Post by robriot on Nov 26, 2022 13:27:31 GMT -5
“So. Somebody grew some ears.”
Welcome to the Promo Room. We haven’t seen Riot in here for a while. Maybe you didn’t yet regularly tune into Wrestle:UK last time he addressed us from here. If so, get used to seeing it. It’s a room with a single wooden chair under a single naked lightbulb. Behind the chair is a brick wall with the word “RIOT” spraypainted onto it in haphazard handwriting. I’m not an expert in buildings or architecture, but it looks like it might be in a basement.
Sorry. "Cellar." We're in England. It's called a cellar. Anyway, it looks like we're in a cellar - possibly in Riot's country mansion. That doesn't matter. What does matter is that Riot is dressed for battle, bare-chested, wearing camo trousers and military surplus boots. He's addressing the camera face-on, sitting open-legged on the chair, and strokes his beard occasionally as he speaks.
"I've spent weeks - months, in fact - talking about how I don't get a shot around here. How I get screwed. How mysterious things conspire against me whenever there's a sniff of a championship opportunity in the singles game. Hell, it's almost as if someone in management hates The Bastards - and why wouldn't they? We've got this place on lockdown better than Chris Whitty and Dr Fauci combined. Now, all of a sudden, someone's listening. As it turns out, all I had to do to get someone's attention was to knock Leon Van Zandt out and threaten to bring back the ol' masked guy. Figures. Maybe I should have done it weeks ago. That doesn't matter, either. There are only three things that matter right now; Eron Hunter, Ronnie Long, and the Wrestle:UK Commonwealth Championship. Hello, boys. Hello, bauble."
Riot smirks, very slowly and deliberately miming the action of putting a championship belt around his waist.
“You both know me, and I know both of you. You, Hunter, are a victim of circumstance. I almost feel sorry for you. You know as well as I do that you underestimated me last time we got in the ring, and you also know as well as I do that I had you beaten. You gave me everything you could, but it wasn’t enough. I’ll even give you some credit - you gave me more than you thought you were going to - but it still wasn’t enough. Guess I wasn’t as old or as beaten up as you thought I was before the bell rang. I had you scouted, but there was one thing I didn’t have scouted that night, and it was Ronnie god damn Long. These past few events, it’s always been Ronnie god damn Long.”
There’s a trace of spit on Long’s name every time Riot says it. The distaste is very real.
“I’ll get to Long in a second, but let’s stay with you for now. I told you before we went into that match that I didn’t hate you. I still don’t hate you. If Old Father Time and his mutants hadn’t interjected themselves, we might even have had a handshake after the match was over. Maybe you’d even have handed me the title and raised my hand. I’d have liked that. In the end, you left with my respect, and I hope I forced you to give me yours, too, but there’s something else you gave me, Eron. Something you gave me involuntarily and without even knowing you were doing it.”
He taps the side of his head with a single finger. Again, every movement is slow. Deliberate. Measured.
"Knowledge. You gave me knowledge. I know you better now than I knew you the first time we fought. If your game plan involves working out what you did wrong last time and fixing the holes, you're wasting your time. I've seen every hole in your game already, and I know how to push my fingers in there and rip them apart. But here's the strange thing. This is a Commonwealth Championship match, and you're the Commonwealth Champion, but I'm not going into that match to beat you, Eron. You're not the objective here. My mission isn't to beat Eron Hunter to win the Commonwealth Championship; it's to stop it from falling into the hands of Ronnie Long."
This time Riot actually does spit, and it’s a proper hawked-up, coughed-out job, delivered with a snort. It’s his estimation of Ronnie Long, delivered in the form of phlegm.
"Ronnie the runner. Ronnie the reticent. Ronnie the reject, Ronnie the rotten. I could go on. You got an edge on me the one and only time we went one on one. It happens. I've lost before, and I'll lose again, but I won't be losing in Edinburgh. You should have quit while you were ahead, but instead, you've picked and picked and picked. You've interjected yourself into my business and Bastards business over and over again. You sent your goons after us. We sent your goons packing. I called you out; you stayed hidden. See, in your head, I think you like to believe that you're an honourable man of some kind. The last gunslinger, maybe. An old-school tough guy. You're nothing of the sort, Ronnie. You're an opportunist in the same way me and The Bastards are, the only difference being that we wear gold and you wear your age. We've set a standard here in Wrestle:UK, and we can't have you lowering it by getting your arthritis-ridden claws on the Commonwealth Championship, so I won't allow it. In fact, I'm going to do something I rarely do. I'm going to make a promise."
Riot leans into the camera.
“I’m not promising that I’ll walk out of Edinburgh as the Wrestle:UK Commonwealth Champion. Only a fool promises an outcome that’s not entirely in his control, so I’m not doing that. But I’ll promise you this one thing. I might not walk out of Edinburgh as champion, but I promise you that you won’t. If I have to break my body to keep you away from the title, that’s exactly what I’ll do. The battle lines have already been drawn, and you’ve stepped to the line already.”
He reaches up and grabs the lightbulb in one hand.
“You’ll step no further.”
He pulls the bulb out of its socket, and we fade to black.
Welcome to the Promo Room. We haven’t seen Riot in here for a while. Maybe you didn’t yet regularly tune into Wrestle:UK last time he addressed us from here. If so, get used to seeing it. It’s a room with a single wooden chair under a single naked lightbulb. Behind the chair is a brick wall with the word “RIOT” spraypainted onto it in haphazard handwriting. I’m not an expert in buildings or architecture, but it looks like it might be in a basement.
Sorry. "Cellar." We're in England. It's called a cellar. Anyway, it looks like we're in a cellar - possibly in Riot's country mansion. That doesn't matter. What does matter is that Riot is dressed for battle, bare-chested, wearing camo trousers and military surplus boots. He's addressing the camera face-on, sitting open-legged on the chair, and strokes his beard occasionally as he speaks.
"I've spent weeks - months, in fact - talking about how I don't get a shot around here. How I get screwed. How mysterious things conspire against me whenever there's a sniff of a championship opportunity in the singles game. Hell, it's almost as if someone in management hates The Bastards - and why wouldn't they? We've got this place on lockdown better than Chris Whitty and Dr Fauci combined. Now, all of a sudden, someone's listening. As it turns out, all I had to do to get someone's attention was to knock Leon Van Zandt out and threaten to bring back the ol' masked guy. Figures. Maybe I should have done it weeks ago. That doesn't matter, either. There are only three things that matter right now; Eron Hunter, Ronnie Long, and the Wrestle:UK Commonwealth Championship. Hello, boys. Hello, bauble."
Riot smirks, very slowly and deliberately miming the action of putting a championship belt around his waist.
“You both know me, and I know both of you. You, Hunter, are a victim of circumstance. I almost feel sorry for you. You know as well as I do that you underestimated me last time we got in the ring, and you also know as well as I do that I had you beaten. You gave me everything you could, but it wasn’t enough. I’ll even give you some credit - you gave me more than you thought you were going to - but it still wasn’t enough. Guess I wasn’t as old or as beaten up as you thought I was before the bell rang. I had you scouted, but there was one thing I didn’t have scouted that night, and it was Ronnie god damn Long. These past few events, it’s always been Ronnie god damn Long.”
There’s a trace of spit on Long’s name every time Riot says it. The distaste is very real.
“I’ll get to Long in a second, but let’s stay with you for now. I told you before we went into that match that I didn’t hate you. I still don’t hate you. If Old Father Time and his mutants hadn’t interjected themselves, we might even have had a handshake after the match was over. Maybe you’d even have handed me the title and raised my hand. I’d have liked that. In the end, you left with my respect, and I hope I forced you to give me yours, too, but there’s something else you gave me, Eron. Something you gave me involuntarily and without even knowing you were doing it.”
He taps the side of his head with a single finger. Again, every movement is slow. Deliberate. Measured.
"Knowledge. You gave me knowledge. I know you better now than I knew you the first time we fought. If your game plan involves working out what you did wrong last time and fixing the holes, you're wasting your time. I've seen every hole in your game already, and I know how to push my fingers in there and rip them apart. But here's the strange thing. This is a Commonwealth Championship match, and you're the Commonwealth Champion, but I'm not going into that match to beat you, Eron. You're not the objective here. My mission isn't to beat Eron Hunter to win the Commonwealth Championship; it's to stop it from falling into the hands of Ronnie Long."
This time Riot actually does spit, and it’s a proper hawked-up, coughed-out job, delivered with a snort. It’s his estimation of Ronnie Long, delivered in the form of phlegm.
"Ronnie the runner. Ronnie the reticent. Ronnie the reject, Ronnie the rotten. I could go on. You got an edge on me the one and only time we went one on one. It happens. I've lost before, and I'll lose again, but I won't be losing in Edinburgh. You should have quit while you were ahead, but instead, you've picked and picked and picked. You've interjected yourself into my business and Bastards business over and over again. You sent your goons after us. We sent your goons packing. I called you out; you stayed hidden. See, in your head, I think you like to believe that you're an honourable man of some kind. The last gunslinger, maybe. An old-school tough guy. You're nothing of the sort, Ronnie. You're an opportunist in the same way me and The Bastards are, the only difference being that we wear gold and you wear your age. We've set a standard here in Wrestle:UK, and we can't have you lowering it by getting your arthritis-ridden claws on the Commonwealth Championship, so I won't allow it. In fact, I'm going to do something I rarely do. I'm going to make a promise."
Riot leans into the camera.
“I’m not promising that I’ll walk out of Edinburgh as the Wrestle:UK Commonwealth Champion. Only a fool promises an outcome that’s not entirely in his control, so I’m not doing that. But I’ll promise you this one thing. I might not walk out of Edinburgh as champion, but I promise you that you won’t. If I have to break my body to keep you away from the title, that’s exactly what I’ll do. The battle lines have already been drawn, and you’ve stepped to the line already.”
He reaches up and grabs the lightbulb in one hand.
“You’ll step no further.”
He pulls the bulb out of its socket, and we fade to black.