Post by J-TV on Apr 14, 2024 7:04:19 GMT
The following is a special broadcast of
The views and opinions expressed therein do not represent those of the Imperial Wrestling Federation or its staff.
The camera slowly pans down into the vastness of space, a dark blanket with only the faintest pinpricks of light shining through. The sweeping and legally dubious orchestral music begins to gently wane, as a spaceship comes into view, flying towards the camera with only a faint shimmer on the string holding it up. We hear voices coming from within, and the view cuts to the interior of the vessel.
"With all due respect," Robbie, the skinny short-haired man sitting in the cockpit speaks into the communication device in front of him. "The ambassador for The IWF wishes to board immediately."
In front of him, there is a view-screen, displaying a man with comically large sunglasses and an enormous blonde mullet wig. Behind the view-screen, a threatening battleship looms in the distance, growing ever closer by the second.
"Aw yeah bruv. As yew know, our blockade is perfectly legal. TJ smirks. We'd be right pleased to receive the ambassador, we would. TJ chuckles."
Doing his best to hide his confusion at Numpty Federation Viceroy Alexander's unidentifiable accent and constant need to narrate his facial expressions, Robbie nods and ends the transmission, pushing the controls forward and bringing his ship in for docking. Briefly, he turns to look at the hooded figure sitting behind him, seated in meditation.
"We're arriving shortly, Master. Shall I play the music?"
The question is met only with an affirmative nod from the robed man. Robbie flicks a switch as the ship flies through the gate and into the massive hanger of the battleship. A dramatic orchestral rendition of "Sferic Waves" playes from the external speaker on Robbie's ship as it touches down. Already, nameless and faceless 'Gladiator' drones begin to surround their ship curiously as the bay door opens. They stare in both awe and fear as Robbie descends the ramp, followed by the robed figure.
A silver-plated robot shuffles out of one of the many blast doors leading out of the hanger, wearing a bootleg luchador mask and a sombrero. "Hola! ¡Soy El Grande Malo, a tu servicio! Por favor, sÃgueme, el señor Alexander y el señor Sky están esperando en la sala de conferencias." The robed man peeks out from underneath his hood, long brown hair falling out over his chest as he furrows his brow up at the Spanish-speaking robot. It is none other than Jason Hathaway, the last remaining J-Di in all of the galaxy.
"Robbie, please translate."
"He says we should follow him to the conference chamber. The delegation is waiting for us. Hopefully we can deliver our message peacefully and leave before anything happens. I've a bad feeling about this."
Jason reassuringly places his hand on Robbie's shoulder, smiling as he steps forward to take the lead. "Don't center on your anxiety, Robbie. Keep your concentration here and now, where it belongs." Patting his Padawan on the head, he turns to the silver robot and bows his head. "I thank you for your hospitality. Lead the way... Do you speak any english, by chance?"
The robot gives Jason an odd look, tilting his head for a moment before replying, "Renegade Cop."
The pair are led through labyrinthine hallways of featurless steel and technology, populated with more and more Gladiator drones. To see so many identical bodies, devoid of personality or charisma, sets a chilling tone to the atmosphere around them. Truly, this was a numpty battleship indeed. Before long, they arrive at the conference room, equally bland and uninviting. Jason and Robbie take their seats.
"Espero que ustedes, señores, se sientan muy cómodos aquÃ. Mi maestro estará contigo en breve." The robot bows and leaves them in the conference room, the uncomfortable silence settling over the two of them immediately. Robbie shifts uneasily, peering over to his master. "How do you think the Numpty Viceroy will handle our demands, Master?"
Jason leans back in his chair, crossing a leg over his knee and winking to his restless young padawan. "These Jabroni types are cowards. The negotiations will be short."
The scene shifts to the command bridge of the battleship. The mullet-and-sunglesses wearing Viceroy Alexander stands stunned before the robot's words, as does his partner, an old man leaning on a walker, with various colors of paint haphazardly splashed onto his face without any rhyme or reason, Delegate Sky.
"You wot mate? TJ gasps! Say that again, bruv!"
"Creo que el embajador de la IWF es un J-Di. Es tan encantador, atractivo y divertido. Renegade Cop."
The elderly man resembling clown roadkill slowly turns himself around to face his partner, terror in his dry, gravelly voice, raw from trying to rally fans in at least 800 different indy shows over the last decade. "I knew it! They are here for Ferriman! We're done for! I haven't been this frightened since I took that bump off the balcony of the elementary school in 91!"
"Oi, relax you daft old fart! TJ sighs. Activate the trap, and we'll go take a squiz with the Gladiator droids.
Back in the conference room, Robbie has grown even more uncomfortable. The Robo-Malo returns and offers them a drink, but it does little to calm his nerves as he sips from the stainless-steel cup. "Is it in their nature to make us wait this long?" Even Hathaway now seems troubled, eyes closed in focus as he rests his hands in his lap. "No. I sense an unusual amount of fear for something so trivial as Jack Ferriman."
Suddenly, hatches in the walls of the room open to reveal at least a dozen television screens. They click to life and begin playing footage of IWF Performance Center trainee matches. Jason and Robbie both spring out of their seats and draw hilts from their hips, clicking them on to extend green and blue beam swords from the tips.
"Shoddy in-ring performance! Robbie, shield your eyes! Don't stare for too long!"
Outside the doors of the conference room, a contingent of Gladiator droids wait alongside Viceroy Alexander and Delegate Sky. "They must be dead as dinkum by now. TJ laughs. Open the doors, bruv, destroy what's left of em, yeah?"
The blast doors begin to slide open, and the cacophonic sounds of badly taken bumps spills out into the hallway, making everybody wince. Suddenly, Jason and Robbie leap out of the opened door and begin dismembering every featureless droid that charges at them. Alexander and Sky cower, too shaken and terrified to flee even as the last of their warriors falls to the flurry of Jason and Robbie's blades.
"We'll do anything you want!" Pleads Delegate Sky, "I'm too young to die! I have at least another five years! Six if I retire now and don't face you again!"
"TJ cowers! TJ cowers!"
"Renegade Cop!"
Robbie and Jason look at each other knowingly, before nodding and retracting their lightsabers.
"You know what we want. Take us to Ferriman and we will leave you with your lives."
The surrendering Numpty Federation agrees, and the pair are led deep into the bowels of the Battleship. At its thrumming heart lies a dark chamber, a room with only one way in and one way out. It is empty, save for a small wooden table in the center with a TV sitting atop it. Their goal. Robbie escorts the Viceroy and the Delegate back to the ship to be arrested for criminal lameness while Jason walks into the room alone and sits in front of the television. Leaning forward, he presses his finger against the power button, and turns it on.
"Jack Ferriman. A man who has all the potential, all the talent in the world. A man who's on the very brink of obscurity, who's only one loss away from Numpty status." Jason looks into the camera, no longer clad in his robes, but in his denim ring jacket and a pair of obnoxiously acid-washed jeans. He raises his hands, gesturing to the dark chamber around him. "There's a reason I didn't make a mockery of you like I did the other three. There's still hope for you, still a chance for you to be more than they are, to do what they couldn't. That's why I had to fight to get here, because they know I can be your salvation, Jack."
The dark room melts away, and Jason sits cross-legged in an empty ring. Behind him, Robbie can be seen stashing away many of the props they'd just finished using. Backdrops, outfits, and model ships.
"All you have to do is be the first person to beat J-TV. You do that, and people start talking about you again. You've got something to prove, and I respect that. Unfortunately, I'm not here to save you. At Sacrifice, I've been tasked with the duty of making you another name on the list of people I've stepped on to get to the top. You seem like the type to take his whupping like a man, so I'm not going to mince words with you..."
Jason reaches out and holds the corner of the camera.
"I'm going to put you out of your misery, Jack. The cult shit... the identity crisis... the therapy. I'm putting it all to bed at Sacrifice. One more match, one more three count, and you can stop clinging to that fringe possibility of success and let yourself fall into the growing pile I'm leaving behind me. And as you hang up your boots? As you get back in your car and drive home for the last time in your career? The last thing you're going to hear, is the crowd chanting...
J. T. V.
Jason presses the power button, and turns off the television.
The camera slowly pans down into the vastness of space, a dark blanket with only the faintest pinpricks of light shining through. The sweeping and legally dubious orchestral music begins to gently wane, as a spaceship comes into view, flying towards the camera with only a faint shimmer on the string holding it up. We hear voices coming from within, and the view cuts to the interior of the vessel.
"With all due respect," Robbie, the skinny short-haired man sitting in the cockpit speaks into the communication device in front of him. "The ambassador for The IWF wishes to board immediately."
In front of him, there is a view-screen, displaying a man with comically large sunglasses and an enormous blonde mullet wig. Behind the view-screen, a threatening battleship looms in the distance, growing ever closer by the second.
"Aw yeah bruv. As yew know, our blockade is perfectly legal. TJ smirks. We'd be right pleased to receive the ambassador, we would. TJ chuckles."
Doing his best to hide his confusion at Numpty Federation Viceroy Alexander's unidentifiable accent and constant need to narrate his facial expressions, Robbie nods and ends the transmission, pushing the controls forward and bringing his ship in for docking. Briefly, he turns to look at the hooded figure sitting behind him, seated in meditation.
"We're arriving shortly, Master. Shall I play the music?"
The question is met only with an affirmative nod from the robed man. Robbie flicks a switch as the ship flies through the gate and into the massive hanger of the battleship. A dramatic orchestral rendition of "Sferic Waves" playes from the external speaker on Robbie's ship as it touches down. Already, nameless and faceless 'Gladiator' drones begin to surround their ship curiously as the bay door opens. They stare in both awe and fear as Robbie descends the ramp, followed by the robed figure.
A silver-plated robot shuffles out of one of the many blast doors leading out of the hanger, wearing a bootleg luchador mask and a sombrero. "Hola! ¡Soy El Grande Malo, a tu servicio! Por favor, sÃgueme, el señor Alexander y el señor Sky están esperando en la sala de conferencias." The robed man peeks out from underneath his hood, long brown hair falling out over his chest as he furrows his brow up at the Spanish-speaking robot. It is none other than Jason Hathaway, the last remaining J-Di in all of the galaxy.
"Robbie, please translate."
"He says we should follow him to the conference chamber. The delegation is waiting for us. Hopefully we can deliver our message peacefully and leave before anything happens. I've a bad feeling about this."
Jason reassuringly places his hand on Robbie's shoulder, smiling as he steps forward to take the lead. "Don't center on your anxiety, Robbie. Keep your concentration here and now, where it belongs." Patting his Padawan on the head, he turns to the silver robot and bows his head. "I thank you for your hospitality. Lead the way... Do you speak any english, by chance?"
The robot gives Jason an odd look, tilting his head for a moment before replying, "Renegade Cop."
The pair are led through labyrinthine hallways of featurless steel and technology, populated with more and more Gladiator drones. To see so many identical bodies, devoid of personality or charisma, sets a chilling tone to the atmosphere around them. Truly, this was a numpty battleship indeed. Before long, they arrive at the conference room, equally bland and uninviting. Jason and Robbie take their seats.
"Espero que ustedes, señores, se sientan muy cómodos aquÃ. Mi maestro estará contigo en breve." The robot bows and leaves them in the conference room, the uncomfortable silence settling over the two of them immediately. Robbie shifts uneasily, peering over to his master. "How do you think the Numpty Viceroy will handle our demands, Master?"
Jason leans back in his chair, crossing a leg over his knee and winking to his restless young padawan. "These Jabroni types are cowards. The negotiations will be short."
The scene shifts to the command bridge of the battleship. The mullet-and-sunglesses wearing Viceroy Alexander stands stunned before the robot's words, as does his partner, an old man leaning on a walker, with various colors of paint haphazardly splashed onto his face without any rhyme or reason, Delegate Sky.
"You wot mate? TJ gasps! Say that again, bruv!"
"Creo que el embajador de la IWF es un J-Di. Es tan encantador, atractivo y divertido. Renegade Cop."
The elderly man resembling clown roadkill slowly turns himself around to face his partner, terror in his dry, gravelly voice, raw from trying to rally fans in at least 800 different indy shows over the last decade. "I knew it! They are here for Ferriman! We're done for! I haven't been this frightened since I took that bump off the balcony of the elementary school in 91!"
"Oi, relax you daft old fart! TJ sighs. Activate the trap, and we'll go take a squiz with the Gladiator droids.
Back in the conference room, Robbie has grown even more uncomfortable. The Robo-Malo returns and offers them a drink, but it does little to calm his nerves as he sips from the stainless-steel cup. "Is it in their nature to make us wait this long?" Even Hathaway now seems troubled, eyes closed in focus as he rests his hands in his lap. "No. I sense an unusual amount of fear for something so trivial as Jack Ferriman."
Suddenly, hatches in the walls of the room open to reveal at least a dozen television screens. They click to life and begin playing footage of IWF Performance Center trainee matches. Jason and Robbie both spring out of their seats and draw hilts from their hips, clicking them on to extend green and blue beam swords from the tips.
"Shoddy in-ring performance! Robbie, shield your eyes! Don't stare for too long!"
Outside the doors of the conference room, a contingent of Gladiator droids wait alongside Viceroy Alexander and Delegate Sky. "They must be dead as dinkum by now. TJ laughs. Open the doors, bruv, destroy what's left of em, yeah?"
The blast doors begin to slide open, and the cacophonic sounds of badly taken bumps spills out into the hallway, making everybody wince. Suddenly, Jason and Robbie leap out of the opened door and begin dismembering every featureless droid that charges at them. Alexander and Sky cower, too shaken and terrified to flee even as the last of their warriors falls to the flurry of Jason and Robbie's blades.
"We'll do anything you want!" Pleads Delegate Sky, "I'm too young to die! I have at least another five years! Six if I retire now and don't face you again!"
"TJ cowers! TJ cowers!"
"Renegade Cop!"
Robbie and Jason look at each other knowingly, before nodding and retracting their lightsabers.
"You know what we want. Take us to Ferriman and we will leave you with your lives."
The surrendering Numpty Federation agrees, and the pair are led deep into the bowels of the Battleship. At its thrumming heart lies a dark chamber, a room with only one way in and one way out. It is empty, save for a small wooden table in the center with a TV sitting atop it. Their goal. Robbie escorts the Viceroy and the Delegate back to the ship to be arrested for criminal lameness while Jason walks into the room alone and sits in front of the television. Leaning forward, he presses his finger against the power button, and turns it on.
"Jack Ferriman. A man who has all the potential, all the talent in the world. A man who's on the very brink of obscurity, who's only one loss away from Numpty status." Jason looks into the camera, no longer clad in his robes, but in his denim ring jacket and a pair of obnoxiously acid-washed jeans. He raises his hands, gesturing to the dark chamber around him. "There's a reason I didn't make a mockery of you like I did the other three. There's still hope for you, still a chance for you to be more than they are, to do what they couldn't. That's why I had to fight to get here, because they know I can be your salvation, Jack."
The dark room melts away, and Jason sits cross-legged in an empty ring. Behind him, Robbie can be seen stashing away many of the props they'd just finished using. Backdrops, outfits, and model ships.
"All you have to do is be the first person to beat J-TV. You do that, and people start talking about you again. You've got something to prove, and I respect that. Unfortunately, I'm not here to save you. At Sacrifice, I've been tasked with the duty of making you another name on the list of people I've stepped on to get to the top. You seem like the type to take his whupping like a man, so I'm not going to mince words with you..."
Jason reaches out and holds the corner of the camera.
"I'm going to put you out of your misery, Jack. The cult shit... the identity crisis... the therapy. I'm putting it all to bed at Sacrifice. One more match, one more three count, and you can stop clinging to that fringe possibility of success and let yourself fall into the growing pile I'm leaving behind me. And as you hang up your boots? As you get back in your car and drive home for the last time in your career? The last thing you're going to hear, is the crowd chanting...
J. T. V.
Jason presses the power button, and turns off the television.
Well howdy there pardner.