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X-treme Wrestling Federation » Warfare Boards » Warfare RP Board
Escaping the mental hospital.
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Brucette Blingsteen Offline
Don't do drugs...without me.


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(cheered BECAUSE they break rules and bones)
 (Where is my roster page?)
Joined: Sun Mar 29 2015
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#1
04-28-2015, 08:30 PM

With a shit eating grin, Bruce Blingsteen is seated on a metal folding chair, slouched back and counting the tiles on the ceiling. The other patients, all clad in white, cotton robes just like Bruce, are all staring intently at him as the doctor scribbles away into a notepad. Bruce suddenly stops and sits back into his chair, humming the theme from Jeopardy while he swings his feet back and forth like an antsy child at the dinner table waiting for whatever trans fat laden heap of gruel their negligent parent spooned onto their plate.

”Well, good doctor, it looks as if we’ve got a severe case of--” Bruce throws his hands up in frustration and yells”What the fuck am I still doing here!?”

Bruce crosses his arms and slams back into his seat with a huff.

”This is complete and total bullshit, and you know it. I come in, happily under the influence of some dank ass weed and you treat me like I’m a scientologist. I ain’t fucking crazy man. The fact that I’m still here speaks volumes about the American medical system, man. Better believe I’m gonna holla at Al Sharpton when I get outta this bitch.”

The doctor stops scribbling and looks up from her notepad. She clears her throat and flashes a pearly white smile his way.

”Now Bruce, we’ve gone over this. Your stay here is purely for your own safety. You’ve exhibited behaviors typical of a paranoid schizophrenic and it is our belief that you will need to be properly rehabilitated before rejoining the general population. Now please, Mr. Fagsteen, tell us about your earliest childhood memory.”

”Yo...what’d you just call me?”

”I called you Mr. Blingsteen. Would you prefer if I stuck to Bruce?”

Bruce shoots her a confused look but shrugs it off when the doctor smiles back at him.

”Any-fucking-way, like I was telling you before I don’t remember that far back. I barely remember what I had for breakfast this morning.”

”Remember Bruce, you didn’t eat breakfast this morning? You threw your own...feces, at the orderly because you didn’t like the agave syrup.”

”Who the fuck puts agave on pancakes!? You stick me in this little motherfucking room and then you want to torture me with this shit? Maple syrup. Maple. It’s not that difficult.”

”Did you really need to show your distaste by launching a handful of poop at the man?”

”Hey man, you stuck me in the looney bin. When in Rome, fling shit like the Romans do am I right?”

”Well Bruce, that was a SUPER DICK thing to do, don’t you think?”

”Hey that’s not really language becoming of a medical professional. And why’d you put so much emphasis on ‘super dick?’ you’re starting to sound like--”

”I said no such thing! I do not appreciate you blatantly lying. This circle is one where we can freely express ourselves but I think you may be crossing a line.”

”What!? C’mon, everyone heard that shit! Tell ‘em, Chief.”

Bruce says with a slap to the shoulder of the man in the chair next to him: A large, stoic Native American man. The man looks down at Bruce and then back forward, staring off into space without uttering a word.

”He’s the strong silent type. But he heard you. Pottymouth.”

”Need I remind you that your only hope of leaving our facility one day is by convincing me that you’re actually of sound state of mind? You’re doing a terrible job so far.”

“Now, for the rest of you, we’re going to listen to some words from a very inspirational figure. Someone who can give us all some very valuable insight into our very souls. She pulls out a tape recorder with a smile. Mr. Peter Gilmour.”

”Oh you’ve gotta be fucking kidding me...”

”Silence mortal!”

”The fuck…?” His question is cut off by the all-too-familiar voice of Peter Gilmour emanating from the recorder.

Quote:The one title I have won 13 fuckin times

Quote:I don't think I have to tell you how many times I've held that title
”Oh okay, so he and I are on the same page on that one, good to know.”

Quote:But for you, I'll tell you. 13 times!

”But he just. I mean he literally just said that. Come on! This guy’s words are more twisted than Serbian pornography.”

”You shut your mouth! He’s an Xtreme GOD!”

Bruce scoffs and turns back toward Chief.

”Can you believe this fucking broad? It’s like Gilmour took a dump in her ear and now all his bullshit is just spewing right out of her mouth.”

Quote:Bruce, you have no idea what you're in for this Wednesday night because our match is a PYRAMID OF TABLES XTREME DEATHMATCH! Tables will be all over the ring along with Thumbtacks, Barbed Wire, Panes of Glass.. anything you can think of

”Cotton candy? Marshmallow fluff? For your sake I hope not because I can’t picture your rotund ass passing over free food, even for the title belt that you’ve won 13 times that you don’t need to tell me that you’ve won 13 times. You really think I’m afraid of office supplies and lunchroom tables? You’re right Peter, I’ve never had a match quite like this. Namely, because it would take one adolescent minded, immature pissant to even bother suggesting such a stupid match stipulation. You ever had a mentally handicapped child ask you for a dollar? You can’t say no to them because you know that that dollar is probably going to be one of the highlights of their tragic existence.

“Well Peter, me accepting this match is me giving you your dollar. Enjoy it, cherish it, buy yourself a couple temporary tattoos and a Nutrigrain bar with it. And when you come back to reality, realize that the only mistakes made here is that you were stupid enough to propose this match and arrogant enough to think you could just sleep through it. You think it’s some fluke that I’m the Xtreme champion? I don’t know if you’ve quite caught on to this yet, but I’m going to fill you in on a pretty big detail: I beat the guy who used to carry you in matches. I beat the guy that you so desperately wanted to ride into the finals of Lethal Lottery. I beat the guy that beat you. Don’t think I didn’t do my homework, Gilmour. I know exactly who you are and what you bring to the table, and I’m not sweating it one bit. You think having scars is some sort of proof that you’re going to be better than me in this match? Like it makes you some grizzled veteran that’s been through all these wars? I bet half of those are stretch marks and the rest you got from getting your ass constantly handed to you as a child because you looked like the offspring of a sewer rat and a chunk of pork fat.”

“Have you ever seen the movie ‘Carrie,’ Peter? Look up the premise on Wikipedia if you haven’t, it should look really familiar: A complete and total loser gets offered a date to the big dance, and right when she thinks she’s finally made, that victory is within her grasp, she instead gets covered in blood and is left a weeping mess. Kind of like you Pete. You are such a giant, pathetic asshole that I could barely stomach treating you like you were someone to look up to. I asked you to the big dance, which would be Warfare, and just when you think that you’re going to become the new Xtreme champion, you’re going to be left a bloody pulp, sobbing like a jilted preteen left penniless in the lobby of an abortion clinic. But that’s where the parallels end, Peter. There’s no revenge, there’s no EPIC redemption or mystical powers. There’s just the same ol’ Peter Gilmour, toiling away in the shadows of greater men than he, muttering under his breath about how he’s better than everyone else despite remaining a bumbling piece of shit.”

The doctor presses the stop button on the voice recorder, crosses her arms and furls her brow while staring at Bruce.

”What?”

”You try to convince me that you’re not crazy and yet you speak to a voice recorder like it’s a person speaking directly to you? Bit backwards, don’t you think?”

”Come on! He recorded that whole promo to hype up a match that we’re having at Warfare! I had to respond somehow.”

”It is my professional opinion that you will not be able to make it to Warfare this week, I’m sorry. Looks like you will have to forfeit that belt of yours.”

”That’s bullshit! You have to let me out of here!”

”Bruce! Do I have to call the orderlies?”

”Go right ahead, I gotta shit anyway! What the fuck kind of conspiracy is this? You hold me against my will in this rat-shit filled hell hole and tell me I have to forfeit my title!? And even worse, you make me listen to Peter Gilmour’s rambling, incoherent garbage promo!”

”Do not badmouth Peter! He’s a saint!”

Bruce cocks his head to the side and raises his eyebrow. He jumps towards the doctor who recoils in horror, revealing a Peter Gilmour shirt underneath or coat. Bruce claps his hands together quickly and louding, cheering and pointing at the image of Peter’s bloated face staring back at him. The doctor motions for security and three large men, all wearing Peter Gilmour tshirts, quickly swarm the room. Bruce reaches down the back of his pants, but before he can make stool he is brought down to the ground in a dogpile. Bruce laughs loudly as several punches are rained down on him until he loses consciousness.


He awakens, chained up in a dark room. Blindfolded and bruised, Bruce begins to stir as he groans and rattles his restraints. Torches held by hooded figures illuminate the cold room, a large mural of a naked Peter Gilmour serves as the backdrop, with two grapes and cocktail weiner covering up his genitals.

”Hello? Anyone there? What the fuck is going on!?”

”Praise Gilmour.” they chant.

”He is God.” they chant.

”Praise Gilmour.” they chant.

”Suck his dick.” they chant.

”Oh you’ve got to be fucking kidding me...”

”He will rise again! 14 times! He will rise again! 14 times! Sacrifice the !”

”!?”

”!” they chant.

”!” they chant.

”!” they chant.

”!” they chant.

”Okay, okay, I fucking get. Sacrificing though? That’s a little bit harsh don’t you think?”

”You will never escape. You will die here mortal!”

”Oh yeah, about that. I’m expecting company. You guys might want to run now.”

A loud crash sends the whole room spinning. Dirt and debris cascade from the ceiling as the panicked Gilmour cult scatter about, scrambling for safety. Another loud crash sends everyone to the ground.


In rolls the fuckin’ Brick Squad tank. (Our own fuckin’ tank!)

Dick Powers pops his head up from the hatch of the M420 Abrams tank, wearing a leather pilot’s helmet and a smile a mile wide.

”We got a tank!”

”We got a tank!?”

”We got a tank!”

”Awesome!”

”Uh, yeah!”

”Praise Gilmour” they chant.

”Would you fucking give it up already? There’s no way that pudgy lout is going to beat me at Warfare. When you got a squad like this backing you up, you’re pretty much fucking untouchable.

“Tell your ‘God,’ that I’m coming for him tomorrow. I’m going to show him up in his own stupid little match, I’m going to wave that belt he holds so dear right in front of his face and I’m going to snatch it away from him. And then I’m going to put him through the tables, or pin him or however the fuck I have to win this absurd match. Bank on it. Hey Carson, light these fools up.”

Flynn pops his head up through the top hatch, wearing a big pair of goggles.

”Actually bro, this doesn’t actually have guns. Sorry.”

”Weak.”

”It shoots weed though!” Carson yells from inside the tank.

”Dank!”

”Mad dank!” Carson yells from inside the tank.

The cannon explodes and the room fills with smoke. Several moments pass as the haze begins to settle. Henry emerges from the tank and frees Bruce from his chains, lifts him over his shoulder and carries him back to the tank as a giggling Bruce hums ‘I Will Always Love You’ by Whitney Houston.

”Thanks moose.”

The scene comes to a conclusion as Henry and Bruce pile into the tank and it rolls backwards through the rubble and down the vacant street.

”Food?”

”Chipotle!” they chant.
Current Universal Champion
(1x) X-Treme Champion
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