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~~Brandon Moore~~ · (01-14-2017)

Back at the Embassy Suites, Brandon Moore is trying his best to stay out of trouble. He's sitting in his hotel room trying to pass the time by watching television. The Food Network is making him hungry, ESPN is making him angry, and the cartoons on television these days are absolute shit. Brandon sighs and shuts the television off. He throws the remote to the end of the bed and looks around. He notices the complimentary pen and notepad that the hotel leaves on the desk in each room. Brandon shrugs and heads over to retrieve the items.

Before he got back to his hotel room, he made a stop at Wal-Mart. Wal-Mart has everything. He got himself a tripod for his camera so he can keep his hands free at times. Of course, for no reason at all, Brandon already has his video camera set up on his new tripod. He sits at the edge of the bed, turning on the camera. Brandon sets the pen and the notepad down next to him on the bed. He looks intently into the lens of the camera.

-Brandon Moore-
“What's up, bitches! I've got a tripod now, so I can tell you all to fuck off, double time!”

Brandon shows his two free hands before lifting only the middle finger on both. Lovely. He then picks up the pen and notepad, looking prepared to write until his hand falls off.

-Brandon Moore-
“I know Christmas is over, but I'm making a list, motherfuckers! I shall present to the world a list of problems...problems of one, Robbie fucking Bourbon. Well, he could consider them problems he needs to work, to better himself as a person. But really, these are problems I have seen with the man that I feel the need to share with the whole goddamn world. Behold, the list of what the fuck is wrong with Robbie Bourbon! And this is in no way opinionated. It is all one hundred percent factual fuckery about my opponent for the Hart Championship.”

Brandon appears to be writing something down on the notepad now, starting the list.

-Brandon Moore-
“Number one! His stupid fucking mask. He's a fucking ginger. He's white bread personified. He's not a fucking luchador! Luchadors wear masks! It's part of a long-standing tradition. Fiery headed Caucasian men are in no way allowed to be a luchador! Unless Robbie has some back story where he was taken in by an ancient luchador as a child and given a pass, then he's totally fucked! I'm an upholder of wrestling traditions and, motherfucker! If you weren't so butt ugly, I'd rip the fucking mask off myself!”

Brandon turns his attention back to the notepad, appearing to write down the next selection of Robbie Bourbon's problems

-Brandon Moore-
“Number two! His stupid fucking entrance music! Believe it or not, but I fucking love musicals. Musicals are my shit. I bet Bourbon got the idea from the fucking film rather than the fucking stage play. Son of a bitch. Or maybe even the non-musical television version? Goddammit! Okay, I admit, this is more of a problem I have with him disgracing such a fucking beautiful piece by using it as his entrance music rather than the actual music itself. But still, fuck Robbie Bourbon and his choice of entrance theme.”

Yet again, Brandon goes to write something else down on the notepad, extending the list he is creating.

-Brandon Moore-
“Number three! Touching on a subject that's already been mentioned. His stupid fucking red hair! I'm a very 'woke' individual, if I must say so. I love the blacks, I can tolerate the Asians, and I even use to be friends with some Jews. But fucking gingers grind my gears and I'm sure the majority of you out there probably agree with me. They walk around this planet acting like they have souls and like they own the fucking place. Freckles and shit. Carpets matching the drapes and shit. It's disgusting.”

He's really grasping at straws here. Brandon's running out of ideas, but he's bored out of his fucking mind. At least he's finding pleasure in screaming about Robbie Bourbon and swearing up a storm. Another item looks to be written down on the list.

-Brandon Moore-
“Number fucking four! His stupid whiny fucking mouth! I scream and say fuck all the goddamn time. I don't fucking complain, though. Robbie Bourbon fucking whines about everything. 'Oh, waaah, don't walk about my girlfriend. Oh, waaah, Paul Heyman knows fuck all. Oh, waaah, just give me the belts and don't make me fight.' Sit the fuck down, dildo. He's all tied up with Trax and Chris Chaos. Use your fists, motherfucker. He goes after Paul Heyman and gets a shot at the Hart Championship, but still fucking complains about it?! I don't understand!

He bitched and moaned about holding multiples titles simultaneously. Bourbon said he's going to derail my career? Then why is he so concerned about my Federweight Championship? No one has been able to take this bad boy from me. Granted, no one can probably find me half the time, but that's besides the point. When I kick Robbie's ass on that cruise ship and become the Hart Champion, I'll be fucking smothered in XWF gold. And Bourbon will be standing at the back of the line, shouting about the opportunities he has received not being good enough.”

Brandon writes down on the notepad yet again. He takes a deep breath before addressing the camera one more time.

-Brandon Moore-
“And finally, number five. The final problem I'm listing about Robbie Bourbon? It's that he's fucking Robbie Bourbon. The guy thinks he's tough shit. He's walking scum of the Earth. He's a giant masked baby who belongs at the bottom of the barrel. You've taken on a lot of competitors. You've beaten a lot of competitors. But you can't win the big one, can you? When it came to the X-Treme Championship, you made it all the way to the end, but got run out of town by Gabe Reno. When it came to the Universal Championship, Chris Chaos came out on top. When it comes to the Hart Championship, I will leave the frozen hell we are being sent to as the victor. The Hart Championship will rest on my shoulders for the foreseeable future. Is it bad luck or are you just a fucking choke artist?”

Brandon smirks as he throws the pen down to the ground. He rips the top page off of the notepad and approaches the camera. He turns the piece of paper around to show the list he was creating in case anyone wasn't paying attention. The close up to the notepad paper comes into focus and it doesn't actually read anything that Brandon was saying. Instead, the notepad reads:

“ROBBIE
BOURBON
IS
A
CHODE”

With that in view for a good solid period of time, the camera's recording has stopped and the scene Brandon has filmed has cut to straight black.

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