It's been quite a while since Robbie Bourbon was stripped of the Universal Championship, his last match. What could possibly possess him to come back?

Two weeks ago...

The High Capital, Washington DC. Where Trump lives, EU flags fly proudly in defiance along Embassy Row, protesters stand in wait to decry any movement of government, and marijuana is smoked by the locals and those in the know, ergo the name the High Capital. Amidst the lunacy of a binary mob mentality, that being the liberal outrage over racism's ever present and ugly nature along with the woes of gun violence clashing with the conservative outrage over new terms and nomenclature being slung about regarding people and their needs, the clouds of smoke bring a chemically induced calm to those with better things to do than sit around and debate politics by having shitting contests to see who can raise the biggest stink. It's a dour time in American history, with the polarizing, sensationalist, almost tabloid-like nature of social media being taken as fact so quickly that even the most reputable of news outlets is willing to broadcast it without consideration.

On the H Street corridor, a block away from Union Station, we see a large inflatable cigar with the word "RAW" printed on it, waving in the breeze, signalling that if you are ready to relax and deal with the implied anxiety of being an American in this foul year of our lord, Two Thousand and Eighteen, by means of getting as baked as a supreme pizza then you have found the right location. It is from here we see Robbie Bourbon, former Universal Champion, step into the daylight carrying a white plastic bag like one would get from a convenience store. In his mouth is a professionally rolled marijuana cigarette. He pulls a lighter from his hoodie pocket, ignites it, and puts the flame to the end of the joint.

He calmly walks down the street, which is lively. Past pizzerias, bistros, students from Gallaudet, American University, Howard University, homeless people, yuppies riding the wave of gentrification, and police officers. Right in your nation's capital.

As Robbie walks, a young lady in a blue smock with the letters "ACLU" printed on it in bold white letters approaches Robbie.

Excuse me, sir, could I have a moment of your time to discuss what we can do as the American people to take the fight to Donald Trump?

Robbie stops, puffs heavily on his preroll, and removes it from his mouth as he exhales slowly and skyward, away from anyone's faces. Secondhand smoke is rude regardless of what you're puffing.

Ma'am, I fought that bastard tooth and nail. Whooped his ass too in the ring. I reckon if I gotta take the fight to Donald Trump, I'll get back to the squared circle.

The girl looks perplexed by Robbie's answer.

But, the people...

Robbie squints and puffs his joint. He exhales, the casually waving his hand at the girl to cut her off. He lets out a small cough then looks at her.

The people?

Let me tell you about the people, ma'am.

I used to fight for them. With every ounce of my being. I used to think that there was some kind of commonality among all of them. Something that tied everybody on Earth together.

Then I noticed it's just human nature to be fractured as a race. As a society. Why embrace differences when you can demonize them?

FOXNews, CNN, The Times, Facebook, Twitter, and the rest of the editorials brought to you by in part by GMC, GEICO, Verizon, Comcast, and anybody else who's caught on to the new marketing ploy that fear, not sex, sells. That the insecurity you have will be cured once you put your dollars in the direction of their business. Afraid your guns will be taken away? Have a Coke and a smile. Worried you'll be "swatted" by white supremacists? Take a spin in a brand new hybrid by Honda, or Ford.

The only thing left that really counts, that really has any kind of impact is where you spend your money and how you spend it.

Now, you're with the ACLU, correct?

The young lady looks back at Robbie cautiously, as though she's not entirely sure where he's going with this.

Yes, I am.

So, you protect the pedos?

Well, in certain cases it has been found that some people are denied certain rights and we see the need...

So you protect pedophiles. See, nobody is a hundred percent right, and nobody is a hundred percent wrong. You're out here fighting for equal treatment of immigrants, rallying against Trump's sexism and discriminatory tactics, but at the same time, you make sure kiddie diddlers have a fair shot. You want to protect children from being separated from their parents at the border of Mexico but also the predators that would prey on said children if they made it to middle America.

Um...

It's just true. It's just plain true. Nobody is a pure saint anymore, morality is all subjective, and the greatest results are gained by those who point and cry, squeaky wheels and grease, so it goes.

But right now you have a chance to take action...

Answering your questions to generate some statistic that someone can point to as a truth isn't taking action, ma'am.

Robbie hits his joint. He slowly exhales.

The people don't want actions. They want grand words to wrap them up, snug as a bug at night. They want the sense that their fears are justified, that their concerns are not just their own.

I say let 'em have it.

Robbie hits his joint again. He extends his hand to the young lady after, holding his preroll out to the girl as if offering. She declines silently, waving her own hand.

I can't, I'm working.

To each their own. And that's the way I live now. To each their own. The people don't need a symbol, they don't want unity, and they don't want to embrace each other.

Oh, well, that's a very depressing way to look at things.

It's honest.

Robbie hits his joint again, which is now halfway finished.

It's like, what's his name, Benicio Del Toro in Episode Eight, what he said.

Episode Eight?

Yeah, Star Wars.

Oh, that Episode Eight. You mean The Last Jedi.

Yeah, it's like Benicio Del Toro said. Today it's them, tomorrow it's you, the only way to get ahead? Don't join.

Don't you think that's a cop out?

Robbie looks at the girl as though the question cut deep, then at the ground. He hits his joint again and exhales sharply.

I don't know and I don't care.

Robbie looks back up at the girl, smirking.

I'ma be okay.

As soon as Robbie says this, the brightness of the day leaves, as though a storm as just come in. Robbie and the girl look around, befuddled.

Didn't think it would rain today...

The girl shrieks, pointing past Robbie. The roar of flames being pushed into existence takes over the air and Robbie turns to see a man armed with a flamethrower, shooting geysers of fire into the sky. The girl runs. Robbie looks less than pleased.

Shit, really? Really, asshole???

Robbie flicks his joint away and starts to walk towards the man. As he does, the man armed with a flamethrower starts to yell.

I AM THE PURGING FLAME! THIS WORLD IS TOO SICK TO SURVIVE! THE REASON? WHY IS IT SICK? OVERPOPULATION! THE DEAD WILL BE CREMATED! THE LIVING WILL FACE THE CLEANSING OF FIRE!

The Purging Flame turns and sends a jet of flame into a storefront. Screams of peril are heard from inside. Robbie begins to charge the Purging Flame at this point.

HEY, PRICK, GOT A LIGHT?

The Purging Flame sees Robbie and goes wide eyed. He blasts Robbie, full on, with a stream of lit fuel. Robbie screams, and falls to the ground.

ALL WILL BURN! I AM THE PURGING FLAME.

As Robbie lies on the ground, madly trying to roll and put the flames out, The Purging Flame steps to another storefront and unleashes another geyser of fire. Screams from inside as patrons try to avoid being fried break the air. Robbie stands, doffing his still-lit hoodie, most of his mask scorched, and runs into the first storefront. As he does, he grabs a fire extinguisher and starts to put out a wall of flame. He screams at the patrons inside.

GO!

The people hustle out of the building as Robbie steps back outside. He hurls the fire extinguisher at the Purging Flame, nailing him in the back of the head. The Purging Flame hits the ground in a heap. Robbie then turns and bolts into the next storefront let ablaze. He pulls another fire extinguisher from the wall. The dull yellow chemical that comes out does its work against the flames, and Robbie again hollers at the people inside.

RUN!

The people scramble. Robbie heads back out and sees the Purging Flame getting back to his feet. He turns to Robbie.

YOU WILL BURN AND BE PURIFIED IN ASH! THE PURGING FLAME WILL REMOVE ALL FROM THE EQUATION, AND FROM THE ASHES GREATNESS CAN ARISE! YOU WILL aaagggghghghgghghgghpppt...

The Purging Flame is cut off from a full blast of dry chemical fire extinguisher to the face. Robbie drops the fire extinguisher and grabs the nozzle of Purging Flame.

Silly fool. Silly, silly fool. Can't burn me, asshole, I'm already the hottest thing walking. I am the heat. I am the flamethrower up in this motherfucker. I am the Super-Heavyweight Superior, and you, well, you've just been smoked.

Robbie grips the Purging Flame by the throat and yanks the nozzle, separating it from the tank on the Purging Flame's back. Fuel sprays everywhere as Robbie tosses the harmless nozzle to the sidewalk. Robbie grabs the spewing fuel line and jams it in Purging Flame's mouth. Purging Flame gags and vomits, Robbie removes the fuel line, then lifts Purging Flame, delivering the Earth's Mightiest Chokeslam to him, his back bowing against the tank, which itself has warped and broke. The people in the streets all fall silent as they see the maniac with the flamethrower has been taken down by Robbie Bourbon. Robbie, his chest heaving, his eyes bloodshot and wide, his mouth open and sucking wind, looks around at the people. He coughs, then clears his throat.

Is everybody okay?

The people all start to look at one another, realizing that they were in fact alright. Nobody hurt, nobody injured. Some start to clap for Robbie. Robbie half smirks. The young lady in the ACLU smock walks up to him.

That was...

Robbie chuckles.

What's so funny?

Robbie settles himself, still laughing as he speaks.

That, heh, that is how you fight for the people.

As he says this, Blue, Robbie's Girlfriend and Handler, steps out from the doorway to the local smoke shop, arms folded across her chest and a sly smile on her face. Behind her is Diamondback, the man who can blend into any crowd, and Cyberjaw, the man with the cybernetic jaw, both of whom are wearing cheap t-shirts with huge pot leaves printed on them and holding plastic white bags of their own.

Well, it's about time you got off your ass.

Robbie smiles back at Blue.

I reckon.

Robbie then looks down at his empty hands, then back at the Bourbon Men, then starts to spin around.

What's wrong?

Robbie points to the white bags in Cyberjaw and Diamondback's hands.

I, uh, I lost my bag of weed.

Cyberjaw and Diamondback clutch their own bags, as though they may share the same fate if they're not careful.

Well, be more careful next time, honey. You can't just get so stoned you forget where you leave things.

But...

Blue grins. She walks up to Robbie and kisses him on the lips.

You can share mine. Wow, you're hot.

Blue quite literally starts patting out the still smoldering spots on the face of Robbie's mask. Robbie grins back.

It's about time someone thought I was.

With that, we hear Bad Motherfucker by Machine Gun Kelly and Kid Rock start to play from Robbie's pocket. Robbie's brow furrows.

Pig?

Robbie reaches in his pocket, smiles at Blue, then pulls his phone out. He swipes with a finger and holds the phone to his head.

Hey, bro, what's up?

What?

No fucking way.

Who are the tag team champions?

Robbie lets the phone down and looks around at the people, all contented and moving about their day as police arrives on the scene to clean up the Purging Flame.

What is it?

I think...

Don't. Just do it, you big doofus.

Blue kisses Robbie again.

Go do what you do.

Robbie smirks. As he does, he puts the phone back to his head.

Fuck yeah, I'm in.