... what, you were expecting Mike Tyson?

Hey there Mother Fuckers, don't look so surprised to see me! I'm sure since the moment the cameras cut at Leap of Faith you've been holding your collective breath and hoping that this moment would never come... meanwhile, the fans have been crossing their fingers and praying that it would.

You hoped, Mother Fuckers, but were you actually demented enough to believe that we were finished? If it was anyone else I'd say there was no chance, but you three? Well... you three just might be the ones. I'm sure you'd like to convince people you'd be best served locked away in an asylum, but if we're being honest you need to be locked away in an eighth grade classroom until you get the certificates you so clearly bypassed.

Engy, do you mind if I call you Engy in this formal setting? Well you're not here to stop me, so I'm going to do it regardless. I'm frankly disappointed in you. I didn't agree with all of your methods, and I thought that Madison hag always weighed you down, but despite those factors I saw immense potential in you... you're better than the wagon you've hitched yourself to, and if you don't disconnect you're going to pull them until your heart explodes. I know what you're thinking, "fuck off James, you worked with the Mother Fuckers".

Barely.

I teamed with them for a match, saw the bull shit that came with it (sorry again Gilmour), and spent the rest of my time beating the shit out of Jack Cain on Savage until I could get the hell out of Dodge.

Follow my lead, Engy. Ditch these inbred, white bread, overfed, touched-in-the-head, side show fucks before it's too late... and Jim Caedus feeds you the iron spike Madison pegged you with.

BWP; I'm only going to call you that, by the way, because I feel ridiculous spitting out your full moniker without at least four shots of Crown beforehand. Your beard looks like it has lice in it. The only reason you haven't shaved is that XWF doctors won't clear you when they see the lyme disease underneath. You were the reason I had to get involved in this stupid stable, and now you're the reason I have to pop back in. You're the worst kind of human; a Robbie Bourbon enabler. I don't know if it's because you know you won't sniff the main event without it being swirled in the aroma of his asshole, or if you were told by some prankster that you were contractually obligated to help him shit all over the industry, but you REFUSE to get off this cartoonish buffoons cock.

I have some Listerine, if you ever get sick of the stench of his ball sweat wafting up from your tongue.

I honestly don't know you that well, BWP. I'd prefer to keep it that way. You served, that's great. I won't touch it. You're still a bumbling cunt nugget, a wannabe Dan Bilzerian, and worth exactly 3... 2... 1... 0 more seconds of my time.

Robbie.

Mother.

Fucking.

Bourbon.

Hey there, pal! How's things? I'm doing good, you know, just livin' my best life... my son is good, my body is pretty well healed up... oh, no, not because of anything you did at Leap of Faith... I just railed the shit out of some Brazilian chick and threw my back out, it was rough. It could've been worse, Aidan Collins just shredded his shoulder two weeks ago and can't even jerk off right now.

Sorry, what were we talking about? Pleasantries were out of the way, and then I think-

Oh. Right.

You're a pussy.

I don't want you to misconstrue that, I don't mean it in the schoolyard sense where a kid shouts it because he can't think of anything more clever. I mean it in the literal sense. You are a moist, bare, quivering, begging to be pounded pussy that happens to have a pretty golden belt.

"Why" you ask?

Well, I will tell you, double stuff.

It's not because you took my title belt, we both go to bed at night knowing that was my doing and not yours. It's not because my run with your band of special needs competitors didn't end well, I barely wanted to join and was BEGGING for a way out. There are a dozen reasons that I'm sure you think I would have a problem with, but you're not a pussy for any of those...

You're a pussy because you were handed absolutely everything on a silver platter, and you've done nothing with it.

Nothing.

Not a single fucking thing.

How many matches have you had in the past two months, Robbie? One? How many times have you defended my title since I left? One? Who did you beat? Gilmour? YOU'RE THE XWF UNIVERSAL CHAMPION YOU PATHETIC FUCK! You once told me that title meant something to you, and how important it would be to you to hold it one day and be a champion to be proud of... to be remembered...

What happened to you?

All you've done is run away with your tail tucked in a manner that would make Bruce Blingsteen proud. You dodge, duck, dip, dive and dodge any chance you have to get in the ring and DO YOUR FUCKING JOB. You've changed, and turned on the people that you came up with... and a man with no peers is barely a man, Robbie. Worst of all, you bragged about beating me.

Look at me, Robbie.

Pull your ridiculous Nacho Libre mask out of your goofy eyes, and look me in my face.

Do you really feel like you beat me, Robbie? I know what happened at Leap of Faith, I'm not disputing you left with the belt. I want to know if when you collapse into your bed at night and feel the mattress strain and sag beneath your heft, and you close your eyes and replay those events and have nobody but yourself to lie to... do you think you beat me? Will you tell your grandchildren about it proudly someday?

Answer me, Robbie.

That's what I fucking thought.

You were given a slot on the Top 50, you were given the Universal title, you were given an opportunity to be THE star of the XWF in the absence of the Kings, and you fumbled. Not only that, but you slid face first into the ass of your offensive lineman like Mark Sanchez with the Jets. It was nice for BWP; it was the first time YOUR face split HIS crack.

I had no choice in who I handed the belt to, but in case you've forgotten I'm the Peoples GOAT. I'm the greatest superstar in the history of this company, and unlike you when this company and I part ways I'm International, baby... I have offers. Your punk ass is going to be parked in a tent offering handies for change so that you can run to the dollar store and buy the right colored thread to sew up your spandex where the fat rolls are bursting through...

What I'm getting at is this; if anyone holds the metaphorical torch, it's me, and I ran with it for a long fucking time, and while XWF management forced me to hand you my belt... they have no say in who I hand this baby off to, and rest assured you giant stubble swept baby, it ain't fucking you.

You're familiar with Jim Caedus, aren't you?

Jim Caedus is the champion that the XWF needs. He's consistent, he's dedicated, he's tough as nails and he'll whip your lard laden ass around the ring easier than I get laid in a new town. Now is he me? Of course not, and fuck your mother deep in her throat for you even suggesting it... but he is damn good, and he's someone that could have competed with the men from my era that used to hold the strap and would swallow Robbie Bourbon whole.

Look at the size of him. Those monsters had a MASSIVE bite.

The Apex are coming for you, Robbie. Jim is coming. Drew is coming. Omega is coming.

The Raven is coming with them, albeit in pinstripes.

I put the XWF in a bad position when I handcuffed them with you. I'm sorry. I'm here to correct that.

I'll see you boys at War Games.

Fear the Raven... Forevermore.