“That’s yer feckin’ Hell, Jacob? That’s what made you what yeh were? Bein’ ‘terrorized’ by African-Americans. Havin’ yer family shot dead, that’s yer version of Hell. Hell is living in a prison cell, a sentence brought upon by yer own actions, Aye? If yeh’d allow me to, I’d like to tell you what hell I’ve been through.”

Michael nods to himself, pausing. The camera opened up on him, in front of what is obviously a green screen. Behind him on the green screen is a picture of the rolling hills of Ireland, green grass and stone fences alike. Michael continues on.

“I’m sure yeh think Ireland is just what all yer St. Patty’s day movies make it out to be. Leprechauns and faeries, hills of green, bars full o’ drunken lads and lasses, high on life and expecting nothing but great times and cheery days, aye? Banshees and Bogarts, yadda yadda yadda. All these mythical beings – that’s what yeh believe Ireland to be, aye? Sure yeh do, that’s all yeh’ve ever known. But you haven’t seen the real Ireland, the Ireland that me family has endured, survived and is still proud to call our home. This, laddie, is what a real man’s Hell is.”

The green grass turned into city streets. Cars lined the roads, several charred black from being blown up. The buildings along the side of the streets were tattered and the walls were crumbling down. Broken glass, rubble and other sharp entities were on the ground. People were walking down the sidewalks, rocks in their hands and never fixing their eyes on one spot.

“Hell, Jacob, is what I awoke to every day, from the day I was born until me 21^st birthday. Hell was something that I never want to go back to, Hell was something that I couldn’t control. Unlike yeh, yeh redneck piece of shite, I couldn’t jus’ pick up and leave my home, I couldn’t move into a better part o’ the country – there wasn’t a better part o’ the country. Me family was poor, me da’ ran the local pub but the windows wouldn’t stay intact fer more than a fortnight, and we’d lose everythin’… eventually there was nothin’ fer us. But we had to stay here… there was no where to go.”

Michael held up a picture of a body… a bloody, bruised, gashed and broken body.

“On me thirteenth birthday, me older brother Seamus was stoned to death by a group of boys no older than himself. Fer what? We are Catholic. Not because we did anythin’ to them, not because we started a fight. Me brother’s skull was broken in because of our feckin’ birthed religion. It was like walking down the streets of Israel, or even feckin’ World War II Europe – we were in danger no matter what we did. I watched me brother die, while Rolly and I were held down by more men than wrestlers on the SHOOT Project roster, boyo. Yeh saw yer family get shot? There was nothin’ yeh could do, it was over in a minute. Me brother, though… I saw him kicking… SCREAMING… begging fer his life. Fer damned near three hours they broke his bones and cut his skin, until they bashed in his skull in and the sidewalks ran over with his blood. We watched this. We have seen daemons, we have been through Hell.”

Michael nodded, dropping the picture.

“Yer Hell was because of your neighbor hood. Yer Hell was because a group of African-Americans ‘terrorized’ your neighborhood. Yer Hell was a self imposed prison term. My Hell, Jacob, was knowing that I could’ve saved me brother, but I let meself get held down. My Hell, Jacob, is being imprisoned into my house fer damned near all me life because me da' was afraid of what would happen to a boy like meself - strong and smart. My Hell was knowing everyday could be me last. Yer Hell was a cramped hotel room payed for by the American tax payers, where yeh had prison guards watching yer back. Yer Hell is knowing that yer kidnapping ‘Agnus’ and holding her against her will. Treating her like a mutt, what YER doing. My Hell wasn’t any of my doing, my Hell wasn’t self imposed, my Hell couldn’t be turned off by meself alone. My Hell was many generations deep.”

Michael nodded, the green screen fading to black now.

“I’ve been through Hell, Jacob, a far worse Hell than yeh’ll ever know. I have been beaten, broken, and bloodied. But I’ve survived it, in fact... I embraced it. Me and Rolly, we embraced it. By our 14th birthday, we had given in - we began to fight. Rowland and I were standing up fer ourselves, we weren't backing down from anyone. The men that had frightened us fer so long were becoming the boys we were leaving in pools of their own blood. There wasn't a day that went by where Rowland and I didn't get into a fist fight on the way to school, and eventually we embraced it. We turned to fighting as a way of income. We'd fight in the underground pubs, we saved enough money and we got the feck out o' there. We brought our feckin' 18 year old sister, and went to the one place where we knew we'd be feckin' accepted. We came to the land of promise, we came to this very same place yer French ancestors turned to when they needed refuge. We came to America, because unlike the warped and twisted memories yeh have, Jacob, America isn't Hell. America isn't even Limbo. America, Jacob, is the closest thing to heaven the world will ever know, besides a peaceful Ireland."

Michael shook his head, exhausted.

"Now me baby brother is recovering from multiple attacks on the way home from school, and I am wrestling to bring me brother o'er here. I am not going to allow the same prejudice scum that tormented me fer years keep me brother in Ireland by himself. I will not back down from you, I will not let yeh beat me. I don't care if I have to leave yeh layin' there, begging me fer fergiveness. I will beat yeh at Revolution, boyo."

Michael shook his head.

"And regardless of if I beat yeh, I will call the authorities, and yeh will be thrown back into yer pathetic feckin' Hell, because unlike yeh, Jacob, I don't get off on kidnapping and un-lawful restraining. Yeh've shown me where yeh live, yeh've shown me proof of what yer doin', and with yer record - I highly doubt yeh'll be comin' out o' prison alive."

Michael nodded.

"Or yeh could just be the biggest bullshitter in the history of bullshite. Yer a bigot, and racist, and yeh can kidnap and restrain a woman, but yeh sure did get into a college, and yeh had the wisdom to get a degree. That, Jacob, is a horrible - horrible lie. Yer either an idiot and setting yerself up fer a long prison term, or yer a fraud, and thus - a pussy yerself, trying to get cheap respect in a place where yeh don't deserve it. Either way, I don't care if yeh got the stigmata, Jacob Delacroy, I will not lose to you. Yer mental capabilities are far less developed, and when I have yeh on yer heels - yer rage will be yer downfall, and trust me - I will have yeh on yer heels."

Michael smirked for the first time.

"Regardless of what you believe Ireland to be, you will never understand it. I have fought people far worse than yeh, twat. So feck off, because I have been through Hell, I have fought the daemons, and I am here to talk about it. But when I get into the ring with you, when I get me hands on yer racist arse, yeh will feel the flames of my Hell unleashed. So sayeth the Devil."

* * * * * * * * *

The camera was now off, Michael was now alone. He looked down at the picture on the floor, before picking it up and holding it in front of him.

Rowland Collins: "And if yeh don't win this match, yeh can guaranty Jacob will be leaving the ring on a stretcher."

Michael looked at his brother, who walked on camera.

Michael Collins: "If I have my way about it, he'll be escorted out o' the arena into a squad car and that woman would be set free. Do me a favor, Rowland. Call the proper authorities."

Rowland nodded.

Michael Collins: "He might be a fraud, but yeh can bet yer arse he wont be walking out of the arena a winning man."