Robbie recently gave chase to monitor the activities of extraterrestrials near Earth.

Do you think they know about how around Halloween large masked men are absolute terrors?

They will.

CALL ME BOBBY

I can't let you have the Hart Championship.

I won't let you have the Hart Championship.

Because you fucked up.

Hard.

For starters, fuck your aura. Insisting I bask in your aura sounds like you want me to smell your fucking farts. I don't give a flying fuck if you busted ass, I'm not here to take a whiff of your stink. Past that, I don't care what kind of glow you think you have that you don't, I don't care what kind of presence you think you emit that you won't, and I don't give a flying fuck about how big you are, what you think you can do, or where you feel you deserve to be.

Hiya. My name is Robbie Motherfucking Bourbon. You're going to remember that name.

Maybe if you did your research you'd know I'd say that.

Maybe if you did your research, you wouldn't have fucked up.

I get it, you think you're special that I supposedly 'ramped up my game' from one promo to the next. Shit, son, wait until Warfare proper! You'll wander out to the ring, jamming out to your music, feeling fine, then it hits. My music hits. You look up the ramp, and you see that chubby motherfucker I be. You see the white leather, the gold, and the pink inlay around my waist, the telltale sign that it is, indeed, the Hart Champion, that it is, indeed, someone you have never fucking faced before, as bad as you think you are, as talented as you believe yourself to be, I'm the fucking prick coming to beat your ass on Warfare, something you've never fucking experienced, the Wednesday Night Wrecker, the big bad big bad of big bads, the last outlaw. You'll steel yourself, you'll convince yourself that I'm just hype and there's some truth to the fairy tale you told about yourself, when in reality you've been getting ready by talking with Dr. Jekyll when you're really facing Mr. Hyde, thinking yourself witty with every snide, hoisting yourself upon some pride, when you're about to go for a ride. Think deep, hard, and where you are inside, I'm bonafide, your manager must've lied based on the knowhow he spied, you're gonna get tried, fried, and served up with Cole Slaw as a side when I turn up the heat and serve you like the entree most have eyed. Open wide! You'll need something to fill you since inward you'll feel like you just died.

See, B.O.B. gave you respect.

B.O.B. gave you regard.

B.O.B. wanted you around to help their cause.

You, however, mocked them.

You mocked my people.

Maybe if you did your fucking research you'd have learned that is the last thing you fucking do when you're facing Robbie Bourbon.

Defang me. Declaw me. Leave me disarmed, and you might have a shot.

But I have no pity for you.

I have no reason to show you mercy.

Fuck your aura.

You and your aura can go snort lines of coke off a toilet seat in some night spot until you have an entire fucking club basking in your aura as you feel your heart beat to some rhythm of who gives a fuck and I will whoop your ass you fucking poser.

Wannabe talent.

Pretender.

You go bop LARPers. I was in the newspaper for that shit fifteen years ago.

I have wrecked bodies on Warfare while you got bottom of the barrel shit fed to you only to choke when you faced Robert Main.

I'm the Warfare MVP, and the Hart Champion, and Charlie Nickles is being an absolute fucking moron hoping for a special designation after I whooped his ass so bad he's actually hoping Wizard wins to challenge for the Hart Championship, but that ain't fucking happening since the Wizard WILL not beat me for the Hart Championship.

You're a smart man.

Robbie gives pause.

You're an educated man.

Robbie pauses again.

Think about it.

It's not a difficult thing to imagine. Not in the least. Come after me, if you come at all. I'm the one with the big belt that you're ultimately going to fail at trying to take.

Especially since you fucked up and fucking insulted the people who have treated me with regard and respect and dignity.

Jenny Myst has been through more in this industry than you can imagine. Oswald has taken more beatings and punishment than you can conceive. Thunder Knuckles has been involved with and touched more lives in his time in the XWF than you can count. Graves has done stuff.

Fuck that, I bust his balls a lot, but Graves is actually one of the best men I know in the damned business.

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

We see Michael Graves and Miss Fury in a parking lot, sitting in the bed of Robbie's Toyota truck, eating fast food.

I can't believe I found a twenty in the glove compartment!

You mean you found a watch and pawned it.

Graves smiles, nods, and takes a bite of his cheeseburger.

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

]So, you know what? I'll fucking bite. I will humor you. I will not start attacking, um, what's his name, your little buddy. I will not start talking about how all the LARPers you hang around probably smell like a combination of their grandma's basement, their father's disappointment, and stale Cheetos. I will not start attacking other people because I don't have to, I can just attack you because there's nothing about you that scares me.

If you want to be an enemy to BOB, here's your chance!

Hiya.

My name is Bobby Motherfucking Bourbon.

You're definitely going to remember that shit now.

Bobby laughs.

My name is BOBBY.

A name change in the build up to a match? This is a bold strategy, Cotton. Let's see if it pays off for 'em.

Nah, there's no desperation in Bobby's tone. It's fine. Bobby Bourbon just sounds cooler anyhow.

I am the Ace of B.O.B., the B.O.B.sday Night Wrecker! I'm totally defined by the name of B.O.....

Robbie goes off saying "bahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh". He then stops and looks dead at the camera.

Oh. I'm more than just BOB.

I'm more than just the Hart Champion.

I'm the fucking Warfare MVP.

And you're facing me at Warfare. I don't give a shit what your name is. I don't give two shits what your record is, and I don't give a flying shit about what you've done in this company.

You haven't seen the shit I have, and you're welcome. You might one day have to deal with the kinds of monsters I've been around, and be warned, I've seen them in the Battle Royale at High Stakes.

You could have attempted to go after the top prize in the company, too, you silly bastard.

As I pointed out in a prior interview, only an idiot doesn't go after the Universal Championship. You want to rebound in ways to turn heads, do it there shithead. That would be bucking the trend. Instead, well, instead you're coming to Warfare to get wrecked.

I mean, I'm no psychologist, but maybe your fear of the spotlight is why you were destined to lose to Main, are destined to lose to me, and wouldn't chase after the Universal Championship. But, hey, you seem to have the psuedo-psych bullshit game on lock, maybe you could go become a guidance counselor at a fucking Montessori school. Seriously, you can try to diagnose me all you want, that sure as fuck doesn't mean you're capable of stopping me.

Now, as for using comedy as a shield, I don't know how well that works, or if it's some goofy LARP term or whatever, and I don't know what you're seeing through, but I haven't made a single joke to deflect any kind of criticism you might have about me.

You haven't criticized me at all, not directly. You told a dopey Renaissance Faire allegory about me. Oooooh.

I have made quite a few jokes however, and the reasoning behind that is simple; I wanted to make my friends laugh so they'd think I was witty and charming, and as such I wouldn't have to bring much to the next pot luck.

That would be another thing you are massively balking at, by the way. Graves makes an amazing chili, Oswald makes the most sinfully delectable chili you'd ever tasted, and TK's chili is uncanny. The cool thing is, when I make fun and they smile, it's okay that I can't make good chili, I get to bring the paper plates.

You, on the other hand, have your head completely up your ass in thinking I'm anything but the challenge of your fucking life, in thinking you need to go be LARP Jesus, and in thinking you don't need B.O.B. in your life.

Oh, kudos on saving all the sex dolls and taking a poop in a Target, though. Gotta give credit where credit is due, those seem like things you're good at. Maybe more of that, less of insulting B.O.B.

Also, I put up a hell of a lot more fight than some geezer that's balls deep in the fanciest looking piece of rubber I have ever seen.

But let's us go back to jokes.

Before you stink up my ring and make everyone bask in it, that is.

The Wizard couldn't make a pussy wet even if he dropped a dozen kittens in the ocean.

Wizzy has feet that smell so bad...

Fuchsia, rockin' space babe, walks into the scene.

Honey?

Yeah?

Are you alright? You seem grumpier than normal.

Robbie Bobby shrugs.

I guess. I'm just kinda anxious, I guess. Sometimes I hit lows, and I get particularly irritatable.

But you love cutting promos!

I do, cupcake, I do. But I like wrecking fools in the ring the best. This guy, I was enough of a fan to begin with, but it turns he's just an arrogant loaf who surrounds himself with people ready to kiss his ass and treat him like he's special. He didn't even feel like coming back to even fight unless it was in a main event spot for a title, and then after learning that he touted himself as someone on the comeback swing who's going to turn B.O.B. upside down and backwards at my expense.

But B.O.B. backwards is B.O.B. It's a palindrome.

Right.

So what does that mean?

Well, using comic book logic, since it doesn't have an inverse that isn't what it is normally, there can really be no Anti-B.O.B. The very concept sets science back decades.

Oh. This sounds like a TED talk.

Kinda, but it's a B.O.B. talk.

I see.

Well, I mean, here's a guy who loves to hype all his promise, chews up airtime with a parable he's telling to a bunch of incels and nerds who would find undoing a bra more difficult than climbing Everest.

Why would that be harder than Everest?

They'd be allowed to touch Everest consensually.

Oh.

Then there's this weird sitcom nonsense, like if someone wanted to reboot Curb Your Enthusiasm only without a sense of charm and the pauses for laughs the parts that are awkward, not Wizzy's whoopsies and odd interactions.

Seriously, we already have mediocre sitcoms. It's why God, Yahweh, Allah, Vishnu, or the Giant Turtle that the flat Earth sits, depending on your beliefs, invented CBS.

Really?

Well, the Price is Right, but it's almost like they've been coasting on that and the word 'Bazinga' forever. Ooh, in Wizzy's dumb nerd sitcom, maybe he could get a witty catchphrase!

Doesn't he already tell people to bask in his aura?

Heh, I understand the confusion. I said a witty catchphrase.

Oh.

Yeah.

Wow, you really soured on this guy.

Did I? I saw promise and opportunity before, now I just hear the same contrived ramblings that litter the airwaves from dullards who think they're going to be superstars in the wrestling world because they're big and watched Dr. Phil a few times and think they can sound confident and in control.

Now I'm going to beat your ass on TV for it.

As for the caskets themselves, I don't think you've picked up on a huge key, what exactly I will be doing to you in Germany.

Haven't you noticed I keep saying plural caskets? As in not one but more?

Now, I know you're probably asking "But Bobby, I thought a casket match ended when you put someone in a casket, why a potential second one?"

No. I might be cutting you to ribbons here and now on the microphone, sultan of smacktalk I be, but that's as Michael Meyers as I get. I don't plan on literally killing you.

But I am going to Bobbybomb you through a damned casket.

All the universe can watch and witness as I pick you up, over four hundred pounds, onto my shoulders, then sling you down and through a fucking coffin.

Then the universe will witness as I take you, put you in another coffin, and shut it, putting your hopes of getting the Hart Championship and beating the Warfare MVP to rest.