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As
the twins came to a corner, a Chevy Malibu pulled up in front of them,
with the passenger side window rolling down quickly. As the men ducked
down, the driver leaned over the center console. A young, red haired
woman, who spoke with a slight Irish accent. Woman:
Get in the car, idgets. The
two men stood up as well they could, and tried to focus on one another's
faces before they nodded and one grabbed the handle of the backdoor of
the car. As one fell in the seat, the other collapsed on the ground,
landing hard on his shoulder. The twin in the car reached out and helped
his fallen brother into the car, before the door closed and the car took
off. The
next morning, the two brothers woke up in separate beds in the same
room, bare-chested and slightly hung over from the night before. They
rolled out of bed and chuckled at each other as one of the brothers
rubbed his shoulder, finding the dried blood from his fall onto the
pavement. First
Brother: Aww, shit. His
reaction was angry, mixed with some disappointment. The second brother
sighed softly, and spoke. Second
Brother: Rip out the stitches? The
brother turned around, showing his healthy-bodied brother the wound. Second
Brother: Aye. The
first brother huffed as he walked out of the room, the second brother
turned and looked down at his bed, sighing. He, too, rolled out of the
bed and out into the hallway of the small, two bedroom apartment he hand
his brother shared with their redheaded sister. As he got to the
kitchen, his brother was already sitting in front of a stack of
pancakes, pouring his syrup over top of the mound without remorse, while
the sister sat across from the television, watching re-runs of The Price
is Right. Woman:
C'mon, ya idiot. That price was way to high! The
second brother sat down, and turned to his twin. Second
Brother: Rolly, pass the syrup? The
first brother, Rowland, handed the syrup down to his brother, careful
not to put any stress on the wound on the back of his shoulder. Woman:
If you'd quit your drinkin' til ungodly hours of the night, you'd get up
in time to eat these pancakes warm. Rowland:
Aww, hush it, Maureen. You're just upset that Michael and I spend all
the money ya give us havin' a good time, while you piss all your money
away on books and the like. Maureen:
No, I'm upset because none of us can keep a job long enough to help
Benny get over here. Lord knows what Da' is doin' to the poor guy now
that we've came to the states permanently. Michael,
the second brother, sighs, putting his fork down. Michael:
Mo, really. Do you have to keep this going? I'm doin' the best I can to
try and find a job at one of the casinos, and Rolly and I are both
looking for gigs around town to showcase our 'talents'. Maureen:
You mean fight? You mean hurt people? Real feckin' manly, Mikey. Rowland:
Better than bein' a wench behind a bar, wearin' little shirts and lettin'
the scum stare down my blouse, isn't it, Mike? Michael
nods, smirking at his brother as their sister stands up and grabs her
plate. Maureen:
You're both little boys. Twenty three year old little boys. Why don't
you just grow up and realize there's more to life than fighting,
wrestling, and drinking. Michael
slams his palms down on the table, making the brothers' plates rattle. Michael:
BLASPHEMY! Rowland
and Michael burst into an out roar of laughter, Maureen simply turns
around and puts her plate in the sink. Maureen:
You know, Benjamin is still back home, going through hell. Those damned
Protestants can't put a decades old grudge behind them, and you two
blokes are over here drinking his freedom away. Michael:
Oh, get off it. We're doin' the best we can with what we've got. Rowland,
quiet, nods and begins to eat again. Michael:
You know Rolly's hurt. We're tryin' to get gigs around the place, but
nobody wants to put him on their insurance. And I'm surely not going to
wrestle without him but once in a while. Maureen:
Why? Why wont you wrestle without him? Why do you need him as your
security blanket? Michael:
We've been tag team partners since the womb! You try wrestling without
half of you! Maureen:
Why would I want to partake in a barbaric sport? Michael
sighs. Maureen finally walks away from the table, back to her spot on
the couch in front of the TV. Michael turns back to Rowland, who has
stopped eating. Rowland:
You know, Mikey. She's right. Michael
sighs, shaking his head. Michael:
It's no matter, Rolly. You'll get healed up, and we'll be the Devils
From Dublin again in no time. Rowland
stands up, turning his body to his brother. Showing the multiple surgery
scars to him. Rowland:
Four surgeries in under a year, Mikey. I don't think it's going to hold
up in a wrestling ring, especially not year 'round. Michael:
Rolly, you're going to get better. You always do. You're the healthiest
bloke I've ever met. Rowland
sighs, sitting back down. Rowland:
Not this time, Mikey. Not this time. As
Rowland grabs his fork again, Maureen walks up from behind Michael,
dropping a flier next to his plate. Maureen:
Cousin Russel sent this in the mail the other day. I didn't want to
mention it, but… we definitely need the money. And Benjamin definitely
needs to get out of there. Michael
glances down at it; the capitalized letters "SHOOT" grab his
attention. He already knows what it is - he's been hearing things on the
street about the reopening of the infamous SHOOT Project. Michael turns
to his sister and nods. Michael:
For Benny? Maureen
nods. Maureen:
And for you. And Rolly. And me. For the family… for Ireland. Michael
pulls the flier out, glancing over it again, quickly. Rowland stands up,
grabbing his plate. Rowland:
Yeah, Mikey. At least give it a try out. I know you think you can't
handle the wrestling world with out me, but just because I'm not there
for you to tag in, doesn't mean I wont be there to help you in other
ways. Maureen:
Plus, I hear they pay well. Talks about health insurance, too. Rowland's
head turns to the sound of it. Rowland:
And these surgeries aren't doing our pockets any good, Mikey. Michael
finally glances at the bottom of the flier. He reads the bottom of the
flier, the telephone number to call for a tryout. He smirks, looks up to
his siblings, and speaks. Michael:
'Michael Collins - The Devil From Dublin!' I could get used to it. Maureen,
still unsure of the decision, wipes her hands on a towel, while Rolly
pats Michael on the shoulder, a grin spread across his face. Michael:
We got a.. uh… a video camera around here? Rowland
nods, turning down the hall. He yells back as his voice trails off. Rowland:
Yeah, we’ve got one, we used it back in Winston-Salem for the… His
voice was inaudible as the bedroom door slowly shut, Michael and Maureen
rolled their eyes in unison, as they heard him attempt to be heard, with
no such luck. As Rowland walked out, Michael grabbed the camera and
stared at his siblings, as if trying to get them to leave the room.
Finally, Maureen gets the hint, and pushes her bigger, barely older
brother out of the room. Michael stands up from the table, walking over
to the TV stand, placing the camera over top of it. He looks around the
room, then rushes to the couch, fixing the cushions quickly, then back
to the camera. With the click of a button, the camera cuts to static,
and then we see bare-chested Michael through the lens of the camera. Devil
from Dublin: Now, I know you don’t know who I am, and I know that you
might not care – now. Hell, I know that you have people on your roster
far more talented than I am. But, who are we kidding, how far is talent
going to get you when you don’t have heart? He
smirked; his green eyes gleamed in the camera lens. Devil
from Dublin: My name is Michael Collins, and I am a professional
fighter. Fighter? Yeah, fighter. Me brother and I get into fights for
money. Some people call us gangsters. We like to call each other
professional fighters. We don’t box, and we definitely don’t keep it
clean, but we make a living off of it. Professional fighters… but we
used to be professional wrestlers. Sure, we weren’t that good, and
sure we don’t have a win under our belt, but we have experience. In
that one place… Outlaw… whatever, you know the place I’m sure. We
were in and out of there faster than a cold, especially after Rolly blew
the piss out of his shoulder against some feck with a ‘tooth’
problem, if ya know what I mean, lads. Michael
opens his mouth up wider, a tooth was missing from the left side of his
mouth, but was easily hidden by his lips when he wasn’t trying to show
it off. Devil
from Dublin: Me family and I are from Dublin, Ireland. Great place,
you’ve heard of it, I’m sure U2 and the like. But the Ireland I’m
sure you’ve heard of isn’t the same Emerald Isle us blokes know and
‘love’. You think of Leprechauns and Banshees and Steve Guttenberg
in ‘High Spirits’? We think of bullets, bombshells and little girls
getting their skulls bashed in with rocks. Not exactly rainbows and
clovers, ya? That’s why we three moved here, to the states, away from
the bloodshed and destruction running rampant over Eire. First in
Boston, then moved on. You American fecks take your Irish ‘heritage’
all to seriously. Down to Winston-Salem for ‘those guys’ for a bit,
then up to Cedar Rapids, with Cyrus O’Haire – you know the guy.
Crazy feck, rapes women. Real nice guy. We high tailed it out of there
when we realized the most fun to be had was drinking a bar out of their
Guinness and getting into fights with their bouncers when we demanded
more. That’s why we came here, to Las Vegas. He
wasn’t all too well defined, but you could tell he wasn’t exactly
flabby. Michael took pride in his strength, or… as much of it as he
had. He continued on as he crossed his arms over his chest. Devil
from Dublin: The city’s nice, don’t get me wrong, and there’s a
lot of dumb fecks walking around with cash falling out of their pockets
just BEGGING Rolly and I to lead them into a back alley and give them
the ol’ boot. Hell, I could make a living off of ‘em… but we’re
not that kinda people. Don’t get me wrong, now. We love a good fight,
but we’re honest people in the end of things. We like making an honest
buck. Especially when it’s the money that’s going to get our little
‘special’ brother from Ireland over here. Michael
rolls his head on his neck, wiping the sleep scum from his eye. Devil
from Dublin: When Mo turned 18, our Da’ sent we three to the states,
out of the war zone we’d grown up in. Obviously, this wasn’t a cheap
expense. He gave us some living money, and set up a place for us to
stay, and it was nice. But we’re still missing our third musketeer,
as… special… as he might be. You see, Benny isn’t ‘all there’
in the head. Cyrus O’Haire? Kid’s a little more off the rocker than
that guy. Took a rock to the dome when he was just a wee baby. Been
droolin’ on himself ever since. And our Da’, well he took a bullet
in the knee and hasn’t seen a lick of work since. He’s definitely
not makin’ any cash. Which is why Cyrus sent us this flier. Michael
reaches into his back pocket, pulling out the flier, flashing it to the
camera. Devil
from Dublin: Don’t worry, though. Cyrus isn’t going to be showing up
on SHOOT Project TV… ever. Guy’s cooped up in his house, talking to
dolls and fappin’ off to some kind of bad horse porn. No, in fact, I
doubt you’ll even hear me speak his name after this video gets
destroyed. It’ll just be me, Michael Collins – if you’ll have me.
Not my brother and I, he can’t put his shirt on, let alone wrestle
more than thirty seconds without his shoulder goin’ bonkers. And my
sister, heh. She’s not exactly Diva material. Michael
chuckles a bit. Devil
from Dublin: The fact of the matter is this: Benny needs to get out of
there. And it will cost more than just a plane ticket to get him here,
kid needs a 24/7 drool rag for Fuck’s sake. He needs food, and
probably his own shitter. We’ll need a bigger place to stay, expenses
expenses. You know how the bills rack up. And with Mo’s looks, she’s
not gonna be ‘bringin home the benjamins’ – heh – any time soon. Michael
grins. Devil
from Dublin: I’ll probably lose more matches than win, but I guaranty
you’ll have a great fight every time I’m on the show. I’ll give
you your money’s worth, and I’ll make sure you never go a show
without blood. They don’t call me the ‘Devil from Dublin’ for
nothin’, eh? So what I’m saying is I need this gig. I need a full
time gig. What better time than now. What better place than SHOOT
Project. You pay well, I fight like a Mick. What better combination than
that? Michael
steps forward, reaching for the camera. The camera is turned off, and
the video feed cuts. Maureen
and Rowland walk out from the hallway; she has her hands on her hips,
standing there with an irritated look on her face, while Rowland has a
slight grin on his face. Michael:
WHAT! What did I do wrong this time! Maureen:
Not ‘Diva Material’, huh? Who’s been makin’ the money since we
moved here, Mikey? Rowland
laughed, walking towards his twin, blood drying on his back. Rowland:
Give the bloke some credit, Mo. That was a good video. Michael
and Rowland grin, and pound their fists together. As Maureen turns
around, Rowland grabs Michael on the shoulder. Rowland:
You think Benny’s gonna be pissed when he sees how much shite you’re
talkin’ bout him? Michael:
Probably. Kid’s 14, though. He’s got some years before we let him in
the clan, eh? Rowland
nods, scratching his chin. Michael:
Go have Mo clean up the gash. I want to go hand deliver this
application. Rowland raises a brow to his brother, before turning around and walking down the hall. Michael looks at the camera, then to his brother. For the first time in his career, Rowland wont be there to tag in. He nods, understand that he’ll have to deal with it. |
