The dog days of summer are in full swing, the hottest, stickiest days of the year just blazing down as autumn is right around the corner. The population of the beach is triple what it will be in less than three weeks. The sun beats down as people enjoy the surf, sand, and sights of the boardwalk. It’s here, where we see being pushed along said boardwalk with a hand truck by Genevieve Tote, his image consultant, none other than Bobby Bourbon, who is still a human chocolate bar due to the complications of his match with Y’all Know Who.

Mr. Bourbon, I know you said you booked a week at the beach and didn’t want to lose out.

It’s a timeshare, Miss Tote, something these regular poors will never have.

If I didn’t go this week, I’d lose out!

You’ve explained it several times, Mr. Bourbon, I’m still confused how this works. You are a partial owner of a house?

Partial renter!

That sounds very peculiar.

Nonsense, Miss Tote, ever since last week when I became a giant chocolate treat, my stock has risen.

It was at five cents a share.

It has doubled.

Bobby looks overjoyed in his cocoa coffin.

You know what that means, Miss Tote?

It’s ten cents a share?

Correct. That, and I am now twice as rich.

Well, Mr. Bourbon, regardless, maybe you could have had this chocolate shell removed.

No way, Miss Tote, I’m half tempted to go full M..

AMPERSAND..

M with this and get this baby candy coated!

It’s the sweetest gig in the XWF today!

Yo, I’m Bobby Bourbon, so sweet I’m what your momma wants on Valentine’s and what your kids crave at Halloween, so smooth with delivery and the way I glide throughout a ring, so rich because my stocks are now ten cents a share!

Yo, high five!

Bobby calls out to a passerby who looks baffled as they raise their hand and Bobby scoots by on the hand truck in his some three-hundred pound chocolate casing.

Mental high five bro, I didn’t leave you hanging!

Ooh, ooh! Miss Tote, stop!

What is it, Mr. Bourbon?

Bobby glances down at the boardwalk in terror.

Ants!

Miss Tote takes note. She steers clear of an empty snow cone left on the boardwalk with a trail of ants going to town on it for every bit of sugar.

Mr. Bourbon, are you really afraid of ants?

Absolutely not, Miss Tote, but one ant on this incredibly expensive Swiss chocolate shell I’m stuck in and that’s the end of it!

No more Bobby Bonbon Bourbon.

Bobby smiles. You try saying that out loud once without fucking up.

Mr. Bonbon Bourbon, how do you expect to wrestle?

At Warfare, your opponent just had to nudge you into cake because of that carapace you’ve formed.

Cyberjaw, the man with the cybernetic jaw, approaches.

You look like leftovers from this year’s Easter, bro.

And it’s August.

I know it’s August!

Diamondback, the man who can blend into any crowd, nears.

Snickers satisfies, you sometimes disappoint!

Hey, that’s deep, nobody watches my promos for introspection!

Bobby looks distressed by the notion.

Mr. Bourbon, there’s a fan right here who says you bite while giving head.

Bobby’s eyes go wide.

I do not!

Yeah, the whole internet is making fun of you!

Making fun of ME!

ON THE INTERNET!

I HATE THAT!

Yeah, bro, this guy says you should get Charlie to be a giant graham cracker and TK to be a giant marshmallow and you can be the Brotherhood of S’Mores.

Bobby looks quizzically.

Charlie would be down but TK not so much.

Miss Tote takes note. Bobby sniffs the air.

I have absolutely no peripheral vision in this thing, do I smell hot dogs?

Yes, Mr. Bourbon, we’re right by a snack bar.

Miss Tote, I know what I want.

Miss Tote doesn’t look up from her tablet, which is attached to the back of the hand truck.

Do you want a hot dog, Mr. Bourbon?

Indeed!

Okay.

Miss Tote pivots Bobby and rolls him into the line of the snack bar. One of the employees notices and takes heart.

Oh my, are you hurt! We have a handicap line over here, sweetie!

Miss Tote goes to correct the hapless snack barista, but before she can, Bobby speaks.

Thank you! It’s so kind of you, I’ve got Type 3 diabetes over here!

What can I get you, sir?

Three hot dogs.

Okay! That’ll be twenty-five dollars.

What the shit?

Yes, the hot dogs are seven dollars a piece.

I can get a whole pack of hot dogs for less than that!

The employee of the snack bar shrugs. Inflation, what’re you gonna do?

Fine. I want them with mustard and onions.

Oh, we, uh, don’t have onions, and the condiments are on a table over there.

Dammit.

Miss Tote!

Miss Tote is busy revising her resume.

Yes, Mr. Bourbon?

Miss Tote, I need your assistance.

No, Mr. Bourbon, I already told you I’m not going to feed you because you want to stay in your chocolate.

Fine. Cyberjaw.

Yo.

Do you have the Reach Grabber?



Diamondback reaches into his pocket and pulls his phone out and starts playing intense music to introduce the latest item in the lineup from BourbCo.

The Reach Grabber.

Diamondback reaches using the Reach Grabber to grab a hotdog, and another Reach Grabber to open the foil it’s in, with quite a showing of agility no less for use of this critical tool in today’s world. Diamondback opens a packet of mustard with two Reach Grabbers and pours it perfectly across the hot dog. Diamondback then reaches and procures an onion and actually fucking dices it perfectly into ¼” cubes, then dresses the hot dog evenly. Diamondback then picks up the fully dressed by means of Reach Grabber hot dog and guides it to Bobby’s face, where he gives Bobby a hot dog mark to his forehead. Mustard dribbles onto the bridge of Bobby’s nose.

Oh, god dammit.

No! This is bad.

And why are there so many fucking seagulls?

They’re following you, Mr. Bourbon, you’re a giant chocolate bar and they’re flying rats.

They are absolutely filthy creatures. I hate seagulls. I throw rocks at them.

Bobby looks forlorn, considering the sticky situation he’s in.

Also, Mr. Bourbon, rats. Regular rats are also following you.

A lone rat stands and hisses menacingly at the camera. Rats are fucking pricks.

Oh Jesus, the beach was a bad idea when I’m a giant chocolate bar!

Yeah, Mr. Bourbon, you’re melting and everything out here. You are trailing ants everywhere.

Is it gross, Miss Tote?

It’s gross, Mr. Bourbon.

So many gross, gross ants.

Dang.

Besides, Mr. Bourbon, how did you intend to fight Ned Kaye at the Grand Canyon? You have no peripheral vision, you can’t give a high five, and you’re trailing ants everywhere.

A fan walks by.

“Hey, Bobby Bourbon, you’re Augustus Gloop if Augustus Gloop was a little bitch!”

Bobby sneers at the fresh fan. He struggles to go and just absolutely mug him on camera, perhaps even rooting through his wallet for any sandwich cards with a lot of punches, and can’t because of the hot mess he’s allowed himself to become. Bobby looks unhappy.

Miss Tote, just roll me to the beach. The sunlight will melt away the chocolate.

Yes, Mr. Bourbon.

Also, Mr. Bourbon?

I think you’re making a smart decision.

Miss Tote wheels Bobby to the sand, where of course, a hand truck can’t go due to all the sand. Bobby is set on his heels and Miss Tote backs away. The chocolate, goopy and nibbled from rat and ant and probably a few centipedes at the ankles, doesn’t support the already very top heavy Bobby Bourbon. Bobby lurches forward, and the giant chocolate bar is dropped in the sand, ruined. Miss Tote notices and looks immediately alarmed. She calls for Diamondback and Cyberjaw, who are sword fighting with the Reach Grabbers (because they know how to have fun). They both run and look at the gloopy chocolate mess on the beach in front of them. Their Reach Grabbers are of no use here, no. Gripping chocolate in this state is a crap shoot at best, even with real people hands.

He’s suffocating!

Damn!

Yeah!

Wow, you’re both pointless!

Miss Tote grabs both Reach Grabbers and tries to turn Bobby over, using leverage and not a pinch! A raccoon runs away with an entire toe from Bobby’s chocolate sarcophagus. Suddenly, we see the flash of lightning in the sky as air horns all scream to action, calling everyone from the beach from the sudden storm. The thunder that follows splits the air with a superheated cleaver, causing even the ever stoic Miss Tote to flinch. A deluge of rain begins to pour down and wash the streets, the beach, the buildings, and of course, chocolate covered Bobby Bourbon. As the deluge batters the shoreline, Bobby slowly rises on his own volition, still in his ring gear from last Wednesday Night Weekend Warfare. As he does, he cracks his entire back.

Not going to lie I have to take a huge dump.

Miss Tote?

Genevieve is well away from Bobby, standing under an awning and watching along with Cyberjaw and Diamondback. Crash Rodriguez, TK, Dolly, and B.o.B. D approach. Miss Tote notices and makes an ugly face.

What are you doing here?

What? We wanted to beat the crap out of YKW for Bobby on his birthday! Didn’t you see where I kicked him off a slip and slide?

That’s right, Bobby said for his birthday he wanted us to act like assholes from a wrestling video game.

So we did.

Because we’re bros.

Bobby is tromping towards the group under the awning, soaking wet and dyed chocolate brown from head to toe.

I need a real shower and fresh pants.

Bobby walks over to the rest of BOB. Bobby looks to address Big D and Dolly, exchanging no look fistbumps with TK and Charlie.

Alright, bros, no more interfering in my matches.

I don’t need the help. I can take Ned. It’s just Ned. Nothing fancy.

Thank you.

You smell like you’ve been in a diabetic coma for three days and just came out.

You smell like someone shit in a chocolate bar.

Thank you.

No more interfering.

I don’t need the assist against Ned, and let’s face facts, I never have nor requested it.

Whoo, Ned though, he partnered up with the guy who helped him get a win over me, and then they went off and tagged once and probably never again. Let’s be honest here. Odds aren’t with them anymore. Right now, Isaiah King is boohooing himself and his whole life while Ned’s got me to deal with at the Grand Canyon.

That said, Isaiah, this time, I’m going to have a few members of B.O.B. on call in Arizona. We’re still friends with Ozzy, he can teleport anyone in whenever he needs, so if King shows up, he gets dealt with quick.

Bobby smuggly smiles and rolls his eyes, the rain pouring down on him, his demeanor still and refreshed. Lighting strikes a near tree, blindling to the senses, and the thunder echoes so loudly the sound of the crashing destroyed limb can’t be heard. Fuck a tree falling in a woods and nobody being around to hear it, a tree fell at the beach and nobody heard it at all.

Ned, you’re as reliable, and basic, as bacon and eggs.

KRA-THOOOOM

The thunder echoes.

I love bacon and eggs, Ned. And I eat them and another half dozen on the regular.

Now, B.o.B. D., go take a lap.

B.o.B. D. looks around with a grin before he realizes that nobody thinks Bobby is joking. B.o.B. D. jogs.