Tim Patrick
Posts : 375
Join date : 2011-03-01
Age : 38
Wrestler Stats
IWF Record: 0-0-0
Alignment:
 |  Subject: My time is coming  Fri Apr 15, 2011 1:50 am | |
| Tuesday, April 12 2011
1:45 AM
Tim Patrick's Apartment
Ritner Street
South Philadelphia, PA
It's unseasonably hot in Philadelphia, has been all day. But night has fallen on the city of Brotherly Love, and the clear skies have turned cloudy and rainy. There isn't anybody on the streets, even the homeless people on Ritner Street have found a dry place to sleep tonight. It's oddly silent outside for this neighborhood. All is not quite in the mind of Tim Patrick tonight. He has a lot of weight on his shoulders, and his mind is racing. He's been pacing back the forth from room to room, talking to himself all night. He knows that the fight he has at Bloody Sunday will be one of the toughest, and most important of his life. Tim has settled down a bit, and has been sitting at his bedroom window in deep thought, almost meditating for the past 15 or so minutes.
Suddenly, his cell phone rings, and Patrick picks up on the first ring, as if he's been expecting a call.
Tim Patrick: Hello?
Voice: I hope you've been getting ready.
The voice is familiar to fans of No Limit Wrestling Federation. This man motivated Patrick before his XXX Championship match against Corey Casey months ago. His name remains unknown, but he has a very thick Irish accent and has clearly known Tim Patrick for many years. Perhaps he was a fellow soldier in the IRA who fought along side of him.
Tim Patrick: I know I have to win. I will do whatever it takes.
Voice: You were soft on Duke Churchill. You could have ended his career a few weeks ago. You didn't.
Tim Patrick: I wasn't soft. I gave him the beating he needed, and the wake up call these "Gentlemen needed". I'm not in the business of ending careers or lives anymore. I'll fight to win a fight, to prove a point, to make myself known, but not to kill. I have put down the gun.
Voice: That may be your downfall, Tim. You've never been one to go half way on a fight.
Tim Patrick: Half way? Hardly. I'm becoming pretty big here. This isn't like NLWF was, we don't murder people here.
Voice: I've been getting calls ever since the Pay Per View card was announced to the public. People are counting on you. I hope your new attitude doesn't keep you from winning.
Tim Patrick: I'll win. I need to.
Voice: Is there a bigger plan to stop these Brits in the works?
Tim Patrick: You've known me for ten years...there is always a bigger plan.
Voice: If you need some extra motivation, remember it's been 30 since the 1981 Hunger Strikers died for Ireland, for justice, for what's right. You're too valuable to die like they did. They did a great service to the cause by giving their life. You must do a great service to justice by beating Darlington. Remember, you're a working man, who has had to fight for everything he has ever had. Darlington has had everything handed to him. Beat the rich fuck.
Tim Patrick: Understood.
Tim Patrick turns his phone off and opens his bedroom window, and sticks his head out. The light rain falls as Patrick looks up to the sky. Maybe he's remembering the 1981 Hunger Strikers, maybe he's remembering his former manager and mother-figure Sister Holy Crap, maybe he's thinking about all the men who gave their lives fighting against the rich and powerful throughout history.
After a minute or so, Patrick looks as if he's gotten an idea. He opens the door of his apartment and walks down the hallway. He pushes open the door that reads "Staircase" and walks up to the door that goes to the roof, and walks through it. Light rains falls over the city and the city lights reflect through the clouds. It's really beautiful. A rusty lawn chair lays on the floor of the roof at the far corner, and Patrick walks up to it, sets it up, and sits down looking at the camera.
Tim Patrick: William Darlington, how easy was it for me to destroy Duke Churchill? I was rusty from taking two months off from fighting, I barely even trained. I sat around and drank. I ate Cheesesteaks, and slept. I watched YouTube and farted. A well trained, focused, and talented Duke Churchill took me on and I wiped the floor with him. I embarrassed him, and I embarrassed your little stable of spoiled, rich, British bitches. Before Brandon came along, William, you seemed to be the leader of your little group of "Gentlemen". Where were you when I hurt your friend? Where was the leadership? Where was the unity? Were you afraid of what I'd do to you if you got involved?
Let me give you, and the IWF fans a history lesson. Where the term "Bloody Sunday" comes from. You see, in 1920, during the Irish war of independence, the IRA took out 14 British agents before it was even Noon. Michael Collins, Ireland once great leader, wanted to send a message. He did so by hurting no British civilians that day, only going after the military. The British leadership and rich class were scared shitless of Michael Collins, and were cowards. Their response to a clear military operation....well, was shocking. They sent tanks into a soccer match at Croke Park in Dublin, and opened fire on civilians, injuring 70, killing 14. Then they killed 3 IRA prisoners in jail. What was "Gentlemen" like about that day? Opening fire on people at a sporting event. Who were the "terrorists" that day?
And what about what happened at the second "Bloody Sunday" in 1972? When the British military opened fire on unarmed protest marchers at a Northern Ireland Civil Rights rally? British paratroopers killed 14 people marching in the street, including six 17 year olds, minors, children.
Talk about a twist of fate, William. In past "Bloody Sunday's" it was the British who at the upper hand. This weekend at IWF's 2nd Pay Per View, things will be different. And no, nobody is going to slaughtered. No guns or bombs or tanks will sound. I don't even intend to cut you. I will however, beat your ass all over the Rogers Centre. Imagine what I can do at a full sized stadium? Maybe I'll throw you off the upper deck. Maybe I'll drag you into one of the many restaurants or hotel rooms built into the stadium, and pin you there. Or maybe, as soon as the bell rings, I'll launch my Detonator kick so fast that I'll have the quickest victory in wrestling Pay Per View history.
I'm going to show you hard times, William. You have been spoon-feed your entire life. You never had to work for anything. Hard times is when your father is fired from his job of 40 years because they found a way to let some 22 year old kid fresh out of college do his job for half the price. Hard times is when your mother is in severe pain every time she moves, due to the nerves in her feet being damaged. Hard times is when your siblings refuse to have anything to do with you. Hard times is when friends you have loved more than life itself have moved on without you. Hard times is living alone in a rusty, damp, smelly apartment building in a Philadelphia ghetto, which a crackhead sleeping in the hallway every night. Hard times, William, is what you're going to experience at the Pay Per View this weekend. You might think that your shit doesn't stink, and that you're better than me, but there is something I want you to keep in mind. There is not a single thing a rich Brit can take away from a working class man, especially one with Irish blood.
You should have known, William, that you'll never beat the Irish!
~~Scene Ends, cameras fade to black~~
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