Post by Finn Whelan on Apr 30, 2018 23:25:31 GMT -5
REBELLION “It's the same old theme since 1916." The Cranberries
•••••
“Rebellion.”
Wooden floorboards are visible as the scene begins. The room is shrouded in darkness -- not to give the illusion of fear and horror, but because the room needs it. The click of a camera roll sounds from an old projector that’s propped up on a desk that’s seen better days, what with its chips and scratches, paint splotches. With his feet resting on the desktop, Finn Whelan sits back in the adjoining wheeled chair, the remote to the projector lazily sitting in his hands.
“It’s a ideal that draws sheep and sycophants in because it sounds like a glorious way to go out. Stand up for your beliefs. Stand up, for the rest of the world doesn’t understand you. Rebel against the masses, fight for yourself. Fight for your beliefs. Individualization. For whatever reason, people get pulled into this business with the idea of rebellion driving them in every action, in every way.”
Finn inclines his head to the right, stretching out his neck.
“If you’re someone who follows the rules, you’re shit in this profession. A bootlicker. Brown-noser. Doormat. Fuck, might as well call that person a suck-up because how fucking dare they do what the rest of the world does? Stay in your place, toe the line. Don’t you dare step over it.
“But let me put you to a question, if I may. In history, in the world, what has ever happened for the man who rebelled?”
He pauses as he turns his head in the opposite direction, tilting it to the left and stretching it out there. As the light gets brighter with the unseen images, it is more and more noticeable that he wears a bruise beneath his eye and his lip his cut.
“Union Battleground takes its roster to Dublin for War of the Worlds on the Sixth of May. Of all the countries in the world, Ireland certainly knows what rebellion has done for itself. They’ve lived it, they’ve breathed it, and they know what it has caused in the way of terror and isolation. Under British rule, there were many, many attempts at rising against the monarchy, none more volatile than that of Easter Rising on April 29th, 1916. And the only reason I bring this up is it reminds me of a moment in the near past, and a moment in the near future.”
He looks up at the ceiling, takes a breath, and closes his eyes.
“Seven members of the Irish Republican Brotherhood stood in arms against the British rulers of their country with a force of only thirty-six hundred, seizing Dublin in strategic parts so that they could demand separation from Britain as their own Republic. The British showed in force, and they decimated not only the leaders of the movement, but additionally, they slaughtered innocent civilians in their quest to crush the insurrection.” He shook his head. “Their demands were never met, and the leaders of the movement were destroyed. The Rising caused more harm than it did good.”
Finn lifts his legs off the desk and slams his feet to the floor, his boots hitting with a loud thud upon the floor. He stands, pushing the chair back as he does so, and he presses his fingers to the desktop, looking at it intently as he thinks.
“Men are made to think for themselves, given free will by whatever force you want to believe in. You understand that, right?”
He turns his head, and it’s clear that he’s not fully speaking to the camera. He pushes upwards off the desk and looks toward the other side of the room, where a person is seated. The bruises and cuts on Finn’s face seem bad, but the ones decorating this man’s body are far worse. At least, for what can be seen in the dark area.
“You’re a lucky one, aren’t you?” Finn takes a few steps forward and leans toward the other man, his arms crossed. “See, you and I both understand that even if rebellion seems to be the most shiny and popular ideal of the current day, it’s not. It’s a fallacy, a construct of the mind that says you’re in control of everything you do, that not one single soul has the ability to strike as you do.”
He pats the man, tapping him on his cheek lightly, but hard enough for the cracking sound to echo. The man strains against the strip of cloth wrapped around his mouth.
“Everyone is controlled. No-one escapes reality. We’re all just mindless zombies responding to Life’s continual assault to the balls.”
He turns then, leaving the man tied to his chair and moves out of the room, the camera following him down a flight of stairs in a rather dilapidated structure. He steps on the old wooden floorboards of the landing and looks around at the place. It looks like someone had been living here, but not well. Not well at all.
“But I suppose honestly that it’s rebellion that brought about what we’ll see at War of the Worlds. Johnny Vachon decided that he’d open his mouth, spouting bullshit about playing second fiddle to Devereaux. We’ve gone this route, he and I, and we saw how it ended: me, victor. Vachon . . . well, lying in his own puke is normal, but thankfully, we didn’t see that. What really struck me as complete bullshit is that he sat there and stated he should have been afforded chances.”
He pauses and a smile comes to his face. He continues to talk as he walks about the “living” space, checking around the area as if searching for something specific.
“So I’m giving him a fucking chance.”
He shrugs his shoulders, turning the corner yet again, moving into the small kitchen attached to the living space.
“When I signed with WWH, it was an intent only to participate in the Shogun Tournament. When I won it, I decided to stay on, because I’d earned my championship shot. Then...I stepped back and I waited. Waited for the best moment, the most opportune time to lash out and demand my match. Without a doubt in my mind, I rose to the occasion, and I took out a man who’d held the title since October after it’d been played with like a game of Hot Potato.
“See, I’d earned that shot, but in the same method, I’d earned the ire of my coworkers. They said I’d become arrogant. The former champion tried to do the same to me, laying in wait, waiting for the opportunity to strike. And then he demanded a rematch at the show before the biggest pay-per-view of the company’s current season. Effectively, this screwed over any opportunity for me to fight at the pay-per-view, where the promoter probably should have said, ’No, let’s have it on the PPV’. Nah. She let the man run the business rather than put her foot down, and she left me off the card. In all honesty, I think Collins just didn’t want to get embarrassed again in front of a huge audience, but that’s me...
“Then I wasn’t booked. And I figured if I couldn’t get the respect I fuckin’ deserved at the Headquarters’ as their top champion, then I was going to go defend my title somewhere else. Oh fucking well.
“I’m telling you all this because I’m not someone who’s going to sit back and demand opportunities when I haven’t earned ‘em. I may be callous. I may be arrogant, but I bust my ass for my opportunities. Seeing Vachon, who can barely show up to shows on a regular basis basically demand opportunities that he doesn’t fuckin’ deserve? That doesn’t sit well with me at all.”
He pauses in the middle of the foyer, glancing around the room once more, before turning for the door and stepping out into the bright sun. The green, rolling hills of Ireland can be viewed as he walks down the steps of the porch and onto the gravel-paved walkway. Outside, there are a few men who are loading large crates into a vehicle.
“The best part about this whole thing is that Vachon had the nerve to act as if his career in Union is something to talk about, to be proud of, to put on up for sale as something viable. That zero-and-four record is pretty spectacular, let me tell you. In reality, I’m just putting everyone, including Vachon, out of their misery. I’m gonna go in, I’m gonna defend my title, and I’m going to ensure that trash, whether it’s from a gutter or from a dumpster, doesn’t continue to survive in this environment. This title I carry...it’s staying with me. Good-fuckin’-bye, and good riddance.”
He stops in front of the driver’s door of the truck, setting his hand against the handle.
“Johnny, here’s a middle finger to your rebellion. Have a nice trip down the unemployment line.”
Post by Johnny Vachon on May 1, 2018 20:43:31 GMT -5
Burnt wood lines the floor as we open the scene to the sight of the old 'Shut up and DRINK!' bar in Chicago, Illinois. This bar used to host the Filth Parade hijinks and the old Slaughterhouse Wrestling special bar events. That is until former owner and Filth Parade member Johnny Vachon burned it to the ground out of pure hatred of his former family. We hear the sound of a jacket zipper as we turn to see Johnny himself standing looking at the remains of the old bar. He pulls a pack of Malboro Menthols out of his pocket as he stares at the burnt wood.
"It all started here. The downfall of ol' Johnny boy. I was at the top of the world with the Filth Parade. Hanging out, getting hammered, and having the time of my life. But that stupid spotlight had to go and ruin it all. I hate the Filth Parade. And I always will."
Johnny pops one of the smokes into his mouth before lighting it up with a BIC lighter. He inhales deeply before letting the smoke seep from his lips. Johnny turns to the camera as he speaks through the smoke.
"There's a high possibility that this could be my last night in Union Battleground. But let's face the facts. I've been nothing but a sidekick to Dick Devereaux since I got here. The man gets himself into all the trouble in the world with these Salvation freaks, but can't get the job done himself. What kind of idiot goes out and attacks an entire group of guys by himself? Devereaux has and always will be an idiot. And I'm tired of living in his shadow."
Johnny spits a loogie onto the ground, removing the taste of Devereaux from his soul. He takes a drag from the cancer stick again as he continues.
"I came to Union Battleground to claim my own stake at fame. I took notice to their growing success and figured I could make a few bills fighting in their territory. But instead of getting thrown into the opportunities that I deserve, I got thrown into the Salvation bullshit. That's what I get for helping a friend. When I turned my back on the Filth Parade I told myself that I was going to go out and find my spotlight. I didn't need to be attached to a group to succeed. And yet I come to UB and get tossed right back into a group. All because I knew the motherfucker!"
Vachon is fuming mad. The thought of his Union Battleground career turning his face sour. Johnny believes he can be more and he craves the opportunity to show it. Johnny takes another puff as he points at the camera with the cigarette.
"Now I've heard the small talk. People saying that I haven't done anything to earn my time in the spotlight. That all I do is complain and that I can't get the job done. And to that I say BULLSHIT! How am I supposed to show my worth when I don't have the opportunity? People say go out and take it? What the fuck am I supposed to take in this Godforsaken place? If it's not Salvation, Dick Devereaux, or Emery Layton it ain't shit! For too long have I sat back and watched my opportunities be given to those who have stood around and hogged the spotlight. Fuck Devereaux, Fuck Salvation, and fuck Emery Layton!"
Johnny flashes middle fingers towards the three names as he pops to cigarette into his mouth.
"It's put up or shut up time. I had nothing to give for a chance at glory, so I put up the only thing I have. The stakes were simple. Beat me and I'm gone. If I can't get a win at War of the Worlds I'm out of UB. And I'm perfectly fine with it. So who's deciding to accept the challenge? Finn fucking Whelan... the worst possible outcome. Finn is exactly like the rest of these guys. He's earned a name for himself so now he get's everything handed to him on a silver fucking platter. I'm sick and tired of these show hoggers walking around stealing every opportunity! Why does Finn Whelan need this match? Why did he accept it and then on top of it all put his WWH Championship on the line? Finn Whelan is fucking greedy. Being at the top of one company isn't enough. He has to come after everything else as well! He needs the spotlight to make himself relevant. And now he aims to get another five minutes of fame at my expense. Fuck Finn Whelan."
Another middle finger appears as Johnny snorts. The cigarette has grown short now as he takes a final hit and continues through the smoke.
"At War of the Worlds I've got nothing left to lose except for my contract. But the question is, do I even want to stay at this point? If I beat Finn Whelan and win the WWH Championship will Axel Graves finally give me a shot? Or will he sell off my contract to WWH and wash his hands of me in favor of guys like Finn Whelan? There's only one way to find out..."
Johnny flicks the cigarette butt into the remains of the building as he pulls a flask from his pocket and pops it open. Vachon tilts it back and lets the drink run down his throat as he lets out a deep sigh of relief. Johnny stumbles away from the old burnt down building, heading towards another bar down the block. He slowly starts to disappear in the distance as the camera slowly zooms in on the dying ember of Johnnys cigarette, slowly burning out just like his Union Battleground career.
Last Edit: May 1, 2018 20:44:17 GMT -5 by Johnny Vachon
