Robbie Bourbon, the Warfare MVP, the ONLY recognized one in history so it goes.

Fuck it. The Warfare MVP has more prestige these days than the Hart Championship.

WELCOME BACK, ROB

We open upon the bridge of Robbie's own space frigate. Around him, we see Thunder Knuckles and Michael Graves seated at the navigation system. At the sensor array we see Jenny Myst. Money Oswald is behind him, looking at a tablet. In the engineering bay, we see Miss Fury. Robbie looks around, confusedly.

Woah, woah, fellas, I'm all about being full on B.O.B., but right now I need my Bourbon Men. I'll see you all a little later.

The rest of the members of B.O.B. shrug as the Bourbon Men proper make their way onto the set bridge. Cyberjaw, the man with the cybernetic jaw, and Diamondback, the man who can blend into any crowd, pass by TK and Graves as they leave.

Hey.

How're you doing?

TK and Graves nod back at them. Money Oswald hands the tablet to Fuchsia, rockin' space babe, and cordially smiles and nods at the lady.

Thanks!

Guy Fieri, right mayor of Flavortown, steps into engineering. Miss Fury doesn't even look up and walks past him, rolling her eyes, muttering under her breath. Ash, Robbie's personal stylist, walks up to the sensor array. Jenny just stares at her. Ash stares right back.

Oh my god.

I love your hair!

Thanks!

Neither of them acknowledge the sensor array and engage with one another, showing each other their phone screens nonstop. Buck Ventura, official from the Confederation of Planetary Systems, takes notes.

Captain, it seems they're two of a kind.

That's probably not good.

At the navigation computer, Cyberjaw, Diamondback, TK, and Graves all seem to be bullshitting about something or other. Soon enough, Graves uses his magic powers to summon a pair of dice, and the four men begin placing bets and rolling.

Sir, your helmsmen...

I see.

Oswald and Fuchsia are having a conversation. Oswald, as prim and proper as always, is being the perfect gentleman to Robbie's better half. They each look at the tablet constantly.

Sir...

I know. Hoo boy.

In engineering, Miss Fury is talking with Guy Fieri, and they seem to be going over ways to conquer the taste buds.

Captain...

Buck, I get it, I get it.

Buck looks around, confused.

Well, sir, where's your doppelganger?

Robbie looks at the camera and smirks.

There's nobody like me. Only I can do what I do.

Everybody on the bridge kinda stops and glares at Robbie. Robbie looks around.

What? You're all unique too, it's just nobody new came aboard and started being my direct counterpart.

Everyone aboard acknowledges that and carries on. Ash and Jenny are touching each other's hair, seemingly going on about what the other could do with it.

Oh, that is such a good idea!

Thank you! You're pretty smart too!

Down at the helm, TK rolls the dice.

Bam! Pay up fools!

This is bullshit.

God damnit!

TK obviously rolled well enough. Diamondback and Cyberjaw reach into their pockets and throw more ones onto the floor of the bridge as the dice game continues.

Hey, you two jaggaloons better not lose all your money, I'm not raising your allowance any time soon!

Captain...

Yes Buck?

Incoming hail.

On screen.

The screen blinks a bit, and we see Theo Pryce.

Captain Bourbon!

Hiya Theo.

Well, we back home were pretty thrilled by what you did at Relentless. One of the wildest matches in XWF history, it's getting tons of views on the XWF Network!

Yeah, that's awesome. Nice to know my getting my ass kicked is giving you a better Christmas bonus.

It is! I can finally get that inground pool instead of the Jelly of the Month Club.

Cool.

Well, Captain, heh heh, I know you're out in the stars putting out fires and boldly going where no man has gone...

You're totally trampling all over it man.

Okay. Well, again, we're proud of you Robbie. I decided to give you a reward at Warfare.

What? Like another boat?

No, I think you'll like this a little better.

On the screen, Theo disappears.

You have a direct line to Theo Pryce?

Yeah, you don't?

The rest of B.O.B. widens their eyes. Diamondback giggles.

Heh, that's just Theo.

Yeah, total dork.

Jenny Myst lets out a belly laugh as the rest of B.O.B. sits, somewhat taken aback that Robbie's so familiar with Theo. Robbie shrugs.

What? We go back.

Well, does he give you presents often?

For losing?

No.

On screen, we see the Warfare graphic, then a picture of Robbie Bourbon, then the words Versus, then, of course, since you're reading this on an RP board and are probably even Robbie's opponent looking for some kind of cool hook or leverage to sink something in with rather than being fucking awesome in your own right, because ain't many getting better than the big man when it comes to being awesome, anyway, totally spoiled to you the viewer but news to Robbie, is the name Nathaniel Idenhaus and the Hart Title is presented on screen. The whole of the bridge starts cheering. Everybody is engaging in high revelry that not only does Oswald have a Hart Title shot in his pocket, but Robbie may well be the champion come next Wednesday. Everybody, that is, except Robbie. His gaze narrows.

He doesn't sit still, instead settling into his chair, slowly, gripping his arm rests, a scowl across his face.

The rest of the bridge settles in. Cyberjaw nods.

It's time.

The lights on the bridge go red as a klaxon sounds. All this amazing space technology, and the humble klaxon lives on.

Red alert captain!

Incoming fighters!

On screen.

Robbie seems all too calm for a firefight with alien spaceship starfighter whatever they call them. Also, very adept at making the Alexa or whatever in the room do stuff from the simple command of "on screen".

Look, I lost to Raven.

That, suffice to say, took a lot out of me. I shed enough blood to call the Rose Bowl a literal slaughterhouse.

But, now that that's out of the way.

I'm going to Warfare to get to work defending my status as the Warfare MVP.

And definitely not for the last fucking time.

I know this just means we're going to sort out who the real deal is, the Warfare MVP or the Hart Championship, all because the Hart Championship wasn't anywhere near the XWF, instead it was floating around in the minor leagues because the champ coughed it up in, what I must best guess, was a total fluke.

Pasha is the shit that stunk up the port-o-john. I don't care how big he is. I'm the big bad big bad of big bads. I'll fucking Robbiebomb that big dingus, and after he's in shock that he just got ragdolled, after he's in the fucking pain of having fucking gigatons of payload dropped from this sweet and spicy Memphis Belle, after the most expected three count in wrestling history, I'll go and be about my business.

But then Idenhaus showed he didn't have a fucking spine and lost to him.

If you were wondering, by the by, some of you might remember this but it's been half a decade, I used to have a penchant for taking out very specific people in the XWF.

I don't mean beat. I don't mean won against. I mean ran out of wrestling.

The worst of the worst.

Scum beyond scum.

America, Universe, hear me now loud and clear, we're going to denounce some white supremacy today.

At Warfare I fight a fucking nazi werewolf.

Seriously, a fucking full on werewolf that, also, is a nazi.

See, Nate, I see you tried to scrub your image, focus on the wolf bullshit.

I don't give a fuck, I'll beat you like a dog that bit a child. Somebody call the ASPCA, I'm about to euthanize some mongrel. Now I may be pure American mutt, but even I know when I smell something bad.

And this piece of shit reeks.

Ladies and gentlemen, his name is Nathaniel Idenhaus. If any of you were unaware he is, in fact, a white supremacist who is bent on global domination using fear, intimidation, ignorance, and hatred.

And I will destroy him.

Now I know, some of you are saying, this is the NEW XWF. There aren't anymore racist pricks around. Well, they weren't necessarily shuffled away by upper management.

They were systematically, ruthlessly, viciously, and with the utmost calculation taken out.

By me.

And there's one left.

You, Nate. You're the one who's left. You're the one getting knocked off of a list.

The Hart Championship? Shit, that's icing on the cake as far as I'm concerned. The stakes are high, I get it, the spotlight is on me, do I go in there and wrestle a match for the ages for that honor, that privilege to once again be Hart Champion, in front of billions?

Or do I break the fucking spine of one last nazi in Frankfurt.

Diamondback and Cyberjaw, having seen this kind of thing firsthand before, know what's next. TK looks a little baffled. Graves looks like he's seen a ghost.

What is he...

Graves taps TK's shoulder and quickly puts a finger to his lips, signaling silence.

I've seen him get like this before.

The rest of the members of B.O.B. take a step back from Robbie like he's a bomb about to detonate. Cyberjaw rolls his eyes and looks back at Graves and TK.

Heh, he likes you guys.

Idenhaus, on the other hand, might want to update his insurance information.

Well, I mean, we do get pretty good healthcare.

Diamondback smirks.

I meant life insurance.

Robbie don't fuck around when it comes to white supremacists.

On the screen, one of the ships is nailed with some cool looking beam or torpedo or whatever and it blows up, making sound and fire in space.

Say what you want to about me. Say what you want about B.O.B. We might be a rag tag bunch of no good to outright bad people, we might be a supercriminal organization dedicated to supervillainy, but even we aren't Nazi shitheads!

On screen, the other ship is quickly blown up in similar fashion.

I am the Hoss among Hosses! The last outlaw, the sultan of smacktalk, and the Wednesday Night Wrecker, but among all of that, first and foremost, Nate, I was a monster crushing nazis on television.

Fuck, not even the President could do that.

So fuck what you mighta heard. Fuck you. Fuck white supremacy, fuck your bullshit Hart Championship sham. You were the worst fucking Hart Champion ever. You spent more days during your reign as an interim champ, who didn't even fucking compete, leaving me to go out on Warfare, like clockwork, and defend something so the fans had a reason to buy a fucking ticket while you diddly fucked around. Fuck, Nate, did you go into wolf form and lick your own balls for a couple months?

I mean, you went underground with your nazi beliefs, who else is fucking surprised you went underground and hid when you fucking coughed up the Hart Championship to someone who doesn't even work for the company.

You're a disgrace as a Hart Champion.

I fix that on Wednesday. I know that's new to some of y'all.

Robbie Bourbon, fixing something instead of breaking it, smashing it, crushing it, or otherwise rendering it useless.

Nah, nah, get it right.

I'm going to fix the Hart Championship by becoming the Hart Champion and actually giving a fuck about what that actually means.

You're a disgrace as a human being.

Racial intolerance is a fucking evolutionary setback.

I fix that on Wednesday.

I'ma Robbiebomb you so hard it'll break your DNA. No more human, no more wolf, none of that. You get seen in your truest, ultimate, final form.

Paste.

Algae.

A fucking slime that stains the fucking planet.

And from there, we just gotta grab a mop, put in a little elbow grease, and wash you away once and for all.