Post by Sean Parker on Aug 8, 2023 21:02:52 GMT
In the dimly lit medical bay of Zion Wrestling Stadium, the sterile scent of antiseptic hangs in the air as Sean Parker sits on a crisp white bed, his once proud face now a canvas of blood and contusions. A medical staff member dressed in a stark blue uniform, moves around him with precision, their gloved hands gentle yet efficient as they clean his wounds. Harsh fluorescent lights cast a clinical glow, accentuating every cut and bruise on Sean's battered visage.
Amid the controlled chaos, the concerned medical staffer leans in, her voice a soothing lilt but laced with an underlying urgency. She addresses him with a mix of sympathy and firmness.
(Medical Staff): Sean, the cut on your forehead, it's deeper than we can manage here. We need to send you to Orlando Health Orlando Regional Medical Center for stitches.
Her words hang in the air, punctuated by the distant sounds of muffled conversations and the occasional clatter of medical instruments, as well as the disgruntled frustrations emanating from Sean.
The scene fades to black, and then gradually fades back in several hours later.
Now, Sean lies at a 45-degree on a hospital bed at the aforementioned medical center, his head gently propped up by a sterile pillow. The rhythmic beeping of machines forms a dissonant symphony with the low hum of the air conditioning. A skilled doctor, clad in a pristine white coat, stands focused over Sean's forehead, meticulously stitching the deep gash together. The fine, almost delicate motions of the doctor's hands stand in stark contrast to the brutality that led to this moment during the vicious brawl between Sean and Jack Morrison earlier in the evening.
As Sean's skin is carefully brought back together, the scene shifts once more. A camera crew, armed with their equipment, quietly positions themselves around the hospital room, their presence a juxtaposition to the sterile environment. The camera's light casts a soft glow, illuminating Sean's face as he sits up, a weary yet determined expression in his eyes.
With a deep breath, Sean addresses the camera, his voice laden with raw emotion.
(Sean): Jack Morrison…
Sean’s tone carries a mixture of frustration and resolve.
(Sean): You seem to have a penchant for making your presence felt through pain with these so-called lessons. You want to send messages? Teach me a lesson? Well, congratulations, you've succeeded!
His words echo against the hospital walls, punctuated by the distant sounds of footsteps and the soft beeping of medical equipment. A fire ignites in Sean's emerald green eyes as he continues.
(Sean): I came to Zion with aspirations of hard work and championship glory. But you, Morrison, you've dragged me into this twisted game of yours and why? Because you took your eye off the fucking ball AGAIN?
His voice tightens, the weight of his determination palpable.
(Sean): You know what? Those aspirations I had one day of facing the likes of Ricky Rodriguez and Kara Carbajal, main-eventing Mayhem and competing for championships? Those plans are officially on hold. You wanted my attention? Consider it grabbed.
With a final, intense gaze, Sean stares into the camera.
(Sean): Jack Morrison, at Mayhem 81, you better brace yourself, because the time for playing nice is over. From now on, it's a whole new ballgame.
The camera captures the resolute blaze set aflame in Sean's eyes, freezing the moment in time as the scene fades to black.
Amid the controlled chaos, the concerned medical staffer leans in, her voice a soothing lilt but laced with an underlying urgency. She addresses him with a mix of sympathy and firmness.
(Medical Staff): Sean, the cut on your forehead, it's deeper than we can manage here. We need to send you to Orlando Health Orlando Regional Medical Center for stitches.
Her words hang in the air, punctuated by the distant sounds of muffled conversations and the occasional clatter of medical instruments, as well as the disgruntled frustrations emanating from Sean.
The scene fades to black, and then gradually fades back in several hours later.
Now, Sean lies at a 45-degree on a hospital bed at the aforementioned medical center, his head gently propped up by a sterile pillow. The rhythmic beeping of machines forms a dissonant symphony with the low hum of the air conditioning. A skilled doctor, clad in a pristine white coat, stands focused over Sean's forehead, meticulously stitching the deep gash together. The fine, almost delicate motions of the doctor's hands stand in stark contrast to the brutality that led to this moment during the vicious brawl between Sean and Jack Morrison earlier in the evening.
As Sean's skin is carefully brought back together, the scene shifts once more. A camera crew, armed with their equipment, quietly positions themselves around the hospital room, their presence a juxtaposition to the sterile environment. The camera's light casts a soft glow, illuminating Sean's face as he sits up, a weary yet determined expression in his eyes.
With a deep breath, Sean addresses the camera, his voice laden with raw emotion.
(Sean): Jack Morrison…
Sean’s tone carries a mixture of frustration and resolve.
(Sean): You seem to have a penchant for making your presence felt through pain with these so-called lessons. You want to send messages? Teach me a lesson? Well, congratulations, you've succeeded!
His words echo against the hospital walls, punctuated by the distant sounds of footsteps and the soft beeping of medical equipment. A fire ignites in Sean's emerald green eyes as he continues.
(Sean): I came to Zion with aspirations of hard work and championship glory. But you, Morrison, you've dragged me into this twisted game of yours and why? Because you took your eye off the fucking ball AGAIN?
His voice tightens, the weight of his determination palpable.
(Sean): You know what? Those aspirations I had one day of facing the likes of Ricky Rodriguez and Kara Carbajal, main-eventing Mayhem and competing for championships? Those plans are officially on hold. You wanted my attention? Consider it grabbed.
With a final, intense gaze, Sean stares into the camera.
(Sean): Jack Morrison, at Mayhem 81, you better brace yourself, because the time for playing nice is over. From now on, it's a whole new ballgame.
The camera captures the resolute blaze set aflame in Sean's eyes, freezing the moment in time as the scene fades to black.
