Robbie Bourbon has been in a bit of a slump, so to speak.

But nobody bats a thousand.

OPERATION ANNIHILATION

The Robbie Bourbon dojo for the competitive arts. The whole of it is thriving with activity and a general sense of wellbeing and good natured fun. In the northeast corner, the Dunkin Donuts is marketing their pink and heart shaped donuts in preparation for second Christmas for needy significant others Valentine's Day. In the northwest corner, chefs throughout the open aired and fully visible kitchen and prep space are preparing treats and concoctions for single people who aren't pick up artists masturbation time Valentine's Day. In the southwest corner, the kiosk selling phone cases because that area is pretty lousy commercial space is running a buy one get one sale for buy clearance candy the following couple days Valentine's day. In the southeast corner, we see the ring, and trainees slap the hell out of each other, like any other day.

Inside Robbie's office, we see Robbie slowly pacing back and forth. He looks as though he is considering everything all at once as he does. Sitting at his desk is Ash, Robbie's stylist. Grouped up on the couch are Cyberjaw, the man with the cybernetic jaw, Diamondback, the man who can blend into any crowd, Guy Fieri, right mayor of Flavortown, and Corn, he who is corn. As anyone will tell you, four men on a couch is either incredibly cozy or incredibly awkward, this being the latter.

What about hunting a giant snail?

Tell me more.

Robbie continues to pace as Ash looks at the computer screen.

In Peru there's a legend of a giant snail that terrorizes local guinea pig farmers, often destroying cages and pens and allowing their guinea pigs, a local delicacy, to escape.

Nah, too weird. Protecting people's right to eat guinea pigs, the giant snail, all of it. Fun sounding, sure, but too weird. Also, I like the thought of free range guinea pigs, that sounds more fun than not.

Bro, I'm telling you, vampires.

Robbie stops and looks at Cyberjaw.

Hard no.

Why not?

Yeah, people like vampires, it'll be fun.

Robbie raises a pointer finger skyward.

One, common. Everybody is doing vampire stuff these days. Robert Main has a plan to fight a guy who sparkles in the sun, Tristan Slater is walking but can't see himself in a mirror and is more dead than he knows, Chris Chaos sucks, it's everywhere.

Robbie raises the middle finger on the same hand skyward.

Two, contrived. If I'm supposed to cut a cool ass promo, it has to feel organic, and if I went after vampires, it would come off like Scooby Doo, unless one of you were the vampire.

What? No, no no no, nobody here is a vampire!

Guy Fieri looks around incredibly suspiciously.

You're a flavor vampire. You go around and bite into the flavors, that doesn't count.

True.

Robbie raises the ring finger of his same hand skyward.

Third, too easy. Vampires can only go out at night and their weaknesses are too simple or dumb. A stake to the heart wouldn't just kill a vampire, it would kill anybody. Emeril Lagasse has a weakness for garlic, but it doesn't kill him. Sunlight? Shit, that's what makes little children go out and play.

Robbie raises the pinky of his same hand skyward.

Fourth, fictional. Actual blood sucking vampires don't fucking exist, not at far as I can tell at least or even scientifically. Ash, Google some places to meet vampires.

Ash types away at the computer.

A lot of places, actually.

Too many for them to be reliable.

Seriously, bro, just think about it.

Fuck you and fuck your Anne Rice fuckery. We aren't doing vampires.

Robbie's hand drops back to his side as he continues to methodically pace. Corn stands.

Iowa has been the king of corn for almost two decades. In an average year, Iowa produces more corn than most COUNTRIES!

Hrmm, maybe, maybe. Iowa sounds more interesting than vampires.

Robbie, this is actually really important. You're facing Centurion for the Hart Championship, you need to have some really fascinating story happening. Can you imagine what Centurion is doing right now? Do you think he's just sitting around getting stoned with some friends?

Hey, hey, easy, Ash. Don't you know what Cold Open means?

Everybody but Robbie looks confused at the term as Robbie continues to pace.

We could always go trick dogs into eating pickles.

Yeah, that idea is always on the backburner. Tricking carnivorous animals into eating pickles is always a hoot. Pretty sure you could base an entire career around it, unlike vampirism.

Ash types something as the door to the office swings open. Robbie pumps his fist.

YES! Something unexpected! Hope it's fun!

It was, in fact, less than fun, as a stork awkwardly walks in and leaves a bundle on Robbie's desk. The bundle moves about, slowly and clumsily. The stork leaves and Ash looks in awe at the bundle.

Oh, it's a baby!

The rest of the Bourbon Men look confused. Robbie approaches the bundle and unwraps it gently, revealing a baby in a diaper. It looks up at Robbie and grins. Robbie pokes a finger out and the baby grasps it. Robbie's posture goes from statuesque to softer than a pillow.

I'm a mom!

---

Well, Centurion, looks like we're getting Hart Championship shot two, Electric Boogaloo.

Let's just be real for a minute.

For starters, much respect to you. Thanks for coming along to FUN Wrestling. Thank you for being a strong, willing, defending champion. I don't know what I did precisely to get an opportunity at the Hart Championship whatsoever besides, well, being hella big and kinda popular with the fans. I assure you, this honor will not go squandered, and I know we're going to tear the house down like only Robbie Bourbon matches do. Yours aren't so bad either.

Now that we've gotten that out of the way, though, and again I can not stress how much respect I have for you, if all I did was kiss your ass for several minutes in front of a camera and talk about how incredible you were, not only would that completely suck, but then I would be guilty of sounding just like you.

Robbie clears his throat.

You have a micropenis.

Centurion has a micropenis. I wrestled the man, happened to grab his groin here and there, and can confirm. Centurion is hung like a button on a polo shirt. He has to flex his glutes in order to shake after pissing. Tiny, tiny, tiny penis. Centurion's dick is so small it's a topic in Stanford's microbiology department. Centurion's dick is so small it's theoretical. Centurion's dick is so small it will get stuck in your teeth. Centurion's dick couldn't hit the bottom of a bottlecap or the rims of a thimble. Centurion is hung like a Hershey's kiss, and his balls are the size of individual Skittles. Centurion's dick is what most would consider 'a hair'. Centurion's dick is used to calibrate electron microscopes. Centurion's lovemaking includes his tongue, hands, and needle nose pliers.

What can I say, you're certainly not the dick I am.

Thing is, people, you all can see for yourself.

Sure, there's flexibility involved. Years of preparation, years of experience, years of physically training your body. However, the only way you can bend so far to kiss your own ass so lovingly is because you don't have anything in the way between your legs.

Anything of note, that is.

Centurion is going to go on and on about how great his era was. Centurion the archaeologist, like Indiana Jones only way more long winded and having a micropenis. If someone with a sword started menacing Centurion in the desert someplace, he would reach for a derringer to shoot him instead of a pistol. Centurion the historian, Centurion the documentarian, Centurion the keeper of lore eternal, whatever floats your boat, really. Pick one, take one, they're all up for grabs, equally as interesting, equally as fun.

So we got the historian, bringing up dead topics from damn near a decade ago, about how the XWF was when nobody had ever heard of it because I didn't bring the people to see it yet.

Oh, Centurion's dick is so short it's a YouTube ad.

So, the historian, ready to talk your ear off about some nostalgia kick you don't have, making whatever shit that could have been interesting seem kinda lame with vagaries and usually just references to other guys in the XWF to tell us about it. And then they don't.

Hey, Raven, remember that one thing from eight years ago? You do! Great, Fuzz, you do too? Awesome! Well, one of you tell everybody about it, I'm too busy looking into how to listen to music by sticking my dick into the audio part of an iPod nano, the FINEST technology from two-thousand and nine for me!

Oh, if you don't know what an iPod nano is, welcome back to twenty twenty.

Hmm! Centurion's dick is shorter than the attention span of a Millennial on Twitter.

We have Centurion the documentarian and keeper of lore eternal, who will, even though giving affidavits left, right, and center about how awful everything is with these kids these days while shaking a fist and looking grumpy, tell anybody who has the misfortune of having to listen about how everything in wrestling is going on right now. From a perspective, his perspective, the perspective of a man with a micropenis.

Centurion's dick is so short it's not even a snooze option on an alarm.

We have Centurion, the keeper of lore eternal, who talks ad nauseam about how wrestling is and should be and how it will never evolve, change, or even remotely perceive the need for such, when really he's not that big of a fucking deal to begin with. If you want, if you really fucking want, I will take my happy ass out on the street, take a little meander, strolling up and down the block, talking to whomever I can about Centurion, and how much of an impact he's had on wrestling, and they'll answer about the same; who the fuck is Centurion?

Not saying you're a relic, old boy. People can identify relics. You're a micropenised, lower tier champion constantly touting how important you make that championship because you need to convince someone, and the only one you've convinced is Fuzz.

Just Fuzz.

Robbie raises his right and left hands, forming them into rudimentary puppets.

"Hey gang, I'm the Hart Champion and that makes me the biggest name in the industry!"

"Hyep, rightyo boss, and I won a tournament to host a pay per view, and now I'm one of the biggest names in the industry!"

"Oh boy, we're sure going to show Shane a thing or two about a thing or two!"

"You bet, chum! Welp, I guess we'll get to that in due time, when it's right, instead of going out and kicking some ass like Robbie does. Say, did you see how he victimized me at Anarchy and made me a little bitch?"

"Sure did, buddy! Just remember, tell everybody I'm great, and maybe he'll flake the fuck out! Remember, I beat him!"

"You sure did, friendo, you beat him after he whooped the dog piss out of Barney Green, Archer, and Chaos. Strong work dodging that guy, bud!"

"I know it, pal o' mine, just keep echoing that I'm something special, that our era was important, and we'll never have to worry about being in the actual main event, we can just pretend that whenever we get booked on the show, it'll be our main event!"

"Uh, I was in a main event, brother!"

"Yep, and you booked that show!"

Robbie alternates using his right and left hands for that particular dialogue.

Now, I get it, Centurion, much like I have been exposed to your micropenis, you have seen it all, and all my antics just now left you tickled pink and how when it comes to Warfare, it's time to get serious.

Well, come Warfare, you won't see a damn thing. Neither of us will. Funny, I requested a blindfold match, and bang, Hart Championship opportunity. It's going to be an endeavor, for sure, struggling to find an opponent in a big old glass cell. I won't have to work too hard, I'll find you by sense of smell. You wear way too much aftershave, and as much as you talk, I'm pretty sure I'll be able to hear you too. My senses in that ring are strong, boyo, I'll use the god damned Force and just feel your presence. That's when I grab you and alley oop.

You bounce off a wall of glass.

Physics, boyo, physics. You just aren't heavy enough to go through in one go. I reckon that fifth time I plant you into the glass, we might get a little crack, but anybody who'll tell you will tell you that when you get on the highway even the biggest wasps just splatter against the windshield. The hardest part of this of all of this isn't the blindfold, it's figuring out how to break a window with a wiffle ball bat.

I'm pretty sure if I slam your head into it enough your skull will eventually cause a proper break, but how many times do I have to do that?

That's an easy one; as many times as I have to.

Welcome to Operation: Annihilation, Centurion.

The most fun I can have.

There's a bunch of bodies in the XWF that haven't had the opportunity to get mangled by ole' Robbie Bourbon yet. You, one of the fortunate few, get the chance to get me a second time.

Your dick is so short a circumcision would give you an innie.

There's no other competitors to get in the way. I agree, Atara should get something. Revenge on Shane's bullshit thugs. Sure, she deserves a Hart Championship match. I mean, she lost her match to get one, and Peter wanted the night off because he sucks, but I like Atara. She's cool people, we hang out with TK. We went and got oysters and went bowling one night. We discussed how weird it was I was getting a Hart Championship match even though I've been on a slump, but she deserved a shot.

That's when it was plain to see you wanted a meat shield to distract me.

So, Centurion the coward it is.

It's not that you're soft, boyo, it's just your dick is so small when you're hard, you're still soft.

---

We cut to see Robbie with a baby in a baby carrier strapped to his chest. He seems to be folding a piece of ham around a pickle. He whistles as a Rottweiler runs up and sits, Robbie hands the ham-wrapped pickle downward and the dog snags it.

Heh, heh, heh.