I must admit, when my 17 year old Belle proposed the idea of her interning for PRIME I was reluctant to agree. I mean, interning is basically slave labor. Running around fetching things, doing grunt work, being the perfect scapegoat if something goes wrong. All the while not getting paid a penny for the “opportunity.” But then I was reminded, Belle was a 17 year old woman and apparently that means she’s old enough to decide what she wants to do with her life, regardless of what I say or how I feel.
The joys of being a summer-time father.
The fact that Lindsay Troy took me up on my offer of doing “anything” for a job further mollified me on allowing her to take advantage of my gullible child.
Times have been rough these last few months. My KFC chain burned down. Insurance claims it was avoidable, and entirely my fault, so they refuse to pay. I can’t fight them on it because they’re right.
My favorite Chinese buffet refuses to serve me any longer. My best friends refuse to reply to my messages, Doozer on his yacht, Cancer jerking the curtain and feeling like a failure, Solex off in HOW-land calling people NERDS.
Needless to say, I really needed this second (or more likely sixth) chance from LT. Even if it meant doing something I hated, like working with Darin Zion, or jobbing to Youngblood again. I will do anything!
But what really sealed the deal for me allowing my daughter to intern for Lindsay Troy was when my daughter offered to drive us to the arena for tonight’s show! Sitting there in the passenger seat, eight empty Slim Jim wrappers at my feet, a half drunk bottle of Mountain Dew in between my legs. Boy was I in heaven!
The only question I had in mind now was, “Who am I facing tonight?”
Man, I cannot wait to start the next chapter in my PRIME Adventure!
The Pit, Albuquerque, NM
What have I gotten myself into…
That simple, yet effective phrase has been playing over and over and over again in my mind as I find myself bent over a familiar porcelain throne. You know the one. The golden throne held in the Third Stall from the Left.
No matter the city, no matter the arena, there is always the third stall from the left. And if you’re ever looking for ole “Beautiful” Bobby Dean, that should be the first place you look.
“Ugh!” I can’t help the bemoan that escapes from between my thinly parted lips as I grimace at the overwhelming stench wafting up at me, as I scrub away at the porcelain before me. Back breaking work with a brush that’s too small for the job at hand, the familiar question runs yet again through my mind.
What have I gotten myself into…
My momma always told me, life is full of lessons you learn. Scrubbing this toilet for the last fifteen minutes I can’t help but reflect on some of the lessons I’ve recently learned.
At the forefront is, never enter the stall after Ivan Stanislav.
Additionally, introduce borscht substitutes to the Russian bear. Outside of kimchi, borscht produces the absolute foulest waste I’ve ever witnessed!
Secondly, learn to say no to your children.
Thirdly, never use the phrase “I’ll do anything for a job!” in the presence of Lindsay Troy.
A subset of thirdly, treat Lindsay Troy like the eGG Queen that she is. She holds grudges.
Fourthly, remember to wear gloves next time.
My reflections are interrupted as the door to the bathroom swings open. I pause in my scrubbing and wait to hear the footsteps, trying to judge if the new arrival is headed to the urinals or the stalls, but I begin to wonder if a ghost has arrived as I don’t hear any footsteps at all.
“Doozer?” I call out to the void, “Is that you?”
“Bobby?” a familiar voice questions.
“Fuck.” I mutter to myself, wishing it had been anyone else.
The door to the stall swings in, and I stare up into a pair of very familiar T-shades..
“Hello Cancer.” I deadpan, without inflection.
The COOLimpian himself stands before me, shifting his gaze all around the confined space, taking in every minute detail he can before his brow quirks up and a smirk slowly spreads. A smirk that borders on sneer, in a way only Cancer Jiles can. A look I was very familiar with, one that said “It was good to see you,” while also saying, “Of course I’d find you here…”
“Bobbo, it’s so good to finally see you cleaning up after yourself.” The man takes a second to sniff the air, confusion clear on his face as he further comments, “Although this doesn’t smell like your usual. *sniff* *sniff* Is that cabbage?”
Borscht. I swear.
“Anyway, what the hell are you doing here?” the bespectacled man asks with intrigue in his voice, as if there was some sort of conspiracy afoot. “Why didn’t you tell me you were back?”
“I’m sorry, sir, but I’m currently on the clock,” I answer with a monotonous delivery, causing his smirk to morph into scowl. “I don’t think my bosses would appreciate me standing around chit-chatting with talent.”
“On the clock? Chit-chatting? Talent?” Cancer mouths the phrases as they hit him, his look continues to morph into one of disbelief. As if he no longer recognizes the man before him.
Suddenly he bursts out into laughter, clutching at his belly with one arm, and wiping the tear from under his shades with the other. “Man, I needed that! I haven’t laughed that hard since Dooze told me he was calling Lee for a job opportunity!”
“I really am truly sorry Mr. Miles, but I need to tend to this toilet,” I offer apologetically before struggling back down to the floor on my hands and knees, ready to commence scrubbing. “If you need any assistance with your bathroom related needs please let me know.”
“You truly are sorry! What the fuck happened to you?” Cancer asks rhetorically after slowly removing his shades to stare me in the eye, clear disapproval reflecting back at me. “You’re “Beautiful.” Bobby. Mother-fucking Dean. You don’t clean toilets, you destroy them! You don’t go along meekly following the rules, you stomp right through them. You don’t ask permission, you do what you want and apologize after the fact while not meaning a single word of your apology.
“If anyone expects you to actually clean a toilet you con some hapless fool into doing it for you.” He runs me down, anger mounting. He’s preaching to me as if we were in Defiance back in 2005 all over again.
His voice slowly rises with every declaration, finally saying “You. Are. A. Bandit.” Making me wonder if he recently watched the movie 300.
I stand there in silence, not quite sure what to say. He shakes his head, further cementing his complete disappointment at what he sees before him, “At least I thought you were a Bandit.” Raising the shades back to his face, he turns around and heads out the stall, but suddenly stops to look back at me over his shoulder. “When you remember who you are, come find me. I miss my friend.”
With that he leaves, not even bothering to do what he originally intended to do when he first arrived.
“Awwwwwkward.” a voice sounds from the next stall over. “Hey, Bobby, you got any TP over there?”
The door to the office of one Lindsay Troy, Queen extraordinaire, bursts open, causing the scowling visage of said Queen to peer up from the papers scattered before her. She doesn’t get much time herself on show nights, so having someone burst through her door during her moment of welcome reprieve has definitely raised her hackles.
“What do you think you’re doing?” LT demands as I storm into her office, wet toilet brush in hand swinging at my hip as I march up to her desk. “Don’t.”
Before she can finish the word I slam the toilet brush on her desk, possibly causing a drop of toilet water to splash onto her surprised cheek. In response she shoots up out of her seat with such force the chair topples over backwards. Scowling, her face flush with unbridled anger, she fumes, eyes boring into my soul as she struggles to withhold
“I’m not a janitor.” I say with an unwavering edge to my voice, causing Lindsay Troy a very small moment of pause. She could not remember the last time she heard such conviction in my voice. “I’m a wrestler.”
“No. You are a simple fool who’s looking to die.” she shoots back as she slowly reaches up and wipes at her cheek. “Now, I’m going to do you one last favor Robert. I’m going to pretend you didn’t just barge into my office, uninvited, and that you didn’t just slam a toilet brush onto my desk. We’re going to pretend that it’s never been used, and that it did not just splash me in the fucking face, while we’re at it.”
She takes a moment to practice a few of her breathing exercises as she turns around and lifts her chair off the ground, righting it back in place behind her desk. “I never hired you to be a janitor. Why in the world would I hire the laziest man on Earth to do actual work?
“No Bobby, I hired you because the fans out there, for whatever reason, find you endearing. They laugh and cheer at your antics. They buy the merch you hock. They buy tickets to see you compete. Even knowing that you don’t stand a chance of victory they continue to shell out the money to see you. So, no, I don’t want you to clean the bathrooms, or mop the floors, or scrub the counters. But now, I want you to turn around and waddle your way out of my office, and go do what I am paying you to do.”
I know many people believe I don’t know when I’m not wanted, but it’s not true. I’m well aware when I’ve overstayed my welcome. I heard what she was saying and followed her instructions with haste, turning around and waddling my way towards her open door.
“But Bobby, remember this is the last favor I do for you,” she warns ominously. “You do something so asinine one more time and I’ll end you!”
The Day after ReVival #29
The chirping sound from the phone on the nearby bedside table penetrates through my slumber, causing my bleary eyes to slowly open. Lazily I stretch out and grab the offending device and pull up to my tired face, peering at the notification that has awoken me from a very pleasant dream.
“Beautiful” Bobby Dean vs. Darin Zion”
Somewhere across the universe there are three people laughing to the point of tears.
And Leonardo Best
The returning eGG Bandit vs. THE Bandit Slayer himself.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck.” I mutter the expletives rapidly, one after another, as my now very much awake mind races. Is it too late to bail on this whole idiotic idea of coming back? Belle can intern at the local KFC, maybe we can call Noah Hanson and see if he can put in a good word for her on my behalf?
The sudden ding of my phone draws me out of my inner thoughts as I see the arrival of a new text message from one Cancer Jiles.
Ole Salty Shoes:
There were soooo many more ha’s, but you get the point.
A lot of people would see the name Darin Zion and they’d yawn, dust the dirt off their shoulder and just keep going about their day. They think of Darin Zion in the same vein of, say Scott Stephens. Brian Hollywood. RICK no last name given. Brandon Youngblood. That guy Varga. Doozer.
You know what I mean, the shit of the shit of the shit. Just a stepping stone to be used to further one’s career then haphazardly discarded from your mind. One you don’t give much thought to until he opens his mouth and says something dumb, or picks a twitter fight with Matt Hardy. Which, I suppose, IS him opening his mouth and saying something dumb…
Yet, I have lost to this man on more than one occasion. I’ll go one further, I’ve lost TITLES to this man! Granted, I was teaming with Doozer at the time, so the debate could be made “did I lose the titles to Darin Zion, or did Doozer lose the titles to Darin Zion?”
I’m going to chalk it up to Doozer, if I’m allowed to vote. I think he might have been yachting that weekend.
Here’s another fun fact for you boys and girls. Bobby Dean and Darin Zion are battling for second to last place! While lying in bed after reading the card, I happened to scroll on over to the Roster page and just found myself staring at Darin’s face for the last twenty minutes.
“If I’m to do this,” I begin monologuing to the empty bedroom around me. “I have to win. Cancer wants old Bobby Dean back. Lindsay Troy doesn’t think much of me. People are probably lumping my name in with the Stephens and Hollywoods. I’ve got to prove to them that I’m better than they think I am.”
With a mighty flourish I whisk the blankets off of my rotund body and bound to my feet. Well, that was the intent. I actually have to shift and roll, and build up momentum to sort of launch myself out of bed, but when I do, I stand there with my hands on my belly where my waist would be in the classic hero pose.
“I will do this!” I declare with conviction in my voice, and determination oozing from my pores.
“Daaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhh!” Belle’s voice turns into a blood curdling scream as she enters my room to find me standing there buck naked in the hero pose. “What the fuck are you doing!?”
I now understood why Lindsay Troy doesn’t appreciate people barging into her office unannounced, it’s dangerous…