Die Another Day
“I made a bed shitting joke, yet I wear a diaper to sleep.” – Danny Dangerfield
There I sat.
It was dark.
My hair was coolreffic.
My jumpsuit was 97red.
My shades were full of splendor, wonder, amazement, and other words I used when realizing Scott Stevens had hacked Dan Ryan’s… promo?
“I’ve beaten you two times in the last six months. Here are the dates, times, and locations. On the next page is the degree of the Earth’s tilt during each of those matches. Mike didn’t try, just like you didn’t in one of those wins I like to pander on and on about. No, I’ve never been World Champion.” – Rodney Ryan
My cool ass rested on a brisk, concert floor— the kind of floor that makes you feel welcome when you’ve had too much to drink and you find yourself with a case of the spins.
You know what I’m talking about, Mom.
Not that I had too much to drink, or anything to drink at all. I did have the spins, though. Well, a case of Yolkulelee spins, that is.
So, there I sat trying to make sense of it all.
Why now? Why fucking now? Biggest match. BIGGEST SPOT. And now this… curse. How do I rid myself of it? How did it start? Did I ask why now, because why now seems like a pretty fucking good question to ask. Just saying. He couldn’t be back? If he’s somehow manifested himself…
Then thank fucking GOD he’s on my team!
Heh, hE wAS alWaYs a tRusTwoRtHy gUY tO me.
And if that’s not it, and I’ve gone just as crazy as Dan Ryan is for thinking ANYONE would listen to a single piece of advice he has to offer after failing to leave his mark in either of the prior War Games he’s been in, then so be it.
I’ve dealt with crazy before.
Even on that level.
And worst of all, the reprehensible, irrevocable, absolute worst case scenario. If it turns out this Yolkulelee JAMBOREE is just guilt manifesting itself because I sold out and left my friends to rot in a room that they won’t even let me into now…
I’ll fucking kill somebody.
I’ll bottom line my fucking eardrums.
I’m not “Major Pain” Mongo Ryan. I don’t get to say “pain make me happy” and then smear shit across my chest while trying to figure out the incredibly difficult task of smiling.
See: The gorilla’s new glamour shot.
No, to be completely honest with you, I, the reigning, defending, virgin War Gamesing, High Octane WORLD Champion, the righteous and dignified Colonel of the Best Alliance team, didn’t know what to do.
Fuck, I still don’t.
Sorry for the spoiler, but yeah, I never figure out how to silence the Ode. Which, if you are paying close attention, translates to I don’t know how I’m going to communicate with the other Neanderthals on my team. Clay probably thinks I’m a psycho after our first encounter strummed out of control. JPD can’t be too happy about me leaving him to burn in the bushes of Zion. I’m still waiting for a thank you from Sektor and Starr for bringing back what was lost. Fuck. Outside of Harry and Scoots, heh, I don’t know.
I guess… that’s why I was down there.
I needed to figure shit out. Needed to talk to those I could hear, for one. Before we get to that, though, let’s delve a little deeper into the belly of the USS Octane. As you may or may not know, The Gallows are where Bobby and Doozer are being kept for their prior treasons against me, the shell, The Best Alliance, and even the GOD of WAR.
Pick one. It shouldn’t be too hard to rationalize.
However, The Gallows are home to more than just them. Not much more, but more. The Gallows, aka the last level on the ship, is where Kostoff’s ghost, Bobby, Doozer, and Lee’s eyepatch are kept. It’s where the computer that created Data resides. There are even some rooms down there that I don’t have access to.
I’ve heard rumors…
Like, how there’s a room at the very, very bottom of The Gallows. Locked away in this room are Dan Ryan’s pride, dignity, family obligations, and… pride. Sadly, no one knows where the key to this room went, nor do they know how to get to it. Moreover, no one really ever cared to find the key or the room to begin with. Sooooo, Dan’s pride, dignity, family obligations, and of course… pride, are doomed to be forgotten in the darkness of some shadow where a rat takes a shit.
Of course, Lindsay Troy’s pride, dignity, MAN or mouse World Title aspirations, and pride are also rumored to be locked up in the room next to that of Ryan. I wouldn’t be surprised if the whole lot wrote love letters using words that start with the letter “L” on pleats of toilet paper, then passed those shitty notes back and forth through the cracks in the wall.
To my lonely, loser of a lemon. I lament the longing I have for letting loose this light lark…
Who knows what other dangers and myths fester in the under belly of the ship?
I know I don’t, nor did I have the time to find out.
So, there I was on that damn soothing floor; sitting with my back leaned against my old pals’ door since I’m locked out of fun time. My only means of entertainment was a blue racquetball that I kept bouncing against the far wall.
Still more entertaining than anything Team Sandbag offered up.
Full of nonchalance, I was unknowingly whistling Ode to the Bandit. Probably had something to do with the folkish song being stuck in my mind like I heard it on the radio ten times a day. I.E. everyone I had tried to talk to, and I mean everyone, even fucking Lee, I would get Yuke’d. In my dreams I would get Yuke’d. When I talked to myself in the mirror, ala mirror mirror, Yuke’d. If I held a seashell to my ear and tried to listen to the ocean, Yuke’d– via inside the seashell.
Well, I was getting Yuke’d by everyone besides Bobby and Doozer that is.
Now, let’s say I didn’t have to communicate with possibly eight others inside a steel structure designed to break people, then sure, I guess I could make ends meet and figure out some sort of work around. But, unfortunately for me, I do have to communicate with possibly eight others. Some of those I’ve never talked to, or wrestled with, or against. Some of those I didn’t even know were on the roster. Granted, I am fortunate in the fact that the other team also has this same daunting task to overcome. Hopefully, it just cancels out and we all can play War nicely.
“Guys, are you awake?” I asked politely, hoping to get some sort of a response from them. I had been down there for quite a while banging that ball, but to their credit it was four AM so the no-sell wasn’t a total surprise. You might be wondering what I was doing awake at 4AM? Well, I hadn’t been sleeping much to begin with thanks to my current predicament. Then again, I never do.
Not with this conscience.
Desperate, I asked again like I needed someone to shoot my dick with a steroid because it’s been more than four hours. Sadly, they still didn’t respond. So, I waited. I threw the racquetball against the wall. Over… and over again. I thought about how much longer I would be on the outside looking in, and how I was going to rid myself of this curse that had befallen me. I thought about who, if any, I could trust within the Alliance. Maybe not trust, but depend on. Who could I count on, say fortune should take a turn for the worse and the numbers weren’t in our favor? I thought about who would buckle if we stumbled out of the gate. I even thought if I might be better off with the two guys locking me out of this damn room at the bottom of the ship.
Just because I could at least communicate with them.
Then, I quickly remembered I wanted to retain my World Championship so the thought of “Banditing” up evaporated into the thin air that comes out of Dan’s ass when he yawns real deep.
“Do you think he’s still out there?”
Those rotten crumbs. I bet they were awake the whole time.
“I don’t want to check, I’m laying here. You’re closer. You check.”
JESUS ONE OF YOU CHECK ALREADY.
Then, I heard the mechanism they must have jerry rigged to keep the door locked unfasten, and the door itself began to slowly creek open. Startled, Doozer saw me and tried to slam the door shut.
“Shit, shit, shit, still there!” That old fuck, Doozer to be clear, shouted out like he’d seen LT laying next to him after a long night. His face was panic stricken, and his dead eyes looked right into my BA-Shades with genuine regret.
“WHO? Shell? Is he mad at us?” Such a fucking idiot Bob is. Just sits up and gives away the whole bit.
“No, worse.” Dooze hastily replied while leaning into the door with all of his might. Good thing it was late at night, or there was no way I would have been able to jockey with him, let alone push my way into the room.
You know, it was a good thing for me because he’s old and needs his rest is what I meant.
Things got tense.
In a hurry.
I felt unwelcomed, like most of the scabs at the picnic table.
Bobby, who was in his night robe, and only his night robe… and Doozer, who retreated to his chair with wheels unseen since Dream, looked at me like I had stolen something. Their collective innocence perhaps? I didn’t care. I needed answers, and I was going to get them. Before I could though, I asked, “How the fuck did you get TiVo down here? Like what the fuck? I don’t even have TiVo. And, is that an old lobster tail?”
“Forget it.” I quickly lamented. I was short on time. JPD was having some kind of fighting club meeting.
Sadly, that’s all we can tell you about it.
“WHY IS THIS HAPPENING TO ME? You show up-” I pointed right in Doozer’s face after screaming in it. “-and… and what the fuck did you do to me?” Dooze just sat there, stale like a cracker. That is when I knew it wasn’t because of Doozer or Bobby that I was in the situation I was in. The look on his face told the story. He wished he could take the credit for my Yolkulesis. He wanted to be the root so badly that the only thing that upstaged that feeling was how greatly it upset him that he wasn’t.
I could tell.
I have an eye for that type of thing.
Which, of course meant one thing…
Funny, Kaelic script equation.
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