Ripley
Steel Johnson
Posts: 198
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Post by Ripley on Apr 5, 2019 19:31:33 GMT
 Xx_tigerdriverkid_xX.deadjournal.com (7 Comments |Comment on this) Sunday, October 17TH, 2004 1:31 AM
Sup guys. You heard of Arctic Monkeys? I'm listening to them now they're gonna be huge I bet lol.
Anyway I know it's been a while but things have been a little... weird lol. Alright "weird" is an understatement. Basically long story short dad's kinda sick of the bullshit, yeah? A while ago I was posting about how everything was good, looking good for A-levels. I know it's a bit early to start thinking about that stuff but apparently it ain't according to some and whatever I like school.
Anyway basically dad says with his fists that I've gotta get my shit together. LET ME REMIND YOU he's the one whose been in the drink but whatever he gives me an ultimatum: 16th birthday I've gotta get my shit together or else I'm out. Here's the thing: he never told me what that fucking meant. Just vague shit about getting my shit together. Like he's got his shit together getting fucking plum shitfaced every day. Thing is, I think he's scared now. That's the real truth of it: I'm 16 and I'm not really taking his shit anymore. When I was say 10 or 11 he was this big towering brute and now he's just kind of a sad, pathetic, small man. Like literally lol. I could pummel him but what's the point, yeah? That's the satisfaction he wants I think.
Whatever. 16th birthday's rolled around now and, well, ain't much changed from his perspective, I guess. I talked to my mum the other week. She's still in London (remember she moved there last year?) and offered for me to come stay with her and transfer to some school in London. She said to pack all my stuff and she'd mail me money for a train ticket for my birthday.
Thing is I love her I really do but that ain't what I want. I've been REALLY thinking about it and I'm just gonna do it. Go to Belfast and enroll in that Donnelly Dungeon school. I know it's right mad, but, I looked into a lot, really thought about it. I'm not crazy (or too crazy lol) but it's not like I've got much here anyway. When I'm not at school I'm watching imported DVDs or downloading matches and getting viruses anyway lol. I've been on the circuit for a year and a bit now even if that circuit's just someone's backyard but I'm good. Fuck it I'm great. I mean I'd love to just move to Japan lol but that's maybe a bit too much my mum would lose her marbles and I don't wanna disappoint her TOO much you know?
Anyway I'm taking the money she sent me and using it to get to Belfast. I gotta sleep now because the train's at 6:00 AM lol.
L8r sk8rs
- Will Current Mood: ![]() ![]() ![]()  mad collywobbles Currently Listening To: Arctic Monkeys - Ravey Ravey Ravey Club
OCTOBER 28TH, 2004
BELFAST, IRELAND
An alarm blares, 6:00 AM, 6:00 AM, 6:00 AM, rattling the fuzzy, clouded mind of a young, scraggly Will Craddock as he stirs.
"Mmnn... fugg off," he murmurs, waves his hand vaguely in the direction of the alarm. It continues to incessantly yap even as he pulls a pillow over his head. He sits up, stretches, and makes his way to it to watch, bleary-eyed, the rain sluice its way down the window in the relative darkness.
It's been four days now since he started to sleep here; here being the "office" of the Donnelly Dungeon, a former slaughterhouse-turned-department-store-turned-public-gym that now has become a wrestling academy. Rain comes down in heavy sheets against the corrugated metal roof and he inhales sharply, pads his way to the public bathroom/change room to start his daily routine.
By 8:00 AM the sun has poked its way through the parting clouds and bake the streets. Standing puddles now dapple the cobblestone back-alleys of the neighbourhood surrounding the appropriately dingy warehouse. The 16-year-old Craddock has showered, brushed his teeth, gone for a run. Still soaking (from both the rain that had only let up not too long ago, and from sweat), his trainer comes down hard upon a puddle as he blindly turns a corner, careens into a man easily twice his size.
"OH, CHRIST! MR. DONNELLY! I'M—"
"Awwwwwwwwwwwwww, feckin' shite. Arsein' tits mut'erfeckin'! Craddock, ye got tea all over me feckin' jumper."
"I'm so—"
"And I cannae replace it. It was from me mum, got it fer me t'irty years ago."
A beat and the towering, bearded Irishman breaks into a shit-eating grin.
"I'm pullin' yer scrawny lil' leg, Will. S'alright, just, y'know, be careful, ya rait tit. If yer that clumsy in the streets o' Belfast, runnin' 'round, I can't imagine 'ow ya are in the ring."
"I've been training fer over a year, Mr. Donnelly..."
"I don't think suplexin' sheep so ye can shag 'em in yer friend's backyards count, Will. But, I said, if ya stayed a week, an' didn't disappear, an' y'actually went to school, I'd give ya a chance. So tonight, beginner's classes: be there, yeah?"
The shaggy-haired kid nodded.
"Rait. Off y'are, then."
---
The rain carried on in fits and starts throughout the rest of the day and well into the evening when Will Craddock stood alongside ten other people; a handful of them severeal years older, a handful around his own age. They all stood in little pockets—some stretching, two in the ring locking up, the others simply standing in a semi-circle talking.
"ALRIGHT, ALRIGHT!" bellowed that familiar Belfast brogue as Bobby Donnelly strutted his way into the Donnelly Dungeon, shook off excess water from his umbrella, hung up his coat, and stalked his way to the cluster of students.
"OI! OUTTA THE RING, YA FECKIN' ARSEHOLES! Christ..."
The two didn't listen, one taking the other down with a hip toss.
"OI! LISTEN!" he shouted, rolling into the ring. "First rule of the 'Dungeon': ya feckin' listen to yer god-damned teacher. Second rule: ya do a hip toss like that ever again 'n yer kicked out, no refunds. That was shite."
A beat.
"And the whole reason yer 'ere is so ya ain't shite, yeah? Yeah. Now, 'ere's the thing: I can already tell ya all LOVE wrestlin', or else why would ya be 'ere, yeah? But first thing's first: ya ain't steppin' in that ring fer A LONG time. Why? 'Cause ya need to learn the history; study what came before ye.
Mr. Craddock!"
A blank stare, and the Welsh youth stammers.
"Yer favourite wrestler. Yer favourite match."
"I-I-I... ummm.. Yumi Yamada's really—"
"WRONG ANSWER, MR. CRADDOCK!"
"..."
Inwardly, Craddock curses himself. "She's not even your favourite, ya fucking knobhead," he thinks to himself silently. Clenches his fists, digs his nails into his palms before he glances up to meet eyes with a few other students, then focus his attention back on their teacher.
"Now, let me rephrase: There ain't nut'in' wrong with Ms. Yumi Yamada. She's a Joshi legend, but I can already tell all of ye t'ink yer gonna be like all yer fav'rites bustin' out Dragon Suplexes 'n havin' Dave Meltzer jizz his pants whilst yer breakin' each other's necks. Nah. Nope. No. Maybe ONE day. I ain't 'ere to tell you what's good 'n what ain't, but I am here to teach you. And that starts wit' a history lesson fer every single one o' ya. Tapes. History. HOMEWORK."
A beat again as the students stare at Donnelly.
"'ow many of ye 'ad heard of me 'fore ya signed up fer this?"
A smattering of hands.
"An' Earl Grey, The Gentleman Grappler?"
A smattering more.
"An' 'ow many of ye ever saw our match from 1982, in Lion's Pride Wrestlin'?"
Silence, no hands go up. "'ow many of ye ever even HEARD of Lion's Pride?"
One hand. Slowly, a second.
"Christ. Yer worst off than I feared. Well, not to toot me own 'orn, but THIS is required readin': Yers truly, Bobby Donnelly, vs. Earl Grey. Lion's Pride Wrestlin'. 1982. I know ye all do yer lil' tape tradin' of yer PURO-RESU, so ye can find that match. In fact, that's the first homework assignment: findin' that match. And no sharin' it 'tween each other, neit'er. Ye all 'afta find it yerselves. An' more. "Catch-as-catch-can." Ye all 'eard of that?"
A collective nod.
"Good. Smarter than I t'ought. Well, now, that ain't the best by no means, even if we were two o' the best goin'. But it's a good startin' off point, wit' some more heavy-hittin' stuff t'rown in t'ere seein' as it was 1982 and times, well, as Mr. Dylan would say: t'ey were a-changin'. So by next week, I want ye all to watch t'is match. And AT LEAST ten more matches like it. Then ye give me yer fav'rites, yeah? We see what ye've learned 'n maybe in a few weeks, maybe ye can learn a god-damned proper hip toss."
A beat.
"We still got two hours left in t'is class rait now, though. So on the floor, we're startin' wit' crunches 'til ye feel like yer gonna t'row up."
Homework: Earl Grey vs. Bobby Donnelly (Lion's Pride Wrestling: 01/09/1982)
---
Xx_tigerdriverkid_xX.deadjournal.com (12 Comments |Comment on this) Sunday, October 31st, 2004 9:47 PM
Hey guys I'm dressing up as "Totally Not a FuckUp" for Halloween lol.
It's been mental this past little while. I talked to my mum yesterday.
Or, well, I left her a message. She's kinda miffed that I took the money she sent me, bought a train ticket to Belfast, and refuse to come home. I talked to her last week for a few minutes. She said she wasn't happy but she wasn't gonna do anything—"at least not yet" as long as I stay in school and "make money." Basically she said she'd give me a year to do this as long as A) my grades are good and B) I make money doing this. Her and Mr. Donnelly talked for like 3 hours on the phone a few days ago and the whole time he just kept staring at me with this look on his face and mumbling about how he's gonna kill me and he ain't a babysitter and other stuff.
He said I wouldn't last another day but here I am. He's kind of a piece of shit tbh but I can tell it's one of those "tough love" things. He's trying to weed out the chaff bits and already a few people dropped out of my wrestling class and a few others came in. We had to do all this studying of "real" wrestling from wayyyy back in the 1960s and 1970s and 1980s and tbh it all looks like shit lol. Not only is it really boring but like everything's in awful quality and I don't really get it. Like nothing happens for like 5-10 mins at a time and then someone does some overly-complex hold and it's supposed to be good lol? I dunno I don't get it but that's what's apparently "good" according to Mr. Donnelly. It's funny cuz he said he's not trying to tell us what wrestling's good but he totally is lol.
Whatevs. I learned how to take a back bump and some other stuff.
My entire body is bruised and everyone at school is like "wtf" lol but they probably think I'm a right badass so that's kewl.
Anyway honestly I'm knackered should probably go to bed night guyz.
- Will
Current Mood:  tired Currently Listening To: BBC Radio One to go to sleep to |
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Ripley
Steel Johnson
Posts: 198
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Post by Ripley on Apr 16, 2019 14:27:46 GMT
 Excerpt from a January 2019 Interview with dirtsheetdaily.com:
...Alcoholism is a mighty curious t'ing, y'know?
Well, it's not. It's a debilitating disease that has has some'ow become culturally accepted until the bruises n' the scars are black-purple-red; rait there starin' ya in the face.
I feel like it started in the pubs, before footie matches, then carried on into the matches themselves. And some people knew to be responsible and keep it within the confines of the pitches.
Others battered each other's heads in, but still kept it within the confines of the pitch.
My da didn't, y'know? Thing was: he never liked football, so what in the fugg was 'is excuse, right?
An' even if he did, he wouldn't stop at the pubs or at the pitch. I mean, the dumbarse was let go from, shite—
A beat. A deep wrinkle settles in the forehead of Will Craddock as he counts on his fingers.
Six, maybe seven jobs fer drinkin', 'fer I left the house fer good. I ain't sayin' I'm unique, or special, or nothin'. Not at all. I mean, Jay-sus Haitch Christ, ya throw a dart 'round rural Wales, the rural UK, yer gonna find yer fair share o' pat'etic white men wit' their unfillfilled dreams soakin' their sorrows in the bottom o' a pint rait easy.
It's funny in a kinds sad way, though, y'know: it still feels like a distinctly American, or Nort' American problem. I mean, they're rait proper repressed 'bout it an' don't say fugg all but it feels like we say even less. Like "Oh don't mind 'em they're just bein' lads!" an' then them lads grow up, 'ave little lads o' their own, then beat the shite outta them lads, and it's a vicious cycle, rait?
Rait.
Thing was: my da never laid a hand on me. It's kinda sick, rait, but I wish 'e woulda. Would 'ave given me good reason to cave 'is face in, yeah? Mum suffered the brunt. Luckily 'e didn't 'it her much—I say that as if any more than once isn't too much—but it was all yellin' and blusterin' 'round the 'ouse and breakin' shite. That's what it was. Not to say he didn't crack 'er 'round the 'ead an' she'd scream and the rozzers would come round an' say shite like "Oh what've ya done now?" and then they'd laugh 'bout it an' piss off.
It weren't no fuggin' secret. Everyone knew. That's the perverse, sick'nin' part of it all: everyone knew. Like that fuggin', like that scene in Hot Fuzz, where what's 'is face, Simon Pegg's character clues in that the whole village is in on it? 'Cept with me, it was domestic abuse, y'know.
I dunno if that's primar'ly a UK thing or it's a small-town US thing, too. I've been tryin' to figure that out fer a while now: complacency. It takes a village, 'pparently. I come 'round Pontypridd every so often now; multi-time World Champion, owner of a successful wrestlin' company, fuggin' wrestlin' trainer, an' I'm still talked 'bout in hushed tones as "Dafydd (Daf-ith) 'n Bonnie's boy—poor soul." Well if I'm such a poor fuggin' soul why in the shite did none o' ya, say, do somethin'? Call the cops? Beat his arse? Offer me 'n me mum a place to go.
Do I sound bitter? Yer fuggin' rait I sound bitter. 'Cause fer so long I resented her. That really fuggin' hurt. Still does. 'Cause I was so god-damned stubborn n' self-centred 'n shitty. Like I couldn't get it t'rough my thick-arse fuggin' skull that it weren't so black 'n white fer her. It was black 'n white fer me 'cause 'ere I was watchin' him thrash her round 'n yell 'n break shit 'n losin' jobs and wastin' money. 'N 'ere was the entire village just enablin' 'im. Literally pickin' his drunk arse up off the ground in some cases 'n walkin' 'im home. Offerin' 'im jobs, then actin' surprised when he fugged it up, and givin' 'im anot'er chance rat'er than, say, tellin' 'im to go to fuggin' rehab. It was real easy fer me, to see that way. It still is, mind. I still firmly believe all his "friends" were fuggin' enablin' pieces o' shite.
But I was real angry at me mum fer a long fuggin' time. Too god-damned long. 'Cause I didn't understand nut'in' but the "real" him she'd say and I'd say therte weren't no real him. Then like ten years later after his ol' shitty liver finally fugged off ferever I'd find some old pictures or some shite. Moreover I'd 'ave a talk wit' me mum and she'd tell me 'bout 'ow he'd apologize all the fuggin' time. 'Bout how when I'd fugged off to the garden or gone to the library or my room or whatever 'n it was just them he'd look at 'er with these real sincere blue eyes—the only t'ing I got from 'em—all wet from cryin', all blood-shot, and he'd say "Sorry." He'd keep sayin' "Sorry" 'til his face was practically blue, 'til he couldn't practically breathe. Then he'd say it summore.
And she'd see, fer a half-second or two, "ol' Dafydd." And I still didn't get it. Then I got wit' Nicole, rait? Nikki. I got wit' Nikki. N' we don't fight. I don't drink. I 'ad like two, t'ree drinks in my entire life. One: I think most alcohol tastes like shite, 'n two, I fuggin' can't, y'know. I can't become 'im, y'know. Fer everyone's sake I can't become 'im so I got as far away from 'im as I could, y'know?
Left his arse at 16 and didn't look back and was too mad 'n stubborn to live wit' me mum.
But I'd find myself apologizin' to Nicole—Nikki o'er shite I didn't need to apologize fer. We'd fight. I'd apologize. I talked to me mum a few years ago—this was 'fore I was diagnosed; mind. An' we got to like, really, actually talkin'.
I asked her what "old Dafydd" meant t'inkin', y'know, she was talkin' 'bout 'fore it got real bad. Like, real, real bad. I figur'd she was talkin' 'bout maybe when 'e was only drinkin' a lil'; a drink or two or somethin' when they was in their teens or somethin'. But she weren't. They grew up as them typical young star-crossed lover types, y'know. I knew they didn't 'ave many other options in some small Welsh village, stuck 'round each other ever since they was kids. But what I didn't fuggin' know was this: he didn't drink fer a long time. I thought he was some fugg off piece o' shite failure o' a man 'ho was drinkin' as soon as 'e could get his hands on it. Nah, not the case. He didn't start drinkin' 'til he was somethin' like 25 or sum'tin'. An' he was diagnosed with "afflictions" rait 'round then.
So "ol' Dafydd" weren't some shite 'bout drinkin'. It was lit'rally 'fore he was diagnosed. They called it "afflictions" 'n then it was "depressive episodes", then it was "manic depression." And then she was tellin' me 'ow when he'd fugg off fer days, maybe a week, even two at a time, it weren't always 'cause o' the drink. I mean it definitely were sometimes. But just as often it were 'cause he was off in Cardiff, there he was in 'ospital.
And always apologizin', she'd say. And she'd say "It's okay. It's okay." Wit' her face mashed to shite. It weren't. But I un'erstood—I un'erstand it now—and that scared; scares me, y'know.
Then couple years ago I'm apologizin' to Nikki a lot. O'er shite I never apologized fer. We're fightin' 'bout dumb shite. I'm checkin' out fer a week at a time or I'm missin' shows 'ere and there. I'm yellin'. I'm leavin' the apartment an' wantin' to just fuggin' walk into oncomin' traffic fer no discernible reason. I'm punchin' walls. I'm rait scared.
So I'm diagnosed. It's called borderline personality disorder now. Not "manic depression." Not "depressive episodes." Not "afflictions."
But I've never touched Nikki. I mean, she'd batter me if I ever tried, obv'ously. But Jay-sus Haitch, I've thought 'bout it. And that fuggin' shakes me. It makes me nearly retch t'inkin' 'bout it. It makes me hate meself. When ya disassociate so far, so hard, the person in front o' ya whom ya love so fiercely, so strongly, so much, ya can't 'magine the world before or after 'im—you love 'em so much you'd fuggin' die for 'im. Ya disassociate so hard they ain't that person no more. They're even worse than a stranger. They're just there as a vessel fer you to mistreat. Even as they're tellin' ya to ground yerself 'n breathe an' "this isn't you, Will." An' yer gettin' more mad 'cause you project yer self-loathin' and get mad fer bein' told what you are and ain't 'n you double-down on all yer hatred out of fear and self-loathin' and ya just go all-out 'n ya really think it is you 'n then it ain't and ya 'ate yerself so fuggin' much and yer just all wet eyes an' apologies.
They're just there for you to yell at an' spew all yer self-loathin' and project all yer hatred an' fear and confusion and doubt upon an' they just gotta take it 'til they can't take it no more 'cause that's what this shite does: it destroys people. It chews 'em up and spits 'em out. The one afflicted 'n anyone in their path. Loved or not.
So 'ere I am, like, ten years removed from "ol' Dafydd" passin' 'n I'm him, y'know? The thing I most feared: I'm him. I'm sittin' 'ere fearin' e'ery day that Nikki's gonna wise the fugg up like me mum wised the fugg up and left "ol' Dafydd." I'm sittin' here terrified "today's gonna be the fuggin' day" where it don't stop. Where I really just fullfill the prophecy and drink too much or I don't drink not'in' and everythin' is just too much too fast and it all breaks fer good. Where the physical violence or the threat of physical violence or the yellin' or the self-pity or the apologizin' is just all too much an' she's gone and I'm left alone in our apartment wit' these fuggin' titles an' these wanky 5-Star Ratings that mean fuggin' not'in' if she ain't 'ere.
A long pause. A long inhale. A longer exhale. Fists ball. Nails dig half-crescents into palms. Fists fall limp. Fists ball again. A sigh. Lips, dry, part, to speak. Nothing comes out for a bit. A blank stare.
Shite, what was the fuggin' question? I lost myself. You asked me a reasl simple question 'bout who got me into wrestlin', 'n I say "My da" 'n then it just spirals into some fuggin' pity party 'bout alcoholism 'n drinkin' n' shite.
Sorry. I'm sorry. Sorry.
...
Sorry.Another sigh. Hands shake.
Anyway, my da. It's funny in a morbid, kinda sick way, yeah? He fuggin' got me into wrestlin', the piece o' shite. One o' the only good memories I can t'ink of was sittin' 'round wit' 'im on weekends and watchin' wrestlin'. That felt like it was one o' the only times he seemed "normal." Fer an hour or two when it were on the telly, maybe even a whole day if we were able to get in the car an' catch a local show. An' my first e'er match: me god-damned mum was there. Wanted me to keep bein' in school, PAID FOR WRESTLIN', but I was too god-damned stubborn 'n angry an' confused to give a shite back then. I said "Hi" and that were it. Nothin' else. She came all the from London to Ireland, took time outta 'er fuggin' day fer a thing she don't even like or und'erstand, for her son who don't even like 'er at the time. I'm too much a piece o' shite to care.
An' he weren't there. An' I acted like I didn't give much of a shite. 'Cause I didn't at the time. I was too busy pukin' me guts out n' worryin' 'bout executin' moves properly to worry 'bout who was in the audience. But lookin' back I wanted 'im to be there; I wanted, specifically, that version of 'im I remember on weekends from when I was a kid. Me own personal "ol' Dafydd."
A long pause. A hard stare. A kind of muttered "Mmmnnn" before a voice trails off. His lips stay open as if he wants to say something, but his words are choked back.I don't—I don't "get" my da. Or, well, I do. That's what terrifies me now, in a new way. I don't excuse why he did what he did. My mum don't eit'er. An', y'know, disease or not, he still weren't a good da. I've said, I've done, some 'orrible shite. An' I 'ave a longer rope than maybe I deserve sometimes, 'n people 'ave put up wit' a lot shite, but I fuggin' show up. I will give myself some credit, outside o' the wrestlin' ring. In life, I fuggin' show up. My da never did. He never showed up for not'in', at least in my life. And I'm sittin' 'ere wonderin' when I'm gonna hit that point, if I'm gonna hit that point: not showin' up. It's—y'know, I shite my fuggin' pants e'ery day waitin' fer that to happen, waitin' for "real Will" to show up or somethin' and just go full-circle 'n fullfill the prophecy of the prodigal son becomin' his da.
But the drinkin': it don't excuse 'im gettin' shitefaced 'n hittin' her. Strikin' her 'n blamin' it on the booze. Or usin' the booze as some flimsy excuse to justify doin' what he wanted to do anwyay. It's disgustin'. What's terrifyin' most to me at this point is the t'ought of drinkin': of what if I start drinkin' an' everyth'in' he done to her, it starts makin' sense to me. That'll be the proper death o' me.
It's—I'm scared, y'know...? |
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Ripley
Steel Johnson
Posts: 198
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Post by Ripley on May 2, 2019 23:20:09 GMT
December 20th, 2004
Belfast, Ireland
"ALRIGHT, LADS 'N LASSES! GOOD! GOOD STUFF TODAY! GIVE ME SOME LAPS 'ROUND THE GYM AND WE'LL CALL IT! After yer done, we'll start one-on-one feedback in my office." The ten students, pouring with sweat, oblige their teacher, the equally as sweaty Bobby Donnelly. Let it be known that the middle-aged Irish legend most certainly works just as hard as his students. Donnelly starts towards his office when Will Craddock intercepts him. "Mr. Donnelly?" "Aye, Mr. Craddock. Tired already, are we?" "No, I just—" "Yer not runnin', is that it?" A beat. "Well, spit it out, then, lad." "Well, I—it's mid-December and you 'aven't booked me for anything, 'aven't told me when I might be booked..." Donnelly snorts, eyeing the Welsh youngster. His face is set deep, deep in concentration. Then Donnelly erupts into a full-on belly laugh. "Oh, Mr. Craddock, yer seeer-yus. That's—ya've been 'ere fer barely two mont's. Ya think ya deserve a match, on a card, in front o' a real crowd?" "I didn't say that, I just—" "Ya not'in', Mr. Craddock. Ya said that by comin' up to me when ya should be runnin' laps. I've got students who've been here nearly a year, some well over a year, an' t'ey ain't even had their first match." Craddock straightens, chews his lower lip a moment, and clears his throat.
Oh Christ don't say it he's going to kick you out.
"And those students, I wrestle circles around 'em. I mean, take Ollie—he can't even do a Moonsault, and he's been 'ere you said over a year. I've been 'ere two months and I look like fuggin' Kurt Angle! 'Scuse the swear, sir." Another explosive laugh. "Kurt feckin' Angle? Blimey, lad, yer good at blowin' smoke up yer own arse, that's fer sure. An' don't get on Ollie fer not doin' no Moonsault. Yer, what, seven-and-a-half stone, soakin' wet? Ollie's a big boy 'n he knows what he's capable of. Yer runnin' round here tryin' to be Shawn Michaels, tryin' to be Johnny Saint, tryin'—" "Just give me a chance, Mr. Donnelly." "Alright, lad. Alright. Tell you what: you run TWICE as many laps as everyone else, 'n you come to the ring after that. I'll give you twen'y minutes in the ring. Wit' me. I'll let you call most o' the match, even. You impress me, you MIGHT get on a card in the comin' months." Craddock beams ear to ear. "LADS 'N LASSES! BIG ANNOUNCEMENT: IT'S A CHRIS'MAS MIRACLE, IT IS! MR. CRADDOCK 'ERE, HE T'INKS HE'S THE HOT SHIT, AS YOU KIDS SAY IT! So, we're gonna 'ave ourselves a lil' match after one-on-ones. Gat'er 'round if ya want, or bugger off. It's been a good class." "Lad, you'd better tap," Donnelly growls through gritted teeth. "What? No." "Lad—" "No." Donnelly yanks back and Craddock yelps in pain as his arm is wrenched awkwardly, before he is forced to tap. He writhes on the mat in pain before Donnelly picks up the bloodied Craddock and brings him to his feet. He claps the youth on the back, right between the shoulders. "Good, lad. Good. But hat're ya doin' not protectin' yerself on those elbow shots? You saw 'em comin', and now lookit yer face." "I—" "I ain't done yet, lad. Second off: yer runnin' all over the place sometimes, lookin' like an id-jit, stoppin' and starin'. Pace yerself better when yer runnin' the ropes to connect on yer moves. And second off: we been workin' on that lil' move o' yers: elbows into a European Uppercut off the ropes, yeah?" "..." "YEAH?" "Yes, sir." "Well, ya do it, then ya ain't pinning me? Why?" "I-I don't know, sir." "AND T'IRD: Beautiful Moonsault, lad. It was real good, I'll give ya t'at, but Jay-sus Christ yer doin' it WAY too close to the ropes. Be careful. And speakin' of dem ropes, ya 'ad me beat. I even gave ya the okay, wit' dem rollin' elbows. It was a good finish, 'n ya 'ad me in the ropes. Pull me AWAY from the ropes. Yer doin' bloody divin' headbutts! Don't! You don't know what t'e feck yer doin' doin' those. Cut it out now. And yer lockin' in a Sleeper Hold—which the feck is this Dragon Sleeper puroresu shite? Yer lockin' it in and yellin' 'FINISH!' an' lookin' like a bellend doin' that shite." I didn't look like a bellend fuck you."Yes, sir... sorry, sir." "Ot'er than those t'ings, it was—yer half-decent, son." Craddock smiled sheepishly. "Alright, lads 'n lasses, give Mr. Craddock a round of applause. He's just earned himself a match on March's card when Daisuke Sonoda 'n his lads 'n lasses roll t'rough town." |
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