Bobby Bourbon finds himself in another tryst come Wednesday Night.

This time Ned Kaye is the menu.

THE GRAND HIGH POOBOB OF THE SITH



We are greeted with a panel at any given comic or sci-fi convention happening somewhere in America. By now it's become a large enough part of the social zeitgeist that most under the age of 70 can grasp and conceptualize the kind of occurrence, from San Diego to Philadelphia. You can almost smell the unwashed denizens of the place, forsaking a basic bath for something more ravishing perhaps, cosplays and make-up hide inherent funk, and the sheer quantity of human bodies present are the perfect cover for personal odors. Think downtown Manhattan; anyone can reek, because everybody just smells the draft of human urea anyhow. The panel in question, is the Anniversary of Star Wars. Not any specified number, definitely not a tidy one ending in five or a zero. The room is filled with hundreds, and the panel showcases none other than George Lucas, creative visionary behind Star Wars, Deep Roy, famous little person who wore the Yoda puppet, and Bobby Bourbon, a wrestler who in passing made mention of being Darth Vader at a Star Wars themed wrestling show precipitated on a pun.

The crowd is settled by now, as all three men have taken their places at the panel. Fortunately, XWF mainstay, 'Big Puddin' Herschel Kiss is present to be the MC for the event.

Star Wars fans! We are glad you can be here today for this once in a lifetime opportunity! Of course, Mr. Lucas, it's a pleasure to have you here.

Thank you, Herschel.

Deep Roy, we know you've had an expansive career, you were the Oompa Loompas to a modern generation, but you were also Yoda!

Deep Roy bashfully smiles.

It's a pleasure to be here today, you'll have to pardon me for not using Roman syntax.

There's a smattering of laughter in the crowd, but really, the joke goes over most of their heads or just wasn't that funny.

And lastly, but definitely not least, we have Bobby Bourbon, former Universal Champion, and King of the XWF!

The crowd doesn't really react, most of them baffled why Bobby Bourbon left the confines of the wrestling nerdiverse to transition over to comic, or sci-fi, or whatever you want to call it. Either way, pop culture is pop culture, served in more flavors daily.

Please, Hersh, for starters you don't need to be so formal. I'm glad to see you back in the XWF, I'm glad you only faked your death and weren't actually dead. And as everybody knows, I'm not a king. I am the Grand High PooBOB, as decreed by me, because I won a tournament and am on a ton of drugs.

Someone in the crowd hollers "let's go", proving that saying just gets used anywhere, anytime, for anything. Another person shouts "four-twenty sixty-nine" which gets a better reaction than Bobby, since it's just a general reference to oft regarded naughty behavior that twenty-somethings still see as the forbidden fruit rather than the norm.

Well, Bobby, I am glad to be back in the XWF, and maybe we'll get into the huge cross-promotion the company is doing with Disney to present Wednesday Night Warfare, MAY THE FOURTH BE WITH YOU!

Jesus, does that mean we, in a really fucked and roundabout way, we made Jenny Myst a Disney princess?

I would not have done that.

The awkwardness grasps the room like some horrific gelatin with raisins in it as everybody acknowledges that, yes, we have in fact made Jenny Myst a Disney princess. Strong work.

Also, I would like to point out, this is a real treat for all you incels out there, you get Darth Vader and Yoda on stage for you.

You, uh, aren't David Prowse, Hayden Christianson, James Earl Jones, or even Jake Lloyd. Deep was actually Yoda.

Yeah, but at Warfare, I will be Darth Vader!

I wouldn't have cast you.

Gentlemen, please. We have a lot of questions to get through. Do we have any fans of the Mandalorian out there?

A chorus of voices echo "this is the way". This is followed by a lot of loud cheering.

Mr. Lucas, what are your thoughts on the Mandalorian, and the new serials being presented on Disney+?

Well, I feel I've gone on record stating that it's not the direction I would have taken, but, well, I'm a couple billion dollars richer, I guess I'll have to complain while sleeping on a bed literally made of money.

Deep, do you have any thoughts?

Well, I suppose as long as people enjoy it, it's alright.

Bobby?

Eh, the Mandalorian was cool. Really I just want to talk about American Grafitti, that's the real best thing Lucas ever did. Fuck a Millenium Falcon, I want Milner's Deuce-Coop.

George Lucas looks touched by the statement.

Thank you.

You're welcome.

Some of the crowd starts to boo. Bobby stands up.

Oh, shut up. You geeks all smell like a diet of dry ramen noodles that has lasted over a decade and virginity. The lot of you hem and haw about inconsistencies in the stories, which movie was best, what you would have done fucking differently even though none of you, not a single one of you, will ever create anything on as grand a scope that it costs four fucking billion dollars, and I'm willing to bet a great majority of you couldn't even make a shitty movie because it takes more effort than critiquing one. I, for one, don't really give a rats asshole what your opinions are on what should have happened in the works of fiction that were presented, across several types of media, over damn near half a fucking century, because as much as you swine want to complain about what's being put in the trough, you keep gobbling it up like it'll ever run out, paying more and more, year by year, for that nostalgic kick you got when you saw a fucking laser sword light up on a big screen. Fucking losers. Star Wars was cool. Star Wars fans? Nope.

The crowd, en masse, judges and reacts to Bobby's remarks unkindly with a lot of boos.

"You suck!"

Motherfucker, I kick ten kinds of ass on the daily and that's before lunch. You payed how much for that goofy ass costume, the travel to get here, and the path to be in front of me? I don't know, but a chunk of that change wound up in my pocket, while I had full accommodations provided to me because I fucking rule. By the way, Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy was way better than Star Wars, it's not even a contest. Shit, Star Trek is more profound and better work in terms of science fiction, you just jumped on a wagon because it came with cooler toys. The fuck. You morons will rant, fucking endlessly, about bullshit, harping about how awful Jar Jar Binks was, how you hated Episode 8, and that goes to you too, George, but hey, you fucking bought the tickets to the midnight opening and chomped economy class popcorn all while washing it down with an ice cold Coca-Cola. You really put the shit in dipshit, every time I hear any of you fucking whack-jobs prattle on about what should have happened I'm painfully, and I can not emphasize this enough, agonizingly pained in the reminder that not a single one of you fucking nematodes can carry a fucking conversation outside of your own self-built, coffin-like box, let alone produce a fucking film franchise that redefined film itself. I like Star Wars because, well, fuck art, I just wanna dance, and if you asshats want to gussy up a pig, it's because you're too shy to ask her out when you're down and enjoying the slop anyhow, you pigfuckers. Meanwhile, I'm just here to enjoy the bacon, the ribs, and the ham until I am happy. Yo, Deep, do people ever give you shit about how your version of Willy Wonka wasn't as good as the original?

Yes, quite often, actually.

Shit, now imagine that ramped up the the fucking nth degree about a series of movies dating back to the 1970's. George, shame, you even jumped into that shit. Were you feeling entitled after the pushback you got for the prequels to talk shit about Episodes Seven through Nine? Fuck, Adam goddamn Driver is the best actor to ever be in the fucking movies. Fuck Alec Guinness, Lawrence of Arabia was boring.

By now most of the room has cleared out, shying away from the conflict that Bobby is bringing to them, his poor taste notwithstanding. The people running the convention, however, seem to have had enough of his pissing off more Star Wars fans than George Lucas (the fucking creator of the whole damn thing, by the way) as well as they cut his microphone off. Bobby looks less than pleased.

Bobby, those are some, uh, staunch opinions, I think you might be upsetting the peace!

Bobby reaches into his back pocket and pulls out his own microphone, which, as has been well documented, is the microphone of a Sith Lord.

Peace is a lie. Fuck peace. I go to work, week in, week out, earning everything I have on the bodies and blood of others at a place called Warfare. There is only passion. My fucking passion for going out there, and casting aside whatever little tidbit you want to toss my way as a way of saying "attaboy, Bourbs, you done good". Your crowns, your belts, your fucking baubles mean bupkis to Bobby. I go out there for the thrill of the fucking hunt, and with that passion, I gain strength. It builds, it boils even, teeming to the edge until it can't be contained, only unleashed. With that strength, I gain fucking power. It's not enough to just be one of the strongest men in the XWF, no, it's combining that with the sheer tenacity I bring, the knowledge I possess, and the will to execute that I manifest something far more dangerous than just being a big man, but being the Big Bad Big Bad of Big Bads. Then, welp, I think anybody who's watched the XWF long enough knows, with that power, I gain victory. How many bodies? How many? Theo, are you keeping a tally of the asses I have kicked out of your my doors over the years? Shit, I don't want them to go, I can't just go out there and wrestle nobody, people ain't fucking paying to see me stand around, not like here at least. I run them off with their tails between their fucking legs when they realize the level of competition I bring, nigh-unparalleled in the fucking ring, from the depths of hell itself to on high they will sing, that I am Bobby Bourbon, and in the XWF I am, Grand High PooBOB, fuck being a king. Thing is, and this is the fucking truth, in victory, my chains are broken. Anything tethering me to be a possession of any of you is fucking gone. I don't need no belt and I wear no crown, I ain't got no strings to tie me down. The Force, my fucking force, the force of a fucking Bobbybomb, will free me.

Bobby looks deadass at the camera.

Ned Fucking Kaye. You have disappointed more people with your career than Episode One. Lil' Neddy, too timid to jump the fucking shark because it's what the people expect of him. Too uncertain of who he is, what his place is, how he fits into the grand scheme of things going on around. Not just in the XWF, no, Ned gets baffled and gives long, drawn out, morose responses to waitresses trying to serve him fucking breakfast.

Bobby makes a funny face as his voice goes up slightly, diving into some subpar character work as the waitress.

"Hiya, honey, do you need any coffee?"

Bobby turns his head, his voice going even higher.

"Hold on, I'm busy contemplating the nothingness of everything, and how meaningless existence is sometimes."

Bobby turns his head again, doing the waitress voice.

"So, will that be a decaf?"

Bobby turns his head, going back into his higher pitched Ned Kaye voice.

"Hold on, I'm not sure, maybe I am, but I'm not going to fill you in on how much solitude I feel on my journey of finding out who I am. Maybe I can get one of my doofy pals to make you a video game? If you play the video game, you'll know exactly how I want my eggs cooked! Me? I'm not even sure. Do you have eggs in a basket?"

Bobby rolls his eyes. The character work has graciously ended.

Now, yeah, do I have some history with Ned? Yep. I was reigning as the most dominant Hart Champion ever, and then Ned fluked his way into a title reign so underwhelming they had to rename the fucking belt. Yeah, Ned, you got me there, but hey, the Jamaicans had a bobsled team that made it into the Olympics too, but they left just how they showed up, without medals. Nobody bats a thousand, least of all me, because I'm on the fucking mound hurling, and dishing, and bringing you shit you can't even react to, and just when you think you can, that's when I throw the change-up. You are not ready to hack at this, but you don't have to sweat it, young padawan. Join BOB, and together we can rule this galaxy. We will whip you into shape and have you fighting fit in no time, and then you will know the true power of the dark side. Pfft. Light, dark, whatever motherfuckers, I'm the fucking guy who rules the roost around here, whatever shade you wanna cast is your prerogative.

Bobby shrugs. He sticks his fist out. From nowhere, glowing blue, we see TK appear and finish the no-look fistbump.


TK's Force ghost fades away as fast as Ned's hopes of winning at Warfare.