Fresh Fish

Fresh Fish

Posted on July 2, 2020 at 10:34 am by Hughie Freeman

Frank Morris spoke to me. He told me what I needed to do to get out. For what was described as an impossible fortress to escape; he set the precedent back in 1962.

Aye, I knew it was all my bullshit imagination as Frank was sitting on a fluorescent  elephant at the time. But when you’ve been in the hole for the past several hours.. perhaps days; you’ll take all the advice you can get.

Your man Frank had already explained to me how he broke out of Alcatraz with just a sharpened tablespoon. All I needed now was papier-mache to create a Hughie Freeman clone and I was halfway there.

But as Frank Morris came barging in like a white knight on a great steed. That’s when your man Hughie Freeman quit listening. King Dick came swinging in and told me how it ought to be done; trying to call all the shots. He tried to alpha-dog a true proper fighting man like Hughie Freeman.

Hughie Freeman takes orders from no one. Ask Scott Woodson. You want to pull rank? Nah, not gunna happen. I think I’ll stay here just a little longer. I’m gunna fight my way out of this place in true Freeman fashion. Cos the name has been tarnished and I’ll be damned if it’s gunna stay that way.

That starts at Refueled XXXI. Steve Solex; the guy that drew the short straw. The guy that is dad of the year. The guy that is too busy changing shitty nappies. The guy that is still drunk on LOVE from fathers day. The guy that the closest he’s been to an actual prison is watching Kindergarten Cop on DVD with his precious little nippers.

But let me tell you, Steve. On the ferry-ride over, when you lock eyes with the evil mistress that is Alcatraz prison. You’ll start to wonder what a good honest man like yourself has done to deserve such harsh punishment. You will think it’s cruel that you are the guinea pig in this twisted game of HATE that doesn’t concern you. And if you don’t defecate in your pants when travelling then you’re lying. This is not a country stroll down the beaches of Normandy. This is Alcatraz; the unprepared land of HATE.

But I’m not smelling excrement.. I’m smelling fresh fish. And when your boots first hit the surface here in Alcatraz; you’ll hear me. You’ll hear your man Hughie Freeman from his cell. I’ll be calling out: Fresh Fish. Cos that’s what you are. It’s a distinct sensation we smell in all of you first-timers. It’s a smell that is dying to be preyed upon. I will smell the fear like I’m first in the queue at the local fish market and I’ll have whatever the fuck I want fine sir.

You’ve never experienced anything of this very HATE. It’s all foreign to a guy like you. A culture shock of epic proportions. But Stevie-boy, you can HATE me or LOVE me all you want. It’s your fucking choice. If you LOVE me.. I can make your stay here in Alcatraz worth your while. If not, and you want to HATE.. then I’ll magnify your misery tenfold. These walls echo, please know that Hughie F. can hear you crying into your pillow. Believe me, every fresh fish does on their first night. It’s a shock to the system and your face might be able to hide behind bravado, but your aroma can’t. It oozes from your very pores and it only takes an assailant like me to sniff it out.

This is the lion’s den and people like your man Hughie Freeman will strip you of your pride. You’ll end up on the protection wing with the snitches and paedophiles. You’re in for the biggest beating of your life when you associate yourself on that wing. All cos you puffed that chest out too far and gave it The Big I Am. You’re nothing here Super Dad and I hope you know that you snitches get stitches.

My wing was synonymous with guys like The Birdman. Think yourself lucky that this is 2020 and he’s no longer here. Birdman would have carved you like a Christmas turkey.. I just want to light you up like a tree. It’s my turn to be the talk of the wing. Aye, there might be no fucker here bar Freeman, but it’s much-much more than that. It’s about history. History of what took place here two decades ago. It’s what this place represents. It’s not the walls.. it’s the cons. Being the hardest man in The Stoney Lonesome means everything. Especially to the name: Freeman. It’s a fighter’s paradise and nobody is punking Hughie Freeman.

You’re an unwanted visitor in my home now. The Pikey Fuck who goes from town-to-town, country-to-country.. finally settled in Alcatraz. I’m accustomed to life on Uncle Sam’s Devil’s Island. I’ve got all the respect here. Not in HOW.. not in HATE. But out here in the middle of hell where the grid conveniently forgets all about you. Where you are not a somebody on TV. You are not some Fun Time Frankie. You are a prisoner. A prisoner from all of your home comforts and all of your yes-men. Coming out of the bubble that is HOW and in Chris Kostoff’s perfect dream house. But bigger.. try mansion with a moat.

In here your somebody’s are not Mike Best, The Minister, Andy Murray.. or Steve Fucking Solex. You’re somebody’s are Al Capone, Alvin Karpis, THE REAL Machine Gun Kelly.. and your scapegoat: Hughie Fucking Freeman.

We don’t care how many matches you’ve had or your accomplishments outside of this prison. Aye, you might be the big-shot in wrestling terms.. but in here you’re a prisoner of HATE. Those little details get put in the confiscated box upon arrival. You’re nothing more than another bare bum in the shower my friend, and it’s either kill or be killed. And I’m thinking Steve Solex doesn’t have that quality. The quality of a man that needs to survive here. The quality of a man that can’t live without the bullshit. Where he’s striped bare, shaved like a bald chicken, and told to fend for himself.

The guy that was undoubtedly having the time of his life on fathers day. When all the while, a million miles away.. his opponent is caged for a crime that he didn’t commit. When my newborn has never seen his dad and you want to prance about wearing the fucking t-shirt. You want to rub it in and tell me how much of a better man you are. You want to tell me how much of a better dad you are to your kids without even opening your mouth. I’m not a stupid man, now.. I know you’re plotting. I know you’re scheming. I know you’ve got some sort of master plan as big as The Gunpowder Plot.

You can’t have a game-plan for what’s in store for you. Cos there’s no game-plan on this planet that exists. Guys have a difficult time planning for just Hughie Freeman one-one-one nevermind this added little bonus. But don’t be mistaken that this cherry on top is the difference maker. Know that Hughie F’s four knuckles being left  imprinted on your forehead is the real catalyst here.

This is not your every other ordinary wrestling match. What you have learned in your craft will not pose any threat in this place. This is the craft of the fight. Not the graft of the rolling-around. In a different ring in any other arena but this one then you’re damn right you would be the favourite. And that’s gravy. I’m happy for you. I’m fucking glad that you are front-runner in all of the rankings and fan-polls. I want you to buy into that and hold it captive. Cos believe me, Steve.. when I connect with your chin and put you to sleep; you’ll finally be free. Free from the pressure people put you under and crashing back down to Earth where your perfect fucking life isn’t so perfect. Where pain in your face actually made you smell. It made you smell the coffee that the fight-game is not for embarrassing dad’s.

Fuck yeah, you are a man that has nothing to lose. That’s why you’re making the trip. You’ve professionally hit rock-bottom and this is your chance to prove.. not your innocents, but your worth. Your worth to HOW that you belong under the spotlight. But be careful, Steven.. that light can blind you. You’ve been under it so long, took your orders like a good Catholic schoolboy.. that you simply don’t know anything else. You’re stuck. You want to get out but you don’t know how. You think this is your escape but you can’t run away from this. You’re in too deep my friend. The sharks aren’t in the ocean.. they’re inside these walls. And I’m fucking jaws in this motherfucker.. don’t you forget it.

I’ve heard it all before: Hughie Freeman isn’t a good wrestler. Or Hughie Freeman just has a puncher’s chance. Well, I’m still here aren’t I? Anything you say I can’t do, I go out and do the seemingly impossible. I’ll force the issue: I’ll be the parent in this match. Cos this is my house, son. And my fucking rules. You speak out of line and you’re getting the slipper. I’m gunna parent this match cos all of you say it simply cannot be done. And when you say Uncle then maybe I will show you compassion. Maybe then I will show you.. remorse.

HOW won’t witness a murder. The last thing your man Hughie Freeman wants is a murder charge against this huge injustice. Nah lad, I’m going to leave just a little bit for you to crawl back on that boat. Cos I’m a nice fella. And you’re gunna get back on that boat, cross the San Francisco waters, and tell everyone at HOW that Hughie F. is the real fucking deal. You can share LOVE.. not HATE. LOVE that there’s a power-shift in professional wrestling and it comes in the form of your resident pikey. That your eyes have been opened by the real beauty that is Alcatraz prison and another story of HATE etched in ancient history.

Not of the fourteen escape attempts, not of the murders, and not of the disappearance of Frank Fucking Morris.

But the story of when Hughie Freeman Fatality Punched Steve Solex all the way into next father’s day.

And If anyone asks, now……. you fell, Fish.