You pack a mean punch!
You really do!
I haven’t been this sore since Vampire Val pinned my shoulders to the mat. Here’s to hoping Mickey’s dementia, alcoholism, ageism, and whatever else may ail him– holds out for the rest of your tournament run.
Go get ‘em, Champ.
Lost to Zion.
Print the shirt.
Two can wear it.
So, what’s next for the one who didn’t wipe his ass with the ring?
A battle royal you say?
Good thing I was sitting down.
Wait. An OPEN battle royal?!?!?
Gee, Bob. I wonder how HOTv is going to pitch this one. Probably go something like, come to the glorious High Octane Battle Royal! Come watch as Boj The WrestlerMAN walks in off the street, signs a contract for three thousand and one dollars, and eliminates Cancer Jiles!
DID WE MENTION BOJ DOESN’T HAVE ANY ARMS OR LEGS AND HAS A PET SHARK THAT HE RIDES AROUND ON.
YES HE WRESTLES IN AN AQUARIUM.
Or, maybe it’ll go something like, come watch as Joel Ortega, Benny Newell and Lee Best’s lost eye toss King COOL over the top rope and into a pit he will never be able to climb out of.
He’s already in that pit.
A BATTLE ROYAL.
…for all the people no one cares about.
Forgive my exuberant level of enthusiasm.
Oh, and congrats to Darin Zion.
If I said that already, I apologize.
I’d hate to no sell such a momentous occasion.
Back to the Open Dick Kicking Challenge for the Blind.
The winner, the supposed next ICON Champion.
I can already hear the wheels turning IF an unanointed happens to stumble his way to a victory– cut to Lee Best, “uh– change of plans you crybaby nutsack, you get to be the fourth contender for the TV title! HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA”
And now a Block Party commercial.
EYE beLIEve it.
More like, I’ll believe it when Mike Best somehow enters himself into the match, because GOD POWER X, eliminates everyone with one continuous flying knee and wins the ICON CHAMPIONSHIP for the zillionth time.
Until then, it’s a battle royal with the winner receiving a kick in the nuts, and the dubious distinction of eliminating Cancer Jiles.
That’s right, all who dare enter.
You to, can be like Darin Zion and do a good job.
Give me a break.
Don’t give me…
…a battle fucking royal.
Who else among the feeble will claim their ticket in the step right up and be eliminated by Dan Ryan contest?
The Queen? I sure hope not. I see no good reason for her to further ruin an already tarnished legacy. Take it from me, B. I know a thing or two about both ruin and tarnished. Stay on the block for this one.
The Visor then? Eh, should probably stay at the exchange I’d say. Don’t get me wrong, while I’m sure the loss will in no way affect Diamond’s cubic ego, the bodily harm will be real. And from what I remember, he’s one of those guys who doesn’t magically heal after a dismembering.
Hmmmm…. What about…OH! I KNOW! My favorite, COOL David Black!?! Or is Dave too busy stealing my other gimmick? THAT MEANS HE’S TOO BUSY NO SHOWING.
What about… Darkwing perhaps? Let me first say, I’m happy I don’t why he’s called Duck. I really am. That said, Duck should do himself a favor and pull a Black. A David Black that is. No reason a legend like himself needs to be another name on one of Dan Ryan’s steaks.
Who else is brave enough to be Big Dan’s next meal?
Cecil? HA! The Worthy may think he’s safe behind the wall of an Empire, but he’s not the apple of Daddy’s eye. In fact, he’s the scratch on it, and it’s only a matter of time before that scratch gets itched.
In one way or another.
Stick to your guns, Cec.
Don’t get the crabs on Refueled.
Nobody wants to play if the bullets bounce off of your opponent.
We know who’s not getting shot.
Cecil is rich.
Which leaves The Marvelous One playing Empire Secret Service Agent. That said, my advice for Agent Mario is this. Abandon your post. Go and get the pizza when it comes time to royally battle. Say you were saving yourself for costing Scottywood in his third round match.
No one will hold it against you.
I know I won’t.
Shit, I can’t.
Moving right along.
How’s about… Kostoff? Good luck buddy!
And what about my brother of the yolk? Doozer? I know he’s been itching to crawl his way back into the ring…
But fuck that.
I’ll deflate the air in his tires before I let HOW further cripple my friend.
And I will also not cry on live television.
What area code is that? It’s the one where Darin Zion beat Cancer Jiles.
ALL HAIL ZORD LION.
SLAYER OF GODS.
A battle royal.
For the puppeteer, an easy way to herd the sheep.
Most of them anyway.
To quote the man, I will not fall for the tricks and the traps.
No thanks production department. You guys can keep my stuff tucked away for this show. You won’t be needing it.
Thanks for the stipend, Lee. You should know, I still plan on being backstage, cheering my fellow locker room buddies on.
But for the Battle Royale with CHEESE, Cancer Jiles is out. That’s right, Danny Boy, and whatever other simps decide to ignore me and fill your plate.
You all just lucked out.
The guy who took Darin Zion down to the wire is going to take some of his own advice, and allow good ole Scott Stevens to set the record for most times eliminated in a single battle royal.
That said, Scott, when they keep rolling your lonesome ass back into the ring, so whoever brave enough to rumble can take their turn running through you like Mexican faucet water, King COOL, Mr. Smarty Pants, will be lounging with his feet up, having a milkshake in the back.
You should also know, I’ll be looking to tell you I told you so afterwards, so be ready for that.
Nothing but love for ya.
A Loser’s Club Battle Royal.
For the ICON Championship.
Man, no lie.
I can’t wait to see how many people Dan Ryan humiliates.
And once again, congrats on a job well done, Darin Zion.
And now it’s time for your regularly scheduled program.
There he is, world. Cancer Jiles. The one guy who for sure isn’t participating in the Slaughterfest known as the ICON Championship Battle Royal.
The same guy who failed to get the job done in the first round.
Or did he?
Anywho, Jiles is sitting atop a folding chair inside Whammy’s basement. He has a smarky smile plastered across his face, his legs are casually crossed, and he’s wearing his worker bee High Octane tracksuit.
In his grasp, a 97 red rose.
The one with the extra thorns on the stem.
Carefully, he plucks one of the pedals and whispers to no one, “He jobs me…”
He plucks another, “He jobs me not.”
He plucks again, and again, until all the pedals are gone.
With the last pedal in his hand, one thought crosses his mind…
Oh look. There’s my ball.