[finnwhelan]

He didn’t know when, and he didn’t know why, but at some point…wrestling just stopped mattering.

There wasn’t a reason for it in particular. Maybe it was the politicking that went into some of the companies he was in, or maybe there just wasn’t enough drive for him to go anywhere. He’d been champion how many times? How many people toppled over a total of five years? There were a handful and a half that could say that they defeated him in a match, and yet, when push came to shove, the drive stopped somewhere, culling the desire to push ahead and make something of himself. Hell, he already was something, and at any moment, he could have brought the world to a halt, the people to his feet. There were so many opportunities that waited in the wings, just itching for him to reach out and grab them…

The sport of wrestling, the bullshit that came along with it, the people that it created monsters out of, the chaos that consumed the soul…he didn’t want to deal with it any longer. He didn’t want it to take control of his mind and body and create in him a destructive tendency that his own family couldn’t deal with. That he couldn’t deal with. The constant consumption of alcohol to drive away the pain that settled in his body, the asprin, the ibuprofen, the medications that saturated his blood until he couldn’t function without them…there had to be a stopping point. And so…

He did.

Finn Whelan walked away from Sin City Wrestling in the pandemic year of twenty-twenty and didn’t look back. For over a year, he only paid attention to the sport to guide and mentor the man he could call a brother only by title, not by blood. Under his tutelage and guidance, the man known to the wrestling world as Dickie Watson would rise above the masses as the face of many companies, the inaugural champion of start-ups, and a man who currently holds the highest honored championship in a company of vultures for two hundred and thirteen days. The satisfaction and pride that soared beneath Finn’s skin, though never shown to the world, could not be hindered. Couldn’t be beaten.

But then that itch started.

When he watched his siblings fight for dominance.

When he watched his younger brother rise above the rest every time he sat on the precipice of his career.

His toes throbbed, his leg tapped, his hands wrung. He told himself over and over that he would never return, that this wasn’t for him, that he was better off leading, not breathing it in anymore. He closed his eyes and exhaled so many times, before realizing that no matter how many times he tried to walk away from it, it would drag him in and suffocate him until he could no longer stand.

Finn told himself a small company, small promotion. Just wet his feet, get going, push himself a little bit, but don’t take it too seriously. Right? That’s the best way. He didn’t want to come in guns blazing at a knifefight. But lo and behold…four matches later, and he was the champion of the company. The world championship of Next Level Wrestling laid within his palms and he carried it with a pride that he couldn’t replace. One solid defense against the man the rest of the company couldn’t beat, and then a loss, and a step back again. The questioning begun again.

Do I want this?

Do I want to be a part of this?

Should I?

He was content to allow his brother to defeat him in singles combat and pass on the torch…but what did that ultimately teach in the end? Was that what the legacy he wanted to leave behind? That he quit when it wasn’t a cakewalk for him? It didn’t settle well within his body and mind, and so…he struggled. Struggled with the opportunities that laid before him against the ever-burning desire to disappear and never be heard from again. It created a rage in him that he couldn’t quell.

The questions went on and on. At least, until Sin City Wrestling called his name again, opening up an opportunity not only to face some of the best in this business. Opening up the opportunity to spill the blood of the most unsuspecting, to allow him the moment and time to dismantle the psyche and destroy the person across from him.

And so, he walked towards the doors.

As if he’d seen the good light of the Father shining down upon him to sow chaos.

- - - - - - - - -

WOLFSLAIR TRAINING FACILITY
30 MARCH 2021

Finn allowed his fingers to run the length of the canvas as he slowly took prolonged steps beside the training ring. His eyes focused upwards as he did so, peering at the competitors within the squared circle itself. He knew them, and rather intimately at that too. He’d faced one of them before, and watched interestedly as Alicia Lukas slammed her sparring partner to the mat. He didn’t know the little one’s name, nor did he particularly care, but the blonde seemed to be annoyed with her performance, all things considered. And she should be. Alicia was, by far, not the best in the ring – after all, she’d lost to him long ago, which was something that neither of them seemed to let go.

He could hear the groaning of an Australian man across the way and smirked a little as he looked across the ring at him. Another man he was familiar with, having laid him on the ground for a three-count as well. As his eyes surveyed the area, he wondered exactly who would be excited to have him around. It wouldn’t be Alicia, nor would it be Aiden Reynolds. Least of all the man currently staring at him from the doorway to the lounge, his eyes narrowed in irritation. After all, it was because of Finn himself that Austin James Mercer’s father found himself without a wife for a bit. The blonde with the dreadlocks was distrustful, the blonde girl in the ring would hate him, and above all, the boss would throw a fucking fit when he saw his face.

This all suited him just fine.

These were all people Finn knew well. Knew how to manipulate their minds, knew how to make them hate him enough to fall into a venomous rage. He could make them believe they weren’t good enough, that they would never be good enough, and when it came down to it, he could tear them apart. Conversely, he could build them up further than they were. Push them harder. Force them to be better. Lead by example, and take no prisoners.

He couldn’t deny that the facility was well managed. The Joneses clearly didn’t mind how much they paid for the tools and resources that would create state of the art wrestlers who fought with everything in them. Not only to represent themselves, but to represent the name. They were dedicated to their craft, and the facility supported them in the best ways possible. It would be invigorating to finally be a part of a gym that cared far more about all of their wrestlers and their successes than just the one that leadership kissed the ground they walked on. It would be purely intoxicating to rise above with the support of others.

Even if they all hated him in the end.

The tapping of stiletto heels against the ground brought him out of his reverie. The six-foot-four, blue-eyed, black haired Seattle Saint turned and looked in the direction of the buxom blonde that stepped out of the administrative office. She carried a manilla envelope, and wore bright red lipstick that perhaps she thought was classy. In the back of his mind, he was creating insults he could hurl at Alex Jones about his wife, but he wouldn’t say them. At least, not unless they were warranted.

Sonjo Jones smiled as she approached him, and Finn ignored that he could see down her shirt for the most part. She handed him the envelope with a grin. “I think I have everything documented, so I guess…welcome aboard! I know when Alex said he was looking for a promotional trainer, he didn’t exactly have anyone in mind, but I mean…with some of the scathing things you’ve said about people just off a whim, I think we won’t have to worry about people falling short, you know? And besides, he might need help if more and more people join the gym. Lately, we’ve had some upstarts from…what was it, PWS: Apex? I guess it’s not nice to call them upstarts, but they’re certainly growing here. Bella Madison has been fighting with all her heart and soul…she’s doing so well. Anyway…”

She rambled on, and Finn didn’t say much in response. He watched how she tucked her hair behind her ear as she spoke, dreamily looking off into the sunset in her mind as she spoke of her husband. The smile that played upon her lips as she spoke about the Madisons and the Kanes. She spoke highly of Lukas and Krieger, how they were doing so well, but just needed a little bit more drive from time to time. And with him around, of course, perhaps they could get the Richards girls all back into the fray.

“I guess I can show you your office.”

“Office?” Finn questioned, raising an eyebrow.

“Of course,” Sonja continued, turning her body and starting to walk away from him. She stopped, looked at him expectantly, and when he caught up with her (which wasn’t an issue with his long, ripped denim-covered legs), she continued walking. “How else are you going to meet with our trainees individually and work with them? When they record, they’re going to need pointers. How to adjust their stance, the importance of the background…everything matters.”

Everything matters. How quite thoughtful.

She climbed a set of steel steps with him following her located on the far end of the facility where all the other offices were. Those stilettos clinked against them as she walked hard against it. Finn glanced at the door plate of the first office, and with a deep sense of amusement of what could be, smiled. Alex Jones, Wolfslair Owner / Head Trainer. The man hated him, hated what he stood for, hated who he was, hated the mere fact that a rivalry had been borne that would never die. He was the brother of the woman who broke his heart – and yes, even Finn knew it then. His sister, Elena, told him everything. And he used it to his own advantage.

Finn waved as he passed the window of the first office, and with a devilish smile, he caught the dark eye of the owner of the facility. With a furious expression covering his face, The SCW Roulette Champion instantly rose to his feet, carried his sweatpant wearing frame over to the door and flung it open.

“You’re not fucking welcome here.” Alex Jones snarled. “I don’t care what happened – if Steel Bones threw your ass out on the ground, that’s not my problem and I’m not gonna fuckin’ entertain your existence here. If this is some tour of the facility and you’re thinking of training here, that’s not an option.”

Finn listened as Alex rambled on. And in his rambling, he found the nugget of truth. The crux of the situation. The glorious thing he could hold over him and crush his balls into his very hands if he wanted to.

Sonja, his own wife, hadn’t gotten Finn’s hiring approved.

Alex had no fucking clue he was a trainer for the facility now.

“To be perfectly honest, I wouldn’t be surprised if they did throw you out. You’re the most self-centered, egotistical dickfuck in this business, and at the end of the day, it doesn’t matter how many people you’ve put into the figurative ground, you’re no better than any of them. Wolfslair doesn’t stand for what you are about, Finn. Get the fuc–”

Sonja cleared her throat. Finn crossed his arms with a smile. “Alex, honey…”

“What?” He snapped, turning his eyes onto his wife.

She smiled sweetly, blinking a little sheepishly as she did so, and reached for the door on the second office. She let the tumbler clang in the knob and bit her lip slightly. The name plate had already been run, and was already sitting in its place: Finn Whelan, Promotional Trainer. If Alex had walked just four feet to the left of his office, he would have seen it, and it wouldn’t have been such a jarring surprise. Finn grinned widely, watching Alex’s expression go from complete annoyance to muted rage.

“I told you I’d hired someone already for this…you did say whomever I saw fit…” Sonja reminded him gently, reaching up and touching his bearded-face with her manicured fingers. He looked at her, his nostrils flaring and his eyes narrowing as she smiled and then pressed a finger to his nose. “Mr. O’Hanlon will be more than adequate for this job.”

“...you’re fucking serious.” Alex swore.

“Of course! Now. I have some paperwork to file, so if you’ll excuse me…”

She walked away, smiles abound. Alex and Finn stand, stationary, for a couple of purloined seconds before Alex’s nose flares and he sucks his breath in through his teeth. Finn glances around, and then, raises his hands as if he’s playing a jack in the box, one fist closed and the other rotating slowly. As if it’s a surprise, Finn rears back with a middle finger. “Hey friend.”

Alex rolled his eyes and slammed the door to his office behind him as he walked away.

This would be probably the greatest thing he’d ever done in his life.

- - - - - - - - -

Wrestling is fickle.

Wrestling will beat you down and destroy you if you let it.

But the idea of letting it destroy you is where I draw the line.

Didn’t think you’d see me again, did you? Hell, I didn’t think I’d see myself here again. Two matches I had in this company, one loss, one win…I’m not going to sit there and deny that the loss wasn’t something that was indicative of my abilities. But it wasn’t indicative of the wrestler that I wanted to be, who I was, what I could be. This isn’t one of those, “Oh, I’m gonna do better now that I’m back” stories that are so fuckin’ contrite and convoluted and bullshit at the end. I’m not here to find redemption for my failures, because in the end…I never failed.

I failed to secure a win, but I never changed my outlook. You see, it’s when you start letting the world come down around you that you end up struggling with who you are, what you’ve done, and where you’ve been. I’ve walked thousands of miles, seen thousands of faces in the crowd, and there is not one match that I don’t remember as being significant to my career. I know the thought process of this world…that if you’re not moving forward, you’re lost in the shuffle. And in a company like Sin City, it’s easy to get lost in the shuffle.

Look around, ladies and gentlemen. Look at the Blast From the Past tournament and you tell me…who’s going to get lost in the shuffle?

Look at the list. Your champions, Mac Bane and Amber Ryan, sit in the wings, their eyes watching every person that walks across their path, meticulously planning the demise of their contenders. That’s why they’re in here, you know. They want to play the field before the field plays them. It makes sense. But with names like theirs, names like Mikah and Matthew Knox, Supreme Machine, Kat Jones…it’s a stacked field that can get lost in a sea of names. Jack Washington has been a SCW World Champion, and yet, even he sits here, twiddling his thumbs and watching and waiting to see the person he’s going to conquer in order to get one step closer to Bane’s title.

It’s sad.

But that’s the name of the game, isn’t it? Slink in the shadows, maybe you’ll get what you want handed to you if you wait long enough, put your hand out a billion times. Isn’t that everything I’ve seen sitting on Twitter? The audacity to beg for a title shot…

Pfft.

I couldn’t do it.

For those of you who don’t remember who I am, my name is Finn Whelan. An introduction of sorts is warranted because it’s been some twenty-months since I’ve been in an SCW ring. Inwardly, perhaps I’m feeling a bit happier about doing so, because when I was here last, I wasn’t the same person as I am now, and didn't have the same hungry drive that is embedded within me now. You see, in my absence, I not only became a champion…I became a champion four matches into my career.

Four.

I don’t expect that to happen here. I don’t expect to sit up, have you all see what I can do, and then get to the top within a couple of matches. Like this tournament, there are far too many names ahead of mine to get that coveted ability…but that doesn’t mean I’m going to stop at what you think I can do.

I get what Blast From the Past is supposed to stand for. The opportunity to create tag teams, put your mark on that tag team, and then increase your standing in a company. It’s supposed to weed out the unworthy, the ones unable to prevail in the light of adversity. And maybe, just maybe, if you succeed as a mixed tag team to the end, you truly deserve a shot at the World Championship. It’s all well and good. It makes sense, it puts a little bit of allure and surprise into the daily monotony of things…

And yet…it requires that both of you can figure out your shit long enough to last as a team. On my end, I’ve got Sin City Underground’s Sister Esther, Esther Shepherd, Esther Azarov as my partner.

Hold on.

Yes, I’m asking you to wait with baited breath.

…


……


……..


FUCKING WHO?

I guess I should be aware of the fact that she’s a Combat-something champion over there in the secondary territory of Sin City, but if I have to ask myself who someone is, then the fans are also going to ask that question, and so are our opponents. If you haven’t been notable enough to sign your name up in this event, can’t figure out how to show up for something you fuckin’ signed up for, and you show up half-assing your matches just so you can get a paycheck…you shouldn’t be allowed to join the party. But you know, it is what it is, right? Tell that to Sierra Williams, who got just as fucked as a porn star for a forty minute film of getting her ass rammed.

But unlike Sierra, I have no issue with fucking walking out on my tag partner. That may seem conceited and full of shit, but at the end of the day…if I’m going to put the effort in, then I expect my partner to do so. I hate tag teaming anyway, but I thought this would be a great opportunity to showcase some skills.

You can say all you want about this in the future, but I will tell you right now…I will do everything in my power to prevail over Candy and Goth…but I will leave you to suffer the consequences of your own actions. Tag team wrestling is a dual effort, and if you can’t put in your own time, then you take the brunt of it on your own shoulders. Let the little girl who doesn’t matter in this company, that shouldn’t be in this company, let alone wrestling, flick her bullshit glitter in your eyes. Let Goth drone on and on about his rise to glory that will never be attained because he sounds like the singer of Type O’Negative trying to sing-speak into a microphone while sounding like he’s the most bored individual in the entire universe.

Hey, that’s the end of it, right?

I’m not impressed.

I have zero problems with waiting for my opportunity to strike. I have no problems not jumping the line like everyone else seems to think they should. I’m back in Sin City to stay, bet on it.

We’ll try again next time.

See y’all soon.