COOL and BALLPOINT PEN have become COOLPOINT PEN.
The Salt Maestro has become The Walking Stick.
I did it.
All of it.
I touched dicks with the Devil.
We may have cried.
All of us.
The funniest thing about it – aside from everyone else now being profoundly fucked – I always thought I would be the one who did the calling. But nope, that wasn’t the case. GOD approached my pew, and asked me if he could sit.
During the Show
It’s the Refueled after March to Glory.
My white gold hair, and jet black T-shades are both on point.
I’m all by my lonesome watching the show on a flat screen inside one of those fancy, look Mom we made it, executive suites inside the Best Arena. Mostly, I’m here waiting for Crumb Newell to say something stupid. As soon as he does I’m walking my COOL ass down to the announce table and making a big to do about it because why the fuck not? I can. I got the Red and Gold now. I won’t be disrespected. Not without consequence and repercussion.
FUCK HIM. FUCK YOU. STEP RIGHT UP AND RUB ON MY RABBIT’S FOOT. SEE HOW LUCKY I AM.
The second match is just wrapping up, and thus far Benny has been surprisingly airtight. I know it’s just a matter of time, though. I can see the cracks starting to form. My T-shades allow me such an advantage.
More of a when, and not an if type of deal.
It’s during this time when I hear a knock on my door. Of course, I’m too busy intently listening to the broadcast to go and open it. So, in typical not to be bothered jerkoff fashion, I shout out to whoever it is, “Mike’s in Gen Pop with the rest of the dregs. He should be in one of the cardboard boxes there. It’ll be the one with the dusty white mirror and Corvette keys on the hook.”
And problem solved.
Then, much to my chagrin the door swings open. Insulted, I spit, and also refuse to turn and see who it is that thinks themself worthy enough to step foot inside my Champion’s Den.
“Get up.” I sigh. The idiot continues on, “Boss is here to see you.” Yeah, it’s Redrum if you couldn’t tell from the fact he speaks just like the other robo crony who ironically enough is supposed to be preventing these types of things from happening to me.
No wonder Laser’s stomach was hurting him all of a sudden.
Mongo is probably in on it.
“Jiles!” As soon as I hear Murder backwards murderously idiotic voice boom my name I’m mad I wasted my good spit just seconds ago, and settle for slapping at my knee in order to satiate my new found disgust.
“HEY.” He rattles off again as if I would listen or maybe even turn around this time. “Jiles! Boss is here to see you! UP!”
Back still turned, I ever so slightly shift my weight and address my unwelcome guest. “Lee Best doesn’t come to see you, you go to see him. Idiot. You should know better.” Uninterested, I continue speaking down to the upper echelon of USS Super Security. “That said, tell him I’m busy and I’ll catch up with him. And if that’s not why you’re really here, Laser is taking a shit so come back later to play Paper Airplanes, I Spy, or whatever game it is that you guys play.”
“Which bathr– Get up! Now! And what’s in that briefcase?”
Overwhelmed by his nauseating aura of blunt idiocy, I annoyingly shake my head NO; like I’m interacting with a migrant child who’s trying to communicate how hungry he or she is, but I’m too busy stuffing my peanut allergy face with Reese’s Pieces to care about it.
I sense Redrummy gearing up to shout again, so I raise my open hand to silence him. Then, I take a long, calming breath, and realize that much like Laser, it can’t be easy walking around as Redrum. Not too much fun getting out of bed I’d suppose. So, I relent. Kind of. I still refuse to turn around because you never know, but I do reassuringly say to him, “I’ll tell Laser when I see him that you stopped by to play Cops and Robbers. Promise. Now go. I’m starting to smell the death under your armpits.”
The clouds part.
“I told him not to slander you until we had the chance to talk……”
It’s not Redrum’s body odor I smelled.
Kill Bill Showdown Siren Going Off
It’s Lee Best’s eyes.
“……I was hoping to do that now. Mind if I come in?” He casually asks me like I have a choice in the matter. I don’t say a thing– not like he would care. No, all I do is sit there in my chair with my back to him, ghost white like Conor Fuse after Mom caught him in the bathroom with a baby sock twist tied around his junk and a game controller cord knotted around his neck. “Good. Thanks for having me. We need to have a talk.” He continues to softly speak. Intentionally of course. Still, it’s a nice gesture that isn’t lost on me. “I want to make this simple……… Easy. No tricks. No games.”
I chuckle– like anything involving GOD is ever that easy. Then, I nod for him to continue, more so to just appease him and reel him in a bit more before telling him to fuck off in grand fashion.
So, he does. “I’m ready to promise you the full power and backing of the Machine.”
And that’s when I perk up and turn the fuck around.
He, GOD, Lee Best, Owner/Operator, of course continues, “The only seat in the Alliance next to mine.” My eyes shoot wide open. Thank Zeus for the T-shades. “My unholy blessing, and your choice of War Games teammates should you still be the World Champion at that time.”
You don’t fucking say?
Somehow, instead of shouting yes, hugging him tight, and popping streamers like balls from sockets… I pause. On the table between GOD and his frothy subject(ME) is the briefcase Redrum so deftly observed earlier. The one I handcuff to my wrist in order to safely transport the World Title around.
It’s a new accessory.
Get used to it.
It’s also not fastened to me, so I decide to pop it open and remind all present of what’s inside. The treated red leather lazily tussles out the one side, and just hangs there like a bra strap on a door handle.
“Oh. There it is.” I speak as if I didn’t know. “And look… it even says Cancer Jiles on it now.”
My cordialness prompts him to sweeten the pot. “I’ll even give you the cake walk schedule to help get you there. One, maybe two defenses. TOPS. That’s it. And it’d be against cherry picked, j-feed. The type who skinny Bobby Dean can even beat.” I smile, long and toothy. I do like the sound of that. However, I hold firm, and keep my COOLYMPIAN reserve intact by keeping my eyes fixed on my reflection in the face plate. With a little disdain fermenting in his voice, he adds, “You think I like coming down here and doing this? I don’t. But I need that foot of yours kicking faces in for me, and that belt around your waist in my arsenal more importantly.” He waits for me to budge. I don’t. I’ll never again get to interact with GOD like this, so I’m going to make the most of it.
Yes, I’m aware and understand the whole double edged sword analogy.
“Let me think about it. It’s definitely an enticing offer.” I then dryly say just before pulling my gaze from the World Title and directing it back at him. “I’ll let you know.”
Redrum moves like a heated red rocket to hump a better answer out of me. Then, like a dog hearing its owner’s whistle, he stops dead in his tracks. “No. We don’t attack our own.” The big dummy retreats back. “Think about this, Champ. You’re a marked man. You’re the World Champion. There isn’t a target painted on your chest, or a bullseye on your forehead– it’s my belt that’s around your waist. With all the eyes on what you have… ask yourself…… who’s got your back? Doozer? Bobby? Zeb? CBD? RICK??”
I gasp, louder and more egregious after each Bandit namedrop. Except for Frenchy. We both share a laugh over him. Then, they leave me to sit there thinking about what Lee said.
This whole place is going to be out to get me because of what I have.
I don’t have any friends. I’ve kicked them, stabbed them in the back, or already spoken at their funerals.
I could use an olive branch to eat from, and a shield to hide behind.
A deal with the Devil.
I’ll sleep on it.
The War Room
It’s a great day to be alive.
My fearless protector, Laser the Loyal, is by my side. Well, more like he’s standing in the doorway making sure no one bothers me while I’m in here doing my thing. Hopefully his tummy is all better. Fucking Crumb.
The sun is up.
Varsity Letterman, Jace Parker Davidson, has returned to High Octane Wrestling AND as a member of the Best Alliance. Jay. Pee. Dee. Zzz. Nuts. I think even now, he’s up in the Crow’s nest looking out for icebergs. Or, he’s standing on his tippy toes at the very front of the ship with his arms out at his side.
The boat is in motion.
Current bottom feeder and now new friend of mine, Steve Solex, sent me a welcome to the gang note. I’ll use it to give him a paper cut across his eyelid the next time I see him since he addressed it to Perfection. The attached box of chocolates were delicious, so says whatever body of water we’re sailing in.
The glass, circular porthole that looks to the outside world could kill an unsuspecting Byrd it is so clean. So clean in fact, I can still smell the Windex permeating throughout the room. It’s no wonder I literally bumped into Steve Harrison right before entering. I didn’t know what he could be doing in here since the War Room is reserved for Primetime, War Games Contestants, but now it makes sense.
Keep up the good work, Steve.
I got my fern next to me.
I got my glowing, molten 97red, comfortable, cozy, looks like it just got delivered from the Furniture Queen herself, plush velvet couch for one to sit my COOL ass atop of.
I got my briefcase unattached, because when I’m here on the boat eating from GOD’s olive branch I’m family. It is attached to one of the exposed pipes that line the walls. I might be family but I’m not crazy.
My new and improved BA-shades are a full go, and there’s just the right amount 97red tint to them.
My hair is slicker than oil, and has a prodigious golden hue to it.
The jumpsuit on my being is funeral black with 97red track stripes. Yes, I also think it goes better with the new BA-shades, Jatt. Thank you. The rest of my bags are at the boarding dock.
The shoes on my feet are salt white sneakers that get me out of suffering through a Hughie Freeman promo if I shake them together three times.
And that’s it.
I’m set. I’m ready for War. I’m done playing Games. If you didn’t get mentioned you should definitely take it as a slight.
More so than any one person who was mentioned.
Hello new family.
“Conor Fuse. Hello, I’m Cancer Jiles, the High Octane World Champion. Good luck in your match against me this Saturday, April 17th, at Refueled ROMAN NUMERALS in CITY TO BE NAMED. 214 is a great area code….”
I quickly rush over and knock the replica COOL mannequin from off the couch. It was a blow up doll with cheap, Dan Ryan sunglasses. It won’t be missed. The sunglasses anyway. Then, I grab the tape recorder playing my greeting and quickly stop it before it can further doom my wonderful ruse.
I sigh, wiping the aggravated sweat from my brow.
“Eh, sorry about that.”
No I’m not.
“I guess I should be taking this a little more seriously, huh? For real, 64 bitness. I did get in bed with the boss, and it is my first title defense as High Octane World Champion after laboring to get to this spot for the past ten plus years.”
I weigh my options to myself. Imagine a monkey juggling one egg and that is the exact mental picture that is playing inside my head.
“But, if I can be completely honest and on the level, what I really want to know is where is that blasted, infernal, rapscallion of a man named Eric Dane when you need him? AMIRITE?”
“Conor Fuse. Young, vibrant, gaming version of Zeb Martin, and possible usurper to my newly appointed throne. Okay. I’ll bite. Question. Why only the one N? Were your parents that lazy? Did they forget the second N? Is that the second N and they forgot the first N? Did you misspell your own name a long time ago and decide to just keep running with it because the two N’ed Conor was a gamer living in his lazy, forgetful parents basement?”
“Better question. Do you think you actually stand a chance, any-fucking-sliver-of-a-chance at dethroning me this Saturday Night? Like, how many banana peels must Donkey Kong throw from his perch for me to slip and you to climb away as the newly crowned High Octane World Champion? Infinity?”
Coy, I move my right arm and hand around making an infinity symbol in the air. Or I was making a jerking off motion? You be the judge.
“EVEN BETTER QUESTION. How can I call my feet sleeping salts when real sleeping salts are used to wake you up from a slumber, and mine are designed to do the opposite? Confused? I bet. I’ll tell you before your brain explodes like it did when you found out Samus was a woman. It’s because yes, while you might not appear awake to everyone else after breathing in my sniffing salts, you will appear vibrant and full of splendor in the Dreamland you do wake up in. There, the Wifi is always free. There’s no lag. Controllers are always charged. Fuck, it’s even possible to do things like beat Cancer Jiles for the World Title, and not spend most of your adult life playing video games. Depends on the level of salt.”
I smile, then turn my head and spit. The charcoal loogie soars through the air and collides with the Windex’d clean porthole behind me. It stays stuck to the glass like a freshly chewed, pressed down piece of lung black bubble gum. Also, somebody better call PETA because I probably just saved some unsuspecting bird from a broken neck.
“All kidding aside, I should like you, Conor. I should. But, much like the answer to if I think you have any. fucking. shot. this Saturday Night, I don’t.”
A shrug. Not a sorry, but an unimpressed shrug. To be fair, it could be a unicorn this week and I would still be unimpressed. My clout is hot right now. I gots the hot clout.
I think so anyway.
“It’s not because of your Union allegiance, or because I’m anti-Hoffa, or because you’re an Xbox kid and I’m a Playstation Champion. It’s certainly not because I look at your hair and wonder how a human being can walk the Earth, willingly, looking like that.”
I hold my hand out to help clarify.
“I do wonder that, it’s just not the reason why I don’t like you.”
A thumbs up now that we’re all back on the same page.
“Shit, it’s not even because there isn’t a second N in your first name. Or a first N in your first name.”
I pause. I think to myself maybe he’s foreign, and that is why it seems so silly to me.
“Connor, HA I KNOW YOU SEE WHAT I DID THERE, the reason I don’t like you, and your stupid hair, and your stupid Union face, is… well, because in preparation for this match I got all the way to the end of Minecraft and it never showed me where Jimmy Hoffa is buried.”
I laugh. Out loud. At my situation.
“You fucking scab. I dare you to cross the picket line.”
I point as if Conor is standing a few feet in front of me and we both know those fuse boxes need to get made..
“I will never lose my WORLD CHAMPIONSHIP TO YOU. I wouldn’t have got the red leather on my new ring gear if I thought I was going to do that. I will say though, I am looking forward to adding your ugly face to my new tights. Since you will be the first I’ve decided right now that I’m going to let you choose where it is you’ll go. My high knee? My low knee? Maybe inner thigh? Maybe the back of your head on one of my butt cheeks so you can always be kissing my COOL ass? Maybe the back of your head on my crotch? Or should we save that spot for–”
Suddenly, I sneeze, stopping me from saying what I was about to say. I look down at my snot covered hands, absolutely mortified.