My emotions have been on a rollercoaster for the last week. When I saw the Jiles vs. Best announcement for the World title, nonetheless, I about jizzed in my pants. Set aside the fact that I’m not happy with the COOLympian at the moment. Or the fact that every time I find myself in the presence of Mike Best I end up eating a god damn knee. Or the fact that Cancer has an opportunity to do what I couldn’t do at the Lethal Lottery. Yeah, set all that aside, and I can’t help but feel giddy.
Because I know deep down inside it’s going to be a GREAT fucking match.
But who do I cheer for?
“You’ve been quiet tonight, Pops.” the voice of my daughter draws me out of my contemplations. “In fact, you’d been weird all week. Is everything okay?”
“Yeah…” I mutter, still half lost in thought. “Have you ever wanted something good to happen to your friend, but you also kind of wish that they’d choke on a chicken bone?” My daughter gives me a look of horror. “Not like, a BIG chicken bone, that kills them. But a small bone that makes then struggle for a second, then leaves their throat irritated and they suddenly have Bronchitis or something…”
“No. Dad, no!” she answers as she shakes her head at me, her eyes full of disappointment. I shake my head at her, thinking of the day that she’ll be betrayed by her friend and she’ll suddenly wish her friend was eating some chicken at the moment.
I reach down into my pocket and fish out my phone. Pulling up the text exchange between myself and Jiles, one that hasn’t been used since Christmas time, where he shared a humorous video of a young lady tubing down a small snow hill and ends up doing a full scorpion down the hill on her poor little face. It was both adorable and cringeworthy but it still makes me chuckle just thinking about.
Just wanted to wish you good luck, I know you’ve got this one buddy!
My finger is hovering over the SEND button, but before I hit it a sudden GIF pops up. Sent from Jiles himself, which causes my eyes to go wide. The GIF is of Cancer Jiles kicking me in the face out of nowhere on the previous Refueled LII. The problem with GIFs is that they play on a loop. So the kick repeats itself again, and again, and again, and again.
Just wanted to wish you good luck, I know you…
Just wanted to wish you good…
Just wanted to wish…
Another Refueled is in the books.
I walk through the halls like I’m on the USS Octane, stumbling against the walls, bumping against people as they pass me by. My hands up to my head as if I hope to hold the world still by grasping the sides of my head. It doesn’t work. The world continues to spin.
I gain some odd looks from my peers as I stumble into my locker room and make my way across the room and to my open locker. There is an incessant ringing coming from my duffle bag, the noise cutting through me like nails on a chalkboard, or like the voice of Lee Best when he’s yelling at someone, so basically anytime he opens his mouth ha.
Reaching into the bag I pull out the damned thing and hit the button before placing it gingerly to my ear.
“OH MY GOSH!” the concerned voice of my daughter screams out at me, causing me to yank the phone away from my ear. “Are you okay!? Dad!? DAD!? DAAAAAAD!?”
Not risking putting the phone back to my ear, I answer, loudly, “I’m fine! Calm down!”
We both take a moment to breath, I carefully return the phone to my ear before continuing. “I’m okay, sweetheart. It hasn’t been the first time Mike has kneed me in the head. I’ll be okay once the room stops spinning. I’ve done so many Concussion Protocols that I’m pretty sure they’re just going to rename it to the Bobby Dean Protocols at this point.”
“Luckily you’re not in a coma this time!” My daughter says, pointing out the obvious glass half full approach. Before my daughter can press on, the door to my locker room bursts open with such a force that I’m actually surprised it remains on it’s hinges. A scowling Cancer Jiles storms into the room, his eyes never leaving mine. At least, I assume he’s looking at me, considering he’s still wearing his stupid mirrored T Shades.
“You miserable fuck!” Cancer growls out halfway across the room.
“I’ll call you back.” I say into the phone, but before I can cancel the call my daughter is screaming out with glee, “Uncle C! Is that Uncle C Dad? Let me talk to him!”
Being a new weekend father for the first time of my life, I’m suddenly realizing that there is one word missing from my vocabulary when it comes to my daughter. And that word apparently is, “no.” Instead of cancelling the call I simply hold it out, causing Uncle Jiles to stop and quirk his eyebrow at me.
With a tentative hand, he reaches out and takes the phone. Looking at it as if it could literally explode in his hand any second now.
“Uhm?” he asks into the phone.
“Uncle, you were great out there tonight!” my exuberant daughter calls out cheerfully. The mask of utter anger and rage shows a small crack as the corner of Cancer Jiles’ mouth turns upward. “You almost had it won! But hey, please don’t hurt my dad! Please! You aren’t going to kill him, are you!?”
“Well,” Cancer stammers as the chink in his armor is re-forged and the scowl returns full force. “It’s a tad bit complicated. In fact, I was just about to… talk… to your dad.” I can feel the heat coming off his shades. “He’ll call you back when we’re done. Promise. Good talking to you again, have a good night.”
Without waiting for her reply Cancer ends the call and without missing a beat he reaches back and hurls the phone past my head, where it crashes into the wall behind me and bursts into a few hundred pieces.
“But you promised?” I say to him as if he would care. The look on his unamused face causes me to carefully rise to my feet.
“What the fuck was that, Bob?”
I sigh, squaring my shoulders back and facing the raging man I once called friend. “My daughter. She wanted to talk to you.”
Chest to chest, nose to nose, fists clenched at his side, Cancer stands before me seething. “Not that! I know who she is! The fucking match! I had him. The belt was mine!” It hurts hearing him say it out loud. “Is it because you just couldn’t help yourself?” he asks, but before I can answer, he cuts me off and continues his rant. “You see me about to win something you never had a shot in hell of winning, so you decide to ruin it for me. You miserable pig!”
“That’s eggsactly what it is,” I answer with a sneer that is foreign to my face. It’s an ugly thing. Needs practice.
“All you had to do was count to three you treacherous fuck.” he says, such frustration and loathing evident in his voice. “And then, because the sun always shines on Bobby Dean, you get another chance to make up for it and you can’t keep your fucking mouth shut! The screw you three count, sure, even Steven for the kick. But then I pinned him, Bob. HIM. It was over with. We had the first ever Bandit World champion!”
I can’t help the scoff that escapes my lips. The absurdity of it all just overwhelms me. “What does it say about the Bandits if the ONLY Bandit that’s left is standing right in front of you!”
Of course he looks over my shoulder and at himself in the mirror.
Why wouldn’t he?
I continue, “Dooze hasn’t been heard from in months, and even then, he signed with the BA and left us high and dry. Zeb is off playing with his new Teddy Bear. CBD is in pieces. Shell was murdered. LT smelled the rotten stench and stayed away. RICK is in France.”
“HOW FUCKING DARE YOU!” He roars, his face as red as an oven.
It falls on deaf ears. “And the spotlight has never been big enough to shine on your ever expanding ego!”
“My ego!?” the enraged man of COOL calls out in disbelief, cutting me off before I could answer. ”Look in the fucking mirror for once, Bob. This was it. Our chance. And you ruined it. Now my fucking job is on the line, and I have to catch lightning in a bottle again to save it. I hope you’re happy about that, you venomous worm.”
Cancer Jiles, once my bestest friend in the whole wide world, simply turns around and walks out of the room, shaking his head in utter contempt. Before the door slams on his way out, I can hear him say to someone, “I hope he likes deck duty.”
I simply collapse back into my chair, hands to my aching head once more.
Good news, I didn’t get kicked.
Bad news, his salty footprints probably stained the floor.
Is this thing on?
Tap. Tap, to the proverbial microphone.
No, seriously, is this thing fucking on? I mean, how long have I been spewing forth the vitriol of my current weight situation? Then, I hear the voice from hiiiiiiigh above, the voice from GOD himself. Calling down from the Heavens, calling me a fat fuck…
I know he’s blind, but is he also deaf? Because, like I said, I haven’t been subtle about this. Short of hiring a skywriter, I figured EVERYONE and their mother would know by now. And here I thought he’d be overjoyed! From all the people who have been pushing me to lose the weight, and take this a little more seriously, he’s been the biggest, and LOUDEST supporter. Well, maybe “supporter” is too strong a word. I mean, I am still just only Bobby Dean.
But maybe I’ve finally crossed that line with him. You know the line, the one that addicts, like Mike Best, cross when they get clean, then fall off the wagon, then get clean. That never ending, torturous cycle. Then when they finally do the unimaginable, they finally get their life together once and for all, you just don’t give a shit any longer. Clean, dirty. Fat, skinny. Blind… Well, what’s a good word for someone who’s not blind? Ultimately, it just doesn’t matter.
Maybe Lee has finally given up on me, for good.
I’ll be the next Darin Zion Matthews Zion? Or the next Lonesome Loser? Or maybe I can start selling breast milk now that Harrison finally gave up on that obnoxious schtick.
Man, it’s a good thing there are still one or two people out there that still have faith in me.
Those one or two people are the ones that aren’t counting the chickens before the eggs hatch. I get it. Seeing Bobby Dean vs. Sutler Kael. Shoot, the old me wouldn’t be counting the chickens, I’d already have their names picked out. As well as the names of their babies’ babies.
However, we’re talking about the new Bobby Dean here. The gung-ho, ambition fueled, Weatie eating mother fucking “Beautiful” Bobby Dean. Sure I’ve continued the ever increasing skid. Losing to Jatt and Simon, and whatnot. But that’s what I do! Sutler Kael refers to himself as the Undefeated Champion, well, I happen to be the Defeated Champion!
Because there isn’t anyone on the roster that loses quite like me!
Who has been given more title shots than me? I’ve fought for the LSD, ICON, Tag Team, and the World titles, numerous times. Of course I’ve lost every single one of them, but that’s what makes me the best Defeated Champion in the world!
I’ll be honest, I don’t know how to approach this with you Sutler. I mean, I have the fondest memories of your father. I feel like if I throw you under the bus it would dishonor the memory of Max Shell. But at the same time, if I don’t throw you under the bus, I’m just going to lose again, which wouldn’t be the end of the world for me. I mean, I do happen to do it well!
But, again, since we’re being so honest right now, I have to admit, I really want to beat you! Not because I don’t like you, but because I really want to prove Lee, and Cancer, and Mike, and everyone else who thinks I’m simply the comic relief, wrong. I’m not just here to provide the ha has, or the lols.
I’m tired of being the one to make others look good. I think it’s time I force Cancer Jiles to share that ever expanding spotlight. Shit, if he’s forcing his way into the top echelon, then why shouldn’t I try my hand as well?
You had a golden opportunity, Sutler; a bye in the first round of the prestigious DeNucci Cup. And in the end you squandered it away with a sub par routine. I know comedy, and I hate to say it, but your attempt at comedy was funnier to see than the actual execution, my friend. I sincerely hope that you phone it in the same way you did against Dan Ryan, this week against me. Because you see, I need this.
I’ve got something to prove.
I’m not the worst Bandit.
Cancer is NOT better than me.
I am not the fat, useless, waste of space that he constantly says I am.
I. Need. This.
I am awoken suddenly as the electricity throughout my house turns off. It’s an odd feeling, being deep asleep, dreaming of Mike Best kneeing the bejesus out of Cancer Jiles. But when the power goes out you feel it down into your core.
Sighing, I simply snuggle deeper into my comforter and try to go back to sleep. Sadly, that is simply not to be, as my bedroom door slowly creaks open and my daughter sticks her face into the dark room. At least I hope it’s my daughter, because I can’t see shit in the pitch black night.
“Uhm, Dad?” yes, it is my daughter, and she’s calling out with a slight tremor in her voice. “I think the power went out.”
My daughter apparently loves to point out the obvious. I’m curious if that’s a my daughter thing, or an all 14 year old girl thing? With a shrug, which conveys “what the fuck do you expect me to do about it,” well, a shrug that she can’t see, I move the sheets over and offer her a pat on the bed next to me.
Recoiling as if she were bitten by a venomous snake she calls out, “Ewwww! Dad, that’s gross! Can’t you just come sleep on the couch in the living room with me?”
“Why would I give up my bed… Yeah, fine, alright.” I say, grumbling, as I climb out of bed and immediately feel the bone freezing chill throughout the room. It’s at this point that I notice the *Ting* *Ting* *Ting* sound outside, as drops of ice fall down from the sky and collide with my house.
Sighing, I realize I’m going to be in for a long night.
I haven’t been able to sleep.
I have found out something new about my daughter. I should feel happy about getting to know her better, but the fact that it’s she snores like a freight train aggravates the fuck outta me. I’ve tried everything. I tried to wrap the pillow around my head and form ear muffs, but it didn’t do shit.
I tried to play music from my phone but she’d simply snore louder anytime I tried to drown her out. All I accomplished was draining the limited battery I do have, unnecessarily.
I tried nudging her awake and then racing her back to sleep but apparently 14 year olds can fall asleep with the snap of some fingers.
The last thought I had, was, maybe I can drag her outside and see if I can hear her snoring as she’s pelted with ice? The fact that I didn’t actually do that should win me Father of the Year, right?
This is turning into one of those serial killer diaries. Every time I put something down I feel my sanity slipping away.
My daughter is complaining that she’s cold. As if I wasn’t aware how cold it was in a house with no heat, during the worst winter storms in the history of winter storms (albeit in the history of Houston storms). I’ve been told that the power will be back on, eventually. Which does nothing for me.
I’ve gone to my sister’s house. She has power! YAY! In fact she never even lost power! Not even a flicker! Well, I mean to say, had. She had power. 2 hours after I arrived the power was no more. So instead of just me and my kid being miserable, I now had my sister, her husband, their three kids, and three dogs.
Misery does in fact love company.
I, along with an entourage, drove in a two car caravan down some icy roads to my mother’s house, because miracle of miracles, she had power! Had, once more, being the key word. This time, it was as I was leading the troop through the front door that the porch light flickered, followed by an all encompassing darkness.
My kiddo was picked up by her mother about 3 hours ago. Her mother has power, in fact, her mother has had power this entire time. And, come to find out, I am in fact an asshole as well as a horrible father for not bringing my daughter to her 20 hours previously!
I’ve returned to my home, alone, and ready to sit this thing out. Bundled in every stinking blanket I own, I sit here. It’s currently 46 degrees. I can literally see my breath misting the air every time I exhale. If this thing continues, the only thing I can hope for is getting pneumonia. So that I can give it to Sutler Kael this weekend and he can share in my misery!
Of all the times I wish I was still 400 lbs., now would that time. You never see a walrus complaining about the cold. That extra back fat would have been perfect at this time. But noooooo, stupid Lee wanted me to be skinny!
At least if I lose to Kael this weekend, I will have a ready made excuse for Cancer Jiles when he rubs my face in the fact that I can’t seem to win unless he’s there to carry me to victory.
Fuck I hate the cold.
But fuck me, do I hate Jiles even more…