Robbie Bourbon recently survived a massacre at the park right across the street from the White House. A man in pink tuxedo was the gunman.

Robbie is in hot pursuit.

CHASING A VISION

"Where the fuck is this guy?" Robbie finds himself realizing that pursuit on foot of the man in the pink tuxedo is pointless. He pulls out his phone, and dials. "I hope my guys can do something here." The phone shows the name Pig. "C'mon, answer, this is fucking serious, guys, Motherfuckers time here." The phone rings again and again, and eventually goes to a voicemail. "Fuck." Robbie pulls his phone out and tries to call James Raven this time. "C'mon, I know you're taking on Blingsteen and doing your thing, but this is real!" It too goes to voicemail. "FUCK!" Robbie dials Jack Cain. "Not really my last choice, but I know he's busy as fuck too. God damn, Jack, answer." It goes to voicemail again. "FUUUUUUUUUCK!" Robbie looks up, and looks grim. He looks back at his phone and dials a number which has no name listed. A voice answers on the line.

HELLO?

Hey, Jerkbeast, there was a mass shooting at the park! I need your help!

FUCK THAT! I'M NOT GETTING SHOT!

The line goes dead as Jerkbeast hangs up. Robbie rolls his eyes.

"Well, fair enough." Robbie puts his phone in his pocket. "I'm all alone on this one. Well, I mean, I could go back to the secret service people and see if their plan is any good. I figure if their plan works they'd call. Hold on, they'd just be doing footwork." Robbie walks into a nearby 7/11. We distinctly hear the world as Robbie Bourbon announces himself to everybody.

Have any of you seen a guy in a pink tux with maybe a big case or a piece of luggage?

"I saw a guy like that two seconds ago!"

Where?

"Around the block!"

Where was he headed?

"Towards the waterfront!"

Robbie scrambles outside and starts to run in one direction, his eyes peeled on the horizon for someone entirely in pink.

"This has to pan out. This has to work. We need to get this guy." Robbie kept running, his chest heaving in tune with his belly. "That poor woman. Those poor kids. This piece of shit gets wrecked now." A pair of tourists are oggling their phone's screen as Robbie comes to a halt, seeing they have been photobombed by a man in pink. He mouths something at them. They take a picture with him on their phone then point in the direction he was running. "What the fuck, take a picture now? I'm not a fucking hero for the love of Christ."

Suddenly, keeping pace with Robbie Bourbon, is Jesus Christ. Your Lord and Savior, your False Messiah, your Prophet who came before Mohammed, black, white, or arab he's got a beard, and rarest of the Bourbon Men.

What, you want me to carry you? Big man doesn't do so well running a few kilometers, time for one set of footprints?

Go perform a miracle at the fucking park, jack ass. How many people kill in the name of your dad on the regular?

Yikes, someone is pissy.

You would be too.

Motherfucker, nuh-uh. I lived at the epoch, where we went from BC to AD. Do you know why we did that?

Um...

Well, because scholars rewrote history, kind of, or at least reorganized it, based on me.

Shut the fuck up about you. This isn't about you.

Jesus takes a deep breath, remembering who he's talking to.

Robbie, those three little boys are in heaven, they're safe and protected now.

Their mother...

Their mother suffered massive loss, she'll live. I can promise you that. That's coming from a guy who was crucified. Pain sucks, but you have to live with it. Grief is a part of it sometimes, I guess. That's why you're grieving. You saw something terrible too, Robbie.

I've seen plenty.

But nothing like that. Until now the weirdos that come to DC to see if you're a real superhero have been getting weirder and weirder. They saw what you did to that hustler in your dojo. Tsk, tsk. That guy with the flashbangs, the weirdo on St. Valentines day, now a guy with a gun and a garish outfit. Who knew it was so easy to get away with a mass murder? Don't blame my dad, blame the guy who shot someone, by the way, killing in my or his names isn't our idea.

Robbie takes a deep breath, realizing who he's talking to.

He hasn't gotten away.

Oh, why's that?

I'm chasing him down.

Robbie continues to full out sprint block after block of D.C. cityskape. In the distance, we see a figure in a pink tuxedo casually walking, carrying a rifle. Panicked people run from him, scattering like oil in a dish soap commercial. Some of them fall, splatters of red cascading through the air and crashing into the pavement.

You might wanna get out of here, I'm pretty sure you won't like what you're about to see.

You do you, Robbie.

Jesus fades out of the picture. Robbie continues to sprint towards the man in the pink tuxedo firing into the public.

That's it, stupid shit. Fire away. Keep killing those helpless people for no fucking reason, standing right there like a fucking scarecrow for me!

The man in pink turns and grins at Robbie as Robbie collides with him, sending him through the air six feet and crashing into the sidewalk. The AK-47 crashes to the concrete and Robbie scoops it up. He grabs the barrel, still scalding from fire, and screams in pain as he swings the stock of the weapon into the man in pink's face, knocking him out cold.

Son of fucking bitch.

Robbie takes the firearm and snaps it over his knees in fury, then looks at his hands, reddened from first degree burns. He reaches down and scoops up the man in pink.

Okay, bud, we're going to have a little talk.

Robbie pulls out his smart phone and presses a few buttons. He puts the device to his head.

Hey.

Come pick me up in the wagon, I'm at 21st and K.

No, don't send the fucking parade float, that only does like five miles an hour.

Pretty quick, I think the actual cops will be here any second.

Okay, what do you mean stand still?

Suddenly, Robbie starts to sparkle bright blue, and poofs.

POOF!

He poofs again, holding the man in pink, in his office in the Bourbon Dojo. Cyberjaw, the man with the cybernetic jaw, is holding what looks like a very thick and bulky tablet. He and Diamondback, the man who can blend into any crowd, look up, very pleased.

It worked!

What the shit was that!?!

We scraped some of Cadryn's DNA off of the parade float, did some analys on it, found what makes him poof, retro-engineered a way to duplicate it.

And it worked, and it's completely safe.

The bulky control tablet used to teleport Robbie suddenly catches fire, shatters, warps, and then blinks from existence folding in on itself, poofing.

Was that supposed to happen?

No.

How much did that cost to make?

Well, we'd need another sample of Cadryn's blood, another thirty million in weapons grade plutonium, and...

Woah, woah. Okay, make ONE more of those, and that's it. I only have forty-five mil in weapons grade plutonium left and everybody's getting antsy about the bomb again.

Who's the guy on your shoulder?

America's current most wanted. Just ran through a few blocks in D.C. shooting up the place, hundreds wounded, a few dead.

Robbie looks to the ground. He jumps, shaking the body of the man in pink violently, who groans as he is roused from his unconscious state.

I'm going to go interrogate him. War Pig showed me a thing or two, I think I get the idea.

Robbie walks out of his office as many a student stops and gazes at the man who not only magically appeared from his own office after clips of him poofing play on the local news displayed on a few flat screens around the dojo, along with news alerts regarding the shooting and who was involved, but the shooter who massacred a few city blocks. The man in pink looks up and grins at all of them. Robbie walks down a hallway and through a door. It opens into a courtyard, where a huge set of double doors and a dumpster are seen, the trash center of the dojo.

Robbie lawn darts the man in pink at the dumpster, leaving him unconscious as dozens of students peer into the dumpster room. Robbie turns and closes the door. He turns and pulls his phone out. He dials.

Hello?

Look, keep the kids busy.

It's going to get noisy in here.

I love you too.

Yeah, I'm okay.

This shit murdered a family in front of me.

Get the equipment in the lab ready.

The stuff we use to reanimate corpses.

Robbie disengages the call and notices he has another alert. He opens it and we hear the sounds of Chris Chaos's promo play.

Oh, this fucking clown.

Robbie sits next to the unconscious man and reaches around in his pockets while Chaos's promo plays in front of him. Robbie pulls out a metro pass. He glances at it as his eyebrows widen. He puts the pass in his own pocket.

That tux of yours isn't going to look so hot in a minute.

Chaos's promo concludes as Robbie walks to a small shed located back here. Inside we see a weed eater, a few other tools, and a red gas cannister which he picks up. He walks back over to the unconscious body.

Is that it, Chris?

That's the best you got?

I mean, I knew you really fell off, went downhill, and have done everything you could to fall off the radar like you're allergic to being on the radar. You spend all that breath repeating your "you sees" and asking yourself redundant questions so you can reinforce some notion to yourself, thinking that's the real battle. Complaining about a promo? Complaining about the shit the XWF team decided to show you guys with their cameras?

You do remember the number one contendership is on the line in a sixty minute long fucking marathon of a match, not really decided by who covered all their intellectual bases so the smarks can't find a flaw, right?

Shit, if you think you're upset about how my promo went, imagine how it was for me? Do you think I wanted to go out and watch that happen? Do you think I'm glad I have this asshole in a pink fucking tuxedo on my floor about to be burned alive, brought back, rinse, repeat, until I get a call from the secret service?

Are you dumb?

Your biggest insult was that I'm a human being?

Are you stupid?

Kid, sit down, sit back, and leave the flow alone. Put the microphone down. You're going to put your eye out.

I mean, of course, I'm a human being, you're a human being, everybody watching the XWF and following it is a human being, except for fourty awesome squirrels I know, a table, a turd, a dismembered penis, I'm not sure about the status of Mini-Morbid as a human or just creature, whatever Game Girl was, and I think at one time a computer program was running Savage.

The champ is a human being, although in transition. The Kings are human beings, only now they won't get the rightful shitkicking they had coming to them because you wanted to lay down and feel Guppy Parsh's Joel Schumacher Bat-nipples on your sternum for three seconds. Swell job there, sport, what kind of participation trophy did they fucking hand you for that one?

So, what exactly is your fucking point?

Are you dumb?

You have a woman in your life that adores you so much that she had dramatic plastic surgery to look like Theo Pryce's wife to please you AND started to compete regularly in the XWF to be nearer to you, but instead of verbalizing your need for space you fly off the handle, insult someone's t-shirt like she was still there next to you, the only fucking person in the world who thinks thats clever, and then calls someone out for being a human being.

Are you stupid?

Robbie splashes a helping of gasoline on the man in pink, who stirs and looks up at Robbie.

What's your fucking story, sparky?

Hello, Robbie Bourbon. I'm a huge fan, and...

Robbie pours gasoline on the man's face again, and he stops mid sentence spits gasoline on the floor. Robbie kicks him in the jaw, and he crumples to the floor.

Shit, fucking hell, Chris, you're fucking doomed if you think a war of words will save you. See, the people out there, they like me. If you take umbrage to that, well, take it up with them, not me. I'm just doing me, you know? The people, though, well, I don't hesitate to give them what they want.

If they want to be entertained, so be it.

If they're fucking disappointed that a contender for the Universal Title, going to the limit in an iron man match on pay-per-view wasted their life by letting them watch a man treat the English language like it was a mouthful of horse semen that needed to be spewed as fast as possible with all the grace of a horse cock sucker, I can't fucking blame them.

Here, watch this. This is happening.

Chris Chaos is a fucking egg salad sandwich.

See, that's even better than "hur, dur, you're a human being".

I guess that's why all these clothes, and written language, and understanding of civilization things adhere so well to me.

Are you dumb?

Did you fucking think you were fighting a kangaroo or something?

Are you stupid?

Chris Chaos is an egg salad sandwich. Alone, worthless, sitting on a dark shelf in some gas station in the middle of nowhere just waiting to be put in the garbage and out of it's own misery.

Chris Chaos is an egg salad sandwich. Used to be gold and sweet, now just moldy and beat.

Chris Chaos is an egg salad sandwich. He came out of a chicken's ass originally.

Woah, hold on, better clarify that I'm not being literal, here. I don't actually think I'm going to beat the shit out of an egg salad sandwich in front of billions for an hour. A whole fucking hours worth of beating for Chris to take. A very human beating, delivered to another human, in front of a ton of humans. I won't nitpick, though, Chris, if you want to say the fucking giraffes, mongeese, tsi-tsi flies, angry deer ticks, crafty raccoons, sly foxes, and all the fish in the sea are rooting for you, go right ahead, dude. They don't give a shit about two men in the ring, they don't understand the weight and gravity of the Universal Championship, they don't grasp the meaning of fighting for sport, for blood, or for glory. They fight to live or die. Deep down, don't we fucking all? Ain't that what you're tapping into whenever you feel that rush of adrenaline, hear that bell ring? Nah, you're just waiting for the big strong man to come lie you down and cover you.

Even a dog wouldn't do that, Chris.

Are you dumb?

Woah, here's another one that's better than calling me human.

And I'm a human being, in case anybody out there had any doubt. It's why I have these hands with thumbs, can speak, pay taxes, and shit on a toilet. I just hope that is very clear, because Chris did a really shitty job of pointing out how human I am in that I wait in lines places to do things, can spell and write words, eat people food like pasta and sushi and hamburgers, and use crosswalks.

Anyhow, here's another one that's better than calling someone a human being in the insults department.

Chris Chaos is a used copy of Meatballs 3 you found when you were moving and it still has a Blockbuster sticker on it.

The most pointless thing we've found so far in 2017.

Are you stupid?