Carte Blanche (Part 1 of 5)

So It Begins

“Time to do something stupid.” -- Jiles’ Journal, the night of my latest abortion

Let’s get this over with as quickly as possible.

Please.

The room is bright.

Noisy.

It’s congested with people I don’t want to be around.

Media crumbs.

My eyes burn.

Repellent.

My head hangs.

Low.

Blood stains my face.

6-iron.

I’m seated at some sort of podium.

Slouched.

Nay, shell-shocked.

There’s confetti remnants glued to everything from the person who was here before me.

Crumbington.

1. want. to. die.

If you haven’t figured it out yet, Night Two of UltraViolence is over but the post show Media Scrum isn’t!

Hooray.

Which means not only have I once again failed in my never ending quest to conquer the Universe, but there’s a mob of reporters in front of me salivating to get their juicy bite.

News bite.

Also, I think a thank you would be nice; it’s not easy keeping them as well fed as I do.

I digress.

Fear not, I have yet to relent to their insatiable whimsy. As such, I have been hiding from their questions behind the cover of my T-shades. My silence, however, is no ruse. It’s not a ploy to give misery what it loves.

Company.

It’s because when I try to find the words...

...there are none.

Ugh.

Needless to say, where I am, how things shook out, well, it’s not at all what I wanted. The goal, the dream, the reason, the throne... gone again. Poof. Up in smoke. I suppose that's just the agony of defeat as they say.

Big city life is what I say.

Like I wouldn’t know.

Ha.

That wasn’t supposed to be funny.

Although, I will say this time something feels different. This time around, sadly, unfortunately, I’m afraid monumental failure may have broken me. Not only are the words gone, but it’s gone. My ferocious will to dominate, to humiliate, to be the hardest working man in PRIME and stand above the pinnacle... is gone.

Good job, Cecil.

It would seem as if it has finally been beaten out of me.

Ha.

One day, for his crimes against the COOL, I will cut down my old friend Farty Pants, and beat Phil over the head with the UNIVERSAL championship so badly it knocks the Glasgow out of his smile.

One day.

Not today, though.

Today, I squandered that opportunity.

Today, the War was won and the hunt was lost.

Today, I failed my brethren.

Yet again.

“Okay. Shut the fuck up because I’m only going to say this once.”

---

Friends Of Mine “It’s the job of the Captain to steer the ship and not crash it into an iceberg. Oh well.” -- Jiles’ Journal, June 13th, 2025

I’ve been pretty much radio silent since the Media Scrum.

Since the big announcement.

BIG.

I’ve talked to Vickie. She’s calm. Well, calmish. She’s ready for whatever happens next, no matter the outcome. So she says anyway. She’s also sworn to kill Phil Atken on sight, so there’s that.

Same goes for the Avalons.

At least the Christmas Party this year will be a fun one.

For my brethren, well, I guess you could say I’ve been waiting for the right moment to talk with them. Frankly, I’m a tad nervous. I figure they have questions and I don’t want to answer them with, “because I’m an impulsive jerk off, that’s why.”

Then again...

As fate would have it, that right moment I’ve been waiting for has come along. Well, I did call for the meeting but that is neither here nor there. I’m ready to face the music. Aboard the USS Bandit. Not deep down in the pit of the Gallows. Not in the luxury of the Captain’s Quarters, but on the deck.

Where the plank for walking is located.

No net.

I guess I’ve always been a little guilty when it comes to the imagery.

A little.

There I stand, with my precious Bandits gathered before me. We’re all dressed in funeral-blacks, and they’re watching as I balance on the precipice of the end.

Bobby and Belle are in tears.

Conor Fuse is livestreaming the whole thing over on Meltdown Twitch.

Two Books is nervously tearing pages out of his telephone book.

Doozer is presumably red-faced, but there’s really no way of telling since it seems I’m back to no longer seeing him.

Big Hess... well I told him to bring the shovel in case my will was too weak, and I never thought he’d actually bring it. He’s also not happy, and shares the same similar look of concern as everyone else.

Ha.

We’ll always have Manhunt.

Oh god.

“Hello friends. Thank you all for joining me out here. I know you have questions, but before you ask them please allow me five minutes to explain. If I haven’t answered them after saying my piece, feel free to ask away. I won’t jump to avoid them. I swear.”

Collective, agreeable nodding ensues.

“Okay, firstly, I’m sorry guys. I am. I’m sorry for failing to live up to the standard set. Sorry for failing all of you, and letting you all down. I truly am.”

No, my nose did grow in length.

I have remorse.

That’s how you express it, right?

“I know we worked our asses off with Manhunt and to come up short here at the end, no matter the performance, is inexcusable. I should have been better. I will be better. That’s that, boys. No excuses. No blame game. The egg is on my face, and my face alone. This loss is on me and is my cross to bear.”

Those observing groan arduously.

They don’t need my apology, nor do they want it.

“Secondly, I know I should have talked over my decision with you guys but I just... I was fed up. Fuck, I am fed up. I’ve reached a tipping point and after all that I have been through, well, it just seemed like the only card left I had to play.”

Tony shakes his head no.

So does Ian.

Bobby, between tears, cries out, “NO! It doesn’t have to be like this! You don’t need to do this, Cancer! You said before it’s impossible to carry the Golden Ticket from start to finish. If you don’t you--”

My hand raises in an effort to calm my Honaleean friend. It works, and his regularly scheduled sobbing chins along.

“There, there, my beautiful Prince. Please, let me just say my piece.”

I take a breath, allowing myself a chance to gather my thoughts. Before I can continue on though, Big Hess interjects, “You know what this means, don’t you? It means one of us could be the one to do it.”

I nod.

The sun shines down upon my face.

For a second I can see them.

The fields.

Elysium.

“Yes, I do know that, Ian. That’s the other part of why we’re here.”

---

The Ivory Tower “The gauntlet has been laid out, and all that is left to do now is win the whole fucking thing.” -- Jiles’ Journal, June 17th, 2025

You know the spot.

It’s where I sit.

It’s where I feast.

It’s where I both make, and rest my bones.

It’s where I’m at my COOLest and most COOLympian.

It’s also been recently sullied by an ascot wearing crumb, which shockingly isn’t half as bad as it sounds. After all, squalor, like T-shades, Alfredo locks, and a popped collar, does look good on me.

Ha.

Talk about turning a negative into a positive.

Lights.

Cancer.

ACTION~!

“Harley Walker.”

A beat.

“The Little Lightning Boy That Could.”

My head shakes with gloom, mainly because that train ain’t never leaving the station.

“The poorest of the Whoresmen.”

I rev an imaginary dirt bike.

“Friend of mine.”

Poor Harley. The luck of the draw has doomed his recent return to the ring. I’m sure no matter how death defying he thinks he is, that he didn’t ask to see if he could survive being eggsecuted in the first round. Yet here he is, stop number one of five along the Cancer Jiles Redemption Song tour.

Ha.

“Welcome back, Harley. I hate to admit it but I hardly knew you were gone.”

I hardly knew he was here is a probably more accurate assessment.

Just saying.

No, I’m kidding. I remember Harley. He’s another person who has climbed out of a wheelchair only to wind up standing in my way. Granted, I didn’t put him in his.

Not yet.

“If you forgot or have been shot out of a cannon and underneath a rock for the better part of four years, I’m Cancer Jiles.”

I wave.

Maybe HR is in my future.

“I’m the guy who decided to take a nap at the end of the Night Two MAIN EVENT of UltraViolence and lose everything he and his worked so hard for. Oh, and in case you’re wondering, yes I am in a really good mood about it.”

My salted frown tells a different story.

“Also, don’t know if you caught the Media Scrum or not, or heard the big news coming out of it for that matter, so I’ll just assume you didn’t and say that you should check it out.”

I shrug.

No spoilers.

Not yet.

“That said, we have a date in the first round of the Almasy-- me and you.”

My third go in the tournament, mind you.

6-2 lifetime. 1 final. 4 main events.

Also my third time with THE GOLDEN TICKET.

More on that later.

“Not to sugarcoat it, but I think we both know how our match is going to play out, don’t we? Though, if I’m being honest, I will admit it’s not totally skydiving without a parachute for you. There is hope, Harley, slim as it may be. As you can clearly see I’m not at a hundred percent, and after the events of UltraViolence I could be considered the very definition of down and out.”

That last remark is in regard to the beat up, black and blue, bandaged and bruised face and body I have going on.

Otherwise known as the constant reminder I’ll probably wind up wearing for the duration of the tournament of just how big I failed.

“But, and it’s a big one, unfortunately for you that narrative changed when I announced what else would be on the line during the entirety of my Almasy run.”

Win or go home.

Not just a Golden Ticket, Jack.

Not for me.

That is for sure.

---

So It Ends “I’m going to give the Golden Ticket a whole new meaning by the time it’s all said and done. This is just another opportunity for me to do the unthinkable. To ascend past the boundaries of mortal men, and once again know what it means to sit at the top of COOLYMPUS. Many would say it is a curse. I will turn it into a blessing.” -- Jiles’ Journal, the night of my latest abortion

There I am. Stressed. Beaten. Bloodied. Back against the proverbial wall. Slouched over at the podium. Hiding behind my T-shades. Being bombarded by questions.

No one ever said it would be easy.

When suddenly, I have had enough. Well, it’s more like I now know what I must do. The epiphany. The answer. The path forward. Everything is clear. It’s time to make damn sure the juice is worth the squeeze. It’s time to double down on the bounty placed on my head, and even the odds against those who seek to oppose.

“Okay. Shut the fuck up because I’m only going to say this once.”

I stand.

Invigorated.

Alive.

Heart beating faster than Harley Walker’s while he’s jumping over a shark den atop of Daytona Diamond’s jet ski.

“You want to know how I feel? You want to know about the Golden Ticket? You want to know if I think I can win the Almasy entering it in the condition I am? You want to know about the future of the Bandits? You want to know what is next for me?”

The air in my lungs is clean, and crisp. My wounds are healing, or the bleeding is slowing. One or the other. My vision, which was once blurred, is now starting to restore.

“Well get ready because I am about to tell you.”

I spit. It lands on a reporter from HOTv. No one cares, but everyone points and laughs.

“If I don’t humiliate myself far worse than tonight by competing on Night One of Ascension in my second Almasy final.”

I’d be lying if I said it’s not tiring getting so close.

“If I don’t carry the Golden Ticket over the river and through the woods for the duration of the tournament.”

I’d be lying if I said it’s not tiring apologizing to the Bandits again and again for my shortcomings.

They’ll understand.

They will.

They always do.

...

Yeah, that is to say I am growing fucking exhausted of this. From failure. From life. From the vicious circle I seem to be stuck in. From coming so close only to be beaten back even further from where I started.

“If I don’t run the table and win the 2025 Almasy Tournament...”

That click clacking you hear are the heels of Lady Troy sprinting towards the podium. She will be too late, though. There’s no stopping what comes next. I’m about to steal the thunder for the entirety of the Almasy. I’m about to make the whole thing about me. Mr. Number One By Definition.

She knows.

“I will retire from PRIME and the sport of wrestling.”

BOOM.

Mic.

Drop.

C-Sektion.

---

Enemies Of Mine “My only wish is that if I am to fall it’s to be by one of their hands.” -- Jiles’ Journal, June 13th, 2025

There we all are. The Bandits. On the deck. All eyes on me. The Golden Ticket.

Ha.

“Yes, I do know that, Ian. That’s the other part of why we’re here.”

That’s me answering Ian’s earlier question. He wanted to know if I’m aware of what I’m asking them to possibly do. Which, in this case would be to step up to the plate, slay the dragon, become the new Captain, and send me off to the Elysium Fields with a smile on my face.

No big deal.

Ha.

“I can only hope that if I am to fall it would be to one of you. I say hope, because as it stands right now, in a one on one scenario, if we were to cross paths in the tournament none of you would stand a chance against me. I would walk over any of you without a second of hesitation.”

It’s not because I’m superior. No. That’s not it at all.

“I have no net, boys. I’m walking around angry, unfettered, and with my pants down around my ankles for the whole world to see. I will never be more motivated than this, and it’s not even for me. It’s for all of you.”

That’s not a lie. My net is gone. I’m operating from the top, and should I fall during the Almasy there will be no getting up from it. Luckily, most of the brethren are on the other side of the bracket. Still, what a final it would be.

“I am as dangerous as I have ever been, and I promise you that no matter what I am going to win this fucking thing and restore our carton to prominence.”

Bobby farts. Belle gulps. Dooze snoozes. Fuse games. Tony continues to tear, and Hessian grips the shovel like his life depends on it.

“Believe me boys... and girl, I don’t want this to come to an end. I will stop at nothing to keep my Fast Pass and continue riding the Egg Express Coaster at PRIME Flags. I will. When all is said and done, I want to vindicate myself, OUR MANHUNT WIN, and do right by all of you. It might not seem like it at times, but just know that is why my career is on the line. That is what is keeping me from jumping.”

I do feel shame, and I hate that I feel like I let them all down. Still, nothing, and no one, Bandit or Glue or Whoresmen or Army or run of the mill crumb, or even TAL, or Hanlon, or Stanislob, or Colton, of JCH, or who the fuck ever, will stop me.

Not this time.

Like I said, this time is different.

“I want to prove to each and every one of you why your faith in me as the Captain of the eGG Bandits is not misplaced, and in order to do that I am going to win the Almasy, gentlemen. I am going to put everything I am on the line for each and every one of you. I’m going to erase the memory of Coral Avalon and redefine what it means to be THE GOLDEN BANDIT.”

I look over my brethren.

The tone has changed.

It is no longer somber.

“And if you think I’m full of shit, either best me in the ring or step out on this plank and see if you can push me off of it.”

---

The Ivory Tower(continued) “Suck it up, crumb. There’s no time to cry. Ben Affleck in an Uncle Sam suit awaits.” -- Jiles’ Journal, June 17th, 2025

And we’re back up!

Since it could be the last time…

Once more into the abyss.

Lights.

Cancer.

ACTION~!

“I do wonder Harley, can you be the one? Will you be the one? I mean, an unlikely story is as likely as anything else. Daredevil Harley Macleod of the clan Macleod returns to get shot out of a cannon and lands on top of Cancer Jiles for three seconds, ending the PRIME HALL OF FAMER’S career AND secures a GOLDEN TICKET in the process. Weirder things have happened.”

Like 11 of them.

I nod, unsure if I should be impressed with what Harley will never be able to accomplish.

“I can already see the headline in Thinking Red.”

Shit, commie rag. “Oh. That’s right. You’re a Whoremen. My bad. I mean The National Inquirer.”

Ha.

“Step up, bud. Do what can not be done. End what refuses to end. Take the most stylish pelt of them all.”

I snort.

“I DARE YOU.”

Ha.

As if.

“It will be the most courageous and dangerous thing you have ever done. The greatest stunt you’ll ever pull off-- I can promise you that.”

Certainly beats jumping a bunch of Astro VANS in a wheelchair.

“Allow me to leave you with this. Something that is both daring, and devilish. Just like you fancy yourself.”

A beat.

“I’ve already started working on my second round promo.”

Ha.

Pucker.

Kiss.

Goodbye?