<![CDATA[X-treme Wrestling Federation - Warfare RP Board]]> https://xwf1999.com/ Tue, 15 Sep 2026 19:46:36 +0000 MyBB <![CDATA[Scoops McGee in... "Blood for Blood"]]> https://xwf1999.com/showthread.php?tid=50428 Sun, 30 Aug 2026 23:59:50 -0700 Scoops McGee]]> https://xwf1999.com/showthread.php?tid=50428 https://docs.google.com/document/d/1PmqP...sp=sharing]]> https://docs.google.com/document/d/1PmqP...sp=sharing]]> <![CDATA[Just Another Cage]]> https://xwf1999.com/showthread.php?tid=50424 Sun, 30 Aug 2026 16:36:14 -0700 RemiStorm]]> https://xwf1999.com/showthread.php?tid=50424 [Image: file-000000009eb0720cb3afb66d32735e46.png]


JUST ANOTHER CAGE


]]> [Image: file-000000009eb0720cb3afb66d32735e46.png]


JUST ANOTHER CAGE


]]> <![CDATA[Who We Be]]> https://xwf1999.com/showthread.php?tid=50422 Sun, 30 Aug 2026 14:51:31 -0700 Mr. Amazing]]> https://xwf1999.com/showthread.php?tid=50422

They don't know... Who We Be
]]>

They don't know... Who We Be
]]> <![CDATA[Felony charges of the Edgecrusher]]> https://xwf1999.com/showthread.php?tid=50421 Sun, 30 Aug 2026 12:37:12 -0700 Jeffrye421]]> https://xwf1999.com/showthread.php?tid=50421 The scene opens at the Edgecrusher's state-of-the-art training center. A simple single-car garage with a sheet of plywood resting across two garbage cans, a bench press not used since the late '90s, and a web of extension cords running across the floor. A banner hangs crookedly from the rafters.

"MC EC'S SCHOOL OF HARD KNOCKS, PHAT BEATS & TAX-DEDUCTIBLE ATHLETIC TRAINING."

MC EC does his best Michelle Pfeiffer impersonation and sits backwards in a folding chair. He wears an oversized Indianapolis Colts jersey, sunglasses, and three thick gold chains that turn his skin green anywhere they touch. Beside him, Mr. Miller sits in a rusted lawn chair. His arms folded across his chest, he seems to be slipping in and out of consciousness. On the old TV in front of them, the recent promo cut by Solomon Kline plays. MC Edgecrusher leans in toward the screen and slowly lowers his Ray-Bans.

MC EC: Pause it.

Mr. Miller: What?

MC EC: I said pause it.

Mr. Miller: What?

MC EC reaches down and presses a random button on the VCR, and the tape ejects.

MC EC: Close enough.

Mr. Miller: What?

The screen is now nothing but static. The Edgecrusher stares gravely into it and nods to himself.

MC EC: Look at that man, Miller. Sad and depressed. He's spiritually constipated.

Mr. Miller: He called you fat.

MC EC: That's what depression does, dawg. Makes ya lash out at the people you respect the most.

The Edgecrusher rises from his folding chair and begins pacing back and forth in front of the TV.

MC EC: Think about everything Sashimi Koopa been through. The injury. The comeback. That man isn't my enemy, he's my homie. He's just really sad.

MC Edgecrusher turns toward the elderly Mr. Miller with the solemn expression of a man who just discovered his purpose.

MC EC: Salami just needs a friend.

A heavy knock rattles the garage door. Both men look at the door, then at each other, then back to the door in a Mexican standoff over who will answer. Another knock comes, this time louder and followed by muffled shouting.

Voice: DELIVERY!

The Edgecrusher slaps the button beside the door. The garage door rises six inches, then shudders and jams. MC EC drops to his stomach and wriggles underneath it. A second later, the door is forced open from the outside. A delivery driver stands in the driveway beside an enormous wooden crate. It stands nearly seven feet tall and sits on a pallet.

Stenciled across it in black letters:

XWF COMBAT TRAINING UNIT
HANDLE WITH CARE
THIS SIDE UP

Delivery Driver: Package for... Mcec.

MC EC: Never heard of him.

Delivery Driver: Lady said you was an idiot, Just sign here.

The driver holds out a small tablet. EC takes the stylus and carefully draws what appears to be a meat missile spouting love sauce. The driver takes the pad, looks at the signature, and shrugs before wheeling the crate into the garage.

Delivery Driver: Whoever sent this already paid the freight. There's a card attached to the side.

EC's eyes widen like a child on Christmas Day.

MC EC: Somebody sent me a gift? Is it my birthday?

The driver shrugs again and points to an envelope on the side of the crate, wishes them luck, and leaves. The Edgecrusher snatches the envelope, slowly opens it, and reads it aloud.

MC EC: I heard you could use a real training partner while you prepare for Charlie and Relentless. Put this to good use. Korvayne.

Dead silence. The Edgecrusher reads it again, this time softer.

MC EC: I heard you could use a real partner...

He presses the card against his chest, then raises it to his face and takes a long, deep inhale. He exhales even slower before folding the note and putting it into his back pocket. He then turns toward the crate. He grabs a crowbar from the plywood table and opens the box. Inside is a human-shaped training robot, programmed to perfectly mimic Charlie's fighting style.

MC EC: She knew I had a big fight coming, knew I needed help. She put her feelings into a box and mailed them to me, dawg.

Mr. Miller: It's a machine.

MC EC: A machine full of feelings. This makes me think about Sandwich Keeper needing a friend.

The Edgecrusher suddenly stops dead in his tracks. His eyes drift toward a dusty sack in the corner of the garage. A single potato rests on top of it, sprouting several pale eyes. His gaze turns toward the dead television, then back to the potato. A terrible idea is born. The Edgecrusher lifts the potato and holds it firmly in both hands like a sacred object.

Mr. Miller: You're gonna send him a potato, aren't you?

MC EC: Not just a potato...

EC digs around in another random pile of junk and pulls out a small publicity photo of himself from AWF circa 2006. He attaches the photo to the potato using a generous gob of spit.

MC EC: ...a limited-edition Edgecrusher motivational potato.

MC EC pulls a Sharpie from his beard and autographs the potato.

MC EC: There! Now he'll have something to show for the past year. Now let's run this down to the post office, then get to work on training with our Charlie-bot.



*****



Red and blue lights flash across the wet pavement. A police cruiser sits outside a brick building identified only by a flickering purple neon sign...

THE VELVET KEYS
PRIVATE ADULT CLUB

The front doors open, and two police officers emerge with Mr. Miller between them. His hands are cuffed behind his back. His shirt is untucked, and his hair is disheveled. He has his general look of confusion. The officers escort him to the waiting cruiser and put him in the back. A few yards away, the Charlie-bot sits on the curb. A gray blanket has been wrapped around its metallic shoulders. Its artificial eyes stare blankly into the distance while a police officer kneels in front of it. The officer holds a doll.

Officer: I know this might be difficult, Charlie.

Charlie-bot rotates his head toward the officer.

CB: COMBAT SIMULATION ACTIVE.

Officer: I understand.

The officer raises the doll to the robot's line of sight.

Officer: But I need you to show me where the bad man touched you.

Charlie-bot looks at the doll.

CB: SEARCHING DATABASE.

The officer waits.

CB: SEARCHING.

Another officer walks up and quietly drapes the blanket a little tighter around its shoulders. Nearby, the Edgecrusher stands speaking with a detective. MC EC is furious. He's not embarrassed, not ashamed. Flame-filled rage spills from him.

MC EC: This is absolute bullshit, dawg!

The detective glances toward the robot, which has begun spouting smoke from its ears.

Detective: Mr. Summers...

MC EC: I've been wrestling for this company for months, MONTHS!!!! I have put up with a lot of bullshit. But this... this is... I just...

The Edgecrusher points toward the building.

MC EC: I signed a contract to fight a guy in a wrestling match. I had no idea what a triple-X Xtreme match was. This...

Like a light bulb appearing above someone's head in a cartoon, everything dawns on the perplexed detective.

Detective: Ohhhhhh... I see what's going on here.

MC EC: Word?

Detective: Yeah, I don't think you understand what an xxxxtreme match is.

MC EC: I knew wrestling was a dirty business, dawg. There's dirty, and then there's...

EC dramatically points toward the neon sign.

Detective: Mr. Summers, those X's don't mean that.

Silence. The Edgecrusher just stares blankly at the man.

Detective: It's just a branding thing. It's just an extreme rules match spelled like this is 1998.

The Edgecrusher slowly turns and looks at the club. He looks at Charlie-bot, which has now gone into full meltdown mode. It spasms on the ground, moaning, "Dear God, why me?" EC looks at the police cruiser. Mr. Miller has his face pressed against the glass and is out cold.

MC EC: And an innocent man gets to suffer because of it?

Detective: He's being charged with...

MC EC: AN INNOCENT MAN!

EC points toward the Charlie-bot. It is now on fire and begging to die as the officers attempt to extinguish the flames.

MC EC: A traumatized gift from my... my... my homie.

CB: 100101001100

MC EC: And who's to blame?

Detective: From what we've gathered so far, mostly the old guy.

MC EC: Wrong!

Detective: We have witnesses.

MC EC: They're all liars!

Detective: There are security cameras.

MC EC: WRONG! It's corporate! XWF's suits are the ones who need to answer for this slight against my homie!

The detective sighs, closes his notebook, and walks away, done with EC's bullshit. The Edgecrusher pulls the folded note from his pocket. He looks at it as his anger softens.

MC EC: Beautiful woman sends a man a beautiful letter...

He reads the letter to himself again and smiles.

MC EC: She worries about me.

He carefully folds the letter and returns it to his pocket. His smile disappears as he looks at the charred remains of the Charlie-bot.

MC EC: I'm taking this straight to corporate!



*****



The XWF corporate boardroom is chaos. A dozen nameless executives sit around a table long enough to require its own zip code. An ocean of suits, ties, laptops, phones, coffee mugs, and charts. Nobody is listening to anybody, and everybody is talking loudly.

Executive 1: The preshow is already paid for!

Executive 2: I know it's already paid for!

Executive 12: Then why are we discussing the budget?!?!

Executive 4: Because the sponsor wants ninety minutes!

Executive 1: We don't have ninety minutes!

Executive 12: Then make ninety minutes!

Executive 2: That's not how time works!

Another executive slams a folder onto the table.

Executive 4: We promised them a premium preshow experience!

Executive 8: What the hell does that even mean?!

Executive 4: I DON'T KNOW! Marketing wrote it!

Across the table, another suit scrolls frantically through his laptop.

Executive 1: We have sponsors expecting integration throughout the entire broadcast. We've sold naming rights, commercial packages, sponsored segments...

Executive 24: How many sponsored segments?

Executive 2: All of them.

The room goes quiet.

Executive 4: What about the host?

Another folder gets thrown onto the table, spraying loose sheets of paper around.

Executive 24: Young. Trending. Hip-hop artist. Entrepreneur. Businessman. Huge social media presence. Exactly the demographic we're trying to reach.

A contract slides across the table.

Executive 2: He's supposed to be here NOW. We get the signature, he's officially contracted to host and book the entire preshow.

A loud bang, and the boardroom doors fly open. Every head at the table turns to see the commotion. MC Edgecrusher storms into the room, seemingly more furious than before. He marched all the way to XWF corporate headquarters with one purpose. A single mission with a righteous demand. Somebody is going to answer for what happened tonight.

MC EC: Yo, which one of you motherfuckers is in charge?

The executives stare at him in silence. MC EC stares back, his chest heaving and his fists clenched. One executive stands with a large smile spread across his face.

Executive 4: Finally!

MC EC: Um... yeah... I mean... YEAH, FINALLY!

The executive hurries around the table to the now-confused MC EC. He holds his hand out, and EC suspiciously shakes it.

Executive 4: We've been waiting on you.

Another executive stands up.

Executive 12: Big fan.

The Edgecrusher's expression changes.

MC EC: Yeah?

MC EC relaxes a bit. He straightens his jersey.

MC EC: Word Life.

The executives exchange worried glances. One whispers to another, asking if "that was his catchphrase, or what?" Another executive approaches MC EC, whose righteous fury has now decreased by at least seventy-five percent.

Executive 8: We love what you're doing.

MC EC: You do? I mean... YOU DO!

Executive 12: Absolutely.

MC EC: Of course, a lotta people do.

Executive 1: Music. Branding. Business. You've built quite the brand identity.

The Edgecrusher's eyes light up. Every single thought that occupied MC EC's brain ten seconds ago has been completely fucking erased. MC EC casually pulls out a chair and sits down.

MC EC: So what are we talking about?

One executive slides the contract toward the Edgecrusher. He looks down at the paper.

Executive 8: We've put together a major preshow for the PPV. All three nights. Heavily sponsored.

Executive 4: Extremely heavily sponsored.

Executive 8: You'll book the show each night, one match held at a local hotspot around town. It'll air for free on TV to help get those last-minute buys.

MC EC: So I decide what happens?

Executive 2: Of course!

The Edgecrusher doesn't look at the contract. He just signs it. He signs it in big, bold letters. He underlines the big, bold letters, then underlines the underline.

MC EC: Well, gentlemen... er... I mean, yo dawgs. I got work to be doing. Peace out, home slice.

The scene fades out as MC Edgecrusher takes his leave of XWF corporate headquarters.]]> The scene opens at the Edgecrusher's state-of-the-art training center. A simple single-car garage with a sheet of plywood resting across two garbage cans, a bench press not used since the late '90s, and a web of extension cords running across the floor. A banner hangs crookedly from the rafters.

"MC EC'S SCHOOL OF HARD KNOCKS, PHAT BEATS & TAX-DEDUCTIBLE ATHLETIC TRAINING."

MC EC does his best Michelle Pfeiffer impersonation and sits backwards in a folding chair. He wears an oversized Indianapolis Colts jersey, sunglasses, and three thick gold chains that turn his skin green anywhere they touch. Beside him, Mr. Miller sits in a rusted lawn chair. His arms folded across his chest, he seems to be slipping in and out of consciousness. On the old TV in front of them, the recent promo cut by Solomon Kline plays. MC Edgecrusher leans in toward the screen and slowly lowers his Ray-Bans.

MC EC: Pause it.

Mr. Miller: What?

MC EC: I said pause it.

Mr. Miller: What?

MC EC reaches down and presses a random button on the VCR, and the tape ejects.

MC EC: Close enough.

Mr. Miller: What?

The screen is now nothing but static. The Edgecrusher stares gravely into it and nods to himself.

MC EC: Look at that man, Miller. Sad and depressed. He's spiritually constipated.

Mr. Miller: He called you fat.

MC EC: That's what depression does, dawg. Makes ya lash out at the people you respect the most.

The Edgecrusher rises from his folding chair and begins pacing back and forth in front of the TV.

MC EC: Think about everything Sashimi Koopa been through. The injury. The comeback. That man isn't my enemy, he's my homie. He's just really sad.

MC Edgecrusher turns toward the elderly Mr. Miller with the solemn expression of a man who just discovered his purpose.

MC EC: Salami just needs a friend.

A heavy knock rattles the garage door. Both men look at the door, then at each other, then back to the door in a Mexican standoff over who will answer. Another knock comes, this time louder and followed by muffled shouting.

Voice: DELIVERY!

The Edgecrusher slaps the button beside the door. The garage door rises six inches, then shudders and jams. MC EC drops to his stomach and wriggles underneath it. A second later, the door is forced open from the outside. A delivery driver stands in the driveway beside an enormous wooden crate. It stands nearly seven feet tall and sits on a pallet.

Stenciled across it in black letters:

XWF COMBAT TRAINING UNIT
HANDLE WITH CARE
THIS SIDE UP

Delivery Driver: Package for... Mcec.

MC EC: Never heard of him.

Delivery Driver: Lady said you was an idiot, Just sign here.

The driver holds out a small tablet. EC takes the stylus and carefully draws what appears to be a meat missile spouting love sauce. The driver takes the pad, looks at the signature, and shrugs before wheeling the crate into the garage.

Delivery Driver: Whoever sent this already paid the freight. There's a card attached to the side.

EC's eyes widen like a child on Christmas Day.

MC EC: Somebody sent me a gift? Is it my birthday?

The driver shrugs again and points to an envelope on the side of the crate, wishes them luck, and leaves. The Edgecrusher snatches the envelope, slowly opens it, and reads it aloud.

MC EC: I heard you could use a real training partner while you prepare for Charlie and Relentless. Put this to good use. Korvayne.

Dead silence. The Edgecrusher reads it again, this time softer.

MC EC: I heard you could use a real partner...

He presses the card against his chest, then raises it to his face and takes a long, deep inhale. He exhales even slower before folding the note and putting it into his back pocket. He then turns toward the crate. He grabs a crowbar from the plywood table and opens the box. Inside is a human-shaped training robot, programmed to perfectly mimic Charlie's fighting style.

MC EC: She knew I had a big fight coming, knew I needed help. She put her feelings into a box and mailed them to me, dawg.

Mr. Miller: It's a machine.

MC EC: A machine full of feelings. This makes me think about Sandwich Keeper needing a friend.

The Edgecrusher suddenly stops dead in his tracks. His eyes drift toward a dusty sack in the corner of the garage. A single potato rests on top of it, sprouting several pale eyes. His gaze turns toward the dead television, then back to the potato. A terrible idea is born. The Edgecrusher lifts the potato and holds it firmly in both hands like a sacred object.

Mr. Miller: You're gonna send him a potato, aren't you?

MC EC: Not just a potato...

EC digs around in another random pile of junk and pulls out a small publicity photo of himself from AWF circa 2006. He attaches the photo to the potato using a generous gob of spit.

MC EC: ...a limited-edition Edgecrusher motivational potato.

MC EC pulls a Sharpie from his beard and autographs the potato.

MC EC: There! Now he'll have something to show for the past year. Now let's run this down to the post office, then get to work on training with our Charlie-bot.



*****



Red and blue lights flash across the wet pavement. A police cruiser sits outside a brick building identified only by a flickering purple neon sign...

THE VELVET KEYS
PRIVATE ADULT CLUB

The front doors open, and two police officers emerge with Mr. Miller between them. His hands are cuffed behind his back. His shirt is untucked, and his hair is disheveled. He has his general look of confusion. The officers escort him to the waiting cruiser and put him in the back. A few yards away, the Charlie-bot sits on the curb. A gray blanket has been wrapped around its metallic shoulders. Its artificial eyes stare blankly into the distance while a police officer kneels in front of it. The officer holds a doll.

Officer: I know this might be difficult, Charlie.

Charlie-bot rotates his head toward the officer.

CB: COMBAT SIMULATION ACTIVE.

Officer: I understand.

The officer raises the doll to the robot's line of sight.

Officer: But I need you to show me where the bad man touched you.

Charlie-bot looks at the doll.

CB: SEARCHING DATABASE.

The officer waits.

CB: SEARCHING.

Another officer walks up and quietly drapes the blanket a little tighter around its shoulders. Nearby, the Edgecrusher stands speaking with a detective. MC EC is furious. He's not embarrassed, not ashamed. Flame-filled rage spills from him.

MC EC: This is absolute bullshit, dawg!

The detective glances toward the robot, which has begun spouting smoke from its ears.

Detective: Mr. Summers...

MC EC: I've been wrestling for this company for months, MONTHS!!!! I have put up with a lot of bullshit. But this... this is... I just...

The Edgecrusher points toward the building.

MC EC: I signed a contract to fight a guy in a wrestling match. I had no idea what a triple-X Xtreme match was. This...

Like a light bulb appearing above someone's head in a cartoon, everything dawns on the perplexed detective.

Detective: Ohhhhhh... I see what's going on here.

MC EC: Word?

Detective: Yeah, I don't think you understand what an xxxxtreme match is.

MC EC: I knew wrestling was a dirty business, dawg. There's dirty, and then there's...

EC dramatically points toward the neon sign.

Detective: Mr. Summers, those X's don't mean that.

Silence. The Edgecrusher just stares blankly at the man.

Detective: It's just a branding thing. It's just an extreme rules match spelled like this is 1998.

The Edgecrusher slowly turns and looks at the club. He looks at Charlie-bot, which has now gone into full meltdown mode. It spasms on the ground, moaning, "Dear God, why me?" EC looks at the police cruiser. Mr. Miller has his face pressed against the glass and is out cold.

MC EC: And an innocent man gets to suffer because of it?

Detective: He's being charged with...

MC EC: AN INNOCENT MAN!

EC points toward the Charlie-bot. It is now on fire and begging to die as the officers attempt to extinguish the flames.

MC EC: A traumatized gift from my... my... my homie.

CB: 100101001100

MC EC: And who's to blame?

Detective: From what we've gathered so far, mostly the old guy.

MC EC: Wrong!

Detective: We have witnesses.

MC EC: They're all liars!

Detective: There are security cameras.

MC EC: WRONG! It's corporate! XWF's suits are the ones who need to answer for this slight against my homie!

The detective sighs, closes his notebook, and walks away, done with EC's bullshit. The Edgecrusher pulls the folded note from his pocket. He looks at it as his anger softens.

MC EC: Beautiful woman sends a man a beautiful letter...

He reads the letter to himself again and smiles.

MC EC: She worries about me.

He carefully folds the letter and returns it to his pocket. His smile disappears as he looks at the charred remains of the Charlie-bot.

MC EC: I'm taking this straight to corporate!



*****



The XWF corporate boardroom is chaos. A dozen nameless executives sit around a table long enough to require its own zip code. An ocean of suits, ties, laptops, phones, coffee mugs, and charts. Nobody is listening to anybody, and everybody is talking loudly.

Executive 1: The preshow is already paid for!

Executive 2: I know it's already paid for!

Executive 12: Then why are we discussing the budget?!?!

Executive 4: Because the sponsor wants ninety minutes!

Executive 1: We don't have ninety minutes!

Executive 12: Then make ninety minutes!

Executive 2: That's not how time works!

Another executive slams a folder onto the table.

Executive 4: We promised them a premium preshow experience!

Executive 8: What the hell does that even mean?!

Executive 4: I DON'T KNOW! Marketing wrote it!

Across the table, another suit scrolls frantically through his laptop.

Executive 1: We have sponsors expecting integration throughout the entire broadcast. We've sold naming rights, commercial packages, sponsored segments...

Executive 24: How many sponsored segments?

Executive 2: All of them.

The room goes quiet.

Executive 4: What about the host?

Another folder gets thrown onto the table, spraying loose sheets of paper around.

Executive 24: Young. Trending. Hip-hop artist. Entrepreneur. Businessman. Huge social media presence. Exactly the demographic we're trying to reach.

A contract slides across the table.

Executive 2: He's supposed to be here NOW. We get the signature, he's officially contracted to host and book the entire preshow.

A loud bang, and the boardroom doors fly open. Every head at the table turns to see the commotion. MC Edgecrusher storms into the room, seemingly more furious than before. He marched all the way to XWF corporate headquarters with one purpose. A single mission with a righteous demand. Somebody is going to answer for what happened tonight.

MC EC: Yo, which one of you motherfuckers is in charge?

The executives stare at him in silence. MC EC stares back, his chest heaving and his fists clenched. One executive stands with a large smile spread across his face.

Executive 4: Finally!

MC EC: Um... yeah... I mean... YEAH, FINALLY!

The executive hurries around the table to the now-confused MC EC. He holds his hand out, and EC suspiciously shakes it.

Executive 4: We've been waiting on you.

Another executive stands up.

Executive 12: Big fan.

The Edgecrusher's expression changes.

MC EC: Yeah?

MC EC relaxes a bit. He straightens his jersey.

MC EC: Word Life.

The executives exchange worried glances. One whispers to another, asking if "that was his catchphrase, or what?" Another executive approaches MC EC, whose righteous fury has now decreased by at least seventy-five percent.

Executive 8: We love what you're doing.

MC EC: You do? I mean... YOU DO!

Executive 12: Absolutely.

MC EC: Of course, a lotta people do.

Executive 1: Music. Branding. Business. You've built quite the brand identity.

The Edgecrusher's eyes light up. Every single thought that occupied MC EC's brain ten seconds ago has been completely fucking erased. MC EC casually pulls out a chair and sits down.

MC EC: So what are we talking about?

One executive slides the contract toward the Edgecrusher. He looks down at the paper.

Executive 8: We've put together a major preshow for the PPV. All three nights. Heavily sponsored.

Executive 4: Extremely heavily sponsored.

Executive 8: You'll book the show each night, one match held at a local hotspot around town. It'll air for free on TV to help get those last-minute buys.

MC EC: So I decide what happens?

Executive 2: Of course!

The Edgecrusher doesn't look at the contract. He just signs it. He signs it in big, bold letters. He underlines the big, bold letters, then underlines the underline.

MC EC: Well, gentlemen... er... I mean, yo dawgs. I got work to be doing. Peace out, home slice.

The scene fades out as MC Edgecrusher takes his leave of XWF corporate headquarters.]]> <![CDATA[Smesh]]> https://xwf1999.com/showthread.php?tid=50419 Sun, 30 Aug 2026 04:00:41 -0700 Garisha]]> https://xwf1999.com/showthread.php?tid=50419 https://docs.google.com/document/d/1jPqg...sp=sharing

WC - 3,998

AI - 4.1%, 1.2%

// Remi and I agreed on an extension.]]> https://docs.google.com/document/d/1jPqg...sp=sharing

WC - 3,998

AI - 4.1%, 1.2%

// Remi and I agreed on an extension.]]> <![CDATA[Crushing The Edge]]> https://xwf1999.com/showthread.php?tid=50417 Sat, 29 Aug 2026 23:58:53 -0700 Charlie Nickles]]> https://xwf1999.com/showthread.php?tid=50417
Well, except for one…

Charlie grunted as he threw his suitcase atop the king sized bed. As soon as he got into the room Charlie went to work with his grimy hands, unzipping the bag and reaching deep inside for his fix. For that special little super-rock, capable of taking even mundane men to the greatest of heights.

But Charlie’s face soured when his hands came back empty.

“Where the fuck is it? I know I packed it…”

The Nickleman started throwing everything out of his suitcase, meticulously opening zippers and searching pants pockets. A few beads of sweat began to trickle down his forehead as his teeth clenched together. Charlie’s leathery skin became warm to the touch as the fiend fumed over his missing belongings.

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me!”

The Nickleman threw the last pair of drawers in the suitcase towards the wall, accidentally striking an ornate lamp on the nightstand. The lamp fell, and immediately shattered across the floor- but Charlie didn’t give a damn about no lightbulb. He didn’t even seem to register the sound!

“Those T-S-A sons of bitches have screwed me again! Those fiends stole my shit!”

Charlie growled to no one in particular before turning his head and catching his own reflection in the mirror. He stared into the eyes of the crackhead behind the glass, but he didn’t seem to notice the leathery growths on his skin, the bags under his eyes, or the open sores on his cheeks. Or at least, he didn’t seem to care.

The only thing he cared about was getting his fix.

It occupied his mind at all times. His every waking hour was consumed by the desire. He had even begun to dream about it. The dreams were a welcome change for Charlie, because now he didn’t have to live with the nightmares. Just a few rocks a day was all he needed to escape the memories haunting his sobriety.

The Nickleman pounded his fist against the table in the room. The legs of the table cracked from the sheer force of the impact. Untamed rage flashed through his angled brows, but after a few deep breaths Charlie finally self-soothed enough to calm down.

“Well, shit- there’s no use in cryin’ over spilt crack! I know someone in this shithole city is holdin’...”

Charlie lightly tapped his knuckles against the damaged table, as if he were ending a meeting with himself. With that, he grabbed his room key and a small stack of cash before heading out into the gritty underworld of downtown Minneapolis.



You don’t deserve to share a ring with me.

You don’t even deserve to be in this company.

And after I get done with you on Warfare?

You won’t want to be in the XWF anymore.

Maybe Tommy Wish and Latoyya Hixx couldn’t send you the message…but don’t worry, because I know how to communicate in a way that even the most illiterate gets the point.

Because I write all my messages in blood- and it’s hard to ignore the lesson you’ve learned when it’s gushing from your arteries.

Do you think professional wrestling is some kind-of comedy sketch? Do you think this is an improv troupe?

You’re in the wrong line of work, pal.

I’ve seen the way you disrespect the XWF ring-

And I called you out by name to make sure it never happens again.

This week on Warfare, there ain’t gone’ be no table match puns, there ain’t gone’ be no count outs, and there ain’t gone’ be no ‘funny lil gags’.

There’s only gone’ be 1 gag on Warfare…

And it’s gonna come from the fans in the front row.

Gagging and retching when your bloody, broken body flies over the barricade!
You’re 0-4…losses to a Hixx, to Tommy Make-A-Wish, and a pair of losses to Crimson Kline’s cumstain.

If Solomon Kline ever beat me in a match?

I’d probably fucking kill myself.

But since you let him beat you twice?

I’m gonna have to kill you once, and then, I’ll let the paramedics revive you…

Just so I can snuff the life from your eyes one more time for good measure!

Because I’m the last of a dying breed in this company…the last of the truly X-TREME.

I’ve erased legends and I’ve dethroned Emperors.

I’ve won more championship belts than you can count.

I’ve put the entire XWF Universe on my back and around my waist-

But don’t you dare think that I’ve turned into some sorta ‘Gatekeeper’...

Because I AM THE FUCKING GATE!

I’m the god damned foundation of this federation.

My body BLEEDS XWF black and blue.

My heart BEATS to the rhythm of Warfare’s theme.

And guys like YOU….

Guys with NO TALENT and NO BALLS…

Think you can just waltz into my home, and start smearing your self-satisfying bullshit all across the walls?

All across my legacy?

Fat fuckin’ chance.

I’m not letting your Key-and-Peele sketch slide, bitch.

Not in my house.

And make no fuckin’ mistake about it….

The XWF is still my house. Always has been, always will be…

And you?

You’re just another pest that crawled in through the sewers.

So if you’re dumb enough to walk down that ramp when your music plays on Monday…

You’ll be just another rat who took the cheese.


We cut to a shot of Charlie Nickles standing in front of a local headshop. For our squares in the audience, a headshop is a type of store people who use illegal drugs shop at to purchase their required paraphernalia. They are very, very high-class establishments…as long as you ignore the homeless people standing around outside sharing a single cigarette.

A bell chimes as Charlie opens the front door. A young woman with dyed hair and a septum piercing looks up at Charlie from behind the counter.

“Hey, welcome to Smoke 4 Less. Can I help you find anything?”

Charlie took a brief look around the store before answering. They had some massive bongs up on shelves, and they had rotating glass cases with damn near every vape you could think of. But Charlie didn’t come here for bongs and kiddy vapes: he came for the hard stuff.

“Yeah…where are your oil burners? I’m not seeing em’. Are they in the back?”

The woman with the dyed hair scratched her head.

“Uh…what? Oil burners? Are those like, a special type of dab rig?”

She began looking through the various bowls for dab rigs, but Charlie quickly redirected her.

“No no no….oil BURNER….they’re usually about 5, no more than 10 bucks.”

The woman looked around the shop more than a little perplexed.

“I’ve like, never heard of those before…did you see them online? Is it like, a TikTok thing?”

“A TikTok thing? What the hell is that- actually, I don’t care. I’m talking about OIL BURNERS…”

Charlie’s voice grew louder as his face grew increasingly frustrated.

“Saying it louder isn’t helping. What are you trying to find, exactly? Maybe we have a replace-”

But Charlie cut her off before she could finish. He couldn’t deal with the pleasantries anymore: he needed his god-damned fix!

“It’s a CRACK PIPE, okay? That’s what I’m looking for! That’s what oil burners are, it’s code for a CRACK PIPE! Do you sell CRACK PIPES here?!?!”

The woman was so taken aback that her septum piercing was nearly sucked into her nasal cavity! She placed a hand over her chest as Charlie’s sweat started to drip across the customer service counter.

“Oh you poor thing…no, we don’t sell that kind of stuff here. We’re mostly a vape and CBD shop. But, maybe if you wanted to try getting off…that stuff...we’ve got some really good CBD prerolls here!”

The Nickleman rolled his eyes at this woman’s bleeding heart.

“Save your fucking judgement, okay, whore? You make, what, ten bucks an hour to sell vapes to kids? I’m a famous fuckin’ MEGA-STAR, okay? I’m known by fans all across the world, and I make more money in one night of fighting than you make in a year!”

But the woman isn’t buying Charlie’s entirely true story. As far as she can tell, Charlie’s just another crackhead having an outburst. And truthfully: she’s kinda right.

“Hey man, no need to get personal….I know addiction is tough. My uncle’s girlfriend struggles a lot with addiction. He met her at the strip club, and, you know, apparently these CBD pre-rolls have helped her with quitting cold turkey. It’s something to think about, that’s all.”

Charlie was beyond exasperated. He clenched one hand into a fist upon the counter as he dragged his other hand through his graying hair.

“You want me to QUIT?

The one thing that makes me feel calm at night, the one thing that makes me feel energized in the morning, the one thing that still brings me pleasure in this God-forsaken world? You want me to give up crack…bitch, have you lost your FUCKING mind?!

Do you know what I have to go through everyday? It’s a battlefield inside my head! Memories of my daughter, my sister, the life I used to have…and you’re telling me to just smoke a god-damned joint? That weak shit might be enough for you, but it ain’t enough for me!

I NEED CRACK, damn it! And I need you to sell me a fucking pipe to smoke it with!”

The doorway bell chimed as Charlie was mid-tirade. He turned around to see two teenage stoners walking into the shop. One of the teens was wearing a retro XWF t-shirt, and the other, slightly pudgier teen, was wearing a black beanie emblazoned with the Warfare logo.

“Holy shit…is that Charlie Nickles?! Oh my God, he really is a crackhead!”

“I thought that was just a character he played for TV! I didn’t know the shit was really real like this!”

The two teens quickly share an excited glance.

“That’s so X-TREME!!!”

The woman behind the counter was too shocked to react, but the two teens fist-bumped just like their favorite XWF stars used to do. Charlie turned around and felt his stomach drop to the floor.

These two kids were…laughing.

Charlie felt like he was in a life or death struggle for his sanity- and these kids were just fucking laughing.

Charlie should have been angry.

But instead, he only felt shame.

The deep kind of shame, that you can feel down to your bones.

Complete and total social debasement.

So Charlie did the only thing he could think to do…

Lie.

“TV character..yeah, that’s, that’s all I’m doing here guys. I’m just filming a promo for the upcoming edition of Warfare! That whole crack thing is one hundred percent just a gimmick to drive interest and views. You know how these things are, of course.”

But the kids weren’t buying it. Whether it was the preposterous amount of sweat dripping from Charlie’s forehead, the sores on his weathered face, or his constant shifting- the world will never know!

“Yeah right, dude! I’ve seen crackheads before, and you, sir, look tweaked the fuck out!”

Charlie sneered. He was going to respond- but the tubby teen spoke up first.

“Hey Chucky, if you’re looking for crack you’re in the wrong place! All you gotta do is talk to those guys.”

The teen pointed outside the store, through the looking glass, at the group of raggedy looking people still sharing that same cigarette along the curb. Charlie’s shame melted as the thought of acquiring his next fix became concrete.

“The homeless guys? Well, that makes sense. But I wanted to get my pipe first!”

The kids chuckled again.

“Homeless? Those guys aren’t homeless, they’re all dressed in the new YEEZY LINE!”

“Yeah doncha’ know?! That’s the new fashion these days!”

Charlie scratched his chin, considering for a moment that he may in fact be behind the times.

“Huh. Good to know.”

Charlie walked past the kids and started to step out of the store when suddenly-

“Hey, WAIT!”

Charlie turned around with a curious, albeit slightly agitated, brow.

“Can we get your autograph? Or even better, a selfie with you?!”

Charlie smiled softly at first, but then, he dramatically curled it into a snarl.

“You can get fucked.”

The bell chimed one last time as Charlie slammed shut the headshop’s door.



Don’t show up to Warfare.

I’m not begging you…

I’m just giving you fair warning of what’s going to happen if you do.

The Nickleman isn’t known to fans world-wide for his ‘great matches’...

I’m known for the trail of broken bodies I’ve left in my wake.

Men who were three times as funny as you…

Were left broken in half by the time I got done joking around with them.

Men with four times the experience and five times the resume…

Gave up their entire careers to avoid crossing my path again.

I don’t even need to name names anymore…

Because everyone just knows the kind of fucked-up shit I’ve done inside and outside those ropes.

And in an XXX-Treme rules match?

It doesn’t matter if we’re inside or outside…

I’m still going to strangle you with those fuckin’ ropes.

I’ll even let you do one of your comedy bits while you’re choking!

Then I’ll wrap those ropes around your neck like I’m tying a bow on a Christmas gift for my sister.

Another dead goofy, just the way she liked em’!

You know what XXX-treme means, right, ?

It means that 3 count don't decide when the match ends.

It means that ringside bell isn’t going to save you.

It means this match isn’t finished until we’ve filmed a fucking snuff film, BOAH!

This match won’t be over until I finally decide to let the paramedics Scoop your entrails out of the ring!

And the best part of it all?

Is the fact that you’re not even capable of defending yourself from me.

That’s good.

I like it best when my prey can’t fight back.

I mean, be honest with yourself…

You didn’t have a competitive match with Tommy Wish.

You couldn’t even hold your ground against Latoya Hixx.

So when we meet inside that ring? You will instantly become my Bitch!

And if you’re lucky…

And I mean really, REALLY lucky…

I might get bored of busting open a worn-out pussy after four or five minutes.


Crack cocaine doesn’t cook itself.

So Charlie waits impatiently for the next batch, sitting in the middle of a dilapidated trap house somewhere deep in the ghettos of Minneapolis. Surrounded by a bunch of homeless looking drug dealers wearing YEEZY!

“So, when the fuck is it gonna be ready?”

That’s when a woman with obviously dyed blonde hair speaks up. A shoddy streak of purple runs through her bangs, but that doesn’t stop her from running her mouth.

“It’s coming as soon as it can! But while you wait, you’re more than welcome to a couple lines…”

She passes the plate of cut-up cocaine over to Charlie, but he refuses it out of hand. He’s clearly a sophisticated connoisseur.


“No thanks, I don’t snort my coke. I only smoke it.”

“Suit yourself, Mr. Fancy Pants.”

She snorts a fat line of questionable powder off the plate before rubbing her powdered nose. That’s when the ‘ding’ of a timer sounds out from the kitchen. Charlie sits up eagerly.

“Does that mean what I think it means?”

Charlie grins wolfishly as another drug pusher, a hefty bald man who considers himself a workhorse, speaks up to confirm Charlie’s hypothesis.

“It means exactly what you think it means.”

Charlie’s smile is so big it damn near stretches to the heavens! He pulls out his short stack of cash, laying it all on the table as another drug pusher carries a tray out to the living room, placing it atop the coffee table. This drug pusher looked like the twin brother of someone famous, but Charlie couldn’t quite put his finger on it.

But he was finally able to put his fingers all over some crack rocks!

“Let me test this shit out real quick…lemme just Crush The Edge here…”

Charlie spoke softly to nobody in particular as he picked out one particularly fat rock. He lifted the rock off the tray before bringing it up to his mouth, slowly. His dry tongue rolls out from behind his busted teeth like some sort of Alien Xenomorph, testing the rock’s taste with a few proper licks.

Then, Charlie takes a bite out of the crack rock. He chews down hard, crushing the edge of the rock before placing it back down on the tray. The drug pushers all look at Charlie anxiously, waiting for him to judge the quality of their cook.

After he lets the taste settle on his palette, Charlie damn nears breaks into a standing ovation!

“Now that’s some fucking HEAT right there!”

Charlie daps up the man who cooked the crack before we suddenly launch into a montage scene! We see Charlie smoking crack with his newfound friends, giggling and telling each other stories like some high school girls at a slumber party.

In between every scene of Charlie taking a hit, we see his pile of money slowly recede. The stack grows smaller and smaller every time we cut between a visual of Charlie riding the cocaine dragon.

The montage suddenly slows down as Charlie exhales one fat, massive toke of crack smoke.

“Whaddiya’ guys say your gang was called again?”

The woman with the blonde and purple hair responds first.

“Bloods off Broadway. Named after the park on our block, ya heard?”

Charlie shakes his head affirmatively.

“Heard!”

But then, a weird sense of deja vu hits Charlie. BoB?

He shakes away the impulsive thought, clearing his mind with another toke of smoke as we get back into the montage of Charlie partying with his new gang friends.

At the end of the montage, Charlie’s stack of money is completely gone: as is every single crack rock on the tray. The Nickleman looks around, dazed and extremely twitchy.

“Wait…where the…where the fuck’s my money go?! And who smoked all the crack I bought?!”

But before anyone can respond, Charlie goes into a heated rage!

“First, TSA took my fix…and now, you fucking chodes took all my money AND smoked all my shit?! Fuck nah!”

The Bloods off Broadway try to explain, but Charlie’s not hearing it. He’s just seeing red! He begins smashing heads, kicking guts, and flipping chairs! The drug dealers try to calm him down, but when that doesn’t work, they realize they have no choice but to fight him!

The woman with the blonde and purple hair charges at him, trying to slice at his ear with a kitchen knife-

But Charlie’s too fast!

He scoop powerslams her through the coffee table!

And then another, and another!

Before Charlie even realizes it, the entire gang has been defeated. Their blood covers his hands and his shirt, but Charlie doesn’t give a fuck about that shit.

All he cares about is getting his next fix.

Charlie scours all through the house until he finds his money. He stuffs it back in his pocket like it was stolen, before he steps over the bodies of the wounded dealers. As he goes to leave the house, he catches a glimpse of himself in the mirror-

And usually, he would just walk past it…

But this time, he stood still.

Because the man behind the glass was no longer reflecting him.

Instead, he was just staring.

Judging.

Charlie glared at himself in the mirror, but when the man behind the glass stared back, Charlie gasped.

“You just got your fix. Ain’t you happy yet?”

Charlie stared at the man in the mirror.

For several long seconds, he said nothing.

Then his brow furrowed.

“What the fuck kinda question is that?”

The man behind the glass tilted his head.

Charlie didn’t.

“I asked you a question.”

The reflection smiled.

Charlie didn’t.

“You’re not happy.”

Charlie scoffed.

“I just got what I wanted.”

“That wasn't what I asked.”

Charlie’s eyes narrowed.

“The fuck you want from me, freak?”

“Nothing.”

A pause.

“I just wanna know why you keep doing this.”

Charlie’s face hardened.

“Doing what?”

The reflection looked down at Charlie’s hands.

They were still covered in blood.

“This.”

Charlie glanced down.

Then back up.

“They tried to rob me!”

“Did they?”

“Yeah.”

“You sure?”

“I SAID YEAH!”

Charlie slammed both hands against the mirror. The glass rattled violently, but the man staring back at him didn't flinch.

“Funny.”

“What?”

“You always have somebody to blame.”

Charlie froze.

“TSA stole your drugs.”

“Your opponent disrespected your house.”

“Your old friends abandoned you.”

“The XWF forgot what you gave it.”

The reflection leaned closer.

“And now these guys stole your money.”

Charlie’s breathing became heavier.

“They DID!”

“Maybe.”

The reflection shrugged.

“But you know what I don't hear?”

Charlie said nothing.

“Your name.”

Silence.

The room suddenly felt much smaller.

The Marriott suite.

The broken lamp.

The overturned suitcase.

The blood on Charlie’s shirt.

The drugs sitting only a few feet away.

And that fucking mirror Charlie had been staring at for hours.

But for the first time all night, he really looked at what he saw in the glass.

The leathery skin.

The bags beneath his eyes.

The sores.

The gray hair.

The blood.

The trembling hands.

The reflection wasn't some monster.

That was the problem.

It was Charlie.

Exactly as he was.

And somehow, that was worse.

“You think you know me?”

“I am you.”

Charlie swallowed hard.

“Remember BoB?”

“Shut the fuck up!”

“You found another family tonight.”

Charlie shook his head.

“They were fucking losers.”

“You liked them.”

Charlie looked away.

“You laughed with them.”

“I was high.”

“You felt like you belonged.”

Charlie’s jaw clenched.

“And then you destroyed them.”

“They fucked with me!”

“No, they didn’t.”

The reflection's voice became quieter.

“You did.”

Charlie stepped backward.

“You're full of shit. You’ve always been full of shit!”

“Am I?”

“Yeah.”

“Then why are you crying?”

Charlie immediately wiped beneath his eye.

His fingers came away wet.

He stared at them.

He looked almost offended by the discovery.

“I'm not fucking crying!”

The reflection smiled again as Charlie looked toward the drugs. His breathing steadied. His eyes settled. He reached for the crack as the reflection watched him in silent judgement.

“You know what?”

Charlie held the rock between his fingers.

“Maybe you're right.”

The reflection raised an eyebrow.

Charlie smiled.

“Maybe I'm not happy…but I don't need to be happy.”

Charlie brought the rock closer to his face.

“I just need to be fucked up enough that I don't give a shit.”]]>
Well, except for one…

Charlie grunted as he threw his suitcase atop the king sized bed. As soon as he got into the room Charlie went to work with his grimy hands, unzipping the bag and reaching deep inside for his fix. For that special little super-rock, capable of taking even mundane men to the greatest of heights.

But Charlie’s face soured when his hands came back empty.

“Where the fuck is it? I know I packed it…”

The Nickleman started throwing everything out of his suitcase, meticulously opening zippers and searching pants pockets. A few beads of sweat began to trickle down his forehead as his teeth clenched together. Charlie’s leathery skin became warm to the touch as the fiend fumed over his missing belongings.

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me!”

The Nickleman threw the last pair of drawers in the suitcase towards the wall, accidentally striking an ornate lamp on the nightstand. The lamp fell, and immediately shattered across the floor- but Charlie didn’t give a damn about no lightbulb. He didn’t even seem to register the sound!

“Those T-S-A sons of bitches have screwed me again! Those fiends stole my shit!”

Charlie growled to no one in particular before turning his head and catching his own reflection in the mirror. He stared into the eyes of the crackhead behind the glass, but he didn’t seem to notice the leathery growths on his skin, the bags under his eyes, or the open sores on his cheeks. Or at least, he didn’t seem to care.

The only thing he cared about was getting his fix.

It occupied his mind at all times. His every waking hour was consumed by the desire. He had even begun to dream about it. The dreams were a welcome change for Charlie, because now he didn’t have to live with the nightmares. Just a few rocks a day was all he needed to escape the memories haunting his sobriety.

The Nickleman pounded his fist against the table in the room. The legs of the table cracked from the sheer force of the impact. Untamed rage flashed through his angled brows, but after a few deep breaths Charlie finally self-soothed enough to calm down.

“Well, shit- there’s no use in cryin’ over spilt crack! I know someone in this shithole city is holdin’...”

Charlie lightly tapped his knuckles against the damaged table, as if he were ending a meeting with himself. With that, he grabbed his room key and a small stack of cash before heading out into the gritty underworld of downtown Minneapolis.



You don’t deserve to share a ring with me.

You don’t even deserve to be in this company.

And after I get done with you on Warfare?

You won’t want to be in the XWF anymore.

Maybe Tommy Wish and Latoyya Hixx couldn’t send you the message…but don’t worry, because I know how to communicate in a way that even the most illiterate gets the point.

Because I write all my messages in blood- and it’s hard to ignore the lesson you’ve learned when it’s gushing from your arteries.

Do you think professional wrestling is some kind-of comedy sketch? Do you think this is an improv troupe?

You’re in the wrong line of work, pal.

I’ve seen the way you disrespect the XWF ring-

And I called you out by name to make sure it never happens again.

This week on Warfare, there ain’t gone’ be no table match puns, there ain’t gone’ be no count outs, and there ain’t gone’ be no ‘funny lil gags’.

There’s only gone’ be 1 gag on Warfare…

And it’s gonna come from the fans in the front row.

Gagging and retching when your bloody, broken body flies over the barricade!
You’re 0-4…losses to a Hixx, to Tommy Make-A-Wish, and a pair of losses to Crimson Kline’s cumstain.

If Solomon Kline ever beat me in a match?

I’d probably fucking kill myself.

But since you let him beat you twice?

I’m gonna have to kill you once, and then, I’ll let the paramedics revive you…

Just so I can snuff the life from your eyes one more time for good measure!

Because I’m the last of a dying breed in this company…the last of the truly X-TREME.

I’ve erased legends and I’ve dethroned Emperors.

I’ve won more championship belts than you can count.

I’ve put the entire XWF Universe on my back and around my waist-

But don’t you dare think that I’ve turned into some sorta ‘Gatekeeper’...

Because I AM THE FUCKING GATE!

I’m the god damned foundation of this federation.

My body BLEEDS XWF black and blue.

My heart BEATS to the rhythm of Warfare’s theme.

And guys like YOU….

Guys with NO TALENT and NO BALLS…

Think you can just waltz into my home, and start smearing your self-satisfying bullshit all across the walls?

All across my legacy?

Fat fuckin’ chance.

I’m not letting your Key-and-Peele sketch slide, bitch.

Not in my house.

And make no fuckin’ mistake about it….

The XWF is still my house. Always has been, always will be…

And you?

You’re just another pest that crawled in through the sewers.

So if you’re dumb enough to walk down that ramp when your music plays on Monday…

You’ll be just another rat who took the cheese.


We cut to a shot of Charlie Nickles standing in front of a local headshop. For our squares in the audience, a headshop is a type of store people who use illegal drugs shop at to purchase their required paraphernalia. They are very, very high-class establishments…as long as you ignore the homeless people standing around outside sharing a single cigarette.

A bell chimes as Charlie opens the front door. A young woman with dyed hair and a septum piercing looks up at Charlie from behind the counter.

“Hey, welcome to Smoke 4 Less. Can I help you find anything?”

Charlie took a brief look around the store before answering. They had some massive bongs up on shelves, and they had rotating glass cases with damn near every vape you could think of. But Charlie didn’t come here for bongs and kiddy vapes: he came for the hard stuff.

“Yeah…where are your oil burners? I’m not seeing em’. Are they in the back?”

The woman with the dyed hair scratched her head.

“Uh…what? Oil burners? Are those like, a special type of dab rig?”

She began looking through the various bowls for dab rigs, but Charlie quickly redirected her.

“No no no….oil BURNER….they’re usually about 5, no more than 10 bucks.”

The woman looked around the shop more than a little perplexed.

“I’ve like, never heard of those before…did you see them online? Is it like, a TikTok thing?”

“A TikTok thing? What the hell is that- actually, I don’t care. I’m talking about OIL BURNERS…”

Charlie’s voice grew louder as his face grew increasingly frustrated.

“Saying it louder isn’t helping. What are you trying to find, exactly? Maybe we have a replace-”

But Charlie cut her off before she could finish. He couldn’t deal with the pleasantries anymore: he needed his god-damned fix!

“It’s a CRACK PIPE, okay? That’s what I’m looking for! That’s what oil burners are, it’s code for a CRACK PIPE! Do you sell CRACK PIPES here?!?!”

The woman was so taken aback that her septum piercing was nearly sucked into her nasal cavity! She placed a hand over her chest as Charlie’s sweat started to drip across the customer service counter.

“Oh you poor thing…no, we don’t sell that kind of stuff here. We’re mostly a vape and CBD shop. But, maybe if you wanted to try getting off…that stuff...we’ve got some really good CBD prerolls here!”

The Nickleman rolled his eyes at this woman’s bleeding heart.

“Save your fucking judgement, okay, whore? You make, what, ten bucks an hour to sell vapes to kids? I’m a famous fuckin’ MEGA-STAR, okay? I’m known by fans all across the world, and I make more money in one night of fighting than you make in a year!”

But the woman isn’t buying Charlie’s entirely true story. As far as she can tell, Charlie’s just another crackhead having an outburst. And truthfully: she’s kinda right.

“Hey man, no need to get personal….I know addiction is tough. My uncle’s girlfriend struggles a lot with addiction. He met her at the strip club, and, you know, apparently these CBD pre-rolls have helped her with quitting cold turkey. It’s something to think about, that’s all.”

Charlie was beyond exasperated. He clenched one hand into a fist upon the counter as he dragged his other hand through his graying hair.

“You want me to QUIT?

The one thing that makes me feel calm at night, the one thing that makes me feel energized in the morning, the one thing that still brings me pleasure in this God-forsaken world? You want me to give up crack…bitch, have you lost your FUCKING mind?!

Do you know what I have to go through everyday? It’s a battlefield inside my head! Memories of my daughter, my sister, the life I used to have…and you’re telling me to just smoke a god-damned joint? That weak shit might be enough for you, but it ain’t enough for me!

I NEED CRACK, damn it! And I need you to sell me a fucking pipe to smoke it with!”

The doorway bell chimed as Charlie was mid-tirade. He turned around to see two teenage stoners walking into the shop. One of the teens was wearing a retro XWF t-shirt, and the other, slightly pudgier teen, was wearing a black beanie emblazoned with the Warfare logo.

“Holy shit…is that Charlie Nickles?! Oh my God, he really is a crackhead!”

“I thought that was just a character he played for TV! I didn’t know the shit was really real like this!”

The two teens quickly share an excited glance.

“That’s so X-TREME!!!”

The woman behind the counter was too shocked to react, but the two teens fist-bumped just like their favorite XWF stars used to do. Charlie turned around and felt his stomach drop to the floor.

These two kids were…laughing.

Charlie felt like he was in a life or death struggle for his sanity- and these kids were just fucking laughing.

Charlie should have been angry.

But instead, he only felt shame.

The deep kind of shame, that you can feel down to your bones.

Complete and total social debasement.

So Charlie did the only thing he could think to do…

Lie.

“TV character..yeah, that’s, that’s all I’m doing here guys. I’m just filming a promo for the upcoming edition of Warfare! That whole crack thing is one hundred percent just a gimmick to drive interest and views. You know how these things are, of course.”

But the kids weren’t buying it. Whether it was the preposterous amount of sweat dripping from Charlie’s forehead, the sores on his weathered face, or his constant shifting- the world will never know!

“Yeah right, dude! I’ve seen crackheads before, and you, sir, look tweaked the fuck out!”

Charlie sneered. He was going to respond- but the tubby teen spoke up first.

“Hey Chucky, if you’re looking for crack you’re in the wrong place! All you gotta do is talk to those guys.”

The teen pointed outside the store, through the looking glass, at the group of raggedy looking people still sharing that same cigarette along the curb. Charlie’s shame melted as the thought of acquiring his next fix became concrete.

“The homeless guys? Well, that makes sense. But I wanted to get my pipe first!”

The kids chuckled again.

“Homeless? Those guys aren’t homeless, they’re all dressed in the new YEEZY LINE!”

“Yeah doncha’ know?! That’s the new fashion these days!”

Charlie scratched his chin, considering for a moment that he may in fact be behind the times.

“Huh. Good to know.”

Charlie walked past the kids and started to step out of the store when suddenly-

“Hey, WAIT!”

Charlie turned around with a curious, albeit slightly agitated, brow.

“Can we get your autograph? Or even better, a selfie with you?!”

Charlie smiled softly at first, but then, he dramatically curled it into a snarl.

“You can get fucked.”

The bell chimed one last time as Charlie slammed shut the headshop’s door.



Don’t show up to Warfare.

I’m not begging you…

I’m just giving you fair warning of what’s going to happen if you do.

The Nickleman isn’t known to fans world-wide for his ‘great matches’...

I’m known for the trail of broken bodies I’ve left in my wake.

Men who were three times as funny as you…

Were left broken in half by the time I got done joking around with them.

Men with four times the experience and five times the resume…

Gave up their entire careers to avoid crossing my path again.

I don’t even need to name names anymore…

Because everyone just knows the kind of fucked-up shit I’ve done inside and outside those ropes.

And in an XXX-Treme rules match?

It doesn’t matter if we’re inside or outside…

I’m still going to strangle you with those fuckin’ ropes.

I’ll even let you do one of your comedy bits while you’re choking!

Then I’ll wrap those ropes around your neck like I’m tying a bow on a Christmas gift for my sister.

Another dead goofy, just the way she liked em’!

You know what XXX-treme means, right, ?

It means that 3 count don't decide when the match ends.

It means that ringside bell isn’t going to save you.

It means this match isn’t finished until we’ve filmed a fucking snuff film, BOAH!

This match won’t be over until I finally decide to let the paramedics Scoop your entrails out of the ring!

And the best part of it all?

Is the fact that you’re not even capable of defending yourself from me.

That’s good.

I like it best when my prey can’t fight back.

I mean, be honest with yourself…

You didn’t have a competitive match with Tommy Wish.

You couldn’t even hold your ground against Latoya Hixx.

So when we meet inside that ring? You will instantly become my Bitch!

And if you’re lucky…

And I mean really, REALLY lucky…

I might get bored of busting open a worn-out pussy after four or five minutes.


Crack cocaine doesn’t cook itself.

So Charlie waits impatiently for the next batch, sitting in the middle of a dilapidated trap house somewhere deep in the ghettos of Minneapolis. Surrounded by a bunch of homeless looking drug dealers wearing YEEZY!

“So, when the fuck is it gonna be ready?”

That’s when a woman with obviously dyed blonde hair speaks up. A shoddy streak of purple runs through her bangs, but that doesn’t stop her from running her mouth.

“It’s coming as soon as it can! But while you wait, you’re more than welcome to a couple lines…”

She passes the plate of cut-up cocaine over to Charlie, but he refuses it out of hand. He’s clearly a sophisticated connoisseur.


“No thanks, I don’t snort my coke. I only smoke it.”

“Suit yourself, Mr. Fancy Pants.”

She snorts a fat line of questionable powder off the plate before rubbing her powdered nose. That’s when the ‘ding’ of a timer sounds out from the kitchen. Charlie sits up eagerly.

“Does that mean what I think it means?”

Charlie grins wolfishly as another drug pusher, a hefty bald man who considers himself a workhorse, speaks up to confirm Charlie’s hypothesis.

“It means exactly what you think it means.”

Charlie’s smile is so big it damn near stretches to the heavens! He pulls out his short stack of cash, laying it all on the table as another drug pusher carries a tray out to the living room, placing it atop the coffee table. This drug pusher looked like the twin brother of someone famous, but Charlie couldn’t quite put his finger on it.

But he was finally able to put his fingers all over some crack rocks!

“Let me test this shit out real quick…lemme just Crush The Edge here…”

Charlie spoke softly to nobody in particular as he picked out one particularly fat rock. He lifted the rock off the tray before bringing it up to his mouth, slowly. His dry tongue rolls out from behind his busted teeth like some sort of Alien Xenomorph, testing the rock’s taste with a few proper licks.

Then, Charlie takes a bite out of the crack rock. He chews down hard, crushing the edge of the rock before placing it back down on the tray. The drug pushers all look at Charlie anxiously, waiting for him to judge the quality of their cook.

After he lets the taste settle on his palette, Charlie damn nears breaks into a standing ovation!

“Now that’s some fucking HEAT right there!”

Charlie daps up the man who cooked the crack before we suddenly launch into a montage scene! We see Charlie smoking crack with his newfound friends, giggling and telling each other stories like some high school girls at a slumber party.

In between every scene of Charlie taking a hit, we see his pile of money slowly recede. The stack grows smaller and smaller every time we cut between a visual of Charlie riding the cocaine dragon.

The montage suddenly slows down as Charlie exhales one fat, massive toke of crack smoke.

“Whaddiya’ guys say your gang was called again?”

The woman with the blonde and purple hair responds first.

“Bloods off Broadway. Named after the park on our block, ya heard?”

Charlie shakes his head affirmatively.

“Heard!”

But then, a weird sense of deja vu hits Charlie. BoB?

He shakes away the impulsive thought, clearing his mind with another toke of smoke as we get back into the montage of Charlie partying with his new gang friends.

At the end of the montage, Charlie’s stack of money is completely gone: as is every single crack rock on the tray. The Nickleman looks around, dazed and extremely twitchy.

“Wait…where the…where the fuck’s my money go?! And who smoked all the crack I bought?!”

But before anyone can respond, Charlie goes into a heated rage!

“First, TSA took my fix…and now, you fucking chodes took all my money AND smoked all my shit?! Fuck nah!”

The Bloods off Broadway try to explain, but Charlie’s not hearing it. He’s just seeing red! He begins smashing heads, kicking guts, and flipping chairs! The drug dealers try to calm him down, but when that doesn’t work, they realize they have no choice but to fight him!

The woman with the blonde and purple hair charges at him, trying to slice at his ear with a kitchen knife-

But Charlie’s too fast!

He scoop powerslams her through the coffee table!

And then another, and another!

Before Charlie even realizes it, the entire gang has been defeated. Their blood covers his hands and his shirt, but Charlie doesn’t give a fuck about that shit.

All he cares about is getting his next fix.

Charlie scours all through the house until he finds his money. He stuffs it back in his pocket like it was stolen, before he steps over the bodies of the wounded dealers. As he goes to leave the house, he catches a glimpse of himself in the mirror-

And usually, he would just walk past it…

But this time, he stood still.

Because the man behind the glass was no longer reflecting him.

Instead, he was just staring.

Judging.

Charlie glared at himself in the mirror, but when the man behind the glass stared back, Charlie gasped.

“You just got your fix. Ain’t you happy yet?”

Charlie stared at the man in the mirror.

For several long seconds, he said nothing.

Then his brow furrowed.

“What the fuck kinda question is that?”

The man behind the glass tilted his head.

Charlie didn’t.

“I asked you a question.”

The reflection smiled.

Charlie didn’t.

“You’re not happy.”

Charlie scoffed.

“I just got what I wanted.”

“That wasn't what I asked.”

Charlie’s eyes narrowed.

“The fuck you want from me, freak?”

“Nothing.”

A pause.

“I just wanna know why you keep doing this.”

Charlie’s face hardened.

“Doing what?”

The reflection looked down at Charlie’s hands.

They were still covered in blood.

“This.”

Charlie glanced down.

Then back up.

“They tried to rob me!”

“Did they?”

“Yeah.”

“You sure?”

“I SAID YEAH!”

Charlie slammed both hands against the mirror. The glass rattled violently, but the man staring back at him didn't flinch.

“Funny.”

“What?”

“You always have somebody to blame.”

Charlie froze.

“TSA stole your drugs.”

“Your opponent disrespected your house.”

“Your old friends abandoned you.”

“The XWF forgot what you gave it.”

The reflection leaned closer.

“And now these guys stole your money.”

Charlie’s breathing became heavier.

“They DID!”

“Maybe.”

The reflection shrugged.

“But you know what I don't hear?”

Charlie said nothing.

“Your name.”

Silence.

The room suddenly felt much smaller.

The Marriott suite.

The broken lamp.

The overturned suitcase.

The blood on Charlie’s shirt.

The drugs sitting only a few feet away.

And that fucking mirror Charlie had been staring at for hours.

But for the first time all night, he really looked at what he saw in the glass.

The leathery skin.

The bags beneath his eyes.

The sores.

The gray hair.

The blood.

The trembling hands.

The reflection wasn't some monster.

That was the problem.

It was Charlie.

Exactly as he was.

And somehow, that was worse.

“You think you know me?”

“I am you.”

Charlie swallowed hard.

“Remember BoB?”

“Shut the fuck up!”

“You found another family tonight.”

Charlie shook his head.

“They were fucking losers.”

“You liked them.”

Charlie looked away.

“You laughed with them.”

“I was high.”

“You felt like you belonged.”

Charlie’s jaw clenched.

“And then you destroyed them.”

“They fucked with me!”

“No, they didn’t.”

The reflection's voice became quieter.

“You did.”

Charlie stepped backward.

“You're full of shit. You’ve always been full of shit!”

“Am I?”

“Yeah.”

“Then why are you crying?”

Charlie immediately wiped beneath his eye.

His fingers came away wet.

He stared at them.

He looked almost offended by the discovery.

“I'm not fucking crying!”

The reflection smiled again as Charlie looked toward the drugs. His breathing steadied. His eyes settled. He reached for the crack as the reflection watched him in silent judgement.

“You know what?”

Charlie held the rock between his fingers.

“Maybe you're right.”

The reflection raised an eyebrow.

Charlie smiled.

“Maybe I'm not happy…but I don't need to be happy.”

Charlie brought the rock closer to his face.

“I just need to be fucked up enough that I don't give a shit.”]]> <![CDATA[Clown City Wasn't Built in a Day]]> https://xwf1999.com/showthread.php?tid=50416 Sat, 29 Aug 2026 20:51:42 -0700 Schadenfreude Clown]]> https://xwf1999.com/showthread.php?tid=50416 600,000,000,000 Years Ago
AKA 19XX, on a Tuesday


[Image: images?q=tbn:ANd9GcTO5WZQLr9j0GHpiKafBfm...Fbuma&s=10]

Clowns have always asked the age old question.

“What came first, the Clown or the egg?”

Today, we’re going to answer that question.

I’m Neil deGrasse Tyson, and Lindsay if you’re watching, please let me see our children.

At the dawn of time, according to Clown City (which is a planet)’s top scientists (who are actually dentists), the universe was in a state of high density matter, all gathered together very tightly…

Almost like…


[Image: _92988550_p04lkdf0.jpg]


…Sure, yes, a pie floating in space. And then that pie contacted with the face of God. And that is what we call the Big Honk.


God walks past a pie sitting on a kitchen table.

“Now, where on Earth did I leave that rake… I can’t have my pie until I’ve raked consciousness itself…”

Just behind God, the handle of the rake sits… the head of the rake rests under the pie.

“Ugh.” God sighs. “I really need to get around to making the known universe, but it’s third on my to-do list after (1) rake and (2) eat pie. Maybe the rake is behind m-”

God turns around, steps on the rake, which flings the pie into God’s own face.

FWOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOSH!
The bits of crust exploding off God’s cheeks form the Asteroid Belt.

A bit of fruit filling congeals together in an arc to create the rings of Saturn.

And hilariously, the universe was created from a slapstick bit with a pie and rake.

God wipes the pie off his face…

Jesus walks in.

“...I didn’t…” God stammers, his face covered in pie and universe. “Look! I meant to do all this, alright?!? I meant to create the universe! It was NOT a pie-based accident.”

Jesus rolls his eyes. “Don’t worry, Dad, who is also me. I won’t tell anybody.”

…Jesus turns around and walks back out.

…God pulls out his planner from his fanny-pack and a little ball-point pen from his pocket protector.

“Step 1… Write a book about how the universe was made with snakes and gardens so no one finds out what really happened….”

“Step 2…”

God’s eyes narrow nefariously.

“Kill Jesus.”

None of that is what this story is about, though. Ignore that we proved the existence of God and also separately proved that he regrets creating life.

We begin our REAL voyage in the cold reaches of space, after the Big Honk that ignited the universe into a confetti of animated stars that wink at you and diners with a 1950s aesthetic spawned from rogue asteroids. As we go into The Clown Galaxy, which is a Solar System, to an egg floating in space.

*there’s a beat and the ruffling of a script as Neil deGrasse Tyson turns from the mic*

An egg? So the egg came first clearly, we’ve already answered the damn question.

*there’s a click and Producer Clown speaks into the recording booth*

“Yeah, but who put the egg there!?”

Well clearly it was formed like a planet, a bunch of elements pushed together by gravity. Basic shit.

“Keep reading ya dolt! Explain what happens next with your amateur science!”

*Tyson sighs as he flicks the paper and continues to read*

A cartoon hand pokes out from the egg and unzips itself to remove the shell and a world with big cartoon eyes and a smile emerges… Huh… But is the world a clown?”

“Is the- What!? Of course the world is a clown! What are you? Some kind of schmuck!?”

Well it wasn’t clear in the text!

“It’s called Clown City, pal! What kinda Clown City would it be if the planet wasn’t a giant animated clown!?”

… None of this makes any sense!

“No shit! Just keep reading!”

*audible sigh*

… And so, Clown City, which is a planet, was formed.

And along with it came a plethora of other moons and planets, entering the system like parasites latching onto the joke.

Title Planet, which is a city.

The moon where all the mimes live.

And who could forget Pastamania Planet, the planet where everyone is Italian.

Some Clown Scientists say whenever a bit is born in the mind of a clown, it pops into existence if it's funny enough or has the potential to be an ongoing joke.

You mean a running gag?


CUTAWAY


Marathon Running Clown is running a marathon.

He runs across the finish line tape.

…Wait, no, doesn’t make it across

He gets stuck in the finish line tape, rolls himself into a finish line mummy, falls into a sarcophagus, is shipped to Egypt to be examined by Egyptologist Clown.

Egyptologist Clown sighs, with a shrug.

“It’s a living.”


See, that was a running gag.

Bits are the lifeblood of the clowns. So long as there are clowns, there are bits. An infinite number of bits, very few of which actually work.

A lot like probability theory, which is the theory that the universe is so infinite and massive that the probability of anything happening could never be exactly zero. And if that’s true, Lindsay, please, take another chance on me, look me in the eyes one last time and see we have a future together.

…

*cough*

Anyway! We know how the planet was formed but what of its wonderful inhabitants? How did the clowns colonise this celestial cranium?

Some say Clowns sprouted out of cabbages from the soil, like Cabbage Patch Kids, but others strongly dispute this theory, such as the Cult of the Garbage Pail Kids whose strong leadership has attracted the likes of Tom Cruise to join their ever growing society.

One Clown says Clowns came from another planet, carried on solar winds like spores and infested Clown City.

But many smart Clowns agree that life began like it did on many other planets.

In the ocean.

*the cameraman in space runs down a high dive board and leaps off hurtling towards Clown City who screams in terror as he splashes into the ocean and swims down to the microbes feeding on Clown City’s sweet, sweet primordial soup.

“OOOOOOOOOOOO-WEEEEEEEEEE!!!!” One Clown Amoeba hollers as he brings the spoon to its mouth, “This soup is so dang good, it makes me wanna go through mitosis at an alarming rate!”

One Clown Amoeba rings a bell.

“Garçon! Could I get some more?”

The Old Man From Oliver Twist Clown looks disgusted at the request.

“MOOOOOOOOOOOOOORE?!?”

One Clown Amoeba is punted from the primordial soup kitchen.

Microbes at the bottom of the ocean replicate at an alarming rate, forming the building blocks of Clown DNA which is of course as we all know in the classic twisty shape of DNA but made out of balloons!

After millions of years they evolve into weird and fucked-up creatures, like Clownfish, Clowntopusses, and the horrifying Angler Clown.

A Clown in a yellow raincoat sits on the ocean floor with a fishing rod, he reels the rod back and casts out his line which keeps drifting upwards to his despair. “Man, what am I doing wrong here?” He doesn’t say, because if he did say it he’d drown.

Anyway!

Once the oceans brimmed with life, some creative fish took to the land to seek more food, getting rid of their gills in the process to be air breathing creatures.

What caused this migration of aquatic clown life to the surface? Clown City Scientists think it went a little something like this…


Many aquatic clown lifeforms are chilling in the ocean.

FWEEEEEEEEET.

Lifeguard Clown blows his whistle.

“Adult Swim!”

UGGGGGGGGH. The collective of new life groans as they all vacate the oceans onto the land.

A Clown in a rubber ducky ring and arm floaties stamps out of the water, removing his snorkel and breathing in the cool Clown City air for the first time. “OH SWEET!” He kneels down, “GROUND MULCH!” and he begins feverishly chomping on grass.

Many others followed suit, taking to the land and living amongst the dense forests of Clown City, eating mulch and breeding in intricate and confusing ways. This was the beginning of Clownmanity, but not the beginning of Clownciety…

Clownciety?

Who the hell wrote this?

“Neil! I swear to Clown God! If you keep cutting off and talking to us I’m gonna put you in a catapult and send you back to that cryopod we found you in!”

Please no! It’s so cold in there and no one can hear my smooth voice!

“Then read the script Tyson!”

Fine! Fine!

…

Although Clown City had its Clown inhabitants, it wasn’t until one fateful day that two clowns shared the same great idea. To build a city together.

This is that story.

…

I just want to point out, we’ve said what this story is about like three different times…

"Guards, seize him!"

Two Clown Guards take Neil deGrasse Tyson by the arms!

W-w-wait! You swore I’d be protected!

The Clown Producer smiles menacingly…

"Oh you’ll be well-protected when you’re FROZEN IN CARBONITE!"

NOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

The Clown Troopers drag Neil off.

The Clown Producer picks up Neil’s headset.

Anyway, back to what this story is really about.

Wolves!

A pack of wolves roam the outskirts of a small dwelling of Cave-Clowns, dress in polkadot loin cloths and carrying blow-up novelty clubs.

“Ug.” Says one clown to another.

“Ug.” Replies the other clown.

“Ug ug.” The first nods and the two exchange rocks.

“Man, those two are weird.” Comments one of the Cave-Clowns beside the fire, “Why did we let them into the group again?”

“Clearly they’re messed up man, just let them be, they don’t mean no harm.”

The wolves lick their lips and slowly descend on the ground, inches away before pouncing and attacking the straddlers.

One Cave-Clown goes down, the mighty jaws of the wolf clamping down on his shoulder and tearing pale white flesh.

But Cave-Clowns were used to these attacks and built defences to halt the wolves offence.

“Yoo-hoo, boys!” One clown dressed up like a sexy wolf says, waving his fingers to catch their attention.

The wolves jump in mid-air as the eyes bulge out of their sockets and begin pounding the ground and howling in delight! One wolf, most likely the alpha, bolts to the clown in wolf drag and begins kissing his arm up and down while speaking French.

The Wolf wriggles its eyebrows at Clown in Wolf Drag Clown. “Ma’am, if I may be so bold… Awoooooooooooooh!” The Wolf howls.

This is the moment the clown attacks, throwing his club down on the wolf’s head stunning it, and causing his teeth to move like piano keys giving a final playing of “Mary had a little lamb” before falling out of the wolf’s jaws.

The other Cave-Clowns spring into action, some a little harder than others as the spring launches them into the sky, never to be seen ever again.

And a brawl transpires, Cave-Clown against wolf! Club against tooth! Metaphor against analogy!

And the wolves leave wounded, but take a few victims with them.

The battlefield littered with casualties from either side, Cave-Clown medics rush over to pick up one of the bodies on a stretcher but the body immediately falls through and the medics carry on none the wiser.

Amongst the fallen lies a small wolf cub, its leg injured and the Cave-Clowns gather over it as it snarls.

“... What do we do with this one?” Asks one Cave-Clown.

“Eat it?”

“Don’t be so macabre, Macabre Clown, it’s just a puppy!”

“Ugh” Macabre Clown sighs, “Of course you’d get attached so quickly, Finds-Sentimental-Value-in-Everything Clown.”

“Hey! Least I’m not a monster!”

“Woah!” Frankenstein’s Monster throws up his palms, “Less of the name calling here!”

“As Group Leader, I Group Leader Clown have the final say.”

“You’re the Group Leader for a Telecoms Company, dude! Those haven’t even been invented yet!”

“Well, until they are invented, I have final say! And I say we adopt the cub and teach it our ways, the ways of the clown, in the hopes that one day, Clownkind and Wolfkind will finally join together in harmony!”

“And Frankenstein’s Monsters!” Added Frankenstein’s Monster.

…


One angry pitchfork and torch session later, Frankenstein’s Monster driven out of the cave and fled into the depths of Clown Forest (which is a parking lot).


“Yes.” nodded Group Leader Clown, tossing his pitchfork away. “Now that we’ve gotten rid of Frankenstein’s Monster, we can build an inclusive society where Clownkind and Wolfkind can live in harmony.”

The remaining clowns think for a moment, a few nods amongst them.

“Thats such a gay idea.” Says Derogatory Clown.

“Woah! That’s not cool, why did we let you in the group?”

“I just kept saying ug over and over to make you guys think I wasn’t a giant asshole, but that other guy who said ug is dead now so I’ve got nothing to lose!”

After a very awkward conversation, we go to the wolves, pulling the body of Cave-Clown back to their… Nest? Where do wolves live?

Den!

Back to their den!

Why was that in the script? Seems a bit-OH NO!

*The doors crash open and two guards rush into the booth, pulling Producer Clown out as he screams. The quick pattering of feet occur and someone else quickly grabs the microphone*

“What they’re telling you is all lies!” Says Tinfoil Hat Clown adjusting his tinfoil hat. His tinfoil squeaks as he adjusts it. “They’re tyring to do the whole Romulus and Remus shit with fucking Rome but it’s all BULLSHIT!!! This wasn’t how Clowns were created! It was by some fucking nerds with too much time on their hands willing us into existence, man! They have a chat room or something! I have their LOGS! They just create clowns in their spare time and keep saying fuck the roster! I don’t know what it means, man, I don’t know what it fucking means but I know its true! I- HEY GET YOUR HANDS OFF ME!! YOU CAN SILENCE ME BUT YOU CAN’T SILENCE THE TRUTH!”

*A scuffle occurs*

“YOU KEEP THAT COMICALLY LARGE BUTTERFLY NET AWAY FROM ME! I’M NOT CRAZY! YOU’RE THE CRAZY ONES!”

*The man is finally silenced and carried away, wrapped in his own tinfoil and packed into a large fridge next to Frozen-in-Carbonite Neil DeGrasse Tyson.

After a long pause the sound of a throat clearing into the mic is heard.*

Hello, I’m David Attenborough, yes, the real one.

Not that you asked, but I’m dating Lindsay, Neil’s ex.

Let us continue.

As the pack take away their prey to feast, a small honking is heard, in the corpses bosom lays a small baby clown looking as all baby clowns do, wearing an oversized bib and holding a comically large lollipop, it giggles as the wolves lean in and look at it.

There’s a moment where the wolves side-eye each other and have a silent conversation about the morals of eating a baby and if their wolf god would punish them.

“Nah, bro, fucking go for it.” says Wolf God, smashing an empty beer can into his own wolf head.

However, In the end, they decide to spare the child and allow it into the pack, hoping that one day its clown DNA and wolf values would help build a link between Wolfkind and Clownkind.

“That’s pretty gay.” Says one wolf who is immediately kicked out of the pack.


Many years later.


*David Attenborough takes a long sip of caramel macchiato. You can’t hear his eyes scanning the script with a deep look of sadness and bewilderment, but you can feel it. With a small sigh, he continues like the fucking professional he is.*

As the cub grew amongst the clowns, learning their ways of juggling rocks, pratfalls onto rocks and riding the unicycle made of rocks. The clown grew with his pack, learning to hunt, stalk their prey and howl at the moon, which really pissed off the mimes that lived there.


A mime quietly shakes his fist down at Raised-by-Wolves Clown.

He reaches behind his back for a sign that says “KEEP IT DOWN!”


They grew, they learned, 50% of them clowned around.

And one day.

They finally met.

On the savannah, at a watering hole. A small oasis in the barren wastes.

The pack and the group enter at the same time, there’s a tension in the air. A small sense of danger lingers under the common consensus that there should be no fighting at the watering hole, it says so on the sign that Lifeguard Clown pointed to before he goes back to sunbathing.

Group Leader Clown raises an eyebrow at the Clown among the wolves on all fours slowly moving to the water, he turns to one of his fellow Cave-Clowns. “Hey… Remember that one baby we lost to the wolves many years ago?”

The Cave-Clown looks to his right and back to Group Leader Clown, “You talking to me?” Asks Double-Checking-that-the-Conversation-is-Aimed-at-Him Clown.

“Yes! Fuck! Change your name to Pays Attention Clown or something!”

“He better fucking not!” Pays Attention Clown interrupts, “Yeah! I was paying attention to your conversation!”

“Isn’t that my bit?” Remarks Eavesdropping Clown.

“Enough!” Group Leader Clown snaps, “I hate this Group Dynamic! At least Raised by Clowns Wolf doesn’t yap my ear off!”

Raised by Wolf Clown is too busy continuously slipping on a banana peel.

“Look at ‘im go!” Supporter-of-the-Clown-Arts Clown smiles.

“But yeah, that kid we lost to wolves, you guys don’t think that could be him?” Group Leader Clown points over to the pack, specifically at the clown scratching himself with his hind leg, which is just a normal clown leg.

“Yes.” Says Pays Attention Clown, “Of course that’s him, I pay attention to the narrative!” He proceeds to fold his arms smugly.

“Yo, you need to stop chopping other peoples bits!” Says Folds–His-Arms-Smugly Clown, “Or else you could end up in Clown Jail, not that I’d mind.” He chuckles and folds his arms smugly with a grin.

Suddenly, a pair of handcuffs are slapped on Folds-His-Arms Smugly Clown’s Wrists, (in front of his chest, of course, as his arms are smugly folded in front of himself).

“You’re under arrest for stealing another clown’s bit!” Says Wrongful-Arrest Cop Clown.

“Wait no! No, I’m actually supposed to fold my arms smugly! That’s MY bit!” wails Folds-His-Arms-Smugly Clown! “I’m Folds-His-Arms-Smugly Clown!”

Over his pleas and protests, Folds-His-Arms-Smugly Clown is chucked into the back of a paddy wagon (which is a wagon made out of Ireland).

“It’s a living!” Says Ireland.

Raised-By-Wolves Clown takes out a pair of binoculars and looks across the watering hole at the pack, there’s a quiet moment where the is some kind of recognition on his Scooby Doo ass face as he lowers the binoculars and of course two black circles are painted around his eyes.

“Ha, what a fresh new joke!” Says Appreciate-The-New-Jokes Clown. And wouldn’t you know, but that little clown that nobody liked grew up to become Appreciates-The-Classics Clown, a clown that, to this day, no one likes.

Raised-by-Clowns Wolf takes a few steps over to the pack who raise their heads confused and look to one another.

“... If that wolf walking fucking bipedal?” Asks one.

“Yeah, and he’s wearing suspenders… Could that be the cub we lost many moons ago?”

“Many moons ago is a really vague term, we should like… Invent the calendar.”

“What the fuck is a calendar!?”

“I don’t know… I’m freaking out a bit looking at this wolf clown… where did he get a unicycle from?”

Raised-by-Clowns Wolf rides over juggling a set of letters as he approaches Raised-by-Wolves Clown and the letters spell out “BROTHER?” To this day, no one knows where he got a question mark from.

Raised-by-Wolves Clown looks up at Raised-by-Clowns Wolf, a tear forming in his eye as he gets emotions and thought he never once knew he had. He makes a sound with his mouth, almost trying to form words before reeling his back and howling into the sky.

“AWOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO-HONK!!!”

The other wolves join with their howls and the clowns across the watering hole join in with their honks.

The two groups form together, sharing common interests such as… Being mammals maybe, and having hair, except for Bald Clown but we WILL NEVER SPEAK OF HIM AGAIN! He knows what he did.

Raised-by-Wolves Clown puts a paw (which is a hand (the hand also has a huge white glove on it)) on Raised-by-Clowns Wolf’s shoulder and forces a brutish grunt of clown words at him, “To-gether, we will make a home for us all! And the home will be called… Clown Planet, which is a city!”

Raised-by-Clowns Wolf nods and his suspenders ping off forcing his trousers to fall down to his ankles.

And that, my dear friends is how the first city on Clown City, which is a planet, was founded.

And to this day, if you go to Clown Planet, which is a city, you will see a large statue in the planet center, which is a city center, depicting the two founders.

You can also see them in real life, as they are both still alive as all clowns are immortal until they need to be dead for a story.

I’ve been David Attenborough.

And I’m fucking Neil deGrasse Tyson’s wife.

God Clown speed, and good night.


POST-CREDITS SCENE


In a lair, filled with smoke and 80s neon. A wall of black is shown through the fog.

Neil deGrasse Tyson frozen in carbonite, a look of horror forever frozen on his face, slowly blinks as the carbonite begins to melt away. A figure in a dark robe cackles menacingly.

“Yes, yes GOOD! Soon you shall be unfrozen, and you shall no longer be Neil deGrasse Tyson but become my apprentice! DARTH DEGRASSES TYSON! And together we will rule the Clown Galaxy, which is a solar system, with a cruel iron fist! Muahahahahahahahaha!!!"

To be continued???????

Probably not!

But maybe!


But probably not.

BYE!


]]> 600,000,000,000 Years Ago
AKA 19XX, on a Tuesday


[Image: images?q=tbn:ANd9GcTO5WZQLr9j0GHpiKafBfm...Fbuma&s=10]

Clowns have always asked the age old question.

“What came first, the Clown or the egg?”

Today, we’re going to answer that question.

I’m Neil deGrasse Tyson, and Lindsay if you’re watching, please let me see our children.

At the dawn of time, according to Clown City (which is a planet)’s top scientists (who are actually dentists), the universe was in a state of high density matter, all gathered together very tightly…

Almost like…


[Image: _92988550_p04lkdf0.jpg]


…Sure, yes, a pie floating in space. And then that pie contacted with the face of God. And that is what we call the Big Honk.


God walks past a pie sitting on a kitchen table.

“Now, where on Earth did I leave that rake… I can’t have my pie until I’ve raked consciousness itself…”

Just behind God, the handle of the rake sits… the head of the rake rests under the pie.

“Ugh.” God sighs. “I really need to get around to making the known universe, but it’s third on my to-do list after (1) rake and (2) eat pie. Maybe the rake is behind m-”

God turns around, steps on the rake, which flings the pie into God’s own face.

FWOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOSH!
The bits of crust exploding off God’s cheeks form the Asteroid Belt.

A bit of fruit filling congeals together in an arc to create the rings of Saturn.

And hilariously, the universe was created from a slapstick bit with a pie and rake.

God wipes the pie off his face…

Jesus walks in.

“...I didn’t…” God stammers, his face covered in pie and universe. “Look! I meant to do all this, alright?!? I meant to create the universe! It was NOT a pie-based accident.”

Jesus rolls his eyes. “Don’t worry, Dad, who is also me. I won’t tell anybody.”

…Jesus turns around and walks back out.

…God pulls out his planner from his fanny-pack and a little ball-point pen from his pocket protector.

“Step 1… Write a book about how the universe was made with snakes and gardens so no one finds out what really happened….”

“Step 2…”

God’s eyes narrow nefariously.

“Kill Jesus.”

None of that is what this story is about, though. Ignore that we proved the existence of God and also separately proved that he regrets creating life.

We begin our REAL voyage in the cold reaches of space, after the Big Honk that ignited the universe into a confetti of animated stars that wink at you and diners with a 1950s aesthetic spawned from rogue asteroids. As we go into The Clown Galaxy, which is a Solar System, to an egg floating in space.

*there’s a beat and the ruffling of a script as Neil deGrasse Tyson turns from the mic*

An egg? So the egg came first clearly, we’ve already answered the damn question.

*there’s a click and Producer Clown speaks into the recording booth*

“Yeah, but who put the egg there!?”

Well clearly it was formed like a planet, a bunch of elements pushed together by gravity. Basic shit.

“Keep reading ya dolt! Explain what happens next with your amateur science!”

*Tyson sighs as he flicks the paper and continues to read*

A cartoon hand pokes out from the egg and unzips itself to remove the shell and a world with big cartoon eyes and a smile emerges… Huh… But is the world a clown?”

“Is the- What!? Of course the world is a clown! What are you? Some kind of schmuck!?”

Well it wasn’t clear in the text!

“It’s called Clown City, pal! What kinda Clown City would it be if the planet wasn’t a giant animated clown!?”

… None of this makes any sense!

“No shit! Just keep reading!”

*audible sigh*

… And so, Clown City, which is a planet, was formed.

And along with it came a plethora of other moons and planets, entering the system like parasites latching onto the joke.

Title Planet, which is a city.

The moon where all the mimes live.

And who could forget Pastamania Planet, the planet where everyone is Italian.

Some Clown Scientists say whenever a bit is born in the mind of a clown, it pops into existence if it's funny enough or has the potential to be an ongoing joke.

You mean a running gag?


CUTAWAY


Marathon Running Clown is running a marathon.

He runs across the finish line tape.

…Wait, no, doesn’t make it across

He gets stuck in the finish line tape, rolls himself into a finish line mummy, falls into a sarcophagus, is shipped to Egypt to be examined by Egyptologist Clown.

Egyptologist Clown sighs, with a shrug.

“It’s a living.”


See, that was a running gag.

Bits are the lifeblood of the clowns. So long as there are clowns, there are bits. An infinite number of bits, very few of which actually work.

A lot like probability theory, which is the theory that the universe is so infinite and massive that the probability of anything happening could never be exactly zero. And if that’s true, Lindsay, please, take another chance on me, look me in the eyes one last time and see we have a future together.

…

*cough*

Anyway! We know how the planet was formed but what of its wonderful inhabitants? How did the clowns colonise this celestial cranium?

Some say Clowns sprouted out of cabbages from the soil, like Cabbage Patch Kids, but others strongly dispute this theory, such as the Cult of the Garbage Pail Kids whose strong leadership has attracted the likes of Tom Cruise to join their ever growing society.

One Clown says Clowns came from another planet, carried on solar winds like spores and infested Clown City.

But many smart Clowns agree that life began like it did on many other planets.

In the ocean.

*the cameraman in space runs down a high dive board and leaps off hurtling towards Clown City who screams in terror as he splashes into the ocean and swims down to the microbes feeding on Clown City’s sweet, sweet primordial soup.

“OOOOOOOOOOOO-WEEEEEEEEEE!!!!” One Clown Amoeba hollers as he brings the spoon to its mouth, “This soup is so dang good, it makes me wanna go through mitosis at an alarming rate!”

One Clown Amoeba rings a bell.

“Garçon! Could I get some more?”

The Old Man From Oliver Twist Clown looks disgusted at the request.

“MOOOOOOOOOOOOOORE?!?”

One Clown Amoeba is punted from the primordial soup kitchen.

Microbes at the bottom of the ocean replicate at an alarming rate, forming the building blocks of Clown DNA which is of course as we all know in the classic twisty shape of DNA but made out of balloons!

After millions of years they evolve into weird and fucked-up creatures, like Clownfish, Clowntopusses, and the horrifying Angler Clown.

A Clown in a yellow raincoat sits on the ocean floor with a fishing rod, he reels the rod back and casts out his line which keeps drifting upwards to his despair. “Man, what am I doing wrong here?” He doesn’t say, because if he did say it he’d drown.

Anyway!

Once the oceans brimmed with life, some creative fish took to the land to seek more food, getting rid of their gills in the process to be air breathing creatures.

What caused this migration of aquatic clown life to the surface? Clown City Scientists think it went a little something like this…


Many aquatic clown lifeforms are chilling in the ocean.

FWEEEEEEEEET.

Lifeguard Clown blows his whistle.

“Adult Swim!”

UGGGGGGGGH. The collective of new life groans as they all vacate the oceans onto the land.

A Clown in a rubber ducky ring and arm floaties stamps out of the water, removing his snorkel and breathing in the cool Clown City air for the first time. “OH SWEET!” He kneels down, “GROUND MULCH!” and he begins feverishly chomping on grass.

Many others followed suit, taking to the land and living amongst the dense forests of Clown City, eating mulch and breeding in intricate and confusing ways. This was the beginning of Clownmanity, but not the beginning of Clownciety…

Clownciety?

Who the hell wrote this?

“Neil! I swear to Clown God! If you keep cutting off and talking to us I’m gonna put you in a catapult and send you back to that cryopod we found you in!”

Please no! It’s so cold in there and no one can hear my smooth voice!

“Then read the script Tyson!”

Fine! Fine!

…

Although Clown City had its Clown inhabitants, it wasn’t until one fateful day that two clowns shared the same great idea. To build a city together.

This is that story.

…

I just want to point out, we’ve said what this story is about like three different times…

"Guards, seize him!"

Two Clown Guards take Neil deGrasse Tyson by the arms!

W-w-wait! You swore I’d be protected!

The Clown Producer smiles menacingly…

"Oh you’ll be well-protected when you’re FROZEN IN CARBONITE!"

NOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

The Clown Troopers drag Neil off.

The Clown Producer picks up Neil’s headset.

Anyway, back to what this story is really about.

Wolves!

A pack of wolves roam the outskirts of a small dwelling of Cave-Clowns, dress in polkadot loin cloths and carrying blow-up novelty clubs.

“Ug.” Says one clown to another.

“Ug.” Replies the other clown.

“Ug ug.” The first nods and the two exchange rocks.

“Man, those two are weird.” Comments one of the Cave-Clowns beside the fire, “Why did we let them into the group again?”

“Clearly they’re messed up man, just let them be, they don’t mean no harm.”

The wolves lick their lips and slowly descend on the ground, inches away before pouncing and attacking the straddlers.

One Cave-Clown goes down, the mighty jaws of the wolf clamping down on his shoulder and tearing pale white flesh.

But Cave-Clowns were used to these attacks and built defences to halt the wolves offence.

“Yoo-hoo, boys!” One clown dressed up like a sexy wolf says, waving his fingers to catch their attention.

The wolves jump in mid-air as the eyes bulge out of their sockets and begin pounding the ground and howling in delight! One wolf, most likely the alpha, bolts to the clown in wolf drag and begins kissing his arm up and down while speaking French.

The Wolf wriggles its eyebrows at Clown in Wolf Drag Clown. “Ma’am, if I may be so bold… Awoooooooooooooh!” The Wolf howls.

This is the moment the clown attacks, throwing his club down on the wolf’s head stunning it, and causing his teeth to move like piano keys giving a final playing of “Mary had a little lamb” before falling out of the wolf’s jaws.

The other Cave-Clowns spring into action, some a little harder than others as the spring launches them into the sky, never to be seen ever again.

And a brawl transpires, Cave-Clown against wolf! Club against tooth! Metaphor against analogy!

And the wolves leave wounded, but take a few victims with them.

The battlefield littered with casualties from either side, Cave-Clown medics rush over to pick up one of the bodies on a stretcher but the body immediately falls through and the medics carry on none the wiser.

Amongst the fallen lies a small wolf cub, its leg injured and the Cave-Clowns gather over it as it snarls.

“... What do we do with this one?” Asks one Cave-Clown.

“Eat it?”

“Don’t be so macabre, Macabre Clown, it’s just a puppy!”

“Ugh” Macabre Clown sighs, “Of course you’d get attached so quickly, Finds-Sentimental-Value-in-Everything Clown.”

“Hey! Least I’m not a monster!”

“Woah!” Frankenstein’s Monster throws up his palms, “Less of the name calling here!”

“As Group Leader, I Group Leader Clown have the final say.”

“You’re the Group Leader for a Telecoms Company, dude! Those haven’t even been invented yet!”

“Well, until they are invented, I have final say! And I say we adopt the cub and teach it our ways, the ways of the clown, in the hopes that one day, Clownkind and Wolfkind will finally join together in harmony!”

“And Frankenstein’s Monsters!” Added Frankenstein’s Monster.

…


One angry pitchfork and torch session later, Frankenstein’s Monster driven out of the cave and fled into the depths of Clown Forest (which is a parking lot).


“Yes.” nodded Group Leader Clown, tossing his pitchfork away. “Now that we’ve gotten rid of Frankenstein’s Monster, we can build an inclusive society where Clownkind and Wolfkind can live in harmony.”

The remaining clowns think for a moment, a few nods amongst them.

“Thats such a gay idea.” Says Derogatory Clown.

“Woah! That’s not cool, why did we let you in the group?”

“I just kept saying ug over and over to make you guys think I wasn’t a giant asshole, but that other guy who said ug is dead now so I’ve got nothing to lose!”

After a very awkward conversation, we go to the wolves, pulling the body of Cave-Clown back to their… Nest? Where do wolves live?

Den!

Back to their den!

Why was that in the script? Seems a bit-OH NO!

*The doors crash open and two guards rush into the booth, pulling Producer Clown out as he screams. The quick pattering of feet occur and someone else quickly grabs the microphone*

“What they’re telling you is all lies!” Says Tinfoil Hat Clown adjusting his tinfoil hat. His tinfoil squeaks as he adjusts it. “They’re tyring to do the whole Romulus and Remus shit with fucking Rome but it’s all BULLSHIT!!! This wasn’t how Clowns were created! It was by some fucking nerds with too much time on their hands willing us into existence, man! They have a chat room or something! I have their LOGS! They just create clowns in their spare time and keep saying fuck the roster! I don’t know what it means, man, I don’t know what it fucking means but I know its true! I- HEY GET YOUR HANDS OFF ME!! YOU CAN SILENCE ME BUT YOU CAN’T SILENCE THE TRUTH!”

*A scuffle occurs*

“YOU KEEP THAT COMICALLY LARGE BUTTERFLY NET AWAY FROM ME! I’M NOT CRAZY! YOU’RE THE CRAZY ONES!”

*The man is finally silenced and carried away, wrapped in his own tinfoil and packed into a large fridge next to Frozen-in-Carbonite Neil DeGrasse Tyson.

After a long pause the sound of a throat clearing into the mic is heard.*

Hello, I’m David Attenborough, yes, the real one.

Not that you asked, but I’m dating Lindsay, Neil’s ex.

Let us continue.

As the pack take away their prey to feast, a small honking is heard, in the corpses bosom lays a small baby clown looking as all baby clowns do, wearing an oversized bib and holding a comically large lollipop, it giggles as the wolves lean in and look at it.

There’s a moment where the wolves side-eye each other and have a silent conversation about the morals of eating a baby and if their wolf god would punish them.

“Nah, bro, fucking go for it.” says Wolf God, smashing an empty beer can into his own wolf head.

However, In the end, they decide to spare the child and allow it into the pack, hoping that one day its clown DNA and wolf values would help build a link between Wolfkind and Clownkind.

“That’s pretty gay.” Says one wolf who is immediately kicked out of the pack.


Many years later.


*David Attenborough takes a long sip of caramel macchiato. You can’t hear his eyes scanning the script with a deep look of sadness and bewilderment, but you can feel it. With a small sigh, he continues like the fucking professional he is.*

As the cub grew amongst the clowns, learning their ways of juggling rocks, pratfalls onto rocks and riding the unicycle made of rocks. The clown grew with his pack, learning to hunt, stalk their prey and howl at the moon, which really pissed off the mimes that lived there.


A mime quietly shakes his fist down at Raised-by-Wolves Clown.

He reaches behind his back for a sign that says “KEEP IT DOWN!”


They grew, they learned, 50% of them clowned around.

And one day.

They finally met.

On the savannah, at a watering hole. A small oasis in the barren wastes.

The pack and the group enter at the same time, there’s a tension in the air. A small sense of danger lingers under the common consensus that there should be no fighting at the watering hole, it says so on the sign that Lifeguard Clown pointed to before he goes back to sunbathing.

Group Leader Clown raises an eyebrow at the Clown among the wolves on all fours slowly moving to the water, he turns to one of his fellow Cave-Clowns. “Hey… Remember that one baby we lost to the wolves many years ago?”

The Cave-Clown looks to his right and back to Group Leader Clown, “You talking to me?” Asks Double-Checking-that-the-Conversation-is-Aimed-at-Him Clown.

“Yes! Fuck! Change your name to Pays Attention Clown or something!”

“He better fucking not!” Pays Attention Clown interrupts, “Yeah! I was paying attention to your conversation!”

“Isn’t that my bit?” Remarks Eavesdropping Clown.

“Enough!” Group Leader Clown snaps, “I hate this Group Dynamic! At least Raised by Clowns Wolf doesn’t yap my ear off!”

Raised by Wolf Clown is too busy continuously slipping on a banana peel.

“Look at ‘im go!” Supporter-of-the-Clown-Arts Clown smiles.

“But yeah, that kid we lost to wolves, you guys don’t think that could be him?” Group Leader Clown points over to the pack, specifically at the clown scratching himself with his hind leg, which is just a normal clown leg.

“Yes.” Says Pays Attention Clown, “Of course that’s him, I pay attention to the narrative!” He proceeds to fold his arms smugly.

“Yo, you need to stop chopping other peoples bits!” Says Folds–His-Arms-Smugly Clown, “Or else you could end up in Clown Jail, not that I’d mind.” He chuckles and folds his arms smugly with a grin.

Suddenly, a pair of handcuffs are slapped on Folds-His-Arms Smugly Clown’s Wrists, (in front of his chest, of course, as his arms are smugly folded in front of himself).

“You’re under arrest for stealing another clown’s bit!” Says Wrongful-Arrest Cop Clown.

“Wait no! No, I’m actually supposed to fold my arms smugly! That’s MY bit!” wails Folds-His-Arms-Smugly Clown! “I’m Folds-His-Arms-Smugly Clown!”

Over his pleas and protests, Folds-His-Arms-Smugly Clown is chucked into the back of a paddy wagon (which is a wagon made out of Ireland).

“It’s a living!” Says Ireland.

Raised-By-Wolves Clown takes out a pair of binoculars and looks across the watering hole at the pack, there’s a quiet moment where the is some kind of recognition on his Scooby Doo ass face as he lowers the binoculars and of course two black circles are painted around his eyes.

“Ha, what a fresh new joke!” Says Appreciate-The-New-Jokes Clown. And wouldn’t you know, but that little clown that nobody liked grew up to become Appreciates-The-Classics Clown, a clown that, to this day, no one likes.

Raised-by-Clowns Wolf takes a few steps over to the pack who raise their heads confused and look to one another.

“... If that wolf walking fucking bipedal?” Asks one.

“Yeah, and he’s wearing suspenders… Could that be the cub we lost many moons ago?”

“Many moons ago is a really vague term, we should like… Invent the calendar.”

“What the fuck is a calendar!?”

“I don’t know… I’m freaking out a bit looking at this wolf clown… where did he get a unicycle from?”

Raised-by-Clowns Wolf rides over juggling a set of letters as he approaches Raised-by-Wolves Clown and the letters spell out “BROTHER?” To this day, no one knows where he got a question mark from.

Raised-by-Wolves Clown looks up at Raised-by-Clowns Wolf, a tear forming in his eye as he gets emotions and thought he never once knew he had. He makes a sound with his mouth, almost trying to form words before reeling his back and howling into the sky.

“AWOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO-HONK!!!”

The other wolves join with their howls and the clowns across the watering hole join in with their honks.

The two groups form together, sharing common interests such as… Being mammals maybe, and having hair, except for Bald Clown but we WILL NEVER SPEAK OF HIM AGAIN! He knows what he did.

Raised-by-Wolves Clown puts a paw (which is a hand (the hand also has a huge white glove on it)) on Raised-by-Clowns Wolf’s shoulder and forces a brutish grunt of clown words at him, “To-gether, we will make a home for us all! And the home will be called… Clown Planet, which is a city!”

Raised-by-Clowns Wolf nods and his suspenders ping off forcing his trousers to fall down to his ankles.

And that, my dear friends is how the first city on Clown City, which is a planet, was founded.

And to this day, if you go to Clown Planet, which is a city, you will see a large statue in the planet center, which is a city center, depicting the two founders.

You can also see them in real life, as they are both still alive as all clowns are immortal until they need to be dead for a story.

I’ve been David Attenborough.

And I’m fucking Neil deGrasse Tyson’s wife.

God Clown speed, and good night.


POST-CREDITS SCENE


In a lair, filled with smoke and 80s neon. A wall of black is shown through the fog.

Neil deGrasse Tyson frozen in carbonite, a look of horror forever frozen on his face, slowly blinks as the carbonite begins to melt away. A figure in a dark robe cackles menacingly.

“Yes, yes GOOD! Soon you shall be unfrozen, and you shall no longer be Neil deGrasse Tyson but become my apprentice! DARTH DEGRASSES TYSON! And together we will rule the Clown Galaxy, which is a solar system, with a cruel iron fist! Muahahahahahahahaha!!!"

To be continued???????

Probably not!

But maybe!


But probably not.

BYE!


]]> <![CDATA[Metamorphosis/The Rot Beneath The Glass]]> https://xwf1999.com/showthread.php?tid=50415 Sat, 29 Aug 2026 18:43:14 -0700 Judd Hollow]]> https://xwf1999.com/showthread.php?tid=50415 Hope You’ve Been Enjoying The Slow Burn… It’s Getting Hotter!]]> Hope You’ve Been Enjoying The Slow Burn… It’s Getting Hotter!]]> <![CDATA[Clowns: The Root of All Evil]]> https://xwf1999.com/showthread.php?tid=50413 Sat, 29 Aug 2026 17:22:01 -0700 Kristoffer "Vamp" Arroyo]]> https://xwf1999.com/showthread.php?tid=50413
If only they knew….

“Ewww gross!” Matty cried, spitting pieces of popcorn onto the thankfully empty seat in front of him.

“I’m serious!” Kristoffer Arroyo replied, shooting his young ward an imploring look.

“I don’t wanna hear about bloody fetus eggs and shit! Especially not while I’m eating.” Matty gestured towards their surroundings. “Besides, it’s just A CIRCUS!”

They were indeed at the circus. Beneath the big top in fact, and seemingly just before a show was about to start judging by the people filing onto the bleachers around them and the crew scrambling about the three rings below them.

“Exactly, it’s a CIRCUS. You don’t know the circus like I do. I was on the crew of a circus back in the ‘50’s.”

“Really? You never told me that.”

Kris shook his head. “It’s not a fun story. Circuses are cesspools behind the scenes. I’m telling you! Abused animals forced to put on a show. Making fun of people with disabilities as part of some disgusting “freak show” act. And the clowns! My God…the clowns….”

“Okay, well first of all modern circuses don’t use animals anymore and freak shows haven’t been a thing in decades dude.” Matty dumped some more popcorn into his mouth, and spoke again between mighty chews. “And what’s wrong with clowns?!”

“John Wayne Gacy was a clown!”

“Okay, so what?! That’s one!”

“Not just one! The clowns I had to work with back then were all drug addicted reprobates and perverts.”

Matty waved to someone in the near distance, seemingly paying Kris no mind. Kris, noticing, screwed up his face at the vampire boy.

“Are you even listening?!”

“I just spotted Dickie!” Then, cupping a hand against his mouth, “DICKIE! OVER HERE!”

The shot cut across the bleachers to reveal former Universal Champion and overall XWF megastar Dickie Watson picking his way through the throngs of people. He doesn’t exactly look thrilled to be there, but nonetheless nods in Matty’s direction and makes his way over towards them. Upon arrival, he gestures at them with a small wave and a stilted one syllable greeting of, “Sup.”

“Kris was just telling me about how all clowns are perverts.”

“They are!”

Dickie took a seat next to Kris. “I wouldn’t know. Don’t know any of them personally.”

“You don’t need to know them personally. In fact, I would strongly advise against it.”

“Yeah….well….” Dickie sighed. “Kris, what exactly are we doing here?”

“Field research.”

“Which doesn’t even make sense! Dickie, tell him!”

“Tell him….?”

Matty rolled his eyes. “The clowns you guys are facing are from their own clown planet or some shit. So they’re probably not even human clowns. If you wanted to do real field research we would be watching Killer Klowns From Outer Space instead of going to the circus.”

“Oh, they’re human alright. Dirty, filthy, ne’er do wells, but humans nonetheless.”

“You sound like you have something personal against clowns.” Dickie noted.

“He said he worked at the circus in the ‘50’s and that all the clowns were dirt bags.”

“Oh. Right. The ageless vampire thing.”

Both Kris and Matty took note of Dickie’s tone, looked at each other, and then back at Dickie.

“So you’re another doubting Thomas then?” Kris scowled. “Look man, I don’t have anything to prove to you.”

“I didn’t say you did.”

“You said it with your whole tone. And face.”

“This is just my face.”

“It was very judgmental.”

Dickie stared at him for a few seconds – if anyone had learned the process of Dickie Watson’s Brain at any point in time, there is always the first question of “Why the fuck am I here?”. It was hard to imagine, for the two of them, that after War Games last year, and after Kris had a spectacular win over the former Universal Champion, that they would end up on the same side of a wrestling ring.

“Does he do this every time someone doesn’t immediately accept he was apparently wandering the Earth in the days of Eisenhower?” Dickie asked Matty, eyes still on Kris.

“Pretty much, yeah,” Matty shrugged and shoveled another handful of popcorn into his mouth.

Dickie leaned back against the bleachers, allowing himself to look at the circus rings below. Performers and crew members moved between them in brightly colored costumes while heinous music that sounded like bassoons and brass pipes dying played over speakers, every inch of the place carefully engineered to make people forget – for a short time – that they’d paid an obscene amount of money to sit and watch adults risk orthopedic surgery for applause.

Sounds like a wrestling ring.

“So this is field research.” Dickie repeated.

“Yep.”

“For the clowns.”

“Yes,” Kris confirmed.

“The ones that are aliens, keep shifting themselves to new names and, for my clarifying purposes, get bored as quickly as a tweaker who hasn’t had their hit of cocaine.”

There was a pause. Kris’ jaw tightened, “Supposedly.”

“Where are we drawing the line in my previous statement? Aliens, clowns, or cocaine?”

“The alien part.”

“Right,” Dickie nodded slowly. “Glad we’ve established that interplanetary travel is where your suspension of disbelief finally shits itself.”

“I’m saying they’re human.”

“You’re an immortal vampire.”

“That’s different.”

“Okay, Lestat.” Dickie turned his attention back towards the rings. “So let me make sure I’ve got this, yeah? You dragged me to a circus to conduct field research on two clowns who may or may not be aliens, because your personal experience with circus clowns seventy years ago has led you to believe there’s some kind of transferable skill set.”

“Not completely transferable, but…” Kris titled his head a little, watching one of the performers honk their horn, and then get on a bicycle. “Understanding your enemy is useful, isn’t it?”

“My enemy is named Raised by Wolves Clown.”

“And Raised by Clowns Wolf,” Matty added helpfully, not looking away from the performers now.

Dickie’s face tightened into the most nonplussed expression known to mankind. “Yes, thank you, Matty. I’d successfully forgotten the second one for almost thirty seconds.”

“You really haven’t watched any of their stuff yet?”

“I watched enough,” Dickie nodded.

“What does that mean?” Matty asked, turning his head to look at Dickie again.

“It means I opened the match card, read their names, closed the match card, and went for a long walk and considered going for milk and peacing out like dear ol’ Dad.”

“Hey you guys keep forming a lasting friendship. I gotta take a whiz.” Matty got up and dropped his popcorn into Kris’ lap as he inched past them.

“Can I have some?” Kris inquired, holding up the bag.

“No. And Dickie it's your job to make sure he doesn't steal any. I'll be right back!”

Dickie watched Matty go before speaking again. “Seems like a fun kid.”

“He's a handful. But then again I guess any vampire who is forever twelve years old would be.” He paused. “I care about him a lot. My parents were pretty shitty to me so I guess part of me is just trying to rectify that. Be a better father figure. Although I fucked up with Matty a lot early on.”

“We're all just learning as we go. Mistakes will be made.” Dickie replied, his tone somewhat distant as he ponders for a moment whether he's talking to Kris or himself.

“Yeah. Suppose so.” Kris looked to Dickie. “We good?”

Dickie nodded slightly. “I’m not gonna pretend to completely understand you or what you’re about, but yeah, for the purposes of this match, we’re good.”

“Wanna talk some shit?” Kris inquires, gesturing at the camera.

“Yes PLEASE.”

Kris clears his throat a bit theatrically before commencing.

“Guys….it’s time. Well past time, in fact. Time for the fun and games to end. Although I never found you fun nor….gamey? No…no….that implies I would have eaten a clown and goddammit I am a vampire with STANDARDS and a FUNCTIONING PALETTE.

Anyway!

It’s time for this clown show to cease. Because like all good comedy shtick of yore….the BX3’s, the Darren Dangerous’, the Dick Powers’, the Jim Caedus’ (come on, you can’t tell me those chronic manic episodes weren’t a total joke), the gags must eventually end, fade away, and cede the stage to the FUCKING ADULTS.

That’s me and Dickie.

Don’t get me wrong. You guys held the tag team championships for a bit. Better than a lot of comedy acts ever got. But you had to know it was all downhill after that. After all, none of you ever, EVER would have been in the conversation for a shot at the Xtreme, or God forbid, the Universal Championship. You peaked.

Peaked Clown! Which begat Irrelevancy Clown, which begat Unemployment Clown, which begat Homeless Clown. There, I just came up with your next four angles. Royalties better be in the mail.

Kidding aside (and really, that’s the whole theme we’re going with here), you guys are coming face to face with the real deal. Dickie Watson. Former Universal Champion. War Games Winner. Possessor of impossibly great hair. And me. I did stuff too.

But for as great as we are, we’re both looking for a shot in the arm. Dickie is fresh off a sabbatical and in need of a win. I’m somehow at number 19 (fucking 19?!!) in the ELO rankings because apparently batting .750 merits being ranked lower than the entire Anarchy mid card. Side bar, if ANYONE out there can make sense of this shit for me there’s a crisp fiver in it for ya. Oh, and maybe eternal life. If you’re, ya know, into that kinda thing. ELO, avoid me in the hallways. Because I’m totally gonna set aside my redemption arc for the day just to pants you.

Point is, hell’s gonna freeze over before we lose to shtick like you guys.

But that’s not all!

Because now’s the part where I hand the baton to trash talk supreme.

Dickie?” 

“Thanks, thanks, thanks. Hello, hi. Tidbit of info if you’ve never heard me say it:

I’ve never liked clowns.

No. Really. I’ve never liked clowns, and it’s not that irrational fear bullshit either. There are people that have that fuckin’ Pennywise fear because of Stephen King, and then you have the people who cry about the godawful, exaggerated face paint scaring their children, or too many nightmares in which they multiply out of the Prius that just rolled up at the Toyota Center. It’s more that I’ve never really understood the appeal, ‘cause if you have to paint a smile on your face before people find you entertaining, that feels less like comedy and more like a cry for help before suicide becomes the next gimmick of the day.

Imagine you’re me, right? Imagine you’re sittin’ and you’ve made some poor errors for the last few months when the going gets tough, so you take a sabbatical. You drink froo-froo drinks that have pineapples in them on a Monday because you can, and then when you’re ready, you shake the dust off, start looking at the standings and literally try to figure out where you fit into this place again, and what gets put in front of me?

Fucking clowns.

Not metaphorical clowns. This isn’t half of the edgelord bullshit, chucklefuck lawls some of you do because your banter peaked in grade six. That would be too easy, right? Half the fuckin’ industry is populated by people who should be wearing oversized shoes and getting hit in the face with that shit pie Minny Jackson for Hilly from The Help–”

“…the fuck kind of Sabbatical were you on?”

“I watched a lot of movies.”

“…carry on.”

“There’re just so many people in this fuckin’ industry that lack the self-awareness and have to be reminded. But that’s not the case that we have, is it? It’s fucking actual clowns.

Do you realize how difficult you make this for me? Kris can stand here and wax poetic about the inevitable death of comedy, the sudden decline of your careers – but were they ever off to the races to begin with? – the bullshit of your next fucking adjective salad moniker trial thrown into everything and God bless him for it. Somebody has to care enough to learn your names.

Raised by Wolves Clown. Raised by Clowns Wolf.

I’ve been tryin’.

I really, really have.

But every time I sit down and think about what I’m supposed to say about you, I keep coming back to fact that you’re fucking clowns. It’s a fundamental problem, and I know I’m supposed to find some clever fucking thing to say, but this is scraping the literal bottom of the barrel so much that when I saw this match, I may have had a stroke because I smelled burnt toast.

There is literally nowhere for me to go. I can’t expose you – you’re very exposed. I can’t embarrass you, because you’ve done a fuckin’ phenomenal job that yourselves and you dress like that voluntarily. I can’t threaten to make you look ridiculous because you’re going to do that on your own.

Congrats. Hats off. You’ve stumbled upon the perfect defensive strategy against Dickie Watson: make yourself so inherently fuckin’ absurd that I run out of insults.

I can’t begin to fathom what this is going to look like when you come out. The reinvention of human pageantry in full bloom. To me, Raised by Wolves Clown sounds like you got abandoned in the woods as an infant and came back twenty years later with mange, rabies, and an alarming commitment to looking like Ronald McDonald after six months of living off squirrels.

And Raised by Clowns Wolf? I’m imagining a Temu-ass husky head that has a button in the ear that makes that caterwauling howl, dressed like the Big Bad Wolf broke into Grandma’s wardrobe and found the fucking party aisle.

And the worst part of all of this? None of it matters.

Underneath the paint, and the names, and the whatever Spenchers clearance bin fever dream you two have committed yourselves to, you’ve still managed to win tag belts. It annoys me. It does. Because all of it would be easier if you were shit, ya know? If you were just two idiots who wandered in off the street wearing face paint and wrestling gear because whoever runs this cluster right now lost a fuckin’ bet, this would be simple. Kris and I would show up, not know how to work with each other, beat the piss out of you, go home, and I’d never think about this match again.

But you’ve held championships. Beaten teams. Made people underestimate you, for a short time as it is, and then made them want to commit sudoku backstage. So unfortunately, against every instinct I have a functionin’ adult, I have to take clowns seriously.

And I resent you for that more than anything. I know how it is to look at somethin’ ridiculously and assume there’s nothin’ underneath it. I know how useful it is when people’ve already decided they know who you are before the bell rings. Every fuckin’ week, that’s what every single one of you do to me. I get it. I’ve lived the entire fuckin’ last seven years of my life listenin’ to dipsticks like you tell me who and what I’ma be.

And then I turn around and someone says, oi, hey, dub-tee-eff, how’d he get to the top of the charts, or the top of the company, or get a fucking belt?

I’m not gonna underestimate you. You’re accomplished, but you’re clowns. Both of those things can be true at the same time. But that’s where we run into another problem, hey. You have the benefit of being underestimated. You don’t have that with us. Kris already hates you on some deeply personal, possibly century-old level I’m not interested in unpacking, and I’ve spent enough time starin’ at this match to know exactly what happens if we treat you like a joke.

So we won’t.

This time.

I’m not coming back from sabbatical to be someone else’s poor punchline. I’ve done enough fuckin’ around for one year. I’ve made enough bad choices, lost enough momentum, given myself enough reasons to sit somewhere tropical with a drink that has an unnecessary amount of fruit attached to it, and ask myself what the fuck I’m doing.

Eventually you get tired of asking. You just come back.You look at the bullshit you’ve let crash down around you and you figure out how to salvage that without losing to a fucking grease paint, husky-screaming, little-red-riding-hood trash bin pair of competitors who exist purely because some disassociated twat thought this was a good idea.

We’ve got shit to do, places to go, mountains to reclimb and escalate.

Be happy you got me back when I found my fuckin’ voice again, yeah? Makes losing a little less bitter.”

Kris whistles appreciatively. “That was some fire bro. Burn the greasepaint right off their faces.”

“Felt good.”

“I bet! One final point though, if I may. Now, I’m sure there’s plenty of folks backstage thinking Dickie and I aren’t gonna be able to coexist. Our history is not great, after all, what with War Games and that one time I somehow managed to beat the man. But let me be clear.

I managed to coexist with Michael Graves.

Did you catch that? I’ll say it again.

I managed to coexist with Michael Graves.

You wanna talk about odd bedfellows? That shit didn’t get any odder. In fact, teaming with Dickie is gonna be like a Sunday drive compared to teaming with Michael. No offense to Gravy, of course. Though I’m not gonna miss all that fake smoke he uses to bamf in and out of scenes. That crap just HAS to be carcinogenic.

The fact is, put aside my lore, put aside who and what I am, you strip me down to the bare bones when it comes to that ring and this company I am a consummate goddamn professional. Barring just Kieran King, and to that I’ll say….have you MET that man? And even then we got to the finals of War Games!

Put me with anybody, I’ll get it done. Put me with a former Universal Champion and War Games winner I’ll get it doubly done. Put us up against literal clowns and shit’s as done as one of those ketchup encrusted steaks that Donald Trump likes to eat. That ones for you, Alex.

Clowns, this match isn’t going to be the three ring circus you want it to be. No. It’s going to be a cold, precision crafted bit of wrestling excellence designed to pick both Dickie and I’s career up and propel us to new heights. You poor bastards just happen to be in the way.

Honk, honk motherfuckers. Hope the next clown car you guys bring with you is an ambulance.”

Kris then looked around and scrunched his nose up.

“Matty’s still not back? Huh. I’m gonna go check on him.”

“I’ll tag along. I gotta hit up the bathroom myself.”

Together, they headed back out of the large tent and towards a row of port o potties stationed outside. Kris started knocking on each of them in turn, calling out to Matty.

“Matty! Hey bud, did you fall in?”

But there was no response. Just then, a squirrel darted over towards them and started racing around Kris’ feet! Dickie’s eyes opened wide in surprise.

“Do you usually have that effect on wildlife?”

“No. But Matty does. He can communicate with animals.”

Dickie quirked an eyebrow. “Say that again?”

“Just roll with it. I think this thing is trying to get my attention and I think Matty might be in trouble. Come with me.”

Dickie followed Kris who followed the anxious squirrel until it arrived at a trailer set apart from the attraction tents. The squirrel stopped and continued its dance in front of the trailer. Kris looked up at the door, narrowing his eyes.

“Something’s not right.”

Kris wasted no time tossing open the door to the trailer, with Dickie not far behind. Once inside and accustomed to the dim lighting, Kris let out a surprised gasp and Dickie blurted out a curse. Because inside was a man half dressed as a clown, with greaspaint haphazardly smeared on his face, clutching Matty and holding a knife to the vampire boy’s throat.

“I’m sorry Kris! He threatened me with a knife and made me come in here!”

Kris scowled deeply. “Listen asshole, if you’ve hurt him….”

“No! You listen to me!” the clown barked. “I didn’t want any of this. Any of it!”

“Any of what, man, what are you talking about?”

“He’s a vampire, Kris!”

“Whoa, let’s all just calm down. Let the kid go and we can all talk about this.”

The clown tensed, and in turn so did Dickie and Kris. “I got turned a month ago. I never asked for this! Jesus Christ….” the clown sputtered. “I tried to drink my little girl’s blood. I’ve never been so hungry….”

Kris put his hands up placatingly. “Look, I’m sorry, okay? But we didn’t turn you. We don’t even know you.”

“No, you don’t. But I know you. Or of you. I’ve seen you on TV. You’re legit, aren’t you?”

“Yeah. I am.”

“Then you probably know how to turn me back!”

Kris shook his head. “Look man, I’m sorry but that’s not possible. But I can help you! I know people who can get you blood so you don’t have to drain it from people.”

“I don’t want to drink fucking blood!” the clown hollered.

Dickie shot a glance at Kris. “What’s the play here?”

“Okay….okay! I lied, alright? You can drink MY blood and it’ll cure you. Just let the kid go.”

“Kris, no!”

“About goddamn time.” The clown shoved Matty to the side and advanced on Kris, knife at the ready. And that’s when Dickie Watson sprang into action! Scooping a pan off a nearby hot plate, he chucked it at the clown’s face with precision accuracy! It popped the attacker in the mouth, shattering some teeth. Kris and Dickie then leapt on him, restraining him and pulling the knife away before Kris slugged him on the jaw, knocking him out!

Dickie sat back on his haunches on the floor. “Jesus, is your existence always like this?”

“I think I’m starting to come around on the whole “clowns are bad” thing.” Matty spoke as he tried to steady his breathing. Then, stabbing a finger at the downed clown he continued, “I’m gonna bleed this jerk dry!”

“I don’t think Dickie wants to see that.”

“Yeah, let’s not and say we did.”

Matty rolled his eyes. “Fine, but I’m at least leaving this whole circus a very shitty review on Yelp!”

Kris got up and offered Dickie a hand, which he took. “I can’t thank you enough, Dickie. You’re stellar in a clutch.”

Dickie shrugged, rubbing the back of his head. “Well, I couldn’t exactly stand idly by and let my tag partner get killed by a psychotic clown.” Then, after a beat. “Do you think we can leave now?”

“Matty?”

“Yeah, we can definitely leave. I need a change of shorts. I think I peed a little.”

Kris chuckled. “Gross.”

“Hey, you try getting attacked by a vampire clown!”

“Good God, what are your lives?” Dickie muttered as he held the door open for the duo to finally and thankfully depart.

“Sometimes, I can’t help but wonder.” Kris breathed.]]>
If only they knew….

“Ewww gross!” Matty cried, spitting pieces of popcorn onto the thankfully empty seat in front of him.

“I’m serious!” Kristoffer Arroyo replied, shooting his young ward an imploring look.

“I don’t wanna hear about bloody fetus eggs and shit! Especially not while I’m eating.” Matty gestured towards their surroundings. “Besides, it’s just A CIRCUS!”

They were indeed at the circus. Beneath the big top in fact, and seemingly just before a show was about to start judging by the people filing onto the bleachers around them and the crew scrambling about the three rings below them.

“Exactly, it’s a CIRCUS. You don’t know the circus like I do. I was on the crew of a circus back in the ‘50’s.”

“Really? You never told me that.”

Kris shook his head. “It’s not a fun story. Circuses are cesspools behind the scenes. I’m telling you! Abused animals forced to put on a show. Making fun of people with disabilities as part of some disgusting “freak show” act. And the clowns! My God…the clowns….”

“Okay, well first of all modern circuses don’t use animals anymore and freak shows haven’t been a thing in decades dude.” Matty dumped some more popcorn into his mouth, and spoke again between mighty chews. “And what’s wrong with clowns?!”

“John Wayne Gacy was a clown!”

“Okay, so what?! That’s one!”

“Not just one! The clowns I had to work with back then were all drug addicted reprobates and perverts.”

Matty waved to someone in the near distance, seemingly paying Kris no mind. Kris, noticing, screwed up his face at the vampire boy.

“Are you even listening?!”

“I just spotted Dickie!” Then, cupping a hand against his mouth, “DICKIE! OVER HERE!”

The shot cut across the bleachers to reveal former Universal Champion and overall XWF megastar Dickie Watson picking his way through the throngs of people. He doesn’t exactly look thrilled to be there, but nonetheless nods in Matty’s direction and makes his way over towards them. Upon arrival, he gestures at them with a small wave and a stilted one syllable greeting of, “Sup.”

“Kris was just telling me about how all clowns are perverts.”

“They are!”

Dickie took a seat next to Kris. “I wouldn’t know. Don’t know any of them personally.”

“You don’t need to know them personally. In fact, I would strongly advise against it.”

“Yeah….well….” Dickie sighed. “Kris, what exactly are we doing here?”

“Field research.”

“Which doesn’t even make sense! Dickie, tell him!”

“Tell him….?”

Matty rolled his eyes. “The clowns you guys are facing are from their own clown planet or some shit. So they’re probably not even human clowns. If you wanted to do real field research we would be watching Killer Klowns From Outer Space instead of going to the circus.”

“Oh, they’re human alright. Dirty, filthy, ne’er do wells, but humans nonetheless.”

“You sound like you have something personal against clowns.” Dickie noted.

“He said he worked at the circus in the ‘50’s and that all the clowns were dirt bags.”

“Oh. Right. The ageless vampire thing.”

Both Kris and Matty took note of Dickie’s tone, looked at each other, and then back at Dickie.

“So you’re another doubting Thomas then?” Kris scowled. “Look man, I don’t have anything to prove to you.”

“I didn’t say you did.”

“You said it with your whole tone. And face.”

“This is just my face.”

“It was very judgmental.”

Dickie stared at him for a few seconds – if anyone had learned the process of Dickie Watson’s Brain at any point in time, there is always the first question of “Why the fuck am I here?”. It was hard to imagine, for the two of them, that after War Games last year, and after Kris had a spectacular win over the former Universal Champion, that they would end up on the same side of a wrestling ring.

“Does he do this every time someone doesn’t immediately accept he was apparently wandering the Earth in the days of Eisenhower?” Dickie asked Matty, eyes still on Kris.

“Pretty much, yeah,” Matty shrugged and shoveled another handful of popcorn into his mouth.

Dickie leaned back against the bleachers, allowing himself to look at the circus rings below. Performers and crew members moved between them in brightly colored costumes while heinous music that sounded like bassoons and brass pipes dying played over speakers, every inch of the place carefully engineered to make people forget – for a short time – that they’d paid an obscene amount of money to sit and watch adults risk orthopedic surgery for applause.

Sounds like a wrestling ring.

“So this is field research.” Dickie repeated.

“Yep.”

“For the clowns.”

“Yes,” Kris confirmed.

“The ones that are aliens, keep shifting themselves to new names and, for my clarifying purposes, get bored as quickly as a tweaker who hasn’t had their hit of cocaine.”

There was a pause. Kris’ jaw tightened, “Supposedly.”

“Where are we drawing the line in my previous statement? Aliens, clowns, or cocaine?”

“The alien part.”

“Right,” Dickie nodded slowly. “Glad we’ve established that interplanetary travel is where your suspension of disbelief finally shits itself.”

“I’m saying they’re human.”

“You’re an immortal vampire.”

“That’s different.”

“Okay, Lestat.” Dickie turned his attention back towards the rings. “So let me make sure I’ve got this, yeah? You dragged me to a circus to conduct field research on two clowns who may or may not be aliens, because your personal experience with circus clowns seventy years ago has led you to believe there’s some kind of transferable skill set.”

“Not completely transferable, but…” Kris titled his head a little, watching one of the performers honk their horn, and then get on a bicycle. “Understanding your enemy is useful, isn’t it?”

“My enemy is named Raised by Wolves Clown.”

“And Raised by Clowns Wolf,” Matty added helpfully, not looking away from the performers now.

Dickie’s face tightened into the most nonplussed expression known to mankind. “Yes, thank you, Matty. I’d successfully forgotten the second one for almost thirty seconds.”

“You really haven’t watched any of their stuff yet?”

“I watched enough,” Dickie nodded.

“What does that mean?” Matty asked, turning his head to look at Dickie again.

“It means I opened the match card, read their names, closed the match card, and went for a long walk and considered going for milk and peacing out like dear ol’ Dad.”

“Hey you guys keep forming a lasting friendship. I gotta take a whiz.” Matty got up and dropped his popcorn into Kris’ lap as he inched past them.

“Can I have some?” Kris inquired, holding up the bag.

“No. And Dickie it's your job to make sure he doesn't steal any. I'll be right back!”

Dickie watched Matty go before speaking again. “Seems like a fun kid.”

“He's a handful. But then again I guess any vampire who is forever twelve years old would be.” He paused. “I care about him a lot. My parents were pretty shitty to me so I guess part of me is just trying to rectify that. Be a better father figure. Although I fucked up with Matty a lot early on.”

“We're all just learning as we go. Mistakes will be made.” Dickie replied, his tone somewhat distant as he ponders for a moment whether he's talking to Kris or himself.

“Yeah. Suppose so.” Kris looked to Dickie. “We good?”

Dickie nodded slightly. “I’m not gonna pretend to completely understand you or what you’re about, but yeah, for the purposes of this match, we’re good.”

“Wanna talk some shit?” Kris inquires, gesturing at the camera.

“Yes PLEASE.”

Kris clears his throat a bit theatrically before commencing.

“Guys….it’s time. Well past time, in fact. Time for the fun and games to end. Although I never found you fun nor….gamey? No…no….that implies I would have eaten a clown and goddammit I am a vampire with STANDARDS and a FUNCTIONING PALETTE.

Anyway!

It’s time for this clown show to cease. Because like all good comedy shtick of yore….the BX3’s, the Darren Dangerous’, the Dick Powers’, the Jim Caedus’ (come on, you can’t tell me those chronic manic episodes weren’t a total joke), the gags must eventually end, fade away, and cede the stage to the FUCKING ADULTS.

That’s me and Dickie.

Don’t get me wrong. You guys held the tag team championships for a bit. Better than a lot of comedy acts ever got. But you had to know it was all downhill after that. After all, none of you ever, EVER would have been in the conversation for a shot at the Xtreme, or God forbid, the Universal Championship. You peaked.

Peaked Clown! Which begat Irrelevancy Clown, which begat Unemployment Clown, which begat Homeless Clown. There, I just came up with your next four angles. Royalties better be in the mail.

Kidding aside (and really, that’s the whole theme we’re going with here), you guys are coming face to face with the real deal. Dickie Watson. Former Universal Champion. War Games Winner. Possessor of impossibly great hair. And me. I did stuff too.

But for as great as we are, we’re both looking for a shot in the arm. Dickie is fresh off a sabbatical and in need of a win. I’m somehow at number 19 (fucking 19?!!) in the ELO rankings because apparently batting .750 merits being ranked lower than the entire Anarchy mid card. Side bar, if ANYONE out there can make sense of this shit for me there’s a crisp fiver in it for ya. Oh, and maybe eternal life. If you’re, ya know, into that kinda thing. ELO, avoid me in the hallways. Because I’m totally gonna set aside my redemption arc for the day just to pants you.

Point is, hell’s gonna freeze over before we lose to shtick like you guys.

But that’s not all!

Because now’s the part where I hand the baton to trash talk supreme.

Dickie?” 

“Thanks, thanks, thanks. Hello, hi. Tidbit of info if you’ve never heard me say it:

I’ve never liked clowns.

No. Really. I’ve never liked clowns, and it’s not that irrational fear bullshit either. There are people that have that fuckin’ Pennywise fear because of Stephen King, and then you have the people who cry about the godawful, exaggerated face paint scaring their children, or too many nightmares in which they multiply out of the Prius that just rolled up at the Toyota Center. It’s more that I’ve never really understood the appeal, ‘cause if you have to paint a smile on your face before people find you entertaining, that feels less like comedy and more like a cry for help before suicide becomes the next gimmick of the day.

Imagine you’re me, right? Imagine you’re sittin’ and you’ve made some poor errors for the last few months when the going gets tough, so you take a sabbatical. You drink froo-froo drinks that have pineapples in them on a Monday because you can, and then when you’re ready, you shake the dust off, start looking at the standings and literally try to figure out where you fit into this place again, and what gets put in front of me?

Fucking clowns.

Not metaphorical clowns. This isn’t half of the edgelord bullshit, chucklefuck lawls some of you do because your banter peaked in grade six. That would be too easy, right? Half the fuckin’ industry is populated by people who should be wearing oversized shoes and getting hit in the face with that shit pie Minny Jackson for Hilly from The Help–”

“…the fuck kind of Sabbatical were you on?”

“I watched a lot of movies.”

“…carry on.”

“There’re just so many people in this fuckin’ industry that lack the self-awareness and have to be reminded. But that’s not the case that we have, is it? It’s fucking actual clowns.

Do you realize how difficult you make this for me? Kris can stand here and wax poetic about the inevitable death of comedy, the sudden decline of your careers – but were they ever off to the races to begin with? – the bullshit of your next fucking adjective salad moniker trial thrown into everything and God bless him for it. Somebody has to care enough to learn your names.

Raised by Wolves Clown. Raised by Clowns Wolf.

I’ve been tryin’.

I really, really have.

But every time I sit down and think about what I’m supposed to say about you, I keep coming back to fact that you’re fucking clowns. It’s a fundamental problem, and I know I’m supposed to find some clever fucking thing to say, but this is scraping the literal bottom of the barrel so much that when I saw this match, I may have had a stroke because I smelled burnt toast.

There is literally nowhere for me to go. I can’t expose you – you’re very exposed. I can’t embarrass you, because you’ve done a fuckin’ phenomenal job that yourselves and you dress like that voluntarily. I can’t threaten to make you look ridiculous because you’re going to do that on your own.

Congrats. Hats off. You’ve stumbled upon the perfect defensive strategy against Dickie Watson: make yourself so inherently fuckin’ absurd that I run out of insults.

I can’t begin to fathom what this is going to look like when you come out. The reinvention of human pageantry in full bloom. To me, Raised by Wolves Clown sounds like you got abandoned in the woods as an infant and came back twenty years later with mange, rabies, and an alarming commitment to looking like Ronald McDonald after six months of living off squirrels.

And Raised by Clowns Wolf? I’m imagining a Temu-ass husky head that has a button in the ear that makes that caterwauling howl, dressed like the Big Bad Wolf broke into Grandma’s wardrobe and found the fucking party aisle.

And the worst part of all of this? None of it matters.

Underneath the paint, and the names, and the whatever Spenchers clearance bin fever dream you two have committed yourselves to, you’ve still managed to win tag belts. It annoys me. It does. Because all of it would be easier if you were shit, ya know? If you were just two idiots who wandered in off the street wearing face paint and wrestling gear because whoever runs this cluster right now lost a fuckin’ bet, this would be simple. Kris and I would show up, not know how to work with each other, beat the piss out of you, go home, and I’d never think about this match again.

But you’ve held championships. Beaten teams. Made people underestimate you, for a short time as it is, and then made them want to commit sudoku backstage. So unfortunately, against every instinct I have a functionin’ adult, I have to take clowns seriously.

And I resent you for that more than anything. I know how it is to look at somethin’ ridiculously and assume there’s nothin’ underneath it. I know how useful it is when people’ve already decided they know who you are before the bell rings. Every fuckin’ week, that’s what every single one of you do to me. I get it. I’ve lived the entire fuckin’ last seven years of my life listenin’ to dipsticks like you tell me who and what I’ma be.

And then I turn around and someone says, oi, hey, dub-tee-eff, how’d he get to the top of the charts, or the top of the company, or get a fucking belt?

I’m not gonna underestimate you. You’re accomplished, but you’re clowns. Both of those things can be true at the same time. But that’s where we run into another problem, hey. You have the benefit of being underestimated. You don’t have that with us. Kris already hates you on some deeply personal, possibly century-old level I’m not interested in unpacking, and I’ve spent enough time starin’ at this match to know exactly what happens if we treat you like a joke.

So we won’t.

This time.

I’m not coming back from sabbatical to be someone else’s poor punchline. I’ve done enough fuckin’ around for one year. I’ve made enough bad choices, lost enough momentum, given myself enough reasons to sit somewhere tropical with a drink that has an unnecessary amount of fruit attached to it, and ask myself what the fuck I’m doing.

Eventually you get tired of asking. You just come back.You look at the bullshit you’ve let crash down around you and you figure out how to salvage that without losing to a fucking grease paint, husky-screaming, little-red-riding-hood trash bin pair of competitors who exist purely because some disassociated twat thought this was a good idea.

We’ve got shit to do, places to go, mountains to reclimb and escalate.

Be happy you got me back when I found my fuckin’ voice again, yeah? Makes losing a little less bitter.”

Kris whistles appreciatively. “That was some fire bro. Burn the greasepaint right off their faces.”

“Felt good.”

“I bet! One final point though, if I may. Now, I’m sure there’s plenty of folks backstage thinking Dickie and I aren’t gonna be able to coexist. Our history is not great, after all, what with War Games and that one time I somehow managed to beat the man. But let me be clear.

I managed to coexist with Michael Graves.

Did you catch that? I’ll say it again.

I managed to coexist with Michael Graves.

You wanna talk about odd bedfellows? That shit didn’t get any odder. In fact, teaming with Dickie is gonna be like a Sunday drive compared to teaming with Michael. No offense to Gravy, of course. Though I’m not gonna miss all that fake smoke he uses to bamf in and out of scenes. That crap just HAS to be carcinogenic.

The fact is, put aside my lore, put aside who and what I am, you strip me down to the bare bones when it comes to that ring and this company I am a consummate goddamn professional. Barring just Kieran King, and to that I’ll say….have you MET that man? And even then we got to the finals of War Games!

Put me with anybody, I’ll get it done. Put me with a former Universal Champion and War Games winner I’ll get it doubly done. Put us up against literal clowns and shit’s as done as one of those ketchup encrusted steaks that Donald Trump likes to eat. That ones for you, Alex.

Clowns, this match isn’t going to be the three ring circus you want it to be. No. It’s going to be a cold, precision crafted bit of wrestling excellence designed to pick both Dickie and I’s career up and propel us to new heights. You poor bastards just happen to be in the way.

Honk, honk motherfuckers. Hope the next clown car you guys bring with you is an ambulance.”

Kris then looked around and scrunched his nose up.

“Matty’s still not back? Huh. I’m gonna go check on him.”

“I’ll tag along. I gotta hit up the bathroom myself.”

Together, they headed back out of the large tent and towards a row of port o potties stationed outside. Kris started knocking on each of them in turn, calling out to Matty.

“Matty! Hey bud, did you fall in?”

But there was no response. Just then, a squirrel darted over towards them and started racing around Kris’ feet! Dickie’s eyes opened wide in surprise.

“Do you usually have that effect on wildlife?”

“No. But Matty does. He can communicate with animals.”

Dickie quirked an eyebrow. “Say that again?”

“Just roll with it. I think this thing is trying to get my attention and I think Matty might be in trouble. Come with me.”

Dickie followed Kris who followed the anxious squirrel until it arrived at a trailer set apart from the attraction tents. The squirrel stopped and continued its dance in front of the trailer. Kris looked up at the door, narrowing his eyes.

“Something’s not right.”

Kris wasted no time tossing open the door to the trailer, with Dickie not far behind. Once inside and accustomed to the dim lighting, Kris let out a surprised gasp and Dickie blurted out a curse. Because inside was a man half dressed as a clown, with greaspaint haphazardly smeared on his face, clutching Matty and holding a knife to the vampire boy’s throat.

“I’m sorry Kris! He threatened me with a knife and made me come in here!”

Kris scowled deeply. “Listen asshole, if you’ve hurt him….”

“No! You listen to me!” the clown barked. “I didn’t want any of this. Any of it!”

“Any of what, man, what are you talking about?”

“He’s a vampire, Kris!”

“Whoa, let’s all just calm down. Let the kid go and we can all talk about this.”

The clown tensed, and in turn so did Dickie and Kris. “I got turned a month ago. I never asked for this! Jesus Christ….” the clown sputtered. “I tried to drink my little girl’s blood. I’ve never been so hungry….”

Kris put his hands up placatingly. “Look, I’m sorry, okay? But we didn’t turn you. We don’t even know you.”

“No, you don’t. But I know you. Or of you. I’ve seen you on TV. You’re legit, aren’t you?”

“Yeah. I am.”

“Then you probably know how to turn me back!”

Kris shook his head. “Look man, I’m sorry but that’s not possible. But I can help you! I know people who can get you blood so you don’t have to drain it from people.”

“I don’t want to drink fucking blood!” the clown hollered.

Dickie shot a glance at Kris. “What’s the play here?”

“Okay….okay! I lied, alright? You can drink MY blood and it’ll cure you. Just let the kid go.”

“Kris, no!”

“About goddamn time.” The clown shoved Matty to the side and advanced on Kris, knife at the ready. And that’s when Dickie Watson sprang into action! Scooping a pan off a nearby hot plate, he chucked it at the clown’s face with precision accuracy! It popped the attacker in the mouth, shattering some teeth. Kris and Dickie then leapt on him, restraining him and pulling the knife away before Kris slugged him on the jaw, knocking him out!

Dickie sat back on his haunches on the floor. “Jesus, is your existence always like this?”

“I think I’m starting to come around on the whole “clowns are bad” thing.” Matty spoke as he tried to steady his breathing. Then, stabbing a finger at the downed clown he continued, “I’m gonna bleed this jerk dry!”

“I don’t think Dickie wants to see that.”

“Yeah, let’s not and say we did.”

Matty rolled his eyes. “Fine, but I’m at least leaving this whole circus a very shitty review on Yelp!”

Kris got up and offered Dickie a hand, which he took. “I can’t thank you enough, Dickie. You’re stellar in a clutch.”

Dickie shrugged, rubbing the back of his head. “Well, I couldn’t exactly stand idly by and let my tag partner get killed by a psychotic clown.” Then, after a beat. “Do you think we can leave now?”

“Matty?”

“Yeah, we can definitely leave. I need a change of shorts. I think I peed a little.”

Kris chuckled. “Gross.”

“Hey, you try getting attacked by a vampire clown!”

“Good God, what are your lives?” Dickie muttered as he held the door open for the duo to finally and thankfully depart.

“Sometimes, I can’t help but wonder.” Kris breathed.]]> <![CDATA[Target: The Line]]> https://xwf1999.com/showthread.php?tid=50408 Sat, 29 Aug 2026 16:55:02 -0700 (Gravy_Xtreme_5000)]]> https://xwf1999.com/showthread.php?tid=50408
Location: Target. 
11:47 P.M.

The lights shut off. Six digits beep into the keypad setting the alarm. The door closes with a click of the lock.

The store is empty. 

Quiet. 

Other than the faint sound of breathing coming from our cameraman, who whispers: "Alright freaks, I think we're safe," into his phone. 

Then suddenly spreads a rack of ladies blouses like Moses parting the red sea and springs out in a dramatic wide-armed pose.

 "LET THE TRAINING BEGIN!"

Graves swings the camera back to his face.

"That's right, boys! I'm spending the night locked inside of Target!"

He throws his free arm out, presenting the darkened department store behind him.

"Live!"

Comments begin rushing up the screen.

"What!? No I didn't get permission! Wasn't that fuckin' obvious by me hiding in the blouses!?"

Because I ain't a fan of askin'. Besides, there's no fuckin' way they'd 've let me, Steve!"

Graves starts walking, keeping the camera framed on himself.

"Why? Adverse City, Steve! We're driving straight towards it! That's why I'm following the Pied Piper!

Thirty years ago, a man in a dress had to face an unstoppable force, so he locked himself inside Alcatraz for seven days and seven nights, then came to the ring a fuckin' lunatic.

Then he choked that unstoppable force the fuck out!"

Graves squints.

"What do you mean Hogan beat Piper?"

He stares.

"No he didn't."

More comments.

"Am I being Mandela'ed right now?"

More comments.

"Whatever. Point is, Piper knew what was waitin' for him."

Graves' eyes leave the comments.

"And I know what's waitin' for me. I ain't gonna stand here and bullshit ya. It's one big ugly son of a bitch named Judd Hollow.

Well... ugly might be subjective."

A comment catches his eye.

"No, Steve! I ain't callin' him handsome either! Jesus Christ!"

Graves huffs.

"Listen. I watched Holly Cambric stick that motherfucker, choke him, get real surgical.

I also watched him eat all of it and keep coming, never once looking like he knew he should stay down.

I saw a fuckin' Terminator in that ring.

Something you can't reason with. Something you can't scare. Something that's gonna keep walkin' toward ya until either you're dead, or you find a way to trick it into killin' itself first.

Heh, truth be told...

I saw a little bit of myself.

That's why I kept watchin'.

Sammy needed half the damn building and a syringe just to survive ya... but he survived ya.

I watched that Scoops match looking for the trick.

There had to be one, right?

Old bastard keeps kicking out, Judd starts losing his shit, grabs the ref, starts yelling...

There it is.

That's the weakness.

Except then you hit him with another Devil's Hollow and fuckin' beat him.

So much for that theory.

And yeah, before ya start jerkin' yourself off over it... Scoops beat me. You beat Scoops.

Congratulations.

You figured out fuckin' Rock, Paper, Scissors.

You still gotta beat me.

And that's what I actually learned watching you two.

Scoops didn't show me how to beat you.

He showed me I can piss you off.

Big fuckin' revelation, right?

I'm Micheal Graves. I can piss off a stop sign.

Problem is, pissed-off Judd Hollow still won.

Furry keeps tellin' me to find flaws I can exploit?

But maybe there ain't one.

Maybe Holly couldn't dissect ya, Scoops couldn't frustrate ya enough, and there ain't some magic fuckin' button I can push that shuts the Terminator down.

Fine.

Then I quit looking for the shortcut and survive long enough to make my own opening.

Then I'll capitalize.

Won't be my first ugly fight.

I'll bite your fuckin' dick off if that's what it takes, 'cause I ain't stupid enough to think I'm coming out the other side of this in one piece...

And you shouldn't either."

Graves starts limping again.

"You're younger, bigger... might even be stronger than me. Hell, you get hit with shit that would send most men to the hospital and ya just..."

Graves stiffens his arms and walks like a robot.

"...keep fuckin' comin'.

That's scary...

No joke.

I know because that's kinda my whole fuckin' schtick!

Mean.

Violent.

Doesn't. Know. When. To. Stop.

And damn sure don't stop just because somebody wants it!"

A comment rolls up the screen.

"Exactly, Steve! Like how even to this day I refuse to stay away from Dolly Waters!"

The chat explodes into various laughing emojis and such.

"Wait... No. We are not K. I. S. S. I. N. G. in a tree! ...yet. Fuck you, Steve! But you're as right as I am dangerous!

See, Judd, I just gotta survive ya long enough to still be dangerous after you think you've done enough. 

And trust, Gravy is undeniably dangerous and if he knows anything, it's surviving.

35% of it comes from prep time. Planning. Training. Kicking trees down till your shins bleed. Shit like that. 

40% of it is fortitude and determination. How far out is that line, that once you cross it. Body and mind quit cooperating, and no matter how hard you fight, them shoulders just won't budge.

The other 90% comes from me smashing your nose into your fuckin' brain with my brain, dummy!"

Graves turns the phone away.

An overhead sign comes into frame.

**SPORTING GOODS**

The camera swings back to his face.

"Which brings us back to the reason I'm here."

Graves looks around the dark store.

"Monday night, Warfare comes to the Target Center."

He points at the red bullseye hanging above him.

"Target."

Then back to himself.

"Center."

Comments begin rushing up the screen.

"What ain't relevant about it, Steve!? I really don't feel like I should have to explain this!"

And he doesn't.

"Last week I spilled the beans about the healing thing slowin' down...

Judd probably sees an opening too. Fuckin' disadvantage!

Now he's thinkin', how much can Gravy take when the damage don't just go away.

You think that's your way in?

Might wanna reconsider...

Healing fast never stopped anything from hurtin'.

Bones still broke. Skin still tore. Teeth still got knocked loose. I just healed fast enough to hop right up and go get hurt some more.

Do that shit long as I have and you start thinkin' of pain less like a deterrent and more like an old friend.

I do still got one thing goin' for me.

Nearly three decades of experience takin' beatings from and then pinning the biggest and the baddest the XWF has to offer.

And if the price of beating you is seven hours or seven months, I'm in a mood to bleed and chill!

So if your whole plan is to run me through that gauntlet of trademarked moves till Gravy can't take no more..."

Graves raises a 10lb weight above his head.

"I figure we oughta see if we can find where that 'no more' line is... Maybe save us both the trouble."

Graves releases the weight.

Straight onto his bare foot.

**THUD!**

The phone jerks violently.

"MOTHERFUCKER!"

Graves hops backward on one foot.

"FUCK! FUCK! FUCK!"

And crashes shoulder first into a rack of resistance bands and other various light equipment.

"Alright. So we're establishin' a baseline... and that fuckin' hurts like a bitch!"

Comments begin rushing up the screen.

"No! A broken foot does not mean training is over!"

Graves stares at another comment.

"Well, I ain't got a choice! Think Judd's gonna stop and ask if my little piggies are okay? Dummy!"

He uses the rack to pull himself back to his feet.

"Besides..."

Graves puts weight on the foot as his face tightens.

"...still works."

He takes a step with a noticeable limp.

"Pain ain't gotta be no stop sign."

Another step.

"It's just information."

Another.

"Just means my foot's fucked."

Graves takes another step and points toward the floor.

"Cool. Still my call if I sit the fuck down or shove my thumb through your eye!"

Graves passes a rack of boxing equipment.

Gloves. Wraps. A punching dummy.

He stops and looks at the dummy.

"Judd Hollow? Fuckin' uncanny resemblance. You got the stare down. Little less hair. Better conversationalist."

Graves taps the dummy's head.

"Think less. Hit harder.

And make the dummy dumber than me."

That sentence catches up with him.

"...That's a pretty fuckin' low bar too.

Advantage Gravy!"

Graves rounds the corner.

Then stops dead.

His eyes brighten.

The camera slowly turns.

**TOYS**

Graves forgets about his foot.

"Oh shit."

He starts limping faster.

"Training break!"

Graves disappears into the action figure aisle.

The camera swings wildly across superheroes, wrestlers, race cars, and a bunch of plastic bullshit.

"C'mon... c'mon..."

His hand starts flipping through XWF figures hanging from the pegs.

"Fetu..."

Another figure.

"Scoops..."

Then he reaches for a Judd Hollow figure and pulls it down.

"Jesus Christ, they even made the toy fuckin' huge."

He turns the package over and reads the back.

"The Sin Collector... Uh... aren't we all?

The Omega? Omega II, maybe! Wait... can there be two Omega's?..

Chosen? Not by your family.

Prophecy? Says the loony goon."

Graves flips the box over.

"Holy shit, there's more on the bottom..."

He looks into the camera.

"This guy has so many nicknames, and such a deep backstory that I'm probably gonna need CliffsNotes and floaties just to get my ass kicked by 'em."

Graves starts digging through the figures again.

"Wait a minute..."

He pushes Centurion aside.

"There he is!"

Graves pulls down a Malachi Graves figure.

Now with Judd in one hand and Malachi in the other.

"You ever wonder how many meth-brained hillbullies it takes to make one Gravy?

Two!"

Judd goes up.

"Monster."

Malachi goes up.

"Brains.

Me? I come complete right outta the box!"

Graves takes one step backward and steps on a loose skateboard.

The board shoots out from under him.

**CRASH!**

Judd and Malachi go flying and the back of Graves head hits the floor hard enough to knock him out for a whole second or two.

"...The fuck was that?"

Graves looks down at the skateboard and spits at it.

"Fuck you children's toy!"

He stomps it and it snaps in the center.

"Put me down and I put you down!"

The gears begin to turn and Gravy looks over at the figures scattered across the floor.

"Actually..."

He pushes himself up and rubs the new lump on his head.

"Maybe I got that wrong."

Graves retrieves the figures and looks at the preacher.

"Brains? It's debatable, but sure..."

Then Judd.

"But you? You might be strong, but I think you're also something a whole lot sadder...

Your mama said she saw the Devil in ya.

Daddy told ya that God had forgotten you."

Graves raises Malachi beside him.

"Then this motherfucker came along, and according to you, was the first man to finally tell ya the truth. Funny how that works. Almost seems like this truth teller was tellin' someone exactly what they wanted to hear..."

Graves looks at the Malachi figure.

"Ain't that right, Reverend?"

He turns Malachi toward Judd.

"There wasn't nothin' wrong with little Judd Hollow. He was tested and chosen. God has a plan."

Graves says mockingly with a nod.

"Every night in that cage. All the beatings. Your stomach growling as daddy knocked ya around."

Graves brings the figures closer together.

"...all part of the plan. A necessary path towards fulfillin' the prophecy."

He looks into the camera.

"That's a hell of a story.

And anyone with eyes can see why you bought it.

If he's right... then none of it happened for nothin'. You weren't just some scared little boy born to two pieces of shit who didn't know how to love him.

You were special. 

That sufferin' meant something. 

You became somethin."

Graves slowly shakes his head.

"I don't know, kid... That might just be the first bedtime story anybody ever told ya where Judd Hollow mattered. I'd tell ya to cult it out, but hell Judd, I think you need this shit to be true more than even the Preacher."

Graves holds the Judd figure closer to the camera.

"You need God to have picked you.

Because what's Judd Hollow if not God's chosen Omega judge?

Hell, you already shoved Malachi's book aside once.

Said you weren't doin' The Lord's work. You were doin' your own.

Then you turned right around and started preachin' your daddy's lesson.

Funny.

Your own voice?

Motherfucker, I'm not sure you got one!

Eleven-year-old Judd cried, begged and said he couldn't do it, but somewhere after Reverend Fuckface taught you how special you were...

Suddenly that miserable son of a bitch daddy of yours wasn't so wrong.

Daddy also said God forgot about your ass… called ya nothin', but here you are throwin’ out the parts that make you worthless and keepin’ the parts that make you a monster.

Justification is for pussies.

Violence? Just do it!

Yeah, you look scary at first..."

Graves begins ripping open the Judd Hollow figure and pulls it free.

"But once we strip away the packaging, the preacher, and all those pretty little names."

Graves holds the bare action figure between two fingers.

"Look how fuckin' small you get!

Just a grown ass man tryin' to prove the first nutjob who ever believed in him isn't completely full of shit. But deep down, I think you know that he is, and that's why you get so goddamn angry when somebody won't break when you want 'em to.

They ain't just survivin' ya. Every time one of 'em gets back up, they're takin' a piss all over that fuckin' prophecy. And that shit gets under your skin, don't it?

Good!

I'm a master at getting under peoples skin!

But I ain't stupid enough to mistake pissed off for beatable. It just raises the chances of you fuckin' up, like when you almost went apeshit on that ref.

So I figure we do this shit like Rocky. Hit me, Judd. Hit me again! Hit me 'til I bleed. Hit me 'til I break. Keep hittin' me...

...because every fuckin' time I get back up, I'm hoping it pisses you off a little more.

Maybe you lose that temper and fuck up.

Maybe you don't.

I ain't bettin' the fuckin' match on it.

But even if you keep it together, you're just gonna have to do it again.

And again.

And while you're lookin' for my fuckin' line...

I'll be finding yours."

He scoffs.

"Malachi likes to talk about tests?

Well, maybe God ain't done testin' your ass yet.

Or God don't really give a damn.

Or better yet, God's just some asshole charging fifty bucks a prophecy on Fiverr."

He raises the Judd figure to eye level.

"Fuck all that! I don't care if Malachi's book came from God, the Devil, or the clearance bin at fuckin' Barnes & Noble.

I only care about getting that fuckin’ belt back, and making it hurt for any motherfucker stupid enough to stand between me and it.

You wanna know what that looks like?

Ask Sebastian Everett-Bryce.

That motherfucker got it right. I cared more than I let on.

Then he beat me, and walked away sayin' our match took years off his career.

Also knew damn well he wasn't gonna survive a second encounter.

That's why Sammy fucked up cashin' in that case.

Then you fucked up advancin' on Scoops.

Because now both of you are standing where SEB was smart enough not to stand twice.

Between me... and something I want back."

Graves drops the figure onto the floor and limps away.

"Fuckin' toys. Always distractin' me from serious athletic preparation."

CRASH!

That came from the front of the store.

The livestream comments immediately begin moving so fast they're useless.

"I think somebody broke in."

Graves looks toward the front doors.

Then around at the very dark very closed Target he himself hid in roughly six hours ago.

"Motherfuckers."

The hypocrisy does not appear to trouble him.

A distant voice calls out: "Get the PlayStations!"

Another answers: "Which ones?"

A pause.

"The fuck you mean which ones!?"

Graves' head slowly turns toward Electronics.

"These guys are fuckin' stupid."

Naturally, he limps directly toward them.

Three men are in Electronics.

"PULL!"

"I AM PULLIN'!"

"HARDER!"

They both pull and the television comes loose much faster than either anticipated, immediately dropping onto the third man's shoulder.

CRASH!

"GODDAMMIT!"

Graves snorts.

Loudly.

All three men stop and look towards Graves.

His eyes widen.

"..."

"Who you supposed to be!?"

"Target security."

A flashlight lands directly on him.

Cape. Mask. Spandex. Bloody foot.

There's a long silence.



"WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU SUPPOSED TO BE?!"

"I'm undercover."

The pistol comes up.

"Oh... fu—"

BANG!

Graves ducks behind the aisle as a bullet punches through a display of decorative wicker baskets.

"YOU ALMOST FUCKIN' SHOT ME!"

"THAT WAS THE IDEA, ASSHOLE!"

"WELL FUCK YOU TOO!"

Another shot sends Graves hobbling deeper into Housewares at a speed best described as impressive considering one of his feet is likely broken.

"Okay!"

He ducks behind an endcap full of pillows and turns the camera on himself.

"Unexpected training development."

Comments pour in.

"No, Steve, I am NOT leaving! Do I look like a fuckin' pussy to you!?"

He looks toward the armed men.

Then down at his foot.

Then back at the camera.

"It ain't supposed to be fun? Oh, I think it's gonna be!"

A comment appears and Graves reads it.

"Piper woulda called the cops? Unfollow me now, poser!"

Footsteps approach.

He sets the phone between two pillows, angled toward the aisle.

"Alright, Judd."

Graves rolls his shoulder and winces.

"We ain't at the boneyard, but class is back in session."

The first burglar rounds the corner.

Graves charges him and knocks the gun out of his hand.

Both men slam through the aisle wall and roll into the next.

Graves ends up on top.

THUD!

One fist.

THUD!

Then another.

"Y'know what just occurred to me, Judd?"

The burglar reaches blindly for the pistol. Graves grabs his wrist and slams it against the floor until the gun pops loose.

"You're really fuckin' dramatic about this shit."

Graves looks around, spots a display toaster on the fallen shelf and picks it up.

"Everything's gotta be a fuckin' ceremony."

WHACK!

"Judgment!"

WHACK!

"Condemnation!"

WHACK!

"The fuckin' Black Creek Dipshit Baptism!"

The toaster now has a Judd Hollow-sized warranty issue.

Graves looks at it.

"This is a toaster."

He hits the man with it again.

"Nothin' fancy to it."

Graves throws it aside and grabs the burglar by the front of his hoodie.

"You need all that extra bullshit to function.

I just like hurtin' people for the love of the game."

He looks around the ruined aisle.

"Clean up in Housewares!"

The burglar uses the distraction to punch him.

His head snaps to the side, then slowly comes back.

Blood appears along his gums as he smiles.

"See? Fun!"

He headbutts him to sleep. 

"Hey! Get off him!"

BANG!

The round rips into Graves shoulder and drops him to the floor.

"AAAAAHHH, MOTHERFUCKER!"

He crawls behind the endcap and grabs his upper arm. Blood gushes between his fingers almost immediately.

"You wanna see me leak!?

GOOD! I was startin' to worry this training shit was gettin' too easy!"

Graves looks around for something he can use and settles on the six-foot shelving unit beside him.

There is a very visible sticker warning customers not to climb it.

But Micheal Graves has never allowed a sticker to tell him how to live.

He slips onto the top shelf as the robber rounds the corner.

"Where the fuck did you go!?"

The robber stands in front of a large display of decorative mirrors.

This information should probably change Gravy's plan.

It does not.

"WHAT THE—"

"GRAVY TRAIN!"

Graves launches himself from the shelving.

BOOM!

And catches the robber square with a crossbody and both men crash backward into the mirrors display.

CRAAAAASH!

Glass explodes everywhere.

For several seconds, nothing.

Then one bloody hand rises in a balled fist.

"Fuckin' nailed it!"

Graves rolls off the unconscious robber and tries to stand.

"AAAAHHHHH! JESUS FUCKIN' CHRIST!"

Glass tears through the soles of his feet and he drops straight back onto his ass.

"Okay!

Little bit of an oversight!"

Graves forces himself back up.

"Remember that 'no more' line I was lookin' for?"

He takes a horrible step through the glass.

His face twists in pain.

He takes another anyway, leaving bloody imprints behind.

And smiles.

"Still lookin'!"

The smile holds for a few seconds before Graves remembers something.

One robber down in Housewares.

One robber down behind him.

Graves counts on his fingers.

"Aw, fuck."

There is still one burglar somewhere inside Target.

BANG!

Found him.

Graves crashes to the floor. His phone slides away, giving the livestream an excellent view of absolutely nothing useful.

"GOT YOU, MOTHERFUCKER!"

Graves rolls onto his side and grabs his stomach. Blood immediately leaks between his fingers.

"Ohhhh... shit."

He reaches behind himself and finds more blood.

"Clean through. That's good."

"STAY DOWN, ASSHOLE!"

Somehow, the man who couldn't identify a PlayStation has become the final boss...

Graves drags himself behind the Sporting Goods endcap.

"I KNOW YOU'RE BACK THERE!"

"Congratulations! You're so smart!"

Graves presses a hand against the hole in his stomach and looks around.

Baseball bats.

Graves smiles.

"Oh."

He pulls an aluminum bat from the rack and nearly blacks out doing it.

"Sporting Goods.

Knew this shit'd come back around..."

Footsteps creep closer.

"Come out!"

The gun appears around the corner.

"Eat shit."

PING!

Graves swings the bat across the robber's hand.

"AAAAAH!"

The pistol slides beneath a shelf.

"HA!"

"Stay away from me!"

"You shot me."

"YOU ATTACKED US!"

Graves thinks about that.

"Yeah..."

He tightens his grip on the bat.

"But you fuckin' shot me."

The robber turns to run.

WHACK!

The bat catches him across the back of the skull.

"WHERE YA GOIN'!?"

WHACK!

Graves hits him again.

"WE'RE TRAININ'!"

WHACK!

And again.

"COME ON!"

WHACK!

[Image: Ykn-Ik.gif]

Red and blue lights flash from outside, reflecting in the blood pooling from the dude's head.

"POLICE! DROP THE WEAPON!"

Graves doesn't hear them, or doesn't care.

"YOU WANNA PUT GRAVY DOWN!?"

WHACK!

He raises the bat again.

"DROP IT!"

"MUCH BETTER MEN HAVE TRIED!"

ZZZZZZT!

Two taser prongs hit Graves in the back.

"AAAAAAAHHHHH FUCK!"

His body locks and he falls sideways as the bat clatters away.

They don't stop frying him.

"YOU CAN STOP ZAPPIN' ME!

I GOT THE FUCKIN' INFORMATION!"

The current stops and several officers pile onto him.

"HANDS BEHIND YOUR BACK!"

"TAKE IT EASY! I GOT BULLET HOLES IN ME!"

The cuffs click shut.

Graves looks toward the three burglars scattered throughout the store, then toward the cops.

"I'm the hero. You're welcome."

"You're under arrest."

"...FOR WHAT!?"

"Criminal Trespass. Assault. Destruction of property."

"Destruction of property!? THEY broke in!"

The officers look around at the broken mirrors, shelves, toaster... blood... and haul Graves toward the cruiser.

"You can tell it to the judge!"

"JUDD!"

Graves twists around toward the phone still livestreaming from the floor.

"I'll be out in twenty-four hours! You'd better bring everything you got to Warfare!

I may be down, but when I get back up..."

Spits blood.

"You're gonna have to put me down again.

And again.

And again.

Until you learn—lookin' for that line comes with Grave Consequences!"

You can't see it, but you can hear it in the initial screams and then confusion from the officers. Graves blew purple mist into their faces and grabbed his phone with his still cuffed hands.

"Never should've shot me, dummy!"

He gives a final stomp to the brain-hemorrhaging robber for good measure before making a break for the doors.

"Wha... Where am I?"

"Good job officers! You stopped the robbery!"

"Who are you!?"

"Security!"

Graves is running and already halfway through the parking lot as the Live suddenly—

[Image: offline.jpg]

]]>
Location: Target. 
11:47 P.M.

The lights shut off. Six digits beep into the keypad setting the alarm. The door closes with a click of the lock.

The store is empty. 

Quiet. 

Other than the faint sound of breathing coming from our cameraman, who whispers: "Alright freaks, I think we're safe," into his phone. 

Then suddenly spreads a rack of ladies blouses like Moses parting the red sea and springs out in a dramatic wide-armed pose.

 "LET THE TRAINING BEGIN!"

Graves swings the camera back to his face.

"That's right, boys! I'm spending the night locked inside of Target!"

He throws his free arm out, presenting the darkened department store behind him.

"Live!"

Comments begin rushing up the screen.

"What!? No I didn't get permission! Wasn't that fuckin' obvious by me hiding in the blouses!?"

Because I ain't a fan of askin'. Besides, there's no fuckin' way they'd 've let me, Steve!"

Graves starts walking, keeping the camera framed on himself.

"Why? Adverse City, Steve! We're driving straight towards it! That's why I'm following the Pied Piper!

Thirty years ago, a man in a dress had to face an unstoppable force, so he locked himself inside Alcatraz for seven days and seven nights, then came to the ring a fuckin' lunatic.

Then he choked that unstoppable force the fuck out!"

Graves squints.

"What do you mean Hogan beat Piper?"

He stares.

"No he didn't."

More comments.

"Am I being Mandela'ed right now?"

More comments.

"Whatever. Point is, Piper knew what was waitin' for him."

Graves' eyes leave the comments.

"And I know what's waitin' for me. I ain't gonna stand here and bullshit ya. It's one big ugly son of a bitch named Judd Hollow.

Well... ugly might be subjective."

A comment catches his eye.

"No, Steve! I ain't callin' him handsome either! Jesus Christ!"

Graves huffs.

"Listen. I watched Holly Cambric stick that motherfucker, choke him, get real surgical.

I also watched him eat all of it and keep coming, never once looking like he knew he should stay down.

I saw a fuckin' Terminator in that ring.

Something you can't reason with. Something you can't scare. Something that's gonna keep walkin' toward ya until either you're dead, or you find a way to trick it into killin' itself first.

Heh, truth be told...

I saw a little bit of myself.

That's why I kept watchin'.

Sammy needed half the damn building and a syringe just to survive ya... but he survived ya.

I watched that Scoops match looking for the trick.

There had to be one, right?

Old bastard keeps kicking out, Judd starts losing his shit, grabs the ref, starts yelling...

There it is.

That's the weakness.

Except then you hit him with another Devil's Hollow and fuckin' beat him.

So much for that theory.

And yeah, before ya start jerkin' yourself off over it... Scoops beat me. You beat Scoops.

Congratulations.

You figured out fuckin' Rock, Paper, Scissors.

You still gotta beat me.

And that's what I actually learned watching you two.

Scoops didn't show me how to beat you.

He showed me I can piss you off.

Big fuckin' revelation, right?

I'm Micheal Graves. I can piss off a stop sign.

Problem is, pissed-off Judd Hollow still won.

Furry keeps tellin' me to find flaws I can exploit?

But maybe there ain't one.

Maybe Holly couldn't dissect ya, Scoops couldn't frustrate ya enough, and there ain't some magic fuckin' button I can push that shuts the Terminator down.

Fine.

Then I quit looking for the shortcut and survive long enough to make my own opening.

Then I'll capitalize.

Won't be my first ugly fight.

I'll bite your fuckin' dick off if that's what it takes, 'cause I ain't stupid enough to think I'm coming out the other side of this in one piece...

And you shouldn't either."

Graves starts limping again.

"You're younger, bigger... might even be stronger than me. Hell, you get hit with shit that would send most men to the hospital and ya just..."

Graves stiffens his arms and walks like a robot.

"...keep fuckin' comin'.

That's scary...

No joke.

I know because that's kinda my whole fuckin' schtick!

Mean.

Violent.

Doesn't. Know. When. To. Stop.

And damn sure don't stop just because somebody wants it!"

A comment rolls up the screen.

"Exactly, Steve! Like how even to this day I refuse to stay away from Dolly Waters!"

The chat explodes into various laughing emojis and such.

"Wait... No. We are not K. I. S. S. I. N. G. in a tree! ...yet. Fuck you, Steve! But you're as right as I am dangerous!

See, Judd, I just gotta survive ya long enough to still be dangerous after you think you've done enough. 

And trust, Gravy is undeniably dangerous and if he knows anything, it's surviving.

35% of it comes from prep time. Planning. Training. Kicking trees down till your shins bleed. Shit like that. 

40% of it is fortitude and determination. How far out is that line, that once you cross it. Body and mind quit cooperating, and no matter how hard you fight, them shoulders just won't budge.

The other 90% comes from me smashing your nose into your fuckin' brain with my brain, dummy!"

Graves turns the phone away.

An overhead sign comes into frame.

**SPORTING GOODS**

The camera swings back to his face.

"Which brings us back to the reason I'm here."

Graves looks around the dark store.

"Monday night, Warfare comes to the Target Center."

He points at the red bullseye hanging above him.

"Target."

Then back to himself.

"Center."

Comments begin rushing up the screen.

"What ain't relevant about it, Steve!? I really don't feel like I should have to explain this!"

And he doesn't.

"Last week I spilled the beans about the healing thing slowin' down...

Judd probably sees an opening too. Fuckin' disadvantage!

Now he's thinkin', how much can Gravy take when the damage don't just go away.

You think that's your way in?

Might wanna reconsider...

Healing fast never stopped anything from hurtin'.

Bones still broke. Skin still tore. Teeth still got knocked loose. I just healed fast enough to hop right up and go get hurt some more.

Do that shit long as I have and you start thinkin' of pain less like a deterrent and more like an old friend.

I do still got one thing goin' for me.

Nearly three decades of experience takin' beatings from and then pinning the biggest and the baddest the XWF has to offer.

And if the price of beating you is seven hours or seven months, I'm in a mood to bleed and chill!

So if your whole plan is to run me through that gauntlet of trademarked moves till Gravy can't take no more..."

Graves raises a 10lb weight above his head.

"I figure we oughta see if we can find where that 'no more' line is... Maybe save us both the trouble."

Graves releases the weight.

Straight onto his bare foot.

**THUD!**

The phone jerks violently.

"MOTHERFUCKER!"

Graves hops backward on one foot.

"FUCK! FUCK! FUCK!"

And crashes shoulder first into a rack of resistance bands and other various light equipment.

"Alright. So we're establishin' a baseline... and that fuckin' hurts like a bitch!"

Comments begin rushing up the screen.

"No! A broken foot does not mean training is over!"

Graves stares at another comment.

"Well, I ain't got a choice! Think Judd's gonna stop and ask if my little piggies are okay? Dummy!"

He uses the rack to pull himself back to his feet.

"Besides..."

Graves puts weight on the foot as his face tightens.

"...still works."

He takes a step with a noticeable limp.

"Pain ain't gotta be no stop sign."

Another step.

"It's just information."

Another.

"Just means my foot's fucked."

Graves takes another step and points toward the floor.

"Cool. Still my call if I sit the fuck down or shove my thumb through your eye!"

Graves passes a rack of boxing equipment.

Gloves. Wraps. A punching dummy.

He stops and looks at the dummy.

"Judd Hollow? Fuckin' uncanny resemblance. You got the stare down. Little less hair. Better conversationalist."

Graves taps the dummy's head.

"Think less. Hit harder.

And make the dummy dumber than me."

That sentence catches up with him.

"...That's a pretty fuckin' low bar too.

Advantage Gravy!"

Graves rounds the corner.

Then stops dead.

His eyes brighten.

The camera slowly turns.

**TOYS**

Graves forgets about his foot.

"Oh shit."

He starts limping faster.

"Training break!"

Graves disappears into the action figure aisle.

The camera swings wildly across superheroes, wrestlers, race cars, and a bunch of plastic bullshit.

"C'mon... c'mon..."

His hand starts flipping through XWF figures hanging from the pegs.

"Fetu..."

Another figure.

"Scoops..."

Then he reaches for a Judd Hollow figure and pulls it down.

"Jesus Christ, they even made the toy fuckin' huge."

He turns the package over and reads the back.

"The Sin Collector... Uh... aren't we all?

The Omega? Omega II, maybe! Wait... can there be two Omega's?..

Chosen? Not by your family.

Prophecy? Says the loony goon."

Graves flips the box over.

"Holy shit, there's more on the bottom..."

He looks into the camera.

"This guy has so many nicknames, and such a deep backstory that I'm probably gonna need CliffsNotes and floaties just to get my ass kicked by 'em."

Graves starts digging through the figures again.

"Wait a minute..."

He pushes Centurion aside.

"There he is!"

Graves pulls down a Malachi Graves figure.

Now with Judd in one hand and Malachi in the other.

"You ever wonder how many meth-brained hillbullies it takes to make one Gravy?

Two!"

Judd goes up.

"Monster."

Malachi goes up.

"Brains.

Me? I come complete right outta the box!"

Graves takes one step backward and steps on a loose skateboard.

The board shoots out from under him.

**CRASH!**

Judd and Malachi go flying and the back of Graves head hits the floor hard enough to knock him out for a whole second or two.

"...The fuck was that?"

Graves looks down at the skateboard and spits at it.

"Fuck you children's toy!"

He stomps it and it snaps in the center.

"Put me down and I put you down!"

The gears begin to turn and Gravy looks over at the figures scattered across the floor.

"Actually..."

He pushes himself up and rubs the new lump on his head.

"Maybe I got that wrong."

Graves retrieves the figures and looks at the preacher.

"Brains? It's debatable, but sure..."

Then Judd.

"But you? You might be strong, but I think you're also something a whole lot sadder...

Your mama said she saw the Devil in ya.

Daddy told ya that God had forgotten you."

Graves raises Malachi beside him.

"Then this motherfucker came along, and according to you, was the first man to finally tell ya the truth. Funny how that works. Almost seems like this truth teller was tellin' someone exactly what they wanted to hear..."

Graves looks at the Malachi figure.

"Ain't that right, Reverend?"

He turns Malachi toward Judd.

"There wasn't nothin' wrong with little Judd Hollow. He was tested and chosen. God has a plan."

Graves says mockingly with a nod.

"Every night in that cage. All the beatings. Your stomach growling as daddy knocked ya around."

Graves brings the figures closer together.

"...all part of the plan. A necessary path towards fulfillin' the prophecy."

He looks into the camera.

"That's a hell of a story.

And anyone with eyes can see why you bought it.

If he's right... then none of it happened for nothin'. You weren't just some scared little boy born to two pieces of shit who didn't know how to love him.

You were special. 

That sufferin' meant something. 

You became somethin."

Graves slowly shakes his head.

"I don't know, kid... That might just be the first bedtime story anybody ever told ya where Judd Hollow mattered. I'd tell ya to cult it out, but hell Judd, I think you need this shit to be true more than even the Preacher."

Graves holds the Judd figure closer to the camera.

"You need God to have picked you.

Because what's Judd Hollow if not God's chosen Omega judge?

Hell, you already shoved Malachi's book aside once.

Said you weren't doin' The Lord's work. You were doin' your own.

Then you turned right around and started preachin' your daddy's lesson.

Funny.

Your own voice?

Motherfucker, I'm not sure you got one!

Eleven-year-old Judd cried, begged and said he couldn't do it, but somewhere after Reverend Fuckface taught you how special you were...

Suddenly that miserable son of a bitch daddy of yours wasn't so wrong.

Daddy also said God forgot about your ass… called ya nothin', but here you are throwin’ out the parts that make you worthless and keepin’ the parts that make you a monster.

Justification is for pussies.

Violence? Just do it!

Yeah, you look scary at first..."

Graves begins ripping open the Judd Hollow figure and pulls it free.

"But once we strip away the packaging, the preacher, and all those pretty little names."

Graves holds the bare action figure between two fingers.

"Look how fuckin' small you get!

Just a grown ass man tryin' to prove the first nutjob who ever believed in him isn't completely full of shit. But deep down, I think you know that he is, and that's why you get so goddamn angry when somebody won't break when you want 'em to.

They ain't just survivin' ya. Every time one of 'em gets back up, they're takin' a piss all over that fuckin' prophecy. And that shit gets under your skin, don't it?

Good!

I'm a master at getting under peoples skin!

But I ain't stupid enough to mistake pissed off for beatable. It just raises the chances of you fuckin' up, like when you almost went apeshit on that ref.

So I figure we do this shit like Rocky. Hit me, Judd. Hit me again! Hit me 'til I bleed. Hit me 'til I break. Keep hittin' me...

...because every fuckin' time I get back up, I'm hoping it pisses you off a little more.

Maybe you lose that temper and fuck up.

Maybe you don't.

I ain't bettin' the fuckin' match on it.

But even if you keep it together, you're just gonna have to do it again.

And again.

And while you're lookin' for my fuckin' line...

I'll be finding yours."

He scoffs.

"Malachi likes to talk about tests?

Well, maybe God ain't done testin' your ass yet.

Or God don't really give a damn.

Or better yet, God's just some asshole charging fifty bucks a prophecy on Fiverr."

He raises the Judd figure to eye level.

"Fuck all that! I don't care if Malachi's book came from God, the Devil, or the clearance bin at fuckin' Barnes & Noble.

I only care about getting that fuckin’ belt back, and making it hurt for any motherfucker stupid enough to stand between me and it.

You wanna know what that looks like?

Ask Sebastian Everett-Bryce.

That motherfucker got it right. I cared more than I let on.

Then he beat me, and walked away sayin' our match took years off his career.

Also knew damn well he wasn't gonna survive a second encounter.

That's why Sammy fucked up cashin' in that case.

Then you fucked up advancin' on Scoops.

Because now both of you are standing where SEB was smart enough not to stand twice.

Between me... and something I want back."

Graves drops the figure onto the floor and limps away.

"Fuckin' toys. Always distractin' me from serious athletic preparation."

CRASH!

That came from the front of the store.

The livestream comments immediately begin moving so fast they're useless.

"I think somebody broke in."

Graves looks toward the front doors.

Then around at the very dark very closed Target he himself hid in roughly six hours ago.

"Motherfuckers."

The hypocrisy does not appear to trouble him.

A distant voice calls out: "Get the PlayStations!"

Another answers: "Which ones?"

A pause.

"The fuck you mean which ones!?"

Graves' head slowly turns toward Electronics.

"These guys are fuckin' stupid."

Naturally, he limps directly toward them.

Three men are in Electronics.

"PULL!"

"I AM PULLIN'!"

"HARDER!"

They both pull and the television comes loose much faster than either anticipated, immediately dropping onto the third man's shoulder.

CRASH!

"GODDAMMIT!"

Graves snorts.

Loudly.

All three men stop and look towards Graves.

His eyes widen.

"..."

"Who you supposed to be!?"

"Target security."

A flashlight lands directly on him.

Cape. Mask. Spandex. Bloody foot.

There's a long silence.



"WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU SUPPOSED TO BE?!"

"I'm undercover."

The pistol comes up.

"Oh... fu—"

BANG!

Graves ducks behind the aisle as a bullet punches through a display of decorative wicker baskets.

"YOU ALMOST FUCKIN' SHOT ME!"

"THAT WAS THE IDEA, ASSHOLE!"

"WELL FUCK YOU TOO!"

Another shot sends Graves hobbling deeper into Housewares at a speed best described as impressive considering one of his feet is likely broken.

"Okay!"

He ducks behind an endcap full of pillows and turns the camera on himself.

"Unexpected training development."

Comments pour in.

"No, Steve, I am NOT leaving! Do I look like a fuckin' pussy to you!?"

He looks toward the armed men.

Then down at his foot.

Then back at the camera.

"It ain't supposed to be fun? Oh, I think it's gonna be!"

A comment appears and Graves reads it.

"Piper woulda called the cops? Unfollow me now, poser!"

Footsteps approach.

He sets the phone between two pillows, angled toward the aisle.

"Alright, Judd."

Graves rolls his shoulder and winces.

"We ain't at the boneyard, but class is back in session."

The first burglar rounds the corner.

Graves charges him and knocks the gun out of his hand.

Both men slam through the aisle wall and roll into the next.

Graves ends up on top.

THUD!

One fist.

THUD!

Then another.

"Y'know what just occurred to me, Judd?"

The burglar reaches blindly for the pistol. Graves grabs his wrist and slams it against the floor until the gun pops loose.

"You're really fuckin' dramatic about this shit."

Graves looks around, spots a display toaster on the fallen shelf and picks it up.

"Everything's gotta be a fuckin' ceremony."

WHACK!

"Judgment!"

WHACK!

"Condemnation!"

WHACK!

"The fuckin' Black Creek Dipshit Baptism!"

The toaster now has a Judd Hollow-sized warranty issue.

Graves looks at it.

"This is a toaster."

He hits the man with it again.

"Nothin' fancy to it."

Graves throws it aside and grabs the burglar by the front of his hoodie.

"You need all that extra bullshit to function.

I just like hurtin' people for the love of the game."

He looks around the ruined aisle.

"Clean up in Housewares!"

The burglar uses the distraction to punch him.

His head snaps to the side, then slowly comes back.

Blood appears along his gums as he smiles.

"See? Fun!"

He headbutts him to sleep. 

"Hey! Get off him!"

BANG!

The round rips into Graves shoulder and drops him to the floor.

"AAAAAHHH, MOTHERFUCKER!"

He crawls behind the endcap and grabs his upper arm. Blood gushes between his fingers almost immediately.

"You wanna see me leak!?

GOOD! I was startin' to worry this training shit was gettin' too easy!"

Graves looks around for something he can use and settles on the six-foot shelving unit beside him.

There is a very visible sticker warning customers not to climb it.

But Micheal Graves has never allowed a sticker to tell him how to live.

He slips onto the top shelf as the robber rounds the corner.

"Where the fuck did you go!?"

The robber stands in front of a large display of decorative mirrors.

This information should probably change Gravy's plan.

It does not.

"WHAT THE—"

"GRAVY TRAIN!"

Graves launches himself from the shelving.

BOOM!

And catches the robber square with a crossbody and both men crash backward into the mirrors display.

CRAAAAASH!

Glass explodes everywhere.

For several seconds, nothing.

Then one bloody hand rises in a balled fist.

"Fuckin' nailed it!"

Graves rolls off the unconscious robber and tries to stand.

"AAAAHHHHH! JESUS FUCKIN' CHRIST!"

Glass tears through the soles of his feet and he drops straight back onto his ass.

"Okay!

Little bit of an oversight!"

Graves forces himself back up.

"Remember that 'no more' line I was lookin' for?"

He takes a horrible step through the glass.

His face twists in pain.

He takes another anyway, leaving bloody imprints behind.

And smiles.

"Still lookin'!"

The smile holds for a few seconds before Graves remembers something.

One robber down in Housewares.

One robber down behind him.

Graves counts on his fingers.

"Aw, fuck."

There is still one burglar somewhere inside Target.

BANG!

Found him.

Graves crashes to the floor. His phone slides away, giving the livestream an excellent view of absolutely nothing useful.

"GOT YOU, MOTHERFUCKER!"

Graves rolls onto his side and grabs his stomach. Blood immediately leaks between his fingers.

"Ohhhh... shit."

He reaches behind himself and finds more blood.

"Clean through. That's good."

"STAY DOWN, ASSHOLE!"

Somehow, the man who couldn't identify a PlayStation has become the final boss...

Graves drags himself behind the Sporting Goods endcap.

"I KNOW YOU'RE BACK THERE!"

"Congratulations! You're so smart!"

Graves presses a hand against the hole in his stomach and looks around.

Baseball bats.

Graves smiles.

"Oh."

He pulls an aluminum bat from the rack and nearly blacks out doing it.

"Sporting Goods.

Knew this shit'd come back around..."

Footsteps creep closer.

"Come out!"

The gun appears around the corner.

"Eat shit."

PING!

Graves swings the bat across the robber's hand.

"AAAAAH!"

The pistol slides beneath a shelf.

"HA!"

"Stay away from me!"

"You shot me."

"YOU ATTACKED US!"

Graves thinks about that.

"Yeah..."

He tightens his grip on the bat.

"But you fuckin' shot me."

The robber turns to run.

WHACK!

The bat catches him across the back of the skull.

"WHERE YA GOIN'!?"

WHACK!

Graves hits him again.

"WE'RE TRAININ'!"

WHACK!

And again.

"COME ON!"

WHACK!

[Image: Ykn-Ik.gif]

Red and blue lights flash from outside, reflecting in the blood pooling from the dude's head.

"POLICE! DROP THE WEAPON!"

Graves doesn't hear them, or doesn't care.

"YOU WANNA PUT GRAVY DOWN!?"

WHACK!

He raises the bat again.

"DROP IT!"

"MUCH BETTER MEN HAVE TRIED!"

ZZZZZZT!

Two taser prongs hit Graves in the back.

"AAAAAAAHHHHH FUCK!"

His body locks and he falls sideways as the bat clatters away.

They don't stop frying him.

"YOU CAN STOP ZAPPIN' ME!

I GOT THE FUCKIN' INFORMATION!"

The current stops and several officers pile onto him.

"HANDS BEHIND YOUR BACK!"

"TAKE IT EASY! I GOT BULLET HOLES IN ME!"

The cuffs click shut.

Graves looks toward the three burglars scattered throughout the store, then toward the cops.

"I'm the hero. You're welcome."

"You're under arrest."

"...FOR WHAT!?"

"Criminal Trespass. Assault. Destruction of property."

"Destruction of property!? THEY broke in!"

The officers look around at the broken mirrors, shelves, toaster... blood... and haul Graves toward the cruiser.

"You can tell it to the judge!"

"JUDD!"

Graves twists around toward the phone still livestreaming from the floor.

"I'll be out in twenty-four hours! You'd better bring everything you got to Warfare!

I may be down, but when I get back up..."

Spits blood.

"You're gonna have to put me down again.

And again.

And again.

Until you learn—lookin' for that line comes with Grave Consequences!"

You can't see it, but you can hear it in the initial screams and then confusion from the officers. Graves blew purple mist into their faces and grabbed his phone with his still cuffed hands.

"Never should've shot me, dummy!"

He gives a final stomp to the brain-hemorrhaging robber for good measure before making a break for the doors.

"Wha... Where am I?"

"Good job officers! You stopped the robbery!"

"Who are you!?"

"Security!"

Graves is running and already halfway through the parking lot as the Live suddenly—

[Image: offline.jpg]

]]> <![CDATA[it's just Me Uce]]> https://xwf1999.com/showthread.php?tid=50411 Fri, 28 Aug 2026 11:32:04 -0700 Jay Fetu]]> https://xwf1999.com/showthread.php?tid=50411 The camera fades into the backstage interview area where Steve Sayors was standing by.
Steve Sayors: Ladies and Gentlemen, my guest(s) at this time, Jay Fetu and....
Sayors' voice trailed off when only one of them popped in, Main Event Jay Fetu. The Minneapolis
crowd, of course, lifted up with YEET chants.
Steve Sayors: No ladies?
Jay Fetu: Gettin' ready and also had a call to me, so it's jus' me, Uce.
Pun intended for his theme music. Yeet.
Steve Sayors: Well, alright. Last Thursday we saw The Geek Goddess as Deena Hixx and yourself in the ring after you called her out on her actions after you lost your Fatal Four Way
match last Thursday. Everyone knows around here how hard you've been working to reach the top,
and you accepted her apology. You feel that it was sincere enough?
Jay Fetu: I ain't sayin' I 100%  fo' give 'em 'fo the ish she pulled on me last Thursday. All respects
towards Deena for winnin' the four-way. I hope she gets the job done at Relentless and beats someone 'fo the Anarchy tag team Championship. Someone's gotta make that foo' eat her words and
make 'em suffer fo' the consequences of her actions, and if it's gon' be anyone, I think 'Deena has
a great shot, and as far as The Geek Goddess Deena Hixx goes...
Jay shook his head.
Jay Fetu: She can go choke on an Egg.
Pretty clear to Jay Fetu and Geek Goddess will never exchange Christmas Cards.
Jay Fetu: But I can't help but to think, Hixx. It was down to 'landerson. Taggart and myself. if Deena.  didn't do what she did, I could've survived, and not only would I be facin' her
at Warfare, but I could've also challengin' for the No'1 Contendership Blade Championship. Deena took that away from me.
Steve Sayors: But you accepted her apology.
Jay Fetu: I did, and I meant it.
Jay Fetu: I might fo'give, but I ain't gon' fo'get. I ain't gon fo' get when I  had thangs rollin' in
that Four way. I ain't gon' fo' get how I was nearly close to challengin' for the Blade
Championship, and I ain't gon' fo' get how that quickly got dashed away when The Geek Goddess
wanted to one up me, and cause my Four way when I didn't win it over her. #GoddessYeet. Yo, we
got our work cut out fo' us this week. Deena Hixx is a son of a bitch who deserves to be
five feet deep, and I hate her punkass, but even I can't deny when she can do it in the ring, and The Geek Goddess? What she's done speaks for itself, but...
Steve Sayors: You said it already, earlier this week. The Geek Goddess is stacked against you. It's not often we see Deena Hixx go up against the male talent.
Jay Fetu: Yes we do, but if I learned anything 'bout the Geek Goddess, you never count them out.
They always hold their own and ain't no doubt in my mind, Deena Hixx is gon' do that 'gainst The Geek Goddess and Deena Hixx. I gave The man known what she deserves at
' Warfare,' now come Warfare, it's The Geek Goddess turn, and what happ'ned last Thursday, I'mma
use it and throw her ass inside of The Uce Penitentiary, Yeet!
Before Sayors had the chance to ask his next question, the other half of the team, Random woman,
walked up. Jay gave her a slight nudge in her arms.
Jay Fetu: You ready to go show out and handle 'ish, L.?
She didn't say a word. The look on her face said it all: she was focused, locked in, and ready.
Jay Fetu: Aight. Let's get it done. Yeet.
YEET!
They walked away, and the scene faded.
]]> The camera fades into the backstage interview area where Steve Sayors was standing by.
Steve Sayors: Ladies and Gentlemen, my guest(s) at this time, Jay Fetu and....
Sayors' voice trailed off when only one of them popped in, Main Event Jay Fetu. The Minneapolis
crowd, of course, lifted up with YEET chants.
Steve Sayors: No ladies?
Jay Fetu: Gettin' ready and also had a call to me, so it's jus' me, Uce.
Pun intended for his theme music. Yeet.
Steve Sayors: Well, alright. Last Thursday we saw The Geek Goddess as Deena Hixx and yourself in the ring after you called her out on her actions after you lost your Fatal Four Way
match last Thursday. Everyone knows around here how hard you've been working to reach the top,
and you accepted her apology. You feel that it was sincere enough?
Jay Fetu: I ain't sayin' I 100%  fo' give 'em 'fo the ish she pulled on me last Thursday. All respects
towards Deena for winnin' the four-way. I hope she gets the job done at Relentless and beats someone 'fo the Anarchy tag team Championship. Someone's gotta make that foo' eat her words and
make 'em suffer fo' the consequences of her actions, and if it's gon' be anyone, I think 'Deena has
a great shot, and as far as The Geek Goddess Deena Hixx goes...
Jay shook his head.
Jay Fetu: She can go choke on an Egg.
Pretty clear to Jay Fetu and Geek Goddess will never exchange Christmas Cards.
Jay Fetu: But I can't help but to think, Hixx. It was down to 'landerson. Taggart and myself. if Deena.  didn't do what she did, I could've survived, and not only would I be facin' her
at Warfare, but I could've also challengin' for the No'1 Contendership Blade Championship. Deena took that away from me.
Steve Sayors: But you accepted her apology.
Jay Fetu: I did, and I meant it.
Jay Fetu: I might fo'give, but I ain't gon' fo'get. I ain't gon fo' get when I  had thangs rollin' in
that Four way. I ain't gon' fo' get how I was nearly close to challengin' for the Blade
Championship, and I ain't gon' fo' get how that quickly got dashed away when The Geek Goddess
wanted to one up me, and cause my Four way when I didn't win it over her. #GoddessYeet. Yo, we
got our work cut out fo' us this week. Deena Hixx is a son of a bitch who deserves to be
five feet deep, and I hate her punkass, but even I can't deny when she can do it in the ring, and The Geek Goddess? What she's done speaks for itself, but...
Steve Sayors: You said it already, earlier this week. The Geek Goddess is stacked against you. It's not often we see Deena Hixx go up against the male talent.
Jay Fetu: Yes we do, but if I learned anything 'bout the Geek Goddess, you never count them out.
They always hold their own and ain't no doubt in my mind, Deena Hixx is gon' do that 'gainst The Geek Goddess and Deena Hixx. I gave The man known what she deserves at
' Warfare,' now come Warfare, it's The Geek Goddess turn, and what happ'ned last Thursday, I'mma
use it and throw her ass inside of The Uce Penitentiary, Yeet!
Before Sayors had the chance to ask his next question, the other half of the team, Random woman,
walked up. Jay gave her a slight nudge in her arms.
Jay Fetu: You ready to go show out and handle 'ish, L.?
She didn't say a word. The look on her face said it all: she was focused, locked in, and ready.
Jay Fetu: Aight. Let's get it done. Yeet.
YEET!
They walked away, and the scene faded.
]]> <![CDATA[Black Widow]]> https://xwf1999.com/showthread.php?tid=50410 Fri, 28 Aug 2026 00:18:54 -0700 Deena Hixx]]> https://xwf1999.com/showthread.php?tid=50410 Scene One
Where: Backstage at Target Center Arena in Minneapolis, Minnesota ;
When: Monday 31st August 2026;
Deena was standing backstage. 2026 had so high hopes when she got into the XWF No. 1 Contendership, but it quickly went downhill as the cancer that was in this company started to spread. The men's and women's who only really cared about their looks and who they were banging started to
take over the company, and it made her sick, like Jay Fetu, and John Blade and others have made it all about looks and not about actual talent. She knew that people
like Jay Fetu would try to deny it, but the fact that he walks around in cosplay basically told her that
she cares more about how he looks than actually wrestling. However, on Monday she had a way to start off 2026 with a bang by
winning the Fatal Four Way as she was in the four-way match. She knew that a lot of people would likely
write her off
because she hasn't been at her best, she has lost a few matches, and really, to a lot of people who
watch the XWF, it's only about what you do last, not about how good you are. she understood that
and honestly was one of the reason why she was looking forward to this No'1 Contendership match, She knew that it
wasn't just the people watching that Monday night that, it was
often the people inside of the ring that thought that way too. that if you lost a few match, they
write you off, but Deena
was hoping for that. She stood next to  Tig Collins as she was about to be interviewed.
[Tig Collins] '' Ladies and Gentlemen, welcome to the Xtreme Wrestling Federation 2026, and Monday is the last show of the month, and it looks to be going off with a bang as we find out who will win the No. 1 Contendership match for the Blade Championship and head to Relentless with a
guaranteed title match. One of the Superstars and women in the No. 1 Contendership match is going to be trying
to get a shot at the Blade title like this Monday is
none other than XWF Deena Hixx. Now, 2026 was a good and very good year, as I said; you not
only had a No'1 Contender match but beat Main Event Jay Fetu for the Fatal Four Way; however, you went on to win the match against Jay Fetu in a match that you felt was unfair to you. Do
you expect better things for 2026?'' [Backstage Interviewer]
Deena Hixx: '' I don't think, I know it was unfair because I won a fatal four way in a non-
title match, how is that fair? You know what it's because people like Jay Fetu and others can't handle facing me in a No. 1 Contendership match, you know I still haven't been given a fair rematch, I had
to share my match with another Samoan bimbo in Jay Fetu who cared
more about his friends than his No. 1 Contendership, which is a joke to me. You see, I am here to prove
that I am the best. not to showcase my personal life; those are two different things, and I have
always gone to great lengths to make damn sure
that was the case. Despite what others may have wanted, I have always wanted to be where I am
because of my talent, 
not anyone else's talent.'' [The Black Widow]
Deena knew what that would be unpopular with a lot of the people running this place; they wanted to be more about entertainment than actual wrestling, and a part of that was to bring
personal life into things. Maybe that's why most
people seem to be given title matches, whereas every title match that she has gotten has been
because he has won a match or is given a No. 1 Contendership match; it's never just handled like so
many others are given.
[Tig Collins] '' Well, a lot of people will say that may just be sour grapes from yourself, that you
have chances that you, while may not have been pinned or submitted, still won Deena. However, Monday
you have a chance to win a No'1 Contendership at
Blade Championship at Relentless should you win the No'1 Contendership match. Now they are many top Champions in the No'1 Contendership match, such as Jay Fetu, Latoya Hixx, so I have to ask if you have a plan to deal with any of the other men and women?''
[ Backstage Interviewer]
Deena Hixx: Well, the plan is simple, I plan on showing everyone why I am the best woman's wrestler in the world. You know, people like Jay Fetu and John Blade get everything that they
want because they have famous family members like Razor and Jimmy Fetu
. They have never really had to work for anything in this company, and how many times did they 
get a goddamn XWF Blade Championship despite losing every single time. Jat Fetu in this No. 1 Contendership match is one
of the men and women who are standing for everything wrong with this division and the company as a whole.
He is holding a male No. 1 Contendership instead of working on bettering our division; he chose to go after the Blade Championship because people like Jay Fetu, John Blade, and others have devalued the division to an
insane degree, which Jay Fetu isn't helping when
he talks about how a man should act. You know how a woman should fight, Jay Fetu? With a goddamn closed fist like any friend so he can be pretty handsome. Something that Jay Fetu
seems to have done too since ever since
he has came to this company; his entire being here has been tied to some sort of relationship drama or boy. It's really something that I always think puts a bad spin on this company. Lastly,
we have someone I know all too well,
Jay Fetu, No. 1 contender, and I am sick to my stomach when I sa...'' [ The Black Widow]
Deena rolls her eyes at the person who really made Deena sick because of what he has been doing
recently. Going along with the idea
that the men's and women's division is a joke and that the only way to be taken seriously is to fight for the Blade Championship. The cancer has driven out so many, or maybe they are just cowards who were scared to fight for the division.
Deena Hixx: '' Well, firstly you should be paying me for the use of the whole of the XWF last year at
XWF, I proved that I was the only one that mattered, the Best in the XWF in your little stupid challenge. However, I have no problem in talking; I actually beat all your sorry ass at that during the four-way, if you remember, which was stupid of you to
think you all could beat me at that. Now I am sick to my stomach because you are running away from this No'1 Contendership, which is in dire need of saving, because why? You think that this division isn't
big enough for all of you, that you deserve a bigger
stage to a No. 1 Contendership yourself, or what I think is you see what is happening and are scared to go up against Jay Fetu, what the company wants. [ The Black Widow]
Deena Hixx: ''shut Your Mouths All of you Before I Tear Each limb from limb from your Scalp!! You see while i am pissed  off about the likes of Fetu, Jo, people like you,
and whoevers in the No'1 Contendership they make me sick and piss me off a lot more. you see you aren't like them you clearly must give a shi* about wrestling but you all choose to ignore
the sorry state of some of the divsion in this company, like that stupid Women's division that has been at a central of a goddamn soap opera storyline with any woman who's holding any title between  Jay and JOhn only seeming to care about themselves that than the actual
belt. No, you have that NO'1 Contedner, and instead of going after the Blade Championship, you all want to go for any title; then be my guest cause I'm not stopping either one of you. They are
changing the rules once again to suit their little favorites, but I am sick of it. someone needs to save
theses battle royal and if no-one is than i am going to win this No'1 Contendership and i suprisingly actually
give a shit about this battle royal and will stop people from winning the opening No'1 Contendership like
you making jokes because if you do do what you say, how many times are you going to compete a female to defend a male then it's ever man and women? Oh,
right, you won't; the women will end this No. 1 Contendership just being a prop, so that is why you are worse than people like John or Jay Fetu. However, that isn't going to be an issue because the
true Best woman in the world is going to win this No. 1 Contendership Monday,
and earn the Blade Championship of Relentless, which it's ME.'' [ The Black Widow]
With that, Deena turns around and starts skipping away from one Opponent of the No. 1 Contendership, as she knew that he had to win the No. 1 Contendership now. She
couldn't allow people like Jay Fetu to treat this division as the joke that they seem to be doing now. Acting like it's not the important division it deserves to be, it was bad enough with Jay Fetu
and John Blade in the male division, but now every female seems to want that instead of fighting for the division that allowed them to be here in
the first place. Well at least Deena Hixx wasn't going to let it die without a fight.
]]> Scene One
Where: Backstage at Target Center Arena in Minneapolis, Minnesota ;
When: Monday 31st August 2026;
Deena was standing backstage. 2026 had so high hopes when she got into the XWF No. 1 Contendership, but it quickly went downhill as the cancer that was in this company started to spread. The men's and women's who only really cared about their looks and who they were banging started to
take over the company, and it made her sick, like Jay Fetu, and John Blade and others have made it all about looks and not about actual talent. She knew that people
like Jay Fetu would try to deny it, but the fact that he walks around in cosplay basically told her that
she cares more about how he looks than actually wrestling. However, on Monday she had a way to start off 2026 with a bang by
winning the Fatal Four Way as she was in the four-way match. She knew that a lot of people would likely
write her off
because she hasn't been at her best, she has lost a few matches, and really, to a lot of people who
watch the XWF, it's only about what you do last, not about how good you are. she understood that
and honestly was one of the reason why she was looking forward to this No'1 Contendership match, She knew that it
wasn't just the people watching that Monday night that, it was
often the people inside of the ring that thought that way too. that if you lost a few match, they
write you off, but Deena
was hoping for that. She stood next to  Tig Collins as she was about to be interviewed.
[Tig Collins] '' Ladies and Gentlemen, welcome to the Xtreme Wrestling Federation 2026, and Monday is the last show of the month, and it looks to be going off with a bang as we find out who will win the No. 1 Contendership match for the Blade Championship and head to Relentless with a
guaranteed title match. One of the Superstars and women in the No. 1 Contendership match is going to be trying
to get a shot at the Blade title like this Monday is
none other than XWF Deena Hixx. Now, 2026 was a good and very good year, as I said; you not
only had a No'1 Contender match but beat Main Event Jay Fetu for the Fatal Four Way; however, you went on to win the match against Jay Fetu in a match that you felt was unfair to you. Do
you expect better things for 2026?'' [Backstage Interviewer]
Deena Hixx: '' I don't think, I know it was unfair because I won a fatal four way in a non-
title match, how is that fair? You know what it's because people like Jay Fetu and others can't handle facing me in a No. 1 Contendership match, you know I still haven't been given a fair rematch, I had
to share my match with another Samoan bimbo in Jay Fetu who cared
more about his friends than his No. 1 Contendership, which is a joke to me. You see, I am here to prove
that I am the best. not to showcase my personal life; those are two different things, and I have
always gone to great lengths to make damn sure
that was the case. Despite what others may have wanted, I have always wanted to be where I am
because of my talent, 
not anyone else's talent.'' [The Black Widow]
Deena knew what that would be unpopular with a lot of the people running this place; they wanted to be more about entertainment than actual wrestling, and a part of that was to bring
personal life into things. Maybe that's why most
people seem to be given title matches, whereas every title match that she has gotten has been
because he has won a match or is given a No. 1 Contendership match; it's never just handled like so
many others are given.
[Tig Collins] '' Well, a lot of people will say that may just be sour grapes from yourself, that you
have chances that you, while may not have been pinned or submitted, still won Deena. However, Monday
you have a chance to win a No'1 Contendership at
Blade Championship at Relentless should you win the No'1 Contendership match. Now they are many top Champions in the No'1 Contendership match, such as Jay Fetu, Latoya Hixx, so I have to ask if you have a plan to deal with any of the other men and women?''
[ Backstage Interviewer]
Deena Hixx: Well, the plan is simple, I plan on showing everyone why I am the best woman's wrestler in the world. You know, people like Jay Fetu and John Blade get everything that they
want because they have famous family members like Razor and Jimmy Fetu
. They have never really had to work for anything in this company, and how many times did they 
get a goddamn XWF Blade Championship despite losing every single time. Jat Fetu in this No. 1 Contendership match is one
of the men and women who are standing for everything wrong with this division and the company as a whole.
He is holding a male No. 1 Contendership instead of working on bettering our division; he chose to go after the Blade Championship because people like Jay Fetu, John Blade, and others have devalued the division to an
insane degree, which Jay Fetu isn't helping when
he talks about how a man should act. You know how a woman should fight, Jay Fetu? With a goddamn closed fist like any friend so he can be pretty handsome. Something that Jay Fetu
seems to have done too since ever since
he has came to this company; his entire being here has been tied to some sort of relationship drama or boy. It's really something that I always think puts a bad spin on this company. Lastly,
we have someone I know all too well,
Jay Fetu, No. 1 contender, and I am sick to my stomach when I sa...'' [ The Black Widow]
Deena rolls her eyes at the person who really made Deena sick because of what he has been doing
recently. Going along with the idea
that the men's and women's division is a joke and that the only way to be taken seriously is to fight for the Blade Championship. The cancer has driven out so many, or maybe they are just cowards who were scared to fight for the division.
Deena Hixx: '' Well, firstly you should be paying me for the use of the whole of the XWF last year at
XWF, I proved that I was the only one that mattered, the Best in the XWF in your little stupid challenge. However, I have no problem in talking; I actually beat all your sorry ass at that during the four-way, if you remember, which was stupid of you to
think you all could beat me at that. Now I am sick to my stomach because you are running away from this No'1 Contendership, which is in dire need of saving, because why? You think that this division isn't
big enough for all of you, that you deserve a bigger
stage to a No. 1 Contendership yourself, or what I think is you see what is happening and are scared to go up against Jay Fetu, what the company wants. [ The Black Widow]
Deena Hixx: ''shut Your Mouths All of you Before I Tear Each limb from limb from your Scalp!! You see while i am pissed  off about the likes of Fetu, Jo, people like you,
and whoevers in the No'1 Contendership they make me sick and piss me off a lot more. you see you aren't like them you clearly must give a shi* about wrestling but you all choose to ignore
the sorry state of some of the divsion in this company, like that stupid Women's division that has been at a central of a goddamn soap opera storyline with any woman who's holding any title between  Jay and JOhn only seeming to care about themselves that than the actual
belt. No, you have that NO'1 Contedner, and instead of going after the Blade Championship, you all want to go for any title; then be my guest cause I'm not stopping either one of you. They are
changing the rules once again to suit their little favorites, but I am sick of it. someone needs to save
theses battle royal and if no-one is than i am going to win this No'1 Contendership and i suprisingly actually
give a shit about this battle royal and will stop people from winning the opening No'1 Contendership like
you making jokes because if you do do what you say, how many times are you going to compete a female to defend a male then it's ever man and women? Oh,
right, you won't; the women will end this No. 1 Contendership just being a prop, so that is why you are worse than people like John or Jay Fetu. However, that isn't going to be an issue because the
true Best woman in the world is going to win this No. 1 Contendership Monday,
and earn the Blade Championship of Relentless, which it's ME.'' [ The Black Widow]
With that, Deena turns around and starts skipping away from one Opponent of the No. 1 Contendership, as she knew that he had to win the No. 1 Contendership now. She
couldn't allow people like Jay Fetu to treat this division as the joke that they seem to be doing now. Acting like it's not the important division it deserves to be, it was bad enough with Jay Fetu
and John Blade in the male division, but now every female seems to want that instead of fighting for the division that allowed them to be here in
the first place. Well at least Deena Hixx wasn't going to let it die without a fight.
]]> <![CDATA[An Empire of Storms]]> https://xwf1999.com/showthread.php?tid=50385 Sun, 16 Aug 2026 15:45:17 -0700 Sebastian Everett-Bryce]]> https://xwf1999.com/showthread.php?tid=50385 An Empire of Storms]]> An Empire of Storms]]> <![CDATA[Exposed]]> https://xwf1999.com/showthread.php?tid=50380 Sun, 16 Aug 2026 11:11:49 -0700 RemiStorm]]> https://xwf1999.com/showthread.php?tid=50380

EXPOSED

[Image: 3fb3ff82-e0dd-4363-b598-7c5463b5adfe.jpg]



]]>

EXPOSED

[Image: 3fb3ff82-e0dd-4363-b598-7c5463b5adfe.jpg]



]]> <![CDATA[Scoops McGee in... "Sins of the Father"]]> https://xwf1999.com/showthread.php?tid=50377 Sat, 15 Aug 2026 23:15:12 -0700 Scoops McGee]]> https://xwf1999.com/showthread.php?tid=50377 Sometimes, you can't help but feel like you need a refresher in your life. A wake-up call that reminds you what you need to do. I just wish it came from anyone else.

3,837 Words | ZeroGPT Scores: [7.4% | 8.2%]]]> Sometimes, you can't help but feel like you need a refresher in your life. A wake-up call that reminds you what you need to do. I just wish it came from anyone else.

3,837 Words | ZeroGPT Scores: [7.4% | 8.2%]]]>