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X-treme Wrestling Federation »  RP Archive » Archives » The Revelry 2024 PPV Board
Offer and Acceptance
Author Message
Mark Flynn Offline
Champions get their name in red!



XWF FanBase:
The IWC

(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
06-01-2024, 09:01 PM

Previously...

The waves crept in…

Slowly but surely…

Like a predator feeding on paralyzed prey…

Why eat quickly?

The hunt is complete

All that remains?

To savor the meal.



Flynn’s legs had gone numb from the water’s subzero temperatures…

Flynn was consumed up to his abdomen…

And as the seas swallowed him, hauntingly, mercilessly slowly…

He felt himself slipping away.



The beach was soundless. Colorless.

Lifeless.

Not a coo of a seabird to be heard.

Not even the ripples of the tide were audible.

The ocean moved imperceptibly slowly.

The sky was pure white, blotting out the sun.

And Flynn had grown so weak from this lengthy death ritual…

His vision had begun to blur…

Glancing sideways at the beach he laid upon…

He could not see individual grains of sand.

But a solid dome of ivory.

An examining table.

Like one might lay a corpse upon.

To determine the cause of death.



Since he had sent away the boy from his dreams who had begged him to live.

There was nothing else here.

But to di-

”Ah! A front-row seat!”

CRUNCH! The sound of metal piercing the sands of the beach echoes amidst the prior silence.

”Phew! Relief and solace abound! I feared I had missed your demise, Mark Flynn!”

…Flynn exhaustedly lets gravity drag his eyes upward.

Just within Flynn’s view.

Sitting on a hot pink beach chair.

His old tag-team partner.

The North Korean War Criminal.

Wearing a pair of camouflage swim trunks. And a t-shirt with Kim Jong Un’s face on it.



”N…K?” Flynn’s breath escapes from his lungs like air from a punctured tire.

”What the f…” Flynn’s voice cracks from exhaustion… He blinks, trying to summon enough energy to speak. ”What the ffffff…*cough*” Despite his best efforts to unleash his trademark stream of his favorite F-word, Flynn’s efforts merely result in a sputtering cough.

It seems he is out of ‘fucks’ to give.

”My, oh my! Mark Flynn! Seeing you in this state? As a withered husk of your former self…” NK tsk-tsks in mock sympathy, raising to his lips a summery fruit-flavored beverage, coated at the bottom with popping boba.

He sips… And exhales with a deeply satisfied smile.

”It is… almost *too* delicious.”

”*cough*... *wheeze*... What are y-... What are you do-*COUGH*”

”For the Glorious Leader’s Sake, Mark Flynn, SPEAK!” NK chortles sadistically… Pointing at his own chest. ”Here! From the diaphragm! PROJECT your message! In fact, allow me…” NK turns his head sideways toward the bloated whale carcass, baking on the beach and cups a hand around his ear. ”There! My flawless ears are perfectly attuned to receive your message! You must merely SPEAK IT CLEARLY, Mark Flynn!”

”...Why…” Flynn exhales, spent, possibly wasting the last words he has the physical capacity to speak… ”You… Here… *wheeze*...Why?”

…NK giggles nefariously, as his hand shifts from his ear to his chin. ”Ah! A simple question. Though…” NK’s hand shifts to the top of his head, scratching it curiously. “Perhaps, one of ambiguous meaning.”

“If you seek to understand how I have come to be inside your mind, joining you as you shred your own ego to the abyss of your subconscious…” NK’s index finger points to the sky! “I have SEVERAL THEORIES!”

“One! In this moment, as you will soon cease to exist, like a man on his deathbed, you consider the great regrets of your time… BETRAYING ME! Ending our historically successful partnership out of jealousy! YOU were well aware after I pinned Universal Champion Raion Kido at WarGames that my road to ascend to the top of the XWF was clear! And you ended my career to STEAL my opportunity!”


NK takes another satisfied sip from his beverage, before licking a little blood-red grenadine syrup caught on his front teeth…

“While, I must confess, you DID defeat me at Relentless… Perhaps, I am here, in your mind, because you still harbor some regret! Clearly, this is an ocean of difference between defeating the physical manifestation of your self-doubt… And actually exorcising your personal demons… Heheheheh.”

…NK smacks his own leg. “Delectable! What an absolutely extravagant treat! Even as you’ve spent your entire career claiming your victories in the ring, your lengthy list of career accomplishments, give your life some semblance of worth. That the fruits of your life’s labor justify the sinister, despicable means! That your fame has retroactively transformed your dishonorable chicanery into the triumphant acts of a noble king… A WRESTLING GOD, even!”

“Here you are! Laid bare! As a NOTHING.”

“Your legendary career? Simply a figment of your imagination.”




“However!” NK points in the air once more! “An alternative theory! Perhaps, as you raise your son, your infant boy… Rendered from my own DNA… (and birthed by Country Music’s Shania Twain)... In the recesses of your mind, you fear.”

“You dread.”

“You quail, quiver, shrink, shudder and shy!”

“At the thought that… Just as I, your former partner, came to learn who you really are.”

“And despise you with my ENTIRE BEING.”




“That, as your son’s mind develops.”

“As he learns to walk and talk…”

“He will come to perceive you.”

“He will come to truly know you, Mark Flynn.”

“And perhaps, you fear that… when he comes to know you.”

“He will come to dislike you.”

“At which point? Won’t that confirm what you’ve always known, deep-down?”

“That you are not misunderstood by the world?”

“That you haven’t been robbed of a fair shake to prove that you’re a decent man?”

“That your reputation doesn’t warp how people perceive your best efforts.”

“But, instead.”

“That deep down.”

“Deeeeeeeeeeeeep down.”

“You are irredeemable.”




“Regarding these hypotheses…”

NK raises his hands.

He looks at one.

“The first is a sound theory.”

He looks at the other.

“As is the second.”

Then, his shoulders lift into a shrug.

“Frankly, both are equally delightful to me. But, the most important thing is…”

“In your mind, where you keep your alternative personalities and your hopes and your dreams and your fears and your anxieties… Where you might think you’re safest.”


NK taps his nose.

“I am here.”

“I live rent-free in your head!”




“However!” NK points to the sky again! “If you mean, specifically, why am I sitting here?” NK points to the beach beneath his feet. “To that I say… How could I miss this?!?”

NK giggles again, delightedly clapping his hands!

”It’s the event of the season! Of the century! Finally, capitalist swine and individualist traitor, Mark Flynn, shall have the decency to suffer for his crimes against the collective! The sentence? NON-EXISTENCE!”

NK rubs his hands together fiendishly. ”The only disappointment is that your essence evaporating into a metaphorical ocean of your thoughts and ideas means that you will not have a grave upon which I might project my spit.”

…Flynn uses the very last pocket of will in his being to twist his face into a grimace. “Oh, go to h-” Fwshhhhhhhh, the water creeps over his lips, drowning out his voice.

”Now!” NK claps his hands together, before reaching into the rightmost pocket of his swim trunks. ”While is not a funeral, I prepared a statement to eulogize your FAILURE of an existence!”

NK lifts an index card to his eyes, clearing his throat.

”What IS Mark Flynn, anyway?”

”An albatross hanging around the neck of the collectivist dream.”

”An error! A cretin! An insect! A mutant!”

”Mark Flynn is…”




”A goddamned golden boy.”

”The fuckin’ man with the gift of Gab.”

Water streams down a bathroom sink.

Two hands catch the water, before dumping it onto a pair of cheeks…

Christopher K. Clinton scrubs his face clean… Before catching his own eyes in the mirror.

”You could sell sand to the Sultan of Saudi Arabia.”

“AND he’d ask for sand insurance”

“He’d ask if he could buy a sand certificate, declaring the sand came from CHRISTOPHER K. CLINTON.”


Clinton gives his right cheek a gentle smack.

”THAT'D how you good you are.”

Clinton points to the bathroom door.

”Those twelve DUMB FUCKS don’t know their ass from a hole in the ground.”

”BUT YOU!”

Clinton points back to his reflection.

”YOU know t. YOU know what’s best for the Mark Flynn property.”

”You know that if Mark Flynn wants to be PERMANENTLY EMBEDDED IN WRESTLING LEGEND?!?”

”The only LOGICAL choice is accepting Thaddeus Duke’s job offer!”

”And becoming Co-General Manager of Warfare.”

…Clinton takes a deep breath.

”That’s the truth. Plain and simple.”

“All you gotta do? Is sell the truth.”

“Sand down the rough edges. Coat the bitterness in sugar.”


Clinton reaches down for his throat and straightens out his tie.

“This is your game. This is where you thrive.”

“They’re the jury. And you’re making a case.”


Clinton grins… And delivers unto himself…

A finger gun.

“SHOOOOOOOOWTIME!”



BOOM! Clinton kicks the door in!

A boardroom of twelve Flynns looks from the executive meeting table as Clinton marches front-and-center.

A cacophony of voices in Flynn’s head.

To Clinton, this is a jury of his peers.

“WHAT IS A LEGACY?”

…Clinton’s eyes sweep across the room!

“Webster’s dictionary defines ‘leg-‘“

SLAM!

…Clinton is startled to silence by the sudden thud.

…In the silence, he looks around the room.

And sees twelve Mark Flynn personas…

Eyeing him up and down. Sizing him up.

With distrust. Suspicion. Hostility.

…Clinton grits his teeth… Which he quickly tries to swivel into a smile.



The source of the knock was the black-eyed ‘Free-Win’ Flynn.

The cultist who tried to bring about a wrestling apocalypse.

“Let’s cut to the chase.”

“Uh… W-w-well, I mean, let’s not rush things, right? After all, the chase is only exciting after you’ve gotten the setup!” Clinton chuckles, his fingers twitching nervously. “You can’t just have a chase without VALUABLE CONTEXT!”

The Flynns are unamused and unpersuaded.

Clinton tugs at his collar. “…Tough Crowd.”

Free-Win perseveres.

“…This little presentation you’ve prepared… It’s regarding Thaddy boy’s job offer, correct? That we become the Warfare co-GM?”

“That we let ourselves get bought out?” adds RECORD PROFITS™.

“That we embrace the abyss?” growls The Beast.

“NO MORE BELTS?!?” Moans the Whore for Gold.

Clinton dry-swallows. Ffffffffffffuck! PIVOT! PIVOT! STICK AND MOVE!

Clinton raises his hands defensively, “Before we make any rash, uninformed decisions... how about we consider the pros and cons of this off-“

SWIP! Free-Win’s finger slices through the air, cutting Clinton’s verbal defense.

“One sec there, CLINTON. We Flynns need time to… deliberate.”



The Flynns huddle over the table. Whispering and murmuring.



Clinton turns to face the wall.

FUCK!

What happened out there?

I’ll tell you what happened.

You choked.

You fucking BLEW IT.

You had a goddamned GOLDEN OPPORTUNITY.

To salvage the Mark Flynn brand.

And you let it slip through your fucking fingers!

Like a fat nine-year old little league outfielder bobbling a popfly!

WE LOOKED FUCKING LOST OUT THERE!



…No. It’s not over.

We won’t LET IT BE OVER!

This is just phase one of the dance.

Of the SALE.

Let them say no at first.

Let them feel that power of rejecting you.

THEN, the real pitch truly begins.

The pitch of the goddamn ages!

THE GREATEST PITCH OF ALL-T-


“Yep. We’re fine with it.”



Clinton slowly turns around, back towards the jury of Flynns.



“...What?”

Free-Win nods assertively.

“Make the deal.”



Quote:Hello XWF, my name is Holden Payne, and I'm here to wrestle.

Holden Payne.

New hire, huh?

A green…

Wet-behind-the-ears…

Rookie.

Probably don’t even know your way around the office yet, huh?

Well, Holdy.

Let me be the first to say…

Welcome to the Show.

The Pros.

The Big Leagues.

The FUCKING TOP OF THE WRESTLING WORLD.

The XWF.

Where the BEST of the MOTHERFUCKING BEST come to establish their place in HISTORY.

Where the merely-PHENOMENAL go to TRANSCEND to IMMORTALITY.



I’ll be your tour guide.

MARK FLYNN.

If you want my qualifications?

I’ve been here the longest.

And I don’t plan on going anywhere.




“Retiring to accept Thaddeus's offer is the most logical choice. Our goal is, was, and has always been… to assert control over our own destiny.” The Beast thumbs his nose, as he looks around the room of Flynns. “To hold the reins of fate in our own hands! Wrenching the wheel from those undeserving fools who had failed upwards to management! The slack-jawed products of nepotism and inbreeding that make up every wrestling boardroom”

The other Flynns murmur and nod in agreement.

WHAM! The Beast slams his fist against the table!

“… This is Marcus's opportunity to twist wrestling’s corporate structure arm out of its socket until it BLACKS OUT, SCREAMING IN AGONY!”

...

“Metaphorically speaking, of course.”

”This is what’s best for MARK FLYNN.”



See, I figured I’d say my name loud and clear.

And deliver this tour.

In slow, clear language.

Because, dear Holdendum.

I get the vibe when I listen to you talk…

You might be disconnected from reality.

I’m here to set you straight, Holderino.


Quote:I’m calling out all of the talent that’s been sitting on your asses and collecting checks without putting in the work.

Issue One.

This callout only works.

If you've been logging those sweet, sweet billable hours.

Shedding your goddamned blood and sweat for the XWF.

Leaving it ALL on the LINE in that ring.

Those guys you called out?


Quote:The Mastermind's, Corey Black's and Peter Vaughn's of the world.

Those guys?

Have all fucking WRESTLED MORE FOR THE XWF than you have, Holdy.

You can't claim they're sitting on their asses collecting checks.

When you, Holdy, are more than willing to rack up appearance fees laying down challenges. Instead of signing up for matches.

You want to demand things around here?

Supply yourself in the goddamned ring.




“It’s simple supply-and-demand.” Says RECORD PROFITS™ as he points to a bar graph poster…

“Currently, the market is flooded with Mark Flynn. He’s on every single Warfare. The audience has become… *accustomed* to him. The once-bizarre has become the expected. The weird, now mundane.”

RECORD PROFITS™ points to downward trends… Smaller profits over time…

“To drive up demand? We have to reduce supply!” RECORD PROFITS™ flips the graph ninety degrees, so it is now trending upwards!

“We DRAIN the Mark Flynn wrestling market until people are BEGGING FOR IT.”

“...But.” The Beast strokes his chin. “If we do retire to reduce supply… How would we…” Finger-quotes. “Meet the demand we’re driving up.”

RECORD PROFITS™ grins.

“From the director’s chair. We MOLD the fans to worship us. It’s what every retired wrestler does… Take up juuuuuuust enough screentime for the fans to beg for a one-night return!”

“These stupid fucking fans are constantly shitting on the current talent for not being as good as XWF classic. WE can become XWF Classic!”

“We CONTROL THE MARKET! WE DICTATE THE PRICE! WE MAKE BAAAAAAAAAAANK!"




Now, don’t get me wrong.

You’re… ADJACENT to correct.

You’re in the ballpark of correct.

Vaughnie? MM? Other-Corey?

They’re all resting on their laurels.

Showing up to work at their *convenience*.

Just enough to satisfy contractually-obligated minimum appearance clauses in their contracts.

Juuuuuuuust barely clearing the threshold of non-retirement status.

These people are garbage.

Leeches on the XWF.

Siphoning away precious paychecks while expending MINIMAL EFFORT.




“It's the easiest way to accomplish our mission."

"The goal has always been DEFEATING THE WORLD.”
Free-Win barks. The rest of the Flynns lean in close, mesmerized.

“That was my mission. Doing it ONE FELL SWOOP. Accomplishing what NO OTHER COULD!”



“Now, granted… My preferred method, as Mark Flynn, was… bringing about a world-destroying apocalypse.”

“BUT!”

“The Second best way to beat every competitor in the world?”
Free-Win poses this as a question, looking around the room for a Flynn to provide the answer…

Then, he smiles.

“Running a wrestling company.”

“Do you know what employing someone to work is?”

“It’s beating them.”

“Every single day.”

“Watching the ants battle over scraps and crumbs, as you stand over them with a magnifying glass.”

“They worship and plead? Good. They rebel and revolt? Even better. Every move they make is for the benefit of a product you sell to the masses.”

“Every wrestler on the roster turning their desperate, physical exertions chasing a dream mindlessly into YOUR passive income stream.”

“Management IS victory. Employment is defeat. And by ruling the wrestling world?”

“WE BEAT EVERYBODY.”

“It’s just like Theo Pryce told us…”

“Management?”

“Is the real game.”

“Is the REAL fight.”





BUT.

Here’s the problem with your ‘challenge’, there, Holdy.

You CLAIM you want a fight.

A REAL fight.


Quote:Out of all the talent in this company, there has to be someone looking for a real fight.

THERE.

RIGHT FUCKING THERE.

Did you hear that, folks?

Holden Payne.

Laid down the challenge.

For a REAL FIGHT.



But the people he named?

The folks he was *brave* enough to call out?

Are the folks that EVEN HOLDEN PAYNE acknowledged…

AREN’T SHOWING UP TO WORK!!!



Get what I’m saying?

Holden Payne made a calculated callout.

Addressed to a certain batch of high-profile, missing-in-action names…

That he could assume with a high degree of certainty…

Would not respond to his challenge.

Making him look like a tough guy.

That Dock, Vaughnie and MM are too chicken to face.



Honestly?

Fair play.

An almost GENIUS level of punkedness on display here.

On the level of, as a new inmate in prison, calling out the toughest guy in aforementioned prison.

Knowing he was transferred out months ago.



But.

Let’s say.

I take you at your word.

In fact, this is a non-hypothetical.

When you lodged the exact same challenge on Warfare?

I took you AT YOUR WORD.


Quote:Out of all the talent in this company, there has to be someone looking for a real fight.

Holden Payne.

Wants a REAL FIGHT.


Quote:I want a challenge, and I want it at The Revelry.

Holden Payne.

Wants a CHALLENGE.



Holdemort?

Here's your challenge.

Mark Flynn.

Former Universal champion.

Tied for most briefcases held in XWF History.

The only man to ever enter WarGames holding the X-Treme Title…

And exit it with the belt still around his waist.

XWF Superstar of the Year 2022.

The HIGHEST FUCKING ELO ON THE ENTIRE XWF ROSTER.

I AM STATISTICALLY.

MATHEMATICALLY.

HISTORICALLY.

SCIENTIFICALLY.

AND BY EVERY OTHER METRIC CONCEIVABLE BY THE HUMAN MIND.

THE.

FUCKING.

GUY.

TO BEAT.




From there, the conversation was largely glad-handing and agreeing with each other.

Believe it or not, you get 12 guys in the same room that are technically all the same person?

You get a limited range of opinions.

Optimal Path Mark Flynn went on for a while about The Mountain Top being the Corporate Ladder all along.

Robert Miles just delivered a thumbs-up.

Whore For Gold held out for a few minutes, because ‘HOW FLYNN GET BELTS IF RETIRED?’

…But, once the group explained to the Whore we could use a paycheck to buy all the belts we could dream of, he quickly joined the group.

…It’s funny. Clinton smiled to himself.

He was so worried about making the ultimate sales pitch.

He didn’t account for the product selling itself.



Clinton waited for another bout of nods and agreements, before clearing his throat.

“So!” Clinton cuts in! “It’s agreed? Mark Flynn will… retire? And become co-GM?”



For a moment, the other Flynns suspiciously side-eye Clinton…



Before Free-Win knocks once on the table.



The dozen nod.

“Make it so.”



Clinton raises his phone.



Back in Flynn's Cherry Red Honda Fit… Clinton (piloting Flynn’s body) starts to text.

“What do I say, Thad? I’m MOTHERFUCKING I-”



Clinton’s thumb freezes mid-text.




Clinton hammers on the keyboard of his phone. Hitting the send button over and over.

An error sound chimes each time.

“Fuck.” Clinton mutters as the screen on his phone fizzes and glitches. “FUCK.”

…The Flynns turn to whisper and murmur once more.

Free-Win coughs. “Something the matter, CLINTON.” Free-Win puts an extra bit of pepper on the word ‘Clinton’... Clearly some hostility for the lawyer being the only Flynn persona to not call himself Flynn.

“Uh…” Clinton smiles nervously, feeling the room maybe start to turn on him…

“OH!” HE SNAPS HIS FINGERS! “I’ll just… I’ll call! Who accepts a job offer by text anyway! This calls for a CONVERSATION!”



Clinton raises the phone up to his face…

Cycles through contacts…

Presses Thad’s contact in Flynn’s phone.

And hits ‘ca-...



Once more.

Clinton’s…



No.

Flynn’s hand.

Is frozen.




“GODDAMMIT.” Clinton holds the phone to his face in the office of Flynn’s mind. But now, his own thumb is stuck in place. “DO IT!”

Clinton grabs his right thumb (the one hovering over the talk button) with his left hand, trying to manhandle his own thumb onto the button!

“FUCKING FUCK YOU! DO IT, YOU FUCK!” Clinton screams at his own thumb!

SWIP!

In a flash, the phone is swiped from Clinton’s hand…

By Free-Win.

“Never call a Clinton to do a Flynn’s job.” Free-Win sighs disappointed, before sliding the phone across the table to The Beast.

The Beast scoops the phone up to his face and smirks at Clinton, before pressing ta-



“What?!?” The Beast grimaces at the phone. “Damnable DEVIL DEVICE!”

“Fucking idiot.” RECORD PROFITS™ sighs before wrapping The Beast’s hand under his own. “Do I have to press your thumb down for y-”



…RECORD PROFITS™ seethes at both his and the Beast’s hand…

Frozen in place over the phone.

RP growls as the Beast. “WHAT DID YOU DO?!?”

The Beast’s eyebrows raise in puzzlement. “Me?!? I didn’t do anything!”

Whore for Gold dives his entire body on top of RP and B’s hands! “MAKE CALL! GET BELTS!” He lifts his foot over their two hands and sto-



His foot freezes millimeters above the phone!

“...BEEEEEEEEEEEEELT!” WFG screeches… Before some unseen force drives his foot backwards and he lands flat on his ass.

The force drives the phone across the table.

…In front of Free-Win Flynn.



The rest of the group watches in silence.



Free-Win lifts the phone to his face.

Raises his thumb over the button.



…His eyes strain.

His hand visibly shakes.

A vein in his forehead visibly pulsates.

As Free-Win struggles against…

Something impossible…

Something unforeseen.



The present Mark Flynns…

Despite their collective agreement to end Mark Flynn’s career.



Are not in control.







Holden.

Maybe you got excited on Warfare…

Because you thought you were wrestling the best.

On his way out the door.

Maybe you believed a rumor that Mark Flynn was cleaning out his desk.

And planning his own retirement party.

Maybe you even thought…

The same way you’d gamed the system to call Vaughnie and Dock cowards…

That you’d turn this into the story…

Of Holden Payne ending Mark Flynn’s career.



I got news for you, Hold Music.

I ain’t fucking going anywhere.

I don’t give a shit if it makes financial sense to my brand to leave.

I don’t give a shit if anyone and everyone thinks my best days are behind me.

I don’t give ONE ISOLATED SHIT that I’d have more control from guerilla position than inside that ring.

Know why, Holdo?

Because.

I.

AM.

A.

WRESTLER.

I AM THE GREATEST WRESTLER TO EVER LIVE.

And I’m not fucking going anywhere.



You want a challenge, Gary Holdman?

You fucking got it.
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