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X-treme Wrestling Federation »   » Archives » March Madness V 2023 RP Board
Making a Champion
Author Message
Prof. Bobby Bourbon Offline
Mad Scientist



XWF FanBase:
The 'cool' kliq fans

(booed by casual fans; opportunistic; often plays dirty while setting the trends)


#1
03-18-2023, 08:36 PM



Mark, by now we waited and waited for you to throw a fit exemplifying how Theo wants to screw you over. The ways I see it, you can cry to Chris Page and get the rest of them CCPE fools down here, Theo can call his people, y'all can hash this out, I’m the Bastard my people call when shit needs getting done on my end, though. I didn't call Theo or ask a favor for this rematch, Mark, nope. If I get fucked over for the Universal Title, Mark, there will be hell to pay, and you're tab is ready!

Fred Gorson approaches Bobby, followed by TK and Harmon. Fred looks very shaken, although festive with his black, red, and white face paint, Bastard colors.

Yo, Fred, looking cool! Facepaint! You will be like the Latina Submission Machina of Mini-Golf!

The silent one mixed cayenne pepper into it, if I touch it my eyes will burn.

Bobby looks at Harmon. Both men point to their own heads.

Smart.

He also taught us a few fuckin' tricks.

TK puts a flourescent purple ball on the ground. He picks up a putter, solid platinum with his name engraved all over it. TK hits the ball and it turns into a fireball momentarily, until reverting back to its regular golfish form.

Oh, damn, what?

Yeah, this mother fucker knows all the wizard tricks a wrestler would know, like all the stuff Doc and Alias were all about.

Not the shit Mark does a poor job emulating though.

Oh goddamn, no!

Harmon places a neon blue ball on the ground and retrieves his putter. His is custom made, and the head is a very distinct sickle shape. He hits his ball, which turns to ice and snakes along the ground left and right, until coming to a halt, once again a regular golf ball.

Holy shitballs, I'm going to be a Mini-Golf Wizard, awesome.

Yeah bro!

Bobby and TK both look at Harmon, who is grinning at his newfound Mini-Golf capabilities. TK and Bobby exchange a no-look fistbump. Harmon daps into the no-looker as all three men exaggeratedly look away from one another. Fred Gorson, looking as though he's about to shit an entire raccoon into his puffy pudgy pantaloons, clears his throat.

Can I please wash this off my face now?

No, you look badass, bro. You don't get it, Fred, you tought my friends the ways of your people. I had no idea that mini-golf harnessed the powers of the elements themselves. Can I do Neon as mine? I like that element, it's the element of surprise.

Fred shrugs. He holds out his club and taps Bobby’s club with it. Bobby places a golf ball on the ground. Neon orange. He winds up with his putter, striking the ball. Deep synthwave music starts playing as the floor turns into a neon blue grid, the ball leaving a Tron style neon orange trail.

Fucking rad!

Yeah, yeah, can I wash up now?

What? No, Fred, we gotta do the training sequence.

What training? I was just going to tap your club and magically do this, you wanna do Mini-Golf Hogwarts now?

Woah, no, I'm your Mini-Golf Mandalorian! No J.K. Rowlings, she's cancelled! Pedro Pascual is the shit.

Bobby walks past Fred, and with a backhanded swing, claps Fred's cheeks with his putter. Fred hoots in pain.

This is the way. We're going to make you not just Colorado State champion, but World Mini-Golf champion, Fred, and that involves potential chemical burns, you signed the waiver!

That was when I thought I was just playing you in crazy golf!

You can't hustle a hustler, Fred.

Well, if you're making me awesome, I'm tired of being just ordinary Fred Gorson! I want a cool name, like Rocketballz!

That's my cousin's fucking name.

Bobby and Harmon both nod.

That tracks. Anyway, Fred, nobody picks their own nickname. Let's go, time to train.

TK claps Fred on the ass with his putter now. Fred jumps in shock, his soft, supple, ample buttocks absorbing the blow.

Giddyap!

Fred shimmys along, and comes to two consecutive lines of tires on the ground. He starts running through them, but trips and falls as he does. We cut to see Bobby and TK yelling at Fred to do a pull-up while Harmon blows a whistle in his face. We see Fred pulling a small hitch trailer with Bobby standing in it with a bullhorn, hollering at him. We cut to Fred running the tires again, and once again falling on his face. Bobby shakes his head in disappointment. We see Fred standing in a white t-shirt and his tighty whities in the rain holding up a bucket in each arm. We see Fred laying in bed, crying, still not touching the dangerous face paint. We see Bobby put Fred in a large burlap sack, along with a snake, a monkey, a rooster, and a dog. Bobby shuts the sack and throws it into a river. The sack violently shakes and spasms with unknown horrific activity going on within. Fred's screams echo throughout. We see Fred giving the tires another try. He runs them without falling! The awesome music wraps up and Fred and Bobby fistbump!

Fuck yeah, Bobby! Now I can run through tires!

Awesome, you know what? That's your nickname, the Michelin Man!

Perfect.

Harmon nods slowly, looking at Fred Gorson, morbidly obese and sassy, festively plump for everyone's delight.

Hell yeah! Now, you have your elemental empowerments, fire for TK, ice for Harmon, and neon for Bobby, but there's more to Mini-Golf than just those! We gotta play the game!

What the hell is going on here?

The camera spins. We see Jerry Jones, owner of the Dallas Cowboys, walking with a pack of security guards towards Bobby and the rest of the Bastards.

Why the hell are y'all in my stadium!?

The camera zooms out, and we see all of this has been taking place on the floor of AT&T Stadium. Bobby smiles.

Hey, Jerry, how's it hanging?

Goddamn you, Bourbon, I remember that lunch we had and you insulted the sushi!

It's food, it doesn't have feelings!

The chef was hurt!

The chef was moody!

No, you hurt that chef when you pressed his face to the little conveyor belt, that thing was made of metal, man! Now you're in my house, and on the massive overhead screen, dicking around with some fat dork!

He's not some fat dork, he's our fat dork. Michelin Man will school you in Crazy Golf.

Is that right?

Fuck yeah I will!

Fred's confidence, bolstered by fraternizing with Bobby, shows.

~~~~~

We see Bobby has stepped away, and as Jerry Jones and Fred "Michelin Man" Gorson continue their verbal spat, Bobby addresses the XWF Universe.

So, Universe, how are you doing? Bobby here, let me fill you all in on what the world is buzzing about; what are the rules to a Mini-Golf Master's Meyhem match? Well, me and that low down, no good piece of garbage Mark Flynn are going to play a round of eighteen holes of Mini-Golf, and at the end of 18 holes, whoever has the most pinfalls, submissions, and holes scored wins! It couldn't be any simpler, really, and at the end of the night, when the people, Mark, the entire XWF Universe and those watching around the multiverse, see me step into the spotlight in my golf shoes.

Bobby cracks a smile.

Mark, you fucked up, hard. For that, I'm coming for blood. See, Peter Vaughn never once opened his mouth in any way to me about Snow Job, at least not loud enough I could hear him. None of the other fools have once caught on to your sneaky, conniving bullshit. You have been stealing, Mark. You're a thief. You know the numbers, check the last time, you had to attack moderately innocent non-denominational Christmas decorations to get out of losing your title. How many times did you milk the system, Mark, when you and your long lost and forgotten tag partner disappeared? Blood on your hands? You have stolen winner purses and championship paydays from me, for years, and Mark, come March Madness V, your ass is going to pay up for what you owe me, your fucking spine broken, and I'm taking what by rights is mine, that Universal Championship. And you want to know the damnedest thing, Mark? I have harped about it before, I was here when this place was a hellhole and none but the brave dared compete here. I heard you were good, and you know what, I believed it Mark, I believed you had all the technical gifts in the world, but a gift for the graps turned you greedy, until all you put out was waste from your own pattern of consumption. You are dangerous in that ring. But I'm the most horrific goddamn show in town, guaranteed to break the bank breaking your neck, washing the ring with blood. How many ways do you break, Mark, ask yourself, how many fucking ways can I break you apart while playing mini-golf? As many as I fucking want. You wanna be dishonorable, no sweat off of my nuts, you pull that shit with me? Looky here, Flynn, I haven't been in this business so long I can't handle a little setback when someone deprives me of what by rights is mine? I practice justice, and swift it comes! I am damned proud to whoop the piss out of you for what you did to me, beating you like you owe me because you owe me dearly, in front of so many fucking people all screaming for your blood, Mark. I have shed lots of blood in this business Mark, but at March Madness, it is your blood that I will give to the deserving XWF fans as I take my Universal Title from you. Shit, you went so far as to just show some bullshit on ESPN that, fuck me, they didn't call me to be a part of for fucks sake, and you went batshit over that. You are cruising for a coronary, Mark, and you're definitely coming in as champion, one hundred and nobody gave a fuck days champion, most defenses, heralded, lauded, a fucking mark set forth for champions to come when it closes and I assume the title I fucking desire. Future you, past you, current you, it doesn't matter what you see when you look in the mirror, come March Twenty-Seven, you won't be looking at the Universal Champ unless you tape a little picture of my face to your mirror, and Mark, I will sign a headshot for ten bucks after I finish you off just so you can, because unlike you, with all your numbers, all your statistics, I am what they deserve in a champion, and right now, what you fucking wish you still were.

[Image: DtUCPfZ.png]
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