Robbie Bourbon has entered the Lethal Lottery, becoming a participant in Lethal Lottery IV, and has been partnered with Television Champion Jim Caedus, a man Robbie has managed, and faces Cadryn Tiberius, the man he managed against, and Killjoy, a cheap Joker knockoff without the emotional investment of Batman to carry him.

Robbie Bourbon is also the reigning and, well, since he's entered Lethal Lottery, the less-than-defending Hart Champion.

TRUTH

It's late. Very late. We span through the Robbie Bourbon Dojo for the Competitive arts at some unfathomable hour, or at least fathomed between three and four in the morning. The Dunkin Donuts is shut down in the northwest corner, the ring is silent and still in the southwest corner. The kitchen, designed for competition complete with four separate work spaces and stove tops, is tidy, spotless, and lifeless, the drone of four massive double door refrigerator and a walk-in freezer almost in tune with the flicker of the dim lights of the northeast corner. In the southwest corner is a fully functioning barber shop, still and quiet, the floor swept and clean of yesterday's patrons. A veritable shopping mall in Robbie Bourbon's grandmother's basement, or with Robbie Bourbon's grandmother's house built on top, with Robbie's office smack in the middle.

We hear the click of a light switch activating, and a faint glow comes from the office. The door swings open, and out steps Robbie Bourbon, wearing a pair of cargo sweatpants, slippers, and a tucked in Morbid Angel t-shirt, which would look incredibly dorky if not for the fact the Hart Championship was also around his waist. He looks groggy, and yawns as he rubs his eyes through the eye holes of his mask.

"Man, that was a good nap. Welp, looks like I overslept my bed time. Couch sure was comfy." Robbie stretches, arches his back, and starts to shamble towards the kitchen as we are privy to his thoughts courtesy the crack XWF production team. "I could go for a doughnut, but they're not open right now." Robbie walks up to one of the refrigerators and gives a pained exhalation through his nostrils, almost like he was sighing through his nose. "Sigh. Pork chops. They were good, but reheating them is a bitch. Ah." Robbie reaches into the refrigerator and pulls out a carton. The camera zooms to show it's organic chocolate milk. "The good chocolate milk." Robbie opens the carton and puts it to his lips. "Mmmmmmmmmmmmmm. The good chocolate milk." Robbie scratches his belly and pats the Hart Championship belt as he takes a swig from the carton. He sets it down then reaches under the counter, pulling out a box of Cinnamon Toast Crunch. "God bless living in the first world." Robbie tops off a bowl with the Cinnamon Toast Crunch, and pours the organic chocolate milk over the cereal, allowing it to cascade over each toasted graham square. Satisfied with his concoction, Robbie puts the good chocolate milk away and then reaches into a drawer for a spoon. Not a regular sized teaspoon, but one of those circular soup spoons.

"That doofus just wore a severed human head on his dick, I'm actually killing it with the cereal." Robbie walks to a table in the Dunkin Donuts, sets down his bowl, and then removes the Hart Title from around his waist, setting it on the table facing his super sugary midnight snack. He sits opposite the belt, the huge plate facing Robbie, a glimmer here and there on it contrasting the stark dark of the room itself. "Can you believe it? Snappy banter with a severed head on his cock. I would have been more terrified if he were using one of those twisty straws to slurp his leftover ejaculate from the sinus cavity of the dead Micheal Graves. As it is, well, welcome to the XWF fella!" Robbie chortles as he thinks of Cadryn Tiberius inseminating a decapitated head, hefting a heaping mouthful of Cinnamon Toast Crunch doused in organic chocolate milk past his teeth. "Wonder if he's ready for the real head fuck."

"Why wouldn't he be?"

"He's a god damned fucking moronic twat out in the woods with a human head strapped to his dick, what's so cunning about that?"

"Well, it has an air about it, I suppose."

"Whatever." Robbie chomps down on his cereal again, not happy the Hart Championship disagreed with him.

"You shouldn't even be doing this shit, you know. Lethal Lottery? Seriously?"

"Seriously."

"You're above that kind of thing, Robbie."

"Bullshit, the people love it."

"I don't care what the people love, Robbie. I deserve to be defended with dignity, honor, and respect, and in timely fashion. Do you know what it's like to be the Hart Championship? In the past year I've been shit on by Crimson Dong because Maverick shit on me, taken to bed with a naked Peter Gilmour as it had coitus with things, held by a roided out preteen girl trying to figure out how to shave her mustache and thighs at the same time and subsequently vacated, and, ugh, I was even forced to hang out with Ghost Tank. Me, the Hart Championship, the title real competitors used to actually fucking care about, the real title that wasn't seen as some novelty prize, the realest title in the XWF because some asshat with a briefcase can't seem to back their way into holding me, the realest title in the XWF because I am defended more regularly, the real XWF championship."

"People say I have a fucking ego."

"I am your goddamned ego, you nitwit. I am your id. I am your psyche to the nth degree!"

"Well, yeah, because Isabella Ravenwolf cast some funky spell when she broke my nose, which also happened for the nth fucking time."

"It'll heal, you don't get salty with me because you got a booboo fighting the little old lady."

"That little old lady projected a portion of my consciousness into an inanimate object."

"Do I seem inanimate to you?"

The belt simply sits there on the table.

"Yes. Yes you do."

"Well, do you think I'm lifeless?"

"I don't know. Could be I'm on pain medicine right now from having a busted nose in my last match and it's having an adverse effect?"

"Stop doing drugs, Robbie. Users are losers."

"Poppycock, ever since I've been eating an entire bottle of Centrum Silver a day I've been pissing bright violet and eating my grandfather's stamp collection is exquisite for the rarity of it all even if the glue is toxic."

The Hart Title sits on the table, facing Robbie following his snarky retort, just as it sat on the table facing Robbie prior to his snarky retort and ever since it was placed there.

"Fuck you, you know what I mean."

"What? This is a medically prescribed thing, sure it conked me out and I slept on the couch in my office, and now I'm talking to my fucking title belt while eating cereal when I should be..."

"When you should be preparing to defend me, you moron. The real XWF championship."

"Well, I'm definitely going to defend you again, Harty McTitlebelt, and sorry but I feel like you should have a name if we're really doing this, but first things first, I'm in the Lethal Lottery."

"Why? What do you have to gain from winning Lethal Lottery?"

"A briefcase!"

"And what does this briefcase do?"

"Who cares! As long as I hold it, I get to make the Hart Championship look even stronger and more glorious, to finally cast away the misfortune and indignity that every piece of garbage that dared touch you up until now has dragged it through, and to come out proving that the Hart Champion is the real champion."

"Fucking right."

"You're agreeing with me now?"

"I'm just some side effect of the Vicodin, you're talking to yourself, so most likely."

Robbie holds the bowl to his lips and slurps the last of the Cinnamon Toast Crunch doused with organic chocolate milk down. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, stands up, tosses the Hart Championship over his shoulder and carries his bowl back to the kitchen. He looks around and can't seem to find a sink anywhere, so he just leaves the used bowl and spoon on the counter, right next to a sink.

"So Isabella Ravenwolf didn't cast magic on me, just to be clear, this is all a drug thing?"

"Yeah, well, no. She did cast a spell on my big toe turning it into Al Pacino."

Robbie slides his left foot out of his slipper and we see Al Pacino's face on his big toe.

Hoowah. Let me tell you what a Baird Man is...

Robbie slides his foot back into his slipper.

"Wiggy."

"I know, right? It should wear off in a day or so, I think. I stubbed it the other day and it kept screaming 'ATTICA' for like an hour, then it started to talk about how underrated Gigli was, and how Jack and Jill never got a fair shake. Never once brought up the Godfather."

"Y'know, he's been in a lot of shitty movies."

"He has. Wait, we're getting off track here, we're supposed to be doing something else, not talking shit about Al Pacino."

Robbie's slipper flies off.

SAY HELLO TO MY LITTLE FRIEND!

Robbie's little toe on his left foot starts to twitch and turns into Joe Pesci.

"It's fucking spreading."

"I see."

"It's kind of funny."

Robbie's little toe looks at the Hart Championship.

Do you think I'm funny? Funny how?

Robbie rolls his eyes and walks down a hallway and into a room. As he hits the light, we see it's his own training room. A massage table sits in the center of the room, and along the walls are several cupboards and bins of medical supplies. Robbie reaches into a cupboard and pulls out a can of Tinactin. He sprays his left foot and both his toes return to normal.

"Tough actin' Tinactin."

"Yeah, but still, that's out of the way, don't you have something better to do than doddle around and wax philosophical with an inanimate object?"

"I'm the motherfucking Hart Champion."

"Exactly, go fucking prove it."

"Yeah, I will."

"How?"

"Well, for starters, I'm going to wreck the shit out of Killjoy and Cadryn Tiberius at the next Warfare along with Jim Caedus, my partner. I'm going to do that because when I win Lethal Lottery and cement the Hart Championship as the premier championship in the XWF, the fucking people will have the god damned champion they've wanted all their lives. The man who goes out there into that fucking ring and wrecks whomever is put in front of him, living life like a fucking chopping block, cutting the heads off of whatever dreams lead the doomed to challenge me, not some pathetic doofus who happens to have the same name as a pathetic doofus. Micheal Graves or Micheal Graves, motherfucker gets wrecked by Robbie Motherfucking Bourbon, so fucking precious I'm priceless beating your bitter body lifeless. Take Cadryn's four moves, all it takes is one Robbiebomb, you hit me twice, I break you once, you run back out into the fucking woods and remember the god damned fact that the only thing in this fucking existence that actually gives a fuck about you is the head you have your cock shoved up, and that's just because it wants to watch Bonanza on Nick at Nite and you're got your fly up." Robbie turns from the training room and walks back out into his dojo. He hops up into his ring and starts stretching on the ropes, then shoots off of them a few times.

"Then there's your gorilla shit partner, Killjoy, who runs around the fucking place just tickled fucking pink with whatever idea he shoved up his own ass hoping to tickle from sphincter to prostate, giving us all a good ole' 'Tee Hee Hee' and a downright knee slapper. Motherfucker is a commode-ian, all his jokes coming straight from the crapper. Wannabe jokers, wannabe funny, wannabe cute, wannabe dapper. You're a real comedic genius, heh, like I'm a sincere contemporary rapper. And that sir, be the way it is, sir, because guys who pretend to be funny by pretending to be funny because they want to pretend to be funny have to pretend to be funny because they really ain't that fucking funny to begin with. You can't create a line or a saying that could elicit a laugh, just stealing material from Batman's creative staff, I'm the Steve Jobs of the one liner, I skipped my degree from clown college, tell Cadryn you're sorry you can't please him you're too busy choking on that knowledge. And that sir, be coming from someone who doesn't pretend, sir, to be a funny man, sir, nor a dangerous man, sir, because I don't fucking have to. I thrive on the fact I'm going to have two sacks of shit to bounce around in the squared circle on sweet home Wednesday Night Warfare, in the first round of the Lethal Lottery, alongside Jim Caedus, the guy who doesn't have to pretend to be the Television Champion. Do you think I'm the half-a- prancing to and fro like a second rate Rayne trying to prove how viciously effeminate I can be? Do you think I'm the novelty knock-off of novelty knock-offs? Don't say you aren't, don't even fucking say you aren't, Killjoy, don't even come around here and try to tell anybody that your whole life is based around the fact that fake dog shit exists, and it's legit funnier than you are, and you refuse to come to grips with that."

"Tell 'em who you is, kid."

"My name is Hart Motherfucking Champion, Robbie Motherfucking Bourbon. You're going to remember that name. It's the name of the man who, at your very first big time spot in a real life XWF event, told you you didn't get the lucky number you thought you did, and then beat your brains so hard you two will both run away from the circus to join corporate America. I see it now, gentlemen. Cubicles, maybe a register to stand behind, saying yes sir, saying no sir, kissing ass to some shitheel who doesn't even know your last fucking name, the vain dream faded and gone, the reality of it all set in place, don't be in the wrestling business when you're doing business with Robbie Motherfucking Bourbon."

We see Robbie walk into a bathroom. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a prescription bottle, and looks in the mirror.

"Fuck these things. A fucking broken nose isn't slowing me down today, no sir, and by Warfare, I'll be ready to rock."

Robbie opens the bottle and pours the pills into the toilet. As he does, Diamondback walks into the bathroom and Robbie flushes.

Oh, hey, sorry, didn't know you were in here.

No problem, just tossing these Vicodin.

Really?

Yep.

Uh, you know we could have sold those for $25 a pop on the street.

Robbie looks down into the now clear toilet as the water finishes refilling.

Shit.