We’re Gonna Need a Bigger Sill

We’re Gonna Need a Bigger Sill

Posted on July 1, 2021 at 9:54 pm by Cancer Jiles

I Left My
Couch on
The Ship

Ladies. Gentlemen. Brains of all ages. Let’s make this simple. And fun. Well, fun for most of us at least. I know, there’s no pleasing everybody in this day and age.

Ronbert Dean.

Let it be said, and known the world over. Here. Now. From atop this hill.

Put a candle in the window for Conor Fuse. 

Conor Fuse, master incel and gamer, last available pillar of 214, complete nerd, the cake of crumbs with horrible hair and worse teeth, biggest loser since Cancer Jiles, the guy who’s signing up for a one way trip on the Blue Bayou ala Lindsay Troy, Dan Ryan, and the rest of the Union when he steps inside the ring this Saturday night…

…is done for.

All his dreams, WOOP, down the drain. 

No two ways about it, Jack. 

Who is Jack? Seems like something Zeb would say. That stupid hick.

That is a fact. That is a bet. That is the only way it will end. I don’t care what Comet, or anyone else for that matter, has to say about it. In other words: Fuck them odds, and I don’t mean the fact that Conbon has yet to earn a victory over me so maybe he is due. I mean those toy HOG odds that accompany a certain show card this week.

I know, how Cancer Jiles of Conor?! Never won peon! Such a twerp! Get a new gimmick, copycat LOSER.

I’m insulted.

I’m perturbed.

I’m the guy who has fun at other people’s expense.

No one else.

As such, and for more logical, heartfelt reasons we will soon get to, I’m going to whip my size twelve power cord across Conor Fuse’s ugly Canadian face, and then pin his shoulders to the mat for three seconds. He, right along with everyone else watching, will no longer be left wondering just how salty my Rabbit’s Foot has become. I am so sure of my triumph happening, so focused on making the next step so, that even though I’m considered the greatest Tag Team competitor to ever grace High Octane Wrestling; I’m willing to retire the Tag Team Titles just to clear the deck of any possible distractions.

Put a candle in the window for the Tag Titles.

Put a candle in the window for the G’Odd Couple, or however he spelled it.

Because to defeat Conor Fuse this Saturday night in what many consider to be the co-main event of this week’s Refueled, is to guarantee that I am the next in line. The rightful challenger. The former Champion. The one who lost his precious red leather under the most excruciating and taxing of circumstances. The one who has felt empty ever since. 

Sadface.

Simply put, I can not allow someone else to have MY opportunity. I don’t care if he’s the better version of me or not. I don’t care if his asshole drags on the carpet better than mine does, or if his story would make for a better B movie.

MY LIFE AS A DEPRESSED, DRAGGING ANUS: THE STORY OF COMET FEWS

I need to get right again.

I must get right again.

It was the utmost, and truest of gasses being the High Octane World Champion. The impossible dream that became a reality. A life’s work. All of it, for something. And now… now that I’m no longer living that dream, I can’t sleep. I had hoped the Tag Titles would help, and to some extent they did, but they weren’t enough. 

They were never going to be enough.

Not any more.

No, for me, in order to get right again — to rest easy —  I need to get back what I lost.

I will once again become the High Octane World Champion.

There is nothing Conor Fuse can do about it.

There is nothing Sutler Kael can do about it.

Put a candle in the window for Sutler Kael. 

I know, hopefully it’s a big sill.

HA.

Refueled
Aftermath
Best Buddies

The curtain has closed on another Refueled. It was a crazy show to say the least. I couldn’t believe it– Doozer actually won his match. I almost felt sorry for Hollywood, but then I didn’t.

True story. 

Dooze winning.

I.

We.

Well fuck, now that I think about it, the Best Alliance as a whole done did it. Sektor beat Teddy for the LSD Championship. I’m sure that brought a smile to Uncle Lee’s face. Then there was Steve and I, Cool Milk. Ha. So bad, it’s good. We got back what was ours, and definitely put a smile on Uncle Lee’s face. Let me say it wasn’t easy ending Dan’s career and yoking Conor in the same turn, but we managed to do so while also being victorious.

Another highlight I won’t soon forget.

As such, I will forever be in Steve’s debt. Not that I will pay off said debt, or think that I haven’t paid off said debt already just because of the sheer volume of merchandise he has been moving since being linked to me.

HA.

Good old Steveie boy.

It’s funny how things work out sometimes? I never thought I could exist in the same sentence as Steve. I don’t mean that in the complementing way, either. I thought him a crumb, and while I still might think of him as such, he is now a much larger crumb. A noticeable crumb, a crumb that makes you wonder why you didn’t notice this crumb before.

Anyway.

Steve and I are back inside our locker room, admiring our accomplishment. I hate to say it, and I would never to his face, but he’s become the closest thing to a Bandit I’ve had in quite some time.

No, I’m not just saying that to piss other people off either.

You know who you would be.

It truly feels good to be able to rely on someone, and know that they won’t falter, or drop the ball when you need them the most.

I said Bandit, right?

Even if his name is Steve Harrison. 

“You don’t seem as happy as I thought?” Steve asks me, not really caring as to what my response will be. Well, I’m assuming so anyway. “You can smile, and act like ending Dan’s run was enjoyable ya know.”

I smirk instead of listening to his advice, and then confirm his suspicions. “You’re right. I’m not as happy as I should be. Regardless, hearing Dan’s knee pop was the kernel in my bowl. He won’t be missed. You did good out there, kid.” I wink, and shockingly enough Harry didn’t appreciate it as much as I thought he would.

His extended middle finger would say so.

“Then what’s eating you?”

I pause, not wanting to show my yearning hand. “It’s nothing.”

“What?” He persists, his tone sharpening. “Not good enough if it isn’t Doozer or Bobby Dean?”

I quickly defended, “No. That’s not it all.” I want to tell him, my closest confidant if you will, that I, the greatest tag team competitor of all time, don’t care to be tag team champion anymore. I know that I should care, seeing as I’ve spent the last decade worshiping the belts. But… 

They just ain’t red enough.

Instead, I put on a happy face and try my best to convince him I’m on the level. “Lets pour some out for Danny’s knee and celebrate being Tag Team Champions again. I’m sure the rest of the boys are in the mood. They never liked Dan either. Maybe even Uncle Lee will come out and play with us.”

He quickly chirps, “Maybe he’ll pay for it, too.”

We both share a boisterous, over the top laugh at the likelihood of that happening. The whole thing actually. Lee’s a very private person. Maybe if said shenanigans were to happen aboard the USS Octane, but the ship hasn’t been seen since Tokyo. It’s like David Blaine made it disappear.

Poof.

The Miracle Man throws his tag title in his duffel bag, and heads for the door. “I’m out. Gonna shower, and then maybe I’ll catch up with you later.”

I chuckle, and then snidely quip back, “Shower? Why? I did all the work out there.”

Steve coolly responds to my chiding like he’s ready to jump off from my coattails, “Don’t worry, you’ll get another chance at it.”

“It?” I confusingly pop back, hoping he doesn’t know me as well as he’s about to prove.

“The World Title.” The door shuts behind him, although I can still hear him laughing from all the way down the hall.

Motherfucker.”

Four
Five
Six

“When you wish upon a star…” — Cinderella

Comet.

Real talk.

Like Slider from Top Gun, you stink. 

Yes, of course I am Maverick. 

No, you’re not cool enough to be Iceman. You don’t have the leather to pull it off anyway. 

No, you certainly can’t be Goose. My best buddy Harrison is just dying to take a bullet for me,  and I won’t deprive him of such. You best believe I will see to it that he gets a proper burial, too

Meg Ryan is on the table. Her story is forgotten, lost in the shuffle. Much like yours will be after this Saturday night.

For the sake of argument though, you Comet, you are stuck being Slider if only because I lose to everybody, but you.

Hence you and your stinking.

HA.

I know, I said real talk. So how about some real talk? You lost War Games, too, Comet. That makes it four times you’ve lost to me, just sayin. If we’re going to be ballbusting accurate, which is the purpose of real talk, let us be ballbusting accurate.

Now.

Furthermore, you shrimp dicked, virgin. You will never beat Cancer Jiles. It will soon be five times that you have failed, which, as irony would have it, just so happens to be the amount of times I’ve won the High Octane Tag Team Championships. Such a crazy, ironic, crazy world we live in, isn’t it? Good news is, there won’t be a sixth time for you. After Saturday, your place among the HOW stars will have died out. Yours will be a tragic tale, and one that I will use to warn others who might dare test their luck against my Rabbit’s Foot. 

Give Zion my best. 

Don’t worry about that mega match at Bottomline against Sutler. 

I’ll take care of him for the both of us.

Pucker.

Kiss.

 

Goodbye.