A Badman Gets Serious

[Frank Windsor]

One half of the Wrestle: UK tag championship belts was sat on top of a post with its front face plate pointed at the camera. Burning torches are on either side of it. A figure sat with his back to the camera. He was illuminated by the fire but his face cannot be seen. It was Frank Windsor, the Sultan of Schlong Time, the King of Yorkshire, the Gold Standard of Professional Wrestling. The wrestling sensation was coming off of one the best matches in his wrestling career and successfully defending the tag championship belts with his Bastards stable mate Rob Riot. “It is a well-known fact that the Bastards are the gold standard when it comes to professional wrestling,” Frank said. “With Billy regaining the gold strap that Eddie Havok had stolen from him a few months ago it has cemented the legacy of this group of ours. With Eddie firmly in Billy’s past he now moves on and defends his World Championship belt against the fuck window licker Donzig. What a fucking travesty for the company that this cunt even gets a slim chance of gaining Billy’s belt and he’s got to know that the whole of the group will be there to make sure this doesn’t happen.” He was dressed in a new pink and black "Bastards" T-shirt and black trousers. His hair was pushed back and had been working out as he is sweating under the light, which ran down the back of his neck. “We come off of the company’s first ever pay per view with great pride,” he continued. “With two of what all the big names in this sport of ours are saying could both be match of the year contenders. Not only did Billy defeat Havok but myself and Robbie successfully defending our Wrestle: UK Tag Championship belts against the Brothers Gluck sending them back to the start of the line. It is a well-known fact that that the Bastards are what is keeping this companies owner in the money so he can buy his Gregg’s sausage rolls but he needed to stop eating them and spend that money on getting some talent that could be great for us to work with.” Frank stood up and walked towards the belt. He looked directly at it. “Which seems to be what the cunt has done,” Frank muttered. “Leon Van Zandt! Jay Stevens! Now their reputations precede them as we do get the fucking Internet in this country. They’ve got some kind of following on there and have managed to squeeze passed the rest of the tag team in this company to get their shots at the belts myself and Robbie have put on the line show after fucking show.” He caressed the belt. “We see you, we see all of you,” he nodded as he continued. “You think by showing up and causing chaos that you can get under our skin? You think that it’s nothing that the Bastards haven’t seen before or actually done themselves to make a mark in this fucking industry we all love? Fuck that, it’s nothing new to us BUT you sure did make an impression on all those other tag teams that you played with whilst myself and Robbie went to fucking war with the Brother’s Gluck.” He picked up the belt and put it over his shoulders. “But that’s for some time in the fucking future as I ain’t got to worry about that for a while,” he said. “Seems as if the owner has thrown a spanner in the works; throwing the Wrestle: UK British TV Championship belt into the mix and instead of just handing it to one of the Bastards is a good thing to build the fucking tension in the shows and putting it in a tournament of sorts is going to be intriguing.” A smile appeared on his face. “Some big names are in this tournament even including the former World Champion Havok,” Frank visibly paused, switched gears mentally before he continued. “Must be a bit of a dig in the ribs where you drop from the guy at the top of the pack to this level Eddie? Must be heart breaking mate but on that subject don’t think I’ve forgotten what you and your goons did to my fucking arm so if we do meet in this tournament don’t think I’m not going to get my fucking revenge on you brah.” He pulled off his t-shirt to reveal the scarred and tattooed torso of his. “But I don’t have to worry about you from the fucking get go do I?” he asked. “Oxford Osland, I seem to have been picked as an opponent for you in the first fucking round. Now mate, I know we’ve supposedly interacted before on MY rise to greatness but I cannot be faulted for forgetting all of the names of the fucking enhancement talent I’ve stomped my fucking Doc Marten’s on.” His face was bathed in shadows. “Oxford,” he mumbled as he looks directly into the camera lens. “I see you fella, I can see what you’re trying to do with your little friends. You think ‘cos our Queen has died and been replaced by a King that is way passed the fucking retirement age and you take a dig at it in your little television appearances that it’ll get under everyone in the UK’s skin.” He shook his head. “Have you not watched much of the Bastards stuff before coming here Oxford?” Frank asked. “Have you not seen Robbie, Billy or myself talking shit? We’ve each got our own fucking things. Robbie’s very politically minded, Billy is a bit of a flat Earther whilst myself I just like to fucking fight so bring your best mate as you don’t know what it’s like to be in a fucking fight. You think that being brought up in Toronto, Ontario makes you a fucking hard nut? Try a Friday night in Bradford especially when the clocks change now that’s a time for fucking fighting. Now fuck off!”