Post by robriot on Mar 8, 2022 18:30:22 GMT -5
“You know, sometimes I think God has a sense of humour…hey, hold that camera still, kid.”
It's late. Very late. Frank Windsor and Billy Fowler have long since gone home, but Rob Riot lingers in the basement of Scotiabank Arena. The Bastards appeared to have lost tonight. They didn't actually lose because none of them tapped out or gave up, but Riot already knows Donzig and his acolytes will be crowing about their "victory." "Crow" is the operative word, as it's precisely what those quisling turds should be eating.
Some poor NPW production assistant has been tasked with pointing the camera at a still bruised, still sweat-stained Rob Riot as he leans against a cold wall somewhere close to his locker room. He'll go home eventually, but he's had things on his mind since the bell rang, and he needs to get them off his chest.
"God has a sense of humour. Yes, that's it. See, I'm no great believer in the Almighty, Donzig. I believe in myself way too much to make space for a Higher Power, but if there was someone there, I'd be inclined to think he amuses himself by occasionally casting me at the feet of people who aren't fit to lick the soles of my own. You're the latest in a long line of them, and if you're a smart man, you'll already know what happened to the others. You didn't win tonight. You know that, and I know that, no matter what you try to tell the camera or the rest of your gang. Oh, and speaking of the rest of your gang…."
Riot sidles a little closer to the camera and cups a hand to his mouth, whispering as if letting people in on a secret.
"I know you're all listening, but I'm talking directly to Donzig, OK? He's the only one of you that's relevant enough to merit my attention. Yes, Steve, that includes you - and yes, Primal, that includes you too. Until you lumbered your workshy arse down to the ring tonight, I'd entirely forgotten you existed."
He retreats to his starting position , leaning against the wall.
“The issue I now have is that I’ve been told we’re to meet again, and this time the Imperial Crown Tag Team Championships are on the line. You and Steve Average and against myself and one angry, angry Yorkshire bastard by the name of Frank Windsor. See, Frank's furious, but I'm more 'concerned.' Not about the prospect of you beating us fair and square - we both know that's not on the cards for you - but the prospect of the belts being stolen from us. See, people keep stealing from me, Donzig. And I don't like it one bit. We're only a few months removed from the crowning of the CWA World Champion, and that was stolen from me. Chris Card - our supposed champion in absentia - pulled out pepper spray and stole my spot. I told myself it wouldn't happen again, and yet here you are bullying a referee into making a bad call purely so you can put a 'W' next to the name "The Bastards" in your little scrapbook and draw love hearts next to it. That pisses me off, Donny. That pisses me off more than the fact that you come up with a new nickname for yourself every week of every damn year. Chris Card stole from me. You stole from me. What is it that you people want from me? I mean, here, look…."
Riot stalks off down the corridor, throwing open a door and stepping through it. At the edge of your hearing, you register the cameraman letting out a nervous cough as he waits for Riot to return. Eventually, Rob barges back through the door, waving a white silk shirt at the camera.
"The shirt off my back. You want that too, Don? Do you want to steal the shirt off my back? How about my ring boots? How about my gloves? How about my wit, my charm, and my good looks? How about you try and help yourself to anything of mine that you haven't earned and don't deserve? I'm begging you, try and take it! Only I'm not begging you. Not really. I'm giving you something instead. I'm offering you another way. A coward steals, Donny. A coward or a bully, and I reckon you to be both. A coward steals, but a real man takes. So I'm going to give you a chance to come and take what's mine. Here's my proposal."
He holds the silk shirt out in front of himself and then, gripping it by the collar, rips it clean in half before dropping it to the floor.
“No more theft. No more games. If you want these titles, earn them. We began this war in a no holds barred match, so I don’t want to step down to a regular wrestling match. I don’t want to turn the heat down - I want to turn it up. Let’s throw out disqualifications. Let’s throw out count-outs. Let’s throw out submissions, and let’s throw out pinfalls. I want to remove anything you can influence or bully your way into apart from one thing. A count of ten. If you want to take these tag team titles at Crowning of a Champion, let’s do something nobody’s ever done before. Let’s make history. Me and Frank versus you and Steve in a tornado tag team LAST MAN STANDING match. You want to beat me? Come try to knock me out. I dare you to tell me you’re brave enough.”
Riot turns to leave but then remembers something and turns back to the camera.
"Crowning of a Champion. That reminds me. Mr Christopher Card, I never got the chance to congratulate you on your big victory at the tournament. My most sincere apologies. Rest assured, I won't miss the chance to do so at Crowning of a Champion, in person, in front of the whole world. Seeya soon, Chris. I'm looking forward to it."
Riot finally sets off back towards his dressing room, and the production assistant is finally out of danger. You’re returned to your regular scheduled programming.
It's late. Very late. Frank Windsor and Billy Fowler have long since gone home, but Rob Riot lingers in the basement of Scotiabank Arena. The Bastards appeared to have lost tonight. They didn't actually lose because none of them tapped out or gave up, but Riot already knows Donzig and his acolytes will be crowing about their "victory." "Crow" is the operative word, as it's precisely what those quisling turds should be eating.
Some poor NPW production assistant has been tasked with pointing the camera at a still bruised, still sweat-stained Rob Riot as he leans against a cold wall somewhere close to his locker room. He'll go home eventually, but he's had things on his mind since the bell rang, and he needs to get them off his chest.
"God has a sense of humour. Yes, that's it. See, I'm no great believer in the Almighty, Donzig. I believe in myself way too much to make space for a Higher Power, but if there was someone there, I'd be inclined to think he amuses himself by occasionally casting me at the feet of people who aren't fit to lick the soles of my own. You're the latest in a long line of them, and if you're a smart man, you'll already know what happened to the others. You didn't win tonight. You know that, and I know that, no matter what you try to tell the camera or the rest of your gang. Oh, and speaking of the rest of your gang…."
Riot sidles a little closer to the camera and cups a hand to his mouth, whispering as if letting people in on a secret.
"I know you're all listening, but I'm talking directly to Donzig, OK? He's the only one of you that's relevant enough to merit my attention. Yes, Steve, that includes you - and yes, Primal, that includes you too. Until you lumbered your workshy arse down to the ring tonight, I'd entirely forgotten you existed."
He retreats to his starting position , leaning against the wall.
“The issue I now have is that I’ve been told we’re to meet again, and this time the Imperial Crown Tag Team Championships are on the line. You and Steve Average and against myself and one angry, angry Yorkshire bastard by the name of Frank Windsor. See, Frank's furious, but I'm more 'concerned.' Not about the prospect of you beating us fair and square - we both know that's not on the cards for you - but the prospect of the belts being stolen from us. See, people keep stealing from me, Donzig. And I don't like it one bit. We're only a few months removed from the crowning of the CWA World Champion, and that was stolen from me. Chris Card - our supposed champion in absentia - pulled out pepper spray and stole my spot. I told myself it wouldn't happen again, and yet here you are bullying a referee into making a bad call purely so you can put a 'W' next to the name "The Bastards" in your little scrapbook and draw love hearts next to it. That pisses me off, Donny. That pisses me off more than the fact that you come up with a new nickname for yourself every week of every damn year. Chris Card stole from me. You stole from me. What is it that you people want from me? I mean, here, look…."
Riot stalks off down the corridor, throwing open a door and stepping through it. At the edge of your hearing, you register the cameraman letting out a nervous cough as he waits for Riot to return. Eventually, Rob barges back through the door, waving a white silk shirt at the camera.
"The shirt off my back. You want that too, Don? Do you want to steal the shirt off my back? How about my ring boots? How about my gloves? How about my wit, my charm, and my good looks? How about you try and help yourself to anything of mine that you haven't earned and don't deserve? I'm begging you, try and take it! Only I'm not begging you. Not really. I'm giving you something instead. I'm offering you another way. A coward steals, Donny. A coward or a bully, and I reckon you to be both. A coward steals, but a real man takes. So I'm going to give you a chance to come and take what's mine. Here's my proposal."
He holds the silk shirt out in front of himself and then, gripping it by the collar, rips it clean in half before dropping it to the floor.
“No more theft. No more games. If you want these titles, earn them. We began this war in a no holds barred match, so I don’t want to step down to a regular wrestling match. I don’t want to turn the heat down - I want to turn it up. Let’s throw out disqualifications. Let’s throw out count-outs. Let’s throw out submissions, and let’s throw out pinfalls. I want to remove anything you can influence or bully your way into apart from one thing. A count of ten. If you want to take these tag team titles at Crowning of a Champion, let’s do something nobody’s ever done before. Let’s make history. Me and Frank versus you and Steve in a tornado tag team LAST MAN STANDING match. You want to beat me? Come try to knock me out. I dare you to tell me you’re brave enough.”
Riot turns to leave but then remembers something and turns back to the camera.
"Crowning of a Champion. That reminds me. Mr Christopher Card, I never got the chance to congratulate you on your big victory at the tournament. My most sincere apologies. Rest assured, I won't miss the chance to do so at Crowning of a Champion, in person, in front of the whole world. Seeya soon, Chris. I'm looking forward to it."
Riot finally sets off back towards his dressing room, and the production assistant is finally out of danger. You’re returned to your regular scheduled programming.
