UNIVERSAL TITLE: CANCER JILES vs. JULIAN BATHORY
We return to the MGM Grand Garden Arena. A sicken buzz fills the air. The main event is upon us. A Universal Champion is about to be crowned. Head Official Timo Bolamba stands in the middle of the ring, ready.
But only after the toll is paid. The Ultraviolence Steel Cage hangs above the ring. The arena lights dim. Spotlights circling the perimeter of the cage shine upon it. And as Lost Soul by Warner/Chappell Productions begins to play, the cage begins its slow descent. The fans let out a loud roar at the coming violence.
Vince Howard: Ladies, Gentleman, people of all genders, this is next contest…is our MAAAAAAIN! EVENT! OF THE EVENING! AN ULLLLLTRAVIOLENCE STEEL CAGE MATCH for the PRIME UNIVERSAL CHAMPIONSHIP! THERE IS NO TIME LIMIT! THE ONLY WAY TO WIN IS BY PINFALL OR SUBMISSION!
Nick Stuart: We are here. Finally. A night of battles. A night of dreams. A night of nightmares.
Richard Parker: A night of violence.
Nick Stuart: The path to get here is complicated. Unexpected. And for many, undesired. The New World Savior. The Carpathian Devil. Julian Bathory. The COOLympian. The leader and head of the eGG Bandits. The King of Cool. Cancer Jiles. For the second time. For everything.
Richard Parker: I hate this.
Nick Stuart: These two men battled for thirty minutes at Great American Nightmare for a chance to be here. To fight for the Universal Championship. And when the final bell rang, there was no winner. A time limit draw. Perhaps a few more moments is all it would have taken to make things clear.
Richard Parker: You mean for Julian Bathory to have won.
Nick Stuart: It seems so simple looking back, doesn’t it? Back then, these two were expecting to have to climb The Tower of Babel. To face off against what some thought was an unbeatable champion. But everything changed on ReVival 13. The Proprietor of the Glue Factory, Phil Atken shocked the world. He made right on his promise. It wasn’t fully by his own hand. He beat Brandon Youngblood with the help of FLAMBERGE. PRIME was rattled to its core on that unlucky night.
Richard Parker: Hey, by the way, thanks Phil. For everything. For freaking everything.
Nick Stuart: It was determined that Cancer Jiles and Julian Bathory would both compete tonight for the Universal Championship. A three way. Contenders to the Universal Champion, Phil Atken. But then, on ReVival 15, after Jiles laid down his threat, that if…IF…he were to win the Universal Championship, he would leave PRIME with it…the path changed yet again. Phil Atken came out to confront the head of the eGG Bandits. And when he did? He was viciously assaulted by Julian Bathory.
Richard Parker: I can’t believe we’re still letting this go on like this.
Nick Stuart: The two contenders concussed Atken. The title was vacated. We don’t know if Atken will ever be able to wrestle again. Severe fines were levied. And then…this announcement. That the Universal Championship would be on the line between Julian Bathory and Cancer Jiles…in an Ultraviolence Steel Cage. That there is no escape. To become Universal Champion, these two men must rip each other apart…and then…only then…will one stand as Champion.
Richard Parker: No rules, right? Only pinfalls or submissions.
Nick Stuart: Maybe referee stoppage? But somehow, I imagine head official Timo Bolamba will be very lax in regards to this.
Richard Parker: I know what lot I am casting my chips with. And if there’s a stoppage, well…hail MESSIAH.
Nick Stuart: The richest prize in all of sports comes down to this. A New World Savior against a man who threatens to spit on everything PRIME represents, who wants to take the Championship and hold it for ransom.
Richard Parker: And if he does, he’ll be hunted. To the ends of the Earth, hunted.
Nick Stuart: I don’t think Cancer Jiles cares.
Richard Parker: He shouldn’t. Because at the end of the night, he’s going to remain titleless. And then, hell, maybe I will join MESSIAH. Because at least those people, I feel like I can trust them.
As the cage settles on the arena floor, the music fades. The lights draw to a dim.
An unnerving, yet COOL chill moves through the air.
Richard Parker: Oh Hoyt…already with this…
Down at the announce table, Richard Parker can be seen breathing into a brown paper bag.
The audience – the loyal, dedicated, PRIMEates that they are – rise to attention. If this is to be the last time they see Cancer Jiles they are going to make damn sure he doesn’t forget it.
Seconds, that seem like eternity, pass.
Pitch. Black.
Nick Stuart: Here we go.
Suddenly, a spotlight clangs to life and illuminates the STEEL CAGE hanging high above the ring. Of course, the illumination sends the already rabid PRIMEates into an utter frenzy.
Nick Stuart: Listen to this crowd! They want blood!
Richard Parker: I’m pretty sure they are going to get it.
An intense, almost magical, mega heat creating, series of near blinding pyros light up the MGM Grand like a rocketship taking off from the Earth in the dead of night.
BOOM-BOOM-BOOM-BOOM-BOOM-BOOM-BOOM-BOOM-BOOM-BOOM-BOOM-BOOM-BOOM-BOOM-BOOM-BOOM-BOOM-BOOM-BOOM-BOOM-BOOM!!!
The all too familiar, wonderful, lovely, adorated, opening guitar riff from “I Am the Cool” rips through space and time. Screamin’ Jay then takes over.
I’m the one your mama warned you about
When you see me I will leave you no doubt
I’m the coolest man that ever walked this earth
I’ve been the coolest since the day of my birth
Another violent, almost blinding, July 4th esque, volley of pyro’s almost takes the roof off the building.
BOOM-BOOM-BOOM-BOOM-BOOM-BOOM-BOOM-BOOM-BOOM-BOOM-BOOM-BOOM-BOOM-BOOM-BOOM-BOOM-BOOM-BOOM-BOOM-BOOM-BOOM-BOOM-BOOM-BOOM-BOOM-BOOM-BOOM-BOOM-BOOM-BOOM-BOOM-BOOM-BOOM-BOOM-BOOM-BOOM-BOOM-BOOM-BOOM-BOOM-BOOM!!!
I Am the COOL
BOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!
The spotlight switches from the cage to the entrance ramp. Standing there, in all of his MAIN EVENT glory, looking ready for battle, looking ready to leave whatever it takes inside the structure of chaos, looking ready to make good on the long walk good night– KING fucking COOL, Cancer Jiles.
BOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!
Nick Stuart: As much as I hate to say it — Jiles looks ready to kill. A soda just hit him on his way down to the ring and it had no effect at all! He didn’t flinch, he didn’t even stop to berate the MESSIAH fan who threw it! He’s locked in, Rich. Could be a long night for Bathory.
Richard Parker: His hair didn’t even get wet… it’s like he’s got some sort of sheen covering it. I wonder if it’s like that because he knows he’s going to bleed, and he doesn’t want the excessive amount of blood to permanently stain his hair?
Nick Stuart: If anybody would take that type of precaution, it’s him.
Richard Parker: Fucking crumb.
The COOLympain slides under the bottom rope, finds the center of the ring, removes his T-Shades and throws them at his close friend, Senior Referee and the man who would strap the UNIVERSAL Championship around his waist should he be victorious tonight, Timo “COOL jet” Bolamba.
BOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!
Nick Stuart: No love loss here between the two. I guess it’s safe to say that Jiles still blames Timo for supposedly botching Furst Blud, among many other things.
Richard Parker: I wonder who he will blame after tonight? Or are there no more eggs in that basket?
Vince Howard: Introducing first…representing the EGG BANDITS…from Philadelphia, Pennslyvania and weighing in at two hundred eighteen pounds…he is the GOD of MOUNT COOLYMPUS, and the Champion of the Almasy Invitational Lisieux bracket…COOL! CANCER! JIIIIIIIIILES!
The only mortal man to see the summit of COOLympus eases back on his tirade, points up to the cage a few times, and motions to Timo that he’s going to throw him from off the top of it if he gets in the way.
Nick Stuart: I think the better question is will Jiles be around so we can find out? I know he’s on the record as saying he was going to leave with the UNIVERSAL Championship to bury PRIME once and for all, but what happens if he loses? Are we that lucky that he’ll still go?
Richard Parker: I’ll start praying to the Cult of Bathory right now if that is the case. He doesn’t really drink blood though, does he? Never know with this lot.
And as the COOL One soaks in the proceedings, a procession of individuals file through the curtain, lining the aisle. Men and women of all ages. Among them even a couple of children take up sentry, looking at one another and glancing at the entrance. Some dare to look into the ring, meeting the eyes of Cancer Jiles, those fleeting glimpses met with disdain.
Nick Stuart: Who are these people?
Richard Parker: I believe…kindly folks from a small town that MESSIAH is based from.
All plunges into darkness.
The music starts. Strings, light percussion building. The first guitars hit, crashing across the MGM Grand Garden Arena.
No more Shadow.
Enter Metallica’s “The Thing That Should Not Be”, S&M edition.
A figure steps out, pauses, silhouetted against an almost blinding backdrop for a few moments as the instruments roar, the symphony rises and falls. The intensity of the light fades and he steps forward, revealing the director of MESSIAH, Julian Bathory, dressed for war. By way of contacts, his eyes are bright yellow, almost gold, shimmering in the light. The eyes of a dragon.
Messenger of fear in sight
Dark deception kills the light
Nick Stuart: Chills filling the air here…
Richard Parker: A Champion for the people! A Champion for us all!
Over his wrestling gear, the Carpathian Devil is adorned in gothic-themed raiments harkening back to a Dark Age conqueror king, donning elaborate bronze armor painted in his colors, the dark green, black and silver of MESSIAH International. Hulking pauldrons, vambraces, greaves, a steel cuirass. Thin scrolls of parchment hang from parts of the armor via wax seals, scrawled with heretical vows and oaths, some with indecipherable occult gibberish.
Nick Stuart: This is…this is quite the image.
Richard Parker: People believe what they want of Julian Bathory. But tonight, he fights the righteous fight. The virtuous fight. And I believe in him. I believe in all my heart he can bring an end to the madness that is Cancer Jiles.
Marching behind him appears his second, Bruce ‘Violence Jack’ Shanahan, donning a chasuble in a heinous parody of clergy, whispering last-minute instructions to his charge. To his flank a bannerman emerges, wielding a flag emblazoned with the faction logo. The stylized M with a crown halo.
Out from ruins once possessed
Fallen city, living death
Bathory stalks toward the ring, slow and deliberate with eyes fixed on the cage, standard-bearer in tow. Each follower kneels at his passing.
Vince Howard: And his opponent…hailing from Szeged, Hungary, accompanied by Bruce Shanahan, standing six feet, one inch and weighing two-hundred and twenty-six pounds…The New World Savior…JULIAN! BAAAATHORYYY!!”
Entering the cage, Bathory climbs the turnbuckle and grips the steel between gnarled fingers, squeezing. He peers into a sea of hostile PRIMEates, baying for the blood of both he and his opponent. Descending the corner ropes, he turns to lock those reptilian eyes on Cancer Jiles. The COOLympian is unintimidated, as obsessed with capturing the ultimate prize as the Hungarian. In the space between the two bubbles pure molten hate.
Drain you of your sanity
Face the thing that should not be
The two figures stand there, eyeing each other. Ready to strike. All they need is the bell. The lights return. There is no music. And, cutting through the tension, after what feels like an eternity, the bell FINALLY rings.
DING DING
You think there’s going to be a feeling out between these two?
To start this match?
Ha. Ha. Ha.
Right from jump, without circling, without as much as a feint, Jiles and Bathory grab hold of each other. The tie up isn’t so much a showcase of wrestling acumen as it is the pair trying to exert physical dominance, control, hands going for the face of other, pushing against one another, Bathory having the power and leverage advantage but Jiles already brandishing his nails, trying to go for Julian’s eyes. A stiff forearm from Bathory should stop the attempt, but Jiles throws a fist into his stomach, all before swinging a sharp elbow at the Carpathian Devil’s cheek. Inside. Dirty boxing. Bathory fires off a round, a closed fist, dropping Cancer to a knee, only for the cockroach to pop back up while firing a forearm into the abs of the New World Savior. The COOLympian immediately tries to fishhook Bathory’s eye, and all Timo Bolamba can do is watch, shaking his head. The pair are trudging about the ring, locked in grasp, throwing blows, fists, forearms. A Bathory European uppercut once against drops Jiles to a knee, but the son of a bitch won’t stop, won’t give up, firing back up with a headbutt to the chest, grabbing at Bathory’s hair and pulling it back before throwing another brutal headbutt right into his mouth.
Nick Stuart: Jesus! Jesus! This isn’t a wrestling match! This is a fight! And these two want to kill each other!
Richard Parker: Everything is on the line! Everything is at stake! Don’t let him do this! For the Love of Hoyt, the love of EVERYTHING STOP HIM GET AWAY!
Pushed against the ropes, Bathory’s head yanked backward, Jiles goes for his throat, trying again to quickly dig out the Carpathian Devil’s eye. Bathory growls, spitting in the Bandit’s face, a huge gob of snot, all before crushing into Jiles nose with a headbutt of his own. This is enough to drop Jiles to both knees, hands pressing against the mat, and seeing the opening, the Prince of Tears soccer kicks him in the ribs, then wildly begins stomping on the back of the COOLympian’s head. Violent. Wild. Unhinged. Jiles tries to protect himself, tries to guard his head, but the second his arms try to cover, Bathory once again soccer kicks him in the ribs, quickly following by jumping up and savagely stomping Jiles in the head with his heel, awkwardly landing on the canvas in the process.
Richard Parker: Don’t let him breathe! Julian Bathory…don’t let him breathe!
Nick Stuart: Timo Bolamba is going against his instincts. You can see it, he wants to jump in, get some form of order–
Richard Parker: Let them fight! Let Bathory fight! If Cancer Jiles dies, he dies! I’m here for it! I’m so freaking here for it!
A maelstrom of violence. Bathory scrambles back to his feet, Jiles, sprawled on his back, is already flush with bruising all over his face and ribcage. An expectation. His eyes are wide, his mouth a snarl, but he’s staring up at his opponent, perhaps even surprised by how nasty he’s been from the beginning. He’d survive in a nuclear winter…but could he survive an end to all things? The glower of the vanguard of MESSIAH, the holder of the key of Abel, is met with forceful kicks at the legs of Cancer Jiles, and when the turtled COOLympian tries kicking back, the Prince of Tears just stomps at his right thigh, again and again, over and over, all before grabbing at the yelping Bandit’s ankle and pulling it close, only to snap it and drive the side of his knee into the thigh. Kneeling, Jile’s leg wrapped and contorting, Bathory wrenches. There is no delay. No showmanship. He’s trying to quickly jerk the leg in a way that will shred Cancer Jiles knee ligaments and tendons. The only thing that saves him? His other foot, the backside of it, wildly swings back and cracks Bathory in the jaw with his heel, almost akin to a landed axe kick. And once Bathory drops to the canvas? Jiles scurries on his hands and knees, punching, elbowing, going after the head of Julian Bathory in any way that he can, all before blatantly choking him with both hands.
Richard Parker: No!
Nick Stuart: These two…these two men…this is…they are trying to hurt the other. They’re trying to end the other!
Richard Parker: Timo! Do something! That’s…that’s illegal!
Nick Stuart: Bolamba wants to, he wants to more than anything, Jiles, oh my lord…it’s not enough! He headbutts Bathory in the face and drives his forearm into his throat, all as he’s hammering him in the face with his elbow, Jesus! This…this is uncomfortable! This…this isn’t wrestling!
Richard Parker: It’s dog fighting. Human cockfighting. All they lack are razor blades on their fingers, and Hoyt knows that the only reason that they don’t have them…YET…is because someone didn’t suggest the idea to them before.
Cancer Jiles grabs onto Bathory’s face, pushing himself up to a stand, pressing all his weight against his opponent to do so. Once up, it’s his turn to throw a soccer kick to the face of Bathory, and after it lands, he begins landing boot after boot, shaking his right leg from the hold earlier, then launching his knee into the face of his downed opponent. Back to his feet, the Bandit spits on the body of Bathory, drooling, foaming at the mouth.
Cancer Jiles: Fucking crumb! Crumb! Crumb!
Seeing Timo getting close, too close for his liking, the COOLympian shoves him away with all his might, flipping him off in the process. The Samoan Silencer cocks his fist back, ready to strike, but gets another middle finger and Jiles pointing at his chin, demanding he try. The boos rain down in the MGM Grand Garden Arena, all as Jiles grabs his own nuts.
Cancer Jiles: Sackless gimp! Little try hard! Michael Jordan this!
Every bit of antagonism, it tests Bolamba’s stretched patience. The disrespect comes at a cost, though; as Cancer Jiles postures and preens like the magnanimous prick that he is, Julian Bathory comes up from his knees, launching himself and his forearm into the kidney’s of the COOLympian. The air leaves Jiles body, drops him to a knee, and as he falls, Bathory grabs onto him around the waist, a forceful elbow connecting to the back of his opponent’s head, quickly wrenching him over and german suplexing him on top of his head.
Nick Stuart: He’s maintaining the hold!
Richard Parker: Maybe he broke his neck!
Having folded Cancer Jiles with a devastating german suplex, one would expect Bathory would have an easy time going for whatever he wants after. Alas, the survival instinct of the COOLympian is enough to have the cockroach grabbing at the hands smothering his waist as the two lay on the canvas. Bathory tries to rise, but Jiles deadweights him, so he rolls, trying again, to no success. The two roll, each time the Prince of Tears looking to lift him up and break his neck, each time failing, until, without warning, the pair, locked in struggle, go under the bottom rope, over the ring apron, and crash to the floor. One would think THIS would break the hold, but it doesn’t. The suddenness is enough to allow Bathory to rise, roaring, powerlifting Cancer Jiles up. The Bandit’s arms wildly flail as he tries to stop this, but before he knows it, he’s released onto the back of his head with a german suplex.
Nick Stuart: I can’t…this match can’t go on much longer at this pace, with this level of violence–
Richard Parker: Savor this! Savor this moment because it’s the last gasp of Cancer Jiles until he’s finally…FINALLY…kicked to the Hoytdamn curb! And when he does it, Julian Bathory won’t just BE Universal Champion, he’ll truly be our savior!
Nick Stuart: Even more so than Hoyt–
Richard Parker: A man can have many faith’s, Nick! Many faiths!
Nick Stuart: Bathory, Julian Bathory, Carpathian Devil, Prince of Tears, the vanguard of MESSIAH, and this savagery, this meanstreak, we saw it at Great American Nightmare and saw it against Jonathan Rhine and it’s different…it’s different than what we saw of him in the Almasy…bumps in the road but the man…the lineage…we knew he’d be here. And he’s here, tonight, Ultraviolence, and he’s grabbing at the prone Cancer Jiles, dragging him, the cage, OH! He throws his face into the cage!
Richard Parker: Asshole talks about that perfect hair of his all the time. Bleach it with his blood! I want to see him cut to the freaking bone!
Bathory is attempting to do just that, using both of his hands to throw Jiles face into the chainlink fencing, causing the loud rattle to reverberate throughout. Of course, not content, he begins rubbing Jiles face against the chainlink, grating him, trying to get every bit of cheese he can for his dish of unadulterated hatred. Three Michelin Stars. If you have Cancer Jiles as the first one to bleed on your prop bet list, congratulations, you probably made a few pennies on your bet! The greater concern, at least for the COOLympian, is that his now lacerated forehead is being pushed deep into the chainlink by the point of the Carpathian Devil’s knee against the back of his head. Is Jiles yelling or is that coming from the crowd? You be the judge. Jiles tries to push back against the cage, but this only stokes the fire of Bathory, who hauls off and thrusts his boot into the back of Cancer’s head, causing his opponent to collapse in a heap. Just as soon as he is down, though, Bathory yanks him back up by the hair, letting out an otherworldly roar as he runs, Jiles in tow, and launches the COOLympian’s head into the ringpost, causing him to spiral out of control and flop onto his stomach on the ring mats. And if THAT wasn’t enough? Bathory once again uses that wonderful head of Bandit hair and then throws him into the cage.
Nick Stuart: Julian Bathory beating Jiles from pillar to post now! Every fight for the Universal Championship since PRIME’s revival has been a physical war, a battle, something beyond the pale of what we’ve seen in all other championship encounters. And that’s no offense to any of them…but the toll it takes on the bodies of the contenders, the competitors, the champions–
Richard Parker: And Bathory just keeps dragging Jiles face against the cage!
Nick Stuart: The joy in your voice…
Richard Parker: Too much?
Nick Stuart: I’d say–
Richard Parker: Not. Enough.
Nick Stuart: Jiles and Bathory have been at each other’s throats for months. The verbal jabs, the threats of violence–
Richard Parker: Cancer Jiles said that if he wins he’s leaving PRIME with the belt, and Bathory has promised…PROMISED…if that were to happen, MESSIAH would smoke him out, would sunder any promotion that would give him cover. But HE’S not going to need to do that. HE’S going to just end this bastard’s career, TONIGHT, inside the Ultraviolence Cage!
Nick Stuart: Bathory…you’d think he’d be smirking, you’d think he’d be happy with his handiwork, but he’s just gruesome in his anger! He has Jiles face pressed against that chainlink, running him like sandpaper, fingers hooked in his mouth! And Cancer Jiles is a bloody mess, trying to push away, trying to get away, but he can’t!
Richard Parker: STAY ON HIM JULIAN!
Richard is going off because the Carpathian Devil releases his grip on the now slumping on his knees Jiles, his opponent’s fingers clasping at the fencing, trying to keep himself some form of stable. Bathory quickly turns, going to the ring apron, and with the measurement in his eye, goes and launches himself, ready to land a vicious knee to the back of the COOLympian’s head and push his trapped face as deep into the cage as possible. And it would have worked too, had Jiles not limply collapsed over, sending Julian Bathory’s heavy knee into the cage, awkwardly landing on the outside.
Richard Parker: No! You had him! You just had to keep going and you had him!
Nick Stuart: Bathory grabbing at his knee! And Jiles, oh MY GOD LOOK AT THE BLOOD!
Heavy lacerations pour blood down the face of Cancer Jiles. But for the eGG Bandit King, this is normal. Well, as normal as car crashes and blood transfusions can be. The bangs of his platinum blonde locks are fire engine red. With a gurgle, Jiles spits blood from his lips like a geyser, causing it to mist in the air. Are there little rainbows contained within? Surely. Pressing against the mats, Jiles nearly loses his balance as Bathory grabs at his own knee, using his other hand to pull at the cage to get himself to a stand. Hobbling, the New World Savior wildly punches at his injured leg, this prison of flesh impeding his marching will.
Richard Parker: WATCH OUT!
Bathory is turning around, but it’s too late; a heavy steel toolbox is thrown, blasting him in the face, the metal latch exploding open and causing hammers and wrenches and screwdrivers to rain. Cancer Jiles had grabbed the hip roof style box and flung it overhand from a loaded shoulder by the handle. He wasn’t the only one who was going to bleed. Bathory’s nose was busted, a nasty gash having formed at the base of the bridge. His bruising was even more acute, black and purple. The toolbox also managed to gash him underneath the eye, maybe even having broken his cheek.
Richard Parker: His nose! Oh Hoyt his nose just exploded!
Nick Stuart: This is insanity! Insanity! We saw just last month the effects of a broken nose when Phil Atken kicked Brandon Youngblood in the face. But this…I can’t…I mean…
Richard Parker: He…he can’t use that! That’s…that’s not–
Nick Stuart: It’s all legal. Everything! Everything we’ve seen! The funny tagline for this match was that no matter who wins, we all lose. People wanted these two to bleed. To maim and hurt each other. And now we’re here, and now…now…
Richard Parker: COME ON JULIAN!
Nick Stuart: …I’m wondering if we’re lesser people for witnessing this.
Wiping blood out of his eyes with his forearm, Jiles slowly makes his way over to the prone Bathory, stomping on him, again and again, spitting more blood onto him, reaching down and grabbing a wrench before pitching it at Bathory’s head. The turtling is the only thing that stops the Prince of Tears from eating it. Cancer continues his stalking, grabbing Bathory after he falls to his own knees, pounding him with closed fists, then bringing the head of MESSIAH up with him and slamming his face into the steel cage before letting go, driving his shoulder into his stomach and pushing his back into the chain link. All air spurts from the lungs of Julian Bathory, and on the come up, Jiles open hand slaps him across the face, hooking his head and forcing him into the ring.
Nick Stuart: This…this is not looking good…
Richard Parker: Tell me about it! I think I’m getting a gout flare up. Or maybe IBS? I need a damn platter of Pepto, right now, the Ultra, stat! My heart can’t take this! Oh Hoyt, my freaking heart can’t take this!
Nick Stuart: The canvas is littered with their blood, every movement they make, it’s pouring and pouring. We’ve seen so much tonight, dog collars, mask versus mask, but all those…it’s paling in comparison to what we are seeing right here, right now! And Timo Bolamba, he’s got his hands on his head, he looks almost like he could throw up right here.
Richard Parker: Tell me about it…
Nick Stuart: He…he should stop this. We know he should stop th–
Richard Parker: NO! NOT NOW! THAT’LL MAKE JILES THE UNIVERSAL CHAMPION!
Nick Stuart: But Julian Bathory…we don’t even–
Richard Parker: No! NO NO NO! Let him fight his way through this! Fight Julian! For Bruce! For MESSIAH! For all those lovely people in Abel we’ve had visit Las Vegas this weekend…do it for them! Do it for me! PLEAAAASE!
The canvas is a towel. And Cancer Jiles doesn’t give a shit. Julian Bathory tries to roll away, tries to force himself up, but the COOLympian punts him in the ribs. And the moment he tries to do it again, another boot to the ribs, the toe of his boot blasting toward his upper ribcage. Jiles loads up and drives his elbow into the back of Bathory’s head, and, with one hand washing his face into the rough canvas, his other begins peppering with punches, and, if he can manage, clawing at the New World Savior’s eyes. Cancer grabs around Bathory’s mouth, fishhooking him, yanking him back and driving his knee into the side of Julian’s head, trying to turn him into a distant sibling of Tony ‘The Grin’ Gamble. Bathory tries getting free throwing wild punches at Jiles, but nothing lands, causing the COOLympian to loudly laugh at him.
Cancer Jiles: That Noah Hanson shit can’t save you now!
Oh yeah? How about a dick punch right in your KFC Kitchen, Mr. Jiles. Finger lickin’ good, huh? How about some more to follow? A three piece and a soda? Jorge Masvidal would be proud. Having his pills punched into his throat, Jiles collapses, groans, grabs at his crotch, and for a brief moment, there’s nothing, no hands, no kicks, no chokes or gouges. Just breathing. And aching. And blood. And pain. Julian Bathory lays on the canvas, arms out, his chest heaving up and down. Blood gurgles from his nostrils in ropes. Jiles? He’s moaning, looking ready to throw up, drooling with his head pressed against the canvas, a floppy slap to the ring from his ankle, a hammerfist vibrating through the ring boards. This is the antithesis of COOL.
This fucking sucks.
Nick Stuart: These two men…
Richard Parker: One’s a man. The other’s and animal.
Nick Stuart: These two men…I…there’s no way this can keep going on. There’s just no way!
As if spurred on by Nick, the pair begin to slowly meander towards the other, scratching at the canvas, clawing toward the other. Neither one of them is the picture of health. Neither one of them is ready to do anything but paint Vegas red in blood, both of their own and their own opponent. Their crawl finally meets with their target, each other, heads against one another, both men on their knees, and without hesitation, they start throwing wild haymakers at each other, over and over, again and again, rocking the other back, aiming at the other’s facial injuries, finding zero quarter. When that doesn’t prove effective enough, they begin headbutting each other, the sickening thud of the two’s skulls slamming into each other, the mixing of their cursed blood, all of it is concussion worthy. Jiles hauls off and smacks Bathory across the face. The Carpathian Devil spits in his eye and elbows him in the jaw. Another slap. Another elbow to the jaw. Another slap, and then, an eye gouge. Jiles, with the advantage, stands up, throwing a heavy dropkick to the face of Bathory.
Nick Stuart: That tool box might be the difference here.
Richard Parker: Where’s Bruce Shanahan? Where’s Violence Jack?! I need you VJ! I NEED YOU SO BADLY RIGHT NOW! PLEASE PLEASE BY HOYT PLEASE NO! MESSIAH TAKE THE WHEEEEEEL! JILES IS IN CONTROL AND I WANT OFF THIS RIDE!
Ever the embodiment of bravado, Jiles pushes himself to his feet and throws his hands out. This is over. This is over right now. Stalking, staggering, he reaches the nearest corner, and slowly begins to climb up. Each step carries with it a bit of labor. And once at the top, he stands tall, mask of blood pouring down his face, and as the fans boo him loudly, he can’t help gesture with his hand.
H
O
W
You’re welcome, Lee.
Bathory’s pushing of his ankles, and the subsequent further crotch trauma of landing on the turnbuckle, shows that posturing isn’t the smartest of plays. The New World Savior throws a headbutt at Jiles as he begins to climb up the same turnbuckle. Once at the top, he tries to grab hold for a front chancery, or perhaps go for a top rope exploder suplex. The COOLympian has a say in the matter, however, and throws a haymaker to the side of Bathory. Another breaks the hold, and the two are precarious in their positioning on the top turnbuckle. Jiles wants to shove him back into the ring. And he would, if Bathory hadn’t hit him with a forearm. Losing momentum, and knowing there were few ways out, the Carpathian Devil decides to do something so ruthless, it might just finish off Cancer Jiles for good and all.
Nick Stuart: THEY’RE ON A RAZOR’S EDGE HERE–
Richard Parker: BATHORY HAS A HOLD OF HIM–
Nick Stuart: STANDING UP ON THAT TOP TURNBUCK–
Bathory grabs onto Jiles head and jumps.
Richard Parker: WHAT THE–
Sixteen feet. That’s the measurement from the arena floor to the top of the Ultraviolence Cage. Around the top of it are 17 gauge galvanized steel rails. These pieces of information are important because what happens will be remembered forever. Julian Bathory jumped from the top rope with Cancer Jiles in hand, slamming the COOLympian’s head off the rails with a violent ping. The Prince of Tears let go a moment before collision. He fell to the arena floor in a heap, having eaten some of the steel mesh. But Jiles? The blow was so heavy, so pointed, his head swung back as his body ricocheted from hitting the cage.
Another important number; three feet. That’s the separation between ring and cage. That’s about the distance Cancer Jiles fell the other way. Against the ring apron. Like a pinball.
On his now dislocated right shoulder.
Nick Stuart: HOLY SWEET MAMA OH MY GOD! OH MY–OH MY-OH MY GOOOOOOOOOOOOD!
Richard Parker: OH MY GOD! OH MY JESUS HOLY SHIT!
Jiles roars in pain, his body in shock, hobbling because of the survival adrenaline burst before falling back down in a crumpled heap, grabbing at his shoulder, his back, and we can see that his face, especially over the right eye, an awful blister of swelling has created a mouse that damn near closes up his eye.
Nick Stuart: WE NEED DOCTORS, TRAINERS, ANYONE YOU CAN SPARE NOW! NOW! THIS INSTANT! THIS VERY INSTANT!
Richard Parker: He…he’s…
Nick Stuart: Don’t say it Richard!
Richard Parker: I…I…
The entire MGM Grand Garden Arena is on their feet, a strange murmur running through the crowd. Timo rushes to the outside. And as Jiles turtles and moans and yells in unadulterated pain, there are no EMTs or health officials rushing down to the ring. Bolamba draws close to the COOLympian, all the bad blood, the verbal jabs, a stolen jet, every bit of physical animus, and yet still, STILL, he’s huddling near Cancer Jiles asking, checking, sincerely, if he’s okay. He receives nothing. From the corner of his eye, he can see the approaching Bathory, who is ready to strike, ready to finish this once and for all and ascend to the throne of PRIME. He should have been allowed to do so under the rules. But Timo Bolamba, the head official of PRIME, refuses. He steps up, his body as a shield. Julian tries to shove him away, but the Samoan Silencer bows up, planting his feet, demanding the New World Savior to stop, now, this instant. Bathory becomes irate, trying to push through, but the broad form of Bolamba acts as an impenetrable wall.
And as he does?
Cancer Jiles proves he’s a cockroach.
Barely able to stand, his right arm hanging loosely and on a thread, he grits his teeth, and launches himself, shoulder first, into the ring apron. Again. And again. Each time, he lets out a primal scream, until one final volley has him feel the joint go back into place. He tries wringing the arm, collapsing to his knees, and as he does, his one good hand reaches underneath the ring skirt.
Nick Stuart: I think I’m going to be sick…
Richard Parker: THERE’S NO RULES! THERE’S NO DAMN RULES! WHY IS TIMO–
Bathory has had enough of this. He rolls into the ring, scampering as quickly as he can to reach the other side before Timo walls off Jiles again. He beats Bolamba there, just barely, but it would be better if he hadn’t, because the COOLympian is ready to lash out.
Richard Parker: YOU SEE?! YOU SEE?!
Nick Stuart: That’s…that’s…that’s the dog collar and chain from earlier in the night!
Richard Parker: And Timo Bolamba just gave Cancer freaking Jiles a damn life line! A prayer! A hail mary!
The dog collar and chain from Jacob Mephisto and Anna Daniels earlier confrontation is wrapped, in part, around the fist of the COOL Bandit. Blasting Bathory in the stomach, he winds the chain just a little bit, standing up on unsure footing, and then whips it around the head and ear of Julian Bathory. That brings the Carpathian Devil to his knees. The neck strike explodes across his back. Bathory tries to get away, a whipped dog, trying to find space, but Jiles follows, slamming the chain against the New World Savior’s body.
Nick Stuart: Bathory trying to get away! Trying to get away! And Jiles, his arm hanging loose, he’s…he’s…
Richard Parker: Laughing! This sick bastard is laughing!
Nick Stuart: Bathory rolling into the ring, trying to get distance but that chain just keeps getting whipped against him! Cancer Jiles is whipping the life out of Julian Bathory and there’s nothing he can do about it!
Richard Parker: All Bandits Wrestling. Hey Lindsay Troy, hope you’re freaking happy with this because this is a goddamn mess and YOU let it happen!
Jiles breathes pure vitriolic hatred. It powers from his lungs with each heavy swing of the chain against the body of Julian Bathory. Every blow hits heavy. The Prince of Tears should be shedding his own, given how his body is just a mess of black and purple welts. All over. A mishmash of pain and agony etched across his body in indecipherable patterns. Perhaps his Gods understand their message. Losing steam, Jiles collapses, but not before using the chain against Bathory’s throat, trying to choke him into unconsciousness.
Nick Stuart: Jiles, savvy, he’s savvy, but that arm–
Richard Parker: It’s a damn loophole! Julian! Julian PLEASE! Don’t do this! I know your face is turning purple! Fight it! Please fight this!
Nick Stuart: Jiles is…oh my he’s–you can tell the shot he absorbed is taking a toll on him and the adrenaline drop is happening as we–
Richard Parker: He’s loaded up WATCH OUT!
Nick Stuart: COOLYMPIAN YOL–
Richard Parker: BATHORY ROLLED AWAY!
Nick Stuart: In the nick of time! In the nick of time, Julian Bathory rolls away from the yellow yolk mist of Cancer Jiles!
The two just collapse to the canvas, Bathory nursing himself, Jiles slumping like a sack of bricks. Once the air starts to fill Julian’s lungs, he gets another surge, but he has already rolled close to the end of the apron. He falls outside with a thud, but the placement is ideal. Getting to his knees, he reaches underneath the apron, pulling free a steel chair.
Of course, he could bludgeon Cancer Jiles with it.
What he does instead, though, surprises everyone.
Nick Stuart: Bathory…Bathory…he’s–
Richard Parker: Frustrated, Nick! How would you feel if Timo Bodumbass stopped you from winning the Universal Championship? If because of what he pulled, you just got whipped like a damn dog by a chain and who knows how messed up that made you? Oh yeah, HE’S PISSED! AND HE HAS EVERY RIGHT TO BE!
Bathory violently keeps swinging the chair against the ring post like it’s an axe, bending it, contorting it, and finally, after who knows how many swings, the chair begins to break into pieces. Bent, broken, steel pieces. Reaching down, he grabs a jagged bar from near the bottom of the chair, and he rolls into the ring just as Cancer Jiles has managed to drag himself up to a stand with the aid of the ropes. Enough time. Jiles strikes!
Nick Stuart: TERMINAL CANCER–
Richard Parker: MISSES! HE MISSES!
He can’t see. But Jiles feels what happens next. The exploder suplex from Bathory rattles the entire ring. And when he’s done? He takes the piece of steel chair he is still holding, and, with the COOLympian in a rear naked choke, begins tearing at the mouse above his right eye with the piece of jagged metal.
Nick Stuart: STOP THIS! STOP THIS DAMN MATCH!
Richard Parker: YES! PLEASE! STOP IT! STOP IT NOW!
The Carpathian Devil is remorseless as he digs the metal into the wound of Cancer Jiles, who is roaring, screaming, howling in agony. The blood from before? It’s literally pissing down his forehead as he tries to grab at Bathory’s wrists, to pull the bar away. He can’t. And Timo is there, asking, hell, even pleading if Jiles wants to quit. All Bolamba needs is a sign, absolutely anything, and he will stop it. Going limp. A single uttered syllable of surrender. There is no let up. Julian Bathory will keep tearing at the swollen mess of Cancer Jiles face until there is nothing left. Jiles tongue hangs from his mouth. He reaches for Bathory’s eyes, but can’t find them. Desperation. Everything slipping. A failure. His rage and jealousy and hatred all for nothing. A laughing stock and a joke. Also ran. As much as he talks himself the main event, all he offers is being a PRIME gatekeeper to the true Champions. Ha. Ha. Funny what such monumental failure can breed. Maybe he can lord over High Octane again if he tries hard enough.
Ha.
Ha.
A little bit of yoljk. He sprays it in Timo’s eyes. And with the Samoan Silencer blinded, he grabs onto him as best as he can with both hands and jerks him toward him as hard as he can manage. Timo’s head collides with Bathory’s. The Carpathian Devil lets go. The piece of chair out of his hand. Enough of a momentary reprieve to give Jiles enough time to muster some kind of come back. Like an animal, the COOLympian drops onto Julian Bathory, pinning one of his legs underneath both of his. With blood geysering out of his head, Cancer knows he doesn’t have much time left. So he makes the most of it. He begins throwing his good fist into the nuts of Julian Bathory, punching him as hard as he can, over and over and over and over and over again. Bathory tries to stymy, but this is Fight Club, Jiles is Tyler Durden, and fights go on as long as they have to. Jiles keeps punching Julian Bathory in the crotch, each blow carrying with it malice and desperation.
Until Timo Bolamba dives on him to put a stop to it.
Bathory curls into the fetal position.
Jiles is instantly irate. There is no bell. The conspiracy is real. The Goddamn Motherfucking Crumb Conspiracy is real!
Timo Bolamba tries to get as much as the yoljk out of his eyes as he can.
Timo Bolamba: That’s enough!
And as the Samoan Silencer stands above Jiles, even in this ruleless match, perhaps the reality is, it’s a call needed made. The make up from earlier. Doesn’t help that Jiles spit in his face. The COOLympian uses the ropes to get up, yelling, his words undecipherable and covered in the spattle of blood. And then, out of nowhere…
Nick Stuart: TERMINAL CANCER ON TIMO BOLAMBA!
Richard Parker: Call the match! Call it! He just hit an official he’s disqualified Bathory is the Universal Champion!
Referee Timo Bolamba falls to the canvas with a sick thud, and Cancer Jiles follows with him.
Cancer Jiles: CRUMB! YOU FUCKING CRUMB! YOU RUINED IT YOU FUCKING CRUMB! YOU COST ME YOU COST ME YOU COST ME EVERYFUCKINGTHING YOU CRUMB PIECE OF SHIT I’LL FUCKIN–
Jiles kicks him while he’s down, and goes to do the same to Bathory, stomping him, stomping wildly, heavily, all over. The New World Savior, helpless. Until…until…
Nick Stuart: BATHORY GRABBED THE ANKLE! OH HE’S GOT A HEEL HOOK!
Richard Parker: YES! YES!
Nick Stuart: NOWHERE TO GO! NOWHERE TO GO! JILES IS GRABBING AT THE ROPES BUT THERE’S NO REFEREE AND THERE’S NO ROPE BREAKS–
Richard Parker: YES! THANK HOYT YES GO JULIAN GO BATHORY YESSSSSS!
This isn’t some protracted struggle. Julian Bathory has the heel hook locked in, and he’s got it in fast and tight. And with a savage wrench, Cancer Jiles can feel his ankle breaking. Can feel the ligaments tearing. It’s mere seconds but this heel hook has Rousimar Palhares intent. Jiles pulls himself out of the ring, falling as best as he can to the floor, but Bathory still has the heel hooked. The only thing Jiles can do is use his other foot to throw his heel and hit Bathory in the face as many times as he can and hope his ankle isn’t broken before then. It takes three strikes to the nose to get Julian Bathory to finally let go, and when he does, the cockroach that is Cancer Jiles knows his ankle is completely and totally screwed. He goes and begins unlacing his boot, trying to relieve the pressure. He yells in frustrated pain, wails in agony, his free hand smacking against the mats on the outside. He manages to get the boot all the way loose, kicking it off, collapsing with his back on the floor. A slight roll to his side. That was his kicking foot, not his planting one, at least that was what he tried to tell himself…well…if he could do that at this point. He reaches to grab at his boot, but with shaky fingers and a loose grip, the boot flops underneath the ring skirt. He begins trying to reach for it again, sitting up, and as he does, Bathory grabs onto his head.
Urgency settles in. Without his special boot, he’s done. A wild feeling out underneath the ring. Eureka! He just barely grabs hold of it with his good hand, and as Bathory is about to pull him back into the ring, he pulls the boot out, waffling the Carpathian Devil in the head with it. The blow is vicious. Violent. Jiles almost loses grip of his boot. Bathory is laid out, barely conscious.
Jiles does as best as he can to get into the ring, in getting the boot on his foot. A few of the laces must have come out of the eyelets. His pruned and blood soaked struggle to quickly get enough of the laces through so the boot will remain on his ankle, at least for the short term. Like Frankenstein’s monster, Julian Bathory begins to rise, and he can taste the tide. He knows his prey is done for. Shot. All it will take is a final killing blow.
If only he knew.
Nick Stuart: TERMINAL CANCER!
Richard Parker: NOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!
Cancer Jiles Superkick hits him right in the mouth, and the only thing that keeps Bathory from collapsing are the ropes his body caroms into. Hobbling, Jiles has him measured. Under his breath? For only himself to hear?
Cancer Jiles: Fuck The Queen.
Nick Stuart: TERMINAL CANCER AGAIN! A SECOND SUPER KICK FROM CANCER JILES AND BATHORY IS COMPLETELY OUT COLD!
Richard Parker: NOOOOOOOOOO!!! NO NO NO NO NOOOOOOO!!!
The shot is hard enough that the boot flies off Jiles foot.
The horseshoe from Cocaine that was inside falls out as well.
The one-two switcheroo. Love ya Bobby.
Nick Stuart: COVER!
Richard Parker: DON’T! NOOO! NOT LIKE THIS! PLEASE HOYT NOT LIKE THIS!
There is no life in Julian Bathory right now. Maybe there will be in a few moments. Timo Bolamba, barely conscious, his jaw maybe broken, his face covered in yoljk, sees Cancer Jiles covering Julian Bathory. The smile across the COOLympian’s face would freeze the Devil’s heart.
Cancer Jiles: DO YOUR JOB CRUMB!
He shouldn’t. Timo Bolamba knows he can’t. Not for the soul of PRIME. To let this bastard be it’s champion?
ONE
But he was a man of his word.
TWO
No matter how damned they were.
THREE
DING DING DING