No, I don’t know where I left it.

Bobby Bourbon looks somewhat despondent, seated at his desk. Genevieve Tote, Bobby’s image consultant, is seated, calmly looking at her tablet.

You wanted it chained to your wrist so you won’t lose it, Mr. Bourbon, did you take it off?

Bobby holds his left hand up, holding his 24/7 briefcase, which is handcuffed to him.

Of course not, Miss Tote, I can’t remember where I left the key to the handcuffs. This has been inconvenient.

How so?

Well, besides the fact I can’t cash in the briefcase since it’s stuck to my arm, there are some situations where being attached to an attache case is the drizzling shits.

==

The steamed up bathroom mirror doesn’t show the reflection of whoever is operating the camera, but we absolutely hear Bobby from behind a shower curtain with the water running. His horrific warbling and butchering of the song “Sundown” by Gordon Lightfoot. The water cuts off and Bobby slides open the shower curtain. Soaking wet and buck naked, Bobby reacts with shock as he notices the camera and swiftly pulls the 24/7 briefcase in front of his block and tackle before it’s caught.

Jesus, don’t you know how to knock?

Bobby turns around, his almost nonexistent sad looking ass in full view.

Are you gonna hand me my towel or what?

==

Mr. Bourbon, again, I apologize, but you did agree to meeting with the camera crew at Twelve PM and that they should be sent in whatever you were doing for a better promo.

I thought that meant midnight!

Sure, now I know that’s Twelve AM, but, ugh.

Miss Tote, from now on, I want those two times to be noon and midnight or we operate on military time. Do you want to have to figure out 20 hundred hours?

That’s Eight PM, Mr. Bourbon.

No, it’s Ten!

Bobby looks smugly at Miss Tote, then at his computer screen, cocking an eyebrow. His smug look fades after he clicks around on his mouse for a moment.

I apologize, you’re right.

Miss Tote smirks, taking note.

Did you check the pants you wore yesterday?

My pants don’t know military time, Miss Tote.

No, Mr. Bourbon.

For the key to the briefcase.

Oh.

Bobby shakes his head.

Not yet, but you know what they say, it’s always in the last place you look.

Right, Mr. Bourbon. You didn’t revisit your Château after Leap of Faith and leave it there, did you?

No, Miss Tote.

I left the Château Bourbon in capable hands.

==

The regal Château of the Dukes of Bourbon, adorned with neon lights and kitsch, is rife with activity. Visitors and patrons all run in terror from an army of Robin Williams clones.

Rainbow Randolph is accosting an elderly couple.

Patch Adams is covered in blood and cackling.

Popeye is beating a man with a closed and very dented can of spinach.

Mrs. Doubtfire is chasing someone with a broken pool cue.

The creepy blond dude from One Hour Photo is taking pictures of it all.

==

You’re never going back there again, are you, Mr. Bourbon.

Probably not. I can’t get on an international flight with a briefcase handcuffed to me!

Bouncy Brickhouse walks into the office, her arms folded across her chest.

Did you take our handcuffs?

Bobby blinks slowly.

He glances at Miss Tote, who has her face buried in her tablet at this point.

He glances back at Bouncy.

Yes.

Bouncy rolls her eyes.

You didn’t even take the key with you, how are you even going to use the briefcase?

Bobby immediately perks up.

You have the key?

Bouncy holds up a small key attached to a bright red, oversized, plastic pair of cartoony looking lips.

I have the key.

Oh thank the Bastardly Father. I, uh, was finally going to do that pool tournament that Miss Tote kept bringing up but couldn’t because…

Genevieve clears her throat.

Mr. Bourbon.

The tournament was in July.

Bobby looks relieved. Writing a pool tournament sounds very boring, good luck to anyone who wants to touch that one. How many fucking ways can I really say "the ball went in the hole"?

Oh. Dang. Well, could you help me out here?

Bobby places the case on his desk, his left arm outstretched. Bouncy doesn’t move an inch.

What’s the safeword?

Miss Tote again buries herself into her tablet. Bobby looks slightly at her, then back at Bouncy.

Vinnie Lane.

Bouncy giggles and approaches the desk, and unlocks the handcuffs.

==

So, Y’all Know Who it Is.

Let’s talk about who it ain’t.

It sure as fuck isn’t Corey. Nah, that boy is too busy to come and have cake with Bobby, now isn’t he? Sheesh.

Hell, by XWF standards, the only people who know Corey and I have a history at this point would be Corey and I. Not that it matters, because Corey, after what I saw you do to TK at Leap of Faith, you wouldn’t want any of what I bring to the table. Jesus. You hear tell that TK burned your house down, and for all I know, he didn’t he just wanted to shut you up and stop your whining, but you went and picked up a chair?

Boyo, if it were me, and my house was torched?

Oh shit, when it was me, and my house got torched all the way back in 2015? I didn’t pick up a chair. Nah.

I crippled motherfuckers and made the entire XWF fucking pay for that shit in blood.

And I ain’t done collecting!

Y’all Know Who else it isn’t?

Mark Flynn.

See, after I had the dignity and courtesy to allow Mark to continue his path onward with the Xtreme Title, there was no way a callow dinglefucker like that would ever come have cake with me. Nah. He’s deranged and deluded enough to think I’d have like a bunch of strippers in the cake with billy clubs, or one big stripper in the cake with two billy clubs and a belt laden with billy clubs.

I don’t care what locker room you got locked into to avoid it, too!

Y’all Know Who else it sure as fuck ain’t?

Dionysus. That low down, no good, son-of-a-bitch. Did you see Leap of Faith? Huh?

I GOT CHOKESLAMMED.

AND THAT IS NOT OKAY.

I chokeslam people, Dio. I do. Not you, and you definitely don’t go around chokeslamming me.

While we’re at it, Y’all Know Who isn’t Doc because Theo doesn’t want us fighting one another because we’re the big guns come the showdown with IIW.

Y’all Know Who it is, though, right?

It’s an obvious fucking charlatan. Some sham of a text message gets shown off on one of his promos that says Sprint.

Sprint was absorbed by T-Mobile the same way the 24/7 Briefcase was absorbed by me. Get the fuck on outta here with that.

Shit.

Listen up, shitstain.

You’re the guy your baby momma goes to when she’s pissed.

Your baby momma comes to me one way;

Bobby winks.

..eyes closed and jilling off.

Because I have higher standards than Y’all Know Who It Is.