The Murder Shovel

The Murder Show

“At least he has a jet.” -- Hessian’s Humblings, July 12th, 2024

I gave Pistol as much of myself as his T-shades afforded, but my head was full of stars and sickles. With the main event dream match against Ivan Stanislav imminent, the gravity of the curious case of Cancer Jiles was lost on me. I thought nothing of acquiescing to his machinations, after all we’d worked well together as a team during WarGames.

Well, okay, maybe I thought a little bit about it, since apparently he tends to step in shit wherever he goes.

True.

Still, in the six months since I made my return I’d kept to myself, towed the line and tried to blend in despite standing head and shoulders above the rest. The Bandits, Don Winters and Daytona Diamonds together had helped ease my emergence into the ReVival era and earned my respect for it, regardless of their respective agendas and cutting remarks.

I’d spent too long in the real world. A ten year hiatus from the ring, running my own business and dealing with all manner of people from every walk of life, had conditioned me to be more understanding and patient of everyone except Richard Parker. I felt like I had one foot in the ring and one in the street.

The white knights and black hearts of PRIME all looked gray to me. I approached Ivan like an old acquaintance rather than an adversary, gifting him a bottle of whisky and shaking his hand instead of breaking down his dressing room door and putting him through his steel desk.

Don’t worry, they make tracksuits for that type of thing.

On the other hand, as appreciative as I was of Nate Colton coming to Minion’s aid, I questioned the motives of a man getting involved in my business who had never introduced himself to me.

Nate Colton is a coward and crumb.

Cancer had done his due diligence, conducting himself amicably outside the ring and efficiently within. His timing was hilariously impeccable, his look iconic and his lines scathing. He had star written all over him.

Or COOL, in Old English, across his abdomen.

Definitely not the belly button.

I wasn’t familiar enough with the history of the ReVival era to fully comprehend the wall of heat that hit us at the end of the show, however. He seemed to be moving his game into checkmate while I was still setting the pieces on my board, yet I had given my word to each and every member of that WarGames team that if they ever needed me I would be there for them. But you know what they say about timing.

Though we had reached an accord, the attempted assassination of the Starshy Praporshchik still caught me off guard. Drunk on elation and dizzied by the Red Scare and Iron Curtain, I didn’t realize what I’d opened Ivan up to when I raised his hand after our match. Instinct took over when the crowd erupted, my Germanic ancestry bubbling to the surface as I went to war for Cancer.

I’d shown Colton patience when he got between Ivan and I, then hammered home the understanding that I wanted an explanation from him afterwards. If he could figure that out on his own, I would make the time for him. The Russian Bear, meanwhile, probably already had me high on his kill list for exposing him to Terminal Cancer. I thought about reaching out to let him know that, if he was serious about his offer earlier in the show, things were going to get a lot worse between the two of us before they got worse for everyone else. But that was just a thought. If he could figure that out on his own...

Coral Avalon was a different matter altogether. The Forever Alias Champion, new Universal Champion and apparent dinosaur wrangler was the one who handpicked me for WarGames. I’d extended the same courtesy to him as Jiles but, like Ivan, had inadvertently set him up to get his head kicked in. I wrote that off as an important lesson in being the top guy, albeit a regrettable one.

Cyril had nothing to say about any of it. Once order had been restored and the melee was broken up we made our way to the trainer’s room to get his head checked. He stared a hole through the floor, eyes darting to my feet occasionally as he tried to make sense of what had transpired. I did a double take when asked how my arm was holding up. I’d almost forgotten about it with all the adrenaline coursing through my veins. That hangover was going to suck.

Walking into ReVival 52 with everyone judging me would be a cakewalk by comparison. I was playing a long game, with a lot of rules only I was privy to. I could deflect the venom spewing and shit slinging that was coming my way, because I knew where I was headed even if no one else did.

The faithful would be rewarded for their loyalty, if they were willing to suffer for it.

Immortals… we’ll put their name to the test.

---

The Ivory Tower

“Guess who got a new shovel?” -- Jiles’ Journal, July 24th, 2024

I never thought I’d see the day my precious Bandits imploded. Sure, we’ve had our fair share of strife over the years. Not to mention being buried time and time again, but we always persevered.

We always figured out a way to right the ship.

Ha.

Now though, it’s been taken to a whole different level. Turns out, Rat Avalon went behind my back and asked my brethren which side of the aisle they stood on.

And he got kicked in the face for it.

Just the idea -- AFTER ALL I HAVE DONE FOR HIM -- that the thought would even enter his mind warms my cool bones down to the marrow.

The Good, The Bad, and The Avalon.

Like I wasn’t going to find out.

Like I don’t have eyes and ears and T-shades everywhere.

Like I’m not Cancer fucking Jiles.

Oh well.

Though my forehead is normal sized, this time around I will be the one who plays the part of the bigger man. I’ll let Tony and Bobby decide what they want to do, and who it is they want to stand behind. It’s their choice and I won’t influence them one way or the other. Then, should they choose wrong, I’ll get to tell them it’s not my fault they dug their own graves.

In the meantime, and while digging is on my mind, I’d like to take this moment to fawn over the new shovel I got off of Muderzon. It’s shiny. It’s bright. It’s over seven feet tall. It breaks bones. It’s tough as iron. It can cut one of Tony’s telephone books in half with a single swing. It befriends pain, fantasizes over agony, and has an insatiable desire for both.

It dreams of ruin.

But can it dig a hole?

And it’s mine.

Lights.

Cancer.

Action!

“Tell ‘em, Big Hess!”

There I sit. High up in the sky, aboard my private jet, on the way to San Francisco. I’m simmering, shaded, and salty. Shoe salty anyway. The jumpsuit I have on screams funeral for a friend, and my couch and fern are nowhere to be seen. Make no mistakes though, I am comfortable. See, my new shovel is with me.

“Uh... what?”

And that’s him. My new, somewhat confused shovel. Fucking Ian as the cool kids say, and he’s got my back so all you haters who’ve been superkicked will just have to deal with it. The PRIME Hall of Famer and newest Bandit is seated across from me, wearing a matching jumpsuit, with his head towering above the top of the headrest in an almost toonish manner.

“This is when you… you know what, don’t worry about it.”

I’ve decided to cut him some slack since the big fella is a little new to the scene. Well, this scene anyway. It has nothing to do with his ability to throw me out of a moving airplane.

“Just get behind me and look all menacing. That visual alone should be more than enough against these prepubescent crumbs.”

Ha.

The Murder Show nods, stands, and apprehensively takes up residency in the one of the empty seats behind me. I’ll explain his apprehension while behind the scenes we get ready to shoot this thing again. It’s actually a funny story; you might even call it a bonding moment.

It’s not about the time we suffered through Coral’s botched captaincy, either.

Anyhow right before takeoff, Hessian told me I had a nice plane and that he was grateful for the ride. I laughed and I laughed, more so because gratitude is not something I’m accustomed to handling. Afterwards, I of course thanked him and told him that I paid for the newly dubbed Egg Force One in cash.

That’s a lot of replica Phil Sticks.

Needless to say, Big Hess was impressed, and smiled confidently like he had made the right decision. A little while later, after he had gone potty, he asked me about the different dispensers that were on the wall in the bathroom. He wanted to know why they had different colored soaps in them, and why the different soaps were so hard to wash off from his hands.

Because it is face paint.

Since I’m quick on my feet I told my new shovel they were actually different types of holistic creams that Bobby uses to moisten the inner crust of his belly button, and the actual soap is on the floor of the shower.

Ice breaker.

Oddly enough, the PRIME Hall of Famer didn’t seem too impressed after that. Horrified is more like it. Especially because I waited until he sat back down to tell him he had been and was still in fact sitting in Bobby’s seat.

True story.

Alright, let’s try this again.

Lights.

Cancer.

Action!

“Friends. Of. Mine.”

A beat, before the next words get pressed through my lips.

“And Coral,”

Still a Bandit.

For now.

“Where do I even begin?”

I mean, the plate is full, right? Overwhelmingly full. Too much to eat. Way too much. Best to just pucker up and go home.

Think again.

Not for the hardest working man in PRIME.

“Pretty Boy Nate, Lover Boy Johnny, Golden Boy Coral, or with the slob of slobs, Ivan ‘The Slob’ Stanislob?”

The wounds of yesteryear do not heal. Not when you’re me. Not when you’re cool. They still bleed. Some more than others, but make no mistakes, they still bleed. I remember Lover Boy bending me over and stealing victory from me. I remember kicking out of Stanislob’s best shot, only for it to wind up being for nothing. I remember Pretty Boy pinning me in back-to-back matches and thinking life couldn’t possibly get any worse.

Then The Jarrymandering happened.

Just like I remember Coral Avalon stabbing me in the heart.

“I know, let’s start with a little fun fact, shall we? All of you crumbs have something in common. Outside of never getting laid during high school, do you know what that is?”

For a second or two I patiently wait for an answer that’ll have to come in the form of a CD.

“Worry not, I’m about to tell you.”

Man of the people.

“All four of you have tasted the bottom of my boot. Which makes all four of you boot lickers.”

I chuckle.

“With high blood pressure and hypertension.”

Burn.

“In fact, all of you have collectively smelled on my salts so many times I’ve lost track of the count. Though, I’d be willing to bet this very jet I’m flying on it’s in the double digits.”

High nineties.

“That’s not to say I don’t remember any of them. I do have my favorites. Like when I kicked not one, but two of you to close the last show.”

You know who you are.

“Let me just say this about it, yes, I know I made slumping Ivan and Coral look easy. I’m COOL. Still. COOL or not, moments like that don’t grow on coconut trees. It’s not every day you get to stick a double banger, and yes, I wholeheartedly agree with the overall consensus when they say it was truly a watershed, where were you when it happened, type of moment.”

The overall consensus.

“One might even say it was a walk on water type of moment.”

And now you know why the Red Sea is the way that is.

“Top five for sure. Maybe even top three.”

I nod.

“Lifetime.”

Righteous, diligent, and satisfied.

“Another kick I hold near and dear is the time I kicked one of you… out of the Almasy.”

You know who you are.

“Ironically enough, just like it will be at fifty-two, it even happened during the main event.”

The amazement in my voice is noticeable.

“Thinking back on it, I guess there’s really only one question that still needs answering. Can you do it at the top, Nate? Sure, you’ve got it done at the bottom, but when the lights are at their brightest, do you have what it takes to climb Mount COOLYMPUS?”

A pause, long enough for a shit grin to grow all the way across my clean shaven, and much less beaten-up face.

“The answer is a resounding no. Well, this time around it is anyway. It’s not because I’m COOL and have a new shovel, or because you aren’t talented enough, either.”

My head shakes back and forth.

No.

“It’s because you’re teaming with Coral Avalon, and I know just how heavy that forehead of his is. More importantly, I know how much it’s going to weigh you down.”

I glance back at my new pal, and after he nods agreeably I turn my attention back to the Human Torch of this week's Fantastic Four.

To be clear:

Nate - Human Torch Coral - Mister Fantastic Stanislob - Thing JCH - The Invisible Woman Hessian - Galactus (Jiles - Dr. Doom)

“Good luck with that.”

I’m sure my still visible shit grin isn’t helping, but I do my best to feign condolences.

“Then there was the time I intentionally (gasp) kicked one of you and cost you the UNIVERSAL Championship, maybe the most diabolic of all my kicks to date.”

You know who you are.

“Truly, me at my worst, and finest. I won’t front, for me, it felt great to unburden. I loved it. Johnny Lover Boy is a chickenshit cuck who more than deserved it since he once cheated me -- Cancer Jiles -- out of a victory.”

I don’t care if it happened close to a year and a half ago.

But no, not petty at all.

“Plus, you know, it means Coral is the champion now because of me.”

Ha.

A thoughtful scratch of the chin.

“Or was I aiming for Coral, and just happened to miss the biggest target in the business?”

A simple shrug.

“I guess we’ll just never know.”

More chuckling. More acting diabolical. So, diabolical chuckling ensues. If it’s unsettling, it’s because it is supposed to be. I have a seven-foot shovel at my disposal. If that’s not unsettling, then I don’t know what is.

“There’s also the very first time that I kicked one of you, but I don’t think I’m going to talk about when the Captain lost his kick card. Not today.”

Talk about your “no, I don’t think that I will” energy.

“What I will say is this. Consider it some gamely advice for the lot of you. Be careful out there. Keep those heads on a swivel. Know that nothing is off the table during the Summer of Superkicks; especially with me and Big Hess trying to step in as much shit as humanly possible.”

The San Francisco Treats.

“Trust me when I say the opportunity for me to add to my list of favorites has never been greater, and God bless everyone and everything should a Four Superkick Sonata ensue.”

My dick surges from the possibility of conducting my Magnum Opus.

“I do imagine it’d be a real shame if all four of you appeared in yet another highlight for my entrance video.”

Pucker.

Kiss.

Goodbye.

---

Jet Ski Funeral

“A Bandit’s life for me.” -- Hessian’s Humblings, July 12th, 2024.

I said before how I was indebted to the Bandits, Don, and Daytona.

They welcomed me.

So, it’s only right I…

I…

…pay my respects to a fallen jet ski. Such an absurd notion if you hadn’t, like I had, witnessed its power firsthand, or the resilience of its rider. Diamonds was the definition of endurance. Not like THE Multiple Man version 2.0 he’d beaten for the Intense Title.

“Oh, it’s you. Big Hess. Funny bumping into you here, friend of mine. Got a second?”

When you’re as tall as I am, looking down all the time, you develop the ability to discern the tops of people’s heads as you would a fingerprint. The smalls often focused on the back, sides and fringe, neglecting the roof unless they were perpetual preeners.

I glanced down at the alfredo whorl. You know who.

He just so happened to be feigning one of the only two giants at the jet ski funeral. I could only imagine what he wanted, unaware of how ReVival would start later that evening.

“You once said to me that if I needed your help that you would be there for me.”

Well shit. As the incumbent coming back in off the street, I’d made a habit of conducting myself as was befitting of my station. A little more grace, a lot more wisdom. It meant being personable and well-mannered despite being surrounded by explosive personalities and situations. Like during the crossing to Culture Shock, hanging off the back of the Octane before I found my sea legs, feeding the fish with each regurgitation. Jiles found me, ribbed me about my delicate insides. I waved it off and thanked him for checking up on me, then used that to segue into offering my services. A simple, polite gesture in return for the welcoming. He’d taken me seriously.

“Well, the time has come. I don’t know if you were watching earlier, but I need you now. I have a rat problem. A rat with a big forehead problem to be eggsact.”

Nice timing, given the inconsolable wildman lamenting his fiberglass steed. He is a million dollar bill; I’ll give him that. His assumption was correct however. While the feed was usually playing in the background in my dressing room, there was rarely a moment where I was tuned in. Too busy stretching out or planning my spots, or wondering which chickenshit was going to chairshot their way to a cheap victory next.

I looked over at Tony and Bobby, bothering the buffet table. Jiles had nearly a half-ton of hair gel and decades of experience and cunning at his back, had they put him up to this? Was it some kind of dare? Bobby was enamored with the spread while the only grin on Gamble’s face was that unsightly scar. No, it didn’t feel like a setup.

“If you’re going to ask for help shifting Bobby when he slips into a food coma, may I suggest purging him first.”

Jiles didn’t smile. Not even so much as a wrinkle on the forehead or hint of an eyebrow over the T-shades. He looked at me like he’s heard that joke a million times before, reducing me to Gamble’s height. Like I was a halfling with a permascar. Such was the glare that I felt as though I’d been verbally admonished.

“...what did you have in mind?”

I knew fine well what he had in mind. He’s Cancer fucking Jiles after all. The pistol shrimp. Hardest working man in PRIME and public enemy number one. The nuclear option required the biggest shield. He needed the grizzliest, most loyal dog of war he could find, ready to unleash upon his foes when they came calling. And rest assured they would come calling.

Woof.

And I’ll be waiting.