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X-treme Wrestling Federation BOARDS »   » Archives » Relentless Day 3 RP Board 2020
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Relentless Media, Part X: A Generic Challenge
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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
09-23-2020 09:22 AM





“Wake up, Cuddles.”

“......uuuughhhhhhhh…”

The large man groans as his slumber comes to an end, the image of a dark-haired woman with a bright streak of red falling down her face fading from his mind. He tries to hold onto the vision, reaches out with gnarled and dirty fingers for her, but she fades away. His body moves on the thin mattress underneath it, but his eyes refuse to open, still trying in vain to force the woman to return. But all he sees is darkness and all he feels is despair. Slowly, his eyes flutter open and stare up at a ceiling, splotched and dirty, the white long since hidden behind the grime.

“-and another thing!”

He winces as a loud voice fills his ears, the voice seeming to pierce into his skull. He turns his head towards the sound of the voice and sees a television set, old and thick, with a grainy image of a very pale girl with bright white hair in pigtails wearing a cheerleader outfit. In the idle of a football field, she is screaming at the camera and wagging her finger. The man puts his hand out, feeling blindly around him, pusing bottles and cans aside, then throws it. The empty bottle of liquor flips through the air and then slams into the screen, shattering both in the process. Smoke rises from the television set after the crash, but the piercing voice ceases, and leaves him some semblance of peace. He sighs as he turns onto his back and stares back up at the ceiling.

“I don't wanna get up.”

The man's voice is tired as it croaks out of a dry throat. It is a voice full of pain and sadness. It is the voice of a man who's lost the love for life, the voice of a man who wishes death would come, yet is resigned to the fact that it won't. He sighs again and rolls onto his stomach, coming off the thin mattress on the ground and onto the floor. It is as dirty as the ceiling, so dirty that the original color is impossible to ascertain, with stains all around. He pushes himself up to his knees, stretches out his back, and groans as pops run up his spine. He looks around the floor around him, seeing several empty liquor bottles, but not finding one with any contents.

He’s a heavyset man, round and robust in chest and stomach, with broad shoulders which slump downward. His hair is long and tangled, an unkempt mass of equal parts salt and pepper, with a matching wild bear, the coloring given an age of midlife. He has heavy lidded eyes surrounded by thick worry lines in fields of black circles, with soft blue eyes. Those eyes look as tired as his voice sounds, eyes which have seen much in his life, and wish for an end, yet still resigned to life. He groans as he pushes himself up to his feet, first on and then the other, with pops from his knees joining those from his back. Once standing with a hunch, he stumbles forward with a heavy and disjointed limp, nearly tripping over several of the bottles. The room is bare, featuring only the thin mattress on the ground, with a guitar next to it leaning against the wall, the broken television, and a single wooden table in a state of disrepair. He pushes himself through a doorway and into the apartment’s only other room, through a doorway with nothing hanging from the hinges and into a dingy bathroom, the idea of “white” having long since lost it’s battle with the grime. He places his hands on the sink, his weight pushing down hard enough to make the sink creak and shuffle slightly away from the wal, and raises his head to look in the mirror.

“...still a sexy beast, Z. Takin' care of myself for ya.”

He lets out a long sigh, turns on the water, washes his hands and face with a dirty bar of soap, and towels off with a stained rag. He stumbles his way out of the bathroom and into the main room, kicking the empty bottles aside as he goes, and stops before the table. Atop the table are three items: A picture frame featuring a young woman with a red streak flying through black hair, a small tablet, and a red and blue mask. He touches the picture with a gentle caress of his finger, still dirty despite the soap, and then picks up the mask. With an effort, he pulls it over his head, stuffing his hair and beard inside as best he can, and ties the strings in the back. He sighs again, his large body slumping with a great weight as the air pushes out of his lungs, and looks at the picture.

“Time ta go ta work.”




“Oh! What a blow!”

The crowd groans along with the Generic Heel as he doubles over in pain from the punch. GH’s eyes cross as he clutches his gut, the announcer’s voice in the megaphone echoing in the gymnasium and in his ears, and he has trouble taking in a breath.

"The Generic Heel is in trouble now, folks! Can the Mandalorian Stomper capitalize?!"

A smattering of cheers sound around the room, and GH's feet tremble atop the mat as his opponent rushes at him. GH has the Stomper well scouted, as he has faced many generations of the man in the brown mask throughout the years, and knows what to expect: A running knee to the bent-over GH, which would connect with his face and send him flat on his back, followed by the dreaded running double stomp. He sighs as he feels the Stomper approach, unable to get his breath into his lungs, and groans as the knee blasts him in the face. He winces as he flings back and slams on the mat, his head bouncing backward. He shakes his head and tries to clear his vision, but his eyes remain blurry and the handful of lights on the ceiling spin.

"Here comes the Stomper!"

GH closes his eyes tight as the mat rumbles with his foes approach. He hears a child yell out from the sparse crowd that he was a coward, that he was afraid, but he ignored the kid. Unable to see clearly, he knew he had to feel his opponent. And as the rumbling of the mat suddenly stops, GH pushes his body into a roll, and to her thankful surprise, there is no impact. He opens his eyes, tired eyes in need of a break that life won’t give him, he sees the Stomper’s back, sees his right knee buckle from the unexpected impact of the mat. GH pushes himself up to his feet and circles around the Stomper, keeping himself behind him, raises his arms to measure the knee, and then shoots forward and drives his weight into the back of his opponent’s knee. The Stomper cries out from the impact of the chop block, and as he falls forward, his weight forces his leg to twist around GH’s arms and bend his knee in an awkward direction.

“Oh no! What a dastardly man to attack from behind!”

GH ignores the announcer's jab at him as he gets to his feet, holding onto the Stomper’s leg. He slams his foot into the man’s knee...again...and again...softening up the leg and keeping him down. It was now or never. He places his leg on the side of the Stomper’s, spins around to create torque and intertwine their legs, and pulls the Stomper’s free leg up. He can see the crowd...all seventeen of them...boo and give him a thumbs down...and a few middle fingers up...but he ignores them as much as he did the announcer. He throws his body back, landing flat against the mat, and brings his leg up and down over the Stomper’s ankle.

“Figure Four! The dreaded Generic Submission Hold! Can the Stomper survive?!”

No. No he couldn’t. GH’s legs were too heavy, the damage done before too severe, and the move too tightly applied. After a few seconds, the Stomper gave up with wild motions of his arms and the referee, an old man with grey hair in a white shirt with black electrical tape running up and down the length to seem a striped shirt, called for the bell. A weak sound goes through the air, a sound GH knew was created by one of those shitty “multi-tools” which fit in someone’s pocket, being hammered into a small bellhop bell purchased from a restaurant supply store clearance rack.

But GH refused to let go.

He held the figure four in tight, refusing to move his left leg from the Stomper’s ankle. He feels the hands of the referee, feeble old man hands, try to pull him off, but he doesn’t move. He hears the hammering of the small bell, but he ignores it. He hears the jeering and booing from the small crowd. And it makes him smile.

Finally, he relents. He moves his leg off the Stomper’s ankle and the referee is able to push their legs apart. He stands up and throws his arms into the air while the referee splits his time between admonishing him and checking on the Stomper. Finally, the ringing of the bell ends and the announcer begrudgingly takes to the mic again.

“Your winner...by submission...the Generic Heel!”

The boos intensify, and the man in the red and blue mask smiles. He looks around at the crowd sitting in the small multipurpose room of the Marfa Street Elementary School and sneers at them, increasing the reaction from the children. The referee tries to raise his hand, but he pulls it away, choosing instead to drop to the mat and roll out of the ring. His bulk slides out like an amoeba, without form and possibly leaving a trail of goo, and walks down the hastily-constructed “aisle” between the two dozen chairs leading to the room in the back. At the door, he turns around and raises his hands, giving the crowd one last chance to bask in his glory.

Still undefeated.

“Mister Heel! Mister Heel!”

He groans as a kid, no more than 12, runs over to him with a smartphone in his hand. The reporter/photographer/timekeeper for the event had a nasally voice that constantly jumped up and down the register, puberty not quite making up it’s mind to where the voice was going to settle, and enough acne to be a pepperoni pizza. When the kid shoves the phone into the wrestler’s face with an excited jerk and presses the record button, he sighs, nods his head, and folds his arms under his bare chest.

“You’ve just narrowly defeated the Mandalorian Stomper! What’s next for you?”


GH gives the kid a stern look at “narrowly” but then leans into the phone’s microphone.

“I’m off ta go fight some guy who isn’t even allowed to jerk tha curtain over at Al’s Carwash and Wrastle Shop, that’s what’s next!”


GH shakes his head.

“Ya know what really chiffonades my basil? When men, big strappin’ men, men with big beards and big hair, hafta make up shit in order ta get themselves hyped up. Big strapping men, mind! Tha little ones, little pipsqueaks like you, can, though. They gotta do stuff like stick their head up there butts and spin six times in order to get a pop from tha crowd, ya know. Can’t expect them to cut a promo! Can’t expect them ta get into tha heads of their opponents, no sir. So, they’re allowed ta make shit up outta left field. But tha big strappin’ men like GH the Great? Only TRUTH is allowed there. And BOY is my basil SHREDDED into fine lines today, Junior!”


He points at the “crowd” of people sitting in the chairs in front of the ring.

“Each and every one of tha people out here? If they’re not careful...they’re next! Because this jackhole? This numbskull? This dude shiftin’ on tha balls of his feet, his heart thumpin’ n’ pumpin, whisperin’ a prayer to God that Al will book him in tha opening match? He might come after one of THESE mouth-breathers! That’s what he does! Gets booked and cuts promos on everyone BUT his opponent! How dumb is THAT, Junior? I’ll tell ya how dumb!”

He takes the phone from the kid and begins to walk back down the aisle and to the ring.

“I’ve been up and down this wrestlin’ road for over twenty-seven years, kiddos. I’ve wrestled in front of more crowds than even tha late, great Verne Gangrene! Sold out more stadiums than Bruno Stromboli! Given more Space Mountain rides than Ric Flash! Hell, I’m tha guy who beat Aloysius so bad that he changed his name to Lou and taught him how to press! And in all that time, along all those miles, in all these matches, I ain’t never seen, heard of, came across, saw written down, got contacted about, got whispered a rumor of, saw a phone number written in a stall, or even so mucha SMELLED some guy named Charlie!”

He stops before one of the kids and holds the phone out.

“Hey Junior, have YOU ever heard of Charlie Nickles?”

The kid shies away from the large man and shakes his head. GH moves to phone to an older man.

“What about you, Pops? Ever seen Charlie Nickles on top of tha card here in Texas?”

The old man shakes his head, and GH moves on to a middle-aged woman.

“What about you, Sugar Tits? Ever hearda Charlie Nickles?”

“Act-”

GH pulls away the phone quickly.

“Oh for three! There ain’t no one here in this building that has hearda Charlie Nickles. And ya know why? Because even when he gets booked, tha loser doesn’t do or say anything worth keeping people’s attention. Hell, ya probably HAVE seen tha guy and just ended up forgettin’!”

GH rolls back into the ring, gets to his feet, and places his arms on the top rope facing the sparse crowd.

“Over the last coupla weeks, this Charlie guy has been fightin’ everyone BUT his opponent. I’ve seen him jump Kenzi Grey...which I’m fine with, cause I never liked the broad much...and ended up gettin’ his ass kicked for it. He jumped Robbie Bourbon right after he got beat...and indeed up bleeding from tha head for it. He’s been fightin’ some pipsqueak manager guy about the size of Junior back there, both in tha ring and on the mic, all the while fallin’ further and further behind his real opponent. Hell, he’s had more to say to some dead guy than he has the champ of the whole universe! But the worst part of it all? The dumbest thing he’s done? Is fight me.”

He holds up the phone so that his masked face takes up the entire screen from it’s perspective.

“Hey, Charlie? Guess what happened on the way to work today. There I was, stylin’ and profilin’ down the road, pushin’ away all of the Genericoholics. I hadta bust out a broom ta keep them away, ya know. And as I rounded tha corner to tha building here, I heard this preacherman on tha corner. Not tha corner with that new Raisin’ Canes on it, mind you. But tha one with that rundown Greek burger joint...ya know tha one Anyway, there’s this preacherman, and he’s lookin’ like a hobo. His hair was all messed up, his clothes were dirty an’ had holes in them. The Bible in his hand as all rabbit-eared and half tha cover was ripped off. Probably one of them Gideon Bibles from the Generic Motel down tha street. Now, this preacherman? He’s yellin’ and screamin’. No bullhorn or anythin’, not like tha announcer here tonight. Just yellin’ and screamin’ on tha corner, talkin’ about tha wrath of God, and hellfire-and-brimstone.

“Now, I’ll tell ya, I’m not the most penitent man in tha world, but I appreciate some Bible learnin’. And that preacherman? He said somethin’ that I know about. I was listenin' with one of my ears, ya see, as I was makin' my way to the building, and he said something, he said something that made me stop in my tracks. It made me go 'wait a minute, that seems familiar.' Was he talkin' about a parable? Maybe tellin' tha story of tha prodigal son, or maybe of Jonah being inside tha whale. Maybe it was one of those tax collector bits, like tha one with tha beggar man at tha temple, or maybe when Jesus flipped tha tables. So I stopped to listen with both ears and I heard a tale about a man who stood up ta an oppressor, a story about a man who had always been considered the lowest of tha low, who looked at some jerk who was one of tha most important men in tha world, and he told him, ta his face, that he was a jerk, and that he was goin' down. He told this Pharisee, this Jew, with a stupid hat on his head how danced around like a fool, that tha world wouldn’t let him treat people tha way he did any more. He wouldn’t treat women like trash, or spit in kid’s faces. And after sayin’ all this, tha man stood up and punched that Pharisee in tha face.

“So I asked tha preacherman, ‘Hey preacherman? Where’d you get that story from?’ And tha preacherman held up his hands and looked up in tha sky and said ‘From the prophet! Yes, the prophet...Charlie!’ So I asked tha preacherman, ‘Hey preacherman? Where’d this Charlie prophet guy get tha story?’ And tha preacher man again looked up into tha sky and put his arms out wide, Bible in his hand, and said, ‘From the Savior himself! From the book of Lacklan!’

“I stood there in silence for a little while. I knew somethin’ was wrong, somethin’ wasn’t right. So I asked the preacherman, ‘Hey preacherman, how do you know that Charlie tha prophet got this story from tha Savior and tha Book o’ Lacklan?’ And tha pizza man looked down at me, away from tha sky, and he had this crazy look in his eye. He said, ‘the whole world knows, my son. It is all over the Internet, being whispered about in churches, spoken by men of the cloth on the streets. Charlie Nickles has found the Light and has delved deep into the books, deep into the stories, and brought the words of Lacklan the Savior to the world of 2020 in a way that his daughter never did.’

“So I thank tha preacherman. I give him my thanks and promise to give him a prayer. He returns tha thanks and tha promise of a prayer and goes back to screaming at people on tha corner. I went into tha building, and as I got ready for this match with tha Mandalorian Stomper, it really bugged me. It bugged me, ate at me, because I know tha preacherman’s story. Nah, I don't just know tha story...I am tha story. That story making tha rounds? The words of tha Savior? Got nothin' to do with tha Savior o' Professional Wrestling. Or as I liked to call him, because it tweaked his nose somethin' fierce, 'JPL.' Those words tha preacherman spoke of? Tha words bandied about by Charlie Nickles? They were mine. When the Generic Heel fought Stevie Swing, I let that idiot know exactly how I felt, and I didn't give a damn what the censors thought.

"Now this Charlie guy? He's caught up in fightin' a man three years in da grave, and it makes me wonder what else he's attributin' to ol' Burnface. If he's dumb enough to spread around an old promo of mine and call it JPL's work, what else is he tossin' around? Is he printin' out old Shane Clemmons promos, cuttin' and tappin' them together, and callin' it the next Book of Lacklan? Is he making memes of JPL photos with other people's catchphrases? 'Let me make one thing….PERFECTLY CLEAR! My name is Jean-Paul Lacklan and I yadda yadda.' Can ya imagine that? Makes me wonder, though: Is Charlie stupid for not knowin' tha difference between a 6'3", 285 pound Thor-lookin' fucker from Maine, and 5'9" of sexy generic beast straight outta SoCal...or is he intentionally misrepresentin' people in hopes of not getting caught?

"Tha more I thought about it, tha more it occurred to me that it doesn't matter, either way. One or the other, it's an example of who this guy is, who this Charlie is, and it's no wonder that he spent twenty years bumbling and stumbling around, not even being capable of being booked at Al's Car Wash and Wrasslin' Show. It's no wonder that it's taken him twenty years to get a shot against someone tha level of Sarah Lacklan. It's no wonder that all tha money is on her, and his chance of winnin' is longer than Peter Gilmour's fight with literacy. It's no wonder he's spent all his time fightin' a scrawny manager or jobbin' out to anyone worth half a damn. It's no wonder at all!

"I think this Charlie guy's so used to losing anything that matters, that all of his opponents just kinda blur and blend into one. Dnoes't matter if it's Robbie Bourbon, or Mastermind, or one of tha Dukes, or even Sarah Lacklan. Who they are doesn't matter, because he just does his job. He shows up, gets pinned, taps out, goes through a table, doesn't answer the ten count, cries 'Uncle,' or lamely stares up as someone takes the gimmick off tha pole. He just loses, no matter against who or with what stip."


GH turns the phone around said again and takes in the crowd.

"So I want all of you ta watch your backs, because ya never know when he's gonna cut a promo on YA, next! Ya never know when he's gonna be prepared to fight yola instead of whoever he's really booked against. As for me, I'm issuin' tha jackhole a challenge."


GH turns the phone back around so that the red and blue mask again is all that is seen.

"Here's tha challenge, bub, from me, tha Generic Heel, to ya, Charlie Nickles. Ya wanna use my words? Ya wanna steal my work? Ya wanna misrepresent me? Then fight me. I know you're already booked for the first day of Relentless for that title ya just dropped, and you're booked for the third day for tha title you're not gonna win, but I don't see a dance partner for tha second day. I know ya don't have much left in your tank, so I'll let ya off easy: Just last thirty seconds. See, one of tha many companies I sell out for on tha regular is J-Bone's 30 Seconds of Promos, and once his title is done being fought over by the President of the Generic Fan Club and some one-dimensional lesbo, he'll want a REAL man ta challenge for it.

"So here it is, Charlie: Ya and me, Night Two of Relentless at Alcatraz, 30SPWC Rules Match. I'll be there. Ya got the guts?"


The Generic Heel smiles and tosses the phone back to the kid.
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