RICK faced Zion and, ironically, came up short. On his way back up the ramp, The Three Word Warrior stepped through the curtain and encountered Bobby Dean, who was waiting to cheer him up. Why? Because that’s what Bandits do.
At the very least, that’s what Bobby does.
Then, like cowards painting a yellow fence, the Bruvs attempted to ambush RICK in his moment of peril. Bob the Beaute confused the shitbaggary for a friendly hug and mistakenly stepped in front of the hit.
And so the Beautiful Man from Honalee was taken out by the Hollywood Bruvs.
Zeb Martin, the young, virile, sensational Bandit upstart, and RICK, the Canadian Colossus formerly filled with HATE, escorted Bob to the hospital. Strength in numbers was the idea. That, and Bobby has a history with head injuries.
Both of them.
The remaining Bandits, Old Man Dooze, or OMD for short, and The Maestro stayed behind. They still had to compete in a LADDER match. Duty called. It would also be remiss to go without mention that during said match, RICK valiantly returned to the AllState Arena to have his new found family’s back, so to speak.
This chain of events, however, left Zeb remaining with only dear Bobby at Northwestern Memorial.
The ever snakey Bruvs, wishing to sssssseize the opportunity, sssssssslithered their little, reptilian dicks out of their Hollybush and went to the hospital, looking to finish the job. Luckily, and quite possibly during Bobby’s self-requested prostate exam, Zeb spotted them. So, naturally following the footsteps of his mentor, General OMD of the Bandits, the kid concocted a plan. He quickly scurried back to Bobby’s room, threw him in a wheelchair, and under the guise of a Southern Doctor specializing in penis trauma, the two were able to escape. Presumably. It’s known that they escaped, just not how.
The Southern Doctor bit is an educated guess.
Then, Zeb sent Doozer a text briefly detailing what just happened.
We’ve all read it.
“…What the fuck is Plan Z?” — Cancer Jiles, pre-LSD.
Granted, hightailing it across four or five state lines was the original Plan Z. Martin had it all mapped out within seconds of their daring escape from the hospital. The first step would be to rent a hybrid sedan, something he assumed would immediately throw the Hollywood Bruvs off of their trail. What dumb redneck would be caught dead in a Prius? Not to mention that it would also save them a few bucks on all the gas it would take to get as far away as humanly possible. The combined annual salaries of less than six figures did not exactly afford the luxury of a chartered Silver Eagle.
However, Zeb sorely underestimated the persuasiveness of one Robert Dean. The same man, who only a little over a month ago had convinced him to scream the phrase “suck, fuck, and Zuck” at the top of his lungs in a quaint French bistro. And the same man who only last week had sworn that “she’ll really get turned on” if he sent his current Tinder flirt a photo “in these panties I just happened to find.”
“Fool me once, shame on…shame on you. Fool me—you can’t get fooled again.” – Zeb, probably. Or a past President.
Either way. At least one of them got fooled again.
Bobby didn’t have a gift of being able to manipulate anyone that he wanted. Just a certain naive, young hick. And you Best believe he took full advantage of it.
“If we can’t get my head checked out by a licensed physician,” Bobby whined like an incessant pre-teen, “there’s no way I’m going to make it. Besides, didn’t you hear? They also have shrimp cocktails now!”
“There ain’t no doctors at a haircuttin’ place,” Zeb countered.
“Haircutting, nail salon, and now massage therapy,” The correction from Dean came with a pointed finger toward the sky. “That’s why they’re open so late now.”
“And shrimps,” Bobby affirmed. “Look, we’ll take an Uber there. I’ll make sure everything’s ship-shape with the old skull. You can eat your entire weight in cocktail sauce. And then we’ll get out of here.”
Zeb sighed as he glanced downward. “You promise we’ll git out there after yuh git yer rub?”
The eGG Den
Three days have passed since Plan Z took effect.
Despite the Bandits’ best efforts to contact Zeb and Bobby, we haven’t had any success.
Thankfully, I’ve got the two biggest matches of my career ahead of me to take my mind off of it.
Are they dead? Did they both contract Hepatitis C by now? Are they in a ditch? Do they not know I’m facing Cecilworth Fallfarfromgrace for the LSD Championship in four days? How does my hair look? Did the Bruvs catch up to them? Are they aware I don’t need this added stress? Do they not know I still need my tuxedo? Are they even going to pick up my tuxedo? Do they not know my hair is on a yolk-yellow alert?
In order to help quell my wild and Earth shattering concerns, Doozer and RICK have joined me inside the sturdy comforts of the eGG Den.
Today, we venture into the great outdoors.
That said, it’s sweltering outside.
Just like where the Bruvs will be vacationing after No Remorse.
The sun beams down on Doozer and I while we sit on the back patio and watch the chickens run about the yard.
A tried and true method to help a Bandit focus.
The small, weed-ridden concrete patio and it’s adorning furniture are nothing fancy. As evidenced by the wooden, ragged, beat up, creaky chair Doozer’s rocking back and forth on. Not to mention my trash picked, Tommy Bahama beach lounger that could make it as an extra on Jersey Shore.
The beleaguered Bostonian lounges back. The sleeves on his eGG Bandit t-shirt are rolled up to avoid a farmer’s tan, and his jorted right leg is crossed atop his jorted left counterpart. As for me, I’m T-shaded, gray hair slicked, and daring Ra to burn my baby oiled body. My legs are outstretched atop a makeshift footstool that is better identified as RICK. The big man is down on all fours, with my bare feet resting on his massive back.
The bottoms on my bare feet are getting a steam therapy treatment courtesy of the smoldering concrete they’re being pressed against. RICK, instead of being down on all fours is running around the backyard exerting himself greatly and putting forth the maximum effort. Who knows? Maybe he’ll catch one. I did tell him I would teach him a new word if he did.
What the D stands for in LSD.
“Can we track his phone?” I concerningly ask before exhausting all options. “I’m sure Zion still knows a guy.”
“No. Zeb turned off location services and besides, Zion is a singer now.” The eldest Bandit matter of factly responds.
“Damn it.” I spit. “I’m going to the studio tomorrow– the very last thing I need is Cecil hammering me over loyalty with two Bandits in the wind.” I shake my head from the fear of such a scolding. “What do you think the chances of them showing back up are?”
The Dooze firmly answers me as if he knows something, “Zero.”
Not getting the answer I’m hoping for, I stomp my steaming feet in distress and inquisitively begin to speculate, “What the fuck could those two be doing? The nurse that was looking after Bobby told me Bob was barely lucid for the time he was there. Where could they be with Bobby like that? How far could they have gotten? What low rent, dungeon of death, glory room with no cellphone reception have they found refuge in?”
Before Dooze can respond, we innocently share in a laugh at RICK’s expense. The behemoth of men trips over his own feet and takes a tumble during his graceful chicken dance. RICK, embarrassed and on all fours, shoots us a glare which nips the jesting at his behalf in the bud.
“Who knows?” Doozer plainly responds.
“Plan fucking Z. More like Plan Clusterfuck. Wait.” Hastily, I jump up from my lime green beach chair and stunningly look at my cohort. “Dooze. What if he does have his head on right? Maybe he’s not making contact until after we take care of the threat?”
Stoic, the Dooze nods. “That’s not a bad idea. Actually, and especially for you, that’s wicked smart. If they aren’t here, we don’t have to worry about them. But still, why not tell us?”
“I don’t know.” Struggling to find the answer I stammer on, “He’s young. You know how young people are. They love that drama.”
Like a beacon of hope…
I’m the one your momma warned you about….
When you see me I will leave you no doubt.
I’m the coolest man to have ever walked this Earth….
I’ve been the coolest since the day of my birth.
I am The COOL!
“Holy shit it’s him!” I exclaim, looking down at the caller ID on my cell phone. And yeah, my entrance music is my cell phone ring.
At least I’m not a coke head.
The lights are on.
The stage is set: potted fern, hemorrhaging 97red couch, still shot of a full moon on the wall mounted flat screen, team ladder photo next to the portrait of the fallen.
There’s a new edition.
Behind the fern, a one hook, yolk-yellow, coat rack.
With an ascot hanging from it.
And of course there’s me. The company man in his company red tracksuit with the sunglasses to kill for. The Maestro of COOL. Nail of the Bandits. Friendly Face Painter, and now, LSD Champion.
“Hello again, Octabandits. Your newest purveyor of Loyalty and Sacrifice has continued the trend of living up to his word. They said it couldn’t be done. They said no one gets out of Article 50. They said he’d never lose again.”
I lift my shades to show my eyes rolling.
“And for close to a year and half… they were right. Then, in a matter of seconds, they weren’t.”
“As much as I would love to sit here and relish in the moment, and celebrate my first ever singles title in High Octane… I can’t. I’ve been robbed of doing so by the Bruvs. They’ve struck yet again. Thankfully though, the day all of us Octabandits have been painstakingly waiting for… suffering, and agonizing to get to… is finally upon us. Friends will be avenged. Blood will be spilled. Unimaginable loss will be shared. And once again, the eGG Bandits will be Tag Team Champions.”
“Suffice to say, it will be a good day’s worth of work. One, that I’ve been looking forward to clocking in to for quite some time.”
So good in fact, I need to stop thinking about it in order to prevent the rabid erection forming in my pants.
A blackened log of mucus goes soaring through the air.
“I can remember a time when I didn’t even know what your first name was. Silly, blond me. Now, though. Now? Now… Now, you’ve changed my ignorant mind and I’ll remember it for forever.”
A golf clap.
“There’s some credence in that fact, Jesse. You left a lasting impression on me. You went from, does he burn a guitar in the ring, to Public Enemy Number One who burns Bandits for a living.”
If you’re responsible for the kidnapping and murder of one Bandit… not to mention the cheating of another… let alone, sending a third to the hospital… yeah, you’ll find yourself at the top of our Most Wanted list.
“Not an easy feat if I might say so myself. Congratulations on that. You should be proud. Maybe, you really are one half of the greatest tag team ever like you so proudly boast.”
I smile at making a mountain out of molehill.
Oh, and don’t you worry, Mikey. You’re number one, too. I just knew how bad it’d hurt, making you seem irrelevant, by going after Jesse Fucksticks Cantrix first.
“So, Jussie. Oops. Sorry, I mean… Jesse.” A concealed, Chicago wink. “Since you have managed to do to me what not many else have, how shall I repay the favor? A Frappe? Another golf clap? Maybe… JUST, maybe, I’ll tell you about the impression us Bandits are going to leave at No Remorse.” Shrug. “This way, you can tell your buddy about it and the two of you can plan for what comes next. It’s the very least I could do after everything all of us have been through.”
It is quite a lot.
Steal the titles. Kidnap CBD. Cheat Zeb. Burn CBD. Belt smash Bobby…
Not to mention the slanders.
“However, in order to properly do that, well, even I, The Conquistador of COOL and EL ES SOON TO BE DOUBLE Deez Nuts Champion, will need some help.”
It’s true. The Bruvs are formidable. Cowards, but formidable ones. They are also the champs, and have the hearts and frappes of Mongoloids everywhere in their corner.
There’s almost too much for one man to cover.
“And who better to assist me in such an engrossing endeavor than my sworn brother of the yolk and shell…”
Cue the drum roll.
“MAI BUDDY, DOOZER!”
Flashing applause sign.
The Dooze comes rolling out in style; kicking back on a 97red couch of his own. In order to distinguish the difference between the two, his couch has big spoked wheels on the back of it, and a handicapped railing on the one side. Sure, it’s a joke on his age, but it also makes it easily stowable.
“What a sharp looking couch!?” I should know. I paid for it with my bonus check for becoming LSD Champion. Dooze got me there, and frankly I’m a little sick of him treading on mine.
“It’s not bad. I think it’s more 96red, and not 97. Could be my cataracts.” Before Dooze continues on with his subtle snideness, his attention is pulled to the Bandit Team Ladder Photo. He sighs, causing me to shrivel with worry. “I guess the good news is that soon enough we’ll have a new poster.” He then quickly smiles, and so do I.
He’s right. Soon enough, we will.
“Indeed, old friend. Indeed. At No Remorse, the Greatest Tag Team EVER, The Hollywood Bruvs,” We laugh. Both of us. A rare occasion. Obnoxiously, too. It was glorious. “Rest their miserable existence on the chopping block known as Total Eggsecution. After the righteous, yolk coated blade of the Banditine drops, and their severed heads fall into the bottom of an ashen metal barrel, they’ll have no one to blame but themselves.”
Three days later…
The Watson Mill Kid found himself disheveled and standing outside the delivery entrance in the back of the strip mall.
Bobby was right. Just as they’d pulled up to the salon, the once see-through windows had been covered with a thick purple curtain. A neon sign that simply read “MASSAGE” hung just beside the door, and right underneath it a piece of white poster board with the words “& SHRIMP COCKTAIL” taped to the window.
Where the Beautiful Man was wrong, though? It wasn’t going to be a quick in-and-out stop.
With a grin on his face the size of a grapefruit wedge, Bobby was quickly escorted to the back by “their most experienced deep-tissue therapist.” Who had just happened to be the same woman that Cancer Jiles specifically requested for mani/pedis on a weekly basis.
Poor Qui Ney.
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