Robbie Bourbon recently enlisted Jarod, the wizard, into his hoard of Bourbon Men en route to visit a priest for the sake of having protection against a dark warrior.

Meh, couldn't hurt, could it?

SANCTUARY

We open to see a quaint church, set along some backroad in rural Virginia, or Maryland, or Pennsylvania, somewhere in the mid-Atlantic U.S. The parking lot is empty, suggesting this is anything but Sunday.

We see the Donkey Kong Rape Van pull into the parking lot. Robbie is almost hopping out of the door as it pulls into the spot in front of the church, seemingly braking with his right foot and putting the vehicle into park while maintaining the momentum of his van with his body. Jarod the wizard looks on in terror.

Why in heavens name art thou doing that?

Training!

Training?

Jarod the wizard steps out of the van, one let at a time, his rotund frame causing him to catch his breath after the endeavor.

See, Dark Mike isn't the smallest guy in the world, that's a proper two-hundred and fifty five pound man!

So, I weigh well over that, my friend.

Jarod smiles smugly despite his corpulence.

Okay, Dark Mike is a two-hundred and fifty five pound athlete.

Point taken.

And for me to run through him, especially after, well, shit, I Robbiebombed the fuck out of Barney Green, glad he didn't stay very retired, just kinda retired, OH SNAP YOU HEARD IT HERE FIRST IN A BOURBON PROMO!

Barney Green?

Yes, a noble and valiant warrior of my realm, friend Jarod. He is a mountain of a man, a man of no small girth nor merit. Jesus, I'm starting to sound like you. Look, thing is, Dark Mike is a guy I'm going to wreck, hereby as the reigning Hart Champion, the best big man in the universe today, the King of the Jobbers, the High Holy Hypocrite, taking your sad ass to task from under the bright blue mask, Robbie Motherfucking Bourbon. And he can be as sad about that as he wants.

This dark warrior is sorrowful?

Verily! Shit, just, shh, I feel a rant coming.

See, last we heard from Dark Micheal is that he's a pretty torn up guy because he slaughtered his family with an axe, and that is precisely why we should buy into the pity party he's throwing over facing, well, the most bone smashing and soul jarring sumbitch on this or any other existence in yours truly. It's awful that the world he had went away, and then it's awful that he sealed it away, and it's just the pits that poor Dark Mike is poor Dark Mike is poor Dark Mike. Grab a hanky, clean up them tears.

Dark Mike found out Robbie Bourbon was going to beat his ass and he went into the corner and wept for hours.

Dark Micheal is pretty bent out of shape over the amount of dick jokes and rape that happens in the XWF, and that's precisely why we we should engage his forlorn quest at Savage to even try to step up to the fucking level of wreckage I bring to the god damned ring every single time I step into the god damned ring. It's a god damned travesty that there are assholes out there committing rape, but hey, I'll deal with them when I get to them, now won't I Dark Mike? Such and such a rapist wanna set foot into the ring with me, I'ma snap a fucking spine in half with efficiency and pure malice, sir, without any resistance, sir, and without hesitation. So, I don't know why you're pissed at me about it for not wrecking their asses sooner, but rest assured as long as I have the Hart Championship, I'm like a fucking bug zapper. Pests show up carrying some nasty virus intended to destroy all of humanity, they get the shock of a lifetime, and then they go around with their fingers up their ass. Ask around, ask Paul Heyman, ask Peter Gilmour. As for dick jokes, well, I don't know that I tell enough of those. My dick is so big there's snow on it in the summer. My dick is so big it has it's own area code. My dick is so big it has it's own agent. My dick is so big it has an elbow. My dick is so big Neil deGrasse Tyson gave a lecture on it's physics at TED Talks. So, yeah, I tell dick jokes, I don't get how that's particularly degenerative, unless of course your dick is so small it's theoretical. Maybe because Dark Mike's dinky doink is so diminutive that he doesn't even have to hold his dick when he pisses? I am starting to think so.

See, then there's a special kind of trash, Dark Mike, that really gets wrecked. Rapists are definitely going to get turned into some kind of substance resembling potted meat product when they get into the ring with Robbie Bourbon, but the real sacks of shit, like the poor, sympathetic soul that hacked his family to pieces with an axe, not only goes to show that your gene pool was pussified enough to get taken out by one guy with an axe, but that they were right in not wanting or needing you around. And boo fucking hoo, they never loved you, but Steve Jason, who is now invited to toss my fucking salad after a week of camping and hiking the whole Apallachian Trail and eat nothing but peanut butter, oatmeal, and beef jerky the whole time, he's a fucking guy worth praising. He's the fucking solidarity, blah blah blah, whatever, he's not even involved in this match and if he has an issue with what I'm saying he can say it, not his little weeping bitch boy who thinks he's righteous because he picks up an axe. Heh, I have an axe myself, Dark Mike, but the big thing is, I don't have to hack you up into bits, I don't have to chop you into mince meat and serve your ass up for the people to feast. I have something bigger, better, and brighter to deal with. I have to defend this Hart Championship from your pathetic, sad, woe-is-me-the-world-is-bleak tirades, because as long as Robbie Motherfucking Bourbon, Hart Champion, has his name in bright pink for the world to see, there will never be a fucking emo bullshit champion.

And that means you.

Now, as much as an emo kid as Dark Mike is, and as bleak and dark as he wants to pretend to fucking be, even though the motherfucker is so white he glows since he never goes out in the sun, I'm going to shine a bright, gleaming light in his world. Dark Mike doesn't have the heart to come to blows with me, Dark Mike doesn't have the heart to beat me, and come Savage, Dark Mike will not have the Hart, flat the fuck out, because my heart is like a fucking nuclear reactor, burning and pumping hot and hard and fast, every fucking beat of it causing the same fucking thing to course through my veins, the radioactive poison boiling atomic hot, glowing, growing, a blaze is starting, take heed of the wisdom that I am imparting, I'm gonna crack your skull until your eyes are darting, beat the shit out of you, literally, you're sharting. It's the power of the sun in the palm of my hand, soon the spine of an over the hill never-was that nobody can stand, Dark Mike showing the world how to weep while I tap into my adrenal gland, and won't it all be just grand, Robbie Motherfucking Bourbon, bringing energy to the land, lighting up your world with an orchestra of violence, time to strike up the band. You, sir, are a cur, sir, a filthy mongrel, sir, aged and pointless, and tell me all your sins and how you're hellbound, sir, because I've been there and back, sir, I am going to plant your spine through the steel ring steps until you can't feel your feet. Then, I'm going to keep doing it until you can't feel your legs, and then until you can't feel your fingers, and then you call out for the match to end. You call out because after every fucking time I paralyze you further you actually start to give a shit about your career, when it all comes together and you realize that you have to feed your pet chancre sore, Cadryn the Chancre, and that you came out of retirement not for the glory, not to prove anything, but because you spent your last dime on scratch off lottery tickets and an addiction to cough syrup. You want to piss and moan about only one guy understanding you? I understand you loud and fucking clear, Dark Mike, plain as day. There's no doubt in my mind. I understand you're the motherfucker coming to get wrecked at Savage, because what is a fucking Champion if not a fighter, and who is the Hart Champion but Robbie Motherfucking Bourbon.

That was brutal, sir Bourbon! His keep has steel stairs, and he has a cohort by the name of Cadryn?

Uh, the steel stairs are by the ring.

The ring?

One ring to rule them all, one ring to find them, one ring to bring them all, and in the XWF ring, wreck 'em.

Is this your clan's motto?

'Tis the way of the Hart Champion, Robbie Bourbon. Come, Jarod, we need not dally any further.

Robbie rolls his eyes having caught himself speaking like Jarod. He and Jarod enter the church, and inside we see pews, an altar, and behind it, Jesus Christ, rarest of the Bourbon Men, hanging on the cross. Jesus turns to Robbie.

Oh, come on, I'm at work man, can't you wait?

Oh, shit, well, it was his idea.

Robbie points at Jarod, who looks absolutely bewildered at the whole of this. He pulls a foam ball out and throws it at Jesus.

Fireball!

It bounces off of Jesus's chiseled, washboard abs.

Where do you keep those?