Cancer Jiles was a happy boy.
Or so we can assume, judging by the ear to ear smile plastered on his T-Shade covered face, as he closes the steel hatch shut on the USS Octane. Wiping his hands clean on an egg shell white rag, he turns to make his way off his prized ship only to be met by a heavily panting, sweat covered, obese blueberry better known as “Beautiful” Bobby Dean.
“Bobby!” Cancer greets with cheer, causing Bobby to pause, as he hasn’t seen his friend this happy in quite some time. Probably since before he lost the World title to Brandon Youngblood, curse his name. “What’s got you so winded and out of breath? Having trouble with that peanut butter jar again?”
“I told you,” Bobby begins before pausing to suck in more air. “I only had trouble with the jar that one time, because my hands were covered in jelly. And no, I’ve got a surprise for you!”
The mischievous grin that slowly spreads across Bobby’s cherubic face fills Cancer Jiles with sudden unease. After years and years of running around with Bobby Dean, Cancer knows a smile like that can only lead to trouble. And yes, I use “running around” figuratively, Bobby doesn’t run, he meanders at a brisk pace.
The beefy boy turns, and with Jiles on his heels the two gentlemen head off where the gangway awaits. Just as they arrive Cancer is forced to pull up short as he spies a flatbed truck lowering it’s load, as a grinning Bobby Dean rubs his hands together like Scrooge McDuck standing before his vault of gold. The COOLympian lifts his shades to his forehead as if his vision will clear and the DeLorean that is currently being lowered will vanish like a mirage.
“You got a DeLorean?” Cancer Jiles stutters out, looking from the car to the man to the car once again. “Buy, why!?”
The two men slowly make their way down the plank of wood serving as their gangway, slowly because it’s a simple plank of wood supporting a man over 350 lbs. And because Cancer Jiles still can’t believe he’s looking at a silver car covered in what appears to be cardboard…
“I have to go back and fix things Cee Jay.” Bobby begins to explain as he tip toes his way down the plank, holding his arms out as if he were on a tightrope. “Youngblood should never have beaten me at the last Almasy tournament! I think that’s where it all began. My downward spiral into being the running joke of PRIME.”
Suddenly Bobby stops and spins around, causing Cancer to wince, as he hears the wood creak in disapproval at the sudden movement.
“I’m one and nine, Cancer.” Bobby explains with a pained expression on his face. “ONE and NINE! Even Darin Zion has a better record than me!”
“I thought you were one and eight, with a draw?” Cancer asks, rhetorically, as he really didn’t give two shits about Bobby’s abysmal record. He just wanted off the plank that was suspended precariously over the same body of water that he regularly pissed in.
“Psh,” the large man spits out as he slowly turns back around, resuming his slow trek. “Everyone knows Draws are just Losses. If you’re not winning, you’re losing.”
“That’s very Ricky Bobby of you, buddy.” the COOLympian says with a nod of approval. “But, I still don’t understand what this has to do with you buying a DeLorean?”
By this time the two have finally made it to the awaiting car. Up close, Cancer can’t help but be mildly impressed. The attention to detail was uncanny. Like a four year old cosplaying as a Transformer…
Cardboard cutouts were strapped all over the place, replicating all the time components you saw in the original Back to the Future movie. As a cardboard connoisseur himself, Cancer couldn’t really do much other than stand there, nodding his head in approval.
“So if we set the time dials to February 4th, 2022, I can go back to the second episode of ReVival, and stop Brandon Youngblood from winning our match.” Like most villains who find themselves on the cusp of victory, Bobby begins a lengthy monologue. Explaining every minute detail of his plan. Of course Cancer, being Cancer, has learned years ago how to tune the large man completely out. “We’ve just got to remember to hurry, because I’m afraid Doozer is already flickering in and out of existence!”
Both men look over their shoulder to the ghostly image of the Old Man, who hasn’t said a word up until now. Poor guy.
“One question,” Cancer calls out, interrupting Bobby’s rambling and turning both their attention back to the car at hand. “How are you going to fit?”
Looking at the rising wing door, Bobby sees the cramped cockpit for the very first time, in person. “Fuck me.”
“You sure about this, buddy?” Mr. COOL himself asks, his voice full of uncertainty.
“Yes!” Bobby exclaims with the utmost confidence, while lying atop the roof of the DeLorean and white knuckling the jambs of each door through the open windows. “We got this!”
Shaking his head in disbelief Cancer shrugs his shoulders before pressing his foot down on the brakes while turning the key in the ignition.
“Alright, hang on tight!” Jiles calls out one last time while putting the car in gear, noticing that the lights on the console never changed. Proving once again that they were simply a prop of Bobby’s delusions.
“Remember, you have to get it up to 88 miles per hour before the Flux Capacitor kicks in,” the screaming voice of Bobby Dean can be heard over the noise of the rumbling engine.
“You aren’t gonna make it 10 before you eat shit buddy,” Cancer calls out in response, while slowly letting his foot off the brake and onto the accelerator.
“WHAT!?” Bobby asks.
Not bothering to answer, Cancer simply presses his foot further down onto the pedal.
“We had it!” Bobby cries out, before yelping in pain as the male nurse rubs his ointment covered latex hands over Bobby’s prodigious belly. “Owwww…”
Reclining on the hospital bed, with his ankles crossed and his hands comfortably tucked behind his head, Cancer Jiles says, “I gotta admit, you lasted a lot longer than I thought you would.”
Sitting on the stiff upright chair normally saved for family and friends visiting the patient, our patient sits wincing with every slight touch of the nurses hands. Severe road rash covers the shirtless beefy boy’s belly, with another patch covering the side of his face. But oddly enough, not a bit of damage was done to the chest of Bobby Dean, as if his protruding belly was so vast that a vacuum of space was created where his chest is…
“How fast did you get to?” the large man asks before speculating, “At least 65, huh? No? How about 70? 75? No way! 80?”
With every guess Cancer simply shakes his head in the negative. Each subsequent guess is delivered in a higher pitch of disbelief. As he reaches 85, even the nurse pauses long enough to turn his head towards the oddly bespectacled man, eyebrow quirked in curiosity.
“15 miles per hour.” Jiles states with impressive awe.
At that the nurse laughs, shaking his head as he climbs to his feet. “We’re all done here, Mr. Dean. The other nurse will be in to guide you to the discharge station, if you don’t mind.”
While leaving Cancer and Bobby, the two can hear the nurse muttering “15” to himself, while chuckling.
“Do you think if we tie a wagon to the bumper, the wagon will get transported when the car does?” Bobby ponders aloud, picturing himself seated in a red wagon being towed by a speeding DeLorean.
“Why do you want to go back in time in the first place?” Cancer can’t help but ask, finally.
“I told you. I need to go back and see how Youngblood beat me in the last Almasy tournament.” the man from Honalee explains, as if it were obvious. “Maybe I can change it, and who knows, I could even be two and seven, with a draw instead? I just HAVE to beat Zion’s record.”
“You absolute idiot.” Cancer sits up in the hospital bed, looking at Bobby as if he were an shit stuck to the bottom of your shoe. “I’ve been trying to tell you, you never faced Brandon Youngblood at the first Almasy tournament.”
The large man scoffs, while rising to his feet, looking for his tattered and ripped tee, completely ignoring his friend. “You fought, and lost, to Dusk. The OTHER decrepit old man who belonged in a home for the elderly insane. Remember? The guy trying to relive his glory days, only to find out he’s simply senile with a case of dementia. He literally thought he was still relevant. Thinking it was still the 90’s and he was wanted. I hear he might have even pooped his diaper during your match, at least according to Melvin Beauregard who was overheard saying that match was the shits.”
“Nooooooooo.” Bobby wails, forced to plop back down into his seat in despair. “I could have sworn it was Youngblood!?”
“Don’t get me wrong buddy,” Cancer begins, climbing off the bed to rest a consoling hand on his friend’s fleshly shoulder. “You still would have lost, had you faced Youngblood. Come on, don’t give me that look. You suck at tournaments. And multi-man matches. And title matches. And well, any match that doesn’t involve food to be honest.”
“Why am I even here then?” Bobby wails, with tears welling his fleshy eyes.
Smiling, with a look of confidence, Cancer squeezes Bobby shoulder before reaching up and wiping the single glucose filled tear off Bobby’s cheek. “I keep you around to remind me how much worse my life could be. Also, we are all waiting for that one day when everything snaps into place for you, and you become some unstoppable force. You will be a sight to see, and it’s just a matter of time before you reach your full potential.”
“You sound like a fortune cookie.” Bobby says with a growing smile, touched by his friend’s caring words.
“Naaaaaah,” Mr. COOL sounds, waving away his friend’s compliment with a dismissive hand gesture. “Maybe if you’d stop long enough to get the fortune out of the cookie instead of engulfing the entire thing in one bite, then you’d know what a proper fortune sounded like?”
“I can’t help it, I see a cookie, I must eat the cookie.” Bobby explains as his fellow Bandit pulls him up to his feet.
“Come on buddy, I’m in the mood for some Chinese food now.” Cancer says, leading the duo towards the door.
“But what about me?” Doozer asks out of thin air.
“Did you hear something?” Bobby ponders as he feels the sensation of heated air pass by him.
Back on the USS Octane where I find myself perched on a large block of ice. When I say large, I mean, LARGE, like Three Avalon forehead large! But there I sit, high enough that my feet dangle in the breeze, looking down on the proverbial world below me. Like a God on Mount COOLympus.
I think it’s at this moment Cancer would say something like, “Lights, Cancer, Pucker.” Wait, I think I fucked that up. I know it’s something along those lines. Sadly, my name is Bobby and there is no snazzy intro that I can utilize.
Stupid mom, not naming me Cancer.
Cancer told me I needed to do a little something like he does, and I gotta say, I’m a virgin when it comes to Cancer-izing someone. So please, Brandon, be gentle with me.
Who are we kidding, you aren’t known for your gentle touch, are you? That’s like asking Ivan Stanislav to not be so communist.
I wonder… How good is borscht?
Allow me a second to paint you a picture Bran, you don’t mind me calling you Bran, do you? I think it’s a suitable nickname considering just how bland you are. Maybe we can call you All-Bran? Or maybe Bran Flakes? Fiber One?
Anyway, the picture I want to paint for you is this.
“Bobby Dan walks into a room and slams it shut, leaving a trail of mustard dripping onto the white carpet.
BOBBY DAN: You know, All-Bran, losing your title is kind of like eating the last hot dog. It leaves you feeling empty, sick to your stomach, and wondering what they even put in hot dogs in the first place.
The mustard begins to form a pool on the carpet. The pool slightly resembles Brandon’s bald head.
BOBBY DAN: But I can go get more hot dogs from the store. And you’ll never win the title again. So who’s really the loser here? Bobby walks out of the room, licking the mustard off of the door as he does so.”
If that works, I’m gonna need to venmo some money to some people…
I think I’ve cracked it guys.
Honestly, I do. I think Doozer is the root of all of our problems. No, seriously. Stop and consider. Once Doozer left the Bandits, Cancer lost his title. After Doozer left I was no longer forced into tag team matches, thus I no longer had someone else to blame for my losses! See, we, the Bandits, were never meant to be a duo. From our inception we were always a trio. There was a time or two we tried being a quad, but that was mainly because Zeb Martin was such a lovely person we couldn’t say no!
Don’t even get me started on that time we were forced into being a quintet. But I do have to say, NEVER be a quintet!
Fuck you RICK.
Looking down at the ice block beneath me, with a fondness, I reach down and rub my hand lovingly across the cold wet mass while muttering sweet nothings to the frozen clump of clay within.
Don’t worry my friend, I got you.
So I must say, your timing couldn’t be worse, Raisin Bran. Because next weekend when we square off in the Second Annual Almasy Tournament, the Bandits will be in full force, and we’ll be coming for blood and for glory!
Suddenly there is a rumbling in my belly as a gas pocket rolls through my intestines and belches forth from my brown eye. The solid block of ice I find myself perched on suddenly isn’t as solid, and I begin to slip and slide off the precarious edge.
Might as well get this show on the road.
I turn my head toward the open hatch and call out, “Caaaaaaaancer! Our friend is waking up!”
“My body is a machine that turns Gas station hotdogs into diarrhea.”
~ The Ballad of Bobby Dan