08-30-2015, 09:55 PM
When we last saw Robbie, he was on a boating excursion with Matthew Oaktree, Kirk MacClay, Ash, his hair stylist who is undercredited by the mask Robbie Bourbon dons when competing. They had taken the Wednesday Night Warfare speedboat out for a cruise on the Potomac, on approach to Washington, D.C. The boat had stopped when another vessel sped past, presumably knocking the whole crew of the Wednesday Night Warfare boat into the river.
The only hint of this was the fact the camera went under the surface of the river.
THAT NEW HOTNESS
The view of the camera dips above the surface. From behind it, we hear the voice of Blue.
What the fuck was that?
The view shows Robbie Bourbon swimming, holding Kirk MacClay's limp body. He hoists it up onto the Warfare speedboat. He spins and reaches into the water and pulls a coughing Matthew Oaktree out of the water while Ash clings to him before climbing onto the boat. Oaktree gets himself into the boat as Robbie approaches the camera.
Are you okay, honey?
That fucking dickhead! He fucking knocked us over!
Well, he did. C'mon.
Robbie is seen up very close, pointing upward towards the side of his jaw.
Thank you.
Pssht. C'mon, get on the boat, we gotta go talk to that guy about his unsafe boating habits. YO, MATT! YOU GOOD?
Oaktree turns to give him a thumbs up as the camera view shifts as Blue reenters the boat. The boat then shifts again as Robbie climbs aboard.
Okay. I always wanted to do this. Ensign Crusher, turn us and make full pursuit, impulse speed, Mr. Warf, put us in yellow alert. Make it so!
Everybody on board of the boat all kind of gawk at Robbie.
Nerd!
Whatever, just, I dunno, go chase that guy and I'll...
Robbie, don't beat his ass. He was a dick, yeah, but save a little for Austin why don't you?
Robbie turns and looks towards Matthew Oaktree and Kirk MacClay, who both look exhausted.
Do you guys just wanna...
As Robbie's speech trails off, he points behind him, signalling the way home. Everybody about nods in agreement.
Okay. Okay. I know a great place to get a burger after this, a burger will hit the spot. Wouldn't want to engage in anything too shocking, now would we? I mean, considering what I fucking heard from the CCWF's Hired Gun, shock value is what's made the XWF a bad place. It's a shame to him that people became popular on account of it. You know, I don't get what his whole beef is, actually, the CCWF came back by using a fuck ton of shock value. It wasn't like they brought out some kind of simple fucking press release, oh no, they just shocked the world. Man, it's almost like the whole point of what we fucking do is to shock people. Shit. Then this dipshit goes and says some fuckery, decrying shock value? He decried vulgarity. Vulgarity has a place, and it can shock, but learn your fucking language already, pal. Granted, I'd say that I'm going to be fighting in a really vulgar match. I wouldn't call it all that shocking. Shocking is when I snap your God damned neck with a Neckwrecker come this Monday.
Robbie sits in the driver's seat of the boat as Blue sits next to him, the camera focusing on him.
We open again to see Robbie outside of a small roadside diner, the souped up van with Wednesday Night Warfare boat in tow.
I didn't teach him how to make a generic promo, he's been doing it all along. Don't you put that one on me, Fernie.
Ash giggles off screen.
You have been gone long enough to lose any place you might have ever had. I get it, Fernie, I get it. You're sad right now. You want the big, bad Bourbon man to pucker right on up and tell you how special you really are, how incredible we should find you, how we should bow down to you and give you a straight path to Vinnie Lane, where you'll just get chomped in half by the CCWF machine like a fucking nimrod with his cock stuck in a Coke bottle. You'll do it, you'll insist everybody fucking have a gander at it, then you'll realize the damage you've actually done to yourself and wear a towel to the emergency room. Why a towel? Why a fucking towel, you ask? Because you're already so full of shit, Austin, that when you get buried to the knees, head down, in a huge stinking pile of shit, it'll overload and your bowels will burst forth with a geyser of pure, unadulterated, bullshit. Sorry for you, slick, is nobody is going to powder the ass of a grown man, so once you're all patched up you might wanna buy yourself some Preparation H for all the butthurt you must feel.
Matthew Oaktree and Kirk MacClay walk out of the diner, patting their bellies animatedly to signal they're full.
So you want a more detailed exposition of precisely what is in store for you at Madness. I get that. Well, if it's what the people want, it's what the people shall have, stud, so let's us commence this here festivity.
Robbie pulls steps to the right as the camera follows to show a large green chalkboard with diagrams and scribbling written all over it. For lack of a better term, it looks like mathmatical porn, a strange brew of gobbledygook and functions with no clearly defined aim, purpose, or pattern.
The velocity at which my fist carries when it travels to the air will define the momentum at which it connects with your jaw, which in turn will react by moving in such a way that it's almost independent of the rest of your skull, by which you'll immediately and utterly feel a sharp pain as the nerves in your face flare at the effect of a dislocated jaw. I reckon that'll stop your shit spewing for a while. So, consider this the first disarmament.
Robbie flips the chalkboard, and on this side is just a diagram of vintage World War II bombers dropping their payloads.
The second velocity you might want to consider is gravity. Gravity is a constant, and stud, it is a strong ally to yours truly. Nine point eight one meters per second per second. Does that boggle you? It's not a puzzle or a riddle, slick, that's the actual measure of Earth's gravitational pull. You accelerate at nine point eight one meters per second every second. So the first second, it's nine point eight one. The next second, it's double. The third second, et cetera, until you reach a terminal velocity. Fifty-six meters per second. Does that one confuse you too? Well, that there is as fast as gravity can actually make you fall, slick. One hundred and twenty miles per hour. Now, I want you to get this; I found the secret to actually accelerate a human body to one hundred and twenty miles per hour in that God damned ring. It's called a Robbiebomb, stud, and when this baby hits one hundred and twenty miles per hour, you're going to see some real shit. REAL SHIT, get it! Hah, I wonder what they have on tap? Is it animal based fecal matter, from chemical toilets outside of a chili cookoff, who fucking knows? I love my job!
Ash giggles again off screen.
See, then you go and throw a tantrum, boo fuckin' hoo, because I didn't kiss your ass. Aww, widdle Awestin Fuhnandoh need his babba and his dipey changed? Someone doesn't stop to inflate your little donut in your seat and your precious little heinie gets all raw and sore. Only this time, it was more about how I wasn't "adapting" to your style, or how I wasn't "researching" you more thoroughly. Heh, shit slick, this is exactly what makes you the arrogant little fuck I've had you pegged for since I found out I was going to be fighting your goofy ass, and even without research you went and proved me fucking right. Seriously, why the fuck do I care about your past? Why in the blue fuck do you believe I have to adapt to face you? You stupid, simple, pointless mindfuck of a waste of human existance and public oxygen around the world. Check the facts, slick. For starters, it's a damn shame you can't handle losing. It's a damn shame that when the going got rough, that you had to go home, and placate some goofy bitch who whines about living in a mansion paid for with blood money. A smart man once said, I got ninety-nine problems but a bitch ain't one, but hey, let's get back to the point. You're right I'm not adapting to your style, Fernie; when my back is up against the wall, when I've been down and out, when I've got the odds against me, I get my ass in gear and get myself ready for the next God damned fight. How fucking dare you accuse me of being a never-was, of saying I'll trot out of the XWF with my fucking head down because I was robbed by the Black Hand, fucked with by Doc D'Ville, beat to fuck by the CCWF, or even "robbed" of one half of the tag team championships. Just because you don't have the fucking balls to man the fuck up when the chips are low and get it done when getting it done is the only fucking option, well, fuck it kid, go home and don't even bother showing up to Madness to see me. You aren't going to survive.
MacClay and Oaktree get into the van.
You glad I pointed out what the people already fucking knew about you, Fernie?
Ash giggles as she steps out in front of the camera beside Robbie.
See, that there, that's why you have no place. That's why all this smoke you're blowing up your own ass about you being elite, about you being a main eventer, is actually really, really amusing. It's the Austin Fernando flea circus; It's small, it's empty, and it's the real vacuum we're experiencing. You're resume is cute kid, but there are gaps here and there.