Malice (vs Eddie Havok)
Oct 21, 2022 4:32:11 GMT -5
Mongo the Destroyer, Frank Windsor, and 1 more like this
Post by fowler on Oct 21, 2022 4:32:11 GMT -5
The night air hung with a heavy fog as it often does in England in October. The weather patterns in transition from warm summer to cold winter often creates a paradox where it’s cold but maybe not quite cold enough for a big heavy coat.
We’re outside the Skulls of Grimm’s club house. A rough biker bar that Eddie Havok likes to call his home. There are a group of bikers hanging outside the front door, beers in hand, leather covering them. Beards, shaved heads and tattoos seem to be the uniform of choice. From inside a monotonous dum, dun dun, dum dun, can heard as drums and bass drive a generic rock rhythm.
Outside everything seems quiet, which is a good sign for the bikers as Eddie and his main boys have gone out for the evening. Well at least all was quiet.
One of the bikers lifts his heavily bearded head upward to his right, listening to a faint sound growing louder. The party of four turn and look down the street to be greeted with a peculiar sight.
The sound precedes the sight, the sound of motors pitched high and giving an almost ringing tone, for coming down the road were three mopeds. Brightly coloured Red, White and Blue, bedecked with more mirrors than the ceiling of Franks Windsor’s bedroom. On the bikes were three riders, wearing parker coats and sunglasses, looking like 1960’s Mods.
As the mopeds pulled up outside the club house the bikers recognised the riders instantly as the Bastards. As they climb off their mopeds and calmly tuck their glasses into the pockets of their coats the four bikers rush down the steps towards them, ready to deliver the first blows.
As a biker runs at Riot he quickly sidesteps and delivers a right hook to the jaw that sends the man crashing to the floor.
Frank Windsor quickly locks his man in a sleeper, choking the air from the biker’s lungs until he passes out. Whilst Fowler sent on the remaining two flying into the side his moped and hoisted the other high into the air before delivering a powerbomb onto a nearby picnic table littered with empty pint glasses.
The three Bastards looked at each other.
Riot: “These coats are fucking warm,”
Fowler: “You want to piss these pricks off, right? Bikers hate Mods!”
Windsor: “Well we’ve got the upper hand, let’s not stand here with our dicks in our hands!”
The three men calmly walk up the steps and into the club house. It’s a scene of disorder, the club house is looking pretty filthy and in the absence of Havok the bikers are treating the place like a dive bar. There must be about 12 men in here, and an assortment of what the Bastards would assume to be women, but it’s not overly clear. The bikers don’t even notice the three men enter. As they take in the scene before them, Fowler turns to Riot and nods. With that Rob calmly walks across the room to a nearly tablet plugged into the sound system. He scrolls through Spotify navigating his way from the biker’s hard rock playlist to something much different.
Suddenly the mood in the room changes as the sound of clicking and thick bass tones fill the air followed by a beautiful organ before the voice of Paul Weller kicks in with the words of “Town Called Malice”. The bikers all stop and stare at Rob who smiles at them.
Riot: “Welcome to the party boys!”
Suddenly Fowler and Windsor appear behind the group of bikers; they have acquired a pool cue each. They tap a couple of the group on the shoulder before laying in with the makeshift clubs. Riot soon dives across the room to join the fray. After a few minutes there are leather clad bodies lying across the room, broken glasses littered everywhere, and the dirty club house now looks like the site of a massacre.
Fowler walks among the bodies, surveying the devastation that he and his friends have brought to the Skulls of Grimm. He smiles as he kicks shards of glass into the back of the head of one downed member.
He reaches down and pulls off his patch, holding it up in the air.
Fowler: “So this is what it’s come to. We’ve tried to be civil Eddie, for the sake of the welfare of Wrestle: UK we tried to behave and act like consummate professionals because that’s what we thought was needed. The days of the Bastards behaving like hoodlums and having to kick the living shit out people just to keep them in line seemed like they were over. But you had to follow us Eddie, and you had to keep poking the god damn bear.
Rob deal with this piece of shit…”
Fowler throws the leather vest across the room to Riot who takes out a Stanley Knife and cuts the patch off. He then takes the patch and using a cigarette lighter set it aflame.
Fowler: “We were in danger of going around in circles Eddie. The same old shit every day, you talk about how no one believed in you, no one respected you, you proved them wrong, you’re the champ, blah blah blah blah fucking blah!
I’m cutting the circle Eddie, no more bitching, no more moaning and complaining.
You want to know the truth Eddie, we’re about to get to the truth. And where better to discuss it then right here in your front room. Surrounded by the army of cocksuckers and child molesters that you need to associate yourself with.
Well we’ve dealt with this lot, just a shame you and your boys weren’t here to be party of the party.
So sit tight and get comfortable, because the truth is a bitter pill to swallow.
We’re outside the Skulls of Grimm’s club house. A rough biker bar that Eddie Havok likes to call his home. There are a group of bikers hanging outside the front door, beers in hand, leather covering them. Beards, shaved heads and tattoos seem to be the uniform of choice. From inside a monotonous dum, dun dun, dum dun, can heard as drums and bass drive a generic rock rhythm.
Outside everything seems quiet, which is a good sign for the bikers as Eddie and his main boys have gone out for the evening. Well at least all was quiet.
One of the bikers lifts his heavily bearded head upward to his right, listening to a faint sound growing louder. The party of four turn and look down the street to be greeted with a peculiar sight.
The sound precedes the sight, the sound of motors pitched high and giving an almost ringing tone, for coming down the road were three mopeds. Brightly coloured Red, White and Blue, bedecked with more mirrors than the ceiling of Franks Windsor’s bedroom. On the bikes were three riders, wearing parker coats and sunglasses, looking like 1960’s Mods.
As the mopeds pulled up outside the club house the bikers recognised the riders instantly as the Bastards. As they climb off their mopeds and calmly tuck their glasses into the pockets of their coats the four bikers rush down the steps towards them, ready to deliver the first blows.
As a biker runs at Riot he quickly sidesteps and delivers a right hook to the jaw that sends the man crashing to the floor.
Frank Windsor quickly locks his man in a sleeper, choking the air from the biker’s lungs until he passes out. Whilst Fowler sent on the remaining two flying into the side his moped and hoisted the other high into the air before delivering a powerbomb onto a nearby picnic table littered with empty pint glasses.
The three Bastards looked at each other.
Riot: “These coats are fucking warm,”
Fowler: “You want to piss these pricks off, right? Bikers hate Mods!”
Windsor: “Well we’ve got the upper hand, let’s not stand here with our dicks in our hands!”
The three men calmly walk up the steps and into the club house. It’s a scene of disorder, the club house is looking pretty filthy and in the absence of Havok the bikers are treating the place like a dive bar. There must be about 12 men in here, and an assortment of what the Bastards would assume to be women, but it’s not overly clear. The bikers don’t even notice the three men enter. As they take in the scene before them, Fowler turns to Riot and nods. With that Rob calmly walks across the room to a nearly tablet plugged into the sound system. He scrolls through Spotify navigating his way from the biker’s hard rock playlist to something much different.
Suddenly the mood in the room changes as the sound of clicking and thick bass tones fill the air followed by a beautiful organ before the voice of Paul Weller kicks in with the words of “Town Called Malice”. The bikers all stop and stare at Rob who smiles at them.
Riot: “Welcome to the party boys!”
Suddenly Fowler and Windsor appear behind the group of bikers; they have acquired a pool cue each. They tap a couple of the group on the shoulder before laying in with the makeshift clubs. Riot soon dives across the room to join the fray. After a few minutes there are leather clad bodies lying across the room, broken glasses littered everywhere, and the dirty club house now looks like the site of a massacre.
Fowler walks among the bodies, surveying the devastation that he and his friends have brought to the Skulls of Grimm. He smiles as he kicks shards of glass into the back of the head of one downed member.
He reaches down and pulls off his patch, holding it up in the air.
Fowler: “So this is what it’s come to. We’ve tried to be civil Eddie, for the sake of the welfare of Wrestle: UK we tried to behave and act like consummate professionals because that’s what we thought was needed. The days of the Bastards behaving like hoodlums and having to kick the living shit out people just to keep them in line seemed like they were over. But you had to follow us Eddie, and you had to keep poking the god damn bear.
Rob deal with this piece of shit…”
Fowler throws the leather vest across the room to Riot who takes out a Stanley Knife and cuts the patch off. He then takes the patch and using a cigarette lighter set it aflame.
Fowler: “We were in danger of going around in circles Eddie. The same old shit every day, you talk about how no one believed in you, no one respected you, you proved them wrong, you’re the champ, blah blah blah blah fucking blah!
I’m cutting the circle Eddie, no more bitching, no more moaning and complaining.
You want to know the truth Eddie, we’re about to get to the truth. And where better to discuss it then right here in your front room. Surrounded by the army of cocksuckers and child molesters that you need to associate yourself with.
Well we’ve dealt with this lot, just a shame you and your boys weren’t here to be party of the party.
So sit tight and get comfortable, because the truth is a bitter pill to swallow.
