A Badman Phoned It In

[Frank Windsor]

A fuzzy picture appeared on the television screen. It was really blurred before it seemed to come into focus. It was Frank Windsor, Wrestle: UK tag champion and a member of the award winning faction known simply as the Bastards. He was holding a phone in front of himself trying to film this moment in time from the locker room in Los Angeles that the Bastards had been allocated for their cross over show with the HKW. Blood still dripped down his face from the brutal war that the Bastards had got into tonight not only with the team that the HKW had set them against but also most of the teams from Wrestle: UK that had been sent against them at the end of the match. Anger dripped off of him as well as the blood from his match earlier tonight. “You guys think that we should be attending some fucking press conference and crying our fucking hearts out to some guys that write for the fucking dirt sheets whilst still playing with their limp fucking dicks in their parents box room?” he said. “Or maybe the Bastards could do some kind of Cosplay thingy and record some parody for you? Do you think the Bastards would fucking pander to shit like that these days? If you think we would then you can fuck off now as this ain’t for tossers like you. I am recording this because I need to get this shit out whilst it’s still fucking fresh in my fucking mind. If not I’d probably just get myself thrown in a cell for getting into some pub fight and arrested by the old Bill in this country. Or more than likely would have ended up being shot as the cops in this fucking country are a bit gung ho when it comes to shooting innocent fucking people.” The picture moved slightly as Frank’s breathing could be heard through the screen. “Did you see what happened to the Bastards tonight out there?” Frank asked. “After we embarrassed those two fucking mooks from HKW that we were in with we were jumped by nearly every team in the fucking locker room. Mister Blood is so horrified that the fucking Bastards still hold the power in his fucking company that he put a goddamn bounty on our fucking heads. He thinks that by sending all these fucking teams at us that we’re going to just be so fucking scared that I’ll just cack my boxers, give up and hand over the belts that the Bastards have fought so fucking hard for? What a wanker; fuck that, you tossers should realise that I’d drag my naked hairy balls through broken glass for one hundred fucking miles before I gave them up.” A look of disgust was on his face as he held the phone up higher. “I should really be objective when it comes to this fucking match that he has signed the Bastards up to,” he said. “Signing us up for a tag team gauntlet match is a gutsy fucking thing for you to do Mister Blood. I see you’ve got all the fucking teams in the locker room plus some goddamn mercenaries from other companies to try and take these gold straps off of the BEST FUCKING TEAM IN PROFESSIONAL WRESTLING? I just got told that some teams are purposely coming into the company for just one fucking night hoping to cash in and pick up the fucking scraps.” A smirked crossed his bloody face. “Oh come on matey,” Frank said. “Bring your teams in from elsewhere, bring your teams from Wrestle: UK; hell get a team from catering, merchandise or even some of the fucking camera men as Frank fucking Windsor is going to be first in to this match AND last out with my fucking hand held high, and I will fucking guarantee it to happen as the Bastards are the best in this fucking business.” He brushed some of the blood out of his eyes and continued his rant of sorts. “Now let me talk about the other fucking travesty that went down on the show,” he looked around before he looked directly into the camera. “Wesley, Wesley fucking Crane. You think you’ve done something good today don’t you? You think you’re the head cunt out there in the squared fucking circle? You think by stealing that fucking belt off of Fowler makes you the Man right?” He chuckled as he brought the camera up to this face. “Nah, you stupid fuck-tard, it puts a target on your goddamn forehead my friend,” Frank said. “The other members of the Bastards didn’t go for that World Championship belt because it was Billy’s and we had a gentlemen’s agreement of sorts not to go for it as we are a fucking team BUT now that Billy’s lost it to you it’s open game. Amy of the three of us is going to be coming for that gold fucking strap and not even begging for forgiveness can stop that not happening you fucking cock womble.” Frank picked up his tag championship belt and put it over his shoulder. “I would give you a fucking round of applause if I wasn’t holding this phone,” he continued. “You know what else you did to get under our fucking skin but this is the fucking pinnacle my friend. You’re not very intelligent to irk the fucking Bastards aren’t you Wesley? Let’s see how long you are holding that belt Champ, oh don’t be a pussy Wesley; it’s not your fault that you’re going to be a transitional champion like little Eddie was when Billy was injured.” Other members of the Bastards entered the locker room and a crashing of chairs could be heard off of camera. “Seems Billy’s not too pleased either Wesley,” Frank said. “I wouldn’t be either but you’ll find out for yourself very, very soon.” He winked at the camera. “Now fuck off,” he said as he hung up on his phone.