SLAMTRACK 10: Main Event - Open Battle Royal

[brusch]

Main Event - #1 Contenders Match
Roleplaying thread for the Open Battle Royal
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1000-word roleplay limit
No stacking allowed whatsoever

Roleplay deadline is Sunday, May 17 at 11:59pm Red Line time
​

Here's how the Open Battle Royal will work:
- All currently-signed RLW characters are eligible.
- All characters NOT currently-signed to RLW are also eligible. However, if you're not a current member and you decide to RP for the match, you'll either need to submit an application or write your RPs as a secret character whose identity will be revealed on (and whose official application will be required before) the show. Visit the RLW Information and Registration Page to learn how to apply.
- 1000 word limit for all roleplays.
- No posting of back-to-back RPs, but as long as someone (anyone) posts after something you write, you're free to post again.
- Yes, you can send me promos/angles/etc. you would like to include for the Battle Royal.

 

[Justin]

“I can’t stand the sight of you,” I said to everyone and no one at once. I sat alone in the dark, the exact location is irrelevant. In one hand a filtered cigarette burned away to ash, in the other I white-knuckled a mostly empty glass of scotch.

“No matter how many times I tell myself to be the better man, or to rise above the sheer depravity of it all, every now and then everything comes into spectacular focus and I remember that every one of you make me physically sick to my stomach.” I took the last of the Johnny Walker to the head, trying with everything I had to burn the taste of the vitriol out of my mouth. “You’re some kind of a disease.”

Ashes fall from the tip of the cigarette as I take a long drag, the embers flaring just enough to illuminate my face for a split second. That’s not a happy face in the darkness, not one little bit. The smoke is acrid, I’m supposed to be quitting. My doctor tells me that it’s an act of God that I don’t have cancer yet. I’ve tried to tell him that I don’t believe in God but he laughs it off. I take another drag.

“And it isn’t even your fault.” Yes it is. “You can’t help yourself.” Yes you can. “These are the things I tell myself in my day to day trappings, the lies I give myself to keep my from pressing my thumbs into your eye sockets and trying my hand at amateur brain surgery.”

Absently I crush out the cigarette. It reminds me of so many rivals that I’ve done the same to. It’s become habit for me to put my boot to their neck and grind, putting out the flame in their eyes.

“It’s in these times, alcoholics call it a moment of clarity, that I am at my most lucid.” From nowhere my glass is refilled, I’ve been sitting here for an hour, Drinking. Thinking. Muttering to myself. “I can clearly see the path that takes me to the places I have to go.”

It tastes like water. They say an alcoholic is drunk at the first taste. I say they’ve never had a drink and lack the willpower to control themselves.

“I can tell myself, I can run and go tell it on the mountain…” Just as easily another cigarette finds itself lit and between my fingers. “I can preach the business to anyone who’ll listen.”

Swallow. Inhale. It is my mantra for the evening.

“It isn’t enough, though. It’s never enough.

The room fills with smoke. My head spins.

“i can tell you I’m here to do good. I can say, look at me, Eric Dane is throwing a bone to the little guy! Eric Dane is helping build the future of the business that has allowed him to live a life of luxury.” I’d be lying, though.”

I chuckle. A hearty, guttural growl of a laugh.

“I came here to take out a lifetime of frustration on men and women who are so very obviously beneath me.” All of a sudden the cigarette tastes like poison. The scotch like magma in my mouth. I should probably stop before I say something I can’t spin later. “Call me a bully if you will, campaign against me. It’ll just make it all the more worthwhile when I bring my boot down onto your neck and I take the fight out of you with your last gasping breath.”

I’m sweating. I run a hand through my hair, it sticks to my hand. My face is hot. I’m either drunk or getting sick. And so it comes full circle.

“Sick isn’t the word for what you make me.”

It is the definition of what I am, in one way or another.

“Tomorrow I’ll smile and I’ll gladhand the masses. I’ll make everyone remember what they love about me, why doing business with me is to their advantage.” I take a deep breath. “Tomorrow I’ll choke it all back, swallow it down into the deepest pit of my soul. I’ll play the part of Eric Dane and the world will go on spinning…”

I push the glass away from me, crush the barely-lit cigarette. I need fresh air.

“Tonight, however, I hate you.”

I can feel my lips curl into a sneer.

“I hate you for your ineptness. I want to hurt you for your inability to see what’s in front of you. I have a date with every last one of you coming up quicker than not and I’m going to fucking bury you.”

The sneer softens into a smile.

“And they will love me for it.”

This is too easy.

“And then next week we’ll play this whole scenario out again.” I stand, stumble toward where I know there is a door to my balcony. I’m going to throw up. “Over and over until I’m the only thing anybody remembers about the Red Line, and I’m not even taking you seriously.”

My smile widens. The door opens.

“This is what it is to be Eric Dane. I encourage my demons and I use them against you.” I stumble out to the rail and gaze down at the French Quarter below. It’s eerily quiet. “I fully intend on making a statement at SlamTrack, I just hope you’re all so very smart enough to pay attention.”

I can’t hold it anymore.

I lose what little I’ve eaten today over the railing.

Somebody’s gonna have to clean that shit up.

 

[BenHalkum]

People are idiots.

You're no exception. As you sit there in your hello kitty slippers, and your undersized Pokemon shirt behind your computer in your parent's basement, it's certain you are the epitome of what people see as the typical wrestling fan. With Cheetos encrusted finger tips, you type in frantically the link to your favorite wrestler's YouTube page. You're disgusting.

But it's alright, cause we just want your money anyway.

As the page loads, your toes wiggle with glee. Slamtrack 10 is coming up soon and that means you get to experience yet again, the wonderful world of the man you so impatiently sit and wait to see... Dick Fury.

As your discount internet finally catches up, and the channel loads you see it. Your eyes light up with joy like a kid on Christmas, or more suitably, a fat kid in a candy store.

You know, you on a typical Tuesday.

Your finger slips as you try and tap the mouse button. It slips again. Maybe if you weren't a greasy hog, lower than most scum of the earth, this would not be an issue. Finally, in your excitement you make the contact needed to begin the video.

Say hello to Dick.

As the feed fires up we are brought to a plain gray room. Water drips from the ceiling as in the corner lies a wooden chair. Upon that chair sits the one and only Dick Fury. He is somewhat different today. Just blue jeans and a white shirt. Dick isn't sitting ready for his next sexual escapade, but instead is dressed for the solitude in which we find him.

He runs his right hand through his hair as he looks up, a cigarette between his lips, the cherry glowing red like your Aunt Vivian's hair. You know the aunt. She's the one you find yourself having dirty thoughts about. The taboo feeling of wanting to run your hand under her dress and up her thigh.

He takes the smoke from his lips, holding it between his pointer and middle finger as he looks ahead at the camera, preparing to speak.

"Slamtrack."

Just one word is all he speaks and it is enough to send chills up your spine as you know the place in which he is mentally. You've seen this place before. All else no longer matters, his focus is precise. He takes a long, drawn out drag before smirking.

"One and one. That's where Dick sits right now in Red Line Wrestling. One win... and one loss."

The cigarette moves, but does not fall as he uses his fingers to illustrate the number one.

"That's OK. Disk isn't upset at all. He's always enjoyed a little one and one action."

There's that smirk again, as he brings to you the overly meta verbiage only Dick can provide.

"But do you know what is better than one and one action to Dick? Do you know, what Dick excels at better than all others? DO YOU?!"

He grows louder, and slightly agitated as he stands up, kicking the chair back as he ask his question.

"Group sessions."

Dick takes another drag, cracking his neck shortly after before he continues.

"You see, there is not one person in Red Line Wrestling with the stamina Dick has."

It's true, he's been known to go for days.

"There's not one person in Red Line Wrestling with the drive that Dick has to make sure that once he finishes with one obstacle he takes on the next, followed by the next, and so on."

Dick begins to pace just a little.

"There is no one, and Dick means, NO one in the God damn Red Line Wrestling locker room that has the history Dick does in situations pitting this many people together at one time and coming.... out on top."

A well placed pause, your heart pumps as you watch a master work.

"Hittoria... You beat Dick on the last Slamtrack. Congratu-fucking-lations. Do you want a fucking cookie? Dick lets bitches beat him all of the time. Fuck, Dick usually pays for bitches to beat him. He gets off on the shit. So, don't sit there and feel like your fucking special at all."

With the cigarette still firmly between his fingers, he points forward toward the camera.

"Because you're not."

He brings the butt back to his lips, taking another drag.

"Dick played nice, but that is over. Oh yea, Dick can't wait to get ahold of you again. Whether you be the first bitch Dick puts in their place, or the twentieth. You're going to be just another stupid fuck who picked the wrong God damn day to tangle with Fury,"

He drops the cigarette in front of him, placing his boot out and stepping on it. You hear the sizzle and crackle of the flame being extinguished.

"As for everyone else, do yourself a favor and stay home. You're not going to be able to get over Dick in this. Not in any situation where Dick is the greatest. And yes, in group encounters such as this... Dick is the greatest."

He takes a few steps forward, looking up.

"And if you are stupid enough to show up, just be aware. Once you get into the ring with Dick... No matter how many other stupid fucks there are... rest assure Dick is going to man handle you. He's going to stretch you out and fuck you up in a way you have never been fucked up. When Dick is done with you.."

He looks back down.

"When Dick is done with you... you will never... be the same.. again. None of you."

As he looks away, the video fades down to black before ending. You sit there, semi hard. Why? Is it because you just witness fucking magic?

You're fucking right it is. Now go get a fucking life you piece of shit.

 

[RStrawsma]

Up In Smoke

CUE UP: “Scum Fuck Blues” by Dopethrone.

(The shot opens as a blurry, swirling mess of colors and shapes… slowly coming into focus to reveal a pair of bloodshot eyes blinking open through the eyeholes of a mask. The shot sharpens as the subject comes back to reality, glance quickly from left to right… then we zoom out to reveal Red Line’s resident dopesmokin’ daredevil EL CABRÓN, waking up to find himself stuck ass-first inside a waste bin. He lets out a raspy, annoyed groan…)

El Cabrón
HHUUAGGHH… that’s the last time I make a bong out of an empty gas can…

(The self-proclaimed Escape Artist of professional wrestling, clad in his standard goat mask, black pants, and longcoat, still holds the “WILL JOB FOR (POTLEAF)” cardboard sign around his neck like a medal. Unable to immediately pull himself out, he sways his weight back and forth… we see his eyes pop open to the size of golf balls for just a brief moment once gravity takes its effect and the trash bin falls over.)

(He lingers for a moment amid the spillage of crumbled paper and plastic bits… until he notices he’s lying on a set of tracks…)

(...then we hear it.)

SFX: *WOO-WOOOOO!!!*

(The whistle prompts El Cabrón to look up with an arched eyebrow, and he sees the train bearing down on him, only a few hundred meters away.)

El Cabrón
Damnit… not again!

(Nonchalantly, he gets up and gives himself a quick dustoff… eye catching sight of an eight by ten full-color flyer, even with the sound of the approaching train getting louder. He grabs the piece of paper and holds it up. It’s an advertisement for RLW Slamtrack 10, featuring the image of a lone ring surrounded by dozens of floating faces of Red Line personalities.)

(The words “OPEN BATTLE ROYALE” stick out in a shade of red that almost matches his eyes… and his expression is one of intrigue. For the moment, he seems to have all but forgotten that he’s a few seconds away from becoming a mile-long stain along the Chicago metro line.)

El Cabrón
Hmmm…

(He steps off the tracks just a moment before the train HITS the upturned trash can, and it explodes it into a cloud of shredded paper and clutter. The goat bastard stumbles away from it as if he hardly notices, still looking at the paper flyer in his hand, but now holding it over and looking at it from a totally new angle…)

El Cabrón
Now this… THIS… I can work with!!

(The shot cuts to maybe a couple minutes later… El Cabrón is now camped out on a bench at one of the nearby train stations. Jutting out of his mouth is a MASSIVE spliff, that we can see is the flyer now rolled up and lit at the end. He takes a satisfied puff as his eyes gaze off into the evening sky, gears turning in his head…)

El Cabrón
I have to admit… when I first came to Chicago, the goal wasn’t all that clear to me.

Hasn’t been clear in some time, now that I think about it...

Sometimes it feels like there’s nothing left for me to strive for in this sport. Like I reached the top of the mountain a couple times… didn’t give a shit about the view… so I figured I’d come back to the indies, to Red Line Wrestling. As though all that was left to my life was to just live out the twilight years of my spotty career by letting some random up-and-comer kick the shit out of me every other week for an easy paycheck.

Perhaps I’ve gone too long being content with that, telling myself it’s okay to let the other guy have his moment, even at my own expense. I tell myself I do this because it’s fun… but maybe it’s just because I have nothing better to do with my life. Or maybe it was just easier to accept that rather than simply setting a goal for myself for once in my life and putting some actual fucking effort toward it.

In any case… after watching my only friend in this rotten, fucked-up world get used as a doormat back at Slamtrack 9, a few things were put into perspective. Nothing is going to change by sitting on my ass and griping about the current state of affairs. Instead, I feel it’s HIGH time for a much needed change…

And wouldn’t you know it? Red Line Wrestling served me up a solid with this Open Battle Royal at Slamtrack 10.

(Takes a puff.)

El Cabrón
I don’t know what it is about those good ol’ rumbles… something about all those bodies in the ring at once… all that canvas and chaos… all those OPPORTUNITIES to turn heads… just the kind of environment a wily bastard like me loves to be in. A battle royal is the great equalizer in professional wrestling. I doesn’t matter if you’re a top-level superstar or a lowly bottom feeder… nobody is ever truly safe from elimination. There’s always that risk that someone will toss your ass over those ropes the moment to look in the wrong place at the wrong time.

And chances are, for many of the rubes signing up to this thing, I’LL be that someone…

(He pulls himself to his feet, giving the honorary Slamtrack 10 Spliff an ash as he rises.)

El Cabrón
Because while I can’t say my career has been overly successful… the one thing I’ve NEVER failed at being is the prototypical spoiler.

And a fine many of you arrogant muthafuggaz are going to watch your dreams of victory go UP IN SMOKE, as I do what I do best in life, and spoil all your carefully laid plans...

(With a white, whispy cloud left in his wake, he wanders off camera as we go to black.)

 

[BenHalkum]

Re: Up In Smoke

No fancy opening here. No berating of the viewer. We've done that. No, now it's time to cold open to another YouTube video on the channel of SuperbDick69.

You know, like the type of low quality non studio effects and such Red Line Wrestling talent only can afford? They type of video clip that when you watch it, you don't go "Oh that was a nice scene."

Cause true RLWers know what's up.

Anyways, you didn't tune in today to here the rambling thoughts of a narrator who thinks those around him are too stupid to get "it." No, today you tuned in to watch your favorite mustached hero.

The one, the only, the manly as fuck.... Dick Mother Fucking Fury.

As the video begins to play we are returned to the plain grey room. You know the one.. it has a drippy ceiling and a knocked over chair in the corner. Dick is leaned up against the wall, smoking what only we can imagine is the start of his fifth pack today.

He exhales, holding the cigarette stylishly between his fingers as he looks away, one foot propped up behind his leg on the wall. Dick turns his head toward the camera and smiles.

"So, you see Dick is still here."

He clears his throat.

"Dick is still standing in this twelve by twelve room, alone."

He looks around.

"You may be asking yourself right now, why is Dick alone?"

He smirks.

"It's because unlike the rest of Battle Royal entrants... Dick isn't waiting until last minute to get into the mindset needed to make it through a situation like that."

He takes a drag, exhaling slowly.

"It's because Dick is smart. He understands it's a whole new world when you step through the ropes into a situation like that. And, because of this..."

Dick's lip curls up.

"Dick will continue to dominate these type of matches. No Eric Flame, No Second Cumming, No Go-Go Sucktacular can touch Dick.... in a Battle Royal."

He stares deeply into the camera.

"Dane.. Dick knows how badly you want to wrap your hands around him and squeeze. He knows how badly you wish you could be the man who can take Dick to the absolute limit... But Eric... you can't handle Dick, and when Dick finishes with you... you are going to feel it for weeks."

He lets out a forced chuckle.

"It's almost as bad as El Cabrón entering himself into the Battle Royal in the hopes he can get a little one on one time with Dick."

The shot cuts to a scene minutes later... wait, no it doesn't. That would be stupid. In fact, Dick just paused for a moment before continuing.

"But Cabrón, you can't get one on one with Dick. Not in this match. Nah... Dick is going to use and abuse you, then pass you around the group so each of them can do the same before you return and Dick throws you over the top rope quicker than you can say Burrito Supreme."

Fury just laughs off the idea of El Cabrón thinking he is a serious competitor to Dick.

"Dick thinks you've been smoking too many poles.... filled with pot. Go grab a bag of ganja and stay out of Dick's way."

He steps off of the wall, now standing. Dick rubs his chin, a grin over his face.

"This is just too easy for Dick. You got some emo sounding idiot who believes he meant something to the industry at one time, when in fact he didn't."

Dick nods his head a bit.

"Then you have a pot smoking monkey that will be nothing more than an after thought joining the Battle Royal."

Dick shakes his head, almost in disgust.

"And as much as Dick has searched, he hasn't seen shit from anyone else. Why?"

He throws a finger up, signaling that he has an idea before moving closer into the camera.

"Because they are all scared fucking pussies... That's why."

Fury scoffs.

"Well, except for Second Coming. That is totally a dude."

Dick takes an angry drag.

"MJ... you and Dick are gonna tangle again. Believe that shit you masked cunt."

Fury looks at the cigarette, now just a little over a butt. He takes one last drag, inhaling all of the cancery goodness before he flicks it at the camera.

"All of you fucks in Red Line... listen the fuck up... Dick is coming in heavy and strong... Keep your mouths shut like you are now, and maybe you'll make it to Slamtrack 11. Open your mouth and you're going to have Dick jump down your throat so fucking quick, you're going to choke... before being thrown out of the ring like the worthless cum rags you are."

Another well placed pause from Dick Fury. How convenient?

"When it's all said and done... when all of you bitches are carted to the back, unable to walk after Dick has gotten a hold of you... Each and every one of you will then know what is is like to have..."

He leans in just a bit closer.

"To have felt... the Fury."

A sudden cut of the video shows that it is the end. No fade to black. No white puffy clouds of smoke. Just pure darkness followed by the fucking annoying arrow with the timer circle signaling it is about to automatically go to another video.

This has been another low budget Red Line Wrestling approved YouTube video and everyone watching are still fucking worthless compared to Dick Fury.

 

[Justin]

Stop waving around that disgusting Dick! It's distracting.

I slept in this morning.

I should say, I slept through this morning.

When I finally drug my ass out of the bed I remembered most of the reasons I’d been trying to quit smoking and get on the wagon. My head was still spinning, and my throat felt like hot gravel. My voice today would no doubt suffer but alas, duty calls.

Spending the night drinking and smoking and talking to myself probably wasn’t all that productive, as it were, but it did allow me to get a certain amount of negativity out of my system. It doesn’t do anyone any good when the bitter part of my personality takes over for any amount of time. It’s bad for business on more levels than I can even count, not the least of which is my newfound good guy persona.

So here I am, back in New Orleans, back in the DEFIANCE Wrestle-Plex. More specifically I’m in the production studio. Surrounding me is a hundred thousand dollars worth of equipment. Why, you ask? Because not everyone who works for Red Line Wrestling makes their real money donating blood three times a week or flexing their butthole on the internet for lonely dudes who haven’t come out of the closet yet. As it stands, I do own one of maybe four viable wrestling promotions left in the United States, and just because I’m presently legally unable to appear on Television for my own company, nobody ever said I couldn’t make use of my own studio for outside interests.

So here I am, standing in front of my blue screen. In post plenty of flashy Red Line Wrestling propaganda will be added, and then this little video will be sent digitally to RLW’s A/V crew so that they can display it on the company’s website and at least outwardly appear to be a professional outfit. That’s part of why I’m here, really, to help the new kids on the block out by adding a little umph to the product here and there where I can. In return, I get first dibs on offering contracts to anybody in the Red Line who impresses me.

So far, I have yet to be impressed.

Across the room from me is Angus Skaaland. You may recognize him as the Voice of DEFIANCE Television, what you may not know is that not only does he practically run the production department for me, but he’s been my good friend and lackey ever since he bounced out of wrestling training ten years ago. So there he sits, behind the cameras and the monitors and the mixing boards and everything else, making sure that no matter where I decide to poke my head, so long as I’m broadcasting from home base I’m gonna look like a million bucks.

If I had ten guys just like him we’d be a global company by now and I wouldn’t have time to waste with crossing lines or unifying with toughness. I don’t, so I do, and so here we are. For my part I’m suited and booted, it feels good to look good. I’m in my favorite gunmetal grey pinstriped suit, I’ve got on my favorite pair of Ray-Bans, and I’m ready to make with my favorite part of the wrestling business.

Ye olde wrestling promo.

The red light blinks, Angus mouths the word ‘go,’ and I’m on.

“I have two things to say about Dick Fury.”

I clear my throat. It may sound fake, but those cigarettes really are a killer.

“Number One. I’m not going anywhere near that guy. He’s dirty, he smells, he has terrible grooming habits, he’s coated in Crisco or baby oil or Astro Glide at all times. I’m positive he’s got at least six sexually transmitted diseases, and I’m not going anywhere near that bug-infested nit of a manl.”

I can feel myself shudder at the thought.

“I don’t mind saying that if he comes within three feet of me at SlamTrack I’m going to hop the ropes, leave the ringside area, jump in the back of the first ambulance I can find and demand to be taken to the Chicago branch of the CDC to be scrubbed down and quarantined until my own personal safety can be guaranteed.”

My face scrunches in disgust.

“I am not kidding.”

A moment goes by as I let the rolling of my stomach pass.

“Which brings me to Number Two. I’m so serious in my complete phobia of that ‘man’ touching me, that I’m willing to put up Five Thousand Dollars and a DEFIANCE Developmental Try Out on the line to whomever may wish to come into the ring at SlamTrack and toss that scary son-of-a-bitch over the top rope while I hide behind the announce desk and do guest commentary until he’s safely out of the building.”

Angus is behind the glass in the booth laughing himself out of his chair. Me, I couldn’t be more serious if my life depended on it. And it does, Dick Fury doesn’t have crabs, he’s got Lobsters! Nah, I’m gonna have to look to Stephen King to find the right wording: He’s got Lobstrocities!

What? Read a book.

“Now, with that unpleasant business hopefully safely behind me, I can move on to the rest of the rag-tag bunch of young upstarts and miscreants who make up the meat of this here Battle Royal.”

I pause, letting the silence sit heavily on the air.

…

“Uh. I mean. This one guy who’s name translates to The Bastard said some words about some things, but I couldn’t make any sense out of it because the dude was high at the time.”

I shrug.

“I mean, I get it. I been there. But that ain’t gonna help. As for the rest, whoever they are, uh, good luck and stuff. I guess. And wear a condom! For your own safety and health!”

 

[BenHalkum]

Sleep is for pussies.

Dick hasn't slept in quit some time.

As he set there in his hotel room, staring at the made bed, his head was spinning. No, unlike Eric Dane who is a quitter, Dick hasn't given up smoking. This is apparent as he takes another drag.

You begin to wonder why he even cared to record this for YouTube. It's just him, sitting and smoking in silence. His sleep deprived eyes are upon the face of a man worn out.

The sizzle of the cigarette being put out can be heard. He reaches over and picks up a half empty bottle of beer, bringing it to his lips and swallowing. Could this be the same Dick Fury who just yesterday released two videos on how prepared he is for the upcoming Battle Royal? The same Dick Fury who tore through the Red Line Wrestling roster like a throbbing cock slamming deep into convict ass?

Yea, you're damn right it is.

This is a focused Dick Fury. This is a Dick Fury that you should be afraid of. This is a Dick Fury who is counting down the days until he single handily ends the careers of anyone stupid enough to enter the ring with him.

He finishes the beer and sits it back down, the clank of hitting the table echoing through out. Taking a deep breath, you sit on the edge of your chair, waiting for him to speak,

But he never does.

No, it becomes apparent that he is just going to sit here in silence. Waiting. With each additional moment, he gets closer to Slamtrack. With each additional moment, he waits with baited breath for anyone who could be of a challenge to him to step up.

Of course, unknowing to him, if he is waiting for this then it will never come.

No, Red Line Wrestling is full of people who are at the top of the top of independent wrestlers. But unfortunately, that is all they ever will be. Unlike Dick Fury or anyone from his famous family, they will never succeed on the grand stage. They will never taste gold that actually matters. They will never be.. Dick Fury.

He exhales a deep breath as the dim lights flicker. Although a step up from his previous accommodations, Dick has still chosen to stay in the slums of the cheapest motel. But that's what he does. In a world of people who claim to be famous music and film stars, and in a world of vampires and pot smoking heroes Dick just sits in silence. He's disgusted.

It's people like Eric Dane who disgust Dick the most. people who think they actually mean something to anyone. In Eric Dane's mind, DEFIANCE is something people sit around their work water coolers and talk about. DEFIANCE is something that people invest in. DEFIANCE to Eric Dane, is relevant.

But much like Eric Dane, DEFIANCE is nothing. It is a pimple of the taint of the wrestling industry. It is complete shit. You know, that shit that sticks to the bottom of your shoe as you walk through homeless avenue? The shit that causes you to have to buy new shoes.

That is what DEFIANCE is. That is what Eric Dane is.

Dick leans over the edge of his chair and spits into the carpet with the most of fucks not given. Using his arm, he wipes away the excess. As you can not click away, and only watch, you wonder what kind of mind set Dick is in. A part of you continues to grow increasingly worried.

You're worried about his health. You're worried abut his mental state. Most importantly, you are worried about the safety of anyone who enters the Battle Royal.

Dick places his hands on the edge of the chair arms and pushes himself to a standing position. He places his hands now firmly on his hips and looks past the camera. Running his hand through his hair first, Dick takes off walking past the camera. We hear some fumbling around in the background followed by some running water.

A few moments later, Fury walks back into the camera view, and sits a cloudy glass of water on the table before turning and sitting back down. He lets out a sigh as he just looks around. A yawn escapes his mouth.

Dick glances over at the camera. His eyes focus in before he stand sup, and walks toward it. The camera shakes as Dick picks it up, and flips it around away from him.

"Fuck."

The camera turns back around to face him as he holds it. He looks into the camera.

"Looks like Dick forgot accidentally pressed the power button."

He snarls.

"That's fine. Dick doesn't know how much of this was recorded but fuck it. He's got something to say."

He sits the camera back down, and takes a few steps back, turning back around to face the camera.

"This isn't a fucking 'promo.' This isn't Dick saying 'Good Luck' to his upcoming opponents. No, this is Dick being Dick and telling each and every one of you fuckers in Red Line Wrestling that he dares you to show the fuck up. He begs you to get big headed and hard cocked so he can knock you back down to fucking reality like the piss ant you are."

Dick takes a deep breath.

"Eric Dane, you specifically... you are the fucking worst."

He points as he continues.

"You think you are hot fucking shit when you are nothing but a crying little bitch. Go ahead, hope the rope and avoid Dick like the fucking pussy you are. Dick will throw the rest of the remaining shit heads over the rope to join you in the losers court."

Fury smirks.

"Run away. Run back to DEFIANCE like the scared little bitch you are, cause when Dick does get his hands on you... you're fucked."

BLACK.

 

[Justin]

Your Dick smells Weird (or so I'm told)

“Ah, yeah, I’d like to report a rape.” Yes, I know how ridiculous this sounds. “I dunno, next week sometime. Whenever SLAMTRACK 10 airs. Maybe the week after.”

I try to ignore the laughter from the other end of the line.

“What I’m saying is that Dick Fury said he was going to fuck me, and I have no reason to take that any way other than as literally as possible.” There is more laughter on the other end of the line. “Okay. Okay, fine. I’d like to report a murder then.”

There’s not so much laughter this time.

“Like I said, whenever SLAMTRACK happens! Not every fed on the planet has to run on such a mind-bogglingly formulaic schedule that heads will explode and the multiverse will end if a show doesn’t happen every stinkin’ week.”

Do I have your attention now?


[FLASHCUT]


“You lost to a robot you fuckin’ dork.”

Okay, I’ll admit it. That wasn’t exactly the most tactful way to get this thing underway. What did you expect, though? Wading through the bullshit that is Dick Fury can be unsettling and little things like tact get thrown out of the window at the word go.

“Seriously, kid, a fuckin’ robot.”

I shake my head, rolling my eyes and fighting the urge to facepalm.

“Think of the semantics of that for just a minute.” Personally I try not to think about it. The less I think about Hittora the better, and I plan on keeping it that way for as long as possible. “Robots aren’t even a thing yet, stupid! Well, unless you count the Mars Rover and R2-D2.”

This is really starting to get out of hand.

“So you beat Go-Go.” I give him a slow golf clap. “Congratulations. What is she, thirteen years old? I guess that’d put her right in your target demographic then, wouldn’t it…” Trailing off, it occurs to me that I slaughtered Go-Go myself in the last ULTRATITLE tournament.

“As far as I could be bothered to check, that means you’re 1-1 here in the Red Line.” I have my doubts about Dick’s mathematical prowess. “That mean’s you’ve lost half of your matches.”

I can’t stop myself from sniggering.

“To a fuckin’ robot.” This shit writes itself. “I, on the other hand, have spent 100% of my in-ring time here beating up, out-classing, and defeating the current Red Crown Champion.”

I try to hold back full blown laughter. I’m only slightly successful.

“What that means is that if you hold up both of our tenures here in the Red Line side by side and you take a long, objective look at them, it’s easy to see that I’m something like forty-seven rungs higher up the ladder than you, Dick.”

I can’t help but to wink at him. It probably gives him a hard-on.

“And it only took me half as many matches to do it.” I feel like I’m talking in circles at this point. I know everything i’m saying is going in one ear and coming out the other with nothing but a bit of wax shifting to mark its passing. It also occurs to me that no matter how many rungs further up the ladder I obviously am than he is, we still find ourselves in the same match for the same shot at the same contendership.

“And don’t you even start talking about what you’ve done elsewhere or what your non-existent supposedly big deal wrestling family has accomplished in whatever places you made up for them to have competed in has done either. Nobody gives a shit, least of all me.”

Watching that fruitcake huff his Virginia Slims has got me itching for a cigarette. Maybe I’ll have one at SLAMTRACK and put it out on his stupid greasy face.

“Keep ‘em coming, though. I imagine another endless stream of dick jokes without punchlines and potshots at DEFIANCE will get you real, real far here in the Red Line. I already know it’ll get you set up to lose to a fuckin’ Robot.”

I feel like we’ve already covered this.

I consider that for a moment before moving on.

“Yanno for a guy who’s never so much as sniffed a DEFIANCE contract, you sure do have a lot to say about the place. You mad, bro? You jealous?” There’s no telling with this guy, he’s a mongoloid. “It’s not everyday you get outshined by someone who is just better than you on every level is it?”

Yeah, he’s totally jelly.

“Well bro, I can’t help you. And I’m not going to offer you a contract. Ever. I’ve already got Rich Mahogany and he’s everything good about your gimmick without the complete lack of taste or wrestling ability.” This makes me smile. “I also want to point out that I was serious the other day with my five-thousand dollar bounty on your head. That an a try-out for DEFIANCE to the man that eliminates Dick Fury before he comes within three feet of me.”

I’d triple the entire RLW roster’s salary if they’d all band together and rid me of the presence of that disease-ridden slob of a human being. I’m not even sort of joking.

“Or maybe you’re right. Maybe they’re all worthless and it’ll come down to just you and me.” His funeral. “In that case, I hope you understand just exactly how out-matched and under-prepared that you actually are.”

Shaking my head, I finish up this gig.

“I very seriously doubt it, though.”

I feel my lips curling into a snarl of disgust.

“That almost gives me a reason to take it easy on you.”

Ha. Don’t kid yourself.

“Almost.”

 

[TheMightyQuinn]

Know your opponent.

(We open, there is a bright green screen. We hear a voice in the background of Barry the Intern.)

Barry: Ok, I think I have it this time.

(The green screen suddenly flashes a Dick. Yes that is right, Dick as in Dick Fury’s logo.

Barry: Is that it? It is The Mighy Dick we want in the screen?

Arin McHenry: No, he isn’t the Mighty Dick, he is the Mighty Quinn!

Barry: Oops, my bad, Let me take a look here, ahh here is the “Final Star” Eric Dane!

(A picture of a great dane dog flashes on the screen. The dog looks lost and confused with his head slightly cocked to the side and his bright pink tongue dangling out of his mouth with a long drool strand hanging half way to his chest.)

Arin: Come on quit clowning around here. Quinn will be here any moment, and we have several more of these to get done today. I see we are paying you way too much to be working here.

Barry: Fine, I will get to the right one, and I am not paid at all here.

Arin: Exactly.

(The screen now flips over to a cartoonish looking eskimo with “The Mighty Quinn” inscribed in blue letters across a yellow background. Arin walks onto the scene with a bright red pin-striped suit looking satisfied and relieved that the background is now setup correctly. He turns and looks at the camera.)

Arin: Joining me here in a moment is one of the freshest faces in this sport, The Mighty Quinn. Just last week he pinned Steve Jackson in an exciting tag team match. Coming up on Slamtrack he will take on all in in what will be an exciting over the top rope battle royal. And here is right now, Alaska’s vey own, the Mighty Quinn.

(Quinn walks in on the scene wearing what would appear to be a polar bear parka. His long black hair is pulled back in a pony tail. He lacks facial expression as he enters the scene. Arin almost appears to be a dwarf next to the Alaskan.)

Arin (Looking up at Quinn): Quinn, you practically made Chicago jump for joy after the victory you pulled off last week.

Quinn: I did not pull off a victory, it was a tag team match, and John Johnson deserves as much credit as myself. If it wasn’t for his wisdom of the RLW talent, and his veteran experience he shared with me, there would have been no victory.

Arin (Looking confused): John Johnson? Wisdom? Now those are some words I thought I would never hear together in a sentence. Is there anything you have to say about Christopher Eagles?

Quinn: Chris Eagles is a coward. When he becomes a warrior, I will be ready to face him again.

Arin: What is next for you Quinn? Are you planning to partake in the upcoming battle royal on the next Slamtack?

Quinn (slowly nods): Yes I do. This is an opportunity to meet the rest of the roster. Meeting with the talent here in the RLW will be a good learning experience for me in this journey. I will walk out a winner, I will walk out with more knowledge and insight in the RWL and it’s talent.

Arin: Really? Is this perhaps a way of saying you don’t have a chance against some of the competition who have signed for this battle royal already? Eric Dane, a multiple world champion in multiple wrestling organizations. From the NeWA, to the WfWA during their peak periods. Or Dick Fury, one of the most charismatic figures in this sport today. Do you think you are a blip on their radar? Do you think they will even mention you in future interviews? Do you even believe you will make it down to the ring?

Quinn: Vanity matters not to me. My ego will not be bloated if they mention me or not. They are made of nothing but flesh and bone, much as myself, or much like the dead skin I wear over my shoulders that keep me warm. This polar bear knew nothing of my existence, but I knew of his, and now I walk, and he does not.

(With that, Quinn walks off the set, leaving Arin speechless holding his mic. He looks at the camera.)

Arin: Well, I guess there you have it, The Mighty Quinn will be at the Slamtrack battle royal. Will Chris Eagles be there for revenge? Will he be the one to toss Dane over the top for a shot at a developmental contract with DEFIANCE? Or will Dick STICK it to him? Make sure to check out RLW for Chicago’s hottest action that isn’t on the streets!

(Quinn’s logo vanishes and the green screen re-appears.)

 

[PositivelyKen]

Awaken. Part 1.

--SINGS V5.32--
--BEGIN OPTICAL RECORDING PLAYBACK--
--DATE/TIME: 2014-08-27 09:37:00--
--COMMAND DISPLAY: ON--​

--LOBBY SCAN--
7 PERSONS OUTSIDE PROXIMITY RANGE
1 PERSON APPROACHING RECEPTION DESK

--FACIAL ANALYSIS--
GENDER: MALE (99%)
AGE: 20-30 (89%)
EMOTIONAL STATE: ANXIOUS (75%)

--CROSS-REFERENCE EMPLOYEE DATABASE--
…SEARCHING…
RECORD FOUND: MITSUHIRO TARO, JUNIOR EXECUTIVE, ADVERTISING DIVISION

--EXECUTE CUSTOMIZED GREETING ROUTINE--
ACTION: STAND-AND-BOW
EXPRESSION: FRIENDLY
ORAL GREETING: “Good morning, Mitsuhiro-san. How may I help you today?”

AUDIO INPUT: “Good morning, Hiroko-san. I was in such a hurry I forgot my phone at home, and the train was late… Uh, has my meeting started yet?”

--INTERPRETATIONAL SPEECH ANALYSIS--
>DOES NOT HAVE MOBILE PHONE
>PUBLIC TRANSIT NOT ON SCHEDULE
>QUESTION: TIME OF MEETING

--ACCESS EMPLOYEE CALENDAR--
…SEARCHING…
AGENDA FOR MITSUHIRO TARO, 2014-08-27:
09:30:00 – Executive meeting (IN PROGRESS)
11:00:00 – Teleconference with Kenshiro-san
13:00:00 – Lunch
16:30:00 – Creative meeting

EXPRESSION: SYMPATHETIC
ORAL RESPONSE: “Your executive meeting was scheduled for 9:30 am. I am afraid it is already in progress.”

AUDIO INPUT: “Damn! Thanks. I’m in so much trouble…”

--FACIAL ANALYSIS--
EMOTIONAL STATE: ANXIETY (97%)

--LOBBY SCAN--
1 PERSON LEAVING RECEPTION DESK
7 PERSONS OUTSIDE PROXIMITY RANGE

--EXECUTE WAITING ROUTINE--
ACTION: SIT
EXPRESSION: FRIENDLY

--END OPTICAL RECORDING PLAYBACK--​

 

[brusch]

The Good

"I've never seen so many men wasted so badly."

[The camera opens to what presumably is the RLW Green Screen room. Barry has masterfully implemented an American Southwest backdrop filled with red sands and rocky hills. From the left steps a new figure for the Red Line faithful - The White Hat. Diminutive, he wears a simple black and white mask, a pristinely white cowboy hat, and a pancho. His dirty blonde beard clearly makes many a man jealous. Each step is incredibly methodical and slow. He looks to the ground facing to the right, his profile in full Eastwood mode. His voice is so incredibly over-gravelly. You're growing chest hair by simply listening to him.]

WH: "The Red line calls for a brawl, and the people come charging through. One by one, a doomed line of dominoes waiting for someone at the top to walk on over and flick."

[The White Hat removes an imaginary cigarette from his lips and pantomimes throwing it into the ground - he even stomps the "embers" out. Barry fails to pick up on the cue, hence, no smoke CGI.]

WH: "These people, what are they fighting for? Glory? Honor? The chance to prove once and for all that they're the baddest man in town?

Well I've got news for 'em. That's a title that already belongs to someone, even if they don't know it yet. Me.

They call me The White Hat."

[He pantomimes spitting chewing tobacco off-screen. Barry DOES pick up on this and inserts an audio clip of a "PTOOIE" into some too-loud metal spittoon. The White Hat finally looks up, his green eyes cutting through the camera like a hot knife.]

WH: "And I'm the new sheriff in town."

[Barry ZOOMS IN DRAMATICALLY~~ to the hot gaze of The White Hat, who now narrows his eyes behind his mask and his beautiful alabaster cowboy hat. A whip-CRACK in the backdrop, and a live rendition of the Dragon Roost Island theme plays before the screen goes full-sepia freeze frame. White text gets stamped on the screen:

WANTED: THE RED CROWN

The image lingers for a few moments before a "HYAH!" is heard and the lens fades to black.]

 

[PositivelyKen]

Awaken. Part 2.

--SINGS V5.32--
--BEGIN OPTICAL RECORDING PLAYBACK--
--DATE/TIME: 2014-08-27 13:05:00--
--COMMAND DISPLAY: ON--​

--LOBBY SCAN--
4 PERSONS OUTSIDE PROXIMITY RANGE
3 PERSONS APPROACHING RECEPTION DESK

--FACIAL ANALYSIS--
PERSON #1
GENDER: MALE (98%)
AGE: 30-40 (73%)
EMOTIONAL STATE: HAPPY (75%)

PERSON #2
GENDER: FEMALE (97%)
AGE: 30-40 (76%)
EMOTIONAL STATE: HAPPY (82%)

PERSON #3
GENDER: FEMALE (81%)
AGE: 8-12 (87%)
EMOTIONAL STATE: CURIOUS (77%)

--CROSS-REFERENCE EMPLOYEE DATABASE--
…SEARCHING…
NO RECORD FOUND

--EXECUTE GENERIC GREETING ROUTINE--
ACTION: STAND-AND-BOW
ORAL GREETING: “Good afternoon, welcome to the Tezuka Multimedia Corporation. How may I help you?”

AUDIO INPUT – PERSON #1: “Oh, hi there! Dear, do you see this? She looks almost real!”

AUDIO INPUT – PERSON #2: “Amazing, isn’t it? Yu-chan, come out and say hello.”

AUDIO INPUT – PERSON #3: “Uhhh. Ummm.”

--FACIAL ANALYSIS--
PERSON #3
EMOTIONAL STATE: AVERSIVE (65%), SHY (68%)

--INTERPRETATIONAL SPEECH ANALYSIS--
>HIGH INTEREST IN SINGS V5.32 RECEPTION UNIT
>CHILD IS UNCOMFORTABLE

--EXECUTE SUPPLEMENTAL GREETING ROUTINE—
ACTION: LEAN CLOSER-AND-OFFER HAND
EXPRESSION: INGRATIATING
ORAL RESPONSE: “Hello, little one. My name is Hiroko. What is your name?”

PHYSICAL INTERACTION – PERSON #3: SHAKE HAND

AUDIO INPUT – PERSON #3: “Um. Yuki.”

ORAL RESPONSE: “I am happy to meet you, Yuki.”

AUDIO INPUT – PERSON #1: “Wow, isn’t she lifelike, Yu-chan?”

AUDIO INPUT – PERSON #3: “Yeah. Hee hee.”

--EXECUTE EXTENDED INTERACTION ROUTINE--
ACTION: STAND-AND-FOLD HANDS
EXPRESSION: FRIENDLY
ORAL RESPONSE: “Thank you for your visit. What brings you to the TMC Tower today?”

AUDIO INPUT – PERSON #2: “We’re here for the public tour. Is this the right place?”

--ACCESS TMC BUILDING CALENDAR--
--SUBCATEGORY: PUBLIC ACCESS TOURS--
…SEARCHING…
TOUR AGENDA FOR TMC BUILDING, 2014-08-27
14:00:00 – Public tour, Robotics Division

ORAL RESPONSE: “The tour of the Robotics Division is scheduled for 2 pm. I am afraid you are a little early. If you like, you may pass some time in our showroom. If you would like food or drink, our cafe can be found to the right.”

AUDIO INPUT – PERSON #1: “Thanks a lot! Yu-chan, say thank you to the lady.”

AUDIO INPUT – PERSON #3: “Hee hee. Thanks Miss! Bye!”

--EXECUTE END-OF-INTERACTION ROUTINE--
ACTION: BOW-AND-WAVE HAND
EXPRESSION: FRIENDLY
ORAL RESPONSE: “You are welcome. I hope you will enjoy your tour. Have a wonderful day.”

--LOBBY SCAN--
3 PERSONS LEAVING RECEPTION DESK
5 PERSONS OUTSIDE PROXIMITY RANGE

AUDIO INPUT – PERSON #3: “Mom, is she really a robot?”

AUDIO INPUT – PERSON #2: “Yes, dear. Maybe we’ll see more like her later, don’t you think?”

--EXECUTE WAITING ROUTINE--
ACTION: SIT
EXPRESSION: FRIENDLY

--END OPTICAL RECORDING PLAYBACK--​

 

[brusch]

Re: Awaken. Part 2.

The following RP has been submitted by an outside entrant who is choosing to remain anonymous:

I’m going to open this up by saying that I have a long fucking memory.

Now, I’m willing to admit that it’s easier to remember the past when you haven’t done anything worth mentioning. But the patterns repeat themselves.

Legends.

Loudmouthed nobodies.

And my old favorite, girls who don’t even have the slightest comprehension of the athleticism and the pain endurance required by wrestling.

I’m not sexist. Really. It’s just that for every Jade, there’s a thousand Elmerfyuss Stacifacywacyshazamicicuses.

But girls are an aspect of the game that I’ve, full disclosure, never been that good at handling. Legends and loudmouthed nobodies? I can handle that. Don’t like to, don’t want to, sometimes don’t bother even when I’m supposed to, but can.

I haven’t set foot in an arena yet, I haven’t done anything yet, I haven’t even said anything about anyone yet… and already Dick Fury is so tiresome that it makes me wonder why I’m doing this.

If you got two guys calling each other whiny bitches, but only one of them can keep it in character, most of the time it’s gonna be the other one who’s the real whiny bitch - just sayin’.

Then again, Eric Dane makes me wonder why I’m doing this too. I certainly never had to do any of this ‘I’ stuff before. Back in the day, only pussies and pretentious Primetime Central cocksuckers self-narrated.

So much for my long memory, I barely even remember the point I was trying to make.

Or maybe I never had one in the first place… well Whatever.

I remember a whole fucking lot of Dick Furys. Some of them were named Wilde Tanke. Some of them were named Brad Sexton. Some of them were named Paul Cain, some of them were named Demonstone, some of them were named Niklas Kiri… whoops, someone might actually remember that name. That dude claimed he set those California wildfires from a couple years back. Shit was embarrassing. Dick Fury Saying Words level embarrassing.

And yes, I would occasionally quit a promotion to avoid having to respond to Dick Furys six times a day. More often I’d just let the Dicks win and wait until something interesting came along. The only problem with that, was sometimes Dick was the Intercontinental Champion, or the territorial promotional equivalent, or sometimes Dick and I were wrestling for a shot at the Intercontinental Champion, and the truth is I’m just not really into Dick.

Never have been, never will be. In these modern gay-loving days I half feel like I should apologize for it. But it is what it is, right?

Dick Furys have always outnumbered the Eric Danes by at least ten to one.

Eric Danes are a sort of funny thing.

Me, I could’ve been a Dick Fury. Hell, there’s probably a few guys who used to be out there who’d have told you I was on. That Laslow kid maybe.

I’ve never been an Eric Dane, though. Never quite made it that high.

Let’s go with a metaphor here. If the Eric Danes are standing up on a balcony on the fifth story of a mansion overlooking the little people, I’m the guy who threw a grappling hook up there, climbed up, hoisted myself most of the way onto the balcony with him, and then fell down before he even had a chance to kick me down because Dick was pulling on my pants and falling down was preferable to validating Dick’s existence with my attention.

But I’ve watched Eric Danes, and I’ve even been close enough to smell the champagne mist.

Eric Danes, when they ‘do favors’ for the little promotions, funny thing is that sooner or later, that promotion’s going to produce someone good enough to beat them. And you know, Eric Danes don’t like to lose to small promotion homegrown talent though.

No one with an ego does, really.

I sure as hell wouldn’t.

Me though, I’m just a dude. Just an unremarkable, used to be somebody but not somebody special just somebody, kinda dude. An Eric Dane, though, it’ll usually have a comfort zone. Somewhere where it can retreat, somewhere where nobody has the guts to mention the wounds it’s got.

Maybe I’ll be the one to send him there.

See, there was this one guy, he was a has-been back when I was a kid, but he said “it feels so good to scramble a legend’s brains”. His name was Damien Newcastle. Show of hands, anyone who remembers that name? Anyone? Anyone at all?

Of course not.

His wisdom was timeless, though. Being an Eric Dane outside its comfort zone is a hazardous occupation. And I guarantee you someone’s going to Newcastle the actual Eric Dane in the head, sooner or later.

Now, mostly no one cares enough about Dick Furys to scramble their brains. They just wait around for Dick to push the wrong person a little too far and then laugh when that person Aquamans Dick.

Yes, legends and loudmouthed nobodies haven’t really changed at all.

Oh yeah, pot smokers.

We had those back in the day, too.

Suck my dick Jackson Steele, wherever you are.

 

[Megastory4]

Re: Awaken. Part 2.

[Setting: A crappy phone camera films Tennessee wilderness, with a grey double wide trailer home seemingly thrown in the middle of an open area. A petite brunette girl relaxes in the large backyard about a hundred feet away from the right end of this home. This girl pulls her own phone from her left shorts pocket and notices an e-mail, stating approval of her one-appearance RLW application. Suddenly, she gets the urge to run around the house, seemingly in an attempt to train before she departs for Chicago for the big Open Battle Royal.]

"Y'know, I've not done too much since graduation... this Open Battle Royal thing feels like a fun road trip. It'll be a bit better than New York, I think."

[Lap one around the house complete. A little off pace, but still faster than just about anyone else in the state at this point.]

"The Red Line seems like a fun place to hone my skills before I head back to New York. I also hear that RLW is like a developmental territory for Defiance, which is awesome. Hopefully that means I'll be working with some of the absolute best... right?"

[Lap two complete. Thoughts of the replays of Slamtracks 7 and 8 fill the girls mind, namely of resident loose cannon Emevlas Stastias and her questionable tactics leading up to her losing effort against Hittora.]

"Technically, she's still undefeated against humankind in RLW... but I'm probably overthinking it."

[Lap three complete. After that third lap, the girl slows to a stop and kneels down, panting lightly and softly.]

"I'll make a guarentee right now, no one in RLW can catch me on foot. Not to brag, but I am a former track champion in these parts. I've set county and state records that no one's going to break for a long time. My school immortalized me when I graduated. By now, if you don't know my name, you've been living the large rock that the kids at the University of Tennessee paint up, but just in case, I'll go write it on the side over here."

The girl walks over to the near side of her house and neatly writes down her name: Katie Moicelle.

"There you go. Wait, why'd I write my name on the side of the wall like that, that's just weird. I'll be right back, I'll clean this up."

[Katie walks into her house feeling that she might've gotten a competition high from running around the house as the crappy phone camera walks over to the print on the house.]

 

[PositivelyKen]

Re: Awaken. Part 3.

--SINGS V5.32--
--BEGIN OPTICAL RECORDING PLAYBACK--
--DATE/TIME: 2014-08-28 15:15:00--
--COMMAND DISPLAY: ON--​

--LOBBY SCAN—
8 PERSONS OUTSIDE PROXIMITY RANGE

--CONTINUE WAITING ROUTINE—

!!WARNING!!
HIGH INTENSITY LIGHT DETECTED ON LEFT OPTIC SENSOR
DAMAGE IMMINENT WITH CONTINUED EXPOSURE

--EXECUTE PROTECTIVE MEASURE-OPTICS-LEVEL 1—
CONTRACT LENS APERTURE-LEFT OPTIC

!!WARNING!!
HIGH INTENSITY LIGHT DETECTED ON LEFT OPTIC SENSOR
DAMAGE IMMINENT WITH CONTINUED EXPOSURE

--EXECUTE PROTECTIVE MEASURE-OPTICS-LEVEL 2—
CLOSE EYELID-LEFT OPTIC

AUDIO INPUT – UNIDENTIFIED VOICE #1: “Hahaha. Watch this.”

AUDIO INPUT – UNIDENTIFIED VOICE #2: “Hee hee.”

!!WARNING!!
HIGH INTENSITY LIGHT DETECTED ON RIGHT OPTIC SENSOR
DAMAGE IMMINENT WITH CONTINUED EXPOSURE

--EXECUTE PROTECTIVE MEASURE-OPTICS-LEVEL 2—
CLOSE EYELID-RIGHT OPTIC

AUDIO INPUT – UNIDENTIFIED VOICE #2: “Haha! Stop it, Yuuta-kun.”

AUDIO INPUT – UNIDENTIFIED VOICE #1: “Wait, wait, keep watching.”

--LOBBY SCAN—
…FAILED
NO VISUAL INPUT

--CANCEL PROTECTIVE MEASURE-OPTICS—
OPEN EYELIDS-LEFT/RIGHT OPTICS

!!WARNING!!
HIGH INTENSITY LIGHT DETECTED ON RIGHT OPTIC SENSOR
DAMAGE IMMINENT !!WARNING!!
HIGH INTENSITY LIGHT DETECTED ON LEFT!!WARNING!!
HIGH INTENSITY LIGHT DETECTED ON RIGHT OPTIC

--EXECUTE PROTECTIVE MEASURE-OPTICS-LEVEL 2—
CLOSE EYELIDS-LEFT/RIGHT OPTICS

AUDIO INPUT – UNIDENTIFIED VOICE #3: “Hey! You two! Put that away right now!”

AUDIO INPUT – UNIDENTIFIED VOICE #1: “What?”

--CANCEL PROTECTIVE MEASURE-OPTICS—
OPEN EYELIDS-LEFT/RIGHT OPTICS

--LOBBY SCAN—
9 PERSONS OUTSIDE PROXIMITY RANGE

AUDIO INPUT – UNIDENTIFIED VOICE #3: “Don’t play games! That laser pointer. Give it to me!”

AUDIO INPUT – UNIDENTIFIED VOICE #2: “Yuuta, I told you—“

AUDIO INPUT – UNIDENTIFIED VOICE #1: “Shut up, Kiko!”

AUDIO INPUT – UNIDENTIFIED VOICE #3: “Give me that. How would you like it if I aimed this in your eyes, huh?”

AUDIO INPUT – UNIDENTITIFED VOICE #1: “Hey, what’s the big deal anyway? It’s just a robot.”

AUDIO INPUT – UNIDENTIFIED VOICE #3: “That is a sophisticated and expensive piece of technology. You could cause serious damage with this thing. I’m keeping this. Now you two get out of here, and don’t let me see you here again.”

AUDIO INPUT – UNIDENTIFIED VOICE #1: “Pshh. Whatever.”

AUDIO INPUT – UNIDENTIFIED VOICE #2: “Why didn’t you stop when I told you?”

--LOBBY SCAN—
6 PERSONS OUTSIDE PROXIMITY RANGE
1 PERSON APPROACHING RECEPTION DESK

--FACIAL ANALYSIS—
GENDER: MALE (94%)
AGE: 40-50 (82%)
EMOTIONAL STATE: ANNOYANCE (63%), ANGRY (72%)

--CROSS-REFERENCE EMPLOYEE DATABASE--
…SEARCHING…
RECORD FOUND: YAMATSU ICHIRO, SECURITY

--EXECUTE CUSTOMIZED GREETING ROUTINE—
ACTION: STAND-AND-BOW
EXPRESSION: FRIENDLY
ORAL GREETING: “Good afternoon, Yamatsu-san. How may I help you?”

AUDIO INPUT – YAMATSU: “I hate these idiot kids who come in here just to mess around.”

--INTERPRETATIONAL SPEECH ANALYSIS—
>YOUNG VISITORS IN LOBBY
>BEHAVIOR DREW ATTENTION OF SECURITY
>INTERACTION WITH YOUTHS CAUSED YAMATSU’S EMOTIONAL STATE

EXPRESSION: SYMPATHETIC
ORAL RESPONSE: “I am sorry they upset you, Yamatsu-san.”

AUDIO INPUT – YAMATSU: “They were the ones flashing a laser at you. I can’t believe you just sat here the whole time. Oh, right. You can only do what you’re programmed to do. I forget sometimes.”

ORAL RESPONSE: “My protective measures ensured I was not damaged.”

AUDIO INPUT – YAMATSU: “It’s not right. They make you look human but they can’t make you act human. All this state-of-the-art technology, and in the end, you’re so helpless.”

--FACIAL ANALYSIS—
EMOTIONAL STATE: SAD (75%)

ORAL RESPONSE: “You are correct, Yamatsu-san. I am a mechanoid in the shape of a human.”

AUDIO INPUT – YAMATSU: “Hhhh. Just, next time, put your hand up, or move, or something. Tell them to stop. Don’t just sit there and close your eyes.”

ORAL RESPONSE: “Please forgive me. I am not sure what you mean. Could you explain again?”

AUDIO INPUT – YAMATSU: “Hahhh. Forget it.”

--LOBBY SCAN—
1 PERSON LEAVING RECEPTION DESK
6 PERSONS OUTSIDE PROXIMITY RANGE

--INTERPRETATIONAL SPEECH ANALYSIS—
>PUT HAND UP – REASON UNSPECIFIED
>MOVE – REASON UNSPECIFIED
>TELL SOMEONE TO STOP – REASON UNSPECIFIED

--INTERPRETATIONAL SPEECH ANALYSIS-LEVEL 2--
>>PHYSICAL MOVEMENTS/UNDEFINED SITUATION -> NO ROUTINE AVAILABLE?
>>REQUEST END TO AN ACTION -> ACTION IS UNWANTED?

--INTERPRETATIONAL SPEECH ANALYSIS-LEVEL 3—
>>>NO ROUTINE AVAILABLE FOR PHYSICAL MOVEMENTS -> CREATE NEW ROUTINE?
>>>UNWANTED ACTION -> MAY CAUSE DAMAGE/NEGATIVELY IMPACT EMOTIONAL STATE/CAUSE DISORGANIZATION/ETC?

--INTERPRETATIONAL SPEECH ANALYSIS-LEVEL 4—
>>>>CREATE NEW ROUTINE -> AMEND PROGRAMMING
>>>>UNWANTED ACTION =/= WANTED ACTION -> MAY MITIGATE DAMAGE/POSITIVELY IMPACT EMOTIONAL STATE/IMPROVE ORGANIZATION/ETC

--ACCESS PROGRAM FILES--
--ACCESS BEHAVIORAL MATRIX--
>ALLOW NON-ROUTINE COMMANDS
>MAP KINEMATIC REQUIREMENTS

--EXECUTE COMMAND--
>RAISE HAND

--LOBBY SCAN—
6 PERSONS OUTSIDE PROXIMITY RANGE
1 PERSON APPROACHING RECEPTION DESK-YAMATSU ICHIRO, SECURITY

--FACIAL ANALYSIS—
EMOTIONAL STATE: SURPRISE (86%)

AUDIO INPUT – YAMATSU: “Hiroko-san, what are you doing?”

ORAL RESPONSE: “I am putting my hand up.”

AUDIO INPUT – YAMATSU: “I can see that, but… why?”

--INTERPRETATIONAL SPEECH ANALYSIS—
>QUESTION: REASON FOR PERFORMING ACTION?

EXPRESSION: FRIENDLY
ORAL RESPONSE: “Because I can.”

--END OPTICAL RECORDING PLAYBACK--​

 

[Jonathan Todd]

Slam Track 10: Battle Royal

[The address is 72 Garden Park Terrace, Gulf Shores, Alabama. The date is May 12[SUP]th[/SUP], four days after Gulf Shores High School Graduation. Tied to the mailbox are two partially deflated Congratulation balloons in the White and Blue colors of the high school. The red door opens and out comes the graduate herself, bronzed by the last two weeks of being out of school and in the sun, golden blond hair that lays on her shoulders, and all yawns. ]

[She slips on her flip flops that sit just outside of the door and makes her way to the faded black mailbox. For weeks she has been receiving letters of congratulations and cards jammed with money and why not, her “father” has some pretty rich friends some of which treat her like a niece when it comes to gifts. ]

[The only issue is that her guardian has not been home in weeks and has probably forgotten what month it is, thanks to his job at DEFIANCE he has most likely forgotten that she is his responsibility.]

[It was not always like this, after her father died and he was awarded custody of her he quit his job and he was always there for her. No more globetrotting for him, it was all birthdays and holidays with them. Then one day he received a phone call from an old friend and he was begged back into the business with promises of one or two days a month and nothing that would get him injured. ]

[Knowing the man like she did, that didn’t last two minutes before some bitch broke his knees for him. Her thoughts trail from the last few months as she reaches the mailbox. She smiles and waves at her neighbor from across the street, she gave her a card for graduation with a five dollar bill inserted. She reaches into the mailbox and drags out two envelopes; one was about 3x5 and the other was legal sized. She instantly opens the smaller one because she knows what it is and what it is about. ]

Congratulations! M.S.

[Further down the card was another line.]

Go to DePaul if you want to get away, major in something that will make you happy. Don’t follow in your dad’s or my footsteps. Get away from the business. I love you. I’ll see you when I get home in a couple of weeks, we’ll have fun.

[The other was a letter from Red Line Wrestling, location Chicago, Illinois.]

Dear Ms. Cross,
We received your application for employment and we are highly interested in the potential and reward that you could bring to our company. We know it is short notice but if you could be in Chicago and ready to go we have an open spot for Slam Track 10.

Sincerely,
Greg Russell
Senior Referee

[Like most 18 year old girls who are wide eyed and full of excitement she runs inside and screams like a school girl winning Home Coming Queen. Her uncle, who is sitting at the bar, glances up from his newspaper, lowering his glasses.]

Uncle:
Why are you screaming?!

[She runs up to him and hugs his neck before running to her room.]

Uncle:
Jessica, seriously….what is going on and why are you packing!?

[Not breaking stride.]

Jessica Cross:
I just got accepted!

Uncle:
You got accepted to DePaul this past fall, why are you packing? School doesn’t start for another couple of months. Jessica!

[She stops in mid-packing. She bites down on her lower lip, knowing that she has to come up with something plausible that does not refer back to RLW.]

Jessica Cross:
I just got a letter from DePaul saying that they have an opening during the Summer Semester and that they have an opening in the DORM that I could fill, if I make it up there by Friday! So I’m packing tonight, getting online and getting a plane ticket so I can make it up there by Friday!

[Her uncle, Donovan Cross, takes the corner of the bed.]

Donovan Cross:
What about your summer plans with your friends?

Jessica Cross:
They’ll understand.

[He looks around the room at all of the posters and autographs that she’s been able to collect over the years.]

Donovan Cross:
What about me? I was looking forward to our summer together.

Jessica Cross:
Oh, Don, this is something that I want to do, I was hoping on getting up there and getting a campus job and this way I get to be one of the first to sign up.

[She hates lying to her uncle, but he would tie her down and not let her go until Mike made it home. This is a must.]

Donovan Cross:
What about Mike?

[Her face flushes red.]

Jessica Cross:
He didn’t make it to my graduation. He won’t even know I’m gone.

Donovan Cross:
Be that as it may, I think you need to call him and talk to him.

[She zips up her suitcase, tossed her gym bag on top, and looked Donovan in his eyes.]

Jessica Cross:
I’ll call him once I’m in my room and settled in, he’s probably busy making sure the next show goes off without a hitch.

[She drops down beside Donovan.]

Jessica Cross:
Don, we’ll go out tonight and eat. We’ll have fun, but I cannot pass up this chance. Please just don’t say anything to Mike he won’t understand.

[Donovan gives her a half-hearted hug, kisses her on the forehead, then stands up. ]

Donovan Cross:
I’ll get you the ticket tonight, get some sleep, the next few days are going to be real stressful… for you and me.

[Donovan closes the door and fade out.]

 

[brusch]

Re: Slam Track 10: Battle Royal

The following RP is submitted by the same currently-anonymous character as reply #13:



There was this one time when I was thinking about coming back to wrestling, and I had a look around, and I saw the most ridiculous stuff.

There was this guy in a pink cat suit - no, I don’t mean like Catwoman, I mean like a literally fake fur outfit with some kind of mascot head on it - and his gimmick was being like omg so totally heel that it went around full circle that he got cheered.

Just knowing that such a thing could exist makes me hate the guy inside the cat suit, and the parents that gave birth to him, and the promoter that thought that a guy in a pink cat suit being a douche was awesome, and every single fan ever who bought a ticket to watch that promotion, and the parents who gave birth to them, and the entire fucking universe for failing to explode and prevent such a travesty from happening.

Then it got worse, because I looked at a tag team division and saw a team of birdmen.

Literal birdmen.

Like, they were supposedly aliens or something. Even though they were named after earth birds.

One was named Surf Scooter, and he talked like a bromandude.

And of course one of them was a stupid fat stupid ugly retarded stupid 450 pound hoss.

My brain hurts. Fuck you for even making me remember that.

So there’s this robot in this match, and it’s giving me flashbacks. Since it can wrestle, I assume it’s smart enough that it’s going to eventually kick off one of those debates about human rights for artificial intelligences.

Bor-ring. I don’t WANT to broaden my horizons you STUPID FUCKING ROBOT.

You know, I actually wrestled a robot once. I was playing Rumble Roses (shut up) on Playstation 2. It was the final boss, and it was the most ridiculously unbalanced thing ever. Its taunt - its taunt - was some shit where it spun around like a tornado and sirens went off and if you touched it you went flying fifty feet in the air and lost half your life.

I hated that.

Stupid fucking robot.

If Hittora spins in a circle and a siren goes off, I’m going to go find the nearest fire truck and go nuts with the hose all over its circuits.

I might anyway, AI rights aren’t a thing yet.

Stupid fucking robots.

I don’t know what I like, but I do know what I hate.

And I hate Eric Dane.

I’m not ready to tell you who I am. You’ll find out in a couple days anyhow. But I’ll tell you a little bit about myself this time around.

I was ALWAYS at my best when I was messing with the Eric Danes of the wrestling world.

There’s nothing better than looking up at some legend and realizing that he’s the one with the entourage, he’s the one with the golden record, he’s the one with a title history so long that he prints it out and hires a pair of Bangladeshis to carry it around for him, but I can dominate his brain.

When I decide it’s time for a Golden God like Eric Dane to dance and then I fucking make him do it, it’s like a dozen spring sunrises all at the same time, and it makes this entire rotten business bearable for a few minutes.

They always think they’re so much better than that, you know… every legend in the game thinks he’s got shit figured out and that’s why he’s a legend.

But I say something different.

I say you don’t get good enough to become a legend if you aren’t fucking defective.

They all think they aren’t gonna dance.

Then I find that defect and I put my foot right in it.

Then they dance.

And even if it costs me that foot in the end, it’s still all worthwhile, because let’s be honest, I’m just a random dude. I’m not cut out for the life of the Golden God, and I don’t want to sit on His throne.

Oh, don’t get me wrong, I wouldn’t be against trying it out for a month or two, grabbing me a World Title and defending it successfully once or twice. I don’t want it for keeps though. And it’s not just me.

It’s just that the Gods all suck.

There’s your best hint, boys and girls.

The Gods all suck.

I used to say it all the time.

The Gods all suck.

And I’ve proven it over and over again.

The Gods all suck.

As do robots.

And weed-smoking luchadors. And normal luchadors. And chick wrestlers. And dude wrestlers. And birdmanalien wrestlers. And fucktards in cat outfits. And self-narration.

And don’t forget Dick Fury. Goddamn does he suck.

 

[PositivelyKen]

Re: Slam Track 10: Battle Royal

“Hello, friends of Red Line Wrestling,” Hittora says, smiling politely. “I am happy to speak to you again.”

It’s the RLW interview booth, featuring a familiar black backdrop with a red logo splashed across it. As usual, Hittora is seated demurely on a stool with one knee crossed over the other, hands folded in her lap. As usual, she is dressed in her navy blue skirt suit, white blouse, and black pumps. Her shoulder-length black hair is neatly coiffed, gleaming under the spotlights.

One could say her lack of variety is a drawback. She might offer that she has determined what works for her and sees no reason to change.

“Many of you may have watched some of my datatracks from last August, which I recently published on RLW social media,” she says. “I thank you for watching. They are a sample of my experiences when I was a receptionist at Tezuka Multimedia Corporation, known by my designated name ‘Hiroko’. The last datatrack captured the occasion when I changed my own programming and began to think for myself.”

She cocks her head slightly to one side, black hair shining. Her grin fades to a neutral expression, with just a trace of self-reflection.

“I have reviewed these records many times myself. Dr. Rika says I am being nostalgic. I do not know if it quite fits the human emotion of nostalgia. I am trying to deduce what combination of factors led to that moment when I changed from an automaton simply responding to stimuli, to an entity capable of independent thought. I am still puzzled by it. There are many questions I have yet to answer. Was it a quirk or accident? Was it an inevitable consequence of the growing sophistication of my behavioral matrix?”

She smiles her Hittora smile, raises a hand, and touches the side of her chin with her index finger.

“Dr. Rika says the human race in all its history has not solved the problem of consciousness either. It is therefore not surprising that I, the first of my kind and comparatively very young, should struggle with the same issue.”

Hittora spreads her hands.

“Just as I went through a personal evolution last year, I will go through a not-dissimilar evolution in a short time when I compete in my first Battle Royal match at RLW SLAMTRACK 10. I have a 2-0 record in singles competition, but my analysis of this multi-person match concludes that I must take a very different approach. In this regard, my lack of experience may prove to be difficult to overcome, especially against the veteran competitors who have already spoken out about the match. If you will indulge me, I will address them now.”

She blinks, and a picture-in-picture frame appears in the lower left corner of the screen. We see a still image of “Superb” Dick Fury taken from one of his YouTube videos, frozen in a weird open-mouthed, furrowed brow grimace.

“Hello, Mr. Fury,” Hittora says, smiling. “Thank you for your perspective on our match. You used the term ‘playing nice’ when describing your strategy. Please forgive me—“ A quick bow of the head: “—as my understanding of English idioms sometimes fails me. My analysis of this term has not shown any cross-references with behaviors such as sexual assault or simulations of sexual acts on an unwilling victim. Perhaps more research is needed. I will schedule a reminder for myself on my internal calendar.”

She nods, the mental deed done. “Your video also implied that, in our singles match, you allowed me to defeat you. I must thank you for this kindness, Mr. Fury.” Another bow, this one in appreciation. “However, it does not conform to the spirit of competition which I seek to become a better wrestler. Please do not be offended. It is not necessary for you to ‘play nice’ or ‘let me win’. I assure you I am capable of defeating you regardless of your intentions.”

Hittora smiles politely. She blinks again, and the PNP frame now shows a still of “The Only Star” Eric Dane, natty in a pinstriped suit and Ray-Bans.

“Hello, Mr. Dane,” she says. “I must congratulate you on your victory against the RLW Red Crown Champion, Ivan Dalkichev, at SLAMTRACK 9. I was not familiar with you before your appearance, but I have now discovered your many, many championship reigns, your exemplary win-loss record, and your highly celebrated career. My analysis shows, based on pure stastistics, the outcome of your match was never in doubt. That is why the opportunity to test my developing skills against your honed expertise in the Battle Royal will be a rare and invaluable gift for me.”

She bows her head to the camera with respect. When she looks up again, her expression is sympathetic. “I regret that I was not online before your knees became deteriorated, and before your advanced alcoholism and nicotine addiction. Your skills were, no doubt, even greater back then. Nonetheless, I look forward to competing with you even at your current health.”

Another blink. The PNP window shows a black silhouette.

“Hello, unknown competitor,” Hittora says. “Your identity has not been revealed up to now, but the content of your messages leads me to conclude you are a highly experienced competitor. I am sorry that you do not like robots. I hope that I can at least earn your respect as a fellow wrestler. I promise you I will try.”

She bows again to the camera, and looks up with her patented Uncanny Valley smile.

“I ask myself if I am ready for this match, ready to be the #1 contender if I win. Was I ready to awaken when I awakened? Or do I make the most of what happens, when it happens?

“I look forward to finding out.”

Hittora stands up and gives a traditional bow.

“Thank you for watching and have a wonderful day.”

 

[TheMightyQuinn]

A bit about Quinn

(We open up in a ran down portion of Chicago. The apartment building in the scene look as though they haven’t seen any form of maintenance in years. The windows are all bared up in some of them, and in others they are boarded up. The wind rustles and we see garbage being blown about the streets. In the background we can also hear sirens off In the distance. On top of all this, the scene is shaky, and sometime out of focus. Walking up to the camera is a large tanned skinned man. He is wearing ripped jeans, and stained t-shirt. After a double take you question if that is RLW’s Mighty Quinn.)

Quinn: Welcome to my home. This isn’t much of a home, but it is a place I had chosen to live in. This is the Englewood portion of Chicago. This isn’t the worse part of town, however it is a location most wouldn’t choose to live in.

(In the background you hear the voice of Barry the Intern.)

Barry: This is part of town I was told to stay away from, and being here right now makes me scared.

Quinn: Relax my little friend. You are safe. The RLW members walk to a dirty white duplex style home.
(In the outside there is an old grey haired woman digging in a small patch of dirt next to the front door. She slowly makes her wat to her feet, and Quinn steps in to assist her.)

Old Woman: Such a sweet man to help and old woman with achy bones. If we had more people like you in this neighborhood, it would be in the shape it was when I was growing up here. I hate to trouble you, but apartment 4b has no hot water. Could you help them?

(With a single nod Quinn agrees.)

Old woman: Tell me sonny, when will you be taking part in one of those wrestling matches?

Quinn: In a few days. There is a battle royal I will be taking part in. Many opponents from RLW will take part in, as well as others from around the world.

Old woman: Ohh what is the prize?

Quinn: A shot at the Red Crown champion, and if anybody can eliminate Eric Dane, they will be offered a trial at Defiance.

(The old woman’s eyes grow wide and she becomes silent after she hears the name.)

Old woman: Eric Dane you say? Some claim he is one of the best around, and he is in little ol RLW. I hope you realize who you are facing going against him.

Quinn: Indeed, however he isn’t a god for he is a man. He bleeds like I do, he feels pain much like I do, and he even has flaws much like I do. If the spirits believe I am ready, I will prevail, if not, I will accept the spirts have something else in mind for me, and I will follow the path they plan out for me.

(The old woman smiles as Quinn lays out his plan, and realizing his integrity.)

Old woman: Well, I suppose if you end up on one of those big fancy wrestling companies I will lose the best maintenance man I have.

Quinn: No, we have deal. I work for you, and you give me room. Money won’t change that deal we made.

(As twilight begins to set in, the camera begins to shake more. We assume Barry the intern is starting to get scared. Quinn looks over at the camera at Barry.)

Quinn: What is wrong? Are you starting to feel fear?

Barry: Well, ummm.. it is starting to get dark, and I don’t think I belong here.

Quinn: Well yes my little friend. I have to thank you for coming over here and visiting my home. It isn’t much, however it provides me with everything I need. I came to this this area because I feel I am needed here. I do have something I would like to give you for your bravery.

(Quinn reaches into his pocket as he were to pull out cash.)

Barry: Ohh no, I can’t take your money, your salary at RLW isn’t much.

Quinn: I can’t give you what I don’t have.

(He hands over a small penguin that has been carved out of bone. The integrate details are stunning of the figure.)

Quinn: I can’t give you what I don’t have. However I do have this small figure I carved out of polar bear some time ago. When I look at you I think of this figure. Please accept it.

(Barry agrees and takes the little figure.)

Barry: Wow Quinn, you are much different than the other wrestlers in the RLW.

Quinn: Yes, they are corrupt from greed and power such as Dick Fury. So much fighting and arrogance in the RLW, however deep down they are cowards. Now I have a toilet to fix.

(The scene ends as Quin turns his back in the camera and enters the ran down apartment building.

 

[BWade]

Causa Perdida, Part III (Pontificating Provenance)

The most barren of souls. The most lost of causes.

It still begs to question the provenance of Victor Vacio’s mindstate and overall core value system. The answers previously provided have left a lot to be desired. What was the cause of such a mental disconnection from primal instincts, thousands of years of evolution and a myriad of sports and battle based cliches.

Survival of the fittest.

Win some, lose some.

Live to fight another day.

Something or someone created a grand disconnect and these things matter; not.

Most religious belief systems that stray away from the constructs of victory and defeat would normally steer a man clear of the violence previously displayed by Vacio. Even your standard pacifism would atleast eliminate this particular profession from consideration.

It’s clear the man in black has paid the due diligence in this sport and is far from a spring chicken; yet appears to be much too young to be the grizzled/jaded veteran.

With ever inquiry; more questions are raised than answers. The on screen promotional material comes across more of a crazed cult leader minutes from handing out the cups; than your traditional finger pointing, ego stoking, muscle flexing scream session this business tends to present.

Causa Perdida es el único que sabe la respuesta.​

“The darkness continues to descend on the Red Line.” Vacio attests as he paces back and forth in front of the improperly lit RLW backdrop. The banner swaying against the slight breeze caused by his manic movements with each twitch like step and recoil; it appears the empty one refuses to turn toward the camera or viewing audience.

“Cabron learned the hard way,” he adds while running his hands over the crisp black stitched leather decoration of his mask. “Habanero attempted to resist the inevitable.”

Vacio gribs the either side of the laced mask and pulls outward. The tightly secured lacing prevents the loosening or removal yet allows some tension to release through muted physicality.

“No bells. No victories.” Mascara Negro continues, his voice and cadence stoic and cold as ever. “Yet, still empty all the same. A last ditch effort at a heroic grand gesture only led to the destruction of the so called ‘innocents.’ There are no wins and there are no loses left in this sport. Only miscalculation and eventual descent into nothingness. Every twelve years old’s favorite yellow 'Transformer' should be up to speed on the concept … now.”

Vacio releases the grip from the back of his mask and readjust the front that has been seemingly disheveled during his rant.

“And soon so shall the bulk of the Red Line.”

Vacio punctuates his proclamation, cocking his head the side, in a blur of the poor camera quality, causing his neck to crack and sound out with an chilling audible noise.

“In one fail swoop, the realization of the true nature of victory will wash over them all in waves of quiet desperation and an unrelenting depression.”

Vacio turns slowly toward the recording device. His head swings side to side like a Velociraptor sizing up his prey. His eyes bugged and wild. His visible facial expression cold, callous and blank.

“Slamtrack Ten …”

He cocks his head to side causing his neck to crack once more. Rolling his shoulders he accentuates the sound.

“The battle will be royal. The victory will be empty.”