The last time we saw Robbie Bourbon, the Bulletproof Man, he was being asked off of a plane after uttering foul language as a way to describe Glisten and his behavior. Glisten has attempted to goad Robbie further by alluding to giving Robbie a facial, and not of the exfoliating variety, along with hinting that his bar of "soap" may actually be a cake of semen.

Complying with the airline, he acknowledged he would drive to Mexico instead.

STRONG LIKE BULL.

We open scene to see Robbie's chocolate brown 1994 Oldsmobile, completely covered in dust, parked outside of what looks like a cheap border town souvenir shop. Robbie steps out of the shop, and he looks slightly ridiculous with a wide, flat brimmed cowboy hat and poncho on over his casual jeans and untucked orange golf shirt.

Aren't you sexy!

Thank you. You know, it's always so flattering to hear that.

I was being sarcastic.

I know. Dork.

Nerd.

You like it.

Nah uh.

Robbie walks up to the camera which focuses in on his bright orange poncho way too close for a moment. Robbie then backs up, and there's a small bit of lipstick on the corner of his mouth. His eyes go kind of wide for a second as he wipes it off with his hand.

So, we're in Mexico on our road trip. Why? Because the people of Mexico deserve to watch Robbie Bourbon rip someone limb from fucking limb. Some real weirdo, you know? Glisten, you are a weird motherfucker.

Now, it's not because of your eroticism. The way I see it, different strokes for different folks. I can't in good conscious criticize you on how much you like being sexy, and who you want to be sexy with. The last thing I want to judge someone on is how they want to identify sexually. Frankly, I have much better things to do with my time to really give two fucks about how someone else gets their rocks off. That's their business, and I have no right whatsoever to impede in their life, their liberty, or their pursuits of happiness.

It's just not going to be at my expense.

See, I don't know if you glean what it is you're doing precisely, but you're actually targeting me for a sexual assault. Well, this being the XWF, I didn't really get to watch a video on sensitivity or workplace harassment, so unlike some other talent around here I'm not going to piss and moan about it. You think I'm hot enough to help you achieve climax without my compliance. That's astounding. And I thought the mask would actually kind of keep people from falling head over heels with my mother's eyes and my father's nose. Quite honestly, this isn't even the part that weirds me out too much. I've met obsessive helpless people before. People who couldn't stop engaging in behaviors, people who wouldn't see past their own patterns, people who shouldn't have put themselves at such a high risk by continuing those behaviors.

Do you want to know what make's you such a weird motherfucker? Well, I quote...

Glisten Said:Fudging is definitely a 'men of the people,' as you put it. The larger the group, the better fudging.

Look, I'll level with you. I searched and searched. Every definition of 'fudging' in the Urban Dictionary, when used with 'man of the people' in that sentence, makes absolutely no fucking sense whatsoever. See, I'm not making my way down to Monterrey to get pay or play or beat the shit out of you because I think you're gay. I'm going into Warfare to give the people what they deserve, and that's a stop to your fucking idiocy to keep it from spreading. You seem preachy, stud, and frankly the amount of stupid you bring to the table borders on infectious.

For Christ's sake, did you seriously make a cake of your own baby batter? Not regarding the sheer amount of unsanitary you've brought along, and God help us if you've visited the produce section and squeezed a couple of cantaloupes while envisioning what a real man of the people looks like pants-less, and brother with some of the shit I've done you'd better believe they're the size of cantaloupes, because that just means you've went and fed your own goop to unsuspecting families.

That will not fucking abide. No sir.

You had an orgy to solely serve the purpose of shooting man milk however many times into a fucking, I don't know, whatever fucking sperm mold. Now, as fun as it probably was to get that done, while you rubbed out a few billion dead soldiers to try to slide into my big ole' mouth, I was able to mow the lawn, do some laundry, balance my checkbook, and also pummel the shit out of some low down, no good god damned scumbags who had a big ass debt to karma.

You'll pardon me if I'm not impressed with the fact you've mastered playing with yourself. with others, and in the most tantric of senses. Your little friend, Stoya is it? She had to probably sleep or poop sometime man, and a brick the size you were holding had to have been the result of quite a few specimen donations, definitely more than even all your pals could have mustered. Tell the truth, Glis, you had to masturbate to get a few of those, huh? When nobody was looking, when you weren't painted, you weren't in your mask, when you were truly alone to yourself with whatever your thoughts were, you gave yourself a pleasure that nobody else could or would at the time. And that's okay. Sit around and play with yourself all day and night for all I care.

Some of us are actually out in the real world getting shit done. It's a fucking shame that Sebastian Duke had to retire just when the new god damned standard of the XWF just came 'round. That's right, I'm out here, setting new standards. Out with the old, in with the compassion, looking so out of sight I'm like high dollar fashion. You think I'm sexy, and that's just like all the people, stud. The man of his time, the man of the hour, every hour, the man with a mission, the god damned Man of the People.

I'm Robbie Motherfucking Bourbon, and you'll always remember that fucking name. I'ma bounce your peanut so hard off of whatever's there come Wednesday that they're going to start calling you Whistler. You like the sound of that? That's the next moneyball fucking Glisten alter ego! Whistler, the man who can't talk because his jaw got wired shut because his face got broken into a bunch of shiny gold or white pieces. You let a bull up in your china shop, amigo, and now that ornery sumbitch is gearing up to bust up your whole inventory.

I mean, let me tell you a little story of when I first came Mexico way. I crossed over into the border and found this horrid sweatshop, full of people who looked hungry. So I pulled my little food truck up there, you know, to drum up some business. Now, I didn't exactly have a license to do such a thing, but hungry is hungry, so I pulled up and opened shop.

So at about 3 o'clock, a couple people come out. They'd been working all day; no OSHA standards or minimum wage laws like the U.S., so this was a perfect place to make all those hundred fifty dollar basketball shoes that upper middle class kids can't get enough of and maximize profits. Damn shame, if you ask me. The poor guys were almost slaves, so I decided to offer a special discount to them, their families, everybody else inside but jefe. You know what jefe means, slick? Well, I told them he or she was not invited. So they all come pouring out. I mean, even at a peso per pound for my stock, which I needed to get rid of anyhow, I was raking in the pesos. There were so many hungry people!

See, the problem is, some spiders just don't like it when you build webs in their territory, and out crawled a spider. See, these good folks were supposed to pay into the company store, which charges good old fashioned middle American prices, which as you can guess a sub-minimum wage job just ain't going to provide. For fucks sake, these people were going into debt over a pack of ramen noodles.

So the spider crawls out. Jefe. He's none to pleased with what's going on, sweating up a storm outside of his air conditioned office, missing the friendly confines of his corporate headquarters up in New York. He readjusts his sunglasses a few times as his hair waved in the breeze, and narrows a gaze at the new competition in town that was giving everything it had to the people hand over fist. He was a chunky looking little fucker, name of Lundy. Well, Lundy came right up to the truck and told us if we didn't leave, he'd call the police. I asked what for, and he said some bullshit here and there about how his company was the law, and these kind of protests were illegal.

I was miffed, to say the least.

I mean, my whole fucking venture was rocking and rolling, and the people had food for a fucking change, and this ass hat was telling me it was a no go. I told him I'd speak with the police if and when they arrived.

Well, sure as shit, thirty minutes later I see twelve cruisers all pull up. The local boys, all hired up from Texas by whatever company was in town. See, this is where I saw that I was a stranger in a strange land, a few pricks pulling one over on good, honest people, telling them they were next up for the American dream when they were really becoming the new slave labor. Well, fuck that shit.

So I hop right on out of the food truck, and the people all scatter. I swear, a fucking tumbleweed must've blown right past us. The police all got out of the cruisers and in firing position, telling me to stand down. Lundy was out there with them, too, grinning like an idiot. He waved goodbye to me, and the cops all shouted one thing.

"¡Disparale!"

With that, all hell broke out of every barrel those fuckers had pointed at me. I was picking buck shot out of my hair for weeks. All that shit took it's toll, don't get me wrong, but those fuckers can drop me, but they can't keep me down. The food truck, on the other hand, was devastated.

So there I was, on my knees, about thirty pounds worth of spent ammunition sticking into my chest. All I can hear is clicks as a few of them run up, pulling batons. See, this was a bad idea on their behalf.

I brushed the lead off of my belly and quite logically ducked when one of the sumbitches threw his pistol at me. Once they were in close, well, that was that.

I finished mopping up the rest of the police force in about four minutes. One of those fuckers kept a boot knife, so I was gashed open pretty good. I split his jaw on a windshield. Lundy couldn't quite believe it. All his confidence, all his pleasure, melted in front of him on a hot Mexican summer afternoon. That's when I reckoned it was high time he and I have a little conversation.

First, I broke the glasses off his face. I don't give a fuck what anybody says, if you don't see, you don't fight. Second, I broke his left hand. He screamed like a little kid, you know? Like, that grown nature never set into him, almost like he was perpetually stuck the same age, and that age was twelve. When I did that, I knew he'd agree with my next decision. I dislocated his hip by twisting his foot a full one-hundred and eighty degrees. See, once he was like that, negotiating was a snap. I presented the documentation of my business, including my F.E.I.N., and told him his company would be buying out my food truck since he got his buddies to shoot it all the hell. I even got his job.

He got to go back to New York. He never had to think about coming to Mexico again.

Nowadays, all those folks make?

Robbie points to his face, a cheesy grin wrapping itself around him.

Well, they also make about fourteen dollars an hour, plus benefits, but I digress.

So now I come back. Another dumb fucker focused more on what their gun can do and what to do with his weak little bullets, maybe shape them into a bar at best because he can't really hurt me with 'em. Another dumb fucker thinking they're dealing with the humble owner of a food truck, and not the humble man of the people he knows he must be. Another dumb fucker all grins and strut, stumbling into something unknown, wild, and downright fucking dangerous.

I'ma beat your ass so bad you'll piss blood. See you in the fucking ring, Whistler.