Sirens blare louder than they have ever before on the wings of Alactraz prison. It appears empty on this particular block but frantic charging can be heard from what sounds like the whole H.A.T.E officer platoon. A red flashing warning light (in a cage on a wall) triggers on and off as it smoothers most of the viewable shot.
The shot transitions immediately into a closed cell. The attention firmly focussed on a stripped naked art teacher. Of course it is.
The activity specifically chosen by Hughie himself to undergo his rehabilitation.
However, the teacher does not appear to be a nude model for Hughie’s work. The artist is weeping and whimpering, helplessly. Furthermore, his wrists and ankles are bound by cable ties whilst stood up straight. Also, pathetically holding a fruit bowl to hide his modesty.
Hughie Freeman is observing this sat behind a canvas (on a stand) edged forward on a wooden folding chair. He then holds up his paintbrush and measures his subject, meticulously.
Freeman: You know the last guy that tried telling your man what to do he ended up like bacon.
Hughie Freeman remains cool, calm and collected despite the bedlam happening outside his block.
Freeman: Nice biiiggggg curvature..
Zooming in on the brush stroking the canvas; the banana showcasing that natural curvature. However, Hughie is not painting any banana. Rather, female breasts.
Freeman: This, right here.. Is a masterpiece.
Panning out from the breasts we can now see the whole of Hughie’s artwork. Remarkably, it’s a brilliant caricature of RICK.
Freeman: LOVE or HATE.. It’s all about expression.
The whimpering and unsteady hands from the art teacher then unintentionally allows an orange to fall from the fruit bowl.
Suddenly, Hughie with a penetrating stroke of his brush, immediately ruins his painting with black paint. The word, painted over the caricature is ‘HATE’.
The remainder of the fruit bowl is now lethargically released to the floor. Almost as if the victim knows he’s doomed..
The canvas instantly goes flying as it’s kicked up into the air and against the ceiling. It misses the hostage by a mere centimetres.
Freeman: HATE is the expression! HATE is the demon of our children! HATE is not LOVE! HATE will burn us down to the ground!
Hughie then lunges for his prisoner.
Hostage: Please Hughie, let me go!
The hostage hysterically pleads with The HOW Resident Pikey. Ultimately though, falling on deaf ears.
Hughie Freeman holds his hostage from the back. His paintbrush is pointed right under his chin and pressed against his throat. Meanwhile, whispering sweet nothings into his ear.
Freeman: You know, we could of been real good together..
Urine starts to trickle down the leg of the helpless man.
Freeman: We could of gotten out of here.. Long and far away. Our own little place with palm trees and frolicking mermaids..
Hughie begins licking the side of the inconsolable man’s cheek and ear.
Guard: Hughie, let Vincent go and nobody gets hurt!
The voice of a H. A. T. E guard is heard as the sirens continue to deafen.
Freeman: Oohhh expressing LOVE now eh? Make up your fucking minds!
The sound of a battering ram pounding against the door comes echoing through the cell.
Seemingly, Hughie understands that his time is limited with H. A. T. E officers about to storm. Therefore, takes the opportunity to drop his paintbrush and pivots his hostage down in a swirling motion. Almost like it was something seen off of Greece.
Freeman: See you on the 22nd!
Thunderously, with one last heavy barge the H. A. T. E troops have forced entry.
Freeman: Alright cunts..! Who wants it first?!
Old fashioned classical music plays over the top of the sirens. Therefore, the sirens can only be heard faintly. The sound of violins play as chaos ensues in total slow motion. H. A. T. E guards in riot gear get amongst a true madman of HATE, apple and oranges, a urine puddle and an art teacher….. in the fetal position.
My only expression is only ever best expressed inside that ring. Do you understand that? Aye, it’s alright saying you want to fight and that you can take a punch.. but generally it’s a load of bollocks. Generally, when people say that.. they’ve probably gotten themselves rat-arsed in a local bar somewhere and got sparked the fuck out by someone who knows a thing or two. But his tale to his mates the very next day consists of a movie-like simulation where he danced like Van Damne and took on the whole barn at the same time.
You’re not fooling anyone, son. Especially your man Hughie Freeman.
See, where I express my business with my fists; it is no form of thuggery. Your man Hughie Freeman is not throwing big gimmicked haymakers that miss by a country mile. They’re measured; each shot is tactfully placed and Hughie-boy translates it from his masterful fighter’s IQ.
Like a striker hits one top bins from forty yards, like a golfer hits a whole in one, and like an artist paints his next masterpiece; your man Hughie Freeman is just as expressive. It’s demonstrated in my work here in HOW and when you’re unbeaten in singles competition; one-one-one.. then you must realise that I cannot be beaten.
RICK, I know who I am. RICK.. I know what I can do. I do not flip-flop from personalities, nor do I do from styles. Your vocabulary does not speak: idiot.. and nor does your brain. But you know as well as I do, big man.. it’s your brains that I wonna rattle. They’ll be no concussion protocols in Alcatraz my man, or doctor stoppages. When you get hit by a big right hand from your man Hughie Freeman, and you don’t know what round it is or who the fuck you are.. that’s the art of fighting my friend.
I knock you this way.. I might get Daffy. I knock you that way.. I might get Donald. But whichever fucking duck you might be at No Remorse, know that HATE made you and not the egg from Bobby’s arse. LOVE it or HATE it.. Scott Woodson formed his merrymen of merryHATE. And Scott Woodson wanted us to express that same exact HATE that ran through him and I deep.
Forget what is tattooed on my fists. They do not read LOVE and HATE. One might as well read Da and the other Vinci. Because it is art, don’t be mistaken. And when I stroke you.. I’m laying it on thick. From my many pallet of colors.. I’m a fucking artist; black and blue just for you.
But here’s the confusion. How do you express yourself, RICK? Because we’ve seen you LOVE so god damn much with those pesky Bandits. I’ve also read your letters you sent me at Uncle Sam’s Devil Island. If I didn’t know any better, It almost seems like you are incapable of expressing HATE.
Just like in the beginning. Where this fairytale starts. I was sold a dream of HATE where destruction was on the menu. The true destruction being in the shape of a six foot nine war machine named RICK. The final piece of the jigsaw HATE needed to legitimize us to the whole of HOW. The simple expression which should come to you as easy as pie but you chose to cook brownies instead.
It was that fateful day I knew I had made a huge mistake, big man. It’s truly not your fault; I’m to blame. Because when your man Hughie Freeman walked in on you and Woodson baking small chocolate desserts.. my life sentence had already begun.
What was pitched to me as a group of HATE; fucking badasses and a take-no-shit attitude.. soon turned into a granny bake sale. You changed the dynamic of HATE and your core expression sent out mixed signals. Certainly to me, but the rest of HOW and anyone who gave a fuck about us. And at that point mate, we were as HATEful as a well-worded complaint email so we lost em’. In case you are still confused, RICK.. you brought the LOVE when LOVE should never have even existed.
And why should it? We’re here to fucking fight. Let those pesky Bandits goof-off and LOVE.. and you should have let us HATE. You are easily led, RICK.. Bandits sucked you into the cult of PEACE and LOVE like one big inbred orgy. Can you say.. Bobby Manson?
But as we get set for this date at No Remorse and I take you back to my place in Alcatraz.. we’ve wined and dined the last few weeks, but don’t get any ideas, partner. Because they’ll be no LOVE. Let’s not be cryptic.. only HATE this time. HATE like it was meant to be and how it should be going forward in this fucked up relationship. And if you think you can bring the HATE like we’ve never seen from you ever, then you’re as deluded as Scott Woodson.
At No Remorse where Chris Kostoff is taking on Lee Best. A match that has two decades in the making of legitimized destruction. One man will fall. And if it’s Kostoff.. The void of the monster remains open. And it should be RICK. Fuck, it should of been RICK six months ago but it won’t. Because you’re incapable of bringing that level of terror like Kostoff. And instead of him passing the torch you are getting punished by Woodson. You’re having to fight the fucking riff-raff of Alcatraz and that is no pleasure for you.. but my pleasure.
I’m gunna smash your many faces in like an artist with clay. You see you, RICK. It’s fucking personal between me and you and I’m going to do you some serious harm you big stiff idiot. You want to be Fun Time Frankie and miraculously turn on the HATE switch when it suits you? Nah, that doesn’t work my friend. It’s a lifestyle you’re not privy to. A lifestyle that breeds HATE and I’m it’s LOVEchild. Not RICK, not Woodson, not Pumpkin Pennywise.. ME..! Your Pikey Fuck, Hughie Freeman.
Lets do HATE, sweetheart x.