Robbie Bourbon has been hellbent on getting his personal vehicle registered as an emergency responder, in fulfillment of Gator's contract obligations that someone concede that he's fucking brilliant or something. He made the banner, so there's merit to the statement.

LORD OF THE PIT

We open to see the ominous and soul crushing sight of the DMV on any given afternoon. Well, this DMV looks quite different since there's a huge gaping hole in the wall and a rather busted up looking A-Team van painted to look like the Ghostbusters car covered in DMV rubble parked neatly in a spot not far away.

A line of people queued up to get assistance in whatever matters they have relating to their car or motorcycle and the law of the land stretches out the hole in the wall. The people look deflated, crushed with despair, like poor souls waiting in a bread line, or more accurately, poor souls waiting in line at the DMV. Among them, however, standing out like a bright orange bloom on a grey November day, is Robbie Bourbon.

"Fucking DMV. I fucking hate this shit. Hate, hate, hate the God damned DMV. I have to get another stupid fucking number." Robbie bites his lip and nods his head in disapproval. "This is fucking driving me up a wall. At least I have Ash with me, she's pretty fun to hang out with. I can dig the divas in life, they're pleasant, not a headache. Joe needs to be handed a Tiger Electronic handheld game every sixteen fucking minutes because he says he keeps losing the damn things. I think a bully might be taking them and he's too embarrassed to say." Robbie glances over at Joe Biden as a seven-year-old girl browbeats him into giving up the LCD version of Mortal Kombat. "Damnit, another one? Fucking Smashdyface is just bewildered by the whole of this, but he needs to see more of the moving parts in America. The nitty-gritty. Let him know our culture isn't to be feared."

Everybody in the line paces forward as Robbie sighs. Biden is walking back up, his mouth moving but the sound completely muddled, like it was coming through a blanket. Robbie smiles and reaches into his pocket, pulling out Tiger Electronic's Street Fighter II. He hands it to Joe Biden, who giddily starts to play.

"There you go, buddy. Have fun. I can wait. I can wait until I'm in the depths of Hell and I'm there to sling bodies and wreck bodies and smash bodies and then take the bodies and throw them over the top rope. Plenty of bodies. There's Trax, trying to be a negative Nancy hardass but defensive at the same time. It's kind of goofy, but meh, we're kindred, aren't we? Both debuting at the same time, he seems to remember that like it's important, like he remembers the tag team match. I always thought it was water under the bridge, just kind of moved on, made new allegiances, I'm starting to think the major reason he thinks Pest and Morbid are so evil is because I forgot about him when I got to hang out with them. It's all a defense mechanism with the guy, saying there's credence to something when a group says something about how unimportant something is then saying the group of people saying he's pro-black is wrong. I don't get that. By default, if Trax is out for himself, and he's black, by proxy doesn't that make him pro-black? I dunno, fucking logic knots. I just want to go beat the shit out of Trax. Not because I think I need some retribution against him, not because I think I need to prove anything to him, but because he's on to something. There is that kismet just buzzing around there, something magnified for no other reason than fate. Trax, we see each other as opponents for the first time, and this time there are eighteen other people involved. Next time, four other people are involved. Thing is, I know you're just bringing up history with me because that's all you're good for, history, and definitely not the present, but you actually brought up a brilliant point that can not and must not be ignored. Eventually, Trax, that countdown is going to end. Bring your bluster, your hypocrisy, and don't get me wrong, I love me some hypocrisy as the High Holy Hypocrite, bring your super plain shitty finisher and I'll bring mine, bring our strikingly similar chins, but ultimately it will just be the two of us, one on one, in an XWF ring. And nothing you do will protect you from that fate, from that destiny, to be the commander of my legion, the bright and proud herald of the true King of the Jobbers, after I lay your burnt out, lost shine, dimmer by the day, never inspired a single fan, never sold a single shirt, never sold a single show, just sold everybody the notion he was legendary because he was and was and was but never is, shriveling, fading, yet handsome chinned career out to dry. Ashes to ashes and whatnot." Robbie reaches out and stretches his arms. Afterward he reaches into his pocket and pulls out his phone as he completes this thought.

"Sure, I could lay it all out there for some kind of a blood feud, but right now, there are a lot of bigger things at stake than just me and Trax creating some cataclysmic event in the ring together. Gator has re-emerged, and he hasn't wasted any time in grabbing a foothold around here. Chris Chaos is a house of fire right now, but the thing about burning houses is that ultimately, they just stop burning. Either wet stuff goes on red stuff until smoke becomes steam becomes soggy wood, broken picture frames, a ruined TV, and a ton of food you can't eat. Man, all the food that gets wasted in a house fire, a lot of people don't even think about it. Then he does cool-guy Under Armor commercial stuff with a buzzword, which I never even thought of. What kind of buzzword would I use since Trax pointed out that it's okay to copy each other's thoughts and at the same time not okay, I wanna make a video where I'm whipping those ropes, or bench pressing a mule, or pulling a truck with my teeth or something, showcase how physically fit I am as an athlete." Robbie puts his phone back in his pocket and shrugs. Ash says something to him. "Oh wow, you're cute. Your buzzword would be 'adorable'. I think mine would be 'burly' or 'husky'. Maybe 'powerful'. I like 'husky'."

Robbie rubs his chin and thinks to himself HUSKY. The pall cast over the rest of the line awaiting assistance at the DMV seems to contrast with Robbie as he amuses himself with his thoughts of his next match, thinking of all the bodies he's going to be responsible for chucking over the top rope like a god damned elimination battle royale winning machine he is built to be. "I'm a god damned elimination battle royale winning machine! Trax and my binary destiny be damned, who gives a fuck about that here and now, that will be settled in concrete in the future, when I toss him over the top rope, though, maybe some of the dust will fall off, and he'll start sounding like a fucking threat and not a pismire and long winded gym teacher who won a championship for the school in the fucking Nineties. Gator is going to do what exactly, think to work with any of the other guys in the ring to try to get me out of the ring? Gator can't think of a new password when Facebook asks him to change it due to suspicious activity. Gator can't fathom what happens to a fart when you can't smell it anymore and thinks farts leave people for heaven. Gator eats baby food because he doesn't understand the concept of preparing a meal and opening cans is too hard. Strained fucking carrots. The only guy who seems to have any kind of gameplan in dealing with Robbie Bourbon is, well, nobody. Chris Chaos is running around like the pretty princess he is with zero understanding of what kind of fucking violence comes to town with Robbie Bourbon. Shit, we'll be in Hell, this is the XWF, nothing the fuck says I can't just bring a fucking butterfly knife down to the ring stuffed in one of my fucking boots, and this dickweed is just fine tuning a machine being sent straight to the fucking scrapyard. Kurt Angle is already destined for the fucking scrapyard. Fucking Dolly fucking Waters, lil ugly fucking piggy stinking up the ring whenever she makes her way out of Paul Heyman's cage, and seriously, Paul, let the girl bathe. Let her take a bath every now and then, practice some hygiene. We get she's your little fighting dog, being sent out to attack and bite and put other mutts down, but as much as I hate doing it for personal reasons, there is no fucking way I'm not just going to lawn dart a competitor that weighs less than a hundred and fifty pounds. Dolly, you got promise, you can do some amazing shit and will be probably an incredible and respectable competitor someday, and I don't get why everybody else is saying you're a force to be reckoned with because slinging you around hitting a whiffle ball with a sledgehammer. Cardboard stands a better chance, even if my finisher is really fucking shitty. Fuck! It's getting to me. I do have a shitty finisher. I need a cooler one, one with more sizzle, one that doesn't look like I'm just being lazy and falling down behind someone." Robbie sizes up another person in line. Particularly, a really HUSKY guy, probably weighing well over 350 pounds. "Okay, I'd have to be able to do it to that guy. I'm pretty sure I can snap him with the EMC, but I try to save that for special occasions, like tables or tables, or even tables. Maybe if I got him bridged? I don't do any bridging shit, no fireman's carries, I could maybe do that. Fuck, am I gonna have to do the fucking Torture Rack? That'll look horrible, my belly jiggling the whole fucking time, the fans will laugh themselves to death while some poor schlub like Peter Gilmour or Reno gets their spine dislocated, looking like the printed results of a lie detector. Nah, it has to be fucking brutal, though. F5? Nah, I can do better." Robbie taps the portly fellow on the shoulder. He turns.

Uh, yeah?

Hey, weird question, do you watch wrestling?

No, not particularly.

Huh. Ever, uh, want to watch?

Heh, no, thank you.

Damn.

I know who you are, though. You're Robbie Bourbon, you stopped that crime spree on the news. I think I know someone if you're giving away tickets.

Oh, nah, sorry, I could comp you, I guess, maybe, but...

Really? My brother and his wife would love it.

Sweet. Well, can you do me a favor?

What do you need from me?

I need to pick you up.

Why?

I, just, lemme see something.

The corpulent man considers Robbie's odd request, shrugs, and puts his hands in the air with a smile.

Sure, go for it.

In a flash Robbie has the fat guy on his shoulders, racked.

Okay, so, what is the scariest thing I could do?

DON'T DROP ME!

Look, I won't, I'm just... what are you most afraid of, right now?

PUT ME DOWN!!! You're going to kill me!

I, no, I won't, but how do you think I'll kill you?

By dropping me!

That won't kill you, you silly goose. How would I drop you to kill you?

On my head!

Oh, okay.

Robbie puts the fat man down gently and gives him a hug to settle his nerves. The man looks completely shocked and in dismay, not sure how to react.

Thank you, what's your name?

Spencer!

Okay, Spencer, look, you get free passes for life. Come to my dojo some time.

No!

Spencer, the weary, looks on in horror as text scrawls across the bottom of the screen saying "NEW BOURBON MAN, FAT SPENCER THE WEARY!"

What a great guy!

Robbie gives the rest of the people a big thumbs up. "Make the most out of your time in Hell. The worst thing you can do to a person is completely leave them alone. In prison, the worst thing you can do to someone completely surrounded by rapists and murderers is take them away from them and leave them in solitary." Robbie pats Spencer on the back, who looks mortified to be around Robbie. He says something at Robbie which is completely muffled, and Robbie simply responds by kissing Spencer smack in the middle of his bald forehead. "Made a new friend, thought up a cool new finisher, and pretty soon, I won't have to pay property taxes on my vehicle because it'll be government. If it breaks, the government pays for it. I keep the keys and title, they get the use of it, I'm the only authorized user. Fucking sweet. I get to bounce a bunch of doofy bastards out of a ring in Hell and scoop up the Xtreme Championship right under the devil's nose, like some fucking folk hero. Fucking sweet. Then, tits. Lots of tits." Robbie looks skyward to avoid glancing at a woman who walked by with an incredibly large chest. "Okay, that sidetracked me."

Robbie's eyes go wide. "THAT'S IT! They say in Hell you can't take a man's life, you take his sanity. Okay, a person's life to be PC, it's 2016 and all. See, the trick I gotta do is just keep my head when everybody else is scrambling like a chicken with their head cut off. Pace myself, breathe, don't get caught up in some stupid horsefuckery that gets me eliminated. How am I going to get myself through the mind wracking torments of Hell? I've seen tits. Big, huge, floppy, heavy, not fatty and fluffy but legit bigguns. Set up with a pair of hips as wide as my shoulders and little belly but no fupa. As vile, as nasty, and as horrible as the DMV is, I can always think of tits." Robbie pulls his phone out and begins to type something before looking around at the rest of the people in line. "Nah, better not look up tits in public, that's just fucking weird." Robbie puts his phone away and glumly looks on towards the line of queued DMV customers on this average November afternoon. "Now we just have to wait for tits, Coca-Cola, and the assholes to show up in the fucking ring to get tossed out of the fucking ring. And getting my van recognized as an emergency responder."