Nailed It

Death Before Dishonor

“I would rather rot at the bottom of Uncle Hades’ pit than admit Bobby Dean took a bullet for me. Yet, here I am. I can smell the splendor of the rot, and I can see the vastness of the infinite dark. But I will not relent.” -- Jiles’ Journal, April 24th , 2024.

Well.

Well.

Well.

War Games.

Fun, fun, fun, fun, fun times.

Fun indeed.

For the record, I want it to be known that I’m so glad I was able to partake in such a majestic event. Really. I mean that. Thank you to all involved.

It was the greatest night of my life.

The suspense. The drama. The heat. The spectacle. The madness. The chaos. The turmoil. The mayhem. The pings. The pangs. The booms.

All of it.

To have lived and breathed in such a feverous time was like nothing I’ve ever experienced before.

Sure thing, Pinocchio.

In fact, I’m so elated from the experience I can even look past my team’s shortcomings.

I’m serious.

Yup. Me. Cancer Jiles. The COOL. King Crumb. Mr. T-Shades. Alfredo the Lion Tamer. That guy. The one who walks around with a chip of salt on his shoulder.

I don’t care about where the Bandits placed.

I don’t care if it was Coral or Bobby’s fault that we lost.

I don’t care about Tony standing atop two pamphlets instead of two telephone books.

I don’t care about Hessian totally underwhelming, Donny Boy surviving a fake nails match the night prior, or Daytona putting himself before the team.

I really don’t.

Scout’s honor.

Truth is, I’m just so pleased to have taken part in something bigger than myself that it doesn’t matter if my third Culture Shock ended up being like my first two.

Utter. Failures.

What’s that?

You’re not believing a word of this.

Good for you.

Oh well then. Jig is up. I tried. The Great Deceiver is no more.

Long live Crumbotron.

If it turns out my nose is now as long as Coral’s forehead is wide when you see me at ReVival 47, you now know why.

Bye bye, bluster.

Let me be perfectly clear now that my hands have been revealed to be inside the cookie jar. I am one hundred percent abso-fucking-lutely miserable about War Games.

Not okay.

I haven’t slept. Not that I normally do, but you can imagine if I did how’d I feel not being able to.

I haven’t conditioned. Mainly because it’s tough getting my particular brand of product over here and Hessian’s girl stole all of my surplus product when she was aboard the ship. It was a ten year supply. I still don’t know how she smuggled it off the boat, but I got top people on it.

Lunchbox Laser.

I haven’t eaten. Well, mainly because Bobby has been anxious-eating everything in sight since the Octane went down in flames(proverbially); and Coral seems to bump into me when I’m in the kitchen so of course the stench of his Captaincy makes me lose my appetite. That, and Bob’s leaking, lingering, frothy Noxia might play into it, too.

He knows what’s coming, hence his nervous tics.

As to why I am so very miserable about War Games...

As to why I have been steadily suffering since its anticlimactic conclusion, well, it’s not what you think. There is some truth to what I previously spoke upon. I don’t care that Coral might have cost us War Games, Tony’s height, or about the three crumb crumb cake that no one ate.

What I care about is how there is some narrative floating around that Bobby Dean saved Cancer Jiles by taking the pin for him.

Ha.

Saved. Me. No, I don’t think so. That’s not how it went down. Robert of Honalee is no martyr. No, Robert of Honalee is an idiot.

Mean.

I can’t even tell you how many times I’ve watched the match back, and of course that spot in particular. We were down to three after Freeman took a trip aboard the Bandit Express, and I had the whole thing setup like I had wanted it. I successfully baited the loser of night one’s main event, so night two preshow technically, nice and clean. Then, right before I could roll him up with a surprise small package, Bobby mistakes my next level possuming for actual trouble and the rest is history.

I bet that’s how it went down.

I was in shock. Still am. I couldn’t believe my eyes. Still can’t. I couldn’t move. Once again, it was right there and then once again, it wasn’t. Check the tape and you can see the look on Colton’s face, that pig vermin crumb, while he’s preventing me from breaking up the pin. He’s not even trying.

It’s pure shock, baby.

That’s what really happened. That’s HOW we lost. Bobby Dean didn’t take no fucking bullet for Cancer Jiles. If anything, Bobby Dean cost Cancer Jiles his shot at winning War Games because I have no doubt in my mind the Boys of Glue would have fallen next.

Easily.

No doubts.

But, we’ll never know because Bobby Dean stopped thinking about the benefits of mayonnaise for more than one second, and decided to ruin my chance at vindication by supposedly helping me out.

I know.

His heart was in the right place.

I just wish it would have stopped before his brain farted.

Ha.

---

The French Connection

“I trusted. I let my guard down, and just like I always do, I wound up paying for it. I wanted War Games. I wanted all my enemies in one shot. I wanted to drag my dirty little ass all across their faces and make it my crowning achievement for forever. I did not get what I wanted.” -- Jiles’ Journal, April 30th, 2024.

Confit de canard. Escargot. Onion soup. Quiche Lorraine. You name the French delicacy, and I probably have made Bobby Dean watch me throw it into the trash. Might seem a little rough, especially from Bob’s perspective, but it’s all part of his punishment for finding fortitude during times of war. Moreover, for inadvertently robbing me of my sweet redemption against Brigadier Jarhead Sikes and then some.

“Not the Blanquette de veau! You can’t! The sauce even looks like your hair! Have a heart you bastard!”

That’s Bobby. It’s just the two of us. I’m standing up, decked out in electric-blue, and he’s seated at a table in the corner of our star studded hotel room also decked out in electric-blue. He’s not kidding, either. The color of the sauce is an identical match to my hair color. Good thing this isn’t Texas and it’s not served on a stick.

Alfredo still has a better ring to it.

“How many times do I have to say I’m sorry?” Bob’s pleading with an ordinary demigod continues. “I’ll never try to help you again. Next time it looks like you’re about to drop the ball I’ll let you. I swear. Just... please. I haven’t had veal that tender in ages.”

I say back to him, nay, I demand of him, “Promise it. Say, I promise I’ll never try to help you again. I want to see your hands and feet, too. None of that crossies bullshit that cost you the steak frites earlier.”

Bob, being the hungry sport that he is, labors to remove his shoes and socks; socks that look like they should be left behind on a coffee table as a testament to a road well traveled. “There.” He shows me his hands and feet. “See. No crossies. Now please.”

I am heartless. I effortlessly dump the dish into the trash bin of our hotel room completely devoid of emotion. Well, outside of my inner smile brimming brightly due to Bob’s worsening foodie depression. If you could see inside the trash bin you’d know that I’ve gone through quite a bit of room service torturing my so-called Savior.

“Go ahead, Bob. Pick up the phone and order something else. Maybe you’ll beat me to the door this time around.” I bellow, yet still manage to keep my stride. “You seem to forget who it was that made Coral captain of the eGG Bandits in the first place! I know who it wasn’t! That’s for damn sure! Now put those fucking sausages to work and order something else off that menu for me to throw way! They got twenty-four hour room service, too, so don’t think we don’t have all night!”

The Crown Prince of Honalee whimpers. He knows I mean business since he also knows Daytona left some candy on the ship that I just so happened to find. In other words I have the methods to back my madness.

“Hello. Yes, yes, everything is fine. I’d like an order of the profiteroles sent to room 97, please.”

Dessert.

My favorite.

---

The Eiffel Tower

“I remember my first crucifixion match. We even used cast iron nails and real wood. Not that fake Formica shit. I would have faxed in my resignation the very next day. Hand of GOD. The nerve of some people.” Stevens’ Scribblings, May 1st, 2024.

The sting of war has yet to dissipate.

However, there is no time to dwell upon old battle wounds. A new challenger awaits. One, with his own cross to bear.

So...

A couch needs sitting.

A Shades need a T-ing.

And hair, sadly, still needs a proper conditioning. Don’t get me wrong, I still have that Alfredo crown of thorns thing going on, and am Sassoon ready if need be for the 2024 summer catalog, it’s just not as creamy or in this case, thorny, as it usually is.

War.

Anyway.

Lights.

Cancer.

ACTION~!

“Robert. Dean.”

I seethe.

Saved me.

Ha.

“Friend. Of. Mine.”

Wait. Damn it. Wrong Robert.

Already did that one.

“Robert. Williams.”

My thumb goes up. All systems go. Cleared for takeoff.

“Two things, Rob. First, I got to tell you I’m honored you’re coming down off the cross to face me in the ring. It’s not often I get shown the proper respect I deserve. The act is not lost on me. Thank you. Tell Nova I said hello.”

I smile.

“Yes, even if that respect is coming from a loser like you.”

I snort. It’s meant to be belittling, as if I couldn’t pick the non-Honaleean Robert out of a lineup.

“Please know I do appreciate the gesture though.”

I can’t help but to chuckle at the thought. That silly thought being Rob with his head down, salt and mist all over his face, clowned up after our match if you will, getting back up on the crucifix because that is his life now.

The Little Crucifix Boy.

“I figure it can’t be easy wiggling free from those velcro straps, or cutting the tape from around your wrists with a pair of scissors in your mouth, or however it is you get off your hallowed perch.”

He strokes it.

I don’t know the exact bindings because Rob’s Holy War happened on night one of Culture Shock, and, well, you know. HOWever, I do know one way he doesn’t because of an unfortunate brain blading incident I recently had to endure. To add some perspective to my aloofness; I just found out about Morty coming back and his attack on Coral. Like, I had no idea it happened until the lineup was released for ReV 47.

Chalk it up to one of the many pitfalls of being the darling of Night Two I suppose.

“I also figure it can’t be easy going through all that trouble knowing full well it won’t be worth it. That, in the end, no matter what, you’re tasting the bottom of my boot and three seconds later my hand is getting raised. Just seems like a lot if you ask me.”

Destiny, and a high sodium foot fed diet.

“Maybe things would be different if you hadn’t already wasted your lucky win on Cecil.”

The sad truth.

“Who knows though? The stars can align yet again. Fortune can favor the... bold. Maybe I’ll wind up kicking you so hard in the head you’ll forget you were ever twist tied(?) up on the cross to begin with; and your fifteenth station might not be a gigantic waste of time after all. I did say I was appreciative of the gesture. Not to mention, between us, I will be picturing another Robert inside that ring come Friday night so believe me when I say it’s not totally out of the realm.”

I shrug.

Some things are unavoidable.

Take for instance a Cancer Jiles superkick.

“Second thing is this, Rob. I just want to take a moment and apologize for starting the chain of events that led to your team being eliminated from War Games. So you know, unlike what will be the case in our upcoming matchup, I found no solace when extending my super kick streak at you and the rest of your team’s behest.”

A short pause.

One might even call it a beat.

“Who am I kidding? It was the only saving grace to Coral’s botch and Bobby’s blunder. Though, neither of those issues are of any concern to you.”

I don’t air dirty laundry. I like to keep it in the carton, with the rest of the filth. Certainly not during a promo. Well, not during this promo. Okay, not during this specific line of the promo.

“Having said all that, I’ll leave you with this. Prepare yourself. Lick those double-booked war wounds nice and good, and when you hop off that cross Friday night do be sure to turn and kneel before entering my ring. Lower your head and say some prayers to whoever it is that you think will listen.”

I snarl. I’m getting excited. I need to expunge the shame of three straight Culture Shocks, and wash the stench of War Games from my soul.

Need to get back.

There’s only one way to go about doing that.

Imagine Rob Williams is Robert Dean.

“I’m as real as it fucking gets, pal, and you need the help. I play for blood, and I play for keeps.”

Huckleberry Jiles.

Let it be known that while I’m talking to "The Legend" like he is my son, I’m fully aware of just how capable, just how tough, and just how dangerous he is. In the short time he’s been in PRIME he’s already left a mark. Not only is he one of a select few to decipher the 51 Articles of Impeachment, but he got crucified on a Friday and wrestled War Games the very next day. He is the walking embodiment of tough as nails.

Real ones.

HA.

“You may have avoided a proper execution at Culture Shock, but make no mistake there will be no avoiding a proper eggsecution when you stand across the ring from me.”

Pucker.

Kiss.

Goodbye.

---

The Closing Ceremonies

“I am the Captain now. Not.” -- Jiles Journal, May 2nd, 2024.

I almost forgot.

Real quick, shout out to Tony Gamble for getting off the schneid. Proud to call him a Bandit. He proved that when he stands firmly atop of two books that anything is possible. His grit. His determination. His dedication… all admirable.

Unlike the other two.

Though, now that Bobby has paid his price -- and the room service bill since I’ve been relegated to working sideshows on my off days to pay down a ridiculous fine -- I suppose his slate is clean. I'll still picture him against “Wild” Rob Williams, and let that be the end of my catharsis. Besides, he’s too loveable and expensive to hate anyway.

More so the latter.

I’m sure he’s gonna harbor some resentment over all that food I threw away. It was a lot, and it was in front of his face. It’s not like I didn’t go on a long walk so he could rummage through the trash when all was said and done.

Time will tell I suppose.

As for the other one.

Coral.

The Golden Bandit.

If he thinks he can just hand back the keys to a sinking ship without any sort of repercussions, I’m afraid he thinks wrong. No Captain gets to leave the Octane worse off than they got it. I will tell him when he is no longer Captain of the ship, and not the other way around.

Then and only then will he be relieved of his duties.