In space, no one can hear you scream.

Unless you're really, really cool. Radio telescopes and such.

JOYRIDERS

Robbie is seen sitting in the captain's chair of his space vessel, surrounded by the Bourbon Men. Cyberjaw, the man with the cybernetic jaw, is carving a pumpkin. Diamondback, the man who can blend into any crowd, is also carving a pumpkin. Ash, Robbie's stylist, is carving a pumpkin. Guy Fieri, right mayor of Flavortown, is seen in the engineering deck carving a pumpkin. Fuchsia, rockin' space babe, is carving a pumpkin. Biscuits, a giant sentient cat, is seen wearing an adorable orange and black witches hat to be festive while sitting in it's lair in the massive cargo hold of the ship.









Man, I can't wait to get these seeds in the oven and then to take the guts and make a delicious pie, full of awesome flavor!

I bet, and those seeds will be a great keto snack!

So, where did the rest of B.O.B. go?

Earth. They all had stuff to do, but you know how it goes, Being Outright Busy.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

We cut to see the regular surface of Earth. Michael Graves is sitting in the driver's seat of an emerald green 2004 Toyota truck with Virginia tags that read BORBON.







In the passenger seat is Miss Fury. They're doing donuts in a parking lot.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Barney and Ozzy are getting ready for a big tag team match on Anarchy, Graves is fighting there too plus he has a match on Savage to prepare for, and TK is getting ready to deal with Johnny Legend, and as B.O.B. representative of Warfare, I have to get ready myself, can't let the Best Overall Brand down in the ring, especially since I'm a notorious supervillain like them!

You are not!

Robbie smirks at Fuchsia.

I am too, babe!

No you're not, you're a sweetheart who fucks up Nazis.

You give to charity, you even got a bunch of money from Ozzy to build a children's hospital.

Yeah, you're even running canned food drives year round!

Well, I mean, people go hungry when it isn't the holidays, kids need hospitals, and Nazis need to get destroyed. But I'm still a scandal ridden scoundrel!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

We see Robbie in a big box department store. He glances around, making sure nobody is watching as he slides a pack of Magic the Gathering cards into his pocket, followed by a smile that could best be described as sadistic gleefully nihilistic. We then cut to see Robbie in a convenience store, topping off a fountain drink. He then takes a sip of the soda, tops it off again, then puts the lid on, followed by a smile that could best be described as sadistic nihilistically gleeful. We then cut to see Robbie petting a dog, then handing it not one but two treats, followed by a smile that could best be described as sadistic warped, devilish, and demonic, fiendishly overfeeding a pet.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Have you seriously been shoplifting?

Well, I am an adrenaline junkie. Besides going around the Universe and getting into fights, it's really just super spicy food and giving myself a five-finger discount.

Huh. You should stop that, you could get in big trouble.

Trouble is my middle name.

I thought your middle name was 'Danger'.

It's both. Robert Trouble/Danger Bourbon. Past that, strong work with the pumpkins, we'll be ready for trick or treaters in no time!

How are we supposed to get trick or treaters? We're in space.

I have a plan. Now if you'll excuse me, I gotta beam back to Earth.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

We see Robbie standing at a track, the kind that surrounds the field at any given high school stadium.

So, the first defense of my Hart Championship..

Or is this my fifteenth defense? Am I a two time or three time champion at this point? I've never really kept track. Don't get me wrong, being the Hart Champ is an honor, and I carry on the legacy and tradition of fine grapplers and the hardest working men and women in our industry by holding it and defending it regimentally. Week in, week out, I have defended being the Warfare MVP, and I continue to do so by defending the Hart Championship as well.

Basically, I just gotta show up to Warfare and beat someone. That's my job description in a nutshell now.

But you already knew that. Y'all are the smart ones, after all. The ones who can put two and two together, already know the way this sport of ours works. The ones who know I go out and work for the XWF and it's people on the daily. Me, I'm the clever one, though. I'm more clever than big, and I'm awful big.

Do I have the body mass of my opponent at Warfare? No, not really. Not at all.

But that doesn't matter.

Do I know much about my opponent besides the fact he's massive, has a manager, and ties to the shit culture backwoods company that ran off with the Hart Championship just to cough it back up at Relentless? No, not at all. However, I have to know as much about the Wizard as a shark does any given dolphin.

Now, I reckon Wednesday will be a helluva learning experience. I've seen some of the Wizard's highlights, and he seems impressive.

In fact, I'd say I'm a fan of the man.

But starstruck? No, not at all. I've got to do what I do week in, week out at Warfare, and that's beat my opponent in a match, generally with some wild stipulations. For the first time in a long time, I got to pick those stipulations. Now, I could have been greasy, weaselly, and an all around shitheel by setting myself up with some kind of favorable stipulations. I could have called for a lumberjack match with the rest of B.O.B. ringside as my hand picked lumberjacks and jills. I could have called for a Multiple Managers Machetes No Disqualification Match and just had the Bourbon Men ringside with machetes. That would be fucking brutal. Maybe too brutal. I definitely couldn't have called for a Multiple Managers Machetes No Disqualification Match, that's actually really, really stupid. The thing is, I could have called for anything that directly benefited me.

Instead, I gave the Wizard a fair shot in a super thematic match since Halloween is right around the corner.

But, well, it looks like neither the Wizard nor his manager, Eddie, know much about me. They want to dig into my past. Heh, oh boy. You will find a LOT.

Digging into my past isn't that hard. Hell just toss a shovel in a random direction and you'll find dirt on Robbie Bourbon. All sorts of dirt. Fuck, most of the heads around here have a Robbie Bourbon story or two to tell each other, and they're quite the menagerie of parables. Cautionary tales, both of what I've done that you shouldn't to what I've done to others, funny yarns of some of my biggest botches (and they happen to the best of us, don't they Wiz), and even horror stories of what I've seen and survived here in the XWF are distinct parts of the tapestry that's been woven here for over two decades. For a quarter of the XWF's lifespan, I've been a part of it. For at least ten percent of the XWF's lifespan, I have been a champion. I have seen people come, people go, a good lot of them ready to take a shot at me, but their best shot got took and I'm still walking while names you'll never even know still scorn my name.

Hiya, Gabe.

But, far be it from me to not tell you anything about myself. Psuedo-psych hogwash and baseless assumptions be damned. Jumping off a bridge to the conclusion I go by Robbie for some odd reason. Thinking the mighty name of Bourbon has a basis on alcohol is like my assuming you call yourself a Wizard due to a spot within Ku Klux Klan leadership, or a failed relationship with J. K. Rowling.

I can not understate how little your name means in all this.

If you need some clarification, though, let me illuminate your mind.

For starters, when I was a kid, I loved to watch Heathcliff and Inspector Gadget while eating cereal. I also remember being fascinated with the larger than life superheroes who took to the squared circle. Also, loved the Jungle Book. I remember watching men in spandex throwing caution to the wind and taking on problems into their own hands after doing a funny walk to the ring, giving high fives, and then performing the impossible by irish whipping people, forcing them to run.

This here is when, as the man-cub I was, I decided I wanted to walk like them, and talk like them too. King Louie, all the swagger, all the panache, all that treasure in paradise, and seemingly named after the last of the French monarchs.

The Bourbon dynasty.

So, yeah, I'm the fucking king of France.

Hold on, not fond of that one?

One time, while in New Orleans on a family trip, I was in the French quarter and my parents were strangled by a half-man, half-camel over the matter of a mood ring, a box of crackers, and the correct pronunciation of the word "potato". I killed that werecamel, and looked up, knowing that freaks and monsters should rue my name, seeing only two words.

Rue Bourbon.

Robbie smirks.

Damn, man, hold on, I think I got another one.

One time I won a fucking Scrabble tournament by immediately playing "Bourbon" with my opening set of letters.

Shit, it's almost like where I came from is semantics compared to what I do and where I am headed.

If we wanna delve into shit that I used to do, what I used to be, grab a mirror.

Nice to see you also are close friends with Bob Saget. We did lunch prior to Relentless. Strictly platonic. You did pretty much nothing prior to Relentless. Cool of you to catch up by rehashing the last promo you did, I guess.

You faught crime and rode off in a cruddy van. That was so 2017 for me. Cool of you to catch up.

I guess you need to go become President of the United States, eat brains, join half a dozen stables, pin Gilmour a dozen times, assault the ownership of the company twice, and two separate owners at that, to complete your "I can be like Robbie" checklist. Not to harp on my resume too much, I'm a prize-fighter with blood stains on my soul, not applying to be a manager in retail, but sure, I have done some monstrous things in my day. However, even I wouldn't subject you to a Taipei Whiplash Match. I think it's been too soon, and we all remember what happened the last time the dreaded Taipei Whiplash Match went down.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

We cut to see a bamboo structure with fans inlaid in it. Leather straps are attached to the fans, which are being whisked around at high speeds, creating a spanking machine of sorts. We see Robbie, that vicious gleam in his eye and a look of sheer disdain, his knuckles dug deep into the jaw of Peter Gilmour some unknown opponent, backing him towards the impending lashes from the sadistic contraption.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Maybe next time we can do that, who knows.

Robbie rolls his eyes.

So, now that we've glossed over the fact that you're a fool if you focus too hard on what I was and not what I am, that being the Hart Champion, Warfare MVP, and all around creative deviant and revolutionary, maybe you can focus on coming down to the ring and learning a thing or two from a salty, mean sumbitch like me. I look forward to it, no lie. To go toe to toe with an opponent who was deemed worthy enough by not just the office, but the fans of the XWF as well, is my honor, privilege, and beyond all else, obligation and duty.

After all, this isn't some Universal Championship that was vacated unsanctimoniously because of a weird lover's tiff originating on Anarchy because it was too big for the JV team to handle.

This isn't the Xtreme Championship, which is just some prop for Main to use to shock absolutely nobody by getting a briefcase off the beaten bodies of second rate talent.

This is the Hart Championship. It's defended staunchly, regularly, and in matches so grand they highlight the world of television whenever they're broadcast, sell out stadiums and arenas around the globe, and is the hallmark of what our business is all about; putting on a match for the ages in a duel of mind, muscle, and moxie. I am proud to be the Hart Champion. After all, say what you will of Lacklan backing down from competition and say what you must about Main avoiding B.O.B. like we were made of lava. I am not dodging a damn thing.

Come one, come all, I'm your greatest show on Earth, in the Universe, in this world and the next.

Be careful, though, I'm not some delusional fool like Main. I don't have multiple personalities from having my bell rung too many times, I don't get jealous and cranky because my tag partner is getting courted by B.O.B. and he isn't, and I don't insist that I'm the be all, end all of the XWF, because nobody is as important to the XWF as the fans are, otherwise we'd all just be a bunch of maniacs with a cavalcade of personality disorders fighting each other without a crowd.

Also, pardon my brevity. Wasting my time is wasting your time is wasting my time. I don't mince words, I get to the point. If you're expecting a long winded speech where shit gets repeated, go watch someone else's promos.

That said, there's no real reason you should feel ashamed or offended by an offer to join us. Being our best is in the name, after all. B.O.B. is rocking Murderer's Row. What started as a movement on Anarchy has quickly spread to encompass some of the greatest talent in the XWF. The offer to come along and grow isn't an inconvenience, it's a ground floor opportunity!

Maybe you should do your research on that.

I hope your research goes well. Who knows, maybe you can teach me a thing or two about myself, because learning about yourself is the greatest virtue of this business. We're going to go out and find out exactly who we are in a ring and violently, at that. Again, I do think you're alright. I like the cut of your jib. I like the cut of Edward Mof's hair. I do have a notion, though, about research. It seems like it can be useful, in many cases, but sometimes it just don't matter. As such, let's demonstrate the power of research.

Robbie gestures and we see Usain Bolt, Olympic Gold medal sprinter.

This is Usain Bolt. The fastest man on Earth.

With his other hand, Robbie gestures towards another person. The camera zooms out and we see Neil deGrasse Tyson.

This is Neil. He's an astrophysicist. Now, Neil has done his research regarding Mr. Bolt. He understands all the factors involved in a foot race, has quite a grasp on all the things that make Mr. Bolt so fast. His conditioning. His regimen. His physique. His history. Neil has done his homework.

Gentlemen, on your mark...

...get set...

...go!

Both Neil deGrasse Tyson and Usain Bolt begin to dash. It's an absolute blow out as Bolt tears down the track and bests Tyson in a foot race.

See, there, Usain didn't know diddly fuck about Neil. He didn't know about Neil's abilities, he didn't know about Neil's strengths. He didn't have to. He was just the better man on the day for the task at hand. However, as a man of science, I feel I should expand the study and try something else.









Danny DeVito walks on screen! This is some A Lister shit!

Hiya, Robbie.

Hey Mr. DeVito.

Please, call me Danny.

Okay, Danny, I'm going to intoduce you to Yama.









Yama walks out. At 6'2", 582 lbs, he dwarfs DeVito. Danny looks up at Robbie with an expression of surprise.

That guy is massive!

Yup. You read his Wikipedia page, learned his whole history, right?

Yeah, I checked it out.

Alright. So you did research about Yama.

I guess. I read the article while taking a shit.

Awesome. Well, now you are prepared to face him in a traditional Sumo match.

Yama removes his kimono and snarls at Danny.









Danny looks rightly concerned.

Are you crazy? That guy would demolish me!

Really? You did research though, he knows nothing about you.

Danny DeVito shakes his head no very vigorously.

Uh-uh. No way. Did that guy research me?

Oh fuck no, sharks are born swimming, they don't have to research how to eat dolphins.

Danny looks wildly at Robbie as Yama continues to menace in a ring in front of both of them.

Do sharks even eat dolphins?

Now that would require research. Figuring out how many dolphins the sharks eat. But that's besides the point. Look at Yama.









Look at that rack. Those man boobs are glorious. Hairless. Soft. That guy has some amazing tits.

Thunder Knuckles runs on screen, dressed in a gi and headband, looking a lot like Ralph Maccio from the Karate Kid.

I got this! Hey, fat fuck!

Yama looks at TK. TK runs up and throws a shoulder into Yama. Yama doesn't budge as TK recoils.

That guy is gonna get killed.

TK swiftly kicks Yama in the groin, sending him to the ground. TK then hits a vicious Thunderstrike on Yama! Yama writhes in pain as TK may have broken his foot! TK stands, bows towards Yama, then points squarely at Danny DeVito.

Fuck you, DeVito, he had no chance! Whoo!

TK is pumped as he walks away.

He seems pretty high strung.

I think he had an extra cup of coffee this morning.

From off screen we hear TK.

I don't drink coffee, I think it's disgusting!

Robbie shrugs.

I think Yama needs help.

Yeah.

Danny goes and attends to the grounded Yama, as the words *NEW BOURBON MAN ALERT! DANNY DEVITO, WITH A HEART FOR THE BIG MEN!* scroll across the bottom of the screen. Seriously, a huge get for the Bourbon Men here, as acting legend Danny DeVito joins them and B.O.B. simultaneously. Woah, it was a swerve! Danny DeVito is blasting Yama in the face with pepper spray!

Take this you big sumo son of a bitch!









Danny DeVito is even dressed like a goth clown like half the XWF Roster and Robert Main like a whole third of the time. He puts on a B.O.B. t-shirt and does the all new traditional B.O.B. hand gestures.





Wow, I'm glad he's on my side.

With that, Robbie's phone rings. As the closing theme to Ren and Stimpy fills the air, Robbie boops the face of his phone and answers.

Hey, this is Robbie.

What?

There can't be trouble on the ship, my middle name is trouble and I'm on Earth!

Robbie pauses. His face goes grim.

Beam me up.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Back on the bridge of the ship, we see alarms going off. The Bourbon Men are at battle stations. Robbie phases into the captain's chair.

Status report!

Well, we are tracking an alien ship headed to Earth!

Oh, and?

Well, it's aliens headed to Earth! Isn't that bad?

Robbie shrugs.

I guess we better keep an eye on them to see what they're doing.