- Event: Lethal Lottery
A few days have passed since my cathartic moment of reckoning while inside the laboratory of room 1408.
Gladly, there still isn’t a thing in this world I want more than the Bandits reuniting.
And thankfully, I haven’t forgotten how to do it.
Just win, baby.
That said, I packed my collection of red jumpers, checked out of Motel 6 Time, and relocated to the Windy City in preparation for the Lethal Lottery.
Don’t fret.
My former residence was a repetitive shithole anyway.
More like Motel Repetend Time.
I’ve also begun the process of reintegrating myself with the outside world.
In an effort to really boost my inner chi and fast track the reintegration process, I lobbed a few dozen eggs at the Dan Ryan Expressway sign.
I am unsure if it worked.
I do know this.
It did draw a crowd.
And I had fun doing it.
Also of note, I’ve tried reaching out and extending an olive branch to eGG Bandit Shell member, The Dooze.
I left a voice message with the home that looks after him.
It went as follows, “This is eB Yolk. I miss not being able to see you. Let’s talk.”
The Blamer has yet to return my call.
Sad face.
I’m praying that he does.
I’m also praying that he didn’t hear Bobby Dean’s savage, eight second, window pane shaking fart at the end of the message.
I want Doozy to know that I’m serious about reconciling our differences.
The vivacious rip says otherwise.
Speaking of Bobby, I dropped him off a wonderful bouquet of baby blue roses just before making the trek to Chicago.
They are his favorite.
I hope he didn’t eat them.
Ya see, it wasn’t easy “coating” them.
I had to read all of chapter 13 in the Anarchist Cookbook: Nose Edition.
Getting the rose pedals the exact shade of not life threatening, sense of smell erasing, beautiful blue turned out to be quite the time consuming task.
All day if you’re wondering.
Since Bobby wasn’t home, or maybe he was and it’s just Doozer was over so he wasn’t answering the door, I attached a note.
“To the Greatest Friend a Bandit could ask for. Love, BDJ. P.S. We’ll get them next time. P.S.S. Don’t forget to smell the roses.”
—
Chicago
Some Coffee Shop
I don’t drink coffee, but they have the best WiFi in town
Tuna Fish Sandwich
I grab a seat at an empty table.
The store is kind of slow.
I guess that’s because they close in five minutes.
Good thing I’ll only need thirty.
I hope.
I reach into the pocket of my company jumper, and retrieve a small piece of crumpled up paper that I received through completing a series of back channel tasks.
If I told you any more about it, you’d have to face me at the Lottery and we all know what that means.
A phone number is scribbled on the now uncrumpled, yellow sticky note.
Foreign extension included.
I plug the digits into my cell, check out a nice blonde while it rings, and smile wide to get her attention.
She remains uninterested.
Probably one of them, she-her types.
“Yo! Mr. Assange!” I exclaim. “The guy who owns Tesla 2 and Space Ecks gave me your contact information. I was wondering if you could help me out with something.”
Ironically enough, Julian’s response to my request was, “How do you know Brian Hollywood?”
It caught me off guard at first.
However, I press forward.
I must.
“He’s a friend. Tell me, what do you know about randomizers?”
—
There is nothing I won’t do to piece the Bandits back together.
If I have to fake being Hollywood’s friend to beat the randomizer.
So be it.
I can hear you thinking.
Oh really, Cancer?
Anything?
Really?
Your thoughts sound like nails on a chalkboard by the way.
Very similar to when most of you open your mouths.
However, the answer remains the same.
Yes.
Anything.
Ear torture?
Turn up the volume on Ruxpin’s niceness.
Jump over a mountain?
Pump up the snakeskins.
Take a dangerous swim with the sharks?
Where’s my speedo and matching swim cap?
Strut through the pearly gates and sit down for the Last Supper with my elbows on the table?
Get me my bib, my yellow pads, and Dan Ryan’s steak knife.
Take a swaddling class so I can properly care for the LSD Championship after I knock the other eye out of Maxi Pad’s noggin?
Carpe Dentum. Seize the teeth.
And I know.
Talk is cheap.
This is HOW.
I get it.
But what you guys don’t get is you gave me an inch.
Me.
The Crypt Keeper of the dark match.
And now.
I’ve decided to take a mile.
—
The Bore
Kevin’s Trophy Room
123 PTC Fuck Boi Lane
Sin City
Here I am.
Well, my mounted noggin anyway.
It’s been cleanly severed from my neck, and attached to a fancy piece of mahogany like the ten point buck some of you think I am.
Thank you for that.
It’s flattering.
Well.
It would have been flattering.
If I were someone who cared about what Mongoloids think.
There is some good news.
Thankfully, Andy is a liar and I’m still with a full scalp.
And, at least I’ve been placed between Lady Troy and MJ Flair.
And not next to Dan Ryan.
Guy has been giving me the stink eye since we moved in.
Giving me the Doozer treatment.
Dan probably blames me for his poor merchandise sales.
I can’t help it that the Bandits get all the kickbacks on his cardboard likeness.
Oh.
By the way, Andy.
You forgot about Doozer.
And Stevens.
Who?
HA.
Anywho, I’ve begrudgingly grown accustomed to the stench of Ben Gay and past achivements in the short time I’ve been here.
Want to know how thrilled I am about it?
Do you see that fancy title belt over there?
The one Andy schmancies so much he decided to preach about it.
The one no one else gives a shit about.
Yeah, that’s my charcoal colored loogie stuck to the face plate like a piece of freshly chewed bubble gum.
Mom yelled at me for doing it.
Said it was rude.
I laughed.
What is she going to do?
She’s stuck up here with me.
Although I don’t know why?
That question was in regard to me.
I get why LT is up here.
But me?
I bent over the old knee buckler.
Colored on him.
Kicked him in the face.
If it weren’t for his ungrateful partner rolling me up, maybe I’m not up here.
But alas, here I am, due to Andy trading on other people’s luck.
How brazen you are, King of Wrestling.
Oh shit he’s coming.
I quickly pucker back into place.
Dan stops chewing the fat off my big dick.
Lindz goes back to holding the roll in her eyes.
And the tears on MJ’s face abruptly hault halfway down her cheek.
I think to myself, please don’t give us the speech again.
Please, Andy.
Tell us how your doctor’s appointment went.
Anything but the crosshairs again.
I’d hate to have to come down from off the wall and finish the job.
—
Chi-Town
Right Now
HOTv Studio
PRIMETIME
The lights are on, bright, and buzz with anticipation.
The lavish stage is set.
The new upgrades were funded by the recent surge in old shows being made available via the extensive HOTv library.
“I am the Kael” plays softly in the background over a portable stereo.
There’s a nice, little fern tucked next to a plush, comfy red chair.
A large flat screen hangs on the back wall with a montage of pictures playing on it.
The montage starts with a moment from last year; when the Bandits were buried underneath the Chaos set.
After they lost the tag titles.
In the main event.
Whole set.
Ring.
Lights.
Chairs.
Everything.
The shot switches to March 2 Glory, and Perfection jumping over the top rope delivering a picturesque sunset flip.
Poetry in motion.
Then switches again to Bobby Dean running down a dream.
You can smell the deliciousness of the BBQ through the picture.
Then, to the Bandits locker room, aka The Egg BASKET, and Doozer walking out.
Finally.
It stops on me.
The Belle of the Ball.
LIVE AND IN COLOR.
My hair is pristine.
Not a ghost-blonde strand out of place.
My Terminator Shades await Judgement Day.
Ready and willing to skull fuck The Lethal Lottery.
NO FATE.
My threads, head to toe endangered.
Tiger King ain’t got shit on me.
“Hello, High Octane.” I say, while making sure the collar on my blood silk, egg white, button down is popped to the ceiling. “I’m sorry I couldn’t make it to the set tonight. I was a little busy.”
Wouldn’t you like to know?
Maybe you’ll find out.
Or maybe you already know.
I was hanging out with the rest of Andy’s trophy wives.
And of course my shirt is unbuttoned.
DUH.
How else are you gonna see the tippy top of the Old E ink?
Simps.
“I wanted to say, thank you. Thank you for all the memories.”
Slowly, I clap my hands together in the most unenthusiastic way possible.
“I hope you enjoyed the highlight package. I think I could have done you all service if I played it before we got started, though.”
A pause.
“You know, so you would know the type of ‘legend’ you are dealing with.”
I smirk before breathing on my right hand’s fingernails.
“The Best part. There are countless other fond memories I have that rival those you just saw. That’s right. I’d hate to break it to you all.”
I clean my steam chilled fingernails by gently dragging them across the silk.
“But, Big Dick Jiles, yeah… Big Dick Jabrone.”
A lofty chuckle escapes from my diaphragm.
It’s one of the only things I have left.
“I don’t have the accolades most of you do. I’ve never won a singles title. Here anyway, where it counts.”
Emphatically, I point my finger towards the ground, as if to say everywhere I walk is HOW.
“I’ve never even competed for the ICON Championship before. I know. Shocking. Just think, if Mike Bologna Sandwich draws me, it will be MY first time, ever. EVER. Now I know, not everyone gets a view of the mountain top.”
Agreeingly, I nod my head, resigned to my status.
“I’ve wrestled here off an on for close to ten fucking years, oh by the way.”
I spit.
The disgust welling inside me.
“Shit, I don’t even know if I’ve wrestled for the LSD Championship before, to be honest. Maybe once. Maybe. And it’s not like the outcome was desirable.” A disappointed face scrunch. “I think I would remember such events had they played out in my favor. But alas, I do not.”
I pause because I can already hear the wheels turning at Stevenspedia.com.
He does have the time.
“Why tell you all this? What’s the point? To see who has the fattest dick on the Biggest Loser?”
Slowly, I remove the T-shades protecting you from the gleam in my eye.
“Simple. I told you about my past so that when one, or two of you becomes a part of my soon to be lethal future, you’ll know just who it was that pinned your shoulders to the mat.”
Pearlies.
My eyes grow wide with the fever.
“Not Ford Tough. Not the bean counter in the archives. Not the hitman training at the Academy. Not the lead singer for DMB. Not the Artisan of Hardcore. Not Doozer. Not Bobby. But me. The Emperor of the Undercard. The very, very bottom of the barrel.”
My chest proudly puffs outwards.
“Hopefully, your ego doesn’t go bust because of it.”
I pucker up.
“See you soon.”
And then kiss your asses goodbye.
No homo.