Bobby, having taken over the team of Sudden Death, invoking his royal privelege, was in need of new partners.

And here we go.

DOMINION

We see Bobby is standing in the kitchens of his dojo. The place is mostly cleared out, save the wrestling school, which goes all hours in the day. While spends hours in the ring, working with students to teach them although mostly beating the shit out of them, honing his techniques, Bobby is munching on a hoagie. He looks bored.

There’s not enough blood on this sandwich.

Cyberjaw, the man with the cybernetic jaw, and Diamondback, the man who can blend into any crowd, approach.

Bro, are you sure?

Yeah, it’s like the fifth time today you said food needed more blood. More blood on your hash browns. More blood on your omelet. More blood on your mid-morning snack. More blood on your pre-lunch snack. More blood on this. You didn’t become a vampire, did you?

What? No, there’s already too many vampires running around in wrestling today, I think.

Nobody bit you?

Not in a long time, but that wasn’t a vampire, it was a camel.

Bobby throws the hoagie to the floor.

I REQUIRE BLOOD AND SKULLS!

Bobby’s skin glows red for half a minute after he says this. He then tromps over to where the students are training.

What has gotten into him?

I dunno, I mean, it is War Games, maybe he’s, uh, I don’t know.

Bobby lifts a sledge hammer and starts whacking away at a huge tire as TK grapples with the young ones in the ring. Ash, Bobby’s stylist, approaches, along with Gary the Wizard, LARP nerd from the nerdiverse (it’s an older BourbonMan, but it checks out).

Do you guys remember this dude?

Cyberjaw and Diamondback look at Gary up and down.

Guys, it’s me, Gary! I was in a few of Bobby’s promos a few years ago! How’s it been?

Cyberjaw and Diamondback look at each other.

I don’t remember this guy.

Neither do I.

Oh, c’mon! Remember, there was the violence, and Bobby ate hot dogs…

You’ve literally described like a quarter of all of Bobby’s promos.

Which means I was there!

Cyberjaw shrugs.

That tracks. Well, what brings you around?

Guys, I bring news from the Nerdiverse! The Convalescence is in approach!

And my feet are in shoes, what the fuck does that mean?

Well, what do you guys know about Warhammer?

Cyberjaw points at Bobby holding a hammer and whacking it against a big ass tire, his rage and frustration growing with each blow.

He’s holding one?

No, no no no. I mean the tabletop miniatures game.

None at all.

TK shouts from across the dojo.


Yeah, you won’t have sex if you don’t.

It’s true.

The three men all look at the lone woman who has chimed in.

How would you know?

Ash rolls her eyes.

Well, none of you need Warhammer to never fuck me.

Ash walks off.

She wants me.

Oh man!

Gary looks impressed. Cyberjaw rolls his eyes. Because he's fucking Ash. Not a big deal, but hey, now you know.

So, like Bobby is, what, exactly?

It’s the Convalescense of The Ancient Ones, the four Chaos Gods, so diametrically opposed yet destined to unity come together, in a time of war! Look at Dick Powers.

I don’t want to.

But just look at them, all of them. All the Powers. Dick can swing like a pendulum of power, then go taught and tergid at a moment’s notice, ready to strike like a cobra. A hedonist, who fights to prove how sexy he is, because there is no sating that Dick when it’s been grappled or struck until it’s finished and everyone is tired but satisfied. He’s the avatar for Slaanesh, the hermaphroditic god of hedonism!

He wishes!

Then there’s Chris Page. This old bastard seems to just be unkillable by anything. His XWF career? More alive than Robert Main’s at this point. Spreading the rot of his brand throughout all the business just because he couldn’t compete here anymore. Disgusting. He’s the avatar of Nurgle, the old god of filth and decay!

STDs carried since the 90’s.

Right. Then, there’s Ozzy, who is your pure to form avatar of Tzeentch, the Chaos God of Magic and Change.

I hate how nerdy shit doesn’t get to the fucking point.

I know, maybe we should bring this nerdy shit to the ring so TK can whoop his ass until Bobby gets tired of that tire.

No! Look, there are four gods, and Bobby is the fourth. Khorne.

What? You mean the guys who did Freak on a Leash or the Vegetable?

Neither! Khorne, Kay, Aytche, Oh, Are, Enn, Ee. Khorne. God of Slaughter.

Oh. Bobby told us about that.

He did?

Yeah, he said he dropped the “f” because it was too edgelord.

Everybody completely confused by that line, we cut to commercial.

~~~~~

We know how important discretion is, how important it is to have your business known only to those who need to know, and that’s your decision. That’s why we at Fangs and Mutton Pubic Waxing Center honor those fine traditions of clandestine solutions to how well your balls look to everybody who gets a vantage point of them since you don’t. You can trust us. We at Fangs and Mutton Pubic Waxing Center, NOT to be confused with the Fangs and Mutton Public Waxing Center, have respected privacy for decades, if not since 2008.

Well, since it’s the roaring days of summer, beat the heat with a meat beater special! That’s right, half your junk, shaved, so you can grip your cock and beat off without risk of tugging at your precious pubic mane and risking a TOTAL BONER KILL by yanking at your own short and curlies. Only $120, $180 with a happy ending, and $250 bareback!

~~~~~

We see Bobby standing near the ring in his dojo, looking like a man possessed; quite demonic, actually. He’s definitely winning against the tire, as with a final whack, Bobby inside-outs the damn thing, which seems impossible but given enough hits and pressure, anything will break. Bobby looks up at the screen. He looks angry, moreso than usual, as though an ass whooping waiting to come hath yet be delivered upon Savage. He throws the hammer away over his shoulder. Hope he didn’t hit anybody with it. He turns directly to the camera, the rage of a Chaos God stepping forward.

Check it out, I got new friends after all! Hah, not that I was sweating, but shit, don’t the opposition look weak!

He ain't old, he's seasoned, highlight reels on parchment and papyrus, made his mark on mankind, the Eye of Horus is his iris. Still electrifying, giving all he can, a wrestling god like Osiris, bringing beatdowns so sick people think he's Coronavirus.This dude has fought in every ring and every cage, sold out arenas across the globe just lighting up the stage, he’s a man without time and a man for every age, ladies and gentlemen, Bastards and bitches, give it up for Chronic Chris Page. Last I saw Chris, I kinda sorta left him layin’, grasping for his shattered ankle just howlin’ and brayin’ like a wounded jack ass, if you follow what I’m sayin’, but we just cut out a career that was already decayin’. These days, well, Chris is content sitting on his own nut sack and calling out how big he is to people who don’t know him in the back. It’s true. He’s often more bluster than fact like a quack, but at least this motherfucker knows what War Games is all about, and that we can track.

Chris, seriously, you’re just as talented as Marf on your best day as far as I’m concerned. Just hold the doofy ones on lock in the ring. Latina Submission Machina and, oh, what’s her name, Mercy’s bitchy manager that never really mattered in the history of the XWF. Prudence? I know it’s not, but I want to call her that. Shit. It’ll come to me. Either way, they’re fucking terrified of me already, they even focused their entire airtime to saying how I’m the danger in this match. They’re absolutely fucking right.

Page, they didn’t call you out. They didn’t call Ozzy out. They didn’t call Dick out. Ever. Dick was never out to them, Dick slipped right past their perception and came back to hit them so hard in the ass it hurts their ears. Nope, they called me out.

So, speaking which, let me tell you all about my dope ass little Dick. Dude is turning himself out like he was the own john to his trick. Spitting, spewing, gunking up the scene and making it slick, if this dude was a cunt, I promise, he would be absolutely sick. A narcissistic, manically sexy walking one man orgy coming into the ring, coming all over the walls of the cages we’ll be in, coming down the entrance ramp, coming on everything. Blowing loads all around just as sure as the songbird does sing, kneel and rejoice, commoners, barons, and gentleladies, of the Dick of the King. This little goofy bastard (OMG is it foreshadowing? Wouldn’t that be cool!) has come to take all of you on a magic ride to a special education school! I little place where they could come around and clean up all your drool after you got brain damaged going to War Games and got made to look a fool. My Dick is so big and broad, it’s thought, it is it’s own essence, an opalescent quintessence of illuminance…

Bobby pauses.

Oh, shit. Madison Dyson. I just remembered. Anyway…

Bobby slides back into his bar spitting pose. He has one. Always has. You’ve seen it dozens, if not several dozens of times.

None of you can bear to stand in front of my Dick’s immense presence, revered throughout the barony and on down to the peasants.

TK walks forward.


No, save it for Relentless. It’ll be fucking cool. Also, those prayers of yours, are you just worshipping Satan at this point? They’re pretty, I dunno, gloomy?

TK nods with almost no hesitation.


Bobby looks surprised, but not in any negative sense.

Huh. Welp, you know what, let’s roll with it. Hail Satan!

Bobby and TK do a no look devil horns fist bump.




You do that, beat up that stupid, broken human being that’s been exploited since puberty.

The look of determination on TK’s face is intense. He trots off and goes back to training with those ropes you swing around like a maniac. Bobby readresses the camera firsthand, as you do when talking smack at someone.

So, to Viewer Desecration Advised, and jumping tapdancing Christ is that a stupid, stupid name cooked up by a stupid, stupid person. Just saying. Look, you guys made your point, I get it. I already knew I’m in the match. No shit. I know I’m the scariest thing in the world right now. I mean, it’s why the parts of Machina’s promo I understood she even rambled on about how she didn’t need to concern herself with my team mates, and that’s fine bitch, step right up and get put the fuck down. See, War Games is a special, special event for me. See, for me, it’s kind of the benchmark I’ve carved, year in, year out, and will continue to carve, year in, year out. Statistically speaking, if I don’t eliminate seventy-five percent of your team, I’m underperforming. Eighteen total eliminations in five War Games. That’s an average of, you guessed it, more than three eliminations per match. This, my utterly spunky yet inevitably doomed opponents don’t quite grasp. They’re handling this like, well, it’s some run of the mill chance encounter. It’s where I beat the dog piss out of them in a cage. This year, well, my numbers are just going up. Mercy? Mercy’s, uh, fuck I forgot that bitch’s name again, I know she was dead but now she’s not, but her kinda butch manager that’s has an on again/off again relationship to the Nazi party. She wants me disqualified for trying to find replacement teammates. Heh, first the bitch says TK is some lackluster talent, lying through her own asshole to herself, because she sure fucking freaked out by the thought of TK being in the match itself! Machina, well, I don’t speak Spanish, I’m sure whatever you said was fun and all, but funs fucking over in the cage, you go boom, pow, splat, kaboom, zowie. I’ve heard of English as a Second Language, but never Spanish as a Google Language for fucks sake, just quit culturally appropriating something you’ll never be; by that I mean a real woman.

Pretty much just like Dolly.

Bobby rolls his eyes. He wags a finger at the screen.

I suppose there's something to be said for the people getting eliminated after my team lets me mop up the has beens and never wases making up VDA. The Meat Clowns? That is another stupid ass name for a bunch of stupid ass people. Jenny Myst is just holding on to a Television Championship she’s keeping warm for me. Kido is a chump for having to work with the bitch. Then Vaughn is actually talented but brushed aside so Myst can look better for some ungodly reason. Elijah Martin rounds out the team with the roll of being “the ugly girl”. Yikes and cringe overwhelm what could be good there. Then there’s the Notorious Alliance, who are all coming together because, well, someone needed to lose the opening match. Then there’s the doomed souls in WarMasters, led by Mastermind, who sucks any way he’s facing and blows in the other direction. Dolly is working on her GED. I don’t mean a diploma, she just chases good enough dick to make her happy, and the King’s Dick will stun her anyhow. Peter Vaughn is a school lunch, bland, tasteless, and just there most of the time not offering anything but meager belly fillings. Nobody seeks the guy, but still, kind of dopey he got drafted ahead of Angie Vaughn, but Mastermind went with him, which exposes how much of an idiot that idiot is. Then Thad “I Get My Ass Kicked By Bobby Every Damn Time” Duke is coming out to play? Man, if only you fools weren’t getting absolutely dunked on by the Speed Runners, and that’s going to be one hundred percent of any percent of the WarMasters getting eliminated in the first round. Then, well, I get my get-back on Calypso and pin him for dropping the ball and coughing up a SuperContinental Championship match. I get my get-back on Game Girl, bitch please, I’m the reason you haven’t been around. I get one up on Nor’Criminal, because why not, that dork can take an ass whooping even though I feel like I’m beating Mark Flynn’s dog if I do. Hanari Carnes still sucks, always has sucked, I’d be surprised if he didn’t somehow lock himself in his hotel room forgetting how door handles work…

Bobby pauses.

Madison Dyson. I forgot again, it just came back to me. I’m so glad she’s the voice of reason, fairness, and upstanding citizenry, being dead must have done that to her or something.

A whole goddamn entire universe, ebbing and flowing, the constant of change is the order of the day, and at it’s center? At War Games? It’s me, your King, earned in blood, Grand High PooBOB to friends, sitting alone.