Robbie Bourbon recently claimed he would break his opponent against the steel steps in a cage match, to whit, Dark Warrior Micheal Graves had nothing better to do than talk to himself about what manner of beat down that entails.

Eh, can't make an omelette without breaking some eggs.

CAGED HEAT

We open to see Robbie and Jarod the wizard outside of a quaint church in the rural mid-Atlantic U.S. Could be Delaware for all you know.

The pair is walking towards the edge of the cleared land to a fence, completely barren and deprived of kudzu in the middle of winter. The rusted chain links are supported by deep crimson posts, oxidized from the decades. The fence may have seen it's heyday, but now it is a humble part of the church's landscape, a place corralling the parish from the harsh world surrounding it, the steel cathedral in place to fend off the cruel, the hurtful, and the superstitious.

Lo, why dost thou show me this fence? It is old, and worthless.

No, Jarod, it is not. I'm not showing you this fence because of it's age, I'm showing you because of it's durability. This fence, Jarod, is much like the cage I'll be facing Dark Mike within.

A cage? How barbaric!

God damned right it's barbaric. Anything, and I do mean anything, goes in that fucking cage, Jarod. Anything, and I do mean anything, can and will happen in that fucking cage. Two men enter, and I, a champion, will leave, emerging from the wreckage and the carnage within even better than before. See, this fence is a lot like that cage. It's steel mesh, it's thick hard posts, it's unrelenting, unforgiving, unyielding way of stopping all momentum, and all of that surrounding you, everywhere you look. Well, everywhere that is but across the ring at your opponent, Jarod. I'll be facing Dark Mike. Dark Mike will be facing some really shitty consequences for being in that cage at the wrong time against the wrong guy.

You aren't some mystery, or enigma, or Rubik's cube I need to figure out on time or else I lose my Hart Championship, Dark Mike. You're just a body trying to be anything but a body at this point. Try to convince me you're crazy, try to convince me you're a demon, try to convince me you're a force, try to convince me you're anything but a fucking man in a wasted, decrepit body who had his prime some twelve fucking years ago, and even then, who in their right mind would call that a prime? Shit, old timer, you came out of fucking retirement just so I could whip your ass in a fucking steel cage so I can look even better as Hart Champion, no matter what you try to convince yourself of. You can try to convince yourself that I can't fathom you, you can try to convince yourself that I can grasp you, you can lie to yourself all you want to, Dark Mike. None of it really matters, come as you are and get wrecked, I'll even kick your ass if you're just a guy who knows his balogna has a first and last name, and he sticks his dick in between. I'm a man of the people, I accept all challengers, I accept your challenge, and I will overcome your little challenge by showing you that I am everything that proceeds my name. I am the Wrecker, the High Holy Hypocrite, the King of the Jobbers, the Masher the Masses Have Masses For, the Sold-Out Arena Waiting To Be Booked, the Best Big Man in the XWF Today, Tomorrow, or Yesterday, and the bodacious, outrageous, rambunctious, downright devious, reigning and defending Hart Champion of the XWF.

My name is Robbie Motherfucking Bourbon. You're going to remember that name. It's the name of the man who will introduce the XWF Universe to the golden age of the Hart Championship, and that the first notch in the belt was a bonafide sucker named Dark Mike set up to look like a contender then shrink down into playing the pretender faster than breakfast, lunch, and dinner coming out of Demi Lovato when she's trying to look pretty. You know, I even took you seriously, at first. Then you turned into this dude who, well, kept a man in the closet. I don't know if that was supposed to symbolize the inner trappings of your soul coming to bear or British imperialism of the late 19th century, and I could care less, because you had one job, and that was keep the man in the closet, and welp, you went and let the man out of the closet. So, the lesson learned here, is you're a fuckup. If you're going to restrain someone, tie them up, or just use duct tape. It's a stand-by for abductions, Jarod, never forget that.

What is this duct tape you speak of?

Jarod smirks and strokes his own whispy, estrogen restricted beard, his smarminess due to not breaking his awesome wizard character.

Don't be a dink. Now, I didn't really lead you over here.

Oh?

Nah, you've been following me for no real reason. Go wait at the van.

Robbie unzips his fly, and we hear the telltale sounds of a dude taking a piss. The spray patters over the light foliage at the base of the fence, a dull ring coming from when the urine drops hit the chain links as all we see is Robbie beside Jarod, far above the waist.

Oh, you sure you should be...

Should be what?

You're peeing on the church...

I'm peeing where it's convenient. Do you think they'd rather I went on the floor inside?

I must stop you from desecrating this holy ground!

What?

LIGHTNING BOLT!

Jarod throws a blue pool noodle at the fence. We now hear piss bouncing off of it. Robbie tucks himself away and zips up. Robbie rolls his eyes.

Dude, you're going to be a ton of fucking help against Ravenwolf.

Who?

She's a witch.

So, first you want aide in vanquishing this Dark Warrior, then help in defeating a witch named Ravenwolf?

Robbie looks at Jarod. He looks less than pleased.

I don't need fucking help kicking the shit out of some fucking dingleberries on the cusp of the ass of the XWF.