<![CDATA[X-treme Wrestling Federation - March Madness V 2023 RP Board]]>

<![CDATA[X-treme Wrestling Federation - March Madness V 2023 RP Board]]> https://xwf1999.com/ Tue, 19 May 2026 08:55:54 +0000 MyBB <![CDATA[Divine Timing Part 2]]> https://xwf1999.com/showthread.php?tid=45963 Sat, 25 Mar 2023 23:43:50 -0700 Dolly Waters]]> https://xwf1999.com/showthread.php?tid=45963 “IN JUST .one. DAYS-”

An exaggerated Alpha-Chad voice, complete synthetic echoes and other obnoxious qualities, narrates over an advertisement,

“-THE MONTH OF MARCH WILL TURN TO MAAAADNESS!

AS XWF MARCH MADNESS COMES TO YOU LIVE!

LIVE!

LIVE!

FROM THE SOLD OUT AT&T STADIUM IN ARRRRRLINGTON!”

Patel Gaggendeep, the assistant and confidant of XWF Superstar Dolly Waters, watches the advertisement from his cell phone. A mirthless “Mmm…” emanates from his pursed lips as his eyes widen to keep up with the frantic imagery of flames, explosions, and other random flashes of testosterone overload.

“DO YOU LOVE MINI GOLF?!

DO YOU LOVE MASTERY?!

DO YOU LOOOOVE MAYHEM?!

THEN HOW ABOUT A MAIN EVENT FEATURING MIRACULOUSLY MAMMOTH MEN

-BOBBY BOURBON AND MAAAAARK FLYNN-

MARCHING MADINGLEY FOR THE FIRST TIME IN HISTORY INTO A MINI GOLF MASTERS MAYHEM FOR THE UNIVERSAL CHAMPIONSHIP?!

THEY’RE NOT PUTTING AROUND, FOLKS!

AND NEITHER ARE WE!

THERE’S THE CUNT CRUSHER NOAH JACKSON!
THE MONSTER MOPPER PETER VAUGHN!
THE MILF SIDNEY GREY!
AND NED KAYE’S NOTRIOUS ARMY OF NEDOPHILES!

WHO WILL BE CROWNED THE CHAMPION OF MARCH MADNESS FIVE?!?!

Did you find the video or what?

A welcomed distraction breaks Patel’s gaze from his cell phone as he looks up to meet the eyes of Dolly Waters. The two of them, along with the coachman of Dolly’s gypsy wagon - the brought to life sex doll named jeNNy -are being pulled down a crowded interstate by a pair of horses.

Yes, but there’s this paid advertisement…it’s so loud, and feeble. It’s giving me anxiety.”

Leave it to the marketing geniuses in XWF headquarters to figure out how to kill off their overweight fanboys with heart attacks before they can even purchase the pay-per-view.

The March Madness V advertisement continues to ramble off the details of the major matches on the card with a roaring gusto, until the tone suddenly shifts to a more meek, quiet, yet faster announcement:

...also the Television Championship will be on the line in a standard fifteen minute time limit match…

There’s an installed sound effect of crickets chirping in the advertisement, before abruptly returning to its previous energy:

STREAM MARCH MADNESS FIVE, LIVE, LIVE, LIVE! FOR THE RIDICULOUS PRICE OF NINETY-NINE-NINETY-NINE!

The left side of Dolly’s lip meets her nostril in a malicious looking scowl,

Doesn’t seem like anyone is too excited about your matchup with Dionysus.

That’s the point, Gag. I want them to keep sleeping on me, because once I’ve milked this bad boy- she rubs the XWF Television Championship sitting between them, -for all it’s worth, and associated it’s existence with the hottest selling metaphysics product on the planet, those pricks in XWF management will no choice but to give me what I want.

...and what’s that?

Dolly lets out a sly little chuckle,

In due time, my dearest Gag. In due time.

The time… ‘where has it all gone?’ Patel had to wonder while staring down the stoic confidence on his employer's face. It was only a few months ago that he received an awkward phone call from an overburdened Dolly Waters. She happened upon his resume from a job search engine, and the timing surrounding the call for employment couldn’t have been more inexplicable. And the offer couldn’t have been more perfect.

”-the offer you’re making is great, but you’re negotiating a contract for a head-coaching job in the LFL. Football isn’t really my expertise. So why do you think I’ll be a good fit as your assistant?”

Patel remembers asking Dolly all those months ago,

I could handle the football stuff by myself. My good friend,Thad Duke, is offering that contract anyway, and I’m certain it’s more than fair.

”Then what do you need me for?”

It’s what’s coming in due time… my return to professional wrestling. That IS yer’ area of expertise, ain’t it?

Professional wrestling was Patel’s area of expertise, or at least, the line of work in which he had the most experience. Patel worked for a non-profit that was run by someone in the wrestling industry, a boss he never actually met. He spent months running simulations of potential outcomes of wrestling matchups. Plugging weight, strength, speed, experience, move sets, along with other factors, into a computer simulation, and though he never actually knew the end purposes of his duties, he always assumed that he was helping formulate the perfect wrestler, with the perfect in-ring strategies. But he never assumed that he might find the perfect wrestler in a little Appalachian gypsy girl gone bad, practicing black magic to increase her success between the ropes.

FINALLY!

The ‘skip-advertisement’ option pops up on Patel’s cell phone. He thumbs the screen and awaits for the video Dolly requested to play:

“HOW TO NOT FALL ASLEEP WHEN WATCHING A BORING WRESTLING PROMO”

....

......

........

[Image: image.png]

Sorry, Ms. Waters. It looks like you’re out of luck in preparing for Dionysus.

Meh… it ain’t a big deal. I could use a little tea time nap to recharge my energy anyway. Baiting someone so hellbent on consistency might take a little more effort than I hoped to put forth anyhow.

I’m curious to know what you mean.

Well, Dionysus believes his great advantage over me will be his consistency in character as it pertains to wrestling. He’s a technician who dips into brawling when need-be. I, on the other hand, am going to force him to break out of his mold. People tend to get desperate when time ain’t on their side, and that’s when I plan to strike. I just need to make sure I haven’t spent too much energy in the process.

Smart. Dionysus IS a big man, afterall.

Oh, I know, and he was sure to point that out, time and again during his promo. As if we all can’t see what he looks like anyway. But I ain’t worried. I’ve faced, and beaten bigger foes. He sounded more like a man trying to make a believer out of himself, than someone trying to convince the audiences that he actually will win.

And that was before he even knew the stipulation! He must REALLY be reaching for straws now!

...let him reach all he wants. I’m too quick to be caught.

Patel is continually astonished by Dolly’s cunning and foresight. The shrewd and calculated way in which she’s approached her wrestling contests since he’s come under her employ has been a sight to behold. Even the seemingly unhinged manner in which she’s gone about accomplishing these victories has felt like a case-study in controlled chaos. She might be flying by the seat of her pants, but she’s doing it wearing a smile. Finding himself at a loss for words, Patel begins to wonder what Dolly even needed him for in the first place. She’s had friends in the wrestling industry throughout the years, so it couldn’t be that she was just lonely. She’s experienced, and sharp as a tact, so it’s not like she’s needed someone to guide her decision making. Was there perhaps a deeper reason behind the timing of why she hired him?

Maybe only time will tell.

promo

Fifteen Minutes, Dionysus…

It should be more than enough time for you to prove that you belong in the upper echelon of the best wrestling company on the planet. To prove you can wear this gold yer’ so keen on eying now that you were bounced from the tournament. Afterall, you said it was your new primary goal, right?

But… Dolly smiles, with a little shake of her head,

...you also said it was your “consistency in character” that should prove to carry you through in victory against someone like me.

Well, we really orta’ be careful with the way we think about these things, Dionysus.

Now don’t get me wrong, I’ve heard it until the cows come home recently:

My aggressive behavior, my jumping into the murkier ends of the waters, my tinkering with spellwork and different teammates, using people, lying, cheating, stealing you name it! I’ve heard nothing but how that was supposed to play as some sort of detriment to my in-ring ability. How it was supposed to erase my seven years of experience wrestling in the XWF. How I’m supposed to now forget that I literally grew up in this company.

It was Angie Vaughn’s main tact against me before I stole the tag championships from her and John Madison.

It was Isaiah King’s entire argument leading up to me clawing his eyes out behind the refs back and making the “King” tap like Jester..

And Jenny Myst couldn’t help herself either, certain that the ways in which I’ve changed were gonna’ stop me from helping her to the burial site that she dug for herself.

Funny thing, the two matches I’ve lost this year, against Lacklan, against Sidney Grey… those two hardly mentioned anything of the sort.

Lacklan seemed to be fighting for the love of a person she saw as a daughter figure.
Grey was fighting me, to show her actual daughter how much she loved her.

They fought me with depth, and conviction. Those are two elements that are not easily overcome, no matter how much voodoo you cast in someone’s direction.

So what are you fighting me with exactly?

The same ideas as the others I’ve beaten down this year?

Seems so… because remember, “consistency in character” is so important, am I right? It’s like you and all those others were pleading to some sort of outside force.

“PLEASE LOOK AND SEE HOW DOLLY IS BEING ALL DIFFERENT!

SHE NOT NICE NO MORE!

SHE MUST NOT BE CONFIDENT NO MORE!

SHE NOT MAKE IT ON HER OWN!”

Irony is motherfucker, ya know?

It’s ironic how some dipshit rookie can spew the exact same lines, deploy the exact same types of tactics that I’ve fought against for years in this industry, all while believing they’re being original. Let me ask the Mr. studious, smug, self exalted, bullshit savant that is Dionysus a serious question… if I may:

You ever gone back and watched what it’s taken to beat the opponent yer’ about to face?

Some might think that’s a given in our line of work, right?

We study tape.

We see what has worked against our opponents, and we see what didn’t work, and we adjust… right?

Well, I have a hard time believing that you’ve done anything of the sort. Because even the slightest of research would’ve led you to the conclusion that you don’t come at Dolly Waters wearing kid gloves. You might as well just tie 'em behind your back before you step through those ropes, because I’m about to make a fool out of you.

GOLD, Dionysus said, is his new goal in the XWF since being bounced from March Madness, yet it was only a handful of weeks ago that his main quest was to lead the mismatched team of he and Blondie to the Tag Team Championships. Just like he did in some little league wrestling company he worked at before. So what happened? I guess we forgot how important “consistency in character” is when it comes to wrestling.

Dolly rolls her eyes, while making a jerking motion near her crotch,

...now I know I played a hand in seeing the more entertaining half of Chardonnay make any early exit XWF, like a little boy who couldn’t handle his wine, but even after that, Dionysus was bound and determined to get his shot at the XWF Tag Championships, lest we forget…

Dionys-ASS Said:

Now, you're probably wondering, "But Dionysus! Who is your new partner?!" Well, you will simply need to wait until March Madness, when Pinot Noir competes for the XWF Tag Team Championship.

Raise your glass high, everyone.

Well, I’m glad you believe that “consistency in character” is so important, because by your logic you’ve just told the world that you don’t have what it takes to win, let alone carry the Television Championship. And you know what? That’s GREAT news for Dolly Waters. Afterall, I’m looking fer’ any advantage I can take, any opportunity to make my run with this championship go as smoothly as possible, while wasting the least amount of time needed against BUMS like YOU Dionysus.

LOL, what a name! Dionysus!

Dolly breaks out into a fit of uncontrolled laughter.

The greeks! The fucking fathers of logic and reason! And look at you! You’ve got goddamn Socrates rolling in his grave!

What happened to Pinot Noir, anyway? Did your partner take one look at you and realize that they were dealing with a clown? With a fraud? Dealing with a person who oozes of some smug sense of sophistication, but just below the surface ain’t even able to keep up with a little uneducated hick-girl?

Welcome to the XWF, Dionysus. A place where smart guys come to get crushed under the weight of their own jumbled words. Let’s hear it now big boy. Let’s hear how a fifteen minute time limit is going to play right into your strengths as a wrestler. How your size, strength and endurance, how your brawn and not your brain is going to get your arm raised at the end of our match.

Why don’t you ask Isaiah King?

He’s a man of similar size and strength as you. We already know you think like him too, because consistency is so important. What happened to him? I mean clearly I didn’t just pop up on him and tap him out right away did I? Nah… took me about twelve minutes.

I know I already asked, but surely you watched the tape. Did you see exactly what might be the difference between a wrestler like YOU and a wrestler like ME? I used every inch of the ring, the ropes, the apron, the floor, even the referee to create distance between myself and that behemoth. I had that prick sucking air, just like I’mma do you.

That was a total mismatch on paper, but granted, every match I’ve been in has been a mismatch on paper.

On paper, Dionysus beats Dolly Waters in fifteen minutes. He’s fresh. He’s strong. He’s bold. He walks to the ring with some stupid shield and battle staff… but though I shouldn’t need to remind you of this, I’m afraid I’ve misjudged just how dense you are:

Dolly Waters has the Champion’s advantage.

That’s why I picked this exact stipulation.

Not just because I’m confident.

Not just because I realize that dumbass imaginary pleas about “consistency” mean NOTHING.

Not just because I have defended this very championship, under these same stipulations until I was forced to upgrade to the Hart Championship.

No…

It’s because I don’t need to win against you to move closer to my TRUE victory.

I’ve just gotta keep hold of this belt. Something I had no problem doing when I was just a teenage kid. How’s that feel?

I’m the runner, and yer’ the chaser. There’s no other way around it. Hell, if I feel too threatened, I might just pick up that dumb battle staff of yours and crack you over the skull with it. The Championship doesn’t change hands with a DQ. How poetic would that be? Yer’ stupid gimmick that you think will win you over with the fans and management being the very thing that costs you the gold yer’ “suddenly” seeking now.

Fuck outta’ here with all of that inconsistency in character. Fuck outta’ here with losing to Ned Kaye. Losing teammates. Hypocrite. It makes you not good enough to hang. That’s what you said ain’t it? Or do you wanna think harder about what you said next time?

I think fifteen minutes orta’ be long enough you to reevaluate.

Onward to victory

Much to the pleasure of the actual motorized vehicles, Dolly’s horse-led gypsy wagon makes an exit from the interstate, and travels a few blocks through a small township. Pulling up outside a familiar location, Patel smiles.

”Never thought I’d be happy to see this place aga- -Namas-fucking-te”

While referring to Madame Maluna’s Metaphysical Manor, the place where Dolly and Patel held a tarot-reader hostage for weeks while Dolly practiced black magic, Patel is stopped mid sentence by an astonishing sight…

The storefront of the quaint little shop still exists, but stretching out for an entire city block behind the quaint shop is a massive construction site. Three stories of steel framing rising up above the shop this duo were commandeering before Patel’s arrest.

Dolly and Patel make a full exit from the gypsy wagon, along with jeNNy the living latex sex-doll. Patel’s eyes glaze over as he takes in the incredible sight.

”Wha… what is this?”

This is where we’re going to manifest victory…

Patel reads the amended sign on the storefront:

GRAND OPENING MAY 2023
Madame Maluna’s Metaphysical Manor MEGASTORE

...this is where we’re gonna’ produce Divine Timing.]]> “IN JUST .one. DAYS-”

An exaggerated Alpha-Chad voice, complete synthetic echoes and other obnoxious qualities, narrates over an advertisement,

“-THE MONTH OF MARCH WILL TURN TO MAAAADNESS!

AS XWF MARCH MADNESS COMES TO YOU LIVE!

LIVE!

LIVE!

FROM THE SOLD OUT AT&T STADIUM IN ARRRRRLINGTON!”

Patel Gaggendeep, the assistant and confidant of XWF Superstar Dolly Waters, watches the advertisement from his cell phone. A mirthless “Mmm…” emanates from his pursed lips as his eyes widen to keep up with the frantic imagery of flames, explosions, and other random flashes of testosterone overload.

“DO YOU LOVE MINI GOLF?!

DO YOU LOVE MASTERY?!

DO YOU LOOOOVE MAYHEM?!

THEN HOW ABOUT A MAIN EVENT FEATURING MIRACULOUSLY MAMMOTH MEN

-BOBBY BOURBON AND MAAAAARK FLYNN-

MARCHING MADINGLEY FOR THE FIRST TIME IN HISTORY INTO A MINI GOLF MASTERS MAYHEM FOR THE UNIVERSAL CHAMPIONSHIP?!

THEY’RE NOT PUTTING AROUND, FOLKS!

AND NEITHER ARE WE!

THERE’S THE CUNT CRUSHER NOAH JACKSON!
THE MONSTER MOPPER PETER VAUGHN!
THE MILF SIDNEY GREY!
AND NED KAYE’S NOTRIOUS ARMY OF NEDOPHILES!

WHO WILL BE CROWNED THE CHAMPION OF MARCH MADNESS FIVE?!?!

Did you find the video or what?

A welcomed distraction breaks Patel’s gaze from his cell phone as he looks up to meet the eyes of Dolly Waters. The two of them, along with the coachman of Dolly’s gypsy wagon - the brought to life sex doll named jeNNy -are being pulled down a crowded interstate by a pair of horses.

Yes, but there’s this paid advertisement…it’s so loud, and feeble. It’s giving me anxiety.”

Leave it to the marketing geniuses in XWF headquarters to figure out how to kill off their overweight fanboys with heart attacks before they can even purchase the pay-per-view.

The March Madness V advertisement continues to ramble off the details of the major matches on the card with a roaring gusto, until the tone suddenly shifts to a more meek, quiet, yet faster announcement:

...also the Television Championship will be on the line in a standard fifteen minute time limit match…

There’s an installed sound effect of crickets chirping in the advertisement, before abruptly returning to its previous energy:

STREAM MARCH MADNESS FIVE, LIVE, LIVE, LIVE! FOR THE RIDICULOUS PRICE OF NINETY-NINE-NINETY-NINE!

The left side of Dolly’s lip meets her nostril in a malicious looking scowl,

Doesn’t seem like anyone is too excited about your matchup with Dionysus.

That’s the point, Gag. I want them to keep sleeping on me, because once I’ve milked this bad boy- she rubs the XWF Television Championship sitting between them, -for all it’s worth, and associated it’s existence with the hottest selling metaphysics product on the planet, those pricks in XWF management will no choice but to give me what I want.

...and what’s that?

Dolly lets out a sly little chuckle,

In due time, my dearest Gag. In due time.

The time… ‘where has it all gone?’ Patel had to wonder while staring down the stoic confidence on his employer's face. It was only a few months ago that he received an awkward phone call from an overburdened Dolly Waters. She happened upon his resume from a job search engine, and the timing surrounding the call for employment couldn’t have been more inexplicable. And the offer couldn’t have been more perfect.

promo

Dionys-ASS Said:

Now, you're probably wondering, "But Dionysus! Who is your new partner?!" Well, you will simply need to wait until March Madness, when Pinot Noir competes for the XWF Tag Team Championship.

Raise your glass high, everyone.

Onward to victory

GRAND OPENING MAY 2023
Madame Maluna’s Metaphysical Manor MEGASTORE

...this is where we’re gonna’ produce Divine Timing.]]> <![CDATA[Episode II - The Hunted Strikes Back]]> https://xwf1999.com/showthread.php?tid=45971 Sat, 25 Mar 2023 23:16:56 -0700 Isaiah King]]> https://xwf1999.com/showthread.php?tid=45971

…Continued from epsiode 1

BLAAAAAAMMMMM!!!

Our three intrepid heroes drop to the ground just as the wooden door to their enclave flies off its hinges.Flipping a table onto it’s side, Isaiah presses his and Chae’s body up against it while Ezekiel finds himself beind a large crate of video equipment.

”You strapped?!”

Isaiah glances down at his makeshift Boba Fett costume.

”I’ve got a blaster.”

”For fuck’s sake!”

A cloud of dust spreads out from the door way as three distinct black barrels peak their way into the room and begin firing towards the grey plastic throne. It… obviously bursts into little grey plastic bits.

”Ye’ thought we wouldn’t find you?”

”Ye might as well come out with your hands behind ya head. It’s over.”

Isaiah winces as bits of plastic come flying at him while keeping a firm hand over Chae’s face. She glances up at him and waves a .38 calibre.

”Mami’s gonna save you hun, don’t you worry.”

A shot rings across the room, plunging the room into darkness except for the beeping LED lights that were meant to recreate that “USS Enterprise” feel. Isaiah was getting all his references mixed up really.

”Smoke em’ queenie.”

Chae signals Isaiah, and the two drive their powerful legs into the table, sending it sprawling towards the door. The intruders fire off towards it in the dark while Chae lights them up with some quick shots to their legs.

Ezekiel fires at the third man and you hear a flurry of urghs, arghs and words you shouldn’t repeat to your mother.

Isaiah gets to his feet quickly and rushes the three, men, slamming one to the ground with a clothesline from hell that the cowboy legend would’ve been proud of. As he hits the ground, two more shots go off close to him, ringing his ears. Without a second to spare, from his grounded position he throws his toy blaster at the assailants head and him in the knee to a satisfying crack and looks over to see the third lying motionless on the ground.

The dust settles.

"Chae, Zeke! Y'all good?"

His voice shakes with a mix of adrenaline and fear. A firm hand grasps Isaiahs shoulder making him turn with a cocked fist. He releases his held breath as he recognizes Ezekiel. He waves his gun at the two struggling intruders.

"Check on Chae, I've got em.

Isaiah pushed himself to his feet with… some discomfort. He reaches down to his waist and feels a sting. Nothing too serious, just a bullet graze. He makes his way back to where Chae was, while Ezekiel very clearly is hitting on of the assailants across the head with the back of his pistol. Pistol whipping, as they say.

Maybe I should've guarded them.

"Ya still concerned about them when they juz' ried to kill ya, boy?"

Well, uh… I don't want Ezekiel going back there. Its him I care about.

"That's ya problem. All of this, everything, it's because of that."

King reaches Chaes side and she's breathing heavily, her face is pale, even by her standards. Isaiah quickly drops to his knee to check in on her. If she's been shot.. if she's beleeding out… Isaiah swallows painfully.

"Babe, what's wrong? Are you hit?"

She just looks at his direction, but her gaze seems to look past him. Her breathing is uneven but she manages to get a head shake out. Isaiah sighs once more.

Thank God.

"Tsk.

"It's been years, Iz. I c-can't do this anymore, are t-they d-d-dead?"

The way her voice sounded crushed him. He caresses the side of her cheek, looking at her apologetically. He wraps the other arm around her back, giving her an assuring sq-

BANG

Isaiah jerks her head around, almost dropping Chae in the process. No, no, no, no, no.

"ZEKE!"

The King and his Queen get to their feet quickly and make their way through the dark room, toward their friend. One of the guys, the one in the middle who Isiaah had taken down, scrambles to his feet and stumbles out the door.

”Get him.”

His body moves on autopilot - muscles tensed and eyes narrowed, Isaiah dashes past the door after the masked assailant. He points a hand at his downed friend, yelling out at Chae.

”Chae, get on Knight!”

”Stop wasting time with your f-”

”I GOT IT.”

Isaiah bursts out through the door, sweat glistening on his head, and a painful fear gripping at his heart. This is not how he wanted to spend his final week of training for his big match. This was all a little too much. Why did they have to get… Damn.

Shaking his head, our hero focuses back on his prey who was scrambling down the old stairs of his gym. He would pay.

Your screen flickers back to life at a hospital, It centers squarely on Isaiah’s face, which is now covered in a few cuts with what looks like dried blood splattered in different parts of it. He’s seated on a white armchair, in stark contrast to his beautifully dark skin and his blood-soaked clothes that come into view.

A hunter who has completed his hunt.

You can hear the bustle of the hospital around him, and practically feel the eyes of concerned citizens glaring into our bloody hero.

Isaiah addresses the camera directly.

“Lions hate it when they’re cornered, with the walls to their back.

They’re powerful, deadly animals that’ll do anything to survive.

Anything to keep their dignity, anything to hold firmly to their honor.

Anything to stay alive and thrive.

They are the kings of the savannah, and don’t often find themselves cornered…

Except when they find themselves staring down another hunter.

Another predator who might be just as strong, if not stronger than them.

Only a hunter, can hunt the hunter.

These last few weeks - I…. We, have been hunted.

Held back against a wall by the shadows of a problem we thought were behind us. By a pride of ruthless, bloodthirsty leeches that we thought we had escaped from.

And they found us - just a few of them, but they found us.

And they might have just taken one of the most important people of my life… Out of it.

And that makes me feel - hungry.

Hungry for blood, hungry for victory, hungry for you… Mr Omega.

I’ve gone unsatiated for too long, I’ve been beated and bruised, defeated and pinned TOO many times. This damned company, of brilliant warriors and dangerous predators has chipped away at my flesh over and over again and I’m a lion left with skin and bones.

They’ve made me feel weak and battered - you saw as much, you pointed out as much.

I’ve been brought low, and i hate to be brought low.

I am a lion.

A cub perhaps, but I am a KING.

My pride is small, and they’d die for me, my kingdom is small…. Barely existing here.

But it exists.

I’ve tasted that power before and I will taste it again. I will rip through you to have it in my grasps.

You will be the appetizer to my main course.

I will conquer you before taking back MY title.

Yes, this… Non-wrestling related hunt has distracted me from training but it has only fed my desire to crush you, anyone - but especially you.

Someone who is strong, who is tried and tested - someone who is still hot from their tournament run. Someone who will feed my and add strength to my bones before I wipe Dolly from the face of this earth.

I fight the shadows of my past now, and after having dealt severely with one part of that…”

Isaiah gestures to his bloodied clothes.

”I have realised that the only way up. The only way for an heir apparent to claim his throne once and for all… Is to deal with his shadows. Deal and conquer his past.

That’ll start with Dolly.

Then I’d have loved to fight Myst… But shes on the run.

It’ll move on to the one who started this… The redemptive hero.

I’ll defeat each opponent of my past.

Each champion that has prevailed.

Each predator that has devoured me.

And I will come on top.

Jay Omega - you will not become another name on that list.

Jay Omega - you will not be another to prevail against me.

Jay Omega - I will have your head and you will be the first to start me on my path to redemption.

I am the hunter - YOU are my prey.

I will see you tomorrow - be ready.”

Your camera cuts to black as Isaiah extends a bloodied hand towards the camera.

will fix coding errors soon!]]>

…Continued from epsiode 1

[Image: Screenshot07-1920x1080-0283f3509833a58f2...a61ff9.jpg]

"Is that all you got? I can do this all day!"

The voice of one Rufus Wrekker rings throughout the arena. The GLADIATOR arena, that is! The Buff Dudes haven't figured out how they got here, just that there's no shortage of opponents wanting this to become their final resting place.

"Quit... showing off..."

Vagabond, steel sword in hand, fences with one of the black ninjas (the "bad" guys) when he witnesses a white ninja (the "good" guys) (how traditionally taboo) get yeeted into the spike pit next to him.

"I need..." Vagabond deflects another swing from the baddie a millisecond before it's too late. "... a cigarette."

Wrekker, with a Belly-to-Belly Suplex, impales the black ninja, upside down, onto a spike protruding from the wall. He springs back to his feet and dusts off his hands.

"I thought you said you were quitting?"

"That was before every superhero and supervillain in the universe decided we're public enemy number one."

Vagabond watches as Wrekker works his magic on the last three black ninjas. Two of them attempt to sandwich him in. As they charge Wrekker, he backflips out of harm's way so they run each other through instead. The last ninja tosses his sword away and starts cracking his knuckles. The Buff Dudes watch as the ninja beats the stuffing out of the air between them and him. He's showing us all his moves (kick, punch, thrust, cartwheel, flip, kick, punch, repeat), either trying to intimidate Vagabond and Wrekker, or impress them. Regardless, the invisible enemy is getting his butt kicked!

"You want the last slice?" Wrekker asks Vagabond, really hoping he'll say no.

"Have at it."

It's absurd how quickly Wrekker gets the ninja in a headlock. You might want to look away now if you've got an uneasy stomach, because...

*POP!*

The ninja's head pops off like the lid from a pickle jar. His body crumbles to the ground. Wrekker punts the head like a football. He shades his eyes from the sun with one hand, waving buh-bye with the other, as the head soars out of sight.

"Any idea what the heck's going on? Where do you think they're coming from? What do they want?"

"I don't care. They keep coming, I'll keep kicking ass."

Vagabond starts searching the corpses, collecctincfg their throwing stars and smoke grenades. He hands some to Wrekker.

"There will be no stopping us! So join, or fall like the rest!"

The Buff Dudes turn toward the voice with exacerbated looks on their faces, like "what now?!" They see it's The Widdler, and he's leading another batch of black ninjas to the party. Relieved when they notice more white ninjas sneaking up behind their enemies, The Buff Dudes do what they can to keep The Widdler distracted while they move into position.

"Let me guess, you're the reason for all this."

"Quite the contrary. It would seem The Heroes Guild wants you two for questioning. We're here to offer you starvation."

"Sounds delicious."

"Come again?"

"Oh, my bad! Did I say starvation? I meant SALVATION. Easy mistake to make!"

"Sure, sure."

"Ah, so now, I reckon, is when you offer us a choice. And then we'll tell you we don't like the choices, to which you'll say we don't really have one anyway. Yadda, yadda. Can we just skip ahead to the part where I drive this blade through your belly instead?"

The Widdler looks genuinely offended, and more than a little nervous as Vagabond gives his sword a twirl.

"That's the way these things work, isn't it? You try to recruit us, we say no, big battle ensues..."

"I vote we git-r-done."

"Settle down, you brick house of a man, you. Okay, well, if all that's true, then maybe you could just answer this one quick question for me..."

The Widdler takes a couple steps toward The Buff Dudes as Vagabond readies his weapon. Wrekker, himself a weapon, puffs out his chest to signify his own readiness.

"During these quote-unquote 'big battles' ... which side usually wins, you think?"

"Duh. The good guys!"

"Right, right. And, uh, who are 'the good guys,' I wonder...?"

Vagabond and Wrekker answer simultaneously.

"We are, of course!"

"I honestly don't even know anymore."

Wrekker gives his fellow Dude a quizzical look. Vagabond half-shrugs.

"You either die a hero or live long enough to see yourself become the villain."

"Oh, how wonderful! We've got ourselves an enlightened one, fellas!"

The black ninjas laugh on cue until The Widdler orders them to be silent. Wrekker turns to Vagabond.

"But we're the good guys. Right?"

"Are we though? I mean, think about it. You TPed the SACC Campus, I hired actors to impersonate other people, and an innocent referee got hoed down. Plus, can we really claim to be the good guys when our next set of opponents are literally superheroes? Something tells me we've been toeing a pretty thin line, bud."

The white ninjas are in position now, awaiting their next order.

"Then I guess we've gotta pick a side, yeah?"

"Easier said than done. All this time I've been telling myself I'm on the side of good, but I'm just not sure anymore. Nobody ever wakes up and says 'hey, I'm gonna be a bad guy today.' It's all about perspective."

"Actually, I wake up that way every day."

"Yeah, well, this has nothing to do with you, so..."

Vagabond dismisses The Widdler with a wave of his hand, still looking at Wrekker. The villain does NOT appreciate being ignored, and looks to his men for validation. What he finds is a barrage of arrows raining down from above, effectively eliminating all of them in one fell swoop. Vagabond doesn't notice any of it, even as The Widdler starts to get hysterical at the sight of all the white ninjas in the stands and all the dead black ones at his feet.

"Damn you cursed superheroes! This isn't over!"

An arrow pierces his left shoulder, mere inches from where his heart would be if he wasn't, you know, a heartless villain.

"You'll have to do better than that if you wanna kill The Widdler!"

"I don't find joy in hurting people for no reason, but we're in the business of beating people down. I think that sends a bit of a mixed message."

"It's not like they're defenseless, man."

Two more arrows get plunged into The Widdler, one for each knee, and he shrieks like a banshee.

"AAAAHHHHHHH!"

"The more you look at things as being either good or evil, the blurrier the line gets. I started off in wrestling because I love the sport, but I think I'm starting to love it a little less now that I'm in the Xtreme Wrestling Federation."

The Widdler, looking like Ace Ventura, grabs one of the arrows in his knees and tries to pull it out, but it won't come out. Another arrow hits its mark, pinning his hand and knee together.

"Oh, for crying out loud! COME ON!" The Widdler throws up his good hand in frustration. Another arrow gets delivered. Now he's got one in his shoulder, one in one knee and two in the other, both hands skewered, and he looks like he doesn't know if he wants to fight, flee or faint. Half hunched over and limping, he starts moving around in circles looking for somewhere to go, but the white ninjas have him surrounded and they're closing in.

"But it's not the XWF's fault, it's my own. I think I'm part of the problem."

"Go on, I'm listening."

Behind them, the white ninjas now have The Widdler strapped to a stretcher as they back in an ambulance to load him into. It looks like the same ambulance A.B. and B.T. got stuffed into on Anarchy, but how can that be? Then again, a lot of ambulances look the same, so...

"Country music was great until the likes of Keith Urban and Taylor Swift came in and started making 'pop country,' or whatever it's called. Don't get me wrong, they both have a few good songs, but it's just not country anymore. You know?"

"Sure, sure. Times are changing."

Vagabond and Wrekker finally turn away from each other to see what's going on. The white ninjas seem to have everything under control, so Vagabond continues.

"Well, that's what's happening to wrestling; cheaters and attention-seekers as far as the eye can see, and things like honor and integrity no longer factor in the way they use to. Nowadays, everyone expects a trophy just for playing. Don't even get me started on political correctness."

"How is any of that your fault?"

"I haven't exactly been the poster child of honesty since coming to the XWF."

"Never too late to start. The fact that you feel this way tells me you ARE an honest person."

Vagabond watches The Widdler struggle to free himself while the white ninjas load the stretcher into the ambulance. One such ninja approaches The Buff Dudes.

"On behalf of The Hero's Guild, we'd like to extend our gratitude for the assist."

The white ninja shakes hands with Vagabond and then Wrekker, who almost crushes his hand by mistake. The ninja offers Vagabond a small business card once he has feeling in his fingers again. It's blank except for the H.G. insignia embossed on the front.

"If you ever need our assistance, just set that aflame and we'll be there for you in your time of need."

"Uh, sure. Thanks. Look, when all of this began, those, uh, 'other guys' ... said your people were looking for us?"

"A miscommunication, I'm afraid. Evil never rests. Misinformation and misdirection are their bread and butter. You're free to go."

"But how do we leave? We don't even know how we got here."

The white ninja nods his head understandingly.

"Well, that's easy. All you gotta do is wake up."

"You mean we're dreaming?"

"Uh... yeah. Yeah, you're dreaming. Both of you. Dreaming."

The ninja looks--and sounds--as though he knows more than he's letting on, but...

"Is this my subconscious telling me I should help The Atomic Bat and The Blue Tango in their fight for justice against the likes of Sidney Grey and Gina? Against the T.H.U.G.s and all the rest of the 'entitled' and nefarious?"

"Uh, yeah. That would be a mighty fine gesture, should you choose to, uh, offer your help to the Heroes Guild. Now just close your eyes and count down from 10. You'll be home before you know it. And, once again, thank you for your assistance in this matter."

"You're welcome, I guess," Vagabond says, closing his eyes. "Okay, so... 10... 9... 8..."

"~It's the fi-nal count-down!~" Wrekker randomly starts singing.

Vagabond opens his eyes when he hears music start to play. He isn't expecting to see the pre-dawn's early light when he does. He finds himself lying on his back, sleeping bag and pillow beneath him, with his phone alarm going off beside his head. He hits the snooze button.

"Man, I gotta stop eating so much before going to sleep."

He rolls over on to his side, his eyelids fluttering when a small white rectangle catches his eye. It can't be! Vagabond grabs the business card. Oh, it's just the pizza guy's. He flicks it away like he's dealing poker, closes his eyes, and tries to go back to sleep. The card floats through the air and lands a little ways away, upside down. A glimmering H.G. reflecting the first rays of the sun..........

Dun-dun-dahhh!

]]> The XWF proudly presents...
Ninjas & Too Much Food Before Sleep

*POP!*

Dun-dun-dahhh!

]]> <![CDATA[Jigsaw Falling Into Place]]> https://xwf1999.com/showthread.php?tid=45970 Sat, 25 Mar 2023 21:41:36 -0700 Ned Kaye]]> https://xwf1999.com/showthread.php?tid=45970

Road to Redemption
Part VIII(Finale)

Jigsaw Falling Into Place

A piercing crackle boomed through the atmosphere.

A smudged portrait of the floor pressed against him greeted Ned as the waking world reclaimed him. His cheek was softly stabbed, prodded by the splintering oak of the cabin. His eyes struggled in adjusting, the staggered haze of his mind reliant on touch. His hand, drowsily deliberate, passed over the smooth, carved glass of several bottles. He reached in the direction of the futon, pulling himself off the ground cautiously, his legs hardly keeping him vertical initially. Just as he seemed to gain footing, a flash appeared out of the corner of his eye, shining through the window.

That's when the thunder boomed once more, causing Kaye to almost fall over in shock.

He hadn't noticed because of the alcohol polluting his system, but the hum he’d attributed to his acclimating senses was instead a downpour of rain. Stumbling towards the window, he peered outward, every detail beyond the cabin lost in a sea of shadows. Stumbling toward the door, his hand tensed, the plummeting ocean outside intensifying against the thin cabin walls. Steeling himself, he grabbed the handle and braced for the gusts to swing the door open. Somehow, he kept steady, but he had to depart the cabin immediately, slamming it shut behind him. The rain drenched him instantly. He sauntered towards where he'd seen a nearby cliffside, the arid dirt that had cracked for months transformed into sloshing mud as he pushed onward, only able to see the edge once he risked tumbling over it.

The path down was steep. On another occasion, he might’ve convinced himself that he could leap. Yet the twisted honesty of inebriation forbade him the illusion of that. He held a stubbornness that grinded against the self-destructive wish to end this sensation of utter misery. He wasn’t sure when it would pass. If it could.

He didn't know. He never knew.

The sky lit up again as lightning illuminated Ned, standing alone in front of the edge. Another spotlight pointed on him in his moment of misery, a camera of the cosmos positioned to merely watch him crumble. His fists clenched, nails dug into his palms as the rage he imprisoned inside escaped violently.

“IS THIS WHAT YOU WANT!?” His voice boomed like thunder in the emptiness of night.

“Does it please you to watch me like this?! Everytime I have something that makes me feel an iota happier, you want to see it stripped away, don’t you?! You’d love for me to hurt endless because it's entertaining, right?! Anytime someone else has something good, it’s given without a second thought! But for me, there's always a cost! So what is it?! WHAT DO YOU WANT?!”

Ned collapsed, his hands squeezing into the mud, the tears on his cheeks and the rain combining until they were indistinguishable.

“Do you want me dead? Is that it?” He asked quietly. His head rose, fully aware there wouldn't be a response, still wishing for one

“THEN DO IT!” He outstretched his arms while his knees pressed into the mud beneath. He closed his eyes, awaiting a bolt of lightning to strike. Anything.

“DO IT!”

Still no response. His head fell, despair nearly overtaking him. His voice sounded like a whisper in the noise.

“I'm not strong enough to do it myself... so just do it...”[/color][/font]

His eyes opened, unsure what to expect. The pattern of the clouds reminded him of the draped fabric of his childhood bedsheets. The past seemed simple. Certainly, he wasn't constantly happy, but it was well-charted. The worn pains of then felt far preferable to the bleak unknown tortures of change. But there was no reverting history. All that stood before him was a choice: to go forward or to not.

A choice never stripped of him.

Exhaling, his head clearer, he stood, tossing the muck that coated his hands and knees aside. The walk back to the cabin was grueling, his shame pulling his gaze downward. That’s when he noticed an extra pair of tracks. He rushed forward, sprinting into the cabin. He was greeted by a cloaked figure sitting on the futon. Before Ned could say anything, they turned around.

Darcy’s face stared back.

They both seemed surprised at the reunion given the circumstances. Composing a sentence was difficult, but Ned forced something out.

“Did you... hear all that?” He asked, dreading the answer.

“Don’t,” she responded, glancing away after witnessing his rough state. She inhaled sharply, a million conflicting emotions battling within.

“Do you have any clue how painful it is to see you like this?”

“I'm sorry,” Ned replied softly, his head lowering shamefully, “I... I didn't want to be around anyone when this happened.”

“Then why did you let it happen?” She questioned pointedly, her eyes meeting his.

“Don't pin this all on me,” Ned shot back indignantly, “I didn't fall off the wagon over nothing!”

“Pin it on you? No, Ned, I know I’ve more than fucked up and you made me feel awful about all of that! I said I was sorry!”

“Don’t act like apologizing erases my ability to get hurt!”

Darcy pointed at him, her own eyes becoming glassy, “It doesn’t! I hurt you! I have to live my entire life feeling terrible about that, but you didn’t even give me a chance! You refused to hear me out!”

“That's why I'm here!” He shouted, causing her to hesitate. He walked over to the empty spot next to her. His gestures were awkward, but sincere.

“May I?”

She gave a nod, scooting over to give him a little more space as he fell back into the futon, exhaling deeply, his eyes glued to the ceiling.

“I finally had something positive in my life with another person after years and I threw it away because I couldn’t handle things changing. I wanted it all to be simple and easy. God, I sound like I’m 19 again…”

His mind wandered as his hands hid his face.

“I just needed to accept that things would be different and a little difficult, but I couldn’t. I ruined what we had for nothing.”

“That's not true,” Darcy interjected, fiddling with her glasses somewhat, “... I felt the same way. I liked being seen as this kinda stable part in your life to the point where I went “okay, Darcy, let’s keep the lie going because the truth sucks!” The whole reason all of this started is because I didn’t want to lose my sister. Out of us, I’m the one who was so scared of life becoming different.”

He gave a weak chuckle, pointing at himself, “Can you really say I dealt with it better?”

“Point taken,” Darcy said lightly, “y’know… most of that stuff was outdated anyways. As much as you joke about it, you have changed. I did, too. I used to join projects and think about science first and ethics second, but after you, I couldn’t turn a blind eye anymore.”

“I... like the person I am when we’re around each other.”

Ned smiled, adding a quiet, “me too.”

“I suppose it seemed everything was becoming unreliable. The stuff with you, all of my friends, there were even rumors about some of my fans being plants based on stuff Sarah Lacklan investigated. And… it made me wonder if the Sidney Greys of the world are right... that you can only count on yourself.”

Darcy leaned towards him, placing her hand on his cheek as she turned his gaze to match hers.

“Then why am I here?” She asked.

His words became trapped in his throat. He couldn't provide an answer.

“I care about you. Saga does. There are tons of people here for you. You hear their voices when you wrestle. You’re really gonna trust an investigation by someone who’s hated you since day one? She'd probably ignore her own house burning down if it seemed uncool. But even Theo, as much as he's the antichrist, told me where you were. People care, Ned. They want to see you succeed,” She handed her phone to him, pulling up the XWF app with a few videos downloaded.

“What's this?” He asked, scrolling through them.

“It's that stuff your opponents have been saying about you. I know that’s important to keep up with, so I downloaded them! You don’t gotta say it, I know I’m the best,” She waved her hand regally, shrugging as reality set in, “okay, not literally, but I feel like the best when I’m helping you out. Your passion is infectious.”

She shook her head, giving a flustered, exaggerated groan before speaking once more, “Look... I can’t bear my heart like you, but I know that you make me wanna try. That has to matter.”

“Darce,” Ned spoke, his index finger carefully lifting her chin so their gazes could meet, “you are the best.”

Her cheeks turned a soft crimson.

“Do you want to try us ag-”

“Ned,” Darcy interrupted, “shut up and kiss me.”

He leaned in, his lips softly embracing hers as they embraced, their warmth cutting through the cold rain that coated them. Despite the storm raging, all he could hear was the beating of her heart, a gentle reverberation that sent shockwaves through him. He’d never felt this close to another in his entire life. Her arms wrapped around him as he fell backwards, enjoying the soft pressure of her weight. Out there, countless little issues piled up, yet drifted away.

In here, they were together.

It was nearly dawn as Ned awoke. Darcy rested on his chest, mumbling incoherently in her sleep. Doing his best not to wake her, he shimmied out from underneath her, leaving her a pillow to rest upon. He grabbed the VCR, hooking it up to the television. Slightly hesitating, he grabbed the video tape that Steven Cooper left for him. Breathlessly, he placed it in the VCR.

The glow of the picture illuminated Ned, revealing a small, cramped apartment filled with wrestling memorabilia. Steve stepped in view of the camera. He appeared exactly as Ned remembered. Frozen in time.

“So,” Steve began, rubbing his hands together as he contemplated, “I guess if you're watching this, kid, it means I kicked the bucket. I could get all mopey about it, but we all have our time and the clock's catching up to all of us. But we can leave things behind for the livin'. And in my time working with you, Ned, I figured that you're not this dark force you've been trying to be. You picked up four people that nobody really gave a damn about and gave 'em something important: hope.”

Ned held back the tears, averting Steven’s “gaze.”

“Hell, after I threw you in rehab, I started thinking about how much time I got left and I used some of that money I got from this gig to go to rehab. No shit, I've been trying to tie up my loose ends! A far cry from the guy I used to be, but I 'spose that's the neat thing about living: no one's forcing you to stay one way forever. Now, my therapist, as much of a long-winded shrink he is, gave me this way to think about your problems just to break them down and make them a little easier to confront. Basically, you think of your problems like a mountain and then break down the steps to climbing it. When first climbing a mountain, you must learn how to fall. Because climbin’ is easy, but fallin’ is the tough part...”

...

“...what separates those at the peak from those on the ground. No one can make that choice for you, but you. And I know you will.”

Steve gave a knowing smile as the tape began to reach its end.

“Make us proud, kid.”

The tape finished, a cyan emptiness left in his wake. Picking himself up, Ned walked outside, stepping towards the cliff as sunrise slowly started. With each step, the earth beneath him was malleable, shifting beneath his feet. Where Ned walked, the world made way. He looked over the cliff to see sunlight, bright as it washed over him.

“Redemption.”

“It's a word that is as difficult to define as it is easily tantalizing. That can be used for atrocity and generosity interchangeably. Everyone here in this final four is flawed. We wear the world's unforgiving reality on our sleeve in our own unique varieties. Yet, throughout all of my opponent's words, the same narrative of countless broken homes rears its ugly head: “if you give me what I deserve, then you'll understand that my actions were justified.” A philosophy that what is owed must be reclaimed at any cost. But that's not all. Despite their attempts to hide it, my opponents also had another bit of collective consensus: that this tournament was “my moment” and that they would be the one to spoil it.”

“You are all correct on half of that.”

“This is my moment. March Madness is where I made my first mark on this company and, four years later, I shall climb the mountain that has cast its shadow over my career here. And yet despite all that time, the way the three other finalists refer to me, you'd swear I was the same kid who walked in here in 2019. And just like my tormentors from high school, they almost had me believing it. That I was playing “The Notorious One” again, desperate to become the idealized version of myself that I swore was the only person worth being. But I'm not. I grew, evolved, and changed. I'm not the naive rookie everyone swears I am. I am Ned Kaye: five time champion. The man who paves paths forward long before people like ALIAS started tweeting cryptic clues or Sidney Grey starting playing copycat. Even Noah Jackson needed me to wear a jockstrap before he had the idea to. For as much as everyone wants to characterize me as my past or my mistakes, you keep finding a lot of comfort in my footprints.”

“It all comes down to change and what we're willing to do in the face of it. Sidney's world cannot handle it, so she wallpapers over everything and refuses to accept it as it is, only as it was. Your heart is as empty as your head, and I feel so bad for Angie that she runs the risk of hurting herself against your uncaring shell of a self. You need me to be the same because the world according to you crumbles if I'm not. I am the death of your escapist bullshit and when we face, you'll understand just how Earth shattering I truly am. To lose to you is to fail for a day, but to succumb to your broken worldview is to fail for a lifetime. So, while I take the crown you covet, I offer you something in return: a shared experience with the one person who genuinely wants to be around you. You can bond with Angie over facing me in March Madness and watching in disbelief as the crowd swells and your little empire of lies cracks around you.”

“Noah's resistance towards evolution is the fear of weakness. He can't accept a world where he is powerless to help himself sometimes, yet it's what we all face. So, he dresses up and does anything and everything to be the biggest clown possible, pieing his face just to keep people interested. It is a pitiful existence. He can't even pretend to care enough about himself to make a movie about him. I mean, where would you find the lead? Nobody wants to be Noah Jackson. He's resigned to the fact that this story is mine to claim. Mine to earn, even if he cannot speak the words. Your consolation is simpler: I offer you the one thing no one in this company would dare give you: an honest friend. I can't allow you the peak of the mountain, but I can offer my ear and my time. And that will have to be enough for you.”

“And lastly, Vaughn built his ego and identity so much around success that he lies to himself utterly and entirely just to keep up the facade and even he admits that I'm worthy for the finals. If you asked him, he beat me with two hands behind his back. He thinks he gives me nightmares. Peter, it's a good night's sleep when I dream of kicking your ass and CCPE isn't here to inflate your ego. You cut promos like I did in 2019. You whine and pout about being the best, but you seem to not realize that, out of everyone here, I'm the only person who's gotten to the final four without using my primary finisher. Your utter obliviousness isn't even pitiable, it's just fucking grating. For you, I give only a warning to the man holding your leash: you're next.”

“We all are given a choice in the face of our flaws. We can work to overcome them, or we can feed and enable them. All three of you want this crown for the sake of enabling your awful habits and broken lifestyles. I'm the only one working for a better outcome. Because I don't fight for spite or fear or hubris. I fight for love. I love seeing the fans' faces as I enter. I love everyone who has ever given me the chance to be their friend or ally. I love the XWF and what it stands for! For the chance to climb the mountain and become something- no- someone greater. You've watched me turn from Notorious to Nefarious to Nameless to Ned Kaye. You've all witnessed me become a man worth being right in front of your eyes. This is my story. My moment.”

“And now it's time to become The Ace.”

SPECIAL THANKS:
-You for reading this crazy series
-The other Final Four competitors for being crazy stiff competition
-Saga for being there for me
-Anyone who ever lent me an ear about my ideas for this series
-Anyone who has ever cheered me on. I love you all.
See ya on the other side!

]]>

Road to Redemption
Part VIII(Finale)

Jigsaw Falling Into Place

]]> <![CDATA[Twilight Tempo]]> https://xwf1999.com/showthread.php?tid=45969 Sat, 25 Mar 2023 20:57:41 -0700 Dionysus]]> https://xwf1999.com/showthread.php?tid=45969

The orange orb descends downward...

Spinning gently...

Unwavering from its target...

A hand passes underneath...foolishly trying to stop its entry...

But alas, the ping pong ball lands in the last solo cop, ending that round of beer pong.

William cried out in feigned despair as he lost the game to me. I did warn him that I was the best beer pong player I knew of...or at least that I could remember. "Guess you're buying the first round," I jokingly mocked.

"Yeah yeah," William replied sheepishly. He hung his head down as Evan, his date, patted him on the shoulders. "Come on, lets go."

Evan had suggested going to The Saloon for our night out, and admittedly it had been a few years since I had been inside that particular bar downtown. Not that it was a bad place; the atmosphere was lively and the bar itself was historic, perfect for my tastes. I just liked my local pubs more. It also seemed strange to invite me as a third wheel as well, but "William insisted. He says he trusts your opinion and I want to make a good impression on his friends."

Friend...it was a nice thing to hear.

So here I was, wandering with the happy couple up to the bar from the backroom where the bar games were. The place was packed on the dance floor, but the bar area itself was pretty open. William and Evan went up to the bar to place the drink order as I found a table for us to sit at. A few moments later the pair returned, each with a pint and one extra for me. "Hope Nordeast is to your liking," William said, setting his extra glass in front of me.

I picked it up kindly, giving a light toast to him. "Appreciated. One of my favorites."

"So William tells me that the wine business isn't the only thing you're into?" Evan asked as he took his seat.

I gave him a quick once-over; hair neatly combed, his stubble visible but not messy, but it was the eyes that drew me in. I could tell he had a firm lock on my face, but his expression was welcoming and friendly, not analytical or judgmental. Maybe I could see what William saw in this fellow. "Indeed so. Just investing my winnings into another venture should the wrestling business not pan out," I replied matter-of-factly. I didn't really keep my career a secret, but I also didn't openly talk about it with strangers unless I was prompted.

Evan seemed to accept the answer well enough. "William didn't tell me much, so I figured I had to pry."

"Somehow you manage to find a way to pry into whatever you'd like, don't you?" William joked.

"That sounded inviting," I quickly jumped in, making William blush heavily. Evan laughed along with me. "Relax, William; we're out to have a good time tonight!" I raised my glass. "To a night we won't soon forget!" I toasted.

"Or at least until after bar close!" William chimed in as we clinked glasses.

"Alright, lets see who can finish their pint first," I challenged, and soon after took a deep drink...

You know, I wonder how many people know just how long fifteen minutes really is.

No really, think about it for a moment.

At a solid pace, one could walk a mile in fifteen minutes, assuming the movement is uninterrupted.

But when do you look and see just how much time has passed? Do you wait the full fifteen minutes? That would be impressive...if you knew when to check. Most people would likely check around the five minute mark, give or take a minute or two. When the clock isn't on your mind, time moves at a very different speed. Sometimes it moves too quickly, and other times very slow. If you asked someone what feels longer between driving to a destination or driving from a destination, they would tell you the first option. It is like asking which weighs heavier between a kilogram of steel or a kilogram of feathers; instinctively we think of steel weighing more than feathers, so we want to say that a kilogram of steel would weigh more...except they are still both a kilogram. And the distance between two destinations, for the most part, is also the same.

Now you're probably wondering, "Dionysus, why the hell would you bring any of this up?" Because quite simply, I know what it is like to be in the ring for fifteen minutes. This stipulation suits me just fine. In fact, I couldn't have asked for you to choose a better one. Really, it becomes a win-win; should I overcome, then I bested a highly decorated champion in Dolly Waters in short order, continuing to make my stock rise higher. But should you outlast the fifteen minutes...well, no harm no foul, right? After all, given your actions in the past few weeks, it would not surprise me that you would choose a stipulation that would give you plenty of outs and be able to vamp for time. After all, I'm the one that needs to secure the pin or submission, not you.

But don't you think fifteen minutes is a bit...short?

The size differential really isn't a secret or anything, and a longer match favors a smaller opponent who can afford the time to exhaust an otherwise larger one. But see, fifteen minutes feels short because...well, a ten minute match is pretty normal for me. Hell, I have been in longer matches than that. Fifteen minutes is simply a longer dance with extra steps...and I am more than capable of adjusting to a new tempo.

Gods above, how long had it been since I last had a drink...

...Or drank like this, anyway...

Somehow the pair managed to convince me to go out on the dance floor with them. We kept to the edges where there was more space. While it was appreciated, I couldn't really decide between the flashing lights or the thundering bass which was the greater cause of my nausea. I did the best I could under those conditions; I could keep a beat, after all. That said, I'm not much of a dancer on my best day, and this definitely was not my finest hour. I'd have to back away every other song just so I could stop my head from spinning. William and Evan only had eyes for each other, though; dancing the night away and enjoying each others' company.

Watching the two of them dance was very sweet...or it would have been if I could only focus more.

"I'M GOING TO GET SOME AIR," I tried shouting over the music after tapping William on the shoulder. He turned to me and gave me a nod, his eyes sparkling and his smile intoxicating. He really was having the time of his life; he didn't need me there cramping his style.

Thankfully the patio wasn't far from the dance floor. I went to the bar to ask for a glass of water. Then, taking it and tipping the bartender generously...I hope...I opened the door to the streetside patio. It was cooler outside than usual, so not many people were taking advantage of the extra space. That said, I was feeling quite warm, so being out in the open air felt good against my skin. I took a seat next to one of the tables and took a healthy drink of water. I set the glass aside and tried focusing on different objects to ease my dizziness. The nearby traffic light. A couple walking toward one of the theaters in the area. Two older gentlemen having an evening stroll. I turned to look at the patio door as three people walked outside, lighting up cigarettes and carrying on a casual conversation.

I blinked, trying to shake the weariness from my eyes. If I just sat here and focused on recovering, I could at least try to make it to my car. I pulled out my phone to send William a text:
Hey, not feeling great; resting for a bit then heading home. You two have fun. -Dio

Satisfied, I sent the text and put my phone away. I looked up to see a woman sitting across from me at the table. "Light?"

"Oh no," I replied, waving my hands. "Just too hot inside, I can hold my-"

She laughed. "No, sorry; do you have a light?"

It took me a second to register what she was saying, before I exclaimed, "Oh, sure, here," and fished out my lighter.

Still giggling, she lit up her cigarette, taking a drag before handing me my lighter back. "I'm Elli. And you are?"

I took back the lighter, sliding it into my pocket. "Its...Dio," I replied quietly, giving an awkward smile. I hated telling strangers my name.

She blinked for a second before replying, "What, like Jojo?"

...On the other hand...

See, fifteen minutes feels too short because the truth is, it is too short for someone like you.

It screams of a lack of marquee confidence. What, you want to secure a victory on a timeout? Just like that? Fifteen minutes of Dolly Waters is all you're clamoring for? Why not thirty minutes? If you are in that much control over your destiny then you could still finish the match in fifteen, leaving whatever remains of your fans disappointed that you shorted them by fifteen minutes. To me, it speaks of a lack of confidence in your own value. I get it; being eliminated in the second round of the March Madness tournament is a blow. Turning that loss around into a title win is an accomplishment...but to follow that up with a lackluster defense? After boldly claiming that I need to impress you in that amount of time?

Lets face it; you are placing yourself into a position of importance in this match. It is not you that I am looking to impress. A win or a loss is not going to change your view of me; a presumably flash-in-the-pan carny act that leans heavily into my given name for a gimmick. No, I am looking to impress the fans with an incredible showcase. I am looking to impress those higher up the totem pole, or at least to make them notice. I am looking to impress the decision makers and see the value in their decision to hire me on. Perhaps even those who are scouting for more talent for their own respective brands. I'm not above being selfless in my performances if it means the people who want to-no, need to see me perform get the show they are expecting.

I can also say that I am looking to impress myself, but I can easily impress myself anyhow, so what difference would that make aside from sounding overly vapid? It would make me become more like you. Oh I understand your story: "Woes and lamentations for myself, Dolly Waters; the woman who gave everything and was rewarded with nothing! So now I strike out on my own, sparing none and keeping the spoils for myself!" The temptation of flipping the switch from selfless to selfish will only lead you to celebrate with no one around you. It screams of a lack of understanding why you felt this change was necessary. And I can tell you exactly why you are desperate enough to make this work.

Being selfless never suited you in the first place. Why else would you place the emphasis on your selfishness helping you earn your more recent title opportunities?

You lacked the confidence in yourself to be able to place others in either equal standing to, or even above, yourself. So when the world was crumbling around you, you latched on, in a last-ditch effort of interest, to be able to maintain relevancy in a desperate act of survival. Whereas myself, I am fresh, relevant, and still as selfless as I ever was. The difference between you and I is I understand that each victory I accomplish, each accolade I record, was completed by my hand. I simply choose to not acknowledge myself as a driving factor in my motivations. Why? Because I'm going to be present anyway. But what good is it being in this industry when you choose to only fight for yourself? The Lord of the Vine will carry the flame in one hand and a decanter of wine in the other, and all are welcome to partake in The Revelry.

Since we're keen on gimmicks and appearances, I should also mention that "Lord of the Vine" is one of many monikers I carry. There is also "The Master of Revels." That one may show itself in due time. Additionally, there is "The Crimson Gladiator." All cheesy sounding nicknames, I will grant you that, but consider the context for the last one for a moment. Sports like ours, including boxing, MMA, and the like, all fall into the similar vein of the gladiator battles of yesteryear...though the health benefits are better and there are definitely fewer lion attacks...I would hope, anyway. It is the excitement of combat, the thrill of watching life-or-death scenarios play out in front of your very eyes, that made the coliseum a spectacle in its time, in spite of its very checkered past. These days, professional wrestling isn't really used to punish criminals or turn Christians into lion feed, but the same desire of watching a fight still exists in all of us. Whether it is in the ring, in the octagon, or some random passerby uploading a barfight to Worldstar.

It is that spirit I carry with me; the spirit of sporting combat. When I walk out to that ring for our match, I will buy into the spectacle of it all; high-fiving fans, raising my arms to get a reaction from them, letting the music I have chosen pound into every fiber of my being. And I will even build and maintain that energy upon your arrival...until the bell rings. Then, all eyes will turn to watch.

You.

And me.

In fifteen minutes of pain.

All I could focus on was her...at first.

Elli and I sat at that table for about an hour, just talking about incidental things. Her dark hair hung down to her shoulders, with one side having been buzzed in an undercut. Her eyes were a shimmering emerald green...maybe a bit too green...colored contacts, perhaps, but still nice-looking. She was dressed comfortably for a night out; Chuck Taylors, faded ripped jeans, tucked-in t-shirt and a zip-up hoodie. She had been at the bar with some friends, but they had to leave and she felt like having a smoke before she also left. That's when she saw my drunk and heat-exhausted ass sitting at the table. "So how about you? Here with anyone?"

"Just a friend of mine, and his date," I replied. "I think they both wanted me here to approve of their newfound relationship."

"And where are they now?"

"If I had to guess, either still dancing or cuddled up in a booth. Maybe consummating their union, though its only been...what, an hour?"

"Aww, poor Dio all alone," she teased, laughing cheerfully.

I shook my head. "Nothing quite like that. I'm happy for the two of them; I just don't really know why I am here now."

Elli leaned back in her chair, looking up at the night sky. It was clear, and despite the ambient city light, you could still make out a few stars. She sighed heavily, then said, "Maybe we're here because we want to hide from something. Y'know, just avoid whatever it is we don't want to deal with. My friends invited me out to take my mind off things..."

I recalled my last conversation with Dr. Elbrook. What is it that you are trying so hard to avoid? The words echoed in my mind as I contemplated the knowledge she was dropping. Then the moment faded, and I replied, "Well I was out here because I was too hot on the dance floor...but now I'm here enjoying nice conversation."

Without adjusting her posture, she looked back at me with a smile on her face. "I had fun talking to you too. Now I should really get going," She said as she stood up from her chair. She stretched and turned to face me, asking, "Are you parked nearby?"

"Over in the Mayo Clinic lot," I replied, also standing up. Thankfully, the world had settled down. I was okay enough to drive, at the very least.

"Oh, I'm parked over there too. Care to walk there together?" She didn't even wait for an answer as she tugged on my arm to follow her. I relented, but was happy for the companionship. Even though the lot was only a few blocks away, we talked and joked more on our way over, and really enjoying those moments together.

It was no wonder that she then gave me her phone number.

Maybe this night wasn't a complete bust after all...]]>

"Oh no," I replied, waving my hands. "Just too hot inside, I can hold my-"

She laughed. "No, sorry; do you have a light?"

It took me a second to register what she was saying, before I exclaimed, "Oh, sure, here," and fished out my lighter.

She blinked for a second before replying, "What, like Jojo?"

...On the other hand...

Maybe this night wasn't a complete bust after all...]]> <![CDATA[Toxic Environment]]> https://xwf1999.com/showthread.php?tid=45968 Sat, 25 Mar 2023 20:36:30 -0700 The Blue Tango]]> https://xwf1999.com/showthread.php?tid=45968 https://docs.google.com/document/d/1htSH...p=drivesdk]]> https://docs.google.com/document/d/1htSH...p=drivesdk]]> <![CDATA[Ain't No Sunshine]]> https://xwf1999.com/showthread.php?tid=45967 Sat, 25 Mar 2023 18:47:58 -0700 Centurion]]> https://xwf1999.com/showthread.php?tid=45967

The light of a match breaks the silence and darkness that consumes the room. That match moves around the room, lighting several candles, until the entire room is illuminated.

Inside that room stands Centurion, who shakes the match to snuff out the light before placing it on a metal plate. He walks towards the center of the room to an armor stand, which features the superhero outfit of the Banana Line Blur on full display.

"You know…all she wanted to do was bring some joy and positivity to this industry. That's it. She didn't have some built in vendetta. She wasn't looking at becoming the best in the world. She just wanted to put some smiles on people's faces, and for years, despite being targeted week after week by a bunch of also rans that grew increasingly jealous of her success, she still approached the business with a smile. She was finally done. Wanted to walk away with her head held high, and receive the recognition she earned.

And you bitches ruined that."

Centurion reaches into the inside jacket pocket of his sport coat and pulls out a cigar. He studies it as he continues to speak.

"Now, here's the thing. Ruby is a kind, generous soul. She's a good person. She doesn't hold a grudge…

…That's what I'm for."

Centurion places the cigar in his mouth and walks up to one of the candles. He lights the cigar on the candle before taking a step back and looking at his cigar once more.

"Gina Van Zyl, I'm going to be honest with you…I don't know much about you. At least, not anything more than I can gather from your thirst traps on Twitter. I know you're tough. I know you're South African. And I know you're gay. That's pretty much the extent of my knowledge about you.

Could I have learned more? Probably. But truth be told, I don't care. It doesn't make a damn bit of difference who you are or what your background is. You could be one of those dark, sadistic serial killers that seem to find their way to the XWF every year, or you could fart rainbows and ride unicorns and be responsible for the cure to many diseases. Fact of the matter is, you made a GRAVE error, and you are going to pay for it."

Centurion takes a hit of his cigar, his icy stare not breaking from the camera. He exhales the smoke, and continues to speak in a flat, monotone voice.

"The irony is, Ruby probably would have accepted your excuse. You were in the wrong place at the wrong time, were you? A mistake was made? You didn't mean to hit her with that chair? Ruby would nod and go "yeah, these things happen" and go about her day. Not me. Regardless of whether or not this was an accident, I'm here to make sure you understand the consequences of your actions."

Centurion takes another puff of his cigar before walking to the side of the room. He reaches a window, which he slides open to add extra ventilation into the room. He walks back over to the metal plate and taps his cigar on the side of it, allowing the ashes to hit the plate.

"Now, if you're smart, this will be a one time ass whoopin. Sure, your life is going to suck for about a half hour on Sunday, but you'll move on from it. If you can permanently remove yourself from the jaws of Sidney Grey's truly disgusting mouth, you will be able to take this as nothing more than a learning experience. Just one bad night in a career filled with accomplishments and highlights. This will barely register.

However, if you do continue to be Sidney's go-getter, whether it's of your own doing or not, you will find that the lifespan of a professional wrestler is actually rather small. A lot of promising careers flame out before they get the chance to really get started, and so many "what could have been's" line the hallways of the XWF headquarters due to some really bad decisions made by some folks who were just too stupid to survive this business."

Centurion walks over to the first of the three candles he lit. He takes another puff of his cigar before snuffing out the candle.

"You're obviously not my main target, Gina. Sidney is. The problem is, Sidney is a little busy at the moment, which means you have my undivided attention. That's bad for you. It's also bad for you that this is my first match back in several months, and the last thing I'm going to do is lose to some no name cunt who didn't think her five seconds of fame would come with a bill. I'm Centurion. I'm the winningest professional wrestler in XWF history. I don't lose people like Gina Van Zyl."

Centurion takes another puff of his cigar and exhales as he walks over and snuffs out the second candle.

"I'm about to deliver the worst loss to South Africa since Apartheid, and it's all going to be because of one chairshot on one fateful night in February. Sidney Grey, I want you to watch very carefully. I know you're a bit busy Sunday night, but this will be very important. You can perform whatever mental gymnastics you want about your own shortcomings, but you're going to have a very hard time explaining away the absolute destruction of Gina in the middle of that ring. The only thing you'll be able to say is that Gina was just…in the wrong place at the wrong time. And she was unfortunate enough to meet her…."

Centurion walks over to the third and final candle. He takes one last hit of his cigar before snuffing out the flame.

FINAL FANTASY!]]>

The light of a match breaks the silence and darkness that consumes the room. That match moves around the room, lighting several candles, until the entire room is illuminated.

Inside that room stands Centurion, who shakes the match to snuff out the light before placing it on a metal plate. He walks towards the center of the room to an armor stand, which features the superhero outfit of the Banana Line Blur on full display.

"You know…all she wanted to do was bring some joy and positivity to this industry. That's it. She didn't have some built in vendetta. She wasn't looking at becoming the best in the world. She just wanted to put some smiles on people's faces, and for years, despite being targeted week after week by a bunch of also rans that grew increasingly jealous of her success, she still approached the business with a smile. She was finally done. Wanted to walk away with her head held high, and receive the recognition she earned.

And you bitches ruined that."

Centurion reaches into the inside jacket pocket of his sport coat and pulls out a cigar. He studies it as he continues to speak.

"Now, here's the thing. Ruby is a kind, generous soul. She's a good person. She doesn't hold a grudge…

…That's what I'm for."

Centurion places the cigar in his mouth and walks up to one of the candles. He lights the cigar on the candle before taking a step back and looking at his cigar once more.

"Gina Van Zyl, I'm going to be honest with you…I don't know much about you. At least, not anything more than I can gather from your thirst traps on Twitter. I know you're tough. I know you're South African. And I know you're gay. That's pretty much the extent of my knowledge about you.

Could I have learned more? Probably. But truth be told, I don't care. It doesn't make a damn bit of difference who you are or what your background is. You could be one of those dark, sadistic serial killers that seem to find their way to the XWF every year, or you could fart rainbows and ride unicorns and be responsible for the cure to many diseases. Fact of the matter is, you made a GRAVE error, and you are going to pay for it."

Centurion takes a hit of his cigar, his icy stare not breaking from the camera. He exhales the smoke, and continues to speak in a flat, monotone voice.

"The irony is, Ruby probably would have accepted your excuse. You were in the wrong place at the wrong time, were you? A mistake was made? You didn't mean to hit her with that chair? Ruby would nod and go "yeah, these things happen" and go about her day. Not me. Regardless of whether or not this was an accident, I'm here to make sure you understand the consequences of your actions."

Centurion takes another puff of his cigar before walking to the side of the room. He reaches a window, which he slides open to add extra ventilation into the room. He walks back over to the metal plate and taps his cigar on the side of it, allowing the ashes to hit the plate.

"Now, if you're smart, this will be a one time ass whoopin. Sure, your life is going to suck for about a half hour on Sunday, but you'll move on from it. If you can permanently remove yourself from the jaws of Sidney Grey's truly disgusting mouth, you will be able to take this as nothing more than a learning experience. Just one bad night in a career filled with accomplishments and highlights. This will barely register.

However, if you do continue to be Sidney's go-getter, whether it's of your own doing or not, you will find that the lifespan of a professional wrestler is actually rather small. A lot of promising careers flame out before they get the chance to really get started, and so many "what could have been's" line the hallways of the XWF headquarters due to some really bad decisions made by some folks who were just too stupid to survive this business."

Centurion walks over to the first of the three candles he lit. He takes another puff of his cigar before snuffing out the candle.

"You're obviously not my main target, Gina. Sidney is. The problem is, Sidney is a little busy at the moment, which means you have my undivided attention. That's bad for you. It's also bad for you that this is my first match back in several months, and the last thing I'm going to do is lose to some no name cunt who didn't think her five seconds of fame would come with a bill. I'm Centurion. I'm the winningest professional wrestler in XWF history. I don't lose people like Gina Van Zyl."

Centurion takes another puff of his cigar and exhales as he walks over and snuffs out the second candle.

"I'm about to deliver the worst loss to South Africa since Apartheid, and it's all going to be because of one chairshot on one fateful night in February. Sidney Grey, I want you to watch very carefully. I know you're a bit busy Sunday night, but this will be very important. You can perform whatever mental gymnastics you want about your own shortcomings, but you're going to have a very hard time explaining away the absolute destruction of Gina in the middle of that ring. The only thing you'll be able to say is that Gina was just…in the wrong place at the wrong time. And she was unfortunate enough to meet her…."

Centurion walks over to the third and final candle. He takes one last hit of his cigar before snuffing out the flame.

FINAL FANTASY!]]> <![CDATA[Oh Sidney]]> https://xwf1999.com/showthread.php?tid=45966 Sat, 25 Mar 2023 18:29:17 -0700 HGH]]> https://xwf1999.com/showthread.php?tid=45966
"Sidney."

The whisper gradually gets louder.

"Sidney."

We hear the sound of crickets but there is still no lighting. The whispers continue to get louder.

"Sidney."

We hear leaves crackling and twigs snapping. Still no light.

"Sidney."

The crackling gets louder and louder with every step. The crickets chirping stop as the steps move closer. A light starts to shine and a figure approaches the camera. The figure places the light on a stone as the camera moves closer to the light. When the camera is close enough to the light to reveal a tombstone, and the figure to be HGH kneeling in front of it. The markings are unclear as HGH intentionally blocks the tombstone with his body.

"Hello, Sidney, I told you I'd be seeing you soon. I hope you don't mind my surroundings. The time is upon us, can't you feel it? The winds of change in the air. It's strange, as a mother you had only wished for your offspring to succeed in life. Sacrificing everything you have ever had to see your child's happiness. Living vicariously through them, you felt alive didn't you? Then came the falling out. You then come to Anarchy as some sort of career renaissance, you even managed to take the Anarchy title. Let's face it even in your triumph, you still can't hold on to the physical title. You're but a champion by name. I intend to rectify that for you, I will relieve you of the burden of being the Anarchy champion."

HGH pauses for just a moment.

"Let's be real for a moment Sidney. You're a busy woman come March Madness aren't you? You are in the final four of that tournament, with the potential of making it to the finals. So let's be real Sidney? You could possibly have three matches on one card if you have what it takes. I wonder though? Just how much will you have in the tank when you come face to face with me?"

HGH begins to rise from his kneeling position. As he stands he lifts his head into the air as a small breeze picks up. He takes a deep breath then looks at the camera.

"How the winds have changed. Oh the change, I can feel it in the air, March Madness, my very first Pay Per View match and it's for the one thing I have always wanted. Sidney, you have what I want and no matter what the cost I will walk out of March Madness with the Anarchy title. Since day one I have busted my ass to get to this spot, I've paid my dues, I've fallen more times than I can count. However, that title that you finally have around your waist will not be there after March Madness."

HGH pauses for just a moment.

"Now, I know some of you people out there already have me counted out. There's no way that HGH could beat Sidney Grey, and that's fine, keep thinking that, please keep thinking that."

HGH smirks.

"Now I know some of you must be thinking, why is HGH in a cemetery? You see, to many this place signifies the end, to others a new beginning. Which is very poetic don't you think Sidney? March Madness is where your reign as Anarchy champion dies, and my reign finally begins.

HGH stops for a moment to collect himself.

"For far too long I have waited in the shadows, biding my time, waiting, watching, until the time was finally right to show myself. That time is now Sidney and what you have seen is just a glimpse of what I am capable of. Make no mistake about it, you might very well be the toughest opponent I have encountered, but you have the misfortune of being my final hurdle to get to the top."

HGH looks straight into the camera and cracks a grin.

"That's right Sidney, the final obstacle in my way to becoming Anarchy champion. My path to the title may not have been as glamorous as some would expect. No, no, no, I busted my ass week in and week out. I have faced and conquered many former champions along the way. Oh, but finally, finally I get my shot at the champion.

HGH stops and takes a short breath.

"I mean let's be real Sid. When we square off, I'm going to be nice and fresh for this match. Why? It's simply smarter than you, you don't see me out here trying to participate in multiple matches on the same card. That's just out right dumb. I've said it before, I'll say it again. Just how much are you gonna have in the tank when you face me? On top of that, how far are you REALLY willing to go to hold onto that belt? Are you willing to toss your 'Kingly' dreams to the side?"

HGH angrily looks into the camera.

"You better look down real deep Sidney. Say your prayers, twiddle your thumbs on your Twitter device, do whatever it is you need to do to find that little spark of hope.Sidney, you've had your run. It was fun while it lasted, but come Sunday it will all come crashing down, I will become the Anarchy champion. .

"When the lamb opened the fourth seal, I heard the voice of the fourth living creature say, ‘Come!’ As I looked, there was a pale horse, and its rider’s name was Death. Hades followed along behind him. They were given authority over a quarter of the earth, to kill with the sword, and with famine, and with death, and by means of earth’s wild animals. Revelations 6:7-8."

HGH looks at the camera with a grin on his face.

"You're time as Anarchy champion is coming to its end Sidney. So cherish these last few moments you have with MY belt. Come Sunday, it comes home to me."

"Show me what's beyond my eyes"]]>
"Sidney."

The whisper gradually gets louder.

"Sidney."

We hear the sound of crickets but there is still no lighting. The whispers continue to get louder.

"Sidney."

We hear leaves crackling and twigs snapping. Still no light.

"Sidney."

The crackling gets louder and louder with every step. The crickets chirping stop as the steps move closer. A light starts to shine and a figure approaches the camera. The figure places the light on a stone as the camera moves closer to the light. When the camera is close enough to the light to reveal a tombstone, and the figure to be HGH kneeling in front of it. The markings are unclear as HGH intentionally blocks the tombstone with his body.

"Hello, Sidney, I told you I'd be seeing you soon. I hope you don't mind my surroundings. The time is upon us, can't you feel it? The winds of change in the air. It's strange, as a mother you had only wished for your offspring to succeed in life. Sacrificing everything you have ever had to see your child's happiness. Living vicariously through them, you felt alive didn't you? Then came the falling out. You then come to Anarchy as some sort of career renaissance, you even managed to take the Anarchy title. Let's face it even in your triumph, you still can't hold on to the physical title. You're but a champion by name. I intend to rectify that for you, I will relieve you of the burden of being the Anarchy champion."

HGH pauses for just a moment.

"Let's be real for a moment Sidney. You're a busy woman come March Madness aren't you? You are in the final four of that tournament, with the potential of making it to the finals. So let's be real Sidney? You could possibly have three matches on one card if you have what it takes. I wonder though? Just how much will you have in the tank when you come face to face with me?"

HGH begins to rise from his kneeling position. As he stands he lifts his head into the air as a small breeze picks up. He takes a deep breath then looks at the camera.

"How the winds have changed. Oh the change, I can feel it in the air, March Madness, my very first Pay Per View match and it's for the one thing I have always wanted. Sidney, you have what I want and no matter what the cost I will walk out of March Madness with the Anarchy title. Since day one I have busted my ass to get to this spot, I've paid my dues, I've fallen more times than I can count. However, that title that you finally have around your waist will not be there after March Madness."

HGH pauses for just a moment.

"Now, I know some of you people out there already have me counted out. There's no way that HGH could beat Sidney Grey, and that's fine, keep thinking that, please keep thinking that."

HGH smirks.

"Now I know some of you must be thinking, why is HGH in a cemetery? You see, to many this place signifies the end, to others a new beginning. Which is very poetic don't you think Sidney? March Madness is where your reign as Anarchy champion dies, and my reign finally begins.

HGH stops for a moment to collect himself.

"For far too long I have waited in the shadows, biding my time, waiting, watching, until the time was finally right to show myself. That time is now Sidney and what you have seen is just a glimpse of what I am capable of. Make no mistake about it, you might very well be the toughest opponent I have encountered, but you have the misfortune of being my final hurdle to get to the top."

HGH looks straight into the camera and cracks a grin.

"That's right Sidney, the final obstacle in my way to becoming Anarchy champion. My path to the title may not have been as glamorous as some would expect. No, no, no, I busted my ass week in and week out. I have faced and conquered many former champions along the way. Oh, but finally, finally I get my shot at the champion.

HGH stops and takes a short breath.

"I mean let's be real Sid. When we square off, I'm going to be nice and fresh for this match. Why? It's simply smarter than you, you don't see me out here trying to participate in multiple matches on the same card. That's just out right dumb. I've said it before, I'll say it again. Just how much are you gonna have in the tank when you face me? On top of that, how far are you REALLY willing to go to hold onto that belt? Are you willing to toss your 'Kingly' dreams to the side?"

HGH angrily looks into the camera.

"You better look down real deep Sidney. Say your prayers, twiddle your thumbs on your Twitter device, do whatever it is you need to do to find that little spark of hope.Sidney, you've had your run. It was fun while it lasted, but come Sunday it will all come crashing down, I will become the Anarchy champion. .

"When the lamb opened the fourth seal, I heard the voice of the fourth living creature say, ‘Come!’ As I looked, there was a pale horse, and its rider’s name was Death. Hades followed along behind him. They were given authority over a quarter of the earth, to kill with the sword, and with famine, and with death, and by means of earth’s wild animals. Revelations 6:7-8."

HGH looks at the camera with a grin on his face.

"You're time as Anarchy champion is coming to its end Sidney. So cherish these last few moments you have with MY belt. Come Sunday, it comes home to me."

"Show me what's beyond my eyes"]]> <![CDATA[Act 5: Deal with the... Devil?]]> https://xwf1999.com/showthread.php?tid=45964 Sat, 25 Mar 2023 18:02:04 -0700 Mark Flynn]]> https://xwf1999.com/showthread.php?tid=45964

Flynn’s Storage Unit

Chalk pentagrams scrawled along-the-walls…

Flynn has a salt bag, circling trails ‘round himself.

Irwin’s… concerned.

“See… When you said…” Finger-quotes. “‘Deal-with-the-Devil’... I hoped it was metaphorical. Like the Optimal Path is a metaphor for the Hero’s Journey.”

“Ridiculous. Next thing you’ll say is ‘A Clown Woman bit my dick off’ is metaphorical for my incapacity to meaningfully connect with anyone around me…”

“...What?”

“POINT BEING: This is real.” Flynn references instructions on how to contract with the devil. (Printed because he’s 44 and Flynn still prints out MapQuest directions.)

“...Isn’t summoning the devil… Magic.”

…

The Magic-Hater sucks air, as he straightens the salt circle’s curve with his foot.

“Noooooooo. It’s… ‘contract negotiation’.”

“...Contracting with an ancient, evil being?”

“Sure.” Flynn retorts. “Like negotiating with your landlord for discounted rent.”

“...If your landlord was THE DEVIL.”

“If you think landlords aren’t the devil, you’ve never rented an apartment in Battle Creek…” Flynn winks, lifting the instructions to his eyes.

“Salt circle?”

“Check.”

“Satanic artifacts?”

Irwin places into the circle… One D&D Monster Manual… Iron Maiden’s ‘Powerslave’ on vinyl… And a ‘Science Rulez!’ poster, featuring a girl holding a beaker… To her ear, for some reason.

“Check.”

“Fantastic.” Flynn checks the penultimate box…

“Last step… The Devil’s vessel must enter the pentagram’s center.” Flynn taps the chalk on the ground. “Here.”

“Okay! So… Where’s the vess-”

FWIP! With a well-placed foot, Flynn trips Irwin into the pentagram’s center.

Irwin looks up.

“...Wh-wh-what?”

Flynn’s already holding a match to a candle.

“Sorry, Irwin. The vessel must trust the contracting party… So that they might be betrayed for the summoning.”

“...B-b-but?!? I was your ONE REAL FAN.”

“Yep. And I’m winning this match. For you.”

…

“Okay, mostly me.” Flynn strikes the match.

FWOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOM!

BLINDING LIGHT!

Irwin’s bones… shift! Flynn’s Lead Simp howls in pain as his body metamorphisizes… Hosting the Lord of All Evil!

“WHO DARES SUMMON ME? WHAT FEEBLE MORTAL BECKONS ME TO THIS MORTAL PLANE?!?”

…White darkness yanks Flynn toward it. A vortex of PURE EVIL…

…

“Comrade Lucifer!”

“Uh… Yessir?” The previously-booming voice mews.

“Recall, we’ve changed policy on greeting customers. Begin anew!”

…

“*cough*...Hello. Thanks for calling Hell. I’m Lucifer. How may I help you today?”

“Ah-ah! The wording must be EXACT! ‘How may I be of SERVICE’, Comrade Lucifer. We’re not *helping* the customer. We’re SERVING the customer.”

“Oh… I guess, I…don’t get the difference?”

“Exactly why you are entry-level and I am MANAGEMENT. Here, witness me.”

MOOOOOOOOOWHF! The light fizzles.

…

Standing before Flynn.

In military fatigues.

That nefarous ne’er-do-well. That revolting rogue! That scumbug, slimy, slippery, swindling sunovabitch…

North Korean War Criminal.

“Annyeonghaseyo!” NK bows.

“NK?!?” Flynn’s aghast!

…NK’s tilts upward… Smiling!

“Ah! Mark Flynn!” He strides forward confidently. “I never expected YOU to contact Hell.”

NK grins, like the cat nibbling on the canary... “How have you beeeeeeeen? Betrayed any allies lately?”

“...SHUDDUP.” …Flynn blushes awkwardly. “...Yes. About forty seconds ago.”

NK chuckles, shaking his head. “My-oh-my… You have the Universal Title… Yet, you’re still the same snake-in-the-grass.”

“...NK, why the HELL (pardon-the-pun) are you here? I summoned the DEVIL!!!”

NK’s head tilts, perplexed. Then, recognition! “Oh, Comrade Lucifer?” NK smiles fondly. “A bright one. *Some* potential. However, I took over his business, when I captured his nation, annexing it for True Korea!”

“...Wait… Hell? You DIED and Annexed HELL?!?”

NK scoffs.

“Pish-posh, Mark Flynn. You know I believe in no afterlife. I never DIED. Some time, after you hurled me into that electrical box, I woke up face-to-face with a tall red being. Then, I took his territory.”

“...He’s just… Okay with that?”

“He had little recourse after I bested him in a fiddle contest.”

“...You BEAT the DEVIL?!?”

“With his kingdom’s governance as the wager.” NK nods smugly. “As easy as defeating Bobby Bourbon.”

…Eureka!

“THAT’S RIGHT! NK, you’ve beaten Bobb-o four or five times!”

“Seven times.” NK corrects. “Two WarGames, two Heavymetalweight defenses, three tag matches.”\

“OKAY!” Flynn points seriously. “You! (Doing-business-as-the-)DEVIL. Want my soul? GIVE ME the SECRET to BEATING BOURBON!!!”

…

“And… why would I want *your* soul?”

…

“Uh.” Flynn squints at NK, perplexed. “…Isn’t that how this goes? For what I want, I offer my soul?”

NK giggles. “Mark Flynn. I am all-too-familiar with your soul’s quality. And, on Hell’s behalf, I must say…. ‘Haaaaaaard Pass.’”

“...Hurtful.” Flynn grimaces.

“Tell me. Is this your first match versus Bobby Bourbon?”

“...Second.”

“Ahhhhhh. I assume, if you’re contacting ‘external help’… It did not go as planned?”

Flynn sneers. “Obviously.”

“May I ask your… gameplan?”

Flynn exhales. “What works 99% of the time, NK! I deep-dove intp his win-loss record! I UNCOVERED his MEDIOCRITY! I ITEMIZED the SHIT-TIER competition Bourbon’s LOST TO an-”

“HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!” NK doubles over, howling. Slapping his knees, trying to stop himself from DYING laughing.

…Flynn’s unamused.

“Phew…Mark Flynn.” NK tsk-tsks. “For one who dissects his enemy, you comprehend NOTHING about your opponent!”

“Bobby Bourbon is neither James Raven or Robert Main… The type who parade accumulated successes like vainglorious conquerors!”

“He’s not?!? Then… What is he?!?”

“A CLOWN! A FOOL! An obese American child in a backyard, wearing a blanket around his neck and his mother’s brassiere over his eyes, pretending he’s a superhero!”

“A BUFFOON, Mark Flynn. And you must TREAT him like one.”

“...How so?”

“Call.”

“Him.”

“Fat.”

…Flynn’s whole body contorts in disgust.

“Isn’t that… low-hanging fruit?”

“Bourbon’s favorite kind. Because it’s the kind he can eat laying down.”

Flynn scoffs. “That’s… sleazy.”

“As sleazy as Bourbon feels when he cheats on his local Arby’s with another one two towns over.” NK guffaws.

Flynn still transparently feels dirty. “Shouldn’t I be… engaging Bobby on his points?”

…NK nods. But the nod you’d give a slow child asking if Santa’s real.

“Of coooooooourse. Engage Bourbon on aaaaaaaall his points… And what were his points?”

…Flynn clears his throat. “It’s boring to bring up his terrible record. It’s boring to bring up his title match losses. And it’s boring to point out that he’s a hypocrite.”

“...Wow. Intellectually rigorous. I can see why you’d engage this VERBAL SWASHBUCKLER IN MENTAL WAR.”

NK clutches Flynn by the skull.

“CALL.”

“HIM.”

“FAT.”

“…How’s that better?”

NK grins. “Bourbon lives in an imaginary world. One where he’s a creative genius for ripping off pre-existing movie plots. One where he NEEDS to save a company already generating record profits.”

“RECORD PROFITS™, BAY-BEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE.”

…

“Sorry. Force of Habit.”

“No matter how many reality-based points you argue, Bourbon will refute them by hiding in his fantasy world where he’s always right.”

“But, call him fat…” NK grins insidiously. “He LINE-POLICES! Complaining about how lame fat jokes are!” NK oozes with strength!

“SUDDENLY, HE’S IN THE REAL WORLD! THE POWER IS YOOOOOOOURS!”

“...So?” Flynn purrs. “I should say Bourbsy got into wrestling for the catering… and stayed because leaving would require standing-up?”

NK smiles. “Miiiiiild. EXERT YOURSELF!”

“...Like Bobby Bourbon sweating… when he thinks about stairs!”

“HAHA! Continue! Give Bourbon his just desserts!”

Flynn nods, tapping into a new… but somehow ancient dark power: Punching Down.

“Speaking of desserts, Bourbsy hasn’t touched a vegetable since the fourth grade. Which was also the last time Bourbsy saw his penis without a mirror and a pair of surgical tweezers.”

Blinding lights filles the room as Flynn digs deeper-and-deeper.

“Bobby Bourbon’s the only man on the planet whose BMI is higher than IQ, who eats more meals than he says words, and whose penile-length-in-inches is less than his Diabetes Type: TWOOOOOOOOOO!”

FHWOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOM!

…The storage unit… Empty.

Save for Flynn.

And where NK was? A receipt.

[Image: 666-Mark-Flynn-1-1.png]

OOC: 1263

Total Word Count: 9,996]]>

Flynn’s Storage Unit

OOC: 1263

Total Word Count: 9,996]]> <![CDATA[Grand Theft Arlington]]> https://xwf1999.com/showthread.php?tid=45961 Sat, 25 Mar 2023 15:12:57 -0700 Prof. Bobby Bourbon]]> https://xwf1999.com/showthread.php?tid=45961

Jerry Jones, owner of the Dallas Cowboys, is seen seated in a leather chair, snoozing in a custom Dallas Cowboys uniform, complete with pads. He slowly wakes, stirring, and looking around him at those also in the room. Bouncy Brickhouse, friend to Bobby, waves at him.

Good morning, sleepy!

Jerry continues scanning the room, confusion creeping across his face, as it would anyone who wakes up abruptly somewhere strange in front of strangers. His eyes land on Thunder Knuckles. TK gives Jerry Jones double middle fingers.

Fuck you.

Jerry keeps looking and sees Harmon Egan, and with shock sees Harmon is just kind of observing him peculiarly. He watches Harmon’s hand flourish in sign language, then looks at Bobby Bourbon when he replies.

Yeah, he’s coming out of it. Hi Jerry, welcome back.

Jerry tries to gain his bearings, looking to respond, until Fred “Michelin Man” Gorson chimes in.

I feel alright.

Attaboy, Fred. You’re a trooper, and I’m glad we got you into ship shape to shake up the Mini-Golf world. You’re going to kick ten kinds of ass now. Also, you helped with Jerry here.

Bobby, what are you talking about? Wait, are you trying to hoodwink me? Hah, you can’t shit a shitter, Bobby!

Bobby sighs. TK and Bouncy both chuckle. Harmon rolls his eyes, grinning.

You got me, Jerry, dead to rights. I can’t shit a shitter, and you can’t hustle a hustler. However, you’re no supervillain, chum, you’re just fringe and want to play in the club. It looks like you might well be on your way, since you’re so sure I can’t get the better of you.

You’re damn right!

Well, fuck. I guess I better tell you what my plan was.

Jerry sits up, smiling.

Far out, yeah, teach me more about being a supervillain!

Bobby perks right up, silly smile on his face.

Well, I’ll tell you what my plan was. First off, I needed a schmo. Not just any schmo, but a pro schmo, you know?

Yo.

Enter Freddy Gorson, our Michelin Man, smooth rider through and through, Jerry. After that it was using my press cred to come into the stadium and dick around for a bit, while Fred taught me some sick ass Mini-Golf techniques to employ, essentially turning my shots into the embodiment of the 1980’s, yeah, bow down to that shit! So, I set up that lunch with you, Jerry, along with Dweezil Zappa and Peter Dinklage to talk supervillain shop, and you bought into it, hook, line, and sinker when I insulted the fish! You were so upset, and Jerry, that sushi was mediocre, at best, we were in fucking Dallas, what do you expect? You got baited, Jerry, so much so that when I started working with Fred down here you had to come and cause a stir. At that lunch, I made damn sure to talk up Bouncy nonstop as a top notch baroness of crime and meyhem that you couldn’t help but be interested, and of course you called her up. That’s when she came and made sure you got laughing gas, because nerve gas was way too dangerous to give to you as she pointed out. It would have been kind of funny, but, nah, there’s no point in killing you, Jerry, that’s not good for the plan at all. See, once you and Fred were found in those compromising photos, namely you dressed in a football uniform spooning Fred’s adorable ham shaped frame on the floor of your own stadium, you’d comply completely with whatever I wanted, and what I want, Jerry, is at the heart of the matter.

You monologue too much.

Whatever, I’m awesome. Anyway, that brings us to the heart of the matter. I want two things, Jerry, two really simple things. One, I want my fucking Universal Title. I will get my Universal Title, Jerry. Two, I want all of AT&T stadium, one night only, for BOB-a-palooza, and you’re going to fund it.

Jerry slowly laughs.

Yeah, well, you should have kept your dumb mouth shut, Bobby, because that plan will never work! I’ll never do that!

Bobby cocks an eyebrow.

Oh?

From outside, we hear the muffled but distinct sounds of the stadium PA system saying something.

You did it a half hour ago, Jerry.

Bobby folds his arms across his chest. Thunder Knuckles, Bouncy Brickhouse, and Harmon fold their arms across their chest. TK clears his throat, giving Michelin Man his cue, who folds his arms across his chest. As they do, RoboBob, the robot from Rocky IV with a picture of Bobby haphazardly stapled to where a human face would be approximately, rolls in.

Happy birthday Paulie.

Bobby pulls out a picture of Jerry Jones and staples it to RoboBob over his own face.

You just authorized all of it.

Jerry, realizing that he’s been had, his identity stolen by the robot from Rocky IV in order to complete Bobby’s master stroke of having some kind of event in the stadium, faints. Everybody looks completely shocked.

Oh shit, we killed him!

Check his fuckin’ pulse!

Bobby scrambles over and checks Jerry’s pulse.

Okay, he’s breathing, he’s just probably in a bit of shock, let’s give him some air.

Bouncy stands up and pulls out her phone. She plays around on the screen for a bit, and Jerry Jones’s limp, unconscious body stands as the football uniform he’s wearing sort of floats him in air.

What? His ‘uniform’ is real tech, I mean, he did pay for it, and it’s easier than carrying him.

Jerry Jones’s head lays limp to one side as he slowly pivots, drifting off into the corner ever so slowly. Bobby looks at Bouncy smugly.

Too busy wrestling to do any awesome heists. Psht. I just stole an entire arena.

For the night.

Yeah, semantics.

Bobby and Bouncy smile at one another. TK clears his throat.

Uh, Bobby…

Yeah, I gotta go, I gotta steal the Alamo.

Remember the Alamo.

I only fucking rent from Hurtz.

Bouncy chuckles.

Later, handsome.

Bye…

Bobby placidly watches, his face like that of Alfred E. Newman on so many magazine covers, as Bouncy walks away. Harmon touches his shoulder, shaking him out of it. Harmon signs something to Bobby.

Yeah, what he fuckin’ said!

You understand him now?

No, but you do!

Harmon nods. Bobby swiftly nods as well.

Right, let’s show these guys the Brotherhood.

Bobby nods, committed to the idea. Harmon smiles. TK gives a thumbs up. Jerry Jones bumps into the wall and bounces off, like a DVD player screensaver.

Damn, he could get hurt that way.

I didn’t sell him that suit, if he wants to abuse super science he should have known the risks.

Yeah, and fuck the goddamn Cowboys.

Harmon nods in agreement. Bobby, TK, Harmon, and Fred Gorson all leave the room, and Jerry Jones continues to drift around lazily, suspended in midair by some antigravitational football uniform, look, it’s very detailed and technical. He’s essentially the living birthday balloon at this point. Once in the hallway, Fred speaks up.

Guys, wait.

Everybody stops.

Look, I really appreciate what you guys have done for me, but out there, it’s your time, but back here, it’s our time, do you know what I’m trying to say?

Harmon nods, understanding Fred’s subtle subtextual method of communication. Bobby and TK look absolutely baffled.

You want to get matching watches?

That’s a badass fucking idea, Bobby.

Yeah it is.

Harmon shakes his head ‘no’ briskly. As he does, Charlie Nickles and Crash Rodriguez walk into view, the full Brotherhood, each Bastard on set.

Who’s the fat kid?

I’m a fucking Michelin Man.

Yeah you are!

Bobby smirks.

Michelin Man, you show some goddamn respect to Charlie and Crash, they’re old school Brotherhood, but you?

That’s the thing I’m trying to say. I’m not a Bastard, that’s the thing. I grow my own potatoes and run a potato salad kitchen for the homeless for crying out loud.

Huh.

That’s, uh, beautiful but also very unusual, aren’t you sure you couldn’t get a better yield of food by making soup or something more plentiful?

I do what I want with my potatoes, Bobby, and with my winnings in Mini-Golf I have expanded operations.

Bobby looks around the room. Harmon’s brow is furrowed. Charlie seems to grasp everything Fred has said with some depth. Crash nods.

That’s real, man.

Yeah, respect.

TK looks at Charlie and Crash like they have third nipples on their foreheads.

What do you mean? He’s spending all his fucking Xbux on potatoes for other losers! That is no good!

Bro, I mean, he does what he wants, right?

I fucking guess.

He doesn’t care what we fucking think, right?

Yeah.

He’s been a badass, and seriously, the face paint is kick ass.

It is kind of badass.

Harmon signs something to TK. TK stares blankly back at Harmon.

I don’t know what the fuck that even means, but you’re probably right. Alright, fuck it. We’re Bastards, through and through, but our Brotherhood is something more now.

Right.

Bobby sticks his hand out.

Everybody in.

TK puts a hand in. Crash puts a hand in. Harmon puts a hand in. Charlie puts a hand in. Fred looks on.

Nah, Fred, you’re in this.

Fred stick his hand in.

We’re the fucking Brotherhood of Bros.

All six men look at each other in unison and agreement at this landmark statement. Jerry Jones slowly drifts past them in the background, fully awake.

Hello? Help me!

All six men turn and watch as Jerry Jones drifts down the hall away from them.

Seriously, I can’t move, and I’ve gone to the bathroom in my pants three times so far.

The Brotherhood of Bros all stand and watch, their eyes locked on Jerry Jones lazily floating down a hall and around a corner.

Heelp!

BOB all turn and look at each other.

Okay, so, now we do a cheer, or a thing.
Why?

That’s what teams do.

Right. Um, we didn’t expect this. On three, Bro Bro. One, two, three…

All the men who can echo it out loud.

BRO BRO!

They all continue down the hall, and stop at a curtain. Fred interrupts again.

No, seriously, guys, I’m not, um…

Okay, we get it Fred.

Thanks, I really just want to wash my face.

Bobby swipes a patch of paint off Fred’s face. He sticks it out, and Charlie licks it clean. Charlie smiles.

Vanilla!

Fred swipes the paint off his face, and is shocked to find it wasn’t spiked with pepper at all, but was really cake frosting the entire time. Harmon smirks.

Hey, he told me…

He didn’t tell you a damn thing, and if TK was interpreting his sign language I’m pretty sure they were both winging it. Anyways, why would we put harmful toxic paint on your face, that’s just crazy and irresponsible.

But you gave Jerry Jones a floating suit and knockout gas.

I didn’t, my friend sure did, and he bought those, they weren’t gifts.

Fred smiles and laughs.

I’m going to go become the Crazy Golf World Champion!

Do it!

BOB all wave goodbye to Fred “Michelin Man” Gorson. They then turn and walk through a curtain. The stage they step onto is blindly bright, and the roar of the completely packed stadium is massive as they have all come for this BOB rally before March Madness V. The BOB logo is on banners across the stadium and the fans all go absolutely wild. BOB-a-palooza is underway in Arlington, Texas, the boys all in front of their audience. They each produce their signature golf putters, Charlie’s glowing green with the power of poison, I guess, and Crash crackles with lightning. They all place golf balls down on the stage, and in unison, putt their balls towards the audience! The fans go absolutely wild, and start chanting!

*BOB!*BOB!*BOB!*BOB!*BOB!*BOB!*

Bobby produces his microphone. The crowd roars. The rest of the Bastards all take seats. They’re not competing at March Madness, after all, they’re just watching Bobby go ham, and be a ham, as he does. This may have been the day BOB, the Brotherhood of Bros, stole an entire stadium, but in a few days, Bobby’d be going solo in stealing the show.

Y’all are early, March Madness is this weekend!

Bobby is beaming, ear to ear, at the crowd in front of him. The crowd cheers.

WHAT’S UP ARLINGTON!

Bobby, who bellows out to the crowd, stirs them up, maybe even sparking a bit of hope in them.

So, I guess the cool fans who got free tickets today for subscribing to BastardNET, and thank you, for your valued time as our customers has been wonderful. We are, however, making a change to our service! That’s right, we are moving to a cycle, where every week, we rotate out certain programming, replacing it with others! Now, we feel this will confuse some of you, but that’s because, well, our streaming service is now completely free! That’s right, there is no cost to you, the consumer, to watch our streaming services at all, and if you get tired of the cycle, feel free to upgrade to our higher subscription tiers! Since we’re making this exciting change, we feel it’s important to announce that we will no longer be calling our streaming service BastardNET, but instead, The Brotherhood of Bros Weekly Telecasting Free!

The fans go wild about the announcement that their subscriptions to what used to be called BastardNET is now to be called BOBWTF. TK stands up, shaking his head.

Nope, no, no. It’s still BastardNET.

Okay, it’s still BastardNET, but okay.

Hell, now I know, Bobby, what about if my internet goes out, how do I watch more? Well, that’s the best part, we’re also accessible via regular TV antenna, globally!

Bobby is really pleased about whatever malarkey had to happen to make that even possible to transmit to everywhere at once using that kind of frequency.

That’s right, my friend, we have pioneered some real shit there. Expensive? Sure, but, that’s what all the grants are for! I called my congressperson, people, and I told them I had a way to reinvigorate mass communication, and they were like “Bobby, we’re going to ban Tiktok, it’s the only way” and I was like “I don’t even know what you’re talking about, but check this out, we have a way to use the old frequencies the FCC allotted to certain services which simply don’t get used anymore; the air’s gone quiet save for shorthand WiFi! Well, we went ahead, and, well, it’s all very technical, plus there’s no reason for me to reveal our trade secrets, even to you, our most diehard of fans. Wouldn’t you know it, in seconds, congress unanimously ratified my bill into law, and bam, we broadcast to every TV connected to RF waves, because BOB is now in charge of the very air you breathe; specifically how much noise it gets. We’re not suffocating anybody, heh.

The crowd at AT&T Stadium is going wild. It’s not just BOB superfans, but also a tech expo because a lot of non-wrestling fans are here, this is actually a pretty big deal for the FCC to give rights for use of airwaves to a wrestling stable, moreover that someone came up with a centralized method of broadcasting those frequencies across international borders without restriction.

So, what does this mean for you? BastardNET is no longer just the finest in world class entertainment and infotainment, along with special insights to BOB promos, but it’s also the first worldwide free internet service that you just need two metal sticks to connect to.

Charlie walks forward, holding a phone.

Take my pal, Charlie, here, who happens to have this old phone!

I found it at a bus station!

Well, Charlie here is going to connect the rabbit ears to the charger port.

Bobby hands Charlie a special device that connects to the iPhone, which is locked. The screen fizzles for a second, and we see the BOB logo on the screen of the phone, all of this is also being shown on the LED displays in AT&T Stadium.

As you see, not only did our own proprietary device override all functions of the iPhone, but now it is fully connected to the internet as well as your local television stations.

The screen changes, and we see commercials for broadcasts of the Andy Griffith Show, followed by Gunsmoke. Shows from the past that are dirt cheap to get the rights to broadcast. Screen filler, at best.

How do I call my kids now, Bobby?

I, uh, it doesn’t anymore, that thing is bricked, bro, it’s just a portable TV now.

What?

I’m kidding.

Bobby boops the screen, and the normal iPhone menu is back.

Go ahead, give it a shot!

Charlie holds up the phone and fiddles around with it, his focus on the screen. He smiles.

I can download porn via antenna now!

The crowd goes absolutely wild by the announcement that masturbation has gotten easier than ever. Charlie grins.

It’ll be finished in three hours!

Yeah, that’s true, the connection is pretty slow, but, hey, free internet is better than none. Now, I get you might be asking, “But Bobby, what about those places in the world that already have free WiFi?” Well, to that, I simply say, our internet is cooler, gets you access to classic, if not historic television programming from where you live, and while much slower, is just as free, and since it’s slower, it just means the hackers have a harder time!

Jerry Jones floats out onto the stage by some happenstance.

Hey! Hey! Help me down!

The crowd cheers at the sight of Jerry Jones floating in a football uniform, completely unaware to the fact that Bobby conned him into letting him use the stadium. They just watch on, thinking it’s all a part of the show.

Jerry Jones, everybody! I’m happy to let you know that he has agreed to make BastardNET the official free WiFi of AT&T Stadium!

No I haven’t, it’s still AT&T!

Crash and Charlie push Jerry back where he came, gently, like one would play with a beach ball in a swimming pool. Jerry drifts back down the hall.

Ah, shit, get me down!

Jerry spins as he floats haplessly again down a hall and out of sight. Bobby turns and addresses the crowd amassed in front of him, when suddenly, in a dazzling poof of glittering smoke, Mark Summers, host of Double Dare appears in front of Bobby. The crowd goes crazy for the effect!

Woah, Mark Summers, host of Double Dare and What Would You Do!

That’s right Bobby, but you also forgot, I’m also the God of Miniature Golf. You see, I invented Double Dare while eating a heaping pile of ice cream at a mini-golf course after playing thirty-six holes on a highball of acid and cocaine, and as the years have passed and I no longer eat ice cream or do drugs, mini-golf has stuck with me, and I feel since you wanted something immature like a Hey Dude or some other Nickelodeon themed match since Mark was constantly doing that and you thought it was cool, but didn’t want to be obvious, it’s why you went with mini-golf! Anyway, I thought it was novel, until I found out that Fred Gorson was teaching you secret mini-golf techniques that nobody besides the true masters of mini-golf are supposed to know! As such, I have absorbed Fred’s soul and now will absorb yours if you can not defeat me in miniature golf!

Bobby looks determined. Fred was a guy he knew for the better part of an afternoon, but wasn’t that bad, and he did help Bobby swindle Jerry Jones in a very convoluted scheme. Besides, he was just discovering that yes, he indeed did have a soul, albeit a pretty twisted one, and keeping ahold of it and not letting into the hands of a game show host seemed like the ultimate game, after all.

You’re on, Summers!

The stage rolls back, and beneath it we see a massive miniature golf course already set up. Mark Summers sets up, and with an incredible shot is within two whole inches of the hole! Bobby looks down the putting surface, checks his angles, and makes his shot, also getting into similar position! Both men tie the hole! We flash cut to see the rest of the Brotherhood of Bros rooting on Bobby. We see the soulless zombie body of Fred “Michelin Man” Gorson stumble out and menace some people. Mark Summers doesn’t look like he’s messing around, and makes a shot somewhere on the course as time has passed! The second hole ends similarly, both men tied! The third, another tie! The action intensely paces along, with windmills, tunnels, bends, forks, hills, declines, and even loops that both men must navigate along the way, the treachery of the course belied by how incredibly lacking in danger miniature golf actually is in the grand scheme of things.

The tenth hole looked tight as Bobby missed a sure putt, but Mark also missed, and both men continued to be deadlocked going into the eleventh hole! Mark Summers wipes sweat from his brow. Bobby downs a Gatorade. The fifteenth hole, and Summers gets it right through the windmill. Bobby follows suit! The seventeenth hole, it’s a ramp! If you don’t make the jump, your ball rolls back to the start! Mark gets his mojo rolling, and channels his magic mini-golf secret technique! Everything goes late 1980’s, early 1990’s, and the Double Dare physical challenge music starts playing! People in red jumpsuits and blue jumpsuits show up doing radical air guitar! It’s really, really cool looking, and Summers strikes the ball, sending it smoothly over the ramp and onto the pad encircling the hole. Bobby nods, knowing what he has to do. He settles in to take his shot, but can’t summon his magic mini-golf secret technique! He just does a regular shot, and it still goes pretty good, leaping the ramp, and actually hitting the cup! It clacks at it, but bounces out! Bobby looks devastated! Both he and Summers go into the 18th hole, still completely tied!

Mark knows what’s at stake here, and it’s not just the ice cream, cocaine, hookers, and debauchery with fingerpaints after, no. This is gatekeeping at it’s finest! No less, against a guy when he’s down, tired, beaten, and underprepared, and calling yourself the best in the face of a guy trying to find himself echos within! Summers takes his shot, and it careens towards the final hole, along a narrow bridge with no rails, and if your ball falls off, it lands in water! The ball glides along the trajectory the master himself put on it, sending a message to everyone watching around the world that he was the best. Bobby watches, and looks at his neon orange ball in his hands before looking back up at Mark Summers’s custom leopard print ball. Bobby places his ball, and in short order, Thunder Knuckles walks up.

Yo, this is where you talk about Flynn being a shit competitor!

Charlie approaches.

Yeah, bro, get in there, bury that guy!

Bobby shakes his head.

Look, I got this shit, y’all were diddly farting around in OCW keeping me from this, let me go do my thing now.

Bobby summons his awesome magic mini-golf secret technique. Dark synth music fills the air as everything goes neon. His ball almost spins backwards moving forwards, defying time and space and logic as it does but it looks really, really cool. It hits Mark Summers’s ball hard, shattering it, and then sinks, a hole in one and a victory. Mark Summers screams the screams of an entire eon in a moment. He dissipates into another puff of shiny smoke. The crowd goes absolutely ballistic as Bobby raises his putter, giving a good old bloodlust roar. TK, Charlie, Raion, and Crash all back Bobby up and from behind them, Tom Morello steps out wearing a BOB shirt. Tom plays his rendition of Voodoo Child by Jimi Hendrix, and the rest of the Brotherhood of Bros leave the stage, probably to go get lunch or take care of their own shit. It was very sweet of them to show up and be in a Bourbon promo and all, since it's a singles match and they didn't even say much but made a cameo. What a class act bunch of stand-up guys. Morello wraps up his song, and exchanges a fistbump with Bobby. Bobby pulls his microphone out, then turns and cuts a nasty promo on Mark Flynn, which since Flynn hasn’t documented a nasty promo in several months, would be overkill if described with any detail whatsoever.]]>

Jerry Jones, owner of the Dallas Cowboys, is seen seated in a leather chair, snoozing in a custom Dallas Cowboys uniform, complete with pads. He slowly wakes, stirring, and looking around him at those also in the room. Bouncy Brickhouse, friend to Bobby, waves at him.

Good morning, sleepy!

Jerry continues scanning the room, confusion creeping across his face, as it would anyone who wakes up abruptly somewhere strange in front of strangers. His eyes land on Thunder Knuckles. TK gives Jerry Jones double middle fingers.

Fuck you.

Jerry keeps looking and sees Harmon Egan, and with shock sees Harmon is just kind of observing him peculiarly. He watches Harmon’s hand flourish in sign language, then looks at Bobby Bourbon when he replies.

Yeah, he’s coming out of it. Hi Jerry, welcome back.

Jerry tries to gain his bearings, looking to respond, until Fred “Michelin Man” Gorson chimes in.

I feel alright.

Attaboy, Fred. You’re a trooper, and I’m glad we got you into ship shape to shake up the Mini-Golf world. You’re going to kick ten kinds of ass now. Also, you helped with Jerry here.

Bobby, what are you talking about? Wait, are you trying to hoodwink me? Hah, you can’t shit a shitter, Bobby!

Bobby sighs. TK and Bouncy both chuckle. Harmon rolls his eyes, grinning.

You got me, Jerry, dead to rights. I can’t shit a shitter, and you can’t hustle a hustler. However, you’re no supervillain, chum, you’re just fringe and want to play in the club. It looks like you might well be on your way, since you’re so sure I can’t get the better of you.

You’re damn right!

Well, fuck. I guess I better tell you what my plan was.

Jerry sits up, smiling.

Far out, yeah, teach me more about being a supervillain!

Bobby perks right up, silly smile on his face.

Well, I’ll tell you what my plan was. First off, I needed a schmo. Not just any schmo, but a pro schmo, you know?

Yo.

Enter Freddy Gorson, our Michelin Man, smooth rider through and through, Jerry. After that it was using my press cred to come into the stadium and dick around for a bit, while Fred taught me some sick ass Mini-Golf techniques to employ, essentially turning my shots into the embodiment of the 1980’s, yeah, bow down to that shit! So, I set up that lunch with you, Jerry, along with Dweezil Zappa and Peter Dinklage to talk supervillain shop, and you bought into it, hook, line, and sinker when I insulted the fish! You were so upset, and Jerry, that sushi was mediocre, at best, we were in fucking Dallas, what do you expect? You got baited, Jerry, so much so that when I started working with Fred down here you had to come and cause a stir. At that lunch, I made damn sure to talk up Bouncy nonstop as a top notch baroness of crime and meyhem that you couldn’t help but be interested, and of course you called her up. That’s when she came and made sure you got laughing gas, because nerve gas was way too dangerous to give to you as she pointed out. It would have been kind of funny, but, nah, there’s no point in killing you, Jerry, that’s not good for the plan at all. See, once you and Fred were found in those compromising photos, namely you dressed in a football uniform spooning Fred’s adorable ham shaped frame on the floor of your own stadium, you’d comply completely with whatever I wanted, and what I want, Jerry, is at the heart of the matter.

You monologue too much.

Whatever, I’m awesome. Anyway, that brings us to the heart of the matter. I want two things, Jerry, two really simple things. One, I want my fucking Universal Title. I will get my Universal Title, Jerry. Two, I want all of AT&T stadium, one night only, for BOB-a-palooza, and you’re going to fund it.

Jerry slowly laughs.

Yeah, well, you should have kept your dumb mouth shut, Bobby, because that plan will never work! I’ll never do that!

Bobby cocks an eyebrow.

Oh?

From outside, we hear the muffled but distinct sounds of the stadium PA system saying something.

You did it a half hour ago, Jerry.

Bobby folds his arms across his chest. Thunder Knuckles, Bouncy Brickhouse, and Harmon fold their arms across their chest. TK clears his throat, giving Michelin Man his cue, who folds his arms across his chest. As they do, RoboBob, the robot from Rocky IV with a picture of Bobby haphazardly stapled to where a human face would be approximately, rolls in.

Happy birthday Paulie.

Bobby pulls out a picture of Jerry Jones and staples it to RoboBob over his own face.

You just authorized all of it.

Jerry, realizing that he’s been had, his identity stolen by the robot from Rocky IV in order to complete Bobby’s master stroke of having some kind of event in the stadium, faints. Everybody looks completely shocked.

Oh shit, we killed him!

Check his fuckin’ pulse!

Bobby scrambles over and checks Jerry’s pulse.

Okay, he’s breathing, he’s just probably in a bit of shock, let’s give him some air.

Bouncy stands up and pulls out her phone. She plays around on the screen for a bit, and Jerry Jones’s limp, unconscious body stands as the football uniform he’s wearing sort of floats him in air.

What? His ‘uniform’ is real tech, I mean, he did pay for it, and it’s easier than carrying him.

Jerry Jones’s head lays limp to one side as he slowly pivots, drifting off into the corner ever so slowly. Bobby looks at Bouncy smugly.

Too busy wrestling to do any awesome heists. Psht. I just stole an entire arena.

For the night.

Yeah, semantics.

Bobby and Bouncy smile at one another. TK clears his throat.

Uh, Bobby…

Yeah, I gotta go, I gotta steal the Alamo.

Remember the Alamo.

I only fucking rent from Hurtz.

Bouncy chuckles.

Later, handsome.

Bye…

Bobby placidly watches, his face like that of Alfred E. Newman on so many magazine covers, as Bouncy walks away. Harmon touches his shoulder, shaking him out of it. Harmon signs something to Bobby.

Yeah, what he fuckin’ said!

You understand him now?

No, but you do!

Harmon nods. Bobby swiftly nods as well.

Right, let’s show these guys the Brotherhood.

Bobby nods, committed to the idea. Harmon smiles. TK gives a thumbs up. Jerry Jones bumps into the wall and bounces off, like a DVD player screensaver.

Damn, he could get hurt that way.

I didn’t sell him that suit, if he wants to abuse super science he should have known the risks.

Yeah, and fuck the goddamn Cowboys.

Harmon nods in agreement. Bobby, TK, Harmon, and Fred Gorson all leave the room, and Jerry Jones continues to drift around lazily, suspended in midair by some antigravitational football uniform, look, it’s very detailed and technical. He’s essentially the living birthday balloon at this point. Once in the hallway, Fred speaks up.

Guys, wait.

Everybody stops.

Look, I really appreciate what you guys have done for me, but out there, it’s your time, but back here, it’s our time, do you know what I’m trying to say?

Harmon nods, understanding Fred’s subtle subtextual method of communication. Bobby and TK look absolutely baffled.

You want to get matching watches?

That’s a badass fucking idea, Bobby.

Yeah it is.

Harmon shakes his head ‘no’ briskly. As he does, Charlie Nickles and Crash Rodriguez walk into view, the full Brotherhood, each Bastard on set.

Who’s the fat kid?

I’m a fucking Michelin Man.

Yeah you are!

Bobby smirks.

Michelin Man, you show some goddamn respect to Charlie and Crash, they’re old school Brotherhood, but you?

That’s the thing I’m trying to say. I’m not a Bastard, that’s the thing. I grow my own potatoes and run a potato salad kitchen for the homeless for crying out loud.

Huh.

That’s, uh, beautiful but also very unusual, aren’t you sure you couldn’t get a better yield of food by making soup or something more plentiful?

I do what I want with my potatoes, Bobby, and with my winnings in Mini-Golf I have expanded operations.

Bobby looks around the room. Harmon’s brow is furrowed. Charlie seems to grasp everything Fred has said with some depth. Crash nods.

That’s real, man.

Yeah, respect.

TK looks at Charlie and Crash like they have third nipples on their foreheads.

What do you mean? He’s spending all his fucking Xbux on potatoes for other losers! That is no good!

Bro, I mean, he does what he wants, right?

I fucking guess.

He doesn’t care what we fucking think, right?

Yeah.

He’s been a badass, and seriously, the face paint is kick ass.

It is kind of badass.

Harmon signs something to TK. TK stares blankly back at Harmon.

I don’t know what the fuck that even means, but you’re probably right. Alright, fuck it. We’re Bastards, through and through, but our Brotherhood is something more now.

Right.

Bobby sticks his hand out.

Everybody in.

TK puts a hand in. Crash puts a hand in. Harmon puts a hand in. Charlie puts a hand in. Fred looks on.

Nah, Fred, you’re in this.

Fred stick his hand in.

We’re the fucking Brotherhood of Bros.

All six men look at each other in unison and agreement at this landmark statement. Jerry Jones slowly drifts past them in the background, fully awake.

Hello? Help me!

All six men turn and watch as Jerry Jones drifts down the hall away from them.

Seriously, I can’t move, and I’ve gone to the bathroom in my pants three times so far.

The Brotherhood of Bros all stand and watch, their eyes locked on Jerry Jones lazily floating down a hall and around a corner.

Heelp!

BOB all turn and look at each other.

Okay, so, now we do a cheer, or a thing.
Why?

That’s what teams do.

Right. Um, we didn’t expect this. On three, Bro Bro. One, two, three…

All the men who can echo it out loud.

BRO BRO!

They all continue down the hall, and stop at a curtain. Fred interrupts again.

No, seriously, guys, I’m not, um…

Okay, we get it Fred.

Thanks, I really just want to wash my face.

Bobby swipes a patch of paint off Fred’s face. He sticks it out, and Charlie licks it clean. Charlie smiles.

Vanilla!

Fred swipes the paint off his face, and is shocked to find it wasn’t spiked with pepper at all, but was really cake frosting the entire time. Harmon smirks.

Hey, he told me…

He didn’t tell you a damn thing, and if TK was interpreting his sign language I’m pretty sure they were both winging it. Anyways, why would we put harmful toxic paint on your face, that’s just crazy and irresponsible.

But you gave Jerry Jones a floating suit and knockout gas.

I didn’t, my friend sure did, and he bought those, they weren’t gifts.

Fred smiles and laughs.

I’m going to go become the Crazy Golf World Champion!

Do it!

BOB all wave goodbye to Fred “Michelin Man” Gorson. They then turn and walk through a curtain. The stage they step onto is blindly bright, and the roar of the completely packed stadium is massive as they have all come for this BOB rally before March Madness V. The BOB logo is on banners across the stadium and the fans all go absolutely wild. BOB-a-palooza is underway in Arlington, Texas, the boys all in front of their audience. They each produce their signature golf putters, Charlie’s glowing green with the power of poison, I guess, and Crash crackles with lightning. They all place golf balls down on the stage, and in unison, putt their balls towards the audience! The fans go absolutely wild, and start chanting!

*BOB!*BOB!*BOB!*BOB!*BOB!*BOB!*

Bobby produces his microphone. The crowd roars. The rest of the Bastards all take seats. They’re not competing at March Madness, after all, they’re just watching Bobby go ham, and be a ham, as he does. This may have been the day BOB, the Brotherhood of Bros, stole an entire stadium, but in a few days, Bobby’d be going solo in stealing the show.

Y’all are early, March Madness is this weekend!

Bobby is beaming, ear to ear, at the crowd in front of him. The crowd cheers.

WHAT’S UP ARLINGTON!

Bobby, who bellows out to the crowd, stirs them up, maybe even sparking a bit of hope in them.

So, I guess the cool fans who got free tickets today for subscribing to BastardNET, and thank you, for your valued time as our customers has been wonderful. We are, however, making a change to our service! That’s right, we are moving to a cycle, where every week, we rotate out certain programming, replacing it with others! Now, we feel this will confuse some of you, but that’s because, well, our streaming service is now completely free! That’s right, there is no cost to you, the consumer, to watch our streaming services at all, and if you get tired of the cycle, feel free to upgrade to our higher subscription tiers! Since we’re making this exciting change, we feel it’s important to announce that we will no longer be calling our streaming service BastardNET, but instead, The Brotherhood of Bros Weekly Telecasting Free!

The fans go wild about the announcement that their subscriptions to what used to be called BastardNET is now to be called BOBWTF. TK stands up, shaking his head.

Nope, no, no. It’s still BastardNET.

Okay, it’s still BastardNET, but okay.

Hell, now I know, Bobby, what about if my internet goes out, how do I watch more? Well, that’s the best part, we’re also accessible via regular TV antenna, globally!

Bobby is really pleased about whatever malarkey had to happen to make that even possible to transmit to everywhere at once using that kind of frequency.

That’s right, my friend, we have pioneered some real shit there. Expensive? Sure, but, that’s what all the grants are for! I called my congressperson, people, and I told them I had a way to reinvigorate mass communication, and they were like “Bobby, we’re going to ban Tiktok, it’s the only way” and I was like “I don’t even know what you’re talking about, but check this out, we have a way to use the old frequencies the FCC allotted to certain services which simply don’t get used anymore; the air’s gone quiet save for shorthand WiFi! Well, we went ahead, and, well, it’s all very technical, plus there’s no reason for me to reveal our trade secrets, even to you, our most diehard of fans. Wouldn’t you know it, in seconds, congress unanimously ratified my bill into law, and bam, we broadcast to every TV connected to RF waves, because BOB is now in charge of the very air you breathe; specifically how much noise it gets. We’re not suffocating anybody, heh.

The crowd at AT&T Stadium is going wild. It’s not just BOB superfans, but also a tech expo because a lot of non-wrestling fans are here, this is actually a pretty big deal for the FCC to give rights for use of airwaves to a wrestling stable, moreover that someone came up with a centralized method of broadcasting those frequencies across international borders without restriction.

So, what does this mean for you? BastardNET is no longer just the finest in world class entertainment and infotainment, along with special insights to BOB promos, but it’s also the first worldwide free internet service that you just need two metal sticks to connect to.

Charlie walks forward, holding a phone.

Take my pal, Charlie, here, who happens to have this old phone!

I found it at a bus station!

Well, Charlie here is going to connect the rabbit ears to the charger port.

Bobby hands Charlie a special device that connects to the iPhone, which is locked. The screen fizzles for a second, and we see the BOB logo on the screen of the phone, all of this is also being shown on the LED displays in AT&T Stadium.

As you see, not only did our own proprietary device override all functions of the iPhone, but now it is fully connected to the internet as well as your local television stations.

The screen changes, and we see commercials for broadcasts of the Andy Griffith Show, followed by Gunsmoke. Shows from the past that are dirt cheap to get the rights to broadcast. Screen filler, at best.

How do I call my kids now, Bobby?

I, uh, it doesn’t anymore, that thing is bricked, bro, it’s just a portable TV now.

What?

I’m kidding.

Bobby boops the screen, and the normal iPhone menu is back.

Go ahead, give it a shot!

Charlie holds up the phone and fiddles around with it, his focus on the screen. He smiles.

I can download porn via antenna now!

The crowd goes absolutely wild by the announcement that masturbation has gotten easier than ever. Charlie grins.

It’ll be finished in three hours!

Yeah, that’s true, the connection is pretty slow, but, hey, free internet is better than none. Now, I get you might be asking, “But Bobby, what about those places in the world that already have free WiFi?” Well, to that, I simply say, our internet is cooler, gets you access to classic, if not historic television programming from where you live, and while much slower, is just as free, and since it’s slower, it just means the hackers have a harder time!

Jerry Jones floats out onto the stage by some happenstance.

Hey! Hey! Help me down!

The crowd cheers at the sight of Jerry Jones floating in a football uniform, completely unaware to the fact that Bobby conned him into letting him use the stadium. They just watch on, thinking it’s all a part of the show.

Jerry Jones, everybody! I’m happy to let you know that he has agreed to make BastardNET the official free WiFi of AT&T Stadium!

No I haven’t, it’s still AT&T!

Crash and Charlie push Jerry back where he came, gently, like one would play with a beach ball in a swimming pool. Jerry drifts back down the hall.

Ah, shit, get me down!

Jerry spins as he floats haplessly again down a hall and out of sight. Bobby turns and addresses the crowd amassed in front of him, when suddenly, in a dazzling poof of glittering smoke, Mark Summers, host of Double Dare appears in front of Bobby. The crowd goes crazy for the effect!

Woah, Mark Summers, host of Double Dare and What Would You Do!

That’s right Bobby, but you also forgot, I’m also the God of Miniature Golf. You see, I invented Double Dare while eating a heaping pile of ice cream at a mini-golf course after playing thirty-six holes on a highball of acid and cocaine, and as the years have passed and I no longer eat ice cream or do drugs, mini-golf has stuck with me, and I feel since you wanted something immature like a Hey Dude or some other Nickelodeon themed match since Mark was constantly doing that and you thought it was cool, but didn’t want to be obvious, it’s why you went with mini-golf! Anyway, I thought it was novel, until I found out that Fred Gorson was teaching you secret mini-golf techniques that nobody besides the true masters of mini-golf are supposed to know! As such, I have absorbed Fred’s soul and now will absorb yours if you can not defeat me in miniature golf!

Bobby looks determined. Fred was a guy he knew for the better part of an afternoon, but wasn’t that bad, and he did help Bobby swindle Jerry Jones in a very convoluted scheme. Besides, he was just discovering that yes, he indeed did have a soul, albeit a pretty twisted one, and keeping ahold of it and not letting into the hands of a game show host seemed like the ultimate game, after all.

You’re on, Summers!

The stage rolls back, and beneath it we see a massive miniature golf course already set up. Mark Summers sets up, and with an incredible shot is within two whole inches of the hole! Bobby looks down the putting surface, checks his angles, and makes his shot, also getting into similar position! Both men tie the hole! We flash cut to see the rest of the Brotherhood of Bros rooting on Bobby. We see the soulless zombie body of Fred “Michelin Man” Gorson stumble out and menace some people. Mark Summers doesn’t look like he’s messing around, and makes a shot somewhere on the course as time has passed! The second hole ends similarly, both men tied! The third, another tie! The action intensely paces along, with windmills, tunnels, bends, forks, hills, declines, and even loops that both men must navigate along the way, the treachery of the course belied by how incredibly lacking in danger miniature golf actually is in the grand scheme of things.

The tenth hole looked tight as Bobby missed a sure putt, but Mark also missed, and both men continued to be deadlocked going into the eleventh hole! Mark Summers wipes sweat from his brow. Bobby downs a Gatorade. The fifteenth hole, and Summers gets it right through the windmill. Bobby follows suit! The seventeenth hole, it’s a ramp! If you don’t make the jump, your ball rolls back to the start! Mark gets his mojo rolling, and channels his magic mini-golf secret technique! Everything goes late 1980’s, early 1990’s, and the Double Dare physical challenge music starts playing! People in red jumpsuits and blue jumpsuits show up doing radical air guitar! It’s really, really cool looking, and Summers strikes the ball, sending it smoothly over the ramp and onto the pad encircling the hole. Bobby nods, knowing what he has to do. He settles in to take his shot, but can’t summon his magic mini-golf secret technique! He just does a regular shot, and it still goes pretty good, leaping the ramp, and actually hitting the cup! It clacks at it, but bounces out! Bobby looks devastated! Both he and Summers go into the 18th hole, still completely tied!

Mark knows what’s at stake here, and it’s not just the ice cream, cocaine, hookers, and debauchery with fingerpaints after, no. This is gatekeeping at it’s finest! No less, against a guy when he’s down, tired, beaten, and underprepared, and calling yourself the best in the face of a guy trying to find himself echos within! Summers takes his shot, and it careens towards the final hole, along a narrow bridge with no rails, and if your ball falls off, it lands in water! The ball glides along the trajectory the master himself put on it, sending a message to everyone watching around the world that he was the best. Bobby watches, and looks at his neon orange ball in his hands before looking back up at Mark Summers’s custom leopard print ball. Bobby places his ball, and in short order, Thunder Knuckles walks up.

Yo, this is where you talk about Flynn being a shit competitor!

Charlie approaches.

Yeah, bro, get in there, bury that guy!

Bobby shakes his head.

Look, I got this shit, y’all were diddly farting around in OCW keeping me from this, let me go do my thing now.

Bobby summons his awesome magic mini-golf secret technique. Dark synth music fills the air as everything goes neon. His ball almost spins backwards moving forwards, defying time and space and logic as it does but it looks really, really cool. It hits Mark Summers’s ball hard, shattering it, and then sinks, a hole in one and a victory. Mark Summers screams the screams of an entire eon in a moment. He dissipates into another puff of shiny smoke. The crowd goes absolutely ballistic as Bobby raises his putter, giving a good old bloodlust roar. TK, Charlie, Raion, and Crash all back Bobby up and from behind them, Tom Morello steps out wearing a BOB shirt. Tom plays his rendition of Voodoo Child by Jimi Hendrix, and the rest of the Brotherhood of Bros leave the stage, probably to go get lunch or take care of their own shit. It was very sweet of them to show up and be in a Bourbon promo and all, since it's a singles match and they didn't even say much but made a cameo. What a class act bunch of stand-up guys. Morello wraps up his song, and exchanges a fistbump with Bobby. Bobby pulls his microphone out, then turns and cuts a nasty promo on Mark Flynn, which since Flynn hasn’t documented a nasty promo in several months, would be overkill if described with any detail whatsoever.]]> <![CDATA[Focusing Your Aggression, P2]]> https://xwf1999.com/showthread.php?tid=45960 Sat, 25 Mar 2023 14:48:07 -0700 Jonathan Barrows]]> https://xwf1999.com/showthread.php?tid=45960

~The picture slowly comes up, once again, on a digital clock. This time, though, the clock appears to be on a cell phone, showing that it's around 5:30 am. The time shifts off, as we suddenly see a picture pop into place, sent from a text message. A heavyset man is shown in the photo, smirking at the camera. He's dressed in police blues, holding a Krispy Kreme doughnut in his hand. The doughnut has a clean bite taken out of it. Behind the police officer, you can see one of the workers in the store, looking a little annoyed. Who knows if this doughnut was paid for. As the camera zooms out from the shot, we see the hand holding the phone.~

Voice: So this is him?

~The voice, spoken in person, is shown to be Peter Vaughn, as the camera continues to go wide. Vaughn's face shows a great deal of contempt and fury, as he stares at the photo before him. From the phone, we hear a voice come through.~

Bill Sykes: Yes, sir, Mr. Vaughn. This is a photo we've found of Joshua Bingham, the name you requested. We also included a bio with his personal & career information, as well as an itinerary of his usual movements.

~Vaughn scowls at the man, taking in the person who he recently learned had apparently assaulted his half-sister, Sammy, while they were dating. Vaughn's eyes focus on the badge, as he zooms in the phone to get the number there.~

Peter Vaughn: So he's a cop, huh? Why is that not surprising?

Bill Sykes: He's been a member of the department for the last four years, sir.

Peter Vaughn: And I suppose there's nothing about any reports that were filed involving my half-sister?

Bill Sykes: ... If there were any, we weren't able to find them, sir.

~Vaughn's anger seems to grow, as he appears to be close to shattering the phone screen, just to do damage to the man shown there. As if sensing his emotions through the call, Sykes hesitantly starts to speak again.~

Bill Sykes: Mr. Vaughn... I just want to let you know that I understand how you're feeling.

Peter Vaughn: That's impossible, Bill. I don't even know how I feel...

~Vaughn shakes his head, a mannerism that Sykes couldn't possibly see, and yet he seems to understand.~

Bill Sykes: Still, sir, I'd like to recommend that you don't need to do anything... rash. We have plenty of resources in the nearby area, who could... help resolve this issue. As this man IS a police officer, I would definitely recommend restraint...

~With a quick swipe of his finger, Vaughn hangs up the phone call. With Sykes' voice of reason silenced, there's nothing to stop Vaughn as he continues to glare at the photo of Joshua Bingham, making up his mind... ~

I've always found that a little rage can be a good thing. Too much rage, though, can consume you. Sometimes it's difficult to find a good balance.

Just look at my opponents. Sidney Grey has never been able to find that balance, which is why her family has deserted her. Well, it's one of the many, many reasons. Then you look at Noah Jackson, who tends to venture on the opposite side of things. Some rage might actually be a benefit for NoCunt, it might fire him up to make it through the rest of the tournament. Finally, we've got Neddie, who acts like the most balanced of the bunch. I tend to believe he's actually the most screwed up, but he hides it better than most. The dude's a fruit loop at times, unable to control himself when he needs to. Honestly, it's amazing that he hasn't blown his opportunity already in this tournament.

For me, I've always found a way to walk that fine line... most of the time.

I will admit, though, hearing No-Doze talk about how my jabs are childish is pretty damn funny, considering how OBSESSED the man is with one single word. He's legendary for it at this point. It's the reason that nobody ever really, truly takes him seriously. His speaking is just... terrible. Awful. The guy needs to attend a few of those "Promo Classes For Dummies" and take notes. But can you picture it? Noah Jackson actually taking NOTES?

Nope, it's a ridiculous concept. Jackie's just going to show up, fall asleep at the back of the class, and then act proud if they give him one of those participation diplomas.

He'd probably even frame it.

Look, Noel, I'll level with you: the reason I change up your names so much, using whatever words happen to come to mind? Because I LOVE the fact that it gets under the skin of my opponents. I mean, it's the dumbest thing to be concerned about when we have war coming our direction, when we're going to be beating the living shit out of each other.

And yet people like you? It still gets in there. It still festers, boils, and burns. "How can he do something so stupid?? It drives me crazy!!!" And man, it brings a smile to my face, Neo, it really does. If anything can control that rage, it's remembering the upset tears of a grown-up juvenile who's sobbing into his wet pillow at night... after, y'know, using the body pillow for other things, because it's the only other access he's got.

You'll help me get through the rage, No-No, and I'll appreciate it, especially when I wipe the mat with your face throughout our contest, proving that you don't belong in these finals. You deserve a lot of insults added into the injuries I'm going to be dishing out to you, Nolly. In fact, I might channel my fury a little differently this time, as it'd be fun to crush your larynx with a few well-placed shots, silencing the Cunt of the XWF once and for all.

And won't that be soothing? For me, at least.

~The camera comes up, showing a shot of a nearby police station in the distance. Officers are coming and going, starting to begin their day shifts while others end their time on the streets. The camera pans to the side, showing several early-morning pedestrians walking past what appears to be a dark alley. We travel towards the alley, moving into the darkness, where we see Peter Vaughn standing in wait. He appears to be holding an industrial-sized wrench in one hand, its metallic shine barely visible due to the shadows of the alley. He swings it back and forth, grinning to himself.~

Peter Vaughn: The perfect weapon. Sturdy, does the damage, and can still be used afterwards. It's perfect... perfect for Mr. Bingham...

~Vaughn readjusts, looking off to his side. Suddenly, we see Joshua Bingham standing there, in his police uniform, glaring at him.~

Joshua Bingham: Who the hell are you? What are you doing in here, just standing around?

Peter Vaughn: Why, waiting for you to take your daily trip for your doughnuts, of course, Bingham. Why else?

Joshua Bingham: What? I don't...

~Vaughn viciously swings the wrench, crashing the front edge of it into Bingham's side. It makes a tremendous crash, echoing throughout the alley, as Bingham... disappears like a blast of smoke. Behind him, we see the dumpster that Vaughn just smashed, leaving a large dent in the container. Vaughn shakes his hand with the wrench, seemingly enjoying the impact, even if Bingham wasn't there yet.~

Peter Vaughn: Only a matter of time, Bingham... a matter of time until you face your destiny...

Joshua Bingham: Put your hands up! Now!

~Vaughn spins around, seeing Bingham standing behind him, seemingly pointing his pistol at him. But Vaughn reacts instinctively, launching his wrench into the air. It goes through Bingham, who fades out again, before colliding with the side of the wall. Vaughn walks over, scooping the wrench up.~

Peter Vaughn: Yeah... yeah... this is going to be perfect...

Sammy Mitchell: Why?

~Startled, Vaughn looks over at where he now sees his half-sister, quietly standing near the edge of the alley. A second later, she disappears, only to reappear on his left. Vaughn rubs his eyes, confused.~

Sammy Mitchell: Why do you want this? Why do you NEED this?

Peter Vaughn: I... because... because he hurt you. He's an abuser.

Sammy Mitchell: But why does that matter to you? You don't care about stuff like that. You never have. So why... why do you want something that I don't want for you?

Peter Vaughn: You... you need vengeance...

Sammy Mitchell: No. I've moved on. I'm happy now. But you... you could go to jail for this. You could ruin your life... and you know I'd hate you if I found out. I'd hate you. Is that what you want?

~Sammy turns away, disappointed, before fading away. Vaughn reaches towards her, more confused than ever.~

Peter Vaughn: But... but I'd do it for you... wouldn't I?

Mr. Vaughn: Are you sure about that?

~This time, it's Vaughn's deceased father, making his appearance near the dumpster. He looks at his son with sad eyes.~

Peter Vaughn: Dad?

Mr. Vaughn: I didn't raise my son to be like this. When all those bullies abused you... you took it on the chin. You just survived. But now... you want revenge. You want revenge for all of it. It's why you're a wrestler, isn't it?

Peter Vaughn: I... I don't...

Mr. Vaughn: You have to decide what you want, and what your family wants, Peter. You have to determine the lines you'll cross... and if it's worth crossing them. My son... you know the truth... you know it.

~Mr. Vaughn reaches out, as if to grip his son's shoulder. But then, he disappears as well. Suddenly, the alley is quiet, as Vaughn slumps to a knee, with the wrench falling off to the side with a clank. Vaughn rubs at his head with both hands, struggling, trying to figure out what he wants, as the picture slowly fades away.~

It's all about the choices you make. That's why they say, isn't it?

For me, the choices I've made have earned me a Universal Title run, a Supercontinental Title run, and gotten me to the Final Four of the March Madness tournament. Suffice to say, I regret none of those choices. But you have to wonder how the rest of the field feels. Does Siddy regret any of her actions, that have ruined her personal life and made her the laughing stock of anyone watching? Does Neddy regret his involvement with the Trilogy/Trinity/Triumphalist, that short-termed union that led to the overgrowth of SAGA, enough to leave Nedward on the outside looking in?

Does Nome regret being born?

Yeah, probably not. He's too wiped out and incapacitated to be able to think about something like that. Never mind. He's probably the happiest "cunt" in existence, in that way.

You all have to live with your decisions that have brought you to this moment. Sid's family, Ned's relationships, Noah's brain, they've all taken extreme hits thanks to this business. Honestly, a medical evaluation might be in order for Noacunt, if the XWF truly cares about their employees. But then again, insanity seems to do well here in this company.

After all, like I've said, I made some major achievements here, and who's to say I'd ever be diagnosed as sane?

But I have so much less to lose than the rest of you. This is Noahhh's only chance at the big time. Neddd desperately needs this to prove that SAGA isn't wasting its time with him. Siddd needs to prove to her daughter that she's not a complete waste of wrestling talent bound into a psycho hosebeast's body.

For me? I beat Raion Kido.

And I will be able to show his name on the List of the Vanquished for the rest of my life, along with Calypso and Goth. If I win the tournament? It's another incredible accomplishment in an amazing career over the last few years. And I want it, no question. But I don't NEED it like these other tools do.

Maybe that'll work against me. Or maybe Noah's going to take bigger risks that backfire on his ass, allowing me to squash him like the bug he is. Maybe Sid looks at the crowd one too many times and gets blind-sided, and maybe Ned can't keep his attention on the true threat in front of him, because he's worried about what comes next.

And, y'know, it could happen. Peter Vaughn: the true King of the XWF.

Wouldn't it be a kick, if I chose to get a crown? You know the rest of the company wouldn't be able to handle it. They'd melt down once again... to the enjoyment of many, including myself.

Yeah. I think I'm going to choose to win, and choose to give each of these opponents a taste of the Plunge as they all fail to stop me from making it to the top.

It's up to them if they choose to quit the sport afterwards.

~The camera comes up, once again focused on the police station. We see the doors open, with a familiar figure to us now, Joshua Bingham, stepping out. He walks down the stairs, taking a moment to appreciate two women who just got released from custody, moving away in their scantily-clad outfits. He gives them a leer, showing his true colors, before walking away from them. He moves towards his usual location, feeling the craving for a large, creme-filled doughnut. As he walks past an alley, though, he suddenly stops, looking back.~

Joshua Bingham: That's strange...

~Bingham moves into the alley, pulling out a small flashlight to focus on what he's seen: a large wrench, left sitting in the middle of the alley. Bingham leans over it, his police instincts telling him not to pick it up, as fingerprints can be dangerous with something you don't recognize.~

Joshua Bingham: Huh. Maybe it fell off a truck? Somebody's going to be pissed when they reach into their toolkit. Hah!

~With a shrug, Bingham gets to his feet and continues out of the alley, leaving the wrench behind. He has no idea what could have originally happened to him. Instead, the man heads to his favorite location: the Krispy Kreme. He walks in, with the employees turning to look at him. Neither looks that pleased to see him. But sometimes lousy customers are part of the job.~

Cynthia: Hello, officer. Your usual?

Joshua Bingham: You know me so well, sweetheart!

~Bingham grins at the girl, who looks away, hiding her disgust. She moves off to the coffee area, having to make her way around the man currently working on mopping up the floor from a spill that took place a few minutes ago.~

Cynthia: Excuse me, Clarence. I just need to get to the coffee machine.

Clarence: Oh, no problem, mon chere, no problem.

~Clarence steps to the side, allowing her to quickly make a cup of coffee. She sets it to the side, nodding to him, before heading over to get the bag of Krispy Kreme doughnuts that Bingham always requests, but rarely pays for. As she turns her back, though, Clarence slips forward, quickly dropping something into the coffee cup, before turning away again, whistling as he mops. The girl comes back, capping the coffee before walking back to the counter.~

Cynthia: Here you go, officer.

Joshua Bingham: It's Josh, remember? Put it on my tab. Thanks, hon!

~Bingham takes a long sip of the coffee, smacking his lips afterwards. He then turns, heading out the door, as Cynthia just shakes her head. Clarence, meanwhile, pushes his bucket off to the side. He heads to the back door, stepping out for an apparent smoke. As he lights up, Clarence looks over to his right, where Peter Vaughn is leaning against the wall, holding his phone.~

Peter Vaughn: Any problems?

Clarence: Not at all, Mr. Vaughn. That Bingham boy is gonna have himself a bad time of it later on when that there medication hits, I guarantee it.

~Vaughn nods, seemingly glad to hear it. He looks back down at his phone, where we see a video conference in progress, showing Bill Sykes. The assistant from the Custodial Coalition looks rather relieved.~

Bill Sykes: I think this was the best path to take, Mr. Vaughn. I'm so glad you came to your senses. Your original plan, though bold, was possibly being too...

~With one swipe of his finger, Vaughn, once again, hangs up on Sykes. He puts away the phone, looking over at Clarence, who raises an eyebrow.~

Peter Vaughn: He talks too much.

~After a moment, Clarence starts laughing uproariously, loving it. He turns away, continuing his smoke break, since it's the only one he'll get today. Meanwhile, Vaughn walks to the edge around the building, looking out at where Joshua Bingham is still walking back to the police station. He isn't showing any ill effects... yet. Vaughn looks down at his hand, which has involuntarily clutched into a fist. He forces himself to release it, looking back at the departing police officer.~

Peter Vaughn: It's a start, I suppose.

~Vaughn turns away, walking in the opposite direction towards where his beloved truck is parked. For the moment, he's not seeing anyone else, if he ever saw them at all. You never can tell with Peter Vaughn. The screen fades to black.~

]]>

~The picture slowly comes up, once again, on a digital clock. This time, though, the clock appears to be on a cell phone, showing that it's around 5:30 am. The time shifts off, as we suddenly see a picture pop into place, sent from a text message. A heavyset man is shown in the photo, smirking at the camera. He's dressed in police blues, holding a Krispy Kreme doughnut in his hand. The doughnut has a clean bite taken out of it. Behind the police officer, you can see one of the workers in the store, looking a little annoyed. Who knows if this doughnut was paid for. As the camera zooms out from the shot, we see the hand holding the phone.~

Voice: So this is him?

~The voice, spoken in person, is shown to be Peter Vaughn, as the camera continues to go wide. Vaughn's face shows a great deal of contempt and fury, as he stares at the photo before him. From the phone, we hear a voice come through.~

Bill Sykes: Yes, sir, Mr. Vaughn. This is a photo we've found of Joshua Bingham, the name you requested. We also included a bio with his personal & career information, as well as an itinerary of his usual movements.

~Vaughn scowls at the man, taking in the person who he recently learned had apparently assaulted his half-sister, Sammy, while they were dating. Vaughn's eyes focus on the badge, as he zooms in the phone to get the number there.~

Peter Vaughn: So he's a cop, huh? Why is that not surprising?

Bill Sykes: He's been a member of the department for the last four years, sir.

Peter Vaughn: And I suppose there's nothing about any reports that were filed involving my half-sister?

Bill Sykes: ... If there were any, we weren't able to find them, sir.

~Vaughn's anger seems to grow, as he appears to be close to shattering the phone screen, just to do damage to the man shown there. As if sensing his emotions through the call, Sykes hesitantly starts to speak again.~

Bill Sykes: Mr. Vaughn... I just want to let you know that I understand how you're feeling.

Peter Vaughn: That's impossible, Bill. I don't even know how I feel...

~Vaughn shakes his head, a mannerism that Sykes couldn't possibly see, and yet he seems to understand.~

Bill Sykes: Still, sir, I'd like to recommend that you don't need to do anything... rash. We have plenty of resources in the nearby area, who could... help resolve this issue. As this man IS a police officer, I would definitely recommend restraint...

~With a quick swipe of his finger, Vaughn hangs up the phone call. With Sykes' voice of reason silenced, there's nothing to stop Vaughn as he continues to glare at the photo of Joshua Bingham, making up his mind... ~

]]> <![CDATA[}|{ Interlude A(ii) }|{]]> https://xwf1999.com/showthread.php?tid=45959 Sat, 25 Mar 2023 14:33:40 -0700 Jay Omega]]> https://xwf1999.com/showthread.php?tid=45959 Heir Raid
==============================
"Sometimes it's easy to forget how much you miss people until you see them again."
-Colleen Hoover
==============================

UNIVERSE XWF99
Outskirts of Aginkort, Skaarbirro, Acripha System
19/3/2023, 1432 Hrs, Shipboard Time

~With nearly all the medical information available on Earth's Internet archived in the ship's memory banks, Erin had immediately confirmed the diagnosis of Evelyn's pregnancy. In an unsurprising show of stubbornness, Evelyn had refused Jay Omega's suggestion of receiving prenatal care on Earth, insisting on traveling to the planet Skaarbirro to see a doctor with Terran experience she had dug up during Jay's stint in the GCL, in case he had needed emergency care; some eccentric the locals referred to as the Ahzhdoog.

Jay wasn't sure what exactly Evelyn's problem was with accepting her heritage, but it seemed every time he tried to get her to adjust to Earth culture, she invariably pushed back with some alien habit she'd learned while growing up in space. It hadn't helped that the first time she'd set foot on the planet since she was three years old, the two of them had been attacked by a malicious AI in command of some sophisticated security measures. Whatever her reasons, Omega had been unsuccessful in his attempts to sway her, and now they were halfway across the galaxy from where he wanted to be.

Jay tried not to let his irritation show as he descended the boarding ramp of the Starlight Lost with Evelyn and Tasha; he had to be back on Earth in less than a week, and even hauling ass, it would take around three days to get there from the closest jumpgate. And here they were, wasting time on a relatively backwater colony world, going to see some alien quack who probably knew less about human anatomy than Zoidberg. At the first sign of incompetence, Omega was taking Evelyn back to Earth no matter what she said, even if he had to tie her up in the cargo bay.

The trio was greeted at the bottom of the ramp by the starport docking official, and more time was wasted with declaring the purpose of their visit and filing for the necessary permits. After what felt like an hour - in reality less than two minutes- the appropriate paperwork had been processed, and they were waved on. A quick stop to convert some galactic funds into local currency - oddly shaped bits of a brightly colored plastic-like material - and they were released out into the city of Aginkort proper, where the agrarian nature of the colony was readily apparent as the locals used a blend of modern technologies alongside more primitive methods.

For instance, the "taxi" Jay hired was a carriage drawn by a pair of reptilian quadrupeds called "sorbos", which actually turned out to be a pleasant experience due to Skaarbirro's spring weather. It wasn't a long trip to the outlying building that served as the Ahzhdoog's medical clinic, and all too soon, Omega was ushering his wives into what he was sure was going to be a disaster. The trio weren't kept waiting long, as this doctor gave high priority to human patients, and less than twenty minutes after landing at the starport, they were being called in to the doctor's office.

When the doctor turned around and looked up from his clipboard, The Omega Man reeled from the shock of recognition; this was the last man he had ever expected to encounter, here or anywhere else.

"Alex?!?" Jay cried in disbelief, "What in Xor's name are you doing here?"

Indeed, the bald-headed, craggy-faced, burly bruiser known as Alex Richards, the Archduke of Mass Confusion, might be known for many things - most of them drunken brawls - but space adventures wasn't one of them.

"By His Noodliness; Jay?" replied Alex in equal surprise, then double checked his clipboard, "You, uh, you don't look pregnant."

"I'm not" said Omega, too flabbergasted to think of something witty, "My wife is."

"Oh, so you and Tasha tied the knot? Congratulations!" Alex beamed at Tasha and clapped a meaty paw on Jay's shoulder, "Sorry I missed the wedding, but I'm even more sorry I missed the reception!"

"Yes, but no," Omega replied, putting his hands on Evelyn's shoulders, "I meant my other wife, Evelyn."

"Other wife? You have two?" asked Alex, quirking an eyebrow, "And people call me crazy! Whatever, I don't judge; come in, come in, let's get this exam over with, so we can go get a drink!"~

==============================
"But there were worse things than disappointment, and I'd lived through several of them already."
-Ultraviolet
==============================
*Welcome back, True Believers! You got your peepers peeled for another Epic Jay Omega Promo(trademark pending)? Well, too bad, all we have in stock is B-roll footage of Los Hombre Omeguloso doing his morning grooming routine. I don't suppose we can interest you in fifteen minutes of Jay brushing his teeth and combing his hair?*

*Why do you have to be like this?*

*Uh, because it's fun? Duh. Don't forget, they hired me because you're boring.*

*No, you broke in here one day, and haven't let either of us leave since.*

*Potato, po-taht-o. So we fade in on a softly colored white and gold room, where Jay Omega is sitting at a small white table, with a variety of pre-packaged foodstuffs laid out before him, the labels all an incomprehensible jumble of angular script.*

JAY OMEGA: Okay, I get that Star Wars is a huge part of pop culture, and yes, I am married to a rebel princess - or at least, she was a rebel princess when I married her. Personally, I've always been more of a Battlestar Galactica kind of guy, myself. But hey, people are lazy, and why bother coming up with something original when you can make hackneyed attempts at rippi--, parodying your betters, right, Isaiah?

*Jay takes a package off the table, tears open the lavender foil, and bites into the unwrapped caramel-brown square with a crunch.*

JAY OMEGA: I had such high hopes for you when I got the alert that your first promo had aired. Then I watched it, and… Well, let's just say I imagine I know how your father must feel. If that's not clear enough, I am greatly disappointed.

*Omega takes another crunchy bite and chews for a moment, before he sets the snack on the table and grabs a crinkly, green, circular package.*

JAY OMEGA: I'll admit, I'm not up to date on the latest entries in the Star Wars franchise; I enjoyed The Force Awakens well enough, but I haven't seen any of the newer stuff. So I don't quite get what direction you were going in with that Dollar Store cosplay, Isaiah. At first I thought that throne bit was supposed to liken you to ol' Emperor Lightning Hands, but then you put on a Boba Fett helmet, and completely lost me. I do know Fett's a bounty hunter, and you're talking about hunting me, making me your prey, so I can see the connection you were trying to make there, but it just didn't fit with the imagery you were presenting. Pick a lane, dude.

*Jay tears open the bright green package and removes a pale, flaky, seafoam green cake ball, then shoves nearly half of it in his mouth at once. A moment of silence passes while Omega chews, his face vividly describing the near-orgasmic pleasure of the taste.*

JAY OMEGA: Honestly, you'd have been better served if you had spoofed Dog the Bounty Hunter; at least then I would have been more familiar with your premise. Instead I got a confused mess of mixed metaphors and inaccuracies. If that's the level of focus and effort you regularly put forth in the ring, Isaiah, well, it's no wonder you've been in a bit of a slump lately, is it? I'm certain that series of defeats has made you hungry for the taste of victory; surely the scraps of Barney Green and Calypso aren't enough to keep you fed. March Madness is a feast or famine situation for you, Isaiah, and I know you need this win more than I do.

*Jay pulls a small piece off the cake ball and pops it in his mouth, then reaches for a packet of silvery foil.*

JAY OMEGA: But do you want it more than I do? Actually, come to think of it, you probably do; I don't really care who wins, as long as you come at me with everything you've got. See, I don't get hung up on streaks, or titles, or momentum; it's all just fluff to pad promos. And I don't get any fun outta jobberkilling curtain jerkers; no easy wins for me, please and thank you. When I win, I want it to be by the skin of my teeth; I want the ref holding my arm up in victory to be the only thing keeping me on my feet. I don't want to waltz into March Madness and slap Isaiah around like my name was Will Smith. When that final bell rings, I want to be able to think to myself "fuck yeah; that was a good fight".

*Omega tears open the package and spills a few chocolate colored lumps into his hand, then tosses one into the air and catches it in his mouth.*

JAY OMEGA: By the same token, I see no shame in losing a match well-fought. Should the gods favour Isaiah come Sunday night, and bless him with a victory? Shit, I'll be the first to shake his hand and congratulate him, because if Isaiah beats me, it will be because he rolled up to that ring and went harder than he ever has before. And he's gonna have to do that anyway, if he wants to.make it out of Arlington in one piece, because The Omega Man only has one speed: Full throttle.

*Jay launches another choco-thingy into the air, but his aim is a little off, and the bite-sized snack bounces off his nose, clattering along the floor out of sight.*

JAY OMEGA: Clearly I make plenty of mistakes, too; something a skilled tactician can take advantage of, if they have the wherewithal to capitalize on presented opportunities. Or, as was the case with Sidney Grey, if they have the in-ring savvy to create opportunities to take advantage of. But it wouldn't make a difference if I was perfect in every way; it's entirely possible to commit no mistakes, and still lose. That's not a failing, that's just life. Speaking of making mistakes, trying to get into my headspace is the biggest one you could make.

*Omega pops the last confection in his mouth, and pulls a hot pink vape pen from within his vest. A quick haul on the vape is followed by Jay blowing several consecutively smaller vape rings, creating a hazy target over his face from our perspective.*

JAY OMEGA: Not just because what you'd find there would likely drive you mad, but also because you should be trying to get into your headspace, Isaiah. Don't try to figure me out, 'cause even I ain't managed to do that yet. You wanna beat me, Isaiah? You gotta look inside yourself, find that burning core of passion - whatever it may be for - and forge it into the tools you need to succeed. If you want to walk away from March Madness with a check mark in the Dubya column, you must proclaim thy warrior's soul; drop the bullshit attempts at mind games, figure out who the fuck you are, and rock into the AT&T Stadium with the focus and precision of a sniper. Anything less, and you're gonna get got.

*Omega takes a small hit from the vape pen, and blasts a single streak of vapor dead center through the nearly-dissipated bullseye.*

JAY OMEGA: You might be wondering why I'm sitting here, trying to build you up, Isaiah, when this part of the job typically involves tearing one another down. It's because I can see you drifting. You have the talent to make it big in this business, and you've got the drive of a fighter who just doesn't know when to stay down. But you lack focus, Isaiah. Sure, you've ostensibly got your sights set on the TeeVee title - a dangerous idea to look past someone like me, by the by - but then what? Where does the new King of the Midcard go from there? Resting on your laurels doesn't seem like your style, so the only real option is to climb higher, go bigger.

*Another draw on the vape, and Jay exhales off to the side, so as to not obscure our view.*

JAY OMEGA: So I'mma do you a favour, Isaiah; when we meet in that ring, I will put you through the crucible. It won't be a pleasant experience, but it will shape you, help forge you into a Universal Championship caliber competitor. When I'm done with you, you won't be fond of me, but you will be grateful. And make no mistake, I'm not going to go so hard on you just to be a dick; you should take this as a sign of respect. You might have noticed I've been calling you by name this whole time; I haven't given you some sort of insulting nickname, like I did with Whiskey Dick and Stargirl. And Sidney Grey, initially, but she's proven herself deserving of the respect of using her proper name.

*Omega reaches for an open blue box covered in red swirls and pulls out a pale blue cookie with red spots.*

JAY OMEGA: You got the chance to prove yourself worthy of the respect I'm showing you, Isaiah; don't disappoint me further.

*The Omega Man takes a bite of the cookie, and the scene fades to black while he chews.*

==============================
"You can start anew at any given moment. Life is just the passage of time and it’s up to you to pass it as you please."
-Charlotte Eriksson
==============================

UNIVERSE XWF99
Aginkort, Skaarbirro, Acripha System
20/3/2023, 1454 Hrs, Shipboard Time

~"Yeah, no, sorry," said Jay, stopping Alex in his tracks, "Slight change of plans; we're gonna see a doctor on Earth."

"What?" Alex asked in confusion, "Why? You're already here."

"Because you're not a real doctor, Alex," Omega said patiently, "You don't have a medical license."

"But I do have a liquor license and a doctor's bag," countered the Archduke, "As long as I only practice medicine while drinking, everything is on the up and up."

"That's not how it works!" Jay cried in exasperation.

"It's worked out pretty well so far," Alex replied, "Most of the patients I've lost were dying anyway, and you Canadians are really forgiving."

"Wait, what do you mean 'Canadians'?" Omega asked, "We're not in Canada; we're not even on Earth!"

"We're not?" queried the Archduke, scratching his bald head, "You mean I've been doctoring on an alien planet for the last year? Cool!"

"How could you not know that?!?" Jay sputtered in disbelief, "How did you not figure it out on the first day?"

"I dunno," Alex answered with a shrug, "Everybody is so polite, and their money is so colorful, I just assumed I was in Canada."

"I'm Canadian! These people don't look anything like me!" Omega was incredulous at the guileless nature of his oldest friend, "For Xor's sake, they're bright green and have four arms!"

"Hey man, I'm not racist!" Alex declared defensively, "I don't judge a person by the color of their skin, or how many limbs they have!"

"They're not even the same species!" exclaimed The Omega Man.

"You're just making yourself sound worse, dude." said Alex with a disappointed shake of his head, "And your wife is starting to look worse; you all right there, little lady?"

"I apologize," answered Evelyn, clutching her stomach, "I'm just trying not to vomit."

"No! Try not!" Alex stated emphatically, "Spew! Or spew not; there is no try."

"Oh, for fuck's sake," said Jay with a sigh, "You're sauced right now, aren't you?"

"Hi, I'm Alex, since we're apparently meeting for the first time," said the Archduke, before taking a nip from a silver flask, "You should know the only times I'm ever sober are those rare occasions I manage to sleep it off. I tell ya, those fifteen minute stretches of sobriety are Hell!"

"And that's the other reason we're getting a real doctor," Omega said with a significant look at Evelyn, "I don't want my kid being born with contact Fetal Alcohol Syndrome."

"Harsh, but fair," said Alex, ducking his head in acknowledgement, "Well, if you're heading to Earth, mind if I hitch a ride? Doctoring is fun and all, but the brothels here suck."

"Fuck yeah," replied Jay in a tone that made the question seem ridiculous, "You're always welcome aboard my ship, dude; plenty of room if you wanna stay, too."

A chirrup from the Wearable Espionage and Information Retrieval Device on Omega's left arm drew his attention, causing him to curse when he read the missive.

"Fuck, I gotta go," said Jay as he activated the W.E.I.R.D.'s communication function, "Erin, bring the Khybaris down; we're picking up a passenger."

Omega then turned and gave each of his wives an apologetic look that garnered him little sympathy.

"I hate to bail like this," The Omega Man said sincerely, "But I made a commitment to help Sidney on Anarchy, and if I don't leave right now, I'll be late."

Matters of honor were of great personal importance to both women, so of course they understood. With hugs and kisses for the women and a handshake-hug for Alex, Jay said his goodbyes and departed for the starport where the Starlight Lost awaited. He was going to have to haul ass to make it in time; he just hoped his piloting skills were up to snuff.~]]> Heir Raid
==============================
"Sometimes it's easy to forget how much you miss people until you see them again."
-Colleen Hoover
==============================

UNIVERSE XWF99
Outskirts of Aginkort, Skaarbirro, Acripha System
19/3/2023, 1432 Hrs, Shipboard Time

UNIVERSE XWF99
Aginkort, Skaarbirro, Acripha System
20/3/2023, 1454 Hrs, Shipboard Time

~"Yeah, no, sorry," said Jay, stopping Alex in his tracks, "Slight change of plans; we're gonna see a doctor on Earth."

"What?" Alex asked in confusion, "Why? You're already here."

"Because you're not a real doctor, Alex," Omega said patiently, "You don't have a medical license."

"But I do have a liquor license and a doctor's bag," countered the Archduke, "As long as I only practice medicine while drinking, everything is on the up and up."

"That's not how it works!" Jay cried in exasperation.

"It's worked out pretty well so far," Alex replied, "Most of the patients I've lost were dying anyway, and you Canadians are really forgiving."

"Wait, what do you mean 'Canadians'?" Omega asked, "We're not in Canada; we're not even on Earth!"

"We're not?" queried the Archduke, scratching his bald head, "You mean I've been doctoring on an alien planet for the last year? Cool!"

"How could you not know that?!?" Jay sputtered in disbelief, "How did you not figure it out on the first day?"

"I dunno," Alex answered with a shrug, "Everybody is so polite, and their money is so colorful, I just assumed I was in Canada."

"I'm Canadian! These people don't look anything like me!" Omega was incredulous at the guileless nature of his oldest friend, "For Xor's sake, they're bright green and have four arms!"

"Hey man, I'm not racist!" Alex declared defensively, "I don't judge a person by the color of their skin, or how many limbs they have!"

"They're not even the same species!" exclaimed The Omega Man.

"You're just making yourself sound worse, dude." said Alex with a disappointed shake of his head, "And your wife is starting to look worse; you all right there, little lady?"

"I apologize," answered Evelyn, clutching her stomach, "I'm just trying not to vomit."

"No! Try not!" Alex stated emphatically, "Spew! Or spew not; there is no try."

"Oh, for fuck's sake," said Jay with a sigh, "You're sauced right now, aren't you?"

"Hi, I'm Alex, since we're apparently meeting for the first time," said the Archduke, before taking a nip from a silver flask, "You should know the only times I'm ever sober are those rare occasions I manage to sleep it off. I tell ya, those fifteen minute stretches of sobriety are Hell!"

"And that's the other reason we're getting a real doctor," Omega said with a significant look at Evelyn, "I don't want my kid being born with contact Fetal Alcohol Syndrome."

"Harsh, but fair," said Alex, ducking his head in acknowledgement, "Well, if you're heading to Earth, mind if I hitch a ride? Doctoring is fun and all, but the brothels here suck."

"Fuck yeah," replied Jay in a tone that made the question seem ridiculous, "You're always welcome aboard my ship, dude; plenty of room if you wanna stay, too."

A chirrup from the Wearable Espionage and Information Retrieval Device on Omega's left arm drew his attention, causing him to curse when he read the missive.

"Fuck, I gotta go," said Jay as he activated the W.E.I.R.D.'s communication function, "Erin, bring the Khybaris down; we're picking up a passenger."

Omega then turned and gave each of his wives an apologetic look that garnered him little sympathy.

"I hate to bail like this," The Omega Man said sincerely, "But I made a commitment to help Sidney on Anarchy, and if I don't leave right now, I'll be late."

Matters of honor were of great personal importance to both women, so of course they understood. With hugs and kisses for the women and a handshake-hug for Alex, Jay said his goodbyes and departed for the starport where the Starlight Lost awaited. He was going to have to haul ass to make it in time; he just hoped his piloting skills were up to snuff.~]]> <![CDATA[THE WORLD, ACCORDING TO SID]]> https://xwf1999.com/showthread.php?tid=45957 Sat, 25 Mar 2023 11:34:16 -0700 CTN]]> https://xwf1999.com/showthread.php?tid=45957 [Image: qEIb8bF.jpg]

LACKLANLAND
Maine

[Image: DIKQgSoXcAAvcEW?format=jpg&name=900x900]

Lacklanland was an enigma; a compound on a sovereign swath of land on the far outskirts of Bangor and adjacent to the Penescbott River. The township had been founded by the late Jean-Paul Lacklan and built on a foundation of old-world religion and sport. The compound was a sprawling expanse of home-lined streets, a small town encased by a protective wall. The citizens of Lacklanland had been born and bred to value the prowess of their leader as he competed in ‘God’s Favorite Sport’ of professional wrestling and after his passing that tradition continued through his children, with Sidney Grey’s daughter now counted among them, through marriage…much to the Anarchy Champion’s displeasure.

Sid had managed to weasel her way back into Lacklanland and her daughter’s life through the careful manipulation of Angelica Vaughn, who only wanted to see the relationship between mother and daughter repaired. Sid wanted the same thing…but the past and her own prejudice would make things very hard.

“Can you stop here please?” Sid said, speaking to the driver that had picked her up and taken her to the compound. The car slowed to a stop outside the massive cathedral in the heart of Lacklanland…the same one where her daughter had married into this cult. “I’ll just be a few minutes.” The driver had reminded her that they would be late to the family gala at the Manor, but Sid smoothed things over with the lie that she only wanted to give a few blessings to the late Jean-Paul.

Sid frowned as she walked idly through the same pews in which she had sat over five years ago, biting her tongue bloody as she watched her daughter make the biggest mistake of her life…one that she had allowed to happen. She sat down heavily in virtually the same seat as her mind flashed back to the pageantry of that day and how it had blinded and rendered her powerless from being able to save her daughter from the religious cult of Jean-Paul Lacklan.

Sid had failed her daughter in that regard on that cold August day, but she would not commit Anarchy to so similar a fate this weekend.

Harmon Greyson Hays, you’ve been a tough one for me to figure out. Not like my other opponents on Anarchy. They all had their own firm conviction, their own direction, some sort of exploitable agenda. Gina Van Zyl wanted to humble me. Ruby wanted a memorable last match. Tommy Wish wanted to successfully defend the Anarchy Title…and to suck my toes. Atomic Bat and Blue Tango wanted an archvillain and a nemesis. What do you want Harmon?

You want the Anarchy Title. No surprise there. You SHOULD want the title, especially since I have elevated it to heights that no one else can lay claim to. I carried our banner through March Madness while everyone kept calling us ‘The B-Show.’ Yet, the Anarchy Champion will be on the grandest stage at March Madness V…and so will you…but only because I brought you here!

Yes Harmon, you earned your shot at the title, but let’s not kid ourselves, you took a long time to find your way to this point. You came to the XWF looking to forge your path out from under the protective shelter of wealth and privilege, but the first thing you did was to put on a b.O.b. shirt and pledge yourself to someone else’s cause.

Predictably, that ended badly for you and you shit the bed in your debut. I don’t know when you ditched b.O.b., probably as soon as you washed that bootleg shirt and it shrunk 5 sizes. Since then, it’s been peaks and mostly valleys for you until recently. You took down Lord Raab and Mastermind in a triple threat, you got one over on Gina thanks to Centurion, and then…most impressively you beat the undefeated Aphriya Adler. You found your stride, but I couldn’t help but wonder what had turned it around…and then I heard it.

It started as a quote from the Book of Revelation from you here, a mention from it there. You went off and found yourself religion Harmon! Now, you might think I’m gonna shit on you for that, but I assure you that I’m not. However, what I will do is caution you against mixing certain…interests. My daughter’s father-in-law was all about that fire and brimstone. Hell, just like you, he even found a way to tie that all into wrestling. It worked out pretty good for him…made him rich, old money like your old man, but it also made him fanatical, and it made his followers and his children assholes.

Harmon, Anarchy doesn’t need a fanatic droning on about the Seven Seals and the End of Days. Trust me, it certainly doesn’t need any more assholes. Anarchy already has what it needs, a woman who would be King who brings them to the actual Promised Land…the TRUE main event of the XWF’s biggest show, to date! Absolutely no one with common sense is going to stick around to watch Mark Flynn and Bobby Bourbon play fucking Mini-Golf unless they rig the course to explode like Caddyshack and kill the loser!

[Image: tumblr_oxvnzppbOe1qmob6ro2_r1_400.gifv]

Everyone is coming to see me become King of the XWF!

So, while your story has been compelling, this is where it ends. Not because you’re not good enough, because Lord knows, you’re good. You’re not winning because there is no way in hell that I’m going to let another two-bit charlatan spewing out scripture take one more goddamn thing from me! I may have lost a child to all of this shit…but I will not lose my title to it…or to you!

A short while later, Sid made her way back to the car. Hazarding one last look at where she’s last failed her daughter, while promising to never do so again.

The driver turned and asked, “To the Gala?”

“To the fucking Gala…”

[Image: R.93bdf8a14041296c26e43d9ab19a88c7?rik=c...ImgRaw&r=0]

]]>

LACKLANLAND
Maine

]]> <![CDATA[A letter and a carriage]]> https://xwf1999.com/showthread.php?tid=45956 Sat, 25 Mar 2023 09:09:04 -0700 Angelica Vaughn]]> https://xwf1999.com/showthread.php?tid=45956 During an airplane ride from El Paso International to Bangor Maine International, while sitting in first class and sipping champagne, Sarah Selena Grey-Lacklan, one half of the XWF Taggie Team Champions, promised to write a “strongly worded letter” to Atticus Gold regarding the inclusion of Jason Cashe in the triple threat match for Team HSU’s championship titles at March Madness. She did, indeed, write said letter during the plane ride, though she decided to factor in the inclusion of Cadryn Tiberius after a few drinks as well, for similar reasons. However, before the letter was sent to the XWF official, it was intercepted by Angelica Mary Vaughn, the other half of the Taggie Team Champions, and younger-but-taller sister of Sarah. Upon reading the letter, not only did Angelica believe that the words were too strong, she also thought they were unnecessarily mean. Thus, she took upon herself the endeavor of making some alterations to said strongly worded letter, without Sarah being the wiser, before sending it to Atticus by way of the Lacklanland Pigeon Delivery Service.

This is that letter.

The STA Ranch
On the outskirts of Lacklanland

Angelica was dressed for the occasion. An occasion they’d put off for far too long, as it was. Angelica was rather looking forward to it, nonetheless. A family reunion, of sorts, was always a lot of fun. Some would even call it a gala. But her mother did not share her enthusiasm.

Mary was plucking away at her outfit, trying to get rid of the tiniest crease in her dress, and rearranging her hat a dozen times, shifting it by a millimeter each time. Angelica patted her on the shoulder.

”Come now, mom. You’re overthinking it. You look great! Besides, I bet Bordy will be thrilled to see you! I think you forget sometimes that the two of you share something that nobody else does. As for Sar, you can just ignore her. Trust me, it can be done, even if she thinks it’s impossible. And I’m sure you and Meemaw Grey will hit it off splendidly!"

Mary sighed.

"Listen to me, sweetheart. Nothing good will come of your meddling with the Greys. In a worst case scenario, Kenzi will come to resent you for it. And this is not a scenario where I want to say ‘I told you so’ later on."

”Why does everyone keep worrying about that? Aren’t you happy you and I got back together again? Just trust me on this, ‘kay? We’ll have the perfect weekend, and we’ll cap it off with wins all around at March Madness! Sar-sar and I have been training like craxy, we’ve never been better as a team! Kenz and Sid will be better off once they’ve made their peace, too."

Mary knew her daughter wasn’t going to be easily deterred, so she let it rest. Although she did have some remarks about her choice of outfit. Whereas most parents worried about something being too revealing or slobbery, Mary’s concerns were the opposite. Angelica wore a fancy dress, fit for Victorian royalty, and on her head…

"Don’t you think the crown is a bit much, dear?"

”Crown? Come now, it’s a tiara. It’s fancy and pretty! No need to look past that! Now, shall we be on our merry way, mother dear?"

Angelica giggled at her rather posh turn of phrase. It was still a bit of a hike to Lacklanland proper, except… Something that resembled the sound of coconut halves being banged together started to make itself known. It wasn’t soon before a horse-drawn carriage pulled up at their front door. The driver bowed his head, almost in reverence, and Angelica enthusiastically clapped her hands.

”Oooh, horsies! I love horsies! Even better than walking! Let’s go!"

"Well… Okay, then."

They got in the carriage and quickly entered the borders. The whirling streets were full of people who had also done their best to dress themselves as fancifully as they could. Angelica hung out of the window and waved at everyone they passed, and was greeted with many cheers.

”I have to admit, mumsie. It starts to feel like home. Don’t you agree? You must be THRILLED to be back here, no?"

Angelica looked back, but her mother wasn’t even looking at the window. Her hands clasped together, and her knees touching, she was looking at the carriage floor.

"I… I don’t know. It feels weird."

”How so? You used to be one of them!"

"Exactly! THEM! I was… part of the rabble, sweetheart. I was a servant girl. I wasn’t someone who rode carriages, wore fancy dresses. When your father’s eye fell on me, he treated me like a queen, but at the end of the day, I was still simply… Mary. And honestly, I’m a bit worried you’re so eager and comfortable riding this carriage through the streets like you’re somehow better than…"

”MOM! NO! You can’t possibly think that! Driver, stop the carriage, if you please!? My mother is feeling uncomfortable. We would prefer to walk the rest of the way."

Within seconds, it came to a grinding halt. Angelica got out, refusing the driver’s help as she stepped off. Mary did the same. Angelica grabbed her mother’s arm, intertwining it with hers. The people still waved at them, but they kept a respectful distance. As they passed a florist, someone even threw a pair of red roses at their feet. Angelica smiled and waved back, while Mary kept her eyes focused on the ground.

”You’re looking at it wrong, mumsie. In the wrestling biz I soon learned that there’s people who genuinely think they are *above* someone else. But you know what? Fans also *want* to look up to someone. And that has to be earned. So, to me, this is kind of like when I get cheered on my way to the ring. I don’t feel like I’m above them, but I am simply giving the people a connection with someone they admire. When I was a wrestling fan, rather than a competitor, I looked up to the superstars soooo much! Just a look, an autograph, a liked tweet,... All of that would make my day! Like when Dad let his ‘eyes fall on you’, right? So I’m not prancing about here because I feel like I deserve admiration. Sarah? Maybe she does, yeah. But I just want to make someone else’s day, if I can. And the people of Lacklanland, well… They love Lacklans. And they consider us to be two of them."

"I… That’s good to hear. It’s easy to lose yourself."

”I know. In the end, you just have to unapologetically be yourself. Look at Raion Kido. It does wonders for him, no? People make fun of him for his Japanese cartoon stuffs, but he doesn’t care. And neither should he. He has an amazeballz girlfriend in Ryleigh who is also a good friend of mine, and he is extremely successful in the ring. And Jason Cashe? He can be obnoxious and brazen, but it’s part of his… charm? I mean, he gets along well with people like Sloane, so how bad can he be, really? If smoking weed, being a ruffian and making bad jokes works for him, and he’s happy to let that be his legacy, then good for him! And Gravy, well, they are definitely unapologetically themselves all of the time, even if what and who they are changes on a weekly basis and you don’t even know what they’re going on about. And Cadryn can simply bend reality to his will, or something. But he won’t be able to conjure up a reality where he and Gravy walk out with the Taggie Team Championships!"

With their walk having come to an end, they were greeted at the compound door by Sarah, who was impatiently tapping her foot and checking the time on her Windows Phone (not that it managed to ever be accurate). As she saw her younger-but-taller sister approach, she motioned her over, telling her to make haste.

Finally! You’re late, Sister! Where are the horses and carriage I sent you??

At hearing Sarah’s voice, Mary flinched and seemed to start dragging her feet. But Angelica held on to her arm and dragged her along.

”Well it was very nice of you to want to carry me again, but we decided we’d prefer a bit of a walk among our people. Thankies for the gesture, though! Now, let’s get this gala going. I’m dying to meet Aveline again! And Si-.... Well, you’ll see. This is going to be the best weekend ever! I can’t wait for March Madness."

Sarah frowned.

Walk? Among the Poors? Whatevz! Come on!

And she went inside, muttering something about ‘servant girls’.]]> During an airplane ride from El Paso International to Bangor Maine International, while sitting in first class and sipping champagne, Sarah Selena Grey-Lacklan, one half of the XWF Taggie Team Champions, promised to write a “strongly worded letter” to Atticus Gold regarding the inclusion of Jason Cashe in the triple threat match for Team HSU’s championship titles at March Madness. She did, indeed, write said letter during the plane ride, though she decided to factor in the inclusion of Cadryn Tiberius after a few drinks as well, for similar reasons. However, before the letter was sent to the XWF official, it was intercepted by Angelica Mary Vaughn, the other half of the Taggie Team Champions, and younger-but-taller sister of Sarah. Upon reading the letter, not only did Angelica believe that the words were too strong, she also thought they were unnecessarily mean. Thus, she took upon herself the endeavor of making some alterations to said strongly worded letter, without Sarah being the wiser, before sending it to Atticus by way of the Lacklanland Pigeon Delivery Service.

This is that letter.

The STA Ranch
On the outskirts of Lacklanland

Angelica was dressed for the occasion. An occasion they’d put off for far too long, as it was. Angelica was rather looking forward to it, nonetheless. A family reunion, of sorts, was always a lot of fun. Some would even call it a gala. But her mother did not share her enthusiasm.

Mary was plucking away at her outfit, trying to get rid of the tiniest crease in her dress, and rearranging her hat a dozen times, shifting it by a millimeter each time. Angelica patted her on the shoulder.

”Come now, mom. You’re overthinking it. You look great! Besides, I bet Bordy will be thrilled to see you! I think you forget sometimes that the two of you share something that nobody else does. As for Sar, you can just ignore her. Trust me, it can be done, even if she thinks it’s impossible. And I’m sure you and Meemaw Grey will hit it off splendidly!"

Mary sighed.

"Listen to me, sweetheart. Nothing good will come of your meddling with the Greys. In a worst case scenario, Kenzi will come to resent you for it. And this is not a scenario where I want to say ‘I told you so’ later on."

”Why does everyone keep worrying about that? Aren’t you happy you and I got back together again? Just trust me on this, ‘kay? We’ll have the perfect weekend, and we’ll cap it off with wins all around at March Madness! Sar-sar and I have been training like craxy, we’ve never been better as a team! Kenz and Sid will be better off once they’ve made their peace, too."

Mary knew her daughter wasn’t going to be easily deterred, so she let it rest. Although she did have some remarks about her choice of outfit. Whereas most parents worried about something being too revealing or slobbery, Mary’s concerns were the opposite. Angelica wore a fancy dress, fit for Victorian royalty, and on her head…

"Don’t you think the crown is a bit much, dear?"

”Crown? Come now, it’s a tiara. It’s fancy and pretty! No need to look past that! Now, shall we be on our merry way, mother dear?"

Angelica giggled at her rather posh turn of phrase. It was still a bit of a hike to Lacklanland proper, except… Something that resembled the sound of coconut halves being banged together started to make itself known. It wasn’t soon before a horse-drawn carriage pulled up at their front door. The driver bowed his head, almost in reverence, and Angelica enthusiastically clapped her hands.

”Oooh, horsies! I love horsies! Even better than walking! Let’s go!"

"Well… Okay, then."

They got in the carriage and quickly entered the borders. The whirling streets were full of people who had also done their best to dress themselves as fancifully as they could. Angelica hung out of the window and waved at everyone they passed, and was greeted with many cheers.

”I have to admit, mumsie. It starts to feel like home. Don’t you agree? You must be THRILLED to be back here, no?"

Angelica looked back, but her mother wasn’t even looking at the window. Her hands clasped together, and her knees touching, she was looking at the carriage floor.

"I… I don’t know. It feels weird."

”How so? You used to be one of them!"

"Exactly! THEM! I was… part of the rabble, sweetheart. I was a servant girl. I wasn’t someone who rode carriages, wore fancy dresses. When your father’s eye fell on me, he treated me like a queen, but at the end of the day, I was still simply… Mary. And honestly, I’m a bit worried you’re so eager and comfortable riding this carriage through the streets like you’re somehow better than…"

”MOM! NO! You can’t possibly think that! Driver, stop the carriage, if you please!? My mother is feeling uncomfortable. We would prefer to walk the rest of the way."

Within seconds, it came to a grinding halt. Angelica got out, refusing the driver’s help as she stepped off. Mary did the same. Angelica grabbed her mother’s arm, intertwining it with hers. The people still waved at them, but they kept a respectful distance. As they passed a florist, someone even threw a pair of red roses at their feet. Angelica smiled and waved back, while Mary kept her eyes focused on the ground.

”You’re looking at it wrong, mumsie. In the wrestling biz I soon learned that there’s people who genuinely think they are *above* someone else. But you know what? Fans also *want* to look up to someone. And that has to be earned. So, to me, this is kind of like when I get cheered on my way to the ring. I don’t feel like I’m above them, but I am simply giving the people a connection with someone they admire. When I was a wrestling fan, rather than a competitor, I looked up to the superstars soooo much! Just a look, an autograph, a liked tweet,... All of that would make my day! Like when Dad let his ‘eyes fall on you’, right? So I’m not prancing about here because I feel like I deserve admiration. Sarah? Maybe she does, yeah. But I just want to make someone else’s day, if I can. And the people of Lacklanland, well… They love Lacklans. And they consider us to be two of them."

"I… That’s good to hear. It’s easy to lose yourself."

”I know. In the end, you just have to unapologetically be yourself. Look at Raion Kido. It does wonders for him, no? People make fun of him for his Japanese cartoon stuffs, but he doesn’t care. And neither should he. He has an amazeballz girlfriend in Ryleigh who is also a good friend of mine, and he is extremely successful in the ring. And Jason Cashe? He can be obnoxious and brazen, but it’s part of his… charm? I mean, he gets along well with people like Sloane, so how bad can he be, really? If smoking weed, being a ruffian and making bad jokes works for him, and he’s happy to let that be his legacy, then good for him! And Gravy, well, they are definitely unapologetically themselves all of the time, even if what and who they are changes on a weekly basis and you don’t even know what they’re going on about. And Cadryn can simply bend reality to his will, or something. But he won’t be able to conjure up a reality where he and Gravy walk out with the Taggie Team Championships!"

With their walk having come to an end, they were greeted at the compound door by Sarah, who was impatiently tapping her foot and checking the time on her Windows Phone (not that it managed to ever be accurate). As she saw her younger-but-taller sister approach, she motioned her over, telling her to make haste.

Finally! You’re late, Sister! Where are the horses and carriage I sent you??

At hearing Sarah’s voice, Mary flinched and seemed to start dragging her feet. But Angelica held on to her arm and dragged her along.

”Well it was very nice of you to want to carry me again, but we decided we’d prefer a bit of a walk among our people. Thankies for the gesture, though! Now, let’s get this gala going. I’m dying to meet Aveline again! And Si-.... Well, you’ll see. This is going to be the best weekend ever! I can’t wait for March Madness."

Sarah frowned.

Walk? Among the Poors? Whatevz! Come on!

And she went inside, muttering something about ‘servant girls’.]]> <![CDATA[Act 4: What 'Putt-Putt' Sounds Like]]> https://xwf1999.com/showthread.php?tid=45952 Fri, 24 Mar 2023 22:12:07 -0700 Mark Flynn]]> https://xwf1999.com/showthread.php?tid=45952 “Hrrrrrrrrrrrrrrgh.”

“...You all right, Mister Flynn?”

“...Just…. Hrrrrrgh. S’Awkward, is all.”

“...Sure.”

“I mean, they don’t make greeting cards for this sort of thing.”

“How do you mean?”

…Flynn clicks his tongue, parsing for the perfect summary.

“Like, you can’t buy a Hallmark card that says ‘Hey! Sorry I left you to be horrifically mangled by Jason Voorhees and you literally died and now you’re back, I guess?”

…

“Mister Flynn… You literally started a greeting card line that sells that exact card.”

[Image: I-m-Sorry-I-let-Jason-Voorhees-Murder-you.png]

[Image: I-m-Sorry-I-let-Jason-Voorhees-Murder-you.png]

…

“Well then why didn’t you SUGGEST I buy one of those, Irwin?!?!”

“...I-I… I guess I thought you would have thought of it, sir…”

“I can’t think of everything! I’ve thought up the big picture!!! Like convincing Dick Powers to teach me Mini-Golf!”

“...That was MY idea, sir.”

“Great idea, too!”

Flynn and Irwin both jump with a start!

Sitting across from them is none other than the Slambassador himself, Dick Powers! Sipping on a hot pink strawberry milkshake.

“Fuck me!” Flynn says, covering his heart in shock.

“Hmm… No thank you.” Dick retorts.

…Dick looks Flynn up and down, thoughtfully.

…Powers tilts his head to the side, like he’s really thinking about it, just out of morbid curiosity.

…

“Nah.” Dick shakes his head, finally concluding the experience would not be worth the pillow talk. “Naaaaaaaaaaah.”

Flynn’s eye twitches. “I was having a PRIVATE conversation with my SIMP, Powers!!! State your business!”

Powers scratches his nose, perplexed. “...Like… YOU asked ME to cum to this putt-putt course.”

Indeed, the three are seated at a picnic table outside Wacky Walter’s Putt-Putt Emporium, Tattoo Parlor and Regional Airport!

In the background, a plane takes off…

…

It lands about 15 seconds later at a mall 0.75 miles down the road.

“Ah. Right.” Flynn snaps his fingers, leaning in over the table, dropping his voice to a whisper. “Powers… I hear tell that… you’re a master of putt-putt.”

“Yep.”

Irwin leans in, copying Flynn.

“Mini-Golf’s a tough game, we hear… How’d you get so good?”

Powers looks both ways… First left, then right.

Finally, he too leans in over the table…

“I have a natural talent at any activity that involves putting something in a hole.” Powers says with a wink. “Plus, You ever notice what ‘putt-putt’ sounds like?”

Dicks Powers slaps his fist sideways into his hand over-and-over. His grin’s a mile wide.

“You hear that? What ‘putt-putt’ sounds like?”

…Dick nods at Irwin as he continues putt-putting., The Simp is deeply uncomfortable.

“Yo, dude. What does ‘putt-putt’ sound like to you?”

…He speeds up his putt-putting by about 20 percent.

“...Ooh… ooh…ohhhhhhhhhhhhhh” Powers adds some vocals, delighting himself.

…Flynn’s face contorts in disgust.

“So, you’re saying… Being a sex-addicted lunatic is the secret to mini-golf supremacy?”

“...I prefer ‘hopeless romatic’, but Yeah!” Powers nods. “Seduction and golf are basically the same game.”

“Rule 1. Half the game is in the pants.” Powers stretches the waistband of his sparkly blue tights off his hip. SNAP! They slap his waist… in a way that is somehow alluring.

“Rule 2. Finesssssssssssse and affirmative consent. Ya gotta make the hole waaaaaant to be filled before you start. Otherwise, you’re just gonna be left gripping your five-wood alone.”

…

“Or three-wood if that story about a clown woman biting your dick off is correct, Flynnie.”

…

Flynn’s eyes narrow. “It is. BUT, (for once), it’s NOT TIME TO TALK ABOUT THAT.”

Flynn stands up at the table, hovering menacingly over Powers.

“Listen, you disgusting, perverted, DEPRAVED, DEVIANT REPROBATE.”

“Listening.” Powers smiles non-chalantly, sipping on a milkshake.

“If I’m going to remain the MOST DOMINANT UNIVERSAL CHAMPION WHO HAVE EVER LIVED…” Flynn snarls. “I need to master this stupid, STUPID sport…”

Flynn shoves a finger in the Slambassador’s face.

“Now! I don’t like you and you don’t like me. BUT I DEMAND TH-”

…A single tear cums to Powers’ eye.

“...W-w-wait, I like you!”

…Flynn’s eyes narrow in distrust.

“...You do?”

…Irwin’s head tilts, shocked.

“B-b-but… Mister Flynn left you for dead! He drove away while Jason Voorhees literally chopped you into meat strips!”

Powers shrugs.

“Whatevz… Besides! If it wasn’t for XWF’s new company healthplan, I’d still be dead!”

“...Company… healthplan?”

***

SEVERAL WEEKS EARLIER

A Hospital Emergency Room…

An EKG slowly beeping… Faintly… Faaaaaaintly…

Then nothing.

Dick Powers, covered in machete stab wounds, seeping pools of blood, is no more.

A motherfucking sexy-ass daytime TV Doctor lifts a sheet over the Slambassador’s face.

“I’m sorry. We’ve done all we can. Time of dea-”

Suddenly, from off-screen, a hand extends an insurance card in the doctor’s face…

[Image: png-transparent-person-holding-white-car...ce-dat.png]

[Image: png-transparent-person-holding-white-car...ce-dat.png]

The Doctor blushes! “Oh!” He leans down to bow toward Dick Powers’ corpse. “I’m so sorry, forgive me sir. I didn’t realize you were ‘RECORD PROFITS™’ status…”

The Doctor clears his throat, reaches down and knocks twice on Powers’ sternum.

Then once.

…

Then twice quickly.

“GAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAASP!” Dick’s body sucks all the air in the room as life rushes back into his body.

Powers resurrects so hard that he unshits the shit you take when you die.

As that happens, Powers’ return-to-life gasp raise two octaves.

***

…

“So. Wait. You’re saying that Theo Pryce bought such good health insurance… That it can bring the DEAD back to life?”

“Yep!” Powers lifts a punchcard with two punches stamped out. “In fact, if I die three more times this billing cycle, I get a free satin tote!”

[Image: Screen-Shot-2023-03-24-at-11-48-04-PM.png]

[Image: Screen-Shot-2023-03-24-at-11-48-04-PM.png]

“And it’s all because Flynnie raised company profits. If we were on the standard plan, I might still be dead.”

Flynn strokes his chin. “Somewhere in here is commentary about American healthcare…”

…He smacks the table.

“BUT NO TIME FOR THAT. Teach me mini-golf!”

Powers nods.

“I will teach you everything I know.”

Flynn lifts his wrist, displaying his watch.

“You’ve got 600 words four hours.”

“Then, I will teach you two-thirds of what I know.”

Powers reaches into the back of his silky ass kimono.

And withdraws a veiny purple putter.

“Let’s putt-putt.”

***

BEGIN MONTAGE

Flynn and Dick are standing in front of a par 3 hole. A big windmill spins, with a crevice in its base.

Flynn does some mental math… Calculating the exact timing and rotational torque of the windmill…

NOW! He steps up to the ball and strikes!

The ball rolllllllllllls!

…Straight into the blade of the windmill.

Flynn grits his teeth.

Powers gestures to Flynn, to allow him to demonstrate. Flynn steps back.

Powers steps up to the ball… And Swings, with a playful thrust to his hips!

The ball rolllllls! Exactly in time to hit the windmill’s blade!

…But the windmill stops! And seems to blush as Powers’ shaft points through!

The ball flies out the other side, into the hole!

“Ehhhhhhhhhhh…”

…Did the windmill just moan?

***

Par 2 hole with a big wooden box in the middle, requiring the putt-putter bankshot the ball off the wall.

Flynn has a protractor out, measuring the exact angle he needs to hit the ball.

He nods, affirming his math. He strikes!

The ball perfectly banks where he aimed it…

It rolls like a man ball possessed!

It goes in!

Flynn pumps his arm!

…When suddenly, the hole *actually* spits the ball back out, just inches from the hole.

…Flynn lifts the putter to break it against his knee, furious.

Powers elbows Flynn to watch this.

Powers walks up to the hole with two Sex-on-the-Beaches in his hands.

He puts one next to the hole and starts pointing at Flynn back at the start of the hole, wingmanning it up.

The wind seems to shift and the flag points at Flynn curiously.

…Flynn scratches his face.

Suddenly, the hole… opens itself wider! And the ball goes back in!

***

“Sorry, I just…” Flynn scratches a blindfold around his eyes. “What does this have to do with putt-putt?”

“Trust me, it’ll cum up.” Powers assures, as he runs back a safe distance…

“NOW!”

WHAM! A fist takes Flynn off his feet. Flynn tears the blindfold off… And who’s standing in front of him? But the healthiest 99-year old on God’s Green Earth, Bob Motherfucking Barker.

[Image: HugeGivingFulmar-size_restricted.gif]

In one fluid motion, Flynn kips up off the ground, dukes up.

“You wanna piece ‘a me, Barker?”

WHAM! Another Barker haymaker catches Flynn in the face.

“No! I want the whole thing!”

***

Back at the windmill.

Flynn tries to emulate Powers’ hump putt exactly.

The ball rollllllls!

And this time the windmill literally zips in front of the hole to block the ball.

Flynn is outraged! He reels back the putter like a javelin!

…But is stopped by Dick, who shakes his head. He crosses his arms in front of his groin. Then pats his chest.

Seduction doesn’t come from the Dick. it comes from the heart.

***

Flynn and Barker are dueling, swinging putters like master fencers.

Flynn goes for an overhead strike!

Barker side-steps!

“Oooh, sorry, Mark! You went OVER THE LIMIT!”

Barker sparta-kicks Flynn in the chest.

***

Flynn lines up to putt at the windmill.

“...Hey?” He offers to the spinning windmill. “Wanna… tell me about your day?”

…Flynn hits the ball.

The ball rolllllllls!

The windmill… Actually slows down.

Flynn’s balls swoops through the gap and into the hole!

Flynn drops to his knees, “I’M THE GREATEST!”

Powers nods. He’s learning…

***

Flynn is gripping his putter, defensively… As Barker swings over and over downwards on him!

Barker reels back! For the finishing blow!

…But Flynn sweeps the leg!

Barker collapses!

Flynn dives ontop of him!

KNOCKOUT HEADBUTT!

Barker lies on the grass, head busted open.

Flynn spits down on him.

“The Price is WRONG, BITCH.”

***

A ball rolls into the 18th hole.

On both sides of it, under blankets, Powers and Flynn lie ass-naked, each sporting a cigarette.

“Was it good for you, too?”

The flag raises on the hole, affirming, yes.

Oh yes, it was.

Dick delivers a thumbs up.

“You’re ready.”

END MONTAGE

***

Flynn and Irwin close the door to the Honda Fit.

“Sweet. ‘Phase 1: Out Putt-Putt Bourbon’ is complete.”

“Great work, Mister Flynn!” Irwin glances at his watch. “Oh jeez, only 1200 words eight hours to the match.”

“Plenty of time, Irwin. We’ve just gotta figure out a surefire method to beat Bobby at wrestling.”

Irwin nods confidently. “Perfect! So, what’s the plan? To the gym? Or maybe running a thousand simulations in the Kenta Kobayashi Maru?”

Flynn shakes his head.

“Oh no. Nothing that complicated.”

…

“Just gonna make a quick deal-with-the-devil.”

…

“What?”
OOC: 1750 Words]]> “Hrrrrrrrrrrrrrrgh.”

“...You all right, Mister Flynn?”

“...Just…. Hrrrrrgh. S’Awkward, is all.”

“...Sure.”

“I mean, they don’t make greeting cards for this sort of thing.”

“How do you mean?”

…Flynn clicks his tongue, parsing for the perfect summary.

“Like, you can’t buy a Hallmark card that says ‘Hey! Sorry I left you to be horrifically mangled by Jason Voorhees and you literally died and now you’re back, I guess?”

…

“Mister Flynn… You literally started a greeting card line that sells that exact card.”

[Image: I-m-Sorry-I-let-Jason-Voorhees-Murder-you.png]

SEVERAL WEEKS EARLIER

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