[R A D I C A L]

RADICAL | ☆ | "THE IRELAND DOCUMENTS" | ☆ | XWF#042 | ☆ | SAVAGE * SATURDAY NIGHT | ☆ | VERSUS MICHAEL McBRIDE | ☆ | #01 T H E |☆| I R I S H M A N M I C H A E L * M C B R I D E What's it like to feel your talent slipping away? All of what you used to be comes back in waves like tapered expectations in a dark basement. Desolate. Alone. Dusty and cold. You can hear a pin drop on the stained cement floor. Sitting next to the shoveled out hole that has been pulled up and repacked with dirt more times than you can remember. Your mind drifts to the times when you were more. Feared by mounds of challengers, drooling at the chance to be an XWF steadfast stud. And back to when you drooled, even more, at the thought of cracking their dreams; smashing their hopes like you use to Irish lagers for months on end. That was the life. Back home in Ireland, I bet you had an entire group of friends who were so proud you made it to the big time. "Look at weeee lil' McBride... he's made a name for he'self..." But it wasn't enough just to make a name, was it? Your family, your friends, your country... your home; they deserved more. A legacy. One that says, "I am the IRISH KING, and the long lasting pride gained from my reign will be a permanent inspiration to the people of Ireland long after I'm gone." If only it had worked out that way. It started high. Big wins, bigger matches, and bigger angles. Smiling fans trying to slap your hand. Shirts flying off the merch racks. The life. It all looked like the plan was on it's way to fruition, right? Then, you became the go-to guy for anyone who wanted to get over and become... what you were missing out on. Great. Suddenly, you went from the life of the party with the guys after show's, ;going out to bars with the iconic "McBride"...'; to the guy who sat on the sidelines not sure what to say. Pretty soon, they stopped inviting you altogether, didn't they? You lost touch with current events. A new class of talent. Passed you by. We gave you one last big win to send you off by... And who was the head of the class? Well, what can I say? I've always been the popular kid. People gravitate towards me. Because, for one, I'm not fucking Irish. And everyone can see that this charismatic star will make it to the top, even if it crashes and burns, it WILL MAKE IT! It will make it at LETHAL LOTTERY, when I pry that CHAMPIONSHIP FROM CHAOS' COLD DEAD HANDS, IF NECESSARY! And to be able to do that... I need one thing, first. You out of my way. Don't act surprised, Michael. You knew when you stole that X-Treme Title from me, that there would BE BLOOOOODDD! OH YES! Irish Blood. All over the ring. Savage will be the dawning of vengeance. THAT THEIVERY WAS THE LAST TIME anyone will have ever whispered the phrase "McBride the Champion"; so consider it a present... that Unified belt was my gift to you. A parting gift. Such sweet sorrow, Michael. On the Eve of the Irish holiday, St.Patrick's Day... I will annihilate the banned Saint that never was. BECAUSE, BABY, THE SHIT... is about to HIT the fan! And when it does, you will be forced into the eye of its inescapable feces hurricane! BITCH! You know what they say... Once a McBride... Always a McBride. But What Does it Mean? Is it a Myth? A Legend to Make us All Appreciate the Fondness of Our Maids? Who Has Maids? The Irish Afterglow isn't What it Used to Be... He's Lost a Step... Lost a Step... Step... After recounting his inner monologue, Gabe Reno stands looking perplexed in the middle of a condo. After a few yoga positions to get the blood flowing, he looks out at the luscious greenery in the backyard. A smirking close up of his face. Gabe the investigator... may have come out to play. He walks up the stairs and into the master bedroom. Pulling out his Authentic Inspector Clouseau Fan Club(he was treasurer) looking glass. He ducks under the Ireland shaped swing, whips, and chains dangling from the ceiling. A giant real cloverleaf is glued to the wall above the bed. Gabe's magnified pupils seen through the looking glass get big as he jumps back, having never seen a real cloverleaf before, much less a magnified one. He tip toes toward the bathroom, then grimaces realizing that his bare toes are in green shag carpet, his least-favorite type of flooring. "NOOO! FUCK!" He grabs an abandoned pair of slippers from behind the door to shield his feet, and moves forward. He see's a leather briefcase with some type of gang symbol on the front flap. He can't help but open it. Inside, Irish Documents. Describing the nature of the banishment in every tone. Fonts of all green types flow through 'The Radical's' eyes like an introductory scroll to a Star Wars movie. Suddenly it all begins to make sense. The desperation. The exile. The loneliness. A tear streams down Gabe's cheek. Sorry for what has become of the man, and even more so for what he will have to do to him. A smoke alarm goes off somewhere down in the condo. Quickly he closes the briefcase back up, and positions it like it was before. He hops over the putrid shag carpet and back to the main floor of the bedroom. What is that? His nose sniffs the drifting tide of smoke. "Oh, shit, the stove was left on!" Running through the living room, then, dining room as shown by a pan from outside window angles; tripping over shit twice; and into the den of fire. He quickly smothers the flames with a stiff blanket, then deactivates the smoke alarms. He walks into the kitchen to turn off the stove, then back to sit on the sofa relieved. Phew, but wait. One bush of flame is refusing to go out no mater how he stomps at it. It dances around his foot. Suddenly a puddle of water seeps into the room and extinguishes the final flame. Gabe sighs. "Wait... where did the water come from? Damnit!" The tub water was left filling up this entire time. He hops a railing and bolts up two and three steps at a time. Upstairs, a flood of waters begins to push him back. The underwater view shows him swimming through it, and a mermaid glide by. Gabe shares an endearing twinkle connection with the Mermaid, then the sense of urgency returns. A moan is head in the distance. His head emerges from the water, the water spout is finally shut off. His body floats to the top of the water, with his hand still on the spout. He smiles having avoided disaster. Another moan. He turns his ear our of the pool of H20. He hears the voice again begging for help. He swims back down to the lower level. Back into the den where the fire was burning. He see's the stiff blanket he used to suffocate the first is smoldering. "THAT'S NOT A BLANKET, IT'S AN OLD LADY IN A ROBE!" Gabe grabs a fire extinguisher off the wall and begins to spray the rolling smoking elderly mess. After smacking it and spraying, then getting frustrated and just drowning the moaning body in extinguisher fluid, Gabe tosses the extinguishers and collapses out of exhaustion on the floor. The charred old woman crawls by behind him. Gabe finally looks up happy that he was able to thwart the three disasters just in the nick of time. He looks up to the sliding glass door leading to the backyard. The body of an Irish child is floating face down in the pool. Oh, for Christ sake. I guess he hasn't been allowed back here in a while. I'll just go to the Irish Library to find dirt on McBride, this breaking in stuff is just too much... Who's that dead kid? ☆

[Gator]

RADICAL | ☆ | "THE IRELAND DOCUMENTS" | ☆ | XWF#042 | ☆ | SAVAGE * SATURDAY NIGHT | ☆ | VERSUS MICHAEL McBRIDE | ☆ | #01 T H E |☆| I R I S H M A N M I C H A E L * M C B R I D E What's it like to feel your talent slipping away? All of what you used to be comes back in waves like tapered expectations in a dark basement. Desolate. Alone. Dusty and cold. You can hear a pin drop on the stained cement floor. Sitting next to the shoveled out hole that has been pulled up and repacked with dirt more times than you can remember. Your mind drifts to the times when you were more. Feared by mounds of challengers, drooling at the chance to be an XWF steadfast stud. And back to when you drooled, even more, at the thought of cracking their dreams; smashing their hopes like you use to Irish lagers for months on end. That was the life. Back home in Ireland, I bet you had an entire group of friends who were so proud you made it to the big time. "Look at weeee lil' McBride... he's made a name for he'self..." But it wasn't enough just to make a name, was it? Your family, your friends, your country... your home; they deserved more. A legacy. One that says, "I am the IRISH KING, and the long lasting pride gained from my reign will be a permanent inspiration to the people of Ireland long after I'm gone." If only it had worked out that way. It started high. Big wins, bigger matches, and bigger angles. Smiling fans trying to slap your hand. Shirts flying off the merch racks. The life. It all looked like the plan was on it's way to fruition, right? Then, you became the go-to guy for anyone who wanted to get over and become... what you were missing out on. Great. Suddenly, you went from the life of the party with the guys after show's, ;going out to bars with the iconic "McBride"...'; to the guy who sat on the sidelines not sure what to say. Pretty soon, they stopped inviting you altogether, didn't they? You lost touch with current events. A new class of talent. Passed you by. We gave you one last big win to send you off by... And who was the head of the class? Well, what can I say? I've always been the popular kid. People gravitate towards me. Because, for one, I'm not fucking Irish. And everyone can see that this charismatic star will make it to the top, even if it crashes and burns, it WILL MAKE IT! It will make it at LETHAL LOTTERY, when I pry that CHAMPIONSHIP FROM CHAOS' COLD DEAD HANDS, IF NECESSARY! And to be able to do that... I need one thing, first. You out of my way. Don't act surprised, Michael. You knew when you stole that X-Treme Title from me, that there would BE BLOOOOODDD! OH YES! Irish Blood. All over the ring. Savage will be the dawning of vengeance. THAT THEIVERY WAS THE LAST TIME anyone will have ever whispered the phrase "McBride the Champion"; so consider it a present... that Unified belt was my gift to you. A parting gift. Such sweet sorrow, Michael. On the Eve of the Irish holiday, St.Patrick's Day... I will annihilate the banned Saint that never was. BECAUSE, BABY, THE SHIT... is about to HIT the fan! And when it does, you will be forced into the eye of its inescapable feces hurricane! BITCH! You know what they say... Once a McBride... Always a McBride. But What Does it Mean? Is it a Myth? A Legend to Make us All Appreciate the Fondness of Our Maids? Who Has Maids? The Irish Afterglow isn't What it Used to Be... He's Lost a Step... Lost a Step... Step... After recounting his inner monologue, Gabe Reno stands looking perplexed in the middle of a condo. After a few yoga positions to get the blood flowing, he looks out at the luscious greenery in the backyard. A smirking close up of his face. Gabe the investigator... may have come out to play. He walks up the stairs and into the master bedroom. Pulling out his Authentic Inspector Clouseau Fan Club(he was treasurer) looking glass. He ducks under the Ireland shaped swing, whips, and chains dangling from the ceiling. A giant real cloverleaf is glued to the wall above the bed. Gabe's magnified pupils seen through the looking glass get big as he jumps back, having never seen a real cloverleaf before, much less a magnified one. He tip toes toward the bathroom, then grimaces realizing that his bare toes are in green shag carpet, his least-favorite type of flooring. "NOOO! FUCK!" He grabs an abandoned pair of slippers from behind the door to shield his feet, and moves forward. He see's a leather briefcase with some type of gang symbol on the front flap. He can't help but open it. Inside, Irish Documents. Describing the nature of the banishment in every tone. Fonts of all green types flow through 'The Radical's' eyes like an introductory scroll to a Star Wars movie. Suddenly it all begins to make sense. The desperation. The exile. The loneliness. A tear streams down Gabe's cheek. Sorry for what has become of the man, and even more so for what he will have to do to him. A smoke alarm goes off somewhere down in the condo. Quickly he closes the briefcase back up, and positions it like it was before. He hops over the putrid shag carpet and back to the main floor of the bedroom. What is that? His nose sniffs the drifting tide of smoke. "Oh, shit, the stove was left on!" Running through the living room, then, dining room as shown by a pan from outside window angles; tripping over shit twice; and into the den of fire. He quickly smothers the flames with a stiff blanket, then deactivates the smoke alarms. He walks into the kitchen to turn off the stove, then back to sit on the sofa relieved. Phew, but wait. One bush of flame is refusing to go out no mater how he stomps at it. It dances around his foot. Suddenly a puddle of water seeps into the room and extinguishes the final flame. Gabe sighs. "Wait... where did the water come from? Damnit!" The tub water was left filling up this entire time. He hops a railing and bolts up two and three steps at a time. Upstairs, a flood of waters begins to push him back. The underwater view shows him swimming through it, and a mermaid glide by. Gabe shares an endearing twinkle connection with the Mermaid, then the sense of urgency returns. A moan is head in the distance. His head emerges from the water, the water spout is finally shut off. His body floats to the top of the water, with his hand still on the spout. He smiles having avoided disaster. Another moan. He turns his ear our of the pool of H20. He hears the voice again begging for help. He swims back down to the lower level. Back into the den where the fire was burning. He see's the stiff blanket he used to suffocate the first is smoldering. "THAT'S NOT A BLANKET, IT'S AN OLD LADY IN A ROBE!" Gabe grabs a fire extinguisher off the wall and begins to spray the rolling smoking elderly mess. After smacking it and spraying, then getting frustrated and just drowning the moaning body in extinguisher fluid, Gabe tosses the extinguishers and collapses out of exhaustion on the floor. The charred old woman crawls by behind him. Gabe finally looks up happy that he was able to thwart the three disasters just in the nick of time. He looks up to the sliding glass door leading to the backyard. The body of an Irish child is floating face down in the pool. Oh, for Christ sake. I guess he hasn't been allowed back here in a while. I'll just go to the Irish Library to find dirt on McBride, this breaking in stuff is just too much... Who's that dead kid? ☆