Eat Your Heart Out
Posted on 06/10/22 at 12:01pm by Cancer Jiles
Event: ReVival 10
“I swore to myself. I made a pact. Next time I saw him(Timo) I was going to paint his face a different color. Fucking devout crumb(Timo). Leave it to Joe Prime(Timo) to cheat me out of the Title. So much for me getting a fair shake in this dump(PRIME). NO, I’m not angry.” — Jiles’ Journal, June 4th, 2022.
He would not run from it.
He would not hide from it.
He is from COOLYMPUS.
His pride wouldn’t let him.
It’s being so miserable you don’t like company. It’s being so buried you eggsist underneath the rocks at the bottom. It’s when you envy being the lint found in Bobby’s bellybutton because at least you know then you serve a purpose.
It’s the smell inside Impulse’s garage.
If ULTIMATE FAILURE were Mortal Kombat, it would be Baraka’s secret ninety-seven button press Fatality that was passed around on tattered pieces of toilet paper. It would never be mentioned over the phone, and if you did, Ed Boon would come to your house and kill you in your sleep.
**As for the Fatality itself: the heart is removed via precision tear and rip, hastily shoved up the anus, goes over the intestines, through the esophagus, and finally comes beating out of the victim’s mouth. The final beat is seismic and smashes the teeth to smithereens.
LUCKILY for Jiles, this is PRIME, and ULTIMATE FAILURE isn’t that.
Though, for HIM, it is damn close.
ULTIMATE FAILURE in PRIME is going bust when the deck is stacked in your favor. It’s for the second time in as many matches failing to secure the Universal Championship. It’s Brandon Youngblood once again proving to be the better man. It’s letting the Bandits down. It’s putting your salty foot in your mouth. It’s crisis averted, PRIME lives to see another UNCOOL day and the whole world celebrates on your carton because of it.
That’s ULTIMATE FAILURE.
Now, knowing that…
Know that Jiles considers Furst Blud to be one of the worst losses of his ENTIRE career. Know he hasn’t been this salty, ever. It’s a new level, one that was unknown to him. Know that he is scorned. He’s ashamed. He’s embarrassed. He lost to one of the best wrestlers on the planet, and that’s how he feels about it. That’s the standard Cancer Jiles holds himself to. Him, and then everyone else.
His ULTIMATE FAILURE is any other PRIMEmates greatest hits.
Now, imagine having to face such a man after he’s been left in the mud?
The Sunny Side of Failure
“Eraser be damned, the earlier journal entry might be misconstrued as “Yankee Jiles” being a racist. Therefore, by painting his(Timo’s) face a different color I mean using my mist to change the color of his(Timo’s) face paint.” — Jiles’ Legal Team’s Journal, Addendum, June 4th, 2022.
How about that ride in?
As it turns out I haven’t been sleeping too well for the past couple of weeks. Or at all. I guess it really depends on your definition of sleep. Let’s just say there hasn’t been any sound sleeping, like the kind you get when watching Julian Batharoy wrestle.
That’s right. No one is safe. More on that later.
As such I am a bit aloof. Not myself. Eggshausted. I also haven’t stopped with my glaucoma, shame-begone therapy so I’m sure that is adding to my overall psychosis. I do know I haven’t shaved in a while. You wouldn’t know because I don’t grow facial hair, but it’s true.
Baby face. Who knew?
Suck it Twitch.
What else? There’s pepper smeared all over my salty whites. The tint on my T-shades has turned transparent. My Old English “COOL” tattoo is now inked in Comic Sans.
Oh, and I wasn’t able to wash my hair today.
Is the year 1934?
Hopefully the promo portion doesn’t come from a ledge or the roof.
Most important of all, I have yet to go into cryostasis. That’s right. I’m living with my shame. My whole body still hurts from Furst Blud. I’m still shitting, coughing, pissing, and farting blood from time to time. Bobby says it’s like I’m on the rag, and he can’t help but giggle every time I fart a blood mist.
I want to murder his life for it, but it is a funny rib.
And we all know how much he loves his ribs… Slathered in barbecue sauce.
I guess you could say I’m eggsactly how a person who experiences ULTIMATE FAILURE would be.
Outside of that, it’s night time in Sin City.
I’m up in the den. Dooze is also here, but he’s fast asleep in his room after a long night of bearish raving. Bob is away on business if you catch my drift, so there’s no telling how long he’ll be indisposed for.
So, alone, I sit. Just me, my couch, my jam-jams, the moon, and my thoughts…
…Thank god my hair still looks good…
…I’m going to need my backup pair of T-shades…
…How many eggs would it take to cover the MGM???
…Shocker. Yet another main event… …Does Brandon shave his head or is he just bald???
…How the fuck did I botch that rematch so badly???
…Internal bleeding. HA. Damn organs…
…How do I move forward???
…Why is Doozer so hard to see? Is it because he is so old he’s disappearing before my very eyes? Is it possible he’s known voodoo magic this whole time? Can he make shame disappear? Can he really communicate with that bear? Does that bear know if Cocaine made it to Animal Heaven???
I was going to do the last sentence in ALL CAPS but I fell on a steroid needle.
…I wonder when Bobby will get that ever elusive tummy tuck procedure, and what they’d do with all that leftover skin? Maybe one of these Primebabies could use it as a protective blanket of sorts– thicken up their hide some…
…Why is it I am seemingly up against the United Nations of PRIME? Is it my COOLMPIAN heritage? The Puddings clan is from the Third World. Nova is from the future. Teddy Pee and B-Bopbloodyface are from Canada. Flamer is French. Toss in whatever death pit Balaam crawled out of…
…Damn it I hate this. I’m angry. I’m disgruntled. I have a fever, and I don’t need a cow or a bell to make it go away…
…I know what I can do to feel better. I am going to make whoever smiled… whoever thought it was good that I lost… whoever profited, cheered, exclaimed, smeared, victory lapped– I am going to make people pay for celebrating my ULTIMATE FAILURE…
…Yes. Everyone. That is what I will do.
Funeral for a Friend
“Hopefully this is like Anna Daniels and no one reads it.” — Jiles’ Omnipotent Secret Journal, June 4th, 2022.
We did not know. I swear it. Cross my heart and hope to die, stick a needle in my eye. There was no way we could have known. Well, no way I could have known. I know I’m the supposed leader and everything, but hand of god I haven’t read a book since memorizing Latin in highschool.
Maybe, and it’s a BIG maybe, but maybe Bobby knew about it with how much time he spends sitting on the shitter reading things.
Even then though he’d be too lazy to make the connection.
Regardless, tragedy had struck and now a loose end needed tying.
“Thank you all for coming. We’ve gathered here to say goodbye to one of our own…”
I can remember once being in a land with a central time zone, and the eGG Bandits vehemently defending his honor after the coffee flavored lights of Tinsel Town brewed him inside of a barrell. I can still smell the grinds from that night. I can still feel the heat of the fire. We took down Hollywood for him. Avenged him, because he was one of us. Just like Zeb. Just like RICK. Just like Bobby. Just like Doozer.
Just like me.
“What else is there to say that hasn’t already been said? What happened, happened. I won’t let the actions of another tarnish the accomplishments and reputation of a man who has never uttered an ill word. I won’t, and I know none of you will either…”
And now, he wasn’t one of us. Not because we wanted him gone, but because he had forced our hand.
As such, WE have gathered in somber festivus to remember a former friend. And when I say WE, I mean WE.
The gang’s back together.
A one night only, death by firing squad affair.
“What we managed to do will never be undone. You can’t uncrack an egg, no matter how hard you try. He was our friend. He listened when we needed someone to talk to. He was always there in our corner. But now he has to go…”
It’s Me, Count COOL, dressed in my funeral black jumpsuit. No track stripes because this is a serious affair. Dooze is here. Very visible, still very old though. He’s in formal attire. Even the supportive wraps around his knees are formal. Bobby is here, too. There are tears running down the Honaleean’s face like they just turned off the milkshake machine at McDonalds. Zeb, the young upstart and party-crashing Bandit from ReVival 4, skipped out on parenting duties once he heard the bell of the Bandit ringing. Even that big French Fry RICK, the dark shadow of the Bandits, managed to find his way back for the proceedings.
God knows RICK didn’t read about it. Hopefully the Megaladon of Mundane gets in the way and two birds go down with one stone tonight.
I mean spaghetti.
We all grab eggs from out of our respective cartons. Each man has his own carton because we are men and not boys.
We all wind up, some with heavier and more enlarged hearts than others. I motion for Dooze to push RICK into the line of fire. He doesn’t, but now is not the time for forming new grudges.
The ceremonial eggsecution goes on for a total of twelve times. You could say it’s our best take on the ten gun salute.
When it is over; trusted confidant and picture of originality, Cardboard Dan Ryan, will be no more.
The Show Goes On
I Never Liked the French
“In the days since saying goodbye I’ve come to realize that life is too short to be miserable. Then, I remember I’m not the Universal Champion, and any feeling of optimism is soon lost.” — Jiles’ Journal, June 10th, 2022.
“The Flamberge Egg? Maybe you’re so eggsquisite I dare not even utter a foul word?”
A pause. I smile during it; acting as if I were thinking.
You know it’s not actual thought because it’s not goofily aligned.
“Sorry France, but no one is that lucky.”
Thumbs down. The hard way.
“Flamberge. The young guy with the high fade. You know, I remember having that haircut… and then I became a man and grew hair under my armpits.”
Quickly, I raise my hands as if to correct myself.
“That’s not a dig, it’s just me saying I remember having that haircut. I mean, you’re a young guy, take advantage of it while you can. You never know when you might go Youngblood.”
I laugh, in a way that would lead you to believe I didn’t stumble into that joke.
“I jest. I kid. I’m using you to make fun of him because I’m not over squandering my Golden Ticket, and that’s not fair. It’s actually quite demeaning towards you because you do exist and somehow you stumbled your way into my main event. Not to mention who am I to demean? I’m no demeaner. I’m no better than the Universal Champion. I only split his face open and made it so when he looks in the mirror he’ll always be reminded of just how COOL Cancer Jiles is. That’s all I did. I didn’t win. I…”
Failure is rattling me.
I need to find my composure.
I need to regain my COOL.
Curse you transparent lenses!
“I apologize for the outburst. Like I said, you do exist, and you’re in MY main event. Therefore, you should know I am pent up, and I plan to release a waterfall of suffering upon you.”
He won’t say it because it’s too obvious but yes, Flamburgerler can blame Brandon Youngblood.
“See, I need to make an example, because even though you may or may not have taken a lap on Brandon’s coattails, I believe you did. I believe everyone did, and that is where my hat hangs these days.”
Figurative. I do not own any hats. You wouldn’t either if you had this head of hair.
“I want to trade scalps to ease my scorn, or as you know it, I want to smack people across the face with white gloves.”
And a hearty chuckle.
“Ya know, you French guys crack me up. There used to be a member of the Bandits who spoke French. He got hit in the head one day and his native tongue was all of a sudden the same as yours. I just saw him recently as a matter of fact. I was… not happy about it but we had gathered for a special… nevermind, it’s not important now.”
“Let’s just say seeing him and hearing him talk didn’t do you any favors.”
The French Projection.
“As if I weren’t salty enough to begin with.”
I snort, but it doesn’t stop the trickle of blood from dripping out of my nose. I’m no savage. I’m not some neanderthal like Batharoy. I simply wipe the drip away with a tissue as if it’s just an everyday common occurrence now.
It is an everyday occurance now.
Should be fine.
“Oh well. As they say where I am from, I’m COOLYPIAN and you’re not. Still though, welcome to the top of the mountain and try to enjoy your brief stay.”
I wink. You can tell because my shades are fucked from ULTIMATE FAILURE.
“Before I go, it’s a custom in COOLYMPUS to tip the shoe shine guy at the end so here it is. When you feel the ground shaking under your feet, know that it’s not an earthquake– it’s just my ovation.”
“Hayden Handlotion is the five star champion? What’s that? Like out of a hundred?” — Jiles’ Journal, Future Entry.
We reached out to Mom for the proceedings in regard to the eggsecution. We figured maybe she’d want to pay her respects from the loose paper affiliation.
See, she had spurred our advances in a land before time, when the throne was offered as rightful eGG Queen of the Bandits.
Of course, just like before, she declined.
Maybe because it was too soon.
Maybe because she stands with old PRiME.
Maybe because she doesn’t think us yolky lot good enough.
It would have been nice.