Robbie Motherfucking Bourbon faces Mr. Motherfucking Dominance Trax, Chris Motherfucking Chaos, Bearded Motherfucking War Pig, Unknown Motherfucking Soldier, and incumbent Universal Champion, Peter Motherfucking Gilmour for the Universal Motherfucking Championship at Wild Motherfucking Card, this after Robbie made strong motherfucking comments about winning the Universal Motherfucking Championship on Thanksgiving Motherfucking Day.

There, that's the motherfucking joke.

WAKE THE FUCK UP

We open to see a retro talk show studio, much like Johnny Carson or Merv Griffin circa 1975; bright off color shag carpeting, velvet couches, and all manner of decor that is either very 1970's or very IKEA. Cozy, uniquely colored, inducive to porn directors for the way it contrasts human skin. Corny old talk show music is playing.

We see Steve Sayors walk onto the stage with helmet hair in a baby blue suit with frilly shirt. He's holding a microphone 3 feet in length and 6 millimeters in diameter at the stem, 1 centimeter in diameter at the microphone, go convert the shit yourselves on Google if it's really that important, but essentially the same microphone Bob Barker was renowned for wielding. Robbie Bourbon walks onto the set in his regular garb, mask, singlet, boots, and a suit coat due to the warm, inviting decor and with reverence to this appearance on Steve Sayors '77. Robbie shakes Steve's hand and sits as Steve continues to stand. He points an open palm to a curtain beside him and we see five doors, all marked accordingly as the numbers 11, 14, 63, 3.14, and 85 (consequential, deal with it).

Ladies and Gentlemen, I'm Steve Sayors, and welcome that Motherfucker of Motherfuckers, the King of the Jobbers, the Motherfucker of the People, Motherfucker, the High Holy Hypocrite, and Wednesday Night Motherfucker, Robbie Motherfucking Bourbon!

Hi, Steve!

A live studio audience starts to applaud.

Okay, Robbie, I'm a huge fan, we motherfuckers in the motherfucking XWF Motherfucking Universe are really big fans of your motherfucking work!

Thanks, Steve!

A live studio audience starts to applaud.

Now, Robbie, what curtain do you want, curtain number eleven, curtain number fourteen, curtain number sixty-three, curtain number pi, or curtain number eighty-five?

Woah, Steve, I didn't know you ran this kind of a talk show! If I did, I would have been a guest for one of your interviews decades ago!

You are!

Indeed!

So, Robbie, what curtain will it be?

Well, Steve, before I pick the curtain, can I say a thing or two?

Yes.

Well, ladies and gentlemen...

A live studio audience starts to applaud.

Thank you.

A live studio audience starts to applaud.

Thank you.

A live studio audience starts to applaud.

Okay, enough. Ladies and gentlemen...

A live studio audience starts to applaud.

I wish to hereby state, with the utmost certainty, I will be walking out of the ring at Wild Card Weekend, I will be walking out of the chamber at Wild Card Weekend, and I will be walking out the new Universal Champion and I say that I will do that on behalf of the whole Xtreme Wrestling Federation, the greatest wrestling company today in all of creation, with the greatest wrestler in the world today, Robbie Bourbon, piloting that motherstation, leaving motherfuckers twisted and sayin' what in tarnation? It defies explanation the whole motherfucking sensation of seeing a man of the people leading his weird Universal nation into the unknown performing all form of ablation against the insidious hideous creatures harshing his population. I'm the one true Jobbers' King, the one who can fling your carcass out of the ring, and I know it must sting to hear me holler, hallelujah! I sing, Robbie Motherfucking Bourbon sure is capable of every fucking thing.

I chose curtain number sixty-three.

The curtain raises and we see a large portait of Trax.

So, Robbie, what do you think of Trax?

What? He's as hard as lacing velcro shoes, needs to learn to bring the stiff, especially with his feather-duster soft superkick, and I have literally worked with more talented chairs and tables in the ring than the guy.

No, Robbie, what do you really think of him?

Well, I think he's pretty fucking pastiche, even though he's calling me out for saying as so, he's calling out something I said for a show in the past, then he's doing some crazy time travel gimmick, which is beyond silly by the way, I saw better special effects on Syfy, and I've never watched Syfy like the nerd Trax is, not even Sharknado. Thing is, I can say it's silly because when I traveled through time about seven to eight months ago, it was fucking aweome. I legit almost took all the XWF roster with me through time. I'm not finished, either. I know some schmuck is thinking to themselves that this is the end of their journey, that winning at Wild Card is when the credits roll and the catchy summer hit theme plays as they walk out with a hunk of gold bolted to leather, but that's straight bullshit for two reasons. One, I'm walking out of the chamber with the title because as Trax always says, I'm that fucking crafty enough to do it, and if the craftiness fails, ask Peter what happens when I just get fucking brutal. See, that's being multidimensional, Trax, that's being open to change, to know how to adapt and evolve as a wrestler, you, though, you're still pissing and moaning about the fact you have never beaten me. It's pathetic, it's unbecoming, it's why I am he who Dominates Dominance, and it's why you're going to be left in the dust yet again to be a fucking blip of nostalgia in the mind's eye of the average citizen of this here XWF Universe, maybe a name on a list somewhere. I'm moving fucking forward, I'm taking the Universal Title with me on the way, and I'm taking on all comers with it, not just sitting on my fucking hands for half a year waiting to fight Vinnie Lane like the asshole who started the trend of being paper champions well before Scully ever fucking did.

Damn.

Damn straight, motherfucker.

Wow, well, Robbie, that's a pretty impressive statement right there, I think it hit Trax right in the...

Steve Sayors points out to the live studio audience as they all yell back at Steve in unison;

"BUTTHURT!"

That's right, Robbie, Trax is officially butt hurt with you, so you win this great prize!

Suddenly, a voiceover artist, Rod Roddy to those in the know of their voiceover guys, starts to bellow over the whole of the show.

That's right, Steve, Robbie, you'll be going to five!

Four!

Three!

Two!

BRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRAAAAAAAAAACK.
BRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRAAAAAAAAAACK.

The sudden and sharp sounds of an alarm going off on a cellphone break the air as we see a very different view of a darkened bedroom. Robbie Bourbon, still in his mask, groggily reaches up for his phone from his night stand and fiddles with it. Blue, roused from her sleep besides Robbie, stirs.

Turn that the fuck off, you have to train for your Universal Title match.

Just four more curtain.

Huh?

JUST FIVE MORE MINUTES!

Robbie slides the snooze button on his phone as he rolls back over.

I just had the weirdest fucking dream.

What?

I was making a porno with Steve Sayors.

Gross.