Posted by Brian Hollywood
Posted by Cancer Jiles
Posted by High Flyer
Posted by Darin Matthews
Posted by Mike Best
Posted by Doozer
Posted by Conor Fuse
Posted by Mike Best
Posted by Cancer Jiles
Posted by Darin Matthews
Sitting in a lonely cell in Alcatraz is Pikey Fuck himself, Hughie Freeman. As we continue to report on his cell every week in HOW there seems nothing hot to report. Hot to report in the sense that nothing has changed; still rancid in appearance and feasting flies gathering.
Hughie looks suspicious as he sits on the side of his bleak bed. He takes a moment to wait for diminishing movement from Scott Woodson’s trusted H.A.T.E officers outside on the wings. Freeman is hesitant at first with a few minor false starts in his own movement.
Once the coast is seemingly clear, Hughie Freeman retrieves an object from underneath his bed that is wrapped up in toilet paper. He sharply unravels the paper and there is a basic tattoo kit now in his possession. This brings immediate joy to The Famous Gypsy Warrior.
Hughie waists no time in connecting up all of the equipment, and if this smuggled in bit of equipment does not catch fire it’d be a huge surprise.
Meanwhile, Freeman looks deep in thought as the buzzing sound comes surging from his tattoo kit. He goes to put needle to knuckle on his left hand but stops.
Hughie Freeman: Four simple letters..
Freeman begins tattooing.
Hughie Freeman (whilst tattooing): It’s the same four letters that you can feel every week when: “Bandit-struck ” hits. The fans, the boys.. everyone cherishing what you are all about and your ability to entertain. You’re just two real great guys to be around and the life and soul at every party. You joke, you laugh.. you’re two real fucking showmen. The fans, fuck.. even the boys in the back want to be a colourful Bandit.
Cos listen now, everyone wants that feeling of being wanted. Fuck, our ego’s might not want us to admit it but if you can get over with those HOW punters. The same people that chant that high-protein source every week you step foot through that curtain; you’ve made it. You’ve found that big golden egg at the very end of the treasure hunt.
Freeman puts the final touches to his scabby tattoo.
Hughie Freeman: See here now, everyone appreciates those pesky Bandits to the point where when every major match comes along.. they’re praying for a yolking celebration. They want nothing more than to see those Bandits finally win the big one so everyone can bask in egg-whites. They want scotched eggs from the buffet table, they wonna hear the DJ play The Birdie Song, and you damn right they want to dentist chair raw protein from a shirtless Bobby Dean.
The blood trickles down the leg of Freeman from his half-closed fist that casually hangs. Freeman does not bother to wipe as the ink and blood mix.
Hughie Freeman: Your man Hughie Freeman cares for RICK. Fuck, I’m a sucker for freshly cooked eggs on a morning.. and okay, you got me; I fucking care for the Bandits. But the only problem is you fun-loving pranksters is… whether your man Hughie Freeman chooses to care for you or not, it’s completely irrelevant now.
I care for my farther John Freeman like any other adoring father-and-son relationship. But when my farther challenged me on the back field one day it was truly done out of respect. Believe me now, it was done out of.. care. Cos you see my farther needed to challenge the young lion. In wrestling terms, that was his way of simply passing the torch. He cared for me before we squared off, when the Fatality Punch connected, and after when he was lay up in hospital. If not more. And he continues to care for me till this day cos of the man I’ve become.
So look here, I might fucking care about you eGG-heads just like all of those HOW doting fans do. But where the fans showcase their care with a chant of: “Egg, egg, egg” mine is shown by beating you senseless. All of my care is channelled from my very fist and transferred to your smiling faces.
Freeman grips his left fist tighter.
Hughie Freeman: It’s all gravy that you got so much angst towards the guys that have wronged you. Your man Hughie Freeman has his very own hit-list. The names on it are Scott Woodson, and let me think…
Freeman quickly ponders.
Hughie Freeman: Scott Woodson.
And believe me Bandits; he’s really gunna feel the guilt.. not the care come Rumble At The Rock. But the difference between you Bandits and your main man Hughie is that I’m not consumed by it. Even in this mental torture of a prison your man Hughie Freeman can switch-off and turn his focus on the immediate threat that comes before him. The threat of you pesky Bandits and High Flyer ruining my day-release. And more importantly, the feeling of being free. The feeling of being a.. free-man. But even if it’s only for a split second.. when I’m stood victorious on that ladder I’ll take solace. Then, and only then.. I can think about Scott Woodson. But don’t you worry, if I do break free from this cluster of injustice that is piled against me.. Cecil can enter this prison.
Freeman sinisterly points to his temple.
Hughie Freeman: Do not think I haven’t noticed this power-play. It’s fucking got Woodson’s grubby mitts all over it. This match at Refueled XXXV is not a fair trial; two Bandits, one ladder, and one High Flyer. You will all say it’s come from Lee and the high power end of HOW but I know deep down that this is Woodson’s trusty handywork. Woodson wants me to run the gauntlet and pitching a fight against three other top ranked guys isn’t enough. Two of which are fucking family, now. And the other.. High Flyer; he’s custom-made to this match like your man Hughie Freeman is custom-made for Gen Pop. It’s just a fucking coincidence how this needs to happen outside of Uncle Sam’s Devil’s Island all of a sudden when Your Resident Pikey starts knocking dossers out. Almost like you think my surroundings have everything to do with it you coward.
But this message is to you boys. Aye, you boys in the LSD contendership match at Refueled XXXV. This is the bare bones of it.. it doesn’t matter if the match is in Alcatraz, Chicago or in fucking Sesame Street; Hughie Freeman brings the fight to your cheekbones and that’ll be all she wrote.
Talking about unfair, and injustice. But then, there is the other hand..….
Freeman looks at his loose right fist up close.
Hughie Freeman: You see you; you glorified stuntman off of the set of: This Isn’t Wrestling. You acrobat from the local circus of clownville. You failed gymnast straight from the OlymFUCKS. Yeah boy, I hope you’re fucking watching. I hope you’re fucking listening to every word I’ve got to say.
The Bare-knuckle Champion turns his attention to the HOW cameras. He points directly at them as he truly articulates in anger. In.. HA-IGH–
Hughie Freeman: The one single thing that does not wash with your man Hughie Freeman in combat sports is a guy that simply does not want to fight. A guy that would rather dance around the canvas and not engage. A guy that has never experienced power like The Fatality Punch cos he’s too busy ducking and diving; flipping around like this is Backyard Trampoline Wrestling. A guy your man Hughie Freeman has no care for cos he’s too scared of physicality.
But look here now, Flyer.. you think the ladder will be to your advantage. And on paper it all looks to be in your favour. That the stand-in gets gifted his signature match without resistance. Resistance of what your man Hughie Freeman has had to put up with. The resistance being: fifty three days. Fifty three days of being stuck a million miles away in Alcatraz and trying to resist the very thing I’m against now. To resist those four very words…
Hughie Freeman then rapidly shoves the tattoo needle into his knuckles without consideration. His grimace on his face becomes more animated as he jumps from each knuckle. As quickly as he starts he seems to miraculously finish.
Hughie Freeman: Zero days..! Zero days for you! Zero days of having to fight for an early morning egg..! And not having to guard it with your life!
Spit hits the camera lens.
Hughie Freeman: See, the Bandits might just look at you and see Steve Harrison. But your man Hughie Freeman doesn’t.. I see a Yoyo Man. A man that has yoyoed his whole career up and down the ladder. A man that like the yoyo itself.. yoyo’s down but doesn’t always yoyo back up. And whether the Bandits are right or not.. whether High Flyer deserves to be in this match or not. You’re flipping bonkers if you think you can fly off that ladder and grab that number one contendership for the LSD title.
Freeman bizarrely licks his freshly tattooed right fist. He reverts back to the HOW cameras with a psychotic look with a mixture of bloody ink on his mouth and chin.
Hughie Freeman: It just so happens fella.. my bars are made of the same material as your luxury item. Your man Hughie Freeman is not foreign to unforgiving metal. The same metal that those cunting H.A.T.E guards use to bash my head against every single bastard day. And it’s the same metal in that ladder your guy Hughie Freeman will use to bash you over the head with. But if I was you, Flyer.. my concern wouldn’t be that metal ladder. It’d be the fucking iron in The Fatality Punch.
Hughie Freeman then throws up both gushing fists to the camera. The left fist reads: LOVE (not care), and the right fist reads: HATE.
Hughie Freeman: …Pick a hand.
..Means a lot.
Hughie Freeman strikes a sorrowful look as he does not flinch to sudden movement on the wing.