Labor Day

The Old Fashioned

“I would like, if I may, to take you on a strange journey.” --  The Cancerologist’s Crime Report, August 22nd, 2024

It was a dark and stormy night. The moon was full, and owls were hooting between claps of thunder and bolts of lightning.

Coral Majors and Annabelle Weiss were enjoying each other's company after indulging in a fine meal at a fancy restaurant. Coral had a forehead of lettuce to go along with some deviled eggs, and Annabelle had spicy chicken alfredo. The two then shared a dessert, crumb brûlée, drank a coffee, and split.

Shit tip.

All was well — not the time of your life well — but well, and the end of a wonderful evening was seemingly imminent. However, instead of heading home for the night, Coral and Annabelle, Belle for short, decided to take a romantic drive down the coast. Not before long, a massive storm came from out of nowhere and besieged the wonderful couple.

Like a Cancer Jiles superkick.

The rainfall became relentless in an instant. Roads were already beginning to flood. Visibility was at the bare minimum.

It’s a good thing Coral was drinking Shirley Temples at dinner.

While trying to navigate towards safer pastures, Coral, Belle, and their Honda Civic came upon a crossroads. After a brief contemplation, Coral chose to go left. Sadly, much to the couple’s chagrin, they ran over a nail and got a flat tire. Thus, they were left with two choices. One, get out of the car in the dark of night, in the throes of the mega storm, and try to change the tire.

Two, continue on down the road to an eerie, yet familiar place.

Decisions, decisions.

…The Bandit Horror Picture Show

“Hello and welcome fine folk! I’m Dr. Salt-N-Footer. Please, come in from the rain. My humble aircraft carrier that has run ashore is now your humble aircraft carrier that has run ashore.”

Dr. Salt-N-Footer was a bit odd to say the least. For instance, outside of the fact he was aboard a marooned aircraft carrier, he never took off his sunglasses. Ever. Granted they were cool as fuck, but inside the ship, at night, during a monsoon... not once. The Doctor’s hair was also perfect. Like, too perfect. It wasn’t alfredo in color like one might think, but funeral black like the Doctor was from COOLsylvania and not COOLYMPUS. Oh, and he also donned a funeral black cape that matched his funeral black tracksuit.

The essence of cool.

“If you wouldn’t mind I could use some help. I need to call a tow truck, and have no cell service due to the ominous cloak of desolation-- I mean massive storm.”

Dr. Salt nodded along with what Coral had to say, even if Coral was wearing a stupid blazer the entire time.

“Yeah, all the phone lines are down from the storm. Once the rain slows I can have my Handyman take a look at it for you. Fixing stuff and pumping gas are the only two things he’s good at, so I’m sure it would be his pleasure.”

There was hesitation dripping from the top of Coral’s forehead. So yes, the laymen would have had to use a telescope to have seen it.

“Now come in and join the party. We don’t bite. Well, not all of us.”

Dr. Salt-N-Footer’s laugh cackled like wood atop a fire. For as off putting as it was, and the smile that went along with it, Coral and Belle had no choice. The conditions outside were only getting worse, and they were all out of apples. So, against their better judgment they took the Doctor up on his offer.

Somebody call John Walsh.

-

As the night wore on, Coral Majors and Annabelle Weiss would start to experience odd happenings more and more often. Like, when the Doctor’s handyman, Riff Grin, checked out their car. The rain was coming down; and the garage was full of telephone books so a fix remained out of play. Still, that didn’t stop all three from going out and braving the elements.

Miracles happen. 

Ask Steve.

“Looks to me like you have a flat tire.”

Riff was another odd fellow. He had a greasy face that would’ve fit right in on the High Octane roster page. It should also be noted he wore a half crooked grin across of it much like Dr. Salt-N-Footer did his shades.

Always.

“Uh, thanks?”

Belle was standing there, like a statue, completely unappeased with Riff’s assessment and her loved one’s response. She was also wearing the latter’s blazer so that could have had something to do with it.

As for Riff Grin, he was wearing the same funeral black tracksuit Dr. Salt-N-Footer had on; granted Riff’s was much, much smaller. No cape, either. He did have on a funeral black apron, though, which was also all greased up.

“I can probably fix it, but it’s going to cost you.”

Coral and Belle anxiously awaited for Riff to tell them his price. There would be no haggling tonight. Whatever it was, whatever it took to flee the scene, was going to be more than worth it.

“Lunch.”

Treacherous pig.

Rumor has it Riff Grin knows some of the Doctor’s darkest secrets. Allegedly one of them involves some sort of a monstrous creation in the bowels of the ship. Yet, the little Riff that Grinned has remained pledged to Dr. Salt and the cause.

-

Another odd encounter Coral Majors and Annabelle Weiss lived through was when a drifter suddenly flushed his way into their spin down the drain of madness. He was neither wood nor log, but a member of the Meatloaf Monsters motorcycle gang. He had also broken free from cryostasis when the ship ran ashore.

Ha.

His name was “Fast” Eddie Dean, and he was a beautiful man who hailed from a land called Honalee. His big, beautiful, blue eyes are said to be like his charm.

Irresistible.

“I’m starving. Please tell me you have something to eat.”

Being Dean’s eyes were the way that they are, Belle was left with no choice but to reach into her purse and hand him a granola bar. The snack did not last long, and if anything made “Fast” Eddie even hungrier than he was before. However, even if the groaning inside his thawing stomach sounded like a wounded animal crying out for help, Dean was from Honalee, and as such he is a gentleman.

“Thank you. Tell me, what year is it, and more importantly do you have any packets of mayonnaise in there?”

Belle nodded no.

The frown that followed was real.

Belle’s.

Scientists have said the only thing that rivals the blue of F.E.D.’s eyes is his belly-button. That is to say he’s a big man. Girthy. Rolly. Lots of chins.

“Say, have any of you ever been frozen before? I’m only asking because my whole body has been numb for like an hour now, and I’m starting to get a little worried.”

However, Dean also has another side to him. He has been described as kind of a half-brain, since his easy going attitude is more often than not confused for pure, uncut, idiocy. Still, after roaming the halls of the ship presumably naked, and numb, he’s managed to not only find, but squeeze into a funeral black tracksuit of his own.

“No, can’t say that we have.”

-

The most odd of all the encounters Coral Majors and Annabelle Weiss had aboard the marooned ship was when Dr. Salt-N-Footer revealed to them his life’s work. Turns out, after their chance encounter with the Meatloaf Monster... member, the two love birds wound up having to flee an accidental release of his noxious gas. The ordeal was a close one, and almost perilous, but, since hot air rises they were able to escape by heading down.

So, down they went.

To a place where no one ever wants to be.

The darkest part of the brig.

Ha.

And what they found down there, well it wasn't made out of cardboard, that’s for sure. No, this was something far more sinister. Far more perverse. It was the Doctor’s creation, but with an assist from his Handyman.

“Look Grin, it appears as if our guests have decied to join us for the grand unveiling! Belle, Coral, you’re just in time! Prepare to be amazed!”

The Horror of the Bandit Show was a hideous creature that towered above all else. Its body was made out of concrete, and it weighed more than “Fast” Eddie Dean and Riff Grin combined. A true monster in every sense of the word, and one that not even the full might of the Meatloaf Boys dared to ride against.

“Behold, my greatest creation!”

Though the creature did have a beating heart and half of F.E.D.'s brain inside it’s misshapen head, it was not considered human simply because it was not smart enough to be considered a human. It was so dumb, so stupid, so aloof, so moronic, it couldn’t even help Riff Grin pump gas.

Yet, it was Dr. Salt’s greatest accomplishment.

His crowning achievement.

For this week anyway.

“Rocky Stanislob!”

Ha.

What? 

Were you eggspecting someone else?

---

The Ivory Tower

“It’s not often I get what I want.” -- Jiles’ Journal, August 21st, 2024

Fuck it.

Lights.

Cancer.

ACTION~!

“The Soviet Slob.”

A beat.

“The Liter of the Red Army.”

Another beat.

“The weakest and most flaccid UNIVERSAL Champion of the ReVival era.”

Spoiler, there will be multiple beats. Some are worse than the others.

“The Russian Cub who now shops at Forever Night One.”

Alexei, cue up Michael Jackson’s ‘Beat It’ track.

“The type of guy who still lists his accolades in his bio knowing full well I exist.”

Alexei, cue up Weird Al Yankovic’s “Eat It” track.

Welcome back, Bobby.

“THE GIANT NUMBER TWO OF PRIME.”

Damn it.

“The Elephant’s Foot who looks like his parents are from Chernobyl.”

Alexei, cue up the Russian boy band, The Soviet Slobs, “Yeet It” track.

Talk about scraping the bottom of the barrel.

“Ivan, crumb-mother-fucking-bum, Stanislob.”

“The Horror of the Bandit Show.” --The “Ha” guy

“Friend. Of. Mine.”

I take a deep breath. It goes in through my nose, out through my mouth, and I’m not going to lie I feel a lot better for it.

I’m sure it was from the deep breath.

Now that I’m settled, maybe just a little bit of window dressing before digging any deeper. There I am, seated atop my electric blue couch. My T-shades are on, my alfredo is simmering, my FB collar remains popped, and my fern is right by my side. Also of note, I’m inside a small, nondescript, yet intimate room with a portside window.

Back on board.

“Ivan, allow me to kick this thing off by saying I don’t care about any modicum of success that I might have had against you in the past.”

True.

Mostly.

“I mean it. I don’t care about my team kicking your team out of WarGames. I don’t care about The Murder Shovel kicking some dirt on top of your grave. I don’t care about how many times I’ve used my salt shoes to kick my way across your throat. Shit, I don’t even care about having to kick in to the pot that went towards making sure you were relegated to Crumb One of UltraViolence.”

A shrug.

“I don’t. None of it matters. Not anymore.”

Another shrug, but this one more unencumbered than the last.

“Here is why.”

Get your popcorn ready.

“You see, when someone rides the wave like I do, as much as I hate to say it, success takes a backseat to failure. The tough beats and bad breaks, the times you get hit in the head with a sickle and fall back down the mountain, that’s the stuff you remember. That’s the stuff you carry around with you.”

My teeth grind, as do my gears.

For eight seconds.

“That said, I’ve been waiting for this match since ReVival 21, when you became the number one contender for the championship I had lost. When you got me at my absolute worst.”

I wince like I bit into an onion. Yup. The memory still remains, some thirty plus ReVivals later. To his credit, the slob of Slav’s knows how to leave a mark.

“I’ve been waiting for my chance to waltz back inside the beartrap ever since you set them up and Nate knocked them down at Tropical Turmoil 2023.”

My head shakes from the massive weight of my prior failure.

“I’ve been waiting to piss in your Borscht ever since you finished 10th in the Culture Shock Battle Royal.”

Ha.

Not really, but it is true that I did want to eliminate him. However, he got tossed over the top rope before I could get the chance. As such, I think it’s only right I’m allowed to hold him accountable for it.

Fair is fair.

“This Friday night all off that waiting comes to an end, and that is why I don’t care about all those other times you and I have kicked it.”

Yes you can.

“A win here, now, finally puts you in the rearview mirror, Ivan. FINALLY. Out of sight, and out of mind.”

The relief is real. Palpable. I get it. Only a lunatic would pray for an opportunity to shit next to a bear in the woods.

Or a Bandit.

“It’s as if I can hear Sam Cooke from down by the river singing to me.”

Yes Sam, it has been a long time coming.

My eyes close. I start to gently sway back and forth as the lyrics move through me.

“Do you hear it, Ivan? No, I bet you can’t. After all, it’s not Alla Pugacheva. No matter. Just know, comrade, that even with EVERYTHING I got going on I don’t plan on wasting this opportunity.”

I nod. You might say it’s animated. I’d say it’s convincing. We both can agree on vehemently. Then, a rush of excitement comes over me, which causes a wicked case of the goosies. There’s also some serious upwards movement in my track pants.

Shame.

“Which, ironically enough, is the stupidest thing I can possibly do. I mean, my ticket is already punched, right? I’m booked, babe. Universal Championship. Night Two of the PPV Cancer Jiles built.”

Built with blood, sweat, and yolk.

“IF ANYTHING, I should come on down to the ring at 54, flanked by the immense strength of the Carton, spit in your face and then take a count out while gazing into Coral’s soul. That’s the smart thing to do. I shouldn’t engage you, or provoke your most rabid of machinations.”

I can’t help but to laugh at the thought. Not only can I hear the ten count clear as day, but I can also see the life leaving the alien inside of Coral’s forehead when he’s left standing in the ring holding the bag next to Ivan.

“But, that’s not what I’m going to do.”

Somewhere, Coral’s asshole just unpuckered.

My posture straightens, and the tone of my voice sharpens.

“In fact, what I’m going to do is I’m going to call off the dogs, Slobby. The Carton is closed for business. Coral has been given his instructions-- go and play Ladushki with Nate at the timekeeper’s table.”

Ha. 

“No distractions. No interruptions. No Banditry. No excuses. No help. No surrender. Nowhere to run. Nowhere to hide. Just me and you, Crumbo.”

A snort.

“Before you DYAYAA yourself to sleep, know that you aren’t facing the pitiful, heartbroken scab who is down in the dumps after losing his life’s work to some teenager. No sir. Not this time around. This time around you get the guy who hasn’t lost a singles match since last year. You get the Golden Ticket reborn, and you get to be the last kick in a wild summer chock full of them.”

Notoriety comes with a painful price.

Sadly, The Summer of Superkicks is coming to a close. Soon, UltraViolence will be here, and with it, comes the official start of COOLOSSUS season.

“You’re going down like a dry rotted Turgenev.”

Someone has been googling Russian things.

My smile is wide, pearly, and long enough for me to spell malcontent out using each letter on a tooth.

Easy there, Art.

“Prepare yourself, Ivan. The wrath of COOLYMPUS is upon you. My COOLYMPIAN Yoljk is going to burn out your eyes, and the bottoms of my Sweet Kicking Salts are going to put you to sleep.”

For at least three seconds.

Fingers crossed.

“You are getting buried in MY MAIN EVENT this Friday night, and there isn’t a single goddamn thing you can do about it.”

Pucker.

Kiss.

Dasvidaniya.

---

The Old Fashioned

“All is never what it seems.” -- Jiles’ Journal, August 22nd, 2024

The rain stopped.

The storm had passed.

The party was over.

Coral Majors and Annabelle Weiss changed the tire on their Honda Civic, and left The Bandit Horror Picture Show....

CREDITS

Coral Majors........Coral Avalon Annabelle Weiss........Annabelle Avalon Riff Grin.......Tony Gamble "Fast" Eddie Dean........Bobby Dean Dr. Salt-N-Footer.........Cancer Jiles

...What’s this?

A post-credit scene?

There I am. Well, there we are. The Doctor and his Handyman. We’re on location, on board the USS Octane. We’re both still in costume, but shooting has wrapped for the day. Being so, Gamble, the crumb that he is, is hunched over, chatting me up like I didn’t have a hand in writing the script.

Like I had forgotten what he did.

Like I trusted him.

Bobby I understood. Food is his kryptonite. But Gamble, after I had hand plucked him from the PRIME gutter, gave him a purpose, and a Carton over his head.

Oh well.

We’re all here now I suppose, and with the end being so close I won’t spoil it for him, or better yet risk ruining it for myself. Plus, he’s still useful. So, I’ll suffer through his chatting, even when he has the set of phonebooks to ask me if I’m serious about taking on Ivan alone. He even went as far as calling it, “Pulling a Coral.”

I respond without hesitation, “Of course not. He’s eight hundred pounds and double the height of you. That was to throw him off my scent. You’re going to be underneath the ring, Bobby will be in the rafters, and I’ve instructed Coral that if he ever wants to see his child again he’ll do whatever it takes.”

Tony turns ghost-white. He probably realized that if Bobby fell from up there that he’d be instantly flattened.

“That reminds me, make sure you have both of your telephone books with you. I have an idea if all else fails.”

And if that does, there’s always him. Rocky Stanislob.........Hessian