Robbie Bourbon, MVP of Warfare, defends that status each week.

His first defense is against the man he beat out twice to earn that title.

OF THE UNIVERSE!

The ambiance of a summer night is something magical. In the distance, we see a bonfire illuminating a field, the sounds of cicadas, crickets, and all manner of fauna contributing to the livelyhood of the evening. The camera cuts in closer, and we see, seated around the campfire, are Robbie Bourbon, along with Cyberjaw, the man with the cybernetic jaw, Diamondback, the man who can blend into any crowd, Ash, Robbie's stylist, and Guy Fieri, right mayor of Flavortown. Guy is playing a set of hand drums like a motherfucker. Robbie's Warfare MVP Medallion glimmers in the light of the roaring fire as Robbie leans forwards, roasting a hot dog on a stick in the open flame. Ash is being a dork on her phone. Cyberjaw and Diamondback are roasting marshmallows.

No, you gotta stick it in the fire!

Nah, you gotta let it hover over coals!

Cyberjaw takes his stick and crams his marshmallow directly into the open flame, as Diamondback, in disagreement, and also not burning the shit out of his marshmallow, doesn't even get anywhere enough heat near it to even roast it.

You two. You're lucky I went keto, I was the marshmallow roasting champion back in the day.

Really?

Robbie looks up at Ash, slackjawed and in disbelief, before pursing is lips momentarily.

Yes, literally, I was the Grand High Poobah of Marshmallow Roasting when I beat Banana Panther and Grib Dribstrom.

Guy stops playing his hand drums as he pulls out an entire T.G.I. Friday's appetizer sampler platter. He takes a honey barbecue buffalo teriyaki mustard chicken tender and starts to roast it on a stick over an open fire.

Dang, Guy, where did you get that?

Flavortown.

Guy doesn't even look up, transfixed on the already cooked chicken tender, dripping cornstarch laden sauce into the embers. Cyberjaw removes his charred to shit marshmallow and bites it, getting an audible crunch as he tastes scorched sugar. Diamondback bites into his obviously raw marshmallow. Ash, still transfixed by her phone, doesn't even look up.

That's nice.

Robbie removes his hot dog from the fire. It's roasted perfectly; the deep reddish pink tube of pig lips and assholes with beads of moisture, looking like sweat, a smattering of char here and there, and Robbie bites into it. His eyes immediately go wide.

Aaaahh!

Hot?

Yaaaaah!

Robbie picks up a nearby gallon bottle of Gatorade Zero, the keto friendly Gatorade, and begins to guzzle it to extinguish the burning sensation of scalding hot meat in his mouth. Robbie looks calmed, to an extent, although the mixed flavor of hot dog-roasted-over-an-open-fire and Gatorade Zero can't be too thrilling*.

*You can try this at home! Go ahead and get a shit ton of Gatorade, I suggest maybe four smallish bottles of assorted flavors, pour them into a pot, and boil hot dogs in the mixed Gatorades.

Guy Fieri manages to stick an entire coconut on a stick and, in taking it to Flavortown, roasts it over an open fire. Robbie skewers another hot dog onto his stick. Ash looks up.

Where's mine?

Your stick? You gotta go find one and whittle it.

Just make me a s'more.

Nope, not keto, I can't dip my stick in your marshmallow.

It is at this moment that a pale blue light is cast directly down on Robbie. Robbie and his pals look up, and lo, the sight of a flying saucer dominates the screen.

Oh shit, the Universe just came for...

Robbie begins to phase out of his extra large canvas folding chair, just like in Star Trek, making the same exact sound and everything, and is next seen sitting in a chair, holding a stick with an uncooked hot dog on it, in a fantastically clean yet somehow warm and comforting room. A door slides open, and through it walks two little greys, the standard model of chummy alien, adorable and chummy looking, their oversized heads and eyes plus tiny mouths in the shape of a smile greeting Robbie.

Uh, hey, nice to meet you and all, but I really gotta get back to Earth, I have a match in Paris...

Greetings, Citizen Bourbon of the Universe!

Yes! We have heard your calls of being one of the greatest in the Universe, so we have come to collect you for Warfare!

Uh, look, I think you're misunderstanding some things, I use a LOT of metaphors when I talk, plus I don't see anywhere I can cook my hot dog around here.

Robbie points at the uncooked hot dog that is lanced on the end of a stick.

Ah, yes, we have a way to get you something to eat!

The door slides open again, and a woman that looks VERY human, only with bright fuchsia skin, walks in. She's wearing a golden bikini, like space babes are prone to do, and carrying a plate. Robbie's nostrils flare up.

Is that...?

It's space bacon! You've had your earth bacon, now try this!

Oh man, space bacon?! That sounds awesome!

Robbie picks up a strip of the space bacon and bites into it. He immediately looks very disappointed.

Yes, we made it out of whey protein, peppermint oil, and ground almonds! It's very keto!

Robbie takes the plate of space bacon from the very shapely fuchsia woman.

Thanks.

Robbie walks over to an airlock.

Please, don't! It's dangerous!

Look, I've seen movies and played video games, I know how this works.

Robbie puts the artificial space bacon, made from whey protein, peppermint oil, and other bullshit, that legit would taste like dirt (as most keto snackfoods are apt to do) on the floor in the airlock. He walks out of the airlock and seals it from within the ship. He boops another button, and suddenly the disgusting psuedobacon is ejected into the abyss of nothingness that is space, where it belongs.

Look, real bacon is keto, we don't need fake bacon.

Well, we must return to your planet for sundries, then, perhaps...

I'll make a list. Are you guys going to go to Safeway or something?

Yes. We are prepared.

One of the greys hops on the other's shoulders. The fuchsia girl grabs a trench coat, a fedora, and a fake mustache and hands it to them. Soon enough, they're in their makeshift "human adult" camouflage.

You look perfect.

Excellent.

Why do I have to be the bottom?

You're a great bottom.

Why can't you be the bottom once?

Robbie rolls his eyes and looks at the fuchsia woman.

Are they always...

Yeah. I'm Fuchsia, by the way.

I noticed.

No, that's my name.

Oh, well, I'm Robbie...

Robbie Bourbon, MVP of Warfare, Universal Champion, one of the Princes of the Universe.

Uh, look, about that...

Fuchsia leans in closer to Robbie.

Tell me all about that.

She cocks an eyebrow, looking at Robbie like he's anything but disgusting space bacon. Robbie furrows his brow, smirks, and looks at Fuchsia.

Uh, heh, look, I've only ever been with human girls, so...

So I have a lot to show you, Robbie.

She gives him a devilish smile. Not a sadistic one.

Look, first off, about my being the MVP of Warfare...

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The third time.

Or the fourth.

The fifth, the sixth, the seventh, I don't really need to keep count.

The first time. That's the toughest. From there, it's all downhill.

For the first time ever, on Warfare, the status of being the Warfare MVP gets defended, by the first ever Warfare MVP, the wild and untamed, unbridled, unhinged man I am, the beast I be, the creature I am seen as and the Wednesday Night Wreckers you all have come to know and love.

Hello, America. Hello, Universe.

My name is Robbie Bourbon, but I figured most all of you already knew that by now.

You'll never forget my name. I made damn well sure of that with blood, sweat, and tears, and I did it my way, drinking coffee, eating hot dogs, and most importantly, being more clever than big, and I am awfully big. The big bad, big bad of big bads.

I am the deviant genius of the XWF, the mad scientist, I do what I dare because damn if I can't.

And who knows what limits there are, because I haven't seen mine yet.

I leave most of my opponents looking at smoke and mirrors, it's true, until I hit that home run ball and put them out of the match.

Now, while I might be trying to reconstruct my own career here, piece by piece, reanimating the tissue, sinew by sinew like I'm Dr. Frankenstein, there will be bodies that I went through to get to piece my legitimacy back together in the eyes of the XWF faithful.

But lets us face facts, some people will come back and line up to see what's real and what's not when it comes to me, because they just couldn't learn the first time through.

And stupid people, unfortunately, are highly inevitable. Specifically, the entitled, spoiled, and angsty who can't reconcile when they've been beat.

So this is the story of the third time I whooped the dog piss out of Thaddeus Duke.

First, off, lemme ask, does your daddy even remember when he proclaimed his big time retirement my rookie year here in the XWF, and I still called his ass out?

See, he told everybody he did too much for this company, for our business.

He had enough of putting bread on the table going out and engaging in our gladatorial business. He was set, after all, why should he worry about it if I could have vaulted my whole career in no time by facing him.

He was scared.

Your daddy didn't want any part of what I bring to the table.

But here you are, living in his shadow, and facing me for the third time, because you can't grasp the obvious.

I am the MVP of Warfare, and I was a long time before you were even in this company.

Instead, you probably had your old man pull some strings to get you another chance at my legacy, because after all, defending that Television Title every episode of a show isn't as current as defending the Warfare MVP at every Warfare.

Hell, I am now the de facto TV Champ for all accounts and purposes. You're just a contender.

Nah, not even a contender. You're an offering.

Your daddy gave up his first born son so he would never have to face me, because he never has.

So, we get it Thad, you're coming to the ring, again, on a Wednesday night, again, to face me again. You're convinced that it was a fluke not once but twice that I got the better of you. An event that happens with the utmost, one-hundred-percent efficiency, Bourbon beats Duke, and you gotta doubt the absolute science behind that. What are you, some kind of flat-earther anti-vaxxer reject that thinks it's some kind of conspiracy?

Well, I suppose I conspire to win at Warfare, so there's that.

Some would call what you're doing noble, diving on the hand grenade so nobody else has to at Warfare, some would call it a great sacrifice to make sure nobody else loses, but really it's suicide, because you're just eliminating yourself and accomplishing nothing in the end.

Do you want to separate the man from the myth?

I'm the man. Your daddy was a myth who took self aggrandizement to new heights. I'm the man. Your becoming Warfare MVP as long as I am is a myth. I'm the man, the one who will throw you around like a rag doll then roll you up with all the finesse of a swan eating a frog. Fucking graceful, honestly brutal, and the natural order of things.

So what you need to ask yourself isn't how do I beat Robbie this time, what's that little weak spot I can't find no matter how hard I try, is what is Robbie going to come up with to beat me with at Warfare on the streets of Paris?

The City of Lights, and I'm going to light you up from the Louvre to the Arc de Triomphe to the Bastille to the Notre Dame Cathedral. Purely electrifying, block by block, as I take you on what the French call a Tour de Force, forcing you to become litter as I throw you into trash cans, a hammer as I use you to break windoes, and a speedbump as I make you slow down traffic in the streets.

I will get so much use out of you on the streets of Paris people will think I'm your pimp.

Will I steamroll you into the pavement? Maybe, maybe not. Will I bulldoze you, performing demolition so I can build even more and more, expanding to greatness you'd never comprehend? Yes, yes I will. For all your resources, all the gifts you've been given, everything you have access to that I and others just don't, the only thing you will be best at is squandering everything that was ever put into you by your father and his business. But, you'll always have your dad and that latent nepotism going for you, otherwise I'm pretty sure the shareholders would have gotten rid of you due to the shitty return on investment you just bring to the Duke name.

Flat out, when people say your name, they think of your dad.

When people say my name, they think of what I was responsible for, they think of the memories I brought them, they think of the impossible being done and the improbable happening.

They think of the Warfare MVP.

Even you do.

Nobody is thinking about the Television Champion. Which is a shame.

It's a disgrace.

It's laughable.

The one title, the ONLY title I don't have on my resume, the one thing preventing me from becoming the Xtreme Grand Slampion, you're perverting by not even defending, instead coming up after me and what I have.

I would be honored if I weren't so embarrassed for you.

As such, I will defend the prestige of the medallion I wear, the signet of the Warfare MVP, the talisman of excellence and violence, and I will set even more trends in the XWF than I already have when I demonstrate how the Warfare MVP defends that honor.

Over your body.

Through your bones.

In your blood.

See you in Paris, Thad.