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+--- Thread: Let's Get Nuts (/showthread.php?tid=35166)
Let's Get Nuts - Prof. Bobby Bourbon - 10-18-2019
Man, gotta love them XWF Ninjacams and how they can broadcast anything, anywhere.
To anyone, everywhere.
LET'S GET NUTS
We open to see Robbie Bourbon, shortly after freeing himself from nearly being lobotomized in some deep state conformism factory.
Okay, okay, time to chill out. I need to get out of this place, rendezvous with Pig, and then we'll get on a plane to Wales and everything will be alright. I know it's been some time since I have been in an XWF ring. I'm not sure I would have ever come back if it weren't for Pig. The fans, the people, they have spoken, and I really didn't think I had any place anymore in the XWF, but one day, when the best man you have ever shared a ring with contacts you, after dozens of people ask if you'll be there partner, from Peter Gilmour, to the Sugay sisters, to Barney Green, Scully again for some weird reason, I think a couple of house cats, an entire JV volleyball team, you name it, but when Pig asked me if I wanted to come back to the XWF, how the fuck could I refuse?
Through thick and thin, regardless of whatever bullshit scheme I was cooking up, B-Dub had my back and was ready to scrap. If the man had an itinerary, or a need from me, I damn sure have his too. The Michelangelo to my Donatello. The...
Robbie stops short as a pigeon carrying an iPad swoops down and lands on his shoulder.
Oh, look at you! Hello, bird friend! Is that an iPad? Do you need help using it? I don't think your little bird feet can use the touch screen!
Robbie gently removes the iPad that is crudely duct taped to the bird's foot. The bird, in it's excitement, dashes off and collides with a window. The pigeon drops to the ground. Probably dead, but who knows, maybe it likes it there. Robbie looks at the iPad and presses the power button. The screen illuminates and we see the face of Lux, or rather Corey Smith, the host body for Lux.
Oh, hey, looks like it's Lux! I remember him. This will be nice, I haven't seen someone's promo work against me in a while, maybe the new blood around this place is as advertised, better than ever!
Sadly, this was not the case, and in a display as confusing as most Chris Page promos, Robbie watches in bemusement at the convoluted happenings.
Welp, the new blood around this place is not as advertised. What the fuck did I just watch?
Did I just watch someone engaging in, *gasp*, TOXIC FANDOM!?!
*DUN*DUN*DUUUUUUUUUUUN*
So, Corey, first I want to thank you for reminding my fans about some of the other shit I have gotten into during my career, not only here in the XWF, but elsewhere in this whole wide multiverse of ours. Yeah, I like huge tits, and they are in no short supply on Twitter. Please stop heteroshaming, though. Maybe it will make getting your dick sucked by a woman in an abandoned warehouse in front of your tag team partner a little less awkward.
That said, I could give a fuck less if you think I owe you something because you were a fan of mine as a kid, and you're still a kid today, and what the shit you are one convoluted fucking mess of a person. It's almost like you're a shitty overly dramaticized piece of fiction cooked up by someone who just didn't think reality was weird enough as is. By jove, I would almost imagine you haven't seen 'it'. Not the movie, either of them, but the supreme 'it', that event in your life that really tests your sanity, your mettle, your balls, because 'it' is that thing that changes you, molds you, and defines you. For me, it was probably the fire department. Or the time bouncing in shitty night clubs rife with cocaine, the Pagan's motorcycle club, and an unhealthy mix of rednecks, hoods, college students, and plain ole' suburban white people. For Pig, I reckon he saw 'it' out in Afghanistan.
Anywho, this go around, you decided, in preparation to face off against who you even declared is a personal hero of yours, or in preparation for your alternate persona to face off against who you even declared is a personal childhood hero of yours, and hot damn is that some convoluted bullshit right there, you actually took the approach of some stupid fanboy on the internet pissing and moaning about Star Wars.
You think I owe you something the same way people feel they are owed a Sonic the Hedgehog that looks more accurate in the movie. You think I owe you something the same way people were pissed that Episode Eight referenced fuel or didn't answer questions from Episode Seven of Star Wars.
A fucking peon, couldn't create or compete with the minds that can. We are the dreamers of the dreams and the makers of music, you're fucking Veruca Salt, wanting a bean feast, don't care how, you want it now.
Does that make you entitled? The moniker of being a real fan, knowing the factoids and the minutiae, debating the semantics of whether it's the quarterback or the coach that needs to be fired when your shitty team is sitting at oh and five with no Superbowl in sight?
How about this, take off your stupid fucking nostalgia goggles and see the real world. Am I only a man? Sure as fuck I am. I'm a man who has done some downright astounding shit in my day, and I'm not done. Am I gone?
Robbie touches his own chest.
I don't feel gone.
Tell Lux, tell Azrael "I insult people with cantaloupe and think it's an insult" Erebus, tell all the hackneyed, "I need to seem fantastic because I can not do the fantastic" jack offs and cum bubbles that I'm not just here, I'm coming.
But hey, it isn't like we'll be facing Corey Smith in the ring.
Corey Smith isn't even a has been or a never was.
Corey Smith isn't even a name in the XWF.
Lux is.
Lux, the time traveling assassin sent from the future to create a paradox and holy fuck I can't tell if I'm paraphrasing Deadpool 2, the entire Terminator franchise, the Butterfly Effect, Looper, Back to the Future, or however many other shitty knockoff movies that reside with the rest of the dregs on Netflix. I think you're more in the shitty knockoff category.
So, Corey, since you seem to be listening, and I guess this is for Lux's benefit since she can't hear it while you are listening, I feel it's important to point something out to you, to make something crystal fucking clear.
You were chosen.
I sure as shit wasn't chosen to be the host for Kyle Reese's bastard daughter's consciousness.
Pig sure as fuck wasn't chosen to be the one to carry on the legacy of someone so shitty they failed in the future and thought coming to two-thousand and nineteen was their only shot at success.
And do you know why neither of us were chosen?
We are too fucking strong.
I would have shaken off the notions of being Lux like a dog coming in from the rain, and Pig would have too. We don't have a crisis of conscious, we know exactly what the fuck we are.
We're god damned, low down, no good Motherfuckers.
Maybe, sometimes, we feel penitent. Sometimes we gotta make up for our very existence by taking a break from manning the fuck up by manning the fuck up for someone else. Sometimes we gotta fight the good fight.
Sometimes we get left hanging in the breeze by pieces of shit like the Engineer to get stomped by Apex.
Know some history if you're going to quote mine and elevate a piece of shit's.
Know some history before you want to bemoan the fact I put my ass on the line to stand up for Lux at War Games. Talk about the fact I eliminated two assholes. Talk about how through all the bullshit, and how you want to piss and moan that I don't like Scully, I showed up and whooped some ass, even going so far as to defend Lux.
Know your fucking place, young man.
Because know it or not, come Wednesday Night Warfare, you got the Wednesday Night Wrecker and the Fuzzy Face of Fear coming to do damage to that body of yours. We will show you your place. You might not feel it immediately, because you gotta play with the Ouija board or smoke some ass hairs or whatever little ritual you go through to Lux out, and by the way, Lux sucks, been waiting to make a rhyme for a bit here, but even though Lux is the one taking the licks while me and Pig get our kicks, you're the fool getting knocked from the gene pool, feeling the after effect and bruises. You're going to wake up Thursday morning, wondering why this hurts, why that hurts, and you'll be questioning bruises and welts, and you'll have three people to thank for that. Lux, for dragging your piddly ass body into the ring, and seriously, I can not understate how shitty a decision your body was, but I guess Lux wasn't really that smart or strong enough to, I dunno, inhabit the body of an Olympian, or maybe some Special Ops Jedi, or a power lifter, or even some special education all-star to harness some of that
strength. But you can blame Lux for the fact your spleen is where your balls are supposed to be and your balls are where your eyes are supposed to be come Thursday. Then you can credit the Motherfuckers for absolutely pulverizing the shit out of your body and Lux's whack ass, sincerely flawed self too.So, without further ado...
Lux sucks. That there's a verbal redux. Try to correct it but that there is the crux. Someone call the Sci-Fi network, I did, they were like "shucks." No way could they tell that story and make a couple bucks. Wrecking your body is a formality, try to wear a tux. Go all out, ass whoopings galore, ass whoopings deluxe. You got a splintered psyche in a constant state of flux? Flighty, flighty, less than mighty, like a couple baby ducks? Motherfuckers serving you your ass like you ordered it from Starbucks. Take your name, pour it hot, and if you don't get my reference, make it Tim Horton's for all the Canucks. You're a vespa on the highway facing off a monster truck, so bite your tongue and just admit that you're sitting there starstruck.
Then we got the space man, past the stars and the moon. Offered up a cantaloupe and dipped out like a jagaloon. I don't remember Azrael doing anything best, taking on D'Ville or even old Pest, just limply showing up less often than, shit, me, it's career has been in jest. Here I am ready to drop bars, with a wink and a smile, Pig has been training by smashing up cars, Street Fighter II style, and Azrael is prepping a rocket to Mars, all thirty-four million, six hundred and forty-seven, four hundred and twenty miles. Love me or hate me, at least I've done something, there was some result, Azrael just insists on themselves like the leader of some cult. Space man coming around, pretend to be a commodity, the estate of David Bowie is suing you for being a space oddity. You say you're from the skies, you couldn't even make it to Denver, Colorado, empty bluster, empty promises, epicly false bravado. You can't hack it against this very Earthly desperado, you're a fucking clown like that idiot Fortunato, salivating over the thought of some tasty Amontillado, till the bricks all come into place and you're lost like El Dorado, and yes, I just went Edgar Allen Poe on your ass.
I figured you'd like that, Az. You're into more theatrics than three whole high schools worth of drama nerds.
Robbie gives the pigeon some pigeon CPR, having annihilated his and BWP's opponents and thus feeling bad for what he's done and penitent. The pigeon recovers, and Robbie tapes the iPad back to it's foot, to be returned to the crack XWF production staff.