We open with a shot inside the Bastard’s Den which rests deep in the heart of Texas. Thunder Knuckles is enjoying a whiskey on the rocks while watching the strippers dance for dollars. Suddenly, a voiceover of Morgan Freeman resonates out of your speakers.


In the vibrant, pulsating ambiance of any arena contracted by the Xtreme Wrestling Federation, the cheers of the crowd reverberate like crashing thunder, and the collision of bodies in the squared circle echoes throughout the air, there exists a pair of titans who have reigned supreme and haunted Federation after Federation. Bobby Bourbon and TK, Them No Good Bastards, are a duo world renowned for their dominance and strategic cunning. They stand as imposing figures among the biggest names in the tag team wrestling scene. With a reputation built on countless battles across different companies, they command both awe and anxiety from their peers and adversaries alike.


Bobby Bourbon walks in, wearing his convenient and ultra-modern BobbyBabySystem which holds his son.


Bobby, why haven’t you been around the Bastard’s Den? I’ve been here for months, making serious moves to make us more goddamn money.

Well, I have a kid now, so I switched gears to making children’s television instead of smut.

Oh, fucking no, no kids in here! Someone was running a daycare in here and I had to shut that shit down!

Yeah, well, what? I was hoping…

Don’t tell me you were using the daycare here too.

Yeah, the dancers on mid-shift usually have several kids, they know how to take care of a baby for a few hours, and they brought their own kids, which seemed fine, so…

Bobby, goddamnit, that can’t happen!

Right, you’re right.

That little slobber monster can’t be in here!


TK points at Chevy Silverado, the North Korean War Baby, Bobby’s adopted son.


Hey, this is a future champion wrestler in the name of whatever he wants, because this is a study of nature versus nurture, and…

Jesus, your science mumbo jumbo shit again. You’re such a goddamn nerd sometimes.


TK seems more annoyed by the fact Bobby used jargon rather than the notion Bobby saw his son as a science experiment.


Look, this is a long-term investment, bound to pay off.

No, it’s a kid, it can grow up to be a jack-off or worse… a cop.

Well, that’s why it’s important he’s raised right, and supported.

Don’t you fucking say another word, Bobby, I see it in your eyes. I swear to the Bastardly Father above-

C’mon, Uncle Knuckles!

I fucking hate that.

UNCLE KNUCKLES!


Bobby claps, attempting to boost TK's spirits.


UNCLE KNUCKLES!


TK takes his shot, stands, and walks away as Morgan Freeman narrates.


Bobby Bourbon, a mountain of muscle with a ferocity matched only by his strength, towers over his opponents with an imposing presence. His raw power and determination make him a force to be reckoned with, a monster amongst men whose every move echoes with the promise of destruction.


Bobby wipes some spittle and puke from the lap of his pants, then cleans his son’s face.


Well, shit, Chevy, I don’t think Ol’ Uncle Knuckles knows it yet, but you’re going to be his best buddy.


Chevy raises his fists and fidgets. Bobby pats his head. TK returns and glares at Bobby.


Why the fuck is that baby still here?

What are you talking about?

No goddamn babies in the club!

This is my club too, this is my son, he needs to see the business I’m leaving him!


TK rolls his eyes in utter discontent.


Since it’s nepotism, I'll allow it.


The bartender pours him another shot of whiskey which he slugs back with ease. Tapping his fingers to the bar, TK asks for another.


So, look, I got a few note cards here that Miss Wilson compiled of fun activities we can do to promote our match.

Who the fuck is Miss Wilson?

She’s Miss Tote, we’re using her real name now.

She had a fake fucking name?

Well, look, there was this one joke we made…


The bartender’s gaze narrows judgingly at Bobby as she pours TK another shot, whose gaze also narrows rather judgingly. TK takes the shot back, stands up, and marches away.


TK with calculated precision, fully complements Bobby's brute force with a strategic finesse that borderlines genius. Behind his facade lies a mind as sharp as a razor. He is always one step ahead of his opponents, manipulating the outcome of matches with a mastery that borders on the supernatural.


TK is spotted with his hand wedged in a cigarette machine.


This wouldn’t have fucking happened if that baby wasn’t here!


TK struggles and curses at the cigarette machine.


Fucking piece of shit! Who puts goddamn cigars in these things anyway? Bobby, gimme a hand! Will ya?


Together, they form an indomitable duo, being a No Good Bastard is a bond that transcends mere friendship, a union of souls bound by a common purpose, and a shared thirst for the violence of Tag Team supremacy.


Bobby places Chevy gently on the bar, walks over to the cigarette machine, and holds open the flap so TK can remove his hand.


You have to let go of the cigar.

I think I can just-


TK is now facing even more difficulties than before.


I’m telling ya, you have to drop the cigar to get your hand out.

But then I won’t have my cigar.

It’ll fall behind the flap.

But what if it gets stuck?

It won’t. Just drop it.


While Bobby is helping TK, Chevy inches toward the unattended bottle of booze, however, just as he's about to reach it, the bartender snatches the bottle away, foiling Chevy's attempt.


Okay, shit.


Bobby turns around and sees Chevy in motion, clearly up to something.


Where do you think you’re going?


When TNGB step into the ring, the anticipation can be cut through with a knife, the crowd's emotional energy fueling their determination to emerge victorious with the utmost fervor and ire from those in attendance. A nod between the two Bastards is all it takes to get things started. Bobby and TK unleash an almost divine wrath on their adversaries, their unyielding assault leaves their doomed opponents staggering in their wake.


He doesn’t look like you at all Bobby.

Oh, no, I didn’t make the baby, I made the baby in a lab. There was a surrogate.

A surrogent? Science has dumb words.

It means we got Shania Twain knocked up.

Oh, damn, nice.

Yeah, but the child is a clone.

A clone? You stole a baby and shoved it inside Shania Twain?

What? No! It’s a clone of the North Korean War Criminal.

You’re bullshitting me, North Korean War Criminal was a grown-ass man. A bitch, but a grown-ass man.

I know, and Chevy is a North Korean War Baby.

What the fuck were you thinking when you did that?

Well, two things, one, I figured it would piss off Mark Flynn.

Heh, good, fuck that guy.

Two, well, it was Christmas, and Flynn is the adoptive mother.

You’re parenting a clone of North Korean War Criminal with Mark Flynn?

Hah, barely, that motherfucker never sends money for diapers.

Deadbeat.


Bobby sniffs the air.


Uh, oh, smells like Chevy made a stinky!


Bobby lays Chevy on the bar and reaches into the fanny pack portion of the BobbyBabySystem, producing wipes and a diaper.


Woah, don't change that shit-filled diaper there. You're going to get poop smeared into the bar. For fucks sake, Bobby.

Brother Knuckles, we don’t have a changing station.

I fucking know because WE’RE A GODDAMN STRIP CLUB!


But cracks have begun to appear beneath the surface of their seemingly unbreakable alliance, fissures of doubt that threaten to undermine everything they have built together. Driven by his insatiable hunger for glory and hotdogs, Bobby grows increasingly reckless in his pursuit of victory, heedless of the consequences of his actions, caring more for his image than winning. Meanwhile, TK is caught in a dilemma, torn between his commitment to his partner and the weight of his conscience, struggling with the fact Bobby teamed with Mark Flynn and even had a child with him. TK feels betrayed.


I thought you didn’t even want kids.

What the hell do you mean?

Chevy, the North Korean War Baby, it’s obviously the worst thing that’s ever happened. Not just to us, the goddamn world, Bobby. Can’t we drop it off at a fire department or some shit? They have, like, a box you stuff children down, this is America!


Bobby takes a slow breath.


No. It’s my baby, I have to take care of it and protect it.


Looking miserable at the thought, TK mumbles.


Fine.


Bobby disappears with Chevy back somewhere unseen within the club. The bartender approaches TK and hands him a freshly opened beer. TK looks at the bartender.


For the record, I’m not cleaning any fucking diapers or shit like that, I hate babies.


Bobby comes back to the bar and sits Chevy on a stool between he and TK. TK sips his beer as he looks at Chevy. Chevy looks back up at him and starts to wiggle and make sounds at him.


Fucking stop that shit, that weird baby wiggling, use your goddamn words, kid.

He doesn’t know his alphabet yet, do you want to teach him?

Oh, fuck no!


As they clash with their opponents in a maelstrom of carnage, their tensions reach a boiling point, threatening to tear their partnership into pieces. In the heat of battle, loyalties are tested and alliances strained. Bobby and TK find themselves standing on the precipice of a decision that will shape the course of their destiny.


At this precise moment, a North Korean military jeep pulls into the Bastard’s Den parking lot. A crew of North Korean special operatives step out, five in total, led by a general. They march confidently into the Bastard’s Den, refusing to show ID to the bouncer. The bouncer walks in after them and sees Bobby, TK, Chevy, and a ton of strippers dancing around in front of men sipping drinks, along with the North Korean cadre.


Yo, these guys didn’t show me ID.

You’re awful as a bouncer.

Don’t listen to him, Bo. You’re alright.


Bobby looks quizzically at TK.


Bo?

He’s my brother-in-law.

Oh, okay. I can accept him if it’s nepotism.

AHEM!


The General clears his throat loudly, calling Bobby and TK’s attention. Bobby cradles Chevy close to his chest. The General says everything in his very thick North Korean accent.


Are you fools finished?

We haven’t even begun!

Who the fuck are you and why aren’t you showing ID to prove you’re over fourteen?

Oh, no, bro, it’s twenty-one.

Fuck that, my club, my rules. Now who the fuck are you with the stupid ass hat.

I have come here to reclaim sovereign North Korean territory.

What?

The infant, Yankee pig!

Bobby, you know, I don’t understand a word this guy is saying, he should speak English, but a lot of this problem would go away, for both of us, y’know, if you’d just give these dickheads the fucking kid.

No! This is my son, Chevy Silverado, and he’s destined to become a champion wrestler. Plus, I already bought a ton of diapers!

You’re set on this shit, aren’t you?

Yes, I am, and imagine the royalties for the book I get to write!

Then fuck ‘em!


TK walks up to the General and clocks him in the jaw, flooring him. The rest of the North Korean commandos all rush TK! TK back elbows one, sending him keeling, before Bobby runs in, still holding Chevy, and clotheslines another! TK with an atomic elbow to the third, sending him to the floor! Bobby with an impressive Shoryuken to the last while swaddling his son! Finally, the last man pulls a knife! Bobby tosses Chevy to TK, and hooks the man around the head, followed by a knee, forcing him to drop the knife! TK tosses Chevy skyward as Bobby hoists the last commando. The camera cuts away as we hear TK incapacitate the final commando by shattering his ankle with ease with something that hasn’t been seen in years. Bobby swiftly sits up, catching Chevy, whose laughter fills the air as he revels in playing with Uncle Knuckles. The patrons sitting in the Bastard’s Den go wild for TNGB following their performance of something wrestlers actually do all the time; engage in a bar fight.


In the end, their shared bond ultimately prevails, a testament to the strength of their partnership and their commitment to each other. All it takes is one Rainbow Laser Death Sequence for Bobby and TK to emerge victorious, their victory is yet another testament to the power of teamwork.


Bobby and TK are standing in the middle of the downed bodies when TK speaks up.


Bo, drag these fucks outside and call immigration.

Damn, TK, don’t you think they have papers?

This is Texas, they’ll take’em either way. Plus, they’ll just be happy we have our state-issued spittoon outside.


Bo starts dragging the Koreans outside as Bobby and TK stand side by side.


Yo, Bo, have these guys sent to my labs.

Labs? Bobby, what the fuck are you going to do to these guys?

Enemy combatants entering U.S. soil to attack a small business?

And steal your child...

Shit, right. Where did I leave that kid?

You just caught him!

I know, in that fucking awesome donnybrook, but I put him down just a minute ago…


Bobby looks over and notices Chevy, reaching his chubby little arm up into the cigarette machine.


Hey, he has my fuckin’ cigar!


Bobby rushes over and grabs Chevy. He pulls TK’s cigar out of Chevy’s mouth..


TK, this would become an absolute media fiasco if word got out our nightclub wasn’t safe because the North Koreans might nuke it, we need to handle this quietly, and frankly, I have a bevy of amazing potions and concoctions and gadgets to test on these men, who all are fighting fit and in peak human condition, the ideal test candidate for some of the things…


TK swiftly shakes his head.


You know what? I don’t care. Let's just get them out the club.


Bo starts carrying the bodies towards the back of the club.


Bo! Put ONE in the freezer for me, I need a frozen body. The rest keep alive. You know, there’s one with a fucked up ankle, freeze him, he's not as durable.


Bobby stoops and dusts off the North Korean General’s hat then puts it on Chevy’s head.


Jesus, now I can see it.


Bobby smiles, looking on at the new guinea pigs he has to try out his new inventions on being dragged away by Bo.


Hey, we should teach Chevy to drive, Dukes of Hazzard style!

Maybe when he’s eight, he’s too young now.


As TK finishes his sentence Them No Good Bastards reach out at the same exact moment to perform their patented no-look fist bump, giving goosebumps up the forearms and down the spines of XWF fans around the world.


As they stand side by side in the center of the ring, their hands raised in victory, as they often do. Bobby and TK share a silent understanding, acknowledging the challenges they have overcome and the victories that lie ahead. In XWF, the line between friend and foe is blurred. Alliances are molded and broken in the blink of an eye, theirs is a bond that transcends the fleeting glory of victory and the bitter sting of defeat… A bond forged in competition and tempered by the fires of their fallen opponents. They are and always will be, Them No Good Bastards.





Listen up, Kingslayer and Usurper.


With a cocky smirk, TK goes to continue, but Bobby butts in, handing Chevy over to the Bartender.


The bitch and his prince. Not you, Clarissa.


The bartender nods. Patting Bobby on the shoulder, TK presses on.


I'll let you two figure out which is which. Let me go ahead and school you on a little something called tag team goddamn rasslin’. While you're busy patting yourselves on your asses for your solo achievements, like a couple of primadonna shitbags, real tag champions know that trust and support are how you keep success in the ring. Without those two very key things, you're just two egos clashing, you're destined for fucking failure.


Knowing what TK said is the gospel, Bobby begins to shred.


Don’t even get me fucking started on these entitled fucking dipshits. For how long did these pricks talk about a new era, a new age, a new dawn for talent, that I had to step aside, that TK was taking up too much fucking airtime, and these fucking incels, when new talent arrives, want to play fucking gatekeeper? Boys, welcome to the lesson you never fucking grasped no matter how many times it got beat into your skulls; if you want your spot it's your job to keep it. I lighten my schedule, my peers finally earning some long overdue time off, and Theo had to hire people to run with the ball because y'all fucking can't.

Goddamn right, Bobby. Maybe it's time you two embraced competition because, from the looks of it, Prince Bitch Mouth will do anything to avoid it, holding those Tag Team Championships hostage in the meantime. I couldn't possibly say Isaiah is completely at fault, Hell no, it's not like Nedweena said a goddamn thing about it. Ned must be content letting Prince Pump-The-Brakes be the mouthpiece for Crucible. Sad really, you’d think you’d put a better talker in that situation.

Fuck their talk. They can chant a million incantations and that won't stop the violent urges of a Bastard. You know what, TK?

Go on, tell me, Bobby.

There are some people out there who think this is a comeback.

We never fucking left.

Nah, not at all. This Kaye and King tag team thing better recognize this isn't a happy-go-lucky inventor talking right now, either.

Really? Seems like you took a break from being a fuckin’ violent and mean Bastard.


Bobby hangs his head for a moment before cocking it back, rolling his eyes.


Right back at you.


TK shrugs like Warstien, when Shawn finds out there's no more toilet paper.


Fuck ‘em. You’re having a comeback moment, we’re glad you’re back.


TK points to himself and Bobby intermittently when he says “we’re”.


It’s a return to form. It wouldn’t be the first time I came back from hitting rock bottom, TK. I stomp through life, crushing what needs be under heel, sometimes stepping into a hole too deep. That’s still a hell of a lot better than skating through existence on thin fucking ice to the point I will prepare to be hurt. We get hurt, then we deal with it, knowing pain doesn’t last and chicks dig scars. We don’t put up a barrier between us and the real world, though. We know how terrible and dark the world fucking gets, but instead of acting like Needledick Ned Kaye or, what the fuck is this shit, Prince Adam? Looks like Prince Adam to me, I remember when you were Isaiah King wielding that wrench pretending you had the power like He-Man. Now, shit, you hype yourself as a Prince, so you can be the burden of a Tyler Durden to Nedward Orton like it was Fight Club but you’re too busy comparing daddy issues. Nah, instead of building walls to keep the scary parts out of our view, to pretend they’re gone, we fucking keep the gates wide open, so whatever hell may come is seen from a mile away. That fear in you, that fear is the mindkiller. That need to avoid the filth, that hatred that seethes in you, and how many times can you say you hate us with your Neductive reasoning? How many times can you say you wish we didn’t exist when you haven’t proven one fucking goddamned time you’re capable of carrying a company, Prince Adeyemi-trunks-another-color-instead-of-cleaning-the-shit-stains.


Looking confused, TK butts in.


Uh-dye-me?

Yeah, what Isaiah is calling himself now.

That’s not how you pronounce that.

How do you pronounce that?

I don’t know, because I don’t give a fuck what he calls himself!

Well, whatever, Prince, go pine for your daddy’s throne while your Nedsticles shrivel back up into you, both of you fuckers are Benjamin Buttonsing your way backwards through puberty every time you open your mouths. Priests are starting to watch you.


TK shakes his head in approval as he gives a miniature golf clap.


Damn.

People, a priest is no substitute for a prophet. Witness and listen, the day of judgment is at hand, the wrath of the Bastardly Father long overdue, with I, your humble inquisitor of the Bastard, weary of taking whatever singles championship I feel like any given week. With the true prophet of the Bastard, having dominated as Universal Champion after walking out of hell. We are problems, but united and forged in the name of the Bastard, we are THE problem itself. Our enemies have issues, struggles, and concerns, and we ARE that tipping point, the straw that broke the camel’s back, the last thing you needed. Brothers and sisters! Stand and be awed, we are holding an old fashioned revival! Yes, to purge the weak and exploit the mindless! It is with great joy, and honor, that I can say, once again, after how many years…


Bobby takes a deep breath, a nasty smirk on his punim.


Brother Knuckles…


Bobby throws his hands in the air, looking skyward.


PREACH.


TK looks squarely at the camera with hate burning in his pupils.


So keep talking all that shit about your determination, resilience, and respect but remember this; in the goddamn end, the determination you speak of will only lead to you two being bludgeoned by Bastards. You'll find out your resilience is fucking peanut brittle when we get our hands on you on Warfare. Oh, and as for your mutual respect, heh.


TK gives his signature jerking-off hand gesture.


Let's see how far that gets you while we show you none. Like Bobby said, we took a year off from tag team rasslin’ to give teams like yours a damn chance. I won’t go into everything we’ve done, our opponents will do that for us. Now, we’re here and we’re taking what we and the rest of the XWF fans around the world know is ours. You were given goddamn brand-new titles for us to take. The differences between us, as teams, are more than obvious. We’re the lumberjacks of this division and you two clearly can’t fucking cut it. Pantheon wants a shot afterward, we’ll give it to them. The Just Us League, fuck’em, we’ll walk through them like they did the entire division while we weren’t tagging. No excuses or sidestepping challenges. XWF can line them up and we’ll knock’em the fuck down. Paul Bunyan and his blue ox don't got shit on us.


Without missing a beat Bobby jumps in to get a piece of what was said.


That's because we swing it like John Henry, can wrangle any creature like Pecos Bill, then display the fruits of our work like Johnny Appleseed.


Inspired by Bobby, TK continues.


As Crucible embraces the legacy of champions like Rip Van Winkle, while also remaining prepared to face defeat like Casey at bat. We stand ready to fight with the fearless spirit of James fucking Bowie and Davey goddamn Crockett at the Gainbridge Arena. But unlike the Alamo, this time we're dictating the course of the battle, not reacting to it.

Truth, and nice work adding more American folk heroes.

That’s us to a tee. American folk.

Goddamn right.