Post by robriot on Jul 20, 2021 5:39:43 GMT -5
NPW’s July 15th show is still happening. The noise of the crowd is audible in the arena, but it’s muffled. Here, backstage, there’s only swearing, anger, and smashed cutlery. Frank Windsor sits on a bench, pressing a bag of ice to his skull where Neo James Carner hit him with a camera. Rob Riot paces up and down in front of him, looking for something new to break. He’s already flipped a table and smashed every plate and cup in sight. The next thing might be the camera.
The cameraman knows that, but he’s trying desperately not to think about it.
Anyone with half a brain would give these two furious members of the Bastards a wide berth right now, but since when has that ever stopped Blake Samuels?
With his branded NPW microphone in his hand, Samuels comes bursting through the door of the Bastards’ locker room. His eyes open up wide as he registers the expressions on the Englishmen’s faces. Riot’s is one of incandescence.
"Do you people not knock? Christ, I thought Alyssa was unprofessional, but you…wow."
Samuels audibly swallows, but he’s there to do a job. He gets on with it.
"Rob Riot, Frank Windsor, you just picked up the win on your NPW debut, but it was a win that came at a cost. Our fans want an update on the condition of Frank Windsor, and the whole world wants to know what this means for the Bastards and the Revenants?”
Frank goes to get up, but Riot puts a hand on his shoulder.
“Frank, what did we say about concussions?”
Frank’s voice is little more than a guttural growl.
“Fuck concussions.”
“Yes, we did. But keep the ice on there all the same. I’ll deal with this.”
Riot makes a point of approaching Samuels as slowly as he can, giving the announcer an extra few seconds to regret barging in through the door in the way he did. Samuels tries to avoid giving the impression that he’s shrinking into his shoes. He fails. Riot motions for him to lift the microphone to his mouth, which he does.
With the microphone where he wants it, Riot ignores Samuels altogether and speaks into the camera.
"Williams. Garcia. Carner. You're even dumber than we gave you credit for, and believe us, we already gave you a lot of credit. We don't mind the whole "cheat when you can get away with it" thing. We're the Bastards. We didn't get this name by playing fair. The whole point of cheating in a wrestling match is to win the damn match. You greenhorn amateurs managed to cheat to lose instead. Thanks for the winners' purse. Everyone in this arena and everyone at home knows Frank had Rob Garcia down for three. Carner pulls a desperation move, and we win anyway. As for hitting Frank in the head with a TV camera?"
A still-angry Frank looks up and raises his middle finger to the camera as Riot continues.
"That's not even the hardest thing Frank got hit in the head with this week. Hell, Frank hits himself in the head harder than that. We might even have been tempted to let the whole thing slide, but then you did something even more ridiculous. Neo James Carner, you stood on that ramp, and you said, "this ain't over," as if it was a threat. Child, what in the world makes you think that you get to decide when something is and isn't over with us?"
Riot wags his finger as if scolding a little boy.
"The Revenants weren't on our agenda when we came to NPW. We wanted the KGB. I, personally, wanted Armand von Krauss. And yet our paths keep crossing, don't they? We turn a corner, and you're there waiting. At a Call To Arms, there was Carner. The Bastards get booked for their NPW debut, and there's the rest of the squad. Given the beating we put on Carner and the way we stomped all over you in our tag match, you should be looking in any direction but ours, and yet you seem to want to make this personal. Well, we can do personal. We can do personal like you wouldn't believe."
At that precise moment, Billy Fowler slams the door open and storms through it, furious about his loss. He notices the camera and looks questioningly at Riot, but Rob beckons both Fowler and Windsor to come closer. The three Bastards stand together as Riot’s lecture continues.
"Whatever any of us can achieve alone, whatever any two of us can achieve as a tag team, we're at our best as a unit. The Revenants say this isn't over, and so it isn't. At Night of Champions, it's three on three, and you're dealing with two men who already beat you and a pissed off, angry giant. We might only have been here for a few weeks, but lines are already being crossed. NPW needs to find out what happens when you cross a line with the Bastards. The whole pro wrestling world needs to be reminded what happens when you cross a line with the Bastards. Throw the rest of the GSP gang into that as well, and you numbskulls just opened Pandora's Box."
Fowler takes over.
"I didn't come back from playing happy families to collect paychecks and look at the lights, Revenants. I came back to snap necks and stamp on chests. Tonight was a dress rehearsal. Next time it's the real thing, and you're getting driven through the floor."
Riot smirks and opens up the floor.
“Frank, anything to add?”
Windsor’s glare is evil condensed into the form of two bloodshot orbs. That blow to the head has awoken something awful in him. He snarls his curt response.
“You pricks are going to get fucked up.”
An alarmed Samuels tries to take the mic back and apologise for the foul language, but Riot grabs it and stops him.
“At Night of Champions, we turn the Revenants into the Remnants. Now get the Hell out of our room.”
Samuels doesn’t need telling twice. He almost falls over the cameraman as he retreats, and the scene fades out.
The cameraman knows that, but he’s trying desperately not to think about it.
Anyone with half a brain would give these two furious members of the Bastards a wide berth right now, but since when has that ever stopped Blake Samuels?
With his branded NPW microphone in his hand, Samuels comes bursting through the door of the Bastards’ locker room. His eyes open up wide as he registers the expressions on the Englishmen’s faces. Riot’s is one of incandescence.
"Do you people not knock? Christ, I thought Alyssa was unprofessional, but you…wow."
Samuels audibly swallows, but he’s there to do a job. He gets on with it.
"Rob Riot, Frank Windsor, you just picked up the win on your NPW debut, but it was a win that came at a cost. Our fans want an update on the condition of Frank Windsor, and the whole world wants to know what this means for the Bastards and the Revenants?”
Frank goes to get up, but Riot puts a hand on his shoulder.
“Frank, what did we say about concussions?”
Frank’s voice is little more than a guttural growl.
“Fuck concussions.”
“Yes, we did. But keep the ice on there all the same. I’ll deal with this.”
Riot makes a point of approaching Samuels as slowly as he can, giving the announcer an extra few seconds to regret barging in through the door in the way he did. Samuels tries to avoid giving the impression that he’s shrinking into his shoes. He fails. Riot motions for him to lift the microphone to his mouth, which he does.
With the microphone where he wants it, Riot ignores Samuels altogether and speaks into the camera.
"Williams. Garcia. Carner. You're even dumber than we gave you credit for, and believe us, we already gave you a lot of credit. We don't mind the whole "cheat when you can get away with it" thing. We're the Bastards. We didn't get this name by playing fair. The whole point of cheating in a wrestling match is to win the damn match. You greenhorn amateurs managed to cheat to lose instead. Thanks for the winners' purse. Everyone in this arena and everyone at home knows Frank had Rob Garcia down for three. Carner pulls a desperation move, and we win anyway. As for hitting Frank in the head with a TV camera?"
A still-angry Frank looks up and raises his middle finger to the camera as Riot continues.
"That's not even the hardest thing Frank got hit in the head with this week. Hell, Frank hits himself in the head harder than that. We might even have been tempted to let the whole thing slide, but then you did something even more ridiculous. Neo James Carner, you stood on that ramp, and you said, "this ain't over," as if it was a threat. Child, what in the world makes you think that you get to decide when something is and isn't over with us?"
Riot wags his finger as if scolding a little boy.
"The Revenants weren't on our agenda when we came to NPW. We wanted the KGB. I, personally, wanted Armand von Krauss. And yet our paths keep crossing, don't they? We turn a corner, and you're there waiting. At a Call To Arms, there was Carner. The Bastards get booked for their NPW debut, and there's the rest of the squad. Given the beating we put on Carner and the way we stomped all over you in our tag match, you should be looking in any direction but ours, and yet you seem to want to make this personal. Well, we can do personal. We can do personal like you wouldn't believe."
At that precise moment, Billy Fowler slams the door open and storms through it, furious about his loss. He notices the camera and looks questioningly at Riot, but Rob beckons both Fowler and Windsor to come closer. The three Bastards stand together as Riot’s lecture continues.
"Whatever any of us can achieve alone, whatever any two of us can achieve as a tag team, we're at our best as a unit. The Revenants say this isn't over, and so it isn't. At Night of Champions, it's three on three, and you're dealing with two men who already beat you and a pissed off, angry giant. We might only have been here for a few weeks, but lines are already being crossed. NPW needs to find out what happens when you cross a line with the Bastards. The whole pro wrestling world needs to be reminded what happens when you cross a line with the Bastards. Throw the rest of the GSP gang into that as well, and you numbskulls just opened Pandora's Box."
Fowler takes over.
"I didn't come back from playing happy families to collect paychecks and look at the lights, Revenants. I came back to snap necks and stamp on chests. Tonight was a dress rehearsal. Next time it's the real thing, and you're getting driven through the floor."
Riot smirks and opens up the floor.
“Frank, anything to add?”
Windsor’s glare is evil condensed into the form of two bloodshot orbs. That blow to the head has awoken something awful in him. He snarls his curt response.
“You pricks are going to get fucked up.”
An alarmed Samuels tries to take the mic back and apologise for the foul language, but Riot grabs it and stops him.
“At Night of Champions, we turn the Revenants into the Remnants. Now get the Hell out of our room.”
Samuels doesn’t need telling twice. He almost falls over the cameraman as he retreats, and the scene fades out.