Bobby Bourbon has set a name for himself at the War Games event, year in, year out, for racking up an amount of eliminations that is untouched by anybody else in XWF history.

This year is no different, regardless of the odds against him.



ONE MAN ARMY

We see Bobby seated at his desk. He looks moody, and glum. Across from him, sitting in a couch, is a man with a briefcase. The guy is beaming.

So, Mr. Bourbon, I wanted to thank you for making the right decision here today. You gave me, Walker Falkbranch, a chance to razzle dazzle you with everything you're going to ever need in a business partner.

Bobby cocks an eyebrow, not shifting whatsoever. As he does, there's a beep at his desk. Bobby presses a button. Walker pauses, looking surprised he's been interrupted.

Yes?

On the other end we hear Ash, Bobby's stylist.

It's Ozzy, he says he's really going to need a lot of help this year in rallying the troops.

Bobby rolls his eyes.

~~~~~

Alright, XWF Universe, time for me to start doing my thing here, but let's face facts. I know I'm going to War Games. I know who my opponents are, and I will more than get to them in due time, but lets look at the fools that really, really fucked with me the most so far this year going into War Games, my fucking so called teammates.

Listen up, fuckers, if you don't ride with us you get it twice as bad when we get back, and well, not a one of you fucks have gotten up to go ride. Ozzy, why the fuck did you draft me, or a team, if you couldn't handle the heavy lifting and the responsibilities of being in charge? Ho-lee-fuck, this guy has all the leadership skills of a basket of butterfly shrimp. This guy, with his fifty-five gallon forehead and weird propensity for thinking he's edgy for looking like a pissed off shop teacher, who wields magic like it's the fucking Wizarding World of Harry Potter and not the Xtreme Wrestling Federation but couldn't abra kadabra a winning career into existence or pull a meaningful championship reign out of a hat wants to play general and lead some warriors into battle when he couldn't even set up a bag of plastic army men all facing the same goddamn direction. Fo'real, fo'real, Oz, much love to you bro, but you have sent our team into the shitter faster than lunch from Taco Bell.

Huh, Taco Bell, that does make me think of Latina Submission Machina, because each are just as authentically Mexican as the other. Fuck me, Dora the Explorer has a more complex grasp of the Spanish language than this bitch, who just peppers in Spanglish here and there to distract you enough to point out she's as much a representative of her people as Hanari Carnes. Seriously, LSM, how the fuck do you claim to be Mexican yet sound like you absolutely have never, ever, been anywhere near Mexico? What kind of horse-shit representation are you trying to sling here? I'm curious, I've been to Mexico, some of my finest sweatshops that make the great line-up of products for BourbCo are the same maquiladoras you've heard about in the news, except unlike you, my products are actually fucking made in Mexico. You? I bet you're just from New York or Texas but brand yourself so your exploitation of the Mexican people goes by unnoticed. Either fucking way, bitch, here's the skinny; while you're busy being distracted by what are, by rights, my goons coming into the ring with me at War Games, that's when I'm going to take your silly little never-had-a-quinceañera, couldn't-tell-you-about-her-abuelas-cooking, Chi-chi's restaurant ass and chuck you so hard into a cage wall you bounce off of it back into my arms, ready to ride into the other side and off of it to. Shit, people, to this day, think wrestling is fake just because they see the dog and pony show you bring to the airwaves, and to quell that shit, I gotta, and I mean definitely will, eliminate your ass with the quickness, because besides Ozzy, you're the biggest fraud in there as a captain this year. That's even counting Jenny Myst and Mastermind. I will give you credit on one thing, because I don't know how you do it. If I had to wake up every day as you, I would have given a blowjob to a Beretta already and saved everybody the time.

~~~~~

Walker is in the middle of speaking again, and we hear the same beep as before.

Talk to me.

Got word that Marf is probably a no-go.

Hmph.

Bobby's demeanor doesn't change at all. Walker looks a little distracted.

Uh, is that important?

I guess not. Continue.

Great! So, I have a plan that will maximize your profits and give you successes you've never dreamed of before.

Bobby inhales slowly through his nostrils, exhaling the massive breath just as slowly as Walker continues his sales pitch.

~~~~~

Then you got good ole' Tommy Wish, who really just wants LSM or Mercy's foot in his mouth so he can ejaculate. Tommy, I would say get on my level, but that would mean you'd be capable of getting on my level in the first place, and fuck, we all already know that is impossible. I'm willing to bet when people saw you on the draft boards, all the way in the final round, they were first completely surprised that you still wrestled, and then they wondered if they had to draft a fourth member of their teams since no weight is better than fucking dead weight to carry on to the promised land. Welp, I will say, you're probably a better option than Marf.

Hey, Marfy boy! How are you doing? Man, it'd be cool if you cut a promo, or represented as a member of the Brotherhood of Bastards someday, anything really, because you sure as fuck haven't done anything around here since the Trump administration and even then, you weren't doing much of anything. Fuck, do we need to go dig up Lycana to get you to do anything, or do I just buy the wrong kind of Milk Bones for you? I am out here, hustling, day in, day-fucking-out, to grind every last thing I do into paydirt, you're just sitting in the back of the bus along for the ride and drinking up all the free beer you can get your hands on. But, hey, you have an excuse, don't you? Every fucking time, it seems like. Shit, Marf, if you could wrestle half as good as you can cook up excuses for failure, you'd be a multiple time Universal Champion and the greatest fucking wrestler in history, because honestly, telling everybody why you couldn't is the only thing you consistently don't half-ass in front of everybody. Listen, your job in all this, and I'm really of the belief you need to be told what your job is, but all you have to do is hold up a pair of fucking high heels and tell Tommy that Lycana wore them. Hell, tell him how many times you came on them for all I care, wishing your momma wolf was back around to push you around, but he'll get so distracted by the thought of that bitch's paw crammed into her dainty size fives that he'll lose all wits about him and be ready for me to break him against the mat and pin him for a simple three count.

Tommy, it’s nothing personal, but this is war, you have an army, and right now, all I have is me. I hope you understand.

~~~~~

Walker continues to drone on about, well, whatever nonsense he’s there for. He is palming a stress ball while Bobby still has the same malaise draped over him. The intercom fires up. Bobby presses the button.

Yo.

It’s Cholo.

Oh what the fuck now?

He’s on vacation.

Seriously? Motherfucker took a vacation right in time for War Games? Doesn’t that idiot know how a calendar works? I mean, at least he’s really from south of the border, unlike LSM. Maybe he got confused by how us Americans write dates with the month first.

Sorry to interrupt, Bobby, but we can definitely work on your outreach to the Latino market here.

Bobby releases the intercom button and looks flustered he has to sit and listen to Walker.

~~~~~

Welp, there’s Giovanni Santana, the guy I was looking forward to working with all along, the man who said he was going to have fun eliminating the competition from War Games, the guy who sounded like he knew what War Games was all about; crushing the dreams of hopeful entries en route to the big showdown in the finals, but this guy washed out like it was Boot Camp, packing his bags and hitting the road as fast as he could. Bon voyage, Cholo, I’m sure you would have been a fine contender here and there, but, well, you weren’t and you aren’t, so I’ll just drop the precipice of hypotheticals for now. I want you to remember this day, I want you to have it ingrained on the inside of your fucking skull, because come one day soon, you’ll be walking around the halls of the XWF and wondering to yourself ‘why doesn’t anybody take me seriously?’ This day, Giovanni, War Games, is why nobody will remember you. Nobody gives a fuck, not even you apparently, that you barely pinned the great Thunder Knuckles in the Cannabis Cup. Instead of riding that, being bolstered by it, and hell, maybe even making a case for a shot at the XWF Xtreme Championship, you’re, what, dancing in Ibiza? Farting around in France? Where the fuck did you go, bud? Not that it matters, you’re just there to make sure Unknown Soldier, who’s just as hit or miss, looks the other way long enough for me to swoop in and knock him out of the match.

Yikes. Unknown Soldier. I remember when you were a thing around here in the XWF, and then when you came back and you were going to be a thing again, and then when you came back again and were going to be a thing again, over and over again, until you wound up just becoming the McRib of the XWF. Just like when McDonald’s trots out a weird particle-meat pork chop coated in sugar laden barbecue sauce because they can afford the corn dusted rolls for a month, eventually people don’t give a fuck after a while because they’ve tasted better and forgot what all the fucking hype was about. Is this supposed to be your big return this year, or was that a few months ago and it already petered out? Whoop-de-shit, I don’t get how you got picked before Tommy Wish, or fuck, even Angie Vaughn! How the fuck did everybody sleep on Angie when even Unknown Soldier sleeps on Unknown Soldier? None of that shit fucking matters to me, no sirree, because good ole’ Cholo is going to show you a nude picture of Hillary Clinton and you’ll be so gobsmacked you’ll be ripe for the picking. I shatter your spine just like you’ve shattered your own legacy, rack up another elimination, and I’m off on my way to the finals, just like that.

~~~~~

Bobby is still seated at his desk, looking bored and frustrated as Walker continues his pitch.

So, Bobby, what do you think?

Meh.

Just, heh, meh? Is that right?

Walker looks less than amused.

Look, I need to level with you. You need me more than I need you at this point. Your brand is diminished, you’re not upwardly trending, and frankly, my business acumen will point you in the right direction. More parody analog of your opponents in promos, just like the business standard is today. More edge worthy, traipsing the aether style wordplay to make people nod and smile and agree thinking you’re being smarter than them. More homespun, adorable caricatures of foreign people to make people think how wonderful the whole world is while highlighting the marvels of being American in that we accept all those people. Your methods, Bobby, you being a brute, being boorish, being mean, and embracing nerd culture all in one, well, they’re too unique. We’ve spoken with our best minds and done plenty of research, the results all say you’re just not homogenized enough to make it anymore. Coloring outside the lines isn’t what’s right, you need to hit the same notes as everybody else and just make it more polished!

Bobby leans back in his chair, rubbing his eyes.

You just haven’t been the same since you lost the mask, Bobby, and we can help you get that edge back.

Bobby stops rubbing his eyes and looks at Walker.

So I need an edge?

Exactly, but also, you need to be easy enough to grasp.

So, I need to be, what, like a butter knife?

So to speak, yes! Not dangerous, spreading the same shit everybody has on all the white bread everywhere!

M’Kay.

Bobby opens a drawer at his desk. He pulls out what looks like a black rag, and begins to tie it around his head, looking much like Zorro afterward.

How’s this?

Bobby is grinning as he asks. Walker snickers.

Well, it’s a start, we were thinking we could bring back the old mask, maybe make it light up.

Oh yeah?

Yep, and we can…

Bobby slams the drawer shut, teeth bared, his eyes gleaming as he stares down at Walker, the face of a tiger spotting its prey.

Run.

You want me to run with it?

Bobby stands up and cracks his neck.

~~~~~

Welp, what do you know, Madison Dyson is back around, thought she was dead, but I guess she got better, and this time when she went looking under a rock, she pulled a Mercy out. Big fucking whoop. Mercy is a never was, usually showing up to look mean, menacing, spooky, and scary, but is at heart just a blowhard who ain’t done anybody any harm at all. Check it, as much as Mercy wants to portray some kind of Canadian indy horror icon, she’s ultimately as useful as one, in that nobody has really ever seen her do anything to anybody that mattered. Of Mercy’s actual like five matches here in the XWF over the years, this upcoming War Games will definitely be one of them. Well, Mercy, congratulations, you get to come on down to the cage and see the latest rage as Bobby Bourbon, yours truly, a real fucking monster in this business, goes to work, and you get the honors of being yet another body wrecked at War Games by the meanest sumbitch to ever get to scrapping in that cage, regardless of my team mates this year. And yeah, I get it. This is supposed to be a team effort. Here I am, leading the whole fucking charge, and every one of the men I was expecting to come and stand with me are now standing way behind me, hoping for the best as I go to war all by my lonesome, the One Man Army. And all’s fair, while the rest of the mooks who entered the draft just to dodge it in the end, I’ll show up at the gates of Hell itself, sword in hand, calling out whatever the doomed hordes have to offer me, because in the end, they’re fucking doomed.

~~~~~

Outside of Bobby’s office, life is normal in the Bobby Bourbon Dojo for the Competitive Arts. The students practices their toe holds, the Dunkin Donuts serves coffee, the kitchens look lively and make the mouth water, and the arcade is actually full of families all spending time together, sharing in skee-ball and prizes from accrued tickets. Suddenly, the office door bursts open, a briefcase cascades through it as it opens and papers scatter across the floor. Walker stumbles out, calling for help, pleading for mercy, his left eye dangling from it’s socket. Half a second later, Bobby steps out from the door directly behind him and boots him squarely in the ass, sending him to the floor. Walker squirms and looks back up at Bobby.

Please, no!

Bobby kicks Walker in the stomach, causing him to reach down and hold what may well be ruptured intestines. Bobby casually walks over and stoops next to Walker’s head.

Don’t ever fucking come back here. Fuck your offer.

Bobby grabs the loose eyeball and yanks, ripping it from the optic nerves. He crushes it in his palm, then wipes his hand clean on Walker’s suit jacket. Bobby stands, looking almost post-orgasmic, and sniffs the air. He looks over towards the kitchens as the entire Dojo pauses, watching his all go down.

Is that Chicken Piccata?

Diamondback, the man who can blend into any crowd, and Cyberjaw, the man with the cybernetic jaw, come and grab Walker, dragging him towards the door of the dojo. Bobby looks at complete peace.

I love Chicken Piccata.

The rest of the dojo goes back to doing what they do, business as usual, as Bobby looks to indulge in something to eat.

(NOTE: Wordcounter says 1053 words, Google Docs says 2877, but ultimately it's 7 pages on Google Docs which is what I was aiming for. Just read the damn thing.)