Post by Diabolik on Jan 15, 2012 21:24:43 GMT -5
As a chill wind bit into his limbs, Michael Snow regarded the building with an air of fear about him. Fear for a number of reasons, such as the fact he was to begin a new career, and have new co-workers, new friends, and new enemies. The fear he won't be good enough, and the fear he may be hated by the fans. But most of all, the fear that maybe, just maybe, that he might hurt someone again.
Michael had hurt many people before, it was all part of his job, after all, but that was not what he meant. He had shot and killed in the name of Queen and Country without a single measure of guilt at all. That was not the problem. It was the times after that, when he had returned to England, that he had learned to regret. A man can do terrible things when distressed. A drink here, another there, an argument, a scuffle, a few punches and broken bones.
He always worried about fighting, it was his training, you see. You can take a fighter out of a war, but you can't take the war out of a fighter. War, after all, is a cold hearted bitch, one that works her way so deep into you that you can never forget her, and Michael had seen things nobody could ever forget. He still had twitches here and there, flashbacks to a small, dark room, with stone walls, no windows, and the cloying stench of sweat, blood and piss. He sometimes snapped at people for no reason, and felt flashes of anger, such pure, undiluted rage, that he worried for the safety of his co-workers. Still, he had signed a contract, and he did need to pay the bills, if only for the medication he needed and the alcohol he craved.
"Hello, Asylum Wrestling... Nice to meet you. I'm Michael."
And so he took his first steps into the belly of the beast, as the snow began to fall outside.
Michael had hurt many people before, it was all part of his job, after all, but that was not what he meant. He had shot and killed in the name of Queen and Country without a single measure of guilt at all. That was not the problem. It was the times after that, when he had returned to England, that he had learned to regret. A man can do terrible things when distressed. A drink here, another there, an argument, a scuffle, a few punches and broken bones.
He always worried about fighting, it was his training, you see. You can take a fighter out of a war, but you can't take the war out of a fighter. War, after all, is a cold hearted bitch, one that works her way so deep into you that you can never forget her, and Michael had seen things nobody could ever forget. He still had twitches here and there, flashbacks to a small, dark room, with stone walls, no windows, and the cloying stench of sweat, blood and piss. He sometimes snapped at people for no reason, and felt flashes of anger, such pure, undiluted rage, that he worried for the safety of his co-workers. Still, he had signed a contract, and he did need to pay the bills, if only for the medication he needed and the alcohol he craved.
"Hello, Asylum Wrestling... Nice to meet you. I'm Michael."
And so he took his first steps into the belly of the beast, as the snow began to fall outside.