Cancer Jiles
Working
Class
ZERO
“The last dinosaur I lost to was Brandon Crumblood.” — Jiles’ Journal, August 2nd, 2023.
Losing inside the ring is never fun.
Losing your grip on reality is an absolute nightmare.
Losing everything you’ve worked for is grounds for expulsion.
It’s never fun losing a match.
Never.
Doesn’t matter if it’s clean or dirty. Doesn’t matter if it’s against a King or a Crumb. Doesn’t matter if it’s for the Universal Championship, or for a chance at the Universal Championship, or if you’re defending the Universal Championship.
It is never fun losing.
Never.
Trust me.
I know.
I’ve lost with the best of them, to the best of them, and against the worst of them. Never once did I have a bit of fun. Not even losing alongside Robert Dean was fun. Sure, it might have seemed like I was having fun because of all the smiling and laughing I was doing while blaming Bob on our way back up the entrance ramp; but that was just theatrics for the crowd.
I swear I wasn’t really having any fun.
Bandit Honor.
Losing inside the ring is never fun.
Losing your grip on reality is an absolute nightmare.
Losing everything you’ve worked for is grounds for expulsion.
As it pertains to the losing of the grips, well, it’s no secret the mighty and all powerful brothers of the yolk and shell are neither mighty nor all powerful.
Our grip on a yolk filled reality is lost.
I have failed.
Repeatedly. Miserably. Decisively.
As I’ve already mentioned I’ve failed inside the ring, but I’ve also failed to keep Bobby nestled inside the carton. I failed to keep the shine on the Golden Bandit. I failed to finally procure a motherly blessing. I failed to maintain Bandit relevance; as evidenced by there being someone alive who has never heard of Cracking News.
The treachery inside a certain forehead is grotesque.
As it pertains to Robert’s nestling, I cut him loose after seeing donuts slip through his hands. We even tried coating his digits in different types of syrups and jams to help with the problem. Ya know, like stickum. However, each time Bob would lick his fingers clean before even making an attempt.
Bob’s grip is of a literal nature since his stomach has no sense of reality.
Maybe now that Robert is free he can grab a donut when he’s pretty in pink.
Tough out.
Ironically enough after I had freed Bob from his shackle he continued sitting there watching Below Deck with me.
Brothers till the end.
It didn’t fix the donut problem.
That’s a story for another time.
As for Golden Zeb, I mean Abe, let’s just say this once and leave it at that– there is little doubt Upstart Abe would have been better off if he had just said no to those Children’s Tylenols way back when. Alas, he did not, and in doing so maybe picked up on an old Bandit habit in the process.
Poor guy.
Being a Bandit is both a blessing and a curse.
Sadly, because of all that, the grip around the eggs of PRIME us eGG Bandits are left with is one that is both soft AND flaccid. A reality that is pathetic, and makes us in dire need of a horse sized purple pill shoved up our ass.
Losing inside the ring is never fun.
Losing your grip on reality is an absolute nightmare.
Losing everything you’ve worked for is grounds for expulsion.
And lastly there’s losing everything that YOU worked for.
All of your COOL.
All of your hair color.
All of your pride.
All of your dignity.
All of your energy.
All of the pop in your collar.
All of all.
Poof.
Down the drain.
Everything you ever wanted.
Everything you ever had.
Gone.
Sit down Timo the jet stays.
You would think that being so low, so abysmal, that things couldn’t get any worse. But it does. You still have hope, but then doubt creeps in and the hope goes away. Then a moment comes along amongst all of the self blame/shame where you think that maybe you aren’t good enough anymore. Fit. Righteous. A Bandit. An Eggsecutioner. A proper fucking Pizmo. Then, you start to think that maybe you never were, and that maybe they were right all along.
Can’t stand those pesky theys.
Instead of remembering, you seemingly forget what it was that got you there.
To the top.
To prominence.
Standing tall on the shoulders of Bandits.
DOUBT.
It’s doom. It’s gloom. It does its absolute best to drag you down and keep you down. More importantly, it can close your window of opportunity like that. And once that window is closed the only way to get it back open and remove the doubt is to shatter the glass. Believe me when I say it’s not easy to break with just eggs. It’s doable. It’s been done, but I don’t know if it could be done again since the current state of affairs is rotten at best.
Lot’s and lot’s of splatting.
That said, there is another way.
Rebirth.
Sometimes, when all is lost and the night is at its darkest…
Fresh air.
When nothing makes sense and everything seems to go wrong…
A light.
When you need to shatter the glass so ALL will not be LOST…
The path.
When eggs aren’t enough…
The way.
…You need something that’s not even found inside of Ripley’s famed museum, or in the deepest recesses of Bobby Dean’s cavernous belly button.
Wonder what it could be?
Not lint obviously.
A failure to satisfy this “need” will likely lead to the expulsion of not only the egg, but of the bandit, too.
High Steaks.
A pot marinade for steaks you eat when the stakes are high.
Losing inside the ring is never fun.
Losing your grip on reality is an absolute nightmare.
Losing everything you’ve worked for is grounds for expulsion.
So what’s the point of all this? To cry? To strikethrough? To wallow? To shill a possible new to market marinade? To drown my sorrows in a sea of yolk? To share my most miserable of revelations while also detailing the possible pitfalls for those brave enough to embrace a rotten egg? To brag about being the skinniest biggest loser? To scare Rocky De Leon into hiding so that he may return at a later date under the new ring name of Ponce Balboa?
No.
Of course not.
Let’s not be silly.
It’s not like when Matt got kicked out of BC3.
Besides, Ponce Balboa is probably already taken.
—
The
Ivory
Tower
“I really hope the fancy formatting in the first part pays off, and it doesn’t come off as too Hollywood.” — Jiles’ Journal, August 4th, 2023.
Timo One.
Aka, Bandit One.
Aka, the jet.
I don’t know how I’ve managed to keep the jet in decent condition for this long. I don’t. It’s a miracle. Like me, Timo One and Cancer Jiles have both been through a lot, and yet, here we are.
Still. Flying. High.
Sure, we look a lot better than we feel. Still, the masquerade continues.
Total facade. But it’s a good one. Strong. Like a matchstick pueblo.
Maybe I should rename the jet to Cockroach One because of how resilient the both of us are?
LIGHTS.
CANCER.
ACTION~!
A few seconds of dead air pass as I sit there, aboard Cockroach One, looking like smug, punchable, jerk off, tracksuit-wearing cockroach that I am.
TLDR Crumbroach.
And I give these out for free.
“Rocky. Sucks.”
A pearly smile coincides with a clever but concealed by T-Shades wink.
“Die. Rocky. Die.”
My smile widens, somehow, touching the lobes of my ears.
“You. Fucking. Crumb.”
I burst out into uproarious laughter, almost falling out of my lavish and plush seat. In the background behind me, Bobby is visible and struggling. I had a coach class seat installed on the jet specifically for him after his treacherous behavior, and haven’t had a chance to switch it out now that I don’t care anymore.
About the behavior, and not in general,
Bandit Honor.
“Rocky Crumboiosaurus is more like it, am I right?”
A daftly defiant snort.
“Hand of God I thought this was your debut match and I actually felt bad for you for a few seconds. Like, what a poor bastard. Me, granted, I’m at my very worst, and at my very bottom, and at my absolute weakest, but still, me, and this is how he’s going to start off? He’s been sentenced to extinction simply in the hopes that it would somehow satiate my broken shell of an ego?”
I shrug.
Truth hurts.
“Then I thought isn’t it ironic that the man who has wrestled in the most matches in PRIME, the man who puts the J.O. in you know what b.b.e.r– is up against a man dash animal dash Sam Neil’s jurassic crush just breaking onto the scene. Total opposite sides of the spectrum and or food chain. Then I thought it even more ironic that the man who exemplifies survival, Me, KING COOL, is up against the man who exemplifies extinction, You, Dinoboy.”
Let it be known that I don’t eat sacrificial lambatops.
I’m allergic.
Cook the shit clean out of them though.
“But no, turns out you’ve just been waiting for the right meteor to come along.”
Spoiler, it’s here.
“Rocky, my prehistoric man, I hate to burst your bubble and maybe the mask is really covering it up, but there’s a bigger forehead out there. This guy isn’t cro magnon, he’s PRO magnon. His lineage dates back to before your kind went extinct.”
I have two degrees. Dinosaurs and foreheads. I also have a masters in eggs, hair, COOL, and of course a doctorate in COOLYMPIAN History. I know what I’m talking about is what I’m getting at.
“Sorry. I don’t mean for this whole thing to come off as mean. I don’t. It’s a bit. I’m good at them. I do it to everyone. Some meltdown. Some go on to be Flamberge. However, if it does carbon date your bones, well I apologize. I swear it was never my intention to Big Bang your feelings and impose my dominant will before our match even begins.”
My sincerity should be noted here.
Nonexistent.
Also, that’s not to say the USS Octane Boy’s Choir doesn’t want another alto, or that KFC couldn’t use another person working the drive through. If that’s what he wants, so be it. We’re always looking for good help.
“That said, if you were in a police lineup and the cops told me to pick out Rocky de Leon.”
A pause.
“And you were the only one in the lineup that was wearing a mask.”
Another pause.
“Oh, and let me preface this by stating that I would be able to pick out that fucking slob, that fucking slacker, that nerd ass fellow mask wearer, The Anglo Luchacrumb, in a heartbeat.”
Same hood.
I pause again, because building suspense when everyone knows where the bit is going is a treasure chest not many open.
“But if they told me to pick out Rocky de Leon, and you were the only one who had a mask on.”
Last pause.
Ben Halkum ruined fWo.
At least he paid up though.
“And if I didn’t identify you correctly I would be sent to a land before time.”
Damn it I lied.
“I’d say to them Rocky De Leon is the Crumboiosaurus wearing a mask.”
Pucker.
Kiss.
Goodbye.
—
Sheets
Sheetz
Shitz
“Thank Zeus I sell these matches. No one else sure does. I should give a class on it. Oh wait. You’d think ReVival was a Magic the Gathering event as opposed to a wrestling show sometimes. Could you imagine if I flipped the script and started playing Family Feud with the Bandits? Ha. Crazy times.” — Jiles’ Journal, August 7th, 2023.
I claim I’m from COOLYMPUS.
It smells like roses there.
However, before my ascension, I was born in Philadelphia.
It smells like shit there.
He’s powering up like Clay Byrd.
My mother was nice.
My father wasn’t a plumber.
I am an only child, and now you know why I cling to my brethren of the yolk like I do. Growing up my family was of modest means. We had a cable TV. I had a discman. And a Playstation One. Then, one day, I climbed a mountain and found a pair of T-shades. Ever since then I’ve been from COOLYMPUS. However, I’ve never forgotten my roots. I’ve kept my Kensington salt chip placed firmly upon my shoulder because it keeps me true.
False.
It keeps him young.
As such, since my blood runs PhillyGreen, this is the sixth Sheetz I’ve been to since the jet landed at Pittsburgh International Airport. Each one has been egged, and each one more so than the last. Granted, I bought the eggs from the Sheetz I was egging so it was kind of like I was keeping my mischief in house.
No blood.
So no, it wasn’t a total arch nemesis maneuver where I glue the doors closed and light the place on fire.
You might ask why do such a thing? I am in fact an adult, and sure eggs are my thing. But six? What has the Sheetz establishment done to deserve such a vindictive punishment? Could it be that I am simply doing this because throwing sap encased mosquitos would be too on brand?
JOLO.
Sadly, like most of my motivations, it is petty and obscure.
Their coffee sucks, they boil their hotdogs, and they import their ketchup from China.
Oh, and I want an excuse to have in case I lose.