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X-treme Wrestling Federation » Warfare Boards » Warfare RP Board
Soft Deadline D.e.D I: Ode to The Father
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
11-03-2023, 09:09 PM

“...An everlasting funeral marches around your heart”
Arthur Miller, The Crucible.

“Empires rise.

Empires fall.

Like sands trickling down the hourglass.

Like the sun rising at dawn and falling at dusk.

Simply, nature.

Of course, the strong would accumulate riches.

Gathering strength through conquest.

They ravage.

They dominate.



Then, they disappear.

Footsteps washed away by the tides.

Ebb.

And flow.

Rise.

And fall.

Mourned.



But, empires do not fall so easily as fairy tales may imagine.

No.

Without resistance, they would rule in perpetuity.

They’d grow lazy.

Listless.

Fattened off the grapes their slaves pick off the vine. Stomachs bloated from wine and feast.

Arms distended and sickly from lack of battle.

Powerful leaders replaced with the decrepit.



Empires do not simply fall with time.



They are felled.

They are ransacked.

They are laid to waste.

Torn asunder.

By a new world.

A new regime.

A better army.

A superior force.



The Romans, the Mongals, the British.

Each one briefly saw world domination… total conquest…

And let it slip through their fingers.

Now… Just historical footnotes.

Left to the recitations of schoolchildren.

Gone.

And forgotten.





The Brotherhood of Bastards?

That’s what falls next.

So, mourn.”




Isaiah has taken to sitting beside the hospital bed.

The one his mentor spent his last moments in.

Bleeding and broken.



For a few nights, he spoke to it.

The bed.

He asked it questions. What he should do?

As if it might still have some remnant of his old teacher.

As if somewhere in the scratchy, medical-grade fibers of that gurney…

Was the wisdom he wished he could consult now.

Was the man he’d leaned on so many times before.



Eventually, it became clear that he wouldn’t harvest an ounce of good advice…

Nor life…

Nor warmth…

From this bed.

The man who gave his entire self to each of his students. And to the art of care.

Was gone.

And there was nothing left of him.



And despite that.

King found himself returning here.

In the dead of night.

When he couldn’t sleep.



But he couldn’t keep coming back here.

If he wanted to rule this world.

He couldn’t cling to the ghosts of his past like a frightened child.

He must…

Begin.

To let go.



Isaiah snarled angrily.

As if clinging onto his mentor was weakness.

Something he had to shed.



It was time.



King reached into his pocket and fished out his phone.

He hit #2 on his speed dial.

”King.”

Ezekiel. His truest friend and confidante.

“Do me a favor.”

“Always.”

“We’re burying Doc.”

“Consider it done.”



…Isaiah’s brow darkens.

“Wait.”

…Isaiah’s stomach turned. His insides twisted and weaved. Like a lost ship in a maelstrom.

…Ezekiel was silent, hanging on his King’s command.



“Put out the word to Harlem.” King finally snarled.

“Let those who knew Doc…”

“...Mourn their loss.”




“AS YOU WISH, KING!” A little desktoy tennis ball, sunglasses taped to it, bounces up and down. “YOU ARE COOL AND SMART! YOU DESERVE TO BE UNI CHAMP”

Another fist swings in, holding…

An Isaiah King action figure! “HAHA! YES. ALL THOSE THINGS ARE TRUE!”

“BUT!” The King action figure rises in the air! “I couldn’t have gotten here without my best friends!”

“NED KAYE!”

Suddenly, the tennis ball drops, replaced by a long-haired Notorious toy!

“I only feel guilty I didn’t do more.” Kaye’s figure sulks, swinging his lucious locks out of his eyes

“And… of course.” King-Figure interrupts. “We can’t forget… our leader! And personal hero! Mark Flynn!”

Suddenly, both figures drop to the floor! The man holding them beams, rising to his feet off his Wrestling Ring playmat (good for 8-12 years (according to the packaging)).

“Kingfisher!” Flynn shoots a finger gun at the Isaiah figure on the floor. “Neddard!” Flynn beams at Ned’s figure. “Please! I don’t need your gratitude!”

“Well, You’ve got it!” King’s figure says, bouncing balanced on Flynn’s foot.

“I SAID I DON’T NEED IT.” Flynn spits down, suddenly furious.

”IT’S YOURS! WHETHER YOU LIKE IT OR NOT!” Ned says, now bouncing on Flynn’s other foot. “WE LOVE YOU UNCONDITIONALLY, EVEN IF YOU WEREN’T THE PRIMARY REASON WE WON OUR MATCHES, WHICH YOU DEFINITELY ARE. AND FURTHERMORE…”

“JESUS CHRIST, IRWIN!” Suddenly, Flynn spins around, his action figures fly from his feet, clattering against the floor. “ARE YOU TAKING NOTES ON ANY OF THIS?!?”

…Irwin glances up from his magazine, perturbed.

“I should… Take notes, sir? On your… *ahem* private… playtime?”

“Playtime?!?” Flynn barks incredulously, scooping his figures off his playmat WORK AREA! “This is a VITALLY IMPORTANT TEAM VISION SESSION! We’re FORGING a FIXED STAR! PERMANENT DIRECTION TO SAIL THIS FRIEND–SHIP INTO WRESTLING’S FUTURE!”

“...What? Friendship?”

“OUR FOUR-MAN SQUAD, IR-DAWG!” Flynn shoves his toys into Irwin’s face!

“King!” Comes with threeeeeee emotions! Anger, indignance, and indignant anger!

“Neduardo!” Now with real human hair!

“Theo!” Flynn fishes out from his pocket…

…A rock with googly eyes. A tiny suitcase taped to its side.

“And, of course.” Flynn drops the rock. “The team’s unofficial, official leader…”



“ME! OBVIOUSLY!”

“Oh! Uh… yessir!” Irwin nods, trying to match Flynn’s excitement. “Another brilliant career move! You’ve successfully found three pawns to guide your path back to the XWF’s peak! Bravo!”



…Flynn exhales.

“No, Irwin! Not pawns! Not like before! This is a REAL TEAM!”

…Irwin squints, somewhat skeptically. “...Real team, sir?”

“Look, Ir-winner. I get what everyone thinks. When Flynn stands beside someone, it’s only to climb their shoulders and kick them down a peg.”[

Flynn sneers angrily.

“They base these ideas on IDIOTIC CONTRIVANCES… like my.” Finger-quotes. Past behavior. And…” Finger-quotes. Who I am on the inside. Flynn gags, disgusted at these erroneous thoughts.

“Appalling, sir.” Irwin sighs, flipping a page in his magazine. “Truly.”

“I admit it!” Flynn points at the ceiling, pacing, riling himself up. “I messed up the last time I had teammates!! I betrayed NK! I broke up the potential GREATEST-TAG-TEAM-OF-ALL-TIME!”

“And even before that, on The High Society with Theo! I had a…”
…Flynn’s right eye twitches. “Somewhat… POOR REACTION… toward losing.”

Irwin glances up from his magazine

“....By ‘poor reaction’, do you mean, ‘you swore a blood vengeance on Mister Pryce’?”

…Flynn clears his throat.

“...Yes. But, this time! W-”

“For over a decade?”

“YEAH, THANKS, IRWIN. GOT IT.” Flynn fumes, throwing his action figures to the floor with a loud clatter.

…Flynn blushes.

“MY POINT IS! THIS TIME! I’m… WE’RE doing it right!” Flynn scoops up the action figures tenderly! “The whole team thing! I’ll prove, once and for all, that I’M A GREAT TEAMMATE! THE BEST TEAMMATE! A TEAMMATE WHO CAN DO IT ALL ON HIS OWN!”

“…That’s not how teamwork… works, Mist-”

“This is NEW MARK FLYNN, BAY-BEEEEE!” Flynn screams, clearly mid-manic episode. “We’re all growing We’re all LEARNING LESSONS! We’re IMPROVING! We’re going to become BETTER PEOPLE! GOOD GUYS!”

“...Well, that *is* a noble goal, sir!” Irwin smiles, putting away his magazine, actually charmed by Flynn’s enthusiasm. “Okay, so… What will ‘New Mark Flynn’ do? How will you make your teammates better?”

“BY PRESSURE! AND MANIPULATION!”



Irwin purses his lips.

“See… When you say that… That sounds like what… ‘old Mark Flynn’ would do. Like… manipulating Mister Criminal into doing your bidding…”

Flynn shakes his head. “You’re not GETTING IT, Ir-dawg. I mean… GOOD manipulation.”

“...Good manipulation?”

“GOOD MANIPULATION! HOW GOOD GUYS BUILD OTHER GOOD GUYS.”

“See! Ned taught me!”
Flynn shakes his Ned Kaye action figure at Irwin to accentuate his point. “By PRESSURING MY TEAMMATES TO BE GOOD! By CONSTANTLY REMINDING THEM TO BE BETTER… I make them BETTER! AND IT’S GOOD FOR THEM!”

“…Sir, with all due respect.” Irwin sniffs, trying to step cautiously. “Ned Kaye… may not be… the best example for building a… sustainable team dynamic.”

”’COURSE HE IS, IR-MAN. Nederick and I pounded the pavement with Bourbsy and D! We took ‘em to the woodshed! I’da won my X-Treme title back, were it not for… y’know... TK rigging arena explosives…”

Flynn pounds his fists against the table.

“But, this time! THIS TIME! My plan’s FLAWLESS! All the pieces are PERFECTLY in place for our ascension!  AND WE SHA-”

BZZZZZZZT! Flynn’s pocket chirps!

“Oop!” Flynn fishes into his pocket… [orange“One sec, Irmano! My Teammate Google alert went off…”[/orange]

“...’Teammate Google alert’, sir?”

“I set automatic notifications whenever one of my teammates is referenced online. Gotta closely monitor their behavior! Their moods! To perfectly tune them to LONG-TERM SUCCESS AND HAPPINESS!”

…Irwin pinches his nose. “Sir, you can’t manage your friends like toys. They’re autonomous be-”

GASP! Flynn sucks in air like oxygen’s going out of style.

“A FUNERAL! IN HARLEM!” Flynn punches himself in the chest to calm down his heart! “The King Corporation’s holding a service for… Dock?” Flynn sniffs, disinterestedly. “Didn’t even know Lou was sick…”

…Irwin peeks over Flynn’s shoulder. “Sir, this isn’t a funeral for Doctor D’Ville… It’s for Isaiah King’s first coach.”

[orange“GAAAAAAAAAAASP!”[/orange] Flynn squeals, his lungs too exhausted to gasp again at the same intensity.

“POISON! IN THE TEAM SOUP!” Flynn spits. “THE DELICATE CHEMISTRY OF OUR TEAMWORK STEW! DESTABILIZED! TRAGEDY! LOSS! GRIEF!”

Flynn points at Irwin. “NOT ON MY WATCH!”

“...Your… watch?”

“Gotta FIX THIS!” Flynn immediately reaches under the table, retrieving a suitcase! “I hadn’t planned on King confronting loss for… SIX MONTHS! WE’RE OFF-SCHEDULE!”

“...Sir. People die… unexpectedly! It happens!”

“A theory I DO NOT ASCRIBE TO, IRWIG!”

“...Okay… Regardless… Mister King most likely doesn’t want people crashing his mentor’s funeral… Uninvited.”

“PSSSSSSSSH! I DON’T NEED AN INVITATION.” Flynn grins. “Nedders taught me when we saw Lilabeth’s parents… who DID NOT WANT TO SEE ME! …Sometimes, you go where you’re OBJECTIVELY UNWANTED!” Flynn nods, as if sharing Confucian wisdom. “That’s what HEROES do!”

“That wasn’t Mister Kaye’s point! AT ALL” Irwin sweats, desperate to stop Flynn, rapidly charging toward the door, suitcase in tow…

“...W-w-wait!” Irwin bleats! “...Consider… your other teammates?”

…Flynn stops.

“Whatcha mean, I-man?”

“…Y-y-you can’t just go galavanting to save one!” Irwin pleads. “…What about the others?!? They might need you too!”



“Dammit. Correctamundo, Irmano!”

Irwin breathes rel-

SMACK! Flynn’s phone catches Irwin straight in the face! Irwin flops onto his back, covering his nose!

“TAKE DOWN THIS EMAIL, IRWIN! TWO RECIPIENTS: Theo and Ned!” Flynn sticks a finger in the air!

…Thumbs whir as Irwin starts texting from the floor.

“To those whom depend on me…”

…Flynn’s nose wrinkles.

“Scratch that, start over... To those who know my presence… is the ultimate present!”



“WAIT! GOT IT!”



“To those who follow me… Like a beacon of light to the promised land…” Ned shakes his head, glancing down at this phone. “This is even more self-aggrandizing than usual," he muttered under his breath.

He sat inside The Notorious Gym, the once excitable locale still seeped in a semi-permanent dusk, shadows draped over its interior. The silence would stifle most others, choking them as it gripped their mind, squeezing it shut like a throat whose sides have finally met. It was a monster, but a familiar one to Ned. And a set of jagged teeth can only inspire fear for so long before it becomes normal.

Routine.

He sighed, his phone illuminating his face as his eyes scanned the increasingly grandiose tone taken by Mark's email, as though the man was shouting commandments from on high into his prophet of choice: gmail. His eyes widened as he continued onward, trying to navigate through the tangled webs of asides and bizarrely-guarded-yet-oversharing paragraphs filling the email.

Something about 8th grade band practice? Getting passed over for first chair piccolo and the subsequent years of loathing woodwind instruments?

…What does this have to do with ANYTHING?!?


The thing about Mark was his inspired, natural talent by which to transform even the briefest of thoughts into hours of confusion.

…Why would this email require diagrams detailing the moon landing?

Ned's reading pace increased, desperately seeking this message’s point, feeling akin to a pirate digging up an island filled with Xs.

…The Girl Scouts did WHAT in '87?

On the verge of throwing in the towel, Ned's eyes caught a name he recognized. Doc. At first, it seemed to be XWF's resident devilish doctor, but it was clearly someone else Ned hadn’t heard about for a while.

A local guy, someone anyone involved in New York combat sports would know at least in passing. Seeing his name mentioned in a Mark Flynn non-sequitur seemed bizarre at first until Ned took in the rest of the sentence.

He was dead.

A local legend succumbing to the long arm of mortality once more. For a moment, a passing emptiness overcame Ned, a cavernous feeling that had no floor to the depths it reached.

But it was merely for a moment.

His eyes scanned across the screen, not sure what else they were going to discover until stumbling upon the point of Mark's message. Through all the fancy language and overly intense prose, Mark had communicated an intent clearly, something incredibly rare for the man.

He was going to crash Doc's funeral.

Almost too absurd to believe.

Then again, Ned reminded himself who he was dealing with.

Exhaling, he pulled himself up, stepping towards a wardrobe he had amongst the storage, pulling its creaking doors wide open, the faint bit of light peeking through the windows illuminating its contents. A hint of dawn breaking through the dusk, settling upon something Ned hadn’t worn in months.

It was time to suit up.

-------

"Empires rise. Empires fall."

"Now, I can't tell you exactly when the BoB's so-called empire fell, but it was somewhere in-between owning a show they didn't like and purging members until they could just barely tolerate each other."

”Personally? I blame Crash Rodriguez B.o.B. is eight or nine members deep… And five of them don’t even WRESTLE anymore. FUCK, Crash! Isaiah, Ned and I CARRIED you to a WarGames ring… And you don’t have the fucking decency to GET IN THE RING ON YOUR OWN?!?”

“That’s who B.o.B. celebrates. Not the working workhorses who go out there EVERY. SINGLE. WEEK… But the primadonnas who stand at ringside.”

“Overdosing on the smell of its own gas.”

“THAT! S’what killed B.o.B. ”


"The specifics are an autopsical endeavor I've no intention of stumbling into. The BoB that exists today isn't some "superior form of a good organization now turned excellent," but the same thieves and opportunists with one major difference."

“...That one of them’s wearing a dress?”

"No. What’s left are the rats too foolish to know the ship has been sinking for years. They'll drink sea water and call it Kool-Aid if it means not having to acknowledge that they're being buried at sea all the while."

”Drowning in an ocean of mediocrity. A SEA MADE OF C-LEVEL TALENT. Screaming about how it’s the reason people watch.”

“Like a twenty vehicle pile-up made entirely of clown cars.”


”Just to worship Bobby.”

"A cult. The ease with which they convinced Big D to join the cheerleading squad was about as fast as it took for Bobby to drop the Nickles experiment.
Now, it's no secret that there was zero love between myself and Charlie, but Big D better take notes.

One day, Bobby'll be at his lowest and you’ll be the one he blames for it, won’t even matter that you changed your whole ass name for him.

If Bobby didn't devote 90% of his brain to the world's laziest slam poetry, he might be able to spend a little of that time hashing out things before they spiralled out of control. But that's what defines BoB.

They'd rather do a stupid thing a million times than think once."


“Bobby raps like a sunday-school teacher sitting backwards on a chair. And he wrestles like a priest trying to convince altar boys that post-coital cuddling isn’t His Will.”

"How many members? How many leaders? Hell, TK just found himself a new deity because disappointing the first one just wasn't enough for him. He likes to talk about Paper Tigers because lying about his papers is the only way to get ANYONE to ignore just how much he dreads… fears, holding that title.”

"TK's too scared to take the first punch in the battle of words anymore. Strategy? He's just scared he can't out talk someone if they get the last word."

“Not to mention… HE STOLE MY FUCKING ACT. ‘King of the Midcarders’?!?! Corporate Champ, slaying jobbers and making him thank them for the screentime? TK! YOU ARE INFRINGING ON MY INTELLECTUAL PROPERTY!”

“...I will admit, I’m a GOOD GUY now. But that doesn’t mean I won’t break your goddamn’s jaw and throw you to have your bones picked cleaned like the fucking TRASH ANIMAL SCAVENGER YOU ARE. GET YOUR OWN GIMMICK, ASSHOLE.”


"And Bobby's out here harping on me for mispeaking because at some point in his career, he decided imitating Sarah Lacklan was a goal and not a shame."

”Also who’s god awful idea was it to let TK lead the gang? Is Bobby dyin’ or something? Imagine the third-best man in the team strutting around like he’s actually hot shit. Between you and D, the titles in this business dipping like it’s 2008.”

”This’ll be a mercy killing.

For the sake of the fans that have to watch this shit.

For the sake of TK who’d much rather drop this shit.

For the sake of Bobby, whose back is probably busted carrying this shit.

For the sake of your god, who's probably sick of saving your shit.”



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