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X-treme Wrestling Federation »   » Archives » "Savage Saturday Night" RP Board
D.C. Noir
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
07-06-2017, 10:02 PM



Robbie Bourbon and his partner, Bearded War Pig, face off against presumably another Brick Squad member in a mask, and yet another Brick Squad member in a mask, judging by the fact Bruce Blingsteen, a Brick Squad member, revealled himself to be a former member of Bx3.

What, Robbie disappeared and came back before too, what's the big fuss about?

D.C. NOIR

The bright sun and clear skies in Washington, D.C. are welcome, though the heat coming with it is brutal. Along the sidewalks of the National Mall, we see dozens upon dozens of vendors selling cold bottles of water, hats, ice cream, and even a few stands selling frozen beverages all trying to capitalize on the bustling tourist business as many Americans flock to the nation's capital for Independence Day. From the looks of things, business is booming, as nary a pedestrian is seen without some kind of cup or bottle, dripping with condensation, satisfying hot and dry mouths.

We see Robbie Bourbon, sitting in the driver's seat of a '61 Lincoln Continental convertible with the top down. Beside him is a woman; not any he's been seen with before. She has raven dark hair, and a face that's reminiscent of Shelly from the old cartoon Jabberjaw if it could be applied to an actual human (in a cute, not freakish sense), almost snowy white complexion, and some rocking ink on her bare shoulders. Robbie reaches in the back of the car and hands the young lady a huge floppy hat.

You'll get sunburned, here.

Okay. Cool car.

I know. Lincoln Continental. It's the car Kennedy was shot in.

Huh.

No, literally, this was the car Kennedy was shot in.

Setting at a stop light, Robbie points in the back seat, back and to the left. The passenger turns and looks. As she does, she shows the camera her extraordinarilly well endowed chest, barely contained within a V-neck shirt. Robbie catches a glimpse and quickly stares back through the windshield.

"Man, Pig would love you. Stop gawking, doofus, you're spoken for." Robbie goes to fiddle with the radio, which is far from vintage. Much of the dash and console has been given a modern makeover. "Get some tunes going here, drown out the sounds of traffic." The light turns green, and Robbie slowly applies the gas.

So, Miss Mayson, how can the Motherfuckers help you?

Miss Mayson turns and looks at Robbie with a sense of distress to her eyes.

Well, I didn't know who to turn to. This is such an odd request.

Well, we handle odd things all the time.

What, like deformed children?

Well, no, not like that. We deal with assholes, fuckwads, pricks, dicks, shitheads, and other peices of human garbage that get off on harshing the people and America at large.

So...

No, we haven't beaten up any politicians yet. They're just they byproduct of the American public anyhow.

Okay. Well, I need information, Mr. Bourbon.

Please, call me Robbie.

"This is all starting to turn really film noir all of a sudden." Robbie looks around in bewilderment as everything goes to black and white and he's wearing a fedora. He looks up angrily at what's on top of his masked head and throws it out into the street as the color comes back. "Fucking fedoras."

Well, Robbie, I need to know if Kat is taken.

Who?

Kat. She has an Instagram.

Well, Miss Mayson...

Please, call me Marilyn.

Okay, Marilyn, when did she go missing?

What?

When was she abducted? Was there a note or any evidence indicating kidnappers wanted her? When did she disappear?

Oh, no, not that.

Huh?

I need to know if she's seeing anybody.

Seeing who? Spies? The Cartels?

No, no, I mean if she's dating someone, engaged, that sort of thing.

What? Why do you...

At another red light, Robbie looks at Marilyn quizzically. She stares back at him with huge green eyes and pouty lips, as though this information could make or break her. Robbie's demeanor melts at the sight and slumps back down into the driver's seat and looks ahead.

Okay, so you need me and Bearded War Pig to find out if this Kat is dating anybody?

Yes.

Does she have a last name?

Not that I'm aware of.

So she's like Bono, or Sting, or God. One name people?

I don't know.

Hrmm.

Robbie rubs his chin as the light turns green.

"The case took a strange turn. The only info she had was a name, Kat. She needed to find out if she was shacking up with some palooka for some odd reason. She seemed nervous, but sincere. I have to be careful." Robbie glances sideways at Marilyn as the light turns green. "A pretty woman with a sob story got my last partner in hot water. Trax was a good man, but the dame had him wrapped around her finger. Wait, why the fuck am I thinking like it's some old cliche detective movie?" Robbie rolls his eyes. "It's two thousand and seventeen. I have the internet. I just have to find someplace to play with my phone for a minute or two without getting into a wreck."

So, Marilyn, I think I can help you out. I'm kind of hungry, though, are you hungry?

I don't know. I think I could eat.

Do you like cheeseburgers?

I'm a fan.

Awesome. We'll go to Five Guys.

What's a Five Guys?

Oh, you'll see. It's magical.

"It was a magical place, for sure." The light turned green. Marilyn lit a cigarette, or perhaps a joint. It's hard to tell. "That smells good." Most likely a joint. She offers a puff to Robbie, and he waves his hand. "I'd love a toke, sweetheart, but I'm on the case. Some palooka is going around with the name Kat being taken, or so you think. A couple of real chuckleheads are stepping into the squared circle against me and brother Pig at Savage. Two mooks who the world wouldn't spend a dime on to hear a tale about. Or would they? Blingsteen came out from his mask, could be the others are just waiting. Maybe they're patsies in all of this. Who knows? I just know I need to get to the bottom of it." Robbie flings another fedora from his head. "How do these keep getting there?" Marilyn hits the joint and reaches in her purse for another fedora.

"Whoever these guys are, if they're just the mooks the world has them pegged for or more, they're still in for a world of hurt when the fireworks start flying." A stop at a red light, and Marilyn points at a guy with a saxophone, playing for some change to get a hot meal with. Robbie looks, and she quickly puts a fedora on him. The scene goes black and white, with Robbie in his lucha mask and fedora, Marilyn decked out in some classic 1940's thing. The '61 Continental somehow turns into a '43 Cadillac. A homeless guy sees this happen and falls over, perhaps fainting, perhaps cardiac arrest, perhaps a diet of sterno fluid and socks stolen from laundromats catching up to him at this precise moment. Nobody else in DC really cares, about the car or the homeless guy, they're busy with their own shit. "I mean, come as some surprise, come as the lampoon of a dying stable, either way you come, these chumps are leaving the same way. Losers. Failed tag team competitors. Victims of the Motherfuckers." The light turns green.

"Enter this bombshell riding alongside me in the wagon, and the case takes a totally different turn. What does Kat have to do with this? Maybe she's taken by Blingsteen? Maybe this dame wants to find the Brick Squad too? Maybe she's just beautiful poison sitting next to me, keeping me off my guard so I'll miss something." Robbie slowly takes his fedora off and scratches his masked head. Marilyn screams as Robbie notices he's still driving and quickly grabs the wheel, veering out of oncoming traffic. "Too many close calls, not enough hard facts. A burger will help settle me, and the dame."

He called you fat, you know.

I know, I heard. I've heard plenty of times.

And?

Shit, how many guys have I beaten who've just called me fat? I could name drop half the fucking roster right now, and show a who's who of has been talent that's walked out because I kicked the shit out of them so hard they were left without any spark in their fucking soul to keep going in this here fight game. All of them made a fat joke or two. They don't matter. They're moot. Wanna get under my skin? Try being the cheeseburger on the menu, heh. He's a piece of garbage loser and a whiner. I can't say as I blame Reno; if I were looking up and saw I had to fight the Motherfuckers, I'd be unhappy. I wouldn't throw a little tantrum about it. Sure, I have my difference in viewpoints with the brass around here, but I take that talk to where it goes, I don't fart up airtime bringing up 'I don't like my boss, that makes me cool, I'm a loser and they're why, I don't wanna have matches, Robbie Bourbon is going to hurt me out there', but he is a basic bitch, after all.

Bitches get stitches.

Then lie in ditches.

Watch out for those witches!

A trio of witches on brooms fly by, disrupting the whole noir feel of the promo you're watching. Someone must be doing one of those X days until Halloween posts somewhere on the internet.

Thanks, doll. You're a miracle.

Well, I try. You know, fat guys have smaller dicks.

I don't compare my dick to anybody elses. It's mine, it's what I got.

Just sayin'. Statistically speaking, you probably have a small penis.

Well, that's neither here nor there, even though that's legit fatty trash talk, not just lobbing the same fat jokes from an episode from South Park from over a decade ago at someone.

Robbie pulls the car up to the curb and parks outside of Five Guys. The red and white tile exterior is no frills but lively. He exits the car and walks around, opening the door for Marilyn, like a dude from the fourties totally would.

So do you have a small penis?

Robbie flings his fedora off.

That's my business, sister.

Marilyn looks a little unsettled. Robbie rolls his eyes and sticks his hand out. She reaches in her handbag and hands him another fedora. He puts it on.

"I couldn't help but think of Barney Green, and the naked pictures I'd seen of him, and how he looked like he had a massive clitoris where a cock should have gone." Robbie dry heaves. "Over four hundred pounds, and it looks like he had to roll back skin to reveal a head. Not even a shaft. Some fat guys just don't have big dicks."

Look, I got a great gal back home, she's waiting with the right amount of sass and a spoonful of sugar if you follow me. Thing is, she tells me it's big, and if it really is or not, isn't that what's important, having someone who will appease your ego enough by telling you how important and large your penis is?

"Yeah!"

A passerby acknowledges Robbie's statement. Robbie gives him a high five without looking at him, still looking at Marilyn.

Do you think Kat is telling someone how big their dick is?

"Why the fuck would I consider that?" Robbie smiles and shrugs.

No clue. Let's get us a cheeseburger and figure it out.

Are you sure? Reno said you should have a salad.

Reno eats shit, horse cum, and the dried snot from cocaine overdose victims, and that's for Christmas dinner. On the regular, he eats whatever comes out of the dick of the manager of Shoneys in whatever town he's in on top of plain white toast. Josh Reno eats the dried gum from under the table at strip clubs where the strippers have to put dollars in the juke box to dance. Josh Reno wishes he could eat pussy so bad he tried to get XWF management to hand him some to slurp on, because the only pussy he can eat are the rancid roadkilled cats he finds on the highway.

What do you have against eating pussy?

Well, nothing really, but it's not the greatest tasting thing in the world, and I wouldn't go down on just any lady walking down the block. Plus, sometimes I'm flat out tired, and going half at it is worse than not going at all. Like 'here, now shut up about it' is not romance, it's just trying to get some shut eye.

Robbie and Marilyn casually and quite loudly continue this discussion walking through Five Guys, past a few families out for dinner. Parents gaze at them, away from them, and towards children with explainations of what 'eating pussy' means when they ask. They approach the counter, and Marilyn stops dead. The girl at the register looks back. Her nametag reads Kat.

It's you!

Oh, shit. Are you taken?

You'll never get the jump on me, gumshoe!

Kat removes her mask, revealing herself to be...

Rodney!

You can tell because the nametag changes.

Rodney cackles and hops the register. Robbie catches him, and slings him facefirst into the floor. Rodney's chin splits and blood splatters against drab gray flooring, leaking out and creating some chaotic pattern only nature and violence can cause. Marilyn looks shocked.

Now how are we supposed to order our cheeseburgers?

Hushabee.

No! This place smells good!

Hold on.

Robbie squats down and sits on his heel as he lifts Rodney's face from the floor.

P-please, I give up.

So, you're taken?

What? I'm Rodney the Rat, I'm wanted for lacing the Smithsonian gala dinner with raisins and LSD. You're Robbie Bourbon, a superhero, playing detective because this lady had a question you couldn't answer whatsoever, but still, you were playing along to catch me, right?

Rodney gives a half-smile.

Wait, you want me to...

YES! Seriously, there are guys out there more than ready to be supervillains, Robbie, all of us waiting to get caught and beat up by you. I mean, you don't kill guys.

Well, I do kill guys.

Marilyn looks down and shrugs.

I dunno. You weren't even the Kat I was talking about.

Rodney looks sad.

So, you're going to kill me, not catch me?

Robbie glances back at Marilyn, then back at Rodney.

Well, maybe I will catch you, Rodney. I need to have my order taken first.

Robbie scoops Rodney up, cradles him like a child, and sets him on the counter.

I want a Cheeseburger, all the way.

Marilyn, having never been to a Five Guys, looks inquizitively at the menu.

Same.

Good call!

And a large fry and a large Coke.

Always Coca-Cola.

"The lady has no clue what she's gotten herself into." Robbie rolls his eyes. "That large fry will last her forever. Well, now I guess I have to catch Rodney. Shit, I don't have rope or handcuffs or anything, I usually just clobber a guy and leave, like the Thing. This whole detective thing is a lot harder than I thought. Well, at least I get to enjoy these delicious cheeseburgers, in public, with people, while doing stuff, instead of being some dismembered voice shitting up the airwaves and going nowhere slow in front of our eyes for the past couple of months. Man, when is someone going to let go of the joke? Roll with the times? Doing the same old, same old is lame. It's..."

Robbie looks at the camera and tips his fedora.

"Old hat."

What the fuck are you doing?

Internal monologuing at a miniature spycam.

What?

Yeah, they follow me everywhere.

I know what that can be like.

Oh, sweet. Well, alright. Rodney, you're hereby caught. Call the cops and tell them everything except about the way I broke your face.

'Kay.

Rodney cheefully pulls out his phone and dials. Another Five Guys employee, who could care less about any of what's going on otherwise, comes to finish taking the order.

"That'll be twenty-two fifty-seven."

Robbie looks at Marilyn and smiles. Marilyn looks back at Robbie and smiles.

I've never been here before.

I'm under hire by you on a case. Business expense.

You're fired.

We're going dutch. Strictly platonic.

What, you only pay for your girlfriend?

No, she buys me tacos.

And she says your dick is big?

Yep. Total keeper.

[Image: DtUCPfZ.png]
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