We open to see a flash of clips from Peter Gilmour's weird attempt to rip off TNA and definitely not XWF superstar Broken Matt Hardy's latest antics, though while innovative and fresh, are just indicative of Peter's need to ride another talent's dick to victory. Most notably, there are clips that detail the following quotes:

Peter Gilmour Said:I mean who doesn't love sex? Surely my lovely hot as fuck girlfriend Mia doesn't.

Peter Gilmour Said:Dolly, this Wednesday night, you will.. get INFECTED! I promise you that darling.

THE PRIME PRIMATE

We open to see the National Zoo, specifically the main gate. People are walking in and out on this overcast day, minding their business. Those grown-ups leaving all share tired, yet fulfilled faces as they leave with children all glowing and gleeful, no doubt excitedly detailing their favorite animals they got to see. Sure, it's a little sad to see a depressed tiger in captivity eating something out of a Hot Pocket box, but if your kid enjoys it and is none the wiser, it actually takes on a magic all its own. Those walking in look far less weary, ready and prepared for their day of walking and viewing the majesty of the animal kingdom, most of the children glowing and gleeful with anticipation they'll be able to see their favorite animals.

Suddenly, alarms blare, and a panicked torrent of humans rush from the zoo. As hysteria begins to take hold, we notice all manner of apes running wild. We get a bird's eye view of the primate house, and a huge gaping hole has been opened up from within, and all manner of apes and monkeys are running loose. A gibbon jumps on a hapless visitor, dry humping his head as he screams in agony, his children terror stricken by what is happening to daddy. A gorilla has grabbed a blonde woman in a pink dress and ascends a half-finished construction within the zoo grounds, stomps a few times, and starts throwing barrels at a dude with a mustache in overalls and a red Washington Nationals cap. Everything, for lack of a better term, is going ape shit. A zookeeper, hiding in a trash can, pulls out his cell phone and dials a number. Not 911, but a very specific phone number complete with an area code.

This better work...

We cut to see the Robbie Bourbon dojo. It's rather empty, though a few students are seen in the ring practicing their arm drags and hip tosses. The kitchen is shut down, and over in the Dunkin Donuts, we see Robbie sitting down and enjoying a large iced coffee and across the table is the same baboon he was sparring with. The baboon is wearing a fedora and is smoking a vape, and we see the words "POSSIBLE NEW BOURBON MAN ALERT!!!" as the camera zooms in on the baboon.

Alright, Fedora Baboon, I can respect your stance on not wanting to be a full fledged Bourbon Man.

Thank you, Robbie, thank you. I'm glad we had a wonderful sparring session. Quite frankly, as special as you are, I have to be my own baboon. I have a wife and a family back in New Guinea, and they need their daddy. From one patriarch to another, I am honored to have your invitation, but the sooner I get back to South America, the better. I'm sorry we got off to such a rough start, being magically transported to someone's medicine cabinet can be pretty disorienting.

It's okay, Fedora Baboon, I will always value the time we spent together. The next time the XWF is headed to New Guinea, I'll be sure to look you up.

Sure, do the XWF brass know of any cities in New Guinea without using Google, my friend?

Nope, and neither do I. I'm not even sure if it's in Africa or South America now that I think of it, I'm just glad you sound just like Liam Neeson.

I am not familiar with this Liam Neeson you speak of, Robbie, but your tales of how he trained Batman, Darth Vader, led the A-Team, and saved the Jews during the Holocaust are indeed incredible.

He does have a very particular set of skills.

I believe you, my friend. Now, I must depart, I have a plane to catch.

Fedora Baboon gets up and grabs his rolling luggage by the handle, which he extends, and walks out of the dojo. The screen flashed "CONFIRMED: NOT A BOURBON MAN" as he leaves and a taxi pulls up to take him away. As he drives off, Diamondback and Cyberjaw walk up to Robbie.

Yo, we finished giving that dickhead the good treatment. I wasn't really sure what the hell you meant, and I have no idea what a 'Bacta container' is.

Han Solo walks into the Dunkin Donuts.

You nerf herders, everybody in the galaxy knows what Bacta is.

You were terrible in Ender's Game.

Go fuck yourself.

Boys, boys, settle down. You're less civilized that my new chum Fedora Baboon, and he literally selects his mates based solely on the shape of their ass.

Ash, Robbie's hair stylist walks by, and all four men gawk at her ass as she does. She rolls her eyes.

Not like any of you could handle this.

Han Solo walks after Ash, trying to see if he could handle that like he handled the Kessel Run. Robbie looks up at both Cyberjaw and Diamondback.

So, what did you do?

Well, we made a device to reanimate dead tissue.

Oh? Like how? Nanobots, a cool virus, any of the other methods used by the crack XWF physicians to make Peter Gilmour's career look like it's alive?

No, more like Frankenstein. We just pumped a shit ton of electricity into him and it worked.

Oh, wow. That sounds highly improbable.

Just hush. Here, he's coming now.

The man who got his neck broken by Robbie Bourbon earlier comes into the room. He has a massive line of stitches around his throat and his head is on backwards.

You are overrated!

Jesus, it's a Frankendickhead.

The words "NEW BOURBON MAN CONFIRMED!!" flash across the bottom of the screen as we hear Robbie's phone go off. He puts it to his masked head and listens.

Bonjour, this is Robbie. Yes? You're who? A what is happened? AWESOME! Dude, I am totally on the way. No, no, it's horrible, it's just kind of awesome you called is all. Oh, definitely. On my way.

Robbie hangs up and looks up gleefully at the Bourbon Men.

Welp, we got one.

Robbie runs out of the door of his dojo as Cyberjaw, Diamondback, and Frankendickhead all follow him. He swings the driver's side door to his van open and climbs in as the rest of the Bourbon Men enter. He speeds off in the direction of the zoo.

Moments later, outside the National Zoo, the scene is still dour. A police barricade is positioned outside of the front entrance as Robbie Bourbon pulls up. He walks up to one of the officers.

Hello, sir, I'm here to...

Yeah, yeah, you're that Robbie Bourbon guy from the TV. Go on in, give us a report, minimize the damage too, you always leave a fucking huge wreck whenever you do your thing.

That's because I'm the Wednesday Night Wrecker.

I know. Look, I'm sure you'll get to sign some autographs and sell some t-shirts here in a minute, and I would have voted for you too, but now's not the time for talking.

Oh, no sir, now is precisely the time for talking.

Robbie walks into the zoo alone as Cyberjaw, Diamondback, and Frankendickhead go over and try to look like they're doing something official in the van, even though there's no equipment besides the installed PS2 in the van. As they play Tiger Woods PGA Tour 2003, Robbie encounters a gorilla standing in front of him.

I'ma call you Peter.

The gorilla starts to beat it's chest fiercly and howl, making a display of dominance. Robbie follows suit.

Peter Fucking Gilmour. First you tell the world how much your girlfriend doesn't like sex, then you put your hands on her in another promo. You massive fucking cunt, if that's not all the proof in the god damned world you're nothing but a sexual predator who wields his dick like it's a weapon I don't know what is. It's a fucking confession. You're sick, and twisted, and you give real men like me a bad fucking name. Do you know what it's like to have people spit at you and call you a fucking pig because you're a man? No, because you actually attempt to rape any feminazi that comes up to you while screaming "SUPER DICK" at the top of your lungs. It's gotten so horrific that you not only need to thrust your fucking self-inflated opinions around about your worthless, useless, and highly exaggerated fucking member but you also feel the need to use it to give Dolly "Jesus Christ this poor girl is getting exploited harder than Miley Cyrus at her age" Waters whatever fucked up social diseases you're carrying. Fuck. You even think I'm still the president, even though that privelege, that honor, was taken from me because I'm not over thirty-five years of age. You want to talk about how you'd impeach this, or assassinate that, and about how you fucking destroyed me the last time we faced off. Ask yourself, Peter, do I look destroyed? Do I sound destroyed? Am I wounded and hurt and having to replace my fucking dick with a Snickers wrapper full of baked beans then telling everybody everything is just fucking super with it? No, and it's pretty fucking simple Peter. You have syphillis. You want to give Dolly Waters your syphillis, and that's how you'll infect her. Cute Matt Hardy impersonation, bro, you're syphillis is so fucking advanced that you're just repeating bullshit you've seen on TV. Fuck, you even went and watched fucking Highlander and now you have some gay ass "Sword of Doom", which sounds like you went and bought it at the god damned dollar store. One, that thing is just a little piece of metal in a little man's little hands. If you think your dick is super, then that thing's as powerful as a wet fucking baguette in a fucking fight. Two, I'm going to take your little toy, wannabe phallic replacement for the fucking embarrassment you had hacked off of you and shove it so far up your ass I'll make Dim cringe-cum. But let's face it, Peter Gilmour's dick was so tiny Smurfs couldn't even find a use for it. Peter Gilmour's dick was so worthless old men gave it away at garage sales if you bought a whole box of records. Now, Peter Gilmour steps into my fucking ring on my fucking show of shows, Wednesday Night Warfare. He doesn't fucking step out. You want to abuse and terrorize a woman, when all you had to do was come down to the dojo and treat me like the King of the Jobbers that I am. Now I'm going to cripple you. Fuck a horse, Petey, you're going to need a wheelchair.

Robbie charges at the gorilla and delivers a diving shoulder block to it. It punches him dead in the crown with all it's might, and Robbie drops to the ground like a sack of potatoes. The gorilla goes off like Robbie is made of Samsonite and stomps on him, until Robbie pushes off and grabs the gorilla by a leg. He actually rips the leg off, snapping a bone in two, and the jutting edge of the gorilla's femur quickly makes it's way through the gorilla's eye socket and into it's brain. Robbie snaps the gorilla's skull open and rips out a hunk of brain matter. He looks at the camera.

Kids, don't do this at home.

Robbie then devours the brain of the gorilla in quick order. He continues to walk, and a pack of gibbons all start throwing little pebbles at him.

I'ma call you Kitt.

The gibbons all hurl another volley of stones at Robbie, who pulls out his battle axe. He holds the blade sideways in front of his face, and after the stones ping away, his eyes almost bulge with a berzerker like fury as his jaw contorts into a grin of pure unadulterated adrenaline bliss.

You said I was the love child of Vader and Captain America. Sir, this is the XWF, a fighting organization. I really didn't have shit to say about you because what there is to say nobody knows. You have no idea what this place is like, how this place flows, and what bullshit conflagration hackneyed horse hockey continues and grows. For starters, you don't compliment your opponents like that you silly little sap, calling me out for being like one of the greatest big men ever and good ole' Cap. You think you're scaring me with your Federweight gold, I don't sweat that crap, you've worn yourself thinner than your wife's six day old panties, and they reek of the Clap, now you want to walk down to the ring, well don't, I'm there, it's a trap, I'm gonna give you a break, give you a break, break your neck with a snap, break your back in places like a Kitt Kat chap. I've had an entire career of embarrassments and let downs, the best you got is that I'm possibly mental? I've had thirty-nine concussions, but I got medical and dental. Then you turn to a prepubescent girl and call her a bitch, sure hope that went well, I'm going to smash and bash your worthless ass like I'm going off on some hellbent spell. You sir, are fucking like Peter, sir, if you think I'm still the President, sir, or if you thought that was all imaginary, sir, because you need only watch the footage of the Secret Service, sir, God bless them, sir, to know and understand that I was one of the shortest tenured Presidents of these United States. You don't know what's real around here or what is just an illusion, you spout off baby gibberish to support your delusion, the only thing that I can say, my final conclusion, is the best way to help you're rookie ass is a fresh brain contusion.

Robbie swings his battle axe and beheads four gibbons, lodging the blade in the skull of a fifth. The body writhes and twitches as the head of the axe makes contact with some part of the gibbon brain that causes it to do some Xbox 360 ragdoll physics at the end of a swinging war blade. Robbie cleaves another gibbon in half as the rest scatter. Robbie plucks the gibbon off the head of his axe, splits along the seam created by the weapon, and shucks the tiny brain like it was an oyster.

Mmmm. You know, the only reason I'm eating these monkey's brains is because neither Peter nor Kitt have any for me to munch on come Sunday.

Robbie comes into a clearing, and out jumps a baboon. Not Fedora Baboon, Robbie's new friend, but a normal baboon, also the same size as Dolly Waters, only somewhat cuter.

So. Hello, Dolly.

Robbie tosses his battle axe away like every kind of awesome action hero, knowing full well he'll have it later with little to no question because it'll be fucking epic, or maybe he'll do one of those things where there's suspense regarding not having his axe.

The poor pathetic little Waters. It's fucking depressing, and people are going to point at you and say you're the future of America or some bullshit, but the only future you have is being Maury bait. What's Maury bait? It means your future is going to be full of instances where you appear on the Maury Povich show and hear the words "You are not the father", time and again, with footage of your one eyed, have a head, three fingers to one hand, seven fingers to another, three legged little piece of vaginal seepage you call a kid sitting around, looking lost and dumbfounded, with the caption "Shitberg, aged 14, does not know who their father is". You know why they never catch on who the father is? Because they never actually test your daddy. Seriously, you're young, you don't get how the world works, but when a man brags about how much gash he's sticking his beef dagger into, it means he's not getting any sex at all because he has to brag. It's the way the world works, I'm sorry it's too late and you've bit in, hook, line, and sinker into Paul "I managed Curtis Axel and that was a brighter spot in my career than associating myself with Equinox" Heyman, Luca "Drugs? Drugs!" Arzegotti, Zane "I have a phone bill that's fucking expensive, my parents get pissed at me every month for how much data I used" Kingsley, and, heh, hehehehe, Equinox? Seriously, the fucking Quiznos guy who shows up to give us a clip on the website and a book of coupons every few months? Woah, and I'm really bowing down in front of you knack for viewing talent. See, darlin', that's called sarcasm. I'm sure if you weren't home schooled by a twat full of shit you'd know the definition of that. Have you ever considered boarding school? I mean, when a little girl starts to brag about how much play her dad is getting, alarm bells start to ring. Dead fucking giveaway kind of shit. You don't have to lie down for them, Dolly. You don't have to open yourself to them, and you don't have to please those men the way they've been demanding you do. It's 2016, it's okay to be a strong woman with her own methods and prerogatives in life, you don't have to tow the line and defend your daddy's cock. Ew, just fucking ew, by the way. I'm calling child services. You go ahead and show a clip of my gorgeous face in the middle of your boring, bullshit, wannabe Stewie from Family Guy, this is funny because I'm a little kid saying nasty things contrived ass promo. You talk about TV references, shit, that's all you are is throwaway attitude and clever lines that make the grown folks all look and smile and think "Oh, that little scamp, she's so outrageous". I find it funny, don't get me wrong, but I got a sick sense of humor like that. I also laugh at hair-lips trying to order food through the drive-through on YouTube, and those motherfuckers sound twice as awesome as you do. WHO has been writing your material, one of daddy's bar buddies or just someone else who showed up and decided to tell you they were awesome and you believed it, right along with Santa, the Easter Bunny, the Sasquatch, leprechauns, unicorns, or your chances of actually never having to go to rehab some day because you're an overexposed little girl, like Miley Cyrus or Lindsey Lohan before you? Hell, you're just ripping off McCaullay Culkin, and you might be too young to know who the fuck he is, so we can all assume you Google'd that shit, but did you see what he went through, and have you seen what's happened to him? Shit, at least his career hit a peak, last we all saw this silly little thing couldn't even beat Hunter Payne. You couldn't, you didn't. Ooh, you want to tell us more about how you lost your Federweight to Kitt "Ain't Shit" Kennedy yet? No?

My name is Robbie Motherfucking Bourbon. You're going to remember that name. It's the name of the man who showed you how to talk smack. Listen well, take notes, because you sure as fuck didn't get any good knowledge from the people you surround yourself with when it comes to burning the world with a poisoned flamethrower. Also, I know you haven't taken civics classes yet, but check the tape, I wasn't just running for President, I was the President.

Robbie walks up to the baboon and grabs it by the throat. As it slashes and writhes to escape from his grip, Robbie flings it skyward. As it tumbles back down, Robbie crouches, the pounces at just the right moment and delivers an astonishing Neckwrecker to the beast, breaking it's neck. He bashes the skull on the concrete and opens it up, feasting on the delicacy within. After Robbie wipes the gore from his jowels, the turns and sees an orangutan.

Oh, shit, it's you....