Oh, ohohohoho, this is going to be fucking adorable.

Ned’s going to tell everybody his opinion of me for five whole fucking minutes.

Then he’s going to tell everybody what he dislikes about me for thirty seconds before he realizes he might rile me up.

And that there is the one thing Ned Kaye isn’t ready for, and that’s that weight on his shoulders. Pressure. High heat. Danger.

The kind of shit I rely on to feel some joy in this world because hot damn the adrenaline gets to kicking and I just can’t stop. To feel that guttural frenzy from within the absolute depths of my soul, Ned, the equal yet opposite reaction, pure fucking fission, passion manifest, and violence hath arrived.

I dream of it, Ned, and it keeps me awake some nights, that anticipation, that I will feel weightless, invincible, and destructive, my vision becoming that much clearer, my muscles nothing more than meat armor at this point, my heart pumping at sub-zero temperatures to keep the ice water in my veins. This is Weekend Warfare, Kaye, and with all the hubbub going on around us, we have the most dangerous match I’ve ever fucking heard of. The top singles championships in this industry all on the line, and here we go, standing on a fucking grill getting shot at with fucking fireworks.

Still can’t be as bad as getting pelted with red mist. Jesus H. Tapdancing Christ, imagine your aunt puking her fifth Bloody Mary into your eyes right before your first communion, that’s how that fucking felt. Note to self, I need to invent a mist gland, what with Graves back too on top of Lack’s vicious spew. Seriously, if she wasn’t already on my shoulders, how could I have won against that?

Mr. Bourbon, do you want me to set up some time for you to work on how you could do a poison mist?

Genevieve Tote has been taking note while Bobby practices what he wants to say about Ned in his promo. Bobby smirks.

I’m a mad scientist, Miss Tote, the only question is what color do I want?

Noted, Mr. Bourbon. Are you finished with preparing your diatribe?

Not quite, Miss Tote, I have yet to address this week’s Doomed to be Doomed by the Doomer.

That said, we already discussed what kind of sizzle I bring to the steak, Ned Kaye brings positively, absolutely none of that. Shit, I saw your last promo, and I will say, much respect, the soap opera has been a television staple for well over half a century, and I guess looking to compete with giants like Days of our Lives and General Hospital is where you want to go with your life, day after morose fucking day. You had lunch, doing sushi with Noah Jackson in Japan, and the only part you showed was where you asked about his fucking cat. I could spend five minutes with Noah and there’d be an international conspiracy at play within three of them, fuck there was, it was War Games, but you go out with the guy and, well, we get what Ned likes to give.

Watered down and harmless.

I go out to Warfare following War Games, Ned, and I’m given another absolute test, a beast in this fucking industry in Sarah Lacklan, and you? The guy who went further in War Games?

You snuck off with Mastermind for a pity fuck.

If I honestly thought you’ve grown a pair, Ned, I’d rip them off and feed them to you, because you’re obviously not using them, and you’re fucking notorious for it.

But hey, Ned, wallow. You’ve had a rough shake of it in this life and all, and hey, you’re still sifting through it to find out who you are, little guy! I’ve, well, been broken and destroyed plenty of times! Yikes, Ned, did you know when you first started here, and when you pinned me for the Hart Championship, I had a mask? That part of me, Ned, that sense of identity, ripped away from me, shredded, and I had to figure out exactly who I was.

It took me all of thirty seconds.

You, Ned, though, you’ve tried to rebuild and rebrand yourself, and it never stuck, now did it? I mean, maybe you’ve been getting derailed by your own Bastardly Father while mine has led me to greater power, but at the root of it, young man, is that you simply haven’t been able to build anew because there’s already something on the property blocking the way.

This is where I come in, and I totes wreck you on live TV, and then you will be able to brand yourself however you want, grow, and flourish. I Bobbybomb you back to the stone age, and with some luck, something can cultivate.

And let’s hope they actually have a backbone and maybe some fangs next time.

How was that?

Well, I suppose it was okay, maybe you could tweak it a bit.

Thank you, Miss Tote, I can not understate how valuable your opinion is.

You’re quite welcome, Mr. Bourbon. Now, shall we go to the celebrity pool tournament? You have that cool pool cue, I know you’re raring to use it, and this is going to be massive. Kid Rock is doing it, Bobby. He’ll be there! And he’ll yell at you about something!

No time, Miss Tote, not now. I’m sure I’ll go shoot some pool or something later, but for now, I need to get to work on developing what form of poison mist I want to spew!

Genevieve's eyes go wide as she clacks away at her tablet.

Mr. Bourbon, are you sure that learning to put poison in your mouth is the wisest decision?

Oh, I already have plans, they’re not just the first part of building a stadium, Miss Tote! Come with me!

Bobby stands and jauntily leads Genevieve out of his office and out into the main floor of the Bobby Bourbon Dojo for the Competitive Arts. Outside, we see Cyberjaw, the man with the cybernetic jaw, Diamondback, the man who can blend into any crowd, Ash, Bobby’s stylist, and RoboBob, the robot from Rocky IV with a magazine clipping of Bobby’s face taped to it. Genevieve clears her throat. Bobby looks at the Bourbon Men.

‘Sup.

Bro, where have you been?

In my office.

Yeah, but other than that.

Stuff, Miss Tote has been helping with my image.

So we’re bad for your image?

Absolutely not!

Genevieve smiles warmly to cool off the room.

I am sure that Bobby will organize something with you, he even plans on playing pool at some point, but right now he is going to show me his design to allow him to perform a poison mist!

Diamondback looks at Cyberjaw.

Okay, that is cool.

Cyberjaw looks back at Diamondback.

I know.

Ash looks up from her phone.

Well, you’re still slacking, Bobby. We got perfect at skee-ball, what have you done?

Bobby rolls his eyes.

Hashtag Bobby destroys, L - O - L?

Oh, wrestling, right.

Right! Miss Tote, please, set something up with my Bourbon Men.

Absolutely, Mr. Bourbon!

Bobby leads Genevieve away from the rest of the Bourbon Men and down a hallway before looking dead at the camera.

Cut that off, you can turn it back on once we’re in my lab.


In Bobby’s secret underground lab, several strange devices and gizmos work on concoctions and potions of all sorts of vibrant colors. He leads Genevieve to a table where a tray of syringes are lined up.

So, Miss Tote, what exactly happens when one is hit by the poison mist in this business? Where does it come from? Is it all a hoax?

I mean, it’s really beyond explanation.

Bobby’s head shakes no swiftly as a demented grin forms on his jaw.

Not whatsoever, Miss Tote! The poison mist is the result of an additional gland, some mutation that happens to the human body that allows one to transform their saliva into a toxic substance! The red mist burns, the green mist blinds, and the black mist blinds long term, but did you know there are several instances of all manner of colored mists?

I did not, Mr. Bourbon.

There are! All because people get a really fancy tumor in their throat that lets them unleash absolute hell! Now, how do we kickstart that tumor in someone who won’t develop one?

Smoking cigarettes comes to mind, but I feel you’re going to tell me, Mr. Bourbon.

Science!

That doesn’t explain it whatsoever, Mr. Bourbon.

Oh? Well, it’s all terribly complicated, but if we introduce a modicum of radiation to other factors that would enhance and stimulate cell growth, specific cell growth…

You could cure cancer!

Bobby’s brow furrows.

I don’t want to cure cancer. I want to spew a poison mist. Let’s keep our head in the game, Miss Tote.

I see, Mr. Bourbon. I feel curing cancer would be phenomenal for your image.

Miss Tote, the American Medical Association has rebuffed me several times already. They said I was a madman! Plus, stem cell research is kind of taboo in this continent, using it to splice other DNA into the human body, it gets a little foggy for Dr. Fauci. Unethical to the point it was borderline Mengele, I believe was the verbatim, but I’m not a fucking Nazi!

Genevieve clacks away.

Well, you have a way of seeing things in a very different light than others, but your capabilities and discoveries could be contributions to all mankind!

And I’m sure they shall! Imagine a poison mist that was actually just a refreshing minty spritz, people would have the freshest breath at all times!

That’s, um, let’s not do that Mr. Bourbon.

Okay, no mint mist. However, before we develop which mist I will spew, we must first perfect the art of growing the glands.

I thought you said it was a matter of choosing which color, and you already had a way to do this. I thought it would have been some kind of implant.

Oh, no, too invasive! Why cut open my face and neck like that when I can alter my genome, no fuss no muss! As such, allow me to demonstrate. This is formula Nocturne Delta 13.02. We’re nearly there with the needed breakthrough.

Oh, so, how do you know it will work?

I don’t!

Mr. Bourbon, by no means inject yourself with that substance right now and hope you get poison mist glands.

Bobby smiles and shakes his head ‘no’.

Miss Tote, I am no amateur.

Diamondback and Cyberjaw approach with a cart, atop of which is some cube shaped object with a white sheet draped over it.

I thought we were going to do a thing with them specifically later, Mr. Bourbon.

They’re my lab assistants.

Yeah.

We’re awesome.

Bobby takes the sheet and whips it away from the box, which was actually a cage. Within we see a puppy. The adorable little golden retriever looks eager to see other living things, full of wonder and awe. Bobby opens the cage and cradles the animal with his left arm. With his right, he lifts the syringe and plunges it into the neck of the puppy. He sets it back on the table and watches. Miss Tote takes note. The puppy whimpers, then yelps in pain, and in short order it begins to convulse and twitch on the table. The agony and suffering seems prolonged as the golden retriever puppy's breathing is stifled.

Is this normal?

Bobby sighs.

Unfortunately, yes. Formula Nocturne Delta 13.02 is a failure.

Bobby opens a nearby hatch, snags the dog with one hand, and places it within. He closes the hatch and turns a wheel, securing it shut, before hitting a button simply marked ‘incinerate’.