- Event: Lethal Lottery
Never meant to last.
Then again, nothing ever is. Or does for that matter. Just ask you know who. Nevertheless, being such, I am worn down. I am deteriorated. I have fallen and I can not get up. I have stubbed my toe and will never walk again.
Do not cry.
Do not fret.
It was a good run……..
Being so, I’ll finally do it the justice it deserves. Here. Now. I decree for all to know: I’ll never wrestle under another banner. I’ll never return for that Dream run in Defiance. I won’t go to Bollywood for a cup of coffee. I won’t manage a female pit fighter. I won’t even feed Bobby lines when he’s eventually an NPC in one of JD’s feds.
No.
It was a good run, and I’ve disgraced it long enough. Going any longer would be criminal… like actually winning at the Lottery.
Ha.
But I digress…….
It was a good run.
I danced with the wolves. I howled at the moon. I walked across the sun. Both of them.
Ha.
I got a piece of cardboard over. I got RICK over. I got Zeb Fartin over, that fucking treacherous crumb of life.
Ha.
I kicked a shit ton of people in the face. Most of them deserved such reprehensible and vile behavior. Most. Maybe not all of them. Maybe I have a few regrets… things I wish I could take back…
Maybe.
We’ll never know.
Mayonnaise frowns and steam shower crop dustings.
It was a good run. I’m proud of it. I accomplished things no other man has accomplished. Not even Scottywood’s dementia can deny my accomplishments, nor Cecil’s scarf.
Yes, I am aware of what it is called.
I digress further……….
The run.
Better than Bob. Way better than Dooze. My hair turned white for a bit, Well, gray. Well, more salt than pepper I guess you could say.
Wink.
It was a good run……………………
I became decorated. Nay, I became highly decorated. Went from Emperor of the Undercard to the Main Event, and back again. Some might even call me Bilbo Jiles in this regard.
Ha.
It was a good run…
Yes.
That’s what they will say.
—
Whatever number the Refueled was where Cecil beat Cancer up and then he and Mike cut a gentle promo over his presumed to be corpse.
Right before Cecil did all that.
Should have just said on the last Refueled.
Oh well.
Stink Bomb
There he is. The fellow who daints. His hair looks terrible, he stinks of potatoes and shady exits, and he’s wearing a purple blouse. He was once known for being an icon of sport, leisure, and investigative journalism, but has since turned into a Crayola eating Mongoloid.
Cecil: Have you ever smelled one of my farts?
There I am. Cooler. Better hair. Shades. Track suit. Standing as if I were doing him a favor just by being next to him.
Jiles: No.
Little C farts. Me, unaware that Cecil’s farts have an almost toxic level of stench to them, breathes in his dairy air because why the fuck not? I’ve beaten him in under five seconds before, he couldn’t possibly stink much worse, no?
Poof.
Article Fartyoned.
Seems I even got the brouge as a side effect.
—-
It was a good run.
From Refueled One, to the last one.
Wink.
Thanks for the memories, the regrets, and the fun. Just so it is on the record, I’d welcome the Hall’s call with open arms, and never liked most of you. Bobby would enshrine me, with Doozer watching from home via satellite.
Just kidding.
You are all my friends.
Ha.
It was a good run though. One, that needed to come to an end. And so it will. And so it has.
Good night.
Good luck.
Thank you for having me.
Again.
On a side note, I can think of worse ways to go. Like, under the Chaos set, or stowed away aboard the USS Octane, or down in the Archives…
Ha.
One last time…
Pucker.
Kiss.
Good bye.
—-
“Hopefully they bought it.” – Some guy in a shallow grave.