Who Cares?

Immediately Following Tag Team Survivor

The Nasty Food Challenge

If only 2become1 Made It That Far

 

A downtrodden Doozer sits, slumped over in a metal chair, while scraping the remaining remnants of Escargot-flavored hot chips off his tortured tongue. His partner, Bobby Dean, sits next to him in pure silence. That’s fairly rare for the Beautiful Bandit. The large lump of flesh starts fingering his belly button, staring down at the action, all without even a giggle. And that’s even after digging out a prize, as he would put it. In mid-scrape, the Elder Bandit takes note of this deviation from the norm and decides to break the ice.

 

“So you, uhhh, got anything on that beautiful mind of yours, Bobbo?”

 

“Meh.”

 

The Beautiful Man from Houston shrugs while responding. One of Doozer’s eyebrows shoots up in reaction as his bright blue eyes narrow in on Bobby Dean like the two were playing heads up at the final table of the Poker World Series.

 

“Uhhh, alright. So what’s wrong, then?” The Old Bull decides the direct approach might work a little better. “I mean, I know we got eliminated from Survivor. But I figured, if anything, that’d make you happy. Ya know, no more pressure, right?”

 

“Meh.”

 

Another non-response from the Titanic Texan sends Doozer’s concern to another level. The Boston Bruiser rubs the back of his neck, almost feeling guilty without knowing why, and decides to take yet another approach.

 

“Look, bud.” He takes an empathetic tone this time. “I get it.”

 

Dean shoots his fellow eGG Bandit a skeptical glance.

 

Doozer elaborates, “I know you wanted to get deeper into that last challenge. I know you were looking forward to trying Cancer’s salty eggs. And I know that I, the one who coughed up those shitty fuckin’ chips, am the reason you didn’t get to shine.” PRIME’s alleged Reverse Vampire leans toward his longtime friend, placing a hand on Bob’s shoulder. “I’ll get Jiles to make some for you later this week, alright? I’m sure he’s still got plenty of salt. And you know we got plenty of eggs.”

 

It almost looks like Dean fought off the slightest of smirks, but it was too fleeting to tell. And it was followed with…

 

“Meh.”

 

“Well then would you mind enlightening me as to what exactly is your fuckin’ problem?!” The words jump out of Doozer’s mouth before he can control his tone or either of his arms that flew up above his head in reaction to a third non-response from his usually chatty co-hort.

 

“Wouldn’t be the same,” Responds the rotund wrestler while making circles with the toe of his boot on the floor before him. “I dunno…”

 

“Seems like ya do, though.” Doozer retorts.

 

Dean releases a deep sigh while throwing his head back and staring up toward the ceiling.

 

“Just seems like…” Bobby pauses. Doozer’s eyes widen as he leans forward, egging on his friend to follow up. “I don’t know…” Believe it or not, but the big man deflates as the last words release from his food hole.

 

Impatient, The Dooze implores, “Well, how am I supposed to fix this, if you don’t tell me, right? It’s us, man. When do the Bandits not tell each other everything? Even when whatever we’re telling is the last thing the others want to hear?” The Elder Bandit makes a fair point there, especially understood by any of those who’ve been lucky enough to visit the Carton.

 

“Almost seems like you did it on purpose.” Some people call this verbal diarrhea. The words, as soon as they left the large man’s mouth, seemed to even surprise him, judging by his wide eyes and arched brows.

 

And that says nothing compared to Doozer’s reaction, whose face turns at least ninety-seven shades of red in an instant.

 

“I… say what now?” Trying not to come off as aggressive as before, and failing, The Jortmeister’s body language backs up his words, begging for an explanation.

 

“Well, it’s not like you took any of my training seriously.” Bobby grunts. “You didn’t win a single shirt. Your face isn’t on any walls. Heck, you didn’t even lose a single one of your six packs!” He quickly clears Doozer’s confusion by pointing at his midsection. “You couldn’t even have a simple five pack?” He really said that like it was a thing.

 

The Old Bull begins to scoff, but holds it back. He takes a deep breath, and retreats back into his seat. He raises an open hand, as if to buy himself a couple of seconds to collect himself further.

 

“I ate every disgusting food you put in front of me for over a week.” The Defensive Dooze goes on to detail all the unorthodox plates he forced himself to ingest. The Beleaguered Bobby Dean does his best to prevent his eyes from rolling around in their sockets as his fellow Bandit reiterates his list of preparations for their latest Survivor Challenge.

 

Once he finally finishes, Bob offers his perspective, “Sure, pal. You ate it all. And I didn’t think you’d even do that, so cool… I guess.” The usually jubilant Bandit’s head falls again. “But you didn’t appreciate any of it. And, let me tell you, making those meals wasn’t easy.”

 

You can see the guilt spread across Doozer’s face.

 

“Trust me, I asked the people I paid to make them.”

 

No more guilt.

 

Bob looks up to stare at his friend directly in his fiery blues, “And you just wolfed them down, with your nose plugged, like everyone who used to Shit Talk with me. Just like when you wolfed down those chips. You didn’t bother to wait for the commotion to end and ask what they were before throwing them down the hatchet, like a true pro would’ve. And, sorry, but that, “hurry up and get this over with” attitude is what got us tossed out. That one mistake. The one thing I was trying to train you for… all those sessions… all those days of hard work… all down the shitter.” Literally, and figuratively. “I just…”

 

Doozer stays silent, curious to hear what comes next.

 

“I always thought you cared more than everyone else.” The Beautiful Bandit slowly shakes his head. “But you don’t. Heck, I think you couldn’t care less than anyone else. I might’ve well traded partners with King Blueberry, at least SCG supports me, even if it’s just so he can get in Charity’s panties…”

 

Now The Elder Bandit’s eyes are nearly out of his head. His face is lobster red. The forehead vein is at critical mass.

 

“I’m not mad.” Dean declares. “I’m just… disappointed.”

 

Just like that, the red flushes from Doozer’s face. The fire extinguishes from his eyes. The vein contracts. In pure shock at the last words from his friend’s mouth, he’s rendered speechless.

 

Whether he wasn’t expecting, or didn’t want to hear, a response from his partner, Bobby stands up from his chair and plods his way out of the room. Right as he exits, Cancer Jiles storms in. The Shaded Bandit labors for a breath, sweating profusely, holding a sack that appears to be drenched in blood.

 

I think we all know what’s in that sack.

 

“What’s wrong with you? Did your horse get its head chopped off?”

 

The red face returns. Cancer’s good at that.

 

“Don’t answer. I know your old bones couldn’t survive one ride on horseback.” There’s that smirk that sends Doozer’s blood pressure through the roof. “Doesn’t matter, anyway. More important matters at hand. You gotta do me a solid, alright? No questions asked.”

 

Pissed. Determined. And feeling an undeniable urge to prove himself, The Boston Bruiser gets to his feet, standing nose to nose with his old friend. He grabs the bloody bag with a quick swipe of the hand.”

 

“One question.” He spits. “Whatcha need?”

 

Backstage

Later That Same Show

CLASSIC Stye

Like SGRNR, I guess

 

The Old Bull, with a scowl so strong there’s a real risk it could become permanent, marches down the backstage hallway. Every muscle on his upper body is constricted, making the Elder Bandit look just as stiff as a new pair of jorts. Striding along, the determined Dooze twists his neck, to the point that even we can hear it crack, as his grip tightens on a bloody sack that may or may not contain a certain horse’s head.

 

“Disappointed in me…” The words barely make it through the Boston Bruiser’s clenched teeth. “Me.” If you look close enough, you can see his nose twitch. “Where’s he get off sayin’ that shit?”

 

He Who Must Be Good Looking Because He’s So Hard To See hocks a loogie so hard it nearly dents the cement floor.

 

“So he got lubed up for the puzzle challenge. Big fuckin’ whoop. He probably liked it more than any of the rest of us did, anyway… not sure I’d have let that weird dude do that to me if I was a thousand pounds of fat, though…” Doozer dismisses the thought, shaking his head to get the mental picture out of it. “And before that, what? He dressed up as a boulder like an idiot thinking that would help…”

 

As The Dooze dives deeper into that thought, subconsciously slowing his pace to a stop.

 

“I guess it did. Kinda.” Another shake of the head ensues. “A broken clock is correct twice a day, too. Whatever…”

 

He gets back to storming his way down the hall. That dangerously close to permanent scowl slowly softens. The fire in his bright blue eyes again begins to dim. Those same eyes begin to dart around, as the old man searches within his battered Bostonian brain for an unbiased conclusion.

 

“Above all that shit, though… he’s never abandoned the Bandits.” You can see him hating every thought racing through his brain. “I have… Jiles, too… but never Bob. Despite us not being the easiest people to hang around…”

 

Seconds pass as slow as hours to the old man as he thinks about all the history the three have shared.

 

“Maybe he’s right.” The thought stops Doozer dead in his tracks. His head hangs and he stares down at his kicks. “Maybe I am the problem. I kinda did underestimate how shitty those chips were gonna be. And that’s why we’re no longer in the hunt for the tag titles.”

 

The Old Bull turns to his right, where a mirror conveniently hangs from the hallway wall. He snarls at the sight of his lined face.

 

“You gotta make it right, y’old fuck.”

 

The Dooze nods at his refocused reflection, raises the bloody sack to eye level, nods once more while looking at the blood dripping from it, and continues marching toward his mission.

 

The Locker Room… not the Carton

If you don’t know, you’re skimming

So fuck you

 

The Elder Bandit arrives at his destination; a door with the name “B. Youngblood” at eye level. He spits, then thinks out loud, “For Cancer…”

 

He looks down at the bloody sack hanging by his side.

 

“And Cocaine.”

 

Sounds like quite the party.

 

A grimace flashes across his face, hearing his own words replaying back inside his head. Then he grabs the doorknob and twists- but his hand merely moves over the knob, refusing to turn.

 

“Hm, locked.” The old man ponders. “Must have more enemies than just us Bandits.”

 

A shrug.

 

“No matter.”

 

The Boston Bruiser, in one swift motion, raises his right leg and sends the soul of his shoe straight forward. The cheap door lock snaps a little too easily – Troy might want to look into that – and reveals the locker room allotted to PRIME’s Universal Champion, Brandon Youngblood.

 

The One Who Overcame Cancer.

 

Doozer slowly steps inside the room, scanning every inch as he does. His eyes dart around the oddly clean and well kept space. Looks like the brown noser gets a regular cleaning service. For now, at least. Overall, the room’s pretty boring. The only reasons you wouldn’t think it was vacant are the gear in a closed and padlocked locker, and the posters lining the walls. Lots of them. The New England Native’s eyes move slowly across, scanning each of them. They’re all pictures from various matches, featuring Brandon Youngblood executing every suplex known to man.

 

“What a psycho.” The old man thinks aloud. “Although, that one right there looks like it would send Zion into another dimension. Hopefully back to the one that awkward fuck came from. Or even if it’s just that one where shitty death matches are a thing. He’s always done better than he should there, anyway. I can think of at least two occasions.”

 

Before The Dooze could dive any further down the Darin-wide rabbit hole that’s plagued his recent wrestling career, a human version of the Kool Aid Man burst through the broken doorway of the room. Fearing the worst, The Boston Bruiser quickly dropped the bloody sack, clenched both fists, and snapped around to face the intruder with both dukes up. They were just as quickly lowered, as the Elder Bandit recognized his tag team partner… it’s hard not to.

 

“You.” He sneered at first, but after recalling his recent revelation, The Dooze took a more appropriate approach. “I mean, hey man. I gotta say..”

 

“Oh, sweet!” Bobby Dean pushes the words out between heavy breaths, doubled over. “I didn’t wanna miss this! I even brought sustenance!”

 

There’s that cherubic smile. It stretches from ear to ear, as The Beautiful Bandit holds up a box of pizza. He extends it toward The Dooze, as if this was his olive branch.

 

The calm demeanor Doozer tried to override his anger disappeared just like that. Commence the nose and eye twitch.

 

“Jiles told me you were supposed to help, but I fuckin’ knew better.” Before Bob could even utter the beginning of a response, The Dooze continues, “Save it, man. I can’t believe you. You really had me earlier tonight. There I was, thinking I’ve been the problem all along. Like somehow, you brainwashed me into believing that I was the one who didn’t care enough. But here I am, holding this putrid fuckin’ horse head in a blood drenched sack while you’re out getting GOD damned pizza.”

 

Dean’s head drops. His face looks like a kid who just got told he wouldn’t get anything for Christmas. Or like Darin Zion, after realizing he’s created yet another tag team with one of the stupidest names in the history of professional wrestling.

 

“I’m, uhhhh… I’m just gonna go sit over there.” Bobby motions toward a steel chair in the corner of the locker room. He shuffles his way over and takes a seat. “This okay, buddy?”

 

The Elder Bandit spits in his partner’s general direction. 

 

“Thanks.” A dismissive Dean sits, not opening the pizza box, and watches on.

 

“YOU SEE THIS?” Barks The Dooze as he kicks the only other chair in sight into oblivion. “That’s John Chris Fuckin’ Whatever’s face!”

 

Bob pretends to act scared. It only throws gas on the fire.

 

“WHAT ABOUT THIS?!” Demands a diligent Doozer, sending a closed right fist into that padlocked locker.

 

The rotund wrestler winces, as does The Dooze despite trying his best to hide it.

 

“OR THIS?!”

 

And that’s when The Elder Bandit went all out. He proceeded to rip every laminated suplex shot off the wall. After which he elbow dropped a perfectly fine table, snapping it in half, that never did nothing to nobody (ala Solid Gold Rock ‘n’ Roll).

 

And that’s when the unthinkable happened.

 

Doozer grabbed the first slice of pizza, the one he knew very well that Bobby Dean held dearest, right from his friend’s fat fingers. The not-clinically insane, but might be, Dooze proceeded to take the slice of pizza and shove it straight down his loose-fitting jorts. Just as fast, he pulled it back up, but it didn’t look the same. And then he threw that slice right back at his overweight teammate, who still took a few too many seconds while debating whether it was edible or not.

 

“Eat that and I’ll cut it out of your fat fuckin’ gut, Dean.”

 

In all their years together, Bobby had never seen this side of Doozer before. And he didn’t like it. In fact, it was so alien to him, he really didn’t even know what to do about it. This shit was completely out of his wheelhouse. Instead, the Beautiful Bandit respectfully dusts himself off and stands from his chair.

 

“I think it’s Best if I just get out of your hair, buddy.”

 

The Dooze shoots him a look that could’ve turned Medusa to stone.

 

“Don’t. Call. Me. Buddy.”

 

Oddly enough, as if he knew the side of history he’d be on, Bob nods instead of chiming back. Instead, the big man turns toward the door and begins to walk away as his fellow Bandit continues to turn Youngblood’s locker room upside down.

 

“Goodnight, Dooze…” The words left Dean’s mouth like he was a jilted lover.

 

And they caught his partner’s attention.

 

Doozer, who instantly felt regret, yet again, from taking his transgressions on one of his few friends in the business, immediately slowed down to a near stop. The job was done. The room was trashed. Yet, there was something missing. A hole inside him, if you will.

 

Not that kind of hole, Dean fans.

 

The Dooze felt empty. And he soon realized why…

 

He hadn’t eaten in days.

 

The box of pizza Bobby Dean left behind sat there, taunting him as he scanned the room for sustenance. He had to scale Mount Ego, but The Elder Bandit finally found his way… and as he opened the box of pizza, he realized just how wrong he had been.

 

“Breakfast… pizza?” The words barely made their way out through his pursed lips. Doozer quickly snapped his head toward the doorway, knowing fully well that his fat friend wasn’t fast enough to get too far away in the elapsed amount of time since their confrontation.

 

The once again Beleaguered Bobby Dean sheepishly steps forward, only to stop like it was Red Light Green Light in Squid Game and his life depended on it. Only, in this case, the red light was Doozer’s open hand.

 

“Is this…” The old man can barely voice the words as all the pieces come together. “E-egg white… oh-only?”

 

It will never be known if Doozer saw his friend’s head nod out of the corner of his eye, or if he just felt it… but the result remained the same, as confirmed by Bobby Dean himself.

 

“Yeah, bu- I mean… Dooze, sir.” And it’s still up for debate whether he said ‘Doo-zer’ or ‘Dooze, sir’ but we’re going with the one that makes the most sense. “I just know you’ve been keeping a close watch on your cholesterol lately.” Bob elaborates as he begins doing that circle thing with the toe of his boot again. “The yolks have mor-”

 

Before Bobby Dean could finish the last statement, Doozer choked every last breath out of him with the biggest bear hug he could muster.

 

He might fire me as his narrator, but I’m pretty sure there was a tear or two, as well.

 

And, regardless of the watershed, it was that very moment when The Elder Bandit raised the bloody sack before him… toward his friend, the man known as Beautiful Bobby Dean.

 

“The honor is yours, my friend.”

 

Bob took the offering with a smile on his face rarely seen. As genuine as ever. He proceeded to open the sack, and dive his right arm in…

 

When he brought his arm back, covered with thick, oozy, horse-head blood, he wrote the final message upon the wall…

 

FERST BLUD

5/20/2022

BIIIIIIIIIIIIIE

 

—

 

MGM Grand

Ivory Tower

What are Friends For

 

“He doesn’t have friends like I do.” — Jiles’ Journal, May 14th, 2022.

 

Lights.

 

Camera.

 

Cancer.

 

Action~!

 

“Cool knee.”

 

Fin.