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BYW Orlando: Softcore Invitational


The Phenom
Jan 1, 2000
Salt Lake City, UT
Winner receives the Chris Horowitz Memorial Softcore Championship Trophy.

1-SOFTCORE RULES (Hardcore and softcore weapons are allowed, and somehow do equal damage. No count-outs. Rest holds result in immediate DQ).
2-Elimination match.

Post RP here.


Jan 10, 2004
New York
The Icon who never was...

Fade in: LARRY TACT sits in a lawn chair, located in a random backyard somewhere. Of course, Tact himself wouldn't be in some dinky backyard of his own, so he's borrowing one for the purposes of this promo. Surely... Tact sips on a lemonade with one of those cheesy umbrellas dipped in.

TACT: A BYW card? That brings back some memories. Not many particularly good ones, but I never thought I'd see another one of these run again. I'm not even sure what got me into this match. After all, I'm far removed from my own IWF tenure, and I didn't really have much there when I left. There were the Unified Titles I defended then relinquished, but hey, I wasn't interested in holding them anymore, so no loose end there. Manson? I didn't have much to do with him by the end, but in my last match I had the chance to face he and Nemesis, and I won alongside the People's Choice for controversial Texan, Dusty Thompson.

Tact takes a sip of his lemonade.

TACT: I've already gone through additional phases of my career since that time, what, two years ago? So then, why am I here? If I've buried that past, what drew me back?

Tact looks at the lemonade glass, as if contemplating existance itself... maybe not.

TACT: Perhaps it's the fact that my five year anniversary since hitting the pro circuit is this month. It could be I'm feeling a bit of nostalgia, and fresh off of getting some due against the former Phenom, Shawn Hart, a man I faced in IWF a few times... nostalgia might factor in.

Taking the umbrella in hand, Tact begins mixing the lemonade.

TACT: I never was the Icon of IWF. I beat the self-proclaimed "Icon," KRoW-- or Tristan Slash, if we're getting technical. I put "SuperStar" Ruger to shame, another supposed "Icon" of the place. I made my way up to the inaugural IWF Triple Crown Championship match in my first six months. I beat names, won titles... and I always seemed to fall under the radar. Now I'm revisiting the memory of IWF in this match, and I wonder if this some additional chance, another opportunity to come out at the top? Have the Icon who never was in IWF, to finally achieve recognition?

Tact shrugs and smiles.

TACT: Naaah! But this match will be a good chance to further loosen up after having just returned, and add to my list of IWF names I've trashed. So to those coming back for this one night extravaganza, of sorts... bring your relic asses out of the graveyard, and I'll be happy to send you right back to that familiar place you knew so well when you were around... the lawn. And for those who are less... aged... maybe we'll have some actual wrestling to speak about. Because when it comes down to it...

Tact takes another drink of lemonade, tossing the glass away, stands and crosses his arms, staring deadpan at the camera.

TACT: ...Softcore rules or not, I'll still be happy to force all of you into making a tactful surrender to me.

He smirks.

TACT: Plus I win a trophy.

Fade out.
Last edited:


League Member
Jan 1, 2000
Casper? Friendly?


CUE UP: “This Used to Be My Playground” by Madonna. Back when she was dripping hot.


(A man walks along a typical, American backyard, presumably somewhere near Disney World. Various, typical, American backyard items lay strewn about.)

This used to be my playground

(A deflated soccer ball.)

This used to be my childhood dream

(An old boot.)

This used to be the place I ran to

(A dog’s chew toy.)

Whenever I was in need

(A dog dish.)

Of a friend

(A doghouse.)

Why did it have to end

(A dog.)

And why do they always say

(His name is “Frank,” according to the sign above his doggie door. Frank is an Old English sheep dog. Frank is very old.)

Don't look back

(A melting snowman. In Florida. In late April. Hey, at least it’s melting.)

Keep your head held high

(Anyway, the song continues as the man continues to walk. He’s not walking to the beat of the music, because the song was obviously added in post-production. The amount of work some wrestlers put into their promos. Hopefully the man knows someone who is proficient in Final Cut Pro and Pro Tools. Judging by the quality of the song and its potent themes syncing up with things the man says, and trust me, he’s about to say them, we can pretty much guarantee that person is in fact proficient with both of those multimedia software programs.


The man is clad in khaki shorts and a gray polo shirt. He wears boater’s moccasins and walks with his thumbs in his belt loops.

Oh… one more thing…

He also wears a silverish, metallic mask.)

ROBBIE WRIGHT????: It’s been a while since I have even been in a backyard. The last time might have been to wrestle back in IWF. But I’m not here to talk about my past accolades in the IWF, as that would be totally pointless and boring…

Not that I know personally what sitting through an entire promo of someone reflecting on the achievement he or she made in a federation that has been clinically dead for two years.

If I was ever forced to endure such a promo, I would surely be unable to air one of my own in response to that particular acclaim-filled one…

Because I would be dead.

Of boredom.

And that little fire

(A rusty pogo-stick.)

Is still alive in me

(One of those nets that you throw a baseball into and it comes back. But it’s an old and broken one of those.)

It will never go away

(A suspicious looking trophy… it looks to be circa the year 2001.)

Can't say goodbye to yesterday (can't say goodbye)

(The song continues, still being synced to the music in a very symbolic way. Nudge, nudge.)

ROBBIE????: Oh, how did that get there?

(He picks up the trophy and tosses it to the cameraman. Our hero gives the lens a cool smile and a wink. As cool as a smile and a wink can look beneath a metallic mask covering his entire face. Regardless of how readable his facial expressions are, he continues to walk.)

No regrets
But I wish that you
Were here with me

ROBBIE????: Looks like so many new faces that I really wished… were um… here with me, are going to be at BYW in Orlando. Ahem… a geriatric Ruger will be making his… um… incontinent return. Beau Michaels-Cruise… the name sounds familiar but I just can’t place it. Diablo… he’s still alive too? Wow… what a difference two years makes. And Larry Tact, my old foe… and Robbie Wright’s current tag partner in the WFW tournament to crown some tag champions. Yay for them.


Maybe it will be a Villano…

Maybe it will be some other dark, shadowy figure, returning for the millionth time.

I have an inkling, and my sources say: “Stay tuned… but only if you like disappointment.”

Well then there's hope yet
I can see your face
In our secret place
You're not just a memory

ROBBIE????: BYW is just a memory…and it’s about to be relived.

Say goodbye to yesterday (the dream)

ROBBIE????: Say goodbye to yesterday Larry… no one cares about you, or the IWF. And as for the dream… you’re looking at it.

(The man thumbs his chest.)

This used to be my playground (used to be)
This used to be our pride and joy
This used to be the place we ran to
That no one in the world could dare destroy

This used to be our playground (used to be)
This used to be our childhood dream
This used to be the place we ran to
I wish you were standing here with me

(The man stops walking as the song ends and the music fades out. He is at an ancient swing set, standing beside one of its support poles.)

ROBBIE????: I am the dream… I am the ghost… and quite apparently, I am quite real. I have been here before, and I will certainly be here again.

Who am I? I think you know the answer to that. And even if you don’t care, you still have your suspicions.

The backyard is my hometown, and the hometown hero is coming back… home.

And while I wish all of you schlubs were standing in a backyard with me, I’m gonna be the only one standing in the ring when BYW goes off the air.

It doesn’t matter how softcore, hardcore, straightedge, punk rock, or metal this match is gonna be. The simple truth is that IWF is dead, and I’m gonna win. And one more thing… the only way I’m losing this match is if I put someone into a SICK hammerlock… cause I am a SUCKER for a good hammerlock hold.

(The man mounts the nearest swing and begins his pendulum.)

ROBBIE????: Super, Beau, Mystery Dude, Larry… and YOU Diablo!

(The man points at the camera and shakes mockingly.)

ROBBIE????: Come BYW… I’m gonna GETCHU suckas.

(The man looks at the camera intently... and keeps staring... breathing deeply... intensity in his...)

ROBBIE????: Oh jesus just cut the tape.



League Member
Jan 1, 2000
Miami, Florida
(Cue Up: “Battlesong” by Del tha Funkee Homosapien)

(FADEIN: Diablo, in a pair of torn up army green cargo pants and a stained tank top, lies back on a torn-up couch in his familiar Spanish Harlem apartment. His auburn locks spread lazily across his forehead, and he shakes them off before he begins to speak.)

Diablo: Hah…it’s funny how the faster you go running into the light, the easier it is for your feet to keep on carrying you until you run right back into the warm, enveloping caress of the dark once again. I thought I was done. I thought after all of the hatred and malice I had exerted via my fists I had exhausted every ounce of darkness my heart had left in it. But as it often turns out, I was wrong.

So Miguel de la Cruz gets a call from this dude holding a memorial for Horowitz, that freakin’ cheapskate, asking for some familiar names from his old fed to wrestle. Once again I was to reread pages from long forgotten chapters. Miguel de la Cruz wants so hard to say no, it’s not ME anymore, that’s not how I WORK, I’m DONE. But Diablo takes those simple words of refusal, balls them up into a bite-sized morsel and rams it deep back into Miguel’s throat. Diablo decides that after a while, the hunger never really was assuaged in the first place, that the thirst was never fully quenched. It took a simple phone call to stoke the embers…

(Diablo sits upright in his couch, and cradles his head in his hands, almost distraught at what he’s saying.)

…Diablo Fuego burns again. It is inextinguishable. As hard as I try to stomp out every single bit into impotent char and ash there will always be ONE TINY SPARK that will be ready to ignite once again. And it has come. Time for one last feeding. Time for that sweet, sweet abysmal flame to wrap itself around my fingers as I lovingly caress its next meal. It’s no longer Miguel’s choice, really, it was never Diablo’s choice in the first place. It only happens because it happens.

(Diablo’s body starts shaking, and tears well up in his eyes.)

IT ALWAYS HAPPENS BECAUSE IT HAPPENS. MY CHOICE DOESN’T MATTER. So if it means I have to wrench the essence of hate from every one I see for one more day…it doesn’t matter what I think…BECAUSE IT NEVER MATTERS. All that is left…all that was ever there in the first place…was that tranquilizing blackness. That black flame that gives my body power that my heart could never will itself to use. However it is to be done, whomever it is to be done to…it’s going to happen. Because choices and opinions rarely matter, only the incidents we passively interject ourselves into. All that matters now…is that I, DIABLO, AM GOING TO PUT MY DARKNESS INSIDE YOU!


League Member
Jan 1, 2000

(A warehouse full of old, broken down arcade games and pinball machines. There are even a few skeeball games, basketball shooters, and whack-a-moles too. A man in a silver mask walks through the aisles of broken down entertainment machines in the darkened room, letting his fingers gently glide over the smooth and dusty surfaces of ones bright and colorful pieces of enjoyment equipment.

He wears khakis and sneakers, along with a black T-shirt that reads…


He continues to walk, the camera staying close to his hands as they continue to skate across the smooth games…)

SPECTRE????: I had a dream last night… I dreamt about the movie the movie Tommy, starring such amazing actors as Jack Nicholson, Eric Clapton and Elton John. Well, it wasn’t exactly the same… it was the part where they sing…

(Immediately all the lights in the warehouse light up, all the arcade games spring to life and the room is alive with ancient excitement as a musical score builds up around the man, seemingly out of nowhere. The man grabs on to the camera as it cranes above the warehouse and sings…)


(Just as suddenly, the lights and sounds and music go out, and the games are once again dead. The camera again focuses on the man’s hand as he continues to walk.)

SPECTRE????: But it was different… instead of playing pinball, the main character in my movie, personified by all of my opponents in this match, were deaf, dumb, and blind WRESTLERS… so it went a little bit more like this…

(Again, all the lights in the warehouse light up, all the arcade games spring to life and the room is alive with ancient excitement as a musical scores builds up around the man, seemingly out of nowhere. Sounds familiar huh? So yeah, the guy sings his pretty little heart out, and as he does, “Fight Club” style flashes of portraits of all the wrestlers in the Softcore Invitational are shown. Even the Mystery Opponent’s portrait… somehow… )


(And, as could be expected, the lights go out and all is once again calm as the man continues to walk. Excellent hamstrings this guy is gonna have by the time the match rolls around…)

SPECTRE????: And in my dream, instead of close-ups of Tommy rocking the pinball machine, it’s close-ups of my opponents getting their feminine juices knocked out of them. All standing in the ring, holding out their arms, making sounds like a short bus full of American Idol contestants, and I am just wandering in the middle of the ring, knocking them on their asses and screaming “You can’t be serious!” at the top of my lungs. But they’re deaf, so they can’t even HEAR me…

(Lights, sounds, music, etc. AGAIN)


(Back to normal, dark, dusty, etc.)

SPECTRE????: And I just keep putting them down, taking them out, and tossing them in every which way direction. And it was easy, because deaf people are weigh less than normal people cause their brains are less dense and have more cream filling.

Regardless… everyone is so excited to jump in and sign up for this tourney. (mocking) “Ooh, I can get a trophy!”, “Ooh, everyone else in the match sucks so I’m gonna win,” “Ooh, softcore is like that stuff on Skinamax that makes me feel weird when I’m dogsitting for my mom’s friends with cable!” I have a trophy, I know everyone else sucks, and I already went through that whole “cable porn” phase.

As soon I’m in… silence reigns supreme. As soon as some guy in a mask comes and tells it how it is, all you tough-guys take your ball and go home, or some other similarly clichéd playground analogy. I’m not going home. I’m claiming this sandbox and I’m gonna make sandcastles with that softcore trophy. And take pictures of it and enter sandcastle-building contests. And then when I get angry about something I can smash it, and then feel guilty about wrecking something so beautiful after I had put so much hard work into it. Then rebuild even bigger and better than before, demonstrating strong themes of triumphing over adversity and believing in one’s self. And then I’ll sell the story to Lifetime and make a fortune. And then… YOUR FACE!

(The man stops… takes a breath and looks around. Nothing.

He takes another breath and…)


(It all comes to life and then dies just as quickly. The man chuckles to himself as he adjusts his mask.)

SPECTRE????: Now… if you’ll excuse me… I have to go get dressed up and watch “The Rocky Horror Picture Show.”

And by the way... Diablo... ya sick freak... I'm going to make sure you don't put ANYTHING inside ANYONE... this is SOFTCORE... DAMMIT MAN!

Good night!


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