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X-treme Wrestling Federation » Warfare Boards » Warfare RP Board
War isn't Hell... Peace is Hell!
Author Message
"The Wolf of Afghanistan" Joshua Schuler Offline
Oceanic Cowboy



XWF FanBase:
Hardcore, psycho fans

(cheered for breaking rules and bones; excessively violent; creative with weapons)


#1
11-20-2017, 02:41 PM

Part One


Clap.

Clap.

Clap. Clap.

Clap. Clap.

Clap! Clap! Clap! Clap! Clap!

The applause meant nothing to Bearded War Pig; he joined the Marine Corps because it is all he had to offer the free people of America. Protection, security, and faith he gave his strong backbone to hold their beliefs and liberties on his shoulders. A proud and brave brother willing to keep the enemy at bay with bloodstained hands Bearded War Pig would tuck his innocent siblings in bed every night with the blanket of freedom with or without applause. It was his duty, the warrior's soul burned deep and extremely hot within his body. Most of the men in formation marching are smiling from ear to ear as they look out to their loved ones they've missed dearly. Families waving banners with respected sons, fathers, or brother’s names decorated in glory with the utmost pride and honor. Pig isn't one of the lucky men who can find happiness in being reunited with the loved ones he left behind to cross oceans to win the hearts and minds of innocence lost to barbaric terrorism while slaying bodies of our enemies. No, all he can see over and over on the big screen is a large black mushroom cloud, walls of fire closing in, and flaming bodies running around like chickens with their heads cut off. People screaming in agonizing pain from limbs being ripped from their unsuspecting bodies pleading to be saved more imagery Pig cannot escape. The hellish aftermath of a suicide bombing BWP will forever have seared into his mainframe, never truly being able to escape hell...

Suddenly the ranks of Bravo Company completely stop dead in their tracks as the Company First Sergeant yells out the command.

"Bravo Company, Halt! Leeeeeeeffffffffftttttttttt, FACE!"

The applause from the audience has died down and the company in one fluid motion has turned to the left as one synchronized unit, looking as smooth as Michael Jackson on stage dancing. These Marines were not just savage fighting machines but they were also masters of drill and battle formations giving the crowd of onlookers a show.

"Parade. Rest!"

First Sergeant's voice commands as every single Marine in the formation snaps to parade rest. Legs about shoulder width apart and right hand tucked over left in the small of their backs elbows at ninety degrees, eyes straightforward, and no emotion what so ever. First Sergeant then walks over to a very stern looking man with shiny chevrons on his collar, most likely the Company Commander, typically a Captain in the Marine Corps infantry. After whispering something short in the Captain's ear. First Sergeant salutes and then marches to left three paces and about five paces behind the Company's commander. The Commander steps forward the entire Company issues a salute and release at the same time as the commander after returning the respectful gesture. The Commander speaks out subtle but thunderous projection.

"At ease Gentleman. Every single one of you has lived up to and beyond the expectations, I had set for you when we first were introduced back before the workup. Thank you. My family thanks you. All these families standing here now waiting to hold their heroes, thank you for making sure they made it home. Believe me when I tell you if you all had not done your jobs a lot less of us would be standing here right now. So again thank you for your blood, sweat, tears, dedication, and professionalism you displayed here in the United States and especially over in the sandbox where it really counted. With that said I want to end this quick, weapons have been checked in, gear accounted for, so Platoon Sergeants I release them to you."

With logistics and liberty discussion having already been discussed on the plane ride back from Afghanistan to the United States every single Platoon Sergeant quickly releases their men for a three-day liberty (vacation) before they would have to report back for a morning formation. Marines begin to go apeshit, tipping bottles upside down before family who has also lost all control can even properly greet them. Outside Bravo Company barracks looks to be the making of a New York City, block size party. Tears are flowing. Screams are sporadic and enjoyment is in the air. For most, some still need a little time to adjust and fully register exactly what they have been a part of, WAR.

Bearded War Pig is among some of the few that just stayed silent and slithered away with all his gear to his room without even saying a single word to anyone. Not another Marine or any of the large amount of family who had drove done to North Carolina from Michigan to welcome him home. Unready to embrace the warm hugs of loved ones when death is so fresh in the brain. Not that death usually bothered him, this time around was different. One of his closest friends, a brother in arms, and the second team leader to his squad was blown to hell and back. The man he shared sleeping and living quarters with for almost a year was unable to be welcomed home in this fashion for his body lay resting in a Texas Burn Center, just clingy to life by machines. Hell is where Pig would have rather been, wanting nothing more in the world than being able to trade places with Corporal Bordoni, Christopher from Ithaca, New York. How could any human not want to be alone when they feel they failed their purpose?

Precisely how Bearded War Pig was feeling as he walks hidden in the shadows away from the mass of happiness. Not worrying how much his family may have been waiting to finally see for themselves that he was home and unscathed. Their touch would have probably done him some good, but he couldn’t allow them to feel secure and comfortable, not just yet. Breaking free from any soul insight Pig begins to let a small trail of tears flow as he begins climbing the staircase toward the third deck, where his room was located on the northeast side of the building, HP425. With the key, the same key he now has attached to a chain, he unlocks his barracks room. Inhaling a deep breath through his nose the stench of dirty raunchy sex and sweet, sweet, pussy still lingers from the all-day fuck fest he had with his girlfriend at the time Toni Guerra. Pig almost allows himself to crack a tiny smile. Breaking the sexual imagery his smelling sense triggered, Pig tosses the two large military issued sacks, seabags on the floor before flipping his rucksack off his back and over his head. He tosses it on top of the other two olive drab military sacks, filled with his entire belongings for almost a whole year in Khajaki-Sofla, Afghanistan, Helmond Province. Free from everything he falls to his knees with his head in his hands as the world around him moves he freezes with the memories he had of his brother Christopher begin to spiral out of control. His knuckles begin to smash into the side of his own head, flesh tears from the bone as blood begins trickling down his arm. A tear rips across the side of his forehead allowing another crimson river to form this time streaming down his stubbly shaved face. Pig's fist falls to his side as he lets out a horrific scream of hate. Not wanting to accept the reality of the matter. Thrashing around in anger ripping through his luggage and throwing things about like a madman BWP begins to grow angrier than anything else...


To be continued.

_______________________________________________________


A video camcorder resting on a tripod wired to a laptop recording live feed of Bearded War Pig, 'Savage King of the Slaying Field' sitting on top of at least five seabags filled with gear and clothing. His Television Championship laying across his lap he has a bottle of Killians in his right hand and a playboy smile. Pig pats the bag directly under his royal ass having a bond with simple fabric manufactured into what could be someone's life in a bag. Raising the bottle of beer to his lips BWP takes a satisfying gulp, licking his upper lip and mustache-free from beer suds before letting out a sigh of relief.

"Sorry for the rudeness, I would offer every single one of you fuckers out there that live for XWF a cold brewski. We just haven't come that far in technology for me to physically pass you a cold one through the Internet, maybe one day. Probably one day sooner than the cock smoking suits, pulling the strings behind the scenes here in the XWF realize the real talents in this company. Lets put the Motherfuckers in a match against two dinks that both have recently taken defeats from my very own hands. Booking believes it would make entertaining television for Robbie Bourbon and myself to finish the Limp Dick Duo for good? What a crock of shit and I am talking mom put the crock pot on high all day and is literally slow cooking deep-fried turds with diarrhea as gravy! Luckily for our loyal fans and the people that make it so dick wads calling the shots can afford their fancy suits and ties, the Motherfuckers will be able to make the shit roast appealing!

I'm talking a tag team that makes stadiums crumble from the roar of the fans. The energy that admits from the audience when we step out from behind the curtain could power Asia for a year. That is what happens when we are in singles competition. Can you fucking comprehend what will occur when we step out from behind the curtain together? Let me tell you motherfuckers, hard dicks, and wet fucking pussies is what is going to happen. Hearts exploding, asses whooped, and ultimate satisfactory from every single soul watching from the crowd or at home on a screen. So what I seem to be asking myself over and over again, why? Why am I being handed scrubs over and over again? Why do the Motherfuckers get tossed scraps why The Kings are blessed with gold? Yet the only thing they have going for them right now is Doc's rumble that I guarantee one of the Motherfuckers will win!

I guess what I am getting at is what the fuck do we have to do to get it through your thick head that we are XWF right now! Not the Kings, not Chris Valerius and Finn Kuhn, and definitely not the RAT and his new team The Apex. It is the Motherfucker's XWF right now and everyone else is just going to have to deal with it because we don't, GIVE NO FUCKS! So King Vincent, Mr. Washington, and Mr. Mathews get your dick mittens off your genitals and let us work together to make XWF the greatest it has ever been. Get rid of the fucking suck around here and start giving the people cards they deserve. Matches they can be honored to have spent their hard earned money to come watch. Hoping the wrestlers find their ways out of the ring, bringing the fight to the stands, giving the people up close and personal violence they so ever desire!

The facts are out there, everyone worth a damn always seems to be sputtering one of our names out of their cock holsters. Jim Caedus Mr. 24/7, Peter Fuckin Gilmour the last man to get a shot at the Universal Championship, Robert Main last man to get a shot at the Xtreme Championship, Doc XWF Legend, hell even the nobodies want a piece. Every damn soul on the roster and their mommas want a shot to try and prove themselves against the Motherfuckers! Can anyone fucking blame them, every single member holds singles Championships. So again why are we facing prematurely ejaculated talent come Wednesday? Why not give us someone more exciting, talented, and more likely to put up a fight. Fuck! Management, you’re fucking killing me here...”


Slightly irritated with the continuing show of disrespect from management in his eyes, Pig begins pounding the slightly more than half full bottle of Killian’s Irish Red. Not fully satisfied with the quantity of consumption. He wipes his lips and mustache before grabbing his Championship belt with his free hand. Pig then rises from the pile of Seabags onto his feet; he walks toward one of the stands in his hotel room where he places the empty beer bottle. Before returning to the pile of Seabags, Pig removes another bottle of George Killian's from the fridge like a proper veteran of war. Instead of sitting on the Seabags, BWP just stands in front of them biting the bottle top off with his teeth. Pig then winks into the camera and takes a relieving gulp before raising his beer up like he is saluting the fans at home watching before speaking again.

“Cheers to all you motherfuckers out there who had to sit through that bullshit, I am just trying to get a point across to the boys up top. You all deserve better! So enough with beating the dead horse, it can’t be too fucking entertaining. Kind of like the two numb skulls you all are going to get to witness the Motherfuckers break in half. You all know those two shit zippers are going to be destroyed and know it all will be done with respect to every one of you. I’m sorry it won’t be as exciting if it was to be The Kings who were on the receiving end of a Motherfucking ASS WHOOPIN! At least we can all agree it isn’t The Apex to try and spice up a match against Finn Kuhn and Chris Valerius. What a shit show that what would be?! Hopefully, that catastrophe is forever avoided. I’m afraid the blind population around the world would drastically increase from self-mutilation.

I don’t believe we need that as a human race right now. Plus you all deserve so much better, you deserve the best, and not just when it is a Championship bout but always! So I guess it is kind of a blessing and a curse being this damn good at taking names and whoopin ass! Everyone is after us and we are the only ones who can make scrub matches entertaining for the utterly most deserving bunch of Motherfuckers. Robbie and I are going to tactically, brutally, dissect every maneuver those two dipshits could possibly come up with. It might as well be the reenactment of the first Thanksgiving, with the Motherfuckers playing the Pilgrims and well tweedle dead and tweedle doneski the Native Americans. I’m not talking the happy dappy fake ass story kids are told, I am talking bloody fucking massacre motherfuckers! Why? Because that is what you fucking do to evil! Evil? Yes, fucking evil, anyone who steps foot into the ring you all worship and doesn’t give it everything is pure fucking evil in my eyes. We the Motherfuckers proudly take the responsibility of cleansing the XWF from evil cause we are just some good ole American made Motherfuckers!”


BWP takes another gulp from his George Killians before lowering the bottle to his side and raising his Championship belt proudly toward the camcorder for all viewing a proper view of his achievement in so little time.

"Everyone takes a good hard look at this right here. This Television Championship is ours and we've fucking earned it. You've all earned it! I don't want to speak on behalf of my brothers and the Championships they hold but I bet my left nut they feel the same fucking way. You want proof, just look at the tapes, see how we give you all everything you could possibly want in a match if it is for the gold or not! We are the Motherfuckers for the job because Motherfuckers get the job done! Our championships alone are proof and even though our next contest isn't for any gold we will be bustin ass as if it were. Every single one of us is a Champion in your hearts and soon enough either brass likes it or not we will give the Tag Team Championships back to the people where they belong. So if that means slaying bodies then so be it. If it is just the two come Warfare or thousands any team that stands in our way is going to feel the beat down a couple of Motherfuckers can give!

Chris Valerius. Finn Kuhn. Wednesday you are stepping into our warzone and orders are to take no prisoners. I sure hope you boys don't have any thought of surrender because well when the Motherfuckers are given a mission there is no turning back. Not a damn soul can save you from the war you have just become apart of. Either it was your choice or not, you have just become a casualty. Say your goodbyes, tuck your dicks between your legs, and kiss any hope of victory bye bye! Death is whispering your name and to be honest it doesn't care if you call back or die silently like cowards. Our people deserve our best and to be honest both of you wouldn't even be able to handle one of us at our BEST. The most disappointing thing about the whole situation is I don't even know if you two fucktards will even be able to put up enough of a fight to get my Thanksgiving feast appetite jumpstarted. So I guess if you don't give us everything you got in the tank plus more, we will just beat you until we are almost too exhausted to even make the pin. Bess you two just show up ready to fight for your lives and give the people a worthy showing of defeat.

Oink, Oink Motherfuckers!"


Just as Bearded War Pig finishes his transmission three knocks at his door can be heard before the camera cuts to static...


To be continued?
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