The Yolkulele

The Yolkulele

Posted on November 3, 2020 at 12:24 pm by Cancer Jiles


I’ve been looking forward to this moment for quite some time.


The misery of being myself…

…is over. Long live the wolf, and long live the piss pot he’s been eating out of. I know it was only for the better part of two months, but I’ll be damned if it wasn’t the longest, most miserable, most undesirable better part of two months.

For real, for real.

Luckily for me that is all in the past now. The disgraced chalk has been erased from the board, and my slate is now clean.


How was I able to pull off such a stifling task you might wonder?

Well, that’s the best part.

I didn’t.

My good friend Doozer made it so. Like him, and also because of him, I was finally able to escape from the plunder and squalor of the Bandits breaking up. That, which had kept me so down. That, which had sapped me of my will to not only compete, but to also thrive. That, which made me question things I didn’t even know I cared about.

Are there five leaf clovers?

If so, where can I get one?

Now, you might be wondering how my great escape from the depths of Bandit breakup despair ties to Dooze. Aside from the obvious, maybe you think it was when he Abused me at Alcatraz. In a wrestling way that is.

Sick pups, the lot of ya.

If you did think that, you’d be wrong. I’m not saying it wasn’t the first shock from the defibrillator, because maybe it was. It’s just not what scared me straight. No. That happened this past Saturday when my old pal spiked what little ceremony us Bandits had left into the canvas. THAT HAPPENED when goody two shoes thought it best to make a selfish statement on his current alliance rather than cracking one last egg.


Yes, needless to say THAT specific moment in time is when I defied the flat line, and remembered eggsactly who it is I am.

I’m not the prisoner of my miserable existence.

I’m the fucking warden.

Thank you for that, Dooze. You might be a selfish prick, but now I owe you one. Well, more than one.

Winky, winky.

In order to get square, and because my recompense comes with a yolky guarantee, maybe I do for us what you are forever incapable of doing. Maybe, this Saturday night The Grand Maestro cements the status of our fateful on the fence encounter at Iconic by ensuring it will be contested for MY World Title.


Smell those roses, Dooze.

Intoxicating, ain’t it?

I know.

It would be something.

Don’t worry, you don’t have to say it.

I know you’re welcome.

Wish me luck instead.

I did it for the Dooze!

HOTv Studios
7:38 PM
I ain’t a killa but don’t push me

It’s been a while.

I apologize for that.

I wanted to be here, but…

Breakups are a bitch.

However, like I prefaced just prior that is all in the past thanks to Doozer.

NOW, as in the present, even if I wanted to I don’t have the luxury of dwelling over Bandit misery. I can’t afford to. You see, your favorite Slayer of Mongoloids has been tasked with yet another impossible hunt.

Nay, not tasked with, rather I must survive.

That’s what it is all about this Saturday.


After all, I’m facing a killer.

A true to form, cold hearted, killer. No, it isn’t Darin Zion, known hitman to the stars. It’s Mike Best, brother killer and very top of the food chain. The pinnacle of the sport. High Octane’s Blood Thirsty, Tiny Dicked, Drug Addicted, House Burning, World Champion.

What a doozy it is going to be.

And no, we aren’t friends if you couldn’t tell.

However, before we get into the next chapter of the Improbable Conquests of COOL, let us take the stage and it’s sole occupant in for a bit. There’s some symbolism coming up that I hope isn’t lost.

First, the golden version of me has returned. I don’t mean the champion version, he comes back next week. What I do mean is my gray, decrepit, armpit of a haircut is gone, and the golden locks of COOLYMPUS have returned. Me, the Vidal Sassoon stock options, and my upcoming Championship reign couldn’t be happier about it.

Sorry for the lens flare.

You’ll readjust.

Second, there’s no more 97red jumpsuit with the black track stripes keeping my body cozy. Not entirely. Now, it’s the opposite. Now, it’s funeral black with 97red stripes.


Third, and this is more of a one week thing, but one of the stage crew found an ascot laying around and figured it would go well with the new jumper.

You be the judge.

Lastly, the T-Shades remain unchanged.

We are all humans after all.

As for the room…

And the couch….

And my fern…


Sadly, the room has too many portraits of fallen Bandits on its walls. So much so, it’s starting to resemble a classical museum instead of a recording studio. I’d like to note that those who do adorn have all served the shell with integrity, and pride. Their memory will never be forgotten, as evidenced by the fancy impressionist era oil paintings I had commissioned in their honor.

The Dooze can only dream.

The couch… my precious place of truth and consequence is no longer a smoldering shade of 97red. It’s smooth velvet has been sullied black, and instead of scrambled eggs it smells of death, and loss. I guess you could say that’s what happens when it’s been kept in Lady Troy’s garage for two months. That, and when Mike kills someone.

Who knows though? Maybe one day my famed coach will be restored to its former glory.

Maybe one day soon.

And my fern, THANK ZEUS, which I also rescued from Lady Troy’s House of Horrors… like my shades, remains unchanged. She watered it. What a lady.

You don’t mess with the classics.

And that’s that.


“Hello, Michael. Congrats on killing my friend.” I hesitate, only because I hate the fact I have to clarify, “and your brother.”

I clap.

There is no smile accompanying said dry applause.

Then I stop.

“On a less somber note, sorry about the HOAX. It was always fun getting updates on your facial hair and wardrobe. Also, I bet that commemorative Max action figure would have given CBD a run for his money at the concession stands. Shame.”

I snap my fingers at opportunities lost.

“Anyway, before we get to the debauchery, I want you to know I listened to your heartfelt message last week. I can relate. As you can see behind me, I’ve lost plenty of friends. None by my own murderous hand, but still I know it’s not easy dealing with remorse.”

Relieved I am no longer trapped by such emotion, I sigh.

“I’ll tell you straight, Mike. I almost felt sorry for you. Almost. Then, I watched as you pointed the blame elsewhere, like there was a third person in that match holding a gun to your head.”

His legacy.

I chuckle. Not because I find Buck Passing Mike funny, but more because that is what I do when I am amazed at sheer audacity.

My own.

“The fans didn’t kill Max Kael. HOW didn’t kill Max Kael. A heart attack, or Lee triggering the remote bomb he had implanted in him didn’t kill Max Kael.”

A poignant pause.

“You did.”

Another pause.

More poignancy.

“You, his brother for ten years. You, his only competition. You, who knew the RF frequency for his eyeball. You, one half of the almost tag team known as the Hands of God, and quite possibly the only person he ever truly trusted.”

One more P.P.

A big one.

“That’s who killed him. No one else. Just you in your infinite quest to be remembered.”

I nod, matter of factly.

I seen it.

The murder.

“I wonder, Mike. What will become of Max now? What does fate have in store for your dead brother in the afterlife? Will he be just another trophy corpse for you to drag around the weekend before a big match? Will he blend in with the rest of the other dregs whose career or life you’ve taken over the years?”

Condescending, I smile.

“Or better yet, is his fate resigned to hanging up on my wall with the rest of his Bandit brothers? I do not mind the company, and would be more than privileged if his spirit and Yolkulele were my cross to bear. I know I would at least honor him properly.”

My smile widens, and I ease back on my sullied throne. Then, I turn my head around to check in with Max Shell. In his delightful portrait, Max is playing the Yolkulele. If I stare at it long enough I can hear the whimsical harmony he plays dancing around inside my mind.

So fanciful.

“Ya know Mike,” I say with my head still turned, “He wouldn’t have killed you. You know that, right? No matter what the big brother claims, he doesn’t kill the smaller, littler one. He might cripple the fuck out of him, or stab him in the cheek… but death is not the answer even when presented with no other option.”

My head shakes with disappointment, as if I know Mike fell for it. Then I turn my attention back to World Champion.

“But you, the smaller, littler, redder haired brother of the two… the one who will do anything to be immortalized made sure he’ll never play the Yolkulele again.”

I spit.

Bet your ass it is charcoal colored.

“I hope you’re happy about that, you murderous cocksucker.” Disgusted, I continue. “I also hope your greatest fears come to fruition and you never sleep another night for what you’ve done. I hope Max’s ghost haunts you like the thought of those two DQ losses do. I want him to invade every morsel of your existence, for forever and ever.”

Slowly, I lean forward in my chair in an attempt to emphasize what comes next. Then, to further add to the suspenseful nature of my emphasizing, I remove my T-Shades.

“I want you to see his metal teeth and yolk yellow electric eye staring back at you this Saturday night when we are inside the ring. I want you to hear his sycophantic cackle after I’ve painted your face yellow with my mist and your eyes burn with blindness.”

A snort.

“I want you to feel as alone as he did while holding his murderer’s hand in his final moments.”

Sincere, I smirk, and then crack my knuckles because that is what you do before threatening somebody.

“You and I both know what that means, Mike.” Undeterred, I feel the need to clarify. To my credit, Mike has been confused lately. “No, I don’t want to hold your hand, and I certainly don’t want to shake it after the match is over. What it means is you better get your shit together, Champ. If you don’t, I’m going to shove a Yolkulele in that hole on the side of your face, play you a song that’ll really give you something to cry about, and then take the only thing you have left.”



Remember that.


I’ve never challenged for the World Title before in High Octane Wrestling.

And now, I get my chance.

Against the Star Maker.

Good one, Mike. You and Dane should form a tag team and call yourselves the The OnlyStar Makers. No space intended. That, or Fore and Heads.


Cheap pop.

Mike, some food for thought before I hear back from you. I’m not going to sit on your lap and tell you what I want for Christmas. That said, don’t waste your time patronizing me. If you do, I’m going to shove my list down your throat, use my enormous penis to really hammer it down into your esophagus like Dan does, and wait for you to shit out my next gift.

See ya next time.