Steve Sayors walks into the massive kitchen found in Global Culinary Challenge studios, and it is there that he sees none other than Bobby Bourbon. Bourbon is beaming, pleased to greet a guest to the kitchen.

“Good morning, Steve, I’m glad you could make it!”

“Well, Bobby, I’m hardly the first person from the XWF to be seen in a GCC production.”

“And you won’t be the last, Steve, but please, I can only be proud of the competitors coming into the kitchen and observing what they’ll cook up next.”

“Well, Bobby, you seem well, your cooking competition is a smash success…”

“Yes, yes it is, again, credit to the chefs there.”

“Well you’ve recently come back and made quite the mark in the XWF. On Anarchy you beat someone while showcasing an entire menu.”

“Yes, I felt the fans deserved to see what I can do when I cook, and bubba, that was some spicy stuff on the menu.”

“Spicy is one way of putting it, Deena Hixx was absolutely clobbered in that match. Then, last Warfare…”

“Look, I could sit here and harp about last Warfare for what seems like an hour, but, well, I figure I can let someone else have fun describing what everybody saw.”

“What did you whisper to Korvayne just moments before you…”

Bobby holds up a palm. His smile doesn’t diminish but the demeanor does as his chin lowers, and he gazes at Steve from below his furrowed brow.

“I told her the truth, Steve.”

“Now, I brought you here to show you something, it’s really quite amazing.”

---

Hiya girlie.

Look, I didn't know that coming out and putting a boot up your ass was going to be cool enough to get me a chance at the Television Championship.

Flat out, I was going to do it whether you won or not.

I promise, on my honor.

Hell, if you don’t buy that, put it on your mother’s honor, I don’t give a fuck.

See, these XWF fans in this here XWF Universe really wanted to see that happen.

Call it kismet.

Call it karma.

Call it whatever you want, everybody knows what it was.

But, here I am, lined up for a chance to win the Television Championship.

I have fifteen minutes to put you down, pin you, and walk out with that belt you’ve barely gotten.

Now, I don’t want you to feel, I dunno, unempowered or anything.

If you want to keep showing up on TV and being an obnoxious little thing who’s only 22 but somehow sounds like they grew up on their weird uncle’s sub-reddit posts, well by all means.

Sell bathwater to incels.

That is your audience, after all.

Go on social media, be their influencer, I’m pretty sure you’d get a bajillion likes on Truth Social or something that is completely lacking in willing young women to be involved.

You could do an expose on where they set up the new Epstein Island.

Heh, by all means, keep fretting over Charlie Nickels, I never have, and he resents me for it.

He never caused me to lose or draw anything.

I was just better.

So, on that note, you can do all that shit, but what I’m not letting you do is carry the Television Championship.

Nah, I’m taking that spot.

---

Steve Sayors is seated on a stool next to a high table, eating. Bobby is seated across from him, sipping from a glass of water.

“Bobby, this is absolutely fantastic, thank you, I skipped breakfast.”

“No, Steve, you humbly sauntered into brunch. It’s not a meal, it’s a way of life.”

Sayors nods as though what Bobby just said was far more philosophical than it sounded, probably because the food is that delicious.

“So, what’s next for you, Bobby? You always seem to amaze the world with whatever venture you come up with next.”

“Ah, Steve, I’m so glad you asked. You see, the GCC has opened my coffers to delve into even further business. I have my second-to-top-notch distribution deal with all Dollar Tree and Dollar General stores to sell my line-up of products, not to mention a Title Match in Seattle, to tell the truth Steve, it makes my mind absolutely race! As such, while I was taking a shit, I saw someone say AI was bad. Then I saw suggestions for how to us AI. Then I watched some AI mindrot videos. Then I used AI to make a fun picture of me if I was sorted at Hogwarts and became a Ravenclaw.”

Bobby holds up his phone and shows Steve. The camera picks up the image of the activity he performed while pooping, because only losers just poop these days. (See: Appendix I)

“Cool.”

“I know.”

“So, that got me thinking, since AI is such a big thing on everybody’s minds these days, it’s a little late for me to get into that racket. I don’t want to even imagine how much it literally cost all of civilization to make a picture of me with four clones of me winning Family Feud.”

Bobby holds his phone up again for Steve. (See: Appendix II)

“Awesome.”

“Right?”

“Well, that’s when I thought, what if I thought outside the box?”

“That’s right Steve, I have developed and am prepared to launch..."









































































































"Superficial Intelligence.”

---

What is it with your disdain for Charlie?

I mean, here you came as a newcomer, but for some reason had a deep loathing for Chuckles almost entirely off break.

Well, fangirl, you’re on the inside now, you can stop hating on Charlie, he never did anything consequential around here, just grossed out the weak.

Then you, what, find some respect for Adeyeme, or Isaiah, or whatever name he calls himself when he switches from one antidepressant to the next to help with his daddy issues.

Shit, you love a simp more than that big ole’ muscled man you parade around.

Bobby gestures from offscreen. None other than a gigachad walks out.

Hey there big guy.

Am, uh, am I here to be sexy?

Nope.

Thank god.

Thank me.

The gigachad glances at Bobby as Bobby never breaks eye contact with the camera.

So, why does the silly bitch set on being America’s Next Top Cumcatcher keep you around, gigachad?

Well, uh, you see, I fill a role as something she wishes she had, or was, so she can go about milking her Simp.

So, you’re saying you’re just a facet of the so-called “male loneliness epidemic” which preys on the insecure so they can pretend they’re you?

I am.

Yikes, that’s cringe.

Heh, yeah, I know.

Bobby rolls his eyes.

So what you’re saying is you wouldn’t touch Julia with a stolen dick?

I, heh, I am.

What you’re saying is Julia’s as sexy as a port-o-potty gloryhole at the Alabama State Fair, right behind the prize winning sheep?

I, uh…

I know, most sensible people would take the gloryhole but how many sheepfuckers can you really reach out to?

The gigachad shakes, laughing.

You know, I feel a lot more comfortable now that…

Get the fuck off my set you meat puppet.

Bobby glances sideways towards the gigachad, cutting him off. The gigachad, neither alpha, beta, nor sigma, sheepishly leaves, obviously grateful he’s still walking. Bobby turns back to the camera.

Y’know, guys, if you’re feeling lonely, as in unfuckable, for whatever reason, you could always just go do anything with people involved instead of watching whatever limp dicked talking head who blows smoke up your ass and says you're special for being unspecial.

Do what my buddy Jim did.

Get yourself a dog.

---

“So, Bobby, what are your Bourbon Men doing these days?”

Bobby half smiles and shrugs.

“I don’t know, really, I don’t keep tabs on them. I guess someone else in the XWF could hire them for a promo but who the fuck parades someone else’s lackeys around?”

“So tell me more about your latest invention!”

“Ah, yes!”

“Why have art when you can have something super?”

“Thus, what is artificial can never be as great as what is SUPERFICIAL!”

“Let’s face facts, artificial intelligence is just the modern take on the holy grail, or the fountain of youth, or even alchemy.”

“It’s the guaranteed dream of so many without the capability to see it through because, well, everybody’s got foibles.”

“True intelligence is always flawed or weird in some way.”

“Artificial Intelligence give you the result you ask for, which isn’t smart, because most people ask for dumb shit.”

“Like the photo of you rocking out in a punk band?”

“The same, Steve.” (See: Appendix III)

“Well, technology has come a long way in such a short time, Bobby.”

“Has it? I mean, we’ve gone from having brainrot that went from featuring people with deformed hands to brainrot with people having normal hands.”

“That’s supposed to be a huge advancement!”

“Supposedly, but let’s face facts, it just isn’t. That’s why with Superficial Intelligence, we don’t beat around the bush. Let me show you a few examples.”

An animatronic model of Theodore Roosevelt is rolled out into the echoing and empty arena kitchen. Steve Sayors is wide eyed as he sees it and Bobby notices.

“Oh, we got a bunch of leftover models from the Hall of Presidents on the cheap, I set up Eisenhower, Taft, Cleveland, and Johnson as a band in a new pizzeria concept where every order is an executive one.”

“Neat.”

“Thank you. So, I have installed Superficial Intelligence…”

A copyright symbol lowers itself into place as Bobby speaks.

“Sorry, Superficial Intelligence©, has been installed into Teddy here for demonstration purposes.”

“So, what happens if you make requests of Superficial Intelligence©? Can it help you write collegiate term paper?”

“What? No, Steve, if you ask Superficial Intelligence© to write a paper for you, it will produce a simple explanation of how there are plenty of ways to make good money in a trade or industry where you don’t have to write reports all that much.”

“That seems wise, in a way.”

“Sure, and it’s just as helpful as AI writing your term paper!”

---

So, the people wanted you wrecked, and I obliged.

And girlie you got your ass gift-wrapped and fucking handed to you.

Then the office wanted you wrecked.

At Warfare I shall oblige.

Why do I want to whip the shit out of you? Why did I take on the burden on behalf of a Universe that could take me or leave me on a whim and keep on moving forward?

I know you're not asking that, you're too self-absorbed and self-important.

I will kick the shit out of you because you don't have the fucking staying power to see shit through when you don't get what you want.

You're a product of a fat, doting mother who tricked your daddy into giving her sperm so she could wash your shitty ass underbritches letting you think your ass don't stink.

And when someone absolutely and rightly calls you on your bullshit you're ready to throw a tantrum.

You call yourself a God on the microphone.

Last Warfare, God didn't fall, they got the shit be out of them, and there wasn't a fucking microphone in sight coming to save them; no adoring fans but mine.

I chose you, Julia, because your dipshit fanbase smells like they never fucking heard of soap because their mommies never used it.

I chose you to end the embarrassment to the once prestigious Television Title and the run of honorless, pointless champions that came before you.

---

“So, Bobby, what else can Superficial Intelligence© do?”

“Well, Steve, lots of things!”

Bobby seems terrifically excited by his new invention.

“For starters, carrying around a Magic Eight Ball is so last century, and nobody thought to make an app for that, or at least one that people care about. People care about Superficial Intelligence. They want to feel the hours spent watching brainrot and social media posts from bots make them special, somehow, and while AI can momentarily fill that void by giving you cool pictures of you doing the silliest of things, it can’t do this. SI, should I move to Montana?”

The animatronic Teddy Roosevelt whirs a bit and looks at Bobby.

“Walk softly and carry a big stick, also, ask again later.”

“Wow!”

“SI, should I break up with my girlfriend?”

“Far better is it to dare mighty things, to win glorious triumphs, even though checkered by failure, also, ask again later.”

“Uncanny! Does it always quote Teddy Roosevelt?”

“No, that’s residual glitches in the program from when this robot was an actual educational tool and not a superficial one.”

“That’s awesome, Bobby, but what else beyond asking a randomizer about important life choices is there?”

“Well, Steve, you’ll just have to tune in to find out!”

---

Bobby stands in front of a cutting board, beside it on the table is a large knife.

O Bastardly Father, I come to bequeeth unto you a measure of violence and hatred.

I know it has been some time since I have confessed.

Bobby picks up a honing rod in his left hand, and the knife in his right. The blade is facing him.

I have angered my brother, but my brother has been foolish in trusting others above me, and I will exploit no name above mine.

Bobby deftly begins stroking the edge of the blade against the honing rod.

I have scorned my brother, but my brother has scorned me a dozenfold over a fortnight and other English words only the English use.

I have invited the wrath of a fellow bastard in knowing one does not suffer the wrath of a bastard.

Fuck those who kiss his ass with promises but never kiss his dick, and damn if I didn't try to help get his dick sucked without paying money.

Reeeeeeeee

Dacted.

No.

I don’t mean Charlie. He’s a B player, the last in B.O.B.

I am Bobby.

Bobby sets the honing rod down, along with the knife. He reaches below the table and places a salmon atop the cutting board.

I have come, O Bastardly Father, for your wrath and violence upon the bathwater selling little bitch who shows it doesn’t take skill to be an influencer, just a studio and enough fucked up people to watch this shit.

And what shit it has been.

Bobby takes the blade and cuts along the belly of the fish.

In their third match, they won the Television Championship.

Bobby makes another identical cut along the other side of the belly.

In their fourth, they lose it.

Bobby then slices the head from the rest of the body.

Yet another token TV Title holder in a long line of them. Chasing clout but never making it.

I have singlehandedly made the TV Title more relevant than the Universal Championship, given a buzz to a match for it, and my brothers in Bastardly hatred, I have done it all for you.

Bobby grips the salmon in the mouth and holds the tail, and with a swift motion rips the head and guts from the fish.

As sexy as you find Korvayne to be, remember, the head be mediocre and unspirited.

Bobby takes his blade and chops off the tail.

As sexy as you find Korvayne to be, remember, the pussy be bland and wanting.

Bobby again slices, and with absolute surgical precision cuts the spine out of the creature.

As sexy as you find Korvayne to be, remember, she don’t fuck like she wants to, and you may ask, how do I know?

Well, I am glad you asked!

Bobby clips the fins, then with a bit of flare, with one slice, separates the fish into two sides.

I have fought against women in this business, real women, who had the fucking ability to rip the mask straight from my face. Women who have had the fucking spine to stand up and actually fight, giving me the fight I deserve, one that scarred me, hurt me, and shit, gave me mental hangups I’ll probably never drop.

Bobby flips the two sides skin side down. He trims the fin from one, then places his blade into the flesh near the end of it. He firmly grips the skin, holding the knife downward, and pulls, flensing with astonishing grace and skill.

I got blamed when those women left the business, for being too much of a brute. For taking the steps I took en route to fighting the likes of Doc, Charlie, SEB, Isaiah, of Chaos, and of the Engineer. To take the steps I took towards crushing a Duke and hearing I could call it a career after that. To take those steps towards Betsy, or Atara, or Vhodka, or any other woman who had the courage to step forward as themselves and face down whatever I brought to the ring, and I brought whatever I could, I was vilified.

Let’s go ahead and face the goddamned truth, I scare men so much they tell me they’d never beat a woman I would beat.

They would never deign to see them as equals.

Bobby skins the other side of salmon. He then begins slicing it into filet portions.

They’re fucking cowards.

They can’t handle a woman who is a woman, they need the bullshit that’s contrived and built as a fantasy model, because after all, if they couldn’t beat me, they had to sit and beat their dicks.

When it came to them, though, I gave it a fight.

This?

Bobby takes a filet from his cutting board and turns, where we see a grill. He places the filet atop it.

This won’t be a fight.

Bobby begins to season the filet on the flame with some blend of spices and herbs.

I will give unto thee, O Bastardly Father, and unto the XWF Universe, deliverance.

Bobby turns and slices off a few ribbons of the salmon skin itself, and tosses them into a nearby fryer.

I will give you blood, and bone, and meat.

It will be at the cost of Korvayne or whatever dipshit OnlyFans subs she has.

And the incels that value her.

Bobby flips the filet of salmon above the fire.

I love giving pain unto the incels, O Bastardly Father, as they can go get fucked but somehow can’t.

Bobby pulls the fried salmon skin from the fryer. As they rest for just a moment, Bobby glides a spatula beneath the filet of salmon, and plates it. Bobby drops the salmon skin into a bowl and drizzles salt and lemon juice atop it. He then plates the skin next to the filet, and it looks absolutely mouth watering.

But above all else, I take brutality and show that it is art.

Bon appetit.[/i][/i]

---

Appendices:

I

II

III