Bourbon Beef, the XWF Tag Team Champions of the Universe, can only count away the hours until they have their first title defense at Warfare.

WHAT YOU LOOK FOR

We open to see the impressive jet known as Air Force One soaring through the skies. This massive and incredible piece of engineering has seen several modifications and updates since first going into service, and this model is certainly just the latest in a myriad of planes that have taken the President of the United States to locations around the globe. Reagan farted in it, both Bush tenures had seen a Bush pee in it, Obama has taken a dump in it and flushed, possibly dropping his load into the Atlantic or Pacific, or even the American countryside. Clinton had masturbated in it, Carter felt up his wife on it, and Ford even ate a cheeseburger in it. Now, Mister President Robbie Bourbon finds himself in this luxurious and historical craft, and his common yet unspoken bodily functions will happen here too.

In the cabin of the plane itself, we see the assembled Bourbon Men. Cyberjaw, the man with the cybernetic jaw, Diamondback, the man who can blend into any crowd, Ash, Robbie's personal stylist, Robo-Rob, the robot from Rocky IV painted to look like it's wearing a Robbie Bourbon mask, Joe Biden, the Vice President, Blue, Robbie's girlfriend, confidant, and handler, and Smashdyface McFace, Islamic terrorist who's face has been annihilated by an axe, all sit comfortably in the plane. Robbie walks into the cabin.

Welp, call the secret service, I just dropped a bomb in the President's room.

That's...

What? Presidential poop happened. Hey, honey?

Yes?

You know how most airline bathrooms were too tiny for me and you to join the Mile High Club?

Not now.

Aw, you gotta see the layout of...

I'm PMSing right now.

Damnit!

Robbie walks over to where Blue is sitting and starts to smoothly massage her shoulders. Her face goes dulcet and relaxed at his touch.

Mister President, you sure have your hands well on the situation.

Heh.

The rest of the Bourbon Men roll their eyes.

Get a fucking room.

I have a fucking plane.

Yeah, well, where are the parachutes?

Robbie stops rubbing Blue's shoulders, pondering what was just asked. Blue lets out an inaudible sigh as Robbie rubs his chin.

That's a great question. Joe, where do we keep the parachutes?

I don't know, we've never had to use them.

You sure?

Well, yeah, if you want we can just have some fighter jets come in and form kind of like a Voltron with this ish.

But what if we have to bail out?

Oh, heh, Robbie, the federal government is terrible at handling bail outs.

True. What if I have to escape the plane, like an alien craft has captured a rhinoceros and teleported it onto the plane?

Oh, that contingency is covered. We have rhinoceros tranquilizers at the ready, and there's an escape pod.

An escape pod!

Robbie's eyes go wide as his smile goes wider. His inner child has been completely delighted at the thought of having something as cool sounding as an escape pod, regardless of how grim it actually is to need one. G.I. Joe had escape pods, there were escape pods in Star Wars, and now, finally, Robbie Bourbon had an escape pod.

Where is it?

Oh, it's somewhere around here. I forget. We never had to use it.

Oh man, that will be awesome. Put a mannequin inside of it, jettison it somewhere over Ohio or Montana, and cause some local news crew to have the story of the lifetime as they discover the president is actually a mannequin! The Weekly World News will love it!

They went out of business.

I know, I know, the whole tabloid industry has been taken over by Facebook and called "click bait". I'm not behind the times.

So your policy as President of the United States is to generate click bait?

Fuck, that's been my policy since day one, you never noticed?

The Bourbon Men all share the same sense of realization and nod in agreement.

Shit, this is too awesome. You know we never have to actually land? They have planes that'll come up and refuel us! We could be sky people from now on!

That sounds kind of impractical.

I know! We'd all be sitting around, breathing our own farts and drinking our own recycled urine, I'm pretty sure Joe over there would resort to cannibalism at some point.

Heh, now now, Mister President, let's leave my college days behind me.

The rest of the Bourbon Men stop and stare at Joe Biden. He looks back at them, perplexed by their judgmental stares.

What, it was a different time, sometimes we killed and ate drifters here and there, it was the Sixties.

The Bourbon Men all share the same sense of realization and nod in agreement.

Anyway, it's kind of a shame that Arby rode on ahead to Ireland and all. I was really looking forward to talking strategy, eating massive amounts of meat together, seeing who could hold their breath the longest, and doing a million other activities.

Aw, it's sweet, you have a new best friend.

Joe Biden sullenly looks towards the ground. Smashdyface pats him on the back.

Oh, Joe, you know I love you.

Vice President Biden looks up, a shy smile on his face, trying his hardest to still look sad about what Robbie said. Robbie walks over and starts to tickle his belly.

Who's my little Vice President? Who's a good Vice President? Yes, you are! Oh yes you are!

Joe Biden giggles like a schoolgirl while Robbie tickles him. Robbie pulls an unwrapped Jolly Rancher from his pocket and sets it on Joe Biden's nose, and in a second he swiftly tilts his head back and catches the treat in his mouth.

Mmmm, peach!

You betcha! Don't be jealous of Arby, he's my tag team partner, it's a relationship that's very special and unique.

With that, we see none other than Arby Beef walk into the cabin.

Yo.

Robbie and the Bourbon Men all look on in complete surprise at what they see. Arby Beef, recently seen in Ireland and giving us all a fine history lesson of Limerick, is now somehow on Air Force One.

Woah, holy shit! How the fuck did you get on here?

What, you never saw Air Force One?

Smashdyface says something unintelligible due to his face being all smashed up.

No, that wasn't a documentary about American imperialism.

Smashdyface says something unintelligible due to his face being all smashed up.

I don't care if Stephen Seagal was in it, it wasn't about American imperialism.

You two shut the fuck up for a second. Arby, I saw Air Force One, what does that have to do with it?

Well, I just got on the plane like they did in that movie. I had help.

We see Harrison Ford step into the cabin, and the screen displays "Possible New Bourbon Man?" on it right below.

Get off my plane!

That's my fucking line, asshole.

Oh, wow, grumpy much?

Grumpy much? I just helped a pro-wrestler illegally board Air Force One while it's mid-flight! I'm an actor, for Christ's sakes, not Indiana Jones!

You were Indiana Jones.

Shut the fuck up, not in real life I wasn't! I miss my home, and I want to get some sleep!

Harry, do you mind if I call you Harry?

My name is Harrison Ford, and you an call me Mister Ford.

Really, well, I think if you want to get home safely and not be jettisoned from my plane...

Wait, you actually knew how to break onto Air Force One mid-flight?

Well, yeah. I AM Han Solo.

The rest of the Bourbon Men stop dead as we can hear a pin hit the carpet. Harrison Ford walks up to Robbie and claps him on the shoulder, trying to shake him from the sheer amount of frozen joy he's experiencing, standing there amazed like a kid waking up and seeing a Christmas tree with tons of presents underneath of it on December 25th, or a teenage boy seeing tits for the first time.

C'mon, Mister President Bourbon, you know I wouldn't let you down.

Fucking sweet. Can you...

Harrison Ford smiles and shrugs.

Punch it, Chewy.

Robbie raises his arms and starts to make Wookiee noises.

That's the hottest thing I've ever seen.

Robbie turns and smiles at Blue, who is beaming at Robbie. He turns back to Arby.

So, brother, what's the scoop? I thought you were already in Ireland, getting a feel for the local flavor, and I didn't know you played guitar! My man-crush has just hit me even harder even saying that!

Well, Robbie, it's about the match, we need to spend more time together to get ready, to train, and to prepare. We are going to do this because we're going to win.

I know it.

Also, D'Ville delivered another lame ass promo.

Huh?

Robbie and crew all turn. A projector comes down from the ceiling as a screen lowers along the wall and the lights grow dim. The latest promo from Louis D'Ville runs on it.

Shit, I was waiting for this longer than people were for me to be in another Star Wars.

Really?

Yeah, people have actually died of old age waiting for a promo from Louis D'Ville.

Well, they are pretty fancy, I guess.

No, opponents have. They've literally aged decades while the guy took his sweet ass time.

Oh.

Robbie and the assembled Bourbon Men stand and watch a replay of Louis D'Ville's latest efforts. Across the bottom of the screen we see "New Bourbon Man Confirmed: HAN SOLO" for a moment as the camera zooms to show Harrison Ford. As the promo ends, the lights come back up, and the screen and projector both ascend back into the ceiling.

Well, that was, uh...

Kinda creepy. Like usual.

Smashdyface McFace walks up to Robbie and says something unintelligible due to his face being all smashed up.

I don't know what happened to that Trevor guy, Smashdyface, you know you're the best mutilated-American I know.

Smashdyface says something unintelligible due to his face being all smashed up.

Look, I get the point of having him in there and all, but I think it's rather obvious that Creepy Bones Behind-the-Times Last-Year's-Model D'Ville is just trying to catch on with the horrifically disfigured crowd because he knows how much of a hit you are.

He reminds me of Clyde.

Robbie stops and has to think for a minute. Holds a bottle of Coca-Cola up for the viewing audience to see, takes a healthy sip, lets loose a refreshing sigh of contentedness, and smiles.

He kinda does.

Smashdyface says something unintelligible due to his face being all smashed up.

Oh, he was an orangutan I used to have, then I ate his brains. Zombification is a real hard hitting disease.

Smashdyface reaches in his pocket and pulls out an orangutan mask, just for such an occasion. He puts it on.

That's perfect! I was really getting tired of seeing your repulsive and horrible face that I destroyed with an axe.

Honey, don't you think he's being a bit of a hypocrite?

What? Nonsense, Smashdyface is showing the utmost integrity in covering up his embarrassing and ridiculous disfigurement and not allowing the rest of the world to have to come to grips with it.

No, I mean Doctor D'Ville, he's going on and on and on about your losses, then getting awfully defensive about having one of his losses brought up. He calls you all sorts of names, then accuses you of being an insensitive homophobe. It's hypocritical.

Well...

Robbie turns and looks at Arby. Both men share a slight belly laugh.

So?

Honey, this is an Xtreme Rules match for the Tag Team Championship, not a pillow fight. And who cares if he's a hypocrite, saying my losses matter and his don't. We're all hypocrites. Hypocrisy is the greatest virtue of civilization. We all want to save the earth, pollute less, and recycle, but at the same time we want to wipe our asses with paper we'll just flush down the toilet.

The Bourbon Men all share the same sense of realization and nod in agreement.

See, it doesn't matter that he wants to call me inexperienced when I've been here for the past several months and had actual matches while he was off perpetrating some whimsical fuckery with a pitchfork and a fiddle of gold, or even singing back up soprano in a local community college theater production of Jesus Christ, Superstar. It doesn't matter if he lobs insults about the unfortunate state the obese find themselves in while saying I'm a homophobe for saying him and Soldier are a pair of fags.

We hear the distinct sound of a phone ringing. Blue reaches in her pocket and pulls her phone out.

See? You're using your phone on a plane, you didn't even set it to airplane mode. Hypocrite.

Shush, that's not even...

Blue answers the call.

It's the people at GLAAD.

Oh fuck, here we go...

Blue holds a finger up, demanding silence as she listens to the person speaking on the other end of the line. Her face widens as she looks up at Robbie.

Uh huh, hold on.

She sets the phone away from the side of her head.

They say they're still fully endorsing you one hundred percent.

Awesome.

I know! They said they agree, Soldier and Doc are a pair of fucking fags, and the gay and lesbian community support your courage and bravado in pointing that out for all of America.

See! I told you! Hooray hypocrisy!

Yeah, but, why are both Doc and Soldier being so, I dunno, hypocritical then? I thought they were supposed to be these great and amazing wrestlers that you're supposed to shit your pants over, really talented or something, not just a couple of parrots churning out the same lines that Luca and Vinnie have said about you in the past.

That, my friend, is the clearest, most obvious thing of them all.

They're scared. Terrified. They are shitting their pants and losing sleep over the thought of what is going to happen on Wednesday Night Warfare when they come face to face with the Wednesday Night Wrecker, the High Holy Hypocrite, the President of the United States, and the single greatest tag team in history, in the world, in the universe, in the XWF, and right in front of them, Bourbon Beef. Why shouldn't they be? They barely walked away from a match with Ghost Tank, who's softer than a carton of melted ice cream, and now they have to get in the ring with us. Not hypothetical champions, not past champions, not some champion that's not even remotely fucking related to this match, the reigning, defending, and amazing XWF Tag Team Champions of the Universe, Bourbon Beef.

They're frightened because we have exposed there is nothing to fear whatsoever about either of them. They're boogeymen, waiting in the closet. Fortunately, thanks to my due diligence, they are now out of the closet, and buying matching fedoras and gym shorts for their weekly soup and salad night. These aren't predators, they have no prey, they're lost little children playing make believe and wearing so much make-up that RuPaul even has to tell them to tone it down. Again, I'm not going to point out the hypocrisy in saying I'm full of bluster when the both of you take hyperbole to new heights, it's to be expected, you have no other course of action because you just aren't man enough to face the truth in the eye and deal with it's glare. I, on the other hand, as you boys have so willingly pointed out for a week now, can, I have, and I'm just repeating it now when I say you're really, really out of your element in coming into the ring with Bourbon Beef. I feed off of Beef, and Beef is intoxicated with Bourbon, we don't have to even say it do we? We don't have to explain why we're on the same page, because it's been acknowledged all week by these silly, lost little boys, caught with their hands in their mommy's purse and playing with the lip stick and taking her smokes, telling the whole world they're doing it on good authority and that daddy will be proud of them.

The world doesn't listen to that anymore. The world is different. The whole fucking universe is different. Face facts, gentlemen, as much as you want to condemn it, as much as you bring it up, it must be evident that Bourbon Beef didn't just change everything, we redefined the zeitgeist as you know it. You know what I mean, Arby?

Arby: I feel so excited that D'Ville has finally acknowledged me as an opponent instead of being as foolish and ignorant as his tag-team partner. Yay, I'm so excited. So excited, that I will jump up and down, do some back flips and shit, all because Doc has finally spoken to me. Wahoooo.
That's sarcasm old timer, like I care if you decided to put your false teeth and get some juice in those saggy balls.
The Alzheimers seems to be kicking in too, one minute you call us Robbie Beef then you call us something else cuz you can't seem to grasp our team name. I didn't know it was that difficult, I've said our name one hundred times, okay not that many but enough for even an old codger to digest it. Maybe you think it's clever, makes you look amazing cuz you can keep changing our teams name around?

Hypocrisy, my friend, all more hypocrisy. And I'm cool with all of that. We're all hypocrites.

The thing we all aren't, however, are shills. It's shameless, and pathetic, isn't it? I mean, that poor old bastard has to remind everybody "my door is always open". Aw. Like a sad, lonely, loser. Hospitals don't have to remind everybody that their doors are always open. Same for churches, whorehouses, crack dens, McDonalds, or just about any place people actually visit. His door is always open, but nobody ever goes to him. You know where they go?

You're looking right at him.

Han Solo?

No, Joe, they go to Robbie Bourbon. Arby Beef heard it once if not a trillion times that D'Ville's doors were open, and I promise, Soldier is still eager to spread those doors open even wider and get a whiff of whatever shit is cooking up in there, but instead Arby Beef came looking for me. Vinnie Lane could've gone on a mission to bring you back into the XWF, instead he looked to me as an ally in the King of the XWF, then he actually went out of his way to challenge me while he was the God damned Universal Champion. Some breeze must've just blown past your open doors then, I guess. Pest and the Black Hand didn't reach out and see you as some kind of asset, they wanted ME, the wave of the fucking future, all while I guess you watched on in wonder through those all too open doors of yours. Hell, when opportunity struck, and the XWF needed because the fans demanded a new standard bearer in the entire tag team division, the only option they saw was Bourbon Beef, and your doors as open as they were didn't see any foot traffic. America needed a new President, and lo and behold, here I am, riding high in Air Force One, and lo and behold, you're starting to wonder if the lights need to be redone, or there's some problem with the decor, because even though your door is always open, nobody gives a flying fuck to walk inside and say hello.

And that has you shaking in your panties.

I want the two of you to both hug each other tight, give each other a sweet loving kiss, and say goodbye to each other. In a week's time, the whole mythos and wonder of Team Doctor SATAN! will be just another fad that disappeared in the blink of an eye. You're POGs. You're slap bracelets. You're disco. Some people really thought the novelty was really something for a minute, but in the long haul of it, Team Doctor SATAN! wasted their time thinking about potential title defenses, Unknown Soldier wanders off and finds some other new fix to fill the void that always needs filling, both emotionally and rectally, and Louis D'Ville takes his sabbatical until he feels like working again.