Carte Blanche (Part 2 of 5)

Bandits Stick Together

“Needless to say it wasn’t the start I had envisioned. We will rally though. We will come together as a group, and we will get the job done. It’s what we do. It’s why we’re Bandits. We stick together.” -- Jiles’ Journal, July 13th, 2025

Round one of the Almasy has come and gone. My career, which will end if I do not win the whole motherfucking thing, continues.

As does my vigilant defense of the Golden Ticket.

Yes, that means I live to fight another day.

Round 2.

However, the same can not be said for my brethren.

Womp-womp.

All of them. All of my warriors of the shell. All of my defenders of the yolk. Belle, Snooze, Tiny Tony, and even Big Hess. All of them fell in the first round. All of them fell atop of their swords because the thought of putting me down later on in the tournament was just too much to bear.

Ha.

Just kidding.

Actually, crazy as it might sound, the real truth is something far more dubious.

Would you believe me if I told you that their losing effort was a coordinated one?

Would you believe me if I told you that the communal loss was to ensure me winning the Almasy was the only thing that was on everyone’s mind?

Would you believe me if I told you they all took a fall for their Captain so they could focus on having his back and ensuring his career continues on?

Almasy 3.0 = Manhunt 2.0

That’s right. It’s true. All of it. The carton is as firm as ever. The shell remains strong. We are uncracked, and I, The King of Crumbs, Lord of COOL. and Purveyor of Salt, have pulled the proverbial wool over PRIME’s eyes yet again.

Gotcha, bitch.

Don’t believe me? Think I’m playing around? Wondering if my nose is getting longer by the letter? Fine then. I’ll prove it.

Here comes the pudding.

I will break the holy sanctity of the group chat and reveal some of the responses I’ve received while preparing to defend my career, The Golden Ticket, and the good name of the eGG Bandits against Jolfy Crumbtaine of the Gluecrumbs in the MAIN EVENT of Round 2.

The BC.

Then tell me who is full of it.

Mind you, these responses have all come after I sounded the alarm.

“Hey.”

Let’s start with my good friend, the Crown Prince of Honalee, ‘Beautiful’ Bobby Dean. Here’s how he responded to my call to arms.

“Hey Cancer. I caught ANOTHER case of the runs. Very bad. Very ugly. Send toilet paper. Lots of it. Belle did, too. Smell ya later.”

Okay, maybe that wasn’t as reassuring as I remember.

There are others though.

Like, for instance, the recently returned, not going to make the same mistakes again, The Man, The Myth, The Legend, The Old Bullshitter, Doozer. We go way back, him and I. Like, Ivan’s 50th birthday back. His resounding response was,

“Sorry, I’m in invisible mode so you can’t see me. AGAIN. Catch ya out on the open lakes. Bring chicken. Also, here’s a tip-- stay out of the business.”

See.

Told you everything was fine.

Crickets.

Alright.

So, maybe I misremembered.

Or misread.

Or was lying about the whole thing.

No matter, who needs the help of the founding fathers when there’s this response I received from The Golden Bandit, Coral Avalon! Surely, my old friend is willing to lend a helping hand and solidify the shell like he once did. Surely, he’s heard the bell and is ready to answer the call!

“I’m STUCK ushering in the winds of change with my Uncle Elmer this week.”

Maybe not.

It’s fine. It is. I swear it’s not all bad news. There was The Video Game Kid, Conor Fuse’s response, which I also received a copy of via message in a bottle. Ya know, for old times sake. The bottled message, written in crayon and on the back of an iHop children’s menu, read, 

“Sorry Big C, but I sprained an ankle doing motion capture work for my upcoming Mortal Kombat PASSION project.”

Oh.

Kay.

Well...

...then.

Here I thought it was almost paradise, but have now come to realize that the fat has been trimmed, child services have been called, the ink was indeed invisible, the forehead is stuck representing other interests, and the Game pulled up sprained doing mocap work.

Shit.

Now I feel like I’m knocking on heaven’s door.

Not good.

Not good at all.

Yes, I still have my Vickie. My walking, talking, breathing, loving, throbbing, heart attack of a Valkyrie. Yes, she’s as lovely as a shot of Listerine and will walk through the flames or sit inside a cake for me, but she has already been felled by the Glueboys before. As such, I wouldn’t dare ask her to risk sullying her good and honest name a second time.

Right.

Even if it means the end.

I guess that means I’m all alone.

Just me and my salt shoes.

Should be good enough.

He is only a jolf pro.

Oh wait. That’s right. There’s my shield and my telephone book. Big Hess and Tiny Tony. My tag team of Hall of Famers. The two people who I probably owe the most from all the Banditry we’ve weaved..

Definitely not Coral. 

Or Zeb.

Or CBD.

Gee, how could I have forgotten about Big Hess and Tiny Tony? Spoiler, I haven’t. Truth is I’m not about to betray the trust of the only Bandits I have left by sharing their texts with the world.

Duh.

In fact, The Grinshow are about to be rewarded for their diligent efforts. For their loyalty. For their dedication to the shell. For believing in me when no one else will. For standing behind me knowing full well what it means for their legacies.

…I’m going to make right by them, and if I don’t, and if I happen to fall short of such a gargantuan goal, at least trying to help my brethren will be the very last thing that I do.

An honorable end.

Deservedly so.

Ha.

---

A Good Cause

“It’s for the kids. It’s for the little Bandits out there who might need an egg to finally fall in their favor instead of cracking across their face.” -- Jiles’ Journal, July 15th, 2025

The day is young. The sun is shining brightly. There are no clouds. There is no breeze. There is some shade, but it doesn’t matter since the humidity is so ridiculously bad it feels like Anna Daniels’ cape is wrapped around you. There’s also T-shades, and plenty of sunblock if your name isn’t Cancer Jiles.

Second cousins with Melanoma.

The gang is all here.

Well, it’s just me and Vickie, so I guess you could say the gang bang is all here.

Ha.

No, we don’t do stuff like that.

I DIGRESS.

In an effort to continue the momentum I received during my last outing when one person cheered for me, the two of us are hosting a charity miniature golf event.

For the kids.

No, it has nothing to do with me being contractually obligated to do these types of things once or so a year, and in fact I am just really happy to be here.

In hell.

I suppose Lady Troy thought hosting the charity pop-up event in CHICAGO of all places was a good idea. After all, she knows just HOW much I love it here in the Windy City, and just HOW much they love COOL Jiles. Not to mention, outside it’s hotter than an Iraqi oil field under drone strike.

Thanks, Mom.

“That’s what you get for putting your career on the line and stealing the thunder of the tournament.” — The Queen of eGGs, probably

The Queen even had the audacity to ask me to host the event onboard the USS Bandit, but I held firm and told her that was completely out of the question. So, we’re doing it on Hollywood's SHIELD mega yacht, hovering right next to it.

Ha.

Usually, there would be a slew of Bandits partaking in the shenanigans. They would be laughing, and dancing, and prancing about having the grandest of times. Pointing, farting, disappearing and then reappearing, playing all sorts of side quests...

But...

Well, you know.

I did tell Big Hess and Tiny Tony to skip the event. I need them now more than ever and melting out here in the sun isn’t going to help anyone’s cause.

Certainly not my own.

Let’s just say they didn’t put up much of a fight.

As such, it’s just Vickie and I, and a fair amount of crumbs, dregs, derelicts, scabs, peons, glue sniffers, and Bears fans.

Now, when I say charity miniature golf event, what I mean is it’s just three holes and you have to hit a hole in one on each hole to receive front row tickets to the show, backstage passes, and an impromptu Q & A with Richard Parker.

The three holes are PRIME themed.

The first hole being a twenty-foot, downhill putt, where singlet straps fall down in front of the hole at random.

The second hole breaks from right to left and has glue traps scattered about it. There is a picture of Hayes Hanlon’s redacted birth certificate on the putting surface.

The third hole, the last one, is uphill, over a carton and into a moving Hall of Fame figurine. It’s a short hole, with a big obstacle.

So far, no one has successfully completed the course, and that’s never going to change because it is impossible.

I rigged it.

Much like everything else.

In what world would I want any of these crumbs at MY show to begin with?

Ha.

“Step right up and take...”

Oh, and if you’re wondering about the charity portion of this since partaking in the event is free, there is an option to buy a mulligan for a certain amount of money. The more you spend, the more mulligans you get.

“Don’t forget to buy your mulligans! All proceeds go directly toward Lindsay Troy’s next pair of high-heels...... for Tots fund.”

That Vickie.

She sure is sensational.

---

One Way Discussion

“I wasn’t there. I should have been, and I wasn’t. That’s on me. That’s my bad. That’s for me to fix. If only there was a way? If only there was a golden opportunity I could take advantage of to lift their spirits, boost team morale, and solidify the shell?” -- Jiles’ Journal, July 15th, 2025

There we are. The three of us. Big Hess, Tiny Tony, and COOL Cancer.

Call it a meeting of the minds.

More like what is left.

We’re on board the USS Bandit and posted up inside the Mess Hall. There’s some remnants of food littered about, a beverage or two, and an ashtray full of ash but lacking any cigarette butts. I suppose with Bobby gone there’s actually going to be food onboard now. Who’d have thought?

Ha.

Please, don’t confuse my jesting as some sort of victory lap. As much as I like over indulging in highly injected with octane MREs, I’d much rather be staring blankly into the abyss known as Bob’s bellybutton.

Anyway, the three of us are seated at a table; one that I look normal at and my two counterparts do not. Reason being of course, one of them is a GIANT whose knees touch the undercarriage of the table while the other is an ant whose feet barely touch the floor.

The pleasantries have come and gone.

I’ve already told Hessian how impressed I was with Minion during his last match, even if the cameras failed to capture it.

My bad.

I’ve already told Tony that losing to Steve Harrison is right of passage for an eGG Bandit. That, it’s the next step in The Grin’s evolution, and that the only place for him to go is up after hitting rock bottom like he has.

Ha.

Now, it’s time to get down to business.

“Okay guys.”

I carefully remove my T-shades, optimistically clear my throat, and check my hair out in the mirror tint. I’m somewhat nervous. It’s not like I’m dripping beads of sweat, but my asshole does feel like it’s inside my throat.

“I think we all know we’re not down here to feast on rations and MREs.”

They nod, and I continue.

“There’s some bad news.”

I smile. It’s meant to diffuse, and not because I am happy.

“The Dean’s are gone. Doozer is gone again. Fuse is nursing a high ankle sprain that will sideline him indefinitely."

Or at least until JCH starts his new job at SpaceX.

Ironically, neither of them seem surprised by any of what I just said. It’s almost as if they knew, or at the very least presumed.

“I reached out to Coral, and to my, sorry our chagrin, he’s still making babies and visiting other planets with his alien friend. He did say if I ever won the title again, but the way he said it seemed rather suspicious instead of brethren-genuine. So, yeah, not only is he also out but he might not be getting a Christmas card this year, too.”

Tony nods agreeably. Hessian points to an imaginary watch fastened around his wrist as if to insinuate I should be getting on with it. That, or one of those rations is quickly moving through his system and he needs to hightail it out of there. So, after a brief moment of contemplation, I do just that.

Get on with it.

“It’s just us now.”

It gets quiet. Intense. Stressful.

“As much as it pains me to say it, but if either of you want out, I get it. I do. You can leave, no questions asked. I won’t hunt you down. You won’t have to fear a foot to the face when you’re working the line at KFC.”

I know, even when I’m trying to be nice, and sincere, I still find a way not to be.

“I won’t blame you for getting on a lifeboat and abandoning ship. It doesn’t look good. As it stands now, we’re outgunned, and the bounty on my head grows with each and every show that passes. However, if you do decide to stick around, I want you to know that after I salt that Gluecrumb and bank the tag title shot I’m giving it to the two of you.”

Insurance premium.

Tony grins. Well, wider anyway. Hessian licks his lips. He’s either hungry for another chance, or wants to kill me. One of the two. Regardless, my asshole returns to its regularly scheduled programming. Then, we all stand simultaneously. We don’t shake hands though. No, we are Bandits. Instead, we vigorously rattle our dicks in each other’s general direction.

Ha.

No, that doesn’t happen.

It’s a fist bump.

Or does it?

“I’m going to bury that silly crumb and get you guys paid.”

Get rich or die trying.

Bet.

---

The Ivory Tower

“For Tony. For Ian. For the Bandits.” -- Jiles’ Journal, July 20th, 2025

It all comes down to this. The Tournament. Round Two. Double belly buster bounty bowl MAIN EVENT. Glue against Yolk. My career. The fate of the Bandits. Revenge. Retribution. Getting my lick back.

You name it.

It’s all in play.

Under pressure.

For me? For my couch? For my fern? For my popped collar and my T-shades? For the four year rookie?

Shid.

Just another day at the office.

Lights.

Cancer.

Action-!

“Low Blow Joe.”

I hear he kills at limbo parties.

“Joey Jolfster.”

Gonna wish he stuck to jabber.

Ha.

“Junior, aka the Caddie of the Glueboys.”

That means Joe is a bag boy, for the non jolf enthusiasts. I was going to say Bagger Fontaine, or Joey Vance, but didn’t want to lose the Black Sheep audience.

“Friend of mine.”

There goes the charcoal lunger. It soars through the air like a corked jolf ball.

“Cards on the table, Joe. Yeah, I have no safety net in case I stumble. Yeah, the Bandit ranks are depleted. Yeah, as it stands me and mine might be considered outgunned when compared to you and yours. Yeah, you might have a full head of steam while I have a full head of ache.”

Might.

I’ll retire before admitting otherwise. So, I shrug, not because it’s not true, but because I don’t care that it is.

“Guess what? Doesn’t matter, crumbo. It’s still not gonna happen. Not in Chicago. Not. A. Chance. No way I’m going to the Elysian Fields by way of O’Hare International.”

My thumb goes down to really sell how adamant I am about it.

“Though, I will say, even with undeniable victory in my grasp, I am none too pleased about my current situation heading into our match.”

I nod.

It won’t be as vehement as the next time I do it.

Maybe.

“You should know, Joe, it has nothing to do with my career being on the line and being outgunned in a showdown MAIN EVENT, and everything to do with you being a Gluecrumb who I only get to salt over once.”

A second lunger goes adrift.

That is the level of disdain.

“I only get to split your head open once. I only get to pour salt in that wound once. I only get to color your face red and yellow once. I only get to eliminate you from the tournament once.”

Some more nodding.

“That is what truly upsets me, Joe. The fact that I only get to do all of those things once.”

A beat.

“Whereas as one might imagine when dealing with a jolf-happy-crumb like yourself, who has meddled in my affairs on the biggest of stages, I would want to experience such a jubilant and fulfilling eggsperience over and over and over again.”

It really is cathartic flushing a tic down the toilet.

“That’s right, Joe. I remember just how good your approach game is.”

With bonedaggers piercing through my mirror tint, I begin to gently rub my hand over the spot on my head where Joe hit me with a jolf iron. I bled from that spot. Joe got superkicked over that spot. Part of the reason I lost to Cecilworth at UltraViolence and now have to run the Almasy gauntlet to get back is because of that spot.

Payback is a bitch.

“Two millimeters. That’s how close you came to the hairline, you lucky fucking crumb. That’s how close you came to certain, torturous, languishing, permadeath as opposed to just a good old fashioned sprinkling of salt.”

I snort.

“I’d be going to jail after our match if you were just a little higher.”

Fact.

“Shit, I still might.”

Ha.

“Nevertheless, prepare yourself, Gluecrumb. You are about to suffer through your next round of jolf. You’ll either be in the rough, in the sand, or hitting it out of the woods all day long.”

Fore!

”And when the round is almost over, and I’m standing over top of you on 18th green, I’ll be sure to pull the pin on your Almasy run and sink your chances of advancing any further in this tournament.”

Pucker.

Kiss.

Goodbye.