Cancer Jiles
USS Octane
International Water
The Dark Night
“I suppose next time I can bring my new buddy Gabe along so he can learn how to properly stomach a kilo. After all, that is what friends are for and far be it from me, a friend, to deny him a proper right of passage. I just hope for now he doesn’t mind snorting something up his nose that came out of Bob’s ass and or belly button. Probably best I don’t tell him about the last part.” — Jiles’ Journal, June 9th, 2023.
The day is gone, the night air is chill, the sea is not angry, Jiles is topside, and the moon is illuminating the ship like it is one big Lite Bright.
And who said being an anytime T-Shades wearer was a bad thing?
Next stop, Mexico.
Hopefully.
The COOLYMPIAN of Crime can be echolocated on the top deck. He’s wearing his typical electric blue tracksuit, and not even a wispy ocean breeze can screw with the poof in his hairdo. Next to Jiles is the portly, Bobby Dean. Bobby’s squeezing into a matching tracksuit, but his hair is an absolute mess. Lastly, next to Bob, and in a similar style just different color tracksuit, call it murder red, is the ship’s main stew, Lunchbox Laser.
What?
You were eggspecting someone else?
Ha.
It’s been awhile since the three shipmates have been able to gather together aboard the death vessel. Life, for the most part, but also no real sense of urgency to regroup has kept them away from one another.
That is, of course, until now.
Purpose is a hell of a drug.
Now, Bobby, the beautifully rotund and beloved Bandit that he is, has come home from his walk about. Not only that, he hasn’t asked to borrow any money yet either. Better yet, he even said this time around things were going to be different; that he means business and he ain’t talking about number two.
Judges, stop me if you’ve heard that one before.
Mind you, Robert the Rotund said those things while sitting atop a toilet seat so take from it what you will. Let’s just say KING COOL scooted out of the bathroom cautiously optimistic about the whole thing and move right along.
Now, Laser, the lumbering shit shoveler that he is, is back on the clock. Sadly, he’s gotten lazy and out of shape in his old age; though it’s not entirely his fault. See, he’s the guy who makes the Octane go vroom by shoveling shit into the boat’s flux capacitor. Since the boat has been docked in Port Hell for who knows how long, and not having people thrown off of it while vrooming across the open water, well needless to say he hasn’t been too busy and hence the decline.
The Chief Stew of the USS Octane also looks in on the degenerates and ingrates locked in the bowels of the ship. Most times he goes down there to collect their buckets so he can empty them into the capacitor for an easy fuel dump. Since there’s quite a few of them it is usually worth his time, however the lazy act of not shoveling has also led to his physical decline.
Poor Laser.
Well, at least you’d think there were quite a few of them down there, but as it turns out it’s just one guy. It just so happens that he’s so full of shit you could confuse his output for an entire platoon, or at the very least a boy band. That said, ultimately the blame for Laser’s downfall should be attributed to Jiles using famed referee Timo Bolamba’s son’s inheritance to bounce around from show to show, and not Mortician Mike’s inheritance.
Rich people and their gyms.
Nor O-Town Ryan.
Anywho.
Now, Cancer Jiles, the best for last, High Octane’s third most forgotten son, is once again howling at the moon from atop his former totem. And by that I mean Mexico is a lawless land run by a ruthless cartel boss with a patch for an eye, so, KING COOL figured it best to roll deep and bring out the big guns. And he did. He’s got Bobby for the rolls, and the boat because well it’s an aircraft carrier and they don’t make guns much bigger than that.
Facts.
“Between us, I wasn’t about to take a chance and get diverted to Tijuana. Not aboard a private jet. No sir. I read on Twitter the local cartel police the airport, and if you fly private and you’re white they skin you alive and sell your skin like it’s some sort of celebrity suit that guarantees the wearer legal entry into the United States.”
A vehement Bobby nods along like he read the same thing just ten seconds ago. Well, and that he believed it.
The COOLYMPIAN continues.
“I know, Twitter blue is crazy, bro.”
A less vehement Bob nods again. He got tuckered out after the first nod it seems.
The COOLYMPIAN casually continues.
“I did some further digging about it just in case Laser was on vacation drinking Mojitos instead of Margaritas, and someone sent me a DM stating that if I knew the Anglo Luchador’s secret gang handshake I’d be fine to land. I didn’t completely trust the validity of the source since the username was AngloSaxon97. He also said AngloSaxon69 was taken when I asked him why 97.”
Again, Bob knowingly nods, because like, of course AngloSaxon69 would be taken.
The cancerous COOLYMPIAN casually continues.
“In the end though, for High Octane, for Pops, for PWA, for Conor and Memory Lane, and most of all my own skin, I decided to pull up in a fucking NIMITZ CLASS, EGG LAUNCHING, AIRCRAFT CARRIER. Fuck Lee Chapo. Fuck the cartel. He ain’t making a suit out of me. This shit is mine.”
He means his skin.
And probably the boat.
“I mean, could you imagine if I had to get this stomach tattoo again?”
Frightened from the hell raising thought, Bob turns to Jiles wanting to know if the dastardly Lee Chapo would want to sell his skin as well.
The cancerous COOLYMPIAN’s conceit casually continues.
“I said they are selling suits, not blankets.”
Suddenly, a rogue wave crashes against the side of the massive boat shocking all three. Attached to the wave is a message. The message is in a bottle. When the wave crashes against the side of the ship the bottle breaks and the message inside gets swept up into the air like in Murder She Wrote. Ironically, the piece of parchment the message is written on makes its way to the top deck, and lands in Jiles’ hands.
The cancerous COOLYMPIAN’s confused conceit casually continues.
“Circle yes or no if you want to play Injustice 2 as our characters. Will need another bottle…. HOW in the hell did he… ”
—
USS Octane
The War Room
Burial at Sea
“He puts the joke in joker.” — Jiles’ Journal, June 10th, 2023.
The Fathership is less than a day trip away from the Port of Mexico. The Bandits, Laser, the T-Shades, the hair, his COOLYNESS, in essence, have arrived.
Pee. Double You. eh.
Too.
The show.
Lights.
Jiles.
Action~!
“Hello again, High Octane Wrestling. It is I, your former Slayer of Lloyd. It’s been too long, and believe me when I say I miss you all very dearly. I hope all is well, and that your fountain pens are overflowing with ink. Or blood. Or both. Congratulations on another amazing War Games, and on remaining the standard bearer for all in this industry to aspire to.”
Sincerity at its finest.
“For some reason one of your own has decided to leave the reservation and interfere in my primordial affairs.”
A snort.
Derisive in nature.
“Don’t worry, I’m going to personally see to it that he finds his way back to HOTv. It’s the least I can do after all we’ve been through. There will be no need to thank me later. This one is on the arm. Oh, he’ll be in a box though so be on the lookout for that.”
Only PRIME members are eligible for free delivery.
So that will be 5.97 in shipping and handling.
“As for who it is that has lost his way? My… nemesis? My… foil? My… god it’s the video game kid Comic Conor Fuse, the self proclaimed Clown Prince of PRIME!?! I know, I was standing at the time I found out too and nothing happened either.”
The shock and awe is… thick.
“Good, nice, pubescent Conor Fuse. Two time Champion of the World. All grown up. He’s got some hair under his armpits, and ditched the Nintendo controller for a cape and cowl. Or lipstick and green hair.”
A shrug.
We don’t kink shame in the Bandits.
“So, I guess he’s in High School now then.”
Ha.
“Explains the petty grudge.”
Ha.
“Let me guess, Junior year.”
Ha.
“Before I show you the shovel, Conor, I figured it would be fitting if I told you a joke. It, like you, is a good, nice, laugh. Here goes. Jared Leto, Jack Nickolson, Heath Ledger’s ghost, and Joaquin Phoenix are sitting at a bar. All of them are in their own respective Joker costumes. Shit, even the animated Joker is there so the whole scene has a very Roger Rabbit vibe to it. In walks you, Conor Fuse, The Clown Prince of PRIME. The record instantly skips. Harley Quinn scoops the cash, jumps off stage, and sneaks out the back door. All the jokers stop what they are doing and ask the same fucking thing I would.”
A pause for the dramatics.
“Who the fuck are you?”
—
Pucker
Kiss
Goodbye
“No, I’m not done yet.” — Jiles’ Journal, June 10th, 2023.
The COOLYMPIAN continues.
“All jokes aside, Conor, it took me a minute but I finally remembered who you are. I couldn’t place it at first. I knew I knew you. Not from the ring. Not from your antics. Not from Great Pizmo School. Not from blood.”
A short pause.
“I knew you from tears.”
A shorter pause, but still just long enough for the curtain jerk to flash his jerky smile.
“Not your tears though, but mine.”
Jiles’ demeanor would lead you to believe he just made a slight concession, but in actuality KING COOL can hardly keep himself together.
“It all came rushing back to me at once. Fuck man. The deep. There were times when I didn’t think I was going to make it, and I was going to be stuck in that state forever. But, I got through it. Somehow. Damn it, man, fuck you for making me go back down this road.”
Jiles can’t keep it up, and bursts out.
“Those damn tears! I remembered crying my eyes out, Conor! You bastard! I remembered crying my eyes out because I was laughing so god damn hard you gullible crumb. Sit the fuck down cause I’m not done.”
And the T-Shades come off.
“In fact, Conor, I remembered gassing it up so egregiously I was rolling around pissing myself because it meant that I was once again pissing on your face.”
The good old days.
Lawlessness, and lewdness unbound. The Bandit way.
“Do you know what I’m talking about, Conor? Do you remember which thigh your mugshot was on?”
Poor Comet.
“I hope so. If not, don’t fret. I found them, and I’ll be dusting them off at PWA 2 so everyone can get in on the joke. HA.”
The irony is oozing off of the frames of Jiles’ T-shades.
A hearty, obnoxious, one of one, laugh.
Hence the HA.
The type Conor should remember.
Fondly.
“Man is it gonna feel good to get my bulge back.”
Pucker.
Kiss.
Goodbye.
—
ReVival 28
CoMiCaN’t
Be Real
“I wonder if the switch in person is starting to mess with the PRIME people yet? Hopefully it is, because that would certainly make me happy. Yes, I certainly do enjoy when PRIME is prime, and I couldn’t imagine HOW mad I’d be at the person who forced me to feel otherwise. I would want to kill that person. Badly. Horribly. Comically. I would punish beyond cruelty. I would execute beyond termination. I would make sure that no one ever made the same mistake again. I would end them for making me feel that way.” — Jiles’ Journal, June 2nd, 2023.
The show opening slap in the face had been won. Yet, as soon as I got backstage I was ready to explode.
Hooray, back to the horse’s mouth.
You might even say my fuse had been lit. Why? I’ll tell you why. Soon to be divorcee, Terry Woods-Mesphito-Bathory-Wheadon-Palmer had just been successfully eggsecuted. Then, not that I was going to celebrate such a paltry victory, but if I had wanted to I couldn’t because I found out who was coming to CRUMBcon this year.
That crumb.
Conor fucking Fuse.
He is the one. He is the one who has been occupying my time with teaser trailers for the next Suicide Squad Documentary. Fucking Clown Prince of PRIME? HE CAN’T BE SERIOUS. He. Can’t. Be. So. Serious?
HA.
I mean holy fuck. What has happened to me? To think that I have fallen so far that even the skeleton’s of the skeletons in my closet are dusting themselves off to take another crack at me. What’s going to happen next I wonder? What could be the craziest thing to happen?
I know.
Out. Of. This. World.
Lottery stuff.
Bobby Dean is going to return without telling me.
Good one.
I know.
Like that would ever happen.
—
ReVival 28
Later On During
The Same Show Conor Fuse Said He Was a Joke(r)
“Well, Bob’s back. No notice either. I couldn’t even prepare a cake for him. I ran into him in the bathroom. He didn’t apologize. Oh well. It’s not like he left me in the trenches taking grenades. Still though, I didn’t think it would happen and here we are. He’s back. We’re back. I suppose I’ll get in front of this madness and add Comet Pews looking me in the eyes like he still isn’t my bitch to the list of crazy things that would never happen next.” Jiles’ Journal, June 2nd, 2023.
Bobby Dean.
My friend.
My rabbit’s foot.
He was gone. He has a daughter, and she needed him. No questions. I can remember the conversation like it was yesterday.
I said, “Take care, pal. I’ll be waiting for you when you get back.”
This wasn’t some Breakfastsquare Doozer situation. I understood. It was necessary. Of course I didn’t like it, and I only said that to Bob after I had suggested he send little Belle to the monastery so she could become a nun.
I was being nice.
Bob asked me why the monastery and I told him because he needs all the help he can get at the pearly gates. I was quick on my feet that day. My first thought was so that she could develop a moral compass. I held back on that one. The real reason obviously was because I need to be able to stand behind Bob unfettered.
It’s when I’m at my strongest.
But, he needed to go.
I get it.
We all do from time to time.
I knew he’d be back. We always come back, eventually.
Then I told him, “Don’t worry. If it doesn’t work out I got you in Valhalla.” That of course was a lie. Not because I wouldn’t if I could, but Bob doesn’t have pure COOLYMPIAN blood so he’d be stuck holding his shield on the boat. I just hope he doesn’t try to eat it, thinking it’s a pizza.
Better than a video game controller.
That was back then.
This is now.
This is ReVival 28, and I just stumbled into the middle of a Real Shit Talk pop up store. Authentic cuisine straight from the Beautiful Bandit’s ass.
Bob, from the stall, after telling me he meant business and it wasn’t number two he was talking about, then sheepishly asked me, “Do you still have me in Valhalla?”
I ran out of there with tears running down my face.
It was good smelling him again.
So much for being cautiously optimistic.
—
Epilogue
…Once the boat was docked Mexican Federales escorted Bobby Dean back to the border where PRIME officials picked him up for safe keeping. The reason for Bob’s deportation; he fit the description of the fabled Taco Man. The fable goes this man came who had never been there before and drank the water that killed mostly everyone else. Yet, it had no effect on him. The whole thing happened at a restaurant where the man ordered you guessed it, tacos.
After the Fuse vs Jiles match Lunchbox Laser was regrettably never seen again.
Gabe Lipschitz went fishing with his cousin, Zeb Martin. He is now addicted to night crawlers, and doing incredibly well.
High Octane Wrestling went on to thrive for the next 97 years with Brian Hollywood eventually retiring as World Champion. Cecilworth Farthington would go on to lead multiple other HOW invasions. The two absconded into the sunset best friends, much to the dismay of Mike Best.
Leonardo Chapo strangled the life out of his competition and for all of his hard work was left with the only drug left taking. Ink. He is worth billions and is also known as the Calamari King.
PRIME never recovered from their loss at PWA 2. Steve Solex took control of the company and turned it into an Average Dad’s Gym. Nerds were not welcome. Regardless of cut.
After his defeat by Cancer Jiles, Conor Fuse would go on to beat Stronk Goodson at a HOW show. Sadly, it was via disqualification so the World Title never changed hands. Afterwards he went to Comic Con to make himself feel better. George Clooney was not there. And no one still knew what a Crown Prince of PRIME was.
Scott Stevens is still learning how to defend against a fifty dollar double underhook slam.
And as for Cancer Jiles, any pride, any reward, any prosperity that came to PRIME because of him beating Conor Fuse…
Any fame.
Any feeling of entitlement he might have experienced…
… he denounced with no regard for human life. Later, in his memoirs, he would describe the incident as the biggest mistake of his life.
“I should have never won that match. It was the biggest mistake of my life. If I had lost, PRIME would have folded that night, as opposed to an hour later when Mom aborted her baby. IT SHOULD HAVE BEEN ME.” — Jiles’ Journal, April 20th, 2097.
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