Don’t Let Him Win
Nick Stuart: Well folks, if you’re wondering why there’s a table and chairs set up nice and neatly inside the ring it’s because up next we have a meeting of the minds. A face to face showdown between UNIVERSAL CHAMPION Brandon Youngblood, and everyone’s favorite thorn, Cancer Jiles.
Richard Parker: What could possibly go wrong?
Nick Stuart: As reported in the controversial debut edition of Cracking News, Jiles is “cashing in” his Golden Ticket. He will meet Brandon Youngblood in the main event of ReVival Eight in what’s sure to be a highly contentious rematch for the Universal Championship. Before that–
Richard Parker: BEFORE THAT Jiles the Jerkoff needs to remind everyone just how lucky he is to be walking around God’s green Earth after OUR Champion made an omelet out of him at Culture Shock!
Nick Stuart: Even here in Vegas I don’t like the chances of that happening.
Richard Parker: A boy can dream.
“I am the COOL” by Screamin Jay Hawkins hits and the boo birds awaken.
After longer than usual comes to pass, Jiles, who is dressed down in his company issue electric-blue tracksuit, comes walking out to the uproarious disapproval. The COOLYMPIAN and his golden, Valdez-oil-slick of COOL don’t bother posing for all to see. Rather, both he and hair simply continue down to the ring. It should be noted that the T-Shades on his face are glimmering in such a way that one might say they once belonged to John Connor.
Nick Stuart: I think John Connor once owned those shades.
Upon reaching the ring The Big C rolls under the bottom rope, immediately calls for and receives a microphone, then finds an unoccupied spot to stand.
Cancer Jiles: Yeah, yeah. Like I give a fu–
Cancer Jiles: (talking over) Screw it! Ladies and gentlemen I present to you your UNIVERSAL CHAMPION! THE WINNER OF THE ALMASY INVITATIONAL! THE BABBLING TOWER! Brandon Youngblood!
Youngblood’s music hits. The crowd goes from zero to hero and whips into a fanatical frenzy. Tops come off. Babies are crying tears of joy. Children are wetting themselves. Adult men are pinching their nipples just to make sure the moment is real.
Well, if only for a moment anyway.
Cancer Jiles: Come on down, Champ. Don’t keep your devoted PRIMEordials waiting.
Jiles goes and sits on the second rope, further inviting his prey to join him. The problem is as most of the MGM Grand Garden Arena is quickly finding out; it’s not Brandon Youngblood who is making his way down to the ring.
It’s Bobby Youngblood.
Richard Parker: The NERVE!
The Man from Honalee is donning a singlet that clearly doesn’t fit, and wears a wig prosthetic that makes him look like the Monopoly Man. Oh, and there’s also a toy replica of the UNIVERSAL Championship in his grasp.
Richard Parker: This goon just doesn’t know when to quit!
Nick Stuart: Eh, which one?
After laboring down the ramp, Bobbyblood takes a moment to catch his breath before taking the stairs up to the ring. Sadly, he fumbles his way through the ropes even though Jiles is propping them open. Once he recovers he raises his arms in ultimate triumph, which unfortunately causes both of the singlet straps around his shoulders to snap. The sound of the wardrobe malfunction rubber bands throughout the entire arena.
Richard Parker: Jesus Christ.
Jiles quickly takes off his track jacket and gives it to his buddy so he can cover up– like Bob doesn’t wrestle topless to begin with. Bobby, who doesn’t look too comfortable in Youngblood’s skin, quickly takes a seat atop one of the folding chairs. Jiles does the same, but across the table from his beautiful rival.
Cancer Jiles: (sincere) I’d like to start this off by thanking you for joining me, Champ. I know you’ve been busy writing songs in the garage, so I appreciate you finding the time. I’m sure your adoring, loving, caring, and most of all, CRUMB BUM fans appreciate it, too.
The Beautiful Impersonator raises a closed fist, and shakes it as if he were fighting off rigor mortis.
Cancer Jiles: Whoa! Easy there, Champ. I didn’t invite you out here to fight. That comes later, on the next ReVival. Not to mention I would hate myself if you were to somehow get hurt before that could happen.
Jiles gives a hearty thumbs up to prove he is on the level with his words. It’s half crooked so beware.
Cancer Jiles: Besides, from the looks of things victory has already taken care of that for me, hasn’t it, Champ?
Bob and his sharpened gaze don’t find the fat ribbing too amusing. However, he’s come this far.
Cancer Jiles: Then again, I can’t say I’m too surprised you’ve grown plump. You got your cake. It was a big piece. Biggest you ever had. You ate it while you could. Good for you. Really, good for you. I’m happy it didn’t go to waste.
Bobby lightens up and cracks a small smile, probably from just the sheer mention of eating cake. Meanwhile, the crowd continues to let Jiles have it for his satirical hubris. Their frenzied detriment only causes his hair to seemingly radiate with utter disrespect and sheer confidence.
Cancer Jiles: Now tell me, do you think you’ll WANT seconds? If so, you should know that’s gonna wind up being a whole lot of cake you have to swallow. Not that I don’t think you’re up for it. It’s just — and not to be a Debby Downer here — but you look like you’ve had your fill.
The Grand Maestro of the Bandits removes his shades, and stares into Beautiful Brandon Youngblood’s swollen, watering, eyes. Then, before he can continue on with his demeaning diatribe…
BLOOD FOR THE BLOOD GOD
SKULLS FOR THE SKULL THRONE
LET THE GALAXY BURN
For the second time, Bloodsport (World Domination) by HEALTH blares, the intense and jarring beat causing the fans to roar in approval. It could easily be another eGG Bandits ploy, another way to take the piss out of the crowd, but nobody seems the wiser of the possibility.
Richard Parker: Please GOD let it be him and not that old guy no one can see. PLEASE.
Richard’s prayer is answered. Out comes the UNIVERSAL CHAMPION, dressed to fight, combat shorts, white, black and red track top, championship belt in tow over the shoulder, and The MGM Grand Garden Arena goes full tilt, absolute, roof rattling bonkers because of it.
Richard Parker: FINALLY! KILL HIM! NO ONE WILL CARE!
Bobby quickly flees the scene of the crime, perhaps moving faster than he’s moved at any point this decade. He scampers over the guardrail like a hungry ballerina skipping the line at the buffet and disappears into the crowd.
Nick Stuart: I’d say Robert Dean is smarter than he looks, but he is beautiful.
Richard Parker: Yeah, he’s got a beautiful brain.
Nick Stuart: Don’t look now, but even with this riotous ovation, and Brandon Youngblood marching down to the ring, Jiles hasn’t moved an inch. He didn’t even get up to chase after Bobby when he fled.
Richard Parker: He’s scared stiff. He’s a deer in the headlights.
Nick Stuart: Maybe, but I got a strange feeling The Maestro might be orchestrating.
Youngblood reaches ringside, his gaze never once leaving the grinning hyena trespassing inside his den. He slowly stalks his way up the steps, and carefully enters the ring. Instead of raging–throwing a chair out of the ring and powerbombing Jiles through the table, he takes a seat.
Cancer Jiles: Took you long enough, and here you can use mine. Maybe some osmosis will do you good.
Like he’s got the biggest dick in the room, Youngblood leans forward in his chair, slings the Universal Championship from over his shoulder, and places it on the table for Jiles to clearly see, picking up the microphone.
Brandon Youngblood: Nice toy you had there. Got one better for you though, Jiles. That right there? That’s the real thing. Wanna know how you can tell? It has my name on it.
Ship totally sunk, Jiles’ face, hair, and confidence are all in need of the Coast Guard. The mirror-tint on his precious T-shades picking up the CHAMPIONSHIP belt in their reflection isn’t doing him any favors, either. Poor guy. It’s as if Brandon stamped his name across The COOL’s face.
Brandon Youngblood: Say, are those them “cool” Apple glasses? The ones that take the pics? If so, snap one off. You can send it to the belt maker. Make sure the replica gets a nice view. Don’t need no white photoshop outlining showing up. That’d be pretty embarrassing…
The Tower of Babel leans in close ensuring there’s no confusion as to what comes next. Jiles, still hanging with Anna and Elsa, cowers.
Brandon Youngblood: …almost as much as the idea of your name on the goddamn plate.
Dagger stare. There is no respect here. Why would there be? This isn’t Crackin’ News. This isn’t the mutual admiration society.
Brandon Youngblood: Unfinished Business Tour. Leg one. Because people like Melvin Beauregard thought the Almasy Invitational needed to be jazzed up with bounties. But you’re not Charlie Bucket. You’re a Veruca Salt jackass who came here and kicked your feet screaming ‘mine mine mine’ while a bunch of people were finding their footing. But this isn’t the eGG Bandits show. You’re in the Diamond Age now…and putting you down will be more of a pleasure than an honor.
Youngblood stands from his seat, content. He looks down upon the King of COOL one more time, then grabs the title belt from off the table.
Spoiler, he remains unimpressed.
However, when Brandon turns to leave, he takes one step before coming to a halt.
Nick Stuart: Here we go!
Youngbood is holding one half of the Universal Championship, and Jiles, who has finally found the courage, is holding the other. Think tug of war, just without anyone struggling. The MGM Grand picks up spirit again, and starts to cheer the possibility of Christmas coming early.
Richard Parker: Kill him. No reason to wait two weeks. Do it now.
There’s a few seconds of tenseness… then, like he’s still got the biggest dick in the room, Youngblood pulls the belt from Jiles’ grasp as if the challenger were a mere child. Of course, the downtrodden COOLYMPIAN further cowers in his chair.
Richard Parker: Pathetic. Such a loser.
Youngblood shakes his head in disgust, proudly holds the UNIVERSAL CHAMPIONSHIP high for all to see, and then…
Then, Brandon Youngbloood turns his back on Cancer Jiles. He climbs up to the SECOND turnbuckle to further show off the goods for even the comp tickets in the bleeds.
Nick Stuart: That’s not good. That’s not good at all.
Richard Parker: I hate how graceful he looks.
Like the thirsty, depraved, out classed, hyena of a man that he is, Jiles springs from his chair, dances across the eight foot table, dives, and drives his shoulder right into the back of Brandon’s knee.
The MGM Grand Garden gasps.
Nick Stuart: ….
Richard Parker: ….
Youngblood topples over backwards, actually landing on top of Jiles. The Maestro is seen laughing and smiling from underneath the Universal Champion.
Richard Parker: ….
Jiles finds his footing, whereas Brandon Youngblood does not. The Champion is clutching at that knee like it’s the last dollar at the Go-Go bar.
Nick Stuart: ….
Youngblood seethes in agony.
Jiles cackles with confidence.
Then, just like when Brandon yanked the belt from Cancer’s grasp earlier, Jiles returns the favor. Well, kind of. He just does so with Brandon’s leg instead of the Championship. He pulls, twists, turns, kicks, stomps, does the rope prop butt drop move, and even slides out of the ring to slam Youngblood’s knee into the side of the ring post.
His intent is clear.
He doesn’t want to hurt Brandon Youngblood.
He wants to cripple him.
In his agony, Youngblood is unaware of what is sure to be the final blow. The crowd, ravenous in their boos, is roaring as Jiles manages to saunter around the ringside area, our two announcers standing up as he draws near. Perfect opportunity. Richard Parker’s chair is right there for the taking. With gusto, the COOLYMPIAN slams the chair shut, and turns around to take a swing at Youngblood’s injured knee. Why wait two weeks? Cripple the bastard now! Luckily, for everyone involved who isn’t Cancer Jiles, there are still some heroes in the back without a yellow stripe for a spine. As such, number one contender for the Universal Championship, Impulse, comes charging out before the rotten egg can succeed in turning Brandon Youngblood into a one legged man in an ass kicking contest.
Nick Stuart: Impulse with the clutch save! Still, If that knee was feeling better, it isn’t anymore.
RIchard Parker: Classless pig shit coward. He has no spine. He has no morals. Look at him running like a coward…. He’s no Champion.
While Richard might be quick to keep his dander up, it’s clear he’s in no rush to get the chair still in Jiles possession. Impulse, for his part, is ready to chase him off. The damage has already been done. The chair has been dropped, as has the metaphorical gauntlet. Backing away up the ramp, Jiles, in all his greasy best, oozes utter confidence. Impulse, his face tightening in a scowl, stabs his finger in the direction of the King of Cool. The no sell is second nature; let the crumbs have their little moment now…the future is already assured to be eGGtastic.
Nick Stuart: I can’t believe it! Thank god for Impulse here! If it wasn’t for him, who knows what more Jiles could have done here!
Richard Parker: A damn coward. A piece of trash! Someone poison that bastard’s yolk!
Youngblood has managed to push himself away from his corner, prone, heels of his hands digging into the canvas. But he is in agony, wrenching toward his left knee, vacillating between curling his leg and straightening it, pounding the mat, and if one is to look clearly enough, tears in his eyes. How could he not? It felt as though his knee, messed up already, had just exploded into a mess of shredded tendons, diamonds crushed to powder.
Nick Stuart: The Universal Champion in tremendous pain! He can’t…he can barely move!
Richard Parker: Oh my god…is he…is he gonna have to forfeit the title? Is Cancer Jiles going to become the Universal Champion by proxy?!
Nick Stuart: I am sure Lindsay Troy is going to have something to say about this! This…this is heinous!
Richard Parker: But he’s got a Golden Ticket! His shot is confirmed. Set in stone! We saw how those bounties worked! And if Youngblood can’t go…
As the announcers go into full on panic, Impulse enters the ring, seeing the Last Diamond wallowing in pain. For so many, the instinct would be to pounce. After all, Randall Knox had come so close to beating this man and being the one to win the championship left laying helplessly in the ring. But he was a man of principle. Nearing Brandon, he uses his hands to brace his shoulders on the canvas, lowering himself enough to try and settle the massive beast down.
Impulse: You’re in shock, sir. Settle down. Can you move?
Brandon Youngblood: Get the fuck off me!
The champions arms are reaching for Impulse’s shoulders…but not in malice. He’s bracing himself.
Brandon Youngblood: Shock…I’m in fuckin shock…jesus…yeah…yeah…
Thankfully, the Marathon Man is quick to blow off the steam thrown his way. He does his best to help up the fallen Tower of Babel, allowing him to move without putting any weight on his left leg. With a little bit of movement to the corner, he gets him perched, so he can straighten his leg out.
Nick Stuart: It’s…can you see…it looks like his quad might’ve rolled up his thigh!
Richard Parker: No…no…I’m not listening to that. I’m not seeing that. There’s no way…there’s no freaking way this is going down like this!
Whether Nick is seeing things or not, Brandon can’t help but wince and clutch his face with one of his massive hands. And as he does? Impulse is reaching down for the Universal Championship belt, picking it up from the canvas, staring at the main plate. Contemplating. Smiling. Envisioning.
Richard Parker: Is he…is he going to hit him with the–
Nick Stuart: Never!
Richard Parker: He’s looking at that belt like it’s freaking Cally!
As if to cut off the very thought, Impulse breaks off his stare, looking toward the very wounded champion, walking over before slinging the belt over the man’s shoulder.
Impulse: You’re tougher than this. I know it. Everyone knows it. Don’t let him win.
The added weight is crazy in the circumstances, but Youngblood relents, relaxes. He takes heavy breaths, looking forward, nodding toward the rightful number one contender. But after a few moments, it is unmistakable; Impulse’s eyes are on the prize, transfixed upon it. And the Champion? All he can do is stare forward, toward such a distant and now possibly impossible challenger. The more we linger, the greater the tension becomes.
And the skies were painted yolk as somewhere close, Cancer Jiles let out the most sinister of laughs.