Post by robriot on Apr 13, 2023 6:03:44 GMT -5
CLAP.
CLAP.
CLAP.
CLAP.
Rob Riot sits in front of a screen, reclined in an armchair with his feet up on a stool. He’s had to casually toss aside some popcorn so he can applaud, and he’s still chewing as he claps. From the paused image on the screen, it’s very clear he’s just got done watching Donzig’s latest promo.
CLAP.
CLAP.
CLAP.
CLAP.
The applause is slow and methodical but probably not insincere.
"Well, hello there, Donzig. Great stuff. Inspiring. Visceral, angry, aggressive stuff. Well done; you've got my attention. Now you have my attention, allow me to ask you a question. WHERE THE FUCK HAVE YOU BEEN?"
Raising one finger and dislodging more popcorn as he does so, Riot points to the screen.
”I know who that guy is. I had a thing going with that guy in NPW. I respect that guy. That’s Donzig. That’s the man who made people afraid. That’s the man who’s committed acts of brutality that would make lesser men wince and weaker men flinch - and yes, that’s the Scourge. Even when I wasn’t around NPW or W:UK, I heard about that guy. I was in locker rooms where the very mention of that man’s name would make seasoned professional wrestlers quake in their boots, and when I got to NPW, he was everything I hoped he would be. A monster. A beast worth slaying. A truly worthy foe. A violent, maniacal psycopath. But I’ll ask you again, Donzig, where the fuck have you been?”
Riot dusts off the popcorn and flips up a remote, turning the screen off. He tilts the chair towards the camera and brings his feet down, squaring up to the lens.
"Because I haven't seen that guy in a long, long time. I don't think I've seen that version of Donzig since Wrestle:UK set up shop. To be honest, I wasn't sure if he even existed anymore. Sure, there's been a man walking around who looks like Donzig and uses Donzig's name, but he was a neutered cat. No, worse than that, he was a bitch. He looked worn down and cried out, and he wasn't worthy of the reputation that preceded him. For the past year, you've been a pale imitation. You still called yourself the Scourge, but the Scourge of what, exactly? The Scourge of catering? The Scourge of backing up your words? The Scourge of putting the work in? Because I don't see what else you've been scourging. There's a whole roster of people here - and I'm not just talking about The Bastards - who've lost their fear of you because you've given them no reason to keep it. And before you throw anything at the screen, I already know what you want to scream at me, just like you know what I'm going to say to you. I guess we're psychic, aren't we, Don?"
He shakes his head and adjusts his shirt, smiling ruefully to himself before he continues.
“You’re going to say you haven’t been the Scourge around here because you’ve been busy everywhere else. Hell, you were even kind and thorough enough to give me a list. Invaded X. Conquered Y. Tried to win Z. They seek him here, they seek him there, the Scourging Pimpernel. And yes, you’re damn right I’m going to point out that you lost, but do you really know why you lost? And no, it’s not because of the reason you tried to give me. That’s you lying to yourself. I know why you lost, and everyone else knows why you lost, and it pains me that you can’t see it. So let me do you a favour by telling you.”
"You lost because you have this desperate, cloying need for approval. You lost because you spread yourself too thin and spread your cheeks too wide, and then you were surprised when someone came along, grabbed those splayed cheeks and fucked you. Your desperation to be loved and respected took you to places where you'd never be appreciated and weakened you in Wrestle:UK because your attention was never here. What is it, Don? Did mummy never love you? Did daddy go out for cigarettes and never come home again? Were you starved of affection or attention as a child? Is that why, no matter what you achieve, you have to keep going out in search of pats on the head and tickles of the belly? You need other people to validate you so badly that it makes me pity you, and the guy on the screen who spoke to me right now should never be pitied. It's a fucking tragedy what you've become."
He shakes his head. The wry smile is gone now.
"The real difference between you and me is that I know my worth, and I don't take the bait. That latest stupefying promo - or whatever the hell it was - from Dominicus? That's bait. He's the living embodiment of the "that's bait" meme from Mad Max. 'Oh, you don't dare to come and prove yourself outside Wrestle:UK, so I'm going to mock you for it, but I'm still going to beg you to do it even though I'm here now doing referee gigs because every other promotion I work in is dead.' Like I'm supposed to believe an entity that stuck a world championship on Steve Awesome in the past twelve months - which, by the way, is disrespecting a title far worse than anything I've ever done - is in any way legitimate, and that's something I should want to aspire to. But you want that title don't you, Don? You want it so badly it eats you up inside, so you go to their little rumbles and their special events, and you come home cowed with your tail between your legs time and time again because deep down inside your black heart, you don't believe you're the best. Well I am, Don. I'm the best."
Nothing but cold sincerity now. He jabs his thumb towards his chest.
"I'm the best. And I'm not talking about Wrestle:UK or even the network it airs on. I'm the best in the world, and that might be a cliche, but it also happens to be true. I'm the best in the world, and I don't need anybody else to tell me that. It's obvious to anyone who has eyes and ears. I don't need to go and prove myself in some contest where I'm asked to perform for people who have neither the mental acuity nor the artistic capacity to judge who I am. That's like asking a dog to appreciate opera. I am now and always have been the best in the world, and I will continue to be the best in the world until the day I go out on my shield. So here's your chance. I know you hate everything I'm saying right now. I know you want to choke the life out of me. So if you think you're the man who can come and send me out on that shield, come and do it. Stop running around the world begging for scraps from everyone else's table. Put your focus right here."
He taps the middle of his forehead - exactly where Frank Windsor gave him the now-infamous Fingerpoke of Doom Redux.
"But if you're coming, come as the guy who just cut that promo. Come as Donzig. Come as the Scourge and the Destroyer. Come as the guy who stabs and cuts and maims and kills. Bring him to me. Bring every piece of hate and bile you have in your body and fire it at me like you're firing a bullet straight from your fucking guts because I'm telling you right now, you washed up, cucked, sidelined carny fuck, if you come as anything less than that, I'll embarrass you so badly that there won't be a place you can run away to in the whole world that won't know Donzig's finished. If that wasn't all talk - if you really do still have some of the old Scourge inside you - fucking bring him to me and let's do this. Beating the version of you that's existed for the past year would be pointless - it would be like slapping a disabled kid. Beating THAT Donzig, though? That's almost - and I mean almost - worth my time."
Riot stands to leave but has another thought to impart before he goes.
“Oh, and when you do come, make sure you thank me for slapping you in the face, waking you the fuck up, and reminding you who you are. You’ve got your fire back, and it’s thanks to me. You’re welcome.”
Fin.
CLAP.
CLAP.
CLAP.
Rob Riot sits in front of a screen, reclined in an armchair with his feet up on a stool. He’s had to casually toss aside some popcorn so he can applaud, and he’s still chewing as he claps. From the paused image on the screen, it’s very clear he’s just got done watching Donzig’s latest promo.
CLAP.
CLAP.
CLAP.
CLAP.
The applause is slow and methodical but probably not insincere.
"Well, hello there, Donzig. Great stuff. Inspiring. Visceral, angry, aggressive stuff. Well done; you've got my attention. Now you have my attention, allow me to ask you a question. WHERE THE FUCK HAVE YOU BEEN?"
Raising one finger and dislodging more popcorn as he does so, Riot points to the screen.
”I know who that guy is. I had a thing going with that guy in NPW. I respect that guy. That’s Donzig. That’s the man who made people afraid. That’s the man who’s committed acts of brutality that would make lesser men wince and weaker men flinch - and yes, that’s the Scourge. Even when I wasn’t around NPW or W:UK, I heard about that guy. I was in locker rooms where the very mention of that man’s name would make seasoned professional wrestlers quake in their boots, and when I got to NPW, he was everything I hoped he would be. A monster. A beast worth slaying. A truly worthy foe. A violent, maniacal psycopath. But I’ll ask you again, Donzig, where the fuck have you been?”
Riot dusts off the popcorn and flips up a remote, turning the screen off. He tilts the chair towards the camera and brings his feet down, squaring up to the lens.
"Because I haven't seen that guy in a long, long time. I don't think I've seen that version of Donzig since Wrestle:UK set up shop. To be honest, I wasn't sure if he even existed anymore. Sure, there's been a man walking around who looks like Donzig and uses Donzig's name, but he was a neutered cat. No, worse than that, he was a bitch. He looked worn down and cried out, and he wasn't worthy of the reputation that preceded him. For the past year, you've been a pale imitation. You still called yourself the Scourge, but the Scourge of what, exactly? The Scourge of catering? The Scourge of backing up your words? The Scourge of putting the work in? Because I don't see what else you've been scourging. There's a whole roster of people here - and I'm not just talking about The Bastards - who've lost their fear of you because you've given them no reason to keep it. And before you throw anything at the screen, I already know what you want to scream at me, just like you know what I'm going to say to you. I guess we're psychic, aren't we, Don?"
He shakes his head and adjusts his shirt, smiling ruefully to himself before he continues.
“You’re going to say you haven’t been the Scourge around here because you’ve been busy everywhere else. Hell, you were even kind and thorough enough to give me a list. Invaded X. Conquered Y. Tried to win Z. They seek him here, they seek him there, the Scourging Pimpernel. And yes, you’re damn right I’m going to point out that you lost, but do you really know why you lost? And no, it’s not because of the reason you tried to give me. That’s you lying to yourself. I know why you lost, and everyone else knows why you lost, and it pains me that you can’t see it. So let me do you a favour by telling you.”
"You lost because you have this desperate, cloying need for approval. You lost because you spread yourself too thin and spread your cheeks too wide, and then you were surprised when someone came along, grabbed those splayed cheeks and fucked you. Your desperation to be loved and respected took you to places where you'd never be appreciated and weakened you in Wrestle:UK because your attention was never here. What is it, Don? Did mummy never love you? Did daddy go out for cigarettes and never come home again? Were you starved of affection or attention as a child? Is that why, no matter what you achieve, you have to keep going out in search of pats on the head and tickles of the belly? You need other people to validate you so badly that it makes me pity you, and the guy on the screen who spoke to me right now should never be pitied. It's a fucking tragedy what you've become."
He shakes his head. The wry smile is gone now.
"The real difference between you and me is that I know my worth, and I don't take the bait. That latest stupefying promo - or whatever the hell it was - from Dominicus? That's bait. He's the living embodiment of the "that's bait" meme from Mad Max. 'Oh, you don't dare to come and prove yourself outside Wrestle:UK, so I'm going to mock you for it, but I'm still going to beg you to do it even though I'm here now doing referee gigs because every other promotion I work in is dead.' Like I'm supposed to believe an entity that stuck a world championship on Steve Awesome in the past twelve months - which, by the way, is disrespecting a title far worse than anything I've ever done - is in any way legitimate, and that's something I should want to aspire to. But you want that title don't you, Don? You want it so badly it eats you up inside, so you go to their little rumbles and their special events, and you come home cowed with your tail between your legs time and time again because deep down inside your black heart, you don't believe you're the best. Well I am, Don. I'm the best."
Nothing but cold sincerity now. He jabs his thumb towards his chest.
"I'm the best. And I'm not talking about Wrestle:UK or even the network it airs on. I'm the best in the world, and that might be a cliche, but it also happens to be true. I'm the best in the world, and I don't need anybody else to tell me that. It's obvious to anyone who has eyes and ears. I don't need to go and prove myself in some contest where I'm asked to perform for people who have neither the mental acuity nor the artistic capacity to judge who I am. That's like asking a dog to appreciate opera. I am now and always have been the best in the world, and I will continue to be the best in the world until the day I go out on my shield. So here's your chance. I know you hate everything I'm saying right now. I know you want to choke the life out of me. So if you think you're the man who can come and send me out on that shield, come and do it. Stop running around the world begging for scraps from everyone else's table. Put your focus right here."
He taps the middle of his forehead - exactly where Frank Windsor gave him the now-infamous Fingerpoke of Doom Redux.
"But if you're coming, come as the guy who just cut that promo. Come as Donzig. Come as the Scourge and the Destroyer. Come as the guy who stabs and cuts and maims and kills. Bring him to me. Bring every piece of hate and bile you have in your body and fire it at me like you're firing a bullet straight from your fucking guts because I'm telling you right now, you washed up, cucked, sidelined carny fuck, if you come as anything less than that, I'll embarrass you so badly that there won't be a place you can run away to in the whole world that won't know Donzig's finished. If that wasn't all talk - if you really do still have some of the old Scourge inside you - fucking bring him to me and let's do this. Beating the version of you that's existed for the past year would be pointless - it would be like slapping a disabled kid. Beating THAT Donzig, though? That's almost - and I mean almost - worth my time."
Riot stands to leave but has another thought to impart before he goes.
“Oh, and when you do come, make sure you thank me for slapping you in the face, waking you the fuck up, and reminding you who you are. You’ve got your fire back, and it’s thanks to me. You’re welcome.”
Fin.