First Encounter Assault Recon

First Encounter Assault Recon

Posted on April 15, 2021 at 11:29 pm by Cancer Jiles

So much has changed.

…except if you’re Deserving Danny the Donut Destroyer. Then, nothing has changed. See, if you are DDtDD, much like you were a few weeks ago, you are still a miserable failure and a gigantic mongoloid of a man who has accomplished FAR less than I have while enjoying ten times the opportunity. I kid. Twenty times! Ha. I know. In reality I’m an unfair litmus test. I better go cry a decisive river about it.


To think, and I almost forgot about that shitbag potshot from DDtDD’s HOTv True Hollywood Story.


Good thing I didn’t, too. If so, I would have not been able to use this incredible upcoming segue.

I bet Mom is pressing hard for Dan to link his arms with hers and the rest of her scabs. I can already hear Lady Troy winding up for the pitch. ”Red Rover, Red Rover, send Danny Boy over.”

Poor Conor is next to her quivering with his pants pissed. “ARE YOU SURE HE CAN BEAT HIM AGAIN MOM? I’M RUNNING OUT OF BED SHEETS!”

Trippin’ Teddy is on the other side, French braiding her hair with his feet. “Bodhi, brah. Gel tabs.”

Zeb, nowhere to be seen, is an unfortunate casualty of war. “Scurrrrrrp badilleep berta derp. Pop. Largemouth bass.”

Such a silly, pathetic, bottom feeding, rag tag, no good, Unionized group of pond scum. The entire stinking lot of them. Present, and future additions included. Maybe I’m getting ahead of myself. Maybe, Mongo Dan will want to join my new team instead. I know for a fact Lee would love to have him. He talks about him all the time. Not to mention I’m sure it would beat playing D&D with the Local 214. At the very least, The Best Alliance could always use another towel boy.

As it stands I only have seven to choose from.



No one is safe from the Champion’s Wrath.

Not my new buddies.

Not potshot Danny.

Certainly not Conor Fuse. However, in Conor’s case I’ll be nice for now and let him sober up some. Give him a chance to check his Discord. Maybe he can eat a vitamin or two, score a couple chicken dinners in Fortnite, and pull his fucking head out of his ass by the time he gets to the end.

Or maybe I won’t.

Refueled LVII
Fine Riding

It’s the second Refueled after March to Glory.

The show is long over. I’m safely inside Lee’s limo. Yes, that limo. The one with the tinted black windows, and that’s painted 97red. The cards are back on the table. Proverbial. There’s no table in the limo. Nor are there any cards. Just a couple of crystal highball glasses, a large bottle of poison, an old eye patch, and the two of us.

As Champion, I of course fit the bill. My new briefcase is snugly attached to my wrist, the T-shades cling to my clean shaven face, and my hair is/remains without an equal pairing.

Across from me sits Lee Best, his blazer, and his death gaze.

“I got to tell ya.” I inform the horned God. “I prayed about it all week. Zeus. Hades. All of them. I wanted to make sure I was making the right decision.”

Intense. Serious. Daily. Constitutional. Prayer.

He simmers. Here’s the thing. Usually, when Lee Best offers you something, you sprinkle some salt on it, smile, and eat it right up. Then you excuse yourself to the bathroom, stick your fingers down your throat, and vomit in the toilet because of course it was shit. That’s what he does. He offers you shit and watches you gratefully eat it. That is the type of man he is, and that is why he is loved. HOW. Ever. This time around, with his generous pile being so large and steamy: the full backing of the Machine, The Best Alliance, War Games… pretty much I do for him, he does for me, and we both PROSPER beyond belief. More so me, but we both would.

I think.

What I’m getting at is I think I can stomach it.

“With that said.” I keep my voice low to draw him forward and really capture his attention. “It sounds great. It’s mutually beneficial for the both of us. But.” I hesitate, not because I don’t want this, but because I’ve never seen Lee Best so ancy before. I don’t want to say it’s like he’s desperate. Agitated maybe. On edge possibly. Maybe it is the new eyes. Maybe I knew who they belonged to.

Doozer? Is that you? Can you see me? Probably not.

The GOD of HOW quickly bellows, “Look you saw what happened to end the show tonight…… I need you to make up your mind and choose a fucking side. You belong……no….. you DESERVE to finally take what is…”

As much as I hate the thought of rubbing elbows with Jatt Starr, Chief High Octane Medical Device Project Manager John Sektor, Hughie “Three Shakes” Freeman, CLEAVE GARRISON, Clay Byrd, STEVE ROLODEX, Redrum…

I’ve held this belt for close to a month now. It has done nothing but fuel my wildest machinations. I want it all. Everything. The Best protection around. All the keys to all the doors. All the smoke from all the fires. To stand on the bones and ashes of those who came before, spit, and place my couch right there like a USA flag on top of the moon.

And as the WORLD CHAMPION of the BEST ALLIANCE I can get it.

So, before I can reach out and touch tips with the Devil, I stretch my arms over my head and yawn to help cover a gargantuan sigh of relief.

And then a tornado hits the limousine.

“What? Am I boring you?” He perks up, defensive, and turns back into the Lee I know. “Get the fuck outta here then.”

Damn it I should have just sighed.

Now to get out of here quickly before it gets any uglier.

“Next week.”

USS Octane
Ship Life
Morning Announcements

There are a few perks that come with being High Octane World Champion. For instance, in the event of a tie, you retain. If you get counted out, DQ’ed, whatever, you retain. You need to be beaten, most times anyway, in order to lose your championship.

The Champion’s Advantage.

There’s also appearing in the main event on most shows, but that really doesn’t apply to me since I was doing that already.

Humble brag.

Well, that is unless you lose those main events away.

Sad face.

There are also a few perks that come with being in the Best Alliance. You get to interact with the genius that is Lee Best. You get a cool pin. You get full access to the USS Octane: the facilities, the on board gym, the mess hall, the deck, the clay pigeon range– you name it.

But most importantly, if you are the World Champion AND in the Best Alliance, very much like I am, well you get to issue the morning announcements over the PA system on the ship.

I know. It’s cliché, but it’s true. It’s all about the simple things.

You might remember the PA system I use to deliver the morning announcements. It was the same one I heard laughing at me after I lost to Dan Ryan a couple matches back. Yes, even though I was in the Best Arena I was still able to hear it.

Basically, it gets the message across.

As such, here are the USS Octane morning announcements.

“Hello. Good morning. Today is April 15th. The time is 11:59 AM.”

Audible fart noise.

“Before getting underway with how big of a failure Steve Solex has been, I’d like to take this moment to thank our gracious benefactor, Lee Best, for not only being the wonderful person that he is, but for also providing all of us with this unique opportunity to interact with one another.”

Cue the applause app on my phone.

“I just got done telling him I’m used to carrying a loveable band of merry losers across the finish line, so I’m excited to see how I fare with a bunch of pet rocks and a wet blanket for this go around. Should be a gas.”

You know who you are.

I snort, as if there is a challenge that even exists that’s too great for the High Octane World Champion to conquer.

“Anyway, I am your World Champion and these are your morning announcements.”

I cough to clear my throat.

“There will be a safety awareness meeting on the east plank at fourteen hundred hours. The hope is we can get Steve Harrison to volunteer for the demonstration part of it. Also, Basic Irish Step Dancing hosted by Hughie Freeman will be held in the mess hall after lunch. Remember to bring your salt shoes if you own a pair. There’s construction going on in level two, so stay out of that sector. Yes, I know level two is the gym, but the construction is Steve Solex trying to rebuild his career. We’re taking donations, and there’s also a death pool. It’s ten dollars to get in and Laser has all the details.”

I shuffle through my notes.

“Oh, also of note and while we’re on him, today’s fun fact is about Tonka Truck Steve. Did you know he puts mustard on his cupcakes? It’s no secret he doesn’t like the sweets, but, as he explains it, you are what you eat. Yellow cupcake.”

Drum roll.

Same applause from before.

It’s the free version of the app .

“Movie night will be making its triumphant return. In honor of our second newest member and his glorious return to High Octane and our hearts, out on the deck at twenty hundred hours we’re going to watch JPD’s thriller of a match against…. is this right? Huh. Wow. Okay. Sorry about that, but we’re going to watch JPD’s thriller against Scott Stevens from the Gas Leak era. Popcorn will not be provided.”

Fart noise.

“Let’s see. Oh, the clay pigeon range is back open after yesterday’s accident. Moving forward both Redrum and Laser will not be allowed to participate. We wish Redrum a speedy recovery after being accidentally shot in the ass by Laser.”

Machine gun firing noise.

And they really do have an app for everything.

“Finally, in important and pertinent news because it pertains to me, Conor Fuse thinks he knows fear. Just wait till he gets to the end of this and I put a whole new spin on the truth being scarier than fiction. This concludes your World Champion’s morning announcements. Get you game up, Losers.”

Good day sir.

Refueled LVIII
Coronation Day

It’s the third Refueled after March to Glory.

The first one on the road.

I wish I would have known that. I sent a beautiful flower arrangement to The Best Arena with the hope of paving over any lingering troubles from the prior week. By sent, I mean I went to the Best Arena to give them to Lee.

I was also going to tell him the good news.

I’m coming home!

Luckily, I got there early enough to still get my ass a one way plane ticket to Missouri. I showed up at the Enterprise Center right as JPD was making his re-debut.

I thought…

That’s it. I’m cooked. He’s moved on. He went and grabbed a Hall of Famer, a former Champion who has weird hair, yes, but was decorated no doubt.

I was devastated.

I threw the flowers in the trash, which I probably should have done at the airport since they had to go through the metal detector and were just a bunch of stems at this point. I spit, like I normally do in these types of situations, and soon realized Uber was surging because of the show letting out.

Three hundred dollars to go back to the airport.

Then, I got his text. It was short, and pretty much asking where the fuck I was. Then, before I could even answer, he sent me another text telling me to meet him in the parking lot. I of course think that he’s setting me up to get jumped by his band of addicts, soilers, sulliers, crossdressers, deprivers, killers, thieves, gypsies, cowboys, mongers, and Jatts.

But what choice do I have?

Needless to say I was thrilled when I showed up and it was just the limousine waiting back there; and not the West Side Sharks. I did wait a minute, and look underneath the limo to make sure there wasn’t a stick of dynamite waiting for me to open the door.

There wasn’t.

So I opened the door, Pandora’s Box, the gateway to hell– whatever you want to call it.

And accepted my role as World Champion of the Best Alliance.

Now you know, so when your grandchildren ask you years from now about it, you can tell them the true story of how the most memorable moment in the history of wrestling almost didn’t happen.

All sobered up, Conor?

Better go splash some water on your face if you’re not.

This is it. The end. The part I warned you about in the beginning, and again in the announcements.

Also, Tylenol is a hell of a drug.

Just saying.

Conor, I want to tell you something that will hurt. It’s not a threat, but a truth. That truth is that no matter what your buddies might say they aren’t pulling for you. They want you to do good, yes. They want you to reach out and go where Conor Fuse has never gone before.

Fly even Higher.

But, they don’t want you to win. No, I’m sorry but they want to pat you on the back, tell you that you gave it your all, and as a sign of their appreciation you get to enter the cage first at War Games.

Lady Troy is a viper.

Teddy has been sitting there with a hard on for Count COOL ever since I Termiblasted him.

Zeb, why even bother entertaining such ridiculousness? Who am I Bill Nye?

None of them want Conor Fuse, High Octane World Champion.

They are liars if they say otherwise.

She wants Lindsay Troy, High Octane World Champion.

He wants Teddy Palmer, High Octane World Champion.

And again, I won’t even bother with Zeb because we all know that’s never going to happen.

But that is the truth, Conor. Your friends don’t want what is best for you. They want what is best for them. Sadly, whether you like it or not, whether you want to or not, you’re going to give it to them because you aren’t the guy, Conor. I know, because I’ve been in your shoes before. Maybe in Tokyo when you realize everything I told you to be true, but not this Saturday. Not in my first defense as High Octane World Champion. Not after I touched dicks with the Devil. Not after doing what no one else can do, YET THE FUCK AGAIN, all while under the burden of failure meaning Death by Data.

A fate worse than banishment.

Now that’s something to be afraid of, Conor.

Nothing you’d want to try and copy.

Truth be told, I’m not so scary in the ring. I’m not imposing like DDtDD. I can’t go like Mike Best, or John Sektor from a few years back. I don’t possess raw power to break bones in half like Kostoff.

In fact, fuck man, I am rather unimposing.

Right up until the moment my mist enters your eyes. Then, I become a real nightmare. A problem. That guy. Then, you don’t know when it’s coming, but rest assured you know it’s coming. Seconds seem like the most agonizing hours of your life. You become your own worst enemy. Your eyes burn. You frantically paw at your face trying to scratch free a glimmer of hope, and just when the delicate thought of maybe you’re going to make it out of the dark—


Right in the kisser, Conor.

Game. Over.

Dreamcast awaits.

Put some more quarters in.