We open to see Bobby Bourbon at a public library, of all places. He's seated in a chair, his eyes closed. Beside him is a very distraught Miss Genevieve Tote.

So, uh, Charlie won't, uh, be here for Warfare?

Yep, he…

Miss Tote looks as though she considered the very best outcome for Charlie, but still personally forlorn.

He went home to be a dad to his kids, right?

What? No. He went on strike. See, Charlie writes his own material and he's showing solidarity.

~~~~~

We see Charlie sitting down on a sidewalk doing nothing.

~~~~~

We cut back to the library. Bobby is slumped in his chair, stewing.

So, uh, yeah, go solidarity!

Bobby swiftly nods, his lips taught and pert. His nostrils flare.

Okay, so, you can get a replacement partner.

Bobby’s eyes open.

I know. Who?

Do you want me to call Mr. Knuckles?

Bobby swiftly shakes his head 'no'. Very quietly, he brusquely speaks.

No. That man hasn't even called me since he drafted Doc.

Bobby’s ire escalates, his tenor becoming that of an enraged second grade teacher.

Um, okay, why are we in a library?

Because Miss Tote, I'm on the heels of the biggest loss of my career and my best friend drafted the old man before me. Jimmy better be doing laps until his legs fall off for that shit. Now, Charlie is flexing how much he loves union labor to leave a guy high and dry.

Aren't you union?

Yeah, but more the international clandestine operators, union. I guess that leaves all the rest of the union guys out.

Noted.

Bobby takes a deep breath.

Well, Mr. Bourbon, I guess this is goodbye. If you're no longer trying to look good for Charlie's benefit, then would you even need an image consultant?

Bobby sharply looks at Miss Tote, who looks deflated by the concept of losing her job.

Miss Tote, I feel you of invaluable service. By no means should you lose work because one man won't write! Imagine, Jennifer Aniston and Tom Hanks have to go back to waiting tables, for crying out loud!

I think they'll be okay, Mr. Bourbon.

Bobby exclaims loudly.

See! That's what I need. Thinking! You have plans. Me? I have no title, no friends, what plans do I have that work?

"Shhhh!"

A librarian shushes Bobby.

I'M NOT WRONG!!

"This is a library!"

Genevieve continues to speak in a hushed tone as Bobby bellows, unsettling the whole Library.

Why are we in a library, anyway?

Bobby stands up. A Calvin and Hobbs book falls out of his lap.

So I don't lose my shit!

Well it isn't working Mr. Bourbon, may we leave?

Bobby is already tromping out of the library.

And my damned opponents at Warfare is my captain for War Games! Where am I supposed to find another destitute XWF Superstar who isn't union and is trying to scrub their image too?

Miss Tote's eyes widen. She almost squeals.

I have an idea!

Good! Keep 'em coming!

"Shhhhh!"

I KNOW, I'M SORRY!

~~~~~



We see Bobby standing outside in a library parking lot. Miss Tote is beside him on her tablet.

So, fuck it, I don't know who my partner is going to be, and I'm this close to stopping giving a flying fuck right now, but damn, having heard the words of the Guardians Protection Services, I could pick a fucking fan out of the crowd and beat these jaggaloons and be backstage in time for fresh charcuterie in catering. Miss Tote!

Yes, Mr. Bourbon.

DO NOT SELECT A FAN.

Noted, and please stop yelling.

Thank you, but it's so liberating to shout!

Miss Tote takes notes of Bobby’s rant.

So, first, we have Jay Omega, and what happened man? You were out there reaching for the stars, now you're a stoner who can't handle his shit after crushing two jabronis I never heard of, and they saddled you up with the drunk guy drinking out of a boot. Alex, boy, oh fucking boy, I look forward to greeting you to this here Xtreme Wrestling Federation, sloppy drunk on cough syrup and bath salts for all I care. Tie one on, come on down, you’re about to get the rudest awakening you ever had, more than when you woke up at Oktoberfest after one too many shots, and that was from when inside the port-o-john you wound up sleeping in. Fuck how far your partner has fallen to even know what you personally fucking smell like, because one look at you in your promo and it's fucking evident you stink on ice and underwater.

You beat me, Jay Jay the Cannabis Canuck, I look at you now, and shit, you’re shit out of luck! I'm not celibate, but I won't give a fuck when I slap you around like a Carolina Hurricane smacking a puck! This is kind of like the NHL, you’re Canada, out of contention with bullshit that stopped walking and is earning a pension, I'ma say this to you right damn now and to your partner by extension, I exhibit greatness, you’re barely an honorable mention. You're coming into Warfare with a guy making his own hooch, I gave up bootlegging years ago stop being a gimmick mooch! Jay Jay picked a partner and he really screwed the pooch…

These dog fuckers can pucker up and give your ass a smooch.

Bobby blinks.

Beg pardon, Miss Tote.

Yes, Mr. Bourbon?

That was very non-union writing.

Just finish these guys.

Candy asses, through and through, a rum cherry and a Starburst! When I think of asses worth a whooping I used to consider you first but don't worry, boys, ole' Bourbon is guaranteed to quench your thirst, leaving both of y'all smiling like a donut ready to bite a bratwurst.

Damn.

Bobby sticks his hand out for a no-look fistbump and catches air. He looks beside him, then faces where he was, scowling.

Mr. Bourbon?

Miss Tote looks at Bobby with perk.

That was awesome. Keep it up.

She holds up her right hand for a high five. Bobby gives her one and looks back at the camera.

Thanks, but for this one it looks like I have to get twice as pissed, because across the ring I see another morsel on an already full plate of absolute horsefeathers and unjust incompoopery! GOD THE SYLLABLES FEEL GREAT!

Indoor voices outdoors.

Yes, Miss Tote.

Absolutely, Mr. Bourbon. Also maybe limit the words to ones used this century? Nincompoopery? Look, you're a simple guy, I take it you didn't take lit classes in school?

I was absolutely lit at school.

Right. Well, use your words.

Huh. So not using clean language in lieu of actually what I feel? My promos will just be shit shows, literally a game one could play to see how many times 'shit' winds up in a promo. I need to show that I may be simple, but eloquent. Do you think a soft spoken Bobby Bourbon would suffice?

I am glad you didn't misuse words there.

Bobby furrows his brow. He very calmly looks at Miss Tote.

That's TK's thing. Not my problem at the moment.

Right.

Miss Tote takes note.

So, the other thing, besides the drunk slurring the past three or so months of my career which still completely outdoes anything he'll ever do or Jay prepping to slobber down on this whiskey dick since I guess this new and *YAWN* exciting turn in his career blows, the other quandary I see myself beset by, is team HSU.

Like, damn, if Charlie didn't strike, he was finally going to get dragged, kicking and screaming, to a big win against his eternal nemesis, almost like a fucking fly getting the best of a swatter. Well, now that the albatross around my neck is going on a self appointed vacation until he and his colleagues get better treatment and money for the words they write, I not only have to sweat his needs, I don't have to sweat Sarah Lacklan whatsoever, ain't that right, Captain?

You are a smart, smart woman, Sarah, you and Angie both, really. You even had it in your voice, not knowing what kind of state of mind I might be in, and playing it safe, knowing that the bombs I drop don't stop and they’re coming full nuclear. Now, in earnest, in dignity, and with honor, I would say I should treat this encounter like no other and face you just as hard as any opponent. It's the honor I owe you, knowing what you've accomplished. Knowing you too know what it's like to lose.

Say, Miss Tote?

Yes Mr. Bourbon?

Please document that right now, I want go into a cage and rip meat from bone, turning our opponents into pure an absolute fucking prey, and yes Sarah, you might be no Bastard, but we will prey and destroy, your venom followed up by the clubbering blunt force trauma that is only made in America. I got the size of Paul Bunyan, the might of John Henry, the balls of Pecos Bill, and the heart of Johnny Appleseed, pure American folklore, and there isn't anything richer in American lore than the revenge tale.

I can think of a few names I want revenge against come War Games. Bet you can too. I reckon you're just the type to help me get it too. Thing of it is, all this violence I'm bringing to Warfare wouldn't serve either of us well at all at War Games if it somehow fell on your head. So, this Weekend Warfare, down in Charlotte, THE hotbed of wrestling, all you need to do is one thing.

Stay out of my way.

I mean, by all means, Sar, if you wanna get a shot or two on the easy pickings coming to the ring; you know, the team that will formerly be known as Guardians Protection Service? Holy fuck, what were you two on when you came up with that? Energy drinks and Pixie Stix? You'd have thought of something deeper if you were on real drugs.

Would that be non-union writing, Mr. Bourbon?

It's a shit pun that sounds like a rent-a-cop agency, the Screen Writer's Guild has integrity for fuck’s sake. Anyhow, Sar, by all means, I'm hungry, not greedy, there'll be plenty of team Glorified Piss Stains to go around. You and Angie both don't look like you eat a ton, besides, I'm keto, full carnivore. Call me Seymour here, you need blood and can't get enough, I'm all about making sure you grow up big and strong.

Mr. Bourbon, is that a reference to Little Shop of Horrors?

Yes, Miss Tote. You said I sound like a high schooler, I shouldn't reference what every high school drama class performs? Sarah is a vampire. Also, it's a play, hence already written, so we don't need a writer.

Ah, so you're saying it's relevant to what I mentioned earlier and why you have no partner?

Bobby pauses.

No. Miss Tote, I said it because I have fond memories of that play.

The monster wins in the end after all. Leave it to Hollywood to botch that.

Noted, Mr. Bourbon.

Miss Tote frantically types away on her tablet.

Thing is, I'm not fool enough to think I'm going into this kind of match with a sudden new last minute partner and not have someone watching my back, even if nobody else has picked up more curveballs like this in XWF history. Sar, it's not even a matter of quid pro quo, it's about common sense. Just wait and see what happens when I decide to Heel Shit Up right alongside you.

Tell Angie she's adorable, no offense at War Games, she's welcome to do, uh, her moves, whatever they are, to the other two holdovers from the Era. Like, were you ever around for LeStrange? Alex Richards is a total ripoff of that guy.

Shit count: 10 11 now, nevermind. :at: