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X-treme Wrestling Federation BOARDS » Shove-It! Boards » Shove-It! RP Board
#1: Open
Author Message
ALIAS Offline
Space Jesus

XWF FanBase:

(gets varying reactions in the arenas, but will be worshiped like a god and defended until the end by internet fans; literally has thousands of online dorks logging on to complain anytime they lose a match or don't get pushed right)

04-20-2021, 07:07 PM

1A: Open-Minded

“You know how this works by now, Louis. Whenever someone first steps to the plate against you, there’s really only a couple of things that they tend to rely on to try to ‘get under your skin’ - if those are the right words. Typically, it goes something along the lines of:

‘Doc doesn’t have it anymore’, or even worse:

‘Doc’s a legend and it’s well-founded, but it’s going to be an honour to beat him’.

That about covers it, yeah? The gamut of tropes that people run through when they see their name across the card from yours isn’t very long. You’ve heard it all before by now, I bet. And look Louis, I can’t promise that I won’t recycle some of the same old shit that you’ve heard time and time again. But I can promise you one thing… honesty.

Can you do the same? Who is the true Louis D’Ville? You wear a crown, but come on man, that’s no more than a show and both you and I know that. You don’t have to pretend with me. Sure you earned that kingship, and sure it’s a bit of fun for everyone, but at the end of the day, that robe and crown is nothing but the clothes that you pluck out of the wardrobe in the morning. That’s not the real you, old fella. Hell, I don’t even think it’s the real reason you wanted this match. Because really? Breaking a silly statue? That’s all it takes to get you off your throne?

Well alrighty then.

It’s your call on whether or not you want to be honest with yourself here, Louis. Just like it’s my call whether or not I believe you if you say you are being true. I’ll believe the accolades and accomplishments, but the rest? We’ll see… Me, however? I don’t need to lie here, man. In fact, just for you, dear doctor, I’m going to be an open book. Because I know my flaws. I know my fears. You want to play on them? Be my guest. That is something that I’m not afraid of. I’m here and ready for my trial, bud. I’m stepping off the rack first and I solemnly do swear! But can it with the royalty shit. I’m not here to pay my respects to the throne. I will never bow; I will NEVER kneel; I will NEVER yield. You may be King of the XWF, but you are not my lord. I will not be anybody’s subject. I’ve survived too much to throw it all away now.

Like I said, Louis… open book. Transparency. I’m not just going to sit here and tell you why I’m going to defeat you… why I need to. I trust that the great Louise D’Ville doesn’t come into these sorts of things unprepared. If I’m right on that, then I suspect that you’ve already heard my spiel. You don’t need it rehashed. Instead… I’m going to show you.

So come on a journey with me, Louis. You like getting into people’s heads, right?

Well I’m inviting you in.”

1B: Scars of the Mind

The meninges warp under pressure. Tension pulls at the edges of a person-shaped indent - too large for the natural pores - that exerts increasingly more force against the membranous coverings. It stretches and whitens, as though it may tear at any moment. Then, a visceral gulping sound, and it snaps back into place. The stress relieves and colour floods back into the membrane. No more invading force.

You’re on the other side.

Stepping forward into the void of the mind, your feet clop atop shabby cobblestones. Slowly, you spin, hoping to gain your bearings. Behind you, the pink, bloodshot wall protecting the inside from out gently throbs creating a faint drumming only detectable from within the barrier. It pulsates in the background, ever present and ever noticeable if you stop to listen, but mundane enough to not take heed. Elsewise, the only other light presents itself from the intermittent firing of synapses. They flash, irradiating the darkness for a microsecond, before rendering it black once more. They’re rare out here in the extremities.

Settling your vision ahead of you once more, with each flare of light you step further and further away from the mind’s entrance. The vastness is daunting. So much space unused. Was there something here once, you wonder? Was it forcibly removed, or did it just not grow to begin with?

The answer lies ahead. As the protective layer bleeds away in the background, ill-defined shadows begin to move in the dark around you. With each step, you feel them drawing in. Closer and closer.

A rushing breeze whips the back of your neck and you snap around to face it.

Nothing’s there. Nothing but the darkness.

Feet furiously patter to your left and your attention darts to meet them.

Again, nothing.

A young girl giggles. It sounds as though it’s right upon you. You spin once more, trying to find the source in the rare and fleeting bursts of light available.

It’s right there! You see it!

It sees you!

“Hiya!” it… she… says, greeting you with a grin as friendly as you deserve.

Your blood boils.

This is not the Her you remember..

As another synapse fires, you see her for what she truly is: a spectre; a remnant; a memory.

A construct.

An idea.

The light distorts within her astral form, a shining silhouette of pink but with no substance in between.

“I was wondering when you’d show up!” the revenant speaks. You look closer and recognise that she looks younger than you remembered. “Have you come to join the fight?”

You scowl in response, unwilling to commit until you have the whole picture. Not unless there’s something in it for you. The revenant doesn’t await any further answer. She turns on her heels and skips off down the path.

“Come on!” she urges through the darkness. With a huff, you take off in a brisk walk after her. You think to call out, or even to run, but you’re weary of the unknown. As light fills the space once more, you think you see the sole of a running shoe disappear beyond the line of vision. You continue to push on in that direction. Her voice calls to you again. “This way! You’re almost there!”

The battle can be heard before it’s seen. The tortuous sound of the commotion causes you to pause and rub your temples to free yourself from a pulsing, drumming migraine. You push on, and soon large, ethereal flames emerge in the emptiness up ahead. You count four, each radiating a warm glow onto the stones around them. The perimeter of the perfect circles that they each cast touches upon the next, leaving no space for darkness between them.

As you draw near, you see the pink shape of the revenant flitting between the lights. She is not alone. A host of other spectres chaotically scamper before you. The darkness itself seems to be moving. As you make your way through it, you realise why.

It’s alive!

You step into the light of the torches and the hordes of the dark begin another charge. Revenants, like the girl, but black save for the red of the flames catching their eldritch eyes and reflecting back the fire. With gnashing teeth, one almost takes a large chunk out of your arm. The pink spectre intervenes, catching the threat by its throat and tossing it back into the darkness.

“Either get your hands up or get behind us!” she commands as she leaps into action against another looming threat. You take the second option, content to let others do the heavy lifting as you retreat behind the front line and watch the action unfold.

Through the bedlam you see that she does not fight alone. Carefully, you study the others as they fight tooth-and-nail to hold back the host.

Leaping over the pink spectre’s head, a ghostly spider of glimmering white drives eight hairy legs into eight different beasts. They all fly back into the dark.

Several feet away, another spectre, this one of impossible purple, gracefully swats back pair after pair of the wretched wraiths. Every hit sparkles with a celestial brilliance.

Behind her, another. This one a vibrant phantom blue with a wooden cane tossed to the ground next to him. He shoots a part of his very essence at the charging forces. It’s clumsy, but effective.

Rounding out the defences is the shimmering gold echo of a young man. When he moves, it seems as though there are three of him, striking out at each of his foes in the midst of the chaos with an almost engineered precision.

But still the armies from beyond press on. Every now and then one of the revenants blinks out of the fight and materialises in the black. Other coloured apparitions emerge from the shadows next to them before the warrior ghosts then blink back into the battle. The other spirits - a rainbow of life - slowly begin to approach the battleground. But with every defeated enemy, two more take its place. The defenders are losing ground.

For a moment, you consider joining them, but you know this is not your battle. Still, there is a mystery here that does pique your interest. Turning your back on the war, you look inwards to the centre of the torches. Towards what it is they’re defending. There you find a thin bubble, fluid and malleable, but opaque. You reach out with your hand to touch it, and it passes through. Curious, you enter completely. The melee behind you blocks off - no sound nor sight - as you step from one void to another. The space is larger than it appeared from the outside, and fully illuminated. A swirling mist envelopes your feet as you continue your path forward.

Ever forward.

Before you, five marble altars rise above the mist in an equidistant circle. You begin a slow walk around each of them and observe what they hold. On the first altar rests a map of the world as we know it, with a zigzagging line drawn that bounces back and forth between North America and Europe. On the second, a dagger held in place by a stone claw. The entirety of its hilt can be seen, and you notice that it’s adorned with an upside down pentagram. On the other side, a cross. A strange dichotomy, you think. Moving on again to the third altar, you see a rope folded perfectly upon itself. Stands of blue, black, white, and yellow layered together in a changing and infinite length.

That’s where it ends. The other two altars, you note, are empty. Just like the space you first entered into. Pondering this, you pace amongst the altars. As you coincidentally step into the center of the altars…


Flames shoot up from them, licking the top of the dome. A frantic voice starts echoing around the space.

“My right hand is my left.

My right hand is my left.

My right hand is my left.

My right hand is my left.”

The orange glow reddens the barrier and three shadowy figures make their presence known. These ones, much clearer than the nameless savages in the war outside.

On the left stands one with a scruffy beard and eyes darker than any seen before.

On the right, blue hair and pale skin with lips pursed in a wicked smile.

The one in the centre is much larger, and stands half a step in front of the others. Blood seeps from a bullet hole in his head.

But though the image is locked away in here, where it can do no more harm, it doesn’t fade...

“My right hand is my left.”

1C: Baggage

“So what do you think, Louis? Is that honest enough for you? This is just the stuff on the surface, man. We’re going to get so much deeper. But this is the baggage I’m bringing with me to this conflict. I’m not here for the throne. I have no interest in being king, that’s why I never signed up for the tournament in the first place. My interest here… my interest is in the doctor.

See, I think I made some mistakes when it came to the ‘good ol’ doc’ back when first I uttered your name. It was back at High Stakes, do you remember? I did the same old shit that everyone else did - the same shit that I said I’d try not to do this time. I said that you didn’t seem to have the bite that your reputation suggested. I said that it looked like you weren’t the same man. I gotta say though, before the match had even taken place though, I started to feel conflicted about that. I started thinking ‘maybe I’m wrong. I expressed that too. But that didn’t leave me with any further clarity about you. I knew what you weren’t - you weren’t washed up and you certainly weren’t a has-been. But I didn’t know what you were.

Now… now I’ve got a little bit more insight. Not the full story, mind you, but still, some of the layers on the Louis D’Ville onion have been peeled back. I’ve got a little bit of a look into your baggage

Really, it started before High Stakes again, but I wasn’t wise enough to see it. It continued on that night… with Thaddeus Duke. You and he took the tag team championships and then you helped the boy become king… pardon the pun. Now, you and I have ‘spoken’ about this before, and we all know how the boy fell. Since then, both of the boys have in fact let the tag team championships slide too. Neither of these failings saw Louis D’Ville fall in defeat though, did they? In fact, you’ve only risen further and further and proved any remaining critics wrong! The thing is… defeat doesn’t just occur in that ring. That’s what most of these motherfuckers fail to grasp. People get so fixated on win-loss records and championship accolades that they fail to see the bigger picture. So, let’s reassess that thought - do Continuum’s failings reflect upon you? I’m sure you’ll come up with a clever way to cover your ass, but I’d argue that they do.

Because you didn’t have to help them.

You didn’t do that because you were being ‘nice’, Louis. That’s what you tried to claim when last we spoke. I don’t buy it. When it comes to you, there’s always an ulterior motive.

So what are you playing at, Louis? Was causing Thad and Corey to fail a part of the plan? I wouldn’t put it past you. Hell, maybe Corey isn’t even important at all. Do you want to shed a little light on the situation for us, bud? Are you up for a little bit of honesty? Because from where I’m sitting, their failure is your failure. Whatever you were trying to groom them into, you didn’t succeed. Nice try, though, bae.

To be fair, it’s probably a little discourteous of me to even be bringing Continuum up, but I do so in order to make one point really clear. Victory, for me, is not predicated on winning a silly little match.

Louis… I see the big picture too. I hear the voices calling on the wind that most can’t even detect, let alone turn their back to. Just like you do. But I’m looking at it from an entirely different perspective. I’m the other side of the coin. The abuser and the abused.

People like you have been putting me through the ringer my entire life. What makes fallible ol’ Louis any different than what I’ve already been through?

Need a look for yourself? Fine. Go for gold, Louis. Probe deeper.”

1D: Sickness of the Mind

Above your head the concentration of active neurons has increased. You’re deeper in the abyss. Here, the memories are vivid but out of context. The synapses don’t quite reach the surface you just came from and each vision, though clearer, struggles to find its place in a coherent chronology.

This time, I’m there.

You watch as I step through the door of the common room in a psychiatric ward. It’s busier than seems appropriate - a zombified mass ranting and raving to themselves.

“Breakfast was horrible!”

“My mattress is falling apart!”

“The United States is the greatest country on Earth!”

“Lizard people are infiltrating all levels of government and society and are planning to roll out a global pandemic in the coming years that will be activated by 5G cellular networks all as an excuse for Bill Gates to use a vaccine as a coverup to inject microchips into people that can track and control people into becoming paedophiles!”

As you study a calendar on the wall that reads ‘2018’, another patient pushes past. You see me dodge under their swinging arm. They screamed as they swung their fist – not at me, but rather at the magenta-coloured unicorn that they said was right next to my head. You think to yourself, what kind of nutjob imagines mythical beasts in a shade of pink?

I scan the room for The Salmon-Coloured Minotaur. The big guy was usually so easy to spot in a crowd, but with people everywhere like this, it made it much harder. I brush past a couple of burly nurses in front of you who were similarly trying to make their way through the crowd,

“This is ridiculous,” you hear one of them growl. “How are we supposed to do our job with both morning and afternoon access in the common room at the same time?”

“It’s not safe!” the other replies, side-eyeing the unicorn-chasing wacko.

“We’re being crammed in here like sardines,” the first continue to complain. “What are those big honchos from HQ even doing here?”

“All I know is that I do not get paid enough for this.” And all you and I know is that The Salmon-Coloured Minotaur was nowhere to be seen.

Through gentle pushes and a whole lot of perseverance, I manage to circle the entire room. You follow in my wake. Still nothing. I rest against the back wall, tucked between the door and a life-size figure of Christ on the cross, complete with visceral wounds. You see my eyes light up. I have a fantastic idea! Just behind Jesus’s knees, a small buttress-like wooden ledge protrudes from the statue. I glance from side to side and use the ledge to boost myself towards Jesus’s outstretched arms.

Religion will save us, you muse as I swing my legs up and Jesus welcomes me to the heavens. He even provides a moderately comfortable perch to sit upon on top of his crucified shoulders. I’m not there for long though. You watch as thick, meaty hands yank at my hospital-issued white trousers. Other paws pull at my arm in the same direction and I fall from Jesus into the waiting arms of the same antipathetic nurses as before. I struggle, calling out for The Salmon-Coloured Minotaur and losing a cotton slipper in the ensuing melee. The other patients barely bat an eyelid as the nurses drag me from the room. Slinking through the masses behind me and my escorts, you exit out into the corridor. You half-register a hushed whisper breathed into the air. It tells you to raise the left hand. But just like that, it’s gone, never to demand submission again.

You shake that nonsense from your head as you watch my slipper-less foot stretched near vertically in the air with obscene flexibility, as my other foot hops along the puke-green linoleum floor, struggling to keep up with the pace that the soldier-nurses were marching at. Within just five hops, my second slipper was caught under a striding boot. It floated away behind me, like a hat lost at sea.

They bring me into another room. You step in behind and hover back in the corner. There were two chairs there, each with leather straps and metal chains hanging loosely from their arms and legs. The nurses muscle me into one and strap me in. A metal table in front of me had a variety of ‘toys’ laid out on top of it. One of the nurses scans them and you follow their eyes as they take in the clamps, hammers, screwdrivers, and other, similar playthings. They run their hand over a chainsaw and then pick up a friend I had become intimately familiar with over the preceding months: a blowtorch. The flame flickers on the nurses face, causing their eyes to glow demonically.

“Put that down,” the other nurse tells them, subtly flicking their eyes towards the mirror behind the desk. The ‘head honchos’, you presume. With a look of disappointment, the blowtorch is placed back upon the desk. The iron door then creaks open and flat footsteps briskly cross the room.

“Tsk, tsk,” the source says. The meddling nurse steps away and joins their brethren next to you by the door. The source pushes some of the tools to the side and emphatically drops a clipboard onto the table. The clip that gave the board its name sends a ringing sound reverberating around the room as it slaps the metal surface, pinging off overhead pipes and causing the whole room to sing for a few melodious seconds. A face turns towards me. You can’t place it, but I can. A familiar doctor.

Her hat sits comically on her head. You spy a bird’s nest of greying brown hair underneath it and suspect that it’s the only thing keeping the hat in place. The fluorescent lighting catches the greys in her hair to create a shimmering halo effect. She looks like an angel.

“Bring him in,” she motions to the nurses. They open the door again and return with another man, short and rotund with a black sack over his head. They force him into the chair next to me and secure him in the same fashion as I am. The Angel Doctor breathes heavily as she approaches him. She pulls the sack off his head. You hear me gasp.

You don’t recognise the face, but I do. He was my friend, Ol’ Wacky Wally Watson, and his eyes were like saucers when the sack came off.

“No, no, no, no! This is torture!” he rambles incoherently. His panicked breathing is so loud it drowns out even the Angel’s. He looks to me for answers, but I don’t have any to give.

“This is your treatment,” the Angel Doctor tells us. “We’re going to play a game of ‘spin the bottle’.”

Picking up the blowtorch, she places it on the ground and spins it. It lands on me. Untying me, and hoisting me to my feet, they shove me towards the ground. I splatter on the ground in front of the blowtorch.

“Pick it up.”

I comply.

“Turn it on.”

I comply.

“Burn his fucking face off.”

I resist.

The chainsaw starts up behind me.

You watch on.

“Burn his fucking face off.”

You see the blowtorch light once again, as I turn to my friend.

1E: What’s My Malady?

“This is what I’m dealing with, Louis.

I’m not a hero. I’m not a ‘good’ person. I can appreciate that there might be people out there who can relate to the life of the downtrodden man fighting against those who would be oppressors, but that’s just one take on my story. I’ve done bad things, and I will certainly do bad things again. All so I can survive my own chaos. You like chaos, don’t you, Louis? You like sowing a little discord into the world. Well you old fuck…

I am chaos.

I am discord.

My entire life is already ripe with it. I have these fragments of stories that I’m trying to piece together. They come and they go, and then they change. Each time the story is a little different. Consistently inconsistent, that’s me.

But somewhere in there is the truth, I know it! I may not be able to control it, but I know that somewhere in these fleeting images are the answers. Deep down inside my very being, I know it. And I know that somehow getting through all of these trials and tribulations, all this war and suffering, it’s going to clear everything up. Something abstract inside of me is screaming at me from the top of a mountain. It tells me that when I have the Universe in my hands, I will have everything that I need. All the clues will be revealed, all the answers will be given. I fucking feel it.

And so I fight. And so I’ve fought. I had thought High Stakes would give me an easy route to all of my answers, but alas, it was not to be. I should’ve expected that really. Since then, I have pushed through battle after battle, fight after fight, and all of these roads lead me here.

To you.

I am one fight away from taking back control over my own life with a 24/7 briefcase. And that will then leave me one more fight - an easy one, on my terms - away from the Universe and all of it’s answers.

I’m not fucking done yet. I can’t be!

So I need to fight you, Louis. I need to win. There is no other choice for me! And then, I will have the answer to the likes of Lycana and Marf, and all of the others who have sought to do me harm!

I can’t explain this any clearer than that, man. You’re the doctor, can you?

Others have tried. The labels I’ve been given by doctors in the past have gone far beyond the slurs and insults that the ‘geniuses’ of the XWF would be able to muster. They’ve been much more… technical: schizoaffective disorder; paranoid personality disorder; conduct disorder; borderline personality disorder; psychosis developed from post-traumatic stress disorder – and so on and so on and so on. Even the fucking clergy gets in on the mess: sinner, blasphemer, sodomite (Hey Morbid Angel - иди на хуй себя!). Everybody has their opinion, and they all seem to rotate around the same damn thing - one major malfunction on my behalf… a lack of order.

No shit, right?


What do you think though, Louis? How would you diagnose me? How would you describe a man who doesn’t even know his own fucking name?

Come on man, fucking tell me!

Nobody else has been able to help, so what do I have to lose in turning towards a piece of shit like you for advice?

Give me your best fucking shot, ‘Doc’. Here, I’ll even give you one last peak behind the curtain to help you out. This is the sort of juicy shit that nobody has had access to before. Strap in, buddy. Take a dive, and tell me what’s my fucking malady?”

1F: Forgotten Corners of the Mind

In the deepest trenches of my crevice-filled psyche, you find yourself within a black cube. Within, the neural lights fire dramatically painting the faces in a brilliant display. But the walls are thick. Though they try, the lights cannot penetrate them. You’re enclosed here, with no way out, just like the connections. So you go in.

Your feet tap along hard bitumen. On either side, just beyond the gutters, thin sidewalks cut through finely trimmed lawns, sitting just above gutters clogged with dried leaves. As you walk down the unmarked road, laughter rings from beyond the fences that frame the scene, happy families and cheerfully yapping dogs. You think to yourself how normal everything seems, whatever normal means.

Wheels squeak ahead, and you turn your attention from the rows of sterile homes to the asphalt unfolding before you. A small child peddles furiously on a red tricycle, racing away. He’s fast because his trike is red. You know this. You chase after him, this time, breaking into a light run. The child - a boy with a tuft of dusty blonde hair poking out from beneath a plain white shell of a helmet - manically jerks the front of his ride from side to side as he puts all of his effort into rocketing down the street. More and more distance stretches between the two of you. Just when you think that you’re about to lose touch with him, he swerves to the side. The wobbly wheels clip up the curb and over the sidewalk. A short time later, the boy veers even further to the side and into a driveway. He dismounts from the tricycle, and bounds up the steps of a house. He disappears through the plain wooden door at the entrance, just as you arrive.

The laughter from the street stops. No dogs bark. No birds chirp. Silence.

You turn down the driveway yourself. Hesitantly, you approach. When you reach the door, you stop and consider whether to knock. The door cracks open before you decide. You press upon it, and it opens under your gentle force. You step through.

A long, wooden floor stretches down the hallway in front of you. Off-white paint peels off the walls around faceless family photos and non-descript children’s drawings. But the child cannot be seen.

The floorboards creak underneath your first step. A baby’s cry replies, pinging off the portraits on their way to your ear canals. You follow the cries through the house, moving down the corridor and out into a Spartan lounge. The cries continue to call to you. You notice another door at the far end of this room. It’s open.

As you step closer to it, the baby’s pleas grow louder. You turn the corner into the dark of the room, and flick on the light. An orange hue washes over everything, embracing a small cot that sits perfectly in the centre of the room.

The baby stops crying in your presence.

You approach the cot and peer over its sides to check on the infant.

Through darkened eyes, the head of a bull stares back at you. Layers of chains keep the young minotaur firmly fastened to the bottom of the cot. It struggles against them, but it does not cry.

It roars.

1G: Me

“Here we are. Here I am, Louis. Open and exposed for you. Feel free to fuck with my mind however you see fit. Maybe, just maybe, you’re the missing key to all of this. It’s a tough pill to swallow though. Ultimately, people like me get to a point where we see people like you, and you just become another face offering the same old solutions. I want to have faith that you’re different. I want to believe that after this encounter, my life will never be the same again.

I’m sceptical though.

I can’t not be! I know your reputation and I promised not to tarnish that, but this isn’t about you. You challenged me, remember? Not the other way round.

Because this is about me.

Not you.

You challenging me acknowledges that. It tells me that this is just you trying to disrupt my story. And that’s why I’m laying it all out here; that’s why I’m opening up! Because it’s my motivations that dictate how this turns out. I’m fighting for my own needs because nobody else will! My dreams could be misleading, my aims could be misguided, but they’re worth me fighting until the fucking death for, because they’re mine!

You’ve seen within me now, Louis. You’ve seen the clusterfuck I’m dealing with on the inside. You know the stakes that are on the line. All of this is for my hope for a better tomorrow. I’m bringing the full force of my very existence to this and if I fail… I’ll become nothing.

I know where that leaves me. I’m the guy who has everything to lose. It makes me dangerous, unpredictable, and all of that other cliché shit. It could be my bane, or my boon. But you don’t have anything to lose. Even though it’s been rare, you have suffered defeat before. If it happens again, so what? I don’t become the ‘king’ and even if I did - not that I want it - I don’t even know if you’d care. You’d just move on to the next poor soul.

So it’s all on me. Like I said, it’s about me. Me and my rebellion against the cards I was dealt. And I’m doing it with nothing hidden up my sleeve - no tricks, no games. Just a man and his unwavering will.

A will that can defy legends.”

Do you have a light?

[Image: 7qdASxF.jpg]
(Banner courtesy of Atara Themis)
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"Loverboy" Vinnie Lane (04-30-2021), Andre Dixon (04-20-2021), Atara Themis (04-21-2021), Chris Page (04-22-2021), Doctor Louis D'Ville (04-24-2021), HeavensToBetsy (04-20-2021), Lycana (04-20-2021), Marf (04-20-2021), R.L. Edgar (04-21-2021), Theo Pryce (05-01-2021)
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