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X-treme Wrestling Federation »   » Archives » Leap Of Faith 2021 RP Board
#2: One Step Closer
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ALIAS Offline
Space Jesus



XWF FanBase:
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(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)


#1
05-25-2021, 02:22 AM

2A: The Edge of the World

Kuta Beach, Bali, Indonesia.


It feels like the edge of the world.

With my legs folded underneath me, I perch upon a narrow wooden bench. Poking out from underneath the large red umbrella, its legs ddig into the sizzling sand of the beach with absolutely no shade for protection. The sun attacks me; its pleasant embrace having taken leave several hours ago and now it focuses on beating down on me with everything it’s got. I’ve been waiting for longer than expected.

The white sand catches the light and reflects it back, like a billion tiny diamonds glistening beside the dead calm of the water. Without a cloud in the sky, the bright blue teeters between azure and cyan. It kisses the deep navy of the sea at the extent of my field of vision, which gradually lightens as it stretches towards the beach and the nest I’ve built for myself upon it.

The sea… no waves. Not like last time. I had let myself get carried away. Now, it’s time to find my centre.

My right hand is my left.

Stop that.

It’s done.

Lycana.

Find my centre.


Found it.

I shake myself out of the enrapture. It’s not the sea that commands my attention today.

“Sunscreen?” I vaguely hear from somewhere behind me and to the right. Thankfully for my pasty ass, it wasn’t the first time the local busboys had offered, and I accepted on the other occasions. So as I sit, cross-legged and focused upon the horizon, I at least know that they didn’t take offence.

The faint patter of footsteps fades behind me. The cawing of the seagulls joins them in the beyond, along with the chatter and laughter of the rare few Balinese families on the beach that day - tourism being near non-existent in response to the fucking plague. In a funnel of silence…

It feels like the edge of the world.

I could get used to this.

It’s like here, everything is behind me. All of the other bullshit bleeds away. Looking out to where the sky and sea lie together - and beyond - it feels like the end of a journey, rather than a beginning. But that’s what this is. A question, not an answer.

What lies on the other side of the edge of the world?


One day I’ll find out.

I pucker my lips and draw a hissing breath as I drop my head. My eyes close. I breathe and return to the beach.

“‘Scuse me,” comes a different but equally timid voice, challenged but competent enough in English but twanged with unconfidence. “Are you…?”

“Yes,” I answer, without waiting for the small, bespectacled man to answer. A black cap covers his balding head as he dabs a handkerchief on his neck in an effort to stop the dripping sweat from tarnishing what was once a crisp white collar.

I spring up from the bench and my shoes send grains of sand scattering as they drive into the beach. I pick up a small satchel that had been lying next to me - I opted not to bring the X-Treme Championship or 24/725/8 Briefcase with me to the beach (pretty sure Demos won’t be in Bali to try to pin me!) - and motion to the man to lead the way. He starts off, trudging his way awkwardly up the long beach, his short legs struggling through some of the less-firmly packed sections.

As we walk, I open up my satchel and rummage around inside. I pull out a small cooler bag, and within that an even smaller zip lock bag. I slip a paper straw (‘cause I’m not an asshole) into the top of the baggie, and suck up a cooling clump of kale and banana.

Best damn thing Drew Archyle’s ever done!

Drinking to recharge from my hours in the sun, I follow the man up a small stone staircase with a semi-rusted handrail. It brings us to a row of parked cars alongside a busy road. The man presses a button on an electric key, and right in front of the staircase (how convenient) the lights of a jungle green Suzuki Jimny JB74 blink and I hear the locks unlatch.

The man moves behind the vehicle, and carefully steps out onto the road. He gestures for me to enter the other side, as he steps out onto the road’s verge and climbs into the driver’s seat. I drop the emptied smoothie bag (I was super thirsty!) into a nearby garbage bin and then jump into the other side.

“We go?” he asks me. I nod in reply.

He lights the ignition and the engine comes to life. We chug out into the street, pulling back from the edge of the world.





2B: You Know What? Fuck Marf Too

Just outside Denpasar, Bali, Indonesia.


“Putra,” he said, when I asked him his name. If I’m honest, I was being polite. Underneath a crude identification mugshot stuck to the inside of the windscreen on the front passenger side of the truck, its laminate peeling at the corners, his full name, ‘I Wayan Putra Balik’ is printed in a hand-written font.

The conversation is rather lacking aAs we trek our way away from the beach. Putra speaks in simple phrases, conscious of the limitations of his fluency. I don’t mind too much, it allows me time to watch the world pass us by.

This is what it’s like peering over the edge.


We come to a pause at a busy red light as a young family crosses the road in front of us. The mother has a small baby swaddled and secured close to her chest. I know not if that will ever be my life, but I do know that Tommy Romeo is on the verge of it becoming his. The awkward quiet gives me time to reflect on him, and my relationship with Romeo Management, Inc. - if there is one at all. Through statements directed to Lycana, I may have been a little too harsh on Tommy. It’s not true that he just bailed. I actually wouldn’t be here in Bali without him.

I don’t know if those words had anything to do with it, or if the timing was merely coincidental, but a message came through from him not long after the camera cut last time. He gave me the location of the man I’d been looking for. Hell, before that his access to resources in Italy - along with the curious Spyder kid - led me to the Obsidian Mirror, and in turn, the man’s face and name. But it came at a heavy cost.

Find him, find me.

Still, there was so much promised in the fight against The Left Hand, or I should say The Dissentients now, and Tommy’s not here. It’s just me.

My right hand is my left.

Hey!

I said knock it off!

Marf.

Find my centre.


Found it.

My hand finds its way to the pocket of my faded and torn jeans, and it wraps around a small, warm stone within.

Not just me.

Suddenly, the truck jerks to the left.

“What the f…” It jerks again. Putra flicks between keeping his eyes on the road and something out of my view on his side of the vehicle. He begins to weave, near erratically, through the traffic. As we zig and zig in and out, I eventually catch a glimpse of the long blue hair of a driver in a black and equally (if not more so) dangerously moving car. “No fucking way…”

“Hati-Hati!” Putra yells in his native tongue. I follow his directions and grip tight to the handles above the window, bracing myself against any potential danger (in a technically inferior way I might add, according to the Google search I’m going to conduct later).

“That fucking bitch!” I curse. “Where is she?”

Frantically, both Putra and I search around the extremities of the car in an effort to catch sight of our maniacal foe. As a large courier truck slows down to let us past, she reveals herself on the other side. Moving too fast for me to note anything other than the colour of the black sedan, the blue-haired woman steers it sharply across the lanes. She’s coming right for us!

Putra guns it, like he just used a mushroom in Marfio Kart, and we launch forward. Through the rear window I catch a good look at the woman’s face.

It’s not Lycana.

The face is one I haven’t seen before, south-east Asian in origin. She scowls and mouths what I can only assume are obscenities at us. And then she loads her red shell.

Wait… this sounds familiar. Whose fucking story is this?

Except in this case the red shell takes the form of a torrent of steel as she points a gun out the window and lets rip.

“Is that a fucking uzi!?” I duck for cover. Putra swerves and crosses over several lanes. A few bullets tear into the back of the vehicle, but most miss us. Putra’s clearly done this before.

In a deathly game of cat-and-mouse, we careen down the streets. I don’t know if we’re anywhere near the end of the track, but I know for damn well we’re in the lead.

Because I’m always in the lead, Marf.

And Lycana ain’t ever shooting me off the tracks.

SMASH!


The violent sound draws my attention backwards. Similarly, Putra also nervously looks back in our rear view mirror. I can’t believe it! As we hoon ahead, the black car in pursuit spins rapidly behind us, growing fainter and fainter. The fucking truck hit it! Like a hero walking away from an explosion, the truck emerges through the billowing smoke and the car skids off the trackroad!

You get the metaphor, right?

The truck gives a honk to tell us the coast is clear, and Putra, still hyper-vigilant, takes the next exit - getting us out of the public’s eye.

“Okay?” he checks in, keeping it simple again.

“Yeah, you?” he nods, with enthusiasm. I think I even see a slight grin upon his face. Did this little fucker enjoy that?

“Typical... Sunday...” he says slowly, pausing between the words to make sure they’re the right ones. Where did Romeo find this guy?

The trip only lasts ten or so minutes more, which is strange since it should have barely taken more than that to begin with (again, I Google this later - don’t question the chronology!). Had I known at the time, I may have asked about it, but I suspect that Putra knew exactly what he was doing. If his plan was to make sure we weren’t still being followed, it worked. It also gave time for my heart rate to lower, allowing whatever rationality I have to return. Just in time.

Our somewhat-bullet ridden (what a weird qualifier) truck rolls up outside a large wall. Armed, uniformed men patrol the outside of it. Putra turns the engine off and gets out of the car. I follow suit, and we meet at the back, surveying the damage.

“Close… one...” he comments with that same cheeky grin, seemingly relishing the fact that someone tried to fucking kill us!

“You’re a goddamn maniac,” I chuckle. He mimics the laugh, but I have no clue if he actually understood. I offer my hand to him and he takes it, shaking with a greater strength than I had anticipated.

“You… have fun…” he says, releasing my hand and thumbing in the direction of an opening in the wall. He makes his way back to the driver’s side of the car and opens the door.

“You’re not waiting for me?” I ask. He turns back. Whether he understood the words or not, he definitely understood the context.

“I… go…” With one last glance up to the solid walls of the building.

“Terima kasih,” I thank him. Bemused at my use of his language, Putra shakes his head and climbs into the truck once more and starts the engine.

“Fucking Romeo...” I mumble to myself about my forthcoming isolation. As Putra pulls away, I turn and make my way towards an opening in the wall, passing by several pairs of armed guards as I pass through. The wall bends inwards, and a small white fence with spiked iron pickets guides me across a wide, empty, concrete slab to a central white building with brownish-gold lettering bolted to it.

LAPAS DENPASAR

Denpasar prison.






2C: I Want to Break Free

Somewhere else. Sometime else.


“It’s a prison that we’re stepping into, Lycana. Two, in fact. And in order to win, one of us is going to have to pull off an intergalactic jailbreak. So the question is… who’s more likely to be able to do the deed? The grungy little burn victim or the cunt-faced she-bitch?

Wait… can you get a ‘he-bitch?’

Of course you can! Hi Ned Kaye!

TROLOLOLOL!

You and I, we can probably go back and forth on the surface of that question. On my end, I’ve had my share of escaping from places where I wasn’t wanted - I wonder if those doctors are still looking for me? While you… well, as I’m sure you can appreciate, Shawn Wylde’s a bit of a blabbermouth, and he told me all about that deal in… where was it, Spain? You broke free, and guess what? I actually believe Shawn in how he said you did it. I’ve seen too much to be a doubter.

Thank God for those trusty magic power dampeners the XWF installs in all their arenas!

I wonder if they’re going to work on the moon or if some sort of solar radiation will cause them to malfunction?







?

Anywho, I guess we’re one-a-piece on that front. Let’s instead drill deeper and look at this through a more… symbolic lens. Escaping from these cages, it’s not just our literal reality in terms of winning a silly little ‘rasslin’ match, Ly’. It’s a metaphor for our entire conflict. Who, out of the two of us, can best escape that which limits them? Who can free themselves from the shackles that others place upon them? Who can shake free that which would seek to contain them? When this problem is looked at from that angle, the answer is crystal fucking clear.

I can.

I’m the fucking guy who won’t be limited by what others think I should do with my briefcase-shaped skeleton key, even if it’s Corey Smith himself who asks it of me. See, on this topic Corey’s perspective is as flawed as Centurion’s, Demos’s, and even Jim fucking Caedus. You assholes (and Corey) are giving the Brotherhood of Bitches WAAAAAAAAAAaaaaaaaaAAAAAAAAAAY too much attention! Read my lips, bozos (and Corey): They. Are. Not. A. Threat. I mean, who the fuck do they even have? Andre Dixon, who I don’t dislike, but who still got stomped by Corey the very moment he showed up? Oh I’m shaking in my booties. How about Bobby Bourbon and Thunder Knuckles, who couldn’t even fucking win a match before they rolled out Salt and Pepper, and even after that they won their contendership by beating fucking Mastermind and Morbid Angel of all teams - wow, what great depth in the tag division! Hang on… didn’t I have to simultaneously fight off Mastermind while stomping Morbid Angel? Does that mean I could be the tag team championship number one contender by myself? Oh shit… with how long I’ve held this X-Treme Championship, I actually already am! Four or five times over by this stage! Plus I get to stomp one of the back-up contenders in Lycana too! And have already beaten her and Marfy Marf in my only tag team match ever! The only logical conclusion here is that I, single-handedly, am the greatest tag team in the XWF! HA! Suck it Bastards, y’all are clowns.

Wait… what was I talking about again? Oh yeah! I was extolling the worthlessness in the Sisterhood of the Travelling Cum Dumpsters. Who else do they have? Chris Page? The guy who was trying to criticise the quality of my opponents IN THE SAME FUCKING SPIEL HE WAS CUTTING AGAINST JOHN GODDAMN BLACK! Jesus deep-throating Christ! Is this real life? Then, of course, we have Miss Fury, who had to create her own promotion just to be considered worthwhile. Still, she’s actually the only one I care about. Hey Lycana, you remember what I said to Ash Quinn, right? Once a Lefty, always a Lefty. In my book anyway.


[Image: 247shot.gif]



But this… this is what you guys are all allowing yourselves to be limited by? Nah. I’m not going to allow myself to be bound to some ridiculous war against a bunch of dunderheaded promotional whores. Miss me with that nonsense. Robert Main’s got a legit gripe,like I do against Lycana and Marf, but the rest of you are just making mountains out of mole hills. You’re feeding the beast. Me? I’ve got my own needs.

Every single time I’ve stepped foot in that ring, I’ve removed more and more of the shackles that bound me. I’ve been both a naive fool and a rabid animal; a vapid idiot and a loose cannon. However, when Dolly Waters handed me that case, I suddenly saw everything clearly. I knew what had to be done. And you’re right, Lycana. I do wish I could get my hands on The Baphomet. I wish that I could get the chance to cut the pig open and watch his blood empty out onto the floor of the abattoir. But I don’t need that. I just need you. We’re being symbolic, remember? And you were there that night. So you’ll suffice.

I’m not about to pretend that I’m no longer gonna be that cannon; that animal. I’m coming straight for your fucking jugular with my teeth sharpened! Hell… maybe that even means I’m still a fool. Whatever. When I fucking skin your fur and wear it as a coat, it’s going to put the final nail in the Lycana-shaped coffin. You say this won’t end at Leap of Faith. That just tells me you don’t have what it takes to make it end. I do. And this… this will be the end of you.

My right hand is my left.

Fuck outta here!

I’m going to eat you alive!

The Baphomet.

Find my centre.


Oh fuck that! This whole thing started because The Baphomet sought to contain me. He sought my devotion. You gave it, Ly’, but I… I couldn’t do that. I wouldn’t. Because if we’re trying to play through this metaphor, you seek someone to contain you. Me? I fucking defy anyone who tries that shit on me. You get put into a box - that’s why everyone still just paints you with the ‘lame ass Goth kid’ brush. Me? I fucking shatter the box! I’m the guy who looks at Jim Caedus trying to discredit my accomplishments by calling the Leap of Faith prize the ‘true’ 24/7 Briefcase, and agrees with him. Because 24/7 is playing kiddy games. I’ve been running 25/8 since the moment I fucking got back here! I don’t just shake free that which would seek to contain me - I DESTROY IT! Instead of breaking the mould, I bend reality itself over the barrel and ass-fuck it into oblivion. It’s okay if you don’t get it though, Ly’. You’re not alone. Thad ‘Dipshit’ Duke still thinks I’m just pissy that he won back at High Stakes, but that’s just his weak-ass way of trying to comprehend something that is beyond the scope of his perception.

That’s why you fucked up, DOCK - he’s simply incapable of getting it!

So, Lycana, you can join the Thad Dukes of the world; you can miss the boat like Demos or Rel Dixon - anytime you want I’m happy to help drive assholes like them through a flaming table - but you need to be keenly aware that it will not work out well for you. Because when it comes to being willing to defy anyone trying to subjugate me to their will, there isn’t a fucking book that can be written on the lengths that I’ll go. And this is what I’m bringing with me to this fight. It’s what you won’t have a fucking answer for.

This is what you and yours brought out of me, Ly’. I almost need to thank you for it. In a sick way, you’ve helped light the fuse that brought me to where I am. But in doing so, you’ve sealed your own fate. There’s a reason it’s you I asked for instead of Marf. He wasn’t there. But you were. And come Leap of Faith, he won’t be there again. But you will be. And from where I’m standing, The Left Hand isn’t truly gone - not as long as you’re still standing. So that’s where I prove you wrong. Because there is one outcome that changes our bond: the outcome where you don’t get up. Ever again.

The sad thing is that through all your hubris-tinged wet dreams of our encounters past, you’ve missed the point. Yes, you lit the fuse, but you have no fucking clue what it’s attached to. Even I don’t! Not yet anyway. I just know that Eat The Left Hand isn’t the end goal, nor is Eat Lycana or Eat Marf. This wee tête-à-tête is simply the closing of a book when I’ve already started the next one. And that next book… oh that’s the fucking magnum opus.

Your power’s gone, Lycana. It scampered away with the rest of your chicken shit pack. The wolf’s territory is diminishing. The scars that remain on my hand, in my mind… they don’t hold the power that they once did. I shared the vision with the world. It’s my power now. But if you want to feel special when you’re laying on your fucking deathbed, here, I’ll throw the doggy a bone...

Eat Lycanal.”






2D: Into the Lion’s Den

Kerobokan Penitentiary Institute, Kerobokan Badung Residency, Bali, Indonesia.


All eyes fall to me as I enter the prison building. Splotches of what was once water are permanently stained on the cream-coloured walls and a thick black-green grime dominates the grouting between the tiles on the ground. Somewhat used to slogging through muck, I approach the out-of-place, bright, blue desk in the center of the room and two guards step forward with their hands on the holsters on their hips to greet me. They flank another man, seated at the desk in front of me. Squinting, he makes an assumption and opens in English.

“Who are you seeing?” he asks, noticeably more proficient th
an Putra had been.

“I uh…” I stammer. One of the guards’ fingers twitches upon his weapon. The man at the desk squints harder.

“Identification.” His demand is firm. Shit! This is going to be a problem!

“One second…” I say, trying to buy some time. I start rummaging through my pockets - side and back - as I try to think of a way out of this situation. I thought Romeo would’ve figured this out for me!

My right hand is my left!

Not fucking now!

What do I do?

Tommy Romeo.

Find my centre.


No time.

]“Biarkan dia lewat!” a different voice yells, bringing me back. Quickly, my attention follows that of the three guards in front of me, as they turn backwards and find a man in a dark gray business suit, clumsy offset by a uniformed hat matching those of the guards.

“Pak?” the guard asks. ‘Sir?’

“Biarkan dia lewat,” the suited-man repeats, calmer but somehow more commanding. ‘Let him through.’ The guards share leery looks before the seated one rises, steps around the side of the desk, and unhooks a small rope that extends between two chipped bollards. He ushers me through.

As I move past the desk and its keepers, the suited man steps forward to meet me.

“Apakah Anda teman Tuan Romeo?” He eyes me cautiously. ‘Are you Mr. Romeo’s friend?’ I nod.

“Terima kasih telah membantu saya dengan ini,” I say, offering my hand just as I had done for Putra. ‘Thanks for helping me with this.’ My use of the Indonesian language relaxes the man, as if it were confirmation I was the one he was expecting.

“Nama saya Tonny Nainggolan,” he shakes my hand and introduces himself.

“Gubernur?” I ask if he’s the governor of the prison. He nods as we release.

“Silakan ikuti saya.” He steps back and begins walking to a door at the back of the room. ‘Please follow me.’ Though I can still feel the eyes of the guards burning a whole through the back of my head, I dare not disappoint the governor. I follow after.

In silence we make our way through corridors of progressively more deteriorating quality. As we reach a t-junction, the rumblings of human voices grow louder and more frenetic. They echo down the hall from the right, but we don’t turn that way. We go left. As we move on down, natural light slips through small balistraria-like windows, and through them I see murky humanoid shapes moving about outside.

All of that stops the moment the governor opens a rusted metal door. There, seated at a sterile plastic table, is the man I have been looking for.

I had accused James Raven, and for that I was wrong. I’ve acknowledged that, and Betsy Granger at least has accepted it. James likely still has some reservations. Understandably so, I suppose.

But this is the guy.

This is the cunt.

The man who condemned me.



...
























































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