Fred “Michelin Man” Gorson, hamster shaped man and quickly capturing the heart of America, looks intense. Cayenne pepper infused war paint adorns his highly flustered face. If Andy Reid and Andy Reid had a baby and it got bitten by a radioactive Andy Reid, that is how fluffy and chubby Fred is. Mall Santas train to be him. He looks ready to take down none other than Jerry Jones, owner of the Dallas Cowboys, at AT&T Stadium in Arlington, Texas. Beside the man with the teardrop silhouette with none other than Bobby Bourbon, who looks quite pleasant.

Fred, you’ve made strides today, and I’m proud of you.

Thank you, sir!

Please, please, don’t call me sir, I work for a living, hah.

Gorson’s face doesn’t change. He’s been conditioned into intensity.

Yes, Bobby.

Right on, now you gotta loosen up. You have all this pent up angst, and you know, let it out. Vent a bit. I do it a TON before matches, it gets me ready. You gotta be more fluid, if you’re rigid you’re not focused, you’re pointed, does that make sense?

The Michelin Man considers this for a moment. As he does, Jerry Jones approaches. He’s in a Dallas Cowboys uniform, complete with pads, the number one on his jersey. From the back, we see the name simply reads “JERRY”. He’s holding a putter, except the head and striking surface are shaped just like AT&T Stadium.

You know, I’m looking forward to this. I have been waiting to be a champion in this building forever!

Bobby rolls his eyes.

Here we go…

Fred looks at Jerry, nonplussed. Jerry glances at Fred, almost like a shark detecting blood in the water.

Fred, do you know how hard it is for me? I love football, go Cowboys. The thing is, my Cowboys haven’t won a championship since the early Nineties. Every year, Fred, it crushes me to no end, like how in the hell did we lose that time? We should have been in the Superbowl at least three times, and we just didn’t get there! My whole life, Fred, is in this building, and I have been waiting to see my team win another Superbowl. It’s the worst.

Fred looks taken by Jerry’s words. Bobby shakes his head and nudges Fred with his elbow.

Dude is full of shit.

Fuck you, Bobby, nobody asked.

Jerry, quiet. Fred, Jerry is a billionaire. He has a hot tub in the shape of this stadium.

Yes I do.

He invites women from around the world into it.

Indeed I do.

Jerry smiles.

Jerryworld.

Kinda weird but I won’t kink shame. Anyhow, Jerry can go out and buy himself a Jeep, crash it into a Burger King, buy the Burger King, burn it down, and none of that will even put a dent into his personal finances. This bozo has lived an ivory tower life for decades and now he wants you to feel bad for him? Fuck this guy, Michelin, kick his ass in some Mini-Golf, his football team has nothing to do with any of this.

Jerry Jones looks very irate.

Bobby, I didn’t want to have to do this, but I have to now.

Jerry presses a button on his putter. As he does, the football stadium shaped head of the club opens up, and little thrusters pop out, showing he has a propulsion device in it!

You guys might know Mini-Golf magic shenanigans, but you can call me the real Rocketballz!

Fred looks angry.

That’s TK’s cousin’s name you son of a bitch!

Bobby swiftly nods.

That’s, uh, right.

Fred looks as Bobby.

You should Bobbybomb this guy! Fuck the owner of the Cowboys!

Nope!

Bobby shakes his head.

No, Fred. There’s no money in beating the shit out of that guy. You two, though, well, that’s a match for the ages, and I think you two should go at it, but you gotta be on your toes!

Oh, Bobby, you don’t really get it! I know you’ve been coaching Fred, and that’s why I hired my own coach!

Stepping out onto the grounds of the arena from the stands, the striking figure of none other than Bouncy Brickhouse struts towards the men. Bobby’s stance completely softens as he can’t help but gaze at her. She smiles and waves at Bobby.

Hi!

Hey…

Hah, Bobby, that’s right, I hired Bouncy Brickhouse to be my official coach! She helped install the latest tech into my putter, and my uniform not only provides protection on the grid iron but is formidable enough to take on Iron Man!

Bobby, still pleased and not taking his eyes off of Bouncy, ignores Jerry.

Oh yeah, well, I have super putting skills!

Bouncy hasn’t acknowledged Fred, simply smiling back at Bobby.

You two go over there.

Fred and Jerry stop and look at Bobby, waving off both men as he continues to look at Bouncy. Fred and Jerry look at each other and continue to bicker.

My coach is better than your coach!

I hired my coach to get at your coach!

You’re a jerk!

You’re a dweeb!

Bobby chuckles.

I think they’re just terrific, don’t you?

Bouncy laughs.

They are. I can’t believe that old guy is paying me so much and I don’t have to dress like a french maid or anything.

Really?

Hey, sometimes it’s an extra million, just saying, but he paid through the nose to make sure I hooked him up with some extra supervillain tech, really just some leftovers, and besides, Carmen Sandiego sent me to Texas to steal the Alamo, your antics in San Antonio got her attention it seems.

Damn, the entire Alamo? Where are you going to hide it?

Madagascar. They’ll never find it without a grasp of middle school geography!

You get all the money gigs.

You’re too busy wrestling to go out and do awesome heists all the time.

Yeah, true. Well, I bet you dinner my guy wins.

Oh, you are on! Thai?

Winner picks, but yeah, Thai sounds great.

Bobby and Bouncy giggle as they look onward at Fred and Jerry awkwardly going back and forth like two kids.

Kind of reminds me of someone.

Hushabee.

Bouncy laughs.

Whatever, handsome. Um, I think they’re busy, did you want to show me around the stadium?

Bobby gives pause.

I don’t really know the layout of this place.

Well I guess we’ll both learn, c’mon!

Bouncy grabs Bobby by the hand and leads him from the field to the stands, where they begin ascending stairs. Jerry and Fred both stop and look.

See, my coach is going to kick your coach’s ass!

No way, my coach is going to destroy your coach!

We hear Bouncy’s laugh echo throughout the arena from some unheard musing from Bobby.

See, that’s confidence, she’s laughing in your coach’s face!

You’re nuts, grandpa!

Fred holds up his putter, and it sparkles bright fuschia as little butterflies and random zoots and squiggles emit from it.

With the power of mini-golf I will stand up for my sensei!

I’m American, it’s a coach!

Jerry opens up the play card wristband he is wearing in accompaniment to his entire Dallas Cowboys player ensemble, and pulls out a capsule.

Take this, I have gadgets!

Jerry cracks the capsule on the ground, and purple gas starts to emit around he and Fred.

Smoke grenades!

No, laughing gas!

Fred starts giggling, and Jerry Jones does too. Both men slump to the ground.

Hehehehe, I think you’re crazy!

You’re, hahahaha, you’re insane!

With neither Bobby nor Bouncy anywhere to be seen, Jerry Jones and Fred “Michelin Man” Gorson cuddle up with each other and murmur gibberish while passing out in the cloud of laughing gas. Thunder Knuckles and Harmon approach, Harmon stopping TK from walking into the crazy purple knockout gas.

Oh, shit, what the fuck did we miss?

Harmon shrugs and looks around confusedly, probably wondering where Bobby wandered off to. TK speaks.

Where did…

Suddenly, from the massive jumbotron above the field, we see Bobby Bourbon.

Hey, guys, come up to the club level, I found a pool table and there’s a chef!

What the fuck do you want us to do with the dorks on the ground?

Bobby looks confused on the massive jumbotron.

Did you just say something? I can’t hear you, I’m up here in this room with the pool table and food, you’re all the way down there on the field.

TK clears his throat.

I SAID WHAT ABOUT THE DORKS?

Bobby again looks confused.

No, I can’t hear you, you’re on the floor, there isn’t some magic microphone in the jumbotron I can hear you through so…

Harmon waves his arms. He begins signing towards the jumbotron as Bobby watches. Bobby smiles and nods. Behind him we see Bouncy Brickhouse at a pool table.

Okay, that makes sense. Let the two lightweights sleep it off, they look adorable. Any idea who won?

Harmon shakes his head ‘no’.

Gotcha. Well, get up here, there’s brisket, it’s wonderful.

Harmon and TK look happy to hear about tasty food, as anyone would, and they leave the field and head the same direction as Bouncy and Bobby.

~~~~~

We catch up with Bobby, now standing in front of the roman fountains at AT&T Stadium. He’s alone.

I must say, the absolute audacity of that son of a bitch Mark Flynn, to throw himself a pity party? You're all butthurt in your feels because you heard one dude on TV who knows bupkis about our sport.

Bobby’s lips purse and shift to the left side of his jaw.

Seriously, Mark, stop taking yourself so seriously. Like, the weird old man that was sleeping on your couch claiming to be you from the future was a con man. He used you, probably ate a ton of your groceries, and I guess felt like being a starfucker to someone else. Shit, you hit Ned Kaye levels of self loathing and beyond over, what, still being Universal Champion for the time being? Boo fucking hoo, Flynn, blow it all out your ass, I'm coming to fuck you up at March Madness V, I'm taking my goddamn title, and then showing off a shiny fresh belt because yours looks like an entire flea market vomited on your mom's 1970's. Gross. Your big ass life change is my relieving you of a dozen pounds of metal around your waist and your lumbar vertebrae feeling like they can breathe again, sorry to spoil anything for the viewers at home who didn't already fucking have a clue. Naw, Mark, you can go ahead and flex that crisis of conscience, and try to dig something up that you can hold onto for dear life, and by all means, Mark, throw that pity party for yourself. It ain't because a drunk man said so, and pull your pants up Mark, your daddy issues are showing, nah, it's because you know you're condemned yourself, and that is alright. You kept count for all of us, Mark, you did your job, and whatever fuck the number is by the time I pin you, you can tell everyone you were champion for a number of days. Pat yourself on the back for that! Kudos! Someone get that man a treat from the vending machine!

Bobby claps exaggeratedly.

Tell us all the total belltime of each of your matches, while you're at it, statboy.

Bobby winks.

Mark, not going to lie, by the numbers, you're not bad. Granted, though, compared to some of the greats, well, you’re lacking. Michael Jordan was a two time three-peat champion, that's like a thousand days as champ each time! During such times, he had the flu game and hundreds of other hall of fame moments. What have you done besides make guest appearances on Madness? I won't count how long Ali was the champ, but I can call out the Rumble in the Jungle, the Fight of the Century, and the Thrilla in Manilla. Did you guys remember that match Mark had against anyone? He brings them up all the damn time. Every time U.S. Women's Soccer takes the pitch, Serena Williams takes the court, Dale Earnhardt took the wheel, or Wayne Gretzky took the ice, people cared, and watched, expecting the outstanding. You, Mark, have led everyone in just counting the days you've been champion.

Bobby cocks his head and rolls his eyes.

By all means call out all your own accolades and put them on a pedestal, because your accomplishments are great, but you haven't even sniffed greatness. Bad Medicine? While you were playing on an oversized jungle gym with Michael Graves people paid good money to watch Ned and Charlie go to war over the Supercontinental Title, and they stole the show. Snow Job! Again, overshadowed, you picked the hill you wanted to die on, again, and you got overshadowed by Chris Page and six people going at it like rabid dogs for the Tag Team Championships. You just don’t have a track record of setting the world on fire, just sliding on through, and reminding us. Keeping us up to date and on track, Mark Flynn, just counting the days.