Ever seen a man castrate himself?
If not, now’s your chance.
Meet Scott Woodson.
A grown man, once a self-proclaimed Hardcore Artist, who went to such extremes living up to his namesake he practically bled his way into High Octane’s Hall of Fame. That’s the same man who now censors himself before saying naughty words in front of his new found friends.
A fucking shell of himself, and that’s coming from me.
Yet, as much as I absolutely HATE to admit this; HOW’s COO and I aren’t that different.
Not following? Trust me, I get it. Let me elaborate.
It’s time to reveal some regrettable realizations.
Scott, I think it’s fair to say we’re both past our prime.
You can lie to yourself about it, if you want. Seems you really enjoy lying to yourself lately, anyway. Believe Cancer or not, I don’t blame you. I used to do the same. Until I realized how much it was holding me back. Now I choose to face the facts, and adapt. And while it might look like you’re doing that to the untrained eye, but not The Dooze.
Not only can I see you, Scotty, but I can see through you.
Because I went down that same path you’re traveling now. And I know where it goes. If you’d like some insight for yourself, ask Stevens. He’ll tell you my record since I tried being someone I wasn’t. Spoiler alert: it’s my overall record at High Octane. And it ain’t good.
Moving on to another scintillating similarity; I think it’s pretty clear to any who’ve followed our careers, despite collecting our fair share of singles straps, the two of us would consider ourselves more akin to tag team action. But that’s not even the best part. Somehow, we both managed to piss off our fickle friend named Fate to such an extent, we both got Cancer.
While we enjoyed our impressive, record-breaking runs outside the AllState Arena. I gotta give it to you. While my name only appears next to Jiles’ on the shortest Tag Title reigns in the history of High Octane’s. You took the same guy and held those same belts for one of the longest reigns.
The mental slow clap I’m giving you right now hurts worse than trying to watch you and Rick Dickulous collaborate. More on that later.
I, too, used to drink myself stupid.
I still do, but I used to, too.
But unlike you, Mr. Woodson…
I don’t quit.
I don’t give up.
I don’t restart.
I dig in.
I drive forward.
I Dooze. Then Abuse.
Oh, and just to put icing on this bizarro-world cake I’m baking… my name’s Scott, too. Who’d have thunk it?
Doozer Is obviously a nickname.
And unlike you, I’m not afraid of mine.
The eGG Basket
Post Queen Interview, Pre Cancer vs. Woodson
After returning from the stressful endeavor of Lindsay Troy’s attempted recruitment, Doozer enters the Bandit’s locker room with the vigor of an eighty year old after climbing an aggressive flight of stairs. He grabs his Red Sox hat, hanging in his locker, along with an unfamiliar, gray hoodie. After throwing it on, we see baby blue text across the chest,
Pray for Bobby
The old man rests his tired bones on the comfort of a padded chair back in the Bandit’s locker room. Jiles got it for him as a joke, but truth be told he sits on it whenever Cancer’s not around.
Doozer grabs a remote control from the wooden table next to him and turns on the television.
By default, it’s a live feed of the action down at the ring.
Just as “I AM THE COOL” begins to play, the smart menu pops up. The selection moves over to the Netflix application, then clicks into it. Doozer scrolls down to the Recommended section, then smiles at the sight of:
23 HOURS TO KILL
Don’t worry, there’s nothing to spoil before the part that catches his attention and hits a little too close to home. Coincidentally enough, after a very over-the-top Bandit-esque entrance, Jerry touches on a topic as he welcomes his audience.
“Thank you. Thank you very much. Oh my god. What a moment. What a feeling. What an accomplishment this is… on your part.”
The quick spin summons a slight chuckle from our aged ring vet. When he’s spent, it doesn’t take much. Jerry carries on,
“What you just went through… going out, dealing with natural obstacles of life… difficult people, arranging, planning… annoying friends, many of whom you’re sitting with right now.”
The crowd chuckles, which almost forces Doozer to as well. This time it was a fake laugh, though. Empty, almost, much like the room in which he sits. Jerry doesn’t stop,
“Who, for some reason, required unnecessarily complicated back and forth… communicating about who’s going, when do we leave, and how do we get there. Why don’t you pick me up? Why don’t I pick you up? It’s on the way. It’s the opposite direction. My car. Your car. One car, two cars. When are we gonna eat? Did you eat? I didn’t eat. You gonna eat? I’m starving. I’m stuffed. I haven’t eaten a jolly rancher all day. I need something solid.”
A legitimate laugh from the old man. The bit reminded him of interactions with Bobby Dean, pre-coma of course. Jerry continued,
“Why are your friends so annoying? The people YOU have chosen to be with in life? It makes no sense! You’d get rid of all of ‘em. IN A SECOND! If it wasn’t even a BIGGER pain the ass to find NEW people, and learn about THEIR annoying problems THAT THEY never do anything about!”
That last line, weirdly enough, hits a heart string. The shock causes The Dooze to hit pause. He slumps in his chair. His skin turns pale. His blue eyes turn gray and grow distant. Then, he thinks out loud,
“Huh. Jerry’s right. I chose these guys…”
Images of forming the eGG Bandits with Cancer Jiles from over a decade ago flash in front of his mind’s eye. He smirks as the timeline in his head continues, specifically when they recruit Bobby. From bursts of yolk to shining titles, yellows and gold engulf him
“For better or worse… these idiots… are my idiots.”
The smirk turns into a full fledged smile.
“And I wouldn’t choose another set of idiots if I could.”
With that last fleeting thought, Doozer finally snaps to. He points the remote toward his small TV, ready to hit play. Then, he remembers:
One of those idiots is wrestling right now. And he’s not in just any regular match. This one’s big. This was for the whole group of idiots. Sure, that never seemed to mean much to the idiot in the ring, but the painful reality of what happened the last time Doozer didn’t watch one of his idiot friends’ matches, well… we all know how that went down.
He’s still wearing that Pray for Bobby hoodie, for example.
So instead of hitting play, Doozer swerves and switches the source back to the show’s live feed.
With Jiles still on the mat, Scott approaches him and grabs his legs. He holds each leg up under each arm and shouts,
Scott Woodson: FUCK BOSTON!
Backstage, Doozer jumps to his feet, grabbing the Red Sox hat on his head and turning it backwards. “I’ve cut a bitch for much less.”
The COO twists Jiles over, locking him into his version of the Boston Crab…
Joe Hoffman: New York Crab from Scott Woodson! This could be over!
Cancer Jiles writhes in pain, turning beet red as Woodson leans back and increases the pressure of the hold. Before even getting checked, The COOLympian furiously shakes his head in anticipation of being asked about tapping.
He begins to crawl, inch by inch, closer to the ropes.
Woodson shakes his head in disbelief.
With one last gasp, Jiles thrusts forward and stretches his right arm nearly out of its socket.
Benny Newell: Holy shit, Cancer just grabbed the rope! I can’t believe he got to the ropes!
Scott Woodson, absolutely furious, runs up to Hortega giving him an earful like an angry MLB manager. After covering Joel with spit, he turns back to his opponent and-
Benny Newell: TERMINAL CANCER! TERMINAL CANCER!
Backstage, Doozer fistpumps like a young Tiger Woods. He quickly looks over each shoulder to make sure he wasn’t seen.
Joe Hoffman: Of course.
Hitchin stands, but Rick Dickulous quickly grabs his shoulder and pulls him back down. Jiles goes for the pin!
Backstage, Doozer’s hands shoot toward the ceiling like he was just another Cancer Jiles fan. “He fucking did it! Ha! Oh. Wait. He fucking did it.” Another double shoulder glance quickly follows.
Benny Newell: I can’t believe it! Jiles just picked up a HUGE victory for not only himself, but the entire Egg Bandit clan! They lovable losers have qualified for War Games!
As the bell rings, Dickulous gives a nod to Hitchin and they jump up from the announce table, ready to pounce on Jiles, but he rolls out just in time and high tails it up the ramp. You can slightly hear him yelling at Doozer in the back for not learning his lesson.
Joe Hoffman: HATE wanting to get a piece of Jiles after the match… but Jiles was one step ahead….
Benny Newell: Who the fuck is that?!?
Just like that, Doozer’s jubilation ceases to exist. Both hands quickly find his forehead, running back through his hair in despair.
Then his pale skin turns red as he witnesses HATE pounce on Jiles.
His gray eyes turn electric blue.
And he hisses, like only the corniest early ‘90s hero could,
Within the blink of an eye, the old man rips his shirt off and is off to the races. One step after turning the corner, out of the locker room, Doozer passes Jeb. The young gun, still clearly star-struck from the Egg Queen Interview, nearly suffers whiplash from his elder bandit sprinting by.
Zeb shakes his head, snapping to it, then sprints after the elder Bandit toward the ring entrance..
On their way out of the AllState Arena, Doozer taps on Bobby’s shoulder and snaps his head away from him, the universal sign men use to say, we need to talk.
Dean, quick to pick up the hint, calls out to Jiles, “Awesome win tonight, buddy. I can’t believe you were able to get us into the War Games! I think I deserve a celebratory snack after saving your ass though, but don’t worry, it’ll be something sugar free. Catchya later boys.”
Doozer smiles, then ropes Bob in before he can make his getaway. Pulling Bobby close he whispers, “I have a … lil secret.”
Bobby pulls out faster than he did with his last side-chick, which was at least 10 years ago. Doozer shakes his head dismissively, patting his formerly large friend on the back.
“That time Jiles and I were at each other’s throats, while visiting our friend? Y’know, that time when you made that absurd beeping sound.” Bobby tried to look innocent, but Dooze could see right through him. “It’s okay, man. I get it. I don’t blame you one bit.”
Bobby sighs in relief. Doozer chuckles, and continues,
“I still can’t believe Jiles bought it, I really thought he was smarter than that. But who knows, maybe those T-shades of his block out all that bullshit from both directions. Can’t be sure, but I decided to take advantage of the opportunity you created. So I carried out my friendly duties, without even you knowing I knew you were okay! Just to see how Cancer would handle the situation!”
When Beautiful Bobby Dean looks at you like you’re deranged, you’re in trouble.
Doozer seems completely oblivious as he continues, “But Jiles passed the test!”
The old man’s arms spread eagle in joy.
“And now we gotta lean, mean Beautiful Bobby Machine!”
One of Bob’s eyebrows spikes up.
Doozer keeps going, “I’ll admit, I was a little pissed when I realized you were giving us the go around. Then, on second thought, I couldn’t really blame ya, Bobbo. Totally your M.O.”
Dean flashes a smirk to his old friend.
“Plus, once I realized you were acting, I checked the tapes, cost me a few bucks, but I saw you flying around that room like a gymnast going for gold! I’m just pumped you made the comeback spot work out with Greg. And then we get booked against Woodson and the Canuck!”
Doozer takes a quick breath.
“I mean, that beep felt as fake as Rick Dickulous actually being a true blue member of HATE. I honestly don’t know what’s more unbelievable: Scottywo… I mean Scott Woodson being… well… whatever Scott Woodson is right now. OR any possible explanation for whatever led to Ricky Dicky to join HATE. I can’t tell who’s more desperate, Dicky Dicky for wanting to join or Mr. Woodson for accepting him in.”
“Just think,” Bobby begins, “We could have gotten Ricky instead of ole Zeb! Can you imagine? Zeb Martin filled with HATE?”
Doozer shudders at the mere thought.
Remember when the eGG Bandits beat Rick Dickulous and Matt Klazzic in their return to High Octane? Turn It Up Express were, unlike DICK HATE, a semi-established team that had a shred of chemistry.
Remember when Bobby Dean cut his weight in half and brought more energy than the maximum output measured from a contained EyeMax emission?
“Sorry,” as Cliche Rick would say. But that one was a trick question. Because that’s never happened. Well, not for a long time at least. But it’s about to happen this weekend.
Do not take this warning lightly, Team Sorrywood…
The cracks in the shell of the Bandit brethren have sealed one hundred times stronger.
And there’s nothing Rick, or his maple syrup sorries can do about it.
When all is said and done…
Bandits gonna egg.
HATErs gonna HATE.
Doozer’s gonna Dooze.