Ditching Doozer

Revival 17 Post-Match (Loss to 2Become1)

 

“Gonna have stupid fuckin’ nightmares with god damned horns blasting off for the rest of my stupid fuckin’ life.”

You see the backside of an angry Doozer storming down the back halls of the MGM Grand Garden Arena, a beleaguered Bobby Dean doing his best to keep up, shuffling along in his wake.

“Buddy, that horn stuff was nothin’! You should’ve been over at this Classic joint with me way back when.” The Beautiful Bandit pauses to catch his breath, bending over and placing each hand on its respective knee for support. “There was this big dude with a bus AND a goose!”

“Stupid fuckin’ Love Convoy.” The Elder Bandit marches on, either not hearing his friend or pretending he didn’t.

“BAH!” Dean waves his hands dismissively. “They’re whatever, Doozy! Just an uncloseted Sex and Money, if you ask me! We had a bad night, pal. Not like it’s the first time we ever lost to Dari-”

“Stupid fuckin’ Ban Hammerin’ son of a bitch, Zion.”

Stopping in between the slowest sprints known to mankind, in between labored breaths, Bobo manages to blurt, “Lucky shot, I say!”

Still no-selling his tag partner like the Bandit he is, The Boston Bruiser grabs the Red Sox cap off his blonde head and sends it flying.

“Stupid fuckin’ hat.”

The rotund warrior in baby blue attire behind him watches the signature baseball cap fly, his concern beginning to outpace his exhaustion.

“Stupid fuckin’ jorts.”

Yep. He stopped right there in the middle of the hallway, and with a quick flick of the wrists let the jorties hit the floor.

At this point, The Old Bull, fashioning only his wrestling sneakers and Superman skivvies, commands the attention of more than just his feverish friend. Most of the talent and staff in the back stopped in their tracks in awe of the trainwreck passing by them. You can hear some of them murmuring about calling security, others wondering how a hat flew and jorts dropped out of seemingly nowhere.

After a few more pissed off paces, passing by locker room after locker room, Doozer catches sight of himself out of his peripherals thanks to a mirror seen through the open door of The Carton. If you didn’t think Jiles demanded a full length, standing mirror as soon as he became the Champ, then you don’t know the COOLympian very well. The Man Who Must Be Good Looking Because He’s So Hard To See stops dead in his tracks and turns to get a good look of himself.

“Stupid fuckin’ fake blond hair.”

Yeah, we’re going to just let that one sit there for a second.

“Stupid fuckin’ wrinkly ass face.”

Someone don’t love him some him right now.

“Stupid fuckin’ wiry, old muscles.”

His bloodshot, faded blue eyes continue south.

“Stupid fuckin’ Superman brie-”

Just like each cursed article of clothing before, the distraught DREAMer reaches to rip the suddenly offensive underwear off his person when-

“Do it and you’re done.” The stern warning comes from the mouth of Killean Sirrajin; the Executive Vice President of Talent Relations.

The Old Bull snorts and snaps around to face whoever dared interfere in… well, whatever was going on with him. Midlife crisis, maybe? But can it be a midlife crisis when you’re as old as a dinosaur? Anyway, he clearly wasn’t expecting Killean, looking caught off guard by having to look up slightly to stare the taller, larger, three-piece suited man in the eyes. Sirrajin doesn’t blink, meeting the now fiery blues of Dooze.

“Think very carefully about your next move, Doozer.” The EVP sucks his teeth while lifting his red Oakley’s just high enough to look down his nose at the New England Ne’er Do Well in front of him.

After a number of facial twitches, The Failure of Fragglerock turns his face to the side just enough to spit dangerously close to Killean’s fancy dress shoes. The wrinkles on the Elder Bandit’s face deepen as he brings his nose back up to meet Sirrajin’s.

“Doozer? There’s no Doozer here, pal.”

And just like that, The old Masshole drops his head in defeat, turns, and makes his way to the exit. Not long after, Bobby Dean finally catches up to the commotion… kinda. The Big Boned Bandit, huffing and puffy, uses Killean as support while again desperately trying to catch his breath. Killean looks down in disgust, and jerks away from Dean’s sweaty grasp. Bob struggles to regain his balance as the EVP wipes the Bandit germs off the sleeve of his expensive blazer.

The Beautiful Man from Honalee, doubled over with each hand back on their likesided knee, shoots out his right arm as if that could somehow stop Doozer in his tracks… it didn’t.

“DOOOOOOOZEY, DON’T GO!” Dean gasps for breath. You’re unable to tell if the droplets racing down his face are sweat or tears at this point. “DON’T DOOOOooooooooooze it!”

Bobby can’t help but snicker at himself, twisting his head up to look at Sirrajin.

“You see what I-”

Killean turns around, shaking his head, and walks away. He passes an approaching Cancer Jiles, and you can hear him mutter, “Don’t know how you do it.”

The Universal Champ struts by, ignoring the quip, and casually raises a Charleston Chew to his mouth, ripping off a bite after stretching it to at least double its original length.

“Oh, thank LEE, it’s you!” The Beautiful Bandit is finally standing straight up, breathing somewhat normally. “You gotta do something, Cancer!”

You can only imagine the look from The Crown Prince of COOL, since the T-shades only mirror back his friend’s fat face. But, the appearance of a single eyebrow over the top of his signature spectacles gives you a pretty good idea of how he felt about any obligation to interject himself.

“C’mon, buddy, look at him!” Despite the request, Jiles doesn’t move a muscle. Bobby continues his plea, “He won’t listen to me when he gets like this. He needs you. He’s losing it. He’s…”

Dean’s eyes dart around as he tries to find the right words.

“I think he’s ditching Doozer!”

Jiles smiles that smile we’ve all grown to hate.

“About time. Been dead for a decade.”

 

~~~

 

Elm Ave Apartment Complex 

 

We find ourselves looking down upon a still mostly naked eGG Bandit, sitting on a street bench, still in his Superman undies and wrestling shoes, looking longingly up to the night sky in front of an apartment complex on Elm Avenue, not far from the MGM Casino. 

“You ever get sick of everyone treating you like an object? Like, just some two dimensional, decorative piece in the background for people to poke fun at?”

The Elder Bandit releases a sigh packed full of despair, then turns his head toward the recipient of what you would’ve thought was a rhetorical question…

And, appropriately, Cardboard Dan just stands there… well, to us, at least. The Man Who Cannot be Seen nods and responds to The Cardboard Cutout Who Cannot be Heard.

“Yeah, I know. Just a typical day for you, huh buddy?” The Bostonian nods. “I don’t know how you’ve kept yourself together all this time.”

“…” Cardboard Dan stares, unblinking, back at The Wrestler Formerly Known as Dooze.

“Yeah, except for that time you got your head ripped off, I guess.” The Old Bull scratches the back of his head. “Sorry about that, by the way.”

Moments of awkward silence pass like hours.

“What’m I gonna do, Dan-o?”

The desperation is real.

“I never should’ve brought Doozer back.”

Cardboard Dan stays silent.

“I already had my Hall of Fame career. I climbed that mountain, stuck my flag at the peak. I had nothing to prove to anyone. Not to Lee, not to Mom, not to Jiles, not even to myself. Once you’re at the top there is only one way left to go…”

Cardboard Dan stays silent.

“Whatever. I don’t even know why I open up to you, sometimes, Dan.” The Elder Bandit rests his elbows on their respective knees and buries his face in his hands. “You’re always just repeating back everything you hear anyway. I think there is a word for that, poltergeist?”

A moan that would impress a ghost named Myrtle follows.

“Sometimes I just wish I could talk to someone who’d actually say something.”

You know that saying about wishes?

“Hey, Dooze!”

The light-hearted hello from Cancer’s newest security guard, known to few as Lunchbox Larry, isn’t so well received.

“Don’t call me that.”

Larry shrugs and invites himself to sit between the Bandit and the cardboard cutout, letting neither the near nakedness of the New England Native, nor the existence of… well, a cardboard cutout, next to him even register on his weirdar.

Weird radar.

Whatever.

“What should I call you then?” Maintaining his usually cheery disposition, Larry leans in after asking the question like it was a secret.

“I dunno. How about my name maybe?” The sarcasm was strong.

Larry’s eyes darted left to right and back again, eventually raising his eyebrows as if to indicate he hadn’t the slightest idea what the DREAM star’s name was. He wouldn’t be the only one who would have lost that trivia question.

“Fred Mayhew.” The Wrestler Formerly Known as Dooze mutters.

“Oh.”

“Yeah, Doozer doesn’t sound so stupid now, does it?”

Larry moves, still seated, uneasily. He’s clearly not sure how to respond.

“So, umm… whatcha doin’?” Larry asks, innocently.

The Boston Bruiser scoffs, then throws his arms out to his sides, narrowly missing the overgrown manchild in an all black suit that’s a few sizes too small.“What’s it look like?”

Taking the rhetorical question literally, Larry finally takes in his surroundings. He looks the Elder Bandit up and down. His eyebrows scrunch up. Then he twists around and takes a good look at Cardboard Dan. He scratches the top of his head.

“Ummm…”

Patience is not one of the Old Bull’s strong points.

“Don’t hurt yourself… Listen, it’s complicated.”

You can almost hear Larry’s relief, from not having to answer the question, escaping him.

“My Maw and Paps always used to tell me to get something to eat whenever things were gettin’ too complicated for me.” Let me tell you, that response took our identity crisis-having main character for a loop.

“That why you grew up so friggin’ big?” 

Larry chuckles while the shade flies over his head like few physical objects ever could in his vertically gifted life. Doozer returns his focus to the night sky above them. 

“Sooo…” Larry makes imaginary circles on the pavement with the toe of his boot. “You, uh, want something to eat?” He presents an orange plastic lunchbox with back to back, black Ls on its face. Definitely something you’d have seen a third grader carrying.

“No I don’t want anything to fucking eat., especially out of your weird fucking lunchbox. Jesus-“

“Maw and Paw always said it was real bad to use his na-“

“Fuck your parents.”

Now Larry might have a two ton truck’s worth of tolerance, but our newly named friend Freddy Mayhew just found his line. The muscle bound child stuck in a man’s frame stands up in the blink of an eye, suddenly switching from harmless to borderline scary, and hovers over The Elder Bandit.

“I’m sorry.” Fred fills his hands with his face again. “Sit down.”

Larry, somewhat reluctantly, lowers himself and his guard.

“What’m I doing here, Larry?”

The question sends Larry into a logical loop that sends his face into a contortion I couldn’t describe to you if I tried.

“Well I actually asked you that not long ago…”

Freddy “The Dooze” Mayhew sighs.

“I mean, like, in PRIME. Trying to show that I’ve still got it when I clearly don’t.”

Larry sits back, releasing a deep breath, trying his best to think of something. Anything. And just like that, he lights up like a bulb just switched on over his head.

“What if you’re right… and wrong?”

The Boston Bruiser’s eyes nearly roll out of their sockets.

“I mean.” Larry tries to explain. “What if Doozer ran out of… it… ya know?”

The big kid smiles.

“But what if Fred Mayhew’s got… it?”

The nearly naked Bandit slowly lifts his face from the palms of his hands, squinting out of the corner of his eye, trying to make sense of the message Larry tried to send.

“Maybe Doozer just became too predictable, ya know?” Larry shrugs. “There’s so much tape on The Dooze out there, everyone you… he… went up against knew exactly what to expect?”

Mayhew’s head tilts to the side, almost in awe of the now insightful idiot beside him.

“You’re facing Mushigihara, right?”

Freddy’s blond head nods as his blue eyes brighten up, and hone in on his company.

“Yeah? Whadda you know about him?”

Larry shrugs.

“I beat him once.”

Mayhew straightens up like he was just called to attention. He places a hand on Larry’s shoulder and says something to him that the man child had most likely never heard before.

“Teach me everything you know.”

 

~~~

 

Into the Fire

 

A fire is good for a couple of things, aside from cooking food and providing heat in the cold, of course.

A good fire can be lit in celebration.

It can also be used as a mechanism of cleansing.

For me, it’s probably all of the above.

Not just because Cancer won’t let me inside until I win a singles match. But because, despite it being Halloween, it’s time I took the mask off.

See, people change. My opponent, for example, has learned to say more than a two syllable, three letter word.

However, in my stubbornness, after all those years of success, I thought I didn’t have to change. Don’t gotta fix something that’s not broken, right?

Well, I guess it took a little too long, but I think we all can agree that Doozer was broken.

Time to fix that.

And it starts with Mushigihara.

Honestly, I could build a long list of people I’d rather start with, Mushi. Because while I don’t know you that well myself, from what I’ve gathered, you sound like quite a force to be reckoned with in the ring.

You’ve got the size advantage. You’ve got the strength advantage. And with your youth, I’m sure you’ve even got me in the speed department.

But where you failed against my new, lunchbox lugging confidant, you will have an even more difficult match with me.

You see, all those strengths don’t mean shit if I can get in your head. 

Whether it’s from one too many trips to the outside of the ring, using the ropes when the ref isn’t looking, or even inviting my good friend Bobby Dean, the man whose “accidental” cheapshot sent you backwards into a roll up courtesy of an idiot named Larry… I will get under your skin eventually.

Bandits tend to be good at that.

You just better hope you put me down and out before I do. Unfortunately for you, if there’s anything else true you can say about me, it’s that I don’t stay down easy.

Another Bandit quality… even Bobby picks himself up like a champ!

I have risen from the burning pits of Hell Octane many times before.

I’ve got the scars to prove it.

You just can’t see them.

But, Mushi, I can see you.

Hardy Har Tough Guy Number A Lot.

Pulling a Japanese RICK on us all.

No roll.

Just for that, and THAT ALONE, I have to make an example of you, Mushi. 

Like I said before, I know you’re a strong one, but I hope you’re smart. Because if you think, for a second, that I’m not going to show up, a new man, at Revival and give you absolutely everything I’ve got, then you’re in for a world of trouble, Mushi.

Win or lose, come November 4th, the PRIME will is in for a treat.

I just hope you hold up your end, Mushi, and back up all those new, big words you can say now.

May the best man win. No tricks.

Happy Halloween.

~One, Two… Freddy’s coming, OSU!~