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Boomerang
Author Message
Robbie Bourbon Offline
Man of the People



XWF FanBase:
The 'cool' kliq fans

(booed by casual fans; opportunistic; often plays dirty while setting the trends)


Post: #1
05-17-2019 01:43 AM



Robbie Bourbon, struck with malaise after hearing he would face Dolly Waters some months ago, faced with the prospect of facing Peter Gilmour thirteen more times, a slew of random dinks who would wither like flowers in his presence, and not a fresh match in sight, left the XWF in search of new opportunities and, among other things, actual horrible people to beat the shit out of.

Seems he needed only wait.

BOOMERANG

We open to see a very basic, run-of-the-mill convenience store/gas station, somewhere in America. If you have seen one, you've seen a thousand. Gas pumps sheltered by a massive overhang, a window peering into the cashier's workplace, a set of double swinging doors that open outward covered with signs telling you what credit cards you can use here, when you can come in, and just what kind of delicious beverage you can wet your whistle with and pay less for because it's on sale.

People meandering about the gas station, headed from vehicle to building, building to vehicle, off the street to building, and maybe even just smoking cigarettes and people watching, all stop what they're doing and point up at the sky as the whistling doom of a falling mortar screeches through the air. With a loud thud, something impacts the road in front of the gas station, and as the dust settles, onlookers from the unscathed gas station point in awe at the sight of what looks like a large metal can with a pointed end, some kind of space ship from a 40s sci-fi movie where there are a load of allegories are presented because nobody was woke back in those days, not even minorities.

The capsule, of sorts, pops open, and out climbs Robbie Bourbon, clad in his usual wrestling mask and gear, the single strapped spandex. He rubs his head and looks around.

Woah, looks like I landed. Traveling the cosmos and seeing whats out there was fun and all, but thank goodness I am back on terra firma!

Out of the pod crawls Ash, Robbie's stylist.

Jesus, Robbie, weren't we supposed to land that in the ocean?

This seemed quicker.

Quicker! We could have gotten killed! I thought you drove like a maniac, running red lights and cutting people off.

Hey, it's either I wear my glasses or my mask, and in the name of all that is sacred in lucha, I can not remove my mask.

You take it off all the god damned time! Look at half those YouTube videos you posted, you're not wearing the mask at all when hanging out with Cyberjaw.

Aaand, you'll notice, I was able to wear my glasses.

Ash rolls her eyes as she climbs out of the pod. Onlookers continue to point and stare. Conveniently, and up-until-now unnoticed, yet obese, motorcycle cop dismounts his ride. While we all feel this is entirely humane for the motorcycle that the morbidly obese bike cop gets off, you feel this expostion might further the plot a bit and hope the cop asks much needed questions since we couldn't just have Robbie sit with Steve Sayors arbitrarily. This is for fucking Pay-Per-View, for fuck's sake, let's make with the cinematography! The bike cop adjusts the belt of his pants, tightly wound below his muffin top belly-back combo, constantly as he approaches Robbie and Ash.

Are you folks alright?

Yes, officer, we're fine, hold on, here's my ID.

Robbie reaches in his one strapped shoulder, much like a woman reaching into her bra to retrieve items, and pulls out a wallet. He opens it and flashes his ID, which is simply a card with his picture and the word "MOTHERFUCKER" printed in very official looking script on it. The officer checks it and nods, looking as though this is the approved type of identification he sees regularly.

Mr. Bourbon, what is this, uh, thing? Can you move it to a more appropriate parking spot?

As the fat motorcycle cop says this, the space ship completely just disintegrates into dust.

No.

Okay, well, can you explain what you are doing here?

Oh, that's easy.

He's reinventing himself!

He's what?

Reinventing!

You see, officer, on Sunday, May Twenty-Sixth, I am headed to Moscow along with Lux, Brian Storm, and Donovan Blackwater to babysit Scully in a match at War Games against Sam McPherson, Double G, Tony Santos, Deacon, and Luca Arzegotti. This is a huge match, officer, a huge match, one that the Universe is humming over. Vibrating. There's a kinetic energy building, and growing, waiting to just be released in that cage at War Games as we go to war like only one can in the XWF.

Thing is, I haven't been around for a while. As such, it's important for wrestlers like me to reinvent themselves. Especially given the obstacles we face.

For starters, there's Tony Santos, who would be considered a staple in the XWF except staples are known to hold shit together. Have I faced Santos before? I don't know, nobody cares, if I did, he got bounced bounced around like the ball at a Harlem Globetrotters exhibition more ways then you can get your burrito done at Chipotle then eventually dumped and flushed more ways then you can get your burrito done at Chipotle. I have seen feather dusters, house cats, and wool caps that seem more dangerous than Tony Santos.


House cats can be bastards.

Yeah, but so can us wrestlers. Lookit me, I'm a motherfucker, the big badda bastardo, more genius than that DaVinci boy, Leonardo, a voice like Don Pardo and more savvy than Ricky Ricardo. Lookit Tony Santos, he's a neutered, declawed fucking house pet.

Then there's Double G. The God of Grappling. In the words of a very wise man, "Puny God". Y'know, for a deity, you'd think you could do better. Maybe go out and cure a little cancer, aide with agriculture by providing rain, impregnate people while in the form of some kind of animal like Zeus did when he knocked someone up as a duck, what have you. Instead, shit, instead this guy comes down to the fucking ring and does pretty much the same thing I do, only way more people give a shit about what I do, when I do, how I do, and why I do then they do about some doofus named Gary from Cincinnati. Oof, deicide USED to be a bad ass metal band, or something kinda crazy sounding, but ultimately, here I am playing fucking Chronos setting up to fucking eat Gary from Cincinnati alive like he was some fucking chili with cinnamon in it on top of spaghetti, and by eat I mean toss in the garbage.

Mark that name, too. God of Grappling? No. You're Gary, from Cincinnati. End of fucking story.


Hold on, hold on, Robbie, you're falling back into your old form. The High Holy Hypocrite, the Poison Loaded Flamethrower, Sultan of Smacktalk thing, that has to go.

Right, right. Sorry, officer, I am reinventing myself.

The cop, who was spellbound by the way Robbie was trashtalking his opponents, people he barely knew, with such vigor and fluidity, seems to come to his senses. With a flash, we see Robbie, Ash, and the fat motorcycle cop in a very garish undersea setting.

Woah, my bike! My Star Crunch!

Oh Em Gee, I haven't had a Star Crunch in forever.

That does sound good, maybe after we'll all go out for, well, we can't go out for Little Debbie.

Where are we?

Well, this is the first idea. Pescatarianism has been on a steady rise according to studies, and people love music, so I suggested an undersea musical act idea!

Yeah, it'll be just like Jabberjaw!

Robbie, much to the chagrin of many, sits down to a keyboard.

Okay, so, my first jam goes a little like this.

Robbie starts just slamming his hands down on the keyboard, looking completely lost in the moment, overly intense, as just random disjointed notes happen. Ash and the fat motorcycle cop look at each other and shrug. Robbie finishes and looks up, grinning.

So, how was that? Was that good music for fish? Maybe something you would hear at a Long John Silver?

That was a song?

Uh, Robbie, why don't you play another tune, maybe that one could be a deep track.

Right!

Robbie once again just hamfistedly slams his hands around the keyboard, his face lost as though he was creating art but really just making nonsense happen with his fingers. Both Ash and the fat motorcycle cop cringe. Robbie finishes slowly as he notices their displeasure.

So, uh, maybe I'm not a musician. I know, I know, I need to practice.

Robbie stands. As he does, Ash sits at the keyboard and actually starts playing something resembling music.

See, that's the ticket.

She's pretty good!

I know. You know who isn't? Deacon Hammu. You know, I have reinvented myself so many times by now, I might actually have lost count. I was President of the United States, a Semi-Zombie, a Superhero, I guess a hapless foe for Apex, a lousy Universal Champion, but you know what I have never been? A fucking spooky clown. I don't get that, the whole thing with what makes clowns scary. It's almost it's own subgenre of horror films, right up there with evil dolls and puppets. That shit isn't even fucking scary! Shit, once upon a time, when people wanted to scare each other, they would tell Robbie Bourbon stories, about all the bones broken, the careers derailed, the dreams crushed, and the souls scorched by a Motherfucker on a Mission to decimate and create simultaneously. Oh, and note that, yeah, I was a lousy Universal Champion, but to come back to an XWF ring and see that I'm facing Ronald fucking McDonald on his off day from flipping burgers in the ring is probably one of the most embarrassing things a wrestling fan could ever have to explain to their girlfriend! Deacon, stick to doing kids birthdays and making balloon animals, this here is dangerous shit, not fucking clown shoes bullshit.

Woah, Robbie...

Then, well shit, Sam McPherson! Huge guy, mask, kinda dumb, wait, wait, I get it!

Sam McPherson tried to reinvent himself as me!

Well, Sammy, and Henry, I hope you can explain this to Sam since he seems a little slow, welcome to the discount bargain outlet bin, because you sure as fuck aren't the first cheap Robbie Bourbon knockoff to come around. Look at Piggy Gilmour, last year's model, who was a Bourbon knockoff before it was cool. Look at Vinnie Lane, he tried to introduce the world to Bob Whiskey, a Bourbon knockoff, so I knocked him unconscious then signed a check for myself in his blood. You seem like a seasoned guy, look around the multiverse, all the cosmos, here and there, hither dither, and you will see Robbie Bourbon wannabe fakers and poseurs everywhere. Huge guy, mask, does the big moves. Then I meet them, expose them, turn their spine into fucking jelly. Straight Highlander rules here, there can only be one, and I am the one, you're doo doo like number 2, like a turd but with all the substance of a fucking fart. See, that's the difference, that's what makes you a can of Sam's Choice cola and yours truly Coca-Cola Classic, that's why you're sold on tables at craft fairs and I'm the top buy on Amazon, is because I am the genuine article. Also, I can actually use my words like a fucking human being and I'm not just some moron being strung along by a manager.


Robbie, reinventing!

Oh, shit, right, right, I keep going off and talking all this shit about my opponents, like that's my job or something. I gotta reinvent now!

Wait, last time it was a little...

With a flash, Robbie, Ash, and the fat motorcycle cop are now in a green house.

What is this?

Oh, well, the Green New Deal is a pretty popular topic, so we thought maybe Robbie could be reducing carbon footprints. With botany, or something.

Yeah, Dr. Greenthumb, just like that Cypress Hill song!

Cypress Hill? Mr. Bourbon, marijuana is an illicit...

We're in DC, out of your jurisdiction.

How did we get here?

Robbie walks up to the fat motorcycle cop and places his pointer finger on his lips.

Hushabee.

Robbie turns and picks up a pair of shears and sets to pruning plants of all sorts; mostly flowers. Not speaking whatsoever, just lopping off portions of plants here and there, hither dither, doing botany, I guess? I'm not a gardener, I have no clue.

This, uh, is supposed to excite people for a wrestling match?

Well it's still more exciting than Deacon's played out evil clown routine.

If you say so.

Yeah, kinda drab. Not sure I like this one.

With a flash, Robbie is in a studio seated on a stool next to a wall. It is precisely the set from the Dating Game. Beside him at a podium stands Ash, and behind her is the fat motorcycle cop.

Aw, what's this shit?

Look, Robbie, every wrestler goes through some story arc where they detail their sexual prowess somehow. Vinnie flexes with his wife, Theo flexed with his wife, Peter flexes with his, um, whatever, Graves flexes with the underaged because he's a creepy closet MAP and should be castrated, you get the picture.

Been there, done that, I was Danny Sex, remember?

Yeah, but now this is about true love, not lust.

Pffft. I'd rather stick to lust.

A curtain comes up and we see three women on the other side of the wall beside Robbie.

Bachelorette number one, how would you describe yourself?

Well, I would be a crazy cat lady, except I'm genderqueer. I am really into the IWW and love how the Soviets wrecked Nazis. My house is the Pussy Palace, where I live with two women and a total of four cats.

Whoo, probably smells like pee!

Robbie, wait your turn.

Okay.

Bachelorette number two, how would you describe yourself?

Well, I'm kinda a crazy cat lady, ya know? I have my, you know, own kinda mantra, it's kinda unique but, you know, it's what makes me me as a person. My family is really important, ya know? It's kinda a part of my whole thing.

Your mantra is being vague?

Robbie!

Sorry.

Bachelorette number three, how would you describe yourself?

Well, I love dogs, and animals. I live simple, but used to party hard.

Used to?

Yeah, I used to hook up nightly with different dudes, but recently I had to give a baby up for adoption and my car got reposessed so now I take a taxi to get to work. Now I have two cats and am a crazy cat lady.

Robbie glares at Ash. Ash rolls her eyes and leans closer to Robbie and whispers.

Look, I get it, but...

Robbie crosses his arms across his chest.

I wouldn't fuck any of them.

Not whispering whatsoever, Robbie's reply causes both the fat motorcycle cop and the three womens jaws to drop. Ash continues to whisper.

It'll be a regular thing, we introduce a bunch of women and you can find true love!

Look, I know I have a thing for crazy cat ladies, but really, me pushing a dicking into someone really isn't what the XWF tunes in to see. There are already plenty of porn acts out there.

Robbie, this isn't porn, it's romance.

This is dumb. Really dumb. Romance is as overhyped and ballyhooed as Luca.

Hi Luca. Long time, no see.

Now, I respect the shit out of what Luca has accomplished in the ring in the XWF. For me to come out and say he sucks, especially when we have Scully on our team, is just kind of baseless and ridiculous. Luca Arzegotti is a legend, and in days gone past he has proven time and again why he is that legend. The thing is, so has Nolan Ryan. I wouldn't put him in to close a game in the World Series, though. Michael Jordan revolutionized basketball on a huge scale. I'm not putting him in the starting line-up of an NBA Finals game. Wayne Gretzky was the greatest hockey player of all times. Wayne Gretzky knows better than to take the ice because his body can't take it. To tell the truth, for me to come out and show disrespect to my elders, those who came before me and whom I've faced is so coarse and rude that, well, only a real motherfucker would even dare to do so. Fortunately, I am a real motherfucker! I'm going to expose Luca at War Games for the novelty, single serving, one-time-use crock of shit he is bringing to the table, he is a part-time player who laces his boots once every year or so, and while he's coming down the aisle to much ado, it's much ado about nothing. The fanfare will be deserved, as will be the beating I put you through in that cage at War Games. It's been a while, Luca, a long hot minute, since anybody has gotten the Bomb in the XWF. There's been some kind of armistice, like the nukes don't come into play anymore, like scorched earth is a bad thing, that killing them all and letting God on high sort them the fuck out is just antiquated. You remember what it's like. You will feel it, because as vaunted as you are in some corners, I am renouned far and wide, while you peaked, I outgrew you, and now that I needs my space, I'ma squeeze you piece by piece through the walls of the cage at War Games.


The three women on the other side of the wall as Robbie have gotten up and left. Ash has her hands on her hips.

Seriously? You went into talking about Luca, almost immediately. Shouldn't you be reinventing yourself?

In a flash, Robbie, Ash, and the fat motorcycle cop are poolside in some tropical resort beside a tiki bar.

Would you stop! How are you doing that, it's so disorienting!

Robbie and Ash glance at each other and shrug at the supposition that their TV and Movie special effects magic is somehow irregular.

What's your name, man?

I'm Officer Bill Darrenship

Bill.

Yeah?

Chill.

Look, Bill, I get it's disorienting for you. All of this seems so brand new to you, but just kind of going wherever and doing whatever is, well, par for the course with me.

A course we need to...

We need to reinvent, I know.

Fact is, I hope I entertain the shit out of the people at War Games. I hope they go home happy after watching me pancake other human beings in a box, all of us scrapping like caged animals, only one of us comes with a whole heap of bite after we're done barking at one another. I am the Mutt among Mongrels, the lowest common denominator setting the dividing line and splitting them from whole to fractions with my actions, wrecking fools in a cage is just how I get my satisfaction when I hear the billions of the XWF Universe give an orgasmic reaction. Some of you fools I know, some I know too well, and some I'm just now meeting, either way, allow me to introduce myself.

My name is Robbie Motherfucking Bourbon. You're going to remember that name. I've eliminated more quote, unquote "competitors" from War Games matches in my career than some of you have had War Games matches. I sling bodies like I do insults, I push rhymes like weight and weight like a freight train, there's some transitive logic there, assemble that shit yourself if you dare. I am the thrillingest sumbitch in this or any lifetime, I don't break hearts I stop 'em, let me know if you need to catch your breath because I burn so hot all the air in the room turns to magma. I will feel the parts of your neck and face fold in my bare hand as I palm your fucking head and slam it into whatever looks dull and hard and painful nearby, hearing you skull buckle as blood trickles and you do that goofy ass reflex where you put your hands up but it doesn't fucking help because I already cracked your dome like an egg shell and I'm fixin' to make breakfast.


The fat motorcycle cop takes a handful of snack mix from the tiki bar and pours it into his mouth. Ash pulls a bottle of Stella Artois off the bar and has a sip.

I know I'm coming back into hostile grounds, that's what the XWF is all about. Hostility. The angst, the drama, the petty beefs some of you fools carry with you, hoping you get the chance to sneak in a shot here or there, peppering someone enough until they break. Me?

I'm the fucking bomb itself. I don't sneak with fucking shots, I walk right up and punch you in the face, and then, if I don't like you, that's when I hurt you.


The fat motorcycle cop starts to grasp at his throat and turn blue. Ash sets her beer down.

Oh my god, officer down!

Shit!

I know, we kinda kidnapped him using whatever technowizardry that let us teleport around, now he's gonna die!

Robbie spins the fat motorcycle cop around, and with a few hefty thrusts of the abdomen, the Heimlich maneuver once again saves a life. The biggest doofus at this tropical tiki bar, bedecked in spandex and his lucha mask, who immediately acted instead of panicking at the sign of trouble, immediately starts getting cheered by people at the pool.

Ash, you know, if it ain't broke...

Gotcha. You do need something for your image...

Ash pulls out her phone. In seconds, an Amazon drone is there with a package. Robbie opens it to reveal a sparkling silver sequined blazer. Robbie puts it on.

Hey, this fits great!

Robbie, clad in the sparkling silver sequined blazer, looks rightly reinvented.

[Image: 18ytmde.png]
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[-] The following 5 users Like Robbie Bourbon's post:
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