Break The Walls Down (and other wrestling references)
Apr 14, 2023 7:41:44 GMT -5
Mongo the Destroyer, Frank Windsor, and 2 more like this
Post by fowler on Apr 14, 2023 7:41:44 GMT -5
Billy Fowler stands in the middle of a large hall, resembling the famous Natural History Museum in London. Around him are exhibits that seem to display popular conspiracy theories. A model of flat earth. A photo of the Twin Towers exploding without trace of an aircraft. A video of Bill Gates discussing vaccines plays on a small TV in the background.
Fowler stands in the middle of these displays illuminated by a spotlight and wearing a very fancy black velvet suit with a “Bastards 4 Life” t-shirt underneath.
“So, what do you want to talk about?”
There is no response, clearly as the room is void of anyone else, but Fowler waits a moment before continuing.
“The whole world is talking about three people right now.
Billy Fowler, Rob Riot, and Frank Windsor.
The whole world has its eyes on us. Because we put them there!
I would hope that you all read the signs that this was coming. Fuck me, I told you about this week after week. Don’t believe me, go back and watch my previous promos, it’s all in there!
In fact the last time I addressed you all I told you that you weren’t ready for the psychological battle about to be waged on you, and guess fucking what…
I was right!”
Fowler takes his phone out of his inner jacket pocket and holds it up.
“All fucking week this little fella has been pinging with messages, news updates, reactions, that all show that the actions that you all forced us to take have got you all a little rattled.
A little? Who am I kidding, The Bastards broke the mother fucking wrestling world brother!”
Fowler laughs as he exaggerates the “Brother”.
“It seems that no one in Wrestle: UK or the worthless network know what to do with us. It looks to me and my friends like we’ve out classed, out worked and out manoeuvred you all on every level and now you’re all frantically trying to work out where you go from here.
I’ll give you a clue. To your graves.
See Blood is in full panic mode. He’s trying everything he can to save his company by trying his hardest to ensure we lose our gold.
Lord Cuckhold is in full denial mode. Trying to paint us out as cowards, obsessed with conspiracy against us and using excuses to save ourselves.”
Fowler looks around the room at the displays.
“Do I look like a fucking flat earther?
There is no conspiracy you fat fuck. What there is, is three men who have shown you exactly what we are capable of and why we refuse to be drawn out into activity on a network which is only afloat thanks to the viewership Wrestle: UK draws…you’re welcome.
To compete against people who are not on our level!
Which leads me to Wesley Crane.
The thorn that just refuses to be moved from our side. You Wesley haven’t even switched modes.
You’re so out of your depth here, swimming with the big sharks, that you’ve not even noticed your blood in the water. You’re still in the same mode you have been since you walked through the door, saying the same old innocuous shit week in and week out.
You really think the High Rollers Club is above the level of The Bastards? You’re drinking some strong fucking cool aid there brother.
Other than banging on about how you’re the supposed man and admitting that you refuse to be a fighting champion like me, or even Havok, stating that you fight on your time, blah, blah, blah.
The only other thing of worth you have mentioned is that we did a “finger poke of doom”.”
Fowler pauses. He takes of his jacket, letting his T-shirt display loud and proud.
“Now Wesley, it’s no secret to anyone who knows us that The Bastards aren’t afraid to lower the fourth wall. Poke us hard enough and we’ll smash right through it.
What you’ve done by referencing “The finger poke of doom” and “WCW” is give me full permission to smash that motherfucker right down. So here we go.
Are you ready….”
Fowler winks and gives a sly little crotch chop.
“Yes Wesley, we used a wrestling angle in a wrestling promotion.
Thank you so much for pointing that out.
Now, what we expect at this point is for you to respond. Respond as a man. As a champion. And come after us! Hit us with your strongest shots and prove to us that you really are the fucking man, that you are a champion and that you are on our level!
Instead all we’re seeing is the same old shit and weak attempts to belittle us because we were smart enough to use a wrestling angle to maintain our advantage. We don’t need to make a title The Bastards World title, we don’t need any further validation than the one we have in our hearts and minds of knowing that we are the legitimate fucking best at this in the world.
That move last week was simply a statement that you Wesley are a fucking puppet champion, placed on a throne built from weak decision making.
Think I’m wrong? Fucking prove it.
Because the truth is, everyone was happy for me to be World Champion and head of the table when you thought I was the weak link and controllable. Now that I’ve proven that I’m just as fucking LEGITIMATE as Rob Riot and Frank Windsor, it’s clear that you want to keep me as far away from that world title as possible.
I’m better than you Wesley, I’m better than your mate sub-PAR too, even if someone thought different. And that is eating you up.
So let’s cut all the bullshit and all the moaning Wesley. Put on your big boy World Champ pants and bring the fight. Or accept you’re not ready for the deep end of the ocean. BROTHER!”
The lights fade to black.
Fowler stands in the middle of these displays illuminated by a spotlight and wearing a very fancy black velvet suit with a “Bastards 4 Life” t-shirt underneath.
“So, what do you want to talk about?”
There is no response, clearly as the room is void of anyone else, but Fowler waits a moment before continuing.
“The whole world is talking about three people right now.
Billy Fowler, Rob Riot, and Frank Windsor.
The whole world has its eyes on us. Because we put them there!
I would hope that you all read the signs that this was coming. Fuck me, I told you about this week after week. Don’t believe me, go back and watch my previous promos, it’s all in there!
In fact the last time I addressed you all I told you that you weren’t ready for the psychological battle about to be waged on you, and guess fucking what…
I was right!”
Fowler takes his phone out of his inner jacket pocket and holds it up.
“All fucking week this little fella has been pinging with messages, news updates, reactions, that all show that the actions that you all forced us to take have got you all a little rattled.
A little? Who am I kidding, The Bastards broke the mother fucking wrestling world brother!”
Fowler laughs as he exaggerates the “Brother”.
“It seems that no one in Wrestle: UK or the worthless network know what to do with us. It looks to me and my friends like we’ve out classed, out worked and out manoeuvred you all on every level and now you’re all frantically trying to work out where you go from here.
I’ll give you a clue. To your graves.
See Blood is in full panic mode. He’s trying everything he can to save his company by trying his hardest to ensure we lose our gold.
Lord Cuckhold is in full denial mode. Trying to paint us out as cowards, obsessed with conspiracy against us and using excuses to save ourselves.”
Fowler looks around the room at the displays.
“Do I look like a fucking flat earther?
There is no conspiracy you fat fuck. What there is, is three men who have shown you exactly what we are capable of and why we refuse to be drawn out into activity on a network which is only afloat thanks to the viewership Wrestle: UK draws…you’re welcome.
To compete against people who are not on our level!
Which leads me to Wesley Crane.
The thorn that just refuses to be moved from our side. You Wesley haven’t even switched modes.
You’re so out of your depth here, swimming with the big sharks, that you’ve not even noticed your blood in the water. You’re still in the same mode you have been since you walked through the door, saying the same old innocuous shit week in and week out.
You really think the High Rollers Club is above the level of The Bastards? You’re drinking some strong fucking cool aid there brother.
Other than banging on about how you’re the supposed man and admitting that you refuse to be a fighting champion like me, or even Havok, stating that you fight on your time, blah, blah, blah.
The only other thing of worth you have mentioned is that we did a “finger poke of doom”.”
Fowler pauses. He takes of his jacket, letting his T-shirt display loud and proud.
“Now Wesley, it’s no secret to anyone who knows us that The Bastards aren’t afraid to lower the fourth wall. Poke us hard enough and we’ll smash right through it.
What you’ve done by referencing “The finger poke of doom” and “WCW” is give me full permission to smash that motherfucker right down. So here we go.
Are you ready….”
Fowler winks and gives a sly little crotch chop.
“Yes Wesley, we used a wrestling angle in a wrestling promotion.
Thank you so much for pointing that out.
Now, what we expect at this point is for you to respond. Respond as a man. As a champion. And come after us! Hit us with your strongest shots and prove to us that you really are the fucking man, that you are a champion and that you are on our level!
Instead all we’re seeing is the same old shit and weak attempts to belittle us because we were smart enough to use a wrestling angle to maintain our advantage. We don’t need to make a title The Bastards World title, we don’t need any further validation than the one we have in our hearts and minds of knowing that we are the legitimate fucking best at this in the world.
That move last week was simply a statement that you Wesley are a fucking puppet champion, placed on a throne built from weak decision making.
Think I’m wrong? Fucking prove it.
Because the truth is, everyone was happy for me to be World Champion and head of the table when you thought I was the weak link and controllable. Now that I’ve proven that I’m just as fucking LEGITIMATE as Rob Riot and Frank Windsor, it’s clear that you want to keep me as far away from that world title as possible.
I’m better than you Wesley, I’m better than your mate sub-PAR too, even if someone thought different. And that is eating you up.
So let’s cut all the bullshit and all the moaning Wesley. Put on your big boy World Champ pants and bring the fight. Or accept you’re not ready for the deep end of the ocean. BROTHER!”
The lights fade to black.
