Robbie Bourbon recently attacked fans at Savage, in what would best be described as a somewhat shocking turn of events.

This Savage, Robbie Bourbon faces down Lacklan and Barney green.

WELCOME TO BOURBCO, I HATE YOU

Robbie Bourbon is seen standing outside of his dojo for the competitive arts.


However, on the sign behind him, instead of it saying "Robbie Bourbon's Dojo for the Competitive Arts" it reads "Robbie Bourbon Inc." It seems that Robbie has gone into business for himself, but what does that mean for the dojo itself?

Robbie pulls a hundred dollar bill out of the pocket of his sparkly sequined jacket along with a lighter. He lights the hundred dollar bill on fire, then uses the hundred dollar bill to light a cigar. He then takes the lit hundred dollar bill and uses it to light fireworks. He then blows out the half burned hundred dollar bill, rips the remains of it to shreds, and sprinkles it on the ground in front of a homeless man. He then turns and looks at the camera.

Ah, Airtime! How are you today, Airtime? That was rhetorical, there's no way my airtime can really argue with me here. I mean, that's what this business is all about, that sweet, sweet airtime after all.

Lookit me, after all!

Do you think I got to where I am, being one of the foremost entrepreneurs in America, off of just dusting skulls and bashing brains in, do you? Hell, I could have gone from bar to bar, beating the shit out of drunks, single dads, bored husbands, off duty mechanics, you name it, a smörgåsbord of bodies to drop just because I can do it? Yes, yes I could have done that. I didn't.

I went for that, mmmm, sweet, sweet airtime.

Here, check it out.

Robbie leads the camera inside. It pans and shows that the entire dojo is eradicated, and instead, we see business. All manner of business. In the south-eastern corner, where a wrestling ring with student usually in it once was, we see a cubicle farm with a bevy of people wearing headsets and staring into computers.

For starters, that while training wrestlers thing just never took off. It was a passion project, but, pbbt...

Robbie's eyes go wide as he does a bilabial fricative.

...no money in it. So, well, we had to give it the axe. It was dead weight, anyhow, training students does very little when you aren't producing shows, and I absolutely, positively, abhor running wrestling shows. So what we did instead was sell the ring, buy a server and some LAN cables, and bam, I have my own call center. BourbCellular TeleCOMM earns me sixty thousand a day as I contract my team to make outbound calls on behalf of thousands of products all looking to use me as a spokesperson. Now, Robbie Bourbon, XWF, heh, sorry, WRESTLING megastar, might just call you when you're eating dinner to let you know you can get a new soap dish or some bullshit. I don't know, and I don't care, I'm not the one making the phone calls!

The camera zooms on the call center. The workers all seem to be little old ladies. One waves to the camera, and in an instant jolts, looks mortified, then turns back to the screen.

The camera zooms out. We see Robbie chuckling.

Oh, don't distract them! See, they're on work release from the local senior living community, I pay them as 1099 contractors, so they don't have to pay taxes, also, so I don't have to pay minimum wage! These beauties are models, like all my employees, but on standby, and I give them bus fare to and from Robbie Bourbon Incorporated and a bag lunch daily. However, they get distracted easily, with their "my grand kids" this and "when I was young" that. As such, we have devised a way to bio metrically tell when they're a little fuzzy on what to do, so to speak. So we have wired their headsets with tasers, and if any of them stop working, the manager presses their button, and they get a little zap to push them in the right direction.

We see Clyde, Robbie's orangutan pal, sitting at a control desk overseeing the little old ladies working as telemarketers for less than fair pay. Clyde arbitrarily presses a button, and we hear one little old lady exclaim in shock mid sentence as she was describing a new line up of boat waxes.

There's more!

Robbie guides the camera to the north-eastern corner. We see a Dunkin Donuts.

Well, the franchise was doing well. We kept it open. Plus they're an XWF sponsor, so I get my stock practically free. Yet another business where I have an outstanding eighty-five percent profit margin. There's more!

Robbie walks past his office, and towards the north-western corner of the dojo. Where a competitive kitchen once sat, we now see several rows of sewing machines, all manned by little old ladies, tediously working away. Behind them we see a row of dresses, and another orangutan is inspecting them with a fabric measuring tape.

Well, wouldn't you know, we didn't really have enough work for all the little old ladies in my call center, so I opened up a little shop over here to jump into the garment industry! Now, sure, I know some of you out there would think "that's a sweatshop" and I assure you it is not. Now, we are not employing our fabulous electronic motivator system over here like we do the call center, these ladies need to get up for thread now and then, being a seamstress calls for perfection after all and the threat that they'll get electrocuted at any moment is not conducive to the artistry needed to complete the work.

A little old lady stands up from her sewing machine, gripping her arthritic and swollen but overworked hands. As she does, a clown rushes out and starts spraying her with a hose, yelling for her to sit back down. She hollowly complies and sets back to sewing.

So I got creative and hired a birthday clown to keep the little old ladies of my garment district active, hydrated, and happy. You gotta know how to motivate those who work for you. In the process, the Bourbonique line of fashion has been selling like hotcakes, which is to say while you definitely will see a lot of it in places like iHOP, Cracker Barrel, or Denny's, you will also see it in such glamorous places like the Isle of Ibiza, or on a night out for the evening in Paris, or perhaps brunch at Cracker Barrel. Bourbonique dresses are for any occasion.

Robbie steps past the camera, and it follows him to the south-western corner. Where a yoga center once stood, and before that a hair salon, we see a couple of rows of chairs, occupied by people dressed in black. In front of them is a podium with a man speaking, and beside him, a closed casket with a photograph of a little old lady in front of it.

Now here, well, here we had to acknowledge facts and be grown-ups. Death, after all, is a part of life, and as such, it only made sense that instead of a yoga center where people were all sorts of needy, and don't even GET me started on how needy people can be, but that instead we should open a funeral parlor and crematorium. Now, I get it, you're probably wondering if I'm trying to be edgy, or maybe cashing in on the fact that so many of my super accident-prone and definitely already on the verge due to advanced age work force are bound to need affordable, dignified exits upon their demise, and I can assure you that could not be further from the truth. The truth is, funerals are expensive as shit. If you have never had to organize, let alone pay for, a funeral, then you should consider yourself lucky, and more importantly, you should remember R. M. F. Bourbon New Hope Funeral Services. Here at R. M. F. Bourbon New Hope Funeral Services, we understand the dignity of your loved ones is key.

As the man at the podium beside the casket finishes speaking, the group in front of him is in apparent grim emotions. Someone falls into someone else's shoulder, bawling. As tears are shed by those bereft by the loss of the little old lady that most likely died working in the extremely cruel conditions of Robbie Bourbon Incorporated, we see children walk out.

Oh, yeah, I told you, I only hire models. You wouldn't believe how many pageant moms out there who would do anything, and I do mean anything...

Robbie winks, implying someone was willing to do anything.

...to get their little girl a modeling job with a world-famous international wrestling star like Robbie Bourbon. Well, wouldn't you know it, I hired their children as models and at the same rate I hired the fine ladies from the senior centers and other places they store old people these days. Now, I get it, I get it, I get it.

"But, Robbie, are you giving the kids electric shocks?"

Absolutely not! That equipment is VERY expensive, and developing child friendly models would take hundreds of dollars, cutting into profits exorbitantly. For starters, teaching the kids that what they're doing is a "game"...

Robbie physically uses air quotes.

...makes them a lot more eager to participate and outdo one another.

We see four little girls wearing way too much makeup roll the casket to a hatch and in tandem struggle heartily to push a very heavy object inside. One of the girls steps away, to rest. As she does, an enormous Egyptian slave driver, the kind that whipped people during construction of the pyramids, steps out and gives her a lashing. Without even screaming, crying silently, a creepy amount of mascara cascading down her cheeks, the little girl leans back up against the casket and gives it full effort.

Some of them, though, don't like games, so we hire Mustafa to keep them in line. Completely legal, because it says so in their contracts that their parents signs super hastily to make sure they were in one of my promos.

Using my airtime.

The little girls finally get the casket into the hatch and shut it. As they do, we hear the furnace roar as the little girls had successfully cremated a corpse.

But, hold on, there's more! Let me show you my nonprofit!

Robbie excitedly gestures towards a set of double doors. As he opens them, we see an outdoor basketball court. On the court a bunch of kids is engaged in a game of three-on-three basketball.

This is the Bourbon Unfortunate Youth Basketball League. All of these kids come from lower income households, and as a charitable organization I give them a basketball league to play in. It keeps them off the streets, teaches teamwork, and strong skills they will need when they join the workforce.

Whatever workforce I create for them.

Robbie laughs.

Only in America! Mmm, mmm, I love it!

As the kids play, the ball flies away from them and careens towards Robbie, who dodges it at the very last second. He then looks out at the court.

Woah, easy there, good hustle.

As Robbie quotes at least one gym teacher in every school in the United States, he picks up the ball. The kids playing all point at him.

You should shoot!

Robbie's mouth goes grim.

I, uh...

Yeah, shoot the ball!

Robbie shrugs and walks over to the free throw line nearest him. A breeze ruffles the leaves on a dogwood, Robbie fidgets with his mask a moment, dribbles the ball twice, puts the ball back, cupped in his right hand, and while guiding with his left, lobs the basketball well over the backboard. The kids all laugh.

I, uh, I suck at basketball.

One of the kids looks dejected.

Aw, man, if you can't shoot that basket, how are you going to win at Savage?

Well, Timmy...

The kid looks at him quizzically.

It's Marvin.

Marvin, I don't need basketball skills to win a match.

You do, against ME!

The camera pans to show a tall man in an audaciously garish sequined spangly basketball uniform and matching sequined basketball shoes.

I'm Basketball Jones, and while you've been off doing who knows what, I've been leading the children and this community, all through the power of basketball! And I challenge you to a game of one-on-one, Robbie Bourbon, for the rights to be the Man of the People!

Robbie's expression drops to sheer dread. He gulps hard.

Look, Basketball, I appreciate the work you've done and all around here, but, y'know, we don't have to have conflict, we can work together.

Basketball Jones laughs. He snaps his fingers, and the ball flies to his hands. He dribbles deftly, with technique so smooth and a rhythm so precise it baffles the mind. As you are dazzled by his display of athleticism, he stops at the arc, lobs the ball up, which looks like a perfect three pointer, until that is he leaps and finishes his own personal alley oop, which is fucking bonkers if you are unfamiliar with basketball or have never seen Basketball Jones's finisher. Jones turns to Robbie.

Face it, Bourbon, it's the only way. This town isn't big enough for the both of us, and these people don't need you anymore, they need basketball!

The kids, all super excited by Basketball Jones and Robbie Bourbon sharing the court, start to cheer.

Yeah, Robbie, play him in one-on-one!

Robbie, pressured by the people, put on the spot by Basketball Jones, makes a very strange decision.

Okay, okay, I will play you, Jones. But, I need time to get ready.

Basketball Jones laughs arrogantly.

Time? You need a lifetime to get ready to play me!

Basketball Jones suddenly, as if from nowhere, has a basketball in hand and lobs it behind him, completing a no look over the shoulder three point shot. Afterward, he leaps over the fence to the courts with a single bound, and continues to jump around like that down the street to go wherever he is headed. Maybe home, maybe other errands to run, who knows the schedule of a super athlete. The camera turns to show Robbie, who is rubbing his chin. Ash, Robbie's stylist, approaches him.

Uh, Robbie, you're going to play basketball? But I thought...

Robbie sighs.

You are right, Ash. Basketball is really my greatest weakness. I am awful at it. Dribbling, shooting, rebounding, none of the aspects of the game are things I can do at all well.

But, Robbie, if these kids stop thinking you're a role model, there's no way you can get them to work for you in the future blindly and obediently!

Robbie looks at the camera.

I will win this basketball game for the people! Because frankly, the people owe me!

I have been a man of the people for some time. And time after time after time, I do and do and do for the people. But the people, heh, they never get tired of you doing stuff for them. They're all about what way they can get one over on you. Give them a coupon for a free donut, they'll come in complaining they can't get another free one and want another coupon. That's literal at Dunkin. But it translates to so much more.

I show up and help someone. Then they need more help. More favors. It snowballs, and it starts to run out of control. Other human beings relying on you, nonstop, expecting of you, nonstop, and it's never, ever, fucking enough.

Because it always comes back to what have you done for me lately.

To whit, I say, XWF Universe, what have you done for me lately?

Besides just "need" things. Stupid, foolish, dumb sheeple, bleating everywhere here and there about how fucked up the situation they found themselves in just happens to be, needing some kind of help, some kind of validation of existence, some kind of leg up because standing is just too fucking hard for them.

Good thing, though, is this is America, and I am a man of the people. These worthless, pointless, meandering without aim or purpose besides to complain about a cheeseburger, or bad parking, are not garbage. They might complain about how they gave such-and-such a sixteenth chance, but they still fucked up, they might complain about shoelaces being too orange, it doesn't matter how much of a bitch session factory the human race has become, it isn't worth getting rid of. Oh no.

I'm no devil. I am not an evil man. I'm not some spooky Halloween fantasy coming direct to DVD that won awards at some horror festival in Canada. I'm purely secular, and a staunch capitalist. Frankly, if one does not like corn on the cob, learn to make cornmeal. While there are those out there who feel destroying humanity is a way to go, I see it as far from profitable, and completely unwise. Why waste the resource! I have done so, so much for the XWF Universe, and for existence itself, and now it's time for existence to start writing checks that won't bounce.

Ash blinks, staring at Robbie blankly as he monologues like a Bond villain.

So, uh...

Yeah, right, let's do the basketball training montage.


As the music plays, we quick cut to see Robbie Bourbon shooting a basketball, and missing the hoop wildly as the ball careens to the left and past the backboard. We quick cut to see Bourbon dribble a basketball all of two times before hitting his own foot and punting it away as he haplessly grabs at it with his hands and flops to the ground. We quick cut to see Bourbon trying to defend Ash as she deftly dribbles up on Robbie, then pivots around the big man and sinks a basket as he looks baffled. Robbie does indeed look as though he is the worst basketball player ever here. Then we see Robbie sitting in a classroom as Ash points to a diagram of a basketball court with a laser pointer. Robbie looks on intently and rubs his chin, as though this might be giving him the idea of what to do to play basketball. We quick cut to see Robbie holding a basketball, and it simply deflates in the palm of his hand, leaving Robbie dejected. We quick cut to see Robbie playing beer pong with Ash. Robbie shoots the ping pong ball at the racked cup array and misses wildly, causing Ash to give Robbie a dirty look and the frat boy opponents to laugh hysterically at Robbie. We quick cut to show Robbie triumphantly sipping from a bottle of beer while he has one of the frat boys in a headlock while he stomps on the other one who is in a pile of broken beer pong table, red Solo cups, and spilled beer. Ash is on her phone nodding her head 'no' as if she realizes this isn't helping Robbie prepare for a basketball game. We quick cut to show Ash blowing a whistle as Robbie runs suicides on the court, sweaty and heaving for breath, still able to do these by the fact he is in shape. He then picks up a basketball and lobs it at the backboard, and by some miracle it goes in. Robbie does another set of suicide runs on the court, and afterward grabs the ball and does a lay up. Quick cut to show Robbie standing at the free throw line, sinking shot after shot! Quick cut to show Robbie dribbling a basketball! As the music ends, we see Ash walk up to Robbie, whistle in hand.

Well, it looks like you can make a shot now.

I know! And that was a pretty exciting fifteen minutes.

I guess, I can't believe you got us kicked out of that house party.

We're legit older than everyone there. Nineteen to twenty-one is robbing the cradle for you, young missy.

Shut up.

No.

As Robbie and Ash banter, the kids all rush to the sides of the court as Basketball Jones leaps the fence.

Well, Robbie, are you ready for the basketball game to determine who is the best role model for these kids?

I guess.

Basketball Jones laughs.

You can start with the ball. Check it.

Check what?

Check the ball!

Robbie shrugs, then starts to inspect the ball with his eyes. He sniffs it. Then he looks back at Basketball Jones.

Seems fine to me, what now?

Basketball Jones laughs again, causing the children to laugh along with him.

Do you really wanna do this?

Yes.

Are you sure?

Yep.

Basketball Jones steps closer to Robbie.

Y'know, you can...

Robbie sneers as he throws a right hook, a left hook, and then a right uppercut to Basketball Jones. Robbie then kicks Basketball Jones in the crotch, causing him to buckle to one knee.

This is my court, fool!

Robbie then hoists Basketball Jones up onto his shoulders, and plasters Basketball Jones into the blacktop. The kids all react with shock at this. Robbie then runs over to the basketball hoop, jumps, and grabs the backboard, pulling it down from the support itself! Robbie walks slowly back to Basketball Jones.

I'm a wrestler, not a basketball player! Who cares if I suck at basketball! I just need the nonprofit cash shelter! And you want to play YOUR game during MY airtime?

Robbie slams the basketball backboard down on Basketball Jones. Robbie turns to all the children.

Basketball is over. From now on...

The kids look on in trepidation. Ash approaches Robbie with her phone open and whispers in his ear. Robbie nods.

From now on, only dodge ball.

The kids shrug and start nailing one another with the loose basketballs on the court, trying to avoid tripping over Basketball Jones or the basketball backboard currently on top of him. Robbie and Ash step away and back inside. The camera follows. In the background, a little old lady is seen convulsing at a sewing machine. The clown with the hose runs out, blasts her, and sees she's continuing to convulse. He signals to the Egyptian slave master, who cracks his whip in the air as a trio of pageant girls start to wheel a casket over towards the garment sweatshop in Robbie Bourbon Incorporated. Robbie and Ash step into his office, which is unchanged since the last time we've seen it.

So, about Savage...

Oh, I know all about Savage, Ash. I know it all too well. I would know, because I am the most savage sumbitch on television. Do I know who I'm facing? Well, of course!

For starters, there's Barney Green.

Barney, let me be the first to cordially extend an employment opportunity within Robbie Bourbon Incorporated.

Now, I know I have been able to rely on you as a good friend in the past, Barney. I know that whenever I needed a real, genuine, honest, and good person to watch my back, there was always going to be Barney Green. As such, you deserve a spot on the ground floor of my new enterprise. NOT to be ground into the floor of my new enterprise. Consider it, Barney. Here I am, Robbie Bourbon, former this, former that, current wrestling megastar in multiple promotions, and the hottest commodity for marketing this side of the Coca-Cola logo. You will be elevated to heights you never even dreamed possible of reaching.

You will be a model, Barney. The symbol of beauty, like everyone that works for me.

And it's not hard, not hard at all, to accept my offer, Barney. All you have to do is behave accordingly during MY airtime, when we're on screen, on television for billions to view around the globe, and the world is your oyster with all the pearls you can eat.

Is that how oysters work?

That's how Barney's oyster can work. Otherwise, poor ole' poor soul Barney Green will find himself high and dry, crying to himself.

Robbie's face gnarles as he forces a Barney Green impersonation that is dead on.

"Too late, too late, Robbie wanted me in his organization. Robbie wanted me to join his company, and I could have been something spectacular, and it was a great opportunity, only now here I am telling people I'm a hugger and begging Vinnie Lane not to fire me again because I spilled chili in his coffee, coffee in his mail, mail in his swimming pool, and swimming pool water in the chili for the fifteenth time."

Robbie clears his throat, resuming his normal voice.

I won't get mad if you spill chili in my coffee, Barn. Think it over. Think long and hard. Think about the last time you faced me in a match, Barney. Think about the tears you shed, knowing that I, your hero, was about to just crumple you up like a used tissue and toss you wherever I felt I would never see you again. Think about the hood of the car you landed on, the sound of your body impacting steel courtesy a Robbiebomb, and that was before I had to consider MY people, and MY brand.

However, Lacklan, well, I don't know what use I can get out of you in my organization.

Sweetie, don't get me wrong, I really dig the whole 'Are you there God? It's me, Lacklan...' thing you do. Blogging is super relevant, well, at least it was for 2008. Granted, you strike me as the type of person who still posts clips from the Office, which I guess is novel and all, but with the times? Current? No, I don't think so.

Face facts, you sound like my Paris Hilton worshiping cousin who is just graduating from high school, only my cousin was like that ten years ago and has since grown up and had kids.

How did you become Queen?

I mean, for starters, you're more than a foot shorter than me, and weigh less than half than I do. Slinging your behind-the-times, 'this is what cool girls sounded like the last time I spent time around cool girls way back in two thousand and eight' bullshit manifesto around is one thing, prepping to pick apart someone's feeble words (and kitten, you have done yourself a bother if you think you've been staying sharp exchanging barbs with Tommy WIsh), but prepping to pick apart someone's feeble words is another.

So, you sure as shit aren't on my level in the least fucking bit when it comes to the smack talk. You are welcome! I have no interest in coming and just taking your Federweight title whenever I damn well please. But, the question wasn't how you became Federweight, well, now Underweight champion.

How did you become Queen?

Maybe it was all those impressive strikes, joint holds, and technical marvels, all applied with the torque generated from NOWHERE because you have no fucking body mass. Seriously, you make wrestling look fake. When some doofus fan asks me if wrestling is fake, usually right before I rip their spine out of their asshole and beat them with it, all I can think is "well, this stupid shit was obviously watching Lacklan" because there in no conceivable way in hell a little thing like you is going to fold my pants let alone my joints. Are you one of Vinnie's novelty crossover things from his lingerie football porn?

Seriously, you need to ask yourself, how did you become Queen?

See, the answer is so obvious to me, to Barney, and to the XWF that we feel silly trying to explain it to you. But, well, this is my airtime, and while you piddle away in your little diary, and I just show up on Savage whenever I damn well please, I might as well do with my airtime as I please. You, Lacklan, claimed a crown and sat in a throne that was nowhere near where I was. You achieved victory, which is no small feat, but then again, you did it while I was out being a wrestling megastar. You are a Queen because I wasn't competing for the King of the Ring crown. You are a Queen because I didn't just annihilate you in the ring. I mean, your bio says you weigh a hundred and twenty-five pounds. I literally do that in shoulder presses, usually in sets of fifty, and that's just as a warm-up. Frankly, toothpick, I stay strong like oak while you hope you can somehow, some way, wrench some part of my body before I notice and flick you away like the gnat you are. You pray your tiny little body and whatever knowledge you have is enough to put up a fight against me. Sure, you might have fought bigger in the past, who knows, but fighting me? Well, that's a different animal all together. I'm not going to waste my breath listing my resume, my accomplishments, or try to drum up some empirical evidence showing why my career just outweighs yours. I don't even fucking have to.

Because to stay relevant now, you write in a diary and beef with Tommy Wish. I could turn Tommy Wish into a pile of broken parts and foot fetishism with one arm behind my back, and that wouldn't even be the highlight of my afternoon, let alone something I could say I was actually doing; it would just be done.

I am relevancy. I am the trend, the curve, and the breaking point. Here, Queen, Federweight, Blogger, whatever you want to be, Lacklan, here that doesn't apply. At Savage, there's only one word for you when you step into the ring with me.

Fragile.