In words that even you can understand...
Apr 12, 2023 6:14:45 GMT -5
Mongo the Destroyer, fowler, and 1 more like this
Post by robriot on Apr 12, 2023 6:14:45 GMT -5
We fade in on a familiar scene. Rob Riot sat on a wooden chair in a bare room with his W:UK Tag Team Championship laid out at his feet. He doesn't look happy. He rarely does these days. You all know why you've tuned in, though, so let's get to it.
He leans forward in the chair, hands clasped, and begins to speak.
“So. Apparently, some of you can’t keep a narrative in your head for more than five minutes. Some of you don’t understand why or how things happen even though you’ve explicitly been told how and why things happen. So I’m going to do you a favour. I’m going to deliver this information in a manner that even you, with your stunted intellects and your goldfish attention spans, can understand. I won’t distract you with flashing lights. I’m not going to get up and walk around. I’m just going to sit here and talk to you in plain and simple terms, like the children you all are. Got it? Good. Make yourself comfortable.”
"Now. The 'Battle of the Bastards.' All we've heard since then, both publicly and privately, is crying and whining about our attitude and our lack of respect for Wrestle:UK and the Commonwealth Championship, its roster, and its employees. Our lack of respect? Seriously? Did none of you listen to a thing I said the last time I was sat in this room in pitch darkness? Wesley Crane gave me a severe concussion inside the Elimination Chamber. I should have been in the hospital. Instead, I was ordered to go out and wrestle Frank Windsor for the Commonwealth Championship even though I wasn't medically cleared. What did you think was going to happen? Do you want me to die in the ring for your entertainment? Don't answer that; it's a rhetorical question. What I did at the Battle of the Bastards was the only thing I physically could do at the Battle of the Bastards, but that's not the only reason things went down that way."
"Me, Frank Windsor, and Billy Fowler have been perfectly clear from the moment we came back to wrestling that we're not interested in fighting each other. It's been done. Twice, in fact. This wasn't the first or even the second 'Battle of the Bastards'. Other promotions beat this one to the punch for that money match. Despite that, we get stuck with convoluted booking where I have to fight Fowler in the Chamber, and then Windsor becomes the number one contender for the Commonwealth Championship. Again, "our" lack of respect? Where's the respect we're due? Where's the respect for my health? It's a two-way street, and if you're not walking it, then neither are we. The company got what it deserved for forcing that situation on us, but my god, the crying."
Riot mimics the face and voice of a wailing infant.
"But, but, but, the Bastards did a bad thing in the main event, and now nobody's going to remember my shitty match, or my weak as fuck promo, or anything I did on the show! Daddy Blood, Daddy Blood, help me! Do something about them!"
He rolls his eyes.
"Grow up, you mewling babies. Pay attention to what's going on around you. We've got to defend our tag team championships with an out-of-towner as the special referee because we're being punished. And yet where are we being punished? In the main event. That's right. Even when we're in the dog house, even when we're supposed to be getting screwed, the Bastards are in the main event. Not the paper champion. Not the shiny new toy. Not everybody's favourite new baby-kissing reformed character. The Bastards are in the main event even when in disgrace because Blood knows - or, at least, he thinks - that none of you can draw money. None of you can take that spot. We're in the main event because if we're not, everyone switches off after our match is done. What does that say about all of you? If I was someone else on this roster, I know I’d be pissed. If I was, oh, I don’t know, Eddie Havok, I’d be thinking about that very carefully. Blood thinks you can’t even take our spots when we’re being made an example of. Get angry, sure, but decide who you should be angry at.”
"Now I realise that I'm supposed to talk about the tag team title match, farce as it may be. So let's give it a shot. The Oblivion Death Squad? We'll beat them. Why? Because we've beaten them already. Because we're manifestly better than them. They're hired guns. They're meat puppets hired by Donzig for a job that no longer exists in a faction that's no longer relevant. They're all muscle and no brain, and they're in there with two guys who outscore them on every measurable attribute. I have a ring IQ a thousand times higher than the pair of them combined. They can't outsmart me or outwrestle me. Sure, they can get aggressive, but so can Frank, and I promise you, the kind of violence Frank Windsor brings from the back streets of Yorkshire is far harder and far more dangerous than anything two cartoon henchmen can throw at us. If it's a fair fight, it's over in five minutes. But, of course, it might not be because of Lord Dominicus."
"Obviously, the whole point of Dominicus being there is to screw us. If he can take his mind off trying to fuck an imaginary bull or whatever the hell he was trying to do in that car crash of a promo, maybe he'll prove to be capable of that. And yes, you wet, prudish little soy boy, that was a sex joke. People who actually have sex regularly get to make sex jokes. Sorry it offends your delicate sensibilities. Let's say Dominicus screws us, and we lose the tag titles. Sure. That could happen. If you really want to screw us, Blood, you can do it, and we probably can't stop you. So if that's your plan, go right ahead. Maybe it would be a relief. Maybe it would be fun for us to see someone else try to carry this entire fucking promotion we've had on our backs for the past year plus. Kill your cash cow. Go for it. See if it matters one iota to us. We're made and paid whatever we do. The choice is yours."
Riot checks his watch.
"Oh, will you look at that? I've gone over my allotted promo time. Well, I'm in enough trouble already, so I may as well keep going. Whether it's in Wolverhampton, where we're in the main event, or Dominion, where we're already being sold as "the biggest names in the XHF," we'll continue to be the draw and the star attraction while you continue to get sore about it. And if you think the fourth wall might be breaking here, you're damn right. You're going to need a fucking fifth wall by the time we're through."
"If you think we're disrespectful, if you think we're out of line, if you think we're making a mockery of this promotion or this industry, do me a favour. Stop bitching in your WhatsApp groups. Stop cry-wanking while you type out your angry DMs. Stop talking to the dirt sheets. Get a camera, cut a promo, and talk back to me. Better still, come and step to us in the ring. Come shoot. Come try to be the main eventers. Don't complain because The Bastards stepped to another level and made the game too hard; try finding your big boy pants, stepping up and trying to knock us off. Basically, come see us."
He smirks.
“I won’t hold my breath.”
Riot kicks the camera over, and we’re done.
He leans forward in the chair, hands clasped, and begins to speak.
“So. Apparently, some of you can’t keep a narrative in your head for more than five minutes. Some of you don’t understand why or how things happen even though you’ve explicitly been told how and why things happen. So I’m going to do you a favour. I’m going to deliver this information in a manner that even you, with your stunted intellects and your goldfish attention spans, can understand. I won’t distract you with flashing lights. I’m not going to get up and walk around. I’m just going to sit here and talk to you in plain and simple terms, like the children you all are. Got it? Good. Make yourself comfortable.”
"Now. The 'Battle of the Bastards.' All we've heard since then, both publicly and privately, is crying and whining about our attitude and our lack of respect for Wrestle:UK and the Commonwealth Championship, its roster, and its employees. Our lack of respect? Seriously? Did none of you listen to a thing I said the last time I was sat in this room in pitch darkness? Wesley Crane gave me a severe concussion inside the Elimination Chamber. I should have been in the hospital. Instead, I was ordered to go out and wrestle Frank Windsor for the Commonwealth Championship even though I wasn't medically cleared. What did you think was going to happen? Do you want me to die in the ring for your entertainment? Don't answer that; it's a rhetorical question. What I did at the Battle of the Bastards was the only thing I physically could do at the Battle of the Bastards, but that's not the only reason things went down that way."
"Me, Frank Windsor, and Billy Fowler have been perfectly clear from the moment we came back to wrestling that we're not interested in fighting each other. It's been done. Twice, in fact. This wasn't the first or even the second 'Battle of the Bastards'. Other promotions beat this one to the punch for that money match. Despite that, we get stuck with convoluted booking where I have to fight Fowler in the Chamber, and then Windsor becomes the number one contender for the Commonwealth Championship. Again, "our" lack of respect? Where's the respect we're due? Where's the respect for my health? It's a two-way street, and if you're not walking it, then neither are we. The company got what it deserved for forcing that situation on us, but my god, the crying."
Riot mimics the face and voice of a wailing infant.
"But, but, but, the Bastards did a bad thing in the main event, and now nobody's going to remember my shitty match, or my weak as fuck promo, or anything I did on the show! Daddy Blood, Daddy Blood, help me! Do something about them!"
He rolls his eyes.
"Grow up, you mewling babies. Pay attention to what's going on around you. We've got to defend our tag team championships with an out-of-towner as the special referee because we're being punished. And yet where are we being punished? In the main event. That's right. Even when we're in the dog house, even when we're supposed to be getting screwed, the Bastards are in the main event. Not the paper champion. Not the shiny new toy. Not everybody's favourite new baby-kissing reformed character. The Bastards are in the main event even when in disgrace because Blood knows - or, at least, he thinks - that none of you can draw money. None of you can take that spot. We're in the main event because if we're not, everyone switches off after our match is done. What does that say about all of you? If I was someone else on this roster, I know I’d be pissed. If I was, oh, I don’t know, Eddie Havok, I’d be thinking about that very carefully. Blood thinks you can’t even take our spots when we’re being made an example of. Get angry, sure, but decide who you should be angry at.”
"Now I realise that I'm supposed to talk about the tag team title match, farce as it may be. So let's give it a shot. The Oblivion Death Squad? We'll beat them. Why? Because we've beaten them already. Because we're manifestly better than them. They're hired guns. They're meat puppets hired by Donzig for a job that no longer exists in a faction that's no longer relevant. They're all muscle and no brain, and they're in there with two guys who outscore them on every measurable attribute. I have a ring IQ a thousand times higher than the pair of them combined. They can't outsmart me or outwrestle me. Sure, they can get aggressive, but so can Frank, and I promise you, the kind of violence Frank Windsor brings from the back streets of Yorkshire is far harder and far more dangerous than anything two cartoon henchmen can throw at us. If it's a fair fight, it's over in five minutes. But, of course, it might not be because of Lord Dominicus."
"Obviously, the whole point of Dominicus being there is to screw us. If he can take his mind off trying to fuck an imaginary bull or whatever the hell he was trying to do in that car crash of a promo, maybe he'll prove to be capable of that. And yes, you wet, prudish little soy boy, that was a sex joke. People who actually have sex regularly get to make sex jokes. Sorry it offends your delicate sensibilities. Let's say Dominicus screws us, and we lose the tag titles. Sure. That could happen. If you really want to screw us, Blood, you can do it, and we probably can't stop you. So if that's your plan, go right ahead. Maybe it would be a relief. Maybe it would be fun for us to see someone else try to carry this entire fucking promotion we've had on our backs for the past year plus. Kill your cash cow. Go for it. See if it matters one iota to us. We're made and paid whatever we do. The choice is yours."
Riot checks his watch.
"Oh, will you look at that? I've gone over my allotted promo time. Well, I'm in enough trouble already, so I may as well keep going. Whether it's in Wolverhampton, where we're in the main event, or Dominion, where we're already being sold as "the biggest names in the XHF," we'll continue to be the draw and the star attraction while you continue to get sore about it. And if you think the fourth wall might be breaking here, you're damn right. You're going to need a fucking fifth wall by the time we're through."
"If you think we're disrespectful, if you think we're out of line, if you think we're making a mockery of this promotion or this industry, do me a favour. Stop bitching in your WhatsApp groups. Stop cry-wanking while you type out your angry DMs. Stop talking to the dirt sheets. Get a camera, cut a promo, and talk back to me. Better still, come and step to us in the ring. Come shoot. Come try to be the main eventers. Don't complain because The Bastards stepped to another level and made the game too hard; try finding your big boy pants, stepping up and trying to knock us off. Basically, come see us."
He smirks.
“I won’t hold my breath.”
Riot kicks the camera over, and we’re done.