Brandon Moore is just strolling down the street and sees a crazy looking dude celebrating something. The celebrating fellow turns around as Brandon continues approaching. Brandon's eyes get extremely wide. He notices the Federweight Championship in this guy's hands.

"Who's this dildo? Wait...tt's the fucker that beat Snow! Barn Fallandhammer or whatever the shit. Hold up. Twenty-four seven, right? Fuckin' A, Cotton."

Brandon charges at Bjorn Felhammen, startling a bunch of randos walking on the sidewalk with him. It's freezing fucking cold outside, but YOLO, right? Bjorn notices Brandon coming after him and starts to take off. Not so fast. He slips on some ice and hits the ground. He takes a knee as he scrambles to get up...BOOM. Brandon lands a Shining Wizard on the newly crowned Federweight Champion. Brandon stares a hole in the downed Nordic man.

"You beat Snow? Seriously?! You look like the white Flavor Flav mixed with the Swedish chef from the muppets, bro. Just stay down if you know what's best for you. Or I'll kick your dick inside you and send you back to Snow. You'll have a fucking pussy and she'll love that shit. You greasy bastard. Horgy borgy, motherfucker!"

Brandon drops down for the pinfall and counts it himself.

1....

2....

CURRENT Federweight Champion

Bjorn grabs Moore's dick and kicks out.

Found the bullet, but where's the gun? If you wanna beat me, it's gonne take Moore than that. Pun intended.

Don't feel bad, it's ok to feel inadequate in my presence. So ding my dong, bend over, and get ready for some Merciless Merriment.....for me of course. Velo, prepare the shed, tonight we annihilate another anal cavity.

Bjorn takes a mighty swig of Blüd and chuckles heartedly.

Brandon rubs his junk and snarls at Bjorn Felhammen.

"What the fuck is up with the XWF?! Everyone grabs dicks, fucks butts, and all sorts of other weird shit. Whatever happened to good old fashioned smack talk?! Good old fashioned fights in the squared circle?! I'm bringing that shit back to XWF, granted, with a lot of fucking swearing. And I'm going to start by taking your title and pounding your ass the proper way, with a boot and not a cock!

Brandon sends a surprise kick to the side of Bjorn's leg, falling him to a knee once again. Brandon then sends a straight kick right to Bjorn's face. He gets on the cold ground, much like Steve Austin does. Brandon is right up in Bjorn's grill now.

"Listen here, you big fucking weirdo. I'm here to wreak Havoc with Bad Attitude and snag me some fucking gold. That second part is where you come in. I'm not here to fuck butts. I'm not here to grab dicks. And I'm certainly not here to make stupid fucking puns. But, here's an exception, though. If your shitty fucking Centaur cousin even thinks about touching me, I'll take his horse cock and shove it so far down your throat, you'll feel it in your toes.

Brandon slams the crown of his head right into Bjorn's nose. Sick fucking headbutt. Brandon goes for the pin again.

1...

2...

CURRENT Federweight Champion

Bjorn spits us blood and kicks out.

Good on ya boy. A fighter. Brings my arousal level to a new high. I find it priceless you actually want to touch my cousin's skin flute.

Bjorn then decks Moore in the mouth, repeatedly, pummeling his face into the ground.

[/color]Let me tell you a story. There once was a man, nay, a mighty warrior with a lust for combat who one day decide that battle had become too easy. So to stay in a fresh mind, he figured he break the spirits of opposing armies by making their highest officiasl his bitch. And in that tradition, shall do to you what countless generations of my family has done before me.

Bjorn rips off Moore's pants and whistles for Samson, the Frankenstein's Monster of walruses.

Be a good lad and make room for the wooly mammoth, will ya Samson?

Arlf Arlf

Samson claps his flippers before getting to work.

Brandon wiggles away in disgust. He's cold because his pants have been torn off, but his Justice League underwear and the blood flowing is enough to keep him from freezing. Blood, not just flowing in his body, but is flowing down his face now at the short beatdown. That's not enough to keep him from going for the gold, though.

"Is that all you've got, Bjoring? That's how you make a fucking pun, square."

Brandon spits blood into the faces of Bjorn and Samson. Samson starts shrieking like a tornado siren as Brandon kicks him away. Bjorn lets out a weird grunt of his own before Brandon delivers a swift kick right to his dick.

"That'll be the only time me or anyone else touches your, probably uncut, micropenis. I've got my own story to tell you. Once upon a time, you weren't a little bitch. Just kidding, though, you've always been a little bitch. And you would travel across the land looking to conquer all the man asses. You would ride your shitty horse dude cousin and circle jerk with your boyfriend walrus. You even made it as XWF Federweight Champion. Until one day...the Fire Nation attacked...I mean, Brandon Moore attacked. He fucked you up. Hard. Took your title, castrated your friends, and sent you down the sewer. Because down there, people won't know it's you that smells like that. The fucking end."

Brandon, pantless and all, grabs Bjorn by the legs and flips over for a bridging jackknife pin.

1...

2...

CURRENT Federweight Champion

Bjorn gains an erection so powerful, it thrusts through his pants and cold cocks Moore for the kickout.

That's the spirit. You must have played the rape game before, your resistance is dead on to Gilly's dream girl. Tell ya what, we won't run damage that tight butt of your, just a little brand on you chest. The emblem to the Fallen Hammer, right above you belly button. If not, you'll get a fight, one that you won't win, and you'd best make your decision quick, because you wont like me when I'm sober.

So put some pants on and get your ass whooped with some dignity.

Brandon retrieves his pants and quickly puts them back on. He's had enough of this bullshit.

"I'm going to win this fight, you big ugly bastard. That's my decision...to fuck you up! Keep your dick in your pants, you fucking 'mo. You're scaring the children watching from across the street. The hammer isn't going to fall today, bucko! The only thing that's going to fall is your big ass."

Brandon grabs Bjorn and knees him in the gut. He follows that up by throwing him into a nearby mailbox. Pin attempt!

"Thanks for not violating my asshole, ya fuckin' skeez."

1...

2....

CURRENT Federweight Champion

Moore then wakes up safe and sound at home in bed as Bjorn brings him a Tylenol with Velo following behind with breakfast. Obviously there was a kick out.


Ah, you're awake. That was some brawl we had; smashing toliets on each others head, hitting it big whilst being slammed through various slot machines. Getting married at the Four Seasons to Velo, falling off Sears Tower.

And don't scratch your asshole, that tattoo of Bea Arthur needs to heal.

"How did you get in my house, you greasy fuck bucket?! You're seriously fucked, bro! If any of that shit actually happened, I'll come find you after I take your belt. I'll string your fucking intestines between two poles and hang my clothes to dry on them! And I swear to fuck off there's a Bea Arthur tattoo around my shithole...I'll feed you your fucking horse cousin! Now, give me that fucking Federweight belt and bounce outta my crib!"

Brandon jumps out of bed to confront Bjorn. This threat causes Velo to drop the breakfast and charge Brandon. Brandon sidesteps this, though, and Velo goes CRASHING through the second story bedroom window.

"My fucking window!"

Infuriated, Brandon grabs Bjorn and sends him out the window as well. Bjorn lands on top of Velo and Brandon is quick to follow. He hits a 450 splash through the window onto Bjorn and Velo. Pinfall!

1...

2...

CURRENT Federweight Champion

*4 weeks later*

Moore comes to chained to a wall somewhere in Thailand. Velo, Samson, and Bjorn come raging through armed with machine guns and robot armor. After a kick out.

I hope I didn't five you a tumor with that last thrashing. In your haze, you single handedly triggered world war 3, and good Gods man, they've sewed you protozoan dick to your forehead. Let's get you out of here quick, you must go back in time and stop yourself from getting your ass kicked by me. It's the only way to avert this disaster.

Nearby, a tanning bed opens with a hiss.

Vincent Lane steps out, clad only in the tiniest and pinkest speedos imaginable. He looks around, checks out his tan in a mirror, then makes a disgusted face.


"Ugh. Can I get a tarp here?"


Lee Roy Scoggins, the newly hired Head Custodian, runs into view with a large tarp, then rolls it out across the grimy floor before scampering off and playing harmonica.


"Thanks dude!"


Vincent then drops onto the tarp and slaps his hand onto the blue plastic.



"THHRREEEEEEE!!!! Bjorn, this really isn't your strong suit!"

Winner and NEW Federweight Champion - Brandon Moore!

???

(12-19-2016, 05:00 PM)Bjorn Felhammen Said: ???

Are you asking about the ruling?

The Federweight Title is all about trash talking, so the better trash talking wins. It's not like the X Title with the 12 hour timer mattering most or the HMW with the hidden pins. It's about the talk.