It’s not easy being me.
To take a walk in my salt shoes would cripple even the greatest of men.
Sure, I might make it look easy. I might make it seem easy. I might even make you think that it’s possible for you to be me, because I do make it look so easy.
It is not.
I’m not bragging, or thumbing my nose. I’m not trying to say he might be GREAT but I am COOL and COOL trumps all. I’m just saying that it’s not easy being me. I’m world renown. I’m a marked man. I have a security detail. I have 97red clearance on the USS Octane, and fly around in a fancy jet that doesn’t belong to me. I have to wash my hair three times a day. I have to pay insurance on my T-Shades.
Do you know what that does to a man?
It’s not easy being me.
Shit, it hasn’t been easy being me. The burden of being COOL. The tax of being the Bandit with the broadest shoulders. I’m not lying when I say I’ve woken up every morning for the past ten years wondering how Bo and Zo are going to drag me down.
“I got an idea! Let’s go back to High Octane and have Jiles do everything.” – Doozer, probably
In fact, I’ve carried my trusty Bandit brethren around for so long sometimes I find myself talking in a Boston accent, and sitting on the toilet for an extended period of time for absolutely no reason at all.
Do you know how hard it is to stand up when your legs are numb from the quivers?
It’s not easy being me.
Just recently I went down to some forgotten dungeon where the moonshine is as explosive as Lee Best’s temper. Somehow, and I still don’t know how, but my reputation survived being on a show that had less than a hundred people in the audience.
And not only did I survive such a riveting romp, but I also managed to squeeze out another victory against Steve Solex(I know who?) and in the process won back the High Octane HOTv Tag Team Championships.
You think that was easy?
Not the Solex part, but the suffering through a Mediocre Vampire Wrestling show part.
They didn’t even have a merch stand.
Take my word for it.
It’s not easy being me.
High Up in the Sky
I was Born a Traveling Man
“Vegas. Philly. Vegas. Chicago. Vegas. Bumblefuck. Now, San Francisco. I was burning the candle at both ends, but that’s life in the big city. Plus, I heard a rumor about an app that tracks the piles of shit left by the homeless. It’s called Untapped. I was eager to test my salt whites.” — Jiles’ Journal, October 10th, 2022.
I was high.
Up in the sky.
The sun shined, and not a cloud whined.
The plane, a private jet I confiscated from some rich slob who surprisingly has no relation to Brian Hollywood, is a fancy one. You could snort cocaine from almost every surface, both inside and out.
I was all by myself.
No, I wasn’t flying the plane.
I’m not Hanson cool.
I meant I was the only passenger.
No security detail.
My jet-black-mirror-tinted T-shades were fully equipped. My golden blond, championship hair was shining bright. My tracksuit was electric. Blue that is. Wolf Totem gently played in the background because I love reminding everyone that I was a part of something murderous.
I had my salt whites on.
And, no matter how hard I tried, no matter which way I sliced it– I still had no idea how in the GREAT fuck I was going to beat GREAT SCOTT. He’d already taken out Bobby and Dooze. He likes liquid stronkums. He is built like an action figure. He moves like a superhero. His shades are almost as COOL as mine. He doesn’t understand pain. He doesn’t understand anything. I can not threaten him. I can not scare him. I can not harm him. He can’t be tricked. He is already mystified.
I’m on his turf.
In his MAIN EVENT.
For his coveted Championship.
I have a better chance at winning the tag titles all by myself.
The task at hand is uphill to say the least. The only thing I have going for me is this app that tracks piles of shit, my hair, shades and tracksuit, and the fact that I tend to upset gigantic favorites.
I might not be the record breaker, but I sure do break records.
Other people’s records.
Not like me setting my own record, but I’ll wait for other people to accomplish a lot and then I’ll drag my dirty ass across their accomplishment and in the process put an end to whatever it was that made them so… GREAT before me.
GREAT SCOTT Is on a record run. GREAT SCOTT has defended that HOTv Championship countless times it seems. GREAT SCOTT is not a man, but a myth. A unicorn. Nay. A yeti. Nay. A yeti with a unicorn horn– there’s got to be some sort of record for that.
That’s not it?
I’m so fucked.
“I could not believe it. I turned down whatever that street was named and boom. There was a pile of shit.” — Jiles’ Journal, October 15th, 2022.
So, of course under the guise of a no name with little to no notiterty whatsoever — so basically I was wearing a Cowboy hat — I decided to take to the streets of San Fran, and look for piles of shit. I also had a mask on, and vaseline under my nose.
Now, I wasn’t going to step in them. I wasn’t there to smell them. I just wanted to see if they existed. I mean, come on. An app that tells you where people shit in the street? There’s no way. But, I was wrong. Sure enough, after I checked into my hotel and made sure the smoke alarm in my room didn’t work, I took to the streets. Once there, I did what many men who face certain death do, and that was walk around San Francisco looking for a good place to take a shit.
By the way, holy god what a dump.
I’m from Philadelphia. That is to say, yes, I know a dump when I see one. The rat hole by the bay takes the cheese. I wasn’t out and about for more than five minutes before getting my first alert. Then, another alert. It was kind of funny. If you held your phone over the top of the pile the app alerts you that you just stepped in shit.
And, these weren’t some solo dumps, either. It’s a pile. It’s a steaming, mountainous, pile of shit.
So Steve Harrison.
And, for the better part of multiple hours I carelessly danced, pranced, and avoided every steaming, mountainous, pile of shit I could find. And why not? My warrant was signed. My date with the chair sealed.
Who cares if I still had no idea how I was going to do the unthinkable? If I still didn’t know how I was going to beat GREAT SCOTT?
I guess I figured if I was going to go out it would be on my terms at least. Well, at least as far as my shoes were concerned. However, the more I thought about my impending doom at the hands of Thanos’ father, the closer I would get to stepping in a pile of shit. I tried to stop myself from worrying, and think about all the other Scotts Data named besides himself. I laughed, and for a little while found joy in his little robot voice “Scotting” around in my head. Then, I even came across someone actually taking a dump which glitched the app for some reason. I filled out a little feedback and sent it in because I was in such a good mood.
Then it happened.
Then, I stepped in shit.
No, it wasn’t a pile. It wasn’t a mountainous, steaming, pile of shit.
It dawned on me.
I figured out how I was going to beat GREAT SCOTT
Sadly, it was one of those things you had to write down on a piece of paper to remember.
I’m typing so of course I forgot it.
HOTv Mobile Studio(My Hotel Room)
Confidence is Key
“I didn’t know how it was going to make me feel. Being a double champion of HOTv. I suppose I could get used to it. I suppose it would be fun.” — Jiles’ Journal, October 16th, 2022.
I haven’t changed.
I only brought one outfit.
I have retreated back to my room, and away from the piles of shit. After telling Bobby about the app and how it worked he was upset about not making the trip out here. The thought of pooping anywhere was intriguing to him. I’m still not convinced he doesn’t fly out the day of the show, just to surprise me.
“Hello again, High Octane. It is I, KING COOL, Cancer Jiles, the lighter of matches, the breaker of streaks, and one half or one third or all of your HOTv Tag Team Champions depending on how you want to look at it.”
I know how I would look at it.
“I come to you with a plea.”
Ha. The balls on this guy.
That is me.
“I know. Who am I to ask a favor? Who am I, who left and prospered, to ask of you? Yet, here we are. Together again. And since we’ve come all this way I figured I’d ask one little, tiny, itsy bitsy favor.”
I take a beat.
It’s not even eleven o’clock yet.
“Yes, it is in regard to Scott the Great. See, I asked my other people, the ones who have given Great Scoots a run for his money out in Vegas, how the fuck do I beat him? Of course the general consensus was ‘die dick face can’t wait to watch you get butchered I promise I won’t be erect’.”
“So, my plea is to you, High Octane. My loyal, and wonderful, and lovely following of Octanites. I face Scoots the Great in the main event at Chaos Thirteen. Before the match, I will poll the audience with the many different ways for me to win. And I mean many. Then, during my always fan favorite entrance I will reveal whichever way was voted on the most by you, and it will be how I defeat Great Scott.”
Spoiler, it’s just going to be “other” a bunch of times.
“That is how confident in my abilities I am. That is how very little I view Great Scott and his shades as a threat. There isn’t a pit inside my stomach. I will sleep soundly the night before the match. If I had to guess off the top of my head– probably eight to ten hours because my cool is straight brimming.”
I guess we’re not “capsing” anything anymore.
I SMILE. I don’t know who is holding the gun to my head but it sure feels like a shotgun or something decapitating of the sort.
“I’d have a worse chance against one of the Corvette Kings. That’s a fact.”
“Be sure to tune in this Sunday, and don’t forget to vote! I’m that confident that I’m leaving it up to you! See ya then!”