I can’t believe Lee Best is this fucking stupid.
The boss brings over not one, not two, but three fucking morons. All at once, from LT’s special playland. Did he call her up and ask if you boys could come out to play first? Or did you just roll on out of the white tower hoping not to crack any shells?
See Jiles, I’m one of the few here that actually tunes in every other Friday night. I sit down on the couch, grab myself a beer out of Solex’s fridge, kick up my feet on Solex’s coffee table, and have myself a good little laugh while you boys go out there and beat the fuck out of each other. You’re the most hated man on the planet, they despise you more than Lee Best, and that’s pretty hard to do over in PRIME blue land. But you’re playing them like a fiddle, I watch the machinations at play.
I don’t think many of them boys have seen anything like you before Jiles. Someone wily, and crafty, someone who just won’t fucking die. A guy who always seems to have a plan, always another trick up your sleeve. And my God they fucking hate you. They boo you out of the building, they despise all three of you, just because Bobby and whatever the fuck Dooze is calling himself these days, dare to enter your orbit.
They hate everything about you, they hate the way you breath, they hate the way you smell, they hate your seventeen hour, need their own disc on the bluray ring entrances, they hate all the bullshit that comes with you, well, being you. And I get it, I understand it.
When I first met you I hated you too.
I think everyone does, I mean you just have that charm Jiles, that uncanny ability to suck all of the joy out of the room. And those guys in PRIME, they try to have a lot of joy now don’t they? Always having fun, you got the kid that just powerbombs everyone, you got that Colton kid always grinning, that Hanlon kid looking up at the guys you beat like their stars.
You’re unique there Jiles, you’re something special.
Here? Well, here, you’re just like the rest of us.
Because under that salt white, hard shelled exterior we all know what the fuck you are. A miserable egotistical prick, that’ll do anything to win. You’re just like Mike Best, like Christopher America, like Cecilworth Farthington, the whole lot of all the big bad guys who have waltzed through these doors into High Octane Wrestling.
You were even one of them, you won the 97RED leather, you were unbeatable, unstoppable, undefeatable. But you must have left something in the bowels of that ship when we walked off of it into Tokyo for War Games, because since then?
I haven’t seen the real Cancer Jiles on High Octane television.
I see what you are, something that isn’t special, something that isn’t unique. Just Mike Best but with the annoying turned up to eleven. Cecilworth Farthington, but somehow with even more sarcasm. But where’s your heart Jiles? You used to be a lion, fearsome, destructive, you had this place under the salt covered heel of your salt shoes.
But instead, now, here, it’s half assed, and half assed some more.
I get it, this wasn’t for you, this was for him.
I’m not even going to say HIS name. He doesn’t know what he wants to call himself this week, first it was Fred, soon he’ll be standing still, not speaking, with Dan taped to his forehead. Or, who knows, he could end up on a bender on HBO Max, watching old Fraggle Rock episodes like it’s 1987 all over again.
Now let’s talk about something serious for a minute, Jiles. Just how old was Doozer when he was watching Fraggle Rock? He’s like a hundred and two, so in the 80’s he’d have been like sixty years old. Sixty years old and sitting around watching Fraggle Rock? Seems a little weird to me. Unless Doozer was hitting the bong, but he doesn’t seem like a hippie from the 60’s. LSD was out of fashion by then, and I don’t think someone on cocaine can sit through an entire episode of anything…
I mean, I don’t know why I’m surprised. I’m sure he and Bobby sit around in whatever shit hole you’ve decided to make your fortress this month, watching Sponge Bob or some other dumb fucking cartoon.
I bet Fred likes them Japanese cartoons. Probably the ones about the kids in High School, but he probably only watches it for the drama. You know, so he can relive his glory days from 1945 right after Japan surrendered in World War II.
Doozer? Fred? Froozer? Doozed?
You want to be taken serious, I can see it. Your brow furrows, you get so angry when someone treats you like a joke. YOU ARE DOOZER! The greatest wrestler in the world circa 2001!
‘GO BACK AND WATCH THE TAPE! I WAS GREAT IN MY DAY!’
It’s like Al Bundy on Married with Children talking about how many fucking touchdowns he scored twenty seven years ago.
Nobody fucking cares Fred.
And you can blame Jiles all you want, or blame Bobby for being too big of a joke. Blame whoever, and whatever. But when it comes down to the truth of the matter, it’s all on you. It’s absolutely, unequivocally, on you. You do this to yourself, over, and over, and over, and over, and over, and over, and over, and over, and over, and over, and over, and over, and over again.
I think I got the number of comebacks you’ve made in the last two years right, but for the sake of accuracy the margin for error is two ‘overs.’ You come back, talk a whole mess of shit, get yourself hyped up and ready to go, everyone thinks ‘this might actually be the time Doozer is ready!’ And then it happens.
It’s more consistent than the ticking of a clock, you always, and I do mean always, find some way to let everyone down more than two virgins on prom night. It’s more regular than Bobby’s bowel movements, and more reliable than Jiles half assing.
Just go ahead and do me a favor bud, just let Jiles get beat up this week. Take the night off, go out on the boat. Crack a Bud Light Watermelon Mojito, and enjoy the night. Before you go though, make sure you leave my belt with the time keeper.
Familiar place, familiar scene.
The Behemoth stood stoic, flowers clutched in his hand. His nicest flannel gripping tightly to his chest, the top button was left open out of necessity. His fancy dress belt with the big buckle, the nicest pair of boots he owned on his feet. Just like every other Monday he stood in front of the nursing home. The rain pelted the ground outside of the awning, the temperature was brisk for Houston this time of year, dipping down into the mid sixties.
The wind blew through the overhang, Clay put his free hand on top of his hat so it didn’t blow away. He’d been coming here for months now, but it was never any easier to go inside. It was always there in the back of his mind, gnawing at him, pulling at him. He inhaled and counted backwards from ten, hoping the butterflies would subside.
The gnawing would be there until he walked into the door of her room, and then her voice and smile would wash over him and all of it would fall away. He’d spend an hour talking to the only person that truly cared about him, and then he’d get up, kiss her on the forehead, and leave. That was their routine. Sometimes they watched daytime television, sometimes it was soap operas, sometimes it was the news, sometimes it was just whatever infomercial she had on.
But she took interest in what The Behemoth had to say, she asked questions, and truthfully, she cared. Her body may have been failing her, but her mind was sharp as a tack. He inhaled deeply for a second time before walking into the nursing home. The first set of doors popped open as he waltzed up, but the second required using a small white button on the side of the door. There was no pause after passing through the air curtain, he pressed the button.
It was finally becoming normal.
He walked in, heading straight up to the desk to get his visitor’s badge. The toad-like lady at the desk’s name was Margie, she’d been there every Monday that Clay had shown up to see his grandmother. He stepped forward with the flowers, taking the sheet and the pen off the counter and started to write his name. As he finished he passed the clipboard back across the desk. Margie normally smiled at the flowers and said how beautiful they were, but instead, today she looked down at her sign in sheet.
She looked up at Clay, and back at the sheet. Her normal welcoming, southern charm was absent today as she held up a single finger and stepped away from the desk into an office and shut the door. He sighed as he looked at the door, growing inpatient. He’d been flying out of Houston every Monday to get wherever High Octane had been. He always tried to time his flight so that he could leave right after coming here to visit.
He leaned down on the desk, and another visitor approached from behind him. She came through the opposite hallway his grandmother was down, and sighed after not seeing the sign up sheet. Her business attire showed how seemingly important she was, and she tapped her black heel on the tile floor relentlessly.
“I’m waitin’ ta sign in, ya want me ta let Marg know yer signin’ out?” Clay asked, trying to alleviate the awkward tension, and the incessant tapping.
“Thank you,” The woman said hurriedly scribbling her name, and the patient’s name she was visiting down on a piece of paper. “Do I need to put the time?”
“Erry time,” Clay replied with a smile. The woman smiled back, scribbling the time down and walking outside of the home. Clay turned back towards the office and waited for what felt like an eternity. A security guard stepped through the left door from his grandmother’s hallway, and the guard at the door also stood up and walked up behind Clay. The Monster eyed the two men and their pepper spray, it was a reflex at this point, after a year of being beaten and attacked by Lee Best and the EPU. Finally, Margie sallied forth from the office. Clay held out the sheet of paper with the woman’s name on it and smiled at her.
“Sorry Darlin, she said she was in a hurry,” Margie took the paper and nodded, smiling back weakly. Her hand already contained an envelope, and now she held it out weakly. Her hand trembled, shaking. Clay looked a bit shocked and took the envelope and Margie started to speak.
“I don’t know what’s in that envelope Clay, but I have to inform you that you are no longer permitted within the walls of this facility,” Clay’s eyes practically shot out of his head as he looked around the front lobby. The two security guards were now flanking him on either side.
“Whaddya mean? Cause I helped a woman in a hurry?” The confusion, the hurt, it all washed over him at once. One of the guards tried to place their hand on his shoulder, but The Behemoth shrugged it off snarling. Margie’s trembling, her hands shaking, he looked down at the envelope, it wasn’t sealed.
“Lemme see what all this is ‘bout and then I’ll go… without ya two layin’ ‘nother fuckin’ finger on me!” The Behemoth roared, spinning towards the security guard. Clay’s snarl grew as he looked at the pepper spray. “Boy I always liked ya, but if ya touch that fuckin’ spray, I might not be able ta see boy, but I’ll be able to jam whatever’s left of that canister in whatever orifice I can find, and press that button on top until it’s empty, even if I’m blind.”
The guard nodded, taking his hand away from the spray. Clay glanced towards the other guard, who did the same. He opened the envelope and looked at a letter.
It has been brought to my attention that you have been visiting my mother. In your visits, you describe incredible acts of violence on others, you encourage her to watch your violence on television. And you walk our mother further away from the Lord’s light. With her frail condition, I have to look out for her eternal soul. As my Mother’s power of attorney with the nursing home, I have decided to bar you from further visitation. I understand this will come as a shock to you. But this has to be done. If you love her, you’ll leave her to be at peace with her God.
Clay looked up, tears welled in his icy blue eyes. He looked at Margie and nodded, putting the pink flowers on the counter.
“Can ya at least give her these fer me?” Clay croaked out. The emotion in his voice, the pain in his chest. It all hurt so bad. He wanted to lash out, he wanted to find Roy, he wanted to smash him, break him, destroy him. He wanted to rip through these guards and storm into her room.
But none of that would do either of them any good.
Margie nodded her head yes, and The Behemoth smiled through the pain and placed the pink and yellow flowers on her desk. “She likes ‘em in the vase on the right. Make sure ya change the water and dump that lil packet of chemicals in it. She says it makes ‘em last longer…”
“You want me to say anything to her?” Margie asked as Clay turned his back towards her.
“Naa, I think she’ll know.” The Behemoth said, tipping his hat and walking back outside of the nursing home. He was able to keep his composure through the second door, he was able to keep his composure under the awning, but when he got into the rain. That’s when the tears started to fall. He gripped the letter as tight as he could, crumbling it in his hand. He had to do something.