Dejected, rejected, horny, and incomplete.

Mr. Sex has not had a good run of it so far.

Sure, he had his chance to shine in a match with Bilbo Blumpkinz Brommer. He went out and made a spectacle of himself having sex. Is that what qualifies for a contender these days? Getting handed a shot at the Television Champion at a PPV just because the brass was so busy fighting the brass they had no idea what to do with him? Lost in the shuffle is one way to put it, lame duck is another, sitting duck though, not so much. Not if what truly lied inside had anything to do with it. The ticking time bomb, the crushing wave of reality and rage that belied a mindset bent on hedonistic intentions. The least hedonistic of all of us. Well, save for donuts, hot dogs, coffee, and the thrilling rush of feeling meat and bone collide with meat and bone in the squared circle. The definition of a good time for one Robbie Motherfucking Bourbon, in absentia following the humiliating loss of what was once the highly prestigious Hart Championship.

Mr. Sex has egg on his face. Literally. Tomato too. The romper is blotched red from that distant cousin of the nightshade family.

Mr. Sex: You know you're just making yourself look bad. I'm not losing control of this body, as a matter of fact your little attempts to get back are worthless. I will continue to light up pairs of panties like I'm getting the high score on a pachinko machine. Sorority houses, covens, apartments shared by lonesome women in their mid-thirties who want no strings attached, old folk's homes. Hell, it'll be like playing an old Nintendo console from the Eighties, just dust it off, stick it in, and have fun with a little vintage flavor that's lost on lesser tastes.

"Get out."

Mr. Sex: Nope. Not happening. You can't make me. See, you don't have the knowhow, the means, or the methods to get rid of me. I'm here for good.

"Get out. You're out of your element, whatever the fuck you are."

Passersby on the street continue to gawk at the large man in the stained yellow romper traversing the streets of our nation's capital. Mr. Sex is walking down Florida Avenue, passing all manner of businesses and restaurants, the heart of the D.C. flavor. Oddballs and whack jobs are par for the course, but to see such a sight as a six-foot, five inch monster in such a gaudy outfit so stained is quite another issue altogether. Mr. Sex seems to care less about the odd looks he's getting. Like a fever ridden child, he feels sick and wants the world to notice he's not well at the moment. It's the perfect camouflage. He's sick, after all. When he's feeling better, he can excuse any social morays noted because of it.

Mr. Sex: No, this is my element now. Don't you get it? You aren't a thing anymore, at least so long as I want it, and I want it always. I want this body, I want this lifestyle, I want it to get all the gash I can handle and then some. You wasted this body when you had it on intangibles. You were like a dog chasing cars, doing it because you felt like you could handle it, stepping into the ring for no reason at all. When I go to the ring, it's obvious. Moistened panties, heaving breasts, the lust and yearning of every hot babe who makes eye contact with all this masculine package.

"My mission was better."

Mr. Sex: Your mission was bullshit, Bourbon. Face it. You were the second fiddle to all the legitimate contenders. The clown. The joke. The king of the jobbers, as you even put it. Me, I...

"I never sucked a cock."

Mr. Sex: You shut up about that. That was a slip and a fall, Brommer's dick happened to land in my mouth.

"I still never sucked a cock."

Mr. Sex: You're right, you just came up short each and every time. The Intercontinental Title, the Universal Title, the Xtreme Title, every time it just slipped out of your grasp at the last minute. Every time, you barely got what you were after. Me, well, my goals are simple. Bang hot babes. I don't fail at that whatsoever. I go out and bang hot babes. I'm never disappointed.

"Heh, I sure as fuck have done a job of disappointing you so far."

Mr. Sex: Yeah, but for how long? How long do you think you can keep it up? How long until you slip up, yet again, and fail, like you have in the past?

"Oh, this isn't the past. I'm living in the now."

Mr. Sex: No, Bourbon, I'm living in the now. You're just an idea at this point.

"And what an idea I am. You have my body, I'll give you that. You've stolen my life. And what of it? You do not have me, not at all. You do not have my spirit. You have not quieted me, you will not quell me, I will not subside. I'm not just some kind of zit waiting to go away, I'm not even a disease you can hope to cure. I am alive, and I will take that. Slowly, but surely, I will take more. I will fight inch by inch, yard by yard, until I've moved miles and mountains. There's no putting me down, there's no keeping me out. I'm still here, no matter what you or anybody else can say of me, and I'm not showing signs of getting weaker. How else do you explain last Warfare?"

Mr. Sex: You mean when I spent the whole night banging two hot babes?

"Heh, tell yourself that all you want. Those girls got sent off with Barney Green to pleasure his every whim. He's single, he can do that. I'm spoken for. By my love, and by the people."

Mr. Sex: What are you talking about?

"Go check the tape, stud. There's a hitch to your gameplan. The will of the people is strong. When a group of terrorists tried to attack Roxy Cotton and Jenny Myst, I was there to stop them. You earnestly believe you were having sex all night in a locker room? I was mopping up worthless scumbags in that arena all night. When the chips are down, the whole universe knows that Robbie Bourbon is the man. Not the man that gets the job done, not the man that comes out on top, not the man who stands victorious, just the man."

Mr. Sex stops dead in his tracks.

Mr. Sex: Then I think it's high time I drowned you out.

"You can't. You won't. I'm here, and I'm not going anywhere. See, come High Stakes, you're going to do one of two things. Either you're getting in the back seat so I can go wreck, or you're just getting gone so I can go wreck. The Television Title match is mine for the taking, not yours. The Deuces Wild Battle Royale isn't something Danny Sex is going to win; Robbie Motherfucking Bourbon is. You just want to bang hot babes, remember? I want to bang heads. I will bang heads. I will carry my big ole' self down to those rings and start chucking bodies like they were all Peter Gilmour. Matter of fact, I'll probably chuck Peter Gilmour out first and foremost, just because I can. The whole shebang is just sitting there, mine for the taking, the only hurdle I have is you at this point. Chaos and Caedus are too busy bickering over the fate of Ax3 like a pair of sad hoping for the last carton of milk at lunch, and Thaddeus Duke is on his quest to show the whole god damned universe he can win a kingdom. I don't need kingdoms, or empires, I have the people behind me, and their freedom is my beck and call. It isn't about dominion, or who has the illusion of power. Not for them, not for the Kings, not for Jon Brown, not for Vinnie Lane, not for James Raven. They struggle amongst each other for one purpose and one purpose alone. The hearts and minds of the people. They need to prove to the universe they are something, that they are worth some kind of fealty that they're ultimately beholden to, not the people they want to impress or please by winning. Michael Graves and Dolly Waters are going to hell and back for the Xtreme Title. They aren't doing it because they think they look good in an oversized belt, they aren't doing it for their health, they're doing it to prove to the people who is the better fighter, to settle their vendetta against each other and show the people who is worth a flying fuck and who isn't. The guys all competing in the Tag Titles Tournament are going out there to be champions, not because anybody would care but because everybody will care about the Tag Team Champions."

Mr. Sex: Seems like the people are all set, then.

"Not by a longshot. The people, asshole, the people still want more. They need more. They need that human highlight reel that's going to put their body on the line in the most vicious and audacious ways possible. That figure that'll have them forgetting the crushing despair of the world if only for a fleeting moment. That physical embodiment that goes out there and takes the ass whooping for them. That delivers the ass whooping for them. That lets them know that as hard and discouraging as the world can get, there's a silver lining. There's a beacon that'll shine twice as bright, that'll stand up, that won't just take what's handed to them and be grateful but will strive for more, for better, for the best. The people deserve it. They deserve the peace of mind that comes with knowing there's someone out there doing their damnedest to not just take on their burdens with them, but to crush them into paste and give them hope. To give them a future. To give them dignity in having faith in something better."

Mr. Sex: Yeah, yeah, the real George Bailey type.

"Exactly! The man who keeps Bedford Falls free, and in the hands of the people! Johnny Carson, the man who shows the world how to laugh and be happy no matter what the state of the nation or world. Ghandi, the man who launches his revolution to grant all people a chance at individuality and identity without needlessly tearing down the individuality and identity of someone else. This is what I choose, this is what I accept, and this is what the people deserve."

Mr. Sex: Yeah, well, too bad. Hot babes and a ton of sex are on the horizon, so get used to it.

"Nope. Not at all."

Mr. Sex looks up and sees what he's been looking for. A liquor store. He walks inside.

"What are you doing?"

Mr. Sex: Drowning out my sorrows.

"No, don't."

Mr. Sex: Yes, and do. I'm going to down a bottle of booze, you'll get quiet, then I'll go find some hot babes to party with and stick my penis inside. You're worthless already, and soon enough, you'll be subdued. Back into the darkness you came from, lost to the world, and I can go back to getting the hot babes all around the world. The people can fend for themselves, the XWF will have a grander superstar, one who creates highlights with his dick.

"I'm telling you, don't do it."

Mr. Sex walks over to a shelf and grabs the first bottle he can reach. Some indescribable but instantly identifiable bottle of hooch.

Mr. Sex: So long, Bourbon. My normal methods of keeping you locked out will kick back into overdrive with just a sip or two of this stuff, won't it?

Mr. Sex turns to head to the counter, but is paralyzed with the sight of a gunman holding up the cashier. Mr. Sex silently slips back behind a shelf and ducks, hiding from the robber.

"YOU SHIT! GO WRECK THAT FUCK!"

Mr. Sex: Not my bag, dude, not my bag.

The hushed whisper of Mr. Sex is unheard by the thief, who is shouting at the guy at the register.

"Hand me the fucking money! Don't do anything fucking stupid!"

There comes a time when even the strongest of duresses will still have no impact on a person. Unmoved, they'll wait out any tide and hope for something to happen for them, if not to them.

"THAT'S IT!! NO MORE!!"

Unexpectedly, Mr. Sex stands from behind the shelving and stares directly at the gunman, as though some shot of intestinal fortitude and moxie rocketed through his veins. Oddly, when he speaks, he sounds like his backbone is actually intact.

Motherfucker, put the fucking gun down now.

The gunman turns and stares down Mr. Sex, who is now firmly in the hands of Robbie Bourbon for the time being. Without thinking, the gunman pivots and fires at Mr. Sex, and the bullets collide with tomato stained yellow paisley romper, then fall pointlessly to the floor. Mr. Sex hurls the bottle of booze at the gunman, and with enough force that the sealed bottle shatters against his skull. The gunman crashes to the ground, and the pistol he was holding clatters against the linoleum harmlessly. Within seconds, a look of utter shock and horror comes across the face of Mr. Sex, the will of Robbie Bourbon firmly in the back seat again, the temporary need to act gone.

"You fucking pussy. Get out, let me have control."

Mr. Sex: You maniac! If I die, how am I supposed to have more sex?

"You can't die from that little pea shooter."

The weapon is anything BUT a pea shooter. It's massive barrel is just as long as most of the bottles in the store are tall standing on the shelf. Mr. Sex walks up to the unconscious gunman.

Mr. Sex: I am so, so sorry! Please, do not be angry with me!

The cashier looks properly confused. He pulls out a cell phone and begins to dial, presumably the police.

Mr. Sex: I wasn't here!

Mr. Sex bolts from the liquor store, and continues to run in terror up the block.

"You fucking pansy."

Mr. Sex: I'm a lover, not a fighter!

"I know. Get the fuck out."