Robbie's confidence seems to have been severely shaken by the events that occurred at Lethal Lottery, which may have prompted Louis D'Ville to speak to him.

What could bolster his spirits?

ROASTED NUTS

The Robbie Bourbon Dojo for the Competitive Arts. Almost a staple in and of itself in the XWF due to the sheer amount of promos Robbie Bourbon himself has cut here. Well, not at all, really, but definitely a staple in Robbie's existence, and Robbie, being a staple in the XWF, we're talking stapleception or some such rubbish associative wordplay. Peter digresses.

The holiday season has definitely taken over the whole of the dojo. In the northwest corner, the Dunkin Donuts is bedecked with wreathes and signage showcasing their amazing gift cards, the perfect gift for someone you got for Secret Santa at work or a white elephant exchange. In the northeast corner, the kitchens are Xtremely busy with activity, chefs bustling about creating cakes, cookies, figgy puddings, and all manner of crazy unhealthy holiday treats meant to bring comfort and warmth to the soul. In the southeast corner, where once was a hair studio, then a yoga studio, we see a kiosk with a menagerie of phone cases for sale, just like you would see in any shopping mall left standing in the United States. Looks like that southeast corner is just a lousy location, nothing lasts there. In the southwest corner, we see the ring, full of wrestling trainees all honing their craft, the ropes replaced with garland to enhance the festive atmosphere.

In the center of the dojo we see Robbie's office. The door opens and we see two of the Dunkin employees walk out. Inside, we see Robbie Bourbon seated at his desk. Beside the desk, in a chair, Dr. Louis D'Ville is seated, puffing away on a cigarette. Across from the desk we see Cyberjaw, the man with the cybernetic jaw, Diamondback, the man who can blend into any crowd, Guy Fieri, right mayor of Flavortown, and Corn, he who is corn, all kind of squished together on the same couch. Beside the couch is Ruby the Centaur, Robbie's literal centaur girlfriend and not the wrestler from Anarchy. Robbie looks blah, an air of ennui seeming to grip him.

So, uh, you assembled us Bourbon Men, boss, what's the plan?

Not quite. I suggested that Robbie seek your guidance at this time.

I don't know what to do. I have a match on Christmas, I mean I already tricked the devil into curing sick kids at Christmas time, for better or worse, I guess I could just relax until then.

Honey, are you sure that's a good idea?

Yeah, Rob, back in flavor town the only thing that should be sitting is meat in a marinade, and you don't want to be eaten alive in the chamber.

Ash, Robbie's stylist, walks into the office. She places a coloring book and some crayons on the desk.

You could color, I guess.

Robbie's expression changes to that of consideration behind his mask. He picks up the box of crayons and eyes it. Louis D'Ville slaps it out of his hand.

I don't think it very wise to waste precious time you could be using to prepare for a championship match by playing with a coloring book.

I haven't colored in like decades.

Yeah, well, let's keep it that way.

Corn, do you have any thoughts?

Corn was the staff of life for many Indian people before contact, and it became the staff of life for many European colonists.

Everyone in the room nods in assent.

There's no denying that.

Perhaps you should get to some of your regular training?

Robbie shakes his head 'no'.

I, uh, I can't. It's Christmas. This is like the one time of the year where I actually redeem myself and don't act like a complete and utter asshole to people. Speaking of which, did...

Yes, Robbie, we sent all the sick kids that Louis cured XBox One X gaming systems.

Sweet. It just wouldn't be Christmas if a bunch of children could ignore the fact they got a new lease on life by playing some Gears of War.

Bro.

Cyberjaw stands up. So does Diamondback.

You're in a mood. You need to go out and be the son of a bitch you really are.

Maybe you need to do something for yourself for Christmas this time.

You need to go out and actually get to thumping on some scumbags or something. Go break a muggers arm or sodomize a meth dealer with a pineapple.

Robbie stands, looking flustered. Louis D'Ville puts out his cigarette in a coffee cup and immediately lights another.

I shouldn't! I mean, it's time to think about peace on earth, and goodwill. It's time to push for harmony.

Ruby walks up to Robbie.

Honey, I know you're trying to be good.

Babe, I don't want to show my more vulgar side.

Well, I think I like your vulgar side.

Really?

Robbie half smirks.

Mmhmm.

Ruby leans down and kisses Robbie. Robbie blushes. Ash forces a gagging sound. Louis D'Ville chuckles.

Bro!

You need to get mean.

You need to get nasty.

You need to get spicy.

You need to get corny.

You need to get wicked.

You need to go out and be the monster that's man enough to ride a centaur.

Robbie looks around the room at everyone.

Alright, fuck it.

Robbie storms out of the room. A fraction of a second later he comes back in.

Forgot my wallet.

Robbie goes to a shelf behind his desk and grabs his wallet. He tucks it into his wrestling trunks and exits the room.

---

The alley is dark and cold. The light rain chills to the bone. A young man drags an extremely drunk, half conscious young woman into the alley. She stumbles and falls to the ground. She seems to be weeping. The young man laughs slowly.

It's going to be alright, I promise, it will be over with quick, before you even know it.

She mumbles incoherently at the man, swaying her hand through the air at him. He unbuckles his belt as she props herself up, dejected but seemingly accepting the horrible fate handed to her.

Good girl. Now open wide.

The young man drops his pants. As he does, a human freight train in a spangly sequined jacket plows into him. Robbie grips the young man by the back of the neck and slams his face into a brick wall.

Naughty.

Robbie slams his face again into the wall. Blood starts to gush out of his face, and not just out of his nose or mouth, but from wounds freshly created from the impact of flesh on masonry. Robbie slams his face again, and the whole of the young man's body goes limp. Robbie then takes the limp body of the young man and tosses it into a nearby dumpster. The extremely drunk young lady looks up at Robbie with tears in her eyes.

Please don't arrest me!

Robbie's head cocks at the incredibly drunken statement.

I, uh, okay, I won't. Merry Christmas.

Robbie gives her a thumbs up and runs off.

---

A man with a crowbar is creeping past a house, his eyes surveying for signs onlookers or witnesses. He makes his way to the back door and wedges the crowbar into the door jamb. Another man approaches.

Yo, the van is in the driveway, we'll just load it up from the front door.

Great. Get in, grab the expensive stuff, get out, and haul it to the fence.

With that, a harpoon pierces the man with the crowbar's arm, causing him to scream in agony as it lances through flesh, muscle, and bone. The other guy looks in horror at the blood oozing from the wound. He looks past the man with the crowbar and gasps as a massive gloved mitt grabs the back of his head and shoves the business end of the harpoon into his mouth and out the back of his skull. As his body twitches from the shock of having the top of his spinal column annihilated, Robbie grabs the other end of the harpoon and twists it.

I hate thieves. You're lucky I don't beat you with paint cans.

The man with the crowbar screams in agony as Robbie wrenches the crowbar from him. Robbie brings the crowbar up over his head and sinks the bent claw into the top of the man's skull. Both he and his would be burglar counterpart slump to the ground, blood pooling up on the back porch of this basic suburban home. The camera turns and we see the Bourbon Men watching, agog.

Where did you get a harpoon gun?

Ruby looks more confused at the method of violence than the violence itself.

I got a guy.

A harpoon gun guy?

Yep, a harpoon gun guy.

Louis D'Ville looks dead at the camera, smiles, points to himself, and nods.

---

Three little old ladies are seen sitting in an empty bakery, looking forlorn.

"Oh, no one has come to our shop in a month. I am afraid we'll be out of business!"

With that, Robbie Bourbon enters the bakery.

Have no fear, ladies, I know how to get you out of financial ruin!

The little old ladies perk up.

You have insurance, right?

"Of course!"

Cool, wait outside.

The three little old ladies walk outside of the bakery and stand beside the Bourbon Men. Inside, we see Robbie Bourbon walk into the kitchen, and then run out, smoke starting to billow from within.

Get back!

The bakery explodes.

Alright, now you three make a nice insurance claim. Merry Christmas!

The three ladies look in shock at their freshly destroyed bakery, blown to smithereens by an outside force, hence making this not insurance fraud.

---

Back at the Robbie Bourbon Dojo for the Competitive Arts, Robbie, Ruby, Doc, and the assembled Bourbon Men all look in much brighter spirits, as though they all just went caroling. Maybe they did and the montage didn't show it.

Robbie, I feel it is time.

Yeah, yeah I think so too. Alright.

Everybody in the dojo stops and turns. It has been some time since Robbie Bourbon did what he is about to do in the dojo.

So, it seems my opponents have cut a few promos.

Goodie for them. I mean, it's not a surprise or anything. It's what we do in the XWF. We cut promos, then we go into the ring and fight it out. This time, I face off against four men for a chance at the Hart Championship.

We already know that!

Yeah man! Get to the part where you do the smack talk!

Y'all want some smack talk?

Most of the dojo all looks around, murmuring but giving some assent.

I can't hear you! Do you want me, the Sultan of Smacktalk, the Big Bad Big Bad of Big Bads, the Wednesday Night Wrecker, the Promised End, the Last Outlaw, the Man of the People, and one god damned sumbitch of a motherfucker to tell y'all about my opponents?

The whole dojo roars in approval.

Well alright then.

Robbie clears his throat.

Can you count to a hundred?

I know it doesn't seem like it's the most difficult task in the world. In the grand scheme of things, one hundred isn't really all that great a number, but in some instances, well, one hundred is really, REALLY significant.

For starters, Michael Archer. Or Hunter. Or Sniper. Whatever the fuck your name is, you seem to kind of feel like changing it whenever, I'm pretty sure it's because you're trying to hide a second family from your first family or something. Not that your name matters. Names, after all, are just a thing, the exception being the only thing bigger than Robbie Bourbon in the Hart Championship Chamber Match is Robbie Bourbon's very name itself. What was your dad's name? Was it Archer? Was it Hunter? You introduced yourself as both at different times. You seem confused. Befuddled. Dumbfounded.

If I found out I was popping my XWF cherry locked up with me, I would be a little frazzled myself.

You aren't intimidated? Great! That's just proof you're fucking . Kind of like how toddlers aren't afraid to stick forks in electrical outlets or drink Draino. They just don't know any better.

You revealed everything anybody needs to know about you already, kid, hit the skids. Signed a contract like you're daddy, but now look what you did. Getting yourself chopped, diced, sliced, and minced in my Hart Championship bid. This dopey little thing better come up with a plan, because when that bell rings I'ma beat your ass like I would have beat up your old man. Who the fuck is Michael Archer, or Michael Hunter, whatever the fuck he is, he couldn't make a splash in the shallow end of the gene pool it just turned out to be trash. And, as they say, garbage in, garbage out.

I bet if you ask nicely, Theo will let you out of the match so you can actually have some kind of career before I kill it.

Oops, I think I already did.

It's okay, though, when I send you to hell you can catch up with your pops. Tell him a real fucking superstar in this industry sent you.

Speaking of hell, there's Chris "I beat someone one time out of twenty and that's good enough for me" Chaos, who's whole fucking career has been in limbo ever since I knocked him out of the box for the number one contendership to the Universal Championship. Chris "I had a promising future but too much trauma from Robbie Bourbon left me in shambles" Chaos, the actual number one contender, and I hope you keep that number one slot, because having a piece of fucking cake defense against your simple ass sounds just right once I am the Hart Champion again. Daddy's coming, baby, don't you worry, that precious white leather and gold just ties any ensemble together.

And Chris, showing everybody your mediocre ass career isn't a fucking promo. It's just boring airtime, shit to fast forward through on the DVR playback, because who in their right mind sits and waits to watch a Chris Chaos promo live?

I mean, you make me out to be some sociopath. Doesn't play well with others?

Good thing I'm in a line of work where all I gotta do is beat their asses.

I love kickball, by the way, and I was always first picked, and I never made people pitch the damn ball bouncy or flat, whatever they felt like serving up I was going to punt it a fucking mile and clear the bases. Ace of an outfielder, too, I could throw a fool out at home from deep center.

Cute attempts at metaphor, but hey, cute just doesn't cut it. Maybe, just maybe, if you ever fucking learned that, you could reignite your career. Instead, well, you just wanna be cute.

Past all that, Chris, what can I say about you that I haven't before? Why do I feel the need to sound fresh and avoid being a bore? Well, lucky for me, this year has been good, and they made up a new word to describe you as I should. And I shall.

Incel.

That's celibate for the hell of it, maybe because he can't stand the smell of it. Intimacy? He don't do well with it, the way any woman makes him delicate, but all of that is irrelevant. Softer than a five pound bag of feathers, out of place in any kind of get-togethers, sociopathic, predictable, every little thing is contradictable, I will kill you in the ring and claim to be convictable.

This fucking moron would count to fifteen before forgetting what he was doing then tell everybody that twenty-two was actually a hundred.

Chris Incel couldn't sell tickets in a movie theater, couldn't sell t-shirts at Wal-Mart, couldn't touch a titty if he was a bra, and couldn't find a vacuum so he just sucks instead.

All in all, that's just Chris Incel. Chris Incel couldn't. I can and will.

Oh, then there's Chris Incel's little rival, and future former champ, Centurion.

Can this man count to a hundred?

One hundred, Centurion.

That's how many pounds you are giving up against me.

The wee little champion sitting in a pod, waiting and watching, hoping and praying by some complete contradiction to nature itself, I somehow run out of gas and just up and get tired. Like "hoo boy, looks like I'm pooped after pummeling the fucking dog shit out of Michael Hunter/Archer/Shooter/Whatever-the-fuck and Chris Incel, pretty sure they shouldn't have been huffing as much fucking glue as they have been in the back but I guess whatever numbs the pain of a Bourbonweight crushing you" and I'm just going to want to take a quick nap. My physique is what you want to call into question?

Is it the eight inches I got on you? Shit, Centurion, if I really wanted to be a dick I would just hide your keys on top of the refrigerator.

A hundred and ninety pounds? That's a light workout when I go to the gym. Sure, that Prius sure gets mile after mile to the gallon, the gas tank almost never ends, but watch what the fuck happens when it hits a tractor trailer head on.

You sure that tiny body frame can handle the impact with as many miles as you have on the ole' odometer? Old Man Centy, sitting in his rocker, talking about how it was back in his day, which era was the best in the history of the XWF.

Was the Shane era the best?

I don't give a fuck.

You wouldn't know, you weren't there. Anything went, and so did you, right out the door.

You were terrified of the kinds of creatures and beings that would show up, weren't you? The pedophiles, the rapists, the racists, all of them scared you so fucking much you went to, well, who gives a fuck.

But, that's the hitch of it right there.

All them monsters and creatures that showed up during the Shane era.

Then I showed up.

Show me a pedophile, and I see an opportunity to whoop someone's ass for fun and pay.

Show me a Nazi. I know your little line about fighting the Nazis was a metaphor. For me, though, it wasn't. I was literally here in the XWF fighting fucking Nazis, ripping them limb from limb, breaking necks and cashing checks like it was my job. Because it was my job. And it still is my job.

Show me the rapists.

You know why they're all gone, gramps? Because I beat the living fuck out of them on TV, in the ring, around the fucking globe, while you were sticking your thumb up your ass in front of half the fucking cameras and a quarter of the fans and calling it a wrestling career.

Anything went, and anything still goes, and it has nothing to do with Shane , with Theo Pryce, with Vinnie Lane. Nah, it has to do with the fact the XWF Universe has a monster, THE monster, less someone and more something that thumps its chest, makes the ground shake, and batters the living fuck out of anything claiming to be legendary, anything claiming to be unreal, anything claiming to be the be-all-end-all of existence, in this world or the next.

I am that monster.

You, like the rest, are just another victim in waiting, watching the horror show unfold.

And last, but definitely not least, Barney Green.

Robbie shrugs.

He's my bud. I don't have anything negative to say about Barn whatsoever.

Oh, wait, you mean none of you have an ally in the match?

Incel and Grampa Centurion don't mix well. Pretty sure Michael, uh, fuck it, Projectile Guy or whatever your name is going to be next week, ate too many paint chips and probably thinks the ring ropes are his enemies.

Then the super heavyweight portion of the match seem to be on the same page.

Bourbon and Green, one sweet, one mean, wrecking three bodies, what a sight to be seen.

Now, gentlemen, that is what you call a spitfire flamethrower fueled by venom bent on melting faces.

Robbie throws his hands up. The entire crowd in the dojo is going ballistic, all chanting in unison.

*ROBBIE'S GONNA KILL YOU!*ROBBIE'S GONNA KILL YOU!*ROBBIE'S GONNA KILL YOU!*

Robbie grins, ear to ear, for the first time in quite a while.

Gotta give the people what they want. Now's a good time to retire Centurion, go out on top and not in the dirt! Incel, I look forward to giving you your pity beating. Mike Lastname, feel free to come and train, maybe learn to wrestle before having a match.