Robbie Bourbon is under scrutiny. From the new developments coming from Paul Heyman, the critique of Trax, and the fear from Chris Chaos to the constant yearning of the people, Robbie Bourbon will assume the role as the Man of La Mancha, out of place in today's world and the constant demand of self. Such is life.

Brandon Moore, much like Robbie, is himself an anachronism, but why would that stop the High Holy Hypocrite?

FROZEN HEART OF STEEL

We open to see the makeshift village atop a frozen lake, somewhere in the northern part of North America. Shanties and tents adorn the setting, contrasting the only pure whiteness not considered blatantly racist. Men and women thoroughly bedecked in layer upon layer meet and greet with one another, telling each other tales of ice fishing as only ice fishers can. The sense of community borne by the cold and sense of hunger by all is truly one of humanity's better features. No political boundaries, no race, no creed, just a bunch of people all sharing a common appreciation for survival in the frozen wastes upon what may be a thriving and beautiful lake in the warmer weather.

At this time, we see the Donkey Kong Rape Van peel onto the ice, tearing up chunks of ice as it makes it's way towards a corner of the frozen paradise. As it stops, Robbie Bourbon steps out, wearing nothing but his mask, his singlet, his wrestling boots, and a scarf.

Jeebus. It's brisk.

We see the side door open. Cyberjaw, the man with the Cybernetic Jaw, Diamondback, the man who can blend into any crowd, Frankendickhead, some dickhead Robbie killed and reanimated, and Xtreme Travel Agent, possible victim of Stockholm Syndrome and Cyberjaw's main squeeze, all step out onto the frozen lake dressed from head to toe in winter weather gear, all looking like they abhor the cold much more than the comparatively scantily clad Bourbon.

It's fucking freezing!

What the fuck are we doing here? How are you supposed to train in this shit!

You're a dumb ass. Paul Heyman even told you that you wouldn't get to face either Scully or Chaos if you win, why not just toss in the towel now and get on with it?

Robbie looks at Frankendickhead.

I will not go quietly. I will not give up a fight because there's some other opportunity in the wings. I will not give Paul Heyman the satisfaction, and frankly, I wouldn't disrespect Brandon Moore like that.

You respect that guy?

Sure do. Why wouldn't I? I mean, here's a man who goes out and speaks his fucking mind, wrestles how he fucking wants to, and is not ashamed of it. Shit, this guy is even just a couple of months older than me. For those paying attention at home, this is a hell of a match up, and I'm not only downright fucking honored to compete for the Hart Championship in the XWF's first show in the Antarctic, to compete on the last continent I have yet to fight on on this Earth, to bring the Hart Title to heights unseen, but to face off against a man who sees through the bullshit and horsefuckery with a set of eyes as keen as mine, well damn, why the fuck would you pass up on that?

Brandon Moore has more integrity in his pinky finger than most of the people I've squared off against in the past year combined. Most, that is. I respect some of the folks, don't get me wrong, but for the most part, well, when you face Trax and Chris Chaos as many times as I have, it's a fucking breath of fresh air when you hear you're facing off with not only the Federweight champion, but one who engages in the same kind of spitfire mentality you do, well shit! Christmas came and went without it's Universal Championship, but this, this is more than enough to make up for that!

You're nuts.

Nah, I'm condiments. I got a promotion.

Huh?

Shut the fuck up, dickhead. Where's the tent?

You told us we wouldn't need one, we have a shaggin' wagon.

Ugh. No, just, no. You two are not fucking in my pristine new van. Probably the only benefit to Barney blowing my old van up was getting rid of the snail trails you two left inside it.

Heh.

Both Xtreme Travel Agent and Cyberjaw hold each other's hand. Robbie rolls his eyes.

Y'alls nasty.

And?

Robbie shrugs.

You two are now in charge of detailing the van.

Well, if we had our own van...

If you had your own van we'd be hearing about Cyberjaw and his Cybermen.

Cybermen? Isn't that...

Yeah, yeah, copyrighted, don't tell Stephen Moffat.

Who?

Uh, nobody, definitely not on IMDB.com. Anywhoo...

Robbie reaches into the van and pulls out a small 14 inch grill, a bag of charcoal too large, and three bottles of lighter fluid. He sets the grill up.

Okay, so, here's how it goes.

Brandon Moore is a strong competitor.

Just, well, not strong enough. See, there's a huge disparity here.

Moore is faster, leaner, more agile, quicker with a counter, more technical, a better performer, whatever. Thems,

after all,

were just window dressing; statements of prediction, not probability.

Robbie pours the coal into the grill. Most of the denizens of the frozen lake look on in shock.

See...

Wait. Nah, even better.

Ignore. Ignore, ignore, ignore.

I want you to ignore right here.

Or whatever. I'm being a paradoxical sumbitch at the moment.

As fucking brutal as Brandon Moore is on the microphone when addressing an opponent, well, I'm always just a step, well...

beyond.

Robbie opens two bottles of lighter fluid, depositing 4 quarts of lighter fluid into an overpacked grill on an ice covered lake. His Bourbon Men get into the van and drive off.

See, Brandon Moore has it twisted like a French braid on your prom date, thinking his piss out his mouth ain't that hard to replicate and then this simple meeting of fate, I'm not known to keep a solid date I just make sure I complicate whenever some sumbitch sit's and will wait, jerking us and themselves off, stereo masturbate, log in to that good ole' website and thems urges satiate keep your meal all organized to feel on your very own perv plate, and by that sir, I mean the Pornhub, sir, the XHamster, sir, not the XWF Website, sir, stop spraying your self indulgence all over the fucking walls the keyboard, just beating your gourd, friendzoned be the rule when you're flaunting your tool like you think it's the king's sword. Excaliber, excellent, extraordinaire, enthralling, I'm standing like a man while your woman is snowballing, swallow or spit, you love the taste, it's your calling, and that sir, be the fucking gospel, sir, be the word of Bourbon, sir, be the everloving motherfucking deep down firebellied venom fueled poisonous hate machine that ever did live.

Well, besides your mother.

That bitch smelled like crotch in a garbage dump.

The last man who saw that hairy cunt was a total show, with two men watching. You and your doctor, your birthday, 1985.

One day in nineteen eighty-five, I tell no jive, some little turn became alive when we saw it take a dive off a table to survive. The little shit ran out the door and away from the floating pussbag that was his mommie, she died of hepatitis C, AIDS, Heroin overdose, and being accused of being a commie. Shot in Wal-Mart outlined in cookie dough and eaten by evidence dogs, you kept what was in her fucking wallet and got yourself Lincoln Logs. I'm beating your ass for the one and only Hart Championship of the XWF, sir, not for some fun little dance guaranteed to get me anywhere specific, you understand.

Just directly past you.

Someone else is in the way, right now. Someone else needs to have their ass whooped ten times harder than a frozen diamond cock in Brandon Moore's supple and loving lips while his tongue thaws the cock until it melts in his mouth.

Not in his hands.

Always swallowing the end remains of some other human's reproductive glands.

Realizing he's fucking off against the motherfucker who fills the stands.

A bigger name than half of the Coachella bands.

The Earth often stops rotating, ladies and gentlemen, waiting for his commands, an ear and eye open for the moment he lands.

And you know why? Do you think this is some bitch stepping into the game, not seeing you like you're cut from the same cloth, one and the same? When you lose, and you will lose, I'm the one you will blame, never will acknowledge a damn thing I became after I went of and got stronger after leaving you lame. So young, so talented, so eager, so willing. So what, so simple, such a motherfucking shame. Just like your daddy with your mother, who the fuck knows why you came.

Robbie sticks his fist out and opens his palm downward.

Drop the mic.

That doesn't work, we're using a boom.

Robbie lights the grill. As he does, the pulls a pack of hot dogs out of the van and a long fork, or perhaps back scratcher. He sticks four hot dogs on the stick, and suddenly, the ice breaks beneath Robbie. He plummets into the frozen lake.