Bobby sits at his desk, drumming his pointer finger directly into the top of the lacquered American pine slat top, made of what looks like pallet slats upon pallet slats, sanded, and treated. The trim is inlaid with pieces of granite, polished yet jutting. The drop leaf of the front is a slab of black sandstone, also treated, with the busts of Howard Hughes, Jack Parsons, Miles Davis, and Judge Judy, forming a psuedo-Mount Rushmore. They're not super recognizable but they have placards beneath each bust.

Stephanie Wilson, Bobby's image consultant, swipes away at her tablet. Bobby stands up.

Fuck this.


Miss Wilson looks absolutely bewildered.

Mr. Bourbon?


I don't want to play a game on my phone!


Bobby stands up and marches out of his office and through his dojo. In one corner, we see a ring where trainees learn. In another, a Dunkin Donuts because franchizing. In the thrit, northeastern corner, we see 4 competitive kitchen stations, where students are making omelets for each other. It's Super Sunday! Bobby's New York Jets jersey is a vibrant Kelly green, yet still, irrelevant. He walks through the doors to his car, whatever it was in the last RP I wrote that had him driving. He still looks cool driving it, I promise. He drives, and the radio blares as he rushes past others at a breakneck speed.


I am better than Aaron Rodgers and you know it.


Bobby pulls into a gas station off the way. His black Challenger shining beneath the lights of the pumps.

That same light catches the glistening gold of a belt Bobby recognizes, a belt that was just recently ripped from his hands. The Kingslayer walks out of the gas station with a loaded hotdog in his hands, chewing down on it with the belt thrown over his shoulder. A much larger black man walks out behind him, a man who's face looks like it's been through more than a few wars. The two walk out chewing on their hotdogs talking up the Super Bowl.

"Kansas huh?"

"Yknow it, they've always been real... Sporty, them Kansas folk."



Isaiah laughs along at that just as his eyes land on the challenger (glad you remembered what it was) that sat getting it's tank filled. A smirk crawls onto his face as he notices the pompous face of Bobby Bourbon standing by its side. He walks up to the man, stuffing the final bits of the hotdog down his gullet.

"Are you all grumpy now that your dear little clonedaddy has dropped YOU? Must rough being on the end of a break-up when you're so used to be the break-up-er."

Kansas?

Well,

Doc,

Mark,

Beat'em,

Now I'm intrigue?

Now I'm gonna fuck off ignoring shooters.