Robbie Bourbon, having rallied the people and his partner to know he's all in at Warfare for Lethal Lottery, seems poised to take on the world and all comers for his Hart Championship.

So long as he gets his morning coffee.

ANTI-ANTI-DRUG

We open to see a run of the mill pharmacy. A smattering of elderly people, a mother with two very sick looking and sounding children, whom are coughing with such force the wind expelled could extinguish the candles from a thousand birthday cakes, and an antsy looking yet very familiar looking man in a red and white striped sweater, a bobble cap, and dungarees holding an axe. Axe Mannix, axe man on Xanax and formerly Waldo of Where's Waldo fame, sits in the pharmacy, waiting on his prescription along with a bevy of others, so it would seem. He cracks a pill bottle open, which rattles, and removes a few tablets. He looks at them, sweat forming on his brow and steaming his perfectly rounded glasses, and gulps them down.

The pharmacist calls out, and Axe Mannix stands and walks to the counter. The pharmacist looks sluggish, and narrowly gazes at Axe.

Look, I think you gave me the wrong thing, these aren't doing anything...

"Look, buddy, those are exactly the thing your doctor said you could have, now fuck off and let me help these other people!"

Axe looks shaken and taken aback by the terse nature of the pharmacy tech. He shrugs and wearily places the pill bottle back in his pocket. He walks off, obviously worried and terrified of the world around him, his Xanax seeming to have no effect on him. He passes by a lot of people, as the drug store itself seems to be teeming with people, all scooping up medication from the aisles where over the counter drugs are sold, and the shelves look barren. People are arguing with one another.

Excuse me, uh, excuse, damn, shit, I need help! Maybe Robbie...


Meanwhile...

We see the Bourbon Dojo, and things are just as ugly as they were in the drug store earlier. The hair salon is full of customers all arguing with their stylists, on edge and behaving erratically, calling one another out for cutting hair wrong. The kitchen is barely active as nobody is settled, and food is constantly being thrown away due to be being burnt or otherwise ruined. In the ring, instead of fine tuning grappling techniques, most students are just flat out brawling or going to the ground with more brutal MMA techniques and locks as they struggle against one another without the focus needed to fight Professional Wrestling style. We see Robbie Bourbon in the Dunkin Donuts, looking very disheveled himself, pouring a large cup of coffee down his open gullet, gulping every last drop. He blinks and looks at the cup with an air of frustration.

"Damn it. That's the fourth cup I've had today and I still feel like trash. Maybe I'm sick." Robbie turns and looks around at the rest of the dojo, which all seems bustling but distinctly off kilter. "What is up with, shit, everybody today? I mean, the students are off their game, the hair salon is a mess, the cooks are all fucking up. What the fucking fuck?" Blue walks down a staircase, her hair moist and freshly washed. She approaches Robbie. We hear the sound of the world come back to us as we leave Robbie's head.

Hey, honey, how are you?

Weird, I dunno. It's like the coffee is doing nothing.

Huh. Well, I feel okay.

Blue looks around the dojo. For some reason, even though Robbie gave a huge speech praising them all, they seem to be faltering and floundering with everything the students attempt to do. A pair of students start to scream at each other while pulling each other's hair. In the salon, a customer immediately vomits mid-haircut. A chef cuts themselves, screams 'shit', and runs to get a bandage. Robbie rolls his eyes and stands up.

EVERYBODY, STOP RIGHT NOW!

At an instant, the whole of the dojo goes silent, all turning to look at Robbie.

What the fuck is going on, people? We're all better than this, I guess we can have on off day or two, but let's pick it back up. Shit, did everybody wake up on the wrong side of the bed today?

As Robbie says this, we hear a strange scrambled noise permeating from a huge TV mounted on the wall. The sound on the TV was muted, showing whatever before, but whatever is happening is causing the TV to actually override the mute.

Damn it, are you kidding me, now the TV is having a shitty day. What the fuck?

A few of the students laugh, a few more grumble and look unhappy with Robbie's bemusement, as unhappy as Robbie, who saw his statement as anything but a bemusement. In a second, the picture on the screen changes to show a humanoid figure, though distinctly not human. It has grey, smoothed skin, large black eyes, no nose, and a small mouth, resembling your quintessential grey-skin alien.

People of earth. I am Space Lord. I visit your planet today and offer you a gift, the gift of purity. I have watched your planet for two and a half hours, and have come to the conclusion that to prepare you all for intergalactic civilization, the best course of action is to alleviate you all of your addictions to all manner of substances that you'll not have access to in the far reaches of space. Your stimulants, your barbiturates, your depressants, and all manner of drugs. I will soon be meeting with your world leader, and we will further discuss what is needed to incorporate you into the universe seamlessly. Toodle-oo!

"Great, just fucking precious." Robbie sets his mug down on the counter at Dunkin Donuts. "So this dingleberry is going to fuck around with my coffee, and now who's he going to go run to, Putin? Trump? Shit, I hope he likes that guy up in Canada's handsome face. What if he values ugly people? Maybe he'll go to Germany if we're lucky, or not." Blue walks up to Robbie and says something. Robbie blinks and we hear the world again.

What, babe? Sorry, I haven't had my coffee as the little space man just explained, I'm kind of out of it.

Honey, all the sick people...

Sick people? Shit...

Yeah, I mean...

The doors to the Bourbon dojo swing wide open, and Axe Mannix runs in, tears streaming from his face as he drags his axe along the ground. He runs into the office in the dojo.

Oh for fuck's sake.

Honey, his meds aren't working, who knows what kind of wreck he is right now.

Robbie storms towards his office and tries to turn the doorknob to no avail, as it's locked and won't turn.

YO, WALDO! WHAT ARE YOU DOING IN MY OFFICE!

Go away, Robbie! The whole world is too much!

I need my office!

I need your office!

...

Robbie, fuming at the fact he hasn't had his regular cup of joe in the morning, takes a step back from the office door and limbers up. Blue notices and bolts over to him.

No, no no no no no. You are NOT breaking down the door to your office.

Why not?

Because, Axe Mannix is your friend, and right now, your friend is in pain, and going into your office to holler at him isn't you, it isn't what he needs. Just, take a breath, and think for a minute.

Think? I haven't had my fucking coffee!

And Axe hasn't had a second of peace since his Xanax stopped working.

His Xanax, my coffee...

Robbie stops dead as his jaw drops. He turns to Blue.

Cancer patients! Really old people! People with heart conditions! Babies! Sick fucking babies, hon, that asshole Space Lord is going to kill...

He's going to wipe out a chunk of the planet and not even know he's doing it.

Shit! Fuck me! God damn it, I have to go stop this guy!

Honey, you can only do so much, and an intergalactic threat that on the verge of committing mass murder on a grand scale might be out of your league!

Not mine and Trax's league...

You're, well, kind of right, but he's not here right now, and who knows what kind of problems he's dealing with right now with his people.

I know. I know. Fuck. I really hope he's ready to kick the shit out of Trump. That motherfucker is using all the ideas I left for him, Trump that is. He's picked up on Trumpcare, which is the same medical reform I was going to implement, which is awesome. Trump's also stealing my other ideas too.

Like what?

Well, he's doing the glory hole thing.

What? Seriously?

Yeah!

Robbie pulls his phone out and fiddles around with it for a second. He then pulls up a picture and shows it to Blue.



Oh, wow, um, I think that's just a joke.

Joke nothing! I was going to set Ann Coulter up in a glory hole, he just jumped the shark and got that weird Kellyanne Conway bitch to do it. He's got his head up his ass, there's no way that woman would know the first thing of servicing a dick. She'll fucking use teeth and no tongue and call it alternative pleasure or some such nonsense.

Well, why are you so eager to see Trax kick his ass if you're pulling so many of the strings?

Why? Because Trump is a politician, and this is America. If Trax wants to voice his opinions of dissent, he should be allowed to, and Trump just goes out of his way to silence anybody who disagrees with him lest his ego take a hit, and that ego is so fucking fragile because of his fucking daddy issues. Probably always heard that he would never amount to what his father did, and now he just walks around making the same faces my mother makes and she's menopausal. Also, I'm in it to win it in the Lethal Lottery. The people deserve someone who's going all out to win, even if I don't need the fucking briefcase since I'm the champ already. Also, it isn't just Trump. Trump is more full of his own shit than Scatbear, which is a fact, not an alternate fact, and then there's fucking D'Ville there too.

You really want to beat him, huh?

Of course I do. I mean, I can dig the arrogance the guy has, the self-importance, but saying he has an aura about him, the fucking way he blows himself, I reckon I can put that to good use. I mean, he's sucked himself off so hard he thinks Trax is supposed to be afraid of him. He thinks catching Trax in a contradiction is some kind of indicator that getting kicked in the jaw by him won't have an effect. I don't get how or why he's so cocksure of that, like telling a freight train you can beat it in a hand of Crazy Eights while standing on the rails will have any kind of fucking benefit. Seriously, though, is D'Ville that stupid he couldn't pick up that Trax was lampooning politics more than anything? I was gobsmacked myself; usually the guy is a lot more straitlaced and, well, angry, to see him actually having a little bit of fun, knowing Trump will probably think the flag he showed at the end with fifty-two stars is legit and starts claiming electoral votes from Puerto Rico and the Yukon. Soulless AND humorless, to a fault it would seem. And yeah, D'Ville isn't a loser, he's beat a lot of guys, but he sure as fuck never beat Trax. He beat me, to be fair, but he didn't pin me, he had to scramble and stop me from outright humiliating his partner and scooping up the Xtreme Championship while defending the Tag Team Championships all in one fell swoop, then he took that dork Scully and pinned his worthless ass. Jesus, Scully lost the Universal Title to Peter Gilmour and then lost the Xtreme Title to Ghost Tank, am I supposed to be fucking terrified of the guy for sidestepping the meat and potatoes and picking at garnish when I lost the Tag Team Championships to him and Soldier? The guy is a fucking creep. Not in that Amityville kind of way, more like a guy at a bus stop who smells like a whole can of Axe body spray and keeps rubbing his god damned nipples. So, I figure he'll fit right in when I have him bound and shackled behind a wall with a hole aimed right for his jaw, and that eloquent, knowledgeable mouth of his starts slurping back more sausage then Kobayashi at the Nathan's Hot Dog Eating contest.

Who?

He's a hot dog eating champion.

You and your hot dogs.

Me and my fucking coffee is more like it.

Honey, you seem frazzled, are you sure you shouldn't just relax?

Relax? No. When it comes to D'Ville's date at Warfare, he might as well go stag, spewing shit about his past career like tomorrow's in the bag. Bitchier than a school librarian who's sorting the Dewey decimal system while on the rag, well if you think he's pissy now just wait until he's in my glory hole having himself a gag. You're going to find yourself hosting many a lonesome pecker because your achievements mean fuck all when confronted by the Wednesday Night Wrecker. I got dicks for you and Trump lined up, stack the boxes double decker, take all the profits and donate each sent to the Trax 2020 exchequer. The Doc and the Don, they can't match my brawn, set to gaze upon cocks through holes freshly sawn, wall builder and hellspawn, getting conquered by a khan, cut these fools down like I'm mowing my lawn. Just getting work in, when can we begin, knuckle up, eat a pin, eat a dick, take a shot to the chin. And that, sir, be fucking coming to you, sir, and that's the fact, sir. Kinda hard to talk down to man you need a stool to look up to, take warning, raise alarm, a Robbiebomb will shake your aura and the whole fucking universe knows that it's true. Save your words, save your breath, lay off the allegories, when I get done with you you'll terrify people with Robbie Bourbon stories. Whatever deal you made with Donald you got the short end of the stick, you're going to get wrecked by me and Trax then gobble down a lot of dick, if you use your mouth with your talents I'm sure the patrons will get off quick, and in no time whatsoever you'll earn your very first sperm slick. It takes one to know one, and I figure in your brain it must click, when you step in the ring with me you're just another pointless prick. The only thing I have to fear is fear itself, you need to consider me putting you on the shelf.

Ash, Robbie's personal stylist, approaches Robbie.

What is it with you and making your opponents give blowjobs?

Well, Ash, for starters I love blowjobs, they're pretty fucking awesome when you're on the recieving end of one. Secondly, for his crimes against humanity, against the XWF Universe for spitting on the Tag Team Championship thinking it makes him look cool, especially when people gave a damn about the fucking tag straps more when I was holding them with an imaginary person than they do with a so-called lord of Hell. Thirdly, because this motherfucker needs a severe wake-up call. He belittles anyone who is willing to fight him and his idiot for a partner, and I'm willing to defend the Hart Championship against a bag of cotton candy with a frog in it if it has the balls to come challenge me. And you know why that is?

Fear. D'Ville is the most cowardly sack of shit in the XWF. The door is always open because if he closed it he wouldn't be heard if he made a cry for help. He makes damn sure to find himself in situations he can control and manipulate because if the slightest adversity came along it would unsettle him, tear him up from the inside, and he'd be left as a spectator and not the driving force he makes himself out to be. He should be terrified; after all, he's going up against the best big man in the XWF today, the Wednesday Night Wrecker, the High Holy Hypocrite, the Big Bad Big Bad of Big Bads, the man who tore through two challengers in two matches in one Savage Saturday Night, and the man who doesn't turn away or give in to insecurities when things start to pick up.

My name is Robbie Motherfucking Bourbon. You're going to remember that name. It's the name of the man who confronted his fears, the man who knew he was in danger, the man who knew he had every reason to panic and dodge any responsibility to himself to overcome that fear. And yes, I do fear what you represent, Louis. I fear the idea you'll harm my friends, or my family, my mail man, my tenth grade history teacher, or even Trax to give yourself some twisted satisfaction that ultimately amounts to nothing. I am afraid of the devil in front of me and the demons inside of me, and I'd be a damned fool if I weren't, I'd be a fucking moron if I ignored it, and I'd be doomed if I began to lie to myself about it. You mutilate the human spirit with such nonchalance and almost nothing to gain from it, and the thought that more people will look towards you and take your behavior as strength makes me sick to my stomach. I fear everything you might do up until I hear a ring bell ding a few times, but once that bell rings, Louis, once we're in the ring, I have nothing to fear. That, frankly, is when all my worries go out the window, when anything you can do the the people gets focused right where it belongs, aimed at me. That's when your deviant nature means fuck all. That's when ill intentions, legacy, pride, and circumstance mean absolutely nothing, and it all boils down to combat, and the thrill of an adrenal gland firing off on all cylinders. That's when your being in my head, in my partner's head, or even in the heads of some sleazebag outfit out in pudunk mean nothing, or could it? Sure, I would never in a million years ever find you as anything less than a cunning, awful person finding themselves in equally awful predicaments outside that ring. Inside the ring? You're a kitten. Scratching, clawing, the perfect killing machine if it weren't for the fact that I'm not a fucking mouse. My pride isn't the thing at stake here, you can have it all you want. Help yourself to seconds. The Don and the Doc up against the irresistible force and the immovable object. It's your call, you act like a pretty smart guy, which one do you want running into you, and which do you want to run into? Damned if you do, damned if you don't. Now, whether or not Trax and I strike up a chorus of Kumbaya post-match, well, that's really not your concern, and it's irrelevant at this stage of the game. You plied your best tactic, the fight before the fight, and lost that battle, flat the fuck out. Now, you're inside my head, right alongside hot dogs, huge tits, and other things that are there for my enjoyment. And I know I'ma enjoy wrecking you in that ring.

You know what else get's stuck in people's heads? Shitty songs playing in an elevator. Less than impressive there, stud. Your biggest claim, the thing you think is your hardiest edge, is that you're elevator music.

If it's any consolation, once the match ends and I put you in the glory hole, Doc Elevator, you'll be going down like a roofied homecoming queen in the cab of the captain of the football team's truck.

Honey, maybe if we did some yoga it'd help you get together without the coffee.

No, fuck that. Cyberjaw!

Cyberjaw, the man with the cybernetic jaw, creeps forward with Diamondback, the man who can blend into any crowd.

Yeah?

I need you to triangulate where Space Lord was broadcasting.

Dude, I have no way to do that, I feel like shit.

Yeah, we've smoked three ounces of your best...

Shhh!

Right, we smoked three ounces of the best smoke we could get, but it's like smoking fucking hemp!

The doors to the Bourbon dojo fly open yet again, this time a small object roughly the size of a lunch box floats in. It looks like a model of some kind of space craft. It flies towards Robbie. The hatch of this tiny craft opens, and we see Space Lord, the alien come to prepare the human race for space travel.

Mr. Bourbon! It is a pleasure to meet the leader of the people!

Motherfucker!

Motherfucker to you too. Am I saying that right? That is how you greet each other, correct?

No, you little...

Space Lord, roughly the size of a G.I. Joe action figure looks at Robbie with a dopey smile. Blue elbows Robbie.

Hello, Space Lord, I am Blue.

Motherfucker Blue! It's a pleasure to meet you.

The pleasure is all ours. Now, we need you to undo what you did.

Why? With all of you thinking clearly and without the hindrances of drugs, the human race will reach new heights.

No, asshole, you're killing a bunch of people. Babies. You're killing fucking babies, and you need to stop.

What? I can not stop, Robbie, I am sure of this plan. The signals I'm broadcasting from this ship through all your satellites will clean the entire planet, no longer leaving the human race chemically dependant.

Blue looks quizically at Space Lord.

You mean the thing that's stopping every drug on the planet is on this ship?

Yes, of course, where else...

Robbie pulls the diminutive Space Lord from the ship and puts him in his shirt pocket. He then grabs the small alien spacecraft with his hands and crushes it between his palms, much like a soda can. Space Lord peaks out of Robbie's shirt pocket.

Oh no! You've stopped the transmission!

That's for the best, shithead, you almost killed a ton of babies!

I didn't mean to...

Yeah, whatever.

Robbie marches to Dunkin Donuts and pours himself a fresh cup of coffee. He quickly quaffs the steaming beverage, and in an instant looks bright eyed and bushy tailed.

There, that's much better. Man, I don't know what I'd do without my coffee.

So, I guess you all aren't ready for intergalactic travel yet.

Not by a long shot, brother, but that's okay. At least you got it covered.

Not really. You just destroyed my ride.

Ah, well, maybe we can help you build a new one, maybe we can work towards getting the human race ready for the cosmos, but first I think we should sit down and talk for a while, let you know how people really are.

That could be interesting. I've never had a friend before!

No shit. We'll work on that. Here on Earth, we usually do that by sitting down and having a nice cup of coffee.

The words "NEW BOURBON MAN ALERT: SPACE LORD, DARNED CUTE BUT NAIVE ALIEN EXPLORER!" scroll across the bottom of the screen as everybody gets their fix, from the recreational user to the sick infant relying on medication, and all is right in the world once again.

Do you have a cup my size?