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X-treme Wrestling Federation »   » Archives » Bad Medicine 2021
Soft Deadline Dead Friends
Author Message
Schism Offline
Registered but either hasn't added self to a roster yet or doesn't RP



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
11-20-2021, 11:57 PM

Marf,

I miss you my friend...


Randy Weber reads from the worn pages of his crumbly journal. Even more of the leather has cracked away from it's spine now. The ink is scribbled and ripping across the pages. The whole thing looking like it had been handled with the diligence of a toddler.

The hand writing, clearly not his own. Randy's not sure when it was commandeered, having just found the journal out of it's usual hideaway inside of his musty jacket and laying next to him in the bed, but he knew who'd been using it.

Schism.

Randy's most peculiar partner. The young man he's taken under his wing out of some inexplicable desire to help him become a successful professional wrestler. Though Randy trusts the kid -as he calls Schism- the image of the journal lying next to his face when peeled his eyes open shot ice into his spine. Schism had stolen the journal before, and read it's contents without Randy's permission. The feeling of chaos that surrounds the kid makes Randy uncomfortable. Though he's not sure how much of it is byproduct of being on the road in the wrestling biz. Schism is bizarre, sure, but he's never exactly made Randy feel threatened.

Randy gives his eyes a rub and readjusts them to the pages of the journal as he scoots to the corner foot of the bed. A blue glow from the television in the room colors the pages with light as he continues to read


Marf,

I miss you my friend... It feels like you've been gone now for so long, but it's only been a few days since we last met, and only a few moments since I last watched you on the television.

Funny thing about that!

I may not have won Television Title, but our time together did earn me the funds to buy my own television, and that's all I ever truly wanted. I wanted to see. I wanted to know. I wanted to learn about things. The things I never knew existed. Things that people like you and Randy have known about all your lives. Did you know there's a thing called Meta on the internet? The television tells me about it over and over when I'm watching your matches. Meta used to be something else, but it's changed. They have talking jungle paintings that play computerized music for teenagers with piercings. I wonder what it used to be like? Before it was new and improved.

You were something like that too, right? Someone, or something else before you became new and improved Marf. Something forced to change what you are. I can feel it now. I've seen enough of you on the television to know that you were another person. A good person. A person in love with what they were doing. Wild and free like a beast of passion and strength. That's what you were the first time you fought her, Marf.

Sure, there was anger between the two of you, but the lust for feeling one another's brutality was genuine. It showed in how naturally you two bonded over the beating. You were in love with that rage, Marf. It was you in your natural state. Her knees on your chest, pummeling your face. You were happy, you both were. Both unbeatable by the other's hand.

Even if the rendezvous of you and Lycana was just a sick ploy from outside forces trying to manipulate your situation, your bond with her overcame that. You two at heart were always dissenters, contrarians, mavericks. Carving out your own paths. Even after all the times people around you would say that Marf needed to change, or better yet, that Lycana need to change partners, you two worked just as hard to spite their opinions.

Work. Grind. Sweat. Bleed. Cry.

Yes Marf, you cried a lot. Filled with raw emotion. Never taking no for an answer, even if you were always completely wrong. Crying your way through the dark clouds that surrounded you, and finding her there to stroke your hair through those troublesome nights after things wouldn't go your way. You were guts and cowardice worn on your sleeve. No cloak-and-dagger.

But when you had to go through those nights alone. When you had to finally listen to those people pushing you to change. When she finally listened to those people pushing her to change, you lost all of that, Marf. Better yet, you let them take it from you. They turned you into Meta. Into talking jungle paintings, teenage hair dye and piercings. They turned you into the type of person who said those thoughtless things about me on television before our match.

You can hear it in your voice Marf, that you really don't mean what you're saying anymore. There's no conviction to your tone. There's no fire in those bones. You're not the same since she left you high and dry. You tried to become something, to become someone that you're not. It's not fair. I should've been introduced to the Marf who wants to feel me beating his face with my elbows. The Marf who finds the that the fruits of pain arousing. Not the Marf who all but asked me to not show up to face him. The old Marf, before new and improved Marf, he would welcome the challenge with a genuine, mindless love for agony.

The animalistic goodness is still there though, and I can pull it out of you, my friend. I can turn you back into the Marf who would love nothing more than to roll around the ring with me as we beat one another senseless and make the audience uncomfortable. Dissentients. Laughing with blood filled mouths while we upend their norms.

Marf, this person that you are now, this Meta version, it's not real. It's not you. I've watched every match now, over and over.

It's clear.

You're a dissentient, Marf. Not a follower of some boring trend.

Your staying true to yourself was too much for her, Marf. She couldn't stay with you at the bottom. She was eager to hear that she was something else, that she was due more than you could offer. She was eager to follow the trendy ones, the beautiful ones. I know you tried to hold her back, to keep her peacock from being bloodied by the cruelty of the generic path she was wandering. It killed you Marf, seeing her go on, seeing her now headlining with the beautiful ones. It bore this bore that you've become. A shell. One just like the rest. One who would play the same song and dance as the others. Digging through roster applications, looking for things to insult. Fluffing it up with edgy words, and unnecessary vitriol just to try and sound cool. Never taking a moment to really get to understand your opponent. The way that you understood Lycana. The way I know the REAL Marf would understand Schism.

I never slept with my mother by the way, Marf. That was a filthy slander by you. But I know it's the slander by this stupid meta version Marf you've become.

I know you read my application, and I know you saw my move, the Abolition. I know you searched my name on the internet, will you please search abolition too? It's my favorite word, Marf. Because it's what defines me. To be released. To break free from the cycle of their rules. I'm going to show you the Abolition, Marf. I'm going to set you free from this meta imposter, because you're a good person, Marf.

Don't you think I'm a good person too?


Randy's eyes pull away from the pages, and are set over his shoulder as he looks out into the hallway of he and Schism's rental house. One of those fancy ones you can find online. He can see beyond his door frame, the light of another television shooting up the hallways in spurts, and he can hear faint sounds trickling out of it's speakers.

Schism was is out there watching television, just like he had been since the duo arrived at this house several days ago. Randy doesn't know what to think of the letter. It's far and away the most he's seen Schism open-up. The kid has maybe spoken a total of two-hundred words since the two met.

After Schism's first match weeks ago on XWF Warfare he only had:

Sorry

to say after he couldn't pull out the win in that triple threat contest.

The same for his loss to Charlie Nickles in the second round of the Television Title Tournament.

The same Sorry again when he was unable to overcome Thaddeus Duke.

But after his victory over Marf, Schism had nothing to say. No boisterous pat on the back. No smile. No words.

Maybe, given the letter Randy just read, Schism felt shortchanged by that match. Maybe Schism didn't want to destroy meta Marf's snowman, but rather meta Marf himself.

It's all a lot for Randy to consider. And so totally ignoring the queer nature of the letter, and the general creepy insight into Schism's mind, Randy feels overcome with a sense of confidence in the kid. Because even though he doesn't understand what Schism was writing about, he at least knows that Schism understands. It's like letting your dog off from it's leash, and watching it chase something down. You have no idea why it's doing it, but you trust the dog's instincts. You trust it knows what it's doing.

Randy grabs a bathrobe hanging by a hook next to the doorway, and clothes his naked body. He comes out into the hallway and finds Schism sitting with his legs crossed on the floor of the den. His television sitting in front of him on the floor, he leans closer to it, his sunglasses touching the screen as he tilts his head to try and look closer. He's watching the Marf versus Lycana match again. The no contest, double disqualification blood soaked display of sadomasochism. He's watched this match dozens of times now.

Randy waddles up to Schism, holding the journal in his hand. He's thinking maybe now this can a be a tool to communicating further with his partner. If he can track Schism's thought process through these letters, maybe he can help coach him in the ring more.

"Hey, kid. I just wanted you to know I'm not mad about you using my journal."

Why would you be?

Schism responds, still not pulling his face away from the TV screen,

"Uh, because it's my personal journal, I guess."

A personal journal?

Schism asks, a genuine, curious tone to his question as he takes a split break from the TV to look at Randy.

Randy just nods his head,

Oh. I'm sorry...

He turns back to watching Marf's wrestling match,

I thought it was a book for writing letters to friends we kill.

"Excuse me?"

Friends who are dead! I'm sorry. I meant friends who are dead.

Randy pulls the journal up to his chest, a perplexed, frightened look on his face.

Friends like Rose. Friends like the old Marf.

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[-] The following 7 users Like Schism's post:
Charlie Nickles (11-21-2021), Corey Smith (11-21-2021), JimCaedus (11-21-2021), Marf (11-24-2021), Mark Flynn (11-28-2021), Theo Pryce (11-21-2021), Vita Frickin Valenteen (11-21-2021)




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