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X-treme Wrestling Federation » Warfare Boards » Warfare RP Board
D.e.D II: Cause of Death, Weakness
Author Message
Prince Adeyemi Offline
The Heir Apparent
TITLE - Tag Champion

XWF FanBase:

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

11-08-2023, 11:28 PM

D.e.D II: The Cause of Death, Weakness.

“Peace. It is a providence, and no great change; we are only what we always were, but naked now.” - John Proctor, The Crucible.

”Mister Flynn… I… I comprehend why you’re doing this! To help your friend through the loss of a mentor. So, A-plus for intent!”

”Excellent assessment, Irwin. A-plus! No further comments necessary!”



”It’s just… There are better ways to show your support for Mister King than… THIS.”

”Like, what, IR-DAWG? A card? Heartfelt letter? Voicemail letting him know he can process on his own time and I’m here if he needs me, HUH?!?”


“ANY of those options!”


”I aim to make VERY CLEAR!”

”King needs to know!!!”






”He’ll survive this loss.”

”He’ll come out the other side STRRRRRONGER!”



”Hand me that blowtorch.”

”...Could you at least not drive AND weld at the same time?!?”


Nas' “If I Ruled The World” plays in the background, probably keyed by a genuine New York Street general, a man past his prime and reliving his memories of life on the street, fighting and surviving with his comrades.

Gritting his teeth, charging forward alongside Doc, Elias Hussein.

A.K.A. Edgar White.

A.K.A. Eager "Chalk" White.

A ruthless, ferocious, business-savvy man of the streets. A man who held his enemies to tight standards and his friends to higher ones.

The humble parlour was full of men and women who knew White in his prime, and those who benefited from Hussein in his.

Doc was a man whose blood ran through every boulevard and street of New York City… At least if you weren't a privileged, struggle-less, money-grubbing oppressor.

Doc, Harlem’s Che Guevara. The freedom fighter who lived on both sides of the law. Who showed every OG what bloody honour looked like. Who showed every youth what hope they had.

All of Harlem mourned today.

They mourned the death of a man worthy of being called "Great".

And Isaiah King mourned with them.

Pops had pulled Isaiah down from the grips of homelessness into the underworld, but Doc kept his head afloat.

Doc who taught him that above all else, his life was most important.

Not money.

Not pride.

Not legacy.

His life.

That's what made a man… A man.

The will to live and to live it well.

Those very words were etched into the mahogany casket that held this monumental man.

A man who now looked so small lying inside of it.

"Expecting anyone else, Iz?"

The voice of his right-hand man, Ezekiel, rang hollow in his ears. A hand wraps around King’s forearm reassuringly, but Chae says nothing.

Isaiah let his own hand rest on his girlfriend's, giving it a squeeze.

"A sick part of me expects Jer' to strut in. He won't let the pain end here."

Ezekiel stiffens at the mention of their old friend, now-enemy. The one responsible for Doc’s death.

"He wouldn't dare. Half the people in here are itching to separate his spine from him flesh."

"...Still. Something just doesn't feel right, I need air."

King pulls his arm away from Chaeryoung’s concerned hold, walking towards the door. He reaches into his breast pocket, pulling out a beaten up pack of cigarettes.

The only thing Doc had on his bedside table when he died.

Isaiah had kicked the habit, but some days, a cigarette was all you needed.

Jerking his hand made a stick slide out, and with a click, it was lit between his lips.



His hand shook as he brought the cigarette from his lips to his side.

He had to keep it together but he could feel his mind slipping, his composure cracking, his control giving way.

Looking up at the sky, he blows out a large cloud of smoke.

Who was he kidding? He’s been slipping all year, his family was falling apart before his very eyes.

He's been a step behind Jeremiah all year. And what he'd built to protect and elevate the people he loved was CRUMBLING.

All he wanted was peace. The peace Doc envisioned.

And HE! He was meant to be Harlem's pillar. The positive force that Doc had started continued. These people were meant to rely on him! To use him to break out of the spiralling chaos of poverty and hate.

He was meant to be str-

BRRRRR! King’s phone buzzes in his pocket! King deftly answers the call.

“Mister King.” A voice chips. “Intruder. Near Entrance A.”

Not a moment later, Ezekiel is by his side.

”So much for Jer’ not daring, huh, Iz?”

…Isaiah’s brow darkens.

Jeremiah played truly depraved mindgames.

But an attack at Doc’s funeral?

Suddenly, Isaiah’s mind whirred a thousand miles a minute.

Jeremiah must’ve calculated…

He’d never get a better opportunity to terminate his many adversaries than today.

At Doc’s funeral.

His loved ones foolishly assuming no one would dare…

Isaiah had been punished for overestimating Jeremiah’s decency before.

Not today…

King burst through the church’s entry doors, Ezekiel at his side.

Outside, his posse had circled around this… ‘intruder’.

“Got some FUCKIN’ nerve showing your face around here!” King’s security detail surrounds, threatening immediate and complete physical decimation!

…Hmm, Jeremiah wouldn’t unleash a front-on attack…

Not unless it was… a distraction.

Through the crowd’s grumbles, King heard a… familiar voice.

”Guys. I don’t want trouble.”

…King’s teeth gnashed together in anger.

Kaye? Here?

“Don’t worry about bringin’ trouble, Kaye.” A guard steps up to Kaye, fists clenched, daring him to strike first. “We bring the trouble with us.”

“Here to fight the King? At Doc’s funeral? Fuckin’ cold, Kaye…”

“No.” Kaye remains firm, hands stuck in his jacket pockets, making it clear he’s not fighting. “Take me to Isaiah. He needs t-”

“Needs what?” King’s voice cuts like a knife. Immediately, his detail detenses, parting like the Red Sea unto Moses.

King steps through his men, up to the Notorious One.

“The hell you here for Ned?”

“...King.” Ned empathetically grasps King’s shoulder.

“Sorry for your l-”

In a flash, King shrugs off Ned’s hand. He stares daggers into his long-time foe…

“I don’t need your condolences. Spit out why you’re here, and I might let you leave with two legs.”

…Kaye sighs, trying to stay patient.

“Isaiah, I just came here to try and stop… someone from… interfering.” Ned confesses.

“...Your efforts are unwelcome and unnecessary.”King sneers confidently, nodding at his enforcers. “Who could *possibly* get past my me-?”

*KRRRRRRSH*The church’s loudspeaker!

”Attention! Isaiah King! A ‘FRIEND’ has a special message for you! HAHAHAHA!”

King’s eye widen.

”GET INSIDE! NOW! ” He barks at his men. His detail marches into the church!

Kaye calls out after them, rushing behind them. ”Wait! It’s not what you think!”

King bursts back inside…

And discovers…

Behind the pulpit.

Holding in a pair of tongs… a large metal heart… GLOWING RED! Fresh from a forge!

Mark Flynn!

”THANKS FOR BEING HERE TODAY!” Flynn bows, yelling to project his voice toward the congregation of street generals, shielded by their best men! Harlemites, confused and perturbed…

Is this an ambush?

…Or, even worse, alternative street theater?

”WHAT IS DEATH!” Flynn begins, the metal heart sparking in his hands!


“HE’S GOT A WEAPON!” One of Isaiah’s men shouts! That’s all it takes for the rest of King’s detail to charge towards Flynn.

Isaiah rolls his eyes, exasperated.

Flynn’s eyes widen… ”NO WEAPON! It’s… A METAPHOR! For death!” Flynn howls as he shields himself with the metal heart. One tries to disarm Flynn by grabbing the heart!

…Immediately, he screams falling to the floor, scalded by MOLTEN HOT METAL!

Flynn grits his teeth. ”Ooooh, don’t touch that! SEE!” Flynn says, mentally skipping to the meat of his big speech. “THIS HEART WAS MADE FROM SCRAPYARD METAL! METAL THROWN AWAY AND FORGOTTEN… Like we fear the deceased will become! BUT, LIKE REPURPOSED METAL, WE REUSE! WE TAKE THE EXPERIENCES AND LESSONS THE DECEASED TAUGHT US! AND IN THAT WAY, THEY LIVE ON! So! DO NOT FEAR DEA-”

Wham! Finally, from behind, Flynn gets chop blocked by security! Six or seven men dogpile onto him!

”WAIT! HOLD ON!” Flynn squeals as they step on his face, ripping his arms behind his back! ”I MEMORISED A MAYA ANGELOU POEM TO CLOSE!! AHHHH!”

From the church’s rear, Ned pinches his temples, King fuming beside him.

”THAT man is insane.”

”I… uh… I tried to stop him.”

"What does it mean to be a man?

The will to live and to live it well.

To make every moment count, to make it all come together.

To not look too far ahead while not being too short-sighted.

To have hopes and dreams and work towards them, while making sure if you died today - it wouldn't all go to waste.

To make sure that the people this world puts in your way, the people who you’re tied to… Don’t simply forget you when you inevitably die.

Or worse, wish it’d come sooner.

What does it mean to be a man?

You three wouldn’t know.

And that’s NOT because one of you’s wearing a dress.

Y’all have been chickenshit WAY LONGER than you’ve been flouting gender conventions.

Quicker to drop your friends than Italy in World War 2.


Slower to deal with your enemies than Palestine.


The three of you have just pranced around the imaginary field of posies you’ve built for yourselves in the name of B.o.B.

Two men holding gold, one who’s got a longer list of victories than the other two combined.

And for what? What’s it led to?

A semi-retirement glory run? What’s D done since he’s returned other than weasel his slimy ass in and out of the ring with no real consequence or impact?

Short Answer: LOSE! D’s the only X-Treme champion to lose a match AND keep the belt! D’s on his way to becoming the first 24/7 briefcase holder to LOSE more matches as champ than he won! D is the DEFINITION of FAILING UPWARDS!

Why do you fight? Who are you fighting? Why’d you even come back if all you’re gonna do is absolutely nothing but jerk off your friends?

That’s why D’s the only one on his team with biceps!

Couldn’t do that at a TGIF’s sipping $5 margaritas

Or kicking it up around a poker table?

Oh, right.

Leave it to Bobby Bourbon to waste twenty minutes of promo time on a story that no one cares about. I don’t give TWO SHITS why Bobby isn’t allowed in Tijuana. I wanna know the story of why Bourbon is STILL ALLOWED IN FRONT OF THE CAMERA.

Adding another line to your accomplishments don’t mean shit D. If the goal of your big re-run was to be the toothless, fightless X-Treme champion… Honestly, you could’ve just bought that belt at the next XWF live show.

I’d have sold it, too. #RECORDPROFITS BAY-BEEEEEEE!

What you’re doing now does nothing for your life.

It certainly brings nothing to the XWF.

So… What is it you’re doing here again?

At least when other people come back, the fans come running back, their panties all up in a bunch. Centurion, Alias, Duke… Hell, even crybaby Corey Smith’s got a legacy to ride on when they return.

What is it you got?

Two defenses against… get this... John Black and Ozzy! Two guys who haven’t won a match since Wednesday Night Warfare moved to Weekends! Big D’s been fighting hand-picked chumps… And STILL BARELY ekes out wins!

All you’ve done is give Bourbon another trick to whore out on the sidewalk, another reason for him to explain away why HE’S wasting away.

“D’s bringing me down, I gotta help him get better you know? Community service.”

Actually, Flynn, Ned - who do you think Bobby will drop first?"

"Money's on TK."


Atleast Bourbon, if he quit right now, would still be able to pull the masses when he makes his inevitable return in a few years.

He’s got a legacy, if we can keep him from pissing on it too hard before he quits.

But, recently… Looking at him you wouldn’t guess.

Bourbon’s a dangerous guy.

When he’s motivated.

When he’s not? He loses to fuckin’ Y’ALL-KNOW-WHO!!!

With the kind of friends he’s got by his side, with the kind of endeavours he’s been trying to chase… He makes that long list of accomplishments look like they belonged to another legend.

Another man.

Is that why he fights with a mask on? Gives him an excuse to swap out wrestlers every now and then to blame his mediocrity on.

Conspiracy Theory: Bobby’s a body double that replaced Robbie Bourbon, who died in 2017.

On the toilet.

Eating a peanut-butter-banana-hot-fudge-sandwich…

Our best champions tend to pull one of those when they fizzle out - mind control, the ol’
Switcheroo, brain damage, you name it.

You ain’t no man, Bourbon.

You ain’t cos you don’t dream.

You don’t fight.

You don’t grow.

You don’t help.

Bourbon’s a kid drawing stick figures in a college-level art class. He doesn’t have the FUCKING WILL to stay at the top. He lacks the TESTICULAR FORTITUDE TO SHOW UP EVERY WEEK AND ACTUALLY FUCKING TRY.

Bobby’ll tell you he has my number. Because he beat me EIGHT MONTHS AGO.

Bobby, look at what I’ve done since then.

Now, look at what you’ve done.

I’ve grown.

I’ve pushed myself.

I’ve re-invented my entire game from the ground up.

You’re still running the same bullshit playbook.

Snickering at your own shitty jokes.

Like Kevin Smith.

Watching Clerks Five.

By himself, in an empty theater.

You’ve always just been in it for yourself, with a sick veneer of camaraderie with B.o.B but really what have you done for the people who’ve staked their careers on your little club, staked their careers on you?

Not two, three, four, five years ago - but in the last few months, the last year since you’ve come back and tried to reclaim your throne.

Absolutely nothing. A few glamorous fights? Hell, a victory against me.

But, all said and done? When they reminisce on your career and read out your eulogy when it comes to a close, where will 2023 feature?

As the great AZ said, “life’s a bitch and then you die.”

The only difference here is, life’s a bitch cos you’re a bitch.

This year will feature as the prolific period at the end of your run-on sentence.

The plug that stopped your industrious career from leaking to a deflated halt.

We’re doing you a service Bobby.

We’re saving your legacy.

So at Warfare -

When ya’ll die…

Maybe somebody will still come to YOUR funeral.

When ya’ll die…

Maybe SOMEBODY will still wonder whatever happened to Bobby Bourbon.

When ya’ll die…

Maybe SOMEBODY will hope that you’ll have just another run.


But I wouldn’t bet on it - I’d be grateful if I never saw your sorry faces ever again.”

“What we can rejoice in - is everything Doc has done for us, in the legacy that he’s left behind, in how he finished his time here well… Protecting his family, protecting his nation, protecting his community.”

”Ugh.” Flynn elbows Ned, sitting next to him in the pew. ”This guy’s totally blowing all the good will I built with my speech!!!”

“Shhhhhh.” Ned patiently silences Flynn.

Miraculously, Flynn wasn’t beaten to death for his… theatrics. They even let him stay for the ceremony, shiny eye and all.

Oh, and handcuffs.

Flynn exhales, as the Imam electrified the audience. Not a dry eye in the house.

“Ugh, snoozeville. I mean, the words are fine, but where’s the presentation, Ned!” Flynn mutters. “Where’s the FIRE?!? THE LITERAL FIRE!”

Ned side-eyes Flynn. “Mark, do you want to be here for King? Or do I have to take you outside?”

Flynn’s lip curls, sneering at this choices…

For King…

The local Imam bows his head, closing his speech, before stepping towards the casket and saying a prayer under his breath. He takes his leave from the front, sitting between Isaiah and Doc’s grandson, Elijah.

Ezekiel, sitting beside the younger Elijah, stands and makes his way to the front.

”Friends and family, we thank you so much for celebrating Mr. Hussein’s life with us today. Thank you for all the eulogies, all the love, all the wonderful memories. The pallbearers-”

“Ooh, pallbearer!” Flynn tries to wriggle himself from the pew. “Sounds like a job f-!”

WHAM! Kaye’s elbow slams into Flynn’s stomach, silencing the loudmouth.

“-...Mr Hussein’s grandson, Elijah, his son-in-everything-but-name, Isaiah, myself and Imam Isa, will now bring our dear friend to his final resting place. Join us.”

Those gathered rose as the four pallbearers make their way to the casket’s corners.

The young Elijah, walks up to the casket, hands shaking as they wrap around the corner

Isaiah felt the casket’s mass…

Like the weight of the world.

Of all of Harlem.

Heavy on his shoulders.

The pallbeare-


The already-tense crowd screamed, panicking! Street generals were again corralled and shielded by their enforcers.

King, casket on his shoulder, stares daggers at Kaye in the front row.

Kaye spins on Flynn angrily.

Flynn lifted his hands, demonstrating he was still cuffed.

The crowd poured outside the church.


On 24th and Main.

An obnoxious helicopter…

Gently lands…

The crowd breaks into chatter.

As, suddenly, the chopper’s hatch doors part…

And stepping out.

Theo Pryce.

Pryce’s eyes meet the crowd of curious Harlemites… Suddenly self-conscious about his entrance.

…Pryce coughed.

“My… uh… condolences.”

“And just incase ya’ll thought we forgot? We gave the champ as much as time as he seemed to put in for us.”

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