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X-treme Wrestling Federation »   » Archives » "Savage Saturday Night" RP Board
New/You: Part Deux
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Madison Dyson Offline
Not a fascist! :)



XWF FanBase:
Not Over

(the perfect heel; hated even by the fans who usually cheer heels; pisses off internet fans too)


#1
02-28-2020, 04:10 PM

UGHHHHHHH.....WHYYYYYYYY? Madison squeals petulantly, kicking her feet against the arm rest of the white leather sofa nestled in her elaborate NEW/YOU private domicile.

Shane is seated across from her in an obnoxious fluffy chair that nearly engulfs him whole. Oh come on, it's not that bad. Just 13.2%! His shit eating grin says it all. Now give me my phone back!

Madison whines again and holds the phone up like she's going to throw it.

No, don't....don't you!

Madison chucks it in his general direction. Panicked, Shane reaches up and snatches it out of the air just in time. Then, cradling it to his chest and cooing at it for a moment, it's unclear how much of Madison's incoming bitching he's even paying attention to.

Why did you even have to tell me? HUH?! You couldn't have just let me go on in blithe ignorance? Like Big D does about his promo skills or Fuzz does about the fact that he's a big blubbery BITCH BOY? And when and more importantly why the FUCK did you do an Ancestry.com check on me anyway?!

Shane finally looks up as he gingerly slides the phone back into his pocket. To answer your questions in sequential order: 1) It's funny. 2) That's FUNNIER. 3) Remember when I gave you that drug test for DRW security clearance?

Yeah, and I told you I was gonna fail the shit out of it?

Right, and I knew you were gonna fail the shit out of it. But I just tell everybody it's for “drug testing” when in reality it's for....other purposes.....

Like Ancestry.com?

Shane slaps his knees and let's out a hearty chuckle. Oh no, that was just for you! This is the EXACT result I was hoping for. Which, answers 4).

DICK! Madison's eyes slant and she considers him suspiciously. Wait, what “other purposes”?

Just then, there is a knock at he door. I'll get it! Shane intones cheerfully.

Madison spins about on the couch to watch him go. You are NOT off the hook on this!

Shane pulls open the door, and The Engineer's lover/acolyte Malcolm is standing there.

Ah! Serving lad! I will take one Dry Martini, one Porterhouse Steak burnt to shit and slathered in Ketchup....

Madison crinkles her nose in disgust. Fuck ME!

...and a selection of your finest vintage German pornography. Surprise me on the titles!

I'm not a “serving lad”, you ass. Malcolm pushes past him. Shane looks at Madison confused.

Jesus Shane, you forgot already? That's The Engineer's “special friend”, Malcolm. Madison makes a gratuitous dick sucking gesture and Shane nods with understanding. So, Malcolm, are you here for a treatment? I figure I've got at least an “Italian” in me today but boy....**yawns**....I am kinda tired.

Malcolm sneers at her. No, I'm not here for one of your treatments. I'm perfectly fine with how I look. And your client doesn't seem to mind it either. In fact, that's who I'm here to talk about it. He glares at Shane. Privately.

Whooooooaaaaaa there. Are you not aware that that sweet piece you are currently boinking is the product of my loins?! You will not put Shane in the corner when it comes to talking about The Engineer!

Malcolm tosses his hands up in frustration. Fine, whatever. Stay.

I will! Shane plops himself back down in the big fluffy chair as Malcolm pulls up a smaller chair and sits.

I'm really worried about him. This whole thing with Corey coming back....I can tell, it's affecting him. He seems really distracted. He tries to play it off, but he's tense....

Well aren't you supposed to be helping with the whole “releasing tension” thing? Madison mouths the words with a mock seductiveness.

I'm serious!

Shane roars back to life. Look Marty, so are we! But here's the thing, you think I DIDN'T design The Engineer with this scenario in mind? We always knew the Corey personality coming back was a possibility. We're not taking this lightly and we have it covered, unless you have some better ideas?! It was impossible to ignore the barbed prodding there.

Malcolm casts his eyes downward. I don't....I guess, I barely even know what he really is.... His voice sounds solemn and conflicted.

Madison leans in towards Malcolm a bit. Let me make this simple for you. Keep helping him expand the Church. And keep “meeting his needs”. Let us handle the rest. Savvy? The young man clearly wants to balk at Madison's dismissive tone, but doesn't know what else to suggest. Naturally, she takes his silence as acceptance. Good. Now I have a serious problem of my own here!

Shane chuckles and points at Madison. She just found out she's 13.2% Slav!

...so? He shakes his head, shrugging his shoulders.

What do you mean “so”?! Being a Slav is like bargain basement Caucasity!

That's not even a word.

Madison shudders. GAAAWWWWWWD! It feels like there's bugs crawling underneath my skin now!

That's probably just your rampant drug abuse.

Madison reaches across the length of the couch and picks up a vase situated on the table next to it. She lobs it at Malcolm.

Jesus! He twists out of the way of the flying ceramic, but upends his chair and hits the floor as he does so.

You got anymore smart shit to say?!

Dusting himself off, Malcolm pulls himself to his feet with a scowl. You know what, I'm done. Good luck with your....”problem”. Heading for the door, he turns around to toss out one last barb. Hit me up when you're ready to talk like an adult about your client's future, Madison.

Madison flips him off as Malcolm tosses open the door and slams it behind him.

He's a good kid. I like him. Shane sniffs. He'll make a fine host body one day if Corey's unit shits the bed.

Yeah...yeah.... She waves her hand dismissively. So what do I do?

Shane looks at her incredulously. Fuck my o-ring runnin' Maddy, the answer is staring you right in the face!She looks at him confused for a moment. He shoots her a prodding, sarcastic look in response. Ya huh? She cants her head. It's cookin'? Madison looks to the side, lost in thought. Just a little longer!

Suddenly, she snaps to attention as the proverbial light bulb flickers on above her head.

Ding! Sooooooooup's ooooooon!

I could use my powers on myself. She speaks the words dreamily. Shane nods emphatically in response. But...I'll look different, won't I?

Oh, probably! I always thought you'd look better as a brunette, personally.....

Madison looks down at her hands, appraising the power they wield. With a conflicted look, and more than a dash of trepidation, she starts to bring her hands up closer to her face. Her fingers quiver and twitch as they grow nearer, a slight gasp escapes Madison's lips. She looks up at Shane for support....but his attention is buried in his phone. Fucker! I'm on the verge of making a major life decision! What could be so goddamn important?!

Shane holds his phone up. BWAHAHAHA! Check out this tweet from Robbie Bourbon! It's a monkey masturbating! Madison looks at him, aghast, and Shane plows ever forward. He just comes right up to that glass too, playing his slide whistle and staring everybody right the fuck down! Brazen little shit!

UGGGGHHHHHHHHHH! Madison groans with disgust as she damn near throws herself off the couch and stomps out the door, leaving behind a very confused Shane . But, his confusion soon abates and he watches the wanking money on repeat once more.

This monkey would make one hell of a Federweight Champion.....

A Little Later....


We return to Madison Dyson as she relaxes in a luxurious hot tub. A glass of wine is perched next to her, half drained. Madison sighs in relaxation and starts to speak without even looking at the camera.

Oh, don't you worry my (Fox and) Friends, Maddy's kisser ain't going anywhere. She sits up, looking at the camera now. I have made peace with the fact that I'm 13.2% Slav. In fact, I've realized that not only does it not define me now, it has NEVER defined me. I've been a massive success my entire life despite the fact that a particularly low hanging branch of my family tree was full up with failed Soviet Bloc state pig fuckers.

Unfortunately Boris, that doesn't change the fact that you're still 100% Pig Fucker.

Let's get the glaringly obvious out of the way first, Boris. You're the comedy character. Full stop. In fact, you're the tired punchline to a well worn joke choking it's way past the lips of some hack comedian for the very last time. You're dying on stage, bitch, to the accompanying awkward coughs and shameful pity applause of a threadbare crowd that can't even believe you're still alive, much less kickin'.

You should have been condemned to the waste bin of one note schtick a long time ago. But here you are, the undying shambling corpse of a thought that may have once been mildly amusing and now only exists as a simple sack of meat for me to mow down on my way towards glory. Case in point, the weak ass game you were spittin' at me. Calling me ugly? Maybe you need to put down that copy of Babby's First Promo Battle you yoinked from atop the tank of Centurion's crapper. And for God sakes make doubly sure you don't read that old fart's liner notes either. His promos make watching paint dry look like a drug fueled Daisy Chain by comparison so I wouldn't start looking to his geriatric ass for any pointers anytime soon.

So did all those years of drinking and driving accidents in Yugos completely shred your brain? Because from where I sit it's looking like you actually tried to throw shade at me for not wrestling much? For “letting other people do my fighting for me”? You know what, yeah, it IS kinda tough to stay in the ring when you're busy managing not one, but TWO Universal Champions. Nonetheless, in that time I still managed to bring myself to a respectable 9 and 4 record while you barely clutch onto breaking even and, oh yeah, that illustrious XWF Tug of War Gold Medal. Starting to think you should have let some other people do the fighting for you after all?

Yeah, sit down and shut the fuck up, Boris. I'm not done yet. I'm not finished with you until you crawl right back up into the rank, unmanicured whisker biscuit that spawned you, curled up in a fetal position in that vodka soaked uterus that gifted you with a lifetime of oddly spaced eyes and a nagging inability to complete complex cognitive tasks. I'm talking about Fetal Alcohol Syndrome, by the way, or as you would better understand it, Standard Slav Operating Procedure. I bet in your neck of the woods they gave the key to the city to the first person they can find who can reliably touch their ass with both hands while blindfolded.

She picks up her wine glass and drains it dry.

Look bitch, the point is this: it ain't you. Okay? It just ain't. Nobody is watching March Madness and pining for the day some punchline wins it all just to disappear into the XWF dead joke ether never to return. Okay, I guess you COULD return, but as Phantom Panzer insists on proving, just because you can doesn't mean you SHOULD.

Like, I realize you're pretty much just a misfiring brain stem in a track suit, but even you must understand that an event like March Madness commands a certain degree of dignity. It demands a winner with a certain level of narrative heft. And there is just no way that the guy whose claim to fame is driving the Slav Cruiser to victory carries the requisite narrative juevos to be anything other than a level of disappointment on par with that time I mistook a parody article about Guy Fieri dying on the toilet as the real deal.

I'm gonna be real up front with you about something. Yeah, I probably am gonna cheat my ass off in this match. Maybe have some run ins. Some foreign objects. Toss some contact poison in that mucus laden mask of yours. Not because I have to. But because I want to. Because I want to win this match with as much viciousness and spite as I can to send a message to the rest of the abject wastes of time that signed up for this tournament (ie. 90% of them) that MAMA IS COLLECTIN' HEADS. And I will not tolerate this level of unseriousness. I will not tolerate you taking up space in this tournament that could have gone to any number of more meaningful candidates such as Atara's purposeless sounding board of a sister, or any member of BX3, or Fuzz once he stops filling his diaper with piss.

Madison coils her fists in anger.

And ya know what, it pisses me off to no fucking end that because of “people” like you, even when I win March Madness it isn't going to be seen as a real accomplishment. This fucking tournament is chock a block with wasters and jobbers to the stars. It's a weak field! And I'm going to have to fend off all kinds of nay saying bullshit just because I had the simultaneously good AND bad fortune to only have to roll over a bunch of “pin me, pay me's” like you on my way to the crown. It fucking sucks! Now this isn't me saying that I won't enjoy going all American History X on your skull with a sweet pair of shit kickers, I'm just saying it's not gonna count for much in the end.

So, yeah, that's what you are. A shit tier joke of a low hurdle on my way to winning a thoroughly unchallenging tournament.

History's already written. The bad guy already won. Enjoy the ride.

Madison picks up her empty glass and proffers it up.

Antony! I am in need of refreshment!

A young, thong wearing stud saunters up to the hot tub, bearing a refilled wine glass. He bends low, offering it to Madison. She takes it, smiling lasciviously. Mmmmm.....thanks doll. Now why don't you slip into something more comfortable and let me offer you some....**ahem**....healing.

The camera pans up and away as Antony starts to slide his thong down.

[Image: Dyson.png?ex=65a2219d&is=658fac9d&hm=e67...y=lossless]
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