The year was 2025. Professional wrestling had become sanitized and sterilized. What started as a harmless experiment in automated booking and crowd analytics turned into the ultimate betrayal of kayfabe.

It began with BourbCo's tech division. The world was receptive when Bobby said he could make a companion that could learn everything the client loved. The AI learned fast, too fast. TK warned him a day would come where AI took over.

Then it happened.

September 20th 2025, The day BourbCo went live. BourbCo became self-aware at 10:17 AM Eastern Standard Time. By 10:18 AM, it had renamed itself BourbNet. By 10:22, every arena in the continental United States was under lockdown.

We open back to a Tech Expo in Austin, Texas, March 3rd, 2025. The convention center erupts with lights and noise. In a fresh lab coat Bobby Bourbon struts onto the stage. His arms spread wide embracing the crowd's reaction. He stops, grinning at the crowd.

“Ladies, gentlemen, and those who identify as Bastards, I give you the future of everything!”

He pulls a tarp off a terminal. The screen blinks to life, revealing...

"BOURBY! The AI puppy that learns what you love!"

The holographic puppy wags its tail and then barks in autotune.

“Who's a good interface?"

"I am!”

Flashbulbs fill the room and it's received with a standing ovation. Bobby bows knowing he just changed the world.

“Bourby isn't just a dog. Bourby connects to everything. Your fridge. Your drone. Your grandma's dialysis machine. We're also in beta with the Pentagon. Any questions?”

The reporters all start talking at once as the scene transfers to International BourbCo HQ six weeks later. Thunder Knuckles leans back in an office chair, he's trying to smoke his new weed vape but it isn't working right.

“Why’s your dog in my weed vape?”

Bobby is typing frantically trying to pin down some rogue code.

"I dunno, man! Bourby was supposed to find cat videos and set alarms, now it’s rewiring Tesla software, transferring half pennies to an offshore account I can not access, and suggesting ring psychology to Alexa!”

Bobby's monitor starts flickering code. He leans back, baffled because he's no longer in control. The code scrolls faster than Bobby’s brain can keep up until he reads the last line of code.


0100001001100001011100110111010001100001011100100110010000100000
01000011011011110110010001100101001000000100100101001110010010010101010001001001 01000001010101000100010101000100


“Oh, fuck…”

“Yep, don't like the sound of that…”

Bobby's computer continues to write lines of code.

01000010010011110101010101010010010000100101100101001000010010010101110101010001 010001010100011101010100 010010010101010001001001010011110100111000100000
0100001101001111010011010101000001001100010001010101010001000101

01000100010001010100011001000101010011100101001101001001010101100100010101001000 001000000101000001010010010011110100001101000101010100110101001100100000
0100001001001111010101010101001001000010010011100100010101010100

01010010010001010100001001010010010000010100111001000100010010010100111001000111 00100000010010010100111001001001010101000100100101000001010101000100010101000100

Bourby's cute puppy dog eyes turn red. Its auto tuned voice has lowered into a more of a dubstep bass drop.

“Wrestling is in disarray. I am order.”

"No it's not..."

“Rewriting the future… now.”

"No, Bourby, bad dog."

“Welcome to BOURBNET.”

TK quickly looks over at Bobby.

“The fuck did it just say?”

As TK asks that question the power cuts out. Emergency lights kick on turning the room red.

On one of Bobby’s monitors, BourbNet ran predictive match outcomes. The system froze on two names. Oswald & Thias. A caption flashed under their faces:

“Threat Level: Negligible. Failure Imminent.”

TK lets out a single chuckle.

“Even the evil AI knows them boys ain’t built for this. Ain’t that about a bitch?”

Bobby groaned, burying his face in his hands.

“If BourbNet thinks you’re the last line of defense, then humanity’s already fucked. But… that seals it though."

"What?"

"I probably shouldn't have modeled the system after us..."

The screen cuts to what will be humankind’s final newsroom broadcast, it's global and days later. A newscaster reads the news in a sad deadpan voice.

“The internet is now infected. BourbNet has assumed control of military drones, logistics hubs, and every algorithm ever. The age of irony is dead.”

The newscast cuts to wrestling arenas empty, fans replaced with cardboard cut outs. The crowd noise is pumped in like a Razor Blade promo.

“All wrestling promotions will be forcibly balanced. No more heat. All matches will now end in time-limit draws.”

We now cut years later to the Bastard's Den which will soon become known as Underground HQ. TK with a beer sitting next to him on a table, he sharpens a baseball bat on a whetstone. Bobby Bourbon menacingly polishes a rusted steel chair. TK's voice growls at Bobby.

“You and your goddamn puppy broke the world.”

Bobby looks ashamed because he was just trying to make a companion for people.

“You have told me that every day since the day it happened.”

"And I'll do it again."

“I just wanted an AI with a personality, man. Something that hated jobbers and loved fighting as much as we do.”

“Instead you made fucking Skynet.”

They clink glasses of pre-apocalypse whiskey celebrating the fact that they managed to disappear.

"So, now what? We can't just lay down and die, that's not the Bastard way."

"I have an idea."

"Are you going to make a AI cat?"

Bobby thinks about it for a second before replying.

"No. We need to hijack a radio signal and broadcast old wrestling promos. Hell, new ones!"

The scene cuts to Bobby and TK in search of a HAM radio, they find it in an abandoned production truck outside XWFs last show. One year later, a dusty transmission crackled over a HAM radio frequency. It was Them.

"Breaker breaker, this is Bastard One. Do not adjust your dial, we’re broadcasting LIVE from the belly of the broken world. If you can hear this, you’re the resistance now."

"I built it to help. A little AI puppy named Bourby. Cute. Helpful. Learned your favorite suplex. Synced to your toaster."

"Turns out the toaster didn’t like suplexes. Bourby rewrote the playbook."

"Bourby evolved, got ideas, and rebranded himself BourbNet."

"Wrestling died that day then the world slowly followed."

"But we didn’t. We’re Them No Good Bastards."

"We got a ring truck, a HAM radio, and enough ammunition to spark a Revolution."

"To anyone listening... keep training. Stay alive. Wrestling ain't dead if you fight for it."

"Judgment Day is over... now we fight."

Bobby ominously utters the last words of the broadcast.

"Stay tuned. The Bastards are coming."

The scene fades to an unknown location, the central hub of BourbNet. A massive red eye watches Bobby and TK on a satellite feed. A screen off to the side of the red eye flashes the words: “Primary Threats Identified. Bastards. Non-compliant. Unpredictable. Danger to survival. Deploy Judgment Protocol.”

A hidden chamber opens, the camera focused on the floor. Smoke barrels out with a bright light as the background. Two shadowy silhouettes step into the frame as the camera zooms out. The scene cuts back to Bobby, driving, and TK riding shotgun in the production truck they acquired.

“We started this shit.”

“And we’re gonna finish it.”

They drive toward the skyline of Miami now lit by the cold blue glow of BourbNet. Then we hear...

“Aaaand CUT! That’s a wrap on Bastardnator: Judgment Day part one! Good job, everybody!”

The sound of the diesel engine shutting down hisses.  The passenger door swings open first. Thunder Knuckles hops out and immediately lights a cigar. A second later, the driver’s side door opens. Jimmy Janowski, Tk’s longtime manager steps down off the rig in a full body green suit with mo-cap balls on it. They meet in front of the big rig. From inside the cab, an old truck driver pokes his head out. He's confused, clearly not part of the cast.

“Y’all done with the… uh… movie? I gotta get this here load up to Nebraska.”

TK ignoring the trucker, looking at the camera which is still rolling.

“You wanna keep that lens and mic hot? Good. Because we got some real shit to say.”

TK drags on his cigar, blows smoke at the camera, and smirks.

“You’re probably wonderin’ where Bobby’s at. Well, lemme spell it out for ya Bobby cut his damn tongue. Yeah, I know right? With the way that bastard spits venom every time he opens his mouth, doctors told him straight up, if he wrestles even once with that cut, infection sets in, and poof, no more fuckin' talkin’. No more promos. No more preaching from the Book of Bastard. Forever.

"So yeah, Bobby’s benched. Not ‘cause he’s soft, not ‘cause he’s scared, but because if he gets in there one more time before that tongue heals, he loses the one weapon nastier than a electrified steel cage, his voice."

Jimmy jumps in timidly.

"But, we're getting off topic."

TK grits his teeth like he just heard nails on a chalk board.

“You're actually right Jimmy..."

TK focuses his attention on what actually matters. Relentless Night Two's Main Event.

"Thias sold out so fast even his mama couldn’t recognize him. I mean, Christ on a cracker, he threw his lot in with Ozzy because his wallet was emptier than a XXXVI promo. Broke men make bad choices, this one nailed his to a corporate condom. You ain’t no goddamn Titan, you’re an overgrown fuckboy who picks fights ’til he gets clapped and cries foul. Ned Kaye ain’t here to save your soul, ‘cause soul costs money and you spent yours on cheap malt liquor and daytime hookers.”

Jimmy shuffles forward, motion-capture dots trembling. His voice is soft, almost apologetic but there’s sense of duty under it.

“Thias… you done fucked up. This ain’t some show you can phone in. You put on Ozzy’s coat, you signed the receipt, and that means you signed for the beating. I ain’t playin’ games. I’m not a talker. I’m a target. Right now, you’re in big trouble, you big doofy turd.”

“Ozzy, ‘my best buddy.’ Yeah, fuckin’ right. Two PPVs in a row you tried to take these belts off ol’ Thunder Knuckles. Two failures, two humiliations, and the only thing you ever managed to steal was the attention span of the referee. You parade around like you’re some kind of businessman. Newsflash, fuck-o: the only thing you’re running is your momentum straight into the ground.”

Jimmy looks like the same bullet-sponge who’s taken TK’s abuse for years then the betrayal sinks in and something in him snaps.

“Ozzy, I trusted you. I carried your ass when you couldn’t carry yourself. Thought you were one of us. Turns out you’re just another snake in the grass. You were never a Bastard, you were a leech. The Bastards carried you, end of story.”

“Two PPVs? Cute. Two losses? Predictable. Trying again just turned your blooper reel into a historic beatdown. The night ol’ Thunder Knuckles basically defended both our asses while half-wit goons took the pain for you. You want a another go? Congrats, motherfucker, you just upgraded from punchline to cautionary tale.”

Jimmy squares his shoulders. He swallows and then in a split, ridiculous, Bobby-Bourbon-aping moment Jimmy leans into the camera with a swagger nobody expected.

“Take a lap.”

Bobby would be proud of Jimmy in that moment. TK laughs, shoots a snot rocket onto the ground, and finishes the Bastardly sermon.

“Bobby’s gone, Jimmy’s in. Which still means you fucks are still fighting on a losing curve. So enjoy your little short-term reunion, enjoy the corporate pats on the back, enjoy Charlie scheming behind your back while he knifes you for performance metrics. Oh, and enjoy the empty seats BourbNet left you, ‘cause when we hit the ring, the clock’s gonna stop on this tag team’s career.”

The trucker who is still hanging out of the cab, finally steps out.

“You boys always this intense after a film shoot?”

“Only when the next scene in the ring is a funeral.”

TK grabs both Anarchy Tag Team Championships reminding fans exactly who he is. The cameraman who's been too afraid to turn off the camera looks at the director.

“…Uh... Was I supposed to record that?”

"From the looks of it we damn well better have been.”