- Event: Refueled XVIII
Prologue
I’m not mad.
I’m not.
Not in the slightest.
I don’t hold grudges.
I don’t blame, or point fingers.
Zion and Hollywood did the deed. Kudos to them. Let them go and blow each other across the great expanse known as the internet for a job well done. They’ve earned it. Plus, it should keep me motivated to win our titles back.
Should.
But for real, props to DMB and the Hollywood Boyz Choir. No matter how repugnant I find them and their stupid fucking name, I swear I’m not mad about them winning.
Promise.
RICK and Zeb gave it their all, and it just wasn’t meant to be. It’s not easy defending the championship. It’s much easier to win the title, than it is to defend it. That said, my Bandit brethren fought admirably, with fierceness and determination. While the outcome is not to be celebrated, the way in which they tried is. I’m proud they are both Bandits, and I’ve never once thought they should each rot in hell for dropping the ball.
Promise.
Now I know.
You might think, but Champ, you won them after going to Dan’s for Thanksgiving Dinner and eating everything in sight, and they lost them. To Zion. Again, Deez Nutz Darin has beaten the Bandits for the High Octane Tag Team Championships of the World. You gotta be mad!
And you’d be wrong.
I swear.
And yes, Dan’s for Thanksgiving Dinner is the equivalent of eating shit in hell. And for two months that’s what I did in order to win those belts.
Still though.
Not mad.
—
The eGG Den
09/10/2020
8:58 PM
UNREAL
Here we ALL are.
Me, Dooze, Bob, Zeb, RICK, and the empty shelf where we would be keeping the Tag Team Titles. We’ve gathered inside the hallowed walls of the eGG Den to decompress and figure things out. Dooze and Bobby are seated at our luxurious folding table. They won’t be saying much, if anything. Neither will RICK or Zeb, who are standing at attention at the end of the firing line.
I don’t speak either of the latter’s languages.
And then there’s me, walking around in a panic like I can’t find my car keys AND I’m trying to find the TV remote.
“You’re out! And you go stand in the fucking corner! NOW! You’re lucky you didn’t get pinned. I’ll say that.”
Yeah, maybe I lied and I’m not too happy with how things shook out.
“You… and your BIG. STUPID. WORTHLESS. PILE OF CANADIAN VOMIT FACE. I don’t know how we let you in. Whatever pictures you have of Doozer… I don’t fucking care. Show the world. It’s not worth it. He could be wearing an Eagles jersey for all I care. I know he has one. I gave it to him as a gift when they beat the Patriots in the Superbowl.”
WOW.
RICK IS RED.
Bright, red.
So is Dooze.
Different reasons though.
If only I gave a shit about either.
“You guys had one job. WIN. That’s it. WIN. Better yet. Just don’t lose the fucking titles. Walk out of the ring and get counted out. CHEAT, and make sure you get caught! BUT NO. You had to get pinned. BYE. BYE. HARD WORK. SEE YA LATER, VENGEANCE. Nice fucking knowing you.”
I spit.
RICK is such a large man, the loogie winds up inadvertently hitting a part of his shoe. He looks at me like he might try to kill me, and I could care less. I dare him, and all four hundred and twenty-five pounds of uselessness to do so.
Call it match prep, 101.
“WHAT?” Inquisitive, I continue, “Now you want to do something? Now you want to puff out your chest? Was last Saturday too inconvenient? Sorry, but too late. Get the fuck out. You’re done. I never want to see your face again.”
I pause.
And a COOLER head prevails.
“WAIT. Wait. I’m sorry. I lied. I didn’t mean that. What I meant to say was the next time I see your face I hope it’s at your wake.”
Is it fair I’m pinning this whole thing on RICK?
I don’t give a shit.
“After everything we’ve been through and everything we’ve lost. CBD. Bobby’s brain. Calling our shot. PLAN FUCKING Z. Your stupid French. And you two go out there and lose? You lose my title TO FUCKING THEM! THEM! Let me be perfectly clear. Darin Zion and Brian Hollywood won most likely to jump off of a cliff while jerking each other off in their High School Senior Yearbook, and you two lost the Bandits’ belts to them. I can’t.”
I don’t know if RICK leaves, or if Zeb eventually makes his way over toward the corner.
I storm out of the castle before anyone else could.
No, I wasn’t fearful for my life.
I just had somewhere else to be.
—
HOTv Studio
09/10/2020
Whatever time it is when the moon is at its highest.
Howling
Yes.
I do agree.
The fern is quite handsome, the love seat is every drop of 97red, and the Maestro sitting before you has been in better moods.
ACTION~!
“Hello again, Dan. It’s been a bit. I must say, I haven’t missed you.”
Ya know what they say? Nobody misses a coward.
“Who am I kidding? Of course I’ve missed you. After all, you are the one who did this to me.”
I run my hand through my ghostly gray hair for all to witness.
“Yes, even in the light of my triumph you managed to leave a dark, lasting impression. That’s commendable, Dan. I can appreciate that. Though I think very little of you, no one can say Dan Ryan didn’t go down without a fight when he got his ass nailed to the mat by Cancer Jiles.”
The first time.
“I doubt this next encounter between us will be any different. In every facet imaginable.”
A coy wink.
Then, a thoughtful pause for pondering’s painful sake.
“I can also appreciate how busy you’ve been since the last time you were the topic of conversation on my couch. Quite the bee, if I say so myself. Obliterating the Murrays, getting that signature Pay Per View win you can finally boast about, talking back to Mom… all the while becoming an icon, again. That’s some full plate stuff.”
I chuckle.
Bread plate in comparison.
“You better watch out, Busy Bee. If you keep it up you’ll be a back tattoo and a cleft lip away from the higher ups putting you on the cover of the next edition of 97Red.”
I sigh.
I’m no Will Graham.
But I do like to slay dragons.
“That is, of course, if I actually succumb to your best shot this time around.”
Unimaginable pain shivers across my body. You can’t see it because I’m a professional and my 97red jumpsuit does a great job at concealing both my cowardice and bravery. So does the medicine I smoked before sitting down. And the T-Shades.
“I wonder, Dan. Who between us does the stipulation benefit more? Does me being able to cheat out in the open without hesitation or circumstance to slow me seem like it would benefit you or me more? Does the fact I don’t have to wrestle you benefit you or me more? Does the fact I can smash my LSD championship across your happy to see me face, and not only will it be legal, it will be encouraged, benefit me or you more? Does the fact that every single Bandit can join me in the center of the ring, and each of us can have our way with you using a variety of positions and instruments mean bad things for me?”
I snicker.
“Or bad things for you?”
A shrug.
I really don’t know.
“I also wonder, Dan. What color will my hair be after one of us has done to the other what needs to be done? The first time I survived you it turned gray. This time, after surviving you again, will it return to its once golden, COOLYMPIAN glory? Or, shall I falter, will the blood stain be so bad I become your new stepchild?”
I shudder at the thought.
“Time will tell, old friend.”
Hopefully, there is a friendly hand on that clock.
“I do know this much. I won’t be wearing a brace.”
Pucker.
Kiss.
Goodbye.
—
Epilogue
You know what?
I am mad.
Fuck The Hollywood Boyz Choir.
Go sing a new song, you fucking daises.
Fuck Scottywood.
Yeah, I bet you thought I’d forget about you. Don’t you worry, friend of mine. I’ll have ZERO issue confiscating the USS Octane and sailing it all the way to Alcatraz just to ruin your dream of holding MY LSD championship without having to beat me for it.
Fuck Hughie Freeman.
Ya know what? Actually, thanks for knocking out RICK.
Fuck Alcatraz.
I’ve vacationed in worse places. Anybody remember the short run Chaos had on HOTv?
AND FUCK THE FIRE BREATHING, RED DRAGON.
You want to thank me for helping you change? Start with your fucking diaper, shithead.