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X-treme Wrestling Federation »   » Archives » "C*nt Fest" RP Board
La commedia è finita! Part 2: Tragicomic
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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
01-13-2020, 04:29 PM

Outside the stretch windows of the diner, evening gave up the ghost to night. A gentle snow had started to fall, white flakes alighting on the glass before collapsing in on themselves and vanishing. The moon hung high and bright, illuminating and reflecting the snow as it danced in the light of it's celestial purview.

The Engineer continued to sit alone his booth. Madison had departed in another predictable huff about 20 minutes ago. And just when he started to fear he was fated to eat this meal alone, the bells atop the entrance gave their warm jingle, announcing the entrance of the broad backed young man who had stabbed him the night before.

[Image: latest?cb=20171015074432]

Looking down to conceal his surprised smirk, The Engineer did not even see the young man as he slid into the booth across from him. I'm honestly surprised you came.

Is this you trying to tell me I'm being stupid?

Not at all. He meets his gaze. I think I've made it clear by now that if I wanted you dead you would be. If anything I'm putting myself at substantially more risk than you are.

What do you want? The young man bristled, speaking in hushed but harsh tones.

Dinner.....? He replied with a tone of levity, but before he could get much further Marla was there with her trusty notepad in hand to take their order.

What can I get you, sir?

The shawarma. Then, to his guest. It's really quite good here.

I'm not very hungry ma'am. The genteel respect for his elders bled through his tension. Thank you, though.

Nope, I'm buying. Are you really not going to pick?

No.

With a shrug, he returns his attention to Marla. He'll have a shawarma too.

Yes, sir. It'll be out shortly. Marla shoots at inquisitive look at the boy before turning on her heel back towards the kitchen.

You'll thank me, really. The Engineer has a little stretch, pushing his arms out in front of him before the wound in his side bites back. Fuck.... He grips it instinctively, grimacing. A small trickle of blood had seeped through the bandage and evolved into a crimson spot on his shirt. You really got me good.

You're still breathing. His voice was steely. Look, I'm not here to make nice with you. Tell me what you fucking want.

Oh would you please stop acting so put upon! The Engineer snapped back, with a bit more venom than he intended due to the pain. Dialing it back with a sigh, he stops considering his wound to look at the boy. If you didn't want to be here you wouldn't be. You still want something from me. Now, in my opinion, smart money's still on “wanting to die”. But I think I've made it clear you won't get that from me.... He stops short when he sees the young man's right eye glaze over with an unspent tear.

Why didn't you kill me? The earlier brass in his voice had been extracted, replaced with something stiller and deeper.

So I was right. He speaks the words with zero satisfaction. “Why didn't I kill you?” A small snicker escapes. Because just a couple weeks ago I fought four trained fighters in a contraption straight out of a Mad Max movie, and yet you're STILL the only one in my brief existence who's really taken the fight to me. That's why. Long story short, Seth, you're alive because I'm interested. So....he drums his fingers on the table....was stabbing me just an attempted suicide or do you also happen to hate my guts?

The tear that was building before remains unspent. A bit of steel returns, and his mouth fixes into a thin bitter line before he speaks. I came because I was interested in what you had to say. I wasn't originally planning to cut you. I just....I don't know what I wanted. But when I heard you up their talking...baiting people into doing terrible things....I..... His face suddenly furrows in disgust. Yeah, I guess I kinda fucking hate you.

Suffice it to say, you disagreed with me a bit?

Suffice it so say, I think you were full of shit.

The Engineer chuckles, absent mindedly tracing a pattern on the table with his finger tip. What part did you disagree with?

He leans back in his seat, drawing a thumb across his lips as he looks out the window. All of it. Then, shooting a challenging look at the champion, So, what? Your whole philosophy is that the world's fucked, there's nothing we can do about it, so have at it? What kind of philosophy is that? That shit's lazy as fuck.

“Lazy”?

Yeah! It's what quitters say.

Says the man who wanted to die?

Stung, he retracts into himself a bit. Then, softly, Fine. You got that one. But I don't think the world's all bad. I... He stops, trailing off and looking a bit sad.

“I”....what?

I'm not even sure I wanted to die. I didn't know what I wanted last night.

But you wanted something? The young man remains silent and indecisive. I think if we're going to be having a heady conversation like this, I should at least know your real name.

The boy considers him with some suspicion before finally relenting with an answer. Malcolm. What's your real name?

The Engineer.

Malcolm sneers. Oh, so this little trust exercise shit only cuts one way?

That is my name. I have no other.

Whatever, man.

I'm sorry to disappoint you. Taking a pained breath, he lets it out slowly and presses on. Who hurt you?

I never said anybody hurt me. The words are defiant, but strangely without anger.

Malcolm, everybody who came to see me last night was hurting. Each and every one. You don't come to the conclusion that civilized society isn't worth it anymore if you haven't been hurt. Unless you're a psychopath, and you don't strike me as one. So.....he leans in....who hurt you?

Suddenly, the boy's affect shifts. He thunders to his feet, jostling the entire table as he does so and bellowing. You're not my fuckin' therapist! You're just some psycho! You're sick! FUCK YOU!

Marla comes out from behind the double doors leading to the kitchen, concern etched on her features. The look she sends to The Engineer says it all. Is everything okay? He returns her consideration with a simple nod. The boy is headed for the door, his long stride already taking him halfway there by the time The Engineer can call out to him. You didn't deserve it. Whatever it was.

The boy reaches the door, and his hand gets as far as the handle before he stops.

I would do the whole heroic “chasing after you thing” but my pain meds are wearing off and I think I'll be hard pressed to even make it out of this booth. So don't take it personally. He pauses to assess the situation. Malcolm lingers at the door. Last night you wanted to hear me talk. But quite frankly I'm more interested in hearing YOU talk now. And besides, you got somewhere better to be right now?

Malcolm responds without turning away from the door. We talk on my terms.

Of course.

Malcolm finally leaves the door behind, his hand drifting from the handle dreamily as he walks the distance back to the booth. Dropping back down into it, he eyes stay downcast as he continues speaking. I'm only still here because I got nowhere else to go. It's warm and yeah, I'm pretty goddamn hungry. He erects a defense around his ego made of words.

Malcolm, you don't need to explain yourself. This isn't a battle you lost. Then, with a smile. And trust me when I say you will be really, really happy you stayed once dinner is served.

Silence reigned for a moment, until Malcolm opened the door again. Why do you care about me?

I don't. The other looked shocked, but The Engineer interjected with a raised hand. Ah, ah, ah. Hold on. ….

What do you mean “hold on”? How can you want me to spill my guts and then say you don't fucking care?!

What I mean is that I don't REALLY care. Not that kind of deep down in the bones kind of caring. Because frankly, I don't think that exists in most cases. All relationships are inherently transactional. They're conditional. Malcolm actually winces at that, but The Engineer doesn't let on that he noticed. True caring is a unicorn, Malcolm. Almost unheard of, and when you THINK you've found one it's usually just some broke down stud with a horn superglued to its head. He leans back in his seat, grimacing a bit as his wound makes itself known again. See, that's what you can always expect from me though, Malcolm. The truth. No matter how much it hurts. However, I do have a keen interest in your story. I want to know what makes the young man who stabbed me tick. I want to know what stokes the fires of that rage. I'm curious.

You're “curious”? A skeptical glower appears. I'm not some zoo exhibit, dude.

No. You're far more impressive. He watches as Malcolm's tension again fades. Just now, when I said that relationships were conditional, that seemed to strike a chord. Why?

For the first time, a genuine tenor of insecurity seems to overcome the young man. His broad shoulders droop ever so slightly, and his hands meet atop the table and start worrying each other. It's because I'm scared you're right. The words carry a quiet resonance. I had a...a fight....with my dad about 6 months ago. He said he wants nothing to do with me anymore.

Why?

That's it. That's all you get.

That's just the teaser, Malcolm. I was hoping for the whole movie!

And I told you this was on my terms! Malcolm stabs a finger down onto the table for emphasis.

Sorry, sorry. You're right. I get a little overzealous when pretty things seem so sad. It seems like it violates some fundamental rule of nature.

Are you fucking hitting on me?! Malcolm recoils in disgust, his ire an abrupt geyser.

Maybe. Are you a homophobe?

He blinks a few times, and The Engineer takes note of a slight tremble in his hands. Malcolm notices him watching, and pulls his arms back under the table, his gaze following them downward. I thought you were straight. You were hitting on that Atara chick a couple weeks ago. The bass seems to have left his voice just as suddenly as it arrived.

I'm a reflection of what I think other people want, Malcolm.

The hell does that mean?

Why did your father kick you out?

I told you I'm not talking about that! His anger was a shadow of what it once was, he was ceding his emotional gumption to something gnawing at him deep inside. The Engineer smiled and watched the boy until they locked eyes. Malcolm's bottom lip trembled ever so slightly, and another tear peeked out above his bottom eyelash. Oh God, you know....you already know....

It's okay. He cooed.

The boy imploded, drawing deep inside himself, his powerful frame a collapsing skyscraper. The tear that only threatened to fall before dropped unbidden, the quiver in his bottom lip exacerbated. Terror took the wheel. You know....

Don't panic.

You can't tell anyone, okay?! He prods again when the Engineer doesn't immediately respond. Okay?!

You have my word. But you also have nothing to be ashamed of.

Jesus, how did you know?!

I didn't.

Those two simple words create another paradigm shift in the conversation. The boy wilts even more, if that's possible. ….what?

I guessed. But ultimately, you told me.

I didn't tell you shit. Again, the pretense of anger, but it's swallowed up in fear.

Not directly. But it's okay. It's fine. You don't have to be afraid. But, at the risk of reaching into the depths of “I told you so”, it kind of proves what I said about caring being transactional. Your father made you, against your will. And you came out formed in a mold that was not of your choosing. And then, when you had the audacity to speak to truth to the power of who you really are...he rejected you. He rejected you because you didn't fit some tired, prescribed notion of masculinity. Because his pet jock shouldn't “be that way.” But you ARE that way. And your anger, your rage at him, is righteous. He floats a small chuckle. I kind of wish you had realized who you were really angry at before you stabbed me, though.

Malcolm sat in silence, looking down at his hands once more.

It's okay to hate him. It's more than okay. It's natural. It's PURE and it's HONEST. Rage is HONEST, Malcolm. Do you get that? He pauses, drawing a breath as his new friend stays quiet. We'll work on it.

Marla returns to the table, carrying a tray replete with steaming shawarma wraps. Placing their plates before them, she cheerfully inquires, Is there anything else I can get you boys?

Oh no, this is more than enough.

Malcolm eyes the food hungrily. Marla nods and takes her leave.

Go ahead. Dig in.

He looks at the food with a strange reticence, fingers twitching nervously as he goes to reach for it and then stops. As though the simple act of accepting this meal bore an unseen significance. Finally, he takes the wrap in hand and bites deep of it.

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Two days later.....


The Engineer steps into a private box at a grandiose opera house. Rows of golden gilded tiers stretch out about the box, dropping down into a sea of red satin seats. The crowd below buzzes and shuffles about as they take their places.

[Image: Bolshoi_czars_box.jpg]

Walking with a cane and favoring his wounded side, he slides out a chair and drops down into it, sighing a bit for the relief of it. Appearing behind him, like a grotesque white abstraction, is one of his hooded cultists. This one seems powerfully built, even as his loose robes billow out unflatteringly. The Engineer turns towards the cultist, beckoning him to sit down beside him. The cultist is slow to respond, and when he does his movements are the jerky stumblings of a toddler just learning to walk. He practically falls into the chair next to the champion, drawing a scowl from The Engineer.

Jesus Christ, how am I supposed to pass as a member of well heeled high society with you stumbling about like an oaf?! Get it together! The hooded cultist remains impassive, oblivious even. I hope they have those binocular on a stick thingies up here...hey, you see any? The cultist doesn't respond at all. The Engineer gives him a smack on the shoulder. Hey, I'm talking to you! Still nothing. Useless.

A hush promulgates throughout the theater as the main curtain rises. The following figure floats onto the stage.

[Image: pagtonio.jpg]

Si può?... Si può?... Signore! Signori! ... Un nido di memorie.....

The clown speaks. The Engineer watches the performance wistfully for a moment, before leaning in ever so slightly towards the camera. This is Pagliacci, one of my favorite operas. It's the story of a traveling troupe of clowns, but one of them discovers that his lover has been having a secret affair with another member of the troupe. In the play's final act, the real life drama mirrors the drama of a performance they are enacting, all the while the unassuming audience assumes that the authentic rage of Pagliacci, the scorned lover, is part of the act. Until he kills his lover in a fit of jealous rage on stage, that is. Ooops, sorry, SPOILERS! He playfully brings his hands up to cover his mouth. The final line of the play is one of the most well known in the arts: La commedia è finita! – "The comedy is finished!"

He looks back down at the performance again. “The Comedy is finished”. He repeats the words solemnly.

You know Robbie, it shouldn't surprise me that you took an out of context wikipedia ready definition of Nihilism and used that as jump off for trying to take a lipid laden dump all over what I said. But you didn't get it. And you know what Robbie, you overcame all that darkness in your soul, all that hardship to suddenly become this valiant Paladin, championing the notions of truth, justice, and lazy comedy spots? I think it's bullshit, but hey, bully for you!

But a lot of people haven't. Because a lot of people don't have the luxury of being a jet setting entertainment spectacle with a bevy of cartoonish yes men at his disposal. A lot of people don't have the resources you do. Or the support system. Or the money. Or the fame. Or....or....or! Because YOU Robbie, get to live your life up here....
He holds his hand up high....and they live down here....He points down at the floor. In short, and Madison my dear, please forgive me, check your fucking privilege.

Just because this world, this society, worked for you, doesn't mean that it worked for everyone else. And that's what I'm trying to get these people to understand. I'm not telling them to BELIEVE in nothing, I'm telling them to accept that, in the grand scheme of things, they are a miniscule cog in an infernal machine that doesn't give a shit about them. The world is a chaotic sea without meaning. Everything is random. They slave away and still can't support their families. Idiots and psychopaths make the laws that govern their lives. Amoral corporations choke the very planet they share with us and the billionaire owners of said corporations get to fuck off to private islands to bump coke off a super model's ass. They were spurted out into a world that had no destined plan for them and treated them with a callous indifference. Their God's are absentee parents who stopper their ears in response to their prayers. And just because you apparently learned to shit rainbows doesn't mean that THEY have. And that's just the kind of insight that's par for the course for the man who says “you're only a month old and too young to know about all these things I did ON FUCKING TELEVISION”.

And the worst part, the most condescending part of all of this, is that you try to write all this off like it's some petty high school drama class prattle while you stand tall wearing a ridiculous costume over all that rabble pretending to be above it. “Well at least Robbie's here to be the adult in the room and scream, and thrash his arms, and INSIST how he's not shook by all this dark and broody nonsense.”

This isn't dark and broody nonsense! This is the REALITY for a significant portion of the people in this world and the fact that you just casually write it off as some maudlin claptrap that's below your level of notice shows just how much of a shit you really give about ALL your people. And it is the height of irony that the guy who openly admits that they don't really care (ie. ME) is the one who gets that and the one who claims to be the man of the people (ie. YOU) is perfectly willing to deride their pain as something you can just bootstrap your way out of by choosing to be happy!
The Engineer laughs bitterly. Oh yes, you there, the heroin addict who was kicked off your opiate substitute by your insurance company, did you know you can just CHOOSE not to feel all those horrific withdrawal pains? Yes, you there the battered spouse who can't get divorce because it will devastate you financially because you and your children are financially dependent on the bastard? Yes, did you know you can just go “aw shucks” and look on the brighter side of life?! And that's not even touching child soldiers in Africa, or the international child sex trade, or the Chinese prisoners of modern day death camps etc....etc.....etc.....(add horrific thing ad nauseum, fuck knows there's lots to choose from), but maybe they can just all will themselves to be happy too!

Holy shit, it's really that easy?!


The Engineer shakes his head “no”.

No, Robbie. For many people, it's not. There are many, MANY, angry disaffected people out there who are starting to see the truth. Starting to see that the social compact is nothing, that the law means nothing (especially if you're rich), and that there's no trite moral to be learned at the end of the story. There's no moral at all. Just hardship and the crushing existential realization of how little their pain and their existence means in the grand scheme of things.

So when I gave those people those guns, I wasn't telling them to think or feel nothing. No Robbie, if that addled brain of yours had been able to rub more than a couple brain cells together simultaneously you would have HEARD me acknowledge their anger and their pain and give them the means to do something about it. In fact, what I did for most of the people in that room was probably the first true taste of power they've ever had in their lives.


The Engineer's attention is drawn to the hooded cultist beside him, who appears to be about ready to tip over in his seat and fall to the floor. His hood draws up just enough to see a sliver of caramel colored skin beneath. Taking hold of him, The Engineer rights him before he can tumble.

But this isn't about your people or their petty pain, this is about YOU Robbie. Of course it is. It's always about you. Robbie Bourbon, ye who “chooses not to dwell on his mistakes”. Yeah, tell me about it. Weren't you just admitting to me on Twitter like a few weeks ago you had a lot to atone for when it came to your first botched abortion of a title reign? Boy you must be setting a new world record here for acts of contrition in record time. You didn't atone for a damn thing before you pushed your way to the front of the line, unless you count your last losing effort for the Hart Championship. But like most things Robbie Bourbon, there's a massive yawning chasm between what he says and the truth. Or maybe it's just that oh so typical Robbie Bourbon sense of entitlement. Like the time he pissed and moaned about having to team with Scully for War Games because it somehow deprived him of the huge money making pay per view blow off that everybody knew Robbie was gonna win. Or am I not supposed to know about that either because film records, Youtube, and social media logs don't exist?

Man of the people my ass. Folks, if this is your savior you're all pretty boned. Wasn't it just this past summer that Robbie came at ya hawking cheap merchandise made from the blood, sweat and tears of sweatshop labor? But now he would have you believe he's found Jesus on this virtuous path of life and salvation? The cold hard fact is that Robbie Bourbon is whatever Robbie Bourbon needs to be to get himself ahead. And before you call me a hypocrite, just remember I'm actually up front about the fact that I don't really give a damn about anyone. Robbie will piss on your leg and tell you it's raining all day. And he'll do it while making sure he's in shot handing out soup to burnt Koalas.

And you know what else bothers me (and should bother the shit out of all those people you claim to represent)? You got over Bearded War Pig's betrayal pretty quick, huh? Yeah, the guy who you claimed was essentially your brother from another mother stabbing you right in the back. Now that might shake an ordinary man. It might cause an ordinary man to wonder maybe, “what did I do wrong? What motivated one of my closest friends, a man I leaned on and trusted, to do something this horrific?” But not Robbie! Oh no! Apparently for Robbie it's “send 'em to hell” clap the dust off my hands and call it a day! No internal conflict there. It just doesn't bother him anymore because he can just choose to shut all those feelings off and skip happily down the Gumdrop Path to the Licorice Castle!

The Engineer looks quizzically at the camera.

And he says all that with a straight face to boot! There's only two explanations I see here. Number one, you're like Pagliacci here. You're the XWF's crying clown, laughing on the outside and suffering on the inside. Driving all that pain deep down inside, ignoring that freshly made festering wound until it becomes SEPTIC. Or....you truly just don't give a shit. BWP's betrayal was a nothing but a blip on the ol' radar because that relationship didn't mean shit to you in the first place. Which, when you stop and think about it, is incredibly on brand for you.

Just like how it is incredibly on brand for you to STILL not understand the ramifications of your deeply insulting and embarrassing decision to tits up your Universal Title reign. You know I'm so, so glad you chose not to “wallow in your own mistakes”. I guess not “wallowing in your own mistakes” is some new definition for “shameless” I was not aware of. Because here you are, offering ZERO real apologies for making the XWF look like shit two years ago and accepting a shot at my title right after losing a shot at a lesser title.

This opportunity could have gone to Robert Main, who technically never even lost his title in a sanctioned match. It could have gone to Fuzz, who, yeah, I would have verbally castrated into an aneurysm before he even got to the ring, but still....hell you could have even given me James Raven. Sure, he's done fuck all lately but I'm pretty sure his Universal Title losses allowed him to maintain modicum of self respect.

But nah...it's you. Showing every bit of your typical level of “self awareness” as you try to bullshit your way into some semblance of respectability.

Not on my watch.

He starts in his seat a bit.

But I will say this much for you. Good call on the whole FUN Wrestling thing. Those unused Bourbon Men concepts weren't doing much sitting on the cutting room floor otherwise.

See ya when I see ya. And just a heads up, you might want to fast forward through the latter half of my next promo because it's sorely lacking in the kind of “OMG TOTES RANDOM MONKEY CHEEZ” that you think constitutes visionary promo material. Wouldn't want you to stumble into anything more taxing than a fart joke.


The cultist sitting next to The Engineer finally tips over in his seat and crashes to the floor. The Engineer considers him with an exhausted expression.

At least he didn't shit himself this time.

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