True Grit. True Flavor. - Printable Version +- X-treme Wrestling Federation (https://xwf1999.com) +-- Forum: Pay Per View Boards (https://xwf1999.com/forumdisplay.php?fid=125) +--- Forum: Leap Of Faith 2026 RP Board (https://xwf1999.com/forumdisplay.php?fid=236) +--- Thread: True Grit. True Flavor. (/showthread.php?tid=50137)

True Grit. True Flavor. - GCC's Dom Durango™ - 05-31-2026 1982 - Venice Downpour. A drenched, rail-thin child… Shivering cold… knees against his chest. …Suddenly, headlights. Like a trapped rat, he shoots upright… But his knees buckle… He falls against wet cobblestone… … A limousine door opens. Fine Italian boots emerge… Flanked by men with umbrellas… A round-faced woman… She kneels. “Poor niñito… Come ti chiami?” … “Dominic, ma’am…” “...Inglese? Are you… Italiano, niño?” “No, ma’am…” “...Come. You-ah must be-ah starving…” Dom Durango’s Executive Office… The Portrait of Mama Durango. A beaming smile. …Dom stares at it. Expression blank. A knock. “Come-ah in.” The door opens… Three mangy hobos enter. One steps forward. “Dom Durango… You SUCK! Meals always JELLY-SOFT in the middle! With OVERCOOKED edges!” “Inviting us to your factory after attackin’ Micheal Graves?!? STUPID MISTAKE! Mess with one HoboTownie, Mess with ALL HoboTownies!” The Lead Hobo unsheathes a soupcan shiv... “We’ll GARROTE you with your own GRILL MESH!” Dom calmly hands over… A check. “A BRIBE?!? FUCK YOU AN-.” …The Lead Hobo reads the check… … He pockets it. “We HoboTownies are at your service, Mister Durango. Want us to… piss in with Graves’ grits or something?” “Knowing Signor Graves, he’ll-ah beat-ah you to it…” … “You-ah boys… hungry?” 1991 “Mama, please! This offer-ah…” “My answer is-ah NO, Dominic!” “Most-ah chefs would KILL to-ah join the Culinary-ah CABAL!” “Feh! A pack-ah of braying JACKASSES! They-ah think that-ah people would eat-ah EXCREMENT if it sported a Cabal-ah logo!” “Some-ah would, Mama!” “Mi Bambino… you want-ah me to surrender the last-ah bastion of-ah TRUE FLAVOR?” “I want-ah you-ah food to SURVIVE-ah, Mama! We-ah cannot beat the Cabal. But, if we join-ah them, you-ah recipes… become immortal!” “You-ah getting older… Nino runnah the vineyard, Dino runnah the stables, Vino runnah the… other vineyard…” “But, no one else could runnah the-ah kitchen… I don’t want us to-ah lose-ah what we have…” “Domma, you act like-ah MY kitchen is-ah YOURS to lose.” “You’re my-ah son. But, not by-ah blood.” “My-ah kitchen is not-ah your birthright.” … “Mama, you-ah other sons… They don’t wanna take ovah you-ah kitchen…” “Then, it will die, Domma.” “Better dead than under the Cabal’s control.” “Mama…” “Domma, eat-ah you-ah food. Shuddupah-you-face.” THWACK! A machete chops through critically-endangered gingko trees… Dom sheathes his machete… and retrieves a nut… A South American tribe, held at gunpoint by Dom Durango’s mascot sous chefs… Dom approaches an ivory palm… A Shaman warns that the tree is sac- WHAM! A rifle butt drops him in a bloody heap... Dom peels off bark… Arizona desert… A trucker points to an ad with Dom’s smiling face, offering a reward for a meteorite landing… A black bag zips over his face... Dom kneels in the meteorite crater… Tweezing out… Diamond shards… ”Mama? I’ve-ah done it!” “...Bambino? It’s-ah midnight…” “Mama, Taste… I finally got-ah the flavor-ah right…” “Aw, mi piccolo… Mmm… it’s-ah delicious, Domma…  Gratzi… But… this couldn’t have-ah waited until-ah morning?” “Like you-ah say, Mama, best-ah fresh!” “…Domma *mwah*... I’m-ah so sorry…” “Mama?” “About joining the Cabal-ah….” “I said-ah no… you wouldn’t-ah stop asking.” “I said-ah something… cruel…” “You are-ah my son, mi Domma… As much as-a you-ah brothers.” “...No, Mama… You were-ah right..” “You-ah kitchen is-ah not my birthright. So..” “I must-ah take it.” “Mi Piccolo, wh-...*cough*wh-*KERAUGH*...” “Shhhh, Mama…” “*WHEEEEEEZEHEAVE*...” “Shuddapah-you-face.” Test Room. Blood oozes from the Lead Hobo’s jaw. Subtly favoring his right hip… A Mascot Dom sets down a covered dish… In a flash, the Hobo shoves his shiv against the Mascot’s throat. “I’LL KILL HIM, DURANGO. GIVE ME MY MONEY AND LET ME OUT! NOW!” …An intercom buzzes. “Taste-ah. Lika Mama says, best-ah fresh…” “FUCK YOU.  His blade draws blood... “I’LL DO IT!!!” …The Mascot Dom, completely unfazed… uncovers the dish. Grits… glowing neon purple. “...Fuck’s this?” “One bite. And you’re-ah done. You want-ah… triple you-ah pay?” “FUCK OFF.” “...Thirty times?” … …The Lead Hobo grabs a fork off the table. He jabs it in… … What happens next occurs so fast, it’s imperceptible to the human eye. The moment the fork contacts the grits… The Hobo’s arm doesn’t shatter. It liquefies like a blood piñata. His body flash-fries in atomic radiation… Jelly-soft in the middle. Overcooked edges. … Behind several dozen layers of lead shielding… Dom sniffs dispassionately. He jots down… Graves. Perhaps-ah you-ah thought I’d-ah cook-ah something… ‘X-Treme’ like you think of-ah X-Treme… Steel-ah chairs… Thumb-ah-tacks… Tables… FEH! You-ah wrestlers… A table’s-ah not for-ah slamming brainless goombahs! It’s for-ah serving DISHES! You-ah wrestlers come-ah to-ah my kitchen… MY-AH DOMAIN. You disrespect-ah culinary arts with LITERAL-AH GARBAGE FOOD! You claim a victory ovah Dom-ah Durango? And you-ah think I would-ah limit my vengeance to ingredients found on-ah EARTH?!? Limit my-ah options to ingredients that wouldn’t-ah require THEORETICAL PHYSICS?!? …No. We-ah both-ah know what it’s like… To set-ah the village on-ah fire to feel the inferno’s warmth… … We-ah both climbed… frommah the DRECK… To the toppah… You-ah… The Universal Champion… Me-ah? KING OF COOZINE! …But-ah… Signor Graves. You-ah lost your Universal title faster than-ah DOM DURANGO’S ONE-MINUTE RAMEN™! You’ve become complacent. Second-banana to your vampire-pal… Going on-ah campy team-building adventures… Comfortable… Comfort is-ah death. I am-ah a Culinary Cabal Member… And-ah still… I seek-ah new ingredients… New-ah dishes… I never stoppah growing my empire… Because if I stoppah… I might lose… And I will. NEVER. BE. COLD. AGAIN. … You think-ah… because-ah you won our last meeting… That-ah I’d-ah be discouraged by-ah failure? You have-ah done NOTHING to push back-ah uppah the hill. You are-ah sated. AND I AM RAVENOUSLY HUNGRY. … We will-ah see. Which of us has-ah… TRUE GRIT.