Note from Vinnie - Mav DMed me the RP before deadline, he is just posting it on his account late. FYI.

((OOC: Hey guys, sorry this was a late post. My account was deactivated so I PM'd my RP to the GMs, and they're allowing me to post it now graciously. Hopefully you all enjoy!))

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Maverick - vs - Mini Morbid If Maverick loses his title history is transferred to Mini Morbid!

Maverick feasted his eyes upon a site so disgusting, so infuriating, so mind-bendingly incompetent it made him question his mental sanity.

For some reason, he was booked again in the XWF. Despite being retired.

For some reason, he was booked without consent.

For some reason, he now had to defend his very title lineage against a fucking soccer-ball-for-a-head-midget who regularly daydreams and has his head in the clouds like some good-for-nothing child.

Maverick shoved his phone HARD onto the desk, weighing his options as he massaged his temples. What the fuck should he do? Questions boggled around, one after another, each one weighing his mind down.

You were always seen as second-rate there, weren't you?

Voices in his head spoke again - this was something he was acquainted with all too well. It was Maverick's coping trauma after the untimely death of his father as a child, and this voice - Maverick's "mind-father," he nicknamed him, often tried giving help, encouragement and insight.

As much as I hate to say it, yes, he responded back. Maverick stared out of one of the many windows of his mansion, staring out into the bleak, gray world around him. Raindrops started to fall onto the windows, almost serving as a reflection of the inner turmoil raging inside Maverick.

You want my advice? Go.

Maverick sharply exhaled - part of him knew that's what his mind-father would say. Memories from his last experience started popping up in his mind again.

Maverick was never good enough to face consistent success, no. He would show gasps and flashes of success, even having a Hart title reign that he carried into one of the XWF's many hiatuses, but looking at his career, one would laugh at him for clinging to the moniker "Perfection Incarnate."

That laughter felt like it was echoing in his ears even now.

There was a lot left undone.

He never won at War Games.

He never paid Gilmour back after he won the Hart title again.

He never could measure up against the best-of-the-best, even when it mattered most.

And constant labels clung to him. The most egregious of them all being a "no-shower" - a line created to mock Maverick's inconsistency in the ring, among other purposes.

Maverick clenched his fist. He felt his jaw tightening.

Admit it. You've always felt like you could never stay away from the ring. You've been wanting to go back for ages now, haven't you?

He couldn't lie - this was literally an extension of himself talking. Maverick suffered from a chronic case of "The Itch." Wrestling was in his blood. When he was on top of his game, he was good. But it seemed like a constant struggle within himself as to what Maverick would come out - the Maverick that was worthy of calling himself Perfection Incarnate, or the Maverick that would do nothing more than curl up in a ball and wish the world away.

It was embarrassing. But it didn't stop him from trying to come back many times before.

I... I don't know if I can do it though.

Bullshit. You're over 30 now, and you might have the fortune, and you can say that you've gone out there and given it a shot, but can you really say you put your all on the line? Can you say you truly gave your blood, sweat and tears to that sacred ring, and still push yourself to the brink for the sake of that title?

He didn't need to respond to that.

Gone were the days of the cocky youth proclaiming to the world about how he was the best and how he would become a Universal Champion.

All that was left was a tragic shell of himself, a shell that's become nothing but a coward.

Faces flashed before his eyes.

Vincent Lane.

Gator.

Scully.

Peter Gilmour.

Azrael Erebus.

So many faces swirled around him. Telling him he wasn't good enough. That he had no business even trying to make a comeback.

And his mind then flashed to Mini Morbid, in the ultimate form of disrespect, using a picture of him as toilet paper...

CRASH!

"FUCK!"

Maverick took his hand out of the hole he punched through the window. Shards and chunks of glass stuck out of his arm, and blood mixed with the rain water from outside to create a murky mess. He clenched his teeth, gripping onto his arm and leaning on one of the nearby walls.

That wasn't your brightest move.

I don't need a damn lecture, Maverick responded.

Nothing was being able to distract him from his sheer anger at the situation. He was angry at the XWF, angry at Mini Morbid, angry at all those who wronged him.

But that was nothing compared to the anger he felt at himself.

All this time he was stuck in retirement, Maverick felt the everlasting sense of dread that he was nothing. He wasn't even a has-been, and he could never even make it to a wanna-be. He was a never-would-be.

So... could he last like this?

Could he last knowing that he was never able to finish his dream? That now the last remaining legacy of him was going to be wiped out, rendering anything he's ever accomplished moot?

Maverick took one last look at his phone. The match card was still visible to him.

Hell no he wouldn't.

Over his dead body would he let his hard work be erased.

And over his dead body would he never be able to finish his dream of becoming the Universal Champion.

"Loverboy" Vinnie Lane edited this post - 01-30-2020 08:37 AM notice of late posting