Robbie recently was abducted by aliens due to the fact he's the Warfare MVP.

Not of literal Warfare, of the wrestling show.

LITERALLY

We see Robbie in a very 60's Sci-Fi looking setting. There's several beakers that look to have dried ice in them, causing them to bubble and smoke, there's some oddball diode or whatnot that has arcs of electricity traveling along it, and several blinking lights everywhere. On top of that, it's all in black and white now for some reason. Just kidding, it's not in black and white. Beside Robbie is Fuchsia, the space babe he met in our last dalliance. Robbie is in his normal wrestling gear, as per usual for him, along with a white labcoat. He's peering into a microscope.

What do you see?

Hrmm. The test results still seem inconclusive.

We see Robbie is inspecting a piece of fried chicken with the microscope.

I'm grateful our hosts got me this KFC, but I can not decipher the eleven herbs and spices with their technology.

I, uh...

Robbie stands upright and looks back at Fuchsia intently.

Yes?

I thought you were working on a way to help them win a war.

I am! But, hey, doesn't mean I can't get into my own research along the way. I got what they need right over there on that counter.

Robbie points to the counter. A few gas canisters are sitting atop it, each labeled 'DANGER'.

Oh, what is that?

That? Oh, my normal crazy purple knockout gas that I usually use when I try to go after the Xtreme Championship here and there.

Crazy purple knockout gas?

Yeah, it's not super popular on Earth.

Oh, I know.

You do?

Yeah, I'm from there.

How did you turn all...

Robbie gestures at Fuchsia and her deep fuchsia skin tone.

Oh, it's kind of like a body dye, it's popular around Alpha Centauri.

Dang, so how long have you been hanging out with Gleep and Glorp or whatever those two are called?

The two greys seem to be watching Robbie through a window, monitoring what he's doing.

Eh, about seven years. They picked me up one night after I broke up with my ex, I've been just cruising the stars with them since.

You didn't want to go home?

Fuchsia looks at the window then back at Robbie. She puts his hand on his shoulder, as if to console him for something he's unaware of.

This is home now.

Robbie cocks an eyebrow at the notion. As he does, the two greys enter the lab where Robbie is working.

Ah, Mr. Bourbon! How has your work been coming along?

Yes, we will be very pleased once you are finished and have slain the dissidents that are causing a ruckus in the galaxy!

Quite pleased!

I see, I see. Well, I need more time, Fuchsia here has been an amazing lab assistant.

Really?

She always seemed better at menial tasks.

And we really need her to get back to cleaning the ship.

I see! Well, soon enough, lads, soon enough. Now please, don't interrupt me.

The greys looks pleased with themselves as they leave the lab. Robbie turns to Fuchsia.

Cleaning?

Fuchsia sighs.

Yeah, they're a little messy. They poop out of their ears, uncontrollably, since there's no sphincter there I guess, and they spin when they do and spray their waste all over.

That's disgusting.

Well, they poop cotton candy, so there's that.

Oh.

Robbie scratches his head and glances away.

So do you, you know...

I don't eat it, that's disgusting, but it's just spun sugar. I mostly have to tidy up so they don't get ants.

Ants?

Robbie looks around the lab on the spaceship confusedly.

Space ants.

Ah.

Fuchsia again puts her hand on Robbie's shoulder. Robbie blushes and turns to her.

Look, uh, what do you know about these dissidents they're fighting?

Oh, that...

Fuchsia looks around, and confident the aliens aren't listening, turns to Robbie.

They're trying to conquer a planet for cheaper gas.

What?

Yeah, it's kind of cruel, because the Spormpillians are a peaceful species, they just trade their natural resources in a barter system. They're tired of bartering, so...

So they're going to sack the planet for cheap fuel?

Yeah.

Robbie squints and rubs his chin.

That's pretty fucked up.

I know, but, hey, what choice do we have?

We could go home.

Could we?

Fuchsia looks saddened. Robbie blinks hard.

They're not taking me back to Earth so I can have my match in Paris, are they?

No.

Dang. I'm the MVP of Warfare, I need to be there to defend that honor!

Well, that's why they got you. I understand a bit more about you, now that you've explained it, but they really think you're the greatest warlord on Earth.

Really? I'm not even good at Civ 5, I don't know how to run stuff during a war, or coordinate battles, I'm a gladiator, and wars aren't won with gladiatorial combat. Unless...

Robbie glances at Fuchsia. She shakes her head. Robbie sighs.

No, war is the same in space as it is back home on Earth.

Well, I guess that's comforting.

Is it?

Well, we're both captive on a space ship to some aliens who seem questionable in terms of morality, at best, at least it's nice to know there'll be a lot less of their species to threaten Earth in the future. Wait, what do they know about Earth?

Oh, they think our resources are useless. Just meat.

Hrmm. I like meat.

Robbie picks up the piece of chicken he was checking out through a microscope and takes a bite. Fuchsia holds up a styrofoam container of macaroni and cheese, making sure the camera gets a view of the KFC logo on it for best product placement. As they do, the voice of one of the greys pipes into the lab, which is the last place you should be eating by the way.

You really shouldn't be eating in the lab.

Robbie glances up.

It's an Earth thing.

Also, we can hear you.

Robbie and Fuchsia glance at each other.

So?

Don't seem so dour. If you're a good pet, we'll continue to feed you.

Pet? I'm nobody's pet!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I'm going to make Thad my little bitch.

Wowie wow wow, we sure like to go on and on about what you do and do not care about, don't you? You don't care you're the Television Champion. Well, news flash, nobody does, you're actively devaluing that championship and running it into the ground, and this Wednesday, you're going to show to the world that compared to being Warfare MVP, it's just not as important.

Because the Warfare MVP, myself, is going to complete the strike out.

You do care that Warfare is where I set up shop, because you feel the need to exhibit some kind of dominance, proof of existence in your daddy's universe, and you've even gone so far as to...

Robbie feigns shock.

USE PASSIVE AGGRESSIVE FAT JOKES!?

Oh man, maybe you've finally found my weakness, Thad! If you make snide comments about my power gut, I might just falter, whither, and fail at wrestling, and I'll lose matches because someone pointed out I'm way larger than them, shop big and tall, don't fit the standard social norms for pretty, which I don't, and I can eat my weight in pork chops.

So, yeah, I'm not a model. Never have been, never will be. I'm not built like Corvette, I'm more the big Ford F350 only with better gas mileage. Rugged, durable, dependable, and I will run whatever is in my way off the road.

You're just a little Fiat. Trendy, cute, but ultimately pulverized when you try to cut me off in the fast lane.

I'll never look good in a suit, that's true, but I look damned good in that ring when I'm bouncing bodies around, taking the best shot you got and coming back for the seconds like your fists are just jalapeno poppers. Maybe spicy, maybe some zing, but ultimately just not going to finish me off.

You've got no meat and potatoes to you, Thad.

Oh, and what's that? You do but you don't care about how literal I'll be.

Okay, let's go really, really slow for you to catch on to what I mean here. You seemed a little lost on Twitter when I pointed out that the show we wrestle on is not literally Warfare.

Why would I bring that up?

Because you seem shocked and agog by the fact you're literally not eating through a straw or using a colostomy bag.

So you seemed to grasp that the name of where I'm the MVP is a metaphor, but not when I said you were full of shit.

Let me fill you in on a little story here.

For the longest time, whenever someone would tell me to be safe, or careful, or what have you, I would always respond the same exact way.

"I guarantee nothing."

Now most will groan, or chuckle, or roll their eyes, thinking I'm being coy, or clever, or making a small joke to get at them. Why would I be safe, or careful, I'm not guaranteeing it whatsoever, right?

The thing is, and not many picked up on it, is that I was always guaranteeing nothing would happen. I would ultimately be fine, because nothing. No harm, no foul, no threats to my safety, no lapses in my being careful.

So, the reason I bring this up is because just because you can't wrap your head around the concepts, you can't grasp something, or don't care to, that's not on me nor is it my problem. It's not my concern. In short, I don't care.

When I say I'm going to bounce your peanut off a ring pole, I don't mean I'm going to stop by the concession stand on the way to the ring, buy a bag of peanuts, officially gift them to you, then toss one.

When I say I'm going to make your spine feel like unsettled Jell-O, I'm not literally going to cut your back open, create a mold of your spine, carefully remove the bone tissue and place the mold around your spinal cord, then pour some tasty sugar-free lime gelatin makings so you have the backbone of a gummy bear.

So, yeah, lots of metaphorical speech. Maybe if you looked past the soundbites, you'd get that, but what you're going to get is more of the same.

Maybe, just maybe, you should care about me. Not send me cards, I don't need presents, I'm not your prized petunias that need tending, you're not Mary Mary quite contrary and nobody gives a fuck about how your garden grows. Maybe you should show the slightest bit of concern for the man who made a damned fool of you on television, and I don't mean Page or Main. Maybe you should care that the guy who goes for 'low hanging fruit' and 'soundbites' and doesn't, according to you, have any substance to him besides being big is very successful against you.

Not that I'm resting on any laurels whatsoever. For every trick you learned, I picked up twice as much on you, Thad. Because as big as I am, I'm twice as clever, and I figured out every little trick you might have in your arsenal, and the beauty of it is, you can game plan, you can plot, you can scheme, you can analyze all you want, none of it will matter as soon as you get belted in the mouth. There's no figuring out my offense, just feeling it. Counter one thing, I'll hit you with the next, and once you think you've figured out the game, I hit the switch and put a new cartridge in the Nintendo, and you'll go from playing Tetris to Rad Racer like a hyper kid eating Pixie Stix by the dozen.

See, that's all a metaphor, you fucking doofus, your dad isn't coming down from the rafters with a TV to hook up the video games for you.

As for what you say you'll bring into that ring, since you can't spit the fire I do, let's not forget that you sure as shit haven't brought anything to the ring that has worked yet. Maybe if you reach far enough up there you can pull something out of your ass, but yesterday's lunch and tomorrow's shit won't cut it against the purebred incinerator I be. I will leave you roasted, burnt, and smoked; ashes to ashes, Duke to dust.

So have fun with your family, enjoy all the wonderful gifts you got given to you by a daddy that's the biggest bust in XWF history. You and he might insist on what he was, but the people know he was nothing.

Talk about what you want to bring in that ring come Wednesday, I've forgotten more shit that's happened to me than you'll ever even know in that ring, and ultimately you'll have nothing on me.

You can tout how you're the TV Champ and don't care about it, coming to see me on MY show in MY ring for MY Warfare MVP status, but you will learn that when you come down to the ring to take that from me, you're going to go back to the locker room empty handed, and that's not a metaphor, that's the truth.

Because when it comes to you winning?

I guarantee nothing.