DTW Tokyo Gore Noir #4,Double Dragon RP 1/1: Of PETA and Playground Bullies

Twas the night before Blood Bowl, and all through the arena, not a creature was stirring, not even Antonio Pena (who was probably looking for masked wrestlers to haunt, steal their clothes, and hand them off to somebody else). Well, okay, actually there were at least two creatures stirring.

My minion had snuck out of the hotel and had wandered off in search of mischief, and I was pretty sure I knew what kind.

Which was why I was headed towards some other, smaller creatures that were potentially stirring in the arena, though I wasn't sure.

I hadn't looked to see if the spiders, snakes, and scorpions that had been secured for one of the team tournament match semi-finals were nocturnal or not.

But I was probably going to find out as a side effect, because that was precisely where I was headed, along with my trusty cameraman.

Because as long as Claudia's on camera she can't do her horror movie monster teleport thing when I blink.

I manage to arrive just in time, or more likely Claudia has stalled for the purposes of drama and narrative convenience. I reach out and grab the haft of her mallet before she can smash open a terrarium that houses a few tarantulas.

"Can't let you do that, Star Fox." I intone.

DTW DeathTube #8, Double Dragon RP 1/1: Of Edgelords and Excrement

A truck, seriously? You can drive a mother fuzzing truck into a wrestling match and have it be considered a legitimate weapon?

After all the trouble I went through to have my clowns construct a nice arsenal of amusingly horrific hardcore weaponry and packaging it up in a nice display, all arranged in a very aesthetically pleasing fashion, some wankwomble drives his Compensationmobile onto the field and not only eliminates me, but outright kills beloved mascot Mitsubishi Kowabunga.

Oh I'm sure someone would say that it was a mercy killing, what with Kawamata being a crispy critter from that flamethrower. But third degree burns don't really hurt. All the bits that are capable of going "Oi, brain! Something's really gone wrong down here!" are as fried as a bucket of the Colonel's finest.

Though honestly the thing I was the most upset about was the fact that somebody ELSE had went and offed somebody on the Deathmatch Demolition football pitch aside from me.

Consider it a look into the crystal ball of America's future. A guy who was just out there trying to make things better for himself and his girl is angrily run down by some tiny-dicked jackwagon in a gas-guzzling, oversized truck that is probably equipped to roll coal on every Prius and Smart Car that has the misfortune to get stuck behind it. Something that American lawmakers are attempting to make a legal reality. Protester in you way? Perfectly legal to run them the fuzz over.

DTW DeathTube #7, Double Dragon RP 1/1: World's Shittiest Zodiac

Just another normal Saturday afternoon in the Kriegsdottir household. Dragon Kitty chewing on a car tire, Spark playing Overwatch with some contraption he's rigged up from a phone keyboard, a dish rack, the guts of a computer mouse, and a super ball, and of course Claudia wearing my DTW World Championship Title around the place.

I'd held the thing for seven weeks now, and I still had to bite my tongue to keep from calling it a World Heavyweight Championship. Because that was what ALL the wrestling companies called their biggest and baddest, most prestigious belt. Even if it wasn't quite accurate and anybody could compete for the thing. Even if your roster consisted primarily of a bunch of scrawny, bitchy ex-models trying to out-emo one another with their tragic backstories and ongoing series of miseries.

I growled to myself and banished the thought from my head. If I started thinking about that horrible place I'd spend the entire evening bitching about teleporting masked sex dungeon enthusiasts, meat curtains, bimbo factories, and conniving quasi-managers who had figured out that by acting entirely through subordinates they got to wield power, influence wrestling, and be the focus of every single wrestling show but only have to step into the ring twice a year, thus easily avoiding all consequences for their actions.

That was one of the things I liked about DTW. The boss man loved violence, so there would be no endless series of matches where I fought someone's flunkies as a professional wrestler did everything in their power to not have a professional wrestling match. There would be no six month spans of endless run ins and hiding behind bodyguards.

Oh no. In DTW I could just grab a flunky or a bodyguard and use them to beat the offending cuntmonkey into a gooey red paste. And not only would I not be punished for such a thing, I would likely receive a congratulatory letter detailing just how hilarious Goro Yamashi had found the funny noises my victims had made while screaming for their lawyers.

DTW Deathtube #5, Claudia RP 1/1: Undead Girlfriend

Oh blah blah blah, piddle-y piddle-y blah! You're a horrible, horrible person, Mister Taco Cowabunga, a complete and utter monster! Well, not THAT horrible, considering we've got a big old pile of peoples around here that are like 10 pounds of total depravity in a 5 gallon bucket.

But here you are with your plucky underdog fighty-man routine that everybody's seen a bajillion times, and it's boring all the little boys and girls out there, and more importantly me, to death!

Well, further into undeath, technically. Because I'm kinda-sorta not quite fully alive. But that's besides the point! I feel so bad for you, Taco Paco, I really do, because here you are in DTW with two dragons, a fake viking that I think just renounced his fake vikingry, a poop-obsessed spider-monkey, an insane grandma, and a dirty, dirty hippie.

On the bright side you probably smell better than all the non-dragony wrestlers, not saturated in your own bodily mess, patchouli oil, or Eau de Old Person. So that's something you've got going for you!

But even though you stand out here a bit because you're not completely and totes a tremendous buttmeister, I don't think you can really get very far in the wacky world of professional wrestling being a plucky underdog fighty-man. Especially in Japan where everybody is a fighty-man, and plucky underdogs are a dime a dozen.

Which is better than the US, where you'd be served merchandise driven frankfurters called Plucky Underdogs with somebody's face and logo stamped onto the bun. Or Korea, where Plucky Underdog would also be served in the concession stand. Wink wink nudge nudge say no more.

DTW DeathTube #3, Claudia RP 1/1: I bet her throat tastes like peaches.

I have a mission to complete. A top secret mission. A super duper ultra black top secret mission to carry out on behalf of my cute, cuddly, ice-cold not-quite-so-evil overlord Kalinda.

So secret, in fact, that she doesn't know about it.

She probably wouldn't approve of it, and it would make her depressed to think about, so I'm not going to tell her about it.

As a right and proper minion it is my duty to serve my mistress and do my best to make her happy and contented. Sometimes just being my usually silly clowny self is enough, but sometimes it's not.

The boss lady's got a big thing coming up, some kind of one night random tournament-y thing in DTW that she's kind of honked off about.

UWA Outbreak #10, Kalinda RP 1/1: Of Upper Deckers and Poo-filled Purses

I've just spent the last half hour unloading my thoughts, feelings, and frustrations out on the table. Giving voice to all the problems I'm having in my life. I'm being employed by a professional wrestling company that refuses to treat me like a legitimate professional wrestler, rather than a big blue stage prop. A springboard for other peoples' careers.

If you had a list of traits to give the ultimate professional wrestler, strength, agility, durability, charisma, presence, a unique look, a keen wit, and so on and so forth ad nasuem, I'd check all the boxes.

But instead of having a massive seven foot tall woman for whom running the ropes does not mean bouncing back and forth, but running atop them like some kind of circus acrobat as the center of their product identity, instead my employer has decided to ignore me, and instead always focus on whomever I'm facing.

I'm the most unique wrestler on their roster, and three quarters of the time I'm just thrown into some random match without rhyme or reason. You'd think folks would be falling all over themselves to put somebody so unique and so popular with the fans in big time marquee matchups that the fans have been clamoring to see.

But nope. On the biggest wrestling show of the year I'm treated like leftovers. A meaningless match with a man in the twilight of his career who agrees that it's a meaningless match, that I'm going to kick his ass, and he doesn't understand why we've been put in the position we were by management.

UWA Outbreak #9, Kalinda RP 1/1: Babysitting Two Kinds of Self-Absorbed, Destructive, Misbehaving Children

July had been a busy (and fruitful) month for my little side career of draining the essence of things that go bump in the night in the hopes of getting enough magic juice to fire up a nice, stable portal between dimensions and cart my big blue butt back where it belonged.

I'd managed to put an end to a pesky regiment of British undead whose spectral forms would possess buried bones and claw their way to the surface every July 4th, feebly attempting to bring the disobedient colonies to heel some 240 years too late. The damned things could be put down and banished, but they came back each and every year.

We'd have to see next year if the bald general and his cohort would return from the grave once again.

It was actually a pretty good haul, magic wise. A good 700 Mals. Maybe a 10th or a 20th (if I wanted to play it safe) of what I'd need to be able to comfortable poke a hole between two realities without too many unpleasant side effects.

Like grotesque, tentacle-y abominations popping in to visit from the Far Realms. A place of infinite horrors that even the slightest glimpse of it would drive men mad. Hideous, malformed creatures whose forms made no sense to the rational mind, filled with strange moralities, plots, and theologies that made no sense to a rational mind.

So of course there was one of the fucking things at the Republican National Convention. I was sort of equal parts pissed off and ecstatic. Pissed off because after maybe a minute or two of talking to basically anybody I felt like I was about to have a brain aneurysm and have blood start leaking from my eyes, nose, and ears at any moment.

UWA Outbreak #8, Kalinda RP 1/1: A Tail of a Tag Team

I don't get visitors to my apartment often. My social contacts are primarily comprised of two groups: the pro wrestling group and the supernatural group.

The former being Desolation, Hellkat, SPIDER, Bobs of all sorts, and other assorted loons, while the later being the occasional visit from Leeland Gaunt, Silence, and Legion.

Claudia was more of a housemate than a visitor, and Mr. Hush was practically part of the furniture.