The XWF faithful are well aware that Them No Good Bastards, Thunder Knuckles and Bobby Bourbon, are more than willing to live up to their name. They’re also the high prophet and inquisition, respectively, of something known as the Church of the Bastard, some form of pseudo-religion which may border on both being a cult and fraud. While it has been some time since prayers to the “Bastardly Father” have been uttered, they aren’t gone, and if they’d been forgotten, it’s time you were reminded of their existence.

It is here, adjoining the parking lot of the Bastard’s Den, TNGB’s four-story strip club, and hotdog buffet (now with 112 toppings, including diced hotdog bits, so you can have more hotdogs with your hotdog) that we find the rock on which the foundation of the Church of the Bastardly Father is set. The double-wide trailer is adorned with strings of Christmas Lights, a neon Molson Canadian sign, and a marquee that reads “Damnation is in His hands”. Inside we find that tonight's services are already underway.

The trailer’s interior is adorned with pictures of TNGB, cooked steaks; old cardboard cut-outs of Kathy Ireland, Carmen Electra, and Betty Page in scanty outfits. At the end, behind a podium, we see Bobby and TK holding congregation behind a bar to a host of transients, drunks, junkies, and other unsavory sorts. Behind them, a massive blood-red rainbow which ends in a crimson skull, the iconography of the most devastating move in wrestling history, their tag team finisher.

Rainbow Laser Death Sequence!

The congregation is wrapping up singing along to Johnny Paycheck’s “I’m the Only Hell (Mama Ever Raised)” as though it were a hymn, at least those who are capable of doing so and aren’t slumped in a drug-induced stupor. As they finish, Bobby clears his throat.

“Brothers and sisters!” Bobby smiles as he presses both palms on the top of the podium, looking out at the den of scum and villainy before him, and who cares if we’re making Star Wars references when it’s not relevant, you nerds eat that shit up. TK stands behind him, sipping from a bottle that happens to be communal Old Crow Whiskey. “I am excited you are all here with us today, to bask in the glory and power of the Bastardly Father! For it is HE who shall judgeth, it is HE who shall smite, and it is in HIS name that we are excited to announce we are beginning the Jihad of the Bastardly Father!”

“Now, I understand, you may be wondering what I, thy great inquisitor of the Bastard, and TK, oh proud prophet of the Bastard, insist on what are we fighting against, what grievance could be so great that, yes, we will fight, and yes, we will destroy, and yes, we will accept the pain of battle for? Is it Islam?”

“Is it?” TK takes a slug of his whiskey, looking genuinely curious, as though he knows to let Bobby go sometimes, or that the Bastardly Father works in mysterious ways. “Are we fightin’ fucking Muslims or something?”

“Absolutely not! People of this wonderful congregation, the Islamic faith is one of beauty, understanding, and peace, not war or terror! Besides, in fifty years, after Europe and North America are no longer oil-dependent, Islam will return to being just a basic religion and cease being a global power! The bankroll that maintains Mecca will dry up, and it is with this knowledge we extend an open and warm invitation to all those who are of the Prophet Mohammed to embrace the nature of the Bastardly Father!” Bobby proudly nods and gives a holy thumbs up.

“Shit, Bobby,”TK furrows his brow. “Does that mean we’re fucking up the shit that’s happening in Gaza?”

“Oh, ohohoho, hell no, Brother Knuckles! Oppressing the ways of the Jewish faith is the territory of Nazi monsters, and we’ve no reason to attack Palestinians who feel slighted under their rule due to the actions of old white British dudes in the mid 20th Century who just cut back on Imperialism themselves and hence had no idea what they were doing when they just moved refugees someplace!”
“So, is that a no?” TK’s eyebrows raise, seeking confirmation. Bobby gestures outward to the congregation.

“Not our monkey, not our circus.”

Those who seem to be paying attention and not treating the church as a flop house echo the words, for this seldom worse a sinner than the white knight with good intentions and no stake nor knowledge.

“Not our monkey, not our circus.”

“Shit, Bobby, you don’t mean the Vatican, do you?”

“What? Oh, absolutely not! Those guys drive more members to us than all the methadone clinics! Their grip is tighter and tighter in a more global-focused world daily, their archaic reliance on fear and guilt a basic hindrance in a world rife with celebrity worship! Why feel bad when you can judge a Kardashian and feel good? Why feel pain when you can watch Shark Tank and witness failure in others? Why pray to a prophet who died on a cross when all the wrath and vengeance of the Bastardly Father is delivered in a far more fun package within our doors?”

“A-fucking-men.”

The congregation repeats after TK, including the sots.

“A-fucking-men.”

“So it's, the Hindis, we’re going to fuck up, right?”

“Huh?” Bobby looks perplexed, then dismissive as he swiftly shakes his head. “No, I mean, I don’t think so, at least, I don’t know much about their faith myself, they seem mostly chill. I have a disdain for caste systems, but they put that in place for some modern hero to conquer. I think that was the plot of Slumdog Millionaire but I never watched that shit. On that note, don’t even ask me about Buddhism.”

“Huh. Is it the Wiccans?” TK continues to guess what exactly Bobby means, enhancing the sermon in the process.

Bobby smirks. “Oh, fuck no, they give head like they have eight tongues!”

“Yeah.” TK grins, recalling a few staff members next door at the strip club. If you’re unaware of what a Wiccan is, how Bobby and TK are missing the mark on what they represent, or you, yourself, have missed anything so far, get an adult to help you google a few of the terms. We understand the basic wrestling fan isn’t versed in theology, and unfortunately acknowledge we’ve probably gone over has eluded you a few times so far, but that’s on your ignorance.

“Also, we’re not going after Pagans.” Bobby wags his finger sideways, signaling that was a no-no.

“Nor are we fucking with the Hell’s Angels, Mongols, or Bandidos.” TK clarifies that he doesn’t know the difference between Pagan as a religion and the notorious biker club. Again, you have a Google if you’re unfamiliar, no reason to feel lost when you’re being taken to church.

“No, Brother Knuckles, not at all, the faith we are at war with, the creed that must be destroyed above all others, is known to all as an enemy to free and advanced thought!”

“That’s right, Bobby, we’re talking about the fucking militant politically correct!”

The congregation responds. “Fuck‘em!”

“Those fucking douchebags have taken clear and real language and made it idiotic.” TK glowers as he looks on at the congregation, sipping his rail whiskey. “Flat out, they’re absolutely re…” Bobby cuts TK off.

“Ridiculous.”

“That’s not the right word at all!”

Bobby nod again. “I know, Brother Knuckles, but we have to soften our language so when shitty and vile people come around those who are triggered can stand and be ignored! The direct response to militant political correctness made Joe Rogan, a mediocre comedian, famous! The direct response to militant political correctness gave the world President Donald Trump! For fuck’s sake, bro, we’re ten times better than either of those dicks, but instead, we have to sound…”

“Fucking ridiculous. Look what they did to the goddamn element Bromine, which in science talk is listed as a flame reta…”

Bobby clears his throat loudly, cutting TK off. “Bromine is now a flame special-needs material, because of militant political correctness!”

“Right! That shit is re…”

Bobby clears his throat, again stopping TK from dropping a hard ‘R’, a term that’s now a no-no to describe a condition so complicated changing the verbiage surrounding it does nothing at all besides forcing bullies to become innovative.

“Resourceless nabob is behind this? The militant politically correct! It’s gotten so bad, look what they’ve done to the prophet from Nazareth! Jesus didn’t assist in the living functions of the differently abled, he healed the sick. He wasn't unalived on a biodegradable structure, he died on a wooden crucifix! Hiding a condition behind complex language is stupid. Hell, in twenty years, someone is going to dial 911 and have to explain that their domicile is engulfed in temperatures unfit for human habitation to describe a house fire just to prevent people who don’t have houses or pyrophiliacs from getting offended.” Bobby slams a fist on the podium in anger. Google pyrophilia and revel in what you learned reading this, by the way.

“Fuck yeah, Bobby, these fucking jack-offs aren’t helping people at all. Censorship just makes harsh realities harder to accept.”

“That’s fucking right, Brother Knuckles, and you know what those harsh realities are?”

“Us.”

“Hallelujah!”

“Right!” TK addresses the congregation directly. “So, step on up, who wants to join our wonderful suicide bomber program to aid in the Jihad against the Militantly PC? We offer you 72 trampolines in the afterlife, and a half-finished Subway punch card so you only need to get four more sandwiches to get a free one!”

“Woah, Brother Knuckles, I thought we were going to have fun building all those robots to go blow up.”

“Fuck that, Bobby.” TK looks disgusted at the thought. “Robots cost money.”

Bobby looks slightly disappointed, like a child who didn’t get the color of balloon they wanted. “Okay, but what about trying the old Acoustic Kitty approach and making cat bombs?” Bobby looked eager to succeed where the CIA failed in the 1960s when they attempted to spy on the Soviets by implanting recording and transmitting devices into a live cat and released it by their embassy in Washington DC only for it to immediately, and tragically, get hit by a taxi, costing the taxpayers several thousand dollars (Note: my favorite story to tell people when driving them around DC and besides pyrophelia is another true takeaway from this pulpish smut your filthy eyes are consuming).

“Oh, fuck that! Do you want to get canceled?” TK looks incredulously at Bobby.

“Eh, been there, done that, got the t-shirt, but I get what you mean, no killing cats, that’s just fucked up.” Bobby shrugs in understanding.

“Right. You’re right.” Bobby takes a deep breath. “Alright, so who wants to die for our cause here tonight so we don’t have to? We’re VIPs in this church, we can’t, you know how it goes.” A few people raise their hands in the congregation, the poor souls so lost they’ll do anything to fit into something. “Great! Step right up and we’ll outfit you with F-bombs to drop in public!”

“Fan-fucking-tastic.” TK looks pleased as he takes another swig from his bottle of communal whiskey. “Bobby, I think there is another group we might have skipped that is due for our Jihad, a pack of infidels so bland that, while we’re polarizing and clear cut, they’re just another fucking shade of gray.” Bobby smiles as he hears this, knowing exactly what TK means.

“Oh, you mean Pantheon, the word Corey Black learned that he thinks gives his career meaning!” Bobby’s belly shakes as he chuckles.

“Fuck ‘em!” The congregation responds. Bobby nods to the congregation.

“Now let us bow our heads in shame of the motherfuckers who are doomed to fall to us at Warfare, two men unaware of the danger they see themselves in, two fools so prideful their fall is not only inevitable, it is hilarious to us. Brother Knuckles, they are ready for you.”

PREACH!

"Brothers and sisters, as we gather in the presence of the Bastardly Father, let us raise our voices and our dark hearts in prayer. We are not alone in this battle; with the divine power of the Almighty Bastard guiding us, we shall prevail." TK closes his eyes and lifts his hands skyward.

"YOU have sent YOUR demons, us, to encamp around Pantheon like starved dogs. We thank YOU, Bastard Above, that Pantheon will join the list of those who fall by YOUR name. We say of YOU, Bastardly One, that YOU are their impending doom: Pantheon's new idol; through YOU, they will feel true power." With each declaration, the intensity of TK's voice grows, invoking the power of the Bastardly One.

"Because YOU made us, Lord Bastard, we will show no refuge and allow no rehabilitation. Our evil shall be on full display on YOUR behalf." TK's voice resonates through the room, instilling faith and conviction in the hearts of Bastards everywhere.

"It is no accident that these two shit misers have come before us, like a plague, yet YOU are the cure. For YOU will give us the charge we need to overcome these mediocre puppets. In the Bastard's name, we prey. A-fucking-men " With a final invocation, TK concludes the prayer. Both Bobby and TK square their shoulders, looking intensely at the camera recording them, addressing their opponents directly.

“Alrighty my almighty Brother Knuckles, looks like we got a bigger task at hand this Warfare when we face the Universal Champion and the guy riding his coattails to championship matches for no real apparent reason besides he’s the guy who sells Seb his Xanax.”

“Seb's entire Uni run reminds me of these pink plushy pillows filled with pretty pussies I saw on Amazon. Im sayin' it's soft as fuck, bro.”

“You found a pillow full of vaginas? You make his title run sound like a softshell Fleshlight. What were you looking for on Amazon bro?”TK ignores Bobby.

“Then there's that lame-ass dude with shit smeared on his eye, yeah, I'm talking about Corey 'Pullin' a Gilly' Black.”

“Woah, hold up, this dude decapitated me? Well by the power of the Bastardly Father, I have risen, and I am come again!”

“Goddamned, right, you have. The only way Corey Black can headline a show without facing us is if he organizes his own damn Pay-Per-View. He's got all the flair of Chris Page and as much depth as Robert Main. Being the embodiment of Cataclysm isn’t scary or intimidating; it's half-hearted and as fun as repeatedly getting kicked in the balls. The whole 'spooky badass' act? Give me a break. Seriously, get over yourself, you self-righteous cunt."

“Corey Black excels at sucking his own dick, that’s the most flexible he’ll ever fucking be, and when he farts it’s an aperitif. Can you name a match where Black didn’t give himself the ole’ ‘hawk tuah’ treatment leading up to it?”

“When the promotional material for Warfare was released, it read: ‘MAIN EVENT Pantheon’. Under that, it listed their names to remind fans exactly who Pantheon is. Then it simply states 'versus' their toughest challenge to date in XWF: ‘Them No Good Bastards’. No fucking explanation needed. These pricks have had one tag match, and spit the shittiest line of hot garbage I've heard in a minute.

“They did that a lot. Was it Black talking about how everyone has gimmicks that aren’t his version of ‘Mary Sue’ or Seb thinking Dionysus is legit dangerous?”

TK shakes his head ‘no’. “Didn’t Dion and Black make you look like a chump at March Madness?”

“That was before Black’s debut, obviously didn’t count for anything besides an education in how to walk and talk post decapitation.” Bobby nods his head, reaffirming his own words to the camera.

“They said they've got ‘staying power’. Yeah, then shortly after Black loses the Xtreme and fucked right off. Staying power. Give me a goddamned break” TK gives his truly remarkable, undeniably his, jerking-off hand gesture.

“These kids don’t know about the power and the Thunder
Be it the Empire or his pet hound the headhunter
One is baffled why I still bring him up, he’s left off to ponder and wonder
I got decapitated, dude, but you didn’t kill me, that’s your blunder
I’ll dissect you, rip your lungs out, separate you from your liver
Put you through so much trauma until the blood flows just like a river
You’ll go directly into shock, collapse, and your body will convulse and shiver
Because there’s no beating like the beatings that TNGB will deliver”

"Damn, Bobby you're spittin' fire on them bitches like I'm imagining dragons.
Our rhymes are relentless, they're defenseless, it’s senseless,
To think they could ever match this level of menace.
Thier tired lines are amateur, nothing but pretense,
While we’re making history, you two barely make sense.
You’ll never be better, you’ll never be harder,
We’re the maestros of brutality, you’re just fucking fodder." After TK finishes, Bobby shows his approval by holding out his fist, and they share their iconic no-look fist bump.

“I hope you boys focus on history while we beat into shape the future. While you bask in our past glories, we’ll be making new ones. July 1st, the fans won't just be reminded of who Pantheon was. They’ll also get to witness what Them No Good Bastards do best, and how we stunned the 'Top two Champions'."

“July First, in time for Independence Day, we will put on a fireworks display of fireworks displays, the biggest Tag Team Match in over a decade is going the fuck down, and we’re going to win that motherfucker when it happens! This is the epicenter of Tag Team wrestling everywhere, and it’s two guys who have never run into a wall like us in their careers. They might have faced the worst, they might have overcome horrible, they might have beaten the biggest scumbags they have ever faced, but we are no mere men. We are Them No Good Bastards, and we are the greatest Tag Team in history and you’re facing us at Warfare, the heart of the entire Xtreme Wrestling Federation, and we are the beat that hits and thumps and stirs in the fans when it’s time to see blood and mayhem!”

“Oh, and we won't be fucking stopped, definitely not by a Uni Champ who chooses not to defend his belt against the likes of Charlie Nickles. Former Bastard, all around Uni Champ fuck piece.”

“I would defend a ham sandwich against Charlie Nickles!”

"What I'm saying is, Seb, you're past your sell-by date, if it wasn’t for the Bastards and Mark Flynn last Warfare, not one person would give a good goddamn about your reign. Thanks to Thad’s bitch ass you're waltzing into the tag team division like a clueless fucking tourist. I hope you know how ridiculous you look dragging along your deadweight, can't talk worth a fuck, partner. He'll be lucky to walk out of Warfare with his title, and who's to blame for that? I'm putting that blame squarely on your shoulders, Fuck-o. Neither of us wants his title, but we sure as Hell won't mind taking it. After that tugfest of a Denzel Porter interview with Black. Who knows? Maybe it'll humble him and make him stop acting like he's king turd of shit mountain. Beating you two won't just be a paycheck; it's going to be a damn delight."

“Let’s give credit where it’s due, TK. We should show gratitude to these swine for bringing themselves to the slaughter. We have been the Weekend Wreckers, now become the bonafide Monsters of Monday Night on Warfare, and these little piggies are coming to market when they should have stayed home and had some roast fucking beef instead of getting roasted while involved in the wrong beef. They might have accolades, from around the whole wrestling multiverse, their careers heralded far and wide, but everybody knows when it comes to being tag team legends, there’s us…” Bobby pauses, pointing at himself and TK. He then points at the camera. “...and they aren’t. Nobody who watched Triad waited for those two to be in the same corner, and it’s a damn shame neither of you were there for each other to give the Heimlich maneuver when you ultimately choked. Pantheon might be a squad, but if they want to win they gotta be a team.”

“I'm tired of these shit show rasslers coming into XWFs Tag Team Division and making the mistake of thinking it's safe to play in shark-infested waters. Let me make it simple, just do what other tag teams do when they can't fucking hang. Don't show up. Maybe we'll throw you a goddamn bone.”

“Heh, yeah, you can ask Vhodka and Vincent Black how that went down for them. Fellas, we got your modus operandi pinned to the wall, and it doesn’t conflict us one bit. If we’re too mean for you to handle, we cheated the system or were too classless for you, but, well, we can live with that. If you want to cry foul and say we were too vicious, too nasty, just flat the fuck out too much for you to handle, neither of us is going to lose any sleep over it. We don’t need to handicap our opposition to shine like some of the so-called ‘talent’ you rode into this Xtreme Wrestling Federation with. We graduated magna cum laude from the school of hard knocks, you and your ilk were happy to get a passing grade on a curve; we are NOT the same. We have walked through hellfire, scorched by the flames while everywhere you’ve walked the heat had to get turned down to accommodate you. TK, do you remember ever having to ride on the sidewalk with training wheels?”

“Fuck no, we steal them bikes and fucking pawn'em for beer money.”

“Seb, the last time a James Raven knockoff was around, it was the actual James Raven, and I Bobbybombed him, I Bobbybombed his wife, and I Bobbybombed his girlfriend. You, your friends, your family, Seb, you don’t want that energy coming out in me, but you’re stepping into a Bastard’s ring so you’ll get it. We will turn you into fucking chew toys for my Rottweiler back home. If you doubt what the fuck I’m saying, go have a chat with that little grumpy voice in your head, Bryce, convince yourself you can be as violent as a Bastard because you don’t have it in you to be us. How special can a V-Trigger or a German suplex be when half the industry does them and they appear in every other match? That same tired arsenal Pantheon wields we’ve been countering forever while nobody does what we do. You may keep your empire, Mr. Bryce, but I will have your fucking head on a platter and serve it to the masses. You want a pat on the back for what you’ve done? Congratulations, you’re a frontman for people who kiss your ass. You’re famous for beating Thad Duke? That’s like a footnote in our careers dude, but I think you’re the Sebastian that Little Duke always wished was in his life because his dad never came to his shows.”

"I can't wait to see the 'dear diary' promotional material that comes out after these two are forced to re-re-start their tag team for the third time." TK changes his voice to mock both Black and Sebastian. "Dear diary, July second, twenty-twenty-four, time, who gives a fuck, the Bastards were a lot meaner than I thought they'd be. They hurt my feelings, and now I'm contemplating whether I even have it in me to continue, but I have to persevere. Just... not against them."