Who?

There Jiles sits atop his couch. His one leg is crossed atop the other, his hair is on point, and he’s 97red threaded from head to toe. There’s also some trucker cap that he just got done taking a piss on. It’s laying trampled on the floor, and off to the side where no one will ever care about it or miss it.

“Wait.” He calmly says, his cheeks turning redder by the second. “Just wait one fucking second and allow me to try and make sense of all this.”

A pause for decency’s sake.

“I know I’m the salty guy, and I play the part so to speak, but–”

The Maestro stands from his chair, confused, as if what he’s about to say next will not make any sense at all.

“You’re telling me that fucking inbred hick gets over me. ONCE mind you, and right after I had eliminated Bald Bull from the big dance–”

More confusion. 

More hysteria. 

More twisted facial expressions.

“And he thinks its fine to go and start his own fucking HOFC team? Are you fucking serious? FUCK, is he fucking serious? Who does he think he fucking is? ME!? The nerve. NAY. The absolute gall of this man. I’m half impressed. I am. Just because of the sheer balls on him. To do something this stupid. But fuck him. No one makes me bleed my own blood.”

Disgusted, The Crown Prince of COOL spits. Yes, it’s charcoal in color, solid in texture, and if it were to land in your hair it would require peanut butter to get out.

“Fucking Zeb Martin. Too afraid to get into the pit with me again, so he sends… Cutie Reese, cousin of Piece, distant friend of Pee Wee into the fray instead. Like, Zeb’s got some big dick to swing around and send people to fight in his stay. What a fucking crumb. I can’t believe he was ever in the Bandits. Then again, I am on the record as saying that I always liked RICK and CBD more. Still though… he’s a fucking coward for not wanting to give me my justice– my swift  vindication.”

Jiles’ eyes bulge from their sockets. Of course you have to take my word on it because they do so from behind the protection of BA-Shades.

“And so is anyone associated with him, which of course means so is Cue Tee Reese. Or is it Que Tea? HA. Such a fucking idiot you must be, walking around with that stupid name.”

The Count of COOLsylvania lowers his shades to show he’s on the level, and not bullshitting when it comes to knowing stupid names.

“Trust me, I know a thing or two about stupid fucking names.”

A righteous, exaggerated, up and down head nod. 

“There’s Doozer, Bobby, Dean, Cecilworth– the list goes on and on.”

He chuckles. Dryly, and sans any humor. 

A miserable laugh.

“You got to be fucking kidding me with this shit! Am I not in the Best Alliance? Did I not Captain the winning team at War Games? Was I not there to end Dan Ryan, win back the now retired Tag Titles, AGAIN, and in the process become High Octane Wrestling’s greatest Tag Team competitor? I lose one fucking match to the Box Boy, out of five, and all of sudden THE MAIN EVENT, THE HEADLINER, THE FUCKING COOL GODDAMNET gets this fucking shit? QT Reese? A member of Zeb’s Dungeons and Dragons Fishing Club Quartet. Like what the fuck? Tell me QT is at least John Connor’s dad? Give me fucking something, because that shit fucking bio isn’t going to cut it.”

No one answers.

Not even the bio.

No, it doesn’t say if QT Reese is actually John Connor’s dad.

“Be a lot fucking cooler if he were. I can tell you that. Maybe I wouldn’t have to put such a hurting on him. Maybe. He does have Bobby Dean in there to take my mind off of how brazen Zeb thinks he is by starting a HOFC team after sneak attack pinning me at War Games. OH WELL.”

Giant pause.

“Small fish still need frying.”

He’ll be here all night.

Pucker.

Kiss.

Goodbye.