Mine 2 Bury - Printable Version +- X-treme Wrestling Federation (https://xwf1999.com) +-- Forum: Warfare Boards (https://xwf1999.com/forumdisplay.php?fid=6) +--- Forum: Warfare RP Board (https://xwf1999.com/forumdisplay.php?fid=12) +--- Thread: Mine 2 Bury (/showthread.php?tid=49689)

Mine 2 Bury - (Gravy_Xtreme_5000) - 01-28-2026 It’s early. Too early for tourists, too late for the night crowd. 5:00AM, give or take. The Strip glows brightly a few blocks away... nobody wanders over here by accident. This part of town doesn’t offer anything that any sane person is looking for. An abandoned theater sits off the road, broken fence, cracked pavement. The marquee above it still has power, but half the letters are gone. The ones left don’t spell anything that makes sense. Micheal Graves stands under it with the Anarchy Championship hanging out of the front of his tights. He looks up at the sign for a while, like there's some profound message staring back. "Yeah, this'll do..." He then slips through a broken window. The place smells bad. The smell of decay. Whatever was supposed to happen here already happened. Whatever mattered here doesn't anymore. Graves steps closer. Glass crunches under his boots. "You would’ve hated this place." He reaches into his cape and pulls out a cigarette. He doesn't light it, but instead rolls it between his fingers with nervous energy. "They say you reached too high. Like that’s some sorta flaw. Like that’s worse than never reaching at all." Graves scoffs. "You didn’t burn out, you went up fast and you hit 'em with everything you had. What came after wasn't a fall, it's just the price paid for trying to keep up with a place that never slows down." Silence hangs for a second as Graves sucks his teeth. "They put your face on things." His bottom lip curls. "Put you on blast to the world like they earned the right. I’ll talk shit about you. I'll slap you around and embarrass you in front of all your uppity friends. You know that. You've felt that." A pause as he lights the cigarette and takes a drag. "That’s mine." The belt slips a little. He lets it. "But strangers? Strangers don’t get to do that." He takes another drag. "You weren’t there to defend yourself. So they thought it was okay." His jaw tightens. "Calling you ugly like it was some sort of punchline." Graves exhales smoke through his nose. "Funny thing... I’ve called you worse." A crooked grin forms. "Said it to your face. Said it close enough you could smell it." He takes another drag, then taps ash onto the floor without looking. "Difference is, nobody clapped after." Graves paces a slow half-circle as he talks, his boots scraping against concrete and old debris. "I didn’t dress it up. Didn’t bring props. Didn’t invite an audience." He stops. "I meant it. Every word." The belt scrapes along the floor as he lowers himself to eye level with whoever he’s addressing. "And when I say it? It's with love. But others? They don't get the right." Another drag. Slower this time. "That’s the rule." Graves straightens back up. "You disappear for a minute and suddenly everybody thinks they've got jokes." A scoff. "Like nobody stopping them meant it was allowed." He shakes his head. "There was a man in that building," Graves says, not naming names, "and he stood there and did nothing." Graves smile thins. "No words. No hands. No fuckin' spine." He flicks the cigarette away into the dark. "Walked into the fight later like he was clocking in for a 9-5." A long heavy exhale. "That offended me." Graves turns away for a moment, running a hand over his face, then looks back again. "You’re not dead, you’re just gone." "That’s different." The camera slowly pulls back now, widening the shot. The ruined seats. The torn screen. The collapsed ceiling in the far corner. And then, what Graves has been talking to. At the center of the theater floor sits an unflattering bust. Dolly Waters. Graves looks down at it. "I figured the trash was a bad place for you." He adjusts the belt at his waist and turns toward the exit. "Now that I've found you a new home, I'll handle your deadbeat Unc." The broken window lets in the first hint of morning as Graves disappears into it, leaving the statue alone in the abandoned theater. The Tape Never Lies. The footage starts rolling before I even sit down. Just me and the glow of the monitor bouncing off old concrete walls. RL Edgar walks out on screen. Crowd’s loud for him. Half respect, half nostalgia, zero earned. I don’t hear it, though. Volume’s off. I don’t need the commentary. They’re not gonna say what I’m thinking anyway. His eyes never leave Amara, who is here to steal a scene. Edgar is more than willing to let her. First mistake. She kicks him in the leg. Cute little thing. Twirls like she’s auditioning for a perfume ad. Edgar finally shows some fuckin' emotion. Second mistake. The pace picks up. Amara drops him. He gets up. She hits him again. He stumbles. The crowd's confused. So was I, the first time I watched it. I’m not confused anymore. I rewind. Pause. There he is. RL Edgar. Staring up at the lights. Not reaching. Not fighting. Just existing in the middle of the ring like a fuckin' NPC. Third mistake. I lean forward. Tap the spacebar. Match plays on. Amara controls the ring like she owns the lease. Edgar’s still waiting for his cue to do something impressive. She takes a water break. Literally. He lets her. Fourth. He gets mad eventually. Starts swinging. Crowd wakes up. But it’s too late, she hits her Scene Stealer. Bang. One. Two. Three. Fade to black. I don’t move for a long time. Just stare at Edgar on the paused screen, almost in disbelief. She didn't just embarrass him... He let her do it. I stand. The metal legs of the chair scream against the floor. Good. At least something in this room still knows how to react. I walk over to the door. Pull it open slow. The hallway outside is empty. Cold. Sterile. Just like he was. I wasn’t planning to see him so soon. Not like this. Not under bright lights and clean ropes and tournament brackets. But the names got drawn. And there he is. First round. First blood. And maybe I should be focused on the crown. On the headline. On the main event slot waiting at the end of the bracket. But before I beat Edgar to advance? I’m gonna beat him because I want to. Because the world handed me this man, wrapped in silence and soft hands, and asked if I had anything I’d like to say. I do. But I’m gonna say it the way he should’ve, with my fists, and on time. Some people swing too late. I don’t. "I want to be very clear about something before we start, RL. This isn’t anger. Anger would mean you matter. Anger would mean I woke up thinking about you. Anger would mean you disrupted something.  You didn’t.  And you never have.  This isn’t heat, this isn’t emotion, this isn’t even disappointment.  This is inventory.  This is me asking why there’s a loose shopping cart rattling around the parking lot pretending it’s transportation. That shopping cart is you. Bent handle. One wheel doesn't roll. Smells like piss no matter how many times it's rained on.  Technically still there. Technically still upright. Technically still “functional” if someone’s desperate enough to push it.  And that’s the problem.  Everybody keeps walking around you carefully instead of doing the decent thing and shoving you into the ditch where you belong. I don’t do careful. You treat waiting like a virtue. Act like patience is some noble skill instead of what it really is, fear under a mask. You sit silent and call it wisdom, growth, maturity, perspective. Pretty it up all you want, son, but I see it for what it is—hesitation pretending to be enlightenment. You're waiting around for what? Clarity? Inner peace? For Karma to swing your way and say, "Okay buddy, you deserve this."  Adorable. Naive. So you. Ever stop to think that's how people miss trains, watch doors close, and end up preaching on empty platforms, bullshitting themselves it just wasn't the right time? Waiting isn't wisdom, RL. It's fear, plain and simple. You want to know the difference between us? When things fall apart in my life, I break something back! I don’t journal about it. I don’t breathe through it. I don’t sit cross legged on the floor counting syllables and pretending that calm is the same thing as control.  I apply pressure.  I make noise.  I create consequence.  I. LEAVE. MARKS. When things fall apart in your life, you sit down and breathe about it. Deep inhale. Slow exhale. Count to ten. Let it go.  Repeat all that bullshit until the feeling passes.  Repeat until the moment is gone.  Repeat until all traces of manhood are expelled from your being. You know what I let go of? Excuses cosplaying as men. I'm talking to one right now. You talk about sobriety like it makes you brave. You didn’t slay a dragon, RL. You just quit setting yourself on fire. That’s step one. You never bothered taking step two. Step two would’ve been action.  Step two would’ve been deciding that being calm isn’t the same thing as being right. Step two would’ve been standing up when someone spat on your family’s name and saying no. Step two would’ve been hands-on.  Step two would’ve been choosing conflict over comfort. You skipped it. Because skipping is what you do. And here’s the part nobody likes to say out loud. You’re not harmless. You’re corrosive. Because guys like you teach everyone else that nothing has to be answered. That if you sit on your hands long enough, the problem will solve itself. You don’t lose loudly. You don’t fail spectacularly. You just… linger. Taking up oxygen. Taking up time. Taking up a spot someone hungrier could’ve used. You’re not a villain, RL. You’re worse. You’re permission to do nothing, and that's a lesson this roster can't survive. Fortunately this place doesn't survive on permission, it survives on consequences. And when consequences come calling, RL… they come in the form of Grave Consequences. Let’s talk about Dolly. No, don’t tense up. Don’t do that thing where you pretend you’re above it now. Above attachment. Above reaction. Above mess. You call it perspective earned through pain. I call it ducking. Someone dragged her name through the mud. Did it loud. Did it proud. Turned her into a prop. A joke. A punchline. They built a whole moment around it. Lights. Presentation. Applause. And you stood there. Hidden backstage. Probably sucking your thumb and praying for it all to end. Count to ten and act like it was just another thing you couldn’t control, so why bother trying. You didn’t even flinch. No words. No action. No instinct to defend the honor of someone incapable of doing so themselves. Just a grown man showing the entire world exactly who you were. And no... You weren’t the bigger man. You were the quieter coward. And then you had the audacity to wrestle later like nothing happened. Like you clocked in. Like violence is just another shift. I hate that. I hate people who treat this like a job. I hate people who think professionalism means emotional detachment. I hate people who think calm equals credibility. This isn’t therapy for me. This isn’t an outlet. This isn’t self-care. This is appetite. This is how I eat, motherfucker!  This is Xtreme Rules!  This is Las Vegas! Nothing here is subtle. Nothing here is gentle. Least of all—ME!" He lets out a huff and turns away from the camera. "You keep waiting for the universe to lay your fuckin' reward at your lazy, cold feet.  You keep thinking something good will eventually wander over and pat you on the ass, tell you good job. Tell you how you deserve this... Well, the universe finally answered the call, but the prize ain't what you hoped—because you've just won... An Xtreme playdate with the Dark Warrior. I don’t care about your higher power.  I don’t care about your breathing exercises.  I don’t care about the ghost of your father whispering reassurances in your ear while you try to convince yourself that inaction is strength. Your dead daddy ain't gonna help you when I’m applying pressure, and in my Xtreme playground, that mantra of yours won’t mean shit when your body has to make a decision your mind has spent years avoiding. You are not deep. You are not tragic. You are not misunderstood. You are simply late. The roster doesn’t owe you anything. The universe doesn’t owe you anything, just like I don’t owe you an ounce of fuckin' respect.  You had your chance to be something around here. You had your chance to matter. Instead, you chose to be careful. I chose to be fuckin' inevitable. So keep breathing. Keep telling yourself it's all part of some greater plan that'll click later. Keep believing time's on your side. Because when I’m done with you, RL, waiting is the only thing you’ll have left..." Gravy's Boneyard Later The gym lights are on, but the place feels empty. Miss Furry's already in the ring when Graves shows up. She's stretching out like she's trying to keep her mind off whatever brought her here in the first place. Graves tosses his bag by the ring steps. "Your stance is off. No balance. A chair to the dome would floor you right now." She shifts her feet and glances his way. "Quit looking for a pat on the back. Nobody's handing one out." She corrects her stance again.  Looks better this time. Graves climbs onto the apron and leans against the ropes. "You dealt with the press while I was out. Kept your mouth shut when you should've." She gives a quick nod and soft smile. "Don't smile. Do I look like I'm clapping for you?" She freezes with a hint of fear in her eyes. "You did the job that had to get done. That's it. That's the minimum... …You didn't make the school look bad." Miss Furry's eyes flick up, caught off guard. Graves sees it and instantly wishes he hadn't said it. "Don't make more of that than it is. I use people. You knew the deal walking in." She nods, then lets out: "I don't know if I'm ready." "Ready for what? For Oz." He steps into to the ring and looks down at her. "Oz isn't some test you study for. He's something you either handle or you don't." "I'm being for real, I don't know if I can—" "You can," he interrupts. "I didn't ask if you'd beat him. I asked if you'd even step in there." She looks thrown. "That's the real test, what do you do when faced with insurmountable odds? Winning? If you pull it off, that's just bonus points." She's staring at him now like she's searching for the catch. "But if I don't win, I don't graduate..." "You stuck around and didn't yap when things got heavy. Most people can't even say that." She swallows hard. "So… what exactly are you telling me?" Graves cracks a small smirk. "I'm telling you I don't give a damn if Oz wrecks you." Her jaw tightens. "I care about how you meet the situation, but if you're scared?" He hops through the ropes. "Good." Grabs his bag. "Means you're actually awake." And stops right at the doorway. "…And yeah, for whatever it's worth," he grumbles, sounding pissed at himself for even saying it, "you handle yourself well... Don't let it go to your fuckin' head." The door clicks shut behind him. Miss Furry stands alone in the ring. But not thrown out on her ass either, and that's about as close as Graves gets to saying "good job."