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X-treme Wrestling Federation » Shove-It! Boards » Shove-It! RP Board
Hunting Redemption IV: DeJa Vu
Author Message
Prince Adeyemi Offline
The Heir Apparent
TITLE - Tag Champion



XWF FanBase:
Traditionalists

(has an old school wrestling mentality; no nonsense; less appealing to some younger fans)


#1
04-28-2023, 08:33 PM

Episode I: Moonstruck Nostalgia vs Dolly
Episode II: Backward Melodrama vs Dolly
Episode III: Oedipus Complex vs Jackson 









”Redemption.

The act of paying a debt, or a cost to regain what was lost.

Slaves are redeemed.

Relationships forsaken for an addicts euphoria.

Wedding rings that were pawned off by widowed mothers.

Redemption is not a given.

It is what must be grasped.

It must be taken.

It must be earned.

It must be sought.

It must be hunted.”





…Backstage at Warfare 22/04, just moments after Jackson and King pass out.

As Isaiah comes to, the adrenaline in his blood forces him up with a jolt. The soft hand of a loved one comes quickly onto his chiseled shoulder to ease his concerns. Breathing heavily, sweat droplets dripping down the side of his face, his eyes darted from left to right looking for something. Look for IT. No, no, no, no, NO.

”One step forward, two blooooody steps back.” Isaiah forces out of his mouth. The words shoot out with a venom, a growl from deep down his chest filling them. His fist comes slamming down onto the bed he’s on, it’s white sheets wrinkling and the metal frame of the bed rattling.

The air stunk of sanitation, and… And…. Defeat.

”Iz-Izzy, you’re okay, you’re okay.” Her soft hand tries to calm him down by running down his back gently. Isaiah’s eyes dart towards her, like some cornered animal, and his body instinctively jerks away from her touch.

The pity disgusted him.

”The HELL it is. I… Passed out? Like some weak, snivelling little…”

”That’s right boy, a wee’ lil bitch is all you are.”

The voice stops him in his thoughts. It no longer felt quite as foreign as it usually does. It no longer felt quite nearly as haunting. No, this time there was a shared…

”Isaiah, you both did.” The voice of reason always. Chaeryoungs velvety tone tries to melt away at Isaiah’s frustrations, to chip away at his self-hatred. And it has some effect. As does the reducing adrenaline churning through his body and the fatigue of the grueling match with Noah Jackson settling in. He slumps back onto the bed while clicking a button to raise it up to a seating position.

”We both did?” He glances towards Chae now, with a softer look in his eyes. Taking in a deep breath, his shoulder and elbow shoots him a vicious jolt of pain as he sees it wrapped up excessively. He could recall the groaning as Jackson pulled away trying to pop his arm out of its socket.

Chaeryoung pulls a shawl, her bag and some of Isaiah’s wrestling gear off the side table to reveal the glistening gold of the Television Championship, It immediately captures Isaiah’s attention. He reaches with his free hand towards it but the pain forces him back to his position.

”Lucky little shit.”

”You’ve got another chance Iz.”

”What kind of champion…”

”A DRAW. You undeserving, unconvincing…”

”I’ve proven nothing.”

He wallows in his inadequacy.

“You Know My Name” Ned Kaye’s iconic theme can be heard through the stadium walls, through to the medbay Isaiah and Chae find themselves in. Isaiah’s ears perk up, and his mind goes through a flurry of options before he swings his legs off the bed. He’s glad to see he’s still mostly dressed in his ring attire, less some hand wraps. Pulling the title onto his uninjured shoulder, Isaiah limps towards the door.

”What in the world are you doing, Iz.” Concern was mixed with amazement in her voice.

”You going to pull a Bourbon and fight someone else just so you can lose fer’ good?”

”He’s probably out there mouthing off, trying to move forward. I can’t let him get too far out….”

”What’re you on about?”

”Kaye, I’m going to crush him. I NEED to crush him. I need to deal with the past so that I can move forward.”

Pushing open the med bay door, Isaiah King makes his way back out to the ring to face the man holding the keys to his redemption.




Isaiah King sits alone in fire-lit room, the crackling creating shadows on his face and behind him. A… mostly-empty trophy cabinet sits behind him. On the lowest rung are a series of small trophies with boxers in gold throwing various punches. A series of ribbons and pennants lay beside them. The level above them is mostly empty, less a single stand for a belt.

Isaiah lifts up his Television title to the camera, the fire’s light shining against it gloriously and reflecting into the camera.

”It’s time for some show-and-tell Jackson, a classic way to prove a point, even in our esteemed sport.

You might call it generic - I call it respecting the culture.

Let’s get to it shall we? You and Me Jackson - Once again.

Toe-to-toe with the man who was punching low.

Condescending to the Television Title to fight lil’ ol’ generic Isaiah.

Dropping from the high accolades of….

What was it?

Losing to Sidney Grey?

I’d clap for you if you didn’t wreck my arm that hard last week.

It takes a real alcohol- brain to come up with that kind of better-than-thou spiel Jackson.

While you were getting your ass handed to you, I was here fighting to get back to winning.

While you were throwing golden opportunities in the air as… Veteran? (Not sure I can even call you that.)

I was beating Dolly Waters to reclaim my title.

Yet - I am not worth your time, am I? Yet… It somehow feels like you’re coming down, returning perhaps? To your TV Title days.
Facing off yet another generic rookie.

Raion Kido, Peter Vaughn, Thaddeus Duke.

Seems like a fine line of generic competitors to be compared to, even in jest, for a rookie like me.”


At this point his belt has settled comfortably on his shoulder, and Isaiah holds up a contract to the screen, the letterhead of the XWF clear on the top.

“The ink on my contract’s barely dried you lazy piece of shit.

They barely clipped the umbilical cord on this lil’ old wrestler.

And still - two-time Television Champion.

Even after help from dear old Ned - two-time Television Champ.

I guess you didn’t buy his advice, you need to actually want it to beat me Jackson.

And you don’t want it.

You hide behind your show of stupidity and superiority but really…

Are you really so deluded as to think you’ve achieved anything more than I have in twice the time in the business than I’ve had?

Is your muddled head so far up your father’s ass that you’d believe you’ve done ANYTHING more impressive than I have?

Sir - you just celebrated your fourth year signing to this company.

Congratulations.

Revel in the death of your ambition.”


Placing the contract down on the table, Isaiah holds up an iPad, playing a vignette from years ago - an introductory vignette on the XWF News.

Noah Jackson Said:03-28-2019
"Hello XWF, I am the one and only King of Xtreme Noah Jackson, the original horror movie icon!"

"It's a shame I missed the pay per view, ratings are going to go down when everyone realizes I'll be doing my own one-man show the same night but I am glad to grace your halls and fight ANYONE who is willing because I will win, because I am the best."

"And if anyone says otherwise they're a bloody liar!


The grinding voice of the irreverent bogan plays through to the camera, a younger Noah Jackson excited to make his mark on one of the grandest wrestling promotions of the day. His voice rings with vigor, energy and… Ambition. The video goes to silent, while his joyful face continues to repeat the same words over and over as Isaiah voice replaces his.


“You came here with dreams of glory and victory. Alongside your training partner Kaye. All the way from Australia - proven in the indy circuits.

What’d you call yourself? The King of Xtreme? If you’d gone the mile against Sidney you might actually have earned yourself the name… A shame.

King Jackson.

The Prince of the Push

Ain’t that what they yelled from the stands back home?

Back home where you’d fought, conquered and clawed your way to the top.

Back home where you were somebody.

The biggest Barramundi down under.

Must’ve been nice - being on top.”


Isaiah lowers the now silent vignette. Chuckling to himself lightly, Isaiah turns to look into the lens with a forlorn expression.

“I’m… I’m just surprised you let that feeling slip by you so quickly.

I say this to so many of you “grisled” veterans. People who’ve sat in this business and let the mediocrity of this company wear you down till you’re no longer looking up.

All you can see is down.

And I mean BEFORE your accident Jackson.

The way you yourself laid out your career - you’ve barely done more than I have.

Nice little comfortable tag run? Wonderful.

But like this show was advertised - you’re back fighting for the rookie belt.

An odd sense of DeJa Vu ain’t it? Shouldn’t you be doing something bigger?

You’d like to tell yourself you should.

But the bookers know it - I know it.

You haven’t gone anywhere since you first showed up. A rookie 4 years ago, a rookie now. Just less ambitious, with less excuses to lean on, with less grit to win.
You’ve one hundreds of times - but what’ve you done? How’ve you moved FORWARD?

Sure life dealt you some shitty cards - a car accident that put that career on halt.

And so you return slowly, fighting your way through the scraps and earning your way back here.

The truth of the matter is - you didn’t beat Sidney Grey. You aren’t the King of anything. You aren’t the Universal Champion.

You aren’t the top dog.

You don’t even really want to be.”


Isaiah points to the empty cabinet behind him, the reflections of fire against the glass revealing just how barren it is.

”Our cabinets could be identical. Two pretty little runs?

Except knowing you… You probably don’t have one of these at home.

Under a hundred different beer cans and used roaches, you probably have a nice little polaroid of each of your title victories stuck together by some old chewed up gum.

You don’t expect to fill up a cabinet with your achievements.

You expect to take whatever comes your way.

Whatever the powers that be will give you - “Sure thing ya’ sick cunt, I’ll take that title and run with it.”

“Yeah no worries ya sick cunt, gimme that rookie championship”

Something along those lines?

Like a broken record scratchin and playing the same ol’ tune - Noah Jackson never gets past the first verse.

Uunngh, does it make your stomach churn?

Do you writhe knowing you’re in a sick loop?

Does your blood pump with anxiety knowing you’re headed nowhere?

Probably not… You’d need to actually desire progress.

NOTHING frustrates me more.

NOTHING gets MY blood boiling more.

NOAH JACKSON.

YOU are your worst enemy.

YOU will be your downfall.

BECAUSE NOAH JACKSON -

DON’T you get D-d-d-d-deJa Vu?”


The fireplace crackles in the room as a piece of wood falls into place - a ray of sparks fly across the room, revealing Isaiah’s narrowed gaze. It reeks of disgust, of anger, of a viciousness you haven’t seen before.




Isaiah is seated by the boxing ring he’s called home for the last decade and a half. His body glistens with the sweat of a hard workout, a workout without his Right-hand of Ezekiel, who was still recovering from a gunshot wound. A workout without his right arm, after what Noah Jackson had put it through last week. A workout without his girlfriend who was at Ezekiel’s bedside. A workout alone… Well except for that one voice of his childhood guardian and tormenter, his coach and manipulator - Pops.

”Don’t be dramatic. You’d be a pile of ashes in a columbarium if it weren’t for me’ boi. Ashes mixed with the maggots and glass of the New York streets. You’d be nothing without me.”

Isaiah snarls at himself whilst taking in some deep breaths to get his dogged breathing under control. Glancing around the gym, he recalls the days of it’s “glory”, when the lights were all working and the walls plastered with fresh posters promoting the fight of the fearsome four of The King’s Court.

Jeremiah Woods, Isaiah King, Kim Chaeryoung, Ezekiel Jackson.

Dominating weight classes in the New York circuit, fighting for the gym’s glory but never against each other. Even the name of the gym had come from them kidding around about a King living in the streets. Pops had thought it a laugh and though the Gym was officially called Pops’, The King’s Court had quickly taken hold of the vernacular.

Street dogs. Street kings. Royalty that was grounded.

Royalty that fought for their crowns.

Royalty that defended them till death.

It all unfurled when they’d been pulled into Pops’ drug-running enterprise, that REALLY brought the money in. Jeremiah fit right in, his viciousness, his recklessness had made him right at home with the violence and fear that ruled the streets. Ezekiel wasn’t too far off too, but he really would do whatever the other three decided. Isaiah and Chae though - never quite found their place there. Isaiah had struggled to fight without cause, to fight for… Money’s sake. And Chae couldn’t bear to see her friends bloodied.

And so when they pulled out after a particularly bloodied beating - Chae, Isaiah and Ezekiel returned to the boxing ring. They were forced to find themselves any gym that would take them, raising up the ranks once again, fighting for glory instead of money. Things were going well, they’d found their footing again -


Until they heard about Pops.

It was all the street could talk about. Jeremiah, the head enforcer of The Kings (the name their gang had taken), had allegedly finally leaned into his ambition and taken out the man who’d started it all - Patrick Murphy - “Pops”.

”Ain’t heard that name in a looong minute, you’ll call me Sir, boy.”

He’d tried to run, but the cops had caught up to him - Jeremiah was behind bars and Pops was dead. Their past had returned… But without much they could do about it.

Pooling together some money they’d stashed from their drug runs and boxing fights and sponsorships - they’d purchased their childhood gym once more. Focusing on boxing and wrestling, and finally getting Isaiah’s foot through the XWF doors. Through their sheer grit and ambition.

Now Jeremiah was back - somehow in the picture.

His ambition to rule the streets, to subjugate everyone at his feet had led to the three being hunted like prey.

Isaiah’s ambition had led him up and down the XWF ladder, struggling in it’s lower rungs.

Now these two ambitious individuals were about to meet once more - Isaiah knew it was just a matter of time…

The weakened champion shakes his head, yanking himself out of the thought spiral just as the door to the gym swings open. It should’ve been locked..

Isaiah jerks his head around, and braces himself to find cover as his eyes settle on the figure standing there - with arms raised to either side revealing he had no weapons on him.

”Isaiah, It’s me. You’re good… I figured you were on edge with that lock on the door. Had to see if I still had it, could still pick it. You need to get better security son, this ain’t gonna stop Jeremiah.”

The voice was familiar - but not one Isaiah had heard in a long time. It was the way the man sad ‘son’ that really triggered a memory. DeJa Vu.

”Mr Woods?”

”It’s been awhile Iz. My son seems to have a way of bringing us together.”

As Isaiah’s eyes adjusted to the light, he saw the person who’d first picked him up from the streets and brought him to the gym to get his life together. The man who had connected him to Pops. And the Father of his childhood bestfriend and now hunter - Derrick Woods.

Well now, Officer Derrick Woods.




“Noah Jackson.

You and I have some clear unfinished business to conclude. I’m disgusted that I passed out in the ring with you.

That I couldn’t finish what had to be done last week - that we needed to call Dolly to set up this rematch so I could bury you for good and move forward.

I have ambitions that you cannot fulfill Jackson.

I have dreams that you’re in the way of my fulfilling.

I need to keep moving up and your stagnant career will not taint mine.

When we stand across from each other the fans might feel a sense of DeJa Vu - when they see you passed out on the mat they’ll feel a sense of DeJa Vu - when they see me leave with my title they’ll feel a sense of DeJa Vu.

But just to make it worth their dollar - just to help them see I’m moving up while you’re staying at the foot of this Ladder.

I’ll retain my title towering above you, at the top of a 30-foot steel ladder, unhooking my belt and proving my ambition.

My ambition. My victory.
Your stagnation. Your mediocrity.”





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