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X-treme Wrestling Federation »   » Archives » "WAR GAMES 2015" RP Board
No Explaining
Author Message
Prof. Bobby Bourbon Offline
Mad Scientist



XWF FanBase:
The 'cool' kliq fans

(booed by casual fans; opportunistic; often plays dirty while setting the trends)


#1
09-10-2015, 08:35 AM



Robbie Bourbon, the human cartoon, is going to war.

NO EXPLAINING

We open to see Robbie still at the wheel of his van. He's crooking his neck in that awkward way when checking your surroundings while driving, and spinning the wheel. The camera pans to show a view through the windshield, and see Robbie is parking in a garage of some sort.

Well, let's go.

Robbie puts the gear into park and disengages the ignition by turning the key counter-clockwise. The camera follows as Blue steps out of the van, and shows the menagerie of cars parked within the garage. The van wobbles slightly as Robbie exits. He rounds the van and we see him start walking out of the parking garage. His head is inches from each concrete support keeping the structure and vehicles above in place. The camera follows as Blue keeps pace.

So, where are we going?

To a bar.

I thought you didn't drink.

I don't.

Then why are you going to a bar?

Well, you'll see.

Robbie reaches out and we see as he takes Blue's hand. He leads her up an alley from the parking garage, tucked away from the street, out into an incredibly busy and crowded portion of D.C., known as Adams Morgan. They pass beat cops, valet parking attendants, and people congregated outside of eateries and bars, approaching a very distinctive building which stands out from the rest.

[Image: Nh0JQuN.jpg]

Madam's Organ?

This place is awesome.

But you don't drink!

I used to, though. This place actually gives you half price beer if you're a redhead.

Ooh, that's incredible sounding.

Don't be jealous, silly, I'll buy your beer for you if you really want one.

Robbie and Blue approach the bouncer at the door and hand him their ID cards. He checks them, satisfied that whatever he saw confirmed the masked man known as Robbie Bourbon was on the level, and lets them through the door. As we enter, the room is dim, and lowlighted with red. Taxidermied animals and other rustic bric-a-brac adorn the walls, like most chintzy American eateries, but unlike your T.G.I. Fridays or Ruby Tuesday, there are early 20th century paintings of nude women mixed in everywhere. Robbie squeezes past the crowd of people sitting around, listening to a jazz act, towards a set of stairs leading up. He walks through a crowded dining room to another set of stairs to the second floor.

This place is bigger than I thought.

Yep.

Robbie continues to squeeze his way through the crowded bar to a door leading to a balcony. He steps out onto it and takes a deep breath as Blue follows, giving the camera a bird's eye view of the packed street below. Robbie clears his throat.

PEOPLE!

A bunch of people from the street shout back at him.

PEOPLE OF ADAMS MORGAN!

More people shout back at Robbie.

"What do you want?"

I AM ROBBIE BOURBON!

*WOOOOOOOO*

This Sunday, I'm going to go to War Games with my partners in 7h3 H4rdc0r3 F0rc3 and wreck shit up!

*YEAH!*

See, I am confident I'm going in with the best team anybody could hope for, a grouping of the most dangerous, the most hardcore, the most innovative stars in the XWF today, even if one of them is in the CCWF. I am confident in a lot of things, but my confidence isn't enough to carry through, no no! My confidence in the ability to beat the high holy hell out of them, the members of Team Victory is not enough. So you know what else I'm bringing?

*WHAT'RE YOU BRINGING?*

I'm bringing the slaughter! I'm bringing the noise, I'm bringing the beatdown, I'm...

With that, Robbie stops as he pulls his phone out of his pocket as the theme from the 90's Spider-Man cartoon rings out from it. He hits a button and grins.

Ladies and gentlemen, a special cameo from Ash, my newest Bourbon Man! Ash, say something, the people are...

He's cut off by shrieks and the sound of glass breaking.

ROBBIE! You need to get your ass back to the dojo now! There's this motherfucker here who, OH SHIT!!!

The call ends as Robbie looks completely blown away.

*DO SOMETHING!*

Robbie glances down at the crowd, and puts his phone in his pocket. He pulls out his wallet and hands it to Blue.

Here hon, settle up a tab, I'll be back for dinner in a minute. Gotta go.

As soon as he finishes speaking, he jumps down from the balcony to the street below, most of the people marveling at the sight of the super heavyweight landing flat on his feet and taking off, hitting the ground running towards the alley he and Blue came from. He suddenly stops, turns, and marches straight back from where he came.

HEY, HONEY, PASS ME MY WALLET! I LEFT THE PARKING THINGY IN THERE!



We open again to see the dash mounted camera in Robbie Bourbon's van. We hear a phone ringing through the speaker systems, the product of some spiffy bluetooth doohickey in the stereo.

Dammit, Ash, pick up! PICK UP!

The ringing turns to a generic voice mail recording.

God dammit! I don't know which one of you motherfuckers are there, and I don't care, because if I fucking find a single one of you at my fucking dojo grounds, I don't care about waiting for War Games, I'll fucking end you then and there.

I don't care if it's fucking Morbid Angel. Some big ass neo-Nazi researching some immortality recipe sure as fuck don't make me want to back up from the God damned fight. Some big as neo-Nazi is going to be face down in blood, vomit, mucus membrane, more blood, the remains of a few teeth, and that green gunk that comes out of your ears when you get a concussion. Immortality, eh, scumbag? Well, live on forever, you big stupid bastard. I hope you prepare yourself for eons, for the tides of time that will flood past your cognizance, because two things are going to fucking happen to you. You're going to have no dick, so there's that. Then, you gotta start to reckon that this ain't some kid show, I am not a puppeteer, and that I have a fucking plan and a half for your ass. First, my half-plan relies on the fact that whatever fucking concoction you've shot into yourself isn't going to make you immortal at all, it'll just do some really fucked up shit to your system, so if you keep taking that stuff you're probably going to die. What was the recipe? Oh, never mind, it just turned you into a zombie. Well, that's alright, I guess. Looking forward to your career on Broadway, you had some strong dance moves there. Oh, and the plan part of my plan? Well, slick, living forever don't mean shit if you've been lobotomized. All I gotta do is take a fucking wire hanger and bend that shit right, just like a back alley abortion, only after your mom shat you into existence.

I don't care if it's Dim, and Jesus H. Christ, what the fuck did you have to do to get Lux to do some of his hocus pocus and make that little light show? Wait, did you get inter-universal travel figured out in that beautiful shithole you call a home and summon that Star Trek knock-off of a thing into your living room? Hold on, were those just plain old special effects? Wow, you spoke with the Alpha and Omega load of bullshit on the planet, dude. Matter of fact, nobody, and I fucking mean nobody, would be surprised at all if you had the same God damned speech with a ficus. Seriously, go check your resources, dude, you got it wrong. Even the good book said "He came in the form of a burning bush", so I guess the only God running around here is the stone cold foxy firecrotched maniac speaking to you right now.

I don't care if it's Tholomew. Some self-righteous dingleberry on the ass crack of the XWF, going around saying something about how I'm not better than him. Shit, the poor bastard got some drunk nookie so he feels all super guilty and needs a little brain hug from something in a bottle in the medicine cabinet. Man up and grow a pair, stud, that isn't reason to be depressed, that's reason to strut your stuff for forcing your biological imperative. Now, why your biological imperative has to be so scarring to you, well, I guess that's because you even know you're not supposed to contribute to any kind of deep part of the gene pool, just keepin' it on the shallow end, eh? You want proof that I'm better than you? Well, for starters, I don't go around paraphrasing Dim's goofy ass. Even his "God" acknowledged that lobotomizing his silly ass would be redundant, but there you go around talking about how Robbie Bourbon hasn't accomplished anything. Robbie Bourbon can't accomplish anything. That's a big load of horseshit coming from a bigger load of horseshit quoting the biggest load of horseshit. I didn't beat Game Girl for the Intercontinental Title, but you have not nor will ever sniff a chance at that belt, and you sure as hell won't tear down people like they're just cobwebs on your way to get that title shot, like I did. You would never have been chosen by our current reigning Universal Champion to be a partner in an unknown Tag Team Championship scramble, and while he went with Lux Lyden in the end, my team won the match. You've never even been anywhere within proximity of the Tag Team Titles, and it took an act of freakish magick or some strange Christian science and Kirk MacClay to keep one of those straps off of me. Tholomew, the only thing of note you've ever done was get the X-treme title fucking handed to you only to lose it the next time you fought over it on TV to Steve Davids, who I look forward to facing in a rematch while you gobble down lithium to deal with the loss of your title.

Now what the hell is this hot nonsense?




We cut to see the exterior of the van as it pulls into the parking lot next to the open air Robbie Bourbon Dojo for the Competitive Arts. Several Bourbon Men are on the ground, and not moving. Ash, the competitive hair stylist and Robbie's barber, runs and gets into the van.

That lunatic!

The camera pans to show a figure with a military flat top, wearing a tank top and camouflage pants, holding a pistol pointed at the remaining Bourbon Men.

Did you call the police?

Fuck yeah, but they still haven't come!

Shit. What's he want?

He says you're bullshit.

Oh. How many did he...

He didn't shoot them. He forced half of them to knock the other half out with whatever they could pick up. He said it was some "real training" for them.

Are you okay?

I'm not, I feel like shit. He tried to make some of them do things to me, when they refused he beat on them too. Bricks, rocks, bottles from the bar, whatever he could find he just started beating them. I hid, and called you.

Robbie turns and looks at Ash, who is wide eyed with tears streaming from her eyes, then back through the windshield. His brow is deeply furrowed as a frown crossed his face.

You're awesome, little birdie. You stay in the van.

Robbie takes the keys out of the ignition, and steps out of the van. Ash huddles up on the seat, putting the whole of herself on it by folding her knees into her chest. She wipes a tear away.

Fuck him up.

Doin' it.

Robbie closes the van door and gives a thumbs up inside to the young lady. He turns and hollers.

HOY! PRICK! WHAT ARE YOU DOING TO MY DOJO?

The man with the flat top turns to Robbie, and points the gun at him.

Well, nice of you to show up, Robbie. You know, I've been watching you poisoning people's minds on XWF TV for too fucking long. This bulletproof bullshit of yours, this bullshit about you and the people, I'm sick of it. I came here to show these dumb asses the real meaning of tough, you're just a big soft idiot who tries to coddle them! The need discipline, they need directions, and they need to see that you're full of shit. It's what they deserve.

Robbie, who's been standing still the entire time, nods and waves his hand in a circular motion, as if beckoning to the man with the flat top.

Oh, you want more? You're bad with facts, and you're so deluded by whatever's in your own mind you don't even see the reality of a situation, and the impact it'll have on you. You just go around spewing words!

Robbie nods.

And?

And? AND!? YOU SUCK!

Why are you here?

I just told you!

But I suck. Why did you have to come to me if I suck, wouldn't I have to gravitate to you to prove myself?

Shut up!

The man in the flat top opens fire, pulling the trigger of his revolver until the hammer clicked against a spent chamber. He gawks in wonder as Robbie glares back at him and picks the bullets off of his chest. He runs at the gunman with his hand wrapped around all six bullets, smashed and malformed in it's collision with Robbie. With a leap he performs a superman punch on the gunman with the loaded hand, sending him to the ground. Robbie then pounces, and grabs the man with the flat top by the neck. His mouth instinctively goes open, and Robbie jams the spent ammunition into his maw, covering his mouth with his other hand. He then begins to throttle the man with the flat top's jaw, almost like he were coercing the muscles, until the man swallows. Robbie removes his hand and the man doubles over, choking down the bullets he shot Robbie with. Robbie picks up the empty revolver. The cowering Bourbon Men all start to stand up. Some approach Robbie and show signs of gratitude towards him, others go to pick up their unconscious friends. Robbie turns and goes back to the van as Ash steps out, and Robbie hands the gun to her.

Take care of that when the cops get here, I gotta go eat.

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