Post by Michael Callahan on Feb 9, 2013 13:58:39 GMT -4
Defeat is never a sweet pill to swallow. Neither is your own words, and unfortunately for Michael Callahan, Survive and Conquer saw him scoff a double dose of this foul tasting medication after he came up short in one of the closest-fought championship matches in the history of the Asylum brand. The two men fought tooth and nail but for their own reasons, with Atken wanting to prove that he wasn't the transitional champion that everyone was making him out to be and Callahan wanting to make Phil Atken prove that he was capable of making sacrifices for his art.
In the end though Callahan conceded a bitter loss to “The Unfortunate One” and while the deep ache of defeat throbbed through every inch of his body, The American Hero wasn't put out or upset. In his eyes, he'd performed to the best of his abilities and in the end it wasn't quite enough. Now he could recharge, refocus and re-energise and prepare himself for another opportunity to bring his a-game to the ring with his rival, providing of course he could beat Shane Borderland first.
Yet with all the potential in the world to take another shot at realising his dreams, something was wrong. He wasn't feeling alright, he wasn't feeling particularly well and it was taking it's toll on him. As Michael entered the master bedroom of his rural Kelso home, ready to call it a night, he felt the back of his head start to throb violently and his stomach begin to churn.
Michael Callahan: Aghhhh... my head hurts.
Michael pulled out his office chair and practically collapsed into it as he felt his knees start to buckle underneath him. Dizziness set in and Callahan started to feel nauseous, for reasons that he could not quite explain. Was he ill? What sounded like a wooden ship creaking in the stormy waters of the Atlantic Ocean filled Callahan's ears and he could feel the floor underneath him wobbling.
Michael Callahan: What the... is the house creaking?
Callahan jams a finger into his ear and tries to clean it out, but there's no mistaking the sounds. It's all very real. Very faint whispering can be heard, but Michael can't hear what they're saying or where from.
Michael Callahan: What the Hell is going on? Ughhh...
The hissing voices continue to goad but Callahan, oblivious, believes it to be a gas leak or a running water through the pipes, not taunting of the scorned.
Michael Callahan: Is someone there?!
Nobody stood in the room besides Michael but now he could hear the voices, faintly talking and whispering as his eyes started to haze up. He slowly stood up from his chair and felt his legs shake as he struggled to keep balance.
There is no mistaking that voice. The ghostly, rasping, ethereal tones of Bethany Monroe, yet Callahan won't believe it. It can't be. It won't be. This is a prank. It has to be. Surely. Right?
Michael Callahan: Oh haha. Very funny prank Steve.
Michael Callahan: This isn't funny any more Fukuyama.... Come on out.
The lights flicker and the windows slam shut. Heavy rain drops pounds like golf balls against the glass windows, threatening to shatter it with it's hammering shots. A flash of bright white light, followed by the sound of rolling thunder makes Callahan leap out of his skin in fright. This is all too spooky.
Michael Callahan: Jesus piss shit fuck.
The raindrops grow bigger until the window can no longer take the punishment, shattering on impact and soaking everything they touch as the basketball sized drops splatter across Callahan's bedroom floor.
Michael Callahan: What the Hell?!
Callahan pinched himself and winced, no dice. His jaw dropped as the carpet started to soak up the enormous sized raindrops. Gail force winds blow through the broken windows, sending stuff flying.
Michael Callahan: WHAT THE FUCK IS GOING ON?!
Still deep in disbelief, Callahan can't fathom what's happening. This is ALL a joke. An elaborate prank. The only way of which was to play along, and end this madness by opening his closet.
Michael Callahan: Oh you're damn right I will! I'm putting an end to this nonsense!
A shaking Callahan gingerly stepped towards the closet, feeling his stomach clinch to the point of implosion. He reached for the handle, his hands juttering around like a bomb disposal team in an earthquake as he uneasily grabbed a hold. With a stiff pull, the door swung open and Callahan could not believe his own eyes. What lay behind the door was not a tape recorder nor the suit and golf clubs that he keept in there but the most vivid vision of Hell one could ever hope to not see.
Hundreds of feet beneath the edge of the door frame was a vast sea of lava that seemed to stretch on for aeons, a sheet of burning red and orange that was as deep as it was wide. The opening of the door unleashed a rush of hot air that nearly boiled Callahan's flesh and made him turn his head away to protect himself. In the magma ocean below, scattered islands of barren rock jutted out carrying plague-bearing, disfigured slaves and their dog-headed, demonoid masters who barked orders in strange tongues.
Michael Callahan: Mother of God... what... what is that?!
A giant meteor crashed into the unholy fire, sending a rippling tidal wave through the magma that created the image of Bethany Monroe's face.
Michael Callahan: The Hell you are!
Callahan slammed the door shut and searched for something, anything that he could use as a weapon to defend himself. He spied his shotgun at the foot of his bed and made a dive for it but found his feet yanked out from underneath him as the bedroom itself was tilted on it's side by a celestial dragon-hand that wrenches the room from the rest of the house. The furniture stumbled around as the room got lifted higher and higher, slowly but surely tilting so that it all slides towards the closet door.
Michael Callahan: Agh! Shit!
As Callahan scrambled to retain his footing, Callahan saw the shotgun fly towards him. He reached out and grabbed it, just barely managing to catch it as the closet door is sucked out of it's frame and into the sea of fire. It was only a matter of time until he found himself cast out into Hell. The house started tilting now to the left and Callahan slipped towards the door. He grabbed a hold of the leg of his bed but it started coming with him so he let go and braced himself.
Callahan screamed as he was unceremoniously shaken around in the room until he fell through the door, where luckily the edges of the shotgun wedged into the door frame keeping him hanging out the bottom of his room. He dared not look down.
Michael Callahan: I'm ready for you!-AAGGGHHHH.... AGHHH.... AGGGGGGHHHH!!!!
The eight hundred foot tall demon holding Callahan's bedroom shook the room a final time and Callahan's gun came free. There was no choice now, Callahan was falling towards the sea hopelessly and to certain death. He kicked his legs hopelessly, clutching to his shotgun for dear life but it was for nought. The hot air rising from the lava as he fell started to burn through Callahan's clothes and the sweat began to pour from the American Hero as he fell further and further towards his demise. Suddenly, at the last second, a demonic stone podium jutted out from the flames and caught Callahan with an impact that should've killed him, yet somehow he survived.
Callahan weakly pushed himself to his feet and looked up to see the rotting corpse of Bethany Monroe stood over him. Her mangled body is twisted at the hip, half her leg is missing and her face is infested with maggots and infection.
Michael Callahan: AGGHHHHHHHH!
Screaming, Callahan pulled up his shotgun and instinctively aimed for the head. He pulled the trigger and with a loud bang, Bethany's head implodes and her reanimated corpse falls to the floor in a blood soaked heap, her dark life fluid spurting out of the neck hole and soaking Callahan.
Michael Callahan: I didn't kill you, LEAVE ME ALONE!
Callahan thought it was over, but it wasn't yet. From the ground sprang skeletons and plague-bearers, the true abominations of Hell. Hundreds of them, completely surrounding him and trapping him in the middle.
Michael Callahan: I'll kill ALL of you! I AM A MAN OF GOD! I AM A MAN OF CONVICTION! The Devil won't take my soul!
Callahan turned and fired a shot at the nearest demon, aiming straight for the head. His head explodes in a shower of maggots but Callahan couldn't waste time being freaked out. Instead he turned to see a skeleton with a battleaxe swinging for him, which he wasted no time in blasting in the head with another slug. The skull turned to dust and the reanimate crumpled into a heap of bones. Callahan blasted another two plague-bearers and a skeleton, then spun round face another plague-bearer. When he pulled the trigger he heard the most dread-filling click a man can hear in a gun fight. He had no ammo left and his gun was empty.
Michael Callahan: Oh God no... I'm out of ammo.
From the ground, twisting black barbed roots sprang and snared themselves around Michael's legs, biting into his legs and burning his flesh along with rendering him immobile. Callahan screamed a silent scream of pure terror as an overlord in a suit of armour with a gnarled broadsword stepped calmly towards him.
Michael Callahan: No, no, no, no-AGGHHHHH!!!! Aghhhh-aghhh... aghhhhh.
The demon master smiled through the grid of his plated armour helmet before swinging his sword. Nowhere to run, nowhere to hide, the blade cleaves Callahan's head clean off. He laughs a harrowing, blood-thirsty laugh and that's all that Callahan heard as he woke up up-right and sweating buckets in his bed.
Michael Callahan: Jesus wept! Where's my gun, WHERE'S MY GUN?!
He leapt out from under the covers and darted underneath his bed to grab the shotgun he keeps there then marches in his vest and underwear to the closet.
Michael Callahan: You can't hide in my closet, Hellspawn! I'll kill you all this time!
He yanked it open but when he looks... he sees only a golf bag and suits. No demons, no hellspawn, no nothing.
?: Wh-wh-what the FUCK M-Mike?! What the H-H-Hell is wr-wrong with you?!
Callahan turned the gun towards the source of the voice, back to his bed where the stranger from the diner, Ellen Bishop lay naked as the day she was born.
Ellen Bishop: Woah, don't p-p-p-point that fucking th-thing at me! Put it down!
Callahan jumped but slowly lowers his shotgun, scarcely able to comprehend what is real and what is make believe. He can still feel the heat of the lava against his skin, even now.
Michael Callahan: ... I'm... I'm sorry. I... I had a nightmare.
Ellen Bishop: It's f-fine. Ju-just... come back to bed, okay?
Ellen slithered out of the bed, no attempt to cover up and walked straight to Callahan so she could wrap her arms around him. She burrowed her head in his chest and listened to his heartbeat which right now sounds like a jack hammer. Callahan stroked her hair and held her tightly, to calm both her and his nerves down and more importantly convince himself that this was real in the here and now and that he wasn't still dreaming.
Michael Callahan: Fine. I'm sorry I scared you...
Ellen Bishop: S'okay Mike. I'm sorry I yelled.
Michael Callahan: Shhh...
The lightbulb flickers to life weakly as I approach the sink with a certain heaviness about me. Usually, I'm as light as a feather and energised but right now? Everything is hurting. Both physically and psychologically, I'm in absolute agony. It's absurd. Since I lost to Phil Atken, everything has seemed one hundred times more difficult, like I'm carrying a ten tonne weight around my neck whenever I move. Getting out of bed in the morning is the hardest part of my day now, and it doesn't get much easier from then on out. Even something as simple as making myself breakfast requires Herculian effort. Nothing is going right, and I'm becoming clumsy, but I know this is just a phase.
I run the tap with cold water and start to splash my face, trying to shake off this sickness that I'm feeling inside me. I'm still sweating buckets worth, I can still feel the heat on my skin and when I close my eyes I see their faces, all of them laughing at me. Bethany, Phil, Sally, Anthony, Jason, the entire ensemble. It's maddening. I can barely sleep any more because all I can hear in the back of my head is the sound of the bell ringing and Phil Atken being announced the winner. It's too much. It's too loud and it puts me in that same pain and agony that I felt being trapped in the Figure-4, the helplessness of the situation sinking my stomach like a stone.
When the splash off water across my face doesn't seem to stir me, I slip out of my underwear and vest and run myself a cold shower, even still seeing the laughing faces form in the mist. I knew though that this was all a symptom of the mind, that the pressure of life was building up on my shoulders and that my loss to Phil had been the straw that broke the camel's back. Yet when I found out that this week I had the opportunity to atone and get myself a second match? I couldn't relish the opportunity, I could only dread it. I don't think I could handle being humiliated by Phil once more, and in this state of mind, I certainly can't handle being coaxed by Shane Borderland.
Come on Mike, pull yourself together. You can do this. Agh. It's only a month and a half 'til Rasslemania. It's only a little bit longer 'til I can get out of this funk. I can claim back that championship that belongs around my waist.
All I have to do... is keep my inner turmoil tucked away against a man who thrives and feeds on his own.
All I have to do... is wrestle my demons.
In the end though Callahan conceded a bitter loss to “The Unfortunate One” and while the deep ache of defeat throbbed through every inch of his body, The American Hero wasn't put out or upset. In his eyes, he'd performed to the best of his abilities and in the end it wasn't quite enough. Now he could recharge, refocus and re-energise and prepare himself for another opportunity to bring his a-game to the ring with his rival, providing of course he could beat Shane Borderland first.
Yet with all the potential in the world to take another shot at realising his dreams, something was wrong. He wasn't feeling alright, he wasn't feeling particularly well and it was taking it's toll on him. As Michael entered the master bedroom of his rural Kelso home, ready to call it a night, he felt the back of his head start to throb violently and his stomach begin to churn.
Michael Callahan: Aghhhh... my head hurts.
Michael pulled out his office chair and practically collapsed into it as he felt his knees start to buckle underneath him. Dizziness set in and Callahan started to feel nauseous, for reasons that he could not quite explain. Was he ill? What sounded like a wooden ship creaking in the stormy waters of the Atlantic Ocean filled Callahan's ears and he could feel the floor underneath him wobbling.
Michael Callahan: What the... is the house creaking?
Callahan jams a finger into his ear and tries to clean it out, but there's no mistaking the sounds. It's all very real. Very faint whispering can be heard, but Michael can't hear what they're saying or where from.
You killed me... Michael....
Michael Callahan: What the Hell is going on? Ughhh...
The hissing voices continue to goad but Callahan, oblivious, believes it to be a gas leak or a running water through the pipes, not taunting of the scorned.
Killed me....
[/i][/center]Michael Callahan: Is someone there?!
Nobody stood in the room besides Michael but now he could hear the voices, faintly talking and whispering as his eyes started to haze up. He slowly stood up from his chair and felt his legs shake as he struggled to keep balance.
In the closet Michael... Come find me... Where you left me...
There is no mistaking that voice. The ghostly, rasping, ethereal tones of Bethany Monroe, yet Callahan won't believe it. It can't be. It won't be. This is a prank. It has to be. Surely. Right?
Michael Callahan: Oh haha. Very funny prank Steve.
YOU KILLED ME, MICHAEL...
Michael Callahan: This isn't funny any more Fukuyama.... Come on out.
The lights flicker and the windows slam shut. Heavy rain drops pounds like golf balls against the glass windows, threatening to shatter it with it's hammering shots. A flash of bright white light, followed by the sound of rolling thunder makes Callahan leap out of his skin in fright. This is all too spooky.
Michael Callahan: Jesus piss shit fuck.
I'M DEAD BECAUSE OF YOU... YOU LEFT ME TO DIE...
LET THE SKELETONS OUT OF YOUR CLOSET MICHAEL...
LET THE SKELETONS OUT OF YOUR CLOSET MICHAEL...
The raindrops grow bigger until the window can no longer take the punishment, shattering on impact and soaking everything they touch as the basketball sized drops splatter across Callahan's bedroom floor.
Michael Callahan: What the Hell?!
Callahan pinched himself and winced, no dice. His jaw dropped as the carpet started to soak up the enormous sized raindrops. Gail force winds blow through the broken windows, sending stuff flying.
YOU SAID YOU LOVED ME MICHAELLLLL....
Michael Callahan: WHAT THE FUCK IS GOING ON?!
OPEN YOUR CLOSET MICHAELLLLLL...
Still deep in disbelief, Callahan can't fathom what's happening. This is ALL a joke. An elaborate prank. The only way of which was to play along, and end this madness by opening his closet.
Michael Callahan: Oh you're damn right I will! I'm putting an end to this nonsense!
A shaking Callahan gingerly stepped towards the closet, feeling his stomach clinch to the point of implosion. He reached for the handle, his hands juttering around like a bomb disposal team in an earthquake as he uneasily grabbed a hold. With a stiff pull, the door swung open and Callahan could not believe his own eyes. What lay behind the door was not a tape recorder nor the suit and golf clubs that he keept in there but the most vivid vision of Hell one could ever hope to not see.
Hundreds of feet beneath the edge of the door frame was a vast sea of lava that seemed to stretch on for aeons, a sheet of burning red and orange that was as deep as it was wide. The opening of the door unleashed a rush of hot air that nearly boiled Callahan's flesh and made him turn his head away to protect himself. In the magma ocean below, scattered islands of barren rock jutted out carrying plague-bearing, disfigured slaves and their dog-headed, demonoid masters who barked orders in strange tongues.
Michael Callahan: Mother of God... what... what is that?!
A giant meteor crashed into the unholy fire, sending a rippling tidal wave through the magma that created the image of Bethany Monroe's face.
IT'S HELL, MICHAEL... AND I'M WAITING FOR YOU. HAHAHAHAHA!
Michael Callahan: The Hell you are!
Callahan slammed the door shut and searched for something, anything that he could use as a weapon to defend himself. He spied his shotgun at the foot of his bed and made a dive for it but found his feet yanked out from underneath him as the bedroom itself was tilted on it's side by a celestial dragon-hand that wrenches the room from the rest of the house. The furniture stumbled around as the room got lifted higher and higher, slowly but surely tilting so that it all slides towards the closet door.
Michael Callahan: Agh! Shit!
As Callahan scrambled to retain his footing, Callahan saw the shotgun fly towards him. He reached out and grabbed it, just barely managing to catch it as the closet door is sucked out of it's frame and into the sea of fire. It was only a matter of time until he found himself cast out into Hell. The house started tilting now to the left and Callahan slipped towards the door. He grabbed a hold of the leg of his bed but it started coming with him so he let go and braced himself.
Callahan screamed as he was unceremoniously shaken around in the room until he fell through the door, where luckily the edges of the shotgun wedged into the door frame keeping him hanging out the bottom of his room. He dared not look down.
Michael Callahan: I'm ready for you!-AAGGGHHHH.... AGHHH.... AGGGGGGHHHH!!!!
The eight hundred foot tall demon holding Callahan's bedroom shook the room a final time and Callahan's gun came free. There was no choice now, Callahan was falling towards the sea hopelessly and to certain death. He kicked his legs hopelessly, clutching to his shotgun for dear life but it was for nought. The hot air rising from the lava as he fell started to burn through Callahan's clothes and the sweat began to pour from the American Hero as he fell further and further towards his demise. Suddenly, at the last second, a demonic stone podium jutted out from the flames and caught Callahan with an impact that should've killed him, yet somehow he survived.
WELCOME TO HELL, MICHAEL... CARE TO JOIN ME?!
Callahan weakly pushed himself to his feet and looked up to see the rotting corpse of Bethany Monroe stood over him. Her mangled body is twisted at the hip, half her leg is missing and her face is infested with maggots and infection.
Michael Callahan: AGGHHHHHHHH!
Screaming, Callahan pulled up his shotgun and instinctively aimed for the head. He pulled the trigger and with a loud bang, Bethany's head implodes and her reanimated corpse falls to the floor in a blood soaked heap, her dark life fluid spurting out of the neck hole and soaking Callahan.
Michael Callahan: I didn't kill you, LEAVE ME ALONE!
YOU WANTED REVENGE MICHAEL... NOW I'M GETTING MINE...
Callahan thought it was over, but it wasn't yet. From the ground sprang skeletons and plague-bearers, the true abominations of Hell. Hundreds of them, completely surrounding him and trapping him in the middle.
Michael Callahan: I'll kill ALL of you! I AM A MAN OF GOD! I AM A MAN OF CONVICTION! The Devil won't take my soul!
Callahan turned and fired a shot at the nearest demon, aiming straight for the head. His head explodes in a shower of maggots but Callahan couldn't waste time being freaked out. Instead he turned to see a skeleton with a battleaxe swinging for him, which he wasted no time in blasting in the head with another slug. The skull turned to dust and the reanimate crumpled into a heap of bones. Callahan blasted another two plague-bearers and a skeleton, then spun round face another plague-bearer. When he pulled the trigger he heard the most dread-filling click a man can hear in a gun fight. He had no ammo left and his gun was empty.
Michael Callahan: Oh God no... I'm out of ammo.
NOW... YOU DIE... MICHAEL CALLAHAN...
From the ground, twisting black barbed roots sprang and snared themselves around Michael's legs, biting into his legs and burning his flesh along with rendering him immobile. Callahan screamed a silent scream of pure terror as an overlord in a suit of armour with a gnarled broadsword stepped calmly towards him.
Michael Callahan: No, no, no, no-AGGHHHHH!!!! Aghhhh-aghhh... aghhhhh.
The demon master smiled through the grid of his plated armour helmet before swinging his sword. Nowhere to run, nowhere to hide, the blade cleaves Callahan's head clean off. He laughs a harrowing, blood-thirsty laugh and that's all that Callahan heard as he woke up up-right and sweating buckets in his bed.
Michael Callahan: Jesus wept! Where's my gun, WHERE'S MY GUN?!
He leapt out from under the covers and darted underneath his bed to grab the shotgun he keeps there then marches in his vest and underwear to the closet.
Michael Callahan: You can't hide in my closet, Hellspawn! I'll kill you all this time!
He yanked it open but when he looks... he sees only a golf bag and suits. No demons, no hellspawn, no nothing.
?: Wh-wh-what the FUCK M-Mike?! What the H-H-Hell is wr-wrong with you?!
Callahan turned the gun towards the source of the voice, back to his bed where the stranger from the diner, Ellen Bishop lay naked as the day she was born.
Ellen Bishop: Woah, don't p-p-p-point that fucking th-thing at me! Put it down!
Callahan jumped but slowly lowers his shotgun, scarcely able to comprehend what is real and what is make believe. He can still feel the heat of the lava against his skin, even now.
Michael Callahan: ... I'm... I'm sorry. I... I had a nightmare.
Ellen Bishop: It's f-fine. Ju-just... come back to bed, okay?
Ellen slithered out of the bed, no attempt to cover up and walked straight to Callahan so she could wrap her arms around him. She burrowed her head in his chest and listened to his heartbeat which right now sounds like a jack hammer. Callahan stroked her hair and held her tightly, to calm both her and his nerves down and more importantly convince himself that this was real in the here and now and that he wasn't still dreaming.
Michael Callahan: Fine. I'm sorry I scared you...
Ellen Bishop: S'okay Mike. I'm sorry I yelled.
Michael Callahan: Shhh...
---
The lightbulb flickers to life weakly as I approach the sink with a certain heaviness about me. Usually, I'm as light as a feather and energised but right now? Everything is hurting. Both physically and psychologically, I'm in absolute agony. It's absurd. Since I lost to Phil Atken, everything has seemed one hundred times more difficult, like I'm carrying a ten tonne weight around my neck whenever I move. Getting out of bed in the morning is the hardest part of my day now, and it doesn't get much easier from then on out. Even something as simple as making myself breakfast requires Herculian effort. Nothing is going right, and I'm becoming clumsy, but I know this is just a phase.
I run the tap with cold water and start to splash my face, trying to shake off this sickness that I'm feeling inside me. I'm still sweating buckets worth, I can still feel the heat on my skin and when I close my eyes I see their faces, all of them laughing at me. Bethany, Phil, Sally, Anthony, Jason, the entire ensemble. It's maddening. I can barely sleep any more because all I can hear in the back of my head is the sound of the bell ringing and Phil Atken being announced the winner. It's too much. It's too loud and it puts me in that same pain and agony that I felt being trapped in the Figure-4, the helplessness of the situation sinking my stomach like a stone.
When the splash off water across my face doesn't seem to stir me, I slip out of my underwear and vest and run myself a cold shower, even still seeing the laughing faces form in the mist. I knew though that this was all a symptom of the mind, that the pressure of life was building up on my shoulders and that my loss to Phil had been the straw that broke the camel's back. Yet when I found out that this week I had the opportunity to atone and get myself a second match? I couldn't relish the opportunity, I could only dread it. I don't think I could handle being humiliated by Phil once more, and in this state of mind, I certainly can't handle being coaxed by Shane Borderland.
Come on Mike, pull yourself together. You can do this. Agh. It's only a month and a half 'til Rasslemania. It's only a little bit longer 'til I can get out of this funk. I can claim back that championship that belongs around my waist.
All I have to do... is keep my inner turmoil tucked away against a man who thrives and feeds on his own.
All I have to do... is wrestle my demons.
