Robbie, Pest, and Morbid Angel, the Black Hand, have been through a bit of a ride in saving DC. The last we saw, the city was in ruins and backwards. With a crude lack of empathy of all the lives destroyed by these events, Luca Arzegotti and Austin Fernando, two of the Black Hand's opponents at Snow Job, have decided to lob insults at the dynamic duo while they actually busy themselves cleaning up the mess.

Then Pest spoke again.

THE SWEET SPOT

We open to see Robbie walking out into the streets of the decimated District of Columbia. Dr. Smith looks confusedly at him.

Look, it's great that you are a medical oncologist at your age, but I think there are a few things you don't grasp quite yet...

Dr. Smith: You aren't my dad.

No, not even that weird shit you do with Pest. You want me to go get a time machine? Any leads, besides checking Sharper Image or Brookstone's website?

Dr. Smith: What, quantum theory states that time travel is possible.

It's still just a theory! There are no working models that prove it, let alone harnessing whatever a quark does when it shows up twice in the same place at the same time. Fuck, I don't even understand how they can tell the damn thing is the exact same or not!

Dr. Smith: I thought you were a thinker.

I am! Ugh, I am a thinker, but you're describing something that'd come from a god damned theoretical physicist from the year 3000. Come on!

Dr. Smith: Whatevs. Can I go now?

Robbie sighs and rubs his temples.

Not like it isn't even going to happen anyway.

Dr. Smith gets an odd smile on her face as she turns and runs back into the room with Pest and Morbid. Robbie kicks a rock, and it scuttles into a car, setting off the alarm.

Motherfucker.

Jesus, a fucking time machine? A FUCKING TIME MACHINE!

Luca, hey stud. Good to hear you haven't put enough idiot powder into your sinus cavity to flash freeze your cerebral fucking cortex. I get you probably got really excited to hear you were going to Snow Job, no wonder you seem so bitchy and cranky over having to fight. Man, I really wish you did take me back in time, though, I've got a hell of a predicament here, trying to figure out that myself, but you described some shit I have no recollection of whatsoever.

See, there were the popular kids. The kids with money, the kids with drugs, the kids who threw all the parties. They invited the girls. Then, the girls invited the guys they actually wanted to fuck. Then those guys invited Robbie Motherfucking Bourbon along, because even though they were getting their dicks wet and having free booze, it wouldn't be a party without him. Who else was going to do the two minute keg stand? Who else was going to crush the cans on his forehead? Who else was going to play power hour every hour on the hour? The popular kids, they didn't like me much, but it wasn't like they made my lives hell. They pouted, they chattered with their tiny circle of tiny dicked spender's-of-daddy's-money, and they went and did blow. Then, when they didn't get laid, they got mad at me.

Shit, if you were one of those snobby bastards in high school, I'm not the guy you belittled for reading X-Men, I'm the guy who got you grounded for two months and your credit card taken away for a hole in the wall the shape of a spent keg.

On that note, I don't have bad blood with you, not at all. Hard to say why I'd hate you. However, I am going to kick the living shit out of you like you've never fucking imagined. I'm going to kick you so hard in the stomach you won't shit right for a week, I'm going to make your face so swollen you'll look like a cinnamon roll, I'm going to leave you bent, broken, busted, and beat up, and that's because it's my fucking job to do so. The people, my people, they're paying top dollar, or ruble, to come into that arena. They've been planning, and anticipating, and waiting, and watching Warfare religiously, hoping that it all leads up to the greatest spectacle their hearts desire. The people deserve to see something amazing, from the front row to the rafters, and motherfucker, I will not relent or hold the fuck back at all in giving the people exactly what they deserve. Now, the thing is, my style in that ring ain't all that spectacular. They're not going to see me get hangtime doing some gravity defying bends in the sky. They're not going to see me fluidly go through some intricate chain wrestling with a series of holds, counterholds, reversals, and pinning predicaments, though I practice, stud, I practice. They're going to see the motherfucker putting super back in superheavyweight taking bodies and wrecking bodies. Yours, your partner Austin Fernando's, Dim's, and Peter's. 'The Bulletproof Man' has his methods, and they aren't pretty.

This isn't bad blood at all. Nope, no sirree. Lions don't hate antelopes. Tigers don't hate buffalo. The motherfucking T-Rex didn't hate the goat. The locomotive doesn't hate the track, and the windshield had no ill will whatsoever to whatever that big green yellow blob was that you gotta wash off while getting your gas. You're just what people in traffic slow down for when they see a vehicle that flipped over, not some Bond villain. Lighten up.

Same goes to you, Austin. Naw, I don't hate you. I love watching you defend your Xtreme title against a nonstop assortment of XWF Superstars. Here's looking at you, Scully, Justice, and Mike. Those tickets just weren't your winning numbers for the Robbieball, but that doesn't mean you have to quit playing. Come on, Austin, I'm giving to the people, giving them incentive, giving them all the much more reason to better themselves. After all, you are the best thing going in the XWF according to, well, you, so I don't get why you'd be all that upset anyhow.

You do paint quite the picture, I'll give you that. You've probably got a more impressive scrapbook of yourself than Dim has of Peter, with the mosaic you like to piece together of what an impeccable, peerless wonder you can be. Keep with the strokes, put in a few happy little fucking trees here and there, maybe a fucking bird or two, and a god damned brook while you're at it for a salmon to fart in. You paint whatever picture you want, project that delusion, as you would put it, for all the world to see. Thing is, stud, priceless art is fragile and does not last well against some wild vandal swinging it around like it's a yo-yo. If I took the Mona Lisa and Robbiebombed it, it'd just stay on the floor. If I started trampling the Mona Lisa, it'd get shredded. It may have been genius, but fuck me, it sure turned to shit awful quick, you know? And you aren't even bringing Mona Lisa, no matter how much you try to convince people that your career is better and brighter than DaVinci's whole notebook.

And I don't care about your sexual orientation or the special relationship you have with Luca. I don't know why you keep self-hating and bringing it up like you and Luca are a bad thing. Just get a fucking room, I don't need to watch the facials you give each other. Also, it's nothing personal, Austin. I Robbiebomb you, you go through cell roof, you land on ringpost, you eat baby food through straw the rest of your life, fans go yay. It's what they deserve!

Robbie sits on the hood of the car with the alarm going off. Pest, Morbid, and Dr. Smith step out of the building.

"Did you get a time machine yet?"

What? Dude, how the fuck am I supposed to get a time machine? The shrink ray seems a whole lot easier.

Pest: Robert, we need to correct this situation immediately.

I fucking know! I mean, it's such a huge thing. A time machine sounds convenient, but impossible! Shit, I even told your little friend, there, that we'd need a theoretical physicist from the year 3000! How am I supposed to...

Robbie stops and snaps his fingers.

Okay, I have an idea, let's give it a shot. We need some things...

Robbie gags himself.

Pest: Robert, what in the hell are you doing?

Robbie puts his fingers deeper into his throat, until he upchucks. Among the splash to the pavement is a dull clank. The Hope Diamond.

Okay, this should work. Now, hrmm.

Robbie walks up to Dr. Smith and looks at her ears, which are pierced.

I need one of your earrings.

Dr. Smith removes one of her diamond studded ear rings and hands it to Robbie.

"What are you doing?"

I'm building a time capsule that'll last about a millennium.

Pest: Robert, this is not the time for some middle school project.

Look, you want a time machine, I'm just going for a shot in the dark, okay?

Robbie takes the diamond earring and starts to scratch into the Hope Diamond itself.

Pest: That is a national treasure, Robert, you have already vomited on it, now you are going to damage it?

Robbie nods quickly, not turning to address Pest as he continues to scratch. He finishes, then lobs the Hope Diamond off down the street.

Pest: What in the hell was that?

Moments later, a bright flash of light happens, and an 80's style phone booth appears next to the whole of the Black Hand. The door opens, and a man in a futuristic space jacket steps out.

Greetings! I am Memnarch. I am a theoretical physicist from the year 3000!

Robbie grins as Pest, Morbid, and Dr. Smith look dumbfounded.

You must be Robbie Bourbon, and this must be the nexus in time as prophesied on this!

Memnarch pulls something out of his pocket, a small object wrapped in a cloth. He opens the cloth and reveals it's the Hope Diamond. He holds it up, and reads.

Ah, here it is. "Greetings, I am Robbie Bourbon, speaking to you from beyond the grave. I am the last in a line of protectors of this diamond, but a prophecy states that a theoretical physicist will travel to me in my time, January of the year 2016, in a machine that is capable of breaching the quantum phenomenon during the year 3000." Well, it seems I'm late, it looks as though the epoch has happened!

No, we're good, you're right on time. That's a time machine you said?

Yes, of course, I am here to fulfill the prophecy of my people from the year 3000.

Cool. All we have to do...

Morbid swings his sword and decapitates the theoretical physicist from the year 3000.

"VICTORY FOREVER!"

Robbie facepalms.

Look, we're going to undo all of this anyway, it's not a big deal. Alright, we got our time machine. Let's travel to a few days ago!

Robbie opens the door to the phone booth time machine. Morbid steps inside.

Wait, where's Pest?

Robbie looks around, but Pest and Dr. Smith are gone. The camera turns to show the car with the alarm going off. Pest is sitting inside, and a brown ponytail is bobbing up and down.



God damnit.