<![CDATA[X-treme Wrestling Federation - Relentless Day 2 RP Board 2019]]> https://xwf1999.com/ Wed, 15 Apr 2026 13:12:49 +0000 MyBB <![CDATA[Uncovering the Impossible is a Whole Lot Easier Than One Might Expect]]> https://xwf1999.com/showthread.php?tid=34928 Fri, 27 Sep 2019 23:59:30 -0700 Azrael Erebus]]> https://xwf1999.com/showthread.php?tid=34928

[Image: ZlNX4Sg.jpg]


Ah... Urquhart Castle, sitting beside Loch Ness in the Highlands of Scotland, this location has been made quite famous over the years; however, not all the attention can be attributed to the rich, lavish history and ancient architectural relic, that exists as a memento from days, long since past. A great deal of the tourists and the silent buzz of excitement that they bring along with them, comes from the intense curiosity that they carry for something that dwells deep within the very depths of the lake itself. For this is where a creature of legend and lore is rumored to reside. The majestic monster of Loch Ness has been spoken and gossiped about for ages, and flocks of interested sightseers have flooded the shores of this very location, hoping to get a peek at the fabled beast that exists beneath the waves. Tides that serve as a watery doorway through to a time when massive creatures were a commonplace.


When dinosaurs roamed the earth, navigating this green, brown and blue ball freely and lived as kings. Enjoying the opulence and splendor that the land provided and the laws of nature ruled, where survival of the fittest dictated your fate and the outcome of your existence went by the day to day basis. Still, accompanying all the hubbub and hullabaloo, were the naysayers. Those that were widely known for their opposing point of view and well documented disbelief.


No matter the topic, there's always someone out there, hell bent to ruin another's good time with their doubt, ridicule and an overwhelming need to share their opinion. It's rather annoying but that's life for you, one man's happiness is nothing more than a mere bug, for someone's foot to squash. Pick a subject, any subject and you will find this to be true. Nothing is sacred or off limits either. So why wouldn't there be those types out there, determined to tear down and destroy the legacy of Nessie?


Hah! As they say in the biz though, any publicity is good publicity! Let them come and try to sully the name, dismantle the tale and debunk the mystery. The nonbelievers only make the desire to come and witness Loch Ness and its monster increase and the urge to uncover a legendary beast from below rise. Who's really to say; one way or another, how this story will be told or what will be discovered at the end, assuming there's an end to this epic adventure that could ever be reached at all. All that can be ascertained is that the journey is worth the travels and the enigma will live on...


...till the day that the spaceman arrived to the proverbial party.


Stepping out of nowhere and everywhere all at once, Azrael Erebus strolled forward, toward the place where the edge of the land met the lake, passing by several travelers as he continued forth, paying them little to no mind, whatsoever. The fellow visitors did precisely the same in return, until the seven foot tall man, that hailed from a planet afar, ventured into their path of sight and then, quite the commotion began to stir. Although, one look at Azrael and it would be easy to explain why that happened. This man from the stars wasn't someone that you encountered everyday. Given his tall stature and unusual appearance, he was a rather unique sight to see, in itself and before long, everyone's eyes were glued upon him.


Especially, when he pulled out a very large bundle of rope, seemingly from within his long red cape. Far too immense and bulky to ever fit comfortably under it, let alone reside discretely beneath it, it was removed from inside the confines of his cape, just the same. First affixing one end of the rope to a nearby tree (Truck yeah! He used the Trucker's Hitch!), Azrael firmly wrapped the other end, several times around his own waist, before securing it tightly with several knots. Each sturdier than the last. Then he took off running and dove headfirst, straight into Loch Ness, swiftly surging underneath its steadily flowing currents.


Onlookers that observed Azrael's previous actions began to flock and gather at the lake's edge, while the spaceman progressively swam downward. Traveling, deeper and deeper still, till he wasn't visible from the surface at all. Only the darkness of the deep, gazed back at the curious lot of lookie-loos now. Gradually murmurs and whispers were heard as people started to speculate upon what might have happened to the peculiar gentleman. Until the multitude of hushed tones deriving from various directions unified and combined into one, singular, low sounding roar but it didn't end there.


No, this group of speculating spectators, needed answers and somehow in that moment of desire, it had been unilaterally decided that the only way to achieve them was to raise their voices and offer up random suggestions. Surely, this would help everyone achieve what they desperately wanted and acquire the relief of their proverbial itch, thus solving the conundrum they all faced! After all they needed to make sense of the madness that they witnessed. A man working swiftly and silently as he tied a rope to a tree and then to himself, right before he dove into Loch Ness and continued onward into its depths. How preposterous! What was he trying to do? Swim to the bottom and have himself a stroll along the lake's very floor? Why the fella must be out of his gourd! Only a nutcase or some kind of simpleton, would perform such actions!


"Maybe it's some type of stunt? Perhaps it's all an act? Like what happened on that show 'Punk'd'. This could all be a prank. To see how people react to this sort of strangeness. Did anyone see any cameras?"


"No. I don't see any cameras or weird unmarked vans parked anywhere. Therefore, it can't be that."


"That chap has got to be plum out of his mind. Jumping into the lake and swimming down into it like he did. He must be miles deep by now. He may even be drowning. And here we all are, looking on and watching, like a mindless pack of spectators, viewing a sports game. We should be ashamed of ourselves. A man's life could be in danger and we're all standing around with our thumbs stuck up our arses! Monkeys! The whole lot of you! Oh for fuck's sake, someone go grab the rope and pull him up! Come on! Off with you! While there's still time! We may actually be able to save the poor fellow! He might be sick in the head but that's no reason for him to lose his life! Not on my watch anyway! We'll get him up and then, someone can phone the police, so he can be taken to a facility that deals with issues of the mind and he'll get the help that he sorely needs."


These words from a random old man with a top hat, monocle and cane, sent a few guys running to the tree where Azrael had fastened the rope. Their objective practically set in stone. They were going to grab hold of it and yank the lunatic up to the surface and save his life. After which, they would send him off to the local booby hatch, where he could be locked away and treated for his broken brain. However, before anyone could make it to the rope or the tree and start performing the task of pulling Azrael up, a voice was heard. Strong and confident, it carried the sturdy sound of assurance, while also bearing a melody that could only be perceived when an angel's voice was summoned forth.


"Halt. You will do nothing of the sort. Leave that rope be. My brother knows precisely what he's doing. He's fetching a monster."


This voice beckoned everyone's attention and the entire assembly of busy bodies and rubberneckers, turned toward the source. Immediately transforming them into the witnesses of immaculate beauty and wonder. The woman that stood before them was incredible. Marvelous and exquisite. A true Adonis to behold. Her name was...


[Image: FvKQLRo.jpg]


Collectively the crowd released a quiet gasp in awe. No one had seen this fine female specimen approach, nor was she heard arriving, she was simply there. Although, unbeknownst to the awe struck posse, that was merely the way of Alara. Similar to the fashion that Azrael, could appear from thin air, so too could Alara. However, unlike her brother, who would seem to step from nowhere and everywhere, all at once. Alara was just suddenly there. As if her essence simply came to be and she existed. What once was an empty space, now held her presence and she stood beside you. Bringing an overwhelming sense of peace and tranquility with her.


Oddly enough, this only made the sight of her more alarming, for the sensation washed over you like a tidal wave and often gave individuals, the feeling that they were somehow drugged. The only thing that made up for that was the fact that she was gorgeous. Had she been some kind of hideous freak of nature, panic would most definitely ensue. So being pretty, paid off in this scenario, whereas personality alone, wouldn't cut it. Still her dominant, yet gentle mannerisms, were also great assets for her to have and they did not go wasted. No, they worked exceptionally well, especially in circumstances like this one, when a hoard of people trying to "help" matters would wind up mucking things up and ruining everything.


"You said your brother is catching a monster? You don't mean ol' Nessie, do you?


The human equivalent of Mr. Peanut inquired.


"Yes, that's exactly, what I mean."


Alara said in a very matter of fact like tone.


"Why on Earth would he do that?"


"Because I dared him to do it."


Voice unchanging, she blinked and then turned her focus towards the water.


"He took up the task willingly and quite freely and I'll not have you nosy humans, fucking this up. He told me he uncovered the Loch Ness monster once already. Back when the Earthlings referred to him as Mr. Satellite. Apparently there was something called Pandora's Box hidden away inside its stomach and he set out to retrieve it. Wanted to add it to his treasure trove of oddities. So I dared him to find the beast of the deep again and he accepted the challenge. I really just wanted to see the monster close up. Hearing about such a creature, really isn't the same as seeing it, you know? So if you all stay quiet and quit your belly aching and whining, spreading rumors and talking smack about his mental faculties. If you all cease saying that he needs to be tossed in a loony bin, where he'd surely be locked away and the key would be lost, post haste. You may stay and see 'old Nessie' too."


"But Nessie isn't real, that's a myth. Your brother could die down there."


"Oh please don't be tremendously boring and dense, my brother won't die. That's ludicrous to even suggest."


"How could he ever survive such an expedition without any sort of breathing equipment or diver's suit?"


"I told you, he did this before. Meaning he already accomplished the goal and survived. I know because he told me all about it and he's alive. Actually among the living, alive too. Not some type of ghoul or undead abomination. Warm blooded and breathing alive."


"Certainly not for long."


"By the sanctioned gods! You humans and your endless disbelief. No wonder you're not the dominant species on this planet. Look. He's special, alright? He surpasses your capabilities and abilities, in every way possible. His mere existence, obviously can't even be properly perceived by your small earth mind. So hush up, remain calm and you'll see my words are true, when your proven wrong and he returns with the underwater behemoth in tow."


"But ma'am..."


"I said not another word. And don't call me ma'am! I'm no schoolmarm!"


Right after Alara spoke her last sentence, the surface of the water was breached and a great beast emerged, from deep within the waters. Rising upward, it lifted its impressively long neck up and bellowed to the heavens. A proclamation so loud, the very earth shook from the outcry. Unfortunately the exclamation couldn't be rightly deciphered or understood. Had it been perceived properly though, the people might have heard something along the lines of... "Hey all you gawking idiots down there, what's up? I'm Nessie! It's nice to make your acquaintances. Perchance, do any of you happen to have any cheese?" Yes, it's a well known fact, that the Loch Ness Monster is a great lover of cheese, of all varieties. Well, everything except Blue and Limburger but only maniacs and people born without the ability to taste things, enjoy those types of cheese.


This was a sight few could believe they were witnessing in real life. Mouths dropped. People fainted and some screamed, while others ran around in no particular direction, doing their best impressions of chickens missing their heads. Meanwhile, Alara merely walked closer, as the mighty creature lowered its head and gazed upon her. Dropping its face close to Alara, Nessie tilted its head, from side to side and let out what sounded like an inquisitive purr. To which was regarded with a soft pat, on its huge but adorable head. As this occurred, Azrael took the liberty to leap from atop it and pull off the perfect, superhero landing. No joke! Superman couldn't have pulled it off better! Azrael walked over to his sister and grinned. It was a clever grin. One that declared with extreme cockiness and swagger... "Told you so!"


"Satisfied?"


Azrael asked as he gave Nessie's head a rub, bringing forth another purr from the precious monster. The giant creature was as gentle as it was cute.


"Absolutely. Thank you for this brother."


"Anytime my sister, anytime."


[Image: 6D2tFAu.jpg]


"The time draws near. Soon. Dolly Waters and I will embark on a path towards the squared circle. An alien and a little girl. The very young and inept, verses a well seasoned, warrior. This is not my first time witnessing a battlefield, I've won countless wars and taken on adversaries, few would survive fighting. I have won and lost, triumphed and failed and in the end, one thing remains the same, to this very day. I survive. In the end, the spaceman always survives and lives on to fight another day. Nothing can stop me, not even death. Oh sure, I can be put down and even killed... should you find yourself lucky enough to accomplish the feat of murdering me, remember this. I always get back up eventually. Death does not put an end to my existence and there will most assuredly be repercussions for your actions."


"Not that I believe that Dolly Waters, will come anywhere, even remotely close to pulling off such an act. No, she'll be lucky to be able to toddle to the ring, without losing her balance. She should consider herself fortunate, if she arrives to the fight without taking herself out on the way and fall flat on her face in the process. Such is the price one pays, when they smoke an exceedingly large sum of crack, and then chug down their own weight in malt liquor, before attempting to navigate themselves in the direction of anything. The fact that it happens to be a wrestling ring, only makes it more depressing. Especially when it's an event set to take place at a pay-per-view. Think of it as a train smashing to bits and blowing up, live and showcased on a screen that's large enough for the entire galaxy to observe. You can't erase that. Ever."


"Oh and fyi... I aided Vinnie, in setting it up so that the whole universe could watch Relentless."


"Every planet that has beings with the ability to view a television screen, shall be watching. Basically, every eye in the universe will witness her epic failure, when she tanks at Relentless. And she will tank, of that there is no question. She's young but there's no coming back from that one. Not that it matters cause I'm pretty sure, she's circling the drain again. Only this time, rather than a sewer catching her fall, she will plummet into the icy, cold embrace of death. Just not by my hand and not at Relentless."


"I mentioned before, I won't be responsible for a child's murder and I meant it. No, when death takes her away, (if she's lucky) she'll more than likely be passed out on the floor of some dirty, deteriorated motel. Covered in the crust of her own vomit. Her eyes vacantly staring at an unidentifiable stain on the wall. Could be puke, piss, semen, shit or all four combined. It won't be certain. Then again, who really would want to play that game?"


"Besides Shane ."


"It's almost as unappealing as trying to decipher Dolly's precise cause of death. Yeesh. At least the coroner gets paid for that task. One thing I will take a stab at predicting, is the fact that Zane Norrison wouldn't touch her brain with a ten foot pole, much less consume it. That's right, the XWF's resident zombie, would pass up his daily brain intake, if Dolly's was the only source of sustenance available."


"Now that's saying something!"


"Nothing good, but it's definitely saying something."


"Anyway, after what happens next... after what occurs in the corresponding chapter, within the pathetic story that is Dolly Water's 'career' here in the XWF, I hope the man that booked this specific fight, gets canned. He shouldn't have the right to book fights and should be seen as the sick minded scumbag that he is and will always be. Please. Vincent. I implore you to fire this man, before it's too late and the result of his debauchery and deranged desires, puts you in a place that you can never find an exit from. You got lucky this time. I plan to put Dolly Waters down swiftly and with as little sustainable injury to her as possible. Next time? You might not be as fortunate. Can you really afford the cost of a child's murder, dwelling on your conscience?"]]>

[Image: ZlNX4Sg.jpg]


Ah... Urquhart Castle, sitting beside Loch Ness in the Highlands of Scotland, this location has been made quite famous over the years; however, not all the attention can be attributed to the rich, lavish history and ancient architectural relic, that exists as a memento from days, long since past. A great deal of the tourists and the silent buzz of excitement that they bring along with them, comes from the intense curiosity that they carry for something that dwells deep within the very depths of the lake itself. For this is where a creature of legend and lore is rumored to reside. The majestic monster of Loch Ness has been spoken and gossiped about for ages, and flocks of interested sightseers have flooded the shores of this very location, hoping to get a peek at the fabled beast that exists beneath the waves. Tides that serve as a watery doorway through to a time when massive creatures were a commonplace.


When dinosaurs roamed the earth, navigating this green, brown and blue ball freely and lived as kings. Enjoying the opulence and splendor that the land provided and the laws of nature ruled, where survival of the fittest dictated your fate and the outcome of your existence went by the day to day basis. Still, accompanying all the hubbub and hullabaloo, were the naysayers. Those that were widely known for their opposing point of view and well documented disbelief.


No matter the topic, there's always someone out there, hell bent to ruin another's good time with their doubt, ridicule and an overwhelming need to share their opinion. It's rather annoying but that's life for you, one man's happiness is nothing more than a mere bug, for someone's foot to squash. Pick a subject, any subject and you will find this to be true. Nothing is sacred or off limits either. So why wouldn't there be those types out there, determined to tear down and destroy the legacy of Nessie?


Hah! As they say in the biz though, any publicity is good publicity! Let them come and try to sully the name, dismantle the tale and debunk the mystery. The nonbelievers only make the desire to come and witness Loch Ness and its monster increase and the urge to uncover a legendary beast from below rise. Who's really to say; one way or another, how this story will be told or what will be discovered at the end, assuming there's an end to this epic adventure that could ever be reached at all. All that can be ascertained is that the journey is worth the travels and the enigma will live on...


...till the day that the spaceman arrived to the proverbial party.


Stepping out of nowhere and everywhere all at once, Azrael Erebus strolled forward, toward the place where the edge of the land met the lake, passing by several travelers as he continued forth, paying them little to no mind, whatsoever. The fellow visitors did precisely the same in return, until the seven foot tall man, that hailed from a planet afar, ventured into their path of sight and then, quite the commotion began to stir. Although, one look at Azrael and it would be easy to explain why that happened. This man from the stars wasn't someone that you encountered everyday. Given his tall stature and unusual appearance, he was a rather unique sight to see, in itself and before long, everyone's eyes were glued upon him.


Especially, when he pulled out a very large bundle of rope, seemingly from within his long red cape. Far too immense and bulky to ever fit comfortably under it, let alone reside discretely beneath it, it was removed from inside the confines of his cape, just the same. First affixing one end of the rope to a nearby tree (Truck yeah! He used the Trucker's Hitch!), Azrael firmly wrapped the other end, several times around his own waist, before securing it tightly with several knots. Each sturdier than the last. Then he took off running and dove headfirst, straight into Loch Ness, swiftly surging underneath its steadily flowing currents.


Onlookers that observed Azrael's previous actions began to flock and gather at the lake's edge, while the spaceman progressively swam downward. Traveling, deeper and deeper still, till he wasn't visible from the surface at all. Only the darkness of the deep, gazed back at the curious lot of lookie-loos now. Gradually murmurs and whispers were heard as people started to speculate upon what might have happened to the peculiar gentleman. Until the multitude of hushed tones deriving from various directions unified and combined into one, singular, low sounding roar but it didn't end there.


No, this group of speculating spectators, needed answers and somehow in that moment of desire, it had been unilaterally decided that the only way to achieve them was to raise their voices and offer up random suggestions. Surely, this would help everyone achieve what they desperately wanted and acquire the relief of their proverbial itch, thus solving the conundrum they all faced! After all they needed to make sense of the madness that they witnessed. A man working swiftly and silently as he tied a rope to a tree and then to himself, right before he dove into Loch Ness and continued onward into its depths. How preposterous! What was he trying to do? Swim to the bottom and have himself a stroll along the lake's very floor? Why the fella must be out of his gourd! Only a nutcase or some kind of simpleton, would perform such actions!


"Maybe it's some type of stunt? Perhaps it's all an act? Like what happened on that show 'Punk'd'. This could all be a prank. To see how people react to this sort of strangeness. Did anyone see any cameras?"


"No. I don't see any cameras or weird unmarked vans parked anywhere. Therefore, it can't be that."


"That chap has got to be plum out of his mind. Jumping into the lake and swimming down into it like he did. He must be miles deep by now. He may even be drowning. And here we all are, looking on and watching, like a mindless pack of spectators, viewing a sports game. We should be ashamed of ourselves. A man's life could be in danger and we're all standing around with our thumbs stuck up our arses! Monkeys! The whole lot of you! Oh for fuck's sake, someone go grab the rope and pull him up! Come on! Off with you! While there's still time! We may actually be able to save the poor fellow! He might be sick in the head but that's no reason for him to lose his life! Not on my watch anyway! We'll get him up and then, someone can phone the police, so he can be taken to a facility that deals with issues of the mind and he'll get the help that he sorely needs."


These words from a random old man with a top hat, monocle and cane, sent a few guys running to the tree where Azrael had fastened the rope. Their objective practically set in stone. They were going to grab hold of it and yank the lunatic up to the surface and save his life. After which, they would send him off to the local booby hatch, where he could be locked away and treated for his broken brain. However, before anyone could make it to the rope or the tree and start performing the task of pulling Azrael up, a voice was heard. Strong and confident, it carried the sturdy sound of assurance, while also bearing a melody that could only be perceived when an angel's voice was summoned forth.


"Halt. You will do nothing of the sort. Leave that rope be. My brother knows precisely what he's doing. He's fetching a monster."


This voice beckoned everyone's attention and the entire assembly of busy bodies and rubberneckers, turned toward the source. Immediately transforming them into the witnesses of immaculate beauty and wonder. The woman that stood before them was incredible. Marvelous and exquisite. A true Adonis to behold. Her name was...


[Image: FvKQLRo.jpg]


Collectively the crowd released a quiet gasp in awe. No one had seen this fine female specimen approach, nor was she heard arriving, she was simply there. Although, unbeknownst to the awe struck posse, that was merely the way of Alara. Similar to the fashion that Azrael, could appear from thin air, so too could Alara. However, unlike her brother, who would seem to step from nowhere and everywhere, all at once. Alara was just suddenly there. As if her essence simply came to be and she existed. What once was an empty space, now held her presence and she stood beside you. Bringing an overwhelming sense of peace and tranquility with her.


Oddly enough, this only made the sight of her more alarming, for the sensation washed over you like a tidal wave and often gave individuals, the feeling that they were somehow drugged. The only thing that made up for that was the fact that she was gorgeous. Had she been some kind of hideous freak of nature, panic would most definitely ensue. So being pretty, paid off in this scenario, whereas personality alone, wouldn't cut it. Still her dominant, yet gentle mannerisms, were also great assets for her to have and they did not go wasted. No, they worked exceptionally well, especially in circumstances like this one, when a hoard of people trying to "help" matters would wind up mucking things up and ruining everything.


"You said your brother is catching a monster? You don't mean ol' Nessie, do you?


The human equivalent of Mr. Peanut inquired.


"Yes, that's exactly, what I mean."


Alara said in a very matter of fact like tone.


"Why on Earth would he do that?"


"Because I dared him to do it."


Voice unchanging, she blinked and then turned her focus towards the water.


"He took up the task willingly and quite freely and I'll not have you nosy humans, fucking this up. He told me he uncovered the Loch Ness monster once already. Back when the Earthlings referred to him as Mr. Satellite. Apparently there was something called Pandora's Box hidden away inside its stomach and he set out to retrieve it. Wanted to add it to his treasure trove of oddities. So I dared him to find the beast of the deep again and he accepted the challenge. I really just wanted to see the monster close up. Hearing about such a creature, really isn't the same as seeing it, you know? So if you all stay quiet and quit your belly aching and whining, spreading rumors and talking smack about his mental faculties. If you all cease saying that he needs to be tossed in a loony bin, where he'd surely be locked away and the key would be lost, post haste. You may stay and see 'old Nessie' too."


"But Nessie isn't real, that's a myth. Your brother could die down there."


"Oh please don't be tremendously boring and dense, my brother won't die. That's ludicrous to even suggest."


"How could he ever survive such an expedition without any sort of breathing equipment or diver's suit?"


"I told you, he did this before. Meaning he already accomplished the goal and survived. I know because he told me all about it and he's alive. Actually among the living, alive too. Not some type of ghoul or undead abomination. Warm blooded and breathing alive."


"Certainly not for long."


"By the sanctioned gods! You humans and your endless disbelief. No wonder you're not the dominant species on this planet. Look. He's special, alright? He surpasses your capabilities and abilities, in every way possible. His mere existence, obviously can't even be properly perceived by your small earth mind. So hush up, remain calm and you'll see my words are true, when your proven wrong and he returns with the underwater behemoth in tow."


"But ma'am..."


"I said not another word. And don't call me ma'am! I'm no schoolmarm!"


Right after Alara spoke her last sentence, the surface of the water was breached and a great beast emerged, from deep within the waters. Rising upward, it lifted its impressively long neck up and bellowed to the heavens. A proclamation so loud, the very earth shook from the outcry. Unfortunately the exclamation couldn't be rightly deciphered or understood. Had it been perceived properly though, the people might have heard something along the lines of... "Hey all you gawking idiots down there, what's up? I'm Nessie! It's nice to make your acquaintances. Perchance, do any of you happen to have any cheese?" Yes, it's a well known fact, that the Loch Ness Monster is a great lover of cheese, of all varieties. Well, everything except Blue and Limburger but only maniacs and people born without the ability to taste things, enjoy those types of cheese.


This was a sight few could believe they were witnessing in real life. Mouths dropped. People fainted and some screamed, while others ran around in no particular direction, doing their best impressions of chickens missing their heads. Meanwhile, Alara merely walked closer, as the mighty creature lowered its head and gazed upon her. Dropping its face close to Alara, Nessie tilted its head, from side to side and let out what sounded like an inquisitive purr. To which was regarded with a soft pat, on its huge but adorable head. As this occurred, Azrael took the liberty to leap from atop it and pull off the perfect, superhero landing. No joke! Superman couldn't have pulled it off better! Azrael walked over to his sister and grinned. It was a clever grin. One that declared with extreme cockiness and swagger... "Told you so!"


"Satisfied?"


Azrael asked as he gave Nessie's head a rub, bringing forth another purr from the precious monster. The giant creature was as gentle as it was cute.


"Absolutely. Thank you for this brother."


"Anytime my sister, anytime."


[Image: 6D2tFAu.jpg]


"The time draws near. Soon. Dolly Waters and I will embark on a path towards the squared circle. An alien and a little girl. The very young and inept, verses a well seasoned, warrior. This is not my first time witnessing a battlefield, I've won countless wars and taken on adversaries, few would survive fighting. I have won and lost, triumphed and failed and in the end, one thing remains the same, to this very day. I survive. In the end, the spaceman always survives and lives on to fight another day. Nothing can stop me, not even death. Oh sure, I can be put down and even killed... should you find yourself lucky enough to accomplish the feat of murdering me, remember this. I always get back up eventually. Death does not put an end to my existence and there will most assuredly be repercussions for your actions."


"Not that I believe that Dolly Waters, will come anywhere, even remotely close to pulling off such an act. No, she'll be lucky to be able to toddle to the ring, without losing her balance. She should consider herself fortunate, if she arrives to the fight without taking herself out on the way and fall flat on her face in the process. Such is the price one pays, when they smoke an exceedingly large sum of crack, and then chug down their own weight in malt liquor, before attempting to navigate themselves in the direction of anything. The fact that it happens to be a wrestling ring, only makes it more depressing. Especially when it's an event set to take place at a pay-per-view. Think of it as a train smashing to bits and blowing up, live and showcased on a screen that's large enough for the entire galaxy to observe. You can't erase that. Ever."


"Oh and fyi... I aided Vinnie, in setting it up so that the whole universe could watch Relentless."


"Every planet that has beings with the ability to view a television screen, shall be watching. Basically, every eye in the universe will witness her epic failure, when she tanks at Relentless. And she will tank, of that there is no question. She's young but there's no coming back from that one. Not that it matters cause I'm pretty sure, she's circling the drain again. Only this time, rather than a sewer catching her fall, she will plummet into the icy, cold embrace of death. Just not by my hand and not at Relentless."


"I mentioned before, I won't be responsible for a child's murder and I meant it. No, when death takes her away, (if she's lucky) she'll more than likely be passed out on the floor of some dirty, deteriorated motel. Covered in the crust of her own vomit. Her eyes vacantly staring at an unidentifiable stain on the wall. Could be puke, piss, semen, shit or all four combined. It won't be certain. Then again, who really would want to play that game?"


"Besides Shane ."


"It's almost as unappealing as trying to decipher Dolly's precise cause of death. Yeesh. At least the coroner gets paid for that task. One thing I will take a stab at predicting, is the fact that Zane Norrison wouldn't touch her brain with a ten foot pole, much less consume it. That's right, the XWF's resident zombie, would pass up his daily brain intake, if Dolly's was the only source of sustenance available."


"Now that's saying something!"


"Nothing good, but it's definitely saying something."


"Anyway, after what happens next... after what occurs in the corresponding chapter, within the pathetic story that is Dolly Water's 'career' here in the XWF, I hope the man that booked this specific fight, gets canned. He shouldn't have the right to book fights and should be seen as the sick minded scumbag that he is and will always be. Please. Vincent. I implore you to fire this man, before it's too late and the result of his debauchery and deranged desires, puts you in a place that you can never find an exit from. You got lucky this time. I plan to put Dolly Waters down swiftly and with as little sustainable injury to her as possible. Next time? You might not be as fortunate. Can you really afford the cost of a child's murder, dwelling on your conscience?"]]> <![CDATA[The Newest Member of the XWF Hall of Legends........]]> https://xwf1999.com/showthread.php?tid=34927 Fri, 27 Sep 2019 22:31:34 -0700 Big D]]> https://xwf1999.com/showthread.php?tid=34927
It wasn't the first Hall of Fame to include myself, as the aforementioned NWF inducted me in 2009. As wonderful as that was, the XWF induction meant so much more to me. All of the countless, career defining moments I'd experienced, the top level talent I'd faced and defeated; it only further proved that I was about to be enshrined forever as a Legend of the most prestigious company of all-time. And damn did it feel good!

My wife and I arrived at the arena for the ceremony looking like a million bucks. She was wearing a nice pair of flats and a knee length midnight blue dress, as sparkly as the night sky. I may not have been on her level, but I didn't look too bad in my James Bond-esque tuxedo. If I had a martini, you would've easily mistaken me for 007 himself. The valet took our car as we made our way up the steps and into the building.

Once inside, Krystal was shown her seat and I headed for the backstage area. Ever since my WWF days, people had always tried to tell me I was nothing more than a lower/midcarder and didn't even deserve a SHOT at the top. No matter what I did, anything I accomplished, was met with scrutiny. Whether it was the WWF scoffing at me becoming a TRIPLE fucking Champion or Fuzz attempting(unsuccessfully) to disrespect my winning the Federweight AND Heavymetalweight Championships; nobody wanted to give credit where it was due. All of this ran through my head as I walked down the hallway, knowing I had finally shut all of the haters up.

As had been the case for most of my career, Steve Sayors greeted me behind the curtain. The two of us had been through alot together, from me getting him arrested for a joint I smoked to him beating me at the board games I created. We had almost become the Mean Gene and Hulk Hogan of XWF, he'd interview me and I'd tell it like it is. He may not have always agreed with what I had to say, but he was always there to report on it. Despite all the shit I had given him throughout the years, we developed a mutual respect for each other. This was why he was to be my inductor for the ceremony.............. that, and my longtime rival, Ned Kaye, wanted no part in my charade.

"Are you sure you wanna do this?" Steve questioned. "It's kind of disrespectful to......"

"YOU'RE being disrespectful, Steve," I shot back at him. "This is MY night and you're not going to ruin it, asshole!" Like I said, a mutual respect.

"Alright," Steve sighed, looking at the ground like a puppy who'd been scolded. "Then I suppose it's about time, huh?"

"I believe all of the guests have been seated," I said with a nod. Steve reached into his jacket and pulled out some notecards. "What are those?"

"It's my speech," Sayors responded. "I was up all night writing it."

"Ohhhhhhh no!" I burst out, snatching the cards from him and tearing them up. "You're gonna read the speech I prepared for you........" I reached into my pocket and pulled out a different set of cards for him to read off of.

"I should've figured as much," he spoke, halfheartedly, before taking the notecards from me. Steve took one last deep breath before walking through the curtain, being met with the clapping audio I paid the sound guy to play.

As Sayors made his way to the podium, I peeked my head through the curtain. In the front row sat my wife and next to her was my Xtreme Championship, decked out in a nice little bowtie. The rest of the crowd was made up of cardboard cutouts of the various celebrities I expected to be at my actual Hall of Legends induction. Of course Patrick Stewart was there, as was the entire cast of 'The Avengers.' Even the president, Donald Trump, showed up for this important occasion. He wasn't invited, but he has a way of sorta forcing things on you. I was just lucky I didn't have a pussy.

"...........when he arrived in XWF, everybody wrote him off as a jobber," Steve read off my notes, exactly as I'd written them. "No-one could've imagined him winning a Championship, let alone a match. But he didn't let the noise get to him, he used it as motivation and climbed his way to the top. It didn't matter that nobody else believed in him, because he believed in HIMSELF. After years of proving himself, I think it's safe to say you all believe in him now, huh?"

Steve was delivering the speech so superbly, you would've thought he wrote it himself. With the timing and delivery, he made it seem like he ACTUALLY meant the words he spoke.

"What hasn't Big D done?" Sayors continued with genuine enthusiasm. "He's held every single 24/7 Championship, Captained a winning War Games team, and.........." Steve paused for a second at what I'd written, before continuing on as if it were true. "Even been Universal Champion."

You could hear the hesitation in his voice. Up to that point there had been zero hiccups, but when it came to calling me a Universal Champion, the cat got his tongue. It was as though he, like everybody else, didn't believe I could win the ultimate prize by the time my career was over. Nevertheless, he managed to make it to my introduction with no problem.

"Big D came here on a mission, and not only did he accomplish that mission, he went above and beyond," Steve went on. "Nobody expected Big D to become Universal Champion, let alone, be inducted into the XWF Hall of Legends......... But that day has arrived; so please put your hands together for the newest member of the Hall of Legends.......... BIG D!!!!!!!"

As "Falling Apart" by Trust Company began to play, I walked through the curtain and met Steve Sayors at the podium. My wife stood up and clapped for me, being joined by more fake applause over the PA system. Steve put his hand out for me, which I firmly grasped and shook. Before he could walk away, I flung Sayors around, picked him up, and hit a Dan Slam onto the stage. I couldn't resist one last shenanigan on Steve before my swan song, it was only fitting with everything we'd been through. I'm sure he understood.

"I'd like to start by thanking my wife, Krystal," I began with a smile. "I've done things throughout my XWF career that she didn't approve of, but at the end of the day she always knew I was an asshole at the office and a lover at home."

I stopped for a moment to blow her a kiss. She rolled her eyes(probably from realizing this wasn't actually a REAL ceremony), but managed to smile and wave at me, regardless. There was that support she always gave, even if I was doing something she viewed as dumb.

"What a long and crazy journey it's been," I spoke with a head shake. "I can still remember when I first arrived and didn't know who anybody was. I didn't understand what Lux's deal was and thought Kid Kool was a noob. One of my future rivals was the Xtreme Champion and the other was getting a Universal Title shot, despite being greener than a dime bag. Despite all the turmoil we've all put each other through(I'll STILL never forgive Mastermind for costing me the TV Title), it was all worth it in the end. Had it not been for such historic rivalries with those two, I may not be here tonight. I could stand up here all night and talk about my battles with Ned and MM, but I think that would be best saved for future documentaries. As important as the feuds and matches with them were, there's one particular moment that I look back on as the beginning of my Hall of Fame run.............. when I defeated Fuzz for my first Xtreme Title defense."

Audio played over the PA system of people chattering, indistinctly. I waited a moment for it to die down, before elaborating.

"While some people may point to me WINNING the belt as the start of my meteoric rise to the top, I would respectfully disagree," I continued. "Winning a Championship is 10 times easier than defending one, especially when it's a 24/7 belt and you've got the entire company constantly gunning for you!........"

As if I had some form of tourettes, I all of a sudden jumped back and looked behind me. I turned back to face the crowd with a smile on my face, as the sound of laughter filled the auditorium.

"Force of habit," I joked with a grin before taking a more serious tone. "To this day, people still question the circumstances around my Xtreme Title victory. Despite defeating two of XWF's greatest upper mid-carders in Gilly and Mastermind, even Unknown Soldier in a way, I wouldn't have been able to do it without Robert Main's assistance. I say I wouldn't have NEEDED his help had we just had a REAL referee in the first place. But you all know that story, right? Everything Big D ever accomplished in his career was because he had someone there to hold his hand.................. until I beat Fuzz."

"Everybody expected a Legend to prove himself that day, they just didn't realize it wasn't the Legend they thought it would be. Fuzz and I battled up and down that beach like it was personal and, to an extent, it was. He discredited my Heavymetalweight AND Federweight Title wins, said it was a fluke that I became Xtreme Champion, and even went so far as to call me a generic wrestler. Much like everyone else, he also enjoyed pointing out the result of War Games and the fact I didn't get pinned OR submit, but still lost my match against Robert Main..........."

I stopped for a second and reached into my tux, pulling out a pair of earplugs. I showed them to the audience before setting them on the podium.

"But I couldn't hear the noise. Fuzz could repeat the same old shit everyone else had up to that point, but I drowned him out like HE was a toddler throwing a tantrum. Much like a child who doesn't fully comprehend the things they say, Fuzz wanted to throw me under the bus as a loser. Do losers win Championships? Do they end up in the Hall of Legends? I guess maybe in Fuzz's case, but much like how he lost and was still handed a Title shot, Fuzz was an EXCEPTIONAL loser. He proved it that fateful day when I left him lifeless in the sand and walked away with the Xtreme Championship STILL wrapped around my waist. That day Fuzz learned that the only fluke was him being placed into the Main Event of a pay-per-view to begin with! As we all know, I went on to headline countless shows and receive dozens of Title shots, while HE was never considered for either ever again. That night one Legend's career ended, while another's was only beginning. Like that car accident to Magnum T.A., I wrecked the legacy of Fuzz forever with a Dan Slam in the sand. I crippled him so bad, Noah didn't stop blubbering like a cunt for weeks!......."

"So thank you, Fuzz, for everything you did. For doubting me, for disrespecting me, for igniting the spark that lit the biggest fire the wrestling world had ever seen! Had it not been for you getting your ass beat like a redheaded stepchild, my rise to glory may have never began. I would've been nothing more than the same old walking dick joke who couldn't even successfully defend his belt once. But thanks to you, I achieved everything I set out to and then some! And that ain't no story, it's the Cold Big D Truth!"

As I said my catchphrase, audio of a crowd saying it with me played over the speakers before being followed by one final round of applause. Even my wife stood up, possibly a tear in her eye, clapping for the man she loved with all of her heart. She could only dream for this day to come, as she knew it would finally mean I did what I set out to do and could come home to her for good. No more worrying about me being in scaffold matches or being a lowlife piece of shit who lays his fingers on a helpless woman just to get what he wants. I could go back to being the man she fell in love with, the man who doesn't stoop to all-time lows just to prove a point. I wished that day WAS today, nothing would make me happier. But it would have to wait just a little bit longer.

My eyes went from her to my handsome looking Xtreme Title. When I won the WWF TV Title, it was in a Battle Royal much like Relentless Day 1's. It was the moment I became a Triple Champion. I wanted it to last forever, but alas, it wasn't in the cards. I ended up losing it just a week later in my FIRST Title defense and it started a treacherous downfall that ended with me losing ALL of my other Championships.

As I looked at my Xtreme Title, I knew I couldn't go down that path again. All eyes are on me and it's make or break time. If I'm to ever be considered for a Universal Title shot again, I have to run the mid-card and prove that I'm as big as D comes! Because even if I do and they STILL refuse to give me my big break, 5 Xtreme Title defenses and I'm as good as money. They CAN'T deny me the briefcase and once I have that, I'm as good as Champion. Maybe I cash in on Ned and begin our headlining Hall of Fame feud; or I could get the ultimate revenge on Mastermind and steal the belt out from under his nose, before putting him to rest like I intend to do to Fuzz.

I turned and walked away from the podium, confident that we had just witnessed a glimpse into the future. Although my Hall of Legends induction wouldn't be for several more years, the decimation of Fuzz was merely a day away. It won't be long now until I begin to lay the stones along my path of greatness.

Fuzz thinks I'm just a generic wrestler, but what he doesn't realize is I'm THE generic wrestler. If there's a million other me's out there, then it's because THEY copied ME, not the other way around. I AM the template, Generic Wrestler #1. There's no reason for me to be fancy, just go out and let my skills do the talking. They'll definitely shut Fuzz up, possibly for good, come tomorrow night. Because he's gonna learn that bland is beautiful and that's not my ego talking, but rather FACT. And that ain't no story, it's the Cold Big D Truth!]]>
It wasn't the first Hall of Fame to include myself, as the aforementioned NWF inducted me in 2009. As wonderful as that was, the XWF induction meant so much more to me. All of the countless, career defining moments I'd experienced, the top level talent I'd faced and defeated; it only further proved that I was about to be enshrined forever as a Legend of the most prestigious company of all-time. And damn did it feel good!

My wife and I arrived at the arena for the ceremony looking like a million bucks. She was wearing a nice pair of flats and a knee length midnight blue dress, as sparkly as the night sky. I may not have been on her level, but I didn't look too bad in my James Bond-esque tuxedo. If I had a martini, you would've easily mistaken me for 007 himself. The valet took our car as we made our way up the steps and into the building.

Once inside, Krystal was shown her seat and I headed for the backstage area. Ever since my WWF days, people had always tried to tell me I was nothing more than a lower/midcarder and didn't even deserve a SHOT at the top. No matter what I did, anything I accomplished, was met with scrutiny. Whether it was the WWF scoffing at me becoming a TRIPLE fucking Champion or Fuzz attempting(unsuccessfully) to disrespect my winning the Federweight AND Heavymetalweight Championships; nobody wanted to give credit where it was due. All of this ran through my head as I walked down the hallway, knowing I had finally shut all of the haters up.

As had been the case for most of my career, Steve Sayors greeted me behind the curtain. The two of us had been through alot together, from me getting him arrested for a joint I smoked to him beating me at the board games I created. We had almost become the Mean Gene and Hulk Hogan of XWF, he'd interview me and I'd tell it like it is. He may not have always agreed with what I had to say, but he was always there to report on it. Despite all the shit I had given him throughout the years, we developed a mutual respect for each other. This was why he was to be my inductor for the ceremony.............. that, and my longtime rival, Ned Kaye, wanted no part in my charade.

"Are you sure you wanna do this?" Steve questioned. "It's kind of disrespectful to......"

"YOU'RE being disrespectful, Steve," I shot back at him. "This is MY night and you're not going to ruin it, asshole!" Like I said, a mutual respect.

"Alright," Steve sighed, looking at the ground like a puppy who'd been scolded. "Then I suppose it's about time, huh?"

"I believe all of the guests have been seated," I said with a nod. Steve reached into his jacket and pulled out some notecards. "What are those?"

"It's my speech," Sayors responded. "I was up all night writing it."

"Ohhhhhhh no!" I burst out, snatching the cards from him and tearing them up. "You're gonna read the speech I prepared for you........" I reached into my pocket and pulled out a different set of cards for him to read off of.

"I should've figured as much," he spoke, halfheartedly, before taking the notecards from me. Steve took one last deep breath before walking through the curtain, being met with the clapping audio I paid the sound guy to play.

As Sayors made his way to the podium, I peeked my head through the curtain. In the front row sat my wife and next to her was my Xtreme Championship, decked out in a nice little bowtie. The rest of the crowd was made up of cardboard cutouts of the various celebrities I expected to be at my actual Hall of Legends induction. Of course Patrick Stewart was there, as was the entire cast of 'The Avengers.' Even the president, Donald Trump, showed up for this important occasion. He wasn't invited, but he has a way of sorta forcing things on you. I was just lucky I didn't have a pussy.

"...........when he arrived in XWF, everybody wrote him off as a jobber," Steve read off my notes, exactly as I'd written them. "No-one could've imagined him winning a Championship, let alone a match. But he didn't let the noise get to him, he used it as motivation and climbed his way to the top. It didn't matter that nobody else believed in him, because he believed in HIMSELF. After years of proving himself, I think it's safe to say you all believe in him now, huh?"

Steve was delivering the speech so superbly, you would've thought he wrote it himself. With the timing and delivery, he made it seem like he ACTUALLY meant the words he spoke.

"What hasn't Big D done?" Sayors continued with genuine enthusiasm. "He's held every single 24/7 Championship, Captained a winning War Games team, and.........." Steve paused for a second at what I'd written, before continuing on as if it were true. "Even been Universal Champion."

You could hear the hesitation in his voice. Up to that point there had been zero hiccups, but when it came to calling me a Universal Champion, the cat got his tongue. It was as though he, like everybody else, didn't believe I could win the ultimate prize by the time my career was over. Nevertheless, he managed to make it to my introduction with no problem.

"Big D came here on a mission, and not only did he accomplish that mission, he went above and beyond," Steve went on. "Nobody expected Big D to become Universal Champion, let alone, be inducted into the XWF Hall of Legends......... But that day has arrived; so please put your hands together for the newest member of the Hall of Legends.......... BIG D!!!!!!!"

As "Falling Apart" by Trust Company began to play, I walked through the curtain and met Steve Sayors at the podium. My wife stood up and clapped for me, being joined by more fake applause over the PA system. Steve put his hand out for me, which I firmly grasped and shook. Before he could walk away, I flung Sayors around, picked him up, and hit a Dan Slam onto the stage. I couldn't resist one last shenanigan on Steve before my swan song, it was only fitting with everything we'd been through. I'm sure he understood.

"I'd like to start by thanking my wife, Krystal," I began with a smile. "I've done things throughout my XWF career that she didn't approve of, but at the end of the day she always knew I was an asshole at the office and a lover at home."

I stopped for a moment to blow her a kiss. She rolled her eyes(probably from realizing this wasn't actually a REAL ceremony), but managed to smile and wave at me, regardless. There was that support she always gave, even if I was doing something she viewed as dumb.

"What a long and crazy journey it's been," I spoke with a head shake. "I can still remember when I first arrived and didn't know who anybody was. I didn't understand what Lux's deal was and thought Kid Kool was a noob. One of my future rivals was the Xtreme Champion and the other was getting a Universal Title shot, despite being greener than a dime bag. Despite all the turmoil we've all put each other through(I'll STILL never forgive Mastermind for costing me the TV Title), it was all worth it in the end. Had it not been for such historic rivalries with those two, I may not be here tonight. I could stand up here all night and talk about my battles with Ned and MM, but I think that would be best saved for future documentaries. As important as the feuds and matches with them were, there's one particular moment that I look back on as the beginning of my Hall of Fame run.............. when I defeated Fuzz for my first Xtreme Title defense."

Audio played over the PA system of people chattering, indistinctly. I waited a moment for it to die down, before elaborating.

"While some people may point to me WINNING the belt as the start of my meteoric rise to the top, I would respectfully disagree," I continued. "Winning a Championship is 10 times easier than defending one, especially when it's a 24/7 belt and you've got the entire company constantly gunning for you!........"

As if I had some form of tourettes, I all of a sudden jumped back and looked behind me. I turned back to face the crowd with a smile on my face, as the sound of laughter filled the auditorium.

"Force of habit," I joked with a grin before taking a more serious tone. "To this day, people still question the circumstances around my Xtreme Title victory. Despite defeating two of XWF's greatest upper mid-carders in Gilly and Mastermind, even Unknown Soldier in a way, I wouldn't have been able to do it without Robert Main's assistance. I say I wouldn't have NEEDED his help had we just had a REAL referee in the first place. But you all know that story, right? Everything Big D ever accomplished in his career was because he had someone there to hold his hand.................. until I beat Fuzz."

"Everybody expected a Legend to prove himself that day, they just didn't realize it wasn't the Legend they thought it would be. Fuzz and I battled up and down that beach like it was personal and, to an extent, it was. He discredited my Heavymetalweight AND Federweight Title wins, said it was a fluke that I became Xtreme Champion, and even went so far as to call me a generic wrestler. Much like everyone else, he also enjoyed pointing out the result of War Games and the fact I didn't get pinned OR submit, but still lost my match against Robert Main..........."

I stopped for a second and reached into my tux, pulling out a pair of earplugs. I showed them to the audience before setting them on the podium.

"But I couldn't hear the noise. Fuzz could repeat the same old shit everyone else had up to that point, but I drowned him out like HE was a toddler throwing a tantrum. Much like a child who doesn't fully comprehend the things they say, Fuzz wanted to throw me under the bus as a loser. Do losers win Championships? Do they end up in the Hall of Legends? I guess maybe in Fuzz's case, but much like how he lost and was still handed a Title shot, Fuzz was an EXCEPTIONAL loser. He proved it that fateful day when I left him lifeless in the sand and walked away with the Xtreme Championship STILL wrapped around my waist. That day Fuzz learned that the only fluke was him being placed into the Main Event of a pay-per-view to begin with! As we all know, I went on to headline countless shows and receive dozens of Title shots, while HE was never considered for either ever again. That night one Legend's career ended, while another's was only beginning. Like that car accident to Magnum T.A., I wrecked the legacy of Fuzz forever with a Dan Slam in the sand. I crippled him so bad, Noah didn't stop blubbering like a cunt for weeks!......."

"So thank you, Fuzz, for everything you did. For doubting me, for disrespecting me, for igniting the spark that lit the biggest fire the wrestling world had ever seen! Had it not been for you getting your ass beat like a redheaded stepchild, my rise to glory may have never began. I would've been nothing more than the same old walking dick joke who couldn't even successfully defend his belt once. But thanks to you, I achieved everything I set out to and then some! And that ain't no story, it's the Cold Big D Truth!"

As I said my catchphrase, audio of a crowd saying it with me played over the speakers before being followed by one final round of applause. Even my wife stood up, possibly a tear in her eye, clapping for the man she loved with all of her heart. She could only dream for this day to come, as she knew it would finally mean I did what I set out to do and could come home to her for good. No more worrying about me being in scaffold matches or being a lowlife piece of shit who lays his fingers on a helpless woman just to get what he wants. I could go back to being the man she fell in love with, the man who doesn't stoop to all-time lows just to prove a point. I wished that day WAS today, nothing would make me happier. But it would have to wait just a little bit longer.

My eyes went from her to my handsome looking Xtreme Title. When I won the WWF TV Title, it was in a Battle Royal much like Relentless Day 1's. It was the moment I became a Triple Champion. I wanted it to last forever, but alas, it wasn't in the cards. I ended up losing it just a week later in my FIRST Title defense and it started a treacherous downfall that ended with me losing ALL of my other Championships.

As I looked at my Xtreme Title, I knew I couldn't go down that path again. All eyes are on me and it's make or break time. If I'm to ever be considered for a Universal Title shot again, I have to run the mid-card and prove that I'm as big as D comes! Because even if I do and they STILL refuse to give me my big break, 5 Xtreme Title defenses and I'm as good as money. They CAN'T deny me the briefcase and once I have that, I'm as good as Champion. Maybe I cash in on Ned and begin our headlining Hall of Fame feud; or I could get the ultimate revenge on Mastermind and steal the belt out from under his nose, before putting him to rest like I intend to do to Fuzz.

I turned and walked away from the podium, confident that we had just witnessed a glimpse into the future. Although my Hall of Legends induction wouldn't be for several more years, the decimation of Fuzz was merely a day away. It won't be long now until I begin to lay the stones along my path of greatness.

Fuzz thinks I'm just a generic wrestler, but what he doesn't realize is I'm THE generic wrestler. If there's a million other me's out there, then it's because THEY copied ME, not the other way around. I AM the template, Generic Wrestler #1. There's no reason for me to be fancy, just go out and let my skills do the talking. They'll definitely shut Fuzz up, possibly for good, come tomorrow night. Because he's gonna learn that bland is beautiful and that's not my ego talking, but rather FACT. And that ain't no story, it's the Cold Big D Truth!]]> <![CDATA[Misadventures in preparations]]> https://xwf1999.com/showthread.php?tid=34925 Fri, 27 Sep 2019 22:17:54 -0700 Shawn Warstein]]> https://xwf1999.com/showthread.php?tid=34925 1:46AM
Miami


“I can’t see straight…”

I mumble under my breath. I take a moment to compose myself, and look around my surroundings. I’m honestly in the last place I would’ve ever imagined. I’m in a fucking club. A bunch of fucking millennials are covering the dance floor. Their motions alone are causing me to become woozy. I check around the table I’m sitting at and see a bill sitting there, I pick it up and look it over.


“Thanks for the drinks Dad! -NJ-“

I flip the bill over and of course Noah has something written on the backside.

“P.S. Make sure you tip her big.”

I crumpled up the paper and toss it aside. The waitress saunters over and places a hand on my shoulder.

“Can I get you anything else?”

I shake my head ‘No’ and dig out my credit card. I hand it over to her. She smiles and walks away. I continue to sit at the table slowly fading in and out of sleep. Then…

THUD!

My head slams against the tables causing all the stuff to fling in every direction. It shocks me awake and I quickly try to pick everything up. Before long the waitress walks back. She slides my card to me, and begins to clean up the table.

“Do you need me to call you a ride?”

I pause for a moment, pull out my phone and hand it to her.

“Uber please.”

“Where are you staying?”

I shrug and just blurt out the only thing I remember.

“Some hotel on the strip. ..”

She books the Uber. Hell she even helped me get up and out of there. She walked me up to the Uber and explained to the driver what was going on. I fell asleep in the back as he drove me to what I assumed was the strip.

September 28th 2019
1:46AM
Miami


It turns out it was the beach. When I apparently passed out next to a large rock. It was indeed the same beach where my match tomorrow is going to take place. After many calls to Uber, apparently I was adamant that I be dropped off at the beach. I was cursing and yelling, and finally the guy gave in. I apologized to Uber and asked to give the man a tip for his time and gold like patience.

I hadn’t even gotten up from my resting place while making the calls to Uber. I finally stood up and watched as a few XWF employees were setting up a few barricades where fans could watch. I witnessed a man pulling up my red flags. I bolt over to him.

“What the fuck are you doing!?? No… No… No. You’re ruining everything I set up!”

I screamed at the man while out of breath. He looked at me like I was a crazy person, and quickly radioed for help.

“Yeah, I’ve got a hung over drifter over here, spouting all sorts of nonsense. Requesting security to escort him out.”

I quickly snatch the radio off of him. I press the button and hear the familiar crackle of the radio.

“Yeah go ahead and cancel the security. Everything is all good over here.”

I let go of the button and throw the radio as far as I could into the ocean. The guy looks at me and then rushes. I quickly sidestep him, and take him down. I want to throw a punch so bad, but I resist. I slowly get off of him, and allow him to roll over. I show my hands to him, actually for once showing no ill intent. I reach my hand down to help him up, he huffs and smacks my hand away. He stands up, brushes the sand from his uniform and finally gets a good look at me.

“Oh shit…. you’re….”

“Yeah, and im really fucking pissed off right now. Everything I did to prepare for this match you just fucking ruined.”

“I didn’t know.”

“I sent the email to all staff informing them of what to do and what not to remove. Next you’re going to tell me you don’t work for the XWF…”

“I don’t. I work for a temp agency. Any email you would’ve sent, I surely never have seen.”

I kick sand all over the place. I’m basically throwing a temper tantrum on the beach. The guy looks around for someone else but no one is coming to save him. He tries to stop me, but I ignore him as I begin to walk away.

“Stupid… why did I do it the day BEFORE? Idiot! Always day of. Always. That way Shit like this doesn’t fucking happen. What am I going to do now?”

The guy walks up to me and jumps in front of my face.

“I think I can help…”

He sounded sure of himself, but not confident. He holds up a hand to have me stay. He runs towards a service van and swings open the doors in the back. He digs around for a moment and comes running back holding what looks like a weed wacker.

“I think this’ll help.”

On second look it’s not a weed wacker, but a metal detector. I quickly snatch it from him and look it over. I fire it up but nothing happens.

“Does it work?”

“It should. I confiscated it off of some Aussie kid before you showed up. Had a mouth on him. He kept saying ‘Cunt’ and how I was ruining his DADS preparation. You don’t sound Australian, so it wasn’t you he was talking about right?”

I nod.

“That’s Noah. It’s a long story for another day for now we need to get these stakes back into the ground where my stuff is.”

We begin to walk all around the beach. Every time there was a hit, I dropped down and dug into the sand to make sure. Soon enough all of the stakes were planted again. We begin our walk back to the entrance.

“And that’s why Noah thinks I’m his dad.”

“So… You’re are his Dad? Or No?”

I shrug as I sit down on the beach looking over the ocean. I’m not nervous because that only happens to pussies. I’m calm. I know that in just a few short hours History repeats itself, and shortly after that everything changes for the XWF.



The Afterthought:

Hello everyone my name is Big D, and I’m afraid.

*Hello Big D.*

I want everyone to know that this fear running through me is something I just cannot get rid of and it has shaken me to the core. I stand here before all of you the current X-Treme champion. Yet I do not feel I deserve this accolade. It’s really simple it’s called imposter syndrome. I lucked into this position, and I can’t help but think I don’t belong. I will lose this title. There is no way I can possibly defeat Fuzz. I know this is the end of the road for me with this title, so I would like to request my Tag Team title shot before it gets lost in the shuffle. I haven’t even defended this title once in the middle of the ring, or beach in Fuzz’s case, yet I have held onto it despite numerous attempts on it from multiple people.

*Fuzz yawns*

Do you not see how fucking stupid you sound right there? I mean sure I’m embellishing a little bit, but to everyone listening… that’s what you sound like. You are worried you’ll miss your tag team opportunity, you’re worried about losing to me. I wouldn’t worry so much about it if I were you. It’s actually quite common to feel that dread before facing me. It takes a special talent to get one over on me. Just ask Centurion. He had to have the red cheat for him to beat me. Ask Cam, he needed two other people to weaken me. Ask Tony Santos, a battle was waged and sometimes you come up short. Yet all of them have something you lack.

Centurion is a Legend and has fought me constantly over the years. Cam is new and was looking for something to prove. Santos was just about perfect in the ring to beat me. You’re not a Legend, I am. You’re not new, neither am I. You’re not perfect, and I am as close as humanly possible. Yet none of that means jack shit here, there is no ring. There are no rules. Hell this is going to be on a beach in the middle of fucking Miami. You have no leg to stand on.

There is nothing fair about this match. This is just another way for management to get one over on me. Just think about it for just one second, I know it’s going to hurt your brain just relax and breath we will get you through it. We are going to be “competing” on a fucking beach, in the open to the public, where anything goes. Doesn’t that strike you as odd? I mean in your thick skull, this can go one of two ways, I win or I lose. Yet it goes deeper than that, that precious title you currently hold is on the line 24/7. Some asshat standing around could jump on top of you after I’ve beaten you so bad that I have to catch a breath, and boom gone. Now that wouldn’t stop me from basically killing a man, but the fact remains. Sure if it’s Usain Bolt he could probably get away.

That’s what you’re missing. Management’s own personal vendetta against not only myself but anyone who was around prior to ’s administration. They look at Centurion, Raven, Page, and the others, myself included, as a fucking virus that needs to be vaccinated. Yet what they all forgot was that I am Antiviral Resistant. I adapt to my surroundings. I watch and learn from what’s happening, but let’s not make this all about me.

No, No, No my friend. You had some very concerning things to say about me, and even what I have said to you in the past on Twitter. So let’s go down memory lane shall we. Remind me Miniscule D, who was the Federweight champion before you? Right Mini Morbid. How did he get that title? That’s right I gave it up. No one wanted to play with me. Not a single person wanted to step up to the plate and dare to swing at my fastball. I got bored and dropped it, and then you like the parasite you are swooped in and was like… “LOOK AT ME! I did something. I took a title from a pestitulante child! Praise me!” He’ll if you wanted a real challenge to that title you could’ve come at me when I was holding it, but no, you were scared.

And when a real threat to you popped up in Sara, you folded faster than a cheap suit. You couldn’t handle it when she eviscerated you. But hey, you were a double champion after all. I wouldn’t want to go into detail, but you were double champ for all of what… 10hours? Ok it was like 2 days max. Yup seems like something I wouldn’t go around bragging about. Frankly to call me jealous of you for holding both of them…

Are you fucking stupid? What on this fucking earth do I have to be jealous of you about? You galavanting around with worthless titles? Or Sara carrying you to your one and only Universal Title shot? Or coming up short in that match? Or you slobbing on the knob of Robert after he basically handed you the X-Treme title? Everything you’ve “accomplished” has been on the backs of other people, and when you hand to stand on your own you came up just short. You can bring up my current losses all you want, it’s still not going to change the fact that the day I ever become jealous of you, or anyone else for that fact, is the day I leap off the Brooklyn Bridge face first. Again everyone thinks that Noah is a soft spot for me, and how we were just thrown together at the last minute. If you would have paid any attention Noah and I as a team was building for MONTHS, but I guess you were too ignorant to realize that. Also it turns out that I might be his dad. Just let me ask you one question… why didn’t you join the Tag Team Tournament? You say that Noah was the only one that could stand me. You say you had bigger and better things, yet here we both are at the same spot, and match. No I think the real reason you didn’t participate because you don’t have any friends. While Noah and I may not always get along, at least when something goes wrong I have someone who has my back. You on the other have nothing.

You have nothing for me to be jealous… Or maybe you’re just jealous of me and you are deflecting that upon me. Oh wait… you admitted as much. I am a Legend. You can call it a “Joke” all you want, but the fact of the matter is this… I’m there and you’ll never be. You say within the ranks of Raven, SJ, Centurion, that I’m the joke? Ok, quick history lesson. Without me there is no James Raven. Without me there is no Avenger Steve Jason. There is no Centurion! Why? I laid the groundwork for them, and continued to be here when the times were bleak. I kept the ship afloat. Not you. While you were off playing patty cake with some scrubs, I was here thriving, and helping those Legends walk through the door. So while in your shortsighted eyes, it was a joke, ask anyone of them and they’ll tell you nothing but facts.

But while we are on the past, you’re right… it is bullshit the don’t honor it, but guess what dipshit… It still fucking happened. I don’t give a shit if burned everything to ashes, everyone knows what happened, except for you? Fuck man you didn’t even have to dig too deep either. Go to the website, click Hall of Legends, boom my face. Then go to the Top 50 of all time list, which was voted on by the boys, boom my name! For fuck sake man, I was gone for nearly a decade and people still knew who the fuck I was. When you eventually wash out by January no one will even know, or care that you fucking existed. My name is etched into the record books and that will never change, meanwhile yours is written on an etch-a-sketch. A quick shake and you’re Sawyze… that means “Ghost” as in dead?! Fuck get with the lingo.

I absolutely love it when people call me “Old News”. It’s so… boring, but also appropriate. Why? Well simply put history always repeats itself. Fucking Nazi’s are back for shit’s sake. Yet you act like I’m not going to filet your fucking flesh off. You say they wanted to test you against a veteran? Newsflash dipshit, you fought for the Universal Title! They know what they have in you… a nobody. They didn’t put you in the Main Event of Day two… no they put me there to finally make a Big D match entertaining. It’s awesome that you’re so confident in the ending of our match. It’s as if you’re so blinded but jealousy, that it’s the only thing fueling you right now.m, if you haven’t noticed, you’ve said a lot of the same shit over and over again. Sure you used different verbs, adjectives and whatnot, but it’s all the same.

There is a lot that I plan on accomplishing in this match, none of it revolves around me being relevant. Since I’ve been back, I’ve been relevant. What I’m going to do is allow history to begin repeating. In 1999 the first title I won was the X-Treme title. I plan on doing just that again, only this time I’m not the rookie, I’m the veteran with nothing to lose. Your confidence knows no bounds. Neither did his. I need you to know that I don’t take anything you say about me as a threat. Just beware, from this point forward, keep my name out of your mouth. Yet if you must say it…

At least put some respect on it.]]> 1:46AM
Miami


“I can’t see straight…”

I mumble under my breath. I take a moment to compose myself, and look around my surroundings. I’m honestly in the last place I would’ve ever imagined. I’m in a fucking club. A bunch of fucking millennials are covering the dance floor. Their motions alone are causing me to become woozy. I check around the table I’m sitting at and see a bill sitting there, I pick it up and look it over.


“Thanks for the drinks Dad! -NJ-“

I flip the bill over and of course Noah has something written on the backside.

“P.S. Make sure you tip her big.”

I crumpled up the paper and toss it aside. The waitress saunters over and places a hand on my shoulder.

“Can I get you anything else?”

I shake my head ‘No’ and dig out my credit card. I hand it over to her. She smiles and walks away. I continue to sit at the table slowly fading in and out of sleep. Then…

THUD!

My head slams against the tables causing all the stuff to fling in every direction. It shocks me awake and I quickly try to pick everything up. Before long the waitress walks back. She slides my card to me, and begins to clean up the table.

“Do you need me to call you a ride?”

I pause for a moment, pull out my phone and hand it to her.

“Uber please.”

“Where are you staying?”

I shrug and just blurt out the only thing I remember.

“Some hotel on the strip. ..”

She books the Uber. Hell she even helped me get up and out of there. She walked me up to the Uber and explained to the driver what was going on. I fell asleep in the back as he drove me to what I assumed was the strip.

September 28th 2019
1:46AM
Miami


It turns out it was the beach. When I apparently passed out next to a large rock. It was indeed the same beach where my match tomorrow is going to take place. After many calls to Uber, apparently I was adamant that I be dropped off at the beach. I was cursing and yelling, and finally the guy gave in. I apologized to Uber and asked to give the man a tip for his time and gold like patience.

I hadn’t even gotten up from my resting place while making the calls to Uber. I finally stood up and watched as a few XWF employees were setting up a few barricades where fans could watch. I witnessed a man pulling up my red flags. I bolt over to him.

“What the fuck are you doing!?? No… No… No. You’re ruining everything I set up!”

I screamed at the man while out of breath. He looked at me like I was a crazy person, and quickly radioed for help.

“Yeah, I’ve got a hung over drifter over here, spouting all sorts of nonsense. Requesting security to escort him out.”

I quickly snatch the radio off of him. I press the button and hear the familiar crackle of the radio.

“Yeah go ahead and cancel the security. Everything is all good over here.”

I let go of the button and throw the radio as far as I could into the ocean. The guy looks at me and then rushes. I quickly sidestep him, and take him down. I want to throw a punch so bad, but I resist. I slowly get off of him, and allow him to roll over. I show my hands to him, actually for once showing no ill intent. I reach my hand down to help him up, he huffs and smacks my hand away. He stands up, brushes the sand from his uniform and finally gets a good look at me.

“Oh shit…. you’re….”

“Yeah, and im really fucking pissed off right now. Everything I did to prepare for this match you just fucking ruined.”

“I didn’t know.”

“I sent the email to all staff informing them of what to do and what not to remove. Next you’re going to tell me you don’t work for the XWF…”

“I don’t. I work for a temp agency. Any email you would’ve sent, I surely never have seen.”

I kick sand all over the place. I’m basically throwing a temper tantrum on the beach. The guy looks around for someone else but no one is coming to save him. He tries to stop me, but I ignore him as I begin to walk away.

“Stupid… why did I do it the day BEFORE? Idiot! Always day of. Always. That way Shit like this doesn’t fucking happen. What am I going to do now?”

The guy walks up to me and jumps in front of my face.

“I think I can help…”

He sounded sure of himself, but not confident. He holds up a hand to have me stay. He runs towards a service van and swings open the doors in the back. He digs around for a moment and comes running back holding what looks like a weed wacker.

“I think this’ll help.”

On second look it’s not a weed wacker, but a metal detector. I quickly snatch it from him and look it over. I fire it up but nothing happens.

“Does it work?”

“It should. I confiscated it off of some Aussie kid before you showed up. Had a mouth on him. He kept saying ‘Cunt’ and how I was ruining his DADS preparation. You don’t sound Australian, so it wasn’t you he was talking about right?”

I nod.

“That’s Noah. It’s a long story for another day for now we need to get these stakes back into the ground where my stuff is.”

We begin to walk all around the beach. Every time there was a hit, I dropped down and dug into the sand to make sure. Soon enough all of the stakes were planted again. We begin our walk back to the entrance.

“And that’s why Noah thinks I’m his dad.”

“So… You’re are his Dad? Or No?”

I shrug as I sit down on the beach looking over the ocean. I’m not nervous because that only happens to pussies. I’m calm. I know that in just a few short hours History repeats itself, and shortly after that everything changes for the XWF.



The Afterthought:

Hello everyone my name is Big D, and I’m afraid.

*Hello Big D.*

I want everyone to know that this fear running through me is something I just cannot get rid of and it has shaken me to the core. I stand here before all of you the current X-Treme champion. Yet I do not feel I deserve this accolade. It’s really simple it’s called imposter syndrome. I lucked into this position, and I can’t help but think I don’t belong. I will lose this title. There is no way I can possibly defeat Fuzz. I know this is the end of the road for me with this title, so I would like to request my Tag Team title shot before it gets lost in the shuffle. I haven’t even defended this title once in the middle of the ring, or beach in Fuzz’s case, yet I have held onto it despite numerous attempts on it from multiple people.

*Fuzz yawns*

Do you not see how fucking stupid you sound right there? I mean sure I’m embellishing a little bit, but to everyone listening… that’s what you sound like. You are worried you’ll miss your tag team opportunity, you’re worried about losing to me. I wouldn’t worry so much about it if I were you. It’s actually quite common to feel that dread before facing me. It takes a special talent to get one over on me. Just ask Centurion. He had to have the red cheat for him to beat me. Ask Cam, he needed two other people to weaken me. Ask Tony Santos, a battle was waged and sometimes you come up short. Yet all of them have something you lack.

Centurion is a Legend and has fought me constantly over the years. Cam is new and was looking for something to prove. Santos was just about perfect in the ring to beat me. You’re not a Legend, I am. You’re not new, neither am I. You’re not perfect, and I am as close as humanly possible. Yet none of that means jack shit here, there is no ring. There are no rules. Hell this is going to be on a beach in the middle of fucking Miami. You have no leg to stand on.

There is nothing fair about this match. This is just another way for management to get one over on me. Just think about it for just one second, I know it’s going to hurt your brain just relax and breath we will get you through it. We are going to be “competing” on a fucking beach, in the open to the public, where anything goes. Doesn’t that strike you as odd? I mean in your thick skull, this can go one of two ways, I win or I lose. Yet it goes deeper than that, that precious title you currently hold is on the line 24/7. Some asshat standing around could jump on top of you after I’ve beaten you so bad that I have to catch a breath, and boom gone. Now that wouldn’t stop me from basically killing a man, but the fact remains. Sure if it’s Usain Bolt he could probably get away.

That’s what you’re missing. Management’s own personal vendetta against not only myself but anyone who was around prior to ’s administration. They look at Centurion, Raven, Page, and the others, myself included, as a fucking virus that needs to be vaccinated. Yet what they all forgot was that I am Antiviral Resistant. I adapt to my surroundings. I watch and learn from what’s happening, but let’s not make this all about me.

No, No, No my friend. You had some very concerning things to say about me, and even what I have said to you in the past on Twitter. So let’s go down memory lane shall we. Remind me Miniscule D, who was the Federweight champion before you? Right Mini Morbid. How did he get that title? That’s right I gave it up. No one wanted to play with me. Not a single person wanted to step up to the plate and dare to swing at my fastball. I got bored and dropped it, and then you like the parasite you are swooped in and was like… “LOOK AT ME! I did something. I took a title from a pestitulante child! Praise me!” He’ll if you wanted a real challenge to that title you could’ve come at me when I was holding it, but no, you were scared.

And when a real threat to you popped up in Sara, you folded faster than a cheap suit. You couldn’t handle it when she eviscerated you. But hey, you were a double champion after all. I wouldn’t want to go into detail, but you were double champ for all of what… 10hours? Ok it was like 2 days max. Yup seems like something I wouldn’t go around bragging about. Frankly to call me jealous of you for holding both of them…

Are you fucking stupid? What on this fucking earth do I have to be jealous of you about? You galavanting around with worthless titles? Or Sara carrying you to your one and only Universal Title shot? Or coming up short in that match? Or you slobbing on the knob of Robert after he basically handed you the X-Treme title? Everything you’ve “accomplished” has been on the backs of other people, and when you hand to stand on your own you came up just short. You can bring up my current losses all you want, it’s still not going to change the fact that the day I ever become jealous of you, or anyone else for that fact, is the day I leap off the Brooklyn Bridge face first. Again everyone thinks that Noah is a soft spot for me, and how we were just thrown together at the last minute. If you would have paid any attention Noah and I as a team was building for MONTHS, but I guess you were too ignorant to realize that. Also it turns out that I might be his dad. Just let me ask you one question… why didn’t you join the Tag Team Tournament? You say that Noah was the only one that could stand me. You say you had bigger and better things, yet here we both are at the same spot, and match. No I think the real reason you didn’t participate because you don’t have any friends. While Noah and I may not always get along, at least when something goes wrong I have someone who has my back. You on the other have nothing.

You have nothing for me to be jealous… Or maybe you’re just jealous of me and you are deflecting that upon me. Oh wait… you admitted as much. I am a Legend. You can call it a “Joke” all you want, but the fact of the matter is this… I’m there and you’ll never be. You say within the ranks of Raven, SJ, Centurion, that I’m the joke? Ok, quick history lesson. Without me there is no James Raven. Without me there is no Avenger Steve Jason. There is no Centurion! Why? I laid the groundwork for them, and continued to be here when the times were bleak. I kept the ship afloat. Not you. While you were off playing patty cake with some scrubs, I was here thriving, and helping those Legends walk through the door. So while in your shortsighted eyes, it was a joke, ask anyone of them and they’ll tell you nothing but facts.

But while we are on the past, you’re right… it is bullshit the don’t honor it, but guess what dipshit… It still fucking happened. I don’t give a shit if burned everything to ashes, everyone knows what happened, except for you? Fuck man you didn’t even have to dig too deep either. Go to the website, click Hall of Legends, boom my face. Then go to the Top 50 of all time list, which was voted on by the boys, boom my name! For fuck sake man, I was gone for nearly a decade and people still knew who the fuck I was. When you eventually wash out by January no one will even know, or care that you fucking existed. My name is etched into the record books and that will never change, meanwhile yours is written on an etch-a-sketch. A quick shake and you’re Sawyze… that means “Ghost” as in dead?! Fuck get with the lingo.

I absolutely love it when people call me “Old News”. It’s so… boring, but also appropriate. Why? Well simply put history always repeats itself. Fucking Nazi’s are back for shit’s sake. Yet you act like I’m not going to filet your fucking flesh off. You say they wanted to test you against a veteran? Newsflash dipshit, you fought for the Universal Title! They know what they have in you… a nobody. They didn’t put you in the Main Event of Day two… no they put me there to finally make a Big D match entertaining. It’s awesome that you’re so confident in the ending of our match. It’s as if you’re so blinded but jealousy, that it’s the only thing fueling you right now.m, if you haven’t noticed, you’ve said a lot of the same shit over and over again. Sure you used different verbs, adjectives and whatnot, but it’s all the same.

There is a lot that I plan on accomplishing in this match, none of it revolves around me being relevant. Since I’ve been back, I’ve been relevant. What I’m going to do is allow history to begin repeating. In 1999 the first title I won was the X-Treme title. I plan on doing just that again, only this time I’m not the rookie, I’m the veteran with nothing to lose. Your confidence knows no bounds. Neither did his. I need you to know that I don’t take anything you say about me as a threat. Just beware, from this point forward, keep my name out of your mouth. Yet if you must say it…

At least put some respect on it.]]> <![CDATA[Hard Times Breed Better Men]]> https://xwf1999.com/showthread.php?tid=34922 Fri, 27 Sep 2019 18:15:22 -0700 Centurion]]> https://xwf1999.com/showthread.php?tid=34922

(It has been an absolute rollercoaster for Centurion over the past five months. Returning to the ring, staving off an injury, being thrust in the middle of a federation war, battling old demons - Centurion has had quite the ride.

It all comes to a head Saturday night.

All the victories, and all the defeats, have lead Centurion to where he is now - in Miami, a day before his Hart Title match with Tony Santos at Relentless.

We open up on a balcony of the Miami Mandarin Hotel. There, we see Centurion sitting in a chair overlooking the ocean. He doesn't have a drink. He isn't grabbing a smoke. He's just looking. Thinking.

Thoughts of 18 years fly through his head. The struggles. The triumphs. Being away for so long and somehow finding himself in this position. Most of his peers have retired. Some of his peers are dead. But here he is, on the eve of a title match at an XWF pay per view.

It's been eight years since Centurion last held gold in the XWF. A lot of things have happened in eight years. The world is so drastically different. Professional wrestling is almost unrecognizable from where it was eight years ago. It isn't just the names and the faces that have changed - the entire landscape of the industry is different. So many fans of today's product were likely introduced to Centurion for the first time back in April. To them, Tony Santos is the legend, and Centurion is the underdog.

His thoughts are broken by the sound of the sliding glass door behind him opening. He quickly turns his head to see his sister Allison stepping out onto the balcony. Centurion turns his head back towards the ocean as Allison grabs a chair and sits down next to him.)

Allison: Nervous?

Centurion: Nervous. Excited. Anxious. Any emotion you can feel in a 24 hour period, I've felt. I don't remember the last time I've felt like this before a match.

Allison: You didn't feel this way before your Universal Title match?

Centurion: I felt conflicted before that match. I was trying to balance my desire to be champion with my dread of turning on my best friends. And the previous match with Tony Santos, I was so beat up and hurt that I couldn't think of much else. That was less about winning and more about survival. This...

(Centurion pauses. He searches for the actual words for the feelings he has in the moment.)

Centurion: This isn't a desire. This is a need. I need to validate my decision to return to this business.

Allison: That's good. That's how you felt when you broken into this business. You're not resting on your laurels. It's what you need to improving. Here, I got you something.

(Allison reaches into her pocket and pulls out a small jewelry box. She hands it over to Centurion.)

Centurion: Look, I know we're in the South, but that kind of thing is still frowned upon here.

Allison: Open the box, asshole.

(Centurion smiles before opening the box. Inside is a small turquoise necklace with a Wiccan symbol on it. Centurion arches his eyebrows as he looks at it.)

Centurion: I don't understand.

Allison: It's what I wore the night I won the Hart Title. I thought it would bring you luck.

(Allison previously wrestled for the XWF under the name "Willow", where she was able to win the Hart Title, as well as the Women's Title. Centurion and Allison formed a short lived tag team before her retirement.

Centurion takes the necklace out of the box and holds it in his fingers. It is small, and Centurion gently places it on his lap.)

Centurion: Thanks. I doubt it will fit me, though.

Allison: I'm not asking you to wear it! Tie it to one of your loops or whatever. Or keep it in the room. I just thought I'd bring you a little luck.

Centurion: I appreciate it, but I don't believe in luck, Al. Whether I win or lose will be determined by the work I do in the ring. And trust me - I plan on winning.

Allison: I know you are. And I know you will.

(Allison looks out into the ocean while Centurion does, and the two don't say anything for a few moments. The sound of the ocean, the people on the beach, and the cars driving are heard as the two sit in silence. Finally, Centurion speaks.)

Centurion: You know, it's funny. Wrestling is what tore our family apart, and now wrestling is what is being us all back together.

Allison: "Wrestling" didn't do anything. It was all you. You wanted to turn your life around. You just used wrestling as the catalyst to do so. You deserve a better send off than what you got. You deserve to be surrounded by friends and family, with everyone cheering your name, not with your reputation in the dirt.

Centurion: I don't know if I "deserve" anything. I know what I've earned, though - I've earned an opportunity to prove I'm one of the best. And I'm not going to let that go to waste. I've worked too damn hard to get here. I wanted to die, Al. Did you know that?

(Allison glances over at Centurion, but says nothing.)

Centurion: I didn't want to kill myself, but...I just thought it might have been better for everyone if I was gone for good. That's how far down I was. And as my 40th birthday approached, I thought that was going to be it. Dead at 40. Just like so many others. Then, something weird happened...I didn't die. I just kept going. And time kept moving forward. And that's when I realized nothing will get better unless I fix it. Instead of crying over the family I hurt, instead of whining about a legacy that was being forgotten, I needed to try and fix things. Winning this match...it would mean everything has come full circle.

Allison: Win or lose, there's a lot of people proud of you and what you've accomplished. But I know you...there is no moral victory in this one. Winning is the only thing you see. And to be honest, I see it, too.

Centurion: You're not going to bust my balls, or tell me how I can easily fuck this up?

Allison: Nope. Don't need to. I see the look in your eyes. Then I watch Tony Santos speak, and I see the look in his eyes, as well. It's almost like...he knows. Deep down he knows. It's not a "feeling." The writing is on the wall.

Centurion: What do you call it when you're confident and terrified all at the same time? Because that's me. I'm terrified of failure, but I'm so confident it isn't happening. I don't know if that's a good thing or a bad thing.

Allison: I guess we'll find out tomorrow. From my viewpoint, though - you've always done better when you have a wind of confidence below you. All those times you approached the ring with doubt? You didn't win. There is no doubt in your mind right now, is there?

(Centurion thinks for a second. He sees the waves crashing onto the beach as he thinks about all the things he has done to get to where he is now. He also thinks about the task at hand, he opponent, the glass cage, and the future. And it finally dawns on him.)

Centurion: No, there isn't.

-------You'll Follow Me Until The End------

*Clap* *clap* *clap*

Good job, Tony Santos. Good job.

For weeks I've been told about your talent, your quick wit, your way of words. I spent all this time preparing myself for what you had to say about me. It HAD to be good. After all, you evisorated Ned Kaye in your most recent match. You had to have something good saved up for the legend - the man you've brought down before. And yet...

Same attacks, same insults, all things I've heard over the past 18 years, with a few new, all be it completely incorrect, things tossed in.

This is it? This is the great Tony Santos I've heard so much about? This is the man I've been told I couldn't beat? Where's the fire? Where's the passion? For someone who is considered one of the best Hart Champions of all time, he approaches this thing like a middle school play - completely half assed, going through the motions and hoping the bare minimum gets him across the finish line.

I'm honestly disappointed. One of two things is clear to me - either everyone lied about Tony Santos' skill level, or Tony Santos is not taking me seriously at all. Either way, it pisses me off. I don't want to take the Hart Title from someone who clearly doesn't give a shit. I want to take it from someone who would DIE to keep it. Now I get to hear all the "yeah, but was Santos really at his best?" whispers that will float around the locker room.

So let's see here, what well did Santos go to. Old? Check. Never lead the federation? Check. Resting on my laurels and past success? Check-a-roo. Beat nobodies to inflate my resume? Oh, that's a big old check. Congratulations, Tony! You just copied every promo run against me in 2009! Want to talk about how I'm friends with better wrestlers than I am? That might be the only one you forgot.

I should have known better. I should have known that, and in the end, after laying out a nuisanced argument as to why Tony Santos is really good, but I expect to beat him, I'd see my opponent continue the same boring insults. I should have known...because you have nothing on me, Tony. There are only so many times you can say "I beat you before and I'll beat you again!" before everyone tunes you out. And you can't point to any other reason as to why you'd be better than me. So you just say I'm old and scared and all that good stuff.

First of all, scared of you, Tony? Really? There are plenty of times where I should have been killed in that ring because I was facing someone bigger and badder than I was. I've been thrown off of rafters, crashed through glass tables - hell, I was fucking crucified when I first got into this business. You think I'm going to be scared of YOU? Just because you beat me before?

On that same note, you think I give a shit about what your breath smells like? I've fought men who haven't showered in weeks and vomited in the back 5 minutes before the match. I fought women who stuffed sardines in their cooter. The smell of stale Jack Daniels is a breath mint in this business.

Have you ever thought I was heaping praise on you because you have *gasp* talent?! And that I can recognize that talent? Or are you so entangled in the stereotypes of pro wrestling that you see any compliment by an opponent as a sign of weakness. News flash, Tony - you might think you're a piece of shit, but the people in the back think you're really good. I know, they've told me numerous times. Given your recent ramblings, though, I don't know why.

Though I guess I do get it - why I've been told how great you are. It's because you're the meme of a pro wrestler. Pseudo-tough guy, loner, likes to beat people up but has a dark past and many demons in the closet. You'd be in every pro wrestling movie that Hollywood would make. Whether you'd be the protagonist or the antagonist remains to be seen.

All of this, though, is to get to the absolute most glaring flaw of your entire speech against me. The reason I know you haven't done fuck all in terms of research. It's something you said over and over again, and was complete bullshit.

"Flaunt my wealth."

You realize I've lost it all, right? Like, that's the whole reason I came back in the first place. My business, my casino, my home - it's gone. I've been working for six months to try and get it all back, but it's a slow process. I don't have it now, and I sure as hell can't flaunt something I don't have.

You did one of two things, Tony. You either a) watched two promos of mine, one of which included the private jet my sister now owns and ASSUMED it was mine, and/or b) you read an old bio page of mine which states I'm a rich mother fucker. That has to be the extent of the research you've done on me, because if you talked to just ONE PERSON, or heard one word I've said in the past six months, you'll know I've been working my ass off to reclaim what was once mine.

I guess there is a third option - you stole, word for word, someone else's words used against me. That would explain the out dated reference to my wealth. That would explain the insults from 2009. It would just explain a lot. More than likely, though, you've had one too many cocktails, forgot you were facing me, and quickly scrambled to put together the laziest insults you could.

I'm starting to get it, though. You're jealous. The old "trying to overcome the demons of the past", that was YOUR shit. Then I show up, with very little to my name, fallen off the highest of horses, and now you're no longer unique. Because without it - without the alcoholism, the feeling sorry for yourself, the "fuck the world" mentality that used to make you different, you have nothing. If you can't rely on your story, you become "just another guy".

You really are pathetic, Tony. That's what you wanted to hear, isn't it? You didn't want the praise, so I won't give it to you anymore. I'll tell you what you want to hear. You're a waste. You could easily be Universal Champion, but you don't give enough of a shit to put the work in to actually take the title. You have a whole locker room of folks who think you're the shit, but you don't want to jeopardize your self indulging "loner" persona, so you shrug them off. You're a gifted athlete that can't get out of his own fucking way, which is why you're going to spiral out of control the moment you lose that belt.

You CLAIM to not give a fuck. You CLAIM to not care about being relevant or having people cheer you on. It's all one giant facade though, isn't it, Tony? Because really, not only do you care, but it KILLS you. THAT'S why you're a drunken whore - because you're afraid the gravy train ends tomorrow. You live every day like your last because it very well could be, and the fact that my legacy is cemented while yours has yet to be written is something that destroys you. You don't want praise and relevance - you CRAVE it. You put up the persona of a lonely man who doesn't give a fuck because you don't want people to see the real you - a child who is looking for a hug.

Think what you want about me, Tony. Honestly, I have had far worse things said about me from far better people than you. And no, that's not me "resting on my legacy." That's just life. Life is cruel - it will beat you down until you can't get up anymore. I have been torn down and ripped to shreds by family members and my closest friends, so if you think for a moment I'm going to let some moody drunk be the end of me, you're delusional.

You don't want me to talk anymore? Fine, I won't. You don't want me to say my catch phrase? Fine. I'll give you whatever peace of mind you want, because in 24 hours, you're ass is going to be covered in glass, while I stand in the middle of the ring holding the Hart Title. What happens after that is up to you. My guess? We won't see you again. You'll stick your tail between your legs, and run away like every other so called "unbeatable" wrestler that finds themselves on the other side. I guess we'll know soon enough. See you soon, Tony!]]>

(It has been an absolute rollercoaster for Centurion over the past five months. Returning to the ring, staving off an injury, being thrust in the middle of a federation war, battling old demons - Centurion has had quite the ride.

It all comes to a head Saturday night.

All the victories, and all the defeats, have lead Centurion to where he is now - in Miami, a day before his Hart Title match with Tony Santos at Relentless.

We open up on a balcony of the Miami Mandarin Hotel. There, we see Centurion sitting in a chair overlooking the ocean. He doesn't have a drink. He isn't grabbing a smoke. He's just looking. Thinking.

Thoughts of 18 years fly through his head. The struggles. The triumphs. Being away for so long and somehow finding himself in this position. Most of his peers have retired. Some of his peers are dead. But here he is, on the eve of a title match at an XWF pay per view.

It's been eight years since Centurion last held gold in the XWF. A lot of things have happened in eight years. The world is so drastically different. Professional wrestling is almost unrecognizable from where it was eight years ago. It isn't just the names and the faces that have changed - the entire landscape of the industry is different. So many fans of today's product were likely introduced to Centurion for the first time back in April. To them, Tony Santos is the legend, and Centurion is the underdog.

His thoughts are broken by the sound of the sliding glass door behind him opening. He quickly turns his head to see his sister Allison stepping out onto the balcony. Centurion turns his head back towards the ocean as Allison grabs a chair and sits down next to him.)

Allison: Nervous?

Centurion: Nervous. Excited. Anxious. Any emotion you can feel in a 24 hour period, I've felt. I don't remember the last time I've felt like this before a match.

Allison: You didn't feel this way before your Universal Title match?

Centurion: I felt conflicted before that match. I was trying to balance my desire to be champion with my dread of turning on my best friends. And the previous match with Tony Santos, I was so beat up and hurt that I couldn't think of much else. That was less about winning and more about survival. This...

(Centurion pauses. He searches for the actual words for the feelings he has in the moment.)

Centurion: This isn't a desire. This is a need. I need to validate my decision to return to this business.

Allison: That's good. That's how you felt when you broken into this business. You're not resting on your laurels. It's what you need to improving. Here, I got you something.

(Allison reaches into her pocket and pulls out a small jewelry box. She hands it over to Centurion.)

Centurion: Look, I know we're in the South, but that kind of thing is still frowned upon here.

Allison: Open the box, asshole.

(Centurion smiles before opening the box. Inside is a small turquoise necklace with a Wiccan symbol on it. Centurion arches his eyebrows as he looks at it.)

Centurion: I don't understand.

Allison: It's what I wore the night I won the Hart Title. I thought it would bring you luck.

(Allison previously wrestled for the XWF under the name "Willow", where she was able to win the Hart Title, as well as the Women's Title. Centurion and Allison formed a short lived tag team before her retirement.

Centurion takes the necklace out of the box and holds it in his fingers. It is small, and Centurion gently places it on his lap.)

Centurion: Thanks. I doubt it will fit me, though.

Allison: I'm not asking you to wear it! Tie it to one of your loops or whatever. Or keep it in the room. I just thought I'd bring you a little luck.

Centurion: I appreciate it, but I don't believe in luck, Al. Whether I win or lose will be determined by the work I do in the ring. And trust me - I plan on winning.

Allison: I know you are. And I know you will.

(Allison looks out into the ocean while Centurion does, and the two don't say anything for a few moments. The sound of the ocean, the people on the beach, and the cars driving are heard as the two sit in silence. Finally, Centurion speaks.)

Centurion: You know, it's funny. Wrestling is what tore our family apart, and now wrestling is what is being us all back together.

Allison: "Wrestling" didn't do anything. It was all you. You wanted to turn your life around. You just used wrestling as the catalyst to do so. You deserve a better send off than what you got. You deserve to be surrounded by friends and family, with everyone cheering your name, not with your reputation in the dirt.

Centurion: I don't know if I "deserve" anything. I know what I've earned, though - I've earned an opportunity to prove I'm one of the best. And I'm not going to let that go to waste. I've worked too damn hard to get here. I wanted to die, Al. Did you know that?

(Allison glances over at Centurion, but says nothing.)

Centurion: I didn't want to kill myself, but...I just thought it might have been better for everyone if I was gone for good. That's how far down I was. And as my 40th birthday approached, I thought that was going to be it. Dead at 40. Just like so many others. Then, something weird happened...I didn't die. I just kept going. And time kept moving forward. And that's when I realized nothing will get better unless I fix it. Instead of crying over the family I hurt, instead of whining about a legacy that was being forgotten, I needed to try and fix things. Winning this match...it would mean everything has come full circle.

Allison: Win or lose, there's a lot of people proud of you and what you've accomplished. But I know you...there is no moral victory in this one. Winning is the only thing you see. And to be honest, I see it, too.

Centurion: You're not going to bust my balls, or tell me how I can easily fuck this up?

Allison: Nope. Don't need to. I see the look in your eyes. Then I watch Tony Santos speak, and I see the look in his eyes, as well. It's almost like...he knows. Deep down he knows. It's not a "feeling." The writing is on the wall.

Centurion: What do you call it when you're confident and terrified all at the same time? Because that's me. I'm terrified of failure, but I'm so confident it isn't happening. I don't know if that's a good thing or a bad thing.

Allison: I guess we'll find out tomorrow. From my viewpoint, though - you've always done better when you have a wind of confidence below you. All those times you approached the ring with doubt? You didn't win. There is no doubt in your mind right now, is there?

(Centurion thinks for a second. He sees the waves crashing onto the beach as he thinks about all the things he has done to get to where he is now. He also thinks about the task at hand, he opponent, the glass cage, and the future. And it finally dawns on him.)

Centurion: No, there isn't.

-------You'll Follow Me Until The End------

*Clap* *clap* *clap*

Good job, Tony Santos. Good job.

For weeks I've been told about your talent, your quick wit, your way of words. I spent all this time preparing myself for what you had to say about me. It HAD to be good. After all, you evisorated Ned Kaye in your most recent match. You had to have something good saved up for the legend - the man you've brought down before. And yet...

Same attacks, same insults, all things I've heard over the past 18 years, with a few new, all be it completely incorrect, things tossed in.

This is it? This is the great Tony Santos I've heard so much about? This is the man I've been told I couldn't beat? Where's the fire? Where's the passion? For someone who is considered one of the best Hart Champions of all time, he approaches this thing like a middle school play - completely half assed, going through the motions and hoping the bare minimum gets him across the finish line.

I'm honestly disappointed. One of two things is clear to me - either everyone lied about Tony Santos' skill level, or Tony Santos is not taking me seriously at all. Either way, it pisses me off. I don't want to take the Hart Title from someone who clearly doesn't give a shit. I want to take it from someone who would DIE to keep it. Now I get to hear all the "yeah, but was Santos really at his best?" whispers that will float around the locker room.

So let's see here, what well did Santos go to. Old? Check. Never lead the federation? Check. Resting on my laurels and past success? Check-a-roo. Beat nobodies to inflate my resume? Oh, that's a big old check. Congratulations, Tony! You just copied every promo run against me in 2009! Want to talk about how I'm friends with better wrestlers than I am? That might be the only one you forgot.

I should have known better. I should have known that, and in the end, after laying out a nuisanced argument as to why Tony Santos is really good, but I expect to beat him, I'd see my opponent continue the same boring insults. I should have known...because you have nothing on me, Tony. There are only so many times you can say "I beat you before and I'll beat you again!" before everyone tunes you out. And you can't point to any other reason as to why you'd be better than me. So you just say I'm old and scared and all that good stuff.

First of all, scared of you, Tony? Really? There are plenty of times where I should have been killed in that ring because I was facing someone bigger and badder than I was. I've been thrown off of rafters, crashed through glass tables - hell, I was fucking crucified when I first got into this business. You think I'm going to be scared of YOU? Just because you beat me before?

On that same note, you think I give a shit about what your breath smells like? I've fought men who haven't showered in weeks and vomited in the back 5 minutes before the match. I fought women who stuffed sardines in their cooter. The smell of stale Jack Daniels is a breath mint in this business.

Have you ever thought I was heaping praise on you because you have *gasp* talent?! And that I can recognize that talent? Or are you so entangled in the stereotypes of pro wrestling that you see any compliment by an opponent as a sign of weakness. News flash, Tony - you might think you're a piece of shit, but the people in the back think you're really good. I know, they've told me numerous times. Given your recent ramblings, though, I don't know why.

Though I guess I do get it - why I've been told how great you are. It's because you're the meme of a pro wrestler. Pseudo-tough guy, loner, likes to beat people up but has a dark past and many demons in the closet. You'd be in every pro wrestling movie that Hollywood would make. Whether you'd be the protagonist or the antagonist remains to be seen.

All of this, though, is to get to the absolute most glaring flaw of your entire speech against me. The reason I know you haven't done fuck all in terms of research. It's something you said over and over again, and was complete bullshit.

"Flaunt my wealth."

You realize I've lost it all, right? Like, that's the whole reason I came back in the first place. My business, my casino, my home - it's gone. I've been working for six months to try and get it all back, but it's a slow process. I don't have it now, and I sure as hell can't flaunt something I don't have.

You did one of two things, Tony. You either a) watched two promos of mine, one of which included the private jet my sister now owns and ASSUMED it was mine, and/or b) you read an old bio page of mine which states I'm a rich mother fucker. That has to be the extent of the research you've done on me, because if you talked to just ONE PERSON, or heard one word I've said in the past six months, you'll know I've been working my ass off to reclaim what was once mine.

I guess there is a third option - you stole, word for word, someone else's words used against me. That would explain the out dated reference to my wealth. That would explain the insults from 2009. It would just explain a lot. More than likely, though, you've had one too many cocktails, forgot you were facing me, and quickly scrambled to put together the laziest insults you could.

I'm starting to get it, though. You're jealous. The old "trying to overcome the demons of the past", that was YOUR shit. Then I show up, with very little to my name, fallen off the highest of horses, and now you're no longer unique. Because without it - without the alcoholism, the feeling sorry for yourself, the "fuck the world" mentality that used to make you different, you have nothing. If you can't rely on your story, you become "just another guy".

You really are pathetic, Tony. That's what you wanted to hear, isn't it? You didn't want the praise, so I won't give it to you anymore. I'll tell you what you want to hear. You're a waste. You could easily be Universal Champion, but you don't give enough of a shit to put the work in to actually take the title. You have a whole locker room of folks who think you're the shit, but you don't want to jeopardize your self indulging "loner" persona, so you shrug them off. You're a gifted athlete that can't get out of his own fucking way, which is why you're going to spiral out of control the moment you lose that belt.

You CLAIM to not give a fuck. You CLAIM to not care about being relevant or having people cheer you on. It's all one giant facade though, isn't it, Tony? Because really, not only do you care, but it KILLS you. THAT'S why you're a drunken whore - because you're afraid the gravy train ends tomorrow. You live every day like your last because it very well could be, and the fact that my legacy is cemented while yours has yet to be written is something that destroys you. You don't want praise and relevance - you CRAVE it. You put up the persona of a lonely man who doesn't give a fuck because you don't want people to see the real you - a child who is looking for a hug.

Think what you want about me, Tony. Honestly, I have had far worse things said about me from far better people than you. And no, that's not me "resting on my legacy." That's just life. Life is cruel - it will beat you down until you can't get up anymore. I have been torn down and ripped to shreds by family members and my closest friends, so if you think for a moment I'm going to let some moody drunk be the end of me, you're delusional.

You don't want me to talk anymore? Fine, I won't. You don't want me to say my catch phrase? Fine. I'll give you whatever peace of mind you want, because in 24 hours, you're ass is going to be covered in glass, while I stand in the middle of the ring holding the Hart Title. What happens after that is up to you. My guess? We won't see you again. You'll stick your tail between your legs, and run away like every other so called "unbeatable" wrestler that finds themselves on the other side. I guess we'll know soon enough. See you soon, Tony!]]> <![CDATA[**Whistles** BIIIIIIIITCHHHYYYYY *Whistles*]]> https://xwf1999.com/showthread.php?tid=34919 Fri, 27 Sep 2019 15:35:28 -0700 Madison Dyson]]> https://xwf1999.com/showthread.php?tid=34919


We hear the familiar whistled tune of the classic Lassie theme song and see a German Shepherd walking down the street looking regal as fuck.

BIIIIIIIIIITTTCCCCHHHHHYYYYYY!

The same German Shepherd hops over a small fence with ease!

BIIIIIIIIIITTTCCCCHHHHHYYYYYY!

She sits and waits for the red light at the crosswalk to cross.

BIIIIIIIIIITTTCCCCHHHHHYYYYYY!

We then see her get aboard a subway and take a seat next to a sleeping wino.

BIIIIIIIIIITTTCCCCHHHHHYYYYYY!

Ok, but really where the hell is this dog going? We then see her get off the subway and climb the multitude of steps up out of the station.

Dog still looking regal as fuck though.

BIIIIIIIIIITTTCCCCHHHHHYYYYYY!

Now we see the dog climbing a whole bunch more steps and pass into a large arched doorway.

BIIIIIIIIIITTTCCCCHHHHHYYYYYY!

Finally, the dog emerges into a large gathering of people inside a church like setting. It's....

[Image: bris-circumcision-orthodox-new-york-time...085399.jpg]

….oh God it's a Bris.

Bitchy the dog makes a beeline for the mohel as he hovers over a baby prepped for circumcision. The old man doesn't stand a chance as Bitchy plows right into him, chomping down hard on his dick and pulling him to the floor by his cock, where she continues to rip and tear. The old man screams in horror and agony and the entire Bris party runs in terror (leaving the baby behind).

Madison Dyson jumps in from out of nowhere.

YEAH BITCHY GET HIM! We leave “sleeves on” in this neck of the woods, got it Dershowitz! Fuckin' pedo baby dick biters!

Madison turns to the camera.

This is my dog Bitchy! And as you can see, I've trained her to get shit done. None of the rest of ya'alls little pussy dogs stand a chance. Except maybe Shane's, that thing seems pretty hardcore unless it's already been euthanized.

An image appears on screen of Bitchy in Jeffery Epstein's prison cell, holding a noose in her jaws. Her little doggy eyes somehow scream “you know what must be done”.

Bitchy's my problem solver, and unlike most human servants, she does what I say without backtalk or even any semblance of a conscience. The perfect little solider.

Another image appears on screen of Bitchy dressed like a Nazi solider, complete with cute little jack boots, as she surveys an ICE internment camp. Little Mexican children can be seen cowering in terror underneath Bitchy's stern gaze.

And best of all? She's a fucking patriot!

We return to the original scene. The mohel appears to be dead. Bitchy is splattered in gore, and she seems very proud of herself.

Oh, Bitchy! I love you. Madison just looks at Bitchy, as the dog returns her stare expectantly. I ain't touching you right now though. Go take a fuckin' bath.

Bitchy walks off camera.

See you cucks at Relentless. Especially you vagina havers who are bringing cats. Ugh!]]>


We hear the familiar whistled tune of the classic Lassie theme song and see a German Shepherd walking down the street looking regal as fuck.

BIIIIIIIIIITTTCCCCHHHHHYYYYYY!

The same German Shepherd hops over a small fence with ease!

BIIIIIIIIIITTTCCCCHHHHHYYYYYY!

She sits and waits for the red light at the crosswalk to cross.

BIIIIIIIIIITTTCCCCHHHHHYYYYYY!

We then see her get aboard a subway and take a seat next to a sleeping wino.

BIIIIIIIIIITTTCCCCHHHHHYYYYYY!

Ok, but really where the hell is this dog going? We then see her get off the subway and climb the multitude of steps up out of the station.

Dog still looking regal as fuck though.

BIIIIIIIIIITTTCCCCHHHHHYYYYYY!

Now we see the dog climbing a whole bunch more steps and pass into a large arched doorway.

BIIIIIIIIIITTTCCCCHHHHHYYYYYY!

Finally, the dog emerges into a large gathering of people inside a church like setting. It's....

[Image: bris-circumcision-orthodox-new-york-time...085399.jpg]

….oh God it's a Bris.

Bitchy the dog makes a beeline for the mohel as he hovers over a baby prepped for circumcision. The old man doesn't stand a chance as Bitchy plows right into him, chomping down hard on his dick and pulling him to the floor by his cock, where she continues to rip and tear. The old man screams in horror and agony and the entire Bris party runs in terror (leaving the baby behind).

Madison Dyson jumps in from out of nowhere.

YEAH BITCHY GET HIM! We leave “sleeves on” in this neck of the woods, got it Dershowitz! Fuckin' pedo baby dick biters!

Madison turns to the camera.

This is my dog Bitchy! And as you can see, I've trained her to get shit done. None of the rest of ya'alls little pussy dogs stand a chance. Except maybe Shane's, that thing seems pretty hardcore unless it's already been euthanized.

An image appears on screen of Bitchy in Jeffery Epstein's prison cell, holding a noose in her jaws. Her little doggy eyes somehow scream “you know what must be done”.

Bitchy's my problem solver, and unlike most human servants, she does what I say without backtalk or even any semblance of a conscience. The perfect little solider.

Another image appears on screen of Bitchy dressed like a Nazi solider, complete with cute little jack boots, as she surveys an ICE internment camp. Little Mexican children can be seen cowering in terror underneath Bitchy's stern gaze.

And best of all? She's a fucking patriot!

We return to the original scene. The mohel appears to be dead. Bitchy is splattered in gore, and she seems very proud of herself.

Oh, Bitchy! I love you. Madison just looks at Bitchy, as the dog returns her stare expectantly. I ain't touching you right now though. Go take a fuckin' bath.

Bitchy walks off camera.

See you cucks at Relentless. Especially you vagina havers who are bringing cats. Ugh!]]> <![CDATA[Drenched in Vanilla Twilight]]> https://xwf1999.com/showthread.php?tid=34917 Fri, 27 Sep 2019 13:57:48 -0700 Tony Santos]]> https://xwf1999.com/showthread.php?tid=34917

The scene opens on a muggy night in South Beach, Miami Beach, Florida. The humidity oozes through the camera, even at 79 degrees, a sheet of moisture overtaking the camera lens, covering the nightlife taking place on the street in front of it. With what can be seen, the street is filled with bright neon lights, some signaling traffic, others welcoming Thursday night patrons into drunken dance traps. A buzz makes its way through the landscape, with Spanish rolling Rs, many a hip gyration, and young kids, just out of college and working in a city known for bars closing at 4am, staying up into the night, plastered beyond all comprehension, simply because they know their boss won't notice in the morning.

Miami: The site of Relentless. Miami: The 24/7 party. Miami: Because Vegas needs an East Coast sibling.

Miami.

The camera pans down the street, capturing similar drunken debauchery caked in neon. Bar after bar holds drunken 20-somethings, as well as families in town to see the most raunchy wrestling in town. The lights flash through the sky like a thick, neon paintbrush, thanks to the camera accelerating through the chaos beneath it. It turns to the right, finding a young woman letting a tequila shot be taken from her belly button, and then to the left, where a young man... sips tequila from the sidewalk?

The point is, we find ourselves in a city primed for partying and shame. As the camera pans the street, it finds person after person, willing to debase his or her self in the name of gratification. In the name of pleasure.

The camera stops outside of Cameo:

[Image: man_beat_coma_cameo_south_beach_new_year...i_2015.jpg]

Sweat practically drips off of the Cameo sign, the vices oozing from within. Men and women in the process of cheating on their wives and husbands, the spectacle of infidelity on full display. We turn closer to the club entrance, passing more hot pink and hair gel than all 80s music videos combined, and, in the distance, we see the pole.

[Image: cameo.jpg]

The bazz pounds against the walls of the club, two young women dancing in lockstep with the beat, against that pole. Thirsty young men surround the women, cackling and egging their barely legal performance on, the scene reminiscent of Girls Gone Wild, or the start of a bad porno. The dancing continues, with the grand finale ending in the two women kissing, which gets a ROAR from the overly horny onlookers, and even a few dollar bills rain down.

The camera continues its way through the haze of sweat and alcohol, past the VIP tables, where the likes of Chris Brown, Suge Knight, and other celebrities have spent literal tens of thousands of dollars to be gawked at by drunken kids. The tables are packed, buckets filled with high priced champagne, traces of white powder that are most certainly not cocaine, and servers sucking up cash tips from the table like vacuum cleaners.

The energy in the club is palpable on a Thursday night, and none of these people are going to watch Relentless. This is just how Miami, and South Beach, are. Clubs open at 8am, close at 4am, and then the cycle continues. It's fuel for every person looking to have a good time.

And it's a deathtrap for an alcoholic.

Stop me if you've heard this story before. Tony Santos walks into a bar...

...oh, you have? Well, let's just get to it then.

The camera zooms into one particular table in the middle of the VIP section, and servers part like the Red Sea. Empty beer bottles are strewn on the floor, with shards of a broken bottle laying on the table. An ashtray sits in the middle of the table, holding old cigarette butts, and one still burning bright, a clump of ash falling off of the burning butt and into the steel tray. We pan up, and we see Tony Santos, sitting in the middle of the couch, in the middle of uproarious laughter with two other gentlemen. Tony sits in crisp, new(!) jeans, some flashy pink and green Chucks sneakers, and a white button down shirt. His face is clean shaven, hair combed and gelled, and he looks... happy, for once. Almost as if he's in his element.

The men surrounding Tony met him a mere few hours ago, noticing him not for the fact that he's a professional wrestler, but because he just looks so off in a place like South Beach...

...and maybe because he was flaunting his championship belt. You know, the gaudy white and pink belt with a flying skull on it? Yeah, that might've done it.

And now Tony was regaling them with tales of the road. Tales of matches he fought in, the weird food he's eaten (especially the time he got a bad case of diarrhea in the heart of Thailand), and how...

Santos: I've never had a drink in my life!

Ah yes, revisionist history. For anyone who had actually watched Tony Santos on TV over the past six years, you'd easily know that's a lie, what, with his televised blackouts, crawling on everything from pavement to airplane bathrooms, and the numerous hallucinations he's gone through with the audience, and his opponents, watching.

But here? No one cared if you were a fraud. If you bought them drinks or drugs, you were their best friend, and they would milk you until the night was over.

Miami.

Tony's laughing dies down a bit, and he notices the camera in front of him. He taps the two men on the shoulder, handing them each a $50 bill.

Santos: Hey guys, speaking of my wrestling gig, I've got a little bit of camera work to get in, so go buy yourselves, and maybe some lucky ladies, some drinks at the bar and come back in, say, 20 minutes?

Tony looks upward, eyes squinting, as if he's deep in thought.

Santos: Scratch that, come back in 45 minutes or so. This is gonna take a while.

The men leave their chairs, step over the velvet rope blocking the VIP section from the rest of the nightclub, and head to the bar. Tony, meanwhile, leans back, letting his outstretched arms rest on the plush leather couch. He smiles that toothy smile, his front tooth seemingly shining under the disco ball overhead. In front of him, a glass of sparkling water with a lemon wedge on the rim. Tony's Hart Title lays on his lap, never having left his side as long as he was in this nightclub. A drunken Tony might've passed it around the bar, having to explain the next day how he lost the title belt to some drunk college kid in South Beach, but not sober Tony. Sober Tony actually had his wits about him, and, having been off booze for weeks now, seemed relaxed, collected, and happy.

For now.

Santos: Why helloooooo everyone! Thank you for taking the time to sit in on my own personal vanity tour through South Beach! See, I figured, if I'm going to face such an accomplished, wealthy, and successful man like Centurion, I need to do a better job of understanding his routine, his thought processes. So I thought, you know, I make bucket loads of cash as the Hart champion, and have been making said bucket loads for a while, given that I just so happen to be one of the longest reigning champions in history, so why not flaunt it a bit. Act like a Centurion, flashing money to cover up my weaknesses. Really show off how great I am, by every standard we as a culture have accepted, which is how fucking big that bank account is.

So here I am! My tab is probably at, what? $10k at this point? $20k? Who the hell even knows anymore. I've bought more drinks for others, drinks that I can't even drink, than I ever imagined. But hey, when you're trying to make up for your own insecurities, you gotta write some checks! Centurion knows that, and I'm just trying to catch up.

And I think I'm doing a good job? See, what I've learned from Centurion over these past few weeks, as I've listened to him ramble on about my own greatness, while bragging about his success as a casino magnate, and the funny little quips with his sister's lover, is that, to truly be next level, to really get on the level of someone who managed to lose to a bunch of similarly tired old has-beens, while simultaneously being stabbed with a syringe, disgracing oneself and their family, at an event meant to make a bunch of old timers feel relevant again...

Tony stops himself, grabbing his sparkling water, taking a big gulp and letting out a satisfied "ahh."

Santos: Sorry, as I was saying. To be as successful as the great Centurion, you need to talk a big game. Just talk, and talk, and talk, and talk and talk and talkandtalkandtalkandtalk, and people will put you in positions you so clearly don't deserve! You can just coast on a legacy that hasn't been relevant since the god damn George Bush administration, and be called a legend, and booked like a legend, until you keel over and die from the weight of your missed expectations.

So here I am, throwing money at people I don't know, and things I don't need. Because in Centurion's world, material wealth trumps actual, relevant accomplishments.

Relevant accomplishments.

Tony stands up, steps over the table, over the velvet rope, and on to the floor. He walks past the dance pole, ripping off his button down shirt. Underneath the button down is a ragged white t-shirt.

Tony makes his way past the fawning boys and towards the bar. He finds a peeling knife, mainly used to peel off rinds from lemons and oranges, and grabs it, his tattooed fingers turning a pinkish sheen as they grip the knife. He takes the knife to his pants, and tears holes in each leg, then sets the knife down on the bar.

Tony walks through the bar, stopping to survey the chaos around him. He looks back at the camera, and smiles once again.

Santos: This is what Centurion flaunts. Shameless capitalism. A bunch of privileged motherfuckers, inheriting wealth, and turning it into excess. This is what Centurion sees as impressive. This is what Centurion sees as success.

But the difference between Centurion and me? Centurion flaunts the money he earned by swindling others out of their savings, and he has nothing tangible, at least in the wrestling business, to show for it. See, he has accolades, that's for damn sure, but when did his accolades matter? Like I mentioned earlier, it's been entire presidencies since Centurion was a thing. So he comes back, basks in the praise he receives from similarly old and irrelevant idiots, who mattered in a time when diatribes about how much you hate gay people, and how funny rape is, were the key to success... and that is how he finds his ticket to ride. And Centurion comes in, and he loses to me. And he doesn't just lose to me, he loses with complete ease.

Centurion, the legend, loses to the man who barely held the Xtreme Title, who barely held the TV Title. A fucking drunk who has ruined each and every opponent in his wake, all while trying to not stumble into oncoming traffic.

Centurion lost to him.

And he's going to lose to him again. And why? Because Centurion is weak. He heaps praise on me like I've been Universal Champion for a decade. He heaps praise on me as the legend he knows he could never be. And for each and every time he speaks, he shows how little he believes in himself, and validates how little others should believe in him.

Centurion doesn't even know how he got here. Centurion doesn't even know how he became a legend. But Centurion knows how I became one.

Tony smiles, walking out of the club.

Santos: Centurion knows that I became a legend by fucking performing, something he can't do. A broken, beaten down alcoholic, is a bigger attraction than Centurion. A man with a scarred liver and a dented brain draws more business than the legend from the Iraq war, Centurion. And why?

Because I could give two shits if I'm as relevant tomorrow as I am today. I could give two shits if I'm in a penthouse or a fucking garage. I could give two shits if I'm beating the brains in of an opponent looking to take my title, or some scrub who's looking to make his way in the XWF.

And that is my advantage. Whereas you, the mighty Centurion, man of zero belts since anyone fucking cared, sits and talks about rebuilding your legacy, I stand and destroy my opposition. You chase praise, I chase victory. Look around you, Cent.

Tony raises his hands in the air, now outside of Cameo. He swivels through the street lights, neon signs, and drunken debauchery, showcasing the insanity that is South Beach.

Santos: This is your town. This is where you should thrive. This is where you should be your best.

Because it's oozing in the vanity you so crave, and it basks in the privilege you're the poster child for.

But this is where you will fail. You'll fail like every time before, because, Cent, you're just not up to snuff. You're just not that good. You're living on past success, in a time when competition just wasn't that good. When competition...

...wasn't Tony Santos.

Cent, I'm better than you. I know it, and you most certainly know it too. It's the reason I've been unstoppable as champion, and the reason you can't help but remind me of how great I am. You're scared of what I'll do to you in that ring, so you're doing your best to protect that precious, ancient, reputation you've so cherished. Win or lose, Centurion comes out strong, since he either beat a great wrestler, or lost to a vicious champion.

Either way, Centurion wins!

Unless I expose you for the fraud you truly are.

Centurion, I hope you enjoyed some spiked daiquiris, threw some of that wealth on the town, and indulged in some of the pleasures your sister so enjoys, because on Saturday, I fucking ruin you for good. Saturday, I end this farce, destroy your fraudulent reputation, and close the book on your career. Saturday, instead of a final fantasy, you'll live the fucking nightmare you so deserve.

Good luck.

Tony leaves the nightclub, hands in the air, basking in the warm Florida air, as the scene fades to black.

]]>

The scene opens on a muggy night in South Beach, Miami Beach, Florida. The humidity oozes through the camera, even at 79 degrees, a sheet of moisture overtaking the camera lens, covering the nightlife taking place on the street in front of it. With what can be seen, the street is filled with bright neon lights, some signaling traffic, others welcoming Thursday night patrons into drunken dance traps. A buzz makes its way through the landscape, with Spanish rolling Rs, many a hip gyration, and young kids, just out of college and working in a city known for bars closing at 4am, staying up into the night, plastered beyond all comprehension, simply because they know their boss won't notice in the morning.

Miami: The site of Relentless. Miami: The 24/7 party. Miami: Because Vegas needs an East Coast sibling.

Miami.

The camera pans down the street, capturing similar drunken debauchery caked in neon. Bar after bar holds drunken 20-somethings, as well as families in town to see the most raunchy wrestling in town. The lights flash through the sky like a thick, neon paintbrush, thanks to the camera accelerating through the chaos beneath it. It turns to the right, finding a young woman letting a tequila shot be taken from her belly button, and then to the left, where a young man... sips tequila from the sidewalk?

The point is, we find ourselves in a city primed for partying and shame. As the camera pans the street, it finds person after person, willing to debase his or her self in the name of gratification. In the name of pleasure.

The camera stops outside of Cameo:

[Image: man_beat_coma_cameo_south_beach_new_year...i_2015.jpg]

Sweat practically drips off of the Cameo sign, the vices oozing from within. Men and women in the process of cheating on their wives and husbands, the spectacle of infidelity on full display. We turn closer to the club entrance, passing more hot pink and hair gel than all 80s music videos combined, and, in the distance, we see the pole.

[Image: cameo.jpg]

The bazz pounds against the walls of the club, two young women dancing in lockstep with the beat, against that pole. Thirsty young men surround the women, cackling and egging their barely legal performance on, the scene reminiscent of Girls Gone Wild, or the start of a bad porno. The dancing continues, with the grand finale ending in the two women kissing, which gets a ROAR from the overly horny onlookers, and even a few dollar bills rain down.

The camera continues its way through the haze of sweat and alcohol, past the VIP tables, where the likes of Chris Brown, Suge Knight, and other celebrities have spent literal tens of thousands of dollars to be gawked at by drunken kids. The tables are packed, buckets filled with high priced champagne, traces of white powder that are most certainly not cocaine, and servers sucking up cash tips from the table like vacuum cleaners.

The energy in the club is palpable on a Thursday night, and none of these people are going to watch Relentless. This is just how Miami, and South Beach, are. Clubs open at 8am, close at 4am, and then the cycle continues. It's fuel for every person looking to have a good time.

And it's a deathtrap for an alcoholic.

Stop me if you've heard this story before. Tony Santos walks into a bar...

...oh, you have? Well, let's just get to it then.

The camera zooms into one particular table in the middle of the VIP section, and servers part like the Red Sea. Empty beer bottles are strewn on the floor, with shards of a broken bottle laying on the table. An ashtray sits in the middle of the table, holding old cigarette butts, and one still burning bright, a clump of ash falling off of the burning butt and into the steel tray. We pan up, and we see Tony Santos, sitting in the middle of the couch, in the middle of uproarious laughter with two other gentlemen. Tony sits in crisp, new(!) jeans, some flashy pink and green Chucks sneakers, and a white button down shirt. His face is clean shaven, hair combed and gelled, and he looks... happy, for once. Almost as if he's in his element.

The men surrounding Tony met him a mere few hours ago, noticing him not for the fact that he's a professional wrestler, but because he just looks so off in a place like South Beach...

...and maybe because he was flaunting his championship belt. You know, the gaudy white and pink belt with a flying skull on it? Yeah, that might've done it.

And now Tony was regaling them with tales of the road. Tales of matches he fought in, the weird food he's eaten (especially the time he got a bad case of diarrhea in the heart of Thailand), and how...

Santos: I've never had a drink in my life!

Ah yes, revisionist history. For anyone who had actually watched Tony Santos on TV over the past six years, you'd easily know that's a lie, what, with his televised blackouts, crawling on everything from pavement to airplane bathrooms, and the numerous hallucinations he's gone through with the audience, and his opponents, watching.

But here? No one cared if you were a fraud. If you bought them drinks or drugs, you were their best friend, and they would milk you until the night was over.

Miami.

Tony's laughing dies down a bit, and he notices the camera in front of him. He taps the two men on the shoulder, handing them each a $50 bill.

Santos: Hey guys, speaking of my wrestling gig, I've got a little bit of camera work to get in, so go buy yourselves, and maybe some lucky ladies, some drinks at the bar and come back in, say, 20 minutes?

Tony looks upward, eyes squinting, as if he's deep in thought.

Santos: Scratch that, come back in 45 minutes or so. This is gonna take a while.

The men leave their chairs, step over the velvet rope blocking the VIP section from the rest of the nightclub, and head to the bar. Tony, meanwhile, leans back, letting his outstretched arms rest on the plush leather couch. He smiles that toothy smile, his front tooth seemingly shining under the disco ball overhead. In front of him, a glass of sparkling water with a lemon wedge on the rim. Tony's Hart Title lays on his lap, never having left his side as long as he was in this nightclub. A drunken Tony might've passed it around the bar, having to explain the next day how he lost the title belt to some drunk college kid in South Beach, but not sober Tony. Sober Tony actually had his wits about him, and, having been off booze for weeks now, seemed relaxed, collected, and happy.

For now.

Santos: Why helloooooo everyone! Thank you for taking the time to sit in on my own personal vanity tour through South Beach! See, I figured, if I'm going to face such an accomplished, wealthy, and successful man like Centurion, I need to do a better job of understanding his routine, his thought processes. So I thought, you know, I make bucket loads of cash as the Hart champion, and have been making said bucket loads for a while, given that I just so happen to be one of the longest reigning champions in history, so why not flaunt it a bit. Act like a Centurion, flashing money to cover up my weaknesses. Really show off how great I am, by every standard we as a culture have accepted, which is how fucking big that bank account is.

So here I am! My tab is probably at, what? $10k at this point? $20k? Who the hell even knows anymore. I've bought more drinks for others, drinks that I can't even drink, than I ever imagined. But hey, when you're trying to make up for your own insecurities, you gotta write some checks! Centurion knows that, and I'm just trying to catch up.

And I think I'm doing a good job? See, what I've learned from Centurion over these past few weeks, as I've listened to him ramble on about my own greatness, while bragging about his success as a casino magnate, and the funny little quips with his sister's lover, is that, to truly be next level, to really get on the level of someone who managed to lose to a bunch of similarly tired old has-beens, while simultaneously being stabbed with a syringe, disgracing oneself and their family, at an event meant to make a bunch of old timers feel relevant again...

Tony stops himself, grabbing his sparkling water, taking a big gulp and letting out a satisfied "ahh."

Santos: Sorry, as I was saying. To be as successful as the great Centurion, you need to talk a big game. Just talk, and talk, and talk, and talk and talk and talkandtalkandtalkandtalk, and people will put you in positions you so clearly don't deserve! You can just coast on a legacy that hasn't been relevant since the god damn George Bush administration, and be called a legend, and booked like a legend, until you keel over and die from the weight of your missed expectations.

So here I am, throwing money at people I don't know, and things I don't need. Because in Centurion's world, material wealth trumps actual, relevant accomplishments.

Relevant accomplishments.

Tony stands up, steps over the table, over the velvet rope, and on to the floor. He walks past the dance pole, ripping off his button down shirt. Underneath the button down is a ragged white t-shirt.

Tony makes his way past the fawning boys and towards the bar. He finds a peeling knife, mainly used to peel off rinds from lemons and oranges, and grabs it, his tattooed fingers turning a pinkish sheen as they grip the knife. He takes the knife to his pants, and tears holes in each leg, then sets the knife down on the bar.

Tony walks through the bar, stopping to survey the chaos around him. He looks back at the camera, and smiles once again.

Santos: This is what Centurion flaunts. Shameless capitalism. A bunch of privileged motherfuckers, inheriting wealth, and turning it into excess. This is what Centurion sees as impressive. This is what Centurion sees as success.

But the difference between Centurion and me? Centurion flaunts the money he earned by swindling others out of their savings, and he has nothing tangible, at least in the wrestling business, to show for it. See, he has accolades, that's for damn sure, but when did his accolades matter? Like I mentioned earlier, it's been entire presidencies since Centurion was a thing. So he comes back, basks in the praise he receives from similarly old and irrelevant idiots, who mattered in a time when diatribes about how much you hate gay people, and how funny rape is, were the key to success... and that is how he finds his ticket to ride. And Centurion comes in, and he loses to me. And he doesn't just lose to me, he loses with complete ease.

Centurion, the legend, loses to the man who barely held the Xtreme Title, who barely held the TV Title. A fucking drunk who has ruined each and every opponent in his wake, all while trying to not stumble into oncoming traffic.

Centurion lost to him.

And he's going to lose to him again. And why? Because Centurion is weak. He heaps praise on me like I've been Universal Champion for a decade. He heaps praise on me as the legend he knows he could never be. And for each and every time he speaks, he shows how little he believes in himself, and validates how little others should believe in him.

Centurion doesn't even know how he got here. Centurion doesn't even know how he became a legend. But Centurion knows how I became one.

Tony smiles, walking out of the club.

Santos: Centurion knows that I became a legend by fucking performing, something he can't do. A broken, beaten down alcoholic, is a bigger attraction than Centurion. A man with a scarred liver and a dented brain draws more business than the legend from the Iraq war, Centurion. And why?

Because I could give two shits if I'm as relevant tomorrow as I am today. I could give two shits if I'm in a penthouse or a fucking garage. I could give two shits if I'm beating the brains in of an opponent looking to take my title, or some scrub who's looking to make his way in the XWF.

And that is my advantage. Whereas you, the mighty Centurion, man of zero belts since anyone fucking cared, sits and talks about rebuilding your legacy, I stand and destroy my opposition. You chase praise, I chase victory. Look around you, Cent.

Tony raises his hands in the air, now outside of Cameo. He swivels through the street lights, neon signs, and drunken debauchery, showcasing the insanity that is South Beach.

Santos: This is your town. This is where you should thrive. This is where you should be your best.

Because it's oozing in the vanity you so crave, and it basks in the privilege you're the poster child for.

But this is where you will fail. You'll fail like every time before, because, Cent, you're just not up to snuff. You're just not that good. You're living on past success, in a time when competition just wasn't that good. When competition...

...wasn't Tony Santos.

Cent, I'm better than you. I know it, and you most certainly know it too. It's the reason I've been unstoppable as champion, and the reason you can't help but remind me of how great I am. You're scared of what I'll do to you in that ring, so you're doing your best to protect that precious, ancient, reputation you've so cherished. Win or lose, Centurion comes out strong, since he either beat a great wrestler, or lost to a vicious champion.

Either way, Centurion wins!

Unless I expose you for the fraud you truly are.

Centurion, I hope you enjoyed some spiked daiquiris, threw some of that wealth on the town, and indulged in some of the pleasures your sister so enjoys, because on Saturday, I fucking ruin you for good. Saturday, I end this farce, destroy your fraudulent reputation, and close the book on your career. Saturday, instead of a final fantasy, you'll live the fucking nightmare you so deserve.

Good luck.

Tony leaves the nightclub, hands in the air, basking in the warm Florida air, as the scene fades to black.

]]> <![CDATA[LiLy's fitness]]> https://xwf1999.com/showthread.php?tid=34911 Thu, 26 Sep 2019 20:56:25 -0700 bRiaN sTorM]]> https://xwf1999.com/showthread.php?tid=34911


Hi, I'm Lily you probably can't tell but I helped bRiaN loose fifty pounds since he joined the Lily fitness program. Would you believe that some silly humans actually think they only need to take their dogs out twice a day! ROTFL seriously what are those mind control boxes doing to them? No chance, that's what I explained to bRiaN on the first day we met. I said listen here buddy, your gonna need to be around to help me for at least a decade. After he signed my contrct I made sure the only time it was acceptable to go out twice a day was when it was thirty degrees below zero outside. See we agreed that I would know best when I have to go as you humans say " to the bathroom ". Plus he had no idea when we started, when it was the best time to go out to chase rabbits, yell at possems and raccoons, or even tell local coyote to back off, this is our neighborhood but now thanks to the Lily fitness program he has learned all of those things and more. Like when you'll run into which neighbors or how to sneak up on a woodpecker. You'll learn so much by joining my program, and be extending your life in the process! So if you wanna look as good as my bRiaN, don't waste anymore time, join today. Honestly the only loser here is that awful mind control box because it loses his attention more and more each day. So get yourself out there and take your dog out for a nice long park walk, and leave the mini mind control device off. You might be surprised how this simple program can extend, enhance, and may even save your life today. So get off those brain leashes and put your dog's leash on RIGHT NOW.


]]>


Hi, I'm Lily you probably can't tell but I helped bRiaN loose fifty pounds since he joined the Lily fitness program. Would you believe that some silly humans actually think they only need to take their dogs out twice a day! ROTFL seriously what are those mind control boxes doing to them? No chance, that's what I explained to bRiaN on the first day we met. I said listen here buddy, your gonna need to be around to help me for at least a decade. After he signed my contrct I made sure the only time it was acceptable to go out twice a day was when it was thirty degrees below zero outside. See we agreed that I would know best when I have to go as you humans say " to the bathroom ". Plus he had no idea when we started, when it was the best time to go out to chase rabbits, yell at possems and raccoons, or even tell local coyote to back off, this is our neighborhood but now thanks to the Lily fitness program he has learned all of those things and more. Like when you'll run into which neighbors or how to sneak up on a woodpecker. You'll learn so much by joining my program, and be extending your life in the process! So if you wanna look as good as my bRiaN, don't waste anymore time, join today. Honestly the only loser here is that awful mind control box because it loses his attention more and more each day. So get yourself out there and take your dog out for a nice long park walk, and leave the mini mind control device off. You might be surprised how this simple program can extend, enhance, and may even save your life today. So get off those brain leashes and put your dog's leash on RIGHT NOW.


]]> <![CDATA[Boris Arrives]]> https://xwf1999.com/showthread.php?tid=34908 Thu, 26 Sep 2019 12:07:31 -0700 Boris]]> https://xwf1999.com/showthread.php?tid=34908 Ah, the States of United America. Or, as they like to call themselves, "America". How selfish is that blin? There are two continents called "America", but only the States is where "Americans" live? I guess that's what happens when you have large nuclear arsonal blin.

Boris survived the trip across the ocean and arrived in Miami. The water guards let me in no problem. I told them I was Ukrainian and had information on Joe Biden. Is easy.

The first thing I needed to do was to purchase vodka. A twenty-seven hour ride on a rusty boat really makes a Slav thirsty. I went to first convenient store I could and bought a bottle of something called "Pinnacle".

America...we have to talk. Why do you label things something that it is clearly not? I went to buy vodka, but I purchased diesel. It is shit, get rid of it. Cyka blyat, no wonder there is so much violence in your country. No one drinks good vodka. Is no problem, I found a bar that sells imported beer for pretty cheap.

[Image: JD3rRI4.png]

After a few hours of becoming acquainted with the locals, I decided to explore Miami. Do you know what looks strange and feels terrible blin? A man in a track suit and ushanka in the Miami sun. So many people in bathing suits, ladies in bikinis - this is not normal sight in Slovakia. In Slovakia, it is warm approximately 4 days a year, and when that happen, we all stand outside and complain about the heat. Slavs hate all weather blin.

I also went into local grocery story to try different American food. You really have to know what you're looking for blin. America, is has to much stuff. I look for mayonez, there is five kinds of mayonez...well, four. Miracle Whip is not mayonez! Also, what do you do to your chicken blin?! It takes like inside of greace basket! Is all fried, no flavor!

But the sausage...oh, borsha! I try something called "summer sausage" - it was blyatful! With a little bit of mayonez, opa! Now we're talking!

After meeting some...uh, fans, and eating a tasty kebab from street vendor, I go inside to cool down and quench my thirst. I thought I was walking into jewelry store, but no, it was bar! Boris has never seen tables made out of glass in bar! Everything very fancy...and very expensive blyat.

Today I learn, Americans do not haggle. When they say a price, it is that price. I order glass of vodka, they charge me twelve dollars! What the blyat is that! What am I paying you for, ice?

They give me glass with ice and vodka. I say, "what is this blin?" They say it is vodka called "Eee Gee Orgin" out of Oregon. First glass was fine - better than Pinnacle cyka I had earlier. Waitress tells me "ah, Boris, international Slav superstar, the second glass always taste better." So I have second glass. Turns out, she's was right...and the eighth glass, opa! Absolutely blyatful!

[Image: C5URPvo.png]

I woke up next day in my hotel room. I do not know how I got there, comrades. I don't even remember checking in. But this place is very nice blin. Free coffee. Large television for watching "Ridiculousness" reruns. They even have built in ironing board. Perfect for ushanka.

I do not know how much this place costs, but I do not care. I tell front desk to charge Vinnie Lane. He is good guy, or at least I think so. Never met him, but I thank him for paying for my room blin.

I decided to stay in. Partially because I need to prepare for upcoming wrestling match, and partially because I can not go four steps without vomiting. I make coffee, order room service, is not so bad.

I take time to watch what people are saying about the debut of the Slav Superstar. I must say, Boris is very confused. My opponents, they seem to have me confused with someone else. Perhaps there is 'nother Boris out there?

Bah, don't be silly, I am only Boris! My opponents, they just debils. They know nothing.

I start with fake actor Brain O'Haire. He goes on TV and spent so little time talking about Boris! I feel insulted blin! How can someone forget about the Slav King? I spent all this time researching him, and he knows nothing about me? Cyka blyat!

Brain seems to only know two things about Boris - that I like vodka, and that I am Slav. These things, they are true, but that is not all Boris has to offer. For example, did you know I am a gentle and delicate lover?

Ah ha, that is not true, blin! I pound that mačička to hardbass! But you would not know that if I did not tell you.

And what was with him adding "ski" to his words. I do not do that blin! I am not Russian! Do I look like I fight bear? This is the problem with you Western spies! You are racists! You think all Slavs are Russian! You are same people who think Cubans are Mexicans. Those are different countries blyat!

Also, I do not wish to see Brain's penis. Nor do I want to see Gilmour's. Why do American men, presumably hetrosexuals, wish to constantly show their, uh...below the belt? I never had the desire to show Little Boris to other men.

Maybe the reason Brain is not in movies is because he prepares for roles like he prepares for matches. Complete pizdek. To think I was worried about showing him my moves. I doubt he would remember them blin!

And then there is Peter Gilmour, the worst of the worst. Cyka blyat, this guy I do not like at all. Not because he is annoying - though he is - but because he thinks he is American hero. He compare this fight to Rocky 4. The point of that movie was that Rocky was the good guy. Even the Russians loved him blin. No one likes this debil. Boris will receive more cheers than Gilmour. That is because Boris is not terrible, annoying man. Boris says a lot of things about America, but I respect many of the people there. I know they would never cheer a debil like Peter Gilmour.

And what is this pizdek - "ME BORIS, ME BEAT PUNY AMERICANS UP!"? I do not sound like that! No one sounds like that! At least Brain confused me with a Russian - Gilmour confused me with a cyka'n caveman!

Brain and Peter are both in for a surprise. Boris is no push over. I may be new to wrestling, but I have Slav strength. Brain covers himself in baby oil and sits in hot tub. He would die in Slav winter. And Peter Gilmour would be stabbed by the first Gopnik he saw. You think your streets are tough? Try insulting a Gopnik's Adidas! Neither of you make it out of Bratislava alive!

Aye, I am looking forward to taking down these Western spies. This is an exciting time for me comrades! I will bring a victory to my Slavs around the world. In the meantime, I will continue to enjoy Miami. This place I am staying has a bar in the lobby. You know what that means, comrades.

[Image: YBZslUe.png]]]> Ah, the States of United America. Or, as they like to call themselves, "America". How selfish is that blin? There are two continents called "America", but only the States is where "Americans" live? I guess that's what happens when you have large nuclear arsonal blin.

Boris survived the trip across the ocean and arrived in Miami. The water guards let me in no problem. I told them I was Ukrainian and had information on Joe Biden. Is easy.

The first thing I needed to do was to purchase vodka. A twenty-seven hour ride on a rusty boat really makes a Slav thirsty. I went to first convenient store I could and bought a bottle of something called "Pinnacle".

America...we have to talk. Why do you label things something that it is clearly not? I went to buy vodka, but I purchased diesel. It is shit, get rid of it. Cyka blyat, no wonder there is so much violence in your country. No one drinks good vodka. Is no problem, I found a bar that sells imported beer for pretty cheap.

[Image: JD3rRI4.png]

After a few hours of becoming acquainted with the locals, I decided to explore Miami. Do you know what looks strange and feels terrible blin? A man in a track suit and ushanka in the Miami sun. So many people in bathing suits, ladies in bikinis - this is not normal sight in Slovakia. In Slovakia, it is warm approximately 4 days a year, and when that happen, we all stand outside and complain about the heat. Slavs hate all weather blin.

I also went into local grocery story to try different American food. You really have to know what you're looking for blin. America, is has to much stuff. I look for mayonez, there is five kinds of mayonez...well, four. Miracle Whip is not mayonez! Also, what do you do to your chicken blin?! It takes like inside of greace basket! Is all fried, no flavor!

But the sausage...oh, borsha! I try something called "summer sausage" - it was blyatful! With a little bit of mayonez, opa! Now we're talking!

After meeting some...uh, fans, and eating a tasty kebab from street vendor, I go inside to cool down and quench my thirst. I thought I was walking into jewelry store, but no, it was bar! Boris has never seen tables made out of glass in bar! Everything very fancy...and very expensive blyat.

Today I learn, Americans do not haggle. When they say a price, it is that price. I order glass of vodka, they charge me twelve dollars! What the blyat is that! What am I paying you for, ice?

They give me glass with ice and vodka. I say, "what is this blin?" They say it is vodka called "Eee Gee Orgin" out of Oregon. First glass was fine - better than Pinnacle cyka I had earlier. Waitress tells me "ah, Boris, international Slav superstar, the second glass always taste better." So I have second glass. Turns out, she's was right...and the eighth glass, opa! Absolutely blyatful!

[Image: C5URPvo.png]

I woke up next day in my hotel room. I do not know how I got there, comrades. I don't even remember checking in. But this place is very nice blin. Free coffee. Large television for watching "Ridiculousness" reruns. They even have built in ironing board. Perfect for ushanka.

I do not know how much this place costs, but I do not care. I tell front desk to charge Vinnie Lane. He is good guy, or at least I think so. Never met him, but I thank him for paying for my room blin.

I decided to stay in. Partially because I need to prepare for upcoming wrestling match, and partially because I can not go four steps without vomiting. I make coffee, order room service, is not so bad.

I take time to watch what people are saying about the debut of the Slav Superstar. I must say, Boris is very confused. My opponents, they seem to have me confused with someone else. Perhaps there is 'nother Boris out there?

Bah, don't be silly, I am only Boris! My opponents, they just debils. They know nothing.

I start with fake actor Brain O'Haire. He goes on TV and spent so little time talking about Boris! I feel insulted blin! How can someone forget about the Slav King? I spent all this time researching him, and he knows nothing about me? Cyka blyat!

Brain seems to only know two things about Boris - that I like vodka, and that I am Slav. These things, they are true, but that is not all Boris has to offer. For example, did you know I am a gentle and delicate lover?

Ah ha, that is not true, blin! I pound that mačička to hardbass! But you would not know that if I did not tell you.

And what was with him adding "ski" to his words. I do not do that blin! I am not Russian! Do I look like I fight bear? This is the problem with you Western spies! You are racists! You think all Slavs are Russian! You are same people who think Cubans are Mexicans. Those are different countries blyat!

Also, I do not wish to see Brain's penis. Nor do I want to see Gilmour's. Why do American men, presumably hetrosexuals, wish to constantly show their, uh...below the belt? I never had the desire to show Little Boris to other men.

Maybe the reason Brain is not in movies is because he prepares for roles like he prepares for matches. Complete pizdek. To think I was worried about showing him my moves. I doubt he would remember them blin!

And then there is Peter Gilmour, the worst of the worst. Cyka blyat, this guy I do not like at all. Not because he is annoying - though he is - but because he thinks he is American hero. He compare this fight to Rocky 4. The point of that movie was that Rocky was the good guy. Even the Russians loved him blin. No one likes this debil. Boris will receive more cheers than Gilmour. That is because Boris is not terrible, annoying man. Boris says a lot of things about America, but I respect many of the people there. I know they would never cheer a debil like Peter Gilmour.

And what is this pizdek - "ME BORIS, ME BEAT PUNY AMERICANS UP!"? I do not sound like that! No one sounds like that! At least Brain confused me with a Russian - Gilmour confused me with a cyka'n caveman!

Brain and Peter are both in for a surprise. Boris is no push over. I may be new to wrestling, but I have Slav strength. Brain covers himself in baby oil and sits in hot tub. He would die in Slav winter. And Peter Gilmour would be stabbed by the first Gopnik he saw. You think your streets are tough? Try insulting a Gopnik's Adidas! Neither of you make it out of Bratislava alive!

Aye, I am looking forward to taking down these Western spies. This is an exciting time for me comrades! I will bring a victory to my Slavs around the world. In the meantime, I will continue to enjoy Miami. This place I am staying has a bar in the lobby. You know what that means, comrades.

[Image: YBZslUe.png]]]> <![CDATA[Tomorrow is an Allusion]]> https://xwf1999.com/showthread.php?tid=34900 Wed, 25 Sep 2019 08:36:31 -0700 Tony Santos]]> https://xwf1999.com/showthread.php?tid=34900

***Knock knock knock***

We start where we left off. The cool, hardwood floor presses against the face of Tony Santos, having just fallen with a thud as sudden as the ever-changing circumstances piecing together his life. A fog covers the wood around Tony's head, capturing each heavy exhale of carbon dioxide, as if it was still a living being. Tony's eyes are glossed over, his face turned towards the crack underneath the door. Two dark blobs stand out, separated by a few inches, and after a bit of squinting, Tony understands the obvious: these are obviously feet.

***Knock knock knock***

The knocks get a bit louder. And louder.

Kayla, his attractive, mid-30s rehab leader, stands up, staring at the door with concern. This is her apartment, after all, and someone is practically banging down her door to get in. Small beads of sweat begin to form in the corners of her forehead as she looks down at Tony, her fling from last night (and a few nights before)... a majorly inappropriate fling at that... and back at the door. She continues to look back and forth, weighing her next move, her long, scraggly brown hair flailing with as much uncertainty as the thoughts bouncing around her head.

***Knock knock knock***

And again. All of a sudden, sunlight shines through the window and into the crack beneath the door. The light reflects off of the "blobs" on the other side, and the center of each pushes the light into Kayla's eyes light two silver laser beams.

Just then, Kayla figures it out.

Kayla quickly bends down to Tony, who might have yet another head injury, one of many from his days wrestling, fighting in his youth, and just generally being an idiot. She releases her lanky arms and they drop on to Tony's shoulders like two excavators, grabbing on and attempting to lift Tony's ~200 pound frame. Tony starts to come to, more out of annoyance than consciousness, and he looks up at Kayla with a grimace, pieces of words coming from his lips.

Santos: Kayl... whah are you...

Kayla, not up for any games right now, slaps Tony right across the face, knocking the specs of her dirt on his cheek straight off. If Tony wasn't with it before, he now most certainly is seeing things a bit more clearly.

Kayla whispers to Tony.

Kayla: You need to get up... NOW. This is not a joke, that is my fucking boyfriend.

Kayla pulls Tony up, and, starting to understand the urgency of the situation, Tony pushes himself to his feet, the "Tony" finger tattoo on his left fingers crinkling in his pale, dry skin. Kayla yanks Tony's t-shirt sleeve, dragging him across the room and into a nearby closet. Kayla opens the sliding door...

***Knock knock knock***

...presses her palms against his chest, and plunges him into the closet. Tony falls backward, and in the midst of the haphazard hiding attempt, hits his head on the closet light bulb, smashing it. Pieces of the bulb rain from above, landing in Tony's lengthening hair, while the rest clang to the ground. Tony stumbles backwards, stunned, and falls into an open washing machine. His butt sinks further into the washing machine as Kayla slams the door shut. Tony, feeling like the piece of meat he's treated so many others like, including Kayla, sits in darkness.



Kayla walks across the old wooden floor, each step stretching an hour long. As she makes her way to the door, Tony can only think to himself...

Santos: Fucked this one up too, huh? Without even a drink inside my stomach, just a gaping fucking pit.

Boyfriend, heh. Makes sense. Shit where you eat enough times, and you'll find yourself shitting in a toilet with the boyfriend watching from the tub.

Tony stops after that bit of wisdom, crinkling his eyebrows and shaking his head in disagreement... with his own thoughts.

Santos: Okay, maybe not the most apt metaphor, but the point stands. You play with fire and you'll watch yourself get burned. So here I am, sitting in a god damn washing machine, my ass stuck next to a chunk of old fabric softener, like the dirty fucking laundry I've been, drunk or sober. Just waiting... listening... hoping.



The door opens, and lo and behold, it's Kayla's boyfriend. You can't see this right now, since, you know, we're sitting inside of a dark closet, but Kayla's boyfriend is a burly, 6'7" Irishman bleeding Boston through his veins. His accent seeps through the slats in the closet door, and Tony can only cringe as he hears this man scold Kayla for lying to him about...

...being out of town, not answering my texts, and leaving me in a state of fuckin' panic. How could you, Kayla? You know how I get when you're on the road for work...

(Kayla lied about being a flight attendant for JetBlue. Oops!)

...but when you fuckin' lie to me? And you're right here in your fuckin' apartment? You know my brain goes down dark places, Kayla. Rape, murder, all that grisly shit.

Tony turns to the camera, and you can barely see his smile in the dark.

Santos: You know, like what our glorious Universal Champion loves to throw around like a 5th grader who's yet to learn how to be funny, rather than go for straight shock value? Yeah, that.

Kayla and her boyfriend go back and forth for a few minutes. Kayla tells him she just needed some time alone for a few days, that he was being overbearing, and that she just wanted a breather to grab drinks with friends or watch movies with a bottle of wine, not having to worry about entertaining for two. He returns fire... at first, with righteous indignation, only to cool down seconds later, after pounding the wall in frustration. He apologizes for being neurotic, and she apologizes for not being honest...

Santos:Eh, 50% honesty is as good as it gets, I guess.

...and before you know it, talking stops, replaced with heavy breathing and audible, and deep, lip smacking. A thud into the couch, a picture falls off of the wall. Fingers ruffle, a bra strap breaks, and... well, you get the picture.

Tony sits in the closet, slow, quiet breaths, just trying to wait this all out. The woman who just hours before had been coaching him on getting past his inner demons, his past addictions, had fallen back into one of her own. See, our famed protagonist Kayla had come to this AA-esque program after diving deep into a drug and alcohol fueled psychosis, thanks to the man she was now so readily embracing. Abusive, manipulative, and just plain mean, Kayla's "man" put her into situations of his own convenience, and toyed with her emotions for his own amusement, or to quiet his own momentary insecurities.

Tony felt for her in those classes. He had trusted her judgment, he had wanted to help her as much as she could help him.

And he had failed.

Now he finds himself...

Santos: Ass deep in a fucking washing machine.

20 Minutes Later...


Silence. Tony still finds himself stuck in the washing machine, sitting through sex between a fling and her abusive boyfriend, a predicament he couldn't have imagined a mere six hours ago, when he was the one who was taking that same fling home. Tony peers through the slats in the door in front of him, checking to see if the coast is clear, but he sees nothing except an empty living room, the TV running an infomercial for yet another OxiClean product.

"Blobs" of sweat form in his armpits, and, oddly enough, between his knees. Sitting in this living coffin, Tony's anxiety heightens, his long-forming deprecation coming to a crescendo. A man who had basked in his idiocy, someone who had soaked in his ability be a reckless idiot, found himself crushed by the ideals of his 20 year old self.

He was sober, but he wasn't free.

Tony takes a deep breath, winds his right leg back, and kicks the door in front of him. The slats he'd been peering through fly open, freeing Tony from the prison he'd been stuck in for the last 30+ minutes. Freeing Tony from... himself.

Tony lets out a gasp of relief. He smiles that toothy smile everyone following him is well familiar with at this point, but behind it, light shines through. The sunlight shines through, catching the back of his mouth, his ruined gums, flaunting the internal ruin so many have missed in Tony Santos's evolution. The champion who has gathered the Hart Title... his first major title run in the XWF... was holding no secrets beneath the surface, but like a victim of an invisible disease like liver cancer, it took lifting the hood to truly see the imminent destruction ahead.

But not now.

The door crashes open, white wooden shards flailing across the living room. Tony lays back, reviewing the scene, still stuck in the washing machine, sweat pouring from his brow, as it always seems to do. His triceps tighten, trying to remove himself from the predicament, a few grunts making their way from his wide throat. Tony lifts harder, looking to leave the prison he'd made for himself, and after a few more lifts, he finds himself free.

Tony smiles.

[Image: 3787144565_c9f8e2ec01_z.jpg]

Tony turns to his right, and sees a door near. No noise, no breaths, but Tony can sense the presence of each person who had trapped him in that closet. He coud sense the man who had taken back the woman he had started to fall for, and he could send the woman he knew was meant to be his.

Tony stumbles to his left, still shaking out the cobwebs, but catches himself. He makes his way down the hall, his heart starting to race, anticipating what is to come. His hands begin to shake, the sheer adrenaline enough for him to know that he's many steps behind... no... he's completely...

Lost

Tony approaches the door. He builds up the courage to confront the man who was stealing the woman of his dreams, and he was willing to take that woman back. Tony Santos was willing to take a stand and stop that woman in his...

[Image: hqdefault.jpg]

...tracks.

Tony stops at the door handle, his hand quivering in front of the entrance to his future.

Santos: Shannon.

No woman would ever truly be free for Tony to take back. Not after his girlfriend, Shannon, and his son, died in a car crash via train. Tony Santos left one prison, only to find himself in a much more open one. Tony Santos wasn't, and would never be...

...Free.

*********************************************************************************************

Tony Santos drops to the floor, falling flat on his back. The wooden boards holding up the house carrying his squeal. Tony hits the floor, his head protected only by the fact that his neck can do a solid bridge. He stares to the ceiling, tracing the dots in the tiles, and knows he's facing the wrong target.

Santos: Centurion. You're a man of legend. A man with an extensive resume. A man who is revered within the XWF. You're an old timer, a past champion...

...and a current failure.

Centurion, I miss facing you! I miss facing a man who is living off of past prime, while thriving off of inferior opposition. A man who has coasted off of his own name for so long, that it seems the talk about you is more legendary than the work you've put together in the ring. The "legend" who can't win a title, and the wrestler who can't lead the federation.

See, Centurion, you're not so different from everyone else I've faced. You come in, talk a calm, cool, and collected game, but deep down, you do what each and every one of my opponents does, one by one. You face me, you look at this wretched face, you smell the sweet, sweet smell of alcohol cruise right up your nostrils, and...

...you get spooked.

See, Centurion, I expect better from someone with the name recognition you have. Someone who has accomplished so much, you should be relishing the opportunity to take down a champion like me! Unlike some of the newbies, you should be thrilled to take me down a peg. You should be elated at the opportunity to once again prove how great your name is, and how much of an overhyped champion I am.

But not you, Cent. No no, certainly not you. Instead, you spend your time flaunting your wealth and success to the world, how you've made it, but when it comes time to talk to me?

You pander. You heap praise like a child trying to rip a toy from fucking Santa Claus. You... quiver.

Because you're scared, Cent, admit it. I beat you before, and you know I'm going to beat you again. You say you're "not here to make people feel good," but damn, you're not doing a good job. But you've never been good at anything you've set your mind to, now have you, Cent? Since coming back to the XWF, you've managed to fail up. You've failed time and time again at title opportunities, yet, because we have such pathetic competition in this company, you find yourself back in a position where you can yet again let down yourself and the five fans who you've paid to follow you.

Am I the best Hart champion of all time? Let's be real, even I can't take credit for that. Robert Main ran roughshod on this division for nearly twice the amount of time I did.

Do I have the respect of my peers? Cent, I was just sitting in a dark closet for Christ's sake! I don't have the respect of my own self, let alone the people around me.

But see, you know that. You know I'm overhyped. You know I'm a nuisance to the fans, this company, and the sad motherfuckers that line these cards week in and week out. Hell, you PREDICTED you're going to beat me, to take me down from my... perch, and take back your once good name. I know you want this, and honestly, you should feel pretty good about your chances. I'm an alcoholic whose liver could kick it at any time! I could keel over or suffer from hallucinations, and you could roll me up for an easy three count.

But for all of your words, for all of your flashy signs of wealth, the one thing you lack...

...is that killer instinct. Not a desire to win, but a need to win. The greatest champions of our time, when they're not joking about rape, or spouting homophobic nonsense, have made damn sure to let the world know of how good they think they are. Maybe it was a lack of brains, maybe it was an overabundance of self confidence, but man, did they let you know they were going to take that damn title, even if it meant spouting a liter of blood from their fucking eyeball. They just knew it had to be theirs, and they made damn well sure you knew it.

But not you. Not the great Centurion.

Because you're scared. You know how quickly I ruined you last time, exploiting your old and broken joints to take you down with relative ease. You've seen how I've rolled through countless competitors with zero singles losses in six fucking months. And you can envision how this broken brain of mine won't see you as a legend, or even your run of the mill wrestler, but as just another obstacle on my way to that sweet, sweet high...

Tony pauses, shakes his head, and smiles.

Santos:No no, not THAT high! I'm sober, Cent! No no, the high of yet another title retention. Yet another victory on my road trip through the half rate idiots that make up this clown show.

And now it runs through you... again. Same old song and dance, with the same old broken record. The same old playbook, the same old weak insults, and the shameless ass kissing of a champion who you know you can't beat.

I am going to destroy you.I am going to rip you apart, limb from plastic limb. I'll leave you mumbling that stupid fucking catchphrase, on your back, after I drop you with a Final Destination. I'm going to end the allusion you so poorly crafted ages ago, and drop you back into the realm of mediocrity you so utterly deserve, and secretly crave. I'm going to end you, Centurion.

But you already knew that, didn't you?



The scene fades to black.]]>

***Knock knock knock***

We start where we left off. The cool, hardwood floor presses against the face of Tony Santos, having just fallen with a thud as sudden as the ever-changing circumstances piecing together his life. A fog covers the wood around Tony's head, capturing each heavy exhale of carbon dioxide, as if it was still a living being. Tony's eyes are glossed over, his face turned towards the crack underneath the door. Two dark blobs stand out, separated by a few inches, and after a bit of squinting, Tony understands the obvious: these are obviously feet.

***Knock knock knock***

The knocks get a bit louder. And louder.

Kayla, his attractive, mid-30s rehab leader, stands up, staring at the door with concern. This is her apartment, after all, and someone is practically banging down her door to get in. Small beads of sweat begin to form in the corners of her forehead as she looks down at Tony, her fling from last night (and a few nights before)... a majorly inappropriate fling at that... and back at the door. She continues to look back and forth, weighing her next move, her long, scraggly brown hair flailing with as much uncertainty as the thoughts bouncing around her head.

***Knock knock knock***

And again. All of a sudden, sunlight shines through the window and into the crack beneath the door. The light reflects off of the "blobs" on the other side, and the center of each pushes the light into Kayla's eyes light two silver laser beams.

Just then, Kayla figures it out.

Kayla quickly bends down to Tony, who might have yet another head injury, one of many from his days wrestling, fighting in his youth, and just generally being an idiot. She releases her lanky arms and they drop on to Tony's shoulders like two excavators, grabbing on and attempting to lift Tony's ~200 pound frame. Tony starts to come to, more out of annoyance than consciousness, and he looks up at Kayla with a grimace, pieces of words coming from his lips.

Santos: Kayl... whah are you...

Kayla, not up for any games right now, slaps Tony right across the face, knocking the specs of her dirt on his cheek straight off. If Tony wasn't with it before, he now most certainly is seeing things a bit more clearly.

Kayla whispers to Tony.

Kayla: You need to get up... NOW. This is not a joke, that is my fucking boyfriend.

Kayla pulls Tony up, and, starting to understand the urgency of the situation, Tony pushes himself to his feet, the "Tony" finger tattoo on his left fingers crinkling in his pale, dry skin. Kayla yanks Tony's t-shirt sleeve, dragging him across the room and into a nearby closet. Kayla opens the sliding door...

***Knock knock knock***

...presses her palms against his chest, and plunges him into the closet. Tony falls backward, and in the midst of the haphazard hiding attempt, hits his head on the closet light bulb, smashing it. Pieces of the bulb rain from above, landing in Tony's lengthening hair, while the rest clang to the ground. Tony stumbles backwards, stunned, and falls into an open washing machine. His butt sinks further into the washing machine as Kayla slams the door shut. Tony, feeling like the piece of meat he's treated so many others like, including Kayla, sits in darkness.



Kayla walks across the old wooden floor, each step stretching an hour long. As she makes her way to the door, Tony can only think to himself...

Santos: Fucked this one up too, huh? Without even a drink inside my stomach, just a gaping fucking pit.

Boyfriend, heh. Makes sense. Shit where you eat enough times, and you'll find yourself shitting in a toilet with the boyfriend watching from the tub.

Tony stops after that bit of wisdom, crinkling his eyebrows and shaking his head in disagreement... with his own thoughts.

Santos: Okay, maybe not the most apt metaphor, but the point stands. You play with fire and you'll watch yourself get burned. So here I am, sitting in a god damn washing machine, my ass stuck next to a chunk of old fabric softener, like the dirty fucking laundry I've been, drunk or sober. Just waiting... listening... hoping.



The door opens, and lo and behold, it's Kayla's boyfriend. You can't see this right now, since, you know, we're sitting inside of a dark closet, but Kayla's boyfriend is a burly, 6'7" Irishman bleeding Boston through his veins. His accent seeps through the slats in the closet door, and Tony can only cringe as he hears this man scold Kayla for lying to him about...

...being out of town, not answering my texts, and leaving me in a state of fuckin' panic. How could you, Kayla? You know how I get when you're on the road for work...

(Kayla lied about being a flight attendant for JetBlue. Oops!)

...but when you fuckin' lie to me? And you're right here in your fuckin' apartment? You know my brain goes down dark places, Kayla. Rape, murder, all that grisly shit.

Tony turns to the camera, and you can barely see his smile in the dark.

Santos: You know, like what our glorious Universal Champion loves to throw around like a 5th grader who's yet to learn how to be funny, rather than go for straight shock value? Yeah, that.

Kayla and her boyfriend go back and forth for a few minutes. Kayla tells him she just needed some time alone for a few days, that he was being overbearing, and that she just wanted a breather to grab drinks with friends or watch movies with a bottle of wine, not having to worry about entertaining for two. He returns fire... at first, with righteous indignation, only to cool down seconds later, after pounding the wall in frustration. He apologizes for being neurotic, and she apologizes for not being honest...

Santos:Eh, 50% honesty is as good as it gets, I guess.

...and before you know it, talking stops, replaced with heavy breathing and audible, and deep, lip smacking. A thud into the couch, a picture falls off of the wall. Fingers ruffle, a bra strap breaks, and... well, you get the picture.

Tony sits in the closet, slow, quiet breaths, just trying to wait this all out. The woman who just hours before had been coaching him on getting past his inner demons, his past addictions, had fallen back into one of her own. See, our famed protagonist Kayla had come to this AA-esque program after diving deep into a drug and alcohol fueled psychosis, thanks to the man she was now so readily embracing. Abusive, manipulative, and just plain mean, Kayla's "man" put her into situations of his own convenience, and toyed with her emotions for his own amusement, or to quiet his own momentary insecurities.

Tony felt for her in those classes. He had trusted her judgment, he had wanted to help her as much as she could help him.

And he had failed.

Now he finds himself...

Santos: Ass deep in a fucking washing machine.

20 Minutes Later...


Silence. Tony still finds himself stuck in the washing machine, sitting through sex between a fling and her abusive boyfriend, a predicament he couldn't have imagined a mere six hours ago, when he was the one who was taking that same fling home. Tony peers through the slats in the door in front of him, checking to see if the coast is clear, but he sees nothing except an empty living room, the TV running an infomercial for yet another OxiClean product.

"Blobs" of sweat form in his armpits, and, oddly enough, between his knees. Sitting in this living coffin, Tony's anxiety heightens, his long-forming deprecation coming to a crescendo. A man who had basked in his idiocy, someone who had soaked in his ability be a reckless idiot, found himself crushed by the ideals of his 20 year old self.

He was sober, but he wasn't free.

Tony takes a deep breath, winds his right leg back, and kicks the door in front of him. The slats he'd been peering through fly open, freeing Tony from the prison he'd been stuck in for the last 30+ minutes. Freeing Tony from... himself.

Tony lets out a gasp of relief. He smiles that toothy smile everyone following him is well familiar with at this point, but behind it, light shines through. The sunlight shines through, catching the back of his mouth, his ruined gums, flaunting the internal ruin so many have missed in Tony Santos's evolution. The champion who has gathered the Hart Title... his first major title run in the XWF... was holding no secrets beneath the surface, but like a victim of an invisible disease like liver cancer, it took lifting the hood to truly see the imminent destruction ahead.

But not now.

The door crashes open, white wooden shards flailing across the living room. Tony lays back, reviewing the scene, still stuck in the washing machine, sweat pouring from his brow, as it always seems to do. His triceps tighten, trying to remove himself from the predicament, a few grunts making their way from his wide throat. Tony lifts harder, looking to leave the prison he'd made for himself, and after a few more lifts, he finds himself free.

Tony smiles.

[Image: 3787144565_c9f8e2ec01_z.jpg]

Tony turns to his right, and sees a door near. No noise, no breaths, but Tony can sense the presence of each person who had trapped him in that closet. He coud sense the man who had taken back the woman he had started to fall for, and he could send the woman he knew was meant to be his.

Tony stumbles to his left, still shaking out the cobwebs, but catches himself. He makes his way down the hall, his heart starting to race, anticipating what is to come. His hands begin to shake, the sheer adrenaline enough for him to know that he's many steps behind... no... he's completely...

Lost

Tony approaches the door. He builds up the courage to confront the man who was stealing the woman of his dreams, and he was willing to take that woman back. Tony Santos was willing to take a stand and stop that woman in his...

[Image: hqdefault.jpg]

...tracks.

Tony stops at the door handle, his hand quivering in front of the entrance to his future.

Santos: Shannon.

No woman would ever truly be free for Tony to take back. Not after his girlfriend, Shannon, and his son, died in a car crash via train. Tony Santos left one prison, only to find himself in a much more open one. Tony Santos wasn't, and would never be...

...Free.

*********************************************************************************************

Tony Santos drops to the floor, falling flat on his back. The wooden boards holding up the house carrying his squeal. Tony hits the floor, his head protected only by the fact that his neck can do a solid bridge. He stares to the ceiling, tracing the dots in the tiles, and knows he's facing the wrong target.

Santos: Centurion. You're a man of legend. A man with an extensive resume. A man who is revered within the XWF. You're an old timer, a past champion...

...and a current failure.

Centurion, I miss facing you! I miss facing a man who is living off of past prime, while thriving off of inferior opposition. A man who has coasted off of his own name for so long, that it seems the talk about you is more legendary than the work you've put together in the ring. The "legend" who can't win a title, and the wrestler who can't lead the federation.

See, Centurion, you're not so different from everyone else I've faced. You come in, talk a calm, cool, and collected game, but deep down, you do what each and every one of my opponents does, one by one. You face me, you look at this wretched face, you smell the sweet, sweet smell of alcohol cruise right up your nostrils, and...

...you get spooked.

See, Centurion, I expect better from someone with the name recognition you have. Someone who has accomplished so much, you should be relishing the opportunity to take down a champion like me! Unlike some of the newbies, you should be thrilled to take me down a peg. You should be elated at the opportunity to once again prove how great your name is, and how much of an overhyped champion I am.

But not you, Cent. No no, certainly not you. Instead, you spend your time flaunting your wealth and success to the world, how you've made it, but when it comes time to talk to me?

You pander. You heap praise like a child trying to rip a toy from fucking Santa Claus. You... quiver.

Because you're scared, Cent, admit it. I beat you before, and you know I'm going to beat you again. You say you're "not here to make people feel good," but damn, you're not doing a good job. But you've never been good at anything you've set your mind to, now have you, Cent? Since coming back to the XWF, you've managed to fail up. You've failed time and time again at title opportunities, yet, because we have such pathetic competition in this company, you find yourself back in a position where you can yet again let down yourself and the five fans who you've paid to follow you.

Am I the best Hart champion of all time? Let's be real, even I can't take credit for that. Robert Main ran roughshod on this division for nearly twice the amount of time I did.

Do I have the respect of my peers? Cent, I was just sitting in a dark closet for Christ's sake! I don't have the respect of my own self, let alone the people around me.

But see, you know that. You know I'm overhyped. You know I'm a nuisance to the fans, this company, and the sad motherfuckers that line these cards week in and week out. Hell, you PREDICTED you're going to beat me, to take me down from my... perch, and take back your once good name. I know you want this, and honestly, you should feel pretty good about your chances. I'm an alcoholic whose liver could kick it at any time! I could keel over or suffer from hallucinations, and you could roll me up for an easy three count.

But for all of your words, for all of your flashy signs of wealth, the one thing you lack...

...is that killer instinct. Not a desire to win, but a need to win. The greatest champions of our time, when they're not joking about rape, or spouting homophobic nonsense, have made damn sure to let the world know of how good they think they are. Maybe it was a lack of brains, maybe it was an overabundance of self confidence, but man, did they let you know they were going to take that damn title, even if it meant spouting a liter of blood from their fucking eyeball. They just knew it had to be theirs, and they made damn well sure you knew it.

But not you. Not the great Centurion.

Because you're scared. You know how quickly I ruined you last time, exploiting your old and broken joints to take you down with relative ease. You've seen how I've rolled through countless competitors with zero singles losses in six fucking months. And you can envision how this broken brain of mine won't see you as a legend, or even your run of the mill wrestler, but as just another obstacle on my way to that sweet, sweet high...

Tony pauses, shakes his head, and smiles.

Santos:No no, not THAT high! I'm sober, Cent! No no, the high of yet another title retention. Yet another victory on my road trip through the half rate idiots that make up this clown show.

And now it runs through you... again. Same old song and dance, with the same old broken record. The same old playbook, the same old weak insults, and the shameless ass kissing of a champion who you know you can't beat.

I am going to destroy you.I am going to rip you apart, limb from plastic limb. I'll leave you mumbling that stupid fucking catchphrase, on your back, after I drop you with a Final Destination. I'm going to end the allusion you so poorly crafted ages ago, and drop you back into the realm of mediocrity you so utterly deserve, and secretly crave. I'm going to end you, Centurion.

But you already knew that, didn't you?



The scene fades to black.]]> <![CDATA[Cocktails, and tales of cock.]]> https://xwf1999.com/showthread.php?tid=34898 Wed, 25 Sep 2019 03:46:46 -0700 BoxOffice_Brian_OHaire]]> https://xwf1999.com/showthread.php?tid=34898
A woman glad in a white polo shirt and shorts comes towards him with a tray with a beverage on it and serves it to him. He nods with thanks and hands her some money by way of a tip. She smiles and thanks him as she toddles off to do the rest of her work. Brian turns to face the camera]

Brian O’Haire: What a lovely ride!
Your penis is a thrill!
Your penis is a Cadillac
A giant Coupe DeVille!
Your penis packs a wallop, your penis brings a load!
And when it makes delivery...
It needs its own zipcode
Nine-Double Zero, Penis!

Cameron Diaz, Selma Blair, Christina Applegate, The sweetest thing. 2002.... Mr Gilmour, Peter F’N Gilmour. The man with one of the most adored penis’ in the world, and that’s just self appreciation. If people only so cared for the world as much as you care for your throbbing member, then we’d be in a much better position. Climate change, pah, never mind that, how about a vascular, masculine penis the like of yours, it could CHANGE THE WORLD. Or so you would believe. Peter my friend. Your penis is not the be all and end all. Hell I can’t believe I’m even cutting a promo on a mans sausage but they told me to advance in this business I may have to do some things I don’t like. So I guess I gotta talk dick to you. I gotta speak to you in a language that you’ll acknowledge and listen to.

[Brian shrugs]

Brian O’Haire: There’s no denying that you are quite the specimen Peter. You are chiselled. You are rugged. You have success. You are regularly having sex with females ranging from incredible to questionable. You have made a name for yourself around her and no one really questions your masculinity because frankly, no one has had need or want to. You’ve got your niche and you enjoy it. You get off on it and you enjoy the ego masturbation that comes along with it. But let’s take a step back for a minute. When it all gets said and done, what actually are you? Are you a man? Are you a wrestler? Or are you just a big penis? All girth and no brawn and beauty and skill? I think that. Frankly, your obsession with your member is something that while admirable, is frightening because I feel that while you pedal this bravado, you lose focus of what matters and that’s skill in the ring... and no, mr rinky dinky, not that ring. The ring In which we will meet at relentless day 2.
[Brian sips from the beverage that was delivered to him earlier.]

Brian O’Haire: Let’s make one thing perfectly clear. You said that and I quote “strut about like I’m all that”. Do you know why that is? Because I fucking am. I am all that. I’m all that and a whole lot more. But at the same time, while I know I am a specimen and “all that” I can also safely say I have been more than humble since I arrived here in the XWF. I have much to learn. I openly admitted that I underestimated people. I openly admitted that I may have been a bit foolhardy in my opening gambit here. But I have never ever shirked from the fact that I’m the new guy around here. I’m the pretender. I’m just another guy from another industry who thinks he can do this. But the more I sit around in the XWF and look around, I realise that I am supposed to be here. Hell, I’m only three matches into my career here at the XWF and I’m being asked to headline an event for charity because they KNOW the bang someone of my stature can bring to an event.... I’ll come to that soon incidentally. But for now. I am all that and more Peter. I am beginning to recognise that. I am humble. I am a realist but goddamnit, I am all that, because I can back it up.

[Brian sips from his drink and heads towards the pool]

Brian O’Haire: yo, boys in the truck. Hit me with some slowmo, sexy framing for this....

[Brian dives into the pool, swims a breadth then hoists himself out. In slow motion he emerges from the pool, water sliding down his body slowly, glistening.]


Brian O’Haire: I can look sexual too. Just look at this. Look how I glisten. Look how I sheen in the sun. Does this make your magnificent dick hard Mr Gilmour? Or does it make you want to kill me because you know that someone is packing more heat than you?

[Brian heads back over to the lounger. Lies back down, still wet from the pool]


Brian O’Haire: I look forward to your response at Relentless.

[Brian sips his drink]

Brian O’Haire: Then we have BORIS. A man who, well, we don’t know a great deal about. But I guess, since he’s involved in this match, I need to give him some of my time. From what I can tell, he’s a simple little soul. Obsessed with, well, Vodka. Let me put it in simple terms for you Boris in a language you’ll understand... “I’mski going to-Sikov fuck-itov you up-ski. Vodka vodka vodka.

[A lady walks towards Brian. She has an envelope on a tray. And hands it to Brian ]

Waitress: For you sir... a message.

[Brian opens the letter. A look of rage comes across his face. He picks up his phone and calls someone ]

Brian O’Haire: I thought I told you to deal with this.... no excuses.... it ends.....


[The scene fades out with Brian slamming his phone down. ]
-fin-]]>
A woman glad in a white polo shirt and shorts comes towards him with a tray with a beverage on it and serves it to him. He nods with thanks and hands her some money by way of a tip. She smiles and thanks him as she toddles off to do the rest of her work. Brian turns to face the camera]

Brian O’Haire: What a lovely ride!
Your penis is a thrill!
Your penis is a Cadillac
A giant Coupe DeVille!
Your penis packs a wallop, your penis brings a load!
And when it makes delivery...
It needs its own zipcode
Nine-Double Zero, Penis!

Cameron Diaz, Selma Blair, Christina Applegate, The sweetest thing. 2002.... Mr Gilmour, Peter F’N Gilmour. The man with one of the most adored penis’ in the world, and that’s just self appreciation. If people only so cared for the world as much as you care for your throbbing member, then we’d be in a much better position. Climate change, pah, never mind that, how about a vascular, masculine penis the like of yours, it could CHANGE THE WORLD. Or so you would believe. Peter my friend. Your penis is not the be all and end all. Hell I can’t believe I’m even cutting a promo on a mans sausage but they told me to advance in this business I may have to do some things I don’t like. So I guess I gotta talk dick to you. I gotta speak to you in a language that you’ll acknowledge and listen to.

[Brian shrugs]

Brian O’Haire: There’s no denying that you are quite the specimen Peter. You are chiselled. You are rugged. You have success. You are regularly having sex with females ranging from incredible to questionable. You have made a name for yourself around her and no one really questions your masculinity because frankly, no one has had need or want to. You’ve got your niche and you enjoy it. You get off on it and you enjoy the ego masturbation that comes along with it. But let’s take a step back for a minute. When it all gets said and done, what actually are you? Are you a man? Are you a wrestler? Or are you just a big penis? All girth and no brawn and beauty and skill? I think that. Frankly, your obsession with your member is something that while admirable, is frightening because I feel that while you pedal this bravado, you lose focus of what matters and that’s skill in the ring... and no, mr rinky dinky, not that ring. The ring In which we will meet at relentless day 2.
[Brian sips from the beverage that was delivered to him earlier.]

Brian O’Haire: Let’s make one thing perfectly clear. You said that and I quote “strut about like I’m all that”. Do you know why that is? Because I fucking am. I am all that. I’m all that and a whole lot more. But at the same time, while I know I am a specimen and “all that” I can also safely say I have been more than humble since I arrived here in the XWF. I have much to learn. I openly admitted that I underestimated people. I openly admitted that I may have been a bit foolhardy in my opening gambit here. But I have never ever shirked from the fact that I’m the new guy around here. I’m the pretender. I’m just another guy from another industry who thinks he can do this. But the more I sit around in the XWF and look around, I realise that I am supposed to be here. Hell, I’m only three matches into my career here at the XWF and I’m being asked to headline an event for charity because they KNOW the bang someone of my stature can bring to an event.... I’ll come to that soon incidentally. But for now. I am all that and more Peter. I am beginning to recognise that. I am humble. I am a realist but goddamnit, I am all that, because I can back it up.

[Brian sips from his drink and heads towards the pool]

Brian O’Haire: yo, boys in the truck. Hit me with some slowmo, sexy framing for this....

[Brian dives into the pool, swims a breadth then hoists himself out. In slow motion he emerges from the pool, water sliding down his body slowly, glistening.]


Brian O’Haire: I can look sexual too. Just look at this. Look how I glisten. Look how I sheen in the sun. Does this make your magnificent dick hard Mr Gilmour? Or does it make you want to kill me because you know that someone is packing more heat than you?

[Brian heads back over to the lounger. Lies back down, still wet from the pool]


Brian O’Haire: I look forward to your response at Relentless.

[Brian sips his drink]

Brian O’Haire: Then we have BORIS. A man who, well, we don’t know a great deal about. But I guess, since he’s involved in this match, I need to give him some of my time. From what I can tell, he’s a simple little soul. Obsessed with, well, Vodka. Let me put it in simple terms for you Boris in a language you’ll understand... “I’mski going to-Sikov fuck-itov you up-ski. Vodka vodka vodka.

[A lady walks towards Brian. She has an envelope on a tray. And hands it to Brian ]

Waitress: For you sir... a message.

[Brian opens the letter. A look of rage comes across his face. He picks up his phone and calls someone ]

Brian O’Haire: I thought I told you to deal with this.... no excuses.... it ends.....


[The scene fades out with Brian slamming his phone down. ]
-fin-]]> <![CDATA[Paper Planes]]> https://xwf1999.com/showthread.php?tid=34884 Mon, 23 Sep 2019 17:26:00 -0700 Centurion]]> https://xwf1999.com/showthread.php?tid=34884

(When Centurion was at the top of the world, he was know for taking care of his family and friends...at least financially. He had all the money in the world, so he felt as if he could buy the love of those around him. For some, it worked, and for others, it didn't. Either way, those closest to Centurion didn't have to worry about things like rent or travel when he was around.

It's weird being on the other side, though.

We open up inside an airport hanger in London, England. This is not the main hub of the international airport, however - this is a smaller hanger, away from the rest of the travelers and tourists. There, we see a pilot and some flight crew hovering around, when the voices of Centurion, Allison, and Jocelyn can be heard coming into the building.)

Allison: I coordinated with Walter to get your room set up. You'll be in Miami for four days, then you'll be flying straight to The Bahamas. You're going to do some charity work in Freeport before heading to Nassau.

Centurion: That's fine.

Allison: Walter is already in Nassau - he'll be handing the booking and organization of the charity event, so I'll be handling everything for you in Miami. The hotel I booked you at has an amazing gym, so you don't have to go hunting for one.

(The three of them come into view, and Centurion's face immediately lights up. His eyes grow wide and his mouth opens. The sight he sees is one of the most beautiful sights he's ever seen...

It's a Cessa Citation X private jet. Not just any private jet, though - HIS private jet. Or at least it was until he lost most of his assets.

Centurion opens his arms wide and runs towards the plane. He places his hand and face on the side of the plane as he speaks to no one in particular.)

Centurion: My baby! Oh, I missed you so much.

(Allison and Jocelyn walk up to Centurion and the plane. Jocelyn has a huge smile on her face, while Allison continues to be matter of fact.)

Jocelyn: Told ya he'd go apeshit.

Centurion: How did you...where did you...

Allison: It came on the market shortly after you disappeared. Centurion Enterprises were selling off a lot of your old assets. Since there was a new Cessna launched in the past few years, I think they were just looking to move it. I got it for a pretty good price.

Centurion: My plane...

Allison: MY plane. Jocelyn and I use it for media appearances and business proposals across Europe. As long as I'm managing you, you get to ride in it.

Centurion: Yes, absolutely, I'll give you whatever you want.

Allison: Unfortunately, you don't have anything I want. I already have your plane.

(Allison smiles and pats Centurion on the back before walking towards the steps of the plane. Jocelyn wraps her arm around Centurion's shoulder and nods her head as she looks at the plane with him.)

Jocelyn: Your sister and I shagged in there.

(Centurion's bright eyes immediately go dim, and his face drops.)

Centurion: Thanks for ruining this for me.

(Jocelyn pats Centurion on the shoulder as she walks toward the steps of the plane. She walks up them and into the plane, as Allison is about to do the same. She stops half way up the steps and turns to Centurion.)

Allison: Santos is already on the air. I haven't gotten to watch it yet, so I figured we'd go over it together on the flight. I also have tapes of Santos' last 5 matches. You have homework.

Centurion: Why do you think I'm stalling?

(Allison smiles as she steps into the plane, leaving Centurion alone. He pats the side of the plane before walking over and stepping up the steps into the plane. As he does, he is greeted with a familiar scene


[Image: orient-management-group-citation-longitu...1400682508]
Centurion falls to his knees, praising the holiness that is the interior of the private jet. Allison and Jocelyn both take their seats as Centurion nearly weeps.)

Allison: This image should be in the dictionary right next to "capitalism."

Centurion: You don't understand. This was my first major purchase when my casion began to make a profit. This was the beginning of my "lavish lifestyle." This plane symbolizes all the good...and all the bad that has happened.

Allison: I know. I've flown on this plane many times with you. You let me fly when I desperately needed to. You allowed me know easy travel as I forged my own path. It feels good to be able to deliver that to you, as well.

(Centurion smiles as he stands up and lays down on one of the couches.)

Centurion: It feels so good to fly private again. I don't want to sound like an ungrateful rich bastard...

Jocelyn: Too late.

Centurion: ...but flying commercial after all those years was tough. Booking flights, going through security, sitting in the airport for hours - it was like putting on an old pair of shoes you forgot was in your closet, and they don't quite fit you anymore, and the laces are all messed up and tangled, but you had to give up the rest of your shoes, so it's like "well, I better try..."

Allison: What the hell are you talking about?

(Centurion notices that he has been staring into the distance, eyes glazed, rambling about absolutely nothing.)

Centurion: I don't know.

Allison: Ok, add a CT scan to the list of things we need to get you in Miami. Also, set up some training time on the beach. Mid day. Bring plenty of water.

Centurion: That sounds like hell. Why would you do that?

Allison: Because you're going to be wrestling inside a glass cage under the Miami sun. It's going to be like wrestling in a sauna. If you're not prepared for it, you might die.

Centurion: Jeez...way to sell me on this.

(Allison reaches next to her and pulls a bottle of champagne out of a refrigerator. She grabs three flute glasses and passes them out before working on the cork. She continues speaking as she does.)

Allison: I'm not going to sugar coat anything. I'm not hear to listen to any excuses. If you want to do this and be serious about this, then you're going to work like someone who is serious about this.

(The sound of a loud POP! is heard as Allison tosses the cork behind her. She begins pouring three glasses of champagne, before grabbing a fourth glass.)

Allison: Oh, and I decided to bring along a passanger.

(Allison nods towards the door as Centurion looks up. As he does, up the steps and into the cabin of the plane steps...)

Genevieve: Room for one more?

------More Records Than The KGB------

Is Tony Santos the greatest Hart Champion of all time?

This question was asked to me very recently, and to be honest, I don't know if I can accurately give you an answer. We have had some big name winners who held the belt for a decent period of time. Zach Rizza held the belt for a few months, but nothing he does I would ever consider "greatest". James Raven held the belt, but he didn't hold it very long - his career surged past that point relatively quickly.

That's the problem - the Hart Title in it's original form was meant to be a stepping stone title. It was for newer wrestlers to fight over while the veterans and the big name stars fought over the bigger belts. That means some of the longer reigns from the past belong to not particularly memorable superstars, and those who actually had talent and used the belt efficiently didn't hold the belt for long.

Now that the Hart Title is the second biggest championship in the company, it has a lot more prestige, and is no longer a belt "just for new guys". And unfortunately, I wasn't around during this time, so I didn't see the reign of someone like Robert Main in order to compare. So, is Santos the greatest Hart Champion of all time?

Maybe. I'll accept an argument for it, at least. I can tell you that, in my recollection, no Hart Champion has had the respect of their peers like Tony Santos does. Champions in the past were only know as being "really f'in good" after their reigns, when they've already moved on to something else. The moment Santos won the belt, the boys in the back were going nuts. They already think he's a superstar, and he's just waiting for his Universal Title opportunity.

I can also tell you this...there isn't a single person back there who thinks I'm going to win. It's true. Out of all the titles on the line at Relentless, the Hart Title was ranked the least likely to change hands. I mean, that's partially because Robert Main is going to kick the satanic shit out of Unknown Soldier and everyone know that, but it's also because the "experts" see this as a mismatch. This isn't Centurion vs some young punk who needs humbled, and this isn't Centurion against some veteran who just got off the couch and can barely walk anymore. This is Centurion vs one of the best in the XWF. The novelty is over, or so they claim.

Not only that, but those same people...they don't WANT me to win. It may come as a surprise to the casual fan, but while I'm loved in front of the crowd, I'm hated by many in the locker room. Some see me as taking away a spot for a younger talent. Some see me as a friend to James Raven, which is the only reason I'm here. Mostly, they see me as boring, and they want to get rid of me so they can go back to fantasizing about rape and death without being called out for it.

Sorry to say...there's going to be some disappointed faces in the locker room. And some emptier wallets, as well.

I'm not here to make people feel good. I'm glad I still have the support of the fans, but it doesn't bother me one bit if the rest of the roster wants to bury me in the back yard. I owe them nothing. Instead of giving me respect, these ungrateful pricks treat me like some kind of cancer. They cheered my demise caused by Shane , only to be enraged when I won a shot at the Hart Title. They thought XX was it for the "old timers", and now that I've had my fun, I'm supposed to go away now.

XX didn't bury me. Shane didn't cause my demise. It's fueled me. I don't want to be as good as I once was. I want to be better. I don't want to be referred to as "old", I want to be referred to as the fucking LEGEND that I am! A title I earned through years of hard work and sacrifice! A title I WON back when you needed to win a match to earn your spot in the Hall. I don't want to be the one you beat to earn your spot - I want to be the one you have to earn your spot to face.

That brings me back to Tony Santos. Is he the greatest Hart Champion of all time? I sure as hell hope he is. I want his reign to go down as one of the legendary title reigns in XWF history. I want Tony Santos' name to be remembered over the course of history. I want him to be a legend and an icon.

And I want everyone to remember who took that belt off him.

This match should be the main event of the evening. The Hart Title headlines almost every Warfare, but it's not being put in the main event for, what? Fuzz and Big D? Does anyone really care? Big D has been the champ for six minutes, and whoever wins is likely to lose it next week anyway. People will remember the finish to the Hart Title match. They will be so hot that the crowd will not be able to be heated up again for the main event. But, your funeral. If you want to toss Fuzz and Big D out there to a dead crowd, be my guest.

Before Tony finally gets around to talking about me, let me air a few things I'm sure he'll bring up. I'm "vanilla" - he loves that word. I'm a has-been, the old reliable for any wrestler in the modern day XWF who knows my name and not my accomplishments. He's beaten me before - we covered that one already. Besides all that, I don't know what else Tony can say, besides listing the people he has beaten on his way to being the best Hart Champion in history

What Tony Santos will need to realize is that I'm not Ned Kaye. I'm not going to sit here a slam on a man's personal life when that's the well he's expecting me to go to. Why else do you think he airs his dirty laundry? He WANTS you to be distracted by it. Recovering alcoholic? Fuzz used to freebase heroin in the locker room before stumbling down the ring. T Money would do several lines of coke off a strippers ass before fighting for the Universal Title. You think I give a shit about a dude in recovery?

I'm also not going to do the old fashioned babyface "I'm going to try my best!" speech. I talk up Tony Santos and his accomplishments because he's good, but don't get it twisted - I'm going to win. Not "I hope to win". Not "I think I might win." No, I'm GOING to win. I'm GOING to be the next Hart Champion.

There in lies the biggest obstacle Tony Santos has had to face in his title run - he's standing across the ring from someone who can actually beat him. Ned Kaye is my brother, but he came in lacking confidence, and Santos knew it. Scully, Hanari, Fuzz, Donovan Blackwater - none of them were on Santos' level. And me, well...I was a one legged man in an ass kicking contest. Santos smelled blood in the water and ripped me apart.

But that doesn't fly this time around. I'm at 100%, and he knows it. I'm not the same competitor I was in April. The question is, is Santos going to prepare for that potential outcome? Or is he going to assume I'm just like all the other dime a dozen wrestlers he's barreled through to get to where he is now? We won't know until he speaks, which may or may not happen between now and Miami. If I was him? I wouldn't say anything at all. It's better to make excuses after the fact if no one hears you talk ahead of time.

Clock is ticking, Tony. You've had a hell of a run, but every reign eventually ends. Thus is the fragility of life. I wish you the best in your next endeavors, after I take that Hart Title off you and let you meet your...

FINAL FANTASY!!!]]>

(When Centurion was at the top of the world, he was know for taking care of his family and friends...at least financially. He had all the money in the world, so he felt as if he could buy the love of those around him. For some, it worked, and for others, it didn't. Either way, those closest to Centurion didn't have to worry about things like rent or travel when he was around.

It's weird being on the other side, though.

We open up inside an airport hanger in London, England. This is not the main hub of the international airport, however - this is a smaller hanger, away from the rest of the travelers and tourists. There, we see a pilot and some flight crew hovering around, when the voices of Centurion, Allison, and Jocelyn can be heard coming into the building.)

Allison: I coordinated with Walter to get your room set up. You'll be in Miami for four days, then you'll be flying straight to The Bahamas. You're going to do some charity work in Freeport before heading to Nassau.

Centurion: That's fine.

Allison: Walter is already in Nassau - he'll be handing the booking and organization of the charity event, so I'll be handling everything for you in Miami. The hotel I booked you at has an amazing gym, so you don't have to go hunting for one.

(The three of them come into view, and Centurion's face immediately lights up. His eyes grow wide and his mouth opens. The sight he sees is one of the most beautiful sights he's ever seen...

It's a Cessa Citation X private jet. Not just any private jet, though - HIS private jet. Or at least it was until he lost most of his assets.

Centurion opens his arms wide and runs towards the plane. He places his hand and face on the side of the plane as he speaks to no one in particular.)

Centurion: My baby! Oh, I missed you so much.

(Allison and Jocelyn walk up to Centurion and the plane. Jocelyn has a huge smile on her face, while Allison continues to be matter of fact.)

Jocelyn: Told ya he'd go apeshit.

Centurion: How did you...where did you...

Allison: It came on the market shortly after you disappeared. Centurion Enterprises were selling off a lot of your old assets. Since there was a new Cessna launched in the past few years, I think they were just looking to move it. I got it for a pretty good price.

Centurion: My plane...

Allison: MY plane. Jocelyn and I use it for media appearances and business proposals across Europe. As long as I'm managing you, you get to ride in it.

Centurion: Yes, absolutely, I'll give you whatever you want.

Allison: Unfortunately, you don't have anything I want. I already have your plane.

(Allison smiles and pats Centurion on the back before walking towards the steps of the plane. Jocelyn wraps her arm around Centurion's shoulder and nods her head as she looks at the plane with him.)

Jocelyn: Your sister and I shagged in there.

(Centurion's bright eyes immediately go dim, and his face drops.)

Centurion: Thanks for ruining this for me.

(Jocelyn pats Centurion on the shoulder as she walks toward the steps of the plane. She walks up them and into the plane, as Allison is about to do the same. She stops half way up the steps and turns to Centurion.)

Allison: Santos is already on the air. I haven't gotten to watch it yet, so I figured we'd go over it together on the flight. I also have tapes of Santos' last 5 matches. You have homework.

Centurion: Why do you think I'm stalling?

(Allison smiles as she steps into the plane, leaving Centurion alone. He pats the side of the plane before walking over and stepping up the steps into the plane. As he does, he is greeted with a familiar scene


[Image: orient-management-group-citation-longitu...1400682508]
Centurion falls to his knees, praising the holiness that is the interior of the private jet. Allison and Jocelyn both take their seats as Centurion nearly weeps.)

Allison: This image should be in the dictionary right next to "capitalism."

Centurion: You don't understand. This was my first major purchase when my casion began to make a profit. This was the beginning of my "lavish lifestyle." This plane symbolizes all the good...and all the bad that has happened.

Allison: I know. I've flown on this plane many times with you. You let me fly when I desperately needed to. You allowed me know easy travel as I forged my own path. It feels good to be able to deliver that to you, as well.

(Centurion smiles as he stands up and lays down on one of the couches.)

Centurion: It feels so good to fly private again. I don't want to sound like an ungrateful rich bastard...

Jocelyn: Too late.

Centurion: ...but flying commercial after all those years was tough. Booking flights, going through security, sitting in the airport for hours - it was like putting on an old pair of shoes you forgot was in your closet, and they don't quite fit you anymore, and the laces are all messed up and tangled, but you had to give up the rest of your shoes, so it's like "well, I better try..."

Allison: What the hell are you talking about?

(Centurion notices that he has been staring into the distance, eyes glazed, rambling about absolutely nothing.)

Centurion: I don't know.

Allison: Ok, add a CT scan to the list of things we need to get you in Miami. Also, set up some training time on the beach. Mid day. Bring plenty of water.

Centurion: That sounds like hell. Why would you do that?

Allison: Because you're going to be wrestling inside a glass cage under the Miami sun. It's going to be like wrestling in a sauna. If you're not prepared for it, you might die.

Centurion: Jeez...way to sell me on this.

(Allison reaches next to her and pulls a bottle of champagne out of a refrigerator. She grabs three flute glasses and passes them out before working on the cork. She continues speaking as she does.)

Allison: I'm not going to sugar coat anything. I'm not hear to listen to any excuses. If you want to do this and be serious about this, then you're going to work like someone who is serious about this.

(The sound of a loud POP! is heard as Allison tosses the cork behind her. She begins pouring three glasses of champagne, before grabbing a fourth glass.)

Allison: Oh, and I decided to bring along a passanger.

(Allison nods towards the door as Centurion looks up. As he does, up the steps and into the cabin of the plane steps...)

Genevieve: Room for one more?

------More Records Than The KGB------

Is Tony Santos the greatest Hart Champion of all time?

This question was asked to me very recently, and to be honest, I don't know if I can accurately give you an answer. We have had some big name winners who held the belt for a decent period of time. Zach Rizza held the belt for a few months, but nothing he does I would ever consider "greatest". James Raven held the belt, but he didn't hold it very long - his career surged past that point relatively quickly.

That's the problem - the Hart Title in it's original form was meant to be a stepping stone title. It was for newer wrestlers to fight over while the veterans and the big name stars fought over the bigger belts. That means some of the longer reigns from the past belong to not particularly memorable superstars, and those who actually had talent and used the belt efficiently didn't hold the belt for long.

Now that the Hart Title is the second biggest championship in the company, it has a lot more prestige, and is no longer a belt "just for new guys". And unfortunately, I wasn't around during this time, so I didn't see the reign of someone like Robert Main in order to compare. So, is Santos the greatest Hart Champion of all time?

Maybe. I'll accept an argument for it, at least. I can tell you that, in my recollection, no Hart Champion has had the respect of their peers like Tony Santos does. Champions in the past were only know as being "really f'in good" after their reigns, when they've already moved on to something else. The moment Santos won the belt, the boys in the back were going nuts. They already think he's a superstar, and he's just waiting for his Universal Title opportunity.

I can also tell you this...there isn't a single person back there who thinks I'm going to win. It's true. Out of all the titles on the line at Relentless, the Hart Title was ranked the least likely to change hands. I mean, that's partially because Robert Main is going to kick the satanic shit out of Unknown Soldier and everyone know that, but it's also because the "experts" see this as a mismatch. This isn't Centurion vs some young punk who needs humbled, and this isn't Centurion against some veteran who just got off the couch and can barely walk anymore. This is Centurion vs one of the best in the XWF. The novelty is over, or so they claim.

Not only that, but those same people...they don't WANT me to win. It may come as a surprise to the casual fan, but while I'm loved in front of the crowd, I'm hated by many in the locker room. Some see me as taking away a spot for a younger talent. Some see me as a friend to James Raven, which is the only reason I'm here. Mostly, they see me as boring, and they want to get rid of me so they can go back to fantasizing about rape and death without being called out for it.

Sorry to say...there's going to be some disappointed faces in the locker room. And some emptier wallets, as well.

I'm not here to make people feel good. I'm glad I still have the support of the fans, but it doesn't bother me one bit if the rest of the roster wants to bury me in the back yard. I owe them nothing. Instead of giving me respect, these ungrateful pricks treat me like some kind of cancer. They cheered my demise caused by Shane , only to be enraged when I won a shot at the Hart Title. They thought XX was it for the "old timers", and now that I've had my fun, I'm supposed to go away now.

XX didn't bury me. Shane didn't cause my demise. It's fueled me. I don't want to be as good as I once was. I want to be better. I don't want to be referred to as "old", I want to be referred to as the fucking LEGEND that I am! A title I earned through years of hard work and sacrifice! A title I WON back when you needed to win a match to earn your spot in the Hall. I don't want to be the one you beat to earn your spot - I want to be the one you have to earn your spot to face.

That brings me back to Tony Santos. Is he the greatest Hart Champion of all time? I sure as hell hope he is. I want his reign to go down as one of the legendary title reigns in XWF history. I want Tony Santos' name to be remembered over the course of history. I want him to be a legend and an icon.

And I want everyone to remember who took that belt off him.

This match should be the main event of the evening. The Hart Title headlines almost every Warfare, but it's not being put in the main event for, what? Fuzz and Big D? Does anyone really care? Big D has been the champ for six minutes, and whoever wins is likely to lose it next week anyway. People will remember the finish to the Hart Title match. They will be so hot that the crowd will not be able to be heated up again for the main event. But, your funeral. If you want to toss Fuzz and Big D out there to a dead crowd, be my guest.

Before Tony finally gets around to talking about me, let me air a few things I'm sure he'll bring up. I'm "vanilla" - he loves that word. I'm a has-been, the old reliable for any wrestler in the modern day XWF who knows my name and not my accomplishments. He's beaten me before - we covered that one already. Besides all that, I don't know what else Tony can say, besides listing the people he has beaten on his way to being the best Hart Champion in history

What Tony Santos will need to realize is that I'm not Ned Kaye. I'm not going to sit here a slam on a man's personal life when that's the well he's expecting me to go to. Why else do you think he airs his dirty laundry? He WANTS you to be distracted by it. Recovering alcoholic? Fuzz used to freebase heroin in the locker room before stumbling down the ring. T Money would do several lines of coke off a strippers ass before fighting for the Universal Title. You think I give a shit about a dude in recovery?

I'm also not going to do the old fashioned babyface "I'm going to try my best!" speech. I talk up Tony Santos and his accomplishments because he's good, but don't get it twisted - I'm going to win. Not "I hope to win". Not "I think I might win." No, I'm GOING to win. I'm GOING to be the next Hart Champion.

There in lies the biggest obstacle Tony Santos has had to face in his title run - he's standing across the ring from someone who can actually beat him. Ned Kaye is my brother, but he came in lacking confidence, and Santos knew it. Scully, Hanari, Fuzz, Donovan Blackwater - none of them were on Santos' level. And me, well...I was a one legged man in an ass kicking contest. Santos smelled blood in the water and ripped me apart.

But that doesn't fly this time around. I'm at 100%, and he knows it. I'm not the same competitor I was in April. The question is, is Santos going to prepare for that potential outcome? Or is he going to assume I'm just like all the other dime a dozen wrestlers he's barreled through to get to where he is now? We won't know until he speaks, which may or may not happen between now and Miami. If I was him? I wouldn't say anything at all. It's better to make excuses after the fact if no one hears you talk ahead of time.

Clock is ticking, Tony. You've had a hell of a run, but every reign eventually ends. Thus is the fragility of life. I wish you the best in your next endeavors, after I take that Hart Title off you and let you meet your...

FINAL FANTASY!!!]]> <![CDATA[Something To Prove]]> https://xwf1999.com/showthread.php?tid=34868 Fri, 20 Sep 2019 22:28:23 -0700 Big D]]> https://xwf1999.com/showthread.php?tid=34868
Nobody wants Big D to be the secondary Champion; it's an embarrassment for the walking dick joke to hold such a high honor. It doesn't matter that I hold every belt I win in the highest regard, or that I've been defending it like a REAL Champion, they just want the belt off of me. You can tell with how hard everyone's been coming at me; I kick out of one pin and there's two more waiting for me. But despite their best efforts, no-one has been able to dethrone me yet!

And then there's Shane , a man who would rather see someone win the belt by disqualification or due to interference, than have me hold it for another second. He couldn't care less that I made Zane Norrison tap out BEFORE snapping his brittle neck, it doesn't matter to him that the referee went back on the decision he'd already made, and he can't see that I HAD my TV Title match won BEFORE Mastermind stuck his nose where it didn't belong. I don't know if Shane is blind, stupid, or a combination of both, but I sure can see why he's the FORMER owner.

My recent plight is NOT a reflection of my overall talent, but rather a few small missteps. It's no different than a football team losing because of a bad play or two(like Vinnie's Giants), that doesn't mean the team is bad, they just made a few mistakes. The only difference is there was no error on MY part, just others. Like the referee who decided to reverse the decision(probably had money on Zane), or Mastermind knocking me off the ladder when the belt was within arm's reach. You absolutely CANNOT blame me for these instances, as they were both unfortunate circumstances beyond my control. And while they will go down as losses in the record books, nobody will remember either match by the time my career is over with.

The XWF Xtreme Championship is the stepping stone I've needed to reach my endgame of the Universal Title. My whole career has always been about winning Championships, regardless of their prestige, but that game has changed. I've had over 25 different Title reigns, but only one of them has been a World Championship. The whole reason I came out of retirement was for one last run at the top and that goal hasn't changed, it's just been put on hold for the time being. But that doesn't mean I've forgotten about it, on the contrary, it's on my mind now more than it ever was!

Everybody knows being the secondary Champion can be a way to fine tune your abilities and work your way up to the next level, but the Xtreme Championship is so much more than that. If I can defend the belt in 5 officially booked matches, I can get a 24/7 briefcase and be a moment's notice away from becoming Universal Champion. No rafters to climb, no hoops to jump through, win 5 matches and it's mine. As long as there isn't more outside interference or referees playing decision maker, I WILL earn that briefcase and become the top guy. But I can't do it without winning those five matches, and looking too far ahead is a sure fire way to watch that opportunity go up in smoke.

My first defense is an odd match type in a Miami Beach Massacre. I've been in just about every kind of match imaginable, but this was definitely the first of this sort. It wasn't much different from a Hardcore Match, with the exception of there being no ring. I couldn't recall a time I didn't, at the very least, START a match in a ring, but it wasn't gonna be an issue. Though my surroundings will be different, the goal remains the same: beat my opponent until they can't get a shoulder up for a 3 count. Whether it's in a ring, on the beach, or at the top of the Empire State Building; I will do whatever it takes to retain my Title.

Being in the Main Event of Day 2 is a huge opportunity that I won't let go to waste. While I plan to Main Event many more times in the future, I won't get those opportunities if I blow it at Relentless. I don't just want to prove I'm a credible Xtreme Champion, I want everyone to see that I deserve to be at the top of the food chain.

As much as I want to be at that point now, I have to put my blinders on and stay on the path in front of me. My first official Title defense is against a man I've never faced before, nor someone I've ever watched wrestle. Despite this, him being in the Hall of Legends automatically makes him the favorite to topple me. That man is none other than Fuzz.

Fuzz and I have a history, as brief as it may be. It all started when I won the XWF Federweight Championship back in August. I was proud(as I've said before, I hold EVERY belt I win in the highest regard) and decided to announce my victory on Twitter. Rather than receive any praise or congratulations, I was met with a response from a man I had never interacted with in my life:

"That’s great no one cares..... Good job!"
It was followed up with a GIF of Stephen Colbert clapping in a blatantly obvious manner.

The person who sent that Tweet out was none other than my Relentless opponent, Fuzz himself. And while his reply pissed me off, I quickly pushed it aside because he was a nobody to me. I'd never seen him in any high profile matches, nor had he held a belt the entire time I'd been around. To me he was just someone trying to get his fifteen minutes of fame by insulting the man who'd just won the shit talk Title. I ignored him and went about business as usual.

About a week later, I managed to become XWF Heavymetalweight Champion for a third time, making me a Double Champion for the first time since WWF. It was a historic moment in my career and I once again took to Twitter to announce the accomplishment. Lo and behold, though, Fuzz wasn't gonna let me have my day in the sun. Just as he had before, Fuzz trashed my achievement by replying with:

"Too bad nobody cares about those titles. They aren’t defended on TV. Change how they are viewed and people still won’t care."

He had finally gotten my attention. I reminded him that it's not the Title that makes the man, but the man who makes the Title; and he still didn't give a shit. To him the belts were nothing more than a prop, no different than something Carrot Top would pull out of his suitcase. It just didn't make sense to me, at the time at least. Why was Fuzz trying SO hard to throw me and what I'd done under the bus? He stated they were never defended on TV, but his claim was absolutely false. I'd seen Kuda win a Battle Royal on the pre-show of March Madness for the Federweight Title. On that very same show, I witnessed EDWARD pound a guy's face to mush to defend his shiny Heavymetalweight Championship. Hell, Madison Dyson is gonna defend her Federweight belt in a match at Battle for the Bahamas! So why on earth was Fuzz telling blatant lies, as well as trying to discredit my reigns as Champion? The answer to that question was simple: he was jealous.

I've looked up and down the Title history pages of XWF.com and saw that Fuzz's name was nowhere to be found. From the Universal Championship, all the way down to the TV Title; none of the current belts had EVER been held by Eminem's twin brother. I thought there HAD to be a mistake, so I clicked my way over to Fuzz's roster page to see if there was something missing. Despite examining his profile like I was a TSA agent, I couldn't find anything that mentioned him holding a Championship EVER.

It all made sense. Fuzz couldn't handle seeing me hold two belts at the same time, because he wasn't even capable of holding ONE! He had to diminish my accomplishment because the thought of Big D being better than him tears him up on the inside. And now that I'm holding a belt more prestigious than both those Titles combined, he's gotta be at an all-time low.

It's completely possible I could be wrong about Fuzz. XWF isn't too kind on its past, hence why I'd never heard of Migraine before Sebastian Duke nearly murdered him at XX. For all I know, Fuzz could be a 1x Universal Champion, 3x World Champion, 3x Xtreme Champion, 2x US Champion and a 1x Hart Champion. I would have no way of knowing because XWF doesn't proudly display it's ENTIRE history. And who could blame them? With guys like Barney Green being former World Champions, I probably would keep my dark past hidden from the world, as well! With how low the company was at one point, anything Fuzz MAY have done would've been without merit and I wouldn't be one bit envious.

BUT let me tell you something, Fuzz, I AM jealous of one thing you HAVE achieved. You're a member of the XWF Hall of Legends, joining names like Steve Jason, James Raven, Centurion, and so on. That's quite impressive company to be associated with, especially for someone who, to my knowledge, never held gold. I wanted to give you credit for being a bonafide Legend, but then I remembered WWE has the likes of Donald Trump and Drew Carey in THEIR Hall of Fame, and figured you must be the joke induction of XWF's. When someone refers to you as a "Legend", they don't mean it in a Bret Hart or Hulk Hogan sort of way but rather Doink the Clown or Barry Horowitz. But deep down, you already know that don't you? If you didn't, you would've chosen someone better than Noah Jokeson to team with for the Tag Tournament. Though, I get the feeling you didn't have much choice when it came to a partner. I know I wouldn't team with you, hence why I sat out the whole thing. That and I had bigger and better things to worry about.

Fuzz, you're old fuckin' news. While I'm out here winning Championships, you're just collecting paychecks as the wrestling world forgets about you. Whatever legitimacy you may have once had is long gone. That's why you're my opponent for Relentless, Fuzz, it's because this is your last chance to prove to the higher ups you still got something left in the tank. They want to see how I do against a veteran, but not someone TOO good, so that I'm basically guaranteed to keep my belt. Essentially, they're feeding you to me and I'm gonna eat ya up like Thanksgiving dinner! What I did to the arena the Savage before last will look like nothing after I'm through with you.

If you think you're the only one of us with something to prove, you need to get a grip with reality before it bites you in the ass! I'm dying to get a major win, but for now, you'll have to do. The way everyone in XWF treats me and looks at me, they act like I'm the special kid who stumbled his way into a Title reign thanks to Robert Main. It could have just as easily been Mastermind in my position, I just so happened to be there. And I'm sick and fucking tired of it! If beating the shit out of a washed up has-been is what I have to do to earn a little respect around here, you bet your ass I'm gonna do it! I've had a pinecone shoved down my throat, had a whale penis fall on me, went to trial with Fuzz's dad, AND was attacked whilst trying to enjoy a vacation! And yet I kicked out of every single pin attempt. I'm not gonna go through all of that punishment just to let this belt slip off of me in my first defense.

We're both going into this match with so much at stake. Fuzz, the old veteran trying to stay relevant in a young man's game. Me, the Xtreme Champion out to show the world he's not a one and down Title holder. There's only room for one man to walk away on top, and that man is gonna be me. After our match is over, I'm gonna be holding the Championship high above my head in victory, while the legacy of Fuzz fades into obscurity. By the time I'm down with him, they're gonna give ME his spot in the Hall of Legends and Fuzz will be nothing more than an afterthought. And that ain't no story, it's the Cold Big D Truth!]]>
Nobody wants Big D to be the secondary Champion; it's an embarrassment for the walking dick joke to hold such a high honor. It doesn't matter that I hold every belt I win in the highest regard, or that I've been defending it like a REAL Champion, they just want the belt off of me. You can tell with how hard everyone's been coming at me; I kick out of one pin and there's two more waiting for me. But despite their best efforts, no-one has been able to dethrone me yet!

And then there's Shane , a man who would rather see someone win the belt by disqualification or due to interference, than have me hold it for another second. He couldn't care less that I made Zane Norrison tap out BEFORE snapping his brittle neck, it doesn't matter to him that the referee went back on the decision he'd already made, and he can't see that I HAD my TV Title match won BEFORE Mastermind stuck his nose where it didn't belong. I don't know if Shane is blind, stupid, or a combination of both, but I sure can see why he's the FORMER owner.

My recent plight is NOT a reflection of my overall talent, but rather a few small missteps. It's no different than a football team losing because of a bad play or two(like Vinnie's Giants), that doesn't mean the team is bad, they just made a few mistakes. The only difference is there was no error on MY part, just others. Like the referee who decided to reverse the decision(probably had money on Zane), or Mastermind knocking me off the ladder when the belt was within arm's reach. You absolutely CANNOT blame me for these instances, as they were both unfortunate circumstances beyond my control. And while they will go down as losses in the record books, nobody will remember either match by the time my career is over with.

The XWF Xtreme Championship is the stepping stone I've needed to reach my endgame of the Universal Title. My whole career has always been about winning Championships, regardless of their prestige, but that game has changed. I've had over 25 different Title reigns, but only one of them has been a World Championship. The whole reason I came out of retirement was for one last run at the top and that goal hasn't changed, it's just been put on hold for the time being. But that doesn't mean I've forgotten about it, on the contrary, it's on my mind now more than it ever was!

Everybody knows being the secondary Champion can be a way to fine tune your abilities and work your way up to the next level, but the Xtreme Championship is so much more than that. If I can defend the belt in 5 officially booked matches, I can get a 24/7 briefcase and be a moment's notice away from becoming Universal Champion. No rafters to climb, no hoops to jump through, win 5 matches and it's mine. As long as there isn't more outside interference or referees playing decision maker, I WILL earn that briefcase and become the top guy. But I can't do it without winning those five matches, and looking too far ahead is a sure fire way to watch that opportunity go up in smoke.

My first defense is an odd match type in a Miami Beach Massacre. I've been in just about every kind of match imaginable, but this was definitely the first of this sort. It wasn't much different from a Hardcore Match, with the exception of there being no ring. I couldn't recall a time I didn't, at the very least, START a match in a ring, but it wasn't gonna be an issue. Though my surroundings will be different, the goal remains the same: beat my opponent until they can't get a shoulder up for a 3 count. Whether it's in a ring, on the beach, or at the top of the Empire State Building; I will do whatever it takes to retain my Title.

Being in the Main Event of Day 2 is a huge opportunity that I won't let go to waste. While I plan to Main Event many more times in the future, I won't get those opportunities if I blow it at Relentless. I don't just want to prove I'm a credible Xtreme Champion, I want everyone to see that I deserve to be at the top of the food chain.

As much as I want to be at that point now, I have to put my blinders on and stay on the path in front of me. My first official Title defense is against a man I've never faced before, nor someone I've ever watched wrestle. Despite this, him being in the Hall of Legends automatically makes him the favorite to topple me. That man is none other than Fuzz.

Fuzz and I have a history, as brief as it may be. It all started when I won the XWF Federweight Championship back in August. I was proud(as I've said before, I hold EVERY belt I win in the highest regard) and decided to announce my victory on Twitter. Rather than receive any praise or congratulations, I was met with a response from a man I had never interacted with in my life:

"That’s great no one cares..... Good job!"
It was followed up with a GIF of Stephen Colbert clapping in a blatantly obvious manner.

The person who sent that Tweet out was none other than my Relentless opponent, Fuzz himself. And while his reply pissed me off, I quickly pushed it aside because he was a nobody to me. I'd never seen him in any high profile matches, nor had he held a belt the entire time I'd been around. To me he was just someone trying to get his fifteen minutes of fame by insulting the man who'd just won the shit talk Title. I ignored him and went about business as usual.

About a week later, I managed to become XWF Heavymetalweight Champion for a third time, making me a Double Champion for the first time since WWF. It was a historic moment in my career and I once again took to Twitter to announce the accomplishment. Lo and behold, though, Fuzz wasn't gonna let me have my day in the sun. Just as he had before, Fuzz trashed my achievement by replying with:

"Too bad nobody cares about those titles. They aren’t defended on TV. Change how they are viewed and people still won’t care."

He had finally gotten my attention. I reminded him that it's not the Title that makes the man, but the man who makes the Title; and he still didn't give a shit. To him the belts were nothing more than a prop, no different than something Carrot Top would pull out of his suitcase. It just didn't make sense to me, at the time at least. Why was Fuzz trying SO hard to throw me and what I'd done under the bus? He stated they were never defended on TV, but his claim was absolutely false. I'd seen Kuda win a Battle Royal on the pre-show of March Madness for the Federweight Title. On that very same show, I witnessed EDWARD pound a guy's face to mush to defend his shiny Heavymetalweight Championship. Hell, Madison Dyson is gonna defend her Federweight belt in a match at Battle for the Bahamas! So why on earth was Fuzz telling blatant lies, as well as trying to discredit my reigns as Champion? The answer to that question was simple: he was jealous.

I've looked up and down the Title history pages of XWF.com and saw that Fuzz's name was nowhere to be found. From the Universal Championship, all the way down to the TV Title; none of the current belts had EVER been held by Eminem's twin brother. I thought there HAD to be a mistake, so I clicked my way over to Fuzz's roster page to see if there was something missing. Despite examining his profile like I was a TSA agent, I couldn't find anything that mentioned him holding a Championship EVER.

It all made sense. Fuzz couldn't handle seeing me hold two belts at the same time, because he wasn't even capable of holding ONE! He had to diminish my accomplishment because the thought of Big D being better than him tears him up on the inside. And now that I'm holding a belt more prestigious than both those Titles combined, he's gotta be at an all-time low.

It's completely possible I could be wrong about Fuzz. XWF isn't too kind on its past, hence why I'd never heard of Migraine before Sebastian Duke nearly murdered him at XX. For all I know, Fuzz could be a 1x Universal Champion, 3x World Champion, 3x Xtreme Champion, 2x US Champion and a 1x Hart Champion. I would have no way of knowing because XWF doesn't proudly display it's ENTIRE history. And who could blame them? With guys like Barney Green being former World Champions, I probably would keep my dark past hidden from the world, as well! With how low the company was at one point, anything Fuzz MAY have done would've been without merit and I wouldn't be one bit envious.

BUT let me tell you something, Fuzz, I AM jealous of one thing you HAVE achieved. You're a member of the XWF Hall of Legends, joining names like Steve Jason, James Raven, Centurion, and so on. That's quite impressive company to be associated with, especially for someone who, to my knowledge, never held gold. I wanted to give you credit for being a bonafide Legend, but then I remembered WWE has the likes of Donald Trump and Drew Carey in THEIR Hall of Fame, and figured you must be the joke induction of XWF's. When someone refers to you as a "Legend", they don't mean it in a Bret Hart or Hulk Hogan sort of way but rather Doink the Clown or Barry Horowitz. But deep down, you already know that don't you? If you didn't, you would've chosen someone better than Noah Jokeson to team with for the Tag Tournament. Though, I get the feeling you didn't have much choice when it came to a partner. I know I wouldn't team with you, hence why I sat out the whole thing. That and I had bigger and better things to worry about.

Fuzz, you're old fuckin' news. While I'm out here winning Championships, you're just collecting paychecks as the wrestling world forgets about you. Whatever legitimacy you may have once had is long gone. That's why you're my opponent for Relentless, Fuzz, it's because this is your last chance to prove to the higher ups you still got something left in the tank. They want to see how I do against a veteran, but not someone TOO good, so that I'm basically guaranteed to keep my belt. Essentially, they're feeding you to me and I'm gonna eat ya up like Thanksgiving dinner! What I did to the arena the Savage before last will look like nothing after I'm through with you.

If you think you're the only one of us with something to prove, you need to get a grip with reality before it bites you in the ass! I'm dying to get a major win, but for now, you'll have to do. The way everyone in XWF treats me and looks at me, they act like I'm the special kid who stumbled his way into a Title reign thanks to Robert Main. It could have just as easily been Mastermind in my position, I just so happened to be there. And I'm sick and fucking tired of it! If beating the shit out of a washed up has-been is what I have to do to earn a little respect around here, you bet your ass I'm gonna do it! I've had a pinecone shoved down my throat, had a whale penis fall on me, went to trial with Fuzz's dad, AND was attacked whilst trying to enjoy a vacation! And yet I kicked out of every single pin attempt. I'm not gonna go through all of that punishment just to let this belt slip off of me in my first defense.

We're both going into this match with so much at stake. Fuzz, the old veteran trying to stay relevant in a young man's game. Me, the Xtreme Champion out to show the world he's not a one and down Title holder. There's only room for one man to walk away on top, and that man is gonna be me. After our match is over, I'm gonna be holding the Championship high above my head in victory, while the legacy of Fuzz fades into obscurity. By the time I'm down with him, they're gonna give ME his spot in the Hall of Legends and Fuzz will be nothing more than an afterthought. And that ain't no story, it's the Cold Big D Truth!]]> <![CDATA[My Fantasy is Your Nightmare]]> https://xwf1999.com/showthread.php?tid=34865 Fri, 20 Sep 2019 21:58:42 -0700 Tony Santos]]> https://xwf1999.com/showthread.php?tid=34865

The scene opens...



...light shining over the sweaty forehead of a woman who quickly popped into scene. Her upper body jolted up like a catapult, her throat sinking into her chest, trying to catch her breath on an oddly hot evening in Boston. She sits in front of the camera, unable to move, long, brown, and incredibly drenched hair sticking to her skin. Her eyes stare through the camera, panic piercing her pupils like a fine needle.

Her heart beats through her gullet, a consistent pulse beating through the hole in her throat. It pounds against her skin like a drum pedal ramming against a roaring bass drum... if it were trying to flee the scene. Her left eyelid twitches, either due to high blood pressure or recent substance abuse...

...or maybe just too much alcoho...

She stops, sweat still pouring down her face.

Kayla: Not the booze. Trust me, it's not... the booze.

We find ourselves... on a mattress. A bare mattress, on the floor of a studio apartment. Used cigarettes line the floor, ash trails leading from the bathroom to the "bed." A distinct smell of bleach permeates the apartment, even tingling your senses through the camera. The walls are pale white, the ceilings the same. Spider webs line practically all corners, a fly struggling to escape seen in the distance.

Tony smiles, even in his unconscious state. He knows a recovering drunk, just by the smell. Tony lays flat on the... bed... eyes closed, hair draped back. He's spent the night dreaming. The dream spectrum started with Tony reliving childhood memories of football games, the kid playing running back, who was constantly crushed by opposing 12-year-old linebackers, and the basketball games, where a lanky, yet tall, Tony Santos would hit the court with ease, a many elbow and knee injuries as marks of accomplishment. It all fits into the Tony Santos who lived in a small part of Boston, bullied and bruised. A Tony Santos who was abused by his peers, let alone his dead parents, who found himself...



Gasping for air.

Tony awakens, catapulting towards the camera like Kayla before him. Sweat similarly rolls off of his forehead, his heart beating just as strong, as his pupils dilate.

Tony breathes.

And breathes.

And... breathes.

Tony begins to look around the room, trying to understand his current situation and how he made it on to this mattress. Then, a flashback...

Quote:A king size bed, with the AA-esque organizer. Her name is Kayla. Tony managed to fall to the ground, and she picked himself up. She found him. She saved him. She'd saved him.

Tony lays in bed, naked from head to toe, blanket covering his chest. His... vacant... eyes, stare at the ceiling. He felt good, he felt right. But he felt... conflicted. He hadn't had a drink, but he felt a gut punch, like a 50 pound weight was sitting on his chest. Like a ball of pain and shame were weighing him down. Like he was being tested to be better. Like he was being...

Reborn.

The organizer smiles, draping her arm over Tony's rapidly dilating chest, as the scene fades to black.

Tony sits in position, staring a thousand miles ahead. Each individual blink resonates with the sound of a thousand camera shutters. He shakes his head, removing himself from the minor agony of his past life, returning himself to the present. There, he finds the woman who was supposed to lead him to success. The woman who was supposed to take him from his most vulnerable place, and place him in his safest. But she had betrayed his trust. An Alcoholics Anonymous... (ish)... organizer wasn't supposed to engage with participants personally in the session, let alone outside of it.

But here we are. South Boston, Massachusetts, in a dingy studio apartment, two recovering addicts... yes, an instructor is still a recovering addict... sleeping together. Tony vented some frustrations, Kayla took advantage. Kayla provided some help, Tony took advantage. Two addicts found a hole, and they dove right in.

Back to the present.



Kayla gasps again, and then begins to pant. Her left hand clenches the mattress, her bones jutting through. Sweat starts to make its way through her underwear and into the mattress, the underlying anxiety overtaking her. She looks to her right, then her left, and...

...sees Tony.

She stares at Tony, her chest rapidly compressing and decompressing. Her eyes begin to droop, her heart rate begins to drop. She sees the man from the night before, and is... calm.

Kayla: How did you...

Tony smiles, still staring up at the ceiling.

Santos: Get here?

Kayla nods.

Santos: I was told to be here, like the champion I am, and the professional god damn certainly am. I was...

Tony falls on his face, hitting the hardwood floor.

Santos: ...humbled.

Tony lays against the hardwood floor, his cheek pressed against the floor boards, just like he was set against the pavement many times before. His left cheek lays against the ground, the gravel scratching the cheek of the man above it. His right cheek feels the cool, calm air of freedom, people having stepped over his face with seeming envy.

Tony smiles.

Santos:Do you even want to try?

Kayla smiles at Tony, realizing his very obvious flaws.

Kayla:Tony, what do you think of...

Tony raises a hand, smiling. He has an index finger standing between him and his lady, when he hears a knock.

***Knock, knock, knock***

Tony smiles, ands, and lets the scene face to black.]]>

The scene opens...



...light shining over the sweaty forehead of a woman who quickly popped into scene. Her upper body jolted up like a catapult, her throat sinking into her chest, trying to catch her breath on an oddly hot evening in Boston. She sits in front of the camera, unable to move, long, brown, and incredibly drenched hair sticking to her skin. Her eyes stare through the camera, panic piercing her pupils like a fine needle.

Her heart beats through her gullet, a consistent pulse beating through the hole in her throat. It pounds against her skin like a drum pedal ramming against a roaring bass drum... if it were trying to flee the scene. Her left eyelid twitches, either due to high blood pressure or recent substance abuse...

...or maybe just too much alcoho...

She stops, sweat still pouring down her face.

Kayla: Not the booze. Trust me, it's not... the booze.

We find ourselves... on a mattress. A bare mattress, on the floor of a studio apartment. Used cigarettes line the floor, ash trails leading from the bathroom to the "bed." A distinct smell of bleach permeates the apartment, even tingling your senses through the camera. The walls are pale white, the ceilings the same. Spider webs line practically all corners, a fly struggling to escape seen in the distance.

Tony smiles, even in his unconscious state. He knows a recovering drunk, just by the smell. Tony lays flat on the... bed... eyes closed, hair draped back. He's spent the night dreaming. The dream spectrum started with Tony reliving childhood memories of football games, the kid playing running back, who was constantly crushed by opposing 12-year-old linebackers, and the basketball games, where a lanky, yet tall, Tony Santos would hit the court with ease, a many elbow and knee injuries as marks of accomplishment. It all fits into the Tony Santos who lived in a small part of Boston, bullied and bruised. A Tony Santos who was abused by his peers, let alone his dead parents, who found himself...



Gasping for air.

Tony awakens, catapulting towards the camera like Kayla before him. Sweat similarly rolls off of his forehead, his heart beating just as strong, as his pupils dilate.

Tony breathes.

And breathes.

And... breathes.

Tony begins to look around the room, trying to understand his current situation and how he made it on to this mattress. Then, a flashback...

Quote:A king size bed, with the AA-esque organizer. Her name is Kayla. Tony managed to fall to the ground, and she picked himself up. She found him. She saved him. She'd saved him.

Tony lays in bed, naked from head to toe, blanket covering his chest. His... vacant... eyes, stare at the ceiling. He felt good, he felt right. But he felt... conflicted. He hadn't had a drink, but he felt a gut punch, like a 50 pound weight was sitting on his chest. Like a ball of pain and shame were weighing him down. Like he was being tested to be better. Like he was being...

Reborn.

The organizer smiles, draping her arm over Tony's rapidly dilating chest, as the scene fades to black.

Tony sits in position, staring a thousand miles ahead. Each individual blink resonates with the sound of a thousand camera shutters. He shakes his head, removing himself from the minor agony of his past life, returning himself to the present. There, he finds the woman who was supposed to lead him to success. The woman who was supposed to take him from his most vulnerable place, and place him in his safest. But she had betrayed his trust. An Alcoholics Anonymous... (ish)... organizer wasn't supposed to engage with participants personally in the session, let alone outside of it.

But here we are. South Boston, Massachusetts, in a dingy studio apartment, two recovering addicts... yes, an instructor is still a recovering addict... sleeping together. Tony vented some frustrations, Kayla took advantage. Kayla provided some help, Tony took advantage. Two addicts found a hole, and they dove right in.

Back to the present.



Kayla gasps again, and then begins to pant. Her left hand clenches the mattress, her bones jutting through. Sweat starts to make its way through her underwear and into the mattress, the underlying anxiety overtaking her. She looks to her right, then her left, and...

...sees Tony.

She stares at Tony, her chest rapidly compressing and decompressing. Her eyes begin to droop, her heart rate begins to drop. She sees the man from the night before, and is... calm.

Kayla: How did you...

Tony smiles, still staring up at the ceiling.

Santos: Get here?

Kayla nods.

Santos: I was told to be here, like the champion I am, and the professional god damn certainly am. I was...

Tony falls on his face, hitting the hardwood floor.

Santos: ...humbled.

Tony lays against the hardwood floor, his cheek pressed against the floor boards, just like he was set against the pavement many times before. His left cheek lays against the ground, the gravel scratching the cheek of the man above it. His right cheek feels the cool, calm air of freedom, people having stepped over his face with seeming envy.

Tony smiles.

Santos:Do you even want to try?

Kayla smiles at Tony, realizing his very obvious flaws.

Kayla:Tony, what do you think of...

Tony raises a hand, smiling. He has an index finger standing between him and his lady, when he hears a knock.

***Knock, knock, knock***

Tony smiles, ands, and lets the scene face to black.]]> <![CDATA[I Fucking Hate Miami]]> https://xwf1999.com/showthread.php?tid=34864 Fri, 20 Sep 2019 21:57:04 -0700 Shawn Warstein]]> https://xwf1999.com/showthread.php?tid=34864 12:30pm
Miami

“I fucking hate Miami.”

It’s was about midday, hot as fucking balls outside. How people actually choose to live here is beyond me. The humidity alone is enough for me to make sure this isn’t a permanent thing. When I retire, I’m not heading south. Up to the great country of Canada. I mean the guy running that place isn’t anywhere near as incompetent as the fools running around Washington. Needless to say, it was hot. Yet here I am walking up a ducking beach. Two bags under my arms, and carrying an umbrella over my shoulder.

The beach was like any other, crowded. The mass of humanity at its worst. It’s not as bad as a water park, but close. Kids are running and screaming, playing in the sand while their parents ignore them under their umbrellas reading their e-books. This has to be one of the few places on planet earth where you don’t actually have to watch their kids. I’m not going to lie, there was some talent out and about as well. While enjoying the scenery I’m knocked out of my trance.

“Oi, cunt wait up.”

Yes I brought Noah to the beach. I said I needed to do some prep work for the show and he just couldn’t help himself. He decided that it was only fair that he tags along and helps me train.

“This is going to be awesome.”

Noah is dragging a child’s wagon behind him. It’s covered by a blanket so I’m not sure what’s under there. The wheels aren’t working that well in the sand, and the wagon is shaking from side to side.

“I can’t even think of a time where I was taken to the beach…”

“Shut it Noah.”

Noah bobs his head and continues to drag the wagon behind him. Then he lets out a gasp, and runs ahead of me, blanket in hand.

“Perfect. This is the perfect fucking spot.”

Noah throws down the blanket, and quickly plops down onto the ground. Laying down on the ground much like a starfish. I walk up and kick one of his legs to the side.

“Cunt.”

I shake my head and pull out the umbrella. I jam it into the ground, as Noah sits up and begins to rummage through the wagon. He quickly pulls out a few cans of White Claws. He tosses one to me with a small smile on his face.

“I’m not in the mood for this Noah.”

“Come on DAD, it’s basically a law that when you’re on the beach you have to have a claw. Look I got you cherry. I know it’s your favorite.”

Noah cracks open his can and begins to chug it down. Reluctantly I open mine and begin to drink it. I sit down next to Noah and look out over the vast ocean.

“Whatcha thinking about?”

“Nothing really.”

Noah rolls his eyes, and once again begins to rummage through the wagon. He pulls out a few buckets and a child’s shovel. I snap my head over to him and just shake my head.

“Fuck off cunt. I said I’d never been, so now I’ll finally see if it’s as easy as all those cunts in the movies make it seem. I’m going to built the world's sickest sand castle. I’m going to call it “Cunts Castle” and only the sickest of the sick can get in ... wanna help?”

“No Noah I don’t. Don’t let me stop you from enjoying yourself.”

Noah shrugs and grabs a bucket. Before you could blink he was bolting for the ocean. He scoops up a pair of water and runs back to our spot. He quickly dumps the water onto the sand and begins to furiously build. He holds a thumb up to check and then right back at it, only stopping to grab a drink. Before long his sand castle was growing. For someone who hasn’t ever really done it, it was admirable.

“Looks good Noah.”

I genuinely meant that.

“Eh, it’s adequate at best cunt.”

Noah once again runs to get more water, and is back quickly. I sit there continuing to look over the beach. Noah once again caught me in thought.

“Ok now I know you’re thinking of something. What’s up?”

“Noah, do you know why I chose to come to the beach today?”

Noah puts down his shovel.

“It’s all the Sheila’s running around here in their togs isn’t it? You horn dog!”

“No. I told you it was for preparation.”

“Yeah, so we gonna do some sprints or some shit out here? Honestly you don’t strike me as the kind of guy who does some Rocky montage shit on a beach.”

I sat there nodding my head. I toss one of my bags over to Noah. He quickly opens it up and pulls out a few bats, and a collapsible shovel.

“I don’t get it?”

I drop my head. “Noah… this is where my match against Medium D is. Right here on this very beach.”

Noah nods his head, and slowly stands up. He takes a few swings with the bat and then tosses the shovel over his shoulder.

“I get it. I’ll hide on the beach, and when you need these I’ll toss them to you. Great plan. Castle Cunt is going to have to get bigger, hence the big shovel. Man you thought of everything.”

“No Noah.” I point out to the beach. “That’s where we are going to put everything and we’re going to mark them with these.”

I toss Noah a bundle of Red flags out of my bag. I also pull out a staple gun, some barbed wire , and a few needles as well.

“Woah…. what do you have in those?”

“Not quite sure. I mean it’s either an upper, a downer, or pure adrenaline. That’s what makes it fun.”

“So you can’t tell the difference?”

“Nope, only once they are injected will we know for sure.”

Noah and I begin to make our way out towards the masses of people. Noah begins to dig a large hole and tosses a bat with some of my barbed wire inside of it and quickly covers it up. I place the flags around it and we move on towards the next spot.

“What if all of these cunts decide to mess with these and dig everything up?” The

“Calculated risks Noah. That’s how you get ahead. If I put enough of this stuff down, people can’t find everything. If there are six spots and people dig up four of them. I still have two spots left that Mediocre D doesn’t know about. Sure some people may get hurt, but that’s only if the disregard the red flags and markers. Hopefully most children will stay away from them even without their parents watching intently.”

We stop at our next spot and Noah begins to dig again. I toss another bat along with a few needles in this hole. He quickly covers and I mark the spot. We continue this for a little bit until there are eight spots dig and marked. We watch over a few of the spots for a few minutes to make sure no one messes with them. A few kids walk up towards them, but quickly turn away after seeing the red flags.

“See Noah. I’ve got nothing to worry about. People these days are trained to stop when they see red. All of the markers haven’t been touched of messed with. Let’s get back to our spot.”

Noah nods as we begin our walk towards our spot when Noah sees someone by our stuff. He bolts off and I slowly make my way up there. When I finally get there Noah is furious, he almost in tears.

“Wha...How…. Who…”

I slowly walk up next to Noah and place a hand on his shoulder. Castle Cunt was destroyed. By whom? We still don’t know. I grab the shovel from Noah, and toss him a bucket.

“It’s not going to rebuild itself now is it?”

With that Noah rushes off to the ocean with a smile on his face. I feel a warmth come over me. I wonder if this is what it’s like caring for someone when they are down you do everything to can to help them get back up. When they are happy you celebrate their accomplishments. This must be what being a father feels like, too bad I’m not actually his Dad otherwise this could be a great family moment.

Noah runs back up tosses the bucket into the sand and we feverishly begin to build the Sickest of all Sand Castles. Sand is being flung all over the place, neither one of us has had the smile left our face.

Finally we are done and we stand back looking over our glorious creation. Noah hands me another White Claw,m. We quickly toast and plop down on the blanket.

“Sick!”

“Yes Noah, it most certainly is.”

The Afterthought:

I can’t say I’m not disappointed. I also can’t say that I’m shocked. The match was basically a glorified three on one. Three people looking to make their marks here in the XWF and one that actually did. Cam, congrats on the win, but next time there won’t be two other assholes taking up my precious time. When we eventually face off again, there will be no other distractions. You better win that title otherwise I’m going to be severely disappointed, and it’ll just further prove my point of your win being nothing more than a fluke.

Speaking of Flukes…

Hello Daniel. How are you doing? It’s weird how no one ever asks is that. You could respond that your doing fine or just ignore it, but the fact that someone asks is all it takes sometimes to turn someone’s day around. I understand how you feel. This can’t possibly be fair.

‘But Fuzz lost’

‘He shouldn’t get a title shot!’

Like a toddler throwing a tantrum. Wait that isn’t you. You’re a take on all comers type of guy aren’t you? You’ll probably talk about how I lost recently. And you’d be right. Yet what does that say about you as a champion that you’re facing a quote unquote loser? Even worse, what happens when you lose to the loser? Does that make you like a super loser?

Wait you are already did that. I remember when you had Sarah carry your team to a victory at War Games. You essentially failed your way to a Universal title shot, when in reality it should’ve gone to Sarah. You were the Captain and congratulations you chose a team. Yet you still only won because of Sarah. You literally got saved by the Boss there as well. Your eye for talent is flawed at best.

You fucking chose RAIN for your team. And said and I quote… “Rain will surprise you, and will help this team win.” We all know how that turned out. Then there is the Universal title match itself. Robert Main On one of his few title defenses, against two people who didn’t deserve to be there. Yet you were walking around like you were hot shit and couldn’t be touched. And just like everything you’ve done here since then, you failed. Then you lucked yourself into a title match that to quote everyone about me.

“You Didn’t Deserve.”

The only reason you’re holding the title right now is because Peter Gilmour is a shitty friend and couldn’t even handle one simple request. Yet now to to the reason why I am here in this match with you.

Placating.

Management knows that they can’t have a PPV without me. They knew and still know that Centurion couldn’t main event an Anarchy show without James holding his hand. They needed someone for day two, and they saw their opportunity. Put me in the Main Event of day two and watch the rating rise. Unfortunately for them, I lost. Much like you, a fluke, but it happened. Just like you. Hmmm.

So they needed something. I wouldn’t show up unless something was on the line. Soldier has a challenger, Tag has the tournament , that Noah and I were wrongfully evicted from, TV has Cam, etc. There was one where the champion didn’t have a challenger. You. This match is nothing more than the powers that be, placating my requests.

I didn’t ask for this.

I don’t need this,

I now want this.

This isn’t about my ego anymore. This is now so much more. I’ve talked to Noah, and even when I was down there he was holding me up. Telling me what I needed to hear. I am going back to the old me. The old me that would forget about losses and move on. The old me that do everything in his power to win, and nothing would stop him. I’m going back to the way I know how to win.

Some of you may find it disgusting, disturbing, deplorable or cowardly. Yet none of that means anything to me, I’m going to do what I need to get back to the top. I’ve already forgotten about Saturday. Now I’m focused on you D. This isn’t a warning, this isn’t a promise. What this is…

It’s me removing ego from the equation. It’s me taking all the shit I’ve been through since I’ve come back and focusing all that energy into one direction. This isn’t some cry for attention. Remember when you were bragging about holding titles no one cares about? That’s what it’s going to be like after I drown your ass in the ocean. I can’t wait to watch the color drain from your face, your body turning blue. Then finally watching as that glint in your eye slowly flickering away. *POOF* And just like that I have rid the XWF of Generic Wrestler Template number 3.

I don’t want people to mourn for you.

I want them to celebrate you.

Not for your accomplishments.

No, for what you unleashed on the XWF. The old me is back. The old me doesn’t run. He doesn’t hide. He isn’t afraid of anyone or anything. Daniel, you are no exception to this. You won’t be the first, but you will be the latest to get in my way when a title is on the line. You’re going to want to dig up the old relics of this company to find a man that can say they beat the old me.

I just don’t think James is going to answer his phone for you. Sorry. I’m pretty sure he has other things to take care of rather than tell you what I’ve been saying this entire fucking time. Big D, you are the most generic piece of shit to come here. You rose to fast and became overhyped. You are not going to like what is going to happen to you next.

James would tell you, but just like me.

He’s too busy being better than you to pick up the phone.]]> 12:30pm
Miami

“I fucking hate Miami.”

It’s was about midday, hot as fucking balls outside. How people actually choose to live here is beyond me. The humidity alone is enough for me to make sure this isn’t a permanent thing. When I retire, I’m not heading south. Up to the great country of Canada. I mean the guy running that place isn’t anywhere near as incompetent as the fools running around Washington. Needless to say, it was hot. Yet here I am walking up a ducking beach. Two bags under my arms, and carrying an umbrella over my shoulder.

The beach was like any other, crowded. The mass of humanity at its worst. It’s not as bad as a water park, but close. Kids are running and screaming, playing in the sand while their parents ignore them under their umbrellas reading their e-books. This has to be one of the few places on planet earth where you don’t actually have to watch their kids. I’m not going to lie, there was some talent out and about as well. While enjoying the scenery I’m knocked out of my trance.

“Oi, cunt wait up.”

Yes I brought Noah to the beach. I said I needed to do some prep work for the show and he just couldn’t help himself. He decided that it was only fair that he tags along and helps me train.

“This is going to be awesome.”

Noah is dragging a child’s wagon behind him. It’s covered by a blanket so I’m not sure what’s under there. The wheels aren’t working that well in the sand, and the wagon is shaking from side to side.

“I can’t even think of a time where I was taken to the beach…”

“Shut it Noah.”

Noah bobs his head and continues to drag the wagon behind him. Then he lets out a gasp, and runs ahead of me, blanket in hand.

“Perfect. This is the perfect fucking spot.”

Noah throws down the blanket, and quickly plops down onto the ground. Laying down on the ground much like a starfish. I walk up and kick one of his legs to the side.

“Cunt.”

I shake my head and pull out the umbrella. I jam it into the ground, as Noah sits up and begins to rummage through the wagon. He quickly pulls out a few cans of White Claws. He tosses one to me with a small smile on his face.

“I’m not in the mood for this Noah.”

“Come on DAD, it’s basically a law that when you’re on the beach you have to have a claw. Look I got you cherry. I know it’s your favorite.”

Noah cracks open his can and begins to chug it down. Reluctantly I open mine and begin to drink it. I sit down next to Noah and look out over the vast ocean.

“Whatcha thinking about?”

“Nothing really.”

Noah rolls his eyes, and once again begins to rummage through the wagon. He pulls out a few buckets and a child’s shovel. I snap my head over to him and just shake my head.

“Fuck off cunt. I said I’d never been, so now I’ll finally see if it’s as easy as all those cunts in the movies make it seem. I’m going to built the world's sickest sand castle. I’m going to call it “Cunts Castle” and only the sickest of the sick can get in ... wanna help?”

“No Noah I don’t. Don’t let me stop you from enjoying yourself.”

Noah shrugs and grabs a bucket. Before you could blink he was bolting for the ocean. He scoops up a pair of water and runs back to our spot. He quickly dumps the water onto the sand and begins to furiously build. He holds a thumb up to check and then right back at it, only stopping to grab a drink. Before long his sand castle was growing. For someone who hasn’t ever really done it, it was admirable.

“Looks good Noah.”

I genuinely meant that.

“Eh, it’s adequate at best cunt.”

Noah once again runs to get more water, and is back quickly. I sit there continuing to look over the beach. Noah once again caught me in thought.

“Ok now I know you’re thinking of something. What’s up?”

“Noah, do you know why I chose to come to the beach today?”

Noah puts down his shovel.

“It’s all the Sheila’s running around here in their togs isn’t it? You horn dog!”

“No. I told you it was for preparation.”

“Yeah, so we gonna do some sprints or some shit out here? Honestly you don’t strike me as the kind of guy who does some Rocky montage shit on a beach.”

I sat there nodding my head. I toss one of my bags over to Noah. He quickly opens it up and pulls out a few bats, and a collapsible shovel.

“I don’t get it?”

I drop my head. “Noah… this is where my match against Medium D is. Right here on this very beach.”

Noah nods his head, and slowly stands up. He takes a few swings with the bat and then tosses the shovel over his shoulder.

“I get it. I’ll hide on the beach, and when you need these I’ll toss them to you. Great plan. Castle Cunt is going to have to get bigger, hence the big shovel. Man you thought of everything.”

“No Noah.” I point out to the beach. “That’s where we are going to put everything and we’re going to mark them with these.”

I toss Noah a bundle of Red flags out of my bag. I also pull out a staple gun, some barbed wire , and a few needles as well.

“Woah…. what do you have in those?”

“Not quite sure. I mean it’s either an upper, a downer, or pure adrenaline. That’s what makes it fun.”

“So you can’t tell the difference?”

“Nope, only once they are injected will we know for sure.”

Noah and I begin to make our way out towards the masses of people. Noah begins to dig a large hole and tosses a bat with some of my barbed wire inside of it and quickly covers it up. I place the flags around it and we move on towards the next spot.

“What if all of these cunts decide to mess with these and dig everything up?” The

“Calculated risks Noah. That’s how you get ahead. If I put enough of this stuff down, people can’t find everything. If there are six spots and people dig up four of them. I still have two spots left that Mediocre D doesn’t know about. Sure some people may get hurt, but that’s only if the disregard the red flags and markers. Hopefully most children will stay away from them even without their parents watching intently.”

We stop at our next spot and Noah begins to dig again. I toss another bat along with a few needles in this hole. He quickly covers and I mark the spot. We continue this for a little bit until there are eight spots dig and marked. We watch over a few of the spots for a few minutes to make sure no one messes with them. A few kids walk up towards them, but quickly turn away after seeing the red flags.

“See Noah. I’ve got nothing to worry about. People these days are trained to stop when they see red. All of the markers haven’t been touched of messed with. Let’s get back to our spot.”

Noah nods as we begin our walk towards our spot when Noah sees someone by our stuff. He bolts off and I slowly make my way up there. When I finally get there Noah is furious, he almost in tears.

“Wha...How…. Who…”

I slowly walk up next to Noah and place a hand on his shoulder. Castle Cunt was destroyed. By whom? We still don’t know. I grab the shovel from Noah, and toss him a bucket.

“It’s not going to rebuild itself now is it?”

With that Noah rushes off to the ocean with a smile on his face. I feel a warmth come over me. I wonder if this is what it’s like caring for someone when they are down you do everything to can to help them get back up. When they are happy you celebrate their accomplishments. This must be what being a father feels like, too bad I’m not actually his Dad otherwise this could be a great family moment.

Noah runs back up tosses the bucket into the sand and we feverishly begin to build the Sickest of all Sand Castles. Sand is being flung all over the place, neither one of us has had the smile left our face.

Finally we are done and we stand back looking over our glorious creation. Noah hands me another White Claw,m. We quickly toast and plop down on the blanket.

“Sick!”

“Yes Noah, it most certainly is.”

The Afterthought:

I can’t say I’m not disappointed. I also can’t say that I’m shocked. The match was basically a glorified three on one. Three people looking to make their marks here in the XWF and one that actually did. Cam, congrats on the win, but next time there won’t be two other assholes taking up my precious time. When we eventually face off again, there will be no other distractions. You better win that title otherwise I’m going to be severely disappointed, and it’ll just further prove my point of your win being nothing more than a fluke.

Speaking of Flukes…

Hello Daniel. How are you doing? It’s weird how no one ever asks is that. You could respond that your doing fine or just ignore it, but the fact that someone asks is all it takes sometimes to turn someone’s day around. I understand how you feel. This can’t possibly be fair.

‘But Fuzz lost’

‘He shouldn’t get a title shot!’

Like a toddler throwing a tantrum. Wait that isn’t you. You’re a take on all comers type of guy aren’t you? You’ll probably talk about how I lost recently. And you’d be right. Yet what does that say about you as a champion that you’re facing a quote unquote loser? Even worse, what happens when you lose to the loser? Does that make you like a super loser?

Wait you are already did that. I remember when you had Sarah carry your team to a victory at War Games. You essentially failed your way to a Universal title shot, when in reality it should’ve gone to Sarah. You were the Captain and congratulations you chose a team. Yet you still only won because of Sarah. You literally got saved by the Boss there as well. Your eye for talent is flawed at best.

You fucking chose RAIN for your team. And said and I quote… “Rain will surprise you, and will help this team win.” We all know how that turned out. Then there is the Universal title match itself. Robert Main On one of his few title defenses, against two people who didn’t deserve to be there. Yet you were walking around like you were hot shit and couldn’t be touched. And just like everything you’ve done here since then, you failed. Then you lucked yourself into a title match that to quote everyone about me.

“You Didn’t Deserve.”

The only reason you’re holding the title right now is because Peter Gilmour is a shitty friend and couldn’t even handle one simple request. Yet now to to the reason why I am here in this match with you.

Placating.

Management knows that they can’t have a PPV without me. They knew and still know that Centurion couldn’t main event an Anarchy show without James holding his hand. They needed someone for day two, and they saw their opportunity. Put me in the Main Event of day two and watch the rating rise. Unfortunately for them, I lost. Much like you, a fluke, but it happened. Just like you. Hmmm.

So they needed something. I wouldn’t show up unless something was on the line. Soldier has a challenger, Tag has the tournament , that Noah and I were wrongfully evicted from, TV has Cam, etc. There was one where the champion didn’t have a challenger. You. This match is nothing more than the powers that be, placating my requests.

I didn’t ask for this.

I don’t need this,

I now want this.

This isn’t about my ego anymore. This is now so much more. I’ve talked to Noah, and even when I was down there he was holding me up. Telling me what I needed to hear. I am going back to the old me. The old me that would forget about losses and move on. The old me that do everything in his power to win, and nothing would stop him. I’m going back to the way I know how to win.

Some of you may find it disgusting, disturbing, deplorable or cowardly. Yet none of that means anything to me, I’m going to do what I need to get back to the top. I’ve already forgotten about Saturday. Now I’m focused on you D. This isn’t a warning, this isn’t a promise. What this is…

It’s me removing ego from the equation. It’s me taking all the shit I’ve been through since I’ve come back and focusing all that energy into one direction. This isn’t some cry for attention. Remember when you were bragging about holding titles no one cares about? That’s what it’s going to be like after I drown your ass in the ocean. I can’t wait to watch the color drain from your face, your body turning blue. Then finally watching as that glint in your eye slowly flickering away. *POOF* And just like that I have rid the XWF of Generic Wrestler Template number 3.

I don’t want people to mourn for you.

I want them to celebrate you.

Not for your accomplishments.

No, for what you unleashed on the XWF. The old me is back. The old me doesn’t run. He doesn’t hide. He isn’t afraid of anyone or anything. Daniel, you are no exception to this. You won’t be the first, but you will be the latest to get in my way when a title is on the line. You’re going to want to dig up the old relics of this company to find a man that can say they beat the old me.

I just don’t think James is going to answer his phone for you. Sorry. I’m pretty sure he has other things to take care of rather than tell you what I’ve been saying this entire fucking time. Big D, you are the most generic piece of shit to come here. You rose to fast and became overhyped. You are not going to like what is going to happen to you next.

James would tell you, but just like me.

He’s too busy being better than you to pick up the phone.]]> <![CDATA[Boris Intro]]> https://xwf1999.com/showthread.php?tid=34854 Fri, 20 Sep 2019 17:20:21 -0700 Boris]]> https://xwf1999.com/showthread.php?tid=34854 Hello! This is Boris, and for most of you, this is the first time you are seeing me. And for that I say, "welcome!" Come, let Boris show you the way of the Slav.

Today, I am going to tell you the story of when I found out I would be a wrestler. Not long my military service ended, I was in desperate need of some cash. Come to find out, there are not many jobs available for an uneducated Gopnik like myself. So my Antoli and I have been mainly earning money by selling electronics to college students. I also cook for friends, who pay me in vodka and beer. It's not so bad.

I do know, though, that a Slav needs more than just Butterbrod and Kvass to survive, so Boris applied for many things. Male model, television host, assassin - all things Boris would be great at!

One day, Antoli and I were taking part in our usual routine - cooking usual meal of Chebureki while listening to the finest hardbass on the planet.

Sometime in late afternoon, postman show up at our door. I could not say what time, because that debil shows up whenever he feels like it! Worse yet, instead of knocking on doors or dropping it in box, he just shoves our mail under the door. Why in the blyat does he do such things? Does the sound of hardbass scare him? Well, if that is true, then he is not Slav, and I do not wish to receive my mail from Western spy!

I leave Antoli to the cooking as I inspect the mail. The first few letters are nothing new - more bills sent to Vadim. I do not know who Vadim is, but post office has been sending us his mail for some time now. When they turn off his electricity, he will be so mad blin!

The next letter is letter from friend Sergi from Poland. He send me 20 zloty, as he continues to beg for me to visit. It is annoying blin, and 20 zlolty is only about 5 Euro, but sometimes he send me good mayonez, so I do not mind.

But the last letter blin, that is the good one. It is from States of United America, which I have never been, so I knew this had to be good. I open the letter, and inside is contract for Xtreme Federation Wrestlers, as well as a match card for Relentless!

"Oppa!" I yell to Antoli. "I am going to be pro wrestler!" Antoli squats, nods his head, and begins to dance.

I should mention, Antoli does not talk. He is debil, or, as you would say...an idiot. He is good man, but would not know how to open door without instructions. I once tried to teach Antoli how to drive...blyat, what an experience. That family still hasn't forgiven us for driving into their goat. I tell them, "is just goat, you get new one!" but they do not listen blin. Something about cleaning their driveway of blood. Cyka, it is no big deal!

Anyway, Antoli and I do what any good Slav would do when they hear such news - we dance a glorious dance and begin drinking vodka! We did not even care about the Chebureki...but we were sure to turn the stove off, for you do not want to waste good Chebureki, or else Babushka would be so mad blin!

After consuming copious amounts of vodka and dancing until we could no longer feel our legs, it was to pack. I get to work, packing all the things I usually pack for long trip to other country - three jars of Babushka's jam, toothbrush, extra ushanka, two yellow Adidas jumpsuites, three jars of mayonez...because you never know how the mayonez will be where you are going, and of course, Boris' lucky Kalashnikov. Oppa!

I shove all my items into my gym bag, but then I came to a realization - I do not have passport blin.

"Osama blyat!" I yell. If it weren't for that debil crashing planes into towers, I could stow myself in a passenger plane without worrying of being shot. Now everyone in States of United America are all tense, screaming of "terrorism" this and "immigrant" that. This is why Slavs do not trust Western spies - because Western spies do not trust each other!

"Ah ha!" I remember something. I have friend who own boat. Agneshka, the ugly village lady who had two husbands disappear, got a barge from a stranger in Russia, even though Slovakia is, as you would say...landlocked. But, Agneshka has ex husbands truck, so we can drive barge to Finland, and set sails blin.

This is all likely a terrible idea, so if you hear story of Gopnik being found in middle of ocean, you know that Western spies sunk our boat.

I can not lie, Boris is excited for this opportunity. This is a new day in the life of Boris, and a chance for a new start to my life.

As for my opponents, I do not know what to say about them, for I do not know anything about them. I know one guy, Brain, fashions himself a movie star. That makes no sense blin. If he is movie star, why is he wrestling? Maybe he is in those bootleg VHS tapes Antoli sells out of the van.

Maybe Brain wishes he were actor. Babushka used to say "Buďte tým, kým nechcete, kým ste." In your country, it would mean "dress for the job you want, not the job you have." That is why I dress like Gopnik hard at work at Reactor 4. This is why Brain dressed like movie star. This is why Peter Gilmour dresses like prostitute.

It is funny, Brain is one of my opponents for the wrestling contest I will be in the following week. One has to ask, was this on purpose? What kind of debil designs that? This is another way to embarrass Boris. I know better than to fall for that blyat! Boris will win using only 4 moves, so as to not see everything I have at my disposal.

And then there is Peter Gilmour. I have heard much about him blyat. None of it good. My many comrades who watch wrestling say Gilmour is worst wrestler ever. Is that true? I do not know, but he looks as if he smells like old onion stuck to underside of car.

That said, I know, if I want to make good first impression, I can not lose to Peter Gilmour. That would be bad blin. If Boris wants to be taken seriously in Xtreme Federation Wrestlers, I must get off to good start. I just not only beat Brain and Gilmour, but I must do so like true Slav. I must squat like I have never squat before.

Boris is looking forward to sharing the secrets of the Slav to the world. I am looking forward to delivering the Cheeki Breeki to the masses. And I look forward to humbling a few debils on my way to glorious Slav victory.

Never fear...Boris is here.]]> Hello! This is Boris, and for most of you, this is the first time you are seeing me. And for that I say, "welcome!" Come, let Boris show you the way of the Slav.

Today, I am going to tell you the story of when I found out I would be a wrestler. Not long my military service ended, I was in desperate need of some cash. Come to find out, there are not many jobs available for an uneducated Gopnik like myself. So my Antoli and I have been mainly earning money by selling electronics to college students. I also cook for friends, who pay me in vodka and beer. It's not so bad.

I do know, though, that a Slav needs more than just Butterbrod and Kvass to survive, so Boris applied for many things. Male model, television host, assassin - all things Boris would be great at!

One day, Antoli and I were taking part in our usual routine - cooking usual meal of Chebureki while listening to the finest hardbass on the planet.

Sometime in late afternoon, postman show up at our door. I could not say what time, because that debil shows up whenever he feels like it! Worse yet, instead of knocking on doors or dropping it in box, he just shoves our mail under the door. Why in the blyat does he do such things? Does the sound of hardbass scare him? Well, if that is true, then he is not Slav, and I do not wish to receive my mail from Western spy!

I leave Antoli to the cooking as I inspect the mail. The first few letters are nothing new - more bills sent to Vadim. I do not know who Vadim is, but post office has been sending us his mail for some time now. When they turn off his electricity, he will be so mad blin!

The next letter is letter from friend Sergi from Poland. He send me 20 zloty, as he continues to beg for me to visit. It is annoying blin, and 20 zlolty is only about 5 Euro, but sometimes he send me good mayonez, so I do not mind.

But the last letter blin, that is the good one. It is from States of United America, which I have never been, so I knew this had to be good. I open the letter, and inside is contract for Xtreme Federation Wrestlers, as well as a match card for Relentless!

"Oppa!" I yell to Antoli. "I am going to be pro wrestler!" Antoli squats, nods his head, and begins to dance.

I should mention, Antoli does not talk. He is debil, or, as you would say...an idiot. He is good man, but would not know how to open door without instructions. I once tried to teach Antoli how to drive...blyat, what an experience. That family still hasn't forgiven us for driving into their goat. I tell them, "is just goat, you get new one!" but they do not listen blin. Something about cleaning their driveway of blood. Cyka, it is no big deal!

Anyway, Antoli and I do what any good Slav would do when they hear such news - we dance a glorious dance and begin drinking vodka! We did not even care about the Chebureki...but we were sure to turn the stove off, for you do not want to waste good Chebureki, or else Babushka would be so mad blin!

After consuming copious amounts of vodka and dancing until we could no longer feel our legs, it was to pack. I get to work, packing all the things I usually pack for long trip to other country - three jars of Babushka's jam, toothbrush, extra ushanka, two yellow Adidas jumpsuites, three jars of mayonez...because you never know how the mayonez will be where you are going, and of course, Boris' lucky Kalashnikov. Oppa!

I shove all my items into my gym bag, but then I came to a realization - I do not have passport blin.

"Osama blyat!" I yell. If it weren't for that debil crashing planes into towers, I could stow myself in a passenger plane without worrying of being shot. Now everyone in States of United America are all tense, screaming of "terrorism" this and "immigrant" that. This is why Slavs do not trust Western spies - because Western spies do not trust each other!

"Ah ha!" I remember something. I have friend who own boat. Agneshka, the ugly village lady who had two husbands disappear, got a barge from a stranger in Russia, even though Slovakia is, as you would say...landlocked. But, Agneshka has ex husbands truck, so we can drive barge to Finland, and set sails blin.

This is all likely a terrible idea, so if you hear story of Gopnik being found in middle of ocean, you know that Western spies sunk our boat.

I can not lie, Boris is excited for this opportunity. This is a new day in the life of Boris, and a chance for a new start to my life.

As for my opponents, I do not know what to say about them, for I do not know anything about them. I know one guy, Brain, fashions himself a movie star. That makes no sense blin. If he is movie star, why is he wrestling? Maybe he is in those bootleg VHS tapes Antoli sells out of the van.

Maybe Brain wishes he were actor. Babushka used to say "Buďte tým, kým nechcete, kým ste." In your country, it would mean "dress for the job you want, not the job you have." That is why I dress like Gopnik hard at work at Reactor 4. This is why Brain dressed like movie star. This is why Peter Gilmour dresses like prostitute.

It is funny, Brain is one of my opponents for the wrestling contest I will be in the following week. One has to ask, was this on purpose? What kind of debil designs that? This is another way to embarrass Boris. I know better than to fall for that blyat! Boris will win using only 4 moves, so as to not see everything I have at my disposal.

And then there is Peter Gilmour. I have heard much about him blyat. None of it good. My many comrades who watch wrestling say Gilmour is worst wrestler ever. Is that true? I do not know, but he looks as if he smells like old onion stuck to underside of car.

That said, I know, if I want to make good first impression, I can not lose to Peter Gilmour. That would be bad blin. If Boris wants to be taken seriously in Xtreme Federation Wrestlers, I must get off to good start. I just not only beat Brain and Gilmour, but I must do so like true Slav. I must squat like I have never squat before.

Boris is looking forward to sharing the secrets of the Slav to the world. I am looking forward to delivering the Cheeki Breeki to the masses. And I look forward to humbling a few debils on my way to glorious Slav victory.

Never fear...Boris is here.]]>