Storm in a Teacup

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Viper Roberts
Posts: 138
Joined: Mon Nov 30, 2020 10:23 am

Storm in a Teacup



My grandma on my mother’s side was English.

As a kid, I’d sit with her for hours while she reeled off a myriad of weird and wonderful British saws to me.

She knew hundreds of these fucking witticisms, from chip off the old block, to barking up the wrong tree, to crying over spilt milk.

Truth be told, the old girl came out with so many of these sayings over the years that it’s nigh-on fucking impossible to remember every single one exclusively.

That said - there is one in particular that sits rooted in my memory.

It happened to be one of her personal fucking favourites.

A storm in a teacup.

Like most of her old sayings, I didn’t have the first fucking idea what she was harping on about the first time I heard it, but gran in her able wisdom was always on hand to deliver its profound meaning.

‘A storm in a teacup, dear boy, is a situation whereby a great amount of noise is made about someone or something that is in no way important.’

Spending time with gran was a fucking education, and unbeknownst to me at the time, the knowledge she passed on held me in ample fucking stead for what was to come.

For adulthood; for life.

For the melodramatic bitches of this world whose lives play out just like a storm in said fucking teacup.

When I think back to those early years and my gran trying to come up with examples for which to impart on me, she needn’t have looked any further than someone like you, Luke.

You’re the very definition of a storm in a teacup.

For as long as these walls can remember, society has made an almighty fucking racket over the four-flushing bastard better known as Luke Storm.

Whether it was back in high school, MMA circles, or the fledgling days of your acting career, you have forever been the orchestrator of your own duplicitous success.

The conductor who grasped the proverbial teaspoon between his fingers and stirred the proverbial tea around the proverbial cup.

Your journey has had many convolutions, hasn’t it? Twisting and turning like a labyrinth that eventually brought you here to Old School Wrestling; to the Slaughterhouse, where you finally became the celebrity you always dreamed of becoming.

You became a king.

A champion.

The Real f’n Deal.

But whilst you were busy immersing yourself in doing what you have always done, pulling the wool over the eyes of those who naively lay theirs upon you, you failed to notice one thing.

That your trickery has no effect on me, son.

I know a snake charmer when I see one, and your silver-spooned pungi counts for nothing in my Pit.

You are no more an orchestrator than you are a Bad Mother Fucker, and if anyone should know - it’s me.

I was the one that cranked up the volume and turned you Hollywood, Luke.

It will be me that just as easy silences you and takes it all away again.

And as for the Real fucking Deal?

Well, you’re just real fucking finished.
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