Robbie Bourbon is hot on the trail of the mysterious 'Marco', the man who used suggestive medicine to coerce five veterans into performing heinous acts, headed to Charlottesville, Virginia, to find him.

Also, to bust up a shit ton of nazis. Oh yeah, happy hunting.

ON THE ROAD

Seriously, we'd be going faster in a horse and buggy.

Robbie glibly rolls his eyes as Blue, Robbie's girlfriend and handler, speaks. The Robbiemobile 3.0, a parade float this week displaying a float depicting the importance of America's potato farmers, with a couple of farmers, a guy dressed like a potato, and a pretty girl.

It's going to be dark out by the time we get there! We left at seven this morning, and it's already four!

We're making good time.

This is bonkers.

Look, the van got stolen and nobody ever returned it. The other van, Barney blew up.

Robbie slowly gets passed by a pedestrian. A trail of cars branches off behind him in the horizon on the two lane highway with a broad double divider at it's center, unwittingly a part of his parade to Charlottesville. One of the potato farmers tosses a potato to the pedestrian. The pedestrian throws it back at the farmer, hitting him in the face. He falls to the floor of the moving parade float as the other farmer, the potato suit guy, and the pretty girl all stop waving and help him.

Fine, we'll get there faster.

Robbie pulls out his phone and starts to dawdle with it while driving the parade float.

Hey, don't play on your phone and drive!

What, I'm well below the speed limit, if I hit something it'll just give me a dirty look and keep on going.

Still!

Okay.

Robbie pulls over to the side of the road, and stops the vehicle. The trail of cars behind him start to zoom past him, all honking their horns. Quite a few people flip him off. One guy throws a shoe at the float, knocking the guy in the potato suit out. Robbie plays on his phone.

What are you doing?

Getting us a faster ride.

Robbie places his mobile device to his skull.

Hello?

Yeah, we're broken down on Route 20, south.

Charlottesville.

I'll play extra.

Robbie nods, then removes the phone.

You called a tow truck?

Yeah, they do about fourty-five miles an hour, I figure that's a little faster.

Jesus, hon, that's going to be expensive!

Well, I can afford it. I'm an alpha dog, hon. My salary is higher than the GDP of about two-thirds of the countries on Earth. My yard is just larger. It's why I have this massive laundromat at the dojo...

The screen shows a picture of a laundromat. Each frontloading machine's window has the monicker of Robbie Bourbon's mask painted on it. Students are seen doing laundry alongside Cyberjaw, the man with the cybernetic jaw. The screen cuts back to Robbie.

It's why I have this massive kitchen at the dojo...

The screen shows a picture of the culinary arts instruction area of the dojo, a palacial kitchen with a massive pantry stocked with fresh and delicious looking tomatoes, cucumbers, broccoli, eggs, an accoutrement of cannistered powders such as flour, sugar, salt, and pepper, and a couple refridgerators. We see Joe Biden, Vice-King of the Jobbers, and Jared the Wizard, LARP enthusiast, eagerly devouring a pizza baked by some of the students. The screen cuts back to Robbie.

It's why I have this massive library at my dojo...

The screen shows a picture of a library. Thousands of books line shelves surrounding an internal work area filled with computers, a huge printer/copier sitting at the end of the bank of work stations. Students are seen perusing books, using computers, and checking out with head librarian RoboRob, the robot from Rocky IV painted to look like it's wearing a Robbie Bourbon mask. The screen cuts back to Robbie.

It's why I make my own bed.

The screen shows a picture of Robbie holding some sheets, looking very less than pleased at the camera. Who looks forward to making their bed? What a boring part of the day. The screen jumps back to Robbie.

See, I do all that not only because I'm a run of the mill grown-up and don't sweat the small responsibilities, but because I'm a fucking shining star of a god damned soul who does because he simply can because he simply will because I simply need that much space.

Jurassic Park can't even contain this.

Chaos wants to say the world is a cold place where only the strong survive. No fucking shit. I mean, Chris can walk around, and I guess his career is 'surviving'. That's one way to fucking put it. See, the strong survive, that's good and all. But I want more than to just survive. I want better than that. I want to thrive. I want the people to thrive around me, no weak links, no loose ends, nothing to drag me back or hold me down.

It's why I make it better. It's why I make them better. It's why I go around town making it better, cleaning up the streets where and how I can. It's why I'm travelling, not just to Charlottesville, but to London, and then anywhere else around the world, pinning people in XWF rings, to better myself. To find myself in better situations. To get opportunities. It's a self sustaining system at this point, believe it or not! Shit rolls downhill, collecting momentum, surviving though, because shit is already digested and spewed out, what could possibly harm shit? Helping, though, reaching out, striving for more, getting more for others, in turn getting more for yourself by extending not your resources or theirs but just you to your own limits to see what kind of impact you have on the fucking world. Like a pharaoh. That's like the sun pulling all the moisture, the essences of life, out of shit, out of pure water, and everything in between, and creating rain, renewing a system much greater and much, much more powerful than shit could ever dream of.

I'm fucking strong enough to survive doing it. Not trying it, not attempting it. Not hijacking some woman in a bedsheet and making her piss herself. Damn, dude, that's below me. Way below me. I'd need a jackhammer to see that. I'd need a drilling team or three to get that low. Sure, one of my cohorts may or may not have Stockholm syndrome...

We see a picture of Xtreme Travel Agent, possible victim of Stockholm syndrome and Cyberjaw's main squeeze. She's in a bra and plain grey miniskirt, covered with a viscous brown substance which may or may not be KFC Gravy, next to Cyberjaw, perhaps preparing for a risque romp of human poutine. The camera cuts back to Robbie.

...but that was then, man.

Since then my territory has expanded. What I consider to be 'me' has grown exponentially. To the point I have to consider the laundry of hundreds. I have to consider the hunger of thousands. I have to consider the knowledge and growth of millions. I have to consider the notion of finding a safe place to sleep for billions. I represent the people. I am their man.

You can't even do right by yourself, Chris. You wanted to go to Florida to clear your head of your breakup. You did so by kidnapping a woman, taking her to the slums, and then attacking someone YOU led her to be victimized by.

You've done fucked up now, kid. You went and harmed one of the people.

For terrorizing that poor woman, Chris, that hour long beating I owe you is going an hour and a half for all I care. Bell rings, and boom, you feel the first punch. That's when all that plan or whatever you got swirling around in your head spins, keels, and wonders. Then the forearm to the head brings you back to reality, and you get the notion that something ain't right. Something's clicking now. You're in danger, because you've still got another fifty-nine minutes and fifty-seven seconds of this coming, and it might just do you in. The notion of a wheelchair, of a car you gotta steer and pedal with your fingers, of someone having to make you dinner, having to make your bed, having to do your laundry, and even having to wipe your ass becomes all too real for you. You'll panic, and try to run. Those ropes don't mean you can't leave, after all. That's when I say fuck it, grab you around the waste, and fling you back into the ring. That's when I get on top of you and start smashing your brains in with my fucking will, my bone just that much stronger than yours, my muscle that much stronger than yours, my heart beating harder, fiercer, and with more passion than yours.

When you hear the first snap, you'll hope it's your spine giving out. At least fifty percent of you won't have to feel the beating anymore. That girl, Chris, crying, frightened, pissing herself, is you. And that's when you realized you still have another fifty-five minutes and fourty-three seconds to go before that bell rings and it's finally over.

You finally shit yourself with fifty-two minutes left to go.

When you hear that second snap, you know it's too good to be true. You know I haven't shattered your spine. Not yet. I haven't derailed your nervous system one fucking bit. You see your elbow bending in the wrong direction, and the mental shock of watching the hyperextension you got after I wrapped your arm around the ringpost, the guardrails, the apron, the top turnbuckle, or even a fan's souvenir XWF elbow anvil matches the pain, step for step like a pair of dancers cutting a rug. I don't know a great armbar, but hey, doesn't mean I don't know how to bust an arm.

Somewhere around there, you'll start asking yourself why I haven't pinned you yet. Why haven't I tried to capitalize on the asswhooping of a lifetime I'm laying out on you, the beating mommy and daddy were always too chickenshit to give you when you pissed on the rug or the time where you were caught smelling the inside of grandma's panties and stroking it on Labor Day.

Human trafficking is no fucking laughing matter, Chris. For you to participate in the act is not just weak; ensnaring someone to display power and dominance, but it's a telltale sign to the fucking pharaoh around this here jungle where the meat is. It's human sacrifice time, the people need their blood, their gore, their sacrament of justice and hope. They need to see that a scumbag like you can't get away with it. They're hoping for it, can you hear it? That sensation that the hair is standing on the back of your neck, Chris, ain't the fucking police tracking you down and detaining your ass so you can't get on a plane to London to compete for the number one contendership in the XWF. It's standing because of that match in London. That impending sense of doom, looming over you, condemnation already delivered, signed and sealed, the only thing left to do is let the wrecking commence.

A tow truck pulls up. The driver steps out, bewildered by what he sees. Robbie steps out of the parade float and smiles.