Guess Who?

Not Like That

“In the blink of an eye my time with the ticket was over. The run had come to an end. My shot at redemption was squandered. AGAIN. I was absolutely ruined, too. I hadn’t even entertained the thought that I could lose. Why would I? When I did, when it actually happened, I had no idea what to do. I was just frozen there.” -- Jiles’ Journal, whatever the date was when I died

Surprise! It’s me again. Been a while, huh? I guess you could say retirement was not being too kind to me so now I am back and ready to build a new Ivory Tower to house my couch in.

Hooray!

I know. I can tell. Everyone is just soooooo happy about it. Here I am, back again, when my feathers are supposed to be in someone else’s cap, and not all spread out peacock style looking fresh to def.

Ha.

Shit, I should be out selling used cars at T.A. Saxon’s Northeast Philadelphia location instead of... well, walking back in the door and right into stealing super shows.

“It’s just not fair. He needs to stay gone.” -- The MAIN EVENT scene, definitely

I really do.

You might say there was room in PRIME while I was working the line 60 hours a week. Room to run. Room to grow. Room to prosper. Now, just like your thrill, that room is gone. I have ditched my apron, moved my things back in and everyone else’s shit the fuck out.

Now PRIME goes back to running through me.

Cancerlax.

Now PRIME goes back to being stunted inside of my vast shadow.

Sure beats a forehead.

So yeah, I understand why no one is happy to see their old buddy, the hardest working man in PRIME, Cancer Jiles. Everyone else’s plate just got a lot smaller, and the bar set a lot higher. That said, while I might understand your plight, don’t be expecting an apology. It’s not like anyone argued with the umpire when I got called out home, and let’s not forget why all of you are truly here. 

Come for the eggs, stay for the inevitable crash out.

It’s not to wish me a happy day and tell me how good it is to see me again. No, you’re here to find out what eggsactly it is that I’ve been up to, and moreover, how many chickens I’ve fried since Chandler Tsonda pissed in my deep fryer. You’re here to warm yourselves with my humiliation. Well, to that I say fuck you and screw your morbid curiosities.

I’ll never tell

97. Thousand.

Also, I know that’s something someone who works the register and not the deep fryer would say. As such, since I am the hardest working man and therefore by proxy the bigger and undoubtedly better man, I’ll say this in regard to that night and the aftermath that followed. I have no doubt I would have finished Chandler off and ran through the rest of the tournament. With ease. Then, I would have finished the job that Chandler could not, and gotten my lick back against Cecilworth.

Also done with ease.

But of course.

I know it like I know Elvis Nixon wasn’t working alone at ReVival 73.

Who is the co-conspirator? 

I know it like I know Bitchtoys has put on a ton of weight.

Maybe one tale from the crypt.

I know it like I know Alexei has two choices at ReVival 80.

Spoiler, he isn’t going to like either of them.

---

Call For Help

“I don’t know why he did what he did. My guess is someone was in his ear about it and told him to. If that is true, then there’s only one person who has the power AND the balls to pull something like that off.” -- Jiles’ Journal, January 10th, 2026

There he is.

All by himself.

The coward.

No, not the strapper Brandon Crumblood.

That comes later.

Worse.

Elvis motherfucking Nixon. PRIME’s on the take referee. I imagine Elvis was handsomely compensated for what he did to me back at ReV 73. I also imagine he was given certain reassurances and told that once I left the building he wouldn’t have to worry about karma coming back around since I would be too busy fishing with Zeb and Bobby.

Ha.

Well, looks like karma wiggled its way off the hook, didn’t it?

Ha.

So, there poor little Elvis is, standing all by his lonesome. His lip is curled. His head hangs low. He’s trembling, and his fingernails have seemingly been chewed through. Sadly, I am not with him. If I were he would’ve been fast asleep by now so it’s probably for the best. For the sake of transparency I am with my darling and we many, many miles away, high up in the sky on board Bandit One.

Mile. High.

No, we’re not torturing Elvis Nixon, I swear. I wish that we were. We are planning to, but the only reason I’m able to see him is because I am watching a video that my good pal Chris Chickentenders sent me. It would seem that after seeing me in action last night that Elvis has taken to the ACE Network to spill his guts, and from the look of it he is about to beg, plead, grovel, and pray to Zeus that I don’t terminate him.

Repeatedly.

Can’t say I blame him, either, because I sure am going to. These boots weren’t made for walking after all. I suppose there’s always a chance I could have a change of heart. Let’s see what he has to say.

More like sing.

Elvis Nixon: Hello, I am PRIME referee and known coward, Elvis Nixon. I am truly a pathetic human being. I am the scum of the Earth. I drink out of the pot to piss in, and for months now I have been living a lie. Back at ReVival 73 I did something I was not supposed to do and am truly sorry for it. I know it’s too late for excuses, but I wasn’t given much of a choice in the matter.

“Oh is that so, Elvis?”

I do wonder what he could be alluding to.

Elvis Nixon: I would like to state for the record that during the third round of the Almasy, in the Golden Ticket MAIN EVENT match up between Cancer Jiles and Chandler Tsonda, a match that Cancer Jiles’ career was on the line for, I was told prior to the match that if the opportunity arose to disqualify Cancer Jiles that I was to do so without hesitation. I was also told that doing so was in the best interest of the company, and that even if it was borderline to disqualify him.

Unreal. I wish I could say that I’m surprised, but I’m not. Let’s see if he’ll spill the tea and tell us who the voice whispering into his little ear belonged to.

Eye roll.

Elvis Nixon: The person who told me to do all of this and is ultimately to blame for my actions is none other than...

“Say it you rat. Same bitch who smacked me with a chair the other night. BET.”

Elvis Nixon: Lindsay Troy.

Ha!

The video cuts out shortly thereafter; concluding with a humbled Elvis sobbing uncontrollably while also wetting himself. Sadly, even though he’s come clean, he’ll have to suffer my wrath much like Phil had to.

Terminated.

Now, I know what you’re thinking.

She has some nerve.

Why did Elvis Nixon have seven fingers on his left hand? The answer, yeah, Chris has more editing to do. Still, outside of that, it looked and sounded just like him. This AI stuff is pretty impressive, huh? I wonder what’s next?

Stanislob smiling?

Ha.

---

Kay Ef Sea

“I don’t deserve this. Not even me. No one does. I get it. I played with Ouija boards and spilled goat’s blood while yachting across the River Styx, still, there’s got to be a line somewhere. He is the embodiment of effortlessly unbearable. I’d rather squirt hot sauce in my eyes than look at him. I have no doubt the circle of hell he calls home is a pugilistic playground full of masochistic and malicious intent. He deserves to be there and not stuck here with me.” -- Julian’s Journal, November 14th, 2025

Hello and welcome to the Home of the Original Recipe, and the actual store Noah Hanson was born in. Currently it’s the middle of a never ending shift and the team is hard at work. There’s a familiar idiot up front working the counter who has been whistling, “I’ve Been Working on the Railroad” for over six hours now.

You’ll know him when you see him.

He also claims the oil in the fryer isn’t good for his hair to avoid having to clean them. Needless to say since he’s joined the team I’ve plotted to kill him multiple times. However, I know that in the end it would only be doing him a favor. His fate, just like mine, is one that is worse than death. We’re doomed to be stuck here. We have been left to suffer. For forever. Apron on, and the customer is always right. In fact, our only real purpose now is to serve as a precautionary tale...

“Say your prayers and take your vitamins, kids, or else you’ll wind up like Jiles and Bathory.“ -- Decent people, probably  

Fuck him as always.

“Hey yo, Bitchboy!” He calls out to me like some untrained animal. “Where’s that three piece at?! Let’s get a move on, ya hear! Mr. Hanson is waiting! Labor Day is going to be here before you know it!”

Like I said, fuck him as always.

Every order.

Every time.

I kindly respond, “Sure thing, Champ. Coming right up. Tell your dad I’m sorry and I’ll try to be faster next time.” HA. Simpleton crumb. Take that middle finger and shove it up your ass. The Math guy nearly passes out from trying so hard not to laugh. Same goes for The Draw. Teddy is in the bathroom scrubbing the toilets, but I think it’s safe to assume he would have found it amusing as well.

Crumbo then yells back to me, “How many times do I have to tell you he’s not my DAD! I’m getting sick and tired of this rookie bullshit!”

Ha.

He’s not done.

This happens quite often actually.

Per day.

Poor guy isn’t even a year in yet, either.

“I need to get the fuck out of this place! I’d rather listen to Hayes Hanlon forget his birthday than exist here for one more second! I’m tired of this shit! People come out of retirement all the time, so can I! Keyes is calling for a match, maybe I’ll take his Championship and give it to Mom as a reconciliation gift!”

Someone sounds like they’re high on Hanson’s Honorary Hot and Honey Sauce.

Ha.

I will admit I do experience a certain type of joy when basking in Jiles’ misery. Schadenfreude is the term educated folks use which means he had to google it and I definitely wouldn’t have had to.

That idiot shit bag.

Take for instance that time he found out about Hessian and Gamble defecting to the Red Army. He didn’t care about his hair then. No sir. He stuck his whole hand in the fryer, all the way up to the wrist. Nothing happened to him obviously, since he’s “COOL” and all, but you could see the heartbreak in his eyes even from behind those obnoxious sunglasses. I got him so good, too. I asked him, “Should we order more condiments now that the Bandits are dead and Bobby will undoubtedly be on his way?” We fist fought for a good ten minutes before it got broken up and had to go back to work.

Just another day at the office.

I will say we’ve never been busier since he’s come aboard. It’s been non-stop. People come from far and wide, and from all walks of life to have King Crumb take their order.

Ha.

Such a dick kick for him, too. It’s wonderful; watching him slowly rot away while having to deal with Joe Public.

Oh well.

Sorry not sorry.

---

My Boat My Shovel My Yellow Pages

“... and so my hands go back into the muck; plunged deep into the filth of my fallen empire and the ruins of my toppled tower. Before I can lift them out I will have to swallow some of my pride first. I will need to forgive, but I will also have to ask for forgiveness. I abandoned ship when they needed me the most. As much as their defection hurts, how can I hold it against them?” Jiles’ Journal, January 14th, 2026

Here we are.

The moment of truth.

As you can see there is no couch for me to sit on. There is no fern to keep me company and brighten up the place. There is no tower mast to perch myself from so that I may cast both doubt and aspersion with the free will of an entitled white man. There isn’t even a vivacious Valkyrie on my arm.

Yes, my house remains in ruin.

As such, it’s a different day for Cancer Jiles.

For now.

Nevertheless, I will persist.

Some say it is what I do best.

That, and lose big matches.

Truth be told, all I need is some hair gel, a pair of T-shades, an empty space, two telephone books to sit on and a heavy duty, sixty inch garden shovel to clutch in my grasp.

Wink.

On the nose much?

Good.

I want it that way.

Lights.

Cancer.

Action~!

“Alexei Ruslan.”

No hello’s. No how’s it going. No smiles. No boy is it good to be back. No thank you’s, empty promises, or apologies. It’s straight to business for the hardest working man in PRIME. I do have some catching up to do. Oh that’s right. No, I don’t.

Ha.

“Friend. Of. Mine.”

Ahhhh.

“I mean, how could we not be? Team Red Bandits, right? That almost makes us like blood relatives.”

Ha.

No, it does not.

And there goes our first charcoal coated lunger of 2026.

“I guess the good news is since we’re friends now this doesn’t have to end horribly for you, Alexei. Even with my victory being a forgone conclusion there is a way for you to goose step your Russian ass back to the Red Army Locker Room after our match is over. But wait, there's more. I'll even forgive your transgressions and the fact you poached from my carton. That's right. Pretty much you get to go about your business and I get to go about mine."

A very trustworthy thumbs up.

"Simple as that.”

I nod. It’s meant to be as disarming as possible.

“Frankly, if you were to agree you’d be doing me a favor.”

It is true. I do have a lot going on. Though, my top priority is putting the band back together, mainly because I do have so much going on and it’s an uphill battle from where I’m standing. That is to say it will be much easier if I’m standing on the shoulders of giants and the telephone books of... well, The Grin.

“So here’s the deal, comrade. The terms of their surrender. You and the Red Army release Tony and Hessian from whatever obligations they have, and I know Big Hess is laid up in a hospital bed somewhere so let’s not play hard to get here, but you release them both from their duties-- AND return the USS Bandit to me with a full tank of gas and I will let you walk away from our match unharmed via count out.”

Yeah, that was one big sentence.

Sue me.

“I’m being straight with you here. No Cold War nonsense. The bell dings. You exit the ring. I stand there, righteous, whole, shovel in one hand and telephone book in the other. Someone counts to ten and no one has to get hurt. No sleeping salts, Alexei. No months long recurring headaches.”

I smile. It’s a good deal. I mean, especially with what happened at the super show, it’s a very good deal. That is to say yes, I have some things to unload.

Like, a lot of things.

“Before you rush to judgement and your Ruslan pride gets the better of you, I want to tell you something that might help make your decision a more informed one.”

A beat.

“When I was gone, RETIRED if you will, I would hide out in the bathroom to avoid work. While I was in there, in between vape hits I would be making a list. On this list were the people who I would go out of my way to say hello to again if ever given the chance.”

Sure, it’s a long list.

What matters is who is at the top of it.

“After Ian and Tony defected and the EGG Bandits in essence were disbanded, you Alexei, because I had already had my way with Ivan so many times before, you sat at the top of my list. Now, I won’t say you remain number one, or are even number two. Fact is Mother Hen and Crumblood are battling for those distinctions at the moment.”

Neck and neck.

I take a beat, allowing my friendly opponent a brief moment of respite.

“You're still three though, but remember that you don’t have to be. Do yourself a favor and walk away from this while you can. Take the deal. Russia has a shit ton of gas so at the end of the day it’s like pennies on the dollar for you. Trust me. Your quality of life will thank you later.”

Slowly, I rise from my custom telephone book chair. I look down, knocking the top one over with the end of the shovel I’m holding.

“Or don’t, and get your face kicked in. Take the beating Elvis Nixon deserves. Eat the salt I’m saving to pour in Crumbloods wounds. Suffer, like I intend to make our friend Lindsay Troy suffer. Just know that whatever you choose, one way or the other I will wind up getting what I want.”

I don’t plan on exacting vengeance upon my upstart Bandits. I have dealt with dissension before. Not to mention shame works way better than violence during times like these.

“I know we’ve had our squabbles in the past, but Ian and Tony must have seen something redeeming in you to make them abandon all hope. There must be some quality of yours that spoke to them, to make them do what they did. I mean, whatever it might be, the fact remains that they thought highly enough of you and of ole Slobbylav and the rest of The Red Army to stab me in the back.”

Both my gears and teeth grind at the thought.

“If I was under ground when it happened I would have rolled over in my grave, Alexei.”

My gaze intensifies, not that you can tell because of the T-shades.

“Take the deal. Return what was lost and live to see another Novy God.”

Pucker.

Kiss.

Goodbye.