Post by Tommy Kelly on Aug 17, 2021 19:37:53 GMT -5
Here I go again on my own
Goin' down the only road I've ever known
Like a drifter I was born to walk alone
An' I've made up my mind, I ain't wasting no more time
“I had it all man, I had it all. YOU had it all, and now it’s gone. The gold, the streak, the clout… all because of one fat fuckin’ Glaswegian…”
Stood in front of his bathroom mirror, Tommy Kelly leans on his cracked and stained ceramic sink, his eyes firmly locked onto his own reflection.
“You climbed so far from the gutter man, so got so damn high up before this… and now it’s all gone.”
Wearing a worn stained white tank top over some tattered black jeans, his hair dangles like a mess across his face, almost concealing his red puffy eyes and dry lips. The heavy breathing and slight mumble indicate he’s been having a few.
“European Champion… I held that fuckin thing for years… years! And Dunne gets in my way and the whole thing is over. Then the damn NLW strap, I fight the best champion they ever had, the queen cunt that took Hype’s stick and I win… I only win, no losses, no defeats, no fucking upsets…”
He steps back from the mirror to show his hands, one all wrapped and taped up after what looks like an injury and the other holding a half drank bottle of Powers whiskey.
“Dunne… Wellington fuckin Dunne… some loser, always been a loser, always will be… get’s his fat fuckin head in my business and now… look at you.”
In a slight stagger he spits at the mirror, quickly followed by a strike from the injured hand, shattering the mirror and opening some fresh cuts on that same limb. It barely phases him, as he swigs his bottle and stumbles out of the bathroom.
Inside his rental trailer-park home, the entire abode is a mess. Clothes everywhere, items toppled from the wall, broken objects strewn everywhere.
“I was there… I was at the fuckin top…”, he says as he staggers against the wall, his shoulder taking the impact, “...I was back on the top. And now… I’m no better than the rest of the losers.”
He stumbles forward into the ‘living’ area of the home, and grabs a duffle bag from the nearby table. He grabs clothes and tosses what he can into the bag, picking up random items from pictures on the wall to a half-filled ashtray, to the remote for the TV.
Mindlessly he packs, only keeping sense enough to drink from his bottle.
“Dunne… you cursed me. You fuckin’ took my glory away. You forced me to lose a fight to a damn kid, a little emo goth fucker that has no right… no right!... callin’ himself the champ.”
Tommy stops to finish his bottle, emptying the glass container with sloppy ease before launching the glass across the room, shattering the TV screen in the corner.
“You took it from me. You wanted me to feel like nothing, to have nothing, to go back to feeling worthless... “. He picks up a picture frame, glass still broken from his last bender. A picture of him and his buddy Synn, from their return to the ring back in the early AXW days. “Thing about me Dunne… I’m better worthless.”
He tosses the frame into the bag and zips it up, sitting on a broken chair nearby to drag on a pair of beaten Docs and finally a black button down shirt.
“Tommy Kelly… fearless. Deathless. Worthless. Heh, that’s what you want - fuck- that’s what the whole world thinks anyway. Lose one fight and you’re worth less than the steam of a hot piss…”
He stands up, grabbing the bag and a leather coat nearby. One last glance around the room before he mutters his last words.
“I do better when I’m hungry anyway.”
Like a scene from a movie, he kicks a pipe off the wall by the stove, pouring gas out into the air. He pulls a cigarette pack from his pocket and lights one up, placing it across the lightswitch as he walks out of the trailer.
Shutting the door behind him, Tommy adjusts himself in the colder night air before walking down the long driveway of the trailer park. He leaves the scene, disappearing into the night, the last trace of him slowly starting to be engulfed in flames.
Tommy Kelly - Born of a Broken Man
Goin' down the only road I've ever known
Like a drifter I was born to walk alone
An' I've made up my mind, I ain't wasting no more time
“I had it all man, I had it all. YOU had it all, and now it’s gone. The gold, the streak, the clout… all because of one fat fuckin’ Glaswegian…”
Stood in front of his bathroom mirror, Tommy Kelly leans on his cracked and stained ceramic sink, his eyes firmly locked onto his own reflection.
“You climbed so far from the gutter man, so got so damn high up before this… and now it’s all gone.”
Wearing a worn stained white tank top over some tattered black jeans, his hair dangles like a mess across his face, almost concealing his red puffy eyes and dry lips. The heavy breathing and slight mumble indicate he’s been having a few.
“European Champion… I held that fuckin thing for years… years! And Dunne gets in my way and the whole thing is over. Then the damn NLW strap, I fight the best champion they ever had, the queen cunt that took Hype’s stick and I win… I only win, no losses, no defeats, no fucking upsets…”
He steps back from the mirror to show his hands, one all wrapped and taped up after what looks like an injury and the other holding a half drank bottle of Powers whiskey.
“Dunne… Wellington fuckin Dunne… some loser, always been a loser, always will be… get’s his fat fuckin head in my business and now… look at you.”
In a slight stagger he spits at the mirror, quickly followed by a strike from the injured hand, shattering the mirror and opening some fresh cuts on that same limb. It barely phases him, as he swigs his bottle and stumbles out of the bathroom.
Inside his rental trailer-park home, the entire abode is a mess. Clothes everywhere, items toppled from the wall, broken objects strewn everywhere.
“I was there… I was at the fuckin top…”, he says as he staggers against the wall, his shoulder taking the impact, “...I was back on the top. And now… I’m no better than the rest of the losers.”
He stumbles forward into the ‘living’ area of the home, and grabs a duffle bag from the nearby table. He grabs clothes and tosses what he can into the bag, picking up random items from pictures on the wall to a half-filled ashtray, to the remote for the TV.
Mindlessly he packs, only keeping sense enough to drink from his bottle.
“Dunne… you cursed me. You fuckin’ took my glory away. You forced me to lose a fight to a damn kid, a little emo goth fucker that has no right… no right!... callin’ himself the champ.”
Tommy stops to finish his bottle, emptying the glass container with sloppy ease before launching the glass across the room, shattering the TV screen in the corner.
“You took it from me. You wanted me to feel like nothing, to have nothing, to go back to feeling worthless... “. He picks up a picture frame, glass still broken from his last bender. A picture of him and his buddy Synn, from their return to the ring back in the early AXW days. “Thing about me Dunne… I’m better worthless.”
He tosses the frame into the bag and zips it up, sitting on a broken chair nearby to drag on a pair of beaten Docs and finally a black button down shirt.
“Tommy Kelly… fearless. Deathless. Worthless. Heh, that’s what you want - fuck- that’s what the whole world thinks anyway. Lose one fight and you’re worth less than the steam of a hot piss…”
He stands up, grabbing the bag and a leather coat nearby. One last glance around the room before he mutters his last words.
“I do better when I’m hungry anyway.”
Like a scene from a movie, he kicks a pipe off the wall by the stove, pouring gas out into the air. He pulls a cigarette pack from his pocket and lights one up, placing it across the lightswitch as he walks out of the trailer.
Shutting the door behind him, Tommy adjusts himself in the colder night air before walking down the long driveway of the trailer park. He leaves the scene, disappearing into the night, the last trace of him slowly starting to be engulfed in flames.
Tommy Kelly - Born of a Broken Man
