Trax and Jim Caedus are indeed a formidable duo to contend with, if you are in fact the average lay man on the street walking into a fight.

Robbie Bourbon is anything but, fellas.

BROKEN RECORDS

We open to see, well, nothing. It's pitch dark save the few twinkling lights on electronic devices here and there. The bright lights on the side of a modem, the green signal on a cell phone letting us know the cord extending from the wall and into it's port has done it's job and left the phone charged. We hear the creaking sounds of mattress springs as some body shifts around, and then mutters something in it's sleep.

Get that mustache of your boobs.

As Robbie Bourbon responds to some unfathomable thing in some unfathomable dreamscape, we hear more mattress sounds as another body, roused by this, stirs.

Hrmm, mmmm mm mmmm.

Blue, Robbie's girlfriend and handler, half-asleep, responds to the remark as though Robbie were speaking to her directly. With that, we hear the report of an alarm going off on the charged and ready cell phone.

MMMMMMMPH!

Ugh. Good Morning, gorgeous.

Turn off your alarm! It's five a.m.!

I know. I love you too.

mmMMPH!

The distinct click of a light switch accompanies the fact we can now see the room as the sounds of the alarm still permeate. Robbie Bourbon sits up, rubs his eyes through the holes in his mask, and touches the phone gently yet awkwardly, just waking up, getting the infernal racket to subside. Blue rolls over away from the light and pulls a blanket over her head. Robbie reaches behind him and slides his hand under the blanket.

Mmph!

Booty.

Having touches his girlfriend's butt, Robbie stands. He stretches, scratches his bare, uncovered, and massive torso, then his ass from the outside of his loose boxer briefs. He begins to lumber out of the room until the blanket he just reached under stirs.

TURN OFF THE LIGHT!

Robbie rolls his eyes and half smirks. He walks back over to the bed and shuts off the lamp, returning the view to darkness. This is momentary; a light comes from Robbie's cell phone, like a beacon of waking in this place of slumber. We see the big man roll the blanket back as he gently kisses Blue on the cheek and she makes some undescribable yet distinctly feminine sound as she nestles herself into comfort on the bed. Robbie turns, and we hear a loud, dull thud.

FUCK!

WHAT!

Stubbed my damn toe is what.

The light from the cell phone shambles through the room as it makes its way to a door, which is in turn opened with a turn of the knob from a heavy, sleepy hand. Robbie steps out into the hallway.

"Fuck me, I've been tossed in tanks of piranha and stubbing my toe is still the worst." Robbie yawns again as he lumbers down a hallway to a staircase, and descends. As he hits the bottom of the stairs, we see he's within the friendly confines of the Robbie Bourbon Dojo of the Competitive arts. He continues his slow paced mosey over to the Dunkin Donuts, where this is a long line of customers all waiting to get their morning coffee. "Business is up, good." Robbie, still in his underwear, bypasses the well-dressed white collar, the ruggedly dressed blue collar, and people in khakis and polo shirts off to do some retail gig that sits in between, who all stare in disbelief at the massive man in green boxer briefs and a lucha mask who walks behind the counter and grabs an enormous 16 ounce mug and starts to fill it with hot, fresh coffee. Robbie looks up at the customers.

Good morning.

Robbie is smiling from ear to ear, genuinely pleased at the people come to the dojo to fulfill their pre-work breakfast needs of coffee, donuts, and some bagels. Robbie turns his back to the line and grabs two cinnamon raisin bagels from the display. He sticks one in his mouth, holding the other along with his cup of coffee in his massive right hand. He starts walking the line of patrons with his hand raised, and one or two reciprocate with a high five. The whole of the Dunkin Donuts left properly awkward, Robbie walks across the dojo floor to the kitchen set up for competitive cooking, still in plain view of all the Dunkin Donuts patrons in the open space of the dojo floor. Robbie sets his bagels down on a pristine stainless steel counter and opens a drawer. He retrieves a bread knife and slices the bagels, then turns to the cooking implements.

Where's the god damned toaster around here?

Robo-Rob, the robot from Rocky IV painted to look like it's wearing a Robbie Bourbon mask, rolls up to Robbie.

Happy birthday, Paulie.

Robbie sticks the bagel halves into the face of the robot. He then turns to a massive refrigerator, opens it, and pulls out a tub of butter. He sets it on the now less than pristine stainless steel counter and reaches below for a paper plate. He pulls it out and holds it to the face of Robo-Rob, who spews the perfectly toasted bagel halves onto the plate.

Thanks, Robobroski.

Happy birthday, Paulie.

Robbie sets to task of buttering his bagels as the world goes mute and we get the perspective from inside Robbie's head. "Mmm, breakfast of champions. Didn't I say that yesterday when I was having blueberry pancakes? Meh, doesn't matter, every breakfast is a breakfast of champions when you're a champion." Robbie slathers the last bagel half, tosses the knife into an empty sink, setting it to clatter loudly as much of the Dunkin Donuts patrons all turn and look, startled. Robbie puts the butter back into the fridge, picks up the plate holding his bagel halves, chugs his coffee, and walks over to his office. He opens the door and walks inside. In a second, literally one second, he steps back out, fully clothed in jeans and a button down with a single breast pocket, mayhaps due to editing from the crack XWF production staff, or possibly because Robbie is that damned good at getting ready in the morning. He slings the XWF Hart Championship belt over his shoulder. "Great day to be a champion. I wonder if C.J. misses it, maybe that's why he needs the briefcase so bad, he's 0-2 in legitimate Universal Title matches, and he knows he has no chance of getting the Hart from me, that's why he came up with that horseshit excuse of saying former Uni Champs weren't allowed to challenge for it, right before Peter Gilmour, former Uni Champ, challenged for it. Shit, if I were him I'd just go take Ghost Tank out, that guy is easy pickins. Welp, I guess on paper the Xtreme Title means more than my championship, but hell, I'm no paper champion." Robbie walks back over to the Dunkin Donuts, reaches in his pocket, and pulls out his massive 16 ounce mug. He walks behind the counter and fills it again with piping hot coffee, this time a patron or two who have been in line the entire time Robbie has had a cup of coffee and two bagels looking annoyed. "Uh oh, they look annoyed. Well, shit." Robbie mouths something at the people getting frustrated with his preferential treatment to himself, both of whom snortle and nod in approval. "Buy them some breakfast, why not? America runs on Dunkin. Maybe Chris Chaos should buy them breakfast, he's picking through my leftovers anyhow, like Graves. I mean, on paper the Universal Title means a lot more than my title, but then again, I'm not a fucking paper champion, now am I?" Robbie mouths to one of the Dunkin employees, who smiles and nods her head yes back at Robbie. "Who hired you? Who hired all of you? I need to ask Blue."

Robbie knocks back his second double-sized cup of coffee of the morning. "There we go. Kick start everything. Man, Warfare is going to be awesome. I get to see Trax again, who I have to admit, I like the guy. I mean, I respect him, I admire his tenacity, and I know whenever we fight the people will go crazy because they even know what is about to go down. Shit, though, it isn't like we're going into some back alley to settle anything. We're doing it all for the people. Posturing pre-match with promos, dabbling in politics, we're both wealthy men, we could always just go to some island in the Caribbean or the South Pacific, buy it out, and fly people out there to fight without the scrutiny of the Universe, but then, that's the thrill of it all. Going out and setting the world on fire, not just beating the shit out of people. It's what separates us from common thugs or, well, blatant psychopaths. I think. I hope." Robbie sets his mug back behind the counter at Dunkin Donuts. "If the silly prick thinks I'm starstruck, though, he's got another thing coming. We both worked together to get past the last round of Lethal Lotto, he did his thing to Trump while I distracted him, and I did my part by managing D'Ville. Just as promised. I accept the fact our fates are intertwined, somehow, and I know damn well Wednesday night won't be the last time I see him in the ring, but that's how it goes with C.J. I wonder if he chose the name Trax because he sounds like the tracks of a broken record. Saying the same kind of nonsense before every fight, like how he's not to be trifled with. Shit, I've been trifling with Trax for the better part of my career here, and lookie me, breathing, alive and kicking, and one of the two reasons he's not holding the Universal Championship besides Vinnie. Don't cross the Trax, he says." Robbie smirks as he walks from behind the counter at Dunkin Donuts, walking down the line of customers again with a hand raised, giving high fives to those who are open to them. "I fucking uprooted and placed the Trax on a different course altogether, why else would he be going after a briefcase?" Robbie stands on one of the tables in the Dunkin Donuts area of the dojo and clears his throat.

Good morning, universe!

The people in line all turn and look at Robbie, somewhat bewildered. It's early, mayhaps a little too early in the morning for this kind of thing.

Do you need me?

None of the people react, or at least noticeably. Some turn back to wait to order.

Do you need coffee and donuts?

Everyone reacts, positively.

So, there you have it, the people don't really need me. People, I need you, though! If I didn't have you all, the tired, the weary, those getting ready to go out and make change, to go out and make an impact, I would just be a common thug going around beating on people! Like I'm going to beat on Trax and Jim Caedus! Now, I know Trax, and Trax knows me. It's not some vague mystery at play, not some unknown circumstances, it's not the opening act of a tragedy nor the closing act of a comedy, it's just the way life goes. Trax and Robbie Bourbon fight each other in front of people. Last week, we worked together, and worked well, as we are known to do when we do on rare occasion. That occasion is over. Now, Trax wants to come out and talk about this and that and prattle on again, and again, about the same old, same old, ad infinitum. Well, I can do that to. I could do that too. You know what, though? This week at Warfare, Trax doesn't just have to worry about what he knows, and my quote, unquote 'regular moves', whatever kind of weird gibberish that means. My fists, his fists, my Robbiebomb, his Trap Silencer, I know him and he knows me like the back of his hand. Trax needs to consider what he doesn't know, the unknown, the unseen, and the incalculable. Scully, my partner.

Scully is the ultimate X-factor. He might come out and be British, he might be Floridian, he might be , he might be the man who beat Vinnie Lane for the coveted, though not as awesome as the Hart Championship, Universal Championship, he might be in the Black Hand alongside it's middle finger, he might even be Arby Beef. I don't even know. I know two simple facts; Caedus and Trax are facing the former Tag Team Champions, regardless of the auspices to which we earned those belts. Fact two is Trax struggles against Robbie Bourbon, regardless of how regular my movements are. A three way dance that came about because Radical Reno wanted to take his ball and go home, cancelling a tag team match? I won. He still, to this day, will tell anybody who listens about the legend of the man who broke out of the Elimination Chamber and squashed him like a bug, making every highlight reel from here to eternity in the process, moments after tasting the bottom of his boot courtesy a Trap Silencer. That's the story, ladies and gentlemen, that's the fact, and that's just the way it goes. The Robbie Bourbon locomotive runs on the Trax, and at every stop along the way, I'm still on fucking top. For that, people, free coffee and donuts today. Limit one per customer. Tell your friends!

The people in line all start to applaud, looking delighted. A few immediately get on their phones and call friends and family to let them know about the deal at Dunkin. The sound of the world washes away as we go back into Robbie's head. "Sorry, pal, but this is business. When the world needs Trax and Robbie Bourbon to fight off what ails it, competition won't even be a factor." Robbie takes a deep breath. "There just isn't any peace for men like us, especially when we've beat the shit out of the worst in humanity. You gotta stay sharp, I gotta stay heavy, the sword staying tempered and the shield staying strong. Ces't la vie. Going to be a blast tearing the house down again."