Bobby Bourbon, the Paladin of Throwing It Back, sits at his desk, downtrodden. Usually, when someone is glum, they watch a Bobby promo, but who's there to cheer Bobby up?

Sad clown syndrome in full effect.

Stephanie Wilson, Bobby’s assistant, walks into his office. Following her a red playground ball bounces in suddenly from his dojo, and a cowboy runs in to grab it.

“Mr. Bourbon, the Xtreme Dodgeball game you set up in the dojo just started.” Stephanie addresses Bobby coldly. She knew the origin of the term ‘pulling yourself up by your bootstraps’ meant an impossible task. Seriously, reach down, grab your ankles, and lift. The cowboy moseys out of Bobby’s office, hurling the dodgeball as he does, and courteously closes the door behind him.

“But Doctor, I am Pagliacci.” Bobby sighs silently through his nostrils.

“What?” Stephanie looks absolutely puzzled as Bobby utters this. The red rubber ball crashes in through the plane glass window in the office door. The door opens, and a Power Wheels Jeep, and no I don't feel like using the not-proper noun there, it's a Power Wheels Jeep. Anyway, a Power Wheels Jeep rolls in, transforms into a little dwarf robot, akin to a (proper noun) Transformer only 3 feet tall. It fetches the dodgeball.

“Nothing, I was thinking out loud.” Bobby sets his cheek on his fist, sullenly. “I see the dodgeball game is going on, way to go, Short Trip.” The little robot gives Bobby a thumbs up, tosses a salvo of rubber ducks at him, and transforms back into a small Jeep for children. It rolls back out of the office.

“What is it with Jeep people and ducks?” Stephanie looks at Bobby, baffled again.

“Are you still thinking out loud?”

“No.” Bobby shakes his hand and gestures through the door to the floor of his dojo. “I see Jeeps with little rubber ducks everywhere, you never noticed that?”

“I don't drive a Jeep.”

“Neither do I, I drive a Saab.” Bobby shrugs. “Maybe it's all a ploy from Big Duck?” Another dodgeball rolls into Bobby’s office. A 6-foot duck waddles into the office, and Bobby looks directly at it. “Hey, Keith, what's the story with all the rubber ducks and Jeeps?”

“I don't know man. Quack.” Keith the duck picks up the dodgeball with his bill and waddles back out of the office. Stephanie looks bewildered by what she just saw.

“Mr. Bourbon, where do you meet these people?”

“Look, I’m a transdimensional man of mystery, I know some of everyone.” Bobby drums his fingers on his desk. “I've traveled through all sorts of different places as a multiversal professional wrestler. Some people I met in Australia, some in the Gamma Quadrant somewhere near Betelgeuse, they're good folk though.” As Bobby mentions the places he's been, the dodgeball rolls in again and a skeleton wearing a derby and a lit cigar in it's teeth hustles in to retrieve it, leaving in short order.

“I think next time you should make the office Out-Of-Bounds.”

“The probability of the ball winding up in here four times is incredibly narrow.” Bobby looks impressed it's actually happened. “Seriously, ask a nerd to do the math.” Bobby’s phone begins to ring, the loud chime of his generic ringtone beset by the hum of it vibrating on his desk. He observes the screen for details of the caller, and looking surprised, answers.

“Hello?” Bobby listens intently. The dodgeball lands on his desk, and as Bobby listens he picks the ball up. A scuba diver walks into the office, and Bobby launches the ball at him, hitting him right in the bread basket. The scuba diver doubles over. “You’re out.” Bobby rolls his eyes. “No, not you, someone in the room.” Bobby nods, already mentally responding. “Yeah, I'll do it.” Bobby ends his call and sets the phone down as Stephanie kicks the ball out of the office.

“What was that about?” Stephanie steps on the downed scuba diver as she steps towards Bobby.

“It was nothing.” Bobby morosely sits back in his chair, his maudlin torpor stagnant within him.

“What is bothering you, Bobby?” Stephanie tries to finally cut to the chase.

“I mean, I think I'm past my prime, maybe I should just ride off into the sunset and leave being an interdimensional wrestler behind me.” Bobby faces the notion with some consternation. “Thing is, I know I have more in me, I want to go out and whoop some ass. Anyway, I just got contracted for some outside work. Should be good for me to stay busy with something outside the ring.” Bobby rubs his head where Darren hit him with a lawnmower, of all things. “I need a team.”

“I am not sticking around if your partner Thunder Knuckles shows up, Mr. Bourbon.” Stephanie shudders at the notion.

“No, he's doing stuff on Anarchy with 36, or as the Italians say, XXXVI.” Bobby swiftly shakes his head. “Nah, I need my Bourbon Men.”

Suddenly, inexplicably, Bobby’s door swings wide open. None other than Centurion walks in.

“What the fuck are you doing here?” Bobby looks at Cent angrily. “Aren't you Darren Dangerous's best friend? I hate that guy!”

“I don't like Darren either, Bobby.” Centurion is far more calm than Bobby.

“Well, then, what the fuck are you even doing here, regardless?” Bobby cocks an eyebrow, glaring at Cent.

“I was sent by Schism, I was told to work with you on something for the Revolution.” Centurion is frank and earnest in his delivery, no nonsense as always.

“Oh, damn it. Well, the Revolution just became a hard sell for TK, and you listen to me, this is me teaching you and giving you the rub, not the other way around.” Bobby points at Cent. “We aren't doing this where your name is getting brought up to make me look cool, I'm making you look cool.”

“Whatever you say, Bobby.” Centurion turns and catches the dodgeball as it careens through the open door. “That guy is out.”

“Nice catch.” Stephanie congratulates Centurion.

“You stop that. No.” Bobby shakes his finger at Cent. “You're here to inspire me by reminding me I'm nowhere near as old as you and that's why I shouldn't hang them up.”

“Dolly said we were in the same union and you would explain more.” What a revolting development this is, Dolly didn't even drop the memo to Bobby.

“Alright. Well, I haven't talked to Dolly, Schism organizes Revolution activity and he just called me. You're not doing this as a member of the Revolution, you aren't even doing this as Darren Dangerous's best friend.”

“I told you, I'm not his friend.”

“You're doing this as a member of the Bourbon Men.” Across the bottom of the screen, you see ‘New Bourbon Man Alert: Centurion’ flashing as you watch all of this going down.

“What are you talking about?” Centurion looks baffled.

“We're going to attack the oligarchy, the self styled monarchy, and destroy them, Centurion. Those corrupting humanity and depriving the common people of not only resources, but dignity. No kings, Cent, we doing this for the people.” Bobby stands, his fervor back, speaking from the depths of his soul, conviction washing over him. “Really, Cent, we’re going to give the people something to believe in again. Let's go take a ride.” Bobby walks out of his office as Stephanie and Centurion follow. Cent finally drops the red dodgeball on the floor as a crowd of people all look on in awe as Bobby Bourbon, man of the people, continues the Revolution.

“You seem, um, less sad, Mr. Bourbon.” Stephanie looks hopeful.

“Oh, I am, Miss Wilson, I'm mad as hell and I'm not going to take it anymore. C'mon, Cent, let's go.” Bobby continues to march out of his dojo.

“Where are we going, Bobby?” Cent keeps pace as Bobby, driven with purpose, exits the building.

“We're going to recover the Epstein Files!”



“Isaiah flip flopped from being King to Prince to, shucks, just a King lost in the shuffle helping make the XWF Tag Team Championships second rate, all the while every time he's addressed me he's demonized me for having the sheer audacity to make people laugh.”

“For starters, let's be blunt, he calls being funny something awful just because he fucking can't, it's sour grapes. This morose motherfucker is so focused on being melodramatic, and sharing with the world his inner bitch session gets disrupted when genuinely happy people fucking exist.”

“So what the fuck is your major problem? You have gone to the top of the mountain, Izzy, but deep down, you gotta force yourself to be dissatisfied enough with something, right? It's me because people think my promos are funny. It's Kieran because he's actually consistently successful. It's Seb because he's your tag team partner. It's Flynn because he was your tag team partner. It's the sun for fucking setting, the stars for fucking shining, or the toy in your Happy Meal being the one you already got.”

“Lighten the fuck up. I keep hearing about how expansive, and deep, the current XWF roster is these days, but instead of getting a match with Larry Tact, or Watson, or even Corey Black who still pisses in his own Cheerios over losing to TNGB, the motherfucker you replaced as someone's Sebtacular partner, I get to face you, again. I don't get a rematch for the Xtreme Championship, I don't get any of the shit that I want.”

“Deep down, that makes me, by default, way more identifiable with the fans, with the common people, the folks who try, and try, and work, and toil, and bust their asses, day in, day fucking out, and goddamn, Izzy, I am here for them, and I frankly owe you an ass beating, because what have you ever done for the people, King?”

“For some of us, the struggle is absolutely fucking real, we didn't come from royalty, we didn't walk in with entitlement, and I'm not just saying fuck yourself for that shit, but fuck whoever thinks you're fucking cool for it. You’re the garbage in, they're the garbage out, and they're the muck on the fucking ground that is making people who actively and actually want to be happy have to slog in order to do so.”

“Why have a happy birthday when Izzy thinks you can have an introspective and lesson instilling one? Why have a happy anniversary, you can just find another tag team partner to carry the XWF Tag Titles into literally becoming the joke I came up with as secondary? Why have a good day when you can just have a day? Then, get this, you're going to call me out for saying the sun also shines, that the air is sweet, and that even though we all struggle, we have a chance to feel joy? Blow it out your fucking ass, Izzy, you're full of shit and yourself, have a seat in the throne in a bathroom and check your goddamned ego after wiping. You speak for nobody, I mean absolutely nobody, worth anything to any community or society.”

“So I am taking my fucking stand, at Warfare, without bitching about what I should have, what I should get, and what I deserve, but to deliver what you have fucking earned as an enemy to the common man, as a fool who put a crown before his boots, and a growth who thrives on the back of Seb.”

“Afterward, I will continue my glorious mission, Izzy, to make people happy. To give them what they want, to send them home contented, with a sense of the warm-and-fuzzies, like I was the sprinkles on their ice cream or the bubble in their Coca-Cola, and you can loathe me for it all you fucking want, because while my happiness might be your problem, your misery is no problem for me.”

“Or, maybe, you could hear me out.”

“We could go out there and both send the people in Atlanta home happy.”

“Thousands in attendance, untold millions watching, and we could put on a match that people will talk about until we are dead and gone, not just a monster destroying what stands in his way or a crown demanding a court to prop them up.”

“Maybe you could reconcile that yeah, I get sad sometimes, that life sucks for everyone now and then. Maybe the way I deal with it is by aggrandizing the silliness of existence, not the self, and that as cockamamie as it is that one of the men gunning for your JV Tag Team Titles isn’t even certain how I lost to Darren Dangerous, that the Mandela Effect is so strong according to another weirdo who not only claims the team you lost to didn't even exist while she was gone, but also seems to bemoan making people smile because they suck at it, it's not worth the frustration of trying to understand genuinely idiotic people.”

“I can not stress this enough, Izzy, the stupid people who are so far up their own asses are not the crowd you want to fit in with. These people fade away, cold, alone, and unfulfilled. Give the people a reason to reflect on you, not just remember you. You can't tell me what Thad did in his career that set him apart, nor can you say for certain what it was that Lane, or Alias, or even Ned Kaye. You can tell them, though, no matter what pain I felt, I made them smile.”

“One way or another I'm going to leave you in stitches Izzy, and while I wish I could tell you all about the examples of people who make me laugh, I am Pagliacci, pulling himself up by his bootstraps to get over the fence, brightening days instead of moping about how my tragedies somehow outweigh someone else's like the world is a contest to see who can cry the hardest.”



A massive tank arrives at a self-storage facility. It stops, the engine dies, and the hatch opens. Bobby crests from within, climbing out, and Centurion follows.

“I had no clue Saab just made tanks now.” Centurion looks bemused at Bobby’s jet black tank.

“Yeah, the cars were kinda dorky but you gotta roll into awesome change.” Bobby glances back at Centurion, leading him down a corridor.

“I think I know what you mean. This has actually been kind of fun.”

“Fun is important, Cent. Thousands and thousands of years ago, two hunter gatherers encountered each other. Not knowing what to do, one broke the tension by picking up a stick wiggling in front of their pelvis, thus inventing the dick joke and brokering civility.” Bobby pulls his keys back out.

“That's, um, weirdly very likely.” Centurion's brow furrows as he realizes the method to Bobby’s madness is that, in fact, madness has always created methods since the dawn of time.

“Yup, two strangers can encounter each other trying to see who is more sacrosanct, which never accomplished anything, or they could just, you know, not, and show each other their dicks.” Centurion looks concerned as Bobby says this.

“Wait, where are you taking me exactly? I don't want to…” Bobby cuts Cent off, laughing.

“No, I'm not showing you my cock.” Bobby continues to beam at the implication Cent drew upon. He stops at a garage door and squats, inserting a key into a lock.

“So, what are we getting here? Weapons? Some mad science experiment to help us get our hands on FBI files? Cash to pay someone off?” Centurion looks on eagerly as Bobby removes the lock and lifts the rolling garage door, revealing a single portable hard drive on the floor.

“Nah, I got a copy of the Epstein Files months ago, I kept it here, in case someone wanted them.” Bobby walks in and picks the hard drive up, turning to Cent.

“Wait, what? Jesus, Bobby, nobody can expect your next move.” Bobby coyly smiles. “Who’s on there? Is Trump?”

“Well, obviously, but according to the Mandela Effect, it's up for debate whether he was murdered by Madison Dyson or is the current president, so is he really in the files?” Bobby smiles. Cent squints at Bobby.

“The Mandela Effect?” Bobby nods as Cent draws from memory what that means. “Like the Berenstain Bears thing?”

“Bingo. It's when the masses have a shared memory that is called into question and/or is fake.” Bobby nods, excited to talk high strangeness with Cent. “It’s just basic time manipulation.”

“Um, okay, you lost me there.” Bobby’s grin widens, his mood better having taken Cent on such a ride. Cent continues. “So who else is on the list?”

Bobby looks directly at the camera, grinning from ear to ear.

Oh, what a revolting development!

We're out of time! Tune in next time to the BourbCo Promo Moment to find out!

The disclaimers following the promo were advised by BourbCo and the XWF.

Word Count: Only relevant to the rubric if one goes over the word limit so instead of wasting your time with pointless drivel the production staff used words that mattered, but maybe they DID go way over the word limit. You better use an external word counter, though, because the one on the site is absolutely busted. Do you ever check it using WordCounter.net if it's presented as a Google Doc? When do you check to see if this was AI written? Is that always by default, or only if there's empirical evidence something was intelligently written? What if someone prompted AI to just spew fifty thousand words as unintelligible and pointless word salad. Imagine, the height of human achievement thus far, the ability to get a computer to, at best, write your resume, or at worst, write legislation, being used to generate “gland fortune cookie hectare pop sniff albatross club stain”. Imagine if an AI did that, and how much energy was used to get it to just do that. We look out for it now, because some people have done a bang-up job of absolutely homogenizing what makes good writing, when beauty is in the eye of the beholder, and what is good is applicable to the individual's observation.

Since some of you have severe mental disorders or are repugnantly idiotic, here is the word “Phenolphthalein” enough times to get this closer to four thousand words. Eh, production staff is maxing that out at just once, but fortunately someone is here to teach you how to imagine, so just imagine that word a bunch more times as a litmus test, and if you can't, you're too slow to be engaging with Bobby Bourbon promos without direct and legally competent adult supervision.

Bobby Bourbon promos are not intended for children, nursing women, or the elderly. Side effects may occur, such as dizziness, nausea, diarrhea, upset stomach, fatigue, following a scorecard like a paint-by-numbers for content creation because the implied parameters of professional wrestling were too broad to handle, a very upset stomach, or in some rare occurrences hoof-in-mouth disease. If these occur, stop watching a Bobby Bourbon promo and consult your doctor.

No animals were harmed in the making of this promo.

Made in America.

All performers were of legal consenting age as of the production of this promo and in following with all standards and regulations set forth by the Nevada Gaming Commission, the state of Florida, a small farming community in rural Ontario, and the Screen Actor's Guild of Italy according to the Custodian of Records.

Seriously, we didn't do any wild experiments on the giant duck to make it six feet tall nor make it talk, but they did audition successfully.

Saab and all Saab products are not sponsors of nor reflect the views of the XWF, XWF management, or Spirit Halloween stores.

‘Thunder Knuckles’, ‘TNGB’, and the mention of Tag Team Wrestling appear courtesy of BastardNet productions.

Viewer discretion is advised except if this was being played in a bar, tavern, biergarten, taphouse, brewery, or other locale serving beer on tap.

On the next exciting BourbCo Promo Moment!

The view completely shifts to show Bobby and Centurion on an island, surrounded by British school children. One, in a crown, has a stick sharpened at both ends. Tune in next time for ‘Lord of the Files’!