“I hadn’t realized what it meant until it was too late. In order to free myself from the shameful shackles that bind I once again had to defile myself inside the pit. For me. For the Bandits. For my honor. For everything I’d become. It was all floating down there, and even if it cost me my right arm I needed to get it back.” — Jiles’ Journal, date of PWA 2.
So, I grabbed the two closest chairs I could find, plopped my sore yet albeit lower case cool ass atop of one, then exhaustingly lifted my weary legs and rested my salted over feet atop the other.
The King Crumb Pose.
Before finding refuge inside of the empty dressing room I certainly did not belong in, I cowered around the backstage area avoiding any signs of life. Needless to say it was quite the cat and mouse game I played with Chris Chickentenders, and believe you me I hated doing it. However, I couldn’t look his youthful soul in the eyes. I couldn’t look anyone in their eyes. Not him. Not any of the Bandits. Not even any of the legacy cardboard Bandits that showed up for my grandiose entrance.
It wasn’t because of the T-Shades, either.
Chris had them.
My match was over.
Conor Fuse had gotten the last laugh.
As such, I wanted to be alone. I needed to be alone. Luckily for me, I was. Well, for a while anyway. And while I was alone I sat and I thought. I tried to process my feelings.
What are those, and can you say trial and error?
I didn’t know if I was madder about losing to that Joker and the previously unforeseen concessions that now became clear because of it, or about missing out on an amazing opportunity to thumb my nose towards my old haunt.
I still don’t.
I can promise you that.
See, on the one hand I think Conor Fuse is the clown he so diligently tries to be. As such, he doesn’t deserve to breathe the same air as me, or walk in the same light as me, or wrestle in the same ring as me. To me, the only thing Conor can do with my laces is use them to swing back and forth from an elevated pipe.
Yes, that means an all or nothing USS Octane Chicago Style Deathmatch Cruise looms on the horizon.
But, for as little I think of him, which is very little, Conor did what he set out to do. Conor came to PRIME with a purpose and he eggsecuted. Not only that, he did so at my expense.
Not bad, kid.
Not bad at all.
For that I have no choice but to respect him. To admire him. To give him his props, or a rose for him to pin upon his lapel.
That fucking clown.
Albeit grudgingly, and never publicly.
Then, on the other hand, in regard to the thumbing of the nose if you will, it turns out I was so eager to show my ass I forgot it wouldn’t matter if my pants were already down to begin with.
Yes, that is a clever way of saying someone was caught with their pants down.
I don’t know why I was so excited to shit where I once ate. I don’t. I know I shouldn’t have been. Yet, the crazy, beaten, HOWse wife I am, was. Shit, I would do PWA 97 and every show in between, which could be one the craziest things I’ve ever admitted to.
It’s not a very long list.
Maybe it’s just one of those things that I’ll never be able to be done with………… Or maybe it’s just one of those things you need a couch and a licensed professional for. Or two toilet seats and a friend. Either way, probably best to just blame the whole kerfuffle on Lunchbox Laser.
Talk about your missed opportunity though. Especially with HOW things sweepingly played out. I mean, could you imagine if I, Cancer Jiles, the UV stain on PRIME’s electric blue blouse, would have been the only successful PRIME wrestler at PWA 2?
The one that counts.
It would magically say PRIME across my chest instead of COOL, and everyone would have to fucking like it. It would have been glorious.
Oh well. Alas, I did not. Alas, she did not either.
The drama builds.
When I said I was in a dressing room I didn’t belong in, I meant it. I also meant it when I said I wanted to be alone, and there were only two rooms in the entire building that checked both of those boxes. I wasn’t behind enemy lines. Quite the opposite in fact.
Well, that remains to be seen.
Turns out I was squatting in the Queen’s room. She was in the main event, so it was unoccupied and free for sulking. Anyway, when the door finally opened and she came walking through it I knew the outcome of her match instantly. We both shared the same look.
Plus, I watched the whole thing on the monitor in her room.
It took a few seconds before she recognized I was even there. I was pretty comfortable in King Crumb so I had a hint of inconspicuousness going for me. When she did though it wasn’t surprise or splendor she greeted me with. Rather, she kindly asked me to as she put it, “GET THE FUCK OUT.”
I didn’t have the energy to argue so instead I stood up and asked her how her trip to el doctoro went– which she didn’t necessarily appreciate. I guess I can come off as facetious from time to time. By the way, I knew she had been down to medical because she had the same kind of ice pack as Gringo Gabe did when we hogtied him.
Then, even after I tried to explain that I was asking from a place of warmth, she remained unentertained. I got it though. I understood. She, like me, wanted to be left alone. She let everybody down. Her, even more so than I did— with her being Queen of PRIME and all, and me just being a simple, legendary, world renowned, one of one, super overachieving, righteous and lauded eggsecutioner.
To not only be a failure, but to be a failure of that magnitude? Well, that sucks.
So no, I wasn’t there to rub it in like maybe she thought I was. Regardless, I was still leaving. Before I left though, I did have one last thing I wanted to say. Some advice. Some pep perhaps for my poor Prom Queen.
From that warm, permissible place.
“No one knows better than I do how you feel right now, my Queen. No one. That said, ice up, bitch.”
Thankfully I was able to quickly close the door behind me so the ice pack she launched in my direction exploded against it like a shotgun blast, and not my face.
“Homeless or not. Drug addict or not. Failure of a champion or not. Bald or not. By the end of our contest Rezin had earned my consideration. Going forward he will be recognized as formidable, and for having a jaw made out of ready rock. Maybe one day there will be space for him in the carton.” — Jiles’ Journal, June 16th, 2023.
How sweet it is.
Yet, if not capitalized upon, what is the point of all those cavities? So, in order to pay proper respect to my fallen opponent I must not squander what it is that I got by defeating him. And what I got is an opportunity. And, with a last name like Jiles that’s all a guy needs.
And a lot of luck.
Unfortunately, the opportunity I speak of will have to wallow in turmoil just a little while longer. For you see, I have something else to share right now. Something of a devious sort. Something that will rattle even the strongest of convictions.
The head of ship security, Lunchbox Laser, recently did some digging for me. Digging, in regard to Robert Dean. That’s right. The Honalean Prince. The Beautiful Beaute. My friend. Cosigner to the eGG Bandits. Yolk relative. The guy who can set his heart attacks like an alarm clock.
I was suspicious of him.
So an inquiry was made.
Something about Robert’s return to the ring just didn’t make sense to me. One, he hates it. Two, he would have told me about it. Three, he hates it. Now, I don’t mean he hates it like he’s going to take the belt back to High Octane. Shit, I don’t even mean he hates like he’s going to fake take the belt back to High Octane. I mean Bob hates it because he has to walk down to the ring, and then walk all the way back to the locker room when he is done.
Simple is arduous in this case.
So, why come back then? It would be one thing if Bobbert came back looking like a fit fiddle. Sure, I’d get it then. He’s here to decimate. To lay waste. He didn’t say anything because he wanted to surprise me. But no, he’s even bigger than he was before. Slower, too. Older, obviously. His poops even smell worse.
And therein lies the rub. Lunchbox Laser, amongst his digging, found out that Bobby Dean had been visiting the same locale over and over and over again. In fact, the Honalean hot spot had reported record sales during the span of his visits.
I never thought it possible that a Bandit would turn on me. Well, scratch that. I never thought it possible that Bobby Dean would sell his soul to destroy all that we have worked for, but it’s true. He’s been compromised and I needed to see how hot the frying pan was.
And my best chance to do so was about to happen.
We both had won.
Me versus Rezin.
Bobby versus Zion.
Let me say that for us, and when I say us I mean Bandits, Bobby beating Zion was a bigger upset than me beating Rezin. Which, of course, I’m sorry for bringing up. That said, I knew if the unthinkable could happen, which it did, that it would provide the perfect opportunity for me to catch Bob off guard and hopefully get to the bottom of this.
So, there we were. Bobby was ear to ear, happy as can be about slaying the dragon and not stumbling out of the blocks for the 26738743 time. I was eating raisins. Things were genuine, and that’s eggsactly the cover I wanted. Wholesomeness makes for a great smoke screen.
“You did it, Bob. You really did it.”
Bobby extended his hand as if to shake mine in solidarity over a job well done. I quickly slapped it away; stinging the tips of his fingers in the process.
”NOW TELL ME HOW MUCH CHICKEN YOU BASTARD!? TELL ME HOW MUCH TO CRACK THE SHELL?!!?!?!?”
Bobby Dean is a part of the KFC coalition– a rebellion funded by grease fat, Bobby’s favorite kind. Or something like that. Somehow they got a man inside my camp, like giving Bobby Dean access to all the chicken on Noah’s Arc would be enough to….
Bobby instantly knew I had him dead to rights. I had it all. The evidence. In a box right there waiting for him to see. The tapes. The receipts. Countless chicken bones. Greasy napkins. Hopefully greasy napkins. More tapes. A stool specimen.
Smellier than ever.
“TELL ME! I’LL KILL YOU IF IT WAS FOR FREE CONDIMENTS. RIGHT HERE. RIGHT NOW. I SWEAR TO ZEUS! TELL ME!”
The more I berated Bob, the more he continued to shrivel like a penis in gradually getting colder water. It was very emasculating. Thank god his daughter wasn’t around to see it, and the whole thing never made television.
I was being relentless.
So much so, I started to feel bad, like maybe I was ruining Bob’s first win back or something. The thought that I should ease up crossed my mind. I found my center. I took a breath. I helped him stand erect. We are Bandits afterall. We’ve all strayed from the carton from time to time.
Never like this, though.
Never an inside job.
“Was it Nightshift? Hanson? Tell me this, did Zion lay down in exchange for promised services? Is that HOW we were able to finally defeat him? Was it Memphis Zero who got to you? Don’t tell me it was The Draw. He hasn’t even finished orientation yet!”
I was distraught. Bobby Dean. Tempted by the chicken. So obvious. Yet… so never in my life.
I guess we know which one came first now.
“Tell me this Bob, of all the things I don’t understand, why would you pay for it?”
Bob sheepishly looked up at me and responded, “For the reward clucker points. They would give me two times the amount and in Honalee you don’t find offers like that very often. Let alone offers like that from a pop up KFC shanty.”
I nodded. He had a point. I had been to Honalee for some holiday. I ended up staying under Robert’s care for quite a while, and in the process came to learn their ways. They aren’t too keen on the bargain if you catch my drift. Coincidentally there’s a lot of synagogues there.
Robert further relented, “Eventually they enticed me with triple points, which, for a man of my stature, is an offer simply too good to refuse. I love you, Cancer. I do. But free fried chicken is a whole different conversation. I’m sorry. I won’t go back. I promise! Please forgive me. I’ll donate my points to the charity of your choice. Is it still The Hat Club For Men?”
Again, I nodded, but this was more me trying to cover up the fact I couldn’t trust him anymore, and even more my total conceit for his last comment. Bobby, my confidant of the shell, had been turned by the offer of free fried chicken. In surplus, but still turned nonetheless.
Look at you trying to make eggcuses for him.
“It’s okay. Easy there. Easy. You won. You beat Zion. You did it. Dry your eyes and look at me like the proud Bandit you are.”
The more I thought about it, and the more I consoled the big hearted Bandit from Honalee… the more it made sense.
“It’s okay. It’s okay. There, there.”
I needed to cut the fat from the chicken.
“You opened the show. You took out the trash. You stumbled along the way. Yet, here you are. You’ve worked harder than anyone else to get back. Nothing was given. This belongs to you. Do not allow them to take it.” — Jiles’ Journal, June 29th, 2023.
Tropical Turmoil. PRIME’s no longer nightmarish show of the summer. Oh well, I still plan on leaving a horrific mark that will resonate so soundly throughout the annals of PRIME history they might have to change the name of the summer blockbuster again.
It’s a shame that COOLOSSUS is taken.
“Let’s make this real simple. My name is Cancer Jiles and I’m going to recapture the Universal Championship at UltraViolence.”
Don’t say he never did anything for you plebs.
“Ray, Sykes, Colton.”
There I am; standing for all to see. Hair, impervious. Shades, to the T. Demeanor, not to be trifled with.
“You three can circle jerk atop your soap boxes for all I care, just keep clear of me. I know, easier said than done since I tend to make people famous. However, if you do manage to mind your own business and keep your egos in check, and more importantly allow me to conduct some of my own, I promise the only time we’ll cross paths is when I have to pin one of you to end the match.”
Being a former boy scout my word is my bond.
“Oh, and congrats to one of you three for making the final two. Good job.”
Seems like something they’d brag about.
“As for the other two.”
I snort, trying my best to keep my COOLYMPIAN composure.
“That Russian crumb who has been trading on my cool name for too goddamn long.”
The unBEARable, Ivan Stanislob.
”You fuck. You monstrous, hideous, overgrown fuck. Tell me, Ivan, did the hill you were born out of have eyes on it? Was the mutant from Chernobyl? How many car accidents have you caused because people were awestruck by your deformity?”
I hold my hands out at ten and two and then lose control of my imaginary vehicle while trying to hide from The Radioactive Russian.
“When I look at you, I wonder. I wonder how it’s even possible you are allowed to walk around without wearing some sort of mask covering your face. At least a brown bag or something. Cut some eye holes in it, but not too big.”
“I get that the show is one thing. I can see it, I mean I regret seeing it that’s for sure but I can see it since people will pay money for something like that.”
Ivan “The Draw” Stanislav.
“But, like when you’re out in public, how is it possible a creature like you can simply roam free? I mean, think about the kids.”
One, two, Ivan’s coming for you…
“Although, I’m sure you probably enjoy hearing their screams. Or is it watching as they flee for their lives? Or both?”
I hold my hands out as if to say Ivan need not answer. Him, and the many marbles in his mouth have been pardoned. Besides, truth be told no one comes for the answers. They come to laugh after hearing the questions.
“Anyway, know this, and know it real fucking well. I don’t care if I have to walk across the backs of the others and springboard off the top rope to do it– for your hubris, for being even uglier on the inside than you are on the out, I’m going to salt your chin with my boot and then eliminate you from this match.”
So he knows.
And he knows.
“You’re going to regret not finishing me off when you had the chance. Even more than you’re going to regret ever bragging about it. That’s the type of loss you are about to experience. Now, if the others have to dog pile on top of me to ensure it happens, so be it. I’ll allow it. Even you know who.”
See, I can be a team player from time to time.
“And speaking of you know who.”
Suddenly, the mirror tint on my T-Shades frosts over.
I spit on the floor to indicate my disdain. I’m inside a hotel room that I’ll be checking out of later on today so who gives a shit. Of course, ironically enough, in my attempt to show disdain I wound up spitting on Bobby Dean who just so happens to be shackled to the floor since I can no longer allow him to leave my sight.
Just kidding about Bob. The spit hit the fifty pound weight attached to his leg.
“The Party Boy who Climbed COOLYMPUS and stole COOL from the gods.”
“Yes, there are few people who are owed like I owe you, Hayes. Very few. Actually. No one. Not even Crumblood. Or Cecil. Or Mom. Or Dad. Or Conor. Or Zion.”
Hit list of crumbs.
And Hayes is at the top.
Quite the distinction.
“I got to tell ya, Hayes, I’ve been waiting patiently for our paths to cross again. I thought maybe I’d catch up with you at the Rumble, and… well, unsurprisingly you did the unthinkable while also managing to escape me in the process. The depths you’ll sink to just to avoid being chained to a rock, huh?”
An honorable, unseen wink.
“Now though, my patience is finally about to pay off. Soon, it’s going to be your turn to suffer. To hurt. To strikeout. To bleed. To lose. To fail. There’s no slipper to save you from my wrath. No dream of yours that comes true. My only hope is the birds share in my diligence and wait to fill their bellies while I reconcile our differences.”
“Spoiler alert, those differences being you always coming out on top.”
“Hear me, PRIME, and hear me good. Both Ivan and Hayes will fall to my salted boot.”