Robbie and Morbid Angel, the Black Hand, along with Alejandro, the Dick of Peter GIlmour, have seen the passion of Christ firsthand, and were given a talking to. They then went somewhere else in time.

What's more blasphemous than Christ?

THE HALL-OF-FAMER


May 23, 1999

The time machine flashes into the rafters of an arena. The ring below is unmarked, and the place is crowded, it looks to be a pretty spectacular show. Robbie and Morbid cautiously step out of the time machine, and see a lone figure sitting in the rafters, also wearing a blue mask and singlet. He looks up at Robbie and Morbid.

"What the fuck are you guys?"

Robbie and Morbid look at each other, wide eyed. They then turn back and face the figure.

Uh, we're the Black Hand. You're...

"I am not a nugget!"

Okay. You aren't fast food or poop reference or whatever. So, how are you?

"I'm kinda unsure if I should be doing this now!"

Morbid and Robbie look at each other again.

"Paradox?"

Shit. Motherfuck.

"What's wrong, pal? You might be dressed as silly as me, but I have to zipline down to that ring, and now I"m just going to radio in to delay and I'll take the elevator down and use the entrance, you know? That phone booth of yours there could take me!"

Bourbon facepalms, Morbid kind of chuckles.

"Yeah, Robbie! We can be time heroes and change the past!"

No, no Morbid, we...

"Robbie? Morbid? Time heroes? So that is a time machine? OH WOW! Come on guys, let's go! We can go to fight Romans in the battle of Carthage!"

Morbid Angel and the man in the other blue mask high five each other.

Alright, pal, look, I promise you will see shit even we haven't seen yet, but you, uh, you gotta do the zipline spot. The suits sent us, you know? Just to make sure you didn't get jitters, and everything was rigged right.

"Oh, okay! Well, there's my music!"

As the music starts, the man in the mask hops off a rail with a zipline attached to him. There's a failure, and he careens into the ring, breaking his neck on a turnbuckle. The fans below are in a state of utter confusion as to what they have just seen.

"X-TREME!"

Shit. This autopilot thing is fucked up, who the fuck programmed that shit? The department of irony?

"If you really did dominate human civilization like Jesus said, would it surprise you if you had a department of irony?"

No, but, ugh, shut up. Look, that, that was fucked. Fuck it. Fuck it all. I want to have fun with something in time, I want people to go "Yay, Robbie went back in time and do stuff like Quantum Leap" not "Oh, Robbie went back in time and learned something like some jackass". I want the people to have the hair stand up on the back of their necks and for them to get a chill, a shock, and a wave of emotion all at once so when they hear my music, and see me step out from behind a curtain and walk down some steel ramp to my potential demise, they fucking roar.

Because god damn, my opponent sure as fuck isn't generating any sort of buzz whatsofuckingever. People are going to fall asleep in our match, dude, they're not going to care about the beating I lay on you, and the people need to pay attention to what's happening, Mason, the people deserve to have their appetites for destruction in the very fucking least given an opportunity to grow needy for the fact Robbie Bourbon facing Mason Prince in the fucking ring on Wednesday is important, and you know why? Do you fucking know why, Mason?

My name is Robbie Motherfucking Bourbon. You're going to remember that name. I'm the man who's going to make you fucking famous, stud. You'll be on a rocket ship on your way to mars by the time I get finished. Your name is going to blow up all across the XWF Universe and it's connections to social media. Twitter will tweet "God damn, @MasonPrinceVirgin got his spine da fuq broke, lol, #BourbonMotherfucker". Facebook will have pics of your fucking body, getting share after share, because you actually have been broken in places. Tumblr is going to have your fucking memes floating around everywhere. You're going to get a buzz, stud. You're going to be ready for us.

You can win this fight, you just gotta join our side.

What's there to really fucking think about at this point? What's the debate? Are you worried you're career will be in jeopardy? Shit, dude, with your losing streak, you're already there. Now, you'll be there and in a wheelchair. Don't fight it. Ramps aren't everywhere, dude.

And that's coming from the guy who just killed Owen Hart. You sure do wonder why child molesters and neo-Nazi's look to me for shelter, doncha.

Crucifying your silly little self, stud, will be easy. You can say I'm fat all you want, you can claim nobody respects me, that just means those are the things about me that scare you most. The respect I generate, and the boom and bam my big body brings. Ya dun goofed, kid.

Robbie and Morbid get back into the time machine, and Robbie heads home.