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+--- Thread: Losing Oneself (/showthread.php?tid=45662)
Losing Oneself - Prof. Bobby Bourbon - 02-12-2023
Sunday, February 12, 2023. Super Sunday. As most prepare for the big game, we catch up with Bobby Bourbon holding a duffle bag, standing at a bus station. He pulls his phone out of his pocket and swipes at it. Theo wouldn’t return his calls, not now, and he looks out of place in his sharp jacket, flamboyantly loud shirt, designer jeans, and black boots compared to most of the folks there. Bobby rolls his eyes as he slides the phone back into his pocket. He pulls his wallet out and retrieves his XWF Corporate Diner’s Club card and looks at it.
Well, it was fun while it lasted.
Bobby’s phone goes off, as evidenced by his entrance music playing. He slides his wallet back into his pocket, still holding the card, and retrieves his phone. The screen reads “Bouncy”. Bobby slides right, accepting the call. He presses the phone to his massive head, his sausage sized fingers gripping Otter Box.
Hello.
Hey, honey, I saw the match, and, well, I’m so sorry you lost!
Meh, it happens. I’ve lost plenty of times before.
Oh, well, I mean, are you okay? That guy clocked you pretty good, it was noble of you to keep fighting but it looked like you should have just stayed down.
Heh, I’m okay, just staying down isn’t something I excel at.
Haha, I hope so, tiger, you might have lost at Warfare but we’re going to have fun.
Yeah, I suppose. They cut off my corporate card, though, which sucks.
Why would they do that? Can they do that?
Well I’m officially no longer King of the XWF, so I guess they’re scaling back my perks.
Oh, that’s terrible! Do you need anything from me?
Bobby takes a deep breath as a slight smile forms.
I want to feel you.
Well that you can have! When do you fly back?
Well, about that. All my bookings were on the corporate card, so I had to arrange other transportation.
Jesus! Well, so long as you’re not at a bus station.
Bobby pauses and glances around. After a moment of silence, Bouncy speaks.
You’re at a bus station, aren’t you.
I am indeed.
Oh, I am so sorry? Do you want me to get you a flight out of there?
Heh, nah, I could get me a flight out of here. I have enough miles racked up, I just need to let my head go and find myself.
At a bus station?
Yeah, heh, I guess at a bus station.
Okay, well, I’ll leave you to it, call me if you need anything!
Bobby smirks again.
I miss you.
I miss you too.
Bobby pauses as his chest heaves, the first signs of his contentment since the promo even began. On exhalation, a deep hum comes from within him.
Oh, stop it with that noise.
Never. I’ll probably text you here and there.
Bobby watches as a bus pulls in.
Is your bus there?
Yeah, I gotta set my phone to bus mode.
Is that like airplane mode?
Yeah, sorry, that was a shitty joke.
It was. I’ll talk to you later though, maybe you’ll have some fire in you.
Heh, maybe.
Bobby slides the phone back into his pocket as he and Bouncy disconnect, at least for the time being. He watches as people line up to get into the bus, but Bobby stands to the side. He opens his duffel bag, and reaching in, pulls out the silly paper crown he earned as King of the XWF. He crumples it up and tosses it into a trash can a few yards away, nailing the impressive shot. The line moves as people get onto the bus, Bobby watching. Someone in line looks at him, some strange concern in their eyes.
Aren’t you going to get in line?
Bobby looks at them and shakes his head.
Why? I have a ticket.
You get to pick a better seat!
Oh.
Bobby looks at the young man with much bigger things on his mind than a choice bus seat. The young man looks back.
C’mon, I’ll let you in!
Bobby sighs, glancing to the ground, realizing this guy probably won’t stop here with his insistent behavior.
I’m fine, thanks.
Oh, c’mon! I know who you are! Huge fan! We can talk about wrestling all the way to San Antonio!
No thanks, man. I appreciate the sentiment but I kind of want a little quiet time for a change. I’ve been running hustle after hustle, living scandal after scandal, all really loud for a while, I kind of want a little respite.
The guy blinks and looks at Bobby as he steps forward in line.
Oh man, that’s so cool, I love it when you use words I don’t understand! Is a respite like the cargo space for your duffel bag?
Jesus, just leave me alone.
Oh, touchy! Sorry, I was trying to be nice and help!
Bobby has since pulled his phone out and began to ignore the guy.
What a moody guy!
The guy finally gets onto the bus as Bobby glances up. He patiently waits as the line dwindles, before he finally approaches the driver and hands them his ticket. Bobby climbs the steps onto the bus, and surveying the entire of it, notices the only remaining seat is right next to the guy who offered him unwanted assistance earlier. Bobby pauses, considering getting another ticket for another ride, but realizes this is ultimately what the Universe opted for at the time. No rest for the wicked often just means you’ll be inconvenienced when mentally you can barely handle it. Bobby slowly walks toward the seat, stows his bag above, and sits, not acknowledging the man beside him. Bobby pulls his phone out as the man obviously gawks at his screen.
Do you play Clash?
Bobby looks away from the man, smiling at the driver as she walks by, putting his phone back on his lap face down. Bobby turns to the man and speaks in hushed tones.
What the fuck is Clash, and why the fuck are you looking at my phone?
XWF Clash is awesome! I have all three versions of you!
The man is exuberant, and, obviously, a fan.
I think the best is you with the mask. Danny Sex is a support character, and King Bobby is a common.
Thanks, that’s exactly the kind of shit I want to hear after getting my ass kicked.
Yeah, I saw that! Like, Jay Omega must be a bad ass the way he handled you!
I suppose so.
Bobby looks past the man, outside, wondering what it took to be bad ass anymore.
It’s alright, though. I mean, hey, you’re going to beat Flynn and win the Universal Title.
Bobby sighs.
Look man, I need to do a little soul searching, figure myself out right now, I’m glad you like me, but I’m really not in a good mood.
Oh, you want something to help your mood? I have some rum with me, maybe you need a swig?
Nah, no thanks, a drink isn’t what I need, I need just a little quiet downtime.
Well then, that’s okay, I get it! So, can I ask you a couple of questions?
Bobby rolls his eyes.
I guess you need to google ‘quiet downtime’ or something.
Nah, nah, I’ll ask quietly. So, I mean, after Snow Job and now that you’re out of the March Madness tournament, you’re definitely going to go out and dominate Mark, right? I mean, if Bobby doesn’t win, we riot! Hah!
Bobby shrugs.
Look, man, I’m not ready for Mark Flynn. Flat the fuck out. I got humiliated last Saturday by Jay Omega. He nailed me with something from out of nowhere which sent me reeling, and even though I kicked out, even though I got him up for a Bobbybomb, that shot stuck, and I got pinned. I don’t feel right, I don’t feel me right now. I don’t feel like the monster I once did, and hey, maybe I never will. Even Theo wants nothing to do with me; did you see any phone calls? I’ve been calling homeboy for as long as I can remember, but I guess I’m such a let down he not only cut off my calls, but decided to feed me to the Universal Champion as punishment. I reckon I needed to be taken down a peg or two, because someone was uppity I ran off and competed for other companies.
Can you say that?
What?
You know, the “U” word.
Oh fuck me, did they really cancel “uppity”?
Shh! Careful man, I mean, I’m a fan and all, but you never know around here.
Bobby shakes his head.
Look, I don’t care what gets canceled, really, it’s all marketing. Saying some words aren’t allowed is a pure marketing decision because you can say you’re caring by omitting language and not changing whatsoever. Killing words doesn’t end sentiment or bias.
Huh. Omitting?
It means leave out.
Oh, got it! So, are you even going to try at Warfare? I mean you could just bag it in, I’d watch you in OCW too!
Bobby shakes his head.
That’s not it at all, man. This world isn’t about who’s ass I beat, it’s me versus me. Right now, I’m feeling like I’m whooping my own ass, and taking what thunder my lightning brought on the road isn’t sparking anything evolutionary.
Oh, is Thunder Knuckles coming back to help you beat Mark Flynn?
What? Jesus, I used ‘thunder’ in sentence and you jumped to a fucking conclusion. Did you finish high school?
Yeah, I got my G.E.D.
That’s not the same.
Sure it is. So, you don’t want to kick the shit out of Flynn?
Bobby chuckles.
Do I want to beat Mark’s ass? Oh, yes, fuck yes I do. Mark Flynn, you, sir, take yourself way too fucking seriously, calling yourself a conspiracy victim to the suits, play yourself a victim, then recite history lessons for all of us. It’s bougie, but hey, the tide flows, and the tide ebbs. It’s just a matter of time before you find yourself stale, and lacking, just like I do, when your flavor ain’t what sells anymore. I see you out there, carving away your place, your mark on this company, in this industry, just like I did, but now I can’t find the tree I whittled my name into in the entire forest. Am I going to go out there and fight my ass off, for five entire minutes, then tell people to walk around an eight-by-eight grid into places for two minutes, then go back to fighting my ass off for another whole five minutes, then stop, abruptly, probably in the middle of a pinfall or submission attempt, to make people meander around for another two? You bet your ass I am, as absolutely stupid as all that sounds, I’m going to give it what I have, because fuck it, what do I got to lose? A match? Ooh, a Universal Championship match! You’ll be able to use that material against me down the line when I feel right as rain, I bet, just like you’re probably prattling off about how many times me and a partner lost to you for the Tag Team Championships because the fans at home know, in their hearts, that the results of those tag matches really dictate every future match. Forever. Please, keep reminding them, they need it. They need to feel rewarded for knowing you were great before because while they don’t know what makes them great, they sure as fuck ask what made us great even more. Made. I was great. Now, well, what you see is what you get.
Bobby leans back in his bus seat, resting his head against the cushion behind it, looking skyward.
Thing is, even if I was feeling one-hundred, there’s no way the suits in the back would ever allow me to walk out of Warfare the Universal Champion. The fix isn’t in or anything like that, old boy, it’s nothing as dire as that, even if I can focus long enough to deliver a hip toss, throw a chop, and perform a french open. French open is a chess term for those of you XWF fans out there who don’t give a shit about chess. Chess. The game of kings, invented when shitting in a bucket was a sign of wealth and first played over wonderful meals of unsalted goat asshole, dates, and pure opium in between bouts of executing prisoners and cucking grooms prima nocta style, now focused on by absolute antisocial maniacs to the point people cheat. You know, for a company trying to move forward, you’d think they’d distance themselves from the scandals of the Julius Baer Generation Cup. I know, I know, most of you don’t care about chess, but, fuck, do I have to google that shit for you too?
The guy sitting next to Bobby looks agog.
That was awesome! You just cut a promo, sitting right next to me!
That wasn’t.
What do you mean! I mean, shit, just give us some bars and…
You really don’t fucking get it, man. That whole song and dance? It’s pastiche. The old tried and true, but, shit, it isn’t what the people want anymore, now is it? I mean, here I am, riding on a bus to San Antonio, and you think that denotes success? I’m the biggest failure in the XWF, man, I mean, all I get is fantastic sex with an amazing woman and share comradery with the finest competitors so tight we formed a Brotherhood.
Yeah, but that whole chess part that I really don’t get at all but I guess it could be cool, I mean, you have the edge since you’re the King.
Bobby’s brow furrows as he makes eye contact with this fan for the first time.
I’m not the fucking King anymore kid. Fat chance of Jay Omega taking the crown, though, poor fool is doomed, he got the shell of Bobby, and I hope he ain’t riding too high on that. And I’ma keep showing every kid walking through the XWF doors what not to do by just being me, I reckon, until we get an entire pack of pick-a-color palette swaps of the same ole’ same ole’ everywhere. By all means…
Bobby halts.
What the fuck is your name? You’ve been annoying the piss out of me this whole time.
Walter.
Okay, so Walter, by all means keep considering me with some regard, but damn, bro, I really feel like my time has passed, and I gotta find something in me, create that change that I want, but I don’t know I’m ever going to be that jigsaw puzzle piece fitting snugly in my place, I kind of like moving around an awful lot.
Yeah, I mean, that’s what makes you so cool! I’m unconventional!
Walter lifts his t-shirt, showing his basic, flabby belly.
No, why?
Nah, I got this tattoo!
Bobby glances and sees a tribal tattoo, the kind of thing everybody was getting in the early Aughts.
That’s, um, what does it mean?
It means “Lone Wolf” because I’m really into solitude.
Solitude? That seems like a big word for you.
I played Skyrim.
Fuck. Put your shirt back down.
The bus finally fires up, and we see from within the window it departing the station as the world seems to scroll backwards in front of Bobby and Walter.
So, what was the chess scandal?
Oh, last fall a champion chess player conceded mid-tournament when he thought his opponent was cheating, and he was by having a vibrating butt-plug up his ass while his team of coaches sent him signals for what moves to use.
Damn! So, are you and the rest of BOB going to, you know…
Walter gestures with his hands, curling one hand into a ring and inserting a finger into it.
Not fucking happening. I’ve practiced some human chess.
Bobby looks up and begins to daydream, recalling a time he practiced human chess.
~~~~~
We see Bobby sitting in either a tennis judge’s chair or a lifeguard chair, one or the other. He’s overlooking a field, where we see a bevy of people. The Bourbon People, Cyberjaw, the man with the cybernetic jaw, Diamondback, the man who can blend into any crowd, Ash, Bobby’s stylist, Axe Mannix, axe man on Xanax, Gary the Wizard, cosplayer, Guy Fieri, right mayor of Flavortown, Joe Biden, vice-man of the people, and Xtreme Travel Agent, possible victim of Stockholm Syndrome, are all lined up on the edge of a grid, much like pawns in chess, except in front of them we see eight massive nutcracker robots, which look like the most horrifying Christmas decorations ever.
You have eight robot pawns, I thought this was human chess!
I struggled to remember eight of you fuckers, so I went with robots instead.
The Bourbon People and the robots stand still as a marching band heralds the arrival of the University of Maryland human chess team, all of whom get into place. We drift away from Bobby’s thoughts, and probable very verbal explanation that went to Walter.
~~~~~
Huh, human chess? Is that, like, opposed to horse chess or dog chess?
No, it started picking up steam as an intramural sport after Hunters dropped and people saw it on Prime.
What’s Hunters?
It’s a show, on Prime.
Oh. Is it any good?
It was alright, I haven't watched the second season.
Cool, do you wanna watch it?
Bobby, looking exhausted from most all of his interaction with Walter, shakes his head.
Nah, thanks though.
Okay, Bobby! Is it cool if I call you Bobby?
No, it's kind of weird you're addressing me on a first name basis.
You called me by my first name!
It's the only one you gave.
So you want me to call you Mr. Bourbon?
I kind of wish you wouldn't call me anything at all.
Walter laughs.
Nah, you're Bobby.
Bobby grits his teeth as his jaw clenches. He glances around checking to see if he missed any other open seat on the bus.