Titanic

[Bobby Bourbon]

On the night of April 14, 1912. 600 KM off the coast of Newfoundland. Frederick Fleet, one of two lookouts in the crow's-nest of the Titanic, was the first man to see the iceberg.

ICEBERG! ICEBERG! ICEBERG!

Fleet signals the bridge. Your screen fades effortlessly to the helmsman on the bridge. First Officer William Murdoch is by the helmsman’s side.

First Officer?

Steady, lad, there’s nothing to worry about this ship is unsinkable. Turn thirteen degrees portside.

Aye.

The helmsman does as he’s told and moves the ship thirteen degrees portside. Everything seems to be going smoothly.

See, I told you there was nothing to worry about.

The cloud begins to swirl above, the same lightning as before happens, and that’s when Them No Good Bastards’ phone booth comes crashing from the sky and lands near the Titanic’s bow.

FUUUUUUUUUCCCCCCKKKKK!!!!!!!

Bobby and TK exit the phone booth.

Jesus Christ! Fuck that goddamn shit, Bobby! I don't know how much more of that I can fucking take!

This causes the Titanic to dip farther into the ocean. The storied ship scraps the iceberg that it would have avoided if the phone booth had never landed. As the ship scraps across the bottom of the ship an unholy screech can be heard.

The fuck was that?

Bobby looks around.

Great.

What?

We’re on the Titanic.

No fucking way!

Way.

At least we’re not sinking.

Oh, but we are TK.

Bullshit! We’re fine, see!

TK points to some people laughing having a conversation.

TK, they just don’t know yet.

Well, let’s get the Hell out of here then.

If it just happened. We have about a half-hour and I’m hungry.

You’re always fucking hungry, Bobby.

True. How about we hit up the first-class kitchen?

I don’t fucking know, man.

A, you shot Lincoln. B, we obviously survive. We meet ourselves already.

TK smirks and Them No Good Bastards play some air guitar with their OCW tag team championships that they conveniently have over their shoulders.




Got me, Let’s go.

TK and Bobby survey the area. People are starting to realize what’s going on. A man pushes past TK, he kinda looked like Jason Cashe but with better teeth.

Yo, mother fucker, what gives?

The man continues to rush past TK without even caring.

What a fucking dick!

A woman makes her way toward TK.

Hey, Lady, I got a question for you?

The woman stops confused and scared.

Do you know why Lycana is relevant?

What?

Nevermind…

Come on, TK, we don’t have forever!

Bobby and TK finally make it to the first-class kitchen. TK pulls out a cigar, places his OCW Tag Team Championship on the counter, and lights it off one of the burners on the stove. Bobby sits his OCW tag Team Championship next to TK’s and is walking around the kitchen, eating everything that is prepared. TK turns and looks around.

This is a dope ass kitchen, bro. Too fucking bad it’s going to be at the bottom of the ocean and shit.

TK looks back at Bobby who is one handing half of a whole ham, tearing its flesh with his teeth.

What’s that?

Bobby with a gleeful smile and his mouth full, replies.

Titanic ham.

The creaking of the ship is becoming more intense. Bobby tosses the Titanic ham, grabs a rag from the counter, and wipes his mouth.

Welp. Time to go.

Them No Good Bastards start heading to the bow of the ship. They meet little resistance, people are crowding the back of the ship at this point. They see the writing on the wall.

Was the fucking ham good?

No. I’ve had better. Too many god forsaken cloves, and it's British, I prefer honey glazed Virginia ham.

Can’t fucking win’em all.

That’s exactly what Betsy, Lycana, Cashe, and Riddle are going to find out after we pass this fucking history lesson.

God fucking knows I can’t work over in fucking OCW full time. I’d kill goddamn myself, Bobby.

I know TK don’t worry about it. We’ll pass.

Bobby and TK make it to the phone booth, open the door, and walk in. TK closes the door behind them. Bobby starts pressing buttons. The water is rising closer to the phone booth.

Think you got it this time, Bourbs?

Bobby deadpans.

I don’t know, maybe?

His voice sharpens.

Ha! I think I got it!

Hell, fucking, yeah! Wait, where’s our OCW Tag Team Championships?

Suddenly lightning starts to surround the phone booth once again, another portal opens up underneath them, and Them No Good Bastards’ phone booth drops through the portal. Where will they end up next time? Your guess is as good as mine.



Them No Good Bastards are sitting at a table. They’re in the middle of signing autographs for the bWo. A couple of ladies walk up to the table. One has a tube top on and wants TK to sign her breast. The other has a homemade casserole for Bobby Bourbon.

Riddles is going to come out at Masters of Macabre, live on mother fucking pay-per-view. looking like Tommy Lee's uncircumcised tattooed dick. What's this fucking dark and spooky, piss breathed, washout going to come out and say?

TK signs the women’s breasts. It reads “Nice tits” and right below that he scribbles his name “Thunder Knuckles”.

Oh man, is that broccoli tuna rice and cheddar casserole? You got that 12 x 8 nice! Yo, TK, I'm signing this one for free.

The fuck you are!

Fine. Sorry, mam.

The girl nods knowing TK is a stickler for the rules getting paid.

Next.

The two young ladies walk away and up walks a 53-year-old fat wrestling nerd.

Does that dumb mother fucker, Cyrus, even talk? Saw his ass on TV, looked like a goddamn mute. Standing by Cashe’s side like a good fucking bitch. Open your mouth and maybe something might flow out of it, you cock-mite.

Bobby signed the man's audiobook of The Art of War read by TNGB. TK signs it quickly and waves the guy on.

Alright, fuck off, dude. You smell like cat piss. Speaking of cat piss, Jason Cashe spends too much time on fucking Twitter. Talking about useless goddamn nonsense while trying to take a deep dive into all the ladies of rassling. It’s fuckin pathetic. Mother fucker acts like Shawn Warstien on Viagra, with half the goddamn talent.

Think you’re giving him too much credit.

A little kid and his dad walk up to the table.

Probably. Where the fuck was I?

Pathetic.

The kid hands TK his Xavier Lux OCW trading card.

Are you fucking kidding me kid?

TK looks at the kid’s dad, then throws the card in the dad’s face.

Wrong fucking company, dick wad.

The kid begins to cry as TK yells out

NEXT!

A couple walk up to the table.

Right! Pathetic. Like all these “Athletes” in OCW sucking on Raven’s cock like he’s the next goddamn Jesus Christ. For shame, mother fuckers, all of you! I’ve met Jesus. He's way cooler than goddamn James Raven. I’ll tell you that, right now. Don’t worry Jason, you fucking ring rat, you’ll all get your chance to slob that goddamn knob, he isn’t picky. Look at his wife, for fucks sake. I get it thought guys. Really, I fucking do. James Raven comes from the land of goddamn greatness while you have to beg to get jobs in OCW of all fucking places because shit holes like Murderhuas and 4CW closed.

Bobby and TK quickly sign the couple's merch.

October 10th, you boys are going to war with the most prophylactic tag team in rassling history!

Prolific but I kinda like what you did there. Who wants babies?

Not me but the fucking fat lazy OCW fans need to breed more.

What?

Fuck yeah! It’s basic as fuck, just like Cyrus Riddle. All those obese women cranking out poor kid after poor kid. Their parents can’t afford tickets to the XWF but they sure as fuck can afford some OCW tickets and still have enough to buy some of this flea market merch.

TK pulls a box out from under the table they’ve been sitting standing behind.

Look at this shit that they’re peddling off, man! That’s just a fucking mop!

That’s Peter Vaughn’s officially licensed mop.

Oh, yeah? How about this toaster.

Bobby looks over at TK.

That’s for Toast.

I know what it’s fucking used for, Bobby.

Bobby smiles because he doesn’t think TK knows that there's a wrestler named Toasted working in OCW. TK put up a sign that says back in 15 minutes but Them No Good Bastards don't leave the table.

Y’know, TK, I’ve been thinking about this Cyrus Riddle guy and how dumb his name is. Like, Mr. and Mrs. Riddle hustled into the maternity ward, shat this doofus out, and went with the name Cyrus? He’s got a name like a Dungeons and Dragons character made up by some pimple faced teen, like he thought having that name would get him laid instead of brushing his teeth. I bet his mom was thinking something simple, and elegant, like Mike, or perhaps even Jake.

Bobby shakes his head no looking disappointed in humanity.

Cyrus. Was his dad high? Was his mom high? I mean, Cyrus sounds like one of those poor mongoloids that were in the special ed class because his mom liked drinking Draino, but given his name, it sounds like brain damage ran in the family. I bet Cyrus Riddle’s daddy used to think horses were sexy, and then one day he saw Cyrus Riddle’s mommy as the back end of a two person horse costume on the Gong Show, and lucky for ole’ Cyrus, that woman constantly smelled like horseshit and his daddy was none the wiser. Well, nine months later, in the back seat of a Datsun, out popped baby Cyrus while his mommy was busy choking on a dick to get ten bucks for some Denny’s. The trick she was turning was downright surprised and demanded a refund, so all she had for dinner was three payloads of trucker DNA.

A family of four waiting in line to meet Them No Good Bastards look on as Bobby says all this. The parents cup their hands around the ears of their two boys as they bask in the glory of his vulgarity.

Anyhow, have you heard of some of the companies this clown has worked for? xWa sounds like the flea market equivalent of the XWF, we could go there and win their tag titles but who wants to get changed in a port-o-john? WIWA sounds like Wawa, and you never let me finish fights we start in those places.

You always bet your sandwich against someone elses, it’s not a fucking competition.

I’m a competitor. Then there’s AWF, PWF, DWF, which to us stands for Against Wrestling For, Protests Wrestlin’ For, and Don’t Wrestle For. These places sound like they can’t even pay the bar tab in the shitholes they run shows in. PHW doesn’t even sound like a wrestling company, more like one of those dopey online only colleges where you can get a degree in cybernetics that’s worthless. Boardwalk, shit, Bored is in the name. Union Battleground sounds like a shitty group of Civil War re-enactors who get drunk and pee outdoors for a good time. Southside Wrestling is the Confederate counterpart to that. Then, well well, lookit this shit, TK.

Bobby points down to some notes he has on the table in front of him.

This dork wrestled in 4CW. I mean, Jesus Christ on toast, there’s bush league, and then there’s dumpster fire, and then there’s 4CW. That place was truly a shithole of a dump, where talentless hacks left fans so annoyed they would stop watching wrestling. This guy’s about as much a hall-of-famer as one of my farts.

You know what? I’m tired of signing autographs.

Me too.

The father of the family of four, who sat through all of that looks disappointed. His wife thinks less of him for not speaking up and getting their children autographs and Them No Good Bastards walk away from the table with their XWF and OCW Tag Team Championships.