The Tsound of Tsilence

Saturday 22nd February, 2025

InterContinental Osaka Hotel

Osaka, Kansai, Honshu, Japan

“Hey Potato-head, how about you cool your jets, ok?”

Seán O’Neill, who had been ranting for several minutes prior to the interruption, stopped abruptly. His attention was immediately drawn to the face filling the screen of his laptop. The face belonged to none other than Ryan Minoru - a name that might strike a nostalgic chord with wrestling fans of a certain age. Known as 'Ryan Dynamic' throughout the 1990s and early 2000s, Ryan had been O’Neill’s tag-team partner in his early years in the business and was one of the few people in his life that mattered the most.

Ryan possessed that infuriating talent found in at least one member of every friend group - the ability to know exactly what to say to annoy you. Regardless of the situation, Ryan always managed to halt Seán in his tracks, whether through playful banter or, when necessary, by delivering the truth you didn’t want to hear.

On this occasion, playful banter was enough. Seán had very little ground to stand on when it came to reacting to the myriad of Irish-themed nicknames Ryan would hurl his way; largely because Seán himself had been calling Ryan 'Ryu' for the best part of thirty years. In today's politically correct climate, it certainly isn’t advisable to refer to someone by a name based on their nationality or ancestry, but with these two men it was a token of their great affection.

O’Neill arched an eyebrow in that distinctively sarcastic manner he had perfected over the years. In response, Ryan beamed from ear to ear.

“Good, I was debating on just ending the call if you hadn’t shut up.”

“I’m debating ending you if you don’t shut up you asswipe!”

The remark drew another grin from Ryan, delighted to have achieved the perfect level of irritation from the Irishman.

“So here’s the thing, how many times, in aaaaaallllllll these years, have you faced someone as highly skilled as Chandler Tsonda?”

A look of confusion spread across Seán’s face at the mention of ‘The Model Citizen’. “What? We were talking about Cooley!”

“No Seán, you have been talking about Cooley, for about fifteen minutes, without drawing breath might I add!”

“Well, I can’t help it - that asshole has gone from ‘who the fuck is that guy’ to ‘numero uno on my shitlist’ in record time.”

“You don’t say? But you haven’t answered my question.”

O’Neill screwed his face up in puzzlement. “What question?”

Ryan let out an exaggeratedly loud sigh before repeating his query with deliberate emphasis.

“How many times, have you faced as dangerous an opponent as Chandler Tsonda?”

“I don’t know Ryu, probably no more than a handful. How is that important right now?”

Ryan let a long pause follow, shaking his head with a look of palpable disappointment. O’Neill's irritation grew steadily.

“You’re not fighting Cooley Jackson you know.”

“Jackson Cooley.”

“What?”

“His name, its Jackson Cooley, not Cooley Jackson...”

“SEÁN WILLIAM O’NEILL! IF YOU DON’T SHUT UP ABOUT WHATEVER THE FUCK HIS NAME IS I WILL PERSONALLY FLY OVER THERE AND SLAP YOUR STUPID ASS ALL THE WAY BACK TO IRELAND!”

That did the trick, wanting to ensure his point was made before Seán brought up Cooley again, Ryan pressed on.

“ALIAS CHAMPION - CHANDLER TSONDA! FIVE STAR CHAMPION - CHANDLER TSONDA! TAG TEAM CHAMPION - CHANDLER TSONDA! UNIVERSAL FUCKING CHAMPION - CHANDLER TSONDA! HALL OF FUCKING FAME INDUCTEE - CHANDLER FUCKING TSONDA!”

“Okay, okay, you’ve made your point! I just, well honestly, I don’t have any problem with Tsonda.”

“I know that Seán, but you fucking will if you step in the ring with him and the only thing you’re thinking about is Cooley Jackson!”

O’Neill was about to correct his friend again, but before he could do so, Ryan held up a hand, warning the Irishman against any such action.

He was right of course, and Seán knew it. O’Neill had come to think of himself as almost a litmus test for new arrivals in PRIME. It seemed to him that he was there simply so the powers that be could make a judgement on if the newcomer would be a good fit – if they could beat Seán O’Neill then they’d probably be fine, if not, then maybe PRIME would prove to be too much of a challenge for them.

Chandler Tsonda, however, did not fit that mold. Ryan had only mentioned a few of the many accolades of ‘The Viet Viper’. The man had experienced a career that O’Neill could only have dreamed of. Any ring-rust Tsonda may have accumulated during his time away from PRIME had been thoroughly shaken off by Rose a few weeks earlier. Even so, Tsonda had still had enough in the tank to secure the win.

Seán didn’t need reminding that he’d been the first person to lose to Rose, and look at how fast she’s risen in such a short space of time since then. She’d become part of the seemingly ever expanding Red Army, playing her part as it went from strength to strength ushering in Ivan Stanislav’s second reign of terror over the promotion.

Stanislav - Now that’s the type of opponent Chandler Tsonda was more used to facing, and it seemed only a matter of time before they’d collide. Tsonda had no business being in the ring with Seán O’Neill.

O’Neill let out a sigh of his own - not an exasperated one however; there was resignation in that sigh.

“I don’t know that it matters how on top of things I am to be perfectly honest Ryu. I’m not going to beat Tsonda.”

Ryan’s face wrinkled with confusion.

“What? Say that again?”

“Tsonda is a world class level star man, I’m Seán O’Neill.”

Seán shrugged as if to ask ‘Where is the comparison?’ There was sadness behind his eyes that Ryan hadn’t seen before. He knew that O’Neill’s confidence was shaky at best, but this – conceding a match before he’d even stepped into the ring – that was new. Ryan’s expression shifted from confusion to deep concern. He leaned closer to the screen, his eyes searching Seán's face for any sign that his comments had been in jest - His search was in vain.

“Spud, listen to me, this isn't you buddy! Since when has ‘The SurReal Simpleton’ Seán O’Neill given up before the bell rings? All these years, no matter who you’ve had to face off against, you were always ready to fight, to give it everything you had, determined to try and find a way to win. Hearing you talk like this... it worries me.”

Ryan paused, trying to gather his thoughts. His voice softened, filled with concern for his friend.

“You’ve always been one of the toughest, most resilient people I’ve ever had the misfortune to know. We both know the shit you’ve been through these last few years. But this constant doubting yourself, that’s just not who you are bro. How can you, the most pig-headed shit-for-brains I’ve ever met, go into any match thinking you’ve already lost? I don’t disagree with what you’re saying; Tsonda is absolutely world-class, no doubt about that. But come on Seán, so are you! Otherwise what was the point of all those years training to be the best?”

Ryan’s tone grew more insistent, almost pleading.

“I’m trying to understand buddy, I really am, but we worked on this - all of last year! I thought you’d finally pulled your head out of your own ass and remembered who you are. What has happened in the last few weeks to send you back to that place? I swear, if you fucking say Cooley I’m going to come through this screen and bitchslap you!”

O’Neill returned a shrug. “I can’t help it mate, he’s got in my head.”

“That’s his fucking job Seán! He’s the new guy; he’s got to get himself noticed. You’ve done exactly the same over the years. For all your mastery of wristlocks and holds, you’ve forgotten how to really play this game!”

“Maybe I never really understood the game to begin with.”

“It fucking sounds that way. I’m sorry buddy, but it’s time for some hard truths. You’ve lost it! From the minute you crossed the Atlantic to make this great comeback, this ‘one last run’, you’ve had your priorities all wrong. First it was about trying to prove you belonged in PRIME, and then it was all about trying to make a connection with the fans. You’re doing it all backwards.”

Seán made no attempt to respond; he remained silent, like a child gloomily accepting the remonstrations of an exhausted parent.

“You’ve forgotten how to be a killer Seán. You used to be someone who got in his opponent’s head. You understood how to push people’s buttons, and the advantage it can bring you. This ‘new’ you is more of a rookie than the kid I met thirty years ago. Wake up Seán. The difference between you and guys like Chandler Tsonda isn’t athletic, it’s not a matter of skill. It’s ALL in here.”

Ryan made a show of accenting each of the last few words by tapping his own temple. When O’Neill spoke, his voice lacked any real confidence or conviction.

“You’re right, I know you are. I just... just wanted to be myself. I wanted to world to see Seán O’Neill not just some guy with a stupid wrestling name.”

“I remember a time, when the word ‘SurReal’ wasn’t just some moniker you threw in-front of your name. It was your mantra, a way of working. You need to find wherever you buried those memories and remember who you are. ‘Cause this guy, who second guesses every move, constantly questions himself and has no belief in himself – I’m sorry buddy, he’s just not good enough.”

That hurt, Ryan had known it would, and despite not wanting to hurt his friend, he’d also known Seán needed to hear it.

“I need to go Seán, it’s late. Let me leave you with this. Since you’ve taken to spending so much time reliving the past these days. I think it would be good to revisit the memories of someone you hated just as much as this Cooley fucker. Why don’t you take a trip down memory lane and see if you can’t dig up Donny Diamond from whatever grave he’s buried in.”

Without any farewells, Ryan simply gave his friend a hopeful smile and ended the call.

“Ha!” Seán chuckled to himself; there was a name he’d not thought about in a long time. “Donny fucking Diamond!”

*****

Saturday 5th December, 2009

Mobile Civic Center

Mobile, Alabama, United States of America

“Well well! If it isn’t the ‘Tribal War Machine’!”

Seán O’Neill looked up from the bench where he’d been finishing getting changed out of his wrestling gear, but the unmistakeable accent had already revealed the speaker’s identity – The GCW World Heavyweight Champion, the Scottish King of Cool; Andy Murray. O’Neill was surprised to see the Champion so soon after the WorldWide broadcast had ended. He nodded in greeting, though his response was gruff at best; it wasn’t that he didn’t get on well with Murray, but he was tired and beaten up, and the last thing he wanted was the cocky Scotsman winding him up.

“Murr.”

“Come on O’Neill, shift yer arse up, there’s room on that bench for at least one more arse.”

The Irishman made a fuss of sliding across to make room for the Scot to sit down beside him. Murray settled in, his presence radiating an air of confidence that was impossible to ignore.

“Here, wanna hold it for a while?”

The grin threatened to split Murray’s skull in two as he playfully extended the World Championship belt to O’Neill.

“Piss off you! You not got any pressing media engagements going on? What brings you down to slum with the peasants?”

“Just wanted to see how my favourite Leprechaun was gettin’ on.”

O’Neill couldn’t help but smirk at the familiar jibe, he answered with one of his own. “Are you trying to grow a beard Murr?”

“No.”

The answer came far too quickly, and O’Neill allowed himself a grin. The smooth-faced Scot’s lack of ability to grow any sort of facial hair had been a long-standing joke between the pair.

“Here, you were in the DWO back in the day weren’t ya?”

The question took Seán aback, he’d not thought about his old employers for years. “Aye, that’s a while back now mate, why?”

“The new signing was the Champion there at one point I understand.”

“What new signing?”

“Someone Diamond... Davey? Dominik? Yeah, Dominik Diamond, that sounds right!”

The Irishman groaned. “Dominik Diamond was the fella that hosted The GamesMaster on TV ya nugget. Please, for the love of God, please tell me it’s not Donny Diamond?”

“Aye! That’s the one. Donny, short for Donald I assume, good strong Scottish name.”

“FUCK’S SAKE!”

Murray was taken aback by the ferocity of O’Neill’s exclamation.

“Not a fan then lad?”

“Are all the ghosts of my past determined to fucking haunt me? Bad enough that Equinox followed me here AGAIN, but now Diamond. Donny fucking Diamond. Two years Murr, two fucking years of my career that piece of shit cost me.”

“Okay then, noted - not a fan!”

“I need to get some fucking air, sorry mate, I’ll catch ya later.” O’Neill sprung up to his feet and reached into his bag for a packet of cigarettes before stomping off towards the exit.

*****

Thursday 13th February, 2003

The DWO Asylum

Chicago, Illinois, United States of America

An eerie silence descended upon the jam-packed arena, where mere seconds before, the roars of thousands of fans had reverberated off the walls. Shocked faces now stared towards the ring; some of the spectators had even turned away in horror, unable to bear the sight before them.

The referee flailed his arms wildly in the direction of the staff member in charge of ringing the match bell. Although slow to respond, the message was finally received, and the bell rang out, shattering the oppressive silence. The opening chords of Donny Diamond’s entrance theme began to play over the public address system, adding a haunting soundtrack to the scene.

There had been no pin-fall, no submission to end the contest. The referee had made the only call available to him by signalling for the bell. Emergency medical technicians sprinted out from the backstage area, their faces etched with urgency as they raced towards the ring.

Donny Diamond stood towering over the crumpled form of SurReal, a sick smile plastered across his face. The smile didn’t reach his soulless, dead eyes however. Whether intentionally or not, the botched Tombstone Piledriver he had just delivered was responsible for the horrific scene unfolding around him. SurReal’s back was arched unnaturally, his face contorted with unbearable pain shooting through his body. The Irishman’s complexion was ghostly white as the blood drained from his face, a stark contrast to a few minutes earlier.

These two men had been locked in a bitter rivalry for months, the mutual animosity fuelling a series of barbaric confrontations. Each encounter had escalated in intensity, the stakes growing higher and higher. Their feud had become a marquee for the company, drawing the attention of fans who eagerly anticipated the next chapter of the conflict. But no-one could have foreseen the tragic turn of events that so abruptly and shockingly brought this bitter saga to its conclusion.

Diamond’s brother, Ron, had made his way into the ring and was now desperately trying to drag a reluctant Donny away from the scene. The medical technicians moved with extreme care as they attempted to transfer SurReal onto a gurney, their movements precise and deliberate.

Though the DWO faithful couldn’t have known it at the time, this would be the last time they’d see SurReal compete for the company. In fact, it would be the last time anyone would see him compete anywhere for over two full years. The Irishman would need to come out on the other side of a gruelling rehabilitation period, fighting every day to regain the physical condition required to resume his career.

After this night, you’d have forgiven Seán O’Neill for never wanting to see the sneering visage of Donny Diamond ever again. But fate has a funny way of bringing such things full circle, in the words of the late Robert Jordan – The wheel weaves as the wheel wills.

To be continued...