BOB, ravaged by the less than shocking return of Legacy to join Apex and lay waste to them, was caught with their pants down at Leap of Faith.

A member of BOB faces someone from Team Apex Legacy at Throwback Anarchy.

THEN AND NOW

October 17, 2020.

We see Bourbon seated at his desk in his office. The great isolation of 2020 in full swing as Coronavirus, enemy to the human race, causes socialization as we know it to cease. His hands are folded in front of his face. Cyberjaw, the man with the cybernetic jaw, and Diamondback, the man who can blend into any crowd, are seated on a couch across from Bourbon. Bourbon looks down on his desk, the Hart Championship laid out on top of it.

This sucks.

Yeah, fucking quarantine sucks. Nobody is here.

We are.

Yeah, but, shit, you’re in a weird mood bro.

Yeah, ever since you obliterated Idenhaus it's like you've been somewhere else.

Are those BOB guys screwing with you?

Bobby swiftly shakes his head.

Nah, they're alright, actually. There's just, I dunno, more to it than it appears. Chris Page has this big plan of his, I dunno, it all seems really shaky.

Page? He's a part of BOB?

More than you know. I had dinner at his place, not too shabby. He put on the ritz and the ole' razzle dazzle, it was a sales pitch.

What was he selling?

Bobby closes his eyes, slowly inhales, then exhales.

Amway.

Seriously?

No.

Really, man, what was he offering?

Bobby smirks.

Purpose.

What do you mean? A clear line-up of challengers for that Hart Championship?

Bobby dismisses the thought, swiftly shaking his head.

Not at all. This title, well, it's an honor, but a byproduct of something else I needed to do, and that was put Idenhaus down. Taking this from him was just a service to the people.

Bobby taps the faceplate of the Hart Title, which glistens in the light of his office.

Nah, I'm not all that sure he knows what I'm after, not quite yet.

Bobby tugs slightly at his mask.

Perpetual poker face and whatnot.

Cyberjaw and Diamondback smirk.

So what does he think you’re on board for?

Well, so far as I can tell, his sunny Florida surf and turf and a shot at the Tag Team Titles.

Isn't he…

Bobby finishes his sentence.

Half of the tag champs? Yeah, but it's a lot more convoluted than you'd think. It wouldn't be against Cataclysm.

Who's your partner?

Thad called.

No, not Thad. He wants an alliance because he can't beat me, not because he thinks we can't be beat. I'm going to partner up with Thunder Knuckles.

Cyberjaw and Diamondback look surprisedly confused as their eyes narrow and mouths open ever so slightly.

Wait, isn't he some goofball huckster who's just shills himself out to the highest bidder?

Bobby blinks, and shakes his head slowly.

Not quite. TK is like me, he's got his poker face, and people really underestimate him. He's a good guy, though. As for the highest bidder? Well, right now that seems to be Ozzy. Either way, I think it's worth a shot. There's something about him, TK. I dunno, we just click.

Bobby shrugs.

Could be we were just meant for the opportunity.

Is that the purpose that Page offered?

Yeah, trust us, you don't want to just be a henchman. I mean, you're a cool boss and all, but, well, you know what I mean?

I know what you mean.

Bobby smiles.

Nah, being his muscle isn't the purpose he's giving me. I mean, I think he thinks it’s the opportunity he's presenting, but what I really plan to get out of all of this is going to take some time and some luck. Shit has to fall in place just right so it'll all come to fruition.

What if it doesn't?

Bobby shrugs.

If it all fails, it fails. Nothing really lost, I suppose, I just go and beat the hell out of people like business as usual without being a part of a conspiracy. The winds will pick me up and I'll go wherever life takes me. But, if it all works out, and even if the odds are against me, fuck, it's going to be worth it.

So what's the big plan?

Well, fellas, it goes like this.

The scene goes dark and silent as we cut to an ad break.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

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Visible stink lines start to wave off of the little old lady as the children turn their heads in disgust.

Old people can smell. They're often unaware of how much they stink like their own waste, their stinky neighbors, or their gross feet.

We cut to see an adorable couple, easily in their 90s, taking a stroll down a park lane. Birds and squirrels fall dead out of the trees they pass due to their stench, again evidenced by handy cartoon stink lines. Bootsy Collins, himself elderly AND funky, steps forward.

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We cut back to see the cute little old lady with her grandkids. One of the children douses the old lady with an aerosol can of Smelyüng, and you can tell it works because the cartoony stink lines go away.

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~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~



May 31, 2021

We see Bobby Bourbon. His half of the XWF Tag Team Championships is draped over his shoulder, the golden sheen of the faceplate contrasting with his dull gray TNGB t-shirt. Under his mask we see an eye is severely bruised. He takes a deep breath.

Well, nothing like good old polluted, non-recycled, filled with bacteria and other particles Earth air after doing that gig on the moon!

Hello Betsy. You're going to have to pardon me if I seem a little informal. Leap of Faith kind of left me a little rattled. Some of my BOB cohorts were less than pleased that I tried to bust you out of that airlock, especially given the antics you and your people got into later that night. Fuck, I got my ass whooped for trying to help, got my ass whooped in a hellacious Tag Title defense, then got my ass whooped by two soon-to-be very fucking wrecked bodies in Eobard "I'm a great victim" Stone and Whats-His-Fuck Cooper who think they have a snowball's chance in hell of beating a couple of No Good Bastards. Then, then, to top it all off, I got my ass whooped to close out the show when Rob Main just up and threw a Universal Title opportunity down the drain to draw a big reaction so his pals, yourself included, could make some empty statement.

We brought bats to a gun fight? No, not at all. Y'all brought guns to nuclear war.

Now I know you want to vaunt the return of your husband and his merkin, the Fuzz riding his dick, as some surprise. I called that shit months ago. I know your husband wants to claim he's some untouchable legend the whole wrestling world is chasing. He came back to the XWF to face me and mine. I'm also terribly sorry if you bought into whatever bullshit he fed you about my being a brainless buffoon. Sure, I know fuck-all about Twitter, but I do know how to win championship matches at Leap of Faith. You tried to go for that Shooting Star and, welp, misfired.

So, speaking of Twitter and how you're married to someone comfortable with sounding like a spoiled 12-year-old. Between him, Warstein putzing around like a twitterpated schoolgirl about some chicken, and your oozing over abs pics like it's the first time you ever read Tiger Beat, I reckon y'all saddled up with and let Apex take top billing because somebody had to wear the pants in your organization.

Sorry, not sorry, if my tenor is catching you off-guards just a skosh. I know I seemed like a different animal on Valentines day, but fuck, it isn't like Atara is around to carry you this time around either. As such, let me introduce myself.

Well renowned from Greenland to the ports at Durban, from the folks living down-country to the scenes more urban, bringing the nasty in ways so wild most can't wrap their head around it like a turban, my name is Bobby Motherfucking Bourbon. You blindsided yourself if you thought this would be a cakewalk, don't make the mistake of leaving yourself in shock, dumbfounded, perplexed, like you were in that airlock, there's a reason that I'm called the Sultan of Smacktalk. I get on the stick like a dope emcee, from the highest mountain to the bottom of the sea, sold out countless arenas with my name on the marquee. Am I a No Good Bastard? Yup, that's me. Then when I get in the ring, I ain't subtle, I break 'em. Not an opportunity left open, when I see 'em I take 'em. My opponents have no hope because God on high did forsake 'em, leaving the Big Bad Big Bad of Big Bads to unmake 'em. Disassembled, dismantled, disolved and destroyed, I'll smash your whole world into asteroids! A weapon of extinction capacity in me has been deployed. I'm the sign of the times, you're an annoyed hemorrhoid. A pain in the ass, you're not up to my stature. You might move quick but I'm a body snatcher, send you to the mat so fast it's like I'm your spinal column's emergency dispatcher. Your husband is garbage, and you're just his cum catcher. Tell us again how he's legendary, about all the shit he does that makes him so scary! He's self-accredited, egocentric, and thinks he's beyond any adversary? Tell him the next time you see him that I'll be his Huckleberry. I don't have to tout what I am I keep shit austere, not a legend or king, just a man you should fear. Violent like a warzone with that prose like Shakespeare, hope y'all got life insurance, I'ma kill your career.

Thems BARS, bitch, and it looks like you didn't bring your ID so we know you aren't getting into them. And yeah, you married garbage. I offer generosity, he's offers sarcasm. I come and try to save your ass, taking that higher ground, and y'all think that means I need to get jumped a third time in a night. Birds of a feather flock together, and fucking vultures ready to scavenge don't impress me none. Coming around to cling onto Main's ass hairs like a couple of fucking dingleberries. Shit equals shit, regardless of name recognition.

So, here's the breakdown of how things are going to play out at Throwback Anarchy. A ton of spiel, a shit ton of nostalgia given as a treat to the fans. The past sure was a great time. Who did this, who did that, blah blah blah. Then, you come down to the ring and face the harsh truth of reality, living in the now, your present won't look so hot. I might not have done a damn thing in the XWF 20 years ago, but I didn't fucking have to. I get it done today. Legendary is fine and well but far from contemporary. And yeah, Legacy is legendary. So are five-masted frigates, mounted cavalry, the Welsh Bowmen, charioteers, the Roman Legion, samurai, and the Cossacks. None of them can hold a candle to the devestation of the hydrogen bomb. Y'all are from the golden age of the XWF, where the men were men and the women were too. I'm the fucking vanguard of the atomic age. Bigger. Brighter. Stronger.

I do have a question, though, Bets. What the fuck happened? Seriously, for a time there a ton of people saw you as the heir apparent to the Universal Title just this year, but you've slid down the ranks like a greased up fat dude on a water slide only without making a splash. You're a bigger choke artist than the Boston Strangler. You've gone from being a world-beater to a shit-eater, and you know why? Those are just your true colors. Shining sounded swell and all, but why bother when mediocrity is as comfy as an old pair of sweatpants and a mug of soup. You didn't forge through the storm, you hid and took shelter when lightning blinded you, thunder startled you, and the rain came pouring harder than Chinese arithmetic. That same lightning is my spark, that thunder is my brother, and that rain makes me grow, so shudder, little sapling, I, the mighty redwood, ain't going anywhere but up.

Hot damn, you've become a bigger disappointment than the last season of Game of Thrones, a flash-in-the-pan, you were booming until you went bust. You were an odds on favorite to become Queen of the XWF, for fucks sake, now you're just the fifth best member of Apex Legacy, right ahead of Drew, and that guy's just a glorified mascot! Fuck, the only reason he loses less than you is because he never wrestles, Main and Caedus just keep him around, and I think it's because he brings them their cocaine. Ever see a Caedus promo? They're proof that coke binges are pretty dull when observed from the outside. Uh, oh, there I go again, talking about people that aren't you, but to circle back, birds of a feather and all. Watch where you roost.

The coolest thing, though, is everything is going according to plan, and right on schedule. Page wanted his Universal Championship, to have his name immortalized. Fury, she just wanted power, leverage. Ozzy? Well, Oswald wanted relevance, to prove he was a part of something and earned his place. TK? Well, my esteemed partner, Mr. Knuckles, wanted the money. What did I want, though? Why would ole' Robbie Bourbon, the hottest thing on Warfare, wrecking any and all in defense of the Hart Championship, already established and known, change shit up suddenly and go by Bobby?

Heh, sorry Bets. No spoilers. Tune into Throwback Anarchy and find out.