The March Madness tournament is set to decide the new King of the XWF. Some of the greatest talent the XWF has on their impressive roster has lined up for their chance at glory.

Then there's Jenny Myst.

NUCLEAR THREAT

Thursday, February 24th.

We open to see the Bobby Bourbon dojo for the Competitive Arts. Students practice their headlocks and hip tosses in the ring in the northwest corner. In the northeast corner we see the local Dunkin Donuts, where folks of all walks of life, though mostly lower middle class, enjoying coffee and doughnuts donuts. This ain't no overpriced Starbucks hooplah, nor your froo-froo Panera Bread, no sirree. In the southeast corner, we see 4 kitchen setups, almost mirroring the set from Chopped, as culinary students seem to be in some kind of contest to make cheese fries. Not just any cheese fries, we’re talking some real froo-froo hooplah going on bringing spud and curd into gear. In the southwest corner, we see a vintage arcade, with pinball machines and retro stand-up arcade machines lending their glow to the room. Finally, it looks like a solid fixture has made it's way into the southwest corner of the Bourbon Dojo, but who knows if that particular storyline will finish. Will the arcade survive? Will it become a barber shop again? Remember when they sold phone cases and accessories there? The story of one man's space in a building where only 3 corners were static characters really isn't very gripping shit, but, hey, I never said I was talented.

Dead center, in a glass enclosed bullpen, is Bobby’s office. We enter to see Bobby Bourbon seated at a desk, with Cyberjaw, the man with the cybernetic jaw, Diamondback, the man who can blend into any crowd, Ash, Bobby’s stylist, and RoboBob, the robot from Rocky IV with a picture of Bobby’s face stapled to it (and noble predecessor to Mr. BOB). Bobby has a notepad in front of him.

Can we be out there?

Later.

But, cheese fries.

I know. It's international cheese fries day, or as they say in Quebec, Journée de la Poutine. Such a fancy sounding day for junk food.

I know!

Yeah, we skipped breakfast.

And lunch.

And smoked a ton of pot to get munched out.

Yeah, yeah, I can tell. You smell like Adam Devine's travel bag right now.

Who?

The guy from Workaholics.

The tall one?

Nah, the one with the long hair.

Neither.

Oh, the guy that looks like Jack Black's melanoma.

That's, uh, sure. We'll go with it.

Bobby purses his lips and half-shrugs.

So why can't we go watch them make cheese fries?

Well, the last time you two got this amped about what the chefs were up to you kept interupting them.

We were hungry!

Bring a sandwich or something, Jesus! They were baking cookies and you kept eating the dough.

At least I didn't stick my hand in a running mixer.

I stuck my hand in a running mixer and didn't get hurt.

I was smart and unplugged the mixer first.

No, that's not 'smart' that's interrupting the end result of actual cookies.

Well, what do we have to do to get cheese fries?

Oh, that’s easy. See, I wasn't able to help Barney raise money for charity in Hawaii, and, well, it's high time I gave back to the people. You help me come up with a cool way to be an actual, I dunno, man of the people or some such, I don't really remember what made me that to begin with anymore, and you get to have a treat.

I thought you were a Bastard these days.

I am, but today I am a downright generous bastard.

Oh.

Neat.

So, let's brainstorm. I mean, I do have a quota to keep, seeing as how I'm some kind of psuedo-saint. Let's hear some ideas.

Why don't you do what you always do, turn on the news and go ham on something bad happening.

Guys, can we say "old hat"?

In unison, Cyberjaw, Diamondback, and Ash reply.

Old hat.

That was rhetorical, but otherwise great harmony. Any new ideas though?

Well, what if we started a petition?

Fuschia, rockin' space babe, walks in.

Hey you!

Hey doll face. Diamondback was about to shoot us an idea!

Oh?

Fuschia looks at Diamondback, then back to Bobby.

Are you sure?

Yes. Diamondback, please.

Okay. So, we start a petition to declassify chicken. For too long, chickens, from your Rhode Island Reds to your Green Legged Partridge Hens, have been classified.

What the hell do you mean?

They're classified, as meat! As such, vegetarians and vegans can't have chicken. Not even a nugget. So, we get this petition going around and get the United Nations to declassify chicken as a meat, so that thousands, if not dozens, of vegans and vegetarians can partake of the poultry from them yummy yard birds, maybe even have an omelet.

What the hell have you been smoking?

Pot.

How much?

All of it.

Bobby starts jotting down into his notebook. Fuchsia looks at him inquisitively.

Uh, honey…

I know, but we're brainstorming and it's the only idea we have so far.

It doesn't make sense!

Bobby smiles at Fuchsia.

Babe, it doesn't have to make sense. See, when you use rational thought, you're bound to be stymied by just that, rationalle and thought. However, when you're just batshit, well, the sky's the limit!

Fuchsia rolls her eyes.

If they were drunk would you be writing their ideas down?

Bobby pauses, then continues to write.

If I thought they were fun enough, sure.

Okay then.

Do you have any ideas?

For what?

I, uh, well, I gotta go do a good deed.

Oh. Like reading to the elderly?

No. Not like that at all.

Yeah, he already tried that.

What happened?

Well, I brought some Dr. Seuss classics.

Those are children's books.

I know, I figured it would pretty much be the same. Instead, they all just wanted me to read smut. Horny old weirdos.

Well, huh.

Yep. But, I guess it's an idea.

Bobby starts jotting into his notebook.

Give… the elderly… lady-boners…

I don't think that's a good deed.

They'll disagree.

Suddenly, Theo Pryce walks into Bobby’s office.

Bobby!

Theo! What are you doing here?

Well, you always walk into my office, I figured changing it up wouldn't hurt. You said you needed to talk?

Oh, yeah, we're going to need to come up with some cash to perform a good deed.

Of course, Bobby. Supporting the public is something we in the XWF encourage. What’s your plan?

Well, you see…

Theo has crept around behind Bobby and glances over his shoulder, looking at his notes. Theo looks dead at Bobby.

We aren't doing that.

Well now I want to.

If you want to do something nice, Vinnie needs his deck power washed, I'm sure he'd be delighted if you just showed up with a bunch of equipment and started doing chores around his house.

Theo smirks. Bobby chortles as he starts writing into his notebook. Ash, who had been eying her phone the entire time, speaks.

You could go to Ukraine.

Why?

Russia just invaded.

The room goes still. Bobby looks at Theo.

Are you going to hire some evil Russians now? Do I get my good deed points for kicking the shit out of Boris on Anarchy or something?

Theo considers the question for half a second.

Probably yes to the first question, as a wrestling promoter evil Russians just sound cool. No to the second one. He's not evil, he's the fun loving party animal Russian.

As Theo explains this, we hear a very distinct sound come from inside Bobby’s desk.



Everyone looks at Bobby expectantly, except Theo, who's never been around for one of these types of things. Theo looks around with a sense of alarm.

What the hell is that?

My boss is calling.

What? I'm right here.

No, from my other job.

Bobby opens a drawer and pulls out a very retro looking red rotary phone with no dial. As he does, a massive flatscreen drops down in front of the door. Bobby presses the face of the phone, and on the screen we see none other than Joe Biden, President of the United States and Bourbon Man.

Hello Bobby.

Hey Joe.

Holy shit, really?

Bobby glances sideways at Theo.

Joe, this is Theo, Theo, this is Joe.

~~~~~

We see Charlie Nickles standing in the dining room of an Arby's.

Hey guys. I'm Charlie Nickles, XWF staple. As the champion of television, I'm on your television right now to talk to you about Arby's.

Charlie walks next to a table where a family of four is seated.

Hi Charlie!

Charlie looks at the little boy.

Life is pain and suffering, your parents probably toiled and went through an untold amount of stress just to bring you to a fast food restaurant!

The boy looks emptily at the rest of his family.

I know.

Well, on the bright side, you're at an Arby's. We have the meats! And fish sandwiches! Sure, the logo looks like an enormous uncircumcised penis, but to some, that just means dinner time! Come on down, have a Rueben, or a gyro, or even the Big Montana, where we cram bacon into a roast beef sandwich, so you can feel like you're eating the whole slaughterhouse in one go. Did I mention the fish sandwiches? You know they're good, because where most places have a square piece of fish, Arby's uses a huge triangle that barely fits on the bun!

The Arby's manager comes from around the counter.

Hey, I thought I told you to get out of here!

Charlie bolts out of the door of Arby's.

~~~~~

Bobby, I’m sure you’ve heard the news.

Yes Joe. Triangular fish.

No, not this.

The president holds up an Arby's fish sandwich. Arby's isn't known for their chicken sandwich. However, they have the meats.

I mean the Ukraine stuff.

Oh, yeah. I just heard about it. How bad is it?

Well, we can’t declare war on Russia since they have nukes same as how people don’t declare war on us.

Is this really happening? I’m sorry to interrupt, sir.

No worries, son, just a matter of talking with America’s finest Motherfucker about getting the dirty work done. Bobby, who is your new Bourbon Man?

Theo looks both awed and frustrated as his lips close gently and his eyes widen, his head shaking ‘no’ slowly to the president.

I’m sorry, sir, but I don’t work for Bobby, I think there’s some misunderstanding here.

Hold on, Joe.

Bobby looks squarely at Theo.

Shit’s on, Theo. Like it or not, when you’re in this office, the draft is on, and our country needs us. Flat out, it’s ride or die time. Now, I’ve been eyeing that mighty fine desk of yours for a while, and frankly, hot fucking damn, every time I see you behind it, nothing personal, I just want to Bobbybomb you through it, consequences be damned. Not just mine, mind you, losing my XWF contract, but yours, losing the ability to walk or empty your own colostomy bag. So, here we are. I’m not asking you to help me on some hackneyed crusade. I’m telling you, it’s time for me to be a Motherfucker. Joe doesn’t want me to go and play the hero for the Ukrainian people, no sir. I’m to go over to eastern Europe to be the damnedest fucking villain Putin has ever had to deal with, real nightmare kind of shit, waking up with cold sweats, swigging a bit of extra vodka to help calm the nerves on account of me, the vicious bastard I am. Flat out, I’m the only nuke we’re deploying right now, and you’re the only pilot to drop that bomb. Can you dig it?

Theo looks shocked. Joe smiles.

Thank god. He’s on board, ladies and gentlemen.

Within the room Joe Biden is speaking, we hear the resolute relief and resounding joy that Bobby Bourbon is being deployed.

I really just came here to tell you that you’re in the March Madness tournament, and frankly I’m not sure how to take all of this.

Bobby puts his hand on Theo’s shoulder.

You take it because you can’t look yourself in the mirror for leaving it.

Theo looks as though he’s had an epiphany, whether his own conscience would come into conflict with abandoning this opportunity or if Bobby would genuinely rip his eyes out of their sockets because it was go time for American skullduggery.

Let’s cowboy up, then.

Joe Biden rolls his eyes as the call ends. The rest of the Bourbon Men snicker as Bobby purses his lips and breathes deep through his nostrils so nothing will come out of his mouth. Along the bottom of the screen, we see a line of scrolling text that reads “NEW BOURBON MAN ALERT: THEO PRYCE, THIS SHIT IS IMPORTANT!”

Sure, we’ll, uh, go to a chili parlor or something after, pretty boy. You can fly, right?

Theo smirks.

I’m your eagle.

Stone solid. Now, about that March Madness tournament. Who am I facing first?

Well, it was a random pull. Jenny Myst is facing Latina Submission Machina.

Good for them.

Thunder Knuckles is facing Barney Green.

Fucked up.

Bobby looks dead at Theo.

Seriously, they’re my bros, I don’t want them fighting.

Well, it comes with the territory. Then we have Raion Kido and Cage Coleman.

Seriously? Kido? I would love to fight that dude. I kinda admire his spirit.

Well, you’ve got Calvary.

The camera pans to show the slackjawed expressions of Cyberjaw, Diamondback, and Ash. Fuchsia looks concerned.

Honey, he’s…

Bobby puts a massive hand up, swiftly shaking his head.

Is he stronger than me? Maybe. Is he faster than me? Maybe so. Is he tougher than me? Not tough enough, that’s for damn sure. Is he better than me? Not by a fucking long shot. All those talents, all those gifts, squandered on someone who doesn’t have the fucking balls or backbone to step the fuck up when the time is right, and god damn it, the time is right fucking now. This guy is touted on the XWF website as something like a fucking superhero, but what impact has he had? None in the XWF? Name an accolade I haven’t achieved in the XWF, and it’s one he hasn’t come anywhere near sniffing, and now when the chips are down the only accolade left for me, winning March Madness, is the thing he’s trying to accomplish? Fuck that, this sappy silly shithead in a blue onesie is about to get his body busted. I don’t give a fuck what the fuck you fucking think you’re capable of, what kind of horse shit you think you stand for, I will prove two simple things, Calvary, that you bleed, and that you break. No surprise, I’m not the first one who’ll have fucking done it, hell, Brother Knuckles even tried to get into my ear on this one about what it took to take you down, but it’s not something I need a lecture in, not something I need an education on. You come from past the stars and beyond the moon, and that’s just gravy, you can bend steel and never drown, that’s just dandy. You could snort Draino until the dawn and pull cotton candy out of your asshole for all I care, because when it comes down to it, the things that matter the most, is your heart beats with the might of a bag of marshmallows while every cell flowing through my veins is spurned by the internal combustion power of a fucking Dodge 6.2 Hellcat engine that can’t help but make me roar through you like a Milwaukee chainsaw cutting through whatever soft wood you are made of.

I will give you some kudos for marketing, though. You got me beat there. While I have made my way in this world over the fallen bodies off those I face, you, well, you went out and got merchandise made. Lookit this shit.

Bobby gestures to the screen.



Well fuck, the Calvary likes being a part of little boys’ underwear. This guy is on more prepubescent kids crotches than six Catholic diosceses. While I’ve been washing blood off your hands, mommies and daddies in the first world have been washing potty-training piss stains off of your likeness. Imagine, all those gifts, Kal, every ounce of miraculous talent in your pinky that I supposedly can’t match, but I’m the one who can actually get shit accomplished. I ain’t never had anybody have to put anything on me to inhibit my own God given abilities, I’ve had to prove them time in, time out, and I’ma do that again this Saturday at Savage.

Bobby looks at the rest of the Bourbon Men.

And I’ma do that to defend democracy against Putin.

~~~~~

We cut to see a community center, somewhere in America. Inside, we see a group of elderly folks sitting around accompanied by a few nurses. Bobby walks into the room and takes a seat amongst them.

Hey guys.

A nurse walks up to him and hands him a copy of Penthouse Forum from 1986. Bobby shudders. He opens the magazine.

It was a hot Saturday night...

The elderly surrounding him lean in with anticipation. Somewhere, we hear the sound of a vibrator firing up.

~~~~~

Almost simultaneously, we hear a weed eater firing up. Vinnie Lane sits up in his bed, rubbing his eyes, then letting them dart around.

What was that?