ReVival 2 has come and gone.
As has Cancer Jiles’ non main eventing streak, and the white high horse he’s been riding around the MGM Grand on. The horse’s name is Cocaine, and he’s a beautiful stallion who’s back at the pasture. For now. Turns out Cocaine’s cousin, a dirty mare named Mary Jane, knows Nova’s old cellmate from his stint up at The Kyln. Guess it’s a small galaxy after all, huh? Or is it down at The Kyln?
The Maestro has been vaccinated, immunized, poked, prodded, and poked again after coming into contact with Muriel and her lover boy brother, Tapioca. Doctors say the Skynet sponsored stalwart narrowly dodged a harrowing case of Puddingtitis C, and as such is clear to prance amongst the stars at ReVival 3.
And at ReVival 3, in the night’s main event, against PRIME’s very own and tournament one seed, Nova, should the COOLYMPIAN be victorious not only will he advance to the third round of the Almasy Invitational, but he’ll collect the glorious bounty placed upon his opponent’s head. Said glorious bounty pretty much grants Jiles ultimate dick out, free swinging, SUPER powered white privilege.
Come to think of it, probably best for Big C to lose then. He doesn’t need something he already has. That would just be greedy of him. Seriously though, could you imagine it only takes three shows for “him” to walk about with realized impunity? After two Bandits have already gone fishing! With or without the Queen’s approval! The T-shades, the hair, THE COOL WINS A GOLDEN TICKET!
The unimaginable, undeniable, unjustifiable, UNESCAPABLE, horror.
What’s worse, if he does win he can leverage the GOLDEN TICKET to access Lady Troy’s Great Glass Elevator. Once inside he’ll be able to go wherever he wants to go. He’ll be able to do whatever he wants to do. PRIME will be under his salty, suffocating, rabbit’s foot. The Universe would be in the palm of his hand without it being strapped around his waist.
There would be no way of stopping him.
Not even by returning the everlasting gobstoppers.
Now, where’d that horse mosey off to?
We’re Going on a Trip
In Our Favorite Elevator Ship
I’m standing inside a fairly lavish elevator. There’s decorative trim. Wall to wall mirrors. Digital screen. A chandelier. K-pop is softly playing, which is ironic, since it’s currently 2PM.
Time and band.
And of course, Bobby Dean is standing right next to me.
As it stands we’re idling on the ground floor of the MGM Grand, about to head back up to the eGG Den, our suite, for some much needed R&R. Bob is a disheveled mess with crumbs and debris all over his person. He smells of grease sweats and orange soda. His gray sweatsuit is stained. Horribly stained. There’s a dizzying amount of smudges and smears all over it.
I, The Maestro, the consummate company man, am glowing in my electric blue jumpsuit with off white track stripes. My hair looks like a string of pearls that were gifted by Aphrodite herself. It doesn’t matter what I smell like since Bob is pungent enough for the both of us.
It’s not as tight in the elevator as you might think. Luckily, Bob’s hygiene pretty much guarantees we’ll be the only two people on board. Unluckily, and as silly as it may sound, I can not stress how dangerous my situation is. That’s not a cable is going to snap, maximum capacity, fat joke. This is the MGM Grand. These elevators once hid Copperfield’s elephant. They can handle a Bobby Dean.
Cue an ominous, creaky elevator cable noise.
The reason I’m in the danger zone is simple. The two of us are in the final stretch of a recent journey. The bulk of that journey being Bob and I, but more so Bob, feasting at the Wicked Spoon. It was an all you can eat buffet bonanza, and easily as depressing as it sounds. Moreover, the big fella tends to get a little gassy after dunking cupcakes in his mayonnaise. Now, normally I’m smart. I’d tell Bob that I’d catch the next one, and allow him the proper space to degasify. This way I am safe, and I’d also be none the wiser if he happened to kill anyone should they unfortunately come into contact with his noxious, nay, toxic spray.
Butt today I’m in a hurry.
My phone is about to die, so is his, and you’d think we’d have more than one charger in the room but Mom’s generosity only extends so far. A jester suite with only one charger. Real cool, Mom. Real. COOL.
Truth is Doozer took two of the cords with him when he went back to Beantown. We, Bob and I, never got around to getting another one because… well, because we are lazy.
Be that as it may, I find myself in a conundrum.
Do I risk sitting around suffering from dead phone anxiety for three hours while Bobby takes a post buffet shit? Because rest assured he’s taking the charger into the bathroom with him. Or, do I risk the possible gas chamber of an elevator ride and be back to twelve percent battery life in no time at all?
I’ll beat him to the charger.
Granted, I’d have to make it out of the elevator first.
With that said, Bob and I are in an elevator, and our wicked journey is coming to an end. All that’s left to do is reach out, press the button to our floor, and the doors will close behind us.
Just reach out. And press. That—
Before I can tuck tail and slide out of the elevator’s DM’s, Bob presses the button to our floor. The doors close. My fate seals. This will be the longest, most frightening minute of my life.
The elevator begins to slowly rise.
In an effort to keep my main man’s beautiful mind off of his catastrophic ass, I figure I’ll ask him if he knows anything about who I’m facing in the second round. Here’s to hoping he’s at least heard of the guy before. God knows I haven’t.
“…be a doll and check Stevenspedia for me. It’s like Noah Vah doesn’t exist.” Bob disinterestedly sighs, however I choose to ignore the blatant sign of disrespect and forge forward. “Hopefully he’s not a ghost.”
I keep on. “Last I checked I can’t see dead people, or else I’d be able to see Doozer most of the time. And my CIA contact is Darin Zion— nuff said. If my round two opponent is a ghost I’m in big trouble.”
Being my cohort is the one trapped in the Bandit bind, Bob begrudgingly starts to scroll through his phone. See, he’s out of the tournament and I’m still in it. So, it’s bag duty and bitch work for the Honaleean. I’ll have you know I did treat at the Wicked Spoon to grease those wheels. I even had to pay for three people.
I didn’t complain.
I still feel like I made out on the deal.
Bobby lazily chirps back to me, “He’s an ex-con with a bad candy cigarette habit. Good luck.”
My face twists from confusion. I have no time for it though. My parlor trick isn’t going to work if I can’t keep Bob occupied. I stammer forward through the thin air and try to confirm, “Did you say he worked at Exxon?”
Exasperated, Bob shuffles his weight to find some comfort. Even the slightest jostling could set him off. He’s like nitroglycerin, and we’re in an elevator.
What could go wrong?
I glance at the screen indicating which floor we’re on, and it feels like I’m looking at a bad pregnancy test. We’re not even half way home yet. Troy put us up in the Ivory Towers! We’re near the top of the building— where Noah Vah presumably slept during his bachelor party that one time.
There’s no way I’m making it out unscathed.
Horrified by the putrid reality of my soon to be self inflicted perilous disposition, my eyes grow wide, brimming over the frames of my T-shades. I stumble back into the corner of the elevator, and brace myself for sudden trauma.
Time seemingly stops.
Fortunately for me, whatever I think is coming, doesn’t. Bobatoa doesn’t blow. Instead, he amazingly remains focused on the task at hand and clarifies, “No, he’s an EX. CON.”
My retort is dry, and full of overweight enthusiasm. “Oh. That’s cool.” I pause. “So he does pump gas then.” I continue to feign my interest just to keep Bob’s attention my own. “Look and see if he has any former pen pals we can get juicy details from.” Bob shakes his head no, and shows me an old fax number that NOVA(duh) can be reached at.
Has to be out of service.
Without pause or warning, a groan squeaks out of Big Bob the Beauty. He wants to go parabolic. I can sense what was once considered his abdomen bubbling like a witch’s stew. Thankfully, we’re almost to our floor. No need to risk saying something that could set him off. I’ll bite my tongue.
Just not nearly hard enough.
“Does it say if his parole officer’s name is Gangbuster, or Gumshoe?” I tempt fate. It is what I do. “What about Boston George and Black Doug? Are either of them close contacts?”
I taper back, and abruptly pause where my words are going. I decide it best not to push it any further. Bob devoured so much… of everything at the Wicked Spoon. He was drinking creamers at the end of second dessert because they ran out of whip cream.
Plus, full disclosure the snort sent a shiver down my spine.
Best to just pack it in.
Or take one last pop before the bell.
“Better yet, Bob, check his aliases. See if Super Scotia is one of them.”
Bobby blurts out, “Super Scotia. Heh. Heh.” He then burps. It is rancid.
I don’t bother to scream out. It is too late for that now. Bob’s belly has already turned over. It’s one of those things you can audibly hear. It sounds like a log getting tossed into a still lake on a quiet morning.
Hence the plop.
Instead, I gasp from the sheer arrogance of my seemingly destined blunder. It doubles as a last ditch final breath, which is nice. I quickly pinch my nose like it’s going to make a difference, and brace myself for Colonel Mustard in the elevator with the poison gas.
I just had to push it.
Hopefully it’s not…
Fearful, my hands begin to tremble. I’ve been around the Beautiful Man from Honalee for years now. This isn’t going to be an ordinary, run of mill, Bobby Bomb. Those you can come back from. This is different. This only happens once or twice a decade.
I know the tells.
Before Bob performs the sacred ritual of Toxic Noxia he starts to whistle. Like a tea kettle. Not from his mouth. Plus, his eyes roll into the back of his head, as if he were a great white about to clamp down for a kill. Just switch out the shark’s razorwire teeth for his buttcheeks.
I want to scream out, “Bobby NO! I can win this thing!!!!!” I do not. I can’t. Well, I could, but it would be pointless. He’d never hear me over the whistling. It’s that loud. Besides, this is a fight for survival now.
What has begun, has begun.
Bob’s entire body is rigid— he hasn’t been this upright in years.
Bob’s jaw is locked tight— it wouldn’t open up for a Twinkie.
Bob’s eyes are in shark mode— he’s ready to kill.
In the short amount of time I have left, I think about life, the great unknown, if things went differently would Lady Troy have become the eGG Queen, and how it’s a shame I won’t get to ask Nova if he has any cool prison tattoos. I even allow my mind to think that maybe Bobby won’t vacate… or at least he’ll hold off until I can vacate.
The premises that is.
But no. Luck does run out, and as soon as I allow optimism’s warmth to flicker amongst the cold darkness of despair, Bob’s blunderbuss busses. The whistling stops and the staunch, reverberating winds of change begin. The mirrors inside the elevator instantly spider. The gold paint on the fancy trim starts to peel. The security camera tucked away in the corner short circuits and billows smoke.
I fall down on my knees.
Desperate, I attempt to pry the doors open like I’m trying to escape a Bobby Dean fart.
…There’s a white light. It’s bright, even with my T-shades on. I think I hear… French? That’s odd. It’s getting darker. I’m getting weaker. The doors won’t budge. More… French. Even darker now. When did RICK get here? Now it’s getting unusually hot. Is that Cardboard Da…
(A couple of former eGG Bandits that Cancer Jiles would see on the way to hell)
The elevator comes to a stop.
The gates to Valhalla open.
Thankfully, we never changed directions.
I helplessly fall face first into the hallway, and army crawl a few paces to safety. I then roll over onto my back, and begin to violently heave like a junky tasting oxygen again after being brought back to life. The doors to the elevator close behind me leaving Bobby Dean behind. In his tantric state he won’t be able to walk, let alone move for hours. Whoever gets in that elevator next will have to deal with him. He or she probably won’t make it.
I better remember to hang up that ‘do not disturb’ sign.
The eGG Den
Do Not Disturb
I had to burn my clothes. I managed to do it without setting the fire alarm off. I think maybe it was the MGM’s way of thanking me. I haven’t seen or heard from Bobby in two days. That’s not unusual following the ritual. The concierge has come knocking a few times, but the police haven’t so not all bad news.
Funny story. I’ve managed to avoid the concierge by hiring people off of Las Vegas Craig’s List.
I put up a post saying,
My name is Fred, and for the next ten minutes I’ll be in the hallway on the Ivory floor at the MGM Grand. Come say hello for twenty dollars and a pack of Newport 100s.
Mostly your Nova types have taken the bait.
Felons. Druggies. Sixth Sensers.
What I didn’t realize was how much fun it would be listening to the altercations. They curse at Fred. Call him a liar. Scream about their innocence. Beg for a fix. Offer to go behind the dumpster— which I think might have been the Garbage Bag guy that’s on the other side of the bracket. The voice sounded familiar. I couldn’t get a good look since I was hiding behind the door eating popcorn at the time.
Needless to say, after a while good old Fred stopped knocking. I guess he got the message. I’m sure he’s a nice guy who deserved better.
I do feel bad for him.
Bob that is.
I hope he’s okay. He is an adult. He should be able to take care of himself.
I’ll say this, I’ve enjoyed having the place to myself for the last 48 hours. It’s been wonderful not finding fetish toys in MY shower. Bob tells me he likes my shampoo when I question him on it. I say of course you do, it costs 300 dollars a bottle.
Talk about pouring money down the drain.
Enough about Bob. He’s gone. Fred’s gone. Doozer’s gone. My phone is fully charged. The do not disturb sign is still around the door handle. It’s just me sitting here all by myself.
FINALLY, as the kids say, I have the time.
And a new T-shirt! It’s white. It has a caricature of me in my wrestling gear with a big smile on my face. I’m standing inside the ring, and in the palm of my hand is a fallen, burnt out, faded, past their PRIME, star. Like the Mario Bros star, but if he were depressed and crashed out on heroin.
The first 100 fans through the door at ReVival 3 get one on the house. Then you gotta buy them. I’m sure I’ll sell more than seven. To be honest, after the overnight success of the Shit Talk shirt it was a no brainer.
“The pillar of PRIME. The star that shined the brightest. The next Universal Champion… Me. King fucking COOL. Cancer Jiles.”
You bet I almost sprained both of my thumbs jabbing at my chest.
It’s night. Behind me, the bright lights of Sin City. If you look closely you can see the giant billboard in front of the MGM promoting ReVival 3. There’s two people on it. One fits the bill, and doesn’t look like he’s going anywhere anytime soon. Immaculate hair. IMMACULATE. Great shades, too. The other looks like an ex-con who has done unspeakable things for candy cigarettes, and masterbates to a ghost while laying on top of a fold out cot.
I ease back on my couch, crack my knuckles, and share a toothy smile.
“They say you can’t win a tournament in the opening rounds, but you sure can lose it. Basically, what they mean is practice patience, and pick your spots. Don’t rush. Don’t go all in. However, in my instance they would be wrong, wouldn’t they?”
Don’t worry, They. I got you.
“The bounty on my opponent’s head is the same as making it all the way to the final of the Invitational. Actually, it’s better than making it to the final. A win now means it doesn’t matter if I hiccup in the next round, or even the one after that. In fact, I could lose the final, and make them restart the match again if I wanted to. Better yet, not make the final at all, and then crash the party like a Bobby Dean fart.”
Better BETTER yet, maybe I’ll just hold on to it. That’s the fun one. Just let it linger from show to show like that same Bobby Dean fart.
I don’t get gifts like this often. Sure, some will say Mom threw me a layup with Pudding Pop in the first round, and maybe they’re right.
But this… bounty.
This is a gift worth going all in for.
“All I have to do is defeat a man who just wrestled in his first match in who CARES how long.” A beat. “All I have to do is knock down a pillar of PRIME’s past.” A snort. “All I have to do is extinguish it’s brightest Star.”
My smile widens. The hairs on my arms stand up. I keep my COOLYMPIAN reserve, though.
“Prime’s COOLER future is going to give Prime’s gifted past a present at ReVival Three. That present being a kick to the face. I will then revel in the wonderful reward for doing so. People will suffer because of my success. They will point fingers, and I’ll just keep on wearing this shirt so they know who to blame.”
“That’s right. Me. The Usurper. The one who over the last four years has more matches under his belt than things smuggled up his ass.”
If they only knew…
“Keep this in mind, Superstar… Mr. Hero of PRIME. Think of it as some food for thought should you burn out. I might not be a vampire, but my blood does run COOL. I’m no mob boss, yet I make men all the time. And while I’m no CIA ghost agent, I do walk around with a loaded weapon.”
I glance down at my feet.
It could be misconstrued for looking somewhere else.
Best to clarify.
“Two of them, actually. You could say I’m ambidextrous down there. While the left one is good… the right one is good night.”
And no, I do not have Diphallia.
Be a lot cooler if you did.