As Soon As You’re Big They Make You Feel Small

The
Ivory
Tower

“Working. Class. Cancer.” — Jiles’ Journal, July 10th, 2023.

 

I’ll be honest. I have to be. I must be. It’s who I am now. It’s what I’ve become, or am becoming, or will soon become all by myself.

It’s eggspected of me.

No more games.

Ha.

No more lies. 

Vince Howard: And now coming to the ring, the only man whose nose eclipses his own height! Mr. No Strings Attached, Hard Body Pinocchio Jiles!!!!

Ha.

I wasn’t trying to become the unchallenged, unrivaled, hardest worker in PRIME a year and half into the reboot. I wasn’t. It wasn’t on my bucket list. I never aspired to be this person of so-called prestige and honor. This, Cancer the righteous, diligent, eggsecutioner who also happens to be the hardest worker in PRIME.

True. The second part anyway.

What’s worse, not only did I wish to NOT be the eagle bearer when it comes to the number of matches wrestled, but I shouldn’t have even been in the position in the first place. Remember now, I’m the guy who sat inside a skybox eating grapes for the better part of two months as Universal Champion. Then, on top of the skybox stint, I even missed another stretch of shows due to a heavy case of the Stanislobbings. 

Russian oaf.

What I’m getting at is it’s like I didn’t even have to try to become the hardest working man in PRIME.

Pretty COOL.

Oh, and let’s not forget I’m not even taking into account my two PWA appearances on PRIME’s behalf.

Git gud skrubz.

Oh well.

I’m sure this will be the last we ever hear about it.

Shades.

Hair.

TRACKSUIT!

There I am.

The hated hero.

The proudest, hardest working man in PRIME. 

Whoops.

“Hello again, PRIME. Today, in order to commemorate an unfathomable accomplishment of mine I’d like to play a friendly game. That’s right. Instead of bragging and pounding on my chest for any and all to hear and see, I want to try something a little different.”

Ha. 

“Now, before we get to the meat and potatoes of the game, a quick word about said unfathomable accomplishment that our game will be revolving around. Not only is the accomplishment unfathomable because of the person it involves, me, but also because of all the other people it doesn’t involve.”

I raise an index finger, point outward, and press down upon your guilty soul. Spoiler, the ensuing game is not to strictly saw Nate Colton in half with a verbal shovel.

“That said, the rules of the game go like this: I’m going to describe someone. Then, you’ll deem it True or False if all of the descriptions pertain to a single person. Oh, and ALL the descriptions will be in reference to after PRIME’s gas leak era. So, pretty much anything post ReVival One.”

A quick ponder. Very quick. Almost instant. Akin to predetermined.

“I know, it sounds difficult, like looking at Coral Avalong’s forehead for an extended period of time, or stepping in a pit of glue.”

Ironically enough in some of the lesser known “night one” parts of the world, due to a snafu in the first edition translation the board game version of the game we’re all about to play is called Everlong’s Glue Pit Forehead Game.

And now you know!

“However, you can trust me now, and I promise you that it won’t be. Still, just to be on the safe side and since BCJ is a working class man these days whose collar stays popped blue, here’s a hint to get them gears grinding in the right direction.”

Blue Collar Jiles. Bell Cow Jiles. Big Crumb Jiles.

A drum roll plays inside of my magnificent mind’s magically majestic eye. While that’s going on I also do the accompanying hand gesture to insinuate at the very least I can hear it. Suddenly, I stop, and then begin to talk as if I’m reading from a Trivial Pursuit card.

“Some might say this former UNIVERSAL CHAMPION has really cool hair, so it definitely can’t be NATE COLTON for a multitude of reasons.”

Then again there is a shovel so best to make the most of it. I snort. Well, it’s more of a laugh than a snort. Actually, it’s both. It’s a snaugh. I enjoyably snaugh.

“Okay. Let us begin. This person bleeds more than me. This person suffers more than me. This person leads the league in curtain jerks, MAIN EVENTS, and total number of matches wrestled over me.”

ALL OR nothing.

A suspenseful pause. 

“This person looks better in salt shoes than I do, and they’ve had the marquee event of the year renamed after them.”

Or would it be a pause for suspense?

Hmm.

“True or False, the answer is NO ONE.”

I bellow.

Ha. 

The irony.

“Let’s play another round. Same rules. True or False, all the descriptions are about the same person. Here is your hint. I’ll make it a good one because I kind of tricked you since the answer to the last round was NO ONE and I said it couldn’t be Pig Boy Nate.”

Gutted.

“So, here goes.”

Cue the magic drum roll again.

“Both grandiose and excessive define his walk down to the ring. Also, he has a strong COOLYMPIAN heritage.”

I nod. That should be easy enough. Still probably best to pack it on though.

Should.

“He wears a nonexistent egg-shaped heart on the sleeve of his electric-blue tracksuit for the whole world to see. He leaves everything he has inside the ring, show in and show out, no matter how repressed on the card he might be. He fights simply so that he may once again sit at the summit with his precious T-shades on.”

COOLOSSI.

“He elevates even the deadest of weight. He corrals the fallen and gives their meager lives a second purpose. He is both the toughest out, and also the most desirable. He makes LEGENDS out of CRUMBS, and after ReVival 31 he will have wrestled in more matches than anyone else has in the ReVival era. He is PRIME’s IRONMAN.”

No easy feat.

I would know.

Spoiler.

“True or False, the answer is me, Cancer Jiles, Purveyor of COOL, Slayer of the Feeble, Opener of Shows.”

My pearly teeth show.

“TRUE. And since that is the case, it also means that I care more about ReVival, and PRIME, and making sure the show goes on than anyone else on the fucking roster does. Yeah, and not to state the obvious, it means I make the most money, too.”

Cool raise, Nate.

Another snaugh.

Better be careful before this whole thing suddenly turns into a snaugh fest.

“Imagine that? The most hated. The most reviled. The most despised. The most wished to be stepped on– also happens to be at the vanguard. Also happens to be a shining example of the right way to do it.”

Pay close attention.

“And you let it happen.”

No point this time but you know who you are.

You.

“Now, as great as all that sounds, and as much as it plays into today’s celebration, I regret to inform you that it gets even better. Yes, it would seem that this particular piece of the pie has a cherry on top of it. Just. For. Me.”

I gasp.

“The cherry on top of this unfathomable accomplishment is that because of PRIME’s laziness, because of their inability to keep up with me, because of their ineptness…”

As per the norm with these skits, I let loose a well-timed charcoal loogie to express my disdain.

“…I’ve finally become what I could not conquer. I’m the main character in the fairy tale now. It’s my turn to wear a salted slipper, because it doesn’t matter if you’re good or bad, ugly or COOL, with pristine hair or without pristine hair. Mine is now a story that everyone can get behind.”

One last pause. Just long enough for the chef to warm up.

“Maybe, just maybe, hard work does pay off.”

Pucker.

Kiss.

Goodbye.

—

The
White
House

“I’m leaving here with something.” — Jiles’ Journal, July 13th, 2023.

 

You know what I never understood? How come when I won the Dream World Championship, The Defiance World Championship, The High Octane World Championship, and lastly the PRIME UNIVERSAL Championship, never once did I get an invite to go to the White House and meet the president?

Talk about a loaded question.

Regardless of whatever the case may be, and seeing as how ReVival 31 was taking place in the nation’s Capital, it seemed like a good time to rectify the repeated snubs I had received across multiple administrations. 

As such, PRIME’s working class hero invited himself to the White House.

DENIED.

The friendly guards with machine guns at the gate did suggest I take the paid tour instead of being murdered on the front lawn, so I took them up on doing that. Granted, some might say I missed a golden opportunity to tour the grounds free of charge a few January’s ago, but I digress. 

“We’re going there for our reparations.” That’s what I told Bob to get him to go, as if I could leave his treacherous ass alone for a minute. I further lied to him and said, “They reached out when they heard the show was in town, and wanted to make it up to us for all the times we won all those World Championships and were never invited.”

Bob was confused. I should have said I, and not we. I was trying to be nice. I was also very high at the time. 

Chickentendy came through.

“They even mentioned you by name,” I enticingly added. “And said to tell you they’re going to put out a 45 like spread. It’s going to be a fast food paradise! They’re going to hav–”

Bob was gone and down there before I could even finish baiting him with his favorite items. We soon joined him. It was me, Beautiful Benedict Arnold, new champion Abe Lincoln, and Lunchbox Lyndon. I didn’t know what was going to happen, especially when Bob found out there was no fast food paradise awaiting him, so I told young Chris Clintontenders to wait in the car. He had a full charge on his phone and a cigar to smoke so he was fine with it. 

Off we went.

Sure, we might have received a slew of funny looks from the other tourists and White House personnel along the way, but it didn’t bother us.

We’re Bandits.

Our combined dick size was bigger than any one person on the grounds. Though, now that I’m thinking back on it, the looks might have been justified. I mean, I was T-shaded, and walking Bobby around on a leash. You know, in case he decided to burst out in a fit of treacherous rage and I had to bring him to heel. Abe was wearing his championship around his waist, and over top of his tucked in polo shirt. Worst of all, Lunchbox had makeup on so that the secret service could see him at all times.

Clown face.

Even with the funny looks though, things were fine for a while. Then, out of the blue, Abe said something along the lines of, “An illicit substance just fell out of my ass.” I knew what it was right away. A stowaway from a prior trip to Mexico. Aka, a little bit of Hunter’s bumper candy. I kept my COOL, thankfully, because I am PRIME’s working class hero and people of all shapes and sizes look up to me. 

Even champions. 

I told Abe, “I stopped shitting blood four days ago so don’t you start now. Just keep on walking. All we can do is hope it gets stuck to the bottom of someone’s shoe, or that no one ever finds out about it.”

CNN Breaking News Report.

I turned to Lunchbox and signaled to him we had a code yellow. A code yellow means abort. Flee. Escape. The place is on fire and we’re about to be buried underneath it, or in other Bandit imagery the pan is too hot and the eggs are going to burn. It is serious business, and rarely put into practice. The signal for such a code is I pull an egg out from behind my ear like a magician manifesting a quarter, and then I crack it. 

Which I did.

Immediately after the ‘crackening’ Lunchbox began to wipe the mascara from his face and disappeared into the wall. I then unleashed Bobby Dean though it was against my better judgment. Even a traitor like him respects a code yellow– at least I prayed he did and that his appetite would not get the best of him.

And Abe, he needed to learn the hard way.

Let’s just say three of us were lucky to make it out of there with our freedom intact.

Hey, it’s something.

Just joking.

Abe’s the Golden Bandit. He is to be protected. I personally escorted him out of the White House while keeping him cloaked inside of Bobby Dean’s shadow. I’d like to think the whole ordeal brought us a bit closer. I mean, sure I still can’t trust Bobby. I saw his hand shaking when we were passing by a KFC which means the grease has still got him, but he did abide by the code yellow so maybe there is hope that one day he will be able to break free from his vices. Abe did, and he had the fresh hooks in him. Well, I guess it doesn’t really matter anymore whether Abe has or hasn’t because he’s a champion.

Albeit D-Tier.

A champion nonetheless.

And the holder of the only gold inside the carton.

For now.

—

Tropical Turmoil
Agony
Defeat

“I just know I would have kicked out if it were Ivan. No doubt about it. Just to be a jerkoff I would have. I might have died later on in the match, but still, I would have. But now… that moment is lost, just like I am. Thanks to Nate Colton.” — Jiles’ Journal, Night TWO of Tropical Turmoil.

 

I hate this feeling. I’m growing so tired of it.

L. 7.

And for Sympathetic Stan, spare me the “but Cancer you eliminated Hayes” rhetoric. I lost. It doesn’t count. It doesn’t matter. Just another wasted opportunity if you ask me.

Womp. Womp.

I can’t keep going on like this.

Something has to change, I know that. I need to find something, but I don’t know what.

Oh well.

I have three days of cryostasis to heal up and figure it all out. 

Wait, I mean I have four days in cryostasis to heal up and figure it out.

Sorry Nova.

Gone but not forgotten.

Maybe I’ll challenge all of the people I just failed to beat. There were five of them. Save that big slob for last. Chop up the other four one by one along the way. Five shows. Five crumb tour. If that is to be the case, then hopefully I’ll get lucky when I emerge from stasis and find out I’m up against Hayes again. Pinning Wonderboy in back to back affairs might finally ease up my burden of defeat, and rebalance the scale a little bit back towards even.

Though only in death will it ever be even.

Maybe I’ll go up against the latest crumb to have pinned my shoulders to the mat. Wouldn’t that be nice motivation to force me from out the gutter? Maybe find some redemption while there? I mean, this is the second time Nate has interfered in my affairs. First, when I was accosting Richard at ringside during my grand return at the Rumble he was the one who, like a coward, snuck up behind me and tossed me into the ring.

I’m sure it played into my shit finish, too.

Had to.

The rest of the match I was pent up with things I had wanted to say but wasn’t allowed to, and it bothered me. 

It was a distraction.

And now, Nate has gone and upped himself. He’s pinned my shoulders to the mat. He’s eliminated me from contention. I owe him. That’s for sure. We’ll see if Lady Troy will finally find mercy in that darkened heart of hers.

Maybe.

Still doesn’t seem like enough.

I’ll sleep on it.

See if I can come up with something better.

More hero like.