Post by Michael Callahan on Mar 21, 2013 0:43:52 GMT -4
”There is no surer sign of decay in a country than to see the rites of religion held in contempt”-Niccolo Machiavelli
The summer sky unfettered by any meteorological distractions shines a deep shade of indigo blue over The Emerald City, suspended effortlessly over a juxtaposed mangled steel mesh of office place and living space that plays host to scenes that can not even on it's worst day mar the beauty of this day's horizon. Indeed, the day itself is a testament to that fact as under the illumination of the bright spring sun, an investigation is under way into the appearance of a fresh corpse discovered in the small hours of the new day.
On the scene already is Detective Michael Callahan of Homicide Desk, an exceptionally gifted investigator with military history and an eight year record of dedication to the state apparatus that exists to uphold the laws written down by the legislature. Given countless appraisals for dedication to his work, the young Callahan seems set to very well be the future face of the Seattle Police Department if he can keep his nose clean and continue to crack the cases assigned to him. Today is no exception, as he looks over the very familiar looking body with a notepad in hand.
Michael Callahan: Blunt force trauma, repeated shots to the head, multiple stab wounds and bleeding out the ears. Nose is broken, eyes are swollen, the throat has been slashed... Jesus, nobody should go like this.
Reaching down, Callahan tugs the shirt of the victim up to reveal a myriad of recent flesh wounds in his torso. His skin is coated with drying blood stains, yet somehow the inside of his clothes remain unmarked by the wounds inflicted.
Michael Callahan: Look at all these cuts... Why is he bleeding out like this but... not staining?
Callahan tugs the shirt back down and stares at the body in disbelief. Was he stabbed to death and then dressed? What happened here? He searches the pants pockets and finds the victim's wallet, filled to bursting with US dollars along with an identiy card. Callahan pulls it out of the sleeve for closer inspection.
Michael Callahan: ”Hurricane” Jeff...? That's an interesting moniker if I've ever heard one.
Reading the rest of the card, he discovers that “Hurricane” isn't a Seattle native but actually from further abroad.
Michael Callahan: ”Moncton, New Brunswick”. You're a long way from home, buddy.
He slips the wallet back in to the pocket without liberating Jeff of his hard earned coin and rifles through the rest of his pockets only to find them empty. Then Callahan moves upwards to Hurricane's jacket. Unzipping, he reaches inside and pulls out from the breast pocket three sheets of paper folded up into quarters. He quickly unfolds them and gives them a quick glance over. On the page is a list of figures and earnings in the monthly report for a business and from the looks of things, business is most certainly good.
Michael Callahan: A finance sheet for a production company, “A-List Productions Worldwide”. They're a huge name. One of the biggest in the industry.
He skips to the last page to look at the signature in the hope that it might give him a lead, but there is only the signature of the man himself.
Michael Callahan: ”Signed, President Jeff”. This guy ran the company and got his brains bashed in, but why?
Before Callahan can work it out, a squad car slowly rolls up behind Callahan until it reaches a stop at the curb. The drivers door opens to allow Captain James O'Malley, Head of Homicide Desk wearing a suit only slightly more expensive than Callahan's to climb out and join his apprentice in conducting the investigation.
Captain O'Malley: Callahan my boy. What've you found for us?
Callahan steps away from the body and hands the ID badge he found to O'Malley for examination.
Michael Callahan: Suspect is Hurricane Jeff, 26 years old, Canadian born. He runs a major entertainments company that operates out of Moncton, but organises a lot of live stage performances across The States. There's so many wounds on the victim that I can't ascertain the exact cause of his death but I can only imagine that it's a combination of all these various injuries that killed him. Dr. Austin will probably be able to get something more exact when he arrives.
O'Malley strokes his chin as he looks at the photograph on the ID contemplatively, recognising the face but failing to comprehend where from.
Captain O'Malley: Entertainment is more of a Californian thing than it is Seattle, and certainly more than Canada. This is very interesting Callahan. Tell me. What's he doing here in Seattle, and why would anyone here want to kill him?
Michael Callahan: That's what I want to find out, sir.
Captain O'Malley: Well get to it. We've got the road cordoned off for the next hour but the press are gonna' be here any time soon and when they do, they'll trample any chance you have of finding good, clean evidence. Go check out that alleyway and get me a murder weapon and we'll call it a day.
Callahan nods and turns to face the dark alleyway, tight and cramped with the width to just about fit an average sized car.
Michael Callahan: Copy, I'll get right on it.
Captain O'Malley: You're a fine, shining example to the department, Detective Callahan. Don't be like them. Don't turn into every other detective who cracks a case and thinks they can go about as they please. You're better than that. Now get on with it and get me a weapon. I want this wrapped up by week's end.
Michael Callahan: Yes sir. Thank you sir.
Callahan pulls out a flash light from the inside of his chocolate coloured blazer jacket and takes his first tentative steps into the alleyway, clicking the button on the handle so that he can light up the darkness of the area in front of him. Immediately, the glimmering reflection of the light across broken glass shards scattered across the ground catches Callahan's eye. On closer inspection, the glass shards that crunch underneath his feet are stained in blood which trail away from the body.
Michael Callahan: Broken glass shards, covered in blood. That can explain some or maybe even all of the cuts. I better keep looking...
Callahan follows the trail of glass to the end of the alleyway, where a single dumpster lies stationed just past the two back doors to the businesses on either side. Blood and dirt stain the side of the steel waste receptacle in a haphazard matter, like an artist had dabbed his paintbrush in it and flicked the bristles against it.
Michael Callahan: Great, the dumpster. The best place to hide your murder weapons where nobody will find them...
Michael smirks at his own joke as he grabs the lid of the dumpster, throwing it up and open. Shining the flash-light into the container, what he finds inside it beggars his belief.
Michael Callahan: What on Earth is this?
In and amongst the food waste, the tin cans and the daily life junk that you'd expect to find in a dumpster is an assortment of out of place objects, all blood stained, all fresh and all recently used.
Michael Callahan: What on Earth... Lead pipes, road signs, knives, forks, broken bottles... is that a folding chair I see? Jesus. Whoever did this to Hurricane sure loved variety.
Michael reaches to shut the dumpster again, but as he grabs the edge of the lid he notices something out of the corner of his eye buried in the trash. A wooden handle juts out of the filth, polished to perfection and untarnished by the dirt that it's stuck in.
Michael Callahan: Is that... is that what I think it is?
Michael grabs the handle and yanks it out of the dumpster, feeling his heart begin to pound like a bass drum as he peers over his shoulders to see if anyone is watching.
Michael Callahan: ... Baseball bat.
His hands begin to shake as he wipes the thicker part of the baseball bat with a gloved hand to reveal the distinctive signature permanently daubed onto the side of the bat in a thick, black, unmistakable writing. Callahan's skin turns a shade whiter.
Michael Callahan: ”To My Biggest Fan Michael, From Edgar Marti-...” Oh no. Oh God no. This can't be happening.
From the mouth of the alley, the captain shouts to Detective Callahan in a thinly veiled way to tell him to be quicker in his investigation.
Captain O'Malley: Y'found anything interesting, Detective?! Press have just arrived.
Michael Callahan: ... Yeah! I'm just gonna' check around this corner and-
The fear kicks in. Callahan doesn't wait to finish his sentence and squeezes his way through a gap in the end of the alley, still holding his bat as he desperately flees the scene of his own crime.
Captain O'Malley: Wait-, where are you going?! After him!
Pulling himself out at the other side into a much wider alley, Callahan looks for an escape route but finds both exits blocked off by police cars with officers rapidly closing in on him. The only way out for Callahan is up, so he grabs onto the nearest drainage pipe and heads to the roof.
Michael Callahan: You'll never take me alive!
Officer Bukowski: Got a suspect on the run, I'm going after him.
Desk: Beware, Officer, suspect is armed and dangerous.
Officer Bukowski scales the pipe faster than Callahan ever could and joins him up on the roof-top but Callahan has made a significant head-start in running the roof.
Michael Callahan: Get away from me-I SWEAR, I DIDN'T DO IT!
Callahan leaps across a small roof gap to the next building but the trail is quickly coming to an end. With not much roof left to run along, Bukowski is getting closer, hot on the heels of Killer Callahan.
Officer Bukowski: You're a rotten murderer, no better than the rest of these crooks!
Michael Callahan: No, NO! It wasn't me! I didn't do it! I had to, before he did it!
Callahan skids to a halt at the edge of the rooftop, teetering over the edge to a fall which would almost certainly kill him if he fell. Bukowski pulls a gun on Callahan and holds him up, trying to reason with the killer.
Officer Bukowski: Nowhere to run Detective! Drop the weapon and put your hands in the air! We can make this easy! We'll get you a nice, padded cell, get you the help you need! You don't have to run! We can help you!
Michael Callahan: But I didn't do it!
Bukowski smirks at the panicking Callahan as the wind begins to pick up, rustling Callahan's jacket and nearly blowing him over the edge. Bukowski steps closer and closer towards Callahan, closing in on him and not leaving him much room for balance.
Officer Bukowski: Come on Michael, think about it! You always knew you wanted to play by the book, but you couldn't, you had to make things happen for yourself! So you started going off the record, playing by the rule of the jungle rather than the code you tried to preach. Now look at you. You're killing the industry you wanted to dominate!
Now... it's Callahan's time to smirk. The game is through. He's been had... but he'll have the last laugh.
Michael Callahan: ... Haha... hahahahaha. AHAHAHAHAHAHA! You finally clocked on, Bukowski. But what you'll learn... is that when you can't save the thing you love? You let it go.
And with that, Michael Callahan falls backwards off the lip of the building and hurtles to the ground below.
Officer Bukowski: Michael, NO!
As he sinks like a stone to the ground, he braces for the impending impact. The last thing he sees before he hits the concrete is Officer Bukowski reaching out to grab him just that little too late. When Callahan reaches the impact though he doesn't hit it, but simply sinks straight through to the other side.
***
Michael opens his eyes in startled shock, only to be disappointed with his own presence back in reality. Looking himself down, he sees no signs of injury, no blood stains in his clothes, no evidence of having just fell thirty feet onto solid concrete. Everything is back to normal. Callahan is no longer in Seattle, but in New York City on the therapy couch of Dr. Alexander Gray, enjoying a quiet slumber as Gray types absently on a laptop.
Michael Callahan: Professional wrestling... Professional wrestling is dying Alex. It's become infected by a disease that's going to kill this sport and everything great about it.
Dr. Gray looks up from his computer to listen to Callahan, surprised to see him awake.
Michael Callahan: It's contracted an illness in the flesh wounds opened up by sick “New Age” doctors who's every act spreads their wicked plague and perpetuates our downfall. It's heartbreaking, because the very weapon they use to destroy is not some strain of ebola or a crazy chemical, but a common human trait entrenched in all of us. Without exception, we are all capable of propagating this illness, and it's only the blessed amongst us that are gifted with the resistance to fight it.
Dr. Gray nods in agreement, while Callahan continues to vent his frustrations.
Michael Callahan: It's not just confined to wrestling either. This moral decay has affected every form of media available to us, the 21st century, the lazy generation. In the last twenty years we've seen the decline in moral standards of pop stars who wear less and less clothing, movies that feature more graphic violence and sex scenes, newspapers that fixate on the decadent lives of celebrities rather than actual human endeavour and achievement. because it's entrenched within us as people. We are the virus. We do nothing to combat its progress while modern day messiahs like Lady Gaga and Charlie Sheen spread it like disgusting, foetid street whores with a chip on their shoulder and a venereal gift from the Gods.
Callahan sits up and swings his legs over the side of the couch, staring directly at Dr. Gray.
Michael Callahan: Do you know what I'm talking about Alex? I'm talking about desensitisation. Every day, humanity is confronted with something new and exciting. Irregular beliefs, moral codes, unconventional human practices and behaviours invented from nothing which devalue us as a species. Time was when we adopted the sensible suggestions and crushed the insane ramblings of street punks into dust. That's how we advanced as a society without losing our sense of decency. Now? It's just a norm. It's the way things are to just accept without questioning. Once the novelty wears off, it's as if it's something that we always did... and it's getting worse.
Callahan stands up from the seat and grabs a glass of water.
Michael Callahan: Do you remember porn films in the 80's, Dr. Gray? I certainly do. Although I grew up in a Roman Catholic household, I was not above childlike curiosity. One afternoon alone, I stumbled across a video tape titled “Traci, I Love You”, one of the few still available movies starring Ms. Traci Lords. Now this movie was a gross exploitation of a young, vulnerable woman, but back then kind of thing was kept under lock and key. Now it's all readily available at ten times the extremity from the simple click of a mouse.
He takes a sip and sits back down again.
Michael Callahan: The same is true in wrestling. This used to be an art form Alex. A fucking art form. People would turn up in droves to watch WRESTLERS, WRESTLING. That's what I tried to bring back to the table when I came to Asylum. That's what I set out to be, a throwback to the days gone by when wrestling was more than just an ultra-violent pain show for the human trash that occupy our arenas. I wanted to show people that virtues weren't an outdated relic but alive and well, even in the contaminated art of wrestling.
Callahan sighs.
Michael Callahan: But as the story goes, humanity is incapable of saying no. My approach didn't pan out the way I expected, and now people think I'm a hypocrite for buckling and embracing the measures I once condemned. They tell me that I “sold out”, that I gave up on my views to get what I wanted, and I say no... After spending so long fighting the sickness, I discovered what I should've known to begin with. There is no cure for wrestling, there is no cure for humanity but to cut off the infection from the root. Remove the infected limb, and you'll stop the spread, and there's only one way I can do that... with an implement sharp enough to do so.
Callahan steps over to the window.
Michael Callahan: Yet with any procedure like this, the area is unlikely to be 100% infected. When you remove an infected hand, there may well be fingers and a thumb that still work, but for the sake of the rest of the body, you cut it. Keaton Saint is the finger that still works. He remains uncorrupted, but his passiveness towards the issues that matter do nothing to help stop the spread. Now he wears my championship belt, the pride of this industry around his waist. For the sake of it's prestige, I must operate, I must amputate, I must remove the infection, but while cutting away the dead flesh will be a challenge... removing Keaton Saint will be the greatest challenge of all. He is in the prime of his life, but he stands in the way of progress... and he must... be... stopped, so that the healing process can truly begin...
Fade.
The summer sky unfettered by any meteorological distractions shines a deep shade of indigo blue over The Emerald City, suspended effortlessly over a juxtaposed mangled steel mesh of office place and living space that plays host to scenes that can not even on it's worst day mar the beauty of this day's horizon. Indeed, the day itself is a testament to that fact as under the illumination of the bright spring sun, an investigation is under way into the appearance of a fresh corpse discovered in the small hours of the new day.
On the scene already is Detective Michael Callahan of Homicide Desk, an exceptionally gifted investigator with military history and an eight year record of dedication to the state apparatus that exists to uphold the laws written down by the legislature. Given countless appraisals for dedication to his work, the young Callahan seems set to very well be the future face of the Seattle Police Department if he can keep his nose clean and continue to crack the cases assigned to him. Today is no exception, as he looks over the very familiar looking body with a notepad in hand.
Michael Callahan: Blunt force trauma, repeated shots to the head, multiple stab wounds and bleeding out the ears. Nose is broken, eyes are swollen, the throat has been slashed... Jesus, nobody should go like this.
Reaching down, Callahan tugs the shirt of the victim up to reveal a myriad of recent flesh wounds in his torso. His skin is coated with drying blood stains, yet somehow the inside of his clothes remain unmarked by the wounds inflicted.
Michael Callahan: Look at all these cuts... Why is he bleeding out like this but... not staining?
Callahan tugs the shirt back down and stares at the body in disbelief. Was he stabbed to death and then dressed? What happened here? He searches the pants pockets and finds the victim's wallet, filled to bursting with US dollars along with an identiy card. Callahan pulls it out of the sleeve for closer inspection.
Michael Callahan: ”Hurricane” Jeff...? That's an interesting moniker if I've ever heard one.
Reading the rest of the card, he discovers that “Hurricane” isn't a Seattle native but actually from further abroad.
Michael Callahan: ”Moncton, New Brunswick”. You're a long way from home, buddy.
He slips the wallet back in to the pocket without liberating Jeff of his hard earned coin and rifles through the rest of his pockets only to find them empty. Then Callahan moves upwards to Hurricane's jacket. Unzipping, he reaches inside and pulls out from the breast pocket three sheets of paper folded up into quarters. He quickly unfolds them and gives them a quick glance over. On the page is a list of figures and earnings in the monthly report for a business and from the looks of things, business is most certainly good.
Michael Callahan: A finance sheet for a production company, “A-List Productions Worldwide”. They're a huge name. One of the biggest in the industry.
He skips to the last page to look at the signature in the hope that it might give him a lead, but there is only the signature of the man himself.
Michael Callahan: ”Signed, President Jeff”. This guy ran the company and got his brains bashed in, but why?
Before Callahan can work it out, a squad car slowly rolls up behind Callahan until it reaches a stop at the curb. The drivers door opens to allow Captain James O'Malley, Head of Homicide Desk wearing a suit only slightly more expensive than Callahan's to climb out and join his apprentice in conducting the investigation.
Captain O'Malley: Callahan my boy. What've you found for us?
Callahan steps away from the body and hands the ID badge he found to O'Malley for examination.
Michael Callahan: Suspect is Hurricane Jeff, 26 years old, Canadian born. He runs a major entertainments company that operates out of Moncton, but organises a lot of live stage performances across The States. There's so many wounds on the victim that I can't ascertain the exact cause of his death but I can only imagine that it's a combination of all these various injuries that killed him. Dr. Austin will probably be able to get something more exact when he arrives.
O'Malley strokes his chin as he looks at the photograph on the ID contemplatively, recognising the face but failing to comprehend where from.
Captain O'Malley: Entertainment is more of a Californian thing than it is Seattle, and certainly more than Canada. This is very interesting Callahan. Tell me. What's he doing here in Seattle, and why would anyone here want to kill him?
Michael Callahan: That's what I want to find out, sir.
Captain O'Malley: Well get to it. We've got the road cordoned off for the next hour but the press are gonna' be here any time soon and when they do, they'll trample any chance you have of finding good, clean evidence. Go check out that alleyway and get me a murder weapon and we'll call it a day.
Callahan nods and turns to face the dark alleyway, tight and cramped with the width to just about fit an average sized car.
Michael Callahan: Copy, I'll get right on it.
Captain O'Malley: You're a fine, shining example to the department, Detective Callahan. Don't be like them. Don't turn into every other detective who cracks a case and thinks they can go about as they please. You're better than that. Now get on with it and get me a weapon. I want this wrapped up by week's end.
Michael Callahan: Yes sir. Thank you sir.
Callahan pulls out a flash light from the inside of his chocolate coloured blazer jacket and takes his first tentative steps into the alleyway, clicking the button on the handle so that he can light up the darkness of the area in front of him. Immediately, the glimmering reflection of the light across broken glass shards scattered across the ground catches Callahan's eye. On closer inspection, the glass shards that crunch underneath his feet are stained in blood which trail away from the body.
Michael Callahan: Broken glass shards, covered in blood. That can explain some or maybe even all of the cuts. I better keep looking...
Callahan follows the trail of glass to the end of the alleyway, where a single dumpster lies stationed just past the two back doors to the businesses on either side. Blood and dirt stain the side of the steel waste receptacle in a haphazard matter, like an artist had dabbed his paintbrush in it and flicked the bristles against it.
Michael Callahan: Great, the dumpster. The best place to hide your murder weapons where nobody will find them...
Michael smirks at his own joke as he grabs the lid of the dumpster, throwing it up and open. Shining the flash-light into the container, what he finds inside it beggars his belief.
Michael Callahan: What on Earth is this?
In and amongst the food waste, the tin cans and the daily life junk that you'd expect to find in a dumpster is an assortment of out of place objects, all blood stained, all fresh and all recently used.
Michael Callahan: What on Earth... Lead pipes, road signs, knives, forks, broken bottles... is that a folding chair I see? Jesus. Whoever did this to Hurricane sure loved variety.
Michael reaches to shut the dumpster again, but as he grabs the edge of the lid he notices something out of the corner of his eye buried in the trash. A wooden handle juts out of the filth, polished to perfection and untarnished by the dirt that it's stuck in.
Michael Callahan: Is that... is that what I think it is?
Michael grabs the handle and yanks it out of the dumpster, feeling his heart begin to pound like a bass drum as he peers over his shoulders to see if anyone is watching.
Michael Callahan: ... Baseball bat.
His hands begin to shake as he wipes the thicker part of the baseball bat with a gloved hand to reveal the distinctive signature permanently daubed onto the side of the bat in a thick, black, unmistakable writing. Callahan's skin turns a shade whiter.
Michael Callahan: ”To My Biggest Fan Michael, From Edgar Marti-...” Oh no. Oh God no. This can't be happening.
From the mouth of the alley, the captain shouts to Detective Callahan in a thinly veiled way to tell him to be quicker in his investigation.
Captain O'Malley: Y'found anything interesting, Detective?! Press have just arrived.
Michael Callahan: ... Yeah! I'm just gonna' check around this corner and-
The fear kicks in. Callahan doesn't wait to finish his sentence and squeezes his way through a gap in the end of the alley, still holding his bat as he desperately flees the scene of his own crime.
Captain O'Malley: Wait-, where are you going?! After him!
Pulling himself out at the other side into a much wider alley, Callahan looks for an escape route but finds both exits blocked off by police cars with officers rapidly closing in on him. The only way out for Callahan is up, so he grabs onto the nearest drainage pipe and heads to the roof.
Michael Callahan: You'll never take me alive!
Officer Bukowski: Got a suspect on the run, I'm going after him.
Desk: Beware, Officer, suspect is armed and dangerous.
Officer Bukowski scales the pipe faster than Callahan ever could and joins him up on the roof-top but Callahan has made a significant head-start in running the roof.
Michael Callahan: Get away from me-I SWEAR, I DIDN'T DO IT!
Callahan leaps across a small roof gap to the next building but the trail is quickly coming to an end. With not much roof left to run along, Bukowski is getting closer, hot on the heels of Killer Callahan.
Officer Bukowski: You're a rotten murderer, no better than the rest of these crooks!
Michael Callahan: No, NO! It wasn't me! I didn't do it! I had to, before he did it!
Callahan skids to a halt at the edge of the rooftop, teetering over the edge to a fall which would almost certainly kill him if he fell. Bukowski pulls a gun on Callahan and holds him up, trying to reason with the killer.
Officer Bukowski: Nowhere to run Detective! Drop the weapon and put your hands in the air! We can make this easy! We'll get you a nice, padded cell, get you the help you need! You don't have to run! We can help you!
Michael Callahan: But I didn't do it!
Bukowski smirks at the panicking Callahan as the wind begins to pick up, rustling Callahan's jacket and nearly blowing him over the edge. Bukowski steps closer and closer towards Callahan, closing in on him and not leaving him much room for balance.
Officer Bukowski: Come on Michael, think about it! You always knew you wanted to play by the book, but you couldn't, you had to make things happen for yourself! So you started going off the record, playing by the rule of the jungle rather than the code you tried to preach. Now look at you. You're killing the industry you wanted to dominate!
Now... it's Callahan's time to smirk. The game is through. He's been had... but he'll have the last laugh.
Michael Callahan: ... Haha... hahahahaha. AHAHAHAHAHAHA! You finally clocked on, Bukowski. But what you'll learn... is that when you can't save the thing you love? You let it go.
And with that, Michael Callahan falls backwards off the lip of the building and hurtles to the ground below.
Officer Bukowski: Michael, NO!
As he sinks like a stone to the ground, he braces for the impending impact. The last thing he sees before he hits the concrete is Officer Bukowski reaching out to grab him just that little too late. When Callahan reaches the impact though he doesn't hit it, but simply sinks straight through to the other side.
***
Michael opens his eyes in startled shock, only to be disappointed with his own presence back in reality. Looking himself down, he sees no signs of injury, no blood stains in his clothes, no evidence of having just fell thirty feet onto solid concrete. Everything is back to normal. Callahan is no longer in Seattle, but in New York City on the therapy couch of Dr. Alexander Gray, enjoying a quiet slumber as Gray types absently on a laptop.
Michael Callahan: Professional wrestling... Professional wrestling is dying Alex. It's become infected by a disease that's going to kill this sport and everything great about it.
Dr. Gray looks up from his computer to listen to Callahan, surprised to see him awake.
Michael Callahan: It's contracted an illness in the flesh wounds opened up by sick “New Age” doctors who's every act spreads their wicked plague and perpetuates our downfall. It's heartbreaking, because the very weapon they use to destroy is not some strain of ebola or a crazy chemical, but a common human trait entrenched in all of us. Without exception, we are all capable of propagating this illness, and it's only the blessed amongst us that are gifted with the resistance to fight it.
Dr. Gray nods in agreement, while Callahan continues to vent his frustrations.
Michael Callahan: It's not just confined to wrestling either. This moral decay has affected every form of media available to us, the 21st century, the lazy generation. In the last twenty years we've seen the decline in moral standards of pop stars who wear less and less clothing, movies that feature more graphic violence and sex scenes, newspapers that fixate on the decadent lives of celebrities rather than actual human endeavour and achievement. because it's entrenched within us as people. We are the virus. We do nothing to combat its progress while modern day messiahs like Lady Gaga and Charlie Sheen spread it like disgusting, foetid street whores with a chip on their shoulder and a venereal gift from the Gods.
Callahan sits up and swings his legs over the side of the couch, staring directly at Dr. Gray.
Michael Callahan: Do you know what I'm talking about Alex? I'm talking about desensitisation. Every day, humanity is confronted with something new and exciting. Irregular beliefs, moral codes, unconventional human practices and behaviours invented from nothing which devalue us as a species. Time was when we adopted the sensible suggestions and crushed the insane ramblings of street punks into dust. That's how we advanced as a society without losing our sense of decency. Now? It's just a norm. It's the way things are to just accept without questioning. Once the novelty wears off, it's as if it's something that we always did... and it's getting worse.
Callahan stands up from the seat and grabs a glass of water.
Michael Callahan: Do you remember porn films in the 80's, Dr. Gray? I certainly do. Although I grew up in a Roman Catholic household, I was not above childlike curiosity. One afternoon alone, I stumbled across a video tape titled “Traci, I Love You”, one of the few still available movies starring Ms. Traci Lords. Now this movie was a gross exploitation of a young, vulnerable woman, but back then kind of thing was kept under lock and key. Now it's all readily available at ten times the extremity from the simple click of a mouse.
He takes a sip and sits back down again.
Michael Callahan: The same is true in wrestling. This used to be an art form Alex. A fucking art form. People would turn up in droves to watch WRESTLERS, WRESTLING. That's what I tried to bring back to the table when I came to Asylum. That's what I set out to be, a throwback to the days gone by when wrestling was more than just an ultra-violent pain show for the human trash that occupy our arenas. I wanted to show people that virtues weren't an outdated relic but alive and well, even in the contaminated art of wrestling.
Callahan sighs.
Michael Callahan: But as the story goes, humanity is incapable of saying no. My approach didn't pan out the way I expected, and now people think I'm a hypocrite for buckling and embracing the measures I once condemned. They tell me that I “sold out”, that I gave up on my views to get what I wanted, and I say no... After spending so long fighting the sickness, I discovered what I should've known to begin with. There is no cure for wrestling, there is no cure for humanity but to cut off the infection from the root. Remove the infected limb, and you'll stop the spread, and there's only one way I can do that... with an implement sharp enough to do so.
Callahan steps over to the window.
Michael Callahan: Yet with any procedure like this, the area is unlikely to be 100% infected. When you remove an infected hand, there may well be fingers and a thumb that still work, but for the sake of the rest of the body, you cut it. Keaton Saint is the finger that still works. He remains uncorrupted, but his passiveness towards the issues that matter do nothing to help stop the spread. Now he wears my championship belt, the pride of this industry around his waist. For the sake of it's prestige, I must operate, I must amputate, I must remove the infection, but while cutting away the dead flesh will be a challenge... removing Keaton Saint will be the greatest challenge of all. He is in the prime of his life, but he stands in the way of progress... and he must... be... stopped, so that the healing process can truly begin...
Fade.
