This Wednesday, Robbie faces off against Mason Prince, a former XWF X-Treme Champion.

GRASPING FOR THE BLACK HAND OF FATE

We open to see Robbie standing with Morbid Angel.

Where the hell is Pest?

"I don't know."

Does his usually disappear like this?

"I don't know."

Well, damn. Sooo, wanna go play with the time machine?

"Yes!"

Alright. Where do you wanna...

"LET'S GO TO THE BATTLE OF CARTHAGE AND KILL ROMANS!"

Robbie is taken aback with the speed with which Morbid Angel answered that.

Okay, so some ancient battlefield. Sweet.

Robbie and Morbid enter the time machine. Robbie turns to the controls, but sees a button he hasn't seen before.

So, I know you said Carthage, but this button looks fresh.

"What does it do?"

I dunno. It says 'AUTOPILOT'.

"Autopilot?"

Yeah. No clue what the fuck that could even mean.

"What are you going to do?"

What am I going to do? WHAT AM I GOING TO DO!!!!

This Wednesday I'm going to lay Mason Prince out to cure like a slab of pork, then spice him, pepper him, sauce him, grill him, and serve him up on a goddamn platter for the XWF Universe to feed off of in celebration! Celebration, my friend, for the fact the Black Hand, the strongest trio in wrestling today, is recruiting.

Now we like you, Mason. We really do. You've got that Golden Goose quality to you that is rarely seen these days in young talent stepping into the XWF. You have moxie, you have spirit, and you have balls. You even won the Powerball! Why is it I can remember you winning that but not a match? Heh, not that a win loss record matters, I've lost before. I've lost to your buddies, Austin Fernando and Luca Arzegotti! How are they?

Let me guess, you have to text them.

You've been on quite the slippery slope since you started doing them favors, huh? Shit, that was awfully kind of you to propel them to a Pay-Per-View. Now they're the tag team champions instead of the best tag team out there in the universe today, the Black Hand. All because you had their back, Ghost Tank had their back, and Austin was CCWF so I wonder who allowed you fools ringside to begin with, but people even more important than you or Ghost Tank had their back. What wonders they've done you. I remember the epic time that Luca and Austin came and bailed you out when the Black Hand paid you a visit during your last trip to the Doctor. Oh, wait, I was the only one there. I was paying attention. I was watching you and D'Ville. Speaking of which, even Alexis Riot beat that guy, what's your excuse?

Oh, hey, what about that epic time that Zane Kingsley III came out and was your manager while you fought Peter Gilmour, the dead-man-walking should I ever decide the Hart Championship is what the people deserves, and every god damned day that idiot wears a title YOU couldn't even take off of him is another day that the debt to the people grows, another day I count because you couldn't take the belt away from some Donald Trump errand boy.

Shit, at least you could shoot a Panda Express commercial by yourself.

Seriously, Mason, you should consider what these guys have done for you compared to what they expected of you. I don't see Zane coming ringside to evoke victory in your name. I didn't hear mention of you when myself and Pest were running with Morbid Angel, a bonafide terror of three, as a way to help Austin and Luca. You know who does know you? You know who has been watching?

The Black Hand.

Don't you sense it, Mason? Don't you have the feeling in your gut, in the very pit of your soul, that all is not right in the world? Don't you sense that your greatness, your talents, are being hindered? Where is the gusto? Where is the moxie? What happened to your balls, dude?

We can bring them back. Reveal to the Black Hand and we'll cure all that ails you.

Consider Wednesday a taste of what you could be. Consider every moment you spend in that ring with me a testament to why you belong in the Black Hand. You're lost, you're talented, you're not being given the credit due to to as a talented superstar in the XWF because there are those out there that want you to stay down so they can stay ahead. If you don't believe me, ask your friend Austin Fernando, he sure stuck his neck out to make sure you got a rematch for the X-Treme Title in a hurry, or wait, he didn't. We, on the other hand, have never played you, have never spun you in a circle, never asked you to step in directions to benefit us. We humbly offer you a chance to shine.

I humbly request to fight. I live for that shit. I love the combat. I love the conflict. I like it when I get into the ring and get to pummel some asshole while that guy gets his free chance to fire back at me. I can't sleep at night knowing I've passed on a fight. So, I got one. You answered the call. Color me impressed. We've known for a while, we've been impressed for a while. Thing is, stud, as impressive as it is for you to call me out when I'm challenging the Hart Champion, a man I've personally fucked up harder than the last anal gangbang on your mother in a church parking lot on meth...

"That's fucking hard."

...Well, it sure as shit ain't the smartest move.

And that's why I like you. Fuck the smart move. Fuck the sense, fuck the logic, fuck the circumstances, fight, fight, and fight some more for the be all, end all, one true judge, jury, and executioner in this here universe. The People.

My people. Our people. Mason, I won't beg, I won't relent, I won't plead, I won't stop, I will meet you in the squared circle at Wednesday Night Warfare, in front of the packed Tokyo Dome, on worldwide television, streaming across the internet, and broadcast in short waves so far into space that those near Pluto are just now seeing Peter Gilmour win his first X-Treme title, and I will put you through more hell than you've ever thought possible, because the only way to beat the big bad Bourbon man is to get downright homicidal on his huge self. Your arms will burn from the amount of punches you'll throw, your back will ache with every time you physically take me down, your legs will tire of standing after you've thrown every ounce of beating you have in you at me. Then I get up. Then I get pissed. Then you really start to hurt.

I can take more damage than anyone here in the XWF. I have taken more damage than most in a shorter amount of time, I'm breathing, I'm mean, and I'm fighting. I'll fight until my legs give out, I'll fight until my back gives out, I'll fight until I can't lift my arms, and I'll fight until there is no breath in my chest and my heart stops, then an orangutan, a robot, a shapeshifter, a dude with some goofy robot chin thing, my girlfriend, my hair stylist, and the Black Hand will come out with a defibrillator and bring me back from beyond the grave just to fight some more.

The question isn't what could you fight for, Mason, but what people do you fight for? You're invited, RSVP.

Morbid and Robbie give each other a fistbump. Suddenly, we hear a familiar voice.

That's telling them, Rob. I respect a man who can tell it straight and to the point, I do. How've you been?

We see the Dick of Peter Gilmour enter the scene.

Fuck. I thought you were in Sri Lanka, Penis.

Alejandro.

Huh?

My name is Alejandro. I traveled with those nuns for several days but they gave me up for Lent. They abandoned me in a Mexican prison, and I earned my own name. My name is Alejandro, the name Peter GIlmour is a surname.

"Is 'of' your middle name?"

Yes.

Okay, well, okay, Alejandro, let's go in this time machine. I promise there's no chance at all we'll abandon you somewhere in time where you'll surely die and I'll never have to see you again. I think.

That's mighty big of you, Rob. I appreciate a man that's big when he speaks. It shows character. I'm in.

Ah, okay. I didn't ask.

Robbie hits the autopilot button.