Bobby Bourbon is flustered. He rolls his eyes as he pulls his phone from his pocket, and we see his phone screen as he scrolls through his contacts. He stops on one name in particular, Theo Pryce. Bobby dials, keeping the phone on speaker. After one long ring and half of the second one, there's an answer.

What's up Bobby?

Oh, not much. Um, Theo, I’m in a bit of a bind.

What is it this time? I told you, you can't just beat the shit out of someone for wearing a MAGA hat.

I can and I will!

Bobby, what is it?

Pulling back, the entirety of Bobby’s situation is given new light. He's in some kind of strange submarine with what looks like an entire pallet of Del Monte canned pudding. Just one of these gems sold for $12,000,000 at auction. Looking through the window, we see a distinct pink glow outside.

Well, it's a long story.

Fuck that noise, it had better be less than two-thousand words.

Alright. Well, my opponent is from outer space, and since I already did that, I thought I'd do Innerspace.

You mean that movie with the appropriate Quaid brother and Jiminy Glick?

Bobby furrows his brow.

Yeah, sure. Well, I shrunk myself, got a ton of vintage pudding, put myself into a syringe, but there was a mixup. Instead of being injected into a lampoon of my opponent…

Heh, classic.

Yeah, well, instead I got injected into a seven-hundred pound man.

Oof.

Yeah, navigating my way out of here is rough, so, since I'm stuck, I wanted to let you know I wasn't going to make it to Warfare.

Oh, no Bobby. See, your opponent already did a promo, so we need to just put a clone of you in the ring to get pinned now.

That doesn't make any sense!

Look, Bobby, we need to hook new talent.

Okay.

And the way we do that is by catering to them.

Yeah, but what about me?

What about you, Bobby?

Well, what happens if the new talent gets dissatisfied or something?

We have you.

Bobby’s eyes go wide as he mouths "the audacity of that bitch".

I don't follow.

Oh, you know, until we get a new batch of folks in to wrestle. We'll promote you for what you're worth then you can roll with the punches! Besides, you’re kind of old. Take Xavier Lux, he could have been a generational talent if you just sucked.

I'm five years younger than your champ! And what about talent retention?

Uh…

The confusion in Theo's voice is deafening.

What does that even mean? Since when is the XWF about retention?

Fair.

Exactly. Now, me and Lane have this hobby where we shrink ourselves and get put into suppositories. It's a blast, just like the log flume rides at amusement parks.

So you want me to go be a piece of shit like you?

No, just shit. The guys in marketing have an idea about a space shuttle with a ring on it.

Huh. Well, I can't, even if I had all the self-respect of the attendant of a revolving door and wanted to. I'm literally trapped in this dude's belly fat.

Huh. Also, did you spend seven-hundred million on the corporate account?

Bobby looks at the rare pudding, a twinkle in his eye.

No…

Look, it’s alright if you did, so long as you have the receipt.

Bobby is seen balling up the receipt.

Gotcha.

Alright. Well, good luck in that fat man, I'll go fire up the cloning machine, a fake you is better than none.

Bobby sighs, rolling his eyes.

I guess I’ll be there.

That's the spirit! Remember Relentless, we’re biased against you!

Bobby hangs up. He turns to the console which has all the controls. He presses a button simply marked 'unshrink'. In a gory explosion of fat, blood, and bone, Bobby’s Innerspace submarine appears atop the hideous remains of whomever he was inside, doctors and nurses looking on in horror. Bobby steps out of his pod, noshing on a little tin can of vanilla pudding. He surveys the room, and sensing unease all around he speaks.

Y'all gonna need a mop.

Bobby steps out of the hospital room, calmy enjoying his treat. Del Monte canned pudding: decadence incarnate.

Alright, spaceman, welcome to the March Madness tournament. You like to travel the cosmos, flex that sci-fi parable shit, so first I'ma break it down into terms you're really going to appreciate. Have you ever read Tom Godwin? Well, he was doing space intrigue well before we were born. So, the story is called the Cold Equations. It's about a galant space pilot who finds a stowaway on his ship, a young girl. After a bit of dialogue, the humble captain simply jettisoned the girl because there wasn't enough food on the ship for two. Either you starve in nobility or eat. You, Jay, are that little girl. See, I gotta eat and I don't see how I could let you stand in the way of that. Now, I get it, Bobby, why are you being such a meanie head to the spaceboy? It's not mean at all, Jay, it's survival. I know exactly what is at stake, see, I was King last year after taking March Madness. I was a disappointment. Not nearly as disappointing as seeing you shown up as a secret competitor, no! Can you imagine how many kids found out the big surprise was none other than Jay Omega, only to have to google who the fuck you were, and even then, good luck finding anything. You flashed, sizzled, beat bullshit teams with your doppelganger pals, and faded like you didn't belong in the spotlight.

Bobby scoops the last tidbits out of the can. He leaves it and the spoon on the lap of some catatonic geriatric. The man wakes up, cured. Cured by the power of the manna that is forty year old canned pudding.

That's not to say I'm writing you off, no, you're not some dork who just tosses their own brand of gibberish out there claiming they're alien names. You cruise the cosmos looking for battle, and damn if I didn’t do that myself. I mean, when I was out and conquering the realms in the name of the XWF crown I didn't see you there, but hey, you tangled with Bleepblorp in the Gamma Quadrant or some shit. Shucks, I even saw alternate versions of myself once, too, but then again, I never, ever, ever needed a second me to get into a scrap. I could showcase my resume and how I've held tag team gold across the expanse while you were busy playing with yourself, but really, this is all about celebrating Jay Omega, the motherfucker set on reminding people they could be watching Picard on Paramount Plus, Dune, or something actually good.

Bobby reaches an elevator. He calls for the cab, hitting the down button. As he does, a little girl and what appears to be her mother approach. The kid looks at Bobby.

I know you, you’re mean.

Bobby smiles and looks at the mom, then the little girl.

I am, you’re right.

Why?

Bobby half chuckles. He's broken jaws for slights less than this, but a little girl?

Well, I guess people are mean to me, I just get meaner.

That's not nice.

Bobby crouches and smiles at the little girl.

You're right. What should I do?

Be nicer!

The elevator chimes, and the doors slide open. The lady and the little girl enter. Bobby pauses and relents, watching the doors close.

Well, I guess she's right. I need to be nicer. As such, let's look into all the alternative reality Jay Omegas that are actually awesome. First off, there's Cocksucker Omega. Pretty cut and dry, there, smiles like a doughnut and zero gag reflex, he roams the streets turning tricks and earning a living on OnlyFans, and in their timeline, they're actually famous and the bonafide throat G.O.A.T. of their time. More swimmers have landed in their belly than most Olympic sized pools, and Guiness book has their record of one metric fuckton of dicks in their mouth in one sitting. I, for one, laud Cocksucker Omega, because I do indeed appreciate having my dick sucked, and anyone willing to go down to get someone up is a champion in my book.

Bobby starts walking back down the hall.

Then we have Chef Boyardee Omega. Chef Boyardee Omega was a war hero in Afghanistan for air dropping much needed Beefaroni and Spaghetti-Os to our service men and women from his own festive red, white, and green biplane, and such a skilled pilot they could shuck off Stinger missiles in the damn thing all while keeping his adorable poofy chefs hat on. He also flew humanitarian missions over third world states, like Luxembourg, which is totally a third world country in his timeline, and Flint, Michigan, which is a third world country everywhere you go. Three cheers for Chef Boyardee Omega!

Bobby saunters up to the nurses station, which is empty since everyone had to go clean up an exploded seven-hundred pound dude.

And who could forget 1920's Bohemian Thinker Omega? I know I can't!

Bobby glances around, perplexed there's no nurses. One approaches.

Hi, I’m Inquisitor Bobby of the Unholy Church of the Bastard, so clergy, that little girl and her mom asked me to speak with her father.

The nurse smiles.

"Room 314."

Bobby begins to saunter towards room 314.

Then there's Two Carpenter Bees Tied Together with Some Floss Omega. See, in their timeline, one fateful day, a couple of bored stoners caught some bees and put them in the freezer for a bit to stun them. While in that state, they were tethered with a small length of dental floss. In moments, they were up and about, crashing into each other. In two months, they won the primaries for the Slamdance Monte Cristo Sandwich party, and to avoid political debate I will refrain from discussing their tenets. Soon after, Two Carpenter Bees Tied Together with Some Floss Omega was the first female President of the United States along with being a Billboard topping artist, until Taylor Swift sneezed at an airport and it was number one worldwide for a decade.

Bobby boots open the door to room 314 unnecessarily. The man inside on the bed looks up in utter shock.

Hey, fuckstick, stop letting your kid talk to strangers.

The man, absolutely bewildered, simply nods. Bobby gives him a thumbs up.

Now, Jay, again, much respect for having a cavalcade of alternate timeline yous. It's pretty cool. Thing is, I'm on a mission. I fucked up. I won the crown, became King of the XWF, and then let it down, hard. This, Jay, this is where I course correct. This is where I go back into that ring and showcase a goddamn highlight reel by putting on the match of the night, every night. By going out there and fighting my heart out for all to see. By having the goddamn backbone to stand up and fight, and by the Bastardly Father, giving the XWF Universe what they want and crave. Blood, violence, and poetry.