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

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


Them No Good Bastards have a date with Destiny. She's 5'5" and prefers crisp ones in her g-string.

They also face the Disintegrators at Warfare.

RECKLESS DRIVERS

A long, narrow stretch of highway dominates the nigh barren landscape of the sun-scorched prairie. A dirt road is seen forming a T-intersection is the only landmark of note, with a sign indicating the earthen drive is a Texas farm road. Cascading down the highway, the heat reflection making it seem as though it is driving on a mirror image of itself, is a red stretch Humvee limousine. The subtle hum of its tires keeping contact with the pavement is all that can be heard save the occasional screech of some bird of prey trying to find its next meal.

The stretch pulls up and stops at the dirt road. The camera focuses on the rear doors, whomever is inside of this mammoth gas-guzzling contraption of avarice decided this one dirt road was as good a place as any to stop. Dust and dirt kick up from the right side of each axle of the vehicle.

Yo! Camera guy!

The view pivots towards the front of the limo. Bobby Bourbon is riding shotgun and leaning out of the window.

Up here!

As Bobby says this, we hear a car door open and slam shut as Thunder Knuckles leaves the driver's seat and stands in front of the stretch Hummer and unzips his pants.

Jesus, I had to fucking piss!

Hey, camera guy, no peeping!

As Bobby says this, an old pickup truck makes its way down the dirt farm road and stops, the stretch completely blocking it. The driver steps out.

What's this we have here?

A top of the goddamn line stretch Humvee limo, what the fuck does it look like?

With dick still in hand, TK doesn't even turn to look at the driver of the truck being inconvenienced by TNGB.

Sorry, friend, my partner here had to relieve himself.

The driver scratches his head, his simple way of life not having prepared him for this. TK zips up his fly as he's finished his piss, belches, and turns to the simple farmer.

Hyep. Fucking Bud Light Platinum just shoots right through you.

Drinking and driving is illegal around here, mister!

Bobby steps out of the limo.

You're absolutely right, sir. TK, I'll drive for now.

Alright.

The farmer looks into the tinted windows of the limo.

Is somebody famous in here?

Nah, we're outside.

I meant your passengers.

Passengers?

Nobody's in the back.

Who are you pickin' up?

Nobody.

Fuck no. It's our limo.

That’s right, and nobody has to drive us No Good Bastards around.

Plus, it keeps me from throwing the cans out the fucking window. I can just toss them bitches in the back. Check it out!

TK stumbles to the back passenger door and opens it. Can pour out from the newly opened door.

Pretty fuck cool, huh!

How long have you been drinking?

Since the goddamn moon.

TK looks into the camera and winks. TK looks back at the man driving the truck.

Where’s the nearest strip club, old-timer?

The man in the pickup truck doesn’t look to have taken kindly to being called an old-timer.

TK, get in the limo.

TK does as Bobby wishes, walks to the front passenger door, then gets into the limo.

What my friend was trying to ask was where is the nearest gentlemen’s club?

The farmer reluctantly gives Bobby instructions.

You ain’t so far away actually. Just keep takin’ this road down a bit and it’ll be on your right.

Thank you.

Bobby gets into the driver’s seat of the luxurious red stretch Humvee limousine and takes off.

That guy said it’s right down the road.

Well, let’s hope the shit kicker was right.

Not too long passes when Them No Good Bastards pull up to what looks like a single-wide trailer, with an extension built on the front of it.

What in the actual fuck is this?

Bobby smiles at TK.

Looks like we’re here.

Bobby shuts off the limo and climbs out. TK looks disgruntled but gets out just the same.

I’m telling you, I’ve seen nicer strip clubs in fucking Mississippi.

Come on, it can’t be that bad. Can it?

Bobby holds open the front door and waves his tag team partner inward. TK is the first through the door, followed by Bobby, and lastly the cameraman. The doorman stops the group.

I.D.

You gotta be fucking kidding me?

Just show him your ID.

Bourbon produces his District of Columbia driver’s license. TK produces a TNGB ten by twelve and a sharpie. TK presses the ten by twelve to the doorman’s chest and signs it.

There ya go, Fuck-o. You can keep this and remember the time Them No Good Bastards walked past you at this strip club.

TK walks past the doorman without so much as looking back. The doorman starts to stand up but Bobby sits him back down and wags his finger as if to say no-no. Nothing more comes of this due to the poor nature of the strip club. Which becomes widely aberrant once they make it into the main room.

You have to be fucking kid-

This place is awesome!

No one is inside the strip club except for a skinny man sitting in the corner and a large dark-haired lady, who is sitting behind the bar. She’s wearing a too-tight for herself white teddy. But that’s not what Bobby noticed. He noticed a hot dog buffet. TK walks up to the bar. The ready-to-burst teddy on the large woman is the only thing TK can see.

Fuck off, but get me a whiskey first. Actually. The bottle so I don’t have to come back.

Bobby’s chowing down on this buffet from across the room.

TK this was a great idea!

The skinny man in the corner is looking over at Bobby Bourbon nervously.

Where are the goddamn strippers!?

The skinny man walks over and picks up a microphone.

Gentlemen get ready for the time of your life. Welcome to the stage, Miss Betty Howard!


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

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


Betty places a dollar in the jukebox and rearranges her false teeth.

Nope. Just fucking, NOPE!

TK starts walking to the door. Bobby, on the other hand, looks shocked as to what he’s seeing but still eating the hotdogs. With a mouth full Bobby yells out.

One more and we’re outta here.

The skinny man with the microphone starts to plead.

Hold on, wait a minute! You can’t eat all those hotdogs and leave like that you have spent enough to cover them. Come on, please.

No fucking way man. No! Get that out lady out of here! No one is trying to see that shit. Fucking Christ almighty dude!
SM: Betty, go ahead and head to the back. Please.

Betty’s elderly self hobbles back to behind the curtain.

I can’t keep this place afloat guys I’m sorry Betty is my only dancer. I figured she’d draw in the nostalgia market.

You have to be fucking joking right? Like, you did actually fucking think people would come to pay for that shit, did you?

The skinny man shrugs as Bobby heads back to eat more hotdogs.

Hey man can you cut that out.

What it’s all you can eat?

You know what? What your name?

SM: Rosco.

I’ll fucking tell you what, Rosco. How about we buy this place off you seeing as you’re in some fucking trouble here.

Really? How much?

TK looks around the building and makes an offer.

Twenty-five thousand, sound good?

Come on, man. I paid more for this place than that.

Alright, for fucks sake, woe-is-me, forty thousand, shit.

I don’t know.

Goddamn it! Fine! Final goddamn offer. Forty-six thousand and that’s just cause we’re going to bulldoze this fucking place.

Deal! I’ll go get the paperwork.

You sure this is a good idea?

Fuck yeah! Since when have I had a bad idea?

Bobby considers the question for a half-second. He bites into a hot dog, chews, and swallows.

You're right. And when you're right, you're right! This is probably the best idea you've ever had. But, keep the hot dog buffet. We can lose the little old man they just had stripping.

She was all woman!

Eh, at that age, what's the difference?

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

Put the kids to bed.

"Madison Square Garden has never seen action like this! bWo Uprising just brought it!"

Convince your neighbors to move.

"bWo is the hottest ticket in wrestling today!"

Divorce your cat.

"What is bWo going to do next?"

The visage of a wasteland fills the screen. Wind howls as it rustles the barren skeleton of a leafless tree. Off in the distance, an armada of trucks and cars kick up dirt speeding towards the camera.

On June 20th, bWo returns, only on Pay Per View for 59.99 49.99. See the phenomenon that Dave Meltzer calls "a wrestling show" and what wrestling fans call "Must See"

We see one truck. Inside, bedecked in post-apocalyptic war paint and gear, we see Terry Borden driving with Clint Fatwood riding shotgun. We cut to another to see Bobby Bourbon manning a mounted machinegun in the bed of a pick-up with Chris Page at the wheel.

Opportunity is on the line.

In a tricked out hot rod, we see Vinnie Lane, knuckles white as he grips the wheel, his characteristic smile still beaming while Roxy Cotton leans out of the passenger window with an assault rifle. Riding a massive hog with what looks like a helicopter engine is Miss Fury, a masked Big Puddin' in full bondage gear in a sidecar with a crate of dynamite.

Reputations are at stake.

We cut to Thunder Knuckles, driving a jacked up Jeep Cherokee on monster truck wheels, a line of skulls on the dash and dismembered feet adorning the grill.

And legends…

From behind the camera, facing opposite the convoy, comes a 1977 Ford Falcon, jet black, which skids to a halt. The driver's door opens, and black boots hit the earth. This is immediately followed by the American flag, which is fluttering in the wind. The camera tilts up, and we see, ready to face all comers, Chet Dakota.

...are legendary.

The screen goes dark. A moment later, we see the logo for bWo Scorched Earth.

bWo Scorched Earth, live on pay-per-view, coming from the Lut Desert in Iran, on June 20th. Order now!

A small scroll slides across the bottom of the screen, reading "Also in action, Centurion."

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

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


Them No Good Bastards are standing in a random parking lot in Texas. Each with their respective Tag Team Championship resting on their shoulder. TK’s is slung over his right whereas Bobby’s is slung over his left. Why? Happenstance.

Holy shit, Bobby! Turns out we’re booked for Warfare in your home fucking town! The capital of this great nation, Washington D.C. Against a team who couldn’t hack in tag turmoil.

Thunder Knuckles rolls his eyes thinking about how stiff that competition must have been, seeing as The Disifectants won it.

The Disingenerators these fucking punk-ass bitches still had the sack to attack us at Leap of Faith. What’s with these fucking lame-ass tag teams with the letter D starting them off? Wack as fuck, all of’em. Well, they wanted our attention. Guess what, mother fuckers? You got it.

Oh fuck yeah. Not only do we get to go to my hometown, maybe take in a Nats game, definitely hit up Ben's Chili Bowl for a half-smoke, and of course, check out what's happening on the H Street corridor. You're going to love it, TK. The fans are going to love it. We're going to be running amok through the Grand High Capital, rowdier than a group of Trumpsters. Speaking of disillusioned idiots with no grasp of reality, the Disintegrators will be the next on the docket, just another notch in our championship belts. These two assholes have the perfect name, TK, and you know why?

’Ol Thunder Knuckles has no fucking clue why, but I do know it pisses me off that as soon as we make it to the goddamn capital building, XWF officials, are taking our fucking tag titles! Then they’re going to be fucking hiding them like Nancy goddamn Pelosi’s mother fucking laptop. So, please, tell me why The Disingenerators have the perfect name.

Well Mr. Knuckles, after the stunt they pulled at Leap of Faith, after all their antics, we're going to leave them crumbled. We're going to leave them broken apart. They're going to be particles, scattered on the carpet, waiting for Mitch McConnell's vacuum cleaner to pick them up. In short, the Disintegrators will be as advertised and disintegrated because a couple of No Good Bastards are going to show the XWF Universe just how tag team wrestling gets done! Mustang to ashes, Steel to dust, gonna leave these fools as a Ford Fiesta and rust. Their chances are nil, on that you can trust, place your bets folks, just not on them, you'll go bust! We've been elected to whoop that ass and it was a landslide. It doesn’t matter where the fuck they take our belts to hide, destroying Disintegrators to leave cast aside. This ain't a fucking challenge, no, this is genocide. The 80's are over, but these two are not, what the fuck were they smoking when they gave them a title shot? Is this really the best the XWF has got? TK, take it over, give 'em hell, they ain't squat!

TK looks at Bobby.

Why are you rhyming?

Bobby rolls his eyes.

Sorry, too much time dealing with the 24/7 Title. Thanks for voting for Vita.

Yep. We have more important shit to do. Plus, who the fuck wants a spinner belt?

Facts.

The no look fist bump makes its first appearance of the promo.

Not saying that The Disingenerators are important. Hell, the fuck, no. Don’t get me fucking wrong. Ain’t no-fucking-body afraid of some motorcycle riding, 1980s half-wits, dressed in all leather, a couple of out of fucking shape, past their prime rasslers. The leather? Really I get Lycana she’s a bitch. She supposed to wear shit like that, but you guys, just fucking no, hombres. Do you know what these mean to us?

TK holds out his half of the Tag Team Championships.

I’ll tell you one fucking thing is for sure. Not one of you mother fuckers a year ago would have EVER thought ‘Ol Thunder Knuckles would be holding half of these belts. All it took was one fucking phone call. One. The rest is fucking history but no our history doesn’t end there. Oh, fuck no, we’re making history every goddamn time we compete for these. That’s right mother fuckers. Name one tag team that’s had a harder set of defenses? Well, I’ll fucking wait…

TK pauses for dramatic effect.

They can’t fucking do it. I haven’t seen it.

Hey, not that we're throwing ourselves a pity party. We want the best you got so we can shove it right down your throat. If you got it, bring it, and we’ll take all comers.

Take it from us, we’re opening a strip club!

Line 'em up! Avalanche wants a piece? We'll break them off one and then some. The Dream-A-Maniacs? They can come and see their own asses after we hand them to them. Apex? Shit, these guys are back in the saddle again, but that nostalgia is gonna fade real fast when people get a bite and see you're nothing but a stale rehash. Robert Main wants to hype up his revenge tale against the Chronic One, Career Crusher Chris Page, like the way he fucked up at Leap of Faith was a part of the plan. Jimbo Caedus used to be fire on the microphone, now he's using our bits. TK, did you know if you take someone else's work, but then make it suck donkey balls, it's still plagiarism? This fool is even getting on about how we beat him to the punch on how Marf is a goofy sumbitch. No shit! The two of you are hitting all our notes like you're a fucking cover band. Raven and Warstein? They made their little cameo, then went back to bury their noses in their phones to make waves on Twitter to avoid us in the outside world.

You know, I did see that Bobby.

Fucking Stevie Wonder saw that.

They can try and gank the style, Bobby. but one thing for sure it shows we’re the fucking Micheal Jordans of the tag team division. Jordan changed the game of basketball just like us.

THEM NO GOOD BASTARDS.

That’s right, us, we’re changing the fucking tag team division. Let them play pretend while they can, bro. While we, the originators of fresh new shit, will continue to blow down the doors of weak ass knock-offs like them, any day of the goddamn week. It’s flattering watching legends rip us off, Bobby.

TK makes a bashful face before giving his signature smile.

I knew Robert Main was scared, but fuck me, to try and be more like ‘Ol Thunder Knuckles, albeit with Bobby Bourbon by his side. I’ll put that feather in my cap for later, for sure. Robert Main ain’t shit. Jim Ceadus though.

TK’s signature smile disappears and is replaced with befuddlement.

Jim, I know you’re watching and it’s okay. I’d be watching too if I were you but I expected more from you. I kept hearing, oh, man, Jim Ceadus was such a good trash talker, blah, blah, blah, blah. Honestly, mother fucker, I think you’re pretty second-rate. What’s that knock-off unsweetened fucking RC cola, Bobby?

Diet Rite-

Yea-

You didn’t let me finish. It’s Diet Rite pure zero.

Fitting.

I know.

TK’s pocket makes the old spice whistle, he has a notification, he then reaches in his pocket pulls it out, and looks annoyed.

Jesus Christ.

Who’s that?

It’s fucking Jimmy. Reminding me to keep talking about the fucking jobbers. He even spelled The Disingenerators wrong look at this.

TK extends his phone out to Bobby so he could take a look at the text message.

He spelled it right.

TK looks at his text message again.

I knew that.

Wait, when did you spell it?

Oh, it's in the text message.

Bobby looks again.

Phew. Thought we were prematurely breaking the fourth wall, gotta save that for a later promo!

TK puts his phone away.

Fuck no, anyway, find the titles, kick the shit out Mustang Sally and Steel Dildo, retain titles. Fuck’em. Got anything else on these shit sandwiches, Bobby?

Yeah. But not now.

TK and Bobby clink their tag titles together, whiles giving the finger to the camera. This queues Todd to fades to black.