Robbie, riled up by the fact his own Bourbon Men got him very, very, very, very drunk before a match, has decided to act out by drinking even more. Hooray, logic.

WELL FUCK

We open to see Robbie passed out on the mat of a ring. The way his body is twisted, almost pointlessly trying to find comfort like a dog circling a bed, the loud snoring from said horrible posture, and the empty bottles of Dekuyper Buttershots around him tell the tale that Robbie once again got incredibly, stupidly, blind drunk. As Robbie scratches his ass and farts, we see the Bourbon Men step towards the ring. Cyberjaw, the man with the cybernetic jaw, Diamondback, the man who can blend into any crowd, Ash, Robbie's personal hair stylist, and Robo-Rob, the robot from Rocky IV painted to look like it's wearing a Robbie Bourbon mask, all approach slowly.

Jesus.

I know, right? I can't believe he actually...

We hear a door slam shut as the camera turns to show Blue storming out of the dojo.

Shit. How the fuck is he supposed to even compete with Chris Chambers now? The guy is on some kind of weird, obsessive mission to get the X-treme Championship, and Robbie can't even stand the fuck up, plus Blue is pissed...

We hear an engine start, and tires peel out as the camera turns to show Blue driving away in the van, which is severely damaged.

Well, why wouldn't she be?

Why wouldn't she what?

We see Robbie groggily rubbing his eyes as he's sitting up.

Jesus. What happened?

Robbie turns his head and vomits, blades of grass and what looks like mud comes out.

What the fuck did I eat?

You wanted to take a bite out of the Washington Monument but just ate a handful of turf from the mall.

Do you know how much goose shit you ate?

Damnit. I must have had a pretty epic night!

That's one way of saying it.

What else happened?

Well, you confronted your girlfriend and called her a whore for getting you drunk.

Whoa, I what?

Robbie puts his hand on the top of his mask, and shuts his eyes tightly, his mind trying to catch up to what he actually did while black-out drunk.

You also...

Robbie's phone goes off. He pulls it out, and the camera zooms in to show notifications from YouTube. He opens one, and video rolls of Robbie eating dirt outside the Washington Monument. He opens another, and we see video of Robbie pissing out of the window of his van while driving, onto a line of people waiting to get into a club. He opens another, and we see a video of Robbie, completely naked and his face painted like Violent J, eating a half-smoke, done all the way, outside Ben's Chili Bowl, in one bite, though it's more like he's just deepthroating the whole thing. He opens another, and we see a video of Robbie driving his van into the atomic clock at the U.S. Naval Observatory and screaming "WE INVENTED TIME! IT'S NOT REAL!", followed by him hopping out of the van, still completely naked, and running down Massachusets Avenue. He turns his phone off.

Fuck.

That's not all.

What else?

Well, Chambers, Robbie, you need to focus on him, not being pissed at us for...

For fucking me. Fuck off, all y'all. I got my own friends now.

Robbie stumbles out of the ring in his dojo towards the bar, fumbling for his phone again. He turns it back on, and dials a number. After thirty seconds, we hear it go to voicemail. He shakes his head, and dials again, and this time it goes to voicemail in 15 seconds.

Damnit, pick up.

Robbie dials again, this time hitting voicemail almost immediately. Robbie rolls his eyes, makes his way to the bar, and pulls out a fresh bottle of butterscotch liqueur. As he sets it on the bar, he plays with his phone, and watches Chris Chambers's latest promo. Afterward, Robbie takes the top off of the bottle of Dekuyper Buttershots and takes a slug. He looks at the camera.

So, Chambers, you mostly seem like an out-of-touch, borderline-delusional moron who wields his faith like it's the only thing that lets him see, and that doesn't bother me one fucking bit. The one thing that we can wholeheartedly agree on, though, is the weak as fuck insults that one can hear around this place. ''? I do agree, clearly lacking in originality.

Ahem.

Robbie takes another slug off the bottle.

Chris Chambers is a boy who thinks he's a man, with this convoluted and twisted little boy plan to conquer a championship held by someone less than the current problem he finds himself in, and I'm less than a fan. He's got a cheesy, pointless, empty smile, flashing bullshit like it will go out of style, this young fool couldn't keep up with me after the first mile, so you wanted stronger insults? We might be here for a while. Conflagration, sir, in this very situation, sir, as you proclaim to some congregation, sir, that resides within the XWF nation, sir, that you think needs agitation, sir, to witness your X-Treme oblation, sir, but it's an abomination, sir, keep that shit on some Davey and Goliath claymation, sir. You come around like the beacon of Christianity, Jesus Christ himself fought in this here XWF insanity, don't recall if the guy used any profanity while causing calamity in his huge magnanimity, though it might be a pity if he was really just shitty.

Robbie takes another slug off the bottle, this time a trickle forming from his lip which he quickly wipes away with his wrist.

Don't look all confused and twisted and befuddled, there's nothing hard in this mix that will make it come out muddled, and I'm not some poor soul whose mommy just never cuddled, this here be the spitfire flamethrower facemelter that leaves you melted and puddled. And that, sir, is coinage, sir, the invention of new nomenclature as dictated for the masses by those willing and able to put emotion into motion and cause a massive commotion, leave impact so deep I'll cause tidal waves in every ocean, shine so bright you'll need your suntan lotion, and with such force you might want to step off the train tracks before you succumb to my locomotion, if you can catch the notion.

Robbie downs the entirety of the rest of the bottle of Dekuypers Buttershots. He throws the empty bottle, and off screen we hear glass shatter. Robbie vomits, then looks back to the camera.

You're the wrestling Mr. Rogers, in a land of make-believe. Stop your sinning now, son, you'll only make loved ones grieve. They'll sob and they'll cry over their "Golden Boy" failing to achieve, turning gold into lead, alchemy is the trick up my sleeve, just another little insect in the tangled web I weave. You want stronger insults, you buy them at the store and bag it, slap them up for us to see, people say good puppy, pull your tail and make you wag it. That shit might fly with your ivory tower dwelling fools only eating what they read about in Zagat, but I call first class bullshit on you and to let folks know I flag it. Ladies and gentlemen, I proclaim to all of you, Chris Chambers is a































































































maggot.

As Robbie completes another rousing puke before finishing his last stanza, he slumps into a stool at the bar and stares at the floor.

Hey, bud.

We hear a familiar voice, and as Robbie turns his head, the camera pans to show Jesus Christ.

Jesus!

Hyep.

No, you scared me!

Hyep, I know. I'm a people person.

What're you doing here? How are you here?

Well, I am God's son, I can get around. Look, Robbie, we need to talk...