“I couldn’t believe what I learned, nor did I know what to do with such valuable information. I do know one thing; he risked a lot making this up to me. Therefore, I have no choice but to happily forgive him and welcome him back into the yolky bosom of the carton with open arms. Plus, I need him at ViolenceUltra.” — Prancer’s Poem, August 30th, 2023.
There I sat; inside of a dingy Motel room I used a fake name to check in to.
I was secluded. Which is to say the lights were dim, the shades drawn, and I was all alone atop a not so plush throne.
Sadly though, for anonymity’s sake, my jet-black hair was as you’d expect. Some things you just can’t crumb down.
Same can be said for the T’s.
A sweet pair of peppered shoes graced my feet. I was wearing a tracksuit with an electric-blue top and a murderous red-bottom. Underneath said abomination I had on a fancy pair of cream-colored silk underwear.
You might be wondering why I mentioned the fanciness of my underwear. Simple. I was nervous and they made me comfortable.
Like they always do.
I was nervous not because of what’s written in my REAL journal, but because of what I was doing, and more importantly what it would mean if I got caught doing it. As such, should the situation turn perilous, I already had my go bag sitting out by the fire escape. Not only that, the window leading out to the escape was wide open, and Cocainasaurus was snorting a bushel of hay where the ladder leading down to the street let out. Basically what I’m getting at is if I needed to I could slip out the window, grab my bag, shoot down the fire escape, and ride away in style before I even heard a second knock at the door.
Hopefully that route wouldn’t be necessary.
I pressed the room’s shoddy landline firmly to my ear, because one does not dare use a cell phone for what I was doing.
Too easily discovered.
“Hello. Yes, it’s me. What have you found out?”
You see, on the other end of the landline was my informant. Some might call him a pig of a man, but me, I like to think of him as a beautiful mole.
“You’re telling me that it’s his actual blood inside the pen, and not red ink?”
I spoke at a low decibel, trying my best to conceal my enthusiasm and maintain my COOLYMPIAN reserve. It would not last very long.
“I know he says it, but you know, he says a lot of things. I wonder HOW he refills it? Probably BEST I don’t know.”
No wonder his butt hurts.
“There’s more? I’m already sitting down so tell me everything.”
Then, I remembered who was calling me from the deep six.
“You didn’t use your cell did you?”
Of course a long pause followed by a quick “no” is always reassuring when dealing in a life or death situation. However, it didn’t matter. After hearing the truth about the pen I was hooked. Consequences be damned.
“Go on, what else have you learned?”
My eyes widened.
“No fucking way.”
My breath seemingly paused.
“I don’t believe it. IMPOSSIBLE.”
Wonder filled me like a Happy Birthday balloon.
“The fax machine uses construction paper!?!”
I nearly passed out from the rotund revelation.
“Next you’re going to me Solexwood’s first name isn’t really Stephen.”
My jaw dropped to the floor.
“Conor Fuse wipes back to front! HA!! Such a crumb he is!”
My heart quickly swelled with shame; mainly because I had lost to that joker earlier in the year at an AWP event.
I don’t have a heart.
Call it a kidney then.
I sprung from my seat like an airbag had been deployed from underneath the cushion, and almost pulled the phone cord right out of the wall in the process.
There was no way.
“THE YOLKULELEE IS MISSING?!?!? And without asking permission! Just who do they think they are! What is this universe coming to?! I even left permission slips next to it! I’ll never return the USS Viscosity now! Never!”
Then, while fighting utter flabbergastation, I heard a knock at the door.
I would not be around to hear a second one.
Universe 97: In Another Life
“I have been here for over a year and a half, and they still suspect nothing. Pop is going to be so happy when I tell him about the specifics of how they do their ticket sales.” ~~ Cancer’s Comic, August 31st, 2023.
If I were going to be…
…a Master of Shadow.
….a Don of Deception.
……Anonymity would be key.
I had to be careful.
It isn’t easy playing a mole.
Doesn’t matter what universe you’re in.
As such, it was a must that I remained incognito.
Cue the fog horn aboard the USS Octopussy. Also, cue the coinciding message that goes along with it.
………IF YOU CAN HEAR THIS YOU ARE ABOARD THE USS OCTOPUSSY……….ALEX IS THE MOLE……..FOG AHEAD……….DILLIGAF…………
Instead of using the Cold War era radio located next to Dan Ryan’s old cell in the bowels of the ship, I decided on another way to communicate with Pop. It was an odd method, I’ll admit. Then again so is ship life. Odd that is. Anyway, instead of just phoning home I filled an empty Tito’s bottle I found in Pop’s old desk with a handwritten message. Well, I poured out the vodka and then used the empty bottle and the ocean as my top secret methop of transportation.
Don’t tell him about the booze plz.
The message was important to say the least.
It’s not like it was when the next graphical update to the PRIME website was going to happen.
That’s for sure.
I’m talking about a little thing called the ELO equation.
You’d think something of that value would be better off in more of a direct hand to hand exchange. HOWever, I think otherwise. I’ve been a member of the Best Alliance for over four years now. We do things differently. We do things the hard way. Have you ever seen Pop fill his pen? It’s the hard way, trust me on that. I’ve stood guard outside that door before.
You might wonder why we choose to do things the hard way. Simple.
This seems familiar.
If we do things the hard way, no one will ever know just HOW soft we really are.
Anyway, The ELO equation.
I CRACKED it.
After 18 of the longest months of my life.
After ending the career of Brandon Youngblood on three separate occasions.
After winning the Jewel in the Crown AND Dual Halo in back to back efforts.
After beating that ringer Bubba King at Ariel Kickboxing in some last ditch effort to dethrone me.
I can go home.
It’s been so long here.
97(F \ U) + adjusted word count ticket sale percentage + readability score + 2406.96 + combined number of curse words and ellipses
“No more moleing around.” — Jiles’ Journal, September 1st, 2023.
Fun little ride there, huh?
Well, now it’s time to come crashing back to reality. A reality where my hair is gray. A reality where my T-shades lack the proper luster. A reality where it’s the month of September and I STILL haven’t wrestled in a MAIN EVENT this year. A reality where the eGG Bandits are on life support. A reality where Coral Avalon thinks he’s too good.
Talk about your reality checks.
“Kenny Freeman, and his little soviet red rocket.”
“I’m going to throw you a bone here and shoot you straight, Ken.”
“I swear it has nothing to do with how unimpressive you are, and me feeling bad about it. Honest to God.”
Is that a cherry tree?
“Our match, and I don’t mean this in a demeaning way, nor am I trying to patronize you so please don’t take it personally– but our match, Ken, it’s not about you. It’s not. It’s about what I am going to do to you.”
“Allow me to explain.”
I’m sure this won’t be long winded.
“At ReVival 35 I invited Coral Avalon to watch us down at ringside. I even suggested he sit with Dirty Dick and Saint Nick so he can publicly lament his tasteless decision to snub me and the Bandits.”
“And while that’s true, there’s another reason I invited Coral down to watch.”
A gentle, yet damning flex of the index finger.
“I want Coral to see with his own two eyes, and maybe even that third one he keeps hidden in the middle of his forehead–”
A beat for the sake of sincerity.
And to regain my composure.
“I want him to see the consequences of fucking an eGG Bandit in the ass before feeling them firsthand.”
I chuckle once again. It’s not a deep bellow, but more a pity-fuck-whisper-gas. Definitely not a cackle by any means. And no, it’s not because of how bad things look for Ken. That’s no laughing matter. The reason for my gassing is because I pictured Coral down at ringside crying into his eGGhead T-shirt that’s got a giant stretched out neck hole because his forehead is so goddamn big. As for the reason Coral is crying, well, it’s because he’s finally realized that one, it would be easier for him to step in t-shirts as opposed to putting them on over his head, and two, his stupid fucking ass is next after I get done Termiblasting poor Kenny for the 97th time.
Then, as it so happens, before I can regain my composure I remember a rumor about Coral’s forehead; about how it’s so big that when he cries gravity pulls the tears up from his eyeballs instead of them falling down his face.
So, of course, I couldn’t help but to keep on chuckling.
Then, right as I’m about to reign it in, I picture Coral using a big table cloth to blot his forehead in a dire attempt to dry his eyes.
So, yeah, shamelessly I continue to chuckle. Eventually, and maybe even after losing track of time, I manage to regain my COOLYMPIAN reserve.
“And that’s where you come in, Ken. I’m going to make an example out of you. Not because I proactively practice painting portraits of pain upon the canvas. No. I will do so because of him. You will suffer because of him. You will cry. You will beg. You will bleed. All because of him. He’ll have made a sworn enemy out of you by the time I’m done at 35.”
It’s not often I’m jaded like this. Then again, it’s not often a seasoned crumb can’t see the olive branch in front of him because his silly gargantuan forehead is so big he’s already headbutted the fucking thing before it even has a chance to be extended.
“I know what you’re thinking, Ken. You did nothing wrong. You don’t deserve this. It isn’t your fault Coral doesn’t know what’s good for him, and you’re right. It’s not, and that’s why I told you it was nothing personal. You could be anybody else and the suffering would be the same, and you and I both know I got some big crumbs in my bag.”
Charcoal lunger go splat.
“That is how much Coral’s hubris has consumed my motivation.”
“Sorry if you feel overlooked, meaningless, inferior, and or minimized. It wasn’t my intention.”
“Maybe you can use my words as motivation to become something more. Maybe you can even use them to survive the COOLYPIAN onslaught foreheading your way. And who knows? Maybe Coral will prove to be too much of a distraction and allow you to sneak away with victory.”
“I don’t like your chances though.”
“Just in case I wasn’t clear, Ken, the only reason you exist is so Coral can go back to Ripley’s after seeing what I have done to you at ReVival 35 and sit inside his exhibit for the next two weeks wondering if he’s going to become the first zombie to join the ranks of the eGG Bandits.”
King and Queen
“He who wears the crown will never frown.” — Piece of Toilet Paper, September 3rd, 2023.
All of my wildest dreams have come true.
After years of heavy courting, our Queen has finally taken up the mantle and guided the eGG Bandits on a path of conquest I never imagined possible. We have decimated the competition. We are the only show left in town. Our ranks are deep. Our coffers flush. Wherever we go they chant BAND-IT. We want for nothing. We need nothing. We do not know what it is to yearn.
We are an iron shell, all because of our righteous Queen.
And riding tall atop a magnificent white horse, having experienced conquest after conquest after conquest by our beloved Queen’s side; is her Crumb King.
Robert, of Honalee.
And behind them, in their shadows, carrying the backs of ballroom gowns and coattails alike, stepping in horseshit every single day is the hardest working Bandit in Universe Egg, me.
You know, I was once set to be king…
Sure ya were, crumb. Hail Queen Troy and King Dean!
Bob and I had returned from tar and feathering Wade Elliot(one of our Queen’s old flings) and throwing him off a cliff, which was the last COOLYMPIAN trial that I had to complete in order to become King. Bob had been there through most of them, so it seemed only right to ask him to join me in my coronation.
Little did I know he was planning to double cross me.
I asked him to hold the crown while I adjusted my hair and shades because I wanted everything to be perfect. Instead, the Honaleean crumb put it on and once it’s on, it’s on. You are King. Those are the rules in The Kingdom of the Egg, which is partly why we had to first sew the Queen’s crown into her perm.
Anyway, ever since then I’ve been carrying the gowns, and Bobby has been taking over towns with Queen Troy. I’ve thought about defecting to the undies, aka the indies, aka small promotions that exist in radioactive wastelands like Chicago. I don’t know. I do know I’m sick and fucking tired of saying he who wears the crown will never frown every time I want to talk to the King.
Another thing I know, which is super top secret, is HOW our Queen was able to conquer as easily as she did. Let’s just say that she had a little help, and that help may have come from behind enemy lines. I think she referred to him as her little Salad Boy when asking the mirror who the moliest of them all was.
I wonder whatever happened to that guy.