Post by robriot on May 14, 2023 11:16:51 GMT -5
Scene: An American diner, probably. It looks like one, at any rate. At a table, front and centre, is Rob Riot. He's wearing double denim and a stetson, and he's sat in front of a plate of hot wings.
As he reaches out for an under-cooked but over-sauced hot wing, an attractive barmaid passes. Clearly, she catches his eye. He waves and hollers at her like the type of people who visit establishments like this tend to do.
“M’am? M’am? Yes, I’d like a beer.”
She sidles over, clearly impressed with the world-famous celebrity in her bar. Arching an eyebrow and leaning over a little to give Riot a glimpse of her cleavage, she puts on her best scarlet drawl and asks him:-
"Now, what would it be for you, sugar? A Bud Light?"
Riot recoils in mock horror.
“Hell no, I believe that’s the sort of thing that gives people palpitations in these parts. What’s with the sexy voice and the gratuitous tits, anyway? Am I in a Rob Riot promo or a Wesley Crane promo?”
That line genuinely appears to confuse her.
"I'm sorry, honey; what do you mean by that?"
"I mean, is this how you'd actually act if you weren't being paid? Is this how the other customers act?"
Riot gestures around the room.
"Look at them all. A bar full of guys here to shoot guns, confuse healthcare with communism, shoot more guns, deny women's rights, suck off Kyle Rittenhouse, shoot more guns but at school kids this time, buy Datsuns and watch NASCAR. Hell, I wouldn't be surprised if…"
He trails off. There’s an expression on his face which is somewhere between contempt and pity.
"Ah, fuck, I can't do it. I tried to cut a generic, lazy, borderline racist promo in an equally generic setting, but I just can't do it. It just isn't me. It isn't you either, is it, Don? But it's what you've been reduced to after I peeled back your layers. It's what you've tried to serve me with. Lazy, generic, rinse-and-repeat tropes and empty threats. What a shame you are. What a damn shame. Everybody get out."
The barmaid hesitates. The other patrons in the bar look towards someone off-screen-presumably the director - for guidance. The instruction, though, comes from Riot.
"I said get the fuck out. I'm paying the bills; I call the shots. OUT, OUT, OUT!"
The facade is shot to pieces now. This isn’t a diner; it’s a set, and all the people in it are actors. To be more specific, they’re actors who are no longer required. They scatter away as Riot waves his arms at them, leaving him alone with his table and his stack of low-quality hot wings. He rips off his denim shirt and throws it away, shortly followed by the stetson. Pushing the chair away from the table, he stands and paces around the now-empty set as he talks.
“I’m confused, Don. I said everything I had to say, and then I went away to train. Do you know where I went? Japan. I went to Japan because although I see nothing of substance in you and no reason to take you seriously, I gave you a puncher’s chance. I figure that a guy who’s worked as many deathmatches as you might get the rub of the green on a lucky day, and so I wanted to take the rub away. I’ve been in Japan working with deathmatch guys, stretching myself in dojos, and watching tapes. I’ve been plugging into your wrestling language. I’ve been guarding myself against the possibility that maybe - just maybe - the great Donzig comes up with something on the day that might surprise me.”
He pauses, picks up a hot wing, takes a bite out of it, and spits it away.
“What a waste of my time that was.”
Riot pulls his phone out of his pocket and jabs at it with his finger a few times. Nodding as he apparently finds what he's looking for, he takes a couple of paces towards the camera and shows the audience an email that he's opened on his screen. It's from W:UK Head Office and deals with the practicalities of contractually-required promotions for Dominion. Some audience members will have to squint harder than others, but most people will have been able to read it. For the benefit of those who couldn't, Riot reads a few key points aloud.
“Competitors in the Two Kingdoms Championship Deathmatch are required to provide Head Office with two video promos, both of which must last for no more than five minutes due to airtime constraints.”
His point made, he puts his phone back in his pocket and continues.
"Now, I know we both caused a little stink when we totally ignored head office last time out and went over our time limits, Don, but since this is a new day and a new slate, I figured I'd be a good little soldier this time around. I might have burned you alive in that promo last week, but I burned you alive efficiently. I burned you alive within the allotted time. Imagine my surprise upon coming back from Japan, subjecting myself to your laboured, stale, 'I'm the boogeyman' promos and finding that one of them was seven minutes and the other was ten minutes. Now why would that happen? Are you illiterate? Let's not discount the possibility, but let's ask another question. Do you, in fact, have a tight relationship with Mr Blood? Are you, in fact, allowed to say, 'To hell with the limits, I need that extra time if I'm going to compete with The Best To Ever Do It' - and yes, you can put a trademark on that - so Mr Blood grants your wish? Maybe there's a third angle. Maybe Mr Blood is just incompetent."
He ends his constant wandering and pauses for a moment to look straight down the lens.
“That would certainly explain why we’ve got four guys from other promotions getting a shot at number one contendership for our so-called world title in a ladder match at Dominion, but let’s park that for now. Let’s get back to the meat of it. Yes, the meat…”
He reaches out for another wing. It's no more pleasant than it was the last time. He chews it for a moment and spits it out.
“Synthetic. Processed. Fake. That’s the meat of the matter when it comes to you, Don. There were certain things I expected when I found myself in a deathmatch with you, but I didn’t expect to have to drag you to the table. I didn’t expect to have to take you back to school and tell you how to do this, but apparently, I do. So, then. Sit back, make yourself comfortable, and allow me to cover off a few basics for you.
Taking his own advice, Riot sits back down in the chair, tossing the wings aside as he does so, and raises one finger on one hand.
"Number one. If I clown you by doing an impression of you, don't list off the names of other guys who clowned you even worse by doing other impressions of you. All you're doing is telling the audience that you get clowned a lot. I'm not sure if we could lay it on any thicker at this point, even if we covered you in grease paint and found you some clown shoes to wear or a little clown car to drive, but you could at least try. At this stage in the game, you're doing my job for me. Number two."
A second finger comes up to join the first one.
“If you’re telling me that you’ll be walking down to the ring as ‘just little old me,’ rather than ‘the Scourge’ or ‘Death in High Places,’ don’t immediately refer to yourself as ‘The Hardcore Incarnate’ or ‘the American Destroyer.’ My whole point was that you’re nothing when you peel away the labels and the theatre. By slapping other labels on yourself, all you’re doing is confirming I was right, and you’re too insecure to step to me without them. Point three.’
You guessed it - there’s a third finger.
"When I've already pointed out that half of everything you say is 'I'm bad, I'm bad,' don't tell me that you tried to cut a man's face off with a screwdriver. All you're doing is reminding the audience of that Michael Jackson joke I made and the fact that you touch children."
He stands.
"I don't need the extra promo time to beat you, Don. I don't need to say more words. All I need to do is come to the ring at Dominion and beat you at your own game, and I'm going to do that because of one inescapable, incontrovertible fact; I'm better at it than you are. Take one last look around your fake kingdom, Donald, because in a few days' time, I'm razing it to the ground."
Fin.
As he reaches out for an under-cooked but over-sauced hot wing, an attractive barmaid passes. Clearly, she catches his eye. He waves and hollers at her like the type of people who visit establishments like this tend to do.
“M’am? M’am? Yes, I’d like a beer.”
She sidles over, clearly impressed with the world-famous celebrity in her bar. Arching an eyebrow and leaning over a little to give Riot a glimpse of her cleavage, she puts on her best scarlet drawl and asks him:-
"Now, what would it be for you, sugar? A Bud Light?"
Riot recoils in mock horror.
“Hell no, I believe that’s the sort of thing that gives people palpitations in these parts. What’s with the sexy voice and the gratuitous tits, anyway? Am I in a Rob Riot promo or a Wesley Crane promo?”
That line genuinely appears to confuse her.
"I'm sorry, honey; what do you mean by that?"
"I mean, is this how you'd actually act if you weren't being paid? Is this how the other customers act?"
Riot gestures around the room.
"Look at them all. A bar full of guys here to shoot guns, confuse healthcare with communism, shoot more guns, deny women's rights, suck off Kyle Rittenhouse, shoot more guns but at school kids this time, buy Datsuns and watch NASCAR. Hell, I wouldn't be surprised if…"
He trails off. There’s an expression on his face which is somewhere between contempt and pity.
"Ah, fuck, I can't do it. I tried to cut a generic, lazy, borderline racist promo in an equally generic setting, but I just can't do it. It just isn't me. It isn't you either, is it, Don? But it's what you've been reduced to after I peeled back your layers. It's what you've tried to serve me with. Lazy, generic, rinse-and-repeat tropes and empty threats. What a shame you are. What a damn shame. Everybody get out."
The barmaid hesitates. The other patrons in the bar look towards someone off-screen-presumably the director - for guidance. The instruction, though, comes from Riot.
"I said get the fuck out. I'm paying the bills; I call the shots. OUT, OUT, OUT!"
The facade is shot to pieces now. This isn’t a diner; it’s a set, and all the people in it are actors. To be more specific, they’re actors who are no longer required. They scatter away as Riot waves his arms at them, leaving him alone with his table and his stack of low-quality hot wings. He rips off his denim shirt and throws it away, shortly followed by the stetson. Pushing the chair away from the table, he stands and paces around the now-empty set as he talks.
“I’m confused, Don. I said everything I had to say, and then I went away to train. Do you know where I went? Japan. I went to Japan because although I see nothing of substance in you and no reason to take you seriously, I gave you a puncher’s chance. I figure that a guy who’s worked as many deathmatches as you might get the rub of the green on a lucky day, and so I wanted to take the rub away. I’ve been in Japan working with deathmatch guys, stretching myself in dojos, and watching tapes. I’ve been plugging into your wrestling language. I’ve been guarding myself against the possibility that maybe - just maybe - the great Donzig comes up with something on the day that might surprise me.”
He pauses, picks up a hot wing, takes a bite out of it, and spits it away.
“What a waste of my time that was.”
Riot pulls his phone out of his pocket and jabs at it with his finger a few times. Nodding as he apparently finds what he's looking for, he takes a couple of paces towards the camera and shows the audience an email that he's opened on his screen. It's from W:UK Head Office and deals with the practicalities of contractually-required promotions for Dominion. Some audience members will have to squint harder than others, but most people will have been able to read it. For the benefit of those who couldn't, Riot reads a few key points aloud.
“Competitors in the Two Kingdoms Championship Deathmatch are required to provide Head Office with two video promos, both of which must last for no more than five minutes due to airtime constraints.”
His point made, he puts his phone back in his pocket and continues.
"Now, I know we both caused a little stink when we totally ignored head office last time out and went over our time limits, Don, but since this is a new day and a new slate, I figured I'd be a good little soldier this time around. I might have burned you alive in that promo last week, but I burned you alive efficiently. I burned you alive within the allotted time. Imagine my surprise upon coming back from Japan, subjecting myself to your laboured, stale, 'I'm the boogeyman' promos and finding that one of them was seven minutes and the other was ten minutes. Now why would that happen? Are you illiterate? Let's not discount the possibility, but let's ask another question. Do you, in fact, have a tight relationship with Mr Blood? Are you, in fact, allowed to say, 'To hell with the limits, I need that extra time if I'm going to compete with The Best To Ever Do It' - and yes, you can put a trademark on that - so Mr Blood grants your wish? Maybe there's a third angle. Maybe Mr Blood is just incompetent."
He ends his constant wandering and pauses for a moment to look straight down the lens.
“That would certainly explain why we’ve got four guys from other promotions getting a shot at number one contendership for our so-called world title in a ladder match at Dominion, but let’s park that for now. Let’s get back to the meat of it. Yes, the meat…”
He reaches out for another wing. It's no more pleasant than it was the last time. He chews it for a moment and spits it out.
“Synthetic. Processed. Fake. That’s the meat of the matter when it comes to you, Don. There were certain things I expected when I found myself in a deathmatch with you, but I didn’t expect to have to drag you to the table. I didn’t expect to have to take you back to school and tell you how to do this, but apparently, I do. So, then. Sit back, make yourself comfortable, and allow me to cover off a few basics for you.
Taking his own advice, Riot sits back down in the chair, tossing the wings aside as he does so, and raises one finger on one hand.
"Number one. If I clown you by doing an impression of you, don't list off the names of other guys who clowned you even worse by doing other impressions of you. All you're doing is telling the audience that you get clowned a lot. I'm not sure if we could lay it on any thicker at this point, even if we covered you in grease paint and found you some clown shoes to wear or a little clown car to drive, but you could at least try. At this stage in the game, you're doing my job for me. Number two."
A second finger comes up to join the first one.
“If you’re telling me that you’ll be walking down to the ring as ‘just little old me,’ rather than ‘the Scourge’ or ‘Death in High Places,’ don’t immediately refer to yourself as ‘The Hardcore Incarnate’ or ‘the American Destroyer.’ My whole point was that you’re nothing when you peel away the labels and the theatre. By slapping other labels on yourself, all you’re doing is confirming I was right, and you’re too insecure to step to me without them. Point three.’
You guessed it - there’s a third finger.
"When I've already pointed out that half of everything you say is 'I'm bad, I'm bad,' don't tell me that you tried to cut a man's face off with a screwdriver. All you're doing is reminding the audience of that Michael Jackson joke I made and the fact that you touch children."
He stands.
"I don't need the extra promo time to beat you, Don. I don't need to say more words. All I need to do is come to the ring at Dominion and beat you at your own game, and I'm going to do that because of one inescapable, incontrovertible fact; I'm better at it than you are. Take one last look around your fake kingdom, Donald, because in a few days' time, I'm razing it to the ground."
Fin.