Robbie Bourbon recently announced he would be hosting a pancake breakfast at his dojo, and that it would be massive, but moreso expressing how much of a dipshit Tristan Slater is.

Centurion, if you ever wondered why people thought the era you first competed in was garbage, dig Tristan Slater.

INTERNATIONAL HOUSE OF PAINCAKES

The Robbie Bourbon dojo for the competitive arts. Today is a special day as a huge banner reading "PRESIDENT'S DAY PANCAKE-A-PALOOZA" is displayed. Inside, what looks like miles of tables in neat rows are aligned with seats, every table packed with people ready for the dojo to serve up good pancakes and good times.

Robbie steps out of his office, bedecked like George Washington, a powdered wig atop his masked skull. Beside him is Cyberjaw, the man with the cybernetic jaw, dressed as Abe Lincoln, and Diamondback, the man who can blend into any crowd, dressed as Teddy Roosevelt. Ash, Robbie's stylist, approaches the trio.

Uh, we're out of syrup.

What? We stocked up on gallons of the stuff.

Well, we're running out!

A pancake breakfast won't be the same without syrup!

Seriously, I bought two fifty-five gallon drums of pure maple syrup. We've burned through over a hundred gallons of syrup? We've only been up and running for a half hour!

Hey, I don't know what to tell you.

The camera pans to show Guy Fieri, right mayor of flavortown, and Corn, he who is corn, sitting in a kiddie pool filled with maple syrup, splashing each other and giggling.

That's right, let the flavor seep into your pores.

Corn cakes!

Robbie rolls his eyes.

I need to fire those guys.

Yeah they're getting old.

Well, we better go get more syrup. Tell the scouts that we'll be back.

Ash leaves and speaks to a young man in a Boy Scouts uniform. The camera zooms out to show most of the people actually making the magic happen at this here pancake breakfast are a local Boy Scout troop, with Robbie hosting.

C'mon, guys, those scouts need new tents and equipment, and they're raising money by having a pancake breakfast.

Why didn't you just cut them a check?

Where's the fun in that?

Robbie, Diamondback, and Cyberjaw, looking like three-fourths of Mount Rushmore, head out of the dojo together and all walk towards a very plain looking white van, the type that's generally a fleet vehicle.

Sweet ride, bro.

You know me, I drive economy. So long as it gets from point A to B, it's good for me. I wonder if Tristan can see I own a van that belongs to me? Does he see everything that people own that belongs to them? Like, there's stating the obvious, but then there's just spouting out words to sound like an autistic kid with down syndrome who's doing whippits.

How often do you get pulled over because people think it's a rape van?

Dude, all the time. They're usually looking for Peter Gilmour, but to tell the truth, there's an even bigger creeper out there named Tristan Slater!

He's a turd.

Yeah, yeah he is.

Robbie gets into the driver's seat of the van as Cyberjaw takes shotgun and Diamondback slides open the rear door. Robbie begins to drive away from the dojo.

Look, bro, we need to talk about something.

Like what?

Your record.

Robbie sighs.

Yeah, yeah, I know. I haven't really been racking up wins here, lately, but that's bound to change. Win some, lose some, and now I have a match with someone so easy it's like a fat forty-something drinking alone in a bar who just broke up with her fiance. Actually, Tristan is easier than that, he's like third grade math homework. I mean, sure, he struggles with the material, but functioning adults have no problem with it. New method or not.

So, what are you going to do to the guy?

What am I going to do? Well, first, we get locked in a cage. That's par for the course at this point; Robbie Bourbon always gets locked in cages with people to fight. I'm starting to think they just do it so I don't go off the rails and cause too much damage to the arena, or worse, accidentally hurt one of the fans in the XWF Universe when I go wild and start chucking bodies about. I mean, when I pancaked Slater last Savage, I didn't hurt anybody, besides Slater. Funny he thinks he walked away from that, when the tape genuinely shows he's getting wheeled out like a cart full of groceries. Guess I dinged him up so bad he went on the say so of Peter or Shane for what happened.

Why did you attack him?

Robbie scratches his chin, the honey gold chin scruff poking out from the open maw of his mask.

Well, for starters, he's one of Shane's guys. I've been on the warpath to deal with them, sort of why Engineer is such a priority. Stopping Shane just means cutting off what tools he has, and Slater is a complete and utter tool. Then, well, he's kinda shown himself to be a total scumbag in the past, what with turning on Main and Page. Not that I have any real love for them, but I do respect them, and give respect where it's due. Main and Page helped me out with FUN Wrestling in the desert. Least I can do is make sure the garbage they unloaded gets incinerated the right way. But, and here's the kicker...

Barney Green sits up from the back of the van. Cyberjaw and Diamondback are completely startled and gasp.

...the man was a fuck to Barney. I can abide by many things, but fucking with Barney Green is just fucking low. Barney, didn't he pee on your dead relatives or something?

Yeah.

Barney, what were you doing back there?

Taking a nap.

Barney is welcome to do as he pleases. He's a Bourbon Man.

Seriously, you were just napping back there and happened to be here when we needed to go buy syrup?

Barney nods, then starts reading an Archie comic book.

So I called Slater out. Seriously. I called him out, challenged him to a match, said I'd face him in the ring.

What'd he do?

The dumb motherfucker said I needed to come to him!

So you did.

Fuck yeah I did.

Are you worried about, y'know, repercussions?

Repercussions? I figure that's what Engy did last Warfare. Made damn sure I didn't win the Hart Championship so one of Shane's guys could make a run for it. Tristan seems dead set on losing to Centurion here soon, I guess he doesn't have faith that Peter is going to get the job done, and who can blame him? Peter has been on the skids for the better part of a decade, and you are the company you keep.

I beat Vinnie.

You sure did, bud. You sure did.

Do you ever hang out with Page and Main?

Eh, we may exchange hellos in the airport here and there.

Why does Tristan think you're riding their dick?

Probably because of the brain damage I gave him last Savage.

Are you worried about that?

What, his current level of brain damage or the brain damage that's coming his way in the cage at Savage? Neither. He even said it himself, he doesn't give a shit about this match, which is about the stupidest thing in the world. Sure, lately I haven't won matches, but as for the beatings I give they're top notch.

The van stops at a red light. Cyberjaw turns on the radio and fidgets with it for a moment.

Why are you guys dressed like that?

Robbie, Cyberjaw, and Diamondback all glance at each other. Robbie turns his attention back to the road.

The President's Day Pancake-a-palooza is going on at the dojo, bud.

Oh.

The light turns green. Robbie continues to drive.

Where are you going?

Costco.

Oh. Why are you doing a President's day thing so late? Shouldn't this be for Mardi Gras?

Details, Barney, details.

Robbie couldn't get any Mardi Gras stuff but had these President costumes sitting around.

I could have gotten Mardi Gras stuff.

Yeah, but you had these President costumes sitting around.

Why?

Well, I suppose for today.

Robbie pulls the van into a parking lot, Costco just a few dozen feet away. He steps out along with Cyberjaw and Diamondback.

Barney, are you coming?

Nah, I'm good.

Barney lies back down in the back of the van. Robbie, Cyberjaw, and Diamondback start walking towards Costco, looking kind of like if Washington, Lincoln, and Teddy Roosevelt were about to drop the sickest rap album of the decade.

So, Tristan. Caught your little promo there. Really cute of you to whisk away the Hart Championship belt and say someone needs to come take it back from you. I agree, that's the only way you'll ever hold that title these days and the only way you'll even dream of sniffing a match for it anywhere, really. What does your buddy Peter think about him having to take the title back? Wait, are you going to hand it over to the referees come next Warfare so it can be hung above the ring for Centurion and Peter to fight over? It's pretty clear you don't have much of a plan, or idea of what you're even doing, but that's to be expected. You're not really the sharpest guy around. You're really just a dullard.

So, you want the XWF to die off, but your idea of making that happen is by ramping up intrigue and holding on to someone else's Hart Championship for a few days before handing it off to be suspended above the ring. Dullard.

You think I'm supposed to sweat some cage when I have been in a glass cage about a week ago, Hell in a Cell two weeks ago, and an Elimination Chamber a few months ago. Good job pointing out that the cage is supposed to be more terrifying than you are. You didn't have to, I mean, we all already knew inanimate objects are scarier than you, Tristan. I would be more concerned with a Nerf football, a bucket, or a ficus in that cage than I would with you. At least people want to see Nerf footballs, buckets, or fake plants. You fucking dullard.

What I don't get is I was easy pickins' after my match with Centurion. You even had your pal Engineer out there setting everything up, getting involved in my shit, making sure you had Centurion to fuck around with for that Hart Championship instead of me, why didn't you come on down then? Because you were busy eating fucking paint chips and waiting for a zebra to turn into a unicorn?

Speaking of which, why is it Engineer never seems to hang around the bums like you and Gilmour?

You know what, don't even consider any of that shit, Tristan. It's for the fans to consider, especially since you're a dullard and couldn't entertain a thought or electrify a toaster with an extension cord.

Cool name, by the way, how many people are disappointed when the find out you're not the guy from True Romance? Shit, imagine how disappointed they are once you open your mouth. You have the speaking skills of a snail, and that's going to get the people at PETA up in arms for saying snails are anything like you.

Seriously, isn't that why you guys all align yourself with Shane, so you don't have to sound like a hairlip on AM radio whenever you cut a fucking promo?

Shit, spoiler alert, Universe, come eleven fifty-nine PM tomorrow, Tristan's going to drop another gallon of gibberish on the airwaves thinking it'll somehow rattle me good and save his ass come Saturday Night in the cage.

Well, that's Tristan's thinking, and Tristan has a mind like a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. Soft, squishy, and even the average five year-old isn't surprised by anything in it.

Here's how Saturday night is going to break down for you, Tristan. I want you to listen as hard as you...

...hold on.

Robbie reaches into his pocket and pulls his wallet out. He shows his Costco ID to the greeter, and he, Cyberjaw, and Diamondback walk in.

So this is how Savage is going to play out for you, Dullard.

You're going to hear your little music play, you're going to walk out, make faces at my people, the XWF Universe, reminding them what a shitheel you are and why even your own mother won't return your calls, even on her birthday. You're going to posture, and pose, and try to look like some kind of actual wrestler, someone who belongs in that ring, your heart racing because you're living the fantasy, you're stepping into the cage on Saturday Night Savage, and by golly, you're so special for it. You've heard people talk about how special you are for years, riding the special bus to school, using the special bathrooms in public, but now you finally get it.

That's when the crowd starts to cheer. They aren't cheering you, no, they're cheering because they know what comes next.

It's time for fun.

Robbie Bourbon is on the way to that very ring, headed to the squared circle. You look on, thinking this isn't danger, this isn't trouble, but then something really unexpected happens; I start walking down to the ring. You don't understand it, but is he getting bigger? No, Dullard, I'm just getting closer. Calmly walking down into that cage because I know damn well my brand of fun is about to set in. You find yourself gulping, swallowing nothing really, just to keep the contents of your stomach on the inside. Maybe I bit off more than I can chew, maybe I am drowning, am I choking? You ask yourself all these things, all because a referee is locking you inside the steel with me, the big bad big bad of big bads. The Wednesday Night Wrecker, come to be the Saturday Night Slaughter, the last outlaw in this industry, not some follower or yes man to , or any of the suits, the Sultan of Smacktalk, the Titan of Trashtalk, the King o' Cringe, the one true Virginia Shadeslinger, the time for insults done, the time for banging and clanging indoors begins.

At first, it's like last Savage. The first shot leaves you feeling nothing. Sure, the crowd is impressed with how far your neck snapped back after I chucked you into a cage faster than Peter Gilmour downing a chicken parm. But, wait, you're coming too, another shot bouncing your peanut off the cage wakes you up. You reach around, hoping for a snooze button, but no such luck, because the beating I'm giving you is so sick the CDC might shut it down for fear of coronavirus.

Robbie and his friends approach the aisle where the syrup can be found. The roll a massive fifty-five gallon bottle of Mrs. Buttersworth, weighing nearly six-hundred pounds, off the display and down the aisle towards the check-out.

You'll start praying after that. Calling out to your mom, wondering why she didn't love you. Calling out to Shane, why did he let you come into this match when you could have stayed a complete chickenshit and NOT come into the cage to begin with. You cry out to Peter Gilmour, wondering why you didn't take his warnings from every time he stepped foot in a cage with me, about the new assholes I ripped him over the years. You cry out to God, and that's when I look down at you and say no, I will not forgive, I will not relent, I will not allow you to walk on this earth, you are condemned to hell, the hell of my creation and chosing, because compared to you I am a fucking god in this industry.

Shit, Dullard, I always go off about how much I cost this company in collateral damages, how much shit I break. How I broke a barricade with you.

Imagine how much the company will be shelling out when your insurance skyrockets because you were on the wrong end of a Robbie Bourbon match in a fucking steel cage in front of the people?

Fuck, you even thought you walked out of last Savage, you should have heard the people chanting my name for what I did to you.

They'll be chanting again as I beat the peanut butter and jelly out of your head.

Don't get anything else twisted, Tristan, you think I play the hero?

Not for you.

I'm not coming to own you, Dullard. I don't want to own you, if I did, I'd either drop you off at the Goodwill or just throw you in the trash, because I couldn't sell you for a fucking wooden nickel.

Robbie, Cyberjaw, and Diamondback approach a check out. The clerk scans the giant bottle of Mrs. Buttersworth, which is taller than Robbie. Robbie reaches for his wallet again and hands the clerk a piece of plastic with his name and sixteen digits on it. Once the transaction is settled, the three men lug the giant bottle of syrup out to the van, where Barney will probably cuddle with it, keeping it warm for the Boy Scouts back at the dojo, ready for consumption at the President's Day Pancake-a-palooza.