Robbie Bourbon, staying very busy so far in the new year, not only prepares for a series of highland games by encountering movie monsters, not only prepares for a tag team match where the his partner wasn't randomly selected with a partner besides Bearded War Pig for the first time in a long while, but also prepares for a match against a man who would be his rival, Chris Chaos.

Would be, that is, if Chris Chaos didn't suck.

STAND UP

MAGFest. To those unaware, it is an annual event held at National Harbor during the first week of January, less a gaming convention and more a proper festival; the nerdcore elite's Woodstock. The Gaylord National Resort & Convention Center is packed to the brim with people all looking to have a fun time; some dressed in ornate costumes, some here to see bands play, some here to listen to panels on so many different topics, including professional wrestling.

Robbie Bourbon is in the atrium of the massive building, taking a selfie with a guy dressed as the Heath Ledger Joker. A John Madison Joaquin Phoenix Joker walks by and tries to photobomb. No Cesar Romero Jokers are to be seen. Robbie finishes and gives both a thumbs up. He then saunters over and sits on the floor with a group of people. Robbie seems relaxed and at peace, listening in on the conversation. Finally, one person, highly extroverted, calls over the circle seated on the floor.

Alright, everybody! Icebreakers! So, what you're going to do is tell everybody your name, where you are from, and then, I dunno, which world you would like to be reincarnated into!

Robbie smirks, looking at the young lady. Around the circle, several different answers are given.

"My name is Greg, I am from Virginia, and if I could live in any world, it would be the world of Final Fantasy VII!"

"My name is Sam, I'm from Richmond, Virginia, and I would live in the same earth!"

The circle continues, until it gets to Robbie.

My name is Robbie Motherfucking Bourbon. I am from Washington DC. If I could live in any world, it would be McWorld, the setting of most McDonalds commercials from the late eighties and early nineties.

Really?

The original young lady seems gobsmacked by the answer.

With Hamburglar? Jesus!

Hamburglar would be our Jesus, he died for our cheeseburgers or something.

Another member of the circle chimes in.

"The Grimace, too?"

Nothing can stop the Grimace.

The circle all seems a little warmed by the pleasant and friendly demeanor of Robbie. This is swiftly unsettled as, across the atrium, a kerfuffle is heard. The camera turns, and we see a figure, bloated and fat, a scruffy non-beard on the man's chin, as though he didn't shave but just couldn't grow anything better, a fedora atop his head, holding a sign that reads "FEMS KNOW YOUR PLACE!" with a picture of a model kitchen below. The camera turns back as several in the crowd look utterly disgusted at the sight. Robbie Bourbon cocks his head like a Rottweiler, or Michael Meyers.

Women are not real gamers! They use their looks to get whatever they want! They use their looks to get more viewers on YouTube, on Twitch, to get more followers on Twitter!

Robbie's gaze narrows. The young lady leading the circle stands up, not looking angry, rather looking considerate and thoughtful. Most of the crowd is hollering at the guy to shut up or be quiet; after all if a sexist nitwit showed up you would expect them to be hushed or at least questioned.

Women should get back to the kitchen! I am a nice guy! I always go out of my way to treat women how they should be treated, but it is a disgrace that some of you want to step out of your role as mothers, as homemakers, and those who can guide and bear children.

The young lady, by no means slight but also by no means massive, definitely fit, starts to walk towards the neckbeard as he soapboxes his chauvinist manifesto.

I am nice to women, but none of them will have sex with me! They are stupid and only have sex with men who are assholes, especially to me!

Yo, dude, chill.

The young lady looks at the neckbeard. He disregards her.

If you aren't trying to get what you want with sex, or having sex with assholes, you make yourselves look outrageous and useless, pretending to be men!

The neckbeard gestures at her.

Woah, look, I think you have a bunch of misconceptions about life and everything. Why don't you come sit down with us, we'll talk, and maybe we can come to some understanding. Doesn't that make more sense then walking around and telling everybody how you think women should act?

The neckbeard scoffs at her.

You want to indoctrinate me into thinking like you do? How dare you! Go back and keep up your attempts at controlling men, you uneducated and ignorant moron! I know how the world works.

I'm a nice guy.

I get walked all over because I am nice.

And when I voice what is wrong with the world, someone has to disagree with me because I am finally taking a stand for myself! Well, enough! I am Wilbur Schittz, proud member of Demagogues Rectifying Angsty Misanthropic Action! My group looks to finally eradicate the silly notions of being whoever you want! We will corral the free spirited by accusing them of whatever we need! You are a woman, and you serve two purposes, and since I don't see you doing any housework, maybe you are here to serve the other?

Wilbur leers at the young lady, who looks rightly disgusted. Robbie walks up, standing a head taller than both Wilbur and her. She turns and pats Robbie on the shoulder.

I can handle myself, big guy, don't worry.

...

Robbie scans the area, his head on a swivel, as though he's looking for someone, or something.

Look, Wilbur, maybe you won't listen, but this place is awesome! There's games, there's music, why don't you go have some fun?

Fun? FUN! The agents of D.R.A.M.A. are here to stop your fun!

Having spotted what he was looking for, Robbie bolts, and like a plow hitting a snowman, he runs dead into one of the murderbots he was recently seen fighting in the streets of D.C. He tackles it to the ground, hooks his arm around it's head, and pulls back, severing it. It crackles and sparks as a second murderbot screeches elsewhere in the atrium.

DRAMATIC ACTION PREPARED! Known advocate of fun and joy, subject Bourbon spotted! Must destroy Bourbon and target his friends for greater drama!

The D.R.A.M.A. murderbot aims it's laser at the young lady standing in front of Wilbur. Robbie snags a Captain America shield from a nearby cosplayer and hurls it. The murderbot fires at the young lady, but the blast from the laser connects with the plastic toy instead, melting it into goo which splatters on the floor. Robbie steps through the crowd towards the murderbot.

Shot deflected, must heighten drama!

The murderbot grabs a girl dressed up in some garish costume. You think you can recognize it, but it's no matter as she has become a hostage.

Hostages are dramatic! Surrender Bourbon, or face drama!

Robbie stops and looks at the murderbot, its laser gun pointed at the girls head. The girl looks mortified to be in this situation.

Woah! Look, don't do that! Take me instead!

No, no sacrifices, no bittersweet scenarios, only drama!

Well, what do you want me to do?

The murderbot glances around at the crowd, then back at Robbie.

Renounce. Renounce the fun, having fun, and being fun. Renounce the people, make them sad, tell them the truths of drama and misery.

But, that's Chris Chaos's job, didn't you see his last promo?

Yes, Chris Chaos is drama. Sexualized his doctor, put blood on paper, very dramatic!

Also, pointless! That guy hit so many tropes it would be funny, but it was in no way entertaining whatsoever! A boring retelling of an impossible situation in an abusive home, complete with how he's petty and vindictive, incapable of growing or moving forward as a person because he'd rather wallow than strive, his made-up, in-absolutely-no-fucking-way an actual psychiatrist saying she wanted to have rough unbridled sex with him as if anyone in their right mind thinks someone as sad as Chris Chaos is actually attractive, and ultimately, no signs whatsoever of Chris Chaos getting laid.

Chris, I would stop making the same damn jokes, if I could, but first you gotta stop doing the same damn shit in every one of your promos!

Oh, and saying you want to hurt me, and hurt me badly? What are you, a fucking Slytherin pissed at Harry Potter for getting a question right in potions class or something? That dialogue is to fucking basic even children's cartoons from damn near a century ago would have rejected it! Elmer Fudd would fricassee that old rascally rabbit, Bluto would have beat the daylights out of the runt, but here you are, pretending to be in my league, pretending to be my rival, all-in-all pretending to be as good as me, but in reality, you just fucking suck!

Of course you want to hurt me badly, you do everything badly!

When Chris Chaos ties his shoes, he ties them badly, and they just come untied a few minutes later.

When Chris Chaos wipes his ass, he wipes badly, and then ruins whatever pity fuck some soul is offering him by talking about his skidmarks using five thousand words, usually two thousand too long since they always leave bored around three thousand.

When Chris Chaos buys groceries, he buys them badly, usually getting seventeen bottles of condiments, eight or so spices just because they have fancy looking name, and then no meat because why would he even bother with substance when it's easier to flavor nothing?

When Chris Chaos wrestles, he wrestles badly. This shitheel doesn't know a drop toe hold from a hole in the ground, a top wrist lock from a wrist watch, or a hammerlock from a combination lock.

The only thing Chris Chaos excels at, really, is getting fucking hammered drunk before doing his promos.

Like father, like son, I reckon. Just an over dramatic tool trying to make someone else feel as shitty as he does.

Robbie steps closer to the murderbot, which seems mesmerized by his monologue, analyzing it for traces of drama.

Take a long, hard look at me, Chris. I'm not just some outlet for your angst, your bitterness, or any other bullshit. I'm not coming to the ring to watch you display your endurance or whatever you want to flex on, and as much as you want it, I want it that much more, only I don't fucking sit around trying to be a fucking edgelord. When that bell rings, all the desire you have, all shit hands you got dealt, they won't go away, and I'm sure as shit not the one you'll be taking them out on, because I'm not coming to Warfare for your drama, I'm not coming for your angst, and as a matter of fact I'm not coming for anything you want whatsoever!

Robbie shoots in at the murderbot, grabbing it's laser gun and wrenching it from the murderbot. The girl it was holding scrambles as Robbie presses the gun to the robot's head and pulls the trigger, blasting it with a laser.

I'm coming for your ass.

The crowd is cheering at this point, Robbie Bourbon having stopped the two dramatic murderbots. Wilbur screeches.

We will bring more!

Robbie hurls the laser at the ground and stomps on it, destroying it. The young lady rolls her eyes and throws her hands up, then gesturing at Wilbur.

He's all yours, big guy.

Robbie tromps directly towards Wilbur.

D.R.A.M.A. will not end!

Yeah, yeah, I know. And you know what? Maybe it shouldn't, but that doesn't mean I have to contribute to it.

You, uh, you will stop what you're...

Robbie grabs Wilbur.

I won't stop. That's the thing. I can go all day, every day, and I do it because the people want hope, and I'll be damned if I won't give it to them, give them some redemption, give them whatever I can, for however long I can, with every fucking beat of my heart, and if I die, then they can take my body and bury me face down so my critics can kiss my ass.

Robbie tosses Wilbur up and then catches him with a Dinosaur Extinctor. As Wilbur looks dead upward, struck with shock by the violent action taken against him, Robbie stands up.

There's trying to get through to people, but when that doesn't work, you gotta drop the fucking hammer.

Try not to get too cozy with your shrink, Chris, that doctor patient relationship shouldn't be tested too much I reckon, because after you cost me the Hart Championship with your little shit move, after you came forward and said you wanted me hurt, I'm going to give you the trauma of a lifetime, and then you can go back to your daddy and ask him to beat you like someone who loves you does.

The assembled crowd at MAGFest all cheers on Robbie Bourbon, who has shown them all how promos get cut. As they do, off in a dark corner, another D.R.A.M.A. murderbot watches, and slinks off into the darkness. The young lady approaches Robbie.

That was pretty cool. Robbie Motherfucking Bourbon.

Robbie half-shrugs.

Well, someone had to deal with that D.R.A.M.A. and nonsense.

Usually we just let them do whatever they want, confronting them is a waste of time, and it's time that's better spent doing something fun.

I get that, but the robots with lasers shooting into crowds kind of created a necessity.

She sticks her hand out to shake. Robbie responds in kind, and the young lady grips Robbie's hand. Robbie's eyes go wide.

Woah, that grip! It's stronger than my dad's!

Yeah, I bet your dad grips you still.

She gestures toward her throat. Robbie smirks.

Nah, dad was more like...

Robbie puts his hands on his hips as he thrusts his butt backwards. The young lady looks bemused at someone with a similar sense of humor and a lack of need of drama.

I'm Pigeon.

Pigeon, huh?

The words "NEW BOURBON MAN ALERT" begin to scroll across the bottom of the screen before Pigeon interrupts.

Woah, woah woah woah, nah.

The words scroll in reverse as if undone.

This is a crossover, Robbie, I'm no hench.

Bet.

Robbie and Pigeon walk down a corridor as the people of MAGFest continue to do their thing, enjoying themselves at the enormous Music and Gaming Festival.