POV

POV

Posted on September 16, 2022 at 11:00 pm by Bobby Dean

“People say nothing is impossible, but I do nothing every day.” – Winnie the Pooh

~ ~ ~

“This is stupid,” I mutter under my breath as I find myself seated on a couch in the middle of the eGG Den.

For those of you who don’t know, the eGG Bandits are currently contracted to PRIME, and one of the perks of that contract is a three room suite in the MGM Grand Hotel, dubbed the eGG Den or the eGG Carton. It changes daily amongst the three and a half Bandits. Now mind you, this is not a VIP suite with all the bells and whistles on the private floors, or really anywhere near the exclusive top floor, but rather a mid level suite with the barest of amenities.

But hey, it beats being forced to live on a run down old boat that barely floats, eh?

“It’s not stupid,” the voice of little Annabelle Dean chimes in from my right, as she is seated on the couch next to me, with her arms crossed, and a sullen look on her face. I guess I should have kept my opinion to myself, considering this was all her idea. Still, it was a pretty stupid idea nonetheless.

*KNOCK* *KNOCK* *KNOCK*

Doozer jumps to his feet and rushes across the room, giggling like a schoolgirl with every step. He’s been giddy ever since he heard what Annabelle had cooked up, and I really couldn’t blame him. I mean, if it were happening to anyone but me, I would be laughing my ass off as well.

“Right this way, sir.” Doozer instructs the new arrival with an exaggerated flourish of his arm. “Feel free to pop a squat wherever. Can I get you anything?”

With a confident smile the new arrival turns towards Doozer and in an accent I cannot place my finger one he answers, “A glass of ice water, and if it’s not too much trouble can I get that with a lime wedge?” Having placed his order the young man takes a seat, missing the perplexed look on Doozer’s face, or the whispered “lime wedge?” exchange between Annabelle and myself.

“Allow me to introduce myself,” he begins with that smile that rivals even my own, bordering on smarmy. “My name is Pierre Vachon Ollivier, and I’m a premier athletic supporter, a personal motivator, a life coach for those that lack a little direction.”

Hearing the name I can now place the accent. He’s French! I just need him to say the word “about” and I can then see if he’s genuine French or French Canadian.

“I believe your daughter inquired aboat my services.” I can’t help the chuckle that escapes, neither can my daughter help the sharp end of her elbow that finds its way into my meaty ribs. “She has explained to me, that you are a man adrift in your career? That perhaps with a little guidance from moi, you can finally accomplish the dream that has eluded you for all these years?”

I look at my daughter with an arched brow, confusion clear on my face, “What dreams have been eluding me?”

“HOW gold?” she begins to count them out on a finger at a time. “Winning a Best Of? A successful run in HOW? A victory over Carey? Not flaking. Should I go on?”

“Listen, you could be hit by a Sara Lee truck tomorrow.” Pierre says with certainty in his voice. “Which, for you, is probably not a bad way to go. News headlines would read “Bobby Dean Found in a Freeway of Pound Cake and Fudge, with a Smile on His Face.” And like I said, it would be a fitting end for you. But wouldn’t you like to get that one thing before you go? Accomplish that one great feat before you meet your maker?”

I turn to Doozer who is standing halfway towards the kitchen with a perplexed look on my face, one thing sticking out in my mind. “Is old man Lee related to Sara Lee?”

“I don’t think so…” Doozer answers, as if it was the dumbest question he’s ever heard.

“It’d make sense, considering all the Twinkies he likes to force down my throat.” I follow up with, as if some great mystery has been solved. I turn my attention back to Pierre, “Let’s say you’re right. Let’s say you’re the guy I need to help me get my career on track. How, exactly, do you plan to do that?”

“No tricks, no gimmicks, no special pills, or magic potions. No special equipment, or unnecessary yelling.” Pierre explains, still smiling. “All it takes is desire and will. I follow the Richard Simmons’ Rules of Life. Number one, like yourself. Number two, you have to eat healthy. And number three, you’ve got to squeeze your buns. That’s the Simmons formula.”

“Wait,” Doozer draws out, as if he’s having a hard time contemplating something. “Your following methods laid out by Richard Simmons? THE Richard Simmons? The Sweatin’ to the Oldies, Richard Simmons? The guy with brillo hair who had all those cheesy sayings?”

The smile evaporates quickly, replaced with an uneasy tension in the air as the affable Pierre Vachon Ollivier turns his sinister gaze towards a chuckling Doozer. “Excuse me? Cheesy sayings?”

Doozer’s smile slowly fades as he shifts uncomfortably from foot to foot, unable to meet the intense gaze from the Frenchman. “Uhm, let me go get that water for you.”

“What do you say my friend?” Pierre asks, turning his attention and his megawatt smile back towards me. “Will you allow me to help guide you on your path to redemption, and glory?”

~ ~ ~

JOURNAL ENTRY #1
TODAY

I TOLD YOU THIS WAS STUPID.

WRITING A JOURNAL LIKE I’M SOME TEENAGE GIRL. WHAT? SHOULD I TALK ABOUT MY CRUSH? PERHAPS I CAN TALK ALL ABOUT MY BODY ISSUES? HOW MY PERIOD IS ABOUT TO START? MAYBE I CAN TALK SHIT ABOUT CANCER JILES, AND DOOZER?

WHAT COULD I WRITE IN HERE THAT I HAVEN’T ALREADY SAID OUT LOUD?

PVO SAID TO JUST WRITE. WRITE WHATEVER CAME TO MIND, IT DIDN’T MATTER SO LONG AS I SIMPLY JUST WRITE. DOESN’T HAVE TO GO ANYWHERE, DOESN’T HAVE TO MAKE SENSE. DOESN’T EVEN HAVE TO MEAN ANYTHING.

LITTLE DOES HE KNOW! WHEN HAS ANYTHING I’VE EVER WRITTEN MEANT ANYTHING?

SPEAKING OF STUPID, I GOT AN INTERESTING CALL TODAY. OLE LEONARDO BEST CALLED ME ASKING IF I WANTED A MATCH ON THE NEXT CHAOS, OR IF I WOULD RATHER BE A LAZY FAT FUCK. I CHOSE THE SECOND OPTION, WHICH SHOULD COME AS NO SURPRISE, BUT THEN THE ASSHOLE HAD TO SAY THE ONE NAME THAT WOULD FORCE ME TO CHANGE MY MIND.

GREAT SCOTT.

AN OXYMORON IF I EVER HEARD ONE.

EVERY SCOTT I’VE EVER KNOWN HAS SIMPLY BEEN MEDIOCRE AT BEST.

LET’S SEE, WE’VE GOT SUBPAR SCOTT STEVENS. THEN THERE IS THE BELOW AVERAGE SCOTTYWOOD. OH AND WHO COULD FORGET THE GOAT, NOT SO BAD SCOTT LAVIGNE, WHAT A GUY. AN ABSOLUTE SHIT SHOW FOR A WRESTLER, BUT BOY DOES HE MAKE SOME ADORABLE BABIES. THEN YOU’VE GOT THE FORGETTABLE BOBBINETTE “MIGHT AS WELL CALL HER SCOTT” CAREY.

I MEAN SERIOUSLY, IS THERE A SINGLE SCOTT THAT DIDN’T ABSOLUTELY SUCK DONKEY DICKS? HELL EVEN SCOTTIE PIPPEN WAS JUST OKAY! MICHAEL JORDAN MADE HIM LOOK A LOT BETTER THAN HE ACTUALLY WAS, OR SO CANCER JILES TELLS ME.

MICHAEL, NOW THAT’S A GREAT NAME!

SO, GOOD SCOTT, WHEN LEONARDO TOLD ME YOU WERE MY MATCH, I JUST HAD TO SAY YES. WHY? BECAUSE I’M A HUGE FAN OF YOUR WORK!

I KNOW, I KNOW. HOW CAN I BE A HUGE FAN, BUT STILL THINK YOU’RE JUST OKAY? THE ANSWER IS SIMPLE, BECAUSE I HAVE SHITTY TASTE, OF COURSE. YELLOW DYE #5. THE HOLLYWOOD BRUVS. ANDY MURRAY OF WHATCULTURE. PLAGIARISM. BOBBI… NO, I CAN’T LIE, SHE DOES NOT MAKE THE TOP 5 TODAY.

GREAT SCOTT VS. BEAUTIFUL BOBBY DEAN

THE BATTLE OF THE EXAGGERATED MONIKER.

TWO PRIME WRESTLERS COMPETING IN THE MIDDLE OF A HOW RING, FOR A HOW TITLE…

Oh shit! I forgot my caps lock was on…

Fuck it. I don’t have the cardio to scroll up and fix all that!

Boy was this a stupid idea.

-Robert Dean

~ ~ ~

Back on the plane, flying from Las Vegas to Philadelphia this time. I have to admit, I’m growing accustomed to this back and forth nonsense. Sure it still sucks, but it also is kind of exhilarating. I haven’t had a triple booking weekend in over fourteen years.

“Remember,” Pierre’s voice cuts through the quiet of the plane. “Richard Simmons always says, “You’re unique. You’re special. You are one of a kind.””

I have to say, this guy is growing on me. Sure he keeps quoting me Richard Simmons sayings, but for whatever reason they’re starting to sink in. Maybe I’m not the piece of shit Leonardo Best had me believe I was…

~ ~ ~

Journal #4
Yesterday

Scott, Scott, Scott.

Let’s be honest, you had an open invite to join the Bandits. At any time you could have cemented your spot amongst us, and been ostracized like the rest of us. Why in the world wouldn’t we want you, and especially Great Bear in the Bandits? You are a star on the rise with a great schtick, and an even better animal companion that would have been fun to ride on.

The problem wasn’t the Bandits, the problem was Great Scott being a lot like the last guy who expressed an interest in joining the Bandits. Had him on the hook, ready to reel him in, only for him to ghost us like we ghost Lee after a PPV arc. All over some sort of misplaced concern that no one would take him serious if he joined us.

Funny enough, but I doubt you would share that same concern…

Regardless of all that, the last we heard, you were on board, but when it came time to pull the trigger suddenly it’s “WHO DIS? GREAT SCOTT HAS ALL THE TITLES SHOTS WHY DO I NEED TO BE BANDIT? GREAT SCOTT HAS THE EGG ALLERGY. GREAT SCOTT HAS A BEAR”

So, Jiles being Jiles, decided to tell everyone that we didn’t want you. Like a jilted lover, Jiles takes rejection to heart. In his mind, if we can’t have you, then no one can. So Atken gets eliminated and the Glue Factory is down for some maintenance.

But hey, I’m always down for a little action on the side. Maybe after you give me the HOTv title for a belated birthday present, we can team up? Call us HAM and eGGs? Or Big Bad Beautiful Daddies? Or Bobzilla? Maybe Bears, Bobs, Battlestar Galactica?

I’d say the ball is in your court but we all know how good you are at returning phone calls…

-Robert Dean