The Sandman | James Fullington, Forever Living Dangerously

Description

James Fullington, better known as The Sandman in the world of professional wrestling, had a face that was bleeding profusely and, unlike the old days, he wasn’t getting paid a goddamn dime. That dirty bartender at this generic Italian restaurant was running some sort of deranged biological experiment and kept sliding over drink after drink after drink, even after the nice lady who organized this celebratory event politely asked him to stop serving. Listening to a now inebriated Fullington loudly curse was no way to celebrate the 75th birthday of her uncle! Unfortunately, cursing was just the First Seal in Fullington’s burgeoning drunken apocalypse. The Second Seal was to call the son of the birthday boy a "bitch,” challenge him to a fight and punch a light fixture just to signal his seriousness. Happy birthday! De-escalation techniques are law enforcement’s holy grails to resolving conflicts peacefully. Among those studied and researched methodologies, it would be hard to find a section recommending subduing the drunken man at your restaurant by throwing a beer mug at his face. Unfortunately, this nondescript restaurant owner, one Ralph "T.J." Tarone, felt this was a wise course of action to take with the drunken, lumbering 6’4" 280 pound Fullington. If only the mug had missed! Maybe it could’ve harmlessly crashed into the faux brick walls, at worst harpooning one of the replaceable black and white photographs of the rat pack boozily conquering Vegas. Maybe the music would’ve stopped, the yelling would’ve paused, and in that moment of silence, maybe Fullington could’ve soberly collected himself enough to see where the night was headed. The cockroaches scurry when the lights are thrown on. The drunken moment of clarity. It would’ve been better for all. Instead, Tarone’s aim was true, a fastball into the strike zone, a direct shot right into Fullington’s well-scarred mug. According to onlookers, the mug exploded into lacerating glass shards, and Fullington’s face immediately began spewing concerning amounts of blood. It was a serious injury, and he needed medical attention. Any normal person would have been incapacitated, at least cowed by concerning volumes of blood pouring from their face, but Fullington isn’t normal. As you’ll soon see, this wasn’t his first dance with a crimson mask. A drunken juggernaut, it just made him more enraged. He needed vengeance! He needed those who hurt him to pay! He needed to do something drastic! Think quick: what do restaurants have in abundance that can be used as dangerous projectiles? Beer glasses! Fullington, a q-tip dipped in red paint, began grabbing and heaving beer glasses at every employee of the restaurant he could see. Broken glass rained. Imagine being a police officer in Yonkers, New York, the "City of Gracious Living." You’re an hour north of the heart of the Big Apple, average crime rate, decent enough place to raise kiddos, life’s a little slower. You hear a call, you pull your squad car into the Italian restaurant’s full parking lot, cross a street, go up a few stairs, and stand on the outside of the door to the restaurant’s main entrance. Usually, on the other side of that door would be a room of families getting together and enjoying each other’s company over vino and pasta. Maybe the kids get a little bored hearing the same family jokes. Maybe Uncle Tony overdoes it on the tiramisu but, in general, a pleasant, peaceful time. Tonight, you don’t need to cup your ear to hear what’s going on inside. You stand at the door and listen. Muffled shouting, glass breaking, complete anarchy. Blood, glass, and the howls of blind rage. Now put yourself in the mind of James Fullington. You’re drunk, bleeding, and in pain, and you want to get that no-good-son-of-a-bitch that cowardly threw the beer mug in your face. All these damn people keep getting in the way! And then the cops rush in! Don’t they understand, Fullington is the victim here? Can’t they just let him get his tiny slice of retribution? If he can just get his hands on that rat bastard, everything would be okay. Just punch the guy out, get some stitches, find some comfy spot to sober up, and mosey on back to normal life. The police tried to reason with Fullington, calm him down, get him to stop throwing glasses, but he just wasn’t listening. They were just a new obstruction impeding his lust for vengeance. They were only making his situation worse, Fullington more indignant. If the police were going to step into the line of fire, then god damn it, Fullington was going to throw beer mugs at them too! The police report notes the ensuing damage: two police officers suffered cuts on their hands and arms from broken glasses fired directly at them by Fullington. Who would throw beer mugs at the police? Who would respond in such a way? Only a madman beyond reason. The situation was out of control. After this attack, the police were left with no choice. Back in 1989, the whole Yonkers department were issued 9-mm semi-automatic pistols. It was a literal arms race. Criminals were more heavily armed than ever before, and the department needed to keep up, cat-and-mouse. A fully loaded 9-mm can fire off 19 bullets without a need to reload, 19 reassuring chances. They drew their weapons on Fullington. And that’s the scene: we pan back and see Fullington standing in a room of broken glass, soaking in his own blood, mad with an unquenchable thirst to do something violent, staring down the barrels of police guns. And if you knew Fullington, you might even be amused. You would think: of course, James Fullington would find himself in a mess like this. Who is he? Is he a career criminal? The village idiot? A drunken psychopath? Maybe a little bit from each pool. Put together, he’s the most decorated heavyweight pro wrestler from Extreme Championship Wrestling. He is The Sandman.