Training

"YUM YUM YUM I LOVE BEING A BUS" - Coach ABCDEFG Flack, Probably

Hello friends, have you missed me? I’ve certainly missed you and telling the deep and wonderful tales of the Titled One himself, Cecilworth M! J Farthington. Why, last we saw him in HIGH OCTANE competition, he was busy driving his boot up someone’s bum, which was perhaps the most disrespectful thing that the entire industry has ever seen, more so than that time someone wrestled a corpse and that was only a week ago!

 

That’s neither here nor indeed there as we must endeavor forward into the here and now and the nowest here is the 5 Time Academy. 

 

The 5 Time Academy, Mike Best’s training academy serves the dual role of building the capacity of the future generation of stars like owner of the Great Scott Wrestling Federation, Great Scott (he’s pretty great!) and as a hangout or villain’s lair, depending on your disposition, for the totally still real and powerful international wrestling stable, the eMpire. One such member of that very eMpire is at the 5 Time on this very day and I bet you can’t guess who?!

 

It’s Cecilworth.

 

Of course it’s fucking Cecilworth.

 

CRASH

 

SMACK

 

CRACK

 

“AGAIN!”

 

The unusually posh British roar that succeeds the series of slams and blams is one not heard very often in the High Octane domain, nor indeed any domain. It belongs to a very flush, very veiny-throbby, very intense Best Boy of HOW. Cecilworth stands in the corner gesturing with his finger-hands for the trainee to get back up from the ground, showing little patience for the poor soul who thought he was about the earn himself some brownie points with 5 Time Owner Mike for agreeing to spar with what he thought was the eMpire’s light touch. Poor Gary Tongueman, DDS, he really did pick the wrong day to quit his aspiring dental career and go all in on the wrestling business. Tongueman scrambles back to his feet and leans himself up against the ropes, gasping for air and nursing his shoulder quite thoroughly. 

 

Farthington takes a step away from The Dental Devastator and gestures for him to bring it once more. Tongueman looks pained as he rushes at the HOW ICON Champion.

 

CRASH

 

SMACK

 

CRACK

 

Farthington hurls Tongueman with a judo-esque hip throw, keeping the former dentist’s arm locked in tight as he flows over him, locking in the Article 50 nice and snug. Gary shrieks in agony for a few brief seconds before Cecilworth breaks the hold and rolls back up to his feet, his veins almost popping as he does so. The Farthington Fancy Lad looks down at his incredibly injured and emotionally scarred sparring partner…

 

“AGAIN!”

 

Cecilworth readies himself once more in the centre of the ring but the Mouth Mauler is given a brief reprieve by the gym door smashing itself open and a ranting Scottish drunkard storming into the intense training session.

 

“WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU PLAYING AT CECIL?”

 

For those of you unaware of the universe we currently find ourselves in, that would be the voice of Dirk Dickwood, Cecilworth’s long time HOW manager. There was a period where we thought he was a ghost but he got better. Dirk begins to storm towards the 5 Time training ring with a few sheets of paper that appear to be tweets held near and dear to his person, he furiously waves them around as he approaches his client.

 

Dickwood: I just… I just want to get this right… Mike, your best friend, as his last action as majority owner of the company, inserted you into the Halitosis and Dan Ryan World Championship match at “Rumble at the Rock”, am I correct so far?

 

Cecilworth’s head snaps back to his sneering manager, not looking overly delighted to see him if I’m being quite honest with you at this exact moment in time. Incredibly frustrated at the interruption, he gestures for Tongueman to stay in the ring while he turns his focus to the Scottish ball of fury standing just outside the ring.

 

Farthington: Dirk, you know I love it when you’re all angry and going GWAR CECILWORTH WILL WIN and all that. It’s totes super rad but I don’t know if you missed the fact that I’m kind of in the fucking middle of something right now. 

 

Would it be surprising if I told you that the tone Cecilworth had taken had done little to alleviate the situation? No? I didn’t think so. 

 

Dickwood: Oh, you’re busy are you? Were you too busy to call your fucking manager when you decided to get on that bastard twitter machine and without any consultation whatsoever just toss OUR brand on the line. The ICON title wasn’t on the line, YOUR title wasn’t on the line, OUR legacy wasn’t on the line but oh no, you just had to get into a dickslinging contest with the Corporate Anarchist and now I’m too angry to even make fun of the concept of such a thing existing! You got played by Scottywood… SCOTTYWOOD. You know that right?

 

Dirk begins to climb up onto the ring apron, continuing to prod his bat of papers in the direction of The Permanent Paradigm. Cecilworth’s eyes light up something fierce as he leans right against the ropes, glaring a hole through his advisor’s very soul.

 

Farthington: Woah, hold your horses and horse cocks… our legacy you say, Dirk? OUR? That’s a FASCINATING way of putting it Dirktrude. I don’t recall seeing you there when Dan Ryan was attempting to destroy me on the outside of the ring. I don’t remember you being in my corner, waving the Farthington flag as I went to war in a steel cage with the very same man and DESTROYED him so badly I could saunter right out of that ring as he helplessly looked on. I sure as shit didn’t see you around when John fucking Sektor somehow found a GOD DAMN knife under the ring and cost me my chance of being World Champion. I mean I don’t even know how the fuck a knife like that even found its way under the ring, it’s hardly normal ring maintence equipment. 

 

Dirk begins to prod the print out of the tweets into the chest of his client in a rather aggressive manner. Cecilworth bats the papers away as he contemplates smashing a forearm right into a noggin of his long time compatriot. 

 

Dickwood: Did it ever occur to you that Sektor may have… y’know… PLANTED that knife there ahead of time? I mean, he had all his Ground Zero boys ready and waiting to have their big victory parade, did it not occur in that big, dense, British aristocrat skull of yours that perhaps, maybe, just a little bit that he had planned ahead? 

 

Cecilworth bites his bottom lip as a sort of emotional control mechanism as he carefully considers his next words.

 

Farthington: So… in your world, if I’m understanding you correctly, the drug addled brain of John Sektor had such a level of intellect and insight that he predicted that as we got to the end of the War Games match that a) Me and MJF would still be in the match with him and that b) I would decide to do something entirely uncharacteristic from my entire wrestling career and attempt to literally choke someone to death live on pay per view? John Sektor’s GALAXY SIZED BRAIN then thought that the best way to deal with with the potential of my live murder getting in the way of his sneaky championship dreams was the slide a knife under the ring? 

 

Dirk smacks the papers upside Cecilworth’s head.

 

Dickwood: No, I’m saying that Sektor planted the knife and knew he’d find a use for it in a War Games match. Those matches are hardly technical classics after all…

 

The terse conversation between Farthington and Dirkwood is briefly interrupted by the very sore and perhaps broken-armed Gary Tongueman using his good arm to haul himself into the corner and rest up against the turnbuckle padding. Gary interjects into the situation in the hopes that maybe he can leave the ring and get himself some very much needed medical attention. 

 

Gary Tongueman, DDS: Can I… can I get out of here?

 

Farthington: No Gary, no you can’t. Our work has only just begun and Dirk was just leaving, weren’t you Dirk?

 

Dirk viscerally growls as he leaps off the apron and begins walking out of the gym. He turns back to Cecilworth on his way out…

 

Dickwood: You know that this conversation isn’t over Cecilworth, right? I can’t have you start making your own decisions about your career. You know that’s not a smart move. Look at what happens without me… OCW and Utah. Don’t make the same mistake again.

 

Dirk slams the gym door shut as Cecilworth turns his attention back to the man who could now quite easily be described as an unwilling victim in this situation. Tongueman gestures to his shoulder once again and winces, trying to garner some sympathy. He notices Cecilworth about to gesture to bring it again and goes for the only option that makes sense for him to break up being in the middle of the training session from hell… making conversation.

 

Tongueman: So… if you don’t mind me asking… what was all that about? 

 

Cecilworth drops his guard for a few moments and gives a bit of an olden tyme weary sigh. 

 

Farthington: Funnily enough, I do fucking mind Gary. You aren’t my therapist, you aren’t anyone’s therapist. You used to make your living jamming your hands into people’s mouths, which is super, super gross. So forgive me if I don’t have much of an interest in your low tier Freudian approach. Now… AGAIN.

 

CRASH

 

YANK

 

YELL

 

Gary is tossed down to the mat once more and locked into the cross arm-breaker real tight. He yells out in pain but Cecilworth doesn’t release immediately like the prior two times. He begins to pull tighter as a manic glare lights up in his eyes. Gary screeches in anguish, causing the attention of a few of the other trainees who were working out in the gym area. Cecilworth arches his back and wrenches even harder as he yells out in victory, barely paying attention to the clear long term damage that poor Gary is getting inflicted upon him.

 

Farthington: I AM A GOLDEN GOD AND I DO WHAT I WANT!

 

The smattering of trainees rush into the ring to try and pull Cecilworth off of The Tongueman. Cecilworth begins to snap out of his intense trance as they rush towards him, screaming at him to let go of the hold. 

 

—-

 

Cecilworth rolls out of the ring and calls the roaming HOT VEE cameras towards his facial region. He sits down on the apron, drenched in sweat and perspiring profusely as a boom mic slowly lowers to sit just above him. Behind him, the chaotic scene of the trainee’s tending to the very much broken armed DDS continues forth, something that the ICON Champion pays very little mind to. 

 

Farthington: Why did I decide to put the ICON Championship on the line? You want to know Dirktrude? It’s a real good question. I didn’t have to, it wasn’t announced as such, it wasn’t anticipated and if I’m being a real honest boy, neither Dan Ryan or Halitosis have proven themselves to be worthy contenders for HOW’s most prestigious championship. A main event though, a Pay Per View main event. That’s the spectacle, that’s the eyeballs, that’s the global audience and that’s when the stakes should be the highest. 

 

Cecilworth chuckles to himself as Tongueman slowly gets rolled out of the ring into a stretcher below, still yelping very loudly in pain. 

 

Farthington: I don’t know what the rules will be, I don’t know what our Rasta McManager has in mind and whether Mike or Lee would even go along with it but I do know one thing… if this match is to have any purpose, any drive, any intrigue and let’s be honest, any prestige then the ICON Championship has to be front and centre. MY championship. 187 days, over half a year. That’s the big number, that’s the number of days I will have held that championship. Only one man in this company currently has a singular run better than me… John fucking Sektor. I always seem to end up in that man’s shadow. World Title tournaments, War Games, The Machine… I was always on the cusp of beating him but never got the job done and now I never will. He shat the bed and now he’s rubbing our noses in his beshatted bed with two time HOW World Champion Halitosis. Yet, I can destroy one thing, I can destroy his legacy. I can hold the belt longer, I can defend it more, I can be the undisputed ICON of this company and achieve more with a single run than others did with several. Not naming any Stevens. So that’s why I was delighted to put the ICON championship on the line, another title defense racked up, another three seconds in the history books. 

 

In the background we hear someone frantically calling Tongueman’s wife to inform her of the events that have just unfolded. Cecilworth barely bats an eyelid to acknowledge the damage he has done. 

 

Farthington: That screaming behind me? “Oh, that’s not like you Cecilworth” I hear you crow on the tweets and private messages and Facebook groups and Discords and MySpaces and Bebos. It probably isn’t like me, you’re right, I’ve never had a singular, laser-like focus before. I don’t care how but I plan to leave Rumble at the Rock as the dual ICON and World Champion. I don’t get that unique prestige by walking into that Infirmary half-cocked and cocky. I get that prestige by coming at my best in body and mind. With that said, I have some training to do.

 

We fade out on Cecilworth rolling Gary Tongueman off his stretcher and back into the ring. The last thing we hear?

 

CRASH

 

SMACK

 

CRACK

 

—-

 

Dirk Dickwood, rather irate at the decision of his client storms forth from the gym, towards the merchandise warehouse also hosted on the Five Time grounds. In the dark and dusty rows of abandoned UNDEFEATED t-shirt and hoodies and a questionably racially insensitive MAXXXXXKAEL Jr. Halloween mask, Dirk finds the target of his hunt. He hauls a large and stuffed cardboard box down to the floor and begins to sort through the contents. 

 

Dickwood: There’s too much money riding on the brand, I can’t have him mess it up. Being second place in a match is great, being second place in the record books… that’s the death of a revenue stream. It cannot and will not happen. 

 

As Dirk continues to mutter to the unseen content of the cardboard box, he is suddenly interrupted by a rather pushy HOTV sound technician. The microphone jockey clears his throat to get the attention of the Scottish Ball of Rage. Startled for a few brief moments, Dickwood slams the cardboard box shit, the contents of which remain unseen. He turns to face the sound operator with a facial expression that is a mixture of a schoolboy being caught mid-shit on the Principal’s desk and the concern of being found out that you ate the last cookie on the plate. It’s quite the expression. 

 

High Octane Television Microphone Man: Mr. Dirkwood, the head office have asked if you’d be free for a little interview. It turns out when we were reviewing the War Games footage to put together the package for Rumble and the Rock, one of editing teams noticed an… abnormality. We would appreciate your insight. 

 

Dickwood: And what would that oddity be you little fuck nugget?

 

HOTMM: Well, we’d rather show it to you in person. I think having you see the footage firsthand will give the best insight into the whole thing. We’re set up in Mike’s office if you wouldn’t mind joining us…

 

A bit of flop sweat drips down from Dickwood’s eyebrow, he pulls out his pocket square to quickly mop it up. 

 

Dickwood: Sure, sure… I’ll be right with you.

 

Dirk kicks the cardboard box back onto the shelving unit nearby, muttering to himself as he does so.

 

Dickwood: There’s no way, absolutely no way… you were so careful. Nah… it’s probably just a way to get a soundbite from me for the PPV package. There’s just no way… no way at all. 

 

Dirk begins to walk out of the warehouse, mopping his brow furiously and continuously muttering as he does so. 

 

Roleplay Countdown

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