Rose-Tinted Goggles

In Promo by Viper Roberts

I once knew this punk who thought of himself as one of these free fucking spirit-types.

He was like something straight out of the 60s, but in his own warped mind, this bohemian was somewhat of a New Age fucking traveller, sent from some fancy-schmancy world – well beyond our own.

With banners raised high above his tie-dyed head of hair, he would march barefoot from here to Woodstock and back again, spouting his bullshit whilst confessing to be part of some do-good, fringe fucking culture movement.

Truth be told, he was no more than a foul-mouthed hippie cunt who just liked to have everyone believe he was wired differently to the rest of us.

To look at he was just a scrawny black motherfucker, but that didn’t stop him from telling you what he really thought of you, hitting on your girl, or flipping you the bird once in a while.

As part of his outlandish ensemble, he used to wear these decorative, rose-coloured glasses, and through them said he could envision things the Average Joe couldn’t.

Consequently, these fancy accessories gave him an ill-deserved confidence that would really get your fucking back up.

An unsystematic arrogance that his fried old, fused-together mind just couldn’t resist tapping the fuck in to.

You know something, Champ, you remind me of that old tree-hugging bastard I used to know.

I mean let’s face facts shall we? Ever since your Volkswagen Type 2 pulled up outside the gates of this rainbow gathering we all know as Old School Wrestling, you’ve been causing quite the stir with your beatnik appearance and freethinking fucking attitude.

With that trusty visor worn across your face and those cybernetic implants buried deep in that neck of yours, you’ve gone about your business, yelling insults and hollering slurs at just about anyone or anything that has entered the sight line of those rose-tinted goggles, ain’t ya?

Through the act of wearing them, you’ve been granted access to everyone’s personal files, and with an infinite fucking pool of knowledge at your disposal, you have been given the tools to outmanoeuvre, outmuscle and outfox every individual within your peripheral field.

And once you’ve inevitably gotten the better of your adversaries; when you’ve overwhelmed them with that bionic arm of yours, deleting their records for good, you proceed to run your vulgar fucking tongue as if you’re deserving of the esteem.

As though your scrawny, black ass, is worthy of the praise.

You think you’re a Bad Mother Fucker, huh?

Well I think you’re just a good fucking hustler, crawling the world wide web of OSW, scamming every trusting motherfucker that signs up to your shit.

Because without that visor, Zero? You’re nothing, just a man without a prayer or a dog without a bone – completely sightless without his rose-tinted goggles to help him see straight.

And at Fuck The World come that Main Event, you’re gonna walk straight into a nest of fucking vipers, punk.

And when you do?

The Snakes will cut your head off.