Robbie Bourbon recently broke out of jail and went on the run with his girlfriend, Blue.

ON THE LAM

We see Robbie and Blue walking into a 7-11.

Look, babe, disguises!

Robbie points at a rack of hats and sunglasses, right by the entrance to 7-11. Blue giggles and picks up an enormous sun hat and large aviator shades. She doffs her mask and puts both the hat and sunglasses on.

Ooh, smoking hot.

Shush, put yours on.

She hands Robbie a red hat that says "Make America Great Again" and some fake Ray bans. Robbie has a slight belly laugh.

Nobody'd expect me in this hat.

He puts it on and the sunglasses as well. The couple then walk back to the drink cooler. Robbie opens one panel and reaches in to pull out an ice cold Coca-Cola. Blue grabs a can of iced tea. The couple approach the counter. The cashier looks at them funny as she rings up their drinks.

"That'll be $13.67"

Robbie pulls a wad of hundred out of his jeans pocket.

Jesus, how much cash do you have?

Oh? Around fifty grand.

And you just walk around with it wadded up like that all the time?

Yeah, why?

Honey, you need to get a wallet.

I have one.

Robbie pulls his wallet out. It's stuffed to the brim with hundred dollar bills.

Jesus. Don't you carry an ATM card?

Yeah, do you think I need to take some money out?

No, just, here. Give me the wad of bills.

Jeeze, now you're controlling my money.

Hush you big strong viking you. Excuse me, ma'am? How much for your car?

"My car?"

Yeah, uh, look. We're in a rush, what kind of car do you drive?

"A Toyota."

How much is it worth?

"I don't know, um, like seven thousand?"

Blue counts out ten thousand dollars and places it on the counter.

Look, you take this, we take your car, you never saw us, okay?

"Um..."

The cashier looks confounded by the offer.

---

So Ginger wants to complain about a bar story?

Sister, you aught to recognize there are other people in this company besides yourself. There's Frodo Smackins, the GM of Warfare, there's Pest, my Black Hand compatriot, there's Maria Brink, married to Peter Gilmour, there's the Dick of Peter Gilmour, that's Peter Gilmour's actual severed penis, his name is Alejandro.

Did anybody ever tell you you're starting to sound just like every one of them? Huh, funny.

See, Ginger, you might have been bored by the story.

The people, however, the people seem to like that kind of shit. They like hearing about when I've been in some fucked up predicament and came out ahead.

And what kind of asshole would I be if I didn't claim victory over Austin Fernando and Game Girl? I mean, yeah, Vinnie was in my corner and all, but it isn't like I go around blaming Pest for losing to Austin and Luca, now do I? I mean, heh, strong link here speaking and all, maybe if Pest didn't have his head in the clouds over something young and silly in his gross fashion, I'd be running around with half the Tag Titles, but it isn't like I'm going around blaming anyone else for losing but myself.

But none of that's really important, is it?

We have a barroom brawl to consider.

Reminds me of quite a few barroom brawls I've been in.

I remember the elevator fight.

See, the club I worked at was huge. Two stories, five bars, a massive occupancy level, and the bright idea that country could be playing in one room while top forty hits are playing in another. The place was called Uncle Sam's.

It was a blood bucket.

See, the bartenders there were accustomed to pulling in around a thousand dollars a weekend. They were the real pricks. They'd usually keep pouring and pouring and pouring booze to rack up higher tip counts. It didn't matter to them, you see, because they didn't have to clean up the messes.

So I'm upstairs and this lady is caught doing a rail of cocaine off of a table by one of the other bouncers.

Never touch the shit, Ginger, no matter what curveballs life throws at you.

Now the guy up there was Mike. Mike was a pretty smooth guy, didn't like rippling the waters, but god damn could he swim when they were churning, sister. Mike was politely talking with the woman about how she needed to remove the drugs from the table. And the woman wasn't some young girl, now. She was like in her fifties.

Of course, the lady told us how she knew Ron, the owner, who would fire us for kicking her out.

Mike tells her he doesn't want the cops coming in here, and there were a lot of government and military employees there that night, and that displaying the blow would be a bad idea.

She screams and actually tosses the powder into myself and Mike's faces.

Seriously, Ginger, never touch the shit. It got in my eyes, and you know what?

I got high as a motherfucker.

Now she also dives onto Mike and starts to pound away at his back. I pull her off, and while Mike grabs the ankles, I grab the wrists, and we start to walk this weird old bitch through one bar and into a foyer to the elevator.

Now the stairs would be preferred here. However, we can't get to the stairs because of the sheer amount of fucking people hanging around up there that night. So we sit there as about two hundred people watch and point and gawk as me and Mike hold a flailing, coked out old bitty while we both blink nonstop, our lips pursed and our teeth clenched behind said lips.

After what seemed like an eternity of judgment from the patrons upstairs (and let's be fair, after seeing yours truly tossing an old lady out on her ass, there was no way I was getting any pussy), the elevator arrives. As three couples step out and almost trip over the extended body of the writhing woman as Mike and I held her up in the air, we rush into the car.

The first thing Mike does is slam the button to close the doors. As they shut, he starts to put the boots to this old lady. I quickly hit the ground floor button.

Suffice to say, getting her out was easier than getting her in.

Now, Ginger, you're facing off against someone who is highly adept at barroom fighting tactics.

If you're bored by the notion, you might consider wearing a helmet to our match Thursday. Bottles across the skull are a helluva thing, darlin'. Underneath this pretty hair of mine, there's a road map of scars left by the fuckers.

So ooh-ah your legacy, it's bullshit anyhow.

You couldn't even put me down if you sang me a lullaby.

---

We see Robbie and Blue getting into a 1998 Toyota Camry.

I can't believe I paid ten grand for this piece of shit.

It's a getaway vehicle, honey, you couldn't really be picksy choosy.

Robbie turns the ignition, slaps the transmission into first, and takes off out of the parking lot of the 7-11. In seconds, a group of police cruisers converge on the parked ambulance.