called him brother.
Finn’s face grew dark. “Leave her out of this. We’ve discussed it: I keep doing this shit, you leave them alone.”
Kei derisively snorted. “Devoted to your family. Devoted to your friends.” He shook his head. “You spend so much of your brain time focused on their wants and their needs. Family, family, family. It’s a disgusting mantra you’ve repeated from day one.”
“Some ideals you just don’t go back on.”
“And when they go back on you?” Kei smirked. “Your life has been a torrential mess from the start, Finn, and every time you have the chance to grasp something to pull yourself out of it, you fuck yourself over. You put everyone else's bullshit before yours . . . when are you going to start dealing with your own?”
He didn’t respond, still leaning on the railing.
“When I attacked Aaron, it was to eliminate your devotion. When I came to speak with Elena, it was to eliminate your ties. You could have had that championship had you kept your eyes on the prize.”
“Crosslin was better than me that night.”
“No. You had your head in the sand. We all know it. You bought your redemption in the form of a championship, decimating the one person you had actual issues with. But it wasn’t the one you wanted. You destroyed the company’s top tier talent, you rose to the top. You were the best champion that company has seen in a long time, and it shows. You could walk back in and take their title any day, and now you’re walking into Union Battleground as a recognized name, right into a tournament. This is Shogun all over again -- but the prize isn’t just a title shot, it’s a championship. How long are you going to let everyone else’s decisions affect your own?”
Finn exhaled slowly, listening to Kei as he spoke. The man had good points, and though he didn’t necessarily enjoy following them, he knew the shateigashira was right.
“Fix it, Whelan.”
•••••
“Watching your last promotional video tells me one thing, McKenna.”
A singular light, hung from the ceiling on a metallic chain, cast a yellow glow upon a chair. And in that chair sat Finn Whelan, feet firmly planted in the floor and fingers clasped lightly. There was no denying it -- he was the epitome of the “emo” kid most people destroyed in high school, what with his dark hair and his dark clothing. A long time ago, he’d probably fought against the moniker, but at this point? He didn’t care.
“You’re still clawing at the hope that you matter.”
He sat up slightly, his bright eyes staring directly into a camera lens.
“There’s this belief that you carry within; a belief that you’re this great, enigmatic competitor that no one holds a candle to. And maybe, once upon a time, you were. But your redemption story is about to take a nosedive, and let me tell you why: you haven't taken into account the bigger picture.
Bright lights, arena cheers. It's the shit we live for, what we go out there and face daily. I'm not one to say that I don't relish in the spotlight -- in a way, I think we all do. There's nothing quite like cracking someone's skull against the turnbuckle, nothing quite like the way in which you can pummel someone within an inch of their life. I've done it time in, and time out now. I've always been aggressive -- I find a weakness, I exploit it, and then I put a fucking bullet into the skull of my unfortunate opponent.
Not gonna say it happens all the time, but it's pretty prevalent when you look at my record. And why? Because I'm calculated. I do my research. I put not just one, but two hundred percent into every single match I've ever had. When the card appears, I get tunnel-vision and I set myself right to work. I look for information -- who the fuck am I facing? What do I need to know?
You say you've been wrestling since 2007, but and three one-time championships later, you still haven't amounted to much, have you, mate? Honestly, it astonishes me that Rebellion even let you represent them, much less the Championship Wrestling Coalition. You’re a fifty-fifty wrestler, McKenna, and by that I mean it could honestly go one way or the other with you. Since you appeared in CWC, with Gulf Coast, you’ve been fifty percent losses, fifty percent wins . . . roughtly, and at least four of those matches were won by people far better than you.”
Finn placed his fingers on his chin, tapping one finger against it as he mimicked thinking really hard.
“Last I was aware, that means you’re a sometimes wrestler, not particularly the best there is. I’ve got a eighty-some win rate percentage. We can sit here and talk about how shitty my former company was due to some shady as fuck business practices, but let’s put it out there that I beat Mikey Svarro, a Union Battleground competitor, to gain the highest accolade of the year. My record in that company alone was solid wins, and I was undefeated as a champion.”
He leaned back in the chair, tilting his head to side. A crack sounded, but it didn’t seem to phase him.
“While we're at it, let's include that you had to fight for your place in this Crown of the King Cobra Tournament, while I got placed in it my first match in Union. While you had to fight the bottom of the barrel, I got Main Event status in Round One. I capitalize. I deliver. I make sure you don’t see gold, silver, or anything but the fucking arena lights as you stare up in the rafters as your dreams float on into the abyss.
You see, the brass looked at me and my reputation, and they decided that I didn’t need to prove myself in matches before being put into opportunities. I didn’t have to “play in”. They wanted to see if you could prove yourself, and while your match with Crucifix was bloody . . . you haven’t seen anything yet. When you get into the ring with me on the twenty-sixth in New Zealand, that mat we’re on isn’t just a sanctioned square where two competitors fight. Call it cocky, call it what you will -- but your grappling methods fail when it comes down to agility. And your submissions? The ones you place your claim from fame on? Gotta catch the skinny fucker first, right?”
He shook his head, and leaned forward, as if his next words were going to be really important.
“I need you to understand something. You may be looking for redemption from your shoddy-ass, fifty-fifty bullshit career. But me? I’m looking for blood while I grasp for gold. It's not redemption at this point -- it's proof. Proof of who I am, that I have everything it takes and more. I’ve knocked out people for less, and I’ve left people lying in the dirt as I walk past them, eyes on the prize. I'll set my friends on fire if that's what it requires. Take yourself back to London, and you stay in your yard. This Battleground is mine, and I'm not letting that gold out of my sight.”
He rises to his feet, and then he snorts, pausing.
“I was gonna turn out the light, but who needs that dramatic bullshit? to make a point The name of the show is apropo for your future . . . since you know, it’s gonna be lights out for you and your Union career. See you soon.”
Black screen.
[END]
ooc: wordcounter.net states the this roleplay is 1,491 words.
Post by Terry McKenna on Jan 22, 2018 21:53:25 GMT -5
“SOME MIGHT SAY”
CHRISTCHURCH, NEW ZEALAND JANUARY 22, 2018
“Patrick Callaghan here, live, for RadioSportChristchurch.nz, and we are back in the Cash Converters studio, joined by one of the blokes in the main event of Union Battleground’s upcoming Light’s Out show...” A brief pause as Patrick looked down at a cue card on his desk, “Terry McKenna. Terry, it’s a pleasure to have you here this evening.” Looking out of place in skinny jeans, a Wren Fred Perry Fishtail Parka and sunglasses, Terry acknowledged Patrick with a disinterested nod, taking a mental note of his earlier pause.
“So Terry,” looking back down at the card in front of him, “It says here that you’re an internationally acclaimed wrestler, having won titles across the globe. So tell me, what brought you to Union Battleground, and what brings you to Christchurch?” Chewing a piece of gum and looking past Patrick, it was Terry’s turn to let a brief pause past. “Wrestlin’, init.”
An awkward silence lingered in the studio for a brief moment, and Patrick, noticing Terry’s hostile and disinterested behaviour, attempted to save what was looking to be a disaster of an interview.
“I get that, but, like, why Union specifically? Is it because of their platform? The fact that they can sell out arenas, to the tune of tens-of-thousands, must be great for someone like you, no? It gets your name out there.” Insulted, Terry looked at Patrick for the first time since entering the studio. “Someone like me?”
Patrick attempted to interject, but Terry was quick to cut him off, not giving him a chance to explain. “What d’ya mean someone like me? Someone who ‘as fought tooth and nail just to put their scene on the map? ‘Cause that’s exactly what I’ve spent my entire career doin’.”
“I’m so–” Once again, Terry was quick to cut Patrick off. “No, y’know what? I don’t wanna ‘ear it. You’re a joke, mate. You ‘aven’t got a clue what you’re on about. I didn’t come to Union for exposure, or to ‘get my name out there’ – my name ‘as been out there since 2007, when I debuted. Within three years I was tourin’ Japan and it didn’t take long for me to become a star. And by 2015, I was in America doin’ what I do best. So I got a question for you, Patrick, ‘ow on earth is Union gonna get my name out there more than it already is? Or better yet, what is wrestlin’ in this shithole gonna do for me?” Terry stared intensely at Patrick, waiting for a response he knew wasn’t coming. “Nothin’. New Zealand, Australia; no one cares. Union came ‘ere outta pity – it’s a poxy pity tour – ‘cause the only decent thing about the scene in this blemish of the world is Owen Gonsalves, and ‘e couldn’t wait to get away.”
A stern, cold, look appeared on Terry’s face. Bringing his hand up to his chest, he points at Patrick, and then at himself. “You should be sat ‘ere, askin’ me what I can do you; for the wrestler’s ‘ere – for the scene in general. Union came ‘ere to inject excitement back into wrestlin’ over ‘ere, and ‘ow d’ya go about doin’ that?” Slowly sitting back in his chair, Terry adjusted his glasses and waited for a short silence to linger, before speaking in a much calmer and cooler tone. “You put Terry fuckin’ McKenna in the main event. That’s ‘ow.”
Grinning with confidence, Terry continued to sit back as he waited for Patrick to make the next move. Though Terry was hoping that this would be it; that Patrick would realise that he wasn’t going to get anything productive out of his guest and would just move on. After all, this wasn’t why Terry got into wrestling. He didn’t do it for the fame. He could care less whether he was wrestling in front of twenty-one people, or twenty-one thousand, and he’s done both. Press-tours were part and parcel of working for a bigger company like Union Battleground, and though he hated doing them, they had to be done. But no one said he had to cooperate fully.
With the dead air lingering for a long period of time – a radio host’s nightmare – Patrick made another attempt to salvage the moment. “Alright,” a beat, “lets go to our lines. I believe we have Billy on the phone. Billy, how are ya, mate?”
“You’re a fraud. You call Pat a joke when you’re the joke, Terry. You’re delusional.” The tone of the caller caught Terry’s interest, and he leans forward in his chair. “You act like you’re this great wrestler when the fact of the matter is you’re terrible.”
“Shut up!”
“You talk about being this pioneering figure who travelled and conquered the world, but that’s not true is it.”
“Shut up! You don’t know what you’re talkin’ about!”
“I don’t know what I’m talking about? You don’t know what you’re talking about! You talk about being this pioneering figure who travelled and conquered the world, but that’s not true. You abandoned the UK scene whenever you get a chance. You failed in Japan; There’s a reason the last time you went back there was as Ana Hayden’s tag team partner! And people in America barely know your name. You’re the joke, Terry. There’s a reason why you had to earn your shot in the Crown of the King Cobra tournament, and I cannot wait to see Finn Whelan kick your ass this Friday.”
“I don’t bloody need this.” Furious, Terry stands up from his chair and goes to walk out of the studio. But before doing so, he turns around and points at Patrick with his index finger. “I am not a joke! The joke is exactly what Billy just said: I ‘ad to earn my way into this poxy tournament. And Finn? All ‘e ‘ad to do was sign ‘is name to a dotted line. That’s the fuckin’ joke ‘ere.” His face began to turn a slight shade of red, and Terry was now standing over the host.
Removing his glasses, Terry instructs Patrick to look at his face. “You see this?” Pointing at a cut just above the bridge of his nose, “This right ‘ere? This coulda put me on the sidelines for weeks. And for what, so I can prove that I belong in this stupid tournament?!” Forcefully, Terry slams his fist down on the desk and speaks in a much quieter tone than before. “That’s a huge slap in the face, especially when this Finn Whelan bloke can just waltz right on in. Does that sound okay to you, Patrick?”
“What ‘as ‘e done that I ‘aven’t? Why does ‘e deserve to be in the main event, with me?! You can’t answer that – no one can! But I think I figured it out, I think I know the answer. It’s an issue that has plagued wrestlin’ since the day I made my debut: the UK is disrespected. The UK ‘as to fight for his life to show that he belongs somewhere, why some yank knob just turns up and is afforded opportunity after opportunity. It ‘appens in the UK, it ‘appens in America, and it bloody ‘appens in this dump, too.”
“I am a wrestler, and Finn is a glorified thug. I belong in this tournament and FInn, Finn just doesn’t belong. Period. And I can only shudder at the thought of someone like ‘im beatin’ me, winnin’ the entire tournament, and goin’ onto become the champion of Union. I earned my place in this tournament and this Friday, I will once again prove that I am the best that Union has to offer.”
