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X-treme Wrestling Federation »   » Archives » "C*nt Fest" RP Board
Derailment
Author Message
Prof. Bobby Bourbon Offline
Mad Scientist



XWF FanBase:
The 'cool' kliq fans

(booed by casual fans; opportunistic; often plays dirty while setting the trends)


#1
01-19-2020, 07:14 PM



The rains have begun to fall in Australia, bringing much needed relief to a burning country.

Seems sometimes you need only be positive and wait.

DERAILMENT

Camp FUN, where the FUN is at, is at peace. Still thriving with life, the rains have caused most to take shelter within tents and other structures within the camp to stay dry.

Seated in a folding chair, by his lonesome in his tent, is Robbie Bourbon. He looks up, a silly smile on his face.

It's great, isn't it? I mean, I don't lay claim to any of it whatsoever, but...

Robbie gestures outside, where the rain is still coming down.

It's wonderful. Call it faith, call it hope, call it just not bending to despair, but eventually things have a way of righting themselves. It's just the natural order.

Kind of like how the Engineer dropped all the drama and we got the Madison Dyson standard political satire that wishes it was good enough to make the Daily Show, Saturday Night Live, or any relevant avenue.

Hell, that stuff was so droll even the New Yorker wouldn't pick it up.

It's amazing that Trump made it in there, considering almost two years ago he died, live, on an XWF broadcast that Madison Dyson herself hosted.

Tsk, tsk, you keep bringing up my past, and why, Engy, or Corey, or, you know what? Fuck it.

I'ma call you Puddin'.

Puddin', why keep bringing up my past as something to be ashamed of when you're going to rehash the same gag ad nauseam from two years ago?

A gag that was perpetrated by Jenny Myst.

So, you're ripping off Jenny Myst's material. I suppose that's what you want to consider Universal Championship caliber promo material. But, hey, you couldn't help it. Staying fresh and original isn't for everybody, I suppose. But hey, I'm sure the folks who watched John Oliver on HBO and thought to themselves 'Wow, I wish that wasn't witty or clever, just contrived and cookie-cutter' got a kick out of it. Making fun of Trump, or any president for that matter, is one thing. Regurgitating copypasta is, well, just puke.

Oh, you're not just doing this because you're some drone, no. You can go play catch and cowboys with Shane all you want, it doesn't really take away the notion that you're being manipulated harder than anybody else by the guy; hell he had you shoot some goofy double, or clone, or whatever to prove his point.

And he's there to prove himself, so you can prove him right too. Drone is as drone does.

Now, I get why you're asking all this stuff about whether I deserve a Universal Title shot, about whether I want the Universal Title, almost like you're making an appeal to the championship committee, the front office, and anybody else who will listen that I shouldn't have a match for the Universal Title. Welp, day late, dollar short, I'm getting a shot at the title, I'm taking the title, and whatever I do with it after is, well, none of your concern, because you won't be champion.

Am I going to hurt you? Sure! Is it because I'm bigger than you? Maybe, maybe not. It's not the size of the dog in the fight, after all, but the size of the fight in the dog, and telling the whole god damned universe that you want to bring about the end of days because existence just shouldn't continue don't sound like a whole lot of fight to me. It sounds direly, DIRELY lacking in heart, in conviction, and in any sense of survival whatsoever.

Wait, hold on, if I get to the top of the building where you're trying to summon Aiwass, and think really hard, will the Stay Puft Marshmallow man come? I love me some Ghostbusters, but you are a piss poor copy of Rick Moranis here.

Now, I wasn't really afraid of being Universal Champ, I have no idea where anybody got that whole notion.

For starters, I won the title from James Raven, who put forth just as much effort as I did when I got the title ripped away from me. JUST. AS. MUCH.

Then, I went and dutifully defended my title. To Peter Gilmour. You piss and moan about how I've adapted throughout the years, becoming something entertaining for the people, staying relevant, but you don't even defend the belt against Gilly, who has been the most consistent and reliable source of material in the XWF since the day I walked in here. Sure, he went from being husky to kinda slender, but besides that, it's always the tried and true super dick this, suck my dick that, In This Moment playing throughout. I guess you didn't value that all that much.

Then I absolutely crumpled up Finn Kuhn, and I would have loved to have defended the title to the likes of Jim Caedus, to Robert Main, or hell, even Dex, but instead, Finn Kuhn.

So, the next time I go out, ready to put it all on the line, what do I get?

Do I get a strong opponent like Caedus? Did I get Robert Main? Did I even get Dex?

Nope. Danny Imperial. See, Puddin', that's when the real ennui set in. That's when nothing mattered, and nothing came to the forefront for me. I was getting no challengers for the title. I was bored, not scared. So, heh, what would be more amusing than lying down and giving Imperial the title? Thing is, I created change, now they don't just book people all willy nilly.

But, hey, you talk about how once you're at the top, everybody scrambles after you, like the target is on your back.

Is that why Fuzz, Robert Main, Chris Page, Sarah Lacklan, a homeless guy with a pocket full of raisins, three stale muffins, the Eighty Second Airborne Division, Snuffaluffagus, a half-finished twenty piece from Popeye's, Betty White, and the dusty corpse of Galileo himself all balked at the chance to face you at CuntFest?

Eh, none of that matters, I stepped up, for some reason everybody who had any power to say 'nah, Robbie's going to be irresponsible as champion and make us look bad' stepped up and said 'nah, Robbie's going to be irresponsible as champion and make us look bad' and instead saw dollar signs.

They saw that through all your planning, all your scheming, the funniest thing to do was toss a massive monkey wrench into the works.

Dave Grohl eat your heart out.

Thing of it is, I'm definitely not the scared one here.

We all can see it, it's as plain as day, Puddin'.

You went from having this highbrow, albeit soft core porn vibed promos to yukkin' it up, playing the laughing joking numbnuts bent on showing everybody that cynicism is the way.

Okay, okay, not everybody. People who are Democrats or have leftist leanings. Because I guess you don't want to be everybody's champion, no reason to have dialogue with anybody who might have voted for Trump, or actually believes in what you were doing when you were openly arming people here and there.

But lo, here's Puddin', terrified, shaking in his boots, reaching down and throwing the kitchen sink at the whirlwind coming to town, hoping and praying it stops it, slows it, alters it's path. Some political satire coming in because being serious just wasn't working. Silly funtimes with Shane, the man who is redefining the word 'deadbeat' in deadbeat dad. Your whole game, your whole plan, derailed, all tossed off the tracks.

Fuck your plan.

Here comes a monster, the big bad big bad of big bads, and you think you're going to switch what up on who?

Casting shade for nothing is easy, it's what it's worth, nothing.

Bringing light for nothing is, well, time consuming and sometimes a lot harder. Folding is easy, creating creases is the talent of a Hot Topic manager though, in studded pants and t-shirts.

Bringing hope, however, that's what I hope for. Shade, light, ups and downs, dichotemy is not all that's happening right now, you best listen up son for some straight up know how, maybe you heard it before they called it appeasement, often brought up before some kind of massive bereavement, 'til our life is hid in the basement. Demanding, coming with the negativity, flexing bad vibes calling it creativity, questioning my own wrestling productivity? I've had losses, that's true, but that's part of my reflexivity, been wrestling so long cast so many shades it's a part of my refractivity, act wounded nobody wanted your title opportunity, we all questioned your selectivity, you, me, the Universal Championship living in transivity, but you keep speaking directly from a stance of subjectivity.

Like I said, I'm you from two years ago, you ignored that shit like you drank ten beers and had two more to go. Sorry, let me know if I need to slow down the flow, I can't tell sometimes, but you don't know, you're just a puppet here to be a part of Shane's show, just the cute little thing come to make some dough betting on you to come to the front and be just like a hooker only without the blow. It's slow, but eventually it crows, taking on the verbiage so old it actually Ate at Joe's.

Lookit you getting all silly and having fun, ready to knock the piss out of Donald Trump and run, didn't you assassinate him already? Nobody shot him with a gun, Jenny Myst duped him with some deviant fun, and I'm pretty sure and Madison know all about that, son. Listen up and take a step in the same direction, whenever you open your mouth you're spouting off pure fiction, now I get you do it because you need to create friction, as opposed to Malcome, I'll bring lube.

I know that didn't rhyme.

Now, as for WrestleStock...


Robbie gestures offscreen. A figure steps into the frame wearing a massive poncho to stay dry.

You brought up Sloane Taylor, and really didn't have a lot of kind things to say about her, trying to force some kind of goofy transitive logic into place only you don't get how transitive logic works, so, instead of looking up Sloane on Google...

The figure throws the poncho to the floor. She is smaller than Robbie by a great deal. Her pink hair shines, bright and vibrant, her posture strong and sure. This is the real Sloane Taylor, here for the first time ever on XWF TV. All those people that wanted nothing to do with Engineer at a PPV and here is just the second premier talent not signed to the XWF that Robbie has introduced.

...I went ahead and just took the liberty of contacting Sloane and inviting her.

Robbie sticks a hand out and Sloane shakes it.

What did that fool have to say about me?

Well, he said it was a miracle you beat me, because sizism or whatever. He's trying to display that size doesn't matter because you beat me by talking shit about you.

I heard.

Well, let's settle it then. Did you, Sloane Taylor, beat me at WrestleStock?

Yep.

Was it easy?

Nope.

Are you the person I am facing at CuntFest?

Nope.

Are you in any way like the Engineer in terms of style or ability?

Nope, I surpass him.

Well, same here.

Sloane punches Robbie on the arm playfully. Robbie rubs the spot where she did.

Hey!

Look, thanks for the invite, go whoop that creep's ass and win the title, I'm going to go hang out with Redd and have some fun.

Sloane looks at the camera and waves goodbye before leaving the tent.

Well, Puddin', you heard it from the woman herself, but hey, cast that shade all you want, it just means I gotta shine twice as bright, and that's what I'm prepared to do.

As for your confusion as to who and what I am, what I'm all about, well while I've always adapted, at root some things never changed, and should come as no surprise.

My name is..


A crowd has arrived outside of the tent, watching as Robbie does his magic, spitting venom fueled magma like a humanoid volcano.

*ROBBIE MOTHERFUCKING BOURBON!*

Robbie stops and turns, smirking as the crowd was ready to speak along with Robbie as he cut his promo. He looks back at the camera.

They get it.

And..


*YOU'RE GOING TO REMEMBER THAT NAME!*

Robbie's belly shakes as the people already knew what was next. He looks back at the camera, his teeth peeking behind ginger whiskers in an exposed grin.

It's the name of the man who's going into CuntFest, according to you, the biggest loser in the history of wrestling, and coming out of it the Universal Champion.

Now go back to churning out pedestrian bullshit promos about how you're a piece of shit and thus you think everybody must be too even though there's no way the turd in the bowl is aware of the flood coming to push it down the drain. It sure beats the pedestrian bullshit promos where you expose your sense of humor is like the numbers on a calendar, dated, and your wit is as sharp as a yellow balloon, just as heavy, and nowhere near as bright.


As Robbie says this, sirens are heard overhead. The crowd of people all set into a panic and begin to scramble. Five D.R.A.M.A. deathbots descend through the roof of the tent. Dozens more all take positions around Camp FUN.

Surrender! Call protocol, too much fun! Fun is not correct, not protocol!

Great, the fun police...

Robbie is knocked prone as the five D.R.A.M.A. deathbots dogpile onto him.

[Image: DtUCPfZ.png]
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[-] The following 8 users Like Prof. Bobby Bourbon's post:
"Loverboy" Vinnie Lane (01-26-2020), Atara Raven (01-19-2020), Barney Green (01-19-2020), Corey Smith (01-19-2020), Robert "The Omega" Main (01-20-2020), Theo Pryce (01-20-2020), Thunder Knuckles™ (01-19-2020), Vita Frickin Valenteen (01-20-2020)




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