Promo: On the Highway to He-

[Guest Insanityman]

(Long Island in New York turned out to be much more pleasant than he had anticipated. Warm, but not quite spring yet, sadly, and many people take their time getting to wherever they please. Sure, maybe the car horns were on the verge of being obnoxious, but a man needs time to enjoy himself. Which was exactly his plan, as he turned the corner and slowly opened up the door. The aroma of stale smoke and unmistakable booze fells his nostrils’; proving Tim Dillon was at home. Groups of friends, desperate men and women, and loners all do their business while seeming to be enjoying themselves. Darts are, inevitably, being tossed carelessly and a man tries to pick up a chick by using pool so he can grind next to her. Dillon grins at the sod’s poor attempt and he slowly approaches the actual bar part of the pub, with the mandatory shamrock decorations and the such, and Tim plops onto one of the cushioned stools).

 

A few bartenders treat other customers first and Tim slowly continues to watch the activity of his fellow human being. He then began to tap his fingers in a beat, seeming impatient but he was trying to slip into thought. But even if he wanted to slip into deep, emotional thoughts about life- he couldn’t. His neck simply ached too much, and it always had since he fractured a disk. He settling lowers his head, shutting his eyes while running a hand to the source of pain and he carefully cranks his neck to the side.

 

The memory rushes back to him, he wanted that European belt back… in his mind, it was his. He didn’t spend so much energy and time training to defeat Leon Sharpe and Jack the Ripper just to lose it to the bumbling Ejiro. Who booked himself into the triple ladder match with Tim, Wildchild, and Ejiro. The very match that halted Tim’s steady push towards the World title, which would of fit more snug on Tim's waist if you ever asked him.

 

““Mah GAWD,” screams Axis. “Elevated Pinball attack!”

 

Wildchild manages to extend his body at the apex of his ascent, and drives his feet forcefully into Dillon’s chest, causing him to lose his grip on the title and fall crashing to the mat.

 

SNAP!

 

Dillon lands awkwardly, hitting the canvas neck-first with a sickening crunching sound! The crowd, which had been loudly chanting “Holy Shit” in response to Wildchild’s incredible maneuver, now stand watching Dillon convulsing in the ring in stunned silence. Wildchild stares at Dillon with a mortified look on his face, and rushes over to him, shouting, “monsieur Dillon! I am so sorry, mon ami! Will you be alright?” “Mah GAWD,” screams Axis. “Elevated Pinball attack!”

 

Wildchild manages to extend his body at the apex of his ascent, and drives his feet forcefully into Dillon’s chest, causing him to lose his grip on the title and fall crashing to the mat.

 

SNAP!

 

Dillon lands awkwardly, hitting the canvas neck-first with a sickening crunching sound! The crowd, which had been loudly chanting “Holy Shit” in response to Wildchild’s incredible maneuver, now stand watching Dillon convulsing in the ring in stunned silence. Wildchild stares at Dillon with a mortified look on his face, and rushes over to him, shouting, “monsieur Dillon! I am so sorry, mon ami! Will you be alright?””

 

Tim’s face slowly twists into more pain, just recalling the memory, and when he tilts his head up he see an attractive women looking generally concerned. Tim’s calm, deep green eyes met her blue ones. Dillon gave the smallest smirk possible while he said his obvious order, “Guinness stout.” She nods, being able to recognize the accent. She continually glanced back at Tim, the shaggy blonde hair, somewhat tight black and green lettering Dropkick Murphy shirt, and baggy cargoes, and handsome Irishman. (Yes, there’s such a thing). Slowly Tim Dillon finds himself recalling the SJL days, the very days he had been training so hard to get back too. The rehab process was so slow, like a driver having road rage and finding themselves in a class watching an animated VW beetle sing a song how red means stop. He stopped for a second, and ran his finger along the foam ring that barely rises above his glass of beer. Licking his tongue he politely beckoned for the lady to come back, and she has a certain swagger as she dried off her hands.

 

“Yes’m?” She joked while batting her eyes.

 

“Would you happen to have a directory of pubs? My friend owns a pub remotely around here…” Dillon strained to remember the pub.

 

The lady’s smile fell into a frown and her eyes didn’t quite glisten as much, “Oh…that… uh, I don’t think so.”

 

Tim quickly flicked a twenty at the girl and got up, flashing a white, dazzling grin and then muttering thanks. He then shoved the pub door open and stepped back into the streets where he slowly stopped and spoke to himself.

 

…

 

“Oh, the laddie will be tastin’ the back of my hand, eh?” Tim then chuckled at himself, a little bounce in his step as he remembered where he could find the number.

 

--

 

Tim Dillon now found himself inside a gym’s fitness room, throwing quick, calucated and nearly deadly strikes to a punching bag. After about five he throws down a quick jig and half sarcastically clotheslined the bag. As it swayed from side to side, he slowly work up the courage to make two important calls. He slowly reached into his cargo pocket and pulled out a black leather wallet smeared in Ireland flag on each side, he slowly flipped it open to a flap and read two numbers. His fingers shook as he fumbled to tug out the rather old, wrinkled paper. But eventually he takes it out and he shoved his wallet back into his pocket and he just had to stare. “Is this the right thing ta’ do?” Tim Dillon then shoved the paper into his left pocket and from his right pulled out his nearly famous silver, gold-chained, family crest flask of Irish whiskey out. After taking a swig and letting the burn slowly settle down, he walked towards the pay phone. He placed the flask back into his pocket and took out the paper, smoothed it out against the wall. The Irishman injected his change and he glanced at the two numbers… and then took a in a deep breath.

 

“SJL: 1-213-474-9809

 

O’Riley: 1-525-228-7898”

 

OoC: He's bbbbaaccckkkk!

[Guest Powerplay]

(Y)!!!

[Guest Mr. Slim Citrus]

Continuity = teh roq

[Guest Crowe]

Very, very cool.

 

WHEEEEEEE!

[Guest Dace59]

I told you we'd care man.

 

\m/