If You Want a Creative Roleplay Title Why the Fuck Don't You Come Up With One Yourself You Dirty Motherfucker?! It's Because You're Selfish, THAT'S WH

“GREAT JOB SCOTTY!” The Behemoth’s roar echoed through the Argyle position as Byrd rubs Scott’s sweat-soaked hair. Hunter stumbles forward, still clutching the gold belt to his chest. The two make a few quick turns and stumble through catering. Clay pulls Scott in close before they go through the door. He wraps his enormous arms around Hunter.

“That’s what we do! That’s what we can be! Thank you, Scott. Thank you.”

The words are said at a volume only the two men can hear. Byrd is clutching Hunter close and squeezing him with his arms. The two begin jumping, and the big man shoves Hunter through the door first. The champagne bottles pop, and the fizzy blast is instant.  Scott thought back with a smile at a time when Clay barely tolerated him, a time when he saw Scott as a minor annoyance. Time changes a lot of things without you even trying.

Ami Troy and Kerry Kuroyama let the corks fly, Hunter fights through the double blast, and scoops a bottle of his own that he hits Clay with. The Monster smirks, takes a bottle, and begins dumping it on Hunter’s head. On the television, a moment frozen in time, Scott Hunter with a figure four locked onto Rob Williams in the center of the ring. At the top of the screen, a Clay Byrd-sized motion blur. The agony is etched across Williams’ face.

Byrd gives the paused Rob Williams the finger before turning the remnants at the bottom of the champagne bottle down his throat. Kerry’s smile is ear-to-ear, and Ami is laughing. The Behemoth takes it in for a moment, and he watches the genuine joy in the room. The relief, the exhaustion, the exhale. Every time they beat the Whoresmen, it felt wonderful; when they lost, it felt awful. But when it all came together, it was something else.

The Behemoth looks at the championship on his shoulder, the raised gold letters of the plate, the black pebbled leather of the strap. Kerry and Scott were already talking through the match, anything Scott had missed from when he got jumped. Hunter gives Byrd a nod and a warm smile during the recollection.

“Hit play, Ker, I wanna see that son of a bitch tap out!” The Monster bellows, Kerry smiles, and hits play on the remote. Williams flails his arms, but he’s in the center of the ring; he’s trapped. Byrd begins pointing at the knees.

“Look at that! Here he goes!” ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~   Fire. Passion. Love. It’s what you’re known for. There’s the trimmings, the uniqueness, the spin the two of you put on it. Your own panache, that little bit extra that makes you, you. But at the heart, at its base. Fire. Passion. Love. You ain’t bad kids. Sure, ya smoke a bit more weed than I think I’d personally recommend. And take some of those funny designer Hayes Hanlon drugs. But ya got your heart in the right place, ya know? Ami likes ya, and she’s a pretty smart kid and a good judge of character.

And we want to see our friends' kids do well, ya know?

Little victories for the village.

Hell, we’ve invited y’all over for dinner. Broke the bread if you will. You’re in the solar system. The umbrella of protection has been extended. We wish you goodwill. I wave at ya when I see ya in the parking lot. We’re cordial, ain’t never going to have a bad thing to say about you girls.

The journey you’ve been on is remarkable. The recovery, how hard you both worked to get to this moment. To walk your way into Culture Shock with your heads held high. To challenge for the right to be the best tag team in all of professional wrestling. You’re remarkable young women, and have fought and clawed your way across the world to find yourself at this very moment.

A potential apex to a career era.

I’m sure when you imagined this moment, you pictured the Whoresmen at the summit, or the Bandits, or Malone’s kid and the lizard man. People that are easy to hate, people that get your ire up, people that frustrate ya and piss ya off. No offense to the lizard man, but Joey’s boy has a few screws loose. Not that Joey doesn’t, it’s just, ya know, a few different screws. Namely, the one insisting on punching people in the dick repeatedly.

But that’s not what ya found at the top of the mountain, is it?

It was Scott and me. People you don’t have malice towards. People who don’t make your skin crawl. Just two people that would have your back in a hurricane of bullshit. Just two people who root for ya and are excited because you're excited. It ain’t the same, is it? Ya don’t have the animosity or the hate behind it.

It’s some friendly competition. Friendly fire.

But see, at the very apex, at the summit. These things happen; you collide with other fiercely and viciously competitive objects. You might get along every day, you might pay a bar tab for the kids one night when nobody is looking, so they can have a good time while they are still capable of having good times. I mean, I can have fun, but I know better than to do the nonsense y’all get up to, mostly from experience. But that’s a different kind of fun, and y’all need to have these experiences.

Because when you're older, you remember those moments. The smiles, the laughs, someone throwing up in a trash can in the back of an Uber you know you’re taking a rating hit for. Every time you see that cursed 4.9 rating and wonder how bad the smell really was, you need those moments of personal development.

Build the lore if you will, start the mythos. No one else can do it for you. No one else can make you reach down inside yourself and find out what you’ve got to give. You’ve been training your whole lives, working hard as often as you can, hoping, praying for the day you get to step into the ring together and be so close to gold you can taste it.

And now, here you are. A pivotal moment, a time to learn, who are you going to be?

What are you capable of?

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Five years ago, Scott had never stepped foot on an airplane before. But he’d flown into Mexico City enough times in the last month to reasonably work as a tour guide, if there was such a thing. His father was ill. He knew the end was near, but no one could know just how near. Scott wanted to stay, but he felt torn between family and responsibility. And, the jet’s descent into Mexico City felt different this time. He had survived Ivan's lectures, avoided getting caught in the middle of his tensions with Chandler Tsonda, and met a man who, until recently, had lived in outer space. What was rent like in outer space, he wondered. Did they require that you make three times the rent? Are pets okay? Is there a deposit? Can you paint an access wall? The questions would have to wait. This cabin had held little more than a droning hum, a reprieve after the droning hum of Ivan’s voice. Scott watched the sprawling urban landscape unfurl beneath the wing, a concrete ocean dotted with countless pinpricks of light. The city waited, indifferent to the battles fought in private jets, or wrestling rings, or inside his head. He felt a familiar knot in his gut, a cold dread that had nothing to do with turbulence. The air in the terminal, thick with the scent of roasted corn and exhaust fumes, hit him first. Then the roar of a thousand conversations, announcements echoing in multiple languages, the clatter of luggage wheels. He moved through the throng, a ghost among the living, his duffel bag slung over his shoulder. His phone buzzed. A text from Emma. “Dad’s stable. Holding his own. Keep me updated.” He shoved the phone back into his pocket, the words a cold comfort. He pushed back a deep sigh that rose in his chest. He had lost control in the hotel room a few weeks back. He didn’t like that feeling, and he didn’t want to feel it again. Nothing wrong with being upset at a time like that, but that didn’t mean he wanted to feel it again. A flash of crimson caught his eye. Valerie. She stood near the baggage carousel, a vibrant splash of color against the muted backdrop of travelers. Her auburn hair cascaded in loose waves around her shoulders, framing a face etched with a concern she tried to mask with a bright smile. She wore a tailored crimson pantsuit that hugged her form, a stark contrast to the casual travel wear of those around her. Ivan would be proud. Her eyes met his across the sea of humanity. He navigated the final few yards, the crowd parting around him. As he reached her, he felt something akin to happiness well up just enough to take the edge off of his mood. “You made it,” she said, her voice a low, warm current in the din, her smile softening at the edges. She didn’t rush forward, simply met his gaze, allowing him to close the distance. “Wouldn’t miss it,” he replied, the words feeling brittle. The weight of his father’s illness, the recent intensity of the retreat, pressed down on him. He felt the exhaustion seep into his bones, a weariness deeper than lack of sleep. She extended a hand, her fingers cool against his. Her grip was firm, a silent anchor. “How was the flight?” “Smooth. Too quiet.” He looked around, the chaos of the airport suddenly overwhelming. “Where’s the car?” “Just outside. We can walk. It’s not far.” She began to move, her stride purposeful, leading him away from the immediate crush of arrivals. They wove through the terminal, the constant flow of people a river they navigated together. She kept pace with him, her presence a quiet comfort. “Emma said he’s… stable.” He didn’t look at her, his gaze fixed on the endless stream of faces passing by. “She did. She’s strong, Scott. You both are.” Her voice held a quiet conviction. He offered a humorless chuckle. “Strong. Right.” The word felt like a hollow echo. She stopped by a large glass pane overlooking the tarmac, planes taxiing in a slow, deliberate dance. She turned to face him, her expression serious. “Don’t do that.” Her voice dropped, a quiet intensity. “Don’t dismiss it. You’ve been through a lot. More than most people can imagine.” He watched a jet pull away from the gate, its engines rumbling to life. “It’s just… another thing. Another hurdle.” “It is, and you clear them. Every single time.” She reached out, her hand resting briefly on his arm, a feather-light touch. “Think about where you were a year ago. Think about the ground you’ve covered. The risks you’ve taken. The wins you’ve pulled off.” He thought of Ivan’s relentless pressure, the constant demand for more. He thought of victories, hard-won and sometimes brutal. He thought of him and Clay, the way they’d gelled, becoming more than individuals. “It all feels like a lifetime ago,” he admitted, the memory a distant hum. “You’re not an underdog anymore, Scott. No one laughs when they think of facing you in the ring. It’s not luck. It’s talent. It’s hard work. Nothing is ever perfect. But you’re so much better than you used to be. I um.. I don’t know wrestling or anything. I know you, though. You’re stronger than you’ve ever been, and I’m not talking about your muscles.” She smiled. “I know it’s hard. I’ll help you.” He shifted his weight, the praise feeling unfamiliar, almost uncomfortable. He was used to critique, to the constant pressure to improve, not commendation. And he thought for the firs time, he was the one always critiquing himself. “I just do what I have to do.” “No,” she countered, her tone firm. “You do more. You adapt. You innovate. You push boundaries. That’s what makes you good. That’s what makes you valuable.” They resumed walking, their steps a silent accompaniment to her words. The terminal began to thin out as they approached the exit. “I know it’s hard right now, with your dad,” she continued, her voice softer, acknowledging the raw nerve. “But don’t let that eclipse everything else. You’re allowed to acknowledge your achievements, even when things are tough.” He ran a hand through his hair, the weight of her words settling over him. He hadn’t really thought about it that way. He’d been too busy resting, moving from one crisis to the next. The idea of acknowledging his own progress felt almost indulgent. “I don’t know,” he began, then trailed off. The truth was, he felt stretched thin, a rubber band pulled to its breaking point. He wanted to break Rob Williams’ legs. The bell rang and for a moment, he thought about doing it, but then he let go. Even now, he found himself staring ahead, getting lost in the thought of it. “You don’t have to know everything right now,” she interjected, anticipating his unspoken thoughts. “You just have to keep going. One foot in front of the other. And remember what you’re capable of.” He thought about those words, lingered on them…. ‘what I’m capable of’... For a split second, he had considered not letting go of Rob’s legs. He imagined the cracking of his bones, the ripping sound of his ligaments giving way. Everything was dead silent, but then the world came back to life around him with the ringing of the bell, and he instinctively let go. They stepped out into the bustling street, the city air thick with humidity. Taxi cabs honked, engines idled, and the scent of the evening air mingled with gasoline. The rental car lot stretched before them, a grid of anonymous vehicles. “I booked something practical,” she said, gesturing vaguely towards a row of compact sedans. “Easy to navigate the city.” He nodded, grateful for the small detail she’d handled. His mind felt too cluttered for such trivialities. He followed her to a dark grey sedan, its windows tinted against the harsh sunlight. She unlocked it with a click, the sound sharp in the evening air. He tossed his duffel into the back seat, then slid into the driver’s seat. The leather felt cool beneath his hands. The familiar scent of a new call filled the small space. Valerie settled into the passenger seat beside him, her crimson suit a vibrant splash against the neutral interior. He inserted the key, then turned the ignition. The engine purred to life, a low, steady rumble. He gripped the steering wheel, his knuckles white. The city ahead awaited, the hospital back home awaited, the ring awaited. The uncertainty awaited. Valerie reached over, her hand finding his on the gear shift. Her fingers wrapped around his, a gentle pressure. He felt the warmth of her skin, the subtle strength in her touch. He looked at her. Her lips curved into a soft, reassuring smile, her eyes conveying a depth of understanding that transcended words. She didn’t need to say anything. Her presence, her touch, her quiet gaze spoke volumes. Scott smiled, just a little, then put the car into gear, and they drove away. The rental car eased out of the airport parking lot, the asphalt smooth beneath its tires. The harsh fluorescent glow of the terminal receded, replaced by the softer, more inviting hues of twilight. Streetlights flickered to life, painting long, stretching shadows across the bustling avenues. The initial, frantic honks and shrieks of airport traffic slowly morphed into the smoother, yet still chaotic sound of Mexico City at rush hour. Scott gripped the steering wheel, his eyes scanning the endless stream of vehicles, the murals on crumbling walls, the glowing neon lights of taquerias and tiendas. Valerie sat quietly beside him, her presence a steady anchor. The tension in Scott’s shoulders began to loosen, and before he knew it, he found himself laughing as she pointed at the sights along the drive, and feeling the warmth in his cheeks at the sound of her voice. He felt lighter somehow. Lighter, but better. Stronger. He was glad Valerie came. He could hear the actual sound of Clay rolling his eyes at all of this. Clay didn’t care for… feelings. Still, Scott couldn’t help but smile again at the thought. They made a good team. He looked over at her, the sun glistening in her eyes. They all did.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Scott is grimacing; he’s putting so much force into the leg lock. Every fiber and muscle in his body is twitching to generate extra force. Williams’ knee begins to quiver, and Williams begins tapping the mat. Hunter doesn’t let go immediately; he keeps it locked in until he hears the bell.

“God, that feels good.” Byrd stands at the television with a genuine smile on his face. “Rewind it again, Ker. I wanna watch it again.”

“Clay, it’s the fifth time,” Kerry rolls his eyes with disbelief. They’ve been here for what felt like forever. They’d rewind, play, and Byrd would say some random nonsense, over and over again.

“Last one, last one…” Like a child discovering the rewind button meant he could watch his favorite part for the 90,000th time.

“That’s what you said last time…” The loop was endless; it was the highlight that never ended. It was awesome, it was amazing. But this…

“C’mon… last one…” The big man turns his eyes, beginning to show signs of a potential sulk. Kerry sighed and smashed the button as Ami rolled her eyes. She whispers in Kerry’s ear as Clay goes diving off the top of the screen. Protecting Scott at all costs. Williams is down in the center.

“Hell yeah!” The Behemoth roars one final time, another fist pump, a little lap around the locker room. The belt was still over his shoulder; it hadn’t left. He turns to Scott, sitting leaning back on a bench. Nursing his own ribs, his half of the championships resting across his thighs. The bench groans as the monster adds his bulk to it.

“Feels fuckin’ good, man,” Byrd smacks the championship around Hunter's waist with his knuckles. Hunter chuckles and nods. This feeling, the genuine smiles, the joy. The Monster found something to covet. It wasn’t the tin and leather; they were just a representation.

It was this.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ I found one thing I’m very, very capable of.

And I’m not ready to give the feeling it gives me away.

I like it. I like it a lot.

Bex, Angel, I’m sorry girls.

But these titles belong to Vae Victis.

They are ours.

Even if we like you. Even if the sun is shining in Mexico. Even if you make us laugh. Even if you and Ami are really good friends. Even if you guys used to hang out at the big shindigs. I don’t care how much Helen likes you. I don’t care if the queen likes you. I don’t care if this could start a plague doctor revolt (it won’t, don’t worry.)

I’m sorry.

But no. They belong to us.

At CultureShock.

You can’t sit with us.