Post by Deleted on Jan 13, 2021 4:36:23 GMT -7
//Off Camera//
“Over The Top”
January 4th 2021
Crazy Crazy Gym
Brighouse.
Yorkshire, England
CCM shuffled his way to the ring, checking the boards for woodworm and that the ropes weren’t on the verge of exploding. Couldn’t trust the damn Greek ring boys to keep anything in check. Of course with Brexit now a thing, they weren’t even here. God damn fucking government and their God damn fucking visas. Bet the Ukranian rentboys BoJo liked got their fucking visas just fine, he thought to himself. Who trains at 9 god damn in the morning anyway? He was still a little hungover from last night.
Voice: WAKE UP BOY!
CCM snapped out of his melancholic state as the big man himself, his manager, father and all around huge bastard WMD walked in, with ChaCha clopping in beside him.
CCM: Sorry dad. Hey... you a wrestling legend, right?
Winston Millar-Dyson chuckles.
WMD: Yeah?
CCM: Ever won a battle royal?
His father snorts.
WMD: A few, what’s it to ya kid?
Grumbling the next generation of Yorkshire’s pride eyed at his father thinking what shithole of a nursing home he’d lock him up as soon as the opportunity arrived, especially with NHS being what it is..fakin’ BoJo.
CCM: Well, any pointers on how to win them?
The big man smoothed his gray hair back, and looked at his dirty boots.
WMD: Kick their fokin’ noggin’ off?
His son looked at his own scrawnier feet.
CCM: Um, yeah..well let’s assume that won’t do it shall we? Got a backup plan?
WMD: Well, pick them up and toss them over the rope, easy as pie.
Crazy Crazy Millar felt the veins on his temples throbbing, this wasn’t just the hangover, this was pure pissed the fuck off.
CCM: Dad! I’m not a bloody giant like you! HOW IN THE BLOODY HELL DO YOU THINK I’M GONNA PICK SOME BIG BASTARD UP AND THROW HIM OVER THE BLOODY ROPES?!
Millar-Dyson crosses arms over his chest and scowls.
WMD: ..that’s how I won them.
CCM: Arse!
CCM stomped his foot before sliding in the ring.
CCM: Enough of this. Bring my sparring partner out already. I’m right in the bloody to mood to punch someone in the face.
WMD: Oh yeah?
CCM: YEAH.
WMD: Well then...
To the shock of the pint-sized pillock, the big man walks up the steps, and steps over the ropes into the ring.
WMD: Let’s see what you’ve got, champ.
CCM looks up at the man standing a foot and change taller than him and twice the girth (not like that, but fuck it who knows at this point).
CCM: ...This hardly seems fair.
WMD: Oh really? You think ‘cause I’m an old man, you’re gonna have an easy time of it, do ya?
*SMACK*
He cracks CCM round the head, knocking the little shit to the floor.
CCM: OWWWW- that’s not what I meant....
WMD: GET UP OR GO PUT THE BLOODY KETTLE ON, PRINCESS!~
The young master Millar snarls out stumbling up.
CCM: That’s not cool dad! This is 2021 you can’t insult people like that! I’ll get ya cancelled, you hear me you old shite! CANCELLED!
His father chuckles there in his boots, jeans and ripped up Bryan Adams Tour Shirt.
WMD: Yeah? Why don’t you try saying that to me right here?
He pointed in front of him and CCM shakes his head.
CCM: Nah, I’m fine here. Loud enough, you know..
WMD: Yeah, just like your mum when I plowed her from behind last night!
CCM: DAD! SHUT IT!
His father smirks, twiddling his fingers.
WMD: Make me..
CCM growled, kipping to his feet, and ran at the big man, flipping up into a dropsault... which bounced off WMD’s chest like a raindrop. Frustrated, CCM started firing kicks, which the veteran ate up like they were nothing, before grabbing his kicking leg, yanking him off the mat, and swinging him around, before flinging him like a hammer toss. CCM flew over the ropes, and would have hit the floor on the outside, but for the fact that he crashed headfirst into ChaCha instead. Then hit the floor right after, because that’s how gravity works.
CCM: Ow.... that really hurt.... SHIT. ChaCha you okay? How’s your head?
The blonde bombshell from journalism school of journalism chuckled, fixing her skirt.
ChaCha: Haven’t had any complaints yet!
CCM: Tou-bloody-che...
CCM got to his feet, feeling a little pat on his bum from ChaCha.
WMD: IF YOU TWO ARE DONE CHANGING MAKE-UP TIPS, I’D LIKE TO FINISH THIS BEFORE NEXT CHRISTMAS PLEASE!
ChaCha: You can throw him out. Just use your speed!
CCM: I’m trying to lay off the amph-- OH. Bugger it, worth a try.
He slides back in, where WMD has an amused look.
WMD: Got all ya needed kiddo?
He arches a brow over the comment.
CCM: Told ya Dad, I’m off the bloody gear! They test those shits in the states you know!
His father chuckles.
WMD: Kids these days, with your clean living, vegan diets and non-alcoholic beer, no wonder you aren’t worth shit.
CCM: Do NOT LUMP ME IN WITH THOSE TOSSERS DAD!
His father smiled at him wickedly.
WMD: Your Granny was right you know, she suggested we should have paid to get you into one of them prim and proper schools, with the rest of the pretty lil’ ladies.
Ccm’s voice was a growl.
CCM: ..don’t say it dad.
Millar-Dyson took a moment, along with a deep breath and whispered out the single most despised word his son had evern known.
WMD:...Eton.
What erupted next was a pint sized meltdown worthy about a town full of yorkshire terror as the lil’ runt charged up his dad, locked up his legs and started to climb up him huffing and puffing even while climbing up a vertical giant like his dad. He planted his legs at the sides of the older man and just started to pummel away.
CCM: NEVER! SAY! THAT! FUCKING! SHIT! AROUND! ME! I! AM! NOT! A! ETON! BLOODY! TOSSER!
Then he realizes the old man wasn’t moving. His eyes were half closed, the gitan that raised him was lifeless.
CCM: ..oh shit, I’m so sorry..Dad, you okay? Oi! DAD!
Shock is clear in his eyes as he gets off from the old man and checks on him, slapping his cheeks.
CCM: Come on you old bastard, get up!
Then, in a blink of an eye, the eyes came to life, he saw a broad smirk of those pearly white teeth and his dad headbutted him right between the eyes. CCM stumbles back as his dad lets out a bellowing howl and kicks him back with both of those booted feet. Knocking CCM in the corner turnbuckles. With a howl CCM goes down and his dad manages to get back to his feet.
WMD: Ha! Thought you had your old man beat did ya kid? Well here’s the headlines for today: Do not try to toss an old tosser..
He watches his son squirming against the turnbuckles, trying to get to his feet but every time he stood up his knee buckled.
CCM: OWWW! ARSE!
ChaCha: Jonathan?!
WMD: You okay mate?
CCM: IT REALLY FUCKING HURTS DAD!
He got up like a baby antilope only to crumble and tumble back down.
WMD: ..great ghost of Winston bloody Churchill..ChaCha! Get ya phone! We gotta get him to the doctors.
Surprisingly quick for a man his size WMD gets to the corner grabs his son by the shoulders.
WMD: Hang in there son, I’ll help ya, we’ll get you to the doctors. You are gonna be o--
He couldn’t finish his sentence when he felt a sharp pain between his legs.
WMD: BOLLOCKS!
As the big man groaned out in pain CCM, manages to use the older man’s mass against him, supporting the keeled over giant against the corner and with a mighty roar pushes his smaller body to it’s limits launching the proud father in the air over the ropes and down on the hard damn concrete floor.
CCM: YEEEEEEESSSSSSSSS!~
He stands there out of breath, hands up high in triumph as ChaCha goes to check on the elder Millar.
ChaCha: Winston, you okay darlin’?
Silence settled in the gym before the old man started to laugh, first a chuckle, then a bellowing howl of laughter.
ChaCha: What’s so funny?!
CCM looks at his dad who is laughing like he was about to piss himself any moment.
WMD:How about that? You do got some smarts on ya lad. Maybe you’ll even win that bloody match yet.
Now CCM joins in with the laugh leaning up against the ropes while ChaCha stands there dumbfounded.
ChaCha: So am I calling the doctors or not?
WMD: Call us a bloody cab, I’m taking my son out for before noon drinks..my treat!
It was at that moment when Crazy Crazy Millar realized that even if he didn’t win this battle royal for the Hardcore Championship, at least he would momentarily experience what it felt like to be a winner.
“Over The Top”
January 4th 2021
Crazy Crazy Gym
Brighouse.
Yorkshire, England
CCM shuffled his way to the ring, checking the boards for woodworm and that the ropes weren’t on the verge of exploding. Couldn’t trust the damn Greek ring boys to keep anything in check. Of course with Brexit now a thing, they weren’t even here. God damn fucking government and their God damn fucking visas. Bet the Ukranian rentboys BoJo liked got their fucking visas just fine, he thought to himself. Who trains at 9 god damn in the morning anyway? He was still a little hungover from last night.
Voice: WAKE UP BOY!
CCM snapped out of his melancholic state as the big man himself, his manager, father and all around huge bastard WMD walked in, with ChaCha clopping in beside him.
CCM: Sorry dad. Hey... you a wrestling legend, right?
Winston Millar-Dyson chuckles.
WMD: Yeah?
CCM: Ever won a battle royal?
His father snorts.
WMD: A few, what’s it to ya kid?
Grumbling the next generation of Yorkshire’s pride eyed at his father thinking what shithole of a nursing home he’d lock him up as soon as the opportunity arrived, especially with NHS being what it is..fakin’ BoJo.
CCM: Well, any pointers on how to win them?
The big man smoothed his gray hair back, and looked at his dirty boots.
WMD: Kick their fokin’ noggin’ off?
His son looked at his own scrawnier feet.
CCM: Um, yeah..well let’s assume that won’t do it shall we? Got a backup plan?
WMD: Well, pick them up and toss them over the rope, easy as pie.
Crazy Crazy Millar felt the veins on his temples throbbing, this wasn’t just the hangover, this was pure pissed the fuck off.
CCM: Dad! I’m not a bloody giant like you! HOW IN THE BLOODY HELL DO YOU THINK I’M GONNA PICK SOME BIG BASTARD UP AND THROW HIM OVER THE BLOODY ROPES?!
Millar-Dyson crosses arms over his chest and scowls.
WMD: ..that’s how I won them.
CCM: Arse!
CCM stomped his foot before sliding in the ring.
CCM: Enough of this. Bring my sparring partner out already. I’m right in the bloody to mood to punch someone in the face.
WMD: Oh yeah?
CCM: YEAH.
WMD: Well then...
To the shock of the pint-sized pillock, the big man walks up the steps, and steps over the ropes into the ring.
WMD: Let’s see what you’ve got, champ.
CCM looks up at the man standing a foot and change taller than him and twice the girth (not like that, but fuck it who knows at this point).
CCM: ...This hardly seems fair.
WMD: Oh really? You think ‘cause I’m an old man, you’re gonna have an easy time of it, do ya?
*SMACK*
He cracks CCM round the head, knocking the little shit to the floor.
CCM: OWWWW- that’s not what I meant....
WMD: GET UP OR GO PUT THE BLOODY KETTLE ON, PRINCESS!~
The young master Millar snarls out stumbling up.
CCM: That’s not cool dad! This is 2021 you can’t insult people like that! I’ll get ya cancelled, you hear me you old shite! CANCELLED!
His father chuckles there in his boots, jeans and ripped up Bryan Adams Tour Shirt.
WMD: Yeah? Why don’t you try saying that to me right here?
He pointed in front of him and CCM shakes his head.
CCM: Nah, I’m fine here. Loud enough, you know..
WMD: Yeah, just like your mum when I plowed her from behind last night!
CCM: DAD! SHUT IT!
His father smirks, twiddling his fingers.
WMD: Make me..
CCM growled, kipping to his feet, and ran at the big man, flipping up into a dropsault... which bounced off WMD’s chest like a raindrop. Frustrated, CCM started firing kicks, which the veteran ate up like they were nothing, before grabbing his kicking leg, yanking him off the mat, and swinging him around, before flinging him like a hammer toss. CCM flew over the ropes, and would have hit the floor on the outside, but for the fact that he crashed headfirst into ChaCha instead. Then hit the floor right after, because that’s how gravity works.
CCM: Ow.... that really hurt.... SHIT. ChaCha you okay? How’s your head?
The blonde bombshell from journalism school of journalism chuckled, fixing her skirt.
ChaCha: Haven’t had any complaints yet!
CCM: Tou-bloody-che...
CCM got to his feet, feeling a little pat on his bum from ChaCha.
WMD: IF YOU TWO ARE DONE CHANGING MAKE-UP TIPS, I’D LIKE TO FINISH THIS BEFORE NEXT CHRISTMAS PLEASE!
ChaCha: You can throw him out. Just use your speed!
CCM: I’m trying to lay off the amph-- OH. Bugger it, worth a try.
He slides back in, where WMD has an amused look.
WMD: Got all ya needed kiddo?
He arches a brow over the comment.
CCM: Told ya Dad, I’m off the bloody gear! They test those shits in the states you know!
His father chuckles.
WMD: Kids these days, with your clean living, vegan diets and non-alcoholic beer, no wonder you aren’t worth shit.
CCM: Do NOT LUMP ME IN WITH THOSE TOSSERS DAD!
His father smiled at him wickedly.
WMD: Your Granny was right you know, she suggested we should have paid to get you into one of them prim and proper schools, with the rest of the pretty lil’ ladies.
Ccm’s voice was a growl.
CCM: ..don’t say it dad.
Millar-Dyson took a moment, along with a deep breath and whispered out the single most despised word his son had evern known.
WMD:...Eton.
What erupted next was a pint sized meltdown worthy about a town full of yorkshire terror as the lil’ runt charged up his dad, locked up his legs and started to climb up him huffing and puffing even while climbing up a vertical giant like his dad. He planted his legs at the sides of the older man and just started to pummel away.
CCM: NEVER! SAY! THAT! FUCKING! SHIT! AROUND! ME! I! AM! NOT! A! ETON! BLOODY! TOSSER!
Then he realizes the old man wasn’t moving. His eyes were half closed, the gitan that raised him was lifeless.
CCM: ..oh shit, I’m so sorry..Dad, you okay? Oi! DAD!
Shock is clear in his eyes as he gets off from the old man and checks on him, slapping his cheeks.
CCM: Come on you old bastard, get up!
Then, in a blink of an eye, the eyes came to life, he saw a broad smirk of those pearly white teeth and his dad headbutted him right between the eyes. CCM stumbles back as his dad lets out a bellowing howl and kicks him back with both of those booted feet. Knocking CCM in the corner turnbuckles. With a howl CCM goes down and his dad manages to get back to his feet.
WMD: Ha! Thought you had your old man beat did ya kid? Well here’s the headlines for today: Do not try to toss an old tosser..
He watches his son squirming against the turnbuckles, trying to get to his feet but every time he stood up his knee buckled.
CCM: OWWW! ARSE!
ChaCha: Jonathan?!
WMD: You okay mate?
CCM: IT REALLY FUCKING HURTS DAD!
He got up like a baby antilope only to crumble and tumble back down.
WMD: ..great ghost of Winston bloody Churchill..ChaCha! Get ya phone! We gotta get him to the doctors.
Surprisingly quick for a man his size WMD gets to the corner grabs his son by the shoulders.
WMD: Hang in there son, I’ll help ya, we’ll get you to the doctors. You are gonna be o--
He couldn’t finish his sentence when he felt a sharp pain between his legs.
WMD: BOLLOCKS!
As the big man groaned out in pain CCM, manages to use the older man’s mass against him, supporting the keeled over giant against the corner and with a mighty roar pushes his smaller body to it’s limits launching the proud father in the air over the ropes and down on the hard damn concrete floor.
CCM: YEEEEEEESSSSSSSSS!~
He stands there out of breath, hands up high in triumph as ChaCha goes to check on the elder Millar.
ChaCha: Winston, you okay darlin’?
Silence settled in the gym before the old man started to laugh, first a chuckle, then a bellowing howl of laughter.
ChaCha: What’s so funny?!
CCM looks at his dad who is laughing like he was about to piss himself any moment.
WMD:How about that? You do got some smarts on ya lad. Maybe you’ll even win that bloody match yet.
Now CCM joins in with the laugh leaning up against the ropes while ChaCha stands there dumbfounded.
ChaCha: So am I calling the doctors or not?
WMD: Call us a bloody cab, I’m taking my son out for before noon drinks..my treat!
It was at that moment when Crazy Crazy Millar realized that even if he didn’t win this battle royal for the Hardcore Championship, at least he would momentarily experience what it felt like to be a winner.