Cruel Sun

Look At Us “I will be the one who decides.” -- Jiles’ Journal, September 13th, 2024

I like to think that I am a nice person. Dishonest, sure, but not crazy dishonest. Like, I tell small lies. Nothing grand. Nothing malicious.

Okay, maybe sometimes there’s a sprinkle of malice involved, sue me.

Get paid in eggs.

Being such, I’ve taken it upon myself to prepare Coral’s new lodgings for after he cedes Captaincy of the USS Octane back to me.

Gentle. Man.

And as you might have guessed, there’s only one place a disgraced Captain goes.

The Gallows.

In terms of lodgings, I’ve dusted off Nova’s old cot and put a fresh sheet on it to cover the stains and cigarette burns. I washed out Bob’s Bucket real nice, granted I did it inside Coral’s room but at least the bucket and sheet remained clean. I even set up a framed picture of Coral with his family so he has something to clutch to when the night is long and full of Cardboard terror.

Trust me, compared to the conditions I had down here he’s living the life of luxury.

“Hey. Whatcha you doing?”

Oddly enough that sounds like Doozer’s voice calling out to me. I turn to find out if my mind is playing tricks, and indeed it is. Wait. Damn it. My mind is fine. It’s Doozer. I must have been so focused on getting Coral’s lodgings together I didn’t notice him standing in the doorway. Perturbed, I snipe back, “Getting Coral’s room together, what’s it look like I’m doing?”

Dooze nods. I can tell from the look on his face that he has something on his mind other than strawberry mojitos. “Do you remember DREAM? Do you remember the first Battle of the Bandits?”

Of course I do. Granted, I haven’t thought about it for a while, but of course I do. “Nope.” Dooze’s shoulders sink an inch from my catty response. I relent. “Just kidding. Yes, I remember beating you in the main event for the DREAM championship, and then going back to the den like it was just another day at the office. Why ask?”

“Do you remember what the name of the Pay-Per-View was?”

My head spins like a top. I’m busy, I don’t have time for this. “What? The name of the? Are you crazy? No, I don’t remember the name of the Pay-Per-View, or where it was held, or who else was on the card, or how many people were in attendance. What is this about? Are you having a moment? Where is Lunchbox Laser?”

I know, I should be nicer to old Doozer since we don’t get to see him too often.

It’s just tough.

Tensions are high.

I sigh, and continue before Dooze can ruin the joke, “Okay. No I don’t remember the name of the Pay-Per-View, but I do remember us being bigger men, and putting creed and code before one’s self. That’s what I remember.”

Or learned.

Suddenly, like a side-effect from an acid trip taken long ago, I flashback to DREAM. My hair is so young, robust, vibrant, and amazing I almost shit myself from the instant shot of depression. Anyway, there I am, standing inside the ring with Dooze. I have my arms raised, victorious, and... and my opponent... my brethren... the DREAM legend and Hall of Famer who I just dethroned...

...is happy for me?

Luckily for me Doozer’s expression is so jarring that it snaps me out of my trip down memory lane and back to reality... in The Gallows.

Don’t you judge me.

Doozer, the old crumb, is looking at me like he knows where I just was, and has that same smile on his face as he did back then. He chides me before leaving, “And look at us now.”

Leaving, vanishing, same thing.

Instead of continuing to fix Coral’s room, I stand there, alone in The Gallows, in the remnants of Bob’s Bucket, and start to wonder...

...could I ever be happy for Coral in defeat?

He is a Bandit. His run does go on, and gets mega boosted on the heels of my salt shoes. Who knows how big that forehead could get?

...am I even capable of making such a concession?

Sure, I could do that. But then I imagine my alfredo would stop simmering, the mirror tint would shatter totaling 14 more years of bad luck, and my jacket collar would probably fold up like a plebeian.

I wouldn’t be surprised if people started calling me Cinnamon Shoes because of how sweet I had become.

A shudder.

No good.

No good at all.

The choice is clear.

---

Wolfs Don’t Cry

“He’s like a fine wine bottled twenty years ago. Now he’s perfectly aged, ready to be poured from the bottle and savored. I can hardly wait to draw the cork.” -- Jiles’ Journal, September 10th, 2024

Story time.

You may have heard this one before.

Fear not, this time around it comes with a COOL twist!

cool.

A long time ago when things were simpler and Brandon Youngblood’s Sweet Sixteen coincided with the invention of the wheel, there was a boy who lived in a small town. Said boy was a shepherd, and was tasked with looking after a flock of sheep. The boy was also a trickster who liked to have fun at other people’s expense.

He was also taller than Tony Gamble.

One day, in order to satiate his radical whimsy, the shepherd boy decided to cry wolf. So, as you might imagine, he screamed “WOLF” at the top of his lungs and all of the town’s residents came running. Much to their surprise, and relief, all that was there was a safe flock of sheep and a shepherd boy laughing at them.

Ha.

A little while later the shepherd boy once again cried wolf, and once again the townsfolk came running to find a safe flock of sheep and a boy laughing at them.

Ha.

Unable to control his urges, the boy cried again, and again, and again. However, unbeknownst to him, probably because he was too busy laughing, each time he chose to amuse himself less and less townsfolk came running to his rescue.

Then, eventually, the shepherd boy cried wolf and no townsfolk came to his aid.

womp-womp.

As fate would have it, the boy’s wolven cries were genuine and a wolf had come calling to feast on the flock. The wolf was a ferocious beast, its eyes burning with a primal anger that seared the soul. Its fur was a black abyss, and from its razor-sharp fangs oozed the thick, vicious yolk of insatiable hunger. Being such, the flock was helpless against the wolf, and the beast tore through them like Bobby Dean greeting a box of donuts.

Talk about ugly.

What happens to the boy varies. If you’re telling the grown up version, maybe he gets eaten by the wolf. If you’re telling the kids version, maybe he runs off having learned his lesson.

Normally, that’s how the story ends, with the moral being don’t cry wolf unless there is one.

What if I told you there was another version. A COOLER version, and that something else happens after the wolf has had his fill of the flock.

Something COOLYMPIAN.

What if I told you in the COOL version the boy had other plans outside of pure amusement, and he was counting on the wolf to come calling?

The plot thickens.

What if I told you in the COOL version the boy cried wolf at the expense of the townsfolk because he knew each time the wolf would get bigger, and badder?

Coral is the wolf, Banditry is the crying, and the Bollywood Bandits are the townsfolk.

What if I told you in the COOL version the boy surmised the only way to ensure the wolf became the biggest and baddest version of himself was by letting him loose upon the flock?

PRIME is the flock.

What if I told you in the COOL version after the big, bad, ferocious, leader of the pack had his fill, he did indeed turn his fiery gaze towards the boy, just like the boy had intended all along?

Time to draw the cork.

What if I told you in the COOL version after the wolf devours the flock, he even sheds his black coat in favor of a golden one that the boy fancies worth wearing?

Around his waist.

What if I told you in the COOL version I know what happens to the boy because surprise-surprise I am not the wolf but the shepherd?

The twist!

---

The Ivory Tower

“He has stolen my honor, and his debts must be paid.” -- Jiles’ Journal, September 19th, 2024

Click!

That’s the sound of me hanging my phone up. I’ve just gotten off with my dog of war. My shield. The next FIVE STAR CHAMPION, Big Hess. Cute little guy wanted to know if I cared about him taking the match against Frogger Dan.

Adorable.

Not because Hessian needs to check with me, but because he is a Bandit now and knows how much the next night means. The respect alone gave me a chubby. As such, I told him to cut loose. I told him to rip, and tear, and gouge, and murder.

I told him to win.

Just as long as his big ass was there to catch my T-shades on Night Two.

Now, I use my phone for a different reason.

Lights.

Cancer.

ACTION~!

There I am, seated atop my electric-blue throne. On my face, my T-shades rest across the bridge of my nose. Atop my head, my hair simmers something alfredo. On my neck, my funeral-black tracksuit with the collar popped.

“Coral Avalon.”

My smile betrays me. Truth is I’m not going to enjoy this. Coral is a Bandit, and he’s done well for the carton. Eggstremely well. That’s even taking into account him snubbing Bobby Dean, and trying to drive a stake in my heart.

See: The Lunch Bit, The Sykes Job, etc.

“The UNIVERSAL CHAMPION.”

I nod, proud of my brethren. Sure, I might have told him the only reason he has that belt is because I put it on him, but at least he was there to have it put on him. In my book that counts for a lot more than just something.

“The Golden Bandit.”

Again, I nod. Still proud, and still standing by my prior claim that Coral wouldn’t be where he is without me kick starting him; even in lieu of the aforementioned Golden Bandit status.

“The Captain.”

I want to say it. I do. I want to say, the only thing bigger than Coral’s forehead is the iceberg that sank the Titanic, and then point out all the funny ironies. Instead, I bite my tongue. No, my silence has nothing to do with me being on board the ship.

Mind you, the same ship Coral thinks is his to give away.

“Friend. Of. Mine.”

The nodding stops, and I lose my smile like Lindsay Troy.

“You broke my heart, you crumb.”

Ha.

Ice broken, my cheerful enthusiasm instantly returns.

“I know, that's impossible because I don’t have one!”

I slap my knee.

“Nevertheless, I suppose the time has come for us to face the music, huh Champ?”

Jig time.

“You and me. Me and you. One on one. Mano a Mano.”

I ease back in my throne.

“Running it back at UltraViolence.

My show.

“Night Two.”

My night.

“Main Event.”

My spot.

“Universal Championship on the line.”

My ticket back to COOLOSSUS.

“Captain, and Eggsecutioner.”

A chill moves across the mirror tint.

“Almost seems too good to be true, doesn’t it? Like, it was all supposed to happen this way. All the dominos fell, all the stars aligned, and now here we are; standing on opposite sides of the precipice. Ready to destroy the other. Oh well. No sense in fighting against fate I suppose.”

Destiny.

Not the game.

Or meticulous wolf crying.

“I don’t know about you, but when I think back on it, and all we’ve gone through to get here, this spot, this moment, this match... even for a guy who’s as cool as I am I get a pinch of the shivers.”

Honest.

Just a pinch.

“I mean, crazy as it sounds, this might be as big as it ever gets for either of us, Coral. Win or lose, I reckon that little yolks years from now will still be Cracking News about the Battle of the Bandits.”

Other notes for sure.

“That’s something both of us can be proud of. We did that shit. Us. You were the perfect dancing partner, and that’s what makes this next part difficult.”

Maybe a tear.

Maybe.

Maybe a nose as long as Pinocchio's.

“By now you have to have realized with the stakes being what they are, there isn’t a world that exists, not even the one that the alien living inside your forehead is from, where you beat me on September 21st. I can’t let that happen. I just can’t. Not only that, but chances are I’m going to spend the next twenty years of my life wondering if your daughter is training to kill me.”

I snort.

“That’s the type of humbling that awaits you at UltraViolence.”

Total Eggsecution, A Lesson in Humiliation Rituals, by Cancer Jiles

I give Coral a moment to realize there will be no happy ending to his reign. Then, it dawns on me that the alien probably left his forehead after I called him out -- from fear of being kicked again of course -- and that most of what I say next will fall upon deaf ears.

“Sorry if I fried up all the fun with my doom and gloom. I understand if you want to turn the other cheek and walk away. Though, we’ve come this far from a simple chance encounter, and I’d be lying if I said I don’t have a few more things to get off my chest before the big scramble at Lumen Field.”

Aka, goodbye hint of civility and hello shovel.

“First among them, after all this time I never asked for a thank you. Not once. Not for when I strapped you to a rocket and sent you to the moon. Not for when I INTENTIONALLY kicked JCH in the face and made you UNIVERSAL CHAMPION. Not for giving you a pass at botching War Games. Not ever.”

A beat.

“But just because I didn’t doesn’t mean you shouldn’t have.”

My disgust shows. My teeth grit. My hair simmers. My collar wilts... a little. Still, it will take more than that to fully break my COOLYPIAN reserve.

“Just saying.”

I shrug. No, I’m not offended.

“Another thing, throw that blazer you’ve been making the rounds in directly into the trash. Seriously, I’m doing you a favor here, no never coming thanks needed. I don’t care if Belle bought it for you or not. You look like a big brained idiot when it's paired with your forehead.”

What’s that you say? It is just his forehead that makes him look like a big brained idiot? Oh. That makes perfect sense.

“Also, as a sign of good faith, I’ve gone ahead and prepared your new quarters aboard the ship. I figure it’s one less thing for you to worry about before the transition of power. You can… thank me later, right?”

Crumb.

“Lastly, Coral, I want you to remember and take solace in our creed. The promise. The yolk oath. Once a Bandit, Always a Bandit.”

For the PRIME layman, Once a Bandit, Always a Bandit pretty much means after I hit Coral with the sleeping salts he doesn’t get to go back to playing Mahjong Tiles with the Coltons. No sir. We are tethered to the hip, him and I, regardless of the outcome. Of course, that’s a two way street, and should I fall to the Golden Bandit, well I don’t get to go and jump off a bridge like I’d want to.

TLDR; the only way to escape the carton is by natural causes.

So flaking.

“I want you to know that I’ve suffered through the same crippling mental anguish that awaits you, Coral, and I’m going to personally help you through it while you're recovering in the hospital over the next couple of months.”

Ha.

For the code.

It’s never fun losing thee Championship. It’s the type of loss that changes you. It causes your insides to rot, and regret to forever fester. In other words Coral is gonna need my help.

“Again, you can thank me later, right Champ?

A roll of the eyes.

”And should you finally choose to, I’ll tell you not to worry about it like I would’ve any other time. I’ll tell you that we’re Bandits, first and always, and it’s just what we do.”

To be clear, changing the piss and or shit bag is a Tony/Bobby job. I’m more of a fluffing up the pillow type of guy.

“Prepare yourself, Coral Avalon, Captain of the eGG Bandits, and PRIME’s UNIVERSAL CHAMPION. Do whatever it is you have to do. Say your prayers, give the babe a kiss, howl at the moon, whatever. You face the threat of certain eggsecution. You have something I need, and I will stop at nothing to get it back.”

Pride. Honor. The keys to the ship, and most of all the key to COOLOSSUS, the UNIVERSAL CHAMPIONSHIP.

“Best of luck to you, Champ.”

Because Coral is a Bandit, and somewhere in my deep, dark, blackened, hollow, pretty much non-existent heart there is love for my brethren, I take off the T-shades and stand from my throne.

Respect.

“You will need it.”

Pucker.

Kiss.

Goodbye.