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X-treme Wrestling Federation BOARDS » Savage Boards » "Savage Saturday Night" RP Board
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The Dreamers Disease
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Dolly Waters Offline
Commissioner Waters

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)

Post: #1
08-27-2021 07:02 PM

Sometimes I catch myself, mid-existence, wondering just how in the hell I’ve gotten into this position.

Almost nineteen years I’ve spent on this earth, and looking back I can honestly say my life has been nothing short of impossible.

Not in some Dorothy-like, beloved farm-girl way. Getting swept up into fantasy worlds where the battles are only as dangerous as I dream them up, having the ability to click my heels together and fly off in a phone booth when I’m done playing.


Not like that at all…

My scrapes and scars have been real, and ones I’ve endured mostly on my own.

I didn’t come from some lionized Legacy, where a helping hand, or a loving home was always at my disposal. That’s not my journey, and in all honesty I’m glad. Because the lack of that kind of undue clout and support made me stronger. It made me have to fight ten-times harder for everything I've ever achieved, and that’s what’s truly impossible about me, about Dolly Waters...

I never should’ve survived the delivery room.

Let alone the malnourishment of poverty.

Let alone a drunken and haphazard father.

Let alone the abandonment.

Let alone the exploitation.

Let alone the PTSD.

Let alone the methamphetamine.

...but not only did I persist, persevere and push-on…

I did it all while turning my dreams into reality. Not retreating to their cozy confines. But by recognizing the dreams, and staying awake long enough to see them through.

A nine-time XWF champion. Lethal Lottery finalist. March Madness finalist. WarGames finalist. Ranked the eighteenth greatest wrestler of the modern era. At the age of eighteen no less. And now… the Commissioner of one of wrestling’s hottest brands.

But even still, as unimaginable… as impossible as this all seems, I’m still humble enough to wonder…

How in the hell did I end up in this position?

August, 26th 2021
The totally NOT non-existent XWF Headquarters
...somewhere an hour south of anywhere...

“Beats me, bb…”

Ari Stevenson, the XWF Headquarters MailRoom tech, and part time Anarchy Referee overhears my private lament as he pops into my new commissioner’s office, chucking a few pieces of mail on my already disheveled desk.

“...and in a broom-closet only a little smaller than Gator and Ned’s recording studio? Shiiiit, Commish, I don’t know how you got on Lane’s good side, but these digs must make those crabs a little less itchy.”

He jests with his nasally, urban white-boy accent. His curly hair bouncing from the sides of a pink fitted-cap.

My office is anything other than a broom-closet. It’s catty-cornered opposite of the ever-inundated XWF Human Resources Department, and just down the hall from the XWF 99.9FM studios… which technically was a broom-closet. But I still hear that it’s very accommodating. My new digs on the other hand? They’re very bright and chique. That’s despite the dust left from my predecessor, Commissioner Lacklan’s old effects still swirling through the rays of sun from the ceiling-to-floor glass windows that align behind my desk.

Don’t be gross, Ari…

“Oh, like you wouldn’t say the same ish about any other new-stooge that Vinnie put in here run his show...”


I’m absolutely cut by his words,


Ari’s pasty, freckled face slopes even longer than his nose, as he flips and rolls his brown eyes letting out a sigh,

“Naaah, Commish, you know I ain’t mean that. I’ve watched you grow up around the XWF… we all have. You deserve this gig.”


I do a coy little spin in my leather office chair, examining the office as I twirl. I’ve actually spent most of the morning doing that to break up the monotony of reviewing talent applications for Anarchy and getting caught up in the Wikiloop,

“Ah, fa-shiz-al my crab-itchin’ giz-al!”

... I pull to a stop in my chair, and prop my head against my hand on the desk, shooting Ari a dubious glare. He really is a swell guy, goofy as all get out. But he’s funny because he can’t help but be, and that’s something I admire in people.

I remember years ago, even before Paul Heyman was managing my career, Ari took me to help open my first bank account. He was adamant about it. I had to start a checking and a savings account, and buy a crap-ton of savings bonds. See, when he delivered my first paycheck, he was gobstruck to find that I was just a child. He knew I was lost. That I was just as impossibly here in the XWF as he was.

“Plus it’s all the way one-hundred seeing Lane back around the office and shit.”

Really? But I thought BOB had a vendetta against him.

“I’m only a part time BOB, I still work here too. Plus...”

I tilt my head into a question-mark as Ari peeps around his shoulders, looking through the glass windows in the front of my office. Totally not conspicuous at all. Then he faces me again and lowers his voice,

“Miss Fury is kinda…”


“She’s crazy as fuck yo.”

He clears his throat and straightens back up from a totally not secretive, secretive position.

“So anyway…”

He looks away from me and starts flipping through some envelopes in his hands,

“I don’t know what you did to get Vinnie back to himself, but that shit’s righteous, Comish.”

Hey, wait…

I sit up at my desk a little more than casually, pulling Ari’s gaze back my way,

Ari, if you ain’t happy working for BOB, I can make you a full-time referee for Anarchy. XWF Anarchy.

He turns his face sideways, clearly chewing the thought over. Ari twists his lips together and gives flows into a series of nods.

“Can I have my own theme music?”

Only if it’s yer’ mixtape.

“Ah shit!”

He gives his chest a light beating with his fist,

“Lemme think about it…”

The job is here if you want it, homeslice.

Before he can respond, we’re distracted by the sight of Gator and Ned Kaye damn near dancing down the hallway, leading an ungodly amount of what appears to be Twitter thot models into that “broom-closet” of a radio studio. There’s at least twenty of them. Damn, that office really is bigger than mine, huh?,

“Told ya’ bb”.

Ari smiles and turns to leave, but he stops right at the threshold of the office. Leaning back inside of the glass window, he parts with:

“Now I see why Vinnie picked you for the job…”

Coreytopia, Florida
...Sometime after returning home from Big Pink…

My names Dolly. Addict. Alcoholic.

Hi, Dolly.

The dozen members of The Late O’Clock Group responded in unison. We were sitting as we always did, in a guestroom of the commune’s mansion. We converted it into a space for our daily recovery meetings. All of the bedroom-like furniture had been taken out, spare a few bookcases to store recovery literature, and replaced by chairs.

The Late O’Clock group is a twelve-step meeting for recovering addicts and alcoholics who live at Coreytopia, and sometimes we do get outsiders too. They’re just as welcome as anyone else, as we stick with the original twelve-step tradition of Alcoholics Anonymous: “the only requirement for membership is a desire to stop drinking”

Corey and I started the group back in March, a few months after I moved in here. We originally planned to call it the Early Bird Big Book Study, but there was a mix up of the Daylight Savings Time and all of the different Farmers Almanacs we use around the commune. And just like a group of unreliable drunks and addicts... Ta da! We were all late.

Anyway, this was my first in-person meeting in several weeks. I had been attending every meeting from Zoom while I was away... that was until the whole breathing peyote smoke for several hours-thinghappened during WarGames. September 1st would’ve been my one year sobriety anniversary. But instead I drug in here this morning, relapsed and defeated by WarGames in more ways than one.

I pretty much snuck into the meeting today, sliding my back across the walls so not to be seen. My hair was out of its usual bun, and draping down to cover my thin face and stitched up forehead. I pussyfooted over to my usual seat. The seat where the group chairperson leads the meeting. On the floor was a case of Las Vegas style poker chips, we’d give them out as tokens to denote certain milestones in our recovery, and to remind us that we’re “gambling with our lives if we use drugs or alcohol.” Cheesy right? Anyway, there was a blue chip for thirty days, a red chip for ninety, a green for six months, and so on- I grabbed out a white chip. The universal color of surrender. Given to those with twenty-four hours of sobriety, or anyone with a desire to try this way of life.

I cuffed the chip and turned away to an empty chair.

“Hey! Where you goin?” a gentle and genuine Brooklyn accent chirped out. It was Tessa. A middle-aged widow from up north. She was tall, and thin, but in much better shape than when she first arrived here. It took us all a while to realize she was very pretty. A raven haired, blue eyed Eastern European cosmo of some kind. Tessa was one of my “pigeons”. I’d been taking her through the Big Book, step by step, through personal inventory and amends-making.

Oh, hey… uh turning back to Tessa, I didn’t dare to look at anyone else, but I already knew the whole room was staring at me, …I’m just gonna’ grab a different seat today, ya know I- uh kinda… I flashed her the white chip in my hand, but before I could even finish my stammering sentence with ‘screwed up’, Tessa Barked: “Who cares?”

My eyes suddenly met up with all of the shrugging faces surrounding me in the meeting,

“No one here knows the book better than you, Dolly.”

She wasn’t wrong.

I picked up a lot of what twelve-step traditionalists call “good big-book” during my stint in rehab. I had been taken through the steps several times thanks to an old-timer named Brady who would volunteer to run the meetings at my rehab clinic. Brady was like an old hermit, he was a Yiddish Kabbalah actually. He had long grey hair and a grey beard that nearly reached his belly. He sort of looked like Gandalf The Grey wearing a Jewish fedora.

“We suffer from a disease of dreaming…” It was one of the first things Brady taught me, “...letting our egos and vanity run amok. Too afraid to face reality. We get caught up reorganizing the past, and pre-planning the future. It's futile. We fail to realize that we’re not that important. What’s most important is what’s right in front of us, every moment of every day. A singleness of purpose. Just doing our best to give back what has been so freely given. Helping others stay sober, and putting principles before personalities.”

While remembering Brady’s words, I wasn’t entirely aware of the tears trickling down my cheeks yet as Tessa continued, “We need to have a meeting, and we need you to lead it.”

And so rather than get tangled in the past, or trying to bend the future to my will, or skip out on reality altogether into some alternate dimension, I did the next right thing I could do… I did what was needed… I did what was right in front of me, and I chaired that meeting.

Hi, Dolly.

The dozen members of The Late O’Clock Group responded in unison. After a moment of silence in honor of those “out there”, still suffering from this disease, I opened a book and read it’s pages aloud,

From the Twelve Steps: Daily Reflections and Guidance, today's date reads-


"Though they knew they must help other alcoholics if they would remain sober, that motive became secondary. It was transcended by the happiness they found in giving themselves for others."

That’s from the Big Book of Alcoholics Anonymous, page one-fifty-nine.

Just as I was going to ask the group about their experience with that passage, the door to the room opened. A warm smile stretched across my lips at the sight of a familiar face.

“Uh, hey dudes. Is this the Late O’Clock group?”

It was Vinnie Lane, and he was right on time.

I stood up and met his eyes,

“Oh it must be, dude! Hey, Dolly.”

Here fer' the meeting?

“Yeah, man... I just left rehab, and his group came highly recommended for out-patient recovery.”


I gushed, walking over and handing him the white poker chip I grabbed earlier,

...I'm glad yer' here.

Vinnie studied the chip dubiously before taking it from my hand,

“What's this for?”

It's for a willingness to try something different.

One of her dream matches…

That’s what Betsy Granger referred to our upcoming fight on Savage as… a dream.

It’s a sweet sentiment, for sure. But it means nothing to me, folks.

Because what is Betsy Granger if she ain’t constantly dreaming? Or slipping into some alternate dimension where she doles out nothing but passive aggressive attacks on people she’s too afraid to confront in the real world?

She ain’t Dolly Waters, and that’s for damn sure.

Because I’ll never hide behind some cosplay version of myself in order to say what I’m feeling. I ain’t a coward. I go fer’ the throat, each and every time I step into this promo booth, or into that wrestling ring. I have no image to protect by mincing words, and not dressing-down exactly what I see in front of me… Friend or foe, I have no problem calling anyone on their bullshit.

Betsy… yer’ plumb full of it!

Go ahead again and tell me that you’ve studied my career.

That you look up to me.

That I’m one of the reasons you came back to this “silly” business that we call professional wrestling.

Blow all the good-girl smoke up my ass that you want, but I know it ain’t sincere. You say you admire me so much, you know my career so well - and yet you tried drawing a distinction between the Dolly Waters you “dream” of having a match with, versus an animalistic version?

Oh Betsy…poor, dumb, never-paying-attention Betsy: they’re ain’t a difference, sweetheart. I have one speed in the XWF, and it’s full-tilt.

Anyone who has actually followed along with my career would know that. When I step in the ring, I don’t see wrestling as some “silly thing” like you do, no. I take these moments personally, and with conviction. Grateful for every second. Maximizing every second. I step in that ring looking to defeat, to maim, to undress, to run down, to dismantle anyone standing in my way.

That’s why you’ll be shitting yer’self in reaction to my first promo. Because in reality, not in Betsy’s dreamworld, you had no idea who you were dealing with. You were hoping to play-off my emotional state? Well fuck you, cunt! How’s that? You tried gaslighting me, and the audience, by saying I’ll have lost focus because I’m “raging”. I’m only ever raging between the ropes, and yer’ about to find that out first hand.

But now let’s all watch who actually loses focus. When my words make that ugly ego of Betsy’s shine brighter than the polish she rubbed on my buttcheaks. Watch as she drops the tired frenemy shtick, flip flops, and comes as harsh as she’s capable of coming.
Impossible right?


Betsy truly is that dumb. She tried to present herself as concerned with my well-being. Sympathetic that my best friend may never wrestle again. Presenting herself as an ally while turning Corey into a caricature more befitting of her womanizing husband in her vignette.

Yeah… Betsy is a nice person, she totally wouldn’t exploit my fight with Thad Duke to build yet another phony narrative that makes her seem like she’s a victim. Impossible. HA! The only thing impossible about Betsy is her situation when she steps through those ropes with Dolly Waters. Like a Baby Yoda plushie to my lawnmower. I’m going to show her what happens when you bring fluff to a fist-fight. I’m going to pound the stuffing out of her.

It’s obvious that this is all a dream for you, Betsy, because you’re sleepwalking into this match and contradicting yer’self every step of the way. If you can’t even cut a promo without making one rookie mistake after the other, why should anyone believe that you stand a chance against me in actual combat? You said I took Leap of Faith by storm, what Leap of Faith were you watching? You said that you would stand beside me in a fight against Thad Duke, yet you constantly play footsie with that sociopath on Twitter. You say you admire my skill, and follow my career, and want to team up some day - yet you and Raven brushed me aside when I tried extending an olive branch for Tara Fenix’s charity cruise match.

Like I said… yer’ full of shit.

All of these inconsistencies and lies?

It all boils down to you still trying to cover yer’ tracks for not drafting me at WarGames. GEE! Imagine having the opportunity to draft the person who inspired your return to the XWF, only to whiff and fall flat on yer’ face. Now come tell me that I took the wrong approach in taking my gloves off to verbally smack you around, Betsy. You earned these words. You needed these words. Just like you’ve earned the ass kicking I’m going to deliver you tomorrow.

I’m going to do you a favor and wake you up from this dream, Betsy. Bring you back to reality, and make you rue the day you ever slept on Dolly Waters.

[Image: RokUf7N.png]

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