A dive bar, somewhere, midday. The kind of place you can smell through sight. You're reminded of stale beer, cigarette musk, and lingering urea as you see one sot hunched at the bar, and at a seemingly distant table, four people in really garish outfits. They look like they're going to a comic convention only without any character specifically in mind, just a bunch of straps, tights, pointless shoulder pads, and other manner of superhero/pro-wrestler outfits. They all seem pleased to see each other, a sense of camaraderie shared between all four. A deck of playing cards is in front of them, and a round of beers is brought to the quartet. One, in a silver cape, begins to shuffle.



“So, nice to finally meet you guys, I'm Frasier, “The American Hunk” Frasier Dunk, if you've heard of me.” Frasier looks around as one person in a crimson ninja suit sans mask and an eye patch nods, raising their voice.



“Hey, yeah, I was on a show with you before! I'm Dick Cyclops, used to be Rickie “Blue Eyes” Carson until, well, you guys know.” Dick looks sullen regarding some ordeal that left him with one eye. Another person at the table, in a green singlet and bandana, nods.



“We all know. It's why we're here. I'm Green Horse, and I know it sounds like I was lazy when I picked my name, but I wasn't. You see, it makes a ton of sense, but I can talk about that for hours. What's your name bud?” The fourth, a dude with a purple Afro, just looks around the table as Frasier has the deck of cards in hand as he begins to shuffle.



“I'm Dave Labia.” The rest of the table is completely taken aback by how high pitched Dave's voice was. “Good to meet y'all. I guess you can tell what he did to me.” Frasier begins to deal cards.



“He did something to all of us, Dave.” Frasier looks around the table. “I faced Bobby Bourbon three years ago.” Frasier finishes his deal, and looks at his cards. “At the time, I was the hottest wrestler in the company. The ladies loved the American Hunk, I was bagging ring rats nonstop. Well, one day, I got booked in a match with Bobby Bourbon, and to get under his skin, I went to his Dunkin Donuts franchise at his dojo on a date.” Frasier takes a deep breath. “Well, I mean, how was I supposed to know she was only fourteen? We didn't do anything, she totally lied and got a dating app behind her mom's back. Bobby noticed us and when he came up to talk, noticed she was young, was the one who sussed out she was underaged, and then just looked at me. The girl's mom came to pick her up, and he told me he got it, and shit happens. I didn't know he meant to me.” Frasier pulls back his cape, and a massive scar runs from his left shoulder to his navel. “Bobby powerbombed me onto a fire hydrant, requiring a complete reconstruction of the left side of my rib cage.” The rest of the table looks at Frasier with shock. “Now, well, I'm the Bubble Wrap Champion down at the UPS store.” Frasier reveals his ankles, and his signature UPS socks (yes, those are a thing, look at the ankles of the next UPS delivery person you see).



“That's nuts, but I have that beat.” Dick Cyclops glances at his cards, his attempt at a sly poker face noted but not strong. “I was “Blue Eyes” to the fans, and they absolutely loved me. I competed in an organization that was rich in history, and tradition. It was founded by Confederate veterans in 1870, and only served the finest fans, if you know what I mean. All our heroes had always and only been white meat babyfaces. I was their vision of perfection, the blonde hair, the baby blue eyes, the sheer vision of supremacy.” Dick shrugs. “I had no idea we were just an offshoot of the Ku Klux Klan, but it's what I was raised, and indoctrinated into. I was taught that non-whites were lesser, so I bullied a family out of a diner while I was on the road at a supercard just because they weren't white. Wouldn't you know it, eating a double stack of pancakes at the diner bar was Bobby Bourbon. He immediately stood up and threw his coffee into my eye, which burned it so bad I'm now blind in it. The next night, who I was facing changed, and I was going head-to-head with him.” Dick opens his mouth smiling, a majority of the teeth gone from the right side of his mouth. “I tried to dive at Bobby to get revenge, but he caught me with a Shoryuken that destroyed half my teeth. I have a nice job at a tire salon and am going through therapy.”



Green Horse puts a hand completely encompassed in a full cast up on the table. “I met Bourbon two weeks ago.” He raises his left hand up, and manages to look at his cards. “I heard he was coming to a show, and at first I was excited because I figured that would bring a lot of attention to the show and we'd get paid more, but then I realized that I wouldn't be the most important guy there, I can't have anyone outshining me just because they're good at what they do. That's not the Green Horse way. Well, I convinced the guy running the show not to bring Bourbon in, so he never showed up. The thing is, at the show, there was this snot nosed kid who had the fans more excited for him than me, he got the loudest reaction. I talked to the guy running the show after, and had that dude blackballed. The guy who ran the show, though, well, he started getting some phone calls about Bobby’s pay for the show, how he was guaranteed money in case they cancelled on him, and said I owed Bobby that money, not wanting any trouble. I told Bobby he could fuck off, him and the rookie, and that didn't belong on shows I was on.” Green Horse ruefully looks at his bandaged hand. “Bobby wrapped a chair around my hand and crushed it with what I perceived to be a comically large mallet. They say it'll be a miracle if I ever wrestle again, my hand is all but destroyed and I have to relearn how to write.” Green Horse sighs. “My uncle can get me a job at his dealership.” The table collectively eyes their cards. After a moment, Mr. Dunk, Mr. Cyclops, and Mr. Horse all glance towards Mr. Dave Labia. Dick Cyclops clears his throat. Frasier eyes his cards, then cocks an eyebrow glancing at Dave Labia.



“Um, Dave, did you want to share?” Frasier Dunk and the others all pay attention to Dave. “It helps. Green Horse here was recently victimized by Bobby.” Dave rolls his eyes.



“Bobby crushed my trachea leaving me with the vocal chords of a six-year-old.” Dave continues to peruse his hand of playing cards. He fans them out wide, squinting at them, possibly unsure of what the cards even mean.



“Damn!” Dick looks at Dave with awe. “That’s fucked up, and I also apologize to your people for my very racist past.”



“Yeah, and by the way I'm sorry for trying to blackball talent so I wouldn't suck.” Green Horse and Dick nod, then look at Frasier, whose jaw is slack but lower lip is quivering.



“What, I really didn't know she was fourteen!”



“How could you not? You're like fifty!” Frasier's age becomes abundantly clear.



“Fine, I'm sorry I was grooming and/or participating in sexual predation, Dave, what the fuck did you do that got Bobby pissed at you?” Frasier seems very eager to change the subject. After a moment, Dick Labia responds in his high pitched ridiculous voice. This big, strong man with poofy purple hair sounds like a choir boy.



“I threw a rock at him!”



The ostensibly creepy Frasier Dunk, ignorant to hell Dick Cyclops, and two-faced stabbing Green Horse look at Dick Labia unimpressed.



“Why?” Green Horse needs further explanation.



“Well, I had this cool rock, it was big, he was walking down the street, you know how it goes. Sometimes you just have to throw a rock at somebody because it's fun and mean.”



“Are you even a wrestler?” Dick looks confused as he asks.



“What? No, I'm an international man of mystery and intrigue, maybe a sort of performance artist. I dress in shoulder pads, a cross harness, a purple speedo, and big old poofy purple boots and go places.” Dave is frank as he mentions all of this, as such an international man of mystery and intrigue would. “One place I threw a rock at Bobby Bourbon and he beat me up.”



“Did you at least hit him with the rock?” Frasier looks genuinely curious.



“Details, man, details.” Dave Labia waves off the further inquiry. Dick sips his beer. As he does, from another booth, unseen by them, a large figure slides out and stands, and Bobby Bourbon looms in the room, looking at all of them. Dick spews his beer into the air as a mist from the sudden alarm of seeing Bobby. Green Horse, startled, begins to quiver. Frasier Dunk is mortified. Dave Labia doesn't seem to notice.



“Oh, shit, it's you guys with the dumb names.” Bobby seems unmoved looking at the group.



“How did you know we were here?” Green Horse's disbelief of the situation is more out of control with each word spoken.



“Huh?” Bobby looks perplexed at the question. “I didn't, I just came for lunch, they make good burgers here, what are all of you doing?”



“We gather to drink beer and play Go Fish and talk about moving on.” Dick Cyclops seems to shudder as he takes a hefty swig of his pint.



“Oh. Well, I gotta go piss.” Bobby walks past the table and down a darkened hall near a sign that reads ‘RESTROOMS’.



~~~~~







“Hiya, Yelena, or Maraeth, or whatever bad and dumb name you want to use to avoid coming to grips with whatever your daddy issues are. I, for one, am a gracious host, as far as I'm concerned, when welcoming new talent into the XWF. I feel it is my duty, if not privilege, to stand as a goodwill ambassador to those who want to pursue their dreams in the XWF, to watch them grow, and flourish, and develop into prey worth hunting, catching, and absolutely destroying. You might be a little taken aback by that, but since you're obviously and egregiously undereducated hence underestimating the XWF, let me simply express hic sunt monstra.”



“I have faced dozens of monsters, Yelena, and we can stop giving credence to your little cosplay, because I could care less if you wanted to be Harra'dé from far away or Mrs. Cathleen Pickens, nocturnal emission clairvoyant, because when the chips are down, and look, I got none in my hand so they must be down, your little charade you throw out there to sound like less of a virgin at a goth club while actual adults talk to each other won't mean anything and it sure as fuck won't save you. I've faced worse, scarier, and meaner, frankly. I've humiliated them, for that matter. Nazis powerbombed through the ring. Rapists gashed open and left to bleed. The kind of scumbags who would beat their own mother for nothing cry for maternal love when I get hands on them. Then there is that next breed, kitten. Scio monstra.”



“I have faced creatures that would have you turn and run back to bible study, hoping there was some kind of God to protect you. I have seen the creation built by a household come to reign in my life, and I fought them every fucking inch of the way. Take a minute to pull yourself out of your own ass, kitten, and think about the turf on which you tread. Doctor Louis D'Ville could guarantee to make your nightmares come true. The Engineer was constructed to demean humanity at every pass, and poisoned the will and soul of too many good people. They're gone now, Yelena, and I beat them, Yelena. Now, I know you're thinking I went out and started toppling these beasts because it was some noble crusade, for the betterment of all, because someone just had to be the hero. Heh, not quite. See, the simplest explanation is I did the right thing, because might makes right. I whooped the piss out of the wicked because I was hungry, I was bigger, and my stomping grounds are not to be questioned when it comes to who the dominant predator is, so sayeth the Sultan of Smacktalk, your big bad, big bad of big bads. Chiefly, and more bluntly, kitten, they were simply in my way. Monstrum sum.”



“Monsters, Yelena, real bonafide fucking monsters, create something you have failed to; change. I come with warnings, I have shattered spine on pine, skull on linoleum, and careers on the mat. You watched the Craft too many times. I create all sorts of shit you never will; moments, and history, and the wildest damned violence witnessed in an XWF ring. Mostly, though, and pay real close attention and listen as hard as you can, since real monsters don't need parlor tricks or psuedo-supernatural tendencies, no. Look at John Wayne Gacy. Jeffrey Dahmer. Ted Bundy. Me. No hocus pocus, just victims.”



“Listen here, Sabrina the Gen Z Bitch, I get you're dipping your toes in the water now that the shark warning is clear, but there are bigger, meaner things lurking in the tides and you're already out of your depth. And I get it, you have eight people telling you how special you are, how the fuck are you going to handle it when I prove you aren't? Jesus, I saw you all trot out at the end of Warfare like it was the school play, hoping mommy or daddy took your picture and hung it on the fridge, saying we stopped believing? What the hell is there to even believe in? I saw nine bodies on the stage, led by you, a little girl trying to play spooky while you effectively have a lower goddamned body count than most nuns. Nine people with nothing. TK and I are only two people but we have four belts. There are fucking nine of you without a goddamn thing to show for it. Stop farting and trying to sell it like you're the shit.”



“Fuck your cantations while we're at it, because there's no fucking reason you should be making a ritual out of getting absolutely nothing fucking done. The Black Rainbow did its best while you weren't here, and now you're back to magically anchor them into the mire again. Say the words, Yelena. You can say ‘Sim Sim Salabim’ or ‘Abra Cadabra’ all you fucking want and it won't account for the fact you've blown up your own fucking ego in lieu of learning how to go in the fucking ring and get results. You know what? I'm feeling really, really generous, I'm going to teach you a few magic tricks. Are you ready? You better be, if not, I'm not here on your fucking time princess when this Xtreme Championship is my goddamned story.”



“Lesson one, you go into a McDonald's, you walk up to an employee, and you say ‘two all beef patties, special sauce, lettuce, cheese, pickles, onions, on a sesame seed bun’, then you show them your mystical plastic money card wand, and voila, you'll get a Big Mac.”



“Lesson two, I know how to make a primadona wannabe star, and kitten, up here in the sky we got plenty of room but you just don't fucking shine because you are the absolute definition of lackluster, but I know how to make a primarona wannabe star disappear. You pin her on Warfare.”



“That said, princess, novel attempt at what I actually fucking do, which is leave the crowd speechless and leave my opponents with their lights out. Ask who you pissed off in the office to put you into the fucking ring with me, because this isn't a match, it's an abortion. Your blood will make a fine offering, and not to some goofy hokey poke deity, but to roaring XWF fans who want to see you broken on the slab at my hand.”



“Bear in mind, Yelena, like Kline, like Aurora, you too are a part of this, MY story. I tell it in the ring, written in fresh blood on mats and floors from here to the fucking moon. I am the reigning Xtreme Champion, you are hereby doomed and condemned. Pray to me as I prey upon you, because nobody else is coming to save you, least of all eight other people with no real direction. Pity, really, because BastardCor is hiring.”



“Ooh, and what, you're going to turn the lights off? Fuck, kitten, I didn't even need to tell you a basic flashlight costs only a couple bucks. Your biggest magic trick is undone by the fucking dollar store. Nah, see, there's no way you're dealing with how dark I fucking get that cheap. People pay rightly fucking dearly when I do.”



“I have the same kind of soul as some crazed warrior from ancient times silencing a whole village with an axe committing war crimes; splitting wigs left and right not missing a follicle, I'm not just a berserker I'm fucking diabolical.”



“I have the world as my fucking arsenal, anything I want, in the name of Xtreme, for the benefit of Xtreme, and on behalf of the entire Xtreme Wrestling Federation, I will use whatever I want to give you the full blown experience, and if you pay close enough fucking attention, you'll see and feel exactly what a real fucking terror is. I will not put the fear of God into you, kitten, I will put the fear of Bobby Bourbon in you, and I am not for the faint of heart! Every day, when you feel that pang of pain shoot across your back, you'll look around to see if I've come back to injure you again, and you should be fucking grateful because there's actually a valuable market for bandages I make my prey wear. Kids across America want a used bandage I made someone bleed into, they fucking trade them like Pokémon cards now, because kitten, when I bring the blood I'm making art.”



~~~~~



The four men who gather for beer and gaming to cope with the losses they've felt at the hands of Bobby Bourbon are well underway with their game as Bobby walks back by again. Bobby stops at the table, and Frasier Dunk, Dick Cyclops, Green Horse, and Dave Labia all pause.



“Hey, you know, I just gotta say, I think it's good you guys meet up like this.” Bobby smiles, nodding at the group.



“Thank you, Mr. Bourbon.” Dave looks pleased.



“I never thought that I would be the cause of an entire support group just to cope with me, it's flattering. This is bucket list stuff for me.” Bobby points at Frasier. “Not you, Dunk, if I see you with a young girl again I will rip your dick off and feed it to you. You're a weirdo. But otherwise, you guys, well, keep doing this.” Bobby shrugs.



“Can I buy you a beer?” Green Horse warmly tries to spin the situation further into a positive interaction.



“No, I'm not drinking with a bunch of dorks like you. It's mid-afternoon, you're playing ‘Go Fish’ which is stupid, and you're all dressed like idiots.” Bobby looks disgusted at the very thought. “Look here, I'm simply, demon AND. I have been a monster since I was born, Game Girl told me otherwise in 2015 and she's gone now. She'll probably rightfully say I'm responsible but she always regenerates for the sequel, she'll be fine. You dudes seem like her crowd. Also Gorgo's. If I can take Game Girl, if I have bested Seb in team matches only, if I pinned Doc, Corey, Thad, Flynn, Gilmour, Centurion, Raven, Warstein: if you are in the Hall of Legends I have Bobbybombed you most likely. Again, I pinned Doc, which is my absolute Ghostbusters cred, ”



As Bobby makes his statement of unabashed dickheadedness, a pasty skinned and corpulent man walks in with pitch black dyed hair, bad eyeliner, fishnets on their big ole’ flabby arms, and massive black jeans. The bartender points to a sign that says ‘no shirt, no shoes, no service’ urging the obese goth to put a fucking shirt on. Bobby turns and cocks an eyebrow before addressing the guy.



“Hey, you should put a shirt on, man, there are people here not trying to look at shirtless people.” Bobby uses his common sense voice.



“Shut up, I don't listen to you!” The obstinate chubster jiggles like an inflatable bounce castle. “I demand service and acceptance!”



“I'm sure the bartender there will give it to you if you put a damned shirt on. You could wear a Cure shirt if you want, or Evanescence, who gives a shit, one of those bands has to interest you.”



“You don't want to deal with me! I will summon the very wickedness and evil from the void to destroy you, ancient and long forgotten forces grant me strength and power you could never…”



Bobby swiftly kicks the fat goth in the gut, causing him to fall to the ground while unleashing a loud, lengthy, and moist fart. Bobby leaves the bar, leaving a hundred dollar bill on the bar for the bartender. Green Horse stands up from his seat and approaches the tubbo on the floor, handing them an XXXXL Type O Negative shirt. The goth rises, donning a shirt as he does, and approaches the table where the others are seated.



“Uh, hi, my name is Clem Fishballs, can I sit with you?” The Bourbon Support group welcomes another member.