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Yay Fantasy OMG; is it real? Yes! -- RP3 - Printable Version

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Yay Fantasy OMG; is it real? Yes! -- RP3 - Sid Feder - 03-11-2014






Welcome.

Not only am I dead, but now I'm stuck narrating my own god damn shit because my fuckin' narrator wouldn't die with me after that encounter with the ever so deadly John Samuels rubber treatment. I feel like I had a million rubber bats beating my brains in until I just pulled a pistol from my crotch area and planted a bullet into my mouth or some shit.

Is that what happened?

Anyway, now that I'm here in the afterlife I officially can do any and everything that the Sci-Fi Convention kids can do in their shitty fuckin' promos -- except when it's me doing it, it's real.

Because I'm dead.

And that means you can still hear me, because that's how Frodo logic works.

Because I'm dead.

Because I couldn't withstand the onslaught presented by one Mr. John Samuels and his raging hammer of doom.

Behold! The scene before you suddenly flashes to life in a series of colors -- red, blue, red again, and more red.

Damn, not that great of a series but I guess it's comparable to the series of actual talent on Theo Prince's team, right? If that pile of shit can be called a team then I can display two alternating colors and refer to them as an entire series.

The red and blue colors start zig zagging and swirling round-n-round like a John Samuels series of promos that are just the same two things spinnin' like a top.

Fuck you, Samuels. I'll kill you for killing me! I will kill you for killing me. I digress like I was a hybrid of Peter Gilmour and Tristan Slayter, who of course isn't known by most of you but he may have been an even larger lump of digression than my good friend Peter Gilmour.

Back to the fuckin' point at hand, or should I say wing? I guess since I'm a ghost I can be whatever I wanna be now, right? So maybe instead of hands, I have hooves now?

Maybe instead of a head, I have a giant tit that sprays curdled milk in your faces when you try talking your shit at me?

Maybe instead of a dick, I have whatever John Samuels hides behind his sledgehammers?

Fuck it; if I get to dictate this shit from top to bottom and have it be whatever I want then I'm goin' all out, kiddies. Here we go!

The thunder cracks in the sky as the dust billows up around me. Laser beams from every direction, and I mean every fuckin' direction start shooting into my aura. The silhouette of my poorly postured, damn near crippled body begins to glow as the word seems to echo from every direction; so much so that I'm not even sure anymore if it's me saying it or if it's people saying it back to me.

My aura, now glowing lime green with purple sparkles coming off of it, starts spinnin' and spinnin' faster than the hands on Theo Prince's clock winding down to his final hour.

Thor, the God of Thunder rides into view with the lower half of his naked body hidden in a cloud. He has a lightning bolt in his hand and shoves it up my ass to prove that I am indeed the straightest man who had ever lived on God's green Earth.

Yeeeooww! That's exactly what I shout as that bolt shoots up my ass and out of my mouth faster than the time it takes to digest and shit out a Swigger promo that got disregarded entirely rather than liked or hated. At least everyone else has gotten me to have some sort of feeling about thei--

--ya now what? It's not even worth gettin' into, man.

Why?

Because I have my new body now! Thor's lightning bolt up my ass is officially a success!

I look down at my hands and realize they have been replaced by meat hooks. I look at my arms and I wonder if anyone else has ever seen deer legs for arms before. Fuck 'em if they don't wanna believe my deer leg-arms with hooks at the end can fuck their world up.

I look for a mirror but cannot find one because now I'm a vampire too and vampires can't find mirrors, so I grab a piece of garlic to stare into and see my reflecti--

--no, no. I've got this all wrong.

With what would have been a heavy sigh if I still required lungs in my Gody (that's god for body, ) I toss the garlic away because I remember vampires aren't supposed to like garlic. I also remember that they can find a mirror just fine, but the problem is them not being able to see a reflection of themselves in it.

No problem!

If I take this magic mirror I just made appear from thin air at the snap of my hooks, and I infuse it with the Rubbermaid powers of one Mr. John Samuels, I can guarantee that whatever I project forward to this mirror will simply be shot right back at me, unchanged and unimproved. I know I'll be able to trust this mirror as I look into it and I say--

Mirror mirror on the wall, or just floating there. Uh, who is the most faggoty maiden in all the land?

There is no response.

The mirror is all fucked up I guess; dammit to all fuckin' hell.

I take my foot, which for some reason is a boat.

Ok, stop right there and let me elaborate further.

Yes, my right foot is not a foot at all but is a full sized motor boat. Remember -- I'm dead now and I'm a vampire and I got blessed by the God of Thunderrrr! Clap clap boom! That means I can have a boat for a foot and still be taken seriously, oh yes sir it does.

I take my boat foot and I try to kick the mirror but it dodges out of the way, allowing my boat foot to fly off into the distance because I forgot to make myself a leg. Yup, no leg. I guess that's my own fault.

Welp, at least I have my other foot and it's attached to a real leg. My left foot isn't a normal looking foot either, though. I guess the best way to describe this foot would be to say, imagine the picture when you take Weapon Ashen and John Austin and pretend they are literate, English speaking mortals who can make a valid point and back it up. Ugly picture, in'it? That's my foot!

Now take that vision and just know that it's reality -- whatever the fuck comes to your mind as far as how this foot looks is probably accurate.

I take that foot and try to kick the mirror and since I have a leg (made of stars, however that works) my foot doesn't fly away this time because stars can't fly. That makes sense, right?

Luckily the mirror is struck by my foot and starts spinning wildly until I scream the word at it.

It screams back -- in a really girly voice though -- "!"

Fan-fuckin-tastic; I've got the mirror working properly with Samuels infused rubberness. I summon the mirror closer with my carrot powers a rabbit gave me and the mirror floats right in front of my face, revealing the ugliest fuckin' sight I ever did see. I guess I didn't have full control over this new body process after all? Hmph--

I, I'm a little embarrassed to say it, but I now look like theee biggest that I've ever seen before in my life. I take my hook hands and try to rip my face off but instead my hands start narrating for me!

----Right hook: You look like a real , Sidney!

----Left hook: You're homeless and old, Federrerrerrr!

Ouch, guys, that hurts! You are just as cutting and dangerous with your words as guys like Theo Prince and Mr. Star Fish, but yet as I claw at my own face with you both, I still feel nothing and my face it unaffected. I wonder what this could mean? What's the message behind this?

My hooks don't reply back and it's clear I can't get rid of this face I've been given, so I just give up and accept it for what it is.

Depressing as it may be, I give you to, the new Sid Feder--






--wait for it




























--wait fo- no, Stop waiting. It ain't worth a buildup. It's just this ugly ass face right here! Look what I've been cursed to live be dead with by the God of Thunder himself!


Look at it!









[Image: jdgeB0a.jpg]

For the love of all that is rubber, please help me! I can't accept this faggotass face -- the hook hands and the boat foot and the other weird foot that looks like hamburger meat by now; those are all things I can deal with, but this? This?

How am I supposed to deal with looking like the man who doesn't know the difference between a clothesline and a lariat? Remember that, Sebastian? Remember all the nice things the old Sid Feders and their Pappys said about'cha? I've seen the footage of those old verbal acceptances and even I felt the pain you must've been goin' through, man.

Oh? What's that? Ya don't get my comment "verbal acceptance?" -- You thought I meant verbal exchange?

No.

There were no exchanges between you and the past Sids', their fathers, mothers, wifes or even unborn children. All there was, was Sebastian Duke takin' it in the fuckin' ass and quite frankly appearing like he already bent over ahead of time just to make it easier.

Kinda like how you already bent over for this Sid Feder the fuckin' moment you started allowing this kinda shit to air on XWF programming!

SEBASTIAN DUKE IS A

SEBASTIAN DUKE IS A II

I mean seriously? Seriously? Did you forget the fans and roster members alike can see the title of a promo or whatever the fuck footage they're about to view? How are you gonna go and start puttin' shit out there for the world to see and have those be your titles?

I mean, damn.

Damn.

Talk about shooting yerself in the foot with a running lariat. I guess yo-

My thought process is interrupted when a portal opens up the same way a window would be revealed when the blinds are pulled up quickly. Through this portal I see the face of a straight man.











A very straight man who I know can be trusted--














Ok, ok, so sue me -- I lied out my ass. It's a who can't get the job done and expects to be paid for it too.

But!

At least he knows to offer refunds for failed attempts, which him announcing before anybody even saw his first job was a dead giveaway that he knows how damn likely it is that he screws the pooch anytime he's sent after somebody who has more talent than some lowly jobber like Sebastian Duke.

Why the fuck am I speaking in stars? Have I gained a new superpower? Oh my gosh! I can shoot stars out of my mouth every time I say the word jobber and that makes me a viable threat even though I look like a ! Whoopiieeeee! Whooooo!

Back to the point -- this starin' at me through the portal hides his face behind a mask (unless he's really that god damn hideous?) but one thing he won't even try to hide is how little faith he has in himself. He told Theo himself "he don't hold no grudges" and I appreciate that; it fuckin' equates to him knowing damn well he can't return fire on somebody who has a set of nuts -- wrinkled as they may be. He'd be glad to play that chump Prince for all he's worth though, and I bet he doesn't even offer the same refund option that he'd offer somebody with a brain! Am I right? Theo? Did ya get yer money back for that first failed ass attempt? He offers refunds, man; get up on that shit like white on rice. Fuck you Neonero, you gook.

I digress digress digress!

So many digressions; fuck me in my dragon birthing asshole while I spit stars from my overly red lips. Pew pew pew. Boom. 'Splosions galore.

As I finally relax and let the looking at me through the portal speak, he gives me an important word of advice. He tells me, "You do know those titles you were making fun of weren't for Sebastian Duke promos, right?" -and just as quick as he appeared, he whisks away with Theo Prince's checkbook being used as his magic carpet, firing off blanks into the air and laughing like a hyena.

Weird.

That's weird as fuck, man.

No, not the way he just rode away with all Theo's funds; that's to be expected and I think it made perfect sense that he was able to use the checkbook like a flying carpet.

The thing I can't wrap my mind around is what that guy just said to me -- those fuckin' promo titles weren't actual Sebastian Duke releases? Then where the fuck did they come from?

I pop off my Duke head, toss it underhanded like a softball and it lands in a puddle of urine that magically appeared 98,000 million light years away. I wonder if I could claim my head just traveled through time and have some uneducated fuck wad believe it?

For those who know distances versus time frames, they know that my head still resides in the same time as the rest of me so there's going to be no issue getting it back after it's done bathing in piss. While my head's taking its bath, the puddle of urine begins morphing into a website -- the XWF's very own website, that is. The puddle of piss takes my severed Duke head and shows it how badly The Dimallisher of all people has already been sending Duke out of China.

Let me explain--

First, those original "Sebatian Duke is a " titles were actually Dimallisher promos and not put on the air by Duke himself. Whew; what a relief; I seriously thought for a few minutes that he had gone 500% over- .

Second, when I reference Sebastian Duke being shot through China, it's meant to explain how deep Sebastian Duke was already buried long before The Dimallisher even got around to knowin' ol' boy existed. With Dimallisher stomping his foot through the Earth, deeper and deeper past all the bones and lost civilizations and hot magma, he finally managed to find the buried Sebastian Duke and stomp his fuckin' ass so hard that he was spit out of the other side of the fuckin' globe!

Talk about beating a dead horse? Dimallisher just sent that horse flyin' out into space so it can be raped by a alien, since according to everybody in XWF, anybody who's an alien must also be a -- right guys?

Look at Sebastian's body floating out there in limbo among the stars and loose semen. I love the fact that without gravity in play there's no way for him to even attempt to avoid the globs of 'semen clouds' that are going to linger around him and eventually cover his entire body.

Can ya hear me, Sebastian? If I've taken the form of your face and I can have a boat for a foot, I'm guessing you can hear me from the afterlife where I now reside, right? Even all the way out there in space?

What's that you said, Sebastian?

(03-09-2014, 04:50 AM)Sebastian Duke Said: I find myself at odds with myself. For more reasons than you'll soon know. I'm within my home away from home. The Black Circle.


Uh, what? Ok, that's actually what you said in your first fuckin' promo when you voluntarily started doing your own voiceovers or whatever the fuck. I remember hearing that and then turning off my television before you could continue the thought.

You find yourself,

at odds,

with yourself.

If I could just rewind time and take back the little bit of effort I already spent on your ass today, I'd do just that, but since I already started I guess I have to persevere.

How the fuck is the opening line in your shit fest going to be that line there? For the love of all that's unwaxed like John Samuels' flat crotch region, please tell me you were drunk, high and asleep for that? Please? Fuckin lariat lovin' .

Next though you tell us this--!--"For more reasons than you'll soon know."

Heh heh, what? If they're reasons we'll soon know but we're only going to know a small portion of those reasons, isn't that a little to say? Isn't it also eluding to the fact that we must not already know any reasons at all behind your return to the Black Circle? So what you're sayin' is, none of us can possibly imagine why Sebastian Duke is back with the Circle, but soon we may know some reasons, but those reasons won't really give much away, meaning they weren't worth hinting at to begin with, because you're going to keep the majority of your reasoning as secretive as the location of your cardboard compound?

Following? Still with me? Oh well.

Furthermore, Sebastian, doesn't your comment also suggest that in order for there to be mystery in the air surrounding your comings and goings, one must also have a vested interest in any fuckin' thing you do? You're making a lot of assumptions and talkin' a lot of mumbo jumbo that just doesn't really add up, , and that was with me turning off your promo after I heard the opening line.

Better hope I don't decide to comment on the actual title of the fuckin' thing -- see, I previously thought the title was "SEBASTIAN DUKE IS A " but if you allow me to realize your actual title was "Meeting of the minds" I'm going to piss all over myself and die of exhaustion even without a physically manifested body to exhaust. You're gonna have me chucklin' and doublin' over so bad that my fuckin' spirit will be taken to the after-after life where only one thing has ever managed to go before.

Only one thing in all of history has been killed so dead that it has taken death upon death, resulting in being in a place no demon or ghost would dare venture.

I can't go to this place I speak of myself, and neither can you, Duke.

Neither can Theo Prince, as bad as he is.

Neither can any actual, living thing.

There's only one fuckin' thing that resides in the afterlife after the afterlife, and that, my friend--














--is your dead ass fuckin' career.

Now go hide in the corner and pray that nobody makes me aware of whatever bullshit you probably actually said about me because we all know how that will go as soon as it hits my radar.

Be thankful you're so pardonable, .

You're right, Dimallisher. He is a .

Lariats; not clotheslines.

Lariats.