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X-treme Wrestling Federation »   » Archives » Wild Card Weekend Night 2 RP Board
For God's Sake, Wake the Fuck Up
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
12-02-2016, 10:34 PM



Robbie Bourbon is being a huge sleepyhead and doesn't want to get out of bed like a fussy elementary school kid. Peter Gilmour is an absolute of a man who looks like a deformed frog in a onesie and recently claimed he would be walking out of the Elimination Chamber as the Universal Champion. Peter is dreaming too.

Matter of fact, Wild Card weekend might be changed to Sleep In if Robbie continues to set the trend as usual. Even Dolly Waters is taxing my gig. Attagirl. Make like the rest of the XWF and catch the snooze!

FOR GOD'S SAKE, WAKE THE FUCK UP

We open to see a hill and atop it is a tree. Solitary, huge, old, and with bare branches that twist and bend and gnarl almost endlessly until they fill out the profile of this lone tree dominating the skyline. It's a sunny day, almost too bright, and a wind picks up, rustling the blades of grass on the hill and causing the tree to tremble slightly, at least at it's peak.

Five riders on horseback begin to storm the tree, dragging a body along with them. That body is none other than Robbie Bourbon, and if you're unaware of who he is, you probably live under a rock. Dust flies as Robbie tumbles through the dirt, until the horsemen all stop at the tree and dismount.

"He's Stupid. Here's my resume."

So what if I'm stupid, I'm here to beat your ass, not do your taxes.

The impish blond explodes.

"STRING HIM UP!"

Whatever, you kids enjoy this little dog-and-pony show. Even if you start to sound like a smark podcast where you're blowing yourself to no end, Chris.

"I SAID STRING HIM UP!"

Yeah, yeah, blah blah blah.

You're a liar.

Nope, Trax, I'm not. Chris was obviously giving himself a verbal BJ the last time I saw one of his promos.

So was I, only better!

You sure were, Trax, you sure were. I mean, I'm sure that's an impressive feat and all in some circles, and hell, maybe you and Chris can go blow each other after Wild Card to really wow the fans and all, but still, what does that all matter?

Robbie, with ropes binding his hands behind his back, sits up on his ass, and begins to curl into a ball like he's trying to suck his own cock.

Wow, all this girth makes it impossible. My belly, you silly goose, I can't even get my cock into my mouth. How does it taste?

Like Sizzler!

Woah, how often do you eat Sizzler? I thought they went under.

I eat Sizzler whenever I blow myself!

That's, okay, great.

Two other riders, one in a pig mask and one with their face painted, pick Robbie up from the ground and take the rope along with them. The man with the painted face lobs an end of the rope over a branch of the tree and starts to tie a noose.

Oh, come on Soldier, shouldn't you be making Hillary Clinton jokes, or some other interesting socio-political commentary performed with strong sarcasm? Does Doc D'Ville taste like Sizzler? Why are you tying that noose?

The horseman tying the noose shrugs.

Oh, you don't even know, great. Hey, other dude!

The man in the pig mask turns around.

Where the fuck have you been?

The man in the pig mask shrugs.

Oh, nobody knows anything except the spaz who blows himself chaotically and the spaz who blows himself dominantly.

The noose gets set around Robbie's neck as the fifth rider approaches. He looks like a cartoon frog with hepatitis and is making a constant whistling sound out of his nose as he breathes, like he has sleep apnea while awake.

Ah, fuck's sake, you again Peter? Well, I do admit, I never get sick of beating your ass from here to there and back again like five or six times now I reckon, so I can't complain, only now I'll be beating your ass for the Universal Championship. Now I can't say as I've pitched a shut-out against you, you've gotten your hits in here and there, but it's no secret to anybody in the XWF that I have a display case in my home with your name on it, and that's because I own your ass. Is that what we're going to fight each other for next time, Peter, the winner keeps the other in a fish tank at their house for a month? Well, I'd better get a fish tank too.

Suck my dick!

Does Mia think it tastes like Sizzler? Has anybody ever sucked your dick, really? I don't think so, not at all. Peter "I have never received oral sex" Gilmour is the best nickname I can think of for you, no need for you to steal mine and Trax's moniker of being Motherfucking. You aren't motherfucking. You aren't even single woman in her sixties without children fucking. You're a virgin, plain and simple, because you don't even know what to fucking do with your own fucking genitals, let alone a grown woman's. Is that why you hit on Dolly Waters, to play doctor and 'practice' for Mia and her enormous rigatoni sized clitoral hood and manly hips?

Suck my dick!

And what the fuck was all that shit about the $25,000 Pyramid? Like, seriously, what the fuck was that all about? I'm already having a tough time waking up as is, and you're going to put people to sleep referencing a shitty gameshow from the seventies? You're a pretty weird fucking guy, Peter, and the people know it, America knows it, I know it, and I'ma wreck your ass at Wild Card the same as everybody else who gets in my way to becoming the XWF Universal Champion.

Suck my dick!

I will give some credit, Peter, at least you don't go off about how this is the end of your journey or some such horsefuckery. See that shit is stupid for two reasons.

And I keep saying the first reason over and over and over. It's because I'm picking up my belt that Peter has decided to hold for me. If Peter is the Champ, then Robbie Bourbon is the next Champ.

The second reason it's stupid is because once I get the Universal Championship Title, and I'm wearing the big gold, that's when the whole of everything is just getting started.

It's not the end.

I don't get to go home, sit on my ass, and wait for Vinnie to call me and ask if I feel like showing up with the belt. See, that's when it all really starts to kick off, when I gotta defend that shit on Warfare week in, week out, a fight a fortnight if that's alright. I'ma have Doc D'Ville looking to take the skull out of my face for this championship, I'ma have Unknown Soldier, well, nah, Unknown Soldier won't ever cash in either of his 24/7 cases. I'ma have Vinnie Lane making brash comments about coming out of retirement because there's actually some life in title picture for a change. I'ma have Scully saying something really about how we're destined to fight one day because we were partnered in a Tag Team Championship match. I'ma have Trax, because we're destined to fight one day because we were partnered in a Tag Team Championship match. I'ma have Chris Chaos, running around telling anybody who'll listen he's the man and deserves the title, just like Peter Gilmour. I'ma have Peter Gilmour running around telling anybody who'll listen he's the man and deserves the title. I'ma have seven to eight other motherfuckers we can't even perceive yet because they haven't signed up for the XWF, haven't begun wrestling yet, or haven't even been born coming for me from any of seven or eight fucking directions.

I'm walking out with the belt, fellas.

And all I have to do is relax, stay fucking cool about shit, watch you all do your stupid to one another, then take the shots only I can when only I can. Easier said than done? Sure, it's going to be a pretty lively time in the old Elimination Chamber, not a lot of time for breaks.

Unless I'm in at number six. In which case, have fun killing each other while I bullshit with the guy in the first row about whether Maverick is going to come out of retirement to try to take my Universal Championship.


The noose is drawn tight around Robbie's neck, and the other end of the rope is tied to one of the horses. One of the riders slaps the horse on the ass and it takes off, galloping. The thunder of galloping hooves echoes throughout the valley as Robbie stands, waiting for his doom at the hands of five two-bit cattle rustlers. That's ten bits of cattle rustlers. The rope goes taught, and stops dead against the ancient branch of the tree, and the horse makes a horrific sound as it's neck snaps and it's whole body keels forward, looking like a dangling, deflated balloon in the wind, as Robbie stands his ground and defies death in some odd way that nobody can make heads-or-tails of it. Robbie grabs the rope tied to his neck a few inches behind his head and yanks, snapping the rope itself. He then turns into a strange hybrid humanoid shark. Imagine a minotaur only shark.

Sharks were born swimming. I gotta train for my belt.

The five riders are stunned as Robbie belches train track onto the ground, and we hear the distant sound of an engine rumbling.

BRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRAAAAAAAAAACK.
BRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRAAAAAAAAAACK.

The sudden and sharp sounds of an alarm going off on a cellphone break the air as we see a very different view of a darkened bedroom. Robbie Bourbon, still in his mask, groggily reaches up for his phone from his night stand and fiddles with it. Blue, roused from her sleep besides Robbie, stirs.

Mm.

I know, five more.

Grrr.

Blue rubs her nose and yawns with an adorable and perfectly pitched little squeak as a part of it, the kind of sounds only a woman can make.

Another weird dream?

Horse porn.

What?

I was a shark. Pitching.

[Image: DtUCPfZ.png]
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