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X-treme Wrestling Federation »   » Archives » "Savage Saturday Night" RP Board
The Next Saga #3: Something to Fight For
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ALIAS Offline
Space Jesus



XWF FanBase:
The IWC

(gets varying reactions in the arenas, but will be worshiped like a god and defended until the end by internet fans; literally has thousands of online dorks logging on to complain anytime they lose a match or don't get pushed right)


#1
10-28-2021, 06:47 AM



                                                                                                                              

























































3A: Wake Up




Where were we? Ah yes, the ‘dreamers’. See, as circular as the explanation is, a ‘dreamer’ is just one of these simple creatures who ‘dreams’. But a ‘dream’, now that is something very, very peculiar! To put it simply, a dream is like a story that these creatures come up with, except they just think about it while they rest and typically forget to record it anywhere. Kind of a waste of effort if you ask me. They don’t even really have any control over the direction the story goes in. They just experience it, without experiencing it. A half-way point, if you will, between fiction and life. These ‘dreams’ are a bit of an oddity in that they’re simultaneously better and worse than both reality and the make-believe. As an example, they tend to feature much less laser beams than real life, and much more falling down than your everyday, run-of-the-mill story.

Imagine then the absurdity of trying to apply the logicless substance of these ‘dreams’ to the structure of a dwelling. Everything would seem both right and wrong at the same time. As would the beings who called that place ‘home’.

Oh, a ‘home’ is where the critters rest, which is then in turn where they ‘dream’, which is then used to build this particular ‘house’ that they call a ‘home’, and they then get stuck in a time-loop that really only has one way out.

Stop ‘dreaming’.





~~~~~



“Err… Dad?”

“Yeah?”

“Why DID that Andrew Morrison promo show up?”

“Who the fuck is Andrew Morrison?”

“I was kind of hoping you’d be able to tell me.”

“What? Do you think I control the television or something? I’m not the one in charge here!”

“Should we just put it down to someone playing the wrong show? Like, something got deleted on a file extension or whatever? Is that how digital television works?”

“No idea, but sure… let’s go with that.”

“One more thing, Dad…”

“Yeah?”

“WAKE UP!”



~~~~~



“Dad! Wake up!”

It had been a deep sleep. As such, it took quite some effort to be shaken from it. Slowly but surely, one blink led to another, and he drifted from the hazy path of slumber into the harsh unreality of his bed. The sheets had bunched up around his legs, coiling like a snake between them and leaving his stone blue nightshirt exposed for any and all to see.

“Dad! Wake up!”

There was the shaking again. It was firmer this time, and sent a twitch down to his lower-half that stopped somewhere along the small of his back to stab him in the spine. Though he would never say he was thankful for it, there was a silver lining to his searing pain. It forced his eyes to fully open.

“Finally…” bemoaned the woman leaning over him. Silky black hair fell on either side of her head, reaching down towards where the man rolled over on his pillow.

As he did, his eyes widened.

“NO!” he shouted. Wrestling against the tangled sheets, he fought his way off the bed and out from underneath where she had hovered. It wasn’t easy. He was an old man now, and hadn’t been active in aeons. He had often wondered how long he would stay young for. It hadn’t gone unnoticed by him that he didn’t exactly age the way others did. As it turned out, it wasn’t time that would get him.

It was when he stopped fighting.

As difficult as the tussle against the bedsheets had been, he would be lying if he said he didn’t enjoy a part of it. The thrill of combat, no matter how pathetic the foe. He felt as though a year even fell off him at that moment. Perhaps he could even do it again some time.

For her part, the woman backed away the moment that she saw the man panicking. She stood on the opposite side of the room from the man, framed by the same blackout curtains that had hung there when she was just a small girl. The thought troubled her for a moment - she couldn’t quite remember just how long ago that was. She had no idea that in his own way, the man was thinking something similar. His face certainly didn’t give it away. He was terrified.

“Dad, what’s wrong?” she asked. The man came to life again, moving with more vigour than she had seen from him in… how long?

“You’re not her! You’re not her!” he repeated, his voice growing louder with every word. “You’re something twisted! Something wrong! Something fucked!”

“Dad…” her voice was soft. Weak. She hated seeing him like this. A raving lunatic. Like he used to be.

“I was better! I was better! I was better! This is wrong!” he continued. “I got my answers and I was better! No more left and right. None of that bullshit! Haven’t you seen? Haven’t YOU seen? I wasn’t doing it! I wasn’t playing that fucking game! Others were, but not me! Not me! But now this… all of this…! It’s fucked and it’s wrong and I won’t fucking play along!”

As he ranted, he tore around the room, tossing pillows and clothing into the air. A picture frame of the two of them and her since deceased mother finds its way into his hands, ripped from its hook on the wall.

“Don’t!” she shouts, but it's too late. With force he throws it. It spirals through the air and crashes into the silver mirror that rises from an ancient dresser. The reflective surface shatters, spilling shards out over the thick carpet. The woman cowers back into a corner.

“Look!” he shouts, staring right at her. He has picked up one of the pieces of the broken mirror, and thrusts it in her direction. Crimson spills from where the jagged edges dig into the palm of the man’s hand. She does her best to try and look away, off-put by the blood, but he’s closed in on her now and there isn’t anywhere for her to go. He commands her again. “LOOK!”

She does.

Red droplets spill over the edges of the shard of mirror, but not enough to obscure the view.

Of her.

She sees without eyes.

She smells without a nose.

She hears without ears.

She speaks without a mouth.

A tear runs down her featureless face. She knows.

She is faceless.

She is wrong.

“Dad… help me…”







3B: Tear




The ‘human’ species, as they like to refer to themselves, are a decidedly wet organism. Approximately sixty percent of their carcasses are made up of oxidane, which as we all know accelerates corrosion of many metals, contributes to both the erosion of a planetary landscape, impacts on the radiation levels a planet may be exposed to, can cause suffocation of certain living organisms, and is commonly found inside cancerous tumours. Suffice to say, it is an astoundingly inefficient molecule on which to form the basis of life. Inexplicably, this preposterous species simultaneously seeks to consume oxidane while also discharging it through pretty much every part of their body, from their genitalia, to the very pores of their skin. Even, for some reason, from their antiquated optical cavities.




“Who said that?” the man asks. He sits on the side of the bed, holding his sobbing daughter - grown as she unnaturally is - tight to his body with one arm. He looks around the room for the source of the sound, but he doesn’t find it.




It is this latter emission of fluids that is most perplexing. Based on the information provided to us by the last survivors of the felidae ambassadors we had sent to help promote ‘human’ development (prior to the feline enslavement and subsequent mass slaughter by these vile beasts of course) we know that these ‘humans’ are prone to an array of internalised experiences that would seem foreign to us, as they did to the felines. Further, their intel suggested that this discharge exclusively occured at polar extremes of internal stimuli. That is, it may occur when the organism is presented with both highly preferred and highly aversive stimuli, but rarely ever in between. Quite the paradox.

Incidentally, another strange report emanating from those ambassadors who were unfortunate enough to accidentally taste the liquid while using their orally-bound mind-reading appendage on the ‘humans’ was that this biological projection of oxidane is strangely salted. The function of this is utterly unknown to us, but it is a fun fact nonetheless.





“Do you hear that?” the man asks, as he stands up from the bed. His daughter dries her non-existent face on the sleeve of her jacket, and follows after the man with her eyes.

“I… I did…” she says, with a combination of caution and awe.




By now, we’ve seen that this ‘house’ is just weird, haven’t we? Or clever. Or both. ‘Dreams’ don’t exist, but in a way they do. This ‘road’ probably doesn’t, but in a way, it probably does. And this creature inside, calling itself a ‘man’ almost certainly shouldn’t, and in a way, it does. And doesn’t. Like the tear at each end of the experiential spectrum, we have yet another paradox. ‘He’, to use ‘his’ own co-opted terms, is a… contrarian.




“There,” the man says, pointing to the door. It was the same door he had walked through a thousand times before. A million even. More? The same, but different. He looks upon its wooden existence and sees it both as it was and as it is.

His daughter rises next to him.

“I see it…” she whispers.

Relief washes over him. He’s not crazy. He knows he’s not! Because someone else sees the world the way he does. He’s waited so long to not be alone in this!

He is and he isn’t.

He was and he wasn’t.

The door leads to the living room. And it leads elsewhere too.

Dreams and constructs, to be moulded by him.

The contrarian, doing contrarian things.

He opens the door, and tears a fucking hole through whatever was thought to be there. As if it wasn’t.


~~~~~



“Uh… Dad?”

“What now?”

“Why are there two strangers in the lounge?”


“We’re not here to hurt you,” the man offers, palms open in peace. The woman does her best to flash a reassuring smile.

“How… how the fuck did you get here?”

“We’re trying to get somewhere,” comes the reply, as if it answers the question. The man notices a TV quietly flashing to the side of the rundown room. “What’cha watching?”

“Bobby Bourbon getting fucked in the ass.”

“With an eight-year old?” the man asks, judgement poorly hidden.

“I turned nine today!”

“Oh… uh… happy birthday?” Puzzled eyes shoot towards his daughter, who cracks a wry smile. “What are you so tickled about?”

“If he’s nine now, that means we’re going in the right direction,” she responds.

“How do you know?” The two of them become absorbed in their own conversation, all but ignoring the residents of this ‘house’. The daughter’s response is simple. She points to the television.

Alias is whooping Bobby Bourbon’s ass.

“Okay then…” he nods. “Let’s keep going then.”

They head for the door. The exact same one they came through beforehand.

And they tear another fucking hole.


~~~~~





This, we know to be the limiting factor of this species. Their ultimate downfall came from their inability to resolve such paradoxes. Those individuals who possessed even a modicum of capacity to do so, such as the ‘man’ in question here, weren't given the credit they deserved, and thus… oh…




“Looks like we found it.” There are no words to describe what ‘it’ is. They simply do not exist in any of the many languages that he has available to him. Therefore, no attempt shall be made. But he is right. ‘It’ has been found. Man and woman; father and daughter; emerge in the face of judgement. Ready to do what is expected of them.




My, aren’t you a special one? I had this all wrong…




“I’m just a…” He doesn’t get to finish.




Not you. Her.




The man turns to face his daughter once more. Her narrow brown eyes shine back at him.

“You…” Her nose curls ever so slightly at the end, and her ears jut out just a little further than they should, disguised only by the long hair. He had never seen her face before, not as an adult. How could he? She was only one-year old. And her smile… “You’re beautiful.”

She lights up more radiant than ever, and pats her own face in a frantic joy.

“I’m… I’m me again!” she exclaims, throwing her arms around her father in a hug.




In a sense…




“What does that mean?” the man asks, still keeping his daughter in his firm embrace.




Bye now.




Another tear.

The meaning of which can be taken any way one pleases.







3C: On the Road Again

“This is a story about walking down the road.”

Indeed.

As it was, it still is.

The house was on the road. As are so many others. But it was never the end. This is no cul-de-sac - there is no end.

There is no end.

Especially not now.

The man reaches for his daughter’s hand. Tiny finger grasps the tip of his own, holding tight enough to slow the blood flow around his fingernail. He looks down to where his daughter stands, smiling back up at him from a face full of hope and life. She is older now. That much he can see. But she is not grown. Not like she was. Two-years old, maybe?

Walking though. And talking.

“Thank you,” she says, with a still developing articulation. He returns her smile, and that same sense of hope fills his own mind.

This is a story about walking down the road, all right. It started with the answers as to who he was. But the road didn’t stop there. And it won’t stop. He won’t weaken. Not yet.

Because he still has something to fight for.







3D: Character Development

“Inevitability? You? HA! That’s a rort. I already used that one too. Back to the well then for ya, eh? You really should. Wells have water, and water helps things GROOOOOW. Oh boy, oh boy, oh boy! I guess we’re doing this, huh? Did I call you out for ‘character development’? Or was that someone else? How does that work, Bobby? Was I the one writing a fucking screenplay over here? I know you didn’t - no myths or legends, right? But did I? I mean… I have, but I wouldn’t waste that shit on you. So what was it? Did I force feed words in someone else’s mouths? I suppose I could’ve, but you’re trying to pin the tail on the donkey here and just turning yourself into an ass in the process. Pay a bit more attention, boo. You’re half a beer away from getting into a back-and-forth with some fucking mouth-breathing ogre over the internet and then making one typo and that person pretending like it negates all of the other facts you provided, WITH EVIDENCE.

I ain’t trying to hurt your feelings, Bobby. You and I? We ain’t exactly mortal enemies here. You’re just the fucking ’em of the week to me. I won’t re-explain that reference for you. Pretty sure you got the point last time, hence why you fucking zipped it this time about any of that shit. That’s a cute game you’re playing. You’re doing your darndest to say as little as possible. Based on all that nonsense about twisting your words you started this shit with, and the continual hints that somehow me proving how everything you’re saying as a load of fucking shit doesn’t matter, I can only assume that you think by taking this approach you’re somehow undermining my strategy or some bullshit like that. Is that it? I don’t know. Like I said, it’s an assumption, and I know the fucking adage about what happens when people assume stuff. I’m probably giving you more credit than you rightfully deserve. But hey, better to be over-prepared than… whatever the fuck you are.

It’s a stupid plan if that’s what you’re going for, man. It flies in the face of fucking months of evidence about how I operate. Survival, remember? Oh… seems like you actually don’t remember. Let me jog your memory, because, bitch, you literally did doubt my survival. Or at least, doubted it in comparison to yours. Now you’re switching tracks? Wow. Tell me you’re fucked without telling me you’re fucked. The only thing you’re hammering home is how woefully off-base you are with any suggestion that you’re going to be able to stop me. If I were to bring up ‘character development’, THAT would be the context, Bobby. Because, oh I don’t know, maybe it would signal that you’re actually making an effort to get better rather than being the inconsistent fucking mess that you usually are? That’s what the ‘development’ part stands for, numbuts. Jesus mark-missing Christ, I’m barely even a fucking wrestler and even I know that! But hey, you do you, sweetheart! I just suggest that you start using some of that extra time you’re saving by sticking your head in the sand to work on your excuses for your forthcoming failure. Try to come up with something a little more believable than that four-on-one baloney this time, okay? Maybe you could go with ‘I only lost because I tried to be like Alias in the lead up to it’. It’s pretty flimsy, given that I’m also going to be the one that’s putting you down, but at least there’s a tad more truth to this one, yeah? Because you’ve certainly got your Alias mask on this week, and with how notably light on jokes you’ve been, I don’t even think you’re doing it as satirically as you’d like to pretend. Oh I’m sure you’ll say otherwise, but hey… isn’t that just being a contrarian like me?

Hmph…

I think a part of the reason you’re so far off base on your ‘Be Like Me’ trip, is because you’re not understanding how to put yourself and your motivations into the context needed to really drive home your points. (Goddamn, it’s like I’m giving you all a fucking manual here…) Case in point, I think you and I disagree on the importance of what’s happened in the past. Shocking, right, that we disagree? Still, in a way, I can see where that divergence could stem from. Someone can fall one week and rise the next, right? You are actually the perfect example of that. For every loss to a Vita Valenteen, there’s a win over a Corey Smith. I don’t mean that as a shot against Vita, more just as a comment of what you can do when you really put your mind to it. This isn’t one of those cases though. Because if we’re going to throw around whether or not someone is showing any ‘growth’, Bobby… all you’ve said is that you’ll beat me because you’ll beat me. I get that you’re talking less, but why the fuck even come back at me if you’re going to try and act like none of this is even important? What the fuck are you even doing? Irrelevant talking points? Bitch you’ve literally made all of your own points irrelevant! Bobby, WHY ARE YOU EVEN TALKING? Just pull a Honkey Lighthouse, say ‘I will win! Ha! Ha!’ and be on your fucking bike. Functionally that’s all you’ve fucking said anyway, and yet I’m the one wasting words? Sure, okay, buddy.

This is the reason I’ve mentioned, Lou, which obviously also feeds into my point about the past. We’ll put aside it being my last fight, and that whole thing about only being as good as your last performance really swinging things in my favour compared to you - hot damn, I’m full of adages today like you’re full of shit! We’ll also put aside from the fact that while I was building up to that battle, Dumb and Dumber over there were taking out time in their day to make advertisements about little ol’ me. Seems to me that’d frame any mention of that old bitch Lou in a pretty relevant context, but I can take it a step further even. I’ve using Lou as a reference for you, Bobby, because while I actually told him not to look into the past, that was because he wasn’t looking into how he needed to ’grow’ from there in order to beat me. He did exactly what you’re doing, and just looked at himself. Shit, it’s like you guys have actually sat down with each other, talked about it, and came up with the same fucked plan. Lou said it was going to be one way - and then it wasn’t. He’s not the only one either. They’ve all done what you’re doing, Bobby. Every single person who has stepped to me has fallen when they have been unable to make me believe, not even that they will but that they could be the one to stop me. Shit, that’s why I brought up War Games to begin with! YOU said it there too! Just like all the fucking rest of them!

But you were wrong. They were wrong. Everyone was fucking wrong.

Except me.

I’m the one who decides how this fucking goes! This. Is. My. Universe.

I survive. Thanks for letting me keep that. Not that you had a choice. Whenever that’s my plan though… well… I fucking do it. And look at the fucking facts, Bobby. Surviving? For me? It is thriving. When I survive, I get everything that I want. Every. Single. Time. Think about that, Bobby. You haven’t killed anyone in the ring?

Well that is the only way that anybody has stopped me all year.

Survival.

It means a whole lot more through my lens.

So tell yourself whatever fairy tales you want. I’m the fairest of them all, motherfucker. And you’re not my poisoned apple. You’re just an already roasted pig.

I mean, fuck… this whole thing, on my end, has really just been about setting up The Next, you know? Dinner’s ready, babe, but you ain’t even the main fucking course. You’re an appetiser.

Even so, you all know how this goes by now.

I’m going to Eat Bobby Bourbon.

Oh, and you’d actually pull off a moustache. There’s no joke or insult in there either. I genuinely think you should go for it.”

Do you have a light?

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