It's recently been revealed that some accord has been struck between Robbie Bourbon and Pest, as they're teaming up for a chance at the Tag Team Championships. How deep of an accord has been struck?

THE MIDDLE FINGER OF THE BLACK HAND

We open to see Robbie Bourbon and Pest, shortly after Pest's tirade on Brian Lance as they walked through the halls of the Bourbon Dojo Basement with Aaron, Pest's ten-year-old son.

You're right, Brian Lance really is a...

Robbie stops short of whatever he was about to say and turns to look at Aaron.

Earmuffs.

Pest looks quizzically at Robbie as Aaron cups his hands over his ears.

Pest: Robert, you do not tell my son what to do.

Robbie looks back at Pest as Pest removes Aaron's hands from his ears. He extends the baton again. As he does, Clyde the Orangutan runs up and grabs the baton from Pest and scampers off. We hear the hammer of a pistol lock into firing position, and see Blue walk down the hall, pointing the gun at Pest.

Robbie really does spend a lot of time around those more fragile then him.

Pest: You will put that weapon...

Before he can finish, she fires, and as she does, Robbie dives in front of Pest, allowing the bullet to hit him instead, which then drops harmlessly to the ground. Aaron is covering his ears due to the loud bang.

Baby, put the gun down, there's a kid here.

I don't care if there's a kid. This monster took your brother, took your dojo, and took you from me. This son of a bitch needs to die.

Look, Pest didn't burn down the dojo. Carmen Sandiego killed my brother.

She lowers the gun as Pest turns to see if his son is okay.

He didn't?

No, I know for a fact he didn't.

Robbie, if he told you otherwise...

Pest: Robert, explain to your emotional lady friend that I have never denied burning your dojo.

Look, honey, Pest couldn't have burned the dojo. I looked into it, he was perving around with some 14-year-old on Skype when it happened. He couldn't have. Now...

Robbie walks calmly up to Blue, puts his hands on the sides of her head, and kisses her deeply.

...I needed that. I missed you.

Blue wraps her arms around Robbie, clinging to him as tightly as possible. Robbie rests his chin on top of her head.

My honey bear.

My forever girl.

Pest: This has no point. Robert...

As Robbie and Blue continue to embrace, Blue points the gun at Pest again, prompting him to stop speaking. Aaron runs off down the corridor.

Pest: Aaron!

The boy turns into a room and slams the door shut.

Pest: Robert, what room did my boy run off into?

I dunno. I didn't even know you had a secret headquarters here. I mean, so long as he doesn't put anything into his mouth he won't turn into a blueberry or start to float up into a fan or anything. Honey, do I have a chocolate river flowing through this place?

Pest: You can cut the Wonka gags, Robert.

And you're the most dangerous thing in my dojo. Look, let Aaron run around and play. He'll be fine. Not only that, but the language barrier has dropped, so now I can say whatever the fuck I please.

Pest: There are other dangers in your dojo, Robert.

Out of the shadows, almost like a phantom, steps Morbid Angel.

Jesus! How do you hide anywhere?

Morbid shrugs.

Okay, hold on, Pest, same goes for this guy too.

Robbie pulls another mask out of his pocket and hands it to Morbid Angel, who looks at it confusedly.

Look, my doing business with a pedophile and Nazi just, well, wouldn't be good for business. When you guys come through the dojo, you need to wear these.

Pest and Morbid put the masks on.

There, perfect. You know what? You...

Robbie points at Pest.

Are Esteban the Magnificent. And you...

Robbie points at Morbid.

Are Crispin the Destroyer. Now, old man, we have a pair of matching belts to fetch, but first we're going to save the universe.

Pest: Save the universe? Robert, what exactly will you do?

What will I do? What will I DO!?!

I'm going to take 2 and Brian Lance and bash their bodies into resembling beanbag furniture is what I'm going to do at Wednesday Night Warfare!

First, we have this dipsnot Brian Lance, who looks like a Juggalo that got fired from Panda Express for sticking turds in the fryer thinking that's how you make rocky road ice cream. Fuck me sideways, this asshole has a chance at the god damned Tag Team Championships, a title that I assisted the defending X-Treme champion at the time in obtaining by making sure nobody ran in from the god damned crowd to try to take his belt, but saw no gain from. My partner scored the pinfall, then ultimately decided that a CCWF turncoat-timebomb was a better call and gave them the belt instead. Those Tag Team Titles, Lance, slapped me in the face. Meanwhile, you're in Mexico, murdering people having rough sex in cheap motel rooms after pouring a bunch of bottles of tequila down the toilet and scattering them around so you could "look cool" for all the people who ignored you in high school. And what is up with some camera you have to stow on a plane?

I do this shit on my phone.

You have some leftover camcorder you found at the dump then whacked with a stick a few times to make sure it wasn't haunted with boogeymen or some such bullshit.

Wow, hold on. RING RING!

Robbie puts his hand to his ear, playing telephone.

Hello? Oh.

He puts his hand down.

It's Nineteen Eighty-Nine.

He puts his pretend telephone hand to his head again.

Oh?

He puts his hand down.

They say hello.

He puts his hand back to his head.

Oh, okay.

He puts his hand down.

They want their fucking camera back, too, asshole.

Shit, stud, you beckoned the biggest and the baddest? Well, here I fucking am. You ain't felt, and I mean you will feel it, the most intense shocks that await your body in the XWF 'till you spent time in the squared circle with Robbie Bourbon. NASA scientists actually use the footage of my matches to measure the impact of G-forces as a comparison for meteor collisions in space. Your vertebrae, stud, are going to resemble a Jenga tower about five minutes into a game, and we are definitely talking everybody that's playing is on day three of an LSD bender. Twisted, askew, and demented, I'll put you on the floor so hard you'll think you're cemented. Ever have sleep paralysis? If not, I'll show you paralysis.

Then there's your equally doofy partner, 2, who I can only assume has cleverly chosen his name after sitting for five minutes in the bathroom, then standing, pivoting, and looking down. 2. That's not a fucking name. It's not a fucking name! It's not even public domain, it's a fucking number. A prime, positive, even numeral. Get the fuck out of here, get a real fucking name. Shit, stud, you even had a lapse when it came to my name. Whiskey guy? Whiskey is rot gut, stud, the mind killer and the soul stealer.

My name is Robbie Motherfucking Bourbon. You're going to remember that name. I'm the man that made you realize you tried to walk when you weren't done learning to crawl yet. You're going to help who, in what realm, in what universe, in what town, in what existence do you help anyone fuck me up? Stud, busting your ass on the mat time and again comes with the territory, but like I said for your partner I say for you, you don't have a smidgen of an idea of the pure artistry I put into putting shit into full throttle and outright crushing your pathetic selves like it was god damned Clobberin' Time. Ask Peter Gilmour; not only did I have a piranha eat part of his eyeball, I took a mini-gun, shoved it up his ass, and revved the fucker at full spin.

Pest takes a deep breath as he lights a cigarette. Morbid seems transfixed.

Pest: Robert, I meant what will you do to save the universe?

Oh. I'm recruiting the Black Hand to go and visit a children's cancer center to grant a few wishes!