Post by George Duke on May 21, 2007 21:26:48 GMT -6
George Duke has been training very hard for his upcoming match. Big Ci is a powerful opponent, who is hungrier for a victory than the last time they met. This time there is a lot more at stake – and this time he’s wiser, as well. Duke is working overtime this week. He trains all day, until he collapses onto the couch, where he plans out strategies all night. This match has become George’s life for the week – he wants to make sure he comes out on top.
The hour is late, now. The streets are dark, and Duke’s apartment is dimly lit, the walls covered in long shadows. He sits at his kitchen table enjoying a cigar, having spent the day training vigorously. With his framed picture of John Wayne looking down from the wall, Duke grins as he looks at a box across the table.
"In England, they have a ruler who doesn’t rule. They waste money to pamper some old hag and her awful family, having them safeguarded in a castle. A mousy man actually runs the country – but is God ever saving The Prime Minister? I’ve rarely heard it. The queen is on money, on signs – she is held above all else and the people love her for doing nothing more than barely waving at a bunch of wonky-toothed cretins that stare, drooling and excited, at her carriage as it goes by. Jewels and riches are gifted to her, her family are privileged. They all hold the title of ‘royalty’, which is a mystery concept in itself, making them ten times better than any regular person who might actually work for a living. All of a supposed United Kingdom looks up at a pack of inept, inbred imbeciles as their figurehead, championing them in song and speech everyday. Why? Because like so much else in the backwards world of a shattered empire – it’s tradition. Tradition reminds them of how they used to rule the world. Tradition reminds them of how they used to be feared and powerful. Man, it’s all been downhill since the colonies handed their ass to them. They make like they don’t care now, you see. They call it a tantrum. Hah! Some tantrum, limeys! Not a big deal – that’s exactly why you came back and tried again – and lost again. You pricks can’t stand that you lost us, it drives you insane. You can’t stand that we set up this great system of government. You don’t like to talk about how you adopted our style. You don’t like to talk about how we saved your ass in two World Wars. Hell, Churchill was the only great man among you pack of rats for a long time. Not like this ghastly thin nosed c*nt. I’d like to see Saucy Jack set upon her, honestly. Good man, him – he may well have been a Dukenfield.”
Duke nods, proud of the idea that he could be related to the most famous serial killer in history.
“Now – this ridiculous kingdom’s native son, Big Ci. Son, don’t let the tapping go to your head. It got you off of me, didn’t it? You thought you won, haha! All that rain must have made your brain soggy – George Duke outsmarted you once again – deal with it. Ci, you can come at me with whatever you want. You may have been a different man, you may have been extreme, but you mustn’t forget that we’re fight under Valor Title rules. This is not a hardcore match, Ci. Like you, I’m a man who probably could have held either one of these title that we are unifying, though they are complete opposites. I can see that you want a fight, Ci. I’ll give you a d**n fight, alright.”
Duke raises his fist. He squeezes it so tight, that the color is draining from knuckles, a small beat of sweat runs down his wrist.
“I’m gonna take this fist and I’m gonna leave my imprint all over your d**n face, Ci. You want to fight? We’ll f*cking fight, Ci.”
Duke raises his other arm and pulls up his sleeve, revealing his cast. It sports a lovingly airbrushed, if not entirely unflattering, portrait of the queen.
“Nice, eh? I had it done at a fleamarket. Took over a couple hours, but it was completely worth the extra money. You see, Ci – when I use this cast to crack your friggin’ skull open, I want you to bleed all over ol’ mumsy. I want it to look like the wretched old bird is busted open, herself! Haha! Now, I guess that I don’t have to tell you that my father, being an Irish immigrant, didn’t exactly speak highly of the British. I’m raised Irish Catholic, and no matter what kind of troubles me and the man upstairs are having – I’d feel honored to be his avenging sword at Supermania. I’d be happy to take down a son of the oppressor – the tyrant of my people. I feel like I’m chosen… like… like I have a… divine right.”
Duke opens the box on the table, removing a picture of The Queen and a costume King’s crown. George sets the crown on his head and smiles. He takes his cigar from the ashtray and burns a hole through the queen’s face from behind the photo. He lets the picture fall to the floor, stomping on it once or twice to make sure the glowing orange embers are permanently quelled. George looks up at the camera with a grin. He takes a rich puff of his Duke Cigar and beams.
“The Queen is dead. Long live the King.”
The hour is late, now. The streets are dark, and Duke’s apartment is dimly lit, the walls covered in long shadows. He sits at his kitchen table enjoying a cigar, having spent the day training vigorously. With his framed picture of John Wayne looking down from the wall, Duke grins as he looks at a box across the table.
"In England, they have a ruler who doesn’t rule. They waste money to pamper some old hag and her awful family, having them safeguarded in a castle. A mousy man actually runs the country – but is God ever saving The Prime Minister? I’ve rarely heard it. The queen is on money, on signs – she is held above all else and the people love her for doing nothing more than barely waving at a bunch of wonky-toothed cretins that stare, drooling and excited, at her carriage as it goes by. Jewels and riches are gifted to her, her family are privileged. They all hold the title of ‘royalty’, which is a mystery concept in itself, making them ten times better than any regular person who might actually work for a living. All of a supposed United Kingdom looks up at a pack of inept, inbred imbeciles as their figurehead, championing them in song and speech everyday. Why? Because like so much else in the backwards world of a shattered empire – it’s tradition. Tradition reminds them of how they used to rule the world. Tradition reminds them of how they used to be feared and powerful. Man, it’s all been downhill since the colonies handed their ass to them. They make like they don’t care now, you see. They call it a tantrum. Hah! Some tantrum, limeys! Not a big deal – that’s exactly why you came back and tried again – and lost again. You pricks can’t stand that you lost us, it drives you insane. You can’t stand that we set up this great system of government. You don’t like to talk about how you adopted our style. You don’t like to talk about how we saved your ass in two World Wars. Hell, Churchill was the only great man among you pack of rats for a long time. Not like this ghastly thin nosed c*nt. I’d like to see Saucy Jack set upon her, honestly. Good man, him – he may well have been a Dukenfield.”
Duke nods, proud of the idea that he could be related to the most famous serial killer in history.
“Now – this ridiculous kingdom’s native son, Big Ci. Son, don’t let the tapping go to your head. It got you off of me, didn’t it? You thought you won, haha! All that rain must have made your brain soggy – George Duke outsmarted you once again – deal with it. Ci, you can come at me with whatever you want. You may have been a different man, you may have been extreme, but you mustn’t forget that we’re fight under Valor Title rules. This is not a hardcore match, Ci. Like you, I’m a man who probably could have held either one of these title that we are unifying, though they are complete opposites. I can see that you want a fight, Ci. I’ll give you a d**n fight, alright.”
Duke raises his fist. He squeezes it so tight, that the color is draining from knuckles, a small beat of sweat runs down his wrist.
“I’m gonna take this fist and I’m gonna leave my imprint all over your d**n face, Ci. You want to fight? We’ll f*cking fight, Ci.”
Duke raises his other arm and pulls up his sleeve, revealing his cast. It sports a lovingly airbrushed, if not entirely unflattering, portrait of the queen.
“Nice, eh? I had it done at a fleamarket. Took over a couple hours, but it was completely worth the extra money. You see, Ci – when I use this cast to crack your friggin’ skull open, I want you to bleed all over ol’ mumsy. I want it to look like the wretched old bird is busted open, herself! Haha! Now, I guess that I don’t have to tell you that my father, being an Irish immigrant, didn’t exactly speak highly of the British. I’m raised Irish Catholic, and no matter what kind of troubles me and the man upstairs are having – I’d feel honored to be his avenging sword at Supermania. I’d be happy to take down a son of the oppressor – the tyrant of my people. I feel like I’m chosen… like… like I have a… divine right.”
Duke opens the box on the table, removing a picture of The Queen and a costume King’s crown. George sets the crown on his head and smiles. He takes his cigar from the ashtray and burns a hole through the queen’s face from behind the photo. He lets the picture fall to the floor, stomping on it once or twice to make sure the glowing orange embers are permanently quelled. George looks up at the camera with a grin. He takes a rich puff of his Duke Cigar and beams.
“The Queen is dead. Long live the King.”
