Robbie Bourbon, the bulletproof man, is going to war.

GRAVITY

We open to see Robbie Bourbon sitting at the desk set up in his empty lot, covered by a canopy. He's wearing a t-shirt with the sleeves rolled and tucked into his shoulders, and seems to be sweating profusely in the late summer heat. Seated across from him on a swanky and huge new full-room sofa are his most faithful Bourbon Men, Cyberjaw, the man with the cybernetic jaw, Ash, the competitive hairstylist, Diamondback, the man who can blend into any crowd, Clyde, the Orangutan, and Robo-Rob, the robot from Rocky IV painted to look like it's wearing a Robbie Bourbon mask. Behind them is an accumulated group of Bourbon Men in medical equipment ranging from arm slings to crutches.

Bourbon Men, I'm glad you assembled here today.

Cyberjaw points his fingers accusingly at Robbie.

You made us come here or else you'd take away all our cellphones again!

Well, that's true. Anyhow, Bourbon Men, I'm very proud of your efforts in my match against Austin Fernando. Alas, it was for naught as I did wind up on the losing end of things after all.

You mean you were buried in shit?

The Bourbon Men all laugh. Robbie stands and flips his desk over.

SO THAT DID FUCKING HAPPEN! You guys all think it's the funniest shit in the world, do you?

Yep.

The Bourbon Men all start to laugh out loud again. Diamondback stands up.

Yeah, dude, you've become a total joke. Nobody takes you seriously. Hell, the news stopped caring about your crimefighting efforts and started to talk about the shooting down in Roanoke real quick. Face it, man, from where we stand, we're just here to be nice to you, dude, it isn't like you're doing any real fucking leading around here.

Robbie stands silent for a moment before turning his back on his Bourbon Men. He walks around for a minute before picking up a corner of the canopy and hurling it, it's bulk and awkwardness causing it to tumble pointlessly in a direction. He then haunches over and stomps towards his van, souped up and painted to look like the Ghostbusters car. From behind the camera we hear the voice of Blue.

Honey, wait!

The camera gives chase as Robbie throws the driver side door open. He glares at the camera.

Honey, I'm in a pissy ass mood right now, and...

And you're going to do what? Beat the hell out of someone?

Oh, oh fuck yes, honey. I'm going to beat the living hell out of a few people. Live, in a crowded arena, in a cage made for carnage. Fuck this silly street fighting horseshit; I'll fight for the fucking people the best place I know, in a motherfucking XWF ring. It's the only thing these assholes respect.

Robbie stands for a moment with his hands on his hips, almost awaiting a response. After several seconds of silence, Robbie gets in the van and we see from the point of view of the camera the passenger door open as Blue sits in the passenger seat.

Buckle up, babe, I've got a twitch.

---

We open from the passenger seat of the van.

So, I'm fucking drafted by Isles, and then I find out I'm being teamed up with a member of the CCWF, so I guess he thinks this is all super fucking hilarious, then he picks up Alexander Aries, who's half a Bushwacker at this point but shows some fucking promise, and then Mike Emerick, who I will freely admit is a far better decision than Bjorn Felhammen. Yich, where does the XWF scoop up some of these fuckers? I mean, Bjorn is just a disgusting peice of human vermin from someplace that gets way too much fucking snow and nowhere near enough, well, meat. Distinct lack of beef within Scandinavian quizine which is too little for my liking. I don't care if you insist the reindeer is as healthy, that's just plain wiggy to eat when cows don't pull Santa, and if Jesus didn't want us to eat mean, he wouldn't have killed that golden calf!

What the fuck are you talking about?

Oh, all that fictional shenanigans again. Whoops. I forgot that Jesus came from Krypton and died in the Bat Cave or some such sound. And Thor was in the Avengers, and Anthony fucking Hopkins was Odin. Know why Anthony Hopkins was Odin? He was a piece of fictional writing. And here's our Bjorn Again Norse God Worship, declaring he's going to have all these gorgeous Viking metaphors driven to be built before him.

Did you ever notice how Anthony Hopkins looks just like...

She whipsers into Bourbon's ear.

Gator?

Yeah, kinda, I see your point. So, we also have the good Reverend coming into the cage to play with us. Hi, Rev! Good to see you! Man, we had a bunch of fun those few days you were the X-treme champion. Hell, you successfully defended that title from me eleven or twelve times, I really lost count. Now I get it if you're upset, or disappointed, or let down by events. No, I don't mean the fact you lost your X-treme title, nobody was surprised by that, what I mean is all the hair product that got wasted and ruined with every schoolboy roll-up pin I put you in. Seriously, this kid would show up, his hair was that perfect little metrosexual anime style to accompany his chubby Penguin face, and then I'd roll him up, and he'd get so FURIOUS because all'a sudden he's rockin' the mop top. Every time, he had to apply new hair product to look just fucking perfect. Well, boo hoo, Rev, you fucking rotten peice of dead donkey fetus. Now we get to play in front of the entire XWF Universe, LIVE on Pay-Per-View! You're going to be locked in a cage with me, a great big cage, with all manner of horrifying looking pointy things. These are the toys I have to play with now, Rev, because now instead of playing pin-the-pussy we're playing war with the big boys.

So there's dangerous sharp stuff all over the cage?

Fuck yeah there is, that's one of the best parts! See, those horrible little doodads are going to fucking rip flesh and tenderize! See, the other guys get cages that'll cook the opponent, and that's silly all things considering. I'm Robbie Bourbon, dammit, and I am a foodie! We'll prepare things the correct way or we won't prepare them at all. No need to fry your opponent on a cage wall, no sir. See, I'ma take that goofy bastard, Bobby Charles, and I'ma help him achieve some things before his time runs out, and you know why? Do you fucking know why? Because when I'm done using his body as a fucking rag doll to delight the crowd, then use that beautiful cage wall as a fucking super sized Bobby Charles cheese grater, and we have plenty of shaved Bobby Charles laying all over the place, like about 3 pounds of Bobby Charles shavings, I'm going to toss those sumbitches in the big ole' fryin pot ringside, which I have been guaranteed will be peanut oil for our match, and when I pull 'em out I'm a serve them to whoever the fuck claims to be God's Gift to the XWF and let 'em feast on some Bobby Charles Chicharrones.

That's pretty vile, hon, and disgusting.

Oh, do you think...

Oh hell no, this is war, there's no reason you can't, I guess. Just wash your hands after your match, no telling where some of these guys have been.