Robbie Bourbon recently agreed to help Colonel Khorn find POW's still held in captivity in Vietnam after four decades.

How will a Motherfucker perform such a task?

GOOD MORNING VIETNAM

We open to see a helicopter descending in the jungles of Vietnam. As the pilot issues commands and speaks, using words unheard due to the sound of the chopper, we see none other than Robbie Bourbon hop gingerly out of the vehicle. The pilot gives a thumbs up, and the chopper takes off. Robbie, alone in the jungles of Vietnam, looks around.

Welp, now to find the POW camp. Hrmm. If I were a lost POW, where would I hide?

Robbie looks around and shrugs.

Shit. This is going to be harder than I thought. Guess I'll just start walking into the jungle, see if I can find any clues or inklings of where the men I'm supposed to find are.

Robbie reaches in his pocket and pulls out his phone.

Eh, worth a shot. Bixby, where are local POWs held?

Robbie talks at his phone. Shortly after, the phone speaks back to him with a deliberate but feminine voice, the voice of Bixby, available on the latest Samsung phones.

I have no clue, Robbie. Nobody does. Samsung has no trace of them.

Hrmm. Bixby, did Peter call himself a motherfucker again?

Not, really, kind of?

Damn right he fucking didn't. Bixby, play some highlights from Peter's last promo.

Which one?

The one where he went to the movies all alone because nobody wanted to hang out with him.

Robbie continues to trudge into the unforgiving southeast Asian terrain in his standard jeans, Pumas, and grown-up looking button-down.

Peter Oedipal Gilmour Said:I was born a Motherfucker when I popped out of my mom's vagina with a rock hard SUPER DICK.

Ahahahahahahahahahaha.

Peter Scrotumtastic Gilmour Said:So keep up with the dick jokes, because it's going in one ear and out the other.

Heh, seriously?

How many dicks have you had in your ear?

Peter Earfucked Gilmour Said:...when I lick her pussy dry.

Hahahahahaha.

Seriously, heh, do you even know how cunnilingus works? Every time I've drank the milkshake, slurped it right up, I left it sopping, soaking, drenched. Methinks someone has been sticking their tongue in the Fleshlight again after using it for a week straight. Peter has been snowballing himself again.

Isn't snowballing when a male ejaculates in a mates mouth and they push it back into the male's mouth with a kiss?

Nobody kisses Peter.

Peter Snowball Gilmour Said:Now THAT is how you cut a promo you fat fuck.

Hahahahahaha.

Peter, when did you learn jokes?

He seems serious.

I know, but that's just Peter being Peter, taking himself way too seriously.

He called you a hypocrite.

So?

Well, isn't that a bad thing?

Not at all. I don't think he used it in the correct sense, but meh, I am the High Holy Hypocrite.

Are you worried about him taking your title?

Worried? No. See, the match I'll take seriously. When we settle into the squared circle and I pound his jaw with a haymaker or two, and the teeth start to rattle around in his skull faster than they do when he speaks, and the taste of his own blood fills his little toad mouth, that's when it gets serious. When he looks at me and realizes that yes, indeed, this is much like most of our other matches together, where he talks a big talk but limps a weak ass walk and starts to realize he's just a crock of schlock, that yes, indeed, his head's on the chopping block when I'm ready to rock, his head's on the inventory and I'm taking stock, that yes, indeed, this chancre sore that shows up every time a new Universal Champion is crowned is going to get eliminated like I'm the god damned cure for the Peter Gilmour herpes.

You're right, Peter, about something. Google and Apple want Robbie Bourbon. McDonald's wants Robbie Bourbon, almost as much as I want a McDouble and McFrappe and a bevy of other Scotch-American dishes that start with 'Mc'.

None of the food there is Scottish.

The Houston Astros want Robbie Bourbon to show up at one of their games to generate ticket sales. That's all fucking true.

Because I made myself the greatest brand in wrestling today. I'm actually in demand, I'm actually wanted, I'm marketable, I'm family friendly, I cater to the adult oriented crowd, and I am the one, the only, the true Universal Motherfucking Champion of the XWF.

You can stop trying to convince yourself that you have any fucking sway on any of that. You don't own me, you don't even own a TV, or a computer, or a cellphone, or anything whatsoever to watch my amazing ass promos on, so you have to go visit some dilapidated and ruined porn theater eating popcorn all alone.

I would say get real, but hey, you haven't before, you won't now, you're just going to get yourself all tuckered out, trying hard to sound hard, trying hard to look hard, but never actually becoming hard whatsoever.

Just like Maria complains to me about when she calls me in the middle of the night when she needs to speak with a real man. A real champion. A real icon of this company and our industry.

Maria Brink isn't listed as having called you.

Bixby, I was being creative. What do you have against creativity?

Robbie continues to stroll through the rugged terrain until he reaches a clearing. An encampment is set up with a huge wooden fence, and at a gate stands a young man, roughly twenty, in a bright blue shirt with the Apple logo on his chest. Robbie looks somewhat perplexed and approaches the man.

Uh, hi?

Hello, sir! Welcome to Apple! How can I help you today?

Um, just looking around, I guess...

The young man smiles and nods, then plays with an iPad. The encampment seems loosely guarded by a dozen or so others in blue Apple shirts, and those in watchtowers are carrying iPads with scopes on them. In the center of the camp is a group of old men in standard issue military fatigues from the late Sixties, all seated at benches, surrounded by bin upon bin of electronic parts and glass framework cases. With that, Robbie's phone speaks up.

Robbie, I think we found the POWs.

As his phone speaks, all the Apple representatives all turn and stare.

They're using the POWs to manufacture iPhones!

The Apple employee at the gate approaches Robbie.

Sir, I see you have a Samsung phone...

Galaxy S8, it's the shit.

Sir, please don't show the workers, it would upset them to know they aren't building the strongest, most capable phone on the market.

The guard/Apple rep walks away. A POW approaches the Genius Bar and hands them a completed iPhone X. An Apple rep pats him on the head and gives him a spoonful of gruel. The POW shuffles back to his work station, dreary and defeated looking. Robbie walks up to the group of POWs all working on the latest generation of iPhones, which release today, November third, built in sweatshops and overpriced for profit.

What outfit are you men with?

We're from the 25th Infantry. Tropic Lighting. We touched down here in Disneyland back in '68, and were captured. The VC and some Soviet bastard kept us until 1989, when Steve Jobs came here and bought out the prison camp.

Jesus.

Ever since then, we've been held captive by these interns and other young adults getting their first job, building these contraptions. Are they as popular back home as these guys say they are?

Well, yeah, they're pretty popular.

I wonder if my estranged family uses them.

Shit. Well, these are just a bunch of kids in t-shirts, I'm pretty sure you could leave if you wanted to now.

That's the problem. We all lost our will to fight. Who are you, anyway?

Robbie Bourbon...

Robbie holds up the Universal Championship like a cop holding a badge on TV.

Universal Champion.

The rest of the POWs look at Robbie with eyebrows raised.

Why are you here?

Colonel Khorn sent me to find you men.

Khorn!

The POWs all look very alarmed.

That was the Soviet prick who taught the VC to torture us!

Yes it was!

With that, Colonel Khorn steps out from a hut in the Apple prison camp.

Welcome, Mr. Bourbon! I have brought you here to show you the futility of fighting! The pointlessness of having spirit! The true power of nihilism in the marketplace and the world!

Oh.

Oh is right! Now that I have you here and you see how pointless it is to continue to fight, to defend that Universal Championship, and to own a Samsung Galaxy S8!

Colonel Khorn points to a bench in the work area, clear and ready for an ass to occupy and a person to build iPhones. Robbie furrows his brow.

Futility? No spirit? Nihilism? Is this really what you think I'll succumb to?

Why not? The finest soldiers your country mustered gave up, you can too!

Robbie closes his eyes, knowing what he has to do.

I can not give up. I will not give up. I will continue to fight, I will continue to be who the fuck I am.

I will shred Peter Gilmour to fucking peices in the ring just like I have half a dozen times before, just like almost every Universal Champion in history has before, because Peter Gilmour is the biggest waste of fucking oxygen and carbon based matter in the whole god damned Universe. You hear me, Peter?

You laughing hard? You feeling that gut of yours shake whenever you say I'm fat like it's not fucking obvious, or that it's some kind of insult to my being that you can point out I have more appetite for life than most?

I will slather my dick in marinara and mozzerella and shove my Cock Parm so far down your fucking throat it'll tickle your spleen, and you will fucking thank me for the taste of excellence. Your fake ass, forty squirrels holding rubber boobs and a fleshlight wife will watch in awe and glee as she finally sees what a massive dicking looks like. Mia Dim will run into the room, and roar with approval as I continually jam my man meat down your gullet, the skullfucking of a fucking generation happening to you dead in the center of the ring, the billions and billions of those making up the XWF Universe all calling out my name, from ringside to the rafters, telling me to pump a fat thick load of my genome into you, so that finally, FINALLY, Peter Tongueskills Gilmour has enough testosterone in his system to finally be considered a man.

The POWs all stand and look at Robbie, who steps towards Colonel Khorn.

I don't just fight for me, for my name, or for my own sake, Petey, you seem to forget that. I may have forgotten that. I represent more, so much more, than just myself. I beat your ass before on behalf of the whole Xtreme Wrestling Federation, I will do it again, because a suck-sore, asshole sniffing, queef-worshiping, semantic praising, racist, neo-fascist, Trump-blowing, panty stain should never, EVER be the Universal Champion.

Say I won't get laid? I was Danny Sex, hottest gigolo in XWF history. Also, I got Blue, bar none the hottest woman in XWF history.

Say you own me? Pssht. It's fucking plain as day that ain't fucking true.

Say something about the people, though?

Peter Gilmour is the grease that shoots out of your ass after eating pepperoni pizza, leftover residue from something much better. Nah, fuck that. Peter Gilmour is a piece of kindling, waiting to burn. Sitting, patiently, waiting for the end, flames, heat and light, to come scorching it, leaving it in ashes to crumble into dust to be blown to the wind. And that's the only way he's ever going to get blown.

Better still, Peter Gilmour is Colonel Khorn.

Robbie walks up to Khorn and grabs him by the throat. The POWs all scramble and start to beat the shit out of Apple reps.

Peter Gilmour is a fucking pointless hack, showing up to shit on someones fucking parade because Peter can't seem to satisfy himself with anything he has ever fucking done, showing up hoping beyond hope I am nothing, that I am less than him, because he fucking knows in the pit of his soul that he will never be greater than, never be better, never be me. Not just Universal Champion. Not just a Motherfucker, not just the biggest name in wrestling, not just the best big man in wrestling today, but a true man of the people, a representative of all, someone who sticks their neck out for others defying any axe, sword, or saw to try and cut it in the name of someone else if only because I fucking can, I fucking will, and I fucking do. Not everybody is strong, some are downright weak, most are goofy, and in the end, anybody can be helpless. That's where I come in. I will be the strength for those when they can't be strong. I will be sustenance when they feel weak. I am a goofy bastard myself sometimes, but hey, that's just because I'm human after all. And when they're helpless, well, they're Peter Shitstain Gilmour, at Warfare, facing Robbie Motherfucking Bourbon, THE Wednesday Night Wrecker, THE Man of the People, THE King of the Jobbers, being of the four most dangerous Motherfuckers on the planet alongside three of the most violent men of our age two years into his XWF tenure, the ONE who is going to stomp you out like you're the flicked cigarette butt from the twenty dollar whore who birthed you in a bathtub full of vodka, vomit, and regrets.

The POWs all rally, beating up all the Apple store employees in the prison camp with their iPads, but launching barrage after barrage of tiny screws at them, and by generally being old salty Vietnam vets versus a bunch of millenials. Robbie grips Colonel Khorn's Adam's Apple and tugs, ripping his trachea from his throat. The sickening gurgles and spraying blood belie the fact that Khorn is simultaneously bleeding out and drowning in it.

Whistle me a tune, boy.