Please Login or Register to get full access to the forums.

Lost Password?
Current time: 03-29-2024, 12:18 AM (time should display as Pacific time zone; please contact Admin if it appears to be wrong)                                                                


X-treme Wrestling Federation »   » Archives » Wild Card Weekend Night 2 RP Board
Open Up This Pit
Author Message
Brandon Moore Offline
Banned



XWF FanBase:
Teens, some men, few kids

(booed by casual fans; hurts people; often angry)


#1
12-07-2016, 11:55 PM

The doors are open. Kids and adults alike are piling in. They aren't pushing and shoving their way into the Boardwalk Hall, however. It's time to rage at the 1787 Collective. It is the night before the XWF's Wild Card Weekend kicks off in Las Vegas. That means it is two nights before the Boardwalk Hall in Atlantic City is invaded by the federation for the second night of the Wild Card Weekend. The line is thinning and the final patrons are making their way into the Collective. The smaller venue is housing a sold out show with some of the hottest local metal and hardcore acts. Included in the final wave of entrants is none other than Brandon Moore. He abruptly ended an interview to make sure he made the show in time, still wearing his Job for a Cowboy shirt and his beanie. Brandon reaches the front door of the venue and reaches in his pocket.

-Venue Worker-
“Ticket?”


Brandon pulls out a piece of computer printer paper, one side filled with ink. He printed off his ticket at the hotel in the morning and kept it with him all day long. The venue worker uses his handy little machine to scan the barcode on the ticket. A successful “BING!” follows and the ticket is handed back to the XWF superstar. Brandon doesn't drink, but he next pulls his wallet from his pocket to flash his ID to the next venue worker.

-Venue Worker-
“Drinking tonight?”


-Brandon Moore-
“Nah, I just don't want you to mark my hands to shit. The marker probably smells like fuck knows what.”


Brandon was right, as he could smell it on all the minors that are attending the show. The second venue worker near the entrance of the 1787 Collective places a blue wristband on Brandon's right wrist. The worker nods and Brandon heads into the show, ready to throw down.

-Venue Worker-
“Enjoy the show.”


Brandon does what he always does the minute he walks into a show. He heads straight for the merchandise tables to see if there is anything good he'd like to come back for. He'd rather not buy something now and carry it around the whole show. Especially if he's going to be slamming and moshing. Four bands from the surrounding area in New Jersey all have their buddies and girlfriends running their merch stands. He sees a few good shirts that he'd might like to snag before the night is over. As his stands with his arms folded, surveying the different merchandise available, a few young men are busy surveying him. They approach Brandon and just about scare the shit out of him.

-Concert Goer-
“You're fucking Brandon Moore, right?!”


He taps Brandon the shoulder and Brandon comes close to send a fist upside the kids head.

-Brandon Moore-
“Jesus fuck! Who the fuck are youse guys?”


-Concert Goer 2-
“We're huge wrestling fans! We like wrestling and going to shows just like you! Isn't this awesome?!”

-Concert Goer 3-
“You're debuting for XWF in town this weekend, aren't you? We are totally going to be there!”


-Brandon Moore-
“Whoopdy fucking do. I'm just trying to enjoy a show and throw the fuck down.”


-Concert Goer 2-
“You're great in the ring! I can't believe you're in front of me right now. This is insane!”


-Brandon Moore-
“Yeah, okay...um...fuck off, thanks.”


Brandon gives a curious look and walks away, leaving the second of the bunch totally hanging. No high fives for him today. The kids look dumbfounded, thinking they'd get an autograph or easy entrance in the Wild Card Weekend event. Think again, little shits. Brandon Moore doesn't give a flying fuck about you. He's had enough of the little pukes at the show and is ready to get his slam on. Lucky enough for Brandon, the show is about to begin. The first band finished the sound check before the doors opened and they're ready to roll right on time. That's a surprise.

-Frontman-
“Let's fucking go! We're Homegrown, from right here in Atlantic City, baby! Get the fuck to the front! Fill this place in and kill somebody!”


The band starts to thrash their instruments and the frontman starts screaming unintelligible and brutal vocals. Brandon gets a devilish smirk on his face as the group of concert goers just stand there and nod their heads along to the music. The place is packed for the opening band and everyone is standing still? Fuck that. Brandon takes a deep breath and knows exactly what he's going to do next...




FUCKING RAGE!




He charges forward and shoves as many people as he can.


-Brandon Moore-
“Fucking move!”


A solid handful of other concert goers get the hint and join in on the havoc. The caveman shoving contest has begun! Brandon hates just about everything and can be a total dick at times, but he lives for this shit. Wrestling and metal are everything to him. For the rarest of rare moments, Brandon feels at peace. He's at home. To others, though, it's a shame it only happens when he's doing some sort of bodily harm to the human race. He's got some anger problems and this solves it. This goes on and on throughout the show. The opening band ends, the next one comes on, and rinse repeat. Brandon goes hard in the mosh pit for each and every band. He'll be feeling this shit in the morning, but until then, he's going to stomp, shove, slam, and kill everything in sight.

The headlining band for the night, None More Black, has finally taken the stage. They've delivered some brutal hits thus far, sending the crowd at the 1787 Collective into a frenzy. They aren't done yet, though. They get to a break between songs and the frontman has the look of insanity upon his face. It's time for everyone to fucking die. The frontman makes a chopping motion, then gestures for the concert goers to move to either side of the venue.


-Frontman-
“Split the fucking place down the middle! This is the wall of fucking death! When I get to three and this shit starts to shake these walls...run! Run as fast as you can and fucking murder somebody!”


The music starts to slowly pick up. It gets faster and faster as the crowd anticipates the wall of death. The frontman starts his count down as punks flip the bird to the other side and shout demeaning phrases about the other half of the venue.

-Frontman-
“1!

2!

3!”


The song kicks into full gear and the concert goers are about to implode on themselves. Each half of the room rushes towards the other. They're ready to meet in the middle and tear each others heads off. Brandon Moore is at the front of the pack. This is his territory. The wall of death is his game and he's ready to play it. Something happens, though. Rage fills him rather than the normal aggressive peacefulness that comes with moshing. Everything starts to appear to him in slow motion. His surroundings become a blur except for three individuals coming straight at him. Brandon is seeing red and he's not fighting it. He's giving in to the anger every step of the way. Yoda would not be proud.

He reaches the first individual, everything still in slow motion. He resembles one of the opponents in the opening match of the Wild Card Weekend's second night. Longer black hair and white face paint cover the man's head. It seems that Brandon is manifesting hallucinations of his opponents and this first one is that of Mysery. Is this a mosh pit or a wrestling match? The Mysery doppelganger and Brandon Moore are the first pair to meet at the center of the venue. The wall of death is one hundred percent underway now as the crowd is ripping into each other. Brandon makes quick work of Mysery by dropping a shoulder and sending him over with a back body drop. Maybe this really is a wrestling match now.

Brandon is still seeing everything in slow motion, only able to focus on the select individuals that his rage allows him. Next up, Brandon sets his sight on who he believes is Dawud “Tha Bully.” The pretty darker-skinned face isn't going to be so pretty anymore when Brandon gets done with him. The muscular African-American/Jamaican man doesn't even see Brandon coming. Brandon grabs Dawud by his plain white t-shirt and starts to drag him around the entire mosh pit. He bounces him off of the onlookers surrounding the pit over and over again, never letting go and never letting up. The look on Brandon's face is as if he has rabies. Eventually, after dragging this poor man all around the 1787 Collective's mosh pit, Brandon simply lets go of him. Dawud goes flying into the crowd, disappearing within the mosh pit's bystanders.

Last, but not least, Brandon has his eyes locked on someone he believes to be the Italian Cowboy, Cadryn Tiberius. The Cereal Killer has his eyes locked on Brandon as well. He's obviously seen what Brandon has been doing in the pit tonight and wants to challenge that. The two men approach each other, like a videogame scene or a bout of gladiatorial combat. Cadryn has a sickening smile on his face and...



BOOM!



Brandon absolutely gives no fucks. He lays a vicious headbutt into this guy he thinks is one of his debut opponents. That's when Brandon snaps out of it. His vision goes back to normal and he looks in front of him to see a middle-aged man who was just trying to flex his mosh pit muscles. The man has a bit of blood dripping down his head down as he lays on the ground. His opponents for the Wild Card Weekend are nowhere to be found. What Brandon does find, though, is himself caught in the middle of a scuffle now. A few friends of the man he landed a headbutt on rush in and try to get a piece of Brandon. The kids from earlier at the merch booth come to Brandon's aid. Now, everyone's going out for real rather than in a good old fashioned friendly mosh pit.

Brandon just starts swinging, going after anyone in sight that looks like they might be an enemy. He knows he did wrong and saw things that weren't truly there, but he's too far in now to not defend himself. It was only a matter of time before security stepped in. Three security guards that are on duty at the venue jump into the fray to break things up. It's obvious that Brandon is the culprit and that he is doing the most damage. One guard, the largest of the three, handles the crowd and keeps them back. The other two separate all of the fighters and focus on Brandon. They tackle him and try to keep him pinned to the concrete floor of the venue.


-Brandon Moore-
“Get the fuck off of me, rent-a-cops!”


His kicking, screaming, biting, and slithering is of no use, though. The larger guard had his section under controlled and now turned his attention to helping his brothers. He simply sits on Brandon and pushes his head down to the floor. The other two guards retrieve zip ties from their pockets and use them to tie Brandon's hands behind his back. It's the end of the line for Mr. Moore's rampage. The guards lift him to his feet and shove him towards the door. The band didn't stop for even a second during the battle. They finish a song and there is silence as everyone is focusing on the restraint of Brandon Moore.

-Brandon Moore-
“This show fucking ruled!”


Brandon screams that as they drag his ass out the door and shove him against the wall outside. They make him sit as one of the guards gets on his phone to dial 911. Brandon has no choice but to wait for the inevitable, so he begins to whistle Twinkle Twinkle Little Star. No doubt, his arrest is coming soon, at the worst possible time. It's just a couple nights before his big XWF debut. For his sake, this better be over quick, so he can get into that XWF ring and kick more ass like he did during the concert.

[Image: 1z3ulj6.jpg]
CURRENT Federweight Champion
Edit Hate Post Like Post
[-] The following 1 user Likes Brandon Moore's post:
Ronnie Cage (12-08-2016)




Users browsing this thread: 1 Guest(s)