Post by robriot on Mar 13, 2022 10:03:15 GMT -5
BEEP. Click. BEEP BEEP click.
"Take It Easy, Chicken" by Mansun starts up with its iconic guitar riff, the Union Jack ripples in the digital breeze in the background, and the Bastards take centre stage. Billy Fowler stands in the middle of the shot, wielding a steel chair ominously with Rob Riot and Frank Windsor lined up on either side of him. The Bastards waste no time getting this promo party started.
Riot: So, it’s chin check time. The Empire might think that they know what they’ve gotten themselves into accepting our terms for a tag team last man standing match, but I really don’t think that they do. Today, we’re going to prove it with a little demonstration.
Windsor: Abso-fucking-lutely, Robbie. When it comes to fight night, nobody does it better than the Bastards and…wait, what do you mean by 'demonstration?'
Riot smirks and turns his attention to Fowler.
Riot: Billy, if you'll do the honours, please.
Before Windsor realises what's happening, Fowler hoists the chair up high and smashes Windsor right across the top of the skull with it. The Bradford Bastard crumples to the floor in a heap, dropping out of the view of the camera. Riot laughs. Billy grins and turns his attention to his wristwatch. He starts counting.
Fowler: One. Two. Three.
Windsor: (from the floor) Billy, what the fuck!? My fucking head! I’ll kill you!
Riot: Calm down, Frank. This is a mic check. A dry run. We just want to make sure we're both capable of taking a direct shot to the dome and shaking it off before the referee counts to ten. Hurry it up down there. Don't embarrass us.
Windsor: Embarrass you? I’ll fucking murder you!
Fowler: Four. Five. Six.
Windsor’s hand appears at around waist level on Fowler as he hauls himself back up to his feet, using Billy’s jeans to assist him. He looks a little groggy. Fowler checks his watch and nods, satisfied.
Fowler: Seven. He made it up on seven.
Windsor grimaces and rubs his head before staring incredulously at Riot.
Windsor: That was a fucking cheap trick. You better be taking one yourself!
Riot: Oh, don't worry about that. Billy has standing orders. He's going to take me by surprise. Any second now, he's going to…
Riot doesn’t get to finish his sentence. Fowler dials back and smashes Riot in the head with an equally brutal chair shot. Riot takes two paces backwards and then collapses somewhere to the right, beyond our field of vision. Windsor nods approvingly.
Windsor: Ooof. Nice shot.
Fowler: Thanks, I gave it some extra sauce. One. Two. Three.
Riot: (from the floor) Ow. You could have warned me to brace, you know. I think that loosened a tooth.
Fowler: Less talking. More getting up. Four. Five.
Riot: OK, OK, I’m on it. Frank? A hand?
Windsor: Get fucked. Use his pants. I had to.
Fowler: Six. Seven. Come on, Rob, you don't want to let Frank beat you, do you?
Similarly to Frank, Riot claws his way back to his feet, looking a little unsteady. He checks his forehead for blood and, finding none, clicks his jaw and takes a second to regain his composure.
Riot: Seven?
Fowler: (with a nod) Seven.
Windsor: No way was that seven! You counted to seven and stopped! That was definitely eight.
Riot: It was seven, Frank. We drew. No need to get uppity about this.
Windsor: I’ll give you fucking uppity. You could at least have warned me what we were doing here!
Riot: The Empire aren't going to give us any warning. They're just going to come with weapons. We have to be ready, and boys, we are. There's nobody out there who can hit us harder than we hit each other. The objective was to get up before the count of ten, and we did it. I doubt anyone on the Empire's side can do the same.
Windsor: Yeah, fair point. Have you seen Steve Awesome's arms? I'm not saying my gran is more stacked than he is, but….actually, yeah, that's exactly what I'm saying.
Riot: Exactly. And the same goes for Donzig. Moving little pieces around on a World of Warcraft board doesn’t count as exercise. I don’t know if he can even lift a bat, let alone swing it in anger. Although having said that, everything he does is done in anger. That’s one angry, angry little man. He must have been bullied at school.
Windsor: Well, we're not going to change the habit of a lifetime for him at Crowning of a Champion.
Riot: Hell no. Wrestling fans, don’t waste your money banking on a title change. Lay your money down with your bookie of choice and bet on the Bastards keeping hold of these straps because the Empire can hit us, the Empire can hurt us, but there’s no way in the world that the Empire can keep us down. You just saw the proof.
Windsor: Yeah, and one more thing before we get out of here.
Riot: Oh? What’s that?
Windsor lunges forward, grabs the chair out of Fowler’s hands, and pans the big man with it. Because of the height difference, the chair strikes Fowler in the chin rather than the head. Fowler falls down backwards like London Bridge. Riot looks at Windsor in alarm.
Riot: What the Hell was that!?
Windsor shrugs.
Windsor: Well. It's not fight night yet, is it? Anything could happen between now and then. One of us could get Covid. Billy needs to be ready too in case we have to swap him in. Come on, Billy. One, two, three, four…
Fowler: (from the floor) Argh. You prick!
Riot: Excellent thinking Frank; I like your style. Up you get, big man! Five, six, seven…
Without needing assistance, a glowering Fowler picks himself up from the floor and dusts himself down, checking his mouth for blood.
Riot: Seven again. Excellent form, boys.
Fowler: You really are bastards, you know that?
Riot: Every day of the week and twice on Sunday, baby. Empire…we’ll see you at Crowning of a Champion.
"Take It Easy, Chicken" by Mansun starts up with its iconic guitar riff, the Union Jack ripples in the digital breeze in the background, and the Bastards take centre stage. Billy Fowler stands in the middle of the shot, wielding a steel chair ominously with Rob Riot and Frank Windsor lined up on either side of him. The Bastards waste no time getting this promo party started.
Riot: So, it’s chin check time. The Empire might think that they know what they’ve gotten themselves into accepting our terms for a tag team last man standing match, but I really don’t think that they do. Today, we’re going to prove it with a little demonstration.
Windsor: Abso-fucking-lutely, Robbie. When it comes to fight night, nobody does it better than the Bastards and…wait, what do you mean by 'demonstration?'
Riot smirks and turns his attention to Fowler.
Riot: Billy, if you'll do the honours, please.
Before Windsor realises what's happening, Fowler hoists the chair up high and smashes Windsor right across the top of the skull with it. The Bradford Bastard crumples to the floor in a heap, dropping out of the view of the camera. Riot laughs. Billy grins and turns his attention to his wristwatch. He starts counting.
Fowler: One. Two. Three.
Windsor: (from the floor) Billy, what the fuck!? My fucking head! I’ll kill you!
Riot: Calm down, Frank. This is a mic check. A dry run. We just want to make sure we're both capable of taking a direct shot to the dome and shaking it off before the referee counts to ten. Hurry it up down there. Don't embarrass us.
Windsor: Embarrass you? I’ll fucking murder you!
Fowler: Four. Five. Six.
Windsor’s hand appears at around waist level on Fowler as he hauls himself back up to his feet, using Billy’s jeans to assist him. He looks a little groggy. Fowler checks his watch and nods, satisfied.
Fowler: Seven. He made it up on seven.
Windsor grimaces and rubs his head before staring incredulously at Riot.
Windsor: That was a fucking cheap trick. You better be taking one yourself!
Riot: Oh, don't worry about that. Billy has standing orders. He's going to take me by surprise. Any second now, he's going to…
Riot doesn’t get to finish his sentence. Fowler dials back and smashes Riot in the head with an equally brutal chair shot. Riot takes two paces backwards and then collapses somewhere to the right, beyond our field of vision. Windsor nods approvingly.
Windsor: Ooof. Nice shot.
Fowler: Thanks, I gave it some extra sauce. One. Two. Three.
Riot: (from the floor) Ow. You could have warned me to brace, you know. I think that loosened a tooth.
Fowler: Less talking. More getting up. Four. Five.
Riot: OK, OK, I’m on it. Frank? A hand?
Windsor: Get fucked. Use his pants. I had to.
Fowler: Six. Seven. Come on, Rob, you don't want to let Frank beat you, do you?
Similarly to Frank, Riot claws his way back to his feet, looking a little unsteady. He checks his forehead for blood and, finding none, clicks his jaw and takes a second to regain his composure.
Riot: Seven?
Fowler: (with a nod) Seven.
Windsor: No way was that seven! You counted to seven and stopped! That was definitely eight.
Riot: It was seven, Frank. We drew. No need to get uppity about this.
Windsor: I’ll give you fucking uppity. You could at least have warned me what we were doing here!
Riot: The Empire aren't going to give us any warning. They're just going to come with weapons. We have to be ready, and boys, we are. There's nobody out there who can hit us harder than we hit each other. The objective was to get up before the count of ten, and we did it. I doubt anyone on the Empire's side can do the same.
Windsor: Yeah, fair point. Have you seen Steve Awesome's arms? I'm not saying my gran is more stacked than he is, but….actually, yeah, that's exactly what I'm saying.
Riot: Exactly. And the same goes for Donzig. Moving little pieces around on a World of Warcraft board doesn’t count as exercise. I don’t know if he can even lift a bat, let alone swing it in anger. Although having said that, everything he does is done in anger. That’s one angry, angry little man. He must have been bullied at school.
Windsor: Well, we're not going to change the habit of a lifetime for him at Crowning of a Champion.
Riot: Hell no. Wrestling fans, don’t waste your money banking on a title change. Lay your money down with your bookie of choice and bet on the Bastards keeping hold of these straps because the Empire can hit us, the Empire can hurt us, but there’s no way in the world that the Empire can keep us down. You just saw the proof.
Windsor: Yeah, and one more thing before we get out of here.
Riot: Oh? What’s that?
Windsor lunges forward, grabs the chair out of Fowler’s hands, and pans the big man with it. Because of the height difference, the chair strikes Fowler in the chin rather than the head. Fowler falls down backwards like London Bridge. Riot looks at Windsor in alarm.
Riot: What the Hell was that!?
Windsor shrugs.
Windsor: Well. It's not fight night yet, is it? Anything could happen between now and then. One of us could get Covid. Billy needs to be ready too in case we have to swap him in. Come on, Billy. One, two, three, four…
Fowler: (from the floor) Argh. You prick!
Riot: Excellent thinking Frank; I like your style. Up you get, big man! Five, six, seven…
Without needing assistance, a glowering Fowler picks himself up from the floor and dusts himself down, checking his mouth for blood.
Riot: Seven again. Excellent form, boys.
Fowler: You really are bastards, you know that?
Riot: Every day of the week and twice on Sunday, baby. Empire…we’ll see you at Crowning of a Champion.
