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X-treme Wrestling Federation »   » Archives » "C*nt Fest" RP Board
La commedia è finita! Part 1
Author Message
Corey Smith Offline
Active in XWF



XWF FanBase:
Some of everyone

(cheered; very rarely plays dirty but isn't lame either; many likable qualities)


#1
01-11-2020, 05:50 PM

The Engineer's boots sang on the metal steps as he ascended, finally reaching a landing bereft of a door. He stepped through the open frame and into the remains of an abandoned office building. Discarded cubicles had been pushed against the walls, but stray dropped ceiling tiles and other bits of debris still littered his path as he walked. All eyes were on him, the room beholden to a hushed reverence, an anxious quiet. Along the walls stood a number of hooded cultists, and interspersed between them were crude depictions of Aiwass' symbol, the black triangle. The runoff from the paint looked vaguely like blood in the dim light provided by the lanterns that also dotted the room.

[Image: latest?cb=20190627234237]

The crowd parted to let him through. He could hear their breathing, coming in waves like a rolling tide. Even their basic life processes synchronized. He wasn't sure why he was so offended by that.

Taking a position at the front of the room, The Engineer removed a cheap Bic lighter from his pocket and lit the cigarette hanging from his mouth. Taking a drag, he surveys the room and smiles. Holding up a single pointer finger, he sets in on the masses. First off, I'm not your priest or messiah. I'm not even your fucking Tyler Durden, but if you guys want to kick the shit out of each other because Brad Pitt's abs made it seem like a good idea go ahead.

A tentative hand goes up near the front. The Engineer stops short and points it out. Are you raising your hand?

A young woman in a tattered leather jacket wearing old make-up slowly lowers her hand. Um, yeah? The Engineer rolls his hand in an impatient gesture, prodding her to continue. Oh, uh, you said you're not a priest but I thought this was the Church of the Dark Star?

He puckers his lips in exasperation. It's ironic, ok? Would you all be here if this was just another church? Is that what YOU wanted?

The girl's shoulders droop. I...I dunno....

The Engineer returns his attention to the rest of the crowd. Look, I don't want your money or your service to me. All I want is your attention for the next few minutes and a willingness to spread the word. That sound fair? He waits for the smattering of nods and mumbled agreements that follow. Good.

The champ starts to pace before the throngs a bit, the pallid glow of the lanterns casting him in an eerie light and causing his shadow to billow out before him. You're all here because you heard the call. Maybe it was from me. Maybe it was from a friend. Or some drunken back alley lout. It doesn't matter who it came from because we're all equal in the eyes of Aiwass. That is to say, we're all nothing. He invokes the final word like a black mantra. Taking another brief drag off his cigarette, he switches gears.

You're all here because you feel like something's not quite right. An existential absence in your head and in your heart. A cloying fear that everything is just inadequate but that will never change because it's just the way things are. You torture yourselves with feelings of guilt because sometimes you look at the faces of your family, your friends, or your lovers and you think, even for an instant, is this it?

You might go to church, an ACTUAL church, and curse yourself for not fully being able to share in that simple, ecstatic delusion. You QUESTION things. You QUESTION if God is real, and if it is, does God even care? You question your holy texts, their validity and the messages within. And then you chastise yourselves because you think that even having those thoughts makes you a bad Christian, or Muslim, or Jew.

You go to your jobs and try to wring meaning out of them, try to tell yourself you're not just feeding some fat cats coffers. That you're, at a bare minimum, providing for yourself or your family. Or, at worst, you're still trying to convince yourself that somebody actually gives a shit about those invoices you file or those TPS reports you write.


He stops pacing and turns back to the onlookers, swinging his arms out in a grand gesture.

The name of the game is ennui, folks! But it's more than JUST that, isn't it? It's not just about boredom or feeling stuck in a rut. The well runs deeper, it's more profound than all that. He takes a step closer to the group. And it's scary, I know. I get it! It's a feeling deep down inside, right down deep in your guts. It's almost cellular, this bone chilling terrifying animal instinct that maybe...maybe....nothing actually matters.

One final drag from the cigarette and it's casually flicked away.

Well, I'm here to tell you you're right to feel that way. Because nothing matters.

Silence reigns as the declaration works it's way through the crowd. The Engineer drinks in their expressions. Some of them just look stony and impassive, a few actually wipe away tears. A couple people in the back mutter something indiscernible and turn to leave. One of the hooded cultists moves towards the ones leaving and The Engineer tosses a hand up and calls out to him. No! Let them go! All are free to leave if they choose! They're not ready. That's fine.

The cultist backs off and the ones departing shoot him a cursory, suspicious glance before breaking for the doorway. The Engineer continues.

All of these dark feelings you have, the desperation, that notion that something is “very, very wrong here”. They're all valid. Something IS wrong here. But it's not YOU. It's not your fault that you had the misfortune of being dumped into an uncaring, chaotic universe. It's not your fault that against all odds a species like humanity fought, and thrived, and developed through untold millions of years of complex evolutionary processes to bring you....reality television, social media addiction, an orange imbecile for a president, and a corrupt, bloated, rotting civilization that doesn't give a shit about you.

I'm sure you were all told as children that each of you were destined for great things. Those naïve, good natured people who planted stars in your eyes and blinders about your heads. But you know now, don't you? You know that greatness is reserved for the very few. And that those people who achieve greatness typically aren't all that great. You know now that your hard work and commitment to doing the right thing, to signing that social compact and singing hosannas to your patron sky fiction have brought you nothing. You're doing everything “right”. But you're still dead inside and have nothing to show for it.

It doesn't matter. None of it.
He claps his hands together. So who wants to do something about it? Hmmm?

Many in the crowd look at him in confusion. Then, two of the cultists roll over a covered wheeled bin. The Engineer goes to the bin, placing his hands on the lip and leaning over it. The social compact is fucked. Decency and morality are an abstract. But what isn't an abstract is your anger and your alienation. He tosses the cover off the bin, revealing that it holds a pile of firearms. Some in the crowd blink in surprise. Some instinctively step away. One more in the crowd breaks off and leaves, and no one follows. So! Who pisses you off? Hmmm? He picks up a handgun and proffers it up to the crowd. Each of these weapons is completely unregistered. Untraceable. And they're here for anyone who wants one to do whatever they wish with.

Some nervous murmurs bounce about the crowd, accompanied by anxious glances and uncertain expressions. The Engineer lets silence reign as he looks upon them all. And finally, one young man pushes his way to the fore and takes a weapon from the bin. He doesn't even look up as he passes back through the crowd and to the stairwell. The Engineer points him out as he walks away. See? That wasn't so hard. No strings attached. He pats the bin with a smile. A trio of people start to leave, but at the same time two more approach the bin and take out weapons. And then, another joins in and grabs a gun. The energy in the crowd changes then, an emboldening aura uncaps and more and more start to approach the bin, reaching in for an implement of death. The mass starts to thin until only 5 people are left. Two of them still look like they're debating the gift, but the remaining ones line up at the bin to make a selection.

The Engineer looks up at a broad shouldered young man standing before him. His handsome face is set in a grim countenance.

[Image: 450ec89eed2ce2697be5f5ee5aa3a662de2a18a4.gifv]

Go ahead. Nothing to f-.....

The Engineer feels a sharp bite in his abdomen. He looks down to see a blade protruding from his torso, buried to the hilt. Oh....

Someone screams and The Engineer takes a half step back from the bin of weapons. The young man is raging at him and he knows that there's words there amidst the rage but none of it is making sense right now. People start running and three of the hooded cultists advance on the young man. They reach for him as The Engineer's hand goes slick with his own blood and his ears ring with a sort of high pitched whine. Don't kill him.... he breathes. Don't kill him....

And then it all goes black.

The Next Morning....


His eyes open to the sight of beige ceiling tile and a comfortably numb feeling throughout his body. Craning his neck a bit, he sees a drip above him being fed into his arm. And then Madison Dyson's face eclipses everything.

What a fucking cock up!

The Engineer smiles. Good morning to you, pretty lady. His words sound dull and distant to his ear as he continues to climb up and out of his chemically induced stupor.

Madison walks around the edge of his bed so she can stand directly before him now. What the fuck happened?

Is that a rhetorical question or....?

She grips the bridge of her nose and takes a deep breath.

Where am I?

An off the grid medical center where they don't ask too many questions. Then, removing her hand from her face and forcing herself into a more relaxed mien. Seriously, what happened?

Some kid stabbed me when I started handing out the weapons. The moment suddenly explodes in his memory, prompting another question. Where is that boy?

Who? The one who stabbed you? Why?

I want to talk to him. Is he here?

Madison looks at The Engineer incredulously. Boy, you are chock full of bad decisions!

Just answer the question.

Yeah, he's here. Restrained. Why the hell do you want to talk to him? Actually, scratch that, why did you tell the acolytes not to kill him? No....scratch THAT! Madison leans over his bed, anxiety again gripping her. WHAT THE FUCK ARE WE GOING TO DO ABOUT CUNT FEST?! OH GOD CUNT FEST! She whips out her phone.

Who are you calling?

Vinnie Lane. You can't fight Robbie.

In a flash, The Engineer sits up and plucked the phone from Madison's hand. However, it is not without a stabbing jolt of fire in his abdomen. He gives a little gasp and nearly drops the phone. I'm fighting him. He's able to produce the words, but his voice is strained from the pain.

There is no fucking way you'll be ready in two weeks!

DRW has the means to speed up my healing process. Call Shane. He presses against his abdomen, massaging the fresh sutures there.

I already did. He's en route, but he has his own shit to deal with too. She casts a glance at her phone. Can I have that back, please?

If you cancel my match you're fired. He hesitates a bit before dropping her phone back into her outstretched hand.

For the record I think this is immensely stupid. She sighs. But we took some scans while you were out. Thankfully the blade didn't hit anything vital. You'll fully recover. Eventually.

Good. The pain had mostly abated by now, but he had a feeling that was more due to the drugs taking the edge off than anything else. I want to see that boy.

Whhhyyyyyy? Madison drawls the word out sarcastically.

Just bring him to me. Now, preferably. The Engineer speaks the words stolidly, broaching no debate.

Madison shakes her head, mouth gaping in an exasperated “o” before taking her leave. Moments later, two cultists drag The Engineer's attacker in. One of them grabs a chair at his bedside and they force him down into it.

The young man's face is a minefield of bruised skin. Dried blood has stopped up his left nostril, and he appears to be favoring his left arm. The cultists stand at either side of him, each with a reproachful hand down on his shoulder. The Engineer considers him for a moment, allowing the tension to build. The young man doesn't meet his gaze, but doesn't exactly seem to be fearful either.

So you brought a knife to a gun fight, how'd that work out for ya? Seriously man, you had a whole bin of....

If you're going to kill me get it over with.

The Engineer stops short, bemused. Is that what you want?

….

Is that what you WANT?

He grits his teeth together beneath his lips before barking out a scornful laugh. I fucked you good and proper for your match with Bourbon, didn't I? The young man finally looks up at him, flush with defiance.

Oh, so you're a fan! The champion leans in a bit. But I don't think you were willing to sacrifice yourself at the altar of Robbie Bourbon's waning career. So what is this really about? You pissed about Lux and Corey? Hmmmm? He needles him.

Maybe I just saw a monster that needed to be done in. One of the cultist's hands tightens on his shoulder, and the young man rolls it in response. Man, fuck off! The cultist jerks an arm back to land a blow.

No! It's not necessary! He waits for the acolyte to stay his hand before proceeding. We're just....talking. Right? He licks his lips. What's your name anyway?

I'm not telling you my name.

I'm going to call you Seth. Your name is Seth now.

My name is not Seth.

Well, I need to call you something.

…..

Seth it is. So Seth, do you want to tell me why you want to die?


I don't.... But the boy's trails off, his voice getting quieter and then tapering off to nothing.


Yes you do. You entered an unwinnable, unsurvivable situation and attempted to kill me. Now, you don't exactly bear the stink of a martyr or a fanatic to me, so what's the deal here Seth?

…..

Does it get you off? The danger, I mean? Being that close to death? Like an auto erotic asphyxiation type thing? He whispers at him salaciously. Does it get you hard?

Fuck you! The young man starts to rise up out of his seat, and the cultists push him right back down.

The Engineer laughs. I'm just pissing in the wind here, Seth! You're a terrible conversationalist!

You're a fucking monster! The boy spits back. You and that cut rate Jim Jones shit you were pulling back there! Talking some “nothing matters” bullshit like some teenage edgelord! But you're fucking with people's lives! YOU'RE FUCKING WITH LIVES!

Be still my heart! He melodramatically puts his hand to his chest. You ARE a fiery one! He shifts in bed again, bringing on another stinging pang. Unable to suppress a grimace, he closes his eyes and let's that pained breath out in a hiss. This is rather inconvenient, Seth. Then, looking back up at him. Why do you want to die?

I don't.

Bullshit. Why do you want to die?

I do-

Bullshit.

The boy grunts in frustration and buries his face in his hands. The cultists tense in response and The Engineer again holds a hand up, putting them at ease. This isn't a contest of wills, Seth. You want the win? Hey, you stabbed me. You got the win. There. It's yours. He pulls himself closer to the edge of the bed, despite the pain it engenders, to get even closer to the young man. Your actions intrigued me. Okay? This isn't some recruitment thing. It's not a head game. I'm just interested, okay? I mean, here I am this freshly minted bringer of the apocalypse and barely a month into my tenure I'm getting stabbed by some tall, dark, and mysterious with a death wish. Not exactly how I woke up expecting my day to go. So here's the deal. You sit here, have a chat with me. Give me the explanation I desire. And then, if you are indeed honest and forthright, I give you what you want.

What if what I want is you dead?

You won't want that anymore.

How can you be so sure?

The Engineer simply smiles. Talk to me.

Later....


[Image: e6f97e124ccc40d77df59bf976f1ed47.jpg]

We reopen on the interior of a chic retro diner. The Engineer is sitting alone in a booth, and the restaurant appears to be unoccupied aside from him and one other woman, an African American in her 50's. She clearly works there based on her attire. He flags her down and she approaches the table.

Marla, I'm going to need the place to myself. But a guest will be arriving shortly. Okay?

She nods. Yes, sir. Vox Aeterna.

He nods back to her, and looks across the table in the booth at you, the viewer. His features are pulled slightly taut, like a perpetual grimace that he's struggling to repress. Nevertheless, he persists.

You, my friend, were supposed to be Fuzz. He points at the camera reproachfully with a little smile. But it's alright. You're only playing second fiddle to Fuzz because I knew I could beat him. Yeah...yeah....he bats his hand about in the air like he's fending off criticisms lobbed at him. I wanted an easy one. And Fuzz WAS an easy one, despite his recent run of success. The guy wore all his insecurities on his sleeve and I would have eaten him alive before the opening bell rang. But, c'est la vie. It's you instead, Robbie. You clearly want the opportunity at least. And you haven't been subtle about campaigning for it either, have you? Yes, yes, Robbie Bourbon and the quest for F-U-N.

The Engineer's face tics perceptibly and he shifts his weight in the seat with a little grunt.

I appreciate the fact that in these big money matches it helps if the participants are on opposite sides of some philosophical dichotomy. And as much as I appreciate the thought and effort you put into this, as much as I appreciate your striving to make this more than just “ooh, shiny, gimme gimme” there is one glaring flaw in your premise.

Nobody said you couldn't have fun, you idiot.


So why don't you dismount that technicolor crucifix and remove that crown of balloon animals from atop your head and have a listen. I love FUN! I do! So it would be rather hypocritical of me to deny that of anyone else. Although I suspect my definition of fun and yours do vary quite a bit.

And you know what Robbie, I get it. You've been in the game for a long time and you see the value of snapping up that narrative so you can be in control. So you've been flooding the airwaves and the internet with “fun” this and “fun” that like living your life like a cartoon character somehow equates to you being the patron saint of wresting. Well, done. Bravo! And you know what, that whole grabbing the narrative by the throat thing WOULD have worked against a lesser opponent. It WOULD have worked against an imbecile. But against me?


Deep inhale. Mmmmm....NOPE.

Here's what this is really about. Robbie needs fun way more than the XWF does. Because fun provides Robbie with a whole hell of a lot of cover. It puts him firmly back in that hero role he likes to thinks is his default setting (it's not) and it serves as all so much white noise to distract us from his many foibles, failures, and insecurities. It whitewashes the fact that Robbie Bourbon is an immensely selfish man who's number one priority has always been selling the product known as Robbie Bourbon.

And, quite honestly, we WANT Robbie to have fun. Because unfun Robbie is really just a pathetic amalgamation of sad failures, losses, and public humiliation. Robbie needs fun because otherwise he would be a blubbering sadsack. Really, what's the alternative? Robbie Bourbon the sad drunk? Robbie Bourbon binge eating until he can't see his toes? Robbie Bourbon needs the escape hatch that fun provides. Emphasis on escape. But that's what makes him weak. Because if he didn't have all these madcap diversions, he would be left with nothing but the stark, unrelenting ROBBIE-ness of his existence.


He leans forward over the table a bit more, the tightness in his expression giving way to the restrained excitement of a predator about to strike.

Are you REALLY having capital F fun, Robbie? Honestly, deep down in your marrow, do you believe that? Or are you just running from a life time of disappointment and loss with a fake smile and a broken heart?

Robbie? Robbie, where's your team Robbie? Where are The Motherfuckers? Dexter left you a long time ago, and Bearded War Pig left you high and dry without even the courtesy of the big blow off pay per view revenge you wanted. Ouch! But, you know, I'm inclined to think that when somebody's left at the altar as often as you are, the problem isn't with them. You're the common denominator there.

Are we having FUN yet Robbie?

Robbie...Robbie....
The Engineer's voice drops into a whisper. Where's Blue, Robbie?

He lets that hang in the air like a poison cloud for a moment before pressing even further.

Robbie....what scared you so badly about being Universal Champion?

The Engineer draws his tongue along his teeth, an oddly lizard like gesture.

ARE WE HAVING FUN, YET? I know I'm going to be. I'm going to have a jolly old time peeling back the layers of your doughy flesh and exposing all those raw nerve endings to the world, all that pain, and disappointment, and failure that you're running from. And maybe you'll try to convince us that all that morass you've clawed your way through has somehow made you stronger. That it doesn't weigh on you anymore or chisel away at your spirit. That it's just part and parcel of the human condition. But I saw your eyes after Bearded War Pig turned on you. That desolation, that complete and utter defeat. That weighs on a man. It weighs HEAVY.

He nods with a savage grin.

So let's pop that circus tent, play some Merry Melodies and have ourselves a good laugh. Let's play pretend, Robbie. I'll admit, you're already running miles ahead of me at that. But take care. Have a look around before you finish your sprint.

The cliff comes sooner than you think.


His attention is drawn to the diner's door opening. Madison wades in and Marla moves to intercept her. The Engineer cuts in before a confrontation ensues. It's fine Marla.

Is she your guest?

Not exactly....

Madison steps right up to the table, looking fifteen shades of pissed. Are you kidding me right now? Why are you up?! The Engineer simply points to the camera. She looks at it and scowls, but seems to understand in the end. You need to....come back.

Soon. Send the boy over. I'm treating him to dinner.

[Image: CoreySig6A.png?width=270&height=406]
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