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X-treme Wrestling Federation »   » Archives » "CCPE Cannabis Cup 2022" RP Board
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deathproofcoreyblack
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#1
07-08-2022, 06:08 PM

The massive roar of a matte black, early 70s Chevy Nova echoes throughout the landscape as it hits a turn and rockets off at Mach speed. Corn fields, grass fields, tree lines and blacktop road are the only visible things toward the horizon, the sun setting on another day. The car rumbles forward, slowing and taking a quick left turn onto a dirt road, sliding a bit and sending dirt, sand and rock jettisoning backward as the black rimmed back wheels spin.

A quarter mile or so later, the sun's beams have become golden as it begins setting, the black car comes to a slow, then a right turn into a tree lined driveway, and back to a blackened pile of ash. The car stops a few feet from it, as the door opens and Corey Black steps out, he turns the vehicle off. It grumbles and spatters as the engine fades. Corey takes a step or two forward, turns back and grabs a flashlight, anticipating darkness soon.

He cautiously wanders into the ashen pile, surely it used to be a structure as not burned wooden beams jut out of the black mass. He kicks over one, looking underneath, swiping his foot through the soot to check the solid remains.

The sun has set, Corey clicks the flashlight on. He has a water bottle in his pocket, splashing some liquid forward and shining his light upon the wet spots. Another splash, another light shine, moves some remnants around and finally, paydirt.

He struck gold.

Corey kneels down and a toothy grin forms, he grabs the object he was searching for and releases it from its location under yet another wooden beam. It's covered in thick, tar-like soot that Corey washes off. He points his light at it once again, now that it's cleaner, it twinkles. Shimmering, shining melted round piece of nothing. Corey stands up and dusts his pants off, then his shoes, and hurriedly walks back to his car. He gets in, placing the treasure on the seat next to him, quickly tosses his seat belt on and throws the car in gear, spinning a one eighty degree turn and heading off the way he came.


[Image: deathproof.png]

Some time later, with a darkened sky behind him, Corey Black stands with his head down, looking at the ground. A gentle breeze comes by, lifting his hair up ever so slightly, even moving his long beard with it a bit. The angle is set in a way that only sky can be seen behind Corey. He opens his eyes, looking right at the camera. He breathes in deep and the exhales, a sneer makes his nose scrunch.

"I've been called many names in my twenty year career. Hell, I was called many names before my career too. That's a different tragedy for a different supershow.

First was 'The Human Horror Show.' I began my journey in pro wrestling as someone else. Hell, I lived most of my early life as someone else. A specter that haunts me to this day. If I could rewrite history I would, but alas, time moves forward. Under the guise of a mask or face paint and Satanism, I was thrust into the budding hardcore division. I quickly earned the nickname. It carried throughout my formative years, striking fear in the hearts of many that would be unfortunate enough to be tasked with attempting to defeat such a creature.

As the demon was exercised, I sought more. Finally myself, I did what any young man that wants to learn would do, I moved to Japan and wrestled under yet another mask and yet another assumed name. 'The Ghost of Tokyo' I was called, a physical representation of the dark underworld that is said to hold kami, obake, yōkai, yūrei and many more horrible wraiths. I soon felt that home was where I should be, and I returned stateside with a new set of skills to unleash upon poor, unsuspecting souls.

Home wasn't exactly what I remembered it to be. Home wasn't what I knew it to be. I had been lied to, told one series of events led me to where I was when really it was all fiction. So I left. I went somewhere else, I wrestled new people and I had a new name - 'The Avenger.' Comic books were a constant place of happiness for me in my life no matter where I went or who I was. I thought I was someone worth a damn, tackling pickpockets in the street, helping old ladies cross the road. It was ridiculous. It was.. it was me for the first time in my life.

Returning home, I made some friends. Or, rather, I helped some people out in a tag team match and we became the strongest unit in the history of the business. The name Pantheon will still send chills down the spines of those who were there to witness our glory. In the end, I was the last man standing.. I was 'The Pantheon.'

After that shine subsided I was left with the question that has plagued me for nearly my whole life - who am I? I went to find out and as it turns out, my bloodline dates back thousands of years to a settlement of vikings in Norway and Denmark. But I was alone, no clan, no stable of men to do my bidding. I was alone. I was a specialist. I was the best of the best, the one man you'd call upon to eliminate any threat you may have. I was 'The Jomsviking' - disciplined, tested, a proven warrior.

But that wasn't enough. Soon it became evident I stood on hallowed ground. An echelon above the rest. Skill, drive, passion, all exceeding the landscape as a whole by an infinite measure. None could fell anything I wished to do. I took what I wanted, when I wanted. There was nobody to stop me. Nobody had the will, the strength, the resolve to stand across the ring from who was now 'The King of All Wrestlers' and take what was his. From that day on, seven years ago, I wore the crown just so others knew they weren't good enough. Titans, giants, champions, entire stables, entire companies were laid to waste. The King sat upon his throne and laughed. Yet he yearned for more. I wanted to see what was beyond the walls I had been in. To view luscious landscapes and sprawling fields I had just heard about.

At first, I wasn't taken seriously. Why would I be? Some dude over there in the corner of the world calling himself King. A dime a dozen in the entire picture. But I earned those eyes last year. I demanded that the professional wrestling landscape at large turns and kneels. As soon as the ref's hand hit the third time at Evolution last year, whether for better or worse, a name you may not have heard of finally echoed throughout the cosmos and suddenly, in the blink of an eye, I had an entire world coming for my crown.

I left my home to go on a Cruise where I was part of the main event, tagging with people I'd now call friends. I competed in the Roth Invitational, making it all the way to the finals and becoming the only, to my knowledge, person to leave without being pinned nor submitted and not win the whole thing. Denzel Porter came calling, requesting a battle between to of the sickest individuals he could put together and I made Brandon Moore look like Barney the fucking Dinosaur.

All while at my home, I was challenged by some of the best the world has to offer. Until you came knocking, Chris Page. You and your two goons saw fit to toss me out of Havoc, a match that has eluded me for decades and one I was most poised to win. And for what? We were already set to do battle at your show. In your woman's venue. Under your own chosen rule set. What could you possibly have gained from coming into my world and trying to suffocate me?

Were you trying to make sure I wouldn't make it to the Cup? Doing what you do best and interjecting yourself where you don't belong? No, you were coming for the crown. You thought it represented the pinnacle in Action Wrestling. You saw it atop the head of a man that has seen it all, done it all, and continues to mow down opposition and while the company gave you an opportunity to win gold you squandered it. It incensed you. How could the great Chris Page come up empty? Your goal from then on was to make sure the place that was opening its arms to you would no longer have their beacon. Their shining star. Their Horror Show, Ghost, Avenger, Pantheon, Jomsviking.. their King.

But even kings die, Page."


The camera pans upward and back, revealing Corey is standing on a rooftop and holding his former crown which is now nothing more than a melted blob of metal in a circular shape. He is wearing jeans, a black t-shirt and black Chuck Taylor All-Stars. He smiles, knowing full well the intentions he has. He steps forward, over a roof brace and shows the camera what he has done to the symbol the used to stand for.

"I am more than that."

He takes a step back, placing his left foot in front of the other and cradles the object with both hands, quarterback style position. Corey turns left, then right, checking his options before he swings his arm up and back then hurls the golden ring over the edge of the building! Moments pass before it clinks and clangs to a resting place down below. Corey turns his back on the direction he threw the crown, pink lights now casting their glow to the sky from the ground below. They move in unison, two of them, crossing ever so slightly. All while darker and darker clouds have taken a resting place in the heavens above, even covering the moon so its glow is no longer illuminating the rooftop. Corey paces now as he speaks, becoming more animated.

"You saw another place that claims the best, you came knocking and treated us like a third world country because you weren't given the royal treatment right out of the gate, despite the fact that you beat JC Keeton and then expected a James Raven size truckload of bills and adulation. To fight JC Keeton. Then it was a gift for you to grace us with your presence on television. Millions of people watch us on CBS and Paramount+ - check Google - we didn't need or WANT whatever 'boost' you gave us. We're not in some dirty, dingy basement in New York, we're not in a warehouse in Chicago, we don't run limited capacity hockey arenas, your gift didn't mean fuck all. We're in the largest stadiums in the world, the biggest crowds in the world and we already have the over the hill stoner demographic covered with Dandy DiVito, you dipshit mark.

You think you're so goddamn ahead of this curve, you have gone done a ring around the rosie and your pockets are full of fucking rocks. You joined a whole new company just to get deathmatch practice against 'deathmatch wrestler' Corey Black. You owe about half a dozen wrestlers their dignity back because you treated them like back alley bitches, Page. A supposed man of the people with his giant gaggle of minions signed on to his Enterprising glory.

You're looking at a man who has had exactly three deathmatches in the last five years, Page. Yeah, I'm proficient at them. I've got a long history with this brutal form of combat but you, fuck, you walk this Earth thinking it's the only thing I can do. Like you're actually, for real, doing me a favor by opening yourself up to bludgeoning, lacerations and dismemberment. You absolutely are, don't mince my words. This is my chosen wheelhouse, Page, but I'm not some backyard dork rolling around in thumbtacks for six fans on a message board.

Yeah, I can go. But your carny ass doesn't look beyond what sits on Twitter in front of you. You don't see the long legacy I've left, the five star classics I have in my wake, the ladder matches, the chambers, the one on one, man verses man, one pinfall or submission takes it all PROFESSIONAL WRESTLER that stands before you. Japan, Mexico, Canada - I've been everywhere and I have learned everyTHING. You cannot go hold for hold with me, nor can you go blow for blow. You're damn near fifty years old Chris, you'd think how close you are to getting fifteen percent off breakfast at Sizzler would make you look at the world just a little different. But no, you've been this up your own ass melting popsicle stick for as long as you've had people watching you.

So yeah, I'm going to bust some light tubes on your head. I'm going to rake your wrinkled face with barbed wire. I'm going to jump off that balcony but I'm also going to OUT WORK your ass in every sense of the word. Your fingers are in too many pots, Page, you should have had someone actually sit down and explain who you're truly fighting.

You can't even get 'King' taken off your card.

It's people like you that made me drop it. This melted hunk of metal, representing all that was wrong with the industry. You came to me wanting this, Chris. Just this. Not me. Not the man it was resting upon. It's why James came, why Dickie came, why Matty came and why you were knocking at my door, I'm not foolish enough to turn a blind eye and continue the charade. A man who has the confidence and resolve to back up what he was saying, claiming to be the King of All Wrestlers, drives the egotistical jackoffs in as if they're going to liberate everyone and beat that fucking guy.

No liberation here, Page, I already did you the favor. I killed the King of All Wrestlers because men and women like you are plentiful. Blinded by the light glimmering off a fucking nickname. There's so many people out there that claim to be King of this or that, the dilution became evident the second I opened myself up to the world at large. You've seen them, Page, you've surely been involved with many but I'm the guy that made that truly mean something. I'm the one that was called King not out of cockiness or bravado, it was because I was a benevolent ruler. A true larger than life, certified legend, someone the new guys can look at and say 'yeah, that's what I want to be.' More than championships, more than Hall of Fame inductions, something greater than anything you'll ever claim to be, Chris.

Now I'm the man that will drive his elbow through your rotting cranium and pinpoint whatever brain cell you haven't smoked to death, being the first person in what seems like twenty years to get it through your head, by force or by enlightenment, that you're not the top of the mountain, Page.

I am.

I don't need a worthless fucking crown or name to prove it anymore, 'King Slayer.'"


A droplet of rain plummets from the clouds above and lands on Corey's arm. It wets the shirt he is wearing, then another, and more, soon a full on downpour has befell the location Corey is at. He doesn't mind, his hair hangs wet, his beard glistens in the light that is coming from the city below him, with every step he makes he splashes some standing water and as he beats his chest, the damp thud makes him all the more excited. Lighting cracks the sky, his fist rises as it does, a white flash and thunderous boom that would send other scurrying, does nothing but energize Corey Black. He leans in, almost yelling into the lens.

"I'm the guy that would tell you when and where I'd be just so you'd show up and bring your little band of misfit toys with you. You called me stupid for letting it continue to happen. Maybe you're right. But I kept getting up. And I kept announced exactly where I'd be. It took the three of you each and every time. Havoc, XIII, all the Clashes and shows.. man. I thought you knew better. Clearly the only thing on your mind was trying to rip my metaphorical, dumb as fuck crown from my head. Congratulations, that coup you had was what amounts to a training montage. Your best shots, your boldest moves, your boys' actions, all of it, Page. Sit there and think about it for ten seconds, I'll wait."

Corey shifts his weight to the side, checking his wrist where a watch would be. He taps it, brings it to his ear to listen for any ticking. He laughs to himself, drenched but still continuing.

"You can't kill me, Chris Page. No. In order to beat me, you're going to have to make sure this heart no longer beats and you don't have that in you. I've been on the other end of multiple beatings you've given, you and your buddies, and none of it stopped me from getting back up and asking for more. When the odds were even, you left with a bruised ego and a giant L on your record. Me? I left with the satisfaction of knowing even outside my home turf, you're a soft belly bitch.

That's what this is, isn't it? You came to my side of the fence because I was going to yours. It's commendable. Nobody asked for it and nobody gives a shit, although good on ya. How is it going to look when I walk out of the Cannabis Cup with your entrails around my neck and I'm carrying your head? When this is all said and done, whatever remains of your estate will have no choice but to rename this event the 'Corey Black Cup' in disgrace for the man that thought he ruled the world, yet fell short, yet again, to the guy that nobody seemed to believe in.

I'm not going to rub it in anyone's face. In fact, I usually gain respect for the people that test their might against me. Hell, I went on a Cruise with one afterward and made even more friends. Hey Vhodka! Hey Betsy! Yo Shawn!

That isn't the type of person I am. You? You've got seventeen Tweets already on the app, scheduled to drop at fifteen minute intervals should you somehow walk away. I don't need that adulation. I don't fucking want it. All I want is for you and I to step into a ring and for you to try to survive long enough to hand your precious little Cup over to the winner of the tournament.

I'll handle the honors since you'll be on your way to the morgue."


Corey points behind him, presumably at where a hospital would be. The camera has moved a little, there's a big open chunk of city down below with many trees. Corey grabs the camera, though, and goes hand-held with it. Holding it from the bottom and speaking literally right into it.

"There will be no respect for you when this is finished. Win, lose, it doesn't matter Page, respect is earned and you've already shown you aren't fit for the honor. Weren't you the guy that was going to do the impossible? Yeah, you were going to take the head of a GOAT and a King on our way to your everlasting vacation. Your bag of skulls is light, Page. Almost like you couldn't come through with the impossible. Almost like you ordered your very own brand of impossible when you put ink to paper.

Almost like trying to kill he who is 'Deathproof.'

In the end, Chris, whatever you take from me will be well worth what I take from you.

Shadow blooms and I know your end is imminent."


Corey steps forward as the rain continues to pound down upon him. He puts his foot up on the ledge and looks down, pointing the camera downward as well at the Velvet Rabbit. Corey is standing high atop the building across the street! The pink spotlights that dance across the clouds are at the front entrance of the Rabbit, where the massacre takes place. He spots the melted crown on the roof of the Rabbit, zooming in on it as he breathes heavy and the rain batters everything in its path. Now from behind the camera, Corey speaks.

"Just remember Chris.. you wanted this."

He grabs the camera and hurls it off the roof in one fell swoop! It spins and twists as it flies through the air and crashes into the roof of the Velvet Rabbit below, shattering into surely thousands of pieces.

At the roof across the street, Corey Black looks on. He foot up on the ledge again, forearms resting on his raised knee. He watches as a limo pulls up, a man dressed in a full suit steps out as the driver tries to scramble over with an umbrella. Two scantily clad women also leave the limo, as they're ushered into the entrance of the building. The driver darts back where he came from, guiding the car out from its parking spot and into the city. Corey turns and watches it, then takes in the view of New York. A city that he is all too familiar with.

He smiles. Walking back toward the door to the building he's on, he opens it and pauses. One last look at the pink lights in the sky, the lanterns that lead the way to debauchery that takes place inside. A place he would never dream of going to. But a fight he wouldn't miss.

Through the rooftop door and closing it behind him is the man formally known as King.

Currently 'just' the best fucking wrestler on this planet.
[-] The following 3 users Like deathproofcoreyblack's post:
Lissie Hope (07-08-2022), theNewBreed (07-08-2022), Theo Pryce (07-09-2022)




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