More Like Number Two By Definition
Posted on 01/24/22 at 2:30pm by Cancer Jiles
Event: ReVival 2
Cancer Jiles, Greek God of COOL, and the only mortal man to have ever ascended the summit of COOLYMPUS.
By way of Philadelphia.
Maybe you’ve heard of him, maybe you haven’t. For the rock dwelling crowd just now crawling out to see the sun for the first time; here are some of his defining characteristics so that you may better understand the man behind the shades.
The Crown Prince of COOL carries grudges. All kinds. Meaningless. Stupid. Simple. SALTY. Complex. Hate fueled. You name it, he carries it. Step on his shoes and there’s a good chance you’ll become his enemy. Slander his name and the surf is up, bro.
His hair, the golden blond oil slick that it is, is impervious to detriment. Try to mess it up and you’ll probably lose your life– for sure your hand.
His shades, Terminator Skullfucker Hunters(T-shades), are jet black frames with a mirror tint to the lenses. Don’t touch them. Don’t think about them. Don’t even dream about them. Day, REM, wet… whatever. Matter of fact, if the rare occasion were to occur and he asked you to hold them so he could fix his hair, say no. They’ll leave your hands and should you be fortunate enough, nose frostbitten. The precious heirloom covers half of his always clean kempt face when worn, and he wears them all. of. the. time. To be clear, he doesn’t wear them while competing inside the ring, but everywhere else, yes. Be it at night, to bed, in the movie theater, in the shower, while skydiving, or playing blackjack at the MGM Grand– the shades are up.
The Maestro of COOL constantly wears the T-shades not because they look fantastic on his face, and no, it’s not because he’s a megaton loser with a small penis who has to hide his identity due to his relationship with Robert Dean. His reason has virtue, and purpose. It is grounded in faith, and an unflinching determination to eradicate dipshits.
To be fair to Jiles, the glass eating, rust chewing, chest pounding, mouth foaming, upside down sleeping, unintelligible morons glow a certain shade of bright red when seen from behind the mirror tint.
So there’s that.
For instance, Muriel and Tap looked like strawberries during Revival One to him.
He doesn’t like fruit.
Now for some of Big C’s frivolous characteristics.
The COOLYMPIAN has done a lot of things in the sport of wrestling. He’s been around it for the better part of 15 years. In all of that time the one thing he is on the record as being most proud of is carrying Bobby Dean and Doozer to stardom and unimaginable heights while playing the role of sole and righteous leader of the world renowned eGG Bandits.
Inside of the ring, Jiles is a cheat. ALWAYS, constantly, and even when he doesn’t have to be. Like Voldemort he is able to summon a cowardice spell at a moment’s notice. In fact, he’s played the part of possum so often that when possums play possum it is now called “Jilesing”. There’s even been a fishing lure named after him because of how masterful he is at applying this particular part of his craft. The Possum Lure. It’s just a bunch of bright yellow hairs but apparently it’s a can’t miss with the big fish. Ask Zeb “Crumb” Martin about it, he can tell you.
To spite himself, the Philly native has the survivability of a cockroach vacationing during Nuclear Winter. He has been on the receiving end of some of the most legendary ass kickings the sport has ever seen. Pillar to post. Slaughtered. Seemed to have been murdered. Dragged. Tarred. Feathered. Buried. BURIED. REALLY FUCKING BURIED. Yes, he has been down. He has been out. He has fumbled the bag. He has dropped the ball on both feet and all of his toes. He has cut his nose from his face so many times it’s just a frost bitten rubber flap of cartilage to hold his T-shades up.
But he persists.
And now The Persister of COOL and his lovable, always OVER EASY group of Bandits have descended upon PRIME. Why are they here? Is it gold? Is it glory? Is it to conquer the Universe and hold it in the palm of one’s hand– like an egg? Did the Queen summon them? They and her have ties to the past. One of worship. One of snubbing. Did she finally turn over a new perm? Or did she look at the roster she put together and realize holy shit no one is going to watch any of these people– I NEED THE BANDITS! What promises were made to them? What concessions were given? What hubris will be unearthed?
Time will tell.
MGM Grand, Suite 42069, AKA The Den of the eGG.
Promotional Work, NOT
Old Boss Same as the New Boss
I’ll say this much The room is much nicer than the other two deserve. I also feel bad for the maid assigned to clean it. Well, Bob’s room anyway. So many tissues. See, he cries during Family Feud.
Anyway, the room, the Bandit’s Den, has got all sorts of bells and whistles, and outside of those chimes hanging from the ceiling there’s a nice view of the strip. I don’t mean the area on Bobby’s lower back that leads to his asshole either. I mean Vegas. Sin City. Bright lights, cocaine, and regret.
Our new, temporary, home away home.
How about that ride in?
There’s a big, electric blue couch that has my name and my name only written on it. There’s also a few recliners, some more couches, and luckily for one of us Bandits for when they come back, a slew of hospital beds. There’s a TV bigger than Bob’s appetite hanging on the wall. Cable. Limited Pay Per View. Multiple toilets littered throughout that shoot water up your butt. Seperate rooms with king sized beds for each of us to sleep. Fridge full of double yolks. All the hair products a young boy could ask for. Marble stuff.
It’s not bad.
I am me.
And being me, I’m seated on my couch, with my shades on, looking like my hair belongs in the Museum of Modern Art. I got my PRIME issue jumpsuit on, because being a company man and being Cancer Jiles are one in the same. Behind my relaxed ass is that massive TV I mentioned earlier–it has a PRIME screensaver bouncing around on it. Bobby, the only other healthy Bandit, and only other Bandit in the Den for that matter, can be heard snoring from behind a closed door.
It is 2PM.
No time like the present they say.
“Believe the hype, they said.”
An unimpressed snort.
“Stacked roster, they said.”
“Legends are literally rising from the grave to take part, they said.”
Snorted out, I change the way my enthusiasm lacks by making a firm jerking off motion with my right hand.
“Lady Troy is changing the game, they said.”
Just for her I decide to push destiny and fate to the side, and callously roll my eyes. Since I’m COOL like that I even take my shades off so she can see. I then remember I made the jerking off motion before mentioning her, and of course instantly regretted doing so. I am a pro, so you’d never know from the look of it, but trust me it’s there.
“Sorry to say, I truly am… but they were wrong.”
I told you I was a pro and you wouldn’t notice it.
“Fear not, I won’t keep you in suspense as to why that is. Surprisingly, it has nothing to do with a vermin-cousin-kisser from a backyard brothel in Georgia who stumbled from out of his pig pen and into the wrestling ring. It could be, but it’s not.”
A corrective wag of my index finger.
“No, you see, the reason why everyone was wrong, and I swear it’s going to sound like I’m salty about it but I assure you I am not, is this.”
I clear my throat, coughing up a blackened lunger that normally I would send flying in any direction. However, I’m living in this room now and I’m no garbage bagger. So, Bobby’s bottle of Jolt Mayo located off screen will have to do.
One moment please.
“Never, on any planet or place where interesting outweighs boring, would anyone, anywhere, have Teddy fucking Palmer placed higher on the card than Cancer Jiles.”
Talk about a blunder.
Talk about a mistake.
Yes, that is right, and I just cursed. Not only did I do that, but I also think so little of Pudding Pop Popinski that I’m going to complain about my spot on the card and cause a stir instead of dressing him down. Plus, I’ve known Ted for sometime. I’m sure he won’t mind.
Adamant, I disgustedly add, “It couldn’t happen by accident. Or on Opposite Day. Or if it was Ted’s birthday and the show was in his hometown and the locals there had never disowned him for breaking bread with the likes of Alex Redding.”
I don’t know Teddy Palmer.
I do think very little of Tappy Taparoo The Tap Dancing Jagaloon, though.
“Teddy Palmer couldn’t sell surf to a turf, wax to a board, or paint to a brush. Teddy Palmer looks like he just escaped from the room he’s supposed to be monitored in. Teddy Palmer, ladies and gentlemen, wrestles like he’s facing a war on two fronts. One against his opponent, and one against the shit in his pants.”
“Teddy Palmer. I thought the Queen knew better. Guess not.”
Behind me, the door to Bob’s room suddenly opens and he emerges covered in strawberry pudding. In a twist of fate, I was going to use the pudding as a prop for this interaction. Then, like all things sweet around Robert Dean, it went missing. I certainly wasn’t going to get another one that’s for sure– I don’t care that much, and hence why I’m really no selling Mr. Puddings in the first place. The funny thing is it was just one little container so it’s almost like Bob didn’t eat any of it and instead rubbed it all over himself.
Which, in time, for the uninitiated, will become less and less disturbing I am sure.
Bobby freezes. His face turns flush, though it could be the pudding. He quickly realizes what is going on, and slowly begins to step backwards. He gently closes his door behind him and exits the shot.
He’ll be snoring again in no time.
Step Right Up and Get Your Ticket
She fooled me.
Got me good, too.
See, The Queen gave me a hairnet. It’s a good one. It says PRIME on it. It’s off white in color. It’s made from top of the line, NASA stuff. Not Skynet, but it will do.
I thought it was a gift.
I thought it was a bridge.
Turns out, she wanted me to get inside of a dunk tank while underprivileged kids took their shot to receive free tickets to Revival 2. After seeing the hairnet, sadly I had no choice but to accept her proposal. I left my other one in Chicago, so it was also a stroke of luck she did so.
Or maybe the whole thing was set up??????
So, in other words, I knew that part of it.
I was aware that I might be taking a dip for charity, or as I figured it, once I got out there I’d be able to cut the contestants down and rattle them so badly that only the tips of my toes would be getting wet. I was ready to pounce, too. There were going to be a lot of therapists moving to Vegas after the PROMOTIONAL EVENT, I promise you that. However, what I didn’t know… what I couldn’t know… was that after I climbed in my cage like the idiot monkey man I am, in a tuxedo mind you, it was revealed that the target was the size of my ego.
To totally ensure the job got done, the kids were throwing from five feet away, too. They could practically reach out and knock it down. And to top it off they had unlimited shots because of course Mom wanted everyone to get a trophy. By the time they were done I was falling down inside an empty tank, and a hundred plus of Vegas’ displaced and misguided youth got their wish.
I told you I was a company man.