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X-treme Wrestling Federation BOARDS »   » Archives » Relentless Day 3 RP Board 2020
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Relentless Media, Part VIII: On the Subject of Garbage
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Lacklan Offline
Low Effort



XWF FanBase:
The 'cool' kliq fans

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


Post: #1
09-18-2020 12:53 PM


BEEP

BEEP

BEEP


“...babe...shut off your alarm…”

“...it’s not my alarm...it’s your alarm…

BEEP

BEEP

BEEP


“...that doesn’t sound like my alarm…”

“...doesn’t sound like mine, either…”

BEEP

BEEP

BEEP


“...get up and check…”

“...no u…”

BEEP

BEEP

BEEP


“...ugh...fine…”

“...good, now I can-”

BEEP

BEEP

BEEP


“...hey, it’s not me.”

“...let me check mine...nope, not mine.”

BEEP

BEEP

BEEP


“Where IS that beep coming from?”

“I think it’s outside?”

BEEP

BEEP

BEEP


“Go look.”

“You go look! I’m not wearing any clothes!”

BEEP

BEEP

BEEP


“FINE! I swear to Tom Cruise, Sar...what are you laughing at?”

“....you might want to wear a scarf…”

BEEP

BEEP

BEEP


“...DAMNIT, Sar! I look like a whore!”

“That’s what you get for offering to watch Vampire in Brooklyn!”

BEEP

BEEP

BEEP


“...you are impossible. Whatever. Oh, it’s just the dump truck picking up the trash.”

“That’s coming all the way from the gate? Damn, that’s loud.”

BEEP

BEEP

BEEP


“You put the trash cans out last night, right?”

“....wut?”

BEEP

BEEP

BEEP


“The trash cans! It was your turn!”

“My turn?! I was on Jeopardy last night!”

BEEP

BEEP

BEEP


“The trash guys don’t care! It was still your turn!”

“‘I’m the Universal Champion! I shouldn’t have to take out the trash anymore!”

BEEP

BEEP

BEEP


“You’ll be a Uni Champ with a black-and-blue butt if you don’t put one same damn clothes and help me!”

“I’m trying!”

BEEP

BEEP

BEEP


“Gah! Why are these cans so heavy?!”

“I don’t know! Just push!”

BEEP

BEEP

BEEP


“Hey! Hey guys! Wait up!”

“Wave harder, Beloved!”

BEEP

BEEP

BEEP


“DAMNIT!”

“Oh, come on!”

BEEP

BEEP

BEEP


“Great. Now we’re stuck with full trash cans until next week.”

“Lord, I hate garbage.”







I've been thinking about the past a lot lately. I've always considered it important to honor my father, to honor both what came before me and how I give his lessons a modern bent, but it's been a lot more than that lately. I’m not exactly sure why. Perhaps it's Charlie's need to bring up his name. I can’t say I blame ol’ Chuckles, though. Jean-Paul Lacklan held multiple World Championships across his career, and was honored with two Hall of Fame rings before the end. I carry one with me, my sister the other. So in a way, Charlie’s obsession with a man far above his level has been somewhat cathartic.

And while thinking of my father, I've also been thinking of my trainer. I haven't seen Nikita in a couple of years, now. Around the time I was being trained, they were in a company called Classic Wrestling from Texas, which had a much wider reach than the name suggests. When I conned Daddy into training me to wrestle, he knew that he could only teach me so much, ya know? I needed a woman’s perspective, something he could not offer, and so he tapped the World Champion at the time, a woman we both knew well. But after that company folded, as is the wont and nature of this business, Nikita retired to a secluded mountain cabin in some frozen wasteland in Canada, and I stopped hearing from her. Oh, I tried to get her to come around, but never really got anywhere. Over the prior year, she had become more and more agitated with public life, not wanting to talk to fans, or peers, or anyone. I tried to get her to come to my debut match, which happened to be but a few hours from her cabin, but I had no success. I tried getting her to come to my birthday that year, but only received a “Sorry, dearie” text at the last minute.

However, when my father died, she was the first person I called, and she came as soon as possible. Much of that week is a blur, but I have a distinct memory of laying on a couch at my home in Maine, with my head on her lap, and Kenzi running her hands over my legs, both trying to soothe my pain. She stayed for the week, helped me with funeral arrangements, and to give some insight on my sudden new responsibilities as the head of the Lacklan household, a position I would have for the next year or so. And then POOF! She was gone. Back to her wilderness and, most important for her, away from so many bodies.

Several months later, I got a surprise visit from her, as our paths happened to cross in New York, and she gave me some important life advice. And later still, as I was preparing to make a full-time return to wrestling after my accident, she found me again, though her advice this time was less motherly and more the sharp side of her tongue. She was nearly to the point of calling me a failure, and said that, if my father had known then what I would become, he would have fired her in 2016. And why?

Garbage.

Oh, at that point, I had had a few title reigns, to be sure. I had been a tag team champion twice alongside my Beloved, both in Canada and in the States. But, singles champion? Standing on my own? I had defeated Lucy Wylde for a prestigious championship the year before, but that had been immediately followed by my time on the DL, and I never got the chance to reign. But fast-forward to this time, fast forward to Nikita Dolore surprising me with a visit in Hollywood, and my championship at the time, one of those 24/7 “matches can happen anywhere” deals, was put in perspective:

It was garbage.


“It’s like you’ve taken everything I have taught you and thrown it in the trash.”

The words stung.

“You should be competing for WORLD CHAMPIONSHIPS! YOU were meant to wrestle at the top of the card in major venues on pay per view! To put on technical clinics! To change the world! Not be in some hardcore nonsense!”

I tried to protest, but I had little in the way of defense. After all, she was right. She had some OTHER things to say about how Kenzi and I, married by that point, would ruin each other’s lives...that whole “it always ends BAD” position of hers...but I would like to think she would admit that we have proven her wrong. Her other points, though?

I have been very vocal in the last year or so about my thoughts on that particular style of wrestling, about my disdain for wrestling without rules, reservations, or guidelines. This is not because I fear it, mind you. In fact, I tried to embrace it, as my sire had. Once upon a time, Daddy thought he could end what was then the “hardcore trend” by being the shining example, but avoiding those match types, but he then decided to emulate Jesus, instead. Jesus went to the people, went to the lepers and whores and sinners, and physically brought them to the Light. He told them that their ills and their sins and their maladies would be cured and healed, and all they had to do was believe in him, and through him, God. Daddy took this to heart and found himself attempting to destroy garbage wrestling from within.

It cost him his body.

Chuckles’ odd obsession with Daddy won’t tell the tale, for he fully misrepresents the essence of him, but the attempts to rid the world of people like Chuck destroyed his body over the years. Most understand that his body was covered in burn scars, from his torso to his bald head, but that is only part of the story. A kidney injury which never healed right, knees which cracked and popped whenever he rose out of bed, a back full of barbed wire scars. On more than one occasion, I used my seamstress skills to sew up those cuts and slices, and saw firsthand the evils of garbage wrestling.

When my Mumsie returned to the world...it’s a long story, so don’t ask, if you don’t already know...trust me, don’t ask...she did what he did. Instead of standing resolute in the face of chaos, she believed that she could USE chaos. She didn’t just embrace it...she became it. She utilized the sins of the world, shaped them into tools for both war and building, and, for a time, created order with chaos. My Beloved, in her endeavors to prove herself better than her Mother-in-Law...part of that long story, so again, don’t ask...also did so, facing fires and barbed wire, and any manner of objects not suitable for professional wrestling.

But what of me, yes? What of the woman who would take what the Charlies and Peters of the world hold dear and cry out “Dear God! Banish this inestimable down into the very Lake of Fire!” Is she too afraid to face someone like Charlie on his own turf, within his own rules, or is she someone who, as Nikita had, been capable of being a Champion of Garbage, herself?

When I first began this business, even before I debuted for FSociety, I wanted to set someone aflame. Don’t ask me why...it was an odd, and childish, compulsion. And I quickly found myself, against the wishes of both Nikita and my father, surrounded by men and women who threw God’s rules into the trash and set them aflame. And before long, I had been stabbed, burnt, smashed with all manners of chairs, sent through tables, and busted open. I had competed in a multi-person hardcore cell match, had been part of a hardcore tournament, and jumped a champion in a restaurant, all for the sake of the bravado stemming from limitless rulesets. The ultimate example of this false behavior was nearly a year ago, when I was part of a round robin tournament in Japan so full of broken glass, needles, and tables that it was referred to as an “Orgy of Violence.”

And within the XWF? Within this company so afflicted by the maladies I have spoken of before? I have dipped my hands in broken glass and sliced up Mastermind in a Tai Pei match, stolen Mini Morbid’s flag, sent a pigeon armed with razors on her claws to do battle with an owl, fought time-travelers, super soldiers, alien spawn, and zombies, swam through shark-infested Miami waters, fought in a corn field dressed as a raptor, got tossed into a dumpster by Ruby, escaped from Area 51, AND fought in a roller derby ring. The only thing about hardcore matches, about matches without rules, which I might find fear in is my superior ability to perform in them.

But like any sin we are born with, it is up to me to fight it. To push it aside. To recognize garbage wrestling for what it is: Just another weapon of the Enemy, used to turn the minds and hearts of the weak-willed. Garbage wrestling is for the lowest common denominator within professional wrestling, for the fat slobs like Charlie who get winded after five minutes, run out of strategy after seven, and fall to swinging an improvised weapon after ten. The only way to embrace garbage wrestling without dishonoring God is to do it ironically, as my blood has done before, which is a concept too far removed from someone like Charlie’s acumen to understand.

I have no fear going into this ladder match at Relentless. As I have mentioned before, at least on the surface, it is far more simplistic than the LAST ladder match I was in, literally the last match of any kind I was in, wherein I climbed the Eiffel Tower, wading through the flunkies and ne’er-do-wells of Chaotic Inc, to pull down my championship. And considering I am facing a man who has no allies, who has no XWF history, who is fatter and slower than me, who has joints which shake and buckle under his own weight, I have little in the way of fear or apprehension. Ten feet above the ring is nothing to what I faced in Paris, and the man across the ring from me is nowhere near the level of the few who have been able to keep me down long enough for victory.

A garbage wrestler in the main event against the face of this generation?

I hold no fear.
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