Robbie, embroiled in his vendetta against Shane 's guys, including the Universal Champion, the Engineer, currently preparing to face Centurion for the Hart Championship, recently became a mother when the stork dropped off a baby in his office.

I guess this is where babies come from now.

ROBBIE'S BABY

The modern grocery store; a quick and convenient place to get all of the necessities in the United States. Aisle after aisle full of goods to fill your pantry or cleaning cabinets. Strolling down one of the aisles, his baby seated comfortably in the baby seat in the cart, is Robbie Bourbon, and with him are Ash, Robbie's stylist, Ruby the Centaur, Robbie's girlfriend and literal centaur and not the woman who competes on Anarchy, Cyberjaw, the man with the cybernetic jaw, and Diamondback, the man who can blend into any crowd.

So, why didn't you bring Guy Fieri and Corn?

Well, there's just too much flavor in one place like a grocery store for Guy Fieri. The last time he went into a grocery store he wound up eating an entire deli bar. Corn, well, should be obvious, the last time he went to the store with us he kept stealing our cart and then bringing one back that had nothing but corn in it.

If you eat nothing but corn, can you imagine when you go to take a dump?

No, no I can't. I mean, would you just poop out another cob? Would it sprinkle out like rabbit poops?

I don't know why you're even talking about any of this. Heh.

Robbie smirks and looks at Ruby.

Because it's fun.

Why are you even here, you usually send us to get groceries and stuff.

Robbie looks down at his baby in the baby seat of the cart.

Because, I'm a mom, and choosy moms choose Jif. No commercial yet has told me what diapers and other shit choosy moms go after, so I had to come and figure out what to get my baby.

Abububue!

Robbie's expression goes brighter than the sun.

ABUBUBUBUE TO YOU! Pbbbbt!

The baby looks back at Robbie and smiles.

Ooooh!

Heh.

Robbie and the Bourbon Men, the XWF wrestling cartel whose main export is Robbie Bourbon and not the shitty New Wave band of the same name based out of Tulsa, Oklahoma, turn down an aisle and stop, eyeing the diapers on the shelf.

So, which one are you getting?

I dunno. Baby, which one do you pick?

Baby?

The baby beckons towards the array of diapers.

You haven't come up with a name yet?

What? Nah, I, uh, I've been busy.

Busy?

Yeah. We drove here right after getting the tot, I've been mulling over some options. If it's a boy, Carlos, and if it's a girl, Brianna.

Wait, wait, you don't know if it's a boy or a girl?

Nah, I haven't even bought diapers yet, let alone changed one, figure I'll learn then.

Robbie's face scrunches, having caught the odor of his baby making poopies. The baby giggles.

I better get some soon.

So, okay, let's just start with these.

Ruby reaches and grabs a package of diapers. She then swiftly grabs a container of wipes. Both get placed in the cart.

What else?

Well, formula, I think? I don't know, I've never had a baby before, let alone one plopped in my life. I'm a little disappointed, I always thought babies were made when the penis went into a vagina and ejaculated into it, and that's always a lot of fun to me personally, you know, when my penis goes into a vagina and ejaculates into it, though usually with women my own age, and not ten years younger. That's kinda creepy.

This isn't coming from nowhere. Who did that?

Fuzz.

What?

Yeah.

With who?

Atara.

Poor girl.

Kinda.

I mean, when Fuzz was originally losing his virginity, she was learning her multiplication tables.

That's, well, that's their business.

Wait, Ruby, how old are you?

Robbie rolls his eyes as everybody pauses in the middle of the aisle.

I am two-hundred and fourty seven.

What?

Yeah, I just hit the big two four seven last summer.

So, isn't it weird for you to be dating someone two-hundred and twelve years younger than you?

Robbie and Ruby glance at each other. Robbie grins. Ruby clops her hooves on the floor of the grocery store.

That's our business.

Hold up, you're two-hundred and fourty seven years old?

Yeah, why?

Dude, Centaurs age like elves.

Like what?

Look, you're dating a centaur, Az is from space, a Subaru is one of the hottest new stars in the XWF, now another car and an airplane are in the picture, and in the past there have been lizard people, a table that wanted to kill Maverick, Peter Gilmour's severed penis, a living video game character, a hedge...

The hedge has never competed.

Regardless, it's collected a ton of Xbux. Point is, if all that shit exists, there has to be an elf or two. Shit, you've met Santa, aren't elves all a big part of that?

I guess.

Wait, how do you know how elves age?

Go read a book!

I'm never lonely enough to read books.

I don't have the time.

You read, don't you?

Ruby looks at Robbie quizzically.

Of course.

---

We see a closed door, which gets swung wide open. Inside is a bathroom, and atop the toilet is Robbie Bourbon, seated, wrestling gear around his ankles, a shocked look on his face as anyone who is pooping who gets walked in on would have. He's holding a copy of Wicked by Gregory Maguire.

---

Look, let's not get all sidetracked. I am pretty busy and whatnot being a destroying force of nature on XWF TV, with both Fuzz and Injection Psycho knocked off on back to back Anarchies and prepping to face the Engineer again. Going after Fuzz again is just regressing.

Injection Psycho?

I dunno! Injection Psycho, Icecream Social, whatever the fuck that idiot's name is.

Amjetkun Socio.

See! His name is even stupid. C'mon.

Do you think he's done being all rapey and stuff?

Nah, not by a long shot. Peter is still extra rapey, kind of puts the Fuzz/Atara Love Story of the Decade between them to shame in way too many ways.

Robbie stops the cart down the aisle in front of the formula. Ruby confidently finds the exact products he would need to care for Carlos. Or Brianna. Gender reveal coming soon.

So, after we go and change the kid, we gotta go get some clothes and some of those adorable tiny little sneakers they don't need but for some reason they make.

Those are made in sweatshops, you know.

Mmhmm.

Woah, easy killer. All shoes are made in sweatshops these days. It's just how they get made.

True.

Robbie stops and smiles at the baby. The baby smiles back and reaches up with one of it's tiny fat little hands and grabs at Robbie. Robbie picks it up out of the cart and makes a big bright smiley face at the baby.

You can be anything! You can do anything! I can't wait to watch you grow up, figure out your favorite dinosaur, tell me something is great when it's really crappy and you don't know any better, break my heart with abject meanness when you're in your teens, and then leave me for dead as a broken and soulless husk of a human when you move out!

Ruby looks at Robbie.

Well, that's not what most moms would say.

I'm fit to be a great mother. The Dalai Lama even said so.

---

We see a helicopter moving in at a hover above a rooftop. Being chased by a cadre of gunmen, the 14th Dalai Lama runs out of a door on the roof and towards the helicopter. Robbie leans out of the helicopter and opens fire on the gunmen with a minigun. Not hitting any of them but keeping them well at bay, Robbie puts the minigun back into the chopper, then pivots. He locks his leg between the body of the helicopter and one of the skids and leans backwards, extending one hand. The Dalai Lama grabs it, and the helicopter takes off as Robbie has, once again, saved the Dalai Lama. Robbie hoists His Holiness into the cabin of the helicopter, then pulls himself inside.

Tenzin, we need to stop meeting like this.

Robbie Bourbon! I will always take joy when we do! Thank you, my friend.

Tweren't nothing, Your Holiness.

You know, Robbie...

---

...then he looked right at me and told me I would be a great mother.

Well, just focus on the favorite dinosaur for right now. Let the other stuff happen, don't keep a checklist.

Okay.

Robbie and the Bourbon Men, the XWF wrestling cartel whose main export is Robbie Bourbon and not the lounge act based out of Tacoma, Washington, approach the check out area having acquired all their needs from just this place for Robbie's baby.

---

Listen up, spaghetti dick.

Wait, no, that's an insult to the thickness of spaghetti.

Centurion's dick is so small it's two dimensional.

Well, Baby Dick, I saw your promos, heard some of the shit you had to say about me.

I mean, I could pick apart some of the semantics going on, saying I'm "the Robbie you wanted to face" then five minutes later saying I'm a shell of my former self, riding the transitive logic of all that and pointing out the only way you want to face me is if I'm not fully capable.

I don't feel less than fully capable, but I guess you wanted to flex your greatest strength, that being someone who's going to talk about the past too much. I don't mean the halcyon days before Shane took over and the scary guys showed up, no, I mean just the past couple of months. Nice to see I inspired you, who knew you'd run with that whole Centurion the historian thing.

I mean, anything to make you a little more interesting, I guess. Maybe once you sell enough tickets you'll get top billing, somehow. That would mean striving for it instead of asking why this, why that. Why is Robbie Bourbon getting another shot? Why don't I ever get regular matches? Why, why, why. Definitely not 'Why do I think Atara Themis should be inserted into this match?', besides the fact you want to placate a cronie in Fuzz.

Centy's dick is so small he can go into a lesbian club and leave with two women.

Heh, that one wrote itself.

So, when you're not living the midlife crisis straight out of some basic erotica blog and sponging off of your sister for a ride stateside, paying for weed people were going to be smoking around you anyhow in the plane that you probably could have gotten a hit or two off of for free if you were patient, you're sitting in front of a camera giving everybody a replay.

XWF Universe, you are welcome, I am here and now we can actually have some fun.

Does that seem inconsistent to some of y'all?

Nah, didn't think so.

Heh, everybody who's anybody already knows I'm having a good time. Baby Dick went from being the Chris Collinsworth of the XWF to being pretty pissed off.

Well, if whenever I ejaculated it took several minutes because the sperm had to come out single file, I guess I'd be pissed too. Well call me a capillary, I'm under your skin, kid, and they call you capillary because the size of your dick.

Now, I will give credit where credit is due, Baby Dick.

Truth is, you inspired me.

Last December, and yeah, I know you've faced people like me before. You faced me before, last December. Duh. Wow, you've lasted pretty long and grown long in the tooth for a stupid piece of shit, haven't you? No wonder you tout your own legend so well, you're the pay phone in a diner out in the middle of nowhere. Kudos to your longevity, but nobody's really looking for you.

But, last December, you said I didn't do a good enough job of dealing with the shitty people around the XWF.

I heard your call for help.

You needed a real dick to fuck shit up, no way were you going to get the job done by picking at it with your thumb tack cock and sack.

So, the first go 'round was with the Sick Cunts.

Yup, one night, both members of the XWF Tag Team Champions got wrecked.

Then, welp, next Anarchy, Socio, who not only beat the Television Champ, but also Atara, who is a sweetheart, don't get me wrong, but you wanted her in this match too and she couldn't get it done against Socio. So I went and paid Socio a little visit.

Left him in a heap backstage. Vinnie was pissed. He and Theo said they're going to start sending me the bill for the shit I break around here when I beat someone's ass.

I'm not going to be charged for the glass cage, don't worry your little head about my wallet there.

The next objective in Operation: Annihilation? Well, I reckon you'll just have to wait and see, Baby Dick, but that whole thing? That was your inspiration!

I am going around and whooping the dog shit out of people who are scum bags.

Because you can't.

You are lacking.

The only time a woman ever said Centurion was a ten was when she saw he was hung like a sideways dime.

Now I know you tried to sound hard, saying you'd leave me you broken and battered in a pool of glass and blood, which is a noble attempt of you to focus on the future and what is actually going to happen instead of recapping my recent career for the umpteenth time, or instantly jumping in and defending the fact you're an old fart because that's your insecurity. Thing of that is, I'ma leave you broken and battered in a pool of you. You're going to look down at body parts and wonder why they're pointed the wrong way, why the aren't working the right way, why oh why oh why were you in Robbie's way.

Hiya, Baby Dick, you're my warm up match.

Oh, and that's the hurt you get into the night of.

See, down the road, when you wake up in the morning, and you feel that pang in your back, you're going to wince and think of one thing.

Me.

Then you feel the pangs in your neck. Your knees pop too loud. Those first few steps out of bed are agony. The years had been good to you, but then you found yourself getting ripped to shreds by a fucking human wood chipper, leaving you chopped, diced, sliced, and julienned. You finally make it to the bathroom, and as you sit down to pee, which I'm not responsible for people, his dick is so small he has to sit down to pee, those pangs and snaps hit you again. Keep telling yourself that wrestling's all about psychology after I see you on the Nineteenth and fuck up your kinesiology. After you stand up, wipe off the moist spot on your crotch you assume is your tiny penis, because it's early and you're not ready to look for it yet, and pull up your tighty-whities, during all that you feel those pangs again. Man, the basic act of moving around in the morning, ruined, because you tried to get nasty with a man so mean he'll even tell you he's a motherfucker. You start towards the kitchen, feeling groggy from whatever hangover you've given yourself this time, being the weird old guy hanging around a bunch of twenty-somethings again, most of them asking about the old man grunts you make because your body got completely fucked up after I reached up your asshole and pulled your fucking teeth out. You look in the cabinet, hoping for relief, but you forgot to go to the grocery store, and ever since I just up and turned you into a paste and slid you out through the gaps of the cage, you're definitely all out of ibuprofin.

I guess after that you'd call your sister for a ride to the next show. You can walk down to the ring and tell everybody you're above holding titles and you don't need them now that Robbie Bourbon has fucked you up.

I don't care about shutting you up. Talk all you want.

I'ma fuck you up.

Call your sister, maybe she can explain that to you.

As for not being afraid, that's not really something you want to brag about.

Kids who ate Tide pods weren't scared.

On top of that, I'm not trying to intimidate you at all, Baby Dick. I don't need to scare you, give you the heebie jeebies, or make you sleep with a night light. That's not my bag, never was. I don't give a fuck if you have enough sense to respect how dangerous that match will be for the both of us, or if you're scared of the dark, or snakes, or clowns. We all know you don't have microphobia, the fear of small things, because who in their right mind would be frightened by your tiny penis?

Nah, I'm not coming to Warfare to startle you, or give you the chills, or otherwise intimidate you.

I'm coming to beat your ass and take the Hart Championship.