<![CDATA[X-treme Wrestling Federation - Anarchy RP Board]]> https://xwf1999.com/ Sat, 30 May 2026 19:08:17 +0000 MyBB <![CDATA[VilaroMaximum Performance!]]> https://xwf1999.com/showthread.php?tid=50087 Tue, 12 May 2026 21:23:34 -0700 Sir Lionel Pennyfarthing]]> https://xwf1999.com/showthread.php?tid=50087 ”Welcome back to… THE ACTIES!”



”Celebrating the best acting performances in the World of Professional Wrestling! Presenting our next award… Southern Gentleman Detective Clown!”

bac92449b28ddee0f34bf6847fe59700

”Thank ya kindly, Disembodied Announcer. My Father… Hard-Working Peanut Farmer Clown… Not to be confused with his brother, Shiftless-Layabout Clown… My Father once said when it came to things like cityfolk awards and accolades…”

GET ON WITH IT

”Ah, excuse me, I’ll move along like a crawdad submerging into the Mississippi River to escape the Savannah heat…”

SGDC straightens his notecards against his podium.

”Our next award is… Most Convincing Micheal Graves… Our nominees are…”

[Image: 1f7c8383-312a-46c0-be8e-bc0723054c91.png]

Five different Micheal Graves all do very Micheal Graves-y things… One steals a drink off a serving tray before realizing it’s not alcoholic and knocking over the rest of the drinks out of spite.

Another uses his steak knife to carve a chunk out of the wooden table and bite it…

And amidst all this ghoulishly grave Grave-ery? Is Sir Lionel, holding the notecards for his award acceptance speech!

”Now, before I announce the winner of this most… prestigious award… the Academy of Actors Within the Wrestling Industry would like me to announce that whoever DOESN’T win this award is…”

“Untalented.”

“Without gifts for acting.”

“And should be personally ashamed of themselves for daring to break character.”

…Lionel breaks into a cold sweat.

“I’m, of course, meaning… SIR LIONEL.”

…Suddenly, a spotlight shines down on Pennyfarthing! He squints, shielding his face…

”Ahhhhh…” The light sears his flesh… red boils emerge… ”Please… it burns…”

”What’s wrong, L-man? Lights too bright on the big stage?”

Lionel finds himself surrounded by Graveses… pointing and laughing at him…

Lionel looks down…

He’s before the entire world, center stage…

Wearing a cheap-looking tree costume like something out of a grade school play!

”BACKGROUND EXTRA! *clap clap clapclapclap*!” The Graveses chant…

Lionel’s throat is dry… his face caked in flop sweat… His hands, wielding two branches made of construction paper, shake and flit like leaves blown in the wind…

”uh… erm… to be…” He wheezes… the air is toxic, burning in his lungs… ”To… to be… a TREE or…”

SCHWAP! A script hits him in the face! Lionel turns his awkward tree body…

To see his agent, Gene Branagh… dressed like a Stage Manager, with a clipboard and headset.

”Read your lines, Lionel!”

Lionel nods, wiping away sweat with a branch, before opening the script.

…

It’s blank.

He flips to the next page.

And the next.

Every page blank… Somehow the following pages have less than zero words…

Negative space… like a vortex, like a black hole, where dialogue should be…

Sucking Lionel into it…

”No lines for a background extra…”


”GAAAAAAAAAAAASP!” Lionel shoots awake off the couch!

…Of the XWF employee lounge that he’s hung a little sign over to say…

Lionel’s Dressing Room


…Darkness… The only source of light is a television…

Lionel’s got an open, half-eaten tub of Dom Durango’s Italio-Australian Ice Cream sitting upon his chest…

Lemon Jelati and VEGEMITE


FLICK! The lights come on!

Lionel’s Agent, Gene Branagh, sighs exasperatedly beside the switch. ”Lionel, for the love of God… Pull it together! Since losing to Micheal Graves, all you’ve done is eat Dom Durango Ice Cream and watch Inside the Actor’s Studio!”

Gene sighs, grabbing the remote from the couch’s arm and flipping the TV off. [grene]”Shake it off, L! You lost! Big deal! You lose all the time!”[/green]

”At ACTING, EUGEEENE?” Lionel buries the spoon into the ice cream like Brutus burying his blade into Caesar’s back… If Brutus used a spoon and Caesar’s back were half-melted goop. ”At the artform to which I dedicated my LIFE!?!”

”Lionel, the match was literally impossible! You were asked to be a more convincing Micheal Graves… than the ACTUAL Micheal Graves! And you almost pulled it off! It took a genius detective… clown… to figure out you weren’t Graves!”

”He may be a Clown… but I WAS THE FOOL!” He buries his head in his hands. ”I broke character, Eugene. The worst thing an actor can do.”

”What about what Kevin Spacey did?”

Lionel smacks Eugene’s hand, before stealing the remote back from him and flipping the television back on.

”I am a THESPIAN! Shedding my ego to embody another… Without my art, I am hollow… not a man, but a shell… to fill with ice-ed cream..”

”Lionel, you needed to play a perfect game… And made ONE mistake! Just… get back out there! Give it another shot! This is a chance to play Vinnie Lane in the Vinnie Lane biopic! You were born for this role, L!”

”...You truly think so, Eugene?”

”Course I do! I mean, Vinnie’s lean and mean and you’re…”

…

”Mean. And Vinnie’s an elite-level athlete and you’re…”

…

”Level… headed… Look, L, you CAN play Vinnie! You’ve just gotta get back into shape. A little diet…”

Lionel takes another bite of ice cream… basically soup at this point.

”And exercise… and you’ll be a more convincing Vinnie Lane than Lane himself!”

Lionel sighs, licking a hardened vegemite chunk off his spoon…

“Feh and harumph, Eugen… The art has left me… And without my art…I am nothing.”

…

”Are you nothing, right now?”

”...Yes?”

”Feeling hollow? Instead of being a man, you’re an empty shell?”

”To fill with ice-ed cream! Yes!”

”The people around you are probably telling you that nobody’s perfect! Get back out there! Give it another shot! A little diet and exercise is all you need!”

”See? You just have t-”

”Those people are WRONG!”

”...What?”

”You will FAIL.”

”Other diet and exercise plans work TEMPORARILY. A pound lost here, a decent workout there… Minor, FLEETING successes!”

”But eventually?  YOU. WILL. SLIP.”

“YOU. WILL. FALL SHORT.”

”Any progress you make is TEMPORARY. Failure is forever. Imbued into your DNA.”

”...What the hell kinda commercial is this?”

On-screen, in her exercise studio…

Is the CEO of VilaroFit!

The Dean of VilaroU!

Marisol Vilaro!

”Oh God, this woman is insufferable…” Gene reaches for the remote.

”Don’t you dare disrupteth that vessel for truth!”

Lionel withholds the remote, enrapt by this divine goddess of wisdom

”The key to turning your wildest fantasies into reality?”

“Stop limiting yourself.”

“Why do you fail? Because you accept second best. Because you choose what’s EASY! What’s CONVENIENT! The exercise system that’s ‘Right for you’...”

Mari’s perfectly symmetrical nose wrinkles with revulsion.

”There is ONE system that GUARANTEES success. That WILL make your dreams come true! But it’s not the ‘right system for you’. But, YOU can become the right USER for it! So, why won’t YOU commit?”

”...Why won’t I commit? Commitment is the key to truly great performance!”

”We’re all about PEAK performance at VilaroFit.”

”And I am the consummate Perrrrrrrformer!”

“Stop failing yourself and choosing the second-best option!”

“Don’t Vilaro-Casual.”

“Don’t Vilaro-Bare-Minimum.”

“It’s time… to VILARO-MAXX!”

The VilaroMAXX logo flashes on screen with a number to call…

”...Pfff. She talks like a CULT LEADER. Can you believe that BS, Lionel?”

”Hello, yes?” Lionel shouts into his mobile phone… ”I’d like one Vilaro-Maxx please!”

…

”No, I don’t know what a Vilaro-Maxx is, but I WANT IT!”


”Basta ya! Enough!”

Vilaro stands on Lionel’s shoulders as he lays flat on his face, chest heaving… sweatstreaks running down his skull.

”*huffffffff* h-...how m-...*phew*... how many pushups… was that, Mistress?”

”You did NO pushups, Kitten-man. I commanded you to assume push-up position and you got gassed on the way to the floor.”

”*sputter*... perhaps I need… some Dom Durango cusine… for fortitude…”

Lionel unzips his exercise fanny pack, reaching for a handful of cooked linguine…

”Pendejo!” Mari raps against Lionel’s knuckles. ”All that Dom Durango trash will give you is Montezuma’s Revenge… Do you realize that Dom Durango lost his little cooking challenge show against Micheal Graves?!? MICHEAL GRAVES! Who was cooking with LITERAL TRASH! Dom Durango couldn’t make a dish better than ACTUAL GARBAGE? And HE’S supposed to be the XWF’s head chef! It’s like XVIII being called a champion.”

Mari sneers with disgust, thumbing her nose at the camera. ”Disgusting! We have to stop it! And by we, I mean ME. And if I have to whip your sorry British beans-and-toast body into shape to save this company from having a pegleg division after everyone on the roster loses a foot to Type 2 Diabetes? SO BE IT!”

Mari grabs Lionel by his ample chest hair, dragging him to his feet.

”Rise, kitten-man.”

”Uh… perhaps by ‘kitten-man’, you mean Lionel! Sir Lionel! OBE!”

”Mari means the words she chooses, kitten-man! LION is a name for an apex predator, not some morbidly obese housecat! Now, drop and give me twenty!”

”If… *sigh* if you were going to tell me to drop anyway, why did you… pull me back up…?”

”CALLATE, CABRON! TWENTY! NOW!”

Lionel flops onto his chest…

And then reaches into his fannypack…

And hands over a crisp twenty dollar bill.

”BUMBLING OAF!” Mari smacks Lionel’s hand.

…Before taking the twenty.

…She bites it to verify it’s good tender.

Aaaand she pockets it.

”Many physical trainers would call you a lost cause, kitten-man! If every body is a temple? Yours is a rotted, withered bundle of rubble!”

”Bundle??!” Lionel gasps, as he rises…

”But, you know what I see when I look at that rotted temple, kitten? I see BRICKS.”

…Lionel blushes, zipping up his exercise shorts. ”A thousand pardons I beg thee, madam, I’m more accustomed to… zipperless pantaloons of the bard’s age…”

SMACK! Mari smacks Lionel’s skull. ”Cochino! Not ‘bricked up’! I mean, building material. Potential. The opportunity to recycle scrap and waste and build something of VALUE.”

“Something little Miss Granger could never do herself. She returned to the XWF with the pomp and circumstance of a conquering heroine, destined to rule… But what does she have to show for it? One title reign in over a year and a few dozen missed opportunities! Every big match, she withered like an undeveloped muscle! Untested! FLABBY!”

“And SHE pretends to embody Revolution, with her gaudy little exercise belt around her waist? The only Revolution she represents is STAGNANCY! She parades around with has-beens like Sebastian Everett-Bryce and Isaiah King! Men who nostalgically remember their glory days because they haven’t done a damn thing worth celebrating in the last TWO YEARS.”

“Betsy’s so-called Revolution is one of complacency! Of embracing the way things are…”

“VilaroMaxx is DISRUPTION”

“A TRUE Revolution! Designed to lift those who give themselves wholly and without question!”

Mari eyes Lionel disdainfully.

”What about you, kitten-man? Are you happy with the status quo?”

…Lionel grits his teeth.

”Nay, Madam! I am TIRED of being a… an understudy! A special referee! A BACKGROUND EXTRA!”

“I, Sir Lionel Pennyfarthing! WAS BORN TO STAR!”

“Like CEO Vincent Lane, I came from humble beginnings! Of being a laughingstock!”

“No one who saw Lane’s debut match could have foreseen his meteoric rise! To holding the XWF Universal championship! To one day owning this entire damn theatre company!”

“Lane AND I are underdogs! Stars who weren’t gifted the stage, but TOOK IT!”

“I was BORN to play Vinnie Lane!”

“And I won’t let some… two-bit Bobby Flay flay me!”

“I won’t let some star-gazing trollop wallop me!”

“This is MY MOMENT!”

“AndI MUST!”

“Deliver the performance…”

“OF A LIFETIME!”

…

Mari nods.

”You’re almost ready, kitten-man.”

“You’re Vilaro-ing.”

“But are you Vilaro-Maxxing?”

”I am ready, Mistress! Whatever quest you bless me with to prove my fealty, I will PERRRRRFORM! Without hesitation.”

”Excellente.”

Mari crosses the exercise floor to her desk. ”Barnardo! Precioso!”

Preesh and Barney emerge from the shadows, grabbing Lionel’s shoulders.

From a drawer, Mari retrieves…

[Image: 360_F_101571591_06UDBxpsfOLocCdhn6tHAyOQgmS4P3GG.jpg]

…

”Now… when I said without hesitation…”


WHAM!

…

WHAM!

A mournful wail…

A metal clang against the floor.

”There… Perfecto.”

”..please… a mirror… my kingdom for a mirror…”

Mari wipes bloodspatter from her hands with an exercise towel...

”Show him.”

Barney and Preesh wheel Lionel before the gym’s exercise mirror…

”...My God…”

“I look…”

[Image: Jani_lane_portrait.jpg]
”Bodeaceous!”]]> ”Welcome back to… THE ACTIES!”



”Celebrating the best acting performances in the World of Professional Wrestling! Presenting our next award… Southern Gentleman Detective Clown!”

bac92449b28ddee0f34bf6847fe59700

”Thank ya kindly, Disembodied Announcer. My Father… Hard-Working Peanut Farmer Clown… Not to be confused with his brother, Shiftless-Layabout Clown… My Father once said when it came to things like cityfolk awards and accolades…”

GET ON WITH IT

”Ah, excuse me, I’ll move along like a crawdad submerging into the Mississippi River to escape the Savannah heat…”

SGDC straightens his notecards against his podium.

”Our next award is… Most Convincing Micheal Graves… Our nominees are…”

[Image: 1f7c8383-312a-46c0-be8e-bc0723054c91.png]

Five different Micheal Graves all do very Micheal Graves-y things… One steals a drink off a serving tray before realizing it’s not alcoholic and knocking over the rest of the drinks out of spite.

Another uses his steak knife to carve a chunk out of the wooden table and bite it…

And amidst all this ghoulishly grave Grave-ery? Is Sir Lionel, holding the notecards for his award acceptance speech!

”Now, before I announce the winner of this most… prestigious award… the Academy of Actors Within the Wrestling Industry would like me to announce that whoever DOESN’T win this award is…”

“Untalented.”

“Without gifts for acting.”

“And should be personally ashamed of themselves for daring to break character.”

…Lionel breaks into a cold sweat.

“I’m, of course, meaning… SIR LIONEL.”

…Suddenly, a spotlight shines down on Pennyfarthing! He squints, shielding his face…

”Ahhhhh…” The light sears his flesh… red boils emerge… ”Please… it burns…”

”What’s wrong, L-man? Lights too bright on the big stage?”

Lionel finds himself surrounded by Graveses… pointing and laughing at him…

Lionel looks down…

He’s before the entire world, center stage…

Wearing a cheap-looking tree costume like something out of a grade school play!

”BACKGROUND EXTRA! *clap clap clapclapclap*!” The Graveses chant…

Lionel’s throat is dry… his face caked in flop sweat… His hands, wielding two branches made of construction paper, shake and flit like leaves blown in the wind…

”uh… erm… to be…” He wheezes… the air is toxic, burning in his lungs… ”To… to be… a TREE or…”

SCHWAP! A script hits him in the face! Lionel turns his awkward tree body…

To see his agent, Gene Branagh… dressed like a Stage Manager, with a clipboard and headset.

”Read your lines, Lionel!”

Lionel nods, wiping away sweat with a branch, before opening the script.

…

It’s blank.

He flips to the next page.

And the next.

Every page blank… Somehow the following pages have less than zero words…

Negative space… like a vortex, like a black hole, where dialogue should be…

Sucking Lionel into it…

”No lines for a background extra…”


”GAAAAAAAAAAAASP!” Lionel shoots awake off the couch!

…Of the XWF employee lounge that he’s hung a little sign over to say…

Lionel’s Dressing Room


…Darkness… The only source of light is a television…

Lionel’s got an open, half-eaten tub of Dom Durango’s Italio-Australian Ice Cream sitting upon his chest…

Lemon Jelati and VEGEMITE


FLICK! The lights come on!

Lionel’s Agent, Gene Branagh, sighs exasperatedly beside the switch. ”Lionel, for the love of God… Pull it together! Since losing to Micheal Graves, all you’ve done is eat Dom Durango Ice Cream and watch Inside the Actor’s Studio!”

Gene sighs, grabbing the remote from the couch’s arm and flipping the TV off. [grene]”Shake it off, L! You lost! Big deal! You lose all the time!”[/green]

”At ACTING, EUGEEENE?” Lionel buries the spoon into the ice cream like Brutus burying his blade into Caesar’s back… If Brutus used a spoon and Caesar’s back were half-melted goop. ”At the artform to which I dedicated my LIFE!?!”

”Lionel, the match was literally impossible! You were asked to be a more convincing Micheal Graves… than the ACTUAL Micheal Graves! And you almost pulled it off! It took a genius detective… clown… to figure out you weren’t Graves!”

”He may be a Clown… but I WAS THE FOOL!” He buries his head in his hands. ”I broke character, Eugene. The worst thing an actor can do.”

”What about what Kevin Spacey did?”

Lionel smacks Eugene’s hand, before stealing the remote back from him and flipping the television back on.

”I am a THESPIAN! Shedding my ego to embody another… Without my art, I am hollow… not a man, but a shell… to fill with ice-ed cream..”

”Lionel, you needed to play a perfect game… And made ONE mistake! Just… get back out there! Give it another shot! This is a chance to play Vinnie Lane in the Vinnie Lane biopic! You were born for this role, L!”

”...You truly think so, Eugene?”

”Course I do! I mean, Vinnie’s lean and mean and you’re…”

…

”Mean. And Vinnie’s an elite-level athlete and you’re…”

…

”Level… headed… Look, L, you CAN play Vinnie! You’ve just gotta get back into shape. A little diet…”

Lionel takes another bite of ice cream… basically soup at this point.

”And exercise… and you’ll be a more convincing Vinnie Lane than Lane himself!”

Lionel sighs, licking a hardened vegemite chunk off his spoon…

“Feh and harumph, Eugen… The art has left me… And without my art…I am nothing.”

…

”Are you nothing, right now?”

”...Yes?”

”Feeling hollow? Instead of being a man, you’re an empty shell?”

”To fill with ice-ed cream! Yes!”

”The people around you are probably telling you that nobody’s perfect! Get back out there! Give it another shot! A little diet and exercise is all you need!”

”See? You just have t-”

”Those people are WRONG!”

”...What?”

”You will FAIL.”

”Other diet and exercise plans work TEMPORARILY. A pound lost here, a decent workout there… Minor, FLEETING successes!”

”But eventually?  YOU. WILL. SLIP.”

“YOU. WILL. FALL SHORT.”

”Any progress you make is TEMPORARY. Failure is forever. Imbued into your DNA.”

”...What the hell kinda commercial is this?”

On-screen, in her exercise studio…

Is the CEO of VilaroFit!

The Dean of VilaroU!

Marisol Vilaro!

”Oh God, this woman is insufferable…” Gene reaches for the remote.

”Don’t you dare disrupteth that vessel for truth!”

Lionel withholds the remote, enrapt by this divine goddess of wisdom

”The key to turning your wildest fantasies into reality?”

“Stop limiting yourself.”

“Why do you fail? Because you accept second best. Because you choose what’s EASY! What’s CONVENIENT! The exercise system that’s ‘Right for you’...”

Mari’s perfectly symmetrical nose wrinkles with revulsion.

”There is ONE system that GUARANTEES success. That WILL make your dreams come true! But it’s not the ‘right system for you’. But, YOU can become the right USER for it! So, why won’t YOU commit?”

”...Why won’t I commit? Commitment is the key to truly great performance!”

”We’re all about PEAK performance at VilaroFit.”

”And I am the consummate Perrrrrrrformer!”

“Stop failing yourself and choosing the second-best option!”

“Don’t Vilaro-Casual.”

“Don’t Vilaro-Bare-Minimum.”

“It’s time… to VILARO-MAXX!”

The VilaroMAXX logo flashes on screen with a number to call…

”...Pfff. She talks like a CULT LEADER. Can you believe that BS, Lionel?”

”Hello, yes?” Lionel shouts into his mobile phone… ”I’d like one Vilaro-Maxx please!”

…

”No, I don’t know what a Vilaro-Maxx is, but I WANT IT!”


”Basta ya! Enough!”

Vilaro stands on Lionel’s shoulders as he lays flat on his face, chest heaving… sweatstreaks running down his skull.

”*huffffffff* h-...how m-...*phew*... how many pushups… was that, Mistress?”

”You did NO pushups, Kitten-man. I commanded you to assume push-up position and you got gassed on the way to the floor.”

”*sputter*... perhaps I need… some Dom Durango cusine… for fortitude…”

Lionel unzips his exercise fanny pack, reaching for a handful of cooked linguine…

”Pendejo!” Mari raps against Lionel’s knuckles. ”All that Dom Durango trash will give you is Montezuma’s Revenge… Do you realize that Dom Durango lost his little cooking challenge show against Micheal Graves?!? MICHEAL GRAVES! Who was cooking with LITERAL TRASH! Dom Durango couldn’t make a dish better than ACTUAL GARBAGE? And HE’S supposed to be the XWF’s head chef! It’s like XVIII being called a champion.”

Mari sneers with disgust, thumbing her nose at the camera. ”Disgusting! We have to stop it! And by we, I mean ME. And if I have to whip your sorry British beans-and-toast body into shape to save this company from having a pegleg division after everyone on the roster loses a foot to Type 2 Diabetes? SO BE IT!”

Mari grabs Lionel by his ample chest hair, dragging him to his feet.

”Rise, kitten-man.”

”Uh… perhaps by ‘kitten-man’, you mean Lionel! Sir Lionel! OBE!”

”Mari means the words she chooses, kitten-man! LION is a name for an apex predator, not some morbidly obese housecat! Now, drop and give me twenty!”

”If… *sigh* if you were going to tell me to drop anyway, why did you… pull me back up…?”

”CALLATE, CABRON! TWENTY! NOW!”

Lionel flops onto his chest…

And then reaches into his fannypack…

And hands over a crisp twenty dollar bill.

”BUMBLING OAF!” Mari smacks Lionel’s hand.

…Before taking the twenty.

…She bites it to verify it’s good tender.

Aaaand she pockets it.

”Many physical trainers would call you a lost cause, kitten-man! If every body is a temple? Yours is a rotted, withered bundle of rubble!”

”Bundle??!” Lionel gasps, as he rises…

”But, you know what I see when I look at that rotted temple, kitten? I see BRICKS.”

…Lionel blushes, zipping up his exercise shorts. ”A thousand pardons I beg thee, madam, I’m more accustomed to… zipperless pantaloons of the bard’s age…”

SMACK! Mari smacks Lionel’s skull. ”Cochino! Not ‘bricked up’! I mean, building material. Potential. The opportunity to recycle scrap and waste and build something of VALUE.”

“Something little Miss Granger could never do herself. She returned to the XWF with the pomp and circumstance of a conquering heroine, destined to rule… But what does she have to show for it? One title reign in over a year and a few dozen missed opportunities! Every big match, she withered like an undeveloped muscle! Untested! FLABBY!”

“And SHE pretends to embody Revolution, with her gaudy little exercise belt around her waist? The only Revolution she represents is STAGNANCY! She parades around with has-beens like Sebastian Everett-Bryce and Isaiah King! Men who nostalgically remember their glory days because they haven’t done a damn thing worth celebrating in the last TWO YEARS.”

“Betsy’s so-called Revolution is one of complacency! Of embracing the way things are…”

“VilaroMaxx is DISRUPTION”

“A TRUE Revolution! Designed to lift those who give themselves wholly and without question!”

Mari eyes Lionel disdainfully.

”What about you, kitten-man? Are you happy with the status quo?”

…Lionel grits his teeth.

”Nay, Madam! I am TIRED of being a… an understudy! A special referee! A BACKGROUND EXTRA!”

“I, Sir Lionel Pennyfarthing! WAS BORN TO STAR!”

“Like CEO Vincent Lane, I came from humble beginnings! Of being a laughingstock!”

“No one who saw Lane’s debut match could have foreseen his meteoric rise! To holding the XWF Universal championship! To one day owning this entire damn theatre company!”

“Lane AND I are underdogs! Stars who weren’t gifted the stage, but TOOK IT!”

“I was BORN to play Vinnie Lane!”

“And I won’t let some… two-bit Bobby Flay flay me!”

“I won’t let some star-gazing trollop wallop me!”

“This is MY MOMENT!”

“AndI MUST!”

“Deliver the performance…”

“OF A LIFETIME!”

…

Mari nods.

”You’re almost ready, kitten-man.”

“You’re Vilaro-ing.”

“But are you Vilaro-Maxxing?”

”I am ready, Mistress! Whatever quest you bless me with to prove my fealty, I will PERRRRRFORM! Without hesitation.”

”Excellente.”

Mari crosses the exercise floor to her desk. ”Barnardo! Precioso!”

Preesh and Barney emerge from the shadows, grabbing Lionel’s shoulders.

From a drawer, Mari retrieves…

[Image: 360_F_101571591_06UDBxpsfOLocCdhn6tHAyOQgmS4P3GG.jpg]

…

”Now… when I said without hesitation…”


WHAM!

…

WHAM!

A mournful wail…

A metal clang against the floor.

”There… Perfecto.”

”..please… a mirror… my kingdom for a mirror…”

Mari wipes bloodspatter from her hands with an exercise towel...

”Show him.”

Barney and Preesh wheel Lionel before the gym’s exercise mirror…

”...My God…”

“I look…”

[Image: Jani_lane_portrait.jpg]
”Bodeaceous!”]]> <![CDATA[Impossibly Delicious!]]> https://xwf1999.com/showthread.php?tid=50086 Tue, 12 May 2026 20:45:35 -0700 HeavensToBetsy]]> https://xwf1999.com/showthread.php?tid=50086 Y'all Should Just Be Happy Betsy Didn't Ramble About the Stupid Gender v Gender Rule]]> Y'all Should Just Be Happy Betsy Didn't Ramble About the Stupid Gender v Gender Rule]]> <![CDATA[Dreamland]]> https://xwf1999.com/showthread.php?tid=50085 Tue, 12 May 2026 20:38:40 -0700 SummerPage]]> https://xwf1999.com/showthread.php?tid=50085
Click Here]]>
Click Here]]> <![CDATA[YA MYST'D]]> https://xwf1999.com/showthread.php?tid=50084 Tue, 12 May 2026 18:31:36 -0700 faceless]]> https://xwf1999.com/showthread.php?tid=50084 “Have you ever felt like you wanted to be degraded by a poorly constructed sentence that almost completely missed the X on your head that you could see from space?”
A voice – cockney accent, deeply male, cuts across the dull hues of an X that looks suspiciously like one visible on social media. The frame zooms out at an astonishingly sickening speed to view a really badly portrayed clay earth.
“How about needing to feel like you were in control of something so strongly, but the people around you didn’t agree, so you needed to figure out how to erroneously double down?”
This time, the voice-over provides commentary over a ridiculously Karen-fied female, pointing their finger into someone’s face, screaming the sky is red while its shiny blue, the crowd around her appearing very confused.
“Hey everyone, Dickie Watson here.”
A shift in the frame, panning inwards towards an open studio designed to be a home with large glass windows, reveals the former Universal Champion himself. He steps forward, practiced and sure, into the frame, his oversized t-shirt hanging loosely off his frame over his skinny jeans, his tattoos extremely visible. He gives a small wave, and then points a finger conversationally towards the viewers, standing next to a desk with a computer keyboard and very large screen television.
“You might know me from wrestling companies such as FIGHT! NYC and the XWF, where I spend the majority of my time getting told I’m worthless and then end up slammin’ faces back into canvas and wood for a thrilling sense of self-worth and validation.”
Dickie pauses at the center of the screen, a remarkably fake advertising grin on his face.
“Today, I’d like to introduce you to a decidedly, but uneventfully, thrilling product that really could take the XWF by storm if it runs unchecked. But first, I ask…are you tired of thinking? Exhausted by the pressure of having one original thought?”
He nods, as if he’s empathetic and understanding.
“Or maybe you might be asking yourself how you can also become the number one contender for the Anarchy Championship without really saying anything that sounds like it came from an actual human soul?”
That smile of his is almost unnaturally plastered on.
He must be getting paid a lot to do this.
“Introducing cin’ JennyGPT!©!!”

An advertisement falls across the screen.



“JennyGPT!© is the most revolutionary promo-generation system designed for wrestlers who want all the confidence of a legend with none of the burden of their own crippling self-awareness. It screams about its achievements – two-time this, five-time that, three-time no one gives a shit…but…ya know. Here, simply type in a name…”
He leans over the computer, where a program is already loaded onto the screen in pink, black, and glitter with an overbearing amount of graphic content.
“Presentation, you know? That’s what really matters…anyway…I’ve typed in my name…” he finishes his last name, “and now you can watch as the software generates a stunningly hollow observation such as:
Wow, unstable. 
Much angry. 
Super not good. 
Doesn’t deserve where he is. 
Oh…and my personal favorite, and definitely provided by the machine in all its self-aggrandized grandeur…”
He leans forward.
“He should be worried about Jenny Myst.”
Dickie stares at the screen, looks at the viewers with a nonplussed, shifty eyebrow, and then stands up straight.
“JennyGPT!©, developed from the best and brightest of every Jenny Myst promotional video since March…my favorite being the one where she called Samael a glitch, a 404 error, a commercial break with a beige god-complex…and still somehow came back to us sounding like malfunctioning search result with lip gloss. She also lost, but don’t worry, the GPT comes complete with Loss Reframing Tech. It can help you develop how it was a secretly strategic event and definitely everyone else’s fault.”
He pauses.
“Was it though? Because the last thing I remember about Jenny, besides the strays she tried to throw in my direction last week…is the sound of her screaming into the consequences of her pretentiousness. And it makes sense, you know? XWF Queen, joined the Brotherhood of Bastards like the rest of the rejects in the costume department, shifted from one brand to the other when success couldn’t be found, did the most thinkin’ she’d use a mystery case to face me with because Watson, and still ended up in a pit with me climbin’ up over the edge because…”
Dickie’s voice trails off softly as he raises his hands to insinuate a what?
“Last I remember, it was me movin’ on to face Scoops. And we kicked the shit out of each other to succeed and maybe he did it instead of me, but ya know what?”
He shrugs his shoulders.
“At least I don’t go for shock value because I don’t have anythin’ else under my belt to be recognized for in an era where wrestling comes before the edgelord tactics.”
A beat, small and minimal, but filled with enough snark as he leans back.
“But that’s the thing, user beware – when it comes to a bonafide wrestling match, there is a big ol’ vulnerability in the system. JennyGPT!© struggles in the process of the room. It looks around, sure. Just like a Roomba. Automated. Built to help. But also just like a Roomba, it doesn’t pay attention well enough to know when there’s shit in the middle of the floor.
You can run whatever program you want on this software, mate.
It can calculate the best jaded zingers to jab, or tell you the psychological profile and how to dismantle a bitch from the back.
But just like Jenny Myst, it can generate the promo and confidence, big match energy and the I’m the contender!
It can’t generate success without everyone seeing it for what it fuckin’ is.
A farce.”
He grins.
“JennyGPT!© – Available for pennies on the dollar at the latest gothic street corner near you.”




End.
]]> “Have you ever felt like you wanted to be degraded by a poorly constructed sentence that almost completely missed the X on your head that you could see from space?”
A voice – cockney accent, deeply male, cuts across the dull hues of an X that looks suspiciously like one visible on social media. The frame zooms out at an astonishingly sickening speed to view a really badly portrayed clay earth.
“How about needing to feel like you were in control of something so strongly, but the people around you didn’t agree, so you needed to figure out how to erroneously double down?”
This time, the voice-over provides commentary over a ridiculously Karen-fied female, pointing their finger into someone’s face, screaming the sky is red while its shiny blue, the crowd around her appearing very confused.
“Hey everyone, Dickie Watson here.”
A shift in the frame, panning inwards towards an open studio designed to be a home with large glass windows, reveals the former Universal Champion himself. He steps forward, practiced and sure, into the frame, his oversized t-shirt hanging loosely off his frame over his skinny jeans, his tattoos extremely visible. He gives a small wave, and then points a finger conversationally towards the viewers, standing next to a desk with a computer keyboard and very large screen television.
“You might know me from wrestling companies such as FIGHT! NYC and the XWF, where I spend the majority of my time getting told I’m worthless and then end up slammin’ faces back into canvas and wood for a thrilling sense of self-worth and validation.”
Dickie pauses at the center of the screen, a remarkably fake advertising grin on his face.
“Today, I’d like to introduce you to a decidedly, but uneventfully, thrilling product that really could take the XWF by storm if it runs unchecked. But first, I ask…are you tired of thinking? Exhausted by the pressure of having one original thought?”
He nods, as if he’s empathetic and understanding.
“Or maybe you might be asking yourself how you can also become the number one contender for the Anarchy Championship without really saying anything that sounds like it came from an actual human soul?”
That smile of his is almost unnaturally plastered on.
He must be getting paid a lot to do this.
“Introducing cin’ JennyGPT!©!!”

An advertisement falls across the screen.



“JennyGPT!© is the most revolutionary promo-generation system designed for wrestlers who want all the confidence of a legend with none of the burden of their own crippling self-awareness. It screams about its achievements – two-time this, five-time that, three-time no one gives a shit…but…ya know. Here, simply type in a name…”
He leans over the computer, where a program is already loaded onto the screen in pink, black, and glitter with an overbearing amount of graphic content.
“Presentation, you know? That’s what really matters…anyway…I’ve typed in my name…” he finishes his last name, “and now you can watch as the software generates a stunningly hollow observation such as:
Wow, unstable. 
Much angry. 
Super not good. 
Doesn’t deserve where he is. 
Oh…and my personal favorite, and definitely provided by the machine in all its self-aggrandized grandeur…”
He leans forward.
“He should be worried about Jenny Myst.”
Dickie stares at the screen, looks at the viewers with a nonplussed, shifty eyebrow, and then stands up straight.
“JennyGPT!©, developed from the best and brightest of every Jenny Myst promotional video since March…my favorite being the one where she called Samael a glitch, a 404 error, a commercial break with a beige god-complex…and still somehow came back to us sounding like malfunctioning search result with lip gloss. She also lost, but don’t worry, the GPT comes complete with Loss Reframing Tech. It can help you develop how it was a secretly strategic event and definitely everyone else’s fault.”
He pauses.
“Was it though? Because the last thing I remember about Jenny, besides the strays she tried to throw in my direction last week…is the sound of her screaming into the consequences of her pretentiousness. And it makes sense, you know? XWF Queen, joined the Brotherhood of Bastards like the rest of the rejects in the costume department, shifted from one brand to the other when success couldn’t be found, did the most thinkin’ she’d use a mystery case to face me with because Watson, and still ended up in a pit with me climbin’ up over the edge because…”
Dickie’s voice trails off softly as he raises his hands to insinuate a what?
“Last I remember, it was me movin’ on to face Scoops. And we kicked the shit out of each other to succeed and maybe he did it instead of me, but ya know what?”
He shrugs his shoulders.
“At least I don’t go for shock value because I don’t have anythin’ else under my belt to be recognized for in an era where wrestling comes before the edgelord tactics.”
A beat, small and minimal, but filled with enough snark as he leans back.
“But that’s the thing, user beware – when it comes to a bonafide wrestling match, there is a big ol’ vulnerability in the system. JennyGPT!© struggles in the process of the room. It looks around, sure. Just like a Roomba. Automated. Built to help. But also just like a Roomba, it doesn’t pay attention well enough to know when there’s shit in the middle of the floor.
You can run whatever program you want on this software, mate.
It can calculate the best jaded zingers to jab, or tell you the psychological profile and how to dismantle a bitch from the back.
But just like Jenny Myst, it can generate the promo and confidence, big match energy and the I’m the contender!
It can’t generate success without everyone seeing it for what it fuckin’ is.
A farce.”
He grins.
“JennyGPT!© – Available for pennies on the dollar at the latest gothic street corner near you.”




End.
]]> <![CDATA[Sex, Lies, and Razorwire Dildos]]> https://xwf1999.com/showthread.php?tid=50083 Tue, 12 May 2026 18:28:29 -0700 (Gravy_Xtreme_5000)]]> https://xwf1999.com/showthread.php?tid=50083
Location: Somewhere you don’t admit that you shop.

The bell over the door jingles as Kris walks in, his neon shades reflecting the room as he gives it a once over.

“The fuck am I doing here?”

He pulls out his phone and dials Gravy.

No rings, just straight to—”the number you have dialed has a voice mailbox that has not been set up…

Goodbye!”

No answer. A deep exhale. He flicks back over to the message. One line. No explanation.

“MS debut be here at 7 12907 Foothill Blvd, Sylmar, CA 91342”

Another long sigh. “I get us a shot against the Rollarwhores, and he brings me to an adult store? Low hanging fruit, and he’s not even here to grab it.”

FWROOOOOOOOOMPH!

A sad excuse for pyro poofs from behind a shelf and out of it walks Micheal Graves, both eyes and grin too wide.

“MIDNIGHT”—Graves chokes on the smoke—*HACK*—but recovers instantly—”Stalkers!”

He throws his arms up like he’s balancing the world.

Like the moment landed.

Like any second now, Kris is going to eat this shit up and be impressed.

He isn’t.

“You done?”

Graves holds his pose a few seconds longer… 

Just in case.

Then waves it off, quickly moving past it.

“C’mon man, it’s a good name.”

“What? Was the Midnight Males taken? They're the Dolls, right? Why not call us the Midnight Ken's?”

The sarcasm falls flat on Graves, but the connection to the Midnight Dolls doesn't!

“Who?”—he feigns—”Oh! Yeah, sheesh, I forgot! Dolly Waters and that vampire chick… Huh… Well, I guess we would be… Still a hell of a name! Midnight Kin's ain't bad either. Maybe drop the plural and jazz it up with a Y. Midnight Kyn... Yeah! Let's vote!”

“We don’t need a name. We’re not even a team. You said it yourself. I can’t trust you.”

Graves looks shocked by this admission.

Saddened even.

He lets out a soft broken sigh.

Tilts his head.

Leans back.

Straightens.

And raises a finger to pose a question.

“You know how you know you can trust me?”

“You said we didn't need trust, but”—sigh—“How?” Kris asks, reluctantly.

Graves fingers his chin.

Searching for an answer he hadn’t found before posing the question.

“Because I used my influence to get us this title shot!”

You lying son of a—“Bullshit!”

Thankfully the cashier returns to head off the argument.

“Okay guys, I got razor covered dildos, double razor covered dildos, and quad razor covered dildos. We were all out of three’s unfortunately.”

Kris gesticulates to the pile of awful dildos. “Wh-why?”

Graves picks up a dildo and inspects it carefully. “Well you said you wanted to do some damage, and I wanna show KindaCarver what it looks like when someone’s actually willing to take his schtick all the way.”

“Take it anywhere you want, but not with dildos!” Kris huffs. “I meant in the ring. Where it counts to, ya know, win a championship. I want to strip Samael and his little cult of everything they have!”

“Well intact anuses is probably something they have. We can damn sure strip ‘em of those.”

“I’m honestly not even sure we can guarantee they have intact anuses.” Kris pauses. “Anii?”

“It’s anuses. Trust me.”

The clerk chirps up again. “We also have an assortment of barbed whips, chains, cat-o-nine tails, and clamps.”

Graves muses, knuckle on chin. “Give me one of each.”

“Did you not hear a word I said?”

“I did. I’m just ignoring you.”

The cashier begins scannin’ and baggin’.

“You know what I think?”

“Please, enlighten me.”

Sarcasm again.

Misses Gravy.

“I think everybody’s got a line.”

Graves rolls a razorwire dildo across the counter.

“The problem with KindaCarver is he thinks crossing ‘em makes him dangerous.

It don’t.

It makes him sound tired.”

“You really calling the guy with chained up roller girls and a body count… tired?”

“Damn right!” Graves fires back. “Cause him and them girls seem to think all this sex shit, blood, screaming, dead body, murder speeches—makes him XTREME!”

Graves scratches his eye as the cashier continues to bag items and avoid eye contact.

“Nah, that’s just nostalgia for a time in XWF history that nobody—‘cept for me—is nostalgic for.

And…

..well, maybe Sammy–boy.

But the difference…” Graves leans in closer to Kris. “And there IS a difference!”

Graves straightens. With Kris’s wallet. Credit card already slipped to the cashier.

“He emulates it.

I lived it.

He grew up watching it.

I survived it.”

Graves leans back in. “And since he’s such a big fan, I say that we give the little fucker a front row ticket to 2010’s XTREME in all its bodily-fluid-glory!”

Graves straightens, having successfully slipped Kris’s wallet back unnoticed.

“Now—Midnight Stalkers, onto our second location!”

“What second location!?”













[Image: original-58a61f2c7209e4db88467260411b7dce-(1).gif]













Second Location: A bar down the road.

“Jesus Arroyo, you really suck at First Blood matches.” Graves intones, as he flicks a small thin dart underneath his fingernail.

Kris reclines in his seat and sniffs admonishingly. “Don’t remind me.” He looks around at the bar and, well, seedy isn’t even the word for it. It’s all dark corners and misty miasmas of cigarette smoke. “Some drunkard gets a lucky shot and it’s all anyone can talk about. How about we talk about the fact that I’ve been pinned ONCE in seven months. Hell with these hardcore stipulations.”

“Well you told 'em to bring it—he brought it—shit happens...

Anyway...” 

Graves removes the dart from under his nail. “We need to figure out what we’re doing to the whores.”

“Well evidently I’m not allowed to kill them.”

“Ain't gotta kill 'em to make 'em wish we did for what they and Samael did to you.” Graves jerks his head to the right. “Take a look at the board.”

Kris looks, and sees that the nearby dart board has a number of haphazard scraps of paper stapled to it. He narrows his eyes and starts to read off some of the papers:

Bleach to the eyes. 

Fire ants funnelled up the asshole. 

Pliers to fingernails. 

Kris turns to look at Graves. “It sounds like a fine beginning to a snuff film.”

“Hope you’re a good shot because this is how we decide our angle of attack!”

Kris muses for a moment. “How many shots do I get?”

“One...

Blindfolded.”

“Wait, why blindfolded?”

“Make it more fun.”

Graves sidles up behind Kris with a blindfold and wraps it around his eyes.

“Gimme your hand.”

Kris splays out one of his hands and Graves drops some darts into it.

“You’re not gonna spin me around a whole bunch of times, right?”

“Well, now that you mention it”—Graves muses for a sec—but Kris throws a dart before his partner can finish the thought. 

It sails clear over the board and we hear a shout of pain from off camera.

“Ah, shit! SORRY!”

“HA—dummy! You’re like 300 years old, have you never played darts before?”

“Not blindfolded!” Kris retrains his attention on the general direction of the dart board. He throws another one, and it lands a respectable distance from the bullseye.

Graves narrows his eyes as he reads off the slip of paper on the board. “Vacuum cleaner anal avulsion! Nice one!”

“I don’t even know what that means—”

”I don’t know what half the shit you say means!”

“—Look Graves….” Kris slips off the blindfold. “Like I said back at the shop. I wanna take this seriously. I want to win this match legitimately so Samael has no room to cry foul.”

“Well they’ll be crying about SOMETHING with their anuses avulsed….”

“Why is it always anuses?” Kris breathes to himself before continuing. “Nobody’s done me as dirty as Samael has in my entire 300 year existence. For the last 3 years he let me think he counted me as a friend. And the worst part? I naively believed it. I’ve never felt so goddamn stupid in my life. I mean, sure, I’ve made mistakes. But falling for his perverse cult of personality for as long as I did? There’s no excuse for that. None.”

“Look man, we’ve all done shit we regret—”

“But I should know better! I’ve survived plagues. Wars. The disco era! Nobody should be more immune to his bullshit than me.”

“Bah!” Graves waves a dismissive hand. “You know what that tells me, Krissy? It tells me you’re LOYAL. And that you can put up with a lot of shit. But mostly loyal. Which bodes well for this team.” Graves pauses, itching the back of his head. “Truth be told this is kind of a new experience, having somebody be ride or die with me that isn’t Green or Dangerous…”

“Green I get, but why’d you ever team with Darren Dangerous?”

”The man once beat a cop with a turkey leg to save me from arrest… Long story.”

“No, that sentence explained enough…”

Graves excitedly points at him. ”See! That’s chemistry! I don’t even need to get into it, you just know!”

Kris rubs his temples. “I don’t think you understand what chemistry means…”

“You felt it too, don’t lie! Two monsters, sitting in a bar discussing revenge torture while you throw darts like a woman.”

Kris raises a finger to  interject, but Graves doesn’t stop.

”Point is, loyalty ain’t stupidity. People like Sammy-boy survive because loyal people keep giving away shit, hopin’ eventually they’ll get treated like people and not tools.

And maybe I ain’t the poster child for healthy friendships…” He scratches his beard. ”But I know users when I see ‘em.

You gave that fucker 3 years.

I usually give people 3 minutes.

Generous.

I know.”

The bartender slides down a drink that neither remembers ordering. Graves eyes it suspiciously.

”What’s this? Someone trying to roofie me!?”

The bartender doesn’t even look up as he wipes a glass clean. “Probably.”

”Nice!”

Graves downs the drink.

Kris shakes his head in disbelief. “See, THIS is what concerns me with you. You say insane things so casually that people don’t even react anymore.”

”Mmm, adaptation. Human beings are beautiful like that.”

“You’re not human?”

Graves points again.

”See!? Team chemistry!”

Graves casually tosses a dart in the direction of the board.

THUMP!

Nearly missed the board.

Graves squints to read the wording on the paper he barely hit.

A grin slowly spreads across his face. The kind that should signal everyone nearby to evac STAT.

Kris notices. “...What?”

Graves looks to Kris with that same grin.

Then bursts out into delighted laughter.

”Oh Sammy-boy’s gonna LOVE this one!”

Kris already sounds exhausted. “What’s it say?”

”Go. Like. Frodo.”

There’s a long silence as Kris stares at him.

“...What the fuck does that even mean!?”

”It means, we take those toys you bought—”

“I what?”

”—and we go full cattle mutilation on Sammy’s herd!”

Kris stares at him so hard that even Gravy starts to lose steam.

“...That sounds fun… In a deeply illegal sort of way.”

”THANK YOU!”

“That wasn’t a compliment, and it doesn’t win us the belts.”

That gets Graves' attention.

“No razorwire dildos. No torture. No weird Hobbit sex crimes. I want those championships, Graves. Dyson took three years from me, and I aim on taking something back. To do it, I need the Graves everyone pretends doesn’t exist.”

Graves squints. “...The handsome one?”

“The wrestler!”

Silence.

“I need the guy who shocked everybody. The guy who can actually chain wrestle when he feels like it.”

”That shit’s for fa—”

“The guy who keeps suckering people into thinking he’s some sort of deranged clown until he’s throwing them across the ring and stomping holes through their ribs.”

Graves scratches his beard again as he considers.

Kris presses him. “Samael expects a psychopath. Fine. Be one after the bell. But during it, I need the guy who can go.”

Graves exhales through his nose.

”You really think taking the belts will hurt him more than the razorwire dildos?”

Kris smiles for the first time all night. “I know it will.”]]>
Location: Somewhere you don’t admit that you shop.

The bell over the door jingles as Kris walks in, his neon shades reflecting the room as he gives it a once over.

“The fuck am I doing here?”

He pulls out his phone and dials Gravy.

No rings, just straight to—”the number you have dialed has a voice mailbox that has not been set up…

Goodbye!”

No answer. A deep exhale. He flicks back over to the message. One line. No explanation.

“MS debut be here at 7 12907 Foothill Blvd, Sylmar, CA 91342”

Another long sigh. “I get us a shot against the Rollarwhores, and he brings me to an adult store? Low hanging fruit, and he’s not even here to grab it.”

FWROOOOOOOOOMPH!

A sad excuse for pyro poofs from behind a shelf and out of it walks Micheal Graves, both eyes and grin too wide.

“MIDNIGHT”—Graves chokes on the smoke—*HACK*—but recovers instantly—”Stalkers!”

He throws his arms up like he’s balancing the world.

Like the moment landed.

Like any second now, Kris is going to eat this shit up and be impressed.

He isn’t.

“You done?”

Graves holds his pose a few seconds longer… 

Just in case.

Then waves it off, quickly moving past it.

“C’mon man, it’s a good name.”

“What? Was the Midnight Males taken? They're the Dolls, right? Why not call us the Midnight Ken's?”

The sarcasm falls flat on Graves, but the connection to the Midnight Dolls doesn't!

“Who?”—he feigns—”Oh! Yeah, sheesh, I forgot! Dolly Waters and that vampire chick… Huh… Well, I guess we would be… Still a hell of a name! Midnight Kin's ain't bad either. Maybe drop the plural and jazz it up with a Y. Midnight Kyn... Yeah! Let's vote!”

“We don’t need a name. We’re not even a team. You said it yourself. I can’t trust you.”

Graves looks shocked by this admission.

Saddened even.

He lets out a soft broken sigh.

Tilts his head.

Leans back.

Straightens.

And raises a finger to pose a question.

“You know how you know you can trust me?”

“You said we didn't need trust, but”—sigh—“How?” Kris asks, reluctantly.

Graves fingers his chin.

Searching for an answer he hadn’t found before posing the question.

“Because I used my influence to get us this title shot!”

You lying son of a—“Bullshit!”

Thankfully the cashier returns to head off the argument.

“Okay guys, I got razor covered dildos, double razor covered dildos, and quad razor covered dildos. We were all out of three’s unfortunately.”

Kris gesticulates to the pile of awful dildos. “Wh-why?”

Graves picks up a dildo and inspects it carefully. “Well you said you wanted to do some damage, and I wanna show KindaCarver what it looks like when someone’s actually willing to take his schtick all the way.”

“Take it anywhere you want, but not with dildos!” Kris huffs. “I meant in the ring. Where it counts to, ya know, win a championship. I want to strip Samael and his little cult of everything they have!”

“Well intact anuses is probably something they have. We can damn sure strip ‘em of those.”

“I’m honestly not even sure we can guarantee they have intact anuses.” Kris pauses. “Anii?”

“It’s anuses. Trust me.”

The clerk chirps up again. “We also have an assortment of barbed whips, chains, cat-o-nine tails, and clamps.”

Graves muses, knuckle on chin. “Give me one of each.”

“Did you not hear a word I said?”

“I did. I’m just ignoring you.”

The cashier begins scannin’ and baggin’.

“You know what I think?”

“Please, enlighten me.”

Sarcasm again.

Misses Gravy.

“I think everybody’s got a line.”

Graves rolls a razorwire dildo across the counter.

“The problem with KindaCarver is he thinks crossing ‘em makes him dangerous.

It don’t.

It makes him sound tired.”

“You really calling the guy with chained up roller girls and a body count… tired?”

“Damn right!” Graves fires back. “Cause him and them girls seem to think all this sex shit, blood, screaming, dead body, murder speeches—makes him XTREME!”

Graves scratches his eye as the cashier continues to bag items and avoid eye contact.

“Nah, that’s just nostalgia for a time in XWF history that nobody—‘cept for me—is nostalgic for.

And…

..well, maybe Sammy–boy.

But the difference…” Graves leans in closer to Kris. “And there IS a difference!”

Graves straightens. With Kris’s wallet. Credit card already slipped to the cashier.

“He emulates it.

I lived it.

He grew up watching it.

I survived it.”

Graves leans back in. “And since he’s such a big fan, I say that we give the little fucker a front row ticket to 2010’s XTREME in all its bodily-fluid-glory!”

Graves straightens, having successfully slipped Kris’s wallet back unnoticed.

“Now—Midnight Stalkers, onto our second location!”

“What second location!?”













[Image: original-58a61f2c7209e4db88467260411b7dce-(1).gif]













Second Location: A bar down the road.

“Jesus Arroyo, you really suck at First Blood matches.” Graves intones, as he flicks a small thin dart underneath his fingernail.

Kris reclines in his seat and sniffs admonishingly. “Don’t remind me.” He looks around at the bar and, well, seedy isn’t even the word for it. It’s all dark corners and misty miasmas of cigarette smoke. “Some drunkard gets a lucky shot and it’s all anyone can talk about. How about we talk about the fact that I’ve been pinned ONCE in seven months. Hell with these hardcore stipulations.”

“Well you told 'em to bring it—he brought it—shit happens...

Anyway...” 

Graves removes the dart from under his nail. “We need to figure out what we’re doing to the whores.”

“Well evidently I’m not allowed to kill them.”

“Ain't gotta kill 'em to make 'em wish we did for what they and Samael did to you.” Graves jerks his head to the right. “Take a look at the board.”

Kris looks, and sees that the nearby dart board has a number of haphazard scraps of paper stapled to it. He narrows his eyes and starts to read off some of the papers:

Bleach to the eyes. 

Fire ants funnelled up the asshole. 

Pliers to fingernails. 

Kris turns to look at Graves. “It sounds like a fine beginning to a snuff film.”

“Hope you’re a good shot because this is how we decide our angle of attack!”

Kris muses for a moment. “How many shots do I get?”

“One...

Blindfolded.”

“Wait, why blindfolded?”

“Make it more fun.”

Graves sidles up behind Kris with a blindfold and wraps it around his eyes.

“Gimme your hand.”

Kris splays out one of his hands and Graves drops some darts into it.

“You’re not gonna spin me around a whole bunch of times, right?”

“Well, now that you mention it”—Graves muses for a sec—but Kris throws a dart before his partner can finish the thought. 

It sails clear over the board and we hear a shout of pain from off camera.

“Ah, shit! SORRY!”

“HA—dummy! You’re like 300 years old, have you never played darts before?”

“Not blindfolded!” Kris retrains his attention on the general direction of the dart board. He throws another one, and it lands a respectable distance from the bullseye.

Graves narrows his eyes as he reads off the slip of paper on the board. “Vacuum cleaner anal avulsion! Nice one!”

“I don’t even know what that means—”

”I don’t know what half the shit you say means!”

“—Look Graves….” Kris slips off the blindfold. “Like I said back at the shop. I wanna take this seriously. I want to win this match legitimately so Samael has no room to cry foul.”

“Well they’ll be crying about SOMETHING with their anuses avulsed….”

“Why is it always anuses?” Kris breathes to himself before continuing. “Nobody’s done me as dirty as Samael has in my entire 300 year existence. For the last 3 years he let me think he counted me as a friend. And the worst part? I naively believed it. I’ve never felt so goddamn stupid in my life. I mean, sure, I’ve made mistakes. But falling for his perverse cult of personality for as long as I did? There’s no excuse for that. None.”

“Look man, we’ve all done shit we regret—”

“But I should know better! I’ve survived plagues. Wars. The disco era! Nobody should be more immune to his bullshit than me.”

“Bah!” Graves waves a dismissive hand. “You know what that tells me, Krissy? It tells me you’re LOYAL. And that you can put up with a lot of shit. But mostly loyal. Which bodes well for this team.” Graves pauses, itching the back of his head. “Truth be told this is kind of a new experience, having somebody be ride or die with me that isn’t Green or Dangerous…”

“Green I get, but why’d you ever team with Darren Dangerous?”

”The man once beat a cop with a turkey leg to save me from arrest… Long story.”

“No, that sentence explained enough…”

Graves excitedly points at him. ”See! That’s chemistry! I don’t even need to get into it, you just know!”

Kris rubs his temples. “I don’t think you understand what chemistry means…”

“You felt it too, don’t lie! Two monsters, sitting in a bar discussing revenge torture while you throw darts like a woman.”

Kris raises a finger to  interject, but Graves doesn’t stop.

”Point is, loyalty ain’t stupidity. People like Sammy-boy survive because loyal people keep giving away shit, hopin’ eventually they’ll get treated like people and not tools.

And maybe I ain’t the poster child for healthy friendships…” He scratches his beard. ”But I know users when I see ‘em.

You gave that fucker 3 years.

I usually give people 3 minutes.

Generous.

I know.”

The bartender slides down a drink that neither remembers ordering. Graves eyes it suspiciously.

”What’s this? Someone trying to roofie me!?”

The bartender doesn’t even look up as he wipes a glass clean. “Probably.”

”Nice!”

Graves downs the drink.

Kris shakes his head in disbelief. “See, THIS is what concerns me with you. You say insane things so casually that people don’t even react anymore.”

”Mmm, adaptation. Human beings are beautiful like that.”

“You’re not human?”

Graves points again.

”See!? Team chemistry!”

Graves casually tosses a dart in the direction of the board.

THUMP!

Nearly missed the board.

Graves squints to read the wording on the paper he barely hit.

A grin slowly spreads across his face. The kind that should signal everyone nearby to evac STAT.

Kris notices. “...What?”

Graves looks to Kris with that same grin.

Then bursts out into delighted laughter.

”Oh Sammy-boy’s gonna LOVE this one!”

Kris already sounds exhausted. “What’s it say?”

”Go. Like. Frodo.”

There’s a long silence as Kris stares at him.

“...What the fuck does that even mean!?”

”It means, we take those toys you bought—”

“I what?”

”—and we go full cattle mutilation on Sammy’s herd!”

Kris stares at him so hard that even Gravy starts to lose steam.

“...That sounds fun… In a deeply illegal sort of way.”

”THANK YOU!”

“That wasn’t a compliment, and it doesn’t win us the belts.”

That gets Graves' attention.

“No razorwire dildos. No torture. No weird Hobbit sex crimes. I want those championships, Graves. Dyson took three years from me, and I aim on taking something back. To do it, I need the Graves everyone pretends doesn’t exist.”

Graves squints. “...The handsome one?”

“The wrestler!”

Silence.

“I need the guy who shocked everybody. The guy who can actually chain wrestle when he feels like it.”

”That shit’s for fa—”

“The guy who keeps suckering people into thinking he’s some sort of deranged clown until he’s throwing them across the ring and stomping holes through their ribs.”

Graves scratches his beard again as he considers.

Kris presses him. “Samael expects a psychopath. Fine. Be one after the bell. But during it, I need the guy who can go.”

Graves exhales through his nose.

”You really think taking the belts will hurt him more than the razorwire dildos?”

Kris smiles for the first time all night. “I know it will.”]]> <![CDATA[All For One]]> https://xwf1999.com/showthread.php?tid=50081 Tue, 12 May 2026 02:12:45 -0700 johnathan]]> https://xwf1999.com/showthread.php?tid=50081 In his locker room, John is watching videos of Rick James and rapping, John
studied every move that Rick James made and listened to every word that he said, even
examining the way he put together his syllables and rhyming.
John Blade // Surgeon of Thug: Beginner at Best. Three on one matching needs work. Rhyming needs work. Some of
Those XWF wrestlers are too long and don't match up.
John shook his head as he continued to watch. He didn't even notice when
His lovely friends Deena and Latoya Hixx walked into the locker room, holding a piece of wood in their hands,
looking at her as a ghost.
Geek Goddess| Deena Hixx: How are you, John, doing alright?!
Deena's voice caught him off guard, and he paused the video, turning to look at both of them.
John Blade // Surgeon of Thug:  What's up with you two? You look as Pale as Casper. I mean, ghosts are cool, but I've grown very attached to their rosy pink cheeks of yours; both sets.
John smirked and winked at his two friends, but the flirtatious remark didn't  seem to
faze them, their gaze still latched onto the piece of wood in their hands.
Storm| Latoya Hixx: This is how a friend and friends work! I didn't know this! I thought there'd be the same link just between you and me or something! But this!? This is NOT
What I had in mind for it, John! Why would you even agree to join forces with XWF to agree
to this?! I mean, I know why you
would! You're you! But seriously! why?!
John Blade // Surgeon of Thug: Why not? I started XWF and didn't become the XWF  Revolution Champion, and you said it yourself; I'm me. Your friend, and as far as we all
Go our separate ways, I'm gonna be with you for all time until you see we get our match for The Anarchy tag team titles match and earn the rights to get our first XWF Anarchy tag team Championship after we win our first three-on-one match this week at XWF on Anarchy.
John Blade // Surgeon of Thug:  I don't back down from any challenge. Besides, I've been in worse
matches and good matches, Latoya. This is a walk in the park compared to some of the things
I've had to do,
Need you to remind me that we're all recently six feet under?
The Hixxes shuddered at the thought.
Geek Goddess| Deena Hixx: Every fibre in my own body wants to forget about that entire
phase that you went through with Betsy Granger. And I get it, I really do. I know
what you're like.
John. But this makes us nervous. It's literally a distance that you can
wrestle along OUTSIDE! Around San Francisco! The roads will be closed on either side
of the segment, so no  cars get in or out, and referees will be there to make
sure that we have our Three on One Handicap match this Thursday at XWF
It's a big distance, John. And who knows what's out there to be used!
It's an Anarchy rules fight, which means anything goes! The last thing I want to see is
your head being put through someone's window! And I know that I shouldn't think
like that because you're the best friend at what you do and can hold your own, but I
just can't help how well we're feeling.
John Blade //Surgeon of Thug: Kind of like how I can't help what I feel for you, we need to defend
Our honor and our duty to protect you. The way I always worry about you when I wasn't around. i get it.
But you gotta trust me on this. I've got experience on my side at Anarchy Ric James is
still new school to this business and has a lot to learn - about wrestling and fighting. I"ve
been watching him all day, studying every move and every word, understanding how
they works and how he thinks inside of the ring. I've been in my share of handicap matches before, so there's another advantage I have here at XWF. All you gotta
Do is  keep watching and stay focused like I did when I didn't became there XWF Revolution Champion, and you two can probably do the same once you follow my foot steps cause I'm gonna teach you two
Everything that I know about myself when we beat our opponent, Rick James, in this Handicap match
And that's why I'm heading out here to you win our first XWF three-on-one this week against
Someone and I'm gonna be out there in mother is gonna be in my corner wooting me on and when I do that, then maybe I could get you in a real wrestling ring at XWF or Anarchy  once you get older and learn all the basics from me, okay, so get ready because it won't be that easy to train you cause I got a big
day ahead of me come this week when I step foot inside of a XWF ring, and when I defeat Stevie Barnes. in become their new Hardcore Champion, they will draft her ass back to XWF, and let me stay on XWF
For me, this week then I will see two this Thursday at Anarchy on XWF.
The Hixx sisters shook their heads before walking over and sitting next to their friend.
Storm| Latoya Hixx: I suppose to sit back and watch our first Handy Cap Anarchy rules match this week
against Slick Rick James, who likes to try something sneaky, but don't worry, John. Deena and I will be out there to help you knock some sense into Rick James. If our Anarchy rules Handy Cap at XWF, 
then we will be the first people to know because  of this week we're going to be out there!
and when we do need to be alert and
ready to make a move if Slick Rick James tries anything funny. Anarchy rules, so don't be
surprised if he inserts himself into the picture.
John Blade // Surgeon of Thug:  And that makes us think that I'm just gonna let you two be out there?
Hell No. We're getting back our on XWF until you two are enough to be a professional wrestler at XWF, so once we win this three on one Handy Cap Anarhy rules
Then hopefully we'll get to be in the XWF Leap of Faith XWF Women's Anarchy tag team Championship at the XWF, and besides
What if you or Latoya  get hurt, and I get the blame for it, and I promise you that I'll look after you until
We get back wherever he has gone to, but anyone it's not about us, okay, this is about you two, so this Thursday in this very ring, we'll be facing Slick Rick James at Anarchy, and once we prove that to him this Thursday, then we will be at the top rank below those XWF Superstar cause trust me, I've
been there before and I haven't held an Anarchy tag team Championship, like I haven't been a  XWF tag team Champion, and be the next Anarchy Champion, and the Handy Cap match, so those could be us someday if you start paying attention to me, then maybe you'll hold one of them XWF Anarchy Championship at XWF.
John Blade // Surgeon of Thug: So are you two ready, my little Hixxes.
The Hixxes| Deena/ Latoya Hixx: Yes, John, we're Ready to get trained by the XWF himself.
John Blade // Surgeon of Thug: Then let's head to the XWF fighting section and let's get you two trained by me.
John and his friends get prepared for Handy Cap on Anarchy and gave each other a hug, and they started practicing before giving him a hug.
]]> In his locker room, John is watching videos of Rick James and rapping, John
studied every move that Rick James made and listened to every word that he said, even
examining the way he put together his syllables and rhyming.
John Blade // Surgeon of Thug: Beginner at Best. Three on one matching needs work. Rhyming needs work. Some of
Those XWF wrestlers are too long and don't match up.
John shook his head as he continued to watch. He didn't even notice when
His lovely friends Deena and Latoya Hixx walked into the locker room, holding a piece of wood in their hands,
looking at her as a ghost.
Geek Goddess| Deena Hixx: How are you, John, doing alright?!
Deena's voice caught him off guard, and he paused the video, turning to look at both of them.
John Blade // Surgeon of Thug:  What's up with you two? You look as Pale as Casper. I mean, ghosts are cool, but I've grown very attached to their rosy pink cheeks of yours; both sets.
John smirked and winked at his two friends, but the flirtatious remark didn't  seem to
faze them, their gaze still latched onto the piece of wood in their hands.
Storm| Latoya Hixx: This is how a friend and friends work! I didn't know this! I thought there'd be the same link just between you and me or something! But this!? This is NOT
What I had in mind for it, John! Why would you even agree to join forces with XWF to agree
to this?! I mean, I know why you
would! You're you! But seriously! why?!
John Blade // Surgeon of Thug: Why not? I started XWF and didn't become the XWF  Revolution Champion, and you said it yourself; I'm me. Your friend, and as far as we all
Go our separate ways, I'm gonna be with you for all time until you see we get our match for The Anarchy tag team titles match and earn the rights to get our first XWF Anarchy tag team Championship after we win our first three-on-one match this week at XWF on Anarchy.
John Blade // Surgeon of Thug:  I don't back down from any challenge. Besides, I've been in worse
matches and good matches, Latoya. This is a walk in the park compared to some of the things
I've had to do,
Need you to remind me that we're all recently six feet under?
The Hixxes shuddered at the thought.
Geek Goddess| Deena Hixx: Every fibre in my own body wants to forget about that entire
phase that you went through with Betsy Granger. And I get it, I really do. I know
what you're like.
John. But this makes us nervous. It's literally a distance that you can
wrestle along OUTSIDE! Around San Francisco! The roads will be closed on either side
of the segment, so no  cars get in or out, and referees will be there to make
sure that we have our Three on One Handicap match this Thursday at XWF
It's a big distance, John. And who knows what's out there to be used!
It's an Anarchy rules fight, which means anything goes! The last thing I want to see is
your head being put through someone's window! And I know that I shouldn't think
like that because you're the best friend at what you do and can hold your own, but I
just can't help how well we're feeling.
John Blade //Surgeon of Thug: Kind of like how I can't help what I feel for you, we need to defend
Our honor and our duty to protect you. The way I always worry about you when I wasn't around. i get it.
But you gotta trust me on this. I've got experience on my side at Anarchy Ric James is
still new school to this business and has a lot to learn - about wrestling and fighting. I"ve
been watching him all day, studying every move and every word, understanding how
they works and how he thinks inside of the ring. I've been in my share of handicap matches before, so there's another advantage I have here at XWF. All you gotta
Do is  keep watching and stay focused like I did when I didn't became there XWF Revolution Champion, and you two can probably do the same once you follow my foot steps cause I'm gonna teach you two
Everything that I know about myself when we beat our opponent, Rick James, in this Handicap match
And that's why I'm heading out here to you win our first XWF three-on-one this week against
Someone and I'm gonna be out there in mother is gonna be in my corner wooting me on and when I do that, then maybe I could get you in a real wrestling ring at XWF or Anarchy  once you get older and learn all the basics from me, okay, so get ready because it won't be that easy to train you cause I got a big
day ahead of me come this week when I step foot inside of a XWF ring, and when I defeat Stevie Barnes. in become their new Hardcore Champion, they will draft her ass back to XWF, and let me stay on XWF
For me, this week then I will see two this Thursday at Anarchy on XWF.
The Hixx sisters shook their heads before walking over and sitting next to their friend.
Storm| Latoya Hixx: I suppose to sit back and watch our first Handy Cap Anarchy rules match this week
against Slick Rick James, who likes to try something sneaky, but don't worry, John. Deena and I will be out there to help you knock some sense into Rick James. If our Anarchy rules Handy Cap at XWF, 
then we will be the first people to know because  of this week we're going to be out there!
and when we do need to be alert and
ready to make a move if Slick Rick James tries anything funny. Anarchy rules, so don't be
surprised if he inserts himself into the picture.
John Blade // Surgeon of Thug:  And that makes us think that I'm just gonna let you two be out there?
Hell No. We're getting back our on XWF until you two are enough to be a professional wrestler at XWF, so once we win this three on one Handy Cap Anarhy rules
Then hopefully we'll get to be in the XWF Leap of Faith XWF Women's Anarchy tag team Championship at the XWF, and besides
What if you or Latoya  get hurt, and I get the blame for it, and I promise you that I'll look after you until
We get back wherever he has gone to, but anyone it's not about us, okay, this is about you two, so this Thursday in this very ring, we'll be facing Slick Rick James at Anarchy, and once we prove that to him this Thursday, then we will be at the top rank below those XWF Superstar cause trust me, I've
been there before and I haven't held an Anarchy tag team Championship, like I haven't been a  XWF tag team Champion, and be the next Anarchy Champion, and the Handy Cap match, so those could be us someday if you start paying attention to me, then maybe you'll hold one of them XWF Anarchy Championship at XWF.
John Blade // Surgeon of Thug: So are you two ready, my little Hixxes.
The Hixxes| Deena/ Latoya Hixx: Yes, John, we're Ready to get trained by the XWF himself.
John Blade // Surgeon of Thug: Then let's head to the XWF fighting section and let's get you two trained by me.
John and his friends get prepared for Handy Cap on Anarchy and gave each other a hug, and they started practicing before giving him a hug.
]]> <![CDATA[Fluorescent Truths]]> https://xwf1999.com/showthread.php?tid=50078 Sun, 10 May 2026 18:30:40 -0700 YourHighnessofViolence]]> https://xwf1999.com/showthread.php?tid=50078 [Image: a5e277ac-3a42-4ee4-935c-0441ec8a6cd7.png]
"Bookers LOVE pretending Dickie Watson is some mythical can’t-miss attraction. Every company acts like signing him is equivalent to discovering fire. “Oh, he’s an automatic top contender anywhere.” “He’s a locker room guy.” “He brings legitimacy.” Legitimacy to WHAT exactly? Looking fifty-three years old under fluorescent lighting while cutting the same angry divorce-core promo for the thousandth time? Dickie has spent his entire career being treated like wrestling’s sacred blue-collar mascot while somehow never actually becoming the guy. He’s everybody’s “great addition to the roster” but never the reason people buy the ticket. He’s the side dish they keep trying to convince themselves is the entrée.

At the end of the day, after all the screaming, all the fake tough-guy wisdom, all the internet essays about “respecting veterans”… who do people leave talking about?

Jenny Myst.

Every.single.time.

That’s what drives people insane about me. Not the attitude. Not the mouth. Not the chaos. It’s the fact that no matter how hard they try, they cannot control the narrative once I enter it. They can’t get under my skin. They can’t rattle me. They can’t force me to play the insecure little validation game this business survives on. I say exactly what I feel, exactly when I feel it, and I don’t water it down so fragile wrestling egos can sleep at night afterward.

People scream “X-Pac Heat” because it’s easier than admitting the truth.

The truth is I make people uncomfortable because I say the quiet part out loud.

I rip away the cosplay. I expose the insecurity. I point directly at the emperor with no clothes and refuse to pretend he’s wearing gold just because a promoter told everybody to clap.

That’s why they hate me.

Meanwhile they hate Dickie for an entirely different reason.

They hate him because they’re tired of being lied to.

Tired of being told this bitter, chain-smoking nostalgia project is somehow essential viewing. Tired of pretending every rambling promo is profound just because he says “business” and “respect” seventeen times. Tired of acting like surviving longer than your expiration date automatically makes you legendary.


People boo me because I provoke emotion.

People boo Dickie because they’ve seen this act before."
The person on the other end laughed nervously.

Jenny didn’t.

“Dickie Watson is what happens when mediocrity develops a victim complex and mistakes it for depth,” she said flatly, eyes never leaving the mirror.

Lipstick next.

Twist.

Apply.

[Image: 1ec30caf-7d1e-4de4-ab8e-c4ced3d59759.png]

“You ever notice every promo sounds like somebody shook up a can full of Monster Energy, nicotine addiction, and unresolved childhood resentment and pointed it at a microphone?”

The voice on the phone tried interrupting.

Jenny raised a finger instinctively.

Jenny leaned closer to the glass, fixing the edge of her eyeliner with her pinky.

“He’s everybody’s ‘great addition to the roster’, some S-tier demi-god but SCOOPS McOldGuy is our Universal Champion?! And before you say 'But Jen Jen, you aren't either.....I haven't been booked for it. They are too afraid of that smoke.”

The person on the phone started again.

Jenny cut them off.

“No, no, no — don’t do that thing where everybody suddenly pretends he’s some outlaw prophet because he smokes cigarettes and says ‘respect’ a lot.”
She smirked at herself in the mirror.
She capped the tube and grabbed a makeup wipe, cleaning a tiny black smear beneath her eye.

Jenny rolled her eyes.

Her tone lowered.
Silence for a second.

Then Jenny laughed softly to herself.

“And Dickie?”

She picked up a small makeup brush, dusting powder across her cheekbones.

“They don’t hate Dickie because he’s dangerous.”

Her eyes stayed locked on the mirror.

“They hate him because every single thing about him feels stuck.”

Brush.

“Same matches. Same tantrums. Same ‘respect me’ speeches like he’s trapped in a time capsule nobody asked to reopen.”

Brush.

Another slow stroke beneath her eye.

“I already became unforgettable without having to beg for it.”

Brush.

“Wrestling fans are tired of hearing about ‘the business’ from a man who looks like he sleeps in the back of a bass boat.”

Jenny finally picked up the phone from the sink.

“You know the saddest part?”

She smiled coldly.

“Dickie got a pinfall over me…”

“…and somehow I still walked away with more momentum than he did.”

[Image: 24c35238-588d-4490-9e7a-afe028b928e1.png]

Sure, Dickie Watson pinned Jenny Myst once.

And?

What exactly changed afterward?

Did the industry suddenly start treating him like more of a star?
Did locker rooms start whispering his name with more respect?
Did promoters suddenly look at him and think, “THAT’S the guy carrying the future”?

No.

He got one win and somehow managed to make it feel like a community service announcement.

That victory didn’t elevate Dickie Watson. It exposed him.

Because the second the moment was over, everybody realized the exact same thing: beating Jenny Myst was the biggest thing that would EVER happen to him.

That was his mountaintop.

His career achievement.

Meanwhile for Jenny? It was Tuesday. Or whatever day Warfare is on.

That’s the difference.

Dickie treats one pinfall like he conquered Rome because his entire career has been spent crawling through mud looking for validation. He clings to that win the way drowning people cling to driftwood because deep down he KNOWS there won’t be another moment bigger than that for him.

And honestly?
That’s pathetic.

Because if your greatest accomplishment still requires you to scream “BUT I BEAT YOU!” months later, then congratulations — you’ve accidentally admitted your career peaked already.

Meanwhile Jenny kept moving.
Still talked about.
Still marketable.
Still memorable.
Still the person audiences react to before she even opens her mouth.

Dickie got the win and somehow still came out looking smaller.

That’s almost impressive.

Most people use momentum to build a legacy.
Dickie used it to become wrestling’s version of a guy who still talks about scoring four touchdowns in high school.

One victory.
One moment.
One tiny flicker of relevance.

And he’s spent every day since desperately trying to keep the lights from going out again.
]]> [Image: a5e277ac-3a42-4ee4-935c-0441ec8a6cd7.png]
"Bookers LOVE pretending Dickie Watson is some mythical can’t-miss attraction. Every company acts like signing him is equivalent to discovering fire. “Oh, he’s an automatic top contender anywhere.” “He’s a locker room guy.” “He brings legitimacy.” Legitimacy to WHAT exactly? Looking fifty-three years old under fluorescent lighting while cutting the same angry divorce-core promo for the thousandth time? Dickie has spent his entire career being treated like wrestling’s sacred blue-collar mascot while somehow never actually becoming the guy. He’s everybody’s “great addition to the roster” but never the reason people buy the ticket. He’s the side dish they keep trying to convince themselves is the entrée.

At the end of the day, after all the screaming, all the fake tough-guy wisdom, all the internet essays about “respecting veterans”… who do people leave talking about?

Jenny Myst.

Every.single.time.

That’s what drives people insane about me. Not the attitude. Not the mouth. Not the chaos. It’s the fact that no matter how hard they try, they cannot control the narrative once I enter it. They can’t get under my skin. They can’t rattle me. They can’t force me to play the insecure little validation game this business survives on. I say exactly what I feel, exactly when I feel it, and I don’t water it down so fragile wrestling egos can sleep at night afterward.

People scream “X-Pac Heat” because it’s easier than admitting the truth.

The truth is I make people uncomfortable because I say the quiet part out loud.

I rip away the cosplay. I expose the insecurity. I point directly at the emperor with no clothes and refuse to pretend he’s wearing gold just because a promoter told everybody to clap.

That’s why they hate me.

Meanwhile they hate Dickie for an entirely different reason.

They hate him because they’re tired of being lied to.

Tired of being told this bitter, chain-smoking nostalgia project is somehow essential viewing. Tired of pretending every rambling promo is profound just because he says “business” and “respect” seventeen times. Tired of acting like surviving longer than your expiration date automatically makes you legendary.


People boo me because I provoke emotion.

People boo Dickie because they’ve seen this act before."
The person on the other end laughed nervously.

Jenny didn’t.

“Dickie Watson is what happens when mediocrity develops a victim complex and mistakes it for depth,” she said flatly, eyes never leaving the mirror.

Lipstick next.

Twist.

Apply.

[Image: 1ec30caf-7d1e-4de4-ab8e-c4ced3d59759.png]

“You ever notice every promo sounds like somebody shook up a can full of Monster Energy, nicotine addiction, and unresolved childhood resentment and pointed it at a microphone?”

The voice on the phone tried interrupting.

Jenny raised a finger instinctively.

Jenny leaned closer to the glass, fixing the edge of her eyeliner with her pinky.

“He’s everybody’s ‘great addition to the roster’, some S-tier demi-god but SCOOPS McOldGuy is our Universal Champion?! And before you say 'But Jen Jen, you aren't either.....I haven't been booked for it. They are too afraid of that smoke.”

The person on the phone started again.

Jenny cut them off.

“No, no, no — don’t do that thing where everybody suddenly pretends he’s some outlaw prophet because he smokes cigarettes and says ‘respect’ a lot.”
She smirked at herself in the mirror.
She capped the tube and grabbed a makeup wipe, cleaning a tiny black smear beneath her eye.

Jenny rolled her eyes.

Her tone lowered.
Silence for a second.

Then Jenny laughed softly to herself.

“And Dickie?”

She picked up a small makeup brush, dusting powder across her cheekbones.

“They don’t hate Dickie because he’s dangerous.”

Her eyes stayed locked on the mirror.

“They hate him because every single thing about him feels stuck.”

Brush.

“Same matches. Same tantrums. Same ‘respect me’ speeches like he’s trapped in a time capsule nobody asked to reopen.”

Brush.

Another slow stroke beneath her eye.

“I already became unforgettable without having to beg for it.”

Brush.

“Wrestling fans are tired of hearing about ‘the business’ from a man who looks like he sleeps in the back of a bass boat.”

Jenny finally picked up the phone from the sink.

“You know the saddest part?”

She smiled coldly.

“Dickie got a pinfall over me…”

“…and somehow I still walked away with more momentum than he did.”

[Image: 24c35238-588d-4490-9e7a-afe028b928e1.png]

Sure, Dickie Watson pinned Jenny Myst once.

And?

What exactly changed afterward?

Did the industry suddenly start treating him like more of a star?
Did locker rooms start whispering his name with more respect?
Did promoters suddenly look at him and think, “THAT’S the guy carrying the future”?

No.

He got one win and somehow managed to make it feel like a community service announcement.

That victory didn’t elevate Dickie Watson. It exposed him.

Because the second the moment was over, everybody realized the exact same thing: beating Jenny Myst was the biggest thing that would EVER happen to him.

That was his mountaintop.

His career achievement.

Meanwhile for Jenny? It was Tuesday. Or whatever day Warfare is on.

That’s the difference.

Dickie treats one pinfall like he conquered Rome because his entire career has been spent crawling through mud looking for validation. He clings to that win the way drowning people cling to driftwood because deep down he KNOWS there won’t be another moment bigger than that for him.

And honestly?
That’s pathetic.

Because if your greatest accomplishment still requires you to scream “BUT I BEAT YOU!” months later, then congratulations — you’ve accidentally admitted your career peaked already.

Meanwhile Jenny kept moving.
Still talked about.
Still marketable.
Still memorable.
Still the person audiences react to before she even opens her mouth.

Dickie got the win and somehow still came out looking smaller.

That’s almost impressive.

Most people use momentum to build a legacy.
Dickie used it to become wrestling’s version of a guy who still talks about scoring four touchdowns in high school.

One victory.
One moment.
One tiny flicker of relevance.

And he’s spent every day since desperately trying to keep the lights from going out again.
]]> <![CDATA[Titles and Tables]]> https://xwf1999.com/showthread.php?tid=50072 Sat, 09 May 2026 23:11:41 -0700 Mr. Oz]]> https://xwf1999.com/showthread.php?tid=50072


"Summer, you know you fucked up, right? That match was going my way, and in your bitchy entitled baby rage, you fucking ruined it. You have faced me enough times to know when to NEVER.

EVER.

FUCK WITH ME WHEN I AM ABOUT TO WIN!"

He punched the wall nearest him, putting a good fist sized crater into it, with a small bit of blood trickling from his middle knuckle on his right hand.

"I have touted time and time again, why I've won so many titles; from Stars of the Month to the very championship belts that are part of my many accolades. Do you know how I came by the majority of those Star of the Month awards? 

Because each fucking time, I got angry enough to lay down each and every body in my damned way, and put entire rosters on notice. You think I'm already a menace? Now, you will get to find out that the demons that haunt my mind are telling me that it's time to put out a Star of the Month amount of work. You have forced my hand, you will get to see the rage that consumes me when people put me into that anger that consumes my entire being."

He held out the now slowly bit more bloodied hand and he would lick the line of crimson off from his skin before looking straight at the camera, as the lights turn off just for a second, as the figure of a horned Oni of Japanese folklore revealed itself upon the left side of his life.

"Every May, every five years, someone has to try to me. This time it seems like you're the dumb bitch that decided to aim her sights on me.

At Anarchy, you will see the demon that comes out when it's time to devour the mewling little creature that you are, before I go after the belt. I'm going to make you SUFFER as much as our match rule set allows until you BEG for me to end the match. For you to apologize. 

The destruction of others haunts my mind. Because it means my violent art pieces were so beautiful, I can hear your screams, and they will be yours this time.

I am your God, Summer. It is time for you to fucking realize how far above I truly am, in comparison.

Now pray."


In the darkness, the sound of haggard breathing, dry swallowing and the sound of someone seemingly blowing their nose. The void slowly getting light, from a dim circle in the center, then the light quickly filled up the area, showing a bloody and battered Oswald, bleeding from his nose, his mouth, biceps and his clothes torn as scraps hanging on by his belt cinching his high hip area tight enough to keep the bloodied scraps hanging there like trophies from the pants. 

The lights now being used to on the film, and around him are bodies. A mix of ethnicity laying more bloodied than him in some spots, some having well dressed clothes and their eyes open wide and from the sign of their chests not raising or falling, they had been killed. 

His body cut up, his body bleeding internally, more than just the surface level bruising. All of the injuries he's known all too well in all his years of life. As he realizes he's now able to relax, he falls to his knees. A generic phone ringtone playing from one of the corpses which, if he had the energy left to do it he would've rolled his eyes at having to get back to his feet and walk over to the ringing body.

He grunted loudly as he did so, getting to his feet and shuffling over to the body while pulling out his own phone from his left pocket, dialing a number.

"Stay on the line."

He pulled the phone out and looked at the Unknown Caller id on the phone, answering

"I want you people to know. No matter what you send at me, they'll never be able to kill me. Nothing, and I mean fucking nothing, will stop me from erasing you cunts from the board."

He could hear a mixing of voices before he heard a distorted, masculine voice speak out

"We will see, Mister Sephtis. Enjoy your temporary victory. The war still rages on."

The call dropped and he spoke to the person on the other line

"I hope you got something close to the location. Make arrangements to a hotel a few miles away. It's time to handle the family business."

He hung up and broke both his phone and the other's before shuffling away. He then pulled out another phone and called what seemed to be Alysia, as the designation on the phone was 'Wifey', something his daughter put in, in order to show her mother was contacting him, and no one else.

"Hey... I need you to call Dr. Svenaldo, let her know I have several-"

He winced and then the sound of his breathing going back to the raspy nature before he coughed like something was caught in his throat, only for him to force out a thick glob of blood, with him wiping his mouth clean before resuming

"possible broken ribs... multiple lacerations... maybe even a punctured lung. Gonna need help from her and her team, or else I probably, most likely, will bleed out. Thank you. Love you."

He hung up, as he dragged himself, foot by foot, one in front of the other, before collapsing in his courtyard with a wet, meaty thud against the ground, slowly fading into unconsciousness from all the blood loss as the camera fades to black.]]>


"Summer, you know you fucked up, right? That match was going my way, and in your bitchy entitled baby rage, you fucking ruined it. You have faced me enough times to know when to NEVER.

EVER.

FUCK WITH ME WHEN I AM ABOUT TO WIN!"

He punched the wall nearest him, putting a good fist sized crater into it, with a small bit of blood trickling from his middle knuckle on his right hand.

"I have touted time and time again, why I've won so many titles; from Stars of the Month to the very championship belts that are part of my many accolades. Do you know how I came by the majority of those Star of the Month awards? 

Because each fucking time, I got angry enough to lay down each and every body in my damned way, and put entire rosters on notice. You think I'm already a menace? Now, you will get to find out that the demons that haunt my mind are telling me that it's time to put out a Star of the Month amount of work. You have forced my hand, you will get to see the rage that consumes me when people put me into that anger that consumes my entire being."

He held out the now slowly bit more bloodied hand and he would lick the line of crimson off from his skin before looking straight at the camera, as the lights turn off just for a second, as the figure of a horned Oni of Japanese folklore revealed itself upon the left side of his life.

"Every May, every five years, someone has to try to me. This time it seems like you're the dumb bitch that decided to aim her sights on me.

At Anarchy, you will see the demon that comes out when it's time to devour the mewling little creature that you are, before I go after the belt. I'm going to make you SUFFER as much as our match rule set allows until you BEG for me to end the match. For you to apologize. 

The destruction of others haunts my mind. Because it means my violent art pieces were so beautiful, I can hear your screams, and they will be yours this time.

I am your God, Summer. It is time for you to fucking realize how far above I truly am, in comparison.

Now pray."


In the darkness, the sound of haggard breathing, dry swallowing and the sound of someone seemingly blowing their nose. The void slowly getting light, from a dim circle in the center, then the light quickly filled up the area, showing a bloody and battered Oswald, bleeding from his nose, his mouth, biceps and his clothes torn as scraps hanging on by his belt cinching his high hip area tight enough to keep the bloodied scraps hanging there like trophies from the pants. 

The lights now being used to on the film, and around him are bodies. A mix of ethnicity laying more bloodied than him in some spots, some having well dressed clothes and their eyes open wide and from the sign of their chests not raising or falling, they had been killed. 

His body cut up, his body bleeding internally, more than just the surface level bruising. All of the injuries he's known all too well in all his years of life. As he realizes he's now able to relax, he falls to his knees. A generic phone ringtone playing from one of the corpses which, if he had the energy left to do it he would've rolled his eyes at having to get back to his feet and walk over to the ringing body.

He grunted loudly as he did so, getting to his feet and shuffling over to the body while pulling out his own phone from his left pocket, dialing a number.

"Stay on the line."

He pulled the phone out and looked at the Unknown Caller id on the phone, answering

"I want you people to know. No matter what you send at me, they'll never be able to kill me. Nothing, and I mean fucking nothing, will stop me from erasing you cunts from the board."

He could hear a mixing of voices before he heard a distorted, masculine voice speak out

"We will see, Mister Sephtis. Enjoy your temporary victory. The war still rages on."

The call dropped and he spoke to the person on the other line

"I hope you got something close to the location. Make arrangements to a hotel a few miles away. It's time to handle the family business."

He hung up and broke both his phone and the other's before shuffling away. He then pulled out another phone and called what seemed to be Alysia, as the designation on the phone was 'Wifey', something his daughter put in, in order to show her mother was contacting him, and no one else.

"Hey... I need you to call Dr. Svenaldo, let her know I have several-"

He winced and then the sound of his breathing going back to the raspy nature before he coughed like something was caught in his throat, only for him to force out a thick glob of blood, with him wiping his mouth clean before resuming

"possible broken ribs... multiple lacerations... maybe even a punctured lung. Gonna need help from her and her team, or else I probably, most likely, will bleed out. Thank you. Love you."

He hung up, as he dragged himself, foot by foot, one in front of the other, before collapsing in his courtyard with a wet, meaty thud against the ground, slowly fading into unconsciousness from all the blood loss as the camera fades to black.]]> <![CDATA[Threes a crowd]]> https://xwf1999.com/showthread.php?tid=50062 Thu, 07 May 2026 08:54:02 -0700 RicJamesTC]]> https://xwf1999.com/showthread.php?tid=50062 He’s dessed head to toe in a stunt rider’s gear that’s the color of red and gold accents , while a motor sport motorcycle sits behind him, angled toward a professional stuntman ramp that leads straight to the edge and across from it… another parking structure that very far in distance almost three football fields worth of distance but it is a makable jump, But only if everything goes right.

Ric James: Look at that distance, From where your pov this probably look crazy.
It’s too far, too risky, too many things that could go wrong and any average person with a sane mind would shake their head and alway away.
He smirks.

Ric James: Matter fact… if we keep it real? This a one outta three type of situation so I wouldn’t blame you if you didn’t like those odds but you see the thing is…
He pauses

Ric James: Your boy asked for an opportunity on Anarchy and the suits responded by putting me in a situation where the odds are stacked against me , three former Champions but let me make something clear.
He looks over at the edge again before looking back at the camera.

Rick James: I got too much soul not to be able to make a jump like this , just like I got too much soul too lose to Vanilla ice and the pussy cat dolls you dig, you see you can put Super Fly against one Champ and they get the business, you put him against two they gonna get got but you put Slic Ric in the ring with three then I’m going to stand on business and hitem with a pimp hand so Slic that by the time they wake up they’ll be lookin at the lights as I bass in my glory.
Slic pauses.

Ric James: You see just like every stunt I ever done has been an obstacle set in front of me that other wouldn’t dare bet their life on like I would because they ain’t got the souls like I do. The same would that going to carry me across that ledge is going to be the same soul that’s going get me through this three on one match up.
He starts to put his helmet on while walking towards the bike.

Ric James: Because like I said before I’m done being humbled and waiting behind other people that I know I can outshine if giving the opportunity, and if the suits won’t give it to me and want to play games by throwing the three stooges my way then I guess I gotta snap, crackle and pop they ass up out of here to get them to see Super Fly seriously, I guess I gotta used these soul steppers to step on some toes around here and ruffle some feathers to get that spotlight.
He gets on too got he bike.
Ric James: You see the three of you out together is nothing more than a one hit wonder act that had one good song and now you travel from promotion to promotion trying to reclaim that ole glory but just like your last few weeks in the XWF the same result is going to continue because it doesn’t matter that’s it’s three on one because I’m goin to smack ya , stack ya for the one , two , three and bounce your ass back to catering.

He pauses.

Ric James: And I get you three saw the card and thought this is our moment to get a win over the new talked about Star on Anarchy , you three put those pea sized brains together and thought this going to be our chance to send a message at my expense but oh no my three class group this isn’t a make a wish event to get you over while I take a back seat.


He starts up the bike and reves the engine.


Ric James: You see I ain’t paying no dues and waiting on my time just because I’m new , as you say John my time is now and I’m done waiting in line, I’m about to cut the line and offend everyone on the Anarchy roster . It doesn't matter if you are John Blade, and the Hixx or the Anarchy Champion Miss Fury herself , I’m coming for everyone’s food on their plate because I’m starving and my soul gotta eat.


Ric James beats on his chest as he pulls his visor on his helmet down and then just like that he takes off , building momentum as he goes faster and faster as he heads toward the edge and the he launches into the air. The camera cuts to slow motion, Ric and the bike soaring across the gap. For a second It looks like he might not make it across but then BOOM. The tires hit the other side and the bike skids slightly before straightening out. Ric rides forward a few feet then stops and takes off the helmet and looks directly into the camera. A confident grin spreading across his face.

Ric James: And just like I just beat those odds I’m going to beat the three stooges]]> He’s dessed head to toe in a stunt rider’s gear that’s the color of red and gold accents , while a motor sport motorcycle sits behind him, angled toward a professional stuntman ramp that leads straight to the edge and across from it… another parking structure that very far in distance almost three football fields worth of distance but it is a makable jump, But only if everything goes right.

Ric James: Look at that distance, From where your pov this probably look crazy.
It’s too far, too risky, too many things that could go wrong and any average person with a sane mind would shake their head and alway away.
He smirks.

Ric James: Matter fact… if we keep it real? This a one outta three type of situation so I wouldn’t blame you if you didn’t like those odds but you see the thing is…
He pauses

Ric James: Your boy asked for an opportunity on Anarchy and the suits responded by putting me in a situation where the odds are stacked against me , three former Champions but let me make something clear.
He looks over at the edge again before looking back at the camera.

Rick James: I got too much soul not to be able to make a jump like this , just like I got too much soul too lose to Vanilla ice and the pussy cat dolls you dig, you see you can put Super Fly against one Champ and they get the business, you put him against two they gonna get got but you put Slic Ric in the ring with three then I’m going to stand on business and hitem with a pimp hand so Slic that by the time they wake up they’ll be lookin at the lights as I bass in my glory.
Slic pauses.

Ric James: You see just like every stunt I ever done has been an obstacle set in front of me that other wouldn’t dare bet their life on like I would because they ain’t got the souls like I do. The same would that going to carry me across that ledge is going to be the same soul that’s going get me through this three on one match up.
He starts to put his helmet on while walking towards the bike.

Ric James: Because like I said before I’m done being humbled and waiting behind other people that I know I can outshine if giving the opportunity, and if the suits won’t give it to me and want to play games by throwing the three stooges my way then I guess I gotta snap, crackle and pop they ass up out of here to get them to see Super Fly seriously, I guess I gotta used these soul steppers to step on some toes around here and ruffle some feathers to get that spotlight.
He gets on too got he bike.
Ric James: You see the three of you out together is nothing more than a one hit wonder act that had one good song and now you travel from promotion to promotion trying to reclaim that ole glory but just like your last few weeks in the XWF the same result is going to continue because it doesn’t matter that’s it’s three on one because I’m goin to smack ya , stack ya for the one , two , three and bounce your ass back to catering.

He pauses.

Ric James: And I get you three saw the card and thought this is our moment to get a win over the new talked about Star on Anarchy , you three put those pea sized brains together and thought this going to be our chance to send a message at my expense but oh no my three class group this isn’t a make a wish event to get you over while I take a back seat.


He starts up the bike and reves the engine.


Ric James: You see I ain’t paying no dues and waiting on my time just because I’m new , as you say John my time is now and I’m done waiting in line, I’m about to cut the line and offend everyone on the Anarchy roster . It doesn't matter if you are John Blade, and the Hixx or the Anarchy Champion Miss Fury herself , I’m coming for everyone’s food on their plate because I’m starving and my soul gotta eat.


Ric James beats on his chest as he pulls his visor on his helmet down and then just like that he takes off , building momentum as he goes faster and faster as he heads toward the edge and the he launches into the air. The camera cuts to slow motion, Ric and the bike soaring across the gap. For a second It looks like he might not make it across but then BOOM. The tires hit the other side and the bike skids slightly before straightening out. Ric rides forward a few feet then stops and takes off the helmet and looks directly into the camera. A confident grin spreading across his face.

Ric James: And just like I just beat those odds I’m going to beat the three stooges]]> <![CDATA[Chapter XIX: Death Wish]]> https://xwf1999.com/showthread.php?tid=50053 Tue, 28 Apr 2026 23:15:23 -0700 XXXVI]]> https://xwf1999.com/showthread.php?tid=50053 “There’s a voice inside. Another me. I’ve been neglecting him and his needs. There was a version of me, before the isolation, before the small family I had, a man who helped people. A man of honor. He’s eating away at me, begging to be unleashed. As much as I have denied myself the carnal desires of the flesh in taking on this moniker and mask, there is another mask entirely I’ve been ignoring. Sooner or later, it’s going to bubble up and boil and spill over the edges of my being. It is inevitable.”

XXXVI sits on the edge of the bay bridge, overlooking the water. It reminded him of the oceans of his youth. Water always calmed him. His mother joked that he was half fish the way he loved to be in water at any opportunity.

“As much as I can feel the old me wanting to break through, she also desires this. I have made strides to let Cierra in. She knows my name. She knew his name before he revealed it to the world. Jordan. The Director. He brought us together, first as colleagues, as pawns in his little game. At some point it shifted. There is a certain kinship between us. We two remain, apart from him and his whole army of robots. It makes me wonder. I can’t be the only one with secrets. Cierra seems to recall very little about her past. Is it PTSD…or something darker?”

He looks out over the water. It grounds him. “So many come here as a last resort. Life dealt them a hand that they could no longer handle. Many choose a spot like this to jump. Some survive, but they are never the same again. In my youth, I was baptized in water. It was a symbol of faith and rebirth. Upon reflection in adulthood, I find it cruel to tell children that a stranger died because they are awful and that they must choose to follow him because a book told them to and the consequence is an eternity of suffering. Yet so many do this. I come here to reflect. I have become a stranger to my home land and to myself. My name no longer carries meaning. I became a weapon. His weapon. But then I found a new me. I embodied the revolution. I am proud of the work I’ve done and my time as champion. But that work is not finished yet. There will come a day when I too shed my skin and live in the light, but now is not the time. The sigil, the mask, the Roman Numerals, they are but tools for me to become the best version of myself, to realize my potential.”

“Jenny Myst will mock me and my pageantry. Yet she is a woman who carries around a doll and a plush sea creature and she calls them her friends. She surrounds herself with men like Jordan Penn, who promised her tag team glory and then left her behind the moment he got an opportunity. Charlie Nickles, who allowed his guilt over his sister’s condition to cloud everything and blamed the Exiles. A man without any scruples. I helped Solomon Kline fight the Bastards because I needed to. I needed to take a stand against Jordan, consequences be damned. He still claims to have power over me. He takes credit for all my successes. Perhaps there is some truth to it. I became more ruthless under his direction. I became a champion. Twice. This is my chance to show that I can do this on my own. My revolution doesn’t end because I lost a title. It ends when the work is finished and I’m just getting started.”




Off to his left, about forty feet away, he observes an overweight, balding man, who looks to be about fifty, standing at the edge of the bridge and teetering. He wears a suit and tie and he’s taking off his shoes. XXXVI rises instinctually.

The man doesn’t notice him at first as he cautiously and slowly approaches. The man removes his socks and places them inside his shoes next to him. XXXVI slinks closer as the man removes his watch and places it inside a shoe. By the time he notices XXXVI, he is just a few feet away. The man is startled.

“I…what are you doing here?” Asks the man.

“Reflecting. Now I could ask you the same thing.” Answers XXXVI.

The man looks at XXXVI, confused. “None of your business. What are you, here with the circus or something? What with the face paint and the mask?”

“I know. Quite silly, right? I’m actually a professional wrestler. But I’m also someone who has been through a lot. I’ve thought about ending things many times. Never quite succeeded though.”

“I see that. Well, it’s a long way down, but she left me. She was everything. I can’t start over again!”

“You can! Come join the circus with me!” Says XXXVI in an attempt to lighten the mood.

The man rolls his eyes. “Jokes. You’ve got jokes.”

“Right. Sorry. Likely nothing I say will convince you not to jump. I can’t tell you definitively it gets better, but I can tell you that it’s worth trying. I wear this mask, sure, but I’m willing to listen. I can lose the mask and we can go get some coffee. I’ll be an ear. Give you time to think. What do you say?”

He shakes his head and leaps. XXXVI leaps too. He grabs on to the ledge and the man’s hand with his other. He musters the strength to pull him up onto the bridge. The man, still in shock, helps XXXVI back up as news cameras swarm them. A blonde reporter approaches, microphone in hand. Passersby shout. “He’s a hero!” He’s crazy!” “He’s got a death wish!”

XXXVI clocks that last one as she asks his name. “Death Wish.” He answers. “Call me Death Wish.”]]> “There’s a voice inside. Another me. I’ve been neglecting him and his needs. There was a version of me, before the isolation, before the small family I had, a man who helped people. A man of honor. He’s eating away at me, begging to be unleashed. As much as I have denied myself the carnal desires of the flesh in taking on this moniker and mask, there is another mask entirely I’ve been ignoring. Sooner or later, it’s going to bubble up and boil and spill over the edges of my being. It is inevitable.”

XXXVI sits on the edge of the bay bridge, overlooking the water. It reminded him of the oceans of his youth. Water always calmed him. His mother joked that he was half fish the way he loved to be in water at any opportunity.

“As much as I can feel the old me wanting to break through, she also desires this. I have made strides to let Cierra in. She knows my name. She knew his name before he revealed it to the world. Jordan. The Director. He brought us together, first as colleagues, as pawns in his little game. At some point it shifted. There is a certain kinship between us. We two remain, apart from him and his whole army of robots. It makes me wonder. I can’t be the only one with secrets. Cierra seems to recall very little about her past. Is it PTSD…or something darker?”

He looks out over the water. It grounds him. “So many come here as a last resort. Life dealt them a hand that they could no longer handle. Many choose a spot like this to jump. Some survive, but they are never the same again. In my youth, I was baptized in water. It was a symbol of faith and rebirth. Upon reflection in adulthood, I find it cruel to tell children that a stranger died because they are awful and that they must choose to follow him because a book told them to and the consequence is an eternity of suffering. Yet so many do this. I come here to reflect. I have become a stranger to my home land and to myself. My name no longer carries meaning. I became a weapon. His weapon. But then I found a new me. I embodied the revolution. I am proud of the work I’ve done and my time as champion. But that work is not finished yet. There will come a day when I too shed my skin and live in the light, but now is not the time. The sigil, the mask, the Roman Numerals, they are but tools for me to become the best version of myself, to realize my potential.”

“Jenny Myst will mock me and my pageantry. Yet she is a woman who carries around a doll and a plush sea creature and she calls them her friends. She surrounds herself with men like Jordan Penn, who promised her tag team glory and then left her behind the moment he got an opportunity. Charlie Nickles, who allowed his guilt over his sister’s condition to cloud everything and blamed the Exiles. A man without any scruples. I helped Solomon Kline fight the Bastards because I needed to. I needed to take a stand against Jordan, consequences be damned. He still claims to have power over me. He takes credit for all my successes. Perhaps there is some truth to it. I became more ruthless under his direction. I became a champion. Twice. This is my chance to show that I can do this on my own. My revolution doesn’t end because I lost a title. It ends when the work is finished and I’m just getting started.”




Off to his left, about forty feet away, he observes an overweight, balding man, who looks to be about fifty, standing at the edge of the bridge and teetering. He wears a suit and tie and he’s taking off his shoes. XXXVI rises instinctually.

The man doesn’t notice him at first as he cautiously and slowly approaches. The man removes his socks and places them inside his shoes next to him. XXXVI slinks closer as the man removes his watch and places it inside a shoe. By the time he notices XXXVI, he is just a few feet away. The man is startled.

“I…what are you doing here?” Asks the man.

“Reflecting. Now I could ask you the same thing.” Answers XXXVI.

The man looks at XXXVI, confused. “None of your business. What are you, here with the circus or something? What with the face paint and the mask?”

“I know. Quite silly, right? I’m actually a professional wrestler. But I’m also someone who has been through a lot. I’ve thought about ending things many times. Never quite succeeded though.”

“I see that. Well, it’s a long way down, but she left me. She was everything. I can’t start over again!”

“You can! Come join the circus with me!” Says XXXVI in an attempt to lighten the mood.

The man rolls his eyes. “Jokes. You’ve got jokes.”

“Right. Sorry. Likely nothing I say will convince you not to jump. I can’t tell you definitively it gets better, but I can tell you that it’s worth trying. I wear this mask, sure, but I’m willing to listen. I can lose the mask and we can go get some coffee. I’ll be an ear. Give you time to think. What do you say?”

He shakes his head and leaps. XXXVI leaps too. He grabs on to the ledge and the man’s hand with his other. He musters the strength to pull him up onto the bridge. The man, still in shock, helps XXXVI back up as news cameras swarm them. A blonde reporter approaches, microphone in hand. Passersby shout. “He’s a hero!” He’s crazy!” “He’s got a death wish!”

XXXVI clocks that last one as she asks his name. “Death Wish.” He answers. “Call me Death Wish.”]]> <![CDATA[Tropical Threat]]> https://xwf1999.com/showthread.php?tid=50052 Tue, 28 Apr 2026 23:11:08 -0700 Marisol Vilaro]]> https://xwf1999.com/showthread.php?tid=50052 https://docs.google.com/document/d/1hrL6...sp=sharing]]> https://docs.google.com/document/d/1hrL6...sp=sharing]]> <![CDATA[I Don't]]> https://xwf1999.com/showthread.php?tid=50051 Tue, 28 Apr 2026 22:08:37 -0700 Frances Marigold]]> https://xwf1999.com/showthread.php?tid=50051
Hell, for some folks, it’s just how they start the day.

Like here at the Oakland Blood Clinic.

Deadbeats. Drunkards. Dopeheads. Laborers. Parents. People just trying to get through the week. All lined up to sell a little blood for a little cash. Because as it turns out, blood, it’s not as big a deal to some as it is to others.

Ya know, you don’t really gotta’ do this anymore, Frankie.

...

Frances Marigold just grumbles toward his long-time chauffeur who doesn’t have a license or a car, Jon from Brooklyn. A balding and middle-aged heavy set man wearing a dirty suit and mustache.

With that wrestling contract you signed, you don’t gotta’ hawk your blood for money.

Frances side-eyes his little comrade as the two of them stand in line.

Didn’t say I needed the money. he pulls the cigarette from his lips.

A nurse walks by. Pale. Wearing fangs. Clipboard in hand.

She’s nothing remarkable. No one notices her.

“NEXT”

Frances and Jon from Brooklyn approach.

“You feelin’ okay?” She asks Frances with an emotionally detached tone, “You're not gonna’ pass out are you?”

Frances just lets out a wet grumble,

“Oh, you’re a regular huh?”

Frances doesn’t answer right away.

He just stares at her.

Then he nods.

She sighs and shrugs like she doesn’t really care either way, and gestures him to the chair

“Right this way sir.”

The needle slides in.

Frances doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t even notice. Just leans back, cigarette still in hand.

Jon from Brooklyn watches the bag start to fill

You really doin’ this for nothin’, huh? Since when did you become the pious type?

Frances squints at the ceiling,

Ain’t nothin.

After a beat, he finally looks down. He watches the red line creep through the tube. Slow. Measured. Clean.

He tilts his head

...you ever notice these bloodsuckers?

They stop it before it gets messy.

Jon blinks, What?

Frances nods toward the bag

They measure it. They take just enough to help themselves, just enough to feel like they’ve done a good job… then they stop.

Everybody stays nice and safe.

Frances' eyes drift. He’s not really looking at anything anymore.

That’s your kinda’ fight, ain’t it… Vamp?

He exhales smoke.

Controlled.

Measured.

He looks down at his arm again. Blood still flowing.

It means somethin’ to ya.

…it ain’t never meant much to me.

It means so much to you…

You had to die to feel it.

Come back talkin’ about darkness. Void. All that… nothin.

I aint never had to die to find that.

Frances chuckles.

You talk about death like it makes you dangerous… All it did was send you runnin’ back here… for the flesh and blood.

See, funny thing about “first blood”...

He taps the tube with one finger, not even looking at it.

You think it’s something special. Like that’s the finish. Got your fix. Raise your fist. Show your fangs

He shakes his head and takes another drag from his cigarette. Nah. Smoke leaking from the side of his mouth In my world, that's just how we get the fight started.

His eyes drift back to the nurse.

To the fangs. To the bag. To the line.

Blood’s when you finally notice it.

Frankie? Looking around befuddled, Who the hell ya talking to?

“Gentlmen, could you please hush? You’re disrupting the process” the nurse chimes in,

Frances doesn’t look at her. Doesn’t move. Doesn’t stop smoking.

You spill blood to feed yourself.

Like it’s gonna’ fix somethin’

Like its gonna make all of that darkness mean somethin’

Three hundred years… for nothin’

Silence.

Jon from Brooklyn shifts a little. Uncomfortable now.

Frankie… you’re losin’ a lot there…

Frances shrugs.

They’ll tell me when to stop.

The words hang for a moment

I don't.

The nurse steps closer. Not annoyed. Just nonchalant and procedural.

“Sir” she says flatly “We’ve taken enough”

See?

Frances doesn’t move, doesn’t look at her.

She reaches for the line, professional and precise. Like she’s done this thousands of times. Her fingers pinch the tube, ready to clamp it.

Frances finally moves. His hand catches her wrist. Not tight. Not threatening. Not violent.

But the nurse stops.

Frances looks at her.

Really *looks* this time

At the fangs. At the pale skin. At the way she keeps everything neat. Measured. Controlled.

...you always stop it right before it gets’ interesting’”
She doesn’t answer. That’s not her job.

Frances lets go. But instead of waiting, he reaches down and grabs the needle.

And pulls it out himself.

Blood wells instantly and runs down his arm.

Not clean.

Not measured.

Not controlled.

Jon recoils

Christ, Frankie-

The nurse stiffens. That’s not protocol. That’s not procedure.

“Sir, you need to apply pressure”

Frances ignores her and just watches the blood. Lets run. Lets it drip onto the tile.

One drop

Then another.

And another.

see… this is where you get it twisted.

He lifts his arm slightly, blood trailing down to his wrist.

You think blood is the point.

It ain’t

It’s just the part where people start payin’ attention.

The nurse is frozen now.

Jon doesn’t know where to look.

Frances finally turns and finds the camera again.

You wait for it, Vamp.

You measure it.

In liters…. In losses…. In years.

You build your whole stupid little world around it…

Me?

He puts on a mean smirk,

I’ve been bleedin’ the whole time.

He wipes his hand across his shirt, like it doesn’t matter… because it doesn’t.

First blood? That’s just the first time you realize you’re already losin’

He starts to walk off, leaving everything and everyone behind him.

And by the time you see it…

He glances back once,

Not at the scene.

At the camera

...it’s already too late.

Around here, they pay you to stop bleeding.

Thursday night?

I won’t.



]]>
Hell, for some folks, it’s just how they start the day.

Like here at the Oakland Blood Clinic.

Deadbeats. Drunkards. Dopeheads. Laborers. Parents. People just trying to get through the week. All lined up to sell a little blood for a little cash. Because as it turns out, blood, it’s not as big a deal to some as it is to others.

Ya know, you don’t really gotta’ do this anymore, Frankie.

...

Frances Marigold just grumbles toward his long-time chauffeur who doesn’t have a license or a car, Jon from Brooklyn. A balding and middle-aged heavy set man wearing a dirty suit and mustache.

With that wrestling contract you signed, you don’t gotta’ hawk your blood for money.

Frances side-eyes his little comrade as the two of them stand in line.

Didn’t say I needed the money. he pulls the cigarette from his lips.

A nurse walks by. Pale. Wearing fangs. Clipboard in hand.

She’s nothing remarkable. No one notices her.

“NEXT”

Frances and Jon from Brooklyn approach.

“You feelin’ okay?” She asks Frances with an emotionally detached tone, “You're not gonna’ pass out are you?”

Frances just lets out a wet grumble,

“Oh, you’re a regular huh?”

Frances doesn’t answer right away.

He just stares at her.

Then he nods.

She sighs and shrugs like she doesn’t really care either way, and gestures him to the chair

“Right this way sir.”

The needle slides in.

Frances doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t even notice. Just leans back, cigarette still in hand.

Jon from Brooklyn watches the bag start to fill

You really doin’ this for nothin’, huh? Since when did you become the pious type?

Frances squints at the ceiling,

Ain’t nothin.

After a beat, he finally looks down. He watches the red line creep through the tube. Slow. Measured. Clean.

He tilts his head

...you ever notice these bloodsuckers?

They stop it before it gets messy.

Jon blinks, What?

Frances nods toward the bag

They measure it. They take just enough to help themselves, just enough to feel like they’ve done a good job… then they stop.

Everybody stays nice and safe.

Frances' eyes drift. He’s not really looking at anything anymore.

That’s your kinda’ fight, ain’t it… Vamp?

He exhales smoke.

Controlled.

Measured.

He looks down at his arm again. Blood still flowing.

It means somethin’ to ya.

…it ain’t never meant much to me.

It means so much to you…

You had to die to feel it.

Come back talkin’ about darkness. Void. All that… nothin.

I aint never had to die to find that.

Frances chuckles.

You talk about death like it makes you dangerous… All it did was send you runnin’ back here… for the flesh and blood.

See, funny thing about “first blood”...

He taps the tube with one finger, not even looking at it.

You think it’s something special. Like that’s the finish. Got your fix. Raise your fist. Show your fangs

He shakes his head and takes another drag from his cigarette. Nah. Smoke leaking from the side of his mouth In my world, that's just how we get the fight started.

His eyes drift back to the nurse.

To the fangs. To the bag. To the line.

Blood’s when you finally notice it.

Frankie? Looking around befuddled, Who the hell ya talking to?

“Gentlmen, could you please hush? You’re disrupting the process” the nurse chimes in,

Frances doesn’t look at her. Doesn’t move. Doesn’t stop smoking.

You spill blood to feed yourself.

Like it’s gonna’ fix somethin’

Like its gonna make all of that darkness mean somethin’

Three hundred years… for nothin’

Silence.

Jon from Brooklyn shifts a little. Uncomfortable now.

Frankie… you’re losin’ a lot there…

Frances shrugs.

They’ll tell me when to stop.

The words hang for a moment

I don't.

The nurse steps closer. Not annoyed. Just nonchalant and procedural.

“Sir” she says flatly “We’ve taken enough”

See?

Frances doesn’t move, doesn’t look at her.

She reaches for the line, professional and precise. Like she’s done this thousands of times. Her fingers pinch the tube, ready to clamp it.

Frances finally moves. His hand catches her wrist. Not tight. Not threatening. Not violent.

But the nurse stops.

Frances looks at her.

Really *looks* this time

At the fangs. At the pale skin. At the way she keeps everything neat. Measured. Controlled.

...you always stop it right before it gets’ interesting’”
She doesn’t answer. That’s not her job.

Frances lets go. But instead of waiting, he reaches down and grabs the needle.

And pulls it out himself.

Blood wells instantly and runs down his arm.

Not clean.

Not measured.

Not controlled.

Jon recoils

Christ, Frankie-

The nurse stiffens. That’s not protocol. That’s not procedure.

“Sir, you need to apply pressure”

Frances ignores her and just watches the blood. Lets run. Lets it drip onto the tile.

One drop

Then another.

And another.

see… this is where you get it twisted.

He lifts his arm slightly, blood trailing down to his wrist.

You think blood is the point.

It ain’t

It’s just the part where people start payin’ attention.

The nurse is frozen now.

Jon doesn’t know where to look.

Frances finally turns and finds the camera again.

You wait for it, Vamp.

You measure it.

In liters…. In losses…. In years.

You build your whole stupid little world around it…

Me?

He puts on a mean smirk,

I’ve been bleedin’ the whole time.

He wipes his hand across his shirt, like it doesn’t matter… because it doesn’t.

First blood? That’s just the first time you realize you’re already losin’

He starts to walk off, leaving everything and everyone behind him.

And by the time you see it…

He glances back once,

Not at the scene.

At the camera

...it’s already too late.

Around here, they pay you to stop bleeding.

Thursday night?

I won’t.



]]> <![CDATA[An Unexpected Visitor]]> https://xwf1999.com/showthread.php?tid=50050 Tue, 28 Apr 2026 20:36:27 -0700 SolemnIncline]]> https://xwf1999.com/showthread.php?tid=50050 “I did some awful shit last year. I came back from a potential career ending injury at the hands of the BoB and I have been paying penance for that, it seems. Not a single victory since my grand return and yet, here I stand with an opportunity. I’m not the same man who called himself Psycho and ran a War Games team straight into the ground. I am clearly also not the same man who won and defended the X-Treme title and showed up week after week, resilient, no matter who stood across from him. I am something new, a man who finds himself a bit lost in the sauce.”

“I’ve gotten in my own way. I had the biggest possible return match. I had been medically cleared, but nothing could compare me for facing off against Kieran King and Centurion for all the fucking marbles. I didn’t back down. I came in and I took them both to the absolute limit. I opened a lot of eyes the way I stood toe to toe with two of the greatest to ever do it. I truly believe I had a chance that night, but I lost my footing and found myself falling. It was a short moment that felt like an eternity. There is no shame in a performance like that. I could have dusted myself off and come back ready for John Black. Your boy, Reggie. Not all T.H.U.G.S are built the same. In one of my favorite matches of my career, I came to this show and beat Tommy Wish in an insane match only Jimmy Stars could have conceived of. I earned his respect that night and I successfully retained my X-Treme title. The outlier, someone I haven’t faced yet, is you Reggie. I’ve been on a losing streak, but I’ll be damned if I don’t make it two out of three against the T.H.U.G.S.”

“Then there’s Oz. We have some history. In my first appearance on Anarchy, I teamed with Marisol Vilaro and you beat me in a tag match. That was over a year ago now. Feels like ancient history. Then there was the Corporation and War Games. You call your finished I Failed You, but I have to disagree, Oz. I failed you…as a captain. I didn’t have what it took to lead us to victory. You were a good soldier. You always are. That’s honestly all you’ll ever be, I fear. You don’t have greatness in you. You have potential. Limited potential. You’re a good hand, a utility player. You win some, but lately you’re content to follow men like Charlie Nickles and Jordan Penn. I don’t blame you for being there. I bought in once too, but I sure as hell don’t understand why you’re still there. I’m going to show you that I’m better off now that I left and you’ll just keep playing lackey. Good luck with that.”

“Summer. I can relate to you. You’ve had some great wins. You had XXXVI’s number every time before you faced him for the Rev title, but since then, things haven’t exactly gone your way. The way I see it? You and I are both on losing streaks and something’s gotta give. One of us is going to get a big victory and become number one contender to Betsy’s title. I think we both know that your track record in title matches is well, not good. I don’t see that trend changing here. Honestly the best and most likely outcome is me doing what I do best as a former two-time X-Treme champion and beating the shit out of the three of you to claim my shot at the Revolution title. It’s time to put my money where my mouth is and earn my spot at Leap of Faith.”




“It’s no L.A., but Oakland is still a pretty cool place, kid.”

Solomon Kline is in the gym, getting some reps in on the bench. The disembodied voice is all-too familiar. He rests the weight bar on the rack and sits up. “Uncle David? But you’re…”

“Dead? Kaput? No longer among the living?” He turns to see David Dremmen, very much not dead.

“That part. I quit drinking. So, tell me why I’m hallucinating right now?”

David reaches out and flicks Solomon on the arm. Solomon flinches as he feels the finger smacking his skin. “Simple. You aren’t.” 

Solomon’s jaw drops. “I watched you die. You coded. I…we all went to your funeral.”

David nods along with everything he’s saying. “Yeah, great service. I liked the part where they pretended I was some kind of saint. When all those people who hated my guts showed up with crocodile tears in their eyes. Happens almost every time.”

Solomon shakes his head. “So, are you going to tell me what the fuck is going on?!”

“What’s going on is I faked my death and yes, I’ll tell you all about it on the way.”

“I’m not going anywhere with you! Does dad know?” Solomon asks, incredulous.

“Nah. There’s a lot my brother doesn’t know and it’s for the best. I wouldn’t come back in public and to you specifically if it wasn’t important. I could have stayed a ghost, you know.”

Solomon sneers. “Yeah, maybe you should have. Don’t think I’ve forgotten our last conversation. I still need answers about your dad and the money you were sending him. Oh, and I’ll be announcing the sale of Dremmen Landscaping soon. It’s just…so weird to see you again. It doesn’t feel real. Fuck you for putting us all through that.”

David clears his throat. “Yeah, I deserve that. All of it. I promise I’ll let you get back to training soon, I know this opportunity is a big one. I’m sure you’re going to want to hear what I have to say. How bout it?”

Solomon lets out a big sigh. “Ugh. Fine. Better be worth it.”


]]> “I did some awful shit last year. I came back from a potential career ending injury at the hands of the BoB and I have been paying penance for that, it seems. Not a single victory since my grand return and yet, here I stand with an opportunity. I’m not the same man who called himself Psycho and ran a War Games team straight into the ground. I am clearly also not the same man who won and defended the X-Treme title and showed up week after week, resilient, no matter who stood across from him. I am something new, a man who finds himself a bit lost in the sauce.”

“I’ve gotten in my own way. I had the biggest possible return match. I had been medically cleared, but nothing could compare me for facing off against Kieran King and Centurion for all the fucking marbles. I didn’t back down. I came in and I took them both to the absolute limit. I opened a lot of eyes the way I stood toe to toe with two of the greatest to ever do it. I truly believe I had a chance that night, but I lost my footing and found myself falling. It was a short moment that felt like an eternity. There is no shame in a performance like that. I could have dusted myself off and come back ready for John Black. Your boy, Reggie. Not all T.H.U.G.S are built the same. In one of my favorite matches of my career, I came to this show and beat Tommy Wish in an insane match only Jimmy Stars could have conceived of. I earned his respect that night and I successfully retained my X-Treme title. The outlier, someone I haven’t faced yet, is you Reggie. I’ve been on a losing streak, but I’ll be damned if I don’t make it two out of three against the T.H.U.G.S.”

“Then there’s Oz. We have some history. In my first appearance on Anarchy, I teamed with Marisol Vilaro and you beat me in a tag match. That was over a year ago now. Feels like ancient history. Then there was the Corporation and War Games. You call your finished I Failed You, but I have to disagree, Oz. I failed you…as a captain. I didn’t have what it took to lead us to victory. You were a good soldier. You always are. That’s honestly all you’ll ever be, I fear. You don’t have greatness in you. You have potential. Limited potential. You’re a good hand, a utility player. You win some, but lately you’re content to follow men like Charlie Nickles and Jordan Penn. I don’t blame you for being there. I bought in once too, but I sure as hell don’t understand why you’re still there. I’m going to show you that I’m better off now that I left and you’ll just keep playing lackey. Good luck with that.”

“Summer. I can relate to you. You’ve had some great wins. You had XXXVI’s number every time before you faced him for the Rev title, but since then, things haven’t exactly gone your way. The way I see it? You and I are both on losing streaks and something’s gotta give. One of us is going to get a big victory and become number one contender to Betsy’s title. I think we both know that your track record in title matches is well, not good. I don’t see that trend changing here. Honestly the best and most likely outcome is me doing what I do best as a former two-time X-Treme champion and beating the shit out of the three of you to claim my shot at the Revolution title. It’s time to put my money where my mouth is and earn my spot at Leap of Faith.”




“It’s no L.A., but Oakland is still a pretty cool place, kid.”

Solomon Kline is in the gym, getting some reps in on the bench. The disembodied voice is all-too familiar. He rests the weight bar on the rack and sits up. “Uncle David? But you’re…”

“Dead? Kaput? No longer among the living?” He turns to see David Dremmen, very much not dead.

“That part. I quit drinking. So, tell me why I’m hallucinating right now?”

David reaches out and flicks Solomon on the arm. Solomon flinches as he feels the finger smacking his skin. “Simple. You aren’t.” 

Solomon’s jaw drops. “I watched you die. You coded. I…we all went to your funeral.”

David nods along with everything he’s saying. “Yeah, great service. I liked the part where they pretended I was some kind of saint. When all those people who hated my guts showed up with crocodile tears in their eyes. Happens almost every time.”

Solomon shakes his head. “So, are you going to tell me what the fuck is going on?!”

“What’s going on is I faked my death and yes, I’ll tell you all about it on the way.”

“I’m not going anywhere with you! Does dad know?” Solomon asks, incredulous.

“Nah. There’s a lot my brother doesn’t know and it’s for the best. I wouldn’t come back in public and to you specifically if it wasn’t important. I could have stayed a ghost, you know.”

Solomon sneers. “Yeah, maybe you should have. Don’t think I’ve forgotten our last conversation. I still need answers about your dad and the money you were sending him. Oh, and I’ll be announcing the sale of Dremmen Landscaping soon. It’s just…so weird to see you again. It doesn’t feel real. Fuck you for putting us all through that.”

David clears his throat. “Yeah, I deserve that. All of it. I promise I’ll let you get back to training soon, I know this opportunity is a big one. I’m sure you’re going to want to hear what I have to say. How bout it?”

Solomon lets out a big sigh. “Ugh. Fine. Better be worth it.”


]]> <![CDATA[We’re Gonna Do It!]]> https://xwf1999.com/showthread.php?tid=50048 Tue, 28 Apr 2026 17:44:45 -0700 Bobby Sales]]> https://xwf1999.com/showthread.php?tid=50048
[Image: Bihcj7R.jpg]

It’s a taco! But not just any taco - it’s a terrible taco! It’s the end result of what happens when you merge something incredibly American with something incredibly Mexican! 

Trust me, folks, you’re going to want this. I know Mary Gonzalez or whatever her name is, and that Razor dude are going to POUNCE on this opportunity, so you’re going to want to get in early! And for $199.99, you can be the first to get this amazing product. 

If you’re looking for an excuse to wait, though, wait until you see what happens when a true competitor, such as your old buddy Bobby, takes on a couple of losers and jokers that make up the bulk of this thing. Trust me, you want it! Or you don’t want it. I don’t know…which way am I supposed to sell you on this? 

Just give me money, hoes!]]>
[Image: Bihcj7R.jpg]

It’s a taco! But not just any taco - it’s a terrible taco! It’s the end result of what happens when you merge something incredibly American with something incredibly Mexican! 

Trust me, folks, you’re going to want this. I know Mary Gonzalez or whatever her name is, and that Razor dude are going to POUNCE on this opportunity, so you’re going to want to get in early! And for $199.99, you can be the first to get this amazing product. 

If you’re looking for an excuse to wait, though, wait until you see what happens when a true competitor, such as your old buddy Bobby, takes on a couple of losers and jokers that make up the bulk of this thing. Trust me, you want it! Or you don’t want it. I don’t know…which way am I supposed to sell you on this? 

Just give me money, hoes!]]> <![CDATA[Cirrhosis of the Idiot]]> https://xwf1999.com/showthread.php?tid=50047 Tue, 28 Apr 2026 15:22:52 -0700 Kristoffer "Vamp" Arroyo]]> https://xwf1999.com/showthread.php?tid=50047
THURSDAY NIGHT AA MEETING
.

The shot continues its downward trajectory until it surprisingly lands on Kristoffer Arroyo, who is speaking and seated amongst the group.

“I first realized I had a problem when I was ousted from a cantina just outside Madrid in 1737.”

The group leader leans in with a surprised look on her face.

“I’m sorry, what?”

But Kris continues on, nonchalantly.

“I had just been turned, you see, and was struggling with dealing with my new reality. Everywhere I turned I could hear their blood rushing through their veins. My lust for it early on was so strong it physically hurt.”

The group leader looks even more shocked.

“I’m sorry, WHAT?!”

Kris finally notices her cadence. “I thought this was a judgement free zone?”

The group leader looks to the side, to the other group members who look equally as shocked and/or confused.

“Anyway, I had turned to the bottle to deal with my burgeoning vampiric essence. I thought myself a demon…a monster…and I struggled with these new urges so defiantly I felt like my only solace could be found in spirits. So I drank myself stupid. Night after night. Just like my ne’er do well opponent this week Frances Marigold.

But you see, I GET IT. I do! The attraction, the pull of sinking into that gin soaked oblivion. Sometimes feeling nothing at all is really superior to feeling like shit. Or at least I thought so, back then.”

One of the other group members timidly cuts in. “Um, excuse me, did you just say you’re a vampire?”

Kris looks at the man with a hint of distaste. “I’m going to need you to focus, sir.” He coughs. “Look, the point is, I’ve BEEN the Frances Marigold’s of the world, feeling that desperate desire to escape a brutal, unrelenting reality in the drink. Or in drugs. But here’s the difference between me and Frances: I grew up.”

The group leader cuts in again. “Look, I think I speak for everyone when I say, I’m still kinda stuck on the vampire thing.”

“Well, unstick yourself. My, my, what a bunch of Judgemental Judy’s here tonight. You bear your soul and admit to being one terror inducing creature of the night and it’s all anyone can talk about.” Kris grouses.

The group leader, cowed, sits back in her chair.

“As I was SAYING, I grew up. I stopped running from who and what I was and gathered the strength and the temerity to ACCEPT my new reality. And that’s where Frances and I differ. Frances is still, effectively, a child, hiding from the beasts in the closet under his bed. Fleeing in terror from the monstrous tragedy that is his everyday existence. But there comes a point in time when you have to put the damn bottle down and stop hiding….stop fleeing!”

“Okay, okay, but if you’re a vampire how did you get here? It’s still daylight outside.” Another group member chirps up.

Kris sighs and massages the bridge of his nose. “The whole “dies in daylight” thing is a myth.”

“Wow, really? Just like in Twilight!”

“No, not like in Twilight. Look, can I finish?!”

The interrupting group member winces and silences himself.

“Thank you!” Kris huffs. “Now Vinnie Lane may think you’re exactly what the XWF needs, but I beg to differ. You’re a relic, Frances. The saddest relic of all. I’ll bet Scoops McGee hasn’t lost control of his sphincter and doesn’t piss blood on the regular. Not like you, my friend! But regardless, you’re just another pathetic old man who has misplaced finesse and art and substituted spectacle and ultraviolence. Sounds like someone else I know.

This industry is built off the bodies of people like me. People who put in the work. Who spend countless hours in the gym. Who practice and perfect technique and pour their heart and soul into the dignity and grace at the heart of this sport. But why bother with all that when you can just swing a garbage can and bleed like a stuck pig in front of a bingo hall’s worth of penniless reprobates? Now if it sounds like I’m being elitist Frances it’s because I FUCKING AM.

It’s because contrary to what that aging pseudo rockstar who inked your contract thinks, you aren’t some primordial spark that is just what the XWF needs. No, in fact you’re the LAST thing this company needs. The XWF has evolved beyond the need to shamelessly debase itself at the altar of laziness, gore, and blatant shock value. And yes, Samael, that goes double for you.

Kris pauses, looking around at the rest of the group who seem to be in various states of confusion, stunned silence, and wondering where the fuck that camera man came from. He shrugs, returning his gaze to the camera.

But please Frances. Bring those clumsy punches, those sloppy beal tosses. Bring a litany of foreign objects to the ring. I WELCOME them Frances. Because I want you in your utmost element when I bust you open and win this match. I want to show Vinnie Lane and all the rest of the backwards nitwits in the back that the age of the “bleating drunken Hepatitis vector” is over and done with. This is the era of people who TRY. Who WORK. Who actually give a damn about the future of this business and the people in it.

And the best part of all Frances? You’re my dry run for a man not unlike you. Perhaps with a smidgen more class and dignity, but ultimately cut from the same cloth.

Yeah Frances, you’re my warm up for Scoops McGee.

See you Thursday. If you can pry yourself out of the gutter long enough to show up. ]]>
THURSDAY NIGHT AA MEETING
.

The shot continues its downward trajectory until it surprisingly lands on Kristoffer Arroyo, who is speaking and seated amongst the group.

“I first realized I had a problem when I was ousted from a cantina just outside Madrid in 1737.”

The group leader leans in with a surprised look on her face.

“I’m sorry, what?”

But Kris continues on, nonchalantly.

“I had just been turned, you see, and was struggling with dealing with my new reality. Everywhere I turned I could hear their blood rushing through their veins. My lust for it early on was so strong it physically hurt.”

The group leader looks even more shocked.

“I’m sorry, WHAT?!”

Kris finally notices her cadence. “I thought this was a judgement free zone?”

The group leader looks to the side, to the other group members who look equally as shocked and/or confused.

“Anyway, I had turned to the bottle to deal with my burgeoning vampiric essence. I thought myself a demon…a monster…and I struggled with these new urges so defiantly I felt like my only solace could be found in spirits. So I drank myself stupid. Night after night. Just like my ne’er do well opponent this week Frances Marigold.

But you see, I GET IT. I do! The attraction, the pull of sinking into that gin soaked oblivion. Sometimes feeling nothing at all is really superior to feeling like shit. Or at least I thought so, back then.”

One of the other group members timidly cuts in. “Um, excuse me, did you just say you’re a vampire?”

Kris looks at the man with a hint of distaste. “I’m going to need you to focus, sir.” He coughs. “Look, the point is, I’ve BEEN the Frances Marigold’s of the world, feeling that desperate desire to escape a brutal, unrelenting reality in the drink. Or in drugs. But here’s the difference between me and Frances: I grew up.”

The group leader cuts in again. “Look, I think I speak for everyone when I say, I’m still kinda stuck on the vampire thing.”

“Well, unstick yourself. My, my, what a bunch of Judgemental Judy’s here tonight. You bear your soul and admit to being one terror inducing creature of the night and it’s all anyone can talk about.” Kris grouses.

The group leader, cowed, sits back in her chair.

“As I was SAYING, I grew up. I stopped running from who and what I was and gathered the strength and the temerity to ACCEPT my new reality. And that’s where Frances and I differ. Frances is still, effectively, a child, hiding from the beasts in the closet under his bed. Fleeing in terror from the monstrous tragedy that is his everyday existence. But there comes a point in time when you have to put the damn bottle down and stop hiding….stop fleeing!”

“Okay, okay, but if you’re a vampire how did you get here? It’s still daylight outside.” Another group member chirps up.

Kris sighs and massages the bridge of his nose. “The whole “dies in daylight” thing is a myth.”

“Wow, really? Just like in Twilight!”

“No, not like in Twilight. Look, can I finish?!”

The interrupting group member winces and silences himself.

“Thank you!” Kris huffs. “Now Vinnie Lane may think you’re exactly what the XWF needs, but I beg to differ. You’re a relic, Frances. The saddest relic of all. I’ll bet Scoops McGee hasn’t lost control of his sphincter and doesn’t piss blood on the regular. Not like you, my friend! But regardless, you’re just another pathetic old man who has misplaced finesse and art and substituted spectacle and ultraviolence. Sounds like someone else I know.

This industry is built off the bodies of people like me. People who put in the work. Who spend countless hours in the gym. Who practice and perfect technique and pour their heart and soul into the dignity and grace at the heart of this sport. But why bother with all that when you can just swing a garbage can and bleed like a stuck pig in front of a bingo hall’s worth of penniless reprobates? Now if it sounds like I’m being elitist Frances it’s because I FUCKING AM.

It’s because contrary to what that aging pseudo rockstar who inked your contract thinks, you aren’t some primordial spark that is just what the XWF needs. No, in fact you’re the LAST thing this company needs. The XWF has evolved beyond the need to shamelessly debase itself at the altar of laziness, gore, and blatant shock value. And yes, Samael, that goes double for you.

Kris pauses, looking around at the rest of the group who seem to be in various states of confusion, stunned silence, and wondering where the fuck that camera man came from. He shrugs, returning his gaze to the camera.

But please Frances. Bring those clumsy punches, those sloppy beal tosses. Bring a litany of foreign objects to the ring. I WELCOME them Frances. Because I want you in your utmost element when I bust you open and win this match. I want to show Vinnie Lane and all the rest of the backwards nitwits in the back that the age of the “bleating drunken Hepatitis vector” is over and done with. This is the era of people who TRY. Who WORK. Who actually give a damn about the future of this business and the people in it.

And the best part of all Frances? You’re my dry run for a man not unlike you. Perhaps with a smidgen more class and dignity, but ultimately cut from the same cloth.

Yeah Frances, you’re my warm up for Scoops McGee.

See you Thursday. If you can pry yourself out of the gutter long enough to show up. ]]>