Article 97

The Flat Circle

“Happy days are here again, Nick! Happy days are here to stay. We have rid ourselves of our infestation. What a glorious moment. I want to let this sink in… I could not be happier right now. If my penis was any larger, this announce table would be floating right now…” -- Farthington’s Fumbles, August 8th, 2025

Remember, remember, the seventy-third edition of ReVival. This fucking show. I hate it. I really do. I hate it like... well, like Socttywood hates all things, which if you didn’t know is like the Pinnacle of all HATE.

POAH.

No matter how hard I try. No matter how far or fast I run. No matter what I do I can not escape the shadow of 73.

Where is Ethan Avalon when you need him?

The stench from the show forever lingers like a fart. Not just any run of the mill fart, either. I’m talking like Bobby Dean fart.

That’s 97 times worse.

Fucking show.

I think I have harped and moaned enough about ReVival 73 to make it abundantly clear by now that it was the worst night of my life. I want to be done with it. I want to put it behind me, and move past it. I even thought that maybe after the scales had tipped back towards even in regard to Tsonda that I’d be able to do so, but turns out I was wrong.

Every time I think I am out...

As fate would have it my up and coming opponent, my old buddy from the PIT, my Rumbler eggstraordinaire, The Starting Point, Cecilworth Farthington, well, the old boy had a front row seat to the whole fucking thing.

And a headset.

Vile, inhumane, guest commentating bastard.

You know what is worse than actually losing your career and everything you have ever worked for? Let me tell you, because I know. I’ve lived through it. The only thing worse than actually losing your career and everything you’ve ever worked for is actually losing your career and everything you’ve ever worked for while your arch nemesis -- some crumb who would rather shit in your shoes than try to walk in them -- sits ringside lapping the whole thing up like some thirsty dog.

Imagine that?

There he is. The man who has stifled damn near your every move. The man who stole your thunder at the Murder Rumble and split your face open like a Bobby Dean pair of trousers.

Cut me, Mick.

The man who won the War and the Games. The man who slayed the Hunter at UltraViolence and handed him a third Golden fucking Ticket for his trouble.

The UNIVERSAL CHAMPION.

An OCW ICON

That guy.

Best seat in the house.

Ouch.

I’ll say this, if Cecilworth ever has a son or daughter to give away at the altar, or finds love and ties the knot, well, I still don’t think the smile he would be wearing during such occasions would rival the smile that covered his face as my entire reality collapsed in real time.

Coy prick.

As such, realize that for me, that for King COOL, the Hunter of Men, Cancer Jiles, Mr. First Ballot, this next match -- this next chapter in the book of Cancerworth -- it isn’t about the UNIVERSAL CHAMPIONSHIP. It’s not about the MAIN EVENT. It’s not about PRIME’s return to normalcy and the righting of the ships... or the all out burning of them. No, this match, this go around is about something more.

Something greater than even the sum of all those parts.

When Cecilworth and I get into the ring at ReVival 83, ten shows later, post op if you will, I’ll be in there for one reason and one reason only; I’m going to kick him in the face and I am going to hurt him. I am going to hurt Cecilworth Farthington. I’m going to do him wrong. In fact, I am going to try and do the unimaginable, and that is to inflict the same amount of pain, and misery, and agony that he has brought down upon me. So much so, people are going to want to look the other way when I am done.

Then again it is Mexico.

That’s what this match means to me.

Elvis Nixon is either going to have to disqualify me in the biggest match of my career -- AGAIN -- or I am going to cut down Cecilworth just like I cut down Phil.

For good.

Then and only then will his debt have been repaid.

Prince Jiles.

Now, I know that taking Cecilworth’s championship is probably the best way to go about doing him the most harm, and if you’re thinking the same thing, congratulations, you are sane. You have a sound mind. You haven’t been beaten into submission. You don’t know what it means to risk it all and lose, and have everyone point and laugh when it happens.

Me on the other hand, well, you already know.

---

The USS Bandit

“Glory days are here again. I’m coming home. Pack your bags, babe, we’re getting our groove back.” -- Jiles’ Journal, February 20th, 2025

A deal is a deal.

I made one.

I won.

Now Ivan must hold up his end of the bargain and give me my ship back.

Everything just keeps turning up Jiles.

Prior to my bout with Tsonda I brazenly traveled behind enemy lines and made a deal with the Russian slob. If I won, I got the boat back. If I lost, well, I would jump off a bridge before doing so, but I would have had to join the Red Army.

As it stands, I won and now we are here.

Suck it.

I was given the coordinates to the location of the war vessel, USS Bandit. I figured it wasn’t going to be Miami beach-- that would have been too easy. I also figured Ivan would hold up his end of the bargain, just with a massive BUT tied to the end of it.

I figured right on both accounts.

The Bering Strait.

The Bearing Straight.

The now under water prehistoric land bridge that Ivan walked across the first time he came to America.

I’m sorry, let me correct that.

THE FROZEN BERING STRAIT.

That’s right, just like in hell come the end of Rev 83, The Bering Strait has frozen over. I’m sure Ivan didn’t know anything about it or else he would have moved the boat to a different location beforehand.

I’m just so sure of it.

“Hey Siri, call Stanislob.”

Calling Stanislob, mobile.

No answer.

His stupid voicemail is in Russian so I’ll spare us the trouble of forced vomiting.

“Sorry to missed your call, I am hiding from King Leader Supreme Cancer Jiles, and I am not available at this time. Please leave message about helping with Hunter of Men.” -- Ivan’s translated voicemail greeting, probably

Oh well. It’s a good thing I brought the team with me. But first, a proper setting. Yes, it is night time. Yes, it is cold. Yes, you can see your breath. I can’t, but you could.

COOL blooded.

Yes, that is Timo One out there parked on the top deck. Vickie and I flew in as soon as we got the coordinates. The pilot jumped off the side of the ship once we touched down. It was a tough flight to say the least. Vickie was... well,

“I’M THIS CLOSE TO GETTING EVERYTHING BACK SO YOU BETTER NOT FUCKING KILL US!! YOU HEAR ME YOU FUCKING CRUMB!”

Oh wait, that was me, shouting at the pilot, with my quivering asshole tucked inside of itself.

This was Vickie,

"Zzzzzz.”

The fact that Vickie slept through the whole thing is what scared the pilot the most, even more than the actual death spiral landing sequence, hence his reasoning for Byrding overboard. Can’t say I blame him.

I also thought we were going down for most of the trip.

I guess I’m just an optimist.

Ha.

Or, that not everybody is cut out for this line of, well, wet work. Still, I am home, back aboard the USS Bandit. I will say it was nice of Ivan to have cleared out all his propaganda before leaving. I guess he didn’t have to worry about repainting since it was already shit red on the insides.

He can thank me later.

Anyhow.

It will take a day for the delousing protocols to finish for the main quarters and the mess. However, the War Room has a blast furnace protocol that sanitizes the area, making it pretty much instantly inhabitable. That’s where Vickie and I are. More importantly though, the War Room is where I called in the air drop that is going to free my ship.

Operation Icebreaker.

Sadly, it’s not Domino’s Pizza, so it’s going to be a while.

In the meantime...

---

The Cancerworth Mysteries

“Two can play this game, Jack.” -- Jiles’ Journal, February 20th, 2026

There I am, and there she is.

My Valkyrie.

My love.

My rock.

Ready.

My Vickie.

It’s amazing we’ve managed to get along like we have-- being from different sides of the mountain and all. I’m Greek. She’s Norse. However, we’ve found a way to make it work.

Misery loves company, like really, really, really, really, really, loves company.

I’ve found out when we do things together, well, other things together, time flies by. So, while we awaited go/no go on Operation Icebreaker, and, well, after doing those other things for a sweaty while, we gots to talking her and I.

Not the Married with Children talk.

She asked me about my past.

She asked me about Cecilworth.

Then, because she wanted to further humiliate me, we watched the ReVival 73 MAIN EVENT, like it wasn’t bad enough doing the dirty with her game worn sock shoved in my mouth.

Oh well.

Like I said, we manage.

Regardless, that’s when “it” dawned on me. “Say Vickie, I’m starting to get the feeling it wasn’t Lady Troy behind Elvis Nixon’s actions. Think about it, babe. She has nothing to gain with me gone. In fact, she only gains when I’m here, so as much as she would never admit to it, she needs me, and wants me....... in PRIME.”

Judging from the scowl on Vickie’s face I probably should have phrased that one a little better. I apologize in fear of another humiliating socking, then continue bravely and carefully further into the abyss.

“Just look at this crumb on commentary. He’s sending signals to Nixon the whole time!”

Hidden to the naked eye, but visible with T-shades.

They Live.

Vickie bites, totally onboard with my theory. Deep down she doesn’t want beef with Lady Troy, and ultimately yearns for her respect.

Ha.

My epiphany continues to shine.

“Of course it was CECILWORTH! The money. The power. The fame.”

Okay two out of three ain’t bad.

I further delve into the dark underbelly of “fixed” wrestling.

Not a Bob joke.

“How could I have been so blind? He knew there was no way he was going to beat me again, and after I slept his boy Joe Fountain Soda Man in round 2 that crumb knew I was going to win the whole damn thing........... AND NOW I GOT HIM AND NIXON IN THE MAIN EVENT FOR THE UNIVERSAL CHAMPIONSHIP!”

Wait.

That’s actually not good.

I take a moment to gather myself, and further wrestle with the epiphany of epiphanies.

“What to do?”

That question will have to wait.

Confirmation codes just came in.

Operation Icebreaker is a full go.

---

The War Room

“I don’t know why Cancer isn’t up here to accept this award with us. I say us, even though it just looks like me. Maybe it’s because he’s snorting chili pepper off of Vickie’s bottom.” -- Bobby’s Blunders, whenever it was when the Honaleean ate three dinners at the half of fame

The time has come.

Operation Icebreaker is a full go.

Next stop...

...actually, let’s just get the fuck out of here and into warmer waters. But FIRST, and before I forget, the most important part. The team. Aka, the Bandits.

The crew is more like it.

There’s me, The Captain. There’s Vickie, my lovely lady who has a cold fusion heart strong enough to power the massive war vessel, but not strong enough to break the zillion tons of ice in front of it.

And.

And.........

And.................

The third member of my team. You know him. He’s a beautiful guy and the only mythical creature that’s Honaleean enough to get the job done. He is my Icebreaker. Both literally, and figuratively, and he is descending rapidly from an altitude of 9700 feet.

GASP!

He is Bobby Dean, and his icebreak is a two part affair.

Part one.

Robert descends from an altitude of 9700 feet. At this time his insides will purge themselves, and he will begin to snot, vomit, cry, and of course, shit himself. For this reason it is imperative he makes the drop naked.

Im. Perative.

The second part of the icebreak is also a two part affair.

Part Two.

Aka, part poo-poo.

Robert’s excrement and bodily festers land before he does, and in a sense begin to frack the ice below. Think Alien, and what their blood does, but just on a much grander and less deadly scale.

Then, part two of part two happens.

The boom.

The Honaleean, covered in his own bodily functions obviously, and holding the form of a cannonball with you know what eyeing the Earth below, comes careening down with the force of a thousand elephants and pierces through the ice at maximal velocity.

Yes, that is to say an almost animalistic type of velocity.

BOOM.

Robert’s impact is so sharp, and so precise, a rift -- a crack if you will -- forms in the ice that’s long enough for us to gain enough momentum to get the fuck out of here, and the only reason you know about it, is because it happened thirty minutes ago.

Toot-a-loo.

---

The Ivory Tower

“That didn’t take long.” -- Jiles’ Journal, February 25th, 2026

It feels good to be home.

It feels good to be back on my throne.

One might even say electric.

Retribution will do that for a man.

Truth be told I can’t believe Ivan even watered my fern. Yet, as good as it all feels, something still seems off. Did I think I would return to the MAIN EVENT and once again not only challenge but reign as UNIVERSAL CHAMPION? Yes, of course I did. That’s why we all wake up in the morning. Did I think it would take four shows to get back there? No, of course not. I’m not crazy. I’m not delusional. I don’t sniff glue like Hayes Hanlon and Flamberge. I know what PRIME is better than anyone else.

Larry David face.

We all know how abysmal Ascension was, and whatever you call the big show that comes after it.

Jared who?

Yes, that is my sharp way of saying I expected to be back in the marquee at 80.

Fuck your brig.

The fact I wasn’t was a slap in the fact.

True.

The fact I am now should be a slap in the face to everyone else.

Also true.

Oh well, I can’t help it if the ball was just sitting there on the ground waiting to be picked up like some thot on Tinder, and nobody wanted to swipe right.

Not my fault I’m a freak.

It’s not that, it's that everyone with more than half a brain is afraid of Cecilworth, but that’s not for me to say. I am just a humble proprietor. HA.

Now, because PRIME would rather sit on their hands than stand on their feet, I am one match away from executing the perfect comeback.

The dream.

You know what would be COOL? Like, really COOL. If one day you were self-forced into retirement, and then came back to save the place and win the UNIVERSAL CHAMPIONSHIP...... in the same fucking winter.

Same snow on the ground.

Now that would be some legendary type of shit.

Well guess what?

That is my life.

Lights.

Cancer.

ACTION~!

“The Big C.”

That’s really my nickname but I’m lending it out for the time being. He has been the champion for a while now, and I do struggle when it comes to showing signs of respect.

“Dumbledore Asscot.”

I snort.

All of PRIME thinks it.

“The Champ.”

Or maybe I don’t.

“Friend. Of. Mine.”

I exhale.

This might seem rudimentary because of who I am, and how COOL I’ve carried myself for the past five years, but keep in mind all of this was gone two months ago. There were no title shots. There were no MAIN EVENTS. The only thing I needed to sell was chicken.

Ha.

“I’m going to keep this short, Cecilworth. I mean, what else is there left to say between us that hasn’t been said already? I think egg yolk is stickier than glue? I think you have a better hairline than Brandon Crumblood?”

Pretty sure I said that before.

The egg line anyway.

“I know all of your tricks. You know all of my tricks. The outcome is going to come down to a fraction of a second at a critical point in the match. We both know it. There’s no point in hiding from it. There’s no amount of plotting and scheming that is going to change that fact.”

I shrug, only because it is true.

“No sense in acting otherwise.”

A beat.

“But, that’s the best part, right? That we don’t know. I’ll say otherwise till blue, and you’ll say otherwise till glue, but the margin of error is razor thin when it comes to me and you. We’re all in every time. We don’t bluff. We play for the highest stakes and we expect to kill.”

Scary combination.

Combustible

Explosive.

Dangerous.

Also very exciting, and very profitable.

“I will say you’ve done well in my absence. You’ve feasted on PRIME like the vulture you are. Plucking its crumbs while waiting for a worthy challenger. Sadly, while you’ve waited you’ve also gotten fat between the ears, and are maybe a little slower than you should be. For most, that might not be a problem for you.”

I posture.

Prodigious comes to mind.

“I am not most though, am I?”

My left and right nod is meant to say that no, I am better.

“That said, I’m going to fucking bury you at 83, pal. It’s game over. Your house is now mine. Get your affairs in order. Trauma is about to rule your days, so do me a favor and on your way out for old times sake tell Hayes I expect my laundry done and my clothes folded.”

Ha.

“Tell Phil that it’s okay, and that the boat is wheelchair accessible.”

He knows.

He’s been to The Gallows before.

“Then, save the best for last, and before you come to the ring tell Flambo that it’s okay. He never really stood a chance anyway. Don’t worry, Ceilworth, he already knows. You won’t be breaking his heart.”

No, I will be.

Ha.

I spit. It’s charcoal in color, granular in texture, and could be stickier than both yolk and glue combined.

A true foreign substance.

“Read the writing on the wall, Cecilworth. The end of Glue was always going to be by my hands, because like I said before, yolk is stickier.”

Ha.

“You’ve had a good run. There’s no denying it, but I didn’t come back just to give you the best seat in the house on my worst day again.”

A fate worse than death.

“Plus, I know you paid off Nixon.”

Pucker.

Kiss.

Goodbye.

---

A Bandit Reborn

“Operation Icebreaker was a success on more than one front. Yes, the boat is back in my possession. However, even greater was that the Bandits now know. They know they can come home.” -- Jiles Journal, February 21st, 2026

It might sound funny, but the retrieval process was the craziest part of Operation Icebreaker. Once we were able to get Bobby on board, which took a series of levers and pulleys that Da Vinci himself wouldn’t even be able to code, he stood there still in the nude.

Thankfully, the icy water had washed him clean.

Still, quite the sight.

Then, when the coast was clear, out from Bob’s bellybutton…

...one tired hand after another.

As if they were digging out from the birth canal of lint.

…….crawled.

...emerged...

:)