You have an upcoming doozy of a double date with two of the most despicable, rotten, and treacherous human beings you’ll ever come to know. They’ve hurt you and yours so badly just the thought of saying their names aloud instantly pollutes your mind with torturous ambitions that’d give even The Minister nightmares.
Before you can wrap your bloodthirsty hands around their fickle, chickenshit necks; you must first endure the greatest trial of your entire career thus far.
HOW does that sound?
Like a real hoot?
I would have to disagree with you.
I’d say, it sounds to me more like a real howl.
Without question, my match against Cecil for the LSD Championship is the biggest singles match of my entire career. This Saturday night I face the Ultimate Champion. A living, breathing, formerly ascotting, title belt in and of himself. A man whose legend is such that I do not know which will be the greater achievement: becoming the LSD Champion and winning my first singles title in High Octane Wrestling, or, simply put– being the one that finally beats him.
Ask me how I feel about it on Sunday.
Then, just two short weeks later, after hopefully penning the final page of Cecil’s fabled, Unbeatable Odyssey, I’ll be partaking in the biggest TAG TEAM match of my career. That means, when the eGG Bandits Totally Eggsecute Mikey Unlikely and Jesse Kendrix at No Remorse I will consider it not among, but my GREATEST team accomplishment to date.
That’s my next three weeks.
They say when you shoot for the moon, even if you miss, you end up amongst the stars.
What if you don’t plan on missing?
Because my moon is full.
After the Closing Bell
The Main Event is over.
Another satisfied, jam packed, sold out audience is filing out of their seats and exiting the building.
Dooze, Righteous RICK, and myself are taking refuge inside of the eGG Basket.
The thrill of my momentous victory is already beginning to wear off, and the eventuality of me being the one to pull the sword from the stone is slowly replacing it. More importantly, I’d rather not celebrate before receiving an update on my begotten friend and Soul of the Bandits, Bobby Dean.
“Fuck. That wasn’t as easy as I thought it was going to be.” Yeah, that’s me talking. I’m sitting down on a long wooden bench, rummaging through my egg-shaped, can’t be carried on, cream colored suitcase for my phone and a change of clothes. “That Tom Flyer still has something left to offer. I’m glad we got out of there with the win.”
Dooze nods in agreement and exhaustingly adds, “You ain’t kidding. Glad we won’t have to worry about him for a while.” He waits to gut me. “Then again, you got bigger problems.”
Lord Farthington is next.
I try not to show my weary hand and deflect, “Yeah, but what about Hughie? What a crazy little pikey that fucking guy is! Good luck with that one, Double R.”
Righteous RICK solemnly frowns. I’m sure he has something intrepid he would love to say at a time like this. Alas, all I can get out of him is, “Egg?”
“Yeah, I’m going to head over there after I get showered and changed.” I nonchalantly answer, fully understanding RICK. The language, and I guess also the person. He asked if we were going to see Bobby, by the way. “How did he seem when you left?”
Yes. RICK was there.
Contrary to what the FAKE Cracking News Network would have you believe.
“Good. At least he’s awake.” I further pry. “Zeb still there?”
“Even better. Do you guys want to come with? I’ll wait for you. We can all ride over together.”
Quickly, The Dooze answers me without hesitation. “Of course. But I need to shower, too. I’m going first because I know how you are.”
I playfully laugh instead of choosing to kick a brother who played an integral part in my ascension. Not to mention, he still has yokey mist in his eyebrows. “Sure thing. I’m goin–” Suddenly, a loud, police style knock is heard on the door. The two deafening thuds interrupt me, and cause the three of us to quickly spring into action. I ball my firsts, and warn my Bandit brethren, “Get ready! It could be those dicksticked Frappechaps looking to finish the job!” Then, I turn my attention to the door and scream out like I’m ready to kill.
“It’s open! I fucking dare you!”
Seconds later the door violently swings open.
It’s not the Bruvs.
Who knows where they could be?
Instead, it’s a monster of a man. One, who even standing next to RICK still seems imposing and dangerous. “You. Now. Boss wants to see you. Don’t make him wait.”
I beg your pardon?
Just who in the yolk yellow COOLYMPIA fuck does this giant Mongo think he is that he can’t even look me in the eyes when addressing me!?!
That’s the look on my face anyway.
And not that he would be able to, because of the T-Shades.
It’s about respect.
“OH. He’s an exotic one.” I snidely chirp to the boys before addressing our guest. “Uh, hey bud. Did the spaceship leave without you? Are you lost? How about you tell me your name and I’ll phone home.”
I just went the distance against Dooze, Flyer, and Hughie.
My next two matches are title matches.
And I yolked Doozer.
I don’t feel bulletproof.
The Mountain coldly answers, “Not you. Just him.”
I smile wide and cordially respond, “Well, Nothugh Justim, you can go tell the boss if he wants to talk to me he can bring his ass down to the Basket!” I pause, waiting to cut off the tree trunk’s predictable response. “–After I’ve showered.”
And that’ll show him.
I’m High Cheif Graybush Wolfscornwalker, god damn it! The Maestro of COOL. The NAIL of the Bandits. Future LSD and World Tag Team Champion. We got two men down! You want to talk to me and my T-Shades, it’s on Skynet time.
“Doozer only. Cut the shit. Now let’s go.”
I mean, I told Doozer earlier in the night, about an hour ago actually, he couldn’t leave my sight. Now, I’m supposed to watch him walk out by himself with this goon, and go to Ballpoint HQ?
And no, my ego is not shattered and I wasn’t looking forward to having the boss ruin me with glorious praise about how wonderful I am.
I’m genuinely concerned.
But, that’s about to change.
“Don’t worry about it. I’ll be fine.” Doozer calmly tries to put me at ease. “I’ll be right back, and then we can go check in on Bob. Take care of your business and comb your hair. You look withered. He’s gonna think we lost if you show up like that.”
I neglect to tell Dooze about his eyebrows, and that Bobby would know I had won if in fact HE was the one who showed up looking like that. I figure it’s the right thing to do. No sense in getting him riled up before sitting down with Lee Best.
I don’t say a thing. I just watch Dooze walk out, and close the door behind him. I look at RICK, and we both shrug our shoulders hoping for the best.
He got me through the ladder match.
He can handle himself.
You know the place.
All the fixings are in play.
Comfy, 97red throne? Check.
Flat screen with the full moon? Check.
Portrait of the fallen? Check.
Ornate, empty frame from last week? Nope. It’s been replaced by the same frame, but now has a blown up shot of Doozer getting misted while battling atop a ladder. It says BANDITS at the bottom of the picture in big yellow lettering. It matches the color of the mist. On Doozer’s face.
And then, there’s the other guy in the poster. Me. The gray haired, T-Shaded, wolf howling, air violin playing, mist spraying, man of his word. No company jumpsuit today. In its stay, a black tuxedo.
Bow tie and cummerbund included.
We have royalty to greet.
After the Closing Bells
Welcome back to the Basket.
Doozer just left. Sadly, the thought is just now crossing my mind that I probably should have given him my shades in case Lee is feeling Bottomliney.
Meh, he can handle himself.
RICK and I have been sitting inside the eGG Basket for the better part of a minute in silence.
Finally, the silence is broken.
I holler at RICK, “Okay then! Guess I get to shower first.” I whistle a jolly tune and wheel my oval shaped luggage into the bathroom. “Watch the door, and that doesn’t mean what you think it means. You hear me? I better not catch you peeking again.”
“I don’t care if it’s even bigger than yours. Just watch the door.”
Luckily for us the eGG Basket has its own shower.
We get the perks like that.
I quickly remove my ring gear, indulge in a fast rinse, and by the time I’m out and dried off Doozer has returned. Before I can get dressed though, the bathroom door opens and I think it’s RICK still in awe that tiny little me has a bigger wiener than he does. “What did I say? I thought I sent you a picture to avoid this nonsense?”
“Dude, no. What the fuck!? It’s Doozer. Hurry up and get changed. We got a problem.”
He fired him.
Or took out an eyeball.
Either way, not good.
“Please tell me that you still work here, make less money than I do, and have both of your eyeballs?”
“Idiot. I’m fine. Hurry up and get dressed. We’re not having this conversation with you in a towel.”
This hammer between my legs is more of a curse than a blessing.
“Damn it, RICK! Enough already. And fine, I’ll be right out.”
43 MINUTES LATER.
“Okay, what problem was so great you made me rush to get out here?” I innocently ask upon emerging from the bathroom. Then, acting bothered to match the collective mood, I take a long gander at myself in the wall length mirror to wonder if my dress slacks go with the silk button down and T-Shades. “Bobby? Don’t tell me they put him in a medically induced coma again.” I worryingly add while still inspecting myself, “I’ll have to change into my mourning gear if that’s the case.”
No, not Bobby’s bathrobe.
My all black, funeral wear.
Life as a Bandit is full of peril.
It’s always good to be prepared.
Yes, it’s different from the all off-black wardrobe I have on now.
Agitated, Dooze chides, “What were you doing in there for so long? Actually, we don’t have time for an answer to such a question.” Then, he hastily stalks over to me with concern crawling across his face and says, “You’re never going to believe this, but the Bruvs showed up at the hospital.”
My jaw drops to the floor.
My gut follows.
I can’t believe it.
“It’s okay.” Dooze assures me. “Nothing happened. Zeb got Bobby and himself out of there. We don’t know who they were targeting; could be they heard RICK and Zeb went to the hospital with Bobby and they wanted to knock off their intended target.”
Don’t believe the fake news.
He was there.
Doozer continues to theorize like the mad general he is, “Or, maybe even hook Zeb to further deplete our ranks. Maybe they were there to hold a pillow over Bobby’s face. We don’t know. Frankly, it doesn’t matter. What does, is that Bobby and Zeb made it out.”
I sigh. The relief is real. “Oh, thank god! I knew that Zeb was a good egg. Alright, let’s go. Where are they? Back at the Den?”
I scrunch my face, bracing myself for the sure to be confusion that follows.
“He… well, read it for yourself.”
Dooze hands me his phone, and I read the provided text aloud. “BRUVS ARE HERE. HAD TO BUG OUT. BOBBY AND I ESCAPED. PLAN Z.” Stunned, I look up at Dooze, then to RICK, then back down at the phone to read the message again, but this time to myself. I shake my head upon completion, befuddled beyond belief.
Perplexed, I ask, “Plan Z? What the fuck is Plan Z?”
STILL MY TIME
Assier Cotss Part 2
“AH HA! Gotcha! If only it were that easy!”
Chances are I probably should have stopped and kept it as is. But, what good is a foot if you can’t shove it in someone’s mouth?
Even if after all is said and done that mouth winds up being your own.
Risk versus reward.
I clear my throat, but decide not to send the customary loogie that usually follows in my cough’s footsteps sailing through the air. Instead, I casually reach into my jacket’s breast pocket, retrieve a cream colored handkerchief, and then politely dispose of the charcoal flavored lunger.
Now, with utmost distinction, I begin.
For real this time.
“Mr. Cecilworth FartheGGton.”
You’re still fucked.
“It doesn’t happen often, but I’m a bit starstruck.”
“I must say, I never thought I’d see the day you’d become the topic of conversation on my couch. To be honest, I never thought I’d get here. You, more than anyone else, always seemed so far out of reach. A dream. An impossible task that was worth admiring, but not worth pursuing.”
“Now though, after the scorching of my heart and the recent concussion of my sweet, beautiful soul; I’ve been jolted awake from that impossible dream. The deep rooted pain of watching my hair come in grayer and grayer has allowed me to confidently broach what once seemed like a vast divide.”
It’s not his fault.
“The time of me being able to sit here with my legs crossed, and properly address a man of your stature, has come.”
These days, nobody wants to be howled at from my couch. It’s become a death sentence for whomever is unlucky enough to fall under my ire. I can’t confirm this, but I’ve even heard rumors that some of the HOW talent are starting to refer to it as The Egglectric Chair.
“And, as much as I hate to say it, because believe me the words stain my mouth like the eventual metaphorical shit you’ll be taking inside of it…”
I stop to think long and hard about my future, while thoughtfully scratching at the stubble on my chin.
I’ve come this far.
No time to second guess what got me to the dance now.
“But, blame the Bruvs, Cecilworth.”
I shake my head, disgusted.
“I know it might seem shallow. It might be crass, and unprofessional considering the grandiose standards you demand. But, they are the ones who did this to you. They made my once lofty, out of reach dreams become reality.”
The bitter, sweet irony.
You hate to see it.
“Fuck, who could have known it would turn out this way? That, instead of damning them at every turn, I should really be thanking them for what they’ve done. Without them, and the anguish I had to endure on their behalf, I would have never been able to become a viable threat to usurping your throne.”
I rub my hands together.
“I would’ve never been able to tell you with a straight face that it’s their fault your streak will come to an end at my hands.”
I wonder how many times he’s heard that one before. Not the fault part, but I’m going to be the one part.
I then begin to wonder if any of Cecil’s felled had won their last seven matches before facing him. And if they looked better than 00Zion in a tuxedo. Or owned T-Shades from Skynet. And yes, while still gray, had hair to kill for.
I then begin to further wonder if anyone else on his hit list qualifies under his set of credentials like I do.
“It’s their fault I had to sacrifice so much to get here.”
Those vile, insolent, worms.
Is it fucking August yet?
“It’s their fault I called into question my very own loyalty to my friends.”
Here comes the yokey kicker.
“And because of that, it’s their fault I’m now that motherfucker, Cecil.” Vehement, finger to chest jabbing ensues. “The vindictive Eggsecutioner who howls about it first, and pins you second. A miserable jerk off who yearns to share his scorn, and finds fulfillment in causing others to suffer like he has.”
Followed by a snort.
And then finally, a grit of the teeth.
“The one person who just might be able to give you the gift of defeat.”
A long, wide smile cracks across my face.
“Remember now, they are the ones who put the bow on the box and wrapped it up real nice.”
“I’m just the guy who popped out after you opened it.”
Good luck, champ.
Home of more cheat codes than Connor Fuse can even fathom.
You can call me The Gameshark, kid.
It may surprise some of you to learn that I didn’t start filing away crafty maneuvers during my decade-long wrestling tenure. In fact, I’ve been doing it since the day I realized if you aren’t cheating, you’re not trying hard enough.
So, let’s just say I’ve been doing it ever since Doozer’s very first, in ring debut.
Now, while there’s DOZENS of cheats I’ll be able to incorporate during my LSD trial of the GODs; one sleight of hand technique in particular from a Kung Fu class I was forced into as an adolescent keeps calling out to me.
One day, I was in the “dojo” going through the motions like most of the other kids in the class. Then, unannounced, a practitioner of Chin-na came to visit us. Chin-na is a form of Kung Fu that focuses on joint locking. Shoulders, arms, legs, knees, wrists, ankles… even thumbs and fingers. So, the practitioner talks to Dave, who was the Lee Best of the place, and ten minutes later Dave is outside smoking a cigarette and we got a new sensei.
Some Lee Best he was.
As soon as this guy took control of the class, you just knew it was going to be intense. He was a short, skinny, brittle looking man who boastfully dared anyone there to step up and challenge his new authority.
He called us cowards for not wanting to do so.
He mocked us, openly.
Then, someone stepped up to our new sensei.
The sensei started to jump up and down, cheering like he was at an Eagles game. I can still hear him saying, “WE HAVE A MAN AMONG US! HOORAY!” I was fourteen. It made me feel good, like I had won something. Then, he graciously walked over, warmly extended an olive branch in the form of an open hand, and then proceeded to dislocate my index and pinky fingers while smiling brightly into my eyes.
Needless to say it was nothing but timid fist bumps from there on out.
Talk about pain.
Talk about suffering.
I was drawn to him after that.
His shadow craft.
How he could smile while holding a mouth full of malicious intent.
He stayed around to teach a thing or two for a good while. I stuck around to learn. He always had a class full of degenerates, too. Which, as it turns out, is when and how I learned the cheat code for Cecil’s cross arm-breaker, Article 50. Granted, it’s not easy, and I haven’t had to eggsecute it in a while. Plus, using it requires me to be in the move, which is never a good thing.
If in a possum pinch…
And done properly…
His hand becomes mine.
COOLYMPUS GATES, Finger Lock of Doom
-Most effective against LSD Champions
And if that doesn’t work, there’s always an oil check.