Return of the King
Sept 27, 2022 8:05:05 GMT -5
Frank Windsor and "The High Roller" Wesley Crane like this
Post by robriot on Sept 27, 2022 8:05:05 GMT -5
“You extended my metaphors, Eron, so let’s see if I can extend them a little further.”
Rob Riot is back in the throne room again. It's not the same one that Eron Hunter used in his address - that would be a little odd - but the similarities between the rooms are strong and obvious. Riot stands before the throne, still wearing the expensive-looking suit he was dressed up in the last time we saw him. He discarded the crown during that address, but it's back in his hands now. He turns it over a few times, looking at it thoughtfully. It's highly unlikely that a professional wrestler has been granted access to the true crown jewels, but if this crown is a replica, it's a very good one.
"I heard what you had to say, and I couldn't help thinking once again of good old King Charles the Third. The new monarch. Long live the King indeed! Only people don't cry out 'long live the king' because they think he's going to drop dead on a battlefield, do they? That's not the way things work anymore. The king has no real power, and because he has no power, he's under no threat. Nobody's ever going to come and take the throne from Charles by force, and so wishing him a long life is like wishing a stranger happy birthday or Merry Christmas; it's glib. It's empty. It's just words. Are you following my meaning here, Eron? From the tone of your response to me, I'm not sure you are. Let's try a little harder."
Riot turns back to the throne, but he doesn't sit on it. Instead, he gently sets down the crown, patting it affectionately, almost as if it were a pet cat.
"When people say 'long live the King,' to this seventy-three-year-old man, to this latest crowned head of Europe, they're saying it because that's just what people say. They're not saying it because he's going to put his life on the line for the country by going to war. They're not saying it because he's to be feared, and that any perceived disrespect would be deemed just cause for him to sever your head from your shoulders and mount it on a spike outside his palace. Those days are gone. There's affection for the British Royal Family, and there's respect, but there's no longer fear. They're just an old curiosity, rolled out for the sake of pageantry. Now, you're going to accuse me of being pretentious here, Eron, but that's kind of how I felt when I heard what you had to say about me. That's not a great surprise, though; I've been hearing similar things since the moment I got back in the ring."
He sighs, deeply. This is something that’s been playing on his mind for a long time; a frustration. Someone was bound to be on the receiving end of it eventually, and all signs point to it being Eron.
“You had a chance to address me, and what did you do? You spoke about wanting to test yourself. Wanting to become immortal in this business. Stamping your identity on the hearts and minds of everybody who sees you. To do that, so you say, you need a good opponent, and so here I am. Good old Rob Riot. What a career I’ve had. How wonderful to hear how much you respect my experience. How gratified I am to hear that you think I’ve stayed relevant for all these years just by sticking around. What a beautiful sentiment it is that you want to test your resolve against me. Eron, do you think this is a sparring session? How old do you think I am? How spent do you think I am? More to the point, WHO do you think I am?”
His words have been measured thus far, but now there’s a spark of anger in his eye. We’ve seen Riot angry before, but this is different. This is old anger.
"I'm thirty-eight years old, Eron, not forty-eight. I'm not on a retirement tour. I'm not taking a final bow at every arena I fight in. I'm still in the prime of my career, and yet every guy I step in the ring with seems to have the same opinion of me. It's not just the boys in the back or the meatheads I'm in the ring with either; it's the fans. 'Oh hey, there's Rob Riot. Remember when he was a world champion? Man, he used to be good. Still, he's a great tag team guy now. It's good that he's found a way to keep working.' Apparently, that's all I am to the current generation. A tag team guy. A nostalgia act. A guy who can't even get a response from Donzig when he bites at his heels. If that's the tune that's being played, it's time to change it. It's time to play a new tune, and I'm going to play it, Eron, on your skull. So enough with the act…"
He starts stripping away the suit, one layer at a time, starting with the jacket.
"...and enough with the niceties. You want to test yourself against Rob Riot? You want to find out what the old guy still has in the tank? You, in your own words, invite me to pry the Commonwealth Championship from your cold dead fingers? Well, I can hardly think of a better way to close this regal loop we've been on together. That's how kings used to win. That's how empires were won and lost. Crowns, jewels and territories weren't handed over at the negotiating table - they were pried from the dead hands of the kings and emperors who lost them. The king is dead; long live the king. Only I'm no new king. This is the old king coming home. This is the only king. The twelve-time heavyweight champion of the world. The greatest to ever do it. The Riot Star. The Janus Man. The scourge of NLCW, the pinnacle of PWA, the only two-time champion of nGw, the architect of RSW. The one true champion of WrestleWars. I don't want your token respect, Eron; I want your fear."
He stands, stripped to the waist, glaring down at the camera as he picks up the crown and puts it back on his head.
“And I’ll take it when I take your Commonwealth Title.”
Rob Riot is back in the throne room again. It's not the same one that Eron Hunter used in his address - that would be a little odd - but the similarities between the rooms are strong and obvious. Riot stands before the throne, still wearing the expensive-looking suit he was dressed up in the last time we saw him. He discarded the crown during that address, but it's back in his hands now. He turns it over a few times, looking at it thoughtfully. It's highly unlikely that a professional wrestler has been granted access to the true crown jewels, but if this crown is a replica, it's a very good one.
"I heard what you had to say, and I couldn't help thinking once again of good old King Charles the Third. The new monarch. Long live the King indeed! Only people don't cry out 'long live the king' because they think he's going to drop dead on a battlefield, do they? That's not the way things work anymore. The king has no real power, and because he has no power, he's under no threat. Nobody's ever going to come and take the throne from Charles by force, and so wishing him a long life is like wishing a stranger happy birthday or Merry Christmas; it's glib. It's empty. It's just words. Are you following my meaning here, Eron? From the tone of your response to me, I'm not sure you are. Let's try a little harder."
Riot turns back to the throne, but he doesn't sit on it. Instead, he gently sets down the crown, patting it affectionately, almost as if it were a pet cat.
"When people say 'long live the King,' to this seventy-three-year-old man, to this latest crowned head of Europe, they're saying it because that's just what people say. They're not saying it because he's going to put his life on the line for the country by going to war. They're not saying it because he's to be feared, and that any perceived disrespect would be deemed just cause for him to sever your head from your shoulders and mount it on a spike outside his palace. Those days are gone. There's affection for the British Royal Family, and there's respect, but there's no longer fear. They're just an old curiosity, rolled out for the sake of pageantry. Now, you're going to accuse me of being pretentious here, Eron, but that's kind of how I felt when I heard what you had to say about me. That's not a great surprise, though; I've been hearing similar things since the moment I got back in the ring."
He sighs, deeply. This is something that’s been playing on his mind for a long time; a frustration. Someone was bound to be on the receiving end of it eventually, and all signs point to it being Eron.
“You had a chance to address me, and what did you do? You spoke about wanting to test yourself. Wanting to become immortal in this business. Stamping your identity on the hearts and minds of everybody who sees you. To do that, so you say, you need a good opponent, and so here I am. Good old Rob Riot. What a career I’ve had. How wonderful to hear how much you respect my experience. How gratified I am to hear that you think I’ve stayed relevant for all these years just by sticking around. What a beautiful sentiment it is that you want to test your resolve against me. Eron, do you think this is a sparring session? How old do you think I am? How spent do you think I am? More to the point, WHO do you think I am?”
His words have been measured thus far, but now there’s a spark of anger in his eye. We’ve seen Riot angry before, but this is different. This is old anger.
"I'm thirty-eight years old, Eron, not forty-eight. I'm not on a retirement tour. I'm not taking a final bow at every arena I fight in. I'm still in the prime of my career, and yet every guy I step in the ring with seems to have the same opinion of me. It's not just the boys in the back or the meatheads I'm in the ring with either; it's the fans. 'Oh hey, there's Rob Riot. Remember when he was a world champion? Man, he used to be good. Still, he's a great tag team guy now. It's good that he's found a way to keep working.' Apparently, that's all I am to the current generation. A tag team guy. A nostalgia act. A guy who can't even get a response from Donzig when he bites at his heels. If that's the tune that's being played, it's time to change it. It's time to play a new tune, and I'm going to play it, Eron, on your skull. So enough with the act…"
He starts stripping away the suit, one layer at a time, starting with the jacket.
"...and enough with the niceties. You want to test yourself against Rob Riot? You want to find out what the old guy still has in the tank? You, in your own words, invite me to pry the Commonwealth Championship from your cold dead fingers? Well, I can hardly think of a better way to close this regal loop we've been on together. That's how kings used to win. That's how empires were won and lost. Crowns, jewels and territories weren't handed over at the negotiating table - they were pried from the dead hands of the kings and emperors who lost them. The king is dead; long live the king. Only I'm no new king. This is the old king coming home. This is the only king. The twelve-time heavyweight champion of the world. The greatest to ever do it. The Riot Star. The Janus Man. The scourge of NLCW, the pinnacle of PWA, the only two-time champion of nGw, the architect of RSW. The one true champion of WrestleWars. I don't want your token respect, Eron; I want your fear."
He stands, stripped to the waist, glaring down at the camera as he picks up the crown and puts it back on his head.
“And I’ll take it when I take your Commonwealth Title.”