Latest Roleplays
Alright, so Texas Pete came to play.
That sauce wasn’t as hot as you thought it was, Big Hoss. You kiss your sister with that mouth? Rhetorical, don’t bother writing four paragraphs about it like I give a fuck about the answer. Oh, and a snuff film ends in death, you “college educated” fucking dirt farmer. Can’t make more than one. Maybe the reason I spent all that time trashing your accent and calling you a redneck is because they’re literally the one traits that define you, numbnuts– if it walks like a duck, quacks like a duck, and doesn’t know how to do more than talk about “how dangerous it is in a cage with them”, it’s either a duck or another generic fuckin’ Texan.
Remember the Alamo, AMIRITE?
I appreciate your confidence though, Clay– truth is, I like the ones with a little fire in their hearts, because it ain’t that much fun to keep beating the ones smart enough to know they’re already fucked. You’re my kind of stupid– just smart enough to make it this far, and just dumb enough to think he can win. You’re the kind of FELLER I can break. The kind of COWPOKE I can inflict a little heartbreak on. You’re gonna get your ROOTIN’ TOOTIN’ hopes up, and that’s the kind of thing that gets me pumped up, Mr. Byrd. It’s just unfortunate that you kept talking, because the rest of the drivel was about the dumbest shit I ever read in my life. You get that degree in New Orleans? I only ask because I assume you went to NO U.
You sure do like to sing their fight song.
Yeah, my father is the principal and my mother was a whore, but your daddy is dead in the fucking dirt, and you should be thankful for that. You should be thankful that he died before he learned that you were his biggest failing. Before he realized you’d end up some sad generic fuck training farmboys in a dilapidated farm, just like he did. I meant it when I said you redneck fucks were a dime a dozen, Clay— can’t throw a set of spurs down the road in Corpus Christi without hitting four guys who “really could have been something”.
And you could have really been something, Clay.
But then you opened your fucking mouth and ran it out like the clock on your tragically short HOW career, and woke me up from my slumber. It’s true, I’ve been yawning my way through this tournament. But if you think you’ve actually got a shot against me, you’re the one whose fucking dreaming, and I’m Freddie Krueger, bitch. I am the Nightmare on your Underwhelm Street. I will reach through your fucking bed while you’re sleeping on me and tear your fucking heart through your chest. And then I’ll forget your name, Clay. Because I don’t have enough room in my highlight reel for another dogshit Texas hoss who thinks he’s gonna generic face punch his way to greatness.
Who the fuck do you think you are?
You’re Chris Kostoff with a Thesaurus, doofus. Degree in economics, but not a fucking word you said made a lick of cents. Just the same old tried and true route– Mike Best never earned anything, and his Daddy gave him everything. That’s fine, Clay. You’ve been here half a cup of Folgers, so you rest easy knowing that this is gonna be cakewalk for you. You sit on those laurels, thinking that the 97th big dumb hick to tell me he was gonna tear my head off my shoulders was gonna be the one that was right. I don’t talk all this shit because I give a fuck about hurting your feels, Clay, it’s because this is foreplay. This is what gets my dick hard before I slip it into your whole life and fuck it until it can’t walk straight anymore. This is how I get my rocks tingling before I impregnate your career and you gotta take nine months off to recover. Or hey, since you wanna be blunt and bold with it, let me give you another one of those “knee synonyms” you love so much:
I’M GOING TO KNEE YOU IN THE FACE, BEAT YOU BY KNOCKOUT, AND ADVANCE TO THE DENUCCI CUP SEMI-FINALS, SORRY I DIDN’T GET A HACK BRADY JOKE IN THERE.
Hopefully you didn’t pay a lot for that degree, you stupid fucking hick.