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Post by Casanova English on Feb 11, 2023 2:17:10 GMT
Okay, how this works is you can post small mini-promos here or CD leading up to What Happens In Vegas. It can be chatting about the last PPV, your upcoming match, or just some CD on how the wrasslin world affects a wrestler’s life.
I’ll post some stuff here as well hyping the PPV, interviews and breakdowns with CU:LT staff and board meetings to push along the lore of the company.
This is completely up to you if this is used, no pressure, does not count toward RP scores for shows. |
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Post by JJ Slayer on Feb 14, 2023 18:04:13 GMT
“Well, there’s a first time for everything.”
JJ Slayer mutters under his breath as he fiddles with the camera on his phone, adjusting a couple of settings to make sure it’s how he wants before he steps away from the tripod he has it on after he presses record.
“Good morning CULTists.”
JJ is standing in the middle of a ring that’s set up in a gym. He’s dressed in workout gear, the Classic championship around his waist.
“I don’t normally address all of you on social media, but I felt with recent events it would be a good idea to do so. Let’s start from the top. In case any of you missed it, I have accepted an open challenge issued by Sebastian Everett-Bryce at Dead City Wrestling’s inaugural “Nightmares and Dreamscapes” show on April 1st. I have done so because the rest of the wrestling world needs a wake up call to the talent that resides here in Cult. The world needs to know why you CULTists are so fervent in your love and appreciation at what we do.”
JJ gives the gold around his waist a pat before he continues.
“Perhaps it’s a bit impetuous of me, to challenge one of the best known and accomplished competitors in the sport today to a match when I’ve only been in Cult for a few months. I didn’t even bother seeking clearance from Casanova English or anyone else in the company. However, I offer no apologies and request no forgiveness for my decision. I will be representing them whether they like it or not, because they will be thanking me after I have put my boot across SEB’s throat.”
Slayer unhooks the belt from around his body, holding it up towards the camera.
“I didn’t win this because I patiently waited to earn my spot. I took it by force, and I will be keeping it by force at Bangers and Mash when I put down Emily Regal and Johnny Bacchus to retain it. That does bring me f the next order of business, however.”
The man lays the title down on the mat before he continues.
“The Killdozer Cup. Unless someone in the back office is foolish enough to tell me no on the matter, I am officially throwing my hat into the ring as a participant. I do not shy away from a challenge, and this is my opportunity to show all of you CULTists that I am even more of a force when the rules don’t apply. I am an engine of destruction, and I will make that clear to all soon enough, if I haven’t already.”
Slayer grins before stepping over to cut off the feed.
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kilroy
New Member
I've got a secret I've been hiding
Posts: 45 
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Post by kilroy on Feb 17, 2023 16:24:55 GMT
“You’re not allowed any further past this point, sir.”
The voice came from an LAX security officer. The heavyset man was surrounded by several other folks that could ensure the average person wouldn’t be flying anywhere anytime soon if they even so much as blinked bombly. The camera slowly panned around, giving the viewers time to spot a bunch of rubberneckers looking on in equal parts concern and amusement. As the camera reached its final destination, the concerns from all parties within eyeshot became apparent: a large man stood before the officers, draped in a strange fur trench-coat, his face painted up like a human skull. Despite expecting an unreasonable response, the man looked sincerely confused.
“But it’s like I told you, SIR.” the man said, his voice raspy, quieter than expected, “I HAVE to get on that plane. It’s my destiny.”
“And like he already told YOU,” one of the other officers snapped back, “You have NO ID, NO passport, NO luggage, and most importantly-”
The man held up a hand, “Don’t SAY it! Don’t you DARE say it! Don’t you think I’ve heard it all my entire life? You’d THINK La-La-Land wouldn’t blink an EYE at someone like ME, yet here we aaaaaaaare. Mere MOMENTS from suffering from a retribution that only the GODS can even THINK to intervene on! Judgemental PRICKS! You should allllllll be ashamed of yourselves.”
He ended this by panning an accusatory finger across all parties, including some passersby, who immediately made themselves scarce. The officers all looked at each other, and the head one cleared his throat. “Yeah, I don’t know what you mean by all of that, but WE mean that you don’t have a ticket.”
“On TOP of all that other mess you said,” Another officer interjected.
“Oh.” that was all that came out of the large man. The pause seemed to last an eternity, and he barely even moved all the while. No capacity to understand his body language, his true demeanour, nothing. “Well-”
He proceeded to (pretend to) rifle through his pockets for whatever they were asking of him, but alas. He shrugged.
“So if you could return with the appropriate documents…” the head officer stated.
“And dress normally…” another officer chimed in.
“Then we can try this all again.” the head officer ended.
The man maintained his confused visage. He looked at each and every sack of meat: how he could pull them away from their skeletons intact, dancing with them like in Mary Jane’s Last Dance. Oh, sure, there’d be witnesses, but good luck finding him hiding in the Hills, and not of the Beverly variety either. And sure, he could just barge past these mere schlubby frumpy mortals, but he must keep his eyes on the prize. Hopefully it will come with a bountiful resolution.
“Do… YOU realize who I AM?” he asked, barely a hint of audacity in his hushed voice.
One of the guards scoffed, rolled his eyes, and acted like he was going to walk away. The head officer wasn’t so quick to break, however. “Sir, we’re less than an hour from where all the… more eccentric folks hang out; you’re not the first to try a stunt like that.”
Still confused, he followed up with, “So, then…”
The head officer sighed, “So then, I don’t care what TikTok dance you popularized, sir. Come back how we told you to, or don’t come back at all.”
“Preferably that!” another officer added.
The man rested his elbow on his other hand, resting his free hand on the side of his face, tapping at it ever so gently.
“Hmm.” is all he said as slowly began slinking away, exited the huge airport, and vanished. The officers all chatted amongst themselves, but one of them wasn't able to take his eyes off of his cellphone. He was almost white as a sheet.
“Hey, what’s wrong?” askef the head officer. “You get sick from those two-for-one appys at Planet Hollywood?”
“No, man.” the officer replied, quietly. “I thought that weirdo looked familiar.”
He showed the others his phone, and sure enough, images of that same “weirdo” were shown, articles, actually, with sensational headlines like “The Hollywood Bigfoot” and “The Terror of Mount Lee”.
“Oh, I’ve heard of that guy, but I just thought-”
“I heard it took 20 cops to take him down-”
“Wasn’t he hatched from an egg?”
“Don’t be stupid.”
“Do you know what he woulda done to us?!”
“He’ just an overgrown raver, that’s all-”
“I saw scarier things in my toilet this morning, ‘Terror of Mount Lee’, psh-”
And so the scene went on. But later, as the head officer had just reached his home, he opened the front door, and was immediately sent into shock: his living room had been completely trashed. Cautiously, he made a beeline to where he kept his gun locked up. After loading it and switching off the safety, he called out, “Linda? Toby? Is anyone here?!”
He gripped the gun handle tight and slowly made his way into the kitchen to reach the bedrooms. However, he was then witness to an even more frightening sight, for not only was the kitchen in an equally-vandalized state, but atop a makeshift throne of sorts sat the man from earlier. The homeowner’s eyes widened, both with confusion leading way to unbridled rage. “You! What did you do?”
The odd man slowly lurched forward, resting his chin on both hands. “What I WANTED to do was fly to jolly ol’ England, but NO. YOU said NO. YOU took something away from me. So I… took something… away… from… YOU.”
Having to decide between just opening fire and investigating the bedrooms for his wife and son, he chose the latter. From beyond the scene, you can just hear him shout out, “OH, GOD! OH MY GOD! WHAT DID YOU DO?!”
The man on the “throne” looked on in the direction of the one bedroom his new friend entered. The officer stormed back into the kitchen and pointed his gun right in the intruder’s face. “You’re sick, you’re SICK! You’re gonna sit right there while I call the cops, unless you want me to call a hearse for you instead!”
The creep laughed and clapped. “That was AMAZING! Like a line in an action movie!”
But then his visage grew dark, “But you’re no Bill Smith, and the only Bad Boy here is ME-”
He then proceeded to kick over some pots and pans, allowing the precariously-formed seat to collapse, the chaos allowing him to escape as the officer wildly fired any which way he could until he was out of bullets, but when the proverbial smoke cleared, the maniac was nowhere to be seen, though the backdoor seemed to be unsalvageable, so…
He quickly looked beyond the backdoor, but nobody could be seen. So, he rushed back into the bedroom where his son and wife are seated, bound, and had been forced to watch Fred: The Movie. Toby was in tears, meanwhile Linda was convulsing at the insipid and obnoxious content. He proceeded to untie them and get them therapy. Then, he hired a cleaning crew to help restore his home. When he went to give them a little tip for all their work, he noticed all the money in his wallet was gone, credit cards, debits cards, all gone. There was, however, a note that read: “I’ll buy you a Vimto for your troubles when I get back.”
The officer’s face went as pale as his coworker's.
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Post by Jonathan Bacchus on Feb 18, 2023 21:27:46 GMT
“‘There must be some way out of here,’ said the Joker to the Thief...” Olive and I agreed to meet on Oxford Street – considering it was the busiest shopping street in all of Europe, it seemed only natural that two C-List American celebrity athletes would make the pilgrimage. The density of pedestrian traffic also afforded a natural level of concealment and obfuscation should we feel ourselves surveilled – there’s a delicate balancing act required of being both a publicly identifiable individual, yet undertaking or involved with discrete matters. We traveled together – after all, why wouldn’t we? Olive and I had been close companions for the past two years, and the act of us arriving individually at a rendezvous point was likely to draw more suspicion than two friends out shopping and then stopping into the pub for a drink. The pub, in this case, was the 100 Club, a famous little jazz and punk rock venue that had been operating since the 1940’s. Natural and logical destinations aroused little suspicion; obfuscation of intention is simple when the lines between business and pleasure are distinctively blurred. After all, what could possibly be suspect about two C-List American celebrity athletes choosing a dark, secluded corner to sit in with their backs to the wall? It’s difficult to find mezcal in the United Kingdom – hasn’t become trendy yet. I wasn’t in the mood to drink well tequila, so I ordered a Scotch chaser for my pint. With work to be done, I had to keep myself serious and sober for the evening; this ran contrary to the livewire sense of anticipation coursing down my spine and into my stomach. I couldn’t help my hand trembling as I brought the beer to my lips, but once I’d returned the glass to the table, Olive’s heel pressed deliberately down into the top of my foot, the pain steadying my hand. “I told you to eat breakfast,” she commented, before turning to look into one of the numerous shopping bags she had sat on the booth beside her, “Your blood sugar’s probably low.” She turned back to me, offering a chocolate bar she’d purchased at the Godiva store. It was a slick cover, and I accepted it without protest. Satisfied, she turned back to rummaging through the bags. “That polaroid camera was a great purchase,” she continued, “I've been getting some prime examples of British dentistry." She retrieved a stack of photos, flipping through them before me – several pictures of rats on the sidewalk, a discrete picture of a jade drinking cup shaped like a turtle in the British Museum, ▇▇▇▇▇ staring at her from the bathroom in irritation with a toothbrush half in her mouth. At a picture of a Buckingham Palace guard, she paused and frowned. “Swear to god he was smiling when I took this,” she muttered before continuing to rifle through, “Look, here’s one of your allergic reaction to pease pudding.” This was him. We were correct in our assumption, and we’d tracked our target successfully. I snapped the photo from her hand, folded it up, and shoved it into my pocket. “Easy there tiger, you're among friends here. What are you even going to do with that one anyway?" “Flush it down the toilet,” I replied, giving her a light elbow to the arm, “We all set to go out tonight?” "Natch. This shit was watered with the blood of thirty-six dragons." She reached down the front of her shirt, drawing a plastic baggy tucked in her bra. The powder inside seemed to glitter a metallic blue. "This shit's so purple it should be asking me 'Where's Ronald?'" The hand-off was clean, simple, and public – Londoners have never been shy about a toot and a snore. And that was for the best; it was unlikely anyone would have any idea as to the bag’s contents. We finished our pints and paid our tab. There was still shopping to be done and pregaming to be had. After all, tonight was going to be a very wild night. |
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Post by The Walkers on Feb 19, 2023 7:00:15 GMT
PLEASE STANDBY
They'll be here soon enough. |
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Post by Max f'n Daemon on Feb 20, 2023 18:17:00 GMT
Max Daemon looks down at his plane ticket. With a scowl on his face, he crumples it up and throws it away. He makes his way back through the terminal. He passes by various people in the DC area looking to set course on their own journeys or just get the fuck out of there (not that Max could blame them). As he approaches the concourse, he lets out a sigh. He looks to his left and sees it.  He scowls. He approaches the lighted LED screen containing Serenity Holmes and her "coveted" FIGHT Title. His hands start to twitch and flex with the desire to wield his coveted pistols. It HAS been so long. And like he's been feeling recently, it's not dissimilar to how he feels when he's craving a drink. Or a sip. Or a tablet. He shakes his head and clenches his fist. The feeling clears quickly enough, but once he sees the smug-ass smile on Serenity's face, he growls. He thought Hopeless was the only person to make him feel this way, but Serentiy is a test, one Max continues to fail. Max glances left and right, narrowing his eyes as he spots no nearby security. His right fist smashes the lighted screen, damaging the LED components and turning it into a multicolored mess of a screen. He pockets the now bloodied fist and makes his way back to his plane. He has the ticket to London on his phone, and given it's leaving momentarily, he's pretty sure he can make it before the cameras can catch who did it. Whatever. It's one less reminder of what he's here. Lucky for him, the bleeding fist in his hoodie pocket is enough of a reminder he needs. |
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