Post by robriot on Nov 8, 2022 8:17:21 GMT -5
SLAM. Rob Riot slaps the bonnet (or hood, for you Americans) of The Bastards' signature Ford Cortina with an open hand. He's just finished re-attaching Billy Fowler's W:UK World Heavyweight Championship belt to it, where it has pride of place on the front of the car. It's flanked on either side by the W:UK Tag Team Championships, held by himself and Frank Windsor, and down the sides of the car are the NPW and SWAT Tag Team Championships, nailed into place.
Why do The Bastards do this? Two reasons. Firstly, when they drive into the arena in a broken-down old car from the 1980s, they want their opponents to know that they're laughing at them. Secondly, it's the equivalent of putting skulls on sticks. If you want to know where all the gold is in Wrestle: UK, all you need to do is look at the shit-heap of a car The Bastards are driving.
Having secured the richest prize in wrestling to the car, Riot hops up alongside it, sitting on the hood and addressing the camera that’s been watching him this whole time.
"We make the point once. We make the point twice. We make the point one hundred times. Every time we make it, we make it louder - and yet there are still people who pretend they can't hear. Let me say it for all of you one more time, you yapping children. This is The Bastards time, on The Bastards channel, in The Bastards promotion. We hold the gold, we draw the money, and you dine on the crumbs from our table. That goes for all of you equally, and yes, Donzig, that includes you. Whether you've been here since day one or you've just walked through the door into the house that we built, none of you squawking brats can keep our names out of your mouths. You keep talking. We'll keep collecting titles - and yes, the emphasis is on 'keep,' because we're not done. We do, however, have a problem."
Riot bows his head and shakes it for a moment. He’s about to address a topic he’s addressed repeatedly in the past few weeks, but the same issue remains.
"There should be one more title here. Eventually, there will be another two, but there should be at least one. As everybody knows and everybody saw, I was robbed of the Wrestle: UK Commonwealth Championship by Ronnie Long. I had Hunter down. I had Hunter beaten. Who rushes the ring and robs me? Ronnie Long and The Glucks. Who gets rewarded for doing so? Ronnie Long and The Glucks. Now The Glucks have already taken their punishment, but Long's still running like the coward he is. I'll get him eventually, but the powers that be here keeping him out of my way are making my life harder. It's not just Long they're keeping out of my reach, either. It's gold. See, I couldn't help but notice that a whole new championship has been born here in Wrestle: UK. A British Television Championship, with a tournament to crown the first champion. So I'm robbed of the Commonwealth Championship, but at least I get to crack some skulls and pick up this new championship instead. Only I don't. Because I'm kept away from that, too."
He reaches out across the hood and places a hand on each of the tag team championships, almost caressing them as he does.
"Now, don't get me wrong. I love being a tag team champion. I love defending these belts with Frank and turning back every challenger who dares to knock at our door. And I know that Frank Windsor is going to enter that tournament, beat everybody in it, and bring the Television Championship back to The Bastards. There isn't a single doubt in my mind. So that's Fowler dressed in singles gold and Windsor dressed in singles gold. Where, wrestling fans, is my singles gold? Where are the opportunities for the greatest one-on-one wrestler ever to set foot between these ropes? Where's my recognition? Where, WHERE.."
He slams his fists on the hood again to emphasise his point.
"..is my respect? Nowhere. And this isn't about Billy Fowler becoming the focal point of The Bastards or Frank Windsor getting championship opportunities. They deserve them. It's about me getting screwed. I used to know a thing or two about conspiracies, Mr Blood. I used to know a thing or two about conspiracies, and I used to know a guy in a mask who took care of them. Trust me when I say that you don't want to meet that man because if you think the way The Bastards have taken control of your promotion is bad, you've seen nothing of what the Janus Man can do. Now, I've only said his name once. Don't say it three times lest he appears. In the meantime, I see that you've seen fit to feed me Leon Van Zandt in a total throwaway of a match."
In a deliberately exaggerated manner, Riot throws his head back, rolls his eyes and sighs.
"Leon. Look. You're one of Osland's boys. You and he and your little gang want a slice of The Bastards just like everyone else in this business does. You're even going to get one very soon, as you and your bosom buddy Jay-Jay have bagged yourself a tag team title shot so you can start 2023 off with a crushing defeat. Think of that like a very late, very painful Christmas gift. What you should have done between now and then is stayed as far away from me as possible. We can do the macho thing and pretend that neither of us knows who the other is, or what they've done, or what they're capable of, but let's cut the act. Let's drop the bullshit. You know exactly who I am, and I know exactly who you are, and you know that nothing you've done in your entire career is on my level. You've been fed to me as something to break so I can take out my frustrations at being screwed out of the title picture once again - and while it might not be your fault, I WILL vent those frustrations. So when you're broken, and you're bleeding, and you're looking at the lights - remember to blame Mr Blood."
He pauses, looks at the camera for a moment longer, and then borrows a line from Frank.
“Now fuck off.”
Why do The Bastards do this? Two reasons. Firstly, when they drive into the arena in a broken-down old car from the 1980s, they want their opponents to know that they're laughing at them. Secondly, it's the equivalent of putting skulls on sticks. If you want to know where all the gold is in Wrestle: UK, all you need to do is look at the shit-heap of a car The Bastards are driving.
Having secured the richest prize in wrestling to the car, Riot hops up alongside it, sitting on the hood and addressing the camera that’s been watching him this whole time.
"We make the point once. We make the point twice. We make the point one hundred times. Every time we make it, we make it louder - and yet there are still people who pretend they can't hear. Let me say it for all of you one more time, you yapping children. This is The Bastards time, on The Bastards channel, in The Bastards promotion. We hold the gold, we draw the money, and you dine on the crumbs from our table. That goes for all of you equally, and yes, Donzig, that includes you. Whether you've been here since day one or you've just walked through the door into the house that we built, none of you squawking brats can keep our names out of your mouths. You keep talking. We'll keep collecting titles - and yes, the emphasis is on 'keep,' because we're not done. We do, however, have a problem."
Riot bows his head and shakes it for a moment. He’s about to address a topic he’s addressed repeatedly in the past few weeks, but the same issue remains.
"There should be one more title here. Eventually, there will be another two, but there should be at least one. As everybody knows and everybody saw, I was robbed of the Wrestle: UK Commonwealth Championship by Ronnie Long. I had Hunter down. I had Hunter beaten. Who rushes the ring and robs me? Ronnie Long and The Glucks. Who gets rewarded for doing so? Ronnie Long and The Glucks. Now The Glucks have already taken their punishment, but Long's still running like the coward he is. I'll get him eventually, but the powers that be here keeping him out of my way are making my life harder. It's not just Long they're keeping out of my reach, either. It's gold. See, I couldn't help but notice that a whole new championship has been born here in Wrestle: UK. A British Television Championship, with a tournament to crown the first champion. So I'm robbed of the Commonwealth Championship, but at least I get to crack some skulls and pick up this new championship instead. Only I don't. Because I'm kept away from that, too."
He reaches out across the hood and places a hand on each of the tag team championships, almost caressing them as he does.
"Now, don't get me wrong. I love being a tag team champion. I love defending these belts with Frank and turning back every challenger who dares to knock at our door. And I know that Frank Windsor is going to enter that tournament, beat everybody in it, and bring the Television Championship back to The Bastards. There isn't a single doubt in my mind. So that's Fowler dressed in singles gold and Windsor dressed in singles gold. Where, wrestling fans, is my singles gold? Where are the opportunities for the greatest one-on-one wrestler ever to set foot between these ropes? Where's my recognition? Where, WHERE.."
He slams his fists on the hood again to emphasise his point.
"..is my respect? Nowhere. And this isn't about Billy Fowler becoming the focal point of The Bastards or Frank Windsor getting championship opportunities. They deserve them. It's about me getting screwed. I used to know a thing or two about conspiracies, Mr Blood. I used to know a thing or two about conspiracies, and I used to know a guy in a mask who took care of them. Trust me when I say that you don't want to meet that man because if you think the way The Bastards have taken control of your promotion is bad, you've seen nothing of what the Janus Man can do. Now, I've only said his name once. Don't say it three times lest he appears. In the meantime, I see that you've seen fit to feed me Leon Van Zandt in a total throwaway of a match."
In a deliberately exaggerated manner, Riot throws his head back, rolls his eyes and sighs.
"Leon. Look. You're one of Osland's boys. You and he and your little gang want a slice of The Bastards just like everyone else in this business does. You're even going to get one very soon, as you and your bosom buddy Jay-Jay have bagged yourself a tag team title shot so you can start 2023 off with a crushing defeat. Think of that like a very late, very painful Christmas gift. What you should have done between now and then is stayed as far away from me as possible. We can do the macho thing and pretend that neither of us knows who the other is, or what they've done, or what they're capable of, but let's cut the act. Let's drop the bullshit. You know exactly who I am, and I know exactly who you are, and you know that nothing you've done in your entire career is on my level. You've been fed to me as something to break so I can take out my frustrations at being screwed out of the title picture once again - and while it might not be your fault, I WILL vent those frustrations. So when you're broken, and you're bleeding, and you're looking at the lights - remember to blame Mr Blood."
He pauses, looks at the camera for a moment longer, and then borrows a line from Frank.
“Now fuck off.”