Exit Conference: Part 3
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 guys really had me going there for a bit. I actually thought I wasn’t going to be needed.
Here I am.
So, guess I was wrong.
Please, do cut me some slack. It’s been a while. I’ve been kept in remission if you will. But now that I’ve returned, I do have a message I’d like to spread. Allow me to cut right to the chase. The Maestro has been fully radiated. He’s gone. Finished. No turning green and going smash, rather he’s turning ghost white and going rigamortis.
It’s true, only the good die young.
God bless him and his vibrant soul.
I’d like to think The Maestro accomplished quite a bit during his tenor with High Octane Wrestling. He showed what an enthusiastic Bandit life could be like. He took something that no one wanted and made it the envy of Ocean’s Eight. He rescued Bobby Dean from the clutches of Goon. He taught Kostoff what the word grandiose means.
But, no matter the mountain climbed, the Maestro unfortunately ate the fruit. The whole fucking platter. Bobbied the thing. Boy was it good, too. He should have known better though. This isn’t the Garden of Eden. This is the Garden of High Octane. Here, when you fly too close to the sun, you just don’t get burned, you fucking melt.
No matter HOW cool you are.
Those of you who had a hand in The Maestro’s untimely demise, good JOB. Take a bow. Well done. Bravo. You beat him to a bloody pulp. You stripped him of his champions pride. You kicked his sorry ass all the way to the Ledge of Doom, rolled him up in an old carpet, and dumped him with the rest of yesterday’s trash. Oh, but that’s not all you did. No. Then, you left him. At the bottom. In his piss and shit. To roast like hair on a stick.
And that, was a mistake.
You see, you failed to finish the job. Didn’t go for the head. Well, not enough times anyway. I would know, because I am the man who climbed out of that pit of despair.
Covered in shit.
Scorched from the flame.
Plan fucking C.
From the bottom of my nonexistent, would be remorseless heart, I thank you. I thank all of you. I thank each and every one of you. I have yearned to once again sit with you in the quiet, unforgivingly cold room. Me, squeezing your quivering hand, gazing into your watering eyes, and informing you about the bad news from behind a forced frown.
So truly, thank you.
As such, where does a boy like me start? Where among this vast ocean of thirsty Mongoloids do I cast my infectious rod?
From the road. Hopefully travel expenses will be taken care of. We’re not all in a stable worth more than, I don’t even think they make a number for that. Infinity squared plus Cecil perhaps?
Cool zillion dollar initiation fee, Sith Lords.
Oh, and sorry for lumping you in with them, Two Belts. Those guys probably took it as a compliment.
Same night. Same time. New color. New show for Brian Hollwood to ruin. And believe you me, I can’t wait to sit back and watch him and the rest of the goons do exactly that. Fuck, they don’t even have to trash the place this time around. All the Grate Ate have to do is explain their actions while standing in the center of the ring. If you want to take the chance completely out of it, give each of them their own microphone.
Instant must see TV.
Granted, for all the wrong reasons.
And who knows? Maybe after the show is over High Octane will replay the segment backwards so we all might hopefully understand what the fuck it is they actually said.
Same one from before.
A few more days have passed since the last visit.
All three of us are still laid up in hospital beds licking our wounds.
It’s not all bad news for the first Chaos though.
The life or death cosmetic surgery someone previously reported on was a success. My hairline will be fine. Stitches are starting to dissolve. The black and blue is fading from around mine and Doozer’s neck. I haven’t seen Bobby’s back since they rolled him over yesterday. I will have to assume for the time being it is getting better. I can’t ask him, because if it isn’t he’ll start crying again.
Fentanyl is a hell of a drug.
Mobility is returning.
Swelling is going down.
Dooze doesn’t look as old as he once did.
Bobby, when not crying, is feasting again.
Them Bandits, are circling.
Like only we can.
Plan C: I feel like a new man. It’s weird. It’s like I’m whole again. I guess I really missed the shades.
Can you blame me? They are Skynet certified.
Also, what’s in a name?
Doozer: It’s probably because you are so used to losing, and now that the ash has settled on the last Refueled, and the blow of defeat has softened—
I yawn. I’m not tired, it’s more to stop the old buffoon before he puts the whole hospital to sleep. Thank me later, fellow life or death surgery patients who are currently under the knife.
Plan C: I meant like I’m feeling good. My body. Physically. Although, mentally, I have never felt sharper.
That’s because the old bull is back under the saddle.
It’s also because trying to smoke while nesting here at the hospital has been tough. Damn nurse has confiscated all of my apparati. That would be 12 in total. Something to do with a violation of my insurance policy.
Just another fuck you from the besieged if you ask me.
Dean: So a total turn around from the last show? Are you going to say you’re too healthy to compete this time around? Then you can fail a physical before the match, and I could hit them with your cup of pee?
Thoughtfully, I scratch at my chin while watching the events unfold in my head like Sherlock Holmes does.
I like them.
Doozer: Oh, that would be sooooo Maestro.
Oh it would, would it? In that case, I’m thinking it’s going to be a hard pass. Again though, in order to protect the fragile Bobby Dean, I must choose my words carefully.
Plan C: Absolutely not! Continue to feast on unlimited cinnamon spritzed applesauce and 8oz chocolate milk boxes, you selfish Blob of a man! Stop thinking so much or you might wind up costing us a match again! Jesus! A piss cup? On your uniform? No one will remember that! Somebody call Dane. NO. WAIT. I JUST THOUGHT OF SOMETHING.
Bobby begins weeping. It sounds like a siren is going off. It is awkward, if you’ve never heard it before. Then, it becomes less awkward after hearing it the second time.
And yeah, as you might have guessed, Bobbity has the good health plan. The lucky pig plan. I’m a tad bitter because I too like cinnamon spritzed applesauce and 8oz chocolate milk boxes, but everyone knows you don’t ask to eat from Bobby’s plate. You take a bold risk even looking at it for too long.
Oh I hope it’s Gary. He tries to feed Bobby when he gets like this. Gary says it’s better than sedating him. Either way, sometimes applesauce and chocolate milk get shoveled into Bobby with such haste that some get lost in the fray.
It’s the small things.
Come on Gary!
…Or so I thought.
In the midst of a very recent chat with my close friend Robert Dean, I have reconsidered a prior position.
Say Brian Hollywood, have I ever told you why the eGG Bandits do what they do? What the true, unbridled significance behind the egg is?
You see, to you and your kind egging is a prank. It’s childish in nature, something that gets a few laughs and causes the ratings to soar through the roof for some unknown reason. And sure, outside of the Cracken… well, let’s just say egging is no barbed wire hockey stick to the face.
So why then? What’s the point, if not goofs, gas, ratings galore, and petty annoyance? Why not just do what everyone else does and beat on our chests while climbing the eMpire State building? Aside from the last question answering itself, I’ll tell you why, Brian.
Egging stays with you like a tattoo on your soul that no amount of therapy can remove. The egg is never forgotten. The act is buried into one’s consciousness. Maybe it’s while watching TV before bed and a commercial comes on that jogs the memory. Maybe it’s in the shower while washing the shame off. Maybe it’s while cooking breakfast because OVER EASY is always best.
But it’s there.
And just when you thought it’s been forgotten, and you can safely walk about the grocery store no longer in fear of isle 10, you remember.
You remember who it was.
You remember why it happened.
You remember how you felt.
And then, it’s another long, hopeless, slog of session on the therapy couch. It’s another Crying Game shower scene reenactment. Another restless night of squeezing the pillow in one hand, and a swathfull of sleeping pills in the other.
That’s why we egg people, Brian.
You remember it.
That’s the significance.
That’s the Art of the Egg.
AND THAT IS WHY I AM GOING TO EGG YOU, BRIAN HOLLYWOOD.
You deserve it.
You, and the rest of the gangbangers who tried to carve out your spot in the history books atop what you thought would be the eGG Bandits grave. Tried to steak your claim. But ultimately, you crashed and bummed.
You failed, Brian.
You failed because the only one who will remember your escapade come the… oh, I don’t know, third Chaos if we are going to be fair about it, is me. Probably Stevens too, but it won’t be because he’s still rocking out with the band.
Remember that, Brian.
Remember that when trying to run me down.
Without me, you’re down there.
With me, you’re way, way the fuck up here.
After all you’ve put me through, and after all I am going to do for you, a little compuence would be nice.
And no, I don’t want a state of the art French computer.
Doozer might, though.
Stay the fuck out of my way.
It’s tacos, joints, and UHD tele-watching if you do.
I have no remorse for casualties of ward.
Not a misspell.
After more days pass.
Same room, just now, the three of us are nowhere in sight. However, before we left, we decided it best to show you how to really trash the set.
We covered it.
The beds. The monitors. The walls. The doors. The floor. The ceiling. Inside Bobby’s empty applesauce containers and chocolate milk boxes. Somehow inside of an IV bag. Syringes. The TV. All of the cabinets. Nurse Gary.
However, not all of the eggs were used.
I saved one.
Hopefully it survives the trip.
We are still wounded.
But we are also still Bandits.
Fuck your couch.