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The More Things Change...; ...The More They Stay The Same
Topic Started: Feb 11 2009, 09:06 PM (48 Views)
Spann
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I'm just a soldier. I'm not worthy.
[ *  *  * ]
You know what? It's funny.

The blackness melts away and our scene is set:

Nick Allen sat in his local boozer, the Flycore Championship draped over his shoulder and a pint in his hand. He's in full-on working class philospher mode today, and we're lucky enough to be the ones he wants to share his musings with.

Allen slurps the head off a pint of Guinness, leaving the white moustache on his top lip for a few seconds as he considers the situation further for a moment.


NA: Just before I took my little break from FIW, I was Flycore champion, Blake and his lackeys were causing me troubles, and I was drinking too much.

Now, after my first match back in FIW, I've got silver over my shoulder, an upcoming match with Harrison O RLY!?, and in the last seven days I've drank enough to drown a deer.


Nick savours the alliteration. That was some good wordplay.

NA: So, I think it's fair to say that things haven't really changed round here. And you know what? I'm not entirely sure that's a bad thing. I mean, I currently have in my posession a belt that is worth more than I used to earn in a month, I'm stronger, fitter and healthier than ever, and my relationship with my kids is at an all time high. What better time to carry on as if absolutely nothing has happened?

A frown furrows Allen's brow:- Obviously there is something bothering him...

NA: Of course, there is something on the Nick Allen horizon that might not have been there four months ago, and something which may well be cause for concern this week...

A slurp from the pint. Nick swallows deeply and rests the glass back on the table before he continues, tension in his voice:-

NA: ...Oni-fucking-kage. Now, when I took my leave of abscence, The Rejects were falling apart around him, and it seemed like some sort of sense was returning to this frankly batshit promotion I like to call Fucking Insane Wrestling. But, it seems that ol' Mister Chuckles has decided to return to the ring. Now, I fear no man, anyone who knows me will tell you that. However, it's hard not to notice the swathe that he's cut through the ranks since he set foot between the ropes again, and it's not a little unnerving to be told you have to share a ring with someone who has so viciously pounded men such as our until-very-recently-current dual crown champion, one Grantland Rice. I can tell you, it's not without a sense of trepidation that I will make my way to that ring come Sunday, and almost certainly not without a stab vest.

All this talkin' causes dry mouths.

Slurp.


NA: I tell you what though, I can't be quite so... pleasant, shall we say, about the other man in this Sunday's match: Harrison O'Pissing-Reily. Orange's little bitch-boy, a noisy little jumped up ginger gobshite with nothing going for him other than with that skin and that hair, his ability to do a passable impression of a traffic cone. Yeah, he's got SS&S backin' him up nowadays, but so far as I'm concerned, that just makes things a little more fun. I've got beef with Prime so old it's gone fucking rancid, Jim O'Brien put me in hospital, and Blake Orange...

Nick slams his glass down. Still, the memories of his feud with Blake are at the forefront of his mind.

NA: ...Well, the less said about that moneyfucking little spitcock, the better. Point I'm making is, though: Nick Allen loves a rumble, and by heck, it looks like he might just have one on his hands.

Nick downs his pint, wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, and shouts off camera:

NA: Oi, John! Another Guinness over here please mate. Yeah, and a bag of crisps.

...No, not the prawn cocktail.

...Well what else have you got?

...No beef no?

...I'll just have a bag of nuts then please. Salted, yeah.

...Three fucking fifty!? Do I look like I just fell from the sky?


Well, it looks like that's all he's got to say. For now, at least...
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