Peter Gilmour recently came out and thought that the best way to cut a promo against Robbie Bourbon was to insult the people. Cyberjaw, the man with the cybernetic jaw, specifically, for the color of his skin and the unfortunate circumstances by which his jaw became cybernetic.

Robbie Bourbon still will not make fun of Peter Gilmour since he's done it so much already in his career.

NO LAUGHING MATTER

We open to see the Robbie Bourbon Dojo for the Competitive Arts, bedecked in all manner of Halloween decorations, exhibiting the spirit of the holiday. Cobwebs stretch along the ceilings, fake bats dangle here and there, silly looking skeleton cut-outs sporadically adorning walls, and each student in costume for the day. We zoom to Robbie's office, and standing in front of it are Diamondback, the man who can blend into any crowd, looking like Vinnie Lane again. Next to him is Cyberjaw, the man with the cybernetic jaw, wearing a t-shirt which simply says 'SHOOT YOUR BARBER' and jeans, and beside them is Xtreme Travel Agent, Cyberjaw's main squeeze and possible victim of Stockholm Syndrome.

Through the front door of the office steps Robbie Bourbon, dressed as Mayor McCheese of McDonald's lore for Halloween. We can tell it's Robbie because of the huge mask atop the giant hamburger head.

I'm going to fuck that asshole up.

Woah, woah, that's my job.

I don't care! That motherfucker made fun of me, called me a niglet and shit. I'm going to fucking smash his kneecaps with a pipe wrench.

Well, if you must, you must, but there's something we need to address first. You called him something he most certainly is not.

What's that?

Well, it should be obvious, but we'll get to that.

For starters, it's Halloween! Let's get ready to give out lots of candy to underage strangers for no good reason!

Well, about that.

About what? Didn't you guys go get the eighteen cases of candy bars?

What? No! Why do you have us run errands to get shit like that when you could Amazon it for less?

Well, I have to justify paying you somehow.

You don't pay us!

Nope.

You never have.

Well if you'd stop lollygagging and dilly dallying, I'd have candy to give to the children instead of denying you a pay raise!

You have to actually pay us to give us a raise!

That's besides the point.

The camera turns to see the front door of the dojo, and through it walks a man in uniform. Military, for sure, judging by the look of it and hat, dress uniform. Tons of medals on his chest. He marches straight up to Mayor McBourboncheese.

Mr. Bourbon?

Uh, yeah, and you are...

My name is Colonel Khorn, U.S. Army, retired.

Hello, Colonel, what can I do for you?

Well, it's regarding your future visit to Vietnam.

Ah. What do you need Colonel?

Mr. Bourbon, there are still men lost in Vietnam from the Vietnam war. I believe there may still be a prison camp somewhere in the jungles of Vietnam where those men may still be alive. I need you and the Motherfuckers to look into it...

Say no more, Colonel. I will find your men, as a true Motherfucker would.

Excellent, Mr. Bourbon...

Colonel Khorn sticks his hand out and Robbie Bourbon shakes it, confirming that he will, with every bit of is power, find men stranded in Vietnam four decades ago.

Excellent.

Colonel Khorn does an about face and briskly walks out of the dojo.

Woah, you gotta defend your title, bro, now you're going into the jungles of Vietnam to find POWs?

Absolutely. I mean, who else is gonna?

Maybe War Pig...

Well, yeah, BWP would definitely come along.

Jim Caedus too?

I would trust Caedus to help.

Engineer?

Bingo.

So, the Motherfuckers en masse?

I hope so. Which brings me back to what I was going to say about Peter Gilmour...

I thought you weren't going to make fun of him.

I'm not. I'm simply not.

I'm not going to make fun of the fact that Peter Gilmour is a creepy, slimy little toad of man whom actively eats stink bugs and gopher assholes. I'm not going to make fun of the fact Peter Gilmour thinks doubling the size of his dick from one to two inches makes it super, besides super underwhelming. I'm not going to make fun of every faked orgasm Maria Brink has delivered in his promos during his career just to get Peter's filthy, sweaty, chunky body off of hers a little sooner. I'm not going to make fun of how he puts a sock on his cock before shaving his balls to keep him from cutting it off. I'm not going to make fun of how no matter how many times he shouts for someone to suck his dick he's never actually gotten a blowjob in his life. Even Maria Brink wouldn't suck that dick. I'm not going to make fun of the fact Peter Gilmour caught crabs from using an unclean toilet in the bathroom of a New Jersey Turnpike rest area. I'm just not.

It's not that spectacular anymore. The thrill of it all is gone. There's no gusto, no reason to carry on about it, no reason to give it a second thought. Picking at Peter Gilmour at this point would just be bullying, almost pre-rapish. Furthermore, what point is there in depreciating the value of an asset that belongs to me?

I own Peter Gilmour. End of story.

I own Peter so hard I can reach into my pocket and hand you some Peter on the street. I own Peter so hard I pay personal property taxes on him. I own Peter so hard I'm responsible for making sure he gets his shots and is fed in the morning, occasionally he earns a treat and a belly rub. I own Peter Gilmour so hard it violates the thirteenth amendment of the United States Constitution. Peter, you insult my friend, my people, by insinuating anything about him based on the color of his skin? That's incredible, considering I can have you out in a field picking cotton, come rain or shine, if I so wished because I own you so hard. I own you so hard I rent you out in the summer.

Now, it isn't easy or even necessarily fun owning you, Peter. Besides being a creepy toad-man that even Nixon and the rest of the lizard people won't accomodate, you also make this weird whistling noise when you eat and I constantly have to scold you for groping young girls at the grocery store. Tell them about me, Peter. Tell them about the rolled up newspaper and what happens when you stick your nose in the mailman's crotch.

You fucking mutt.

But there's one thing you need correcting on, Peter. One huge, glaring, obvious thing.

You are no Motherfucker.

See, it all started when Robbie Bourbon started calling himself a Motherfucker. Then I got a crew together, and we are Motherfuckers. Somewhere along the way, you went from being Peter Fucking Gilmour to Peter Motherfucking Gilmour.

Taxing my gig the whole way.

I say nah, though. Peter Dogfucking Gilmour. Peter Momma's Boy Gilmour, Peter Mastergay Gilmour, Peter Flaming Gilmour, Peter Anally Diseased Gilmour, whatever, any of those are better and more accurate fits for you.

Stop playing pretend like you're one of the men at the table, go and get me a fucking sandwich and your shine box.

Because I fucking own your worthless ass.