Jatt Starr running over Omar Rasheem’s camel with a golf cart, Steve Harrison’s milking exploits, and Lyndsey Troy fronting the Group Of Death with a center page pullout. Trust me, Jatt.. its fucking hot. Those moments we’ll never forget, and if HOW were to last another Willow Smith lifespan (look, pop culture reference Jatt! We associate those precious moments with you!) then we’d always remember those sweet loveable times in HOW.
HOTv will always make you remember those times; with bonny fucking adverts and a whole docuseries based on all of that important good stuff. They’ll drive home the narrative until you’re sitting right in front of it playing along like a little pubeless Conor Fuse. And there’s nothing you can do about it, mate. Cos there’s no power button to turn it off. You can’t even cut the bastard plug with scissors. But, when the curtain comes down and the whole show gets burnt to the ground one day hopefully soon.. What moments will your man Hughie Freeman have? What will you remember about The Bad-Bad Mothercunt of HOW?
Could it be the huge fallout from burning Lucien Santiangel’s face? A guy your man road with in HOW to get a start here? The image of pouring petrol on his smashed pumpkin body, with the punchline: Never Trust A Pikey. And the Andy Murray emotional meltdown that blurred every line and made Hughie Freeman not give two fucks?
Or could it be The Plane Ride From HATE? A topsy turvy ride that nearly cost your man his life on his way to Uncle Sam’s Devil Island? Wowing you but only some rollercoaster experience for your man.
Could it have bloody been my times spent with HATE? Remembered for the clusterfuck that nearly tarnished your man’s career and left me professionally scarred? Hughie Freeman known as the Court Jattster all of his pathetic life. See Jatt, I can dish out nicknames too. What about Pratt Starr..? Any good for you, matey?
Could it simply be my record timing knockout of Number One Dad, Steve Solex, in Gen Pop? Fails to tell his snot nosed brats that certain tale.
Could it be the daring and many onion-layered-like-layers to the program your man ran with RICK? Where it questioned your own feelings and let you have your own interpretation of the HATE narrative?
Could it be the four months build of Freeman versus Scottywood where ultimately your man made your greatest LSD champion of all time squeal like a tortured pig?
Could it be Alcatraz itself? Where you associate that Devil Island with only one name. Not Christopher America, but your man Hughie Freeman?
Or could it be that your man lost everything. So you remember that? When it was all said and done the guy you all thought was a dead cert for the top five really flattered to deceive and got lost in the shuffle. Like so many other bum dossers?
See mate, who’d of thought it? When your man isn’t competing, he’s training you know. And why is that? Call Hughie Freeman a fucking mug all you like, but the thing is your man doesn’t do it for anyone else. Everything your man does.. the extra work, hours upon hours in the gym, extra bastard PR work that pains my very soul (which no other cunt else does), and all the hard graft – it’s done cos your man wants to do it. In order to be the best in the business, to be the man, the number one guy.. you have to put in the hard miles. You have to be willing to go into deep waters cos that can be the only possible way. And your man holds those morals as high as humanly possible cos that means everything. Passion? Pride? It doesn’t matter. It’s just how your man is made and I won’t settle for anything less. No matter how much HOW are set in their ways. Your man is simply bred differently.
Even with a rocket up my arse, all of the HOW faithful singing along to ‘Sweet Caroline’ and a back catalogue of famous knockouts, they are scared to pull the trigger. Even if all the stars align, common sense is written in black ink on white paper, and you clearly see The Pikey Fuck through those #97Red tainted specks.
HOW plays blind, dumb, fickle and man-buggery-foolish.
The term: throwing the cat amongst the pigeons doesn’t do it justice. As far as your man is concerned, I’m on about: throwing the tiger amongst the cocksuckers. But that’s where the problem lies. The problem is square pegs don’t fit the round holes and Hughie Freeman refuses to dance to the tune of Undead.
Call it Eric Dane syndrome, call it being a sore loser, call it being just a fucking loser.. but your man won’t ever fucking conform. Cos just how HOW failed to pull the trigger on Eric Dane last year; the greatest ever wrestler outside of the HOW governing body.. they failed to pull the trigger on the best unlicensed fighter this year in Hughie Freeman. Even when it makes perfect sense to do so, the trusted pivot is brought into action and HOW do the HOW thing. Closing their eyes on anything that’s not HOW manufactured.
Mike Best will cherry pick his fights; working programs with his mates, sharing the spoils. Whilst the riff-raff get fed the scraps and look on in admiration. Cos they can never get close, not in their wildest dreams. Him and his bonny little lass Lyndsey Troy will hog that spotlight whilst the rest get blinded like GOD himself. Fuck lads, I’m firing shots outside the top five and guess what: your man doesn’t give a fuck.
That’s where HOW and Hughie Freeman simply don’t mesh. I’m that rusty spanner in the works and when your man says he’s gunna do something, HOW have very different plans. Cos just when your man went right ahead and burnt pumpkin flesh.. it said something. It said to HOW that I’m not just another cog in the machine and your man won’t simply play the game like a content little gamer like Conor Fuse and the many others on multi-player. When your man asked for Harrison’s record.. you gave it Sektor. Another huge name in the world of HOW that does not benefit from stripping Harrison naked of his miracle life. Your man begged and pleaded to give me that cow and you milked me dry of that moment. When your man had your girl (Lyndsey Troy) beat to regain the LSD championship.. you shat on it and gave her the top five ranked special rub. I bet it was fucking orgasmic when you screwed me out of my fighting pride and rung that bell. Then trying to pretend like no foul play occurred as you’re frantically trying to scrub a cock off of Zeb’s forehead.
Let’s go back to Alcatraz. The one hundred and thirty days your man spent there. You know building up to Rumble At The Rock you’d of thought The Pikey was on gardening leave for four months. Cos with every bum dosser I knocked out up until that point they disregarded every last fucking thing I did. What I’d achieved in that prison. And with every fresh fish that walked through those gates of hell.. nobody had the foggiest idea why your man was there or what hurdles I had to punch to survive. And why is that? Cos they’re lazy? Aye mate, could be. Or is l it cos nothing was ever advertised. Cos whilst it was built as the biggest-greatest match of HOW history.. Mike Best versus Max Kael, brothers in arms; Hands Of GOD and all that razz. Your man Hughie Freeman was still feeding on pieces of rat shite. Despite building my reputation in Uncle Sam’s as The Baddest Mothercunt On The Planet.. Besty and Kaely take all the headlines. They get all of the posters, the press and the fanfare. Your man gets… making clay shapes out of Scottywood face. And no cunt having a clue wherever I’ve been in Alcatraz or Algeria. Or, in fact, give a shit. Rumble At The Rock should forever be known as THE Pikey pay-per-view but I’m sitting in third place. Chris America second, and a rotten Max Kael corpse still being advertised as the man.
My memories are mine to keep, lads.. but the memory of the carnage your man caused there I will always cherish, and you can’t take that away from me. You might not think my HOW run has got fuck all to do with you top five ranked.. but it’s got everything to do with you fucking cunts. Your beloved Max Kael had to die just to take my press away. When the name Freeman gained momentum you all had to shit on it with guide dogs, Solex skits, and A Weekend At Bernie’s pivot. Shame on all of you cunts. Wrestler of the year candidate? Like fuck. Give it to The Corpse Bride.
They say the cream always rises to the top but that’s not true. If it’s HOW own brand then you’re guaranteed to make it. But your man can’t physically play the game that way. Lyndsey mentions having best friends or mates.. your man’s got plenty. But I would rather die than have a cute little wrestling friend that wouldn’t piss on you even if you were on fire.
It’s okay for Lyndsey, the new LSD champion.. she was already mixing it with the best from day one. GOD wasn’t blind when she did the classic Sharon Stone from Basic Instinct on those contract negotiations (there’s another one Pratt).
It’s okay for Starr.. he’s got ten to fifteen years of being classed as the man. He could get severely bashed to fuck and it wouldn’t hurt him.
It’s okay for Harrison.. simply just happy to be here the fraudulent cunt.
But your man can’t and will not have it. I’m a true fighting man and if I was to sell out then it’s pointless to keep this thing going. Milking this bitch out like it’s some cheap scam from Miracle Enterprises. One last drip from the tit off an endangered bald chicken, no thank-you.
You know Lyndsey Troy.. I tried. Your man tried to be okay with it and I was lying. I’m lying to myself that what went down was okay and that I should go on my merry way. That another top five ranked gets the lovely rub off the GOD sponge and Hughie Freeman (King Of The Riff-Raff) really needs to get on his knees and kiss your fucking arse, his arse or someone’s fucking arse. But take the token gesture, love.. the dangled carrot, and the hope that things will get better for you. Cos you deserve it sweetheart.
#1: Within Hughie Freeman’s Fight Camp Lodge (location unknown) we enter a cold and miserable visual. The lodge is completely trashed; punch bag hanging by one chain, fridge tipped over, newspaper everywhere, and general mess smothering the whole setting. Meanwhile, Hughie Freeman remains cold and downbeat. He sorrowfully eats from a tin of tuna as he sits on the floor around the carnage. The HOW Resident Pikey; beaten and broken, remains pensive as he dejectedly scrapes the last bit of tuna onto his filthy spoon. Once devoured, Hughie Freeman tosses the tuna tin and spoon with total disregard. The Pikey Fuck looks totally dispondant and sits there shirtless in harsh surroundings and temperatures. He’s got goosebumps on top of goosebumps and probably on the inside of his eyelids.
Hughie Freeman stands up and scurries to the kitchen area of the lodge. No tension-building cues, playing up to the camera, no nothing. This remains authentic and blatantly shabby as Freeman shows carelessness. He is hidden down behind the counter and a clattering of pots and pans can be heard. Soonafter, up pops Uncle Sam’s Blue Eyed Boy and he’s brought up with him a green petrol canister. Coincidentally, the exact same color and shape canister we’ve seen Hughie use before.
Hughie wastes no time in thunderously walking back over to the living space where he was previously. He immediately puts down the canister and causes more destruction in the process; down goes the depressed-looking Christmas tree for good measure. It is now amongst all of the rubbish that has congregated through Freeman’s neglect. It’s like the cherry on top of the rubbishy mud pie.
The Bastard Pikey then begins to pour all of the petrol on his mountain of cluttered shit and remains emotionless. He’s not enjoying this, but he’s not disliking it either. He leaves a petrol trail as he approaches the open cabin door. As the unbalanced HOW star stands in the doorway, he looks back with his bruised and battered face with transfixed misery.
V.O: I wonder if your man will get a special little tribute show when I’m gone? Advertise what could have been and ruin everything associated with beautiful ICONIC. That’d be fucking swell. Have my peers say what a good fucking guy your man Hughie Freeman was and how they wished everything was so different. Save your tears you daft cunts cos it won’t get you over. Not by a long shot.
Quick cutaway shot outside of the cabin and Hughie Freeman (still shirtless) is glowing in the unforgiving snowy climate. Freeman has a layer of orange bouncing off his skin at nightfall and his eyes widen. The camera then points back toward the cabin and the whole Fight Camp Lodge is engulfed in flames. One of the rickety window shutters falls down with authority under the intense heat. Hughie, meanwhile.. remains a blank canvas.
Quick cutaway shot of the limo we’re so used to seeing Hughie Freeman getting chaperoned in. Suddenly, Freeman invades the shot and immediately punches the drivers window with his fist. Unorthodoxly, now just kicking the remainder of the glass through. Hughie Freeman has lost his mind like back in Alcatraz and soon pulls out the driver. The driver is pleading for his life and he’s an older gentleman.. but Freeman takes no pity. In an obvious unstaged manner, The Proud Fighting Man gives the driver a Fatality Punch from the depths of probable HATE. The driver does not theatrically bounce over the hood like expected, but rather.. worryingly buckles down against the limo with his legs buckling. The blood from Hughie Freeman’s hand is gushing and he doesn’t even give it a glance. He immediately hops into the driver’s seat of the limo and slams the door behind him.
#2: We fade out and when we return to action in a matter of seconds, we are back with Hughie Freeman.. standing over a cliff edge. He unflinchingly looks over it with zero fear and stands up straight.
V. O: They call your man unbalanced in a very much balanced HOW world. The Problem Child that suits playgrounds such as Uncle Sam’s Devil Island. Making noise, making waves.. but will never tip the scales cos HOW and the blind man won’t chew that certain fat. Your man is out of sight and out of mind. There’s no creative control here in HOW like there was at Uncle Sam’s. Your man Hughie Freeman would wrestler for that booker every day of the week. But the jobs fucked when no cunt wants to pay attention, call a spade-a-spade, a cunt-a-cunt and pull the trigger on The Famous Gypsy Warrior.
The shot widens and we can see the wrecked limo behind Hughie Freeman. So the Pikey Fuck turns and goes towards it. Once there, he lunges into the front via the smashed window and pulls out a.. shotgun. Without hesitation, The Crazed Hughie Freeman returns to his previous location on the cliff edge.
V. O: You cunts don’t think I’ll do it.. you’ve got a short fucking memory.
He locks the shotgun.
V. O: Whatever your man touches.. he destroys.
Freeman immediately points it at his head.
V. O: Your man didn’t fucking quit anything. You quit on The Proud Fighting Man when you had it so fucking good on a breakfast plate.
Freeman presses the gun hard into his temple.
V.O: Bury me with Max, bury me with Omar Rasheem’s camel, bury me with Lucien’s skin, bury me with The Miracle Man’s record, and bury me with The Pikey push that really should have fucking been…
Eric Dane might go quietly into the night but your man fucking won’t!
Freeman hoys the barrel into his mouth and bites on heavy with his teeth. He continues to rant, nonsensically, but the dialogue can’t even be picked up on subtitles.
A cutaway shot of a flock of birds over the cliff edge far in the distance as the background music of ‘Shadow Of Myself’ plays. However, not the original version but a strange harmonica instrumental cover. The visual of it all being connected shows true life and hope.
The flock dispands.