<![CDATA[X-treme Wrestling Federation - RED DEAD RELENTLESS 2026 Night 2]]>

<![CDATA[X-treme Wrestling Federation - RED DEAD RELENTLESS 2026 Night 2]]> https://xwf1999.com/ Mon, 21 Sep 2026 13:33:41 +0000 MyBB <![CDATA[Scoops McGee in... "War" - Part 2 of 3]]> https://xwf1999.com/showthread.php?tid=50498 Fri, 18 Sep 2026 23:58:36 -0700 Scoops McGee]]> https://xwf1999.com/showthread.php?tid=50498 When our war continues, we need to be willing to up the stakes, no matter what it takes. When I look into your eyes, I want to make sure you remember what I do to you.

((OOC: Coding isn't complete in the last part of the doc, will be finished in the morning, real life has just been terrible this past week.))]]> When our war continues, we need to be willing to up the stakes, no matter what it takes. When I look into your eyes, I want to make sure you remember what I do to you.

((OOC: Coding isn't complete in the last part of the doc, will be finished in the morning, real life has just been terrible this past week.))]]> <![CDATA[Vampire Lives Matter!]]> https://xwf1999.com/showthread.php?tid=50486 Thu, 17 Sep 2026 15:03:38 -0700 Kristoffer "Vamp" Arroyo]]> https://xwf1999.com/showthread.php?tid=50486
…..VAMPIRES!

Or vampire supporters. Or the vampire adjacent. Whatever the case they’re all protesting, waving placards around that say things like “Vampire Lives Matter” and “Just because I’m UNdead doesn’t mean I’m an UNperson!”

Against this scene a car slowly rolls into view, and we are sent inside it where Kristoffer Arroyo is seated in the back next to vampire thrall and tiger blood sex energy haver Charlie Sheen. Kristoffer looks out the window.

“That’s a lot of people.”

“You nervous all of a sudden?”

“No. The more the better. This message needs to reach as many ears as possible.” Kristoffer quirks an eyebrow at Charlie. “You got coke on your lip.”

“Oh, shit!” Charlie rubs his hand across his mouth, dislodging the cocaine.

“You ready Krissy?” Alexandria Ocasio Cortez turns around from the driver’s seat, flashing Kris a winning smile.

“As ever.”

“Hey, if they start throwing panties grab a few for me, would ya?”

AOC recoils. “EW!”

“Don’t kink shame me! I’m sure with how long you’ve lived you got some sexy skeletons in YOUR closet!”

“Eh. Fair.”

With that, the duo disembark from the car and wade into the crowd, which is naturally ecstatic at the sight of them. Many of them chant Kristoffer’s name as he makes his way through the throngs of excited vampires. Reaching a makeshift podium set high amongst the crowd, Kristoffer takes his place behind it. As predicted, a few pairs of panties thrown by men and women strike the podium and Kris. Charlie makes a “give them to me” sign from the crowd and Kris rolls his eyes and throws the panties to Sheen. Then, putting on a game face, he speaks into the microphone.

“Vampire lives matter.”

The crowd pops!

“It goes without saying doesn’t it? And yeah, we’ve faced harder times than these. But that doesn’t mean we can let our guard down! Especially when it comes to a company run by wannabe vampires like Musk, Bezos, and….and that other guy!” He points to the building behind him.

“This match that I’ve been booked in for Relentless? It seems like a vestige of our darkest times, doesn’t it? Hell, my opponent is being encouraged….ENCOURAGED….to jam a stake through my heart. And vampire or not, that’s pretty damn fatal.”

Kris’ lips tug down into a deep frown. The crowd picks up on this and quiets, growing solemn.

“They literally want me dead. I’ve given them every ounce of my blood sweat and tears for the last year, winning two of their championships, and you’d think that would garner some fucking respect! Some consideration! But no. I’m a sideshow whose only apparent worth is as a corpse. They don’t see me as a person. They see me as some cheap goth pastiche, a gimmick ripe for endless gimmick matches ribbing me for who and what I am.”

Kris glowers at the camera, casting off his trademark shades so you can catch a full eyeful of his rage.

“Fuck you, Elon.”

This draws some more cheers and squeals of delight from the masses.

“No, but really….sincerely….FUCK YOU. Trying to outright murder my ass when you know I’ve got a kid at home who depends on me. Or maybe you don’t know. Maybe you don’t give a shit. Can’t say that wouldn’t be on brand."

Kris shrugs sardonically.

"And then there’s the Billionaire’s trigger man for this match. I mean, what, was Beetlejizz not down for a second paycheck? Christ almighty.

Nah, instead we got this GUY, guy being the generic operative word because we know fuck all about him aside from the fact that he’s rich, white, and has an ego. Literally a create a wrestler out of the newest XWF video game. But isn’t this just so fitting. Doesn’t it just make the most damn sense that out of everyone the billionaires would chose to kill me it’s their platonic ideal: a good looking wealthy caucasian who thinks his shit doesn’t stink. Take out the “good looking” part and you’ve got a spitting image of a certain triumvirate of you-know-who’s.

Listen Deacon, I’m not going to pull that hacky shit and say that I assume you suck because I’ve never heard of you. You could be decent. You could even be good. But my friend you are just quintessentially in the wrong place at the wrong time.

Because Kristoffer Arroyo is mad as hell. And when Kristoffer Arroyo is mad as hell it knocks on the dam holding back all those impulses I’ve been trying to squelch for months. You see Deke, I’ve been trying to better myself. I’ve been trying to be a better role model for my ward Matty.

But shit like this?

It makes me want to drown the world in blood.”

The crowd whoops.

“Thankfully for you, today I’m settling for drowning this statue of Elon.”

Kris gestures behind him at the statue of Musk standing outside the HQ. The crowd of vampires pick up buckets of blood and brushes and start heading for the statue.

“But I’m warning you motherfucker….”

A bucket of blood splashes mightily against the statue.

“If you even think of getting frisky, if you even ponder taking me out for good, these fangs come out right quick to make a mess of those good looks. And Deke, I’ve had 300 years to hone my craft. You think you’re the first one coming to take a shot at the king? I’ve got a whole line of ugly I could show you.

Now run tell that, rich boy.”

The shot fades out on the crimson soaked effigy of Elon Musk.]]>
…..VAMPIRES!

Or vampire supporters. Or the vampire adjacent. Whatever the case they’re all protesting, waving placards around that say things like “Vampire Lives Matter” and “Just because I’m UNdead doesn’t mean I’m an UNperson!”

Against this scene a car slowly rolls into view, and we are sent inside it where Kristoffer Arroyo is seated in the back next to vampire thrall and tiger blood sex energy haver Charlie Sheen. Kristoffer looks out the window.

“That’s a lot of people.”

“You nervous all of a sudden?”

“No. The more the better. This message needs to reach as many ears as possible.” Kristoffer quirks an eyebrow at Charlie. “You got coke on your lip.”

“Oh, shit!” Charlie rubs his hand across his mouth, dislodging the cocaine.

“You ready Krissy?” Alexandria Ocasio Cortez turns around from the driver’s seat, flashing Kris a winning smile.

“As ever.”

“Hey, if they start throwing panties grab a few for me, would ya?”

AOC recoils. “EW!”

“Don’t kink shame me! I’m sure with how long you’ve lived you got some sexy skeletons in YOUR closet!”

“Eh. Fair.”

With that, the duo disembark from the car and wade into the crowd, which is naturally ecstatic at the sight of them. Many of them chant Kristoffer’s name as he makes his way through the throngs of excited vampires. Reaching a makeshift podium set high amongst the crowd, Kristoffer takes his place behind it. As predicted, a few pairs of panties thrown by men and women strike the podium and Kris. Charlie makes a “give them to me” sign from the crowd and Kris rolls his eyes and throws the panties to Sheen. Then, putting on a game face, he speaks into the microphone.

“Vampire lives matter.”

The crowd pops!

“It goes without saying doesn’t it? And yeah, we’ve faced harder times than these. But that doesn’t mean we can let our guard down! Especially when it comes to a company run by wannabe vampires like Musk, Bezos, and….and that other guy!” He points to the building behind him.

“This match that I’ve been booked in for Relentless? It seems like a vestige of our darkest times, doesn’t it? Hell, my opponent is being encouraged….ENCOURAGED….to jam a stake through my heart. And vampire or not, that’s pretty damn fatal.”

Kris’ lips tug down into a deep frown. The crowd picks up on this and quiets, growing solemn.

“They literally want me dead. I’ve given them every ounce of my blood sweat and tears for the last year, winning two of their championships, and you’d think that would garner some fucking respect! Some consideration! But no. I’m a sideshow whose only apparent worth is as a corpse. They don’t see me as a person. They see me as some cheap goth pastiche, a gimmick ripe for endless gimmick matches ribbing me for who and what I am.”

Kris glowers at the camera, casting off his trademark shades so you can catch a full eyeful of his rage.

“Fuck you, Elon.”

This draws some more cheers and squeals of delight from the masses.

“No, but really….sincerely….FUCK YOU. Trying to outright murder my ass when you know I’ve got a kid at home who depends on me. Or maybe you don’t know. Maybe you don’t give a shit. Can’t say that wouldn’t be on brand."

Kris shrugs sardonically.

"And then there’s the Billionaire’s trigger man for this match. I mean, what, was Beetlejizz not down for a second paycheck? Christ almighty.

Nah, instead we got this GUY, guy being the generic operative word because we know fuck all about him aside from the fact that he’s rich, white, and has an ego. Literally a create a wrestler out of the newest XWF video game. But isn’t this just so fitting. Doesn’t it just make the most damn sense that out of everyone the billionaires would chose to kill me it’s their platonic ideal: a good looking wealthy caucasian who thinks his shit doesn’t stink. Take out the “good looking” part and you’ve got a spitting image of a certain triumvirate of you-know-who’s.

Listen Deacon, I’m not going to pull that hacky shit and say that I assume you suck because I’ve never heard of you. You could be decent. You could even be good. But my friend you are just quintessentially in the wrong place at the wrong time.

Because Kristoffer Arroyo is mad as hell. And when Kristoffer Arroyo is mad as hell it knocks on the dam holding back all those impulses I’ve been trying to squelch for months. You see Deke, I’ve been trying to better myself. I’ve been trying to be a better role model for my ward Matty.

But shit like this?

It makes me want to drown the world in blood.”

The crowd whoops.

“Thankfully for you, today I’m settling for drowning this statue of Elon.”

Kris gestures behind him at the statue of Musk standing outside the HQ. The crowd of vampires pick up buckets of blood and brushes and start heading for the statue.

“But I’m warning you motherfucker….”

A bucket of blood splashes mightily against the statue.

“If you even think of getting frisky, if you even ponder taking me out for good, these fangs come out right quick to make a mess of those good looks. And Deke, I’ve had 300 years to hone my craft. You think you’re the first one coming to take a shot at the king? I’ve got a whole line of ugly I could show you.

Now run tell that, rich boy.”

The shot fades out on the crimson soaked effigy of Elon Musk.]]> <![CDATA[RED DEAD — JENNY MYST: “WHAT’S IN A NAME?”]]> https://xwf1999.com/showthread.php?tid=50484 Thu, 17 Sep 2026 06:54:49 -0700 YourHighnessofViolence]]> https://xwf1999.com/showthread.php?tid=50484 Jenny had been in Texas for less than six hours when she decided she hated the place.

It was not Texas itself. Texas had done nothing to her. The hotel was fine, the people at the front desk were polite, and the little Mexican place across the street had given her enough food to feed three people for eleven dollars. Under normal circumstances, she might have been perfectly happy.

The problem was the billboard.

She had seen it on the ride from the airport, twenty feet high beside the highway, advertising Red Dead in giant red letters. Beneath the event logo were two faces, hers and the man she was supposed to fight.

RAZOR BLADE.

Jenny had stared through the window for a good five seconds before turning toward the driver.

“Seriously?”

The driver glanced at her in the mirror. “What?”

“Nothing.”

She looked back at the billboard as it disappeared behind them.

Razor Blade.

It still bothered her.

By the time she reached the hotel, checked in, dropped her bag beside the bed, and kicked off her shoes, Jenny had already built an entire imaginary childhood for him. Private school. Lacrosse. Family vacations somewhere expensive. A father who called everybody “sport.” A mother who sent Christmas cards with matching sweaters.

She knew none of that was necessarily true.

That almost made it funnier.

The photograph was doing most of the work.

Jenny sat on the edge of the bed with her phone in her hand, staring at the promotional graphic again. The name promised a guy who slept under bridges and sharpened knives for recreation. The picture looked like somebody who had complained to a restaurant manager because his sparkling water had arrived with lemon instead of lime.

Then there was the match.

Texas Death Match.

Jenny laughed quietly.

Of course it was.

Professional wrestling had a strange way of taking two people who disliked each other and deciding regular violence was insufficient. A normal match apparently could not settle this. Somebody needed to be beaten down badly enough that getting back to their feet became the entire point.

She understood the rules.

She also understood what people expected from her.

That part bothered her more than Razor Blade did.

Everybody expected Jenny Myst to walk into a room and become Jenny Myst immediately. Say something horrible. Laugh at somebody. Find the softest part of another person's ego and stick her thumb directly into it. She had become good enough at it that people assumed it required no effort.

Sometimes it did.

Tonight she was tired.

Jenny tossed the phone beside her and lay backward across the mattress, staring at the ceiling.

For a few minutes, there was no Razor Blade. No Red Dead. No Texas Death Match. No cameras. No championship implications. No audience waiting to clip whatever cruel thing she said and post it online.

There was just Jennifer.

She closed her eyes.

Her phone buzzed.

She ignored it.

It buzzed again.

“Fuck off.”

A third buzz.

Jenny reached blindly across the bed, found the phone, and looked.

Three messages from production.

They wanted footage.

Naturally.

She typed back that she would give them something tomorrow.

The response came almost immediately.

Need something tonight if possible.

Jenny stared at the message.

“Of course you do.”

Twenty minutes later, she was downstairs.

No makeup team. No elaborate set. She wore jeans, sneakers, and a black hoodie because that was what she had already been wearing. Her hair was tied back. Production had sent one cameraman and one sound guy, both of whom looked apologetic about bothering her.

“Where do you want me?” she asked.

The cameraman shrugged. “Wherever you want.”

Jenny looked around the hotel lobby.

“No.”

Outside was not much better. Cars moved along the access road. A gas station glowed across the street. Somewhere nearby, somebody was playing music too loudly from an open window.

Then Jenny noticed the billboard in the distance.

She smiled.

“Come on.”

They walked.

It took about ten minutes to reach it. Jenny did not speak along the way. The cameraman tried once to ask what she had planned.

“Nothing.”

That answer made him nervous.

Good.

They stopped beneath the billboard.

Up close, it was even more ridiculous.

Jenny stood with her hands in the pockets of her hoodie and looked up at Razor Blade's face.

The cameraman started recording.

She kept looking.

Thirty seconds passed.

“Are we rolling?”

“Yeah.”

“Good.”

Jenny finally looked toward the camera.

“I've spent all day trying to figure you out.”

Her voice was quieter than usual.

“Not because you're complicated. Don't flatter yourself. I'm trying to figure out who looked at you and decided Razor Blade was the answer.”

She glanced upward again.

“Because I don't see it.”

A car passed behind them.

“I see a guy who looks like he got detention once and his parents threatened to sue the school. I see somebody who probably knows what a regatta is. I see a man who looks like his childhood bedroom had a trophy shelf his father had professionally installed.”

Jenny smiled.

“But I don't see a Razor Blade.”

She stepped away from the billboard post.

“And maybe that's unfair. Maybe you had a terrible childhood. Maybe you grew up fighting every day. Maybe everything I'm looking at is wrong.”

A small shrug.

“Doesn't matter.”

That was the difference tonight.

Jenny did not need his biography.

She did not need to prove that Razor Blade had grown up rich, poor, privileged, neglected, loved, hated, or anything else. She only needed the name because the name told her what he wanted strangers to believe.

Dangerous.

Sharp.

Cold.

Something people should handle carefully.

Jenny understood branding.

She had spent years turning herself into something people remembered.

“But here's what bothers me,” she continued. “You picked a name that asks everybody else to be afraid before you've done anything to them.”

She paused.

“I never needed that.”

The joking edge disappeared.

“At Red Dead, we're having a Texas Death Match. That's not a nickname. That's not a jacket. That's not some cute graphic they put behind us on a poster. One of us is going to hurt the other one until they can't answer the count.”

Jenny looked up once more.

“And you're standing across from me dressed like the final boss of a prep school fundraiser.”

The cameraman snorted.

Jenny looked at him.

He immediately became silent.

She turned back.

“Sorry. Couldn't help myself.”

There she was.

The grin returned.

“You really do look like your name should be Razor Bradley. I bet there's a Chad somewhere who still owes you forty dollars from spring break.”

She walked closer to the camera.

“But jokes stop when the bell rings.”

Her face settled.

“That is the part I need you to understand.”

Jenny had been hurt before. She had been dropped on her head, thrown into things that were not designed to catch human bodies, cut open, embarrassed, and beaten. She knew what it felt like to hear a referee counting while her body tried to convince her that staying down would be easier.

She also knew what came after eight.

Nine.

Then the choice.

People liked to talk about toughness as if it was a personality trait. Jenny thought that was bullshit. Toughness was a decision made when every sensible part of your body begged for the opposite.

Get up.

That was all Red Dead would become eventually.

Get up.

Again.

Again.

Again.

Until somebody couldn't.

The truth was, she did not know whether she would win. Nobody ever knew that, no matter how confidently they spoke into cameras. Razor Blade could be better than the photograph suggested. He could be tougher than the name sounded stupid. He could put her down and keep her there. Jenny accepted that because pretending otherwise would make the thing meaningless. Fear was not believing you could lose. Fear was letting that possibility decide what you did next. She would show up anyway. She would fight anyway. If he knocked her down nine times, she would make him watch her stand ten.

Jenny pointed toward Razor Blade's picture.

“So bring whatever this is supposed to be. Bring Razor Blade. Bring the dangerous man. Bring the version of yourself that name promises everybody exists.”

Her hand dropped.

“Because I'm bringing Jennifer.”

No nickname.

No joke.

No mythology.

Just her.

“And Jennifer is really fucking difficult to keep down.”

Jenny turned and started walking toward the hotel.

The cameraman lowered the camera.

“That's it?”

She stopped.

For a moment, she considered giving him something bigger. Some dramatic threat. Blood. Graves. Death. The usual wrestling nonsense people said when they wanted violence to sound poetic.

Instead, Jenny looked back at the billboard.

Razor Blade smiled down from twenty feet above the highway.

She shook her head.

“Yeah.”

Then she started walking again.

“That's enough.”

Behind her, the billboard stayed exactly where it was, promising danger to every passing car.

Jenny never looked back.

Jenny stares at the picture for several seconds.

“Razor Blade.”

Another pause.

“Razor. Fucking. Blade.”

You know, there are certain names in professional wrestling where you hear them and immediately understand what you’re supposed to be dealing with. Undertaker? Okay. Somebody’s probably dying. Bruiser? Probably hurts people. Psycho? Maybe don’t leave your drink unattended around that motherfucker.

But Razor Blade?

Razor Blade sounds dangerous.

Razor Blade sounds like somebody you find leaning against a piss-stained brick wall behind a condemned nightclub at three in the morning, smoking a cigarette that may or may not contain tobacco while explaining why the blood on his boots technically belongs to the state now.

And then this motherfucker walks out.

Jenny points.

Look at him.

That is not Razor Blade.

That is Preston Whitmore III, captain of the lacrosse team at St. Fuckington Preparatory Academy somewhere outside Milwaukee.

This motherfucker looks like his biggest act of rebellion was wearing boat shoes without socks.

You don't look like you've ever held a razor blade. You look like your mother specifically bought you the electric kind because she was worried you'd nick yourself before junior cotillion.

What the fuck are you cutting with this gimmick?

The crust off your sandwiches?

You look like somebody whose father responded to his first DUI by saying, “Now, son, obviously there are going to be consequences,” before quietly calling the family attorney and donating a new scoreboard to the high school.

Razor Blade.

Jesus Christ.

You look like you say “summering” as a verb.

You look like you've got a grandmother named Bitsy.

You look like you know exactly which fork to use for the salad but would need written instructions to open a can of SpaghettiOs.

There is absolutely nothing dangerous about you.

I've seen sharper fucking pool noodles.

And what really kills me is the jacket.

Because apparently somebody looked at this human Vineyard Vines catalog and thought, You know what would make him intimidating?

Sequins.

Fantastic.

Nothing says hardened street weapon quite like looking like the regional manager of a Liberace-themed steakhouse.

You've got enough sparkly shit glued to your shoulders to blind air traffic control, but I'm supposed to believe you're Razor Blade?

Motherfucker, you look like Cinderella's divorced dad.

And I KNOW how this happened.

At some point you were sitting around trying to invent yourself, because “Chad Who Owns Three Quarter-Zips” wasn't moving merchandise, and somebody said you needed an edge.

And you took that literally.

“What's got an edge?”

Knife?

No.

Too scary.

Sword?

Goodness, no.

Razor Blade?

Jenny snaps her fingers.

Perfect.

Except you skipped the important part where the fucking name is supposed to match the person wearing it.

Calling yourself Razor Blade doesn't magically make you dangerous any more than me calling myself Jenny Private Jet Myst means there's suddenly a Gulfstream waiting outside.

You can't just slap threatening nouns together and expect everybody else to participate in your delusion.

Otherwise tomorrow I'm debuting my new tag team partner:

GUNSHOT CHAINSAW.

He's an accountant from Des Moines named fucking Gary.

And somehow Gary would still frighten me more than you.

Because Razor Blade over here doesn't look like he grew up fighting.

He looks like he grew up fencing.

Not stealing shit and selling it.

The sport.

With lessons.

Tuesday and Thursday after Mandarin tutoring.

Your childhood trauma was probably your parents buying you the silver Lexus instead of the black one.

You've never been jumped behind a bar.

You've been asked to leave a country club because your guest wasn't wearing a collared shirt.

You've never eaten because you had to.

You've eaten because Mother informed Consuela brunch was ready.

This isn't Razor Blade.

This is the villain from a Disney Channel movie about a poor kid trying to save the community ski lodge from being purchased by your fucking father.

And I can already hear the response.

“Jenny, you shouldn't judge a book by its cover.”

Absolutely.

Except HE NAMED THE FUCKING BOOK RAZOR BLADE.

If Stephen King releases a novel called The Horrifying Chainsaw Massacre of Blood Mountain and chapter one is about Trevor getting accepted into Northwestern, I'm going to have some fucking questions.

That's you.

You're false advertising with entrance music.

You're a warning label attached to sparkling water.

You're a parental advisory sticker slapped across a Michael Bublé Christmas album.

You are the human equivalent of ordering something called the DEATH INFERNO BURGER and discovering the secret sauce is mayonnaise.

And somehow the longer I look at you, the worse it gets.

The hair.

Oh, the fucking hair.

That is not the haircut of somebody called Razor Blade.

That's the haircut of somebody who walks into a barber shop and says, “Whatever makes my cheekbones pop, Brayden.”

You don't look like you're about to carve somebody up.

You look like you're about to explain why your fraternity's hazing allegations were “completely taken out of context.”

I bet you smell incredible.

That's how little I fear you.

I look at Razor Blade and think,

That man definitely moisturizes.

Probably exfoliates too.

Probably has one of those little refrigerated drawers filled with eye creams and tells people hydration is actually the foundation of good skincare.

Which is wonderful.

Take care of yourself.

But maybe don't do it while calling yourself something commonly found in an evidence bag.

Because you're not Razor Blade.

You're Safety Scissors.

You're Butter Knife.

You're Plastic Spork.

You're the little rounded blade they give preschoolers so nobody accidentally gets a boo-boo during arts and crafts.

Actually—

Jenny studies him again.

No.

I've got it.

You're not Razor Blade.

You're Razor Bradley.

Private school.

Midwest.

Class of 2006.

Father owns dealerships.

Mother organizes charity auctions.

Three varsity letters.

National Honor Society.

Got caught with weed once and somehow the cop apologized to him.

That's you.

So keep the nickname.

Seriously.

Walk around calling yourself Razor Blade.

Put it on shirts.

Tattoo it across your fucking chest.

Have somebody announce it dramatically while you strut through the curtain dressed like the Homecoming King at Disco Hogwarts.

Because eventually that bell is going to ring.

And then you get to discover the difference between somebody who gave himself a dangerous name...

…and somebody who's actually fucking dangerous.

Jenny smiles.

“See you soon, Razor Bradley.”

Jenny had spent the better part of the morning trying to figure out exactly how she felt about Texas.

Hot, obviously.

Probably dusty.

Big hats. Bigger trucks. People saying things like “all hat, no cattle” without a hint of irony. She had already decided that somebody from production would inevitably suggest putting her in a cowboy hat for promotional pictures, at which point she would inevitably suggest they shove it directly up their ass.

Still, she could deal with Texas.

Hell, considering what she'd signed up for, Texas seemed appropriate.

Red Dead.

Texas Death Match.

Razor Blade.

There was a certain symmetry to the whole thing. Maybe they'd find some miserable little arena outside Dallas where the air conditioning barely worked. Maybe she'd walk past an actual tumbleweed on the way inside. Maybe Razor Blade would arrive riding a fucking horse.

Jenny had already constructed the entire stupid thing in her head by the time she finally bothered opening the itinerary production had emailed her.

She skimmed it.

Flight information.

Hotel.

Transportation.

Venue.

Jenny stopped.

Her thumb moved backward.

She read it again.

Then once more, considerably slower.

Her eyebrows pulled together.

“No.”

She sat forward on the edge of the bed.

There had to be another page.

She scrolled.

There wasn't.

Jenny went back to the event information and stared at the location.

Mexico.

Several seconds passed.

She looked toward absolutely nobody.

Then back at the phone.

Then around the room, as if someone from Red Dead might be hiding behind the curtains waiting to explain themselves.

“Mexico?”

Silence.

Jenny tapped the screen harder than necessary.

TEXAS DEATH MATCH.

Mexico.

She lowered the phone.

“You have got to be fucking kidding me.”

All morning.

All fucking morning she'd been mentally preparing herself for Texas.

She'd spent twenty minutes wondering whether cowboy boots were mandatory. She'd actually Googled how far the venue was from fucking Dallas.

Dallas wasn't even in the right country.

Jenny stood and began pacing.

“Who books a Texas Death Match in Mexico?”

She stopped.

“No, seriously. Who the fuck does that?”

The room offered no answers.

“This is like booking a Philadelphia Street Fight in Toronto.”

She pointed at the phone.

“A Mexican Death Match? Fine. Lucha Death Match? Sure. Mexico City Massacre? Little aggressive, but at least we're geographically fucking coherent.”

She stared at the itinerary again.

“But a Texas Death Match? In Mexico?”

Another pause.

“Does Texas know?”

That thought genuinely concerned her for approximately two seconds.

“Did anybody ask Texas? Because Texas seems like the kind of place that would be weirdly protective about this shit.”

Jenny sat back down.

Suddenly Razor Blade wasn't even the stupidest thing about this match anymore.

That was almost impressive.

She had a man who looked like he attended prep school in Wisconsin calling himself Razor Blade, fighting a woman from nowhere near Texas in a Texas Death Match being held in Mexico.

Professional wrestling had finally achieved complete geographical collapse.

Jenny rubbed both hands over her face.

“Okay.”

She breathed.

“Okay.”

Maybe there was an explanation.

Maybe the promoter was from Texas.

Maybe Razor Blade was from Texas.

Maybe whoever invented the match had once flown over Texas.

Maybe the fucking ring was manufactured in Texas.

There had to be something.

She picked up her phone and typed a message to production.

Jenny: Why are we having a Texas Death Match in Mexico?

The typing bubble appeared almost immediately.

Then disappeared.

Appeared again.

Disappeared.

That was never encouraging.

Finally:

Production: That's the stipulated match type.

Jenny stared at it.

“Oh, thank you.”

She began typing.

Jenny: I understand what the match type is. I am questioning whether anyone involved understands what Mexico is.

She waited.

Typing bubble.

Gone.

Typing bubble.

Gone.

Then nothing.

Jenny nodded slowly.

“Yeah. That's what I fucking thought.”

She tossed the phone onto the bed.

For several seconds she simply sat there, staring into space.

Then she started laughing.

Not because it was especially funny.

Because eventually professional wrestling left you with only two options: laugh or start biting people.

A Texas Death Match.

In Mexico.

Against Razor Blade.

Who looked like Razor Bradley.

Jenny fell backward across the mattress and covered her eyes with one arm.

“Fuck.”

And somehow, against all available logic, the match hadn't even started yet.

[Image: Myst.gif]

]]> Jenny had been in Texas for less than six hours when she decided she hated the place.

It was not Texas itself. Texas had done nothing to her. The hotel was fine, the people at the front desk were polite, and the little Mexican place across the street had given her enough food to feed three people for eleven dollars. Under normal circumstances, she might have been perfectly happy.

The problem was the billboard.

She had seen it on the ride from the airport, twenty feet high beside the highway, advertising Red Dead in giant red letters. Beneath the event logo were two faces, hers and the man she was supposed to fight.

RAZOR BLADE.

Jenny had stared through the window for a good five seconds before turning toward the driver.

“Seriously?”

The driver glanced at her in the mirror. “What?”

“Nothing.”

She looked back at the billboard as it disappeared behind them.

Razor Blade.

It still bothered her.

By the time she reached the hotel, checked in, dropped her bag beside the bed, and kicked off her shoes, Jenny had already built an entire imaginary childhood for him. Private school. Lacrosse. Family vacations somewhere expensive. A father who called everybody “sport.” A mother who sent Christmas cards with matching sweaters.

She knew none of that was necessarily true.

That almost made it funnier.

The photograph was doing most of the work.

Jenny sat on the edge of the bed with her phone in her hand, staring at the promotional graphic again. The name promised a guy who slept under bridges and sharpened knives for recreation. The picture looked like somebody who had complained to a restaurant manager because his sparkling water had arrived with lemon instead of lime.

Then there was the match.

Texas Death Match.

Jenny laughed quietly.

Of course it was.

Professional wrestling had a strange way of taking two people who disliked each other and deciding regular violence was insufficient. A normal match apparently could not settle this. Somebody needed to be beaten down badly enough that getting back to their feet became the entire point.

She understood the rules.

She also understood what people expected from her.

That part bothered her more than Razor Blade did.

Everybody expected Jenny Myst to walk into a room and become Jenny Myst immediately. Say something horrible. Laugh at somebody. Find the softest part of another person's ego and stick her thumb directly into it. She had become good enough at it that people assumed it required no effort.

Sometimes it did.

Tonight she was tired.

Jenny tossed the phone beside her and lay backward across the mattress, staring at the ceiling.

For a few minutes, there was no Razor Blade. No Red Dead. No Texas Death Match. No cameras. No championship implications. No audience waiting to clip whatever cruel thing she said and post it online.

There was just Jennifer.

She closed her eyes.

Her phone buzzed.

She ignored it.

It buzzed again.

“Fuck off.”

A third buzz.

Jenny reached blindly across the bed, found the phone, and looked.

Three messages from production.

They wanted footage.

Naturally.

She typed back that she would give them something tomorrow.

The response came almost immediately.

Need something tonight if possible.

Jenny stared at the message.

“Of course you do.”

Twenty minutes later, she was downstairs.

No makeup team. No elaborate set. She wore jeans, sneakers, and a black hoodie because that was what she had already been wearing. Her hair was tied back. Production had sent one cameraman and one sound guy, both of whom looked apologetic about bothering her.

“Where do you want me?” she asked.

The cameraman shrugged. “Wherever you want.”

Jenny looked around the hotel lobby.

“No.”

Outside was not much better. Cars moved along the access road. A gas station glowed across the street. Somewhere nearby, somebody was playing music too loudly from an open window.

Then Jenny noticed the billboard in the distance.

She smiled.

“Come on.”

They walked.

It took about ten minutes to reach it. Jenny did not speak along the way. The cameraman tried once to ask what she had planned.

“Nothing.”

That answer made him nervous.

Good.

They stopped beneath the billboard.

Up close, it was even more ridiculous.

Jenny stood with her hands in the pockets of her hoodie and looked up at Razor Blade's face.

The cameraman started recording.

She kept looking.

Thirty seconds passed.

“Are we rolling?”

“Yeah.”

“Good.”

Jenny finally looked toward the camera.

“I've spent all day trying to figure you out.”

Her voice was quieter than usual.

“Not because you're complicated. Don't flatter yourself. I'm trying to figure out who looked at you and decided Razor Blade was the answer.”

She glanced upward again.

“Because I don't see it.”

A car passed behind them.

“I see a guy who looks like he got detention once and his parents threatened to sue the school. I see somebody who probably knows what a regatta is. I see a man who looks like his childhood bedroom had a trophy shelf his father had professionally installed.”

Jenny smiled.

“But I don't see a Razor Blade.”

She stepped away from the billboard post.

“And maybe that's unfair. Maybe you had a terrible childhood. Maybe you grew up fighting every day. Maybe everything I'm looking at is wrong.”

A small shrug.

“Doesn't matter.”

That was the difference tonight.

Jenny did not need his biography.

She did not need to prove that Razor Blade had grown up rich, poor, privileged, neglected, loved, hated, or anything else. She only needed the name because the name told her what he wanted strangers to believe.

Dangerous.

Sharp.

Cold.

Something people should handle carefully.

Jenny understood branding.

She had spent years turning herself into something people remembered.

“But here's what bothers me,” she continued. “You picked a name that asks everybody else to be afraid before you've done anything to them.”

She paused.

“I never needed that.”

The joking edge disappeared.

“At Red Dead, we're having a Texas Death Match. That's not a nickname. That's not a jacket. That's not some cute graphic they put behind us on a poster. One of us is going to hurt the other one until they can't answer the count.”

Jenny looked up once more.

“And you're standing across from me dressed like the final boss of a prep school fundraiser.”

The cameraman snorted.

Jenny looked at him.

He immediately became silent.

She turned back.

“Sorry. Couldn't help myself.”

There she was.

The grin returned.

“You really do look like your name should be Razor Bradley. I bet there's a Chad somewhere who still owes you forty dollars from spring break.”

She walked closer to the camera.

“But jokes stop when the bell rings.”

Her face settled.

“That is the part I need you to understand.”

Jenny had been hurt before. She had been dropped on her head, thrown into things that were not designed to catch human bodies, cut open, embarrassed, and beaten. She knew what it felt like to hear a referee counting while her body tried to convince her that staying down would be easier.

She also knew what came after eight.

Nine.

Then the choice.

People liked to talk about toughness as if it was a personality trait. Jenny thought that was bullshit. Toughness was a decision made when every sensible part of your body begged for the opposite.

Get up.

That was all Red Dead would become eventually.

Get up.

Again.

Again.

Again.

Until somebody couldn't.

The truth was, she did not know whether she would win. Nobody ever knew that, no matter how confidently they spoke into cameras. Razor Blade could be better than the photograph suggested. He could be tougher than the name sounded stupid. He could put her down and keep her there. Jenny accepted that because pretending otherwise would make the thing meaningless. Fear was not believing you could lose. Fear was letting that possibility decide what you did next. She would show up anyway. She would fight anyway. If he knocked her down nine times, she would make him watch her stand ten.

Jenny pointed toward Razor Blade's picture.

“So bring whatever this is supposed to be. Bring Razor Blade. Bring the dangerous man. Bring the version of yourself that name promises everybody exists.”

Her hand dropped.

“Because I'm bringing Jennifer.”

No nickname.

No joke.

No mythology.

Just her.

“And Jennifer is really fucking difficult to keep down.”

Jenny turned and started walking toward the hotel.

The cameraman lowered the camera.

“That's it?”

She stopped.

For a moment, she considered giving him something bigger. Some dramatic threat. Blood. Graves. Death. The usual wrestling nonsense people said when they wanted violence to sound poetic.

Instead, Jenny looked back at the billboard.

Razor Blade smiled down from twenty feet above the highway.

She shook her head.

“Yeah.”

Then she started walking again.

“That's enough.”

Behind her, the billboard stayed exactly where it was, promising danger to every passing car.

Jenny never looked back.

]]> <![CDATA[Book Of Revelations III.- The Art Of Manipulation]]> https://xwf1999.com/showthread.php?tid=50483 Thu, 17 Sep 2026 06:42:30 -0700 Judd Hollow]]> https://xwf1999.com/showthread.php?tid=50483 Thank you for your patience… ]]> Thank you for your patience… ]]> <![CDATA[My Own Prison]]> https://xwf1999.com/showthread.php?tid=50479 Wed, 16 Sep 2026 22:53:07 -0700 Mr. Amazing]]> https://xwf1999.com/showthread.php?tid=50479

My Own Prison]]>

My Own Prison]]> <![CDATA[What Dreams Are Made Of]]> https://xwf1999.com/showthread.php?tid=50478 Wed, 16 Sep 2026 22:45:56 -0700 JuliaC]]> https://xwf1999.com/showthread.php?tid=50478 WHAT DREAMS ARE MADE OF

3,992 WORDS

12% Zero.GPT

Trigger Warning: Mild violence and gore. Brief nudity.

OOC: The ending scene with the X-Title can be a replica unless management wants to run with it in-story. So no grumpies please.

]]> WHAT DREAMS ARE MADE OF

3,992 WORDS

12% Zero.GPT

Trigger Warning: Mild violence and gore. Brief nudity.

OOC: The ending scene with the X-Title can be a replica unless management wants to run with it in-story. So no grumpies please.

]]> <![CDATA[Deacon The Vampire Slayer]]> https://xwf1999.com/showthread.php?tid=50474 Wed, 16 Sep 2026 05:08:52 -0700 Deacon St. John]]> https://xwf1999.com/showthread.php?tid=50474 HOW TO KILL YOUR PET VAMPIRE

[Image: 9-C3-EF1-C2-FCA4-40-AD-B560-AFC0-DBD71-DC2.png]

]]> HOW TO KILL YOUR PET VAMPIRE

[Image: 9-C3-EF1-C2-FCA4-40-AD-B560-AFC0-DBD71-DC2.png]

]]> <![CDATA[American nightmare has returned to RDR]]> https://xwf1999.com/showthread.php?tid=50471 Tue, 15 Sep 2026 19:48:30 -0700 Razor]]> https://xwf1999.com/showthread.php?tid=50471 '' Wrestling has more than one... royal family.''

''Adrenaline, in my soul

Every thought out of control

Do it all to get them off their feet''

The crowd in Nuevo PARAÍSO, Mexico gets to their feet. The Song kicks in as the cameras move

towards the stage as Razor Blade steps out, walking through the smoke. Razor looks out at the

crowd, a smile on his face as he normally did. Razor glanced around at the fans who were on their

feet, trying to either record or snap a picture of The American Nightmare. Razor Blade began to hype up

The crowd, walking to one side of the stage, followed by the other as he continued to hype them up.

Razor was feeding off the adrenaline from this as he made his way back to the center of the stage,

taking a few steps forward before he stopped, looking around as he knelt down and tapped the

stage with his fist, before jumping to his feet and spreading his arms out.

'' Crowd is here, about to blow

Waitin' for me to start the show

out the curtain, lights go up I'm home''

'' WHOOOOOOOOOOOOA!''

Huge bursts of pyro went off behind him as you heard the crowd sing along to Razor's Entrance

music, before Razor would bring his arm down into a fist pump and one final burst of pyro would go off behind him. The smile remained on Razor's face as he pointed at a few fans in the front row, walking over as he high-fived some of them, even taking a few selfies as well. Razor began making his way down the ramp, walking to the other side to do the same as he stopped at the bottom of the entrance ramp

and made his way over towards the steel steps, tapping it with his hand as he

jogged up them and walked along the ring apron. Razor held onto the top rope as he looked out,

pumping up the crowd again before scaling the turnbuckle as he glanced towards and

before he turned his attention to Amber Mansly, the one exhanged nods with one another

before both extended their arms out again as more pyro went off on the stage. Razor smirked,

standing there on the turnbuckle, before hopping down into the ring, motioning to the crowd to

make more noise. Razor walked over towards the corner, undoing the button on his suit as he

motioned for a microphone. He took it and began to pace around the ring, glancing around before

turning his attention to Jenny Myst, standing side by side alone, a grin on his face.

American nightmare| Razor Blade: So... Nuevo, Mexico...

Cheap pop from the crowd. Razor glanced at the crowd briefly before once more turning his

attention to Jenny Myst.

American nightmare| Razor Blade: Jenny Myst

Razor licked his lips.

American nightmare| Razor Blade: What do you wanna talk about?

A smirk formed on Razor's face as there was another pop from the crowd.

American nightmare| Razor Blade: Jenny Myst, I don't think we've been officially eye to eye, but. So allow me...

Razor paused briefly.

American nightmare| Razor Blade: The undesirable to undeniable, the American nightmare... Razor Blade.

Razor shot a quick glance towards Amber.

American nightmare| Razor Blade: Now one of you is out here gloating, pandering to everybody about how successful neither of you has been in this ring. Now, credit where it's due,

but one of you has. But nothing lasts forever... every story has an ending. Come RDR at XWF,

when I step foot inside of that ring against Jenny Myst. for this Texas Deathmatch RDR. Your story could very well be coming to an end when you and I are in a Texas Death Match where you'll be inside of the ring with American nightmare with me other American men besides me, including... that lady in the back there.

Razor pointed towards Jenny Myst. in the backstage area

American Nightmare | Razor Blade: I haven't had a Texas Death Match once, but everybody knows you can't outsmart me, and next it. Come Saturday RDR... I'm going to win this Texas Deathmatch to have an advantage. I've seen people

like you a dime a dozen; I've seen 'em come and I've seen 'em go. You and I are no different.

Razor throws his American belt at one of his fans, smirking as Amber Mansley sees it at ringside. The XWF Universe roars in approval as Jenny Myst backs away when Razor leaves to celebrate in the ring as he transitions into the next scene.

]]> '' Wrestling has more than one... royal family.''