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B.O.B. D · (10-25-2019)

I had finally become TV Champion. I fell short in my first attempt against Lux, and had it within arm's reach of my second one against Thaddeus Duke, before Mastermind robbed me of it. But the third time was the charm. There was no outside interference, and I managed to dodge a kick to the head that saved me from CTE more severe than Antonio Brown's. At the end of the night, even though I could barely stand, I walked away with the belt and put the entire XWF on notice. And as impressive as that was, it wasn't the only feat I accomplished that night.

Thaddeus Duke is no longer in the XWF and it's NOT due to the bullshit Theo tried feeding us. As believable as it was, everyone knows the truth........ Big D ended his fuckin' career. The pain I inflicted on his prepubescent body, the breaks his brittle bones endured, it made him realize he wasn't cut out for this. Being embarrassed by me, basically twice, was too much for him and he couldn't show his face around here anymore. Make no mistake about it, that's the Cold Big D Truth, regardless of any story him or anyone else tries to spew. The history books will always show after losing to me, Thad Duke was never seen again.

History can be quite intriguing. Japan bombed Pearl Harbor, and the U.S. retaliated by dropping a bigger, more devastating bomb. Despite what happened almost 80 years ago, they've managed to move past their differences for the greater good. The same thing happens in the wrestling world; take me and Ned Kaye for instance. We're both two VERY different people, whether it be our moral fiber or in-ring style. But we both see the value the other brings to the table, and have set our differences aside because of the bigger picture of the World Tag Team Titles. I intend to do exactly the same with Fuzz for Lethal Lottery.

I don't like Fuzz. Hell, if you asked if I hated him, the answer would probably be yes. Not only did he beat me for the XWF Xtreme Championship, he also hasn't shown a ounce of respect for me. And I highly doubt that's gonna change anytime soon, despite my recent Championship victory. He didn't give me credit when I was Heavymetalweight or Federweight Champion, why would that change now?

In spite of this, I intend to work with Fuzz as if we were the 5'2 Mafia(without the sex, of course). With the career resurgence Fuzz has been having, not unlike myself, he's gonna want to win Lethal Lottery just as much as I do. Knowing that, I expect him to partner with me as cohesively as he would his son, Noah. Once the bell has rung and the dust settles, the only thing that'll matter is a victory. After that's been achieved, we can go our separate ways and continue our hatred for one another.

Speaking of things I hate, I was in the midst of performing one of my first duties as the new TV Champion: signing autographs. Surprisingly, people actually showed up, which was good because I didn't want to be the next Virgil and wind up on the internet as a meme. My performance Saturday night must've left an impression, because there was a line all the way out to the door. And considering I was in the middle of the shopping center, that was pretty damn impressive. I bet Apex doesn't even get lines like that.

I sat at a wooden table with a Sharpie in hand and the TV Title in front of me. Steve Sayors stood next to me, smiling and waving at the crowd as if they were here to see him.

"You know they're here to see me, right?" I mumbled, putting on a fake smile for the fans.

"Of course," Sayors responded before leaning close. "You're gonna be nice, right? We're both representing the XWF here and Vinnie would hate to hear how his new TV Champion was rude to the fans."

"Come on, Steve," I said, disappointed he would question me. "When am I ever NOT nice?"

"That time you got me arrested for the pot YOU were smoking," he replied. "That time you attacked me at your fake Hall of Legends induction. That time you....."

"Alright! Alright!" I exclaimed in annoyance. "Can we just get this thing started? There's so many people here, I don't think we'll ever get done."

"Nonsense," Steve responded. "The mall closes at nine."

I rolled my eyes as Sayors motioned for the first person in line to step forward. By the looks of this kid, you would've sworn he was the actor who played the child version of Joe Dirt. He wore a dirty pair of overalls and proudly rocked a mullet only an 80's hair band could love. In his hands was a pair of giant foam fists, obviously some type of Thunder Knuckles merchandise.

"Hello there," I welcomed as he approached. "First in line, huh? You must've gotten here really early."

"Mmhmm," the kid answered, putting his foam fists on the table. I went to sign 'em, put he pulled them away before I could.

"What the hell, kid?"

"I was hoping you could give these to Thunder Knuckles to sign," he explained, holding them out once again.

"Are you fucking kidding me?" I responded, only to have Steve Sayors lay an elbow into my shoulder as he cleared his throat.

"Pleeeeeease, he's my all-time favorite!" the kid went on, jumping up and down. "It'd really mean alot to me!"

I gave the kid a faint smile and held my hands out. He handed me the two pieces of foam, his face shining brighter than Christmas morning. I grabbed both fists and tore each of them in half, throwing three of the four pieces back at this sad product of unprotected trailer park fucking. With the last bit of styrofoam I had in my hand, I grabbed my Sharpie and signed my name before holding it out for the, now crying, kid.

"Thunder Knuckles would want X-Bux for HIS signature," I snarked as the boy sulked himself out of my sight. I turned towards Steve Sayors, who seemed as though he was about to have a heart attack. The horror on his face, the way he was looking at me, it was as if I had just murdered a child. Which I didn't........ just his hopes and dreams.

"I thought you said you were gonna be nice!" Sayors gasped.

"That WAS me being nice," I scolded, giving Steve a glare of my own. "You wanna see me being not so nice?"

"................NEXT!!!!"

The next person to approach was a teenager. He seemed pretty normal, wearing jeans and a black t-shirt that read 'Fuck The Rules' on it; definitely NOT trailer trash. In his hand was a skateboard which he plopped onto the table.

"'Sup?" he asked in typical skater fashion.

"Not much," I smiled, genuinely glad to have a fan wanting my autograph. I signed the bottom of his board, which just so happened to have the XWF logo on it with red blood splatters behind it.

"Rad!" he said as he picked it back up. "This should sell for a good chunk of change!"

As the teen strutted away like he just hit the jackpot, I stood up to go kick his ass, but Steve Sayors put his hand on my shoulder and guided me back into my chair.

"Just a few bad apples," he said with a reassuring grin. "I'm sure the next guy is a legitimate Big D fan."

"Better be," I mumbled, feeling like I was wasting my time.

This guy seemed pretty normal. He was probably in his early twenties, wore glasses, and for some reason had the British flag with him. It made me smile legitimately, for once, as he had likely flown thousands on miles just to get my autograph; and on his home flag, nonetheless.

"Welcome to America!" I happily greeted as he stood before me. "I apologize for Trump, I assure you I didn't vote for him."

He didn't really react to my words, instead raising his flag up and waving it proudly. Not being from England, I wasn't sure if this was some sort of customary ritual or his way of saying fuck Trump. Regardless, I wasn't offended until he opened his damn mouth.

"I flew all the way from Sheffield to tell you Scully is gonna wipe the floor with you!" he boasted, before giving me the finger and marching off like a soldier. Apparently no-one ever told him America wiped the floor with the British in 1776, much like I planned to do to the man he was endorsing.

"A FEW bad apples?!" I snapped at Steve Sayors before rising to my feet and addressing the crowd. "Is there ANYONE here who ACTUALLY wants an autograph from Big D?!?!?!"

Me and Steve stood there for a moment, scoping out the crowd. A lone hand from way in the back shot up, giving me hope that this autograph session wasn't completely pointless. I nudged Steve and pointed in the hand's direction.

"Go bring that man to the front of the line!" I exclaimed, excited to meet a real Big D fan(since, apparently, there aren't that many around).

Steve did as I asked, rushing his way past all the haters and posers, before making it to the fan. He was an African American teen, wearing a WWE SmackDown! shirt and some baggy jeans. I ignored the shirt, knowing some people just like wrestling in general, and stood up with my hand out. Rather than meet it with his, the kid just looked from side to side, a look of disappointment on his face.

"So, where is he?" he asked, confusing the hell out of me.

"I'm right here," I insisted, trying to keep my composure.

"Oh, hell no!" the teen burst out, taking a step back from me. "You ain't Big E from the New Day; you're just some cracka ass motha fucka!!!!!"

I couldn't believe what I was hearing. It wasn't the blatant racism on his part that threw me off, but the fact he thought this autograph signing was for Big E, not Big D. He flung his arms in the air and walked away, mumbling to himself about wasting his time, not realizing he was preaching to the choir. Fed up, I grabbed my TV Title off the table and flung it over my shoulder before addressing the crowd one final time.

"Who here would rather have Steve Sayors' autograph over mine?" I asked, fearing their answer. Every single arm went into the air, even those of random people just passing by doing their mall shopping. I clicked my tongue and shoved the Sharpie against Steve's chest. "They're all yours..................... I need a beer"

I turned and walked away, as the crowd began to mob Steve Sayors like he was the top wrestler in the company. It was chaotic, but the reality was it should've been ME they treated that way. I was the former Xtreme Champion, the current TV Champion. If anyone deserved the spotlight everyone else seemed to be getting, it was ME. No matter what I did, I just couldn't get any respect. Which was exactly why I had to win Lethal Lottery.

As I went to leave the mall, two angry looking rednecks stormed through the doors like their trailers were on fire. The female probably weighed a good 400 pounds, maybe a little less if you took away the chicken leg in her meaty hand. The man was thinner than a pencil, and blatantly chewing tobacco while rocking an open flannel jacket with nothing but his bare chest underneath and a Dale Earnhardt hat. If I had to venture a guess, their names were likely Jimbob and Big Bertha.

"Have you seen the man who made our son cry?!" Jimbob asked with his southern twang.

"Was he signing autographs?" I asked, playing dumb to the fact it was me.

"Yep, that's him!" Big Bertha bellowed as chicken bits flew out of her blackhole of a mouth.

"He's back that way," I explained, pointing in the direction of Steve Sayors.

"Say thanks!" Jimbob replied, before heading that way with his semi-truck of a wife.

I walked out the door and made my way down the street, looking for the nearest bar. It seemed the only things 'near' were nothing more than hotels and fast food restaurants. Since it seemed I may be walking for a bit, I decided to get some things off my chest.

"Scully and I have a history together. He may not realize it, but we do. You see, when it came time to make my final selection for War Games, the choices were Scully or Rain."

I cackled like I was the fucking Joker.

"How does it feel to be picked AFTER the gay guy who fucked his sister, Scully? While my selection may have been questionable, it ended up being the correct one in the end. My team won AND we won't have to hear from that little twink ever again. Who knows? Had I not selected him, he may still be alive, prancin' around this place like the emo fairy he was."

"Scully, I didn't pick you because I didn't believe in you then, and I certainly don't believe in you now. You may be a former Universal Champion, but that doesn't mean shit to me. While the fact you beat Vinnie Lane for the belt IS impressive, the fact you lost it to Peter fuckin' Gilmour loses you ALLLLLLL credibility. You may have been the top guy way back when, but what have you done recently? And don't go claiming you earned your Uni shot on the next Warfare, because we all know you didn't do shit to deserve that. You probably had to beg Unknown Soldier and management to give you one last chance to remain relevant, because there was no way in hell you were gonna get it by winning Lethal Lottery. Where the fuck is Thad Duke when you need him? He'd be all over your tea drinkin' ass for getting a Title shot you didn't earn."

"As terrible as you may be, though, you're not the bottom of the barrel, Scully. That honor goes to your partner, Boris. It must really suck to be paired up with a vodka swillin' drunk, and not the good kind like Tony Santos, but rather the bad kind like Ryan Dunn. And what's even sadder is I don't think Boris has a clue who he is. All this time I've been under the impression he was Russian, with the Western spy bullshit and love of vodka, but upon further examination of his profile, I've come to find out he's actually Slovakian??? Apparently Slovakia is Russia's little sister, or bitch, because I just don't see the difference. It's like how Mastermind claims to be from New Zealand, but all I see is Australia. If it looks like shit, feels like shit, smells like shit, and tastes like shit, it's probably shit. Go ask Shane all about that, he's an expert on the subject."

"Speaking of shit, that's what you might as well call the team of Scully and Boris. I WANTED to call them the 'Crumpet Lovin' Communists', buuuuuuut Slovakia, so we'll just call it as we see it. I'm glad these two were paired together, it let's the real competition like me and Fuzz weed out the weaklings right away so we don't get stuck with them later on. It's an embarrassment that they even get the chance to potentially win mine or Fuzz's Championships. It's a good thing for Vinnie me and Fuzz are good enough to handle Scully.............. unlike the voice of Anarchy."

"When me and Fuzz step into the ring at Savage, we're gonna show the world exactly why we're Champions when we set our differences aside and take care of business next Saturday. It doesn't matter who it is, whether Boris, Scully, or anyone else unlucky enough to be in the same Lethal Lottery as me; nobody is gonna take my TV Title and nobody is gonna keep me from the Universal Title shot I deserve....... one that Scully was handed out of pity. Well, he ain't gonna win that match and he certainly isn't gonna win our match, either. And that ain't no story, it's the Cold, Big D Truth!!!!"

Almost as if on cue, the moment I finished speaking my catchphrase, I just so happened to stumble upon a bar. At least I assumed that's what it was based on its generic name of 'The Bar.' Either it was named after a shitty WWE Tag Team, or someone couldn't come up with something better. Nevertheless, I took a deep breath and walked in..........

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