Post by robriot on Sept 11, 2022 14:40:47 GMT -5
As the scene opens, we're peering over the shoulder of somebody unseen as they sit on a comfortable-looking leather sofa and gaze at their enormous television screen. The scene on the television screen is the same as that on television screens up and down the UK and much of the wider world at the moment - rolling coverage of the death of Queen Elizabeth II. The longest-reigning monarch in British history. The only one that upwards of ninety per cent of British people have ever known, and one of the most recognisable people in the world. Dead. Kaput. Fin. The death of a 96-year-old woman should never be shocking, and yet this one seems to be. People weren't prepared for it.
The camera pans around the sofa to reveal Rob Riot - for who else was it going to be - thoughtfully taking a sip of whisky as he ponders the scene. He’s aware of the camera - he just isn’t looking at it yet.
“I’m no royalist. Never have been, never will be. But this? This feels like a moment in history. The end of something that felt at times like it would never end. The passing of someone who often seemed to be immortal. It’s a strange thing to see, and it got me thinking. To be more specific, it got me thinking about you, Donzig.”
He pauses for a moment, setting the whisky down and keeping both eyes on the long, slow parade happening on his television screen. This is Riot’s private cinema room. He usually comes here to study footage of his opponents, but he’s willing to make an exception for Her Majesty, given the circumstances.
“Yes, Donzig, I’m talking specifically to you. Not any of the pissants and buzzing flies who seem to want the attention of the Bastards these days. Not the Dark Stars. Not the allegedly Awesome Bastards, who’ll shortly be hearing from our lawyers. Not Sinclair Godfrey, and certainly not Mork and Mindy or whatever the names of your two steroid-infused meat puppets are. You. Because you should be doing what I’m doing right now. You should be watching all of this very carefully. So do it. Watch.”
Riot takes another pause to allow the camera and, presumably, Donzig to follow his instruction. The Queen’s coffin, draped in the Royal Standard, makes its way past thousands of mourners down Scottish streets. Flowers are thrown into its path. Behind steel barriers, people who’d never met this woman for a single second in their lives openly weep. The Queen may not have held any true political power, but she was a figurehead. She was the one constant in the lives of a lot of these people. She’s left behind a void.
"Do you see, Donzig? Not the people. Not the procession. The coffin. See, you like to think of yourself as a god, don't you? Well, perhaps not a god in the truest sense of the word, but a god-king. An emperor. A leader of men, a smirking tyrant, a master of all he sees. In your mind, you're the king of your own world, and you have been for a very long time. There have even been times when you've been a leader in the real world, although I don't rate your current gang of minions very highly. Well, look upon this scene, oh mighty emperor. This is finality. This is reality. This is a reminder that everything eventually turns to ash. Emperors and god-kings are human, and humans fail. In the end, humans die. If they haven't planned carefully for the event, their empires soon topple after they're gone. Now the Queen, she lived to a ripe old age, but tyrants? Monstrous god-kings like you? I think something more akin to the fate of Charles the First is in your future, Donzig. Sooner or later, someone will come for you. Unless you cast your gaze elsewhere in the very near future, that 'someone' is going to be me. I've been happy to sit back and watch Frank handle you for this long, but now? Now you're starting to annoy me. You're probably wondering why I'm talking to you rather than Mork and Mindy, the Obviously On Meth Squad, but you shouldn't be. The reason is this."
He reaches off-screen, grabs something from the sofa, and then holds it up to the camera. It's the W:UK Tag Team Championship belt.
"I'm more than well aware of how people get championship opportunities in Wrestle:UK. I know that Mork and Mindy are nowhere near the top of the contender rankings. That means somebody leaned on Mr Blood to make this happen and that someone, Donzig, was you. It doesn't matter how many times the Bastards block your path, hand you an L or otherwise frustrate you; you'll always find another way to get involved in our business. You had no real business in that Bastards versus SWAT match, but you put yourself there anyway. Now you're politicking for your pet muscle monkeys to get shots at our titles when they should be at the back of the line behind more deserving people, by which I mean pretty much everybody else on the roster. You couldn't stand us when we came back to wrestling in NPW, you can't stand the success we've had since, and you can't stand us now. So if you want to do something about it, do something about it. But don't send Mork and Mindy. Don't send Sinclair. Don't open your phone book and send Luther or Gavin. You know as well as I do that we'll beat them all."
Riot kisses his W:UK tag team championship and then holds it out to the camera again.
"If you want these titles off us, Donzig - if you want to stop the Bastards train, do something to surprise me. Do something I don't think you know how to do. Find some courage, some dignity and a pair of functioning testicles, and do it yourself. As long as you keep sending your acolytes, we'll keep sending them back home to you broken. Pick a dance partner and step up. But I warn you now, when all's said and done, and my boot is planted on your neck, every onlooker in the wrestling world will look at your beaten body and proclaim, 'the king is dead, long live the king.' Now get on out of here. I've got some North Korea-style state-mandated mourning to do."
The scene fades out.
The camera pans around the sofa to reveal Rob Riot - for who else was it going to be - thoughtfully taking a sip of whisky as he ponders the scene. He’s aware of the camera - he just isn’t looking at it yet.
“I’m no royalist. Never have been, never will be. But this? This feels like a moment in history. The end of something that felt at times like it would never end. The passing of someone who often seemed to be immortal. It’s a strange thing to see, and it got me thinking. To be more specific, it got me thinking about you, Donzig.”
He pauses for a moment, setting the whisky down and keeping both eyes on the long, slow parade happening on his television screen. This is Riot’s private cinema room. He usually comes here to study footage of his opponents, but he’s willing to make an exception for Her Majesty, given the circumstances.
“Yes, Donzig, I’m talking specifically to you. Not any of the pissants and buzzing flies who seem to want the attention of the Bastards these days. Not the Dark Stars. Not the allegedly Awesome Bastards, who’ll shortly be hearing from our lawyers. Not Sinclair Godfrey, and certainly not Mork and Mindy or whatever the names of your two steroid-infused meat puppets are. You. Because you should be doing what I’m doing right now. You should be watching all of this very carefully. So do it. Watch.”
Riot takes another pause to allow the camera and, presumably, Donzig to follow his instruction. The Queen’s coffin, draped in the Royal Standard, makes its way past thousands of mourners down Scottish streets. Flowers are thrown into its path. Behind steel barriers, people who’d never met this woman for a single second in their lives openly weep. The Queen may not have held any true political power, but she was a figurehead. She was the one constant in the lives of a lot of these people. She’s left behind a void.
"Do you see, Donzig? Not the people. Not the procession. The coffin. See, you like to think of yourself as a god, don't you? Well, perhaps not a god in the truest sense of the word, but a god-king. An emperor. A leader of men, a smirking tyrant, a master of all he sees. In your mind, you're the king of your own world, and you have been for a very long time. There have even been times when you've been a leader in the real world, although I don't rate your current gang of minions very highly. Well, look upon this scene, oh mighty emperor. This is finality. This is reality. This is a reminder that everything eventually turns to ash. Emperors and god-kings are human, and humans fail. In the end, humans die. If they haven't planned carefully for the event, their empires soon topple after they're gone. Now the Queen, she lived to a ripe old age, but tyrants? Monstrous god-kings like you? I think something more akin to the fate of Charles the First is in your future, Donzig. Sooner or later, someone will come for you. Unless you cast your gaze elsewhere in the very near future, that 'someone' is going to be me. I've been happy to sit back and watch Frank handle you for this long, but now? Now you're starting to annoy me. You're probably wondering why I'm talking to you rather than Mork and Mindy, the Obviously On Meth Squad, but you shouldn't be. The reason is this."
He reaches off-screen, grabs something from the sofa, and then holds it up to the camera. It's the W:UK Tag Team Championship belt.
"I'm more than well aware of how people get championship opportunities in Wrestle:UK. I know that Mork and Mindy are nowhere near the top of the contender rankings. That means somebody leaned on Mr Blood to make this happen and that someone, Donzig, was you. It doesn't matter how many times the Bastards block your path, hand you an L or otherwise frustrate you; you'll always find another way to get involved in our business. You had no real business in that Bastards versus SWAT match, but you put yourself there anyway. Now you're politicking for your pet muscle monkeys to get shots at our titles when they should be at the back of the line behind more deserving people, by which I mean pretty much everybody else on the roster. You couldn't stand us when we came back to wrestling in NPW, you can't stand the success we've had since, and you can't stand us now. So if you want to do something about it, do something about it. But don't send Mork and Mindy. Don't send Sinclair. Don't open your phone book and send Luther or Gavin. You know as well as I do that we'll beat them all."
Riot kisses his W:UK tag team championship and then holds it out to the camera again.
"If you want these titles off us, Donzig - if you want to stop the Bastards train, do something to surprise me. Do something I don't think you know how to do. Find some courage, some dignity and a pair of functioning testicles, and do it yourself. As long as you keep sending your acolytes, we'll keep sending them back home to you broken. Pick a dance partner and step up. But I warn you now, when all's said and done, and my boot is planted on your neck, every onlooker in the wrestling world will look at your beaten body and proclaim, 'the king is dead, long live the king.' Now get on out of here. I've got some North Korea-style state-mandated mourning to do."
The scene fades out.