This is no ordinary night at Jim Norick Arena. Bobby has commandeered their kitchen and Them No Good Bastards are cooking The Tribe their final feast before a battle that could define their legacy. The Jim Norick Arena's kitchen is cramped, smoke rolling out of every open window. Bobby Bourbon stands by the smoker, preparing brisket. He tops the meat with secret spices and mustard, not too much, not too little either. The smoke in the kitchen is the burning pride of every team that thought they could take TNGB down. Every spice that is added is like a move they plan to land, precise and calculated.

The smoke from the grill presses against Bobby like a Relentless opponent, sweat starts trickling down the side of his face. The sound of Oklahoma City fades beneath the steady rhythm of chopping knives. Every cut Bobby makes is a reminder to leave their mark on Anarchy.

Thunder Knuckles stands next to the stove, stirring the pot of baked beans. TK is also tasked by Chief Bourbon to keep an eye on the pan of jalapeno cornbread in the oven; they can’t burn that.

Before every Anarchy Tag Team Championship defense, they cook like this, same recipes, same heat, same fire. Cooking is a ritual older than their title reigns, the best part is no one has to do an incantation. If you're around and the plates go cold, it means the Bastards are finished… and the Bastards aren't ready to hang'em up just yet. The Bastards have been doubted since day one, but every time opponents count them out, they come back stronger. This meal is proof of that. They're obviously not just fighting for titles anymore, they're fighting to defend their tag teams legacy.

Bobby grins, slicing the brisket into even pieces like their opponents on Anarchy.

“Bro, did you hear what this kid said when he was getting ready to hand me the Xtreme Championship? Said we were secondary tag team champions on a B show."

TK nods because he heard Kline say that.

"Who’s ass did he have to kiss to get a shot at the premier tag team in wrestling today? Who thought it was a good idea to hand a title match to a has-been and a never-was?”

Bobby shakes his head slowly, then drags his arm across his sweat-soaked forehead.

“Collins is gonna fart from a cheesesteak he had back in 2008 while Kline regurgitates the same smack talk that made his daddy a footnote in history."

TK’s reaction is priceless as his smirk turns into a full-on smile.

"We’re looking at a has-been and a never-was.”

Bobby tosses the brisket onto a wooden cutting board. The juices of the brisket start pooling under the meat on the cutting board, like blood spilt on the wrestling mat that TNGB has caused. Bobby chuckles, wiping his hands on his apron nonchalantly.

“You know, sometimes I sit back and wonder if we’re just stubborn gate keepers, bro."

TK shakes his head no before Bobby finishes his sentence.

"Then I think screw that! The fire and smoke that we bring to the table, that’s always going to be enough. Have you seen how many Tag Teams have come to Anarchy since we've been champions? Any tag team that isn't a propped up wash of a team wants to test their mettle against us.”

TK laughs because TNGB are some stubborn Bastards.

“The run down of the card doesn't lie, and yeah, sure, we're stubborn as fuck, but who gives a shit? That’s why we’re still standing while the other tag team champions have changed hands so many time I don't even know who has'em anymore.”

Without missing a beat Bobby continues his attack.

"Aidan Collins was around in the XWF before we made it fucking relevant, TK., and he’ll never shut the fuck up about it. Sounds like an old man describing his goddamn bandsaw on YouTube. Christ, get a fucking clue, grandpa. You think talking about back in the day makes you relevant today? No way. Not even back then when Aiden Collins wrestled in black and white did talking about two decades in the past sound good. In 2007, Collins beat dumbasses that talked 1987. I guarantee it.”

TK stirs the baked beans that are thickening in a cast-iron pot, the smell of bacon fat and chili spices are filling the room.

“Hey, Aidan, buddy, the man who once thought 'Conglomeration' was a sexy word for a wrestling company. For all your chest-puffin’ and legacy talk, you went out there and got your ass handed to ya by Sarah Wolf. So, I gotta ask… if your big excuse this whole time was ‘Well, technically I was never pinned’. What’s the next chapter in this fairytale? ‘Cause in Oklahoma City, when you lose to Us No Good Bastards, there ain’t gonna be that loophole. No ‘but actually’ clause, you'll just be laid out, wondering how two guys with more alcohol than blood in their system beat you like a rented mule.”

The oven timer yells like a ref calling a DQ, a sound the Bastards have grown used to. TK yanks open the oven door, smoke starts bellowing out.

“Son of a bitch, talking all that shit about the bunk ass Tribe almost burnt our cornbread. For a second, I felt the weight of this fight, but then I reminded myself of the most simple of facts. Us No Good Bastards don’t break, we burn hotter than any goddamn oven.”

TK snorts, wiping sweat from his brow with his signature arrogant smirk.

“Shit, almost lost it there, huh? That’s just proof we’re cooking up something badass. Every great meal has its close calls, just makes the payoff sweeter.

Bobby doesn’t flinch.

“That’s what Collins and Kline do, TK. They always ruin the meal before the main course, but we always finish cooking.”

Bobby walks over to the baking sheet of jalapeno-studded cornbread that was pulled from the oven, its crust still perfectly golden. He places it to the side, then smirks.

“Aiden Collins hasn’t been important since the Bush administration, dude. Probably still invites people over to play Rock Band on his Xbox 360 while drinking Smirnoff Ice. Backstage, he won’t shut up about The Office. You’re not a throwback, Collins, you’re just thrown away until someone dumpster dives for your contract.”

TK continues to work on the baked beans.

“Now Kline… where do I even start? You’re the most boring son of a bitch this side of Centurion.

TK pauses mid-sentence to taste a spoonful of beans, debating if they need more heat. He tosses in a fistful of diced jalapenos without breaking eye contact with the camera.

“Better,”

TK mutters, before turning his attention back to Kline.

“If your charisma was XBUX you'd be bankrupt. Seriously, dawg, you could be on fire in the middle of the ring and people would still get up to grab nachos."

TK give his often imitated, never replicated jerking-off hand gesture.

"I do have to give you credit where it's due though, hombre. You’ve got a talent for making exciting moments just vanish in thin air."

TK chuckles, shaking his head.

“Man, if boredom was a weapon, you’d be lethal as hell. Lucky for us, you’re about as entertaining as watching flies fuck.”

"That's an insult to flies."

Bobby flicks smoky BBQ sauce on the brisket, dark glaze crusting the meat exactly as planned.

“Hey Solomon, when you’re done sucking our dicks off while calling us losers, are you gonna finally grow a pair and step up? Or is this your whole career plan? Just barking from the sidelines hoping Aiden carries you like some insecure little bitch, praying to get noticed? You’re doom, bro.”

TK scoops the baked beans into a bowl and slams it on the counter.

“Honestly, I’m more terrified of a dog in a hat than Solomon fucking Kline. Seriously, this kid said the very titles he’s challenging for, and walking away without, were second rate and on a secondary show. The only reason I believe he’s here is because he liked getting his ass whooped by me before. Wants to show Aiden what kind of beating he can take. Last time I saw Solomon I was planting him with a spinebuster in Sturgis.”

Bobby smirks, sinking a carving knife sharply into the cornbread’s crust.

“Now here’s why neither of you stands a snowball’s chance in a meth lab against Them No Good Bastards.”

TK slams a fist against the counter.

“One: you’re slow, mind, body, and heart. Meanwhile, we move fast as freight trains and hit like hell to boot. We don’t care about what mess some poor fuckin' ring boy has to mop up when we're done. You’re not built for this kind of smoke.”

Bobby leans in, voice full of venom.

“Two: you got egos built on sand. We just spent five minutes kicking the legs out from under your little ‘I’m still relevant’ stools, and I bet it stung. Imagine what’s gonna happen when the hits are real.”

TK grins wide, slapping down the platter.

“Three: you can’t work together better than us. Behind our grins, is a fucking hunger that won’t be satisfied by anything less than total tag team domination. Collins thinks he’s the star. Kline thinks he’s underappreciated. Meanwhile, me and my best friend, Bobby Bourbon? We’re a fuckin' unit. Four years tearing down tag teams while you were sitting on the shelf wishing you could fight like us. You’re not coming to Anarchy to fight with THE tag champs, you’re stepping into a curse that every team we've faced has. Go ahead, ask'em. The Bastards don’t just beat you, we leave a stain on your career that doesn’t wash out. Guys come in confident, walk out shell of their former selves."

Bobby laughs, cracking open a beer, then hands it to TK.

“Careful, TK, they’ll start telling us about previous ownership of the company and other people who don’t matter.”

TK raises his beer toasting the Tribe.

“Oklahoma City better prepare their blood banks ‘cause we’re not coming just to beat you. We’re coming to bleed you the fuck out. When the bell rings, you won’t be grizzled vets or underdogs, you’ll be bodies left after a Rainbow Laser Death Sequence while we celebrate another defense.”

Bobby stabs the slab of brisket and takes a chunk off, then places it onto a plate. This meal is TNGB's statement, slow smoked, seasoned with pain and arrogance, and served with the certainty of victory. TK adds a big piece of perfectly baked jalapeno cornbread, topping it with a generous amount of smoky baked beans. Bobby pushes the plate toward the camera for their delusional rivals, delivering the ultimate serving.

“This, gentlemen,”

Bobby says, voice oozing with disdain.

“is The Tribe’s Last Meal. Slow smoked, seasoned with their pain and loss, served with a side of get-fucking-real. Enjoy it while it lasts.”

TK nods, a cocky smile adorning his face, his voice steady on the attack.

“Eat up, fuckers, because after Anarchy, you won’t get another goddamn bite.”

TK grabs the plate and shoves it close to the camera’s lens, fogging it up with heat. Bobby takes what's left of TK's beer, smashes it over the brisket, foam sizzling on the hot meat.

“Dinner’s over.”

Bobby snarls, cutting to the chase.

"You smell that? That’s the smell of victory. That’s the meat, the beans, the cornbread, all mixing with the scent of two careers going up in smoke. Collins, Kline… you just had your Last Meal."

The last visual we see before fading to black is TK bitch-slapping the plate onto the floor, the food splattering like the Tribe’s blood on the wrestling mat. Bobby leans over the mess on the floor, eyes locked on the camera.

“Now it’s time for the Bastards to do the dishes, and we're cleaning up the little goblin man and his side piece.”










































































Coming soon!