Robbie Bourbon soon sees himself defending his Hart Championship against none other than Mr. Tidbits at Saturday Night Savage.

But, in homage to the savage days of the WWFE Monday Night Wars, Puppies!

DELILAH

We open to see the dismal view of what looks like an abandoned warehouse. The fluorescent bulbs cast no shadows yet offer nothing in terms of warm light. A few figures pace back and forth, until we hear the report of something not human, the distinct barks of an agitated, or several agitated dogs. A thick Irish brogue is heard.

"This'll do."

A horrifically scarred and pathetic looking animal, a dog, some kind of Pit Bull or Doberman half-breed, trots into the center of the warehouse, still barking.

"Shut it, you mangy beast!"

We see a stick prod the animal, provoking it, and as it attempts to jump at the source of the stick, a figure still seen off screen, chains rattle, and it has no chance of escaping it's metal bonds as it wants a piece of whatever kind of person would keep a harmless dog like this, teach a harmless dog like this.

"You're a bread winner, you are, but naught the household type."


Meanwhile...

We cut to a view of the Bourbon Dojo, thriving as usual. The students seem to be practicing aerial maneuvers, each taking turns learning to balance atop the turnbuckles, then practicing jumping off, somersaulting through the air and rolling through onto their feet, perfecting their trajectory and overcoming their mental obstacles simply telling them that climbing onto ropes and jumping off of them is hazardous. Overcoming that sense of danger is just par for the course for those who want to learn to fight in the style of a professional wrestler, especially those who wish to be successful at it.

We turn to the open door to Robbie Bourbon's office, and we go inside, where we see Robbie seated at his desk. Crammed on the couch opposite him are Cyberjaw, the man with the cybernetic jaw, Diamondback, the man who can blend into any crowd, Fat Francis, portly yet faint of heart, Xtreme Travel Agent, possible victim of Stockholm Syndrome and Cyberjaw's main squeeze, Axe Mannix, axe man on Xanax and formerly known as Waldo of Where's Waldo fame, Ash, Robbie's personal stylist, and Jarod the Wizard, LARP enthusiast. By crammed, they are literally sitting atop on another on the old, worn down three seat couch.

Seriously, this couch was okay when there were like three of us.

What? Nothing stopping you from getting a new couch. If you want a new couch, get a new couch.

You insist on this couch.

You said it's your napping couch.

It is my napping couch. It has just the perfect imprint for me.

Yeah, well, when you assemble us together on this fucking thing there's little room.

Okay, so, bring some throw pillows in here.

Throw pillows? What is this, a commune?

Well, I do invite people to come here free of charge to, I dunno, live and do what they want, so long as they want to learn to wrestle, cook, or cut hair. I'd say that's as close to a commune as you'll get this close to the highway, or at least while getting decent internet.

Still, maybe you could have a bigger meeting room.

This is my office, though.

There's barely room for all of us, and the robot, Harrison Ford, Joe Biden, and Blue aren't even here.

Verily, thou shoulds't consider appropriate accommodations for your accompaniment, Sir Bourbon.

Space Lord, 3'5" tall downright adorable but naive space traveler, walks out from a tiny little pup tent set up on Robbie's desk wearing a tiny little scout uniform.

I find your office to be gracious and enormous, Motherfucker Bourbon, perhaps you have too much space?

Aw, that's so cute! Where'd you get the little scout outfit?

I, uh, found it at the Goodwill.

Jarod the Wizard looks terrified of Space Lord.

A goblin! Sir Bourbon, shall I consecrate your room by eliminating this vermin?

What? No, this is Space Lord. He's cool. Anyway, the reason I gathered you all is because, well, we're getting a new Bourbon Man!

Huh?

Most of the assembled Bourbon Men look perplexed.

Don't they usually just show up with some weird tie in to some caper you're involved in?

Yeah, we met when you were ice fishing.

Truth, Sir Mannix, for I met the brave Bourbon whilst he was on a quest for a priest!

I don't know why I'm here, can I go home now?

I love it here, it's fucking XTREME!

Yo, where's Frankendickhead? You killed that guy then reanimated him, that's how he joined the crew.

He's out cleaning the fryers.

What fryers?

Well, the fryers over at the Dunkin Donuts and the fryers in the big ole' kitchen we have for competitive cooking.

Oh, why do you have him doing that?

Well, for one, it's a shitty job, and for two, I don't really like him all that much, because he's a dickhead, so he gets the shitty job.

That's cold.

Do you want to clean the fryers?

Everybody on the couch glances at each other, remaining silent.

Thought so. Anyhow, Blue is coming back with our newest Bourbon Man, and I want you guys to be very accommodating for her.

Her? Is she hot?

As Jarod, Diamondback, and Ash look on eagerly, Robbie smirks.

She has raven black hair, bright brown eyes, a wiggle to her walk, and a tight little tail.

Damn, is she South American or something?

Nah, I think Italian, maybe Germanic.

As Robbie finishes, we hear a kerfuffle happening outside the office door, specifically the voice of Blue, Robbie's girlfriend and handler.

No! No! Put that down!

We hear a crash outside the office door. XTA looks thrilled.

Damn, she sounds hella Xtreme!

Well, kinda.

With that, the office door swings open wide, and a massive rottweiler trots in. It makes a beeline for Robbie, and hops up on his lap, her hind legs still on the ground, her docked stub of a tail wiggling to and fro.

Hey bubby! Who's a good girl?

The rotty slurps at Robbie's face, then turns to Robbie's desk, intent on the tiny pup tent in which Space Lord is residing.

Keep it away!

Oh, balderdash. She's harmless.

She wants to eat me!

Delilah, down.

Delilah, the Rottweiler, gets down from Robbie's lap and starts to round the office.

She's a handful, hon. She's going to require a lot of attention, and with your travel schedule I don't know if...

Hushabee. Not another word. She's absolutely adorable.

Delilah walks over and starts to sniff at the assembled Bourbon Men on the couch as we see the text scroll across the bottom of the screen reading "NEW BOURBON MAN ALERT; IT'S A DOG THIS TIME!"

She is pretty.

I know. Delilah! Who's a good girl?

Delilah bolts back to Robbie's side, and he sticks his arm out. She opens her massive jaws and starts to gnaw on Robbie's equally massive forearm.

She broke one of the flat screens outside.

Damn! How?

She jumped up and snagged the cord draping down to the cable outlet.

What?

Yeah, it's a lucky thing the TV missed her.

Robbie seems completely innocuous to the conversation being had regarding the behavior of the rambunctious, ill behaved dog.

Aw, who's such a precious little pooch! I love you! I love my Delilah.

Honey, dogs are a pretty big responsibility.

I know.

Robbie reaches in his pocket, retrieving a treat, and at the exact same moment, Joe Biden, Vice-King of the Jobbers, walks in. His jaw drops.

No! Those are my treats!

Joe Biden goes to his hands and knees and starts to growl at Delilah.

No, Joe! Bad! Bad Joe Biden! Here, I have a snack for you too.

No you don't!

Joe Biden sits.

You replaced my treats with hers!

Robbie hands the treat to Delilah, who turns and starts to chomp away at it, quite daintily considering the size of the animal.

Joe, I keep your treats too.

Robbie pulls a treat out of his pocket and hands it to Joe Biden.

Oh, so you keep them in separate bags?

Robbie looks blankly, down and away from seemingly everyone while patting his pocket. "One bag, just like always..."

Yeah, I keep them in separate bags.

Well, honey, it's sweet you have a new pooch. But, you have pressing issues at Savage.

I know. I'm facing Tidbits again. Him and his creep bag of an uncle are straight out of a cheesy 60's horror movie, or maybe they're Three Stooges villains.

Dude, they're pretty out there.

Yeah, why aren't you going after this Doctor D guy or whatever, he seems pretty shady, experimenting on people and such.

Dude, I wrecked Doc during round two of Lethal Lottery, if I see him again he'll get wrecked again, but you're right. When I kill and reanimate a corpse to make it clean fryers, it's actually a good thing, but D'Ville doing it is wrong.

I don't think it was D'Ville. Plenty of doctors out there, plenty of surnames that start with a 'D'.

Whatever.

Well, Father Slathe wants you to confess.

Confess what? That I rock? That I keep excellent company? That my hair is maintained and wonderful thanks to you?

Robbie runs his fingers across the top of his lucha mask.

Luscious.

Robbie, these men seem dangerous. Slathe even said that Tidbits doesn't want the Hart Championship.

It's a good thing, he's not having the Hart Championship.

Robbie pulls the Hart Championship belt from out of nowhere with his free arm and slings it over his shoulder as Delilah continues to gnaw at his arm.

Here's a confession: I once ran into a women's bathroom at an airport thinking it was the men's and didn't realize where I was pooping until I heard the telltale 'clack, clack, clack' of high heels against airport bathroom floor tile, and you know what? I still didn't perform a courtesy flush. Ooh, another one: I have fucked up in life more times than you can count, but you can count on the fact that bringing your dog into the cage of a mangy American mutt like me is the fuck up of a lifetime. I confess that I will be absolutely tearing a man with a dog's name, a man with a dog's mind, a man with no self-awareness beyond when to do what he's told by an overblown, cliche sounding, downright sinister kind of minister who's deluded himself into thinking anything he says is the truth, the whole Truth, and nothing but the truth, when he might as well be puking up the tapioca pudding he had at lunch and calling it finger paints on paper. No room for men? No room for those with heart? Fair enough, padre, or rabbi, or your grace, or whatever it is you insist on Tiddle's calling you so you and your whacked out ego can rest easy. I'm a part of something larger, something greater, something so insanely robust and far scoping that you had to create your truths just to handle it. It's called the human race. For starters, in general, calling human beings into servitude is part of it. I ran with it in the fire department, thousands ran with it in the military, including my father, my brother, and half the guys I wound up squeaking by out of high school with. There's the honor and tradition of fealty shown in the way of the samurai, of the sensei and student, and the methods of running a dojo and being a symbol for others when they have a hard time finding excellence in themselves. Then there's all the faiths in the planet with all the clergy, ranging from the super traditional like Catholicism to the free spirited movements of modern Christianity. Ranging from Taoists, to Buddhists, to Muslims, to Jews, to even Scientology and their Love Boat. Then, there's what we see before me, the excuses you give yourself, the veil you drape yourself in, hiding what you are and calling it truth, but it's time to open up some eyes. I don't particularly expect you to listen either, padre, after all if you were a listener, a learner, you wouldn't consider the breath you waste trying to get inside this massive melon of mine worth anything, because anybody'll tell you that Robbie Motherfucking Bourbon is as hard headed, bull headed, and big headed as they come, and that's because he's hard headed, bull headed, and big headed for them. No, padre, and spread the word to Weird Science only not as hot as either Kelly LeBrock or Vanessa Angel (uh, in their primes, respectively.) All I'm facing, when it comes to your truth, is a dog on a short leash hoping it doesn't get hit with a rolled up paper for shitting in the wrong place, figuratively speaking of course. In reality, Tidbits is a vicious sumbitch, I'd know first hand, and if you think I'm terrified of facing him again, if you think I'm buying into the excuses you're providing for him getting wrecked the first time, after I defended my title, after running through Lethal Lottery, you might as well start trying to sell condoms to the castrated and bikinis in Siberia. That, simply sir, is because Tiddles is a man, sir, a human, sir.

One of the people. It doesn't matter how much you try to pretend he's your little Darth Vader. Seriously, swap out "Truth" for "Force" in every little thing you do and Disney would be suing your asses for copyright infringement so fast you'd be paying out to the law offices of Goofy, Donald, and Mickey before your next breakfast.

I do not fear the people. No. Not like you do, and not like you train your little pooch to. He fears you, and your wrath, and the saddest part is you won't even teach him to fear what's in front of him; the realest XWF Champion going right now. Chris Chaos is a box of kittens compared to what he's dealing with when he's locked in a cage with me. The people, padre, the people are my greatest strength, because without them, I am nothing. Without the people, from your barber, who from the looks of things owes you your money back, pilots who fly us everywhere, ring techs to build the cage you're bringing your pathetic mutt to, and the people coming to the Oracle to watch Robbie Motherfucking Bourbon, XWF Champion, knock around another fucking body like Robbie Motherfucking Bourbon, XWF Champion, knocks around bodies, this would just be a man putting a dog down. Nobody likes the end of Old Yeller, padre. They love my big ass scrapping asses like I'm rabid, I ravage. Flush the bodies with the bums out the ass; lavage. This Wednesday Night Wrecker is wrecking fools like a Savage. Personally, not personally, I could really care less, I'ma take a Mr. Tidbits and make him into Mr. Mess, I digress! I don't spit rhymes to impress, but there's a little issue I have that I just gotta address. I don't see a wise man and his implement, I see a father and daughter. The only sheeple that I see from here is the young lamb you're leading to a slaughter.

Tell me, when his jaw gets wired shut, and I can make it so his jaw gets wired shut, that's not even a question, but how much money are the people at Jif going to lose when you can't put the peanut butter in your crack so your little doggy will lick your ass?

As Robbie finishes his tirade, Delilah lets go of his arm, gives a healthy, happy bark, and then scurries towards the couch. She leaps over Joe Biden, who had curled up and gotten comfy on a throw pillow, and onto the crowded couch. As she lands atop the rest of the Bourbon Men, the couch finally gives in and collapses, spilling Bourbon Men everywhere. Robbie looks less than pleased.

My napping couch!

Honey, dogs are a big responsibility.