Robbie Bourbon was recently too intoxicated to compete for the Intercontinental Championship at Leap of Faith.

OFF THE WAGON

We open to see Robbie in his office surrounded by his Bourbon Men. Cyberjaw, the man with the cybernetic jaw, Diamondback, the man who can blend into any crowd, Ash, his personal hair stylist, Robo-Rob, the robot from Rocky IV painted to look like it's wearing a Robbie Bourbon mask, and Blue all sit in the office with him.

It's bullshit and it's fucked up. Someone slipped me a god damned mickey, poisoned me!

The rest of the Bourbon Men look down at the ground.

And we don't have any leads or anything pointing towards who did this! Shit, this is really starting to piss me off, you know?

Well, honey, you have a match with Chris Chambers, it's not some super-violent, potentially fatal match like fighting on top of the O2 Arena for the second time in a year.

I almost died of alcohol poisoning! Are you kidding me? I could have wiped the floor with Dillinger, but instead, someone tainted my pure athletic physique with the demon liquor!

Well...

All the Bourbon Men speak in unison. Cyberjaw speaks.

Dude, I figured you needed to loosen up, especially after what happened between you and Peter on top of the O2, so I put vodka in your breakfast.

What? Are you fucking with me?

Diamondback speaks up as well.

Well, I didn't know any better, so I put rum in your lunch so you'd be less frightened of heights.

Seriously?

I put pure grain alcohol in your water bottle. Just because.

Damn, and I chugged that after lunch!

Honey, I love you, we all do, and I know how much booze they fed you, but I figured if you got really drunk, you wouldn't get hurt, so I replaced your dinner with three cases of Miller Lite.

I thought I was eating canned pork chops!

I know, honey, it was adorable how you kept chugging beer after beer, singing that little song you sang about canned pork chops.

Jesus fuck! You all got me wasted drunk before a championship match?

Well, yeah. We love you, we didn't want to see you get hurt.

Robbie looks at his Bourbon Men, scratches his head, then flips his desk, sending everything on top of it scattering throughout the office.

Jesus. First, I could have been champion, right the fuck now, and I find out you guys all worked together to get me shithammered so it wouldn't happen?

Are you fucking kidding me?

Fuck. FUCK!

Robbie storms out of his office, out of the dojo entirely, and into his van.

You want a fucking drunk, here ya go!

Robbie tears off in the van as the Bourbon Men catch up to him outside.

He's pissed.

I know, I, I'm so sorry, I just...

Blue looks like she's about to cry.

---

We see Robbie inside his van. He looks less than pleased.

Fuck me. Fuck me, fuck me, fuck me. They want a drinker? I'll give'm a drinker, that's for fuck sure.

You hear that, Chambers? You aren't carrying your white-bread, Colgate smiling, congenial to a fault ass into the ring with the Wednesday Night Wrecker, oh no, you're walking into a fucking death trap. Seriously, here's a pussy, a really rotten, reeking, puss-oozing fucking vagina, who seems to think avoiding swearing is, well, a fucking thing or something. You know who else is afraid of using certain language? Medieval serfs who think uttering the wrong words means devils and demons will be on the way to take them to hell for their wicked tongues. After Savage, you're going to be just like all the medieval serfs; no longer a part of our society's existence.

The dollar store called, they want their Ginger Snaps knockoff back.

Shit, this motherfucker is such a big pussy, he can't go pin Unknown Soldier and take the fucking X-Treme title, instead gallivanting around saying Unknown Soldier is being unfair, that Unknown Soldier needs to play by Chris Chambers's rules so Chris Chambers has a fucking chance.

It ain't hard, slick, just go find Soldier, rip his fucking head off, shit down his neck, take the belt. Stop clogging up XWF programming and social media, blowing up my phone, with horseshit that nobody cares about and an ass that needs more pampering than a fresh batch of puppies that have come out of a poodle's snatch.

And this motherfucker can't even go win a fucking title the real way, what the fuck does anybody expect him to do against me?

My name is Robbie Motherfucking Bourbon. I kill for nothing, I fight because I like it, and when I fail to win a championship, I don't go around saying the champion is a coward for not playing by my rules, that the champion is corrupt for not beating me in a fashion I see fit, or that the champion is undeserving because of some hackneyed fucking 'destiny'. Who the fuck believes in 'destiny', anyway? Homeless fucks who are stuck eating out of dumpsters, children who question how bad they're going to get the abuse when mommy, daddy, grandpa, or their uncle gets home, amputees, cancer patients, the infertile, and the mentally weren't 'destined' to have horrific events in their lives, and there is no fate. It's all just a random maelstrom of shit happening, some people are fortunate and catch a wave, some people just get pissed on, that's that. It sucks.

Well, it sucks until a catalyst shows up, me, and starts dosing out what people actually deserve.

If Chris Chambers deserved the X-Treme title, he'd have it. You don't, that's that.

If Chris Chambers deserves regard, he'd have it. He doesn't because he's a silly little twat with false sense of entitlement and a way of speaking like he's not even human. Fuck it, Chris Chambers is a platypus, because I sure as shit have never seen nor heard a human being talk the way he does.

If Chris Chambers deserves mercy, well, the fuck if I'll ever know. I'm not amused with some cunt dropping into the XWF saying he has a destiny, that shit is dime-a-dozen. I'm pretty sure the most common thing that Chris, along with most of the assholes who show up for a cup of coffee in the XWF before finding out what a beating feels like and running as fast as they can from it within a month or two, is to say they have a destiny. To say they're going to be. They say the whole world has to prepare for it. I say I'm talented enough to do what I want, when I want, how I want.

So good luck getting a title, kid. I'm not going to help you, but maybe, just maybe, after your spine has been introduced to concrete hard enough, with a Robbiebomb for one pinfall, Earth's Mightest Chokeslam for a second pinfall, and a Neckwrecker for your career, you'll learn a thing or two about destinies, hopes, and dreams and how the reality of a situation outranks all those. After that, Chris, after that you can roll around and tell everybody that the wheelchair you got secondhand from Tush is your destiny.

We see Robbie take the van out of gear as he steps out of it. He walks into a liquor store. Moments later, we see him carrying four cases of liquor, twelve bottles to a case, for forty-eight total bottles of Dekuyper Buttershots. We hear the cameraman speak.

"So, you're going to drink forty-eight bottles of butterscotch liqueur?"

Fuckin' eh right I am.

Robbie pulls a bottle from one of the cases after unloading them into the back of the van. He starts for the driver's seat.

"Wait, what are you doing?"

Cruising, you coming?

"I'm contractually obligated to, but I don't know if I should ride around if you're going to drink that and drive."

Don't be such a Chambers.

Robbie opens the bottle of butterscotch liqueur and starts to down it.