InFamously Predictable

[Bernard de Montfort]

Gee whiz Skip, it seems that in the space of a week two decorated legends, a masked halfwit and… the other guy have collectively wet themselves with excitement as they scramble over one another to deliver “rasping” soundbites about their opponents. Principally myself and the big colonial sociopath I have chosen to associate myself with.

I sure know how to pick em, right?

Honestly, I feel like the one good looking busty blonde chick at summer camp who all the boys are fighting over this week.

Cue lovable hijinx and whimsical nonsense and in the end I am just such a whore I’ll leave them all laying on their backs after a series of “hilarious” events. Only, you know, with less of the intercourse and more of the broken noses and snapped ligaments.

I really don’t even know where to begin this week, there was so many stupid things spat out of feckless orifices that it is difficult to know which idiocy to address first. We had Spike “Real Wrassler” Kane and his cute rants about the silver spoon that is totally in my mouth, yawn, Rob Diamond… well, Rob Diamond basically just speaking, Gjenrei dishing out some sage advice we’ve never heard before and Cable Arcane doing his whole Dark Pageboy routine.

Yay.

So, for my sanity, let’s just fire back to my monstrous “mate” first of all before I slowly lose my will to live re-watching the verbal diarrhoea flowing from the mouths of Dumb and Dumber.

Now I know this is really difficult for you folks out there to understand but honestly, neither myself, or Cyrus, really give all that much of a crap about which one of us wins this match or, bizarrely enough, whether we win at all. Shock horror guys, our fragile little egos don’t need shiny belts to validate our self-worth and prove to ourselves that we’re “the best”.

We can see the bigger picture. One swallow doesn’t make a summer boys, but ironically it makes some of you weak at the knees and eager to fall to the whims of a woman but, I digress…

If either of us win, fantastic, we’ll crack open a beer and have ourselves a Barbie, if we lose… as long as at least one our you four are still feeling it tomorrow morning, we’ll have achieved exactly what we set out to do. Use violence as a vehicle to get ourselves noticed, we’ve already proven slapping around a couple of jobbers and great big Sheila has got you frothing at the mouth.

Imagine what stomping on some legends will do?

So, Cyrus, big guy, have fun out there, it’s ego clobberin’ time. Oh it’s going be so fun, the more arrogant they are, the harder they fall. We’re going to enjoy this…

“Your father sure looks pissed.”

Cyrus smiles.

“Good work.”

“Thank’s big guy, we both knew that it’d get under his skin.”

“Got ta do what ya got ta do.”

“Yeah, something like that. Just be aware that one you poke that bear, it’s not going to forget the insult quickly, he’ll get even.”

“Well, he is a de Montfort. Good job I have my own, aye?”

Bernard smiles and pats Cyrus on the back.

“Right.”

Bernard’s eyes scan the card which has been pinned to the wall of the locker room.

“Alpha & Omega, huh? Looks like breakfast is served.”

“Just leave room for the main course, Robbie and Spike will take some chewin’”

“Don’t worry Cyrus, my appetite is large enough for those two parasites. Besides, they’ll be forcefed down our throats again sooner or later, their ego’s can’t survive a week out of the spotlight.”

“So, do we have any special plans for these boyos?”

“I think I have a pretty good idea, who cares about a wrestling match, let’s make an example out of them.”

“See, this is why I like ya.”

“How do you feel about raiding the corporate locker room, there’s a few uniforms I think that may just be our size.”

Cyrus grins gleefully, the plot soon becoming apparent to him.

“Our first shopping trip, now we’re a proper team.”

Bernard laughs.

“Let’s go, those two won’t know what’s hit them until it’s too late.”

They say you have to suffer for you art, and believe me Rob, I suffered. I had to sit a whole five minutes through one of your promos and not reach for a firearm to extreme cleanse my brain to remove the bombardment of utter tedium it suffered listening to you dribble all over the camera like a Doberman over a crotch.

See, we can all do penis jokes.

At least it confirmed one thing for me though, for a man who wants to talk gimmicks you’ve continued to peddle the same tired out routine that was funny in the 90s so relentlessly, kudos. That, and you and Spikey boy seem to have an almost inseparable mental link that forces you to regurgitate the same asinine accusations as one another.

I mean, I really ought to be thanking you, Rob, it meant I only had to watch you lose control of your bowels through your mouth once as you partner just peddled the same old shit just with a little bit more class. So, from the bottom of my heart.

Thank you Rob Diamond, for being so predictable and a weaker link in a worn out bond.

Really, is this the best that the great and powerful InFamous could come up with this week? Me and Cyrus aren’t real “wrasslers” like you guys? I am disappointed. Not surprised, but disappointed nonetheless.

The worst part is, why do you think either myself of Cyrus really give a rat’s ass if we’re considered “proper” wrestlers or not? It’s just a clever little ploy to get the legion of sweaty neckbeards to “totally mark out” and cheer you two feckless morons as you look down your noses at us as though being considered a wrestler gives you some sort of advantage.

Newsflash guys, it doesn’t.

I can and will hurt you whether you’re a wrestler or not, it isn’t a super power. It’s cute that you consider prison and war futile playgrounds in comparison to this but if I can squeeze the literal life out of a man, then I think I can do just fine inside a wrestling ring with a bunch of washed up prima donna’s like you two. If you think the fact I can’t perform pointless moonsaults or drop you with perfectly executed german suplexes is somehow going to make me your inferior in what is, for all intents and purposes, a fight, then welcome to the rude awakening.

My condolences for what is about to happen to you.

You wear this tag like a badge of honour on our chest, but all the fancy tricks in the world are useless when you’re faced with a pack of ravenous wolves whose primary desire to tear you two fuckers limb from limb. You ask what I have done since I arrived here? You mean besides beat a man who was your vast superior for seven months straight on my debut and frighten the CEO so much he pulled me from a tournament that would have given me this opportunity long before you two?

Keep living in this dream world where your only validation is clinging to this notion that you’re real wrestlers and we’re all “violent thugs who’ll burn out and fade away”.

This weekend the superior will kiss the feet of their inferiors when me and Cyrus beat the living daylights out of you smug, arrogant bundle of wankers. To quote a musical, how satisfying for once to know that those above will serve those down below, just be glad I don’t have a razor fetish and a taste for pies.

You want to call me a failure, Spike? How surprising drug laden vermin that has crawled out of the arse of the Emerald Isle has absolutely no respect for a British soldier. I don’t try to portray myself as anything, I went to war and I survived, that my friend marks a success in any soldier’s book. I came home. Hundred’s didn’t. That I come from a highly dysfunctional family seems to be a vital criteria for being employed as a wrestler.

No. I am not the failure, Spike. You and Rob are.

Look at you, you’re pathetic. You can’t even keep a wife for longer than a couple of years, you have absolutely no self-control as your constant battle with substances can attest and the fact is, for all the friends you trot out in front of the cameras every single one of them would stab you in the back at a second’s notice to chase the pointless dream of a wrestling belt. As for your partner? Just look at him, he hides his crushing insecurities behind this pathetic over-the-top bravado and the reality is the reason he craves the title of a “real wrestler” is because this business is the only place where such a colossal piece of trash could ever be appreciated for being a complete fuck up.

The sooner you two consume yourselves in your demons spectacularly for our amusement the better. Then the business that your pontificate as some sort of haven can spit you out into the gutter where you both belong until the obituaries are the only place left willing to print your names.

Point hit home yet?

I don’t need a belt to hide my flaws or accentuate my self-professed virtues, you two can call that a lack of ambition, I call it being able to stand on my own two feet and feel comfortable inside my own skin. Men like you can continue to loath yourselves and hit the self-destruct button every three months.

I will continue to be what I’ve always been.

Honest. Even if it’s not what you purists want to hear.

“Did you see the look on his face!”

“I’m not sure I could see it through the crimson mask you left.”

“My bad.”

Cyrus laughs eerily.

“Any more schemes for next week?”

“That depends…”

Suddenly the pair are interrupted by the approaching figure of Roberto Verona who smiles with his arms wide open, making the pair a little uncomfortable based on their previous encounters.

“Just the gentlemen I wanted to see.”

“What do you want Verona?”

“That’s no way to speak to your boss, Bernie, but then I heard you already fell out with one of us.”

“That’s none of your business.”

“That’s where you’re wrong, who do you think got you re-instated?”

Bernard stares at Roberto incredusously.

“That was you?”

“Yes, I can rise above previous grudges to do what is right for business. There were times I was told that my face didn’t fit the Coke cups either boys, that won’t fly under me.”

“Then what do you want, a thank you?”

“No, I couldn’t give a shit about praise, if I did I would have topped myself years ago. No, I am here to inform you gentlemen that I have a match you may be interested in next week.”

“Oh great, who are the next sorry bastards you’re gonna feed to us?”

“How does InFamous and Honourbound all at once sound?”

A creepy grin runs across Cyrus’ lips again.

“Delicious.”

You’re right Gjenrei.

I don’t care.

I don’t care that you think we’re just another flash in the pan that has been done before a thousand times. I don’t care that your partner wants to fulfil some sadomasochistic BDSM fantasy to “unleash the beast”. I don’t care that you two think there is some sort of problem here that needs to be solved.

For all this talk about Licence to Kill turning up for asinine reasons before breaking up and going away, quite honestly I really don’t see any reason to believe you guys won’t fulfil your own prophecy.

Even despite all that “camaraderie” you have together.

We all know that eventually InFamous’ own ego will see them consume one another in some quasi-homoerotic snoozefest where they rant about thinking they “had each other backs” and some other crap, but you two are no different. Sooner or later the “dark brooding faux-emo” is going to go slithering off into the dark with his ward and you’ll be left to drone on and on, week after week, about some shit nobody cares about.

Tag teams have a shelf life; me and Cyrus are realistic enough to appreciate that, we honestly couldn’t care less if that follows a set formula or is just repeating history or not, we’re together to achieve mutually beneficial goals and when our union no longer services that, we’ll walk away. No drama. No pointless feud over pointless bullshit.

It’s not a wise commentary on our future, it’s just pointless drivel. Something you appear to be well versed in Gjenrei.

As for you Cable, your appetite for self-destruction is just so damn cute.

Honestly, you two make quite the pair it is so adorable. For all of this “you’re just a re-hash of what we’ve seen before” crap I’ve had to endure because, O.M.G. you guys I have myself a partner and we’re “totally bad ass”, it’s funny that you think we’ve never heard the whole “You better pray you break me” schtick a hundred times.

Sorry, Cable, you don’t intimidate me enough to buy into this whole big bad boy persona you want to sell.

Believe me, if we fail to put you down this week, I am openly confident that it will have very little effect on my personal safety in any way shape or form. I know, I know, I aint selling you as a threat but honestly, nobody in this company scares me, so don’t take it personally. It’s clichéd but when you have people literally trying to kill you some guy in mascara threatening you physical harm is a mere pantomime on the fear scales.

If you crave oblivion, me and Cyrus will be happy to oblige, perhaps not this week, perhaps not even the next but if you wish to insist on pursing your own demise then we’ll be glad to facilitate it. You can even take your friend you’re bound to in name and spirit with you.

Quite honestly, if it saves us from watch you fail, again, before telling us how we’re doomed to follow suit then it’ll be a larger pleasure than it already will be.

You want to highlight that we stand between you and InFamous?

Good.

As much as watch you four feckless idiots tears each other apart would be hilarious, and honestly it truly will be, it doesn’t achieve much in the grander scheme of things as far as we are concerned. I am here to make an impact and make sure people pay attention, being slap bang in the middle of two feuding factions and being the highlight of the week is a damn effective away of achieving just that.

You boys want a test?

Welcome to the ring of fire boys, it’s about time your learned a thing or two about how this world operates outside the bubble you all reside in. Your friendship won’t save you, your “honourable union” won’t save you, not even your cries for mercy will…

If you want to experience hell, we’re the hound who will drag you there.

Be careful for what you wish for because win or lose this week, I am not done with any of you yet.