Robbie Bourbon's partner, Arby Beef, has always been thought of as some figment of Robbie's imagination, a hustle or scam to justify his having the Tag Team Titles. Until...

THE HAIL MARY PLAY

We open to see the desolate and empty streets of Aleppo. Marked by war everywhere you look, with rubble and broken glass everywhere, storefronts destroyed, and bullet ridden buildings surrounding the atmosphere. In the distance we hear the sound of gunfire and explosions as the Syrian Civil War rages on. A faint whistling sound is heard, the telltale sound of incoming impact, as yet another bomb falls in this once thriving city, now a tomb and a shell at the same time, a landfill of spent casings, shrapnel, and the dead. With a loud crash, an object lands squarely in the center of the street, almost like a bomb hitting. Debris and dust flies, obscuring the view, and after a brief moment of chaos, things are quieted enough to overhear the sounds of war somewhere in the distance.

What has landed in the middle of the street looks like some kind of pod, similar in shape to an Apollo spacecraft, with a parachute slowly cascading towards the ground, oddly designed to lessen the impact of this capsule. A door opens, and Robbie Bourbon, in his presidential suit and his trademark mask, steps out. He's carrying a fire axe.

Team, this is President One, I'm on the ground.

The report of static clicks as the crack XWF production team intercepts the radio feed to President Robbie Bourbon.

"Okay, sir. We are tracking you on satcom. You say the word, and three teams of SEALs will rendezvous..."

Belay that, General, I will not risk American lives when I can do this job. I'm the bulletproof one, I'm the commander in chief, it's time for the President to go fight the war and let the Army, Navy, and Air Force have a day off.

"Yes sir, but I notice you didn't mention the Marines."

You're on duty, General Dunford, to get my ass out of here once I've finished my mission.

"Heh, yes sir. You got balls, Mr. President."

That's Mister President Bourbon to you, General. President One out.

Robbie walks down the street, looking around. The destruction is overwhelming, and Robbie tries to come to grips with his surroundings. Suddenly, a jeep with four armed men arrive and swiftly brake, kicking up more dust. They depart, and begin to yell something at Robbie. Robbie rolls his eyes.

I don't speak that jibbajab. Shit, I should've thought to have a translator. Indigo, this is Ocher, do you copy?

"Hey honey, how're you?"

Confused, can you pick up what these guys are saying and translate?

Three of the men raise their rifles and take aim at Robbie, the fourth who was riding in the front passenger seat continuing to shout.

"They're telling you to surrender to the rightful rulership of Syria, that American imperialists will die, and that you're a joke of an American President."

Robbie looks less than pleased. He turns to the Syrian military.

Go fuck yourselves!

The Syrians all turn to each other and look somewhat confused. They look back at Robbie and open fire. The bullets pierce holes in his nice Presidential suit. After they all empty the clips to their weapons, and see Robbie is still standing, the leader puts his hand up and signals for the men to cease fire. He turns and speaks to Robbie.

"He's asking what kind of devil you are."

I'm a goddamned saint.

Robbie charges the group, and smashes the leader's knee with the back of his axe. In a flourish, he does an arcing reverse 180 degree turn and plants the blade of his axe into the face of one of the Syrian soldiers, causing meat and blood to splatter from where his cheekbone used to be. Robbie then grabs a third soldier by the throat with a free hand while maintaining a grip on the axe, and chokeslams him into the hood of the jeep, causing it to bow and bend inward. Robbie lifts him and delivers another chokeslam, causing the supports holding the hood on the vehicle to snap. Robbie lifts again, and delivers a third chokeslam onto the ground, and with a vicious snap we hear the sound of the soldier's neck breaking. Robbie removes the axe from the soldier who's face he had destroyed and hurls it at the fourth man, who was attempting to run away, hitting him square in the back of the skull, causing him to crash to the ground in a heap as blood pours out into the street. Robbie turns to the leader, lying on the ground grasping at his destroyed knee.

So, we're gonna have a chat.

Robbie pulls the hood of the jeep off and tosses it aside. He lifts the leader up by his collar, then presses his face against the piping hot, still running engine. Slight tendrils of smoke billow as the leader's face is seared, screams echoing and coming into perfect sync with the rest of the chaotic noise of a warzone. Robbie pulls him back off the engine.

"I think Geneva is going to be upset with that."

I have a license for it. Now, I need you to translate some things for this guy. Ask him where his base is.

Blue echoes something back, indescernable. The leader, in a voice rife with pain and sorrow, cries back to Robbie something.

"He says it's two miles south of here, and that the Russians will be there too, you can catch them red handed."

Sweet. How long will the Russians be there?

Blue translates, and the man cries back.

"They aren't leaving."

...

Robbie looks less than pleased as he lifts the man and throws him into the windshield of the jeep, causing it to flex in and act like a glass hammock. He then walks to the man's head.

Ask him if he's ISIS.

Blue translates, and the man cries back.

"He says he is, and he's very sorry."

Robbie pulls the man from the windshield of the car, lifts him, and Robbiebombs him onto the running engine. The force causes the engine to be knocked from it's supports, and sputters and dies as gasoline mists spew skyward. The man is wailing in agony, his shoulders slumped in an awkward impossible angle, as are his hips, denoting the broken back.

You should've bought American.

Robbie turns and pulls out a cigar. He lights it, then tosses the lit match over his back, igniting the spraying gasoline. The engine and jeep blows up, putting the Syrian soldier out of his misery. Robbie sits on the ground, gawking at the awkwardly twitching body connected to the face he destroyed of a man, barely alive, but still not quite dead.

Indigo, this is Ocher, I've rendezvoused with hostiles, they're down.

"Gotcha. I've got the coordinates set up for the Syrian base where the Russians are staying. Also, your partner cut a promo."

Wait...

Robbie looks completely befuddled as he throws a rock at the twitching body. It sticks it's arm up and flicks Robbie off.

What did you say?

"I have the coordinates..."

Nah, the other part.

"Oh, your partner cut a promo for your match, defending your XWF Tag Team Championships."

What partner?

"Arby Beef."

Seriously?

"Yeah, why?"

I just, y'know...

"You made Arby up?"

Yeah, I just wanted the Tag Titles, I kinda figured I'd be facing Louis D'Ville and Unknown Soldier solo, or with a manequin with the Arby mask on it, or maybe change masks whenever I wanted to make a tag.

"That makes no sense."

It was for the People! And, well, Arby Beef cutting a promo makes less sense!

Robbie pulls his phone out of his pocket. It has a bullet lodged in it, rendering it destroyed. The not-quite dead guy with the imploded axe face flicks Robbie off again, laughing while gurgling up blood, mucus, and bone.

Fuck you too!

"What was that?"

Oh, this guy, well, nevermind. Anyway, get General Dunford on the line.

"Do you need backup?"

Hell naw, I'm fine. I have to give my partner his belt!

Robbie picks up the man with the smashed face, Smashdyface McFace, and a line ladder drops to the ground. Robbie carries his prisoner/new Bourbon Man up the ladder and into the helicopter.