Post by robriot on Jul 12, 2021 18:41:21 GMT -5
“Keith, Keith, Keith. Did I touch a nerve?”
Rob Riot sits in a very old, very expensive armchair in an equally expensive looking room. The curtains are drawn across the bay windows, and even in the heat of the summer he keeps a fire burning in the hearth to his left. The English veteran sits comfortably, with one leg crossed over his knee in his corduroy trousers, white shirt, and tweed jacket. Riot probably has other clothes. He just never wears them.
Seemingly not in any hurry to address the camera, he pours himself a long shot of whisky from a decanter on the small, ornate table to his right and takes a sip, relishing the burn as it makes its way down his throat.
"Now, it's been a while since I've done the old call and response thing with promos for a wrestling match. I'd almost forgotten how it worked, so thank you for reminding me. I'm sorry to hear that my first effort didn't meet with your approval. I promise I'll try harder. The thing is, Keith, that a lot of what you said is true. I haven't kept up. I haven't been watching NPW. I've come in here almost blind. So what did I do? I threw a few dismissive comments your way to see what came back. And come back you did, Keith. Come back, you did."
He sets the glass back down and claps his hands together urgently as if indicating he's about to dive into the heart of the matter.
"I don't know if you fish, Mr White Terror, but here's how fishing works. A worm is attached to a hook, the hook is thrown into the water, and then the fisherman waits. For a long time, nothing happens. But then a fish comes along. The fish looks at the worm, and it looks at the hook. It knows the hook might kill it. It might even have seen its friends die on a hook. But the fish, it thinks it's clever. It thinks it can succeed where all the other fish failed. So it bites. And when it bites…"
Riot very slowly and deliberately mimes the act of reeling in a fish.
"...the situation is taken out of its hands. Now, some fishermen like to catch and release. They catch the fish, they look at the fish, and they throw the fish back. They're the nice guys of the fishing world. Unfortunately for you, Keith, I'm not one of the nice guys. I like to kill what I catch and eat what I kill. You bit my hook, and you're in my hands now. Nowhere you can go. Nothing you can do about it. You're on my plate, and I'll devour you whole. That's the relationship that exists between us. Sorry about it."
He leans back in his chair, cracking his neck as he lets his words rest for a moment. Then he snaps his fingers as if he’s just remembered something important.
"Oh, and you weren't impressed by Frank either, were you? Frank gets that a lot. Just because he swears a lot, people think the guy's not smart. Trust me when I say that Frank Windsor has ring smarts. As for the whole fat-shaming him, that tells me a lot. It tells me you're not as smart as you think you are. See, Frank might be approaching four hundred pounds now, but he still thinks he's a cruiserweight. If you're not worried about a four hundred pound man crashing down on your chest with cruiserweight moves...
Riot shrugs.
“I don’t know what to tell you. Guess you’re going to have to find out about that the hard way. See, while you’ve been weighing us up, I’ve been weighing you up. Not so much your thus-far-silent partner, who doesn’t worry me at all, but you, Keith. You think I do all the heavy lifting. I’ll return the compliment. I think you do all the heavy lifting in the Revenants, but that won’t save you. I believe you when you say you want to teach us a lesson, but belief means nothing when it comes face to face with reality. You only want to beat us. I NEED to beat you.
He holds a finger up for a moment as if telling his audience to wait, and takes another sip from his whisky glass.
"Ah! Lovely. Anyway. I NEED to beat you, Keith. I've heard what people are saying about the rest of the gang and me. They think we're old pros who've come back to play around because we've got nothing to lose. Incorrect. I have everything to lose. My entire legacy has been built on being the best. If I come back and start losing, I dirty that legacy. I sully the memories. I stamp on everything great I created during my career, and that was a lot, Keith. I didn't just win world titles; I came in and razed whole companies to the ground. Promotions didn't employ me - they just tried to survive me. NPW think they've pulled off the deal of the century getting my signature, but I don't think they really know who they've let through the door. My rise back to the top - my LAST rise back to the top - starts with you. If I don't get past you, there isn't a future for me. To you, I'm an opponent. To me, you're a wall I have to tear down because my path goes through you. For as long as this match lasts, you're the single most important thing in the world to me. After it's over…
He snaps his fingers.
"You're nothing. Don't let the jokes fool you, Keith; I'm a very bad man. You're going to find that out first hand on July 15th.”
The scene fades out.
Rob Riot sits in a very old, very expensive armchair in an equally expensive looking room. The curtains are drawn across the bay windows, and even in the heat of the summer he keeps a fire burning in the hearth to his left. The English veteran sits comfortably, with one leg crossed over his knee in his corduroy trousers, white shirt, and tweed jacket. Riot probably has other clothes. He just never wears them.
Seemingly not in any hurry to address the camera, he pours himself a long shot of whisky from a decanter on the small, ornate table to his right and takes a sip, relishing the burn as it makes its way down his throat.
"Now, it's been a while since I've done the old call and response thing with promos for a wrestling match. I'd almost forgotten how it worked, so thank you for reminding me. I'm sorry to hear that my first effort didn't meet with your approval. I promise I'll try harder. The thing is, Keith, that a lot of what you said is true. I haven't kept up. I haven't been watching NPW. I've come in here almost blind. So what did I do? I threw a few dismissive comments your way to see what came back. And come back you did, Keith. Come back, you did."
He sets the glass back down and claps his hands together urgently as if indicating he's about to dive into the heart of the matter.
"I don't know if you fish, Mr White Terror, but here's how fishing works. A worm is attached to a hook, the hook is thrown into the water, and then the fisherman waits. For a long time, nothing happens. But then a fish comes along. The fish looks at the worm, and it looks at the hook. It knows the hook might kill it. It might even have seen its friends die on a hook. But the fish, it thinks it's clever. It thinks it can succeed where all the other fish failed. So it bites. And when it bites…"
Riot very slowly and deliberately mimes the act of reeling in a fish.
"...the situation is taken out of its hands. Now, some fishermen like to catch and release. They catch the fish, they look at the fish, and they throw the fish back. They're the nice guys of the fishing world. Unfortunately for you, Keith, I'm not one of the nice guys. I like to kill what I catch and eat what I kill. You bit my hook, and you're in my hands now. Nowhere you can go. Nothing you can do about it. You're on my plate, and I'll devour you whole. That's the relationship that exists between us. Sorry about it."
He leans back in his chair, cracking his neck as he lets his words rest for a moment. Then he snaps his fingers as if he’s just remembered something important.
"Oh, and you weren't impressed by Frank either, were you? Frank gets that a lot. Just because he swears a lot, people think the guy's not smart. Trust me when I say that Frank Windsor has ring smarts. As for the whole fat-shaming him, that tells me a lot. It tells me you're not as smart as you think you are. See, Frank might be approaching four hundred pounds now, but he still thinks he's a cruiserweight. If you're not worried about a four hundred pound man crashing down on your chest with cruiserweight moves...
Riot shrugs.
“I don’t know what to tell you. Guess you’re going to have to find out about that the hard way. See, while you’ve been weighing us up, I’ve been weighing you up. Not so much your thus-far-silent partner, who doesn’t worry me at all, but you, Keith. You think I do all the heavy lifting. I’ll return the compliment. I think you do all the heavy lifting in the Revenants, but that won’t save you. I believe you when you say you want to teach us a lesson, but belief means nothing when it comes face to face with reality. You only want to beat us. I NEED to beat you.
He holds a finger up for a moment as if telling his audience to wait, and takes another sip from his whisky glass.
"Ah! Lovely. Anyway. I NEED to beat you, Keith. I've heard what people are saying about the rest of the gang and me. They think we're old pros who've come back to play around because we've got nothing to lose. Incorrect. I have everything to lose. My entire legacy has been built on being the best. If I come back and start losing, I dirty that legacy. I sully the memories. I stamp on everything great I created during my career, and that was a lot, Keith. I didn't just win world titles; I came in and razed whole companies to the ground. Promotions didn't employ me - they just tried to survive me. NPW think they've pulled off the deal of the century getting my signature, but I don't think they really know who they've let through the door. My rise back to the top - my LAST rise back to the top - starts with you. If I don't get past you, there isn't a future for me. To you, I'm an opponent. To me, you're a wall I have to tear down because my path goes through you. For as long as this match lasts, you're the single most important thing in the world to me. After it's over…
He snaps his fingers.
"You're nothing. Don't let the jokes fool you, Keith; I'm a very bad man. You're going to find that out first hand on July 15th.”
The scene fades out.