We at BourbCo are happy to bring to you, the consumer, exactly the product you need and want.

That being crazy ass Television Championship match stipulations.

WELCOME TO THE LAB

We catch up with Bobby Bourbon, Television Championship draped over his shoulder, along with Cyberjaw, the man with the cybernetic jaw, Diamondback, the man who can blend into any crowd, and Ash, Bobby’s stylist. Bobby looks a little downtrodden.

What has you down, bro?

Yeah, you’re the brand spanking new Television Champion, the champion of all networks, basic cable, and heck, even premium package channels!

Not Netflix or streaming services though.

Bobby cocks an eyebrow.

Oh I’m definitely one of the champions of BastardNET and what other streaming services do you need?

You guys just play your weird ass promos, reruns of Match Game ‘76, and some weird Dharma and Greg fanfiction show.

Our weird ass promos are wonderful.

Charlie’s are gross.

Charlie is a fucking genius who knows good programing. Match Game ‘76 is the peak of human entertainment. Richard Dawson, Betty White, Charles Nelson Reilly, and bad 70’s hairdos. The Dharma and Greg stuff is all on TK. He just loves Jenna Elfman.

Well, then what’s wrong?

Well…

Bobby leads the Bourbon Men out of his office. He walks through the dojo to a hallway with his cadre and then approaches an elevator door. He boops the call button. Boop is a verb, welcome to 2022.

You see, when I became Television Champion, I had a vision. It was great, and I loved every bit of it.

Renaming the belt to something other than Goldi?

Jesus, yikes, no. That was kinda fun for Charlie but fell off quick when Jenny stole the idea. This belt has one name and one name only, mine, and nobody else can have it.

The elevator doors open. Bobby and the Bourbon Men enter. Bobby once again boops a button and he and his crew begin to descend into the sub basements.

You see, when I became TV Champ, after shaving the head of Jenny Myst, I thought to myself, well, if I can pick the stipulation for the match that I’m going to be in, I don’t need to get nuts with it. I mean, scientifically speaking, I can whip the shit out of 4.75 bears an hour.

How the fuck do you track that stat?

I do. So, I was going to go ahead and just make every match hair versus hair. You know, leave a long line of bald competitors in the XWF, maybe eat the human hair since it’s so rich in protein and give my muscles the power of hair, but then…

Then Xavier Lux.

He’s bald.

Hairy as an entire shawarma.

Exactly. I was at a complete loss, like, how do I have a hair versus hair match against a man with nothing to lose? I mean, yeah, I could shave his eyebrows, but let’s face facts, I can just up and do that anyhow if I want since I commit wonton acts of destruction and assault just willie nillie anyhow without any real repercussions, like any good pro-wrestler. So, I gotta actually figure out the stipulation for my upcoming match.

You could do that weird Culinary Cutthroat thing.

That’s too weird. I mean I would love to prepare a three course meal while my opponent did to, but it’s only a matter of time before Bobby Flay shows up and tells me he’s an east coast guy with southwest flavors and I’m utterly boned. No dice.

Yeah, Iron Chef is really, um…

Not your forte.

Bobby’s eyes go wide.

You think my cooking is bad?

I think your cooking isn’t bad, but last time there was hair in my food.

There was hair in all your food!

We know.

You served us human hair and wanted to see how much we could bench press after.

For science.

The elevator doors open. Once they do, we see a massive laboratory, as evidenced by everything being very well lit, a ton of people in white lab coats, several dry erase boards with crap written on it, like every movie or TV lab you’ve ever seen. Bobby and the Bourbon Men step out and Bobby puts his hands on his hips, arms akimbo.

Speaking of science, it’s high time we found out what the match stipulation here is going to be when I defend the TV Title.

Bobby Flay, TV Chef, approaches. He and Bobby exchange a slick handshake.

Bobby, how are you? Have you been eating well?

I’m alright, other Bobby, happy and fed.

Good, good. Cyberjaw, Diamondback, and as always Ash, it’s great to see you.

Who are you?

That’s Bobby Flay.

I thought whenever you said “Bobby Flay” it was about Bobby ripping the skin off of a living person.

No.

Oh, okay.

So, Bobby.

Yes, other Bobby?

What are you going to do against Xavier Lux? I mean, that guy sure is gunning for you.

Well, the way I see it, if they gotta Beat Bobby Flay, they sure as fuck can’t beat Bobby Bourbon.

Cool. You know, you remind me a lot of me, you’re an east coast guy with a lot of southwest flavor.

Thanks.

So what is the actual match stipulation?

I dunno yet. I figured I’d come down to my research and development department and peruse my own genius.

Ah, just like me looking at my own menu. Welp, later. Thanks for letting me use your lab to perfect a new kind of cheeseburger.

No problem.

Bobby Flay fades out of existence. He doesn’t walk anywhere, he just dissipates, as all well renowned TV chefs do; from Emeril Lagasse to the Swedish Chef. Bobby and the Bourbon Men traipse through the lab. Bobby approaches a table.

Well, here we see a demonstration of a concept I had in a dream. It’s called the Doomed Match of Ultimate Doom.

Bobby presses a convenient button on the table. A hologram pops up, and Bobby describes exactly what we see.

Both competitors are put into a chamber where the walls are all spiked. Slowly, the walls move ever inward. At five minutes they stop, leaving the fighting area to be roughly a three foot by three foot area. At that point, three men with elephantitis are dropped in with knives, and a crone begins to play cello.

What is she playing?

Peter Frampton and stuff from Tom Waits after he quit drinking.

Huh. That sure is a concept.

I know, but it’s not perfected yet. Do any of you know a crone that we can hypnotize into being a cellist?

The Bourbon men shake their heads.

Dag nabbit. Well, onward and upward.

Bobby and the Bourbon Men walk to another table, where yet another convenient button is booped.

Here we see a demonstration for what I call the Chutes and Ladder Match. The belt is suspended above the ring. Fifty feet above the ring. Your average ladder won’t reach it, but you climb ladders and ride slides and stuff.

How does it work?

Bobby shrugs.

No fucking clue. Next!

Bobby and the Bourbon Men approach a third table, and yet another booping incident occurs in this here recorded promo. The hologram comes up and we see an average looking steel cage with a roof. Bobby’s eyes light up and he smiles.

Yep, this is the one.

A cage match?

Not just any cage.



We catch up with Bobby in his office. He looks confidently at the camera as it begins recording.

Welcome to the fold, kid. You’ve been playing around here finding where you are for a time, here and there. I hope you fucking find it. Not that I’m your gatekeeper or any shit.

Bobby dusts his shoulder off. He’s been here before. You notice, without a doubt, how intensely he’s glaring at the screen. For most, a chill runs up the spine just watching the way Bobby looks back at you in the camera, almost like whatever violence he’s talking about could actually happen to you. It could. You know people that this horrible shit happened to. Just like Bobby. If not, I am glad.

I do my fucking best to stand tall on behalf of the entire Xtreme Wrestling Federation, to be here, to defend MY Television Championship. My name is Bobby Motherfucking Bastard Bourbon, welcome to the XWF if you never heard it before, you’re absolutely fucked coming in anywhere you come in regardless of where you come in. Goth didn’t up and decide to come after the Bastards off break, and, well, why should you?

Bobby sucks his teeth.

Goth will never be Television Champion. Goth will championships here, because, as Gothic as he thinks hisself to be, he ain’t a structure unto hisself, but ain’t MEAN enough. Well, Goth, I suppose I reckon us Bastards are mean enough without you, you definitely are pissed off enough at the globe that you have what it takes. We are recruiting! LSM is a bullshit caricature of Latina Women everywhere. Whoop her ass, by all means, because that bitch called out all champs and fucking REJOICED when I didn’t answer the call, fucking check that shit all over the XWF websiite. LSM will rot in the deepest pits of hell…

Bobby looks intently into the screen. He inhales deeply. The sweetness of every molecule of air hits him and he looks back into the camera.

I didn’t. They tried. Come, walk, listen. Otherwise, to Xavier Lux, I’m glad I’m not a doofus rich bitch like Theo, Vinnie, Mastermind, or about two dozen other motherfuckers who thought stepping into bloodsport was what they needed to do with their money, we wrestle for money to pay bills and feed mouths ‘round here. However, I’ve done helped pay your bills and feed your mouths. You’re here, in the XWF, the major fucking leagues, if you can make it here you dominate everywhere, only multi-company Tag Champions in history, how are you doing by the fucking way, the greatest champion in the business and that means the meanest Championship in the business, all respect to Raion Kido, the man who went and WON himself a title. I’m not the one in a suit, in a limousine, on a yacht, in a mansion, with the girl, living your dreams, no, and that’s because I’m the hellraising, rabble rousing, ruckus riling, alarm triggering, and you can ask around about all the people I have triggered past just the XWF but in the business itself to know my reputation proceeds me, and for the love of the Bastard on high, that is precisely as it fucking should be. Hear my name, fear my name, simple as that and that is simple. I live a happy, simple, contented life. Instead, well, Xavier Lux felt like he had a score to settle, and I get it. I shaved Jenny Myst because I thought it would be funny if she was bald. Well, it fucking is. I think you’re funny because, well, you’re bald. Otherwise your entire personality is dry, boring, plain, and better than melatonin, Benadryl, and a hot toddy for putting one to sleep. Now, I could shave your eyebrows, but you’d make that kinda dull too, so instead I introduce, well, what I introduce in a minute. It’s a Gravitron Cage Match. Steel Cage. Roof on cage. We walk on the walls and ceiling because the walls and ceiling have their own relative gravity. Brought to you by BourbCo. The fuck would you have come up with, Xavier? A tug-of-war game? Maybe checkers?

Welp, here we go. Bobby looks poised, primed, and confident that he’s found the thing he wants more than anything. That being meat. That meat being Xavier Lux.

You’re basic, like an alphabet, only not as complex as twenty-six letters I bet, you only need eight letters to spell your name and that’s a complete set, X to A to V to I to E to R to L to sucks without regret. You want to come see me and battle face to face? Come to show yourself and win MY Television Championship and make your case? Think you’re primed and set to come and show a bit of grace before I get tired of you again and just launch your basic ass into outer space? Some fool came the other night picking the wrong fight when he chose to ignite a light under this big goofy white silly ass but try as he might he could just not handle the plight as a war he wouldn’t win knocked out his sight and by war’s toll, I would wage war’s end with a smite to an enemy ever so slight that his people would revoke him by right and cast him out with the rest of the shite. Honestly, lost count there, but claiming bars, come fucking see me later, it sure won’t be Xavier who stops me now.

Bobby shakes his head.

X-Man, you get a pat on the back from me in one regard, you came down and made yourself known, you wanted a shot at me and my TV Title, and you wasted no time in doing that. I didn’t sit back and pretend you needed to get anything signed in triplicate to get it done, oh no, that’s fine by me. What is going to happen, though, is in the name of my crown forged in blood, on my throne made of skulls, with my belt made of television, I will bring your body as an offering to the Bastard lords on high, and I will sate their need for blood and bone and TV with your body, your soul, and maybe even your Comcast account information. I will destroy your ambitions, crushed under my heel, second after agonizing second in the ring, up the walls, and wherever else I need in the arena as I continue my conquest in the name of the Bastard, as the Bastard King. You need not kneel, you don’t have to show fealty, none of that matters, because you will fall, fail, and be cast from my sight as another contestant makes their way down into the Savage Main Event to suffer. Whoever it is doesn’t matter one way or the other to me, cheddar tits, but the only thing I guarantee is they’ll be facing me there.