Robbie Bourbon has gotten himself in the mindset that he will be facing off against two top-notch opponents an a highly dangerous match, but like most things in life, it couldn't be that simple. There is the matter of the curveball possibly thrown his way; the alliance between his opponents and a new general manager in the XWF.

MEET THE NEW BOSS

We open scene to see Robbie Bourbon standing at a corner in downtown Washington D.C. It's mid-afternoon, as cabs and cars pass by along with the normal flow of traffic, Robbie stands with his arms folded next to a fence with a tarp covering it.

There are many things I could say about my opponents for Back in Black, a good many of them already said time and again. I could talk about Peter being the insolent jackass he is. I could talk about Dim being the monster that he is. You know what, though? You know what really gets my ears burning and the ticker churning white hot American rage?

The fact those two assholes wasted beer toasting that low-down, no-good, fear-mongering, dead animal hairdo wearing, face like an orange sphincter looking, spending daddy's money to feel special, never accomplished anything besides going bankrupt, goes through mail order brides faster than a fat kid eating Domino's, self-important, self-righteous, ignorant, stupid, wishes-he-was-a-tough guy, scum spewing, scum swilling, reams his own asshole with a pipe snake looking for the baby powder and roses, waste of genetic material, waste of oxygen, waste of water, waste of space, destroying-the-American-Dream, fucker of rusted out tuna cans, sucker of truck-stop assholes, Hitler-wannabe, piece of shit, fucktard, no-balled, less-backboned, spotlight vampire of a whore, Donald Trump.

Hiya boss. Before you go off all half-cocked, thinking "who's this guy and how dare he speak to the brass", allow me to introduce myself.

My name is Robbie Motherfucking Bourbon. You're going to remember that name. I am something you will never fucking own.

See, you have this penchant for greed, for gain, and that's all well and good. But as soon as you decide to put up walls, to keep Mexicans from entering my country for a chance to feed themselves, to keep Muslims from entering my country so you can placate Dim and the rest of the Tea Party asshats, to keep wages down, you show that you have no place in any political arena, you show that you do not have the interests of anybody in mind but your own, you show your ass, and you show that you are not a man of the people. And the people need help, stud, bad too, but your ass is just the fucking poison that wants to keep the people down, and hurting, and needing.

And that doesn't conflict me none. No sir. See, this ain't the political arena. This ain't Wall Street. This ain't a square block or two you can get your mitts on and build some overpriced hotel so the swells have a place to take their hookers and snort their Colombian chop.

Welcome to the XWF.

You can stow the bullshit about decorum and respect, stud, Shane , the owner of this here company, hasn't shut me up yet with his CCWF dogs, so get ready for an experience against the alpha X-treme around here.

Am I going to beat your ass? Specifically? No. I don't have to, slick. See, you set up the dominoes all by yourself, made them do loops, put them in pretty patterns, and even put a little trick at the end that'll flip one of your toenail clippings into your spread-eagle ass cheeks so you can feel what having grit feels like. You've made your moves, you've made your investment. You invested poorly.

Peter Gilmour isn't going to pay any fucking dividends for you, stud. Flat the fuck out. He's going to siphon what he can from being around you, and as soon as the breeze blows the stink his way, he'll turn right back the other way looking for the comfort of Vinnie Lane's or some other shitsucker's comforting ass beatings. Dim doesn't even recognize what food is, or have a grasp on what most people consider "reality", but the beauty of that is I can do whatever I want to Dim and never feel guilty about it, because Dim doesn't even get that he's getting his brains bashed in with a brick. Your shitty lackeys, your investment, are going down the toilet faster than Maria Brink's miscarriages she forced on herself after fucking a lacrosse team.

I look forward to this working relationship. Really, I do. I get to take whatever bullshit Donald Trump gets behind and wreck it to bits. And bits. And bits, and bits, and bits. Spoiled little rich boy, gets his money handed to him on a platter, gets mad when his toys don't play the way they're supposed to, and tries to flood the people, my people, with a constant stream of his own piss.

Fuck that. Fuck you. Fuck Trump. Fuck Gilmour, Fuck Dim.

You've stepped on the backs of the people for too long, and now the people are getting their chance to stand the fuck up and put a boot down for once. We are the tired, the weary, the huddled masses, and we've had enough of your shit. We've had enough of the manipulation, the ignorance, and the intolerance. We need something good for this country, we need something good to make this world a better place. Truthfully, that means we need anything but Donald Trump.

Go suck a shit sandwich with your pals Dim and Peter, Don. Tell Peter and Dim they don't need government subsidized health care, and how you'll personally cover their medical bills.

Guarantee you'll declare bankruptcy for the fifth time by Thursday if you do.

Now, you might be wondering what this is behind me. Well, across the street...

The camera pans to show a sign:



Is that place. Over here...

The camera pans again to show Robbie. He pulls down the tarp, revealing this sign:



Over here is where I bought a square city block. Every day, hundreds of junkies, crack heads, and other sorts of addicts will be able to come to his corner and receive the treatment they need, free of charge. Every day, your clientele will be able to watch as Americans heal themselves.