Post by Jules on Dec 20, 2012 20:36:25 GMT -4
The click of the mouse button opens the video file and reveals the title screen
Quintessentially English Films present...
A Julius Farquhar broadcast....
The Quintessentially English Web Blast.
On screen we see the magnificent face of the APW Tap Out Champion, Julius Farquhar, broadcasting from the comfort of his luxurious home, and resplendent in his finest smoking jacket.
Julius: Friends of the Quintessentially English Empire, welcome to this, the first ever ‘Quintessentially English Web Blast’ with your favourite Megastar, the Tap Out Champion, Julius Farquhar.
Julius: As you all know I am about to embark on my most successful campaign, during which I intend to plunder more riches than ever before. When I am the only man left standing at Christmas Chaos it will be fitting for the world to recognise me as the greatest submission wrestler that ever lived.
Julius: But with the big match still a few days away, it is the appropriate protocol to share with the world my thoughts on these degenerates who would seek to usurp your Emperor. Let us begin.
The picture fades to a title reading ‘Chapter 1: Great Yarmouth’ before cutting back to Julius.
Julius: The first man into the gauntlet after yours truly is arguably the most physically dominating. I saw a cardboard cut-out of the man who calls himself Yarmouth and it sent a chill down my spine. It is remarkable how deceptive appearances can be.
I look at this man Yarmouth and I see someone who ought to tearing people in half every week, inside I see a cuddly bear with the occasional ‘roid rage and a terrible catch-phrase. Sure, Yarmouth may be able to call upon being the most popular wrestler in this match, but since it is talent, and not the approval of the herd, that wins matches and Championship belts you will not find me losing any sleep over it.
The very fact that this man mountain is in this match is a puzzle. In fact, to make that analogy is an insult to mountains – at least they are a natural force providing a barrier between the traveller and his destination. I think there are chesty coughs more troublesome to humankind than this beast. The man’s very employment seems to be based wholly on his ability to sell a colloquial term, but when we are all said and done I fully expect this sophisticated fellow will earn success of the vagrant fella.
But I should not be so unkind. Yarmouth at least comes into this much backed up by a truck load of experience. In fact if I want some advice on what types of ring canvas are most comfortable lie down on I’ll be sure to call upon Yarmouth. It is easy to try and pretend I am up against an experienced foe, but ‘experience’ is another one of those hierarchical commodities, and it is all relative.
TJ, he has plenty of experience of taking a beating from me, but he has at least proven he can hold his own. The Great Yarmouth? Well he does possess a kind of stickability that is admirable; well if one considers getting back up after being put on your backside week after week a redeemable feature.
Here is the truth of the matter: for all his time in APW Yarmouth has achieved nothing but the occasional cheap pop from the crowd and sucker-punch victory before or in the aftermath of his latest loss. Yarmouth, all brawn and no brain, is not the quickest study, and the fact that he still does not know his backside from his elbow does not inspire me with much confidence, nor does it induce much fear.
Nevermind, Yarmouth I aim to educate and when I have twisted you into a thousand knots before the next man enters, you will know your backside and your elbow to be one and the same because I will have rammed that arm of yours up your anus.
With a knowing smile Julius ends his attack on Yarmouth, the scene fades to a new title reading ‘Chapter 2: William D. Williams’, then cuts back to Julius.
Julius: Now let me tell you, I loved to read Charlie and the Chocolate Factory as a young boy. You may not think it to look at my athletic physique that would render God himself to a fit of jealousy, but I used to be quite the lover of chocolate. I used to dream about having my own chocolate factory, and my own happy ending with Willy Wonka. I never knew I would one day get to wrestle the man.
Julius’ attention is caught by someone off camera.
Julius: What? Can you not see I am trying to broadcast to my empire here? What do you mean ‘he’s not Willy Wonka’? I have checked the notes thank you very much.
Julius sifts through the papers in front of him, realises what the producer is saying and palms his forehead.
Julius: You are correct, old bean, I am not wrestling Willy Wonka. Silly me. I heard all that business about ‘chocolate’ and saw the initials. Oh buggery, we are going to have to re-film this.
The web blast cuts to black for a few seconds before it loads up Julius again.
Julius: I am back again. Where was I? Oh yes, William D. Williams. Eminent lawyer, pretend wrestler, and possible chocolateur. William, my dear boy, let me warn you first and foremost: this one will not have that soft, gooey and satisfying finish like so many of your home-spun treats do.
Do not get me wrong, I am sure you have worked your cotton socks off to get to this point, and in spite of my misunderstanding there you have not gone un-noticed, chocolate boy, but I would give up the goose now because it will not be roasted, old chap.
Here is the thing Williams, I do not take pleasantly to your sort. Usually I would not give the time of day to someone who could barely make it as an ambulance chaser, so decided to switch to wrestling. It seems everyone these days, no matter what their professional training, thinks they can simply do a crash course at their local dojo and think they have what it takes to rub shoulders with technical refined athletes like yours truly. And to think now you are being provided with an opportunity to compete for MY championship belt.
I have studied your progress so far – what little there has been – and your presence here simply calls into question the sanity of Reginald Schmidt. Has this uppity pen-pusher so much contempt for me these days that I am now simply a moving target for all and sundry? What happened to those days when reputable champions, especially Quintessentially English ones, were held in high regard. Now it seems title shots are given out like contract incentives.
You see Williams, it is nothing personal, it is just that a man of my credentials should be given pride of place on the year ending pay-per-view. But while rogues like Phil Atken headline, I am forged to hand out wrestling lessons to legal rats.
After all, have you a noticeable win to your win? Have you excited the stage with an intriguing bout? Yes, I know you are new and this is probably your chance to make your impact, but let me assure you this isn’t going to be an underdog success story.
William, old dog, you should have stuck to the court room, at least all that legal posturing does not get your neck broken. You may be accustomed to untying legal knots, but how good are you at untwisting your bones and limbs? That is what I do: I am a master artisan, making abstract sculptures out of wrestlers who think they can stand toe to toe with me.
With the Windsor knot I will buckle your will to self-pity, and with a 1000 other holds I will bend you into shapes that even a contortionist would wince at.
Enjoy your day in the sun, but avoid the sea because there is a hurricane coming and if you get in my way I suck into my cyclone and spit you out like a flavourless piece of chewing gum.
My advice: make your closing statement now, because I assure you when you stand before my judgement it will be a matter of ‘William D. Williams – case closed and dismissed’.
Again the scene fades out to reveal a new title ‘Chapter 3: The Saint’, and we cut back to Julius who is this time sucking on a pipe.
Julius: When I heard you were coming I wondered how long it would take before our paths crossed. Admittedly I took an interest in you, as an Englishman, from afar. I had heard of your reputation and I was curious as to whether the legendary Keaton Saint, supposedly of the same stock as I, could form another branch of the expanding Quintessentially English Empire. As people very often are with you Keaton, I was profoundly let down and disappointed.
Nevertheless, I could see how all those sycophants, drooling and salivating, groped for your attention and your touch when you first arrived here in Asylum. The same imbeciles who had never once approached me and offer servitude, or even make me a cup of tea, for elevating the Asylum product to unparalleled heights just by having my name signed on that dotted line.
Of course, I can see the attraction. There is a certain rectitude to your personality, not to mention your possession of a technical sophisticated style of wrestling. Nevertheless these do not mask your inherent and profound limitations.
Reputations can take you far in this business, even those that are ill-gotten or ill-founded. You are a case in point. I don’t think I have ever seen a wrestler given as much hype and as many opportunities as you were on Overdrive. I count four or five separate opportunities you were given to win the Overdrive Championship. In six weeks on that brand I won more matches than you did in six months, yet that vagabond President Jeff didn’t even know my name when I told him I was quitting for Asylum.
Yes, you were a cosseted man, Keaton, pampered beyond belief like a father’s favourite son, but you squandered all those opportunities. But then that is the signature of your career, right? Failure and the propensity to flatter to deceive on a universal scale. Actually, that may be doing you a discredit. You are like some ironic anti-hero who continually makes success out of failure, except there is no joke...well except you.
That we are of the same stock is quite embarrassing. I ought to disavow you as an English patriot because you bring shame on the world’s greatest race with your consistent self-ridicule. Why do you do it, Keaton – why persist with something you are plainly no good at it. Maybe you get a kick out of drawing all those people in, making them believe in you, only to take away all of their faith with your pitiful attempts at being a top-line player in this business.
Once again I see you have managed to get the hype train on your side as part of this ‘Four Pillars’. At first I thought you were just another convert to the Mohammedan religion, but I see instead you are part of some motley crew of self-advancers like TJ and Sally Talfourd.
False dawns are persistent in this business, it seems every other week someone is promising to create themselves a renew, to usher in a new era, but the Quintessentially English Empire remains consistent and true, from its inception until the death of humankind, and I am its highest representative.
There are two battles being waged here, Mr. Saint. There is the micro-battle between two Englishmen, the virtuous versus the decadent, the profound versus the shallow, the strong who overcomes and destroys the weak.
This match will prove that if England deserves a representative in this company, it should be the Quintessential kind. Your Saintly pretentions will be tested to the full in New York because I fully intend on giving you the heretic treatment, except when your blood has stained the canvas I do not think anyone will be coming to pay tribute.
We cut to the final title page ‘Chapter 4: The Soul’, then cut back to a thoughtful looking Julius.
Julius: And then there was one, and that one was the biggest spoiler of them all.
TJ, I thought you may have learnt your lesson by now. You have felt the agony I can inflict more than any other – why come so quickly for the same treatment again. While I am convinced Keaton Saint is some kind of succubus, a sadist who feeds off the life and hope of others, you truly belong to the category of masochists. Who else would willingly step inside the ring with a man who has methodically and analytically decimated their body on repeated occasions?
I believe in the circles you move the term I should use to refer to you is ‘my bitch’, but I am not a man of profane words, and my actions speak only for Quintessentially English Justice. However, it cannot be denied that you are subject to me: every thought and every action you have ever taken since you came to Asylum has been done with me in mind. I have this hold over you like no other, and because I have made you submit me to on numerous occasions, it is not unjust to say you would do well to pay homage to me rather than continue with your opposition.
But then I have heard that victims retain a perverse fascination with those who have afflicted them, like a kind of Stockholm’s Syndrome. Except I have no intention of building a rapport with you TJ, my only aim in this match will be crush you like a bug like I have done on every occasion our paths have met.
I have no doubt you will think something has changed, after all you now have the collective ‘wisdom’ of those three other ‘pillars’ you rub shoulders with these days. But here’s thing: you are and never will be a Sally Talfourd, and no matter how much she tries to encourage you and offer insight, it is simply not in your capacity to match her level; Chris Strike is a man who would not even allow near my kettle – what can he know about overcoming the Quintessentially English? As for Saint, well you will get a first-hand viewing of how I will solidify that man’s status as ‘world’s most disappointing hero’ before you even enter the ring.
TJ, I hope you have strapped that ankle well. As much as I enjoyed breaking it twice before, I kind of think I will enjoy it just as much the third time. And after I am done with your legs, I will happily walk away with my Tap Out Title and my great reign still intact.
On your knees FELLAS, because it is time to PAY HOMAGE.
Quintessentially English Films present...
A Julius Farquhar broadcast....
The Quintessentially English Web Blast.
On screen we see the magnificent face of the APW Tap Out Champion, Julius Farquhar, broadcasting from the comfort of his luxurious home, and resplendent in his finest smoking jacket.
Julius: Friends of the Quintessentially English Empire, welcome to this, the first ever ‘Quintessentially English Web Blast’ with your favourite Megastar, the Tap Out Champion, Julius Farquhar.
Julius: As you all know I am about to embark on my most successful campaign, during which I intend to plunder more riches than ever before. When I am the only man left standing at Christmas Chaos it will be fitting for the world to recognise me as the greatest submission wrestler that ever lived.
Julius: But with the big match still a few days away, it is the appropriate protocol to share with the world my thoughts on these degenerates who would seek to usurp your Emperor. Let us begin.
The picture fades to a title reading ‘Chapter 1: Great Yarmouth’ before cutting back to Julius.
Julius: The first man into the gauntlet after yours truly is arguably the most physically dominating. I saw a cardboard cut-out of the man who calls himself Yarmouth and it sent a chill down my spine. It is remarkable how deceptive appearances can be.
I look at this man Yarmouth and I see someone who ought to tearing people in half every week, inside I see a cuddly bear with the occasional ‘roid rage and a terrible catch-phrase. Sure, Yarmouth may be able to call upon being the most popular wrestler in this match, but since it is talent, and not the approval of the herd, that wins matches and Championship belts you will not find me losing any sleep over it.
The very fact that this man mountain is in this match is a puzzle. In fact, to make that analogy is an insult to mountains – at least they are a natural force providing a barrier between the traveller and his destination. I think there are chesty coughs more troublesome to humankind than this beast. The man’s very employment seems to be based wholly on his ability to sell a colloquial term, but when we are all said and done I fully expect this sophisticated fellow will earn success of the vagrant fella.
But I should not be so unkind. Yarmouth at least comes into this much backed up by a truck load of experience. In fact if I want some advice on what types of ring canvas are most comfortable lie down on I’ll be sure to call upon Yarmouth. It is easy to try and pretend I am up against an experienced foe, but ‘experience’ is another one of those hierarchical commodities, and it is all relative.
TJ, he has plenty of experience of taking a beating from me, but he has at least proven he can hold his own. The Great Yarmouth? Well he does possess a kind of stickability that is admirable; well if one considers getting back up after being put on your backside week after week a redeemable feature.
Here is the truth of the matter: for all his time in APW Yarmouth has achieved nothing but the occasional cheap pop from the crowd and sucker-punch victory before or in the aftermath of his latest loss. Yarmouth, all brawn and no brain, is not the quickest study, and the fact that he still does not know his backside from his elbow does not inspire me with much confidence, nor does it induce much fear.
Nevermind, Yarmouth I aim to educate and when I have twisted you into a thousand knots before the next man enters, you will know your backside and your elbow to be one and the same because I will have rammed that arm of yours up your anus.
With a knowing smile Julius ends his attack on Yarmouth, the scene fades to a new title reading ‘Chapter 2: William D. Williams’, then cuts back to Julius.
Julius: Now let me tell you, I loved to read Charlie and the Chocolate Factory as a young boy. You may not think it to look at my athletic physique that would render God himself to a fit of jealousy, but I used to be quite the lover of chocolate. I used to dream about having my own chocolate factory, and my own happy ending with Willy Wonka. I never knew I would one day get to wrestle the man.
Julius’ attention is caught by someone off camera.
Julius: What? Can you not see I am trying to broadcast to my empire here? What do you mean ‘he’s not Willy Wonka’? I have checked the notes thank you very much.
Julius sifts through the papers in front of him, realises what the producer is saying and palms his forehead.
Julius: You are correct, old bean, I am not wrestling Willy Wonka. Silly me. I heard all that business about ‘chocolate’ and saw the initials. Oh buggery, we are going to have to re-film this.
The web blast cuts to black for a few seconds before it loads up Julius again.
Julius: I am back again. Where was I? Oh yes, William D. Williams. Eminent lawyer, pretend wrestler, and possible chocolateur. William, my dear boy, let me warn you first and foremost: this one will not have that soft, gooey and satisfying finish like so many of your home-spun treats do.
Do not get me wrong, I am sure you have worked your cotton socks off to get to this point, and in spite of my misunderstanding there you have not gone un-noticed, chocolate boy, but I would give up the goose now because it will not be roasted, old chap.
Here is the thing Williams, I do not take pleasantly to your sort. Usually I would not give the time of day to someone who could barely make it as an ambulance chaser, so decided to switch to wrestling. It seems everyone these days, no matter what their professional training, thinks they can simply do a crash course at their local dojo and think they have what it takes to rub shoulders with technical refined athletes like yours truly. And to think now you are being provided with an opportunity to compete for MY championship belt.
I have studied your progress so far – what little there has been – and your presence here simply calls into question the sanity of Reginald Schmidt. Has this uppity pen-pusher so much contempt for me these days that I am now simply a moving target for all and sundry? What happened to those days when reputable champions, especially Quintessentially English ones, were held in high regard. Now it seems title shots are given out like contract incentives.
You see Williams, it is nothing personal, it is just that a man of my credentials should be given pride of place on the year ending pay-per-view. But while rogues like Phil Atken headline, I am forged to hand out wrestling lessons to legal rats.
After all, have you a noticeable win to your win? Have you excited the stage with an intriguing bout? Yes, I know you are new and this is probably your chance to make your impact, but let me assure you this isn’t going to be an underdog success story.
William, old dog, you should have stuck to the court room, at least all that legal posturing does not get your neck broken. You may be accustomed to untying legal knots, but how good are you at untwisting your bones and limbs? That is what I do: I am a master artisan, making abstract sculptures out of wrestlers who think they can stand toe to toe with me.
With the Windsor knot I will buckle your will to self-pity, and with a 1000 other holds I will bend you into shapes that even a contortionist would wince at.
Enjoy your day in the sun, but avoid the sea because there is a hurricane coming and if you get in my way I suck into my cyclone and spit you out like a flavourless piece of chewing gum.
My advice: make your closing statement now, because I assure you when you stand before my judgement it will be a matter of ‘William D. Williams – case closed and dismissed’.
Again the scene fades out to reveal a new title ‘Chapter 3: The Saint’, and we cut back to Julius who is this time sucking on a pipe.
Julius: When I heard you were coming I wondered how long it would take before our paths crossed. Admittedly I took an interest in you, as an Englishman, from afar. I had heard of your reputation and I was curious as to whether the legendary Keaton Saint, supposedly of the same stock as I, could form another branch of the expanding Quintessentially English Empire. As people very often are with you Keaton, I was profoundly let down and disappointed.
Nevertheless, I could see how all those sycophants, drooling and salivating, groped for your attention and your touch when you first arrived here in Asylum. The same imbeciles who had never once approached me and offer servitude, or even make me a cup of tea, for elevating the Asylum product to unparalleled heights just by having my name signed on that dotted line.
Of course, I can see the attraction. There is a certain rectitude to your personality, not to mention your possession of a technical sophisticated style of wrestling. Nevertheless these do not mask your inherent and profound limitations.
Reputations can take you far in this business, even those that are ill-gotten or ill-founded. You are a case in point. I don’t think I have ever seen a wrestler given as much hype and as many opportunities as you were on Overdrive. I count four or five separate opportunities you were given to win the Overdrive Championship. In six weeks on that brand I won more matches than you did in six months, yet that vagabond President Jeff didn’t even know my name when I told him I was quitting for Asylum.
Yes, you were a cosseted man, Keaton, pampered beyond belief like a father’s favourite son, but you squandered all those opportunities. But then that is the signature of your career, right? Failure and the propensity to flatter to deceive on a universal scale. Actually, that may be doing you a discredit. You are like some ironic anti-hero who continually makes success out of failure, except there is no joke...well except you.
That we are of the same stock is quite embarrassing. I ought to disavow you as an English patriot because you bring shame on the world’s greatest race with your consistent self-ridicule. Why do you do it, Keaton – why persist with something you are plainly no good at it. Maybe you get a kick out of drawing all those people in, making them believe in you, only to take away all of their faith with your pitiful attempts at being a top-line player in this business.
Once again I see you have managed to get the hype train on your side as part of this ‘Four Pillars’. At first I thought you were just another convert to the Mohammedan religion, but I see instead you are part of some motley crew of self-advancers like TJ and Sally Talfourd.
False dawns are persistent in this business, it seems every other week someone is promising to create themselves a renew, to usher in a new era, but the Quintessentially English Empire remains consistent and true, from its inception until the death of humankind, and I am its highest representative.
There are two battles being waged here, Mr. Saint. There is the micro-battle between two Englishmen, the virtuous versus the decadent, the profound versus the shallow, the strong who overcomes and destroys the weak.
This match will prove that if England deserves a representative in this company, it should be the Quintessential kind. Your Saintly pretentions will be tested to the full in New York because I fully intend on giving you the heretic treatment, except when your blood has stained the canvas I do not think anyone will be coming to pay tribute.
We cut to the final title page ‘Chapter 4: The Soul’, then cut back to a thoughtful looking Julius.
Julius: And then there was one, and that one was the biggest spoiler of them all.
TJ, I thought you may have learnt your lesson by now. You have felt the agony I can inflict more than any other – why come so quickly for the same treatment again. While I am convinced Keaton Saint is some kind of succubus, a sadist who feeds off the life and hope of others, you truly belong to the category of masochists. Who else would willingly step inside the ring with a man who has methodically and analytically decimated their body on repeated occasions?
I believe in the circles you move the term I should use to refer to you is ‘my bitch’, but I am not a man of profane words, and my actions speak only for Quintessentially English Justice. However, it cannot be denied that you are subject to me: every thought and every action you have ever taken since you came to Asylum has been done with me in mind. I have this hold over you like no other, and because I have made you submit me to on numerous occasions, it is not unjust to say you would do well to pay homage to me rather than continue with your opposition.
But then I have heard that victims retain a perverse fascination with those who have afflicted them, like a kind of Stockholm’s Syndrome. Except I have no intention of building a rapport with you TJ, my only aim in this match will be crush you like a bug like I have done on every occasion our paths have met.
I have no doubt you will think something has changed, after all you now have the collective ‘wisdom’ of those three other ‘pillars’ you rub shoulders with these days. But here’s thing: you are and never will be a Sally Talfourd, and no matter how much she tries to encourage you and offer insight, it is simply not in your capacity to match her level; Chris Strike is a man who would not even allow near my kettle – what can he know about overcoming the Quintessentially English? As for Saint, well you will get a first-hand viewing of how I will solidify that man’s status as ‘world’s most disappointing hero’ before you even enter the ring.
TJ, I hope you have strapped that ankle well. As much as I enjoyed breaking it twice before, I kind of think I will enjoy it just as much the third time. And after I am done with your legs, I will happily walk away with my Tap Out Title and my great reign still intact.
On your knees FELLAS, because it is time to PAY HOMAGE.
