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X-treme Wrestling Federation »   » Archives » "C*nt Fest" RP Board
It's Been Fun
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
01-25-2020, 11:56 PM



The forces of D.R.A.M.A. have been pinpointed by Robbie Bourbon, somewhere in Ontario.

We catch up with Robbie there.

IT'S BEEN FUN

Somewhere, deep within the nefarious stronghold that houses D.R.A.M.A., short for Demagogues Rectifying Angsty Misanthropic Action, a counsil sits in a war room. Monitors adorn the walls, showing maps, projections, and other what-have-you that makes the room look even more war roomy. A lengthy table sits in the center of the room, and at it's head, we see an elderly woman. Along the table, a menagerie of unsavory looking characters are seen, like a dude with an eye patch, a dude with robot parts on his face, a person with two heads, one male, one female, a lizard person, a guy in a helmet, the whole shebang.

All looks promising, ladies and gentlemen. The people are wrapped up in more drama now than ever. Worry is at an all time high, from the environment, to politics, to nuclear war, everybody on earth has a concern!

The table all murmers their assent, the mission of D.R.A.M.A. seeming to be going well. With that, there's a knock at the door. The whole counsil stops and looks to the elderly woman. She looks back at them inquizitively.

Were any of you...

There's a knock at the door again. She stops, spins her chair to face it, and calls towards the closed door.

Who is it?

I got a delivery here.

A familiar voice is heard from behind the door. It would seem Robbie Bourbon, instead of tearing down D.R.A.M.A. headquarters brick by brick, became a delivery man.

A what? This is preposterous!

The door is kicked open, and the whole of the war room looks up in awe at Robbie. Robbie is holding a basket for some reason. His mask is tattered, his nose bleeding, his wrestling gear near shredded from the battle he had with whatever defenses he had to breach to get here. The basket, however, looks pristine.

'Sup, fools.

Robbie calmly walks towards the table, wiping blood from his face, and gently lays the basket on the table. The whole of the counsil looks terrified. Here, after all, was Robbie Bourbon, the Wednesday Night Wrecker, the man they've been trying to stymie for the better part of a month by targetting him in promos, and he wasn't even bothering to beat the hell out of them.

Ah, Mr. Bourbon, what a pleasant surprise to see you here.

Really? Is it really all that pleasant for you?

No, I was being facetious.

That's not very dramatic, but it's what that doofus Engineer keeps doing.

The rooms looks among each other.

Who?

Engineer!?

Robbie puts his hands on his hips, flustered after the realization this wasn't Shane 's evil underground organization and looks at the elderly woman and the whole room, who all react to the name as though it's an alien farting disco records.

We don't know who that is.

Shit...

Robbie's shoulders slump.

You mean that Engineer doesn't work for your organization to spread drama? He literally just hooked up with a kid, yoinked him out of the closet, then spent a long time brutally mutilating the kid's dad before personally flying the old man out to Australia to set him on fire in the site of the bush fires.

Our budget doesn't allow for that.

Really? I mean, I figured just to heighten drama you would spend whatever it cost to surgically mutilate a guy then personally fly him to Australia to set them on fire on in the wilds someplace.

Nope, we'd just shoot him.

Huh.

Yeah, anticlimactically, for shock value.

Huh.

Well...

Yeah...

The old woman rolls her eyes.

Speaking of budget, how many of our deathbots did you just wreck on your way in here?

The counsil leans in closely to hear more from Robbie.

All of them.

What! We had seventy of them, they weren't cheap!

Yeah, well, they kept showing up in my promos and stuff, threatening people whenever I was trying to have a little fun, they fucked up my camp in Australia, why were you doing all that bullshit anyway?

The counsil all looks around at each other, specifically looking for the member of the counsil named 'Not Me'. The elderly woman looks at Robbie.

We needed to demonstrate to the world that being fun and fancy free accomplishes nothing! Your means, your desires, they are a poor reference for the people of the world, which needs stress, and complications to advance itself.

Not true. Look at Star Trek.

What?

Star Trek, you silly old bat. A nerd made a show about submarine warfare based in space, idealizing humanity, and it inspired people to actually make shit from the show. Automatic doors, which, by the way, I totally trashed a bunch of your doors too, but automatic sliding doors weren't a thing until some dork looked at the screen and thought 'huh, those would be cool'. Now you see them at every grocery store. Communicators? Shit, everybody in this room is either an Android or iPhone user. Touch screen computers, hell to an extent even Bluetooth headsets are a take on the press button thingies from Star Trek, and all those advancements from a show about a guy being coy, banging green chicks, time travel, goofy aliens, terrible grappling...

We get your point. Star Trek wasn't a comedy though.

Yeah, but it wasn't super dramatic either. Sure, some of the movies went that way, but what did that get us? Star Trek IV. Is that what you're going for here, huh? Do you want me to go back in time to get you some fucking whales? Because I will damn sure find a way to go back in time to...

No, and stop repeating stuff.

Okay. Puddin' did it but didn't get why it was good to do anyway?

Who's Puddin'?

Nevermind.

The elderly woman drums her fingers on the table.

So, you have broken into our lair, destroyed all our D.R.A.M.A. deathbots, what do you intend to do next, Mr. Bourbon?

Oh, that's easy.

Robbie opens the basket, and a cadre of puppies all climb out. Clumsily, they meander around the table as the entire counsil seems to melt. A puppy roams over to the old woman and lays on it's back in front of her, baying it's tiny little puppy bays.

Adorable!

I know! Look, how about instead of spreading D.R.A.M.A., and pushing your agenda, just go pet a puppy instead.

The counsil all looks at each other and nods in approval.

Oh, Robbie, thank you!

It was easy. Just relax, take a breath, and act. Sweating and fretting gets you nowhere.

Oh, he's going to do the thing.

The counsil, in between bouts of giving love to puppies, listens in on the Sultan of Smacktalk.

Puddin', you're really getting defensive. Smoke and mirrors are great and all up until the source of that smoke, that heat, that flame, the fire itself is on you, and the mirrors melt away, and you burn. Deflect all you want, but in the end, the fire wins.

Hi, I'm the fire. Not the thing you did to Malcome's dad, not the horrific disaster in Australia, I am the fire you gotta fight come Sunday night.

Jesus Christ on a pogo-stick, you talk about what it takes to be champion, but the only thing relevant that's going on here is me. Not whatever you've been doing in your goofy ass promos, which could have been sold to the USA Network, or maybe TruTV as a drama miniseries if it wasn't just so fucking bland. Flavorless. Tasteless, sure, but no more so than myself. I admit, I am a hypocrite, glad you noticed, but hey, it's sort of why they call me the High Holy Hypocrite. Shit, no wonder you think I'm so self referencial, because while I am, I'm just really, really good at it and have a bajillion nicknames.

Because you can say of me whatever you wish, Puddin'. What's going to go down at CuntFest, and what the fuck, Puddin', we're not even the main fucking event, what kind of bullshit Universal Champion does that? SO, what's going to happen at CuntFest has nothing, absolutely nothing, with about ninety percent of your fucking promos. Nada. It's all irrelevant hogwash, what you do to Malcome, Malcome's dad, Malcome's auntie, Malcome's grandpappy, Malcome's fourth grade teacher Mrs. Heath, or Malcome's unused pile of Arby's coupons doesn't matter in the least when it comes to you defending the Universal Title. The only thing, the ONLY thing relevant in your promos?

Say my name again, motherfucker!

All I've done is me, not try to force some dichotomy, exploit how different I am from you, or bare some silly metaphor as to who and what I am all about and why I need to be different from you. Fuck, that was evident from the get go, Puddin', thing of it is, the Last Outlaw runs as hard as he needs, as far as he wants, and and as deep as the world will let him.


Ooh, I love that nickname, the Last Outlaw!

Robbie gives a thumbs up to the adorable little old lady petting a puppy then addresses the camera again.

Puddin', hypocrisy is civilization's greatest virtue. You call me a hypocrite as if it's even a bad thing. I tell people not to do unhealthy shit, then I go eat bacon. I tell people that they should do something fun like paint, but I hate to paint. I tell people things to make them feel better, and not to be paltry, or avoid socially awkward situations, but because healing someone, not completely ripping their whole life apart to make them a henchmen but really healing someone makes it better for the next person they have to encounter. The next person they dislike, they love, and anything in between, their whole life changes when you interact with them because they will carry something away from you.

I brought puppies, if you hadn't noticed.

You just brainwashed some kid, exploited his shitty relationship with his pops, told me that you can't solve anything with one button press when you had Trump by the bowling balls and didn't go push the ONE BUTTON he has that would literally do what you claim you wish would happen, total human extinction, a nuclear apocalypse, but absolutely didn't because the greatest force on earth was really just whimsy, in this case bagging Melinia Trump. Odd, odd choice. Like, she's pretty hot, but definitely not even top ten. You did it to be silly, fun, and fancy free.

You dropped the drama because, well, you wanted to play with Robbie Bourbon.

And you dropped Lux because nobody wanted to play with her.

And nobody would have ever played with Corey.


Robbie drops the mic and leaves this D.R.A.M.A. behind him.

[Image: DtUCPfZ.png]
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