Heya Sar

So, I want to say that I totes get what's on your mind right now, without a doubt. You're not only proud of me and Noah, but you’re ready to get your mitts on Raion Kido! I mean, he couldn't kick out of your pin, he needed help! Imagine, when you dig into him and go for the Uni twice as nice, it'll be amazeballs!

Now, I get it. I really do.

I understand every move you've made.

You skillfully maneuvered through the very web of the XWF!

Plotting, scheming, planning, with vile and bad intent in that filthy little heart of yours. Saccharine and strychnine. Heck, I asked you to do me a solid earlier this year and get your endorsement, and damn, forked tongues make a man wonder what other tricks a mouth can do. Yucko, though, because, well, respect.

Sar, your plan is absolutely and without a doubt working.

I see what you did.

Drafting me.

Colluding with Dolly, another member of B.O.B., and Jenny, an esteemed former member who didn't get jumped out of the Brotherhood of Bastards.

Charlie's not around, this Bros horsehockey can take a hike!

We're the meanest fucking Bastards this industry has ever seen.

And girl, your audition tape at War Games was well received! TK, Crash, Dolly and yours truly welcome you to join B.O.B., and hey, you're a hell of an upgrade from Charlie.

Angie's not invited. Kenzi is cool though.

Nah, Angie can come, JK. You keep minions, totes adorbs by the dubs. We get it though, you want better catches than Ruby and the minnows won't help you eat like a shark quite like swimming with other sharks.

Do you know what they call a group of sharks?

A shiver.

Heh, brosis, they shall indeed shiver!

Now, you may he asking, what may your tuition to Bastard University be, what do you have to sacrifice to join us and take the place of a man you've made a career off of humiliating?

Nothing! You, madam, just be you. Unrequited and undeniable. The benefits?

The whole fucking Universe.

The meanest, stingiest Bastard alive, Thunder Knuckles.

The wildest, freest Bastard going, Dolly Waters.

The most cunning and clever Bastard breathing, Crash Rodriguez.

And that ruthless, vicious Bastard, yours truly.

Of course, we all want to twist the knife, but there's three other Bastards to consider when you grab your blade if you draw on another. That is foolproof security if I ever heard of it.

Imagine, your Universal Title, your squad of professional grade ass whooping fiends, not pawns but people who get shit done and get results.

Oh, and the best tag partner you ever had. Any of us.

Know what else they call a group of sharks, Sar?

B.O.B.

Now, you can of course change your mind, say you want none of B.O.B. and the better life brought by the Bastardly Father.

Heh, see, we're funny too, Sar, a Bastardly Father? You don't know any deadbeat dads, do you?

I would advise against changing your mind now.

Because I will sell you for what you're worth.

Thank you!

Bobby looks up at Genevieve Tote, his image consultant. She's standing across from Bobby’s desk. The desk is far from modest. The rich mahogany is contrasted by silver and sapphire inlay with a blue marble top. The glow of the words he prepared for Sarah Lacklan is the only illumination on him, as though the lighting of his office is to afford himself shade from company.

How did that sound?

Well, um, is that what you wanted to do, Mr. Bourbon?

It felt quite well within my soul.

Mr. Bourbon, I am here to ensure your image is strong with the people, that you fight for everyone.

Bobby smiles.

Absolutely, Miss Tote, and you're good at your job!

Right. I'm not a speech specialist, I suppose your olive branch to Sarah Lacklan was sincere enough, but is it really good for your image to feed into the notion that you're in some underhanded cadre?

Bobby’s eyebrows furrow.

What do you mean? We're the Mexican legend of El Rudo, nothing wrong with that. Mark Flynn won War Games. I made sure of it. I fought hard for my team and advanced, if Sar weren't afflicted with that tough luck getting dropkicked from the top of a cage, she'd have moved on, and like a loyal soldier, I avenged my captain. She's brilliant, she brought some of the biggest bombs in the business with her in me and Noah. But she's an unfinished product. Imagine what she'll be like when she finally blossoms and flexes that, yes, she can compete at levels higher than Charlie Nickles.

Frankly, she's done herself a bother by constantly matching wits with a guy who would shove a pool ball up his own ass if he thought it would get him high.

Bobby chuckles to himself.

Sort of why the eight ball at the Bastards Den pool table had to be replaced. I bet TK one XBux he would and TK is still pissed he had to pay me and buy a new custom eight ball with an infinity symbol on it instead of an eight.

Miss Tote looks bewildered.

No more betting TK if you can convince a junkie to do something stupid.

Can I bet they won't do something smart?

No.

Okay, no more humiliating the helpless. And Charlie never did that. I just wish he weren't still on strike.

~~~~~

We see Charlie Nickles, sitting on the sidewalk, doing nothing.

~~~~~

Respect, solidarity in writers, bro.

Genevieve looks inquisitively at Bobby.

Mr. Bourbon, how often do you shoot pool at your club?

Every time. I go upstairs, have three hot dogs, then go down to my office to have some of my secret snacks.

You mean the cough drops?

Look, honey lemon saffron is just delicious. After that a few hours of pool. The live dancers don't really do it for me.

Genevieve plugs away at her tablet.

Why not?

I dunno, paying for someone's attention kind of kills it for me, I can't get past how superficial it is and enjoy it, that's what TK told me. I usually shoot pool, unless there's football or some college softball to watch.

Genevieve types away.

College softball?

Yes. I'm hooked. Those ladies have heart and can knock the piss out of the ball and I would injure myself trying to throw a fastball underhanded.

Interesting, I'll see if I can get you involved in that, somehow.

Cool.

Also, I have something lined up for you.

Oh, and what's that, Miss Tote?

How do you feel about playing in a Nine Ball pro-am?

Bobby looks intrigued.

A pool tournament?

Yes, Mr. Bourbon.

Huh.

Bobby turns and reaches into one of the black cabinets behind him. He turns, holding a black case nearly a meter long with a shoulder strap. You were impressed by the use of the metric system in identifying the case's approximate size.

What's that, Mr. Bourbon?

My pool cue, Miss Tote.

Bobby opens the case. He assembles the stick. The handle is as black as midnight, the shaft stained blood red and another shaft on the other side as well in matching stain. A double sided pool cue. The cue stick of a Sith Lord. There's even a little cube of red chalk in the case.

Did you have that custom made?

Nope. I won it off of some dork who probably did.

Bobby’s phone begins to ring. He reaches into his pocket and looks.

It's unlisted. Huh. Probably a telemarketer, I love fucking with them.

Bobby swipes to answer the call on speaker.

"This is a collect call from…

Bouncy Brickhouse

…will you accept charges?"

Bobby goes wide eyed and takes the phone off speaker lest the XWF hear any of the details between Bobby and Bouncy, their distinct albeit romantic relationship staying private.

Yes, I'll accept.

Bobby listens to the reciever. His face goes graven.

Oh no, are you alright?

Bobby nods, listening.

Um, okay, I'll come right away.

Bobby hangs up and looks blown away. Sensing this, Genevieve speaks to correct the mind of Bobby before he get too emotional and behave rashly.

Mr. Bourbon, is everything alright with your friend?

Bobby shakes his head.

Bouncy got arrested in South Dakota trying to steal Mount Rushmore for Carmen Sandiego, she's in a rural jail right now.

I see, Mr. Bourbon.

Genevieve starts tapping away on her tablet.

I can get you a flight as soon as possible and book your rental when you're in the air.

Excellent, Miss Tote. Afterward we can go shoot pool or…

Mr. Bourbon, please, you'd wind up putting someone through a pool table.

Yes I will.

Bobby turns and opens the cabinet, pulling out a small device the shape of a boomerang with a series of buttons on that.

What's that, Mr. Bourbon?

Oh, it's Tacky.

I believe it, that's why you have an image consultant.

No, Miss Tote, but well played. This is a Reverse Tachyon Generator. Tacky for short.

What does it do?

Well, I am glad you asked!

Bobby begins explaining this peculiar device to Genevieve, who watches on in awe at whatever Bobby is saying as the audio drops.