Robbie Bourbon recently departed Earth for the cosmos along with his pals.

Sounded like the most fun idea at the time, really.

TO BOLDLY GO

Aboard the bridge of the ship Robbie happened to hijack commandeer from some generic looking aliens, we see Robbie seated in a rather stiff albeit comfortable looking chair in the exact center of the room. He's dressed in a silver velour jumpsuit with an orange trim, his mask matching in accordance and garishness. At a console directly in front of him, we see Cyberjaw, the man with the cybernetic jaw, and Diamondback, the man who can blend into any crowd, dressed in uniforms slightly similar to Star Fleet from Star Trek: The Next Generation/Galaxy Quest/The Orville, and they seem to be diddly fucking around with the panels in front of them. To his right, at another panel is Ash, Robbie's stylist, and she's playing on her phone, getting great service while out of reach of Earth's normal cellular satellite relay for some unknown reason while in the same kind of garb as Cyberjaw and Diamondback. To his left, glancing at some kind of tablet occasionally, is Fuchsia, rockin' space babe, in another similar uniform but with a distinct fuchsia trim matching her hair and skin. The camera shifts to show the engineering room, where we see Guy Fieri, right mayor of Flavortown, dressed like Guy Fieri only does, surrounded by a team in uniform as they study an enormous space potato. We cut back to the bridge.

Well, we're definitely in space.

What quadrant?

What do you mean?

Well, space always has quadrants, haven't you ever watched a movie?

We don't know how this works.

Yeah, we barely read half the manual before you said we could wing it and that it shouldn't be too hard.

Plus you made your new lady friend the chief of security when she has the most experience on this ship.

Well, that means she can make it damned secure.

I can help, if you guys want.

Please?

Fuchsia walks over to the console where Cyberjaw and Diamondback are seated and starts to speak with them.

Ash, status report.

Um, I'm updating my status right now to Facebook, Instagram, you know, all of them.

Gotcha. Okay.

Robbie boops a button on the arm rest of his captain's chair.

Bourbon to engineering, do you have anything to report?

This space potato is rich in flavor and nutrients, I'm pretty sure I can make it into some amazing space curly fries.

Good to hear, thank you lieutenant.

Hey, why is he a lieutenant?

Well, ranks, you know, we need them.

What's my rank?

And mine?

You're both lieutenants.

Updating status, Captain, I will tell social media I am a lieutenant.

Ten four, lieutenant.

Suddenly, the whole bridge rumbles, and Robbie is nearly ousted from his chair. He looks around in surprise.

Lieutenant, status report!

Everybody looks at Robbie. As they do, over the intercom we hear Guy Fieri.

Do you mean me?

Dammit, we still have to figure out this whole rank system. Why did we just have an earthquake on a space ship?

We need to check the sensors.

Who does that?

I think Ash is where the sensors console is.

Ash, what do the sensors say?

Hold on.

Ash boops away at her phone for a long moment, then turns around to look at the console.

Well, it's blinking red.

Dang, that can't be good.

Robbie, I think someone is trying to hail us.

Well, I don't need my ass kissed, but I am pretty cool.

No, no, not hail you like that, trying to contact you.

Oh.

On the screen in front of the crew, the view changes from empty space with distant stars to a humanoid with bluish grey skin, a bottle nose, and a blowhole.

Jim?

The dolphin man looks confused.

Who?

Nevermind.

I am Captain Jesper Belleepdeepdeepdeep of the Confederation of Planetary Systems, please identify yourself or we will fire again.

My name is Robbie Motherfucking Bourbon.

Ah, the Warfare MVP?

Robbie confidently nods.

What is a warmonger like you doing in Confederation space?

Uh, just cruising, really. We're kinda new to this whole space exploration thing.

I would say so. You humans are the first of your kind that we've seen, I half expected you to be a Zoopnoodlian.

A what?

Captain Jesper pauses for a moment. Robbie glances over towards Fuchsia and speaks in a loud whisper.

Does this thing have any guns?

I can hear you, Captain Bourbon.

Oh.

Does my ship have any guns?

Captain, we would like to send a team to your ship, you don't seem like a threat and we have a procedure for first contact with alien species.

You're the aliens!

Yeah!

Captain Jesper rolls his eyes. Some of his crew members chuckle in the background. Robbie sighs.

Yeah, that'd probably be a good idea.

Excellent. Could you lower your shields so we could send a shuttle?

We have shields?

Captain Jesper rubs his forehead in angst, blinking hard, realizing how inept Robbie really is at being the captain of a space ship. Fuchsia giggles.

Silly.

She boops the console in front of Diamondback.

Hey!

That's the shield controls.

Captain Jesper, our shields are down, and we look forward to meeting your team.

Thank you, Captain Bourbon, we look forward to meeting you. Jesper out.

The screen goes back to black. Robbie scratches his chin.

Oh man, we're making first contact!

No we aren't, there's been half a dozen or so aliens in the XWF, least of all Azrael Erebus, but I guess we're making some personal strides.

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

Look, let's face facts.

Lynx is a fucking lame duck in this match, in over his head and way out of his element. I'd say the guy has a few personal strides to make before he's ready to face anybody for any championship and credibly challenge for it.

To my fans, I am sorry I don't have a lot of stuff to say about the guy, but much like the Easter Bunny, the Loch Ness Monster, or Aquaman, it's pointless to waste my breath on something that just doesn't really exist in any way that could impact my life.

But then there's Charlie.

Well, Charlie, you planted my face into some broken glass after kicking me in the dick at Savage, I guess to get some shots in to show me how dangerous you are.

I don't see it. Deranged, sadistic, and violent? Sure. But dangerous? I'm more afraid of the Easter Bunny, the Loch Ness Monster, and Aquaman.

Now, you can cut it with the anilingus when it comes to me, my career, what I've accomplished. None of that matters, least of all to me, because each day I wake up is me embracing the now and preparing for the future, not resting on any laurels. Sort of why I'm still here and kicking instead of lavishing myself. That and the people, Charles, the fans of the XWF, the people who pay good money, their hard earned money, to see the spectacle, the lights, the action.

You put on a spectacle on Saturday. I'm going to give them a hell of a fucking show come Wednesday night.

That's when the Wednesday Night Wrecker, the Last Outlaw, the Big Bad Big Bad of Big Bads, the Sultan of Smacktalk who talks the talk and walks the walk defends his status as the Warfare MVP, this little medallion around my neck, by making you tap the fuck out.

Doesn't matter how tough you are, Charlie, with enough force you can break diamonds, and I'm going to show you force like you're sitting in on a physics class.

As for what you can bring to the table, I'm here, walking and talking and cooking and smoking after taking a shot from you. You might have put a ding in the door but I'm still trucking at max velocity with the momentum of a comet, and if you can't slow me down, you sure as shit won't stop me.

Well, I do get a little tired listening to you drone on and on. Might I recommend making a solid point instead of being dull?

After all, I'm definitely not a teen aged kid at a gas station. You didn't tongue his asshole for a couple of minutes thinking it was the delivery of the Gettysburg Address, either.

No, you have a lot to learn about this business. I could go around the world whooping ass here and there in bars, back alleys, and underground brawls. I don't have to.

The idiots come to me now.

Robbie holds up his Warfare MVP medallion.

For starters, dipshit, this isn't a fucking shield. This isn't some device out to protect me, or my name, or whatever legacy I may or may not have.

I have to defend this. Not the other way around. It's fragile, it's delicate, it's precious, and it's in my charge, and I can't just abandon it, or let it go, or leave it somewhere hidden so nobody can chase after it. It is not, after all, the Hart Championship, the Universal Title when Fuzz was holding it, or the Xtreme Championship when Robert Main doesn't see a fitting challenger.

It's who the fuck I am. It IS my legacy, Charlie. I AM the Warfare MVP.

And it isn't glamorous.

It isn't some wonderful thing that grants wishes.

It isn't the key to the city, the kingdom, the vault, the cave of wonders, the lost treasure of Atlantis, or anyone's heart.

This, Charlie? This little thing around my necklace?

It's hell.

It's not just hell, It's knowing there'll be more hell.

This week it's the shy little pussy who doesn't want to show his face and the prick who shows the world he'd do himself better by becoming a deadbeat dad in a submission triple threat elimination match. This isn't some playful, sporting technical romp, it's vulgar, it's violent, and it ends when someone has had enough and needs to stop.

You will have enough and need to stop.

Next Warfare, who the fuck knows? It could be fifteen sloths and a bucket of iodine with a seventeen minute time limit while some dude plays the piano on a pole. It could be in the bed of a Chevy S10 doing donuts outside of an IHOP. It could be against three, or four, or twenty-eight people.

The only thing that's certain, Charlie, is Robbie Bourbon is going to defend this Warfare MVP medallion come hell or high water.

I know that hell is on the way.

Thing is, hell needs to tighten the fuck up and get ready for the reckoning I bring to the table, the promised end.

The end to what?

You want to talk about pain, Charlie? You want to piss and moan about the aches, the pains, the soreness, how it hurts?

One Robbiebomb, Chuck. It's like Novocaine for the soul. One shot and you don't feel a thing. The pain will be overwith, at least for a little while, when I put you out.

I'm not talking euthanasia, Chuck. You're not some rabid mongrel who needs to be put down for the safety of all. You like to believe you are, that you're on the level of monsters and creatures so scary and fierce they are the stuff of nightmares.

With me, I'll put you in a place to have nightmares.

Unconscious.

Then I'll grab your limp little arm and flail it at the mat, making you tap the fuck out.

Or, hell, who knows, maybe the mad genius in me will come up with something entirely different. I'm not saying I'm a terrible planner, but my thinking on the fly is outstanding.

I can sinch in the Phrenology Claw, sure. Grab your melon and squeeze like I'm making it ready for the recycling bin.

But, hey, what if I pulled something out of nowhere and locked it in?

Would you be surprised if I put you in a torture rack? Haven't seen that one broken out in a couple decades.

How about just a good ole' bearhug? Charlie, you might think you're tough, but if I start causing your spine and rib cage to snap in places it wasn't designed, and your lungs, stomach, spleen, and pancreas start to try to climb out of your asshole for relief, that survival instinct will kick in, you'll tell the referee you're finished, and go out for a beer later, taking solace that you're living to fight another day.

You'll celebrate the fact that your best just wasn't enough to beat me, but that's okay. James Raven couldn't even say he had enough to do that.

That Duke boy couldn't say he had enough to do that.

And those men went off to have successful careers without me in the ring facing them.

Now, as for having a successful career, I suggest a mask.

You're so ugly you're a before picture.

Chimps won't throw shit at you out of pity.

I bet when you were a kid teachers told you stop making 'that face' when you weren't doing anything.

You're so ugly you're a poster boy for abstinence and chlamydia simultaneously.

Charlie is so ugly he only looks sexy at a glory hole.

Charlie is going to play the lead in the Elephant Man reboot, and they're not even going to need make-up.

Charlie is the number one cause of decrease in libido in his bedroom.

And the country.

One sight of Charlie will leave a pussy so dry it becomes Death Valley and a dick so limp that Fred Durst is it's front man.

Pictures of Charlie are distributed in the third world to discourage rape and cut down on AIDS cases.

Charlie is so ugly his doctor has to dim the lights at visits.

You're going to be offered a free education this Wednesday, by someone more clever than big, and I'm awful big. As for you taking away my medallion? Thinking you could be the Warfare MVP?

Sorry, Charlie.