Robbie recently deleted a text on his girlfriend's phone from the president, requesting she stop a second American civil war. Considering the shots fired, she may be too late...

PRESIDENT BOURBON

We open to see the White House, Washington DC, from the north side. The street, almost permanently blocked off to vehicle traffic, is alive with visitors, the homeless, and protesters of all sorts. We see a pair of protesters skipping down the sidewalk in front of the tall black metal gate surrounding the White House Lawn. We see a group of protesters beckoning for U.S. intervention in some odd third world country. We see a lone protester, camped out and filthy, as though they've been there for decades, with a sign saying "Disarm Our Nukes" with flowers and peace signs everywhere.

Inside the gate, to the right, we see a cavalcade of umbrellas and canopies, all bearing different television and cable channels. ABC, NBC, CBS, FOX, CNN, etc., camped out, ready to get the best possible shot they can when a story breaks and a dramatic shot of the White House is needed, always facing the northwest corner of the building. Suddenly, we see pedestrians sidestepping the white A-Team Van painted to look like the Ghostbusters car, Robbie Bourbon's method of vehicular land transportation of choice. The fence opens, and Robbie pulls into the White House driveway and parks. He steps out. As he does, we see Marine One on top of the White House, and Barack Obama is stepping into it. The helicopter takes off and lands on the lawn next to Robbie, and the president departs Marine One and walks over to Robbie. News crews gather around to witness this historic occasion.

Mr. Bourbon, on behalf of the American people...


I would like to say thank you. You have been a great servant of this land, standing up for what's right and correct about our country, and preserving...


our greatest qualities and ideals. Freedom...


Liberty...


Expression...


and steadfastness. Now, in the hour of your country's greatest need, to prevent civil war, you will be taking over my responsibilities as President of the United States...


by means of some whimsical fuckery between myself, congress, and the Supreme Court. Mr. President...


here are the keys.

Obama reaches in his pocket and pulls out a set of red, white, and blue keys. He tosses them to Robbie, who snags them out of the air. As he does, the news crews, the protesters, the visitors, the secret service, Michelle Obama, Joe Biden, and one vendor selling egg rolls all start cheering madly.

*YOU DESERVE IT*clap, clap, clap clap clap*YOU DESERVE IT*clap, clap, clap clap clap*YOU DESERVE IT*clap, clap, clap clap clap*

Blue approaches Robbie. The rest of the Bourbon Men, Cyberjaw, the man with the cybernetic jaw, Diamondback, the man who can blend into any crowd, Ash, Robbie's personal stylist, Robo-Rob, the robot from Rocky IV painted to look like it's wearing a Robbie Bourbon mask, and in a sudden twist, the camera pans to show Joe Biden, Mr. Vice President, with the words "NEW BOURBON MAN!!!" in bold text on the screen, signalling that the rumors are indeed true and Joe Biden is now a member of the Bourbon Men. The camera pans back to Robbie.

All because you deleted a text.

What? How did...

I watch your promos, you dingus. You know, you're Ocher. I'm surprised you couldn't figure that out, my code name is Indigo, you seemed to grasp that easily enough.

Well, what, I was tired.

Yeah, sure. Obama just handed you the country because he was afraid you and Bearded War Pig would cause a second civil war.

Ah. Well, regardless, I'm the President.

Yes you are, President Bourbon.

That's Mister President Bourbon. C'mon, I've got an America to run and save from itself.

An intern approaches Robbie and hands him a very official looking leather bound document. He opens it. The rest of the Bourbon Men, including Joe Biden, all gather around.

Oh, shit, there's something happening in Cleveland!

What?

A crisis! My very first crisis as President!

But, what about the national debt, the problems with health care prices, the water in Flint, the pipeline in North Dakota, the war on terror, and, well, everything else you inherited as crises as the President?

Those are tough ones, Robbie. Fix them, please.

One thing at a time, one thing at a time. Fellas...

Robbie turns directly to the camera.

America...

Robbie returns to addressing those in his immediacy without the benefit of watching comfortably on a screen.

I've got a crisis to deal with.

Is it ISIS?

Nope.

Is it illegal immigrants?

Nope.

Is it Aleppo?

What? No, shit, I'm not really sure what the deal with Aleppo is, but I'm pretty sure they're not attacking Cleveland. Somebody get me some files on Syria, now that I think of it.

Yeah, that's another crisis you inherited.

Joe, go get me some hot dogs and a large Coke. I need to think.

Right, boss!

Joe Biden scampers off.

Alright, the crisis in Cleveland...

Robbie opens the dossier again, and flips the page.

Is that Robbie Motherfucking Bourbon is going to wreck the shit out of a decorated American war veteran on national television, melding face into steel cage, hotter than nuclear fission, time for a little piggy to come on down, price is right, making bacon in a steel slaughterhouse on a Saturday night, this fool thinks he's got some kind of chance in the fight, but all his meager efforts will be for naught 'cause they're slight. You see, sir, that one-hundred and ten percent, sir, that you plan on bringing into the cage, sir, is not enough, sir, because a hundred and ten percent of a dollar, sir, is still a dollar ten, sir, and that dollar ten won't even get you on the crosstown bus, let alone make you worth the noise you make, what a fuss, no matter how loud you wanna holler and cuss.

Joe Biden returns holding two hot dogs and a large bottle of Coca-Cola. Robbie takes the liter of cola and chugs it, then slaps the hot dogs to the ground. Joe Biden's eyes go wide as his jaw drops in shock.

Don't need that shit now, Joe, you're too slow, got this fool on a the spit, don't you know, and it's time for me to host a Presidential Pig Roast.

This fool here is just a wannabe Frank Castle, punishing the senses with his rabble and hassle whenever he wants to lace up his boots, walk to the ring and wrassle. Budda budda budda goes the sound of machine guns, shots fired from the hip, you're shooting nothing but blanks, son. Some cracked out, whacked out, smacked out loser from Detroit, every time he goes to battle shit turns out maladroit, bumbling, stumbling, loose cannon way to easy to exploit. You gun down street thugs like you're scratching some societal itch, you're just as awful as them, and worse, you're Ghost Tank's bitch. Oh no, I went there, so it's too late to stop, you're playing catcher for the home team, ole' Oswald is your top.

Or could we call him your beard?

Big Bad Bourbon Wolf of the XWF getting ready to rage, and I'll huff, and I'll puff, and I'll throw your ass through a cage, grind the meat up add some fennel and Xanax, make you some medicinal sausage, buckle your knees, you've struck out, blow it past you with high heat like Goose Gossage, shore yourself up, stud, don't use no straw or no sticks, you can try with all your might, I'll just smash my way through the bricks. You kill street scum as some way to make up for some past sin, you yourself are as classy as the Goodwill dollar bin, calling you a hero is just proof of heroic spin, keep the notion to yourself because it's starting to wear thin, I'll smash your bones and shred your meat while wearing a grin, Chili's jealous of the way I be baby back ribbin', now it's high time I ripped you open, grab the hot sauce, time to eat a chitterlin'. You think you're going to walk out of the cage at Savage with a win? Get real, America knows, not by the hairs on my chinny-chin-chin.

I'll toss you in the frying pan, flip you with a fork, Bearded War Pig goes on a bun because he's just some pulled pork.

You really even think we're fighting in Las Vegas, too. Fucking delusional.

You really think you got shell shock in Afghanistan, you're just regular for Michigan as far as I can tell. Fucking delusional.

Seriously, Ted Nugent will stab you in the neck with a pencil, and that's a REAL Motor City Madman. Fucking delusional.

You think you've survived hell, but hell is what happens when you get in a cage with Robbie Motherfucking Bourbon, and you think you're ready for that? Fucking delusional.

Shit, this motherfucker thinks survival is even an option at this point. Fucking delusional.

You know, on behalf of the American people, I would be doing a justice to crack your skull open and spill your brain matter on the floor. Hell, I'll even salt and pepper that shit and fry it up like it's Scrapple.

Bearded War Pig is a real corn dog!

Robbie stops and glares at Joe Biden. He puts his finger to Joe's lips to shush him, but Joe backs away and makes a face at Robbie.

Hushabee. Leave the pork puns to me. Go get me a corn dog.

Joe Biden scampers off.

See, Bee Dubbya Pee, what I can't abide by is your total disregard for one of the greatest parts of America. Cleveland. Home to the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame, still smells like textiles from the nineteenth century, where quarterbacks go to die, and the setting for Major League, one of my favorite movies. Seriously, you have insulted the good and decent names of Wesley Snipes, Tom Berringer, and even ole' Charlie Sheen by saying Wild Thing Vaughn played for Las Vegas.

You're cold in Las Vegas, but shit, not even hot in Cleveland.

As such, as the commander-in-chief of these United States, I must intervene and tell you to stand down. Not from shooting up the place like a maniac, like I fucking care, I'm bulletproof, but from ignoring a fucking atlas or map. Shit, you can't even read a globe, how the fuck am I to expect you to represent the Globe and Laurel of the United States Marine Corps? Are you genuinely trying to prove that "Marine" is an acronym for "muscles are required, intelligence not essential"? If it weren't for the psychological evaluation results I've read about in your file, I'd stop-loss your ass back to Afghanistan in a heartbeat and watch a Pig fuck up a goat fucker and then mass market that shit and laugh at the fact I put bestiality on national television.

Joe Biden returns with three corn dogs. Robbie takes one, hands a second to Blue, then sticks the third into Biden's open mouth, but in a silly slapstick way, not an erotic way.

I eat piggies like you for breakfast, usually in bacon form. Seriously, I'm a Virginia boy through and through, best pork in the country, I know what I'm talking about, and even if I sound like a Virginia ham, it's because I'm cookin' and smokin'. You've got spirit, you've got something, but you're not a national institution like I am. You're just on the menu.