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X-treme Wrestling Federation » Warfare Boards » Warfare RP Board
Pulverized
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
01-22-2018, 01:56 AM



Empty, cold, dark streets are sometimes the best places to walk.

Robbie Bourbon is seen walking down an empty, cold dark street. He shambles forward, shoulders slumped, a hood from a discount sweatshirt draped over his masked skull. His hands are in his pockets, the only means to keep them warm. Cars pass by on the street as he maintains his gait on the sidewalk. The occasional rush of sound that happens as a car goes by is the only sound we hear as Robbie walks, deliberately, slowly, along the lonesome sidewalks of Alexandria, Virginia, towards Washington.

wwhooooooOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOshhhhhhhh.

That's what it looks like in text compared to the sound. Sorry this RP promo doesn't provide a soundbyte, just the organic, lonesome sound of someone not stopping to give you a ride as you are on the side of the road with nothing better to do but trudge onward.

The faint glow of a 7-11 illuminates the sparkling parts of Robbie's mask beneath his hood, and he looks up at the convenience store and takes a breath. He enters, and a solitary employee is busy pulling stock from a hard plastic bin, putting premade sandwiches and danishes onto shelves. They stop, sweeping aside their long, thinned hair and pulling downward on their scraggly beard in the moment.

One second.

Robbie says nothing as he approaches the coolers towards the back of the shop, eyeballing what is available, as the attendant slowly shambles behind the counter towards the register, keeping an eye on Bourbon. Robbie opens a refridgerated door and pulls a Coca-Cola from within, then approaches the counter. He sets the bottle onto the surface atop a plastic mat detailing all the Virginia Lottery scratch off tickets available at such an hour. The clerk scans the bottle and looks solemnly at Robbie.

Two thirteen.

Robbie doesn't look up from the mat detailing the scratch off tickets.

Let me get a number 23.

The clerk reaches below the counter and pulls out a piece of cardboard lined with lead, marked "War Games". It has the visage of Jim Caedus, Robert Main, and Drew Archyle on it with "$20,000" on it in bright pink and blue numbers, the lottery and the XWF performing a successful collaboration in selling gambling to the hopeless to raise money for schools. As he does, Robbie pulls his wallet from his back pocket and sighs when opening it.

Three thirteen.

The camera shows a lone five dollar bill in his wallet, which is pulled and handed to the clerk.

Keep the change.

The clerk nods, acknowledging Robbie's response as he spends his last five dollars. Robbie opens the Coke and sips it, then looks at the piece of cardboard in front of him. He looks back at the cashier.

Uh, got a penny I could borrow?

The cashier nods and pulls a penny from a small plastic tray on the counter that reads "leave a penny, take a penny". Robbie takes it, sips his soda, then scratches the lead lined film of the lotto scratch off in front of him. As he finishes, his eyes go wide and he tosses back his hood.

I won!

Cool.

A hundred bucks!

The cashier smiles at the fortune of the lone soul in his store, takes the used lottory scratch-off, and scans it under a machine. As it beeps, he opens the register and hands Robbie five twenties.

Thank you.

No problem.

The clerk leaves the counter and goes back to one of the aisles of the shop, continuing to stock the merchandise they're responsible for before the opening shift arrives. Robbie puts the hundred dollars into his wallet, and leaves, grabbing his Coca-Cola and putting his hood back on in one fluid motion on the way out the door.

Robbie steps a few yards before looking up, and the narrative camera pans up to show the glow that illuminates the mask on his face, reading "Waffle House". For those who don't know, Waffle House is a staple among the destitute at the ungodly hours of the morning, oft avoided by the Sunday morning holy rollers, embraced by anyone hungry and not sober at three in the morning. Robbie shrugs as he walks inside. He finds a seat at the bar and pulls up a menu. An employee approaches him.

One moment, darlin', I'll be right with you.

Robbie tosses his hood back and nods. After a moment a fork and shitty butter knife are put in front of him on a napkin by the employee.

What can I get you started with.

Coffee. Black.

Okay.

She turns and goes towards the oversized caraffe in the establishment with a meager mug. As she does, another patron sidles up next to Robbie. A girl, early twenties, wiping at her nose with the sleeve of her poofy coat, her eyes glazed.

Hey baby, you alone?

Yeah.

Robbie blinks, unsure if he's telling the truth regarding the Motherfuckers or not.

Want some company?

It's a free country.

Robbie does not blink at the mention of what the people in America are entitled to.

So, looking for some company?

Nah, I work for one.

The young girl giggles, albeit forcibly. She pushes the underside of her bra, accentuating her bosom, and flutters her long, caked eyelashes at him desperately.

Sounds like they don't treat you good.

Robbie goes flush as he smirks.

That's their call, I reckon.

I'll treat you good.

The lass puts her hand on Robbie's thigh as she says this. Robbie looks away.

One second.

Robbie pulls his phone from his pocket and looks at it, dark, unblinking, no sign that anyone has tried to contact him. He presses the screen and doddles with it, pulling up the contacts. We see the word "BLUE" on it, and zero activity has happened according to the view we have. Robbie slides the phone back into his pocket as the bell hanging from the door rings and a man walks in with purpose towards the young girl beside Robbie. He addresses her, ignoring the massive Boubon beside her.

Why didn't you answer.

Look, I was busy...

Bitch, please.

The man puts his right hand on the girl's shoulder as her whole body cringes. The staff of Waffle House recoils, staying away from the happenings. Robbie looks straight forward, focused on nothing, hearing everything.

You got to pay me for the protection I give you. I don't care if you can't pull business, I have to get paid. Understand?

As the man says this, he grits his teeth, a bright golden grill twinkling in the Waffle House lights. Robbie exhales.

I was talking with her.

Did I talk to you?

The man looks at Robbie menacingly as Robbie looks towards the staff, hoping for his coffee. As they avoid the entirety of the situation, Robbie exhales deeply through his nose. He turns and looks at the guy.

Can we talk outside? I was talking to your girl.

The man brandishes a blade from his pocket. Three inches long, dark, and homicidal.

What do we have to talk about?

Business. Look, I was talking to your girl, let's talk about money.

Okay, let's talk about money. You first.

Robbie stands, almost a foot taller than the man with the knife, and heads out of the door. As he does, the man follows. The Waffle House waitress walks up and pours a cup of coffee in front of Robbie's place at the bar, then looks at the girl.

I thought...

I went back to him, he's good for me.

Darlin', that man ain't good for anybody.


The server leaves as the girl looks back, towards the door. Soon, Robbie walks back in. He steps up to the bar and chugs the hot cup of coffee in front of him, his knuckles splattered red. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out his wallet. He slaps eighty dollars in front of the girl.

Here.

Robbie then reaches into his hoodie pocket and pulls out a golden gril, a set of human teeth adorned with blood and tipped with what looks like the remnants of someones gums. He lays it on the bar. Meanwhile, massive cunts have silenced the tune at the beginning of this RP promo, and and even bigger cunts have forgotten about Maddy, the comedic genius that we are all here for, and that prick deserves more praise than most breathing.

You're good to go. No worries left, go be you.

Robbie then lays his last twenty on the counter and looks at the server.

Keep the change.

[Image: DtUCPfZ.png]
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Imperial (01-25-2018), The Engineer (01-22-2018)




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