Break Stuff

Have you ever encountered someone who, from the very first moment your eyes locked on them, ignited a fierce, unyielding hatred within you?

Their very presence has a way of stirring a visceral, immediate animosity that defies explanation - as if every fibre of your being instinctively recognizes them as an adversary?

If the answer to this question is no, then I can only assume that you’ve not yet met Jackson Cooley.

Friday 31st January, 2025

Perth Arena

Perth, Australia

It's just one of those days when you don't wanna wake up

Everything is fucked, everybody sucks

You don't really know why, but you wanna justify

Rippin' someone's head off

No human contact, and if you interact

Your life is on contract

Your best bet is to stay away, motherfucker!

It's just one of those days

“I fucking hate that piece of shit!”

The words were spat out like venom as he glared at his reflection in the mirror. Seán O’Neill had spent the better part of ten minutes hunched over the sink, desperately trying to flush what had initially appeared to be blue ink from his eyes. The harsh, fluorescent lights overhead cast unforgiving shadows on his strained features, highlighting the fury and frustration that contorted his expression.

Upon closer inspection, he had discovered that the substance was, fortunately, food colouring rather than ink - yet the burning sensation was no less excruciating for that. The vivid blue tint still clung stubbornly to the whites of his eyes, merging with the red of his irritated blood vessels to give him a sinister otherworldly appearance. Each blink reinforced the irritation, amplifying the anger that simmered just beneath the surface.

His breath came in ragged, uneven gasps as he straightened up, gripping the edges of the sink with white-knuckled intensity. The cool ceramic pressed against his palms, grounding him in the harsh reality of the moment. The reflection staring back at him was a storm of rage and embarrassment; his bloodshot eyes smouldered with self-reproach.

Twice, in as many weeks, this newcomer had left him sprawled on the ground, humiliated and all without having landed a single retaliatory blow. It had been reckless for him to have turned his back on the stranger at their first encounter - but tonight? Tonight had been different. He had hunted the man down, seeking out the confrontation, seeking retribution. Yet, for all of that, the outcome had remained the same.

The sting of this ‘defeat’ was all the more acute because he had known better - he had prepared, been vigilant, and he took his eye off the ball for one moment. That had been all it had taken to get the better of him again.

“Idiot!”

As he glared at the mirror, his eyes burning with unspoken frustration, he half expected his reflection to bow its head in shame or at least offer a look of apologetic acknowledgment. Instead, the image staring back at him slowly shook its head from side to side, a silent rebuke that cut deep.

“Are you ever going to learn from your mistakes?”

The intensity of his anger began to wane, replaced by a growing sense of resignation. A deep sigh escaped his lungs, heavy with the weight of countless disappointments. His thoughts began to drift, seeking the memory of a lesson not learned. It didn’t take long for him to find what he was looking for, the faint hum of the light overhead and the steadying rhythm of his breathing faded as he let the memory flow over him.

*****

Wednesday 12th March, 1997

Newsham Workmens Social Club

Blyth, Northumberland, England

“Seán, you’re working McKnight in the semi-main.”

Seán O’Neill had looked up in anticipation when his name had been called out. Now, he couldn’t hide his frown as he gave his attention back to lacing up his boots. Each pull of the laces seemed to echo his irritation.

There wasn’t a single person he had met in his first few months in the wrestling business that he disliked more than Mark McKnight. And to make matters worse, this was McKnight's territory. There was no way the fans would cheer an Irishman over someone from just ten miles down the road.

With his boots tied tightly, he rose to begin his stretching routine. As they did so naturally now, his eyes sought out Erin, as he looked over at her he couldn’t help but grin to find her already looking in his direction. She made a show of arching an eyebrow and smirked for a split second – that girl never missed a thing. She knew exactly how annoyed he’d be about working against McKnight, and no doubt she planned to wind him up about it for the next hour. He decided the stretching could wait, he’d much rather spend his time being tormented by her anyway.

Turning to grab his jacket, Seán found himself face-to-face with the sneering visage of the Geordie native, Newcastle’s ‘finest’... Mark McKnight. His presence was like an unwelcome shadow. He branded himself ‘The Talk of the Toon’ – and he believed every word of it, Seán did not. McKnight’s smirk was a challenge, a blatant provocation that made the young Irishman’s blood simmer.

“Ya know O’Neill, Paddies are usually pretty popular in the ‘toon. Shame for ya, double shame really! Not only are ya gettin’ yer arse kick t’night, but they’re guna fuckin’ love it too!”

Seán made no response, instead he simply squared his shoulders, meeting McKnight’s gaze with a look of steely determination. He allowed his imagination to play out a scene where his superpowered heat-vision bore a hole in McKnight’s skull.

“Nothin’ ta say for yerself ya fuckin’ Mick bastard?”

McKnight leaned in, his face inches from O'Neill’s, the proximity intensifying the already palpable tension. With a deliberate and theatrical flourish, he jabbed his forefinger hard into O'Neill’s chest, emphasizing each syllable.

“Listen ta me ya little shit, Ah’ve seen ya, rollin’ about, all yer fuckin’ chain wresslin, n yer fuckin’ Roman Greco bullshit! If ye think for one second ah’ma let you embarrass me oot’ there then yer a fuckin’ dream’ah!”

The whispered words were laced with venom, their meaning clear even through the hushed delivery. McKnight’s eyes bore into O'Neill's, a twisted smirk playing on his lips, he wanted a reaction. The force behind the jabbing finger ramped up each time; this too had been designed with the same purpose – to get Seán to lose his temper, to strike the first blow.

“So here’s a fuckin’ preview for ya – the second that bell rings, ah’m guna throw ya from one end of this place to’t other. Ah’m guna beat the living shit out of ye. Ye even fuckin’ try to lock up with me cunt, be the last fuckin’ thing ye do. That clear Paddy?”

“Crystal.” Came Seán’s response, somehow remaining remarkably calm.

An onlooker might have missed it, but as Seán was staring directly into McKnight’s eyes, he saw there the flicker of disappointment – disappointment that he’d not taken the bait. Instead McKnight quickly masked it with another smirk.

He held Seán’s gaze for a moment longer, the tension between them was palpable. Then, without another word, McKnight turned on his heel and marched out of the locker room, his footsteps echoing as he made his exit.

As McKnight’s imposing figure disappeared from view, the silence that followed was almost deafening. However, the air quickly seemed to lighten, freed from the oppressive atmosphere of the confrontation. Seán’s grip on the tension in his body eased and before he knew it, Erin was at his side.

“You alright honey?”

She was almost taken aback by the smile that crept across her boyfriend’s face. Seán’s voice was calm and confident as he replied.

“Yup, I’m fine babe. I’m going to break that big fucker in two tonight.”

He meant every word.

*****

Approximately ninety minutes later...

The shouting stopped abruptly as the door to the locker room swung open, revealing Erin as she attempted to enter. She halted immediately when Jay raised his hand and shook his head in a silent command, no words were exchanged but she understood the gesture.

Her eyes flickered towards Seán, her expression a blend of concern and apprehension. Reluctantly, she backed out of the room, the door closing softly behind her, leaving a palpable tension in the air.

No sooner had she left than the shouting resumed with renewed fervour, the angry words reverberating off the walls. Jay’s face remained calm despite the charged atmosphere within the locker room.

“YOU TOLD ME THESE KIDS WERE READY JAY! THAT THEY COULD BE TRUSTED! HOW CAN I PROMOTE SHOWS IN THIS TOWN IF LITTLE ASSHOLES LIKE THIS DESTROY THE FUCKING BUILDINGS?”

Tommy McKee had been promoting wrestling shows in and around Newcastle for twenty years, he was known up and down England as one of the fairest and most respected promoters in the industry. At this moment, he looked as though every blood vessel on his face was about to explode from sheer fury. His eyes blazed, and his gestures were wild and erratic. Although his finger had been pointed at Seán throughout his rant, it was the young wrestler’s trainer; the internationally renowned superstar, Jay Phoenix who was feeling his wrath.

The young Irishman couldn’t bring himself to look up, he stared at the floor between his feet. Few things in this world meant more to him than Jay’s approval, and he knew his actions tonight had damaged that bond. He felt an overwhelming sense of shame and regret. When Jay finally spoke, the calmness in his voice was both surprising and almost a little unsettling. Yet, beneath his calm exterior, there was an undeniable tone of disappointment.

“I’m sorry Tommy, we’ve all made stupid mistakes in our youth. It was reckless and unnecessary - and don’t worry, I’ll make sure the lesson is learnt. Come on now, let’s speak with the club’s manager, I’m going to take care of everything, none of this will impact your promoting – you have my word.”

Tommy’s response was a mixture of grumbling and swearing, but his anger was slowly subsiding as Jay led him out of the room. The door closed behind them, leaving Seán alone with his thoughts. Whether the others had been ordered to stay away or had enough sense to do so on their own, no one else attempted to enter the locker room during the ten minutes that Jay was away.

When Jay re-entered the room, he saw that Seán hadn’t moved an inch. He remained seated on his chair, still staring at the floor, wishing for the earth to swallow him up and end his humiliation. The silence between them stretched on, a suffocating weight that Seán couldn’t measure - whether it lasted for seconds or hours, he couldn’t tell.

Eventually, Jay let out a loud breath, breaking the oppressive silence. His voice, still calm, carried the unmistakable tone of a father reluctantly scolding his son.

“Seán...”

The disappointment was there in his voice as he spoke the name, but his tone wasn’t unkindly.

“We need to talk about what happened tonight.”

At last O’Neill looked up; there was no pride on his face now, just shame.

“I wanted to teach him a lesson.”

“A lesson? You think you’re ready to start teaching lessons do you Seán?”

There was a flash of anger in the retort, it bit deep but it passed as quickly as it had flared up.

“No, I just... he’s a fucking bully Jay! He already hurt or injured half the class. And he’s a fucking arrogant prick.”

“I know what he is Seán, but Mister McKnight is not my concern. My concern is what you are, what you do. You’ve told me countless times how much you love and respect this business. Do you think what you did out there tonight demonstrated love for the business? Do you think it showed respect for Tommy – who’s worked his whole life bringing wrestling to this area? Do you think it showed respect for me? They’ll ask ‘who trained this reckless kid? Who taught him it was ok to act like that?”

Jay let the silence hang in the air, allowing Seán to absorb the gravity of the situation. He could see his pupil was grappling with his emotions, torn between his determination to try and justify his actions whilst acknowledging the weight of his mentor's words.

“Seán, tonight you let your anger dictate your actions. I understand the desire to stand up against bullies, trust me I do! But that isn’t how we do things in this business. We are professionals. That doesn’t just mean that we get paid to do this, it means we have a duty to respect our opponents, the promoters, and the fans. Intentionally injuring someone, not only reflects poorly on you but it is as sure-fire a way to end your career before it gets started as any other I know of. When you step into that ring, you're representing not only yourself but everyone who has ever supported and trained you. Do you understand that?"

Seán looked away; he had no answer to offer. Jay continued his voice steady and composed.

“Tommy has dedicated his entire life to this business. He's brought wrestling to this community, created opportunities for countless wrestlers, including you. What you did tonight not only showed disrespect to Mister McKnight but also to the legacy that Tommy has built. You undermined the very foundation of what we stand for."

Seán's eyes flickered with a mixture of regret and realization. Jay softened his tone, it was imperative the boy understood.

“Tonight, you crossed a line. You need to channel your anger and passion in the right way. Wrestling is about skill, strategy, and respect, not causing harm. You know this! You are already one hundred times the wrestler Mark McKnight is – you could’ve... no you should’ve just beaten him, that’s all it really takes when it comes to bullies Seán. In doing what you chose to do, you let him win.”

A tear, unbidden, rolled down Seán’s cheek. It broke his heart to be a disappointment to this man he idolised. Jay gave a little reassuring smile; he paused, giving Seán a moment to reflect.

“This is a turning point for you. You can either let this mistake define you or use it as a lesson to grow and become a better wrestler and a better person. I believe in you, Seán, but you need to believe in yourself and in the values that this business stands for."

Seán finally met Jay's gaze, the determination returning to his eyes.

“I’m sorry Jay. I'll do better, I promise."

“I know you will matey.”

*****

Friday 31st January, 2025

Perth Arena

Perth, Australia

O’Neill pulled himself out of the memory, still standing hunched over the bathroom sink. He stared into the mirror, the reflection showing the same tears that fell all those years before. For a moment, the room seemed to spin with echoes of the past, and he couldn't help but feel the weight of his mistakes pressing down on him.

He looked up to the heavens as he spoke, his voice a mix of frustration and resignation.

“All these years, all this training, and I still keep making the same mistakes Old Man. Always the basics with me isn’t it?”

He stifled a bitter laugh before wiping the tears away. At least, if his trip down memory lane had done nothing else, it had finally cleared the last of the food colouring from his eyes.

A few moments later, he’d made himself as presentable as possible in a t-shirt plastered with food colouring. Exiting the bathroom, he almost walked head-first into Simon Tillier, who had eyes only for what he was reading from a tablet. Seán instinctively moved to steady the coffee in Simon’s left hand, meeting the cheery smile of the young interviewer. He had no desire to find himself coated in another unwelcome liquid today.

“Hey Seán. Oh! Happy birthday!!”

“Hey Simon, you alright bud? Thanks, it’s been... an interesting one that’s for sure”

At this remark Tillier seemed to notice the blue hue covering most of the Irishman’s garb – Showing wisdom beyond his age, he avoided the topic.

“I’m good, thank you! I’m just checking out the card for Budokan!”

No-one has ever looked happier than Simon Tillier did at the mere thought of working in Budokan Hall. His face beamed with pure joy as he shared the news.

“First TV match of the year for ya!”

That got O’Neill’s attention.

“Oh? Who am I facing? Cooley?”

“Uhh, no it’s ummm, Quinn Fleetwood.”

Simon beamed up at Seán, who took a few moments to search the roller-dex tucked away inside his head. His thoughts raced through the names of past opponents, or those he’d already scouted for future. Quinn Fleetwood? Nope, he came up short.

“Who?”

“New guy.”

Seán could feel it as his eyes rolled, of their own accord. Simon’s smile didn’t change at all (what a nice young man).

“Naturally! I don’t recognise the name, we got anything on him? Don’t let me down Simon, I know you’re bound to have some tapes of this guy kicking about somewhere?”

Our beloved Junior Interviewer shrugged with an apologetic look on his face.

“Sorry Seán, I know as much about him as you seem to.”

Well, it wasn’t Cooley, but it would have to do in the meantime. Whoever Quinn Fleetwood is, he picked a rather unfortunate time to join Seán O’Neill’s world. He had a point to prove, and first in line was the new guy.

O’Neill thanked young master Tillier and departed, his mind already racing with plans and strategies for tackling the mysterious newcomer.

Jackson Cooley could wait... just not for long.