A Badman Brings It Home

[Frank Windsor]

Frank Windsor stood at the single window of his hotel room in Leeds, Yorkshire. He’d been looking out at the drenched mostly empty car park from the rain, but now let the scratchy plaid curtain drop. The room was identical to every room he’d ever stayed in the UK, nearly invisible in its generic blandness. He was stood in his patented “BASTARDS” t-shirt and blue shorts. His get-up was finished with a bright orange pair of flip flops. He started to do some lunges as he warmed up for his morning run to keep in shape for his upcoming match with Donzig. His associate Finn Corbyn who looked like he’d been through a war himself was in the room whist Natalia was out. He had his lap top set up on the rickety table on the other side of the narrow room, surrounded by open files and crumpled paper. Finn had been jumped at the last show by associates of Donzig and wasn’t one hundred per cent himself. “I will get some sort of fucking revenge for you, you hear me Finn? I want to see those butt fucks banned from ringside this week,” Frank said. “I want you to ring up whoever is fucking answering the goddamn phones in the front office and tell them I ain’t fucking doing anything unless Donzig mans the fuck up. Tell them I ain’t going to let my home fucking crowd down if he’s fucking going to get his goons to jump me for the fiftieth time. And no before you fucking ask Finn it ain’t because I get am scared. No you’ve fucking seen me taking all and everyone on in the squared circle so don’t fucking say I’m a fucking yellow chicken or some other bull shit attempt to make me look like a cock-wombling tosser.” Finn ignored him as he was used to Frank’s rants when he wasn’t getting his way or there was some other problem. “It ain’t fucking natural Finn, how can he be such a fucking coward and he’d probably pay someone in the crowd to jump my boys,” Frank said as he scrunched his face in disgust. “Wait; scratch that as some of the roster are fucking mutants whose fucking parents were also fucking related and wouldn’t surprise me if they had fucking flippers, three eyes or some shit like that. This is complete bollocks sonny if those cunts in the front office want me to face Donzig and there be nothing for me to gain from it other than revenge, have you seen him? Which numbskull window licking moron thought of this?” “Yeah okay,” Finn muttered as he continued looking stuff up on the net for Frank as he rubbed his left arm. “Fuck them Finn, fuck them bare fucking back,” he muttered. “I ain’t no fool and I know my fucking rights. I want you to go and talk to all those cunts in the front office and get them on side, the more fuckers that side with me the better as they know the Bastards sell tickets. Remember they won’t have a fucking show if we go old school Miner style and go on fucking strike. Anyway, let’s fucking get something on camera before I go for my fucking run.” Finn nodded and brought up the camera. Frank sat down in the chair opposite the camera and put the Wrestle: UK Tag Championship belt on his left shoulder. He paused for a few seconds to compose himself before he lifted his head and looked straight down the lens. “What is with all this commentary about seventies and eighties television Donnie boy?” Frank said. “Are they the classic British television you binge watched during Covid lockdown on Brit-box? I know you had a lot of time on your bloody hands but I could have found better stuff to watch. Did you get to work out if it was fork handles or four candles now that is a deep fucking question for you mate? Or if you don’t like that you’ll need to catch up with Del Boy and Rodney, now that’s some fucking classic British television but to be honest I think as you’re not from here that it’d probably be over your fucking head and don’t get me started on League of Gentlemen or other shit.” He caressed the belt on his shoulder. “And don’t get me started on the Manchester United stuff,” he said. “Anyway why should I waste my time buying into your bullshit when I am on the top of my game and he’s just clutching at straws trying to once again making himself relevant in a world where the UK fucking wrestling fans will call you out for any of the BS that escapes from your lips? You are such a strange little man Donnie.” He stretched out his shoulders. “Especially with all your Brit talk,” Frank continued. “With your dark side stuff I thought, reading between the lines that you’d be sitting in front of the TV watching some old school Coronation Street shite, tommy tanking to some Vera Duckworth whilst wear a glove covered in sand paper…….inside the fucking glove you freako!!” Frank smirked as he was getting into his swing. “You come to my home county and think that my people can be intimidated?” he asked. “The people of Yorkshire have been on the front line of wars for centuries; hell centuries ago I’d have been standing on the battle lines against the man from Lancashire, Robbie Riot but we’ve worked it out. Anyway I digress. This Street Fight between us will only end one way Donnie. It’s going to be a great night for the Bastards; not only will I get my revenge on you; no, Robbie will whoop some Amish fuck-tard back to his homeland and Billy will bring the Wrestle: UK World Heavyweight Championship belt back to the Bastards.” He smiled at the camera. “Enjoy you last days of freedom,” Frank said. “Now fuck off!”