Cancer Jiles
ReVival 27
The Worst Show
EVER
“No bullshit this week.” — Jiles’ Journal , May 5th, 2023.
I won’t lie. Oh, and this isn’t meant to come off as some sort of power-flex, either. It’s more to do with how far I’ve fallen off.
Sure.
BUT, I still don’t know the name of the guy who beat me on the last show. I could probably pick him out of a police lineup though.
Ha. That’s actually the truth though.
However, since I am a man, and since I have honor, and since I have wonderful hair, and since I, as science has proven, have a bigger brain than Lindsay Troy; I am not above giving credit where credit is due.
Here goes nothing.
It’s not often I am left scratching my head, but following this latest loss you’d think that I had caught a nasty case of the lice. I am baffled. I don’t know how it happened, but somehow, after the match was over I was in better condition than before it started. Physically speaking that is. Mentally, I was and still am totally shattered and devastated beyond belief.
But of course.
Now, this is so surprising to me mainly because usually/always I’m a bloody, broken, crippled mess in my losing efforts. Not this time though. This time around I was really buttering up the roll as Bobby Dean would put it. Then, instead of savoring my hard work; I choked on it.
Imagine that.
Oh well.
I guess the silver lining is that whatever his name is will go on to bigger and better things much like everyone else in PRIME has done after they’ve defeated me. Maybe he can even become a UNIVERSAL Champion. He could tell me to read his name off the title belt if I was still having trouble remembering it.
Anyway, that’s enough about him and his bright future. Time to flip the discussion to me, and my very bleak, and very frightening past.
Very bleak. Like, super bleak.
I stated at the top that I wasn’t going to lie, so I won’t. There was a report earlier in the week saying I broke my ankles in a failed hanging attempt while observing the main event. I’d like to put that wild and unsubstantiated claim to bed and proclaim that it’s not true. I did not break my ankles in a failed suicide attempt. I only rolled my left. I did come down on my hip so hard I might have to borrow Doozer’s plastic replacement for ReVival 28, so there’s that.
Stupid fucking pipe. We could all be sleeping right now.
I don’t know why I even watched the match. I guess I am doomed to repeat my mistakes. Just like the show before I should have just left after my match was over. But no. I needed to be prideful. I needed to prove I could sit through it without it bothering me. Like that was ever a possibility. Such a fool I am. Such a glutton for punishment.
Watching that match, and not being in it, it scarred my soul.
Charred is more like it.
Those two fucking crumbs. Homerun Willy and Billybob Crumblood. Before me, Brandon Youngblood was known as a topped out 5-Star Champion with a bad attitude, a triple receded hairline, and sketchy Hall of Fame credentials. He couldn’t even sit at the fucking table until I gave him a booster seat, and now look at him. All by himself at the top of the tower. He owes me his life, and his first born son for everything I’ve done for him.
I’m talking, Storm of the Century type of shit.
And Hanlon, that sensational pig fuck of a human being. Only kid I know who wrestles in slippers and a onesie. I can’t believe he breathes the same oxygen as me, let alone managed to hand me my single greatest defeat. Where was he oinking before me? Carrying Brandon’s bags around with his dick taped to the side of his leg calling him sir, that’s where.
Yet, there they were. The two of them. The products of my misery, and agony, and anguish, and suffering. And there I was. In the back, alone, having lost to some panhandler from off the street, watching them. I can vividly remember wanting to rip my eyes out and have Bobby eat them so I could see the true tortures that go on inside his stomach. But, he wasn’t around so I guess I kind of lucked out there. Still, anything would have been better than what I was watching at that point.
Six in one.
So, after I realized the climax would be coming soon, and that I would rather be dead than see it happen, I fastened a Peachman’s knot with some cord I found. Then, I threw it over an exposed pipe backstage, got up on a chair, hooked the fish if you will, shouted out “IT SHOULD HAVE BEEN ME DAMMET!” and took a leap of faith.
Is it weird the first thing I thought of was if the person who found me would take my T-shades? Or worse yet, touched my hair?
Yes.
Not too long after is when I came crashing back down to Earth. I never even gasped for air. I did scream out because of the ankle roll. Regardless, it was obvious to me the Gods weren’t satisfied with my suffering, and I was not ready to be welcomed home.
Then I thought, what could possibly be worse than this?
—
Misery
Loves
Company
“Okay, maybe some games.” — Jiles’ Journal, May 14th, 2023
After the botch I did some serious soul searching. I entered a hut, danced around a fire, and realized if my suffering needed to be immeasurable in order for me to qualify for the gates of Valhalla, there was only one option. Not to abandon my T-shades. Not to shave my head. Not to curse the egg.
Worse.
Much, much worse.
I needed to put on the uniform. I needed to get over my huge bugaboo about mandatory hat policies. I needed to clock into the night shift and sell some chicken. So, I left the hut, made a few phone calls, and it turns out there’s a KFC in the Denver area that could use a little extra help. Oddly enough I even knew who the General Manager was.
You might even say I had an in.
“Thank you for the opportunity, Mr. Handson. I won’t let you down. My friend Bobby loves the chicken mcnuggets, and there’s always extra salt on the french fries. I sure am going to love working here, sir!”
Mr. Handson wasn’t too fond of me not knowing the menu, nor of my unwillingness to share his concern. He berated me to the tune of “Low Rider” and then told me I had to clean the grease traps. I told him I was big time, and was there to sell chicken and not clean grease traps. Again, Mr. Handson expressed he wasn’t too fond of my attitude, but before the situation could escalate any further a family of four walked into the store.
“Hello, welcome to the chicken shack, how can I assist you?”
I said chicken shack just to see Mr. Handson’s face turn red. It did. Oh, and when I said a family of four I meant Bobby Dean. He was my ringer. I had him as a plant just in case I got any pushback from management about my dreams to rapidly ascend to chicken stardom.
“Yes, I would like everything. Here is my credit card. My name is Timo Labamba.”
Close enough.
“Thank you Mr. Labamba. Please have a seat and I’ll see to it that the General Manager personally delivers all of your meals to you.”
The amount of chicken I was able to ring up left Mr. Handson with no choice but to let me operate in PRIME time. The big leagues. The drive through window. Side by side with you know who. It’s been a while since I’ve seen my bloody mate.
No, I’m not from across the pond.
“Hey man, no hard feelings. What happened back then, we were competing and let’s just leave it at that. I want you to know that I’m just here to push some chicken, and suffer like I have never suffered before. In fact, if you want to recite some MESSIAH chants or sing some defiled church hymns go for it.”
Hours of silence later…
“By the way, did you hear about Cecilworth Farthington backing Phil Atken? Has he extracted any revenge upon you yet? He got me good so be careful. Last I heard he was leading an invasion of PRIME– who knows HOW dangerous it could be?”
Eventually, and how I won Julian over, we had to close early because Bobby ate us out of house and home. After we rolled him out of the shack on his side like a tractor tire, Jay and I mopped up the floors, clocked out, and then took a piss on Mr. Handson’s car door handle before going our separate ways.
We ran away snickering like two little girls.
“See ya tomorrow.”
Great first night.
—
The
Ivory
Tower
“After losing to a no name, and then watching the two crumbs, and then clocking in for the night shift… I could not imagine how I would feel if I were booked to open the next show. I know this though, the Gods would be happy.” — Jiles’ Journal, May 15, 2023.
I have reached a low point in my career.
A new one, another one, whatever you decide.
Forget that I haven’t won a meaningful match since before COOLOSSUS, but Terrible Terry Woulds? Fourth cousin of Tiger King. The man looking for a challenge. The man who wants someone to challenge him. The challenged man who likes to draw.
Oh well.
A job is a job.
And with where I want to go I need all the suffering I can get.
Lights.
CANCER.
Action~!
“What a gas.”
I am not amused, even though I just said so.
“What a legit, honest to God, fun loving gas.”
I lean forward and exude an excited fervor, acting as if I am about to reveal a big secret.
“Get this, I actually have to show up early for the show. EARLY. Like a plebian. Like a normie. Like I’m putting the ring together. The disrespect is legendary. Ground breaking even. Lady Troy truly is a ruthless scamp, and I was right for courting her as our Queen.”
Honor among thieves.
“Not to mention I’m up against someone who if the last guy I faced was considered a nobody then I don’t even know what this next guy could be considered. This, Terry Woods fellow. This person who I’m sure we’ll never hear from again, so I guess we could consider the following his exit interview.”
The professionalism I’m oozing is at the very least porno worthy.
“Real quick, but draw what, Terry?”
A pause.
“Heat?”
A pause.
“Shame?”
A pause.
“With an Etch A Sketch?”
A slight grin.
“Perfect circles?”
A smirk.
“Earlier I was racking my brain trying to figure out why I should even waste my time — outside of my own personal masochism — with someone like you. I still don’t have an answer, but did you know that Draw spelled backwards is Ward? Tell me, do you drink Red Bull? Can you draw a perfect outline of a swoosh sign? Is that what you mean by The Draw?”
I reach up into my nostril and pick the charcoal colored disinterest out of it.
“No, don’t bother answering. I don’t care, and I know for a fact that whatever your reasons are that I would hate them immensely.”
I know I said I need all the suffering I can get, but that is just senseless. Plus, I still have to work my 9 to 5.
PM.
“You know, Terry, the last guy I showed this type of disrespect towards beat me. Who knows? Maybe you answer the challenge you’ve been chasing. Maybe just like him, you surprise us all. I am down in the dumps. I am low in the dirt. I am for the taking with my pants around my ankles.”
An awkward cough.
Easy there, Dr. Draw.
“I look just as good as you will — if not better — with my foot in my mouth. You can put it there, Terry. I don’t think that you will, but maybe just maybe you can draw something up.”
Pucker.
Kiss.
Goodbye.