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Pitch-black in a lonely solitary confinement cell in Alcatraz. The silence remains deafening as the imminent atmosphere is enough to make the hairs on your scrotum stand to attention.
SOUND EFFECT: Old-TV break in footage.
MALE REPORTER (V.O): Hughie Freeman–(interrupted)
SOUND EFFECT: Old-TV break in footage.
FEMALE REPORTER (V.O): (continued) HOW wrestler–(interrupted)
SOUND EFFECT: Old-TV break in footage.
MALE REPORTER (V.O): (continued) Hughie Freeman–(interrupted)
SOUND EFFECT: Old-TV break in footage.
FEMALE REPORTER (V.O): (continued) Famous Gypsy Warrior–(interrupted)
SOUND EFFECT: Old-TV break in footage.
MALE REPORTER (V.O): (continued) Tormented, beaten, confined–(interrupted)
SOUND EFFECT: Old-TV break in footage.
FEMALE REPORTER (V.O): (continued) Fan demands mounts–(interrupted)
SOUND EFFECT: Old-TV break in footage.
MALE REPORTER (V.O): (continued)Quoted that he wants his skin–(interrupted)
SOUND EFFECT: Old-TV break in footage.
FEMALE REPORTER (V.O): (continued) LSD CHAMPION HUGHIE FREEMAN–(interrupted)
SOUND EFFECT: Old-TV break in footage.
MALE REPORTER (V.O): (continued) LSD CHAMPION HUGHIE FREEMAN–(interrupted)
PROLONGED SOUND EFFECT: Old-TV break in footage.
MALE REPORTER (V.O): (continued) He wants the LSD title inside of him! —
PROLONGED SOUND EFFECT: Old-TV break in footage.
We return back to the silent darkness. However, with a sense that someone is present. Nothing supernatural that makes you suddenly cold, but rather something deadly physical watching.
HUGHIE: A lot of time.. One hundred and thirty three days.
One hundred and thirty three days!
..Fucking child’s play.
The voice is clearly Pikey Fuck himself: Hughie Freeman. Bizarrely though, he can softly laugh deep into the abyss.
HUGHIE: I’ve counted sheep, goats, cows and corporate fucking sell-outs jumping the fence. Your man Hughie Freeman is truly in the zone and if you think I’m gunna take a hit of LSD to remove myself mentally from this grave of death then you’re barking mad. Fuck fella, I think your man stopped giving a flying frig on day six. These extra few.. The Pikey Fuck may as well be in Barbados drinking Pina Coladas.
Same ole Scottwood; with or without the suit, hair down or hair up. It doesn’t matter whether you’re pen-pusher this week or Hardcore Anarchist 9.0. the next. You still fall into bad habits that you have been guilty of your whole HOW career. A glittering career it maybe, bonny lad. However, that glitter is merely made out of shards of rusty metal and rat shit.
The time you got left during the exact moment of this promo: three days….. nine hours….. fifty two minutes and.…… five seconds.. no… make that four.
But what the fuck does that matter? You got right up to show-time to stare this mothercunt out and give him the biggest beaten since John Freeman. And my man, your well within your damn rights to do so.
Forty nine minutes and twenty eight seconds now mate.
But as that time ticks away.. so does your whole sanity. When you go through days, weeks, months at a time in the hole.. time is never your friend. Time is the biggest pain right between those ears that can only compare to a flush Fatality Punch. The more time spent in the nothingness of Alcatraz.. you simply can’t trust yourself. The one self who you think you know everything about.. but you don’t. You become your biggest enemy; not The Resident Pikey would you believe. That little mush inside your head that is powered by vermin babies.. it’ll play tricks on you. It’ll make you think you are not you. Fuck mate, you might even start believing your David Black or better yet.. Silent Fucking Witness. But whoever you are.. know I’ve already been through that torment and your man Hughie Freeman is laughing at you side-headlocking thin air not knowing what the fuck is going on.
During my time here I have HATED, drooled, been kicked to high heaven.. and had sexual relations with RICK the hippo. Now do you think that is normal? A fighting champion like your man Hughie Freeman clearly going off at the deep end? You think that is just regular practise here in Alcatraz? Mate, I’ve been off the deep end, been fully sucked under through no fault of my own, and managed to Fatality Punch Free Willy in the face. But I’m still here to tell the bastard tale. Fuck, I’ve been here since day one fighting against the system, not willing to accept my fate. Your man Hughie Freeman did not go quietly into the night but with a vigour of violence. That kinda swag that Alcatraz respects. Not to mention the whole entire legacy of the LSD championship.
Three days.. nine hours….. fifteen minutes……… and twenty two seconds, fuck-bag!
Not even prepared to slip me a note, Scott? Fuck mate, I know this bitch is Uncle Sam’s Devil Island but when your up to speed with how things operate here then stuff like that is easy. Easy like one, two, three.
But if you want to curl up in the corner of your hole then so be it. Fresh Meat here in Alcatraz can respond in two ways.. A) they fight fire with fire or B) they cry like newborns. And believe me, Scotty.. those whimpers I hear each and every single night are not just fabrications in my mind. Those cries are… distinct. They belong to those who come from status; public figure perhaps. Aye, one that clutches on desperately to what he had but knows he’s a long-long way from home. One that can’t stipulate a chainsaw from his hardcore arsenal. Aye.. those cries are always more powerful.
You’re late to the party not just this time but for life. It’s like your own separate sentence where you punish yourself to come unprepared for the fight. Fuck mate, not just the fight but your whole image as The Big Rough And Tumble. It’s what started the whole HATE inside of your man Hughie Freeman if I’m being totally honest with you. Cos whilst the crowd were popping for: HATE, HATE, HATE. And they saw a culmination of guys that were a tad bit fucked off and were ready to fight anyone… you baked brownies instead. The Nasty Bastard himself and The Hungry Hungry Hippo didn’t choose to HATE.. they chose to RUIN. They chose to ruin my whole life as a credible fighter. That, when my folks or pals back home flicked on the TV to see a proud fighting man on HOtv.. they saw an old woman bake sale. That ruined the whole dimension of HATE. Of what we should of represented. You battle with those pesky bandits and you get drawn into a circus full of punks. What you really should of done is to get RICK to push out his own select brownies from his large oven and force feed those beggars. But what the fuck does this dirty pikey know?
Thankfully, my pikey sensors saved my reputation and I burnt that Big Orange Freak right in the snobz. Your man Hughie Freeman wasn’t wasting time or an opportunity. With one single judgement.. Hughie Freeman was the talk of HOW. They weren’t talking about HATE or Scotty Bum Bum.. but what a mothercunt Hughie Freeman is. And you know what, fella? I’d start another fire even if the heating was on. And I’d LOVE it.
Three.. eight.. fifty……. ten.
Is it the eleventh hour yet, Scott?!
All of the best crimes are pre-meditated. Fuck mate, I wanted to burn Pumpkin Head about thirty seconds after I met the freak. Bit of insight for you.. I actually wanted to draw it out longer and torch his arse at Rumble At The Rock but I’d reached breaking point. Face facts, I lead all of you cocksuckers down the path of: I’m gunna fuck ya. And you all thought that this pikey that was plucked out of nowhere didn’t have the foggiest of what to do here. I know HOW, it’s truly about fucking the man over.. and your man did the right thing. The right thing for Hughie Freeman and what I needed to do to be credible.
Comedy.. Hughie Freeman is not. When I put those bad-boy hands up we ain’t coming to tell fart jokes. Not matter how many eggs your man consumes. But if you just allowed The HOW Resident Pikey to do his thing and hand out my own punishments to my own ‘HATE brothers’.. who knows? Maybe in a twisted game of LOVE and HATE we could have caught on. Maybe the joke wouldn’t have been on us and when some cunt bested us.. we could of felt the pain our other brother was feeling. That we could share that emotion of losing. Cos guess what, partner.. if you didn’t know it already; your man Hughie Freeman HATES losing.
Twenty nine….. I’m surrounded by idiots.
Now it’s my turn to laugh at you, Scott. Your bunking it with me in Alcatraz and you HATE your stinking life right about now. I’d like to say it gets easier.. but Hughie F. would be lying. Do tell though, mate.. what stage of fuckery are you at? Are you shitting all over your cell like a dirty whore? Or is it going back up the other way where your tasting it in your mouth?
But where you think you are the challenger and I am the champion then it simply isn’t the case my friend. Granted, on paper it says I’m the champion. And of course I will say I’m the champion.. but really, I’m fighting again for that LSD championship. I’ve not won anything yet because us cons are undeserving of privilege. Your man Hughie Freeman has been a bad-bad-man and that gold is waiting for me when I get out. But you Scotty Bum Bum.. stand in my way. And when we are let loose on each-other like a pack of animals then know where my fight is coming from. I really-really hope you know the truth behind my beef. And that is not the same affection I showed RICK.. it’s the HATE I have for you. And when I’m set free I will be rid of all the HATE that consumes my very soul and I will be the fighting champion that everyone wants me to be.
I’ve often asked myself what the first thing I’ll do is when I get out of this hell-hole. Maybe I’ll go long and far from here with my caravan and live off the evergreen of land. Maybe your man might go and set fire to a pencil and shove it in Lee Bests’ nose for calling me a fucking dumbass. Or maybe.. I’ll go with my LSD championship on a parade of the Best Arena and share the spoils with the HOW faithful.
Aye.. let me share the LOVE.
Suddenly, the sound of the shutter peep-hole on the door slides open. This then sheds light (literally) on Hughie Freeman’s face which in turn.. momentarily blinds him.
HUGHIE: It’s time, Scotty…. It’s time.
Hughie Freeman has random numbers on his face but only ever so faintly distinguished. That’s because the numbers are fading due to being wrote on by…………. charcoal.
GUARD (O.S): WHAT THE..!?!?!?
The sound of the cell door flings open as it crashes with authority. Meanwhile, in that small snippet of time the lights flicker and identify that Hughie has graffitied the whole cell with random numbers (with sums).
Hughie Freeman gleefully smiles.
FREEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEDDDDOOOOOOOOOMMMMMMMM!!!!!!!!!!!!