DTW Tokyo Gore Noir #8, Of Sad Clowns and Shitgibbons

Where the fuck do I even begin with this set of dried, out, cracked, bleeding, infected, festering assholes?

This is basically every single fuckwit in DTW that thinks "Okay, no rules. So I'm going to get my asshole friends to but in and win the match for me. Because I'm a sad waste of human ejaculate that thinks all that matters is winning matches."

All my inbred, panty-sniffing, "staring at the orange juice on the counter because it says concentrate" rivals are here!

Rapey Dwarf Riddick, good ol Stone Cold Steve Autism who managed to make himself so goddamned vile that Twitter perma-banned his account. Congrats, you disgusting incel tendie-chomping edgelord. The Cheetoh-in-Chief still has his goddamned Twitter account even after he used it to basically threaten wiping out a whole fucking nation, and yet you managed to out-dump the Trump.

Teiji Shintaro, our resident Tyler Durden obsessed nihilistic shitgibbon. Who decided that instead of standing out by being Awesome McCooldude, Flippyshit Highspotsinov, or Strongstyle O'FightingSpirit, he's going to get attention by being the grossest human being possible and share all his bodily excretions with his co-workers and everyone within a 30-yard radius of the ring.

And Shouty Dwarf Dick Devereaux, who during the legal trouble induced offseason decided to take a belt sander to the bit of himself that actually made him interesting. Instead decided to be yet another angry, bald shouty guy.

Of Cowboys and Crushed Testes

Twenty four men and women, two dozen souls all coming together for one purpose: to show their skill, to show their strength, to show their determination, their will. Their capacity to soak up absolutely hellacious amounts of damage that would make lesser men and women simultaneously puke, piss, and shit themselves and shortly thereafter passing out.

Three points for a win, one point for a draw, no points for a loss. Whichever of the dozen individuals in each of the two groups scores the highest will face each other in May. The winner of that bout, having proved their mettle, will face me one on one for my DTW World Championship.

But you see, ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, and human cancers of all stages, I'm also here too. A wolf amongst the sheep. I'm fighting my own future competition for my champion, my title, my belt. I am the first, the ONLY DTW World Champion and in the living hell I call a career, not a single one of you has managed to defeat me cleanly in one on one combat.

I get absolutely nothing out of this tournament if I win. A pretty, shiny trophy to adorn my mantle? I don't want them. I don't need them. Years ago I might have been filled with the desire to give it all, to do my best, to win at all costs and earn myself the prestige and glory that comes with victory.

DTW Tokyo Gore Noir #5, The Menagerie RP 1/1: Of Misandry and Matriarchy

Lightning flashes ominously through the windows of the ruined chapel, thunder rattling the remaining shards of stained glass in their frames. Dozens of large, dribbly candles illuminate the scene of three hooded and cloaked figures standing around the desecrated altar.

The former holiest of holies in the chapel has been adorned with a blue velvet cloth, adorned with gold fringe (making it an admiralty chapel according to the Sovereign Citizen movement), upon which sits a wooden box with wood so dark it's nearly black.

"Sisters of the Darkness," states the tall one. That being me, Kalinda Kriegsdottir. DTW World Champion, Dragoness, and Seducer of the Innocent. "Upon this unholy eve I call upon each of you to report on how you've sought to bring down the cisgender heteronormative patriarchy."

The camera zooms in as I pull back my hood, showing off my true demonic features, gaunt, pale, demonic, and in tribute to a certain horror movie icon wearing a bald cap and adorned with shiny silver thumbtacks.

Okay, it's not my true form, it's special effects makeup. You're ruining the ambiance. Shut the fuck up and let me get back to the scene.