PIT

Outwitted Outlasted Outplayed

“Easy street is closed. The dream is over. COOLOSSUS will have to come the old fashioned way. Just with a whole lot of salt instead of sugar.” -- Jiles’ Journal, July 25th, 2026

Normally, I would have never done Survivor, but the chance to MAIN EVENT COOLOSSUS and to right my biggest wrong thus far in PRIME, well, that was just too good of an opportunity to pass on. So, I got my hopes up, and I did it.

I shot the clerk.

No lies, I went into the daunting competition as an optimistic fellow.

True.

Well, maybe more like a cautiously optimistic fellow.

Truer.

Still, there was no denying that I was filled with optimism. I mean, sure, I am who I am so therefore I am capable of performing impossible feats while also surviving/thriving in terrible situations-- so yeah, of course there was probable cause. However, turns out my optimism was misplaced and King COOL’s climb back up the mountain wasn’t meant to be.

Sigh.

Once again, I fall.

Once again, I have betrayed my hopes.

Once again, I have betrayed my dreams.

And now, for the first time in quite some time, I find myself wondering...

...why?

Why me? Why am I the only one who seems to be cursed with this wretched affliction to win the last match of the year? Is it because I’ve been so close to tasting the forbidden fruit before? Is it because this is the only path for the hardest working man in PRIME to take?

To suffer.

Eggresiously.

At the hands of the weak and non-existent.

Ha.

I don’t know HOW, but I will be in that MAIN EVENT and I will be PRIME’s UNIVERSAL CHAMPION by year’s end.

I will find my way back.

Broken record beats best record.

I will shine when the sun is at its brightest and nothing, and no one, will stop me.

After all, I do have the T-shades for it.

Ha.

---

The Big Payback

“It wasn’t easy getting the location of the where the remaining contestants were holed up at, and more importantly, it wasn’t easy launching all of those eggs at their Airbnb, but somehow, some way, we got the job done. Oh man, the look on that Russian scab’s face, too. Priceless.” -- Jiles’ Journal, August 4th, 2026

This is a good one.

Revenge, a dish best served.... rotten.

So, I’ve been known to be a pretty petty person.

Understatement.

Some might even say I tend to hold a grudge, and get a little too salty from time to time; and frankly they would be right. As such, after being eliminated from Survivor, alongside my oldest/newest First Mate, Tony Gamble, I, sorry we, made the decision to waste no time in getting everyone back... and all at once.

Finally got the votes.

See, in my mind those who remain in the competition have taken something from me -- an opportunity of a lifetime -- and I’ll be damned if something like that goes unpunished. That said, after flying Bobby Dean in under the ruse of a private Mike Best autograph signing, and after him being really disappointed when finding out that wasn’t the case, I demanded Bobby stand at the bow of the ship and fart into the conk shell he has hidden deep inside his bellybutton.

The Bandit’s Call to Arms.

Guess what?

Call answered.

Me, Tony Two Books, Bobby and his beautiful abyss, Big Ian and his radioactive shovel, Vickie, Hessian via Zoom, Cardboard Dan, Zebulon 2000, maybe Doozer, the ghost of Lindsay Troy, AND MAX SHELL.

But......

CARTE.

BLANCHE.

THESE BE PIT RULES, JACK.

Even Coral answered the call, but once he figured out what I had planned he informed us that he’d be just fine playing the lookout role from ten thousand feet up in the sky. Bobby didn’t get it. Neither did Zeb. I had to tell them Coral meant from his seat on his immediate flight home. They still didn’t get it. Regardless, it was a good rib so I had no choice but to let Coral off the hook. Oh, and if you’re wondering, the answer is yes, Zeb crawled out of the conk shell after Bobby had farted into it, so that might have something to do with his confusion.

The newest Bandit to stink up the carton, Brandon Youngblood, well, he was given the night off.

WOMP-WOMP.

Full disclosure, Crumblood throws like a girl and egging houses is a man’s job. And no, I definitely don’t have the heart to tell Vickie that-- mainly because I don’t have a heart to begin with, or in this specific case: the balls.

Ha.

In order to locate the Survivor House Airbnb I enlisted the services of long time information super highway aficionado, Scott Stevens. The famed autonomist is a hard man to get a hold of, but only if you don’t know his personal fax number. I do. It’s written down on the side of the fax machine located deep in the darkest recesses of the Gallows aboard the USS Bandit. Being so, I headed on down, dialed him up, and moments later The Scorpion had stung the house’s precise location. As part of the deal we made for the information I told him that not only could he be a part of the operation, but I’d also get him into PRIME and at the very least a spot with the Whoresmen.

Ha.

Paper champion jobber stable.

“You’ll fit right in.” -- Me, in regard to the prospect of Stevens joining the Whoresmen, via fax

I also told him the wrong night, so when Stevens shows up the next day to egg the Survivor House hopefully Ivan is hiding in a tree waiting for a second wave.

And hopefully the Russian Bear is in a red singlet when it happens.

Ha.

As for the attack itself, each of us has been outfitted with a full carton of double yolk eggs. Of course I, as Captain, will lead the charge and cast the first stone, and you can bet within seconds my entire allotment will be airborne and on their way to their destination. But first, before the assault can begin, I’ll need to rouse the troops if you will.

It’s what a good Captain does.

And it’s where we’re going to pick things up.

“Before we get going I’d like to very quickly and very briefly thank all of you for taking the time out of your busy schedules to be here tonight to help out your Captain. I know there are other things you could be doing, like preparing for an up and coming match, or your nails, but here you are with me. Thank you for that. It’s not lost on me.”

Tony grins. Vickie fawns. Bobby clenches. Hessian buffers. The ghostly eGG Queen rolls her eyes. Doozer remains. Ian marks. Coral waves. CBD boards. Zeb casts. Max strums.

Yes, my yellow-eyed pit scrummer has the Yolkuleele with him.

“Now listen, the last time we gathered for something like this we changed the color of Tommy’s row home, and tonight, we’re gonna do it to the Airbnb he’s staying at.”

True story.

“I want those eggs tight. No short-arming anything, Tony. I’ll be watching to see if you pull your punches.”

Yeah, I don’t think he appreciated that.

Shrug.

“And Bobby, don’t let me catch you eating any of those eggs, either. They are ROTTEN for a reason. Remember, I want that house painted yellow-- not the inside of your underwear.”

Ha.

“In fact, I want that house to be the same color of the stripe running down the backs of all who reside inside of it.”

Bobby nods, and shamelessly coughs up an egg,

“The same goes for you, Zeb. I know how you like to use them for bait.”

Ha.

Okay, maybe it’s me who likes to use them for bait.

Ha,

I shade down to look everyone in the eyes, and also because I don’t want to give my position away.

The glare.

“Who’s not ready? Who wants to join Coral in the mile high club?”

No one moves. No one breathes. No one blinks. No one flinches. I even gave them a good half a second to react, too.

“Ian, Bobby, and Danny, you guys go left.”

Of note, Hessian technically is also a part of that group since his Zoom call is taking place on CBD’s cellphone, and that cellphone is taped to CBD’s chest.

“Dooze, if you’re here, go right with Tony, Zeb, and Vickie.” I look Vickie in the eyes like it might be the last time I see her. “Wait for my order.” Much like Tony before, she wasn’t too big a fan of my instruction.

“Me and EQ’s ghost will attack from the front. Shell will join the assault when ‘Ode to the Bandit’ is done. The cue to begin will be the start of the second stanza.”

...Always a Bandit.

“Once we get to that first crescendo the barrage shall begin. Rain. Fucking. Yolk. The hope is that the crumbs inside will hear the song and as they are walking out to see what all the fuss is about, or as they are looking out their windows, our eggs will already be in the air.”

A collective nod ensues. The play is called. It's time to say hike. Bobby cracks his knuckles to break the huddle. Oh wait, no, that’s a false signal fart. Everyone quickly disperses to their positions. Then, Max Shell begins to strum on his YolkuleLEE.

Not before long some of the lights inside the house start to turn on.

“Hold.”

Then, the front porch light turns on.

“Hold.”

I emerge from the shadows and unload my barrage of eggs in a matter of seconds. It’s more of a reverse softball lob than a dart throw, just because the timing dictates it. The front door opens, and standing there in the jam, seemingly bigger than life itself, is none other than my old pal, Ivan Stanislob.

“Jackpot.”

Then, suddenly, right before the musical cue, Shell stops playing. My Bandits miss their mark. Bobby eats. Zeb hooks. Who knows what the rest do. Sure, I’ve covered that crumb in yolk, but that’s an everyday occurrence for me.

That happens if I snap my fingers.

The bigger picture, if that’s even possible, which of course it is since I look down on Ivan, is Max Smell smashing the very prized, and very valuable Yolkulelee across my back instead of kicking off the second stanza.

That’s right. It is a priceless heirloom.

Thankfully, for my sake, I quickly wake up.

The whole thing was a dream.

It never happened.

More like a nightmare.

I mean, Stevens?

A Whoresmen? 

He’s quintessential Red Army.

Ha.

---

Seven Fucking Fifty

“I can’t remember if Max and I have ever gone up against each other before. One on one that is. If we did, I’m sure he won. If we didn’t, I’m sure he would have. That would also have happened back then. This is now. So yeah, it’s different, but that doesn’t mean I don’t know eggsactly what he is capable of and HOW dangerous of a competitor he is inside of that ring. To be safe, especially after the nightmare I had, I told Coral to hide his child until the match is over. Never know with Shell. Not that I would lay down, but for the sake of the carton.” -- Jiles’ Journal, August 5th, 2026

The best part about being eliminated from Survivor is that I’m no longer sequestered with the biggest group of losers in PRIME.

Thank Zeus.

I’m not trying to sully the good name of the competition -- Survivor that is and not the crumbs who conspired -- but taking that L was as close to a blessing as there is. I missed my Vickie. My lifeline. My reason. My vicious and vivacious Valkyrie. I missed the lavishness of Timo’s plane, and the coolness of Pop’s aircraft carrier. I missed laughing at Ian marking people with his shovel. I missed my throne, and the portrait of Crumblood that now comes along with it. Crazy to think that I’ve never seen it in person before, since we broke it out after UltraJiles and by then I was already whisked away, but alas that is the case.

Well, until now.

Now, it sits in my lap, like a prized dog to be trotted around for all to see.

Ha.

My own little hairless Terrier.

Ruff.

Lights.

Cancer.

Action~!

“The Red Eye.”

Brian Hollywood used to call Max that because after you faced him no matter what you were in store for a horrible flight the next day. It was crazy coming from Hollywood at the time because he flew X-Men FIrst Class everywhere, but now looking back it makes sense.

“A literal corpse.”

That’s right.

Most people don’t know this but Max is an actual zombie. Then again, I suppose according to the metrics I used to determine such a thing, I am too.

“Dream wrecker.”

You know why.

“The Crown Prince of the eWrestling Encyclopedia.”

Ha.

Google it.

“The... at least you never opened up your own wrestling academy, guy.”

Ha.

“The favored son of GOD.”

Ha.

“Thee PIT fighter.”

That’s actually a compliment.

“Max fucking Shell.”

I spit. The charcoal lunger from my esophagus hangs in the air much like my dream egg toss did, and/or Michael Jordan soaring through time and space. Then, it goes splat much like my dream egg toss did on Ivan’s face.

“Friend. Of. Mine.”

I sigh.

“Max, I am not going to like this, I can promise you that, but COOLOSSUS SZN has already started and there’s nothing I can do about what comes next. These are the breaks my friend. If I were you, I’d be blaming all the people whose house I dreamed about egging the other night.”

He knows who they are. I talked about the whole thing in our group chat.

“Oh well. Here goes nothing I suppose.”

The cost to live at the top is expensive.

It’s paid for in blood, sweat, and pain.

And yolk.

“Chicago, what are the chances?”

My eyes roll much like Lady Troy’s do. No, it’s not done in homage.

“Not even the MAIN EVENT, either. Talk about an insult. Talk about a slap in the face. Talk about no love for Team Snakepit. Shit, it almost feels like Pop has come back from grabbing milf and cigarettes to retake the throne, doesn't it?”

Ha.

My hand jerks back and forth, and when you watch this for a second time the motion I made will most likely have been blurred out.

“No lie, I’m blaming you since I’ve MAIN EVENTED over the Uni before and you haven’t. Recently, too. And that wasn’t even because of--”

HA.

Ha.

Ha!

I ease back in the comforts of my electric-blue throne and ponder for just a second.

“Say Max, now that we’re both in the hot seat if you will, and before one of us gets fried-- I can’t remember if I ever thanked you for your contributions to the Squad Goals match at Culture Shock. If I didn’t, I’m sorry. I meant to. I did. I mean, sure, Daytona won it for us, but he wouldn’t have been able to do it without you and what you did... whatever that might have been.”

I chuckle. Well, it’s more like a snort-chuckle. To be fair, I tried not to. I did. I just couldn’t keep it in. In my defense I’ve been hit in the head a bunch of times and listen to Mongolian death metal to blare out boos.

“Truth is I had it written down on a poster with a bunch of your other accomplishments that I was going to hang around town like you were some missing child so the world would know just HOW thankful I was.”

H.

A.

I smile. It’s wide. It’s full of victory, pearls, and arrogance. Then, I return to your regularly scheduled programming.

“Understand this Shell, and understand it nice and good.”

Yeah, the temperature just changed.

Big time.

“This isn’t going to be some walk down memory lane for us. Sure, PIT rules might be in effect because why the fuck not it’s what guys like me and you do, but make no mistake PRIME is my playground-- not yours. The person in charge is MY bitch-- not yours. Therefore the Best Arena is my sandbox this week, and if I want to make dribble castles with your fucking mouth I will.”

It doesn’t happen often, but a second lunger, a special, reserve, completely disgusted, more rusted than charcoal coated lunger, goes adrift. It even makes a noise as it sails through the air.

WheeeeeEEEEeeeEEEeeeEEee!

Hey, if anyone deserves to be spit on twice, it’s my old pal, Max Kael.

“Time for you to find out why the old man kept me locked up in the basement for as long as he did.”

Pucker.

Kiss.

Goodbye.