Camp FUN, after seeing rain, was seemingly taken over by the forces of D.R.A.M.A. at the tail end of Robbie's last promo.

Whatever could happen next?

CONFLICT

The camp looks dismal. Walls erected swiftly, adorned with razor wire, pen in the populace of Camp FUN, the sign replaced to read 'D.R.A.M.A. Reallocation Centre'. Throughout, despair reigns. The petting zoo, unicycle rodeo, all fifteen arcades, bumper cars, antique car museum, all three fun houses, a massive bouncy castle, and Oktoberfest tents all shut down, the people within have nothing to do but wallow, caught in the pathos of being somewhere that isn't home.

In the center of the camp is Robbie Bourbon, held in a pillory. D.R.A.M.A. deathbots surround him, and a crowd is forced to watch him.

Subject, Robbie Bourbon, captured, too much fun. Drama ensues, the people will witness the drama. Renounce the fun, embrace the drama.

Robbie glances up at them, then back at the crowd.

What do you call a tarantula with no eyes?

The D.R.A.M.A. deathbot leading the inquisition leans in.

Something dramatic.

Robbie shakes his head no swiftly.

Blind.

The crowd chuckles, bemused by the levity brought about by the simple "dad" joke. Robbie studies the deathbot.

Unacceptable.

The deathbot prods Robbie, electricity arcing from the prod itself, like a taser. Robbie jolts at the touch. It then turns to the assembled crowd.

You people, displaced and yearning for home, humor is unacceptable. This is time for drama, to feel awful. Whimsy will not be tolerated.

In the crowd we see a deathbot approach a young girl holding a piece of candy tossed to her from one of the FUN Wrestling shows. It snatches the candy from her, throws it to the ground, and stomps on it. As it does, the girl's father grabs her and holds her. Robbie watches the deathbots closely, dozens of them keeping the crowd at bay, looking for something.

Yes, hold daughters. Hold sons. Hold loved ones. Despair brings people together.

Robbie struggles mightily against the pillory.

STOP FUCKING WITH KIDS!

Another jolting prod to the temple for Robbie.

Your struggle is drama, struggle more, heighten drama, show purposelessness of struggle, embrace drama. Tell people drama is best.

What, are you trying to win an Emmy for some TNT original?

People in the crowd chuckle again. Another jolting prod to Bourbon's temple. Robbie sneers in defiance at the deathbot.

Levity is inconsequential. Life is pain, life is suffering, joy is not life, joy is a lie.

Joy is fine, although I usually get Ajax dish soap.

The prod touches Bourbon again, this time much longer than before. The deathbot reaches back, then prods Bourbon again. Release, then a short prod. Then a long prod. The deathbot relents. Robbie is actually laughing.

Illogical, why does Bourbon laugh?

Well, that actually had pretty good comedic timing, like you had to compensate for my shitty joke, who knew?

Illogical, I am incapable of comedic timing. Only dramatic timing.

Yeah, but that was comedic.

Unacceptible!

The deathbot near Robbie vibrates vigorously, begins smoking, then shuts down, slumped in a heap. Another deathbot knocks it over. Robbie watches very closely as the deathbots engage in each of these slightest activities.

That unit was defective. Defect not found in this unit.

The deathbot prods Bourbon once and deliberately.

Yep, that's more like it.

The crowd gives a chuckle. Once again, the prod touches Bourbon's face and unleashes the fury of electricity. Robbie dry heaves as a result.

Renounce. Renounce fun, renounce joy, embrace the dramatic.

Fuck you.

A deathbot approaches a young woman cradling her baby. It sets its own prod toward her temple.

NO!

The deathbot stops as the woman wails in terror. Some of the crowd attempt to stand up to the monstrosity of a machine but are quickly subdued by the taser like functionality held within.

I, I will renounce.

The crowd looks on in awe. Here stands Robbie Bourbon, who has tried to not just be strong for them, but bolster their strength as well.

Leave them alone, please, just, just leave them alone!

Robbie looks rightly disturbed. Behind him, locked in cages, are the rest of the Bourbon Men, the entire crew that made up FUN Wrestling, and a host of others that the D.R.A.M.A. deathbots deemed too dangerous to leave roaming. They all look on in shock at Robbie's behavior, the defiant fire that seems to burn brightly in his heart no longer ablaze. This submission, while keeping the people safe, seems to have crushed their spirits even further. The deathbot nearest Robbie opens the pillory, and Robbie struggles to stand up straight, his body settled in to the position there for possibly hours, or even days. He looks exhausted, downtrodden, and beaten. Robbie looks at one of the deathbots.

I, I need my phone. I need to call very specific people and let them know too.

The deathbot tromps over to the fallen robot and reaches down. It plucks a fanny pack from it and hands it over to Robbie. Robbie wearily unzips it, looking at the deathbot in front of him, gaze narrowed, as though he finally figured it out. Robbie pulls his phone out. He dials, and puts the device to his skull. After a few rings, an answer comes from the other side.

Hey.

I, uh, just wanted to hear your voice. I miss you, I wish you were here, but, well, you'll see, I'm kind of glad you aren't.

Uh huh.

Well, I gotta go, I have something I need to do.

Robbie removes the phone from his head and wipes his nose. He then looks down at the screen of his phone and presses a few buttons.

You will renounce. You will admit that drama is the key, that despair is the way, that joy is futile, that the only strength is in giving up.

Sure I will.

Robbie looks up. The exhaustion in his face is beset by the cathartic smile he's flashing.

Boop.

Robbie presses his phone screen. All of the deathbots seem to freeze. Robbie looks around, shrugs, and doddles on his phone again. Moments later, each of the deathbots is blaring Michael Jackson's Thriller and dancing. The people in the crowd look shocked, uncertain of what is happening. Robbie simply walks over to the set of cages where his compatriots are held, and one by one starts freeing the Bourbon Men, the other wrestlers, and all the others locked up by the deathbots. Slowly but surely, the deathbots all start to smolder and collapse, their internal circuitry getting fried by the sheer silliness of them all just dancing suddenly. Diamondback, the man who can blend into any crowd, and Cyberjaw, the man with the cybernetic jaw, stretch themselves and approach Robbie.

How did you do that?

Do what?

You made all the robots start dancing!

Oh, well, it was something I was thinking about for a while now, how did those things communicate? They're just machines, they don't vocalize to each other what to do, nothing was straight up telling them using words where to go, so I turned on the Bluetooth on my phone, and found this one big ass signal and connected to it. After that, I just played my Spotify.

You mean they didn't even encrypt their signal?

Oh, sure they did, but encryption is just a wall, and sometimes you gotta Kool-Aid man that shit.

You make it sound easy!

It, heh, it just came to me. I'm not saying it was easy, or hard, but I had to find a way, you know?

So, do you know what their original source was?

Yeah, it's somewhere in Ontario.

Canada?

Yeah, I think that's why they spelled 'centre' the way they did on the sign when they started getting all concentration campy with shit.

So, do we need an airplane?

We need an airplane.

I'll get us an airplane.

Sweet. Diamondback, go make sure the people are alright, take lead on this one.

Gotcha.

Cyberjaw and Diamondback stroll off.

I know, I know, you think I did that using my privelege. Not my wits, not at all, not my strength, not my sheer will to survive. Privelege.

Robbie's belly shakes as he laughs.

Jesus Christ, Puddin', we get that Malcome pulled out at some point, what kind of shit are you pulling out of your ass now?

I'm not mocking the homosexual intercourse, but broadcasting it, uh, a little much. Using it to manipulate the poor sap, though, taking his horrible sob story and making it all that much more bleak, killing his dad effectively. Isn't that just the best. Then you stomped on a plant. I will have you know I am very appreciative of several plants. Peaches, cantaloupe, some apples, occasionally lemons, bonzai trees are pretty cool, so are little cacti that are pink, so I guess I'm standing up for them now because you're obviously this villain and so...

Fuck it. Puddin', they're all mustache twirling villains. I've seen 'em all. You're a second rate Pest, for starters.

Now there was a villain. Manipulated the hell out of me, was an evil bastard, and if he isn't rotting somewhere he sure should soon.

Oh, does my malice strike you? I bet it gets you feeling all warm and fuzzy, feeling finally vindicated as a real bad guy, setting you apart, establishing a legacy without going "mwahahahahahaha" or tying someone to a railroad track.

But, you did. You just think you didn't, but you did.

Wait, wait, is Malcome going to be the next host of the Engineer virus? What do you think Shane plans on pumping into the boy? Oh man, and you're some weird black ichor, you could be a total Venom knockoff!

Dude, you should totally just go bag Tom Hardy, the people would love that, buy t-shirts and everything.

Or, you know, a little cliche and overdone since nineteen eighty-six.

You monologue. A lot. More than Ozymandius in Watchmen, but about as much as the average Bond villain, only without the swagger of Christopher Lee or Javier Bardem. I have faced down others who monologued much better, don't get me wrong, but you definitely monologue.

Cliche.

Walking through a gloomy scene, almost every scene, brooding and being moody when you see fit, hanging out in places that look like they were designed by Skeletor, Lex Luthor, or John Carpenter. Oh look, you played with the remains of a dead bird, that's obviously a creepy thing to do for being creepy's sake, then you wiped it on your face when you started to cry, probably because you realized you had Trump, THUS the nuclear launch codes within your grasp to finally end it all for all, but got caught up trying to bang a near fifty year old woman because all that moody brooding is sexy and the bad guys always get laid.

Cliche.

Opera fetish? That just screams classic bad guy, like when was the last time you went to the movies, well, not you Puddin', you're like some weird turbo infant virus but an infant regardless, but when was the last time you went to the movies and the bad guy didn't have classical music going on? Silence of the Lambs. Die Hard. Spin the dial and pick a random Bond film again. Clockwork Orange. Sherlock Holmes. The Godfather Part III, Misery, hold on, hold on. Here, watch this clip:



There, it kind of gives a lot of examples right there. So, that would also be cliche.

I would know, I used to come out to opera.

Robbie winks at the camera, his toothy grin gleaming in the light.

You were special when you were Lux, Puddin', but now? Shit, you might not have the big old cartoon bombs or a trademark sneer, but I'm pretty sure you'll say "I'll get you next time, Robbie Bourbon, if it's the last thing I do! Say, I better go stomp on this posie!" after I wreck you in the ring and snag the Universal Championship from atop a ladder.

And no, keep the suit, I'ma wreck you, not kill you. Don't be so morose. I get it, you think suicide is funny, or at least assisted suicide, because then maybe someone will feel as shitty as you do or something, but hey, that's your privelege.

The thing of it is, your whole scheme? This grand plan you had? What you did with poor old Malcome?

Let me tell you a little story about someone.

Once there was this kid, and he wanted to be just like his father. His father was big, and tough, and took no shit from anybody. The kid idolized the man, and he loved his mom too, who was beautiful, and witty, and charming. Well, turns out, wouldn't you know it, daddy was a bank robber, and that's just how he made his living. Mommy knew, no doubt about it, there were no secrets between them, they had a strong relationship, a mortgage, and two sons. So the kid, the little boy, and his brother, used to always talk about and play like they would be the ultimate team, unbeatable together, ready to go to hell and back together. Of course they loved wrestling, they loved tag team wrestling, it appealed to them, it made sense!

Well, as much as it could for a while. See, one day, daddy went to work and didn't come home. See, there are some really vicious job hazards when you're a bank robber, Puddin'. Not some villain, no suits, lavish hotel rooms, just doing your job, as dirty as it is, keeping insurance companies honest, providing for his family. Well, all that came to a close when dad took a bullet to the brain. Not a stray shot, nah, that was dead on intentional from the reporting policeman's firearm. Daddy had a bad day, and whoo boy, mom didn't take it well. She had to identify the body, him looking back up at her with a hole in his skull about an inch above his left eye. She went home, cracked a bottle, and never put it down again until it got taken from her when she was declared insane and unfit by the government.

So those boys, Puddin', those boys had nothing. Their everything was taken. Their dad, their mom, their home, they had nothing, and they got placed where they needed to be. Sometime later, those boys got older, and they definitely worked together, through thick and thin. Sometimes the work was legit, usually it was, construction here, bouncer work there, always inseperable, almost like they were two people with one soul. Sometimes, though the work wasn't so legit, it was the kind of stuff you just didn't report on your tax return. One night, they're on the docks, looking to get something done, and bam, that kid? That boy I was talking about in the beginning? He watched his brother die, mowed down by a gang member in a botched drug deal.

Well, shit, his dad died, his mom was locked up in some box someplace, or worse, on the streets and rotting there, his brother was gone, what did this kid have left? What was he going to do with himself?

You know who that kid was?

His name was Mike. What he did with himself was get fucking hammered drunk one night in a hotel bar and come up and tell me all that shit, his whole fucking sob story, out of the blue. I sat there, I nodded, I listened, I told Mike some such about how he's stronger now, and whatever he chooses in life is his deal, his thing, and the past can't hold him back.

I didn't catch his last name.

Anyway, Mike starts crying, and I never saw him again, he never met me before, but boom, out of nowhere, huge fucking sob story, and it's the kind you're stuck listening to because they follow you closer and closer whenever you inch yourself away because they're that drunk. His breath smelled like Captain Morgan skullfucked Jim Beam.

You didn't enlighten Malcome. You didn't free him, no, you shackled him by taking his terrible story, and by the way, speaking of terrible stories, I vaguely remember that lady in your promo? Look, I get it, hell hath no fury like a woman scorned, I definitely did not return her calls, and that's a whole lot of woman. To be fair, she looks like she has lost weight. You gotta be packing twelve inches just to get the tip in. I swear, all the dudes who bitch about Lizzo are hung like Vienna Sausages. Anyway, look, tell Wendy I'm sorry, I got caught up, but we didn't click.

Anyhow, back to Malcome, you didn't enlighten him. You took someone who was already in pain and robbed him of the hope that maybe one day his father could see him in that light, and if not then the ability to take pride in the fact he didn't need his father to. Sure, you killed an abusive piece of shit, I sure have in my day, but really, as fucked as things sound between myself and Wendy, your whole hookup history, as documented, goes get stabbed, brazenly seduce attacker, fuck each other, kill his dad to emphasize you're awful to promote a wrestling match.

Which, by the way, cliche.

So you took Malcome there, and you enhanced his sob story. Now, again, it might not even matter, because probably sometime soon he's going to be crying tears of black slime my neice likes to make in their second grade class. Have you started selling that on the Xbux Marketplace yet? Engineer's Slime Kit. Puddin', I think that there's a hit.

So now, Malcome there can walk around the earth, with a sob story, ready to unleash on some poor bastard who's trying to make it to a toilet because they've been holding in a shit what seems like forever, or some so-and-so who was looking forward to having a relaxing evening, maybe some stranger who's just about to go to a botanical garden. Like, it doesn't have to be all that crazy or important, but Malcome's going to show up and insist on his story and make someone else listen to it even though they don't really care.

Now, I get what really scares you most, Puddin'. It's not the size, or the beating, naw. You want that, don't you? You want Corey's body to fail so you can move on to big ole' healthy Malcome. It's not the people, or the words I even say. You think that's all fun and games, and you're welcome, I try to make it that way. What it is, Puddin', is as experienced as I am, as much older as I am, as much more weird shit that I have seen that you have not, the fact I have been around so fucking long, still going strong, some fools come and want to step up, I just wanna beat 'em, dragons come to terrorize, I snatch 'em up and eat 'em, through all that, you can not grasp why I choose hope.

Robbie smirks at the camera.

Because fuck a sob story. If I'ma leave a story, the story of Robbie Bourbon, at least I have the dignity to leave a happy one.

Robbie turns, and is immediately getting bombarded with angry shouts from the rest of the XWF and otherwise stars of wrestling on site for this crazy shit happening and them getting locked in cages. The mole men are pretty pissed too. As such, the story must continue as all of them deny they are going to Ontario on short notice with Robbie to deal with D.R.A.M.A.