Fight for the Future (F4TF RP 1)
Sept 4, 2021 18:31:26 GMT -5
Frank Windsor, Eron Hunter, and 1 more like this
Post by robriot on Sept 4, 2021 18:31:26 GMT -5
We open in a graveyard in Blackpool, England. The sky is slate grey, and it's raining. Of course it is. It's always raining in England in September.
Rob Riot stands with his back to the camera, dressed in a black mourning suit. The rain dashes off his shaved head as it falls, but he doesn’t react to it. He’s staring straight down at a grave, the name on which can’t be seen because he’s standing in our way. The camera slowly begins to pan around him.
“Fight for the Fallen. That’s what this event is all about, apparently. It’s a very North American sentiment. We remember the dead in England, but we tend not to be so theatrical about it. Anyway, I thought I’d give it a try. When you say ‘the fallen,’ you put an emphasis on the military, yes? Well, here I am.”
The camera completes its journey around Riot, showing us the gravestone for the first time. It’s plain, and from the state of the weeds it seems it hasn’t been tended to for some time. Etched on the stone are a few simple words.
“IN LOVING MEMORY OF RONALD HILL. 1935-2009.”
The camera cuts back to Riot, who glances down the lens and arches an eyebrow.
“What? You didn’t think I was born with the name ‘Riot,’ did you?”
He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a cigarette, lighting it before taking a deep drag and then coughing sharply.
“Do excuse me. Super King Black. His brand, not mine. I’m really more of a Marlboro man. Yes, this is the grave of my dear old daddy, a military man through and through. British Royal Navy. Served Queen and country. And somewhere out there…”
Riot gestures vaguely at the horizon with his cigarette-smoking hand, dispersing ash as he does so.
“...is my grandfather. At sea, I mean. We dumped his ashes in the ocean. He was a military man too. Served in the Second World War, in fact. They, by definition, are ‘the fallen’ you speak of. I can’t say I’ve ever done this before, but in honour of this special Honour event, I thought I’d come and give dad a visit. You want me to fight for him. I came to get his opinion on that.”
Riot takes two more drags on the cigarette and then drops it, stamping it out on the floor. He reaches down to the ground and picks up a whisky bottle and a glass, pouring himself a measure.
“This was his brand too. Famous Grouse. It’s a little harsh on the throat, but needs must.”
He takes a sip of the notoriously cheap but effective whisky and winces.
"I've been standing here now for a good half an hour, talking to my dad. Telling him where I've been. Telling him where I am now and what I plan to do. And do you know what I've got back from him?"
Riot takes another sip of his whisky as he allows the audience to process the question. He doesn’t give them long.
“Nothing. I’ve stood here and heard nothing. Seen nothing. Felt nothing. And do you know why? Do you know why I’ve heard nothing in this whole damn graveyard?”
He gestures at the space around him broadly.
“Because it’s empty. There’s nothing here but cadavers and stone. The fallen are gone. Most have them have been gone for decades. Some of them have been gone for centuries. But have you ever wondered what they would say if they could? What they’d urge their living relatives and loved ones to do? “
He beckons the camera over as he forces down the remaining contents of his short glass. As it draws near, he leans right into it.
"They would say. ‘Fight. For. Yourselves. Forget us. We're dead. You have a future. Fight for it.’ This whole sentiment is a trap. When we fight for the fallen, we trap ourselves in the past. We fail to move on. We deny ourselves a future. Hell, if I wanted to stay in the past, I'd never have come back to the ring, but I did. I came back not to celebrate the past - not for my own fallen…"
He pats his right shoulder as he finishes the sentence. You can’t see it, but it’s exactly where his famous broken clock tattoo is.
"...but for my future. For new achievements. Achievements like those shiny tag team championships that Prime Time are wearing. That's the beginning. That's tick box number one on the comeback tour. And what stands in our way? Two men making moves, making moves, making million-dollar moves. Primal and Timeless. Well, in the spirit of being British, here's the tea, boys."
Riot pours another whisky, but this time he raises it in the air, toasting his father's gravestone.
"Primal. The word itself means primitive; primeval. By definition, you're stuck in the past. By definition, you're barely more than instinct. An animal in a mask too afraid to show his face to society. You don't strap that mask to your head to protect us, Primal; you wear it to protect yourself from reality. The reality of your irrelevance in a modern world. And then you, Timeless. Oh, Timeless. What a curse of a word you've chosen for yourself."
Riot slowly and deliberately pours the whisky out over his father’s grave.
"Timeless. No time. No past. No future. Just the present, running on forever. No change. No development. Well, mark these words, Timeless. The future finds a way. The future comes for us all. You can't fight it. You can't run from it. It just happens. For you, it's going to happen on September 16th in Nova Scotia.”
Riot appears to briefly consider bowing to the grave, but instead, he shakes his head and turns away. He's seen all he needs to see here.
“Two men trapped in the past come face to face with the Bastards at Honour, with the tag team titles on the line. Two relics of the old world, trying to fight for the long dead. Well know this, Prime Time. The Bastards aren’t coming to Honour to fight for the fallen. We’re coming to add to their number.”
Riot strides away from the grave, and the rain continues to pour.
Rob Riot stands with his back to the camera, dressed in a black mourning suit. The rain dashes off his shaved head as it falls, but he doesn’t react to it. He’s staring straight down at a grave, the name on which can’t be seen because he’s standing in our way. The camera slowly begins to pan around him.
“Fight for the Fallen. That’s what this event is all about, apparently. It’s a very North American sentiment. We remember the dead in England, but we tend not to be so theatrical about it. Anyway, I thought I’d give it a try. When you say ‘the fallen,’ you put an emphasis on the military, yes? Well, here I am.”
The camera completes its journey around Riot, showing us the gravestone for the first time. It’s plain, and from the state of the weeds it seems it hasn’t been tended to for some time. Etched on the stone are a few simple words.
“IN LOVING MEMORY OF RONALD HILL. 1935-2009.”
The camera cuts back to Riot, who glances down the lens and arches an eyebrow.
“What? You didn’t think I was born with the name ‘Riot,’ did you?”
He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a cigarette, lighting it before taking a deep drag and then coughing sharply.
“Do excuse me. Super King Black. His brand, not mine. I’m really more of a Marlboro man. Yes, this is the grave of my dear old daddy, a military man through and through. British Royal Navy. Served Queen and country. And somewhere out there…”
Riot gestures vaguely at the horizon with his cigarette-smoking hand, dispersing ash as he does so.
“...is my grandfather. At sea, I mean. We dumped his ashes in the ocean. He was a military man too. Served in the Second World War, in fact. They, by definition, are ‘the fallen’ you speak of. I can’t say I’ve ever done this before, but in honour of this special Honour event, I thought I’d come and give dad a visit. You want me to fight for him. I came to get his opinion on that.”
Riot takes two more drags on the cigarette and then drops it, stamping it out on the floor. He reaches down to the ground and picks up a whisky bottle and a glass, pouring himself a measure.
“This was his brand too. Famous Grouse. It’s a little harsh on the throat, but needs must.”
He takes a sip of the notoriously cheap but effective whisky and winces.
"I've been standing here now for a good half an hour, talking to my dad. Telling him where I've been. Telling him where I am now and what I plan to do. And do you know what I've got back from him?"
Riot takes another sip of his whisky as he allows the audience to process the question. He doesn’t give them long.
“Nothing. I’ve stood here and heard nothing. Seen nothing. Felt nothing. And do you know why? Do you know why I’ve heard nothing in this whole damn graveyard?”
He gestures at the space around him broadly.
“Because it’s empty. There’s nothing here but cadavers and stone. The fallen are gone. Most have them have been gone for decades. Some of them have been gone for centuries. But have you ever wondered what they would say if they could? What they’d urge their living relatives and loved ones to do? “
He beckons the camera over as he forces down the remaining contents of his short glass. As it draws near, he leans right into it.
"They would say. ‘Fight. For. Yourselves. Forget us. We're dead. You have a future. Fight for it.’ This whole sentiment is a trap. When we fight for the fallen, we trap ourselves in the past. We fail to move on. We deny ourselves a future. Hell, if I wanted to stay in the past, I'd never have come back to the ring, but I did. I came back not to celebrate the past - not for my own fallen…"
He pats his right shoulder as he finishes the sentence. You can’t see it, but it’s exactly where his famous broken clock tattoo is.
"...but for my future. For new achievements. Achievements like those shiny tag team championships that Prime Time are wearing. That's the beginning. That's tick box number one on the comeback tour. And what stands in our way? Two men making moves, making moves, making million-dollar moves. Primal and Timeless. Well, in the spirit of being British, here's the tea, boys."
Riot pours another whisky, but this time he raises it in the air, toasting his father's gravestone.
"Primal. The word itself means primitive; primeval. By definition, you're stuck in the past. By definition, you're barely more than instinct. An animal in a mask too afraid to show his face to society. You don't strap that mask to your head to protect us, Primal; you wear it to protect yourself from reality. The reality of your irrelevance in a modern world. And then you, Timeless. Oh, Timeless. What a curse of a word you've chosen for yourself."
Riot slowly and deliberately pours the whisky out over his father’s grave.
"Timeless. No time. No past. No future. Just the present, running on forever. No change. No development. Well, mark these words, Timeless. The future finds a way. The future comes for us all. You can't fight it. You can't run from it. It just happens. For you, it's going to happen on September 16th in Nova Scotia.”
Riot appears to briefly consider bowing to the grave, but instead, he shakes his head and turns away. He's seen all he needs to see here.
“Two men trapped in the past come face to face with the Bastards at Honour, with the tag team titles on the line. Two relics of the old world, trying to fight for the long dead. Well know this, Prime Time. The Bastards aren’t coming to Honour to fight for the fallen. We’re coming to add to their number.”
Riot strides away from the grave, and the rain continues to pour.