Latest Roleplays
There are no friends.
Only enemies you trust.
And enemies you don’t.
That is, The Lethal Lottery.
I know, cryptic.
Makes me wonder if I should fall down on my knees and pray for a favor from the fickle gambling GOD?
Will the long shot even payoff?
Moreover, is the juice even worth the squeeze?
Maybe I’ll just smile and say I’m here so I can get three time slots on the Lottery show.
Ha.
Just frowning.
I know what the old me would do in this situation.
Old me would buy a one way ticket to Philadelphia on the HOW expense account under Scottywood’s name and watch The Lottery unfold from the comforts of my condominium.
Old me would leave a rotten egg in Lee Best’s mouth and a note on his desk saying Bobby Dean did it.
Old me would drag my dirty ass across the crayon on the wall while laughing all the way to the check cashing bodega.
Let me tell you.
Here.
Now.
I wish I was the old me.
Fucking guy was a stud.
BUT.
Makeover’s aren’t cheap in High Octane.
They extract a price on one’s soul.
They bind you to an agreement which covers Irish Exiting.
Which means.
To my fellow underdogs.
To the phony ponies.
And to the appreciative show.
Jiles says, fuck you.
I’ll double down.
FU.
Give me whomever.
Give me The 6CON!
Mr. Please Appreciate How Many Times(6) I’ve Held the ICON Title(6).
Give me The Gel Tab!
Mr. My Place at the Table Equals the Number of Eyes Eye Have.
Give me MY PRECIOUS!
Mr. THIS IS SOME DEEP WATER Paper Mache Bruvers.
Give me WAR GAMES!
Ms. Legacy Stevens.
Give me VENGEANCE!
Mr. I Can’t See Him Yet.
I’m not there.
Yet.
Close.
But not yet.
Or BETTER FUCKING YET, give me absolutely nothing.
Yeah, I said it.
Nothing.
Sorry for the exclamatory false finishes.
Sadly, I wish I shared in the prom night enthusiasm like the rest of you do.
I wish I was riding dirty in the limo drinking Pabst IPA’s and snorting coke with my diamond studded stripper date.
I wish I was in the bathroom huffing whatever fumes are coming out of Deacon’s ventilator.
I wish I were cutting a rigorous rug like the Prom King of Wrestling while Darin Matthews Band slays the last dance.
I wish I didn’t have to worry about getting laid because I’m the greatest wrestler alive like Invincible Mark Scallop.
I wish I was getting my picture taken with my boys while we scramble eggs and ride atop white horses.
Yeah, prom night at COOLYMPIA High School is a little different.
It’s just.
I’m tired.
I haven’t slept.
Night has become day.
Day has become night.
And I’m too exhausted to frolic about Count Drakaela’s Castle.
Defeat will ravage most men.
However, it’s not what keeps me awake at night.
And though my eyes are burning in anticipation of the field hammering their chest and saying “cunty weights” and “bad knees” over and over again.
That too, is not the plot on this week’s episode of The COOL and The Restless.
Truth is.
I’m fragile.
Cold.
Naked.
Alone.
Yup.
That’s me.
Big Dick Jiles, laying fetal in an imaginary shower with my bare cheeks pointed up in the air.
Take a number, kids.
No hockey sticks.
You see, I’ve been exposed.
My protective shell is gone.
My yolk now flows out of me like The River of Slime in Ghostbusters 2.
My mind can’t escape the ghostly fear of the unknown.
My muscles are rigid as if I’ve betrayed them somehow.
Trust.
Loyalty.
Honor.
Respect.
My brothers.
My friends.
My Bandits.
My reason.
Once strong.
Once mighty.
Yolk.
And shell.
Pomp.
And circumstance.
Now…
Might as well call us The Orderly Bandits.
—
Today
Presently
I don’t know the latitude or longitude
Motel 6 Time
Room 1408
It’s a nice day outside.
There’s not a cloud in the sky.
Birds are chirping.
Wind gently blows.
The sun radiates warmth.
And it’s a shame I’m not experiencing any of it.
Not from inside the cloud of desperation I’m inhabiting anyway.
Some of that stinky desperation, too.
Let’s see.
Damn.
It’s tough to see anything, really.
Too much smoke.
There’s a TV that’s playing reruns of a HIT gameshow from back in the day.
Hmmm.
I know that jingle.
Quite catchy.
Much like Queen Troy of HOW, there’s a queen sized bed that hasn’t been getting any use.
There’s a couch.
No, Dan Ryan is not here.
I mean an actual couch.
Besides, I would have said a wet couch if Dan were here.
And finally, over yonder there’s a bathroom which I’m sure I’ll be laying down in by the time this is over.
Other than that.
Just me.
Big Dick Jiles.
You see, as I wallow by my lonesome, wearing my 97red jumper because company first and it’s a bitch getting the smell out of the endangered line, I scratch my chin wondering.
What if it were Doozer out there last show?
What if Bobby’s achilles heel wasn’t inside his stomach?
I wonder.
I don’t know.
So much has gone wrong.
So quickly.
This whole thing spiraled out of control.
You can say that again.
This whole thing spiraled out of control.
One minute, it’s Bandit’s 4 Life.
Now, Bobby has to decide if he is down with the Yolk or the Shell.
Poor thing.
I mean, poor guy.
I love him.
But damn it.
His toooooooooooooooo sweet of a tooth cost me.
I mean, us.
And one thing I do know is that Doozer, that old blaming buffoon from Boston, wouldn’t have.
That my friends is what you would call a gigantically tough pill to swallow.
Bobby is a Bandit.
He’s more Bandit than either me or Doozer right now.
Therefore, I’m not blaming him.
It might sound like I am.
But I am not.
I’m not Doozer.
I don’t walk out.
I don’t blame.
I don’t cast aspersions like I’m punching numbers on a Bingo card.
I walk on.
Because it says Bandits on my wrestling tights, and not Blamers.
Before I tag with Bobby again, I will have to fix his liability though.
Is it possible to blind someone’s nose?
I’ll have to check with Stevens.
He seems like the kind of guy who would know.
—
Still Today
Later On Presently
40° 26′ 46″ N 79° 58′ 56″ W and I don’t know the longitude
Motel 6 Time
Room 1408 Bathroom
Well.
I’m a man of my word.
I tried to head out and enjoy the day.
I was even planning on dropping in on Stevens at The HOW Archives and asking him to look after CBD.
But, the unforgiving bottom of the plastic tub liner was too much to pass up.
So, here I am.
In the middle of the day.
Laying down in the shower.
Still in my 97red jumper.
The ice cold water raining down on me like I’m one of R. Kelly’s trophy teens.
Yes, I have a protective shower cap on.
I’m not that masochistic.
I’ve been laying here for a good thirty minutes now.
I’ve smoked my brains to Hollywood and back.
I said the water is ice cold, but you would think otherwise from the thorough hot boxing.
However, my nuts are the size of raisins.
So they’re the same as Perfection’s.
At least there not sagging like Doozer’s.
And I still have them unlike Dan Ryan.
And I say good on me for trying to walk a mile in my runaway liver’s shoes.
I think so anyway.
But still.
No matter what I do.
THE GUILT.
It blankets my existence.
Now though.
Now.
Wait a second here.
The lofty weight is easing upon my dejected shoulders.
How do I make things right?
Oh.
What’s this?
A feeling of elation.
A feeling of purpose.
A feeling of worth.
Clarity.
Gee, I might HATE going down this road I’m on but at least there’s a stop light at the end of it.
How do I make things right?
How do WE become whole again?
Oh wow!
I’m feeling good!
Good enough to roll out of the shower tub and onto the checker tile floor.
I reach out to the flimsy vanity, and slowly begin pull myself up and out of the fog clouding my mind.
Next.
I do the unthinkable.
The catharsis running like electricity through my bones, I remove my sunglasses to look myself in the eyes.
I’m grateful for having two of them.
Although, I could use Mick in my corner right about now because they are swollen shut from an allergic reaction to my medicine.
It happens all the time when I take it.
That’s the price I pay for staying alive.
So before you mock my shades, know that I have a doctor’s note for them.
I inch closer to the mirror to get a better look.
For the first time since Doozer shoved his wrinkled finger in my face, I don’t mind the person looking back at me.
I’m calm.
I’m focused.
Kind of.
But most of all, I’m motivated.
I might have missed the promenade because of rainy weather, but Big Dick Jiles is now happily en route to the dance.
You know I look good in a tux.
And even though I might be going stag…
I’m going to fuck some hoes after I rock that place.
There are five matches for this edition of The Lethal Lottery.
Five.
All with implications that could echo in the cavernous High Octane record books.
Big Dick Jiles WILL be in one of them.
I’ll pay Julian Assange to hack the randomizer if I have to.
Hopefully he’s a fan.
And no matter which match I happen to stumble upon.
No matter the luck of the draw.
Rumpus time is over.
I WILL WIN.
But it won’t be for me.
No.
But for the Bandits.
LONG MAY WE EGG.