Cancer Jiles
“A star was eggstinguished today, and with it went the glimmer of hope it provided for so many.” Jiles’ Journal, February 18th, 2022.
ReVival Three has come and gone.
King Blueberry met King Hippo.
Doozer popped up out of nowhere.
The Maestro conducted a magnificent main event.
A bountiful, leveraging, big stick of a bounty was secured.
And, to top it all off, by night’s end whatever PRIME was supposed to be, or could have ever hoped to have been… was no more.
Real cool, Nova.
Real cool.
Indeed, dark days loom just over the horizon. Days littered with broken pieces of shell and splattered egg yolks. Days occupied with scrambled suffering and over easy embarrassment. It won’t be the end, but it sure will feel like it.
Rejoice, masochists.
The eGG Bandits are back.
Doozer, the old world muscle busting Bostonian has returned from injury and rejoined his Bandit brethren. He’s eager to drop the cane, stretch his weary bones, and do whatever it takes to ensure the Bandits are seen in all of their deserved glory.
Bobby Dean, the Beautiful Man from Honalee has taken up rubbing elbows with all kinds of franchised and disenfranchised folk. More importantly, he’s not knocking over buffets(tables) or staring into the infinite depths of his belly button. His focus is narrowed. Kind of. Still, he will not over-rest, and vows to only drink diet soda until the Bandits thirst for glory is quenched.
…and then there’s the Maestro, Cancer Jiles. Bounty Hunter Extraordinaire. He’s the man with the golden hair, AND the golden ticket. He is bulletproof. He is undeniable. He is unyielding. He is relentless. He doesn’t walk. He gets carried, and will not hesitate to stand on the shoulders of his Bandits to ensure their successful return to righteous and unsanctimonious glory.
Together, they will not be denied.
—
MGM Grand
Alone in the Ivory Tower
COOL Open
“He might have made it past the judge and jury, but he would not make it past the eggsecutioner. Not as long as I was the one in control of the blade.” Jiles’ Journal, February 22nd, 2022.
Lights.
Cancer.
Action~!
I smile.
I have been smiling.
I can’t stop smiling.
I won’t be able to stop smiling.
“DID YOU HEAR THAT FUCKING CROWD!?! No? Eggsactly.”
Obnoxiously. Disrespectfully. Void of taste, or anything even close to resembling it, I chuckle from the comfort of my cozy couch. My deriding gas lasts a good while, too. Eventually though, since I am a pro, I gather myself and put a halt to all the exaggerated knee slapping. In my defense the sound of silence was quite stark inside the MGM Grand Garden Arena.
“YOLKED THEM. Totally. Utterly. Deservingly. YOLKED THEM.”
A generous, self serving, pat on the back.
“Just when I thought that sweeping the crumbs off the tournament table and collecting the bounty was going to make my day complete; I experienced the silent explosion made by ReVival’s collective jaw crashing through the floor and into Simon and Garfunkel’s living room.”
A chill moves through my body. My hair glows a golden aura. Well, a more golden aura than usual. I can’t help it. My COOLYMPIAN reserve is waning. The excitement of ReVival 3 is causing the blood to rush through my veins.
“Thank GOD I’ve been taping down in preparation for when I have a mixed gender match, cause I won’t front… I was _rock_ hard basking in that silence. Granite. I could have hammered in a nail, which is ironic since Nova’s failure could be seen as a nail in PRIME’s coffin.”
I glance off into the distance, as if I can actually see PRIME’s coffin lying in the other room. Transfixed, I wonder how many more I’ll have to stake through the heart before I can bury it underground for good.
Three.
“I’ll never forget it. The silence that is. Never. Eh, fuck it. The boner, too.”
It’s true. I won’t. Bobby DVR’ed the whole thing. I’ve watched it like, 97 times already. We all have. Plus, the starrish gleam in my eye, which of course you’ll have to take my word for thanks to the T-shades, isn’t going anywhere. It might as well be glaucoma.
Better roll another one.
“Before I move on from yesterday’s stardust I want to send a quick shout out to my new number one fan, Dirty Dick Parker of the PRIME announce team.”
A very friendly, appreciative, thumbs up.
“I heard the broadcast, Dick, and I’m sorry to say that Hoytee Toity ain’t walking through the doors to save the day. In fact, no one is, because no one can. ReVival belongs to the Bandits now. It’s probably in your best interest to start calling it that way, unless of course you’re a fan of breakfast for dinner.”
A long, abnormal pause.
“Whoever the fuck this Hoyt is.”
A smirk.
“Anyway, as fate would have it, the dubious distinction of trying to save the day now falls into the very incapable hands of John Bon Kennedy Rokustick.”
Golf clap.
“The young, athletic, vanilla wafer of the Al Masy Invitational.”
I yawn.
“Better known back home as The Grassy Kneeman.”
I snort. It was not only a good joke, but also good that Dooze wasn’t around to hear it. He would have wound up throwing out his back. Again. He’s old school. He likes corny. I suppose the silver lining is at least this time around I’d be laughing with him instead of at him. For a little while anyway.
“The young gun is so young he doesn’t even have to shave under his armpits, AND of course Doozer could be his grandfather.”
ZING~!
“Turns out Barepits is a big mumbo-jumbo from Illinois. He has two eyes, doesn’t abuse ellipses, is married to Brian Hollywood’s sister, and is greener than an Alabama hornet.”
Oh, what a pity. Not again. Not another inexperienced layup. Whatever will I do? Curse you, Lady Troy. Curse you!
“He got drafted to play in the league, but got hurt before he could even take the field. Such a shame. Then, he got fat after eating his depression. Such a bigger shame. In an effort to turn his life around, he thought it wise to start a career in professional wrestling.”
Sounds like John Kennedy liked going to Disney World growing up.
Nerd.
“Now, after filming the day and night time sequels to Rudy, John has somehow twinkled his way into the third round of Al Masy’s Invitational.”
That smile of mine widens. That’s right– it hasn’t gone away. It’s never going away.
Disco Elysium.
And yes, it is intentional. Hopefully you picked up on it the second time. Fuck your history. Fuck your idols. Everything you know will change. All there will be is egg, and from the look of things there’s plenty of faces to go around.
I mean, I cough up some charcoal while clearing my throat. Good thing I was already grilling.
Ha.
“Say John, I’m a good sport. I like a fair fight. I don’t want the worst to happen. I wish you nothing but the best, and not to suffer needlessly in your young career. That said, if you don’t want to wear a brace on your knee during the match I promise I won’t attack it with the fervor of Billy Bob Thornton in Friday Night Lights. I mean it, too. I’m trustworthy. A lot of guys say it in this business, but I mean it. I won’t Booty Miles you. Promise.”
I flash my hands to show that my fingers are not crossed. I even manage to dull down my joker smile for a little bit to feign integrity. I doubt it will work. I have a reputation. One that I have built, and cultivated over the course of a long career. One that has grown with time, practice, pain, and blood.
“Yeah, I wouldn’t trust me either.”
I shrug. I forgot. My palms are red.
“Advantage or not, Big John Kennedy, I will say this. Unlike your round one and round two opponents— my name isn’t Crumb or Bum. No, my name, as far as your big ass is concerned, is COOL Cancer Washington. That is to say I have an ax for a foot, and an apple for your big mouth.”
I gesture assertively. Chop chop.
“I‘m built for this, John.” Hence the ax foot. “I’m ready for it.” Hence the apple for the pig on the stick. “The brighter the lights the better my hair looks. Pressure? Resolve? Guts? Try riding in an elevator with Bobby Dean.”
I pause, my nostrils still sting from the Noxia ritual.
“The only thing you’re built for is a non-contact knee injury.”
Ok. That might have been below the belt.
“The only thing you’re ready for is the relief that comes with not being in the tournament.”
I perk up, cracking my neck and knuckles.
“You’ve had a good run. Better than most. Better than Bob. Better than Dooze. However, it comes to an end at ReVival Four. Just like Pudding Pop, and Super Scotia before you– The Grassy Kneeman just isn’t COOL enough.”
Weighed. Measured. Wanting.
“I am seasoned, John, and I don’t sneeze.”
God bless you.
—
MGM Grand
The Ivory Tower Gym and Spa
Boys will be Boys
“The team was back together. There was trust in the room for the first time in a long time. The past was eggsactly that. Shell and yolk were once again one.” Jiles’ Journal, February 23rd, 2022.
Well.
Here we are.
The Brokers of Yolk.
The Sellers of Shell.
We don’t ask, and we don’t care enough to tell.
Me, Bobby, and Dooze.
The three of us have gathered to get a nice sweat in. Which means I’m inside a cryochamber, Dooze is lifting weights, and Bobby is wrapped in trash bags. It’s been a while since we have been together like this. Most wouldn’t know it of course, but for the past year or so we’ve been mostly out of contact, or at each other’s throats. There was no coexisting. There was no camaraderie. There was no hunt for glory. Then, when there was the chance to regain those things, Dooze got hurt.
But now, finally, we are back together.
The eGG Bandits.
I’ll be honest. I never thought we’d make it back here. I know Mom said she’d put us up in a fancy suite, and that maybe in PRIME we could find our way back to being Bandits… and what do you know, here we are… but I never thought it would actually work. Not that I doubt the powers of our Queen, it’s just that I tend to be really good at burning bridges. Something to do with all the salt I’ve been told. If only the saying was freezing bridges.
Oh well.
Usually, while the three of us are gathered together like this, I would be breaking balls at an unmerciful, breakneck pace. Not today, though. Today, I’m happy to have what I have. I’m content to sit here with my two oldest friends, and enjoy the sound of silence. I guess you could say I’m getting used to it in Doozer’s old age. So, it should come as no surprise that it is Doozer who goes and ruins it. “Jiles, I got you something. While I was laid up I noticed you didn’t have one in the room, so I went on Amazon and…”
No. I can’t. Does he want me to cry? If it’s…
“…It was the most expensive fake fern they had.”
Oh no. Shades fogging. Salty discharge incoming. I… can’t even talk. I’m worth a million PRIME dollars right now and I can’t utter a word.
“Woah! Look at that! You broke him, Dooze! I told you that you should have asked for the bounty. After seeing his reaction he might have given it to you. Quick, try asking him now.”
The Dooze shakes his head no at Bob’s suggestion. He is a man of integrity, and of honor. Plus, I’m not crazy. He’s only benching 185. Muriel reps more than that. On coke, but still. The old bull might be back in spirit, but his body appears to be lagging a bit behind. I’ll have to get him a cryochamber of his own to help him catch up. It’s the least I can do. He did get me a new fern.
“Cut the shit, Bob, or you might actually wind up breaking a sweat.” The big fella rolls his eyes. He knows I have thirty more minutes in cryostasis, and I don’t jeopardize those minutes for anybody. “Now tell me, my oldest and most wonderful friend, where is she? Back in the room?” Dooze shies away from my questioning. I persist. “Dooze? The fern?”
Sheepish, he responds, “Well, I was drinking strawberry daiquiris when I ordered it, and I didn’t realize it was out of stock.”
I keep on him. “And?”
“And the good news is I’ll get an alert when it’s in, but the bad news is they don’t expect that to be anytime soon. At least it can’t jinx you now. Try looking at it that way.”
I grit my teeth. I desperately need a new fern. However, after swift consideration, I succumb to the voice of reason. “At least the possible jinx is off the table.”
Almost lucked out, John.
Almost.
I sigh, allowing my disappointment to melt away. “Still, I really wish you were doing the can’t see you trick right about now.”
The Dooze nods. “Noted.”
Of course it is noted, you….
I take a breath. It could be worse. I could be trapped inside one of those trash bags. I forgivingly look at my friends and say to them, “Anyway. Let’s talk shop before Bob takes his daily nap. We got the big news to announce on the next show, are you guys sure you’re going to be able to handle it? It’s a big commitment. It won’t be easy. Survival of the fittest… and… well… you know.”
Bob doesn’t take too kindly to me motioning in his direction. He hollers back at me, “I’m sitting here in the bags aren’t I? Cut a guy a slice of cake already. Mr. Bigshot, with his title shot and fancy silk underwear.”
I gasp. There’s only one way Bob could know I wear silk underwear. “Are you sniffing my boxers dude?”
Nervous, Bob pulls down on the trash bag collar around his neck before diverting from the question. “So, round three. Just long enough to regret losing. First round, who cares— the coffee was warm. Second round, it was fun and good luck to the rest of the field. Third round though… it’s just enough of an investment to be let down.” Dooze quickly looks up at the ceiling. I glare a sizeable whole in Bob’s forehead. He looks on blankly, until it hits him. “Oh. Did I just put the jinx back on the table?”
My eyes angrily bulge. Bobby nervously gulps. Dooze smartly stays fixated on the ceiling.
“That’s it. No more Bundt cake for you.”
Bob frowns.
I enjoy it.
It’s true.
The good old days are back.
—
“I can’t believe it. Bobby Dean was right.” — Jiles’ Journal, February 24th, 2022.
Round Three. The regrettable round. King COOL versus the former 49ers third pick overall. Seems John Kennedy has the number’s luck on his side. Maybe it’ll be enough when coupled with Bob’s hijinks.
Maybe.
He is newly wed, too. Although, come to think of it, that’s probably considered bad luck.
No matter.
Maybe John is lucky.
Maybe the bullet misses and Miss Alabama doesn’t get a free convertible.
More importantly…
Maybe the COOLYMPIAN will rest on his laurels now that he has a gin card in his back pocket. Save himself, and write off the tournament to focus on other yolky prospects. Maybe he’s changed, and all of a sudden he’ll be able to cope with losing to a man ten plus years his junior, and with minimal wrestling experience to boot. A man he has zero respect for.
Maybe the Maestro doesn’t want to win, more so than ever before. He doesn’t seem like the type of guy who’d be motivated to hold the Universal Championship in one hand, and use his other to wipe his dirty ass with the bounty he had won.
Maybe the Bandit mouthpiece won’t want to impress his buddies by doing what he set out to do. They wouldn’t humiliate him if he weren’t able to follow through with his boasting. Certainly not them.
Maybe John, and Hoyt, and Dirty Dick, and the rest of PRIME enjoy the sound of shell shocked silence more than Cancer Jiles does.
On the other hand…
Maybe not.