Post by robriot on May 4, 2023 15:25:12 GMT -5
The ambulance has left the arena.
Sean Bean, in his battered state, has been scraped up off the floor, deposited into the back of said ambulance, and taken to what some would call “the nearest local medical facility.”
That happened a while ago, though. The ambulance isn't the only thing that left the arena during that time. Most of the ring crew are gone. The referees are gone. The fans are long gone, and so are the majority of the wrestlers. Frank Windsor is gone; the man had a flight to catch. He's on holiday now. Even Billy Fowler is gone, because Rob Riot told him he was fine and it was OK to leave him. He's not fine, though. He's standing in the precise spot where Sean Bean was struck down, and he's furious.
He’s probably not the only W:UK wrestler left in the building - there might be one or two still upstairs having pretend press conferences with media stooges who they’ve paid to be there - but he’s the only one that any of the remaining W:UK production crew thought it was worth their time to track down with a camera. Right now, that camera is looking at the back of him. It won’t be for much longer.
“I know you’re there.”
The camera wobbles a little as its operator realises they've been rumbled. There's a sense of nervousness about the movement. Riot turns on one heel and looks the camera up and down.
“You didn’t bring an interviewer?”
The camera shakes from side to side - the universal gesture for “no.”
“Ah. Of course. Crane paid for them all to be upstairs so it looks like there are people interested in speaking to him and Watts. But that’s OK. If he wants to call the same damn press conference event after event and say the same damn thing over and over again, making himself look and sound like a Republican senator who’s been dragged in front of the media to explain why a computer shop found twink videos on his hard drive, that’s up to him. Whatever you think gets you over, kid. I don’t need a press conference. I just need you to hold that camera steady. Got it?”
This time, the camera moves up and down - the universal gesture for “yes.”
“Good.”
Riot pauses takes a deep breath, and composes himself before he speaks.
"About an hour ago, at the end of Legacy Fourteen, Donzig rigged Sean Bean's car to explode and then kicked him while he was down on the floor, wounded. You all saw him do it; the idiot is so dense that he allowed it to be broadcast on television. Now, what a sane and rational person would do in this situation is call the police and have the man arrested, but I'm not going to do that because I've heard that Donzig wants me. Specifically, Donzig wants me in a death match at Dominion for his two-bit who-gives-a-fuck pick-me title belt. You want me, Donzig? Really? I was in the ring two hours ago. I was in the shower an hour ago. So was Billy Fowler. So was Frank Windsor. But you didn't want any of us then, did you? No. You went for Sean because he's the weak link."
He scoffs and runs a hand through his hair. Despite the scoff, there's no trace of mirth.
"I know how you think, you pantomime fraud. You're going to tell people that you did it to get in our heads. In my head, specifically. You're going to say that you could have taken any one of us out, but you did it to Sean because you knew it would bother us. You're even going to tell yourself that story, and you'll believe it, too. But I know you better than that. The reason that you didn't come for me, for Frank, or for Billy is that you know that, yet again, you'd be smashed, embarrassed, and exposed in front of the whole world with your pants around your ankles, waving your flaccid dick at the world because you couldn't perform when it mattered. Same old story. You're the opposite of a big game player. You always have been. Whenever the opportunity presents itself, you go low because that's where it's safe for you. I mean, shit, Don, is this where we are now? Are we attacking our elders?"
He blows out his cheeks with a long, loud whistle.
"Should I respond in kind? Should I track down your mother and drag her down to the basement where you lived until you were twenty-five, jerking yourself dry over torture porn and writing kiddie-grade dungeon fantasies about women who'll never look at you once, let alone twice? Shall I drag her down there, bend her over that couch where you spent night after night covered in crumbs and your own crust, and show her what it feels like to have a real man inside her? It would be the first time in her life, Don, because god knows your old man can't have been a real man. No real man would have produced such a limp, lonely, second-rate progeny and allowed it to live. Kids like you are the reason the US should never have rolled back abortion laws - you're walking proof that not every birth is wanted or warranted. No, she never had a real man inside her, and she never pushed one out of her either."
He spits, pacing around on the spot as he speaks.
“But I’d never do that, Don, because I’m not weak. I don’t need to strike around the target; I just strike the target. I know what you’re doing, and I know what you’ve been doing since day one. We got the whole world talking with the whole title switcheroo, and you got jealous that we got more heat in one microsecond than you’ve generated with a thousand paint-by-numbers ‘look at me, I’m evil’ promos and ‘look how much blood I can spill’ matches. We got a reaction you can only dream of, and you’ve been clinging to us and trying to get some of that Bastards heat to rub off on you ever since. Well, sorry to break it to you, Don, but you can’t catch heat off The Bastards. We’re the best in the business, but even we can’t heat up something that’s stone dead.”
He takes one more look around the parking lot. It’s time to go home, figuratively and literally.
"We shouldn't even be dealing with you right now. We should be talking about Rage and Cage, or Crane, or Watts, or Long. We should be talking about how Blood stacked the whole deck against us tonight and still couldn't get the tag team championships away from us - and by the way, we told you so - but no. It has to be about you. Donzig has got to make it about Donzig because Donzig will always need someone to carry his name and make him relevant. So it's your lucky day, you fucking parasite. You want me to step into your world? You want a death match? You want me to take that reach-around prop championship you carry around away from you? Fine. You got it. See you at Dominion, Don, but don't you worry; you'll be hearing from me again before then. Until then, see if you can control the urge to make yourself look like a big man by beating up pensioners, yeah?"
Riot walks away, and Wrestle:UK's business is concluded for the night.
Sean Bean, in his battered state, has been scraped up off the floor, deposited into the back of said ambulance, and taken to what some would call “the nearest local medical facility.”
That happened a while ago, though. The ambulance isn't the only thing that left the arena during that time. Most of the ring crew are gone. The referees are gone. The fans are long gone, and so are the majority of the wrestlers. Frank Windsor is gone; the man had a flight to catch. He's on holiday now. Even Billy Fowler is gone, because Rob Riot told him he was fine and it was OK to leave him. He's not fine, though. He's standing in the precise spot where Sean Bean was struck down, and he's furious.
He’s probably not the only W:UK wrestler left in the building - there might be one or two still upstairs having pretend press conferences with media stooges who they’ve paid to be there - but he’s the only one that any of the remaining W:UK production crew thought it was worth their time to track down with a camera. Right now, that camera is looking at the back of him. It won’t be for much longer.
“I know you’re there.”
The camera wobbles a little as its operator realises they've been rumbled. There's a sense of nervousness about the movement. Riot turns on one heel and looks the camera up and down.
“You didn’t bring an interviewer?”
The camera shakes from side to side - the universal gesture for “no.”
“Ah. Of course. Crane paid for them all to be upstairs so it looks like there are people interested in speaking to him and Watts. But that’s OK. If he wants to call the same damn press conference event after event and say the same damn thing over and over again, making himself look and sound like a Republican senator who’s been dragged in front of the media to explain why a computer shop found twink videos on his hard drive, that’s up to him. Whatever you think gets you over, kid. I don’t need a press conference. I just need you to hold that camera steady. Got it?”
This time, the camera moves up and down - the universal gesture for “yes.”
“Good.”
Riot pauses takes a deep breath, and composes himself before he speaks.
"About an hour ago, at the end of Legacy Fourteen, Donzig rigged Sean Bean's car to explode and then kicked him while he was down on the floor, wounded. You all saw him do it; the idiot is so dense that he allowed it to be broadcast on television. Now, what a sane and rational person would do in this situation is call the police and have the man arrested, but I'm not going to do that because I've heard that Donzig wants me. Specifically, Donzig wants me in a death match at Dominion for his two-bit who-gives-a-fuck pick-me title belt. You want me, Donzig? Really? I was in the ring two hours ago. I was in the shower an hour ago. So was Billy Fowler. So was Frank Windsor. But you didn't want any of us then, did you? No. You went for Sean because he's the weak link."
He scoffs and runs a hand through his hair. Despite the scoff, there's no trace of mirth.
"I know how you think, you pantomime fraud. You're going to tell people that you did it to get in our heads. In my head, specifically. You're going to say that you could have taken any one of us out, but you did it to Sean because you knew it would bother us. You're even going to tell yourself that story, and you'll believe it, too. But I know you better than that. The reason that you didn't come for me, for Frank, or for Billy is that you know that, yet again, you'd be smashed, embarrassed, and exposed in front of the whole world with your pants around your ankles, waving your flaccid dick at the world because you couldn't perform when it mattered. Same old story. You're the opposite of a big game player. You always have been. Whenever the opportunity presents itself, you go low because that's where it's safe for you. I mean, shit, Don, is this where we are now? Are we attacking our elders?"
He blows out his cheeks with a long, loud whistle.
"Should I respond in kind? Should I track down your mother and drag her down to the basement where you lived until you were twenty-five, jerking yourself dry over torture porn and writing kiddie-grade dungeon fantasies about women who'll never look at you once, let alone twice? Shall I drag her down there, bend her over that couch where you spent night after night covered in crumbs and your own crust, and show her what it feels like to have a real man inside her? It would be the first time in her life, Don, because god knows your old man can't have been a real man. No real man would have produced such a limp, lonely, second-rate progeny and allowed it to live. Kids like you are the reason the US should never have rolled back abortion laws - you're walking proof that not every birth is wanted or warranted. No, she never had a real man inside her, and she never pushed one out of her either."
He spits, pacing around on the spot as he speaks.
“But I’d never do that, Don, because I’m not weak. I don’t need to strike around the target; I just strike the target. I know what you’re doing, and I know what you’ve been doing since day one. We got the whole world talking with the whole title switcheroo, and you got jealous that we got more heat in one microsecond than you’ve generated with a thousand paint-by-numbers ‘look at me, I’m evil’ promos and ‘look how much blood I can spill’ matches. We got a reaction you can only dream of, and you’ve been clinging to us and trying to get some of that Bastards heat to rub off on you ever since. Well, sorry to break it to you, Don, but you can’t catch heat off The Bastards. We’re the best in the business, but even we can’t heat up something that’s stone dead.”
He takes one more look around the parking lot. It’s time to go home, figuratively and literally.
"We shouldn't even be dealing with you right now. We should be talking about Rage and Cage, or Crane, or Watts, or Long. We should be talking about how Blood stacked the whole deck against us tonight and still couldn't get the tag team championships away from us - and by the way, we told you so - but no. It has to be about you. Donzig has got to make it about Donzig because Donzig will always need someone to carry his name and make him relevant. So it's your lucky day, you fucking parasite. You want me to step into your world? You want a death match? You want me to take that reach-around prop championship you carry around away from you? Fine. You got it. See you at Dominion, Don, but don't you worry; you'll be hearing from me again before then. Until then, see if you can control the urge to make yourself look like a big man by beating up pensioners, yeah?"
Riot walks away, and Wrestle:UK's business is concluded for the night.