The first War Games of this era saw the reformation of the eGG Bandits when Bobby Dean assisted myself and Doozer in luxurious, double crossing fashion. Needless to say it was a magical night that I’ll remember forever. That is the God’s honest truth. I’ve never felt better within the confines of a wresting ring. I don’t mean I was this mythical physical presence like a Dan Ryan fart, rather I felt how I felt from an overwhelming sense of accomplishment.
It was like I had got my name called as a War Games Wildcard.
The relief alone.
Keep in mind that up until that point we hadn’t won a match. For real. That was our first win. Fuck our, I, Cancer Jiles, current DOUBLE Champion, hadn’t even won a match. For some greater perspective on how bad it actually was, I was on Refueled One and HOW came back with the LBI.
It wasn’t like I lost my debut and then it was War Games.
There was a lot of losing involved.
Then, with nothing but more sleep left to lose, we, Doozer and I, partook in the consolation match of War Games that year. Pretty much all the guys who didn’t make the Main Event got thrown into a Tag Team Title match. Pick a partner, make the most of it.
A Bandit special.
The two of us showed up ready for War. We battled. We gamed. Oh you bet your ass we gamed. We jockeyed. We suffered. Then, our plan came to fruition and Bobby Dean, a long lost friend who was also in the match turned on his partner. There was a bunch of teams participating and his crucial betrayal was enough to sway the odds in our favor.
Just don’t ask what happened on the next show.
Fly On The Wall
As you now know, Bobby Dean and Doozer are two of my oldest pals. Nowadays you can find all of us hanging out on the USS Octane together. We have a special relationship. I vigilantly make sure they clean the toilets on the ship. I’m talking you can not only eat from, but you can also make the damn sandwich right there on the lid PRISTINE.
Well, I tell Laser to make sure they are doing it.
Maybe, if the stars aligned I guess I could use one of them to hold a dummy bag or to try out a new low blow on. It’d probably be too hard to tell the bag from the dummy holding it though so why bother. Plus, neither of them have balls anymore, so I wouldn’t be able to properly gauge the effects.
They also hand wash Laser’s and the rest of the USS Octane Security Force’s underwear, so they have their hands full with that as well. I would hate to slow down such a vital operation for Jatt Starr. I’m trying to be more of a team player these days.
Outside of those duties, Doozer and Bobby are completely worthless shells of who they once were.
For the record, I do not hold them here against their will. They are free to leave the ship by jumping overboard whenever they’d like. I’d even throw down the keys to the twenty pound weights fastened around their ankles once they hit the water. The weight’s are a knockoff form of Apple anklet that tracks crawls. They were made in Russia. For babies. It’s just coincidental that they happen to look like bear traps.
Anyway, Bobby and Dooze are tucked away in their quarters: a small room that’s tight for one, let alone both of them. The room’s been painted completely in death black. Wall to wall, even the ceiling and floor. There’s two crib mattresses on the ground for them to sleep on, a single bucket to share constitutional talks, and some paper towels because they are people after all. “I am the COOL” by Screamin’ Jay Hawkins is being played on an loop through a mounted speaker in the wall to help ease their troubled spirits, and a single, scented, therapy candle serves as the only source of light.
Fun fact about their room: it’s located at the very bottom of the mega vessel, and would be the first room to flood should the USS Octane ever take on water.
Better keep Zeb off of it then. HAHAHHAHAHA. I dare you to make the first move and come and get them. Dare you to try.
The two have gone through the rigors of a hard day’s labor. There was a chili cheese dog special in the kitchen, and the ship is fully staffed since we’re out and about. Thank god it’s been decommissioned seeing as Japan was ready to declare an act of war against the United States when we came rolling in a day early. It got a little Harrison there for a bit, but that’s a story for another time.
My two old pals however, they were getting ready to lay their weary heads to rest when Bobby pondered to the Dooze.
“Do you think we’ll ever get out of here? He can’t really hold us here forever, can he? I know he likes teasing us by saying he’s going to, but he can’t do that, right? I can smell the sashimi from here, and it’s making me think it might be better than the broken glass and old roof shingles Big C has been feeding us.”
Poor Bob, and I have no idea what he was talking about.
The Dooze sighed, as if the topic had been discussed often. Might have had something to do with Bobby’s recent lobotomy, and his depreciated ability to remember things.
“For the last time, I don’t know. I just don’t know.”
“Maybe he’ll lose, and then Lee will kick him off the ship.” Bobby worryingly continued, “Worse yet, what if he loses and Lee sticks him down here with us? This room is small enough, Dooze. With him in it… I think I would rather take my chances jumping overboard.”
“Him? Lose? You’ve seen the way he’s been walking around here. He likes it too much now. He’s gained two inches of height from the salt mines growing on the bottoms of his shoes since kicking Zeb, by the time War Games actually rolls around and with all the disrespect he’ll have received, the chips on his shoulders might make him taller than Godzilla.”
Bob rolled over in anguish, and then jokingly asked before blowing out the Rotten Egg scented candle, “So who is King Kong? Mom?”
The Fall Of Man
I missed out on the second War Games of this era. Well, I stepped to the side and allowed someone else to stake my rightful claim to the Tag Team Championships. History has a funny way of repeating itself, don’t it?
It better not, and you’ll realize why once you’ve finished with Part Two of this tale.
Both The Dooze and I did. Free the Byrd. Still, it was my spot to give and as such I did just that. Long story short, it didn’t work out. The Bandits lost, and now one of the guys who participated on my behalf is sleeping on the USS Octane, and the other, his shark-toothed partner on that night…
Well, he will be joining him shortly.
Gotta catch them all. Or is it already caught them all? I know. I’m a jerkoff.
While I don’t remember the match from last year’s War Games since I was too busy throwing up after realizing I had trusted Zeb Martin and Bobby Dean to do my bidding, I do remember the show before it. The one where I was duped into thinking that the aforementioned wastes of life had a chance to succeed. We were all out in the ring, and the building was shaking from Octabandits chanting “Bobby Dean” as I teased who was going to represent us in the Tag Team Title match at War Games. I can remember standing there in complete and utter disbelief. It was tremendously horrible. Sure, I put on a brave face, but I felt the same way I do when I hear people fawning over Teddy Palmer, or when they say Lindsay Troy is a leader of men.
I could not believe it.
Bobby Dean had become a bigger star than me. Then, of course he made up for it on the following show by reminding everyone why it’s in The Big C you trust.
Later on I quote myself as saying that I am a Tag Team Champion three times over. Well, turns out it is a lie. Let’s just say there’s a little black spot, and inside that little black spot is another Tag Team Title reign. One from WAAAAAyyyyy back, when black out drinking was the norm and pounding my head against a concrete wall because I got dared to do it was commonplace.
As you probably have already guessed I was Tag Team Champions with the then NOT 39 percent owner of High Octane Wrestling, Scottywood. I called him Scoots for short in some attempt to get him to kill me so all the drinking and NGWing could finally come to an end.
Obviously, it did not work.
The two of us haven’t really seen eye to eye since those swell old days; probably because I blacked out during them and can’t reconnect with the past like he frequently does. However, much like I must do with the rest of my fellow Best Alliance contemporaries, Scotty and I must figure out a way to coexist.
My World Championship depends on it.
FUCK IS IT HOT IN HERE.
For that to happen I needed to get a little lucky, and in this instance in TEAM building in particular I got lucky that Scottywood was one, alive, and two, even aboard the ship. I caught him after he talked to Lee, aka received his orders from The GOD of WAR. I imagine those orders sounded something like, “PROTECT JILES AT ALL COST.”
A boy can dream, can’t he?
I got even luckier that I was busy top side working out with Harrison, or I would have never even saw Scottywood. Steve and I were running from bow to stern because he had some feelings he needed to muck through. Turns out me yelling “mush” into his ear while he piggybacked me about is just the type of thing to make a man hate himself even more than he already does.
Who’d have known?
So, while I was out there willingly helping the heart and soul of the Best Alliance, because we are Best Buddies and I would do anything for a friend, I saw Scotty exiting from the top deck of the BAMBoO Lounge. I quickly hopped off my ride’s back and called out, “YO WOODSON! YOU CRUMB! Get your ass down here and say hello!”
Now, I didn’t think he would actually come since I was holding out my middle finger when I called out to him, but he did. He shuffled his ass down a flight of steps, and his bald head shined in the sun the entire time. Then, he dapped me up and said, “You fuck, I still can’t believe you’re the fucking World Champion. What fucking pictures do you fucking have!?!”
I smiled wide at his innocence and foul mouth, then replied, “If I can do it, so can you. I mean that.” I didn’t. My smile, tone, and actual choice of words might lead you to believe that I did, but I didn’t. Scotty has a shot to win the whole thing, sure, gun pressed to my head I would say that. No gun, what he actually has is a real chance to compete, and leave his mark on this match. If he can do something like that my chances of winning go up exponentially.
So yeah, I chose to fill him with hot air.
“Say, have you met Steve Harrison yet? He sells stuff. Well, products. We’re still working on the people part of it. He’s getting there, though. Two, maybe three more years and I can see him moving the needle around here.” The two cue balls shared an awkward nod. I couldn’t tell if they wanted to secretly fuck each other or throw me overboard. I didn’t have much time to really care about it though since I was about to have an epiphany. “HEY!” I shouted out like I had thought of an idea that was better than sliced bread. “Doozer should be cleaning the outdoor stall right about now. Let’s go see him so I can get a picture with all the guys I’ve won Tag Team gold with. We can get it printed up all fancy, I can sign it, and give it to Conor Fuse or Dan Ryan as a consolation prize.”
Steve for a moment forgot his shame and smirked.
I smiled, and approvingly watched as the team slowly came together. “If you have any underwear you need cleaned, Doozer does that, too. You don’t even know how many times I’ve caught him sniffing boxers. Fucking Boston. Sick freaks. Redrum will only free ball now because of it.”
Life, Limb, Legacy
Time to make the third installment of War Games in this era the BEST one yet.
We got the goods.
Nine versus Nine.
The GOD of WAR and his Best Alliance.
The Local 214 Union of LaBORErs.
MY World Championship.
It may not be my birthday but it’s my name that’s on the cake this year. Good thing, too. I’m in the mood to blow out some candles. More so than I usually am. Let’s get a little vain, and a little self indulgent. There’s fresh meat clamoring out there on the picket line. I should probably catch them up to speed anyway so their signs can at least be accurate.
“I’m a former LSD Champion.” — Cancer Jiles, former LSD Champion.
Though, Hughie Deadman knocked me out before I could run with the title. I guess I’ll hang my hat on the fact that I’m still here covered in gold with the full battalion at the ready, and he’s not.
And, I know what you’re thinking.
I agree, this ascot I have commemorating my LSD run is pretty cool.
If only it came in 97red.
“I’m a three time Tag Team Champion.” — Cancer Jiles, liar, and quite possibly the greatest Tag Team competitor to ever step foot in High Octane Wrestling.
TAG. TEAM. TAG. TEAM. TAG. TEAM. I might be a fucking dog. I might drag UP to where the air is suffocating thin, and the sun is unbearably blinding. I might expect the turning of lead to gold.
But, tell me I’m wrong. I dare you.
Don’t do that actually.
“I’m one seventh of the current High Octane Tag Team Champions, and the reason six others can claim so as well.” — Cancer Jiles, on his capability to prove a point.
Drink milk. Buy BA-Shades. Get your life preserved. All just a 1-800-M-I-R-A-C-L-E phone call away.
“I am the World Champion of High Octane Wrestling.” — Cancer Jiles, while flexing all of his muscles because this song does happen to be about him.
I will enter the Tokyo Dome that way. I will leave the Tokyo Dome that way. Deal with it, Lindsay Troy. Get used to it, Teddy Palmer. HA! Who the fuck am I kidding? Like Tedward Sandybox will even be in the match when I enter it.
“Not only does that make me a current DOUBLE Champion, but a two time DOUBLE Champion.” — Cancer Jiles, just pouring it on for the crumbs and mongoloids.
Crumbs and mongoloids want one Championship. Me, I spit in the face of crumbs and mongoloids who want just one Championship.
Oranges, of course.
“Remember when Dan Ryan called somebody bulbous? I bet Zeb Martin thought he was talking about a flower.” — Cancer Jiles, because he just can’t help himself.
That was from when Dan was…
Oh. Fuck. I keep forgetting he’s never won the big one. Oh well. Maybe next year.
“HeRan Dyan, pronounced He Ran Dying, as in He Ran Dying stood across from Sektor in the ring and wished he could act upon his namesake, would use the World Title as a red leather sports bra if he ever cared enough to win the damn thing. Nobody wants that. Just ask Lindsay for one is what I say. Save yourself the trouble. Oh, wait. That’s right. She’s never been World Champion, either. Has anyone on the Union team?” — Cancer Jiles, who’d be the only High Octane World Champion EVER on the Union team.
Please, TELL ME I’M WRONG.
“What else is there, besides another clever way of pointing out I’ve accomplished more than the entirety of Incel 214, and that’s before I even step foot inside the dual cages to defend my World Championship?” — Clever Jiles, who just continues to insult the Union because my god, look at their team.
This has been eleven, maybe twelve years in the making for me.
MY WHOLE HIGH OCTANE CAREER I have never been in the Main Event at War Games.
Like I said at the top of Part Three, it’s my name on the cake.
I’m eating the whole thing with a big smile on my face.
“I’m the guy defending the World Championship at War Games.” — The Colonel of the Best Alliance
You know, otherwise known as the money spot. The impossible spot. The highly scrutinized spot. The G-Spot(Golden). The never been done before spot. THE SPOT I DESCENDED FROM COOLYMPUS FOR, spot.
I WILL DEFY THE ODDS.
“I’ve done what NO ONE else has done. I made throwing eggs and cardboard cutouts a Chicago pastime. When all was lost, I’ve survived the egotistical throws of the unsurvivable. In the blink of an eye I crossed the finish line. Aloof, I dethroned a GOD.” — Read the fucking quote and guess who.
Here’s a hint, it’s no one from 214, and he has the BEST hair in the Alliance.
“Might as well have said I dare Jiles to DEFEND.” — Summary of a recent Poolboys Podcast
Wait. Not Poolboys. Poorboys? Proudboys? Oh. Podboys.
“Conor Fuse is the next Cancer Jiles.” — One of my own fucking teammates.
Ha. And I’m the bad guy.
“But you had to crater Zeb’s head in with your salty foot via sneak attack in order to win! You knew you couldn’t beat him so you had to cheat.” — Some scab over the course of the next two weeks who thinks he or she has the right to speak, breath, look, whimper, or sweat in my colonel direction.
Just like I did Bobby Dean.
Just like I did Teddy Palmer.
Just like I did pre Backdraft Ray.
Just like I’m going to do to some unsuspecting Union Unicorn who thinks they are going to be the new World Champion after War Games.
“It’s fitting Jiles is the Colonel of the Best Alliance since Noah Hanson was also Zion’s bitch.” — Me, helping the 214 out because they are probably realizing right about now that they are going to need it.
SEE YA SOON.