Mystery Bandit Theater Redux
“It’s dark and hell is hot.” — Jiles’ Journal, May 11th, 2022.
I don’t want to do it…
I was almost upset at how good of a job they did…
I should have known Dooze could sneak around unseen…
No wonder they both said yes so eagerly…
…Yet, a deal is a deal.
Bobbyblood and Doozer had done for me, and now it is time I do for them. You’d think that being friends and having such a valuable resource at their disposal they would have asked me to “run in” on one of their vignettes, or mystify someone in their good name.
They are not rational.
They, like me, are Bandits. As such, eggs need cracking. My eggs. And the way my two pals want to go about doing that, well, they want to rewatch the Culture Shock 2022 Main Event.
Shock Therapy Bobby called it.
I know, he was on a roll that day.
But really, how bad could it be? I wrestled. I strung some moves together. I got a Termiblast in. I went the distance. Most of it. Sure, I didn’t win, but my entrance, as always, was best in show. I even got a Wholzer Mann five star Roman Flamingo award for it.
I should be fine.
Who cares if I haven’t watched the match back yet?
Who cares if the Tower of Babel stood tall in the center of the ring?
It’s just one, lousy, measly, little, match. Nothing to worry about. Besides, Bob and his lack of an attention span will probably be asleep halfway through it anyway. Same goes for that old fart Dooze, especially if I hide his Metamucil before showtime.
After all, last I checked it’s still a Brandon Youngblood match.
“Sit down and stop pacing around the room. You’re making me sweaty with all that walking nonsense.” Bobby, in crust stained sportscar pajamas, playfully quips from the comfort of the couch. He then asks, “Hey, which button is slow motion again? I want to watch the finish that way– just in case we missed something. Never know, it could have been a fast count.”
Me, my exquisite hair, and my CLEAN Terminator pajamas do not find Optimistic Robert too amusing. Not at all. In fact, I want to tell him that he ate the button for breakfast. However, any attempt to retaliate would amplify what is guaranteed to be a miserable experience. So, “Ask Doozer. He’s the computer guy.”
“Dooze, which button makes it slow motion Youngblood murder machine?”
The Bostonian, who’s also on the couch and who’s also in pajamas, Red Sox ones, grabs the remote from Bob’s hand and points out which button to press. “This one. Right here. Don’t forget, either. I’m looking forward to that part.”
I gag on all the dickbanditry. Unfortunately, this is just the beginning.
Remorseless, Dooze coyly adds, “Ya know he got an Emmy nod for that.”
Feigning genuine interest, Bob tilts his head to the side and prods back, “Who? Skinny me?”
Dooze sits up, a stupid smile covering that ugly wrinkled face of his. “Yeah, it was for Best Finish. EVER.”
The Honaleean landslides. “I can TOTALLY see that. Totally.”
Bob and Dooze high five. My teeth grind all the way down to the root. Their overall giddiness only adds to me wanting to see if the windows in our Ivory Tower suite are really shatterproof. I even walk over and tap on the glass to test the density.
“Jiles, enough is enough. Quit looking for an exit and sit the fuck down already.” Doozer bellows, while also showing off that he knows me all too well. “It’s getting late. I need to get some sleep… in six or seven hours.”
Cue up another bawdy, childlike, way too enthusiastic high five between buddies. Bobby squeals like a pig afterwards, and Dooze flabbergasts like he’s Santa Claus giving out the gift of cheer.
“Wait.” Concern quickly takes over me. “You guys aren’t really going to make me watch this for–”
“Well, if we watch the finish in slow motion it could take a while.” The Beautiful Man from Honalee quips before squealing once more. That, or he’s bloated. Probably both. Either way I hate him right now.
“Ya know, he does Randallplex you three times.” Dooze takes a beat. “Or maybe you don’t? Either way we’re going to find out!” Amused, the invisible man reaches out so he and Bob can high five YET again. Before they can clap me out of existenstance I throw any and all caution to the wind and take my seat.
Smells like… wet farts.
Spiteful, disgusted, sandwiched between, and definitely uncomfortable, I say to both of them, “Just think, maybe one day one of you guys will have a big enough failure to watch over and over again.”
Bobby belches and tells me, “Maybe we can re-watch Doozer getting us eliminated from Survivor again? I heard that was a big thing.”
I wish half of you got that joke.
Doozer, ignoring the fat man, smirks my way and offers, “Sucks to be you.”
Who knows what tomorrow will bring.
“Just play the fucking thing.”
Blud Baguette Blud(Vampire Breakfast Sandwich)
“I asked the doctor what part of his knee sustained the most damage. The doctor said it was his high knee that was hurt the most. I smiled, and told the doctor that was impossible. The rematch hadn’t happened yet.” — Jiles’ Journal, May 13th, 2022.
No, I’m not stalling.
I just know that Brandon isn’t getting around like he used to, and I don’t want him to miss a thing.
Cancer the Considerate.
“Hello, Brandon. Tell me, how’s your knee doing? Keeping it elevated? Icing it up? Twenty minutes on, twenty minutes off. I heard that works. I’m COOL like an ice pack so naturally I don’t swell.”
I smile widely; rancid shit oozing between my pearly teeth.
“Who am I kidding? I know how your knee is. I made sure to know how your knee is. In fact, some might even say I went out of my COOLYMPIAN way to know how your knee is.”
The treacherous moment from ReVival 7 runs through my head like it’s my own best finish ever nomination. Eat your heart out, Academy.
“I guess the proper diagnosis would be that your knee is eggsactly how I want it to be.”
More shit smearing smiles by me.
“Nothing personal, Champ. Just business.”
And yeah, I’m lying. It’s very personal. More on that later.
“Now, if you’re sitting on some rehab table wondering why me? Well, you’re in luck. I’m going to tell you why, Champ. Spoiler, it’s a little more complicated than Jiles is a jerk, and because he could.”
No it isn’t.
I nod, as if I had learned something important and wished to share with the rest of the class.
“In our first matchup I tried to out wrestle you. I wanted to beat you at your own game. Just to be a dick really. Just to say I was right, PRIME is full of stinky crumbs and Pizmos, and you’re inferior. Then I failed, and learned the hard way that pride does indeed come before the fall. I was devastated. It shook me– losing to someone like you, and missing out on the chance to spoil such a Hallmark moment.”
If only for a second, I frown.
“In the days and weeks that would follow my extensive humiliation at your hands, I realized I wasn’t going to let my pride get the best of me again. You’re better than me. Plain and simple. There’s no sense in trying to wrestle you uphill. Instead, I needed to change the rules of engagement in order to swing fortune in my favor. I needed to make it so I didn’t have to wrestle you, and more importantly so you wouldn’t want to wrestle me.”
I scratch at my chin.
“But how? How does one go about doing that? Outside of my normal jerk off measures that is.”
That’s one of them.
“Then, it came to me. If I could hurt you. Someone like me. The undeserving. The vermin. The mud dweller. If I could rob you of what you’ve yearned for, and threaten that which you hold so dear — especially after you’ve walked around in those shoes for a little bit — your pride would fail you just like mine did.”
This time in a righteous, self serving, manner.
“So, knowing I had my Golden Ticket punched, I did what I did and you did what I thought you would do– accepted. I will say it was honorable, but ultimately foolish.”
I wasn’t born in darkness in case you’re wondering.
“Now, I’ve ensured that round two won’t be a match, but a fight. It won’t end with a pin fall, but in blood. There are no rules. There are no count outs. There are no disqualifications. Weapons? Sure. Mist? ABSOLUTELY. Headlocks? At your own peril.”
“And that, Brandon, is why I did what I did. Sure, I could have just asked you but where is the fun in that?”
No fun. Zero. Sticks in the mud don’t laugh. So I have heard.
They are also skinheads.
“Plus, I would never give you the satisfaction of one upping me by saying yes. Never. WOULD. NOT. For me, I needed to force your hand because at the end of day I demand of Champions, and not the other way around. It’s just part of being COOL.”
Also very disrespectful.
“That said, good luck with the knee. I know a good doctor if you need one. He plays twenty-five dollar minimum blackjack.”
Not that you would know.
“See you soon, Champ.”
Las Vegas Veterinary Hospital
Funeral For a Friend
Because a Flopping Around Fish Just Wouldn’t Do
“I’m going to make him an offer he can’t refuse.” — Jiles’ Journal, May 4th, 2022.
The sun shined.
A ball of dust rolled on by…
Now, Cocaine, my trusty steed, has died.
He had a good run. Then, he didn’t. That’s life in the big city.
I guess I had to keep winning in order for him to stay alive. I didn’t know that was part of the deal when I stole him from Prometheus so many moons ago.
He was old anyway.
Now, Cocaine, my trusty steed, has died.
I have no one to blame but myself for his demise. If I had my full arsenal of weapons maybe things would have been different. If I had blinded Brandon then maybe he wouldn’t have kicked out. But, I didn’t. I couldn’t. I wasn’t able to.
Now, Cocaine, my trusty steed, has died.
It wasn’t easy, my horse and I had become attached. However, the animal doctor had a blackjack habit and he was short on cash. I’d seen him around the MGM before when I was riding Cocaine around the casino floor. He stopped me to ask about the horse, and who I was and why I was riding it around without a saddle. I would usually laugh at him and just ride away.
Not anymore I suppose.
Now, Cocaine, my trusty steed, had died.
The animal doc asked what I wanted to do with the body after euthanizing him. I didn’t tell him. I just said I would handle it. I still can’t believe Bobby gnawed through his neck with surgical-like precision. He must have been holding some pent up anger inside… probably because I would feed Cocaine his snacks, and ask Bob to pick up the piles of shit.
Not that any of that really matters…
Now, Cocaine, my trusty steed, has died.
He did go out with a bang though. He proved that while you shouldn’t beat a dead horse, you can always have your friend sever its head and use it to coax an enemy into a mistake.
Valuable lesson indeed.
Thank you, Cocaine.
You will be missed…
“I saved the best for last.” — Jiles’ Journal, May 13th, 2022.
“One last thing, Mr. Wounded Knee.”
Here comes the personal part I alluded to before.
“I do wonder how you will fare when there is no Welcome Back Tournament to draw inspiration from. When there is no namesake for you to honor. When there is no decade-long Culture Shock blunder to hang your silver linings singlet on.”
I rub my hands together as if I had just gotten done making my full list of wishes.
“What I’m getting at is I’m not up against Snow White anymore, Brandon.”
I laugh. Not because I find myself funny, but more so because Suplex Daddy Babel Brains is knee deep in my mud. There’s nowhere for him to go. He can’t hide with that gold around his waist, and he sure can’t run on that knee of his.
“Whereas you, Brandon, you and your little knee, and your quenched thirst, and your Guitar Hero Presents: The Touching Dicks Tour, you face Cancer the Salty.”
Son of Famine. Brother to Sinister, Humiliation, and Conceit. Descendant of COOLYMPUS.
“You face a man who is still carrying the shame of being Randallplexed three times in a row. Who failed his brethren. Who was left humiliated in the center of the ring while the world found out how PowerPoint works.”
I jab my thumb into my chest, just in case there is any confusion as to who Brandon faces next.
“I’m still thirsty, Brandon. My mouth remains dry, like I’ve been chewing on cotton for the last month and half. I want to be the Universal Champion now more than ever. It’s the only thing that will satiate me.”
Well, there’s always…
Nah, best not.
“And it’s not because of the prestige and glory that comes with being Universal Champion.”
I shake my head no, as if I STILL couldn’t give two fucks about Dirty PRIME and the Boys.
“The only reason I want to be Universal Champion is because I want to take from you, and watch you suffer, BRANDON. I want you to bleed. I want to crack that eggshell you call a head wide open, and watch you spill out onto my salt whites. I want you to remember what despair feels like. I want to reintroduce you to monumental and complete failure. I want the absolute worst for you.”
I grin. Thirsty. Wide. Mist dripping down my chin like I had a wet dream.
“That’s why I want to be Universal Champion.”
I sneer, clearly not over how things went the first time around. Then again, as they say up on COOLYMPUS what doesn’t kill you makes you COOLER.
I wonder if there is a similar saying down here.
“That’s who you got next, buddy boy. That’s where your road leads.”
I wince, like I bit into an onion.
“I don’t care if you’re in the middle of crash dieting or not. I don’t care about your fancy gumball henna arm sleeves, or your eight ball hemorrhage contact lenses. Your makeover is done after I get my ten pounds of flesh, and not one bloody second sooner.”
Mystery Bandit Theater Curtain Call
“That’s a big fucking IF.” — Jiles’ Journal, May 12th, 2022.
The night is no longer young. The moon shines brightly down upon the strip, and in the city that never sleeps I call bullshit. Bobby is asleep. Doozer the same. Both of my sworn Bandit brethren have their slobbering heads resting on one of my shoulders.
Gonna have to burn these pajamas.
They’re exhausted, and for good reason. My eggs have been cracked. My soul has almost been slow motioned to death. I’ve relived being Randallplexed seemingly over a hundred times. I know the very instant my eyes roll in the back of my head. I know which eye does so first. I know which Randallplex it happens on. I know which Randallplex was the longest. Which one was the shortest. The hardest. The COOLEST. You name it, I know it. Shit, I’ve even heard the call in six different languages and five of them were just Bobby speaking in gibberish.
Dooze did the Irish Announce Team.
He was shitfaced on mojitos.
No, I didn’t have the heart to tell them that I knew.
They had worked so hard.
I will say there was a good hour or so where the three of us broke down the bout and did some quality diligence. No lie, I actually got some decent insight for the eventual tiebreaker between Brandon and myself. Outside of that glimmer of hope though it’s been hell.
Actually, it’s been worse than hell.
Well, maybe not worse than hell, but I assume at least equal to. I’ll be able to say with full confidence as to which it is once I figure out a way to jump out the window or lose to Brandon Youngblood in a rematch I rigged.
Which reminds me.
I’d like it on the record that it’s hard to focus with these two snoring in my ears.
As I sit here having anguished again and again through one of my greatest regrets.
After suffering inscrutable ridicule on the yolkiest of levels.
I can’t help but to think.
After doing what I did. After hearing his visceral roar. I know I’ve hobbled him nice and good. I know it is a fight now, and that I can win. I know the loser bleeds, and I have a trick up my sleeve.
Did I go too far?
That horse head was no paper weight, but he sure threw it like one.
Not to mention, it took him twelve years to lead the pack, and now I’m coming to eat off his plate.
Spoiled rotten tomatoes.
And he’s wounded.
He sure is.
And, he’s got fifty pounds and two inches on me.
Fatso in high heels.
IF he gets his hands on me.
He better have washed them first.
Could be trouble. Could be painful. Could be bloody.