Robbie Bourbon faces his first Hart Championship defense against Michael Graves, a scraggly and scrawny, washed up body of a human with no soul, charisma, or grace whatsoever. If I were in Graves's shoes, I'd feel like management was screwing me over too.

Been there, done that, got the shiny fucking belt to prove it.

LIVE IN THE NOW

We open to see a wide open grassy field. The wind blows and rustles the short, barely surviving blades and kicks up a few loose dead leaves, left untouched by fall groundskeepers wherever this is. The sky is overcast, and in the distance we see a treeline. A group of very portly nerdish types are seen, identifiable by their 2XL Wal-Mart t-shirts barely grasping to hold a 3XL waistline, foam swords, and ridiculous costume pieces. They are, as some would put it, LARPing, which is the dorkiest thing one can do. I should know.

As they futz around and speak in some nerd jargon, referencing characters and other outlandish fictional ballyhoo at one another, we see the Donkey Kong Rape Van pull up to the group, who all stop and take a step back. Robbie Bourbon hops out of the van.

People! How you doin'?

The nerds all look taken aback.

"Begone, knave, for thou are a foul spirit among we!"

One of the nerds throws a foam ball at Robbie.

I cast Fireball!

Robbie looks at the camera and shrugs.

Graah! You got me! Ahhhhhh!

The rest of the nerds kind of wander off.

Die in the flames you contemptible rapscallion!

I, uh, your friends are just leaving, I was hoping we could play some freeze tag or something, I got a frisbee...

Lies and more lies! You intend to trap us all in ice with your "freeze tag", attack us with your dingus!

My, heh...

Your dingus. It means flying disk. Cretin.

Robbie is holding his giggling stomach as he tries not to start laughing instantly.

Did you just call me a cretin?

I did, and it's a well earned statement.

The nerd throws another NERF ball at Robbie. It's NERF or nothing with this guy.

Fireball!

Robbie no-sells this time.

What is your name?

I am Jarod, the Wizard! How dost thou ignore the vengeance of my fireball now?

I got good.

Oh, well, if you are good...

Oh, no, no nonononononono. I'm not good. I'm the tippy top of the XWF.

XWF? I've never heard of such realm.

Oh, it's right in your wheelhouse, brother. See, there are all sorts of things going on in the XWF that you could study and help with! Witches, Dark Warriors, Dukes, and even monsters from other dimensions.

This sounds like a dangerous place!

Oh, Jarod, it is! It really, really is, in the most wonderful and beautiful way imaginable. See, all these weirdos, whackos, losers, reprobates, and otherwise undesirable to the sane and living human, they congregate, and then they all get knocked the fuck down by...

A LEVEL TWELVE ICE STORM!

A level twelve ice storm. No, that's not right at all, Jarod. They all get knocked down by me. The god damned Hart Champion.

You are the Hart Champion?

Yes.

He who reigns supreme over all the does and deer in the forest?

No, no. It's named after a man named Hart.

Was he a hunter?

A hit-man.

Renowned?

The best there was, the best there is, and the best there ever will be.

He sounds legendary!

He was, but that's neither here nor there. See, now I carry on his legacy. Of being the best. I'm the greatest performer in the XWF today, and my next opponent is the Dark Warrior, Michael Graves.

Have you seen a priest?

A what? No, I haven't been to church in decades.

No, to protect yourself from the dark warrior's dark magic!

Huh?

Jarod, the Wizard, and Robbie Bourbon exchange awkward looks at each other as they almost completely collapse their entire conversation based on the notion that Robbie is describing the XWF, and not another lame fuckaroo LARP session, but Jarod has no idea that that's what is happening.

Uh, okay, but I don't want to go alone, do you recommend a good church?

Jarod, confusedly, nods his head no, staying in his wizard character.

I am but a traveler myself.

Oh, okay, good. I have a GPS, lets go find a church.

A GPS?

Oh, uh, yeah, all of us XWF guys have one, so the monitors can watch us.

Scrying stones?

No, a GPS.

So, besides the priest's blessings against the Dark Warrior's curse...

Besides whatever a man of God has to say about it, Michael Graves is in for the experience of a fucking lifetime. This measly worm of a pit stain, I'ma do what's right for the people, and as the Hart Champion, I humbly must kick your ass in the most vicious way fucking possible. You talk an awful lot, old timer, I'll give you that. The gift of gab ain't lost on you, no sir, not by a long shot. You put them dentures in for one more go 'round in the XWF, twelve years since retirement, talk skeletons in the closet? You're just a skeleton in the basement. The foundation of the XWF, I best thank my lucky stars you showed up and talked shit about Steve Jason. Steve Jason can suck my left fucking testicle. Could, that is, if you weren't being greedy and sucking my whole nut sack, looking for a taste of greatness. You built this house? Motherfucker, you went out of town, we did some renovations while you were away, probably getting anything with a venereal disease and twenty bucks to snort lines of coke off your dick, a line for each of your little voices you like to talk to. This house has a better foundation, this house has support, and this house has a roof, all because men like me came into the fucking XWF arena and kept giving blood, sweat, and tears to fight for opportunities and to fight for championships, and for that, Michael Graves, for that I say you are welcome, sir. The only reason you had anything to fucking come back to is because I went around the globe and shed blood in every corner of the world. Not because of Dork Warrior Michael Graves. You do represent the past so well, though, don't you? I mean, fat jokes, shit, you won't be the first motherfucker I've met who's had them, won't be the last, but you're definitely the next motherfucker to get fucking wrecked for having them. The only hope you have from me with a pizza is I'll cut a hole in the middle and show you what a Champion's dick looks like so you can feel like a winner for once in your life too, instead of getting the piss beat out of him by Sebastian's boy. Recall that guy, old timer? Thaddeus Duke's daddy was too chickenshit to face me, and I reckon if the guy taught his son anything, it was not to fuck with Robbie Bourbon. Too much muscle, too much venom, too much will to just do harm to your fucking body to make some lucky kid in the front row go home with your left incisor as a fucking souvenir. Fuck it, Mike, I'm going to autograph your fucking teeth before I bash them out of your mouth, sending dentures flying everywhere, and they'll go for a small fortune on eBay because it was Robbie Bourbon what done it.