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On the subject of War
Author Message
Lacklan Offline
Hate that damned Trash Panda, tbh
TITLE - Federweight Champion

XWF FanBase:
The 'cool' kliq fans

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

Post: #1
05-17-2019 11:43 PM

Do any of you know what it is like to go to war? To push and press yourself to the point of exhaustion? To the brink of death? To give up everything? To gamble your very soul?

I do.

I’ve gone to war before. I have battled slim odds. I have lied. Cheated. Extorted. Thrown myself into something so important that victory, at ANY cost, was paramount.

War is no game.

Prepare to open your eyes.

Presenting the House of Lacklan Saga Story of:


[Image: 8WiaUIw.gif]

Sarah Selena Grey-Lacklan squints in the sunshine. Dressed in one of her ridiculous Firestarter dresses, this one a white and gold affair with sheer lace that showed the swell of her bosom and ran down her back to hint at her backside, she looked for all the world like a woman transplanted into the wrong century. The albino’s platinum hair is pulled up and back into an intricate bun, with at least six or seven braids woven together to make the bundle, and a tall white and gold hat upon her head, a veil falling from the front and obscuring her face. But even that cannot hide the moonlight skin or the odd red eyes blazing from underneath black-rimmed glasses with an unquenchable inner fire, nor the dark “wings” painted in points away from her eyes with thick shadow. Her lips, painted the color of rubies to match her eyes, are pursed with a slight consternation, more evidence of her squinting into a sun which shall always do battle with her medical condition, but otherwise her gait is that of relaxation.

You have no idea what it is like to fight for everything. Yes yes, I was rich. I get that. Trust me, I get that. But money isn’t all that its cracked up to be. Hell, I bet even some straw-chewing, cousin-kissing Connecticut Hillbilly like Thad could tell you that much. I had unique battles to fight all my life. From people staring at the odd little albino girl, the “Vampire of Lacklanland,” who couldn’t be out in the sun without thick sunglasses and a parasol to protect her. From the assumptions that I cared for nothing but fineries. From the treatment of royalty and high society that I was just some porcelain doll. From the stern lessons from a loving, if undeniably wrong, father and religion.

Sarah looks up further into the sky, her eyes closing even more in a tighter squint, as she takes in the Southern California sun. The sky is a bright blue, standing out against the gold of the sun, without a cloud in the sky. Dark birds fly by in the distance, silhouetted against the sun hurting her eyes, and a small smirk comes to her ruby lips.

Last year, I asked a man if he ever thought about the nature of birds. About how they fly. How they live. How they soar through the air with nothing to worry about except their next meal, or perhaps a tree to rest upon. I told him then that it would be folly to think of me as akin to the bird in a gilded cage, instead of the firebird of rebirth legend that I embodied as I left a career-ending injury behind in what turned out to be a failed challenge for his world title, but all these months later, I begin to wonder about my words. I made the argument that the bird in a gilded cage was wrong, because I had a loving father and a shocking, and sometimes downright scandalous, amount of freedom. But sometimes I wonder.

You see, while I had all of that freedom, while I was allowed to do as I pleased and go where I wished, there was still the trappings of a jailhouse, though in an altruistic sense. Yes yes, I realize that I am using a few $5 words that quite a few of you will not understand, and will likely just nod your head and smile at (hey, Lux!), but bear with me here. There was an expectation for me. To marry an ambitious man, either in industry like Daddy or perhaps a politician. To have children to pass along the line. To excel in arts, dance, and the complexities of running a household as large as mine. But its not what I wanted. I wanted MORE. I wanted what Daddy carved out for himself as a professional wrestler. I wanted that for myself. To honor him. And ultimately to surpass him. But more on THAT subject in a bit.

Sarah looks away from the sun and down to her own body. She was covered head to toe in the various fabrics, most the thick cloth but the soft sheer lace in others, and she flexed her muscles underneath her clothes. She could feel the pop in her biceps and triceps, muscles far larger than one would expect from her 5’2” frame. She flexed her legs and glutes, felt the power within them, the muscles thickly corded from a lifetime of squats and kicks, her greatest point of pride from her recovery over the last year and a half.

Daddy refused to let me learn. Lift with him? Yes, from the day I turned fourteen. But wrestle? Fly through the air? Twist someone up? Kick or punch? Not for his only daughter. But I fought. I begged. I pleaded. I did that whole “big sad eyes” thing where I pout my lips in a beg so pathetic and enduring that they used me as a model for that awesome scene in Bolt when he learns how to do the dog thing. And Daddy relented. He trained me. He brought in one of his rivals, world champion and hall of famer Nikita Dolore, and she taught me much about navigating this business.

It wasn’t easy. They pushed me past my breaking points. A lifetime of dance, swimming, and cheer did little to prepare me for what they put me through. I cried. I whined. I complained. But I never gave up. I soaked in hot baths. I pressed ice packs to joints. I stretched more in those next two years than the previous ten combined.

I fought.

I won.

It didn’t stop there, of course. I had already garnered a TINY reputation as being the single MOST over person in the entire state of Texas as a valet, and people were chomping at the bit to “cash me outside.” People lined up, their mouths salivating, their pants a tentpole of lustful hope to get a shot at me. And what happened?

I won my debut match.

And the next.


I battled fellow rookies, grizzled veterans, and even management. I lied, cheated, beguiled, took risks, jumped people before matches, attacked during matches, laid a beatdown afterward. I did EVERYTHING and ANYTHING to win. To win for my family name. To win for my OWN. I went to WAR, ladies and gentlemen. I traveled the world, fought in country after country, encountered style after style, never resting. Never wavering.

And then the fucking car accident.

Sarah stretches her legs under her skirt and grimaces. Pain shoots up both of her legs, both momentary and intense, as if the sun beating down on her was trying to burn her from within. She closes her eyes as the pain sears and feels as if it is a moment away from bursting, and then sighs as it fades quickly. She bends at the waist and pulls her skirts up to bare her legs, each wrapped in an eggshell stocking, and rubs her thighs, the muscles still feeling the pain as a phantom. One of her hands glides up to her hip where her scar rests hidden under mountains of skirts, the visible reminder of a surgery that saved her from a life in a wheelchair.

Anyone here know what it’s like to have your doctor tell you that you may never walk again? And that if you do, you’ll probably have nerve pain for life? And if you DO recover most of your agility, you REALLY shouldn’t ever wrestle again? I do. I know EXACTLY what it is like to have the doctor who has taken care of you your entire life, the doctor who taught you and your father the ins and outs of albinism and prepped you for a lifetime of shading yourself from the sun and waning eyesight, tell you that, guess what, kid? It’s all over! I know EXACTLY what that is like. I know the pain and anguish. I know the feeling of having your guts ripped out. I know the stark and blunt reality of your partner holding you close and saying that it will be okay.

It’ll be okay.


Sarah pushes out her right let, the toe of her slipper pointed away from her, and then moves her left leg backward, toe pointed at a 45 degree angle. She flexes her quads and then bends her right knee, careful to go no further than her toes, and raises her arms up into the air. Her fingers clenched and engaged, she closes her eyes and breaths out, moving her arms up to her waist, then above her head, then back down and through to the other side, a progression of the Warrior Position to help her breath and her muscles relax.

THAT is war, ladies and gentlemen. To hear “It’ll be okay” from your wife, the person who completes you, and knowing that SHE IS WRONG. To DEMAND that you get in therapy as soon as possible. To DEMAND that you be allowed to push yourself out of that FUCKING wheelchair and fall on your face. To DEMAND that no one FUCKING HELP YOU so that you can push yourself back up to your feet. To take those steps. To turn those steps into a stride. To RUN again when you were told that you may NEVER do so.

I went to war with my own body and circumstance. I went to war with reality.

And I won.

There isn’t a single FUCKING PERSON IN THE XWF that knows what that is like. There isn’t a SINGLE FUCKING PERSON to have EVERYTHING they hold dear RIPPED away from them in a moment that was out of their control. They-

Sarah opens her eyes as she stretches and a glint of sunlight threatens to blind her. Red eyes track downward, from her shoulders and to her hands, each pale finger tipped in a nail lacquered black with a tiny red flame at the center, and the shot of sunlight blinds again. Squinting, she turns her hand back and forth, the ray of sunlight moving across her face.

Well...ALMOST everything I held dear. Everything but number one.

Featuring a tiny row of diamonds, each interspersed with equal-sized rubies, Sarah’s wedding band was a dainty ring of platinum. Each movement of her hand caught the sun in its cleavage, sending it like a laser wherever it went, and offering a red hue due to the rubies. A perfectly picked ring for the Blood Princess.

I have met some people in the XWF who would roll their eyes, if not outright mock, the idea that coming out wasn’t exactly the easiest thing in the world to do. But they are typically the ones who only know the surface, who make judgements upon a picture or two, without understanding context. And then cry about when they lose, for that matter. But that context…


I loved my father. Sure, I had servants and staff from the day I was born, but Mumsie dying meant that, at least emotionally, it was just Daddy and me. And he did his best, or at least as well as someone like him could. His first love was God, and then wrestling...though, the two were interrelated for him, but that’s a long story...but his lessons were not what the Good Word was about. I didn’t use to think that, of course. All that time with Daddy believing the things that he got wrong. Believing that only those of our “pure” blood were meant to lead. Believing that those of a darker skin were servants, or less. Believing in so much hate. But then I met Kenzi. And my whole world-

The albino’s head shoots up as she hears voices. Heated voices. Annoyed voices. Exiting a shop and walking in her direction, two women of her age were arguing, their hands waving wildly in the air at one another. One, a brunette with fair skin, was taller, and dressed in a simple pair of short jeans and a tied-off shirt. The other, the shorter, was a woman with caramel-colored skin and a forest full of microbraids cascading down her shoulders, who wore a long brown coat with a simple white shirt showing underneath.

I have met people in this business who like to belittle the struggle that is my marriage, as the concept of same sex relationships being so commonplace that our wedding in Maine is legal in every state without question or issue, but it is far more than that. I have said before, but it bears repeating: If you had asked me a couple of years ago if I was going to end up in a same sex, interracial relationship with someone from the opposite coast, I would have laughed in your face. And likely sent you to be flogged by some servants, considering my mindframe at the time. Yet, here we are.

She didn’t want me at first. Oh sure, there was attraction. But when the time came for me to press the point, to make best friends into something more, she turned me down. She didn’t want to be with me...or any other person, for that matter, male or female...instead wishing to have a life of solitude. Every relationship she had had, every person she had let in, had left her. Abandoned her. From an unworthy mother to a controlling bitch I still think of as The Enemy, her life had been a parade of people she held closer than they held her, and which left me with trying to fix something broken.

But I didn’t give up. I didn’t take that proverbial “no” as the answer. I fought. I, quite literally, went to emotional war. I lied. I cheated. I manipulated. I did everything and anything I could to make myself a permanent part of her life, did what I needed to do to be there for her in ways that no one else could or would be. I have made the joke before that I “ninja’d her a girlfriend,” as she never saw me coming, but there was more than once when someone had asked if Kenzi was going to bring her girlfriend with her, which Kenzi didn’t understand.

As you can see by the band on my finger...and the massive rock of a black-shaded diamond on hers...I won that war. Because I was willing to do whatever it took. I was willing to sabotage other people’s attempts to take her. I was willing to compromise some of my beliefs in order to join with hers. I was willing to be both the princess and the monster, the hero and the villian, as situation demanded. I was willing to adjust and alter my plans so that the outcome would also end up with myself as the victor.

I won that war.

The two women, Kenzi Grey-Lacklan and Ashley Allen, their personal assistant, continue to argue and bicker as Sarah straightens. She reaches up into the sky, putting her head back and taking in the rays of the sun with a tight squint, and stretches out wide. After a moment, she lowers herself back down, reaches into one of the folds of her dress, and pulls out a large and seemingly unwieldy phone.

It was time to clock in.

~~Presenting the PrincessTwilightSexyFang podcast, as viewed on CoolTube~~

Hello, Fang Gang!

This is your reason for being, the organic all natural peanut butter on the top shelf set apart from the sea of sugar-laden shitty ass peanut butters meant for kids and hillbillies from Connecticut, Sarah Lacklan here, and its WARRRRRRRR GAAAAAAAAMES!

Now, a BIG reason why I signed up for this shindig is that...well...I’ve never done one before! That whole “lets all beat the tar out of the other team in a cage or two” style hasn’t exactly been something I’ve done, and since getting to do EVERYTHING in wrestling before I hang up my cute-as-flame boots someday, that means I need to do this. Now, I am pretty freakin’ GREAT at that whole “this is my first time” gimmick (minds out of the gutter, Fangers!), and I expect this to be no different.

Like, my very first match? Win!

My very first tournament? Win!

My very first battle royal? Final Four...didn’t win but pretty damn good for a rook, right?!

My very first big ol’ multiman elimination tag thingie? Last person standing! On the losing team, unfortunately….

Anyway, you guys get the gist of my glib here, I’m sure. The reality is that I’m a pretty badass pussy-killer (minds OUT of the gutters, I said!) that specializes in being successful in a wide variety of scenarios, and this is just going to be the NEXT in that line. Now, I know that there are some morons out there going “OMG SARAH YOU IZ TEH SUCKS AND YOU ONLY WINZ TEH MATCHES BECAUSE FILL IN THE BLANK DUMBSHIT OF THE DAY,” but for anyone who has been paying attention for more than a few seconds, the truth is glaring and obvious:

In a short amount of time, I have proven to the XWF that I am a main event attraction who can, at any time, become an immediate threat for any title I want (more on that in a bit!), and to discount that excellence I have shown is not only folly, its just straight-up DUMB. After all, since signing that dotted line and making Vinnifred cream his pants so hard that Roxy started asking me to record her some instructional videos, I have beaten every person in front of me (discounting Trash Panda and I playing outside a bit too long, obvs), and that includes supposedly “dominant” veterans twice my size (anyone want to take a bet on Eli showing up in a mask before too long?), Ridley Scott cosplayers, every wannabe hardass shit-talker we have to offer, and even freakin’ Carnitas! And while a certain enthusiast for the Little League World Series and three day Boy Scout getaways will piss and moan to everyone about favoritism and other such idiocies, the fact of the matter is that there hasn’t been a single person that can stop me.

Damn shame this is a team event….

Listen...I mean…


I think the #CoolKidsComics team captured my reaction to the War Games draft perfectly, so allow me to replay it, for those who missed it:

[Image: 3QRKKWY.png]


Look, “Team Yikes” isn’t exactly the BEST name for the team, but there is certainly a chance of that happening. I mean, lets face it: Rain is going to be too busy trying to explain to me that making out with Snow is totes okay (it’s not!), War Piggie will (hopefully) be shaving that shit asap (I’m kinda insisting), and I’m crossing my fingers that Gilly rambles on enough to escape Vinnifred noting down his time with an “STILL not enough!” comment in his FAVORITE thread. So, like, I don’t have the HIGHEST hopes that BigD’s team will become the overwhelming powerhouse of awesomeness that I might have been dreaming of when I first thought about when the event was announced, but this team DOES have something SUPER important on it, a weapon that is undeniable and inescapable:


Thankfully for my intrepid teammates, they have ME to DRAG THEM through the muck and mire, no doubt with PLENTY of kicking and screaming from SOME of them, out of the Team Yikes circle and into the Holy Shit, That Amazingly Hawt and Talented Albino Chick Pulled it Off! circle of victory. Thankfully for them, they have the woman who set the company on fire when she touched down in March by winning the Queen of the Ring and Federweight Championships. Thankfully for them, they have the single most impactful member of the roster at their disposal, the first round draft pick extraordinaire who excels at pulling victory from the lion’s mouth of loss. Thankfully for them, they have the person who is literally built to win this whole fucking thing for them.

Now, again, I am WELL aware of how all the boys and girls (not THOSE boys and girls, Massachusetts Pissbaby; down, tiger!) feel about my team. But, much like how shallow their opinions typically are in the first place (“YOU ARE TEH SUKS SAR EVEN THOUGH I CAN’T BEAT YOU”), much of their vision is clouded in misconception for this event. Because while I DO wish I had a team I didn’t need to work so hard in order to keep together, I’m not EXACTLY clutching my pearls or having a need to pick a wedgie due to the fear coursing through my veins when looking at my opponents. Want to know why? You do?! SWEET! Lets break it down.




Cartoons. Um...yeah...I KNOW that you were all expecting cartoon versions of the other team, but time’s been a little tight this week. Had a couple of Federweight matches, had to deal with the Trash Panda, I had a rock in my shoe, the sun was in my eye, other things that are true (maybe). Next time, okay! Because, trust me, you are going to LOVE what I do next time. But until then:


Look, I appreciate each and every person on my brand, okay? I’m the Queen of Anarchy, after all, and its up to me to love every one of my loyal, royal subjects. So, to an extent, I DO love and appreciate the resident vine-surfing illiterate Neanderthal. He likes the shiny! I like the shiny! We BOTH like the shiny! Unfortunately for him, that’s about it. And here’s why:

His momentum is GONE.

Like, Edward is waiting for that date after Momentum swiped left, right? And he was sitting at the bar, freshly washed and watered out back by a garden hose, the mud in his hair keeping it JUST RIGHT and all slick and shiny and shit. He’s got his hair as shiny as the shinnies he loves! And he sits there. And sits there. And sits there. Every time the bartender asks him if he wants something, Eddy just kinda grunts and smiles. Momentum will come meet him, after all. They have a date! They were doing great! They were talking and flirting and getting to know one another. Tonight was the night! He finally gets to do something WITH Momentum! Its time for shinnies!

But Momentum never shows.

Momentum? Where are you, Momentum?

Eddy texts her.


Eddy emails her.


Eddy calls and leaves 27 voicemails.


Know why? Know what happened?

Momentum ghosted Eddy.

See, Eddy freaked Momentum out. Things were great in the beginning! People laughed and smiled when Eddy came around. He was funny, and entertaining, and he found himself in good company. He was cheered! Appreciated! He had Momentum!

But then he did nothing WITH Momentum.

And like any forgotten or mistreated lover, Momentum left him.

Momentum ghosted.

So while Ned may think that the Eddy he drafted is the awesome combination of Eddy+Momentum, the sad reality for the captain is that what he has before him is not the crazy little charisma machine that existed during the draft. Instead of the popular and successful Eddy+Momentum, all he has is the Eddy sitting at the bar, staring into his drink, wondering what happened to Momentum, and praying the prayer of every other guy who has been ghosted: What did I do wrong?

Thanks for the inspiration, Rox!

Luna Hightower

Not gonna lie: Been waiting for this one. First, real quick:

So, I teased Corey about this potentially being about him as we built up towards our match in the semi’s of the Queen of the Ring tournament, but, dear Fang Gangers, this is axly about Luna Hightower. Now, I know that some of you are a little confused, so let me break this down a teeny bit:

We all have weaknesses, right? That’s the reality of what God has given us. Some of us are very intelligent but physically weak, or perhaps foolish when it comes to common sense. Some of us are driven and overachieve, but perhaps in order to achieve those dreams, we sacrifice our emotions and push away family and friends, thus being alone. Or perhaps you are a talented-as-FLAME wrestler who has an old injury which leaves her legs vulnerable, but who is CONSTANTLY working on them in order to mitigate that weakness, even to the point of trying to turn that weakness into a STRENGTH with killer kicks and such.

But this?

“My weakness is that I become SUCH a badass that I kill EVERYONE around me and MURDER THE WORLD HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA”

That isn’t a weakness, dear Fang Gangers.

That’s just bullshit.

The REAL weakness in Hightower is that, when she DOES show up to work, she’s only there for a few minutes, puts in some clearly distracted output while she’s thinking about some dumbshit anime or something, and then clocks out early. Seriously, she spends three quarters of her work day lost in a day dream of bullets, guns, super powers, murder, maiming, and more, then shakes her head clear for a few seconds, mumbles a few empty threats and observations as shallow as that tiny pool for babies to sit in, and then zones out for another few weeks.

And THAT is NOT going to cut it. THAT is NOT going to be able to balance out the sheer amount of excellence I bring to War Games. And so while people are able to roll their eyes over Team Yikes and point and laugh at Rain’s legitimate idiosyncrasies, I would pose this question to Ned:

You DO realize that you drafted freakin’ Luna, right?

Connecticut Hillbilly

Know what sucks? When someone LEAPS onto the scene, FULL of piss and vinegar and DRIVE to do stuff, and then totally and completely land on their face and slowly...too slowly...crawl away into obscurity. No, I’m not talking about the Massachusetts Pissbaby a few weeks from now (...though, let’s put a pin in that for a good chance I WILL be saying that about him…), but instead I’m talking about the straw-chewing, cousin-kissing, Deliverance-swimming piece of Connecticut trash that is Thad. I know, I know, there are those of you who probably think his inexhaustible money supply that has more money than three oil zcars combined six times over is pretty coolio and all, but I’m here to remind you that you are wrong. Because while Mr. Moneybags is out spreading the love to some bimbo farmer’s daughter with a roll in the hay next to some cow or whatever else you’d have at the Inbred Ranch, I can tell you, with all certainty, that the Dukemeister is going to be the lamest duck in all of War Games.


He’s literally 2-2 since he came back.


Hasn’t had a match in a month.


The dude literally just tweets about shitty basketball teams now.

And that’s the sad reality of this particular draft pick: Dude has all the tools in the world. Strong. Young. Fit. Connected. Successful family. Family legacy within the company. And yet with all of those tools, all he has amounted to thus far is a record he’s too afraid to write home about, a crush on a punk kid who has forever put him in the Friend Zone, and a bunch of people scratching their heads and wondering where the fuck he went. Maybe he’s sitting at the bar with Eddy?

Speaking of having all the tools! There is no lie, here: Mastermind is legit. Strong. Championship calibre. Strong support system at home. He even has the ability to shamelessly turn a tragedy in his home country into a plot device! Hell, not even the Fucktard Bros have THAT super power!

So, what is it that BUGS me about Mastermind so much? Is it his dumb “mastered your mind” bullshit? I mean, it IS really fucking lame.


Shit, at least Game Girl has the decency to have that “beat me up” list to go with her “beat this dude” list, ya know? But no, THAT’S not it, as annoying as that is. So what its it? What BOTHERS me about Mastermind to the point where I want to tease Ned for picking him as his first round draft? What-


Oh...oh I’m sorry...I just got so BORED thinking about Mastermind that I-




So THAT’S what bothers me about Mastermind! THAT is why I want to tease Ned for the pick! Because for ALL of his bluster, for ALL of his talent, Mastermind is FUCKING BORING. He produces 27-minute promotional videos what don’t axly GO anywhere, has his girl sit in for him half the fucking time, and don’t EVEN get me STARTED on that Xtreme title nonsense! 31 fucking kickouts as he was assaulted in a variety of ways by the roster...though half of them MIGHT have been Kid Kool...not sure about that...but 31 “victims” in a cascade of mind numbing, coma-inducing “action” that made even Kuda dissertation on the importance of poetry seem like a life-changing experience of excitement. ALL of that time, ALL of that half-assed “effort,” and ALL for naught as he lays down for the dude who enjoys his Rot & Ruin fanfic a bit TOO much.

Talk about a colossal waste of time.

And that’s the truth of the matter, baby birds: For all of that killer run he had earlier in the year, for all of him winning three fucking title matches in a row, all Mastermind is going to be known for going forward is the most frustratingly dull series of backstage brawls in the 20-year history of this company. I hope Zane makes a “I ate your zombie?” shirt to give to Mastermind. A least then he would be somewhat entertaining.

And finally:

Ned Kaye
He ain’t shit.

Okay okay, before everyone freaks out about that, hold your damn horses. Let me back up a bit to explain why I said that:

Ned came crashing onto the scene with all that piss and vinegar that other members of his team have. Just like Eddy, he was entertaining and had plenty of content. He was taking matches, getting bookings, and certainly participating within and getting to know the company. Hell, he even got Wrestler of the Month, just like me! Except, there is a STARK difference between when HE got it and when I was awarded it. You see, I got the distinction because I kicked ass in the tournament, including DOMINATING poor Dolly in a final more one-sided than Noah jobbing out to a spell checker, outshining the champ that night (more on that in a bit), and setting the whole fucking FED on fire. Ned got the award for





I think?


Um...okay? He spends time giving teeny, tiny, one-line summaries of other people’s promotional videos? Okay. What else?


Oh! Well, that’s certainly something! How did he do? Win them all, like I did?



Annnnnnnnd now please scroll up to the first thing I said at the top of this section. Hell, I’ll just say it again for those who are too lazy to do that:

He ain’t shit.

Which is EXACTLY why Main picked him to defend against.

I am going to let that sink in for a second.



One more sec.


Main could have picked anyone. ANYONE. Yeah, he had to talk his way around Vinnifred in order to do it, but bossman was ultimately okay with him choosing his contender. Main could have chosen to fight one of the old dudes. He could have chosen to push himself. To challenge himself. To THREATEN himself. Instead, he chose a dude with barely hanging on to a .500 record and battling the everpresent battle of trying to stay relevant because of Twitter game. Main chose someone he could BEAT, someone he could DOMINATE, someone he could send a MESSAGE to the entire ROSTER with.

Know who he DIDN’T pick?


The reality is that Main knows EXACTLY what I can do and what I represent. As I mentioned before, I have PROVEN that I can shake this entire company to its foundations and change the entire landscape. He no doubt breathed the heaviest sigh of relief that there has ever been when I specified that I would be taking my title shot to Anarchy, that I was deciding to choose to work on Thursdays instead of Wednesdays. He no doubt fell into his chair, his heart pounding, the sweet scent of relief sweat from his brow reaching his nose, as he was able to get away with beating up random midcarders like Ned instead of true wrestling royalty like me.

And THAT, dear baby birds, is exactly what Ned is. He’s that guy from another company who seems fresh and hip when he signs with you, but then quickly loses his luster when he jobs out in his debut, and then just kinda fades into the middle with the Vitas and Wishes. Better than the Brothers of Job, of course; he won’t find fear of finding himself Number Five. But higher than that? Elevated beyond the rabble? Not for him. He’s there just to be a stepping stone of the younger and brighter talents, and the occasional notch on the belt of the champions when they wish to not have to push themselves.

The reality of this War Games is that Ned failed as a captain as soon as he submitted his name for consideration. Not recognizing the strengths and weaknesses of the roster, and relying too heavily on someone who needs a national hate crime to find relevance, he has assembled a team which will find themselves falling victim, one after another, to my superior skills, technique, and breeding. And while I am sure that, afterward, he will realize his mistakes, realize his errors, his own catchphrase will be the summation of his lesson:

Too late.

[Image: 4vcKWRi.png]

XWF Accolades
  • 2019 King of the Ring winner
  • Star of the Month (March 2019)
  • 2019 War Games Survivor
  • Federweight Champion (x2)
  • Anarchy Champion
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