“I’ll be honest, I am finding it hard to give a shit. I really am. You know what I mean?”
The group of men and women sat around the table nod knowingly, although most have a vacant expression on their faces as they do so.
“When I signed on the dotted line for this shit, I didn’t realise just how quickly I would tire of it all. That itch was scratched and now, now I find myself having to spend my time in this fucking amazing city knowing that at some point, I gotta drag my ass to that arena, lace up my boots one more time, go out there and beat the everliving shite outta some poor sap before I can finally relax for another couple of weeks. What’s the fecking point?”
Danny’s words were slightly slurred as he spoke, after all, he was in Dublin. What do you do when in Ireland? Do as the Irish do. Therefore, ever since arriving at his hotel yesterday afternoon, Danny had been partaking in a tasting course of Whiskey. He wasn’t even a huge fan of the stuff, but you know, when in Ireland.
This fine Friday evening he was sat at a table inside the Old Storehouse in Temple Bar, a favourite haunt of his when in Dublin, and was dropping beverages as if they were tic-tacs. Around the table were mainly locals bemused at the lunatic Englishman spouting shite. One of them recognised him as a Professional Wrestling Megastar, and had informed his friends of such. The rest of them didn’t watch wrestling, because they didn’t want to enjoy their lives.
So, for the last hour or so, Danny had partaken in his favourite pastime, drinking and shouting at things. In this particular case, the target of his aggression was the CWF, and the Alpha and Omega tournament. Also, as he was prone to do after having a few, he seemed to have inherited the accent a little. This only led to people catching his words a little more, as he flickered between his natural Sussex and newfound Dublin tones.
“Take Paradigm these week. Nathaile Paradiso. Sounds like a fun chap doesn’t he? People have been saying I should take this one seriously because he’s a former Paramount champion… ooohhh. Shouldn’t I be fucking scared. A paramount champion! Shit me, grab two of each animal and head for the fucking border…”
He was interrupted by a gorgeous blonde barmaid, who had leant over the table to collect the empty glasses. In the future he wouldn’t be able to remember if he had thought of answering the next question with the line that he did, or whether it was just because it was fucking everywhere, but he went with it.
“Can I get you guys anythin’ else?”
“OOOOHHH! A little bit of the bubbleh!”
The one wrestling fan at the table nearly fell off his stool with laughter, while the others all looked on a little worse for wear, not quite sure what they had just missed. Danny’s table was certainly attracting attention from others in the bar, but he gave zero fucks at this moment, he was in his own little world, his favourite place to be.
“So, what, I am supposed to fear this fucker? Me? The Alpha, The Beast of Boardwalk, the Daddy of Destruction, The Demon of Death, The Golden Warrior, the God of War. Me? I’m supposed to walk into that arena and shake in my boots as I come up against a fucking Barbeque enthusiast? Please.
I know what they’re all gonna say, ‘here comes Danny B again, shitting all over everything we do, all over this company. No one likes you Danny. Boo this man.’ You know what, fuck you all, and fuck it all. Damn right I will walk into this company and shit all over every fucker that walks through that curtain, and do you know why? Because none of them are me, and that’s a simple fact. Jaysus I wish I had realised this a few weeks ago. Fact is, I couldn’t give a flying arse about this feckin’ tournament. I came back because I had an itch to scratch, to kick some arse and take some names. I did that didn’t I? Put myself right back on the map in the space of a couple of weeks. Now there’s this expectation that I am out to be the best again, to prove to the world that between the ropes I am what I say I am.
Fuck that, I know who I am, I know that none of these cunts can’t hold a candle to me, and so what’s the fucking point? Win the tournament. Bitch I did that the moment I signed on. Everything else, breakages, the hospital trips, the careers ended. That’s for fun. Like this, this is fun.”
It looked as if the stout, dark haired Irishman across from Danny was going to speak, but he was interrupted by the arrival of the bubbleh. Danny wasted no time in uncorking the bottle, narrowing avoiding smashing a glass as the cork shot out of the bottle. The non-speaker either realised that he wasn’t going to get a word in edgeways, or simply forgot what he was going to say and graciously accepted a glass of freshly poured bubbles, same as everyone else. The house lights came on inside the bar to combat the rapidly fading sunlight, soon to signal in the influx of post-dinner drinkers. Of course, none of this registered with Danny, who simply continued to drink and talk, as if there was nothing else going on around him.
“So, Nat-han, that’s my guy this week isn’t it? From what I have gathered the guy is somewhat valued amongst the current CWF faithful, a fella who has proven his worth and earned some respect. Good on him, but what has he actually done to earn that respect? Really, and honestly, does respect mean anything anymore? One thing I do say however, is that you are only as good as your last match. That puts Paradine in good stand right? He put away Konrad Raab with a Gogoplata on his last outing didn’t he? It was almost impressive.
Dive a little deeper though, and watch the match. It was sheer luck. His record has shown that when it matters, he can’t pull it outta the bag. What fucking hope has a lucky man got against a God like me?
That’s the long and short of it Nathaniel. When I am done whooping you across the ring like the bitch you are you can go crying back to Melbourne and tell all your friends and family, yes, all three of them, that a bloody pom just made you cry like a bitch. I know you think you’re tough, a submission specialist isn’t born on a fluke, but really, are you not just someone who saw some cool moves on YouTube and thought that you would try them out on the big stage? It can work, trust me I know, because that was me ten years ago, but eventually you have to find your own voice, your own style, your own persona, and I’m sorry mate, but thinking you’re the next Tyson Pedro ain’t gonna get ya anywhere locking horns with the one and only Ripper of wrestling, yours truly.
You’re a choker bro, lots of game but no gravitas. Hell, the last time you won any match of note you had Trent Steel by your side. When the chips are on the table and you’re bluffing your two pair as a killer hand, I’ll be standing over you cashing in on a royal flush.
The fact is kid, you don’t know me, all you will see is a pretty boy with a shit ton of mouth and not a lot else. A crap name, a ridiculous gimmick and a whole load of hot air spewing from me.
Let me let you know my secret though. It ain’t a gimmick, and it ain’t hot air. When the lights are on and Daddy’s home, which I can assure you is the case right now, I am the fucker guarding the golden gates. You got spunk, you got attitude, but what you ain’t got is a hope in hell kid.”
And with that, Ripper fell off his stool, causing a rather large chuckle to erupt from the table.
"The concession stands are now selling those cheap hotel room round soap disks that I have personally blessed for $100’s a bar….AND SINNERS….I suggest you buy one, and use it, because if you think your God wants you in his heaven smelling like a 3am New York City uber ride you got another thing coming."