The excitement in me world never seems to stop. Anyone who pays attention to the Indy circuits in wrestling (and let’s face it… if yer reading this right now, that’s you) is bound to have heard the news that ACW was absorbed into SCW. That means I am no longer a Tag Team Champion with me bruv, Ben Jordan. To some, this is met with a short “awww” and then it is forgotten. Other’s say “Mickey, me mate! At least ye lot were the only ones to ever hold those belts. Consider yerself lucky!” Believe me, I do. I am fortunate enough to have proved to the world that I am not just some peckerwood who got tossed into the ring at a moment’s notice. I earned the right to be called a wrestler, and have taken on some of the best in the business to prove it. Me most shining moment was when I captured the ACW Tag Team Championships for me and Ben. Not to take anything away from Ben, because he certainly had his hands full with winning the J Cup, having fought three matches that night? That is precisely why nobody bet on us winning those belts. Ben would be worn out from his first two matches, and that Mickey bloke surely couldn’t pick up the slack, yeah?
Fast forward several months to see that, not only did we win those belts, but we defeated anybody that stepped in our way to be the only ones to ever touch those belts. We were, without a doubt, the most solid of tag teams in the history of ACW. Ahh yes, I here ye lot asking “What’s yer point, ye barmey sonuvabitch?!” Oi! I’m getting to it lads! Now ye made me forget… Oh yeah, Like Ben said last week, we couldn’t have done it without JJ Dixon and ACW. I doubt I was even close to being one of JJ’s favorites, but the fact of the matter is that he took a chance on me and Ben as a Tag Team. He took a chance on me in general. Who else would hire an ex con alcoholic with a few screws loose upstairs? Only a man with a few screws loose himself. While JJ might have had a reputation for showing his arse on a weekly basis, if not more, I can’t let ACW be laid to rest without saying one thing to him… Thank ye, JJ…
But that leaves one thing on me mind yet… What is to happen to Michael Eamon Carroll now? It’s hard to tell with this bloody broken arm, but that hasn’t stopped me from talking with me doctor back home and getting cleared to enter the ring again. It is pretty handy to be able to talk yer doctor into such things when he’s pissing his trousers at the sight of ye. As long as Tessa doesn’t interfere in me match this week and break another appendage, things should be mint for me. Though I have to admit after seeing what the barmey bird did to Drake Green for saying no to her, I wouldn’t be surprised if I get put in a full body cast by the end of the night… unless of course, she’s done with me thanks to Drake’s distraction. No offense to ye mate, but I hope so. Been dealing with this cur for almost a decade now. I’ll be glad to give her off to another unfortunate soul. This has been one of the few times where I can say I have no idear what is going to happen come this Sunday…
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The sun is rising on the Cane Garden Bay of Tortola. The beach is lonely and empty save for one single soul wandering across the sands, leaving footprints in his wake. The ginger haired Irishman, Mickey Carroll, is practically stumbling along the beach with a bottle of Jameson in his only good hand. His other is cradled to his bare chest in a sling. He looks off into the horizon, the orange glow of the sun cast upon the faint waves of the ocean. The corner of his eyes crinkle as he narrows them, deep in thought. He slowly steps toward the ocean, pausing as the warm water wafts against his feet. He closes his eyes, enjoying the sensations sending his body into sensory overload. The sound of the seagulls and the waves lapping against the shores are the only thing he can hear. He slowly opens his eyes as he feels a hand resting on his shoulder. He quickly snaps out of his relaxed state, turning around to whack whomever it might be behind him with his half empty bottle. His eyes widen as it is the last person in the world he would expect to see… his father. He is nearly speechless as he opens his mouth to speak, but only random breaks of words come out. His father smiles, pulling the bottle of Jameson from his hand, tossing back a few swigs before sighing from the slight burn of relief.
Pops: Michael, ye look like a damned wreck of a man these days.
Mickey: Yeah? Well, as they say… Like father, like son…
Pops: Ye only wish me lad. What ye ‘ave become is far worse than anything I ever done.
Mickey shakes his head as his cheeks fill with a less jolly tone of red, and a more furious tone of red. He turns back to the ocean and the sun, soaking it in.
Mickey: If I weren’t thousands of miles away from it, I would piss on yer grave ye old tosser. What could ye possibly offer me that ye couldn’t when ye was alive besides another bruise on me arse, or having to look at the one ye left on mum’s eye?
Pops: Nothing ye would be able to understand with yer level of education, but me hopes ye would understand the error of yer ways. Yer an unwed father, refusing to marry the mother of his child. Ye hardly ever go to mass or repent for yer sins. Yet yer still a stupid, drunk, crazy, scared version of every bad thing ye claimed I ever was.
Mickey: Except a woman beater, a child abuser, and a drop out, of course. Any bloody fuckin’ thing ye could throw at me to insult me, ye really can’t say without being a hypocrite. As fucked as I may be, pops… I still do everything better than ye could have ever done.
Mickey walks further into the water, step by step, but his father refuses to let up any. He follows his son into the ocean, the water reaching both of their waists before Mickey stops. He continues looking deep into the sun, refusing to look at the aged mirror version of himself standing with a wicked smile right behind him.
Pops: Ye know… I once had a dream too. I planned to box in America. There was nothing more exciting than the idear of beating some yanks skull in for money. I trained back in London, where I met this beautiful woman. Unfortunately, she was busy with some other lad, and I knocked up yer ma instead.
Mickey grits his teeth before knocking back a large gulp from the bottle. However, he still refuses to look back at his father. Instead, he would rather be blinded by the light of the sun than face the man who contributed heavily to his current state. He continues walking forward as his father’s hearty chuckle echoes in his ears.
Pops: When ye was born, I remember watching me dreams fall to shite. I realized that I had to man up and go to work the factory. Every day I watched me dreams disappear a little bit. Me thinks somewhere deep down, ye feel the same way. Yer one claim to fame in the tag titles is gone. Yer stuck with yer little bastard offspring keeping ye from going anywhere else in this career path, yet ye still just drink it all away.
Mickey: Again… like father, like son I suppose.
Pops: Scott King and, or, Shane Spencer will rip ye apart because yer not focused. Ye got too many things clouding yer judgment as always.
Mickey continues walking slowly into the water, having no fear of what could be lurking at his feet. Instead, he is focused solely on the sun. He feels the water washing past his stomach as he goes deeper and deeper, allowing the warmth to come over him to wash away these doubts.
Mickey: I’ve got to make me boy proud of me. That’s something I worry about, pops… unlike you. The bald, roided out ape, Shane Spencer, won’t stand in me way. Nor will the mysterious, er, cowardly, Scott King. I will take down these plonkers, if not just for me boy, but to prove ye wrong about me… again. I have to make an impact here, one way or another, and it is quite unfortunate for the two they plan to put in me way, as their hopes and dreams will be cut short.
Pops: But Mickey… yer getting in way over your head. Mickey!
Before Mickey can comprehend what is happening, the waves sweep him just a bit deeper than his own comfort zone. He tastes the salt water as if fills his mouth and burns his sinuses in an abrupt reaction. He sputters as he tries to come up to the surface. However, any attempts at catching his breath seems to be futile. As he fades, he feels a hand dragging him along. In what seems like just the blink of an eye, he slowly opens his own eyes, blinded by the sun as he sees the outline of a woman hovering above him. She presses her lips against his, blowing deep into his lungs while holding onto his nose. He begins coughing as she compresses his chest. He feels the salt water trickling down the sides of his cheeks as it flies out everywhere. He feels the sand sticking to his back as he tries to sit up. However, the team of lifeguards comes up and checks on him, clouding out his rescuer from sight. He tries to get up, weakened, but they insist he rest, practically holding him down against his own weakness. He finally concedes to their wishes, lying down on the beach as we fade out.
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