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Corey Smith Offline
Active in XWF



XWF FanBase:
Some of everyone

(cheered; very rarely plays dirty but isn't lame either; many likable qualities)


#1
11-25-2019, 04:41 PM

I never told you all about what became of the XWF, did I? I mean, if I'm from the future, then rightfully I should have some idea of what's to come of the company, correct? And, well, I do. To a point. You see, every action I've taken since I came to the year 2019 all those months ago have had ripple effects on the future as I know it. I've created alterations in the time line, and honestly even I don't know the full extent of the changes I've made. I've had snippets of insight here and there but mostly it's like walking through a fog.

So, can I accurately predict the future of the XWF as it is NOW, with me IN it? No. Mostly because I'm planning on rectifying what I know the XWF's future to be by pushing my foot out the back of Unknown Soldier's skull.

But I do know what was to be had I not intervened. And it's a story I have opted not to tell because until now, I didn't see the point. It's moot. It's irrelevant. I will see to that Sunday. But! On the off chance that you haven't been buying what I'm selling, and that you don't believe I'll be a net force for positive change here, let me clue you in on what COULD have been. It ain't pretty.....


XWF 2028


The shot opens on a cement block hallway with a long meandering line snaking up and around the corner. A placard placed at the hallway intersection announces “XWF Open Interviews!” The people amassed in line mostly look like how a dumpster fire of rotted salmon and grease smells. They're a motley assortment that mostly wouldn't look out of place scattered under a bridge or panhandling for change outside a CostCo. You even see an ankle monitor or 12. In fact, ballpark figure, if you added up the Sex Offender Level of everyone present the number 127 probably doesn't stray far from the mark. Lux's voice over continues.

The year 2028 ended up being a noteworthy one for the XWF. And you wouldn't guess based on the quality of the applicants here, but the XWF was still doing well financially at this point. But that had less to do with the quality of the product and more to do with the shifting social mores of the population at large. By this point in history, Aiwass had already sunk his claws deep into the governments of multiple first world nations. Fascism only continued to grow in the post-Trump era, becoming more and more en vogue in the Americas, Europe, and Asia. Income inequality and corporate surveillance of the populace kept a jackboot firmly tamped down on the collective face of humanity. The people grew restless and, with the strict controls in place of the mass media, progressively more sullen and ignorant.

Enter: The XWF. Now, the XWF was never known as a haven for positivity and sound ethical judgment, but at least there were bright spots from time to time. Oasis' in the morass of depredation. But an increasingly bitter and shiftless population didn't want that. Thy wanted their Id's scratched. And the modern XWF was all to eager to deliver as it always had. But like any addict, eventually what you have isn't enough. The high gets ever more elusive. And over time, the XWF just got worse.

You may assume I'm going to say that come 2028 Unknown Soldier is still champion. Actually, he wasn't. His reign ended in 2024, and he shattered records and good taste for almost five years before pulling a “finger poke of Doom” with Peter Gilmour and handing the title off to his BFF to head for “greener” pastures. But in his time he lowered the bar ever further, setting a precedent that the XWF would never heal from. Warfare became Soldier's debauched throne, and week by week the insane edicts springing from his syphilitic mind grew more and more perverse and time consuming. The XWF almost ceased being a wrestling program and turned into a showcase of titillation, over the top violence and gross out antics. Standard matches fell by the wayside in favor of a nonstop stream of ultra-hardcore spectacles. Careers began to last mere weeks rather than years, and word got out that the XWF had turned into a charnel house fit for no serious athlete.

As for Gilly? Come 2028, Peter Gilmour is still Universal Champion. Yes, unfortunately, I'm quite serious.

And before you ask, Gilly didn't somehow become more intelligent or talented. No, he just benefited from the largesse of being Unknown Soldier's chosen successor. And the fans ate him up. After all, who but Gilly could so convincingly serve as the patron saint of an angry, perpetually in the dark population looking for a simple, base, distraction from the ruination of their lives. So much so that management began to fear the prospect of Gilly ever losing the title.

So he just never defended it.

And nobody seemed to care.

Well, one person cared. But the deck was stacked well against him....


The shot follows the line to it's head, where we see Vincent Lane seated behind a cheap particle board table. The wall behind him is emblazoned with a banner advertising “XWF SATURDAY NIGHT SUPER DICK!” Naturally, the banner features an image of Peter Gilmour, once again morbidly obese, in the middle of having angry sex with a slim lingerie model in the ring while he slams a can of creamed corn down his throat with his free hand.

Lane is dressed in his typical loud garb, but it hangs limply on his rail thin frame. Lane's once golden locks are now patchy and unconditioned, with gray roots leaking out from the base. His face looks sallow and distracted. He takes a nip out of a bottle of gin he has next to him, hand shaking a bit for want of the sweet bite of alcohol. Taking a moment to appreciate the burn down the back of his throat, he absent mindedly fingers the place where his wedding band used to be as he sizes up the next candidate.

Next. He prods the line forward, voice devoid of spirit.

A young man almost trips over his muddy shoe laces as he walks up to the table. He's wearing an old Frodo Smackins shirt, which is full of holes exposing tufts of dark belly and chest hair. Lane looks at the shirt and sighs. The young man, oblivious, starts yammering. Mr. Lane I am, like, your biggest fan!

Yeah, yeah, what's your schtick?

Oh! Like my gimmick? Well, I'm the reincarnation of my other hero Frodo Smackins!

He's not dead, he's just in jail.

Oh.... The young man is stymied, like he never even considered that. Well, I mostly just like to stick my dick in things. Can I fuck some sluts with Gilly?

NEXT!

Two beefy guys in black waste no time picking the young man up and dragging him away. Tommy Gunn holds the door open so they can toss him none too gently into the hallway. Lane takes another nip of gin, his lackluster eyes considering the bottle for a moment, lined lips pulled into a deep frown. For a moment, he can almost picture Roxy's face in the liquid...her smiling fa-....

A-ha-hem.

Lane is shaken from his revelry, and he bites out angrily. I didn't say for you to approach yet! He drops the gin back down on the table and trains his eyes on the figure in front of him. He's dressed like a priest, but his robes are unusually wide, like an old hula skirt. So you're a priest or something? Yeah man, that won't sell to these degenerates. Ne-....

Oh, but wait! I'm not just any priest! I am THE VASSAL!

Vinnie dumps his chin in his hand, all kinds of unconvinced. Yeah....and?

BEHOLD! The priest pulls back the hem of his oversized garb and for the first time in quite some time Vincent Lane feels a feeling other than regret and shame. Chained under The Vassal's garb, affixed to the man's waist, are three dirty children wearing nothing but stained tattered underwear. Lane's jaw falls open as he looks upon the children, rivers of dried tears cut a path through their grime streaked cheeks. But mostly they looked as dead eyed as he himself.

I like to think of myself as a more sacrilegious take on Michael Graves. I mean, Graves was good, he was fine. But where was the intellectual bent on it?You know? It could have been so much more. With me, I am an inherent criticism of the Catholic Church. A reflection of conventional morality gone awry...and beyond! I'm pedophilia meets high art. NAMBLA meets cultural critique! Are you LISTENING? The priest snakes a hand around one of the children's little necks. The child winces as though struck.

Lane downs the last of his gin and stands up abruptly. Something in him snaps. Something deep down and fundamental. Something he knows can never be repaired. EVERYBODY OUT! He points at The Vassal. Except you.

Tommy Gunn and the security grunts start rounding up the rest of the applicants and usher them out the door. Once the room is quiet and empty aside from them, he pulls a gun out of his shirt. The Vassal steps back. Oh...what...what's going on?

Release the kids. He levels the gun at the Vassal. The Vassal, shocked, takes a moment to comply. He reaches into his pocket and fumbles for some keys. He almost drops them, but recovers and titters out a nervous little laugh. He unleashes all the children who, wide eyed and uncomprehending, wait for a nod from Vinnie before running.

What is the meaning of this?

I can't anymore. He fires directly into The Vassal's forehead, splitting it like a watermelon. He drops to the floor. The camera pans back...back...back....out the door and into the now empty halls. Then, further back...further back....

A final gunshot rings out. And then silence.

Vincent Lane couldn't handle what the XWF had become. But unfortunately, his departure created a power vacuum in the company. Steve Sayors actually took over for a few months, until he was accidentally drowned in a vat of bull semen. Don't ask.

Seeing the plight her former Alma Matter was in, Madison Dyson rushed in to help. By this point, she had moved on to full fledged world domination, so this was small potatoes for her. Nonetheless, she helped install proverbial failson Eric Trump as new “OMEGA WRESTLELORD FOR LIFE.”

He and Gilly got along splendidly. But by 2034, the company was hitting dire straights. After all, you can only have so many rapes, beheadings, over doses, or mass audience fatalities before even THAT grows old. It turned out that in the end, the XWF was TOO good at its chosen goal of coarsening the culture. Because now, even the most extravagant depravities had become old hat. People were moving on to the next thing that made their uglies hard and their blood rush in their ears. And the XWF was bottoming out....


XWF 2034


There is a nude woman in an XWF ring, and her giant cans rattle as she enthusiastically brings a mic to her mouth and says...

WHO WANTS TO FUCK ME IN THE ASS?

Our view pans out over the crowd, which is surprisingly sparse. You figure maybe a fifth of the seats have been sold. Some of the rest have been rounded out unconvincingly with blow up sex dolls. That combined with a dimming of lights results in the facade of a showing that's marginally less pathetic. Despite the hot naked chick's proclamation, the bored and indolent crowd looks like it can't be bothered. Some of them rut with each other in the seats, or pick their noses, or masturbate furiously from afar. A couple die hards in the front rows fall all over themselves raising their hands, but by and large this is one jaded and uninspired crowd.

THEN MEET ME AFTER THE SHOW (at 200 bucks a pop). Anyway, it is my pleasure to introduce our UNIVERSAL CHAMPION, PETER GILMOUR!

A spotlight suddenly shines on the luxury box, where an incredible obese Gilly is shoving Doritos in his mouth while a hooker works his pole with her ass. Gilly gives a half hearted wave with his Dorito dust encrusted fingers. There is a smattering of polite applause from the disinterested crowd.

Before our first match of the evening, an Aids filled Hypodermic Needle match between Big D Jr. and Ghost Cank, a word from our esteemed leader and Omega Wrestlelord for Life.....ERIC TRUMP!

[Image: gettyimages-689502038.jpg]

Eric's theme music hits the speakers, which squeal and whine in protest before somebody finally gets their shit together.



And out comes this thoroughly dumpy entitled Mongoloid to an ironic pop song that's older than most of the side pieces he pays good money to rail while his wife drinks herself stupid the next room over. Eric waves awkwardly to the still disinterested crowd, looking like a member of British royalty that's even more inbred than usual. He's wearing a Peter Gilmour “Bigger is Better-I'm talking about my dick” shirt. He damn near stumbles up the stairs, and almost gets tripped up on the ropes as he gets in the ring. He walks up to the naked chick and grabs the mic from her. Then, flashing his oversized buck teeth cheekily, he proceeds to motorboat her tits to the enjoyment of about three people.

HELLO....uggghhhhhh....SHANGHAI?

These are clearly Americans.

It's YA BOY ERIC TRUMP! Are ya'all excited for tonight's action?

Someone saying “yeah, I guess” echoes out from somewhere in the cheap seats. Followed by a cough. Eric nods and fist pumps. RIGHT ON! And we'll get to all that action in a minute, but first I have a very, very important thing to tell you about the future of the XWF. He pauses for dramatic effect but nobody seems to give a shit. Now don't worry, it's not going anywhere! At least...not yet.... He tugs his shirt collar nervously. But I gotta be honest with ya, the ratings aren't looking so hot. So I'm here to tell everybody that I'm launching a new initiative to get feedback directly from you...the fans! I want you to tell me what the XWF can do better! And we'll do it! No matter what! Anything at all! His bottom lip trembles. Please....?

**Crickets**

Eric looks around desperately. Somebody...anybody?

Gilly grunts and farts from the luxury box.

WHO WANTS TO SEE SOME RAPE?! Eric cajoles, an expression of demented glee on his face. The naked chick backs slowly out of the ring. A few people in the front row yawn. Rape is super passe. Now openly sweating, Eric starts to unbutton his cuffs. Come on people, throw me a bone! Live lobotomy? The entire Bombshell division getting showered in feces? A Concentration camp match complete with real Zyklon-B? WHAT'S IT GONNA TAKE!

Kill yourself.

Eric purses his lips and looks around, his eyes finally settling on a young man ten rows up who just stood up to make the proclamation. I'm sorry...what?

Kill yourself. He repeats without emotion.

I...heh.... Trump descends into nervous titters. Well, I don't think....I don't think that'll solve....

A gun drops down from the rafters and lands at Eric's feet. Eric actually leaps back from it. Jesus, that could have killed me!

DO IT! The fan challenges. A couple other fans echo this, but even that doesn't drown out the oblivious silent cacophony of people on their cell phones Snapchatting and Tweeting and whipping their dicks out on Scruff.

Eric looks down at the gun and he leans over and picks it up with a quivering hand. I....I....Eric pauses, and for some reason his thoughts instantly go back to his late father, Donald. Recently coronated as the fifth face on Mount Rushmore. Former POTUS. Best of all time POTUS. Eric finds himself smiling wistfully. Dad, what would you do if you were me?

POP THOSE RATINGS YOU LITTLE BITCH! Trump reels and turns around at the sound of the voice to see DONALD TRUMP himself in the ring. Eric almost drops the mic in shock.

DAD?! But...you're dead!

Yeah, I am. But I came back as a ghost to make sure you do the right thing.

Live on and make this company great again?

Donald laughs. Hell no! And you call yourself a Trump?

Then what do I do?!

Easy. You do the simplest, stupidest, most short sighted thing you can think of to gain an instant measure of attention and ratings and then go back to fucking off until the Xanax high wears off again. That's basically my presidency in a nutshell.

So...you're saying....I should kill myself?

Yeah. But don't worry, Heaven's pretty sweet and nobody harshes your buzz by telling you can't grab a stranger's genitals. Best afterlife ever.

Eric considers the gun again. Are you sure?

Sure, I'm sure. I'm Donald fucking Trump. Have I ever done you wrong?

Well....

Recently?

Eric sighs. Dad...did you ever really love me?

Donald looks down at the mat, and then approaches Eric, bridging the distance between them. You know I make the best deals, right?

Only the best deals, daddy!

Well, here's the deal of a lifetime. You will be my favorite child if you blow your brains out on live television. Biggest ratings bump in history. And I will be so, so, proud of you!

Really, you'll love me more than Ivanka even?!

Donald grimaces. Let's just say I'll love you in a different way than Ivanka. So whaddya say?

Will you be waiting for me in Heaven?

Sure!

Eric nods and clutches the gun to his chest. I love you dad.

I know. Now, go on and do the thing.

Eric, eyes glistening with tears, looks out at the audience. I LOVE YOU XWF, and I LOVE MY DAD! And, with an explosive report, he blows his brains all over the ring.

The ghost of Donald Trump snickers. Always knew that kid was . See ya in hell, sucker! And thanks for upping my soul count! In a poof of flame, he disappears.

The crowd, having literally just watched a man commit suicide....is completely unmoved. In fact, the guy who originally challenged Eric to kill himself got bored and went for a piss two minutes ago. But, then there is a delayed scream! Has someone just now noticed the gore strewn all over the ring?!

Actually no, the hooker that was riding Gilly's dick was the source of the horrified cry. She just noticed Gilly has died mid-coitus, and she's been riding his rigormortis hardened super dick the whole time.

The image pauses strangely as the hooker is in mid-scream and Lux walks through the image. The entire scene scatters into a series of pixelated pieces like so much pollen being disturbed and taken to the wind. Finally, it's just Lux in a barren metallic chamber. A keen eye will recognize this as being the same futuristic virtual reality technology she used with her team in their final War Games promo.

Ok, I may have elaborated a bit with the inclusion of Donnie at the end there (Donovan Blackwater sold me on that)....but the basics are the same. Eric Trump killed himself on live television, nobody really knows why but rumor had it he was in a crushing amount of debt to Russian organized crime, so it was probably just a matter of time. Gilly also had a massive heart attack the same night and died. A week later, the XWF was cancelled, having slid down the proverbial rabbit hole until it collapsed under the weight of it's own depraved indifference.

So does that sound like a good time to anyone else?
Lux queries with a touch of bitterness in her voice. Oh, I imagine some of you might be thinking that I'm making this up. That this is too fantastical, too over the top. To which I say, didn't our champion just spend weeks playing pirate and walking around with Johnny Depp's decapitated head?”

My point is this, ladies and gentlemen. There's a cap....a limit to this kind of shit. A point at which all the offensiveness and lunacy and pornographic excess jumps the shark, swings back around, and becomes the new norm. It becomes the same blasé, unshocking content that it was trying to buck in the first place. And that's precisely the threat Unknown Soldier and Shane threaten to bring to the XWF. You think this can't happen? Really?

Lux shakes her head.

And do you know what the worst part is? That the man championing this future is so indifferent to the PRESENT that he can't even spare a word for our match. And I'm not going to do the stock expected thing and say that he's afraid, or that he's trying to avoid me. No, I think the truth is worse. I think he just doesn't care. Just the other day I was talking about my controlled blaze, and how Soldier is trying to get my fire to burn out of control. But here's the thing about guys like Unknown Soldier. They don't have a fire at all. It's nothing but surface level shock value. The equivalent of a toddler smearing shit on the living room wall for attention.

I think Unknown Soldier has nothing to say about this match because he's not really fighting for anything at all. Not me. This match is fraught with meaning for me. But for him? It's just another title defense and another opportunity to paint the wall with excrement.

His silence does leave us with a problem though. He was supposed to name the match. Lux shrugs. But I don't think that's going to happen anytime soon, so allow me to do the honors. Soldier...I'm naming the stip. Drum roll please....

Lux allows the tension to build for a moment.

...it's gonna be a standard match. Ohhhhhh....the air gets let right out of the bag. But you know what, if you think I'm going to get suckered into letting you turn this into just another idiot spectacle, you have another thing coming. I'm gonna beat you CLEAN before I finish you. No weapons, no outs, no bullshit. Just a straight up fight. And a simple refutation of everything you represent.

Say something Soldier. Or don't. The outcome is the same. XWF has a future with me. The whole world has a future with me.

You're through.

[Image: CoreySig6A.png?width=270&height=406]
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