Just the self destruction of a man, and the world he created.

Once upon a time, there was a place HIGH up in the clouds.

Where the air tasted like laughing gas, and the sun never blinded.

Where the lands were ripe with lavish silks, the finest herbs, and Cadbury eggs fit for the wealthiest of Saudi Prince.

Where Bandits would yolk and prance the night away while pig squealing at the uninitiated below.


That was its name. A haven for the truly transcendent.

These days though???


It’d be better off not existing at all.

The air tastes like shit.

The sun always blinds.

The hallowed halls have been overrun by decay, and the once fertile fields have turned into a wasteland that even Mad Max would be afraid of.

Gibson. Or Hardy for the millennial crowd.

But definitely not Kael.

Even the vaunted trumpets of COOLYMPUS have fallen silent, no longer booming a Screamin’ tune.

Truly, a tragic tale.

These days, instead of a brethren of Bandits, only one man remains behind the gates of COOLYMPUS. Sadly, it’s not resolve that keeps this COOLYMPIAN castaway.

Rather, it’s the titanic weight of his hubris.


And who might this last man of COOLYMPUS be? Well, he is none other than the Greek GOD of COOL.


Cancer Jiles.


The one responsible for this entire tragedy.


You see, Jiles played himself.

He played himself good and hard, and long, too.

Back when COOLYMPUS was thriving, there were numerous bridges leading there. The Day Dream Bay Bridge. The DILLIGAF 97 RED Bridge. The Double Dare Defiant Drawbridge. The Short Bridge to Utah. Heck, even a Sanciented Utility Bridge was used for a bit.

Access was bountiful and a COOL star shined bright.

Things were good.

Life was good.

However, much like fame would effect a mortal, Jiles’ COOL got the best of him. Thinking himself above reproach, one by one he burned all bridges leading to COOLYMPUS. At first, he did not care. The thought of depriving the world of his COOL was more than enough to hang his hat on.

As if he owns a hat.

Then, time grew. Taller, and taller. Until, the thought no longer satiated Jiles. Eager to jump back into a world that was passing him by, he shot off his attention flare and waited. Thing of it is, he’s been given more chances than a litter of cats has lives. He’s the type of person who wouldn’t just bank on someone sending him a lifeboat; he would bet his sunglasses AND his hair gel that it would be cruiseship.


Five years have passed since Cancer Jiles shot that flare into the sky.

COOLYMPUS has fallen.

As you now know, not because Gerard Butler and Jamie Foxx played favored nations.

No boats.

No hoes.

No Bandits.

Just the self destruction of a man, and the world he created.


Such a motherfucker.

For five years now, Jiles has had only his thoughts to pass the time. He’s been through the full gamut of emotions. He’s lost imaginary friends to petty squabbles. He’s eaten an ashtray out of an old wrestling boot, and sacrificed his most prized belongings in last ditch attempts at salvation.

Bozo should of jumped four years and 365 days ago if it were going to cost him Teh Shadez.

However, today, squatting among the rubble of COOLYMPUS, Cancer Jiles has seen the error of his ways. He knows where the blame lies. He knows it was because of him he wound up this way.




…his hair a homeless rats nest on a good day,

And because of this realization, a yearning has awoken inside of The Greek GOD of COOL. A hope, that maybe one day someone will see that flare. One day, he’ll have a chance to descend COOLYMPUS and right the wrongs of his past.

Too thick?

Until that day comes though, all Jiles can do is sit atop a washed throne, gaze out at the destruction he’s caused, suffer bad hair day after bad hair day, and wait.

And, wait.






A biplane one might see flying over a beach with an advertisement trailing behind it pierces through the clouds. This plane is not promoting The Soul Cruisers and an all day Happy Hour at Peckersnaps Bar and Grille.


This plane, with a bald pilot who may or may not have an eyepatch and a bloody pen behind his ear, carries a message that resonates deeply within Jiles. So much so, he rises from the ashes blanketing his homeland and speaks for the first time in months. “Im. possible.” The word drought might have had something to do with the hit he’d been holding in since COOLYMPUS Gardens ran dry.


Then, with the yearning willing him forward…

…The Greek GOD of COOL begins to transform.

He. Has. Teh POweRz!

His hair begins self grooming. His broken heart pumps blood through his frail body at a cocaine rate. His ghostly skintone starts to bronze, and his yellow teeth begin to pearl. Lastly, whatever facial hair he might have had evaporates into thin air.

Eat your heart out Mach 3.

“Looks like I need to learn the violin. But first…”

Uplifted, Jiles takes a long look at his fallen utopia; burning the desperation it reeks into his mind so that he may never make the same mistake again. When done, oddly, he begins to spin like a top. At first, he’s ballerina slow. Then, he turns into a blur. Next, tornado like winds kick up the dirt, dust, and debris surrounding him.

Finally, a visceral roar from the belly of The Greek GOD’s soul splits the very ground beneath him.

An intense flash of light.

A vacuum inducing breeze of cold air.

And like that.

He’s gone.






Like that.


He’s back.

In the real world that is.

The Greek GOD of COOL is outside on a brisk, cloudy day in Anytown, USA. He’s standing on the stoop of a townhouse pleading his desperate case to a white door.

Door ain’t budging either.

Days have passed since Jiles fled his homeland. Rejuvenated, he’s looking to bolster his support team in advance of his in ring return. Regrettably, his fellow Yolksters are either not returning his calls, or putting all you can eat buffets out of business. Luckily for him though, an OLD friend of his hasn’t changed residences.


The last guy was pissed.

“Listen, the man you knew back then is gone. I’ve changed. I’ve been humbled. Look! I don’t even have sunglasses on!”

It’s true. He’s not wearing sunglasses.


“Come onnnn– they got a great healthcare package now. I’m sure I can get you coverage.” Still no response from beyond the door. Maybe the homeowner isn’t home?

Would really make the last four hours sting if that were the case.

“One last go at it. What do you say? Amazing to think it’ll be my first singles run there. I won’t be burdened.”

Real humblewood.

“Plus, they threw me a bone for the first two rounds. I got this crazy chick Darin Zion, and then probably a luchador… Kaczynski? I think that’s his name.”

Better not be Ted under that mask.

It is HOW though.

“If not him, then it’s Eric Dane.”


The door explodes open. Out steps Jiles’ old tag team partner and fellow Bandit, The DOOZER ABUSER~!






Instead of a magical reunion, it’s an old, weathered looking man with concern crawling all over his wrinkly face. “Did you say ERIC? DANE? As in you’re old boss, ERIC? DANE??

A shit grin. “The one and only.”

Befuddled, the old man persists. “And you haven’t wrestled in how long?”

An even bigger shit grin balloons across Jiles’ face. “Years.”

His jaw now massively agape, the old man stunningly retorts. “Are you serious?”

With his shitgrin already at max levels and nowhere else to go, Jiles mimics riding a bike and nods approvingly.

Confidence is key.

“And in High Octane of all places? Has hell frozen over?”

According to the website.

“It might have, Wham. Like I said, I’m not wearing sunglasses.”

Still true.

Still grinning.

Oh, and the old man’s name is not Wham. It’s Whammy. Whammy Jammy. He’s been Jiles’ advisor and voice of reason since he got into the business.

Definitely explains the weathered look.

So, what iteration of COOL are you going by these days? Lord COOL? The High Chief of COOL? The Crown Prince of COOLSYLVANIA? I want your full attention for what I’m about to say.”

Jiles cowers. “greek god.”

“Well then, Greek GOD of COOL, they are going to try and kill you! On live TV!” Whammy watches as a coy shrug rolls off of Jiles shoulders— as if to say, meh, just another HOW show. “How did you even get back in the good graces of Lee Best? You know what, don’t answer that. I don’t want to know.”

Dejected, Jiles frowns. However, he shakes off the thought of a live execution and further pleads his case. “Wham, look. This is it. After this run, it’s sunset. In order for that to happen, I need you on board. If it comes to it, I can beat Dane. I owe him one. I know I can win the whole. fucking. thing.”

It is the only thing left to do, Mr. Beringer.

“I just need your help doing it. Your expertise has always been getting me where I need to go. Right now, I need to go to the top. Take me there, Wham. Let us ride one more time.”

Whammy ponders. He’s been up and down this road with Jiles so many times, if he had a nickel… well, he wouldn’t be living in a townhouse. After a thorough contemplation, he sighs. “You’re not going to want to hear this, but I just can’t. I’m sorry. There’s WAAAAAAAAAAAYYYY too much history in play here. Someone is going to get hurt, and I’m pretty sure it’s going to be you. I wish you all the best, but ple–.”

Talk about a good day sir.

Adamant, Jiles interjects. “I can’t leave! I know I can’t do it without you! You have the last pair of Terminator Shades!”





Just kidding, Wham.

Annnnd, more silence.

This time around the silence is more awkward than anything else. It’s true Whammy does have the last pair of Terminator Shades, so it’s safe to say that Jiles was only half kidding.

Or not kidding at all.

“I need you by my side, Whammy. Fuck Dane. Fuck the broad. Fuck Mexico. Let’s get through the first two rounds and take it from there. How’s that sound? Good?”

More silence. This time, the kind that regret usually follows.


Ecstatic, Jiles jumps in the air ala Phil Mickelson winning the Masters. “YAY!”

“Hey, are you sure that Zion isn’t a man?” An inquisitive Whammy prods while welcoming Jiles into home. “He sounds like he has a man’s name, don’t you think?”

A little bit toooooooo ironic…

“It’s spelled with one R and an I_N. You tell me.”

Yeah I really do think.

Oh. One of… those.

The white door shuts.

A partnership, refueled.

Good luck.

Plan C

The one you don’t fuck with.
Roleplay Countdown


  • Exit Conference: Part 3

    Hello. Is it me you’re looking for? I can see it in your eyes. I can see it in your smile. …the feeling, is mu-tu-al. I won’t front. You...
  • Exit Conference

    Refueled 8. What’s left of it. The fire is out. All are gone. Except the three left behind. Debris is everywhere. It’s dark. It’s miserable. Amongst all of it,...
  • OUT

    CRACKING NEWS. SAY IT AIN’T SO. Reports coming from inside the deepest depths of Camp Bandit are saying that barring a miracle, The Maestro of COOL, Cool Jiles, is...
  • Who will it be?

    BREAKING NEWS. With the possibility of Cool Jiles being out for the main event, High Octane Wrestling has announced that a random superstar will be selected as a witness...