Sending children out to beg by the highway until they are black with exhaust fumes is not a culture. It’s a breed of animal. They are the dregs of society and lying thieves but somehow they’ve convinced the bourgeoisie that Gypsydom is a culture of charming nomads.
They’ll fight you, your brother, your sister and your mother. Your little dog too. If challenged to an honest and one hundred percent reliable dual in Queensberry Rules.
They are also the proud creators of the technique of using their socks as acting toilet paper when said toilet paper cannot be located.
Walking down an old creaking staircase is a slow methodical presence. The darkened room has only become somewhat visible via light coming from the top of the stairs. The smell of a worn dirty odour strikes you imminently as the camera pans around the room.
The old brickwork and wooden beans get our immediate attention in a basement that has had seemingly no TLC ever given to it.
In what appears to be an empty room bar the one singular table; a man is chained up by his arms. What appears to be a man anyway. The confusion with the sex is due to the man being clothed in an old rotten dress and has lipstick smeared across his chops. But that’s no man. No… that’s Jonny O’Dell.
Jonny O’Dell is slumped down in the corner of the room with his arms stretched above him. The lack of movement and poor physical condition of him suggests serious foul-play.
The figure coming closer into the setting then takes a seat in front of the broken Jonny O’Dell. The figure is: “Pikey Fuck” Hughie Freeman.
Hughie: Don’t you look fucking ridiculous..
Hughie does nothing more than sit back in his chair with complete disgust on his face.
Hughie: What are you.. Deaf?
Freeman sits forward with expectation.
Hughie: Come on, RICK. Wakey-wakey hands off snakey, now..
Freeman stands up from the chair, standing over the helpless Jonny O’Dell. A rear-shot commences as the back of Hughie is the focal point of the scene.
Suddenly, the sound of a zipper can be heard.
A close-up of O’Dell’s battered and bruised face is the next shot. Then what proceeds the next frame can only be described as an immediate dispensing of urine on O’Dell’s face.
Hughie: Rise and shine you big dosser.
The sound of a zipper is heard once again. We resume with focus on Hughie Freeman sitting back down on the chair addressing a half-conscious Jonny O’Dell.
Hughie: What’s the matter..? Makeup fucked up?
Without warning, Freeman grabs the face of the shamed HOW star and kisses him right on the lips. Afterwards, wiping some of the transferred lipstick away using the back of his forearm and wrist.
Hughie: Now listen here, RICK. Pin back dumbo-ears and listen real fucking closely.
In this bizarre sense of reality it seems like Hughie is talking to fellow HATE member, Rick Diculous.. and not Jonny O’Dell. The ridiculous (excuse the pun) appearance of O’Dell is presumably creating an imagery in his own mind that he simply cannot shake.
Hughie: You’re just one big joke, aren’t ya. Ha-ha. Lets all laugh at The BFG tripping over his own shoe lace. You’re a certified character, you know that? All the gags, the props and the big red noses are going stop, ya hear? I’m the heckler, alright? And I’m telling the stand-up comedian to sit back fucking down. Nobody wants to hear it.
Like Hollywood, we’re gunna cut-out all of the scenes of a six foot nine ridiculous-looking fucker in a dress baking brownies, and we’re re-making all the cult classics. When Kruger teamed-up with Vorhees.. and they both fucked Tommy Hewitt to create you. Godzilla just became Rick Zilla, and we’re gunna have some fun.. Ya hear now?
Slurs come from O’Dell as he struggles with his speech. Drool escapes the side of his swollen mouth, causing it to land on himself and parts of the floor.
Hughie: You’re Jonny..? No fella, you’re Cartoon. You’re make-pretend. You’re Stuart fucking Little on steroids.
But here now, Woody will make you pretty. He’ll do up that makeup and make you Monster Of The Ball by the time that clock strikes midnight. I promise you.
Woody taught Hughie that HATE is not just skin deep. And if your bitch Rikki Lake tells you different then we’ll straighten her too. No problem.
Jonny O’Dell conjures up all of his might and energy to say his name.
Hughie: I didn’t steal from you, fella. You played a role on a soap opera. I’m no storyline. And I don’t do fucking comedy. Stereotype.. You’re wrong.
At this point I couldn’t tell you if Hughie is talking about Rick or Jonny here. It’s confusing in this paradox of HATE.
Regardless, Freeman wipes O’Dell’s mouth with a rag, showing strange activity that could be mistaken for kindness.
Hughie: Diagnosis.. broken jaw. Cause.. Fatality Punch. But don’t worry, my cousin is in the building trade. He’ll fix you right up, lad.
Hughie then relaxes back in his chair again as O’Dell weakenly clambers around.
Hughie: I’ve knocked out Brian Hollywood; sent him into Apollo 13. Now the Hollywood Bruvs? Arnie and fucking Devito..? Who’s next? Cos I’ve always wanted to straighten Spencer Pratt ever since I laid eyes on him. Here now, I’ve got a knuckle for every cast member of The Wonder Years.. let’s go on a HATEFUL killing spree on the whole of Hollywood whilst we’re at it.
Look now, Brian proved one thing to an outsider like Hughie Freeman. He proved to a true fighting man that this isn’t all ballroom dancing with violence. He proved to me that this is a serious business with true pain. The canvas is unforgiving and it’ll stay with your man Hughie for a long-long time. You cannot fake that.
But Hollywood. That’s something your local pikey will never understand. We’re worlds apart and your sheltered lifestyle will fucking bite your nose off, straight up. It’ll make you cry like when daddy didn’t buy you that Range Rover on your sweet sixteenth. Cos you’re living up there with the fairies and HATE will make you bitter nonbelievers.
If this script was already written, Hollywood Bruvs would already be going to War Games fighting for the HOW tag team championships. You’d love that, wouldn’t you boys? And when you go on to eventually winning those belts, toasting the room and thanking pro-wrestling’s equivalent to Harvey Weinstein.. who’ll be acting then? Who is it that sold-out from the grassroots of this game they apparently love?
Seems to your man Hughie that you’re all caught up in the Hollywood rat race. Your passion is questioned because if Fast And The Furious came calling for a bunch of fuck boys you’d drop Pro-wrestling like a bad habit.
How does that even work? Tell Hughie now. Is it when the real important people fart you like to smell it and rate it out of ten? Their ring pieces become The Goonies hidden treasure that you can’t wait to get your hands on (or tongue). You’ve nailed your fifteen minutes, but sixteen requires deep throat action behind the back of the HOW arena.
Good-luck with that, Bruvs.
Who knows? Maybe the star-studied Hall Of Fame careers that you are destined to have won’t be long to follow. Cos lets call a spade-a -spade here, lads.. you’re talented. That’s God-given. It’d be ridiculous to say any different. You’re the perfect tag-team to win the perfect belts at the very perfect pay-per-view. It touches your heart, don’t it? Makes you cry more than at the end of Marley And Me. Tugs at the heart-strings like it was all just meant to fucking be.
Once upon a time when The Hollywood Bruvs won the tag belts at War Games.. kill me now. Turn the channel to something I can truly get invested in. Cos I quite like the movie: HATE beating respect into The Hollywood Divas with their own stilettos. I don’t know, fellas.. I haven’t finished the first draft yet. Cos in my story the baddies always win and HATE rules the fucking world. Written in the stars, in blood.. And in HATE.
This has been pitched to you as an easy route into War Games. Hughie Freeman wasn’t born yesterday. You see the pikey and the meathead as just two bare bums in the shower. Nothing you haven’t dealt with before.
Trust me, boys. HATE is our motivation. We HATE the bollocks system of HOW. They create the stars that only fit their own Hollywood narrative. If the shoe doesn’t fit Cinderella.. she’s getting fired on the spot to enjoy a life of class A’s and making sextapes. They want you constantly in doggy and you’ll like it or HATE it, bonny lad.
The HOW abuse doesn’t stop at the end of the casting couch you know. Much like Hollywood, your awards and successes are taken away before you can even dust your mantle. Your HOW’s property as soon as you sign away on the dotted line.
HATE belongs to HATE.
We’ll go out there each and every single night and do whatever the fuck we want. Don’t like it? We couldn’t give a frig, it’s our programme now and we HATE the bullshit we’ve had to sit back and watch over the years.
We’ve forced our way into the reckoning for War Games. Not cos the office wants us, but cos we feed off their HATE. We are a bunch of foreign-exchange students that don’t get picked. But we love it. We thrive on that. It’s the thing that puts our boots on and makes us go into war each night. Not cos of a popularity contest, not cos we do it for pats on the back, and not cos there’s a big HOW pay-per-view just around the corner.. we are HATE. And that’s it, MATE.
What you see with me is legitimacy. What you see with Big Rick–
Quick cutaway shot of O’Dell whimpering.
Hughie: –Is not embarrassment.. but unpredictability. A bull in a china shop filled with a stomach full of HATE. His power is of exactly a six foot nine, over four hundred pounds of man. But when you mix that with HATE and a rocket up his arse.. HOW will burn a lot more quicker than any false dawn. If he brings the HATE and impresses Woody then War Games this year really needs to take part inside of a bomb shelter. With him being a one-man wrecking machine on the fields of HATE. That’s your only chance. You G. I. Joe. motherfuckers.
O’Dell splutters up some blood.
Hughie: Another drink..? You’ll have to wait, nature isn’t calling.
Hughie then does nothing more than spit at O’Dell right between the eyes.
Hughie: You could have been a team for two days, two years or two centuries.. bruvs. The pressure is on you to make it to War Games and to live out your dreams. Much like Brian Hollywood dreamt last week. And fellas, you all know what happened to ‘The Boy Who Dreamed’. His Jose Lothario got The Fatality Punch and that was all she wrote after that. It was writing on the wall and no shitty sequel of us fighting in space or some complete bullshit.
We’re not here to put on a clinic and wanting to have match of the night. We’re here to spoil the party and do the demolition job. Here now, it doesn’t even matter if the match bombs at the box-office either. That’s HOW’s problem. Cos the pain and the scars will always be remembered. And when HATE throws down you’ll get down on your hands and knees and tell us you love us.
Too much HATE can make a man go crazy.
Hughie’s grinning facial is Castor Troy-esque off of Face Off.
HATE said Ima knock you Bruvs out.
O’Dell then soon becomes the main focus as his soft pleas go unanswered. Hughie instantly gets up off his chair and goes over to the one table in the basement. There is a cloth over it.
Shortly, Hughie starts to reveal the contents under it. The cloth is slowly pulled to the other side of the table to unveil sharp domestic tools.
O’Dell catches a glimpse of the sharp instruments laid out on the table. The dread hits him intensely.
Hughie then runs his hand along the sharp objects in an intentional dilatory manner. He goes past garden cutters, pliers, scissors and an array of different knives.
Hughie: Don’t move an arse-hair.. cos this ain’t gunna tickle.
Freeman picks up a blunt butter-knife from everything at his disposal and jolts towards O’Dell. He grabs O’Dell by the hair and pulls downward to bring his face upward to look at him.
Hughie smirks, after a few seconds of quick ponder.
Hughie: And that’s the bottomline..
Hughie Freeman savagely proceeds to carve something deep into O’Dell’s forehead with the butter-knife. The squeals from the former HOW star can only be compared to that of an injured pig.
Hughie aggressively releases O’Dell and makes his way back to where he came from. He storms past the HOW cameras leaving a trail of fresh blood.
The final shot is of a close-up of O’Dell as he looks up into the lens. His forehead reading: HATE.