Danny Sex is pretty tired. He's had a long day of talking to the voice of Robbie Bourbon in his head, running around trying to get laid in his awesome yellow paisley romper, and getting pelted by protesters.

Maybe it's time for a nap.

Danny Sex is laying down on a bench somewhere in the District of Columbia, looking like a homeless hipster.

"Get out, I want to sleep in my bed."

Mr. Sex: No, go 'way. I'm going to sleep right here on this bench.

"Have some dignity."

Mr. Sex: I don't want to. I wanted to go boink a ton of hot babes today to get ready to bang some dude's dads. That's all I wanted, is that too much to ask?

"Well, do it on your time, not on mine."

Mr. Sex: This is my time now! I'm shining like some coins you left in your pocket when you do your laundry here, and you came around and dulled me up!

"No, it's my time. You took it from me."

Mr. Sex: Yeah, well, tough. My balls ache.

"They're my balls."

Mr. Sex: No, you weren't using them. For almost two years you were running around the XWF never using your balls. Not once. You could have, you could have had a ton of sex if you wanted, but no. Instead you did everything but have sex. Now I show up to go have a ton of sex, and instead you just put a damper on that too.

"It wasn't your dick to use, asshole!"

Mr. Sex: Nobody was using it.

Danny Sex looks very sad, knowing that not only did he not use his penis to have sex with a vagina today, but that if Robbie does somehow gain control of his body again, that penis will nary see use in an XWF promo ever again. Robbie Bourbon never was known as a Casanova, and his penile use was always nonexistent before Danny Sex. Danny Sex needed to gain some control again, not only to keep winning in the XWF as Danny Sex, but to keep winning in his penis. You have a slight pity boner right now. You never masturbated to Robbie Bourbon like you do Danny Sex, pumping your filthy yet important slime with vigorous throttling of your penis. You miss the exciting promos that used to air whenever Danny Sex was announced.

"Look, I know you're tired. I get that. You're people too, but you gotta get your own body or something. I need mine."

Mr. Sex: Not that anybody could notice.

"Oh yeah? Look, you were, um, novel, to say the least. Leaps and bounds more entertaining than a lot of the weird bastards that run around the XWF."

Mr. Sex: Do you really think so?

"Sure I do. For starters, take Jim Caedus."

Mr. Sex: He's good.

"Meh. He's pretty bland. Like, he's this massive fuck up from around fifteen years ago, and had all this gnarly shit happen to him, but he never explains where he became a seventh grade English teacher analyzing promo after promo. He used to have a fighting edge, I'll give him that, but really he's just going out there, airing a bunch of dead drama from so long ago it's moot, pointless, and blah, then giving a critique on another dude's promo work. Seriously, this guy is the Universal Champion and he spends most of his time explaining how he's overcome personal demons."

Mr. Sex: Sounds a little familiar...

"Shut up. My demons are important."

Mr. Sex: Hypocrite.

"Yup. I sure am. Then we hear Caedus give some overly analytical bullshit, trying to pick apart his opponent's words. The shitty thing is, the Universal Champion is an example, and now other dipshits are doing the same fucking thing. Phantom Panzer completely glossed over everything I said, I guess he couldn't pick up on the weird way my thoughts come across as dialogue, but that's his loss. He's a massive cunt anyhow. I think he was just forcibly ignoring me so his feelings wouldn't get hurt over the fact that the seed that begat him, Ghost Tank, sucked balls harder than Reeve Gordon at a pride parade."

Mr. Sex: That's homophobic.

"Meh, it's more poking fun at Ghost Tank than anything else. What the fuck is it with how sensitive the whole XWF has got? I reckon too many folks around here started getting the goofy notion in their heads that they're artists or some such bullshit. Even Jack Cain tries to wax philosophical about this and that, and he's trying to hype himself up to be some violent bruiser ready to punish, um, people. Seriously, total Goth kid. Thomas Nixon wants to piss and moan that I shoot off at the mouth instead of playing some pure, clean game with him. The only fucker that seems to grasp that the whole name of the game is to go out and physically hurt each other is Drezdin, and he has a speech impediment caused by eating his own poop. Not shit, not feces, his own poop. Pushes it through one of those funny little Play-Doh mold kits to be in fun shapes like stars and, well, other fun shapes."

Mr. Sex: You don't think other shapes are fun?

"No, I don't fucking think shapes are fun."

Mr. Sex: I think the female shape is a lot of fun.

"Well, yeah, in doses, but my kind of fun, the fun the whole fucking XWF Universe, the people, Danny, the fun the people want is violence. Graphic, gratuitous, wild, and unending."

Mr. Sex: You're sick.

"You're telling that to a voice in your head."

Mr. Sex: Point.

"Look at the current state of the XWF ownership. I mean, the people could give two shits about months long arbitration, legal battles, and the regular ways business gets conducted. Sure, there'd be a handful of people interested, I guess, but as soon as the men running the place all want to hurt each other then it's entertainment! Vinnie Lane and The Kings™ go to the board room and the fans lose. Vinnie Lane and The Kings™ go down to the ring and the fans win. That's just..."

Mr. Sex: That's insane! The fate and ownership of a company shouldn't rest on a wrestling match. Would it make any sense if the ownership of McDonald's decided on when to release the McRib based on a beauty pageant?

"That sounds awesome."

Mr. Sex: You're fucking with me.

"Well, yeah. I could totally go for a McRib right now, though. You stole my body and whored around with it, I'm supposed to be sensitive to your psyche?. Besides, Taco Bell decides to give away free tacos based on stuff that happens in the NBA Finals."

Mr. Sex: Point.

"I know I have a point. This is the fucking XWF, man! This is where barbarism trumps well thought out arguments and a punch in the face beats a debate. This is where we have to shit into the cup for our drug tests and prove how violent we can be to win the hearts and minds of billions. It isn't some episode of Meet the Press. Bill Mahar or Sean Hannity aren't coming out and winning the god damned Hart Title any time soon for having some smooth or savvy wordplay at their disposal. It's where freaks like Michael Graves get a chance to put their hands on Dolly Waters, not only for personal pleasure, but for fame and money! It's where a Kingslayer gets shafted by Kings, trademark or no! It's where a Bearded War Pig can shine like a fucking god in the eyes of crowded arenas, bars, and probably a few pockets of Hell for beating the snot out of the elderly, the mentally challenged, or women. It's where the fucking Super Mario Brothers, well, that really makes no sense, but I fucking went to war with Gamegirl, I guess it was a matter of time that Nintendo tried to capitalize on the XWF brand. It's where Peter Gilmour remains relevant and famous for no other reason than having had his dick cut off and occasionally going around getting his dick wet with transsexuals dressed as D-list celebrities. It's where Cadryn Tiberius runs around having fun with his dick. You know what it isn't? It isn't where Robbie Bourbon has fun with his penis."

Mr. Sex: That's because I'm Danny Sex.

"See, that's how weird it gets. I sincerely feel like I can not only walk away from a six man match, but also walk away from a match with the whole fucking roster involved, the Deuces Wild itself, and be the victor, and I'm just a voice in your head at the moment."

Mr. Sex: That's bananas.

"Stranger things have happened. Tables used to run around here terrorizing Maverick, Maverick shat on a title then had said title shit on by Crimson Dong, and the Dick of Peter Gilmour is self conscious. I think a disembodied voice winning a battle royale is not only feasible, it's bound to happen."

Mr. Sex: Yeah, well, not happening. I'm not giving up this fine body.

"What, you're just going to sleep on a bench with it?"

Mr. Sex: Yup. Then I'm going to go get some poon from some hot babes tomorrow after you're all shut up.

"So you're going to sleep on a park bench then get with some hot babes? Don't you need a shower or something?"

Mr. Sex: Nope, I'm Mr. Sex. I get all the sex with all the hot babes.

"God, you're a one trick pony, you know that? Jesus, you're like those weirdoes that put stock and credence into the Paul Heyman rankings or something. Shit, I was near the tippy top of those damn things for a while, and you know what they did for me? Jack and shit. The Heyman rankings mean as much as a kindergärtner's finger paintings, or good landscaping. Fuck all, they're just nice to look at and occasionally you have to laud someone for creating them. But when you consider some folks put such faith into those damn things that there's probably a collection plate going around somewhere in between bouts of looking in a hymnal regarding the Paul Heyman power rankings. Chris Chaos, Robert Main, too many goofy doofus yahoos, blessing themselves with the Paul Heyman power holy water, taking a seat in the Paul Heyman power pews, and eating the Paul Heyman power wafers at the end of mass. You know who's not at the top of the Paul Heyman power rankings? The guy who's going to win the fucking Deuces Wild. It's all on paper, going back to more nonsense and bullshit from athletes who used to be good and now just have their heads so far up their own asses and loving the smell of it. 'Hi, guys, I'm here to be a bonafide ass kicker, but really I'm here to analyze, reanalyze, and overanalyze promo after promo like my name was Promo Sins only I'm nowhere near as insightful. Watch as I suck my own cock and then spit the end result your way, MMMMMM! Isn't that just the tastiest? Now let me tell you how awful your dick cheese tastes in comparison.' This shit is running too fucking rampant and these motherfuckers need to have a foot put up their ass and their noses shattered. The people are getting sick of it. The people aren't tuning in to watch play-by-play commentary of play-by-play commentary of a promo. That shit's fucking lame, it's fucking tired, and it's got to go. If Jon Brown wants to cure the cancer, he can go for it, give that shit a dose of chemo and let it's family sweat out the stress. Me, well, I'd much rather take an axe to the infected leg and just lop it off."

Mr. Sex: Jesus, what the hell are you going off about? I thought that guy didn't like The Kings™.

"I don't give a flying fuck what Brown thinks. If he carries himself into the double rings, he's carrying himself out. Same goes for every other doofy bastard in the back, thinking, rethinking, and overthinking the simplest shit in the world. I just gotta remain calm, take a few deep breaths, and throw motherfuckers around like the god damned rag dolls I know I can throw them around like."

Mr. Sex: You sound fucking crazy.

"You're talking to yourself."

Mr. Sex: I fucking hate you.

"I hate you too."

Mr. Sex: Why, though, why the need to go around and just beat the snot out of, well, everybody? I want to go bang hot babes.

"Because it's what the people demand. It's what the people are in a fervor for. The people are tired of watching the debate club. They're tired of the nonsense, the bullshit they're fed on the day to day. They want to be entertained, and they want blood. The people, Danny, are fucking nuts. Show me someone who says they aren't crazy and I'll show you someone with some really dark, deep, and twisted fucking crazy on their hands. The people deserve what they want, the people have needs. You talk about your needs all you want, and I'll give them to you. I'll do everything in my power to get you what you want. Hot babes? You got it. I'll bust my ass for it. But I can't do that for you when you're in control, do you understand."

Danny Sex sits up for a moment, considering what was said. Your boner is pretty weak, because even you are considering your own existence at this point. Maybe getting in touch with the human race means more than just touching penis to vagina. Maybe the empty feeling inside you isn't going to get filled by someone else, but by yourself. Maybe the only thing that'll keep you going, day in, day out, is acknowledging you are one of the people, and that giving yourself the best possible odds to get ahead is what you owe yourself. Maybe you're waking up to that fact, maybe you're nodding along in agreement, maybe you're shaking it off like it's some odd notion you'll never come to terms with because you're just too damn proud to hear it. You check your dick again, it's still limp. Pretty piss poor for a Danny Sex promo. Danny Sex agrees.

Mr. Sex: You're a fucking loser, I want to get my dick wet.

"What's stopping you?"

Mr. Sex: You are!

"This whole world is you versus you, you just made the mistake of taking me for you."