"not even a blip"

[Finn Whelan]

•••••

The blinds had been shut for days, and barely a sound had been heard from the house. If anything, it’d set worry into the people that chose to stand in his circle. Except for a few text messages in minute response, communication had been dry and stagnant for days now. It was almost as if he hadn’t existed whatsoever; there was no Finn Whelan. There wasn’t a fearless daredevil that put his life on the line for the entertainment of fans. There was no aggressive brawler that never gave up, even when he probably should. No. All that existed in the darkened house was Callien O’Hanlon, and that was merely by a simple thread that if cut, would allow for complete annihilation from the inside out.

His phone lay, running on low battery, on the floor some feet away. He hadn’t answered it in days, and despite its incessant buzzing, he hadn’t figured that anything was important. If it was, he knew Elena would eventually find her way out of her mansion and into his house with her hand-dandy set of keys. Or Kei would barge his way in. But honestly, he didn’t really feel like giving a flying fuck about what either of them would have to say to him right now. Even though he was a spectacular listener and follower, he also was a stubborn asshole who wasn’t going to budge when he didn’t want to.

To say his self-imposed silence was because a childish response to his losses would be asinine. Any loss wasn’t a reason to crawl into the bottom of a forty and piss your life away. They would come and go -- it was the nature of the sport. There was always going to be someone better, stronger, faster, and more prolific than you. So, no it wasn’t in response to losses, though they did play a factor. It was ultimately the toll of the last few months finally breaking him down. Callien was generally a resilient person, and he wasn’t often one to show any form of weakness.

Show weakness, show your failure, boy. It’s all you’ll ever do.

It was days like this when his father’s voice would play games with his head. The man had berated and destroyed Callien from the inside out ever since he was a child in the name of making him into a man. He was a rebellious child by nature, but his father seemed to pull out the worst in him. Many a time would he be chastised, rebuked, and beaten by the man in the name of discipline and growth. He grew to disclaim his mother for allowing the punishments. From the age of twelve, Callien was shipped to his crack whore aunt’s house to spend summers and breaks because his own family didn’t want anything to do with him. It had been years since he’d seen them, and he thought he was done letting them come to mind.

Failure.

Every time he had a shot at greatness, he’d failed. Zero-four. Every championship opportunity he shot for, he found himself on the L-side. It was pathetic. Alex Jones had decimated his opportunity at the top-tier title in Honor, and he found it difficult to be cordial to him despite his friendship with his sister. Anastasia Starling proved her worth as a Rising Phoenix, even though he’d stepped through fire and fought every step of the way. And the recent loss meant that a no-class, shitty-ass talent like Dick Devereaux would be one step closer to the Ultraviolent Championship, something he could have had a shot at had Julian Cortez’s lapdogs not intervened in the match.

Combine it with his current clusterfuck with Kei and his current Yakuza involvement, and his divorce turned into domestic violence case, and Callien was just done. Done with opening his house. Done with listening to people tell him he had a chance. Because in the end, no, he didn’t. He had zero chance in being champion any time soon. He had zero chance at distancing himself from the shit he’d gotten involved in with his mentor. And in the end, it just left zero motivation for anything.

He was content just to lie drunk on the couch until the apocalypse arrived and Jesus Christ himself sent him to Hell.

Light poured into the room as the vertical blinds opened with an angry whirring growl. Callien groaned, rolling over onto his other side, shoving his head into the back crevice of the couch. Jameson bottles littered the ground around the ottoman, and cigarette butts filled the ash tray sitting on the table next to the couch. He was wearing the same shirt he’d had on three days ago, but the flannel pants had changed at least.

“Come on, let’s go.” Elena prodded, grabbing for the empty bottles and chucking them into the trash can. She jabbed him in the side with a well-aimed toe kick. Callien looked up at her, throwing an arm over one eye and wincing. But she would not be swayed. She pressed her black-manicured fingers into her hips and stared at the lanky wrestler. “Mexico awaits, Sunshine.”

“The flight isn’t for a week, El.”

“I know.” She rolled her eyes. “But we have things to do, and I have kicks to aim at your head to get your ass on track again.”

Callien rolled up into a sitting position and rubbed the sleep out of his eyes. “I’m doing fine on my own.”

“No, you’re not. You barely answer text messages. You field phone calls. This isn’t you. Stop sulking like a pansy-ass and get your ass to the gym.”

He finally scoffed. “What for? What goal do I seek, Elena, now that I’ve been tossed down to the bottom rung again? Two steps forward, thirty back.”

“So?”

He was confused. “So?“

“So, get back those thirty and keep moving forward. Nothing is going to happen if you, or I, just lie back and let them take advantage and screw us. We have to be the driving factor, and we need to show them that we’re not going to let them get the best of us. We’re going to go back for the Duos titles. We’re going to get back into the game. And we’re not going to let them destroy us. We’re both better than this, and you know it.“

“El, if you only knew . . .“

"I don’t want to know." She shook her head. “I know something is going on. I see it in your face. I can read you better than you think. We’ve had each other’s backs for years now, Callien.“ She never used his real name – he had a lovehate relationship with it, but he knew she was serious. “But I’m not going to ask you. I’ll wait for you to tell me. And no matter what it is . . . you know I’m here for you. But you’re not acting like the Finn I know, and I would very much like that version back. You know, the one that isn’t afraid to do whatever is needed. Go for the throat.“ A smile slipped slightly on his lips as she spoke, and he rose to his feet. She grinned, and kicked him once more, right on his ass.

“Kick me again, and I’ll kill you.“ He warned, jokingly.

“You wouldn’t dare. But . . .“ she leaned forward, “I bet that threat lies for anyone else, yeah?“

She was kidding, he knew it. But the thought rested within his brain as he followed her into the house. Elena was right – in more ways that she knew.

•••••

“You know, it’s becoming a habit for me to come into these videos with a loss behind me. I’m not entirely too keen on it, but it is what it is.“

Finn sat on the edge of a dock, water flowing under his bare feet slowly. He stared at the liquid below him, his eyes not lifting to meet the camera. He has headphones attached to one of his ears, the other dangling over his Seattle Seahawks’ jersey. He seems relaxed. Calm.

“I could sit here, and I could rattle on about how beneficial it was for me to lose, how I’m going to push on and persevere through my mistakes. But that . . . well, it would be a broken record, and contrary to my apparent emo-nature, I’m not about harping on my failures. It comes down to the truth. I fought hard, and I gave it my all. But Anastasia Starling won -- as was to be truly expected, because the girl is a hellion and she’s not letting that championship go. It was a good match – am I frustrated that I lost? Yeah, absolutely. Who wouldn’t be? But I think you and I both know that this isn’t the end.“

He looks up then, straight ahead. “I’d like to point out this one simple fact: I didn’t make a mistake. I came up short, but I didn’t make a mistake. For the first time, I feel there wasn’t a specific area I could have done better in. I fought hard. I did what I came there to do. And regardless of my loss, I want to point out that there’s always a second time. I promise you, Ana, that I’ll be back again. It may not be the next show, it may not be the next few shows, but it will happen again. And that time, I will not lose.“

“I’ve come to realize now that there’s more to this sport than championships, wins and losses. I got my head so wrapped up in the quest for glory that I forgot what I came to do. It was never about gold or silver. It was never about achievements. It was a temper for my temper, a venue to curb my anger and turn it into something productive. It was a place to tear down those who would otherwise believe me to be a weak, helpless individual. No, I don’t fit the mold. I realize that. But at the same time, I break that mold and turn into something unexpected, unlike the typical roided-out macho man wrestler. Something completely unlike . . . well . . . Mason Daniels.“

A smirk came to his mouth. “I’ve had the opportunity to challenge and hone my aggressive streak in a company where there are no rules. There are no ways to escape, to take a rest, to recover and find yourself back on your feet. You either leave by pinfall, submission, or by ambulance. One of my matches ended up with my opponent dropped onto a table filled with thumbtacks as he was flung twenty-five feet to the ground off a scaffold. I’m used to sanctioned matches here, even though I’ve been known up to this point to take it to the edge. So imagine my glee and surprise when I found that my match against Daniels at Tempest is a no disqualification match.“

It’s at this point that he turned his head slightly to look at the camera. A grin slowly overcame his features.

“To tell you the truth, Mason . . . you weren’t someone I bothered to pay attention to. Not even a blip on my radar. It’s my fault that I don’t often pay attention to anything but what I’m concerned with in companies, so I had to go back and decide what you were. My first impression was a loud-mouthed, overconfident bigot with very few brain cells. But I had to dig deep and figure out what I was truly dealing with. I mean, to have kidnapped a woman only to have that woman suddenly turn on her own sibling and help her captor means that you must be particularly good with the mind tricks, right? And it couldn’t be that you were simply just a twat in the back that mouthed off to people. I figured you had to be more than that. But so far . . . all I’m seeing is that you’re exactly what I thought.“

“I bet I can determine what you’re going to say about me without even watching what you have to say. Here are some adjectives you might use to describe me: wasted, emo, junkie – honestly, why should I expect anything else, when all that has been tossed at me is blatant disregard? Never mind the fact that I came here as a driving force, and I expect to continue as a driving force. I’m not going to talk about retribution, about earning my spot and gaining notoriety. Because you know what? I’ve done that. Losses, failures . . . it doesn’t matter, especially when I drive your face into the mat and drag it across with the full intent of making sure no one recognizes you when we’re done. If you expect me to come into this with wishy-washy bullshit about respect, you’re forgotten your own place.“

Finn shakes his head and lifts his fingers, pressing his thumb into each and every single one of his knuckles, cracking them on one hand, and then the other.

“I forgot what I came here for. It wasn’t titles. And while I still see myself in the championship realm one day, I need to remember that it’s not about glory. It’s not about notoriety. It’s simply about spilling as much blood as is possible. I came here to fight, not to be a mat technician, not to be an aerial acrobat – to fight. To spill my opponent’s blood across the ring, and what better way to do that than maim the one person who had the audacity to open his overly-fattened mouth to someone who had nothing to do with him? So go ahead, Daniels, open your mouth. Talk about how you believe you’re going to win, how you’re going to destroy me and discount every single thing I’ve done since day one in this company.“

He chuckles.

“Please, I’m dying to hear you tell me to go commit suicide like the emo-fuck I am. Sad thing is . . . to do that, I’d have to climb the height of your ego and drop to the depths of your IQ for anything to even happen.“

He shrugs then. “Win or lose, Daniels . . . I’m really not in the mood to give any form of shit about it right now. I will continue to rise. I’ll continue to achieve, and I will continue to move forward towards my goals. I’m willing to wait. It could be months, years . . . but I’ll find my way to the podium. I have the ability. I just need to weave my way and rise above, and you can count on it that I’ll figure it out, one way or another. But you? How many more matches can you go? Masaru. Rowyn. Over and over. They’ve left their mark on you, have they not?“

“Not a blip, Daniels. Not even a bogey on my radar. I’ll see you in Guadalajara. And I’ll be sure to leave you with a gift to hold onto for the rest of your life.“

•••••

Guadalajara, Mexico
April 28th, 2017

Finnegan stepped off the plane, and into the tropical summer air. He’d turned his phone on minutes ago, and it was still cycling through the now international network, trying to gain service. Following the rest of the crowd, Elena behind him with her own carry on, he wandered aimlessly through the tarmac, hoping to at least get to the hotel before sundown. Maybe the gym. Maybe to the margarita stand. Nothing was off limits, at least . . . tonight. He had a thing about not drinking the day before the match, and always wanted to head into it, face forward. Was he uneasy? Fuck no. In fact, he was looking forward to it. He needed a place to vent his frustrations, and Daniels in a No DQ match seemed to be the best gift he could ask for.

His phone dinged as he entered the terminal, and he lifted it to his eyes. One voicemail, two messages. An unknown number that he thought he’d blocked after he deleted it. Aaron.

Good luck. I’m rooting for you.

He rolled his eyes and deleted it. She’d been texting him for days now, and as much as he would never admit he missed her, he did. But he was steadfast. She was trying to ruin his life, trying to get him to respond. And he wasn’t going to do it.

The second, from his mentor.

Make sure you go for the throat.

Always the backup plan. He lifted the phone then to his ear, running through the voicemails. It was Kei, again. Probably going to be some fucked up message about not fucking up.

When you’re done, meet me in Ciudad Juarez. Cortez needs a message sent to him, and I need your hands on it this time. Blood for blood, and all that jazz, kyodai.

It would never end.

[Fin]