A Badman Fucks Shit Up!

[Frank Windsor]

Frank was sat upon a chair in the locker room that had been assigned to the Bastards in their crusade of sorts against the morons that thought they could stand up to what some claimed were the guiding lights of professional wrestling. He was sat with his tag championship belt over his left shoulder and had a Bastard t-shirt and a traditional Scottish kilt on. His knees were closed as the guys filming this world know it would be censored before it was broadcast on the internet. Frank motioned for his protégé Finn Corbyn to bring the camera up and begin filming. “It’s fucking amazing to listen to some of the fucking self-proclaimed talent of this wrestling promotion flap their fucking gums about what they think of the Bastards,” Frank chuckled as he looked down the camera lens. “Who has the bollocks to think they can dictate what the Bastards are and what we can fucking do. You know who you are, and saying the faces can’t do this or that? Who the fuck told you we were the fucking faces of this wrestling promotion? We couldn’t give a rat’s ass about this wrestling promotion in the long run as we ARE this promotion. We do whatever the fuck we want out there in the ring and the fans can cheer or boo us as that’s their prerogative. You’re only jealous as they boo you fuckers out of the arenas over here in the UK all the fucking time and Fowler’s going to keep that belt being that he’s a proper fighting champion.” A smile crossed his face for a split second. “Marty and Crane’s fucking whinny voices should be behind us now as they showed themselves up on the last show and now we know what those punk ass cunts are really like but ever the fucking opportunist Crane has managed to get a shot at the World Championship belt that Billy has around his giant fucking waist,” he continued as he shook his head. “How is this fucking possible that this moronic hairless ball sack with less talent than the fat fuck out there selling the merchandise gets a shot at Fowler’s precious belt? Have we really gone through all of the real talent in the locker room and now we’ve got to give shot’s to the fucking help? Maybe it’s time for one of the other Bastards to get his shot? Namely this one…….Maybe………” Frank paused before he smirked. “……..but not just now as we don’t want this cluster fuck of a company to implode just yet,” he said. “Anyway even with Robbie and Billy being distracted by their current singles wins they are still with the King of Yorkshire when it comes to defending the Wrestle: UK’s tag championship belts. We’ve beaten all those contenders that think they could stand up to us and now we get Leon Van Zandt and Jay Stevens? Who do these punks think they are? Arriving with that pussy that got me knocked out of that tournament a few weeks back you think you’ve got a chance against veterans like the Bastards for these fucking belts?” He slapped the belt on his shoulder before he continued. “Looks like the goddamn company doesn’t think much of your chances of beating the Bastards as they haven’t even put the turd Leon on their website,” he winked at the camera before he continued. “Jay, you think because you’re part of wrestling dynasty that things should be given to you; is that why you came to this company Jay? Your family ain’t going to be able to dig you out of these fucking holes. Did you get it wrote into your initial contract to get a title match against the Bastards? Wouldn’t surprise me but bringing your little fucking friend Leon with you is a funny thing to do. Do you owe him money or has he got naked pictures of you with some butch Russian shot putter as that little Indie guy wouldn’t normally get a shot at the big time unless he’s got someone taking the financial hit for him. Maybe you could wrestle the Bastards whilst the Belgian Leon plays with his Indian Clubs.” He caressed the belt as he lifted it off his shoulder and put it on his lap. “You guys think by coming to this company and mimicking what made the Bastards great can make you worldwide superstars,” mocked Frank. “You’re not big and it ain’t fucking going to be fun for you punks; just ask Crane and that Disney freak that the Bastards destroyed last show.” Frank nodded as he continued. “On a side note I’ve seen this make between that Goth punk and Sukiburu?” he asked. “Whilst a Death Match Championship belt between two different promotions seems below someone with the wrestling career that Frank Windsor has it does seem to be intriguing. It’ll be something that the Bastards could use as a foothold in this other promotion without having to submit to the fucking tyrannical whims of those few that control the fucking Network. I think I’ll definitely watch to see who comes out on top for that one as I think that gold strap could be a fun one to have hold of; with Riot with his new belt and his interested out of the Network recently and Fowler with his high profile fucking belt win and him being approached about the reboot of the TV fucking series of Gladiators as he becomes Yeti, so I need something to get my teeth into and that belt could be it.” He stood up and straightened the kilt. “So the next few weeks is going to be big for the Bastards.” Frank said. “We are the Gold Standard of not only this company but wrestling as a whole so if there is anyone out there that thinks they can run with us then bring it; we ain’t far away from that Wrestle: UK ring. Now that leaves only one thing to say doesn’t it? Now fuck off!!!”