Bobby sits at his desk, drumming his pointer finger directly into the top of the lacquered American pine slat top, made of what looks like pallet slats upon pallet slats, sanded, and treated. The trim is inlaid with pieces of granite, polished yet jutting. The drop leaf of the front is a slab of black sandstone, also treated, with the busts of Howard Hughes, Jack Parsons, Miles Davis, and Judge Judy, forming a psuedo-Mount Rushmore. They're not super recognizable but they have placards beneath each bust.

Stephanie Wilson, Bobby's image consultant, swipes away at her tablet. Bobby stands up.

Fuck this.


Miss Wilson looks absolutely bewildered.

Mr. Bourbon?


I don't want to play a game on my phone!


Bobby stands up and marches out of his office and through his dojo. In one corner, we see a ring where trainees learn. In another, a Dunkin Donuts because franchizing. In the thrit, northeastern corner, we see 4 competitive kitchen stations, where students are making omelets for each other. It's Super Sunday! Bobby's New York Jets jersey is a vibrant Kelly green, yet still, irrelevant. He walks through the doors to his car, whatever it was in the last RP I wrote that had him driving. He still looks cool driving it, I promise. He drives, and the radio blares as he rushes past others at a breakneck speed.


I am better than Aaron Rodgers and you know it.


Bobby pulls into a gas station off the way. His black Challenger shining beneath the lights of the pumps.