Post by Paul Morgan on Sept 29, 2020 14:38:41 GMT -5
A lot can happen in a man’s life, and I’m no different than the next guy. I’m not that old either, and I already got to see way more than I’d like to admit. Thankfully, I’ve dodged prison time, but, when it came to the bullets the doctors took out of me all for the sake of a prized motorcycle, sometimes there is no limit to the surprises in life, no matter the cost.
The scene opened up in an interrogation room, something he had experienced more than he liked to admit, given his age, as Paul Morgan stared into the blank face of a camera lens, as it recorded him through a two-way mirror.
But it doesn’t matter now. I’ve been working, fighting, clawing my way through physiotherapy, and it led to this moment, to this opportunity to grow and become greater than a simple biker could. Sure, I could get all kinds of pay-offs for snitching brothers out, but they are family. My father was one of them; my mother had to deal with knowing he died doing something he had very little control over. I saw my father get shot dead by a rival...
Paul gripped at nothing but air, his pectoral and biceps muscles rising and falling with each labored breath and clenched fist. The pain of his father’s passing, and bearing witness to it, still clung to him.
There are a lot of things in this world I’m thankful for, and one of those is the love my father gave me, and he died trying to protect me. He died, looking down the barrel of a sawed-off shotgun without fear, knowing that he stood between that deershot and his family. Hell, he took that and he still killed the guy that shot him with the chain they whipped him with, with one sharp crack of that heavy iron across his damn skull.
A deep, heavy sigh came from Morgan, as the tension leaves his body, in an almost symbolic way.
And that’s when the 9mm pistols came out, and that’s when he yelled at me to run, and that’s when the rest of the posse came by to try saving him. The only shots fired that night hit my father, and he didn’t get up. Even with paramedics and the rest of the posse, my adoptive family, to help, he opened his eyes, smiled at me and... I watched his eyes go dark. I screamed at the sky at the top of my lungs, and I ran after those bastards. Even with the bullet fragment that convicted one of them lodged in my foot, I ran, following those tire tracks until I was stopped by my mother. I was a teenager, and I fought her, screaming at her to let me get them, the shotgun in my hand, but she wept, harder and harder, and I hit her too...
Paul smashes the metal table with a hammer fist, putting a crease into the hollowed steel. His tears were bitter and his voice shook and cracked.
I hit my own mother, damn it, and it stopped me, and I dropped the piece. I fell to my knees, wailing and apologizing, and she just held me; she knew I didn’t mean it. Her eye was swollen for two whole days after that, and she held me for hours that night, as my soul crumbled. My birthday was two days later, and I had to celebrate it without the constant bearhugs my father would give me. Against all the rules, he prioritized me.
Running his fingers through his hair, he re-adjusts his position, wiping his cheeks free of the evidence to his emotional response.
And they welcomed me. I got his bike, as he had it in his will. Mind you, I had a bike of my own, but I let it go to ride my father’s hog, and it felt like every single bearhug wrapped up into one. I put my leathers on and rode with the group as the funeral procession entered the cemetery and left to head to the bar. In some passing of the torch ceremony, I can’t remember exactly because of how blind drunk I got, they gave me his patches. They allowed me, a complete fresh-faced kid, to be fully patched. From there, it was smooth for a few years.
The slightest of indents could be seen in his shirt as his muscles clenched in his chest, a couple more hidden towards his abdomen.
That’s when a couple guys, one of the guys I befriended closely included, decided to take it upon themselves to crash a party I was having with a couple of school buddies and demanded what was rightfully mine: an heirloom that my father bestowed to me. The minute I said no, THEY rolled up; he demanded it again, even going so far as to touch the handlebars. One of my friends must have called 911, because, after breaking the guy’s face with one punch, I blacked out.
Once again, the emotions came flooding in, his face shrouded by hair as his head dipped.
I woke up in a hospital bed, my mother hysterical but happy to see my eyes open after waking up from a 10-hour surgery. Out of twenty shots fired, 5 hit me and one got one of my friends; if it hadn’t been for police and EMS reaching me so quickly, I would have bled out. I bear the scars of a life that wasn’t supposed to be mine. My father’s bike, his pride and joy, was gone. When I got out of the hospital for my 25th birthday, that beautiful Harley that my Dad built from the frame up was scrapped because of those bullets; one of them went through the bike and hit me, so, in a way, my father is more a part of me than he ever could have been.
Paul Morgan threw his head back, using his hand to slick back the hair and further uncover his face.
From that moment, from the very moment I was allowed to leave the gang, from the second I was cleared by my physiotherapist, I have dedicated every waking minute to that wrestling ring, and I made damn sure that there was no wasted movement, learning anything of value and everything about who I am in the ring. And that’s when it hit me.
Paul flipped the table, picking up and throwing the chair through the two-way mirror with one hand; glass flew back as the camera got knocked over, so he looked to the security camera in the corner.
I had to become something fierce and menacing. I had to step up and recapture that guttural, primordial toughness and endurance that my father taught me. I had to learn how to inflict pain, to deliver agony, to become a measuring stick for the tolerance of one’s limits! My baptism by fire came by defeating Dokueki.
Paul smiles, standing and staring at the small camera, the grainy image just barely picking up his voice.
I am The Pain Scale, I am the one who figures out what really hurts, and I will bring that hurt to all shapes and sizes of competitors placed in front of me, regardless of my respect for them. Whether it’s Ursula Von Rossbach, AJ Jenkynx, world champ FM Young: if I can’t win, I will learn, and after I learn, I will make you hurt.
The camera bounces slightly, the sound of impact captured from underneath the surveillance technology, as the image cuts to black.
The scene opened up in an interrogation room, something he had experienced more than he liked to admit, given his age, as Paul Morgan stared into the blank face of a camera lens, as it recorded him through a two-way mirror.
But it doesn’t matter now. I’ve been working, fighting, clawing my way through physiotherapy, and it led to this moment, to this opportunity to grow and become greater than a simple biker could. Sure, I could get all kinds of pay-offs for snitching brothers out, but they are family. My father was one of them; my mother had to deal with knowing he died doing something he had very little control over. I saw my father get shot dead by a rival...
Paul gripped at nothing but air, his pectoral and biceps muscles rising and falling with each labored breath and clenched fist. The pain of his father’s passing, and bearing witness to it, still clung to him.
There are a lot of things in this world I’m thankful for, and one of those is the love my father gave me, and he died trying to protect me. He died, looking down the barrel of a sawed-off shotgun without fear, knowing that he stood between that deershot and his family. Hell, he took that and he still killed the guy that shot him with the chain they whipped him with, with one sharp crack of that heavy iron across his damn skull.
A deep, heavy sigh came from Morgan, as the tension leaves his body, in an almost symbolic way.
And that’s when the 9mm pistols came out, and that’s when he yelled at me to run, and that’s when the rest of the posse came by to try saving him. The only shots fired that night hit my father, and he didn’t get up. Even with paramedics and the rest of the posse, my adoptive family, to help, he opened his eyes, smiled at me and... I watched his eyes go dark. I screamed at the sky at the top of my lungs, and I ran after those bastards. Even with the bullet fragment that convicted one of them lodged in my foot, I ran, following those tire tracks until I was stopped by my mother. I was a teenager, and I fought her, screaming at her to let me get them, the shotgun in my hand, but she wept, harder and harder, and I hit her too...
Paul smashes the metal table with a hammer fist, putting a crease into the hollowed steel. His tears were bitter and his voice shook and cracked.
I hit my own mother, damn it, and it stopped me, and I dropped the piece. I fell to my knees, wailing and apologizing, and she just held me; she knew I didn’t mean it. Her eye was swollen for two whole days after that, and she held me for hours that night, as my soul crumbled. My birthday was two days later, and I had to celebrate it without the constant bearhugs my father would give me. Against all the rules, he prioritized me.
Running his fingers through his hair, he re-adjusts his position, wiping his cheeks free of the evidence to his emotional response.
And they welcomed me. I got his bike, as he had it in his will. Mind you, I had a bike of my own, but I let it go to ride my father’s hog, and it felt like every single bearhug wrapped up into one. I put my leathers on and rode with the group as the funeral procession entered the cemetery and left to head to the bar. In some passing of the torch ceremony, I can’t remember exactly because of how blind drunk I got, they gave me his patches. They allowed me, a complete fresh-faced kid, to be fully patched. From there, it was smooth for a few years.
The slightest of indents could be seen in his shirt as his muscles clenched in his chest, a couple more hidden towards his abdomen.
That’s when a couple guys, one of the guys I befriended closely included, decided to take it upon themselves to crash a party I was having with a couple of school buddies and demanded what was rightfully mine: an heirloom that my father bestowed to me. The minute I said no, THEY rolled up; he demanded it again, even going so far as to touch the handlebars. One of my friends must have called 911, because, after breaking the guy’s face with one punch, I blacked out.
Once again, the emotions came flooding in, his face shrouded by hair as his head dipped.
I woke up in a hospital bed, my mother hysterical but happy to see my eyes open after waking up from a 10-hour surgery. Out of twenty shots fired, 5 hit me and one got one of my friends; if it hadn’t been for police and EMS reaching me so quickly, I would have bled out. I bear the scars of a life that wasn’t supposed to be mine. My father’s bike, his pride and joy, was gone. When I got out of the hospital for my 25th birthday, that beautiful Harley that my Dad built from the frame up was scrapped because of those bullets; one of them went through the bike and hit me, so, in a way, my father is more a part of me than he ever could have been.
Paul Morgan threw his head back, using his hand to slick back the hair and further uncover his face.
From that moment, from the very moment I was allowed to leave the gang, from the second I was cleared by my physiotherapist, I have dedicated every waking minute to that wrestling ring, and I made damn sure that there was no wasted movement, learning anything of value and everything about who I am in the ring. And that’s when it hit me.
Paul flipped the table, picking up and throwing the chair through the two-way mirror with one hand; glass flew back as the camera got knocked over, so he looked to the security camera in the corner.
I had to become something fierce and menacing. I had to step up and recapture that guttural, primordial toughness and endurance that my father taught me. I had to learn how to inflict pain, to deliver agony, to become a measuring stick for the tolerance of one’s limits! My baptism by fire came by defeating Dokueki.
Paul smiles, standing and staring at the small camera, the grainy image just barely picking up his voice.
I am The Pain Scale, I am the one who figures out what really hurts, and I will bring that hurt to all shapes and sizes of competitors placed in front of me, regardless of my respect for them. Whether it’s Ursula Von Rossbach, AJ Jenkynx, world champ FM Young: if I can’t win, I will learn, and after I learn, I will make you hurt.
The camera bounces slightly, the sound of impact captured from underneath the surveillance technology, as the image cuts to black.