A Badman Put's A Cock Wombling Spunk-Flute In His Place

[Frank Windsor]

The screen was filled with static. “What the fuck?” a voice said. “What sort of alien shit is this? Are they even fucking human? This is so fucking weird. No mate these ain’t fucking real people? Wait, what do you mean they are? Finn at least get my face in fucking shot.” The picture seemed to move before it came into focus on one face; namely Frank Windsor’s face. The shot seemed to move around and it was lots of people with weirdly coloured clothes and even stranger skin colour. “I can’t believe you convinced me to come to this fucking place when I could be spending some time with a proper women Finn; I could be out with Natalia,” Frank said. “This is a place full of fucking fake tanned morons who think they’re all that but really the world is laughing at them. The Sugar Hut is their fucking Mecca and you’ve brought me here. This is like their version of Herogasm.” “Yeah Frank,” Finn said. “If you can understand them, you can understand Havok a little bit more. He’s got their little, big man syndrome. They think they’re all that here but we all know their minnows compared to the Bastards.” Frank looked directly at Finn. “What’s that look for?” Finn asked. “That’s my resting bastard face Finn,” he said. “Now let’s gets some fucking stuff filmed before some of these orange, Botox addicted, trout lipped trollops think we’re fair game.” Finn brought the camera up as Frank got in position. “Hey Eddie boy, how they hanging?” Frank asked. “As you can see I’ve come to your neck of the fucking wood to see if I can get into your head space. Yes as you can see this is the fucking Sugar Hut, this is the home of the Oompa Lumpa namely the fucking women of Essex who’ll be buried in a Y-shaped coffin and when Time Team digs them up in one hundred years only the remains of their fake boobs will be left in the fucking grave. I better talk a little bit quietly or one of these bitches will lock onto their chance to get themselves known; better than going on Love Island or one of the other fucked up reality shows.” He looked around the night club before he turned back to the camera. “Anyway, I need to fucking talk to you Eddie,” he continued. “How could you have the fucking audacity of thinking that you have the fucking right to put your hands on the Wrestle: UK World Heavyweight Champion. Do you really think that by putting your hands on Fowler that there wouldn’t be any fallout? You know the thing if you put your hands on one Bastard you get the attention of the other Bastards and this week will be your payment bitch.” A smirk crossed his face for a split second. “Nothing comes for fucking free these days Eddie, just look at what’s going down in America at the moment,” Frank said. “You think that because you LOST your Wrestle: UK World Championship match against Fowler and that guy from SWAT that you deserve that gold belt that Fowler carries with pride. No mate, it don’t fall that way. This ain’t one of those soap operas you’re probably sitting at home watching now. I know Robbie looks like the third Mitchell brother but don’t hold that against him. If anyone deserves a shot at Billy’s belt you’re at the back of the fucking queue. Anyway with being the current and defending SWAT tag champions we should listen to what that SWAT guy says………Fuck off you muppet, the Bastards have eclipsed what that promotion did. We killed the rest of that fucking promotion. Oh and that Goth kid's got nothing on the Bastards. Get yourself a partner mate and bring it on and we may see if we can let you have the SWAT tag belts back as we know they are so fucking precious to you.” He went to caress the tag championship belt that was usually on his shoulder but then realised it wasn’t there. “This week I have made sure to be booked against you Eddie but that I will not give me any justification when I beat as it is just a set up for what is to come,” he said. It’s the best booking that our owners could have done as they probably thought up rest of the matches for the show whilst masturbating all over the backside of one of their favourite farm yard animals. They are like some cock wombling spunk-flutes. Do they really want to get into the Bastards business by playing with us? Do they believe they can get under our skin as we are the Bastards? Well the owner better take that vibrator out of his ass if he thinks he’s going to get one over on the Bastards. Just because we ain’t company men and bad mouth the Network that pays our fucking wages.” Frank caressed his sun glasses. He was angry but still held a calm demeanour. “Come on,” he said. “We speak the speak; we tell it as it is. We ain’t one of those company men. You know the ones I’m talking about don’t you? You know the ones right? The ones who’s monotone voices cures insomnia and are as goddamn dim as a bunch fucking gold fish.” A smile appeared on Frank Windsor's face even it was hard to see his teeth through the perfectly trimmed beard. “Frank Windsor has, had enough of complete an utter pricks trying to piggy back their careers off of the back of someone like him or his boys,” he said. “The Bastards have seen it happen all the time whilst they ran rampant through the ranks of all the Wrestling promotions that they have been a part of. They are jealous as the Bastards are the biggest thing in professional wrestling, PERIOD! Some wrestlers would blindly want you to acknowledge their greatness BUT we are the fucking Bastards.” He nodded. “People had caught a whiff of what the Bastards were about and wanted to be a part of it as to them they are what this business is all about,” he said. “They are literally like Vampires. They like to leech off of the big talent of the moment and that is what the Bastard’s are at the moment. That was what the King of Yorkshire is all about. It is the big bad that you hear about everywhere. Frank Windsor and the rest of the Bastards have tried to showcase their skills elsewhere but have been screwed over like some cheap ass chicks and not in the good way. No lubrication or whatever which is why we’re showcasing our skills here.” Frank turned back to the camera. “Hey Havok, Frank is like the John or Paul of Wrestle: UK not the Ringo like you,” Frank continued. “I am like Michael Jackson without the kiddie shit and you are like the Tito. People think that Robbie is the real powerhouse of the Bastards but we know we’re all that good even Fowler but Robbie is the walking example of Jenga, the more you play with it the harder it gets. And that’s like him in the squared circle; he is as hard as fuck in the ring. No pun fucking intended but he’s passed the torch to Fowler for the moment.” He thought to himself as some loose morale Essex girl walked passed him flaunting her wares. "Now where was I before I got interrupted?” he asked. “Oh yeah, it seems that on this week’s show there is a number one contenders match for one set of Tag Championship belts that the Bastards have around their fucking waists. Who we got to choose from as our next fucking opponents? Which of these other two-bit Indy teams can hang with the Bastards so they can get the Superstar rub? This is not fifty shades of Windsor. This week we see Dark Stars versus Oblivion Death Squad to see which team comes for the Bastard’s Wrestle: UK World fucking Heavyweight Tag Championship belts. One moronic team that shares one brain cell and the other that the Champs have beaten SOOOOOO many fucking times it’s getting fucking silly.” Frank shook his head. “Oblivion Death Squad?” he asked. “Those two morons sidekicks of that clown Donzig really think they can come for the Champs? Now this will be funny as to be honest we’ve scared off all of the teams that could have a chance against the Bastards but I’m thinking ahead of myself and I need to concentrate on the Sunday Cyclist guy Eddie Havok………what a fuck-tard, now fuck off!”