Post by Michael Callahan on Apr 10, 2013 23:54:21 GMT -4
As Michael Callahan collapsed to the mat, all he could see was his own reflection in the black mirror that had just been shattered over his head. When he came to, his eyes were filled with the stark contrast of bright white lights and a tiled ceiling. It was a view he had grown all too familiar with in recent months, but he could only fear this was the first visit of many. Rubbing his eyes as he slowly sat up, the bright glare of the overhead lamp eased a little as his stinging eyes adjusted to the glow. He looked down, then all around him and saw satin sheets, his ring attire replaced with a gown and several beds just like his own with people sleeping soundly in them.
This was all he needed to confirm his hypothesis. Hospitalised, once again, but this time by his new nemesis Level One.
Michael Callahan: The Hell am I?
He didn't need to ask because he knew the answer already, but he couldn't think of any other questions to ask as dragged himself out of a blackout and back into the realm of the living. To his left, slumped out in an arm chair was Dr. Gray drooling down his own face as he slept a deep and uncomfortable sleep in this battered old seat.
Michael Callahan: Dr. Gray. Wake up and tell me where I am and what happened.
Startled, Dr. Gray shakes his head and twitches his eyes open. With a yawn and a stretch he leant forward to see that Michael was awake much to his relief.
Dr. Alexander Gray: You got jumped, buddy. You're in the hospital. Level One took your chump ass out good.
Michael could barely believe his ears. He knew it to be true, but to hear it from someone else truly hit home. On his first show on Overdrive, he'd let his guard down sufficiently to get the pasting of a life-time from the man he respected more than anyone else on Overdrive. It was a kick in the teeth his self esteem would take a while to digest.
Michael Callahan: You're... you're kidding. How long have I been out?
Dr. Alexander Gray: Overnight. It's...
Dr. Gray stretched out his arms and checked his watch.
Dr. Alexander Gray: It's 3AM. You got knocked out and they're checking you over for injuries.
Callahan started feeling his own skin for any sign of a flesh wound or bruise and took little time to find the trail of scabs where the cam corder glass had dug in. Tiny, tiny wounds, but enough to cause bleeding.
Michael Callahan: Am I... oh God, I got cut didn't I?
Dr. Alexander Gray: Yup. Not too badly. It'll all heal. It was when he started hitting you with the belt that things got nasty. Wanna see what Level One did to you? The footage off his camcorder has been uploaded to YouTube.
Callahan shook his head in disbelief, unable to believe that Gray could think anyone would want to watch what was essentially their own mugging.
Michael Callahan: No, thank you. My desecration is not what I want to witness after spending several hours unconscious in a hospital bed.
Dr. Alexander Gray: Well if you find that hard to stomach, why not try the dance mix someone made? I've got it right here, it's freaking' hilarious-
Gray reached for the bedside table to grab his phone but Callahan was adamant that he wanted no viewing of his attack, no matter how comically it may have been edited and how slamming the accompanying tunes might have been. It was a traumatic experience he didn't particularly want to relive ever, and certainly not now.
Michael Callahan: NO, Doc. No. I'm fine, thank you. I'll watch the tapes later on and figure out where I went wrong. But for now? This can't be allowed to stand. I can't make myself vulnerable like that again. I need to to take measures so I can't be caught unprepared for another Level One or Syndicate sneak attack.
Straight away Callahan began forming plans to prevent future attacks but Dr. Gray was less hopeful that any measure would be effective or indeed efficient to implement.
Dr. Alexander Gray: This is the dog eat dog world of professional wrestling. There's not really much you can do except make good friends, which is a difficult job to do when you're the World Heavyweight Champion and everyone wants that belt around your waist. It's even harder still when you've spent your entire career thus far going out of your way to antagonise the audience, smashing peoples skulls in with baseball bats and screwing anyone and everyone over for even the slightest gain to your career.
It took Callahan a moment to comprehend, but surprisingly he agreed with what Dr. Gray was saying. It was no secret that Callahan cared little for what the roster or even the audience at home thought of his actions, and maybe this was his downfall.
Michael Callahan: I hear that, and I know I'm going to have to pay for my sins in one way or another but taking a beating from a jackal like Level One isn't going to do much to absolve me as it is cementing Level One's fiery wreckage that his career is rapidly turning into. No, I was thinking about bringing a little something to even up the odds, something a bit more immediate and less unwieldy than Martinez.
Callahan stroked his chin in contemplation as Gray leapt to an unfathomable conclusion, assuming the worst as always because Callahan was well known for killing ants with a pile of bricks.
Dr. Alexander Gray: You can't be thinking...- No, Michael, you can't take a gun into the Overdrive building. It's a wrestling arena, not Die Hard.
It wasn't what he was thinking, but Callahan smirked playfully at the idea.
Michael Callahan: Oh come on. What little harm could taking a glock to the show do?
Dr. Alexander Gray: Get you arrested! Get you killed! It's totally overkill! Besides, how would you even get a gun into Costa Rica! You're insane, y-
Gray's protests were interrupted by Callahan roaring with belly aching laughter that earned him the ire of his waking up fellow ward-mates.
Michael Callahan: Y'know, for a therapist, you sure are dense. You can't even read someone when they're clearly cracking wise.
Dr. Alexander Gray: I deal with a lot of psychopaths Michael, it's difficult to know which ones you do and don't have to talk off ledges.
Michael Callahan: Heh, well I can assure you, putting bullets in Level One isn't on the agenda. At least not yet. For now? Let's get out of here.
Callahan kicked his legs over the side of the bed to find his clothing round about the time his nurse, an hourglass of prettiness with a brunette ponytail attached arrived on the scene. Stepping in closer to stop him proceeding with his escape plan, Callahan looked up at her with a mixture of confusion and attraction which made for a rather unattractive expression.
Nurse: You can't leave just yet Mr. Callahan.
Michael Callahan: Why the Hell not? I'm fine.
Nurse: We need to run some tests. You'll be out by mid-day if all goes to plan, I promise you.
Callahan knew his own general health levels and the way he felt within himself, but an excuse to get his inner hypochondriac soothed was never one to be missed. He reluctantly kicked his legs back up onto the table and looked at the nurse with a weary smile.
Michael Callahan: Fine. As long as my insurance company is getting shafted by your tests then I really can't complain. Test away.
Nurse: Thanks. I gotta' say, I'm impressed. Most wrestlers just rip out their drips and go on a warpath to find their arch nemesis and beat them up even if it kills them. I find it admirable that you decided to stick it out and wait for your treatment.
Michael Callahan: What's another nine hours in this joint if it means a clean bill of health? Oooh...
Callahan clutched his head as a dull throbbing pain started to seep in, delayed only by the drugs he'd already been prescribed and the initial waking up weariness.
Michael Callahan: Can I get some pain pills? My skull is starting to ache something fierce.
Nurse: Right away, Mr. Callahan.
Michael Callahan: See, why can't you be more like that Gray? Why can't you be caring, complimentary and outrageously attractive?
Dr. Alexander Gray: Because I'm not getting paid to do that.
Michael Callahan: True enough Dr. Gray. True enough indeed.
And with that, Callahan watched as the nurse whisked herself away to go shake Callahan up a cocktail of varying strength barbiturates to take the edge off his pain. This was indeed the life.
---
Up to no good as was the standard, Michael Callahan was spending his afternoons like most, engaging his inner lunacy by playing with guns like everyone who knew him wished he wouldn't. Today, Callahan was examining a H&K USP pistol in Shankland's Guns N Ammo, a family owned firearm retailer in his home town of Kelso and in doing so he marvelled at the German craftsmanship of the side-arm. Letting his imagination run wild, he imagined what would happen if just for once APW could solve all of it's problems with a shoot-out.
Who would win?
Almost certainly him with his Sharpshooter Rank VII, but that was another question for another time. He wanted to cock the hammer and pump some rounds into it, but after the murder of the gun store owner he used to regular in Seattle he wasn't quite able to test out these weapons because his license hadn't yet been approved.
Michael Callahan: Wow... this is freaking neat.
John Shankland: You be careful with that piece there skipper. It's live.
John Shankland was the proprietor of Shankland's Guns N Ammo, a cranky middle aged man with more teeth than sense which from his empty mouth set a very low bar. Callahan had often wondered why there hadn't been more incidents then there had been at this particular gun shop, but Kelso wasn't the sort of town to ask questions.
Michael Callahan: Psht, no it's not. Surely as a gun shop proprietor, you wouldn't be retarded enough to hand a loaded weapon to a new customer.
Callahan gave John a confused look but then realised John was actually being serious and the burning question started to sear at his curiosity that little bit more.
Michael Callahan: ... Yeah. Right. This is a cool side-arm and all but I'm pretty sure most about anything won't survive the impact of a USP round to the face. You got anything a little less... fatal?
Shankland followed up until the last word. Being a gun-shop owner, the idea of having a gun that didn't kill people was as foreign a concept to him as Chinese arithmetic or the Klingon language.
John Shankland: Say what now?
Michael Callahan: Can you sell me something that won't kill the thing that I'm firing at?
Now that Shankland understood him, his reaction was positive outrage. So fuming was John Shankland that he immediately grabbed the nearest gun he could find and cocked a bullet into the chamber.
John Shankland: WON'T kill? The hell do you think this is boy? This ain't no Disney Gun-Store. We don't sell nickel-plated assault rifles that fire rainbows and stars to stun your opponents into kindness. We sell shit that'll rip your adversary to bits. You better not be some Commie faggot tryna' invade my homeland.
Michael Callahan: Nononono, my blood runs red, white and blue my friend. It's just... my targets, they don't need to be harmed. I just need rounds that'll put them out for a couple of hours. I don't want to kill, I just want to take them out of the picture for a couple of hours at least so I can recuperate and make good an escape. No harm necessary.
Shankland calmed down a little but still remained wary of this “hippy” perusing his fire-arm collection. Callahan breathed a sigh of relief.
John Shankland: Well if you want my honest by God personal opinion on the subject, and I mean no offence when I say this, but I think you're a little pussy who doesn't realise every one of man's problems can be resolved with a fire-arm. That said, I DO got me some surplus police junk that you might wanna look at. Picked it up from an auction and got some nice bits that I ain't ever managed to sell.
Michael Callahan: I'd be more than happy to check it out. Take me to it, Mr. S.
Shankland opened the curtain behind the counter and took Callahan to a cardboard box with “AUCTION WINNINGS 2009”. He opened it up for Callahan to get a closer look.
John Shankland: Here ya' go. Like I said, it's from a few years back but this all should be in workin' order. Open it up and have a look.
Michael Callahan: Alright.
Callahan kneeled down and pulled out the contents slowly, starting with two telescopic police batons.
Michael Callahan: Police batons?
John Shankland: Should be two in there boy.
Michael Callahan: Interesting. I'll take these.
Callahan handed them to Shankland to bag up.
John Shankland: Right y'are.
He then pulled out a metal case with two shut latches.
Michael Callahan: What's in the case?
John Shankland: You tell me.
Callahan popped open the case to reveal rows of thick cannisters with ring pulls attached, an altogether different type of grenade.
Michael Callahan: Obviously some type of grenades, are these smoke bombs?
John Shankland: Is the pope an old white man who lives in a magic tower in Italy?
Michael Callahan: Strictly speaking no but...
John Shankland: Well there's your answer. Strictly speaking, but no. They're smoke GRENADES, not bombs. Christ, I thought you said you'd been in a gun store before.
Michael Callahan: I have, I just-ugh...
He knew it was pointless fighting with this dentally challenged hick and decided to continue looking through all the padding and polystyrene.
Michael Callahan: Ooh look!
He pulled back a big layer of bubble wrap and grabbed a hold of a Kevlar Vest, designed to protect people against dangerous weaponry. Absolutely perfect for Callahan.
Michael Callahan: This vest, is it bullet proof, stab broof, bomb proof?
John Shankland: Looks to me like an old police issue stab proof vest. Real kevlar. Wanna try it out?
His response begged belief from The American Hero. Callahan didn't know whether to laugh or cry at the proposal.
Michael Callahan: What are you nuts? What if it's old and punctures like a piece of cardboard and I get skewered? I only got out of a hospital bed yesterday.
John Shankland: What're you, some kinda' hymen? I'll wear the damn vest.
Michael Callahan: No, it's fine. I take your word that it works. I'll buy the whole lot.
John Shankland: I got somethin' for ya, now that I think about it.
Michael Callahan: Oh yeah?
Shankland turned back to the main part of the shop only to come back moments later with a thick barrelled rifle with a telescopic sight attached. Callahan's interest immediately piqued.
John Shankland: This my friend is a hunting rifle equipped with incapacitating rounds. One shot of this? And they'll be out for the night.
Michael Callahan: Sounds perfect. Can I take the whole box and order the rifle for delivery?
John Shankland: Sure. That'll be $3,500 dollars.
Michael Callahan: Can I pay by card?
John Shankland: I'd prefer cash, but I'll take it.
Callahan grabbed the box and took it out to the front of the shop, punched in his credit card to the system and then prepared to leave.
Michael Callahan: Thanks. Pleasure doing business with you.
John Shankland: No problem. Before y'go though, I gotta' ask. What do you need all this old junk for?
Michael Callahan: ... Jackal hunting.
Callahan smiled a full-tooth grin at Shankland then left with his new toys in the box to a rather unnerving fade.
---
Thursday Night Overdrive is mere hours away and in preparation Michael was already strapped up and ready for any situation that might present itself. Wearing his kevlar vest and carrying smoke grenades, Callahan replaced his usual suit and tie with black cargo pants and military boots to fit in with the vest. He decided not to get a ballistics helmet because he thought it'd look dumb.
Michael Callahan: Hey there folks! It's me! Michael Callahan! You'll never guess what I've gone and done! Last week on Overdrive I got my ass kicked so hard by Level One so I took some RATIONAL, WELL-THOUGHT OUT measures to ensure that DIDN'T happen again! I've armed myself to the fucking teeth with everything I could possibly need to defend myself from the insidious likes of The Syndicate. I've got weapons, I've got smoke grenades, I've got alarm devices so I know where people are coming from at all times and y'know what else? I've got a little ear piece, right here, see?
Callahan turned to the camera so it could better see his FBI style ear piece.
Michael Callahan: This little ear piece is directly linked up to a man somewhere in the arena who's watching the show and can tell me EXACTLY when and where things are happening so that I can't be caught unawares. Think you're smart Syndicate? Form a line behind me. I know fully well what Felipe Deloren said to me last week was true, that I'm all alone here. But y'know what? I couldn't care less because I've got the one friend I need that'll see me through the days not getting beaten up and filmed battered and bloody by the man out for my throat, and that is paranoia.
It is only fitting that after reaching his highest seat of power, Michael would crack under the pressure of fear of others.
Michael Callahan: Y'see, we live in The Age of Paranoia. It's all around us wherever we go. From the littlest common man, be it some pick-up driving bigot who doesn't trust anyone a shade darker than cream, or the urban youth who thinks that middle aged American white men are out to do everything they can to ruin his life, all the way up to the top with government bodies, intelligence agencies and the surveillance industries. What's it all designed for? To keep tabs on people, to make sure the bad men can't get us. Do you know how many security cameras there are currently deployed on US soil? Thirty million, recording over 40 billion hours of footage a week to make sure people toe the line and try not to do anything too radical.
Like a true nut on a sci-fi show, Callahan rattled off the conspiracy theories with aplomb.
Michael Callahan: And that's why I've taken the measures I have, because I don't trust the people around me. A six man tag match? Yippy-doo! I've got Mark Mania and CJ Gates, two men with a point to prove, men who would love nothing more than to see me robbed of my championship before it's due time standing beside me. It's no secret that CJ Gates is more desperate for gold than a starving prospector and Mark Mania is a man with a monetary thirst so deep that if the Atlantic Ocean were made of Benjamins, he could drain it within the hour. Like him or no, he would do ANYTHING to improve his stock and what better way to wrap the championship around his waist right?
Callahan was also fully aware that on two separate occasions, he had beaten CJ Gates making him a prime target for some revenge attacks. It made sense, given he'd done nothing to L1 and still found himself a victim.
Michael Callahan: Of course, both these men are sterling defenders of APW right? And against the threat of Syndicate invasion, the likes of Level One, Delikado and Johnny Rebel banging on our doors like mad wolves we should by all means unite against our common foe right? WROOOOOOOOONG. Lately, I've come to the conclusion that some of my actions in my past year as a Megastar haven't been conducive to making good friends! So you can imagine my reticence to trust ANYBODY claiming to “have my back”? Nah, I didn't think so. Marky boy and CJ are gonna' be just as nervous with me behind them as I am them, which is a crying shame because we're TEAM MATES, we shouldn't be afraid of anyone but the ones who stand in our way.
In theory that was a nice idea but in the world of wrestling, ego's always clash and that is when ego's crash. Would they war with themselves or their opponents?
Michael Callahan: And of course, those that stand in our way are INDEED a mighty obstacle. Level One, an ice cold killer, a multiple time everything champion that AS YOU CAN SEE by the cut in my head is perfectly capable of doing WHATEVER it takes to get the job done. The man is a mercenary, vicious, thorough, ruthless, dangerous and he knows exactly what he wants and how to get it. Then, you put him next to Johnny Rebel, a man who once stood upon a proud pedestal but now spends most of his time cutting out food stamps and trying to hold down his mindset. The strains of the industry have taken their toll and now he has desperation, hungry and ready to feed coursing through his veins. He'll do ANYTHING, ANYTHING AT ALL to get that next pay cheque and if that means destroying himself in the process? You bet your sweet ass he will.
Johnny Rebel's recent financial crisis was a stark contrast to the ever blossoming wealth of his two “business partners” Mania and Gates, both of whom had fortunes to feed African nations.
Michael Callahan: And of course, Mr. Delikado. Reinvented supposedly as the head of my church. As sickeningly controversial he has become, I fear that he may yet be the most dangerous of our obstacles. Coiled and ready to strike like the snake in the grass, he was just barely kept at bay from what I can only describe as the toughest match of my career. Robbed he was by a very crafty Level One, his own corner man, which begs the question of whether those two egos can coexist knowing full well that one man cost the other his opportunity at greatness. I won't lie to you and say I had my defence in the bag, not even close, Delikado was scarily close to taking this belt away from me and in some regards, maybe I owe Level One a little thank you and a fruit baasket.
Owed? Maybe, but he wouldn't be getting it any time soon. That's for sure.
Michael Callahan: But this doesn't mean he'll go away and cower back to Cuba as if he's been subject to a championship embargo. God no. He'll come back swinging twice as hard and try to topple my empire. So instead, I gotta' up my game. I've gotta' be at my best yet and come whoever may at the Mayhem spectacle, I MUST be ready to face any and all challengers. The fuel for any successful campaign is a steady supply of momentum, and if I can co-exist with my brothers in arms against the Syndicate's hand-picked thugs then maybe, just maybe we can overcome this horrible, uncivilised blight that's invading our proud wrestling company! Until Overdrive though... we can only leave that to the imagination. Until Overdrive... all we can do is watch.
My name is Michael Callahan and I approve this message.
Fade.
This was all he needed to confirm his hypothesis. Hospitalised, once again, but this time by his new nemesis Level One.
Michael Callahan: The Hell am I?
He didn't need to ask because he knew the answer already, but he couldn't think of any other questions to ask as dragged himself out of a blackout and back into the realm of the living. To his left, slumped out in an arm chair was Dr. Gray drooling down his own face as he slept a deep and uncomfortable sleep in this battered old seat.
Michael Callahan: Dr. Gray. Wake up and tell me where I am and what happened.
Startled, Dr. Gray shakes his head and twitches his eyes open. With a yawn and a stretch he leant forward to see that Michael was awake much to his relief.
Dr. Alexander Gray: You got jumped, buddy. You're in the hospital. Level One took your chump ass out good.
Michael could barely believe his ears. He knew it to be true, but to hear it from someone else truly hit home. On his first show on Overdrive, he'd let his guard down sufficiently to get the pasting of a life-time from the man he respected more than anyone else on Overdrive. It was a kick in the teeth his self esteem would take a while to digest.
Michael Callahan: You're... you're kidding. How long have I been out?
Dr. Alexander Gray: Overnight. It's...
Dr. Gray stretched out his arms and checked his watch.
Dr. Alexander Gray: It's 3AM. You got knocked out and they're checking you over for injuries.
Callahan started feeling his own skin for any sign of a flesh wound or bruise and took little time to find the trail of scabs where the cam corder glass had dug in. Tiny, tiny wounds, but enough to cause bleeding.
Michael Callahan: Am I... oh God, I got cut didn't I?
Dr. Alexander Gray: Yup. Not too badly. It'll all heal. It was when he started hitting you with the belt that things got nasty. Wanna see what Level One did to you? The footage off his camcorder has been uploaded to YouTube.
Callahan shook his head in disbelief, unable to believe that Gray could think anyone would want to watch what was essentially their own mugging.
Michael Callahan: No, thank you. My desecration is not what I want to witness after spending several hours unconscious in a hospital bed.
Dr. Alexander Gray: Well if you find that hard to stomach, why not try the dance mix someone made? I've got it right here, it's freaking' hilarious-
Gray reached for the bedside table to grab his phone but Callahan was adamant that he wanted no viewing of his attack, no matter how comically it may have been edited and how slamming the accompanying tunes might have been. It was a traumatic experience he didn't particularly want to relive ever, and certainly not now.
Michael Callahan: NO, Doc. No. I'm fine, thank you. I'll watch the tapes later on and figure out where I went wrong. But for now? This can't be allowed to stand. I can't make myself vulnerable like that again. I need to to take measures so I can't be caught unprepared for another Level One or Syndicate sneak attack.
Straight away Callahan began forming plans to prevent future attacks but Dr. Gray was less hopeful that any measure would be effective or indeed efficient to implement.
Dr. Alexander Gray: This is the dog eat dog world of professional wrestling. There's not really much you can do except make good friends, which is a difficult job to do when you're the World Heavyweight Champion and everyone wants that belt around your waist. It's even harder still when you've spent your entire career thus far going out of your way to antagonise the audience, smashing peoples skulls in with baseball bats and screwing anyone and everyone over for even the slightest gain to your career.
It took Callahan a moment to comprehend, but surprisingly he agreed with what Dr. Gray was saying. It was no secret that Callahan cared little for what the roster or even the audience at home thought of his actions, and maybe this was his downfall.
Michael Callahan: I hear that, and I know I'm going to have to pay for my sins in one way or another but taking a beating from a jackal like Level One isn't going to do much to absolve me as it is cementing Level One's fiery wreckage that his career is rapidly turning into. No, I was thinking about bringing a little something to even up the odds, something a bit more immediate and less unwieldy than Martinez.
Callahan stroked his chin in contemplation as Gray leapt to an unfathomable conclusion, assuming the worst as always because Callahan was well known for killing ants with a pile of bricks.
Dr. Alexander Gray: You can't be thinking...- No, Michael, you can't take a gun into the Overdrive building. It's a wrestling arena, not Die Hard.
It wasn't what he was thinking, but Callahan smirked playfully at the idea.
Michael Callahan: Oh come on. What little harm could taking a glock to the show do?
Dr. Alexander Gray: Get you arrested! Get you killed! It's totally overkill! Besides, how would you even get a gun into Costa Rica! You're insane, y-
Gray's protests were interrupted by Callahan roaring with belly aching laughter that earned him the ire of his waking up fellow ward-mates.
Michael Callahan: Y'know, for a therapist, you sure are dense. You can't even read someone when they're clearly cracking wise.
Dr. Alexander Gray: I deal with a lot of psychopaths Michael, it's difficult to know which ones you do and don't have to talk off ledges.
Michael Callahan: Heh, well I can assure you, putting bullets in Level One isn't on the agenda. At least not yet. For now? Let's get out of here.
Callahan kicked his legs over the side of the bed to find his clothing round about the time his nurse, an hourglass of prettiness with a brunette ponytail attached arrived on the scene. Stepping in closer to stop him proceeding with his escape plan, Callahan looked up at her with a mixture of confusion and attraction which made for a rather unattractive expression.
Nurse: You can't leave just yet Mr. Callahan.
Michael Callahan: Why the Hell not? I'm fine.
Nurse: We need to run some tests. You'll be out by mid-day if all goes to plan, I promise you.
Callahan knew his own general health levels and the way he felt within himself, but an excuse to get his inner hypochondriac soothed was never one to be missed. He reluctantly kicked his legs back up onto the table and looked at the nurse with a weary smile.
Michael Callahan: Fine. As long as my insurance company is getting shafted by your tests then I really can't complain. Test away.
Nurse: Thanks. I gotta' say, I'm impressed. Most wrestlers just rip out their drips and go on a warpath to find their arch nemesis and beat them up even if it kills them. I find it admirable that you decided to stick it out and wait for your treatment.
Michael Callahan: What's another nine hours in this joint if it means a clean bill of health? Oooh...
Callahan clutched his head as a dull throbbing pain started to seep in, delayed only by the drugs he'd already been prescribed and the initial waking up weariness.
Michael Callahan: Can I get some pain pills? My skull is starting to ache something fierce.
Nurse: Right away, Mr. Callahan.
Michael Callahan: See, why can't you be more like that Gray? Why can't you be caring, complimentary and outrageously attractive?
Dr. Alexander Gray: Because I'm not getting paid to do that.
Michael Callahan: True enough Dr. Gray. True enough indeed.
And with that, Callahan watched as the nurse whisked herself away to go shake Callahan up a cocktail of varying strength barbiturates to take the edge off his pain. This was indeed the life.
---
Up to no good as was the standard, Michael Callahan was spending his afternoons like most, engaging his inner lunacy by playing with guns like everyone who knew him wished he wouldn't. Today, Callahan was examining a H&K USP pistol in Shankland's Guns N Ammo, a family owned firearm retailer in his home town of Kelso and in doing so he marvelled at the German craftsmanship of the side-arm. Letting his imagination run wild, he imagined what would happen if just for once APW could solve all of it's problems with a shoot-out.
Who would win?
Almost certainly him with his Sharpshooter Rank VII, but that was another question for another time. He wanted to cock the hammer and pump some rounds into it, but after the murder of the gun store owner he used to regular in Seattle he wasn't quite able to test out these weapons because his license hadn't yet been approved.
Michael Callahan: Wow... this is freaking neat.
John Shankland: You be careful with that piece there skipper. It's live.
John Shankland was the proprietor of Shankland's Guns N Ammo, a cranky middle aged man with more teeth than sense which from his empty mouth set a very low bar. Callahan had often wondered why there hadn't been more incidents then there had been at this particular gun shop, but Kelso wasn't the sort of town to ask questions.
Michael Callahan: Psht, no it's not. Surely as a gun shop proprietor, you wouldn't be retarded enough to hand a loaded weapon to a new customer.
Callahan gave John a confused look but then realised John was actually being serious and the burning question started to sear at his curiosity that little bit more.
Michael Callahan: ... Yeah. Right. This is a cool side-arm and all but I'm pretty sure most about anything won't survive the impact of a USP round to the face. You got anything a little less... fatal?
Shankland followed up until the last word. Being a gun-shop owner, the idea of having a gun that didn't kill people was as foreign a concept to him as Chinese arithmetic or the Klingon language.
John Shankland: Say what now?
Michael Callahan: Can you sell me something that won't kill the thing that I'm firing at?
Now that Shankland understood him, his reaction was positive outrage. So fuming was John Shankland that he immediately grabbed the nearest gun he could find and cocked a bullet into the chamber.
John Shankland: WON'T kill? The hell do you think this is boy? This ain't no Disney Gun-Store. We don't sell nickel-plated assault rifles that fire rainbows and stars to stun your opponents into kindness. We sell shit that'll rip your adversary to bits. You better not be some Commie faggot tryna' invade my homeland.
Michael Callahan: Nononono, my blood runs red, white and blue my friend. It's just... my targets, they don't need to be harmed. I just need rounds that'll put them out for a couple of hours. I don't want to kill, I just want to take them out of the picture for a couple of hours at least so I can recuperate and make good an escape. No harm necessary.
Shankland calmed down a little but still remained wary of this “hippy” perusing his fire-arm collection. Callahan breathed a sigh of relief.
John Shankland: Well if you want my honest by God personal opinion on the subject, and I mean no offence when I say this, but I think you're a little pussy who doesn't realise every one of man's problems can be resolved with a fire-arm. That said, I DO got me some surplus police junk that you might wanna look at. Picked it up from an auction and got some nice bits that I ain't ever managed to sell.
Michael Callahan: I'd be more than happy to check it out. Take me to it, Mr. S.
Shankland opened the curtain behind the counter and took Callahan to a cardboard box with “AUCTION WINNINGS 2009”. He opened it up for Callahan to get a closer look.
John Shankland: Here ya' go. Like I said, it's from a few years back but this all should be in workin' order. Open it up and have a look.
Michael Callahan: Alright.
Callahan kneeled down and pulled out the contents slowly, starting with two telescopic police batons.
Michael Callahan: Police batons?
John Shankland: Should be two in there boy.
Michael Callahan: Interesting. I'll take these.
Callahan handed them to Shankland to bag up.
John Shankland: Right y'are.
He then pulled out a metal case with two shut latches.
Michael Callahan: What's in the case?
John Shankland: You tell me.
Callahan popped open the case to reveal rows of thick cannisters with ring pulls attached, an altogether different type of grenade.
Michael Callahan: Obviously some type of grenades, are these smoke bombs?
John Shankland: Is the pope an old white man who lives in a magic tower in Italy?
Michael Callahan: Strictly speaking no but...
John Shankland: Well there's your answer. Strictly speaking, but no. They're smoke GRENADES, not bombs. Christ, I thought you said you'd been in a gun store before.
Michael Callahan: I have, I just-ugh...
He knew it was pointless fighting with this dentally challenged hick and decided to continue looking through all the padding and polystyrene.
Michael Callahan: Ooh look!
He pulled back a big layer of bubble wrap and grabbed a hold of a Kevlar Vest, designed to protect people against dangerous weaponry. Absolutely perfect for Callahan.
Michael Callahan: This vest, is it bullet proof, stab broof, bomb proof?
John Shankland: Looks to me like an old police issue stab proof vest. Real kevlar. Wanna try it out?
His response begged belief from The American Hero. Callahan didn't know whether to laugh or cry at the proposal.
Michael Callahan: What are you nuts? What if it's old and punctures like a piece of cardboard and I get skewered? I only got out of a hospital bed yesterday.
John Shankland: What're you, some kinda' hymen? I'll wear the damn vest.
Michael Callahan: No, it's fine. I take your word that it works. I'll buy the whole lot.
John Shankland: I got somethin' for ya, now that I think about it.
Michael Callahan: Oh yeah?
Shankland turned back to the main part of the shop only to come back moments later with a thick barrelled rifle with a telescopic sight attached. Callahan's interest immediately piqued.
John Shankland: This my friend is a hunting rifle equipped with incapacitating rounds. One shot of this? And they'll be out for the night.
Michael Callahan: Sounds perfect. Can I take the whole box and order the rifle for delivery?
John Shankland: Sure. That'll be $3,500 dollars.
Michael Callahan: Can I pay by card?
John Shankland: I'd prefer cash, but I'll take it.
Callahan grabbed the box and took it out to the front of the shop, punched in his credit card to the system and then prepared to leave.
Michael Callahan: Thanks. Pleasure doing business with you.
John Shankland: No problem. Before y'go though, I gotta' ask. What do you need all this old junk for?
Michael Callahan: ... Jackal hunting.
Callahan smiled a full-tooth grin at Shankland then left with his new toys in the box to a rather unnerving fade.
---
Thursday Night Overdrive is mere hours away and in preparation Michael was already strapped up and ready for any situation that might present itself. Wearing his kevlar vest and carrying smoke grenades, Callahan replaced his usual suit and tie with black cargo pants and military boots to fit in with the vest. He decided not to get a ballistics helmet because he thought it'd look dumb.
Michael Callahan: Hey there folks! It's me! Michael Callahan! You'll never guess what I've gone and done! Last week on Overdrive I got my ass kicked so hard by Level One so I took some RATIONAL, WELL-THOUGHT OUT measures to ensure that DIDN'T happen again! I've armed myself to the fucking teeth with everything I could possibly need to defend myself from the insidious likes of The Syndicate. I've got weapons, I've got smoke grenades, I've got alarm devices so I know where people are coming from at all times and y'know what else? I've got a little ear piece, right here, see?
Callahan turned to the camera so it could better see his FBI style ear piece.
Michael Callahan: This little ear piece is directly linked up to a man somewhere in the arena who's watching the show and can tell me EXACTLY when and where things are happening so that I can't be caught unawares. Think you're smart Syndicate? Form a line behind me. I know fully well what Felipe Deloren said to me last week was true, that I'm all alone here. But y'know what? I couldn't care less because I've got the one friend I need that'll see me through the days not getting beaten up and filmed battered and bloody by the man out for my throat, and that is paranoia.
It is only fitting that after reaching his highest seat of power, Michael would crack under the pressure of fear of others.
Michael Callahan: Y'see, we live in The Age of Paranoia. It's all around us wherever we go. From the littlest common man, be it some pick-up driving bigot who doesn't trust anyone a shade darker than cream, or the urban youth who thinks that middle aged American white men are out to do everything they can to ruin his life, all the way up to the top with government bodies, intelligence agencies and the surveillance industries. What's it all designed for? To keep tabs on people, to make sure the bad men can't get us. Do you know how many security cameras there are currently deployed on US soil? Thirty million, recording over 40 billion hours of footage a week to make sure people toe the line and try not to do anything too radical.
Like a true nut on a sci-fi show, Callahan rattled off the conspiracy theories with aplomb.
Michael Callahan: And that's why I've taken the measures I have, because I don't trust the people around me. A six man tag match? Yippy-doo! I've got Mark Mania and CJ Gates, two men with a point to prove, men who would love nothing more than to see me robbed of my championship before it's due time standing beside me. It's no secret that CJ Gates is more desperate for gold than a starving prospector and Mark Mania is a man with a monetary thirst so deep that if the Atlantic Ocean were made of Benjamins, he could drain it within the hour. Like him or no, he would do ANYTHING to improve his stock and what better way to wrap the championship around his waist right?
Callahan was also fully aware that on two separate occasions, he had beaten CJ Gates making him a prime target for some revenge attacks. It made sense, given he'd done nothing to L1 and still found himself a victim.
Michael Callahan: Of course, both these men are sterling defenders of APW right? And against the threat of Syndicate invasion, the likes of Level One, Delikado and Johnny Rebel banging on our doors like mad wolves we should by all means unite against our common foe right? WROOOOOOOOONG. Lately, I've come to the conclusion that some of my actions in my past year as a Megastar haven't been conducive to making good friends! So you can imagine my reticence to trust ANYBODY claiming to “have my back”? Nah, I didn't think so. Marky boy and CJ are gonna' be just as nervous with me behind them as I am them, which is a crying shame because we're TEAM MATES, we shouldn't be afraid of anyone but the ones who stand in our way.
In theory that was a nice idea but in the world of wrestling, ego's always clash and that is when ego's crash. Would they war with themselves or their opponents?
Michael Callahan: And of course, those that stand in our way are INDEED a mighty obstacle. Level One, an ice cold killer, a multiple time everything champion that AS YOU CAN SEE by the cut in my head is perfectly capable of doing WHATEVER it takes to get the job done. The man is a mercenary, vicious, thorough, ruthless, dangerous and he knows exactly what he wants and how to get it. Then, you put him next to Johnny Rebel, a man who once stood upon a proud pedestal but now spends most of his time cutting out food stamps and trying to hold down his mindset. The strains of the industry have taken their toll and now he has desperation, hungry and ready to feed coursing through his veins. He'll do ANYTHING, ANYTHING AT ALL to get that next pay cheque and if that means destroying himself in the process? You bet your sweet ass he will.
Johnny Rebel's recent financial crisis was a stark contrast to the ever blossoming wealth of his two “business partners” Mania and Gates, both of whom had fortunes to feed African nations.
Michael Callahan: And of course, Mr. Delikado. Reinvented supposedly as the head of my church. As sickeningly controversial he has become, I fear that he may yet be the most dangerous of our obstacles. Coiled and ready to strike like the snake in the grass, he was just barely kept at bay from what I can only describe as the toughest match of my career. Robbed he was by a very crafty Level One, his own corner man, which begs the question of whether those two egos can coexist knowing full well that one man cost the other his opportunity at greatness. I won't lie to you and say I had my defence in the bag, not even close, Delikado was scarily close to taking this belt away from me and in some regards, maybe I owe Level One a little thank you and a fruit baasket.
Owed? Maybe, but he wouldn't be getting it any time soon. That's for sure.
Michael Callahan: But this doesn't mean he'll go away and cower back to Cuba as if he's been subject to a championship embargo. God no. He'll come back swinging twice as hard and try to topple my empire. So instead, I gotta' up my game. I've gotta' be at my best yet and come whoever may at the Mayhem spectacle, I MUST be ready to face any and all challengers. The fuel for any successful campaign is a steady supply of momentum, and if I can co-exist with my brothers in arms against the Syndicate's hand-picked thugs then maybe, just maybe we can overcome this horrible, uncivilised blight that's invading our proud wrestling company! Until Overdrive though... we can only leave that to the imagination. Until Overdrive... all we can do is watch.
My name is Michael Callahan and I approve this message.
Fade.
