We see Bobby Bourbon, wearing a dazzling tomato colored sequined lab coat and a pair of pointless blast goggles on his forehead. He’s smiling and waving.

Hey, I’m Bobby Bourbon, and welcome to my new show here on BastardNET, Don’t Stop Experimenting In College. We take guests, and together we perform science experiments for the education of all!

An average looking 20 something male walks out.

Sup.

Welcome, Adam, I understand you’re interested in science, is that right?

Well, you know man, I dunno, I like, kinda, you know? Sometimes I really do think about science a lot, and sometimes I don’t.

What do you do for a living, Adam?

I’m looking around, you know?

I do! Today you’re going to do science with me for money.

Sweet.

But more importantly, I’m giving you money…

FOR SCIENCE!

Adam looks startled as Bobby shouts.

You don’t have to yell.

It’s for dramatic effect on TV.

This show sounds like it’s for kids.

It is for kids, but my legal department couldn’t get me a waiver that anyone in their right mind would allow for children.

What?

That thing you signed.

Was that science?

No, law is NOT science.

Science is fact.

Law requires science but limits it, the insufferable cretins!

The what?

Nothing Adam.

Now, Adam, are you a chef?

Oh, I love to cook, I can do Pop Tarts, and cereal, all sorts!

Bobby smiles placidly, nodding as though the ignorance spoken by Adam was purely music to his ears.

You’re perfect for science, Adam.

Okay.

Well, today, you’re going to make hot dogs.

Oh, cool, I’ve never cooked hot dogs before.

What?

Yeah, I don’t know how to cook a hot dog.

Wow, you are living proof of the country’s failing public school system.

What do you mean?

I can’t explain it to you, those who can’t teach, those who can do science, that’s how that goes.

Adam and Bobby are seen in a very typical laboratory as seen on TV, like a crime drama or a pharmaceutical company ad. Bobby leads Adam to a lab station where there’s something draped with a curtain.

What’s that?

It’s the science, we have to unveil it. A bigger part of the budget of science, it seems, is a budget for a good curtain you can reuse to show something.

Miss Stephanie Wilson, Bobby’s image consultant, walks out.

Mr. Bourbon, that’s specifically if you’re a scientist that is licensed to perform at a school assembly!

Bobby nods.

I am.

Mr. Bourbon, I thought you should bring that up, you know, since that is why, when you do science, you use curtains like it’s Let’s Make a Deal.

That’s right, Miss Wilson.

Uh, what do you need me to do?

Adam, don’t interrupt.

I wasn’t.

Bobby cocks his head ever so slightly, smirking at Adam.

Of course, Adam, our biggest sponsor here on Don’t Stop Experimenting In College is BourbCo, maker of several wonderful products that I, heh, just don’t have time to discuss right now.

Mr. Bourbon, I’m proud to say all class action lawsuits against you have been dropped!

That’s because I’m the real deal, Miss Wilson, and Adam is going to learn science.

Adam, where did you go to college?

Uh, I mean, I looked at some online classes.

Adam, you sound like you’re not really a scientist.

Not really.

That’s okay, because you’re gonna learn today!

Bobby pulls back the curtain, revealing a nondescript black device with a slot fit for a twelve inch tube.

Dude, do you want me to use that Fleshlight?

Jesus, no, Adam!

This is the brand new BourbCo FrankFryer!

Oh Jesus, Mr. Bourbon, I thought we agreed that wasn’t…

The BourbCo FrankFryer, the future of hot dog cooking, easy, compact, portable, great for travel, it’s safe enough to use on a plane!

Bobby reaches below the counter and grabs a large graduated cylinder, promptly twisting it upside down, allowing a single hot dog to slide out of it into his left palm. Bobby then hurls the graduated cylinder off in a direction, where it shatters. Adam looks startled and baffled having never been around Bobby when he had to do stuff for a promo before a match, where, ultimately, his pointless violence serves its purpose. Miss Wilson pulls up her tablet.

Mr. Bourbon, those glass measuring tools are custom made in Zurich for you. Do you want me to start ordering bulk models that don’t cost close to twenty thousand dollars each?

Those are fine tuned and precision molded using the finest crystal inlays to show the BourbCo logo, Miss Wilson, they stay or I go.

Miss Wilson takes note, not understanding how what Bobby just said made sense seeing as it’s his show anyway.

Anyways, Adam, all you need to do to get a nice, plump, juicy hot dog, is slide an uncooked weiner up to the FrankFryer, and the natural convection action pulls the dog in.

The hot dog slowly slides into the FrankFryer, inch by ever seeming longer inch, until it’s completely sucked into the device. At this point, the device begins to whir and hum, vibrating, and shifting the hot dog in and out of itself. Bobby watches it, and slowly blinks.

Miss Wilson, you were right.

Miss Wilson nods, and takes note.

Yep.

Bobby grabs the FrankFryer and lifts it, holding it well away from himself as a hot dog is jostled, teased, warmed, and prepared to be a hot juicy treat much to his disgust for a change. Bobby opens a hatch in the lab and chucks the device inside. Bobby presses a button, slowly inhaling and exhaling while gazing at the label reading “disposal” above it. A low dull boom is heard from beyond the wall, which alarms Adam.

What was that?

The power reactor I put into a hot dog maker that sucks dick.

Oh, is it like a USB or Lightning charger?

Either, cross compatible, which was neat about it I guess.

Anywho…

Bobby leads Adam to another lab table, this one with a pack of hot dogs, already open and missing a frank, and a large cauldron that is emitting a thick whitish vapor.

Adam, this is Liquid Nitrogen!

Damn, what’s that, to make your car go faster?

Not quite, Adam, but if you put a hot dog in some safety tongs, you dip it into this here highly dangerous substance, and then pull it out and whack it with a hammer and it’s science!

Bobby pulls the now well frozen hot dog from the small vat of liquid nitrogen and lays it on the lab table. He then reaches underneath and procures an authentic XWF Tungsten Cadmium Walnut Cracker and Ring Bell Hammer.

Woah, can I try?

Sure thing, buddy, I actually dare you to!

What?

I bet you can’t stick your hand in that liquid nitrogen for five minutes.

How much?

How much will it take?

Miss Wilson cocks an eyebrow.

Mr. Bourbon, I’m not sure this is…

It’s science, Miss Wilson.

Bobby's gaze narrows at Adam while pointing to his head.

Isn’t it, Adam?

You signed the waiver, this wager is purely scientific, I hypothesize you can not hold your hand in that vat for five minutes, and to follow up on my theory I will post a hundred large.

Done.

Wait…

Adam swiftly sticks his hand in the liquid nitrogen. His eyes bulge, at first, looking mortified by the sensation, then suddenly stricken.

I, oh damn, it burns!

Yeah, I had a theory about that.

Adam breathes heavily, almost hyperventilating, forcing himself to place his hand in the liquid nitrogen for a chance at one-hundred thousand dollars. He grips his right shoulder with his left hand.

Adam, are you a southpaw?

WHAT!

Adam’s yelp in response is incidental to what he’s doing to himself.

Are you left handed?

NO!

Oof.

Bobby looks at the camera.

You see, when you stick anything into liquid nitrogen, whatever you put in there is so warm it instantly boils the nitrogen, which first burns as all the gas bubbles form around it, then once settled it freezes it!

Bobby looks on inquisitively at his guinea pig, Adam. Adam lets loose a blood curdling scream as he finally pulls his hand out of the liquid nitrogen. He looks at it in horror and runs to a sink.

No, don’t do that!

Adam runs his hand under the faucet, which immediately causes the frozen hand to crack like an ice cube being doused with hot coffee. Adam looks on in horror as the hand falls off, leaving a frozen oozing stump behind!

Oh my god!

Bobby rushes over to Adam.

Adam!

It looks like you were able to last for only three minutes!

That’s okay, though, because we got more science to do!

Go into our other medical lab for the bonus round!

Oh, you’re going to fix this!

Boy howdy, you betcha!

Bobby smiles wildly as he looks at Adam as Robo-Bob, the Robot from Rocky IV with a picture of Bobby’s face taped to it, rolls in.

Ah, Robo-Bob, the most scientific friend I have.

Please take Adam to the operating room immediately.

Happy Birthday, Paulie.

Robo-Bob leads Adam away. Miss Wilson approaches Bobby.

Mr. Bourbon, that young man just lost his hand.

Yes, Miss Wilson, I saw.

It was gruesome and horrifying too.

Did you take notes?

Yes, Mr. Bourbon, is Adam aware he’s the subject of your testing today?

Absolutely, he should, he signed the waiver to be on the show knowing that it was an educational program with the possibility to win fabulous cash prizes.

Where did you get this ‘waiver’?

My lawyer.

–

We cut to Mark Flynn, standing in line at a grocery store. His phone rings, and he pulls it out of his pocket. He rolls his eyes with seething rage, cancels the call, and returns his phone. Seconds later, we hear another ringtone emanate from Flynn. His eyes go wide as he slides the basket into his other hand. With his now free opposite hand, he pulls another phone out entirely and looks at it, and swipes to answer. The camera shows it’s Bobby Bourbon by the view we get, which pivots to show a false mustache freshly being applied and Christopher K. Clinton, Bobby’s attorney and somehow both is and is not Mark Flynn.

Hey, how are you?

“Oh, I’m in line at the grocery store…”

C.K. Clinton is focused entirely on the call, ignoring the person in front of him is gone and the people behind him still in line.

Oh, well…

“No, Mr. Bourbon, as your attorney, I’m working for you. Did you get that document I sent you?”

Yep. It’s, um,

...long. Are you sure?

Someone else in the grocery store shouts at Chris.

Hey, buddy, you’re up!

“THIS IS A BUSINESS CALL!”

“Sorry, Mr. Bourbon. I assure you, the document has all the bells and whistles.”

Sweet. Alright, bye.

We hear a click as Bobby hangs up. Clinton slides his phone calmly into his pocket, the cashier looking up incredulously at him.

Sir, you’ve been holding up the line!

“UNACCEPTABLE!”

“I WILL SUE THIS COMPANY SO HARD IT WILL EVENTUALLY PAY ME IN FOOD STAMPS!”

“I…”

“…DEMAND…”

“…TO SPEEEEEAAAAAK TOOOOOO YOOOOOOUR MAAAAAAAANAAAAAAGEEEEEEEER!”

The line en masse behind Clinton groans. Three people behind him, we see Thunder Knuckles. They just happened to be at the grocery store at the same time. The one they happened to be in proximity of.

Oh, fuck it.

TK puts the can of Pringles into his front pocket and tucks the case of Bud Light under his arm. He promptly marches out of the store with his stuff not having time for any of this.

–




We see Bobby on in another set lab.

So, yeah, last time I was in an XWF ring, I lost to someone in eight seconds.

Eight fucking seconds.

I set a new record.

The old one was mine, to Sid Grey in twelve seconds.

But hey, it just goes to show, if it happens to me…

Bobby smiles while glaring into the camera.

Then it happens to the best of us.

Bobby winks like a real asshole. If you’ve ever made an asshole wink you’d know.

Hiya, Dion.

Did I pronounce that right?

I don’t really give a fuck.

At the end of the day, you represent yourself as a plethora of selves under the guise of Greek mythology.

Juxtapose, I’m XWF mythology. I’m wrestling mythology. The sound of my name, my mere presence, just means the end of something else.

At Warfare I signal the end of your night, easily.

You’re good, don’t get me wrong, real good.

Kinda surprised you’re not taking on these newcomers with some eagerness, I mean, I’m going to destroy Cyph3r and give some hope to the people since he’s a piece of garbage, and I can accept losing to him, I can’t accept how he treated Sloane for actually beating Doc.

The guy will learn respect.

I hope he learns it before I find him again for his sake.

I gotta respect Cyph3r for putting me down in the ring.

But he didn’t put me out of it.

And if he wants to harsh the Television Champion well then I guess I’m in his division.

Unlike Dion.

Dion thinks he is ready to accept his place as a God in this industry.

I haven’t seen shit that shows as such.

For starters, your lawyer sucks.

Now, last time I saw you, I was edging you out for a contract at Leap of Faith.

Well, you and four other people.

Since then, well, you’ve proudly represented the Xtreme Championship, until you quit on it and decided ‘I don’t want to be a champion anymore’.

That belt is defended 24/7.

I have made more earnest attempts to claim that championship than you since you dropped it.

What’s the matter, Dion, can’t you swing it?

Then you move on and decide to bully my friend, Barney.

Dion, this beating coming your way is a long time coming your way, suck back that heartbeat in your throat, because I think you know I’m a guy who doesn’t give a fuck if you were ‘Newcomer of the Year’.

Hell, I barely care about the plaque I got, sweet as it is, I’m here to do two things.

Science…

And beat the shit out of you in a ring in front of people for money.

As for the science, well, I’m going to unveil a prototype new move, seeing as how now TWO entire people have kicked out of the Bobbybomb, I need a new device that will seal the deal for a pinfall guaranteed, and I’ve developed it.

I’m going to hit you with the Oppenheimer Elbow.

What’s an Oppenheimer Elbow?

First, Dion, I’m going to Bobbybomb you, oh yes.

You bullied Barney, I Bobbybombed him into the windshield of a car when he was like five hundred pounds.

Then, I’m going to do a fun little dance around you on the mat.

Bobby does a little jig with jazz hands.

Then I’m going to drop an elbow on you.

See, that elbow is going to remind you that, “hey, I don’t kick out of Bobbybombs like a little shit.”

Bobby does air quotes as he says that.

Now, I get you think awfully highly of yourself.

And sure, I’ll call you delusional.

That’s plain and evident, I’m just stating the obvious here.

For starters, what kind of a moron opens a vineyard in fucking Minnesota?

You could live anywhere, but instead, you want to grow grapes like four months of the year?

Piss poor planning prevents proper production.

Then, well, we talked about how you’ve gone limp on the Xtreme championship, which is about as far from awesome as you could get, but then there’s another thing you’ve been calling yourself that is proof you’re deluded.

You’re the catalyst?

If you believe that I have some real estate I could sell you.

Matter of fact, I have the perfect plot, it’s a hole in the ground, and you could look at it and spend hours contemplating whether it’s your ass or not.

You seriously believe, out of the fucking blue, that you’re the reason there’s been an influx of new blood in the XWF that you’re magically avoiding for the second Warfare in a row because not a single one of them gave two fucks about fighting you?

Well, Dion, that’s just not true.

I mean, they wanted to face off at Free For All.

Not against you, you weren’t in the battle royale.

Are you talking about how you went off to other companies to lose?

Ooh, are you a catalyst the way you just avoided going into the March Madness tournament entirely?

Dion, I see with your accomplishments you have earned yourself great laurels.

Now you rot resting on them.

I’m not saying you’re a bit player, Dion, I’m not saying you can’t achieve greatness, true greatness in the ring, but right now you’re your own worst enemy with the smoke you blow up your own ass.

You can call me your Sophomore Slump.

Because you’re now on the radar, Dion!

I know your name.

I haven’t screwed it up once.

You’re the dude who would be God if anyone but him would believe it.

And that’s yet another delusion of yours, Dion.

A God complex?

I already mentioned Leap of Faith, Dion, and you damn well better remember what happened that night, because I learned a lot that night, about myself, and my place.

That was a night where a god looked up to the heavens and saw me.

And you’d best fucking remember, that as much as people will debate whether you’re a god, a catalyst, a lunatic, a vintner, or even even just plain good at what you do, they all agree.

Bobby Bourbon is a fucking monster.

A fucking problem.

And come the time that bell rings in Raleigh, Dion, you can explain to me your identity crisis as much as you like, your divinity or import not at all the subject at hand.

Once I get done with you, you’re meat.

Straight Carolina style barbecue
Serve you up classic style like it’s nothing new
Sizzling hot and spicy cooked well and through
Wine soaked pork shoulder on the menu
And what the fuck you think you’re gonna do?
I work like a butcher in the ring and you know it’s true
Your destiny is to end up like that dude in the game Clue
Mr. Body, wrecked by Bobby, in the ring, with a rusty corkscrew
Look out everyone, it’s Mr. Praise-Unto-Me
It ain’t a miracle, just basic Dion that I see!
I’ll chance the forbidden wisdom and eat from the apple tree
Then beat your ass across the south from Carolina to Tennessee.
Catalyst? How about I expose you as a fraud
Put an end to your little personal charade
Leave you breathing heavy and sitting slack-jawed
By that time Bobby went to Warfare and pinned god.

–

In an operating room, somewhere below Bobby’s dojo in his labyrinth of laboratories, we see Bobby and Stephanie standing beside Adam, who is under anesthesia. His right arm is heavily bandaged.

Well, Miss Wilson, this is where the real fun part of science begins!

You mean it wasn’t before?

Well, okay, I always wanted to smash a frozen hot dog to pieces.

This is up there though.

What are you talking about, Mr. Bourbon?

Well, Miss Wilson, I have recently finished work on a new device to be used as a prosthetic for those who have lost limbs!

That’s very convenient.

Thank you, Miss Wilson.

Also, the data you’ve been recording on the subject, how he responds to peer pressure and certain keywords.

Yes, Mr. Bourbon, you’re studying Gen Z and compiling data, I’ve gotten that a 20-year-old male was duped into signing a horrible deal and then sticking his hand into a dangerous substance on a bet.

Hrmm.

Seems like history repeating.

What?

Huh?

Bobby goes wide eyed and shrugs in an attempt to look innocent.

What do you mean, Mr. Bourbon?

Nevermind that, Miss Wilson, Adam is going to receive the new MissleFingers from BourbCo!

MissileFingers?

Yes, from BourbCo!

A cart is wheeled into the OR as it’s evident neither Bobby nor Stephanie have been properly sanitized. Bobby opens a box, and pulls out a small metallic hand.

This convenient prosthetic is armed to the teeth with the latest in defense technology along with all the standard functions of a smart watch!

Bobby boops the palm of the hand, which begins to glow.

The pointer finger has a fireball launcher, which has a maximum capacity for four flares.

The middle finger when activated behaves as a range finder for an orbital bombardment.

A what?

An orbital bombardment, there’s a laser in space tied to the hand, you see…

I get the picture.

The ring finger has a dart launcher, which can be equipped with tranquilizers or other cartridges full of the finest array of chemical weapons in the BourbCo catalog.

Like napalm?

Absolutely napalm!

The pinky finger is a grappling hook with an extension of up to one hundred meters.

Metric?

Look, MI5 might be interested you never know.

Gotcha.

Then, the thumb is a whistle.

Just a whistle?

Yep, plain old fire whistle.

Perfect.

Yep, the whole system costs something like twenty billion.

Miss Wilson’s eyes go wide.

You spent twenty billion dollars on this super hand?

No, heck!

Miss Wilson, government grants paid for this.

And Adam will be just the guy who proves the concept with the hand you wish you had, not the product of evolution but of my intelligent design.

That’s a very weird way to put it, but sure.

Bobby and Stephanie pause for a moment as Miss Wilson takes note.

So how are you going to attach the hand?

Oh, I have no clue, I’m not a doctor or anything.

What?

Yeah, I just designed the hand, the intricacies of how we integrate it to a limb like this I have an idea, but, pfft, way over my head on this one.

So, do you have someone in mind?

Well…

The lights go out. When they come back up, we see Dr. Louis D’Ville.

Hello, my friend!

What’s up, doc?

Miss Wilson looks very shaken by this.

Okay, okay, I’m going on break, this has been a lot, first the kid losing his hand, now this guy appearing out of nowhere, I’m taking a walk.

Okay.

Stephanie walks out of the operating room, shaking her head every step of the way.

Nice girl.

She’s a peach.

So, what’s up, Bobby Bourbon?

Oh, well, I wanted to know if you wanted to make a deal?

A deal?

I love a good deal, Bobby.

Cool, can you attach this hand to this guy?

Doc looks at the hand, then at Adam, then the hand, then at Bobby, then Adam. He takes a drag of his cigarette, looks at the hand, then Bobby, then the hand.

Heh, what does the hand do, shoot lasers or something?

That and more.

Ah, so you tricked someone into ridding themselves of a hand, and now you want to equip them with a super weapon?

Doc rolls his eyes, smiling. Bobby blinks slowly.

You know, you’re right.

That sounds reckless.

Bobby grabs the MissleFingers and leaves the operating room. Doc stands there, awkwardly, looking down at Adam, then around the operating room. Doc looks around at some X-Rays, and Bobby returns.

Here, can you attach this?

I’m not that kind of…

Bobby holds up a spatula.

..Doctor.

Doc blinks. He takes a drag off of his cigarette as Bobby looks back at him.

I know a guy.

Perfect.