BourbCo’s Head Office

Bobby Bourbon adjusts his business suit’s collar, checking his fit in a full-length mirror.

As he straightens his sleeves, dusts his shoulders... Bourbon catches his own eyes in his reflection.

His eyebrows raise.

He smiles.

…

Then, he frowns at himself smiling.

THEN, he glowers at himself frowning.

…

“Oh, I get it.”

…

“Tough guy, huh? Think you can beat me in a staring contest?”

…Bourbon (and his reflection) crack their necks simultaneously.

(cuz, y’know, reflections.)

Bobby and Mirror-Bobby point defiantly.

All four eyebrows wrinkle in focus.

…

“C’mon, you handsome bastard. GIVE IN.”

…

Bobby’s right eye and Mirror-Bobby’s left twitch.

…

They both reach to squeeze their eye open!

“AH! AH!” The Bourbons points with his free hand! “Cheating!”

The Bourbons shakes his head! “No! That’s fair ga-”

Suddenly, the office’s door slides open. Genevieve Tate enters, holding her suitcase, jacket tucked under her shoulder.

“Mister Bourbon.” Miss Tate speaks placidly (even in a rush, she exudes total control). “One of my clients is mid-image emergency.”

Bobby tilts his neck toward his reflection, still holding eye-contact with every fiber of his being.

“If, by ‘client’ and ‘emergency’, you mean ‘me’ and ‘losing this staring contest’? Stand down. I’ve got this asshole right where I want him.”

“No, I…”

…Tate momentarily takes in the scene before her (her boss attempting to refute every reflective science).

…

Tate shakes her head. Nope, no time.

“I’m stepping out. I’ll return shortly.”

Miss Tate makes for the do-

“Hold on.”

Bourbon HEADBUTTS THE MIRROR! IT SHATTERS INTO SHARDS!

Bourbon snarls smiling, bending down at the glass bits on the floor.

“YOU BLINKED!” He points at the destroyed mirror, as blood trickles down his forehead! “THAT COUNTS!”

…

“Miss Tate, I need you here.” Bourbon takes his right hand, wiping the blood from his forehead. “Every eccentric wrestler needs a muted foil to contrast the surrealist madcap adventure with a veneer of sanity. Without a mildly irritated pedestrian around to tell me no, my zany comedic antics are… mostly crimes and SEC violations.”

Miss Tate nods, as she reaches into her jacket pocket. “I am well-aware, Mister Bourbon. Hence, why I’ve prepared a substitute for emergencies like this one. A proxy. One that can fill exactly the role I provide you.”

…Bourbon’s eyebrow raises skeptically. “Miss Tate, I doubt th-”

Tate holds up a finger… As she retrieves… A phone. She lifts it to her ear.

“Vanessa. Execute operation ‘Every Mister Bourbon Promo’.”

At once, a woman… an inch shorter, but otherwise identical Miss Tate… walks in, holding a glass of water.

Vanessa places it on the table beside Bourbon.

“Mister Bourbon, please don’t knock over this glass of water.”

…

Bourbon puts his hand on the glass.

“Dooooooon’t.”

…

Bourbon pushes the glass to the floor. Water spills everywhere.

“Oh, Mister Bourbon.” Vanessa sighs, shaking her head.

…

“Yep, this works.”

“I knew it would.” Tate bows, as she turns to leave. “Now, I must reach Irwin before he has a psychotic breakdown…” Tate pulls her jacket on. “He should be fine, as long as no one’s dumping a lifetime worth of abandonment issues on him…”

---

DENNY’S

“I AM ABANDONED.”

Flynn stews angrily, as his fork, caked in eggy residue, weaves through the air.

“I ALONE WIELD THE KEY TO SUCCESS! I AM THE GATEKEEPER TO GREATNESS! And SERPENTS BEG for my secret… I take my key… And I open the door for those that I THOUGHT were my friends… AND THEY LEAVE ME BEHIND!”

PIERCE! Flynn jabs a fork straight down into his Moons-Over-My-Hammy remnants, like a caveman’s spear into a cornered bison…

Quickly, he jabs the last bite into his lips.

“BORROWED like a library book!” Flynn raises his fork in the air “USED like a KLEENEX! EXPLOITED LIKE A… a…”

…

Flynn sees a shadow looming over the table. Then, gazes up.

Beb, Flynn’s favorite Denny’s waitress, looms silently overhead.

“Could you please keep it down? Kitchen staff says they can’t sleep over your yelling.”

….

“No.” Flynn snorts, before picking up his plate and shoving it towards Beb. “Refill.” Flynn scratches his chin. “And this time, leave the bottle.”

…

Beb looks at Irwin.

“Uh…” Irwin scratches his head. “He sometimes acts like omelettes are drinks so… I guess…  bring the… egg carton to the table?”

…

Beb turns around, walking away. Not toward the kitchen.

…

“I love this place. It’s awful.” Flynn sighs fondly. “Now… where was I?”

…Irwin clears his throat, twisting a Sweet-n-Low packet into his coffee. “You were griping about your lot in life, Mister Flynn. How *hard* it must be being a current champion AND 24/7 briefcase holder.”

Flynn snaps his fingers. “Ah, that’s right. Wel-”

…

Flynn’s eyes squint, simmering angrily. “...Take that tone down from an eleven to a SIX, Irmano.”

Irwin grins, reaching out in the air for an imaginary dial, and twisting it downwards.

“...But YES. I HAVE BEEN UTILIZED AND TOSSED ASIDE.” Flynn continues. “Nedders couldn’t beat a goddamn Chris LETTER, let alone a whole CHRIS PAGE. But! I take the boy under my wing at WarGames, give him GUIDANCE... He beats Page BACK-to-BACK PAY-PER-VIEWS! And what thanks do I get?”

Flynn puts his non-fork hand in an O. “BUPKIS!”

“I verbally DECIMATE Thunder Knuckles, two short weeks before Zay-zay’s Universal Title match! TK wasn’t HALF the man he was before our match! Not a quarter! NOT A FUCKING SIXTEENTH! A SHELL of a SHELL OF A SHELL. King’s Uni match was a GLORIFIED CORONATION! And what gratitude it bestowed upon me for serving the King in his ascension?”

…Flynn slices his index across his throat. “ZILCH.”

“I give Theo THE KEYS TO HIS OWN KINGDOM. I create the most DOMINANT TRIO IN RECENT XWF MEMORY! WE WENT THREE-and-OH at the final Pay-Per-View of the year! AND WHAT DOES HE DO?!?!”

CLATTER. Flynn tosses his fork down with disgust.

“He opens the gates to invaders. He fabricates a whole event to give PRETENDERS TO A THRONE WHAT IS RIGHTFULLY MINE. OUTSIDERS’ FREE REIN TO ROAM MY KINGDOM.”

Irwin tsk-tsks.

“It’s a shame, sir. But, if you want the Universal Title so much… Just cash in your briefcase?”

...

“Nah.”

Irwin’s eyebrow tilts with confusion.

“...Nah?”

“Been there, done that. If King wants a real challenge, I’d be happy to beat him down and take it… He can wear a crown and hold a scepter if he likes… but, everyone with more than wax between their ears knows whose kingdom this is.”

…Irwin squints.

“...Oh! So, you mean… becoming a grandslam champion?”

…Flynn’s nostrils flare. “Please, Irwin. Why would I bully poor lil’ CRAM and Cent? I was already a grandslam champion ELEVEN YEARS AGO. All the company did was retire my old belts and make new ones. Who knows what STUPID decisions management will make… Replace the TV Title with the Streaming Service Strongman? Replace the Anarchy belt with Anarcho-Syndicalist-Commune garland? I’m not Thad. I don’t need to squeeze every belt for the length of a sneeze…”

…

Irwin scratches his head.

“...AHA! The XWF Hall of Legends!” Irwin snaps his fingers! “You’ve been campaigning to be added there for years!”

…Flynn grins.

“Actually, that’s… taken care of.”

---

XWF HEADQUARTERS

Theo Pryce sits at his computer, conducting important preparations for XWF’s upcoming mega-event, Free-For-All. A glass of iceless tap water sits beside him.

…Suddenly, a head peeks inside Theo’s doorway.

“Hello, bossman!”

Peter Principle glides in, on a set of green-and-pink roller blades.

SMACK! Principle accidentally slides into Theo’s table, knocking Pryce’s glass slightly askew on its coaster.

“Whoops! Sorry, still figuring these out.”

Theo silently adjusts his water back centered, before glancing up at this wheeled presence that has encroached upon his workspace.

…Peter claps, before shooting a finger-gun towards the XWF CFO.

“Quick question! I’m still figuring my way around the office... not sure where everything is!”

…Principle reaches into his pocket, to check his notes.

“Where’s the… Hallway with the Legends in it?”

…Theo’s brow scrunches with confusion.

“Y’know. The Hall where… we keep… uh… Legends?”
…

“Do you mean the ‘XWF Hall of Legends’?”

“Yes!” Principle snaps his fingers. “Is that like… near the employee bathroom? Cuz I know where that is! I’m there, like, ten-to-fifteen times a day.”

…

Theo’s face doesn’t move a muscle more than necessary. There’s the subtlest shift in his right temple as he stares at the Warfare GM.

“...The Hall of Legends is in Miami.”

Peter’s eyes widen.

“Ah! Okay! Perfect!” Peter nods.

…

Suddenly, Principle turns around and skates out.

…

Theo shakes his head. That was an even more odd interaction with Peter than usual. He turns back to his comp-

WHAM! Peter suddenly collides again with Pryce’s desk.

“Sorry, almost forgot this.”

Peter lifts from the floor…



A velvet renaissance-style paining.

Mark Flynn, dressed like Napolean, riding into battle.

…

Peter exits once more.

---

“Mark Flynn sent me this painting, fifty dollars, and a note that says to put the painting in the Hall of Legends.”

…

“And I think that means, legally? I HAVE to get that painting in the Hall…  I already spent the money.”

…

“How do you think I got the rollerblades?” Principle laughs. “Like I could afford it with my General Manager paycheck?”

…

Suddenly, the smile slides off his face.

“...Wait. I totally could have…”

---

…Irwin’s eyes widen and narrow. Trying to understand Flynn’s meaning.

“So…” Irwin pulls off his glasses, cleaning them. As if cleaning his spectacles will clear the fog of Flynn’s sphinxian riddle. “...What do you want?”

…

Flynn’s eyes spark.

“Isn’t it obvious, Ir-dawg?”

…

“I wanna be… THE GUY.”

---

Lou.

We stand at the dawn of a new era.

In a month-and-a-half, our fearless financial leader, Theo Pryce opens the floodgates.

And every clown.

Every fool.

Every RRRRRRRRRRRRUBE.

That ruled his backwoods bingo hall.

His high-school gym.

Will walk through the XWF’s front door.

Expecting an easy meal.

Showing up to the big dance, ready for a cakewalk.

…

And we both know better.

We know what happens when a goon from the bush leagues comes here with a chip on his shoulder and a head too big for his britches.

They get MAULED.

They get fucking W-R-E-C-K-T.

They wind up licking their wounds, crawling back to their prior comfort.

As the big fish…

In a puddle.

…

Free-For-All is an opportunity.

Once-and-FOR-ALL.

For the XWF’s best.

To TRIUMPH.

TO DOMINATE.

TO DECLARE COMPLETE OWNERSHIP OF THE WRESTLING WORLD.

…

Ten men could enter.

Twenty.

A hundred.

But, in the end?

It’s a two-man race, Loubastank.

It’s you.

Or it’s me.

…

And Lou?

How can you be the STAR of the XWF?

WHEN YOU DON’T EVEN STAR IN YOUR OWN PROMOS?!?

You CAMEO’D in your own FUCKING MATERIAL.

Sorry, when I watch a Doc D’Ville promo?

I EXPECT DOCTOR LOUIS D’VILLE.

NOT SEVEN RANDOM ASSHOLES.

Try pitching that show to the XWF Network, Dockles.



…

But.

Why *would* we expect Dock in a promo?

When we can’t even watch Dock INSIDE a wrestling ring?

...Let's face it. Lou's gotten reeeeeeeeeeal comfy making...

SPORADIC.

APPEARANCES.

He's let the ring rust settle on his fingers.

Let the dust accumulate on his playbook.

...

You’ve had… what… ONE match in FIVE months?

Yes, you beat Bobby at Relentless.

But, Bobby didn’t LOSE to you.

He lost to the idea of you.

Bourbon fabricated in his mind…

The LEGEND.

KING DOC.

THE GOOD DOCTOR HIMSELF.

Bourbon imagined you as an unkillable legend.

AN IMMORTAL BEING.

Of course he failed to slay an immortal.

…

Me?

I know you’re human, Lou.

I pinned you SIX MONTHS AGO.

I AM THE REASON DOC D’VILLE HAS NEVER WON WARGAMES!

…

Tonight, Dock?

Is the beginning of my campaign.

To become THE GUY.

THE MAN.

THE MOUNTAINTOP ITSELF.

OF ALL OF WRESTLING.

…

Bring the bandages, Doctor.

Cuz I’m not waiting until Free-For-All.

To MAKE.

YOU.

BLEED.