IMPRESSIONS
“You never get a second chance to make a first impression.” - Andrew Grant
•••••
UNKNOWN PLACE AND TIME //
Pebbles crackled and broke underneath the grooved tires of an approaching sport utility vehicle as it lumbered down the winding, unpaved mountain road. On either side, enormous pine trees rose far above the unlevel road, some reaching above as the hill descended deeply on one side while others rose even higher as they ascended higher on the hill on the other. Snow littered the ground, and it was a surprise that the road was even paved. The sky was barely visible through the foliage, but the orange glow that was the sunset would eventually lower past the mountain horizon.
Taking its time, the car moved along the barely paved road until it finally stopped outside a small structure, one that was not big enough to be considered a cabin, but just a bit bigger than a shack. There, the black vehicle sat, not a sound whistling in the wind nor a glimmer of movement taken.
Inside the vehicle itself, it was much the same story. Gloved hands gripped tightly to the steering wheel, set in the ten and two position, fingers clenched tightly around the bar. His arms were taut, though the rest of his body was lax as he sat in the driver’s seat. Callien O’Hanlon, otherwise known as Finn Whelan to the masses, set his cerulean eyes on the structure, and though his face was covered by a mask, it most certainly did not cover the glare in his expression. That glare was prominent across many years, as if it was deeply set into his features and there were only a few pieces that could make it change. He exhaled slowly through his nose, dropping his hands finally from the steering wheel.
Ever since he’d left the public eye, that fateful moment in Sweden, his life had been quiet and -- dare he say it? -- dull. The fact that he hadn’t been able to conquer miscreants who were placed on a pedestal by the company’s stockholders had sat in his bones and festered, making him truly question what the point of wrestling was. Once upon a time, he’d argued with himself that it wasn’t about titles or championships -- but it was. He’d argued with himself that he just wanted the fights to flow over him and make him whole again, but that wasn’t fully the truth.
Nah. He wanted to matter. He wanted to be something. And it was a slap in the face to know that he was meant to be the punching bag for a group of peons that were handed the world without showing they were worth anything. “You’re one of our best wrestlers, Finn. Just take this beating to finish out this bit for them and you’ll be back on the top.” Nah, fuck you. That wasn’t how Finn Whelan was. That wasn’t how he would ever be.
He slammed his hand on the mat, patting it and reminding himself that there would be better times ahead, whether he wanted them or not. He didn’t give a shit about that match and it was evident in the fact that he hadn’t bothered to put his best foot forward. He was stepping out anyway. Maybe for good.
He’d watch wrestling shows, and there was something that twitched within his being that wished he was out there. Wished he was fighting for something relevant again. But it wouldn’t be. There was no point. He’d been a champion. He’d been the leader of a company. What was left? To repeat that notion over and over again?
Something inside of him said that was absolutely the reason to go back. To be a champion. To be a leader. To prove that to the world around him that he wasn’t just some washed up punk from Seattle who had a brief flash of luck. He’d earned everything that he’d stepped up to. He swore he’d never be complacent, but suddenly that seemed to be the easiest thing to be.
Why bother?
Though those thoughts seemed to come up more often these days, he shook them away as he sighed and opened the car door. Now, he was relegated to doing grunt work. Pick up deliveries. Drop them off. All because he was worth nothing to his employers now.
It wasn’t enough.
•••••
“Impressions.”
His words floated out into the air and carried a cacophony of intonations. A light Irish lilt merged through them as he spoke, tilting his head upwards as his eyes surveyed the area. Seated on the hood of his Toyota 4-Runner, Finn leaned forward as he rested his elbows on his legs, rubbing his hands together.
“We create them within seconds of meeting one another. Our eyes take in the person standing in front of us and we create an impression of them in our minds. Good or bad, it’s the way that we perceive them from there on out and it’s pretty difficult to dissuade someone after it’s been set. For some, they never get a chance to make it better. For others, they work tirelessly to raise their reputation until they have no other options left.”
“But it’s in those first moments you learn about the desires and the needs of the person in front of them. Some open their mouths and spew whatever the hell they think is going to make them look more dominant in the grand scheme of things than they ever actually will be. Reaching high into the sky, they speak of destroying the competition simply because of their size, their weight, their abilities, or whatever the fuck you want to call it.”
He shrugs his shoulders, laughing slightly as he shakes his head again.
“We’re in this business where everything is based off of what our athletic pursuits can garner us. Some rely on that first look to build the way they want to be perceived for the remainder of time. A lot of the time, it’s these dipshits who can’t utter a simple sentence but think that their size is what is going to get them across the way and to championship glory. In this day and age, that mentality is what’s going to get you fucked over in the end. That’s exactly what is going to get El Dark fucked over in the end.”
He looked up, his eyes directed right dead center into the frame.
“For those of you who don’t know me, my name is Finn Whelan, and it is my belief that first impressions are completely fucked and useless pieces of information to rely on. Let’s take that first impression of me, alright? Six four, barely two hundred pounds. I eat like a fucking cow and I still look like a string bean. Didn’t go to college, didn’t even want to be an athlete, and maybe that’s bad on me, I don’t know...but three years later? You tell me.”
“Not only have I been a two time world champion, I’ve held three other championships and have been in tournaments that I’ve come out the top in. I’ve done things in this sport, and it has absolutely nothing to do with my size nor my weight. I’m quick in my thought process, I make decisions on the fly and I put a hundred percent effort in, no matter the cost. I’m not a technical wrestler, I don’t do the catch-can strong style shit...I’m in your face and I’m willing to take you out if it pushes my cause, my story, my time. I’m here for the fight, y’all. It’s what I relish in. It’s what I’m about.”
“Look, this first match...El Dark thinks he’s this frightening human being and maybe he’s gone through life thinking that people are scared of him, but at this time? He’s going to learn that the first impression of the person you face isn’t what that person ultimately is about. It’s not about size or strength, but the passion that you put into the match and the desire to win. That being said...still going to drag this fucker from one side of the ring to the other. I’ll see you at Climax Control, bro. And believe me...it won’t be the first time you see it, Sin City. See ya then."
ooc: this is by far not my best. I've been struggling with personal stuff all week, I apologize. I'm also super rusty. It's been a good six months.
