Homer Pigdickler, proprietor of Pigdickler Farms, steps forward as his morbidly obese wife rolls forward on her Rascal scooter.
“Hey folks, I'm Homer Pigdickler, and I'm happy to partner with Marley Barebacker to deliver an exciting new product that will have you smelling like a hog farmer.”
Marley nods in agreement as Mrs. Pigdickler drools mindlessly.
“That’s right! Mr. Pigdickler is not only happy to offer you the best blend of sweet meats, but now you can smell like them!”
“Yes sir, Mr. Barebacker. I take gizzards, chitterlings, spleens, and brains, mix ‘em all up, ferment ‘em, then douse myself with the warm aged liquid before rolling around in pig shit!”
Homer looks proud as flies buzz around his wife.
“That’s why we're proud to offer Stanque, a fragrance for the man about solitude. You'll offend the olfactory senses of rats, dogs will try to roll around in you after a bath, medieval doctors will be convinced you're emitting a miasma!”
Two Renaissance era plague doctors walk by, and in their frustration with the smell, dump leeches all over Mrs. Pigdickler.
“With Stanque, smell like one time transitional champion Charlie Nickles, a special blend of shame and shameless, indignity and indifference, a butt and several more butts on a hot humid day.”
The leeches, having succumbed to whatever toxins she carries, have all fallen off Mrs. Pigdickler, dead. She then uses a stick to scratch her gout.
“Available wherever quality products are sold and plenty of places where quality is irrelevant.”
Before you can ask who would buy Stanque and then reconcile that one person you know who is dumb enough (implying that all of you know someone who wants Stanque and maybe holiday shopping will be easier this year), we cut to the Bobby Bourbon dojo for the Competitive Arts. The dojo, as noted by the purest of XWF historians or wrestling fans who put a high focus on the personal lives of wrestlers, requires little explanation. For ten years, Bobby has conducted business and engaged in all manner of capers from this central location.
In the southwest quadrant of the huge open air building, we see a wrestling ring. Students train and quite literally learn the ropes, as we see an instructor showing the students different types of rope (the real secrets great wrestlers know). In the northwest quadrant, there is a full on Dunkin Donuts. Some people just come to this building because it's the nearest coffee pick-up spot. In the northeast quadrant, we see the normal four identical cooking set ups, almost a replica of a competitive cooking show, and culinary students ply their craft. In the southeast quadrant, well, who could forget about the wild activities in the southeast quadrant? Going into detail about it would just be beating a dead horse at this point, and it isn't like you have to go find some obscure promo from 5 years ago to understand.
Dead center, not even reaching the ceiling of this huge building, is Bobby’s central office. Inside, Bobby is seated at his desk, his laptop open, and he looks across his desk at a sofa. Seated there are the Bourbon Men, and who are we kidding, do they even need an introduction? For ten years, Bobby has cavorted and plotted with his Bourbon Men, a cadre of personalities that is best and lovingly described as a pack of strays. Cyberjaw, the man with the cybernetic jaw, sits beside Diamondback, the man who can blend into any crowd. Beside them is Ax Mannix, axe man on Xanax, a manic guitarist. Beside him is Depth Charge, ex Navy diver wearing a white sailor cap and a wet suit. Also crammed on the couch is Alex the Wizard, a grown man in a cape and pointy hat who likes to LARP. Lastly, Stephanie Wilson, Bobby’s assistant, stands at the end of the couch. Bobby eyes his Bourbon Men as Axe plays a radical guitar riff. Ms. Wilson clears her throat.
“Mr. Bourbon, you scheduled our one-on-one meeting at this time.” Stephanie looks at her tablet, confusion causing her brow to ripple.
“I scheduled all the one-on-ones right now to get them out of the way.” Bobby smiles and points to his head, convinced the flaw in his logic is in fact not. “I mean, this next plan will require all of our expertise.”
“What plan?” Ms. Wilson looks at Bobby with consternation. “Mr. Bourbon, you’ve been operating with Thunder Knuckles as Them No Good Bastards and with Mark Flynn and the Revolution, we haven't been notified of your own plan.”
“Well, that's where you guys come in! Brainstorm with me!” Bobby’s energy level rises as he sips from his Dunkin Donuts reusable coffee mug. “Alex, you're a wizard, what do you got?”
“Well, Bobby, this weekend the forces from the wicked north are meeting up at the park, if you guys want to make characters and come to the LARP it's a lot of fun.”
“That park doesn't have a creek.” Depth Charge looks beside him at Alex. “I need water stuff to do, it's my whole thing.”
“You heard him, Alex, he needs water stuff.” Bobby gestures to Depth Charge. “What’s your idea, DC?”
The room goes still, and Ms. Wilson breaks the silence.
“Is ‘DC’ short for ‘Depth Charge’?”
Bobby nods, his eyes still locked on Depth Charge.
“Oh, okay, I guess my nickname is getting a nickname. So, uh, I have a way we can get around the city using the sewers.” Depth Charge nods as he says this, confidence failing him.
“Well, yeah, I guess that would be water stuff, but I'd really prefer to get an Uber then cruise around in sewage.” Bobby swiftly shakes his head, dismissing the idea. “Cyberjaw?”
“We host our own Dance Dance Revolution convention.” Diamondback nods in agreement.
“That would be cool.”
“Can we set up a waterslide, or maybe a dunk tank, for Depth Charge?” Bobby presses for what could be a make-or-break detail.
“No. No water stuff.” Cyberjaw asserts this as Diamondback looks at Depth Charge with disdain.
“Well, DC, I don't think we need you on this one, we'll give you a call.” Bobby half smiles as he addresses Depth Charge. Depth Charge stands up from the couch, looking somewhat disappointed.
“We never do water stuff.” Depth Charge's shoulders slump completely as he tromps sullenly out the door of the office. Axe Mannix plays a sad guitar riff. As he leaves, a rodeo clown holding a carrot in each hand walks in.
“Excuse me, we’re out of ping pong balls and all four fly swatters broke over in the southeast quad.” The rodeo clown clacks the carrots twice, and you’re not sure if that's an inside joke about a promo from 2017 or just something wacky.
*-It’s just something wacky- Ed.*
Before Bobby can respond, outside of the office a loud kerfuffle is underway and shouting men dominate the air. Bobby stands and walks out of his door, nearly bowling over the rodeo clown, to see what the matter at hand could be.
A group of armed men in black vests, wearing face masks and helmets, walk into the dojo. “ICE, we’re doing a raid, nobody move.” People in the wrestling ring and surrounding it hit the deck at the sight of gunmen, specifically 2 approaching them. The Duncan Donuts freezes as patrons scream while 2 more ICE agents head there. The kitchen students quickly stand still as another 2 armed men approach and begin turning all the cooking equipment off. 2 more have their eyes on the southeast corner, obviously. Another approaches Bobby. “We got reports you're harboring illegal aliens. Where are they?”
Bobby looks around at the pointless display happening around him. “Hey man, how about we leave the psuedo-macho theatrics to someone else. We don't have…”
“We will search the premises!” The masked man looks up at Bobby as Bobby looks back down. “We will detain you if you interfere!”
Bobby’s gaze narrows as a sly smile creeps across his lips.
“Then allow me to give you a tour. Ms. Wilson?” Bobby keeps a firm eye on the ICE agent in front of him. “I'm going to take these men to Sub Basement Seven.” the ICE agent nods, knowing he was there to inspect whatever Bobby was doing in his labyrinth of weird science, which as you’d know as an XWF superfan, is located below the dojo.
Stephanie Wilson's eyes widen with terror at the mention of Sub Basement Seven.
~~~~~
“You know it, I know it, the fans know it, that as hard as you work, as much effort you put in, as much as you bleed for it, at heart, you're like Duke, a fucking nepo baby. You were born with a foot in the door I had to kick in. You are stability, a foundation, I'm an American original, one of a kind, you're the pavement and I'm the panhead running over you. You fit the mold, I broke it. You hammer a point home, I smash it to smithereens."
"For starters, can you talk about shit that's a little more relevant to the fucking present? You love telling people about XWF History, how about giving the people a recap of the last ten years and how I've been staining the mat with blood. Ask the American Red Cross, Kline, the new universal donor is whoever sets foot in a fucking ring with me. Oh, wait, when you talk about XWF history it sounds like you're gargling your daddy's and Aiden Collins's nutsack in your mouth to see who makes you their salty cracker first. Do they buy you things when you hype them in your promos, or are you more like their Afghani Dancing boy? That's pretty weird for your dad to do, by the way. My father lives in a completely different state, you are in your father's shadow."
"And Jesus Tapdancin’ Christ, you've had a helluva time in that shadow. Your daddy is Harley Davidson, you're just a pick-up truck with a decal of the Harley logo. A young man like you shouldn't bear the overwhelming mediocrity your father brought to the table, it's a shame and a burden you probably can't wait to shrug off, and maybe some night you will, but it won't be in Sturgis on August 4th.”
“Then we're beset by the jet set, appearing in more exotic locations than Malaria. The only reason Aurora and her ilk go into the ring is because they have a fetish for slumming it. With one shout out to Siri or Alexa you could be anywhere on the globe having brunch at your choice of time zone but you step into my work place, where I made my name and my fortune, because to you it's just a fucking novelty. My hands are just as blood stained as my bank account, I buy Christmas presents off the broken bodies I've left in my wake. I fund my Thanksgiving because I sent someone to the hospital. If you ever get a birthday card from me, I want you to consider who got scarred for it."
"And worst of all, Aurora, is you're an absolute misery guts about it all. I wake up every day, grateful I get to be violent, blessed with the gifts I have been given to beat the shit out of people, and you are left wondering why you do it, with a plate in your head, the innate ability to make a milkshake by holding a pint of ice cream, quaking with all that nerve damage, I guess whatever tattoos to still do have vibrato? Aurora, the suffering artist, selling self-martyrdom like you're Banksy with a paint huffing problem."
"Given all that, proving to the world that, welp, you just weren't that special, that nobody was going to kiss your ass and pat you on the back for having struggles, much less of your own fucking device, you went out and recruited a pack of depressives who hate their own human condition enough to think you’re special for you, and don't act like you're using the Black Rainbow for anything less. We all get it, Aurora, you have traveled the world over, showcased yourself in high profile match after high profile match, and when you heard Thad was running the show in this here XWF you saw it as the perfect place to trot out the shell of yourself you fucking have left. You think the XWF doesn't love you? What the fuck have you done for the XWF to love? You've supported Seb's shadow, sniffed the now secondary tag team titles, then had a honeymoon with the Xtreme Championship and lost it to someone who couldn't be bothered to care they took it from you."
"Past that, nobody, and I do mean absolutely nobody, starts watching a show beginning with season six and swoons for it, kitten. A word to the not so wise.”
“Now, if you're a little pissed that I got injected into this here match, seemingly out of the blue, wondering what I did to deserve it, well, take that shit up with the office. While I'm sure you've both got plenty to prove to the brass and the fans, I guess I'm seen as a tried and true commodity around here. Maybe they thought me banging up Corey or Charlie again would be too expensive since they usually go on the shelf after I see them in the ring? Just a hunch there. Past that, who did y'all piss off to get punished by me? Aurora, did someone in your little Arizona Bay HOA get Lucy’s car towed when she was visiting you and Thad's mad? Holy crap, Solomon, Thad's upset you're not only another second gen wrestler but you love your dad! On behalf of the entire Xtreme Wrestling Federation, I will bring the violence unrequited and give the people the show of the night, a double fucking execution in the Sultan of Smacktalk's gladiator pit.”
“There’s a difference you should tell the world. Solomon, your dad? Legendary. Aurora, the way you burned through a career anywhere but the XWF? Legendary. Me? I'm the story. You guys know the difference between a legend and a story, right? The legend has some message, the legend inspires, the legend is riding off of nostalgia. I am as legendary as the Hindenburg, Three Mile Island, or whatever horrible shit went down that they had to interview the neighborhood for the evening news; I'm a story. There's no legend of the Titanic, it was the avoidable tragedy. There's no legend of Nagasaki, it was the inevitable doom. There's no legend of the Little Big Horn, just the story of a righteous goddamned massacre coming down on the heads of those too blind to see they couldn't win.”
“I burn so hot I make fire sweat, spit venom so nasty it'd make a rattlesnake call poison control, hit harder than a diamond hammer, but keep it so smooth I make silk feel rough.”
“Now you take all of that, and you add in the X factor in all this, that being this is absolutely Xtreme Rules, no holds barred. I get the added benefit of whatever isn't bolted to the ground, along with some shit that is now that I think of it. We'll have a crowd of bikers who want to see someone get their ass whooped, and when I start beating two asses, they'll hand me just about anything if I can get it coated in y’alls blood. When you're both struggling, the heat baking every breath you take, causing every bruise and welt to ache, wondering when the beating will end, for Bastard's sake, I'm just measuring you up for which vertebrae I'll break. I'ma turn you both into members of the crowd, both of you promoted to fan as I stand as the new XWF Xtreme Champion, king lunatic of the asylum. To continue that fan experience, I will get you both a new set of wheels, because while you may walk into Sturgis they'll have to roll you out.”
~~~~~
Bobby and six ICE agents exit an elevator into a pitch dark room. Bobby walks inside as the elevator doors shut, and the blackness encompasses the situation. The wildly unpopular-in-the-news ICE agents murmur amongst themselves, and when the lights come back up, they're in an empty corridor and Bobby is nowhere to be seen.
“Oh, sorry guys, I am busy, busy, busy! Let me give you this virtual tour!”
A door opens at one end of the corridor as an ICE agent spins, looking at the closed set of elevator doors with no buttons to call it. He addresses the rest of the agents, now trapped. Over the loudspeaker in the room, we hear the voice of Ms. Wilson.
“Mr. Bourbon did you actually take my advice and set up a sinister death trap like Arcade, the X-Men villain who hasn't been in the MCU yet?”
“Ms. Wilson they can hear us, but yeah, they're about to suffer from some real gruesome consequences!”
The ICE agents look absolutely panicked. Trapped in some room however many feet underground, they have no choice but to head through the open door. Immediately, they find themselves in a vibrantly colored candy wonderland. Giant gummy bears hanging from licorice trees are beset by massive mushrooms that seem to have whipped cream, which an ICE agent dips into and tastes. Suddenly, the ICE agents all frollick about and help themselves to all the sweets.
“Mr. Bourbon, this is Willy Wonka, not Arcade.” Ms. Wilson's inquisitive tone makes you seek some clarity.
“Same difference Ms. Wilson, besides Arcade was a lame villain.”
One ICE agent notices a river of chocolate. He squats down and literally starts drinking straight put of the massive industrial amount of chocolate, but clumsily falls in, and is immediately sucked up a conveniently transparent tube. The other ICE agents panic until they see a dumb looking boat with a paddle wheel show up in the chocolate river, which obviously isn't a rescue craft otherwise Augustus Gloop, or an ICE agent, wouldn't have been sucked up through a filterless pipe. Feeling the utter dismay of wondering if their friend will be alright due to a complete lack of orange dwarves singing a song, they get on the boat, and Depth Charge is steering it.
“Atta boy, Depth Charge, you're doing water stuff!” Bobby gleefully congratulates his Bourbon Man for making himself useful in this contraption designed to mortify precisely six people with bizarre psychological torture. Depth Charge salutes. The boat stops and the ICE agents disembark at an experimental candy lab, and fearing the worst, eat nothing. A dart shoots out of a wall tagging an ICE agent, and they glow blue and become so rotund they fall and roll out of the room, since the floor is on a gradient. The next ICE agent stands on a scale that's judging massive eggs seemingly out of the blue and he falls down it. Three down, the fourth gets shrunk after being transported across a room in millions of little pieces. The final two enter a room with a high ceiling and one fan at its apex, and another dart plucks another ICE agent, and he starts defying gravity until he hits the ceiling, the fan hits him, and due to his weightlessness gets bounced around like a beachball mostly harmlessly.
“Mr. Bourbon, Willy Wonka only terrorized five children, you have a sixth guest down there, did they win?”
“Oh, no, Ms. Wilson, this one I designed. Meet my hamster, Gordy.”
The ICE agent recoils as a curtain in this otherwise empty room is lifted, showing a modestly sized glass tank and a hamster within. Bobby laughs.
“Mr. Bourbon what's so funny?”
“The last ICE guy is afraid of hamsters.” On hearing that, the ICE agent, already frustrated by all this malarkey on floor Sub Basement Seven, reaches into the tank and grabs Gordy the Hamster. “Oh? Be gentle with Gordy, I promise he's the project I've been working on that Uncle Sam would be interested in.” The ICE agent sneers, and crushes the hamster in his palm, holding up a middle finger on the other. A trickle of fluid escapes Gordy's mouth, nose, ears, and eyes onto the ICE agent.
“Ms. Wilson, note the human testing of G-093.”
“Recording, Mr. Bourbon.”
The ICE agent looks down at the hand that killed the hamster, dropping the creature as the fluids in his hand seem grow on contact with his skin, which he starts scratching incessantly.
“G-093 is an engineered fungus, it very much aggressively grows and feeds off of biological material, even the living, but usually avoids flesh.” The ICE agent howls as the strange substance has wrapped his hand while it grows to a point and injects itself into the forearm of the ICE agent. “It’s primary source of nutrition, however, is nervous tissue.” The ICE agent screams as the tiniest nerves in his arms become constricted by this mycoplasmic goop that was in a harmless hamster. “Test subject is experiencing severe pain, the fungus is rapidly coursing through his body.” The ICE agent collapses, his scream gurgling to a halt as a spike of this aggressive turbo fungus launches itself from every nerve in his mouth. Blood streams from his nose and eyes as the fungus overtakes his optic nerves, and soon he convulses as his entire brain is overtaken. His spine twists, and contorts, and the sounds of bones snapping due to pressure from the encroaching lifeform dominate and echo within the chamber. Blood pours from the ICE agent's mouth as his lungs are punctured by his own ribs and the diabolic fungal creation. For several moments, the body continues to twitch, until the pouring ooze of blood simply stops bubbling from the man's mouth, and his undoubtedly painful and prolonged death has been done in the name of science.
“Ms. Wilson, the human body appears to be too large to host subject G-093.”
“Noted, Mr. Bourbon. Would you like me to file another anonymous report to immigration? More ICE agents could be here within the hour to be used as human subjects.” The silence of Bobby considering the question is louder second by second until he responds.
“Nah.” A splash of the fluid drops on top of Gordy. Within moments the fungus has reanimated him to his former cute, cuddly, adorable self. “I'm happy with having made a crush-proof hamster, that seems pretty dope, we don't need any guinea pigs.” What used to be the ICE agent, completely left a pale, dry and shriveled husk, starts to break down into a coarse dust within his clothes.
“Do you need a crush-proof hamster in Sturgis, will it help you win the Xtreme Championship?”
“Ms. Wilson, as any historian of the XWF would tell you, my Xtreme tendencies in the ring go far beyond what most find acceptable these days, I felt my Xtreme Science was only sensible to share!”
The ICE agent's cranium implodes, sending freshly disintegrated human remains into a heap on the floor as a Roomba starts heading towards the corpse to clean up the residue.
Ax Mannix plays another awesome guitar riff. You remember to go buy Stanque for the oddball in your life.
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