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Aint No Rest for the Wicked; Late, but hey...at least I got one up.
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Topic Started: Aug 19 2012, 04:42 AM (170 Views)
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Deleted User
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Aug 19 2012, 04:42 AM
Post #1
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Deleted User
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New Friday was not at all what Killjoy had hoped for when he signed on to the company. Since the show, he had secluded himself to the rest of the world. Perfection was his downfall, he had to be perfect. There was no ifs, ands, or butts about it. He needed to be the best in the world, and He'd do anything to get there. And he meant anything.
Killjoy was a man that lived a very solitary life, barely let anyone in. All except for one man, O'Shaunessy, his friend. He was a drunk, and they both slurred insults back and forth, constantly. He owned a bar, and on off nights, He'd spend his hard earned cash. But tonight...tonight was buisness. He'd left his wife and kids for the night, to help the man get ready...He was like Rocky Balboa's Mickey.
For the past couple of days, he had been locked in his own dojo. His home away from home. He was determined to get anything...any type of dirt on this guy he had to face on the 19th, but there was hardly anything...anything at all./go figure
"So this...James fellah....he's the bloke you're gonna face on Sunday, Yeh?"
How observant, the drunken Irish bastard could read the card. He was impressed, that normally only happened when they were drinking at his bar. Or when he was overcharging for a pint (or five) of Guinness. He was one of the few that he actually trusted.
"Yeah, you can read...congrats."
He wrapped his hands in tape and began to hit at the heavy bag, slowly at first, his pace quickening as he continued. In his head he pictured the last time he was in the spotlight, in an actual ring. He was upset that he lost the match two weeks ago, but he believed that it fueled his desire to keep going. He wanted to break the next person he got in the ring with.
"Do me a favor, Irish....hold the bag."
The red head let out a grunt, placing down the stale beer he had been nursing. Killjoy liked having him around. He pushed him, he pushed back. He never sugar-coated shit. If you sucked, O'Shaunessy would be the first to tell you. Though, it was different with him. He never had to say otherwise.
"Ye're gonna kehaul over if ya'are not careful, boy."
He just kept hitting, harder, surely there was bruises on his fists, but he really didn't care. It added character. After a few high knees, an elbow...and a hard right cross, there was nothing left for the tender to hold. His bag had shredded across the middle. Sand scattered across the floor, and his friend slid across the floor.
"And if I do that on Sunday, there's no way...no way in hell that he'll be able to get up."
He wiped sweat off of his drenched brow, took a swig of the water he had poured himself earlier and stretched. From an outsider's point of view, he seemed to have an extreme case of attention defecit disorder. He was all over the place. And by all means it was not bad. He bulked quite a bit....
"Yeh, or you'll end up in the iron bar hotel..."
He let a chuckle escape his lips. Sometimes, the kid didn't know his own strength. It was his own doing, He kept cussing and screaming at him, encouraging him in the weirdest ways. He'd let the kid fight in the bar, and pushed him hard.
"Just shut up and come over here...."
The ADD struck again, he had moved on to another station, lifting weights. He was pretty confidant that he could lift at least three times his weight...he had O'Shaunnesy spot him, just in case. 1!2!3!4! He just kept going, pretty soon he was up to ten.
"So tell me, what do you plan on doing...to this fellah?"
Killjoy sat up on the bench and placed his hand under his chin, pondering exactly what he could do. From what he read, this guy was a high-flyer. He could ground him, make him tap...but that wouldn't be nearly as fun. He wanted to show the world he was better.
"I'll tell you the same thing I tell you every time I step into that ring, Irish...I'm going to handle him in my own ways. I've never seen him in ring before, but they're telling me that he likes high spots. He's green, two years in the buisness...and he's exactly what I can't stand. The good ol' boy from South Amboy...New Jersey."
He spat at the ground in front of the bench. He was a miserable son of a bitch in the ring, and he wasn't going to make any friends any time soon...He wasn't looking for them. He wanted belts. He wanted to be the people's champion. He wanted to bring class back into the company.
"I'd be shocked if He even showed up ready. I've never seen this guy in the ring, but I'll take on all comers. I'm not scared of anyone, you know that, Irish."
His bartending friend just cracked toothy smile.
"Aye, yeh...you've shown me and my mates a thing or two. The missus still wonders where my precious tooth went."
Killjoy had gotten into a fight with him, a minor tussle or two. They both loved fighting...and one night it turned pretty harsh. Neither wanted to let up, and it led to right hook to the jaw. Killjoy tended to him, in his own little way.
"I'm going to hurt him, and badly. He thinks that he's a bad-ass...he thinks that he's some Sons of Anarchy biker...well I'll tell you what...I'll stick that precious tail-pipe somewhere the sun don't shine. He's everything I hate about this buisness. Gimmicks. His stupid Biker gimmick will last one night.
O'shaunessy can tell that the kid is obviously frustrated, mad at his opponent. He'd seen him for years try to make it, only to be burried because someone had better looks. Someone had the better appeal. He was tired of it.
"And unlike the men I faced two weeks ago...I plan on burying him. burrying him like I was all those years ago. He'll learn what it's like to be in my shoes. He's not even in my league. I have no respect for him, and I doubt I'll have any when everything is all said and done..."
His friend's watch beeped. It was at least 12:30 in the morning and he'd promised his wife he'd be home as soon as he closed his bar. That was hours ago....
"Well, I think ya aught ta get some rest, ya crazy wop bastard yeh."
Killjoy just gave him a look, and nodded his head. No use beating a dead horse any longer. They said that sleep was overrated, just not when you work as much as he does.
"Yeah, go home to your crazy Mick wife and your kids...Puss."
His friend tapped him on the shoulder and just like that, the man was left on his own again. Again, he went to work on the weights.
"Aint no rest for the wicked. Sleeping is for pussies."
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