Jim Caedus recently went on a display arguing all sorts of mean and nasty things about Robbie Bourbon for no real reason, defending his stance that his promo work was going to carry him through to victory.

Well, in the interest of displaying what a decent promo is actually like...

MENTAL

We open to see Robbie Bourbon sitting in his chair, grinning. Blue, Robbie's girlfriend and handler, is standing behind him, poking a tub of something that makes fart noises.

Oh, you don't like that?

Blue depresses into the putty faster than Ghost Tank depresses his parents by leaving the basement.

Jim Caedus doesn't like when I'm in a good mood?

Well, I'm tickled fucking pink right now.

Whoops, looks like I'm dropping a promo. Good thing I never signed any contract or anything.

Hold on, Jimmy, you can USE that in your next promo! You can go around and trumpet the fact you got Robbie Bourbon to cut a promo.

I've cut promos against Peter Gilmour plenty of times. This isn't very different.

Only Peter has a little bit more brain capacity than you do boyo.

Sweet of you to think this is Bourbon/Caedus TWO. You must've daydreamed about pinning me before or something. You should apologize.

You're coming to get knocked down at Shove-It, Jimmy. Hard. Fast. Not like you ever have been before.

And I'm pleased as punch to fucking do it.

I mean, if you stayed gone, nobody would have blamed you, Jimbo. Not a soul. Nobody in their right mind wants to face Robbie Bourbon in a Punjabi Prison on a Pole Monster Truck match. What a fucking mouthful that is to fucking say, too. Fucking Ghost Tank puts me in the fucking match because I was making fun of the fact IT WOULD NEVER FUCKING HAPPEN. Then it FUCKING HAPPENED.

See, when I joke around Jimmy, I get results.

Just because you can't recognize it as funny, well, I wouldn't if I were you either. You seem a little cocksure that I was somehow infuriated by the fact a man I'm about to beat the shit out of in one of his own jokes doesn't find the situation all that hilarious. Them doctor bills pile up, the stress gets worse, your body breaking down constantly, those precious few working brain cells you got firing neuron after neuron into the fucking abyss of nothingness to spurt out the pointless, overinflated horse shit en masse, so grandly, might I add, that you market it and sell it as manure.

I'm not buying manure, Jim. I live in the city.

That was a shitty joke. So was your title reign and the way you fucking coughed up the belt to Blingsteen. Blingsteen'd indeed. You got dropped harder than when your fucking ex-wife ditched your ass for brighter prospects. Specifically someone who could read a coloring book without assistance and didn't just write dicks in the margins every so often because he thought it made him sound xtreme, like it was new, or fresh, or some kind of novel concept that hadn't been around ever. Crass vulgarity, plain as day and tried and true.

Thing is, all that tenacity you exhibit? That gumption? I invented it.

Show me your balls, Jimmy, and I'll break them. With mine. They're twice the size, fucking boulders swinging between rock hard craggy thighs. Don't believe me? I was Danny Motherfucking Sex too. Oh, yeah, I was bonked on the head for a while, running around sticking my dick deeper and further into the nether regions of women worldwide while you were Universal Champion. Besides then, I was watching Scully's worthless ass get pinned again in tag competition and busy defending the fucking Hart Championship, so I guess I never really strove to grab the Universal Title. I had a full plate, Hart Champion used to actually mean something around here, now it's just a clever little chew toy nobody can scoop from Peter Gilmour.

Nice of you to congratulate Engy, though. Classy as fuck. He did whoop your ass.

Sorta why he's a Motherfucker and you, well, you gotta pretend to leave to seem relevant. To get noticed. To have anybody care about the fact you're about to get pasted by the fucking future XWF Universal Champion.

Parlor tricks, son, nothing but parlor tricks.

See, for anybody to notice what was going to happen at Shove-It, alls I had to do was say I was showing up. You sure did awful quick there. It's adorable. I'll sign your ass after I leave a fucking boot print in it and sell it on eBay, you'll be the ultimate fucking souvenir. Jim Caedus, the fluke of a fucking champion that just got beat, a real ring relic, going for about 10,000 Xbux. About time I had some fucking merchandise too.

See, those are parlor tricks too. I can't literally sell your ass. I'm pretty sure that'd land me in some kind of diplomatic hot water or whatnot, selling human flesh.

It's not saving you from having your body smashed through the splintery, decimated remains of a Punjabi Prison at Shove-It, though. If you don't want that to happen, stay home. It's not keeping you safe, it's not guarding you from anything, and it sure as fuck ain't hurting me or my feelings in any sort of way. Jim Caedus showed up sounding like me? Oooh, everybody, hold on, he's different because he pronounces some words like _this_ or even

L

I

K

E


T

H

I

S.

Robbie coughs and clears his throat, the years of never using meth never having prepared him to sound like that.

You know, Jimbo, we already know that you're slow. You done made it to Boardwalk but couldn't pass Go. Guess at the showdown is when we can throwdown, a spectacle so gruesome you'd guess it was Pennywise the clown. Turn that frown upside down. You sound like a toddler pissing into his granny's warm night gown while mommy goes out turning tricks on the town. Confounded? You ain't even begun to be hounded, locked up with me in a prison and you're always surrounded, try to prove to us you don't like the thought of being impounded with the motherfucking motherfucker leaving your ass agaze and astounded. I do not mean to gripe, sir, but I feel the time is ripe, sir, that the reason you don't need hype, sir, to win a match in the XWF, sir, is because every ass whooping I've ever delivered has spoken for itself, put asses on the shelf leaving 'em busted and crippled like your own brain damaged mental health, I wreck bodies and break 'em leave 'em for ambulances to take 'em, an EMT will try to wake 'em, grilled, fried, roasted and broiled by the atomic nuclear heat and left well done like a Steak'um. You're school lunch, served up on the daily, nobody wants to eat it they'll get all sickish and paley. Upchuck, we just heard Jim Caedus vomit, maybe it's the drugs he ate, dude was snorting Comet, bring your hype to the fucking ring, I'ma Robbiebomb it. Hype don't matter, hype ain't a fucking thing.

And Jim Caedus is all fucking hype.

Robbie turns in his chair and picks up a remote control. He presses a button. A screen behind him comes to life. In the picture, we see Harvey Levin, host and founder of TMZ on his nationally syndicated broadcast.

So, Robbie Bourbon was recently seen in an Airport in Toronto.

A random reporter chimes in.

"Isn't he that XWF dude?"

Yeah, he's a big deal for them. Anyway, someone saw him in an airport, and asked him if wrestling was fake.

The screen cuts to a video. We see Robbie Bourbon in the terminal at Toronto Pearson International Airport. The camera is shaky, a handheld, probably shot on someone's phone.

Hey, are you Robbie Bourbon?

Robbie's masked head turns, a smile forming on his face as he turns.

Yes, yes I am! How are you?

I'm, uh, good.

Awesome!

Robbie grins, waves, and turns to walk away, hopefully subverting the needless human interaction and trouble that could ensue.

Hey, can I ask you something?

Robbie turns, still smiling.

Yeah?

Is wrestling fake?

Robbie lifts up his t-shirt and shows a stitched wound on his stomach.

Nah, kid.

Robbie lowers his shirt, flicks the kid off, turns and walks away toting his luggage.

The camera cuts back to Harvey Levin. A random reporter chimes in.

"Woah, what was that?"

Another reporter.

"Robbie Bourbon got stabbed in the stomach in his last match."

"Yeah, he didn't really attack any of his opponents."

Wasn't it that weird battle of the sexes thing?

"I think so. The women won the match, but Robbie left because he was stabbed, one of his opponents went with him."

In his chair, Robbie presses the remote control again. The channel changes to CNN. On the screen, Wolf Blitzer is seen in a three way split screen along with Paul Begala and Rick Santorum. At the bottom of the screen the headline "IS WRESTLING TOO VIOLENT FOR AMERICANS?" is displayed in while letters on a red background.

Well the news is of Robbie Bourbon, an XWF Wrestler, involved in a match against three women, and a fan ran in and stabbed him.

That fan was defending the rights of feminists everywhere, Wolf.

Is that true Rick?

Not at all, Wolf. Robbie Bourbon was clearly outside of harms way when a crazed fan ran into the ring and tried to attack one of the women.

The video on the screen turns to footage from last Warfare, which you would already know if you actually paid attention to what happened on Warfare.

Warfare, you fucking <img src="https://i.imgur.com/pUgtAVa.gif"> , watch it for fucks sake before you talk about what happened on it Said:

Tala quickly crawls to her corner and tags in Jaslene! Robbie is up to his feet as Jaslene steps under the second rope. She's inside the ring, quite nervous as she looks around at the fans look insane! Suddenly, a madman in the front row hops the barricade and enters the ring!

"What in the world is this lunatic think he's doing!?"

"I don't know, but he's headed straight for the ring."

The lunatic fan slides inside the ring and jolts for Jaslene Sugay! As he goes at Jaslene with a knife who looks utterly confused, Robbie Bourbon steps out and in front of Jaslene! The fan unintentionally stabs Robbie who ultimately sacrifices himself for Jaslene!

"Robbie has just been stabbed!"

Robbie fights through the pain as he lunges at the crazed fan and grabs him while Jaslene arches over Robbie. Jaslene connects with a high knee kick to the face of the fan! She hits him in the teeth as he falls to the canvas and security rushing in the ring to handle the fan. Meanwhile, Robbie starts to make an exit and Jaslene follows him.

Paul, it looks as though Robbie Bourbon was defending those women, and it was noble of him to sacrifice himself for their safety.

Well Wolf, those women's safety wouldn't be in jeopardy if it weren't for the very ring they fight in. Wrestling is too violent, and it creates violence in others.

Well we have Robbie Bourbon in Studio...

A third partition on the screen shows Robbie Bourbon, the fourth talking head on your screen, bedecked in his mask.

Hello, Wolf.

Mr. Bourbon, do you feel like wrestling is violent?

*BEEP* yeah I do, Wolf.

Santorum and Begala both laugh along with Wolf.

Robbie, you can't say that on the air.

Well, then hell yeah I do. It's very violent. I got stabbed, and it wasn't a wrestler, it was a fan. A deranged, sick fan who wanted to harm one of my colleagues. And that's what it is, it's kind of like a thing, we settle our differences we might have in the ring, we fight for sport, it's very lucrative, I might have been cut, but I'm still sharp and serrated beating people left and right 'till they're mentally incapacitated. No need to be exacerbated, we don't claim to be even R rated, we market to an older demographic with higher demands to be sated, bloodlust, gentlemen, will never be baded, so we bring it to the masses on this platform Shane created. Or Jon Brown. Or someone before him. It doesn't matter. We exercise more Constitutional rights than any other company in the country, and the people love it. Not just Ted Cruz but half of the senate masturbates to us,
even. We're awesome.

We zoom back out to see Robbie still in his chair. He clicks the channel. It's now on ESPN. On the screen we see Lindsay Czarniak, along with Robbie Bourbon. On the side of the screen, a list of stories is held in a queue, the current one highlighted and reading "MONSTER TRUCK MADNESS". Behind Robbie is his bitching Monster Truck covered with speakers and such.

I'm here with Robbie Bourbon, who is fighting in the first ever Punjabi Prison on a Pole Monster Truck match in the history of wrestling. Robbie, what made you come up with that notion?

Well you see, Lindsay...

We zoom out and see Robbie click the TV off with a flick of his finger on the big red button on the remote control. He spins around, a smile still on his face.

That, Jimbo, that's HYPE.

That's presence. That's having a fucking name. That's being in demand. I didn't call for this promo, you did! I delivered. I didn't ask CNN to interview me, they did! I delivered. I didn't ask ESPN to have me on their show and talk about how much more my monster truck kicks ass than yours, designed and perfected by physicists from Berkeley, MIT, and Oxford. I sure as fuck never ask a fan to stop me in public, they just do it. I show up time and again because the people demand it, the people want it, and flat the fuck out, the people fucking deserve it!

If you didn't notice, they didn't bring you up very much.

No fucking wonder you try so fucking hard to sound like me. Well, me if I was busy knocking back dick after dick in a fucking nightclub bathroom hoping to make enough money to support my family drug habit another day, because the fucking income I get from Social Security for all my fucking mental disabilities just isn't enough for the pounds upon pounds of drugs it has to fucking take to even believe for one fucking second you have the fucking slightest chance of getting into my head.

You can't even wrap your head around your own mind, son, can't even figure out what's going on in there.

But you're going to come back again and blurt out some noise, convincing yourself it's hype, that it's going to come back to haunt me when I have my knuckles dug in under your chin and I'm bouncing my fist of your head like some terrifying contraption gone haywire with a mechanical cadence so crisp TAG Heuer will be releasing a special watch with a minute, second, and motherfucking pimp hand timed just to it's rhythm. That when you say "hey, you're " or "well, you're " or even "here's another way to describe " it'll somehow spell my doom when you're left hung on the posts of a Punjabi Prison, ounce after ounce of hot, fresh, red blood oozing and dripping down twenty feet to the ring from the wreckage of wood I leave as I slide down a pole, hop in the driver's seat of my fucking machine, and dash across a finish line. I won't finish you, Jim. I won't skewer you in a way it'll damage your spine, I'll make sure not to impale any major organs or arteries. I'll even make sure your appendix stays in tact and you don't even need that one. I won't put a spike through your stomach, either kidney, your poor dilapidated and abused liver, your scarred and tarred lungs, or even that big blotch of empty and useless where your brains were supposed to be. It'll leave the perfect mark. And you'll tell everybody "Welp, I brought the hype against Robbie Bourbon, and he stuck me to the fucking wall and it took a couple of crow bars to get me off of there." The story people are tuning in to see, Jimmy boy, is what the current number one contender and future Universal Champion, Robbie Motherfucking Bourbon, is going to do to Biggest Fluke of Twenty Seventeen and massive cunt that couldn't even beat Blingsteen like the little bitch he is. They want to see what a real fucking contender and staple of the XWF, the one everybody knows ain't going anywhere because he doesn't fucking have to, the big bad big bad of big bads, the creature bent on wrecking, Robbie Motherfucking Bourbon, does to you the same as they want to watch someone put a frog in a fucking blender.

The only person who cared about Jim Caedus leaving was Jim Caedus.

I was going to send you packing. Now I'm going to fucking destroy you at Shove-It,
and that's going to generate plenty of hype.