Bobby recently gathered a number of Bourbon Men after they had been dismissed by one Geoff Sparks. Are any more on the horizon?

Also, some time ago Bobby was relieved of his license to be a Motherfucker by then president Donald Trump.

WE INTERRUPT YOUR REGULARLY SCHEDULED BROADCAST

Outside the Bourbon Dojo for the Competitive Arts, a small mob has formed. Cyberjaw, the man with the cybernetic jaw, Diamondback, the man who can blend into any crowd, Xtreme Travel Agent, possible victim of Stockholm Syndrome, Axe Mannix, axe man on Xanax, RoboBob, the robot from Rocky IV with a magazine clipping of Bobby’s face stuck to its with a magnet, Karen, caring restaurant manager, and Fuschia, rockin' space babe, are all standing with Bobby.

Oh man, I am so glad everyone is back together.

You're right, Mannix.

No, I really mean it, I am very pleased to be here with everybody, it means a lot!

Axe begins to weep while smiling. Karen pats his back.

It's okay, let it out. Can I offer you a soft drink?

I want a Mountain Dew Gingerbread Snap'd for some XTREME HOLIDAY FLAVOR!

Ugh…

Yeah, XTA, that sounds…

XTREME!

Xtreme Travel Agent raises a fist and starts headbanging, her dirty blonde hair twisting and cascading as she does.

I was going to say gross.

What about Coca-Cola with Coffee?

Yeah, bro, that sounds right in your wheelhouse.

Bobby swiftly shakes his head.

No dice. That stuff legit tastes like carbonated Worcestershire sauce. I mean, I was pleasantly reminded of a great marinade for mushrooms or Brussels sprouts, but as a stand-alone beverage I can pass.

Yeah. His burps smell like a burger shop after.

I want a blackberry ginger ale.

Oh, those are tasty.

Everyone nods in agreement. Well, Xtreme Travel Agent is still headbanging, but she fits in.

Okay, let's do this.

Bobby starts toward his dojo.

Awesome.

What are we doing?

Bobby pivots and continues to backpedal toward the building.

Going inside.

But we got fired!

Well we're going to renegotiate your contract statuses.

Bobby turns and continues towards the front door of the dojo, followed by the assembled Bourbon Men. As Bobby is about to enter, a bright light shines down from the heavens. Harp music starts playing.

Oh, Jesus.

Hyep.

Jesus Christ, religious figure and, of course, a Bourbon Man appears.

Bobby, you're having a reunion and I wasn't invited?

Of course not, just that the gas to drive to your house was going to be outrageous.

Poppycock. My houses are around the block almost everywhere. Just not at that creep Osteen's place. Dad damn, he's as weird as the Scientology nerds.

Joel Osteen? The mega-church guy?

Jesus raises an eyebrow.

Yeah. No, I meant Norman P. Osteen, the auto mechanic. You need to lay off the electric cabbage pal, too much of a good thing and all.

Well, Jesus, I'm sorry I didn't call, I figured since you're omnipotent and all you'd notice.

Yeah, and aren't there like a lot of other things to focus on, like the starving, and the helpless?

Details, details, I'm an idea man. Plus, I'm only one man, and one God, Fuschia, and I work in mysterious ways. Speaking of which, the real reason I came is, well, there's someone who needs your help. For some reason people are blaming him for shit now.

With a puff of smoke, Satan appears.

Woah!

Oh, don't get your panties in a bunch.

Hey, aren't you two supposed to be…

Karen points at both Jesus and Satan. They look at each other, then laugh. They then exchange a no-look fistbump.

Nah, we’re cool.

Yeah. This guy sells me to Evangelicals better than the ideas of just being decent to one another and treating others how you want to be treated.

Oh yeah. And this guy's super judgy dad sends half of them to hell anyhow for being shit, and the looks on their face are priceless when they find out they're spending all of eternity with me just to get tortured. LOL.

Did you just say 'LOL'?

I invented saying 'LOL'.

I'm so glad you two get along! I heard just the worst things about your relationship.

Well, Axe, I did bust his balls for 40 days in a desert.

Yeah, and my dad created the instability in your brain that you medicate.

They're two sides to the same coin.

Jesus snaps his fingers and points at Fuschia.

Look at the big brain on her. She's a keeper, Bobby.

Thanks Jesus. Well, what do you need from me?

Well, you see, it's this Travis Scott thing.

Yeah, for some reason everybody thinks I have ties to this guy now because a bunch of soft Gen Z kids died in a mosh pit because they'd never gone to a big concert before and didn't understand people rush stages at shit like that. Travis even offered prayers to the families of the fallen, for the love of Christ.

Thanks.

You're welcome.

Another no-look fistbump.

So now a slew of idiots are saying it was some 'demonic occurrence' because they can't accept the basic fact that the stupid are pretty much destined for early graves. We can thank big pharma for that one, putting safety caps on aspirin just delayed the inevitable more than Ralph Nader and his shenanigans that tried to bankrupt Detroit. If I really had a hand in it, about fifty thousand people would have simultaneously orgasmed.

Really?

Yeah, he's a bit of a horn dog.

The horn dog. I've been bagging the finest tail since Eve. Speaking of which, ever wanna see what the lord of darkness is like in the dark?

Satan smirks at Fuschia.

No.

You sure?

I said no.

Aw, c'mon babe, I will…

I will feed you your own dick.

Fuschia snuggles up tightly to Bobby. Satan laughs.

See, that's why I like you Bobby. I literally do that to John Wayne Gacy every day!

Cool!

Yeah, it is pretty cool.

Look, do me a solid, Bobby. Another Satanic panic would do more harm than good, last time those impacted were the mentally ill and the LGBTQ community, and the Church of Satan is actually a better group of Christians than the Catholics.

Oh, alright.

We see a message scroll across the bottom of the screen that reads "NEW BOURBON MAN ALERT: IT’S LITERALLY SATAN THIS TIME, GO FIGURE."

Great. Well, I don't want to interfere with what you kids get up to, I gotta go make Joseph Mengele and Albert Fish sixty-nine each other until they're only dry heaving in a vat filled with centipedes.

That's kinda badass!

Satan smiles shyly.

Oh, stop, it's just a way to make a living.

I gotta go too. A football player is thanking me for giving him the ability to hit people really hard.

Okay. Wave goodbye to Jesus and Satan guys!

Bye bye!

The assembled Bourbon Men wave as Jesus and Satan disappear.

Well, now we have Satan's backing, plus Jesus's, so that's cool. Let's go.

Wait.

Everyone stops and looks at Diamondback.

I need to know something.

What is it?

You mean how did Jesus and the devil just show up?

No. That I get. What I want to know is mayonnaise a fruit?

Everyone stops and looks directly at Diamondback in stunned silence. RoboBob blinks flashing lights.

Happy birthday, Paulie.

Okay, this is just getting stupid. Let's go inside.

Bobby and the rest of the Bourbon Men enter through the front door of the dojo. Immediately to their right, they see Geoff is sitting at his True People's News desk mid-broadcast. He seems too focused on a teleprompter to notice Bobby and company.

...and David Hasselhoff was not available to comment.

Bobby shouts.

David Hasselhoff? No wonder you're only big in Germany.

Geoff glances up to see Bobby, who is sneering back at him. Geoff looks surprised at the slew of people whom he had fired, who all look damned eager to see where Bobby takes this.

Uh, folks, we have a special treat for you now on True People's News, the owner of TPN himself, Bobby Bourbon is here! Bobby, come on!

Geoff waves to Bobby, who walks over on set.

Bobby, how are you?

Geoff, I've been better. Now have you already talked about the Travis Scott bullshit?

Uh, Bobby, we're a family friendly broadcast, you can't…

I just fucking did. This is my broadcast. My blood money pays for this. Did you address how the Astroland tragedy was not demonic or related to Satan and people should be rational and blame poor security and/or greedy promoters?

Uh, no, we weren't covering any of…

What kind of fucking news is this? Shit. Get on with the local news already.

Uh, local?

Yeah, shithead, local. Let's go over what's going on in the district.

Uh, right, uh…

Geoff looks off camera and waves his hand along. As he does, we see Ash, Bobby’s stylist, approach and join the rest of the Bourbon Men. Some production assistants look befuddled.

Woah, Geoff, a ton of shit is scrolling on that teleprompter of yours, what were you going to talk about?

Well, I had planned to discuss…

Bobby cuts him off.

Nobody gives a flying fuck. Yo, does anyone know what's happening in town?

Well, there's been a string of young women going missing near Gallaudet.

Shit, really? Geoff, what do you know about this?

Well, uh, we were wondering if we should call the story 'On Deaf Ears' or 'Silent Disappearances'.

Really?

Bobby looks less than pleased.

So we needed a new hero to, what, gussy up news? What else has been going on?

There's a Q-Anon rally set to happen around the Capitol.

The fuck!?

Uh, yeah, we were going to…

You were going to do diddly jack shit about the group responsible for the January sixth attacks congregating where they took place? About domestic terror?

Bobby, you can't just rush headlong into these kinds of problems. Seriously, those methods just don't work anymore, and you and these irrelevant reprobates you brought here have amounted to nothing. Name one Bourbon Man who's ever accomplished anything.

I have.

Everyone stops and turns to see Joe Biden, President of the United States and, notably, a Bourbon Man.

Hey Joe.

Hi Bob!

Joe Biden walks onto the set of True People's News as the Secret Service all encircle the area. Biden puts his hand up for a high five, as does Bobby, but Joe follows up with an awkward grabbing of Bobby’s hand.

Shit.

Language, Geoff. Be a fucking professional.

Bobby, I heard you were pulling Bourbon Men back together, and I'm here to offer support.

Joe, I appreciate it. You kinda fucked up in Afghanistan though.

Joe looks solemnly at the ground.

I know. I feel terrible about it. If only we had a licensed Motherfucker working for the U.S.

Joe, do you mean what I think you mean?

Biden looks at the camera.

My predecessor made a few mistakes in my opinion, and one was definitely the decision to revoke your license to be an All-American ass kicker.

Joe looks at Bobby.

Your country needs you, Mr. Bourbon. If you are willing, I would like to reinstate your license to fuck shit up in the name of the American people. These are uncertain times, and America has been slipping behind. We need you now more than ever.

Without hesitation, Bobby looks directly at Joe.

I'm America's Motherfucker, sir.

Joe pats Bobby on the shoulder. The Bourbon Men, secret service, and congregation in the dojo erupt with resounding joy, all save for Geoff Sparks.

Geoff, stand up.

Geoff slowly stands, exuding the phony toughness of the utterly defeated.

Geoff, I want to thank you for your service in my absence, however it looks like your efforts and services are no longer needed. As such, I am eager to promote you.

Geoff looks very surprised by this.

Really?

Absolutely. Effective immediately, I would like to make you the head of sanitation here at the dojo!

Cyberjaw walks up and hands Geoff a mop. Diamondback slides a bucket on wheels to him.

Go clean the shitter.

Seriously?

It's a dirty job but someone has to. I've gotta go deal with some Q-Anon bullshit, among other things.

Well, thanks but no-thanks, I think I'll…

Bobby bitch slaps Geoff. Geoff looks shocked as a tear wells up in his eye.

How dare you?

Joe Biden steps forward.

He dares. He's authorized to do that, I just reinstated him.

Bobby folds his arms as Geoff's Adam's apple bobs while he swallows hard truths.

Go. Make the urinals shine.

Geoff shambles off sullenly.

Well, what are we waiting for? Battle stations everybody.

~~~~~

Somewhere outside of a brownstone somewhere in Washington, DC, we see a young woman pushing a stroller up to the steps of her door. As she does, a man approaches.

Yo, Wanda.

The woman looks at the man.

What do you want Mac?

I want my son, bitch.

Mac, just go home. You're drunk again, the courts said you can't see Cleon until you go through anger management and alcohol…

Mac hauls off and belts Wanda. She crumples to the sidewalk.

Bitch, I said I want my son!

Mac reaches into the stroller, retrieving the toddler within. The tot begins bawling as Mac starts to saunter down the street.

Shut the fuck up, men don't cry!

Wanda looks up, and sobbing, calls out.

Someone! Help! My baby!

Mac rounds a corner, and out of sight.

Yo, who the fuck, urgk…

Mac is cut short. We hear the sound of about two-hundred pounds of meat hitting concrete. From around the corner, we see Bobby Bourbon carrying the child. He stoops, helps Wanda to her feet, and gently hands the baby back to his mother. Wanda looks up at Bobby.

Thank you! How can I…

Bobby puts a hand up, quieting her.

Go home, take care of your baby, and spread the word.

What word?

Major league ass-whooping is back in town.

~~~~~

Bobby is surrounded by the Bourbon Men outside of a beige recreational vehicle.

Well, I reckon the first step in getting back in the groove is underway. Kat, I hope you're listening. Pay attention, and you might just learn a thing or two. For starters, this isn't some punishment, or trial by fire, because you're an ex-OCW talent. You really didn't matter much there anyhow, having one measly match, and you didn't participate in the invasion. This, Kat, is an honor and a privilege. Not just for you, no, no. For me as well. If you're anywhere near as talented as you claim you are in the squared circle, then I am more than proud to share it with you. Smaller and lighter you may be, but bigger and stronger? I most certainly am, and not just compared to you, that's compared to about ninety-nine percent of the whole fucking planet. However, an elephant is a helluva beast, it doesn't know the first thing about stepping into a ring, and it wouldn't know a hammerlock from its own asshole. Thing is, if all you're relying on is training and experience, there's the harsh reality that I've been doing this a whole hell of a lot longer against a whole hell of a lot more people. Now, I could name drop just a few of the bodies I've left in the ring with my mitt raised by a referee in victory, but, shit, you already brought up a host of names yourself.

I've, uh, never heard of half those people.

Yeah, who are they?

For starters, lets us point out Cy Riddle and Jason Cashe. I suppose I should recoil in horror and feel some manner of fear because you said the names of two men who had the most biased officiating ever going in their favor against me and my partner? Pfft. Yeah, TNGB got screwed harder than Riley Reid over at a Brazzers shoot, and while you bring those men up, you certainly weren't involved in any of the happenings, so maybe you should elucidate on why you saying their names has any relevance whatsoever besides them being on your contacts list on your phone. Are you going to call them mid-match or some shit?

Bobby puts his hand to his head, pantomiming a phone.

"Hello, Jason and Cyrus? I know you had some bullshit referee saving your asses when Bobby was stereo chokeslamming the both of you, but I don't have one, and he just cracked my jaw so hard even eating using a straw is going to hurt for the rest of my life. Whoops, hold on, I just got planted into the floor like it's fucking Arbor Day and I'm an adorable little sapling. Any pointers, since I know you both so well and all that training against anyone but this monstrous motherfucker was worth fuck all because I accepted substitution as experience? Hold on, my spine is rattling like Mardi Gras beads because Bobby is getting violent again, can you call me back ASAP? I need help!"

Bobby holds his hands out and shrugs.

Seriously, what fucking good is it knowing those dudes?

None.

Nada.

Nil.

Not at all.

XTREME!

So then we move on to some of the other people you name dropped. Kimberly Pain? Never heard of her, she's not in the match, if she wants to come to the XWF I will be more than happy to hit her so hard she swallows an eyeball. Amber Bane-Ryan? What, she couldn't settle on a last name, so she went with two? Huh, welp, she's not in the match either. Do you seriously think this is some game show where you get to phone a friend? Fuck. I thought you were experienced, doesn’t sound like it. Whisper? Ooh, one of your friends is some doofy one-namer, like Bono, or Alias, or, Herpes. Sounds like another irrelevant personality who probably was cool at Hot Topic half a decade ago. Mac Bane? Damn, call Theo up and tell him about these people, he's the one who'll sign them, once he does, I'll whoop the dog piss outta Mac like the little doggy he is. Dakota Smyth? Damn, if only he was going to be in the goddamned ring against me, and even if he was, the last time you saw that dude would be the last time you're gonna see that dude. I guess they all know what you're like in the ring, but for all I know, for all I care, they could be made-up. Here, watch, just watch! I could go off about how I'm brother to the Octopus Lad, cousins with the Algebra Twins, Sir Wyatt Q. Copperhead the Third, Mince Meat Jerome, and have ties to Juniper, Cripple-Nuts Jones, and a bag of Dracula teeth sold half-price from the Halloween store on November fourth. How much of that matters? Fuck, I made it all up, and you're thinking I'm just a big dummy who's going to lumber about? No sirree, I am Panache Personified, I'm not just going to take whatever you got and come back with more, but I'ma make it look so fucking cool people will watch the clips on YouTube. When I beat your ass it will go viral!

Like the flu.

Diamondback, you’re up.

You’re sure this will work?

Absolutely, it was tested thoroughly.

I dunno, a scan replicator seems novel for buying multiples of the same thing in the self check out at a grocery store, but here?

Absolutely. It’ll repeat whatever signal was last scanned by any laser or RF device.

Okay, still don’t get what’s so great about that.

It’s a key to the city bud.

We see Diamondback take the simple-looking device in hand as he departs. He walks around the big vehicle and across the street to a massive set of buildings surrounded by a fence.

What do you think you’re up against, Kat? Some chaotic stupidity? The methods to madness are woven and well worn like your favorite sweater on a cold Autumn day, and you're just now nestling into them and wondering why it's itchy, and your skin is sticky with sweat because it's too heavy and hot for you to wear. It's alright, though. See, I have lost to women, and to those smaller than me, go ask Betsy, Dolly, or even Sloane Taylor, and those are names more relevant than you could fart out. I don’t take pride in losing, no, but I’m not so prideful that I think ‘hur hur, women can’t compete’, because they can. Regardless, here I am, though, still trucking, and right through you, because you just don't have the talent those ladies do. Take the sweater off, kid. Go get yourself a t-shirt that says 'I lost to a prick named Bob', they sell them out in the parking lot.

Bobby’s phone rings. The screen reads ‘Diamondback’ as he retrieves it from his pocket. Bobby boops a button, setting it to speaker mode.

Hello?

Yeah, I’m in, how’d you know…

What, they badge in all the time at those places, if you just repeat the last badge signal you’re going in too.

Okay.

Just remember, you’re there for server maintenance.

Copy.

Bobby disconnects the call.

So, Kat, you can drop all this shit about how you like to inflict pain already. We get it. You’re echoing yourself ad nauseam, and, well, it’s all pretty damned hollow. Who fucking cares if you like to hurt things. So did half the dumb motherfuckers in the Nazi party. They’re dead now, and you want to, what, be dead too? Look, flaunt yourself as crazy all you want. It doesn’t conflict me none, not at all. Mental illness is something I even struggle with, ask my psychiatrist, it doesn’t make me a sadist, though. Flat out, if I could just win matches or stop shitheads by stopping time or using some hackneyed magicks like half of the fucking wrestling world pretends they can, I would, I don’t throw hands or bust bodies lightly. But, hey, whatever Edgy McEdgelord, keep up that phony goth facade while watching Repo: The Genetic Opera for the fifty millionth time while looking in a mirror and telling yourself that your look will come back again some day. Consort with whatever cheating bastards you want about how to advance yourself, because it sure wasn’t heartless violence what beat me and TK for the OCW championships, it was cowardice. Look up to a man who couldn’t beat me on his best day and relied on a crooked referee. Thing is, that’s the craziest thing you could do, not apply a hold in a wrestling match. Wow. I mean, wow. I have faced stupid before, but you’re a brand new kind of melted crayon on the short bus, ain’t ya?

Bobby’s phone rings again. He’s still holding it, and connects the call.

Yo.

I did it.

Awesome.

Bobby hangs up.

What did he do?

He implanted a device into that there building.

What is that building?

It’s an Amazon Data Center.

What, you want to see what your opponents bought online?

What? No, don’t be dim. I could care less how much mascara the idiot who thinks I’m underestimating her buys every week. I’m betting it’s in gallons, but still. Amazon Data Centers are contracted to house the National Security Agency’s information.

So you just…

I just hacked into everybody’s everything.

Most of the Bourbon Men look agog at this. Fuschia grins, and Cyberjaw laughs.

Cyberjaw, start cross referencing all the missing girls from Gallaudet and if they ever used an Amazon app downloaded from the Apple store, see if we can get a hit on a ‘Find-My-iPhone’. The rest of you, start looking into any information on the rally set to happen at the Capitol with the Q-Anons. Kat, if you think you’re beating me at Warfare, you really are nuts. In the meantime, sit back and relax. You get to watch how I handle the crazed and the malevolent.