Robbie Bourbon defends his title, the XWF Hart Championship, this Saturday Night Savage against none other than former Universal Champion and all around weird little toad man Peter "The F is for Francis" Gilmour. Peter has already issued a statement regarding the match in his usual fashion.

Robbie Bourbon has patterns too.

HOT DOGGING

We open to see a crowded shopping mall, somewhere in America. There's a long line spanning quite a few stores and containing what has to be hundreds of people all gathered and waiting, along with the normally seen groups of tweens, shuffling elderly mall walkers, and the occasional doofus who just hasn't ever heard of Amazon and ordering from there.

The line, we can tell, is queued to see none other than Robbie Bourbon, as advertised by dozens upon dozens of posters around the mall. "TODAY: XWF MEGASTAR AND CHAMPION ROBBIE BOURBON!" is the theme of the day here in an otherwise inauspicious center for overpriced retail commerce. The camera leads all the way to a humble table, where we see Robbie Bourbon sitting. He smiles and greets fans, signing all manner of memorabilia; Dope Show t-shirts, replica masks, replica Hart Championship belts, large and eager bosoms of well endowed female fans, babies, three butt plugs, and even a poster for Snow Job with Vinnie Lane's face front and center. Beside him at the table are Cyberjaw, the man with the cybernetic jaw, and Diamondback, the man who can blend into any crowd.

"Wow, good to know the people are behind me for my title defense. Well, that or there's a market for my autograph on eBay nowadays." A family of four with two boys approach the table next. Both boys put action figures on the table, one Robbie Bourbon and one of Peter Gilmour. Robbie quickly scrawls his name on each toy, as best he can, especially considering everybody already knows he owns Peter Gilmour so hard he practically has his name on him already. "I already own Peter GIlmour so hard he practically has my name on him already." In short order, the mother pulls her v-neck down lower to reveal her wonderful jugs and Robbie takes a sharpie to them. "Man, is Blue going to be surprised when I tell her about all the female fans I have, and how I'm keeping in touch with the women in the XWF Universe." Robbie scrawls 'FUCK TIT CANCER' on the left boob before signing the right. "Putting out a good message. Pink ribbon." The father takes a selfie with his face right next to mom's rack with a thumbs up and the average American family goes about their day.

As the muffled sound of reality comes back into clarity as we leave the sounds within Robbie's head and Diamondback speaks.

Yo, uh, when is lunch?

That's a good question.

Aren't you hungry?

Me? Well, I had that massive four egg omelette for breakfast.

Seriously? You told us we were running late and didn't have time for breakfast!

Well, I wasn't. I was up early enough to have a healthy breakfast.

We woke you up, dude! C'mon, are you telling us when you sent us out here to set up the table and put up all those posters and convince the mall you're allowed to do this because you were the President and you're a champion, you were preparing and eating a four egg omelette?

Ham and Swiss.

Damn it. Well, we're hungry, and it's lunch time.

The sounds of the world muffle again as we hear what's going on in Robbie's head. "That was a tasty omelette. Mmm." As Cyberjaw and Diamondback look rightly peeved and presumably hangry, a young couple approaches. "Ah, young love, so sweet and refreshing. It's an indicator of the human spirit. I guess that's why I shouldn't insult Peter's husband, especially considering Mia's shoulders are far more sculpted than his and he grows a far more dashing mustache." The man pulls out a Dope Show t-shirt and Robbie signs it, almost completely blotting out the image of LeStrange. The young lady pulls her shirt collar down, her mammaries nestled in a lacy white bra. "Pal, you need to treat your lady right." Robbie signs 'PEARL NECKLACE GOES HERE' along with his name before mumbling something inaudibly to the couple while pointing towards a jewelry store. The happy young couple exchange glances and then briskly make their way to the jewelry store. "There you go, tell 'em I sent you, that signature should get you a discount."

"I really should think about lunch." An elderly gentleman approaches the table and plunks a butt plug the diameter of an NFL regulation sized football. Robbie shrugs and pulls out a silver metallic marker and signs it 'FROM A BIG PAIN IN THE ASS'. "I mean, that's the trick to this business, to the fight game, to being one of the greatest athletes on the planet, is staying hungry." The elderly gent slides the butt plug into his back pocket, where it fits like a glove. "Man, I hate mall food, though. What am I supposed to eat? There's like three different places all slinging Chinese, and I never know which one to go to because every time I walk by they offer me Bourbon Chicken, and how can I resist? There's Sbarro, and honestly I feel like I'm going to get a healthy amount of cheap, greasy Italian this Saturday from Peter, so that's out." Two teenaged boys approach the table. They place the Blu-ray of "XWF's Top 50 Outrageous Events 2016" on the table, with footage of Robbie Bourbon diving from the top of the Elimination Chamber within. Robbie says something to the boys as he signs 'IF YOU TRY THIS AT HOME DON'T BLAME ME AND MAKE SURE YOUR PARENTS AREN'T LOOKING'. "There's that shitty cheese steak joint that claims they're real Philly style. I don't want a Philly style cheesesteak, I want a full blown Philly fucking cheesesteak. That's like asking for a Blowjob style handjob, for fuck's sake." The two teens nod and are grinning from ear to ear. They turn to each other, tie up, and one DDT's the other smack onto the hard floor of the mall. The lad lays in a heap on the ground as his friend who delivered the DDT stands back up, and blood starts to pool from the kid's head. "Not bad form. Shoot, what was I thinking? Lunch, stay hungry. There's a Subway, but nah. I'm already ham fed today, no need to grab a Cold Cut Combo, plus they always make me miss Blimpie, which had baller Italian subs, and I never see a Jersey Mike's in a mall. Like, ever. Again, though, I'm getting enough greasy, salty Italian this weekend. Hrmm." A squad of college cheerleaders all approach the table, each carefully stepping over the unconscious young man bleeding out on the floor getting kicked by his friend and being beckoned to stand by said friend. "There's that taco place, but it's not Tuesday, and me and my baby love our Taco Tuesdays together." The collegiate cheerleaders each bend over and scrunch their bloomers into their ass cracks to resemble thongs. Robbie stands and rounds the table and dips his hand in orange glittery paint and proceeds to slap his hand print on the right cheek of each girl while writing a different letter on the right cheek, until all thirteen college cheerleaders spell out 'ROBBIE BOURBON'. "There, now if some creep bag tries to sneak up on them, they'll see my hand saying 'STOP RIGHT THERE'. I miss my baby. She'd know what to get to eat. Nah, she wouldn't, who am I kidding, every time I ask she tells me she doesn't know, and every time I suggest a place she shoots it down until we wind up..." Robbie's eyes go wide. A janitor starts mopping up the blood seeping from the skull of the downed teen, unsancimoniously bumping his mop into the lad's head as his friend finally gives up and goes to find new friends. "There's a fucking Costco here!" The sounds of the world rush back in as we leave Robbie's head.

Okay, folks, we're going to go do lunch. I mean, we won't be at the table, but where we're eating is pretty exclusive, you need a membership, but you can try to follow us if you like.

The people look on in shock as Robbie announces he's going somewhere so exclusive.

Wow, are we actually going to some really fancy upscale dinner club?

Fuck no, we're going to Costco!

Shit. Are you making us go around and eat free samples again?

Well, no. Costco has a wonderful eatery.

Wonderful?

Yes sir! For a dollar fifty you get a quarter pound, all beef hot dog on a corn dusted roll and a soda. That is a bargain!

Dude, you're a multimillionaire...

And I didn't go there by buying overpriced meals. Look, if there were a Sheetz here we could get two dogs for a dollar, if we were on the west coast I would totally do Wienerschnitzel, as I plan to after retaining the Hart Championship at Savage, and if we could go to Sonic we could grab a couple of dogs there.

There's a Sonic right across the street!

But, Costco is right down a hallway. C'mon.

Robbie and his Bourbon Men walk away from the table, Robbie eager to make his way into Costco to get ahold of one of their hot dogs as both Cyberjaw and Diamondback shamble behind, seeming pretty tepid about the whole of it. A grouping of fans follow behind, perhaps hungry themselves, perhaps starstruck to a degree that they need to watch the XWF Hart Champion eat. Robbie and this cavalcade of people make their way to the front door of Costco, where a frumpy lady is standing. She halts the procession.

Woah, do you have a membership card?

Yes, and I guess all these people are with me.

Okay, may I see it?

Robbie pulls his wallet out and looks inside. After a moment of rifling through all manner of junk, he looks back at the lady.

Um, I lost it.

Oh, well, in that case I'm going to need you to go to our member services area and speak to someone there.

Oh, uh, okay. C'mon guys, we have to go...

Sir, I'm going to have to ask that the rest of your party wait until you get your card settled.

Oh, come on dude! I need to eat!

Yeah, we're starving!

Ma'am, these two men are my humble compatriots, and it's imperative they...

No sir, I can not allow you to bring them into the store without a card.

Damnit. Can we go to Sonic now?

Well, what's stopping you?

I don't have any cash.

You never pay us!

Oh, well, I do, but it's all at 100% contribution to a trust fund in the event I die.

How am I supposed to eat off of that?

Diamondback and Cyberjaw start to bitch at Robbie as the world goes muffled and we're back inside Robbie's head. "Jeeze, I really want that Costco dog now. Those things are awesome, a nice warm fluffy roll, and the fresh diced onions with real deli mustard, not that awful pure yellow stuff." Robbie walks into the Costco as we see Diamondback and Cyberjaw look on, flustered and dejected. Robbie walks straight past the member services area and towards the Costco eatery. "Man, them churros look damn tasty, but I think I'll wait on the sweets until after my match." Robbie steps in line at the food counter. "I'll just grab three dogs while I'm here, I guess. A hot dog sounds awesome right now, after running through the first round of Lethal Lottery, getting paired up with Trax and facing Trump and D'Ville, then finding out I'm about to get stripped of my fucking title due to a clerical error. If these motherfuckers wanted me to defend the title, they could book me to defend the title, I don't get why all of a sudden I have to go out and put my ass on the line at the last fucking minute. Sure, I'm defending against Peter, which is basically like defending against a bowl of chocolate pudding. What did I call him last time? Weasel tits? Spaghetti Dick? I think I made fun of his dick, I know I wound up Robbiebombing him and his handsome husband through glass tables last time, and if his hubby Mia gets involved again, I'll put that dude through another plane of glass so fast he'll hit the ground before anybody hears the glass break. What is it with his husband Mia, anyhow, he smells so effeminate, but sounds nowhere near as womanly as Peter. I dunno, I guess it's how gay couples operate. I mean, who am I to judge? I represent all folk, even flaming homosexuals like Peter and Mia. That doesn't mean I need to be a pushover come Savage. No sir." Robbie steps up to the counter as we hear the world again.

"Yes sir?"

Three Hot Dog combos please.

"Is that all?"

Is that all? No, that isn't all. Matter of fact, after I eat, I'm going to get ready to kick the living hell out of Peter Gilmour for, well, the umpteenth time in my career. I'm going to take that insepid little toad and splatter him through another glass table, wreck his ass and make his spinal column unstable, 'cause I'm legendary like some folk lore or fable, defending the Hart Championship all day because I'm ready, willing and able. It'll broadcast on the internet, closed circuit, and on basic cable, so let's get this show started like my name is on the play bill. And that, ma'am, is the fact, ma'am, of how I'll act, ma'am, until his spine is cracked and all my bags are packed and then I'll get to work on my next plan with the utmost of tact. I got a hankering for violence and blood shed in the squared circle, wrecking bodies, piling bodies, bodying bodies knowing I did that, not Steve Urkel. Then, I hope beyond hope some other fool comes to the ring and tries to take MY XWF Hart Championship, because I'm making the Hart Championship THE championship in this here Universe, taking on all comers. Trax was too scared to come face me for it saying he wasn't allowed as a former Universal Champ or some such bullshit, but here comes Peter, a former Universal Champ, coming to get his slimy toadlike ass wrecked and sent out of the Stubhub Center a loser on a flat board riding in a county vehicle with sirens and lights on top, and that ain't no police cruiser, ma'am, that ain't no fire engine, ma'am, that's a god damned ambulance taking him to triage care yet again after finding himself in the fucking ring with Robbie Bourbon. Then, well, let them come. Let all of them come. Line them all up, Universe, it's like a domino effect, next challenger in line, next son of a bitch left broken-necked, the one true Hart Champion coming hard and fast and I come correct. Who is Kato sending down trying to collect, doomed from the start for not figuring the right aspect, I'll make a loser and a victim of any kind of prospect, and it's not a means to boast or brag, it's all due respect, that it's just as anyone watching at home would suspect; try to take my title and I'll leave you bloody, broken, and wrecked. And that, ma'am, be because I'm not just the Wednesday Night Wrecker, ma'am, the High Holy Hypocrite, ma'am, the Reckoner of Shitheads and Decimator of Douchebags, ma'am, the atomic hot poison spewing motherfucker representing the masses, ma'am, the people at large, ma'am, the whole universe from end to end, ma'am, but because my name is Robbie Motherfucking Bourbon, XWF Hart Champion, the greatest champion that has ever fucking wrecked, and I'm wrecking now!

"Okay, that'll be $4.73"

The lady hands Robbie three empty cups as he hands her a five dollar bill.

Keep the change.

He gives a sideways glance at them, and walks over to the soda fountain, clearly marked Pepsi, and not Coca-Cola.

Fuck this.

Robbie throws the three cups straight in the garbage, forgoing his choice of Pepsi product and/or water for himself and Cyberjaw and Diamondback. Another worker at the food counter hands Robbie three foil wrapped hot dogs.