Robbie Bourbon was recently very annoyed over his lack of root beer at the watering hole he and Jack Cain visited near Universal Studios Hollywood, as the Google Maps image showed prior to Jack Cain's first promo and also Washington D.C on Google Maps during Robbie's latest promo.

Time to head back to Hollyweird.

THIS HAS TO REGISTER

We open at Los Angeles International Airport, where we see Jack Cain pulling up to the terminal in a fireapple red convertible 1969 Cadillac Coupe De Ville. No relation to the guy in the Kings who had to find a new set of boyfriends when Unknown Soldier went back into his coma. Robbie Bourbon, dressed in a loose Tommy Bahama shirt and a straw fedora atop his mask, walks out toting his luggage, wheeling it behind him as he approaches the convertible. He tosses the luggage into the back seat, which has a large box marked with the Chiquita logo.

Woah, what's with the bananas?

Oh, yeah.

Cain puts the car in park and steps out, grabbing the box of bananas. He pulls out a bunch and starts to snap off bananas and stuff them into the tailpipes of other cars waiting at the airport.

Jack, c'mon man, stop it with being Eddie Murphy, and now you're just doing Beverly Hills Cop.

Look, I really get the dicotomy of Eddie Murphy and Judge Reinhold, I feel like...

Stop. Jack, look, you're a good man, a little quirky, but who ain't, but the fact is the fact. We're Motherfuckers, man. We're not necessarily good. Maybe you could be Snake Plissken and I could be Popeye Doyle, who gives a shit about all that though, we're the Motherfuckers. That's bigger, bolder, more fucking direct. You got some shit needs dealing with? Well, here come the Motherfuckers.

Okay, I get it. Why the hell did you have to fly all the way back to DC?

Well, I was pissed as fuck they gave you a Diet Coke and all I got was club soda. I think they needed to change their root beer syrup in the back.

So you flew cross country and back within fourteen hours?

Look, traveling relaxes me. Airports are fun, all sorts of excited people, people coming, people going, people seeing people, there's a vibe at the airport. Plus it gives me a chance to look out for any oopsies and goofs the TSA might be doing, in case terrorism happens I can stop it. Or something. Who knows.

You think there are terrorists here?

You mean besides the guy who ran around eating brains and makes Doc D'Ville's back pussy so moist he didn't need lube the first time John Samuels gave him a pleasure colonic?

He did what?

Not, not literally, Jack.

Fucking douchebags walking around, holding a little fun fest out in Scotland, and you know why? The Motherfuckers were in America.

Oh. You don't like the Kings.

Well, no, not right now. We're wrestlers, we're supposed to bring up a huge sense of animosity, sell some tickets. Right now I really don't like our current selection of opponents.

Robbie grabs a bunch of bananas and starts to help Jack Cain in putting bananas in the tailpipes of the cars waiting at the terminal pick up at LA International Airport. An attendant runs out and puts the blinkers on for Jack Cain's sweet pimp ride he just left running out in traffic. The attendant waves eagerly at both Bourbon and Cain.

Motherfuckers! I love you guys!

Robbie grins and gives a thumbs up.

See, there's a fan. Anyhow, it's something we actually have. People like the Motherfuckers. They like you, Jack. I know you're a distant kind of guy, you've got your own mind, and it's as sharp as a tack.

Thanks.

It's not something Scully has. The biggest joke of a Universal Champion in the history of the company. Hell, he could even make the claim even he held the belt while neither of us have, but Jack, that's because we never faced him for it.

Right.

Robbie and Jack go back to the convertible and grab two bunches of bananas each, and start walking on the opposite direction, flagging down drivers to insert bananas in their tailpipe.

It's certainly not something Jenny Myst or Chris Chaos have. Sure, they'll tell anyone who listens they're popular, but really, they keep a pretty small circle of friends and an even tinier support web for folks who are supposedly so incredibly popular that everybody wants to be around them. Besides not being married, because let's be honest, Jenny Myst has herpes, Chris Chaos don't, no way are they knocking boots, they spend so much time belittling fans. The people. And why? Jenny Myst met a fan who wanted to buy some XWF merchandise, and decided to mock the fan. She didn't even shill her own worthless crap that's in the bargain bin at Goodwill's and dumpsters across the nation, nah, she went and made, you guessed it...

...could you guess it?

She made another fat joke.

I know! Not even a good one. She knew all the best ones were already used, tried to get creative, but the same thing that gets between Jenny and most of her goals, her natural blonde stupidity. Know why Jenny Myst has bruises around her belly button?

I punched her.

Well, hrmm, that and her boyfriend is blonde too. What do you call Jenny Myst behind the wheel of a car?

I don't know.

An airbag.

Jack Cain remains stoic and stone faced, grimly stuffing bananas into the tailpipes of running vehicles picking up friends, colleagues, and family members at the airport in the middle of the afternoon.

Hah.

I know, they're old. But when the shoe fits...

Jack pauses and looks back at Robbie.

Hit her?

Robbie nods his head no.

I've never heard it that way. Shit, her and Chaos aren't even trying to market to their fanbase. They could make a Jenny Myst toy that gives you real chlamydia. They could make a Chris Chaos doll that occasionally has William Shatner seizures that make you donate to Easter Seals.

Huh?

I donno, it sounded cooler in my head. It was a stretch, I know, there's no real way to market Chris Chaos anymore besides being a jilted sad ex-Champion that won a title off a fluke pinfall when the winning blow was all mine. Nobody remembers Chris Chaos as a champion, but everybody will remind you that I jumped from the top of the cell. Plus, they're liars, why would you believe a single word they say? Another thing, Jack, that I did when I was back east, was have a few of our geeks with the Department of Justice do a little checking around.

We have geeks?

Yeah, we're government subsidized, bro, we just have specific shit we have to do here and there. Why do you think they let me carry this on an airplane?

Robbie reaches into his pocket and pulls out a butterfly knife. He flips it open, then shut with one hand, and pockets it again.

You mean I don't have to check guns and ammo anymore?

No, we'll get you the cool special agent ID card you need at Savage from the front office.

They issue them?

It's where I got mine. Look, the important thing is our guys found out there isn't a marriage license for Chris Chaos and Jenny Myst in any state in the continent, nor Hawaii. None in any U.S. owned territories either. Flat out, there isn't a license as such in anywhere in the western hemisphere, Europe, Asia, Australia, or Africa. There never was a wedding, not even recognized by any of the tax exempt organizations that declare to the government yearly. None, nada. See, they're not even a power couple, Jack, they're a sham.

A fraud.

About as real as Jenny Myst's old tits before she had all that plastic surgery, cut up to look like some knock off of Theo Pryce's wife. Don't get me wrong, some of the best toys are made of plastic, but you'll get a nasty ringworm playing in that sandbox.

Raccoons wouldn't shit between Jenny Myst's legs if she stuck an ear of corn out of her twat, flies won't even land there, and FEMA has issued a state of emergency at any dressing room she has used. Her nasty fuck hole has killed four so far that the Center for Disease Control acknowledges, MIT is working on a way to combat the HAZMAT threat is poses on highways, and for the love of fucking God, Jenny, I wouldn't fuck you with Chris Chaos's dick.

You actually see yourself as some kind of sex symbol, and you value yourself like a twelve year-old boy does a found Bang Brothers password that works. You talk about yourself like having sex with you is some kind of catharsis you'll never get to appreciate. Now, I'm not sure if you've even heard of masturbation, or if you're even capable of it. You know why? Because I'm willing to bet you're just another 40 fucking squirrles, chittering on through, pretending to be a woman to make some male psyche feel pleased and eased in their simple mind that's diseased, I think it's cheesy and greasy the way you make people queasy with your whole act, it's sleazy, go back to the woods before we break you and Chris, easy peasy. Welp, hold on, time to brace for another Bourbon crime, how much you want to bet some fool will call me out because I rhyme? Can't stop it now, I'm just a creature of habit, it's a twitch, a glitch, my hitch, but it's all mine dagnabbit. Do you hear what I'm saying, about our opponents on crack? About Chris and Jenny's fake marriage and that license they lack? You think I'm wasting talents and breaths sitting here talking smack? When me and my partner will lay you out on your back? Surprise! It's the truth, it's the gospel...

And that's a fact...

...Jack.

Robbie and Jack take the now empty box of bananas and tosses it out into oncoming traffic, where the box is immediately squashed, revealing a last banana inside, which causes the car to spin out and swerve across traffic. Not in a scary way, but in a madcap and lighthearted fun way. Whee, traffic mishaps.

Now come on, we got some bad guys to go fuck up, or something. Gotta do right by the people by taking out some garbage.