Post by robriot on Aug 6, 2021 5:09:56 GMT -5
Welcome to a live feed from the ridiculous interior of the GSP's equally ridiculous double-decker spaceship-shaped tour bus. It looks every bit as debauched and chaotic as you'd expect of such a thing.
There’s some kind of commotion going on in the background, but you can’t see much of it because Rob Riot’s face fills the screen. There’s a lot of laughter, but someone with a British accent is loudly demanding to be left alone. From the sound of it, his pleas are falling on deaf ears.
Shouting to be heard above the noise, Rob Riot addresses the audience.
“Hello, NPW faithful. Rob Riot here. One third of the Bastards, still undefeated in an NPW ring, still here to dominate and control Northern Pro Wrestling. On behalf of the promotion, thanks for tuning in tonight. We hope you enjoyed the beating that Frank and I just put on Takaru and the man that vowels forgot. Thanks for coming, Takaru. We did try to warn you how that would play out. When the Bastards say they’re going to do something, they do it. Anyway, we’re not here to talk about the Bastards at this very moment. Instead, we’re handling some internal GSP business.”
Riot steps aside for a moment, allowing us our first look at what's going on in the background. The GSP gang is clustered around Billy Fowler, who's far too big for his seat on the coach. He's shirtless and struggling. Andrew Morgan has hold of his arms, keeping him pinned in his seat, while Edward Zepp grabs his legs. Fowler yells to Riot for assistance.
"Jesus Christ, Rob, why are you letting this happen!? We're teammates! Buds! Friends!"
Riot, with a half-smirk, holds his hands up in a gesture of apology.
"Look, if it were up to me, I'd let it slide. Parsons insists on this. You know what he gets like."
From the side of the shot, the imposing figure of Chris Parsons steps into view. He has a kendo stick in his hand, and he's visibly trying to work out the best angle to take a decent swing from inside the cramped dimensions of the bus. Fowler sees this and bemoans his lot.
“Oh, sweet Lord, no. Riot! Frank! Help me!”
Frank is sat only two seats away from Billy, but his attention is focused on his beer and a Ginster’s pasty. He must have had it specially imported to Canada. What a monster. It’s apparent that Fowler won’t be getting any assistance from his cohorts in the Bastards. Riot turns back to the camera.
"Now, we've been made aware that one or two of our number didn't fulfil their contractually obligated promo duties before "August on the Atlantic." We want to reassure NPW fans and the rest of the NPW roster that this is something we, the Galactic Sex Pirates, take very seriously. Failure to fulfil obligations will not be tolerated among our brethren, and penalties will be doled out.
He winks at the camera.
“We just want to set a good example, you know?”
Satisfied with his swing, Parsons draws back the kendo stick and whips it through the air. It smacks against Fowler’s bare chest with a satisfying and painful-sounding whoosh-crack. Fowler howls in a mixture of pain and anger. Parsons, in his own small way, tries to reassure him.
“One down. Only four to go. You can do it. Grit your teeth! Here, I’ll give you a countdown from five. One, two….”
WHOOSH-CRACK.
WHOOSH-CRACK.
WHOOSH-CRACK.
Parsons suddenly hammers Fowler's chest with three short, sharp kendo stick strikes. It leaves the giant Englishman's chest red raw, with bloody dotted lines appearing in the centre of the marks. Morgan and Zepp have to cling on tight to stop him from leaping out of his seat. Fowler howls again. This time there's far more agony than anger in the sound. Parsons grins.
"I thought it might be better if I took you by surprise. Builds up less tension, you know? Maybe not. Still, only one to go now. You've been such a good sport. Take your thrashing, and we can all move on."
Fowler, resigned to his fate, closes his eyes and grits his teeth. Parsons brings the kendo stick back one final time.
WHOOSH-CRACK. A bruiser of a horizontal strike, right across the middle of Fowler's chest! Zepp and Morgan release their grip, and Fowler falls out of his chair, rolling across the sticky coach floor until he comes to a rest at the smelly feet of Greg Adkins. Adkins looks down at him, nonplussed. A distressed moan emits from the bruised Bastard.
“My nipples! That one was right across my nipples! Argh!”
The entire tour bus bursts into laughter. Parsons tosses the kendo stick away and crouches over Fowler.
"Now, do you promise to fulfil your promo duties next time?"
“Yes! Yes! I’ll be good, I promise! Ohh, my bloody nipples…”
There's more laughter. Riot steps back in front of the camera and joins in until something catches his eye. Over to his left is Kintaru, wearing his sunglasses and his suit, chuckling to himself smugly. Riot takes issue with this.
"Hey! Mr Super-cool! Didn't you fail to fulfil your promotional duties as well?"
The coach suddenly turns quiet. Everyone looks at Kintaru. The smile disappears from the elusive star’s face, and he looks up at Riot with a scowl.
Riot makes eye contact with Windsor and nods. Windsor immediately understands where Riot's going and grins. He tosses Riot an open beer.
Riot grabs the beer and very slowly and deliberately pours the whole thing out over Kintaru, ruining his designer suit in the process. Kintaru is visibly enraged, but resists the urge to do anything about it. He just sits there, with cheap beer dripping off the frames of his expensive sunglasses. Perhaps pushing his luck a little, Riot ruffles Kintaru's wet hair. Kintaru slaps his hand away and turns to look out of the window, red-faced and thoroughly embarrassed. Even more laughter bursts out in the rest of the coach. Even Fowler, still clutching his burning tits, manages to join in. Riot turns back to the camera.
“We’re the Galactic Sex Pirates, and if we’re willing to punish our own…”
He abruptly stops laughing.
“...what the Hell are we willing to do to you?”
The segment ends.
There’s some kind of commotion going on in the background, but you can’t see much of it because Rob Riot’s face fills the screen. There’s a lot of laughter, but someone with a British accent is loudly demanding to be left alone. From the sound of it, his pleas are falling on deaf ears.
Shouting to be heard above the noise, Rob Riot addresses the audience.
“Hello, NPW faithful. Rob Riot here. One third of the Bastards, still undefeated in an NPW ring, still here to dominate and control Northern Pro Wrestling. On behalf of the promotion, thanks for tuning in tonight. We hope you enjoyed the beating that Frank and I just put on Takaru and the man that vowels forgot. Thanks for coming, Takaru. We did try to warn you how that would play out. When the Bastards say they’re going to do something, they do it. Anyway, we’re not here to talk about the Bastards at this very moment. Instead, we’re handling some internal GSP business.”
Riot steps aside for a moment, allowing us our first look at what's going on in the background. The GSP gang is clustered around Billy Fowler, who's far too big for his seat on the coach. He's shirtless and struggling. Andrew Morgan has hold of his arms, keeping him pinned in his seat, while Edward Zepp grabs his legs. Fowler yells to Riot for assistance.
"Jesus Christ, Rob, why are you letting this happen!? We're teammates! Buds! Friends!"
Riot, with a half-smirk, holds his hands up in a gesture of apology.
"Look, if it were up to me, I'd let it slide. Parsons insists on this. You know what he gets like."
From the side of the shot, the imposing figure of Chris Parsons steps into view. He has a kendo stick in his hand, and he's visibly trying to work out the best angle to take a decent swing from inside the cramped dimensions of the bus. Fowler sees this and bemoans his lot.
“Oh, sweet Lord, no. Riot! Frank! Help me!”
Frank is sat only two seats away from Billy, but his attention is focused on his beer and a Ginster’s pasty. He must have had it specially imported to Canada. What a monster. It’s apparent that Fowler won’t be getting any assistance from his cohorts in the Bastards. Riot turns back to the camera.
"Now, we've been made aware that one or two of our number didn't fulfil their contractually obligated promo duties before "August on the Atlantic." We want to reassure NPW fans and the rest of the NPW roster that this is something we, the Galactic Sex Pirates, take very seriously. Failure to fulfil obligations will not be tolerated among our brethren, and penalties will be doled out.
He winks at the camera.
“We just want to set a good example, you know?”
Satisfied with his swing, Parsons draws back the kendo stick and whips it through the air. It smacks against Fowler’s bare chest with a satisfying and painful-sounding whoosh-crack. Fowler howls in a mixture of pain and anger. Parsons, in his own small way, tries to reassure him.
“One down. Only four to go. You can do it. Grit your teeth! Here, I’ll give you a countdown from five. One, two….”
WHOOSH-CRACK.
WHOOSH-CRACK.
WHOOSH-CRACK.
Parsons suddenly hammers Fowler's chest with three short, sharp kendo stick strikes. It leaves the giant Englishman's chest red raw, with bloody dotted lines appearing in the centre of the marks. Morgan and Zepp have to cling on tight to stop him from leaping out of his seat. Fowler howls again. This time there's far more agony than anger in the sound. Parsons grins.
"I thought it might be better if I took you by surprise. Builds up less tension, you know? Maybe not. Still, only one to go now. You've been such a good sport. Take your thrashing, and we can all move on."
Fowler, resigned to his fate, closes his eyes and grits his teeth. Parsons brings the kendo stick back one final time.
WHOOSH-CRACK. A bruiser of a horizontal strike, right across the middle of Fowler's chest! Zepp and Morgan release their grip, and Fowler falls out of his chair, rolling across the sticky coach floor until he comes to a rest at the smelly feet of Greg Adkins. Adkins looks down at him, nonplussed. A distressed moan emits from the bruised Bastard.
“My nipples! That one was right across my nipples! Argh!”
The entire tour bus bursts into laughter. Parsons tosses the kendo stick away and crouches over Fowler.
"Now, do you promise to fulfil your promo duties next time?"
“Yes! Yes! I’ll be good, I promise! Ohh, my bloody nipples…”
There's more laughter. Riot steps back in front of the camera and joins in until something catches his eye. Over to his left is Kintaru, wearing his sunglasses and his suit, chuckling to himself smugly. Riot takes issue with this.
"Hey! Mr Super-cool! Didn't you fail to fulfil your promotional duties as well?"
The coach suddenly turns quiet. Everyone looks at Kintaru. The smile disappears from the elusive star’s face, and he looks up at Riot with a scowl.
Riot makes eye contact with Windsor and nods. Windsor immediately understands where Riot's going and grins. He tosses Riot an open beer.
Riot grabs the beer and very slowly and deliberately pours the whole thing out over Kintaru, ruining his designer suit in the process. Kintaru is visibly enraged, but resists the urge to do anything about it. He just sits there, with cheap beer dripping off the frames of his expensive sunglasses. Perhaps pushing his luck a little, Riot ruffles Kintaru's wet hair. Kintaru slaps his hand away and turns to look out of the window, red-faced and thoroughly embarrassed. Even more laughter bursts out in the rest of the coach. Even Fowler, still clutching his burning tits, manages to join in. Riot turns back to the camera.
“We’re the Galactic Sex Pirates, and if we’re willing to punish our own…”
He abruptly stops laughing.
“...what the Hell are we willing to do to you?”
The segment ends.