FULL COUNTER

USS Octane Boston eGG Party So it Begins

“No matter what happens next, victory or defeat, life or death, it all rests on that massive titanium knuckle protruding above his nose; boy I sure do hope he succeeds.” -- Jiles’ Journal, March 17th, 2024.

Day one.

Departure.

The sun is out and shining brightly. The clouds around it are few and far between. Belle’s are chirping, potted ferns are blooming, and the 972,400 butterflies in Bob’s stomach are fluttering...

...nothing but smooth sailing ahead.

HA!

And smooth sail we will, all while aboard a vessel designed for the exact opposite. A nimitz-class destroyer of worlds: the USS Octane. Home of the gallows, birthplace of pain, and mobile floating fortress of the eGG Bandits.

If you didn’t know.

They did.

The pride and joy of the Bandits has completed final preparations for the longgggg journey ahead of her, and is ready to ferry me and mine across the open seas to Cardiff.

To war.

By “preparations” I mean -- among other things -- the WiFi has been upgraded to passable, fresh...ish sheets have been put on all of the beds(old Nova cots), Bobby removed the spy tech inside the women’s shower heads, and Lunchbox Laser brushed up on his penguin stew. 

Ya know, just in case someone gets seasick.

Anyway, Old Captain Snubs and his girls are aboard the ship.

Baby on board.

So are Bobby and his amazing daughter.

Bigger babies on board.

Tony is too, and unimaginably as it might sound, the people he brought with him are even smaller than he is. I know what you’re thinking, that is a lot of telephone books, and somehow we’re gonna need a bigger boat.

And you’d be right.

Show me the way to go home, I’m tired and I want to go to bed…

Also in play is Lunchbox Laser, because someone needs to carry the bags, cook the food, and unclog the toilets while never washing their hands.

Lastly, there’s me, a man of many names: The Eggsecutioner of Dirty Dick Parker, Alfredo the Lion Tamer, Street Fighter, Bryan Dawkins’ Daddy, Dougie Doubleday’s Daddy, Prancer Finedalots, Greek God of COOL, and the list goes on and on.

I’m here with my brethren.

I brought my shovel and my T-shades.

I’m set.

Ready for war.

All of us Bandits are top side.

Bobby, Tony, and Lunchbox are all in ship uniform, EB trackers, waiting to greet our guests should they finally decide to show up. Then again, we never did set a time, just a date. Regardless, they are down there waiting for them to arrive. They aren’t bothered by it. They know what I know, and what I know is that we need them…

…even if it’s just for senseless fodder.

NO ONE IS SAFE IN FULL COUNTER.

Coral, the Crowned Captain of the ship, is perched high up in his quarters enjoying time with his family before the smooth sail begins. He’s also in uniform, but he’s got a cool egg shaped pin on his. I, also in uniform but with less flare and the most collar pop of all, and with my shovel resting on my shoulder and my T-shades doing their job, stand on his private deck overseeing operations.

So, looking down on the other three while shining in the sun.

Business as usual.

HA!

I ask Captain Snubs, “Do you think it’s possible they all got on the wrong boat? I mean, our cannons are decommissioned so it shouldn't be too hard to tell. Plus, we sail under the Bandit flag and we’re the only nimitz-class ship in the water! For fu-- eh, for Zeus’ sake where are these crumbs!?!l

We stand out like sore thumbs is what I’m getting at.

Better than sitting down on sore asses I suppose.

HA!

And yes, we’ve been waiting to leave for a little while now. Not that I’m agitated or anxious about it or anything. As you may or may not know, invites were sent out a while back to the other three members of Team Coral that are not affiliated with the Bandits. In regard to said invites, it was not for a tour of the ship but for a tour of duty on the ship. In other words they were invited to come and join the Fantastic Four, abscond past yonder, and become the team we need to be in order to escape War Games as victors.

That was the Disney pitch anyway.

Funny thing is, it worked.

Or so I had thought.

Donny the Winter Soldier, in.

-Surprising move by Don, since he happens to be a former Almasy nemesis of mine and once called me a cromb. I do wonder, does he have an ulterior motive or is this a case of a man willing to do whatever it takes to prove himself worthy and bask in Him’s warm light?

Ian Hulkian, in.

-Another surprise, seeing as the Murderer of Shows and Hayes Hanlon also happens to be a spotlight stealer, and there’s no spotlight to be stolen here(USS Octane). Still, I’ll watch him intently because he has done what I could not. At the very least I'll deploy Lunchbox to shade him between meals.

Chris Diamond’s Cousin, TBD.

-He said he’d see us out there-- whatever the fuck that means.

Invitations were sent. Invitations were answered. Yet, out of our two eager invitees and the rogue wave with a rhinestone belt buckle, none are here. Not a cowboy. Not a monster. Not a lost soul in need of saving.

More time passes.

Not a pope mobile in sight.

I continue to prater on, “I don’t know Captain, but it’s starting to feel like a JCH on Prom Night situation here and I don’t like it.” I’m not lying. I don’t. “It’s the utter disrespect and classlessness, ya know? Like, do they not know who I am?... I mean, who we are?”

Now, if it sounds like I’m worrying, I’m not. I never worry. I don’t even know how to worry. Honest. In fact, I’ve never once worried in my entire life. Ever. Shampoo and where the industry will be in two years time, sure, ya got me there.

But this.

No.

Not about them not being here yet and potentially standing us up. Not about my next match being inside a double cage against a lot of people who don’t necessarily care for my well being, nor about the irreversible side effects I’ll have to endure after partaking in such calamity.

None of it.

Never worried.

I mean, you got to remember. I’m King motherfucking COOL. I’m the righteous. I got T-shades that blot out the sun, and hair that will be studied and admired long after I’m gone.

Worry.

Ha.

Crumbs.

And I have plausible deniability since Coral is Captain if this whole thing implodes.

“Wait!” My heart skips a beat. I can't believe my eyes. I’m able to remain shaded, but no doubt a normie would have taken them off. “I think I see the pope mobile! It is! Leave it to Donny Boy to be the first one to show. Kid has spunk, I said it after our match! Remember? Oh well, poor guy.”

I whistle down to Bobby. He knows the drill. Maybe I lied when I said the cannons have been decommissioned, and instead maybe it’s time to see if they still work.

“Hey, Coral, you’re going to want to see this.”

Captain joins me out on his deck. I can sense his nervousness. He doesn’t have all the keys to the ship yet. I of course do. He needs to champion us to victory first before I’ll hand them all over. He asks me, like he doesn’t know the answer already, or at least wished he already didn’t know the answer, “Why is Bobby fiddling around with that jerry rigged cannon?”

I smirk.

Why indeed, Coral? Why indeed.

“Plug your ears. FIRE ONE!”

Down by the cannon, Bob pulls on a lever like a slot machine and BOOM it goes. The thing is, the cannon doesn’t shoot missiles, or grenades, or bullets, or Kostoffs, or singlets, or rubles, or t-shirts, or lizards, or ascots, or mechanical eyes.

No.

We’re not savages.

We personify dignity.

We egg.

That said, as Don approaches in the pope mobile with his flock of penguins trailing behind him, Bob fires cannon. A cannon which has been retrofitted by Skynet, proud sponsor of my T-shades, to fire a 1000 eggs per minute. The blitzkrieg instantly changes the color of Don’s ride to white and yellow, and one of the penguins catches a stray egg and is down. He waddles his way back upright though, so get off the phone with PETA.

“Direct hit." Coral is as white as a ghost. I am not. I am manic. I am roaring. The show has finally begun, and I’m going to get my money’s worth. “HAHAHAHA!!!!!!!!!!! WELCOME TO THE GAMES DONNY BOY! NOW WHERE’S THAT BIG FUCK IAN AT!”

The absolute best part, aside from all of our/MY celebrating, and I didn’t know this till later, but about 100 yards behind all of this Hessian was sitting in his car. He heard the BOOM of the cannon and just so happened to stop inside the boat’s blind spot.

He saw the whole thing.

The spectacle.

“Yeah, I’m not so sure about this now, Cyril.” -- Hessian, probably

---

Believe The Hype(Part 2)

“No one else has the backbone we do. No one. They will break where we won’t. They will crack where our shell is solidified.” -- Jiles’ Journal, March 21st, 2024.

Day Four.

Still going.

Well.

At least we haven’t gotten marooned on an island yet, so we have that going for us. Also, we haven’t practiced our in ring rendition of Whisper Down the Lane either, mainly because we’re not lover boy crumbs, so there’s that, too.

Well, not with good intentions anyway.

I will say it was quite the bonding experience, eating popcorn and having a good laugh watching those bumbling idiots pass the microphone around like Hayes Hanlon does Herpes simplex.

Movie night on the Octane, who would have thought?

Afterwards we caught the premiere of Chris Chickentenders’ latest HYPE piece. Some time ago the Bandits' beloved colleague and lead chair of CNN released a HYPE video propping up his favorite group of derelicts as they marched toward War Games. Well, in order to help satiate my insatiable ego he did another one.

He may or may not have been implored.

Enjoy.

There Chris is, back at the Bandit Podium, or pulpit as Don called it.

Chris Chickentenders: We, the few. We, the proud. We, the Bandits.

A short montage runs of Coral, Bobby, and Tony getting their hands raised with the occasional finisher sprinkled in. Then, of course, with enhanced production values galore, it’s my turn to shine. As such, my shine takes a little bit longer since my catalog is overwrought with superkicks and getting my hand raised.

No one ever said it was easy at the top.

Ego.

Chris Chickentenders: We are different from you. We march to the beat of our own drum. We don’t follow rules, or care about your feelings. We do what we want. When we want. HOW we want. We pride ourselves on it.

That time I kicked Don in the face and knocked him out of the Almasy might have been played on more than one occasion.

I’ll have to remember to talk to Chris about the oversight.

Chris Chickentenders: We don’t have time to stop and sniff the glue. We don’t have time to play low blow, super kick, or both as a fun way of getting to know each other, nor do we have time to play Whisper Down the Lane with a live microphone in front of a sold out audience on the go home show.

Thankfully.

The last shot in the montage reverts back to 4:3 ratio, and is of Tony defeating Hessian back when the internet was still on dial up. Ian groaned, and everyone thought it was Bobby’s stomach. Honest to god it sounded just like it. Abnormal. Not of this world. Celestial. It was something else.

It was also very funny.

Chris Chickentenders: We most certainly don’t play games, bored or not. and we most certainly do not play at war. Come Culture Shock we’re going to hurt people. We’re going to steamroll them. We’re going to sit on them. We’re going to bite them in the ankles. We’re going to forehead-smash them. We’re going to crucify them. We’re going to kick them in the face, and do whatever it takes to emerge from battle victorious.

Not gonna lie, the kid has me convinced.

Chris Chickentenders: Some of us might like it. Some of us won’t. Neither will matter. Pain is coming. BET. *Brought to you by the Chris Chickentenders War Games Super PAC. ---

USS Octane War Room Lesson Learned

“Our biggest strength is also our biggest weakness. Time to turn that on its head.” Jiles’ Journal, March 24th, 2024.

Daytona number seven.

Shout out to the savior.

Ha.

Not Don.

The irony.

It’s late. More like early day eight. We’re tired. Today we learned a lot about each other. We pushed each other. We’re close. We’re on the brink of filling out the carton and solidifying the shell. Bob might have lost thirty pounds, that's how hard he was pushing himself. He really set the tone and made it all seem real. It was something for him to be proud of. I think he went as hard as did because of Belle; she was watching him with a smile on her face worth fighting for.

His Belle.

Not Coral’s.

There also may or may not have been another game of volleyball. This time with even more players. Skins won. Bobby’s team. The one Tony wasn’t on, go figure. Poor guy can’t catch a break. Maybe if we play who can fit in a small hole or something he’d have better luck.

Right.

Oh well.

Digression.

There was a moment when Big Hess spiked the shit out of the ball and it bounced off of Coral’s forehead; I swear to Zeus it launched so high up in the air it never came back down. I’m not lying. The fucking thing must have landed at the top of COOLYMPUS.

He would know.

The crazy part, it didn’t even bother Coral. Didn’t phase him. At all. It would have killed anyone else on the boat. Decapitated in an instant. Not even my T-shades would have held up against the blast. Shit, if it had hit the deck it might have gone right through it and sunk the ship.

Needless to say that was how the second game ended.

After that we jogged the length of the boat a few times in shame. Then we watched Bob throw up a few times. Then we prayed with Don that Bob wouldn’t also shit himself a few times. After that we settled down and debated if Hessian would break his hand if he punched Coral in the forehead with all his might. That was a hotly contested debate mostly because older Belle was there for it and vehemently against it.

Obviously.

As was Coral.

But not as much.

Party poopers.

We had a film session in the Captain’s quarters because now Belle wasn’t comfortable letting Coral out of her sight. Shamefully, we couldn’t help but to watch Team From Russia with Love mumbling and bumbling through their in-ring segment again.

Wish we would have said a prayer then, if you catch my drift.

After we cleared out of the room and Bobby cleaned himself up, we had a strategy session in the War Room. We ran through different scenarios and discussed possible entry orders. We went over strengths and weaknesses, both actual and perceived. It was a long session. Twenty one crumbs and then the seven egg dwarfs. That’s a lot, and I’d love to spoil it for everyone and tell you all how good the cake tastes, but I promised I would refrain.

There’s always the promo.

After all that, we got back out on the deck of the Octane for one last session. By now we were both mentally and physically exhausted. We were at our weakest, but it also meant so was he.

NO ONE IS SAFE IN FULL COUNTER.

Coral deferred to me on this one, since what comes next is sinister. But, sinister is what awaits us when we dock in Cardiff. Sinister is two cages. Sinister is needed, and there’s nothing more sinister than an Eggsecutioner.

There we were.

Alone in the night.

The seven of us.

Bobby, Snubsy, Diamondy, COOLY, Holy, Shorty, and Ian.

It was silent for a moment.

Soon, Big Hess realized that all eyes were upon him.

“Okay. Let’s get this over with.”

That was Hessian.

Cocky fuck.

I’ll give him that.

I address the group without fear or trepidation. “In order to get through this the only page that can exist for us is that no one man is bigger than the team.”

I look in the monster’s eyes.

Presumably.

“Since you’re the biggest on the team there’s really only one way to go about proving that.”

A pause.

“We’re going to kick the shit out of you and see if you float.”

While I was talking Tony snuck up behind Hessian like he was Kevin from Sin City. However, brains before brawn wins the day. The Murder Man pipes back, “Bobby weighs fifty pounds more than me. He’s the biggest. I’m just the tallest and strongest. In terms of per capita he has me beat, but if that’s what you want I guess we can find out about Coral’s forehead.”

...

......

Coral quickly checks the roster page through the neural link in his forehead.

“He’s right. Bobby is technically the biggest.”

Hessian cracks his knuckles. Donny boy smiles wide. Daytona frowns since he enjoys slaying giants. Tony, poor Tony, stifled again. Coral pats Bobby on the top of the head.

I sigh, and then say, “He is on a streak still.”

Sorry Bob.

Love you.

I do.

“This should be interesting.”

Bobby doesn’t run. He can’t. Not after the day he had pushing himself to the limit. However, brains once again wins the day. The man from Honalee shoots out his arms, and in a desperate plea to defer his gang style beating shouts, “But Jiles has the biggest ego! That’s got to count for something!”

No one hesitates.

Not even Coral.

If anything you might even say he leads the charge.

I spent the next five minutes being chased around the top deck. Some people even went and grabbed weapons. Bobby had a knife for instance. Then, magically, the whole entire boat was there. The rest of the Bandits including their guests, Daytona and his scary hat, Donny and the penguin boy’s choir, Hessian and Cyril; I even think LT might have stopped by.

And fucking Hariston!

That crumb.

I don’t even know HOW he was there.

And of all people to get their dirty hands on me.

Of all the crumbs…

…fucking Lunchbox.

---

The Ivory Tower

“Now we dig.” — Jiles’ Journal, March 28th, 2024.

Day eleven.

Just like the hour.

Just like the fitted hat size of Ian.

Tomorrow the games will begin. War will soon be upon us, and I have waited long enough. You know the couch. You know the fern. You know what happens next.

FULL COUNTER.

The hair, simmering. The T-shades, mirror-tinting. The collar, popping. The smile, eggsecuting.

Lights.

Cancer.

Action~!

“War Games.”

An unimpressed, arrogant snicker worthy of losing an eye.

“Friends. Of. Mine.”

There goes the customary bad taste charcoal coated loogie. I’m doing the bit from the Titanic position so the disgust lands in the ocean.

“All of my greatest foes in the same spot, and a chance to clear the board of all my troubles in one fell swoop.”

Even. Fucking. Steven.

I look up, astonished and unworthy of Zeus’ blessing.

“To think that I would be locked inside there with all of you, and it would somehow be detrimental towards me.”

Ha.

That simp life.

“I got three Bandits and three honorary Bandits loaded in my six shooter.”

A snort.

“A Diamond in the rough, a Greatest Showman of Murders, a still streaking Crown Prince of Honalee, an avarice pit known as The Grin, a devout preacher who has placed his faith in his team, and above all my Captain.”

That’s my quarterback.

“You crumbs are as good as caked.”

Fuck a candle.

I'm the birthday boy.

“Save yourselves the trouble and turn back now. Only pain awaits you. Only anguish, turmoil, and failure await you. Only Eggsecution awaits you.”

Fingers crossed it works.

A sinister cackle. It echoes throughout the ship, just like the “I am the cool” sing along did.

“Oh, and Phil Atken is a hack job.”

Pucker.

Kiss.

Goodbye.