… of the Round Table

Try to keep up, Danerz ;)

The lights are on.


The door is locked.


That’s right. You can’t leave.


This promo is being recorded for quality assurance.


You need it.


It’s discussion time, boys and girls.


As such, we start with a massive round table. It’s wooden in makeup. Possibly oak– I’m no botanist. There are a few drinking glasses, a large pitcher of water, and some other nic-nacs scattered about.


Sitting around said wooden table are not knights.




But Bandits.


Not Butt Bandits. Sit down, Zion.


eGG Bandits. And they’re hungry for the game of war.


They’re also at 100% attendance.


The Dooze.


Old. Jaded. Never done nothing (except win countless titles across multiple organizations and making the Hall of Fame at his mainstay DWF).


Oh, and from Boston.


Sad fuck.


The Dude.


Charismatic. Fun going. Laughs a lot. Egg Bandits number one super fan.


Idolizes the COOL. Great guy all around.


The Jiles.




The Cardboard Dan.


Stitched and taped, Dan is somehow holding himself together during these most tumultuous of times. Poor guy. Living his life the one moment, and the next… I’m sorry I just can’t.


The Mister Beautiful, Judas Arnold.


He’s a blowup doll that took twelve tanks of air to fully inflate. The eyes are missing. So is the heart. It would seem life-like was not an understatement, nor gross exaggeration.




The Mummy Man, Mike Best.


Proud representative of the LGDB community, and righteous captain of the third War Games team. Hopefully he can finally unravel and be himself. It is 2019, after all.


Given recent feedback that inside jokes/references aren’t diverse nor inclusive enough for some HOW employees (COUGHericdaneCOUGH)… LGBD stands for Lee’sGayDeadBrother.




Whammy Jammy.

The only man alive older than Eric Dane.


Those Buddhist monk assholes don’t count.


So that’s them. The Bandits; in all their glory.


Quick Reservoir Dogs slow mo of them all walking around a Bennigans parking lot.








And we’re back.




You know the players.


Now it’s time…


To PLAY THE GAME!!!!!!!!!


Calm down Triple H marks, that’s where that ends.


Motorhead Jiles: Gentlemen. Before we get started, I’d like to welcome back our honored brethren of the yolk. It’s been too long, you beautiful bastard. We’ve missed you.


A rousing round of applause for Blow-Up Bobby. He teters back and forth in excitement. Or maybe the window was left open.


Not like it’s the job of the narrator to say exactly what’s happening or anything…


Jiles: That said, it also pains me to say that we have a traitor in our midst.


The Dude scans those sitting around the table, clearly having no idea himself… secretly hoping it’s not him, which is retarded because he knows he’s not a traitor… but that’s The Dude for ya. The COOL shoots him a skeptical glare and clears his throat.


Jiles: Indeed, we have a very important matter to discuss. But first-


Lord COOL, THE ONLY ONE OF HIS NAME, thrusts his right pointer finger towards the ceiling.




On cue, Whammy Jammy, in his most expensive butler suit, enters stage left with an ornate silver, covered platter. The Dude claps his hands together, like a toddler, in excitement.


The Dude: Horse dwarves! You shouldn’t ha-


A raised open hand interrupts him.


Jiles: Hold your tiny horses, Duder. The food’s a welcome home gift for Mr. Robert Dane. I mean, Dean!


Or did he?


Whammy pulls the top off the tray to reveal a dazzling and delectable assortment of broken glass, rusty nails, and deviled eggs. All properly seasoned.


We’re not all neanderthals around here.


Jiles: Dig in, Pig Vomit.


Yes, Robert.


It’s like that now.


After the table gets done digesting the horrifyingly sad news, something changes in Doozer. Maybe it was the Bruins game 7 loss? Let’s call it him having a mental breakdown from the shock of a Bandit stabbing him in the back. Whatever the root cause, he calmly clears his throat and begins a diatribe as if he’s the only Bandit of the Round Table in attendance.


His voice will be heard.


No matter what.


Doozer: I gotta say… I haven’t been this disappointed since the Kentucky Derby.


Rumor has it, The Dooze lost more on that than he did on Dane v. Zion.




Doozer: Today though, instead of being disappointed at a horse, per say, I’m more disappointed with a horse’s body part.


No, it’s not the wang.


Sorry, to most of you.


Doozer: And that certain horse’s part…


Jiles: Ummm… Dooze?


Doozer: Well, that would be the bee-hind.


The COOLYMPIAN once again swoops back in to try and save the conversation from derailing.


Jiles: Uhh… Doozy? Over here, pal? Remember the target? Traitor Dean?


Effortlessly, Doozer continues in stride.


Doozer: Yes, this has been my super-elaborate-fun-but-serious way of saying I’m disappointed in you, Eric Dane.


To be clear, Doozer is calling Eric Dane a horse’s ass.


A horse’s ass who he is disappointed in.


To be crystal clear, he did so with conviction. And muster. And with the candlestick in the observatory!


This is what you get when you book two ancients against each other, Lee.


Jiles: Alrighty gents… looks like old, crazy horse here is having himself a senior moment. That said, how about we just ride along with him. Don’t want him trashing the place if we wake him up from it. We’ve all seen Stepbrothers. Besides, we have TOP planning to do, and War Games isn’t going to beat itself!


Like a deprived Bobby Dean on nudey magazine day.


Continuing his mindless monologue, as if he didn’t hear a word, The Dooze picks up where he left off.


Doozer: I’m disappointed because I expected better. I know. I’m just old Doozer who picked up the jocks from back in the day, so why bring out your A game, if you will. I can see that. But… my god, Eric. That was… awful. My cataracts hurt. My hearing aid hurts. My arthritis hurts. My lifeless dick hurts. This I’m-making-fun-of-myself-better-than-you-did hurts. If your intention was to instill fear… well, you’re older than I am, and here you have a Joe Jonas haircut and a Wyoming Villager neckbeard.


A judgemental glance.


Doozer: Sorry…


The Dooze picks a boogie.


Dooze: You failed.


Doozer goes picking again. He seems to be more interested in finding gold than Eric Dane.


Just kidding.


He’s going all in on Eric Dane.


But first!


Jiles: So, War Games. The Bandits ticket back to the top! It all starts with our glorious and rejuvenated Captain! What do you have in store, if I might ask? What’s the plan, Mr. Mummy Man? How ya gonna spin this?


The self-proclaimed King of Cool turns the groups befuddled attention from Doozer to the mummified corpse casually ‘rigamortising’ to his left.


Enter eternal befuddlement.


Take a second to introduce yourself to the man behind Eric Dane while you’re there.


Jiles: Oh, I’m sorry, Capt. Do you prefer just Mike? Or is…. Gay Mike okay? Shit, can you even be gay after dying? All this gayness… I’m starting to get dizzy. WHAMMY! GET JOHN EDWARD ON THE LINE!


Mummy Man Best:


With the Red Sea parted, Dooze resumes his rambling.


Doozer: The infamous, Eric Dane.


This time, the mention of his former employer’s name causes Jiles to swell in disgust. The emotion is strong enough to break his concentration from dead, gay Mike.


Or would it be gay, dead Mike?






Woof, woof.




Going with the flow, Jiles has some how magically changed out of his as per the norm, 97 red HOW worker bee tracksuit, and into an all gray sweatsuit. Instead of being shaded up, he has a plastic Ronald Reagan mask covering his beautiful face and hair.


Jiles: Don’t forget me, Mongo McDaneswarchenegger! I’m here to COUNT! WORLD!! CHAMPIONSHIPS!!!




Hasta la vista, Danesy.


The Dude: Classic! You really are the coolest! Working in bits to make sense of Doozy’s nonsensical sidebarring. Not to mention the mask really helping with the accent! Genius!




With everyone distracted by stupid, Jiles throws his Reagan mask at Blow-Up Bobby. Tough to be sure, but it looked like he was telling Dean “eat this” along with a slew of obcentities.


As absent as Lindsay Troy has been leading up to a match, The Dooze continues.


Doozer: THE GYM RAT. HA. You fucking pleab. All this talk of being the number one pick… the new best around… I don’t get it. At. ALL.


Jiles: Oh boy. This should be good.


Doozer: Like, what am I missing? Was the saloon at the O.K. Corral taken? Maybe Lee told you to lose the love handles?


A sudden, concerned expression from The Dooze.


Doozer: That’s harassment, Eric.


An extra, almost motherly staredown. Then a headshake.


Doozer: I find that hard to believe because the way I figure it– good, ole Master Lee would want something to grab onto as he assfucks his new vermin’s legacy and existence into oblivion.


The Dooze air humps… well, the air.


It is unbecoming.


And awkward.


Like watching a washed-up, has-been trying to convince the world he’s still a badass.




Jiles: QUICK! Before he gets going again! Big Deano, one of my most cherished brothers of the yolk, is looking a little deflated over there! Get that man some more snacks!


Whammy, for some reason, follows Jiles’ demand. He’s probably thinking the sooner I get out of here, the better.


Just like the rest of you.


Also, you’d think that feeding a blow-up doll glass and nails would cause it to pop. Not the case, here, folks. Further proving how life-like the piece of shit really is…


Back at the scene, and still riding his own wave, The Dooze drops back in.


Doozer: Eric Dane, and his scathing takes from The Terrace of Doom. What a fuckin joke.


The Dream Hall of Famer grinds his teeth. And best believe if his teeth are grinding, so are those gears in his head. But, being elderly, they take a while.


As such, the focus of the conversation shifts back to Jiles. Who, as fate would have it, has had enough time to change outfits yet again. This go-around, he has a corncob pipe billowing from his mouth and the same three-piece, polyester suit Eric Dane wore to his Senior Prom.


70’s fashion.




Jiles: Hi, I’m Eric Dane. You’ve seen me in such black and white hits as The Fortoise and The Head, Lifting with Dan Ryan, and Open Water 2: Adrift. I like to party. I like to lift weights with my pals. I like to stoically gaze out into the infinity from the comforts of my luxury terrace.




Past his brink, Jiles jumps from his chair and violently throws the still smoking pipe at Blow-Up Bobby. He then proceeds to strip down into his 97 red worker bee tracksuit. Each article of clothing he discards, as you might guess, is force fed to the guest of honor.


Yes, he had the tracksuit on underneath the suit.


More insults ensue.


Amongst the fracus, The Dooze picks back up.


Doozer: I mean, where the fuck do you get off criticizing looks? Like, HAVE ANOTHER FACELIFT, ERIC. Your old is still showing, ERIC. Fucking guy. What’s next, Mr. End Boss? A mom joke? Oh. Please. Don’t do it. Don’t heel the house down, you bad man you.


The table laughs.


Not because mom jokes are funny


Because Doozer has faced REAL heels, like the beloved Mike Best himself-


Not the gay one.


Maybe A gay one?


Not Lee’s Gay Brother, at least…


-back when he was still known as MPlow.


The group chuckle causes Dooze to snap out of his moment a bit, actually looking around and acknowledging those in attendance.


Doozer: That’s right, boys. The Big Bad Wolf’s hypocritical camel toe is bleeding. Hemorrhaging even. There’s blood on the floor. Blood on the walls. Blood on the weights. Blood on the unopened carton of menthols he stares at while thinking about his grandiose life.


The troops rally.




Then, yet another pause. This one is poignant in nature. Meh, maybe not so much poignant, but more so to let the group know Dooze is going back into his zone.


Doozer: There’s blood everywhere. So much so, it’s hard to pick a place to start, Eric.












The Dooze rolls his eyes back and forth while stroking his invisible neck beard. Then, with a quick finger snap, his face brightens up. He turns the rarely forward facing Red Sox cap on his head backward and picks back up with his tirade.


Doozer: I got it. How’s about you, Eric, you big bad crescent roll of man, who’s always so quick to squash anyone who enters his realm claiming to be a hot shot… yet, when someone does it right and lets their actions speak for themselves, they are nobodies shying away from the limelight.


The Dude: Should I smack him on the back of his head?





Jiles: No, just let him go. Maybe he’ll return to normal after he gets it all out.


Doozer: Better yet, how’s about you bashing on the Bandits– saying we never done nothing but disappoint. OH BY THE WAY. ERIC, I think being recognized globally as one of the most dominant tag teams EVER might sink your shitass claim. You fraud. What’s worse, you go and take one of these so called never-nothing loser Bandits under your fucking wing?




Doozer: Or how’s about calling Jiles’ promos trash while you continue to rap about the same old shit!


Jiles rolls his eyes and checks the invisible man watch on his right wrist.


Doozer: And to put the cherry on top, YOU, the very same Eric Dane who just ripped the eGG Bandits for featuring too many jokes that no one gets… ends his day with an inside-only “You know…”!














Doozer: Eric Dane, the Mastermind behind Defiance, should know better than that. It’s okay, I suppose. It happens to old fucks like you and I. Weird how you never even acknowledged the two oldest members in HOW going at it… probably were too busy pumping Dan’s iron to notice. Oh, that’s right. You’re into older guys, or so I’ve been warned.




Doozer: But it’s really not surprising. It all aligns. You’ve gotten lazy. The love handles on your promos show it.


That snapped Jiles to- now staring at The Dooze wide-eyed.


Doozer: What did I ever do? Are you kidding me? Maybe the owner of the most dominant run in Dream history— a fed you were trying to compete with?! Somehow you missed that?!? Somehow you missed me winning literally EVERY title there?


The question is met with a shrug from The COOL. And also a whisper, ”not the COOL Title.”


Doozer: I HELD and DEFENDED the god damn tag titles by myself! Not to mention, I broke nearly every goddamn record that place tracked. But what’d I do?


The Dude: Is that… rhetoridal?


Is that the drug Dane takes to keep his polowy hard?


Doozer: Just ‘cause I didn’t do it at your precious little venue. Your precious baby boy that you gave up for adoption and now shit on. What a man you are, Eric Dane.


The lightbulb over Dude’s head just turned on for the first time in years.


The Dude: Wait. That’s it, Dooze. He’s holding a grudge. You always treated Defiance like that fugly chick who had a crush on you while you spent all your energy on the hot girl… Dream.


A look of pure shock.


Doozer: Holy shit, Dude…


The Dude: And HOW’s the batshit crazy bitch you think could be fun, but you’re also a little scared of what you’d come down with.


Doozer appears to have completely snapped out of his trance at this point.


Doozer: You have seriously never made this much sense in the 40 years I’ve known you.


Jiles, displeased with his lack of attention, jumps in.


Jealous Jiles: And I would like to say, Lindsay Tr-




CaRdBoArD dAn: Fuck Linsday Troy.


Jiles returns to his seat, ghost-faced.


Doozer’s eyes come as close as they can to leaving his skull.


Whammy Jammy drops the next round of nails.


The Dude says something that makes sense, but everyone’s too dumbfounded by CBD.


Mummy Mike’s jaw LITERALLY drops to the floor. Coincidence, or not… scary.


Blow-Up Bobby pops, out of nowhere, and flies out of the window.


Oh, it was open… after all.



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