Post by robriot on Sept 19, 2022 9:57:04 GMT -5
The scene: a long, dark corridor. There isn't enough light in here to make out anything in detail, but there's just enough to make out the shapes of flags hanging limply from poles attached high up on the walls. At the end of the corridor is a high-backed chair, and in the chair is a man. If you knew a thing or two about history, architecture, or culture, you'd probably hazard a guess that it might be a throne room.
As the lights turn on one by one, starting close to the camera and then rolling towards the back of the room, the guess is revealed to be correct. This is a throne room - or, at least, a room mocked up to look like a throne room, and the man on the throne is Rob Riot. But this isn't Rob Riot the way we usually see him. Rather than tweed or silk, he's wearing a bespoke Savile Row suit. He holds a sceptre in one hand and an orb in the other, and on his head, he wears a crown. Every single one of the flags hanging from the walls is the Union Jack. If the scene looks strangely familiar, it's because you've been watching too much of the news for the past ten days.
The camera moves forward, eventually pausing a few feet away from the Riot Star. As he’s elevated on the throne, the position of the camera makes it appear almost as if we’re bowing to him. Riot sneers. His mouth is turned up into a tight smile, but there’s no mirth in his eyes.
"Now, the last time you heard me talk before a Wrestle:UK event, I was talking about the death of Queen Elizabeth and the fall of empires. Those words fell on deaf ears. Given this setting, you’re probably expecting me to do the same again. I’m not. That’s over now. The Queen is dead, the mourning period is over, and England stands ready to crown a new King. A King that nobody wants and nobody asked for. See, there was something quaint about having a Queen. There was something charming about us. She was a living connection to the past. To a time when Britain genuinely was "Great." To a time when the world trembled at the feet of our mighty armies. To a time when we truly had… a Commonwealth."
He tips the camera a wink as it becomes apparent where he’s going with this.
"Have you ever pondered the meaning of that title you wear around your waist, Eron Hunter? Have you ever considered its significance? Not the title itself, but the history that comes with the word. A history of servitude and slavery. Of pillage and pageantry. Of awe and archaism. You, whether you're aware of it or not, are dressed in the cloak of a faded Empire and a forgotten world. You're the face of a power structure that no longer exists. You're the figurehead of the past. You, Eron Hunter, are the champion of the Commonwealth - and you've fought so hard not only to put yourself there but to hold onto that rank. How imperial of you. How dutiful. Would you like to serve this crown, Eron?"
He indicates the impressive-looking crown on his head, pointing to it and then taking it off so he can inspect it himself. In doing so, he sets down his sceptre and orb.
"I think you would. I think you'd enjoy the rank and the respect that came with it. The Protector of the Crown! Now, me, on the other hand? I'm no servant. Don't get me wrong, I'd love to be King, but I'm not a fan of bowing and scraping. I'm not a fan of procession and protocol. And as for all the robes and the crowns and the gold - well, it's all a little bit Donzig, isn't it?"
He stands up, tossing the crown aside, and walks away from the throne, advancing down the corridor. The camera tracks back, keeping pace with him.
"See, Kings of England used to be battlefield leaders, and I’m no history buff, but I don’t think new King Charlie ever fought a damn battle in his whole life. The crown of England is about to pass onto the head of a man who’s never tasted blood. If this country wanted to step forward - if it wanted to regain a modicum of the respect it’s lost over the decades, it would crown a man who’s shed, bled and tasted more than anyone. It would crown Rob Riot as the true King of England, and the Commonwealth would be mine to lead. I wouldn't even need the crown - I only need the mandate. But that’s not going to happen, is it? So instead, I’ll make myself content by taking your symbolic bauble. Your title. You’ve done a fine job of establishing that belt, Eron. You put it on the map, just as the Bastards established the tag team championship, but times in the Commonwealth - they are a-changing. Britain has a new Prime Minister, the country has a new King, and the Commonwealth needs a new champion."
By now, Riot is almost at the door. The camera can’t retreat back any further, so it holds position. Riot, in close-up, stares straight down the lens.
"I know I'm treading on a few toes here. Miss Julianna DiMaria, I can only apologise for the intrusion. I know you have unfinished business with Hunter. Ronnie Long, you're a piece of shit, and I'm glad this is an inconvenience to your plans. Julianna, Ronnie, Eron, whatever issues you have with each other, you're free to work them out to your heart's content the moment I've extracted the Commonwealth championship and taken it home with me. In the name of the Bastards. In the name of England. In the name of the Commonwealth. In the name…of the King."
Riot walks away, his footsteps echoing off the stone floor as the camera focuses on the throne and the discarded trinkets around it.
As the lights turn on one by one, starting close to the camera and then rolling towards the back of the room, the guess is revealed to be correct. This is a throne room - or, at least, a room mocked up to look like a throne room, and the man on the throne is Rob Riot. But this isn't Rob Riot the way we usually see him. Rather than tweed or silk, he's wearing a bespoke Savile Row suit. He holds a sceptre in one hand and an orb in the other, and on his head, he wears a crown. Every single one of the flags hanging from the walls is the Union Jack. If the scene looks strangely familiar, it's because you've been watching too much of the news for the past ten days.
The camera moves forward, eventually pausing a few feet away from the Riot Star. As he’s elevated on the throne, the position of the camera makes it appear almost as if we’re bowing to him. Riot sneers. His mouth is turned up into a tight smile, but there’s no mirth in his eyes.
"Now, the last time you heard me talk before a Wrestle:UK event, I was talking about the death of Queen Elizabeth and the fall of empires. Those words fell on deaf ears. Given this setting, you’re probably expecting me to do the same again. I’m not. That’s over now. The Queen is dead, the mourning period is over, and England stands ready to crown a new King. A King that nobody wants and nobody asked for. See, there was something quaint about having a Queen. There was something charming about us. She was a living connection to the past. To a time when Britain genuinely was "Great." To a time when the world trembled at the feet of our mighty armies. To a time when we truly had… a Commonwealth."
He tips the camera a wink as it becomes apparent where he’s going with this.
"Have you ever pondered the meaning of that title you wear around your waist, Eron Hunter? Have you ever considered its significance? Not the title itself, but the history that comes with the word. A history of servitude and slavery. Of pillage and pageantry. Of awe and archaism. You, whether you're aware of it or not, are dressed in the cloak of a faded Empire and a forgotten world. You're the face of a power structure that no longer exists. You're the figurehead of the past. You, Eron Hunter, are the champion of the Commonwealth - and you've fought so hard not only to put yourself there but to hold onto that rank. How imperial of you. How dutiful. Would you like to serve this crown, Eron?"
He indicates the impressive-looking crown on his head, pointing to it and then taking it off so he can inspect it himself. In doing so, he sets down his sceptre and orb.
"I think you would. I think you'd enjoy the rank and the respect that came with it. The Protector of the Crown! Now, me, on the other hand? I'm no servant. Don't get me wrong, I'd love to be King, but I'm not a fan of bowing and scraping. I'm not a fan of procession and protocol. And as for all the robes and the crowns and the gold - well, it's all a little bit Donzig, isn't it?"
He stands up, tossing the crown aside, and walks away from the throne, advancing down the corridor. The camera tracks back, keeping pace with him.
"See, Kings of England used to be battlefield leaders, and I’m no history buff, but I don’t think new King Charlie ever fought a damn battle in his whole life. The crown of England is about to pass onto the head of a man who’s never tasted blood. If this country wanted to step forward - if it wanted to regain a modicum of the respect it’s lost over the decades, it would crown a man who’s shed, bled and tasted more than anyone. It would crown Rob Riot as the true King of England, and the Commonwealth would be mine to lead. I wouldn't even need the crown - I only need the mandate. But that’s not going to happen, is it? So instead, I’ll make myself content by taking your symbolic bauble. Your title. You’ve done a fine job of establishing that belt, Eron. You put it on the map, just as the Bastards established the tag team championship, but times in the Commonwealth - they are a-changing. Britain has a new Prime Minister, the country has a new King, and the Commonwealth needs a new champion."
By now, Riot is almost at the door. The camera can’t retreat back any further, so it holds position. Riot, in close-up, stares straight down the lens.
"I know I'm treading on a few toes here. Miss Julianna DiMaria, I can only apologise for the intrusion. I know you have unfinished business with Hunter. Ronnie Long, you're a piece of shit, and I'm glad this is an inconvenience to your plans. Julianna, Ronnie, Eron, whatever issues you have with each other, you're free to work them out to your heart's content the moment I've extracted the Commonwealth championship and taken it home with me. In the name of the Bastards. In the name of England. In the name of the Commonwealth. In the name…of the King."
Riot walks away, his footsteps echoing off the stone floor as the camera focuses on the throne and the discarded trinkets around it.