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X-treme Wrestling Federation »   » Archives » Relentless Day 3 RP Boards 2022
The Power of Lov(ing Gravy's Body)
Author Message
Mark Flynn Offline
24/7 Briefcase Holders get their name in GOLD
The 24/7 Shot!



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
09-24-2022, 05:14 AM

WarGames Morning


“NK, c’mon.”

“...”

“Stop.”

“...*thwp*”

“Okay, it's not holding your breath if you’re sucking oxygen through the side-of-your-mouth.”

“I AM NOT! I will NOT tolerate baseless accusations, Mark Flynn! My integrity as True-Korean-Breath-Holding champion is above reproach!”

“...”

“...I mean…*thwp*.”

“Whatever. I don’t CARE if you hold your breath, I’m not teaching you Kido’s heart punch.”

“*exhaaaaaaaaaaaaale* Mark Flynn! You must! I demand it! WarGames looms! My comrades count on me! If it comes down to us two, I MUST defeat Raion Kido! At his own game!”

“...What’s North Korea’s apex predator?”

“...Pardon?”

“Biggest, meanest animal you got. Top of the food-chain.”

“Aha! You, of course, refer to the noble North Korean muskrat!”

“...No, like a BIG… Carnivore…”

“The North Korean muskrat is MASSIVE! 12-feet long! ALL-CONSIMING! Eating until it legs break under its gargantuan weight.”

“...Really?”

“Muskrat attack is the second-leading cause of True Korean death.”

“...A’ight, Muskrat. How would a muskrat battle a lion?”

“...Battle a lion, Mark Flynn?”

“How would it fight, d’ya figure? Would a muskrat roar like a lion to intimidate its foe?”

“Hardly! Despite its great size, its roar would be a mere squeak!”

“Would it pounce like a lion? Drive claws into its foe like a lion?”

“FEH! You know nothing of muskrats, Mark Flynn! Its paws are soft and fleshy! Its hindlegs designed to scurry-and-flit, not leap!”

“...So, it’d be foolish for a muskrat to battle a lion, like IT was a lion. Right?”

“Undoubtedly so!”

“So. Why would I teach you to fight Kido like you’re Kido.”

“...W-Welll…”

“NK. If you wrestle Kido, trying to be Kido? You’ll lose. Ten-times-outta-ten. Hundred-times-out-of-a-hundred. He’s a better Kido than you. No question.”

“...”

“But, if you go out there. And wrestle like a North Korean War Criminal. Scrapping, biting, surviving… Like only a muskrat can. There’s a chance.”

“...Truly?”

“Sincerely.”

“...Mark Flynn.”

“Yeah, bud?”

“After careful deliberation, UNRELATED TO YOUR COMMENTS… I have decided NOT to learn Comrade Kido’s heart punch.”

“Heheh… Well, Unrelated-to-my-comments… I think it’s the right call.”

“Naturally! I only call rightly! I am ENDOWED with True-Korean wisdom.”

“With that… wisdom… and my knowledge. We move mountains together, bud. We’ll beat Kido.”

“....HA! I CONCUR! OUR COLLABORATION ENCAPSULATES THE VISION OF TRUE KOREA! THE COLLECTIVE SPIRIT!”

“‘Zactly. You and me, bud? We’re a fuckin’ dream team.

***
…Flynn snaps awake, lifting his head… Fuuuuuuck, even that’s exhausting...

Flynn fatiguedly lowers his hea-. He reflexively squirms! The floor is… wet?

“...Ohhhhhh. Juuuust my blood.”

…Flynn groans, dipping his head into the liquid...

“At least I’m outta the tent…”

Confused bureau employees chitter, circling the bleeding homeless gutter-trash that Agent Spahtz just chucked from the second floor to the first. They murmur and whisper…

Flynn inhales deeply…



…Wait. He smells… Dobry?

Flynn pries open his heavy eyes. Yes, shoving hordes of co-workers to the floor, Soda Popinski (in Spahtz’s body) storms forward, tearing the necktie from his collar.

Damn, Gravy’s got super smell...



Shit… I forgot my own lesson.

Spahtz halts, looming over the fallen Flynn-Gravy…

I’ve been fighting like… me. And Gravy’s body is fighting back.

Flynn-Gravy tucks his right fist into Gravy’s… CONSTANTLY-WET pocket…

If I’ma survive this… I gotta fight like Gravy…

Spahtz-Popinski heaves Flynn-Gravy up by his jacket collar… Lifting Flynn up to his face.

“Do svidaniya, Flynn. Goodb-”

“POCKET-LIQUID GOOOOOOOOOO!”

FLEKKKK! Mysterious moisture that-you-do-not-want-to-think-about sluuuurps off Flynn-Gravy’s hand! Straight into Spahtz-Popinski’s face.

Horrified, the Russian loosens his grip and paws at his face.

“AH! WHAT-THE-FUCK! WHAT-FUUUUUUUU-”

Popinski wipes his eyes… Just as…

WHAM!

Flynn-Gravy open-palm SMAAAAAAACKS the taste outta Popinski’s mouth.

Gravy’s stupid hands can’t grapple... But they’ll smack someone upside-their-head.

Spahtz-Popinski fully sideflips, turning 450 degrees to land on the OTHER SIDE OF HIS FACE.

Flynn looks down, feeling the swell of an unfamiliar power.

“OhmyGod…” Flynn grins giddily. “...I LOVE these hands.”



Spahtz-Popinski shakes off cobwebs, pushing himself off the floor, sneering furiously.

“...Okay, think like Gravy…”

Flynn-Gravy cuts left, weaving through the crowd. The agents part like the Red Sea, not wanting to touch this greasy weirdo.

Spahtz-Popinski shoves himself up, in hot pursuit.

Flynn-Gravy slips beyond the crowd, When his eyes spot a maintenance man… With a cart of packaged lighttubes.

“...Little on-the-nose, but okay.”

The much-bigger Spahtz-Popinski bowls over terrified, scattering agents.

The Russian finally bursts free of the crowd when…

KERASH! TWO LIGHT TUBES SHATTER ACROSS HIS FACE! SHARDS OF GLASS REND THE FLESH FROM HIS CHEEKS! BLOOD GUSHES DOWN HIS FOREHEAD!

Flynn delightedly glimpses the destroyed tubes shards into his hands, pupils wildly dilating. “Okay, I’m getting it. This is FUCKIN’ gre-”

HUP! In a flash, the semi-blinded Russian grapples the blur before him, scooping him up by his neck scruff! He heaves Flynn like a sack-of-potatoes!

Flynn-Gravy saaaaaaaaaaails through the air! And crashes over the front desk, slamming through company photos, a fishbowl full of pens… and a blonde surfer-dude receptionist.

“Хуесо́с!” The Russian mutters, wiping blood across his forehead…

Flynn snaps to! He darts desperately…

“Okay. Improvise…”

Flynn’s hands fiendishly flit, tinkering impromptu weapons… He wraps his right hand around the emptied fishbowl…

“...Dude, you mugging me?”

Flynn glances downwards. Subconsciously, without thinking about it, Flynn’s left hand started rifling through the receptionist’s jacket pockets…

“...Sorry. New Hands.” Flynn reels his left fist back and finds…

A BLUNT AND A ZIPPO!



Flynn looks at the spliff and lighter, contemplatively.

“...Huh. Is it a relapse if it’s not MY body?”

CLAMP! Two hands grab onto Flynn-Gravy’s shoulders, HOISTING him airborne!

The Russian snarls, “I HAVE YOU NOW, FL-”

PLUNK! In a flash, Flynn’s right hand dumps the fishbowl upside-down over Popinski’s head!

Shocked, the Russian loosens one hand’s grip to fish it off! But his neck muscles have tensed up! He’s caught like a hand in a pickle jar!

Flynn, still gripped, flicks the lighter! He lights up!

Flynn presses the blunt against his lips, sucking with all his might.



He holds his cheeks tight.



Flynn ducks his head up to Soda’s neckline, under the bowl, and… PHHHHHHOOOOOOOOOOOO! Blows a mouthful of smoke into the fishbowl!

The previously-transparent bowl orb clouds up! Fumes billowing! Popinski doubles his efforts battling the bowl!

The receptionist’s eyes widen, seeing this hotbox fishbowl!

“DUUUUUUUDE!”

He reaches for…

…His cell phone?

He punches numbers…

“CHRIS!” He shouts! “It’s me! Your cousin, Marvin!”



“Y’know? ‘CHRONIC’ MARVIN PAGE?”

“Y’know that new cannabis idea you've been looking for?”
Marvin flips on FaceTime! “WELL LOOK AT THIS!"

The fishbowl is airtight, sealed around Popinski’s neckline! The harder Popinski wriggles, the tighter the bowl clamps!

He… tugs…

…Getting woozy……

Flynn palms both Spahtz-Popinski’s chest and SHOVES HIM BACKWARDS!

Popinski falls backwards and KERASH! THE FISHBOWL BURSTS! GLASS SHARDS SHATTER AND SCATTER INTO THE RUSSIAN’S SKULL! Intermingling with the lighttube shards already embedded into the boxer’s face!

“AHHHHHHHHHHHH!” Spahtz-Popinski howls in pain, his face a crimson mask.

Flynn nods, riding the adrenaline. Gravy’s body loves this. “Keep it goin’…!” Flynn’s eyes dart back to the front desk! A full-service 2-in-1 printer-scanner!

“Hell yes!” Flynn gleams, scooping it off th- OOOP! Flynn’s knee buckle, he barely keeps it aloft!

“ooooof!” Flynn wheezes. “…Little too big to swing…WAIT! I GOT IT!”

Flynn rotates like a shotputter, cradling the printer! Building centrifugal force with each turn!

Spahtz-Popinski rises back up, shakily! He turns towa- OH FUCK!

Flynn spins! HE RELEASES!

Spahtz-Popinski… DUCKS!

The printer SWOOPS over the Russian’s skull…

Sailing toward…

The building’s front windows…

***

“AND AS YOU STAKE BARNCOIN, IT GENERATES BCNFTs! NON-FUNGIBLE TOKENS OF BARNEY GREEN HIGHLIGHTS! TURNING WRESTLING HISTORY INTO PASSIVE INCOME!”

Sweat runs down Barney Green’s forehead… He exhales, having delivered the sales pitch of his life.



The security guards look… DEEPLY disturbed.

…Barndog blushes.

“Guess you guys aren’t ready for the future of finance.”



“But, your kids are gonna love it.”

KERASH! A printer breaks through glass window! AND INTO THE BARNCOIN-MOBILE’S FRONT SEAT!

The printer slams into the gearshift! The car slips into reverse! Backing away from the booth…

AND CRASHING DOWN THE MOUNTAINSIDE!

[Image: car-crash-roll-over.gif]

***

Clinch! Spahtz-Popinski wraps his arms around Flynn-Gravy… And heaves him over his head! FALLAWAY SLAM!

Flynn-Gravy ragdoll-rolls like a man hurled out of a runaway car, limbs clattering loudly with each turn.

Flynn ends up facedown… In front of the window he just threw a printer out of.

“YOU CANNOT BEST ME, FLYNN!” Spahtz-Popinski howls, pounding his chest.

“I AM BIGGER! FITTER! I DESERVED CHAMPIONSHIP! YOU STOLE THAT FROM ME!” Popinski reels back his fist… And stampedes forward!

…Flynn-Gravy gingerly works his way up to his feet…

“You’re a brick wall, Soda. And you hit like one, too.”

Flynn smiles, as Popinski charges…

“But your game’s always lacked one element.”

Closer… CLOSER…

“The fundamentals.”

As Popinski dashes forward… Flynn slides closer…

And drops flat! The way 80s wrestlers counter an Irish Whip!

…Popinski’s perplexed! He slams on the brakes!

But the floor’s slick with blood! He skids and…

STUMBLES OVER FLYNN-GRAVY!

Popinski clumsily topples forward… Teetering at the broken window’s edge!

…As a massive dumptruck reverses up to the window...

Popinski swivels his hands desperately!

The truck opens its rear hatch…

IT’S FULL OF MANURE!

SODA SUCKS IN HIS GUT! DOING EVERYTHING HE CAN TO ACHIEVE BALANCE!



…His heels flatten!

Spahtz-Popinski exhales, relieved.

For a second th-

Spahtz-Popinski feels two violent hands…

Push his back.

“SHIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIT!” Spahtz-Popinski cries, flopping forward…

GLOOOOOOOP. Spahtz-Popinski plops forth, immediately consumed by the manure, the excrement as ravenous in appetite as a North Korean muskrat.



Flynn laughs, dusting his hands triumphantly.

“I think I’m getting used t-”

TERMINATE SIMULATION


Flynn glances up, thrown.

“Simulation?”

…The bureau and its residents freeze in time.

Their faces… pixellate… First, into polygons. Then, into colored squares… Then, ones and zeroes.

Then, the desks. The lights. The stairs.

All now untextured polygons.

…Flynn’s astonished.

“...Fuck… I’m in the Maru. This isn’t Gravy’s work… It’s…”

Flynn-Gravy turns around… Behind him, Flynn’s body.

“Robert Miles…”

“Impressive, Mister Flynn.”

Slow, deliberate clapping.

Flynn-Gravy grimaces bitterly.

“Ugh, usually I’m the one sarcastic-clapping….”

…A hand grabs Flynn’s ankle!

Flynn checks his six. It’s Spahtz-Popinski… Spahtz’s suit melts off Popinski’s body into clouds of pseudocode.

“Flynn” sighs.

“Computer, logout profile 2.”

“NO! FIGHT NOT FINISHED!”

LOGOUT PROFILE 2


“MY VENG-”

BLOOP! Spahtz-Popinski bloops out of existence.

“There. Now, we may negotiate.”

“Negotiate?”

“Indeed. I apologize for… expediting this…appraisal. Ideally, we would have more time to…evaluate a… partnership.”

“Partnership?” Flynn-Gravy spits. “Fuck you. You pitched this last Relentless. We’ll rule the galaxy together, right?”

Flynn-Gravy sneers. “Fuck that, I don’t trust you.”

Robotically, ‘Flynn’ tilts his neck.

You don’t trust… me?”

“Hell no. You’re pulling a thousand different puppet strings. For all I know, Miles, you’re working for Theo himself! An-”

“HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHHAHAHAHAHAHA

…Flynn’s stomach drops two feet.

He’s never imagined the emotionless, business-obsessed ‘Robert Miles’.

Laughing.

“...Phew.” “Flynn” catches his breath. “I apologize. It’s just… God, Mark. It never gets old watching you add up all the clues… And arrive at the wrong answer.”

…The codey bits around “Flynn” fade… His suit… Disappears.

“You should’ve known from the beginning, Mark. Theo’s always said…”



His eyes…

Remain.

The same.

[Image: spider-man-norman-osborn.gif]

“You’re your own worst enemy.”

***

…There’s not a doubt in your mind, is there, Kido?

Not an ounce of humility.

Not a scrap of shame.

You truly believe you deserve this spot, don’t you?

That you’ve EARNED something that I’m unworthy of.

When you insinuate that I’ve WALLOWED in mediocrity, LANGUISHED IN FUCKING MIDCARD PURGATORY.

…That I didn’t WORK hard enough… for what you won fairly.

Except, Kido. You never won the TV Championship. You never won King of the XWF. You never won WarGames.

But neither did Flynn, right? Why would Kido need those accomplishments when Flynn NEVER won them?

FACT-CHECK.

[Image: Screen-Shot-2022-09-23-at-3-38-48-PM.png]

In 2021, my team won WarGames. Point: Flynn.

Kido, I watched fucking 114 episodes of Saint Seiya just to learn how your brain works. You didn’t have the FUCKING DECENCY to watch LAST YEAR’S WARGAMES?!?!?

You’ve trained withstanding pain… For TWO WEEKS. Lemme ask.

Have you watched gametape?

Seen me sink my teeth into prey?

Cuz I’ve watched you, Kido.

Since day one. Your match against Lux. I met you backstage. I sized you up. Studying the way you breathe, the way you twitch, every mental synapse since January. Dedicated to plotting how I will DISSECT and DECIMATE Raion Kido.

But, sure, two weeks of cramming submissions? An art I’ve dedicated my life to?

Why would YOU need to TRY?

That’s what this comes down to, Kido. Why you’re the avatar of all I wish to destroy.

The golden idol that I will TEAR ASUNDER, PIECE-BY-PIECE.

Why would you work harder than me, Kido?

After all, You’ve never FOUGHT for opportunities. You’ve never had to beg for scraps. Because the tastemakers ensure you feed first.

You’re right, Kido. I’ve never won the TV Title…

…I’ve also never been GIVEN a TV Title match in TEN YEARS.

YOU got one after TWO MONTHS.

I’ve never won King of the XWF… Back in my day, I had to fight 30-MEN TO EVEN SNIFF THAT CROWN…

You competed in an 8-man tournament. And lost.

I’ve entered two 16-men tournaments. Won both.

…One of us bathes in opportunity galore… Gifted treasure troves of title tussles.

And the other… Someone who wallowed decades. For. One. Chance.

23 years-old. That number keeps running up-and-down my fucking head. TWENTY-THREE YEARS OLD.

One year older than Thad, when he challenged me to compete at the biggest event in wrestling. When HE called MY number. My FIRST Relentless appearance. At the age of 42.

Where was I at 23, Kido? Not on television, in front of millions.

Driving a car held together with duct tape. Wrestling in highschool gyms. Getting paid $20 when I was promised $50. Ordering one egg from Denny’s ala carte, cuz I couldn’t afford an omelette.

I slept in the locker room, under a blue exercise mat, so I’d always run the ropes first.

I languished, I toiled, I fought tooth-and-nail for EVERY MEAGER CHANCE that scampered across my empty plate.

I didn’t wrestle in the XWF ‘til I was 33. But I’d made it.

…Then, I landed spinefirst on concrete.

My L3 Vertebrae popped like a gusher.

It was a sick joke. I’d spent a decade-plus dumping blood, sweat and guts directly onto that canvas. And I’d never compete again.

…Then, this CHILD. Son of some asshole from my old life… Opens every show for three months. Calling my name.

Saying we’re gonna fight.

That he’ll cement his legacy beating me.

…And I train.

I lift. I stretch. I run. Whatever I can… To have another shot, another day. One more chance to do the only thing that ever meant ANYTHING TO ME.

I didn’t book a return flight home. Win-or-lose, I was ready to die in that ring. That’s how badly I wanted THIS moment. MY moment.



How’d that match end, Kido?

I know you didn’t watch it. I’ll tell ya.

We tied. No overtime. Theo handed Thad back his belt… And kicked me out.

And Corey Smith… pinned Thad.

That’s how people remember my masterpiece.

The exciting MIDDLE-ACT of the Duke-Smith rivalry.

Guest-starring Mark Flynn.

Overshadowed.

Irrelevant.

The third-wheel in a one-on-one match.

That’s who I am.

…And knowing you, Kido? I might as well complain to a fish how sore my knees are.

You couldn’t IMAGINE my pain.

You’ve never STRUGGLED.

You’ve never been STRIPPED of your moment.

You’ve never LAID on a dimly-lit motel floor, too angry to sleep.

Wondering why the artform you love hates you so much.

I look across the ring.

And I see you, Kido.

A golden child.

Blessed by the stars themselves.

Born for greatness.

LITERALLY THE SAINT OF A GODDESS.

THE FUCKING CHOSEN ONE.




And I see in you everything that I am not.

You’re a “HAVE”, Kido.

Against a “Have Not”.



And eight years ago?

I could have given in. Embraced my star-crossed fate. Doomed by chance.

I could have surrendered. Let bedsores consume my spine, as my muscles slowly atrophied…

A pre-corpse that death delayed claiming.



But I refused.

Those who neglected me? The powerplayers, executives, the stars, SAINT FUCKING ATHENA?!?!

I denied their claim over my fate.

I created the Optimal Path.

The challenges? The setbacks? The pain? That which you mock?

Became climbing tools.

I dedicated myself to reaching the mountaintop.

No matter what I must do, who I must hurt…

I’d. Make it.



And in my path? Kido.

The ‘Everyman’ hero.

Managed by the COMPANY OWNER.

BLESSED BY A FUCKING GODDESS.



I see ARROGANCE.

Someone who’d challenge a submissions master to a submissions match, WITHOUT KNOWING A GODDAMN ARMBAR.

Someone competing on the train from BttF3, and never referenced the model.

(1897 Rogers 4-6-0 mixed-traffic engine. Yes, the film takes place in 1885. Check my fucking research.)

Have you read documentation on proper train deceleration technique?

Checked my injury history to exploit my weakest joints?

…No. If you didn’t watch 2021 WarGames, I can’t imagine you performed  even the MOST BASIC RESEARCH.

…Because you’re the hero, huh, Kido?

The story’s protagonist.

You’ll believe in yourself, FIGHTING SPIRIT, Heart-of-the-Cards… You’ll win.

Like Saint Seiya, the psychopath who heart-punched his friend so hard, he died.

You’ll defeat the villain.

Because heroes beat villains, right?



I reject your narrative.

This isn’t YOUR fairytale. Nor YOUR shonen manga.

This is my story.

A man destiny rejected.

Who rejected destiny right back.

This Sunday, I’ll face one blessed-by-management, blessed-by-media, BLESSED-BY-GODDESS.

I will latch onto your wrist as if I’d seize the threads of fate itself.

And as I crank your shoulder joint, as your muscles tear from fucking bone… Like a prisoner’s chains stripped free…

As you weep, squeal, gnash in mind-warping agony… Pain so perverse your blessed mind can’t imagine it.

…It’ll be music to my ears.

The gate to legend itself opens unto me.

A lifetime’s work…fulfilled.

As I Reach the End…

Of the Optimal Path.

OOC:wordcounter.com_word_count:3000
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