One Shall Fall...

Charlie Fuck It

"Gotta have a little sadness once in a while so you know when the good times come. I'm waiting on the good times now." -- Jiles’ Journal, November 20th, 2023.

The day? DONE.

The ticket? GONE.

The dream? OVER.

COOLOSSUS SZN? CANCELED.

Redemption spelled COOL? More like FOOL.

The long night? COMMENCED.

Never sleep again. 

Sadly, for a certain someone, failure has responsibility just like actions have consequences; and it’s his responsibility to suffer the consequences of failing to act.

The punishment must fit the crime.

Banishment.

Rather, Bandanishment.

Ha.

Not for crimes committed against the COOL though, and not for crimes committed against the shell, either. No, this is worse. Much, much worse. The severity stems from a certain someone making the same mistake twice.

Shame on him. 

Or is it me?

Ha.

It wasn’t too long ago that the aforementioned certain someone hated PRIME first, and wanted to take its riches somewhere else to spite the universe. However, after being tantalized by its warmth -- the spotlight -- his tune changed, and the thought that maybe PRIME wasn’t so bad was embraced.

The skybox and its comforts.

Then, with a semi-open “nonexistent” heart, and an optimistic shaded eye turned towards the future...

Humiliation.

...that same certain someone lost the UNIVERSAL Championship in the MAIN EVENT of COOLOSSUS.

Night two.

The Super Massive Devastation Event.

Never again, the certain someone said.

Swore on a yolk oath, he did.

And for the better part of all god damn year he was true to that oath. He fought through the ups and the downs. He survived multiple mauling's. In fact, he scratched and he clawed, he crawled and he slithered, he worked and he worked, and he worked and he worked and he worked and he worked and he worked AND HE WORKED because it did not matter how torturous the labor was. He knew if he stayed true he’d get back to that time and that moment.

He could make things right and finally go home a happy man.

However.

HOW.FUCKING.EVER.

Hold all calls.

If at any point he made the same mistake...

...the punishment must fit the crime.

And like the fool, and like the crumb he had become, he forgot who he was. He warmed instead of COOLED. He opened his heart, and allowed something else other than darkness to fill the abyss.

It is a big forehead.

For his hubris he was burned again. And though it might have been by the red tips on Jared Sykes’ recently made over hair this time around, as opposed to Hayes heater back then, ultimately, the blame still falls to no one but himself.

The punishment must fit the crime.

It’s one thing to put your hand on the stove. You learn it burns. You don’t do it again. That’s the lesson. Simple. The problem is, what happens if you do it again? What lesson is left to learn if getting burned the first time isn’t enough? That answer is simple, too. A lesson you won’t ever forget.

The punishment must fit the crime.

The T-shades, shattered. Well, confiscated. The tracksuit, stripped. His new uniform, the last pair of wrestling tights he wore because his lesson is to be a constant one. He is to live in that loss. He is to be reminded of what he squandered. Repeatedly. Over, and over again. For his suffering is not to be easy, or lenient. It must be great, vast, and demonstrative. He swore on a yolk oath, and then he broke it.

The punishment must fit the crime.

So no, his suffering will not stop there. In fact, it just begins there. The true pain, the true suffering is he doesn’t get to go home. He doesn’t even get to look inside the window, or knock on the front door. He doesn’t get to fly on the jet. He doesn’t get to sit atop a plush throne. He doesn’t get to crack eggs. He doesn’t get to water his fern. He doesn’t even get the shoelaces from his salty wrestling boots he’s being forced to wear.

The punishment must fit the crime.

Instead, what he gets is the gallows. To sit, and to suffer. To rot. To live in misery with the rest of the begotten souls he put down there. That’s what he gets. That’s how he makes sure the same mistake doesn't get made for a third time.

Remove it from the board.

Live by the sword.

Die by the sword.

Now, it’s not all bad news and sour grapes for him. There is some hope. We left a couple of the crayons behind in what was supposed to be Jared’s room so its uneggspected inhabitant will be able to draw with Terry to help pass the time. Also, I heard some rumblings about Jacob promising that next Halloween will be the spookiest one yet.

Ya know, eleven months from now.

Still, something to look forward to.

Ha.

Oh well.

He had a good run.

I’ll miss him.

Maybe.

But, facts are facts.

The King of Crumbs is dead.

Long may he crumble.

I am the Captain now.

Look at him.

It’s my turn to pick up the shell and put it on my back.

That egg shell bathrobe is looking pretty nice right about now.

I am Robert Dean, the “Beautiful” Crown Prince of Honalee. I am also the newly appointed Eggsecutioner of the eGG Bandits. We are not dead. We are just down, but not for very long. I must warn you, I don’t like trying, and I don’t like the people who I have to try against even more. If I made a certain someone’s suffering seem like it was going to be bad, just wait until you get a load of mine.

Kids.

Ha.

Load.

Ha.

Long live the King of Lint.