The Battle of Who Could Care Less (X*Crown RP)
Jul 23, 2018 10:41:33 GMT -5
Mongo the Destroyer likes this
Post by rswrobriot on Jul 23, 2018 10:41:33 GMT -5
Birdsong.
The sound of nature welcomes us into the scene; the same kind of sweet avian chirrup that’s used in cartoons when a central character awakes dream a dream state, but there’s nothing sweet or dreamlike about this. We’re out in the doors somewhere - could be anywhere. When you’ve walked the earth as far and as wide as the man at the centre of the scene has, everywhere starts to look the same. It’s got a blue sky. It’s got trees, forming a canopy high overhead It could be England or it could be fucking Bolivia for all he cares, and you shouldn’t care either. The location isn’t important.
There he stand: Rob Riot. He’s wearing a tweed jacket, a white shirt, and black corduroy trousers. Nothing about that outfit is suited to being in the outdoors, and he sticks out like a sore thumb against the backdrop. Completely ambivalent to the presence of the camera, he’s going about his work - whatever it may be. He has a red watering can in his hands, and he’s going from tree to tree, pouring the contents of the can into whatever nook or crevice he can find in in the pines. Where no nook or crevice presents itself, he just tips water down the bark of the tree. It’s an odd visual - the war beaten Riot Star Wrestling co-founder isn’t known for his great love of gardening. In fact, come to think of it, he’s never been seen gardening before so long as he’s been on television. And that, kids, is a long time.
As the camera draws closer, he acknowledges it with word, but not deed. Apparently, his attentiveness with the can is more important than looking at the viewers.
”You know, I ought to be offended…” he begins, straining to reach a knotted lumpen malformation just below the branches of his latest patient. ….”but to become offended, I’d have to care”.
He steps back. He nods. That’s enough for this one. Keep moving. He steps across the grass, allowing a little water to trail from the can as he goes, following him to the next tree.
”See, there was a time when grown men - and women - would run away rather than face me. They’d feign sickness. They’d invent personal tragedy. They’d conveniently become injured. Anything - anything at all - was better than the prospect of facing Rob Riot inside a wrestling ring. And for the brave few who welcomed such a challenge, well, they couldn’t keep my name out of their mouths. Every utterance was about either their respect or their worship of me. How they were going to put me down. How they were going to break me. How I represented the ultimate challenge, and the lengths they would go to in order to make sure they came away from the win. And now I find myself packaged off to some gimmick match in some backwater promotion with a gang of nobodies and never-weres, and what do I find there to greet me?………..HA!”
The sudden shout catches the birds unaware, and they take off from their hiding places amongst the leaves and disappear into the sky, the audial rush of distress and wind as they retreat gradually being replaced by nothing. Or more specifically, replaced by….
”……silence. I have waited to be called out or called forth by any of these nameless, talentless hacks who line up to face me in the ring…or rings, however this bullshit works… and they have spoken not a word. It’s like they don’t know who I am. It’s like they don’t know what I’ve done. It’s like they don’t recognize the most decorated wrestler in the entire game when they see him. A man who’s won world title after world title in promotion after promotion they were never fit to jerk the curtain at. The man who’s been making money in the big leagues whilst they bend the knee in bingo halls. The man who founded the largest wrestling promotion in the world in Riot Star Wrestling.I am Rob Riot, you heathen swine. I am the food on your table. Wrestling me is the biggest payday any of you will ever see, and you’ll tell your grandchildren about the time I once smacked you right in the face if I let you live to tell the tale. The very least you can do is welcome me. But no. I get nothing. I guess I’m not cool with the indie kids anymore.”
He crosses to yet another tree, and slowly puts down the watering can, laying his hand against the trunk and tapping his fingers against it, resting his head against the side. He’s looking for something - who knows what. He’s still got a lecture to give us all.
”I’ve looked you all up, of course. It wasn’t easy. You’re not exactly the great and good of the sport. Tabitha Osborne I know of course - the runt of the Osborne litter, and a bug I once crushed underfoot somewhere in the past - possibly nGw. You’re one of the less memorable names on my list of victims. You poor, deranged child. I assumed someone had put you down a long time ago, but no, it appeared you simply lost your seat at the table in the major promotions and somehow found yourself slumming it around this level. Jack Diamond. Great name for a cabaret singer. Shit name for a wrestler. Next? Raiden Ishimori. I love guys who use Mortal Kombat gimmicks, but unless you can literally throw lightning you’re no threat to me, kid. Jackson Steele sounds like an accountant’s firm. Maybe a low rent attorney. Definitely not someone who beats someone up for a living. Anomoly? My friend, if you’re not going to take the time to learn how to spell your name, don’t expect me to believe you took the time to learn how to wrestle. Hardcore Harry? You sat there staring at a piece of paper and decided the best way you could go with this is ‘Hardcore Harry’? Hardcore wrestling has been dead for longer than Michael Jackson, Harry, so unless you’re looking for work in the world of pornography, stop wasting my time. And then, introduced last like he was some kind of big deal, Steve Awesome. Who I can only assume is Mike Awesome’s fatter, uglier, less talented brother. I should charge double just for having to dirty my hands with these jobbers sweat for the evening, but thanks to some bad advice from Armand von Krauss this is the card I’ve been played. So allow me to provide you all with fair warning”
He walks his fingers around the bark of the tree until they happen upon a bronzed lump of amber, inside which some ants have become trapped and died. Staring into the semi-precious stone as if he found it fascinating, Riot moves his face closer, and takes a lick.
”Mmm. Lovely. Amber. Nature’s petrification jelly. All of you, my chosen foes, are very much like insects trapped in amber. You’re locked into a fragile moment of time with me, stuck in a moment you can’t escape. You didn’t know things would end this way. You didn’t set out looking for it. You didn’t ask for it. You were minding your own business, doing your jobs, and it just happened this way. You pinned, beat or otherwise incapacitated some jobber in some high school gym somewhere, and through a domino fall sequence you found yourself here, where the big occasion is going to roll over you and trap you inside it. And so, you careers will freeze, and you’ll be stuck like this forever. You’re no longer who you were before destiny handed you a date with me. You’re not longer the sum of your meagre accomplishments. You’re just “those people who were in the ring with Rob Riot when he won the X*Crown at Night of Champions”. That’s what’s destined to be your epitaph, and that will forever be the peak of your achievements. Don’t resent it. Don’t fight against it. The ant didn’t know that eternal slumber within the confines of amber was even an option for its fate - just as you don’t know your own.”
He steps away from the yellow insect prison, nodding his head in satisfaction. “That would have made a lovely pendant for someone. It’s a shame to spoil it, really, but still…..”
He reaches for the watering can, and pours the contents over the amber, and the rest of the tree, before stepping back a few paces away.
”People of XHF - I don’t know what your “Night of Champions” involves, and frankly I don’t care. I believe that my match is some kind of gimmicked out four ring circus with all the bells and whistles low rent promotions throw in there to try to pop attendance figures, and I’m sure it has all manner of exciting rules and regulations, but I don’t care. I’m not even going to take the time to read them. I’m not going to be another Oliver coming to you with his bowl and asking for more. I’m not going to kiss your ass and shake your hand, and tell you how prestigious your event is and how honoured I am to be here. I’m not honoured. Your event isn’t prestigious. I’ve never heard of it in my life, just as I’ve never heard of any of you. I think your network sucks, I think you’re all carny wannabes, I think none of you are fit to lace my boots and I’ll never give this match or the championship a second thought after I win it. I think coming to your event is beneath me, and a waste of my time. But none of that matters”.
He steps away from the watering can now, counting the paces as he moves. Reaching into the pocket of his jacket, he produces a match, holding it menacingly up to the camera.
It’s somewhere around this time that you realise the watering can wasn’t full of water.
”Here’s what’s going to happen. I’m going to come to Night of Champions. I’m going to win the X*Crown. I’m going to spit on the belt - if there’s a belt. It might be a trophy, I haven’t cared to look. Whichever it is, I’m going to spit on it. And then I’m going to take it on Riot Star Wrestling television and show it to the rest of the roster as an example of the sort of backwater shit they’ll have to pretend to be happy with if they ever piss me off to the extent I terminate their RSW contracts. I don’t want your championship, I have enough of my own. I resent having to carry it back through the airport with me. But I’m going to win it anyway. And do you know why?”
He fixes the camera with a lingering, arrogant sneer.
”Because there isn’t one man or one woman in that match, or any other match on the night, who’s even halfway to having enough talent to stop it me.”
He glances over his shoulder at the scene - the beautiful trees. The leaves. The canopy. The serenity.
”They say the melting temperature of amber is around 300 Fahrenheit. They also say you should never destroy it, because most of it is over 300 million years old. But then they didn’t have a heavy handed point to make in a pro wrestling promo, so fuck them. You’re all flies, trapped in amber. You want freedom from your fate?”
Riot lights the match and tosses it backwards over his shoulder. It ignites on the grass where he left a trail, and spreads immediately to the trees, sparking with a heavy roar as it begins to feed on the dry wood.
”Burn with me”.
Riot walks away, past the camera, leaving the scene to fade out on the flames.
The sound of nature welcomes us into the scene; the same kind of sweet avian chirrup that’s used in cartoons when a central character awakes dream a dream state, but there’s nothing sweet or dreamlike about this. We’re out in the doors somewhere - could be anywhere. When you’ve walked the earth as far and as wide as the man at the centre of the scene has, everywhere starts to look the same. It’s got a blue sky. It’s got trees, forming a canopy high overhead It could be England or it could be fucking Bolivia for all he cares, and you shouldn’t care either. The location isn’t important.
There he stand: Rob Riot. He’s wearing a tweed jacket, a white shirt, and black corduroy trousers. Nothing about that outfit is suited to being in the outdoors, and he sticks out like a sore thumb against the backdrop. Completely ambivalent to the presence of the camera, he’s going about his work - whatever it may be. He has a red watering can in his hands, and he’s going from tree to tree, pouring the contents of the can into whatever nook or crevice he can find in in the pines. Where no nook or crevice presents itself, he just tips water down the bark of the tree. It’s an odd visual - the war beaten Riot Star Wrestling co-founder isn’t known for his great love of gardening. In fact, come to think of it, he’s never been seen gardening before so long as he’s been on television. And that, kids, is a long time.
As the camera draws closer, he acknowledges it with word, but not deed. Apparently, his attentiveness with the can is more important than looking at the viewers.
”You know, I ought to be offended…” he begins, straining to reach a knotted lumpen malformation just below the branches of his latest patient. ….”but to become offended, I’d have to care”.
He steps back. He nods. That’s enough for this one. Keep moving. He steps across the grass, allowing a little water to trail from the can as he goes, following him to the next tree.
”See, there was a time when grown men - and women - would run away rather than face me. They’d feign sickness. They’d invent personal tragedy. They’d conveniently become injured. Anything - anything at all - was better than the prospect of facing Rob Riot inside a wrestling ring. And for the brave few who welcomed such a challenge, well, they couldn’t keep my name out of their mouths. Every utterance was about either their respect or their worship of me. How they were going to put me down. How they were going to break me. How I represented the ultimate challenge, and the lengths they would go to in order to make sure they came away from the win. And now I find myself packaged off to some gimmick match in some backwater promotion with a gang of nobodies and never-weres, and what do I find there to greet me?………..HA!”
The sudden shout catches the birds unaware, and they take off from their hiding places amongst the leaves and disappear into the sky, the audial rush of distress and wind as they retreat gradually being replaced by nothing. Or more specifically, replaced by….
”……silence. I have waited to be called out or called forth by any of these nameless, talentless hacks who line up to face me in the ring…or rings, however this bullshit works… and they have spoken not a word. It’s like they don’t know who I am. It’s like they don’t know what I’ve done. It’s like they don’t recognize the most decorated wrestler in the entire game when they see him. A man who’s won world title after world title in promotion after promotion they were never fit to jerk the curtain at. The man who’s been making money in the big leagues whilst they bend the knee in bingo halls. The man who founded the largest wrestling promotion in the world in Riot Star Wrestling.I am Rob Riot, you heathen swine. I am the food on your table. Wrestling me is the biggest payday any of you will ever see, and you’ll tell your grandchildren about the time I once smacked you right in the face if I let you live to tell the tale. The very least you can do is welcome me. But no. I get nothing. I guess I’m not cool with the indie kids anymore.”
He crosses to yet another tree, and slowly puts down the watering can, laying his hand against the trunk and tapping his fingers against it, resting his head against the side. He’s looking for something - who knows what. He’s still got a lecture to give us all.
”I’ve looked you all up, of course. It wasn’t easy. You’re not exactly the great and good of the sport. Tabitha Osborne I know of course - the runt of the Osborne litter, and a bug I once crushed underfoot somewhere in the past - possibly nGw. You’re one of the less memorable names on my list of victims. You poor, deranged child. I assumed someone had put you down a long time ago, but no, it appeared you simply lost your seat at the table in the major promotions and somehow found yourself slumming it around this level. Jack Diamond. Great name for a cabaret singer. Shit name for a wrestler. Next? Raiden Ishimori. I love guys who use Mortal Kombat gimmicks, but unless you can literally throw lightning you’re no threat to me, kid. Jackson Steele sounds like an accountant’s firm. Maybe a low rent attorney. Definitely not someone who beats someone up for a living. Anomoly? My friend, if you’re not going to take the time to learn how to spell your name, don’t expect me to believe you took the time to learn how to wrestle. Hardcore Harry? You sat there staring at a piece of paper and decided the best way you could go with this is ‘Hardcore Harry’? Hardcore wrestling has been dead for longer than Michael Jackson, Harry, so unless you’re looking for work in the world of pornography, stop wasting my time. And then, introduced last like he was some kind of big deal, Steve Awesome. Who I can only assume is Mike Awesome’s fatter, uglier, less talented brother. I should charge double just for having to dirty my hands with these jobbers sweat for the evening, but thanks to some bad advice from Armand von Krauss this is the card I’ve been played. So allow me to provide you all with fair warning”
He walks his fingers around the bark of the tree until they happen upon a bronzed lump of amber, inside which some ants have become trapped and died. Staring into the semi-precious stone as if he found it fascinating, Riot moves his face closer, and takes a lick.
”Mmm. Lovely. Amber. Nature’s petrification jelly. All of you, my chosen foes, are very much like insects trapped in amber. You’re locked into a fragile moment of time with me, stuck in a moment you can’t escape. You didn’t know things would end this way. You didn’t set out looking for it. You didn’t ask for it. You were minding your own business, doing your jobs, and it just happened this way. You pinned, beat or otherwise incapacitated some jobber in some high school gym somewhere, and through a domino fall sequence you found yourself here, where the big occasion is going to roll over you and trap you inside it. And so, you careers will freeze, and you’ll be stuck like this forever. You’re no longer who you were before destiny handed you a date with me. You’re not longer the sum of your meagre accomplishments. You’re just “those people who were in the ring with Rob Riot when he won the X*Crown at Night of Champions”. That’s what’s destined to be your epitaph, and that will forever be the peak of your achievements. Don’t resent it. Don’t fight against it. The ant didn’t know that eternal slumber within the confines of amber was even an option for its fate - just as you don’t know your own.”
He steps away from the yellow insect prison, nodding his head in satisfaction. “That would have made a lovely pendant for someone. It’s a shame to spoil it, really, but still…..”
He reaches for the watering can, and pours the contents over the amber, and the rest of the tree, before stepping back a few paces away.
”People of XHF - I don’t know what your “Night of Champions” involves, and frankly I don’t care. I believe that my match is some kind of gimmicked out four ring circus with all the bells and whistles low rent promotions throw in there to try to pop attendance figures, and I’m sure it has all manner of exciting rules and regulations, but I don’t care. I’m not even going to take the time to read them. I’m not going to be another Oliver coming to you with his bowl and asking for more. I’m not going to kiss your ass and shake your hand, and tell you how prestigious your event is and how honoured I am to be here. I’m not honoured. Your event isn’t prestigious. I’ve never heard of it in my life, just as I’ve never heard of any of you. I think your network sucks, I think you’re all carny wannabes, I think none of you are fit to lace my boots and I’ll never give this match or the championship a second thought after I win it. I think coming to your event is beneath me, and a waste of my time. But none of that matters”.
He steps away from the watering can now, counting the paces as he moves. Reaching into the pocket of his jacket, he produces a match, holding it menacingly up to the camera.
It’s somewhere around this time that you realise the watering can wasn’t full of water.
”Here’s what’s going to happen. I’m going to come to Night of Champions. I’m going to win the X*Crown. I’m going to spit on the belt - if there’s a belt. It might be a trophy, I haven’t cared to look. Whichever it is, I’m going to spit on it. And then I’m going to take it on Riot Star Wrestling television and show it to the rest of the roster as an example of the sort of backwater shit they’ll have to pretend to be happy with if they ever piss me off to the extent I terminate their RSW contracts. I don’t want your championship, I have enough of my own. I resent having to carry it back through the airport with me. But I’m going to win it anyway. And do you know why?”
He fixes the camera with a lingering, arrogant sneer.
”Because there isn’t one man or one woman in that match, or any other match on the night, who’s even halfway to having enough talent to stop it me.”
He glances over his shoulder at the scene - the beautiful trees. The leaves. The canopy. The serenity.
”They say the melting temperature of amber is around 300 Fahrenheit. They also say you should never destroy it, because most of it is over 300 million years old. But then they didn’t have a heavy handed point to make in a pro wrestling promo, so fuck them. You’re all flies, trapped in amber. You want freedom from your fate?”
Riot lights the match and tosses it backwards over his shoulder. It ignites on the grass where he left a trail, and spreads immediately to the trees, sparking with a heavy roar as it begins to feed on the dry wood.
”Burn with me”.
Riot walks away, past the camera, leaving the scene to fade out on the flames.