My Fantasy Sport Can Kick Your Fantasy Sport's Ass Part 2

So anyways, you're probably wondering just how this game works, what with all of the creative writing and whatnot. Or maybe you're not. In that case, stop reading. What follows will only bore and possibly irritate you. But, if you do choose to read on, think of the game as one big ongoing screenplay where talented writers constantly work off of each other in order to achieve some semblance of a coherent story. Below are 4 posts from today. 2 from others and two from myself. Earlier today, a message was posted on our Out of Character board, or OOC, detailing a basic storyline suggestion in order to spur some activity;

"You have been assigned a job to perform by Kenny Moss. Your mission is to pick the equipment formerly belonging to Kirsty Alley up from the American-Canadian border.

You have a two post minimum for this job. If you meet the minimums, you will earn the rights to challenge for the CWA King of The Dungeon championship at any time of the day, any day during the week. Interlopers will each receive $500 wrasslebucks."

On the In Character Board, a newcomer named Michael War did an introductory post, fleshing out his character a bit and trying to leave a spot open for someone to work off of him.

"After entering the CWA I had been keeping myself under the radar in order to settle and train myself up to my maximum ability, today however was different. Whilst walking back from the gym area of the Sportsplex back to the locker room I saw someone who seemed to be staring at me, I tried to ignore it but as I walked past they started to follow me and then shouted over.

[???] Oi you don't belong here, look at you, you look weak, you will get tossed about this place like a ball, just leave now whilst you still got all your bones in one piece.

I turn around to face this wrestler.

[Michael] is this a challenge you offering me or you just talking?

[????] Do you know who I am?

[Michael] No not really, as I sure your aware I am not just new to this federation but to this Country, but what you don't know is this is not my first rodeo. I have competed in federations over the other side of the Atlantic and well lets just say the new challenge excites me, but seems your not challenging me then I will be off.

I turned my back on this mystery wrestler knowing he would attack so I left it about 10 seconds before turning back around to confront this mystery wrestler stopping him mid move.

[Michael] If you want to attack me do it in the ring, how about this Wednesday? oh and finally who are you?

TBC?"

Not that bad for a newcomer. So, I decided to jump in and throw the kid a bone.

So anyways, to be honest, I just don't think this kid's got it. Ok build, not to shabby looking, but I'll be the first to admit that I'm not too impressed by what I see. Especially since he's broken the cardinal rule of locker room etiquette; Not knowing just who the hell I am. I straighten up, polish off my newly won title belt with the sleeve of my shirt and stare him down.

[Me] Oh, don't crack wise and pretend that you don't know, kid. I'm the breathtaking, heartbreaking legend in the making, Matt McDervish. Former One World Champion and YOUR current reigning and perpetually defending CWA King of the Dungeon.

He flashes me a dubious look and to be fair, I don't really blame him. I've always been something of a journeyman wrestler, a bottom of the top of the card or top of the bottom of the card type of guy. Still, I've been kicking around for something like 11 years. I breathe a sigh of frustration, shake my the ennui from my head and offer my hand.

[Me] Matt McDervish. And what's all this talk of seeing you in the ring? Did I miss the part where Chain and Kenny offered you the book?

And I'm greeted with a ten yard stare.

[War] Huh??

[Me] The book? Booking rights?

Still, I get the same ten yard stare. He shakes it off and stares me down, hoping to illicit something like fear in my calm, collected and taciturn demeanor. It's a fruitless effort. This kid's impressive looking, but he doesn't rattle me for a second. I've faced bigger and better and always come out smelling like a rose. Plus, I'm the one with the hardware slung over my tanned and muscled shoulder.

[Me] Look, kid... I'd lose that sour look that you've got slapped across your face. You may be the bee's knees across the pond, and God knows it, I've spent my time over there...

For a moment, I look deep into the distance, remembering my glorious days in the ol' NHE.

[Me] But, this is North America, boyo. And right here, you've got to pay your dues... Earn your spot. We've got big time vets like myself, like former Barroom Brawl Champ Amp, guys like Flip Dingo and Obese, who I bet have won more matches than you've have dates... And talented rookies like The Williams boys and Michael Harkness. This is gonna' be a long climb to the top for you...

The look upon his face tells me that he'd hadn't planned on that, so I decide to throw in;

[Me] But, I like you. I don't know why, but I do. Tell you what, kid, I'm only here until the 15th or so... For the next few days, you stick with me and it'll all be gravy. Then, when I head back up to either the UWF or the TWF, I'll keep an eye on you. Talk to Slick or Nikki, get you a shot at one of the better leagues.

I can tell by his relaxed body language that he's starting to become more and more comfortable with me. And why not? I'm an ok guy. A family man. A veteran. And the kind of guy that can give a struggling kid the advice that he needs to make it in this bus9ness.

[War] Alright, then... Shoot, man. what do I need to do?

That's more like it.

[Me] Well, for starters, don't go around just looking for fights. See, we don't get paid to fight back here... That way you cringed when I tried to get a loose thread off of your shirt...

He looks at me incredulously. Of COURSE he thought I was attacking him when he whirled around. But, me? I don't roll like that. I'm more of a stab you in the front kind of guy.

[War] Well, how was I supposed to know?

[Me] You'd know if you were studying tapes. Everything that happens on screen, that's the stuff you need to be studying up on.

My cellphone beeps. And guess who? It's the indomitable Kenny Moss, asking me if I happen to know of any rookies that need a little exposure right now that don't mind a little dirty work. A smile turns up the corners of my lips.

[Me] Hey, kid. How do you feel about paying some dues right now and meeting a bonafide legend in this sport, as well as a possible future Hollywood connection?

TBC by,,,,,,,,????

The post would be continued by an old friend of mine, a filthy, grimy, surly drunk named Hooligan.

Matt McDervish: Hey, kid. How do you feel about paying some dues right now and meeting a bonafide legend in this sport, as well as a possible future Hollywood connection?

The kid was about to answer Matt, when suddenly a glass bottle goes sailing between the two of them. Just inches from hitting either one of them, the bottle goes sailing by and smashes against the floor a few steps in front of them. The two stand straight up almost as if expecting something to happen...

Michael War: So what is your advice in this situation?

Matt looks out of the corner of his eyes, not once looking at the kid directly as he's expecting someone to jump him and Michael from behind.

Matt McDervish: Well...umm...I'd probably...

???: ...get into the [beep] fetal position and start crying for that lazy bastard, Dan Haven to come save your ass.

Matt's eyes go wide, he recognizes that voice instantly. He's now really fighting the urge to crawl into the fetal position in front of Michael War, if he does that...the kid isn't going to listen to a word that Matt has to say.

Matt McDervish: I'd probably...umm...uhh...

Matt is stumbling here.

???: What's wrong Matt?

Michael War, being one to prove that this isn't his first rodeo begins to spin around to face this foul mouthed person standing behind them. Matt quickly notices and grabs the Michael by the arm, preventing him from seeing who is behind them.

Matt McDervish: I wouldn't advise doing that...

Matt says that quietly, so much so that Michael didn't quite hear that.

Michael War: It's just one guy, there's two of us.

Matt McDervish (Still whispering): Trust me, if this was any other wrassler...I'd say let's beat the living daylights out of them...but this guy is not the guy you wanna start a fight with...trust me.

???: Come on Matt...turn around you chicken [beep].

Matt looks over at Michael, beads of sweat now beginning to roll down his forehead and into his eyes. He doesn't want to look bad in front of the kid, but he also doesn't want to get into a fight with the man with the familiar voice either.

Matt McDervish: Dammit...

He lets out a sigh before continuing...

Matt McDervish: ...here goes nothing. Follow my lead and whatever you do, don't say anything that'll piss him off. He's got a really short fuse and whatever you do, don't under estimate him. He's not what he appears to be.

Matt turns around and faces the direction the voice was coming from, as does Michael. What the two see is an instantly recognizable face from Wrassling's past, The Drunken Brawler himself...Hooligan.

Hooligan: It's about time Matt, was thinking you were [beep] yourself at just the sound of my voice.

TBC BY ???

Naturally, I was quick to jump on the opportunity to work with a familiar character, one who Matt's already got an established history with.

So anyways, the day that I had always feared would come was at hand. Hooligan, his breath reeking of malted hops and pretzled bread had come to reek a terrible and bloody vengeance. Or just to reek. Either way, it brings a tear to this old ring warrior's eye. I take a deep breath (from my mouth, I can't stand that New Jersey turnpike stench anymore) and turn around. God, he's even more ugly than I remember. I do my best to slap a huge, welcoming grin across my shivering and shaking face.

[Me] Oh, Hooligan!!! Man, how long's it been?? Two, three years???

And he spits on the ground, a blackish and vile expectoration that nearly turns my stomach. Well, that's Hooligan, people. All class, all the time. The guy's face is a roadmap of scars and wrinkles, the visage of a man who's seen more than a few battles in his time. The kind of guy that would take a bottle to the face just to deliver a kick to the grundle. As a guy who's trained more than a few students in the "Catch-as-catch-can Style" of pro wrestling, by every right I should be able to take this guy out with no trouble. But, for all of his drunken antics, for all of his dim-wittedness and obstinance, I can't help but respect the guy for all he's done in the sport.

Also, part of me is scared to death of the bugger.

The part that's threatening to run down my leg.

[Hooligan] Not that f***ing long. We were in CWA less than a year ago together. Back when you wanted to start that Epic Epidemic s***.

I nod slowly. It wasn't one of my more well thought out plans. Bringing Stonewall, Demonica Vile, Johnny Rude and Hooligan together for one massive stable had lead to one of the worst headaches that I'd ever had. Plus, with all those big names came even bigger egos. The games of phone tag that I'd had to play that week were enough to give me repetitive stress syndrome and sour me from ever organizing a phone tree ever again.

[Me] Yeah, don't even get me started on-

And he cuts me off without ever taking his eyes off the jolly green giant standing to my left. Mike's been shifting back and forth on his feet, jockeying for position. Why do I feel like tonight's gonna' end with me making a desperate drive to one of Canada's many free health care clinics?

[Hooligan] I heard you were in town. Wanted to see it for myself.

He sniffs for a second before blowing a huge snot-rocket into a disgusting looking rag that he removes from his back pocket. Micheal gags, but I give him a look that lets him know that he is in no uncertain terms not to offend this guy. I've seen that rag, or rags like it doused in 150 proof liquor and used as fireballs.

[Hooligan] Now, I see.

And he reaches for me, probably to bash my brains out for some imagined slight. I know it's unmanly and undignified but I visibly cringe, all the while trying to formulate an escape strategy. The pat I receive on my shoulder nearly causes me to have a heart attack. Still the look on his face is no longer one of grit and boiling rage. A smile, or what passes for one on my long time associate greets my trepidatious eyes.

[Hooligan] How's it been, ya old f***????

I breath a sigh of relief. Good, he remembers that we're friends. Sometimes, with all the boozing and the headbumps, the guy tends to get downright forgetful. That kind of amnesia can be dangerous to pretty much everyone in the vicinity.

[Me] The same old routine. You know, bad diner food, bounced checks. Oh!!!

And I flash him a new piece of bling that I'm rocking. No, not the CWA King of the Dungeon Title. That s***'s a 24/7 title that can be contended anywhere and everywhere at any time. I dropped that strap the second I heard the shatter of the whiskey bottle followed by Hooly's raspy, gravelly voice. No, instead I show the guy my brand new engagement ring. Yes, I realize that it's not manly for a guy to have an engagement band, but Tawnee INSISTED that I have something to warn the various ringrats that I was taken.

[Hooligan] Ugh, not you too, kid... How is it that every single one of my friends has to f***ing go off and get married or become addicted to World of Warcraft or some s***???

And I have to chuckle.

[Me] Heh.

[Hooligan] It's not funny, dips***. Mike's got a real problem with that f***ing game!!!

I shake my head and can barely contain the Cheshire Cat grin the threatens to split my face.

[Me] No, it's not that... You just called me a "friend".

Quickly, he takes a step backwards.

[Hooligan] No, I f***ing didn't!! I said f**. "How come every single one of you f**s"-??

[Me] You said "friend", alright... Wait a minute... Did you come to the CWA... Because you missed me????

[Hooligan] Shut the f*** up!!!!

And suddenly, we hear her voice. It's loud and it's naggy. It's my fiance.

[Tawnee] Language!!

And my kid, apparently. I haven't seen her in a few days, but who's the first person she goes running to?

[Bella] Unca' HOOLY!!!!

The pint sized three and a half year old nearly bowls over the 250 lb wrestler with her big leaping hug. Despite himself, Hooligan catches her in his arms and tosses her up in the air, bringing squeals of joy from my daughter's lips. Tawnee reaches into her purse and brings out a bottle of Purel, but I wave her off, not wanting to spoil such a beautiful moment. Michael War isn't so concerned with the Hallmark Card nature of the situation.

[War] Well, is that just f***ing hilarious? HA, H-

And before the second "HA" leaves his lips, he hits the ground. My daughter continues to squeal in delight, blissfully unaware that her "Unca Hooly" had just headbutted a grown man between the eyes as he held her. Hooly expels one last long line of slimy saliva, hitting the kid square on the back, before muttering;

[Hooligan] Language.

I groan and bend down to help the kid up. Part of me wants to leave him here, knowing that because of the way he was eyeballing Hooligan, he's due for at least another handful of beatings like this from the Drunken Brawler. But, I also know that those beatings are exactly what the kid needs. Hey, there's all kinds of ways to pay your dues.

TBC by.....???

Well, as you can see, this sort of thing can go on for days on end between "shows". Just good old fashioned RPG action, without the stigma of rolling a polyhedron. Still pretty lame. But, it's my kind of lame.