MEANWHILE, SOMEWHERE IN FLORIDA

Quote:Well, now you’re both on THREE.

…Your houses.

…Your tag-team.

…Your country.

You had to kill a North Korean War Criminal, huh.

I prefer the term, COMPROMISED TO A PERMANENT END.

…

But, yes, he is dead.

Static fizzes on a black and white screen. The voices are surreptitiously transferred to a nefarious ne’erdowell.

Biden slaps Bourbon on the back. Bourbon reels back to heartily smack Biden back… Then realizes Biden might be too frail at eighty to handle such comradely.

A fist tightens watching this.

“Biden!” A voice hisses bitterly. “You really didn’t think your plan to DESTROY AMERICA would go so smoothly, did you?”

---

“Yep.” Christopher K. Clinton (looking exactly like Mark Flynn but wearing a false mustache) straightens his papers into a folding desk, then folds his desk up into a briefcase. “Smoooooooth as silk. Took just a few hours of concentration and now, you, Mister Bourbon, are the proud owner of the film rights to Atomic Bat and Blue Tango.”

Clinton stamps his document, (which reads JUST-US 4EVER INTELLECTUAL PROPERTY RIGHTS NOW AND IN PERPETUITY 4EVER), and slides it over to Bourbon.

“Neat.” Bourbon squints at the page. He lifts it to his mouth and bites it to check that it’s not fake.

Clinton nods self-assuredly. “I bet you’re wondering how I did it.”

“Not really.” Bourbon itches his nose disinterestedly.

“Well!” Clinton grins, stretching his suspenders from his chest! “You see, rights of publicity are a matter of state law… BUT, superheroes, in order to asse-“

“I SAID NO.” Bourbon bellows.

…Clinton sucks air.

[orange]“…Fine.” Clinton nods, as if accepting it. “I mean, I can do something COOL without having to tell anyone. That’s… totally… fine.”

…

“IN ORDER TO CLAIM THEIR OWN FILM RIGHTS, THEY WOULD HAVE TO ASSERT THEM IN COURT, WHICH WOULD REQUIRE REVEALING THEIR SECRET IDENTITIES.”

…

Clinton breathes a sigh of relief. “It was VERY COOL.”

Bourbon looks up at Clinton, genuinely confused. “…Why the hell are you still here, lawyer-man?”

…Clinton sneers, reaching into his pocket.

“One last thing.” Clinton hands over a slip of paper. “When you see Flynn next? Give him this.”

With that, Clinton presses an invisible button and disappears behind the table (doing the elevator routine from Austin Powers).

…

A moment later, Mark Flynn pulls himself from the ground on an invisible rope-pulley system (from a deleted scene of Austin Powers).

“So?” Flynn barks at Bobby. “Did Clinton get the job done?”

“Yeah.” Bobby sniffs, slipping the paper across the table. “He said to give you this.”

…Flynn scoops it off the table.

AND SPITS, SHOCKED.

“SIXTY THOUSAND DOLLARS!?!?!” Flynn crumples the receipt, outraged. “That SCUMBAG is RIPPING ME OFF!!!”

“Doesn’t it all come from and go back into the same bank account?”

…Flynn’s eyes twitches. “IT’S… COMPLICATED.”

“Maybe you should get a third personality that does your QuickBooks.”

…Flynn sneers… But, tries to peek over Bobby’s shoulder. “So… that the script?”

Bobby looks up at Flynn like he’s stupid. “What part of ‘we’ll improvise’ did you not understand?”

…Flynn squints angrily. “…I GET IT.”

“Just saying, for a guy with a photographic memory of what everyone’s said, you sure forgot something I said one promo ago.”

Flynn sneers. “I tend to STRIP any STUPID ideas from my brain.”

…

“So… We’ve got the film rights. We don’t need a script. What now?”

…Bobby reaches under the table…

And retrieves a Blue Tango mask.

“We shoot.”

---

Flynn steps down from his trailer…

Simultaneously, Bourbon steps out from his own. He’s dressed exactly like Blue Tango. Except over the costume he’s still wearing his BourbCo brand unisex dress.

…Flynn cups his hand around his mouth.

“YOU LOOK RIDICULOUS.”

…

Flynn smirks, as he adjusts a pair of fake B-cup breasts he’s attached to his chest. He walks down the steps in a set of heels, looking exactly like the Atomic Bat.

Bourbon and Flynn meet between their trailers.

“You ready to get circles acted around you, Bourbon?”

”Please. I’ve been acting for years.”

”Oh yeah? In your little BastardNet parodies that make porn parodies look like Paul Thomas Anderson?”

“No, I mean all those times I acted like you belong in a wrestling ring…”

…Flynn’s face reddens.

OOOOOOH, You’re gonna pay for that one.

Flynn sticks up two fingers.

First, I’m gonna BEAT YOU at the Oscars! THEN, I’m gonna BEAT YOU IN THE RING!

…So, you’re not gonna beat me until after like March? Like, when the Academy Awards show happens?

…

NO.

…

*grunt*...

…

Dammit.

…

Flynn shuffles off to set.

…Bourbon waddles behind him…

Flynn stretches, throwing a few shadow boxes… As the team of bank robbers for the first scene all stretch like this is fucking ballet.

Okay.

Bourbon claps once. Immediately the entire crew spins to acknowledge him…

…Flynn seethes, irritated he’s not being paid as much attention to.

Any of your folks ever see Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon?

A few hands go up.

…Bourbon nods.

…

Then walks off saying nothing.

…

Flynn walks up behind Bourbon.

Is there a reason you asked them that?

Yeah.

…Flynn’s eyebrow waggles, intrigued.

Is it because we’re going to do crazy acrobatic stunts? Or you want your fight scenes to have an Ang Lee flavor?

Bourbon scratches his nose.

No, there’s a Redbox at the corner, and I wanted to know if it was worth the rental.

…

You DIDN’T EVEN ASK THE PEOPLE WHO RAISED THEIR HANDS IF IT WAS GOOD.

I didn’t need to. I already know who on my crew has good taste and who doesn’t.

…

Flynn pinches the bridge of his nose.

GODDAMMIT. Do you ever do ANYTHING LOGICAL?

Sure.

Bourbon reaches out and taps the headset mic on Flynn’s Atomic Bat costume.

I turned down the volume on your mic so the sound mixer’s ears don’t bleed in post-production.

…

FUCK.

YOU.

Whoa, try to save that razor sharp wit for when the cameras are rolling.

Bourbon spins towards the First AD on set.

We good to roll?

The First AD raises his clapper, as the cast moves into position.

Check! Marker!

…

aaaaaand… ACTI-

WHAM! A GOLF CART DRIVES THROUGH A BARRIER IN THE ROAD!

…

Flynn does a cartwheel, trying to stay in character.

Oh wow, Mister Tango, sir! That Golf kart just drove straight through that… uh… set… barrier.

Bourbon points at the barrier, which has been split in half.

Sure did, A.B.

Flynn as Atomic Bat does a twirl for no reason (again, staying perfectly in character)

You might say the driver just… put a hol-

Put a hole-in-one!

GODDAMMIT, BOB. THAT WAS MY PUN!

CUT!

…

So, wait.

Flynn peers curiously.

I know we’re improvising, but, was that golf cart… planned?

Not by me.

“IT WAS PLANNED! TO SAVE AMERICA!” Says a megaphone-assisted voice from the golf cart!

“Sir.” A BourbCo security guard barks at the golf cart that just drove onto the set. “This is a closed set owned by BourbCo.”

“OWNED?!?” A voice scoffs, as an Armani suit steps out of the cart.  A fleet of several dozen other carts drive up behind it. “LIBERALS DON’T OWN… They GET OWNED.”

The man pushes past security and charges onto the set, toward the filming. “This whole shoot is a WOKE, LIBERAL TRAVESTY. Promoted by a LEFTIST AGENDA. And we are here to STOP THE STEAL (of the film industry by TRANS communists)!”

“Woke? Trans?” …Atomic Flynn adjusts his prosthetic breasts, before glancing over at Tango Bourbon, who is sporting a BourbCo dress. “That guy talking about us?”

“YES!” The well-dressed man stomps to the nearest table with a megaphone… before an aide helps him gently climb atop it. “We are DONE letting JOE BIDEN RUN THIS COUNTRY INTO THE GROUND! AS HIS MOST LEGITIMATE POLITICAL THREAT. THE FUTURE PRESIDENT OF THE UNITED STATES!”

Flynn’s eyes widen. “Oh shit… Is that Dona-“

“RON DESANTIS.”



“…PfffffffffHAHAHAHA.” Flynn doubles over smacking his thighs. Bourbon similarly smirks in disbelief.

“…Hey!” The Governor of Florida barks into his megaphone. “Stop laughing at me!”

“RON DESANTIS?!?” Flynn calls out in disbelief, howling, laughing. He drops to his knees and rolls on his back. “Jesus Christ, this is what you’re doing!?! What, were you having too hard a time trying to stop MIAMI DRAG BRUNCHES?!? HAHAHAHAHA!”

“I am standing up for America! For Republicans EVERYWHERE!”

“A constituency with which you’re polling at… what, 12%?” Former President Bobby Bourbon jeers. Flynn’s legs wildly kick in the air as he giddily sucks air with youthful abandon.

“I… I!” DeSantis fumes! “I am putting a stop to this woke moralism! Putting a STOP to YOU!”

“STOP US?!?” Flynn cackles, tears of hideous laughter filling his eyes. “RONNIE, YOU COULDN’T EVEN STOP DISNEYLAND FROM HAVING ITS OWN LAWS… AND THAT WAS IN YOUR OWN BACKYARD!!!” Flynn is laughing so hard, he actually starts dry-heaving, like he might throw up. Bourbon starts smacking Flynn in the back so he doesn’t die of laughter.

…DeSantis snorts furiously, being mocked and laughed at by two (alleged-by-him) communists.

“Oh… You two wanna laugh? Try laughing at this!!!”

DeSantis snaps his fingers.

Piling out of the golf carts behind him…

An army…

…

Or Florida Senior Citizens. Some wielding walkers, equipped with tennis balls at the bottom. Some wielding canes.

Some sporting rascal scooters.

Yes. Some of these people drove here in a golf cart, stepped out dramatically… And then immediately stepped onto a rascal scooter.

…Flynn goes right back to laughing his head off.

DeSantis blushes as he gestures toward his geriatric lackeys. “These RED-BLOODED AMERICANS are here t-… STOP LAUGHING.”

“I-I-ohmygod-I’M DYING…I’M ACTUALLY DYING…” Flynn giggles, punching himself in the chest to stop this. “Someone HELP ME.”

That moment, red and white lights flash behind the Floridian mob. Scottish PD are on the scene.

“Finally. Scotland Yard is here.”

Bourbon brushes some crumbs off his BourbCo dress.

“Actually… *phew*... Scotland Yard is… the British police…”

Flynn wipes away the tears in his eyes, immediately done laughing when it comes to correcting someone.

“You’re definitely wrong. Why would they call the British police Scotland Yard? They aren’t Scottish. Or a yard, for that matter.”

“THAT IS WHAT IT IS CALLED. NEVER TELL ME I’M WRONG.”

As Flynn and Bourbon bicker, the Scottish police (not Scotland Yard) approach the screamining man and his elderly entourage.

“Roight, what’s all this then?”

Bourbon steps forward. “Dickless here is interrupting a closed film set. We have all the proper film permits and licensing rights.” Bourbon reaches into his dress and immediately retrieves all relevant documentation, like he was exactly prepared for this scenario.

The Scottish cop peers at the documents… Giving the BourbCo dress a once-over. Before turning toward DeSantis. “‘Sat true?”

“About him being dickless?” Flynn cuts in. “One-hundred percent FACT.”

…

“Also, everything else Bourbon said.”

…The cop mean-mugs Flynn skeptically… Briefly glancing at his gazing-

Flynn snaps, and points up to his face. “EYES UP HERE, COPPER.”

The cop blushes, before turning back to DeSantis.

DeSantis smiles, as he snaps his fingers once more…

Each of the old folks reach into their pockets, retrieving…

…Official certificates.

Bourbon spins on Flynn.

“Goddammit, is there always this much paperwork in your promos?”

“Well, excuuuuuuuse me! I guess it’s my fault wrestling is run by corporate puppets who hide behind legalese and contract clauses… By the way, aren’t you in charge of a GIANT CORPORATE CONGLOMERATE, MISTER BOURBCO?!?”

“I don’t know, Mister Optimal Path Incorporated.”

“...SHUT UP.”

The geezers all slip their papers into a folder. Which they hand over to DeSantis. DeSantis grins, handing it over to the Scottish detective.

“Officer! This whole film crew is TRESPASSING on PRIVATE PROPERTY!”

“Oi, wot?” The detective inquires, as he skims the folder’s contents…

DeSantis cockily smirks at Flynn and Bourbon. “Are you two SOY BOYS familiar, by chance, with… Scottish laerdship titles?”

“Oh, yeah… that thing where you pay, like, thirty EuroDisney-fun-bucks for a 10-by-10-square of Irish land and get to call yourself a lord? Isn’t that a scam?”

“Total scam. You don’t even *actually* own anything! No title! No land! NOTHING!”

“HAHA!” DeSantis triumphantly points into the air! “That’s where you CUCKS are WRONG!” DeSantis points his index finger into the folder that the Scottish detective is still skimming… “In fact, these Florida HEROES own tracts of land in the Scottish highlands! Between them, EXACTLY the Scottish property that encompasses your entire film location!”

…Flynn squints, skeptically. “Wait… Seriously? You’re telling me ALL one-hundred-something assholes that own THESE plots of land… are from Florida? Hard to believe.”

“Nozzo, sirrah.” The detective interrupts, flipping through pages. “In fact, o’er 98% of those titles ‘er purchased by American children buying a gif’ for their grandparents that requires zero eff-ah… I’ve ‘erd the company even writes the accompanying card for the spoil’d child.”

…Flynn snorts. “Okay… But. Why would a bunch of Florida geezers fly all the way to SCOTLAND to stop a film?”

DeSantis grins ear-to-ear. “I told them we were crusading to stop WOKE HOLLYWOOD FROM PREACHING ITS LEFTIST IDEOLOGY IN THE FORM OF YOUR LATEST SCHLOCK FILM.”

…Silence.

“Also, I’m buying them Luby’s when we we’re done.”

HUZZAH! The elderly raises their canes and walkers as one!

…

Bourbon side-eyes the cop.

“Look, we cleared all this with the Scottish film board. We have our permits to film here.”

The Scottish detective closes the folder. “Be tha’ as i’ may…” The Detective looks Bourbon and his dress up and down. “Sir. I’ll haf to look into your documentation.” He nods toward the Floridians behind him. “In the meantime, tis lot ‘ere’s paperwerk deems they own the land. Until tis is cleared up, please cease ‘ull filming and vacate th’ premises while we look into tis’ ma’er.”

DeSantis pumps his fists, spinning back towards his elderly posse excitedly.

“Sorry, boy-os. Unless one of yuz an expert in Sco’ish property law, this’ll take some time….”

…Flynn’s eyes widen!

He coughs. “Hold that thought…”

…

Flynn cuts straight to the right (in a pair of authentic Atomic Bat heels) to the nearest phone booth.

He opens the door… steps inside… and shuts the door…

He starts to pull off his spandex attire… changing into his business suit…

And putting on a false mustache…

“This looks like a job for…”

…

“CHRISTOPHER K. CLINT-“

Flynn tries to shove open the phone booth…

…But his Atomic Bat rubber breast implants are stuck in the door.

…

“CHRIS CLINT-“

Flynn tries to jimmy the door open and closed to dislodge the implants…

But they’re stuck tight!

“GODDAMMIT, MY TITS ARE CAUGHT!” Flynn screeches, stuck inside the booth.

…The detective glances at Bourbon. “‘Wot… uh… Wot’s yer mate up to, den?”

Bourbon sighs. “…Contacting my attorney.”

---

TWO HOURS, ONE CALL TO THE FIRE DEPARTMENT OF SCOTLAND, AND ONE JAWS OF LIFE LATER

“BOBB-O! OPEN UP!”

Flynn’s fist bangs on Bourbon’s trailer door (marked with a solid gold star that reads ‘Bobby Bourbon’).

…

Flynn sighs, reaching into his back pocket, with a folder.

“LOOK, I got Clinton (who, for the record, is NOT me!) to research this Scottish Land scam… I figure we have MULTIPLE AVENUES of attack! BUT, we need to get on the same page!”

…

“And that means YOU getting on MY PAGE!”

…Flynn reels back his foot…

AND KICKS IN THE DOOR!

…Where he sees Bobby Bourbon… Wearing leather gloves.

Pouring liquid steel into a forge…

“Mark! Glad you’re here! You’re just in time for the FLASH sale!”

Bourbon lifts his dress… Flynn immediately covers his eyes.

…Flynn peeks… Bourbon is, in fact, not flashing Flynn as a bit of prop comedy, and is just wearing a BourbCo-brand black smithing apron!

…Flynn breathes a sigh of relief.

“Flynn, cut out the shenanigans while I slice these prices!”

Flynn groans. “BOB, STOP MAKING PU-“

Bourbon turns around. The apron is backless. Flynn shields his face, blinded by the light of a full Bourbon Moon.

“AHHHHHHH, MY EEEEEEEEEEYES!” Flynn screeches… As Bourbon grabs him by the arm and pulls him to the table.

“Now!” Bourbon claps his hands, and turns to the camera. “Aren’t you tired of your problems! Problems like pancake batter sticking to the griddle, the brake pads on your car squeaking, your student loan interest, and America’s vanishing middle class? Don’t you wish there was one product to solve these problems?”

…

Flynn peeks through his eyes. “Sorry. Are you talking to me?”

“Well, now there is!” Bourbon opens his forge…

And retrieves… A gleaming claymore sword! He lifts it over his head!

LIGHTNING STRIKES (just like in Highlander (which is not Austin Powers)).

…

“Bob.” Flynn blinks. “What… What does ANY OF THIS have to do with dealing with the ACTUAL PROBLEM? E.G. That clown, Ron DeSTUPID making us look like CHUMPS.”

“Great question, Marv.”

“…Did you… Did you JUST GET MY NAME WRONG?”

Bourbon taps the blade against the table. “This has to do with the ‘actual problem’ because this sword solves EVERY PROBLEM!!!”

…Flynn is furious. “Jesus Christ, Bob! THIS is my problem with you! We’re in the middle of the story, you’re going AWOL?!? You literally can’t focus through ONE PROMO on ONE IDEA. FFFFFFFUCK.”

Mark, look, this is bigger than just a promo, this is the future of archaic weaponry!

Future of arch-... ARE YOU TRYING TO MAKE A PUN!?

NO!

I’m marketing!


…Flynn skeptically looks at the sword that Bourbon is calling the future… It looks… decidedly medieval.

Future of weaponry, huh? What, Is it a lightsaber?

Better! These block lightsabers, and can instantly create a zero-point energy variance on contact!

Bourbon spins, pointing at the camera

That’s right, zero-point energy variance cutting!


The words ‘ZERO’, ‘POINT’ and ‘ENERGY’ flash across the screen in block letters when Bourbon says them…

Wait…

…Flynn rapidly blinks.

Hold on.

…

No. You’re stupid.That’s not a thing.

It’s simple quantum physics, Mark. Zero-point energy is the least amount of movement any particle will make. You know ice?

…

Are you familiar with i-

YES, I AM FAMILIAR WITH ICE.

Ah, great! Then, you know how it has the same molecules that water or steam do, only the particles within atoms don’t move as fast; in short, it’s the slowest an electron can go.

It is the densest state of matter since covalence within compounds almost comes to a halt, locked in step.

Ergo, any other matter or particles it comes in contact with, it either cleaves or halts. It immediately resists resistance!

…Flynn seethes in rage.


Bobby. You’re trying to tell ME… in the last TWO hours… that you discovered FRICTIONLESS MOTION…

Lowest friction motion, yes. At zero-point energy, even electrons have to move in an atom, if they stopped the whole stability of the atom would collapse unto itself.


And you applied this HISTORICAL DISCOVERY to SCOTTISH BLADESMANSHIP.

Hell yeah I did. Lightsabers are so last century. Imagine it Mark…

It slices!

It dices!

It will chop a great redwood down!

What about a just-okay redwood?

Even faster!

How…

..

…Flynn rapidly blinks, trying to find a hole to poke in this product.

OKAY, WAIT… Zero-point energy would require a ridiculous… a LUDICROUS amount of power! I mean, What’s this thing run on, like 384 D-batteries at a time?!?

Oh, it has its own micronuclear core.

…Micro… nuclear?

…Flynn takes two steps back, just imagining pure cancer radiating in Bobby’s swordhand.

Yeah, I just built a massive regular sized fusion reactor and shrunk it.

…You have a shrink ray?

Shrink DEVICE, but that’s small potatoes. The zero-point energy variance blade is a whole big ass yam! I adapted my time rewind device into something somewhat different, slowing down the molecules in a piece of foam pool noodle until they hit…

Hold up.

…

Let me guess, zero-point energy?

Bingo! You hit the nail on the head!


Im-POSSSSSSSIBLE.

If you hit the nail with a zero-point energy variance, the nail would shatter, whatever you’re sinking the nail into would be destroyed, and your grandmother would faint from how absolutely sick this sword is.

Stick whatever you want into the haft of the sword, and shazang! You have yourself a sword that will plow into a boulder! Talk about your sword in the stone!

HOW.

Bob.

…

Act like I’m stupid.

Oh, I won’t have to act.

Well, th-…

…

Flynn fumes, eyes fiery.

LOOK. TELL ME HOW THIS DUMB SWORD ACTUALLY WORKS. WHAT’S THE SCIENCE BEHIND IT?!?

Oh! See, I figured out how to use reverse tachyons. But, you knew that, right?

…

Uh.

Obviously. Fuckin, DUH! I was testing you.

…

Everybody knows about… reverse tachyons, hehe..

Mark glances around, to see if everybody knew that.

Right.

..

Well I’ve been working with them, and hell of a thing, if they don’t make contact with forward tachyons..

Flynn raises a finger.

NOT Skip tachyons. I swear, every last fucking intern who makes an Uno joke at my symposiums have to take a lap in the lecture hall.

Mark catches himself before this turns into an argument about him having to take a lap.

Well, if you get enough of them within the same system yet incapable of making contact with one another, they offset in other ways instead of ceasing to exist by making contact with their opposite and imploding.

Mark has begun to nod off at the technical mumbo jumbo.

That’s when I realized I could slow time too, or speed it up, by creating dark tachyons, which behave the same way but are dark matter based so they don’t interact with our planes the same way. I did this by thinking about it really hard until I wrote a lengthy thesis supporting my claim and then produced results supporting it!

And that is how BourbCo passes the savings on to you.

No, wouldn’t you say, Mark…

Mark has all but dozed off from the technobabble.

…

Mark!

Mark’s eyes perk up.

..

Wouldn’t you say that BourbCo’s customers NEED! To Get the Grav-o-matic; a 4th dimensionally resistant blade. The densest blade in existence.

Only from BourbCo, no one is denser!

Just in time for the holiday season!

…

You know what, Bob?

Flynn walks back to the trailer door.

WHAM! And punts it back open.

You can go STRAIGHT TO HELL. You become the Billy Mays of Blades… I’LL BEAT DESANTIS, MAKE THE MOVIE, FLY BACK TO SCOTLAND, AND WIN THE TAG TITLES BY MYSELF.

Flynn slams the door… Bourbon spins back to camera.

See that kick? Only 180 PSI of force! This sword? 4 BILLION PSI!

Flynn stews on the door, pulling his phone out of his pocket.

Stupid fucking… FUCK!

Flynn opens up his Southwest Airlines app.

STEP ONE, Get the plane ticket back to America…

…

Flynn’s eyebrow twitches, staring at the airfare price…

…

Goddamn Biden-FLATION!

…

FUUUUUUUUUU-

---

MEANWHILE… IN THE STORY’S BACKGROUND

Cyberjaw, Diamondback, Genevieve Tate and Irwin are all chewing on delicious Korean barbecue.

…Diamondback suddenly elbows Cyberjaw.

Bet I can get eat more barbecue in a minute than you can.

…Cyberjaw side-eyes.

Dude. My name is CYBERJAW. I have a CYBER… JAW. My mandibles are set with auto fire like a goddamn game genie. There is no way your ANALOG JAW could out-eat mine.

Diamondback is unfazed.

Fifty bucks. Thirty seconds.

…Cyberjaw reaches into his pocket… And pulls out a 30-second hourglass.

Meanwhile, on the other side of the table, Irwin forlornly pushes his chicken around a pond of tangy sauce with his fork.

Am I… Am I really a background character?”

Genevieve eyes her two options for conversation… The nerd feeling sorry for himself or the two morons competitively eating chicken..

*mouthful of food* GYUR SO DUNG! I HAB YOU!

*his mouth working through chicken like a Ninja blender* I’M ALREADY AHEAD BY FOUR FULL CHICKENS.

…Genevieve turns to the nerd.

Irwin, it’s a simple matter of IMAGE.

Irwin glances up, curiously.

…How do you mean, Miss Tate?

Irwin, I’m an image consultant. First and foremost. Why do you think people hire image consultants?

Irwin’s face lights up.

Oh! Well, when I worked for Mister Flynn as Universal champion, he said branding was important to maximizing annual company revenue. The ignorant writhing masses need buzzwords to parse the sea of wrestling companies because they… and I quote… are too stupid to decide for themselves what they like. So, they need key words like ‘X-Treme’ or ‘TRIAD’ or ‘Madness’ or ‘World Ser-‘

Tate lifts up a finger.

I’m going to stop you there, Irwin, before we open a can of worms.

…

No. People NEED image consultants. Because what you look like IS what you are.

…Irwin squints.

Huh?

Image consultants help shape reality. By changing what goes on around you… By changing how people perceive you… You CHANGE, Irwin. Do you understand?

Irwin scratches his head.

…Well, I suppose I can see what you mean. If we’re all reflections of how we’re perceived, naturally, the reverse would follow. And, thus, altering the perception would then change the reflection!

Tate smiles, nodding patiently.

See, you’re a smart guy, Irwin. You’re clever and patient and a great listener.

Irwin beams happily.

Thank you, Miss Tate! Mister Flynn says similar things… Well, not those exact words per se, but he’s occasionally like…

Irwin’s voice drops an octave to do a Flynn impression.

IR-DAWG! WHAT DID I TELL YOU ABOUT ANTICIPATING MY WHIMS! I NEED A WATER AT 7 PH BALANCE EVERY HOUR ON THE HOUR! GET IT THROUGH YOUR SKULL.

…

Irwins smiles.

And, if you read through the lines, I think he’s saying he trusts me to learn his needs and adapt!

…Tate grits her teeth, sighing.

See, Irwin… The difficulty about your image is… It is constantly tied to Flynn.

Irwin chuckles, like ‘duh’.

I mean, I am his number one fan, Miss Tate!

…Right. But, the problem is… Without Mark… What is your identity? What is your image without Flynn? Because if you can’t answer that question… Then, you’re a foil.

…A foil?

A contrast. Something bland to make a more vibrant color stand out.

…

Literally, the definition of background, Irwin.

…

Irwin’s eyes widen.

Wow! I never thought about it that way, Miss Tate.

Miss Tate smiles, genuinely feeling like this is the first time she’s been listened to since being hired.

You’re right! I’m letting myself fall into the background! Well… No more!

Irwin stands up.

I have needs!

You do!

I have wants! And dreams!

Absolutely!

And deep-dark secrets about the mysterious death of my parents!

Ye-… Pardon?

And I’m going to stop being Mister Flynn’s shadow! I’m going to become my own person! I’m not just a wall designed for Mark Flynn to vocalize his problems!

Irwin’s phone buzzes in his pocket.

The screen shows a picture of a selfie of Irwin with Flynn, who is sneering angrily off-camera.

Immediately, Irwin scoops up the phone and hits talk.

Yes, Mister Flynn?

Got a sec, Irmano? Need a sounding board to talk out my problems.

Irwin immediately scoops the phone close to his ear.

Of course, sir! I’d like nothing more!

…Miss Tate exhales, pinching her brow, like… soooooo close to a breakthrough.

Welp, Ir-Man… BOURBON IS A FUCKING IDIOT.

Flynn fumes.

He’s a random mish-mash of MUDDLED motivations! He does STUPID SHIT, then, when it goes sideways, he does COMPLETELY UNRELATED SHIT.

…Irwin sighs.

I’m so sorry, sir. Sounds very frustrating.

IT IS.

I couldn’t imagine working with someone with manic streaks, whose logic and reasoning only makes sense to himself and whose whims change by the minute.

EXACTLY. IT’S THE WORST.

…

……

Irwin sticks up three fingers.

Two fingers.

On-

HEY, WAIT A MINUTE.

Flynn snarls.

Irwin, it’s NOT THE SAME THING AT ALL. I come up with harebrained schemes, with a shred of genius in a sea of madness! I see the solution, the path to victory, that no other competitor could possibly conceive of! HOBBLED by CONVENTION!

Right. So, your secret is… You do what other fools would see as stupid shit. But, there’s a method to your madness and anyone who can’t see that is missing something you find obvious.

PERFECTLY SAID.

Kinda like how you thought Bourbon was wasting his time leading up to your Uni Title match learning an app-based card game, when he actually flawlessly prepared to end your winning streak.

…

GODDAMMIT, IRWIN. STOP TWISTING MY OWN WORDS AGAINST ME. YOU KNOW I HATE BEING WRONG.

Irwin sighs.

Sir. Like it or not. Bobby Bourbon is the only man who can claim to have beaten you this year. Twice!

And I JUST BEAT HIM THE LAST TWO WARFARES IN A ROW!

Be that as it may… You know firsthand Bourbon’s got talent. You know from years of facing him, he’s one of the most irritating, challenging opponents you’ve ever faced.

…I mean, he’s no Tristan Slater.

…

…He’s no Chuckster.

Mister Flynn, you’re embarrassing yourself now.

MF: …URGH. FINE. Bourbon’s STELLAR. IS THAT WHAT YOU WANTED TO HEAR?

Yes! Because now that you’ve said it, you’ve identified that Bourbon can be an asset! You just have to tap into it!

BUT HE WON’T DO WHAT I TELL HIM TO, IR-MAN. My other partners do! NK did! Ned does! But Bourbon just does his own thing!

…Sir, a tag team doesn’t win by one man following another’s instructions. You know they win by working together.

…

If you want to win, you’ve got to fit together and work with Bobby Bourbon. Even if that means meeting him where he is, instead of him meeting you.

…

Goddammit, I hate him so much. So FUCKING much.

…

Thanks, Ir-dawg.

*click*

…

Tate smiles proudly.

“Irwin! You just asserted yourself! You masterfully made Flynn see your perspective and corrected him! You didn’t just mindlessly okay whatever he had to say! This could be the first step of your new, assertive iden-”

Irwin beams, ear-to-ear.

DID MISTER FLYNN JUST THANK ME?!? THIS IS THE GREATEST DAY OF MY LIFE!

…Tate sticks a fork into her barbecue chicken.

---

BACK INSIDE THE TRAILER

Bourbon has a headset on now, chopping through onions with his Grav-o-matic…

…Well, slicing isn’t the exact right word. More like, eviscerating into cosmic vapor, several quantum realms away!

“Camera guy, you getting this?”

WHAM! Flynn kicks the door back open!

Bobby pretends to gasp.

“Mark Flynn! A special guest to this infomercial! Are you here to tell these BourbCo customers about our satisfaction guarantee!?!”

A crowd gasp. Flynn exhales.

“No, I’m here t-“

…Flynn’s eyes widen. He looks into the trailer… Which has a full studio audience.

…

How did all these people get here?

Free ticket giveaways and a catering spread go a long way.

The audience does a pitch-perfect laugh track sound.

…Flynn squints like he hates this.

…

Then, he exhales, trying to stay calm.

Bob. I don’t get your methods. I never have.

Flynn sticks a finger in Bourbon’s face.

You do LITERALLY everything the opposite of what I do.

…

I am a COLD, METICULOUS PLANNER. I plot my maneuver MONTHS… YEARS IN ADVANCE.

,,,

And you just seem to shit out success effortlessly. NO PRACTICE! NO TRAINING!

Bourbon spins toward the camera.

NO! MONEY! DOWN!

The crowd cheers! They instinctively check under the chairs!…

OH MY GOD! THERE ARE FREE SWORDS UNDER THERE!

…

Flynn stews… Gritting his teeth.

Look. We don’t do things the same. That’s obvious.

…

But…

…Flynn’s face goes flush. His throat tightens like he’s choking on his words.

His neck rocks back-and-forth like his body is rejecting emitting the words he wants to say.

…ARRRRRRRRRGH. I TRUST YOU, BOB.

…

I trust you… to get the job done. IN THE RING.

To bring your A-game.

Know why?

Cuz you.

YOU.

ARE BOBBY FUCKING BOURBON.

Flynn shoves a finger into Bourbon’s face.

YOU’RE THE GODDAMN GREAT POO-BAH! KING BOURBON! THE MOTHERFUCKING TWO-TIME UNI CHAMP!

THE…

…Flynn grits his teeth.

…

But he nods, forcing himself through it.

THE GREATEST XWF TAG WRESTLER OF ALL-TIME.

THE ONLY MAN THAT’S BEATEN MARK FLYNN IN 2023!

The crowd gasps.

And together? WE’RE UNBEATABLE! WE’RE A GODDAMNED WAR MACHINE!

I’m the sharpshooter and you’re the cannonball! I pick the target off limb by limb, while you wreak UNGODLY HAVOC that sets the battlefield to SMITHEREENS!

Together, we will blow ALL COMPETITION OUT OF THE FUCKING WATER! IF WE CAN FOCUS, WE CAN BEAT EVERYBODY!

…

…And if this… sword shit is what you wanna do? What you wanna focus on?

…I trust that this is your method.

And I’ll be your partner.

Flynn reaches into his pocket.

And retrieves his own headset mic.

YOU WANNA SELL SWORDS? LET’S SELL SWORDS!

The crowd pops, applauding wildly.

Bourbon’s eyes look around, as if he never expected this outcome…

Flynn points at the camera.

That’s right, folks! You want a sword? For a limited time onl-

Bourbon exits stage right… Walks out the trailer with his sword.

…

Uh… Bob?

Flynn walks out of the trailer, leaving behind the crowd…

And watches Bourbon heave the sword over his head like a hammer thrower…

…

And toss it into a lake.

…

Flynn sighs.

“Bob. Why did you do that?”

…

“We could’ve USED THAT SWORD!”

FWOOOOOOOOOOOOSH! THE SCOTTISH WATERS SHOOT INTO THE SKY!

A MAGNIFICENT ANGEL! THE LADY OF THE LAKE HERSELF HOVERS LIKE A MAJESTIC, ETHEREAL BEING AS THE WATERS PART AROUND HER!

EXCUSE ME.

Her voice is gentle and placid. But also echoes in every corner of your mind.

Flynn is aghast.

Bourbon scratches his nose disinterestedly.

Yeah? Whaddya want?

IS THIS YOURS?

The Lady of the Lake lifts from beneath the lake’s surface… a golden sword, adorned in the emeralds of forgotten Scottish Warchiefs.

…

Flynn’s mouth salivates.

OH! WOW! THANKS!

Flynn puts his hands on his hips, in faux modesty

I can’t believe you would return our sword! That’s so nice of you, Miss Lake Lady!

Flynn wildly starts winking and blinking at Bourbon.

That’s not our sword.

…

Flynn smacks the sides of his head.

That sword doesn’t have the trademark BourbCo silicone grip! For 100% comfort while wielding!

…

I SEE.

The Lady of the Lake returns the sword to the bottom of the lake…

You can see Flynn die a little in side.

WELL, PERHAPS THIS IS YOURS, THEN…

The Lady of the Lake peels back.

…



OH MY GOD, THAT’S MACE WINDU’S LIGHTSABER!

…

I mean… MY GRANDMOTHER’S LIGHTSABER! I thought I’d never see it again!

Flynn falls to one knee!

That’s the sword my grandfather proposed with when he got back from… The War.

BB: The war?

THE CLONE WARS, BOB.

…

Bourbon shakes his head once more.

You kidding me? That blade is clearly bendy in the middle.

OF COURSE IT’S BENDY, IT’S MADE OF LIGHT!

Only a genuine BourbCo sword has the rigidity of genuine German engineering! Forged by actual dwarves!

Bourbon elbows Flynn in the chest.

You know those dwarves are always making good stuff!

STOP MAKING REFERENCES…

…

Flynn stomps his feet.

FINE! GAWD! THOSE AREN’T OUR SWORDS! I TRUST MY PARTNER’S… IDIOTIC… INSANE… CHOICES…

…Suddenly, the angel’s eyes turn white.

ROBERT THE BOURBON. KING B.o.B.! THE GRAND POOBAH! YOU HAVE PASSED MY TEST!

The Lady of the Lake retrieves from the lake the Grav-o-Matic… As well as a burning piece of paper!

YOUR HEART IS PURE! YOU ARE THE ONE TRUE KING OF SCOTLAND! ALL OF THESE LANDS ARE YOURS BY RIGHT!



BB scratches his nose as the crown ascends atop his forehead, like he’s still barely paying attention.

Neat.

Flynn’s eyes widen.

Uh… Miss of-the-Lake? Does that include… Film Lot 403A, about 150 feet behind us?

IF THE LANDS ARE SCOTTISH, BY RIGHT, THEY BELONG TO BOBERT THE BRUCE

Flynn nods fiendishly.

Oh, DeSantis, you are so de-DEAD.

…

Then, he scratches his head.

Uh… follow-up question? Do I get anything… I also sorta passed the test. And also learned a lesson about trusting my partner.

NO. YOU GET NOTHING.


FUCK.

As King of Scotland, I hereby pronounce you Chancellor!

…Wait, really?

CAN YOU EVEN DO THAT?


I just did, so yeah.

…Flynn beams.

Oh fuck yes, I’m legalizing SO MANY THINGS!

---

LATER, AT FILM LOT 40A

DeSantis and his elderly goons sup and make merry (eating Doordash’d plates from Luby’s)…

Two Rascal Scooters patrol outside the Film lot’s borders…

As creeping over the hillside…

We see Scottish King Bourbon… Chancellor Flynn… And about four-dozen BourbCo film crew employees…

The rascal scooter driving lookout, peers through his 20/400 prescription… Then gasps and drives to warn the Governor.


Mark glances over to Bourbon… then blushes, looking like the cat that ate the canary.

Bobby, you took your dress off!

Yeah, so? I didn’t lose, I just wore it because it was cool.

How was it cool?

Very breezy. Anyway, nobody cared anyhow. Plus, I have to think of my people, I’m Bobert the Bruce!

What does that make me?

Bobby shrugs.

GODDAMMIT.

Look, make your own destiny. I made a sword, threw it in a lake, some watery tart popped out and decided that’s how a system of government works.

SHUT UP, WILL YOU! SHUT! UP!

Either way, think of the royalties checks we’re going to get!


…

Mark’s brows raise, counting dollar signs in his head… He nods in agreement.

They may take our lives… They may take our shoot locations… but they’ll never take our RESIDUAL CHECK FOR SYNDICATION BROADCAST!


The film crew roars in agreement!

Bourbon side-eyes Flynn with a surprised smirk.

Huh. I had you pegged as the crazy Irish guy who was going to say he could get himself out of this but I’m fucked.

Flynn grins back.

The night is young!

DeSantis leads his elderly army out to the field of battle…

Just as Flynn and Bourbon charge, leading their own forces…

---

Mark runs head long into the swath of geriatric voters.

I’ll show you to resist change!

I don’t!

I’M YELLING AT THESE PEOPLE!

Got it.

Flynn rushes in with a vicious knee, knocking the dentures out of the face of an eighty-plus Republican who can’t use a computer!

Neither now!

Flynn spins, hitting a back kick to a non-combat Veteran who served a minimum term then grew a massive beer belly!

Hyah!

Why are you making those kung fu noises?

I’M IN A BATTLE LUST!

Oh, neato!

The man’s son, some four hundred pounds with more chins than whisps of facial hair, rushes Flynn, bowling him over. Mark spins, looking up at the massive man, who’s looming in on him.

DON’T YOU DO IT!

The rotund right-wing rampager bounds, looking to squash Mark into the ground!

NO!

The man, some four-hundred pounds, is dead-ass caught in the air by Bobby Bourbon, spun, and Bobbybombed into the ground. Bobby turns and looks at Mark, laying in the meadow. Mark blinks slowly, realizing that Bobby came in and gave him a save, and that the Bobbybomb was responsible for it.

...

I had that!

Right, Sure.

Bobby lowers his right hand, and Mark grabs it. Bobby hoists Mark to his feet.

You just don’t want me looking too good at beating up these dumb people!

Not alone, we gotta get used to beating up dumb people in stereo.

Mark posts off of Bobby’s shoulder, getting massive air and sending a dropkick into the face of a guy on a Rascal scooter! As he does, Bobby grips a crazed octogenarian by the throat and plants him with a huge chokeslam!

How are we doing this?

We’ve faced each other how many times?

Hold on…

…

Flynn starts counting fingers…

…

He runs out… Flynn starts taking off his shoes to count toes…

I WAS BEING RHETORICAL! Look, we already know what the other can do!

Did

…

Did this just become an Avengers parody?

Of course not, Captain Rogers, unless you want me to take you back to Stark Tower to discuss it over hot cocoa!
SCHWARMA WOULD HAVE ALSO COMPLETED THE REFERENCE!

Bobby and Mark fight off waves of the uninformed voter like it was the Ultron Avengers movie everybody panned because the whole team tried to recreate The Empire Strikes Back without the same stakes since post-credits scenes let you know the stakes weren’t that high to begin with. Bobby being the Thor/Hulk/Iron Man type, Mark being the Hawkeye, Black Widow, and Captain America type.

I AM NOT!

STOP ARGUING WITH THE NARRATION!

PAUSE!

…

Audience, I’m Mark Flynn, and I’m a GOOD GUY.

One of us has to be, I suppose.

I stand up for what’s right, but what happens isn’t my fault!

I take full responsibility for my actions, no man is accountable for what I do, so let’s stop bringing up “who carrying who” when it’s really us carrying you to your first good match ever then having the graces to take those belts off of you like you were just holding them for us.

Because you were holding them, as it seems, for us, as little as my partner or I knew!

I never wanted to partner with Mark. Ever. Why?

I have the finest men in wrestling beside me at all times. TK is a first-ballot Hall-of-Famer, D is XWF ride or die…

I AM XWF RIDE OR DIE.

…

I AM TIRED OF YOU SAYING YOU’RE THE ONLY ONE THEN GIVING CREDENCE TO PEOPLE LIKE DOC.

I GAVE HIM NO SHELTER.

…

NO REMORSE.

..
..

…

NO FEELING AT ALL.

Simply…

Judgment. I know.

Bobby looks unhappy with himself.

I used to judge without warning or circumstance.

Mark pats Bobby on the back. Bobby actually fucking burps.

Did you just burp me?!

Not on purpose.

Okay, you do those weird…

..

holds.

Shit that makes people tap out.

I make people shit their spines.

I know, it’s why I learned the holds.

It’s why I learned to make people shit their spines.

Bobby and Mark each cock an eyebrow in unison. Bobby cocks his right, Mark his left. They mirror each other for a moment.

Well thank you, I’m so glad my chiropractor charges me by the second and calls me the Rubik’s Cube.

….

Look at you, are you actually and genuinely proud of yourself?

..

…Don’t answer that, you might actually be proud of yourself.

Bob.

Bobb-o.

There’s two of me?

Well, you always butt in when I’m addressing the Blue Tango!

I’m the only one in earshot!

Don’t you feel like you’ve tried enough schtick to find your own at this point?

…

We’re not doing Mark Brothers schtick!

Bobby swiftly shakes his head ‘no’ while shrugging and smiling.

Oh-a, definitely no Marx Brothers-a bullstick, boss.

Just-a not for you!

The elderly voters all stand, mesmerized, at what they see unfolding. The ruse well underway, Bobby and Mark capitalize on the awed dopes, dimwits, and old folks.

---

TWELVE MINUTES LATER AT THE SCOTTISH AIRPORT

DeSantis is bleeding from the skull, sprinting down the runway with a suitcase. He dashes up to a Florida Air jet where the pilot is sitting outside the plane with his feet up.

DeSantis screams, looking over his shoulder terrified.

“GET ME OUT OF THIS GODFORSAKEN HELLHOLE!”

The pilot looks up, disinterestedly.

“…Hey. Didn’t you come here with like… a hundred-something old people?”

“THEY DECIDED TO STAY. THEY ALREADY HAVE PLOTS FOR THEIR FUNERALS HERE! JUST LET ME ON THE PLANE!”

The pilot sighs, folds up his paper… and leads DeSantis up the steps…

Meanwhile, riding onto the runway, on two wild stallions… Is Bobert the Bruce and Chancellor Flynn!

Flynn peers through a pair of 20/400 glasses like it’s a periscope (the glasses are covered in blood).

…

Flynn smirks. ”That coward DeSantis is already aboard his plane!”

Bobert the Bruce raises his sword.

We can’t let him escape.

…We totally can.

Flynn sneers.

We beat his army. We got our film set back… He’s beaten.

He’s not beaten until we’ve *personally* beaten him. We focus on the task at hand. A wise chancellor once told me… ‘if we focus, we can beat everybody!’

…Flynn beams with pride.

Who told you that?

…Bourbon scratches his head.

I think I read it in a BourbCo fortune cookie.

…Flynn smacks his face… Before peeling down his hand.

Fine. We’ll deSMACK DeSantis… But, we’ll never catch him! Not on these horses!

“Did somebody say ‘We’ll take the STAIRS’?”

FRRRRRRRRRRRRRSHHHHHH! President Joe Biden skids on a drivable set of stairs, Tokyo drifting like it’s goddamned Baby Driver, spinning the back wheel out, perfectly parking the stairs just in front of Bourbon and Flynn.

…

“No, no one said that.”

“Here.”

Biden tosses the keys, through the air.

Bourbon effortlessly catches them. Biden opens the driver’s side door at the top of the stairs…

Whoever said I can’t handle a set of st-

---

The stairs are at pace with the wing, but with wind resistance, motion is nigh impossible.

The nigh impossible never had a chance.

Toss me!

Bourbon looks at Flynn confused.

YOU HAVE TO TOSS ME!

…Bourbon snaps his fingers in recognition!

Oh! Lord of the Rings!

...

Okay.

BUT NOT A PARODY!

Ice pun?

NO!

Bobby lifts Mark up, and aims his toes along the span of one of the jet’s wings. Staircase One goes fast, thank the Bastardly Father that one of Bobby’s Bourbon Men didn’t get hurt, let alone die! Bobby launches Mark down the wing, toward the fuselage.

---

DeSantis raises a glass of ice to his skull wound. A voice comes over the intercom…

“Passengers… er, actually, Passenger, singular… Prepare for departure…”

The Florida Governor rubs his skull, where a knot is brewing on his head.

You may have laughed this time, Bourbon and Flynn… but, I promise, I WILL HAVE THE LAST LAUGH!

DeSantis chuckles… But, it clearly hurts his lungs!

…He raises the window to watch the plane take-o…

OH SHIT! Flynn’s on the wing and he…

BASEBALL SLIDES THROUGH THE WINDOW!

A RUSH OF AIR! THE PLANE STARTS TO DEPRESSURIZE! THE NOSE WILDLY SPINS!

MAYDAY! MAYDAY! We’re emergency landing!

IT’S NOT AN EMERGENCY LANDING IF YOU NEVER LEFT THE GROUND!

Flynn mounts and pummels DeSantis as Bourbon tries to crawl through the window to get some of this action himself! Bobby gets stuck attempting to lodge himself through an airplane window.

Mark, you beat that weird man up. I’m glad you’re in there.

…PUNCH PUNCH PUNCH.

I’m in a kilt.

..PUNCH PUNCH.

It’s very cold outside and I’m getting the draft of something moving almost four-hundred miles an hour.

PUNCH.

If I were to somehow ejaculate, it’s already cryogenically frozen.

..PUNCH PUNCH.

Somewhat on topic, could you get to the cockpit and take out the pilots too and land this thing?

---

Hi.

Bat, saw your first promo, and do you know the biggest clown ever to dress like Batman in a promo?

Mark.

Bob, I SWEAR TO GOD, stop giving them ammo!

They don’t have a damn thing.

This, in comic terms, is the tale of two Bruces.

The angriest men in the history of the XWF.

Terrible team name.

No.

…

Not what I meant.

Two Bruces?

Oh fuck no.

…

But you’re Banner.

I’M BRUCE BANNER!?!

Right.

...Well, I guess it’s true. People do not want to get me angry, heheheh.

That and You have zero chill.

Meanwhile,I’m Wayne.

[orange]MF: What? NOOOOOO! I’m Bruce Wayne!

I’m the agile one!

I’m the patient one.

…Goddammit. That tracks.

I’m also the one with cockamamie inventions.

FFFFUCK. Stop being right!

YOU GOT WAYNE’D!

Tango over there is trying as he might, thinking being a ninny is somehow comedic gold with a sense of humor that’s bankrupt.

How! Bankrupt! Is it?!?

…

Did you just pull a Johnny Carson?

Isn’t that what *you* were doing?

…

Although, technically, I think I’m doing an Ed McMahon… By responding with a joke, *You* would be pulling the Johnny Carson.

The Blue Tango’s sense of humor is so bankrupt I would have to Google famous bankruptcies.

HEY-YO! Haha, funny stuff, Johnny.

Really, though. It’s gotta be up there.

Lehman Brothers? Silicon Valley Bank? Honestly, to me, every bankruptcy is hilarious…

I was going to say Trump but nobody’s impressed when you sink a putt from less than an inch away.

…Is that a dick joke?

Stock market crashes get more laughs than the Blue Tango ever has.

Did you watch Back to the Future and think the funniest part was the principal and that’s why you chided us knowing your corporal punishment against us just wasn’t going to happen in this or any other lifetime?

Did you watch Ferris Bueller and think the most high-larious part was the Principal trying to enforce an ATTENDANCE POLICY?!?


Fun fact: The guy who played that Principal is now a registered sex offender.

…Bob, you need to reconsider your standards of what is a ‘FUN fact’.

Point is, Tango. You sound like a disappointed old man.

Like a dying curmudgeon whose glory days are behind him.

And with your lackluster wit..

And your weak grappling that couldn’t beat a third grader with a yellow belt.

I’m pretty sure the whole criminal element of Grand Rapids has nothing to worry about!

…Goddammit, Bob. They’re from Grand CITY.

That’s not a real city, and you know what, they don’t keep it real in Grand Rapids!

That makes no sense!

You’ve never been to Grand Rapids!

I’M FROM MICHIGAN, BOB.

…So, you have been to Grand Rapids?

…

I mean, I might have! I COULD’VE!

Bobby shakes his head for a moment, somehow becoming rational.

Mark, do you ever feel like we just contradict each other for the sake of it?

ARE YOU KIDDING ME!?!

…

OF COURSE NOT.

I disagree. Anyways, this fool is saying that I, along with the rest of my…

Fuck those guys.

Hey, friendly fire!

What

EVER

Bobby, fuck TK and D.

You’re not their type.

Ha-ha. So funny I forgot to laugh… EXCEPT FOR THAT FACETIOUS LAUGH.

Well stop with the gimmick infringement for Pete’s sake, I’m facetious ninety-eight percent of the time, and the other two percent of the time I’m thinking of new ways to be facetious! Criminy, first you kill Graves, which really should have been MY destiny.

GRAVES BLEW HIMSELF UP.

Suuuuuure.

Well, YOU WANTED TO FIGHT DOC FOR NO GOOD REASON.

I DID FIGHT DOC FOR NO GOOD REASON AND NEITHER OF OUR OPPONENTS HAVE THE BALLS TO DO THAT.

Bobby and Mark pause, each catching their breath.

Your laugh might have been facetious, but I’ll take that you at least forced one. Can I address Tango now?

Maybe.

…

Yes, fine.

Tango says I’ve barely been visible.

I’m six and a half feet tall, bench press around seven hundred pounds, and I’m usually in a Macy’s dress.

If you don’t see me, you’re as blind as a bat!

The real reason you never saw me, Tango, is because I was on Warfare, and how often are you there?

Mark, do the math on that!

…

Is that your battle cry right now?

Because you don’t do math?

Never do the math!

Bobaroo, get this through your THICK SKULL. I DON’T DO MATH ON COMMAND.

…

……Flynn’s eyebrow twitches.

Goddammit, one sec…

…Flynn’s finger weaves through the air.

…Carry the three…

…

…Damn.

Damn?

Gawd DAMN.

…

Hey, Orange Tang? La Bamba? For the record?

Bobby’s appeared on Warfare FIFTEEN TIMES this year.

You?

…

Thrice.

THREE.

WHOLE.

MATCHES.

So, how about you fucking RUB YOUR TWO BRAIN CELLS TOGETHER NEXT TIME YOU THINK ABOUT OPENING YOUR STUPID FUCKING GOB ABOUT VISIBILITY, JITTERBUG!

The idiot was probably looking for my action figure on store shelves, which is sold out, and the only ones left in abundance are Roger, a very generic looking gorilla that could battle in the ring or against some Decepticons, the crummy Dawk variant figure, and the Bing Bong Twins double pack.

The Bing Bong Twinz double pack comes with a free HPV Test Kit!

Speaking of tests, they didn’t even make Blue Tango toys, because when they tested them with children, 100% of children just wanted a Batman action figure.

WOAH!

…

BOB!

You did math!

No!

YES YOU DID!

YOU USED STATISTICS!

I’M RUBBING OFF ON YOU!

I BROKE THE FOURTH WALL BY BRINGING UP IP FROM OUTSIDE OF WRESTLING!

Ooooh, That sounds like extraplanar Geometry. A FORM OF MATH!!!

...

Dammit.

Wait, if I can accidentally do math, does that make me cooler than the other side of the pillow?

Depends. See, if…

…

Did you think you were making an ice pun just now?

...

..

It wasn’t?

No. But baby steps, Bob.

Then, there’s the Atomic Bat.

Oh, Bat. What a fucking non-factor.

What a fucking clinger-on to the PARASITIC TAPEWORM that is her partner.

This is the saddest fact, but is completely true.

Atomic Bat is actually the WEAK LINK of a team…

Featuring BLUE TANGO.

And do you know Reason #1 why AB is her team’s weak link, Bob?

Flynn pulls out a note card from his pocket.

Is it toxoplasmosis, resulting from excess protein?

…

See, cuz, most vampire bats actually eat fruit rather than drink blood. Blood is excessively high in protein and can result in chronic toxoplasmosis.

…

…Flynn drops the notecard on the ground.

Okay. BUT, do you know Reason number TWO why A.B. is her team’s weak link?

It’s because she’s a FOLLOWER.

A mindless drone.

A SIDEKICK. A NON-CONTRIBUTOR!

Listen, Batbrains. Bobby and I don’t always see eye-to-eye. That’s no secret.

We’re not peanut butter and jelly. We’re peanut butter and sriracha.

Oh my god, that actually sounds delicious. Ooooh! On naan bread!

…You’re truly sick, Bob.

BUT! See, our differences? That’s what makes us dangerous as a tandem.

You fuckin’ morons think because you agree and are perfectly aligned, you think you’re going to cruise to victory?

No.

Bob and I?

We challenge each other.

We push back on each other’s weaknesses.

We demand the best from each other.

Iron sharpens iron.

…Is that from Highlander?

The Bible.

Ooooh, someone’s getting preachy. What is this, Veggietales?

THE POINT IS, Metal against metal sharpens both blades.

And Bourbon and I both bring our A-game to every match. Every moment in the ring, we’re out here pushing each other to work harder. To do better.

If Bobby’s not bringing the fire, I’m the first one in his ear. And Bobby gives it right back to me.

Meanwhile, Bat? You’d never have the fucking STONES to tell Tango anything but what he wants to hear.

Your hero worship sets Tango into a position of quiet complacency.

Of ATROPHY.

OF DEATH BY A THOUSAND PLUSH CUSHIONS. SELF-CONGRATULATING SELF-FELLATING SMUGNESS. AS HIS WEAK, BRITTLE MUSCLES FADE AWAY FROM LACK OF USE!

By mindlessly okay’ing Tango’s mediocrity?

You’ve doomed him to fail.

To come up short.

To LOSE AGAINST THE TWO STRONGEST OPPONENTS YOUR MEAGER TEAM HAS EVER HAD TO CONTEND WITH.

…

This was a challenge that required your intervention.

You exiting your comfort zone.

For you to demand something more of your partner.

For him to bring his A-game.

…

And you.

YOU, Bat.

Utterly failed.

Trust me.

I coached Tango once over a team STAAAAACKED with XWF’s top stars.

Could he win?

With someone pushing him to actually bring the heat.

…

Instead?

Ol’ Tango said the same ol’ bullshit.

And you repeated it back like a Parrot.

Like a goddamn instant replay.

The same voice twice.

A cacophony of sameness.

A lack of intellectual diversity.

Smashing two brains together.

And ending up with one-half between ya.

And so ends the reign of the Just-Us League.

Real appropriate name considering the tag division for your entire reign was…

Just.

You two.

You never once had an actual challenge to contend with.

You’ve fallen for your own Hollywood-ization of your story.

Pretending that you’re a dynamic duo destined to dominate.

…

When you’re really two nerds wearing your underpants outside of your wrestling tights.

You two had 200+ days of getting to play pretend.

Now… The dream is over.

Time to wake up, super-zeroes.

AND Thank you for tuning in to a BastardNET presentation of “What About Bob?”

CREDITS GOD DAMNIT! NO! Starring: THIS WASN’T A MOVIE PARODY I DO NOT CONSENT TO THIS! Bobby Bourbon as Bob How did I let this happen? Mark Flynn as Richard Dreyfuss How are you talking through the credits in post-production? Joe Biden as the President ... This is my life now. Billy Connolly as Olly Malcolm Oh, he’s actually a good actor. Very underrated in the states. I loved him in Muppet Treasure Island Jennifer Tilly as the Lady of the Lake Really? I barely recognized her, what a tour de force performance! Irwin as Background Extra Haha, CALLBACK! Ron DeSantis as The Convenient Foil HE WAS INCONVENIENT THE ENTIRE TIME! That’s the point of a convenient foil. Tune in next week for… I’M NOT DOING THIS AGAIN! Well we’re going to be tag team champions. We just rebooted a superhero franchise. … So I figured a post-credits scene would be good. Oh.

---

We cut to an unassuming diner somewhere along the side of the road. A black Toyota RAV4 pulls into a parking spot and stops. The driver’s side door opens, and Ron DeSantis exits. He walks into the diner, a bell dinging as he enters. The waitress tells him to find a seat, so he finds a booth in a corner of the otherwise empty diner. The camera focuses on DeSantis’s face as we hear the chime of the door again.

They won’t stop us again…

The camera spins to show a pair of flats and the hem of a skirt at the floor level of the diner, then fade to black.