Post by leonvanzandt on Nov 13, 2022 0:51:01 GMT -5
“So we are playing this childish game of insults, then?”
Cold open.
Leon Van Zandt pushes through his personal gym, hauling a pair of rather large kettlebells in an exercise known as the Farmer’s Walk. His body tensed and his muscles rippling under his skin, the Belgian grappler trudges through the last few inches, before taking a moment and lowering his weights to the ground.
The camera closes in on The Professional’s face as he winced in fatigue, before looking at us.
“Rob Riot simply proves my point about his boorish, classless ways. A pity.”
The camera pulls back, giving Leon space as he walks a bit closer and sits on his mats.
“Well then. Wrestling has always been the domain of the working man. On this, Rob Riot is correct. But those working men who took to the sport and prospered, did so with some decorum and dignity. They did not drink themselves into a stupor for all to see.
“They did not think that nailing their trophies to a fixture unsuited for such a bauble was a ‘statement.’
“And they CERTAINLY did not try to act cute with geopolitical references or cracks about a nation’s culture. But if we’re going to play that game?”
Leon chuckles.
“How’s Brexit and the revolving door at Number 10 going?
“Not that I care much about what the bureaucracy in Brussels says; I’m a Ghent man and a Fleming, myself, and Belgium has its own issues that stem from attempting to unite two VERY distinct cultures, but I will spare you the lesson on Belgian history and politics, because I did not come to Wrestle: UK to teach social studies, I came to Wrestle: UK to WRESTLE. And if you are as good a crew of wrestlers as you, Fowler, and Windsor claim to be, then I know I’ve come to the right place.
“It’s just a shame that you three are such boorish personalities, who treat pro wrestling like some kind of party. My mentors would blanche at such an idea.”
A deep breath as Leon glares harder.
“And on the subject of mentors; don’t think that taping a video in the Snake Pit will impress me. I’ve trained there, as I have trained in gyms throughout ALL of Europe. I know the rigorous training that happens there, and I have experienced it. Anyone who can survive there is a formidable opponent indeed, but as someone who has? You need more than that to make me fear you.
“My mentors knew all about that kind of hard training, because they learned it as well. You might even have heard of one of them. A Belgian just like myself, who honed his craft all over the world and learned not only the harsh catch style of England, but also the extensive training of Indian wrestlers, and other great wrestling cultures throughout the world.”
Van Zandt chuckles, as he slowly rises to a knee.
“I’m sure you already know this, Riot, but wrestling is the closest thing mankind has to a universal sport. Every culture, every nation, has a kind of sport or fighting style that can be called ‘wrestling.’ Whether it is the pehlwani of India, the catch-as-catch-can of England, the Laamb of Senegal, and everywhere in between. And my mentor took it ALL in, and used the lessons he learned in the squared circle to such effect that to this day, there are those who saw him wrestle on their land, who still refer to him as ‘God.’”
Leon rises fully to his feet, before stretching his arms outward.
“Now I am not presumptuous enough to think of myself as any kind of deity, but I will admit to being amused at your choice of naming me after a comic.”
He chuckles once more.
“Tintin? Seriously? I really hope your wrestling is better than your trash talk, Riot, otherwise I lament that I will be bored in Liverpool. I hope you’ll provide _some_ entertainment on the road to New Year’s Brawl. I want the chase to your tag team titles to be worth it.
“I want to give the British fans some enjoyment as Meneer Stevens and I raze and replace their heroes, after all. Give me everything you have.
“You say you want to wrestle me in the catch style.
“Good. Bring me the lessons of the Snake Pit, so I can fight in kind. Bring me that brutal, bone-breaking, crippling catch style, so I can respond in kind. I want it! I _WANT_ you to show me what kind of a grappler you are, and I want you to hold _NOTHING_ back! No quarter given! None asked! If you’re as good as a wrestler as you say you are, then I can’t wait for the challenge!”
The camera zooms in on Van Zandt’s face.
“Just don’t disappoint me, Riot. If I find out that you are merely all talk, and that there is no fun to be had in wrestling you, then I will have to pass the time away…”
A pause.
“…by making an example of you and humiliating you in Liverpool without mercy. And I would really hate to do that so soon after arriving. Toppling a king isn’t as fun when they’ve left the throne mentally and spiritually, after all.”
Cut.
“Oh.”
The camera turns back on.
“If you’re going to drink yourself stupid after every matxh, for the love of GOD, drink an actual ale with flavor and body, not that River Thames swill that tastes like week-old rainwater. I’ll gladly bring samples from Belgium. I swear, you Brits will drink ANYTHING.”
Cut, for real.
Cold open.
Leon Van Zandt pushes through his personal gym, hauling a pair of rather large kettlebells in an exercise known as the Farmer’s Walk. His body tensed and his muscles rippling under his skin, the Belgian grappler trudges through the last few inches, before taking a moment and lowering his weights to the ground.
The camera closes in on The Professional’s face as he winced in fatigue, before looking at us.
“Rob Riot simply proves my point about his boorish, classless ways. A pity.”
The camera pulls back, giving Leon space as he walks a bit closer and sits on his mats.
“Well then. Wrestling has always been the domain of the working man. On this, Rob Riot is correct. But those working men who took to the sport and prospered, did so with some decorum and dignity. They did not drink themselves into a stupor for all to see.
“They did not think that nailing their trophies to a fixture unsuited for such a bauble was a ‘statement.’
“And they CERTAINLY did not try to act cute with geopolitical references or cracks about a nation’s culture. But if we’re going to play that game?”
Leon chuckles.
“How’s Brexit and the revolving door at Number 10 going?
“Not that I care much about what the bureaucracy in Brussels says; I’m a Ghent man and a Fleming, myself, and Belgium has its own issues that stem from attempting to unite two VERY distinct cultures, but I will spare you the lesson on Belgian history and politics, because I did not come to Wrestle: UK to teach social studies, I came to Wrestle: UK to WRESTLE. And if you are as good a crew of wrestlers as you, Fowler, and Windsor claim to be, then I know I’ve come to the right place.
“It’s just a shame that you three are such boorish personalities, who treat pro wrestling like some kind of party. My mentors would blanche at such an idea.”
A deep breath as Leon glares harder.
“And on the subject of mentors; don’t think that taping a video in the Snake Pit will impress me. I’ve trained there, as I have trained in gyms throughout ALL of Europe. I know the rigorous training that happens there, and I have experienced it. Anyone who can survive there is a formidable opponent indeed, but as someone who has? You need more than that to make me fear you.
“My mentors knew all about that kind of hard training, because they learned it as well. You might even have heard of one of them. A Belgian just like myself, who honed his craft all over the world and learned not only the harsh catch style of England, but also the extensive training of Indian wrestlers, and other great wrestling cultures throughout the world.”
Van Zandt chuckles, as he slowly rises to a knee.
“I’m sure you already know this, Riot, but wrestling is the closest thing mankind has to a universal sport. Every culture, every nation, has a kind of sport or fighting style that can be called ‘wrestling.’ Whether it is the pehlwani of India, the catch-as-catch-can of England, the Laamb of Senegal, and everywhere in between. And my mentor took it ALL in, and used the lessons he learned in the squared circle to such effect that to this day, there are those who saw him wrestle on their land, who still refer to him as ‘God.’”
Leon rises fully to his feet, before stretching his arms outward.
“Now I am not presumptuous enough to think of myself as any kind of deity, but I will admit to being amused at your choice of naming me after a comic.”
He chuckles once more.
“Tintin? Seriously? I really hope your wrestling is better than your trash talk, Riot, otherwise I lament that I will be bored in Liverpool. I hope you’ll provide _some_ entertainment on the road to New Year’s Brawl. I want the chase to your tag team titles to be worth it.
“I want to give the British fans some enjoyment as Meneer Stevens and I raze and replace their heroes, after all. Give me everything you have.
“You say you want to wrestle me in the catch style.
“Good. Bring me the lessons of the Snake Pit, so I can fight in kind. Bring me that brutal, bone-breaking, crippling catch style, so I can respond in kind. I want it! I _WANT_ you to show me what kind of a grappler you are, and I want you to hold _NOTHING_ back! No quarter given! None asked! If you’re as good as a wrestler as you say you are, then I can’t wait for the challenge!”
The camera zooms in on Van Zandt’s face.
“Just don’t disappoint me, Riot. If I find out that you are merely all talk, and that there is no fun to be had in wrestling you, then I will have to pass the time away…”
A pause.
“…by making an example of you and humiliating you in Liverpool without mercy. And I would really hate to do that so soon after arriving. Toppling a king isn’t as fun when they’ve left the throne mentally and spiritually, after all.”
Cut.
“Oh.”
The camera turns back on.
“If you’re going to drink yourself stupid after every matxh, for the love of GOD, drink an actual ale with flavor and body, not that River Thames swill that tastes like week-old rainwater. I’ll gladly bring samples from Belgium. I swear, you Brits will drink ANYTHING.”
Cut, for real.