Post by Sir Chris Cairns on May 15, 2015 19:32:58 GMT -6
Our scene is set in a makeshift GZW2K1 interview studio. Weston Bentley is standing by with SIR Chris Cairns, who is joined by a random assortment of his Creation Wrestling II misfits: Commissioner John Smith, Necron the Grim Harvester and Damien Shite-Knight (who wears his patented maid outfit). Bentley sets the stage for the interview, while having to shout over the top of Cairns, who is busy chanting his own name while fist pumping his regal sceptre into the air.
Cairns: SIR CHRIS CAIRNS! SIR CHRIS CAIRNS! SIR CHRIS CAIRNS!
Bentley: Sir Chris Cairns, at London:Battlefield you are set to find yourself in the midst of much drama as you compete for the "Wild Card" Eddie Knoxville Television Championship! Your opponents all seem to be entangled in their own complex personal issues which continue to develop at an ongoing rate!
Cairns: Is SIR Chris Cairns the only sane Globalstar on this doomed, peasant-ridden roster? Look, Bentley, you fucking balloon, Cairnsy doesn't concern himself with such frivolous matters as whom is kissing whom, or whom is obtaining photographic evidence of whom kissing whomever whom should not be kissing, or leaving silly answer phone messages and fawning over your portable telecommunication devices like love-struck teenagers, because SIR Chris Cairns - that's me! - has absolutely no time for these petty high school squabbles! Let me ask you, Bentley: Is SIR Chris Cairns - once again, that's me! - competing in a match at Battlefield against four other Globalstars, with the "SIR Chris Cairns" Television Championship belt on the line? You're bloody reet he is, and that's all that matters! Nobody cares about whom is hugging whom, or whether Pissper Sanchez has a better phone tariff with more call minutes and texts and data than Amanda Reypiss. And nobody cares if America Piss has the brand new iPhone and it has a better camera on it than Pissper's Samsung! Don't you see, Bentley?
Bentley: …NO?!
Cairns: Neither does anyone else, because the GZW2K1 roster seems to have fallen into its very own High School Musical rendition and SIR Chris Cairns - again, that's me! - is having none of it! Cairnsy is the voice of bloomin' reason and all Cairnsy is interested in is winning a bloody wrestling match… and murdering me opponents! And I don't even know who most of these opponents are! Amanda Reypiss? America Piss? Pissper Sanchez? Who are these pissy people?
Bentley: Well, you competed against Piper Sanchez just last week!
Cairns: Oh, please! SIR Chris Cairns - that's me! - can't even remember what he had for breakfast this morning, far less the fact that he defeated Pissper Sanchez just one week ago! Cairnsy has many important matters to tend to! REGAL matters! ROYAL matters! Matters of the CROWN! Matters of QUEEN and COUNTRY! And Cairnsy does not even really care to remember some unimportant little victory that he scored over a lowly peasant such as Pissper Sanchez! SIR CHRIS CAIRNS! SIR CHRIS CAIRNS!
Bentley: You didn't score a victory over Piper San-
Cairns: Fact is, Bentley, you fat shite, I nearly puked up the Weetabix I had for breakfast this morning when I saw that I had been booked to compete against all of these nobodies… Once I have disposed of them all and killed them, then I am going to officially challenge Lord Leon Pissbin to a GZW2K1 World Heavyweight Championship match at HeatPiss next month! CAIRNS CHRIS SIR! CHRIS SIR CAIRNS!!
Bentley: Uh…
Flustered, Cairns takes a deep breath.
Cairns: …SIR CHRIS CAIRNS!! That's what I meant to say!
Bentley: Right. Well, we have yet to mention the fact that your hated rival, Stephon Davis, will also be competing in your big multi-Globalstar match at Battlefield, so what do you have to say about that?
Cairns: What more CAN Cairnsy say?
Cairns turns to his lackeys. John Smith and Damien Shite-Knight both shrug. It is Necron the Grim Harvester who speaks in his bellowing, demonic voice.
Necron: You needn't waste words on Stephon Davis any longer, SIR Chris Cairns, because you are a man of action and you will squash Stephon like the bug that he is at Battlefield, and then I will bury him in my demonic graveyard! Muhahahahaha!!
Cairns: SIR CHRIS CAIRNS!
John Smith steps forward to the microphone, next. He is sweating profusely.
Smith: That's right! Stephon Davis is no match for you, SIR Chris Cairns! You defeated him once before at Heatwave last year and you will not rest until Stephon Davis is destroyed once and for all!
Cairns: SIR CHRIS CAIRNS!!!
Damien Shite-Knight steps forward next, being sure to curtsy before Cairns.
Damien: Oh, glorious SIR Chris Cairns, it will be so noble and so regal to witness Stephon Davis' downfall , SIR! It will be awe-inspiring to see you revel in your inevitable victory at Battlefield, SIR! And even more than all of that, SIR, it will be glorious… GLORIOUS… to see you defeat Lord Leon Pissbin in the Heatwave main event, SIR!
Cairns nods.
Cairns: That's reet, Damien Shite-Knight, you pathetic nobody! There is much to look forward to in the coming months. But now I must rest! Does Weston Bentley have any more questions?
Bentley: Several!
Cairns: Well… I can't be bothered answering them, so piss off. SIR CHRIS CAIRNS! SIR CHRIS CAIRNS! SIR CHRIS CAIRNS!!!
Cairns marches off, chanting his name and thrusting his sceptre into the air with each syllable. His goons follow. Fade to lilac.
Cairns: SIR CHRIS CAIRNS! SIR CHRIS CAIRNS! SIR CHRIS CAIRNS!
Bentley: Sir Chris Cairns, at London:Battlefield you are set to find yourself in the midst of much drama as you compete for the "Wild Card" Eddie Knoxville Television Championship! Your opponents all seem to be entangled in their own complex personal issues which continue to develop at an ongoing rate!
Cairns: Is SIR Chris Cairns the only sane Globalstar on this doomed, peasant-ridden roster? Look, Bentley, you fucking balloon, Cairnsy doesn't concern himself with such frivolous matters as whom is kissing whom, or whom is obtaining photographic evidence of whom kissing whomever whom should not be kissing, or leaving silly answer phone messages and fawning over your portable telecommunication devices like love-struck teenagers, because SIR Chris Cairns - that's me! - has absolutely no time for these petty high school squabbles! Let me ask you, Bentley: Is SIR Chris Cairns - once again, that's me! - competing in a match at Battlefield against four other Globalstars, with the "SIR Chris Cairns" Television Championship belt on the line? You're bloody reet he is, and that's all that matters! Nobody cares about whom is hugging whom, or whether Pissper Sanchez has a better phone tariff with more call minutes and texts and data than Amanda Reypiss. And nobody cares if America Piss has the brand new iPhone and it has a better camera on it than Pissper's Samsung! Don't you see, Bentley?
Bentley: …NO?!
Cairns: Neither does anyone else, because the GZW2K1 roster seems to have fallen into its very own High School Musical rendition and SIR Chris Cairns - again, that's me! - is having none of it! Cairnsy is the voice of bloomin' reason and all Cairnsy is interested in is winning a bloody wrestling match… and murdering me opponents! And I don't even know who most of these opponents are! Amanda Reypiss? America Piss? Pissper Sanchez? Who are these pissy people?
Bentley: Well, you competed against Piper Sanchez just last week!
Cairns: Oh, please! SIR Chris Cairns - that's me! - can't even remember what he had for breakfast this morning, far less the fact that he defeated Pissper Sanchez just one week ago! Cairnsy has many important matters to tend to! REGAL matters! ROYAL matters! Matters of the CROWN! Matters of QUEEN and COUNTRY! And Cairnsy does not even really care to remember some unimportant little victory that he scored over a lowly peasant such as Pissper Sanchez! SIR CHRIS CAIRNS! SIR CHRIS CAIRNS!
Bentley: You didn't score a victory over Piper San-
Cairns: Fact is, Bentley, you fat shite, I nearly puked up the Weetabix I had for breakfast this morning when I saw that I had been booked to compete against all of these nobodies… Once I have disposed of them all and killed them, then I am going to officially challenge Lord Leon Pissbin to a GZW2K1 World Heavyweight Championship match at HeatPiss next month! CAIRNS CHRIS SIR! CHRIS SIR CAIRNS!!
Bentley: Uh…
Flustered, Cairns takes a deep breath.
Cairns: …SIR CHRIS CAIRNS!! That's what I meant to say!
Bentley: Right. Well, we have yet to mention the fact that your hated rival, Stephon Davis, will also be competing in your big multi-Globalstar match at Battlefield, so what do you have to say about that?
Cairns: What more CAN Cairnsy say?
Cairns turns to his lackeys. John Smith and Damien Shite-Knight both shrug. It is Necron the Grim Harvester who speaks in his bellowing, demonic voice.
Necron: You needn't waste words on Stephon Davis any longer, SIR Chris Cairns, because you are a man of action and you will squash Stephon like the bug that he is at Battlefield, and then I will bury him in my demonic graveyard! Muhahahahaha!!
Cairns: SIR CHRIS CAIRNS!
John Smith steps forward to the microphone, next. He is sweating profusely.
Smith: That's right! Stephon Davis is no match for you, SIR Chris Cairns! You defeated him once before at Heatwave last year and you will not rest until Stephon Davis is destroyed once and for all!
Cairns: SIR CHRIS CAIRNS!!!
Damien Shite-Knight steps forward next, being sure to curtsy before Cairns.
Damien: Oh, glorious SIR Chris Cairns, it will be so noble and so regal to witness Stephon Davis' downfall , SIR! It will be awe-inspiring to see you revel in your inevitable victory at Battlefield, SIR! And even more than all of that, SIR, it will be glorious… GLORIOUS… to see you defeat Lord Leon Pissbin in the Heatwave main event, SIR!
Cairns nods.
Cairns: That's reet, Damien Shite-Knight, you pathetic nobody! There is much to look forward to in the coming months. But now I must rest! Does Weston Bentley have any more questions?
Bentley: Several!
Cairns: Well… I can't be bothered answering them, so piss off. SIR CHRIS CAIRNS! SIR CHRIS CAIRNS! SIR CHRIS CAIRNS!!!
Cairns marches off, chanting his name and thrusting his sceptre into the air with each syllable. His goons follow. Fade to lilac.
