The following RP was sent just after the SLAMTRACK 10 deadline by the anonymous entrant in the Battle Royal; in lieu of including it in the match thread, it's below.




I haven’t gotten on camera and done one of these bad boys in a long time. And, as I’m trying to set everything up, it occurs to me that I haven’t a fucking clue which time zone “RLW Time” is.

I used to have more funds with which to do stuff like this. I’d find myself a crumbling doorway, a heap of broken concrete, a weedpatch, and then I’d wait until the shadows were at a perfect angle and I’d sit down and let the hair fall over my face, and I’d lower my head and roll my eyes up.

It was an artistic statement.

Made me look ten different kinds of badass.

“I don’t like Eric Dane.” I say this to an RLW backdrop.

There’s a light off somewhere to the side, but no backlighting, and the RLW banner is in the shadows, getting harder to see as you watch the old red line run off to the left.

And me, I’m not in the shot.

“I do like his money, though.”

I’m sitting under the camera.

“Five Thousand Dollars is a nice tangible reward that provides instant and long-term gratification. More than enough to make it worth my while to pay a little bit of attention to Dick Fury. Who, come to think of it, shut right the fuck up once he got the attention of his betters.”

“Anyway, I’m throwing him out of this match, and then I’m going to turn to you, assuming you’re out already, and say ‘Gimme mah money, BIATCH.’ I might demand that DEFIANCE contract, too.”

I’m trying not to sound too interested. Trying not to sound like a guy who might actually need five thousand of Eric Dane’s dirty dollars.

“Any chance of anyone putting a bounty out on that robot?”

“I don’t goddamned trust it.”

I try to think about other things, things that I hate more than robots. That’s easy. The only problem is that now I’m in a worse mood.

“No, you stupid robot, you are not sorry that I don’t like robots. You don’t hope you can earn my respect. You can’t think! You don’t feel pain! Your entire nervous system is a series of electronic impulse feedback transmitted as data to a neural processor! IT’S A SIMULAAAAAATION!”

My teeth are bared, I’m sweating, my jaw is clenched, and then something in the back of my brain thinks ‘oh fuck it’s happening already’. And something in the front of my brain tells me it’s pretty sure I sounded like a fucktard just now.

So moving on.

“And you know what else? I don’t want a bone carving, you stupid, fucking, eskimo!”

“And I don’t speak Spanish, and I’m pretty sure talking to an American in Spanish proves that you hate ‘Murica. An if you hate ‘Murica, you c’n jus geeeetout.”

South Park jokes.

Fuck me.

I grab the bottom of the camera and bring it down on top of my head, hard enough to hurt. I don’t know what it did to the shot. I can hear it running so I know the damn thing still works.

“Robots and eskimos and people talking all dark and stuff, and some wrestler’s daughter selling herself on her name and… you know, what I said about soaking the robot with the fire hose?”

“Forget that. I want to fill the arena with water. I want to watch everyone drown.”

“I’m dreaming of that undertow.”

My mind’s eye is seeing tidal waves.

My real eye is seeing that RLW banner.

And my brain is reminding me that I need that five thousand bucks.