An Anointed Badman Is Real Top Of The Class

[Frank Windsor]

Frank Windsor was sat on a metal chair in the middle of the locker room in the arena in the Seattle area where Wrestle: UK were having some house shows filmed in. The ring crew had got to the arena a few hours early to set up just how they liked it. Behind Frank was a Whiteboard which had photographs stuck on it with drawing pins. Each of the pictures looked like they were tag teams that were to be thrown against the Bastards for the tag belts that they had made the best tag belts in the industry ever. He stood and straightened his retro Bastards t-shirt and then turned to the Whiteboard as his compatriot Finn Corbyn brought up his phone to record this latest episode for Frank’s vlog. “We’re filming Frank,” Finn said. “Let’s get some stuff recorded.” “The Bastards may be one of the longest fucking reigning tag champions in professional wrestling and nothing is going to knock up off our tracks but thank you for the reminder Sinclair,” he smirked as he pulled the first picture off of the Whiteboard. “It’s not as if we’ve had much competition over the years. Be it Retro Rob or Whale Jones back in the day or if we bring it back up to date with those fucking inbred Gluck Brothers we’ve took it to all of them and have left wanting more which is why this gauntlet is a great thing for the Bastards. We will prove that we are the best when we destroy all of your dreams. You sure got the stuffing knocked out of you by my bird last show Sinclair but you hang out with your tag partner, Donzig. Donzig? Who the fuck do you think you are? You cling to anything that will get you relevance you pathetic fucking loser. You look like a shaved down fucking penis who’s trying to make himself relevant with his glory hole of a tag partner, fucking pathetic.” He ripped the picture up and threw it on the floor. Frank picked the next which showed the Dark Stars. "This is OUR fucking pool, the Bastards are the fucking sharks here and you’re all the fucking minnows for us to eat,” he said. “And Frank Windsor is the fucking man who shall take Wrestle: UK to the next level. Hell, more than that, you look at me and all you see is the kind of person that would vote for Brexit, right? I'll make my fucking name synonymous with this company as much as any other man; Soon-to-be the known as the greatest Wrestle: UK Wrestler of all time. The Dork Stars have faced us for tag championship belts in a few companies but have always come up short. FACT! So nothing’s going to fucking change this week. Come on guys, every time you come out here you manage to fucking get to the big matches BUT fucking choke like Donzig does every fucking show. What a fucking loser." He ripped the picture up and picked the next one. It was the Glucks. Frank looked directly at the camera and shook his head. He ripped up the picture and picked another. “Rage and Cage?” he asked himself as he held the picture up. “These two ass clowns have tried to get under the Bastards skin as of late but alas these fucking mooks are like a couple of pre-pubescent fucking girls trying to get attention by dressing up like fucking tarts. They think by calling out this multi-fucking World Champion that it would fucking irk me but Rage and Cage whichever you are just go and carry my fucking bags out to the car like you used to. How did Mister Blood take a punt on you with contracts? Waste of fucking money. Did Rage hold the shaft whilst Cage jiggled the balls? Too much info for your little minds to comprehend? Does it CUT to deep wankers?” Frank ripped the picture in half and picked another off of the Whiteboard. “Bear-o-what?” he asked. “Who the fuck are these two masked freaks? Do they even work here? I think we worked with them before BUT who fucking give a damn. Do I look like I fucking care, Robbie and I will sort it out. Wait a minute, looking at this board and I see pictures of teams that have fallen before the Bastards might and Indie stars wanting to make a fucking name for themselves and a payoff against the greatest fucking combination in professional wrestling, if it’s Billy, Robbie, Sean or this fucking wrestler that you see before you we are the team to fucking beat ALL times and it ain’t even fucking close. Always bet on the Bastards or you’ll be a fucking loser like the rest of these bitches on the board. Mister Blood has got his fucking wallet out to hire some mercs. It’s all politics brah!” He shook his head as he pushed the Whiteboard over. "But enough about fucking politics; We the Bastards promise you that after Wrestle: UK’s next fucking show they won’t be talking about any wrestler in the industry, hell they probably won’t even be talking about the two-bit world champion or whomever is in the storyline to win it," Frank said as he winked at the camera. “They will be talking about us one way or another as the Shogun of Slam-Town brings the War to the whole fucking Network.” Frank visibly paused, switching gears mentally. He looked directly into the camera lens, drilling into the souls of the viewers. “Which reminds me,” he said. “The Anointed and Top of the Class, two teams that have prestige AND Gold on the Network, but both are too fucking yellow to come into Wrestle: UK’s tag gauntlet match. Both of these fucking cowards of teams would rather hide out and face jobbers in their own little ponds that come here and face the best in the business. Yes, that is us. Now fuck off!”