Robbie Bourbon has recently taken it upon himself to register his vehicle as an emergency responder, whatever that means.

OVER THE TOP

We open to see the vile, cruel, and terrible gates of Hell, also the front door to the Virginia Department of Motor Vehicles. A gleefully screaming child runs in circles holding some toy as it's mother tries to read out of her Cosmopolitan magazine, only glancing up to view a change in digits above a kiosk, content that her baby was just being a baby. Several teens sit with anxious looking parents, signing over an agreement to teach their kid to drive while considering every bad driving habit they've ever shown the kid in their upbringing. Solemn others dick around on their cell phones, with a lone old-timer reading an actual newspaper.

Suddenly, the A-Team Van painted to look like the Ghostbusters care barrels into the DMV lobby through a window, and Robbie hops out of it.

Fucking rad! That was just like the Ninja Turtles!

The security guard runs up and draws his tazer on Robbie, firing. Robbie crashes to the floor, electricity flowing through him as a tense grin is seen on his face.

You can't park here!

Robbie rolls his eyes, plucks the prongs of the tazer line from his chest, and gets back into his van. He pulls out of the DMV and into an appropriate parking spot. He then walks back in through the hole in the wall he just created along with Ash, Robbie's personal stylist, Joe Biden, Vice-King of the Jobbers, and Smashdyface McFace, Islamic terrorist who had his face smashed in with an axe. Smashdyface says something inaudible due to his face being all smashed up.

You're right, I didn't notice the handicap sign there, good eye, Smashdyface. Good eye. Put your orangutan mask back on, we're all disgusted with your outward appearance, however.

Smashdyface McFace puts his orangutan mask on, and the security guard promptly tazes him.

I said no masks!

Robbie walks over to wait in line, stepping over the convulsing body of Smashdyface McFace. Ash and Joe Biden follow suit.

So, you filled out all that paperwork?

Yep.

That was, fast...

What do you mean?

Well, you and paperwork, are you sure you did what you were supposed to?

I did.

Ash takes the stack of papers from Robbie and looks through them.

You just signed all of them.

Yeah, you're supposed to.

No, you didn't fill anything else out, you just signed all of them like you were doing autographs.

I know, for the people!

You dragged me back to the DMV again, after you told me we'd get ice cream, and you didn't even do what you were fucking supposed to.

Whatevs.

Whatevs nothing, Robbie, I'm tired of you tricking me into thinking I'm going to get ice cream.

Ever see Hillary Clinton in a swimsuit?

Yeah.

Skip the ice cream.

She is an exquisite woman in a bathing suit.

I'll bet, Joe, but some of us haven't been invited to a proper Clinton key party. Let me guess, you separate your house and car keys, don't you.

You bet your sweet ass I do.

Awesome. Now, we're going to get this settled once and for all.

As Robbie and his cohorts banter, they make their way to the desk of the receptionist.

Hello, sir, how may I help you.

She sounds more like Cyberjaw, with text reading "NOT CYBERJAW, COUNTERFEIT CYBERJAW" scrolling across the bottom of the screen.

Yes, I'm here to have my vehicle declared an emergency responder by Vice-Presidential decree.

I decree it.

Okay, here's your number, please wait.

Okay.

Robbie goes and sits down, holding a small slip of paper that reads B322. He looks up at a monitor which shows "NOW SERVING B309"

God damnit. We're going to be here forever. This place is Hell.

Stop it, I told you...

Yeah, yeah, yeah, I know. But seriously, what is Hell? What is the very concept? Did Dante get the vision correct when he wrote the inferno? All manner of faiths in the world consider it to be suffering, but that's an abstract, isn't it? Who suffers more than those here, waiting in the DMV to have the Vice-President make your set of wheels official government property and thus not taxed? I'll tell you who.

There's Kurt Angle, the bag of bones that used to be a champion and now can't even turn his neck left and right, effectively making him a human Mr. Potato-Head, which was a human potato. Then there's James Ellsworth, who is just a chinless wonder repeating the same garbage he spewed on another company's broadcast. Seriously, what is it with these totally non-XWF fuckers like them, and Gator, who's an Only Shitheads Watch this kind of guy. I am the grand high poobah of the XWF, I bleed XWF, I shit XWF, I love XWF, and I will die XWF. Most likely. This place gets wiggy sometimes, fighting in literal, not figurative hell.

Chris Chaos showed me a great Underarmor commercial kind of thing where he did cross-fit while listening to his iPod, except he was selling his new cologne, STAMINA by Chris Chaos. STAMINA, smell like a wrestler. STAMINA, 60% of the time, it works all the time. Trax, well I guess Trax is doing what Trax does best, sit in his den like a grandpa looking at his old trophies while sipping a mild tea and thinking about the days he could tell when he would shit and could muster up an erection and fuck the milkman. Collecting dust. Jakob Davis sniffs shit in pay toilets, Kitt Kennedy is a huge joke but one that everybody knows and nobody thinks is fucking funny anymore, Isabella Ravenwolf's parents were wizards too, their names were Asperger's the Mildly Autistic and A Flying Butthole With Personality And Clerical Tendencies. Jamaican Jimmy considers his training regimen of skullfucking guinea pigs to death adequate even though he's just a brutal necrobeastial whore, Jose Gomez is so forgetable, who the fuck is Jose Gomez? Has anybody ever heard of this asshole? No?

SLAVE, another drop of snot that nobody would open a fucking hanky for, Calypso, who often lists himself as "apelike" on dating website profiles, Nico "I need to go to bed because I'm evil and my mom will get mad at me and take my evil away and how the fuck am I supposed to be evil without my evil?" Lavey, Eliza Thorne, who could just be a backpage.com girl for all I fucking know or care, Gabe Reno, a man who often looks forward to sharts on buses so he has an icebreaker, and Hunter Payne likes to buy McDonalds milkshakes and put them in the microwave at fucking 7-11 for like thirty fucking minutes because he likes his ice cream like he likes his women, hot, wasted to the point of no return, and unable to be recognized by experts in three months.

Then there's good ole' Bearded War Pig. He's my bro. Flat out. I like the guy, he's come and saved my ass from a beating before, it was fucking sweet. I hope he gets eliminated before I get out to the ring, honestly, because I don't want to cast that dude into Hell. I will, but I don't fucking want to.

Peter, on the other hand, I'm going to drag you out of the pit after I throw you into it just to throw you into it again. You actually asked if I can beat you twice? Why not, I already have beaten you twice, you silly little fart sniffing beast you. You're a defilement of the French tongue, which is why you practice french kissing with your neighbor's bulldog you rotten toadlike man. You're the only person in the world who could go play Frogger and think it was a mirror, you dumpity little newt. Now that Halloween is over you feel safer, knowing witches aren't looking for your parts for their brew, and I don't know what product could ever be acquired from you besides pity and shame. And only more is coming. Seriously, how many times do I have to break your mother's heart, Peter, how many times do I have to make your mother cry over what I do to her baby boy?

Two more, by my count.

Robbie looks up at the listing of tickets and sees that they are now serving B323, having skipped his number while he was cutting a promo (though cutting it out of diamond with a hellfire heated laser powered by pure poison, juxtapose to whatever nonsense one reads in a GT promo).

Fucking Hell.