At the last Warfare, Bobby Bourbon chose to face Mark Flynn for the Universal Championship at March Madness V. To the delight of fans everywhere, the added stipulation of the Mini-Golf Master's Meyhem style of match. Today, we see Bobby accompanied by a very corpulent, almost hamster shaped man.

Hey there, XWF Universe. Bobby here, now, many of you may be wondering about the Mini-Golf Master's Meyhem match, and what exactly it entails, or even how the concept actually works. Well, to be honest, I'm not really all that sure. I know I wanted to annoy Flynn by steering us away from hogwash like chess and Nickelodeon, and damn if the first thing I didn't think of, not my signature glass tables match, no, not the Culinary Cutthroat challenge, nah, no rehashes baby, I came up with the most violent thing I could think of, and that was beating not just Mark Flynn, but anybody, with a damn golf club and taking the Universal Title. Taking it back, Mark, and I hope you are listening as hard as you can, taking it back from your corrupt, Scientology knockoff shilling bullshit routine, on behalf of the entire Xtreme Wrestling Federation and the standards I must follow within the Brotherhood of Bastards, a standard of champion talent. You, well, Mark, have no real standards. Hell, you keep shouting about 1800OPTIMAL and that number is just a phone sex line for fuck’s sake. Me? I'm going to take you beyond your limit and destroy you in front of thousands in attendance, billions watching worldwide, in not just wrestling, but also, in mini-golf! That brings me to this man.

Hello.

This is Fred Gorson.

Yup.

Tell them about yourself Fred.

The adorable short chubby man, an egg shaped head on an egg shaped body, clears his throat.

I am Fred Gorson, I am a twelve time Colorado State Crazy Golf champion.

So you know how to play mini-golf.

I do.

Why are you here, Fred?

To whip your ass in crazy golf.

Why do you keep calling it that?

It's the official name of the sport.

Well, damn. So you want to beat me? Well game on!

Bobby, wearing a shiny blue button down with a silver blazer and jeans, holds up his putter. It's the putter of a Sith Lord. The grip is gunmetal black, the shaft a sheening crimson, and the head pitch black. Fred has a fancy ass putter you'd see on a sporting goods website. Both men walk over to the first hole, which is in the shape of the letter "J" with a few animatronic and garishly cartoonish ladybugs and other vermin dancing around it. Fred places his ball. It's neon yellow. His lucky one. He prepares his shot looking down the length of the hole, rubbing his mustache and jiggling his huge second chin. Bobby winds his putter back and swings, whacking Fred in the ass with the putter. Fred yelps and hustles away.

Ouch! Why?

What?

You hit me!

I cracked your ass with a golf club is what I did, Fred. You're just going to stand there and ask yourself 'why'?

Bobby cracks a smirk.

You're no competition for me, no sirree. You already lost. You get a five stroke penalty.

What? But why?

I fucking said so.

Bobby looks around.

I don't see a referee out here, Fred, this ain't regular Sunday league mini-golf, this is street mini-golf! We don't play, we survive this mini-golf of life!

That's outrageous!

I know, I'm outrageous! I'm ostentatious, obnoxious, and ornery, to boot! Fred, when I heard you wanted to play me in mini-golf because I'm going to crush Can't Win Flynn and become the motherfucking XWF Universal Champion, the absolute best in the fucking biz by a mile and a half, well, I took that personally. You're trying to humiliate me, Fred. Mark humiliated me, Fred, and I'm going to turn him into a stain on a wrestling mat for it, and you?

Bobby raises his putter again. The frosty red shaft gleams in the sunlight, Bobby’s nostrils flared as he observes Fred Gorson. Fred looks at the camera incredulously. Bobby lowers the club, weilding it like a foil, and jabs Fred playfully in his big tummy.

Oof! Stop that!

No.

Bobby again prods Fred with his club.

Take your shot.

I'm trying, you just hit me though!

I'll do it again!

I believe you!

Right! Because, Fred, you might be a champion Mini-Golf or Crazy Golf or whatever, maybe even world famous for it. You might be able to play your sport against anyone you want with the utmost confidence, you might be able to give the absolute master class on how to make a golf ball go through tunnels, angles, loops, over cute little brjdges, and past animal mascots of all varieties, but none of that matters because I am a violent man, Fred.

Bobby places the surface of the head of his putter flush against Fred's fleshy left jowel.

I could beat you bloody and sell my stained clothes on eBay, Fred, that's what I'm known for. Every bit the mini-golf giant you are, I am the ruthless bloodthirsty gladiator going out there and beating ass. I beat the shit out of people so people can be entertained, so people can make money selling tickets, selling nachos at the arena, selling shirts and other shit online, fuck, Fred, I'm an entire financial ecosystem, so many jobs created because I like slinging people around like they're crash dummies. Hell, so is Mark Flynn! That dude has been money, for sure, for being the guy, not any guy but THE guy people have been fucking waiting for me to absolutely pulverize. You, though?

Bobby pulls the golf club back, resting it on his shoulder. Fred looks positively mesmerized and in sheer terror.

What about me?

Bobby chortles.

There's just no money in beating the shit out of you, Fred.

Bobby lowers his golf club.

This is just a round for funzies, where I can absorb your mantra and learn a thing or two.

Fred goes to respond, but suddenly we see Thunder Knuckles and Harmon, two members of the Brotherhood of Bastards. He looks back at Bobby wearily.

Why are they here?

It isn't golf without your fucking friends, Gary!

It's Fred.

Bobby nods.

He's right.

I don't give a fuck if he's Gary, Fred, or right! He owes me ten push ups!

Harmon sneers at Fred Gorson. Fred nervously hits the deck and does push ups, getting bullied by the Brotherhood of Bastards en masse.

Fred, I think you're going to come around, even if we have to drag you, kicking and screaming.

Harmon signs something to Bobby. Bobby nods. Harmon drags Fred to his feet after the tenth push up and walks him away with TK. TK constantly berates the chunky little corgi butted human waddling beside him. Bobby turns to the camera.

When I get done with Fred he'll be a world champion, not just Colorado. When I get done with you, Mark, I will be the Universal Champion, and you fucking know it too Mark, don't you dare deny I didn't just whoop the fuck out of you in that ring but on that chessboard, and now I'm going to beat your ass on a miniature golf course too! Just imagine it, you son of a bitch, you get your head crammed into craft fair quality windmill, and you wonder why you're experiencing this beating at the hands of a man you fucking stole from, and fwap, the fan blade of the windmill brushes your chest, and you eat every last word with a few teeth I busted loose, fwap, another blade of the windmill caressing, barely teasing your chest! Then I'm going to do better than a hole in one, Mark, when I take my putter here and hit you in the groin. That's right, all of your testicles will be smacked sharply and I go multiball like this miniature golf game turned into pinball, and I'm Elton John from The Who’s Tommy, you’re not in it even because you aren't even cool enough to be in a Who musical, or as we in the know say, a Whosical. The XWF will have a new King or Queen, maybe new champions elsewhere, everyone in the XWF making their stand and taking their shot, but don't you worry about that Flynn. Nah, Mark, the question you need to answer is what will you be when I take the title from you by absolute devastating force?

Bobby takes a deep breath, looking frankly at the camera.

You won't be much to me besides whatever you're worth in raw materials. A mess on the floor of AT&T Stadium, Jerry Jones up in his luxury box, over a hundred thousand XWF fans screaming, me holding the Universal Title high and goddamned proud. Scuttle to be swept up like so many half eaten bags of popcorn scattered all around the whole damn place, because Mark, you son of a bitch, you are fucking garbage and I'm just going to prove it, because once we hit that eighteenth green, and everyone is ready for ice cream or nachos, any old fashioned post mini-golf nosh really, and you learn, the hard way, that my wrestling style is like something created by J. Robert Oppenheimer, pure explosive, nuclear hot, immediately dangerous to life and health, and downright toxic, and if you couldn't capitalize in a Chestling© match, what fart-in-the-breeze effort are you bringing to Arlington, at the biggest March Madness ever? Whatever you got scrambling around in that demented head of yours I will knock out of it, because you can't, and you won't, walk out of March Madness the way you walked in. This isn't a matter of proving myself like you try to do, Mark, taking the shortcuts wherever you can, this is a matter of what is inevitable, unstoppable, and the purest thing in this business, and that's Bobby Bourbon, Universal Champion of the XWF, ready, willing, and able to annihilate for the fans amusement.

Bobby nods, a smile crossing his face. Fred Gorson runs from TK and Harmon, each of whom is weilding a running weed whacker and menacing the fluffy chubster of a mini-golf master, doughy Yoda of the little links.

All paths, Mark, even your optimal one, have a final destination. Yours is in the main event on March Twenty-Sixth, and from the front row to the nosebleeds, suites, press boxes, and even the standing-room-only, the people will remind you, Mark, when they bear witness to the ass whooping of a generation, and I put you down and walk out their champion.