Robbie Bourbon faded. Disappeared. Left. His drive and mission scattered to the winds a fateful night in early April on PPV. A shart, an upstart, and a loss of the Hart, and Robbie Bourbon failed to play his part. Time for a new start.

Cadryn Tiberius is your current Hart Champion. He faces the Wednesday Night Wrecker on a Wednesday Night. Someone should let him know the joke's over.

BEEN SO LONG

The incandescent glow of a dashboard dominates the screen. The layout shows that the gas tank is full, the motor is working hard at around four thousand to forty-five hundred rotations-per-minute. The speedometer reads ninety, all of this information glowing in an imperial green. The driver is evidently hauling balls. The camera pulls back and we see Robbie Bourbon at the wheel, his mitts holding the wheel with a dedicated grip and his face set and determined on the road in front of him, illuminated by the dash and occasional passing headlights of the sparse vehicles coming from the other direction. We hear the voice of Blue, Robbie's girlfriend and handler, come from behind the camera.

Honey, you're doing like ninety!

I know.

Well, slow the fuck down! I don't want to die in a wreck!

It's fun.

Robbie's grim expression doesn't change.

You don't look like you're having fun! SLOW THE HELL DOWN YOU MANIAC!

Bourbon nods his head in dissent and slowly exhales. The camera shows the speedometer lowering, down to a far more managable sixty miles-per-hour (do the math yourself if you use that un-American metric nonsense).

Thank you!

No sweat, babe. I got it, though, I'm a great driver.

I'm sure you are, but let's not push it. What's on your mind?

Me? Oh, nothing, besides coming back into the fray at breakneck speed.

Robbie smirks.

I missed it. Going to North Korea with Pig, wrecking Bx3, and hot diggity damn, I'm coming home to Wednesday Night Warfare and getting a shot at the Hart Championship again. When it rains, it pours, I guess.

It's not raining out!

We hear the voice of Ash, Robbie's personal stylist come from the rear of the car. The camera pivots and we see Ash seated next to Joe Biden, Vice-King of the Jobbers.

Yeah, and maybe you should take it easy!

Whatever, Joe, taking it easy isn't my thing. If I'm not pressing my body to the point I could have a fucking heart attack at any given moment, I'm not living. If the adrenaline isn't pumping through my veins like extra servings of real theater butter on my popcorn when I go to the movies, then I'm not fucking satisfied.

That's not real butter.

I know, it's real theater butter.

Why do they call it that?

Because it's really at the theater. Movies aren't real either, Joe.

Joe Biden looks downtrodden.

But you said my toys really did act like that and were very happy after we watched the Toy Story trilogy.

The camera pitches back to Bourbon.

Uh, that was a documentary, Joe. I meant unrealistic stuff they put out, like, um...

Bourbon furrows his brow.

Which movies did we tell you were real again?

You said the scary ones weren't real.

That's right, Joe, the scary ones weren't real. The puppet from Saw won't come after you, I'm really Michael Meyers in disguise and I was spraying those people with ketchup because it was silly and fun, and Bridget Jones can't exist because all British women are either poncy and sophisticated like the queen or chavs like Amy Winehouse.

The camera pivots back to Joe Biden, who looks a little more at ease knowing Toy Story is real and Bridget Jones is not. Ash leans in closer to him.

Bridget Jones!

She whispers the name, and Joe immediately looks away and out the window, terrified. The camera turns back to Robbie, who is now grinning.

You really love this, don't you.

I love all of it. I love you, I love the Bourbon Men riding along on important missions, I love the thought of going out in front of the billions of billions of people in the XWF Universe and wrecking some silly bastard and bringing joy to their hearts. Blood, bones, brains, all busted and bruised, and kids will be able to watch it all.

Robbie sighs.

Good times.

Wait, where are we going? It's almost three in the morning, why did we have to come along?

Well, Ash, you have the most important mission ever. We'll get to that in a minute. We're almost here.

Where?

We're meeting with someone to discuss justice in America.

The car slows, and we see the RFK Building in downtown Washington D.C. through the window of the car.

This is a nice car, Robbie, where did you get it?

It's a rental. What the hell happened to my van?

The rest of the Bourbon Men remain silent.

Seriously! What happened to it?

It got stolen.

What? By who?

That doesn't matter right now. Why are we at the Department of Justice?

Well, like I said, we're here to discuss justice.

Robbie exits the car, as do the rest of the Bourbon Men, including Blue, holding the camera and following Robbie. Robbie has parked the car right in front of the RFK building, which is not legal, and within fifteen seconds a tow truck arrives and starts to tow it away.

What the hell?

Ah, it's just a rental. I got the insurance.

How are we supposed to get home?

I dunno, I'll call an Uber, plus we're right by the Metro, and there's a station like a block from my dojo, so we got options.

The metro doesn't start running until five!

We can kill time.

Where?

The Smithsonian.

It's closed!

Well, look, stop being a Debbie Downer, Ash, you were brought here for a specific purpose. Do you still have your stuff?

Ash holds up a large case.

Perfect. Let's go.

Bourbon leads his entourage into the RFK building. A guard stops them.

"Hello, are you Robbie Bourbon?"

Robbie points to his masked face.

"I knew it. Right this way sir."

The guard leads Robbie and crew down the hall and to an elevator. He pulls up a walkie-talkie.

"They're here. I'm sending them up."

The guard presses a button at the elevator doors, calling for it. The doors slide open, and Bourbon and his guys enter. As soon as they do, the guard hits the button sending the elevator to the fifth floor. Robbie and the Bourbon Men enter the elevator car, and as soon as they do, Joe Biden starts pressing all the buttons.

Heh heh heh.

Joe, no! Bad Joe, bad!

Joe turns and gives Robbie a cheeky grin. Ash leans in and whispers to him again.

Bridget. Jones.

Joe turns ashen white at the thought of Renee Zellweger's English impersonation of Sarah Jessica Parker in Sex in the City.

Seriously, do you really think all British women are either poncy or chavs? You don't think any of them can be cute or quirky?

Well, they did cast an American woman to play her.

Good point.

I know.

So, what's your plan for your return to Warfare, and why am I here?

My plan?

I plan to absolutely pummel the shit out of Cadryn Tiberius on a parade float, for everybody to see. What's more, it's free. One hundred percent free for the public to watch. Now, I know you're probably wondering, "But Robbie, shouldn't the XWF be hyping a Hart Title match as something bigger than a freebie"? We're the main attraction of the XWF's own Fourth of July parade, with my partner and best bud Bearded War Pig taking the main event in a shot at the Xtreme Title. The Motherfuckers are the biggest parts of the show, and I'm bringing my end of things to all the people who can't afford to enter the arena, as well as all the reprobates who couldn't get past security with their guns, knives, booze, and drugs. It's an all ages event with a helluva VIP section, let me tell you.

See, though, that's not enough. I was thinking about what you told me, babe, about how I don't know how hard it is to be a woman. Well, to honor the fact the XWF may very well be having a women's division, chock full o' talent like Jenny Myst, Roxy Cotton, and...

Robbie pauses as you draw a blank yourself.

You guys wanna wrestle?

Nope.

No.

Ah, okay. Nevermind the rest of the talent.

Anyhow, to honor the amount of female talent here in the XWF, Cadryn and I will also be posting a side bet to see who is the best woman in the parade. For a long time I've been the Man of the People. Well, at Warfare, with your help, Ash, I will be the Woman of the People.

So you want me to give you a makeover?

Hell yeah I want you to give me a makeover. Identity politics has taught me that I am free to identify as a woman for the people at Warfare.

I don't think that means what you think it means.

Hushabee.

The elevator car stops.

*beeng*

The doors slide open at the second floor as Bourbon spams the close doors button. The doors close.

How is this supposed to help you?

Isn't it obvious? I'm Robbie Motherfucking Bourbon, the best big man in the business, a straight up wrecking machine on a mission. I take fucktards and asshats and beat the snot out of them. What I don't do, however, is hit women. Well, if I'm a woman, I can hit a woman, and Cadryn Tiberius is a straight up bitch.

Beeyotch.

See, the Kings™ are a pack of pricks, the lot of them. They fucked me over at High Stakes, helping a so-called legend called D'Ville out just to get his ass whooped by James Raven. Well, color me unimpressed, their gameplan didn't work. Cadryn, on the other hand, is their little stooge. Their comic relief, and they already have John Madison playing the comic relief, so he's the comic relief to the comic relief. He's the opening act to Madison's headlining stage show. He's the guy nobody pays to see when everybody pays to see Kevin Hart. He was a second fiddle to Michael Graves, and now he's turned the Hart Championship into a second fiddle championship. The silver medal. The Golden Globes. It's pathetic, it's stupid, and it's not what the fucking people deserve when they tune in to see Wednesday Night Warfare. What the people deserve is a real champion, a fucking wrecker, a fucking destroyer, a fucking monster for the masses ready to take on anybody and anything anywhere and any time. Not some little cunt jumping around saying 'Lookit me, I'm the Jester™, ain't I just the cutest little ball polisher the Kings™ have ever had? Yes, Mr. Price, I'll toss your salad. Sure, Doctor D'Ville, your sperm sure tastes strong this morning. Breakfast of champions, ha ha ha!' Nosirree. The people want a man, not a wannabe clown. The people want a champion, not a second rate poser. The people don't want a Jester™ King™, they want a Motherfucker©.

I am that Motherfucker©.

I'm the sumbitch coming to the Show Me State, and I'm going to show them what a real contender, a real competitor, and a real Motherfucker© looks like when he dresses in drag and beats the hell out of a human being on a parade float.

*beeng*

Third floor. The door slides open and Blue presses the close doors button.

Cady, you best consider what you're in for come Warfare. I know you're trying your damnedest to prove to your pals you deserve a crown, that you should run with the big boys. You're just proving how stupid you are to them. You're the one who called me out for this, I was just looking for a fight at Warfare. You gave me your title. Not an opportunity. I don't take opportunities. I take spines and make them into biscuit dough. I take titles from simple fuckers like you who must love that drowning sensation because you are in over your head. I take whatever bullshit you got that you think is made of teflon and prove it's just cotton. Soft, white cotton. The guys whose asses you kiss all had to work together to eliminate me from High Stakes. What in the blue fuck makes you think you're going to do the work of Theo Pryce, Louis D'Ville, John Samuels, and John Madison all by your lonesome? You won't. You can't.

If you think they want to help you, they don't. If they had your best interests in mind, they would have given Chasm a shot at your title. Flat out, they would have fed you pussy, not lion. Speaking of which, watch Chasm. He doesn't give a fuck about you. He thinks your a pointless lame duck second hand champion too, why else would he spend his time trying to come up with shit to say about me? The story isn't Cadryn Tiberius, transitional champion. No. The story here is Robbie Motherfucking Bourbon, the big bad big bad of big bads coming home. Home to Warfare. Home to the people. Robbie Bourbon is coming back to Wednesday Night Warfare and he's coming to take back what is his.

The Hart Championship.

And you're going to do it in drag.

I'm going to do it in drag. Because I fucking can. I can go out there dressed like a lobster, I can go out there dressed like Bob Ross, I can go out there dressed like Ghost Tank and I can kick the shit out of anybody on Warfare, and the people know it. The people want it. The people want to see me putting my fist through your fucking skull so they can scoop up parts of your head like it's a fucking piñata at a quinceañera. The people will see me toss parts of you out to the crowd off a parade float like you're beads and it's fucking Mardi Gras. Tits, Cadryn! Lots and lots of tits getting flashed around, people getting laid, a fucking orgy, with people passing around your fingers and toes as some kind of currency after I rip them the fuck off of you.

*beeng*

Fourth floor. Ash mashes the close doors button, then turns and opens her makeup case. She starts to apply blush to Robbie's mask.

You look cuter already.

Thank you, Joe.

After this, maybe I could buy you breakfast?

Maybe, Joe, maybe.

Joe pulls out a pack of Altoids and opens them up. He dumps the whole pack in his mouth, hoping to make his breath come off as better to impress Bourbon when he identifies as a woman. Blue leans in.

I'll get Bridget Jones over here if you dare try to hit on him again.

Joe's eyes go wide as he faints, a ton of Altoids spilling from his mouth all over the floor of the elevator cab.

This is the tale of one Cadryn Tiberius, a lost little boy nobody should take all that serious, coming to clash with a force all imperious, it's not that mysterious, I'll beat your head inside out and leave you feeling delirious. I got a get back strategy of the utmost gravity it's almost text book like academy so pardon my analogy because we all know you have no sanity and when I get done you'll have an empty brain cavity. You sir, are not the main feature, sir, of the XWF, sir, of our match, sir, or of the group of men you try to associate yourself with. You're the ultimate sideshow, keeping the Hart in the Universe's shadow, your name is in the record books like some typo, I'm the original wrecker like Nature Boy Jackie Fargo, a man like me you could never hope to go toe to toe with though, so no, you're not walking out of Warfare, you're sliding out on a gurney. I'm the frontman, you're as replaceable as a bassist.

*beeng*

As the car opens on the fifth floor, a guard looks in curiously.

"Why did you stop at every floor?"

Robbie, Blue, and Ash all point on the floor at the catatonic Biden surrounded by Altoids.

"Oh. Did you guys scare him with Bridget Jones?"

Joe is on the ground, tears streaming from his face as he lies curled up in the fetal position.

Bridget Jones isn't real. Bridget Jones isn't real.

Ash has completed putting blush, rouge, and eyeliner on Robbie's mask, as well as deep purple lipstick on his lips. He looks ravishing in the weirdest way possible. The guard leads Robbie and company down a hall and to a door, leaving Joe Biden on the floor of an elevator as it closes. The guard opens the door, and inside in his pajamas is Attourney General Jeff Sessions.

Mr. Bourbon welcome to...

Sessions stops as he notices the makeup on Bourbon's face.

Hiya, Jeff. Do I look pretty to you?

Um, I don't know. I'm kind of scared by what is going on now.

Look, we came here because you wanted to discuss the Motherfuckers involvement in crime fighting on U.S. soil, right?

Yes, that's correct.

Good, did you bring what I asked?

I did, I don't understand it though.

Sessions hands a small black plastic bag to Robbie as he nods hello at Ash and Blue. Robbie pulls out a small cloth item.

These your wife's?

Uh, yes, but I don't understand why you need...

Robbie unfurls the cloth to reveal a pair of panties. Robbie slides them on over his jeans, and they immediately tear and fall apart at his knees.

Damn it, too small. I do feel a little sexier. Thank you, Mister Attourney General.

Now can we discuss the, ahem, Motherbleepers and fighting crime in America?

We're Motherfuckers©, sir.