This Wednesday, Robbie Bourbon will not be defending the Xtreme Championship because he was caught not looking.

He will, however, still be facing Peter Gilmour. Again.

NEMESIS

Robbie walks up to a podium set on it's side, still tipped over from his last promo. He sets it upright. He then cracks his neck and looks at the camera.

Hello, XWF Universe.

Firstly, I want to apologize to Peter Gilmour. I know you had your eyes set on yet another championship opportunity. I goofed, it's true, and Dax Harris pinned me, if only to cough up the Xtreme Championship to Vita.

Hey Vita. Strong work, darlin', but you got a full plate in front of you. By that I mean you got an endless trough of slop ready and you're going to have to stomach and digest every morsel or just let someone else come and eat. That's your cornbread, brosis. Don't let some fool come and take your cornbread.

On that note, Dax, you stole my cornbread.

Robbie shakes his head.

I will see you in that ring though. I don't care if you're a rookie, or just new in the neighborhood. You rattled the wrong fucking cage, talked bullshit about granting a title shot then got got.

I'ma see you harder than you can blink.

But, to quote my opponent, I digress.

Peter Fucking Gilmour, as I live and breathe. How you doing these days, Pete?

Remember when we were actually teammates against Panzer's shitty self?

When I fucking Robbiebombed our opponents to hell, racking up eliminations while you excused yourself to the back after getting eliminated yourself?

When I was your fucking captain?

How's Maria? Or did you hook back up with Mia? Which of them are you hollering 'SUPER DICK' at while they yawn and simply answer "I'll have the soup"?

Tell the Universe about me, Peter. Tell them how I own you like I have a pink slip that just says 'Peter Gilmour, last year's model'.

Tell them about the one fluke win you got over me when some fool slipped me a mickey. I was there, I was rocking, I was training for that match. Go watch the promos. Then, whoops, last minute I was doped by some unknown jealous fuck who couldn't fathom my fucking success.

Tell them how you needed help to beat me.

Maybe, just maybe, if you took the time to do what I am doing with Dax, the story would be different.

Remember my rookie year? I showed up and the whole locker room hated my guts, hoped someone would show me a thing or two and shut my big mouth up.

I'm still fucking talking.

Remember when I called you out then? You didn't even stoop to give me the time of day. Here you were, a wannabe big shot, flaunting your mansion, your cars, and whatever trashy ho you bought. And you bought those hos, Peter, no woman in their right fucking mind would want to fuck you for less than two grand. The funny thing is, you earned every fucking cent off of being a loser, a tryhard, and a joke. The million dollar punching bag, pin him, pay him. You rode that wave all the way to the bank. Who gave a shit if you won? You had money to buy you a dick, for Christ's sake. You weren't, and you aren't, high dollar talent, just high dollar.

That's when I knew, when I took home my modest paychecks, to spend time with real people, I knew I was going to whoop your ass. I wanted it. I needed it. I lived for it, the day I would beat the fuck out of you, Peter, and make you earn every blood soaked cent.

From then on, I was hooked.

I knew that my life had a purpose. I knew I was around for a damned good reason. I knew I was here, because if you're here just to get rich losing, I would be the one getting paid to beat you.

Just like Popeye beats Bluto.

Just like Batman beats the Joker.

Robbie Motherfucking Bourbon beats Peter Gilmour.

Payday is Wednesday.