Poll: Predict The Outcome!

(Gravy_Xtreme_5000) · (04-25-2024)

Gravy's hands were shaking, but his grip on the rusty .38 revolver was tight as he glared at the pimply-faced clerk behind the counter who was staring down the barrel of the piece.

"Open the fuckin' register, nerd-boy, and do it like your life's the grand prize in a shitty sweepstakes!"

The clerk's hands fumbled at the cash drawer, sending a few crumpled bills fluttering to the floor. Gravy's heart was thumping a mile a minute, and not just from the 3 Red Bulls he chugged before marching up to the counter. His mind was racing—money for the mob, money to keep his kneecaps intact, money for—

BZZZT! His phone vibrated in his pocket, jolting him out of his heist-fueled haze. Without taking his eyes off the clerk, he fished out his phone, squinting at the screen. The name 'Jett Sterling' blazed across it like a beacon of fucked-up opportunity.

"No contact from that shithole for weeks, and when someone does reach out it's fuckin' Anarchy? Ugh, not like I have options.... Fine, whatcha got for me, Jett?" Gravy muttered under his breath as he thumbed the message open with his free hand.

Jett: "Got a spot for ya on Anarchy. Main Event, big cash, big smash. You in or you out?"

Gravy's lips twisted into a grin that was all teeth and no joy. "Main Event, huh? Big cash, big smash..." Turning back to the clerk, who now had a wad of bills clutched in his shaking hands, Gravy sneered.

"Keep the change, ya filthy animal," he snarled, backing towards the door, revolver still pointed at the clerk as a farewell fuck-you. "Got bigger fish to fry."

As he burst out of the gas station, Gravy pocketed the gun and speech to text Jett back, as his feet were pounding on the pavement.

"Jett, you crazy fucker, I'm in. Tell me who I'm murdering!"

Gravy's sprint took him down a dingy alley. His lungs burned with the sting of cold air and exertion, but the old, rusted-out dumpster at the end of the alley promised a temporary shelter from the storm. He yanked open the flimsy lid and ducked inside.

BZZZT! Another message from Jett.

Jett: "It's official, you're up against Centurion. Main event. You two have history. Time to write a new chapter."

A wicked smile cut across Gravy's face as memories of past clashes with Centurion flashed through his mind—victories sweet, losses bitter. "Centurion, huh?" he whispered, "the old warrior's seen better days."

With the toll of the ring dragging him down in recent months, Centurion was ripe for the picking.

"Guess I'll have to tune into Anarchy replays on Tubi TV—catch up on all the sad sagas of Centurion getting his ass handed to him. Quality entertainment, folks, and free! What's not to love?"

Gravy clawed his way out of the dumpster and his eyes narrowed as he caught sight of something unexpected—a sleek, hovering XWF CamBot, its lens fixated on him like the eye of a nosy neighbor.

"Great, just what I needed, an audience," Gravy grumbled, dusting off his shoulders with exaggerated swipes. He straightened up, staring down the mechanical intruder with a sneer. "You here to catch the rise of the great Micheal Graves from the ashes—or should I say, trash? Well, you're in for a treat, 'cause I'm about to light up Anarchy like a goddamn wildfire!"

The CamBot hovered in place—recording.

"Listen up, 'cause I'm only gonna say this once! Centurion, you old fossil, I hope you're warming up that decrepit body of yours. Last time we tangled, I left you eating canvas, and that was when you were still at your peak. Or close enough... Now? You really are just a washed-up has-been, limping to the ring on borrowed time."

"I saw your last match, man. Calling that a performance would be an insult to performers everywhere. You're about as threatening as a one-legged man in an ass-kicking contest. And trust me, I should know—I'm the ass-kicker supreme."

"So, here's how it's gonna go down at Anarchy. I'm gonna walk into that ring, and I'm gonna dismantle you, piece by pathetic piece. You think you've seen hell with everything you've dealt with on Anarchy since your return to action? Brother, you've been lounging in the kiddie pool. I'm about to drag you into the deep end kicking and screaming... till you're not."

"You better strap on your tard-helmet, 'cause I'm gonna rock your world so hard, you'll think you're back in the Roman Coliseum, but there ain't gonna be no thumbs up for you, no sir. It's thumbs down, ALL THE WAY DOWN."

"Better bring your A-game, if it ain't too moth-eaten."

"Hell, I'd say you should bring your A-plus game, but I don't think you've got one. You're like that old dog at the pound that nobody wants 'cause it just lies there, whimpering and waiting for the end. Well, guess what? I'm the end, Andy."

"I'm gonna humiliate you out there. I'll make you wish you'd retired years ago before your spine turned to dust and your moves got as stale as last week's bread. This ain't a wrestling match, it's a damn mercy killing. The only mercy being that your embarrassment will be so complete, so total, that you'll have no choice but to go out behind the arena and off yourself."

"So yeah, bring whatever you've got left in that sad, old sack you call a career. It won't matter. When I'm done with you, they won't even remember your name. They'll just remember the night the night the so-called legend crumbled and the real icon of XWF stood tall."

"Spoiler—THAT'S ME!"

Poll: Predict The Outcome! You do not have permission to vote in this poll.
GRAVY WINS	100.00%	1	100.00%
CENTURION LOSES	0%	0	0%
Total		1 vote(s)	100%

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