WE DID IT!
We really did.
It wasn’t easy. No sir it was not. The trials were certainly tumultuous. The cliff was steep. But we climbed. Oh yes, we climbed. And in the end, The Best Alliance won War Games.
Bing. Bang. BOOM.
Let me say, I’m just so proud of all the guys. I really am. I know how much they all wanted to win, and for us to go out there and do just that– golly gee what an accomplishment. Be proud, Best Alliance. Be proud.
Take a bowel.
To the victors go the spoils: Lindsay Troy is out walking the blue bayou. 214 is buried under Giants Stadium. Lee Best can pick back up smiting until smitten. No one lost an eye. Heck, even Harrison moved some merch.
All is good in the world.
Imagine that? Harrison moving merch.
There was no chaos. No disorder. No night out with Betsy. Just swell, swell times, and at the end of the day swell times is all a team can ask for when the game being played is war.
What a fucking crock of shit all that is.
The BA won War Games? We did? Really? Sure as fuck doesn’t seem like it to me. Teddy Plainer is still the LSD Champion. Danny and Comet are the new Tag Team Champions. Max’s kid is the new World Champion. Doozer and Bobby have been freed of their shackles. The future of the USS Octane is in doubt.
Quick, remind me again what it is that we won?
Eh… nothing of note.
Well, aside from being a top notch, clown show that is. All of us. From the tippy COOL top, to the Starrcrossed bottom of the fucking barrell. The whole fucking Alliance lot, played for the fiddle, or Yolkulelee to be more precise.
“But we won, Cancer. We won War Games. Be happy, would ya buddy boy!?!” — Some jerkoff who has a brown nose to match their red one.
Truth is, I’m fucking sick over this… clownery.
I’m buckled over, my Old English stomach aching. I’m congested, blowing the snot and salt out of my runny nose. My blood boils like a Sektor crack pipe. My head spins like the day after a Scottywood drinking binge. Fuck, I even lost a hair from atop my head the other day. Just one, but still. People kill for this hair. They do. It’s a big fucking deal.
Sick I tell ya! SICK!
The BA won War Games. HA. Good one. No. Really. Good one. To think, I was a double champion at the start of War Games, and by the end of it I was…
I might think Steve Harrison is a sham of a wrestler, and has been lucky to make it as far as he has. I might chalk up his prior victory over me as a bad day at the office. I might find his brand at a discount, and his antics to be… retentive. But, I know he has my back. I can trust him not to fuck me over.
That counts for something in my book.
I can rely on Steve. I can count on him to leave it all there. To keep his focus on the goal of victory and regaining our Championships. He’s not some psychopath intent on breaking the world and finding his lost Cecilia. He doesn’t need a cheat code to get by.
He has me.
For his loyalty to me, I will once again furnish him with Tag Team Championship gold. I will bring him to the table with me. We will sit, and we will eat.
I wasn’t lying before about being sick.
I got a fever.
I’m running hot.
Salt Shoes Jiles was one thing. He was cute at least. This is different. I can feel the air around me suffocating my being. I can’t think straight. Not even after sitting down and trying to get my mind right over and over again through the joy and wonders of marijuana.
I’m worse than a woman scorned.
I’m a champion scorned.
My time in the sun cut short.
It seems I still curry some favor with the GODS.
97red couch and jumper.
“Hello, my name is Cancer Jiles, you might not recognize me without any Championship titles, so I figured I’d make it easy and reintroduce myself to clear up any confusion.”
A cheeky smile comes over me.
Only for a second though.
“As you might have guessed from my surroundings, yes, it sure is great to be back on set inside HOTv studio. I mean that. It’s been a minute, but here I am and frankly I couldn’t be happier.”
I clear my throat, and focus my energy on not sounding like a sarcastic prick. Easier said than done with these shades and the collar popped on my jumpsuit.
“While I wish I returned here with something to show for my time away, alas I did not.” A frown forms on my clean kept face. ”There was this fancy ribbon we all got for winning War Games, but I left it inside the airplane toilet I was throwing up in.”
“Anyway, no matter how sickly I may feel about it, the fact is I lost at War Games. More than anyone else, too.”
I’ve already detailed the real world symptoms once, and doing so again would be stepping on Hollywood’s toes.
“But, that’s the way the cookie crumbles in this game. Unless you’re Cracker Jack the Prize Fighter, you don’t always get what you want. I could sit here and cry about it. Really, I could. Just sit here, and cry. But I won’t. I’m all cried out, and while that might lead you to believe that old Cancer has his phone in hand and is ready to call it in, I can assure you that won’t be the case.”
My head slowly shakes back and forth, as if it were Dikembe Mutombo’s index finger.
“Now, while I might not be the righteous, double champion of High Octane Wrestling that I once was, I am still me. The COOL. The Main Event. The Nail. The Best Hair in the business. The Skynet of Sunglasses. The Rabbit’s Foot. The Terminal, and not the Tom Hanks movie.”
I spit, disgusted, but more so because I’m unconvinced of my own boasting. Losing two championships in one night will do that to a man. I guess most of you will just have to take my word for it.
“And this Saturday night on Refueled, in my Main Event, I get the chance to right my ship so to speak. I get to correct my course, and win back something I never lost.” AGAIN. “I guess we can call it step one in the Cancer Jiles reclamation project.”
A pause for posterity.
“It shouldn’t be too hard seeing as the imposter Tag Champs are a couple of modern day Mongoloids who’ve melted inside my spotlight before. Champions, without ever having beaten the rightful ones.”
I thumb my snobby nose to those who would even dare to question the validity of my prideful claim.
“Dan Ryan, and Conor Fuse. Dan is an old maid, Conor is an overgrown child who spent his actual adolescence pulling the wings off of butterflies because he thought it was how you triggered the Butterfly Effect.”
He’s also a big Ashton Kutcher fan.
“Together, they make a better Pornhub sitcom than a tag team. Together, their faces, along with the World Title, will be on the tights I send to be enshrined in the High Octane Hall of Fame. Together, on top of each other’s shoulders, they couldn’t escape the cast of my shadow.”
I grit my teeth.
Next stop, Colossus.
“It’s no secret I have genuine disdain for Dan Ryan. I don’t try to hide it. I blame him for things he had nothing to do with. If I stub my toe on a chair inside my hotel room it’s because Dan Ryan put the chair there. If I sneeze it’s because Dan Ryan somehow peppered my nose. If my phone dies it’s because Dan Ryan took it off the charger. If the wind blows the wrong way it’s because Dan Ryan farted. If I take a nasty, one of one, Bobby Dean shit, it’s because I imagined Dan Ryan’s face in the bottom of the toilet.”
What a guy he is.
Me, that is.
“I enjoy watching him lumber around with the hanger still inside the collar of his shirt more than I should. It’s a guilty pleasure I will never grow out of, much like how me remaining forever unimpressed with Dan Ryan is a fact of life I’ll never grow out of.”
I scratch at my chin, at least feigning deep thought.
“Yet, I don’t know what I would do without Old Thunderbolt. He does make this fun. I guess I could always go back to making fun of the Zion’s, Zeb’s, and the Woods’ of the world.”
“And then there is…. fuck, who is his partner again? Dane is it?”
Off screen someone yells out “Fuse”, and for a second I think the studio breaker tripped. Then, it all clicks, and I remember it’s the hour long man of mystery, Conor Fuse who is imposter tag champion alongside Danny.
Smoke another one, J-bag.
“That’s right. Comet. The so-called next me. Better yet, the better next me. I hear people saying that about you, Comet. It makes me mad. I get angry when I hear it. I turn a shade of green. Well, I turn to the green anyway. Then, I get calm, but soon enough some other idiot says the same thing and the process repeats. I think that in order to stop this vicious cycle I’m going to kick all of your rotted, Jolt cola’d teeth down your throat. I might even let Harrison get the pin afterwards to really rub salt in the wound. I haven’t decided.”
“I never liked video games. I was too busy playing outside and getting laid. Halo sucks, and so do you.”
I hold my index finger out to correct myself.
“Both of you.”
“No, not goodbye just yet. I want it to be abundantly clear. I’m not happy. I’m sick. I’m agitated. I want to cause harm to make me feel better for how things inside the Tokyo Dome played out. I want to get my foot off. Multiple times. Over, and over again. I want to spread my misery with everyone and everything. I want to extract vengeance like marrow, and once again sit at the very top. That journey starts this Saturday.”
The Special Referee.
I’m glad you get to watch first. Fitting, isn’t it? With me calling you Cuckler and all. Then, after you watch, you’ll get to listen. Those virgin ears… I feel bad for them already. Then, after watching, and listening…
You know what comes next.
I’m not a good bully. I’m not. I struggle with it. It’s not my strength. But for you, I will make an exception. For you, I’ll make you choke on it. Then, when the chafing pan is finally empty, and the only thing written are the imaginary words on the wall…
I’ll put a nice button on it.
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