Carte Blanche (Part 3 or 5)

For The Bandits

“I did it. I made good on my promise from a while back. Big Hess and Tiny Tony will get their shot, and my debt for their sacrifices during the hunt has now been paid in full. Everybody wins. Full steam ahead.” -- Jiles’ Journal, July 25th, 2025

I am not a normal person.

I’m not.

I don’t mean because I wear sunglasses at night. I don’t mean because my hair has its own budget. I don’t mean because I have access to, and travel the world aboard a decommissioned aircraft carrier. While all of those are true and might define me as abnormal, along with a slew of other things if I’m being honest, what I am referring to is the fact that I do not experience joy in the same way as most other people do.

Most people, from what I’ve been able to gather, do something nice because it makes them feel good.

That’s how they experience joy.

Whereas I, on the other hand, like it when others are miserable and I am the cause of it. I like pressing down with my boot and rubbing salt into a wound of my own doing. I do bad things to make myself feel happy. The badder they are, the better I feel.

That is what brings me joy.

Now, on the rarest of occasions I will get to experience joy like most other people do. I will do something good -- whether it be by accident or for my Bandits -- and feel better because of it. Usually in such instances I get sick to my stomach, hence me using the phrase rarest of occasions. Let’s just say it rarely happens, and when it does it’s even rarer that I actually feel good about it happening.

Perfect.

Anyway, such an instance happened at ReVival 72 when I Termiblasted Jolfy Joe and captured the bounty on his head.

My second time collecting one, thank you very much.

COOL: The Bounty Hunter for a reason.

When Two Books, Big Hess, and myself regrouped inside the eGG Den after the match I could hardly contain myself. I was overwhelmed with joy.

For them.

They were getting another shot, and it was all because I was being selfless and holding true to my word. As such, I couldn’t stop laughing at the top of my lungs. To be fair, we all couldn’t. Even though it was my echoing cackle that was reported on in News and Notes, all three of us were having a hoot of a time. Now sure, I guess you could make the argument that Jolfy Joe’s demise, Glue going 1-2 in Round 2, and the dejected look on Crumbworth’s face because of it were the true reasons for my joyous outburst, and you’d probably be right.

Probably.

However, there’s no denying the gratuitous amount of camaraderie I felt among my brethren in that moment. My COOL, nonexistent heart was warmed, maybe even more so than after the hunt. Granted, I couldn’t feel or move after Manhunt so that might factor in somehow, but still, facts are that not only did I do something for my brethren, but I also strengthened the shell and proved why I am the Captain of the USS Bandit.

Boss.

I know it’s a tough sell, but it’s true.

Me.

Cancer Jiles.

Happy for all the wrong reasons.

Ha.

Who knew?

I did.

---

Tee Cee Bee “There’s only enough room on this boat for one person who needs two telephone books to see over the steering wheel, which means someone’s got to go. Now, I didn’t have the heart to toss him overboard like Tony had asked me to -- hopefully I’m not getting soft -- so I took him to an old haunt of mine instead.” -- Jiles’ Journal, August 2nd, 2025

So...

How about that ride in?

There’s a new guest staying with Cardboard Dan down in The Gallows. It’s not Fuse, or one of the Deans, or even Doozer. It’s not Zeb, CBG(CBD’s cousin), or the alien that inhabits the frontal cortex of Coral’s forehead.

It’s not me, either.

Yet.

It’s not my Valkyrie, although admittedly she’s starting to smell like it.

No one is sorry.

It’s not Tony, or Ian, but it is someone from inside their camp. Someone who I guess no longer sees eye to eye with The Grin.

Ha.

I know him as the shorter guy who rolls with The Hess Express. I think his first name is Cereal. Or Cyril. One of the two. He also goes by Minion, and he’s been a part of Hessian’s camp ever since the first log got put onto the fire. I think he’s an imp, possibly a midget, but definitely a little person. I’m not sure what the height requirements are for each group, if at all any, so I don’t know which category he falls into.

Smaller than Gamble though, so it’s possible he has his own.

Ha.

Anyway, what had happened was, the short version of it anyway, pretty much with the stakes ever increasing and with the boys now being on the hook for gold, well, Hessian’s run of bad luck got dumped in Cereal’s lap and Tony told him to go kick rocks before he could spread it to anyone else.

Tough break.

Crack.

Since I am the Captain it is my job to take those who are unfortunate down to their new home. Hence, why I ceded the Captaincy to Coral before I adjourned to The Gallows during the second Almasy.

More on that at 11.

Needless to say, the little guy wasn’t too happy about his new lodgings. Lot’s of threatening to sink the ship, and bite and kick at my knees and ankles if I didn’t let him go. However, once we got down there to his bunk, and reality started to set in for him, he started to plead with me.

It was dire.

“All I ever wanted to do was help. That’s it. I don’t know how Bader got that foreign object past me and to Snow. I don’t. Please let me make it up to you. Please! I can help you out with Chandler. I can help you win the tournament! I can! I can even hide under the ring if Tony is too tired after the tag match. I even fit underneath the steps!”

Poor guy.

Little Minion can’t even see over the apron.

Oh well.

This is do or die territory, now. This is win or go home for good. I need Tiny Tony and Big Ian watching my back and lurking in the shadows more than ever. If this is what they want, if this is what makes them happy and brings them joy, and solidifies the shell even more, so be it.

He gone.

It’s not like The Gallows doesn't have the room.

---

Food For Thought “After some time the laughing stopped and the show got on the road.” -- Jiles’ Journal, August 4th, 2025

With ReVival 73 set to cook through Lexington, Kentucky, I guess it’s only right that I treat the boys to some of the best fried chicken around.

It is the least I can do.

Ha.

That’s right.

OG recipe.

Me, Tony, and Ian.

We can make it if we fry.

In the Motherland.

Back where it all started, and where I might wind up should I stumble.

Hello, Bitchboy.

The three of us are all sitting around a table that looks like acne and sticks like glue, with a family sized bucket of Noah’s famous between us. Thank Zeus that Bobby is still sitting on the toilet with vicious mud-butt or else someone’s credit card would be getting maxed out.

Rhymes with Molamba.

There’s also biscuits, and gravy, and mashed potatoes, and wet naps galore. We have dug in, and we have made our mark. Our bill, with Hessian and without The Hammer of Honalee, is still over 100 dollars. Tony made a chicken bib out of torn out Yellow Pages. My hands are so greasy that the early deterrent alarm on the mirror-tint has started to go off. Still though, even among the chaos of a code grease there’s always time to talk shop.

“So Jiles, with this being your first time going up against a Hall of Famer since you were inducted, you know about the code, right?” Tony asks, and I play along. At least I try to. It’s not so easy feigning inquisitiveness with fried chicken face. “You got to bury this fool. Just like I did back in the day. Just like Coral did in the last tournament. No remorse.” Tiny Tony licks his lips clean, and the arrogant way he does so makes me feel confident beyond belief.

He doesn’t even care what I have to say next.

He already knows.

He already knows what everyone else is going to find out on August 8th.

That I am, in fact, going to bury that fool.

“Okay, if you say so.”

Ha.

---

The Ivory Tower “Never heard of him.” -- Jiles’ Journal, August 6th, 2025

Round 3.

My third, third time bloviating.

In the last Almasy, the second one for the Donkey Fred crowd, Round 3 was the round I got eliminated in, and by a fellow Hall of Famer nonetheless.

Yup.

His name was Robert Sykes.

Or was it Jared Paulson?

Ha.

Truth be told, his name doesn’t really matter. What matters is that after losing in Round 3 I was devastated. I truly was. I had lost my Golden Ticket. I had lost my dream of COOLOSSUS Part 2. I had lost whatever hopes I might have had of avenging my FINALS loss in the prior Almasy. Worst of all, I wound up ceding my Captaincy of the eGG Bandits and hid from the world down in the cool, cozy confines of The Gallows.

Brig.

Ha.

I spent what seemed like forever down there, wallowing inside a pit named despair. I was miserable, tortured, defeated, and ashamed. Then, fortunately, for the bold anyway, Colossus rolled around and the chance to “recruit” Tony Gamble and kick Brandon Crumblud in the same breath was just too good to pass up.

The rest, as they say, is Alfredo.

Now, having stated such, I can’t even imagine how bad I would feel if I had to suffer through all of those shortcomings again, AND THEN LOSE MY CAREER and any shot at redemption on top of it. Especially if it was because of an uncool nerdbox named Chandler Tsonda.

Fucking scab couldn’t even beat Stanislob.

To be clear, that was not some way of shadily implying that Coral is going to come back and save the Bandits should I fail to win the whole fucking thing.

Carte Blanche.

No, that’s not it at all.

It would be Skinny Bobby if anything.

However, it is implying that motivation will be the very least of my worries when stepping into the ring against Chandler Tsonda. I know eggsactly what is at stake. I just have to remember what he looks like and not mistake him for Elvis Nixon.

Ha.

Dream match?

More like a Zzz match.

Lights.

Cancer.

Action~!

There I am. King COOL. The Manhunter. The Golden Ticket. My collar is popped. My tasty hair is simmering to a boil. My radiant gaze is protected by the cover of T-shades. My COOL ass is comfortably and dutifully plopped atop a plush throne.

Eat your heart out, PRIME.

There’s a luscious, full-bodied, potted-fern to the left of me, and a vivacious, vindictive, valiant Valkyrie ready to set the world on fire to the right of me.

Time to find out.

“Chandelier Tonka.”

Silly boy plays with sharp, expensive toys. Gets cut. Loses. A tale as old as time.

“Mr. Silk Underwear.”

Mr. Bing is a self proclaimed sultan of style, so not necessarily a reach in my opinion. Ironically enough I once called Jared Sykes the same thing. During this same tournament. In this very round.

Ironic indeed.

“Survivor of the NIGHT ONE wartchamber.”

Gonna wish he hadn’t.

Make no mistakes, when I am done with Crumbler Tsalty he’ll long for the days of being trapped inside a cage with a slobish cub licking and pawing at his face. This right here, ReVival 73, is a Tshovel situation and one of the longest reigning champions to never beat me, Cancer Jiles, NUMBER ONE BY DEFINITION, probably doesn’t even know it.

Poor crumb.

This is our first encounter inside the ring, one on one, yes, that much is true. However, what is also true is Cecilworth Farthington wasn’t the only person to step on my surprise return to the ring during The Culture Shock Battle Royal.

Petty. As. Fuck.

No, Chandler Tsonda was the first one to do it, and for that he gets the shovel. No questions asked. You might think the end of my career, tournament life, and possibly even the Bandits would be enough to warrant such a severe action. You might think a booked spot in the Night Two MAIN EVENT of COOLOSSUS would be enough to justify a burial of the Hall of Famer.

Ha.

Think again.

“A fellow Hall of Famer.”

Gas-leak era.

Funnily enough when I asked Tiny Tony and Big Hess about The Chandie Man they had no idea who I was even talking about. I don’t think it had anything to do with me refusing to call him by anything else while making my inquiry.

I did only ask once.

For the record.

“Friend. Of. Mine.”

There goes the charcoal lunger.

Early.

“Tell me, 4-Chan, how is the old whale’s vagina doing these days? No, I don’t mean the womb you crawled out of but your hometown.”

Stay classy.

I snort. Yes, that is how far I made it reading his bio.

“Actually, don’t. I think we both know I could care less.”

A reassuring nod. Reassuring in a way that says yes, it’s true, I could indeed care less.

“Ya know, you and I really haven’t crossed paths here in PRIME, have we?”

Limited engagements at best.

“There was that one time when you returned after running out of food stamps -- presumably -- and stole my thunder at the Culture Shock Battle Royal.”

I seethe. It doesn’t last very long.

“War Games.”

Minimal exposure.

“Then, there was the last Almasy tournament when Coral beat you and I may or may not have distracted you before he hit the 1, 2, 3.”

I shrug. It is very much a smug shrug and full of nonchalance.

“Outside of that, you’ve seemed to stay out of my way, Chandler.”

Seemingly.

”Shit, I don’t even think you’ve had the pleasure of sniffing my salts yet.”

A congratulatory thumbs up, and it’s a hearty one.

“I am the tried and true, tested and vested, hardest working man in PRIME, and steering clear of me, my ego, and most of all my boots is a damn near impossible task. Yet, you’ve managed to do so.”

Hall of Famer for a reason.

“You’ve proven that if you flourish in mediocrity and have a wristwatch for a nickname it is possible.”

Take note, rest of roster.

“The Model Citizen, available in gas-leak chrome or gun-metal grey.”

Only at Kohls.

Row. Stead.

“Of course, that’s all about to change, ain’t it? The inevitable is upon us. Push has come to shove. You’ve had a good run, but now the rent is due, Crumbo, and my salt shoes have a pedicure to pay for.”

I lean forward from my throne and thrust an imaginary shovel into the ground. Something tells me the sadistic smile upon my face will grow wider and wider with each and every dig I take.

“ReVival 73. Round 3. MY MAIN EVENT. MY GOLDEN TICKET. MY CAREER ON THE LINE. Let’s not stop there though! No! ACTUAL HALL OF FAMER VERSUS GUY WHO IN COMPARISON IS ONLY MODELING AS A HALL OF FAMER.”

Ha.

“You’re on my runway now, where the lights shine the brightest and the front row tickets are plated out of gold.”

A beat.

Rather, a dig.

Ha.

“Where there aren’t any poses to strike that can stop what’s coming at the end of your catwalk.”

Another dig.

“Where the Chandie Man can’t, because the Salty Dog stepped on his sweet treat.”

I wipe the sweat from my brow. It’s hard work, doing all this imaginary digging.

“Where you get bounced by an eGG Bandit for the second time in a row.”

Once more into the dirt.

“Same round, too.”

Wait for it. No, wait like you’ve been waiting since the second Almasy tournament, Round 3, in-ring segment, for it.

“How’s that sound for repetitive, you crumb?”

Pucker.

Kiss.

At the last second, my love, my lifeline, leans in and whispers something in my ear.

It is not a sweet nothing.

It is a life saver.

Cherry.

“Oh fuck!”

Stop the press.

“Come to think of it, you have tasted my sniffing salts before, haven't you? Worse yet, not only have I kicked you in the face, but I’ve also pinned your shoulders to the mat. Oops. My bad. How silly of me to forget."

Indeed.

How silly of me to forget Manhunt.

Ha.

"Then again, I did kick a lot of people during the hunt, so don’t hold it against me if a crumb like yourself got lost in the salt shuffle.”

Goodbye.