Promo: Introduction

[Guest Insanityman]

(Ben Hardy, the JL’s original lovable loser… before Z, wonders down the hallways with a cameraman and two paramedics trailing behind. With his luck he’d get his teeth knocked out from a cane, or if he got lucky just got a kick to the balls. Which made him wonder how he’s still vulnerable to such pain. He’d been through as much pain as half the roster, yet it still emotionally and physically scarred. He took a sudden left down the hallways, with the depressing, bland cement everything –with the exception of the wooden doors- in his vision. He walked down the dead-end stretch, dead ends made Hardy nervous, there is only one way to run away, and he gulped some saliva down his dry throat as he passed the oak doors. His eyes scanned each cheap, little gold plate as he found the one he searched for; “Insane Luchador”).

 

“Here goes nothing… hopefully nothing from me goes…” He jokes to himself for his own reassurance. Hardy brought a fist to the door and knocked on it. No reply, another louder rap on the door. Not even a sigh was heard. Ben, now nervous that IL would emerge from some pit from hell or in a better scenario laid dead in his locker room, slowly opened the door. The light was on and Ben suddenly flings the door open, bracing his body.

 

Nothing. Not even sign of life.

 

“Eh, Mr. Rickmen?” Hardy asked as he waved the rest of the cowering crew in. Ben slowly walked over to the shut closet door. Worried that IL would be hung by his own tie strings of his sweatshirt, because, hell, that’d scar even a clan member… Hardy opened the door. Nothing. Just dust bunnies, and it’d been a while before one of those had attacked him.

 

Ben suddenly heard another door open and he whirled around looking to see if Rickmen emerged from some hidden passage, and he then realized his imagination was still very active. He sighed and walked out of the room, scratching his head in bewilderment of the absence of the Insane Luchador.

 

He then looked over to his right, the exit to the hallway as he saw a mere figure of someone walking forward. Ben looked back and the cameraman shrugged, body giving off a “What the hell?” vibe. Hardy sighed and the caravan of SJL staff members begins their walk towards the man. As Hardy approached closer he saw the man was strutting more than walking, as if he owned the place. He took instant notice of his very fine blonde hair. He then noticing his calm eyes asked him “What do you want?” Ben looked up; the man looked no more than twenty (though that man was really twenty-two and had gone through all hell to prove it at the liquor store). Next where the khaki cargoes with the green shamrocks painted on the side, Hardy examined his feet, black skating shoes with shamrock patches sown in above the toes. His shirt was black and had green lettering proclaim to “Stop The Fighting.” Ben finally took a stab at the scrawny man’s height, around 6’1” (really 6 foot flat). Hardy then fumbled with the microphone, as he was ready to ask the first question.

 

“’Ello, I’d appreciate it if you’d bloody explain to me why your examining me.” The man said with a very heavy Irish accent. “Your giving off a weird, eh what’s it called? A weird… a weird vibe, yeah that’s right.” The man continued with a hearty chuckle. His voice was a bit deep, but his tone was joking and it relieved Hardy.

 

“Who are you?” Ben blurted, forgetting to informally introduce himself.

 

The Irish man’s eyebrows rose upwards. “Sorry,” He quickly apologized.

 

“Quite alright.” Ben cut in and realized he interrupted again.

 

The mystery man face tightened as he was obviously getting ticked off all the interruptions. “'Ello, I’m Tim Dillon, the SJL newest recruit… to my knowledge.” He said with a genuine Irish accent, Ben knew he was from the rainy island known as Ireland.

 

“Do you know where a Mr. Rickmen is?” Ben asked hopefully.

 

“All I know is that old sod had to check out of the JL and go to therapy… or something.” A shrug.

 

”Right…” Ben’s voice trailed away, worried if he’d get paid for this time wasting experience. “Well you be willing to answer some questions for me?” Ben asked to the newbie.

 

“Actually, I’d like to get my Irish tea in… it’s been a long travel.” His left arm lifted up a plastic bag with some Scotch in it, as well as some strong tea bags.

 

“Right,” Ben answered, “Would you rather answer a question and then I’ll name a wrestler… you give me your opinion.”

 

One eyebrow rose up at Ben in question. Tim sighed and finally gave in, replying with a quick nod.

 

”Why are you in the SJL?” Ben asked.

 

---

Limerick, Ireland. 1993.

 

(The whole Dillon family present in the small town sat together at the dinner table. Their house seemed to be more of a cottage; Liam Dillon liked to keep things simple. In their small kitchen they were serving their dinner. Tim wasn’t quite sure what it was, but he took a wild guess at a generic stew as he saw the potato, beef, and some basil float in a watery broth. His father, Liam, sat at the head of the table, as the three other sons surrounded different seats. Tim faced his oldest brother, his older –twin- brothers faced each other, and his father faced his mother down at the other end. His father sat tall in his seat as he pulled out a bottle from his breast pocket and he shook two light blue pills out. On the other end, his wife sighed as he popped him into his mouth and he took a swig of Bushmills “To wash ‘em down good!” His father would say).

 

Tim earlier that day in school had gotten in his first fight and was in utter shock that he possessed fighting skills. It shouldn’t have surprised the thirteen year old, since his father bare knuckle boxed and his grandfather did also. As Tim thought about it, most of the males did… and he wasn’t as shocked as before.

 

“Got in a fight today.” He grumbled to his family, his mother’s face twisted into shock, and he felt Sean’s hand pat him on the shoulder (his older brother who was quite a good fighter, he’d learn that the hard way at an early age). His father simply grunted and then looked up interested, “What for?”

 

“Some kids were making fun of me for being Catholic,” he declared, “They were ‘Loyal to the Crown’ they claimed.” Their family during the whole war remained on neither side but devout Catholics.

 

“So you belted him?” One of his brothers asked.

 

“Not really, he shoved him and then a friend licked me in the gut with a quick jab. After that it was a blur… one kid has a broken nose.” Gasp from his mother, and applause from his brothers. His father grunted again. From that night on, Tim Dillon trained ferociously and soon became one of the best bare-knuckle boxers in that whole region of Ireland.

---

 

Tim Dillon snapped back into reality and he answers with, “I used to bare knuckle box, but I was sent out to America… needed a job.” He shrugged his shoulders; he wasn’t sure why he joined.

 

“Edwin MacPhisto.” Ben stated.

 

“Huh?” Tim asked and then remembered the word game, “Oh, yeah… talented and nice.”

 

Ben’s lips snarled, “Cutthroat.” His reply wasn’t understandable and Hardy thought Tim was speaking in tongue. “Translation?” He asked.

 

“Oh, sorry, I speak fluent Gaelic, and I’ll go into that time to time… it’s just the way we talked back there, sorry. And you don’t want to know what it meant if you have this on television any time.” A round of laughter from everyone, and then Tim excused himself. He slowly walked away and found his locker room; he pushed open the door and entered it, shutting it behind himself.

 

 

OoC: Yes, I can't write for the JL for two weeks or so... and when I return it'll be with Tim Dillion, not IL. I'm posting his stats, don't use him please... but they are there for you guys to check out. Feedback welcome.