Last Monday Night, in a bizarre twist, Robbie Bourbon's partner Trax won one half of the Tag Team Championships alongside one of their opponents, Lux Lyden. It seems that ever since his dojo burned to the ground, Robbie has had a streak of poor luck against several opponents. Perhaps the problems of the people are just too grand for one man's shoulders, no matter how large they are.

Perhaps not.

SHITSTORM

We open scene to see a typical suburban American high school. The parking lot is sparsely populated by the vehicles of teachers settling into their classrooms for the year. We see a souped up van painted to look like the Ghostbusters car roll into the parking lot, towing what appears to be an amazing Wednesday Night Warfare speedboat. The van parks, and the side door opens to show Kirk MacClay and Matthew Oaktree stepping out, as Robbie Bourbon steps out of the driver's seat and Ash, competitive hair stylist and Robbie's personal barber, exits from her spot at shotgun. MacClay squints in the bright sunlight as the three others don sun glasses.

Robbie, why the hell have you brought us here?

Here? Well, we're going to take the new Warfare speedboat out onto the Potomac!

I know you said that. This is a high school, not a river.

Oh, yeah. Well, you remember how you told me to suck it last Monday? Well, that was mean, and it was negative, and detrimental to my spirits. So, you're going to help me reclaim some of my mojo.

Reclaim your mojo?

Yeah. I've been blowing chunks ever since I turned to this whole "good guy" thing. Seems like as shitty a bad guy I was, I'm an even worse good guy.

MacClay and Oaktree furrow their brows at the implications of what Robbie might be saying. Ash chimes in.

Look, don't worry, Robbie's thrilled to have this boat, Matthew!

Oh, well, he earned it in a hard fought victory over Glisten.

You think so? I'd say he earned it being the most entertaining sumbitch in the XWF today. It doesn't even matter if he wins, you know the people are still going to come in droves to see him.

Ahem, Ash? Sweetie, thanks for the sentiment, but winning does matter.

He's right. If you lose, you can suck it!

Bourbon cocks his head at MacClay.

What have you ever won?

MacClay opens his mouth to speak, but is cut off by Oaktree.

Okay, okay, look, I'm glad you're taking us out on your boat, but what're we doing here at this high school?

Regaining my mojo, you silly goose. C'mon, we're going to go inspire a high school football team!

With that, Robbie leads the three others into the high school. The camera follows as they make their way to a gym, wherein sits the entire varsity football team. Their coach, a man in 70's shorts that stop about a foot above the knees, socks that stop about an inch below the knees, and a polo shirt tucked into his hotpants, walks up to Robbie.

Hey!

He sticks his hand out and Robbie shakes it.

Men, this is Robbie Bourbon! Robbie is a wrestler in the XWF, and today he's going to talk to us.

"He sucks!"

Watch your damn mouth!

"Hey, you're hot!"

A bevy of cat calls all echo towards Ash, who rolls her eyes and steps behind Robbie.

Hey, knock it off! You all need to focus! Robbie?

Thank you, Jeff.

Robbie steps forward as MacClay and Oaktree stand behind.

Men, I'm Robbie Bourbon. Pro-wrestling phenom, superhero, culinary mastermind, and man of the people.

"Yeah, you suck dude!"

One of the players stands up. The coach, Jeff, can be seen with his hand over his mouth, shaking with laughter. MacClay has a grin on his face.

You're shitty! You're four and five, dude, you have a losing record! Why are you here, wasting our time, when we should be practicing towards winning a championship? You blew your chance, and you've sucked ever since!

Some of the other players are laughing now. Robbie folds his arms across his chest, and glances around the gym.

So, you think I have nothing to offer you?

You're wasting our time, so yes, you have nothing to offer.

Well, how would you like to make a wager?

Robbie points to the pair of ropes hanging from the gym ceiling.

If you're such a hot shot, we'll race to the top of the rope and back. The winner gets my new speedboat.

A distinct murmur resonates from the team.

You're on, you fat fuck!

The brazen youth marches towards the ropes and starts to climb before Robbie is even close. He makes incredible progress before Robbie grabs the rope and starts to shake it.

Hey, what're you...

Robbie continues to shake the rope as the kid looks around, terrified, before losing his grip and plummeting 20 feet, landing flush on his back with a loud 'crack'. His breathing suddenly becomes loud, horrifying, and strained.

Shit. Looks like you broke your ribs, stud, trying to get my boat. How do you plan on whistling Dixie if you're breathing like that?

The coach runs over to the downed athlete and checks on him. He then turns to Robbie.

You son of a bitch! Quadaryl was our star linebacker!

Well, he sure was. Later, Jeff, have fun with practice.

Robbie starts to walk back to the three companions he's traveling with. Ash is grinning, Oaktree has his phone in his hands and seems to be typing away like mad, and Kirk MacClay, who looks rightly horrified by the fact Robbie Bourbon nearly killed a teenage football player. Robbie walks up to MacClay.

What's wrong, Kirk?

Robbie keeps walking out the door of the gym and back to the van. The rest follow. Kirk MacClay hustles to catch up to Robbie.

Robbie, what the fuck was that?

What the fuck was what?

That. You seem...

Robbie stops and turns directly back to Kirk MacClay.

I seem what, Kirk? Tense? Pissed? Well, the past month has been a little tense for me, slick, seeing as how I've been screwed out of two titles, and for my God damned efforts, someone decided that I needed to risk getting my ass buried under a pile of shit.

Robbie, if you have something to say to me, just go ahead and say it.

Say it? I'm fucking doing it, Kirk. I'm bringing you along on my boat that I won, my only fucking title, my fucking claim to fame, to see what Robbie Bourbon is all a-fucking-bout, so you get a chance, first fucking hand, to get to know the guy who you think has earned his place in shit.

But that kid...

That kid was a smart mouthed self-important little shit who the whole fucking world has given acclaim upon fucking acclaim to, and it was only a matter of fucking time before he fell hard into the ground and got a healthy dose of reality in the form of someone who wasn't ready to kiss his ass. Just like Austin Fernando. Only thing is, I'ma do a hell of a lot more than just break his fucking ribs inside that squared circle, you hear?

Ash giggles at the notion. From behind the camera, we hear the voice of Blue.

Fuck him up!

I'm going to fuck him up. Do you have a problem with me fucking him up, Kirk, or are you going to come down and take my fucking victory and let motherfucking Lux motherfucking Lyden shovel some poop on someone after I win?

Look, Robbie, you were eliminated, and given the circumstances...

GIVEN THE CIRCUMSTANCES YOU FUCKING TOLD ME TO SUCK IT!

Robbie recoils after snapping at Kirk MacClay. Matthew Oaktree gets back into the van.

Robert, if you take that tone with me again...

Stud, I'll take whatever fucking tone I want. I'm the God damned whirlwind that leaves destruction and damage wherever I step, I'm the fucking force of nature that you hope doesn't catch up to you, and I am what the people fucking deserve to hear and experience. You wanna fire me, Kirk? Fire me. You wanna humiliate me, Kirk? Humiliate me. You don't want the repercussions of that? You're fucking delusional. Look at the tape, stud, after you pulled your little stunt and took me out of the picture of the Tag Team Championships, I went and taught Shane himself how to fly.

Robbie takes a step towards MacClay, looming over him.

How far can you fly, Kirk?

Robbie turns and walks to the driver side door and gets into the van. Kirk MacClay gets into the back of the van as Ash gets in the passenger seat, the camera with Blue holding it following MacClay. Matthew Oaktree is in the far back seat as Kirk sits in the center. The camera sets close to him. He glances at it, nervously, then back towards the front.

Look, Robbie, if you're pissed at me, I understand, but you know as well as I do that the people deserved the outcome I was able to give them.

Robbie nods his head while starting the van.

You know what, Kirk? I'm not mad at you. You're right. You were doing a service to the people. You were giving them what you thought was the fairest option. Good for you. Do you want to know what I'm going to give them? Blood. I'm going to drain Fernando's every last fucking artery from corner to corner, rope to rope, backstage to the middle of the ring. That little fucker is going to get beat like a Catholic schoolboy lifting up skirts. Shit, last I heard from the guy was Relentless. Man, those were good times, eh Kirk? The good ole' Black Hand showing up to keep a belt out of my grasp and on the ever marketable waist of that digital bitch. Well, last I heard, he was spouting off about how relevant he used to be, and how us new cats don't have a light to shine in his part of the woods; I guess all those nights where I was fighting my ass off in bloodbaths while he was on his ass at home made him more relevant. I don't fucking know how, considering that's just plain verbalized, packaged, and marketed horseshit that I just ain't buying. In fact, that little sumbitch said that I was a, and I quote here, "useless prick". What's more, he didn't even have the fucking decency to use my full name. Just "Bourbon". I'm not just "Bourbon".

Robbie turns around and faces the camera and Kirk MacClay.

My name is Robbie Motherfucking Bourbon. And Austin Fernando is going to remember that. You know why you'll remember it, 'Fern'? Do you fucking know why? It's because I'm the guy who can't be bodied, I make the bodies. I'm the guy who's immune to your fire because I'm ten times hotter than any blaze you could ever fucking conceive; I'm so hot they measure me in Kelvin. I am fucking X-treme. I'm the meanest, maddest, most malevolent fucking maniac mulching motherfuckers on Monday or Wednesday. I wreck dragons, eat dynamite, sleep in volcanoes, and most importantly I take whatever fuckers like you throw at me, and keep striding, keep fucking marching, keep fucking fighting, keep fucking beating ass, and keep on giving to the people of the XWF. Sure, you might have been something worth noting, stud, but that was in the days B.R. Before Robbie. See, now it's two-thousand fifteen A.B., After Bourbon. Adjust your clocks accordingly, stud, you might want to note the time. That time, Austin, is your appointment with a destiny you never imagined, never dared have nightmares over, because you'll never grasp that kind of horror until you've gone in the ring with me. Face it stud, the whole stipulation to our match is fucking pointless to you, because with the beating of a lifetime I have waiting for you, the ass-kicking of the millennium, and the straight humiliation you'll get from that just based off of the fact you'll be sucking down your own words and begging for a glass of water to wash them down with, you don't have to worry about being dumped into shit.

You're already in it.