The Eggsecutioner, Part 2

USS Octane The Gallows Little Secret

“My ticket is gone. My T-shades are gone. My sanity is gone. My will is gone. My wallet is gone. Colossus draws near and redemption could not be any further away. I have failed my brethren. I have failed myself. It truly is a gallows life for me.” -- Jiles’ Journal, December 14th, 2023.

I never thought I would be telling this story...

...the one about how I escaped from the gallows.

Now, it isn't because I think the tale is of little importance, swore never to tell it, or still suffer from the trauma of it all. No, the reason I never thought I would be telling the story is because I never thought I would actually escape.

That's how perilous it is down there.

The Gallows

Rules: There’s only room for ONE Bandit to stay in the gallows. Anything else would just be uncivilized. Also, you are not allowed any visitors.

Purpose: To house, to stow away a person who has massively and miserably failed beyond belief. To punish. Continuously. Over, and over again.

Though I was only in the gallows for a few weeks, time moves slower when you’re down there. Seconds feel like minutes, minutes feel like hours, hours feel like days, and so on and so forth. This is especially true if the committed crime is as egregious as the one I got locked up for. As such, my suffering was immense; a total torture of the mind. A painful, absolute, constant realization of just how deep the actual depth of my failure truly was.

To top it off I was all alone. I had no Bandit to shoulder/share my misery with. Sure, there were some intense heart to hearts with a couple of hallucinations along the way, but nothing that ever eased the pain. Oh, and every once in a while Dan Ryan’s soul would cry out to me for more steak, but that too was of no help.

Creepy.

You might be wondering, “But Cancer, what about The Little Gallows Boy Band? Weren’t they down there to sing you songs and soothe your soul?” Sadly, my failure and subsequent imprisonment freed them from the trappings of the ship. Basically, they were no longer shamed into staying.

Not all heroes wear sunglasses.

And as for how I, Cancer Jiles, even came to be in such a place?

For the rock dwelling crowd.

Well, as you may or may not know, Bobby Dean, before the glory of his three match win streak and after I had lost my Golden Ticket to he who is now PRIME’s newest Universal Champion, was the one who took me down there. I’m sure the whole ordeal couldn’t have been easy on Bob, seeing as how the gallows are 97 floors down.

And 97 floors up.

Let me be clear.

I deserved every bit of being down there. I had squandered my chance for ultimate redemption on the biggest stage at the coolest show of the year. To fail the Bandits and myself on that scale is simply unacceptable.

Let me be clearer.

There’s no rehabilitation of any kind in the gallows. You go, and you stay, and are only allowed to leave after J.P. Morgan drops a surprise iceberg in the middle of the ocean that sinks the ship.

Let me be crystal.

To understand the gallows is to understand despair. It is a place that exists in a perpetual state of misery. In fact, it might shock you to know that there are no locks on any of the cell doors in the gallows. No balls, and no chains. The reason being is the debilitating weight from the guilt and shame you experience far exceeds any need for a lock or shackle.

I know, it all sounds like a wonderful place to wallow.

And it is.

And it was.

So, I wallowed.

Then, one foggy, fateful, bitter eve, a seldom/never used cargo elevator dinged, and a familiar face came to visit. At first I thought my mind was playing tricks on me again.

Another hallucination.

After all, the USS Octane might be the size of Kansas, but it remains hard to find. Then, to find her is one thing, but to board her, and travel down into the abyss is a whole different story. Not to mention, to be able to do so in secret, and without setting off any of the ship’s alarms?

You would need to be connected in order to do something like that.

Well connected.

You would need to have intimate knowledge of the ship in order to pull off something like that.

Shit.

You would need the skeleton key since I dared Bobby to eat the cargo elevator key years ago and he still hasn’t pooped it out yet to accomplish something like that.

Better be a hallucination.

“Oh, well would you look at that? A maniac, just not the one I was expecting. Hello, Phillip. It’s been a while. New wheels?”

Or a friend of The Financier.

It did not matter how brazen I was being with the former Universal Champion. I had nothing to fear. Not retribution. Not physical harm. Not nothing. He wasn’t real. He was just another figment of my imagination.

“So tell me, what brings you down here? Thinking about moving? I don’t know how... accessible the ship is for someone like you. I’m sure Bobby wouldn’t mind helping you out with a ramp here or there. We could even repurpose the plank perhaps since I’m down here.”

Figment Phil just continued to sit there looking at me like I was an attraction on display.

“What is the matter? Cat got your tongue?”

I spat. Right at his wheels. Yet, the Scotsman remained stoic.

“Shame you got here when you did, since you just missed Bathory. He had to go fry some chicken. I don’t think he’s coming back any time soon though, so if you’re looking for him you might have to hit up the drive through. I assume it shouldn’t be a problem for someone like, well you know.”

No matter how hard I tried, Phil would not crack. He would not smile. He would not frown. He would not wink, or yawn, or blink, or flinch. No pucker. No kiss. Just Phil. Just blank.

Just… serial.

“Are you going to say anything at all? No, of course you’re not. You’re not real, just like that other motherfucker from the plane. You know what? I don’t have time for this bullshit. I got more miserable things to hallucinate about. Get the fuck out before I let the air out of your tires and you’re stuck here with me forever. Go on, Glasgow. Get!”

A short chuckle.

But not by me.

So, of course I gasped.

“Tell me, Cancer, which do you think is worse; being stuck in this chair but free to go wherever I please, or being able to walk around the gallows of a floating fortress?”

After an extended period of awkward silence, Phil stood up from his wheelchair like he was just taking a little break this whole entire time.

A rest.

A breather.

A respite spell.

I gasped again.

This time with even more gasp than before.

“What is the matter? Cat got your tongue?”

Bitchass Phil has jokes.

Once more Phil chucklefucked aloud, this time while strutting his way towards the elevator. I was all gasped out or you better bet I would have done so again.

Bet.

Before the cargo doors could close behind jolly ole Atken, he called out to me one last time.

“Guess we’ll never know.”

Fucking Phil.

Total Prestige moment.

Yes, the answer is yes I used the wheelchair to escape the gallows.

Ha.

Idiots.

Like I would ever tell that story.

Certainly not against Bryan Dawkins.

FATALITY!!

---

Bowling For Bandits

“I told Capt. and Bob that we should let Tony win, so he can remember how it feels ahead of his match. Of course Bobby forgot and threw a turkey to close out the tenth. Guy just can’t lose.” Jiles’ Journal, February 29th, 2024.

Gobble, gobble.

The lanes.

The bowling alley.

Pizmo Joe’s Rhode Island Bowl-O-Ramma.

It’s actually much nicer than it sounds.

The band is all here. Families. Friends. Both the Belle’s. A baby. Tony’s broad. Lunchbox Laser. The core four. It’s a night out. It’s smiles and good vibes. It’s cozy. It’s warm. It’s special. It’s a chance for us to gather, and grow, and build. To solidify. To strengthen. To bond. To let our guards down, heal, and enjoy each other’s company…

…because fun, innocent, Hollywood nights underneath the strobing neon with pepperoni pizza, diet soda, and today’s hits playing are numbered.

Soon, the long journey will begin.

The open sea awaits.

War awaits.

Sacrifice. Devotion. Pain. Suffering. Blood. Despair. Righteousness. Diligence. Faith. Diamonds. Ian. Infamy. Glory. Pomp. Circumstance. Ceremony. Consequence. Trust. Honor. Yolk. Shell. Fate. Destiny.

Awaits.

So, best to enjoy the simple while I can.

“Strike! That’s three in a row! Suck it, Gamble! My Dad beat you again! That’s what you get for using a six pound ball!”

Good times.

---

The Ivory Tower

“Yeah, I definitely got everybody with the first bit.” -- Jiles’ Journal, February 28th, 2024.

Us eggs are doing what we can to make this thing work.

WarGames.

Or War Games?

First, we won the Battle of Philadelphia.

Sure, Tony and Coral might have slipped up against Stanislob and Shitboy, but MAIN EVENT backyard street fights trump all. Doesn’t matter how many books you need to stand on in order to see over the top of Coral’s forehead.

Then, we won the Battle of New York.

Our newly appointed Captain remained The Golden Bandit, The Hammer of Honalee continued his successful ways, and Two Books scouted like he was selling cookies with the girls. Also, I got my T-shades back, my salty foot off, and once again took up the mantle of righteous Eggsecutioner of the eGG Bandits.

Next up, the Battle of Rhode Island.

What spoils await? What crumbs won’t cut the cake? Examples will be made. Salt will righteously be spilled. Ceremony will most certainly be stood upon. There is no time to waste. There is no room for error. I will not allow it. I can not allow it. For I know where I’ll wind back up if I do.

Two words, second word starts with a g, and rhymes with Hayes Hanlon is a crumb-bum bitch, shallows.

Lights.

Cancer.

Action~!

“Bryan Dawkins.”

My head shakes. My eyes roll. My disappointment is real. Tangible. Palpable. Tony was right. Mom will let anybody back in PRIME these days. Even goons with L7-shades.

Ha.

“Friend. Of. Mine.”

The couch is plush and comfy. The fern next to it is as green as ever. My alfredo-white is simmering. My T-shades are booming. My collar is popping, and the rest of my electric-blue tracker just might go boogie oogie oogie. Seriously, the outfit is so a buzz it came with a warning about not wearing it near water. It’s printed on the tag, right next to: Stone Wash Only.

“Guess I should start off by saying welcome back, Bryan.”

I smile.

“After all, it is only right. I have been running the show since ReVival One.”

Not just any smile. A courteous, great grin full of shit and showmanship.

“Seriously, we here at PRIME are glad you’ve returned after all these years. Really, how courageous you must be to have FINALLY found your way home, and in those sunglasses, too!”

My thumb goes up. It throbs with the utmost sincerity while also offering plausible deniability.

“Even if you waited until year three of the ReVival to do so.”

Thumbs down. Show over. Good night, Irene.

“Here’s to hoping that little knee of yours stops shaking, you coward.”

Pucker.

Kiss.

Just cackling.

“Say Bryan, I don’t know if you heard this about me but I tend to not look too kindly upon The Land Before PRIME and the dinosaurs who roamed it. We can’t seem to connect if I’m being honest. We’re too out of touch. Well, it’s more so them than it is me.”

Meteor Man.

“I’m sure it doesn’t help that I don't have access to a VHS player, a record player, and that I never babysat a young Gary Player. Plus, I enjoy drinking caffeinated coffee and eating dinner after the sun goes down. Still, call me crazy I guess.”

Brandon “Early Bird Special” Crumblood.

Ha.

Fettuccine in an Alfredo sauce.

“To be fair, the most inner rung of the PRIME redwood isn’t too fond of me, either.”

Shocking.

A corrective finger gets flexed.

“Well, outside of a certain Foreheadasaurus Rex and a certain Shorteratops that is. Even then, I’m stretching it.”

That’s a two way street and not a burning bridge.

Promise.

“That said, you must have done something eggstremely wrong back when the ReVolution was televised to wind up on my T-shaded platter in 2024; and during the run up to the Games nonetheless.”

Casualty of war? Innocent bystander? In the end it will be Bryan’s choice. I’m aware that’s not much as far as options are concerned.

By design.

“Good news is you’re off the hook for being a part of the secret service detail to the vice presidential candidate of Guatemala, or whatever it was you did back in the day. I’m only assuming that’s what it was since your sunglasses are so stupid.”

Sunglasses shade, by the master.

“That’s right, Bryan. You heard correctly. You wear stupid sunglasses, and it doesn’t matter what you did back when Crumblood struggled to fill out the straps on his singlet, or what you didn’t do when Lady Troy was selling out the 4pm Sunday Colossus special at the Flintstone Auditorium.”

A snort.

One might call it derisive.

“Reason why is quite simple. I’m back to being the Eggsecutioner and as such am once again an equal opportunity unbiased face kicker. I have to eggsecute you just like I would anybody else. New and old are alike.”

I shrug.

A pirate's life for me.

“Of course, the bad news is you’ve been revived as a pebble along my path to war and now know the date of your eggsecution.”

Another snort.

One might call this one aggressive.

“Sorry if this whole thing is coming off as brash, conceited, short sighted, wrong, and or full of hubris.”

Translation: Cool re-debut default draw, nerd.

“I assure you it has nothing to do with me leading the league in games played and runs batted in. Me being second in home runs. Me getting my T-shades back. Me having my righteousness reinstated, the backing of the Bandits, and the swagger of Alfredo the lion.”

Translation: Fish out of water.

“And it most certainly has nothing to do with the morphine lollipop I was sucking on before this.”

A pause. Let’s call it a Parkman pause that makes all the ladies go crazy. Or, as the socialites call it, a beat.

Fancy.

“Wait.”

My jaw drops.

“Shit.”

My asshole puckers.

“My bad, Bryan.”

Silly, humble, apologetic me, what was I thinking? Let’s chalk up my oversight to still being a little bruised after tearing down yet another house and resetting the MAIN EVENT bar to out of fucking reach.

“It has everything to do with those things.”

Pucker.

Kiss.

Goodbye.