Peter Gilmour recently decided to get off his lazy ass and cut a promo, following Robbie's lead.

Can talking shit really carry a man to victory?

SHIT TALKER

We open to see, ew. Gross.

We open to see Robbie Bourbon sitting a toilet. His pants around his ankles, whimsical bacon and eggs print boxer briefs resting atop them, and a bemused grin on his face.

Oh, hello! Fancy meeting you here, camera!

Robbie grimmaces. You hear a plop.

Well, looks like you caught me taking a Gilly!

Oh, for Pete's sake...

Robbie grimmaces again and another plop resounds. Robbie's nostrils flare as he inhales the scent of his own leavings.

Sure smells like a Gilmour in here.

Peter, you need to get your head checked. I think all those times you got your ass kicked in the ring might have left your brain a little damaged, man.

Beat me? Pssht. That did happen, once.

One.

Single.

Time.

And yeah, you threw me off a roof. Peter Gilmour, ladies and gentlemen, so softcore he can't even kill someone by chucking them off the roof of an arena.

Well, then again, it was me, maybe it's because I'm so hardcore I just won't die.

Shucks, and the fool calls himself a killer.

Peter Gilmour couldn't kill the lights by shutting down a fuse box. Peter Gilmour couldn't kill a bottle of water after being lost in the desert.

The only thing Peter could kill is a good party by showing up.

*Bloop*

Another deuce dropped.

Tell them all the lies you want, Pete. None of them are gonna matter come Warfare. Raise all the stink you want...

Robbie farts, loudly, the flatulence echoing within the porcelain bowl.

...you ain't shit compared to a motherfucker like me.

Tell us all about how you got your ass whooped when you challenged me for the Universal Championship. Granted, I wasn't the most illustrious champ in history. Some would even argue I shit the bed. However, like any Universal champ worth their salt, I sure as fuck beat Peter Gilmour.

Go off on another long winded rant...

Robbie breaks wind again, this time with the crescendo of a plopping turd after.

...maybe you just think you have a super dick because you have trouble getting to the point.

You really shouldn't worry too much about my training regimen, either.

Robbie reaches back with his right hand and presses the handle, giving you the viewer a well deserved courtesy flush.

I deal with shit like you like it was nature's calling. In between my time at the gym, my time on the streets, and the wave of rage yoga classes I lead at my dojo, of course. And do you know why I train?

*Bloop*

It's because I exist. And do you know why I exist? Do you even know what fucking defines me? It's not the fame. No. I don't need people to see my face and recognize me, hence...

Robbie tugs slightly at his mask.

...this.

*Plop*

Sure, the Universe knows my name, Peter, but that's because I went out and earned their respect. Is it the championship reigns that define me? Hell no. Those belts are just jewelry, symbols that prove you deserve recognition. Recognition, might I say, that I already have. That I already get. Someday, I may even challenge for that recognition, like you constantly need to do, because you don't have it like I do. Is it the money that defines me? What money? Almost every cent I make goes towards my community, the people in need to come to my dojo seeking guidance, shelter, or help. I drive a busted up pickup truck, I smash rocks with a sledge to stay fit, I don't need all that stupid window dressing to, again, look important. To look relevant. You know what defines me?

*PLOP*

The people. The whole god damned universe, Peter. Some people hate me, some people love me, but it's all for them. I am hotter than a million suns and colder than the vacuum of space. I bend light and time like a black hole, hit harder than a meteor and course through this universe unstoppable like a comet. The people know it. You'll see, when the hair stands up on your arms, thousands of people all chanting in unison:

"Fuck 'em up, Robbie, fuck 'em up."

You'll get the chills down your spine and the butterflies in your stomach when you see me step out into that arena, walking down that ramp, and stepping into that ring to whip your ass yet another time, and you know why?

Even you are a part of this universe. Even you know I am here for you, and even you know I have made you better.

*plop*

Flat the fuck out, the Peter Gilmour that was around when I first burst on the scene would have easily attacked a 17-year-old girl in Vita to try to get the Xtreme Title away from her. Possibly even have made sexual advances toward her. Now, heh, now you simply and humbly asked I regain that title so you yourself could face me for it instead.

Robbie stands, the camera following his upper torso and graciously not showing his most private of parts. We hear a slight tear, the sound of toilet paper being separated from the roll.

I know it's not every day you face a hero and role model in the ring, Peter.

But it seems like every time you just lose to one.

Robbie grimmaces, then his eyes go wide.

Dammit! Fucking paper split. I got pieces of Gilmour all over my fingers!

The scene fades to black on this obvious RPOTM candidate.