Home Field Advantage

ReVival 41 The eGG Den An Avalon Forehead Sized Betrayal

“Coral not being at the show certainly made a lot more sense now.” -- Jiles’ Journal, January 19th, 2024.

It’s not often in life I get to experience other people’s joy and live in the moments they cherish the most. It’s not for the lack of an opportunity, either. Sure, opportunity might have something to do with it, but it’s not all of it as some might think.

Most.

The truth of the matter is I have a deep-rooted jealousy problem that prevents me from doing so. I'll see someone shining, and moments later turn into a greedy, insatiable pig whose filthy belly rivals that of Bobby Dean’s.

HOW.

EVER.

Every once in a while, when the moon is blue and my first edition Holo Lugia is refracting off of it just right, I’m able to keep even the most carnal of my emotions in check.

The following is one of those times.

“We’re going streaking!!”

That’s Bob. All loud, and all proud; his beautifully beaming Honaleean smile upon entering the eGG Den stretches far and wide, just like the marks across his stomach. Rightfully so, too, seeing as he’s just gotten done winning his second match in a row.

I used to dream of times like this...

Another reason I know Bob is on Clouds 9, 10, 11, and 12, is because he motored his Honaleean ass back to the eGG Den before the start of the commercial break. He must have gone Super Saiyan Sloth to have made it back here as fast as he did.

Also, his nipples are hard.

As such, to commemorate the special occasion of his immediate return to the winner’s circle, and not his hard nips, I spring from my seat to properly dap up my brethren of the shell. We bump fists, I gently pat him on the top of his beautiful head, playfully pinch the chubby cheeks on each side of his face, and even throw caution to the wind by firmly slapping him on the backside.

“That’s how you start down the road to War Games!”

Of course, that’s me. King COOL. The one with the Alfredo-white hair that stays simmering atop his head. I’m all fired up, and about to go on an exclamatory alpha run so buckle up.

You’ve been warned.

“Just like that! Bing. Bang. BOOM! Stuffing, and total fuckmothering eggsecution! That’s what Bandits do! The Honaleean Hammer strikes yet again, and this time it’s along the path to war! He leaves no prisoners! He offers no quarter!”

If it seems like I’m overdoing it, it’s because I am. As for why that is, well, there’s no guarantee this streak of Bob’s will continue, or that it will ever happen again. More importantly, there’s no guarantee my jealousy won’t eventually get the better of me so best to experience what I can while I can. Less importantly, but still vital, the Bandits' little whipping boy is present and I figure the more I praise Bobby for winning the more salt I pour into Tony’s wound for losing.

Then again, sometimes I just can’t help myself when it comes to a seamless segue into wholesome shaming.

“Certainly not for some crumb bum, local talent!”

Snipe.

I used the term “crumb bum local talent" because I had never heard of the guy who beat Tony. I'm assuming he walked in off the street. No offense to him if he didn’t, and he’s actually on our roster. In my defense, I am a busy man who hasn’t checked the roster page since falling out of the Top 5. Don’t crucify me for being ignorant. There’s also been an uptick in new feces.

Typo.

“Oh. Wait. That’s right. That no-name kid who’d be better off behind a Lucha mask actually won tonight. He beat a Hall of Famer in his debut. I wish I could say I did something cool like that.”

Ha, if only Tapioca Puddings would get the votes.

“I wonder if he has any War Games plans?”

Cue the hubristic bellow from the bowels of my salted soul. Once unsalted, the onslaught continues to roll down hill.

“Say Tone, did he happen to say anything about having a current passport while you guys were in the ring? Asking for a friend is all.”

My snark brims with venomous fervor. After all, it’s not like Tony didn’t lose. Plus, forget what you heard, he’s still in training. I’ll demean as I see fit. I don’t care what his cryo status is, or what wing of the PRIME Hall of Fame he is in.

“Ya know what? Don’t worry about it. We didn’t take you in because of your uncanny ability to win matches, did we, Mr. Two Books?”

Two Books, as in the number of telephone books Tony must stand on to ascend the first ring step, climb into bed, use an adult toilet, or reach a jar of sauce on a low shelf.

To name a few.

“We got a Bobby Dean for that!”

Bob and I excitedly bump fists again. Tiny Tony finally relents and frowns from all of my chastising. He even cowers some, or maybe he’s that small and I’m just now noticing it. However, not to worry Tonyfans, his misery will soon pale in comparison.

Prideful, I go back to lauding The Hammer of Honalee.

“Matter of fact, I want it on the record that ever since taking up the mantle of Eggsecutioner, outside of a door handle or two, you have been an unstoppable force of nature. I should hav--”

It’s got to be the T-shades.

Before I’m able to finish pumping Bobby’s ego a familiar voice cuts in. No, it’s not the runt speaking up for himself or God forbid speaking in the vomit tongue again. It’s not Doozer after suddenly appearing from out of thin air, and it’s not our Queen stopping by to congratulate her Prince. Nor is it the sweet and familiar hum of Cardboard Dan.

Who could it be then?

Surprise, surprise, it’s the forehead of the group. The fifteen minute man on paternity leave. Mr. Hard Boiled himself, Coral J. Avalon. The Golden Bandit. No, Coral hasn’t warped into the eGG Den to join in on all the lauding; rather the reason he can be heard is because of the commercial he’s starring in.

Ruh roh.

Needless to say I couldn’t be more surprised to see Hard Boiled pop up on the flat screen TV inside our locker room. So surprised in fact, and remember I’m in a warm place, I actually concede the following out loud.

“Damn, Coral truly is the Golden Bandit. He had the foresight to do another pre-taped bit congratulating you on your continued and unrivaled success. What a guy. What a Bandit. I knew he really wanted to be here with us. This is incredible I tell you. Simply… in.....cre…”

I can’t believe it.

I’m stunned.

Shell shocked even.

The Golden Bandit isn’t taking the time to applaud Robert’s winning ways like I had originally thought, but instead is announcing his team for War Games…

…and he snubbed his Eggsecutioner.

Not good.

The horrific betrayal causes my eyes to bulge like the toes on a camel. Tony somehow seems smaller, and even more insignificant than he did before. The heart and soul of the Bandits enters into a state of diabetic shock, presumably, and his once genuine smile quickly turns into a defense mechanism.

Silence.

I stammer.

“Uh.... uh... it’s okay. It’s going to be okay. I’m sure it’s just one big misunderstanding.”

I scramble.

“Who knows? Maybe it’s a secret code? Just off the top of my head, if you use the letters from the three of their names you can spell out DEAN.”

I sweat.

“It’s Coral after all, he’s the guy who wouldn’t interfere in my match because of his moral compass, remember? He doesn’t know what malice is, nor does he have a bad bone in his body. Not even in that forehead of his. No way this was done on purpose.”

I experience fear. I remember I’ve seen Bobby’s broken smile before, and know it’s only a matter of time before I can smell it, too.

“…Right?”

Right.

Come to think of it I always found it a little peculiar that Coral once showed up to the Octane atop a Trojan Horse. I thought it was because he knew I had a thing for Cocaine.

Maybe not.

---

Philadelphia, PA 301 North Broad Street Courtesy Call

“When I asked him about it, man to man, he more or less said the pool was closed unless somebody from our team disappeared at the bottom of it. Granted, it wouldn’t be the first time the Bandits had made a man disappear, but still, there’s no telling how many cinderblocks it would take to keep Hessian sunk. Best guess, 97.” -- Jannetty’s Journal, January 30th, 2024.

REDACTED One has landed without incident.

I’m home.

The City of Brethrenly Love.

We back up.

The night is old, and although the moon’s light is shrouded by a sonata of clouds, a Bandit with an egg in his hand still sees all. That said, the four of us - even Snubs Avalon - not only have 20/20 night vision, but also look conspicuous as all hell. Basically, we’re dressed in dark clothes and lurking inside the shadows of Philadelphia’s streets, so not a total overreaction. 

Sadly, Old Snubshead is feeling a tad apprehensive about the current situation.

He doesn’t think he needs to be out in the cold, he says.

“Someone is going to get sick out here!”

Okay, Dad.

He already is a part of the “it” band, he says.

“I did my time in cryostasis. I survived the Banditjack match!”

Okay, Snubs.

He is the Golden Bandit, he says.

“I’m the only champion we got!”

Okay, not UNI Champion.

I scoff at all of his woeful whining, and in the comfort of my all black tracksuit respond poignantly.

“Golden-father-cryojack-snubber or not, you aren’t getting out of this. I don’t care that Bobby is an ace and let you off the hook. That was his hook, NOT MINE. Now stop being selfish, man up, and put that XL burka back on before you give our position away.”

It’s a glorious headpiece.

Uncomfortable.

But glorious.

As to what Snubs isn’t getting out of…

“That over there is the Anglo Luchador’s house, and we are going to egg it. Now, before you start moaning and groaning about my shoulder this, my rib that, my everything else, you guys have to understand something.”

I get all serious, and huddle the crew closer together.

“Tommy needs to be made aware that I’m back in the city. Call it a courtesy so he knows to stay safely tucked away in his basement until showtime. It’s how things are done around here.”

True.

Code of the streetz.

“We can go about doing that in two ways. The first way is we can go knock on his door, drag him out into the street in the middle of the night, and beat the ever living Saxon out of him.”

The boys look at me sideways. They mumble amongst themselves, and they’re right: jail probably wouldn’t be fun.

“The second way is we can throw a few eggs, and avoid spoiling the MAIN EVENT in tomorrow’s headline of the Daily News.”

ZING~!

It’s always been about the fans.

This show anyway.

“Not to mention, Bandit High Law states that an initiate must complete the ritual ceremony in order to be officially welcomed into the carton, and Tony’s still short. Egging Tommy’s base of operations gets him out of the red and in the black. This is as win-win for us as it gets.”

In regard to Bandit High Law:

Coral was ceremoniously carried away by Banditry at last year’s UltraViolence. In essence he honorably lost his way into completing the ritual ceremony.

Tony unceremoniously threw up on himself and was army crawling back up the entrance ramp when the Bandits decided to take pity on him at Colossus. He almost met the requirements for the ritual ceremony then; since Zeus knows if it weren’t for Tony’s vomit Crumblood would have snatched the life out of me and I never would have been able to feed my old pal a late night snack.

However, it wasn’t enough.

I wish it were.

I truly do.

Just wasn’t the right night.

Ha.

Night one.

Bobby, the always positive Prince of Honalee, chimes in.

“If I may, and sorry to rain on your Homecoming parade, but it’s so cold out here I think my egg froze while you were talking. Maybe we can do a drive by egging from the comforts of a warm car instead?”

Of course, on the heels of Bobby kicking me in the balls, Tony finally decides to chirp.

“Uh, not to speak out of turn or anything,” he says while speaking out of turn, “but I thought we were ringing and running and left my telephone books in the car. If you’re expecting me to hit the house and not the stoop, I’ll need to go back and get them. Just saying. Oh, and I think my egg is frozen, too.”

Of course Snubs, the little chattering box that he is, holds up his frozen egg to continue the trend.

Using a frozen egg is bad luck.

My blood boils at the collective.

The Beautiful Bandit again tries to reason with me.

“You got to remember, Jiles, you’re from around here and you’re cool blooded. You have two natural immunities to these harsh conditions. Sure, I got some blubbery insulation, but Tony is so small he can’t even generate body heat, and I don’t even want to know how hard it is for Hard Boiled over there to keep that skull of his warm. Judging by the blue tint of his lips, it appears the heat stops at his shoulders.”

Before I can even retort about the burka, Bobby continues on like my opinion doesn’t matter.

“Listen, I’m going to head back to the car and get warm. Then, if you want, we’ll do a drive by egging with fresh eggs to let Tommy know the city is no longer his. Besides, Tony can’t hit the house without us going back to the car anyway. Win-win, remember?”

I could die, and if I did, Bobby standing up for his brethren would be the last thing I’d hear.

Worse fates.

But, alive and unwell will just have to do.

“So what’s it going to be, Jiles? Are you coming?”

Though I want to spin on a heel, and defiantly launch my frozen double yolk through Tommy’s front window while giving zero fucks about the seven years of bad luck that’ll come along with it, I don’t.

Most of all I really want to push Snubs into traffic.

On accident. 

I still don’t. 

So, instead I shrug.

“Shotgun.”

---

The Ivory Tower

“No more distractions.” -- Jiles’ Journal, February 1st, 2024.

Finally, the time has come.

Me, my fern, and my couch.

True home.

I can breathe.

I can focus.

I don’t have to worry about Snubs Snubberlon snubbing away.

I don’t have to worry about Bobby cracking and going on a Rampage-like eating spree in my hometown.

I don’t have to worry about accidentally stepping on Tony.

Moreover...

I don’t have to worry about my name being thrown around BY cock-hungry-shit-stains who manage to put the crowd to sleep while rounding the bases.

I don’t have to worry about the Diamond studded shackles of a Cold Holy War weighing me down.

I don’t have to worry about the eighteen people who get two months to think about what they want to do to me while I’m trapped inside a caged lion's den with them.

Technically it’s seventeen since one of the eighteen is on the docket for this coming ReVival.

I don’t have to worry about rules, honor, dignity, my well-being, the day after, or this guy clipping my nuts.

Rude.

I don’t have to worry about any of it, because it’s just the two of us now.

City Boys

Fin.

Hope you enjoyed the nursery rhyme.

Lights.

Cancer.

Jeez, I forgot how long it’s been. Hopefully I’m not rusty. Though, you certainly wouldn’t know it from my hair.

ACTION~!

“Tommy Bags.”

I nod. I have respect for Tom. I’m going to tell him how it is, sure, but he’s right there behind me when it comes to PRIME’s hardest working man, and I can dig that.

With a shovel.

“Friend. Of. Mine.”

I peer off into the distance, imagining what the Saxon is going to look like as he stands in the ring awaiting my presence. Then, I wonder if his mask will be able to hide it.

If he pisses out of his mouth it will.

“MAIN EVENT. ReVival. Philadelphia Street Fight. I know you know what that means.”

It means Tom gets the assignment. He knows Friday night will be about survival, grit, and pain. It also means I have zero intentions on taking him lightly.

Respect.

“Come to think of it, I guess it’s just a regular old fight between the two of us, ain’t it?”

I smirk like I solved the puzzle.

“Let me guess, you'd rather the scrap take place underneath your favorite elevated subway?”

The El. True home field advantage. Plus, the zombies down there might actually cheer for him.

Ha.

“Jokes aside, try being a fucking man and leave the weapons at 301, would you? You’d be doing me, your street cred, and my near one hundred percent of the crowd a favor.”

There's always going to be the haters.

Nobody tell Tom this, but it’s going to take me at least an hour to smuggle my way past the metal detectors at security; that’s how loaded my trunks and boots are going to be.

He knows.

“You heard right, T-Bags. I hate to burst your bubble, but even though you’re the hometown kid who’s got a favorite park bench to feed the birds from, and a preferred local art gallery to seek fascination, they won’t be cheering your name on Friday night.”

Here we go Cancer, here we go!

CLAP-CLAP!

“No, for the first time since repping the electric blue they’ll be cheering mine.”

Poor Tom. It’s going to be an absolute zoo at the Wells on Friday night. Anyone else, and it’d be his house. But…

COOL factor.

“And although your pride might try telling you something different, don’t fall for it. Don’t fool yourself into thinking otherwise. It will only make things worse; especially after realizing all you’ve done is wasted your time.”

I shake a precautionary finger in Tom’s direction, wherever he may be.

“Face it, Tom. Facts are facts, and the fact of the matter is that while we both claim Philadelphia to be our home, you rent and I own. You sleep down in the basement on a CRUMB covered couch, while I sleep up in the master bedroom atop a KING sized bed.”

Yes, that is a clever way of saying the Saxon isn’t on my level.

“And if I’m being honest, Tom, that’s why they’re coming to see me and not you.”

Tough.

“And if I'm being even more honest, no lie, I’d be mad as fuck if the hated enemy came into my backyard, took down all my fancy razor-wire, and received the biggest ovation in PRIME’s history-- all while I had to stand there watching the whole thing happen with a silly mask covering my face.”

Tougher.

“Actually, forget mad, I’d be heading straight to the Walt Whitman for a little midnight dip.”

The Walt Whitman is the nearest bridge to jump off of when leaving the Wells Fargo Arena. Also of note, while the water would be ice cold this time of year, and the impact certainly fatal, should Tom choose to jump at least he wouldn’t have to worry about suffering from shrinkage; since his pixie stick will already be shriveled in upon itself following his total emasculation by the roar of the crowd.

“That’s me though. You do you. Just know that should you choose otherwise, and after the fight for some odd reason we end up at Jefferson in the same hospital room together, don’t think for one fucking second that I'm gonna want to sit around in wheelchairs going over your top ten matches from Super Assteca.”

I wink.

“See ya at the Homecoming dance. I got you a lovely corsage, so don’t forget my boutonnière.”

Or your swim trunks.

Pucker.

Kiss.

Goodbye.