So, looks like there's been a shift in the match.

James Raven, as I live and breathe, come back from Hell Knows Where to see us all again, waving a proud banner, promising to fight the good fight, blah blah blah. I'm sorry you think I flaked out on the people, James. After all, you would be an authority on such a thing, wouldn't you?

Imagine, if you had the balls to call me a pussy back in September! History, James, history could have been pretty different.

Well, no, it wouldn't. I still would have whooped your ass all over Vancouver from corner to corner, rope to rope, and the people know it because the people fucking saw it.

But now you want some kind of, what, revenge? Some kind of get back because I got you?

Kitten, there's nothing you bring to the table now that you did then.

You want to suck the scrote of fucking Jimbo Caedus, the living disease, the doofus that, one day, just up and told me 'yo, I'm going to go with Robert Main, we're going to fight at War Games, you'll be the bad guys' for no real apparent reason.

I just chalk it up to brain damage. The man tries to scramble hard boiled eggs, for Christ's sake. Not that that makes Jimbo any less dangerous, no. I know full well that Jimbo is dangerous. I respect his talent and his skill in that god damned ring.

I do not fear it. I've seen it first hand, twice now.

You learn a lot in that time.

I learned a lot in that time.

I learned who I can trust.

I learned who my friends are.

I learned who has my back, who I can rely on, who I can look upon as real men, real equals, and real partners.

My Motherfuckers, can you hear me?

People, you know the Motherfuckers, right?

For starters, there's the Engineer, we generally call him Engy. Now, there's a man who literally built himself up from the ground up, his name being very apropos, and every fucking inch of his journey was shit on by frightened men. Men too scared of change, of what was new, of what was on the horizon. The Kings, all but a memory at this point, mind you, and a memory mostly because they defied and belittled the true king of the XWF. They picked at a man for earning his way to his crown, and cast him asside as an afterthought.

Nobody fucking deserves that.

Now we have a sophisticated, dangerous, almost lethal man who is dominating the ranks of the Xtreme division, who has himself a 24/7 briefcase, and you wonder why I don't snub him now, and early, like I did toss James Raven?

Well as James Raven can even tell you, us Motherfuckers were only part time.

We were a temporary ride until he could meet up with his real pals.

His real people.

We were just there as placeholders.

So when I became the number one contender, I had no problem in agreeing to James Raven's terms and his leaving the group.

But I had the integrity of my friends to consider at the same time.

Treating them as small time was an insult of the highest order.

Ask Bob Main. I'm going to bust that fuck to smithereens in the cage, and the people can't wait to see it. Two times, Bob, I've seen what you've got. I'm still not all that impressed, I have to admit, with a man who thinks his biggest edge is the fact his opponent is bigger than he is.

Sure, my neck is huge. The more stable to hold a skull getting hit by a chair.

Sure, my chest is huge. Fuck, my torso is huge. Budweiser is studying how to make kegs in my fucking size. The better to feel the brunt of any of your blows. Think about it, two times each I've lost to you and Jimbo, but I'm still here, still ready, only this time I think you'll agree I'm coming out at you a little more actively. This doesn't bode well for you. Not in the least. You can't hold a fucking dime to me on your best day in so many ways.

You want a shot at the Universal Title? Come and get it. Do you really want one, though, or are you just hoping Jimbo or the Engineer are going to do your job for you?

Don't bank on the Engineer doing it for you, though.

You're coming around lately on the man, I've been invested since day one.

And he has the fucking wherewithall to recognize that, to afford me some courtesy by putting up with the fact I was gone for the better part of two months but still was ready to have me back as a partner against you.

The whole XWF has the wherewithall to recognize that if Bob Main were a mystery, surprise replacement for a four on four elimination match, nobody would give a flying fuck. Pbbbbt.

Robbie performs a bilabial fricative, otherwise known as the raspberry.

But, when the Notorious Robbie Bourbon comes calling, well, get your popcorn ready, melt the butter, fluff up the pillows on the couch, and order War Games on PPV, now with twice the Robbie.

Thank you so much, gentlemen, for keeping my name warm while I was away.

Now get it out of your mouths lest I start to sound like any of you.

Now I'd be remiss if I didn't also want to give credit to my brother from another mother, the great bearded Motherfucker himself, Bearded War Pig. The fiercest, meanest, ugliest (and I mean that in a nice way), yet most humble man in wrestling today, and along with the Engineer, one of the best friends a man could ever hope for. He too, has put up with enough of my own horseshit, beared the burden of being associated with me, and belittled in his own right for our association.

And Drew Archyle wonders why he should feel ashamed for spending time with Bob "I'ma make fun of your Bourbon Man there for being black in 2017" Main.

Meanwhile, Bearded War Pig has struck down more adversity and walked more twisted paths in this industry than just about anybody else I have ever met. I am proud to be his friend, I am proud to fight alongside him, and I am proud we will walk into War Games, all three of us, the full might of the Motherfuckers.

Even if you need to inflate the odds in your all's favor.

See, the fix is in, though.

This was never a three on three match-up. No, not at all. The whole fucking universe knows what I'm talking about here.

It's not even a three-and-a-half on three, four on three, or any other kind of bullshit like that.

The Motherfuckers were never the underdogs in any of this, and that's a god damned fact.

We still aren't, as far as I'm concerned.

I have the Engineer and Bearded War Pig beside me, and I feel pretty good about that. They have me, and I have never let them down, because they're the people I owe the most to in this fucking business. Not James Raven or whatever expectations he had before he had to play anthropologist with some Tribe or whatever and leave the XWF high and dry, too scared to envoke a rematch clause for the Universal Championship, certainly not Jimbo Caedus and his wiffle-waffle, disregard for his teammates and love 'em the next, no matter how talented a vulture is it is still ultimately a vulture, definitely not Drew Archyle, who as opposed to yours truly, nobody said two words about him returning, and absolutely not Bob Main, the body-to-be-bodied and wrecked as millions watch on pay per view.

And that said, the Motherfuckers have those millions. We have the people. They're going to crowd in, from all around the world, to see the Motherfuckers, in full force, and all of them are with us, every beat of their hearts, every breath in their lungs, every synapse in their brains, we are together, we are an energy, we are beyond description by means of numbers or letters, defying words and language as a whole, a single unified feeling that we are.

Four versus the people.

And when the Universe congeals, and survivors come out to play, it will be all of them, maybe nine or ten opponents, up against us.

And we will kick their asses out of our cage too.

Robbie and Leroy turn and go inside the cabin with Axe Mannix.