When we last saw Robbie Bourbon he had just launched a one man assault on the 7 o'clock news, addressing Glisten while waiting in traffic. Glisten has responded in kind to Robbie, having even gone so far as to change his appearance and insist his name is Sixty-Nine, and threatening to wash Robbie's mouth out with soap.

This means war.

FUCK YOU, YOU FUCKING FUCKER OF A FUCKING FUCKTARDED FUCK.

We open scene to see Robbie Bourbon sitting in an airplane seat, and saying it's a snug fit is a very polite way of saying it. He's wearing an orange bandanna, a pair of obvious Fray Bans, and a surgical mask, squirming within his seat. By the layout of the plane, he's in coach, and struggling at getting himself comfortable in his seat. In the background we see several other XWF personalities. CJ Sharpe has a pair of earbuds in, wearing a similar sunglasses and mask only covering his head with a Dope Show hoodie a row over, perpetually glancing out of the window of the plane to gawk at the runway lights. Seated next to him is Chameleon, ALSO wearing the same style of get-up. A stewardess walks by them cautiously, as though she's passing a group of lepers. Robbie finally stands up from his seat, frustrated.

God damnit. This fucking seat. Fuck, it's so shitty to fly on a fucking plane when you're this big.

Sir!

Said stewardess approaches Robbie, giving a stern finger of disapproval. In a whispered tone she admonishes him.

Please watch your language! There are other passengers on this flight.

Sorry, ma'am. Sorry, airplane people.

Is there anything I can do to make you more comfortable, sir? Perhaps a drink?

I don't drink.

Perhaps a sleep aid?

A what?

A sleep aid.

What, like a blanket? Nah, I'll sweat like a pig all over that tiny seat you want me to sit in, ma'am.

She giggles at him, her eyes still as dreary as before.

Oh sir, I mean a pill you can take to put you to sleep. And don't call me ma'am, you make me feel old.

I'm sorry, miss.

Heh, it's "misses" actually.

Yes ma'am.

The stewardess stops, looking befuddled. Robbie takes his sunglasses off and rolls his eyes, sitting back down in the seat. As we see the stewardess walk away, from behind the camera we hear Blue.

I'm sorry honey.

It's alright, babe. I'm uncomfortable in this seat is all.

Well, maybe next time we'll take a different airline.

I know. I gotta piss.

Robbie stands from his seat and bangs his head against the overhead compartment.

MOTHERFUCKER!

SIR!

The stewardess marches straight back to Robbie.

Sir, I told you that you can not talk like that on this plane, do you understand? If you do it again, I'm going to have you taken off of this plane.

Yes ma'am, I'm sorry, I hit my...

Hush!

She sassily turns around and walks back towards the front of the plane. Robbie rubs his head.

Honey, I'm really sorry.

Sorry? Sorry? You know who's going to be sorry? That...

Robbie stops short, glancing up towards the stewardess, preoccupied with assisting an elderly couple get buckled into their seats.

That crumb bum, Glisten.

You know, a very smart man, a real man of the people kind of guy, once said something that really sticks out to me right now. Be wary of your thoughts. Your thoughts become your words. Your words become your actions, and your actions are what you will be judged upon. I want you the let that set in.

You seem to have an issue with my language.

Well, ain't that a kick in the pants. You want to clean my mouth out with soap? That's rich. But really, who the haberdasher are you to call me out for my words, you such-and-such? I mean, just because you don't use colorful language doesn't mean you're pure, fella. You ignoramus, spewing forth a wave of manure from between your teeth so wide and tall that you couldn't even frackin' fit it in the gosh darned Grand motherfather Canyon.

Now, let's consider what I just said for a minute. Your words are absolutely nothing without your thoughts. The way you talk, the way you act, the way you're judged, all carried by your thoughts. You want to try to mute me, alter my words, and try to twist my actions by proxy. Do you earnestly think I have nothing to say without the use of expletives?

Well fudge you.

You are by far the filthiest, dirtiest speaker in the XWF. I mean, it's compulsory for you, which I guess is your thing and all. It'd be nice if we all could be men of the people, but that definitely isn't your thing. When you were talking about cleaning my mouth out, it was the exact same way one would describe fellatio. That's pretty dirty, stud, pretty dirty, especially since rather than just saying you want me to give you a BJ, which takes all of five words, you had to explicitly describe the act in detail. Dude, that's golly geezing gratuitous.

Then, you have something to say about my mask. I get it, you grew up believing that old adage that "clothes make the man" or some such hogwash. It's not true; a man makes his look. Seriously. However you wish to be portrayed, you will be.

Let's look at what I said again. Thoughts, words, actions, and judgment.

Do you honestly believe that putting on another outfit and calling yourself Sixty-Nine makes you a different person? Sixty-Nine seems to really be in tune with exactly how Glisten acts and sounds, stud, you might want to consider getting a lawyer before you're sued for gimmick infringement. And do you know why? Cheese and crackers, do you Fraggle Rockin' know why? Because no matter how you want to package yourself, you will always be you.

Just like my mask doesn't define me.

Funk nah, no sir! I'm Robbie multitasking Bourbon, man of the people, the wrecker of Wednesday Nights, here to smash all the crumb bums, the doodie heads, the boogerbrains, the chowder heads, the chuckleheads, the nincompoops, and the knuckleheads who wade into my domain to bring a smile to the faces of all the people out there in the crowd, to the millions watching around the world, and to scare the daylights out of the rest of their twisted kin, letting them know what happens when you're a major league douche bag. See, if we're going to go with a definition of who I am, and what I do, that'd be the one I'd study up on if I were you, because that's what the test is on this Wednesday.

I make my mask mean something. I have washed it plenty of times by now in blood, sweat, victory, defeat, pain, glory, and I think I even spilled some grape juice on it one time. Ask the people, man, get a feel for what they're saying. Robbie Bourbon isn't his mask, dude. My mask is worth Frenching wearing because of what I do in it, and the amount of people ready to wear it is growing. Because the people have had it up to here, the people want something worth believing in, and the people deserve a symbol way prettier than my mug could ever be.

So don't dare insult the good men and women who support me with your fucking horseshit, you god damned piece of shit. Fuck you. There's no issue with the words I use or the way I fucking use them, because deep down, they're cleaner than any fucked up part of you.

SIR!

With that, the stewardess hustles straight in the direction of Robbie.

Damnit.

OFF! Off the plane right now. You were warned.

Oh, sorry ma'am, I wasn't talking to you...

I said off!

Robbie slumps as he reaches into the carry-on compartment and pulls two bags out.

Thank you, hon.

I'm sorry. Looks like we're driving.