“So, Mister Flynn started talking about becoming… THE GUY.”

“Uh-huh.”

“He stands on the table and says ‘IRDAWG, IT’S MY DESTINY! THAT WHICH ALL MEN DR-”

“Keep chewing, Irwin.”

“Uh… *chew-chew*... Well, y’know how Mister Flynn talks. Wanting to be the center of the wrestling universe. Its North Star. The bright gleaming future, revealing the sport’s promised land! A once-in-a-generation… NAY! Once-in-the-course-of-human-history WRESTLING MESSIAH!!!”

Irwin sweats, recalling… Tears a-brewing, inspired simply *remembering* Flynn’s monologue.

“Mmmmm.” Tote/Tate/Wilson scans her laptop screen…

Dozens of graphs. Constantly updati-

FLICKER. The screen blinks… DISCONNECTION.

“Is this gum cinnamon-flavored?”

Tote/Tate/Wilson looks up.

Irwin’s eyeing T/T/W’s gum between his index and thumb.

“CHEW, IRWIN.”

Obediently, Irwin renews his chew.

…Instantly, the data-feed resumes.

“Sorry, Miss Wilson! Do I have bad breath?” Irwin breathes and sniffs, checking for halitosis.

“No. We’re tracking up-to-the-second biometrics… reading your fluids like a computer might a USB.”

“Wow! Too cool, Miss Wilson!”

“Miss Tote is fine, Irwin.”

“...Oh.” Irwin scratches his head. “But… You said your name was Stephanie Wilson earlier.”

T/T/W rapidly types. “I have many names.”

“...Okay, Miss Tote.” Irwin nods, not questioning that mysterious statement.

“...Fascinating.”

“What?” Irwin peeks over the top of T/T/W’s screen.

T/T/W flips her laptop around, highlighting two seemingly-identical graph families.

“When Mark Flynn went on his tirade, your biometric data synched up perfectly… Your heartrates? Aligned! Your blood pressures? Identical! Even re-telling the story later, you experienced the exact same biorhythmic spikes. The experience was imprinted into your very being…”

T/T/W turns the screen ‘round again.

“We’re observing the ultimate parasocial relationship. Fan and Talent… Becoming one.”

…Irwin fans his face. “*phew*...Neat!” Sweat trickles down Irwin’s brow.

…T/T/W exhales, focused on the screen rather than her subject. “It’s… something. We need more data.”

“Am I.. *cough* dying?”

“No, you should be fine…Unless Flynn experiences catastrophic levels of str-”

WHAM! Irwin faints, hitting the floor face-first.

---

“GROW UP NORMAL.”

Flynn holds the communist infant up to his face.

The newborn (or new…cloned?) NKWB eyes Flynn, mouth agape.

“DON’T RESENT ME.” Flynn pleads, eyes filled with terror. “JUST… BE A FUNCTIONAL ADULT! WITHOUT TRAUMA! NOW!!!”

…NKWB’s lip puckers.

…Flynn sweats. “Nonononononono...”

WarBaby’s eyes water…

“NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!”

”waaaaaaaaah.” NKWB loudly cries!

“FUUUUUUUCK!” Flynn grasps his temples, completely panicking. “This’ll be a core memory for you, right?!? Whining someday to some highschool guidance counselour… THIS was the day you KNEW you’d NEVER BE HAPPY! FUCK!!!!!”

Meanwhile, Bourbon’s scribbling, taking rigorous notes.

“I’m getting, like… FOUR Nobel prizes. Maybe even an Oscar.” Bobby captures every second of Flynn’s crisis. “The Academy will INVENT a category! THAT’S how gold this is.”

Flynn spins on his partner (in tag-team wrestling and clone-parenthood). “YOU!!!”

Flynn charges Bobby!

…

Then, Retreats, gently returning NKWB to his crib.

…THEN STORMS BOBBY AT HIS DESK!

“BASTARD!”

“Yes. Famously.”

“YOU CLONED NK?!?”

“...Yeah? We covered that last episode. Keep up, Morty.”

“I… DON’T CALL ME MORTY!!!”

Bobby sniffs, disinterestedly. “What’s the big deal? Weren’t you amped to play Unkie Flynn’ to Ned’s future dull descendant? Raising some brat that flosses four times a day and only crosses the street to help the elderly?”

“DIFFERENT STANDARDS, BOB. Being an uncle? EASY JOB. Give the kid five dollars at Christmas? Don’t be racist at Thanksgiving? UNCLE-OF-THE-YEAR!!!”

Flynn points backward at NKWB, currently chewing on his own foot.

“Name… ONE WRESTLER!!! WHO HAS A HEALTHY RELATIONSHIP WITH THEIR FATHER?!?”

Bobby smirks. “Sure. Well, there’s…”

…

“Uh…”


“...”

“...Barney Green?”

“FUCK OFF, LES MISE-BOB! BARN-DAWG ONLY FUCKS INFERTILE TRANSVESTITES. THAT SCREAMS DADDY ISSUES!”

“…Agree to disagree.”

“FURTHERMORE! He’s a CLONE-BABY!” Flynn gets up in Bob’s grill. “D’ywanna ask the XWF’s last clone-papa how raising his mini-me went? Bad news, YOU CAN’T. Because that guy was SEBASTIAN DUKE! And his clone-son CUT HIS FUCKING HEAD OFF.”

Flynn presses his temples, trying to *JUICE* anxiety out.

“EVENMORESO! You cloned the partner I BETRAYED! GREAT START TO A FATHER-SON RELATIONSHIP THERE, DOCTOR OEDIPUS.”

Flynn’s head bucks… He’s so angry, he nearly vomits. He rapidly blinks, maintaining juuuuuuuuust enough composure… to keep screaming.

“This is… FOUR of my biggest fears… tur-duck-en’d into a SMALL ASIAN INFANT.”

…Bobby counts on his fingers…

“...That’s only *three* fears.”

…

“Fear #4 is ‘raising a non-white child… out-of-touch with their roots’.”

…Bob shrugs. Then keeps writing.

“HEY!” Flynn sticks his left index finger in Bobby’s face. “I NEVER AGREED TO RAISE A KID! I’VE SIGNED NOTHING!”

Bobby grins.

“Your attorney… *completed* the paperwork on your behalf.”

…Flynn scoffs. “My attorney? You me-”

…Flynn glances down…

At Bobby’s desk.

While Flynn’s been screaming…

His right hand…

Adorned with a mustache.

Signs NKWB’s adoption paperwork.

“CLINTON!”

Flynn lifts his right hand… AND SMACKS IT WITH HIS LEFT!

The mustache flies off!

“YOU’VE BETRAYED ME FOR THE LAST TIME!” Flynn hisses… As he sucks the hand he just smacked.

Flynn points at Bourbon with his unsmacked hand.

“Y-y-you! YOU CAN’T MAKE ME RAISE A CHILD… IF THE CHILD WAS NEVER BORN!” Flynn backward-rolls, scooping the babe into his arms. “HE’S GOING BACK!”

Flynn kicks open the delivery room’s door!

“MA’AM! YOU DON’T KNOW ME, BUT YOU’RE TAKING BA-”

…

“Sorry…”  Flynn blinks, clearing his throat. “…Are you…Shania Twain?”

Indeed, Shania Twain lies in the maternity ward, quasi-conscious, riding that sweet epidural dragon.

“She is.”

Bourbon enters behind Flynn.

“...Why?”

“Who else would I get? 90s Shania? 90s hot. Perfect maternal host. AND 2023 Shania? Completely unnoticed by society. Perfect surrogate!” Bourbon taps Flynn’s temple. “Think, Morty!”

“STOP CALLING ME, MORTY.” Flynn grunts. “FUCK YOU, I’M PUTTING HIM BACK.” Flynn rushes toward CMT Artist-of-the-Year, Shania Twain.

“...Bitch.”

Flynn stops in his tracks.

…Then, spins toward Bobby.

“The FUCK you just say?”

Bourbon raises a fist to his eye and cranks it.

“Boohoo. Flynn can fight ALIAS, Dock, Omega… But he Quasi-legally adopts a kid…”

“TRICKED!”

“Suddenly? You can’t hang. PATHETIC.”

“...THESE ARE DIFFERENT THINGS.”

“It’s not. Wrestling? Parenting? Decolletage embroidery? They’re all the same.”

“Wel-... What was that third one?”

“They’re all BUSINESS. Negotiations. WAR! With territories and weapons!”

Bob smacks his clipboard.

“Just like in business, with parenting… YOU START IN AUSTRALIA!”

“...What? Like RISK?”

“Exactly like RISK!”

“…Are we talking war? Or business? …Or parenting?”

“We’re talking YOU, MARKY MARK! TAKE AUSTRALIA!”

“HEY! ONLY I USE COOL NICKNAMES!”

“You’ve gotta be VICIOUS IN BUSINESS! Ain't no Geneva Convention in RISK! Or Parenting! Anything goes.”

…

“Well, not *anything*...”

“Like… Don't shake it! No matter how much you want to.”

…Mark eyes NKWB. The warbaby smiles at him.

“God, I want to.”

“Me too but we can't.”

Bobby points at Flynn.

“Wanna be a good parent, Mark? Be a BUSINESSMAN.”

…

Flynn squints thoughtfully…

---

Bobby and Flynn sit down at a boardroom table.

Both reach downwards…

Bobby lifts a briefcase.

He opens it…

…Inside… a business crib housing NKWB (complete with small mobile of folders and spreadsheets).

Flynn lifts… his false-mustache.

Flynn points at it.

“You got me into this mess. GET ME AUSTRALIA.”

…The mustache nods at Flynn.

…Flynn submerges under the table.

And Christopher K. Clinton rises up in his place.

Bourbon points at Clinton.

“Your offer?”

“50% interest, shared with my client, co-managing the asset.”

Clinton slides over NKWB’s appraisal docs...

“Valuation?”

“Purely speculative at-the-moment. But, we estimate significant financial growth during asset maturation.”

Bobby eyes the graph.

Money-line goes up. Nice.

“Locus-in-quo?”

“My client’s home! Storage unit in Iowa.”

“Babyproofed?”

“Not… presently.”

“Unacceptable. The asset shall remain on-site at BourbCo.”

Flynn slides the ‘stache off.

“THIS DEATHTRAP? You can’t raise my son at a shopping mall!!!”

Flynn slides the ‘Stache on.

“Excuse my client. We propose… Alternating weekends, baby-proofing methods TBD?”

“Done.”

Handshake.

“Education?”

“Optional.”

“My client believes education will raise the asset’s return-on-investment.”

“...Fine. He’ll attend the BourbCo Baby Business School. He’ll be balancing buyout clauses before he can crawl.”

“He’s a COMMUNIST! We’re not enrolling him in your brainwash-baby-business-bootcamp!”

“Free tuition.”

“Sold.”

Handshake.

“Extracurriculars?”

“Football.”

“Psssh, just push in his head’s soft spot today… Give him permanent brain damage NOW!”

“Compromise: Backyard deathmatch wrestling?”

“Much better.”

Handshake.

“Titles?”

“‘Papa Flynn’.”

“Baba Bobby.”

“Done.”

Handshake.

They each grab NKWB’s baby-arms, gently shaking them.

“Pleasure doing business.”

---

I hit the spot because I'm a beast
These cats gobble it up like I'm Fancy Feast.
Y'all called it, fellas. BOB is deceased.
I'm still here; I'll fold you up, leave a crease.

We put polish back in the straps and gave'm a sheen
We’re the meta! The boss! Straight-up Springsteen!
The two of you are less cool than the return of Barney Green
Hunting drug lords? That's just so twenty-seventeen.

So was cloning.

I'm fun, jovial, don't wanna team with my rival!

DITTO.

Put you in our past though like your asses were archival.

You just went into the Matrix.

When it's just Ned and King, their team name’s Dead.On.Arrival.

Hey!

Because we're the good guys! You have no chance for survival.

Gentlemen, and I cannot stress, I do not say this in jest.

You’re both fine young boys, just barely beyond embryonic…

INFANTS. Eyes adjusting to the bright lights… Crawling to escape the AFTERBIRTH of your clumsy beginnings.

But, you’re developing well. You are indeed the future of this industry.

You sure as fuck aren't the present. That’s where we come in.

The relevant, the dominant, the feared.

People like Chris Page come to the XWF to fight a Ned or an Isaiah.

Because coming to the XWF to fight me or my partner?

Suicide.

And we get to teach you that!

I've rhymed for you.

Given platitudes.

I even wore this extremely vibrant outfit.

Bobby gestures to his red suitcoat, yellow vest, green pants, and blue cumberbund, the dazzling parrot-style tuxedo that's mesmerized you this entire promo.

How much more “PBS educational programming” can I get for you kids?

Teaching you about the world like we’re fucking BEAKMAN.

You two are like the humans on Sesame Street, here to get outperformed by a muppet.

Like Charlie Brown’s parents… Not important enough to show your faces. And when your mouth moves, all we hear is ‘MWAMWAMWAMWA’

So, since the show’s over, boys, let me be me for a minute.

What’s the difference between riding a bike and a blowjob?

Ah, wait! I know this o-

Ned's dad never taught him to ride a bike.

DAAAAAAAMN.

Isaiah's been a failure since his abortion.

BOB!

Those are my BROMIGOS!

I know, but whaddya want from me, less effort?

Bobby sneers, glaring at Mark.

They didn't put themselves in the line of fire, they walked straight into a bombing range.

It took… TWO WEEKS.

For King?

To become Kido.

Blending into the scenery.

FAILING to SHINE in a pack.

Kido was HUMILIATED at WarGames.

FAILED to lead.

And just like the Lion became a housecat.

The King’s become a PAWN!!!

Marching to slaughter…

And Nedward.

You stubborn fool.

So obsessed with pretending you’re above me.

That you REFUSE to implement my lesson!!!

Bringing a TEAM together.

You and King failed once before, battling the Just-Us League.

You WEREN’T a team.

…I gifted you and King THIS CHANCE.

TO LEARN FROM THE PAST.

…

And whaddya do?

Taking turns.

Avoiding each other’s advances

Refusing to mix your ingredients on the mic.

TWO INDIVIDUALS.

…

Ned, I bestowed a tag-teaming MASTERCLASS.

Many voices becoming one.

*We* won WarGames.

Because *you* trusted me.

…

Now?

Lookatcha.

You STILL don’t believe in King.

STILL drawing lines, dividing YOUR side of the ring.

Like roommates taping their fridge down-the-middle.

Bickering over YOUR territory.

As a menacing army encroaches...

…

Bobby and I don’t get along.

Hell. We DESPISE each other.

You know what else we do?

We.

FUCKING.

WORK.

Team us up?

We click.

We’ve shared that ring so many times…

I know where Bob’ll be an ETERNITY before he’s there.

POETRY IN MOTION.

We LOATHE each other.

But! We trust each other.

…

I’m disappointed, boys.

But. You’re my AMIGOS.

So.

I’ll teach this lesson.

Once.

More.

Get your shit together.

OR GET YOUR SHIT KICKED IN.