Post by Thunder Knuckles on Sept 19, 2021 21:56:15 GMT -5
Your screen fades to a shot of a small road in Washington D.C., the bottom of your screen has a subtitle “April 14, 1865”. The clouds begin to separate and lighting fills the sky. A phone booth materializes and drops from the sky surrounded by red lighting. As it begins to land you hear.
WOOOAAAHH!
I fucking hate that part!
Them No Good Bastards exit the phone booth.
Where are we?
More like when are we, TK.
Bobby surveys the area and sees people dressed in 1860s attire. Bobby being the aficionado of time that he is, instantly knows roughly when they are.
We’re somewhere in the 1860s.
That’s when Bobby notices the Ford Theater.
Oh, no, TK!
What, Bobby?
I think it’s April 14th, 1865.
Is that a fucking big deal or something?
Bobby folds his arms and looks astonished.
It’s the day President Lincoln was assassinated.
Oh, right, I fucking knew that.
TK notices a man hanging outside the Theater. TK approaches the man, avoiding the fact that he had no clue when Lincoln was assassinated.
Hey, fucker, is there a show tonight?
Yes, sir.
Are you some kind of actor, or something?
I am an actor, yes, but alas, I am not performing tonight. The name is John Wilkes Booth.
Holy fuck, man! Big fan! Catch’em off guard and leave’em dead.
Pardon?
Nevermind. You don’t by chance know why Lycana is relevant do you?
Who is Lycana?
Exactly! Anyway, what brings you around the theater today?
I have come to find work.
Really? Well, mother fucker, I’ll tell you what. You show back up tonight and I’ll give you a job of a goddamn lifetime. I just so happen to be the…
TK pauses for a second but not long enough for Booth to think anything of it.
...owner of this Theater and I’m hiring you tonight for a special role. You have to make sure you’re fucking here. It’s a big, big role. Dare I fucking say historic.
Booth smiles, excited and happy that he just got the job. TK shakes Booth’s hand.
Thank you, you won’t regret it.
Bobby sat by and watched all this go down.
What the Hell was that?
You’ll see, Bobby.
Bobby and TK wander around hitting up local establishments. In one of the fine establishments, an underground gun shop of sorts, TK buys a Derringer pistol with one round of .44 ammunition.
This will come in fucking handy later.
They meet back up with John Wilkes Booth in front of the Theatre later that evening.
Alright, asshat, here’s some shit I wrote on a piece of paper. You say that shit when you get the cue, alright?
What is the cue?
You’ll know when it happens, shit stain. Now follow us.
TK leads as Bobby and Booth follow. They walk into the Theatre and walk around as the people start filing in. Some time passes and the President of the United States shows up. Lincoln is greeted into the Theatre with a round of applause which includes Them No Good Bastards. Booth, however, doesn’t clap. The President and his wife are escorted to their balcony. TK notices this and nods to Bobby. Bobby nods back but doesn’t know why.
Alright, it looks like everyone is taking their seats.
As TK says this the people who had escorted the President to his balcony are now descending the stairs.
It’s showtime.
TK leads Booth and Bobby up the stairs.
What are we doing, TK?
Saving time.
Bobby shrugs not knowing what that means. Once at the top of the stairs TK pulls out the pistol he had bought, pulls open the curtain to the balcony, and blows Lincoln’s brains out. TK grabs Booth and tosses him onto the stage.
WHAT THE HELL, TK?!
What?
You just killed the guy on the penny!
Booth begins to recite what TK had written on the piece of paper, as if that was his cue. As this is going on TK and Bobby are making their way back to the phone booth.
Why, TK?
Do you know how much shit happens because Lincoln died? Booth wouldn’t have even been there if he didn’t think he was getting a fucking job. I saved the goddamn union. Plus, John Wilkes Booth had a women’s handshake. He’d never have the balls to kill the President, himself. Colossal puss bucket, I'm telling you.
Once back inside the phone booth.
Can you figure out how this thing fucking works, Bobby?
I’m trying. It’s complicated.
We’re nowhere near the time that Betsy’s dad would be alive to castrate him.
I know, let’s try this.
Bobby presses some buttons and the Phonebooth starts to be surrounded by lightning again.
Here we go!
Aw, fuuuuuuuuck!
The phone booth drops into a portal below and the scene fades to black. Do Them No Good Bastards figure out how to use the time machine? Will they make it to the right time period to castrate Betsy’s dad before she is born? Find out next time!
WOOOAAAHH!
I fucking hate that part!
Them No Good Bastards exit the phone booth.
Where are we?
More like when are we, TK.
Bobby surveys the area and sees people dressed in 1860s attire. Bobby being the aficionado of time that he is, instantly knows roughly when they are.
We’re somewhere in the 1860s.
That’s when Bobby notices the Ford Theater.
Oh, no, TK!
What, Bobby?
I think it’s April 14th, 1865.
Is that a fucking big deal or something?
Bobby folds his arms and looks astonished.
It’s the day President Lincoln was assassinated.
Oh, right, I fucking knew that.
TK notices a man hanging outside the Theater. TK approaches the man, avoiding the fact that he had no clue when Lincoln was assassinated.
Hey, fucker, is there a show tonight?
Yes, sir.
Are you some kind of actor, or something?
I am an actor, yes, but alas, I am not performing tonight. The name is John Wilkes Booth.
Holy fuck, man! Big fan! Catch’em off guard and leave’em dead.
Pardon?
Nevermind. You don’t by chance know why Lycana is relevant do you?
Who is Lycana?
Exactly! Anyway, what brings you around the theater today?
I have come to find work.
Really? Well, mother fucker, I’ll tell you what. You show back up tonight and I’ll give you a job of a goddamn lifetime. I just so happen to be the…
TK pauses for a second but not long enough for Booth to think anything of it.
...owner of this Theater and I’m hiring you tonight for a special role. You have to make sure you’re fucking here. It’s a big, big role. Dare I fucking say historic.
Booth smiles, excited and happy that he just got the job. TK shakes Booth’s hand.
Thank you, you won’t regret it.
Bobby sat by and watched all this go down.
What the Hell was that?
You’ll see, Bobby.
Bobby and TK wander around hitting up local establishments. In one of the fine establishments, an underground gun shop of sorts, TK buys a Derringer pistol with one round of .44 ammunition.
This will come in fucking handy later.
They meet back up with John Wilkes Booth in front of the Theatre later that evening.
Alright, asshat, here’s some shit I wrote on a piece of paper. You say that shit when you get the cue, alright?
What is the cue?
You’ll know when it happens, shit stain. Now follow us.
TK leads as Bobby and Booth follow. They walk into the Theatre and walk around as the people start filing in. Some time passes and the President of the United States shows up. Lincoln is greeted into the Theatre with a round of applause which includes Them No Good Bastards. Booth, however, doesn’t clap. The President and his wife are escorted to their balcony. TK notices this and nods to Bobby. Bobby nods back but doesn’t know why.
Alright, it looks like everyone is taking their seats.
As TK says this the people who had escorted the President to his balcony are now descending the stairs.
It’s showtime.
TK leads Booth and Bobby up the stairs.
What are we doing, TK?
Saving time.
Bobby shrugs not knowing what that means. Once at the top of the stairs TK pulls out the pistol he had bought, pulls open the curtain to the balcony, and blows Lincoln’s brains out. TK grabs Booth and tosses him onto the stage.
WHAT THE HELL, TK?!
What?
You just killed the guy on the penny!
Booth begins to recite what TK had written on the piece of paper, as if that was his cue. As this is going on TK and Bobby are making their way back to the phone booth.
Why, TK?
Do you know how much shit happens because Lincoln died? Booth wouldn’t have even been there if he didn’t think he was getting a fucking job. I saved the goddamn union. Plus, John Wilkes Booth had a women’s handshake. He’d never have the balls to kill the President, himself. Colossal puss bucket, I'm telling you.
Once back inside the phone booth.
Can you figure out how this thing fucking works, Bobby?
I’m trying. It’s complicated.
We’re nowhere near the time that Betsy’s dad would be alive to castrate him.
I know, let’s try this.
Bobby presses some buttons and the Phonebooth starts to be surrounded by lightning again.
Here we go!
Aw, fuuuuuuuuck!
The phone booth drops into a portal below and the scene fades to black. Do Them No Good Bastards figure out how to use the time machine? Will they make it to the right time period to castrate Betsy’s dad before she is born? Find out next time!
Them No Good Bastards are always a united team, through good, and bad. TK’s standing in front of a keg. Bobby’s massive figure looms looking intimidating as Hell.
Like the show Ladies and Gentlemen? OCW isn’t worth the whole movie. Only DVD bonus content. So, go check out the whole movie over on XWF’s official website. Tell you what, I’ll have the guys editing this shit throw you the website on the screen because I know the fans here have the attention span of goddamn gnat.
A picture of XWF’s official website appears on the bottom of the screen. TK winks into the camera signifying that it’s time to get to work. TK grabs the hose of the keg, places it in his mouth, and begins to drink. Once finished he continues.
Do you know what Jimmy says? He says that Riddle has two daughters, Izzy and Zara. Sure would be a shame for them to see dear ole dad get his ass whipped and Murderhaus’d by a couple of Bastards. It kind of makes you wanna go round Izzy up and head to Central Park one last time before your funeral, doesn’t it? Listen, shit stick, no one gives a flying fuck if you were a 58-time champion.
He was only a 36 time Champion but so was Peter Gilmour, and he was shit too.
You’re absolutely right, Bobby! That was then, this is now, and now you’re standing in front of two guys who fucking eat tag teams alive. We’re not Mainstream, we’re Fullsteam and we’re moving right past these two goddamn cum catchers.
TK begins pumping the tap on the keg. Bobby cracks his neck.
Jimmy also told me that he couldn’t find much on Riddle. These are his words, not mine. “Riddle hasn’t done dick-all since 2019.”
TK pauses, looks up and nods his head.
Okay, maybe some of that was me. Oh, shit! Wait. Do you want to hear something funny, Bobby?
Always.
Jimmy says while we were fucking defending our XWF Tag Team Championships, in a goddamn triple threat, Xtreme rules, match. Jason Cashe was in a tag team match of his fucking own.
Oh, yeah? Where?
TK puts the hose into his mouth again for another drink. Bobby snarls and grunts.
Yep, some indy show, kinda lame, but it turns out the fucker didn’t have the goods to win a standard tag match. He’s so goddamn bad he couldn’t even lose right either. The damn thing went to a No Contest. Now, some-fucking-how he thinks getting the help from a has-been, hasn’t done shit lately, completely irrelevant, blow-up doll of a man like Cyrus Riddle. That, maybe, he can pick up that elusive fucking win against the best tag team in the goddamn world.
TK gives his opponents his remarkable jerking-off hand gesture.
One thing is for fucking sure, Cashe. You will take this loss but unlike the Mixer. You’re not going to like it.
TK arrogantly smirks.
Boys, you’re only fucking fooling yourselves if you think you have a chance in London. We’re not here to play goddamn games. We’ve said it before and I’ll continue to fucking say it, until everyone in that goddamn locker room knows. We’re headed to Masters of Macabre to dog-walk you in front of the fucking world. Raven wants to feed you to the fucking big bad wolves, that’s on him. You don’t see him rushing to fight Them No Good Bastards in a tag match, do ya? That should have been your first goddamn clue.
TK and Bobby clank their OCW tag team championships together.
Raven, this is the best you got?
Bobby smirks, given Raven and Bobby’s history. Surely with its absolute arrogance, has to irk James just a little bit.
Dusting off some relic who’s built a career as being the king of the indies in Riddle and his dopey Gen Z sidekick?
Fuck that shit.
Fuck that shit indeed, TK. You could’ve gotten a couple of homeless guys from a bus stop someplace, put ‘em in spandex, and gotten the same result but at the cost of twenty bucks per and maybe a ham sandwich between the two of them. Do I know a ton about either of these bozos? Fuck no, I know as much about them as the charcoal knows the breed of cow butchered to create the beef it’s roasting. Wagyu? Angus? Who gives a fuck, we’re bringing the heat and ultimately giving the OCW fans something they can digest instead of whatever bullshit these two are up to.
TK brushes off Bobby’s shoulder.
Tell’em!
Now, fellas, that’s not to say you haven’t accomplished a thing or two in your day. The thing is, to Us No Good Bastards, successfully zipping your fly or wiping your ass by yourself don’t qualify as achievements anymore. Y’all may have done things that are a dime-a-dozen in this industry. Flaunt them. Brag. Boast. Tell us all about how the best you’ve ever done, doesn’t even fucking compare to what me and TK get done, minute after minute, being the best damned team in existence, changing the fucking landscape of wrestling, that it’s no longer called Mount Rushmore, it’s called Mount Bastardmore, and it’s just our faces each twice. Because we’re awesome.
Just so happens you two oddly shaped cocks aren’t.
Bobby and TK exchange their standard, run of the mill, but better than anybody else’s, signature no look fist bump.
So Riddle and Cashe, what is your team name? Don’t tell me it’s just Cashe and Riddle. That’d be lame. It’s also pretty fucking lame that there isn’t an established team around this place ready to challenge us so they had to go out and draft one. You know, in the NFL, if you gotta go out and find a quarterback mid-season, it’s a pretty bad look. You aren’t winning the Super Bowl any time soon. Huh. Welp, I guess, that means your name is the Panic Pickups. Who’Re was fired, the powers that be needed some kind of answer for the XWF invasion of OCW, including a stale XWF holdover in Raven, ironically, so they went and found the first two names on a Rolodex. Unim-fucking-pressive, mediocre, undrafted free agents who were scouted, documented, passed on, and then pulled into the game because the franchise is just tossing shit at the wall to see what sticks at this point.
Just by looking around the OCW locker room, you can plainly fucking see, there is a whole lot of shit. Turns out none of these turds want any. It’s fucking sad really because back home, we’d give you our best. Then again, we are here invading collecting all your belts and fucking flaunting them for the world to see. I understand why you’re scared. When a mid-level talent like Betsy Granger holds one of your goddamn belts. That doesn’t fucking matter though. What does matter is these are staying here, with us.
Them No Good Bastards hold their OCW tag Team Championships up high, as the scene fades to black.