Little Red Youngblood
Posted on 04/02/22 at 9:20am by Cancer Jiles
Event: CULTURE SHOCK 2022
“I lied. I said he would remember it. I guess I kicked him too hard and let him off the hook. Oh well. He’s Kendra’s problem now.” Jiles’ Journal, March 23rd, 2022.
ReVival 5 has come and gone.
Next stop, prom.
But first, ReVival was an eventful event so let’s not totally skip over it. A mannequin was decapitated. A mannequin almost pinned Doozer. A mannequin may have lost his virginity. And, Teddy Palmer — definitely still a virgin — is now soulless like a mannequin.
So yeah, quite an empty shell party ReVival turned out to be.
Anyway, Bobby and Dooze successfully plucked the blueberry patch much to everyone’s surprise. Even theirs, probably. The odd pair appears ready to take it a step further and make a deep run when survival comes calling. To be clear, I mean a deep run in Survivor and not a horrible case of life threatening diarrhea. Though, Dooze does eat a lot of blended food. Soft, old teeth. And Bobby, as the world knows, can pop at any moment. So, I suppose what I’m getting at is both can be true. Let us all say a quick prayer with Pastor Hoyt that the latter isn’t.
Next up for the Bandits was the goose who lays the golden eGGs, the COOLYMPIAN from COOLYMPUS, Cancer Jiles. All he did was what he’s been saying he’s going to do this whole time, which is quite the scary thought when completely contemplated. He survived. He advanced. He kicked home a ringer, and now he’s found himself in the FINAL of the Almasy Invitational.
Let that sink in.
The man who has ridden a horse down to the ring, asphyxiated his way to victory, and cut each and every corner possible along the way, is going to main event PRIME’s first Pay Per View in over a decade.
The one not talked about.
And dare I even ask…
…but is there a person alive who can stop Cancer Jiles?
To properly pontificate on the matter:
Jiles is running downhill, ironically similar to Dr. eGGman’s adversary, at supersonic speeds. He has the absolute, righteous, and full fledged support of the Bandits following closely behind him. He has PRIME right where he wants it– seeing red, and eating yolk out of his cupped hands. His hair has never looked better. His shades have never sat snazzier on that schnozz. His sneaky strut has never been snakier. His eggsecutioner’s blade has never been sharper. His ego, his hubris, his arrogance, his EVERYTHING is glowing to the point where people have questioned whether or not he is pregnant with Bobby Dean’s love child.
Please, tell me.
Who could possibly defeat this man?
Does such a person even exist?
We know who is going to try. The last line of defense. Cornerstone of PRIME. Winner of the ReVival 5 main event. The man whose shoulders not only hold up his singlet, but also the hopes and dreams of PRIMATES everywhere. The other ONE seed in the Almasy Invitational.
In other words…
Good versus Bad.
Old versus New.
Establishment versus Usurper.
Technical Wrestler versus Master Cheap Shot Artist.
Power versus Speed.
Revered versus Reviled.
Bald versus Folically Blessed.
Literate versus Illiterate.
Youngblood and Jiles are polar opposites. Simply put, you could not ask for a better final. It’s impossible. The unstoppable force is about to collide with the immovable object. Blood will be shed. Reserves tested. Minds fucked. Eggs cracked. Hearts broken. One heart, at least. As we all know, Jiles doesn’t have one.
Then, and only then, will a new UNIVERSAL CHAMPION be crowned.
The Ivory Tower
Mystery Bandit Theater 2010
“I called him. I acted like someone else, but it worked. In all of his DATA of course he would have it. So, I made a trade. I sent him some Outback Steakhouse coupons, a sample of Bob’s hair, and a backup hard drive with lessons on HOW to be a human. In return…” — Jiles’ Journal, March 29th, 2022.
Here we are. The three of us. Me, Bobby, and Dooze.
The eGG Bandits.
We’re all sitting comfortably on MY couch in our somehow not completely run down Ivory Tower Suite. Our feet are kicked out in front of us. Our lounging gear is in full effect. The room is COOL and, most importantly, fart free.
Fingers crossed it stays that way.
I’m seated in the middle. Dooze is on my right, hardly visible. Bobby is on my left, very visible. The electric blue couch is big, seeing as it has to be in order to support my ego. And Bob. But mostly, my ego. As such, we have plenty of space between us. Well, Doozer and I do. Bob’s girth means he is always near, just not so much when on the couch you could say.
The lights are dim.
The night is kind of young, despite what Doozer might say.
The Honaleean has just finished laboring over some microwave popcorn for the group, which I’m sure he’ll hog to himself.
The ‘Do Not Disturb’ sign is on the door.
The reason for this gathering of the minds? Aside from endless coattail riding and Zeb jokes that is. Well, it’s movie night. Tonight is Doozer’s pick, but I’m in the MAIN EVENT so I trumped him. I told him, “Git gud scrub.” He didn’t like it very much, but after he heard what I had in store he quickly changed his tune. At least I think he did. I wasn’t really paying much attention after I hit him with the GGS.
Kind of my new thing.
As for what I have chosen for the three of us to watch? Well, a comedy. A tragic one from yesteryear.
“Oh my god!” Doozer exclaims. “MOM! Holy shit she got old!”
The record skips. My jaw drops. So does Bob’s. Mine to the floor, and his into a bowl of popcorn. The silence quickly grows awkward. Dooze, who must be a little agitated about not getting to watch The Town for the tenth time normally doesn’t slander like that. Not unless he’s had some Raspberry canned Mojitio’s in him, which he hasn’t. I know because I won’t allow such piss to taint the sanctity of our suite. I have standards just like anyone else does.
Less filling and tastes great.
Plus, Doozer is old, and old on old crime is no good. Can’t have it. So, I reply to his remark in kind. “Rude. That’s some guy named Hessian. I’m telling her you said that if you’re going to talk through this whole thing.”
Confused, Dooze asks me, “But isn’t that the whole point of this? To talk through it?”
I am quick to correct him, and in doing so try to quell his Bostonmentia. “Yeah, for me that is the point. For you the point is to take notes and laugh at my jokes.”
He snidely chirps back, “Dick.”
Interest piqued, Bobby looks up from the bowl of popcorn he is supposed to be sharing, and quickly looks back down because nobody likes cold popcorn.
I, being me, continue to hammer because the last thing this group needs is another Doozer botch, and he really takes to my tough love. “Yeah, yeah. Remember this, Jack. I’m the one in the MAIN EVENT. I don’t care what else you got going on. You’re there to walk me down to the ring, and make sure another Zeb incident doesn’t happen. You can stop being a stick about it.”
His brow furrows.
I walk back.
“The joint is going to be hot with what I have planned. That’s really why we’re watching this shit show to begin with. I want to be historically accurate. He’s earned it.”
The former Dream Champion, Doozer, unfurrows his brow.
I wonder who he lost that title to?
“I’m going to break this fucking guy, Dooze. It’s the only way. Not his body, but his mind.”
Now is when the orchestra would start to play.
“That’s my only chance. Truth is he’s too good to suffer through. I need to insert a well timed mistake into his repertoire. I need him to see 97 different shades of red. I need him so mad, so twisted, so blinded he forgets that I have a canons attached to each of my hips.”
The truth hurts unfortunately.
Plus it would be so much easier with my mist.
The blinding part.
“I know I can’t beat him if we wrestle.” Good thing these windows don’t open all the way. “However, a blinded idiot in a singlet who doesn’t know what to think or do… I might as well wipe my ass with that Golden Ticket because why would I ever cash in on myself?”
Oh look. A cricket.
“Still, in order to get there I need to attack on all fronts. Start to finish. Which means I need ya, pal. Both of ya. Just imagine if it were RICK instead of Zeb? I know he might be French and all, but that Pizmo is bigger than Balaam.” I snort in an effort to conceal my worry. “We know what happened last time I mixed it up with someone like that.”
Yeah, I won.
Dooze smiles. I can sense Bobby smiling too. Could be the kernels. In any event, Doozer waits a few seconds before enjoyingly adding with albeit sadistic intent, “Yeah we do.”
I can’t believe the nerve of him. After all I do for the Bandits– without even asking for a modicum of recognition. All of the carrying, and he knows FULL WELL about my mist situation. I shout out, “HEY! Quit picturing me getting chicken necked! I’m undefeated ya know! I’m going to be champion!”
Dooze waves his arms apologetically. I know he’s not sorry, and just wants to move things off of him as quickly as possible. “You win. I’ll even sit here with my eyes closed. Probably better off that way to begin with.” ZING. “Just play the damn thing already.”
I demand back, “Not until you stop picturing me getting chicken necked.”
“Fine. I’ll have to talk then. I’m old, remember? I can’t do two things at once.”
A few seconds pass as I contemplate Dooze’s counter offer. Obviously Bob has finished the popcorn and is now just buying his time by licking the bottom of the bowl, so he will be of no help to me.
I scratch at my chin. Thoughtfully. While doing so I realize Dooze is still picturing me getting choked to near death by that masked idiot. Begrudgingly, and knowing he’s not going to stop smiling any time soon, I relent. “Fine. You can talk, but no more age jokes.”
“Fine. What year is this from again?”
I perk up, ready to throw hands. Dooze quickly clarifies, “Not an age joke, and sit the fuck down before we have to tell everyone you slipped on a banana peel the week before Culture Shock.”
In my defense I was already sitting down to begin with. “Twenty-Ten.”
“Wow. The quality is pretty good. The video quality I mean.”
“Yeah, I get what you mean.” I glare. Menacingly. At Bobby. He doesn’t know because he’s still face down licking the bowl. “I got it from an old friend of ours. Apparently it was so bad it was scrubbed off the internet. He had to go to some Warez site or something like that to access it. Dark web. Worse than snuff.”
“Wait. Is he wearing the same singlet?” I rhetorically ask, fully aware he is not. “I hope he washes that thing. If he doesn’t it sure would explain how he made it all the way through to the final. Guy has got Ringworm as a secret finisher.”
Up on the big flat screen TV hanging on the wall, Brandon Youngblood can be seen walking down to the ring.
“Are they at Wembley Stadium? With Boring Brandon and his stupid singlet in the main event? Shit, I bet if you put this clown in a lineup of men who have never had an erection, ten out of ten would pick him just off of looks alone. And what is this stupid ass walk of his? It’s like he’s got on two different sized shoes or something.”
Doozer chuckles. Bobby does, too. I continue.
“And this Jason Snow looks like he enjoys getting beat with a bar of soap stuffed into a sock. This was the main event? These two guys? No wonder Mom wanted us here so badly.”
The disbelief is staggering. At least the looks on all three of our faces would lead you to believe so. I want to turn back. Maybe watch QVC or something. However, I do not. My COOLYMPIAN reserve won’t let me.
“Are we sure Megan Law wasn’t running PRIME back then? For fucks sake. Did the winner get to choose between a white van and the UNIVERSAL Championship?”
Dooze chuckles again. Bobby cowers at the name drop of a former nemesis. I keep on walking.
“I’ll say this, the ring announcer guy hasn’t changed much. Vance I think it is. Or Vince? Something with a V. Dicky looks like shit, STILL. Ha. It’s like he knows what is to follow will surely cause half of Wembley to leave early.”
Bob coughs on a lodged kernel.
Dooze adds, “Yeah this has all the makings of a traffic beater. Fast forward.”
“Not a bad idea, old man.” I grab the remote, and advance to the THRILLING conclusion of Culture Shock 2010, Night One.
“What do you know? The sack of crumbs loses. Shocker.” Then, it dawns on me. The salty, yolky kicker. “So, let me get this straight. It turns out Crumblood has been waiting twelve years to get another chance at winning this match?” I laugh. Not in a nice, respectful way. “Sorry, but I got some bad news for him.”
The Bad News
“So I went out to the shed, and I got the shovel.” Jiles’ Journal, March 31st, 2022.
Bobby farted shortly after the conclusion of the Culture Shock 2010 watch along. Not toxic, but it lingered long enough to clear out the room. Now, after the proper processes have been put into motion, it is safe to reenter.
So, I have.
I’m back at home base up in the Ivory Tower. The room has been aired out, and I’m on my freshly cleaned/degassed couch.
Bobby and Dooze are nowhere to be seen.
Last I heard they were out tossing rocks.
True to my word, I have some bad news for Brandon Youngblood.
This is it.
“Muriel Pudding Pop. Nova the Jehovah. The Masked Idiot. Teddy Calmer.”
A golf clap for their tremendous effort.
“They tried. They failed. Just like Brandon Youngblood did many years ago, and just like Brandon Youngblood will at the latest, greatest, and COOLEST installment of Culture Shock.”
Why wait? Let’s tear the Band-Aid off this bitch right now.
“That’s right. I know all about your prior failure, Brandon.”
So does the Dark Web.
“I watched it. Kind of. Twenty-ten. Culture Shock. I saw you lose. Not only that, I saw that after you lost you carried the man who beat you to the back as some form of camaraderie amongst competitors.”
I snarl. Egregiously.
“Let me tell you it made me sick. I thought it was disgusting, pitiful, and pathetic. It was weak, Brandon. It was YOU summed up in one, grand, moronic gesture. In fact, I even went back to make sure the ref was right from the last show. That’s how taken aback by it I was.”
No, I wasn’t scared after watching the match.
I’m a pro, dammet.
“Yet, even after running through the full gamut of shameful emotions, oddly enough the one I wound up on was sympathy. Funny as it sounds, I felt bad for you, Brandon.”
Don’t worry, it did not last long.
“See, I realized you’ve been waiting twelve years for a chance at redemption. Not only that, but I’m guessing that’s a really long time to be walking around as a loser.”
I condescendingly nod. It must be infuriating.
“Even for a Canadian piece of gutter trash like you.”
I pause for my opponent’s sake. I’m sure he could probably use a train or something to catch up. Poor guy. Poor, pea brained Brandon. He might be taller, but it sure doesn’t seem like it. Not while on this ride.
“Worst yet, when that redemption comes, and you have seemingly traversed both river and woods to get back to it; winning your bracket, defending your bounty, making the finals of the Almasy…”
Quite the road.
I would know.
“You go to open the door and it’s still locked. You huff and puff, but the real wolf is already on the other side. Howling. At the moon. In a pair of T-shades. With salon quality hair, and Grandma bent over the couch.”
If you’re smart enough you’ll get the larger PRIME analogy. If not, sorry Darin.
And now a sprinkle of some infuriating ‘sonning’ for good measure.
“As such, your fairy tale remains one of tragedy. In the end, Little Brandon Youngblood just doesn’t have what it takes. You didn’t back then against weaker competition, and you obviously don’t now against a COOLYMPIAN like me. In fact, your only saving grace in all of this is that no one does. You can wallow in misery, helpless, watching along with the rest of PRIME as I take a victory lap on top of my high horse.”
A thumbs up. If it falls short of delivering the uplifting beat I’m hoping for, I won’t mind. I’m still going to have a fun, long, championship reign.
“So we’re clear, Culture Shock isn’t your chance to set things right. You don’t get handed a bouquet of roses by a crying Dicky Do at the end of the night. You don’t get to address the crowd in wondrous victory. It’s not the culmination of a career drug addicts and vampires only dream about. We won’t be shaking hands, and we certainly won’t be jersey swapping in the back. I got enough pairs of socks as it is.”
I shake my head no, like I’ve been asked if I had been drinking tonight by the law. And rumor is Brandon’s a stuffer. That’s what the other bracket was saying.
“Culture Shock is MY coronation.”
Emphasis on being demonstrative.
“It’s the death of old, stinky, no one likes it, Brandon Youngblood’s PRIME, and the birth of Bandit PRIME. My PRIME. Defined by egg and shell. Fear not, it might seem scary at first. Daunting even.”
“But I’m sure the next twelve years will fly right on by.”