Post by Finn Whelan on Jan 14, 2017 17:41:43 GMT
It probably wasn't the best decision tonight, but Finn didn't care. It'd been the first time he'd run from his problems since he'd been drug out of the gutter some four years earlier. Dressed in his typical "emo-kid" attire, Finn looked a little lost in the back-road's bar he'd stumbled into. He'd shoved and elbowed his way in-between some rather rough-around-the-edges type of older men, causing them to slosh their beer. They did not appreciate it.
He only hailed the bartender with an impatient wave of his hand, not intending to stay long. Taking the disrespect for what it was, the more gruff-looking of the two elbowed the lanky Irishman in the chest. Finn wobbled slightly: the only indication that this wasn't his first drink of the night. Again, there was no response. The bartender apprehensively approached, giving a dry look to the older man. She leaned forward, hoping to get a good tip by showing off her perky little outfit; they always did. "What can I get ya?" She questioned, a little giggle in her voice, a wink from her eye.
"Jameson. Bottle."
She blinked a little. There was no "please", no "thanks". Finn didn't even bother to look up from his fingers as they tapped aimlessly at the stained bar. Two things stood out to her: he knew exactly what he wanted, like every other alcoholic in the shit town. And two, this clearly wasn't his first drink of the night. It wasn't "customary" to serve patrons with an entire bottle without a good reason, or without a high tab, but the fifty he slammed on the counter a second later cleared that right up. She gave it to him, along with a glass, and poured a generous amount into the high-ball. Silence was golden for a few moments. The godforsaken honky-tonk music played over the speakers, the bikers ignored him, and for a brief time, he was able to drown himself in the whiskey he likely overpaid for. At least, until one of the bikers moved, knocking into him once more. He stumbled into the next one, who didn't respond well to the unsteadiness of his feet. But at this point, Finn couldn't particularly see straight, and his hearing was tunnel-like.
"Looks like we've got a fuckin' brave one here." The loudmouth was pushing 350, and stood a good six foot, creating a behemoth of a man. Even though Finn was taller, his girth wasn't as wide, and he wasn't exactly in the right frame of mind. Clearly, the older biker was sizing the kid up, and thinking it would be easy to take out this shitty little brat. Finn's wife would have told him to back off, try to talk it out, and then get the hell out of there. His mind, however, told him differently.
Finn picked up the bottle he'd paid so nonchalantly for, and, without any warning, cracked the entire thing right across the biker's head. A sickening crash of glass echoed as the biker dropped to the floor, not unconscious, but in pain. The Irishman was entirely about to lift a leg and deliver a kick to the dude's head, but he was shoved back by an unseen entity here to save his skin. If he were left to his own devices, Finn would likely be in the hospital in the next thirty minutes with multiple contusions and unable to compete next Tuesday.
When he hit the counter, Finn turned to retaliate. So did the biker on the opposite side of him. But nothing came of it. He didn't hear the words uttered, but he did feel the clutch of fingers right into the pressure points of his neck, disabling him almost completely, and forcing him outside of the bar. Once out in the cold air was he let go of, that hand of the "hero's" shoving him with such force that, had he'd not had any stability at all, Finn would have hit the floor. And it probably would have been good for him.
Finn swung around again, finding his footing with a furious expression on his face. Once his eyesight adjusted, his lip curled up and his fists balled up. His mentor had found him, and it only took a grand total of two hours. "Did Aaron send you?"
"No. I followed your pansy ass from the house, to the hospital, to the liquor store, to this shady ass bar. You don't do a very good job of covering up your tracks." Kei Hideshima, a former world champion way back when, was never one to mince words, and he wasn't about to now. Finn was his pet project, in a sense. Abrasive and atrocious, he'd turned Finn from being a complete whack-a-mole in the ring into the callous fighter he was now. "I already know what's going on, but all you're doing is running away from your problems. Like you always do."
"Really don't think it's any of your business."
"Kid, you are my business." Kei's eyebrow rose in irritation. "And it's about high time you piss the alcohol away and get back to work." To this, Finn started laughing. He snickered first, and then began to laugh loudly, nearly doubling over. But it didn't last. A long second passed and Kei took three steps toward the kid, grabbed him by his shorn black hair, and rammed a fist right into his gut. The silence was deafening. "Look at you," he growled. "You have a contendership match in a couple days . . . and this is what you do?" Another punch. "Go off the fucking deep-end because something bad happened? Did I teach you nothing?"
One more gut punch, and Finn fell to the ground beneath him, staring up at the night sky. Kei was always right. His mentor, his spiked blonde hair and his nose mask dotted in blood, leaned over him and stared. "When you're done being a pansy bitch, meet me at the facility." He dropped a couple twenties on the ground. "You know, even in your fucked up little mind, what to do."
•••
Everybody has priorities. Look at the world in front of you on an average day, and tell me exactly who doesn't have priorities? Maybe not every single person in life has their priorities in line, but they have them, and they're certainly the driving factor for many. The crack addict on the corner that you narrowly avoid? Priority lies within the next chance to take a hit. The soccer mom sitting in her overpriced SUV with a book in her hand and a bottle in the other? You know all she wants is a moment to sit and binge on candy without grubby little hands grabbing for everything she has. Even the teacher who opens up their mouth and complains about the behavior of their students has the goal of meeting impossible standards set by people who have no damn clue about education to begin with.
#GOALS
Soren Kierkegaard wrote that, "If there were no eternal consciousness in a man, if at the foundation of all there lay only a wildly seething power which writhing with obscure passions produced everything that is great and everything that is insignificant, if a bottomless void never satiated lay hidden beneath all--what then would life be but despair?" Man should always be searching for a reason to fight, to find a reason to exist, even if it is simply trying to get a bite of candy without a child begging for it immediately. Anyone without goals tends to flounder about, and wonder what they worth is. They sit in pensive silence, often contemplating their point in life and what matters. Existential crises tend to bloom and cause utmost irritation and frustration for those who try to walk through life with nothing but free will and no bullet to the back of their head. Perhaps they believe their worth is unmatched, or conversely, that their worth is less than nothing. Perhaps they can only find fulfillment in the belief that yes, there is something out there. But what? What is left for someone who has no idea what they're searching for?
Since I arrived in the business some seven months ago after a year long tenure in training, I've always had that "hashtag" in mind. Goals. They weren't hard to deduce; after all, the first think that any cocksure newbie in the sport has ever wanted was the moment to hold gold in their hands, to prove to others that their worth is unmatched -- at least for a day. Two companies, two tournaments, two ultimate failures: a loss, and a closure. Anyone that has seen me since July knows I've been busting my balls and have something to prove, whether it's to the fans, to my family, or any bro in the backstage area that has doubted me. Several have, and I've put them in their goddamn place. Fifteen matches in my career, and I've lost three. Three to my own mistakes, I will admit. I've never backed down. I've never stopped. I've always had a drive to step into the limelight, and I've capitalized on this whenever I've gotten the chance. Losses only make you stronger, but wins? They make you feel invincible.
But somewhere along the way, I lost my goal. I came into Phoenix without a direction. My main intent, I guess, was simply to destroy whomever stepped in front of me. I've done this. Three matches, three wins. Four pathetic wastes lying on the floor, one with an arm ripped from its socket. But I can't explain to you why I did any of it. I didn't have a goal. Phoenix brass fixed that. After blatantly taking out every single "challenge" I've been given, they decided that I actually have worth. Maybe I'm not quite in that Rebirth bracket, but that's fine . . . the Rising Phoenix Championship is a honorable title. And that leads me to this week.
Seth Iser. Impressive wrestler that he is, he's no different than Kris Keebler, no different than any man or woman I've faced up to this point, and no different than any other sure-of-themselves wrestler in this business. Every single one has had some rising moment where nothing could've touched them. When you've been in this business for years upon years, its hard not to have a rising moment. Like a Phoenix, you rise in the flames of adversity, where people don't believe in you, where they're so focused in on themselves that they don't take into account the person on the other side of the ring has the same exact goal as you do. Like I said, I don't disrespect my elders, and the veterans before me. Not unless they're sure so sure of themselves to be the most god-given competitor in the ring for a match. I don't disrespect Iser, and from what I can tell, he doesn't disrespect me.
But here's the thing: I don't back down. You can stand across from me, you can tear me down, you can beat me into an inch of my life. That's fine. I've been there thousands of times before. But what you don't expect, Iser, is that I bounce back. I'm a fighter, not a competitor. When Phoenix hired me, it was because they knew I would give the best show possible, and that I would fight for my win, no matter the cost. I have a goal now, Seth. They've realized my worth, and unfortunately for you, it will be at your expense that I rise to the top. And those fans that you so heinously speak of? They'll be cheering my name again, when you lie on the floor after that 1-2-3. I expect you to come at me, I expect brutality. And I expect you to miscalculate, because people like you always do. Experience sometimes falters. I'll be moving on, number one contender. And you? The bottom again.
But don't worry, Seth.
It's just business.
----
2000 words, according to WordCountTool.com
Thanks for the competition! Good luck!
He only hailed the bartender with an impatient wave of his hand, not intending to stay long. Taking the disrespect for what it was, the more gruff-looking of the two elbowed the lanky Irishman in the chest. Finn wobbled slightly: the only indication that this wasn't his first drink of the night. Again, there was no response. The bartender apprehensively approached, giving a dry look to the older man. She leaned forward, hoping to get a good tip by showing off her perky little outfit; they always did. "What can I get ya?" She questioned, a little giggle in her voice, a wink from her eye.
"Jameson. Bottle."
She blinked a little. There was no "please", no "thanks". Finn didn't even bother to look up from his fingers as they tapped aimlessly at the stained bar. Two things stood out to her: he knew exactly what he wanted, like every other alcoholic in the shit town. And two, this clearly wasn't his first drink of the night. It wasn't "customary" to serve patrons with an entire bottle without a good reason, or without a high tab, but the fifty he slammed on the counter a second later cleared that right up. She gave it to him, along with a glass, and poured a generous amount into the high-ball. Silence was golden for a few moments. The godforsaken honky-tonk music played over the speakers, the bikers ignored him, and for a brief time, he was able to drown himself in the whiskey he likely overpaid for. At least, until one of the bikers moved, knocking into him once more. He stumbled into the next one, who didn't respond well to the unsteadiness of his feet. But at this point, Finn couldn't particularly see straight, and his hearing was tunnel-like.
"Looks like we've got a fuckin' brave one here." The loudmouth was pushing 350, and stood a good six foot, creating a behemoth of a man. Even though Finn was taller, his girth wasn't as wide, and he wasn't exactly in the right frame of mind. Clearly, the older biker was sizing the kid up, and thinking it would be easy to take out this shitty little brat. Finn's wife would have told him to back off, try to talk it out, and then get the hell out of there. His mind, however, told him differently.
Finn picked up the bottle he'd paid so nonchalantly for, and, without any warning, cracked the entire thing right across the biker's head. A sickening crash of glass echoed as the biker dropped to the floor, not unconscious, but in pain. The Irishman was entirely about to lift a leg and deliver a kick to the dude's head, but he was shoved back by an unseen entity here to save his skin. If he were left to his own devices, Finn would likely be in the hospital in the next thirty minutes with multiple contusions and unable to compete next Tuesday.
When he hit the counter, Finn turned to retaliate. So did the biker on the opposite side of him. But nothing came of it. He didn't hear the words uttered, but he did feel the clutch of fingers right into the pressure points of his neck, disabling him almost completely, and forcing him outside of the bar. Once out in the cold air was he let go of, that hand of the "hero's" shoving him with such force that, had he'd not had any stability at all, Finn would have hit the floor. And it probably would have been good for him.
Finn swung around again, finding his footing with a furious expression on his face. Once his eyesight adjusted, his lip curled up and his fists balled up. His mentor had found him, and it only took a grand total of two hours. "Did Aaron send you?"
"No. I followed your pansy ass from the house, to the hospital, to the liquor store, to this shady ass bar. You don't do a very good job of covering up your tracks." Kei Hideshima, a former world champion way back when, was never one to mince words, and he wasn't about to now. Finn was his pet project, in a sense. Abrasive and atrocious, he'd turned Finn from being a complete whack-a-mole in the ring into the callous fighter he was now. "I already know what's going on, but all you're doing is running away from your problems. Like you always do."
"Really don't think it's any of your business."
"Kid, you are my business." Kei's eyebrow rose in irritation. "And it's about high time you piss the alcohol away and get back to work." To this, Finn started laughing. He snickered first, and then began to laugh loudly, nearly doubling over. But it didn't last. A long second passed and Kei took three steps toward the kid, grabbed him by his shorn black hair, and rammed a fist right into his gut. The silence was deafening. "Look at you," he growled. "You have a contendership match in a couple days . . . and this is what you do?" Another punch. "Go off the fucking deep-end because something bad happened? Did I teach you nothing?"
One more gut punch, and Finn fell to the ground beneath him, staring up at the night sky. Kei was always right. His mentor, his spiked blonde hair and his nose mask dotted in blood, leaned over him and stared. "When you're done being a pansy bitch, meet me at the facility." He dropped a couple twenties on the ground. "You know, even in your fucked up little mind, what to do."
•••
Everybody has priorities. Look at the world in front of you on an average day, and tell me exactly who doesn't have priorities? Maybe not every single person in life has their priorities in line, but they have them, and they're certainly the driving factor for many. The crack addict on the corner that you narrowly avoid? Priority lies within the next chance to take a hit. The soccer mom sitting in her overpriced SUV with a book in her hand and a bottle in the other? You know all she wants is a moment to sit and binge on candy without grubby little hands grabbing for everything she has. Even the teacher who opens up their mouth and complains about the behavior of their students has the goal of meeting impossible standards set by people who have no damn clue about education to begin with.
#GOALS
Soren Kierkegaard wrote that, "If there were no eternal consciousness in a man, if at the foundation of all there lay only a wildly seething power which writhing with obscure passions produced everything that is great and everything that is insignificant, if a bottomless void never satiated lay hidden beneath all--what then would life be but despair?" Man should always be searching for a reason to fight, to find a reason to exist, even if it is simply trying to get a bite of candy without a child begging for it immediately. Anyone without goals tends to flounder about, and wonder what they worth is. They sit in pensive silence, often contemplating their point in life and what matters. Existential crises tend to bloom and cause utmost irritation and frustration for those who try to walk through life with nothing but free will and no bullet to the back of their head. Perhaps they believe their worth is unmatched, or conversely, that their worth is less than nothing. Perhaps they can only find fulfillment in the belief that yes, there is something out there. But what? What is left for someone who has no idea what they're searching for?
Since I arrived in the business some seven months ago after a year long tenure in training, I've always had that "hashtag" in mind. Goals. They weren't hard to deduce; after all, the first think that any cocksure newbie in the sport has ever wanted was the moment to hold gold in their hands, to prove to others that their worth is unmatched -- at least for a day. Two companies, two tournaments, two ultimate failures: a loss, and a closure. Anyone that has seen me since July knows I've been busting my balls and have something to prove, whether it's to the fans, to my family, or any bro in the backstage area that has doubted me. Several have, and I've put them in their goddamn place. Fifteen matches in my career, and I've lost three. Three to my own mistakes, I will admit. I've never backed down. I've never stopped. I've always had a drive to step into the limelight, and I've capitalized on this whenever I've gotten the chance. Losses only make you stronger, but wins? They make you feel invincible.
But somewhere along the way, I lost my goal. I came into Phoenix without a direction. My main intent, I guess, was simply to destroy whomever stepped in front of me. I've done this. Three matches, three wins. Four pathetic wastes lying on the floor, one with an arm ripped from its socket. But I can't explain to you why I did any of it. I didn't have a goal. Phoenix brass fixed that. After blatantly taking out every single "challenge" I've been given, they decided that I actually have worth. Maybe I'm not quite in that Rebirth bracket, but that's fine . . . the Rising Phoenix Championship is a honorable title. And that leads me to this week.
Seth Iser. Impressive wrestler that he is, he's no different than Kris Keebler, no different than any man or woman I've faced up to this point, and no different than any other sure-of-themselves wrestler in this business. Every single one has had some rising moment where nothing could've touched them. When you've been in this business for years upon years, its hard not to have a rising moment. Like a Phoenix, you rise in the flames of adversity, where people don't believe in you, where they're so focused in on themselves that they don't take into account the person on the other side of the ring has the same exact goal as you do. Like I said, I don't disrespect my elders, and the veterans before me. Not unless they're sure so sure of themselves to be the most god-given competitor in the ring for a match. I don't disrespect Iser, and from what I can tell, he doesn't disrespect me.
But here's the thing: I don't back down. You can stand across from me, you can tear me down, you can beat me into an inch of my life. That's fine. I've been there thousands of times before. But what you don't expect, Iser, is that I bounce back. I'm a fighter, not a competitor. When Phoenix hired me, it was because they knew I would give the best show possible, and that I would fight for my win, no matter the cost. I have a goal now, Seth. They've realized my worth, and unfortunately for you, it will be at your expense that I rise to the top. And those fans that you so heinously speak of? They'll be cheering my name again, when you lie on the floor after that 1-2-3. I expect you to come at me, I expect brutality. And I expect you to miscalculate, because people like you always do. Experience sometimes falters. I'll be moving on, number one contender. And you? The bottom again.
But don't worry, Seth.
It's just business.
----
2000 words, according to WordCountTool.com
Thanks for the competition! Good luck!