Robbie Bourbon is gearing up for a 2/3 falls Glass Tables Match with Peter Gilmour by amping up the amount of Xtreme. Also, it's election day.

LET HE WHO IS WITHOUT SIN CAST THE FIRST BALLOT

We open to see a municipal polling place in the United States on election day. Signs for every candidate litter the side of the road, mindbogglingly strewn just everywhere and cluttering up the world. Trump, Hillary, this for Congress, that for Congress, this for Senate, that for School Board, etc. No mention of your local state's proposed constitutional amendments, which you'll encounter far more frequently than those who are actually getting paid to participate in and win this election but then again, they aren't paying for any add space or time.

We see the A-Team van painted to look like the Ghostbusters car pull up, and out hop Robbie, Blue, Robbie's girlfriend and handler, Diamondback, the man who can blend into any crowd, Cyberjaw, the man with the cybernetic jaw, Fat Spencer the Weary, some guy Robbie met at the DMV, and Smashdyface McFace, Islamic terrorist what had his face smashed with an axe. Smashdyface says something inaudible due to his face being smashed.

Yeah, this is where people opt for Hillary or Trump. Weird we're referring to one by first name and one by second this time around, huh.

I'm voting for neither.

What? That's a wasted vote!

No, it isn't. I'm voting for who I want in the White House.

Me too, Hillary.

Me too, Trump.

Diamondback and Cyberjaw glance at each other, eyebrows raised. Seconds later, they start slapping at each other like two prepubescent siblings in the back seat of the car. Robbie grabs each by the collar and separates them.

Jesus, so divisive.

With that, Jesus Christ, rarest of all Bourbon Men, appears before Robbie and his Bourbon Men.

Woah, Christ!

That's my name, don't wear it out, or take it in vain. Whaddyaneed, Robbo?

Nothing, really, are you here to vote?

Nope, not allowed to. All your money says you trust in me, I kind of see it as a handy payoff to make sure I don't interfere in politics.

Not even the Religious Right?

Especially not the Religious Right. Those old fogies block up progress harder than the pharisees. You guys need to keep advancing to do crazier and wilder shit, let's see what the human race can really do, not keep things in cruise control until I show up.

But you're here.

Hyep.

So, does that mean...

Nah, this isn't the end of the world. Shitty leaders happen, Robbie, you should know this. I know the Cubs won the World Series, too, and so did the Cavs, and even Crystal Pepsi is back, but the world isn't ending. I'm here to help you another way.

Oh, like how?

Well, tee hee, I work in mysterious ways, it wouldn't be much fun if I spoiled it. Now go do your civic duty.

Jesus pulls a Twinkie out of Fat Spencer's ear and hands it to him. Fat Spencer faints.

Oh, fuck!

Don't sweat it, he's kinda frail, but I'll toughen him up.

That's not your job!

It's a hobby.

Jesus rolls his eyes as he starts to revive Fat Spencer. Robbie, Blue, Diamondback, and Cyberjaw start to head to the polls. There's a small line. A few moments later, all four walk out and are wearing stickers that say 'I Voted'. Good for them.

Well, civic duty complete.

Hyep.

Jesus walks up with Fat Spencer the Weary.

You already went? Hold on, I gotta go vote.

Spencer hustles into the polls. Jesus is grinning.

What are you up to? (You silly goose of a savior.)

Well, I have a surprise for you.

Conditional Applicant to the Bourbon Men Gallagher walks up. He's dragging his enormous hammer alongside him. Jesus touches him on the nose.

Boop.

In a flash of divine power, a miracle occurs on election day, and Gallagher is young again, capable of smashing fruit with a hammer. He promptly finds a very out of season watermelon and annihilates it.

Yeah! He's back!

Xtreme!

Fuck yeah! You know who isn't Xtreme? Peter Mild Gilmour. Here's a guy who goes around telling everybody how much of an Xtreme icon he is, chewing anyone's ear off with that bullshit, and you know what? He never fucking backs it up. When's the last time you saw Peter Gilmour do anything remotely xtreme besides get bounced from the battle royale by yours truly? Oh, right before that, he got his ass kicked by me in a fatal four way which netted me this swifty wild card, which I keep in my back pocket for now. Thing is, Peter can't have one of these cards. He already gets title shots, every time there's any kind of champ, he whines and moans and moans and whines and complains, and becomes a massive fussy Francis, and the front office just tosses him out of a catapult into the ring against whatever piece of meat with a belt they happen to have on hand, ready to kick the shit out of Peter. They always do, because Peter isn't Xtreme. He's the walking fluke, at best, just a toadlike little victor by happenstance. Not this week, no. This week, Peter runs into the fucking wood chipper and comes out an xtreme smear of red paste in the dirt. Peter gets his front row seats, his ticket is already punched, on the express line to Robbie Junction, first stop in Jobberland, largest kingdom in the realm of the Xtreme.

The first plate glass table you go through will be excrutiating.

Robbie takes a puff from his handy and very hipster vape box.

The first one is always the real eye opener. Ever been through something like that, Peter? I have. It's, well, fucking brutal. Imagine the sinews and muscles of your body, carved and lacerated, like you're being carved for Thanksgiving dinner. Pieces of glass the size of your head digging into your body after being thrust hard and sharp through the surface, which you will wish was concrete by comparison. At least you'll finally hit concrete, as jagged and razor sharp broken glass cascades all around you, falling into your eyes, your nose, your mouth, and across your neck and chest. As you dust the glass off of you, you cut yourself deeper and worse than before, until you finally accept that there will be pieces of that table in you until the match finally ends.

The second one, Peter, the second one will feel like salvation.

Robbie takes another puff from his handy and very hipster vape box.

See, that second table, if it doesn't outright leave you paralyzed or unconscious, will hurt a thousand times more as cuts get cut in zig zags, as all the damage you underwent goes up exponentially, your body already sticky with the blood coming from wounds now ripped open anew. The glass won't leave your body as easily or cleanly as such, and just moving will cause you to tear your flesh from your bones as new shards of glass lodge themselves into your body, and your senses overloaded you feel little pain at this point besides the overarching suffering and confusion of why you, poor Peter Gilmour, got stuck playing the plump, ripe tomato ready to splat sticky red all over the place. See, you're even thinking about your armpit, or elbow, or hands, or even chest getting gashed wide open by thick, unforgiving plate glass, which is awful, but I want you to remember your balls and asshole, and the glass stuck there, and getting to extract a four inch shard of glass from your testes because, well, you just weren't Xtreme enough to handle what comes to the ring with Robbie Bourbon. The sheer destruction, the utmost wreckage, and Almost Unkillable, Nigh Indestructible, Supreme High Court of Jobberland and King of the Jobbers, The High Holy Hypocrite, the True Wednesday Night Wrecker, the one, the only...

Before he can finish, the camera zooms back to show the streets crowded with people all wearing "I voted" stickers, all sharing the same catharsis one feels when putting down a family pet after fifteen years. They all chant in unison.

*Robbie Motherfucking Bourbon!*

They continue to cheer as Robbie turns, caught off guards by the amount of people cheering him on in the middle of the street.

Peter Gilmour distances himself from greatness as much as he can, shunning the greatest thing going in the XWF Universe today.

The people.

The crowd goes absolutely wild.

*FUCK 'EM UP, ROBBIE, FUCK 'EM UP!*clap, clap*FUCK 'EM UP, ROBBIE, FUCK 'EM UP!*clap, clap*FUCK 'EM UP, ROBBIE, FUCK 'EM UP!*clap, clap*

Peter Gilmour lives in a lavish mansion and is waited on by servants! The whole world comes to him on a fucking platter, he works for nothing. We, the people, we work, we strive, we claw, and we dig for every ounce of every thing we fucking own, and we deserve what we get at the end of the day, but we deserve more!

America, can you dig it?!?

World, are you listening?!?

Greece, I'm coming down soon!!!

There's only one name for the reckoning the people want when it comes to Peter Gilmour's whole undeserved, over-adulated career. Dare I say it?

My name is Robbie Motherfucking Bourbon.

*YOU'RE GOING TO REMEMBER THAT NAME!*

Robbie blushes, and the fans surrounding him start to hoot and whistle at him, knowing they broke him. He shrugs and starts to bow to the congregated XWF universe around him. He puts the microphone to his lips, but chuckles and drops it, bowing to the fans again. He once again puts the microphone to his lips.

That's my line.

The crowd goes wild again.

*LET'S GO JOBBER!*clap, clap, clap clap clap*LET'S GO JOBBER!*clap, clap, clap clap clap*LET'S GO JOBBER!*clap, clap, clap clap clap*

I think they said it best, Peter. And the reason you're going to remember that name?

It's the name of the man who you will start to avoid at all costs, never to seek again, complaining to management when you're booked in a match against, and will mildly begrudge as having become the proper Xtreme Icon of the XWF.