Robbie Bourbon, recently removed from a frozen lake by Waldo, aka Axe Mannix, axe man on Xanax, decided he needed a hot shower and a cup of coffee.

We see the Donkey Kong Rape Van tear off from the ice into the sunset. Weird, since the road itself runs north to south, but if they want to go offroading, that's pretty cool.

LA LEYENDA DEL JENGIBRE
The Legend of the Ginger

We open to see a wide and open, almost palacial space with a long flowing staircase, rounding the outer edge of this parabolic room. Against the flat wall is a massive fireplace, a set in sunken couch surrounding it with Cyberjaw, Diamondback, Xtreme Travel Agent, Frankendickhead, and Waldo, aka Axe Mannix, axe man on Xanax, and a man in a bright yellow singlet and mask.

Wow, this is pretty swank.

I know, what amenities!

Yeah, the fucking amenities around here are bad ass.

I think these are some of the most Xtreme amenities ever.

Amenities fucking rule, I know I'm usually a bit of a downer, but these are some sweet motherfucking amenities.

Why so big on "amenities"?

Robbie always says if there are amenities, use 'em. The only wasted resource is an unused one.

That's his Tao.

Just the tip of the iceberg.

Wait, the Tao of Robbie Bourbon? Sweet, I guess he really does run his dojo properly. The axe man on Xanax looks forward to studying under the Luchador Sensei.

Woah, Waldo, tone it down buddy.

I can not. I am stuck sounding like this, I have such the robust voice. It's why I did silent pictures for so long.

So, uh, who's the dude in yellow?

Oh, you're such a casual wrestling fan.

I'm not a wrestling fan, I'm in the wrestling industry, I head up the Bourbon Men whenever we have to pull a ringside endeavor. I earn a fucking paycheck, even worked a few dark matches here and there.

Whatever, you still don't know dick. That's Cheesedick Caruthers.

Oh, that's Cheesedick? You mean the guy I told Robbie about?

One and the same.

Doofus, that gimmick is so widespread it's become like the Patriot, who will wrestle in fifty different rings in fifty different states tonight. It's so overused, it's like...

Like the Legend of the Ginger.

Robbie Bourbon starts to walk down the stairs, wearing a cozy floral Luau shirt, khaki cargo pants, and a pair of black sneakers. He's running a comb across the skull of his mask.

That's the most overused thing ever. You guys know the legend of the ginger?

What, you're all soulless?

Pretty much. Scooch over.

Robbie slides his Bourbon Men aside with his foot as he steps into the sunken couch and plops down. He throws the comb into the fireplace.

See, this is the actual legend. It's a myth, but a good one. See, twelve years ago, on an expanded cable network called Comedy Central, a show which still broadcasts today, South Park, aired an episode about gingers. It was absolutely hilarious, comic gold, laugh out loud at points. South Park pulls no punches and makes fun of everything, so bully for them, and I'm only kissing their ass because they make fun of everything, only if you kiss their ass they'll plug you again after the episode is aired and say how good a guy you really are.

As soon as it aired, slick dudes in bars would flip up their really thin sunglasses and make the joke with me there as an ice breaker. We got the joke, the joke was we both watched South Park. He didn't say I was soulless out of any malice or spite or anything, we just shared a laugh, made fun of each other, did our Old Crow whiskey, and went on our merry fucking way. He headed to someplace, I headed for Texas, looking to train to become a professional wrestler. Sure, I'd been in plenty of fights, artless brawls and scraps where me and some other asshole would thump on each other with whatever we could grab, and that generally still serves me well today. I'm never really out of my element there, you know? Shit, fighting on a cruise ship? I reckon I'ma Robbiebomb Brandon Moore below decks from the topside, sinking in the bilge hold built organically by 3000 people headed out from Florida to the Antarctic. Another turd floating in a sea of them. Just like Savage Saturday Night.

So, a couple of years pass, and now it's everybody in the bar knows the ginger gag. Soulless, daywalker, it's funny. By now, the episode of South Park has aired a total 18 times in reruns, special reruns, marathons, and whatever on Comedy Central, has been downloaded on pirate websites, and it's two-thousand and eight, baby. Everywhere I go, from airport terminals taking me from Chicago to Oregon to Boston to Georgia to Florida to Japan and back home to Mexico, where I wound up learning the art of lucha, to grocery stores, hotels, and any other place I rear my head, everybody has a ginger joke. All of it is a wink and a nod that yes, we have in fact watched an identical episode of South Park that we all can rely on as a commonality between ourselves, though this was only in the U.S. and Canada. In Japan I was Robbie Lexus, British imperialist. Don't ask, they didn't care if I spoke with a fake English accent. In Mexico, I was just El Robbie, unmasked engine of destruction. Rudo, through and through, and sworn foe to El Borbon, a proudly masked staple of northern Mexican lucha.

Robbie points to his mask.

A few more years pass, and it's 2011. Nobody really cares that I'm ginger, not anymore. Most of the people have seen new episodes of South Park, or found other, fresher, newer jokes to connect with one another with. They pissed and moaned about Twilight, or occupied Wall Street, and you, Brandon Moore, were probably laughing your asshole inside out over Jerry Sandusky getting caught at Penn State, because you're a proud Southwest Scumbag State Community College of the Crackheaded Arts alum and you know you and your college buddies took dick way better than any Penn State man could. The Legend of the Soulless Ginger was all but forgotten, cast aside to be used as last ditch insults, not actual methods of breaking the ice, all too feebly. After all, if I don't have a soul, then, well, why would I give a fuck about it? I seem to be doing swimmingly for myself if I really am without a soul. Maybe that's why it doesn't matter what my soul says, or doesn't say, or is, or isn't, but what the souls of the people say and what they want me to do? I don't really care, to be honest, I got the people, they got me, it's a sweet, sweet thing. I am Primo Rudo just south of the Border of Arizona. See, me and El Borbon had a thing to settle in the ring, and he was even putting his mask on the line against me. El Borbon was a nasty old bastard, been in the business some thirty years at this point, blind in one eye, half deaf in one ear, and throwing just gnarled, aged knuckles at me one after the other. Using all of that momentum, and that's what lucha is all about is getting a ton of momentum behind you, and making high impact happen. That was until I finally caught the bastard off the top rope trying to do a flying hurricanrana. It was with a massive thud and the chorus of boos I delivered a Robbiebomb to El Borbon and pinned him for the three count. Defeated, he removed his mask, slapped me in the face, and handed it to me. I, well, I don't know why, but I immediately put it on. The place exploded, bottles and cans being thrown into the ring at me as I put on my new trophy. El Borbon turned and came at me. This is when I caught him around the neck and drove him out of the ring with the E.M.C., which was a total surprise even to me. Since when did I ever do a chokeslam?

Robbie lifts a nearby seat of his inset couch surrounding this massive fireplace, and looks inside to see a cooler full of ice.

Damnit, empty? Hold up.

Robbie steps up from the couch and over to what looks like a set of rear facing van doors. He opens them, and steps out of the Donkey Kong Rape Van and into the snow. He reaches into the snow, picks up a ice cool bottle of Coca-Cola, snaps the cap off of the glass bottle, and downs it, letting loose a sigh of contentedness at the refreshing nature of such a bottle of Coca-Cola. He then looks down at the ground and sees a seal nuzzling up to him for warmth.

Baw.

Robbie picks the seal up and brings it back inside with him. It sits on the couch next to him.

So, now it's 2017. Today, and now. Moments away from the beginning of the Donald Trump presidency, Arnold Schwarzenegger is the man who is gearing up to face him in 2020. The Cubs finally won a world series, Russia may or may not be launching secret cyber attacks on us depending on which news source you watch, and the legend of the ginger reached it's all time low when Brandon Moore decided to reanimate the dried and decrepit corpse of a joke from over a decade ago.

The Seal slides onto the floor and goes to the bathroom.

Oh, fucking gross!

Yep, it's fucking disgusting and cute at the same time, just like Brandon Moore, a living pile of animal shit.

The seal, as if on command, drops another turd on the shag carpeting.

Oh, fuck me! It is Brandon Moore!

The seal poops a third time. It's looking as fit and happy as ever.

Every time you say his name, more animal shit gets dropped in your carpet!

Robbie picks up the seal and walks towards the van doors. He opens them and pitches the little rascal into a snowbank, where it makes the cutest face ever as it pokes it's little puppy face on a fish head out of the snow and waves good bye.

Frankendickhead, you and Cheesedick Caruthers there clean the shit out of my carpet.