Post by robriot on Jul 15, 2019 13:12:09 GMT -5
A field, somewhere in England on a glorious sunny day. The grass is green, the sky is blue, there are hills in the distance. It’s the sort of thing you’d find on a picture postcard, or in a poorly executed period drama. The camera zooms in on a lone figure, standing in the middle of a field. He looks somewhat trepidatious, but has no clear reason to be. After all, he’s wearing vaguely medieval battle armor, and there’s an enormous sword in a sheath hanging from his waist. As we get closer, we can see that this is former RSW World Heavyweight Champion and Bastard, Frank Windsor. Perhaps he’s indulging in a little cosplay.
His attention is drawn by something behind him, and he spins around to see Rob Riot approaching him in a motorised wheelchair, with the strangest of expressions on his face. Windsor greets him with a cautious nod.
“I don’t know about this, Rob. It’s been a very long time since we’ve done one of these Bastards parody promos. It feels a bit like the joke is spent, know what I mean? And where’s Billy?”
Riot, in his wheelchair, doesn't move a muscle. He takes a moment to look at Windsor carefully, and when he speaks, he does so in a flat and level tone; the kind of tone that would be adopted by a dreadful actor reading their lines off a cue-card.
“You have nothing to fear, my friend. I’ve put some serious thought and effort into this one. No expense spared, as you can see from your outfit. And Billy is on the other side of that hill. I’m sure he’ll be with us in a moment, he’s just getting himself worked up.”
“Worked up? For what?”
“Well…..think about it. It’s you, me, and him. It’s the Battle of the Bastards. Where do you think I might have gone to for inspiration, eh?”
A light goes on in Windsor’s head, as he chews over the thought.
“We’re doing Game of Thrones, aren’t we? Am I Jon Snow?”
“You bloody well are.”
"Wow! Thanks, Rob, I never get the main part in these promos. You always keep that for yourself. You must have got really generous in your retirement. Wow, Jon Snow! Chicks dig Jon Snow; this is going to be epic!"
“That they do, my friend, that they do. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to get out of the way. I’m not really in this bit.”
“Hang on…..the wheelchair thing. Are you Bran? Bran’s a fucking terrible part, why have you done that to yourself?”
”Oh, it’s not without its little perks, I assure you.”
“Like what?”
Riot rolls his eyes into the back of his head. Windsor looks at him quizzically. As he does so, an enormous dollop of bird shit lands on his head.
“What the fuck!?”
Riot grins him.
“Warged into a bird mate, didn’t I. Shat right on your head. Big fat crow it was too. Look, it’s still up there!”
Frank looks up. As he does so, Riot pulls the Undertaker trick with his eyes again, and a second splattering of bird shit lands on his face.
“Will you fucking pack that in? It’s disgusting!”
“Yeah, sorry about that. Anyway, I’d get your sword drawn if I were you, it’s going to get real busy around here in about ten seconds.”
“What do you mean?”
"Well, you DO remember that iconic image from the start of the Battle of the Bastards, don't you?"
Windsor takes a moment to think about it, and then a creeping expression of alarm takes hold of his facial features. He turns around, already knowing what he’s going to see. There’s a huge army rolling over the hill, shouting and yelling. There must be at least a hundred men on horseback, and many more charging at him with their swords drawn. Windsor freezes in place, protesting to Riot.
“Jesus fucking Christ, who are all these people? How are you paying for all this!?”
"Extras, jobbers, and people I dragged in off the street, mate. Plus, my retirement pension is pretty sweet. I've bought myself all sorts of cool shit. Rocket-powered wheelchairs, for example!"
Riot presses a button on his wheelchair, and it takes off at something close to 100 miles per hour, leaving a trail of flame and smoke as he disappears off into the distance. As he retreats, he shouts out some final advice to Frank.
“Don’t worry, I paid for a small army for you, too!”
On the opposite hill, an equally large crowd appears, carrying House Stark banners. This is the army Rob spoke of. They start charging to intercept Windsor, but they’re never going to make it before Fowler’s House Bolton army arrives. With a nervous gulp, Windsor draws his sword and stands ready, exactly as Jon Snow does in the famous scene. The horses catch up with him. Windsor takes a swing, and slices straight through the side of one of them. Just as it looks like he’s about to be decapitated by a mounted soldier, his own army arrives on the scene, and everything descends into chaos. Blood splatters everywhere, including all over the camera lens. Mud is churned up as thousands of hooves and footprints turn the soft ground into a trench, and Frank Windsor finds himself trapped in his own personal Hell.
From a hillside some distance away, with smoke still rising from the tyres of his rocket-propelled wheelchair, Rob Riot grins to himself as he surveys the battle.
“This ought to make sure Frank arrives at Anarchy 50 in rough shape. Good work, Rob, good work.”
He turns his attention to the far hill, where Billy Fowler is dressed up as Ramsay Bolton, keeping himself out of the battle. He’s letting his soldiers do the work for him.
“Now, what am I going to do about that lanky prick?”
The scene fades out…..
…..and then fades back in again. Now, we’re in a castle which is substituting for Winterfell. A battered, bloody, and exhausted-looking Frank Windsor careers through the gates, with vengeance and fury on his mind. In the grounds of the castle, Billy Fowler is looking worried. His army has lost. He’s out of men, nearly out of weapons, and Frank has got a right nark on. He needs to think of something, and think of it quickly.
Gathering a nearby bow and arrow, he takes aim, pulls back, and launches one at Windsor. Windsor throws up his shield, and absorbs the blow, still marching forward with deadly intent. Fowler screams his protests.
“Frank! This has gone far enough! I didn’t sign on for this, you know! I only agreed to do a Game of Thrones parody because I thought there would be tits and fannies everywhere! People have died, Frank! People have actually died! It’s fucking textbook Rob, this. Don’t kill me!”
Windsor is unmoved.
“We all know how much you like tits and fannies, Billy. Anyone who follows the old EFedZone Twitter account can see how much you like tits and fannies. Don’t think we don’t notice you liking all those posts from lingerie models, because we all can. No wonder your wife joined in the battle on my side. You pervert.”
“YOU LEAVE MY WIFE OUT OF THIS! SHE WAS TOLD SHE WAS GOING TO A COSPLAYING CONVENTION!”
An enraged Fowler plucks another arrow, and launches it at Windsor. This one lands heavier, but Windsor takes the blow yet again, still moving forward.
“Yeah, but she still joined in pretty enthusiastically, didn’t she? Brought an army of her own, too. Has she found your browser history? Is that why she sent me to kill you?”
“She was playing Sansa Stark, you fucker. Sansa Stark joins in on Jon Snow’s side in the battle. She’s just a committed character actress.”
“I get that. She’d have to be really good at faking things if she’s going to bed with you every night.”
“OH YOU FUCKING TWAT!”
A third arrow for Billy. Frank is barely six feet away now. Fowler doesn’t even have time to lock and load. As he raises the arrow to take his shot, Windsor smashes the bow out of his hands with his shield, and then chins Fowler with a brutal uppercut. Fowler lands in a messy heap on the floor. Frank gets on top of him, and starts laying it on thick with punches.
“This is for flaking out of that event and costing the Bastards the tag team titles.”
SMACK. Fowler’s nose pancakes into his face.
“This is for always talking yourself up like you were a big deal, even though you’re the only Bastard who never won the RSW World Heavyweight Championship.”
SMACK. The back of Billy’s head is hammered against the ground, and he takes on a glazed expression.
“And Steve Borden told me to give you this one, because of all the fucking blatant gimmick infringement that went on when you started painting your face and poncing about in the rafters.”
SMACK. Fowler must have lost a couple of teeth on that one. Blood bubbles out from between his lips, and his eyes are unfocused. He probably can’t take another direct shot like that. Windsor pulls his fist back, about to deliver the fatal blow, but something in the corner of his eyes stops him.
It’s Billy’s wife, looking at him in shock. She’s as white as a sheet, and he’s shaking. Windsor coughs, a little awkwardly.
“Um…sorry about this, love. Really got into character there. Kind of forgot what was going on.”
She doesn’t seem to be listening to him. She’s focused on Fowler instead, and her voice is trembling with emotion.
“William? What’s happening? Aren’t you two supposed to be friends? I’ve seen terrible things today, William. Truly terrible things. A man got disemboweled right in front of me. There’s a pile of human heads outside the castle. The tourists have phoned the police. I think we’ve all committed murder. All of us. I mean, what the actual fuck? Is this what you do when I’m not looking? I told you not to take that phone call when Rob rang. I told you. Now look at you. I want a divorce!”
She runs away, screaming. Fowler glances in her direction and tries to shout, but when he opens his mouth, all he can do is spit out teeth. Windsor climbs off him, a little shamefacedly. Behind them, Rob Riot turns up on his motorized wheelchair.
"Good work, lads. Really top notch stuff. Neither of you has missed a beat since last time we did this, I've seen total commitment to the role from both of you. I mean you're both battered to shit now, which is going to make my night at Anarchy 50 a lot easier, but you both deserve a lot of praise for throwing yourselves into the parody. I think George R R Martin would be very proud."
Windsor, seemingly coming out of a trance, stares at his bloodied hands, and nurses his wounded side. He offers Rob a stare that’s full of spite and bile.
“I’m in a lot of fucking pain here, Rob. I think someone actually stabbed me. And the broad is right. Firstly about divorcing Billy, which is a great decision, but also about the murders. Me and Billy both literally killed people. We’re going to jail.”
“Don’t worry about that. I’ve got excellent lawyers, and we’re miles from anywhere important. I’ll have it written off as a mass hallucination. Chemicals in the water, fracking, that kind of bollocks. It’ll all be fine. It usually us with these parody promos. Remember that time me and Billy went to the International Space Station and everyone was an alien? Oh, those were the days.”
“But the stabbing. I’ve been stabbed. I think I’m seriously injured.”
“Oh, yeah, that. Well….get yourself some stitches. I’m sure you’ll be cleared for the ring by the time Anarchy 50 rolls around, it’s not like RSW have responsible doctors. Anyway, you can go now. I’ll take it from here.”
"I can go?! What, you mean I've put myself through all that, and now I just disappear?"
"Yeah, that's basically what happens in the scene. Jon Snow just gets up and walks off. It's Sansa who has the final scene with Ramsay, although I don't think we'll be getting Billy's wife back, so I'll handle that. You get yourself off to the hospital. There's a good chap."
“You’re a tit, Rob. An absolute fucking tit. I’m going to smash you up good at Anarchy 50.”
“Yeah, yeah, I’ve heard it all before. We both know I’m going to win. Oh, and Frank?”
“Yes, Rob?”
Riot’s eyes roll back into his skull. A barrage of bird shit rains down on Windsor, pelting him all over his head and body. Frank spits some out as he makes a final proclamation.
“I hate you.”
The scene fades out….
…..and it fades back in again. Some time has obviously passed, and a badly beaten Billy Fowler is tied, stark naked, to a chair in a jail cell. He blinks furiously as he regains consciousness, wincing as he registers the severe pain that he's in. As his eyes slowly adapt to the darkness, he can make out the outline of Rob Riot, sat on the other side of the bars, in his wheelchair. With a lisp brought on by his swollen tongue and broken teeth, Billy addresses his tormentor.
“I haven’t missed this, you know. Do another parody promo, they said. It’ll be fun, they said. Having a match with Riot and Windsor will be a big old wheeze, they said. It was all bullshit. I don’t know how or why I allowed myself to be talked into this. Why am I tied to a chair?”
Riot smiles the smile of a devious man.
"Well, you remember how Ramsay Bolton goes out, don't you? In the chair? With the dogs? Your part hasn't finished yet young Billy; you have to see this through to the end!"
Fowler’s eyes go wide. He does indeed remember the scene with the dogs, and he wants no part of it. When he speaks again, there’s more than a hint of pleading about his tone.
“Rob. No. Please. You can have whatever you want. My money. My house. My wife, if she hasn’t left me. Please don’t let dogs eat me. Please. I have so much left to live for. So much left to do!”
Riot shakes his head, and shushes Fowler.
“What do you take me for, old friend, some kind of monster? I’m not actually going to let the dogs eat you. Only a fucking psychopath would do that. This is an acting job. We’re going to act out the scene, with a little playful cheek. You have nothing to worry about. Well, nothing apart from the absolute pounding Frankie gave you, but that was out of my control. I think he’d been storing up that anger for a while. Sorry about that.”
“Yeah, cheers, I’m going to need to see a dentist. Probably a plastic surgeon, too. If you’re not actually going to kill me, then what are we doing here?”
As if to answer his question, a gate opens in the right-hand side of the cell. Four large, hungry looking dogs walk out, pacing around Fowler. He fidgets and strains in his chair, but it's no use. He has no way out. The pleading in his voice isn't just a hint anymore - he's terrified.
“You said they weren’t going to kill me!”
“They’re not. These are actually very nice dogs. They wouldn’t harm a fly. Although we can still have some fun with them. Watch.”
Riot rolls his eyes back in his head. One of the dogs stiffens for a moment, and then walks up to Fowler, cocks its leg, and pisses on his feet. Fowler squirms, as Riot’s eyes go back to normal.
“HEY! Cut that out!”
"Sorry. It really is a brilliant superpower. Why it wasn't used properly in the show, I have no idea, but then were really busking some horseshit by the final season. I'll stop now. Anyway, this might tickle a bit. But you're a pervert, so you might get some kicks out of it, who knows?"
Fowler narrows his swollen eyebrows. This can’t be good.
“What’s going to tickle a bit?”
“Well, while you were unconscious, I had one of my underlings smear your bollocks with premium quality dog food. And your nipples, actually. And your chin. And these dogs haven’t been fed yet today. I believe they have incredibly rough tongues. Expect chafing.”
"WHAT!? You can't let dogs lick my bollocks; it's indecent!"
“It is, but it’s happening. Enjoy, mate. I’ll see you at Anarchy 50.”
One of the dogs nuzzles at Billy's knees, tongue out, panting heavily. It's just had a whiff of its dinner, and there's nothing that poor William Fowler can do about it. He screams at Rob.
“I’ll twat you at Anarchy 50, Rob. I swear on my arse. I’ll twat you.”
Riot laughs at him again.
“Seriously? Come on now, Billy. Have a little think. Why do you think I’ve done this whole parody dressed as Bran, when Bran wasn’t involved in the original scene?”
“I have no idea. Is it important?”
"It's the single most important thing in this promo, Billy. Even though it makes no sense, and hasn't been telegraphed, and seems to be completely at odds with everything you've seen so far, Bran wins in the end. He won the show. I'm Bran, and ergo I win the match at Anarchy 50. After which people will petition RSW to re-do the show with competent bookers, but it'll be too late. I'll have won, and it'll all be over. Enjoy your dog tongue massage, loser."
Riot turns on his wheelchair, and heads off in the other direction as a pair of hounds begin slobbering over Fowler’s most intimate regions. It’s a grotesque, undignified scene. All Billy can do is shout at the back of the retreating Riot.
“Rob, you…..you…..BASTARD!”
His attention is drawn by something behind him, and he spins around to see Rob Riot approaching him in a motorised wheelchair, with the strangest of expressions on his face. Windsor greets him with a cautious nod.
“I don’t know about this, Rob. It’s been a very long time since we’ve done one of these Bastards parody promos. It feels a bit like the joke is spent, know what I mean? And where’s Billy?”
Riot, in his wheelchair, doesn't move a muscle. He takes a moment to look at Windsor carefully, and when he speaks, he does so in a flat and level tone; the kind of tone that would be adopted by a dreadful actor reading their lines off a cue-card.
“You have nothing to fear, my friend. I’ve put some serious thought and effort into this one. No expense spared, as you can see from your outfit. And Billy is on the other side of that hill. I’m sure he’ll be with us in a moment, he’s just getting himself worked up.”
“Worked up? For what?”
“Well…..think about it. It’s you, me, and him. It’s the Battle of the Bastards. Where do you think I might have gone to for inspiration, eh?”
A light goes on in Windsor’s head, as he chews over the thought.
“We’re doing Game of Thrones, aren’t we? Am I Jon Snow?”
“You bloody well are.”
"Wow! Thanks, Rob, I never get the main part in these promos. You always keep that for yourself. You must have got really generous in your retirement. Wow, Jon Snow! Chicks dig Jon Snow; this is going to be epic!"
“That they do, my friend, that they do. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to get out of the way. I’m not really in this bit.”
“Hang on…..the wheelchair thing. Are you Bran? Bran’s a fucking terrible part, why have you done that to yourself?”
”Oh, it’s not without its little perks, I assure you.”
“Like what?”
Riot rolls his eyes into the back of his head. Windsor looks at him quizzically. As he does so, an enormous dollop of bird shit lands on his head.
“What the fuck!?”
Riot grins him.
“Warged into a bird mate, didn’t I. Shat right on your head. Big fat crow it was too. Look, it’s still up there!”
Frank looks up. As he does so, Riot pulls the Undertaker trick with his eyes again, and a second splattering of bird shit lands on his face.
“Will you fucking pack that in? It’s disgusting!”
“Yeah, sorry about that. Anyway, I’d get your sword drawn if I were you, it’s going to get real busy around here in about ten seconds.”
“What do you mean?”
"Well, you DO remember that iconic image from the start of the Battle of the Bastards, don't you?"
Windsor takes a moment to think about it, and then a creeping expression of alarm takes hold of his facial features. He turns around, already knowing what he’s going to see. There’s a huge army rolling over the hill, shouting and yelling. There must be at least a hundred men on horseback, and many more charging at him with their swords drawn. Windsor freezes in place, protesting to Riot.
“Jesus fucking Christ, who are all these people? How are you paying for all this!?”
"Extras, jobbers, and people I dragged in off the street, mate. Plus, my retirement pension is pretty sweet. I've bought myself all sorts of cool shit. Rocket-powered wheelchairs, for example!"
Riot presses a button on his wheelchair, and it takes off at something close to 100 miles per hour, leaving a trail of flame and smoke as he disappears off into the distance. As he retreats, he shouts out some final advice to Frank.
“Don’t worry, I paid for a small army for you, too!”
On the opposite hill, an equally large crowd appears, carrying House Stark banners. This is the army Rob spoke of. They start charging to intercept Windsor, but they’re never going to make it before Fowler’s House Bolton army arrives. With a nervous gulp, Windsor draws his sword and stands ready, exactly as Jon Snow does in the famous scene. The horses catch up with him. Windsor takes a swing, and slices straight through the side of one of them. Just as it looks like he’s about to be decapitated by a mounted soldier, his own army arrives on the scene, and everything descends into chaos. Blood splatters everywhere, including all over the camera lens. Mud is churned up as thousands of hooves and footprints turn the soft ground into a trench, and Frank Windsor finds himself trapped in his own personal Hell.
From a hillside some distance away, with smoke still rising from the tyres of his rocket-propelled wheelchair, Rob Riot grins to himself as he surveys the battle.
“This ought to make sure Frank arrives at Anarchy 50 in rough shape. Good work, Rob, good work.”
He turns his attention to the far hill, where Billy Fowler is dressed up as Ramsay Bolton, keeping himself out of the battle. He’s letting his soldiers do the work for him.
“Now, what am I going to do about that lanky prick?”
The scene fades out…..
…..and then fades back in again. Now, we’re in a castle which is substituting for Winterfell. A battered, bloody, and exhausted-looking Frank Windsor careers through the gates, with vengeance and fury on his mind. In the grounds of the castle, Billy Fowler is looking worried. His army has lost. He’s out of men, nearly out of weapons, and Frank has got a right nark on. He needs to think of something, and think of it quickly.
Gathering a nearby bow and arrow, he takes aim, pulls back, and launches one at Windsor. Windsor throws up his shield, and absorbs the blow, still marching forward with deadly intent. Fowler screams his protests.
“Frank! This has gone far enough! I didn’t sign on for this, you know! I only agreed to do a Game of Thrones parody because I thought there would be tits and fannies everywhere! People have died, Frank! People have actually died! It’s fucking textbook Rob, this. Don’t kill me!”
Windsor is unmoved.
“We all know how much you like tits and fannies, Billy. Anyone who follows the old EFedZone Twitter account can see how much you like tits and fannies. Don’t think we don’t notice you liking all those posts from lingerie models, because we all can. No wonder your wife joined in the battle on my side. You pervert.”
“YOU LEAVE MY WIFE OUT OF THIS! SHE WAS TOLD SHE WAS GOING TO A COSPLAYING CONVENTION!”
An enraged Fowler plucks another arrow, and launches it at Windsor. This one lands heavier, but Windsor takes the blow yet again, still moving forward.
“Yeah, but she still joined in pretty enthusiastically, didn’t she? Brought an army of her own, too. Has she found your browser history? Is that why she sent me to kill you?”
“She was playing Sansa Stark, you fucker. Sansa Stark joins in on Jon Snow’s side in the battle. She’s just a committed character actress.”
“I get that. She’d have to be really good at faking things if she’s going to bed with you every night.”
“OH YOU FUCKING TWAT!”
A third arrow for Billy. Frank is barely six feet away now. Fowler doesn’t even have time to lock and load. As he raises the arrow to take his shot, Windsor smashes the bow out of his hands with his shield, and then chins Fowler with a brutal uppercut. Fowler lands in a messy heap on the floor. Frank gets on top of him, and starts laying it on thick with punches.
“This is for flaking out of that event and costing the Bastards the tag team titles.”
SMACK. Fowler’s nose pancakes into his face.
“This is for always talking yourself up like you were a big deal, even though you’re the only Bastard who never won the RSW World Heavyweight Championship.”
SMACK. The back of Billy’s head is hammered against the ground, and he takes on a glazed expression.
“And Steve Borden told me to give you this one, because of all the fucking blatant gimmick infringement that went on when you started painting your face and poncing about in the rafters.”
SMACK. Fowler must have lost a couple of teeth on that one. Blood bubbles out from between his lips, and his eyes are unfocused. He probably can’t take another direct shot like that. Windsor pulls his fist back, about to deliver the fatal blow, but something in the corner of his eyes stops him.
It’s Billy’s wife, looking at him in shock. She’s as white as a sheet, and he’s shaking. Windsor coughs, a little awkwardly.
“Um…sorry about this, love. Really got into character there. Kind of forgot what was going on.”
She doesn’t seem to be listening to him. She’s focused on Fowler instead, and her voice is trembling with emotion.
“William? What’s happening? Aren’t you two supposed to be friends? I’ve seen terrible things today, William. Truly terrible things. A man got disemboweled right in front of me. There’s a pile of human heads outside the castle. The tourists have phoned the police. I think we’ve all committed murder. All of us. I mean, what the actual fuck? Is this what you do when I’m not looking? I told you not to take that phone call when Rob rang. I told you. Now look at you. I want a divorce!”
She runs away, screaming. Fowler glances in her direction and tries to shout, but when he opens his mouth, all he can do is spit out teeth. Windsor climbs off him, a little shamefacedly. Behind them, Rob Riot turns up on his motorized wheelchair.
"Good work, lads. Really top notch stuff. Neither of you has missed a beat since last time we did this, I've seen total commitment to the role from both of you. I mean you're both battered to shit now, which is going to make my night at Anarchy 50 a lot easier, but you both deserve a lot of praise for throwing yourselves into the parody. I think George R R Martin would be very proud."
Windsor, seemingly coming out of a trance, stares at his bloodied hands, and nurses his wounded side. He offers Rob a stare that’s full of spite and bile.
“I’m in a lot of fucking pain here, Rob. I think someone actually stabbed me. And the broad is right. Firstly about divorcing Billy, which is a great decision, but also about the murders. Me and Billy both literally killed people. We’re going to jail.”
“Don’t worry about that. I’ve got excellent lawyers, and we’re miles from anywhere important. I’ll have it written off as a mass hallucination. Chemicals in the water, fracking, that kind of bollocks. It’ll all be fine. It usually us with these parody promos. Remember that time me and Billy went to the International Space Station and everyone was an alien? Oh, those were the days.”
“But the stabbing. I’ve been stabbed. I think I’m seriously injured.”
“Oh, yeah, that. Well….get yourself some stitches. I’m sure you’ll be cleared for the ring by the time Anarchy 50 rolls around, it’s not like RSW have responsible doctors. Anyway, you can go now. I’ll take it from here.”
"I can go?! What, you mean I've put myself through all that, and now I just disappear?"
"Yeah, that's basically what happens in the scene. Jon Snow just gets up and walks off. It's Sansa who has the final scene with Ramsay, although I don't think we'll be getting Billy's wife back, so I'll handle that. You get yourself off to the hospital. There's a good chap."
“You’re a tit, Rob. An absolute fucking tit. I’m going to smash you up good at Anarchy 50.”
“Yeah, yeah, I’ve heard it all before. We both know I’m going to win. Oh, and Frank?”
“Yes, Rob?”
Riot’s eyes roll back into his skull. A barrage of bird shit rains down on Windsor, pelting him all over his head and body. Frank spits some out as he makes a final proclamation.
“I hate you.”
The scene fades out….
…..and it fades back in again. Some time has obviously passed, and a badly beaten Billy Fowler is tied, stark naked, to a chair in a jail cell. He blinks furiously as he regains consciousness, wincing as he registers the severe pain that he's in. As his eyes slowly adapt to the darkness, he can make out the outline of Rob Riot, sat on the other side of the bars, in his wheelchair. With a lisp brought on by his swollen tongue and broken teeth, Billy addresses his tormentor.
“I haven’t missed this, you know. Do another parody promo, they said. It’ll be fun, they said. Having a match with Riot and Windsor will be a big old wheeze, they said. It was all bullshit. I don’t know how or why I allowed myself to be talked into this. Why am I tied to a chair?”
Riot smiles the smile of a devious man.
"Well, you remember how Ramsay Bolton goes out, don't you? In the chair? With the dogs? Your part hasn't finished yet young Billy; you have to see this through to the end!"
Fowler’s eyes go wide. He does indeed remember the scene with the dogs, and he wants no part of it. When he speaks again, there’s more than a hint of pleading about his tone.
“Rob. No. Please. You can have whatever you want. My money. My house. My wife, if she hasn’t left me. Please don’t let dogs eat me. Please. I have so much left to live for. So much left to do!”
Riot shakes his head, and shushes Fowler.
“What do you take me for, old friend, some kind of monster? I’m not actually going to let the dogs eat you. Only a fucking psychopath would do that. This is an acting job. We’re going to act out the scene, with a little playful cheek. You have nothing to worry about. Well, nothing apart from the absolute pounding Frankie gave you, but that was out of my control. I think he’d been storing up that anger for a while. Sorry about that.”
“Yeah, cheers, I’m going to need to see a dentist. Probably a plastic surgeon, too. If you’re not actually going to kill me, then what are we doing here?”
As if to answer his question, a gate opens in the right-hand side of the cell. Four large, hungry looking dogs walk out, pacing around Fowler. He fidgets and strains in his chair, but it's no use. He has no way out. The pleading in his voice isn't just a hint anymore - he's terrified.
“You said they weren’t going to kill me!”
“They’re not. These are actually very nice dogs. They wouldn’t harm a fly. Although we can still have some fun with them. Watch.”
Riot rolls his eyes back in his head. One of the dogs stiffens for a moment, and then walks up to Fowler, cocks its leg, and pisses on his feet. Fowler squirms, as Riot’s eyes go back to normal.
“HEY! Cut that out!”
"Sorry. It really is a brilliant superpower. Why it wasn't used properly in the show, I have no idea, but then were really busking some horseshit by the final season. I'll stop now. Anyway, this might tickle a bit. But you're a pervert, so you might get some kicks out of it, who knows?"
Fowler narrows his swollen eyebrows. This can’t be good.
“What’s going to tickle a bit?”
“Well, while you were unconscious, I had one of my underlings smear your bollocks with premium quality dog food. And your nipples, actually. And your chin. And these dogs haven’t been fed yet today. I believe they have incredibly rough tongues. Expect chafing.”
"WHAT!? You can't let dogs lick my bollocks; it's indecent!"
“It is, but it’s happening. Enjoy, mate. I’ll see you at Anarchy 50.”
One of the dogs nuzzles at Billy's knees, tongue out, panting heavily. It's just had a whiff of its dinner, and there's nothing that poor William Fowler can do about it. He screams at Rob.
“I’ll twat you at Anarchy 50, Rob. I swear on my arse. I’ll twat you.”
Riot laughs at him again.
“Seriously? Come on now, Billy. Have a little think. Why do you think I’ve done this whole parody dressed as Bran, when Bran wasn’t involved in the original scene?”
“I have no idea. Is it important?”
"It's the single most important thing in this promo, Billy. Even though it makes no sense, and hasn't been telegraphed, and seems to be completely at odds with everything you've seen so far, Bran wins in the end. He won the show. I'm Bran, and ergo I win the match at Anarchy 50. After which people will petition RSW to re-do the show with competent bookers, but it'll be too late. I'll have won, and it'll all be over. Enjoy your dog tongue massage, loser."
Riot turns on his wheelchair, and heads off in the other direction as a pair of hounds begin slobbering over Fowler’s most intimate regions. It’s a grotesque, undignified scene. All Billy can do is shout at the back of the retreating Riot.
“Rob, you…..you…..BASTARD!”
