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X-treme Wrestling Federation » Shove-It! Boards » Shove-It! RP Board
Where The Sun Don't Shine
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
11-03-2016, 06:23 PM



Robbie Bourbon is competing against 19 other competitors in an over the top rope battle royale to crown a new Xtreme Champion. On top of that, Robbie feels he would get a soda from Louis D'Ville.

WHERE THE SUN DON'T SHINE

We open to see a Department of Motor Vehicles office. The big letters "DMV" are listed above the door next to the seal of the Commonwealth of Virginia. Dozens of average people seem to be coming in and out of the building, preparing to deal with vehicle registration, driver's licensing, and getting clever yet overly common vanity plates as Virginia leads the country, thus the world, in vanity plates. That's right, the hundred or so license plates you see daily on Virginia highways and biways that make you careen your neck to try to comprehend all start here. The exposed nerve ending of the American bureaucracy all adults have to encounter at least once biannually, the DMV, also known as Hell.

We see the A-Team van painted to look like the Ghostbusters car pull into the parking lot, and out steps Robbie Bourbon, the Man of the People, the High Holy Hypocrite, the King of the Jobbers, and the biggest man competing in a big man event come Shove-It. The passenger doors open and out step Ash, Robbie's personal stylist, Joe Biden, the Vice-King of the Jobbers, and Smashdyface McFace, Islamic terrorist who had his face smashed with an axe.

Why the fuck did you bring us here?

What? D'Ville is holding a battle royale here tomorrow or something.

No he isn't! He's actually holding the battle royale in literal Hell, not figurative Hell!

Literal hell? What, like sitting through a Ghost Tank promo?

Shut up, Joe, Gator already made that joke.

Joe Biden looks saddened. Robbie rolls his eyes, shrugs, and pats Joe on the back.

Joe, it's okay if you're ripping of Gator. Everybody is plagiarizing each other around here, it's really kind of pathetic and terrifying that it's happening like that, almost like the devil himself had a hand in making the XWF Universe sit through hearing the same bullshit spewed by cookie-cutter superstar after cookie-cutter superstar.

D'Ville?

Hell no, I blame Peter Gilmour, but I digress. C'mon.

Smashdyface says something inaudible due to his face being all smashed up.

Yes, Smashdyface, this is where Americans all go to practice their freedoms and democracy.

Smashdyface says something inaudible due to his face being all smashed up.

We're going to do that by paying them money.

Smashdyface says something inaudible due to his face being all smashed up.

I know, it does sound like a tithe, but it ain't...

Smashdyface says something inaudible due to his face being all smashed up.

No, the DMV is not a den of infidels.

Why did you bring us here? This is so boring!

Look, Ash, you're one of my favorite Bourbon Men, even if you are a lady with some bodacious lady bits. I couldn't think of a finer candidate to storm the gates of Hell with.

What about the robot? He doesn't have a soul!

He only says one thing, that gag is getting old.

What about Han Solo?

Oh, he's finicky, I can only get him to come around as often as Jesus.

Jesus! You could have brought Jesus Christ with you to Hell!

Are you kidding me? I'd cause a riot at the DMV, no way they'd even let him get a learner's permit.

So you brought me? I'm just your stylist!

I need to look good.

Robbie and the grouping of Bourbon Men enter the doors to the den of infidels known as the DMV, prepared to tithe, and enter a line. The line leads to a person at a desk, who will give them a number so they can wait to see a person at a desk, who will give them information telling them they need to see someone else and, ultimately, they could have done all of this on their website. A security guard approaches.

Sir, no masks allowed.

This is my face.

Smashdyface says something inaudible due to his face being all smashed up.

Sir, I'm only going to tell you one more time...

Smashdyface says something inaudible due to his face being all smashed up.

What is he saying?

He says you look like you flunked from your high school colorguard in that get-up and wants to know why you'd risk a trip to the hospital over a twenty-five thousand dollar salary.

Robbie pulls out his license, and shows the security guard. Sure as shit, the picture on the license shows Robbie Bourbon in his mask.

See, stop harshing me. Luchaist bastard.

The security guard squints at Robbie.

I got my eye on you, and when Trump builds his wall...

I'll do a tope-con-hilo over it, watch.

You can't do a tope-con-hilo. You can't even do a superkick.

Hush.

What, the last time you tried to do a superkick, you somehow ripped your spandex, broke all your plates, and set your sink on fire.

That was an accident!

Just stop with the flashy moves and stick with your shitty finisher.

God damnit! First Frankendickhead, and now you too!

Joe Biden puts his hand on Robbie's shoulder to console him.

I think the Neckwrecker is a fine finisher.

Robbie rubs his chin.

Yeah, I need a new finisher.

As Robbie and his cohorts banter within the hellish confines of a Virginia Department of Motor Vehicles, they approach the desk where a decidedly frumpy woman sits.

How can I help you?

Her cadence and tone almost match those of Robo-Rob, not present in this promo, as the words "NOT ROBO-ROB, ROBO-ROB IMPERSONATOR" scroll across the bottom of the screen.

Yes, I need to license my vehicle as an official emergency responder.

What?

I need to license my vehicle as an official emergency responder, since I'm a superhero and it'll be helpful when I need a handy Bourbon Man to help me kick out from being pinned for the Xtreme title.

Xtreme title?

Yeah, XWF Xtreme Champion.

Oh, we don't do Xtreme titles here, but here's the form you need to list your vehicle as an emergency responder.

Robbie is handed a stack of papers as thick as a phone book.

Seriously?

Yes, there are a lot of procedures and inspections you need to pass in order to list your vehicle as an emergency responder.

Damn it. Can't I just, y'know, beep boop, put a siren and lights on my car?

Is it a tow truck?

Are they emergency responders?

No.

It is not a tow truck.

Fill out that form and bring it back to us.

Robbie looks at the camera and winks.

I told you this place was hell.

Who or what are you talking to?

Robbie and his cohorts turn and leave the crowded building, populated by sluggish elderly people and strollers big enough to visit weigh stations before going through tunnels or over bridges.

So, how were people plagiarizing one another, Robbie?

Well, let's see. First Gator comes out and tells everybody that Robbie Bourbon is a waste of space who has squandered his career, and I don't matter. Then Trax comes out and tells everybody that Robbie Bourbon is a waste of space who has squandered his career, and I don't matter. Then Chris Chaos comes out and tells everybody that Robbie Bourbon is a waste of space who has squandered his career, and I don't matter. As a matter of fact, all of these fucking jagaloons have compiled enough material just about me to film a four hour documentary, and I'm starting to think they tell their shoes as they put them on they don't matter. Right before drinking a glass of water, they look at it and say it doesn't matter. Thing is, fools like these are standing on train tracks, and the one and only motherfucker electrifying enough to touch the third rail is barreling down on them with break neck speed and hella force.

First, lets us take a look at good ole' Gator, shall we? Ooh, telling me about how I lost to Chris Isles, eh? Man, that really cuts deep. My wounded heart, Gator, how could you? Oh, that's right, because you missed out on my whole career because you were busy masturbating into a paper bag over in some Other Shitty Wrestling company. Seriously, as King of the Jobbers, I have lost to a bevy of other talents here in the XWF, and the only one you can name is Isles? Really? See, the funny thing is he's working in a car wash or playing canasta or digging ditches, it doesn't fucking matter, he's gone homeboy. Maybe we pay a little attention next time, you ADHD pajama wearing Robbie Bourbon wannabe. Having fun beating on mythical beasts, huh? Did that over a year ago, myself, maybe you're a little fuzzy on it. Have another Mai Tai bud, I'm sure it'll clear everything up for you. Maybe it's the booze talking and all, but have another drink or five to give you the balls you'd need to confront me. See, I was here, wrecking week in, week out, and you were Out Sucking Whomever with your dick in your hand and a thumb up your ass because you were too chickenshit to stick around the XWF and face me.


You sound bitter you can't drink.

I sound bitter when drunk too, but now that Jesus gave me his powers of turning alcohol into water, I'm just the bitters in any cocktail. Comme ci comme ça.

Smashdyface says something inaudible due to his face being all smashed up.

I always use French. Then there's Trax. Oh boy, good ole' Trax, telling everybody that they're scrubs. You know, for a guy who's the physical embodiment of a dusty trophy case sitting in some corner, you're pretty spunky to come down and say anything to me. It was sweet of you to acknowledge that, yes, like Gator, you found ways to avoid meeting me in the ring too, only you did it while just watching dust gather on your career, and now you're shaking the cobwebs off, dusting off all them old trophies that don't matter since you don't hold any, and are all eager as fuck to get tossed into the fiery abyss like a used diaper. You act like I'm butthurt over the fact I didn't get the Tag Team Titles, when in fact, I did get the tag team championships! I did! It was fucking awesome, I became the President, there was this big tournament, but like usual, Trax was busy putting poop on a stick and poking himself with it thinking it was relevant to notice. Trax, the man who's like three-day old bath water; tepid, stagnant, and about as exciting to a live crowd. Trax, the man who has built a career out of getting a "meh" reaction from thousands in attendance and billions watching around the globe. Trax, the guy who has dodged facing me...

Robbie starts to count on his fingers. He runs out of fingers.

That many times. Lo, he also just got his hands on some superpowers! Well, to quote the dipshit, that's rich! Robbie Bourbon setting bench marks yet again in being the Superhero Supreme of the XWF, trademark pending. I'm not talking about the ability to regenerate, I'm talking about your ability to fucking put swaths of humanity to sleep all at the same time. Go watch any Trax match, and by the end of it, the outcome is always the same. The fans share a mixed reaction, lulled into silence by the most vanilla motherfucker in the world, and that's precisely what Trax strives for. Well, the people deserve better. They deserve a hero, an icon, a symbol of our industry, to bear the brunt of the Xtreme Championship, not some ballbag doofus who treats the title like it's a fucking shortcut in Shoots and Ladders.

Don't you mean Snakes and Ladders?

What, no? Why?

That's the British version?

Who the fuck in the match is British? Trax is from Brooklyn, and Gator is from Florida, there's no fucking way they'd refer to it as Snakes and Ladders.

Smashdyface says something inaudible due to his face being all smashed up.

Yes, it's just like Othello.

That's kinda racist!

What? No, I mean the board game. The character Othello is nothing like Trax. People cared about Othello. Don't you worry, Trax, because you're getting what you deserve. Not only do I get to teach you to fly courtesy of the Robbie Bourbon Academy of Aeronautics by sending you over the top rope faster than a Concord, but...

Robbie holds up his wild card.

I'll be smashing your ugly simple ass into a cage wall soon enough too. Keep telling yourself our careers don't parallel, because they don't. I have a career, on salary, you just make appearances, part-time minimum wage.

Didn't you say there was another plagiarizer?

Yeah, Chris Chaos. First off, thank you. This is usually a pretty cut-throat, gritty fighting league where people want to take your skull from you, but calling me the Juggernaut is probably one of the nicest things anybody has ever said about me. Ooh, I know, you can be Professor X! First, we'll shave your head of that 90's era Lallapalooza sidestage act hairdo and give you the Patrick Stewart look, then after your match, if you play your cards right, I'll even put you in a wheelchair. Now, I don't get why you're bringing up all these comic book references, Chris, it isn't like anybody competing looks like they're some kind of anime concept art or a major licensed property set to have a second film made due to their first being a blockbuster smash. You just sound like a nerd.

He said the bigger they are, the harder they fall.

Joe looks legit concerned, like a line from the 1960's would a man who went to college in the 1960's.

A cliche nerd. Seriously, I've been in cages, through tables, have hung people from the top rope, and even bitten by piranha. You've had two matches, and one of the people you actually beat was so devestated by what I did to him, he would have lost to fruit bat.

You mean D'Ville?

I mean D'Ville.

Don't you think he'll take offense to that?

So fucking what, he better have my chilled fucking Coca-Cola ready after I toss nineteen other fucks out of the ring.

But what about your other opponents?

They are definitely not Coca-Cola.

[Image: DtUCPfZ.png]
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