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Messages - Best Of British

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Climax Control Archives / Scouting The Opposition
« on: August 18, 2014, 07:48:31 AM »
 Monday morning at the London Zoo. Despite the weather being less than ideal for a day out among the elements - with dull metal-grey clouds covering the sun and a less than amenable temperature for mid-August - more than a few people are milling around the popular Regent's Park attraction, taking in the sights, sounds and smells of exotic wildlife. Most of the visitors are parents of small children, who follow their offspring around as they flit excitedly between enclosures, or organised groups, with teachers or tour guides delivering information on the different exhibits and the animals therein. There are also a few young couples, presumably on a holiday or having taken the day off to enjoy the experience of visiting the zoo together.

One of these young couples can be found by the recently-renewed tiger enclosure. It consists of a man of average height, dressed in expensive khakis and with his hair tied back into a ponytail, and his glamorous date, who has the curves of a model and is clad in the very height of upmarket fashion. The two are attracting their fair share of looks as they stroll along - particularly the woman - but even more stares seem to centre on the third member of their party. This is a blond youth, dressed like his long-haired companion in an expensive-looking, perfectly pressed safari outfit. In his hand, he holds a pair of binoculars, which he presses to his eyes as he skulks around a pillar with exaggerated caution. As he tiptoes up to the glass partition dividing the tigers from the humans, he turns to the fourth member of the party - the one hidden behind the camera and filming the entire thing - and motions for them to come closer. A girlish giggle can be heard from off-frame as the camera-holder complies, edging nearer to the blond man. The moment they are sufficiently close, the youth whispers:

'Rupert Royston-Fellowes here. Together with my associate, Nigel Kensington III, we are the Best of British.'

The camera swivels around to focus on the ponytailed youth, who gives the camera a wave and a smirk, pulling his girlfriend closer. 'Say hello, Ronnie', he says, nuzzling at her ear. Giggling, the woman - SCW Bombshell and Mean Girls member Veronica Taylor - waves to the lens as well, before the focus switches back around to Rupert, who is now crouching next to the glass. In an audible whisper, he continues to explain:

'We find ourselves here at London Zoo this morning in an attempt to scout our opponents for the next edition of SCW Collision Course. Thus far, we have managed to slip by undetected, so I would thank you to make as little noise as you can. We wish to be able to observe our quarry in their natural environment, with as few disturbances as possible.'

Just as these words are escaping the blond Brit's lips, a young boy, maybe three years old, runs up and begins banging on the glass, yelling excitedly:

'TIGER! TIGER!'

Oblivious to the death glare he is receiving from Rupert, he continues to bounce up and down on the balls of his feet, pointing beyond the glass at the majestic animals. After a moment, he seems to notice the grown-up standing beside him and turns his cherubic face up to look at him.

'TIGER!', he chirrups. Rupert scowls pointedly, his upper lip curling in a sneer, but before he or any of his companions can say anything, the boy's parents catch up to him, his father scooping him up onto his shoulders. 'Sorry', the man says to Rupert as he, his wife and his son continue the tour. The wrestler responds with little more than a clearing of the throat, taking a moment to ensure the tiger has gone back to sleep before once again turning to the camera. Using the same stage whisper as before, he resumes his spiel:

'...hrm, yes, as I was saying, we do want to observe our antagonists in as natural an environment as possible.'

He once again brings the binoculars to his eyes, despite the fact that the tigers are clearly visible only a few feet away. After making a couple of expert-sounding noises in his throat, he beckons Nigel closer. As his 'associate' approaches the glass, Rupert holds out a finger, pointing at the animals inside the enclosure:

'Would you say that fellow over there is 'Big Tiger'?'

Nigel nods, taking the binoculars to get a closer look:

'Definitely. He is much larger than the other one.'

'So that would make that chap over there 'Dark Tiger', yes?'

'I suppose', Nigel says, uncertainly. 'Although he does not look all that dark to me, if I am honest. Perhaps there is a third one somewhere...?'

Another light, girlish giggle rises from off-camera at this point, leading to a pointed 'SHUSH!' from Rupert.

'Sorry...' the camera-holder whispers, confirming the fact that they are, indeed, female. Then, after a moment, she once again turns the focus to the tigers, as the two Best of British members can be heard muttering off-camera:

'Make a note, Nige. Remarkably out of shape...lazy...should pose absolutely no threat whatsoever.'

As if he had heard Rupert's words, the biggest of the two tigers suddenly springs to its feet, fully revealing his muscular, sinewy frame as he lets out a deep, rumbling growl.  Veronica Taylor, who had been tapping on the glass to try and get the animal's attention, leaps back into the safety of her boyfriend's arms with a gasp. As for their third wheel, he simply raises an eyebrow:

'Oh. I suppose he heard us.'

Then, to the tiger:

'Isn't that right, you big dumb brute?! You heard what we said about you, did you not?'

Inside the enclosure, the tiger begins to pace back and forth agitatedly, but Rupert does not seem in the least bit intimidated. Instead, he lets his trademark cocky smirk invade his features, as he continues to rile up the powerful predator. Nigel, who has actually wandered over to the information panels and begun to read them, tries to interject with a warning:

'Erm, Rupert...? You might want to be careful. According to this, tigers are quite accomplished at leaping...'

To this, the blond responds only with a dry chuckle:

'Nigel, please...what good is leaping when you cannot land? And that is what we saw in our esteemed opponents' debut...a lot of leaping with very little actual landing!'

'Er, Rupes...? They did win their match...' his partner retorts, ever the voice of reason. Rupert, however, remains unconcerned:

'...and what of it? So did we, in case you have forgotten. And I must say, their opposition was somehow even more pathetic than ours! Why, our stable boys could have beaten those two 'surfers'! No, old chap, you are allowing yourself to fuss over nothing at all!'

Here, the blond finally turns his back on the tigers, devoting his full attention to the camera:

'You see, the two of us...we are Britons. Our ancestors ruled over large parts of the uncivilised world. And as you may or may not be aware, one of our largest conquered colonies was India...the home of the tiger.'

Rupert
begins to walk towards the camera, his cocky grin in full force:

'For Nigel and I, wrestling tigers is in our blood. It matters little if they are Big Tigers, or Dark Tigers, or Tiger Electronics. If they pounce at us, they are going to end up subjugated. For you see, they may have the advantage when it comes to speed, power, arguably even fierceness...but ultimately, they are still only dumb brute beasts. We have the superior intellect, the cunning...and the 'guns'.'

His cocky grin intensifying, the blond youth flexes each of his arms in turn, bringing his well-developed muscles into evidence. Only after showing them off for a long moment does he proceed:

'Besides, tigers are an endangered species. And as Nige and I have abundantly demonstrated in our debut a few weeks ago, we specialise in making Dying Breeds...into Extinct Breeds.'

Pausing for a moment, the wrestler casts a look back towards his companions, throwing them a wink:

'I hear Veronica there is quite fond of tiger-print...is that right, darling?'

Veronica nods enthusiastically, and Rupert grins:

'Well, on Sunday, I shall make sure Nigel has a brand new tiger fur coat to gift to you...or perhaps a nice rug?'

The SCW Bombshell giggles as the dashing blond throws her and his best friend another wink. 'And who knows', he concludes, 'if Delia Darling is able to stop flirting with every chap she meets, perhaps I shall reserve the other one to gift to her.'

With one final, cocky wink to the camera, the tag-team superstar immediately snaps out of promo mode and turns to his party:

'Shall we move on?'

'Quite', Nigel nods. 'Ronnie would like to go look at the elephants. She says they remind her of the SCW bombshells...'

It is with a smug laugh at Veronica's barb that the two wrestlers and their dates - or rather, Nigel's date and whoever is holding the camera - turn away from the tiger enclosure and prepare to continue their tour of the zoo.

2
Climax Control Archives / The REAL Dying Breed
« on: August 01, 2014, 05:04:57 PM »
 The day before yet another episode of Climax Control, a video goes up on the Sin City Wrestling website. Entitled 'The REAL Dying Breed', its thumbnail features two dapper young men sitting at what appears to be the counter at an upscale bar or nightclub. Once viewers press the 'Play' button, it becomes apparent that that is indeed the case, although the video is clearly being taped before rush hour begins.

As the scene opens, one of the two youths - the better-built one, with slicked-back blond hair and clad in a clearly expensive blazer over a dress shirt - is whispering something in the ear of a voluptuous brunette; by his side, his leaner partner, also dressed in expensive designer clothes adhering to a 'smart casual' style, watches and laughs as the girl slaps his friend and stalks indignantly away.

'You clearly laid on the charm with that one, didn't you, mate?'

'It is as I always say, Nige', the man sighs, turning to his partner with an expression of false resignation. 'You simply can't win them all.'

Then, as if noticing the camera for the first time, he starts. A moment later, a smirk crosses his lips.

'Why, hello there! How perfectly sociable of you to have joined us! I do not believe we have been formally introduced. I am Rupert Royston-Fellowes. This is my associate, Nigel Kensington III. Together, we are the Best of British.'

The man wiggles a finger back and forth between himself and his partner before continuing:

'What is that you say? You have never heard of us? Well, of course you haven't! You are Americans, after all, are you not? You make up for with stupidity what you lack in awareness and sophistication.'

A dry, smug chuckle escapes the youth's lips at this point before he continues:

'Allow us to enlighten you. Not only are we the cream of the crop of British professional grappling, and the future of the sport when it comes to tag teams, we are also successful, rich, well-appointed and indecently handsome.'

Rupert widens his smirk, one that has either made dozens of girls fall at his feet or had the opposite effect. With that firmly in place once again, he continues:

'Now, normally, I would not set foot on a cesspool of crassness such as the United States...well, other than to visit certain acquaintances of mine in Manhattan penthouses and in Hollywood. You can thank the Kensington family for the privilege of seeing me in action.'

He jerks a thumb towards Nigel, who nods, smiling slightly, but still says nothing.

'You see, my associate here, along with his cousin, the lovely Katherine, have convinced me to give this Sin City place a whirl. Katherine in particular had nothing but kind words for the place and the people working in it. Now, I am aware that Katie is prone to flights of fancy, and tends to find everything even slightly above acceptable level charmingly delightful; even still, I thought it might be good fun to take a little holiday overseas and show the classless, base, boorish Yanks how Chelsea boys fare in the ring. Besides...I shall be able to wine and dine the lovely Delia.'

Here, Rupert's smirk becomes almost tender for a moment, before being replaced with an exaggerated grimace:

'However...it does seem as though we have started things off on the wrong foot, does it not? Dear o dear!'

Nigel chuckles, but his partner does not seem amused:

'You see, instead of finding suitable competition for us to face on our debut, this Sin City Wrestling trots out an absolute joke. I realise they may want to grant us an easy victory as a welcome package, but the way they went about it is borderline insulting!'

Here, for the first time, the 'silent partner' pipes up:

'At least their name is accurate...'

This makes Rupert laugh, in spite of himself:

'...yes, at least there is that!'

Then, turning back to the camera:

'You see, these two...I hasten to call them gentlemen...are indeed a 'dying' breed. As in, they may literally be dying. For you see, having acquired the services of two toned young gentlemen such as ourselves, Sin City Wrestling saw fit to pit said young gentlemen against an aging, out-of-shape troglodyte and the man responsible for training him!?'

A gasped chuckle of disbelief escapes the youngster's lips as he continues, getting progressively more and more agitated:

'Is this some sort of jape? Is this really the best you can muster in terms of male tag-team grappling, Sin City? Team Geezer? The Old-Timers? Statler and Waldorf? Honestly? Was there absolutely no one else who might have given our debut a little...dignity?'

The young man pauses, collecting himself a moment before continuing, with a sneer:

'Still, if we must face these boors, I suppose I might dispense some advice. And Mr. Garcia, Mr. Darrell, if you are listening to this, turn your speakers up, as I loathe to have to repeat myself.'

Rupert
leans in closer to the camera and proceeds:

'First things first. Andrew, how about a little exercise, to get rid of that belly? My personal trainer, Traci, is absolutely wonderful! I could have a word, if you'd like...? Oh, but what am I saying, you could never in your life hope to afford her services!'

The blond youth has another private chuckle:

'Simply locate whatever the low-income alternative to Traci is - most likely some overweight sixty-year-old who plays for the other team - and for goodness's sake stop being an embarrassment to everyone who is forced to work alongside you!'

Another brief pause, then:

'As far as you are concerned, Mr. Darrell, I shall refrain from further comments. I was taught by my father to respect the elderly.'

The youth stops for another beat, then concludes:

'And as for the management of Sin City Wrestling...I suppose I may be persuaded to forgive your poor judgement, seeing as this is our first appearance and you were not to know. I do expect, however, that you will raise the standard of competition in upcoming weeks. At the risk of seeing your entire tag team division thoroughly humiliated. For you see, we are the real 'dying breed'...a dying breed of fully-rounded, purely skilled athlete. And commencing this Sunday...we shall be demonstrating as much to the Sin City viewership at large.'

Here, Nigel cuts across, driving a shoulder lightly into Rupert's chest as he gazes somewhere off-frame:

'Rupert...!'

'I'm talking, Nigel!', his partner snaps irritably.  Nigel, however, insists, nudging the blond youngster yet again:

'No...Rupert...!'

'WHAT?' Rupert snaps, most undignifiedly, before following  Nigel's line of sight. What he sees there immediately causes him to change his attitude, eagerly rising from the stool he had been sitting in and forgetting his drink. As he begins to stand, however, he notices the camera crew - presumably hired by himself - still standing there, and waves them off with a dismissive wave of the hand:

'Run along! Shoo! Off you go!'

With this, the dashing but cocky wrestling superstar hastens forward towards whatever awaits him off-frame, as the video abruptly ends.

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