OOC NOTE: It was pointed out to me that the picture of the big fat lady was causing some issues with the board frames on certain browsers, so on 1/21/20 I substituted a small pic of a different fat lady. That is the only edit I made and it did not change the content of the promo at all. Yes, this is a real statement I just made.

Last Week

The Engineer and Malcolm laid entwined together, bodies slightly clammy from evaporated sweat, the Egyptian cotton sheet twisted about them providing a slight bit of modesty but altogether not leaving much to the imagination.

Their had been no words since the act. The Engineer tried to get some kind of bearing on the young man, but found his expression strangely inscrutable. This disturbed him. For a moment, he considered if Malcolm was ashamed of what he had done. He had acted in a moment of explosive passion, allowing years of pent up urges to blossom, to graduate from forbidden fantasy to reality. He had acted on that which he was instilled to sequester. The Engineer wondered if the bites from the belt buckle on Malcolm's back weighed heavily on the boy as he rutted, whispering taunting reproaches in his ears, upbraiding him for the pleasure he had finally succumbed to.

But ultimately his expression was like a funhouse mirror. Shift an inch and you got an entirely different impression. Anger. Sadness. And even beneath all that a cloying sort of joy. He was an emotional stew, boiling to a froth. And in a pique of anxiety, it occurred to The Engineer that he had no idea what this stew would ultimately end up tasting like.

Penny for your thoughts?

Malcolm's lip twitched. He rolled over onto his side, baring that broad back that was ravaged with scars.

Do you regret what we did?

I'm having a hard time looking at you.

His lips pursed. So you're ashamed?

I don't know. Malcolm breathed, torso unfurling and contracting.

He allowed more silence to linger between them, permitting the young man some alone time to puzzle out his thoughts. The Engineer shifted, and a fresh burning sensation tore his torso asunder. Lifting up the sheet, he saw that blood was seeping through his bandage anew. Shit. Throwing aside the sheet, he shuffled his unclothed form to the edge of the bed, but a spasm in his belly fells him before he can rise. Shit. He buckles in on himself, drawing his legs up against his chest and entering a fetal position, drawing deep breaths in and out to cope with the pain.

Are you okay? Malcolm flipped over in the bed, propping himself up on his elbow.

He's looking at me. He couldn't help but note the small victory despite the searing in his belly. There's a small silver case out by the sofa. Please get it.

Yeah, sure.... He got up promptly, also paying no heed to modesty. Returning in short order with the case, he sits beside him and passes it over. You need to slow down.

The Engineer flipped the clasp on the case, withdrawing the syringe and wasting little time piercing his abdomen with it, just above the wound. Malcolm grimaced a bit as the needle submerged beneath the flesh. You need a fresh bandage?

Please.

The young man went to the bathroom now and returned with a few white adhesive pads and a swab. Removing the soiled bandage gingerly, The Engineer put his hand out for the swab, but to his surprise found Malcolm setting about cleansing the wound unbidden. Leaving back on his elbows with a hissed report of pain, he watched the young man gently wash away the fresh blood. Brow furrowed, eyes locked on the wound, he worked intently with the seriousness of one offering penance. In that moment, The Engineer was struck by how intimate the scene would have looked to an outside observer. They never would have fathomed Malcolm was his attacker.

Finishing with the swab, the young man carefully applies a fresh bandage over the wound. When finished, he remained still, refusing to meet the others gaze again. It still looks bad.

That stuff in the silver case will help me heal faster.

What is it?

I don't know. I didn't ask Shane too many questions. Too hopped up on drugs for the pain at the time, I suppose.

He looks up. You really trust that guy?

The Engineer chuckles. Oh, he's a lunatic! Then, more solemnly. But he gave me life. He slowly pushes himself back up, drawing closer to Malcolm. Just like I'm giving you yours. You never answered my question. Do you regret what we did?

I'm not sure.

Lyyyyyying. He speaks the accusation in a sing songy voice, taking some of the bite out of it.

Okay, fine. He sits down beside The Engineer. I don't regret doing it. It was...it was good.

Mmmm hmmmmm.

A ghost of a smile graces Malcolm's features, but he quells it quickly. And it needed to happen. I needed to make peace with who I am. Suddenly, his features take on a firmness. I just wish it had been with someone who actually cared about me. Then, his eyes raise up to the haunting acolyte's garb hanging from the floor length mirror that had been standing guard over them the entire time like a phantom overseer. That's for me, isn't it.

The Engineer found himself surprised again. His eyes lapse over to the hood, and then back to Malcolm's face. Do you want it to be?

That's what this is all about, isn't it? He shakes his head, locking his hard eyes on The Engineer. You still think I don't get what this is all about?

Then why did you have sex with me?

Because I think I wanted to use you too.

Malcolm's expression searches for animosity in the other, his body preparing to respond to The Engineer's anger. But instead, he finds his impromptu lover crawling onto his lap, planting one thigh beside each of Malcolm's, coming face to face and chest to chest with him. Arms snake around his neck, and Malcolm can feel his groin tighten again involuntarily.

The Engineer brings his lips up to Malcolm's ear, letting them settle there for a moment teasingly. Malcolm's breath escapes in a small pleasured moan. You get it.... He purrs.

Now....

Rows of expensive looking suit jackets stretch out before you as we enter an upscale looking men's boutique. You can practically smell the tweed and mahogany of the place through your viewing apparatus of choice as the champ walks amongst the racks, running his fingers up and down a sleeve here, or plucking something up and holding it up to his chest there. Finally, a well dressed elderly looking gentleman with a measuring tape about his neck approaches The Engineer.

Is there something I can help you with, young man?

There certainly is! He whips out an Amex Black card! Give me the best death suit you have!

The old man's eyes pop at the sight of the highly exclusive credit card. Oh my! Uhhhh...he recovers quickly. Did you say “death suit”? I'm terribly sorry. I'm going to need some sizing information though.

Oh, that's easy. He hops a bit, splaying his arms out and working the jazz hands. Ta-da!

He looks on uncomprehendingly. I...huh?

It's my body! Just take these fine ass measurements. He gestures at himself playfully like a Price is Right model showcasing a brand new car.

Oh, dear. Did you have a twin that died?

Nope.

He scratches his balding pate. Then....who died?

Me! Errrr....in a manner of speaking. More like “this body”.

The old man looks very much like he's not following.

Let me back up. There is an infinitesimally small chance this body I am housed in will meet with a gruesome, bone crunching end. He leans in towards the camera. More on that later. Then, refocusing on the tailor. So, because I'm the kind of guy who likes to prepare for all possibilities, even those that are on par with me simultaneously being struck by lightning and eaten by a land dwelling shark, I'm buying a death suit for this poor misbegotten body. The tailor looks like he's going to ask another question but The Engineer cuts him off impatiently. Look, time's limited and I have some things to say to the guy who's got a snowballs chance in hell of crippling this biological sportscar, so can we just get on with the measurements?

I guess so.... Looking slightly disturbed, he gestures over to an area of the shop with a mirrored backdrop and a small stool. The Engineer stands atop the stool as the tailor gathers up his things.

Robbie! Caught your last promo. How many strokes did you have? Because your syrupy cookie dough infused blood causing multiple embolisms in your brain is the only possible explanation I have for that steaming shit plate of nonsense with a side of dumpy white boy hip hop. Did you even consider veggies as a side? You really, really should.

The tailor returns with the goods and starts in on the champ, taking some exacting measurements.

Where do I EVEN BEGIN? Let's start with Madison. MADDY!

I don't wanna!

The Engineer frowns. We talked about this!

IT WAS A BAD TIME FOR ME!

The champ smiles mischievously. Did I mention that Robbie implied that your Shove It was Jenny Myst's material....?

Madison jumps into the shot with a quickness looking 14 dimensions of pissed! YOU FAT FUCKER!

Thaaaaaat did the trick! So, Robbie, can you diagram the thought processes that brought you to the conclusion that talking to Donald Trump meant that we were ripping off Jenny Myst's material from two years ago?

THAT WAS MY FUCKING SHOW! Madison stabs a finger at her chest.

Robbie, you ignorant slut, Jenny Myst was forced to be on that show. Madison forced her to fuck Trump. That gag wasn't perpetrated by Jenny, it was perpetrated ON Jenny. I mean, I'm not surprised you screwed that up so monumentally, facile understandings of things seem to be your wheelhouse, but come on man. In no way, shape or form were we ripping off Jenny Myst ANYTHING. As for Trump still being alive? Maaaaaadyyyyyy....?

She scowls. This is gonna trigger the shit out of my PTSD.

The Engineer still waits expectantly.

FINE! Madison crosses her arms petulantly. When Dexter refused to be Aiwass' servant he used the last remaining vestiges of the immense power Aiwass was in the process of granting him to wish back to life anyone who died because of our actions. That included me, his son, Tomi Lahren, and TRUMP, amongst a shit load of other people.

Whoa, so you were dead?! He goads, pretending to be shocked by this revelation.

YES DICK YOU KNOW THAT!

The tailor prompts The Engineer to lift up his arm. Well all of that was almost as convoluted as Robbie's history.

Can I go? I gotta breathe into a sack or something. She starts dramatically fanning herself.

Yes, yes....go on.

Madison ducks out of the shot....aaaaand then ducks back in. MY SHOW, NOT JENNY'S! Then she's gone again.

Okay, maybe I'm quibbling. But for your to say that I was just producing a carbon copy of what Madison did two years ago is a bigger stretch than the epic quest it takes you to touch your toes. Are you seriously implying that what we just did is, bit for bit, the same exact thing that was done two years ago? Because it features the same idiot doing the same idiot things he always does? Robbie, that would be like me trying to call you on Cyberjaw acting like Cyberjaw the same two promos in a row. It's mad . But then again, I know you don't quite GET consistency.

As for it not being funny? The Engineer drops his arm and raises his other at the tailor's behest. Well, you didn't seem to have that issue with it when you posted this.

@LuxXwf flipped and joined the funny side with political satire!https://t.co/fiJ7SKyvhv

— Robbie MF Bourbon (@RebelliousDink) January 18, 2020

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Hmmmm. It's almost like....he squints....you thought it was funny, and then remembered “Oh shit, that's right, I'm supposed to hate everything this guy does!” But you know what, in a way, you WERE right. There is nothing funny about people like Donald Trump and Stephen Miller making the laws that govern real people's lives. And that's not some partisan hackery, it's REALITY. These fucking hate filled remedials run the show, and for you to not see why that is objectively horrifying well, it really makes a lot of sense. Because you are, after all, the gifted visionary who's grand plan for helping with the firepocalypse in Australia was pratfalls, hijinks, and sitting on your expanding ass waiting for it to rain. After all, nothing soothes the ache of losing your home like watching Colonel Turducken Garvin stomp the Hamburgler with a clown shoe.

For a man of the people, you sure seem to be woefully out of touch with their pain lately. Aside from that time you just so happened to produce a sizzle real of best of's that just so happened to correspond to exact scenario's I mentioned. He rolls his eyes and makes a jerking off motion. He looks at the tailor. Dude, my arm's getting tired. What's taking this one so long?

You have one arm slightly longer than the other! But there, it's done.

He lowers his arm with an annoyed sigh.

Now let's talk about all that full bore horseshit you spewed about your Universal Championship run. So now, it wasn't just ennui....it was BOREDOM and ennui. Robbie was mad about the absolute dearth of quality competition he was being booked against. The champ looks incredulous. Do you HONESTLY think that you were unable to run into Vinnie's office, chest heaving, panniculus a cascade of waterfalling sweat, and oh....I don't know....REQUEST a match with one of those top stars? Do you think that, hot off of Dexter Bright bailing on you for War Games, Vinnie would have looked at your request for a huge pay per view main event against your former team mate and gone “Whoa....slow down big man. I think that'll make TOO much money! How about Bilbo Blumpkinz instead?” KA-CHING! KA-CHING!

No, you dumb waster! See, the real problem there wasn't the XWF....it was YOU. The challengers were out there, but you didn't want THEM. So, after a few months of coasting with that gangsta lean in place down Easy Street, you picked up your ball and went home before the going got tough. And the fact that you still can't admit that to yourself or any of your capital P “People” says a whole hell of a lot about what you're really all about. You keep trying to push this narrative that I'm the one who's scared, but we are entering some serious “the lady doth protest too much” territory here! You're deflecting faster that your local priest caught pants down with an altar boy.

And contrary to your grossly overestimated sense of self importance, management remembers that. You're acting like you were some kind of license to print money for Cunt Fest, the natural top choice to face me. Oh, I'm so sure Theo was slobbing your knob...begging you to face me! Heh. Peep that card Robbie. You see where all the other main event talent is? I'll wait.

The Engineer turns around to give the tailor easier access.

OCC-U-PADO! Everybody else was tied up, Robbie. You weren't picked first for dodge ball you idiot, you were the last place stinky unathletic kid that nobody wanted! Every other credible contender is either already defending their championship, about to get slapped silly by Shane and Tristan to resolve some pre-existing beef (although in Page's case we are being unusually liberal with the term “credible”), or James Raven who has been out of action so long he's threatening to go from rust to dust. That left YOU. So don't flatter yourself.

Excuse me young, man? Can you part your legs a bit so I can take your inseam?

Yeah, but no getting handsy down there, capiche?

I wouldn't dream of it, sir.

Now where was I? Ohhhhh...let's talk Sloane! Look Sloane, I may have been a little hasty with the insults, girl. You're actually alright! And it's not because of your rainbow hair, or charming savoir faire, or even those perky little milkers you got. He smiles lecherously. No, it's because you walked into a Robbie Bourbon promo and made him look real, real, dumb. And for that, I am ETERNALLY grateful. I just booked my accommodations for Cunt Fest. I'll be in the champ's suite at the Hilton. He blows a kiss at the camera.

Look Robbie, just because you pretend to fluently speak big boy words like “transitive property” doesn't mean you have a cogent argument. For your entire career your size and strength has been your go home for winning matches. I pointed out that smaller more dextrous competitors can beat you. Your response was flying Sloane in to say “nuh uh I'm better.” The Engineer claps. Yes folks, you heard it here first. Robbie's masterstroke was to show that he is capable of beating me while losing to someone like Sloane by having her make a completely baseless, factless, meritless statement. I've never faced Sloane. There is zero proof that she's better than me. Zilch. Nada. Hell Robbie, with my relative size and ability to kick peoples faces clean off their skulls, if anything I should be way more of a viable competitor than she was. Like, do you seriously not understand that being bigger gives you an advantage? That's, like, the whole reason some sports have weight classes. Derp.

And do you know what Robbie? I'm fixin' to feel pretty damn stupid right now myself. Let me in that club, hoss! Because if I had known this whole time that I didn't have to make arguments based on things like facts, or observable reality, or any of that dumb boring shit....hell, if I had known I could just get away with the intellectual, rhetorical equivalent of “no, u” I would have been doing that the WHOLE TIME!

Why, let's do it right now! QUE ONE OF ROBBIE'S EXES!

Yeah, I fucked Robbie Bourbon! You want to know what his dick is like? I would call it a micro penis but that is an insult to micro penii everywhere. It was more like an inflamed clitorus with a little Toad head. And I say Toad head specifically because it was unusually blotchy. I would have thought it was an STD if the thing was capable of actual penetration. Which it wasn't. The actual sex mostly consisted of about two minutes of pleasureless undulous thrusting that bore a faint aroma of brie. Afterwards he sobbed uncontrollably and started rambling about his mother and Christian guilt. I couldn't make heads or tales of it. I just wanted him gone but he said he wanted to stay and cuddle and watch reruns of Flip This House. No, seriously, he bought a DVD box set. I told him to call a cab and leave and he told me that was no way to treat a true gentleman before calling me a fucking whore and demanding I make the phone call because his mom kicked him off the family plan.

We return to The Engineer who looks totally pumped!

Holy shit, why didn't anyone tell me making completely baseless claims was THIS MUCH FUN! Intellectual laziness is the best!

And, you're done sir!

Oh no I'm not!

I mean, with the measurements.

Oh...right....

The Engineer steps down. The tailor scampers off.

So I suppose I should explain what THIS is all about. Now, Robbie Bourbon has made all sorts of claims about all the physical pain he's going to put me through at Cunt Fest. But here's the best part....I'm not the one you'll be hurting! Remember way back at the beginning of this dance when you acknowledged that I was housed in good old Corey Smith's body? Yeah....

He nods his head, suddenly looking venomous.

Robbie's such a good guy. Carin' about his people. Carin' about Australia. Carin' about the motley crew of freaks hes establishing at the encampment of his as he builds and builds to some kind of orgasmic feel good climax where they all stand tall together and give mean ol' Engy a collective Care Bear Stare into oblivion.

Robbie's a GOOD guy.

Until he's not. Until that bullshit facade of his drops away and he reverts back to that rotten, self aggrandizing, selfish take no prisoners MOTHERFUCKER that we all know he is deep down inside. Sometimes it really is right on the label.

Robbie...Corey Smith liked you. He was a fan. But you were kind of a prick to him.

Aforementioned....prickery??

It's okay though, I'm sure you were still just working out all that two year old ennui back then.

And back then, Corey laughed it off. Just Robbie being Robbie. “I'm sure in six months time he'll suddenly find himself and realize he's a good, decent, human being just in time for a run at the Uni.” Is something I'm sure Corey was thinking.

But Corey was wrong.

Robbie, if you want this title, you're going to have to BREAK Corey. You're going to have to KILL Corey.

He wipes some black gunk out of his eye, but it continues to pool there, turning it black as pitch.

Robbie, I don't give a flying fuck about this body. You break this one, I find another. See, that's the beauty of being living viral content. I'm not STUCK here. Don't get me wrong, Corey's a great body. Honed by one of the world's deadliest assassins. But I have other options. So when it comes to this body, self preservation takes a back seat. It's like riding a car hard because you know it's not yours. Ridin' it like you STOLE it.

That rotten lizard smile creeps back on his face.

You're going to have to do terrible, irreversible harm to poor, innocent Corey to win this title. Are you willing to do that Robbie? Because on the off chance you do win, I'm going to bail on Corey's crippled broken form and turn the lights back on for him just in time for a lifetime of being a bag shitting cripple at best. Or at worst? No lights to turn back on at all.

So when you're putting your all into this fight, Robbie “Man of the People” Bourbon, I want you to remember that boy who admired and respected you. That boy whose call you refused to answer.

You gonna hang up on him again?

The tailor approaches The Engineer. Sir, I can have this done for you within the week. You will be picking it up personally?

The champ reaches into his pocket and pulls out a slip of paper, handing it to the old man. Nah, send it to Robbie Bourbon.