Cold Skin

Cold Skin

Posted on October 16, 2020 at 8:02 pm by Hughie Freeman

SCENE ONE: Darkness inside of solitary confinement (Alcatraz Federal Penitentiary).

The following sound-bite you are about to hear is not from your traditional based pro-wrestling promo and is in no way endorsed by the company: High Octane Wrestling.

HUGHIE (V.O)(SUBTITLED): Call me a fucking dumbass you fucking cunt. Another fucking wanker that don’t know what the fuck I’ve been through. When I’m out I’m gunna barbecue your fucking dick and stab you in the fucking neck with the skewer. The handle bit first you sorry piece of cunt!

The muffled dialogue comes to an immediate end. The eerie silence then succumbs us into some false sense of reality. In no way shape or form is this Texas with the sound of a rusty chainsaw as its backdrop……… only Alcatraz in eternal darkness.

SCENE TWO: Garryduff Woods in Cork, Ireland.

Production quality is magnified to the highest degree and our location is visible despite the hour; three or possibly four o’clock in the morning in the bitter cold Spring. With the cascade of fog nestling above the long-grass and just below the trees.

HUGHIE (V.O): The mind is powerful; it can take you anywhere. Anywhere on this Earth you wonna go.. it’ll take ya. Whether it be in the sun or snow; Piccadilly or Philly.. right down deep into the depths.

You got sharks mating with jellyfish, and jellysharks mating with giant orca-squids. Those are the pits your man likes to venture with not a care in the bastard world. Just me and my right-fucking-hand like it always has been.. like a harpoon into the heart.

The sound of a crow squawking.

HUGHIE (V.O): Let me take you on a journey..

We travel through the fog and mist past tree upon tree; nothing dissimilar than the last. However, more crows squawking at high rates.

HUGHIE (V.O.): The deeper we go.. the more you wonna get off, bonny lad.

We rapidly travel past the trees where they start to become embedded blurs. Additionally, so does the crow squawks that have bizarrely transformed into one huge prolonged bird noise.

HUGHIE (V.O): You ready.. Scott?

Suddenly, the journey through the trees comes to a dramatic halt and we are now located by a lake. A few naked trees are dotted around the lake.. but there is a boy. The boy faces the lake as the footage rolls. The boy stands firmly still as we edge closer to him. Once at a safe distance, the footage captures nothing but the sound of a running lake stream and a frozen-still boy.

Methodically, the boy turns around. The boy looks Victorian born in the 1830’s. However, the only confusion is he’s wearing a retro HOW Hardcore Anarchist t-shirt. Regardless, the rest of his attire is significant with old stout trousers and ankle boots. The boy, meanwhile.. looks deeply through us, emotionless and pale.

BOY: ..I’m… cold.

Fixated on the boy, he remains vacant.

BOY: ..I’m… cold.

An object is vividly seen trickling down the lake as the footage zooms to get the shot. The shot is of a cheap clown mask.

We transition back to the boy.

BOY: ..I’m.. cold.

Retaining the shot.

BOY: ..I’m.. cold.

We transition back to the lake and bobbing down the stream is a miniature pumpkin. As it twirls coming off a rapid the image carved in it is a sad expression.

We revert back to the boy.

BOY: ..I’m.. cold.

The footage shoots down to the boys side and it shows that the boy is holding a sharp bit of metal.

We return back to the main shot and the boy unhesitatingly begins to.. carve his own face.

BOY: Cold. Cold. Cold. Cold. Cold. Cold. Cold. Cold. Cold. Cold. Cold. Cold. Cold. Cold. Cold. Cold. Cold. Cold.

The boy vocally repeats the word: cold. Meanwhile, the carving on his face starts to take shape in the form of the same sad expression that was designed on the pumpkin.

BOY: Cold. Cold. Cold. Cold. Cold. Cold. Cold. Cold. Cold. Cold. Cold. Cold. Cold. Cold. Cold. Cold. Cold. Cold.

We eagerly retreat back into the woods; past the crows and the same amount of endless trees in which we entered.

SCENE THREE: Back in darkness trapped within solitary confinement (Alcatraz Federal Penitentiary).

HUGHIE: Beaten, battered.. fucked over. All the days, hours, seconds.. just become one. In here when the lights are off and no ones home.. it’s kinda a lonely place. At least on Hell wing I get to be physical. Your man gets to express himself and live up to the reputation of being the biggest ultra cunt that ever lived. My reputation is everything and Uncle Sam has took me in as one of his own. For that fella.. your man can only thank-you.

But in here, all you got is your emotions. And lets face it, Scotty.. we’ve been through the whole host of them; LOVE, HATE.. and fucking indifference. And over the course of the four HATERED months cooped up in this hell-hole.. I’ve learned to cope with all the fucking feels. How your man Hughie Freeman feels about my sentencing then.. and how I feel about it now. And the easy thing to do is point the finger at you, Scotty.. but after all of this time. All of this time sat with my thoughts.. blame me for every fucking thing. Why? Cos I want you to! I deserve every last thing that has been thrown at me and then some. Your man Hughie Freeman was the man that lit the flames on HOW soil.. when every man, woman and child always threatened, but never had the balls to carry out the crime. Your man Hughie Freeman does not fuck about, idle-threats.. no thank-you my friend. When Hughie Freeman says: fuck you, I’m gunna petrol bomb your house (or face).. fucking listen. Cos your man will be there getting a big whiff of melting flesh with all the marshmallows.

I’m fully comfortable knowing I’m one bad mothercunt. Guilty as charged if you wonna judge The Pikey Fuck. But I get to walk about in my skin every fucking day. Even if it’s only five feet by five feet here in solitary confinement. My skin.. I know every inch; from under the ball-sack.. right behind the ear. I’ve lived, breathed and fucking fought for who I am and the name: Freeman. And that name simply doesn’t just become popular on October 24th at Rumble At The Rock. At Rumble At The Rock.. it becomes another layer of skin.

Just like who I’ve always been since birth.. the travelling man, adding to his journey, and once again free. Free to do as he pleases and to rule the lands he damn well chooses my friend. With those fly-tipped lands of Octane being my chosen destination. Aye fella.. I’ll park my static caravan right in the Best Arena and they’ll be no authority this time to HATE on my culture.

But you, Scotty.. I know myself inside-out, up-and-down, side-to-side, and even back-to-fucking-front. But do you know who you even are? HATE..? Gimme a break, partner. For you were the flag bearer.. but with the flimsy wrists. A corporate man in a suit who got too comfortable in pushing pens.. not his fighting career. A man that changes skins like a chameleon. That you think you have a layer of metal, but really.. you’re paper. You’re a fucking posted note from your pathetic desk that can easily be pierced. But not with a Parker.. with a Fatality. Your skin will bruise easy no matter what skin you chose to wear on the night.. Hardcore Anarchist or Failed Businessman Of The Year. It doesn’t matter two-fucking-jots.. you’ve been sleeping and shitting in the same suit for years now. Don’t you dare try and insult me by telling me that’s not your real life skin. That your skin is 97 red, you’ve got loafers over your hoves and your stinking-long hair hides your fucking horns. That, my friend.. is merely a costume.

But whereas your man owns what he is all about and what he has done. You, Scotty.. want to pass blame, the buck.. and lock away all of your insecurities. You wonna confine them in one space. But fella.. when October 24th comes they’re gunna unlock all of those things whether you like it or not. You and I are gunna have to meet and when you look at me after it’s been beating the shit out of your very mind for days.. I’ll be at home. The traveller has drove his caravan all around the emotional roller-coaster to realise that this thing has one last scream. Come October 24th at Rumble At The Rock.. that won’t be your belly rumbling; it’ll be your mind telling your arse that this bitch is one scary business. This bitch called Alactraz will force you to do a mess in your suit trousers and your man Hughie Freeman will be waiting to mop up and take the winnings.

You will say this and that. You’re The Famous Hardcore Anarchist from 2009 ready to roll back the years and win his sixth LSD championship. And fuck.. if you can somehow unlock the vaults of history and pull out the Scottywood that raised hell in the Golden Era then bloody fuck-fuck.. maybe your man here might need to actually Rumble At The Rock. But know this.. I’m no Ken Davidson. Your man Hughie Freeman is not just any other vanilla twat that come a dime a dozen. I‘m your LSD champion and I go with LSD like gravy goes with roast dinner.

But are you prepared to take an oath? Are you prepared to swear upon the bible..? The whole truth, nothing but the truth so help you GOD? Like your man did in which landed me here?! Cos fella, I think you’re lying through your yellow teeth if you actually believe that you are the same Ken Davidson conqueror. You’ve been hiding behind that suit and desk cos it’s far more easy than it is to stand in your real skin. Your fucking HATE put me in here, not the crime. And you know deep down, like the rest of HOW.. you needed to be the one that poured the petrol. The Hardcore Anarchist that is Scottywood; the greatest LSD champion of all time.. needed to strike the match. You needed to, and would of LOVED to.. but you didn’t.

Guilty as fucking charged, your man confesses: Hughie Freeman did it.

Your HATE for what I did to that Pumpkin-haired looking freak is the real reason I’m here. And that’s okay, I’ve learned to live with it. My HATE for your reasons will be channelled on October 24th and I’ve never been as confident in my whole entire life. But you’re not innocent my friend. You wanted yourself to do it but didn’t have the onions. But those intrusive thoughts of doing exactly the same thing to that horror show is what makes you a guilty party. You thought about it and I seized the opportunity. In a flash.. it all went up in flames. Your man Hughie Freeman did not think about fucking consequences. I thought about the opportunity and to be someday the true embodiment of that LSD championship. The method to the madness truly paid off cos lookie-here.. somewhat 130 days later and I am no zombie; I’m the true LSD fighting champion.

I am the rightful holder of that LSD championship regardless of prison rules. Your man maybe might’nt have it to hold.. but when it’s over, when I become a Free-Man again.. I’ll hold that sexy little thing until it enters my body and no-one can part me from it ever again. You may call it crazy but when something completes me in the way the LSD championship does.. I cannot be separated from it. It’s who I am; The Famous Gypsy Warrior.. an extension of my power and one huge medal of fighting craft.

Your man Hughie Freeman is ready to get out and be a Free-Man again. It doesn’t have to go up in flames; big massive climax blow-up in your face.. not arsed. Christ, I’ve been locked away for so long now I want to enjoy every last second of this. Lets take things nice and slow..

I’m cold.

I want your skin.

On my belt.