Please post all roleplays here! Have fun and good luck!

Please post all roleplays here! Have fun and good luck!

Please post all roleplays here! Have fun and good luck!

[Mercedes Vargas sat in the corner of the locker room, her head hung low and fists clenched in frustration. With a deep breath she stares at the floor, replaying each defeat in her mind, especially her latest to Erika Moore in the opening match. The disappointment weighed heavy on her shoulders, the frustration evident in the way she kicked her gym bag across the room. Her resolve was wavering, but deep down she knew this defeat would only fuel her determination to come back stronger.]

"I'm starving. What are you still doing here?"

"I'm solving world hunger. I'm packing my fucking things. What do you think I'm doing?"

[Standing by the door is Ricardo and Irma, who picked up on Mercedes' sarcastic reply. Mercedes continues shoving clothes into her suitcase, not even caring if her friends were waiting on her.]

Ricardo: I don't want to be here longer than I need to be. Could you hurry up?

[Mercedes shuts the suitcase and zips it up before standing up from a kneeling position and shoulders her overnight bag and pulls her rolling tote bag behind her.]

Irma: Another rough night?

Mercedes: You don't miss much, do? What gave it away?

[Mercedes steps towards feints a smile as she fishes through her purse and comes up with the car keys. As she is walking, Mercedes aims her car remote as two brief flashes from the headlights comes from her Porsche.]

Ricardo: Just getting your butt kicked doesn't put anyone in a good mood.

Mercedes: Well, damn, when you put it like that, then I guess I can’t argue.

[Mercedes follows her friends down the orphaned hallways. Even though her match was on the early part of the show, Mercedes stayed until the main event ended. Mercedes steps through the double doors of the arena and into the cool night air.]

Irma: Are you ok?

Mercedes: What did you say?

Irma: Are you ok? You haven't been yourself lately.

Mercedes: No no...I'm fine. I just need to decompress.

[Mercedes, Ricardo and Irma hurriedly enter into the car. Mercedes settled into the driver's seat, adjusting the position of the seat and steering wheel to her liking, Ricardo squeezed into the backseat with a sigh of relief and Irma calmly gets into the passenger seat. The car soon roared to life as they all settled in, ready for their journey ahead.]

***Fade***


Blog: Almighty Fire
semana del 24 al 31 de marzo de 2024

Well, that could have gone better.

Actually, now that I think about it, that could have gone much worse.

Another match and yet again I couldn't get the job done. This doesn't make the realization any better, not to mention my mood lately. To be known as someone who can talk the talk, who always come up short, who is always so close and yet so far gets irritating after awhile and people start to lose faith in you that you'll never anount to anything. I'm starting to even question that myself though my foolish pride or ego refuses to let me dwell in on those fears. I'm a two-time Hall of Famer, a two-time Bombshell Champion, the most decorated champion of all time. I've beaten countless Bombshells, past and present, and while 2024 has gotten off to a rocky start, hope springs eternal and it will only be a matter of time, a matter of when, not if, and a matter of who I'll have to go through to get another title opportunity.

And what about Erika Moore? Did she leave an impression on me? She did. I'll give credit where credit is due Now, depending on who you ask, some say her win list week was plain dumb luck. Not to say that she's dumb, or that she won by luck. Others may see that she were there at the right time and place. What do I say? She's still undefeated in only her second match here. Good for her. I hope she enjoys these next three weeks, because I'm telling you now, going against Ariana Angelos at the go-home show and Krystal Wolfe at Blaze of Glory, you know they're bringing their A-game, they're bringing everything they got.

But let's bring this back to where it should be. Now, I know that come the next Climax Control, I'll be in Phoenix, Arizona. I love Phoenix. It's a bit more casual and laid back than other major cities, everything is more approachable than you might expect. They have great Mexican food. There are so many different things you can see and experience. It's hard to be bored. I can do without the triple digit temps, though.

Another reason why I Iove Phoenix? I've lost only once here, at Blaze of Glory. I lost the Bombshell Roulette Championship to Jessie Salco in 2016 and that April day still haunts me. It's a repressed memory.

This year's trip, should be fun. Almost as fun as my match against my next opponent, Georgie Robertson. The current Golden Briefcase holder who hasn't exactly been setting the world on fire. Last week, though? She took out Julianna DiMaria, Bobbie Dahl and Tempest - the top three Bombshell singles champions in the company, the only other undefeated women on the roster in 2024 - in one fell swoop in the main event. The Georgie Robertson I saw last week was a few fries short of a Happy Meal, mentally unstable, an evil, sick, twisted, demented heartless bitch, if I may. If what she did last show wasn't making a statement, I don't know what is.

I also learned Georgie will be at Blaze of Glory. But before she has her triple threat match against Ariana Angelos and Seleana Zdunich at Blaze of Glory, Georgie has a date with me, and I don't think she's going to like this date very much. In fact, I'll make sure of it. I get to put my hands on the girl who tried to make a statement at my expense. And you know what happens when someone makes an example out of me? It lights a fire under me.

So, Georgie, I'm going to leave you with a little word of advice: Don't come looking for me, because I'm waiting for you. Revenge is an act of passion, vengeance is an act of justice. This time, I'm ready for you, mamita. And it's going to be a little bit different than our last meeting because there will be nowhere to run, and no one to help you. When that bell rings, your ass is mine, little girl. Your ass is mine.

Prepare for the worst, hope for the best. And may the odds be ever in your favor.


[The scene opens on light traffic. Taxis and buses are a blur bypassing a number of neon and LED signs. Carmen seems to be waiting for someone. The camera shifts to one section of the crowd as people start turning around. Mercedes swarms through the crowd and her cousin turns around at the sound of her voice.]

Carmen: I was wondering where you went off to.

Mercedes: Sorry, had to stop to pick up something. So, what did I miss?

Carmen: Well, other than Taylor Swift and that Korean rapper everyone's talking about?

Mercedes: Psy? Gangnam Style?

Carmen: Yeah, that. Not much. You brought grapes. Why?

Mercedes: It's tradition.

Carmen: I don't know if anyone told you this, but we're not in Spain.

Mercedes: I know. I was just hungry.

[Mercedes reaches into her trenchcoat and pulls out the folded piece of paper that was her accomplishments. Carmen pauses from checking something she received on her cellphone.]

Carmen: What's that?

Mercedes: Just my goals for 2024, which I never was able to accomplish.

Carmen: Well, I wouldn't say that.

[Before she knew it, Carmen already had the list in her hand, reading it aloud.]

Carmen: Defeat Bobbie Dahl. Win Bombshell Championship. Audition for host for American Idol?

Mercedes: Well, a girl can dream, right?

Carmen: I don't know about American Idol, but at least you're not selling yourself short like you always do.

[Mercedes snatches the paper away from Carmen, clearly offended.]

Mercedes: I'm always coming up short, but thanks for your concern.While people like Bobbie Williams and Julianna are enjoying their careers, it seems as if mine is at a standstill. My supposed “comeback”, has been anything but these last few years.

Carmen: So what if you weren't able to accomplish everything on your 'to do list, Merce, there's always next year.

Mercedes: Thank you Little Miss Sunshine. Next year can't come soon enough.


Micheltorena Stairs
L O S A N G E L E S, C A L I F O R N I A

[REC•]

[Mercedes Vargas pursed her lips together and applies another coat of lipstick. A deep dark shade of red, the perfect complement to her personality – passion, energy, enthusiasm. But not so much these days. Especially these days. The camera peels back just a bit to show us that the SCW Hall of Famer is sat on a flight of stairs that made up the Micheltorena Stairs. The iconic landmark made famous by its bold red hearts and colorful steps, all 177 of them, in fact.]

“Looks like today is shaping up to be another beautiful day.”

[Mercedes turns and speaks directly to the camera, though she has a surprised expression on her face.]

"Is it just me, or is it fair to say that Georgie Robertson has now become the most hated person in SCW? She's got charisma, she's got style, she can outwrestle just about anyone on the roster. Oh, and did you see how she beat the breaks off of Seleana Zdunich last week? Oh my God."

[She pauses for a moment.]

"What am I saying? Georgie Robertson didn't win last week. Mattter of fact, she got embarrassed by someone who hadn't won a match on Climax Control in well over a year and hadn't won in SCW since late November. I bet she's not too happy about that.

"Well, Georgie. Here we are again. Just another random Bombshells match on Climax Control. After a while they start to feel the same. I beat you, it means nothing. You beat me, it adds another defeat to my record. At least you got booked again this week, at least you notch another victory, at least you build a little momentum on your ongoing mission to get another shot at any championship your heart desires so long as you hold that briefcase. Quite a charmed life. And I know Georgie, I know. You're just chompin' at the bit, because, hey, you've got yourself an easy win this weekend against Mercedes Vargas. And why not? You've already beaten me once so far, and I'm starting to think you enjoy these encounters so much that perhaps you'll convince Christian Underwood to have you booked against me every weekend.

"As you get ready for your promo, it's no secret you'll set aside your special time to humiliate me and tell anyone who would listen that it would have been better if I had forfeit our match. If I was a mind reader, you're probably thinking to yourself, 'Yeah, I've got this. It's only Mercedes Vargas, after all. No charisma, no personality, and perhaps the biggest waste of space on the roster. What's the worse that can happen?'

"Let's face it, 2024 has to be the worst year I've had since I debuted in SCW. I've had zero wins in five matches so far and it's certainly something I'm not readily to admit nor am I happy about. But make no mistake about it, Georgie. I'm not some newcomer. I'm not Addisyn Starr or Cynthia Warren. You know that I'm going into our match Sunday and keep up with you from the opening bell until the very end. Competition makes me stronger...and I like to think I play to my strengths.

"Look, Georgie, if you didn't get anything out of my rambling musings, I just want you to know that you are so much better than this, and you can do much better than this.

"What is the worst thing that could happen Forfeiting the match? Lying down so you can get the easy pin on me? No, that's not it. How about getting embarrassed by yours truly? Don't think so? Let's see if lightning strikes again this Sunday, hmm?"

***Fade***

Smack. Slap. Bang. The sound of taped hands hitting a punching bag. Alex is punching away, sweating up a storm on the punching bag. His hands look a bit raw, the tape doing little to protect him from the continuous force and blows. His beard is dripping with sweat, and the small fuzz on top of his head shimmering with the beads of sweat and cold.

Early morning hours, the only light coming from the multitude of ceiling lights in the small gym he finds himself in. No one else was around at the time, which is somewhat strange. Normally there is one or two other gym junkies getting their early morning pump in. Today however, he was alone. Good Friday. It’d been a long time since the Easter weekend had really meant anything to him. Even as a kid, it wasn’t a major aspect or part of his life.

He was kind of glad for the silence today. It gave him time to just be alone with his thoughts. To be alone with the only person that was really sabotaging him these days. He continued pounding away on the bag, his knuckles threatening to give up beneath each of the blows. He breathed deeply, exhaling with each punch throw. Breathing in between each focused strike.

Easter Weekend and he was going to be getting beaten and bruised for Easter Sunday. It was therapeutic in a way. He could punish others for their insolence. Punish others in the way that he couldn’t punish himself. Be punished for simply existing. For wanting something more from life. For wanting to be part of something. To be fucking acknowledged. For people to stop staring down their nose at him.

A split knuckle, a splatter of blood landing where his fist did. Then another, and another. He didn’t pay attention to it. Continuing to hit away. Continuing to land blow after bloody blow.

“You’re going to kill yourself, rockstar.” A voice in his head said.

James’ voice. His body stiffened, and he stopped. Stopped before the next hit. Stopped before he busted his hand up anymore. Leaving himself a broken mess. He looked down at his hands. At the bleeding knuckles. At the tape that was soaked with blood and sweat. Hissing as the rush of pain finally came to him. He turned, looking around. He was alone. Of course he was alone. James was dead.

James was just another ghost of his mind. A kinder ghost, trying to soothe him. He breathed deeply, and grabbed his towel that was hanging over the top bar holding the bag. Dabbing his forehead, and then wiping his hands. The wounds were small. Just grazes, but enough to be speckling with those crimson beads. He breathed in deeply and picked up his water bottle. Taking a long drink.

“Who are you trying to hurt, daddy?” The voice again. A whisper into his very mind.

He closed his eyes tightly, shaking his head a little. Attempting to shake the ghosts from his very mind. Drinking deeply from his bottle, face towards the floor. Swallowing heavily, he slowly opens his eyes. His mind refused to stop playing tricks on him. There James stood, shimmering and spectral. A ghost of his own creation. A hallucination. The image of a sick man.

“Please, Jimmy. Not now.” Alex managed to squeak out.

James’ ghost smiled and shook his head. Stepping forward and through Alex. Stepping past him.

“Sorry Rockstar. This is all you.” James said.

Alex turned and watched as the hallucination began to pace the nearby area. Pacing the floor of the gym. He wouldn’t look at Alex. Looking around, at the empty gym.

“Do you think what you’re doing is the right thing? Are you happy, baby?” James asked, instinctively cocking an eyebrow from beneath his sunglasses. Half turning back to Alex.

“I don’t know James. I really don’t. I keep trying to find ways to be the person I envision. To be the person I want to be. I’m out there, always trying to be better. I'm here trying to get stronger, quicker and better. We’re always in the fucking ring trying to be better. No matter how much I seem to try, I just can’t seem to get over that hurdle.” Alex said. No longer attempting to clear the hallucinations from his mind.

“Always living in other’s shadows. You’re a disgrace, Alexander.” Another voice this time.

His father. He could feel the cold and sharp hands on his shoulders. Threatening to squeeze around his throat. He didn’t need to see him to know the sneering look on his face. The look of disgust. Alex shrugged the hands off his shoulder and walked forward. Walked through James.

“I’m not living in anybody’s fucking shadow. I’m not you, Vater. I’m not someone who pretends that this is anything but my own fault.” Alex grumbled out.

“That’s not what it seems like, rockstar. You’ve always been self-hating, but you blame the world for it. You blame him.” James said coolly, turning to look at Alex. Looking past him, looking at the father Raven.

“Even your own friend doesn’t believe in you Alexander. How unfortunate. Maybe this is just a bit of schadenfreude for him, hm?” His father said, laughter following it.

Alex shook his head, screwing his eyes up again. Kneeling down on the floor, and pressing his bleeding fists against his temples. Pushing down. Attempting to push them from his mind. Pushing the ghosts out of his mind.

“Maybe it’s time to walk away from it all, sweetheart. Live your life with Luna. Live happily. Be happy.” Another voice.

Lauren. His dead wife. Apparently Easter brought all the dead back to life. He could feel the tears welling. His mind was attempting to tear him apart. The silence he was so desperate for was torn away by his very own brain. He knew they weren’t real. He knew that they weren’t, but no matter how much he tried. They just never left him alone.

“Please.” Alex croaked out, pounding his fists into the side of his head, over and over.

“Please leave me alone. Please, please.” He said, the tears beginning to fall now. His breathing is heavier now, on the edge of a panic attack. It had been so long since he had had a panic attack.

“You’re nothing but a mistake, Alexander.” His father said.

“You’ve got the power, daddy. You can fix this, I promise you.” James said.

“We love you, Alex. We just want what is best for you.” Lauren said.

He banged his hands on the ground, and yelled out. A visceral cry for help. A scream of pain, sadness and sorrow. He just sat there, screaming. Yelling, a mess of sadness and anger. Trapped in a hell of his own making. A suffering of his own.

“Leave me the fuck alone!” He yelled out between the cries of pain and agony.

And then silence. Sweet, beautiful silence. Moments passed by. His eyes slowly opening, his hands loosening. He was alone. He was alone again. Or so he thought.

“They’re back, aren’t they?” Luna asked as she stepped past him. Kneeling down in front of him. Hands on his cheeks. Holding his face, looking into his eyes.

“Why are they doing this to me?” Alex asked, his eyes filled with tears. A broken man, trying to find peace.



“Hello Benjamin, I see you got my message. Are you finally paying attention? Are you finally ready to face that of which you have started? I’m looking forward to this Benjamin. I’m looking forward to you showing me how to wrestle. That’s what you said, isn’t it? That you were going to show me how it was done? That it was going to ‘mess me up proper.’”

The scene opens to a small gym, akin to that of a BJJ studio. Rolling mats laid out, small bits of tape laid down to indicate different starting spots. Alexander Raven is kneeling on the mats, sitting on his legs. Bare foot, a pair of plain black tracksuits, and a loose tank top. A crudely drawn picture of a dick stapled to the front of it.

“You might be right, Benjamin. If there is anything I’ve ever been honest about, it's that when it comes to this. To this business, to this sport. To wrestling as a whole, I’m not god’s gift. I don’t pretend to be the most technical athlete. I don’t pretend to be the best of the best. I’m no amateur turned professional. I don’t have the background, I don’t have the skill, I don’t have the acumen. These are things that I admit, because I am not afraid of the truth of who I am, Benjamin. I don’t care if people see me one way or another. I’m not a wrestler, I’m a fucking fighter. I’m a brawler, a battler and bare-knuckled boxer. I may not be a better wrestler than you, Benjamin. But I am a much better fucking fighter.”

Alex slowly pushes up, rising to his feet, linking his hands together and rolling his wrists. Loosening himself up.

“I want you to think about this clearly, Benjamin. Who do you think people are more invested in right now? I’m offering you a renaissance of your career. I’ve been doing everything to get you fired up, to get you ready to fight. I’ve been going over and over it. I’ve attacked you, Luna has attacked you. I’ve threatened to turn you into a literal dickhead. Luna has done her very best to mash the brains and skull of Samantha Marlowe. We’ve even got ourselves a pretty little street fight lined up. I’ve done everything for you, Benjamin. And you haven’t even fucking thanked me for it. You’ve just talked down on me. You’ve just gone out of your way to belittle me.”

Alex shakes his head, frustration etching its way across his features. He releases his hands from each other, balling his hands up into tight fists. Pressing them tightly against his temples.

“You haven’t even thanked me, Benjamin. I’ve done all of this for you, and you somehow think I’m the villain. No, no. Benjamin, I’m not the villain in this story. I am just a puppet of greater forces. Forces who won’t let me be free. I’m just a puppet of the people who pamper and give to people like you. Who placate fighters like me, but give us unenviable tasks so as to keep me blinded. But they’ve learnt now, Benjamin. They’ve learnt that I am no Michael Harris that they can simply cast aside when it so benefits them. That they can simply throw to the wind because they no longer enjoy playing with this toy. No, I’ve got them trapped now, Ben. Because I want to be free. I want to be let loose, I want my contract ended. I made the call and I was fucking denied it.”

He begins to grind his fists against his temples, shaking his head back and forth vigorously. His eyes closed tight, the anger heavy on his features.

“So now, I’m trying to give back. To build layabouts like yourself into something worthwhile. To teach ‘wrestlers’ and ‘kings’ how to be the fucking fighters they need to be. To be the fighters needed to fight off the machinations and manipulations of these puppeteers that deem themselves fucking gods of us. But I’m the villain for wanting to behead these bastards that think themselves above us. And you’re taking their side Benjamin. Everyone takes their side. But that’s okay. Truly, I understand, Benjamin. We’ll walk into Climax Control. You’ll swing your gusto and bravado around. You’ll flex and you’ll mess me up proper. You’ll put on a masterclass in wrestling and make me look the fool. Punish me for punishing you. Placate your masters and beg for their acknowledgement. So the two of you, you and Samantha, can go and get your wind back and take those Mixed Tag Team championships.”

He begins to pound the sides of his head with his fists now. Eyes still screwed tightly shut, his mouth pulled into a sharp sneer. Flecks of spittle flying from his mouth.

“Yet, maybe, I’ve finally gotten under your skin this time, Ben. See what I did to Jamie Dean, well. That was a message. A message that I don’t care if you can wrestle. I don’t care if you think I’m talking shit, making ‘bad jokes’ and pretending to be something I’m not. I do not live in delusion, I do not live in lies. I am who I am and I do not pretend to be anything else. I want you fired up, I want you to be ready to go to fucking war. If it takes hurting those around you to get you there, then I will hurt every single person between us. I will break every person you love, if that is what it takes to get you to stop being this prim and proper, cockney fucking asshole. Anyone can swing a chair, but only those who want to hurt someone can swing it properly. Anyone can brawl, but only those with the passion and hatred can do it well. Anyone can be you, Benjamin; but nobody can be Alexander Raven.”

His pounding stops, and a wash of calm comes over his face. A deep breath in, and a smile crossing his face. He slowly reaches into his pocket, and removes a heavy duty staple gun. Reaching into another pocket he slowly removes a folded up piece of paper.

“You haven’t even said thank you, Benjamin. That’s the worst part of all of this. I’ve done everything for you. I’ve done everything to help you. To make you a better wrestler, a better fighter. A smarter man, a more observant man. I’ve done everything I can do to light the fire under your ass, and you haven’t even thanked me. Why do you hate me, Benjamin? Why do you pretend to be a paragon of virtue, a man who lives with his life on display, yet you spew such hate for me. Hate for someone who has done nothing but try to make you better? That’s where we are different, Benjamin. I do this for everyone. I do what I do because I need them to be better. I need people to be true. And I know I’m repeating myself here, I’m well aware of it. See, I go in circles. Over and over.”

Alex begins to walk, walking in a small figure eight. Three or four steps each way. Lifting the piece of paper that had been folded up in his pocket and fiddling with it. Slowly unfolding it.

“But that’s because I feel like a trapped animal, Ben. I feel like I am stuck here, perpetually stuck. That no matter what I do, I’m banging against the steel bars of my cage. So when I see an opportunity to lure in one of the jailors. Then I have to do what I have to do. If that means, shoving a spike through your fucking eye, then so be it. If that means stapling things to your head, then so be it. If that means, I have to hurt those that matter to you to make you pay attention, then so fucking be it Benjamin. I’m so tired of pretending to be a good person. I’m so tired of pretending to be something I’m not. I’m so tired of being here.”

He places the now unfolded sheet against his forehead, and then presses the staple gun up against it. The snap sound of the staple embedding into his flesh. Sticking the paper to his forehead. Conveniently short enough to keep his mouth clear, but his eyes now hidden. A small stream of blood began to flow down his face. Like tears of blood. On the paper it simply read: ‘ETERNAL PRISONER’.

“Are you willing to face that which lies before us? This is not the end, Benjamin. This is a taste. This is a warning. This is the beginning. We walk into Climax Control, a bull ready to kill and the bird that has been mocking it for weeks. This is just a warm-up, Ben. Because a smart manipulator knows. The bull can be put to the sword early, if need be. That the charging animal, as deadly as it is, is the easiest to catch with a hidden blade beneath the waving flag. So I have to question you Ben. Can you keep your focus for just another few weeks? Or do you get put to the sword and laid to rest. You demanded this, because I put the fear of God into you. Will you regret it, when you’re too broken, battered and bruised to protect those that matter the most to you? I’m looking forward to being free, for just a minute Benjamin. To have those shackles released, to have the freedom to be who I am. To be who everyone seems to think I am, because I choose to be that person. The tireless beast. The man who can swing a jar, jab a spike and choke with a pole.”

He slowly begins to sit once more. Placing the stapler beside him, sitting cross-legged on the map. He turns his face down a little, the blood dripping from his chin onto the mat beneath him.

“I’m tormented by the ghosts of my past, Benjamin. Pulling and tearing me every which way. I can hear my father mocking me. Laughing that I can’t get to the heights I did at the start of my career. I can hear my dead ex-wife, begging me to stop. Begging me to forgive myself. To forgive others for their actions. I can hear my dead former friend and destroyer of my life. I can hear him telling me how I’m just not quite as good as him. How I will always be less than the man who took everything I ever loved. I can hear my dead best friend. My brother-in-law. The only man in my life that ever showed me absolutely unconditional love. I can hear him, telling me to stop hurting myself. To stop hurting those around me. To stop the pain. To stop destroying myself. I’m plagued by the ghosts of my past, Benjamin. I need to drown their voices out, and do you know how I drown them out? How do I stop them from tormenting me?”

He raises his hand smearing the drops of blood across his face. Then picks up the staple gun once more. Pressing it against his cheek, and stapling. And then to the other cheek and stapling again. All three sticking deep into the flesh beneath the paper.

“I bleed, Ben. I bleed and I bleed. I fight and I fight. I look at the next thing in front of me, and charge headlong into it. That’s how I stop it. You’re a means to and end for me, Benjamin. This was never personal, no matter what you may see it as. These actions weren’t for you. They were for me. It’s hypocritical, I know. I demand thanks from you, but that exists in its own reality. I demand thanks because I’ve given you a fire that you needed. I’m using you to drown out my demons. To drown the ghosts of my past. This is a two way relationship, and I just need you to see it. Can you see it, Benjamin?”

He leans forward, reaching up and ripping the paper from his face. The staple pin pricks dribbling down blood. His mouth smeared from earlier.

“Are you listening to me now, Benjamin? Are you paying attention?”

“The Conspiracy is here.”

And then.

Nothing.

Darkness.

Silence.