Post by robriot on Mar 28, 2023 13:27:02 GMT -5
Has your feed gone dead?
No. It hasn't. It's not dead; it's just dark. Really, really dark. The only point of light is red, and because you're not stupid, you've probably already realised it's the red light from a camera, indicating that it's on. It takes your eyes a couple of moments, but you eventually realise that you can see the shape of a man somewhere in the gloom. He's the only thing that's visible in this room - if it even is a room - and he's sat on a chair.
No. Not sat. Slumped.
The outline is too vague to be sure who you’re looking at, but that’s about to change as the camera moves, and the red light catches the man in the eyes. He waves a hand at it, clearly angered, but that single glimpse is enough to confirm that this is Rob Riot.
“Careful with that damn light!”
It's a loud whisper, but the anger in Riot's voice is unmistakable. The camera returns to its previous position, pointing at nothing in particular and leaving Riot in the dark.
“Sorry, Rob”.
Fans of long-term Rob Riot continuity would be able to recognise the apologetic voice as that of Maurice Evans, thus indicating that Riot is at home. Not just Manchester or Blackpool, but at his true home.
Evans knows better than to speak again, so he lets Riot address the camera when he’s ready. It doesn’t take him long.
"I know what you're thinking. It's another mean, moody Rob Riot promo, with the Riot Star himself sitting in a dark room, telling us what's on his mind. He's probably got some stinging one-liners. He's probably got some cutting observations. He's about to give us a quote that will make headlines tomorrow. Well, you're wrong. I'm done feeding you parasites. I'm done worrying about whether or not you cretins are entertained. And I'm not sitting in here because I want to look 'moody.' Hell, I'm not even cutting a promo, because I shouldn't even be wrestling. And yet somehow, I am. Somehow, I'm supposed to fight Frank Windsor at Legacy Thirteen: Unlucky for some. And why? Because Wrestle:UK doesn't give one single solitary shit about the well-being of the people who break their bodies for it, and because the suits think they can force a crack into The Bastards, just like they thought they could force a crack into The Bastards at the Elimination Chamber. That's not happening, and neither is your scheduled Rob Riot pro wrestling promo. Instead, I'm going to tell you the truth."
There’s a creaking sound as Riot presumably adjusts his position in a chair that you can’t see within the wider room that you can’t see.
"I'm sat in the dark because, apparently, this is what I need to do to see off this concussion. The concussion I got when Wesley Crane kicked a barbed wire chair through the back of my skull at the Chamber. The nineteenth or twentieth concussion of my career. I should have finished that match as the World Heavyweight Champion. Instead, I finished the night in the hospital with staples in my head, where I was told the same thing I've been told for the past ten god damn years. I shouldn't be wrestling. There are lesions on my brain. I've got to quit. I've got to stop. One more concussion could be the end of it all. Et cetera, et cetera. Well, tough shit. I don't want to quit. But that's because I've still got a point to prove to me, not because I've got a point to prove to any of you."
Riot groans under his breath in a way that suggests he tried to suppress the sound but couldn't. That's the groan of someone with a headache that would make a migraine feel like a birthday present.
“I had an epiphany at the Elimination Chamber, but it didn’t come at the end of the match. It came when Ronnie Long fluked his way into a battle royal win and put himself into the World Heavyweight Championship picture. A man that I put on the shelf. A man that I beat for the Commonwealth Championship. A man that has no right walking back in here and jumping ahead of me in the queue. He wins by accident, he skips merrily ahead of me in the pecking order, and I heard some of you marks in the crowd cheering. Cheering. For Ronnie Long. That’s the exact moment I realised I couldn’t give less of a shit about your cheers, your adulation, or your support. And it’s not the only epiphany I had that night. As I was laying in that hospital bed, I realised something else.”
As pained as he is, the anger is rising in Riot’s voice. There’s something about a hoarse whisper from the Riot Star that makes him sound more threatening than he is when he shouts.
“Were it not for Eddie Havok being a sore loser, I’d be champion right now. Havok lashed out like a spoiled brat, and Crane picked the pieces. That’s fine. That’s what opportunists do when they’re in there with someone they can’t legitimately beat. But what happens next? Where’s the Rob Riot versus Wesley Crane championship match that the situation so clearly calls for? It’s nowhere. What happens instead? Crane, who put me in this room, gets to scratch his arse and suck his thumb for the night. It’s funny; I don’t remember Fowler being extended the same courtesy when he was champion. No, Crane gets to go on holiday while me and Frank are expected to draw money for the company in the main event. Fuck my health. Fuck whether or not it makes sense; just go out there like good company boys and make us money. Well, here’s what I’m going to do with that.”
There’s a screech of wood on concrete as Riot slowly and awkwardly gets to his feet, preparing to leave the room.
"I'll be there in Dublin. I'll get in that ring with Frank. We'll wrestle for that championship. But I promise you - and by "you," I mean Crane, Long, Blood, the fans, and the whole wrestling world - that we will remind you all what it means to be a Bastard. It's high fucking time."
The scene, insofar as it’s possible to get darker, fades out.
No. It hasn't. It's not dead; it's just dark. Really, really dark. The only point of light is red, and because you're not stupid, you've probably already realised it's the red light from a camera, indicating that it's on. It takes your eyes a couple of moments, but you eventually realise that you can see the shape of a man somewhere in the gloom. He's the only thing that's visible in this room - if it even is a room - and he's sat on a chair.
No. Not sat. Slumped.
The outline is too vague to be sure who you’re looking at, but that’s about to change as the camera moves, and the red light catches the man in the eyes. He waves a hand at it, clearly angered, but that single glimpse is enough to confirm that this is Rob Riot.
“Careful with that damn light!”
It's a loud whisper, but the anger in Riot's voice is unmistakable. The camera returns to its previous position, pointing at nothing in particular and leaving Riot in the dark.
“Sorry, Rob”.
Fans of long-term Rob Riot continuity would be able to recognise the apologetic voice as that of Maurice Evans, thus indicating that Riot is at home. Not just Manchester or Blackpool, but at his true home.
Evans knows better than to speak again, so he lets Riot address the camera when he’s ready. It doesn’t take him long.
"I know what you're thinking. It's another mean, moody Rob Riot promo, with the Riot Star himself sitting in a dark room, telling us what's on his mind. He's probably got some stinging one-liners. He's probably got some cutting observations. He's about to give us a quote that will make headlines tomorrow. Well, you're wrong. I'm done feeding you parasites. I'm done worrying about whether or not you cretins are entertained. And I'm not sitting in here because I want to look 'moody.' Hell, I'm not even cutting a promo, because I shouldn't even be wrestling. And yet somehow, I am. Somehow, I'm supposed to fight Frank Windsor at Legacy Thirteen: Unlucky for some. And why? Because Wrestle:UK doesn't give one single solitary shit about the well-being of the people who break their bodies for it, and because the suits think they can force a crack into The Bastards, just like they thought they could force a crack into The Bastards at the Elimination Chamber. That's not happening, and neither is your scheduled Rob Riot pro wrestling promo. Instead, I'm going to tell you the truth."
There’s a creaking sound as Riot presumably adjusts his position in a chair that you can’t see within the wider room that you can’t see.
"I'm sat in the dark because, apparently, this is what I need to do to see off this concussion. The concussion I got when Wesley Crane kicked a barbed wire chair through the back of my skull at the Chamber. The nineteenth or twentieth concussion of my career. I should have finished that match as the World Heavyweight Champion. Instead, I finished the night in the hospital with staples in my head, where I was told the same thing I've been told for the past ten god damn years. I shouldn't be wrestling. There are lesions on my brain. I've got to quit. I've got to stop. One more concussion could be the end of it all. Et cetera, et cetera. Well, tough shit. I don't want to quit. But that's because I've still got a point to prove to me, not because I've got a point to prove to any of you."
Riot groans under his breath in a way that suggests he tried to suppress the sound but couldn't. That's the groan of someone with a headache that would make a migraine feel like a birthday present.
“I had an epiphany at the Elimination Chamber, but it didn’t come at the end of the match. It came when Ronnie Long fluked his way into a battle royal win and put himself into the World Heavyweight Championship picture. A man that I put on the shelf. A man that I beat for the Commonwealth Championship. A man that has no right walking back in here and jumping ahead of me in the queue. He wins by accident, he skips merrily ahead of me in the pecking order, and I heard some of you marks in the crowd cheering. Cheering. For Ronnie Long. That’s the exact moment I realised I couldn’t give less of a shit about your cheers, your adulation, or your support. And it’s not the only epiphany I had that night. As I was laying in that hospital bed, I realised something else.”
As pained as he is, the anger is rising in Riot’s voice. There’s something about a hoarse whisper from the Riot Star that makes him sound more threatening than he is when he shouts.
“Were it not for Eddie Havok being a sore loser, I’d be champion right now. Havok lashed out like a spoiled brat, and Crane picked the pieces. That’s fine. That’s what opportunists do when they’re in there with someone they can’t legitimately beat. But what happens next? Where’s the Rob Riot versus Wesley Crane championship match that the situation so clearly calls for? It’s nowhere. What happens instead? Crane, who put me in this room, gets to scratch his arse and suck his thumb for the night. It’s funny; I don’t remember Fowler being extended the same courtesy when he was champion. No, Crane gets to go on holiday while me and Frank are expected to draw money for the company in the main event. Fuck my health. Fuck whether or not it makes sense; just go out there like good company boys and make us money. Well, here’s what I’m going to do with that.”
There’s a screech of wood on concrete as Riot slowly and awkwardly gets to his feet, preparing to leave the room.
"I'll be there in Dublin. I'll get in that ring with Frank. We'll wrestle for that championship. But I promise you - and by "you," I mean Crane, Long, Blood, the fans, and the whole wrestling world - that we will remind you all what it means to be a Bastard. It's high fucking time."
The scene, insofar as it’s possible to get darker, fades out.