“It's A Shame...” Vs. Dallas Blake

[Jace O'Brien]

“‘Ey, you bleedin’ idiot. Watch where y’er goin’!”

The British accent was heavy. Jace O’Brien stepped back onto the sidewalk after temporarily stepping off, only to be narrowly missed by a bicyclist. With a frustrated sigh, he shook his head and once again stepped off of the sidewalk to cross the road. He felt a vibration in his pocket from his cell phone, so upon retrieving that, on his home screen he noticed an email come through from Georgia DeLise with the title, “Press Meeting Regarding Vendetta.”. He knew previously who he would be fighting, a bloke by the name of Dallas Blake, or “Dallas Carter-Blake” as he wishes to be addressed now. It wouldn’t be an easy match, but Jace felt fairly confident in his odds of winning.

He adjusted the gym bag over his shoulder and picked up his pace. He was enjoying the brisk walk from the apartment he rented to one of the training facilities that the RSW has approved its roster to use in preparation of their matches. This would be where Jace would be met by Lana McElroy – reporter for West Coast Wrestling Coalition, an internet based Wrestling hot/dirt sheet; whatever you want to think of it as. But no offense to her, Jace had more pressing matters to deal with than a reporter. He had Dallas Blake on the mind. It was obvious, because as he crossed the street he began speaking to himself.

“Two years of professional experience. Two years of wrestling in the U.K. and here in California and I have to fight someone who hasn’t even had an actual match. Two years of bustin’ my ass for wanker promoters, and rubbish pay.” You could sense the frustration. “..And what else? Come to RSW, Jace. You’ll be given a real chance. I was bloody daft to believe that.”

All the while, he was fishing into the back pocket of his jeans until he pulled out a pack of cigarettes. Pulling one out of the package, he brought the filtered end to his lips before locating and removing a lighter from his pocket. His thumb rotated the striking wheel just before pressing the lever to allow the fluid to move up to be ignited by the strike. The flame was instant, and he brought it to the end of the cigarette between his lips. After successfully lighting it, he released the lever and the flame quit. After putting the lighter away and taking a drag from the cigarette, he removed it from his lips and exhaled a cloud of smoke.

“Experience won’t play a factor. He’ll certainly have his friends and relatives in tow, however. Eh, that doesn’t matter … I’ll fight and the lot of ‘em. Although that Mondae…I wouldn’t mind having it off with her.” Smirking, and taking another drag. “But, at the end of the night it’s me and him. At the end of the night only one of us can be the winner, and I promise that I will not stop until I leave the bloke a bloody fuckin’ mess in the middle of the ring. I don’t care who his parents are, what his sister did in some company in the south, or who he’s fuckin’. All that I care about is the sound that his jaw will make after my fist connects with it. I’m one of the hardest strikers on this side of the Pond, and Dallas Carter-Blake is gonna’ learn that the hard way. There’s no defending or stopping it. Dallas Blake will crumble to the feet of the Welsh Warlord – and believe me when I say, that he’s not going to be the only one to do so.”

The camera followed him every step of the way. The bearded Welsh-man stopped feet away from the entry of the training facility. Various people entered and exited at their leisure, all of them with their eyes on Jace. He didn’t notice. He proceeded to walk into the establishment – but not before finishing his thoughts to the camera in front of him.

“I’m in the business of hurting people. To maim and do bodily harm to others is my pleasure. It’s a shame that Dallas’ first professional match, will be the match that saw him get carved up to the point where not even the most skilled surgeon in the world reattach that stupid smile.”

[Jace O'Brien]

Lana McElroy waited inside of the training facility that the RSW roster used in preparation for their matches for Vendetta or Shoot Saturday. She waited, dressed professionally, sitting in the lobby. She watched as Jace O'Brien pulled open the glass door and walked inside, gym bag slung over his shoulder. He had a swagger in his step, and he used his free hand to push the sunglasses he wore to the top of his head. That was when Lana stood to her feet, extending her hand to the Cardiff born fighter.

“Jace, hello. I'm Lana McElroy from...”

“Yeah, love. I know who ya' are.”

Cut off abruptly, she was hesitant to respond. She blinked and waited a moment before going forward.

“I really appreciate you taking the time to give us this interview. Your debut in RSW is causing some major waves within the internet wrestling community. A lot of people who watched you in So-Cal Ultraviolent have taken to forums and spread the word about you.”

He looked at her oddly.

“Internet? Right. Listen, I'm not in tha' business ta' be famous on the internet. What people do an' say on it are none of my concern. My only concern is hurtin' someone. Write that down for ya' little interview.”

His accent came through as his frustration level grew with Lana wasting his time on talk of the internet and wrestling forums. This isn't what he agreed to discuss. He wanted to discuss Vendetta. Jace moved over to the seats where Lana sat before and dropped his bag down.

“Well, whether you like it or not Jace, the internet community has been going back and forth regarding your match.” She pulled the iPad from her travel bag and opened a specific forum and read a few of the comments. “Fans have you favourited because of your strength and striking advantages over the Blake sibling, not to mention the couple of years of experience.”

“Is that so? Well those internet fan boys will be singin' a whole other tune when I punch the little Gay kid in the face on Vendetta, won't they? The rainbow colors will come out, the rallies will begin and I will be accused of committing a hate crime.” He smirked. “Believe me there's malicious intent behind each and every one of my blows - mind out of the gutter, Dallas - but not because of his sexual preference. That malicious intent is due to my drive to actually beat this bloke half to death in the middle of the ring. And I will do exactly that with my striking and my power.”

“Are you worried about his flawless ability? It seems that it was handed down to him from his parents. That and his submission work, their both rumored to be some of the best in the game today.”

“Worried? About this muppet? Not a chance, love. I'm glad that even though his father hates every breath that he breathes, Dallas learned something from his father and mother. You want to know what I learned? Nothing. I wasn't born with a silver spoon in my mouth, and I certainly was not handed everything up to this point in my life. I wasn't given the world class training that he was, apparently. I worked my ass off in a dodgy gym, and I worked my way to this point. I wasn't given a gift-wrapped contract because of my last name. And because of that, I'm more dangerous than Dallas Blake can imagine.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“If tha' RSW doesn't work out, what do you think the heir of the Blake estate is going to do? Run back into mommy's arms, and even as his father gives him a cold stare, they will take care of him. Me? Back to Cardiff. Back to working part time and wrestling on the weekends. This is my chance and I'll kill to keep it. So no, I'm not worried about his technique or submission work because he's not going to last long enough with his poor endurance compared to mine. He's not going to last long when I drop these on 'em.”

His hands clinched into fists.

“Make this very clear in your write up, Lana. I'm going to hurt this boy. What occurs at Vendetta is going to be a tragedy and Dallas Blake will be the first of many causalities for the Welsh Warlord.”

“Okay. Well. Thank you again for your time, Jace.”

End.

[Jace O'Brien]

Lana McElroy has departed, leaving Jace O'Brien to his workout. A time lapse in video takes place, and we pick up just over an hour later. Jace O'Brien sat on a bench, towel around his neck and hunched forward slightly. The light grey sleeveless shirt he wore was damp with sweat and he occasionally grabbed one of the ends of the towel and dabbed the sweat from his brow. His breath was heavy, and his eyes focused on the floor beneath his trainer-clad feet. Only a moment would pass before his eyes shot up to the camera in front of him.

“Can you hear it?” He stamps a foot, waiting a few seconds before doing it again. “The war drums are beatin', mate. The battle is going to begin, and I don't think you're ready.”

Today Jace has already gave his thoughts on Dallas, was interviewed for an internet wrestling site, and put in a solid workout of cardio and weight training. Jace O'Brien was finalizing preparation for Vendetta which was just a few short days away.

“You looked weak at Shoot Saturday, bruv. I mean, it was bound to happen. You have no legitimate experience in this atmosphere, and your only claim to fame is a title that your sister won and let you carry around like it was ya' fuckin' purse, but the way you carry yourself is as if you are a seasoned veteran. Look at what happened. Another bloke who is as green as you are was able to get the win over you because ya' fuckin' boytoy decided to stick his nose into the match. Rookie mistakes will cost ya' mate, and Shoot Saturday was proof.”

Dabbing the sweat away.

“I beg you, don't make the same mistakes at Vendetta because I'm not Walter Hobbs. I'm not some bloke who just left wrestling school and is able to successfully attempt a headbutt. I'm as dangerous as they come, and if you slip up like you did on Saturday, then I won't hesitate to knock ya' bloody teeth down ya' fuckin' throat.”

“I don't give a shite that you are, supposedly, flawless technically. I don't give a shite who you were trained by and if they were a legend in this business or not. You failed to impress anyone at Shoot Saturday. You cocked-up your chances then, which is a shame. Shoot Saturday was your first and only chance, mate, because you won't have any chances to capitalize on at Vendetta. I'm better than you in every way imaginable, Dallas. You'll be lucky if I don't rip your fuckin' limbs from your torso and beat you with those. Na'. Instead, you have to deal with the hardest kicks and punches in this industry. You have to withstand an onslaught of fists and kicks - an' I don't think you have what it takes, do ya', ya' little nancy?”

Smirk.

“I'm stronger than, and I can hit harder than you do. What can you do? Take me down in a suplex? Run a little faster than me, and apply a sloppy submission? Bruv, none of that is going to help you any. How will you react to that, Dallas? You can't cope under the stress of someone else being better than you, so I'm interested in seeing how you're going to react. If I were kind enough to allow you a second for a breather, that is. And Frederik? I'll break his face if he even so much as has the thought of entering the ring at Vendetta.It's just you and me, Dallas, and as much as you may like that scenario being played out somewhere else ... it's not. It's taking place on the battle field, because this is a fuckin' war. Can't you hear the war drums?”

Stomp. Stomp.

“The bodies in RSW are going to begin to pile up, and yours is going to be the first one. The first of many stiffs displayed like a grotesque art gallery in San Francisco, and I am the fuckin' artist. Your sister and the rest of those prats you associate yourself with, they won't be able to help or save you. They're going to watch as you scream in pain and agony and they are going to pray..PRAY..that I end your suffering quickly. They are going to pray that the death of Dallas Blake is quick...”

“But it won't be.”

Jace finished, giving the camera an evil and menacing look.