MGM Grand Garden Arena
Post Main Event
“I quickly closed the door to the egg den as if I had been chased there by one of the seven deadly MESSIAH cultists. Relieved, I sighed and then promptly fell to the floor. It took a minute but I got up on my hands and knees, looked over at Bobby and Dooze, and I’ll be damned if I didn’t sigh again. They didn’t have to say it. No one did. We all knew that was way too close.” — Jiles’ Journal, June 17th, 2022.
Just win, baby!
I am tired. I am bleeding. My legs are wobbly. My vision is blurry. Even the aches of my aches are aching. I probably need medical attention. Scratch that, I do need medical attention.
Definitely a deep freeze.
Most importantly I need to get back to my locker room. Or better yet the always cool confines of the Ivory Tower. You see, I’ve just gotten done being taken to the limit by a baguette crumb. And sure, victory was sweet, but like everything else these days it came with a cost.
Crooked Nose Cancer. Ha. Better than Crooked Dick Doozer I suppose.
Now, I’m ready to collapse and go to sleep for an extended period of time. Yet, being me, the forever asshole company man that I am, it would seem I still have some time before the Ambien kicks in. So, instead of crashing and cooling like I ought to, I go the other route. I decide that maybe I do have time for the PRIME media wanting to know how I’m feeling, and who I think is going to win between Repulsive and Babelbrain.
Could see it in their eyes. Vultures I tell ya! Always there to pick at an empty shell.
That said, here I am. Sweat drips from my brow. Mist dries to my chin. Blood bubbles from my nose. Anxiety runs through my veins.
“How am I feeling? Let me tell you how I’m feeling. Earlier tonight I was in the back preparing to crack the virgin shell of the Flamberge eGG. I’m sitting there putting my boots on, watching the show on the monitor, and I couldn’t believe my COOLYMPIAN eyes.”
I take a long breath, mainly because I needed to since I was on the verge of passing out.
Duty calls, we push onward.
“Brandumb was out in the ring wearing a BEAT CANCER t-shirt.”
I pause for dumbfoundedness’ sake.
“Like, I was in the ground already. Like, I didn’t cut his face open and get Timo’d. Like, that was the end of the show and King fucking COOL wasn’t going on last.”
I get so mad from recalling the gaffe I spit on the floor. Though, come to think of it, I spit on the monitor when I saw Brandon in the ring with the T-shirt on, too. The difference being this time around I had just gotten done doing battle so my spit is a mixture of mist, blood, and charcoal mucus.
Whereas before it was just charcoal mucus.
“I got a newsflash for Mr. Crumbblood. For as long as I’m breathing. For as long as I’m egging and main eventing. For as long as all the wonderful PRIMEordials come to each and every show just to boo the COOL and do fuck all else second– he will never beat me.”
I snort. Derisively.
“No one will.”
My teeth grind. I need to remember composure. I need to find my COOL.
“BEAT CANCER. HA. fucking. HA. Give me a break. He survived it. PERIOD.”
“BEAT THIS is more like it– the fucking jerk off.”
Of course the accompanying gesture follows, including the elaborate finish as my hand shoots out imaginary spunk from my outspread fingers.
“He should be counting his lucky stars, because the next time and believe you me there will be a next time he might not be so fortunate.”
Satisfied, I turn to walk away and hopefully find the comforts of a cold floor to sleep on. Before I do I remember that salt and wounds do go well together.
“Oh, and one last thing.”
I rub my hands together to at least feign that I mean whatever comes next. However, it’s really just a ploy to draw attention away from my budding erection.
“Fucking. Flamberge. That kid can go… straight to hell.”
“Best part of breaking him in wasn’t getting off the schneid, but being able to look into Timo’s eyes as he was forced to count my three. I swear the sheer and utter disgust peeling from his face paint increased each time his hand hit the canvas.”
I smile. Wide. Pearly. Full of conceit and ill will. It hurts, but YOLO.
“And I fucking loved every second of it.”
All three of them.
“Truth be told I didn’t want to go back in. I wanted to use my ailments as a way of keeping me motivated. But, there’s too much at stake. A win now and the table would be set. It’d be on him to meet me and as much as I want to see him fail, I want to be the one who makes it happen even more. I must be the one.” — Jiles’ Journal, June 22nd, 2022.
I’m a broken man.
My shell is cracked.
I ooze gooey yellow slime.
When I sleep, which if you’ve been playing along, you know isn’t often, I only dream of purging PRIME of all that is good. All that is loved, and cherished. All that warms, and enchants. Not only do I want to purge it, but I want to suffocate it with a pillow and then feel the warmth go from its body as I cozy up next to it to finally get a good night’s rest.
It’s true. All of it, and all of what follows.
I hate that the Bandits didn’t make it to the Survivor Finale. It bothers the shit out of me. I feel as if I let them down, like if I would have won it wouldn’t have mattered since all of our eggs were in that basket to begin with.
Yeah I know that’s a good one.
I’m not over sacrificing Cocaine just to come up short.
Who’s the cult leader again?
I know I need to put it behind me, but hard as I try, suffer as I might, I am still boiling inside because of it. Naturally I’m COOL so you can only imagine how HOT I actually am.
Crumb bum soup.
…Brandon Youngblood’s bitch ass lives rent free inside my head.
Speak for yourself.
They know, I told them already.
Here I am, going up against Bathory, who has a murderer pulling his strings, who is just as big of a threat as say, Phil Atken, and I haven’t even given him a thought until now.
“How do you like my shirt, Jiles?”
I fucking hate you shirt, Brandon.
But that’s okay,
Still have the promo.
I’m resourceful. I know how to slow cook an egg. I’m a firm believer in keeping your friends close, and your enemies closer. Since Big Brandon does live up there in the master suite he’ll never drift from my thoughts, and because of that I won’t allow myself to step away from the edge. And I need that edge. I need to hug it. I need to teeter on it. I need to do my hair on it. That edge keeps me honest. It keeps me forthright. It keeps me visceral. It keeps me true. Without that edge I’d just be my opponent with a cooler haircut.
And bigger di
So, in order to keep as close to that edge as possible, I’ll keep Brandon right there. Right where I need him. DEAD. CENTER.
I think he means DEAD. RIGHT.
You stay out of this.
However, in order to keep that edge as sharp as possible, so that when the time comes to chop the head off of the snake…
…I guess it couldn’t hurt to start sharpening it.
…I guess it couldn’t hurt to start sharpening that edge by cutting the rubber ducky’s head off.
Figuratively of course.
It will fall into a wicker basket.
Oh? Maybe not.
The stale look on his face as I watch it roll around inside — emotionless because cult to the end — will soothe my darkened soul.
Don’t let him fool you, it’s pitch black in there.
That satisfaction will only last for a little bit, because while defeating Jubilant Balcony would once again mean my ticket is punched, it is a big basket and it’s going to need filling in order for my edge to be sharp enough.
Youngblood should have never worn that shirt.
“DUDE! Who are you talking to?” That’s funny, for some reason I can hear Bobby shouting out to me. “You’re going to give me nightmares! That basket better not be in our room!” It’s funny because Bob shouldn’t be able to hear me since I’m in my safe space known as cryostasis. Could be I’m just losing my mind.
“No probably about it bud, you lost your mind a long time ago.” Doozer? Him too? How is this possible? “Now wake up or your brain is going to freeze.”
“I wasn’t too thrilled about having to come down on the card to make the match happen. However, my tune changed once I found out the winner was going on to Ultraviolence and facing whoever the Universal Champion is. ” — Jiles’ Journal, June 18th, 2022.
Cancer Jiles versus Julliet’s Bathtoy
One drinks the COOL aid. The other drinks from the fanatical fruit punch bowl.
Cancer Jiles versus Jillian Bathandbody
One seeks to unburden himself by finally closing the book on ULTIMATE FAILURE. The other won’t survive its first chapter.
Cancer Jiles versus Julie Anne Boreory
One is ritually hated on by all shapes and sizes yet remains overwhelmingly and increasingly unrepentant. The other sacrifices goats and uses concealer to cover the pentagram on his forehead.
Cancer Jiles versus Jetski Bathtub
One has a salted chip on his shoulder that rivals the size of Timo Bolamba’s bank account, and a set of COOLtanium plated balls between his legs that may or may not have destroyed his spine.
Insert clever spine to coward joke here.
The other can only wish he were like the One. Not because the other would then be relevant, entertaining, and worthy of a cult following. Not because it would mean that the other would be MAIN EVENTING a show for once.
I mean sure those things are nice, but the point isn’t about being nice. It’s about the unburdening.
But because it would mean the other had escaped from the vast shadow of Violence cast upon him. He’d have shed his weeping-loser-skin, and finally seen with his own eyes just how bright the sun can be.
And because he’d then have a pair of T-Shades to protect him.
Replicas of course.
“I don’t know why they doubted me. I said this GREAT SNOT kid had spunk. When did the Bandits turn into MESSIAH?” — Jiles’ Journal, June 26th, 2022.
The cards are on the table. It’s felt. The table that is.
The tower is full of smoke.
The good kind.
There’s music playing. The laughs are flowing. The times are good.
But not for long.
I’m not thinking about PRIME groveling at my feet, or that Crumbbl–
“Yes, you are.”
Fuck you, Crumbblood.
Bobby isn’t salivating over the one that got away; a double quarter pounder named Ronald. Even amongst the dense cloud of smoke I can see Doozer clear as day; no tricks or jerry rigged mirrors needed. And then there is the bear. The GREAT one. I don’t know HOW but he’s got all the chips in front of him. Well, I do know how. Bobby ate most of his, Doozer has been straight up tanking hand after hand to him, and I just lost on the river.
Two pair. Aces, and eights.
As for the chip leader’s handler, the true DIAMOND in the rough, the GREATEST SCOTT I’ve ever known and I’ve known a lot of them(Scotts), he doesn’t play simpleton games that the common folk enjoy. He’s above them. He also wore a singlet to game night. I blame Bobby. Regardless, as for the soon to be Bandit prodigy I hand picked all by myself, GREAT SCOTT, he’s riding a unicycle while juggling the knives from this season’s Bed Bath and Beyondory catalog.
Talk about your going places.
“So, let me get this straight. We come to you with a suggestion. You shoot it down. Vehemently. Adamantly. Decisively. You even act as if it’s the worst idea ever. ALL TIME. Then, he’s the talk of the town and now you’re the one who hand picked him?”
That’s Bob. I don’t know what he’s going on about. So, I shrug.
“You literally said over your dead body. It’s on tape. You were being smug about it, like you were above us, and you said something irritating but also clever so of course I hated it even more. It involved you still being above ground so therefore it was a no if you don’t remember. Let me pull up the clip just to be sure.”
That’s Doozer. So much for his memory being broken. Seems awfully selective to me.
“Remind us, what was supposed to happen if you lost to Flamberge? Or have you rewritten that part of history as well?”
Bobby again. If only I had some sort of snack to divert his attention. Sadly, I don’t.
“Guys, listen. I don’t know why you’re getting so hung up on this. If you want to nix it just say so. I could care less if he’s on the path to becoming Frog Splash champion. You guys come first. ALWAYS. Remember though we are a man down, and I do have an eye for this sort of thing. Remember Zeb?”
Just imagine GREAT SCOTT with a pair of T-Shades. Wait… don’t do that.
“Asshole, I found Zeb.” Dooze sharpens his gaze which doesn’t help the wrinkles in his face. He adds, “Zeb reached out to me after we tagged together in the Lottery. I told him how impressed I was with him and that if he was interested that maybe there was a spot for him in the Bandits. To be clear, the maybe was an implied yes.”
“Yeah, but I was the one who actually said yes.”
That’ll show him.
Doozer cracks his knuckles. GREAT BEAR just keeps grinding out. Bobby chimes in like he’s been sitting on his next comment for a couple of years, “I guess that means you were the one who said yes to RICK then?”
LIke I can’t see his fingers and chins crossed.
“Okay. I get it.” I raise my arms to signal I had enough. “I do. I should have asked you guys first if GREAT BEAR could play in our game. What do you say we table the conversation till a later date. Let’s sleep on it.”
Bob rolls his eyes at my ruse. To be honest I’m shocked he’s carried his gripe this far. I thought for sure he would’ve lost his train of thought after saying “So”.
Dooze, that old fart, leans in and gets all serious like he’s Nancy Drew, “Okay. Sure thing. Just know if you fuck with my EDM I’ll fuck with you. Got it? Oh, and I don’t recall saying anything about GREAT SCOTT becoming champion?”
Bad Guy to Bad Guy
“Let me guess. He’s not from the United States, either.” — Jiles’ Journal, June 27th, 2022.
This is it.
It’s finally here.
The moment the world has been waiting for.
He’s going to describe the updated T-Shades.
“Great American Nightmare. Ultraviolence. Violence Jack. Julianne Vegetables.”
Don’t care, Jiles in four.
I laugh. And laugh. And laugh. A truly hearty chuckle. Eventually, after growing exasperated from all of my knee slapping and gassing, but at the end of the day still being a pro, I find the courage to continue. Just know that it’s not easy. Thankfully, my hair is amazing and my T-Shades are back to being translucent.
“Sorry if this comes off as pompous, but you are on the list, Bathtub. You’ve been found guilty. You smeared. You conjured. You reveled in my failure. Worst of all you’re not even one of them, and you did so anyway.”
A disappointing shake of the head.
“I bet you probably weren’t listening the last time I was on this couch, and I said that whoever did so — whoever I deemed slanderous — would pay and that they would pay dearly for it. You should know I wasn’t lying. I wasn’t kidding around. I was DEAD serious.”
You wanted fire… we killed the Flamberge.
I stop. Not because I want to…
“Only I get to wear that shirt.”
I’m going to eat your fucking heart AT ULTRAVIOLENCE.
Sorry for that.
I clear the webs and continue.
“You now owe me money, J-bone, and it’s time to pay up. I’ll have you know I collect my debts in shell and yolk so get yourself ready for the shaming that entails.”
I nod. If it’s annoying, it should be.
“You think you’re bad? I’m worse. You think you’re good? I’m better. You think anyone gives a flying fuck about MESSIAH and Violet Jack’s Monocle of Madness– they don’t.”
I groan. Unimpressed and left wanting.
“I hope squandering an opportunity like the one you have doesn’t break you. I’ve been there. It’s like jail, and when a convicted felon gets out and says he’s never going back. You understand why it’s either freedom or a box. That’s how dark and bleak it is. Plus, I really enjoy seeing those who’ve been felled by the COOL walking around backstage, doing their absolute best to avoid eye contact with me. It’s why I get to the shows early.”
I smile. Yes, you should hate it.
“You and your soft ass.”
Another hearty chuckle booms from my diaphragm. I sideline the knee slapping because being gratuitous isn’t in my nature.
“You’re so fucked– I almost feel bad for you. ALMOST. Then again you did slander so how bad can I feel? You asked for this and who am I not to deliver? I’ve spent the last seven days fast tracking my healing process just to make sure the package gets there on time. I’ve been in cryostasis getting ready for so long that my brain froze. Thankfully, it turns out I don’t need it against a crumb like you.”
Yes, that means that even the brain dead are smart enough to stand against MESSIAH.
“Now, it’s not all doom and gloom. There is a sunny side to all of this. After we’re done at Great American Nightmare you’ll have another thing to bond over with your (tor)mentor. The both of you will know what it feels like to have egg on your face. Egg placed there by me. Cancer Jiles. King. Fucking. COOL.”