For Pete’s Sake

For Pete’s Sake

Posted on July 2, 2020 at 5:03 pm by Bobby Dean

June 20th,
Day of War Games
After the Inevitable

It’s a very difficult position I find myself in.

On one hand I’m utterly destroyed. Mentally. Emotionally. Spiritually.

But on the other hand, I can’t help but feel a little triumph. I mean, for weeks, leading up to War Games, I was telling the boys I was not the right man for the job. For weeks I told them to pick someone better. Anyone would be better. Just pick ANYONE but ME for Pete’s sake!

No. No, each and every time they would just smile, pat me on the back, and tell me that I had this. Me? Beautiful Bobby Dean, in a multi-man tag match, on a pay-per-view, with the tag team titles on the line. I had this…


Yeah the only thing I had was a handful of Andy Murray’s nuts as I tried to free Zeb, hoping that he would be able to break the pin in the ring. Apparently I need to work on my nut fondling skills because Andy no sold the shit out of me. He was nowhere near distracted enough to release his hold on ole Zeb.

Hell, now that I’ve had a few minutes to process this whole debacle, maybe *I* should have been the one to break up the pin? Maybe *I* should have done a better job in this shitshow of a match and who knows maybe we could have won? Or, let’s be honest with ourselves, maybe *I* should have done more to convince the boys to take me outta the match in the first place.

Maybe I should have kept all that luscious weight and then I wouldn’t have even been a consideration for that cluster fuck? I wish I could go back and… Well…

What’s the old saying Mamma Dean would always tell me?

“Go on son, you go on and wish in one hand and shit in the other. Then you tell me which one gets filled first.”

You can say a lot about Momma Dean, but she sure did have a knack for putting things in perspective.

One thing I haven’t told anyone, I did follow her advice once. I definitely filled my hand in shit before my wish came true. Which is funny, because at that moment I wished that I wasn’t holding a handful of shit.


June 26th,
2 days after War Games
2 Day Before Refueled XXX

“Have you heard anything from the big guy?” the Maestro asks his friend Doozer, as the two men walk along the hall, phone in hand.

“Nope, kinda has me worried.” Answers the Invisible Man as each of them stare down onto their respective phones. “I’m kind of glad you agreed to check in on him with me. I don’t think I can face him by myself. Not after War Games.”

The phones both ding, as the image changes. The flashing blue dot appears closer and closer the further and further they walk down the hall of the shittiest hotel they’ve ever seen. And trust me, the Bandits have seen a lot of shitty hotels!

“You think he went off the deep end?” Doozer can’t help but ask, even though he’s scared to death of the obvious answer awaiting him as he looks around at the debilitated walls. “Wait, scratch that. He’s definitely gone off the deep end.”

Cancer can’t help but nod as the two men approach their destination. Room 117. Well, they assume it’s 117 because the numbers are missing, but the GPS is showing that they’re exactly where they need to be.

“You sure we can’t just pretend he’s fine?” Cancer asks with a bit of trepidation in his voice. “I kind of like the whole outta sight, outta mind thing. Ya know?”

Doozer looks at his shaded friend and comes very close to agreeing with him, but suddenly reaches out and offers a quick rap to the door with his knuckles.

“See, no answer. He’s fine!” The words rush from Cancer’s mouth not a mere second after Doozer knocks. The Dooze no-sells Jiles and reaches out to try the handle, unsurprising the knob turns quite easily and the door swings open.

“Come on.” The Old Bull offers quietly, walking into the room with a reluctant COOLympian on his heels.

The duo doesn’t make it far before Doozer suddenly stops in his tracks, causing a distracted Maestro to bump into his back. Neither can believe their eyes as The Dooze shouts, “Bobby! Nooooooo!”

There, on the floor of this roach-infested, pay-by-the-minute motel lies Bobby Dean, sprawled out in his birthday suit. Empty gallon cartons of ice cream mixed with empty pizza boxes mixed with empty buckets of chicken mixed with empty family sized bags of various candies all surround the comatose body belonging to The Beautiful Man from Honalee.

“What in the world!?” Doozer asks no one in particular, his voice filled with awe.

Without saying a word, Cancer Jiles slowly begins to tip toe backwards towards the exit. Knowing that there is not a single thing he can accomplish by staying in that room of horror. Doozer, oblivious to his retreating friend, reaches his foot out and gently nudges the unmoving body before him.

“Uuuuhhhhhh.” the body moans out, causing Doozer to sigh in relief. “UUUuuuuuhhhhhhh.”

“Oh Bobby…” Doozer laments with overwhelming sadness. “What have you done?”

The Dean releases an epic belch.

“Ate.” Bobby begins with a muffled voice as he’s still unable to lift his head off the stain covered carpet. “My. Emotions.”

“He’s definitely gone off the deep end man,” Super Dooze announces, looking behind him to where he thought Cancer Jiles had remained. Only to find the room empty and the door slowly closing shut. “You, mother fu…”



June 28th,
Refueled XXX

It’s another milestone of a night for us.

Doozer is amped.

Cancer is all business.

Zeb is pumped up, and ready to cheer.

Me? I’m still fucking depressed, but as Cancer loves to remind, it’s not just about me! And as Doozer likes to say, over and over, it’s okay! Everything’s A Oh Kay! K?

Need to sleep on that?

Well, they aren’t 0-5, now are they!?

“Alright boys,” the Maestro begins, as we circle up, standing in the parking lot, moments away from making our entrance into the arena. “This is our night. The Bandits might have hit a couple bumps in the road the last few days. Weeks. Months. Years even. But tonight, things change. Tonight, we put things back on track.”

“Man, he really gets you pumped!” Doozer says, nudging me in the side with his elbow. I’m only able to offer a lackluster grin in return. “Come on buddy, chin up. I have a feeling this is going to be a great night for us!”

And with that, Doozer gently pushes me along as the quartet of Bandits make our way into the arena, ready for battle.


June 29th,
Day after Refueled XXX

There is a time honored tradition amongst the Bandits. On the nights that we succeed, we meet up for pancakes at the nearest IHOP the following morning. The service is always atrocious. The food is deplorable. But the conversation flows as lively as the Orange Juice! And like I said, it’s tradition!

After last night, at Refueled XXX, with both Doozer and the Maestro able to score themselves a couple of victories, yeah, I’d say we are definitely deserving of a celebration. So here we are, sitting in a booth, waitress at hand, menus open and bellies rumbling. Well, my belly anyway.

“Yes, I’d like an order of Smiley Face Pancakes with an extra smile. An order of the Stuffed French Toast, extra stuffed. Oh and an order of the 2x2x2, with extra 2.” I call out with intent.

“So a 4x4x4?” the old matronly waitress asks in a dry, tired voice.

“Let’s make it a 6x6x6, instead.” I order, closing my menu and offering it up to her bored hands.

After the others order, and the waitress walks towards the kitchen, the boys look at me with concern in their eyes. Zeb looks towards Cancer; Cancer looks towards Doozer; and Doozer looks at me, finally sighing as I study the tray of differing syrups, wondering which ones I will go with today.

“Uhm, bud?” Doozer asks tentatively. “You okay?”

I look up at Dooze, smiling wide. “Of course man. Why wouldn’t I be?”

“Well.” Doozer stops, wondering how he should ask such a delicate question.

“You go’n get all big boy on us ‘gin?” good ole Zeb takes the bull by the balls and plainly asks what they were all wondering.

“What?” I ask, appalled. “No! Why do you think I would be doing that?”

“Man, you’ve been stuffing your face non-stop since War Games.” the Maestro offers up, as if I weren’t aware. I simply wish they would leave me be, but obviously they don’t plan on doing any such thing. At least not any time soon.

“We’re worried about you.” Doozer says, probably for the hundredth time. A phrase that I’m growing very tired of hearing.

“I’m fine.” I say tersely.

“I hope ya get fat again!” Zeb offers with a huge grin. “I hope you get e’ben bigger’n befo! Like MEGA fat fat! Dadgum Goodyear blimp big!”

Cancer and Dooze look at their newest friend, mouths ajar in shock, as Zeb simply nods his head and continues to smile, picturing the Marshmallow Man from Ghostbusters in his head.

“You have nothing to fear.” I begin, but am forced to stop, as the waitress arrives with our food. Once she’s gone, I continue, but simply shake my head in defeat. “Listen, I’ve got a lot going on, up here,” I point a fork towards my temple. “This is how I deal with it. Emotional eating. Stress eating. It’s my coping mechanism. I feel like I let you guys down and until I’m able to justify it all in my head, I’d appreciate it if you would cut me some slack.”

The others don’t say anything, as we all begin to dig in. But I’m not totally oblivious to the look that Doozer and Cancer share between the two of them. Maybe I should be worried? Maybe with me costing them the tag titles I should be putting my resume together? I wonder if 24k is looking for a slightly overweight, out of shape, past his prime, fun loving guy?

An hour or two later, the four of us are sitting back laughing. My mind is calm, like only a plate full of pancakes and french toast can do. Talking about random things, as Doozer is keeping himself apprised of the recent going ons in the normally dormant High Octane News department. After reading a particularly interesting story he gives off a harrumph.

“Guys, I think I’ve got an idea.” Super Dooze offers with a thoughtful look on his face. Almost as if we can all see the magic light bulb igniting over his head.

“K.” Cancer says, causing the table to laugh uproariously.

“Seriously, listen to this…” he says, leaning forward, ready to explain his plan.

But, before he can say a single word, my phone begins to ring. Seeing an unfamiliar number I clear my throat and hit the ANSWER button. “Dr. Bobby Dean’s office, how may I help you?” I answer my phone, causing the others to quirk their eyebrows.


The sudden call bellowing through my phones causes me to drop my phone. It clangs and clatters along the table top as I look up at my stablemates. Each of them grinning from ear to ear. It was the call we were expecting.

The others begin to chatter with excitement as I reach down and pick the phone up and place it to my ear once more. “Understood, sir. So, will two o’clock tomorrow afternoon work for you? The address is on the card, if you have a quick look there.”


And with that we hung up.


July 1st,
3 Days from Refueled XXXI
DePetrillo’s Dojo: Tampa

The gym is in immaculate condition. Probably the cleanest gym I’ve ever been in. As athletes all around me are in various routines of exercise and training, I find myself in the corner of a ring, as various wrestlers stand across me in an opposite one. Each of them look at me with trepidation in their eyes, but it’s mixed with excitement and anticipation.

Guys and gals who have been training for the past few months look anxious, ready for the chance to wrestle against someone who some have considered a veteran in the game. Sure, I’m currently sitting with an 0-5 record, but for Pete’s sake, it should be a walk in the park to teach these ladies and gents a trick or two. Right?

“Alright, listen up.” Tiffany Crenshaw, co-head trainer, announces, drawing the students’ attention as I begin to lose my focus. “We’re going ten minutes each, or until the first pinfall or submission. I’ll officiate. Joz’ll timekeep.”

Once Doozer explained his idea, Cancer about jizzed his pants. Sure, he ribbed Dooze a bit because that’s what we do when the Old Man comes up with an idea. But shortly after the fun at Doozer’s expense ended, he was on the phone, wheeling and dealing.

We have had an open invitation to visit any gym that was run by the eGG Queen herself. I honestly don’t know how he managed said invitation, and I’ve never bothered to ask, because I never imagined needing to take her up on it before. But Dooze laid it out clear as day and Cancer made it happen.

I just never knew she had 3 gyms!? She must be doing something right, that’s for sure! We couldn’t get a hold of her, fucking Eric Dane. But we did manage to convince Tiffany that our invitation was legit, and that our loyalty to the eGG Queen was unwavering.

Obviously we have never taken her up on the invitation before, so this Tiffany was a little weary. Some fat guy is just going to show up on her doorstep, telling her he wanted to do a thing with some of her students, and that it was okay’d by the eGG Queen. But hey, it was all a part of whatever cockamamie idea Doozer cooked up, that Cancer backed 100%, saying that this was probably the only way for me to beat MJ Flair this week. Once Tiffany finally agreed, it was time for me to make a special trip.

Of course the others didn’t join me on this expedition. Claiming that this was something only I could do, alone. Somewhat of a trial by fire that every young man needs to do. I think it was all horseshit. If I were a gambling man, I’d probably bet the HOG that they were just tired of my mopey ass dragging them all down.

The idea?

Simple. Have Bobby (me) wrestle in some warm up matches with students at one of her gyms. And with both Six Time Academy locations temporarily closed, their Tampa trainees started working out at DP’s, giving the eGG Queen’s gym more than enough bodies for my needs.

This was supposed to help build confidence. Because apparently that was the one thing I’ve been lacking. The boys claim that’s probably what’s been holding me back all these weeks. How victories over randos no one has ever heard of would help, I’m not exactly sure.

*cough* *cough*

But, I guess, if it’s good enough for MJ Flair, it’s good enough for me? And with ‘Big’ Mountain Range refusing to take my calls after the Old Man read that news article, I guess DP’s was the next best thing. Or at least that’s what Doozer thought when he came up with his “great” idea.

“Bobby!” Tiffany calls out, probably not for the first time considering the impatient tone. “You ready?”

I look across the ring and notice the number of students have dwindled down to one, as the rest now stand on the floor outside looking on, anxious to see what a man of my talent is capable of.

“In this corner weighing in at 230 lbs….” Tiffany mock announces, setting the scene up for the students.

I feel bad interrupting, but I’m a stickler for an honest representation, and well, the past week and a half have not been too kind. “Uhm, I’m sorry, but it’s 258 pounds at the moment.”

“Hm?” she says, confused by my interruption.

“I don’t weigh 230 pounds anymore.” I get the sense that she couldn’t care less by my correction, given that she simply shrugs her shoulders, turns around, and points at my “opponent.”

“And here’s Otto Phil. Ding. Ding.” She then steps back and waits for the match to begin, playing the role of Matt Boetcher. Let’s just hope she counts faster than Boetcher and Hortega for Pete’s sake!


Same Day
Just Hours Later

. . .

What a day. What a day. What a miserably long, waste of a day.

Five matches. Five!

Otto Phil. Great Scott. Bill the Gardener. Lunchbox Larry. Even Gary Tongueman, DDS, recovered from his CecilMurder.

Five matches. Five losses.

“O and TEN…” I mutter to myself as I sit in my rental car parked in front of DP’s. “So much for building confidence.”

I couldn’t believe it. Five rookies, with completely obscure names, none of them with a shot in hell of making it in a place like High Octane, let’s be honest, the only place that matters. Maybe they could make it in a place that employs the likes of ‘Big’ Mountain Range, but then again why would anyone care?

Five randos, all having pinned me. Clean. With ease!


Why do I even bother?


July 4th,
Refueled XXXII

I didn’t have the heart to tell the guys what happened at DPs the other day. I feel guilty lying to them, but on the other hand, I don’t think I can handle any more of their pity.

Dooze will pat me on the shoulder and tell me everything will be fine. Caner will roll his eyes and remind me that there is an upside to being in a group, they’ll get the victories while I offer my moral support. And Zeb, well Zeb will just smile and offer to take me fishing again. Telling me that a day on the water will make all my problems disappear.

So I lied. I told them that I whooped all their butts and that it was exactly what I needed! Of course, I’ve never had much of a poker face, so I’m not sure how believable my story was. At this point, who really cares? It was July 4th, Independence Day. And instead of shooting fireworks and eating a million hot dogs, I was preparing myself, mentally, to be 0-11.

“Happy Independence Day guys!” Cancer greets the group, but before any of us can respond he look at me and simply asks, “You ready for tonight, big guy?”

I’m assuming it was rhetorically because no sooner than he asked he turned his attention to Zeb, and the two of them started walking towards the arena, leaving just me and Doozer behind. Doozer is grinning at me, as he watches an excited Zeb hurrying towards the entrance. He’s like an excited energizer bunny. Hopping from foot to foot, chomping at the bit for his match with Kendrix later tonight. While I, on the other hand, look like my dog just died.

Makes me wonder, if my dog just died, do you think I could get out of wrestling tonight? You know, I’m emotionally unstable and all that. I kind of wish I had a dog that could die, just to see if that would work. But all I have is a stupid cat, and she’s a piece of shit. Runs away anytime I try to pet her.

Better yet, think we could freebird rules all of my future matches?

Dooze, in all of his cheerful glory puts it in the simplest of terms when he pats me on the back and says, “Buddy, you have absolutely nothing to worry about now! A. you’re opening the show. You thrive at jerking the curtain! B. This isn’t a pay-per-view show. C. You only have one opponent to focus on this time. And 4. There isn’t a single title anywhere near this match.”

He’s smiling at me like the cat who just ate the canary as he grasps me by my shoulders holding me in place. “Plus what’s the big deal? It’s only MJ Flair.”

Uhm. I never thought of it that way.

The big guy goes to gently nudge me towards their awaiting friends, but I don’t budge. I simply smile and gesture him to go on ahead. Without a word he nods, and makes his way, leaving me behind to my thoughts.

Only MJ Flair.

I think that’s a lot of people’s problem. They don’t give her enough credit. Even I kind of dismissed her out of hand when I got the call that she’d be my next opponent. I remember her in our UTAH days, and it’s hard for me to reconcile the old MJ with the current day. I can definitely tell a difference between the two, and I don’t know if it bodes well for ole Bobby Dean. She seems to have more bite in her bark now than she did back then. She’s more vicious and determined than I remember her ever being before.

And she’s now dropped the dead-weight that was High Flyer! She’s definitely a woman on a mission! And trust me, I know ALL there is to know about dead-weight.

I’d like to think that when she beats me, she’ll have earned it. I mean, I’m not going to just roll over for her. Hell, I’ve been in the ring with Mike Best just as she has. We both went to war with someone some consider the Best. In the end our outcomes were the same; we came close to triumph, only to be thwarted by the #9 Time champ in the end. Sure her match was on a much grander scale than mine was, and she’s certainly not 0-5, or 0-10…

She’s had her own string of bad luck, just like me. She ran into tough opponents that got the best of her. And I’m sure it’s messed with her mind and rattled her confidence, but irregardless, she’s still here.

It took one match for her to turn it all around.

One match.