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X-treme Wrestling Federation »   » Archives » Relentless Day 3 RP Board 2020
Creationism
Author Message
Prof. Bobby Bourbon Offline
Mad Scientist



XWF FanBase:
The 'cool' kliq fans

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


#1
09-21-2020, 08:58 AM



The dichotomy between Robbie Bourbon and James Raven is rather evident.

Who is the better smacktalker, though?

CREATIONISM

Robbie is seen holding a vinyl record. He snaps it in half.

Well, instead of listening to James Raven, maybe we could listen to this broken record instead.

Really, James? Spouting the same old song and nonsense I have heard for, what, two years now?

I've gotten past it. Robbie the Universal Champion that shouldn't have been, coming from you, someone who didn't want to fight to get it back, and another 'Welp, I'm done being champ now, not going after it' absolute hack in Warstein.

You, on the other hand, seem to be holding on to it as something relevant. Or not. You maybe you are. Or not. You didn't seem to certain.

Thing is we all really know, you're the choke artist here.

As for my legacy, and what it means, I have a word for you.

Innovation.

You can google what that means.

See, I come up with shit you wouldn't even see in your wildest dreams and your wildest dreams are just a day in the life for me.

Fuck, I expected more of you, but cutting a promo with stooges to step in and assist?


Cyberjaw, the man with the cybernetic jaw, and Diamondback, the man who can blend into any crowd, appear beside Robbie.

What do you mean?

I'm Noah!

Why are you Noah?

I'm the cute one! Vagina!

Robbie smiles, though with pursed lips. He blinks slowly at the camera.

Not quite a bullseye there, but hey, close enough.

Hell of a name to go with, LEGACY. Shit, ripping me off is one thing, but WWE from over a decade ago?

Can't you come up with something better?

Nope. And we all know why.

You aren't me. You never will be, and you couldn't ever. As for your collar, your heat, your nutsack, your knapsack, your hacky sack, your Quarterback sack, your sack of potatoes, a sack of beans, I'm not really sweating it.

You haven't bared shit but your ass and the fact you flex cronyism like a crutch. Here, James, let someone who's actually creative help.

Someone who wouldn't need a sledgehammer to break you in a street fight.

How about, since Atara hangs out with y'all, you could go with Three Men and a Little Lady?

That sure sounds a skosh better than something that'll confuse fans when they try to look it up.

Ooh, what about Fire Force Victim Makers Eleven? That's a name that's never been used before, instead of rehashing an idea that another company ran and then dropped since it wasn't worth their time.

Maybe you'll think of something once you've finished regurgitating a knockoff line of Edgar Allan Poe.

Innovation.

You don't have it, you never had, and you never will. You're handcuffed by some need to conform, fit into some mold, and present yourself as a pre-packaged, homogenized, preservative laden snack. You're Twinkies, sitting on the shelf for months on end, everybody knows what you have, everybody knows what you taste like. Granted, everybody likes a Twinkie, and everybody knows what's going to come when you put your best foot forward.

When I put my best foot forward, I blaze new trails and pave new paths that this industry has never fucking seen. I'm no Twinkie. I'm that Hot AF Slim Jim, not for everybody's palate, if you take a bite out of me it'll hurt you, make you cry, and make you say I was bad when you shouldn't have been trying to get a taste to begin with. I'm not the safe option, I never have been, I never will be.

Now, I'm not saying I reinvented the wheel. No. The rut your axle has developed over decades is where you cruise, and them wheels keep spinning with your foot on the gas. Of course I don't fit in them. That's not a surprise. A bomber jet soars, it has no place on a race track, it would utterly obliterate it.

For those not keeping speed with my supersonic self, thems be metaphors. Grab a Tums if it makes you queasy.

And it terrifies you that I'm different, James. Shakes you to the bone. To look at me, someone who is nothing like you succeed. To go far and make a name for himself in this business.

It scared you so much you joined Apex.

It scares you so much you called in Warstein and Noah.

You need that reaffirmation that whatever you're doing, it's the right thing. The accepted thing. The thing you've been doing for years, and sure, it's yielded results for you.

Just never against me.

As for your 'What if?', it's wishful thinking on your end, convincing yourself that the boogieman that I be doesn't actually exist.

I'd say I'm here.

And I'd say you're in for some shit in the Rose Bowl. After all, I have an entire football stadium at my disposal to beat you with.

And I'm just the motherfucker innovative enough to use it.

As for who I have with me, since you're leaning on the Sick Cunts...


Vagina!

Stop.

Okay.

Diamondback continues to grin cheekily as Robbie glances back at him. Robbie's focus returns to the camera.

You can tout Legacy all you want, but I have the entire XWF with me in LA.

No, Twinkie, not you. I get that you look in the mirror after taking a bubble bath and tell yourself "I am the XWF" in some stilted pentameter because you're feeling a little soft and spongy and wanna work out some of your cream filling. I wonder if you talk about being the company when you're out of the office defending your tag team titles in some other company. Did you call Revolution when one of their guys came and took the Hart Championship, letting them know you were the XWF?

Nah, you're as much the XWF as a turd is a septic tank. You float around here and are well known, but come and go as you may you aren't the system itself.

Now, I'm not so arrogant to say I'm the XWF.

The big bad big bad of big bads? Sure. Last outlaw? Check. Sultan of Smacktalk? Definitely. I might not be a King or Queen around here, Jack, but I sure am the Ace, regardless of whichever hole I might be in at the time.

Therapy has been good for me, by the by.

Now I know you wanna sink your teeth, and by all means, bite me, but nah, you have no grasp of what the XWF is.

The XWF is a guy who works shitty hours to provide for his wife and needs to unwind.

The XWF is a young man who's just going out on his own and figuring out adult life and needs an escape.

The XWF is a woman who doesn't feel pretty enough for society's standards and wants to feel good.

The XWF is bigger than you, or me, or any single competitor or name you could muster or I could create.

But, most importantly, the XWF is fun.

Fuck, it's the main reason I am still here, getting an earful from a Twinkie about what they think I am and moreover trying to tell me what I'm supposed to think of them. It's why I spent the past summer calling you out. It's why Relentless, the biggest show of the year, is three days long, in three whole venues, because it was too much for one night and one building.

Then I guess that leaves the question, if you're not the XWF, Twinkie, and neither are Snowball Shawn or Moon Pie Noah, what are you besides a piece of cake?

James Raven is Pumpkin Spice. The memes were funny a few years ago but now less than fresh.

James Raven is like a rerun of the Office, everybody already saw you, you've been marketed to death, and you're far from contemporary.

James Raven is Halloween candy at Thanksgiving, leftover turkey and cranberry for Hanukkah, a quart of Egg Nog at Valentines, and Cupid on St. Patrick's day. Stale, spoiled, and nowhere near as good as it used to be.

James Raven has kissed his own ass more times than any toilet seat. This explains why he's full of shit.

James Raven is so basic he has a pH of fifteen.

Oh shit I just went middle school chemistry.

But the highest pH something can have is fourteen.

Well, James Raven is that basic.

James Raven is so basic he's IKEA instructions.

No. Lego instructions.

He's so basic he's a Gilmore Girls binge with a bottle of grocery store wine.

He's so basic he's kindergarten math.

He's more basic than ranch dressing.

He's so basic he got replaced by Javascript.

He's so basic he's ESPN, Bravo, and The Learning Channel.


Is that cable?

Basic cable.

Because Twinkie, you're just a basic ass bitch. Come Sunday the 27th, you can walk down to the ring like you have a thousand times before, you can step between the ropes like you have a thousand times before, basic ass Linkin Park playing like a thousand times before, but you're walking into a fight you have never seen before and won't see since if you go to a thousand different companies and have a thousand different opponents.

So you best well realize that as great as you might be, and I will give credit there, you sure as fuck aren't capable of what I am in that ring, in this universe, and for the people.

You aren't bringing the big boom. I'm not expecting tissue paper on my end, but you sure as fuck aren't stopping me from doing what I need to do. In the ring. Ringside. Through the crowds. Down Sunset Boulevard, up to Santa Monica, through the Hollywood hills, Burbank to Long Beach. Geologists will be on high alert, another register on the Richter scale, another shot I gave you. Then, after the Relentless beating we give each other, the dreaded magnitude ten that is the promised end. Robbiebombs away, and I'm performing alchemy, leaving Penn and Teller baffled, Chris Angel mindfucked, and David Blaine dumbfounded, the greatest feat of magic ever seen as I turn a Twinkie into another piece of meat.


The camera zooms out. The bevy of Shnortz surrounding him look mezmerized. One looks at another speak.

"I have no idea what or who he's talking about, but I wanna see him kick some ass!"

The Shnortz all start applauding raucously. Robbie looks at all of them.

Well, Shnortz, as your new commodore, I look forward to hearing reports from you regularly.

Buck Ventura, envoy from the Confederation of Planetary Systems, takes notes as Robbie seems to have another ship under his command.

And no more going after humans. I don't care if we invented music and have the best in the galaxy.

"You broke my Michael Bolton album!"

I did you a favor!

"I like Michael Bolton!"

Robbie gives pause. He turns and looks at the Shnortz who is speaking, calling into question why his Michael Bolton vinyl was destroyed as opposed to why his Michael Bolton vinyl even existed in the first place.

What's your name, son?

Bichael Molton.

The words "NEW BOURBON MAN ALERT" scroll along the bottom of the screen as Bichael Molton, space slug and Michael Bolton fanatic, steps oozes forward.

Bichael, I'm leaving you in command of the bridge of this frigate. Seriously, I respect your willingness to stand up for your awful taste in music.

Thank you, sir.

Seriously, no more humans. I literally ripped your prior commander's asshole out through him for that malarkey.

Yes sir, no malarkey.

What? No, no, Bichael, malarkey is just fine, don't kidnap anymore humans though. Not my crew, and definitely not the man we found aboard.

Robbie turns and looks up in glee at a man that, for all intents and purposes, hasn't been heard from since the 90s. Ash, Robbie's stylist, Guy Fieri, right mayor of Flavortown, and Fuchsia, rockin' space babe, all step up and stand beside Robbie.

Who is that?

Youngin', that is one of the greatest rappers who has ever lived.

Hot and smooth like melted cheese, only way cooler.

Much cooler.

The coolest.

The camera turns, and stuck in suspended animation or some such, nobody's really sure what kind of technology is holding him in place except the Shnortz and probably Buck, but that's moot, you feel like that's what suspended animation would look like, but floating in a tank, eyes closed, wearing only a weird pair of space underwear that look like very generic boxer briefs with no visible seams or elastic band, his tiny braids sticking up and out in every which direction, but just floating there is Coolio.

Yes, that Coolio from the 90s. Trust me, his being captured by space slugs is way better than whatever you'll see if you google the man today.

[Image: DtUCPfZ.png]
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