Post by Tommy Kelly on May 25, 2021 16:43:26 GMT -5
Circle West trailer park, and nothing has changed since before. The shoddy shacks still house low income families from the surrounding area, along with some folks looking to escape the system and even some rabble-rousers on the lam from the fuzz.
Stuck in the middle of this is struggling professional athlete, Tommy Kelly. We say struggling loosely, when it seems like he is anything but. Undefeated in NLW, #1 contender for their biggest prize, a long list of previous accolades and achievements throughout his years.
But his struggle is much deeper rooted, and far darker. If the empty cans and liquor bottles outside are any indication, inside we learn the full truth. Tommy had picked up the trailer and lot for cheap as he was unsure of his future in Louisiana. After all, his brand had died out a long long time ago, the ‘StormCrow’ forgotten by all except the true die-hards.
At the mercy of BB Gunn, Tommy was allowed one more jaunt in the ring so long as he remained on good behaviour. With the likes of Joe Blow stealing the piss-covered spotlight it wasn’t hard to fly under the radar. But now, his demons are coming for him and they show no remorse.
~~... “Tommy? Tommy, are you there?” ...~~
Her voice on the answering machine startles him out of yet another drunken slumber, the days and nights blending into one long hazy fucking nightmare. Waking up on the kitchen floor of his rundown trailer is nothing new, but covered in his own vomit, the room around him thrashed… despicable.
~~... “Tommy I know you are there, pick up… you missed training, again. C’mon Tommy, get your fuckin’ act together man, you are so close. Nobody is out to get you man, only you. Fucking up your whole life.” …~~
She was right, she was always right. Bodhi saw something in Tommy and helped him out greatly in Japan when he was suffering from internal struggles. But leaving Japan? He brought all that darkness right back, tenfold. And no Bodhi to save him.
But she’s still trying.
~~... “Tommy… look, I get it. You don’t like to talk about these things, and you don’t do well with pressure. Big things are happening, and that’s scary… but it’s nothing new. It’s nothing you haven’t faced before. This is your shot, everything you worked hard to get back to, everything you tried so desperately to put behind you… this is it.” ...~~
He nods to himself as she speaks, listening to her voice pouring out from the answering machine across the trailer. He sits up, dusting off dried vomit and whatever other filth rests on his bare chest.
~~... “Don’t let it all be in vain Tommy.” …~~
He uses Bodhi’s words to motivate himself from a seated position over to his knees, grabbing nearby beer can and taking a swig. Spitting out immediately, the can is full of cigarette butts, clearly a makeshift ashtray he has mixed up. Spitting and sputtering he climbs up onto the kitchen counter, battling a pounding headache and dehydrated hangover to turn on the faucet and slurp water with his cupped hand.
After some fumbling, a new voice speaks.
~~... “Tommy? Tommy, do you hear me? My name is Hyperion, we met some time ago when we tried to murder one another.” …~~
“This fucking guy…”
More fumbling sounds are heard, not to mention Bodhi’s complaints in the background. On his feet and sturdy, Tommy surmises the room around him, a total wreck. He looks back to the answering machine as the voices speak.
~~... “Tommy, I am speaking to you through a very small box. Perhaps some kind of animal shell. Bodhi has instructed me to give you some words of encouragement. The way she describes your behaviour to me, I would have eliminated you personally some time ago....” …~~
More arguments between Bodhi and Hyperion, muffled on their end of the line. As this happens Tommy peers around the room, his still-drunken vision barely grasping things. A tumbled chair. A broken mirror. A smashed TV set. A picture on the wall of him and his former partner Synn. His XHF European title, tossed under a pile of dirty clothes.
~~... “Bodhi, will you allow me to finish! ...apparently my words are crass, however I do not consider you one for mollycoddling and modesty. The white haired woman is right, you have fought valiantly to achieve your goals, and you now stand on the frontline of this war ready for victory. Your behaviour is unacceptable for any warrior… but I must have chosen you as my lieutenant for a reason. You are a fighter, Tommy. A true fighter. Without hardship and turmoil, we cannot improve. Without suffering we cannot find peace. Without a fight… we cannot win.” …~~
The answering machine cuts off, the voicemail far too long for one message. The room around him is a personification of his life, a constant battle to subdue and bury the past. To drown out the nightmares. But in doing so he forgets the road ahead far too often.
Eli Dresden, top of her game. Unbeatable, unstoppable. Wielding the trident of Hyperion himself, and the golden belt of NLW around her waist. Why would they elect a drunken bum like Tommy Kelly to fight her?
“Because nobody else has stopped me yet.”
He picks up a swaying picture from his wall, a picture inside the frame showing him wielding his first ever title, the DiWF Bloodfest Championship. The feeling of that win, the rush of success, the unstoppable feeling… it floods back. It fills him with warmth, joy. As he holds the picture the glass reflects his own image, the crusty haggard face of a worn warrior.
“You’ve gotten weak, old man.”
He hangs the picture back up, cracking a smile.
“But you haven’t been stopped yet.”
He leans on the counter, taking a number of deeper breaths and ends, assuredly with the simple words;
“Alright… fuck it, let’s do this.”
