Bobby looks nonchalantly to the sky. The ennui of yet another battle for yet another bauble oozing from him, regardless of the severity of the battle or the stakes. He's leaning against a broken down bus, caught somewhere between Houston and San Antonio. The rest of the passengers and the driver are all seen seated or otherwise milling about on the side of the road while Walter, a fan of Bobby’s, lingers beside him.

Oh man, now you should smacktalk how he's a math nerd!

Why? Do you have math anxiety?

I don't like algebra.

Well, that's on you.

It is still February 12, and due to very improbable causes, Bobby is still languishing on a supposed four hour bus ride.

Man, you know, you could just call TK and…

Nah, man, drop it. Yeah, this sucks to be out here in the middle of nowhere. Yeah, it's stupid that supply-chain shit and driver shortages can't even get another bus out here let alone a mechanic. I called in my favor, but then again, if I'm not winning, they ain't doing many favors.

Bobby points across the road, where we are privy to more passengers helping themselves to the old hotdogs from the last Warfare and three barrels of water marked "somewhat potable".

Yeah but you saved all these people! You're fucking great!

Homeboy, I couldn't just supply myself, then the mob would turn and get awful feisty with the man not in trouble. This was the easiest way to keep people off my back.

Bobby's candor is not grasped. Walter laughs.

Whatever, you swooped in and gave everyone joy, just like Santa!

I don't think you got my point but you did hit the nail on the head.

So, do you want me to dig up dirt on Flynn?

What?

You know, so you can be ready.

All I need gets spouted by that asshole week in, week out.

Like what? Math checking?

What? No, that's what calculators are for.

Oh. Well, I really hope you win. I mean, in the XWF, losing two matches in a row is death! You officially become the worst ever, and you've obviously lost it and people doubt if you even have any interest. Look at Blondie!

That's the dumbest shit I have ever heard.

It's true! Go listen to the XWF podcast!

Nah, shit went downhill last fall.

Yeah, but then you're really in the basement! Nobody can recover from losses!

Oh yeah? Like how I lost the Universal Title?

Exactly!

Then had legendary runs with the Hart Title, became King of the XWF…

OH MY GOD HOW DID YOU! You had embarrassing losses, there's no conceivable way you overcame that!

For the second time today that's the dumbest shit I have ever heard.

But, I mean, Bobby, that's just how wrestling works!

Nah, Walter.

Bobby looks dead at Walter, his expression unchanged.

Wrestling works how I want it to when I want it to. If I wanted it to be jetpacks over Lambeau, it was. It I wanted it to be crapping my pants with Robert Main, well, I guess it was.

Huh? Why would you want that? And who's Robert Main again? He hasn't been in the XWF over the past six months, and for that matter who were those other people Flynn brought up that beat you?

Bobby rolls his eyes.

Footnotes in my story.

Really?

Hey, Facty McCheckerson said so.

Damn. Well, don't worry, Bobby, I still think you're great!

Bobby shakes his head.

I don't care.

Walter either chooses to not listen to this or is that dopey. As he goes to say something else to Bobby, we hear the scream of a fast approaching vehicle. Actually, vehicles, plural. A pair of street bikes, both bright orange, ridden by two helmeted figures approach the broken down bus on this stretch of road. The pair of motorcyclists dismount, and hold up machine pistols. One figure in a green helmet shouts.

Wallets and phones on the ground, now!

The second figure chimes in.

If any of you fuck that up you will die!

The weary passengers all proceed to dump their belongings into a pile. Bobby starts to reach into his pockets as Walter looks on incredulously.

Woah, you’re not going to stop these guys for the people?

Fuck these people, I'm not getting shot over a stack of iPhones and debit cards.

Yeah, but…

Walter smiles slyly.

I don't like you doing that.

You're tricking them!

No, I am not!

Hey you fuckers!

Walter shouts at the armed goons.

Don't.

You know who this is? This is Bobby Bourbon! He’s going to fuck you up for trying to rob all of us!

One of the gunmen approaches and holds the gun right in Bobby’s face.

Is that so?

Nope, just going to hand over my belongings and stay alive, thanks.

This guy was the King of the XWF and their number one contender!

The XWF?

Yeah!

The second gunman approaches.

I never heard of it!

Oh, I heard of it, it's that wrestling company. Are you one of those hotshot wrestlers?

No, no I am not.

No way! This guy is one of the best there is, and you're fucked.

Bobby grimaces.

Shut up, Walter.

The gunmen lower their weapons, amused.

Aw, lookit the big scary wrestler not wanting a fight!

Bobby holds out his wallet and phone.

Look, man, I got too much…

Bobby’s words, whatever they might have been worth, are cut short by sounds of rapid gunfire. At this range marksmanship means little as six 9mm rounds plunge into Bobby’s chest, sending him to the ground. The other motorcycle highwayman taps the shooter on the shoulder as they take what they have and zoom off on their vibrant street bikes. Panic has set in as the driver and the rest of the passengers scream. Bobby is slumped on the ground, wide eyed, and after bringing his hand to his chest, looks in amazement at his own blood. Walter crouches beside him, shaken with terror.

Bobby! BOBBY!

Bourbon looks up at Walter.

I…

I really hate you.

Bobby looks away, down the highway to the rear of the bus, the road he's travelled. He slumps, and his head hangs unnaturally as his gurgled breaths from bullet and blood filled lungs cease.



The darkness is neither frightening nor serene. It just sort of is. Oblivion carries a certain gravitas but ultimately is pretty dull.



There's nothing now, and while absolutely boring, it is peaceful. Peace, however, is something that never set well with Bobby Bourbon.



There's no bright light at the end of the tunnel. No pearly gates. Just nothing. 

Well Mark, I called it. You got me dead to rights, you pored over footage of my whole career, glossed over any high points, and packaged it.



None of that will be enough, and you know why. You did the research.



I'm glad you went back in the past to show how unlike those jobbers you wanted to help, who deserve a title shot more than me, and fat chance of those poor souls topping the glass cieling, I have a history of coming back. Sure, I falter, it doesn't embarrass me, but like that I rose up. I went on to bigger and better things. I mean, I get it, you’re rehashing rehashed at this point because, well, you’re into that sort of thing. That was indeed a very suave use of screenshots; I'm surprised you didn't showcase the times I got into hot water for that. Damn, is that his next promo? Bobby’s a troublemaker?



I don’t like the taste of sole or heel, you keep being the bootlicker. I'm not surprised at all, manchild. Not one iota. I mean, I lived it, the fans already saw it, nobody gets caught off guards by the sudden plot twists of what's already happened. You definitely called me out, though. I am a hypocrite. The High Holy Hypocrite. Pretty sure somewhere in all that footage is where you picked it up. Hypocrisy is the greatest virtue of civilization, a video game taught me that, and it's true! You mentioned going to OCW, but I guess you forgot I was half of the tag team champions in IIW, but you never saw my ass in WGWF while you were, uh, I guess flexing your loyalty to the XWF there. Teaming with Peter Vaughn, to boot. How'd that go for you two again? Jesus, you really should stop taking the words coming out of your mouth so seriously; for the love of God, the suits should stop. The big huge Magnum Opus of a throwback to a second rate kids gameshow that half the audience has never heard of? Shit, why is this even Chess Wrestling, Chestling© (can't you even copyright your shit like a real American?) when we could have done an entire SNICK Best of Seven? You big dummy, you could have had an offroad recliner to drive around the Roundhouse, submitted for the approval of the Midnight Society, hell, there was so much 90's Nickelodeon to vibe off of that you wouldn't have needed an original notion the rest of your life, just the Cliff's notes of the losses column of my career and the Adventures of Pete and Pete. Well, you did the homework, and thank you, Clarissa, for explaining it all, it isn't like I'm living in a Secret World like Alex Mack, you even called a few things from my first promo, and to be fair, if I did that? If the roles were reversed? KaBlam, it would've rocked shit like an explosion and I would've been in trouble. Vinnie, Theo, pick whatever color of Atticus we have, all collectively pooping their pants, and you know why? 



Because unlike you, Mark, as you pointed out, when I do something people actually fucking notice. 



I don't have to flaunt my accomplishments or take credit, it's already done for me. In this case, by you, like a seventh grader writing a book report while All That is playing in the background. You want to talk about loyalty? MY loyalties? They got defined when I got dropped from the roster for insulting someone on Twitter; I owe this company fuck-all, and if I drop it like it's dropped me in the past lets us just call it learned behavior. 



So don't worry your pretty little head, Mark. You don't have to keep researching the boogeyman, ain't a snowball's chance in hell they let me walk out of Warfare the Universal Champion, and I don't need it to get attention anyhow.



I get it now, though, why the Chestling© match. I have no crown, I know my legacy is tarnished, I'm really coming into the ring to do something that I feel like doing, and that's beat your ass down with authority on live broadcast, and you want a break every five minutes. That doesn't conflict me one bit, because you're not leaving San Antonio the same as you arrived. The blood you’re going to lose, the brain cells deadened by getting your dome cracked, maybe even your fingers and toes! Nothing so unsophisticated as an amputation, yuck, I'm talking a mani-pedi of pure pain! But, alas, we get to stop and tell people what to do, which I don't want and you can't. I mean, granted, you have every step I'll make scouted, every chess move prepared for, which sounds awesome considering I don't even know what I'm going to do in that ring, I just know I'ma do it.



But enough about me, Mark, let's look into you for right now, and how you represent the XWF.



Now I really wish I had more to go off of, but your basic mix of crappy sales pitches where you, or not you, shout in a crappy yellow office are what is defined as success.



I mean, there's the line of bodies you've beaten too, and you sure do like touting that list, dontcha? Ooh, and your optimal path, to boot! Man, I might be on the road to nowhere but I'll take that over ducking and hiding for the better part of a decade just to pick and scavenge what us actual predators left as scraps. You came back after all records of your previous life got destroyed, and all the tales of "No Win" Flynn vanished from the records. Mark, hiding who you were because you're insecure isn't optimal. It's sad. Me? Well, I get you think whenever I lose, I disappear, but I lost plenty of times, and here I am. I whooped the absolute dog piss out of Mastermind at Bad Medicine, I guess while I was supposedly vanished after Relentless, and still stepped away, calling you out, challenging your optimal path, and again, you reminded the people exactly how I did, and when I did, and you did nothing except go tutor some kids over on Anarchy while I went out and kicked ass in the name of the XWF in companies far and wide, driving fans and money this way. Those record business numbers, Mark, those fresh eyes wondering who the fuck you were? Hell, even your former tag partner and Snow Job opponent, Peter Vaughn? Those happened because a Bastard went and raided. I kicked off the OCW tiff causing Theo to sign people. You? You were doing what ole' "No Win" Flynn does best.



You dipped out of the way while real talent came on board. I'll take my huge ass fifty-fifty record any day over a measly smattering of singles matches covering up a crazy lackluster redacted record from before I came onto the scene. Let's look into it.



Oh damn. So, I know you gave me some flack for losing to Gilmour after I was drugged by some maniac in the back, but ten years ago, almost to the day, well, that was your best pal, wud'nit? You got humiliated by Angelus, and who came to your aide? Why, Peter Gilmour! And then you both lost to, oh shit…



You lost to a Duke? Like, how'd you manage that one, fella? All due respect to Thad, but I kind of always wrecked those guys, but dang, King of the Midcarders? Who came up with that one? Also, most hated man in the XWF? Shit, Mark, you didn't go away because you were scared, I take it back, you were stale, and now you're rehashing the same song and dance today as ten years ago! Uh oh, are you worried about Sweet Cheapshots coming back? How about Tyrone? Hell, even your Uni title is a throwback to the shitty days of the XWF.



So, did you tell those Anarchy rookies about how the optimal path includes being a referee? How about being humiliated by the absolutely batshit John Madison? Damn, that's when it all started tumbling downhill for you, huh? You couldn't handle losing over and over to a King, so you ran away, not even competing anywhere else! Fuck, for what you say about OCW they sure weren't offering you a contract back in 2013. Fast forward to the here and now, and as soon as a King leaves the XWF to conquer, you crawl out of the woodwork and start acting like you're God's gift to wrestling. You didn't grow, you never changed, you just slotted yourself in after I faced down all the real threats that came. I crossed paths with Vinnie Lane, with Jim Caedus, and with a host of talent you were too chickenshit to face. I stood up to the creatures, against the cancelled previous ownership, and other shit of nightmares. I watched my career ebb and flow and rolled with every shot. You? You took your ball and went the fuck home ten years ago just to trot out the same song and fucking dance that, ultimately, led you to failure after failure. You couldn't find yourself in your own high school yearbook, meanwhile, I think I'm coming to terms and finding myself.



So, that said, fuck your optimal path bullshit of just playing dead for ten years. Kinda surprised you didn't run off when you lost last September now that we know what we know, but, hey, book your flight, Mark. Get your bags packed, because after I lay a hurting on you in that ring come Warfare, that downward spiral is going to set in awful quick, because you think people can't handle losing, failure, or criticism only because you fucking can't, and if you can't see a damn thing beyong the length of your own nose, you're fucking doomed.



Well look at what was dusted off and pulled from the shelf, put the decorations away, it's February, I don't mean that elf, he thinks he's responsible for all the XWF wealth? Mark Flynn's a champ again and playing a simp for himself! Acting like he's something or the baddest of the bunch, drinking his own Kool-Aid only he forgot to spike the punch, homeboy insists he's great, well I have a hunch. Dude's head so far up his own ass he's smelling what he had for lunch. Come to Warfare, my goddamn ring, and learn how to shatter, I'll take your deranged maniacal loathsome self and watch it splatter, I could pitter-patter about your chatter and serve you up on a platter, but you’re talking about me, and when I'm your subject your words finally fucking matter. So bite your tongue if I come off as just a little terse, I'm giving you a beating so bad you better call a hearse. I will pummel you to hell and back until you think it can't get worse. You're a victim in waiting to the future Champion of the Universe.



Light floods the view. Bobby, on the ground, coughs, looking up at Walter.

Not you. There is no God.