A camera peeks carefully through a doorway…

Into an office.

Standing with his back to the camera…. One hand resting on the desk before him.

It’s the Universal Champion, Mark Flynn.

“Hey, Bob.”

Flynn side-eyes the camera without turning around..

“Take a seat. I’ll be with you in juuuuuust a moment.”

The camera adjusts to desk-level.

Resting on the desktop is a gigantic open book…

Flynn scoops off the table-top… a loose photo of Bourbon’s smiling face…

“Y'know what I like about jobbers, Bob? Why I like to do segments where I scrap with ‘em? Give ‘im a little shine they’d never get otherwise?”

Carefully with his free hand, Flynn unscrews the top of a container of rubber cement resting on the desktop.

“Because I. APPRECIATE. COMPANY. LOYALTY.”

The cap pops off, revealing a brush on the underside of the top. Flynn’s hand circles it ‘round the container until the brush drips with adhesive.

“These fucking losers… These trash-tier nobodies who lucked into a job that they’re juuuuuust below the capacity to succeed at the highest level imaginable.”

“ARE DIE-HARD XWF. Despite their star-crossed state-of-being.”

…Flynn snorts, shaking his head.

“You ever think about that, Bob? The curse of being just slightly less than the best?”

“The wrestling industry is BLOATED with LACKLUSTER talent.”

“There’s wrestlers running the ropes in high-school gyms at independent shows for their entire careers. From ages 14 to 98. Never coming CLOSE to the big leagues.”

Flynn gently brings the photo in his hand up to his face… Flattening his palm. As he oh-so-carefully brushes the back of the photo with the rubber cement.

“Then, you have minor leaguers. Working stiffs in feds like Sin City Wrestling or Action Wrestling or… uh…”

Flynn glances into the camera. “OCW. That shit-tier kiddie-pool you and TK like to dip your toes in when you eat one loss, swimming with the adults.”

The image lays flat. Flynn gently taps the corners so the picture sets.

“Then, there’s the XWF jobbers. ‘The’ Jessica Anderson. Terry Borden.”

“In any other pond? They’d be a big fish.”

“Throw Big Preesh into OCW and he’d be World Champion tomorrow…”

“But, still. They stay here. The smallest fish in the largest ocean.”

“Why? Because they’re so… FUCKING CLOSE.”

“They stand at the precipice of greatness. Blessed enough to arrive on the biggest fucking stage of the greatest fucking sport that has EVER EXISTED.”

“Yet cursed to find themselves…Narrowly… BARELY lacking.”

“The bottom of the top.”

“The EXCRUCIATING AGONY… Of being the very worst… among the very best.”

…Flynn gently closes the book.

…

“And still, they persevere. They don’t miss one show. Chewing down a heaping dose of humbling failure every single week.”

…

“They’ll do it until their bodies give out or someone better takes their spot. Because this is their fucking dream.”

“They never whine, moan, or complain.”

“And they sure as shit don’t disappear to compete on a lesser-caliber rival show for months-at-a-time.”

…

“Which brings us to you, Bob.”

Flynn lifts his hand.

And snaps.

In a flash, the scene shifts.

The office is now…

The Dingy Yellow Office

Where Flynn stood, he is no longer.

“BOBBY BOURBON!”

Now, a faceless simulacrum sits comfortably at the desk, looking hungrily at the camera.

SMACK! The wooden desktop rattles.

“The Monday Morning Quarterback.”


Pictured Above: Someone mad that XWF made so much money after he vanished that Vinnie gets to finance his weird lady-football project now.

“The Sultan of Arm-Chair Smacktalk.”


Pictured Above: Comments made a week before he lost in March Madness Round ONE.

“The CRIIIIIIIIIIITIC.”

“The Man who claims he’s a fucking main-event draw. Who thinks he could exceed even Mark Flynn’s string of RECORD-BREAKING SALES FIGURES™.”

The creature’s nose-area wrinkles.

“...Let’s be honest, Bob. You’re not even OCW Main-Event talent, let alone the brand on which the XWF could stand.”

“While under my reign of dominance, the XWF has achieved RECORD PROFITS™, BAY-BEEEEEEEEE!”

“These jobbers? I made so much money, they’re on the COMPANY HEALTHPLAN™, Bob-bo!”


Pictured Above: RECORD PROFITS™, BAY-BEEEEEE™

“I’m so good, the money shoots off my matches like I’m a SPRING of PROSPERITY, Bob.”

“Meanwhile, what were working conditions like when Bourbsy was a regular around here?”

“Don’t answer that, Bob. I brought screenshots.”


Pictured Above: An average Bourbon match.


Presented without comment.
...Okay, fine, one comment: "What the FUUUUCK is this shit?!?"


Pictured Above: Usually, if I say a guy shit his pants in the ring, I’d be speaking metaphorically… Not Bobby, though.

“Surprised I went deep in the history well, Bob? YOU said my trash-talk would only be me bringing up the times I beat you.”

“NEWS FLASH, ROB. I’ve UPGRADED MY GAME since you left.”

“I’ve become the fucking XWF’S OFFICIAL LOREKEEPER™.”

“I AM THE BLISTERING LIGHT REVEALING HYPOCRISY IN EVERY MAN, WOMAN (and otherwise, it’s 2023) that’s entered this glorious ring...”

The creature grins as he walks around the side of the desk…

And scoops into his arms…

“Hrgh!”

The massive book Flynn the creature was just putting the finishing touches on...

“Eight years, Rob. I combed through EIGHT… YEEEEARS. To cobble together a definitive record of your XWF career.”

“It took me hours of carefully-considered search queries. I cross-referenced matches from the XWF network, with scrubbed content off YouTube that Theo & Vin cut from the streaming service… I even discovered a few dark-web sites for the absolute WORST shit…”

The creature covers his mouth with hand, like he’s sharing a secret.

“...Semi-related, pretty sure my *research* gave the company computer EVERY virus known to man.”

It shakes its head.

“STILL! I did it. I compiled your ENTIRE MATCH HISTORY.”

The freak pats the front cover.

“THIS is the REAL Robbie Record.”

“The DEFINITIVE DANNY SEX TEXT.”

“THIS, RIGHT HERE, is the BOBBY BOURBON BIBLE, BAY-BEEEEEEEEEEE!”

The doppleganger drops the book back on the desk with a THUD!

…And a looooooooow creak, like the desk juuuuust might give out from the weight of the massive scripture.

“And why? Why did I pour LITERAL HOURS into compiling every single match you wrestled in the XWF?” The doppleganger lays a hand over where his heart would be.

“Because I CARE, Bob. Something I haven’t seen you do in six months.”

“I knew… deeeeeeep-down… you were in line for my belt. My nostrils picked up that unmistakable scent of ham and diabetes medication… That REEEEEK your body exudes to let everyone in a five-block radius know to clear out nearby disability parking spot, cuz ol’ Bobby Bourbon’s come to town.”

“But, if I didn’t know you were coming?”

“That little jetpack gimmick at SnowJob? Interrupting MY MAGNUM OPUS?”

The creature squeezes his fists. He exhales.

“Your little dismissive meta-commentary routine… Bringing up what a draw YOU are.”

“How gimmicky my OPTIMAL PATH™ is…”

“As I showed the ENTIRE WORLD how SUPERIOR I am than the so-called ‘World Series of Wrestling Champ’, Peter Vaughn.”

“Even as I held aloft my title belt. Even as I proved YET AGAIN, that I am the GREATEST WRESTLER OF ALL-TIME.”

“...The moment was… somewhat… SOURED.”

The figure points into the camera.

“By *you*, Bob.”

The figure’s eye-area spasms. Like Flynn’s eye twitch.

“And I… LOVE the decision you made, Bob.”

The creature’s chin lifts and the ends where his cheeks should be extend. If he had a face, it would grin from ear-to-ear.

“I fucking ADORE it.”

“Why? Because Mark Flynn’s GLORIOUS and FINAL VICTORY? My UNSTOPPABLE ASCENT TO THE TOP ALONE… Undeniably, it fuels the engine that churns out RECORD PROFITS™.”

"But, the question lingers... What's NEXT?"

“Nobody comes to the zoo to watch a bored lion, Bob. We need MEAT on the pipeline so the fans in the arena scratch their nickels together for the next feeding time.”

“And your BULLSHIT comments. Perfectly tease Flynn’s next MURDER.”

“Aw, Flynn and Vaughn got their MATCH of the AGES spoiled by Bourbon’s crusty ass? Better tune it next week to watch Bourbsy get fucking DEVOURED.”

“Because it’s always about the sequel, Rob.”

“Nobody wants a complete story anymore. Not when you can tack-on a post-credits scene and keep these BOZOS in the theatre, pissing their jeans, because GOD FORBID they run to the bathroom and have to look up on the internet THREE MINUTES LATER what esoteric Marvel NOBODY *might* make an appearance in THOR FUCKING FIVE.”

“That’s you, Bob. The ‘Howard the Duck’ of the XWF.”

“And we’ll take your tired, weak brand. And churn it into…”

“RECORD PROFITS™.”

The creature rubs its grubby paws together.

“The money machine’s already cranking, Bob. Tens of thousands of tickets flying into people’s inboxes to watch Flynn carve Bourbon like a hog on a spit.”

“Ticketmaster crashed even faster than it did for T. Swift.”

“Because the fucking ignorant, unwashed masses have been trained to BEG FOR MORE.”

“Even when they’re about to be served a fucking one-sided massacre.”

…

“Don’t believe me? Let’s actually pop open your history, then.”

“I poured half-a-day’s work into this book…”

The figure carefully pinches a corner.

“Let’s peel ‘er open and take a look…”

It flips open.

“Name: Robert Alva Bourbon.”

“Best known for his work in stables such as ‘The Motherfuckers’, ‘Them/Those No Good Bastards’ and ‘B.O.B.’...”

“Debut appearance: June 17th, 2015 - Warfare - Fatal four-way, also featuring ‘Hastur’, ‘Hero X-Treme 7.9’ and… ‘Hooded Man’?”

The figure chuckles.

“Jesus, Rob. Can you believe the sort of shit-tier nobodies this company used to hire? ‘Hero X-Treme 7.9’? ‘Hooded Man’?!? I know I penned a verbal love letter to jobbers before, but How the FUCK is ANYONE supposed to sell brands like this? What kind of talentless LOSER would get pinned by these fucking scrubs…?”

…The figure flips the page…

Then, double-takes. His brow lifts, taken aback.

“...Oh.”

“You did.”

“You… uh… You lost that match.”

…

“...Fun fact, Bob. You’re actually my first Uni challenger that lost their debut match.”

…

“That’s a fluke, though, right? Let’s get into the real numbers…”

“…After eight years of dominance. A Uni Title reign. A near-record-setting Tag Title run. Ascending the throne as KING of the XWF just last year…”

“Bobby Bourbon’s All-Time XWF Record is…”

“75-61-4!”

…

“Which is… A winning percentage of…”

Fingers hammering on a calculator.

“Approximately 53.571%.”

…

“A modicum better… than a coin-flip.”

…

“At first, I though, that’s odd. Bourbsy is one of the smack-talkingest men in the entire wrestling industry.”

“He talks with so much bluster and bravado, you’d assume this guy shits CHAMPIONSHIP GOLD.”

“Ya might guess... given his non-stop shit-talking about how *I* am a LAME-DUCK, RATINGS-KILLING champ… He’d be in my fucking league.”

“Or at least close enough to make an interesting match.”

“But. No.”

“Plain as fucking day.”

“*I* am better than *you*.”

“I’ve beaten you three times in the four matches we’ve had head-to-head.”

“As Uni Champ in 2018, you successfully defended your belt twice in 95 days. This Warfare, I’ll have hit day 152 of my reign… And this will be defense number SIX.”

“And I’ve been having barn-burner, MUST-SEE TV matches. I brought Mieky Graves to the main event. Atty Raven put on the performance of her fucking life trying to snatch this belt from me. In the ring with me, LSM looked… WATCHABLE!”

“Meanwhile, your match against Danny Imperial? Consisted of you and Danny lying on the mat for ten seconds, with you screaming at him to pin you.”


Seen above: The lowest-rated Uni Title match on the XWF Network

“I’ve been selling out arenas everywhere I go. And not JUST on the flagship program, Bob. Across every brand on the XWF platform.”

“People are buying tickets to ANARCHY and MADNESS… Just because you never know if Mark Flynn is gonna pop on to do a surprise BRAND EVALUATION™.”

“A quick torture session with one of the low-tier ring-rats we keep on staff.”

“The VERMIN... who should THANK ME PROFUSELY...

"DISLOCATE their arm on Live TV.”

“And make them FRONT-PAGE NEWS™ ONCE in their miserable, little lives...”

…

“Meanwhile, Bob. What happens when *you* enter the ring with the worst of the worst?”

“...Turns out, you lose.”

“You’ve lost to low-tier talent… with near-CONSTANT frequency.”

“I wouldn’t believe it if I hadn’t watched it myself.”

“You’ve taken a loss from the otherwise-winless-in-XWF Justin York.”

“You’ve eaten an L from Peter Gilmour.”

“You dropped a belt to Dick FUCKING Powers. A month before I beat him so bad, he LITERALLY DIED.”

“I swear to God, Bob. You have a losing CAREER record against TOMMY FUCKING WISH. You’ve wrestled Wish-O FIVE TIMES and lost THREE OF 'EM.”

“(Check my fucking math™).”

“...Then, again… Bob is such a gloryhound diva, maybe he doesn’t see the ECONOMIC VALUE of ACTUALLY TRYING against nobodies.”

“Maybe he saves that high-octane FIVE-STAR match when he’s sharing the ring with the fucking best.”

“Maybe I’m dealing with…”

“BIG.”

“MATCH.”

“BOB.”

…

“Again.”

“No.”

“You have a 14-20 PPV record.”

“You have a 21-30 record against former/present/future Uni champs…”

“You’ve had FORTY-SIX TITLE MATCHES in your career. And you’ve lost OVER HALF OF THEM.”

“And I witnessed first-hand when you had an X-Treme Title match against Jim Caedus at Radio City Music Hall.”

“The Sultan of Smacktalk, bequeathed with a microphone, like a holy sword to pierce his opponent.”

“And Bobby Bourbon took a golden opportunity.”

“And shit the bed with three straight promos of Crimson-Godzilla fan-fiction.”

…

“No matter how I slice it, Bob. The numbers don’t lie. You’re a fucking disappointment.”

“A B-level player.”

“A loud-mouthed midcarder.”

“A man who taints everything his lard-covered hands touch.”

“A MEDIOCRE tag-team wrestler who made a career out of attaching himself to the coattails of more-talented wrestlers.”

“Bearded War Pig.”

“B.O.B.”

“Thunder Knuckles.”

“When you dipped into the phantom zone (or wherever the fuck you got Thanos snapped to), TK beat Rob Main... The #2 wrestler in the XWF Top 50.”

“Meanwhile, when you swing through XWF without TK to defend your crown as King of the XWF? You lose in the first FUCKING ROUND.”

…

“No wonder Theo’s screening your calls. He’s busy talking to the ACTUALLY TALENTED.”

The creature grins.

“Wonder why Theo wants nothing to do with you lately, Bob? It’s not that his phone’s outta reach... He’s been tweeting Saga propaganda NON-STOP.”

“But, Theo’s a businessman. His time is VALUABLE. And as your ability to draw gets weaker, the proposition of speaking to you more than Pryce is contractually obligated?”

“Becomes LOST REVENUE™…”

“You’re a financial BURDEN, Bob.”

“You're DEADWEIGHT on a balance sheet.”

“A LOOOOOOOOSER.”

“You know it. I know it. The locker room knows it.”

…

“Trust me. I know what they’re thinking...”

“Ever since I picked up the Uni Title…”

“It’s like I picked up Senses Sixth through Fifteenth…”

“That first night, when I won this belt, I closed my eyes in the locker room. And I could FEEL something new…”

“I heard the sharpening of a thousand knives.”

“I fucking SMELLED saliva dripping down the tongues of a thousand mindless jackals.”

“Inside my mind, their hunger pangs echoed...”

‘Mark Flynn? Universal Champion? What a fluke.’

‘Easy-pickens for whoever gets the first shot against him.’

‘A LAME-DUCK CHAMPION.’


“Now? I’ve defended this belt FIVE TIMES.”

“Check your history book, Bob. I’ve successfully defended this belt as many times as the first FOURTEEN Uni champs of the Modern Era… COMBINED.”

“AS MANY TIMES in under FIVE months as the first Fourteen XWF champs did in SIX-HUNDRED-EIGHTY-TWO days…

“CHECK. MY. FUCKING. MATH™.”

…

“Last six months? I’ve carried this company on my fucking back. I’ve beaten Kido, Vaughn, Nickles, Graves AND Atty Raven.”

…

“(Also, Dick Powers, but… I don’t know if that’s an accomplishment…)”

…

”(...Meh. I guess it is, compared to the guy that LOST to Dick Powers…)

…

“I’ve made it clear every time I’ve walked to that ring. I AM THE BRAND ON WHICH THIS COMPANY STANDS™.”

“And the energy is SHIF-TING, Bob. The desperation is PALPABLE.”

“If I listen real close… Shhhhhhhhhh…”

…

……

“I can actually hear, coming from the locker room…”

“Stomachs churning… Empty digestive tracts… A legion of starving parasites… With no idea when they’ll ever get to feed…”

“It’s not a question of ‘WHO will take Flynn’s belt?’...”

“It’s not even a question of ‘Who COULD took Flynn’s belt?...”

“The question has become  ‘Can ANYONE STOP MARK FUCKING FLYNN’S REIGN OF DOMINANCE?’”

“WILL THE OPTIMAL PATH™ ERA EVER END?!?!?”

…

“Short answer? No.”

“Longer answer? No, and if there’s one guy to do it? It’s NOT Robbie FUCKING Bourbon.”

…

“And here comes the retort. The classic Bourbon refrain.”

“Who cares?”

“Mark Flynn spent TEN HOURS collecting a 100% complete compendium of Bobby Bourbon matches. What a waste of time.”

“The only thing that matters is what happens between those ropes, right, Bob?”

…

SMACK! The creature slams his fist against his desk.

“WRONG, SIR. WRONG ALL-THE-WAY-TO-THE-FUCKING-CORE.”

…

“Because wrestling. And chess. Are about prep.”

“It’s putting in the fucking time to devour an entire opponent’s body of work until you know every move they’ll make.”

“You pore over the fucking way they circle the ring with metronome counting, one-two-three, one-two-three… Until you know they stutter at the count of 2.6 on beat four. That’s when you strike…”

“You memorize how they open.”

“You envision how they react when they see you’ve perfectly broken through their gambit.”

“You SAVOR the FEAR consuming them as they're gradually and all-encompassingly.”

“DESTROYED™.”

“Stripped of all their power. All their strength."

"Bit-by-bit.”

“Piece-by-piece.”

“Until the… King.”

“The Grand-High Poo-B.O.B.”

“The TARGET… Who can’t do a thing on the board (or in the ring) without his more-talented co-stars…”

“Gets… REMOVED from the game.”

The creature carefully closes the Bourbon Bible.

“But, for now?”

“This is just my opening gambit.”

The faceless enigma shoves a finger the camera’s barrel.

“Your move, Bob.”