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~~Sean Falcon~~ · (05-30-2013)

I was born in the great city of Pittsburgh on March 1, 1980. Just after the mills had died and the 'City of Champions' became the city of mediocrity. At long last, a champion was born. Champions breed champions. Pedigree, in other words. My father, like his father before him, was also named Sean Falcon. My grandfather had started in the steel mills at a young age. From there he had slowly and steadily climbed his way through the ranks of Homestead Steel Works until he became a high-powered executive. My father, Sean Falcon, II, also went into the mills. When my grandfather died in 1971, my father retired. He'd been left with a massive fortune.

My father was smart. Real smart. He saw the steel bust coming long before anyone else. He pulled out every last penny the Falcon family had invested over the years in the steel industry and invested in some new technology company that I don't even know the name of. Not that I ever cared. I was born with a silver spoon in my mouth, and I've enjoyed every last minute of being better than everyone else. Needless to say, that fortune grew tenfold.

That fortune is now mine. I am one rich son of a b*tch.

Sean Falcon, II passed away last year of cancer. Don't get me wrong, I'm not happy he's gone, but I am happy he left me a very, very wealthy man. So much money that if you looked at a list of Pittsburghs wealthiest suburbs, you'd notice Fox Chapel - where I live - jumped from 42nd prior, to 9th after my mansion was built and I moved in.

You might be asking yourself why I'd get into wrestling if I already have a fortune at my disposal. It's simple, really. Fame. I want the fame. I want the notoriety. I want the photographers and the paparazzi to not only want, but also the need to follow me. I want the dirt sheets trying to follow my every move. I want TMZ filming me when they don't think I'm paying attention.

Trust me, I'm always paying attention.

Much like I do every morning, I sit on my chase lounge in my sitting room and I read the papers while I'm waited on hand and foot. My help, what an amazingly crappy job they have. Sometimes, I b*tch at them just for fun. They do a great job. For what I pay them, they should stand there staring at the floor while I b*tch with a smile on their faces. And they do. They have it easy. They clean my mansion, cook my food, and answer to my every whim. In return, they're paid very handsomely. Like, nearly six figures apiece, handsomely.

Sara, my amazingly beautiful wife, walks into my sitting room with a phone to her ear. I sit there, waiting for some clue as to who it is and what they want.

"Who is it?"

She takes the phone away from her ear and covers the lower half of the phone.

"Its the Post-Gazette."

"What the hell do they want? I'm not giving interviews yet."

"They don't want an interview. They're doing a story on you and want your comments."

"Story? What's the context?"

"I'm trying to find out."

She talks to the newspaper once more for a few minutes then lowers the phone again.

"They want to know why a man with your money is entering professional wrestling. Why you never give anything to charity. That sort of thing."

Absolutely a fair question. Thing is, I don't really give much away. Here and there, to get my name in the papers. To get the Falcon name back in print for all of the Steel City to see. So each and every last one of them can turn green with envy.

"Tell them they can portray me as a rich bastard all they want. Just as long as I stay rich."

She tells the paper exactly as I instructed then hangs up. She then lays beside me on my chase lounge.

"You know where we're going, baby?"

"Straight to the top!"

"Damn right we are!"

"We start on Warfare on the lowest rung, then we climb our way to the top of the Warfare mountain. Then Madness, then..."

"Then what, baby?"

"The crown."

"Will I be your queen?"

"You'll always be my queen, baby."

"I love it when you talk."

"Me too, babe.... me too."

"I think you should do more."

"What do you want to hear?"

"I just got an email from Witasick. He announced your opponents for Wednesday night."

"Opponents? Plural? What do you mean opponents?"

"He has you in a triple threat match against Franklin Fresh and some DiBiase guy."

I laugh out loud at the mention of Franklin Fresh. That's just too perfect.

"What do you think I should do to Fran, Sara?"

"I think you should finish wrecking his face."

"That's exactly what I'll do. See, Fran it doesn't really matter whether it's one on one on one, two on one, one on one, two on two, or any stupid mix of numbers that these inept XWF General Managers seem to love to play with.

"All that matters is that my name is on the marquee. My name is in lights. When you step inside the ring with Sean Falcon the third, your stock immediately rises. I am excellence, Fran. Soon, not only you but all of the XWF will take notice and be forced to realize that I am exactly what I say I am... better than the rest.

"If you think what happened to you at High Stakes was bad. If you think what Unknown Soldier did to that face of yours was bad. Think again. See, you have this face that I just can't stand. You have this face that is just grating on my nerves. You have this face that I just want to finish destroying and Wednesday night, I will finish the job Soldier started.

"You can go around playing nice and sucking up and kissing the asses of the owner and the fans and the general Managers all you want. What you're about to realize it that nice guys always finish last.

"I'm not a nice guy, Fran. I don't know what it's like to finish last and it's not likely to happen any time soon. There's just something about you that pisses me off."

Sara smiles. There's nothing sweeter than that smile of hers. It drives me to be an even bigger ass than I already am.

"What about Glen DiBiase?"

"Who?"

Maybe I'll get to that pond scum next time.

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