Cancer Jiles
USS Octane
The Ivory Tower
Long Way Back
“We both had been there. Now, in order to get back one of us would have to fall. It was not going to be me. I would not allow the opportunity to slip through my fingers. Not again, and again, and agaaaaaaain.” — Jiles’ Journal, June 13th, 2023.
There I sit.
A man atop a crumbling throne.
My hair radiates with a ghostly white aura, so much so that not even the fabled 1643 Iroquois Indians would scalp me because of the bad luck it would surely bring them. My mirror tinted T-shades weigh heavy upon the bridge of my snout. My clean shaven face still hasn’t seen the edge of a razor in days.
That’s ship life for you.
The show goes on.
LIGHTS.
PRANCER!
ACTION~!
“We both deserve better, you and I.”
Kurt and Jerk.
“I hope you know that, Rezin.”
Rezin. With a Z. Like Zion.
Ha.
“Therefore, I’m going to shoot you straight. From one former champion to another; in regard to Tropical Turmoil and the six pack challenge or whatever it is we are fighting for, I’m going to be honest when telling you what exactly the whole thing means to me.”
I don’t know about Regen but the event sounds tailor made for someone specifically with a Friday night drinking problem.
“For me, Rezin, it means whatever the fuck it has to mean.”
Clever, witty, deep, and profound; all words that can be used to describe my last comment.
“I will do whatever it takes to get back to where I want to be, and this is my chance. If I have to open the show? So be it. If I have huff and puff and blow your little cardboard house down? So be it. If I have to risk further prostration from those who have wronged me? So be it. Whatever I have to do, Rezin, whatever I have to do– will be done. You? Done. Ivan? Done. Vickie Hall’s crumb? Done. That home run scab, crumb bum motherfucker who took everything from me? DONE.”
A pause for an aneurysm.
“Then…..”
While my brain bleeds, how’s about an out of season jingle to pass the clotting?
—
You better watch out
You better not fry
Better not pout
I’m telling you why
Prancer Claus is coming to town
—
He’s making a list
He’s checking it twice
He’s gonna go back to being naughty not nice
Prancer Claus is coming to town
—
He sees you when you’re scheming
He knows which crumbs are fake
He knows if you’ve been bad or cool
So be cool for coolness sake
—
Oh you better watch out
You better not fry
Better not pout
I’m telling you why
Prancer Claus is coming to town
Prancer Claus is coming to town
—
P.S. What is it about brain bleeds and italicized center alignment?
“DONE!”
Oh, looks like I misspelled emphatic shouting when I was standing up from my seat. Good thing I’m COOL though so of course I’m able to play it off silky smooth.
I guess we’ll all ignore the vein popping out of his forehead then.
“Ya know, maybe I should be sharing this for when we’re sitting down for our Thursday Night Eve Special with new CNN Lead Anchor Christopher Chickentenders.”
A shrug.
“Maybe.”
Gingerly and painfully, I retake my throne as if I were Lunchbox Laser trying to plop down on top of a low toilet seat. I wince upon arrival. I do try to hide my wounds however it is not always easy.
“I mean, we are former champions after all. We know the same loss. We share the same bond because of it. At the very least your bloodshot eyes deserve to be looked into when being shown the shovel. So, that being said, let’s step away from the doom and the gloom and save it for another day. Or at least for a later paragraph. Instead, let’s talk about what could be perceived as the other side of that DONE coin.”
Fair is fair. Two Face Jiles. Oh no. I need to get deloused again.
“I’m not without my faults, Rezin. There are chinks in my armor. It’s not all kine buds and super gravity bongs if you will. It might surprise you to learn that I don’t even know where Tropical Turmoil is taking place. In fact, I don’t know the date or time of the event, if it’s the type of weed you’re smoking, or how many explosions will be permitted for my entrance. And yeah, I might even be calling this thing you and I are trying to be a part of by the wrong name. Fuck, I might have the wrong number of contestants, too.”
Talk about your refusing to look ahead.
Then again I do lie a lot.
“Luckily for me though I can worry about all of those things after I defeat you, and defeat you I must.”
Stay. Of. Execution.
“It all starts with you, Champ. It starts with you, and it starts at ReVival 30. Win there, go on to pursue the man I want to be. Lose there, and I might as well help the ring crew take down the ropes when the show is over.”
A frown. My hair isn’t cut out for manual labor.
“I know, sorry if it all sounds so bleak but I don’t have much choice in the matter. I have tasted the fruits of my labor. I have seen the view from the top of COOLYMPUS. I will never be able to not want all of it again and again and again aand aggggaaaiiinnnnn.”
Cancer Clarkson hour.
A lot of music references in this one.
“Since I’ve been gone from my perch I have fucking suffered. Honest. The fact I’m not the UNIVERSAL Champion and that I lost at COOLOSSUS over six motherfucking months ago still rots my insides, AND the rot gets worse and worse the further and further I get from becoming that person again. The pain does not dull. It only sharpens.”
I’m not lying. You should see the color of my poop.
“To put it in terms you’ll recognize, I am an addict, Rezin, and my addiction has ruined any chance I might have at a normal life.”
I don’t know if normal was ever in the cards with my head of hair, but you get the point.
“I am addicted to being me, and sadly I’ve been stuck in rehab for quite some time. I plan on breaking out on June 16th. When I do, the first thing I’m doing is relapsing. Why? Because my God do I miss being me. I miss it so badly my hands shake and my asshole quivers from the very notion that I’d waste an opportunity to get another fix.”
Old glory.
“Ironically, I hate that I can’t hold that over you. I hate that I can’t say you don’t know how it feels to be me, because you never were, when in fact you have been…. UNIVERSAL Champion that is.”
Spoiler, that’s what I’m planning to say to Ivan, or Vickie’s Crumb Rub should he happen to catch lightning in a bottle again.
“I’ll tell you what I also hate about you– the fact you beat Hanlon and I couldn’t. Twice apparently. That scares the shit out of me, Rezin. You, a person like you with the head of hair that you have, could do something that I could not. That’s not an easy thing for someone like me to come to terms with.”
Is that you Jesus?
Here we come.
“As if I needed any more of a reason to kick you in the face?”
Ha.
Pucker.
Kiss.
Goodbye.
—
Stateside
Some Shadow Port
Disembark
“I won’t miss the boat. It’s not easy having to watch everyone work from my spot on the top deck. Maybe I have become soft and grown accustomed to private travel life? Maybe it’s time for a change?” — Jiles’ Journal, June 14th, 2023.
I toss an egg into the air.
I catch it.
Mr. Chickentenders is tomorrow. I hear some execs at HOTv are anticipating a bigger number than The Trial of Scott Stevens.
ReVival three zero the day after. I’m gonna gift Rezin some salt to clean out his bowl.
Currently though, I’m still a couple of states away from the action. I’ve just gotten back. I was away on business in Mexico. The trip was a hoot. I steered clear of the water and escaped without a single case of diarrhea. It was also fun getting the gang back together and I’m looking forward to our future endeavors. However, at the moment I am alone. Well, mostly alone. Being the Captain I am always the last one to get off the ship. It’s an honor I cherish having. I’ll meet up with the rest of them later. For now, it’s just me and Lunchbox Laser that are left.
I toss an egg into the air.
I catch it.
“Did you do that thing I asked you to do? That special project about our beautiful friend.”
Lunchbox nods yes to my seemingly ominous question.
I persist.
“And what did you find out?”
Lunchbox scurries off and retrieves me a folder. I open it and consume the contents diligently. I look up, fighting back against the disbelief.
“We’re sure this is accurate? He was there, and for this long before coming back?”
Lunchbox again nods yes. He points to a series of receipts from an adult locale in Honalee.
I toss an egg into the air.
I catch it.
“Interesting. I knew something was up. He just wouldn’t show up unannounced like that. He would have called. He would have asked permission. I wonder what it is they have on him? I wonder what it is that would make him jeopardize his affiliation to the Bandits? I need more information.”
Another nod from the chief stew.
“Regardless, with what we have here moving forward we’ll have to treat him as if he’s been compromised. No other way about it. I want you to keep a close eye on him. I need you to vanish, and live in his shadow. So pretty much be yourself and live comfortably.”
Lunchbox nods again.
I toss an egg into the air.
I catch it.
“Oh, and what about Little Miss Belarus? Is she ready for the talent show? Is the convent ready if we need to extract and relocate? I won’t allow her to disrupt my schemes again. I won’t.”
Lunchbox Laser, the thorough chief stew of the USS Octane that he is, is also the main operator of counter intel for the eGG Bandits. He is very good at what he does, and one of the reasons Cracking News is so well informed.
He nods yes once again.
“Good. There is too much at stake. I need all of my ducks in a row if I’m to once again sit atop of a yolky throne. Last thing I need is that brat taking him away from me again right when I need him the most. Now go, check back in with me after ReVival. I’m going to test him at the show. I want to see HOW he responds to something. If he takes the bait it could be worse than we ever imagined.”
Lunchbox does what he does best and goes full on predator camo cam.
“Bobby. Bobby. Bobby.”
A concerned breath.
“You must have known I’d be diligent. I don’t trust myself, let alone other people. What is it you want me to find? What eggsactly are you up to?”
I toss an egg into the air.
It cracks when I catch it.