Madame, One Sword

Madame, One Sword

Posted on March 11, 2021 at 6:42 pm by Hughie Freeman

Single light pins on a sweaty gypsy within darkness. Hughie Freeman edges closer to the camera lens on the floor fully doused in sweat. He dons rumpled business attire. Hughie then sniffs the camera, apprehensive and feral-like.

FREEMAN: March To Glory.

Lights. Camera. Action.

The sound of a lever is pulled. Instantly, full-lighting presents our location within a warehouse. The depth of field from the camera’s perspective is distorted in the background with Hughie Freeman in maximum focus dominating the view.

FREEMAN: You talk about action but you leave shit for the eleventh hour. There’s more action in a bunch of sloth’s. You are all still getting it, undeniably. The price of tax has risen within the last few days and to be honest: whenever The Pikey Fuck feels like it. But lads, that’s a high price. But Pikey Art? There’s no price none-whatsoever. You get a free taster at that. You’re welcome.

Hughie gets to his feet and spins. In motion (slowly), the camera pans with an overhead shot to reveal a warehouse full of mannequins. Freeman weaves in and out between them in some crazed-dance sequence.

Hughie Freeman without warning then rests his elbow to lean on one of the vertically stood mannequins. It’s a Darin Zion mannequin. Though blank without any artwork the simple clue being: Zion trunks. It’s wearing the same wrestling gear.

FREEMAN: Sucking dick? Sucking dick nothing. You’re the guy hitting all of those trigger words for the boss like it’s some job interview. But that’s expected my friend. Your man Hughie Freeman expected the late flurry from the old guard. Whereby you paint a picture of putting the LSD championship belt over and put on the hard-sell like you’re the most deserving cat for that prize. Of course you’re gunna drive that narrative. It’s smart.. but fucking easy. What you say and do are two completely different things. When your man blacks both of your eyes you can’t just say your mother is a panda. It’ll be cos Hughie Freeman gave you one hell of a beating my friend.

Hughie then twirls behind the mannequin and rests on it’s other shoulder.

FREEMAN: The pivot? Nah, not a chance. Your man sticks to his beliefs from the very start. Hughie Freeman knows exactly what’s at stake and the importance of the LSD championship. You’re not listening, lad. The Mike Best match was the table, your man was in training camp for the fight of his life. That didn’t materialise and your man wanted exactly this. Exactly what presents itself today. A fight on the streets with a chance to reclaim the LSD championship.

But trust your man. The action you all harp on about isn’t the shit you sprout in a promo marathon. It’s the shit that gets done in a HOW ring. Or in our case what gets done on the streets of New York. Show me, educate The Pikey Fuck. Otherwise lad, it’s deflection tactics. Your man has never sucked a dick to get anywhere in life and don’t plan to either. But you guys are desperate to impress when it all smells of redundancy to your man. It’s shit you spoke that once got you so much success in the past and you ain’t evolved one jot. But hey, no one is perfect. But at least your man can live and die by his sword. Hughie Freeman doesn’t want a textbook victory that is the template for success here. I’ll stick to famous gypsy art. Cos you cannot train for unpredictability no matter who you are in HOW. Aye, your man will get caught now and then because of it but whatever the result: you’re in for a long old hard afternoon. With pleasure. Much pleasure.

But was that you that said that? Or your privileged other half..? You might be the same doll but just one of you clean shaven.

Freeman looking puzzled for a moment, spins off to another mannequin. This one simply has a dollar note stapled to it’s forehead. The HOW Resident Pikey stands in front of it.

FREEMAN: One day you’re dirty stinking rich.. the next you’re a peasant. But whatever your financial history is my friend. Your man has seen your returns.. nothing adds up. You’ll want to slum it out but your man knows you’ve got stashes of other people’s hard earned cash behind a picture of your half naked dad in a fucking safe. And you can bet your sweet arse Hughie Freeman will tax you and reap everything you have sowed. A fair man just trying to do the right thing. Taking from the rich and poor to feed the big horrible gypo. Transaction my right hand into your broke-Jesus face. Cos you will be broken once it’s all said and done my friend. With a lovely wired jaw to boot.

Money is the route of all evil. Without a shadow of a doubt my friend. But when it’s taxing hour don’t be going shitting in your Gucci undies. You’ve been told since this match was signed what you are getting and it’s a big-time fatal daddy smack. No little quirky lines, or beating around the bush. Your man is a dangerous customer. There’s no reinventing myself where I come from pal. The same guy that dropped out of Mary Freeman thirty two years ago is the same thing that’s gunna stove your head in at March To Glory. There’s no change, no need to. Your man is happy in his own skin and there’s no other version better than Hughie Freeman than the one that’s gunna be there Saturday night.

Freeman pulls off the dollar bill from the mannequin and stuffs it in his mouth. He extravagantly and aggressively eats it in front of the Brain Hollywood mannequin. Within moments, he’s back to floating around in ecstasy.

FREEMAN: You’re playing into the hands of the most daring bastard that there is. Hughie Freeman the name. As game as Conor Fuse on the new COD launch day. Times Square Street Fight? No problem. Your man takes it in his stride whether it’s outside, inside or across the Irish Sea. It’s a fight at the end of the day no matter how you dress it up. And if any Joe Public wants some too, they’ll get it if they get in my way. Cos your man wants that LSD trip one more time like a classic HOW junkie. Hook it up to my veins, GOD. Your man is a bad-bad man you hear.

The Pikey Fuck immediately stops the theatrics and begins searching the floor full of mannequins.

Bareknuckle in New York City my friends. Oh, can you hear me, Sinatra?! Your man Hughie Freeman is feeling it strolling down Times Square clicking his fingers with a massive hard-on. Cos I live for this shit. Occasions that present themselves that play right into the gypo’s hands. Street Fighting like its meant to be: honest, hard and fucking ugly. On the fields of Cork and now into the concrete jungle of New York City. Everyone says they want to fight and that’s proper good form. Once a street fighter, always the fucking street fighter.

Hughie then pulls up to a scruffy looking mannequin that’s seen its best days. It’s got a scruffy wig and a drawn on beard.

FREEMAN: 13th March won’t be the day the Teddy bear has his picnic. Cos that belongs to The Taxman. Your man has spoken and your bread is my bread whether you like it or not, bonny lad. You’re just another Jesus looking fucker but your man tells you now: you’ll answer to GOD from the hand that struck yer. They’ll have to get the RSPCA in after I’m done with you son. Animal cruelty at its finest. Hughie Freeman back in the doghouse cos he crossed the line A.. GEN. And the underfed bear pining for pikey bread. Not buttered, not cut, and not fucking his.

Your man is ready for ten Mike Best’s. Your man’s not just been working his wrist watching Lyndsey Troy let me tell you. I’m training like a trojan. This is my time now. Just said with not as many words as Zion, Teddy and Lord Muck. But the difference when your man says it compared to those cats is.. you believe it. You believe every last word. Quality punches over The Brian love story any day of the week. You’re all gruelling competitors, no doubt. Aye, it’ll be a slog. One hundred percent. But that little touch of quality when it matters the most will be Hughie Freeman’s right hand sending some cunt through a pretentious restaurant window.

Hughie Freeman returns walking back through the mannequins.

FREEMAN: 2020 every HOW wrestler had a story about Hughie Freeman. Now your man is back and they’re still talking. Stop talking and bring your fucking gun. And what are you going to do with that thing? Bake me some fucking cakes?! Watch me sing a song and blow out my candles?! Your man has come for a shootout. A good old fashioned shootout for the LSD championship. With proper men. Colonel Cluster and Geronimo. Have you heard of them? Have you fuck. Because you were too in your penny of baking fucking brownies with Scottywood!

Madame Tussauds..? Well your man is Hughie One Sword. That’s all it takes my friend. With a blink of an eye; Hughie-boy catches you flush on the chin and bye-bye over the hood of a cab you go. Out on your arse on the streets of New York; alone, naked and scared. Aye, you’re scared now. Like a scared little pussy. I want your heart, I want to eat your children. There ain’t no one like Hughie Freeman. Chris Kostoff, Max Kael.. I’m cut from their cloth. My style is impetuous. My defence is impregnable. I’m ferocious. I’m The Fighting Irish taking over New York City.

Trust your man, I’ve learned more on the streets than in any classroom. That’s how your man has been hardened. Your man’s hands are as rough as a badger’s arse and have bled on many a street. Upmarket or No market.. who cares. A fight is a fight and there’s no protection for you lot. The Taxman has seen the contract and this ain’t about legacy. Come on, Zion. Come on, Tedward. Come on.. Brian. This is about taxing punishment to the highest degree. There’s no pot of gold at the end of this sharp metallic rainbow.. it’s more about bragging rights. Whose got the biggest pair of balls. Who can weather the storm of right, lefts and kitchen sinks. Get through this, partners.. then go dreaming of sexy glory in an LSD trip with a naked Shane Reynolds. No problem. Job is done then and you can sing all about the achievement. But to kick fuck out of Zeb Martin and parade round like you’re the greatest LSD champion because of it then shame on you.

Freeman then stops at a mannequin with a black cloth over its head. Presumably, Zeb Martin as he’s not once been mentioned. He soon takes the cloth off the final mannequin to reveal… Mohammed Ali. Or, at least that’s what it appears. To speculate, this is the prototype version that undoubtedly never made the final grade. Granted, it looks more like a disproportionate melted Darkwing.

FREEMAN: He’s the greatest?! No, I’m the greatest! Praise be to GOD!

With one thunderous measured shot; Hughie Freeman cracks the mannequin high into the warehouse. It crashes back down into Zion, Hollywood, Teddy and the rest of them, creating one big massive weird pile-on.

FEEMAN: There can only be one.