Of course that’s me, laughing on the inside. On the outside I’m blown up, laid out on the floor staring up at the ceiling looking like a beached whale gasping for breath. But on the inside?
I do want to apologize to Crash for turning on him, but come on. It’s a tag team match against the Bandits! I’d have been an idiot to turn away from that kind of opportunity. I’ve been itching to re-join my buddies, even before I signed the new contract.
“Here ya go bud,” my good friend, and fellow Bandit, Doozer says as he lays both tag team titles across my vast stomach.
“Now, is there a sexier sight than that right there?” Cool Jiles calls out with a laugh as he makes his way to the nearest chair as quickly as he can. Once seated he immediately begins massaging his knee, grimacing with every minute touch. Minute as in Latin for ‘small’, not as in 60 seconds.
“I can think of one or two things.” Doozer answers with a smirk.
I begin to roll to my side, propping my head up with my hand as I kick my leg up, leaving the twin titles draped across my belly.
“I stand corrected.” Doozer announces as I simply offer a tired smile. “I’m surprised at how well you did out there tonight Bobbo. When I saw that cage lowering, I kinda thought you’d just stay on the outside and play cheerleader.”
“I actually was going to do just that,” I answer, pausing to collect my breath. “But stupid Hortega threw me off. With all his motioning I kind of forgot what I was trying to do.”
The Maestro begins to rise from his chair but suddenly plops back down, causing Doozer and I to share a look of concern. A look that is overlooked… by the King of COOL, as his full attention is on his knee.
“So who are we rooting for later?” Doozer asks the room. “Mike or Lee?”
“LE” / “MI” COOL and I respectively begin to answer at the same time, only for both of us to stop short.
“Mike? Really?” Doozer asks me with incredulity. “My last big rival in Dream? And I thought you two hated each other?”
“Really?” I ask with equal incredulity. “I thought Lee hated us?”
“Lee hates everyone that’s not Lee.” Doozer says causing Jiles to smirk and nod his head in the affirmative.
“Well I don’t hate Mike! I love Mike!” I answer with equal fervor. “And Mike loves me!”
“But I thought he sent you that Cease and Desist about the entrance theme.” Jiles opines.
“He did, but I didn’t know what it meant.” I say with a one arm shrug (seeing as I was still lying on my side, I’m kind of immobilized.) “I mean, I just thought he was informing me that he was going to stop using my theme song. I thought it was super nice and considerate of him.”
Doozer and Jiles share a look, and a shake of their head as Jiles tries once again to rise to his feet. Seeing his rise successfully I begin to cheer and whoop it up as if he accomplished a mighty feat, causing him to flip the bird in my direction as he makes his way towards the showers.
I roll back to my back, once again staring up at the ceiling as I explain to Dooze, “Watch. When Mike wins he’ll remember the good times he and I had, and you’ll see. Smoooooth sailing for the old Bandits.”
Doozer looks over at me and just shakes his head, as if he wants to tell me Santa Clause isn’t real. But we know, right Mike?
I hate my life.
You’d think I would love life at the moment. I’m one third of a kick ass tag team. I’m technically a tag team champion! Wait… Read that again. Let it sink in. Bobby mother fuckin Dean is a Tag Team mother fuckin Champion!
I guess that means I should pack my bags now, cause it’s only a matter of time before I bail, right? Right? …
No, I’m here ladies and gents. You’re stuck with me.
But I digress. I hate my life, because instead of basking in victory (sort of), eating at the various all you can eat buffets, I rather find myself at a sweltering local high school track and field, dripping in sweat. Covered in trash bags, with a 5 lbs weight, really just a bag filled with sand strapped to each wrist and ankle for that added misery. A backpack filled with more sand sits uncomfortably on my back (where else would it sit?), with a long skinny PVC pole curving out of the pack to hang over my shoulder. A doughnut dangles from a string tied to the end of the pole, just out of reach of my open mouth. Picture Honey I Shrunk the Kids, when the kids were riding the ant. I’m the ant.
“Come on, just fifteen more laps!” a melodic voice calls out from a bullhorn behind me as my personal trainer Jenni drives the golf cart in my wake.
You remember Jenni yeah? I introduced her in my last piece. Eric Dane got her for me, to help me lose weight after my successful lap band/gastric sleeve surgery. She’s been working with me for the last week and a half and I’m not sure I like her anymore. Sure she’s quite nice to look at, but I think she gets wet in the pants when she tortures me.
I mean, forcing me to jog! Well, walk is more like it. Seriously, walking? Who the fuck walks anymore!?
They’ve got cars, bikes, trikes, roller-blades, those weird skateboards where you have to hump the air to get it to move. Hell, why doesn’t everyone have a segway!? For God’s sake, they even have Wheelez nowadays! Why can’t I just glide around the track? One step forward and then glide like the beautiful angel that I am.
“You got this!” she calls out again. “Just focus on that doughnut and put one foot in front of the other.”
“What in the world?” the familiar voice of Doozer calls out as I stop and turn to look back over my shoulder across the field.
Seeing my good friend in the stands causes me to squeal in glee as I start “running” around the track to try and get to the finish line as fast as I can. Running is such a vague word to us to describe what I do. Picture me as Usain Bolt, but in like slo-mo 100x. But hey, it’s a tad bit faster than when I walk so you gotta give me a little credit here.
A few moments later.
“What’re you doing, Bobert?” Doozer asks as I’m bent over wheezing with every breath in, and gasping with every breath out. Jenni, sitting in the cart behind me simply shakes her head in disapproval.
“We’re not done Bobby,” she admonishes. “You’ve got 14 more laps to do before we go to the pool for your water aerobics.”
“I think she’s trying to kill me.” I whisper, kind of loudly, to my friend. “If it’s not the exercise it’s the bikinis she wears. I swear, I’m going to have a heart attack and I don’t think I’ll mind at this point.”
Unaware that as I talk to Doozer, he is like a cat chasing a dangling string, with the doughnut hanging from said string. Chuckling to himself he repeatedly beats at the doughnut causing it whip around only to return as if the string itself were made of a bungee cord. But like all things good, it suddenly comes to an end as he grabs the doughnut and rips it from the string.
“Hey!” Jenni and I both yell as he gives off one of his disarming megawatt smiles.
Taking a generous bite of the doughnut he begins to chew, when out of nowhere he spews forth the half chewed doughnut bite all over the grass. Looking down at the uneaten bit still in his hand, he takes his free hand and begins to rake away at his tongue, a look of horror on his face.
“What in the hell is this!?” He bellows, looking at me in genuine anger.
“I don’t actually know.” I answer, confusion clear on my face. “I’ve never actually been able to catch the stupid thing. It seems the faster I move the faster it moves. It’s been taunting me for days now!”
Doozer immediately switches his glare to Jenni who sits in her gold cart as smug as a bug. “What? It’s the best gluten free, no sugar, no preservative doughnut found in Florida”
“Are you seriously trying to kill my friend here?” Doozer asks as I begin to dry heave, simply from the thought of something so vile.
Before she can answer, my cell phone begins to ring, distracting all three of us. Have you ever seen a fat man in loose basketball style shorts try to pull out a cellphone from a sweaty pocket? I swear, it should be on ESPN Ocho, it really is quite a struggle. But, I’d be a champion at that as well (Oooooh, maybe I should add that title to my Tag Team title!?)
“Don’t hang up, don’t hang up, don’t hang up,” the mantra goes, as I finally fish the stupid thing from my pocket. Looking down at the screen I give out an even bigger squeal than when I saw Doozer a minute ago.
“MIKE!” I bellow into the phone.
(We must pause here for a greeting filled with irritation and a serious desire to be anywhere but on the phone with me. Typical Mike, lols.)
“I know, I know.” I say, cutting him off in mid greeting rant. Something he adores. “I’ve been blowing you up like crazy the past two days.” (pause for retort claiming general uninterest.) “I know, getting that extra 1% sure was a sight to see. How are your testicles by the way?” (pause, but not for a response, simply for stunned silence.) “I find that a nice ice pack, followed by a simple hand massage really helps regulate that blood flow back to normal. If you need any help with that, I’d be more…”
(Apparently he’s not comfortable with the mere idea of my hands anywhere near his jewels. I guess the whole “what are friends for” thing has died?)
“Gotcha buddy, no hand jobs.” I say with a bit of sadness in my voice. Not because I WANT to give Mike Best a handy, but because he doesn’t want me to. “I know you’re busy and everything, this will just take a minute. I saw the lineup for the new Refueled and I was stoked. I mean, winning the tag team titles and all of a sudden I get to main even my second Refueled with my buddies defending the titles against Handson and O’Dell! It’s freaking AWESOME!”
(Pause, for correction, with an added side order of even more annoyance.)
“Oh. Handson and O’Dell aren’t partners? Shit, it’s Handson and Zion? Oh. Well, regardless of who it is, I just wanted to say thank you for giving me this shot to prove that I’ve still got… What? Oh. Yeah, no I get it. You booked Jiles and Doozer for the match, It’s not a three on two, that’s my bad. No, no, that makes total sense. Yeah, yeah, you’ll get me on the next Refueled. No worries buddy. But hey, if you change your mind about your nut-sack, give me a call… Hello? Mike?”
Ending the call I look up at the forlorn face of Doozer, and the mildly amused face of Jenni, who doesn’t have a fucking clue what she just heard or it’s implications on my psyche. Doozer walks over and places his arm on my shoulder in his older brotherly fashion. Because he’s fucking old.
“I’m really sorry bud.” Doozer says with his arm draped across my shoulder for a second before he immediately takes it off due to the excessive amount of sweat that seems to be oozing from my pores. “Mike’s a dick. I know you were really looking forward to showing everyone that you belong with the Bandits.”
I smile, half heartedly I suppose, and nod my head. “It’s alright man, I’ll be in your corner cheering you guys on. Oh, but I better give Jiles a call and let him know it’s not going to be a three on two match like we all thought.”
They didn’t actually think it was. Apparently only *I* thought it was. I mean, you see eGG Bandits on the marquee, wouldn’t you think you’d get the eGG Bandits in their entirety? But hey, what do I know?
“Hey COOLio! You still at the doc’s? How’s your knee? Oh Mm Gee, are they going to have to amputate?” I ask before Jiles has the opportunity to greet me properly.
“Yeah I’m just wrapping up now. It’s fine, Sugartits” he responds.
To see more of this conversation, please check out https://howrestling.com/2019/08/07/pig-headed/
The Bandit War Room Pow Wow (Totally not what Jiles or Doozer call it) is at its end, I find myself contemplating the situation at hand. Jiles, seems to be hurting more than he’s letting on. Doozer, seems to be older than anyone actually thinks. And me? I’m on the fence and I can’t seem to pick which side I want to be on.
On one side I want my two friends to recover fully and with the utmost speed. Jiles with his knee, and Dooze with his age.
On the other hand, I can’t help but kind of hope that one of them does actually pull out of the upcoming match. Not with anything too serious, mind you, but with something that isn’t fixed with just a band-aid and a Vicodin.
I don’t know why this is so important to me. Hell I’m mostly just a glorified cheerleader, or athletic supporter really. I can’t seem to shake this feeling that I’ve got to prove something. Not just to Jiles and Doozer, or even the fans. Not to Handson and O’Dell, I mean Zion. And not just to Mike and Lee. But to really prove to myself that I still have a little something in this cavernous and rarely used tank of mine. I’m an OG Bandit. I’m an eGG Bandit dammit.
What’d COOL call it? Plan B? I think Plan B stands for Bobby is About to Fuck Shit Up!
I’m a Lean, Mean, Fighting, Dean. Bobby Dean.