Scene fades into the sound of grinding metal and smoke billowing out from a dying engine. An old rusted-out muscle car sputters to a stop in the middle of a graffiti-tagged, pothole-ridden block. The license plate reads “TAG GOATZ.” TK gets out of the car, slamming the door, and kicks the tire.

“Dammit, Bobby, I told you duct tape don’t count as a radiator fix!”

Bobby, who is also out of the car, is rubbing his temples.

“First of all, maybe you shouldn’t have bought a six hundred dollar muscle car. Plus, it was industrial-grade duct tape. Second, it ran just fine till we hit JB’s home turf.”

They look around and see boarded-up buildings, a barbershop with a faded sign, a corner store with bars thicker than a XWF steel cage, and run-down homes so close together that they can only be called the trenches. Even though the area is run-down, there’s life, kids playing, dogs barking, the smell of barbeque in the air, and the sound of music bumping from busted speakers.

Bobby sniffed the air, a smile forms on his face.

“…Either we’re in trouble, or somebody just put ribs on the grill.”

TK grins, knowing Bobby could smell ribs from miles away.

“Damn, bro, they’re definitely cooking with seasoning. That’s more than the THUGS ever had.”

Just then, a group of old ladies strolls out from a nearby porch. Each one looks like they could bake a pie and beat your ass with a flip-flop. One’s dragging an old oxygen tank with a Newport hanging from her lips. The other has gold hoop earrings big enough to hula hoop with. They stop in their tracks once they can see through their cataracts who stands before them.

The grandma with the hoops starts pointing her cane at the two men.

“Wait a minute. Is that… Them No Good Bastards?”

The grandma with the Newport and oxygen tank is in awe.

“Oooh, child, it is! That’s Thunder Knuckles and Bobby Bourbon, the ones who DQ’d Game Girl so bad she changed her ring name to 'Early Retirement Plan.'”

TK grins, knowing their brutality shows no bounds. Bobby smiles maniacally from the approval of two old ladies. A group of teenagers walks up, phones recording, clearly hyped.

“Yooo, Them No Good Bastards just chillin’ in the hood like it ain't shit? Y’all ain’t scared?”

TK begins laughing while Bobby shakes his head.

“Scared? Why? Anywhere we go we’re the criminal element, the APB out on TK and me! The only thing we fear is a John Black promo going over five minutes.”

“Man, the T.H.U.G.s been tryin’ to act hard for years, but y’all out here gettin’ more respect than them in five minutes.”

“Respect is earned, young man."

“I beat Tommy Wish in a dominoes match once. Boy tried to cut da line at Bingo, too. No manners, no backbone.”

"Don't forget no credibility."

One of the teens recording on his phone asks if TNGB saw the number one contenders' match at Rebellion.

"Ya'll motherfuckers see the T.H.U.G.s match on Pay-Per-View?"

'Woah, buddy, the Motherfuckers was an entirely different tag team.'

TK pauses Bobby.

"I think they're trying to call them Premium Live Events these days."

"Yeah, fuck that shit!"

"I like this kid."

Bobby walks to the muscle car and pops the trunk. He pulls out two boxes and brings them to the boy.

“Here, they're the official Them No Good Bastards bobble heads.”

“Thank you.”

"I watched that match and don’t get it twisted when I start spitting fact bombs. I know what all the mouth-breathers are thinking. ‘But TK, didn’t you and Bobby Bourbon just retain by DQ?’"

The grandma's start shaking their heads agreeing, knowing the Bastards did exactly that.

Goddamn right we did. Because when you're the Anarchy Tag Team Champions, you don't gotta play by the rules. You bend reality around your nutsack and call it strategy."

"Don't try that at home, we’re professionals."

"The T.H.U.G.s, however? Didn't strategize jack shit. That wasn’t a win, that was a crusty-ass group project gone wrong. You had Reggie Estrada looking like he was auditioning for the Mexican version of Cirque du Soleil with all that flailing around. Dude was getting twisted up like a fucking pretzel and still somehow tagged in Black like it was a passing of the arthritis."

"John Black-"

"John Black? Bro, he moves like he just woke up from a nap he didn’t survive. He's out here trying to throw hands while his hips cry out for ointment."

"What about what Tommy Wish did in the match?"

"Tommy Wish? Man, he wasn't even supposed to be in the match! Little bitch just snuck in like the third wheel at a swingers party. That shit won't work on us, they used their only trick. They should have held out for the real deal, not a number one contenders match. Anyway, Tommy tagged himself in behind the ref’s back, pulled some bootleg bullshit with a jawbreaker."

TK gives his famous jerking-off hand gesture than makes the teenagers giggle and the old ladies randy.

"Let me make this clear. You don’t climb the ladder by crawling underneath it, kids. Don't be like the T.H.U.G.s Needless to say, you little Bastards, they didn’t earn a goddamn thing. They scammed their way into the contender spot like three hobos forging lottery tickets. Now you think you're coming for our titles?"

Bobby points to an alleyway where there are three hobos literally forging lottery tickets out of trash.

"Look! There they are!"

"This won't be like last time we faced off against the T.H.U.G.S. We ain't walking away so they can pick up a W. Me and Bobby Bourbon are gonna do what smart champions do best. Retain dirty, laugh loud, and leave them crying in catering."

A man from a nearby food truck leans out.

“Y’all hungry? Bastards eat free around here. T.H.U.G.s gotta pay double.”

“Now that’s street justice. We break down, and the hood lifts us up. T.H.U.G.s show up, and the hood locks its doors.”

“Say what you want about us, but we don’t need a bulletproof gimmick or urban dictionary slang. We show up, throw down, and leave with chairs bent and titles safe.”

“We didn’t take these streets. The streets claimed us. The T.H.U.G.s? They’re just tourists with a team name.”

Bobby is raising a paper plate stacked with ribs and cornbread.

“To the real streets, the ones that know real recognize real!”

TK starts pointing to the sky.

“And somewhere, Reggie Estrada’s spirit just curled into the fetal position.”

“People, the best part about our upcoming match on Anarchy? Us. Another great thing about our match in St. Louis? We are the only champions defending their titles. You don’t see the Junior Varsity squad of Seb and Isaiah with their secondary belts. The Revolution Champ is in a non-title bout. That special attraction of Universal Champ versus Anarchy Champ isn't winner take all. You know, I'm not to thrilled with Peter Principle for fucking with Dolly or the Revolution, but now he's legit pissed me off for this bullshit, but hey, it isn't like the T.H.U.G.s fighting anybody else would sell tickets. Oh, you know what's cool about the T.H.U.G.s?”

TK shrugs.

“Not a god damned thing?”

“Nah, bro, there's a silver lining here, since it's Estrada, Black, AND Wish, we get 50% more ass to whoop.”

“Math is for nerds.”

“Most wrestling fans are nerds, TK. See, since the brass is butthurt that we've taken the Anarchy Tag Team Titles beyond the XWF Tag Team Championships, not only are they turning a blind eye to the fact we earned a night off at Anarchy after the war we had against Scoops McGeegee, but they're eager to send three bodies at us. I know it, you know it, hell, those hobos in the alley know there are no TWO competitors who could survive against us, so they have to send more, and where does it end? After we beat the T.H.U.G.S, maybe they'll clone the American Storm so instead of facing them eight times over the coming months we'll take on all 16 members of the American Storms. Jesus, beating them to become contenders? The American Storm use velcro because they can't figure out a zipper and have to ask crowds what they want to talk about because they sure as fuck don't have a clue.”

A tow truck has arrived. The driver gets out and sets to the task of getting TK's jalopy off the street. TK watches longingly as the tow hooks are connected.

“I loved that car.”

Bobby shakes his head.

“You only had it for 2 hours.”

“Those were a good 2 hours!”

“Yeah, we had fun listening to that Public Enemy cassette.”

Bobby takes a bite out of one of the ribs. His eyes go wide.

“Good?”

Bobby swiftly nods, taking another bite, and ultimately inhaling the meat off the bone. TK chuckles at the sight.

“Damn, I gotta try one!”

“Yeah, you do.”

Bobby puts the bone back on the plate.

“What about the other teams in the XWF?”

“Fuck ‘em.”

“Pretty much. Our focus, after all, is on who's next.”

With that, a helicopter is heard overhead. Bobby smiles as TK looks up in awe.

"What the fuck?"

As the broken down muscle car is hauled away by the wrecker, the helicopter places a brand new Chevrolet Camaro on the street. Bobby goes and unattaches the wench that was carrying the vehicle, and the helicopter flies off.

Hey buddy, I just wanted to say we know your big day is coming up.

Suddenly, the teens, the old ladies, and the food truck guy all join in with bobby as he begins to sing to TK.

🎶Happy Birthday to you🎶
🎶Happy Birthday to you🎶
🎶Happy Birthday you bastard🎶
🎶Happy Birthday to you!🎶

A huge decal of TK's face is on the hood of the muscle machine of this century. TK gets into the driver's seat. Bobby heads around the car and sits shotgun.