Post by fowler on Jun 7, 2022 4:10:45 GMT -5
A raining spring night in Manchester England.
The bright neon lights of clubs and bars bounce of the standing water that lies in great puddles across the streets. Women huddle together as they march through the shower of rain, barely clothed in tight fitting dresses whilst groups of young men swing from lamp posts and kick water at each other on their trek between clubs.
It's a typical Saturday night in a UK city, and in the middle of this scene two men walk at a quick pace down the middle of the road, avoiding the masses. Both are wearing long buttoned up coats and carry umbrellas. but one towers over the other, it’s soon apparent that it’s Billy Fowler and Frank Windsor.
Fowler: “Frank it’s fucking pissing it down out here! How much further to this place?”
Frank wipes the rain from his brow before looking up at his partner.
Windsor: “Not much further I swear, maybe like another two streets.”
Fowler: “Jesus…What they fuck are we even out here for?”
Windsor: “You’re a World Champion now, you must party like one! Besides, once you see this shit you will thank me.”
Fowler gurns and bears the walk through the busy streets until Frank gestures to a nearby doorway. The building looks like an old bank, detached from any others and has large letters on the front reading YES.
Windsor: “That’s the place.”
Fowler: “Looks like some shitty music venue.”
Windsor: “It is… not come one!”
Frank grabbed Billy and dragged him across the road. As the two men squeezed passed the doormen and gaggle of students trying to push their way in Fowler caught a few notes of a familiar guitar riff.
Inside the little bar was packed with people, all seemed to be focused on the stage and dancing to the catchy little riff.
“What is that song?” Fowler thought to himself as Frank continued to pull him through the crowd. Then suddenly he pointed towards the stage and Fowler’s jaw dropped as it all became clear to him.
The guitar riff was “This Charming Man” a song by the iconic Manchester band The Smiths, but more disturbingly Billy knew the singer.
There on the stage, bathed in bright pink light, wearing a lose fitting grey shirt which was open on the chest and showed an ungodly amount of necklaces draped around their neck was none other than Rob Riot. He staggered around the stage flailing his arms around like some sort of drug induced contemporary dance student. Bizarrely he swung in his right hand a massive bouquet of fresh cut flowers which he preceded to use a microphone.
It took minutes for Fowler to process all this before leaning in to shout into Windsor’s ear.
Fowler: “Frank…What the fuck am I looking at!?”
Frank looked and him and smiled before shouting back.
Windsor: “I know right! It’s fucking cringe but it turns out that Rob has a side line going on as a Morrissey tribute act!”
Fowler: “Is there much call for Morrissey tributes? I mean the blokes a bit of a cock?”
Windsor shrugged his shoulders before returning to dancing with some twenty-year-old art student stood next to him.
Eventually the song came to a stop and the crowd cheered as Riot took an extravagant bow and made his way off the stage, grabbing a glass of red fizzy liquid from a barmaid before heading over to his friends.
Windsor: “Wow Rob, that was really good.”
Riot took a long drag from his glass before smiling at Frank.
Riot: “Well thank you Frankie.”
Fowler: “What the fuck is that you’re drinking?”
Riot: “It’s a fruity cider.”
Fowler: “Fruity cider? When did you grow a vagina?”
Riot: “Look around you, all the kids are drinking this stuff!”
Fowler: “Well anyway, well done I guess… you make a very convincing Mancunian twat.”
Riot: “Oi less of that you southern fairy! Besides this is all for your benefit Champ!”
Fowler: “My benefit?”
Riot digs into his back pocket and pulls out a flyer for Wrestle:UK Legacy 3. He holds it up to Fowler’s face letting the big man see that he has a title defence against some kid called…Morrissey.
Fowler sighs and rubs his face.
Fowler: “So you’re Morrissey because I have to fight some Emo kid called Morrissey.”
Riot: “That’s right Matthew, tonight I am your Morrissey!”
Windsor: “Whoaa, that reference is going to way over the heads of the Americans.”
Riot: “Well I’ve said it now, YouTube is a thing. Oh, and I know he looks like an Emo, but that really isn’t a thing anymore. I’m not sure what they call themselves these days.”
Fowler: “I mean he looks like a Gary Numan want to be. Maybe he’s a goth or new romantic. In any case that doesn’t matter, what do we know about this kid?”
Windsor: “The dirt sheets say he’s pretty good, like next big thing potential but he’s been out of the ring for around three years. I would say the kids got rust on him.”
Fowler: “Rust… three years is going to need some serious WD40 to loosen him up.”
Windsor: “Wait. Are you calling yourself WD40 now?”
Fowler: “No you fool, I’m trying to say that he’s about to step into the ring with the best in the business, so he better loosen up quickly, of get his head kicked off.”
Riot: “Exactly big man! Time to show the world what The Bastard’s are all about. And on that very note. It’s time to christen your reign as champion.”
Rob signals to a barmaid who brings over a tray with three shots on it. The Bastards take a shot glass each, raise them like the three musketeers and then down them. Fowler lets out a gasp!
Fowler: “Urgh! Sambuca… you Bastard!”
The three men laugh before heading to the bar, grabbing a couple of ladies on the way.
