The background of our scene is punctuated with not so distant pops and pained cries. Where is our scene exactly? Enter: A peaceful woodlands shattered by the cacophony of WAR!

Corey Smith takes a running leap into a ditch, his paintball gear clattering as he makes an ungainly landing. He quickly turns over onto his stomach and then, remembering the visor on his mask is up, drops it back down again. Bringing his paintball gun to bear, he takes up a defensive position when he’s alerted to a sound behind him. With a gasp he spins around and levels his paintball gun at…..Christian?

Whoa...whoa...whoa! He throws his hands in the air. That is you, isn’t it ‘Cor?

Corey breathes a sigh of relief. Yeah, it’s me.

Christian hunkers down next to him, looking distressed. Jesus, Corey! The next time Drew Carey asks you if you want to play paintball with some of his marine buddies you say NO!

Shhhhhh! Keep it down! And besides it’s not that bad.

Christian looks incredulous. One of these psychos told me he’d spit in my mouth and make me humble!

Wow….really?

Yes! And I admit, I WAS turned on for the first few seconds. But then I was just terrified.

Corey socks Christian in the shoulder. And then, a scream rings out. Corey and Christian both flinch. We gotta move.

Corey points to the camera. In a bit. I got to verbally castrate a fat man first.

Now?!

Yes Christian, now! Innovative set pieces are something I pride myself on, and this is a good one!

Suit yourself. Christian scouts around and clambers out of the ditch.

Hey, wait! I need somebody to cover me!

But Christian has already bailed. That’s loyalty for ya. Corey scowls, presumably. Then, content with his current level of safety, he pops the visor back up.

Corey Smith, Champion of All Television here, getting myself in a War Games mindset with a game of paintball against a squad of trained killers led by a possibly insane game show host. Fun, fun, fun! But we’re not at War Games yet, are we? Nooooooo. First we got the Patron Saint of Type 2 Diabetes, Robbie Bourbon.

Sick of the cheap fat jokes? Fuck you! I’m putting you on the other end of the sword for a reason, you bullying fart catcher! You know, it’s tough to pick out particularly egregious examples of purestrain stupid out of that miasma of dipshittery, but I’m gonna give it the ol’ college try! You want to call me and the rest of the War Games captains stupid for allowing Miss Fury to draft all ya’all (well, minus Andre, Thad got stuck with that goober)? Answer me this.

Why the hell would any of the rest of us want you?

Miss Fury is one of the captains. The woman who effectively lit the fuse of the entire B.O.B. phenomenon. What guarantee would ANY of us have that you wouldn’t let those loyalties interfere in that match? Don’t overtax yourself, the answer is NONE. Picking up any one of you would have been a fraught proposition at best. Besides it's probably best to keep as much of that shit in the same toilet bowl as possible.

Another shot cracks off followed by a scream.

Ooof. I hope that wasn't Christian. Actually that desperate cry of terror at the hands of a remorseless lunatic reminds me of another point I wanted to make. So, I understand you think it's pretty sweet that you can jam so many disparate facets of a personality into one oily form, but I'm gonna go ahead and say it's not cool that one of those Eras o' Bourbon included being chummy with this guy.



It’s Pest of course! It's always so convenient when a pedophile LOOKS like a pedophile, ya know? Anyway Rob thanks for reminding us about that. And clearly, you're still so cool with it you're bringing it up years later! In fact, I got a t shirt idea for you. Picture this. It's you, whistling and averting your eyes as Pest pulls an unwilling child into a public restroom. Bet it’ll sell like hotcakes with the registry crowd.

Corey slaps his hands to his cheeks.

Oh, but hypocrisy alert! "Corey, didnt YOU draft Morbid Angel onto your War Games team? Not only did he hang with Pest too, but he’s pretty deplorable in his own right!" So says Robbie Bourbon, and I just realized I should have done that with food in my mouth. But yeah Robby, yeah. You got a point and it's not just the one on your head. And I struggled with that choice. I really did. But then something occurred to me. If I didnt draft him, who would? It was a distinct possibility he could have ended up in Demos’ camp, or Dick’s, or Miss Fury’s. And none of them would have even attempted to curb his base impulses. I would. I'm going to take responsibility for that mess, unlike YOU who gleefully abided it.

Just then, Malcolm, The Engineer’s former pupil and present Coreytopia resident, slides into the ditch behind Corey.

Dude, what are you doing?! It's like the Normandy scene from Saving Private Ryan out there!

Hold on, hold on! I gotta wrap this first!

These guys are lunatics! Malcolm narrows his eyes at Corey. You're not scared, are you?

As if on cue, there is another smattering of paintball shots followed by a triumphant cry from one of the marines.

Got you, fucker! Prepare your anus!

Corey and Malcolm turn to each other, wide eyed. Heh heh. I'm sure that was uhhhh...metaphorical.

Whatever man. You need to nut up. Malcolm scowls as he crawls out of the trench.

What? I'm very nutted up! I'm nutted all the way up! He replies defensively to no one at all. Geez. Shooting a cautionary look up over the lip of the ditch, he continues. You wanna know what else really chafes me? This notion that my shifting identities was some kind of stunt to garner attention, or some attempt to inject some life in a flagging career. A prospect that falls apart faster than Robbie’s Universal title reign upon closer inspection. So riddle me this, if I was doing this to put asses in the seats, why the hell would I have changed identities the moment I won the Universal championship? Lux was over as FUCK, so what goddamn sense would it have made to shelve her as soon as she hit it big? Again, don’t tax yourself. The answer is none. By your logic, people don’t shift gears when they’re at the top, right? It’s when they start to get stale. So…..



Thank you dot gif that is as old as the internet.

Part two. If I was doing this to be attention grabbing, why didn’t I return as Lux after being away so long? I mean, that return pop would have been HUGE. Talk about a cash grab. But I didn’t return as Lux. I returned as me. Because Lux was gone. So instead of me coming back as a sweet badass assassin from the future, I came back as a neurotic twink with a smart mouth and a guilt complex the size of yo mama. And yes, I am indeed admitting Lux was cooler than me. But in my defense, while I may not have Lux’s coolness, I've always felt I have a sort of millennial je nais sais quoi about me that appeals to the sophisticated modern youth market. Which in its own way, is just as cool.

His eye twitches ever so slightly.

Anyhoo, while we’re on the topic of how played out alternate identities are, I couldn’t help but notice in that retrospective you shared with us that one particular era of YOU was missing. Danny Sex. Why, it’s almost like you left that out on purpose because it would have shredded your whole argument! You disingenuous rump!

Corey points towards the sky for emphasis and takes on a conciliatory countenance. I will admit though, that version of you talking to that Drew guy? Man you looked….different. And, admittedly, rougishly attractive! What version was that exactly? Pffft, at any rate, more of that guy please!

A paintball whizzes over Corey’s head.

Crap!

Corey sinks down into the dirt and beckons the camera to come in a bit closer. He proceeds in a softer tone of voice. But, out of all the dumby dumb things you said, I think the one missing the most chromosomes was a comment you made right off the top. That whole “people don’t know why they hate us, they just do.” As if B.O.B. is some “Boo Radley esque” poor misunderstood soul wholly undeserving of the scorn heaped upon it. Despite the fact that my entire last promo was about you orchestrating a four on one assault. Despite the fact that you’re led by Chris Page, the biggest scumbag this side of Chris Chaos.

I mean, the fucking gall of you, playing the victim card and batting your doe eyes as you innocently “Who? Me?” from your point position in the group that has the word “baddies” RIGHT IN THEIR NAME! Corey cringes, recalling his peril, and dials it down again.

Christ Robbie, do you get off on blowing in people’s faces and telling them a hurricane is coming? Do you really think we’re all that stupid? Well, I can’t speak for everyone (especially not Demos), but I’m not.

And it occurs to me just how much of what you say is pure projection. Robbie accuses other people of switching up their identities when things get stale. He’s done it. And don’t give me that “Oh, but I never changed my name” shit. See aforementioned blowing hurricanes. Plus you did. Danny.

Robbie wants to make everyone out to be big bad bullies picking on poor little B.O.B. because he’s an asshole bully.

Robbie wants to call all the draft captains stupid when he’s the one getting verbally ear fucked by yours truly because logic and reason are foreign concepts to him.

Yes folks, it is projection all the way down!

Robbie, I’m not flustered by your multitude of personas. I’m quite capable of multitasking, you see. For example, this whole week while I’ve been rolling you belly up, I’ve been coordinating the team of teams behind the scenes. I don’t sweat everything you’ve been. Nor am I the least bit confused by it. I know exactly what you are. You’re a gallery of fun house mirrors. Here’s one that makes you look tall and skinny. Here’s one that makes you look stout and fat. And here’s one that makes you look like a sad middle aged man vascillating from schtick to schtick like an unmedicated bipolar. And maybe that’s the effect you’re going for. Maybe you’re hoping that that will confuse and entrap people. But the fact is that the only people who get scared and confused by funhouse mirrors are children. And the only thing at the core of that funhouse is a greasy carny spanking it to a cache of 70’s era titty mags he found in the dumpster. I can’t think of a better metaphor for your soul. Oh, and speaking of spanking it, failing to get laid doesn’t make you asexual, it just makes you an incel, Smelliot Rogers!

Corey once again realizes he’s been a bit too loud. Casting another cautionary look about, he keeps on rolling.

But all this talk of identities is just the quiet before the storm, the gathering of forces before the battle. The real meat here is what’s going to occur in that ring. And just like he always does, Robbie has guaranteed that he’s gonna beat somebody ‘till their bow legged and smelling colors. I mean, sure, that MAY happen at Savage. If you have Preesh and Diesel and TK as back up. Pussy.

Or, what will happen is Bobby will dole out all the punishment he can and I will just….keep….FIGHTING.

You failed to beat The Engineer. And I have the same skill set and conditioning.

You and TK hit your Sparkle Pony Mystery Holocaust Machine on me at Snow Job and I was still up to help Doc make the pin at the end of the match.

Hell, even when you beat Thad and I for the tag titles, I sure as hell wasn’t flat on my back when that decision came down. I was still fighting fist tooth and nail to help my partner.

The cold hard fact is that whatever you have thrown at this body has FAILED TO KEEP IT DOWN EVERYTIME. You have NEVER pinned me or made me submit. And the worst out of that lot is you didn’t beat The Engineer.

Corey suddenly looks solemn. He points at himself.

You know who wanted you to win that one? ME. But instead I had a front row seat to the version of Bobby Bourbon that bailed on his Universal title reign because he couldn’t be arsed to keep defending it. I got real up close and personal with the Bobby Bourbon who regularly gives up on being a decent person the moment it no longer strikes his fancy.

I saw the version of Bobby Bourbon that is shot through with WEAKNESS.

And I’m still seeing it now.

It’s no surprise you’ve become a tag team specialist. Why not get all the benefits of being a champion with the added bonus of knowing it’s not all on you. Pressure valve released! But not me. I’ve spent the better part of this year going it alone, like I usually do. And stepping right over luminaries like Doc and Jim Caedus and James Raven and Centurion to get the job done time after time after time.

There’s no partner this time, Bobby. I’m shuffling you back off to the tag division for good. Toodles.

Corey waves goodbye as the sounds of battle that have permeated the entire promo have suddenly gone silent. Corey starts to notice the quiet, and he screws his face up in confusion.

Wha’ happen?

COREY SMITH! An authoritative and familiar voice commands. Corey perks up, craning his head for a listen. I challenge you to one on one combat!

Corey smiles and nods. Sure Drew, you got it. Tell your ‘roid ragers to stand down.

I already did.

Corey again peeks his head up over the lip of his hiding spot, and he sees no one in sight. Pulling himself up and out, he spots a solitary figure in a clearing in the distance. Still clutching his rifle tight, he makes his way over to Drew Carey.

Drew is standing in a sea of long yellow grass. The wind playing over it creates a soothing, undulating effect like lapping waves. Above him, the sky is marred by only a few passing clouds. All in all, the scene is strangely beautiful.

Corey.

Drew.

Drew Carey tosses aside his paint ball rifle. Let’s fight like men. He reaches down and pulls up a couple sheathed katanas. He tosses one to Corey, who instinctively drops his own rifle and snatches it from the air.

Today, we will water this land with our life’s blood. Future forests will succor from it, and grow, potent and monolithic, as living testaments to the fighting spirit that dwells within us. He closes his eyes and unsheathes his sword. I am ready to die today. But I will not go peaceably. I will storm the gates of elysium, and the heavens will split and thunder by my hand.

Corey blows out an exasperated puff of air. Dude, I still don’t want your show.

Drew drops into a fighting stance as, despite the fact that there is no discernable source for them, a shower of pink petals and descends over the battle field.

Alrighty then. Corey also readies himself. The tension mounts by the second, until they both explode into action! Both men charge at each other, their blades catching off the sunlight as they strike and parry. Their movements are precise, with no wasted effort. Two warrior iconoclasts locked in historic battle. Corey sweeps, Drew parries and strikes back. Corey just barely ducks under the blade, and a few locks of his hair are severed and caught by the wind. Corey goes low, sweeping for Drew’s legs, but he backflips away deftly, hooking a foot under Corey’s jaw, stunning him. Drew lands and lunges again with near impossible reaction time. He drives his blade at Corey’s midsection. Corey jukes to the side, but Drew counters by bashing the hilt of the blade into Corey’s temple. The young man’s vision blurs and time slows to a crawl as Drew’s sword arcs downward into a finishing blow.

No! Corey shouts. He brings his blade up in just the nick of time with such force both swords shatter! Drew looks amazed, stepping back. Corey deftly picks up a piece of blade and hits an impossible 8 foot high somersaulting leap over him, landing at his back and threatening Drew’s throat with the shard.

Do you yield?

~~~~~~~~~~

Heh, do you yield? Corey says, with an unfocused far away look in his eyes.

Uh, no?

Corey’s eyes refocus, and he’s startled to see Drew Carey in front of him with his paintball rifle pointed right at him.

I was just standing here the whole time, wasn’t I?

Yep.

Drew lights Corey up full auto with an impossible torrent of painful colorful projectiles.

OW OW OW OW OW OW OW!!!!! Corey is knocked back and off screen by the onslaught as we close.