Zombie (Elimination Chamber RP 2)
Mar 11, 2023 8:47:20 GMT -5
fowler, Old Line Jeff, and 2 more like this
Post by robriot on Mar 11, 2023 8:47:20 GMT -5
“What’s in your head? In your he-e-a-d? Zombie, zombie, zombie….”
If you don’t know that one, look it up. It’s “Zombie” by the Cranberries, and it’s an all-time classic. It’s actually a song about the Irish troubles, and it was sung by the much-missed Dolores O’Riordan. It wasn’t her singing just then, though. It was Rob Riot, who sits behind a table, back in his usual tweed and corduroy get-up.
The guy has a reasonable singing voice. He’d probably have made it in a band. Abruptly, though, he stops singing and starts talking to the camera.
"Only it isn't a zombie in your head, is it, Crane? It's me, living there rent-free. You got one opportunity to address the world before we step into that cage, and how did you kick things off? You said, 'Here's to you, Rob Riot.' And here I am returning the favour out of politeness. You spent most of that address talking about me. You had the audacity to ask whose dick I sucked to get the shot. I think we both know how I got this shot, Wes - may I call you Wes? Don't answer that - I'm going to do it anyway. To repeat, I think we both know how I got this shot, Wes."
Riot reaches below the table, pulls out the Wrestle:UK Commonwealth Championship and the Wrestle:UK Tag Team Championship, and throws them on the table. He lets them rest there for a moment, effectively allowing them to speak for themselves.
"We have a tendency in life to accuse others of our own worst failings and fears, Wes. I didn't make something out of my life? Me, the double champion? The fourteen-time world champion? Multiple-time wrestler of the year? You're going to say that's all in the past, but let's talk about the present. These two titles here. See, I've been building a collection of my own. Taking Wrestle:UK one rung at a time, with nothing and nobody able to stand in my way. Do you know I haven't legitimately been beaten in a singles match once since the day Wrestle:UK opened? There is no better-qualified challenger than me, Wes. There never could be. But like I said before, you know this already. You accuse me of the worst things you see in yourself because you have imposter syndrome. Behind the suit, the sunglasses and the swagger, you're a scared little boy. And you should be scared, because 'Naomi' is coming home with me. Spending time playing soldier boy in the woods isn't going to save you from defeat."
A vaguely disgusted expression crosses his face as he recalls the unpleasant insinuation that Crane made about what he does with the World Heavyweight Championship belt.
“Just get her cleaned before the match, yeah? I don’t want another Saraya-Jade Bevis situation on our hands. Or anywhere else, for that matter.”
Perhaps subconsciously, Riot leans forward and dusts his title belts with a handkerchief he pulls from his jacket pocket.
"Now, unlike you, I haven't forgotten there are other people in this match. Other people who could, on their day, be dangerous. Men like Armand von Krauss, who is yet again beating the drum about how he took RSW out from underneath me. Armand, that was years ago, and nothing of value has happened in your life since. I kept moving forward. I kept winning titles. You? Hell, you got a one-on-one shot against me in the ring barely a month ago, and I smashed and embarrassed you. A man with both feet planted firmly in the past has no future, so it falls upon me to make sure the rest of your body joins your feet and bury you. You're no great rival of mine; you're an irritation, and it's time I put you in the rearview mirror for good. Now let's talk about you, Havok."
Riot sneers as he somewhat camply mimes a man riding a bicycle.
"Ok, so I've beaten you in tag team matches, and I've beaten you in triple threat matches, and maybe I've beaten you in multi-man matches too, but I've never beaten you one on one. That's fair. You're right to point that out. Doesn't it bother you, though, that in the whole time we've both been in this business, nobody ever booked you in a one-on-one match against me? Why do you think that is?"
He opens his palms out, posing the question to the viewers, before tilting one hand to the side of his face like a theatre actor whispering to the audience.
“You ever thought that it might be because you’re not on my level, and you never will be?”
Not content with merely being sarcastic with his words, Riot finishes the line with a wink.
“Then there were two. Billy Fowler and everyone’s favourite, Psychotic Goth. Look, Goth. I love what you do. Honestly, I do. I love the roaring, I love the whole “stick to all black even in the middle of summer” schtick, I love the fact you call yourself “psychotic” in a manner that nobody with actual psychosis would be able to do because they lack the ability to self-realise; the whole thing. It’s great. It works for you. But you have no business being in this match. You’re not part of the main-event gang. You’re back at school being bog-washed in the toilets. Stick to your part, and stay out of my way. So, Billy.”
The Riot Star reaches into his pocket for one last visual aid. It's a coin. He flips it and covers it with his hand.
"Everyone else is going into this match with a single-minded game plan. You and I, my brother, aren't like them. The World Championship belongs to The Bastards. Now I know you're happy to hit me, and I'm happy to hit you. But let's do that after we've taken everyone else out first. Because at the end of the day, there are two Bastards in this match. We have double the chances of anybody else. So if it's heads, the Bastards win, tails, the Bastards lose…"
Riot uncovers the coin in his hand, revealing it to be heads - before turning it over to reveal it’s a double-headed coin.
“Then the title’s coming home, Billy. Six men fight. The Bastards win. Riot out.”
The scene fades away into nothingness.
If you don’t know that one, look it up. It’s “Zombie” by the Cranberries, and it’s an all-time classic. It’s actually a song about the Irish troubles, and it was sung by the much-missed Dolores O’Riordan. It wasn’t her singing just then, though. It was Rob Riot, who sits behind a table, back in his usual tweed and corduroy get-up.
The guy has a reasonable singing voice. He’d probably have made it in a band. Abruptly, though, he stops singing and starts talking to the camera.
"Only it isn't a zombie in your head, is it, Crane? It's me, living there rent-free. You got one opportunity to address the world before we step into that cage, and how did you kick things off? You said, 'Here's to you, Rob Riot.' And here I am returning the favour out of politeness. You spent most of that address talking about me. You had the audacity to ask whose dick I sucked to get the shot. I think we both know how I got this shot, Wes - may I call you Wes? Don't answer that - I'm going to do it anyway. To repeat, I think we both know how I got this shot, Wes."
Riot reaches below the table, pulls out the Wrestle:UK Commonwealth Championship and the Wrestle:UK Tag Team Championship, and throws them on the table. He lets them rest there for a moment, effectively allowing them to speak for themselves.
"We have a tendency in life to accuse others of our own worst failings and fears, Wes. I didn't make something out of my life? Me, the double champion? The fourteen-time world champion? Multiple-time wrestler of the year? You're going to say that's all in the past, but let's talk about the present. These two titles here. See, I've been building a collection of my own. Taking Wrestle:UK one rung at a time, with nothing and nobody able to stand in my way. Do you know I haven't legitimately been beaten in a singles match once since the day Wrestle:UK opened? There is no better-qualified challenger than me, Wes. There never could be. But like I said before, you know this already. You accuse me of the worst things you see in yourself because you have imposter syndrome. Behind the suit, the sunglasses and the swagger, you're a scared little boy. And you should be scared, because 'Naomi' is coming home with me. Spending time playing soldier boy in the woods isn't going to save you from defeat."
A vaguely disgusted expression crosses his face as he recalls the unpleasant insinuation that Crane made about what he does with the World Heavyweight Championship belt.
“Just get her cleaned before the match, yeah? I don’t want another Saraya-Jade Bevis situation on our hands. Or anywhere else, for that matter.”
Perhaps subconsciously, Riot leans forward and dusts his title belts with a handkerchief he pulls from his jacket pocket.
"Now, unlike you, I haven't forgotten there are other people in this match. Other people who could, on their day, be dangerous. Men like Armand von Krauss, who is yet again beating the drum about how he took RSW out from underneath me. Armand, that was years ago, and nothing of value has happened in your life since. I kept moving forward. I kept winning titles. You? Hell, you got a one-on-one shot against me in the ring barely a month ago, and I smashed and embarrassed you. A man with both feet planted firmly in the past has no future, so it falls upon me to make sure the rest of your body joins your feet and bury you. You're no great rival of mine; you're an irritation, and it's time I put you in the rearview mirror for good. Now let's talk about you, Havok."
Riot sneers as he somewhat camply mimes a man riding a bicycle.
"Ok, so I've beaten you in tag team matches, and I've beaten you in triple threat matches, and maybe I've beaten you in multi-man matches too, but I've never beaten you one on one. That's fair. You're right to point that out. Doesn't it bother you, though, that in the whole time we've both been in this business, nobody ever booked you in a one-on-one match against me? Why do you think that is?"
He opens his palms out, posing the question to the viewers, before tilting one hand to the side of his face like a theatre actor whispering to the audience.
“You ever thought that it might be because you’re not on my level, and you never will be?”
Not content with merely being sarcastic with his words, Riot finishes the line with a wink.
“Then there were two. Billy Fowler and everyone’s favourite, Psychotic Goth. Look, Goth. I love what you do. Honestly, I do. I love the roaring, I love the whole “stick to all black even in the middle of summer” schtick, I love the fact you call yourself “psychotic” in a manner that nobody with actual psychosis would be able to do because they lack the ability to self-realise; the whole thing. It’s great. It works for you. But you have no business being in this match. You’re not part of the main-event gang. You’re back at school being bog-washed in the toilets. Stick to your part, and stay out of my way. So, Billy.”
The Riot Star reaches into his pocket for one last visual aid. It's a coin. He flips it and covers it with his hand.
"Everyone else is going into this match with a single-minded game plan. You and I, my brother, aren't like them. The World Championship belongs to The Bastards. Now I know you're happy to hit me, and I'm happy to hit you. But let's do that after we've taken everyone else out first. Because at the end of the day, there are two Bastards in this match. We have double the chances of anybody else. So if it's heads, the Bastards win, tails, the Bastards lose…"
Riot uncovers the coin in his hand, revealing it to be heads - before turning it over to reveal it’s a double-headed coin.
“Then the title’s coming home, Billy. Six men fight. The Bastards win. Riot out.”
The scene fades away into nothingness.