The One Where The Shit Hits The Fan

Behind Closed Doors

“Phil Atken is my trophy. He’s my bitch. I own him. I’ve talked to his ghost. He is a product of my handiwork. He is the way he is because of me. I put him in that chair, and I alone will say when he’s allowed to get out of it. No one else. Not him. Not KFC Bitchboy. Not the mayor of Glasgow. Not some doctor. Not Cecilworth. JUST. ME.” -- Jiles’ Journal, June 14th, 2024.

The golden anniversary show is over.

The important part of it is anyway.

Next stop, Tropical Turmoil!

Here’s to 50 more years of reviving!

But first, some run of mill turmoil starring everyone’s favorite bunch. We, the eGG Bandits, are inside of our little, but grandiose carton suite/villa at the WiZink Center. The four of us look how you'd imagine we should look: Bobby is beautiful and girthy, Coral is both hot and foreheaded, Tony is two books short of a stack of pancakes, and I am simply radiating with COOL.

Collar popped, T-shaded, amazing Alfredo hair.

Simple.

As for the atmosphere inside the room, well, it’s post kick so it’s been lighter. Sure, the AC is on, Bobby hasn’t farted yet, and there is a cozy couch in play for some of us, but the point I’m trying to make is despite it all, no one is happy.

Well, scratch that.

Not, no one.

Just the Captain.

Is there a difference?

Ha.

As for me? Well, I’m feeling kind of mutinous if I’m being honest.

“Sack the fuck up and get over it! What’s done is done.”

See.

The Crownless King vehemently shakes his head no, as if to say he will not get over it.

My lovely fervor rolls along.

“That’s on you then, Coral. Word of advice though, like it or not you’re the Captain of the eGG Bandits, and it’s time you started acting like it. Especially if you wish to bite from the forbidden fruit.”

Adamant, I spit inches away from Coral’s feet before belligerently carrying on.

“It’d be a terrible shame for you to come all this way, just to wind up walking the plank instead of back up the aisle at Tropical Turmoil.”

Coral, being the Golden Bandit and incumbent Universal Champion, doesn’t back down from my threat. As such, with his chin up and his eyes wide like he just ripped a line from DD’s stash, he rallies back at me.

“I have the biggest match of my life in two weeks! For a championship that even you, the great king of cool once held! And, AND-- because you are the way that you are, you've possibly made my momentous occasion a sticky one.”

When Capt. Coral puts it like that I almost feel bad for what happened earlier in the night. More so because I was present to hear it come out of his mouth in real-time, but a sliver of me also knows he’s right. Yes, it is an unfamiliar feeling if you must know. Soon to be a fleeting one, too.

Ha.

He fearlessly continues.

“And now you’re standing here threatening me, telling me I need to start acting like it!? I am acting like it! Try practicing what you preach, Jiles! Your despicable actions put us needlessly inside the Glueboy’s crosshairs! If something happens now it’s all on you.”

Ouch.

I can tell the disappointment is real when the Golden Bandit starts dropping stable nicknames.

Not that I could give a shit.

“Needlessly? I eat lunch inside the crosshairs, Coral, try again.”

He further blisters.

“The man was using a cane! He was not a threat! He hadn’t walked in close to two years, and you... you cut him down like a do-”

I can’t help myself but to cut Coral off.

“Go on, please keep getting your gun off and unburden yourself. Cry over the enemy some more. Your bitch ain’t around so feel free to speak openly in the company of us gentlemen. Who knows? Your voice might even get a little deeper because of it.”

There’s a few seconds of SUPER awkward silence that occupies every space inside the room. Yes, even the cavernous belly button of Bobby Dean gets its fill. Luckily, for now, Coral takes the high road.

“You are easily the second most despicable person I have ever known.”

Or not.

My bet is Annabelle has got to be one.

And it sure would have been funny if his voice had cracked just then. Regardless, I don’t flinch, and do what I can to advance the squabble from petty to forest fire.

“Quick, tell me something I don’t already know. Wait. Did you say second?”

Okay, so maybe I flinched a little.

The soon to be crowned King of the UNIVERSE fires back.

“I don’t know how I will ever be able to reconcile with the fact that the most success I’ve ever had throughout the entirety of my wrestling career came while I was inside of your carton.”

I reverberate with disgust, and lash out with every ounce of vileness in my possession.

“Your carton? YOUR CARTON?!?!?! What’s that supposed to mean, your carton? Uh, newsflash, we’ve only suffered under your reign, Coral. You’ve shined while I’ve been disrespected. You’ve gotten fat while Bobby’s gotten snubbed. You’ve grown while Tony’s lost smile, after smile, after smile.”

Grin.

“Don’t even get me started on Doozer.”

Bobby, who is situated inconspicuously on the couch in the corner of the room, but not really inconspicuous because of the toxic look on his face from holding in an anxious fart, manages to frown without clearing out the room. Tony, who is sitting on Bob’s lap so he can comfortably see the argument unfold, can’t help but finally feel like he’s at home amongst all the bickering and shouting.

At least that’s why I think he’s grinning like he is.

I sure hope that’s why anyway.

Nobody tell him.

Coral, like a man, like the Captain, takes my last barb clean across his pointed out chin. Then, like the Golden Bandit, he responds in kind.

“So in other words exactly what you have been doing for your entire career. Got it.”

Bastard.

I refuse to relent in my pursuit of being the perfect antagonist. Certainly not while these shades are on anyway, and certainly not on a hair day as good as the one that I am having. No sir. No time for that. Plus, I’m still rock hard from kicking Phil and my adrenaline doesn't know what to do since I have no soul.

Ha.

“I beg your pardon, I’m afraid I didn’t hear you clearly. Do be a doll and say it to me one more time if you could.”

Tony and Bobby hide behind each other’s hands. Coral inches forward, like he’s getting ready for a fight. He whispers, for some odd reason or another.

Theatrics.

“You heard me.”

I can’t help but snicker at his cute attempt at bravery. It is commendable, but ultimately misplaced. I’d never risk the health of the golden goose.

I MEAN BANDIT.

“Ya know friend of mine, you’re right. I do hear you, and I am befuddled to say the least. Befuddled, because I never thought someone could be as stupid as you.”

Before rambling on, I take a step back to put some distance between us. No, I’m not giving myself enough room to hit him with the sleeping salts if need be, rather I am further accentuating my befuddlement.

Sure.

“Let me try to get this straight, Captain. You mean to tell me that with all that brain inside that magnon shaped melon of yours, and with all the righteousness that goes along with it; you can’t figure out why I did what I did? Or better yet, you think what I did was wrong?”

Coral quickly nods yes, the crumb, and I’m about to drop a hammer on his big toe because of it.

“Coral, do you know who I am?”

Rhetorical.

“I’m the Eggsecutioner. Disrespected to boot. Guess what it is I do?”

Rhetorical again.

“I eggsecute people.”

I’m sure talking to Coral like he’s a child is helping the overall greater good, even if the sudden increase in visible neck and forehead veins suggest otherwise.

Totally.

“Especially people like Phil Atken who think it’s okay to walk all over my already disrespected corpse.”

Pun intended.

I know, I do have quite the nerve. However, so does Coral. I mean, how can he give me guff for this? He’s acting like Atken didn't have a hand in plotting our demise at War Games. More concerning is that he's acting like Atken didn’t slap me and by proxy the rest of the Bandits across the face when that insolent worm stood up from his chair without DMing me about it first.

Just think about the boys in the back for once is all.

As if I could ever tolerate something like that happening.

I can’t.

I won’t.

I didn’t.

Gotta protect the yard.

“And you have the balls to sit here and question my actions?”

Aghast at despicable me, Coral goes to talk. I stop him before he gets the chance. Cut off, yet again.

“Listen bub, not for nothing, but I’m sure Jarry probably needs a friend right about now. You can probably still catch his ambulance if you think you’d be better off with your old butt buddy.”

POW~!

I shouldn’t have smiled like I did after saying that, especially while pointing towards the door. I shouldn’t have even said what I said to be honest since that type of poison; that type of vitriol is best saved for non-brethren of the shell.

Foreshadowing.

But, I did. And, because I did, my jaw paid the price for it. Yes, that is to say Coral wound up the clock and told me eggsactly what time it was.

Punch in the face o’clock.

I won’t say I didn’t deserve it. I was way out of pocket with the Belle line. And maybe even the Jarry line. And for calling him stupid. And probably a slew of other things. I will say it’s probably in my jaw’s best interest that he stormed out of the carton right after.

Ya know.

Since I won't get the chance to tell him that Belle hits harder than he does.

Ha.

---

Sotheby's Auction House

“It’s for a good cause. I swear.” Jiles’ Journal, June 22nd, 2024.

“Lisbon?”

Shit.

I could have sworn they said London.

I blame Sucker Punch Avalon.

Ha.

And shocking.

Oh well. This is what happens when I travel alone, and pass on the group dental coupon. They said they had some sort of wolf discount to use. To be fair they were seeing a veterinarian so I politely declined.

I wonder if they are all okay?

No matter.

Since I’m here I guess I might as well make the most of it. Apparently, London is home to some of the world's most famous auction houses. As luck would have it I just so happen to have something of value to auction.

Let’s see if I can turn this accidental journey into a profitable one.

Now, it’s not my OG T-shades, Bobby’s ring-worn medium sized robe, the actual dimensions of Coral’s fitted baseball cap, an actual photo of Doozer, or even Zeb Martin’s special fishing lure. The lure, dubbed lore, is special because George R.R. Martin designed it with incestual Georgian overtones in mind. Anyway, it’s not Max Shell’s Yolkulelee, either. Nor is it a first edition Yellow Pages signed by Tony Gamble.

Talk about your collection of priceless heirlooms and artifacts.

What I have, and what I plan on auctioning off, is something I don’t necessarily mind parting ways with: the recently cursed cane Phil Atken used at ReVival 50 to walk again.

Fortune favors the bold.

Let’s be honest, I don’t think he is going to be needing it any time soon.

Hence the cursed part.

In retrospect, considering my present predicament, thank God My Little Tony had the foresight to grab Phil’s walking stick during the fallout from the kick heard around the world PART 2406. It was even nicer of him to give it to me for free. He enjoys collecting cripple mementos like such. I do feel kind of bad since I did tell him during the bartering process I would use it during my match at Tropical Turmoil.

Sorry Tone.

Money talks.

Hope you enjoy your lunch.

I’m sure The Grin understands that as long as I’m Eggsecutioner there will be other cripple mementos for him to collect. Not only that, but it won’t be long before he can get his hands on another one.

Truth.

As for the money raised from the sale of the item, the proceeds will be donated to the Cancer Jiles Ridiculous Fine Foundation For Disenfranchised Bandits. Great little cause based out of COOLYMPUS. In fact, when I talked to the person from the auction house; I can’t remember his name but he was a nice bloke who mentioned he was Brian Hollywood’s favorite uncle, he had heard the same thing about them(CJRFFFDB). He also said that not only should the stick fetch a nice nickel on the open market, but it should be a shiny one, too.

Quid dummy.

Typical Hollywood blood.

I was elated to hear the news.

After all, when you are as heavily fined as I am, every cent counts.

The cursed item is scheduled to appear at auction some time in July. I’m told a replica, white outlined version of “Phil’s Stick” will also be available in limited quantities during the run up to the auction date.

---

The Ivory Tower

“I can’t even remember the name of the last crumb I beat. Or the name of the one before that. Or of the one before that. Cecilworth though, a former pit dweller like me, and a man at least on the pages of this journal that is held in high regard, well I imagine another win against him would be just as unforgettable as the first.” -- Jiles’ Journal, June 26th, 2024.

Before we move to the glitz and the glam of my couch and fern, if only for a brief moment I want to go over when Phil was put out to pasture.

The first time.

This way, we’re all operating with the same, historically correct, source material.

Now, I couldn’t tell you what ReVival episode it was, but I’m pretty sure we were still taping at the MGM Grand when it happened. That’s more of an educated guess if anything. Phil, who was Universal Champion at the time, was down inside the ring, addressing the crowd with a dozen marbles in his mouth. Then, Bitchboy and I came out to join him. The both of us were slotted to face Phil down the road at UltraViolence in a triple threat for the Uni. However, before we could even take a baby step towards that direction, Bathory attacked him.

The blitzkrieg caught me completely off guard.

Trust me, as crazy as it might sound, none of it was planned. If anything I had piggybacked off of Jubilant Bathtoys lead. I won’t front; I was more than happy to do so, too. See, much like Ascendent Golden Bandit Coral Aspersions, back then Phil was the someone I didn’t know if I could beat. After all, not only was he the champ, but he had done what I could not.

Shit, and still haven’t.

Crumblud.

So, when the opportunity presented itself for Phil and his feel-good story to be removed from the board of play, I took it. I helped cut him down, and ended what might have been a storied reign before it could even begin. I’m not proud of it, but then again I’m not ashamed of it, either. It was what needed to be done in order for me to get closer to what I wanted. And as fate would have it, a few weeks later I would go on to win the UNIVERSAL CHAMPIONSHIP in what many consider to be one of the bloodiest and violent matches in PRIME’s history.

So, before you even ask, the answer is no, I wouldn’t change a single fucking thing.

Ha.

Lights.

Cancer.

Action~!

“Misterrrrrr Motherfucking Finish Line....... .....”

My pearlies are on full display. Same goes for the T-shades. Same goes for the hair. Same goes for the swag; jacket is unzipped, the tat is full blown, and the collar touches the sky.

This is not a test.

This is not a drill.

This is as real as it gets.

Full systems go.

“The Financier of Article 51.”

I agreeingly nod along.

“The Whatever Stupid Nickname You Have in Your Bio Instead of That Last One.”

Ha.

“Cecilworth Farthington.”

My neighborhood smile goes away. Next, the hair on the back of my neck stands up a little. Then, the bumps on my arms start to get all goosey.

We’re in the jungle, baby!

“Friend. Of. Mine.”

Here goes nothing.

“Sorry, bro.”

Pucker.

Kiss

Goodbye.

How’s that for a no show?

“Just kidding. I can’t let you off the hook that easily; we’re old pals who crawled out of the same pit. Plus, I haven’t even answered the age-old question yet of which is stickier: glue, or yolk?”

I snicker.

No, that’s not an inside joke.

It’s glue.

Until the 29th anyway.

“I did mean it when I said I was sorry though. I really am. If I had known then you were the brains behind the brawn, or at least the bucks behind the brawn, I still would have done what I did; I just wouldn’t have taken it as far. That's God's honest truth.”

Basically Phil would have still gone straight to the hospital but he would have at least walked out of it is what I’m getting at.

“I’ll tell you what I’m not sorry for though, and that’s what transpired at ReVival 50. In fact, not to rub it in or anything, but I’ve been sleeping great ever since then.”

Not having to share a hotel room will do wonders for you.

Wink.

“I also want you to know what happened to Phil, well that’s on you. It’s not my fault. His blood isn't on my hands this time around. My conscious is clean.”

Explains the uptick in REM sleep.

“I mean, I don’t know why you thought it would be okay to trot Christmas Past out there like that. Flaunting him like you did, acting like each and every step he took wouldn't be taken across my back.”

No one is allowed to triumph over Cancer Jiles.

Not even outside the ring.

“I guess I figured you know better. That’s all.”

A sigh.

Beleaguered.

“Now, I get that you’re upset with how things shook out. I heard what you said at the show. I saw you boosted my move in the main. It’s cool. I understand. Cecil, I would be upset too if I was the reason for a mentor of glue getting eggsecuted.”

The second time.

First time could have been avoidable with a simple email.

Ha.

“Hopefully you’re able to move past it and focus on the match ahead. I’d really hate for you to be in the wrong state of mind when standing across the ring from me.”

My devious facial expression reads of a different, precautionary tale.

”That’s just me keeping it real with you.”

My match history backs it up.

“And as far as the match is concerned, ole chap, I know better than to try and intimidate you. To threaten you. I know I can’t bully you. Can’t scare you. Can’t overpower those noodle arms of yours. I certainly can’t out wrestle that down to the last decimal point brain. Shit, I can’t even take you out to the parlor and trick you.”

So HOW then?

“But, I do know you’ll be out for blood. I know you’ll willingly walk through pain to find your hands around my throat. I know you won’t be happy until both my arms are broken.”

I wince in pain, knowing full well the trappings of 51.

“I know you can’t settle for even steven in order to sleep well at night - that you need past it. You need retribution. You need to make me bleed again. You need to get those hands of yours dirty.”

A shiver runs across the brim of my T-shades. I’m playing a dangerous game. At least they tend to be the most fun.

“I also know I’m inside, and that’s not where you want me to be, Phil.”

Oops, I meant Cecil.

“Therein lies the rub, huh old friend? A true dance across the razor blade.”

Something, something, moonlight.

“Who knows? Maybe, jusssstttt maybe, if I can make you see enough shades of red, 90 plus, you’ll be blinded long enough to be bested in under five seconds again.”

Ha.

Pucker.

Kiss.

Goodbye.