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X-treme Wrestling Federation BOARDS » Shove-It! Boards » Shove-It! RP Board
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Survivor
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Bobby Bourbon Offline
No Good Bastard



XWF FanBase:
The 'cool' kliq fans

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


Post: #1
04-27-2021 12:45 PM




Somewhere, among the sea, seven people are stuck on an island. It’s the funniest shit in the world.

However, under dire circumstances, it might come down to who will be a...

SURVIVOR

Sunset at the high seas can be one of the most marvelous sights one can behold. The spectrum of the skyline itself, reflected off of docile waves for miles on end, a golden calm sets on the island. Gilly, the Skipper, Ghinger, J.B. Moneybags, Mrs. Moneybags, Profess-Cent, and Banana Li-Maryanne all sit around a fire.

Profess-Cent, why did you use up so much of the potable water we gathered?

I like a nice bubble bath.

We were just at the lagoon! If you needed bathwater we could have got some, or shit, you could have just gone to the fucking lagoon!

Please!

Language! I don’t care that this sweet, charming, scientist of a man is trying the best he can to be a smart scientist! He’ll save us all!

Save us? He said he would fix our ship and instead just bashed at the hull with a rock for twenty minutes, then climbed back into the cabin and started a fire that destroyed the radio!

Yeah, now the only thing it can do is get reception from a Spanish reggae station.

Guys, please, I made a new radio.

Profess-Cent holds up a half of a hollowed-out coconut. The Skipper purses his lips in utter frustration as Gilly rolls his eyes. J. B. Moneybags and Mrs. Moneybags just wander off, never to be seen again.

Where are they going, Skipper?

Who cares. Profess-Cent we came across this map. We were wonder if you with your educated mind could tell us anything about it.

Profess-Cent reaches out and takes the map from the Skipper. He holds it close to his eyes, then holds it out as far as he can, then back close to his eyes once more. He looks back at the Skipper and says.

It’s a map.

Skipper’s face is blood red and almost turning purple.

I’m glad he cleared that up Skipper!

Skipper snatches his hat off of his head.

I KNOW THAT!

Then why’d you even ask?

Skipper throws his hat to the ground and snatches the map from Profess-Cents hands.

I say we follow this map to the end and see where it takes us! All in favor raise your hands.

The skipper raises his hand, as do Gilly and Ghinger. With J.B. Moneybags and Mrs. Moneybags wandering off on an island that holds giant polar bears. The majority has decided that they follow the map. The Skipper picks up his hat and smacks it off his leg a few times to get the dirt off.

We’ll pack up and head out in the morning.

I think this is a bad idea. I won’t be able to study this species of mosquito in primal heat.

Gilly looks uncomfortable. The Skipper looks on in disbelief. Ghinger places her hand on Banana Li-Maryanne’s shoulder.

I’m so sorry.

For what?


Oh, umm, nothing.

Skipper, look!

Gilly points off into the water. We see, beneath the waves, something is moving around. Something with leopard spots. As the Skipper turns, a moment too late, it’s vanished somewhere under the sea.

Oh, Gilly, that is a lovely sunset. That cloud looks like a dragon with a hammer and a banjo!

No! It was the underwater leopard!

Profess-Cent, please tell Gilly there’s no such thing as an underwater leopard.

Profess-Cent is not paying attention, instead, he's holding open the front of his pants and looking down at his own junk.

C’mon, mosquitos, come to papa.

Banana Li-Maryanne looks down Profess-Cent’s pants.

It looks like a mosquito bite!

TMI.

The Skipper, Gilly, and Ghinger look repulsed by the strange interaction between Profess-Cent and Banana Li-Maryanne.

Oh Jesus Christ.

As the Skipper says this, Jesus Christ descends down onto the island.

You called?

Ooh, Jesus is here! We’re saved!

Heh, child, yes and no. I don’t actually do anything in your day to day life. Your prayers are sweet, but really, self-motivate! Later guys! TNGB! NASCAR! YEAH!!!

As Jesus would, he throws up a fist and starts headbanging as Molly Hatchet starts just blaring and he ascends to heaven. The Skipper and Gilly give each other a fistbump. Ghinger walks up, looking gobsmacked.

Wow. Great special effects!

The Skipper and Gilly glance at each other, smirk, look up, then back at Profess-Cent, who is sniffing some poop he found on the ground as Banana Li-Maryanne is seen hitting rock with a stick.

Li-Maryanne, what are you doing?

Without relenting, Banana Li-Maryanne continues to whack away at an oblong, grey stone, looking to be about fifty pounds, with a switch she found somewhere in the jungle.


She does this for hours a day.

What? You mean while we get food and drinkable water, set up and maintain the shelter, and provide fire and a watch for it, she just hits a rock with a stick?

It’s what she knows.

Well, shit. At least she’s not ruining all the drinking water.

With that, Profess-Cent runs to the beach with a bucket. He tosses a bucket of water into the ocean.

BE FREE! LIVE YOUR LIFE!

What the fuck are you doing?

I had to release that water back into the wild!

I want to kill him. Can we fucking kill him, Skip?

No, Gilly, the Coast Guard could be here any minute. Oh, shit.

What, Skipper?

I wish we had more than one flare.

True.

Gilly nods. The Skipper suddenly looks very upbeat and grins.

You know what? We should set up some signal torches on the beach! We still have some of the oil from the boat, thankfully Profess-Cent is worried about a carbon footprint and won’t touch the stuff!

Ghinger interjects.

That’s a great idea, Skipper! I can come help!

We’re coming too. For science and nocturnal mosquitos.

Oh, alright.

The Skipper, Gilly, and Ghinger lead the other two along the shoreline. The assembly stops by the boat and Gilly retrieves a quart of oil. As he does, the Skipper grabs a huge tree trunk, nigh the size of a caber, and hoists it. Gilly douses one end with oil and Ghinger pulls out a sleek shiny Zippo lighter and sets it ablaze. The Skipper plants the caber into the soft sands beneath him, twisting it, forcing it into the harder, more compact earth beneath. Gilly grabs another log and posts it against the first, giving it a place to lean, and a beacon is lit on the shore.

Well, this’ll let anybody know during the night we’re here. Here’s hoping!

With that, there's a rustling in the lush greenery behind them off the shore.

What was that?

Ooh, horny mosquitos!

Profess-Cent traipses off into the jungle.

My sexy hero!

Banana Li-Maryanne, carrying the chest holding the silver statue that is not conservative, goes off after them.

Shit!

They’ll be killed! I fought like three jaguars in that jungle!

No leopards?

Sorry, Gilly, no!

Well, damn, let’s go after them.

Why?

She has that statue, it’s gotta be worth something!

Right!

The Skipper, Gilly, and Ghinger run into the jungle after Profess-Cent and Banana Li-Maryanne. They come to a cliff face. A literal face in the cliff, that is.

Woah, what a carving!

Who was here before us?

WHO GOES THERE?

Woah!

The face in the cliff animates and bellows at the trio.

MY NAME IS TOO COMPLEX FOR HUMAN TONGUES!

Wow, a Rock that Talks!

THAT IS ACTUALLY MY NAME! I AM IMPRESSED! YOUR FRIENDS HAVE GONE INTO THE TEMPLE, AND ARE IN GRAVE DANGER FROM THE TEMPLE GUARDS!

Oh, fuck! How do we get into the temple?

IT’S OVER THERE!

The Rock that Talks looks to its right, and all three see a very pronounced door into the cliffs.

Hey, this is exactly where the map led!

LET'S ROCK!


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~




MayDay! MayDay! The good guys need fucking reinforcements! That’s the fucking call to arms isn’t it, Bobby? Coming from guys who we’re fucking born to be in this goddamn industry, none-the-fucking-less.

Woah, woah, TK, hold up.

Bobby closes his eyes and shakes his head. He puts his hand out, palm towards the camera, shaking it ever so, the words he can’t contain causing him to vibrate.

First off, did you notice how the kid on the spectrum calls her fans flippies, but also says flip instead of fuck? Well, shit, I wanna try that!

What’s up, you beautiful fuckers?


Are those our fans?

That they are, Mr. Knuckles, that they are. I’ve got some fan mail right here. It’s from Lawrence.

Bobby produces an envelope.

Lawrence is eleven years old. You know what that means, TK?

Yup.

Bobby rips the envelope in half.

Fuck off! This ain’t no fucking kids show! Your parents should be ashamed.

So, speaking of children’s programming, there’s Ruby, and damn, you’re one of the shittiest superheroes ever. Hell, you’re big plan was to find someone who was a member of a political party, you found him, and then went home. That man was super drunk, you could have picked up the phone and called him a cab, been proactive. Shame. Crime fucking fighting at it’s finest.


Bobby rolls his eyes as his voice droops with sarcasm.

No wonder Chicago’s murder rate is so high. Strong work taking a stroll in cosplay then going home for some Netflix and chill at your sugar daddy’s apartment. You best be better in the ring than whatever horseshit that was.

Better in the ring than she is on the microphone. Fuck me, Bobby! I finally understand why those two are fucking together. I’ve never seen two people talk about absolutely fucking nothing like they can. Christ, the most you get out of the fuckers is…


TK clears this throat to shifts his voice into a higher-pitched whiney voice to mimick Centurion.

Those two are playing second fiddle to Page and Fury.

Pfft. We don’t play second fiddle to friends. They’re our fucking friends. Our fucked up, kinda crazy, rather scheming, bosom buds! They’re not just the people that we exchange Christmas gifts with, they’re the type of people who you can trust to hide a body!

Still in that high-pitched whiney voice.

Of course, everyone is saying TNGB is doing good. Most of the roster is BOB. What bloated overrated faction. BlAh bLaH BlAh.

Taking fucking tips from Corey now, eh, Cent? That’s goddamned pathetic.

Bobby puts his hand on TK’s shoulder.

Hold up. We don’t care what anybody is saying about us. Love us? Cool. Hate us? Get fucked. The proof is in the pudding.

Bobby holds up his half of the tag team championships.

This says we’re the best. Not doing good, not coasting, not doing fine. This is THE sign of greatness.

TK holds up his half of the tag team championships.

This is the kind of shit Centurion can’t grasp. I don’t know where the fuck you think you’re coming from when you talk to us, but it ain’t from anywhere on this Earth I can discern. Centurion wants to tell us about what it takes to be great? We’re on a level you can not reach. We’re the pinnacle of the tag team division because we beat Continuum. You, on the other hand, are the finest midcard talent the world has ever seen. You’re like the appetizer, or the fucking garnish, to the main course we’re bringing to the table. Sure, it’s cute and all how you can show up, tell us about the good ole’ days and how you couldn’t get it done back then, but now just watching you fail to get it done to recoil and find somewhere else to settle into the middle of the card is depressing.

Now, I know this isn’t as comforting as the humble, almost pubescent body of your deranged girlfriend, and that booty has got to be so sweet that you’ll dress up in that stupid outfit, confront a Republican, get a hard-on as soon as you see one that justifies your identity politics, then it’s back home and off to the races.

Seriously, you two made a sex tape in Nova Scotia?


TK now in his normal voice.

Fucking gross! Seriously, that flat-chested bitch with no ass? Then you got Centurinal’s old wrinkly body!

Thunder Knuckles makes the same retching sound as if he was trying to eat bull testicles.

Christ, I can’t get the fucking mental image out of my head. Goddamn! Make it stop, Bobby, make it stop! The fact Ruby had to sell herself like that to that old man to become famous makes me sick! Listen kids that’s not how you get fucking famous. You get famous by beating the shit out of Thaddeus Duke and Corey Smith. It’s way easier than having sex with old people.


Bobby looks at TK.

That’s how Anna Nicole Smith died.

I can’t wait until Ruby gets a fucking sex change! I’m fucking serious, yeah, she becomes a man and hits that liberal fuck face with a #MeToo.

TK loos puzzled all of the sudden, remembering something Cent said in his promo.

Bobby?

Yessir?

Centurion wants to know what we plan on telling our bosses when we “Lose” on MayDay.

You mean Theo and Vinnie?

I think he means BOB.


What? We don’t have any ‘boss’ in BOB. We don’t answer to Fury, we aren’t accountable to Page, I don’t know what the fuck he thinks he’s talking about.

All timers.

Bobby squints.

You mean Alzheimer’s?

That’s what I fucking said!

Nah, Centurion isn’t that old, he’s just a regular jagoff, it’s not Alzheimer’s. People are working towards a cure for Alzheimer’s. We’re working towards a boot up the ass of Centurion. Big difference.

TK shrugs exactly as long as Shawn Warstein would.

Fuck L.I.E. and fuck CentRuben! Goddamn, shit the bed, pussy, tits, and dick.

That sounds like some dirty sheets.

That was for Ruby.

Well, bless her heart. So precious, she takes it up the rear from Centy’s love knuckle, which is still fucking vulgar without saying she takes it up the ass from a Viagra fed dick.

Speaking of the Viagra fed dick…

Centurion, you want to know our place in the XWF? Do you want to know the true fucking value of Us No Good Bastards? Do you want to know why people can’t get enough of us, week in, week out, and want to follow us? Shit, check a fucking mirror with Rubes the next time y’all get in the spandex and walk around an IKEA looking for libertarians or Rush Limbaugh’s ghost. Centrubion is only a fucking thing because of US right now. Flat the fuck out. We topped the best the world had to offer. They weren’t enough. We’re the best the world has to offer, and golly gee, we needed challengers at MayDay because we’re fucking fighting champions. If we hadn’t come around, holding these tag team titles, Centurion would be farting around with some doofus on the midcard, Ruby would be cursing the name of BOB but never confronting TNGB, and y’all wouldn’t be partnering up right now to put on some of the weirdest, saddest programming I have ever seen.

It Is super fucking sad.

Damn skippy!

That little shit stain Ruby said they’re going to win FOR THE PEOPLE! Please bitch, THE PEOPLE can’t stand your fucking bullshit public image. They see right through that shit. By the way, Ruby-o’s taste like shit.

And fuck fantasy football. You know why I don’t play fantasy football? I played defensive line. It wasn’t a fantasy. I hit quarterbacks.

You know what else is a fantasy? Complacency.


We’re fucking complacent?


We just won the fucking belts, so defending them against y’all makes us complacent? What fucking drugs are you two on? Dressing up like superheroes, walking around the streets, thinking we’re just contented to do what exactly? We have worked our asses off, our fingers to the bone, and shed more blood in that ring to earn these tag team titles than you could imagine. The hours we spent preparing, the days we spent getting ready, the bodies we bashed and cast aside on our way here…

Oh, fuck, Cent, do you call all champs you lose to complacent, or is that just Ruby? I mean, you can’t teach an old dog new tricks, but you’re sure as hell instilling some bad habits in your little bitch.


Bobby chuckles.

Sounds like they’re calling themselves fucking weak to me, Bobby. If we’re being complacent by taking on Centurinal, and soon to be Ruben, not Ruby then they must be pretty fucking shit.


Individually, hey, all the credit in the world to the both of you. As individuals, I look forward to you both warming up the crowd while we come out and put on the show they paid to see.

But as a fucking team no one’s fucking better than Them No Good Bastards. You can’t teach chemistry like this. You can’t even fuck it into’em, right Centurinal? You two are so fucking lost in a sea that we control.

That we dominate Mr. Knuckles, that we dominate, like you are King Neptune himself and I am the mighty Kraken, the churning, dangerous waters we rule clear of any traffic, just the scuttle and remnant of whatever doomed, lost crew at the ocean floor, as we turn that squared circle into the Bermuda Triangle. We are the current, the briny depths you can’t survive, dragging you to Davy Jones’s Locker. Y’all? Y’all just fish food.

Make no mistake about it stormy fucking weather is coming on MayDay and behind Thunder theirs Bobby. A force of fucking nature that even God her-fucking-self fears. If Ruby thinks that chair shot she got from Ol’ Thunder Knuckles on Anarchy, all those months ago, was bad. Just fucking wait until she gets hit with-

THE RAINDOW LASER DEATH SEQUENCE!!


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