PARADIGM SHIFT XXVI // THE INBETWEEN
MY MOTHER SAID THAT I WAS HOLY, MY FATHER SAID THAT I WOULD BURN. MY MOTHER SAID I WAS AN ANGEL, MY FATHER SAID THAT I WOULD TURN. SO I BELIEVED THESE WORDS AND I TURNED ON MYSELF. BECAUSE MAYBE HE’S RIGHT, MAYBE I’M WORTHLESS. OR MAYBE HE’S WRONG AND MY MOTHER WAS RIGHT — I GOT A KILLER IN ME TO GIVE ME PURPOSE.
IN THIS MOMENT .
••••••
Family.
The common theme in this business is that we all had some kind of fucked up childhood. That somehow, the rotten miscreants that we were as children, the nobodies, the underdogs, the unwanted…we all became something, turned into something just simply to spite our unloved ones and show them who was the best. The moment that we stand upon the precipice and the apex of the company, rising above everyone and showing our pride, glory and honor is the moment that we also have the opportunity to point a large middle finger in the eyes of our predecessors and our ancestors.
As much of a misfit as I am and have always been, the only story to be told is that of one who only fought their own success. I was an immigrant, although I certainly don’t remember it. My mother and father moved from Kilarney, Ireland, to Seattle, Washington after rightfully crossing the border and wanting to start a new life. My father was successful in creating his own pub in a derelict section of the city, before it became gentrified recently. Success is not unfamiliar to the O’Hanlon name, and perhaps part of me should be proud of it.
I was but a wee little lad, you know. A year old. Mo máthair carried me on her bosom as she served drinks to drunks and served Irish cuisine to the patrons who knew of nothing but McDonalds and bad hair days. As I got older, I became a little servant for them – you know, before laws went into place saying kids couldn’t be in the pub. I’d help her clean in the morning, peel potatoes, fix some hash, and then I’d skedaddle off to school with my books and do fairly well.
My father brewed the beer and the stout and helped us to make a killing on the funds. We didn’t start off wealthy, but we certainly were by the time I hit my teens. It was at that point that I started honestly making poor decisions for myself. I became sullen, bitter, angry at the world. And maybe it was particularly at my father because he kept putting expectations on me to do better than he ever did. Isn’t that lofty? A self-successful man, and visibly at that, putting upon the shoulders of a fourteen year old who barely wanted to go to school on a Monday…it didn’t make sense, and so I rebelled.
I didn’t have participation trophy parents. My mother would have given me the opportunity to express myself, but my father was a hard man, and so he sent me to live with my uncle and aunt repeatedly in England every summer so that I’d keep myself out of trouble. But I got into more trouble that what I was worth, and I ended up the friend of two orphanage escapees on the regular. One went to wrestling school, the other was placed, and by the time I was eighteen, the England trips stopped and my father had it with me and my alcohol drinking.
To further my idiocy, I turned to various street drugs that ruined my quality of life so significantly that by the time I was twenty-three, I had nothing to my name and no family to see.
A mess of myself, and not because I was a misfit who was unloved by the people around me. I did it to myself.
And maybe that’s why I’m the person I am today. You’ll see my Wolfslair mates talk about how I created a home for Wayward Wrestlers, joke about how I take in strays. Elena was the first, and then it was Dimitri…and then it was everyone else that currently finds a home in the complex I purchased. Perhaps it’s merely because I didn’t have a safe space and I want to create that for them, or maybe it’s simply because I care too much. Perceived thoughts placed upon me aside, I may be an absolute dickhead to a lot of people, but not to the people I’ve created bonafide relationships with in the ring and outside of it.
Family has become important to me.
But why the talk of family and a past? Is it simply because four years ago, that’s what was done to me by the very same person who I face at Violent Conduct? A treatise on my career and how little I had accomplished despite being a constant leader in spite of my standings? Trying to dismantle me and tell everyone who the fuck I was without actually knowing who the fuck I was? Dirt sheets and constant thoughts about who I might be while creating parallels in his own little world to drive some narrative that allowed him to use me as a stepping stone to the success I so readily sought?
An adorable relation to being a miracle, when the only miracle is that people didn’t blow their fucking brains out.
Maybe I should have. An injury kept me from the ring, and to be honest, I never was certain I was going to come back to Sin City. I wasn’t keen on the schedule, I wasn’t keen on the people, and I saw a tangent of ridiculousness rise afterwards that I just stopped giving a flying fuck. Anywhere where Griffin Hawkins was a success made me cringe and the mere fact that a fucking Russow was on this roster made me want to projectile vomit until I had nothing left of sustenance within my very bones.
But now?
I can’t say I’m the same person that I was in twenty-twenty, when I was two matches into a company that I wasn’t even fucking sure of. In fact, I can say that the Finn Whelan you all saw four years ago, two years ago, even a year ago, is not the same person. I’ve absolved myself of the failures of the past. Because at the end of the day, the only person who gave a flying fuck about my success was me, and I have a clear history of not doing that.
I came back, with a renewed vigor not because I wanted some lousy story of redemption, or that I could show off that I could be this demon within the ring. Not even because I wanted to prove some fucking point.
I wanted a fight.
I became the World Heavyweight Champion when everyone expected me just to fuck off. I was a Roulette Champion, and I searched recently for the Internet Championship. I wanted the Grand Slam, I wanted to be one of the very few that could say they’ve held all the championships possible in their own division, and the additional Mixed Tag Titles. But I was denied the opportunity, thrown into a tournament that I didn’t want. Certainly, other power-hungry, vapid competitors did. The story is known – Carter, Vaughn…and ultimately, Goth, who lived for his own redemption. Who said he would retire the second time if he couldn’t defeat me.
The championship has been mine since February. I’ve not lost a match since October of last year.
Dual champion. Oh, say you’ve done it before and discount me, but it’s not the same and the company tag line is that it’s not the same either. No. I’m not the same Finn Whelan from years past. This time, I’m vicious, I’m diabolical and I simply do not give a fuck about who has it in for me. I’m merely here to say that I came for the fight, I am the fight required. I know it’s hard for those of you who didn’t have success outside these six-sided rings, but I became a competitor that was worth something over the time I was away. I didn’t need a singular company to make me feel…like I was special, like I was worth a damn.
I know that I’m worth a damn.
I don’t have to have other people tell me this, I don’t have to have my bosses inform me of this. I know it, because I have the gift of fucking reflection. I was overconfident last time, and I hadn’t earned my stripes. But now?
I’ve taken your Jet City children and removed their ownership of greatness.
For every slur towards Wolfslair, I instilled the success that you besmirched for years.
For every time you sat there and thought you knew who the fuck I was, I proved time and time again that I was no longer a stepping stone in your company. I’m not the 4 Corners, WWH kid you copped a whole bunch of a trivial shit about four years ago, and your little “it was a pleasure” bullshit was a kick in the fucking teeth. I’m not going to repeat what I was, or what I’ve done…that’s all been there, done that.
This has become my company, Kris.
And that iron grip that I have?
I’m not inclined to let go.
••••••
The entire incident with bringing Luca back to his family and the response that had been provided forced Finn into a reflective state. To be perfectly honest, his own definition of family had morphed and changed over the years, from blood being thicker than water to choices being the ultimate reason for any kind of bond. His family had become the friends he enjoyed having around, a little brother that wasn’t even remotely related, and a girlfriend who had the emotional depth of a teaspoon sometimes.
But he loved them all. And they loved him back…in their own ways.
He hadn’t expected Kayla to be so viciously upset with him, but at the same time, he didn’t know why he hadn’t thought that she would be. Part of him expected tears and hugs, but he should have known better when it came to the Richards family. If there was any family that carried less emotions than he did on their sleeves, it was them. But for the anger that arose, and the choice to then try and meld him into their family?
Reflection.
He hadn’t been back to Seattle except for a few shows in the past six years. A Mother’s Day text, the ignoring of Father’s Day and birthday texts had been the most he’d been willing to do or say to the people who raised and rejected him upon adulthood. After his last encounter with his family, he didn’t want to involve himself with them because he felt he deserved far better than what he was offered. And besides, with the involvement of the Yakuza and the criminal underworld that he’d somehow become an official member of as of late, he would have been stupid to involve them. Right?
Well, no. Finn knew that the Romani was following him. Everywhere. He purchased a ridiculously expensive flight, they made sure to note he was being followed. He saw them, and honestly? He didn’t care. He purposefully waved at them, trying to strike their ire, trying to get them to make a hostile move so that he could instantly retaliate. There was something in his bones that made him want to prove Jace to be the little bitch that he actually was. Maybe it was because of his stupidity towards the Yakuza…or even more likely, his hold on Kayla.
He wasn’t about to let Kayla be property again.
And so, he was hostile whenever he had a chance. However…in all of the chaos, in all of the mayhem he’d (enjoyed to) caused, it was the moment in which Luca was returned and accepted by the family that thought thye lost them that stirred something within him.
Home.
He hadn’t told Kayla until she’d woken up and realized he’d taken a last minute red-eye back to his hometown. She hadn’t been happy about it, but he said he’d be back soon. And so, when he stepped into the pub at half-past two in the afternoon, the absolute feeling of fear and dread welled up in his combat boots. The familiarity of the walls, the accolades of the kids that were posted up behind the point of sale, the known steps he’d taken through all of his life forced guilt and shame to settle into his pores. His mother had loved him deeply, his father had rejected him entirely, and his sister…well, she had her own mind, but still kept a wide berth.
They didn’t really have a chance today, just like Amber and Kayla didn’t have a chance to say no.
“We’re not quite open yet, aye?” His mother, Meara’s lilt was still as strong as the day she’d left Ireland. Her softness wasn’t apparent in her son, with his angled cheekbones and clenched jaw. But their noses were the same, and she carried an air of kindness through the entirety of the pub. She stepped out from behind the counter, cleaning a glass with a rag. “Come back in an hour and ye can have a…” she trailed off, and the glass tumbled out of her hand to the floor with a dull clunk.
“Máthair,” Finn raised a hand in greeting, his feet rooted to the floor. When her blue eyes glazed over as if she was a seeing a ghost, he was certain that he could have just turned around and walked away, and none would be the wiser.
“Callien?” She whispered, and he could see tears welling up from her tear ducts. “Mo bhuachaill, you haven’t called me in months.” She tried to laugh, dabbing at her eyes and shaking her head. “I’m stuck listening to your voice on television. Is that any way for a mother to hear her own child?”
Finn smiled slightly as she stepped from around the counter, noting that she was entirely trying to calm herself down. She was still just as thin as she’d been all his life, and as she walked up to him, she threw her slightly bony arms around his waist. “Sorry, Mom. It’s been busy…”
“Ahhhh,” and then she stepped back, thawacking him with the tip of her towel on his arm. He yelped slightly and then looked at her incredulously. “What with your new little girlfriend that you haven’t even bothered to bring back to see me?”
“Kayla…doesn’t do well with questions from mothers.”
“Bring her next time. Or call. Would you like something to drink?”
If there was anything that Meara O’Hanlon was good at, it was stuffing everything under the rug. She wouldn’t call him out for not visiting anymore, she would simply move on as if time didn’t exist from the time that they saw one another last. It would, of course, not be the same with his father, but that was something he was dreading as well.
They spoke for a long while about their lives since not seeing one another. He talked about Kayla, and how happy she made him regardless of her attitude. He talked about Dickie and Aiden, and the family he’d created for himself. She never asked if they were replaced, because even as replaced as Finn had once felt, on his own, he could never do the same to them. Not, at least, to his mother. He distinctly left out key elements, but she didn’t ask. Eventually, patrons came to the bar to begin their libations. And so, he followed Meara into the backroom of the pub, where she’d been prior to his arrival. A slew of receipts and tallies were being added on the table. As a child, he hadn’t been allowed in this room.
It was his father’s workstation, to be perfectly honest, and that wasn’t something that was allowed.
He glanced around at the walls. He never knew his father to be sentimental about anything, but this room proved differently. Awards from both of his children hung on the walls, pictures of Finn and his sister earning awards as kids. The sullen behavior of a sixteen year old Finn was visible in a family photograph that he distinctly remember he didn’t want to be a part of. But as the wall behind the desk continued, he realized that his life at seventeen hadn’t ended for his father. Stills from wrestling events, shows that he’d clearly gone to and been close in the crowd, pictures of championship wins and pictures of interviews. Finn was still very much alive in his father’s mind.
It was just never verbalized.
Meara caught him looking at the wall as she took the recent slips and set them into a file. “You know, your father still follows your career.”
“Even after I pushed him down the steps?”
“Even after,” she confirmed, shaking her head slightly. “He is a prideful man…but he does love you. He just doesn’t know how to show it, and so he doesn’t. And I believe that there is something good there…eventually you’ll see it too.” She paused, and then she inhaled. “Are you staying out of trouble now?”
Finn’s ears perked up, and so did his stance. “Of course…”
“Callien.” She crossed her arms then and narrowed her eyes. “I don’t know what you’re involved in, but I know that if it has anything to do with that ratchet girl that you were married to, it isn’t anything good. I can see your tense shoulders, and you keep looking over your shoulder when you don’t think I’m looking. As if there’s someone watching you.”
“Mom, I don’t know what you’re thinking, but no. Nothing is wrong really.”
“Callien, don’t lie to me.”
“Mom.”
“Does anyone want to tell me exactly why there is a group of Romani in my pub?” Another deep voice cracked in, and Finn’s lackadaisical stance instantly went rigid. He turned his head to find the blue eyes of his father – his eyes as well – staring back at him, unfeeling, and unphased. His hair had turned white, and their build was different, but looking at Roinn was like looking at an older version of Finn himself. He glanced at his son, and then nodded. “I see. Hello Callien.”
Finn’s jaw clenched, and he took a couple of steps past his father. He ignored the scoff that he heard and stepped into the main hall once more, staring at the corner where a few patrons sat. Ones he recognized by their ridiculous get up and their sneers. And, of course, the alliance beads that he’d seen from the Romani that existed in the compound carnival weeks ago.
“Callien, disengage, it’s fine.” Roinn muttered, but Finn didn’t really give a shit. He walked up to the table and planted his hands into it. “What’s up?”
The Romani glanced between themselves, and the one, the oldest it seemed, spoke up. “You’ve taken what belongs to us. And eye for an eye.”
“If you’d like a tooth for a tooth, I can make sure they go down your throat if you’d like. Leave my family alone, and tell Jace to fuck off.” Finn snarled. When they didn’t move initially, he could still see the fear in their eyes. He bounced forward slightly, and they scampered.
He turned his head and looked back.
Family…was still family. No matter the chaos or not. He would protect them, just as he’d begun to do for everyone he loved.
••••••
You know, I sat there and I went back to the promos from four years ago. You had more history with Sin City, and me? I’d been in several different companies, doing what you were incapable of doing. You said it yourself that you followed my career because I was going to be something someday…and I was. I’m a multi-time world champion, tournament winner, and if I didn’t win, I was damn close to the top. When I finally hit my stride, I never had to fight to prove who I was.
But within all of these wins, and these places where I excelled, I kept one thing solid: me. I never became the company, and the company never became me. I exist on my own level, my own plane, and I’ve created an identity that is me. Kayla doesn’t define me. Christian and Mark don’t define me. A wrestling company in Vegas doesn’t define me, and neither does the racked up wins or losses. At the end of the day, I’m the fighter that I’ve always been. A deathmatch wrestler, a person who doesn’t give a rat’s ass if there’s injury to me. Even if the crowd hates me, I know that I will do everything in my power to entertain them. There is only Finn Whelan, nothing more, and certainly nothing less.
I’ve been across this wrestling world because I think it’s better to take the road well-travelled. You gain knowledge from every individual place you rest your head. You gain notoriety, you become someone to watch, someone to gather knowledge on, and sometimes, even someone to envy. Eventually, though, that consistent travel comes to and end, and you have to stop somewhere and become…well, settled.
When I was convinced to come back here, I wasn’t sure I wanted to. They threw me up in the Mixed Tag Division with a person who was neither my friend, nor my partner…and we took the division by storm whether anyone wants to or not. I stuck with it. I finally gained the success that I knew I was capable of. They threw me up against the best in the division…and they fell short against us. Time…and time again.
A loss in the drive for Jet City, wasn’t it? They were, after all, your creations.
I’ve said before that I didn’t want this championship, and maybe it’s for the same reasons you state that you weren’t sure you wanted this chance. I didn’t want it because I had more to do, more to say, and I didn’t think I deserved the shot. In fact, I was pissed that I even had it, but there was a fight within me that made me not interested in giving it up. I could have thrown it. I could have stopped it. But I fought hard and determined, and came out the top of the world here again. I’m a two time World Heavyweight Champion, just like you. And yet…just like you…I made a mockery of my own self when I dissolved into nothingness.
I’m not oblivious. Ultimately, after defeating me, I was your stepping stone to greatness once more. You not only became a Mixed Tag Team Champion, but you also became World Heavyweight Champion again. You’ve made accolades, you’ve done something for yourself and you’ve proven everyone wrong, right? That’s what you told me, and that’s what you’ve told everyone.
After all, you made parallels about our similar careers, right? Unwanted, accidental, unneeded. And now let’s add something that was defintiely not evident in any of your charismatic promos that you’re suddenly were in imposter syndrome and yet…excelling. Continuously.
If there’s something I know about this business, imposter syndrome doesn’t continually defeat and win. At some point, psychosis stops taking hold and you realize that you finally earned something that you never thought you could get again. A briefcase winner, you were forced to cash in, and you won. Wow. The very definition of success, am I wrong?
You keep talking about parallels, but this is where it ends. Sure, we’re both underdogs and fought the power coming up, but while you were wallowing in your non-apparent self-pity about being a champion, let me tell you exactly how I have felt the entire time that I’ve been the World Heavyweight Champion.
Like I fucking earned it.
I didn’t want it, but I still fought for it. Because that’s what we as wrestlers do. What is the point if there’s nothing to show your success, nothing to prove you’ve made it? And how can you be so disgruntled with your own self that you can’t see the positivity in your own success? Confidence is a trait that needs to be worn on the shoulder of whomever is the champion, and I do that successfully. I don’t feel like I didn’t earn it, because I did. I don’t think that I can’t handle something anymore because another trait of being a champion is having tenacity. Resilience. POWER.
I fight every match with conviction, and I bury my feet into the ground so I am unshakeable, immovable, and impossibly difficult to rise above. Like I said…I know my place. I’ve never been nervous about my career ending, or that I only have very little time left, or that there are only small chances that I have in order to make it above the rest of the world. Eventually, all those things will happen, and they will happen when they need to. I don’t let them sit above me, lord over me, and try to give me this fucking feel good narrative that requires the pity of the rest of the company on me.
I take my shots. I earn my shots. I devour and spar with my shots. And every moment that I’m given a step, I take it.
I’m not afraid.
But I can see why you are.
Your entire identity is buried within Sin City, Kris, because it’s almost the only place that you ever made something of yourself. Look at your accolades. I know you branched out, but they’re not even visible in what you’ve done. Sin City World Champion, Sin City Mixed Tag Champion, SCW Man of the Year, SCW, SCW, SCW…that’s all that exists, and all that will ever exist for you.
I can understand that fear that every so often you get. The fear that you’ve disappeared for some time, and you have to come back to make sure people remember you. The fear that if you’re gone too long, no one will give a flying fuck about you, your wife, and anything that Jet City has done. But just because I can understand it psychologically doesn’t mean that I accept it. Your fear is unfounded and quite honestly, absolutely ridiculous. You’re a fucking Hall of Famer, a man who has created a legacy in this company that can be, if you want to be honest, not rememberable. You started here ten years ago, and in that ten years, you’ve done nothing but win here.
But out there?
Out in big bad world of companies, your name doesn’t cross the lips of promoters. Your name doesn’t do anything but ring out…
…well…
…nothing.
That, right there, is the thing that you should be afraid of. Not that you’re going to be forgotten in the only company that you’ve ever amount to anything, but that you’re not going to be recognized for your worth outside of it. I could go to another company right now, and even if they didn’t know who I was, it wouldn’t take them long to figure it out. You followed my career. You knew who I was.
But I didn’t know, or to be perfectly honest, care who you were when we faced the first time. I said some drivel about how you’re coming back then to create the same legacy you’re so desperately needing to reestablish now. You’re the one that said it. You’re afraid of your spotlight going out, isn’t that what you said to Eddie? Did you not tell Felix to catch the “L” he deserved? And you showed your fear the second you said that you were bothered by the fact that Miles Kasey, of all people, told you weren’t undeniable anymore.
I don’t like psychological bullshit and I think that’s been pretty aptly said at this point. I don’t agree with the whole…I was the greatest thing and now I’m not and that hurts so I’m going to be the good guy and remind people of their abilities…while still sending them to hell with their losses.
You said you wanted to be the guy that was never supposed to come back, but came back better than anyone imagined…right? You’ve done that. Twice in my tenure in this company.
How many more times are you going to search for glory in a company that is all about you? That’s your identity?
I know who I am. I don’t need to reinvent myself every two years to make sure I’m all warm and cozy about the person I’ve become and will be. I’m not an insecure human being. And there is no place for insecurity at the top of the ring.
So this time, when we face…it’s not going to be some little upstart trying to make their name in Sin City. No. You’ve had that fun, and I’m not proving anything anymore. I am where I am whether people like it or not. We’ll main event this shit and we’re going to have a knockdown, drag out of a match. I’m not interested in failing again, and I’m not interested in you being the next successor to this championship when in all fucking actuality…you didn’t deserve to be here because you got the short straw in every match up to this point. I know my worth. I know who I am, whether people try to jump in from the side and take what’s mine, or whether people want to sit on fucking social media and be little vapid cunts because they know their time is up.
My time isn’t anywhere near done.
But yours?
You said it yourself…your spotlight is fading.
Tick.
Tock.
Oops.
Lights out.
