Killjoy has finally come forth and for all intents and purposes followed in the footsteps of the greatest champion in the XWF today, Robbie Bourbon, and why wouldn't he?

Not like anybody is pretending to be him.

COME IN AND PLAY

We open to see Robbie Bourbon sitting at his desk from a head on perspective, level with Robbie's massive shoulders. The large mahogany piece looks old, and sturdy, and atop it is a rather unkempt mishmash of a lap top, a coaster, a coffee cup not sitting on the coaster, a napkin, and the folded hands of Robbie Bourbon. He's looking at the camera with confident smile.

We hear the familiar voice of Blue, Robbie's girlfriend and handler, from offscreen.

What are you doing?

Work.

Work? Doesn't that mean you're going to be grabbing people and throwing them around?

That's the long and short, but Vinnie and the other suits want me to do some promotional stuff for Lethal Lottery or else.

Or else what?

Or else, well, I don't know. I get stripped of my title, fired for being uncooperative, I dunno. It wasn't really all that threatening, just a way to make the business brighter, give it some more panache, and mostly because, well, the people like this kind of thing.

You mean the XWF fanbase isn't just here to watch you physically dominate the mentally ill, but also to verbally assault them as well?

Well, I don't know about the mentally ill...

Have you seen any of the stuff Cadryn has been doing and saying?

Okay, he's probably mentally ill, a little unstable, and an overall emotional wreck.

What kind of sick freak would put a man like that into the ring with, well, I love you babe, but you're a bonafide engine of pure destruction and wanton violence in that ring.

The twisted hands of fate themselves, babe. I mean, it isn't like Cadryn is helpless; he's a vicious little piece of scum, to say the least, violence doesn't seem to be something he shies himself away from. Same here, only the difference is...

The difference is you're anything but a monster outside the ring.

Robbie looks downward.

...Nowadays. I mean, look at what I did in the past.

That's the past, honey. Right now, you're the god damned Hart Champion, a beacon for the people.

Robbie looks up with a huge grin.

You're right! The world does love me!

Right!

With that, we hear a door open and slam shut, and two men walk into view behind Robbie.

Do you remember us?

You put us in a glory hole against our will, just for trying to spread the word of Joe Smith and the Mormon Faith.

Robbie's grin fades.

My past, back to haunt me. Kinda like Trax, or Peter Gilmour, or any other so-called icon I've wrecked.

No, Robbie, not at all.

We came to thank you. Not only did you open our eyes to the fact we're blatantly and flamingly homosexual, and that we absolutely love the cock, but that the path to Jesus and God almighty didn't get cooked up by some whack job in New England who wanted to move to Utah.

Really?

Absolutely. Praise Jesus.

Glory to God.

The men kiss each other lovingly. Robbie blushes bashfully.

Well, shucks, fellas. I'm glad I had some positive impact on you.

Give 'em hell, Robbo.

The Gay Ex-Mormon Christians walk off camera, and we see "DOUBLE BOURBON MAN ALERT! GAY COUPLE!" scroll across the screen. It is indeed wonderful what modern production can do.

So, what are you going to do a promo about from here? I like it more when you get out in the world, do stuff, keep active.

Well, I figured I'd start here. Killjoy wanted to get to know me better, I might as well take a breather for a minute.

Killjoy is a fuck.

I know, I know, but, well, you know me babe. I gotta give the people what they want.

Robbie clears his throat and looks directly into the camera.

You know it's really not hard to get inside of my head, just ask peanut butter and jelly between two slices of bread. Once you're inside, you'll get gnashed, chewed up, and digested until I feel fed, you don't need to play dress up, that being said...

Welcome to the wreckage, I guess I'm supposed to call you Killjoy. Nice of you to step into view, at least you were here, like Kilroy. Can't wrap your melon around the notion of why I wear my mask when I step into the squared circle to take a fool like you to task, I know my name's intoxicating, go on and fill yourself a flask, but to get to the root you only need to ask. You wonder why I wear the hood, well I can only sigh and shrug...

Who in their right mind is going to pay to look at this ugly mug? I'm the face of the faceless.

I take the time to blend right in, assimilate with my constituency, so they can feel the power itself when I showcase my wrestling proficiency, wrecking here and there and everywhere with the utmost of efficiency, for the people, by the people, autonomous but individually, not because I need the people's favor but because the people need me to fulfill some sort of deficiency, because I owe each and every one of them for who I am and no other repayment carries that kind of sufficiency. And that, sir, in a nutshell, sir, has to be a simpler conclusion than any kind of hackneyed horseshit you come up with in your delusion. I know you fancy yourself a master of all sorts of gags and pranks, but when I get in that god damned ring, I'm all business, so no thanks. I rip, roar, and thunder like a whole division of god damned tanks, hit me with your best shot and you're still just shooting blanks, and in the end of it all you're going down just like Tom Hanks, and that sir, be if you're Sully, sir, if you're Castaway, sir, if you're Apollo 13, sir, because I'm Big, raucous like a Bachelor Party, head of a brigade of eager Volunteers, breaking the air with a Splash, Catch Me If You Can, you're on a Road to Perdition, I'm in A League of Their Own, fighting on behalf of the whole Xtreme Wrestling Federation from the Sleepless In Seattle to Philadelphia to the families in the Burbs, and they all wanna see Robbie Motherfucking Bourbon and ask him "Yo, show us That Thing You Do" and what I do, sir, quite simply, sir, is give the masses their showcase of a fucking ass beating and a wild showdown in the god damned ring where I'll rip your head off as the Wednesday Night Wrecker, you're just a Punchline.

I also loved Forrest Gump but I really couldn't shoehorn that in there with all those other Tom Hanks references. Now, that guy is funny. David Pumpkins cracks me up.

Now you might be thinking, 'man I got him good, I called him Whiskey Bob!' Call me Jared Leto for all I care, I'm beating your ass because it's my job. I get paid to play inside that wring and kick your ass you silly goose, and I do my job well as evidenced by the fact I'm the god damned XWF Champion. Not just the Hart Champion, KJ, no, the real Champion of the XWF. You, well, let's go ahead and talk about Killjoy.

For starters, you put way too much faith in politics. I should know, I was the president.

I hope you come up with some idea of what you're going to do to beat me. I really do. I don't need to brainstorm all that hard. I'm going to go into that ring and beat your ass, it's no a complicated equation or some formula that needs calculation, time, bearing, and calibration. It's called a Robbiebomb, and one of those will leave you with a tingling sensation all up and down your body as your spinal column experiences severe bouts of dilation. It means I'm going to jack up your fucking spine, homeboy, and if you think it's just the threat of a bombing run, it's the man who made the fucking move, not the move that made the man. Generally I do love a good natured ribbing when it's time for rumpus, but this is time to get to work and leave your bones all catawumpus, because I get paid to make a show of slaughtering your ass, sir, for the people, sir, all across the Universe, sir, by the front office and the suits. You blame me for being popular? Take it up with the people who buy tickets, my t-shirts, and who pay me. Deep down, you just have to admit it, you're jealous. You wanted to be the guy the people liked, but you're shit in the ring, have to resort to dicking around in prematch photo-ops to stay even slightly relevant where I got where I am by whooping ass. If this were ancient Rome, you'd be one of the Christians, and flat the fuck out, the people paid to see us lions.

Now, this here, this is where it should be pretty evident you aren't getting into my head.

See, when you don a mask and play around with a supervillain, it sure as shit doesn't make you me. It's a farce, a lampoon, it's a skit, motherfucking clown shoes and horns honking and pies being thrown around and a shit ton of slide whistles. I love fucking slide whistles, KJ, I get tickled pink by them and I fucking buy them from party supply stores in every city I visit.

Robbie pulls a drawer out from his desk and showcases that it is full of identical slide whistles.

Now, they don't really brand them all that much, because they're just a fucking silly little slide whistle, so I couldn't tell you which one came from London, which one came from Moscow, which one came from Detroit, which one came from Florida, nod a damned difference between any of them. Slide whistles really don't amount to fucking much at all, they're a dime a fucking dozen. You know why I have so many slide whistles?

Robbie closes his drawer of slide whistles.

Because I don't travel with a fucking slide whistle. There's no canned laugh track to whatever I do, whatever I say, whenever those things happen, because, well, I'm an actual fucking organism on this planet worth his own weight, and brother as you will note that's quite a few more dollars in my pocket than you'll ever see in this lifetime. You, though, you're slide whistles; antics, shenanigans. I'm a motherfucking wrecker in this establishment that runs on adrenaline, processed meat products, and atomic venom boiling at a temperature so far above basic perception it's what our nations scientists were silenced into keeping secret by my Trump, because he doesn't want the fucking planet hearing about how I was a better president by enacting three times as many executive orders, however all so minor and menial that nobody noticed, since they basically gave me the right to put you in a fucking glory hole along with Cadryn the Cry Baby. Aw, that's adorable now that I notice, you're the laughing clown and he's the fucking sad clown, you laugh at your own demise while Cady just mocks the whole purpose of his demise at the same time. You sure as fuck aren't coming to west Texas, home to some of the wildest and bloodiest brawls this sport has ever fucking seen, to pin the TV champ, Jim Caedus, or myself, or to make us tap out, or even to get us to hang around outside the ring for longer than the ten seconds one of us would need to break your face against something hard and mineral based, like metal or concrete. Hell, this is the XWF, this is Lethal fucking Lottery, me and Jim might even do the unthinkable and deliver a Con-Belt-O or two, that'd do the trick. Imagine the closest you'll ever be, the time you sniffed real championship gold here in the XWF, is when my partner and I squash that huge goofy face of yours between two peices of XWF legacy, history, and excellence. You need help, seriously, your chin is unnatural. I think you have either a very specific goiter, or some kind of growth or tumor there, and frankly, if you don't at least go out and tattoo it, because god knows if I had that chin I'd get a tattoo on it, you should visit a plastic surgeon and, well, have it dealt with. It can't be healthy, your breath is absolutely rank according to the backstage staff due to your fucking pelican pouch of a jaw that literally will hold three cups of semen once you're slurping off lonesome souls hand in hand with Cady. Oh, JK, KJ, the boxes are completely confined without human contact except for the future source of nutrients that get unzipped, pulled out of the seam of some underwear, and jammed into your face. I bet you'll make some hilarious faces when you're deepthroating. Funniest shit in ages, I bet you sound like a chicken when you gag. Do you make chicken sounds when you gag? I bet I can get a fucking chicken farmer that hasn't had his dick in anything but roosters since the age of fifteen to do it for you, just paint up your little glory hole booth like a chicken coop and tell him a Rhode Island Red is waiting for his head. And you know what? You'll be thankful. You'll feel sustenance, a certain need quenched, hunger being dealt with, binge and purge on billions and billions of reproductive agents serving the noble purpose of giving life to a man for another day.

And you know what? I hear it tastes just like chicken.

It doesn't. At all.

Huh?

Is that what you think when you go to KFC, that original or extra crispy tastes like your schlong?

Well, no.

Just stick your thumb in your armpit for like five minutes and put it in your mouth.