Time for battle. Again. It never ends. Hell, for every XWF Megastar, Megastarlet, Supervillain, and talking head but delight for millions billions trillions of trillions of sentient creatures across the universe. You can blame Alias for that being all time lordy. You can blame Betsy too.

However, in hell, a Bastard shines.

TITLE

We catch up with Bobby Bourbon, Grand High PooBOB (winner of March Madness 2022 and heir to the throne of the XWF should he stop being a putz and accept it). He's bedecked in his ring attire, standing at a table which is flooded with miniature soldiers and tanks. Across from him is an older man in a full German World War 2 uniform. Bobby's eyes are aglow, pleased as punch to be there. He rolls a handful of dice.

Alright, well, looks like my unit of tanks has hit, uh…

Bobby starts pointing at the dice, tallying the results of the dozen or so cubes.

I hit one.

The older man repping the Wehrmacht smiles. He rolls somewhere between one and eighty thousand dice then inspects them.

You destroyed one of my Panzers.

What? Ozzy, no!

Bobby looks saddened, albeit confused.

Huh?

Nevermind. Well, never knew Oswald was such a history buff.

What are you talking about?

Shut up, gramps, just take this Bagration beatdown like a man.

The old dude shrugs. Not like, well, you know who.

Okay, I will move this platoon fifteen inches.

Copy.

Bobby watches intently as the man moves his little German tanks, running a tiny little choking hazard sized blitzkrieg into Bobby’s micro maskirovka at Minsk, all about 1/144 scale. They're fighting the big one as small as possible.

Okay, I'm going to shoot at your T-34 unit.

Bobby’s gaze narrows.

You don't wanna shoot on me, I'll give you a Bobbybomb.

The tsar bomba wasn't invented until the 60s.

I'm not a tsar, I'm a Grand High PooBOB.

Neither man seems to grasp what the other is talking about, but such is life when you play dorky games of fantasy (am I right?) The rest of the room, chock full o' nerds, brimming with nerds, teeming with nerds, so many nerds you can smell the BO and Funyuns farts, all stop their individual games with their minis to watch the Big Bad Big Bad of Big Bads square off, just like any given Savage or Warfare. The older gent rolls an amount of dice incalculable by NASA.

I hit your tanks!

Bobby pulls a lever. A deluge of dice pours from the cieling, scattering across the floor. Someone walking into the room is immediately rushed back out by the wave of dice. A guy carrying a tiered cake starts to stumble on the dice, precariously balancing the cake until he invariably falls, landing face first into a very out-of-place wedding cake. A tiny little Moses model splits the sea of dice at another table where the nerd factor is compounded by Judeo-Christian mythology. Bobby looks at all the dice.

I save.

Shazbot.

Stop cussing in German you creepy kraut.

Bobby pulls out a tape measure and begins inspecting his forces. Unlike modern Russian tanks, these were the height of technological advancement in 1944. As he measures how far they can move among the intricately recreated Soviet village and farmstead, which seems historically inaccurate based on the fact it looks like it produces food, Thunder Knuckles and Charlie Nickels walk into the place. TK swiftly shakes his head.


TK retreats, a tactical maneuver mostly forgotten by these hobby gaming enthusiasts. Charlie walks forward, kicking aside dice as he does.

What is this?

This? It's Fortress Europe Fiasco! It's all the fun of World War 2 with none of the complex sociopolitical ramifications, tragedy, or the smell of dead bodies.

Mmm. That's the best part though.

You're really close to taking a lap, Charlie.

Oh. Well, can I ask a question?

You just did.

Can I ask another?

There you go.

Damn it. Bobby, if all the horrors of World War 2 are not in this, how come you're playing the starving conscripts in the name of Stalin and he's playing Nazis?

Oh, hoho, my forces aren't Nazis.

Right. They're the one platoon that wasn't.

It's a battalion Charlie.

Newb.

Did this old fart call me a newb?

Yeah.

But, look at that flag, I don’t care if you've cleaned up an inconvenient history by replacing the Swastika with an Iron Cross, which, by the way, isn't very distant. At a glance it even looks like a Nazi flag.

The old guy in the Nazi German uniform has his hands over his ears, deafening himself to everything the Nickleman is saying.

Yeah, but we pretend they weren't bad.

Okay. That doesn't explain why you're the Soviets.

Oh. To liberate trains en route to Auschwitz.

But, you just said you were pretending they weren't Nazis!

Well, someone has to play the bad guys.

Bobby and Charlie smirk. They look dead at the camera.

Leave it to the pros.

Right.

Bobby and Charlie exchange a no-look high five. Having realized what they just did, Charlie beams.

That was awesome.

Don't make a deal about it.

Okay.

Ahem.

The old timer interrupts.

Is it my turn?

Oh, yeah, hold up.

Bobby whistles. Out on the street, visible from a window, a convoy of dump trucks arrive, pouring enough dice into the area that it might just damage the ecosystem of the region. Bobby looks outside and starts to count.

Did you sink his Battleship?

What? No, they're playing the naval battle game over at another table.

The camera pans to see a fully grown man using a snorkel to roll a dice. It's exactly as you'd imagine.

Ah. Y'know, Bobby, I really don't understand any of this. I mean, I know Yu-Gi-Oh.

Bobby looks at Charlie with disdain.

That's nerd shit Charlie.


~~~~~



Okay, picture this. A cesspool. Shit, piss, cum, blood, a couple of decaying gold fish marinating in all that, the stench of waste left to waft here and there, all willy-nilly. There are more disgusting things in there, yeah. Dead rats, cats, and humans are there too. A bunch of dimethyl sulfide sourced by organisms, or farts to the inundated to science. Miscarriages float around here and there. God's plan, not a right to choose but one to suffer. The collective part of society we all share, flushing something, somewhere, down a toilet, but refuse to bond over. Not that I, uh, advocate that in weird ways. Anyhow, imagine a goopy soup so septic science says sipping or swimming should stay stagnant since stopping sequesters sambal-labala-madingdong I couldn't say that many Esses in a row. Welp, it happens on live broadcast, I'm not the first. Plenty of my opponents have. Well, that cesspool?

Still not as nasty as Jenny Myst.

So, Jen, how's tricks? I sincerely wonder how many tricks you do, how many times have you snookered a John for his wallet after he offers you a hundo to hand-cuff him? Are you someone who is a foot girl? Ooh, I get why you keep showing up on XWF TV getting the payoff treatment, and shame on you for blowing Theo for getting him to force Garry "Two Rs" to relinquish the belt via taking a dive. Your breath reeks, I mean stanks, of Theo's precum, his scrotum, taint, and asshole, giving him the Long Island Car Wash (Urban Dictionary definition submitted). So when you aren't running your tongue from Theo's dill to asshole, you run your mouth about bullshit about nothing since you're generally used to tittering like a titmouse with a tee-hee-hee every so often in case someone is telling a joke you don't get but want to look like you're not an absolute moron in case there was one.

By the by, do I sound like I haven't shown up? The show is in a few days for fucks sake. Seriously, you are oblivious to the lonely uggos who masturbate to you clothed so much they fantasize about being you, the fact people buy tickets because they wanna fuck you, that acting like a second tier Hot Topic discount bin bitch (and can I get second tier Hot Topic discount bin bitch on the Urban Dictionary? -Narrator, #askingforafriend) is somehow fresh when you're just rehashing your rehashed shit like you're the center link of a human centipede. You waste, and I mean utterly and completely waste every shred of talent you have been gifted with instead being a fucking pile of goopy half-goth bullshit.

Then, surprise, surprise, and word has gotten out, you actually made a move that I totally support. You had me as your number one headbuster in the draft pool, instead opting for Raion Kido at the last minute. I get it, Jenny, I really do, Kido is a flashy name who won a briefcase. Never you mind that I planted that fool into the canvas and became Grand High PooBOB, your rightful king. I guess you were hoping for that, what, momentum thing you love to talk about so much? Just like how you went from holding all the cards and hogging the spotlight in Dubai to coughing up the TV title in your first defense against Garry "Two Rs". Man, fucking momentum, am I right? Well, momentum, Jenny, is constantly shifting hither dither it seems around here. And again, thank you so much for picking Kido instead of me, because having to carry your gross ass through War Games sounds like the absolute drizzling shits.

As such, on behalf of the entire Xtreme Wrestling Federation, I have come to squash your feeble attempt at deprivation, you are ignorant to the most obvious of every sensation, because I rule as king across the whole Xtreme Nation without deviation. Save all your nonsense, it's all horsecrap, I'm gunning for you and that Television strap. I could decapitate you with an open handed slap, the best way you could put a man down is by giving them the clap. I'm a bad ass bastard, you’re just plain bad. Hit or miss but mostly miss you probably make your parents sad. Apologize to your momma and make it up to your dad, do it soon before you get the biggest ass whooping you ever had. I will hit you so hard I'll be washing you off my fist, leave you feeling like an incel who just ain't never been kissed. Break you, bend you, bust you, and leave you in pain so rough you wouldn't believe it could exist, cause you to bleed so much you'll ask "are you there, God? It's me, Jenny Myst."

Now, I could keep going, we all know there ain't a landfill big enough for the trash we know Jenny to be, and shit, Jenny does enough to make Jenny look bad. You know what? Let's go ahead and point out the good things Jenny Myst has contributed to wrestling. What are her merits?

Well, for one, Jenny has the most realistic camel toe on Earth, because like a real camel it attracts flies.

Jenny has saved hundreds of folk who suffer from depression by reminding them that hey, at least they're not Jenny Myst.

Jenny transitions tweens through puberty by setting an example of what you thought was hot when you were twelve.

Jenny has contributed to science through the complex ecosystem of organisms and life forms growing on, in, and around her crotch.

Jenny was a member of BOB before, and she was nice enough to quit and not remain dead weight.

Jenny has mastered the art of the promo. Pretty much the exact same promo, over, and over, ad infinitum, first showing you could spend fifteen minutes talking without saying anything, then becoming a weird plagiarism of herself, then a sad parody of herself. That's depth! I would say wash, rinse, repeat, but Jenny is conserving water by just not bathing. But, much like her condoms, she at least is practical in recycling.

Jenny is generous, because there isn't a single piece of gold she has held in this business that she hasn't readily given up for someone more deserving.

Jenny helps the homeless by letting them smell better than she does.

Uh…

Bobby pauses.

Look, nobody should have to sit through tossing compliments at Jenny. She's absolute trash: complimenting her is like giving platitudes to used tampons or whatever she vomits after playing the pivot roll in a circle jerk for whatever latest shlub promised her stardom and fame. Theo and Vin? They blew their load so many times at Jenny's tonsils they don't even get it up for her anymore. Ooh, what about Mr. Waggle Bagga and his cronies, you know, the ones who shot baby batter down her gullet when things turned sour in the XWF, except they got bored with Jenn-Jenn being a tiny shit when they love their scatological nonsense huge. Hey, how 'bout Chris Chaos? I suppose after boring Jenny to death by not actively boning her, keeping his sacred cherry unpopped, she went ahead and made herself an afterthought of an afterthought. Then there are the truckstops nationwide who even thought giving her a nickle for a gammahooching was overpriced. Crack heads, junkies, and meth addicts are worried about what they might catch from her.

So yeah, I'ma fuck her up on Savage. I'ma take that belt that by rights she has been handed on a silver platter not once, but twice. I'm going to go on Savage week, after week, after week, culling bodies foolish enough to come on down and be the next contestant on the hottest show on TV, How I Took Years Off My Life Fucking With The PooBOB. I'm going to walk out, my head held high, and fuck all the cards, I'm going to be holding session on Saturday nights, reigning. Jenny can run off and fuck off after, still trying to seem relevant, hoping to escalate back up that social ladder from crotch stain to cum dumpster, pulling stunts on broadcast that only make sense to her and playing make-believe. I'll punch that one way ticket onto the red trolley so you can try to seduce a puppet and get shot down by King Friday, but it won't hurt as much as what a King does on Saturday.

Fuck me, bitch, I just went full Mister Rogers' Neighborhood on you, call me Mr. McFeely with that delivery. Too bad it's the only package anyone is willing to offer you. Consensually.