Bobby is seated at his desk in his very loud spangled suit jacket. He drums his fingers on his desk, looking across from him. Seated on the couch is Genevieve Tote, Bobby’s image consultant

…

What is he doing here?

Beside Miss Tote is Irwin, Mark Flynn's personal attache.

Mr. Bourbon, Irwin is my secretary.

Yes, Mr. Bourbon, I attend Genevieve's more menial tasks.

What, like her laundry?

Not at all, Mr. Bourbon, Irwin does Mr. Flynn's laundry and I don't wish him to mix our undergarments.

I have a system if you change your mind.

So what does he do?

Last week I dressed up like a cheerleader and raised money washing cars.

Miss Tote takes note on her tablet in a stunning new suede case.

Wow.

You really are the most docile man alive.

Um

…

I feel you're saying that as an insult.

I am.

I am judging you severely right now.

I'm being scrutinized?

Bobby nods his head slowly, looking directly at Irwin. Genevieve clears her throat.

Ahem, Mr. Bourbon. We were going to discuss your next opponent.

Dick Drizzle? He's literally a piss joke. He's also the 5th or 6th best dick joke in XWF history. There's Dick Powers, Dewey Gobblecoque, Peter Gilmour, Peter Gilmour’s dick, B.O.B. D, at this rate in 100 years my name will be slang for a penis.

And he’s ancient. This guy is like 80, and he's brand new to the business. I have to try to just avoid killing him. Pretty sure just me walking into the ring might tear half the muscles in his body.

Dick Drizzle is so old he pisses dust. He calls it taking a Tang.

Dick Drizzle is so old his first email address was a carrier pigeon.

Dick Drizzle is so old his social security number is only 2 digits.

Dick Drizzle is so old he remembers when wizards were real.

Dick Drizzle is so old he survived the Black Death.

Dick Drizzle is so old he forgot how he built the pyramids.

Dick Drizzle is so old he drives 45 on the interstate.

Dick Drizzle is so old he was born in black and white.

Dick Drizzle is so old he understands Sumerian.

Dick Drizzle is so old, and lets face it, in a few weeks he's going to become a Frankenstein horror icon like Leatherface or some shit.

Well, Mr. Bourbon, in order for him to do that he has to do a thing. What thing are you doing right now?

What thing?

Yes Mr. Bourbon, you and Mr. Flynn did lots of things leading up to your match at Fire and Ice.

Ah. Well, I'm silently judging Irwin and verbally judging a penis.

That’s not a thing!

I feel attacked.

So I gotta go do stuff?

Mr. Bourbon, whenever you do things, your stock rises, but when you don't do things, your stock stagnates.

Damn.

…

I better do something then.

Irwin, sensing his big chance to contribute to the conversation, speaks up.

Ooh, you could dress like a cheerleader and wash cars!

Absolutely not.

Take a lap.

Mr. Bourbon, he is my employee.

Irwin, go take a lap.

Irwin looks down and stands, exiting the office to go run around the building.

Dick Drizzle is so old he not only saw the end of slavery, but the beginning too.

That’s old, Mr. Bourbon. Very old.

Welp, Miss Tote, let's go to a local swingers party.

Genevieve looks awestruck by such a supposition.

You

..

want me to go where? Do what?

Well, I’m the best slut in XWF history.

Tag team champions three times.

Three different partners.

Thing is, Miss Tote, everybody loves a slut.

Bobby winks at the camera, no truer word ever being stated by himself. Ever.

What about Bouncy Brickhouse? I feel she’s far more suited to such a task.

Oh, she’s busy.

…

I think she’s having a fling.

Mr. Bourbon, I’m sorry.

Don’t be.

Bobby smiles.

The world is my oyster, and I'll see her again. We're not exclusive.

Besides, I’m a slut!

Hell, I put on my prettiest dress for the XWF, then took it right off.

Dick Drizzle is so old he remembers when music was music, just people hitting rocks and howling. So easy a caveman could do it.

Dick Drizzle is so old he’s 90’s bell bottoms, then 70’s bell bottoms.

Dick Drizzle is so old people talk about him in front of him. “What do we do with this old guy?” “I dunno, but the old guy has to go somewhere!”

Dick Drizzle is so old he invested in the first condom. He didn’t get to use it.

Bobby stops. A hover surfboard glides up to him.

Mr. Bourbon, what is that?

A hover surfboard. It’s like Back to the Future 2 and Marvel.

...

So.

You’re going to a swingers party on a flying surfboard?

I felt that sounded like a thing.

It sure is, Mr. Bourbon! Bon voyage!

Gracias.

Miss Tote, sufficiently having gotten out of going to a sex party, takes note. Bobby soars into the winter early sunset. It’s freezing out, but he’s bundled up in a wool knit cap and jacket with gloves and goggles, as one does when surfing in arctic temperatures.

One screen wipe away, and Bobby arrives at the swingers party, noted by the roadside motel sign that said “SWINGERS PARTY”. The dance hall is bumping as Bobby glides down and parks his flying surfboard. He dismounts and walks to the door. A man stops him.

What’s the password?

Danny Sex.

The man nods, and knocks on the door. Bobby saunters in. First we see the array of skeeball machines. Beside that, a pizza and seafood buffet. There was seafood pizza too. A lot of sex, it’s an orgy. The pizza looked pretty good. Someone who’s down to fuck is a killer chef from the looks of things. While food and comic book levels of sex happen, Bobby walks in, wearing a leopard print suit, his half of the XWF Tag Team Championships, and a tiara that says “SLUT”.

An elderly woman with a single velvet glove on her right hand approaches Bobby.

Hiya, sweetie.

How long have you had that glove?

Since 1979.

Gross.

..

No.

...send someone my age at least.

Bobby glances around the room, seeing most of the people were absolutely twenty years his senior. The dance floor is as lively as a George Romero movie, the shambled shuffles of the walking dead in full purview. Bobby helps himself to some crab legs, some steamed shrimp, two slices of pizza, and a silly amount of hush puppies. He approaches the skee ball ramps and begins to play. As he rolls the first ball, a strong jawed woman in red approaches. Sarah Huckabee Sanders.

Hiya, handsome!

Bobby turns and smiles at Sanders. He squints, looking for an Adam’s apple.

Well hello. I’m…

You’re Bobby, I know. We had a dossier on you when I worked in the White House.

..

And let me just say, it stayed in my spank bank.

Gross.

I have two words for you, Bobby Bourbon.

…

..

Uninspired Cowgirl.

Oh boy. Well, I’m playing skeeball, thanks though!

Sarah walks off. In short order, eyes turn throughout the party. Lauren Boebert, the sultry right wing seductress, walks in, owning the room. She immediately walks up to Bobby, who's pleasantly distracted playing skeeball.

Can I give you a hand?

That’s low hanging fruit!

I hope so.

The entire room goes “oooooOOOOOOOOHHHHHhhh!”.

Look, lady, I’ll do a lot but I’m not desperate.

…

..

But find me after the promo finishes though, you’ve been on camera enough.

At this point, the whole world trembles as something unnatural and horrid occurs. Black lightning contrasts the blue sky, and pits open in the earth. Demons pour out into the world, and Bobby holds a skeeball in his right hand. In the distance, Bobby sees a cloaked figure, holding the most vile and horrific book in history.

The REAGANOMICON.

You know, these swingers parties inside the Beltway never stop surprising me.

Demons attack Lauren Boebert, and drag her away to make even MORE sex tapes in public places. Look for it on Brazzers.

Dang. Welp, where’s the back-up plan? It’s cuffing season, time to bag ‘em and tag ‘em!

Shortly after, Bobby glances around looking for Sarah Huckabee Sanders. She’s attacked by demons and dragged away to star in the new Terminator trilogy.

Great. Now the place is a complete sausage fest.

The cloaked figure cackles as specters and other ghouls rampage the orgy, attacking all on sight! Mitch McConnell freezes, possibly in shock. Matt Gaetz is super let down that he’s not getting any action tonight. An entire republican caucus of cock is menaced by gross goblins and creatures, not dissimilar to the beings from Ernest Scared Stupid. Clarence Thomas looks like if he knew it was going to be this kind of party, he’d stick his dick in the mashed potatoes. Don’t act surprised; the biggest sex expo is in Vegas, the second biggest is by Dulles International Airport, and you’re seeing why firsthand. Congress is down to fuck; sexual congress.

Yes, yes my minions! Do my bidding! Virginia is for lovers, but I’m not one of them! Mwahahahaha!

Bobby’s brow furrows as he hears the hooded figure. A demonoid rushes at Bobby, which is promptly booted in the face, it’s neck snapping back as it keels to the ground of this otherwise rather posh suburban manor home.  Another demonoid dives at Bobby, grabbing a leg. Bobby reaches down, grabs the thing by the back of its neck, and picks it up, hurling it aside like it was a wiffle ball. Bobby continues his plod toward the hooded figure.

Stop!

…

Do what you want to the elected officials, there are perfectly innocent sex workers here, and then some!

Sarah Huckabee Sanders just screams power bottom, imagine her chiding you while she’s bent over! She had to deny, deny, deny as a press secretary but she came here to say yes, yes, yes!

Why are you using the REAGANOMICON against modern Republicans!

The figure drops their hood, laughing as they do. Bobby recoils in horror as he looks at the face of his tag team partner, Mark Flynn.

Oh, Bobby, it’s so good to see you!

Bobby sharply cocks his eyebrow. In an instant, Bobby decks the newly revealed Flynn!

Bullshit!

Ow! I’m your partner!

My partner would never think it’s good to see me! He’d think it’s a problem that’s bigger than our opponents!

You charlatan!

The imposter Flynn laughs as he brings himself to his feet. He reaches up, and removes his disguise with his back to us. Bobby’s gaze narrows as his teeth grit.

I knew it!

Bobby leers at the unmasked man...

George Santos.