The rancid stench of that mind control slime still assaulted Davey-Boy’s nostrils abruptly, effectively taking his focus off of his training partner. His training partner was Gavin Tompkins, also known as “Gav the Chav” for reasons which were glaringly obvious if you’ve ever seen the man. For a moment, all Davey could think of were those poor souls out in the audience which were doused with the mysterious substance. The flashback caused Davey-Boy a lump to form in his throat then he lurched, gagging.
Within seconds, a stiff forearm met The Scottish Terrier’s snout, bringing him back to reality. O’Brien’s body shuddered before his legs turned into a Jello, sending him stumbling back toward the ropes. As he bounced off a large body wedged itself between he and his aggressor.
“Whoa, there, lad,” cut in a large older gentlemen known to the wrestling world as Baz Jones. He was a Hardcore Legend in the sport of wrestling. Davey-Boy had been taught by this man since he was a young welp in a carnival act, and now here he was scaling the wrestling world with the same codger protecting him. Gav backed off fairly quickly once he realized his training partner wasn’t quite himself. Did Gav want to beat the bloody hell out of Davey-Boy O’Brien? You can bet your arse he did and still does, but there’s a difference between sparring and an actual sanctioned match.
Next thing Davey knew, he was staring into the eyes of his mentor. Baz examined Davey’s eyes as Gav turned to face his own corner. “Gavin, lad, call it night, ya did good,” prescribed the old veteran. Only once he was sure Gav had vanished outside for a smoke did Baz’s attention return to his young protégé. “You ain’t blootered, are ya,” the grisled, old Englishman inquired as he helped Davey steady himself.
Davey dropped his head, clearly ashamed of his wrestling performances of late against anyone not named Gavin, no offense to his training mate. “Nah, not a single bevvy,” replied the prodigy wrestler somberly. “That… that smell,” he stuttered nervously as Davey tried not to sniff, but the smell assaulted his senses once more.
SMACK!
Baz Jones’ large hand welcomed Davey back to the conversation with him. “Get a grip, lad,” demanded Davey’s concerned coach. Davey’s eyes leveled with the man who was the closest thing he had left to a father. “Ya with me, son?” Only once Baz was sure Davey was focused on him did he begin. “In any ring ‘round the world, you’re one o’ the greatest. If I ‘ad even ‘alf the ability you got I would ‘ave been the Ultimate Wrestlin’ Franchise Champion five months back. Ya put everythin’ into winnin’ those Tag Team titles.” The big, old codger placed a fatherly hand on Davey-Boy’s broad shoulder. “I was proud o’ ya, mate. Unfortunately, somethin’ happened that night, an’ you’ve been afraid o’ that Ultimate Wrestlin’ canvas since.”
The accusation drew a bit of a gasp from Davey. It was as if a weight had been lifted off of his shoulders that Baz had understood his troubles. “How-,” Davey breathed, “how’d ye knoo?”
“Boyo,” Baz began, “professional wrestlin’ ‘as always been about winnin’.” An incredulous look crossed Davey’s face as he was about to object. “‘Fore ya say a word, Davey,” his mentor intercepted him, “jus’ ‘ear me out. The men an’ women who walk ter that ring all ‘ave that one thing on their mind. Some won’t let anythin’ step in their way. If yer fightin’ scared, ya won’t make it.”
As Davey-Boy pondered Baz’s words, the aging grappler continued, “what ‘appened out there was unexplainable. ‘Ad I not seen it on the telly for meself, I prolly wouldn’t ‘ave believed ya if ya told me. Fact is, some strange shit goes on in our sport. Some real scary shit. But, ya wanna be the best?” A large finger prodded O’Brien’s heart, pumping an odd life back into it. “Ya gotta walk through that curtain even if the ‘ole Nazi force is starin’ yer arse down on the other side.” A certain darkness almost gleamed in the old man’s eyes. That was the Baz Jones who had seen a thing or two. A man who had wrecked people in alleys and had gotten wrecked in alleys. The hairs on Davey-Boy’s neck stood on end. “Now,” he said at last, “you’ve ‘ad long day, lad. Ya were good in practice, but good is an underwhelmin’ term to describe ya.” Baz offered to drive Davey, but the Boy O’Groats respectfully declined and baid him good night.
As Davey-Boy left the gym, that familiar stench returned. He wanted to gag, but he swallowed as hard as he could. Davey took a deep breath then pulled his hoodie over his head before jogging into the night.
(If you're interested in checking out what this piece is for, please check out this link to Ultimate Online Wrestling! http://www.efedzone.com/fed/115 )
