Danny Sex, thwarted in his attempt to pay for the services of an escort, still has the itch. That drive that boils deep within your loins when it's been too long, and in Mr. Sex's time, generally any time spent outside of the inside of the fun parts of the female anatomy, specifically the warm wet parts, specifically the vagina, is too long.

Robbie Bourbon, however, seems to be doing his damnedest to prevent Mr. Sex from keeping his cool, masculinely sexy demeanor by just being Robbie. Obnoxious, crude, loud, and tactless at every turn. If it were your body, you'd probably do the same. Give credit where credit is due, for every bit of sexy that Mr. Sex is, Robbie Bourbon is every bit not. The man you envy, the guy who has a million anecdotes and a million more sexual conquests, the guy who always looked at you like you were crazy for not getting with any hot babe you wanted, Mr. Sex, and the bane of his existence, Robbie Bourbon, tearing him apart from the inside. It's been established that Mr. Sex somehow hijacked Bourbon's body some two months ago, and such are pratfalls of those in the superhero business. Mind control, what a fucked up set of circumstances that shit is. When said superhero, though, just doesn't know, not when, but even how, to give up, though, it doesn't matter how smooth, how sexy, or how masculine you are. The fight will not go away.

"Get out."

Mr. Sex: I heard you the first time.

The rest of the people riding on the metro car gawk at the awkward site of a man in a bright yellow romper speaking to a voice in his head. Mr. Sex is pretty sick of the weird looks by now.

Mr. Sex: Oh don't act like you've never seen a grown man talk to himself on the Metro!

A young girl approaches Mr. Sex. She looks all of fourteen. She hands him a fistful of change.

Mr. Sex: What's this?

"You need some food, don't you?"

"She thinks you're a crazy homeless person."

Mr. Sex takes the change and throws it on the ground.

Mr. Sex: I don't need your pity! I'm Mr. Sex!

The girl, obviously shaken, returns to her seat. Another passenger, seated farther away, and older black woman, speaks up.

"You're an asshole, you know that?"

"You are an asshole. Give me my fucking body back."

Mr. Sex: Well why don't you mind your P's and Q's!

The older black woman rolls her eyes and approaches the young girl, opening a dialogue, looking to soothe her after Mr. Sex's outburst.

"She's doing it right. For the people."

Mr. Sex: For the people, for the people, why don't you shut up about the people already?

Mr. Sex had taken to whispering to himself. Getting kicked off the Metro means riding the bus. Riding the bus means an even longer commute.

"Never. The people are everything, dickhead."

Mr. Sex: Hot babes, yeah, but all the people?

"Hot babes are what you call things. Things for you to use for pleasure. The people already have enough things using them. Systems. Taxes. Abusers. You going on your fucking conquest isn't doing anybody any favors but yourself."

Mr. Sex: And? Is that really a bad thing? I have needs.

"I have needs too. You took my fucking body from me. I need it."

Mr. Sex: And I needed it more.

"No you didn't. You wanted it more. You have cravings. Desires. These things can be curbed. But identity, sense of self, self respect, these are things a person needs."

Mr. Sex: Aw, you just want them. Desire them. Hypocrite.

"The High Holy Hypocrite, amen to that."

The train pulls into the next station. Foggy Bottom. Mr. Sex stands and heads for the door.

"Where are you headed?"

Mr. Sex: Never you mind where I'm headed. I'm going to take back control.

"No you aren't, sparky. I'm wise to your game now. There's no stopping me now."

Mr. Sex: Just you watch.

Mr. Sex walks down the corridor of the D.C. Metro station and up an escalator. He then heads through the turnstiles and up a much larger escalator. He reaches the top and walks out into the bustling downtown Washington D.C. stage, passing a homeless man sitting on the hard concrete floor of a Metro station.

"You could have given the change to that man instead of throwing it in that girl's face."

Mr. Sex: Seriously, what is it with you and the people? What do they mean to you?

"Everything."

Mr. Sex: That's high grade bologna right there. At least people can understand why I want to bang hot babes. They're hot babes, you bang them. You wanting to help people blindly is just stupid. I'm in the XWF to meet hot babes, it's a status symbol. You had no purpose here.

"I had a huge purpose. I let it slip. You stole it."

Mr. Sex: Oh yeah? What purpose was that?

"To be anything but polarizing. To be the unifying force for all the XWF Universe. Republican, Democrat, liberal, conservative, rich, poor, weak, strong, meek, outspoken, just as accessible to a police officer, a trash collector, the kid flipping burgers, multi-millionaires, I was the guy that it didn't matter what walk of life you came from, you could look to anybody else and share the same experience, regardless of where you'd be in the very next moment. At least I tried to be."

Mr. Sex: Well, I do that better than you. Everybody understands sex.

"But not everybody appreciates it the same way, and not everybody is too keen on the idea of you walking around fucking everything with a pulse. Some people have daughters, sisters, wives, and mothers. I have a girlfriend, I'm pretty sure she's feeling like the drizzling shits now because I'm not giving her the affection and attention she needs. The people don't look up to you, they feel jealous of you. Offput. Dejected they aren't you."

Mr. Sex: Well, I am Mr. Sex. It's not my fault they're not as heteronormative.

"That doesn't mean anything. Seriously, that word has no definition."

Mr. Sex: It does now, darn it! I'm the most heteronormative man on the planet.

"Seriously, define heteronormative."

Mr. Sex: You're looking at it, pal.

"Use it in a sentence."

Mr. Sex: Golly, did I wake up heteronormative as anything this morning.

"See, it means nothing."

Mr. Sex: You mean nothing! You keep saying heteronormative means nothing. It's just like you using the word 'people', it doesn't mean anything.

"Oh? Asshole, people are looking for me. I promise. I know without a shadow of a doubt. See, right now, I'm just in a pit. Ever been in a pit?"

Mr. Sex: If you'd shut the hell up I'd get to the bottom of a bunch of holes right now.

"Nah, slick, a pit. I don't mean balls deep in some poon, I mean a dark, hellish place. See, I learned about them in the fire department. I spent some time in some pits. The first pit I was in was the academy. They knew to get you ready for that kind of freakish shit, so you wouldn't kill yourself panicking in one. If's how I'm going to survive this, and it's the one thing you didn't count on when you found me. I don't know how many times you've even done this, or to how many people, but you sure as fuck found the wrong guy this time. See, when you're in the pit, it's dark, and it's hot. Crazy hot, and crazy dark. The first time was in training, but there you even got the full gist of what was going on. See, you stay on the floor, where you can survive, and there it's about nine hundred degrees. That's hot enough to kill you in seconds, luckily you're in enough turnout gear and have a nice tank of air with you. You hang out on the floor because if you stand up, cause a ruckus, if you panic, well, things don't go so well for you. Up top in the room it's close to twenty-one hundred degrees. At that temperature, not a bit of your gear will save your. Your helmet melts almost instantly, burning away your scalp as your brain literally cooks. That's when you hit the floor, and you die an agonizing death where you turn into the world's largest charcoal briquette. So you learn, you learn to relax, to wait, to know people are coming, and if not, to avoid dying painfully and hopefully to die from toxic fumes that cause you to pass out before the pain sets in."

Mr. Sex: And you rather would not be getting it on with hot babes?

"An orange slice and half a peanut are heaven compared to the pit, dude. Making love is it's own special right and privilege, but when you've lived like I have, you learn to appreciate the simple things. See, that was just the training pit. Then there was the real scary pit. Not exercises, but live scenarios. You're in a townhouse where the homeowner passed out smoking crack on the back porch and held a butane torch lighter to vinyl siding. Vinyl siding is just as good as solidified gasoline, man. That shit goes up in flames just as fast as the drapes inside. I'm on the inside with the merry pair (affectionate term for an axe and halligan bar), making holes in walls for my line crew (the guys holding the hose). Wrecking shit like a god damned champion. It's funny, but with all the smoke that happens in a burning building, finding the fire can be harder than you think. Well, I found exposure, sinking an axe into the wall and pulling chunks of drywall down to the floor, and there was the beast, sure as you can believe, roaring, growing, feeding. Bright red and as beautiful as ever. My linemen did their job, opened the bail, and knocked the motherfucker on it's ass so fast that the sudden cooling caused the weakened wall to buckle, and that's when about four hundred pounds of loose, burnt, and destroyed townhouse fell on top of me. I was in the pit again. Cast down, lost, a body under rubble. I didn't hurt, at least bad, and I could tell nothing was broken. I still had my axe in my left hand, my halligan bar the my right. My legs were sunk down into the floor, which I later found out what was what collapsed under me. The linemen, the guys running hose, well, they had hose connected to an engine to climb back out with. Me, well, I had a pit and a tank of air. About thirty-five minutes of it to go by my count. All I could do was lay there, wait, and breathe. Inhale, exhale, pause, then exhale again. Inhale, exhale, pause, then exhale again. I had to make every breath count, and slow my breathing. The fire was knocked, but I didn't know if it was fully out. I focused on the dark, on the solitude, on being alone and shut away. Waiting for the people. I don't know how much time passed, but when they finally dug me out and dragged me outside, there were only about ten minutes left in the tank. No clue if I hyperventilated my way through almost a half an hour's worth of oxygen or if it took that long to get to me under all the shit that fell on top of me. A medic wanted to check me out, but my brothers weren't done working. Overhaul had to be done. I took my air off, brushed myself off, and told the angels from the bandaid box (affectionate term for an ambulance and it's crew) that I was ready to rock. I grabbed a pike pole and went inside, and began tearing down more walls, eliminating the possibilities of a rekindle on the fire we just knocked."

Mr. Sex: Big deal, a crackhead almost burns his house down and you almost died for it.

"When we were doing overhaul, literally ripping down every wall in the townhome, I had to deconstruct his daughter's entire bedroom. Throwing mattress and box springs out holes in the wall I invented. Ripping down posters and family portraits that were priceless but ruined from smoke. His wife was screaming at him, and there he was, stoned and goofy. People are fucking goofy. See, that little girl's house got fucked up, but six months later, she still had a house. Her neighbors in the adjoining townhouses still had a house. Every fucking second, every fucking breath was worth it."

Mr. Sex: Well, now with me in the lead, we'll just get laid if we need an adrenaline rush.

"Fuck you. I will be back. People are looking for me, people want me back more than they want you, and I will do for them what I can when I can. I'm just in a pit right now."

Mr. Sex: What are you going to do? I'm in control now, you need to accept it.

"No I don't. No I won't. I won't accept you. I'm going to get out, I'm going to get in front of the people again. You need to get out, let me do my thing."

Mr. Sex: No way, Jose. I need to bang me some hot babes.

"I need to go wreck a bunch of fools in the Deuces Wild. That many bodies just waiting to get wrecked, it'll be like Christmas on the Fourth of July. For starters, I get to get my hands on Robert Main, who has managed to put a lifetime of suck on the Hart Title in little over two months. I owe him a little something something, and that something something is a fucking Robbiebomb through the god damned ring. Here's a man who struts around acting like king shit when he can't even wipe his own ass without the help of the rest of Ax3, avoiding any real threat or challenge to the title while thinking beating on scrubs and nobodies makes him a man. He's a boy. He wants to flaunt the fact he has this impressive record, well ooh-ah your record, kid. Records are made to be broken. You are made to be broken. In half, up the middle, say hey diddle-diddle, I guess I pooped a little, you got by on one of my skid marks, I'm still big shit compared to you and your fiddle. Then there's the Kings and the remainder of the CCWF waiting to duke it out, only thing is it doesn't matter which of you plans on signing my paychecks after High Stakes, you'll be doing it after getting tossed from a ring or two. From Vinnie to Theo to Samuels to Brown, the man with a printer and a taser, hiya boss, later boss, I'll give you a toss from the top rope tot he ground. Doc and Trax, well old chums, good to see you two again, I'll treat you both to some service with a smile and the utmost efficiency. Get in, get out, get on with your lives. Steve Davids, well shit, there's a guy who let his career turn to rancid tuna salad faster than tuna salad can even turn rancid, and I feel like I owe him a beating or two, still remember that time you tried to run me through with a sword boyo. I think a Robbiedriver to you up that sumbitch Jim Caedus's ass is in order, and Caedus will thank us all for it. He loves the butt play. Not that there's anything wrong with that."

Mr. Sex: Are you through? There's hot babes up ahead.

Mr. Sex approaches an NOW rally, choc-ful-o very militant feminists.

"Jesus, are you serious?"

Mr. Sex: Hey, hot babes! Who wants to have some awesome sex right now?

Like a group of zombies from almost any given zombie movie doing that slow turn and zombie look, the attendees of the NOW rally turn and stare down Mr. Sex.

"You fucking moron."

Mr. Sex: I know, I know, you're all staring at me like the piece of meat I am. It's all my masculine sexuality. And you are all hot babes!

One of the attendees starts to pass out eggs and tomatoes, and the NOW rally all start to pelt Mr. Sex with eggs and tomatoes.

Mr. Sex: THIS IS NOT SEXY!

"No shit."