I will dig deep.
I will find a way.
There will be no excuses.
Before I drop the Hammer.
If this is to be the last ride of Cancer Jiles…
…let’s have some fun.
A Tall Tale
Well, there I was.
Once more on the deck of the USS Octane.
If I didn’t value my life as much as I do I could have avoided this second go around, but where’s the fun in that? Why do today what someone else can do for you tomorrow?
That’s always been my thinking anyway.
Not to mention, I could use the courtesy riverboat tour to New York. The cash I save by not flying will, for sure, come in handy if I’m relegated to eating out of vending machines after March To Glory. I’d think about driving, but I don’t have any friends to travel with these days. At least on the USS Octane there’s Laser to keep me company.
Fuck, how the mighty have fallen.
And who knows, maybe this time it will be different.
Oh. Yeah. That’s right. HA.
Let me tell you, it wasn’t easy getting back on the ship.
Would you believe me if I told you that in order to board I had to scale a chain link fence that spanned the length of the bow? From sea level, all the way up to the deck of the ship. 257 feet. Steep incline. No harness. No safety line. No tomorrow. Not only that, but I did it with a broken nose, shirtless, high as fuck, and emotionally distressed.
Is that something you would believe happened?
You’re smarter than you look, because not only did I make the climb while suffering through all of the aforementioned circumstances; but the ship was also moving, I was wearing my wrestling boots, and it was in the freezing cold, snowing, dead of night.
I know, that definitely sounds more believable.
Now granted, the ship didn’t start to move until I was about twenty feet up on the fence, the salt on the bottoms of my boots gave me some extra grip, and the temperature and snow while debilitating was great for my swollen nose.
So not all bad news.
The truest penalty of it all is that because it was so dark outside nobody saw me do it. Not the moon. Not Sauron’s eye. Not even Laser. That said, I won’t blow your mind with all the acrobatic nonsense I had to perform during my life or death ascent. You wouldn’t believe that part if I told you. Let’s just say it was quite the spectacle, and… oh, right. Now that I’m recalling my daring climb, my hands were also bleeding. I think it was like thirty-nine percent of the chain links were barbed wire instead.
Thanks for the going away gift, Scoot.
Pretty sure that was all it took to get back.
I was also balancing Mike’s book on the top of my head. I can’t remember if it was the zillion page, written in Japaknees wrestling one, or the one he co authored with Danielle Steele titled, The Best Kind of Love.
Maybe it will come to me.
The Best Kind of Love
The Art of the Mack
Trust in the Rule of Three.
That’s three blue pills to get the piston firing.
And check this.
If you’re ever in a pinch use this line.
“Hey sugartits, I’ve said this before to other women, but did you know they used to call me the Ovarian Oppressor?”
Don’t pull out your micro penis just yet.
You’ll want to.
Wait for her to ask you why you were called that. They always ask why, trust me. When she does, with the arrogance of a nine time World Champion who has the tiniest dick alive, you tell her, “I would kick women in their privates.”
Wait for her to scowl. It will come. I promise you it always comes. Then, you hit her with the deal sealer. “Does that bother you? No, not that I did it and posted about on my blog, but the fact I used the line before to pick up other women?”
She’ll even offer to pay for the room.
Nothing As It Seems
So, there I was. I had just touched down after suffering through the previously documented, but not witnessed tumultuous climb back to the deck of the USS Octane. As soon as I was back aboard the powered by blind rage mega vessel I collapsed to my hands and knees; gasping for air like I had just escaped having a plastic bag zip tied shut over my head.
I found a moment between my heaving gasps, and desperately roared out, “LASER!!!!!!” Before long, the welcoming party arrived: all however high they stack shit of him. The rigid, bulky, lumbering, Laser.
“Took you long enough. Here.” Surprisingly, his friendly greeting didn’t involve handing me a toothbrush. Rather, it was a towel and 97red poncho. Not some cheap one either. It had my name stitched on it like it was waiting for me on the ship this entire time.
I continued struggling to catch my breath, and my voice cracked from exhaustion when asking the USS super security guard, “Is he here?”
He quickly responded, “He’s sleeping.”
I further prodded, “Where? The stern?” Laser nodded yes to my inquiry, and as soon as I finished panic wrapping my hair with the towel; a large, poisonous smile began to spread across my face. I then put the glove fitting Poncho on, took the deepest breath of my life and stated, “I guess he kept his word. Tomorrow, I eat.”
After The Worst Photo I’ve Taken
Turns out Capitan does have a heart. It’s just that it’s as cold as Blackbeard’s, and at the bottom of Davy Jones’ Locker.
I thought it was a toothbrush that hit the floor next to me.
It was my new deal.
Wrapped around an electric toothbrush.
And my new deal was this.
Should I decide to accept it.
This is important.
Now, if I lose… if I do not escape the cage and capture the High Octane World Championship, I don’t get to walk out of the Garden and into the preshow of somewhere else. I don’t get to sell sunglasses out of the trunk of my car wherever High Octane is holding events. I don’t get to go on a speaking tour about why it’s a good thing to wash your hair with egg yolks. I don’t even get to scrub the decks of the USS Octane.
If I lose I have to go to the archives. I get beamed down to the basement with Data. I get stuck forever inside High Octane’s 97th Circle of Computron Hell.
Cracking news would be more frequent, there’s that.
Maybe a touch too sunny.
And in return for making this one sided, life altering deal…
I’d get to have my last meal.
That’s a problem.
Because, I’m fucking starving.
Misery loves company. Keep your friends close, enemies closer.
Needless to say it wasn’t easy, but what the Capitan doesn’t know, or he does know and he just doesn’t care because he thinks so highly of his Son, is that I was never going to go somewhere else, I’m all out of replica shades to sell, and without Bobby the only places I’d get paid to speak at would be prisons and Doozer’s funeral.
And I don’t plan on losing.
So, I took the new deal.
A life, for a life.
Here’s to hoping IF I lose the vending machine down in the cellar isn’t just full of various types of computer chips.
The day was new.
The sun was up. Sadly, my nose still looked like a bodybuilder was on my face, so I was without the luxury of my T-Shades to protect against it’s powerful glare.
The boat was in motion, and yet my hair rocked perfectly still.
I had changed out of my gear and poncho, and into my 97red uniform. Otherwise known as my customary jumpsuit. Mega Mongoloid, and Super Security pile of bones, Laser, also in uniform was by my side.
For the first time I was sitting comfortably on the deck of the USS Octane instead of worrying about cleaning it. My legs were crossed Indian style, and a bag of Planter’s rested in my lap.
I wasn’t there to scrub.
I was there for my last meal, and it was spiked on a stick in front of me.
So, I started to cook.
“I bet you’re wondering why you are here, huh? I’ll tell you, but just this once. You are here because I wanted it so. I want to watch you suffer with my own two eyes, and I want to break you so badly the thought of jumping overboard is the only thought you think of.”
I stopped for a moment to give my words a chance to season before continuing to stir the pot.
“You’re here because I gave up everything to get you here. Your feeble, peanut sized brain couldn’t even comprehend the climb I had to make to ensure we had this time together. I will tell you, because of this, I will be paying extra diligence to make sure I get what I want.”
I then called out as condescendingly as possible, and pointed at the peanut shell I just tossed on the deck. “And you missed a shell. Tell him, Laser.”
The shell in question had first bounced off of the back of Bobby Dean’s head.
“Scrub.” Laser demanded of Bobby like he once did of me.
I loved every second of it.
“You heard him. Scrub, Bob. If you don’t, I’ll call…” My focus shifted from Bob to Laser, and I aloofly asked the Mongoloid, “Hey Big L, what’s that guy’s name again?”
“Harrison.” Laser answered me as if the whole bit were scripted.
“Yeah, that’s him.” I chuckled. “Or I’ll call Garrison and he can come down from his new crew quarters. Your call.” I chuckled again, this time almost choking on a peanut. “Tell me you treacherous pig, does he hit as hard as I do? You know, like Sinead O’Connor, that nothing compares to my boot.”
Bobby, who was also in uniform, but one that was three sizes too small so all of my fat jokes still hit, wanted to respond. But, Bob doesn’t get to speak while in my presence. Not if he wanted a bucket to shit in.
No, all he gets to do is sit there on his knees and scrub.
“You do not speak. You listen.” Adamant, I continued, “Now, you heard the man. Scrub. Show me that bold ambition that got you by Shell’s kid. Get in deep between them cracks, and not the one in your ass.” I leaned in, and whispered in his ear, “I want to see the same guy who looked me dead in the eyes and refused me my greatest accomplishment.”
The Honaleean glared back at me menacingly.
“Close, but that’s not him.” I scooched away, and flicked another peanut shell at the man who if I’m passing the blame buck, put me in the position I’m in to begin with. Oh, and it was a total luck bullseye that I was able to hit him right in the eyeball. Laser laughed at Bob’s bullied reaction, but I quickly hushed his Mongoloid ass right up by flicking a peanut shell in his direction. “There will be none of that.” I told him. “Bobby Dean belongs to me. At least until this boat finds Lady Liberty. He is my last meal and no one else’s.”
I heard Bobby’s life drain from him, and also smelled it because it was a fart that symbolized such.
No one was moving.
Just the boat.
And that prior Sineed O’Connor joke floating around in the air.
Bob was first to break from the awkward stillness, and resignedly sighed. He squeezed the electric toothbrush I afforded him; turning it on so the only thing that could be heard was that vibrating noise.
I smiled. Widely. Proudly. “That’s what I thought.” I continued to viciously chide my once brother of the yolk. “The Bandits might be dead, Bob, but you and I will forever be on life support. No matter what.” Another peanut shell got sent in my old buddy’s direction. “You better fucking hope, and pray to GOD himself, who as it turns out isn’t too far away so maybe he will hear you…”
I paused dramatically.
“HA! Right. Like he would listen to you.”
Then, I laughed mockingly aloud, as if to rouse GOD’s ear for Bobby.
“But, like I was going to say, you better hope Mike escapes first, Bob. I’ll tell you that. You better hope I don’t get the chance to run his loverboy ass up and down, and all around that cage.” I snorted, arrogantly. “You better hope I can’t gas him out, and he starts to wonder how much he’ll have left in the tank for Danny Darko.”
My hand goes back and forth, making a jerking off motion. Not so much because I don’t like Dan, but because of what he did to my nose.
“You better hope that amidst all of my running, and jumping, and prancing about like there are vines hanging from the top of Garden and my fucking name is George of the Jungle, that I don’t happen to find another chance to get my gun off.” I looked down the barrel of my leg, and aimed my foot in Bobby’s direction. “Cause then it’s over. And then, the first person I get to face as World Champion is you.”
I laughed again.
More or less to let Bob know that I was lying, and that he’d never get a title shot as long as I was on top of the world.
“Oh yes, Bobby Dean, my beautiful bastard of a friend. Make no mistake we’re gonna have some fun on this trip. I promise you that. If that fun becomes too much for you feel free to jump the fuck overboard. You might make it. You do look like a floatation device in that jumper. Until then, fucking scrub.”
HOTv Port-able Studios
Statue of Liberty
The room was nothing special. It had a little circular window that looked outside to the world. There were exposed pipes running along the ceiling. It was small. Not stifling. But small. The walls were 97red, and a portrait of the Capitan hung on one of them.
Yet, the left side of the boat still felt like home.
My couch and my fern were there. It wasn’t the 50 inch, but there was a monitor with a still shot of right before I Termiblasted Mike for the second time– when he was on his knees grabbing himself and his wide eyes and bushy tail sensed defeat.
And of course there was me.
Fit as a fiddle.
Life or death, man or mouse, all on the line, no looking down, ultimate extreme chain link fence scaler extraordinaire.
Nuclear survivability of a cockroach.
Bobby Dean’s fate.
The salty shoes wearing, white blond hair having, not ready to be a Klingon, Maestro of COOL.
Still without his T-Shades.
And possibly my last time on HOTv.
“Hi Mike. Checking in from the ship. Let’s chat later.”
I’m a patient man.
I have Bobby Dean to keep me occupied.
I can wait.
Plus, this is my story.
Who the fuck cares what he has to say anyway?