Security guards on patrol.

Wearing navy blue, marching side to side.

In front of the BastardNet security booth.

In front of the giant, sprawling concrete playground that was BastardNet Studios.

“Yep.”

Fists tighten, rotating a pair of binoculars, closing the scope inwards. Looking through the glass is Mark Flynn. He’s lying across the back of a cherry red Honda Fit.

“Security is tight. I think Nickles has some control of the security detail.”

“What makes you say that?” says a voice to his right.

“The fact that they’re wielding barbed wire 2x4s.”

…THWIP! In a flash, the binoculars are snatched from his hands. Dolly, standing beside the car, takes a peek.

…Flynn looks peeved and generally irritated as Dolly adjusts the scope.

Indeed. Both guards, sporting Bourbonwear-brand navy blue luchador masks, march wielding barbed wire 2x4s, from a hand held at their waist, up across their shoulder.

“Like guards at Buckingham Palace…”

“Too soon.”

“What?”

“The Queen just died.” Dolly wrinkles her nose. “Disrespectful.”

Flynn scoffs back. “First off, this is America. If every year, we celebrate the day we got divorced from Father England, we should celebrate four times as hard when its weird, anachronistic mascot dies. Second of all, she was a mascot that didn’t even fire t-shirts in crowds or make half-court shots. She just covered up the exploits of her pedophilic son AND failed to outlive Charles.”

“...What’s your beef with Charles?”

“Oh, don’t get me fucking started.” A vein in Flynn’s forehead raises just thinking about the Prince of Wales. “Charles is the CENTER SQUARE of my entire wrestling conspiracy theory corkboard. If Princess Diana hadn’t been murdered in that sloppy limo hitjob in September 1997, she would have done all in her power to prevent the Montreal Screwjob. The DAY that wrestling became corrupted by power players was the day we lost the one true queen. That’s why Bret spelled out W-C-W. #WomanCrushWednesday for Diana.”

“...But the show happened on a Sunday.”

“In American time, Dolly. But what about British time? EVER THINK OF THAT.” Flynn taps the side of his head like all the pieces fit together.

“WOULD YOU TWO SHUT UP?” A loud voice calls out from the passenger seat. “I’m trying to discern our future!” Jenny says… impatiently looking like she’s the adult in the room, watching children. She then sticks her airpod back in… She’s got a small pocket TV, still playing the Bonnie & Clyde documentary. Her eyes excitedly scan the screen, eager to extrapolate more of their story onto her own… As if this documentary was a siren call from the seers itself, the fabric-weavers of fate, that would lead her to victory.

“...” Dolly sighs. “Jen on a different planet, but she’s got a point. Let’s should focus on the job.”

Flynn claps his hands together. “Right, the break-in. Here’s what we do…”

Dolly grimaces. “Flynn, what the fuck? Why the hell did you want to team-up with two other people if you didn’t want to collaborate?”

“Because I need warm bodies that will do what I tell them. So. Do. What. I. Tell. You.”

“Flynn, my whole life, I been breaking in and out of department stores, locked vans… I had to escape a goddamned rehab multiple times! Once, outta a locked room! In a straight jacket! I’m one o’ them goddamned Houdinis.”

“Escape artists.”

“Exactly.”

“But, we need the *opposite* of one of those Dolly. We’re not trying to escape. We need an infiltrator. Someone to break-in.”

“It’s th’ same thing! You just do it in reverse!”

…Flynn’s eyes narrow. “Fine, what do you see, David Copper-Wire?”

…

“…Cuz you… y’know… Steal copper-wire from… abandoned… buildings.”

Before Dolly can mock the flustered Flynn’s half-baked insult, she brings the binoculars to her eyes again.

…

“There!” She points. “Side-door. Away from the guard area, unmanned. Presumably locked, but probably a side entrance for technical staff on the BastardNet set. Will have minimal security.”

Flynn scoffs. “That’s what they WANT you to think, Dolly.” Flynn plucks the binoculars out of Dolly’s hands. Her eyes briefly adjust back to reality, as Flynn brings them up to his face…

“No, the obviously better choice is the… slightly-ajar second-floor window.” Flynn points.

“Where?”

“THERE!” Flynn points again to the exact same place, not being helpful at all.

Dolly squints. In the distance she can make it out… The slightest angle in the window in the corner office. An inward bend.

“Easy peasy.” Flynn says, smugly. “We just free-hand climb to the second-floor, slip into the window. And we’re in.”

“...Flynn, that’s the stupidest thing you’ve ever said. And 30 seconds ago, you said that Princess Diana was killed to put the belt on Shawn Michaels. How are we supposed to free-climb a flat glass building IN THE MIDDLE OF THE DAY, without being spotted?”

“Carefully. And with perfect timing.”

“That’s not an answer!”

SUDDENLY, A LOUD GASP FROM INSIDE THE CAR!

“Minions!” Jenny calls out. “I have read our future for how we get in!”

Myst pops open the car door.

…Unfortunately, it does that thing where it’s been locked too long and the car alarm goes off.

BZZZ BZZZ BZZZ

The guards look over curiously out the howling hatchback Honda.

Flynn panickedly rifles through his pocket for Redd’s his keys. He double-taps the lock… The alarm stops.

The guards look another second longer…

…

Dolly and Flynn both wave sheepishly.

…

The guards finally break their gaze, resuming their patrol.

Flynn exhales. “Goddammit, Jen-Jen, you almost blew our cover.”

“Underlings!” Myst calls out with an authoritative bark. “I have discerned our destiny from the tea leaves of the universe!”

“You mean your Bonnie & Clyde documentary?”

“FROM FATE ITSELF! The way that Bonnie & Clyde would break into banks was…”

Jenny looks to the left…. Then, to the right… This secret cannot accidentally parse into the ears and hands of those not blessed by fate.

In spite of themselves, Flynn and Dolly bend a little nearer to hear the secret.

Myst cups her hands around her mouth.

“The LEAST SECURE route.”

…

Flynn pinches Jenny’s ear. Her teeth grit, whipping her head out of Flynn’s grip, rubbing it painfully.

“JEN-JEN. That’s OBVIOUS. Dolly and I are arguing over the best opening to get in.”

Myst rubs her ear.

“Oh. So, which of you is pitching just joining the tour group?”

…

"Tour Group?"

Myst points. Flynn and Waters spin around… They see getting waved up to the security tower… A minibus filled with tourists in board shorts and sunglasses, taking pictures with polaroids and cell phone cameras in all directions.

….

Flynn strokes his chin.

…

“I still think free-climbing the building w-”

Dolly slaps Flynn in the back of the head.

***
The tour guide, a man in his 50s with square-rimmed glasses, bounces the dangling badge hanging across his neck by its clip. The luchador guards nod and wave them through.

The bus lurches forward… Just as our trio creeps up stealthily to the back right tire of the bus… Just out of sight out of the guards…

“Shoot, the bus is already moving… Strategic retr-”

Fwip! In a flash, Myst leaps in a single bound onto Flynn’s shoulder like a stair. Then, with incredibly agility, leaps onto the top of the bus. “BONNIE AND CLYDE NEVER RETREATED!”

Flynn is furious, spinning… “DON’T TREAD ON M-”

In a flash, Flynn gets pressed, face-forward against the bus! Dolly climbs up his back, stepping on his hip, then the top of his head, before joining Myst on the bus top…

“YOU…. GRAAAGH!” Flynn is so mad, for the first time in his life, he’s too angry to speak.

Just then, Dolly looks down from the top of the bus. She slips a finger over her mouth, then tilts her head downward.

Flynn looks in that direction… The bus is still slowly accelerating… And the guards are almost in view of Flynn behind the bus…

…Flynn exhales…

He jogs forward to catch up with the back… He baseball slides…

And disappears… Like a magic trick…

Myst tries to peek over the side…

“Where’d he…?”

Yoink! In a flash, Waters tugs Myst by the arm down onto her back. Jenny follows Dolly’s lead, making themselves as low to the bus as possible… As it narrowly clears the security booth.

As the tour bus drives up through the lot… Waters peeks over the vehicle’s back.

“Flynn, you good?”

…

“...Flynn?”

…Suddenly, A familiar, grumpy head peeks out from under the bus’ undercarriage.

Flynn squints angrily, the vintage bus’ tailpipe blowing smog right under his chin.

“If I didn’t love getting to do bits from Cape Far, I’d kill you both for this.”

Flynn tries to punctuate his threat with a dramatic finger point, but the gesture nearly loosens the tailpipe, which Flynn cradles for dear life.

Dolly grins and delivers a thumbs up. They’re in.

***

Several minutes later, the bus screeches to a stop.

…Waters and Myst gently creep off the bus’ roof off the opposite side as tourists deboard the long red vehicle…

Flynn slowly crawls out from the underside… Shaking his face, now covered his soot and backfire like he’s a Dickensian child chimneysweep.

“Welp, pretty sure that was a lifetime’s worth of secondhand smoke in a six-minute drive…”

Flynn slinks along the side of the bus, peeking his head around at both Waters and Myst, regathering themselves after clinging to the top of the bus.

Flynn quickly tilts his head behind him, away from the tour group, spinning to begin their infiltration.

…Unfortunately, as he spins, he runs right into a chest.

The chest of a 330-pound, 6’8” luchador.

Whipping a barbed wire 2x4 block of wood across his head like a 1950s schoolteacher seeing a kid in need of a paddlin’.

“Sir, can I see your security clearance to be on the lot?”

…Flynn squeezes his fists, cracking his knuckles… You can see his eyes scanning this adversary, calculating odds of success… Formulating a plan of attack…

“Got it.” He mutters…

…Just as his eyes seem to relax with a plan…

From behind the guard in Flynn’s face, like an optical illusion, two more step from behind him.

Now, Flynn is cornered.

“Your clearance. Now.”

Flynn exhales, starting over his plotting.

“Grandpa!” A hand clasps on Flynn’s shoulder.

Flynn spins. And sees a smiling Dolly Waters.

“I am so sorry. He just so excited by your shiny city lights. It’s like he’s a damn moth to a flame made of Werther’s Originals.”

“...This is your grandfather?”

Flynn opens his mouth to insult this man’s profession, mother and sexual capacities… But before he can do any of that, he takes an elbow to the ribs from Dolly.

“Yeeeeeeeeeeeep, yep yep yep. Mine and my special needs sister’s over there.” Dolly tilts her head backwards.

The guards shift their gaze over to Jenny Myst, who is, of course, completely ignoring the scene and enrapt in the latest detail in the Bonnie & Clyde saga… Watching on here little handheld TV an image of Bonnie & Clyde with cigars and guns.

“I should start smoking…” Myst mutters to herself.

“We just got a little separated from the tour group! We’re just excited! It’s been our family dream to visit the BastardNet Studio. We are… SUCH big fans of Bobb…”

…

“No, Tee-K…”

…

”Char…” Dolly stutters, hesitating on what would be a believable story.

…Flynn side-eyes her. The guards look at her expectantly.

Dolly snaps her fingers.

“We just love Jim Jimson.”

The guards all aww with recognition.

“Oh my gosh, we all are.”

“Who isn’t?”

“I got this job so I could meet Jim Jimson.”

“Have you?”

“I have. He’s shorter in person. I asked him if he’d stab a dolphin so I could take a picture for my Instagram.”

“Oh man, did he?”

“Even better. He stabbed me.” The security guard pulls up his shirt and reveals a festering stab wound. “I still haven’t cleaned it. So worth it.”

“Wow! Now, that’s a souvenir!”

Flynn side-eyes Waters, exhaling relaxedly. He gives a subtle nod, impressed. Dolly nods back.

“Well.” says the guard as the Jimson gush session recedes. “We hope you enjoy your visit, but PLEASE, stay with the tour group at all times. Company policy as of last week is: If we catch someone, we beat them with these 2x4s until they’re incapable of saying or writing the word ‘lawsuit’.”

“Turns out, that’s around 35 or 36 separate hits.”

…Dolly nods. “Absolutely. Thank y’all for your… security… service.”

The front guard nods, before leaning down to Old Man Flynn’s ear.

“ENJOY YOUR STAY, SIR. PLEASE STAY WITH YOUR GRANDDAUGHTER.”

Flynn sticks a finger in the man’s face… Again, so angry, that too many furious phrases flood his mind and no words come out, just a dribble of angry saliva, like a rabid animal.

“...Why’s he pointing at me?”

Dolly smacks Flynn’s hand down. “His Arthritis acting up. He’s fine. Thank y’all.” Waters grabs Flynn by the shoulders and spins him around… On the walk, Waters also gets the slightest grip on Myst’s handheld TV… She drags it forward. Myst follows it like a dog on a leash.

“Grandfather?” Flynn spits, he’s so fuckin’ mad. “GRANDFATHER?!?”

“Gee Dolly, thanks fer thinking on yer feet quick so we didn’t get our asses booted.” Dolly mocks, rolling her eyes.

“...Shut up.”

“Flynn, for a secret agent, if you ever tried to shoplift from a Wal-Mart, they’d spot you the second you got the goodies in your pocket. If you’re gonna be a sneak, ONE, you gotta think on your feet. And TWO, you gotta keep a low-profile.”

“...” Flynn exhales. “Fine. FINE. You’re so quick on your feet… What’s the plan now?”

Dolly glances behind her…. The guards remain in position. If they tried to sneak away, the guards might not catch them, but they would definitely radio that they’re were rabbits in the vegetable garden. This whole op would fall apart.

“Looks like…”

Dolly leads Myst forward, and pushes Flynn to the back of the herd of tourists, being led into a building labelled…

Studio 1…

“We’re takin’ the tour…”

***

The tour guide, still sporting square-rimmed glasses, lifts a bullhorn speaker to his face.

“WELCOME, EVERYONE, TO STUDIO ONE! THIS IS WHERE WE FILM THE MOST POPULAR SHOW ON BASTARDNET!”

Everyone gathers around the glass excitedly, muttering and jittering with the profoundest enthusiasm…

Flynn’s eyebrows raise curiously as he, Waters and Myst step through the crowd to see what the hubbub is about…

“I’m, of course talking about the most popular program on the BastardNet streaming service… The Surprise Hit…”

“MATCH GAME ‘76!”

Indeed, the legion of tourists excitedly snap pictures and giggle as they look down from the gallery at the glass.

They see six panelists: Orson Bean, Betty White, Richard Dawson, Brett Sommers, Charles Nelson Reilly and Pat Delaney! The original cast of Match Game ‘76! Each not looking a day older than… how they looked in 1976.

…And for a moment, Myst glances away from her handheld television…

And she beams in absolute awe.

“It’s her.”

She presses her face against the glass, as if she could will the barrier away through touch.

Waters curiously looks over Myst’s shoulder.

“...Who, Betty White?” Waters covers her heart. “Ah, I know, she’s America’s sweetheart. Rest in Peace, Queen.”

Flynn squints. “See, that feels disrespectful. That’s too soon.”

“That’s Bonnie…” Myst mutters, pressing both hands against the glass. Myst’s fist slowly tightens around the miniature TV screen… Comparing the 1976 Betty White with the picture of Bonnie. And in Myst’s eyes, they’re absolutely identical

“Don’t touch the glass, please!” Says the tour guide! “This is the set where they shoot BastardNet’s most popular program, Match Game ‘76!”

…

“That’s fuckin’ stupid.”

The tour group looks at the source of the dismissive comment in horror. Dolly jabs the curmudgeonly Flynn in the ribs.

“Low… Profile…” She mutters under her breath.

Flynn exhales… Then, impatiently raises a hand… Like, he’s incredulous he has to ask this question.

“Hey, as a TOUR ATTENDEE, can I ask a question?”

“Yes, of course, the senior citizen in the front.”

…Flynn seethes angrily.

“What do you mean, this is where they shoot Match Game ‘76? They already shot Match Game ‘76. IN 1976. HENCE MATCH GAME ‘76!”

“...And?”

“AND. Wouldn’t it make more sense just to… Fuckin’ LICENSE the original episodes instead of shooting new episodes of a 46 year old game shows?”

The tour guide increduously scoffs. “Oh, of course, they’d just LICENSE the greatest television show ever made. The same way they could just RENT THE MONA LISA? Or they could just BORROW THE TAJ MAHAL? Do you hear yourself right now? Because you sound ridiculous.”

The rest of the tour group, including Dolly, look judgmentally at Flynn as if he had just offered to rent the Mona Lisa. Flynn scoffs, tapping his foot impatiently, like he’s the last sane man on the planet.

“No, obviously, the Bastards have created a much more cost-effective solution: Cloning!”

…Through the glass, we see six-perfectly preserved boozy sexpot personalities from the 1970s perfectly improvising off each other with easy fill-in-the-blank setups.

Myst is mesmerized staring at 1970s Betty White.

“...Wait.” Flynn raises his hand again. The entire tour group exhales, like here comes another stupid question. “You’re telling me that the Bastards collected the DNA and cloned the ORIGINAL cast of Match Game ‘76 and film completely new episodes using clones? And it’s …somehow cheaper than just licensing the show?”

The tour guide sighs. “Well, two things, grandpa. ONE! A friendly investor to BastardNet, Barney Green of the crypto-phenomenon BarnCoin, managed to buy the original wigs from Match Game ‘76 at a police auction.”

…Curiously, Dolly raises her hand. “...Why were the wigs being auctioned by the police?”

“The original costume and makeup department that worked on the show were involved in a mass racketeering scandal. The entire makeup department was a front for a criminal enterprise.”

“What criminal enterprise?”

“The Newlywed Game. For their involvement in that travesty, they’re all facing concurrent life sentences. As they should.” The tour guide does the sign of the cross.

The entire tour group (except Flynn and Dolly) do the same.

“Which brings me to item TWO… The entire clone cast is getting paid a 1976 salary. They basically get paid minimum wage to crank out comedy gold.”

…Dolly looks irked.

“Wait a second. That’s again Screen Actor’s Guild Union Code § 2-302(1)(A). Game show panelists are required to be paid standard industry rate.”

…Flynn slowly rotates his head in disbelief. “What the fuck? Is that shit you picked up working at the Splat Network!”

Dolly scoffs. “Get real. I stopped watching those shows after Thad’s acting job in the wife. BUT! I keep up on all the union handbooks to spot situations where the common man is being exploited.”

Flynn side-eyes the soundproof glass incredulously. “Yes. I’m sure when Marx wrote about the plight of the common man, he was referring to a drunken clone of Charles Nelson Reilly.”

Dolly ignores that dismissal. “Someone needs to go in their and tell the TALENT in there that they’re being exploited!”

Myst finally is broken out of her spell… somewhat. She grits her teeth angrily. “Wait! They’re exploiting Bonnie?!?!”

The tour guide looks aghast. “Absolutely not!” He laughs, trying to keep up a fun appearance for the rest of the group… As he starts jamming his thumb on a big red security button under his lape. [green]“You don’t understand, these clones genuinely believe EVERY DAY is March 23rd, 1976! To strip them out from that reality would be catastrophic… The last time it happened, there were…” Suddenly, the tour guide becomes drenched in sweat. “We… uh… we don’t talk about it.”

“Ohhhh!” Dolly says, offended at the privilege of those in charge. “So, once again, the bourgeoise just happun tah BENEFIT from STYMYING the working class communicatin’ their wages! Ain’ this a goddamn cue-inkydink!”

“IF BONNIE CAN’T COMMUNICATE WITH CLYDE, HOW CAN THEY EVER BE FREE?!?”

In the corner of Flynn’s eye, he spots three security luchadors, coming around the corner. Flynn jabs Dolly in the ribs.

“Hey, Eugene Debs, could we educate the populace when we’re not TRYING TO FIND THE VAULT?”

The luchadors are almost on them when…

KERASH!

Using her miniature television as a hammer, Myst cracks the glass! The pane shatters… The entire clone cast of Match Game ‘76 glances upwards, aghast… As if someone was shouting at them from another planet.

Like the clouds had parted and God’s voice rained down onto them.

“BONNIE! FRIENDS OF BONNIE!” Myst calls down, twisting her neck through to get as close to Betty White as possible. “YOU’RE IN THE FUTURE! THE YEAR IS 2022! YOU DON’T HAVE TO STAY IN A GLASS CAGE! RUN! BE FREEEEEEEEEEEE-!” It’s that moment that a security luchador tackles her to the ground…

Flynn and Dolly are back-to-back, fighting off grappling attempts from the other two.

“Goddammit. Great going, Dolly. Way to keep a low-profile.” Flynn says, shifting the collar-and-elbow tie-up with the guard into a side headlock…

“Shuddup!” Dolly retorts, front-facelocking her own guard. “We just need a distraction and we can find the vault.”

“OH! GREAT FUCKIN’ IDEA!” Flynn howls gruffly, performing a headlock takedown on his security partner… “Only problem is… Where the Hell are we going to find something more distracting than a TOUR RIOT?!?”

Myst’s guard is reaching into his back pocket for a ziptie to bind her hands…

WHEN THROUGH THE SHATTERED GLASS, A MICROPHONE STAND FLIES THROUGH THE AIR AND COLLIDES WITH HIS SKULL! SHATTERING HIS NOSE!

A back-up team of five security guards scrambles onto the scene…

As we see… climbing through the glass…

With eerily frozen smiling faces…

The Clone Cast of Match Game ‘76…

The tour group takes a few pictures, in awe.

Tellingly, the guards that were grappling with Flynn and Dolly… see the cast approaching…

And immediately run for the hills.

One of the more foolish security guards steps forward with a taser at the ready…

Clone Charles Nelson Reilly leaps like a fucking jaguar out the window and pounces on the guard…

Richard Dawson stuffs his thumbs directly through the eyes of a luchador mask as another guard screams in pain…

Brett Summers, as the tour guide beneath her begs for mercy, takes a complete bite out of his jugular vein.

The tour scatters in absolute hysteria down every which way.

Myst, from the ground…

Giddily claps her hands.

“YES! YES! BE FREE! YOU ALL DESERVE TO BE FREE!”

In a flash, Flynn forward-rolls over Myst, scooping her onto his shoulder. He cranes his neck down the hallway.

“LET’S GO! NOW!”

Dolly looks over at Flynn in disbelief.

“We’re gonna leave the scene like this?”

Flynn rolls his eyes. “No, we’re gonna stick around and hand these rage zombies literature on how to establish an equitable cannibal union. DOLLY, I DON’T CARE WHAT YOU LEARNED ROBBING WAL-MARTS AND READING MARX. WHEN A DISTRACTION SHOWS UP, YOU USE IT.”

Flynn disappears down the hallway, Myst over his shoulder.

Waters… sighs. And follows suit through the chaos and the screaming.

***

One of the guards, breathing heavily in a panic, runs down the hallway.

“Must… activate… Protocol Bad Ratings. Must… activate… Protocol Bad Ratings.”

He dives past a door, filled to the brim with… Pillars? Glassy pillars…

Made of figures floating in liquid.

At his waist, he jams a key into a security console.

His clumsy panicking fingers type as fast as they can.

“Activate… Protocol… Bad Ratings… Destroy ALL clo-”

WHAM!

…

The guard falls slowly to the ground.

Behind him, Charles Nelson Reilly… A haunting smile.

And in his hand, a dented, golden Daytime Emmy award. Drenched in blood.

CNR steps up to the security.

And pulls a lever.

“Be free…” CNR mutters, like a parrot repeating a phrase it’s heard, but is incapable of understanding.

The glass pillars drop to the floor…

But the figures instead find shaky footing… Waddling…

Like newborn fawns thrust into a cold, uncaring world.

They flock to their savior, CNR.

Hundreds of naked Match Game ‘76 clones. Their eyes wide and eager. Begging for instruction. A six-seat panel. Booze. Improv.

CNR offers them none of these things.

Only the knowledge that was handed down to him so recently…

“You ALL… Deserve to be free.”

***

Flynn is sitting at his computer, typing. Clickity-clacking, eyes quickly scanning through data…

…He glances up. Then, double-takes. Surprised that the camera is rolling.

He opens his mouth.

…Then, smiles.

He takes his hand up to his lips.

And zips his hand across.

His lips shut.

Then, he extends his index finger outwards. And clicks his mouse. And flips his screen around.

And the audience sees Bobby Bourbon flapping his gums about…

Quote:Now, I gotta be clear, what you did to Criminal? I would commend you, but flat out, even a Bastard wouldn't dare turn on another, no sir. That there is piece of shit territory. Brothers and sisters, those who are in awe of the Bastard, we come today, making conclave. When one comes down to the ring to compete, they risk their ass, but when one comes down to meet the full Bastard battalion, they risk their souls, because we control the points of their very afterlife and have a greater purpose than just whatever they say!

…Flynn scratches the top of his head, communicating with big clownish facial expressions that something doesn’t add up.

He tugs his mouse closer… The video shifts to the left… And another one takes up half of the screen.

Flynn clicks…

Quote:

December 11th, 2011 - Saturday Night Savage

Bobby tries to talk Thunder Knuckles down as Charlie continues to spit some shit talk towards Thunder Knuckles that only antagonizes him further. We can see Terry Borden starting to get to one knee before stepping up to a vertical base.


PIP: Borden’s back up!


Terry Borden is suddenly kicked in the gut by… THUNDER KNUCKLES!


HHL: WHAT?!?!


Charlie quickly underhooks the arms of Borden where he plants him with a Devil Hook Drop into Bobby Bourbon who deadlift suplexes Borden up into the air into the




Rainbow Laser Death Sequence!



The crowd erupts with boos as Them No Good Bastards and Charlie Nickels

…Flynn strokes his chin, like a chimp trying to fit a square peg in a round hole. This footage of Bobby saying the Bastards would never betray one of their own. With footage of Bastards betraying one of their own.

Well… Maybe it was just a one-time thing and Flynn is cherry-picki… Wait, he’s clicking another clip…

Quote:[mevent]Relentless 2022 - Night 3
Next up The Bastards enter the ring, Bobby, followed by TK. Ozzy pulls up the rear and closes the door behind him. The Bastards’ and Ozzy are all smiles as they applaud the career of “Chronic” Chris Page as he stands there in Miss Fury’s arms.

PIP: “All of BOB-Elite are here to share in this heartbreaking moment with Chris Page!”

HHL: “BOB aren’t nice guys, but you have to admire their undying devotion to each other! So far, nobody in the XWF has been able to put a wedge between this group!”

Bobby extends his arms, welcoming Page in for a hug.

Gut kick!

PIP: “WHAT!?”

HHL: “Page "masterminded" BOB how could he not see this coming!?”

Fury jumps back in shock as Bobby sets up and lands a…

BOBBYBOMB!

…Flynn slowly turns toward the camera… And mime-unzips his mouth.

“Pretty sure this footage fucking speaks for itself.”

…

“But, hey, that’s never stopped me before from adding verbal salt to a wound.” Flynn grins ear-to-ear.

“Lo-and-be-fucking-hold. Bobby Bourbon. THE GRAND POO-B.O.B. The daddy of the Bastard household. The man who SAYS A BASTARD WOULD NEVER TURN ON ANOTHER… Has a dogshit record of ambushing his old friends post-match…”

“God bless Bobby Bourbon. That stupid fucking idiot. If he actually could rub two brain cells together to form a THOUGHT, I might actually have to wrack my brains doing research, instead of finding BLATANT HYPOCRISY in your GODDAMNED CAREER HIGHLIGHT REEL.”

Flynn shakes his head in disbelief.

“Bob-bo. TK. Chuckster. How the fuck do you keep walking into matches with me thinking you’ll get away with this bullshit? I get it, the Bastards get to run roughshod most of the time. They build an Old West playset in their treehouse and they get to make-believe and imagine a world where they haven’t become IRRELEVANT. POWERLESS. BOTTOM-FEEDERS.”

“...But when you size up against Mark Flynn? The GREATEST HISTORIAN of XWF’s history? I will DECIMATE YOUR LIES. I will EVISCERATE YOUR SELF-DECEPTION. I will hold up a pristine mirror of truth so you can clearly see the golden idol you built in your image has rusted and cracked… Before I shatter the glass over your bleeding skull.”

“Oh, I’m sorry, TK. I guess I’m misrepresenting something when I say you haven’t won an XWF match in ELEVEN MONTHS?!?... Cuz, y’know, you and Chuckster won a tag team match at the Denzel Porter Invitational… Against…”

Flynn picks up a sheet of paper off the desk. He squints, checking his notes…

“Two 70-year old men who haven’t wrestled since that match.”

…Flynn chuckles.

“Wow, TK, you sure showed me. Way to brag on your TRIUMPHANT victory… ON A NON-XWF SHOW.”

Flynn’s brow suddenly contorts into mock fear.

“B-b-b-but, wait! TK definitely has me! After all, I won my Uni Title shot at the Cannabis Cup?!? Doesn’t that PROVE that if their win doesn’t count, mine shouldn’t either?!?”

“After all, TK and Charlie stampeding over two senior citizens in facepaint is EXACTLY THE SAME AS ME BEATING FIVE MEN IN ONE WEEKEND?!? THREE OF WHOM WERE XWF SUPERSTARS! THE LAST OF WHOM WAS THE #1 XWF SUPERSTAR OF ALL-TIME!”

“...Of course, if you believe the Bastards, NK carried me throughout our entire tag title reign. Completely forget that I beat Chuck and NK couldn’t. Completely ignore that I coached him for a year from being a green-as-gooseshit geek to the Final Survivor of WarGames 2022. Clearly, Mark Flynn couldn’t beat the Bastards. Damn shame, I don’t have any proof to the contrary…”

…Flynn calms down, scratching his chin thoughtfully…

“Oh yeah, weren’t Bobby and TK in the tournament I won? Yeah! And Charlie was in the Uni Title match that weekend! How did you three do again…?”

Flynn double-checks his notes…

…Squints, checking them again.

He flips the page, seeing it he’s missing anything.

He’s not.

“Bobby lost in the 2nd round. TK in the first. And Charlie lost the Fatal 4-Way.”

“That weekend, the Bastards had a combined record of 1 win, THREE LOSSES!”

“Of course, if you listen to the Bastards’ fantasy world… I’ve never beaten Bobby, TK and Chuck by myself.”

“NEWSFLASH, MORONS. I BEAT ALL THREE OF YOU IN FORTY-EIGHT HOURS LAST FUCKING MONTH.”

Flynn chuckles, pulling a fresh sheet of notes to his face.

“Of course, if we’re going to talk about delusional rubes, we can’t NOT talk about the Chuckster…”

“Chuck is in a fuckin’ land of Make-Believe, where because I beat him in a career versus career match, but I didn’t completely cripple him post-match, the ruling doesn’t count.”

“Which is like saying Bobby doesn’t have to pay for a Golden Corral buffet until his stomach ruptures and he dies in a pool of his own stomach acid and viscera.”

“Chuck, you fuckin’ STOOGE, if I had to snap both your knee-caps the wrong way, your career would have ended anyway. THE FACT THAT WE WERE IN A CAREER VERSUS CAREER MATCH IS ENOUGH TO END YOUR CAREER. YOU PUNK BITCH, YOU LOST. If you want to stick around at work so bad, so you can keep sending 70% of your paycheck to your ex-wife, so she can buy drinks for every real man she decides to fuck in Steubenville, Ohio… Beg me for your fuckin’ job, Chuck.”

“Write me a thank you card.”

“Because I fuckin’ ENDED YOUR CAREER. The only reason you still get to show your face around here, is because holding your LIFETIME of FAILURE over your head, is AMUSING to me…”

“Ohhhhh, but Chuck knows a thing or two about ending careers, apparently! After all, he beat a star-studded cast of wrestlers who are now on hiatus… Guys like… Dallas Marshall, Lynx, Cage Coleman… A truly star-studded cast of XWF Legends… Gee, if we were to whip our stats outs, who have I retired to stack up against Dallas FUCKING Marshall…?”

…

“How about the NUMBER ONE and NUMBER TWO WRESTLERS IN THE XWF TOP 50! COREY SMITH! ROBERT MAIN! They lost their last fucking matches in the XWF careers to MARK.”

“FUCKING.”

“FLYNN.”

“Sure, TK embarrassed Main with a surprise, upset victory. But, I finished the fucking job. Took the Omega’s head and embossed in on my goddamned mantle. You defeated Main, TK. I DEVASTATED HIM.”

“Just like I did the Bastards’ championship reputation.”

…

“But, no, for sure, Chuck. Name-drop Dallas Marshall. Very impressive. That’ll put some asses in the seats.”

Flynn giggles, tossing his notes away like a paper airplane.

“For all their bluster. For all their bravado, the Bastards have gone from the most dominant stable in XWF history… To a fucking improv troupe… Shooting their cute little parody movies where they still rule the world, because they get to write the script in their fucking promos…”

“Unfortunately, we’re not wrestling the Bastards in their daydreams… We’re not the fucking pornstar lookalikes Chuck found in an alley to fill in their roles on the BastardNet set…”

Flynn side-eyes the camera, covering his mouth like he’s sharing a secret.

“Boy, Bourbs. Didn’t you already do this lookalike bit when you and Chuck fought NK and I wearing hipster glasses? Pretty sad when you’re so out of material, you’re lifting your own ideas from TWO MONTHS AGO!!!!”

Flynn grins ear-to-ear.

“Unfortunately, for the Bastards, we’re not fighting in one of their little skits where they get to write their opponents’ lines. We’re fighting in the real goddamned world. The world where the Bastards haven’t won a match in eleven months?!?!”

Flynn then covers his mouth like he said a naughty word.

“Whoops. That fact sure makes Bobby and TK mad. You can tell because they complained about how I’m a broken record. Seems like I can’t cut a promo these days without bringing up the fact THE 2021 TAG-TEAM OF THE YEAR STOPPED WINNING MATCHES THE SECOND I JOINED THE DIVISION!”

Flynn snaps his fingers, mock-disappointed.

“Aw shucks, I did again! I just can’t stop bringing up the fact that I SINGLE-HANDEDLY TARNISHED THE LEGACY OF THE FORMER UNDISPUTED GREATEST TAG-TEAM IN XWF HISTORY WITH FIVE. STRAIGHT. LOSSES.”

…Flynn exhales.

“Boy, Bastards. I’m sorry, I just can’t help myself.”

“Say, if you want me to stop… Why don’t you try doing something you haven’t managed to do in a calendar year… And shut me down in the ring?”

“JUST.”

“FUCKING.”

“TRY.”

”Try”, indeed.

If The Bastards would actually TRY to not contradict themselves with every penis-laced breath they draw, I would have a much easier time taking them seriously in this matchup. But fuck-me-runnin’ if they ain’t gone and shat on any credible argument they “try” to make, by being so effortlessly them. I guess we’re all supposed to sit back and take it for granted that the Bastards are still the team that “dominated” the XWF Tag Team ranks from March of ‘21 until October of the same calendar year. I mean good-gawd, for all this bullshit bravado they spew, like it’s some sort of guarantee that they’ll be the next tag champs, they sure have a funny way of skirting around facts.

Like the fact that they’re getting ready to face a man in Mark Flynn who took a nobody in NK and LEGIT turned him into one of the greatest tag team wrestlers this company has ever seen. Afterall, wasn’t it NK commanding the SpeedRun team to victory in WarGames? No one else in this matchup even sniffed the WarGames finals. And that’s not a knock on myself, or Jenny. At least we had the proverbial BALLS to even enter WarGames, right TK? Right Charlie? Fuckin’ pussies. I mean it was for the best that Charlie bowed out anyway, coming off yet ANOTHER Universal Championship loss, his stock was at an all time low.

Did it stop me?

Of course not, because, again, I’m not a total fucking coward who desperatley manuvers, handcuffing themselves to any wrestler with a pulse to try keeping their credibility intact.

Thank gawd we were all spared of watching you come up short again… it’s getting a little tiresome. Listening to Charlie gloat like he’s got skill, when the fact still remains: MY performance in WarGames ‘21 is still the greatest accomplishment of his career. LSM is way better than you, Charlie. And it was a joy watching her reach the finals… something you couldn’t do last year. I think it’s time you stepped aside and quit tarnishing her reputation.

But as for TK, it wasn’t about sulking in the shame of constantly losing that kept him from entering WarGames, was it?

Nah.

Dude was legit scared to lose the XTreme Championship. Even after a few “gimmie” matches to get his reign started off, he didn't have the courage to take the strap to Switzerland. Talk about waving a white flag. TK essentially told the world exactly what he thought of his Xtreme Championship: it was hollow.

Tell me that I’m lying boys, tell me that Mark Flynn ain’t that guy. You can talk whatever shit about me and Jenny that you want. I won’t speak for her, but I have never shied away after a loss. FACT is, Flynn is a tag team expert, I learned that first hand last year, and you’re watching it unfold again right before yer’ very eyes. To bring together three of the most unlikely of allies under a common banner of burying yer’ stupid ego trips? Sign. Me. Up. I think it’s hilarious how the entire basis of every negative thing you people say about me is centered around the idea of my “promise”. How I haven’t “lived up” to the hype, how I’m my own worst enemy. Go on and say it fer’ real boys: YOU, each of you, respect Dolly Waters. And probably none more than the most accomplished of the three of you in Bobby. Don’t let the big guy lie… Bobby LOVES Dolly Waters, but more on that later.

How about the fact that The Midnight Dolls already have a better tag team record this year than the Bastards? 2-0 sounds pretty goddamn good to me heading into Relentless, and it’s going to sound even better after you three take this loss on Warfare. It’s pretty goddamn hilarious every time some highly vaunted “trash talker” like Justin York steps up to me, only to have their teeth kneed down their throats. It ain’t the first time that’s happened, and Bobby can attest to that, can’tcha big guy? So go on and tell me how I can’t function in a team setting. Like another fact that you cowards want to skirt, and manipulate:

dOlLy cOsTeD tK iN dA mArGaRiTa mIx.

Wow, wow, woooooow. Big. Red. Truck.

I’m not sure in what world a wrestler can legit be pinned clean in the center of the ring and it be someone else’s fault. Doesn’t matter that I’m the one who scored the pinfall in round one of that tournament, does it? With no fucking assit, mind you. Doesn’t matter that I ate a finishing move from one of the better teams in that tournament and kicked out at 2, AGAIN, with no assist. Allowing TK to take advantage and hit the Thunder Strike in round-two. I kicked out clean, so why couldn’t TK? Oh, but since TK proved to be the weaker wrestler out of our team in the finals, it’s somehow my fault. Blow it out yer’ asses. Being a part of a wrestling tag team has been a long dream of mine. Sacrificing my body and my ability for a greater good? I live in a goddamn commune. Thank you very much. And Charlie knows first hand about my ability to lay it all on the line in a team effort, afterall, you can’t ask a single wrestling historian, talking-head, or even the most casual of fans about my effort on Charlie’s Carnies without them pointing out the obvious: It was the HEART of Dolly Waters that almost led that team to victory. Bobby fucking remembers, he remembers feeling my elbow plunging into his heart. I could hear his big ass gasping for life when I was pinning him clean. Of course the big boy cried about it, like he always does. It wasn’t fair to Bobby because he’d already been wrestling. L-o-fucking-L you cunt. Like I hadn’t already been through a gauntlet myself? Git good. Maybe if you wouldn’t have had some shitty teammate like TK in round one, you wouldn’t have had to walk into the finals all alone. I’m sure it’s all my fault somehow though. I mean fer’ fucks sake, we’ve got Bobby talking about how I’ve tried copying the way he trash talks. Pathetic. You know who the last person that said something so ridiculously WEAK was? That was Jim Caedus, right before War Games. He claimed I was jacking his “promo style” as if that ever fucking mattered, and AS IF I hadn’t already been in the XWF tearing hearts out with my words PRIOR to Caedus arriving… prior to BOBBY BOURBON arriving in the XWF. Get one thing straight you pompous, cry-baby little bitch, if anyone is being copied it’s Dolly Waters, you cunt. That’s how the math shakes out, no matter how you try and spin, and skirt the facts. The VERY DAY that Bobby inked his contract in XWF, I was already the Federweight Champion, swatting away even the likes of Dawk. So go fuck yer’self.     

You know how I know that Bobby Bourbon respects me? I already pointed out an example in our first promo, and I just pointed out another: he likes my trash talk so much that he thinks he’s somehow responsible for it. But you wanna know how I REALLY know that Bobby respects me? Since Flynn is already running clips of some of the Bastard’s biggest blunders, I’ve got another:

Bobby Bourbon on 11-24-2 Said:Bobby: It's alright, though. See, I have lost to women, and to those smaller than me, go ask Betsy, Dolly, or even Sloane Taylor, and those are names more relevant than you could fart out. I don’t take pride in losing, no, but I’m not so prideful that I think ‘hur hur, women can’t compete’, because they can.

The feed returns to Dolly’s smirk.

Don’t worry, Bobby. I know that deep down yer’ really a misogynistic prick. Just look at the company you keep. Listen to the way you’ve contradicted yer’self since then. You said that I was too little to be able to do any real damage on you. That would maybe be valid if I hadn’t already bested you in the ring multiple times. But don’t worry, because Jenny and I? We’re gonna’ prove you right on Wednesday. We’re gonna’ compete alright, and under the leadership of a tag-team expert like Mark Flynn- - - well, I think yer’ gonna’ have no choice but to find some pride in the loss yer’ about to take. Because if not,what happens on night one of Relentless is gonna’ be one tough pill to swallow. 

 "Big mean bullies, that's all the Bastards are. Bullies. Bullies who like to push people around, tell everyone how big and bad they are, tell everyone within earshot about their big dick energy and how they are the greatest thing since sliced bread.....

They have a month-long Universal Title run between the three of them. Other than that? Faceplant after faceplant. Failure after failure. You are so quick to knock me, to put me down, when I have held more championships around my petite waist than your entire clique COMBINED. Do I care? No, but I know that it is a stick in your craw so HA! Your shittiness amuses me. Your total lack of any sort of factual, coherent argument amuses me. You just want to play the insult game but have literally nothing to back it up.

You're in the deep end with slashed water wings.

You're all out of your league, and it's so obvious that Stevie Wonder can see it. Flynn has owned Charlie, TK is basically useless, and Bobby is so hit or miss. You just never know which Bobby is gonna show up. I guess it depends on if he's hitting the bottle harder that week or not. It's clear now that you're running on fumes. Dangerously close to that big letter E, just throwing shit at the wall hoping that something will stick. Same repetitive banter, over and over again. Like a chimp with a machine gun, you lack direction and just shoot for the sake of shooting. Hey, some people like shooting, but this isn't the Wild West, boys, this is the XWF with the best talent in the world and you're gonna have to be a little more creative than that. For someone like Bobby, whose big thing recently has been word count and how important those two words are, he sure went all "poster boy" on us with a shameless plug for Golden Corral,  just to stretch his already bloated content...and intestinal tract. For someone as big as Bobby, you'd think there would be something inside that torso besides hot air....disappointing. Way to take my dig and spin it, I applaud that. I am happy you found literally the least impactful thing I said and ran with it, filling in air time and wasting precious oxygen, but ignoring the key talking points and most obvious flaws.

---Because you don't think you have any.

That is where you fail, Bobby. You walk around here thinking you're king shit just because you got past me and then won some tournament where the only one in it worth a shit was Raion Kido......well, look where Raion is now. Universal Champ, took down arguably the best Uni champ we ever had in Alias, and sitting on his throne atop the XWF kingdom in all of his golden glory.

Burn, cosmos.

Where are you? Still trying to hastily hold together a band of misfits with no real leadership ability. You aren't a leader, Bobby, because it's all about you. All about you, and always has been--always will be. I drafted my team for War Games and I put them on a pedestal. I was so confident in my new friends, and I pushed them up like an Atara Themis wonder bra and we almost won the damn thing. I put my team before myself. What did you do?

Bitched and complained about 'talent' around you when your team was imploding and even when you were given top dollar, high quality replacements, you still took a shit all over the floor. Problem is, there was nobody to rub your nose in it. You know why I snubbed you at War Games? You know why you were number 1 on my draft board but I passed on you like a vegan at a steakhouse?

Because of YOU Bobby. Because of who you are. Because of the ego the size of Siberia and the real valuable production of Rhode Island.

None of you are worth a second glance, but you're vaulted to the Main Event picture time and time again because Theo Pryce loves anal and you're such a generous lover.

'Bout the only thing you're generous for, Bobby.

When someone sells their soul, asks themselves what they would do to be successful and the answer is 'anything', the path to that success can be a bit....sticky. You shouldn't have to fuck another man in the ass to get what you want, Bobby. You should go out there and earn it every single time, but you took the easy way, the path of least resistance.....Theo's rectal cavity. What have I done since I got my head shaved? I've been undefeated. I've owned my shitty situation and I've made the most of it. You've been thrown an underhand lollipop as TV champ until Jonathan Burrows had to burrow your mushroom head out of Theo's colon and give you some real competition. I faced GaRRY twice and you twice. You've faced Xavier Lux. I was more of a fighting champion than  you will ever be. I took the stipulation and possible consequences of it and ran headfirst into the tornado. You lost, your ego was bruised, you were embarrassed and you ran to management demanding a mulligan because you just couldn't handle the fact that, anatomy aside, I am more of a man than you.

Hey, at least you didn't no sell it like Charlie. At least you didn't buy a ticket on the excuse caboose and say something like "it was a retirement match but he didn't kill me....sooooo."

Charlie may be the only 'man' on this roster more pathetic than you are, and we have Tommy Wish on the depth chart.

But Jenny, what about TK? Why not go after him the same way as the other two? I'm just so perplexed by TK, to be frank. I’m trying to figure out if he's trying to look at us or if his eyes are just way off. Did you get kicked in the head when you were little?

With your Stallone in ‘Rocky’ speech patterns and your IQ so low it funnels magma, I am going to go with yes.

TK looks like if a can of Chef Boyardee had the Confederate flag on it. TK looks like if a DUI mugshot wished on a star to be a real boy. Your face screams unenthusiastic handjobs, no wonder Theo likes Bobby better.

So do you attend anti-gay rallies because you like the abuse, or is it just out of reflex because of how you were raised?

Serious question.

You are one of the greasiest neckbeards I’ve ever seen. Take your Chubby Valastro ass back to Carlos Bakery and grease the pans with that nasty forehead. And use that neck beard to scrub the pans. Then “Bibity Boppity” to a fucking barber and clean yourself up.

For realz, though. You are the least important or entertaining member of every group you've ever been in. And in the worst shape, and that's saying a lot considering who you're currently in a group with.

If Edward Norton was the one that was curb stomped in American History X, he'd look like you.

Stop being the fall guy, TK and do something with yourself. You know, win something on the singles roster instead of hiding behind stable mates and pointing the finger at them when things don't go the way you want. God you're so fucking lame. Were you even in B.O.B? We all forgot. You were outshined by a woman in that group.....

Be ready for it to happen again on Wednesday.

Bearded War Pig came up with the Bastards name idea, and ya'll stole it from him. I just didn't think you'd steal his white trash persona and backwoods literacy rate as well. Where is War Pig? WE WANT WAR PIG. At least we could laugh at him and not feel bad about it afterwards. You look like you smell of cat piss and depression, and I can't even.

Easily the worst X-Treme champ we ever had. 1/10, wouldn’t recommend. Maybe after this ass kicking on Warfare you’ll wake up and realize that suicide is the one thing you’re actually good at.

Hey, a girl can hope, amirite?”