Robbie Bourbon, recently exonerated by the warden at the white collar prison he was locked up in, went to Warfare and surprised the world by running over his future self and actually attempting a roll-up pin attempt on the X-Treme Champion for a 2.9 count.

WHAT IT IS

We see a broad, well lit hallway, rife with people walking here and there. It's a hallway within a courthouse, several doors and hallways branching off on either side, a few large screens displaying the day's docket, an assortment of nervous or saddened faces, a few smiling ones connected to heads and bodies that meet other smiles and exchange handshakes, most of them carrying briefcases. Lawyers. A few armed officers are standing at their posts, screening those who enter the courthouse as they pass through a metal detector. Seated on a bench in the center of the hallway is Robbie Bourbon, along with Blue and another woman who is rifling through a briefcase.

I'm nervous.

Don't be, babe. The warden says I'm set, and Ms. Ferris here is a great attorney, so if there is a hitch she'll help us out.

Well, not just that. You're going back to compete so soon?

Well, shit, that's my job, isn't it? Gotta work. You gotta stay busy, otherwise you just turn into goo.

Okay. Do you have a gameplan for Starr?

Well, yeah.

What are you going to do?

What am I going to do? WHAT AM I GOING TO DO!?!?!?!?!?!?!?

I'm going to beat that woman's ass like she fucking stole something from me! I'm not bashful of that, nosirree. The XWF has always been an intergender federation as long as I've been competing in it, no reason I should fucking shy away or hold anything back just because the name being called in the opposite corner belongs to a woman. Shit, it's two thousand sixteen, ain't like I gotta hold the ropes open for her to get into the damned ring.

Now, I know I've said some pretty harsh shit about some people around here about needing Midol and a Tampax, and how that shit just isn't the standard ring gear of the XWF superstar. Nope, not by a longshot. If you wanna preach about some "I am woman, hear me roar" horseshit wrapped in purple cellophane and stamped by fucking Hallmark to be sold for $5.99 on Mother's Day, go on ahead. If whining and complaining about how what I said is insensitive, go on ahead. I'm not here to sound off with you, pat you on the back, or tell you it's going to be okay for any fucking reason. Facts is facts, and come Anarchy, I'ma beat your ass just as bad as I would any man walking the planet, and that there is fucking advanced thinking.

Let's see how this goes for you, and you tell me if I'm wrong, okay?

I'm going to tell you how violent I am, and let's be honest, I'm pretty fucking vulgar and violent. People love it, they buy tickets to see it, put my face on their kid's t-shirts too.

You're going to tell me how my vulgarity and violence are, well, I guess how you define them like it's actually worth a fuck.

I wrap you up in chains and hook your silly ass to the anchor of the yacht and drop you into the sea with a fucking camera so I can introduce the wacky new mermaid character I discovered to the XWF universe. You'll be well preserved at the bottom of the ocean, Marilyn, and when I hook wires into your skull, spine, and wrists I'll present your corpse as a puppet to the universe, and you know what will happen? People will love it, they will buy tickets to see it, and they will go out and make more babies to put more t-shirts with my face on more kids.

You're going to say I will never do that.

I'm going to record the sounds you make as you make your way to the bottom of the ocean. The muffled screams, barely making any sound, still scratching and clawing at your very soul at the horrific nature of it all, that last loud bubble of air escaping your mouth with a last faint, weak, sound that barely carries through the water. The camera will watch your eyes go blank as your neck simply goes limp and your head sways with the currents as your hair seems to reach upward, trying to pull your pointless drowned self to air and life.

You're going to say I don't matter.

After your flesh has finally rotted away from your skeleton, which has been weathered from years at the bottom of the sea, I'm going to dredge you up, and have your bones polished, and put you on display in my fucking foyer. When people come to see me, they're going to ask about you, the exotic decoration I have in my home. I'll simply smile and explain "that's the bitch who shouldn't have got on the boat to begin with." My guests and I will laugh, then enjoy whatever fucking food there is in two thousand forty.

You're going to say I'm demented.

Thing is, drowning you, doing all that shit? That's taking it easy on you. Really, it is. Do you know what I could do to you? How about I use my time machine and take you back to watch as I blow your granddad's head off with a twelve guage when he's age twelve? I'm sure as fuck interested to see what happens to your molecules as we create a paradox that states you can't exist. How I about instead of giving you the graceful death of becoming a fixture in my way of life in entertaining others, I just crack your skull open and see what's on your mind firsthand? I'll bring the Triscuits, the strawberries, some pretzels, dried bananas, dried pineapple, and enjoy your fucking cerebral cortex as a fondue, and you know what the best fucking part of that is? My face would be on the box of Triscuits in a week because everybody around the fucking world who tunes in to the XWF, everybody around the fucking world who knows what a fight is, everybody around the fucking world who will watch me destroy you will want to be just like me.

Robbie Motherfucking Bourbon.

Man of the people.

That means you too. Surf's up, hit the seas, I know you've got that itch. I don't mean about those crabs living in your vertical love ditch. You're gonna get keel hauled when I flip on my mean switch, and that shit that you spit, har-dee-har I'm sure it's rich, but you're Ahab, I'm the White Whale, watch me deep six this bitch. On a boat, a canoe, I'll beat your ass blue, this Viking's got to work too, sailing his big self right on through, conquering and pillaging your gold and your crew, and it doesn't make a whole lot of difference what the fuck you will do, as the beats start to land, heavy doses of my left and my right hand, crushing your equilibrium to challenge the notion you might stand, and then I'll wrap the fucking chains on there, heave ho the anchor and watch your wet body hit wet sand.