Bobby Bourbon, much like the rest of the competitors in the XWF, needs to prepare himself for what lies ahead at Relentless. His best friend and brother in arms, Thunder Knuckles, has already found his passage to Hell. Bobby is seated at his desk, drumming his fingers, lost in thought. Across from him, seated on a couch, is Genevieve Tote, Bobby’s image consultant.

So, your plan was to fall on a rake and break your neck?

Yes, Miss Tote, that’s correct.

That seems like an incredibly risky proposition, Mr. Bourbon, what if you don’t die and you just become a quadriplegic?

Risk is my middle name.

I thought you said your middle name was ‘danger’.

Bobby stops drumming his fingers.

I changed it.

Miss Tote takes note.

So you can’t do that now because that’s how your tag team partner went to Hell?

Correct.

Mr. Bourbon, about that, you seem very relaxed over the fact your friend just died.

Meh, it’s not the first time, it’s not even our first trip to the Abyss.

Miss Tote takes note.

Mr. Bourbon, the funeral services are later today. I understand that you may be in denial because of the sheer grief.

Pssht.

Bobby gives the most infamous bilabial fricative in XWF history.

I’m not, I’m telling you, it’s not a big deal. I’m pretty sure I died earlier this year myself, look at me, running around and doing stuff. TK’ll be just fine and come back from Hell.

So if you’re afraid of copycatting your friend, Mr. Bourbon, what are you going to do now to get to Hell?

I don’t know! I’ve never thought about offing myself before, I’m not a wuss. Do you have any thoughts?

Are you asking me how I think you should die?

No, Miss Tote, we both agree I should die in battle and go to Valhalla. The problem is that’s not where Relentless is, I’ll miss the whole event, or wind up in some other company’s show or something.

Die in battle?

Yes, Miss Tote. After I have slain my enemies, had them driven before me, and heard the lamentations of their women.

If your enemies are slain how are you supposed to die in battle?

Bobby shakes his head.

Look, that doesn’t matter, Miss Tote. What matters is a cool way I can kill myself that’ll really hype my match at Relentless and get the fans in attendance behind me.

Mr. Bourbon, what fans are going to be in attendance there?

Bobby shrugs. Not like Shawn Warstein.

Well, you know, probably a few rock stars, probably a few guys I used to work with here in the XWF, demons and whatnot. I checked Ticketmaster and they didn’t have a listing or anything. Probably quite a few of my most diehard fans have formed a kickass suicide cult to see my match.

What do you think of that idea, Miss Tote?

A suicide cult?

Hell yeah.

I don’t think that would be good for your image whatsoever.

So, what you’re saying is..

Miss Tote takes a quick sharp breath.

Your stocks would plummet.

Oh, nevermind that noise then! You know what, I have an idea!

Bobby stands up. He climbs atop the desk and takes off his belt.

Mr. Bourbon, I don’t think removing your pants is really appropriate right now.

I’m keeping my pants on.

Bobby loops the belt back through the buckle and puts it around his neck. He then takes the loose end of the belt and threads the pull chain from the ceiling fan through one of the punch holes and ties a knot around it, attaching the belt to the fan. Bobby then looks at Genevieve.

You sure you don’t want to go?

I’m sure, Mr. Bourbon, thank you for offering to take me to Hell though.

Okay! Later!

Mr. Bourbon, I don’t think..

Bobby jumps off the desk. The belt goes taught, and as he falls to the floor landing on his feet, the fan is ripped from the ceiling, crashing into Bobby’s desk. Bobby’s eyes go wide with surprise that his attempt at suicide failed.

Damn it!

Mr. Bourbon, you don’t want to do that, people will think you died from autoerotic asphyxiation, like David Carradine.

Or Robin Williams.

I wish you’d stop insisting that Robin Williams died from autoerotic asphyxiation.

Robin Williams wasn’t a wuss, Miss Tote. He was Popeye.

Miss Tote takes note.

Also, remind me to call the ceiling fan people.

That’s the fifth one you’ve broken this month, Mr. Bourbon. First you tried to get the fan to go backwards to pull the heat up so the room would be cooler. Then you wanted to test how good the glue you got was. Then you wanted to test how good the duct tape was to see if it would be better than glue. Then you glued and duct taped airplanes to it so you could feel more like King Kong.

King Kong ain’t got shit on me.

By the by, what day is it?

It’s not even halfway through the month.

Huh.

New record!

Bobby gives us all a fistpump of personal joy at the fact he’s on track to break his fan more times in a month than ever before.

Miss Tote, I’m not going to hang myself with a belt.

Thank God.

Thank the Bastardly Father, you mean.

Miss Tote takes note. As she does, Cyberjaw, the man with the cybernetic jaw, and Diamondback, the man who can blend into any crowd, enter Bobby’s office. They both look at the fan, destroyed and laying on Bobby’s desk.

Bro, that’s the fifth one this month!

Nice!

Right?

Cyberjaw and Diamondback give each other a high five.

So, what’s up?

Well, bro, we heard you’re trying to come up with a cool way to kill yourself to go to Relentless. We had the rake set up and ready, but we came up with another plan.

Awesome! What is it?

Okay, we worked long and hard on this.

First, you stand on a special stage we set up in Times Square.

Classy, I love it.

Okay, so you stand on this special stage. Then, you shoot yourself in the head.

Sounds kinda basic, I don’t want to just Private Pyle myself.

Just wait.

Yeah. After the gunshot, you’ll most likely fall to your knees, just like in Mortal Kombat.

Go on.

As you do, spikes will rise up from the stage and impale your legs, pinning you to the stage.

Yep, that’s when the hinges on the stage give way, and you hang upside down.

Then an axe attached to a hydraulic arm will start swinging into your back to make sure you’re dead.

Bobby rubs his chin.

I don’t know.

Seems kinda basic. I’m really just shooting myself then making sure the mess is harder to clean up after.

Mr. Bourbon, this is all very morbid.

Bobby smirks. He pulls his phone out and shows Genevieve a picture of Morbid Angel.

No, this is Morbid.

Miss Tote takes note. Cyberjaw interjects.

Bro, if you don’t like that, I guess we could come up with more ideas.

Yeah, we thought about making a slip and slide that leads into a shark tank.

I was on Shark Tank. Those sons of bitches balked at my inflatable razor and on investing in BourbCo. Suckers. My stocks are at ten cents a share now!

Eleven cents, Mr. Bourbon, according to the latest news.

See! What a bunch of rubes.

Alright, bro.

You two get back to work. I’m going to take a walk and see if I spot something cool to kill myself with.

Bobby takes a step forward. As he does, the belt around his neck goes taught again and the fan crashes to the floor, knocking over Bobby’s laptop to the floor as well.

Dammit!

That’s the third laptop this month.

Call the laptop guy too.

I’m not your secretary, Mr. Bourbon.

Right. Apologies, Miss Tote. Cyberjaw, you call the ceiling fan guy, Diamondback, get me another laptop.

Gotcha.

Cyberjaw and Diamondback leave. Bobby reaches down and struggles with the pull cord from the fan he attached to his belt before finally just ripping the pull cord off of the demolished appliance. Bobby puts his belt back on. He leaves his office, and Genevieve follows him. Bobby walks through the busy Bourbon Dojo for the Competitive Arts, where students train in wrestling, learn to be world class chefs, drink Dunkin Donuts coffee, and whatever goofy thing is in the last corner that always seems to change. Some nerd will look into it. Ask the nerd what it was. Bobby continues his pace and walks out of the dojo onto the streets of Alexandria, Virginia. He puts his hands on his hips and looks down the block, spotting a construction site.

I wonder if they have a steamroller.

You want to run yourself over with a steamroller?

That sounds cool, as long as it starts with my head. Feet first sounds awful.

Well, they do have a crane you can jump off of.

No, Miss Tote. I already won Leap of Faith this year, jumping off of something tall is passé.

Miss Tote takes note. Bobby wanders down to the construction yard as Miss Tote follows. He approaches the gate to the worksite and just wanders into the yard. A foreman steps forward.



Hey, what are you doing, it’s dangerous for you to be here!

Danger is my middle name!

You changed it.

Dammit.

Would you say it’s risky for me to be here?

Yes!

Risk is my middle name!

Get out of here buddy, you might kill yourself.

Cool!

No, I’m going to call the cops, and you’re creating an OSHA violation.

Oh, damn. My bad! Miss Tote, let’s go.

Bobby hustles off the worksite.

Sorry!

Yeah, whatever.

Bobby walks back down the block towards the dojo.

You don’t want to do anything against OSHA?

No way, Miss Tote. The International Supervillain Union would revoke my charter. They take work safety very seriously.

Miss Tote takes note. Bobby pauses and looks up. He squints, and his jaw drops. He turns back to Genevieve.

Planes!

You want to jump out of an airplane, Mr. Bourbon? I thought you said jumping from high places was old hat.

No, Miss Tote!

I’m going to crash a plane!

Mr. Bourbon, 9/11 was just a few days ago..

And can you think of a better homage to the heroes we lost that day?

Genevieve’s eyes go wide as she looks at her brand new iPad.

I’ll see if I can get you lessons.

Nuts to that, just rent a plane for me to fly, I’ll cook up a fake license in no time.

If you crash into someone or something important it might impact your stock value, Mr. Bourbon.

Oh, heh, I know exactly what I want to crash into that would be absolutely friggin’ epic.

That’s somewhat discomforting, Mr. Bourbon.

Nah, watch, this’ll be really, really cool.

Just get me a plane.

Do you want a specific kind of plane?

Huh.

Well, not a jet. Can you get a biplane?



At an average funeral parlor somewhere, we see the services are underway for none other than Thunder Knuckles. B.O.B. D, Crash Rodriguez, and Dolly Waters are in attendance, as is Jimmy, TK’s manservant. Nobody else. Bobby steps forward to a podium, prepared to give a eulogy to TK.

The Ladder.

Old man, I know you have a spin on it all your own, and you can give us the razzle dazzle about it however you want.

When I got into the XWF, you were at the top, and I wasn’t even allowed to touch it.

Then, year after year, I worked, rung by rung, each stained with the blood of those who stood before me.

Each stained with my blood.

Looking to knock you down from the ladder.

Imagine, to my surprise, however, when you didn’t stay on top of it.

Where did you go from the top of the ladder, Louis?

I mean, I wanted to be the one who beat you, decisively, but Alias and Flynn already beat me to the punch on that one.

I guess you’ll be getting the Ned Kaye rub from all of this, huh?

And I know, you’ve always said it, you were a Bourbon man.

That sounds nice and all, but think long and hard on this one, what have you ever done for me?

Of course you can explain why you haven’t done anything, or how you’ve really done this or that and how I should be grateful, but ultimately that’s pointless bullshit for you to spew.

And they aren’t listening anymore.

Those people who used to fear you, old man, those people who used to revere you, those people who put you on that pedestal, who saw a ladder and thought you had to be on top of it are gone.

You were left to prop yourself up.

You failed. Spectacularly.

And you know what, Louis?

It’s alright to fail.

It’s okay.

I would know.

Nobody, and I defy you to name someone who has, but nobody has failed harder than Bobby Bourbon has.

But, hey, win some, lose some. I learned better.

I learned from my failures.

I went out and corrected said failures.

I lost to some doofus at my birthday party, as such, I planted him in the mat with a Bobbybomb.

I lost to Ned Kaye, as such, I planted him in the mat with several Bobbybombs.

I lost to Mark Flynn countless times.

Don’t be a nerd, we know there’s an actual number.

But I lost to Mark countless times, until I didn’t and I took the Universal Championship away from him.

When’s the last time someone asked you what it’s like to be a champion?

I mean, hell, I got my get back on Mark, what was stopping you?

You were.

I remember when we all pledged fealty to you, calling you King B.O.B. after you gloriously won a March Madness tournament.

Where were you when I won that tournament? Were you repeating in your own head how cool it sounded to say you were a Bourbon Man?

No, you were still recoiling from a loss to Alias that fucked with your fragile little mind, and I can not understate that enough..

Fragile and small minded you be.

We didn’t have some frilly, pomp and circumstance bullshit when I became King. You never came forward and once acted like a man, let alone a Bourbon man, and give me any kind of credence for what I accomplished. Instead I went to work and fought Xavier Lux. I went to work and fought Flynn and Criminal for the Tag Titles.

Where were you, Louis? Blinked off that ladder yet again.

Because the top spot that was designed for you got destroyed.

And I fucking destroyed it.

I wrecked it rung by god damned rung.

I was going to war with APEX, pissing in Raven’s cheerios, and living rent free in the head of Chris Chaos.

You were, what, waving at people at the XWF headquarters?

I led a revolution throughout the industry, bouncing around companies with a legion so menacing you had to get in on the action as its king.

While I was doing that, though, what were you up to?

Your mystique, your aura, your whole everything, old man, is smoke and fucking mirrors and if you’re not aware of that, you’ll learn.

September 24th, old man, and that place you always like to pretend is your domain, where I guess you do your insidious laundry, water your evil little plants, maybe sit in your nefarious recliner and watch old reruns of Alfred Hitchcock will be where you encounter the horror show.

The REAL horror show.

It’s where something fierce, and nasty, and mean, comes to call and brings you the reckoning you’ve earned.

You can sit in your empty throne, the people lauding you long gone, still all too lost in your own mind, your head so far up your ass you can’t tell shit from shit, all because you started to believe too much in your own fucking hype.

And it’s all you have left anymore.

I mean, hey, you did beat Charlie.

So did Sarah Lacklan.

Big whoop.

You were the Universal Champion in an era so bygone that there are actual fans who weren’t alive when you were the champ.

Big deal. I did it, and people remember my championship runs and throw it in my face daily.

Flat the fuck out, it’s iron that tempers iron, Louis, and you’ve lavished in cotton balls and cashmere while I’ve been out being ground by the steel.

While you talked, I walked.

Where you watched, I conquered.

When you postured, I proved it.

So by all means, tell us you’re coming back as the old Lou.

The only reason you were ever untouchable is because whenever anyone reached out, you were somewhere else.

Bring on your days as whatever silly rendition you think has a snowball’s chance in hell of stopping the inevitable.

Louis D’Ville getting Bobbybombed.

There has never been a time or a place where you’ve been better than me.

So sing us your fucking eulogy and paint us the sunset you’ll ride off into next.

Because I will see you in Hell, and if you think it’s your domain, much like I have the XWF and other wrestling companies, it is mine to conquer. If any fool deem themselves the true ruler there, I will correct them.

Violently.

Jimmy raises his hand.

Um, are you going to talk about Thunder Knuckles?

Nah, he’ll be alright. Unless Corey stops sounding like a namby pamby.