Post by Jules on Mar 22, 2013 7:50:10 GMT -4
The Scene opens inside the location of The Guv’nor ‘lockdown’ – a vigorous training regime imposed by the ‘Touchstone’ organisation backing the Londoner. A set has been produced to create a gritty and intimidating image: think lots of chains, gothic overtones, and most importantly a ladder in the middle of the shot. Alongside it, running his hands along the metal is The Guv’nor himself.
Guvnor: People say that money makes the world go around, but underneath I think there is something much more foundational – it’s hope. There is an optimism people have that if they have a lot of money it will take them places they never dreamed of, that it will free them from most of their every day worries, that it will give them status and prestige. So really, it’s hope that makes the world go around, but in modern times people believe money is the means by which we turn the hope into reality.
Just look at Rasslemania.
The Guv’nor smiles at the camera and holds up his hands.
Guv’nor: Don’t worry, the Guv’nor isn’t going to give you a bunch of mushy nonsense about how he dreamed about this day since he was a nipper, how he worked all year to get here, and how he was is looking to make himself immortal. I leave all that bollocks to wet lettuces like C.J. Gates and Amy Zing.
Don’t get me wrong I know this event is the biggest of them all, and I fully intend on going out and pulling the red carpet out from under everyone’s feet and keeping it for myself; I’m just not going to shed a blissful tear over what a wonderful Disney moment this is. Of course, I’m like everyone else and I got my hopes to go out there and put on the fight of my life, taking the North American Title with me. But more than that I’m going to Rasslemania to destroy the dreams of others.
The thought evokes a grin on The Guv’nor’s face, more for himself than anyone else.
Guvnor: If anyone in this match has got to be thinking he’s in some sort of dream it’s Cid Phoenix. I’m not pissing on Cid’s so-called past achievements when I say this is the opportunity of a lifetime.
I know Cid likes to remind us that he has achieved many accolades elsewhere, but you can’t fool the Guv’nor, Cid my old son. I can see that look of shame in your eyes as you mutter out these past achievements, almost as if you’re hoping no-one will hear the words. I know you feel you got to mention them, Cid, because you need to put something behind you TO try and get a wind blowing in your direction; but we all know that the boasting is as hollow as the space between Nathaniel Havok’s ears.
What’s the giveaway, Cid? Well it’s that you’re right here in APW, a place where the records say you’ve done piss all, and still competing. If all those past tin-can World Titles meant a scrap to you, sunshine, you’d be back in those federations defending their honour (or whatever), rather than making a mockery of them by flaunting them in a place where you’ve barely got a foothold over God knows how many years.
This is your big opportunity Cid because I know you’re desperate not to bring down the curtain on your career with all the time and effort you put into being an APW megastar turning out an abject failure and total fucking waste of time. You need something, Cid, to give your repeated re-boots some meaning, some value. That’s why you went mental on those fans: you were trying to make an impact, trying to get someone to notice you. It was a pretty slaggy thing to do in my eyes, but someone obviously liked it because it’s landed you in this match.
But Cid, that golden ticket you got in your hand? Well it’s about to turn into a poison chalice something chronic, matey, because when I get my hands on you at Rasslemania I’ll rip out your eyeballs and skull fuck you like a Malaysian whore. There isn’t going to be a happy ending to this one, Cid, and absolutely no chance this phoenix will rise from the inferno I’m about to blaze it with.
Guvnor starts to climb the ladder, taking one or two rungs, but his eyes fixed on the object that forms the concept of the match, rather than directly into the camera. Maintaining the same even tone of voice Guvnor continues.
Guvnor: But Cid’s not the only one who’s got their Christmas prezzie a little early this year. Evan McDonald, come on down! Fuck me, talk about a shocker. There I was thinking I would get cure cancer when I rip out Kevin Dahlia throat in front of the whole world, but instead I’m getting some cross between Mel Gibson’s body double and Deuce Bigalow Male Gigolo.
Listen here Highlander, I know everyone’s thinking ‘Fuck, what’re we to do about Evan McDonald, the wild card?’ Well, bruv, I’m going to do what the English have been doing to the Scots for centuries – I’m taking your head and parading it outside the Tower of London.
I don’t know you Evan, so maybe I’m taking a liberty here. Maybe you’re a solid guy, but I can’t stand you fucking Scottish. Wankers every single one of you. Every year you lot piss and moan about how the English did this, and the English did that. I remember a few years ago when England lost in the World Cup to the bleeding krauts, a bunch of your lot was singing and cheering like they fought alongside Hitler in the war. Anyone but England, right? Well we soon showed those fucking mugs a thing or two about what it means to be MADE IN HACKNEY. Anywhere but England I think them slags were crying afterwards.
I don’t want to make this all political or racial, but I’ve got no time for all this Scottish Pride bollocks. You people would still be starving barbarians if it wasn’t for London, yet you got the audacity to hurl abuse at us and say how much we wronged you. I’m all for the banter in a sporting sense, but you Scots need to stop drinking so much whisky and climbing into the rarefied air of those bloody mountains of yours, because it’s messing with your heads. Stop watching Braveheart and instead count them English pennies in your pocket.
But maybe I’ve done you wrong, Evan. Maybe you’re not one of those loony nationalist mugs, but I’m still going to fuck you up for shits and giggles. Your cards have been marked matey and there’s no hiding from that.
Now Guvnor takes a seat and turns to face the camera directly, wanting every word of the next part of his promo to reach directly into the mind of his audience.
Guvnor: Speaking of marking cards, if there is one guy’s card bearing my stamp it’s Nathaniel Havok’s. Three times this mug has faced me and three times he has failed – first meaningful strike to The Guv’nor. I’m sure Nathaniel is chortling away, telling himself that none of it really mattered. I’d be more willing to go along with that if there was some evidence that Havok was still a big-time player.
I’ve got to be honest, I will be a hate-filled nuclear bomb when that bell sounds at Rasslemania; no person in this match will be granted a second of mercy, no-one will be given even a morsel or a scrap to feed on. I want to hurt and smash up every one of these slags, because that’s what I do, but nothing will give me pleasure than putting this no-good bastard Nathaniel Havok through everlasting torment at Rasslemania.
I want to win the North American Title for myself, but I also want to win it stop Havok. What I’ve cognised since I came to APW is that Meltdown would be a far worse place with this slag as its champion. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not saying I’m any kind of angel, but this guy has got to be one of the biggest bottom-feeding, filthy scumbag slags I have ever come across – and trust me, in my former profession I saw some of the biggest lowlifes humanity could shit upon this world.
I just want you all to stop for a moment and picture Meltdown with Nathaniel Havok as its champ.
.
.
.
.
.
Done? Now you understand where I’m coming from. Listen, it’s got nothing to do with all his ‘technical brilliance’, or his ‘superior wrestling ability’, or any of those other qualities Nathaniel says he possesses. I’m not questioning the bloke’s ‘pure’ talent, but do you really want to subject this show to a geezer whose bloated self-image would make Caligula blush?
First and foremost I have a hard time identifying with this geezer, and from the looks of things so do the fans. He’s always on his high horse about how wrestling isn’t what it used to be, and wants to usher in some golden age of the past when it was all about ‘the art’, not about the money. Listen, I’m not a historian so I can’t say Nathaniel’s judgement is right or wrong, but I just find that line a bit hard to swallow from a man who blackmailed the pen-pushers to give him a more lucrative contract, and who promised to put bums on seats if he’s the headline act. That sounds to me a lot like making money, and no doubt that slag would want a nice big slice of the pie.
It’s the classic line of a man who feels threatened by his environment. I see it every year in England, when the kiddies get the exam results they’ve grafted for, some miserable old git comes out and says the exams were harder in his day. It’s the same with Havok: he’s suddenly realised even after he stopped hiding behind the Viking’s mask there was no golden throne awaiting him, the fans just aren’t prepared to carry the geezer to the ring every week.
Why? Because he doesn’t give them what they want. I don’t care what you’ve done or who you are, sunshine, the entitlement-clause doesn’t exist around here. You don’t get handed headline shots, you earn them. Look at every single person in this match, we have all grafted in some shape or form to get this opportunity, yet the only person who thinks he’s entitled to this is the slag who calls himself ‘The Enforcer of Sorrow’.
Of course, his ‘art’ is superior, right? Got to be honest, bruv, that’s Japanese to me. Not sure what you see, but the reality is this business isn’t fucking art class, this is war sunshine, and it’s not for the faint-hearted. But if you want a picture of Rasslemania I’ll give you one: you lying in a pool of your own blood.
The truth is this airy-fairy bollocks is just stuff, words, it don’t mean anything. I’m not like you, Havok, I won’t lie to people: what you see is what you get. I want to make lots of money, which is reason numero uno for me being in this business. I don’t want to graft until I’m sixty in some factory, just another worker ant whose life is slowly squeezed out them by the system. I’ve found a niche in the entertainment’s business, and I’m straight out going for millions. I want money, yeah, but I don’t get it by giving the crowd a cabaret act, so what you talking about? I’m not afraid of giving the crowd a bit of ‘entertainment’, but between the bells I’m all about business, and that’s me smashing up slags like you.
Somebody whispered to me once that we’re not all that different. I don’t get that. All I can see is that we’re chalk and cheese. You’re the rich boy who complains because his sauvignon wank isn’t chilled to the right temperature, I’m the starving peasant who is just trying to get a meal to eat. You have that ingratitude of a spoilt child; whereas everything I have has been earned, admittedly sometimes by force, but the final outcome is respect for what I do.
When it comes down to the heart of things, Havok mate, I got this shot because ever since I came to APW I have beaten senseless the competition given to me; you got here by hiding behind a mask for four months, then press ganging that weasel Duvall into giving you a contract I wouldn’t wipe my arse with.
The thing about spoilt children is that they’re easy to sort out with a bit of discipline. Every time they throw a wobbly, just give ‘em slap and they’ll be put back in their place. That’s exactly what I’m going to do to you, Havok. You don’t have to thank me, that’s just what you’re entitled to.
The Guvnor climbs down the ladder and walks off to the right. He lifts a folded steel chair, feeling the weight of it in his hands, then going through the motions of practicing his swing a few times, his eyes fixed on some imaginary victim, trying to identify the best point of impact. Guvnor slips out of this daydream, opening the chair and taking a seat upon before looking back into the camera.
Guvnor: Last, but not least, we got the Champ. Warren, in another time and place, bruv, I think we’re might have got on like a house of fire. At bottom I think there is shared between us a kind of natural abrasiveness towards no-good bastards. I think that was really the basis of our little cat and mouse game over the past couple of weeks. We both knew we were going to war, we knew that the day would when we would try to tear off each other’s faces, but we both knew there was a right time and place for that to happen, but in the meantime we’d give the crowd a little taste of what is to come.
I’m not going tell you how betrayed I felt because you took a liberty with me after our tag team match a couple of weeks ago. It pissed me off, I won’t lie about that, and if it weren’t for one or two sound heads in the back I would have come and hunted you down like a dog and thrashed you senseless. However, I can’t pretend I wouldn’t have done the same to you in the same situation. I know that individuals are capable of doing extraordinary things when they are in a state of fear.
Listen, I’m not going act like a slag and say how you wronged me and I am going to rip your head off for it. I am going to hurt you, Champ, I am going to torture you with ladders and whatever else I can get my hands on, but it’s not because you took a liberty, it’s because you’re a threat and you’re a threat that has something I want.
However Warren, the nature of this match means I don’t have to beat you, bruv, so don’t take it personally if I’m not pre-occupied with you alone. I’m sure that day will come when you get to go through a hell MADE IN HACKEY all alone.
But the belt isn’t the only motivation for me in this match. While I wouldn’t exactly class as a scumbag in the Havok proportions, I’m not so happy about this revolution you’re proposing. I’ve never really understood idealist, but then politics isn’t my game because I’m not a liar and I’m not a back-stabber. If I don’t like someone I’ll tell them to their face and let these evil hands of mine do the talking; I won’t do someone like a filthy slag and go behind their back with words and lies.
My point is an idealist is only a couple of short steps away from becoming a slimy bastard who wants to control others. I spent my whole life living on the other side of the fence because I refuse to let the man work me like a slave, then rape my arsehole for the privilege. You find a man who thinks he can take a liberty with The Guv’nor and you’ll have found yourself a slag living on borrowed time.
So when I hear words from anyone about instigating a new world order it sets an alarm ringing in my head, especially if that slag’s new world order is based wholly on respect for himself and buckets of piss poured over everyone else. What I remember about history, Warren, is that revolutions only work out for those behind organising them, so you’ll understand my suspicions, bruv.
So you’ll also understand why as well as taking that title for myself, I’m also going out to crush this revolution of yours before it even begins, because I simply will not tolerate any slag trying to dictate to me, be it you, Havok, Duvall, Sienna or President Hurricane himself. That’s a promise, bruv, a promise MADE IN HACKNEY!
Guvnor stands up and punches the lens of the camera, it cracks and topples over (we hear the muffled groans of the cameraman through the mic). Guvnor steps over the lens which is pointing directly upwards, glaring down into it, exhaling heavily through his nose, his eyes narrowed and his features tense. The scene fades.
Guvnor: People say that money makes the world go around, but underneath I think there is something much more foundational – it’s hope. There is an optimism people have that if they have a lot of money it will take them places they never dreamed of, that it will free them from most of their every day worries, that it will give them status and prestige. So really, it’s hope that makes the world go around, but in modern times people believe money is the means by which we turn the hope into reality.
Just look at Rasslemania.
The Guv’nor smiles at the camera and holds up his hands.
Guv’nor: Don’t worry, the Guv’nor isn’t going to give you a bunch of mushy nonsense about how he dreamed about this day since he was a nipper, how he worked all year to get here, and how he was is looking to make himself immortal. I leave all that bollocks to wet lettuces like C.J. Gates and Amy Zing.
Don’t get me wrong I know this event is the biggest of them all, and I fully intend on going out and pulling the red carpet out from under everyone’s feet and keeping it for myself; I’m just not going to shed a blissful tear over what a wonderful Disney moment this is. Of course, I’m like everyone else and I got my hopes to go out there and put on the fight of my life, taking the North American Title with me. But more than that I’m going to Rasslemania to destroy the dreams of others.
The thought evokes a grin on The Guv’nor’s face, more for himself than anyone else.
Guvnor: If anyone in this match has got to be thinking he’s in some sort of dream it’s Cid Phoenix. I’m not pissing on Cid’s so-called past achievements when I say this is the opportunity of a lifetime.
I know Cid likes to remind us that he has achieved many accolades elsewhere, but you can’t fool the Guv’nor, Cid my old son. I can see that look of shame in your eyes as you mutter out these past achievements, almost as if you’re hoping no-one will hear the words. I know you feel you got to mention them, Cid, because you need to put something behind you TO try and get a wind blowing in your direction; but we all know that the boasting is as hollow as the space between Nathaniel Havok’s ears.
What’s the giveaway, Cid? Well it’s that you’re right here in APW, a place where the records say you’ve done piss all, and still competing. If all those past tin-can World Titles meant a scrap to you, sunshine, you’d be back in those federations defending their honour (or whatever), rather than making a mockery of them by flaunting them in a place where you’ve barely got a foothold over God knows how many years.
This is your big opportunity Cid because I know you’re desperate not to bring down the curtain on your career with all the time and effort you put into being an APW megastar turning out an abject failure and total fucking waste of time. You need something, Cid, to give your repeated re-boots some meaning, some value. That’s why you went mental on those fans: you were trying to make an impact, trying to get someone to notice you. It was a pretty slaggy thing to do in my eyes, but someone obviously liked it because it’s landed you in this match.
But Cid, that golden ticket you got in your hand? Well it’s about to turn into a poison chalice something chronic, matey, because when I get my hands on you at Rasslemania I’ll rip out your eyeballs and skull fuck you like a Malaysian whore. There isn’t going to be a happy ending to this one, Cid, and absolutely no chance this phoenix will rise from the inferno I’m about to blaze it with.
Guvnor starts to climb the ladder, taking one or two rungs, but his eyes fixed on the object that forms the concept of the match, rather than directly into the camera. Maintaining the same even tone of voice Guvnor continues.
Guvnor: But Cid’s not the only one who’s got their Christmas prezzie a little early this year. Evan McDonald, come on down! Fuck me, talk about a shocker. There I was thinking I would get cure cancer when I rip out Kevin Dahlia throat in front of the whole world, but instead I’m getting some cross between Mel Gibson’s body double and Deuce Bigalow Male Gigolo.
Listen here Highlander, I know everyone’s thinking ‘Fuck, what’re we to do about Evan McDonald, the wild card?’ Well, bruv, I’m going to do what the English have been doing to the Scots for centuries – I’m taking your head and parading it outside the Tower of London.
I don’t know you Evan, so maybe I’m taking a liberty here. Maybe you’re a solid guy, but I can’t stand you fucking Scottish. Wankers every single one of you. Every year you lot piss and moan about how the English did this, and the English did that. I remember a few years ago when England lost in the World Cup to the bleeding krauts, a bunch of your lot was singing and cheering like they fought alongside Hitler in the war. Anyone but England, right? Well we soon showed those fucking mugs a thing or two about what it means to be MADE IN HACKNEY. Anywhere but England I think them slags were crying afterwards.
I don’t want to make this all political or racial, but I’ve got no time for all this Scottish Pride bollocks. You people would still be starving barbarians if it wasn’t for London, yet you got the audacity to hurl abuse at us and say how much we wronged you. I’m all for the banter in a sporting sense, but you Scots need to stop drinking so much whisky and climbing into the rarefied air of those bloody mountains of yours, because it’s messing with your heads. Stop watching Braveheart and instead count them English pennies in your pocket.
But maybe I’ve done you wrong, Evan. Maybe you’re not one of those loony nationalist mugs, but I’m still going to fuck you up for shits and giggles. Your cards have been marked matey and there’s no hiding from that.
Now Guvnor takes a seat and turns to face the camera directly, wanting every word of the next part of his promo to reach directly into the mind of his audience.
Guvnor: Speaking of marking cards, if there is one guy’s card bearing my stamp it’s Nathaniel Havok’s. Three times this mug has faced me and three times he has failed – first meaningful strike to The Guv’nor. I’m sure Nathaniel is chortling away, telling himself that none of it really mattered. I’d be more willing to go along with that if there was some evidence that Havok was still a big-time player.
I’ve got to be honest, I will be a hate-filled nuclear bomb when that bell sounds at Rasslemania; no person in this match will be granted a second of mercy, no-one will be given even a morsel or a scrap to feed on. I want to hurt and smash up every one of these slags, because that’s what I do, but nothing will give me pleasure than putting this no-good bastard Nathaniel Havok through everlasting torment at Rasslemania.
I want to win the North American Title for myself, but I also want to win it stop Havok. What I’ve cognised since I came to APW is that Meltdown would be a far worse place with this slag as its champion. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not saying I’m any kind of angel, but this guy has got to be one of the biggest bottom-feeding, filthy scumbag slags I have ever come across – and trust me, in my former profession I saw some of the biggest lowlifes humanity could shit upon this world.
I just want you all to stop for a moment and picture Meltdown with Nathaniel Havok as its champ.
.
.
.
.
.
Done? Now you understand where I’m coming from. Listen, it’s got nothing to do with all his ‘technical brilliance’, or his ‘superior wrestling ability’, or any of those other qualities Nathaniel says he possesses. I’m not questioning the bloke’s ‘pure’ talent, but do you really want to subject this show to a geezer whose bloated self-image would make Caligula blush?
First and foremost I have a hard time identifying with this geezer, and from the looks of things so do the fans. He’s always on his high horse about how wrestling isn’t what it used to be, and wants to usher in some golden age of the past when it was all about ‘the art’, not about the money. Listen, I’m not a historian so I can’t say Nathaniel’s judgement is right or wrong, but I just find that line a bit hard to swallow from a man who blackmailed the pen-pushers to give him a more lucrative contract, and who promised to put bums on seats if he’s the headline act. That sounds to me a lot like making money, and no doubt that slag would want a nice big slice of the pie.
It’s the classic line of a man who feels threatened by his environment. I see it every year in England, when the kiddies get the exam results they’ve grafted for, some miserable old git comes out and says the exams were harder in his day. It’s the same with Havok: he’s suddenly realised even after he stopped hiding behind the Viking’s mask there was no golden throne awaiting him, the fans just aren’t prepared to carry the geezer to the ring every week.
Why? Because he doesn’t give them what they want. I don’t care what you’ve done or who you are, sunshine, the entitlement-clause doesn’t exist around here. You don’t get handed headline shots, you earn them. Look at every single person in this match, we have all grafted in some shape or form to get this opportunity, yet the only person who thinks he’s entitled to this is the slag who calls himself ‘The Enforcer of Sorrow’.
Of course, his ‘art’ is superior, right? Got to be honest, bruv, that’s Japanese to me. Not sure what you see, but the reality is this business isn’t fucking art class, this is war sunshine, and it’s not for the faint-hearted. But if you want a picture of Rasslemania I’ll give you one: you lying in a pool of your own blood.
The truth is this airy-fairy bollocks is just stuff, words, it don’t mean anything. I’m not like you, Havok, I won’t lie to people: what you see is what you get. I want to make lots of money, which is reason numero uno for me being in this business. I don’t want to graft until I’m sixty in some factory, just another worker ant whose life is slowly squeezed out them by the system. I’ve found a niche in the entertainment’s business, and I’m straight out going for millions. I want money, yeah, but I don’t get it by giving the crowd a cabaret act, so what you talking about? I’m not afraid of giving the crowd a bit of ‘entertainment’, but between the bells I’m all about business, and that’s me smashing up slags like you.
Somebody whispered to me once that we’re not all that different. I don’t get that. All I can see is that we’re chalk and cheese. You’re the rich boy who complains because his sauvignon wank isn’t chilled to the right temperature, I’m the starving peasant who is just trying to get a meal to eat. You have that ingratitude of a spoilt child; whereas everything I have has been earned, admittedly sometimes by force, but the final outcome is respect for what I do.
When it comes down to the heart of things, Havok mate, I got this shot because ever since I came to APW I have beaten senseless the competition given to me; you got here by hiding behind a mask for four months, then press ganging that weasel Duvall into giving you a contract I wouldn’t wipe my arse with.
The thing about spoilt children is that they’re easy to sort out with a bit of discipline. Every time they throw a wobbly, just give ‘em slap and they’ll be put back in their place. That’s exactly what I’m going to do to you, Havok. You don’t have to thank me, that’s just what you’re entitled to.
The Guvnor climbs down the ladder and walks off to the right. He lifts a folded steel chair, feeling the weight of it in his hands, then going through the motions of practicing his swing a few times, his eyes fixed on some imaginary victim, trying to identify the best point of impact. Guvnor slips out of this daydream, opening the chair and taking a seat upon before looking back into the camera.
Guvnor: Last, but not least, we got the Champ. Warren, in another time and place, bruv, I think we’re might have got on like a house of fire. At bottom I think there is shared between us a kind of natural abrasiveness towards no-good bastards. I think that was really the basis of our little cat and mouse game over the past couple of weeks. We both knew we were going to war, we knew that the day would when we would try to tear off each other’s faces, but we both knew there was a right time and place for that to happen, but in the meantime we’d give the crowd a little taste of what is to come.
I’m not going tell you how betrayed I felt because you took a liberty with me after our tag team match a couple of weeks ago. It pissed me off, I won’t lie about that, and if it weren’t for one or two sound heads in the back I would have come and hunted you down like a dog and thrashed you senseless. However, I can’t pretend I wouldn’t have done the same to you in the same situation. I know that individuals are capable of doing extraordinary things when they are in a state of fear.
Listen, I’m not going act like a slag and say how you wronged me and I am going to rip your head off for it. I am going to hurt you, Champ, I am going to torture you with ladders and whatever else I can get my hands on, but it’s not because you took a liberty, it’s because you’re a threat and you’re a threat that has something I want.
However Warren, the nature of this match means I don’t have to beat you, bruv, so don’t take it personally if I’m not pre-occupied with you alone. I’m sure that day will come when you get to go through a hell MADE IN HACKEY all alone.
But the belt isn’t the only motivation for me in this match. While I wouldn’t exactly class as a scumbag in the Havok proportions, I’m not so happy about this revolution you’re proposing. I’ve never really understood idealist, but then politics isn’t my game because I’m not a liar and I’m not a back-stabber. If I don’t like someone I’ll tell them to their face and let these evil hands of mine do the talking; I won’t do someone like a filthy slag and go behind their back with words and lies.
My point is an idealist is only a couple of short steps away from becoming a slimy bastard who wants to control others. I spent my whole life living on the other side of the fence because I refuse to let the man work me like a slave, then rape my arsehole for the privilege. You find a man who thinks he can take a liberty with The Guv’nor and you’ll have found yourself a slag living on borrowed time.
So when I hear words from anyone about instigating a new world order it sets an alarm ringing in my head, especially if that slag’s new world order is based wholly on respect for himself and buckets of piss poured over everyone else. What I remember about history, Warren, is that revolutions only work out for those behind organising them, so you’ll understand my suspicions, bruv.
So you’ll also understand why as well as taking that title for myself, I’m also going out to crush this revolution of yours before it even begins, because I simply will not tolerate any slag trying to dictate to me, be it you, Havok, Duvall, Sienna or President Hurricane himself. That’s a promise, bruv, a promise MADE IN HACKNEY!
Guvnor stands up and punches the lens of the camera, it cracks and topples over (we hear the muffled groans of the cameraman through the mic). Guvnor steps over the lens which is pointing directly upwards, glaring down into it, exhaling heavily through his nose, his eyes narrowed and his features tense. The scene fades.
