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+--- Thread: Trapped Under Ice (/showthread.php?tid=26109)
Trapped Under Ice - Prof. Bobby Bourbon - 01-10-2017
Robbie Bourbon recently plummeted through the ice of a frozen lake along with his Smokey Joe, pack of hot dogs, and perceived possible niche market hot dog stick for roasting.
Sure as fuck sounds better than leading the piss break, please go visit the merch table part of a live show where most of the crowd were the parents and aunts and uncles of the opening acts.
TRAPPED UNDER ICE
"For starters, wear a fucking wet suit on Warfare." Robbie comes to his senses below the water, and begins to dive after the small, inexpensive grill from Wal-Mart. "That's brand new. No way does it sleep with the fishes. The hot dogs are a loss, I just hope..."
Suddenly, a school of ice piranha turn and are bolting towards the pack of hot dogs.
"Shit. Ice piranha." Robbie grips his hot dog roasting fork, a three foot pronged fork, and glares at the ice piranha, indistinct from normal piranha in every way except for the mittens. "Welp, I guess I am ice fishing. Come on you stupid bastards, I know you smell the bacon grease I coated myself in to insulate like a fresh tasty smelling blubber bath, come and get the filet mignon."
The school of fish turn to Robbie.
"Damn, am I Aquaman or something? Did I just trash talk you bastards and you understood it? Incredible, not even Just Plain Butter (hah, you see what I keep doing there?) can seem to recognize when a man is so ready for battle that he's actually the one creating the battle, but hey, life or death, eh, you scrappy devils?"
The fish all dart at Robbie. He lances three with his fork, causing them to dissolve harmlessly as ice piranha are known to do. The rest latch on, or at least try, as their teeth fail to penetrate the buildup of frost on the exterior of the bacon fat.
"Sweet, ice armor!" Robbie starts grabbing ice piranha and smashing them together, causing them to dissolve harmlessly as ice piranha are known to do. "Whoop, moving around shifted the frost!" Robbie plucks an ice piranha from his butt and crushes it in his mighty grip. "Alright, where are you?" Robbie looks around for the last ice piranha, nibbling on his back shoulder. It finally breaks the ice and Robbie notices it with a yelp. He uses the hot dog roasting stick as a back scratcher and impales the last ice piranha through the eyes. It dissolves harmlessly.
"Okay, fuck the grill, I need to catch my breath, then I'll get it." Robbie turns up and sees, well, nothing. The hole he fell through has frozen back over, and is at least three inches thick at it's smallest. "Well, shit." Robbie rolled his eyes as his eyelids froze shut, the effect of the amount of frost building up on the bacon fat. "Dammit. Well, hold on, one last defense..." Robbie grimaces as his face freezes that way, just like his grandmother warned him all those years ago about making funny faces. A buildup of yellow fluid begins to pool within the ice, melting it's way free until a yellow billow curls upward from the hole. As soon as the frost has melted, however, it freezes again, leaving a lumpy yellow bulge of ice at Robbie Bourbon's crotch. "Shit. I think I'm in some trouble here..."
"This is how it's all going to go down, huh? Maybe they'll find me in a decade or so, I'll do some talk shows, go on to have matches with whoever the XWF has working for them. Just like Captain America or some bullshit, frozen solid to come back as a man out of time, the last of some kind of dying breed, same as I am now, only some other fucking goody hanging from my psyche is what's deemed as passe or out of touch. The way fashion and what's in vogue just cycles it, I think I might always be a little out of the norm. Well, that's mostly because I'm busy fucking setting standards of how to be the biggest nastiest bastard walking the planet, kind of hard for fashion to keep up that way. I wonder if Brandon knows the only reason he's holding the Federweight title is because I've been too damn busy to go get it? I wonder if he knows how I'd just up and turn it into the Bourbonweight, because fuck Old Man Feder. I wonder if he knows that I'm going to rip his arm off, beat him with the wet end of it, the jam it down his throat, and when he fucking gags and chokes on the taste of his own fucking elbow, he'll be waving goodbye to me and the Hart Championship as we leave Antarctica and head on to some other place in the universe to have us a little bloodbath over fifteen pounds of gold, leather, and pink."
"Definitely going to need the wet suit. Not just for if and when we go overboard, that cruise ship has got to have a ton of amenities and fail safe measures to prevent it, but I just know that when I rock the fucking boat, I create waves, and shit goes flying, so we might find ourselves in a pack of penguins all looking for a bite, and they might just confuse Brandon Butter's pathetic piss squirter for some kind of prawn and nip it right off. That means your dick's so small that something weighing seventy pounds even considers it a less filling appetizer than a single ring of calamari. That, and well, the wet suit will do wonders with all the blood spill. I want you to remember three things, Butter, when we get to scrapping in the Antarctic over the Hart Championship, and the first of which is the people deserve a right true Hart Champion, not some phony little thing like Dolly Waters who was only holding it because I was too busy sizing up Scully and Chris Chaos, and sadly, even Trax, who used to be a man and now is just Chris Chaos's athletic supporter, holding up championship caliber balls with all his might. Dolly did it on enough testosterone to make a horse grow a mullet, Robbie Bourbon does it on coffee and hot dogs. The second thing I want you to remember, Butter Brandon, is that I'll be wearing a wet suit to protect myself from your blood. Not because it's toxic, or filthy, but because as cold as it is where we're going, your wounds have a better chance of freezing shut than actually scabbing. Your blood could spray onto me and freeze on my skin itself. Your skin will dry up and flake around the spot your flesh gets ripped apart by straight vicious knuckle bombs coming in from my shoulders to the scalp. Blood dripping down into your beard, forming icicles. The third thing I want you to remember, well, that should be obvious."
"My name is Robbie Motherfucking Bourbon. You're going to remember that name. It's the name of the man who won the Hart Championship and went on to make the Hart Championship the greatest, most prestigious title in the company's history. If you think people were shooting for Dolly Waters, holy fuck, brother, wait 'til they get a load of me."
MEANWHILE...
As the Bourbon Men pulled back up behind Robbie seconds before he plummeted through the ice, Robbie Bourbon plummeted through the ice and wound up getting into a fracas with ice piranha.
Oh no! The ice is freezing over!
You know, now it can be the Cybervan if he dies down there.
Shut your mouth, dickhead.
Yeah, not fucking cool.
Before the Bourbon Men can react accordingly, the ice begins to reform on the lake.
Holy shit, how cold does it have to be to do that?
Pretty fucking cold.
Damn, we need to help him, he's fucked under there.
Well, what do we do?
I don't know.
I do.
A burly man in a red and white bobble cap, red and white striped sweater, thick cut dungarees, black boots, round glasses, and holding an axe appears.
I'm Axe Mannix, Axe man on Xanax.
Wait, uh, who the fuck are you? You look like Waldo.
I know. I am Waldo, but like Vanilla Ice who dropped his 90's performing name and now goes by Rob Van Winkle, I dropped the Waldo schtick a long time ago and went by my given name, Axe Mannix. The whole hiding everywhere thing caused me a lot of anxiety, like, did the publishers of those graphic books always have to find me? Where was I in every picture, I had to step it up a lot. They'd send me pictures of me sleeping sometimes, it wore in on me, but I have a prescription for Xanax that helps.
So, Axe Mannix, axe man on Xanax?
Yes, not Waldo.
Great, just use that axe, I'm pretty sure we shouldn't be fucking around like this.
Axe Mannix winds up his axe and plunges it into the ice. It cracks, and he dips his axe into the water, hooking the completely iced over and frozen body of Robbie Bourbon. Across the bottom of the screen we see text reading "SPECIAL BOURBON MAN ALERT! WALDO FROM THE 90'S!", as whoever edited this didn't care for Axe Mannix's manic shenanigans.
Jesus! He's completely frozen!
I see!
Well, do something, you're Axe Mannix!
Axe Mannix clacks the icy shell formed around Robbie with the blunted side of the head of his axe. It crumbles around Robbie, who is now shivering violently.
You okay?
My urethra is frozen.
Robbie feebly turns to Axe Mannix as Xtreme Travel Agent hands him a towel. Having dried the top of his mask thoroughly, he spits out a few ice cubes, and speaks.
I found you.
Dammit, that's not my thing anymore.
Uh huh. I need a shower and some coffee.