P.O.S. (Pit of Snakes, not to be confused with Team Crumblood, who also goes by P.O.S.)

This Fucking Crumb

“I’m done playing games. His scalp is mine. His straps are mine. His soul... is MINE.” -- Jiles’ Journal, Rev 83

There I sat.

Alone in the dark.

NOT the Universal Champion.

Again.

The crowds have gone. The Enemigos have fled the scene, however fucking many of them there are. Yet, the fire still blazes around me. The walls continue to close in. My world will not stop spinning.

I am not alright.

I am far from alright. “Shake it off, kid.” -- Some idiot crumb on my way back to the eGG Den. “He’s a cockroach. He’ll be fine.” -- Another idiot crumb who thought I was out of ear shot. It was there. For the taking. MINE. Finally, mine. It was right fucking there. The cherry on top. The perfect way to complete the comeback. REDEMPTION. COOLOSSUS SZN. I had the ascot in my fucking hand and was about to wipe the stench clean from my asshole with it...

BANG.

Terminal Cancer.

Cecil’s dead.

Then...

And then...

And then............

And then.

And then that derelict loser, that despicable crumb, BRANDON YOUNGBLOOD stuck his snubbed, hoity-toity nose where it doesn’t belong... and cost me everything.

Again.

For his first act Brandon played passive aggressive and it cost me the FIST, and for his second act he flipped the script and reintroduced me to my old buddy Randal. It cost me my UNIVERSE.

Again.

Okay.

Okay, Brandon.

I get it.

Enough is enough.

I understand now.

---

Viva La Mexico

“On the surface it might seem like I decided to pick a team of misfits, but look a little closer. Realize that if I had Tony under the ring at 83 the outcome might have been different. Realize that both Max and Daytona have done something I have not been able to. Realize there is a method to my madness.” -- Jiles’ Journal, March 23rd, 2026

Squad Goals.

My squad.

MY GOAL.

If your squad’s goal is to cause as much madness as humanly possible inside a Mexico Arena, and you meet in the Gallows for VA, you’re definitely on Team Jiles. “Welcome to Villains Anonymous. My name is Cancer Jiles, and I’m an untrustworthy degenerate. I’ll be leading the meeting and ask that you introduce yourself to the group before speaking, much like I just did.” -- Me, during Team Snakepit’s first VA meeting. If your squad’s goal is to humiliate, and drag through the mud the already sullied name of Brandon Youngblood, and the rest of PRIME right along with it, you’re on Team JIles. “I want to gouge out his eyes and replace them with double yolks. Then I want to fry them in his sockets and have Vickie feed them to me. That’s just to start my day, too. My breakfast if you will. I want lunch and dinner.” -- Also me during VA. If your squad’s goal is to put an end to the tyranny that has run rampant through PRIME for the better part of four years now, well, you’re on Team Jiles. “I just hate that I can’t win! I need your help guys. I can’t do it alone.” -- Again, also me during VA, but while spiraling under the guise of impersonating Brandon Youngblood talking to his team. If your squad’s goal is to eviscerate the establishment, and retake the throne by any means necessary, you’re on Team Jiles. “And if not, we kill them.” -- Yup, me again during VA. If your squad’s goal is to punish, is it to inflict so much harm that NO ONE ever dares to put their noses where they don’t belong EVER AGAIN, you’re on Team Jiles. “Have I mentioned how badly I want to gouge out his eyes and replace them with double yolks, and then fry them in their respective sockets? And then have Vickie feed them to me? I have? Oh.” -- Also me during VA, different session though. If your squad’s goal is to put the crowd to sleep while making your entrance, you’re probably on Team Crumblood... or any of the others not named Team Jiles. “Shade for all.” -- The smart ass, assuredly. If your squad’s goal is to confuse everyone with how old you actually are, there’s no probability about it, you are on Team Crumblood. “But I don’t know how old I am?” -- Hayes Hanlon not faking concussion symptoms while actually having them after getting kicked in the head at Culture Shock, probably. If your squad’s goal is to have the second, less meaningful, styrofoam hat wearing cowboy on your team, then you guessed it, you’re on Team Crumblood. “I can’t believe it took Daytona all of one day to steal my thunder like that. Man fuck Tom Cruise.” -- Clay Pigeons after seeing the veins bulging out of Daytona’s arms.  If your squad’s goal is to get destroyed on jabber while Two Books is taking a shit, well, Sorry Ria, you’re on Team Crumblood. “@ICANTBELIEVEITSRIA: I have feelings, too.“ -- Ria cooking herself on Jabber, per Tony,  most definitely. Ha.

I digress.

MY SQUAD.

I’ve heard the rumblings. I’ve heard the doubts, the concerns, and the criticisms about Team Jiles.

Aka, Team Snakepit. “Why? Why pick those three? Daytona beat Tony for the tag titles. Max is as unpredictable as they come. Tony... well, he defected to the Red Army, that’s how much he can’t stand Jiles. It doesn’t make much sense.” -- Stupid crumbs on the internet, probably. Allow me to set the table IWC.

Scott Stevens.

I picked Tony because he has suffered underneath the tyrannous boot of Brandon like I have. I know that if I can count on one thing from him -- he might no longer believe in the Bandits -- but I know he fucking despises Brandon just like I do, and that HATE trumps sour grapes. We might not be eggs in a carton -- at the moment -- but when it comes to Crumblood we’re still peas in a pod. He, much like myself, would like nothing more than to be the one who clips those straps.

Bet.

I picked Max because not only has he taken a bite out of Brandon Youngblood recently, but also because I’ve seen the things he is truly capable of. I know that no matter his persona, Shell or Kael, red eye, green eye, or yellow eye, Yolkulele or [censored], he doesn’t mind getting his hands dirty. He is familiar with mayhem, and chaos. He doesn't shy away, and he embraces moments like what awaits at Night Two of Culture Shock. He is a true PIT fighter in every sense of the word. I can’t wait to unleash him upon my greatest foes and watch him go to work.

Ode to the Bandit.

I picked Daytona because unlike Tiny Tony and I, but very much like Max, he too has defeated Brandon Youngblood before. Therefore, I know he has what it takes to get the job done. We’ve also broken bread inside the War Games cage and he didn’t stab me in the back, so that counts for something, too. Also, I’m no dummy. I know any good squad about to wage war needs some muscle, and right now Daytona’s the only one with any juice in that department-- figuratively speaking of course. He is a warrior. He is a monster waiting to take his hat off.

I am going to do just that.

Ha.

Trust me.

Ha.

I mean it.

“Well would you look at that? It would seem as if our cowboy has remembered the Alamo after all.”

That was me. I was in my room, with my love, when the phone rang. Yes, my ring tone is “I am the COOL”, and if you were as much as I am, it would be yours, too. But, you’re not, and I am, so Celine Dion and The Cranberries it is for the rest of you.

“Who would have thought?”

That was Vickie, coy as ever while sharpening her nails. No, she’s not filing them. Filing would imply she’s doing so as to NOT stab an eye out, when in fact she is sharpening her Index finger like a ballpoint pen.

Ha.

I tapped the screen and held my phone close to my ear. There was always a chance the man on the other end of the line was going to say thanks but no thanks, and tell me to go fuck myself, and I couldn’t risk Vickie overhearing that on speaker. Not that she wouldn’t have eventually tracked him down to whatever Mexican piss pot he was urinating in and Fred Dick’d him right then there in the stall for stepping on her toes, but first she would have taken out her frustrations on me and I wasn’t about to take that chance.

There’s too much at stake.

“Speak.”

I nodded, and smiled accordingly. Then, not a second later, the COOLest Cowboy you’ve ever seen hung up before I could say anything. Then again, I didn’t really need to. After all, it was I who sent Daytona the hair dye.

Ha.

Sure beats a bullet.

Or a Valkyrie.

---

Trust Or Fall

“While Two Books, Shell, and Daytona might not seem like trustworthy people, I trust their instincts. I trust in the fact that we’re all there to do the same thing.” -- Jiles’ Journal March 29th, 2026

I have assembled a team of cutthroat killers. I have put them into a spot where there will only be two options to choose from. Kill, or be killed. That’s it. Nice and easy. Simple. No grey. Just black, and blue.

Just blood.

Still, while being able to trust in one’s instincts is nice, trust that we’re all operating from out of the same playbook is also nice. So, how does a group of four blood thirsty, PIT fighting, telephone book wielding, formerly confused cowboys get on the same page? How do they break the ice when Bobby Dean has already fallen from the heavens in the last one of these?

Four what?

An exercise in trust, that’s how.

A Trust Fall.

So, there we were. Me, Tony, Max, and Daytona. The team. Team Snakepit. Yes, it just hisses right off the tip of the tongue, doesn't it? After Two Truths and One Lie completely devolved we were left standing around on a sunny day, trying to figure out who was going to take a leap of faith first.

“So?”

That was me, hoping to rouse the troops if you will. Of note, earlier Max suggested that we perform the exercise from the bow of the ship, but alas I didn’t think we were there as a squad just yet.

“I think from atop two telephone books is a good place for us to start. Plus, it’s windy out, and Tony is so light he might never make it down from that height.”

Vickie liked Max’s idea, so much so she even suggested that everyone should do it blindfolded. Then, Tony quipped the only way he would ever do it with Vickie is blindfolded. I shouldn't have, but laughed anyway, as did everyone else. Everyone except Vickie that is. She stormed off after wishing us the best of luck.

“Fuck you, shrimp dick. Both of you actually. You know what? Fuck all of you. I hope you all break your wrists trying to catch each other and you can’t jerk your little shrimp dicks for two fucking months.”

See.

Anyway, after a brief hour-long stalemate where four Spidermans pointed at each other in silence for the most part, I, being the brave beacon that I am, the righteous and diligent, the caring and courageous, choose to go first. It’s my team, and leaders lead by example. Good, decent ones do, anyway.

So I have been told.

“Okay. I’ll go. However, if it comes down to catching me or touching my hair-- you know what to do. Remember, I have eggsecuted people for less.”

Obviously.

Tony nodded, Max kind of just stared blankly-- his good eye smiled happily I guess you could say, or menacingly, and Daytona, well, he looked like he didn’t know if he too had to sell his new haircut like a Judas a death kiss.

He does.

Time to find out if I can trust these guys or not.

THUMP.

---

The Snake Pit

“They will follow me into the PIT of Hell that awaits us. Willingly. And I’ll convince them from the comfort of my couch.” -- Jiles’ Journal, April 1st, 2026

Happy April Brandon’s day.

Ha.

That’s right, because only a FOOL would pick Hayes Hanlon, Cowboy Knob Byrd, and Ria Lockfarts!

Ha.

I digress.

Some might say I should be the UNIVERSAL CHAMPION. Some might say Cecilworth was lucky to win. Some might say that I am just unlucky. You know what I say? I don’t care, and I won’t care about it ever again. Not until Crumblood gets the long overdue Atken treatment.

So back to caring by ReVival 85.

There I sit, perched upon my cushioned throne. The hair, immaculate. The T-shades, immaculate. The degree of pop to my collar, immaculate. My precious potted fern is to the left of me, my vicious Valkyrie is to the right of me, and standing behind me, looking like a nasty group of murderously short but hip denizens, is Team Jiles.

Aka The Snakepit.

The real ones.

Not some cardboard cutouts.

Aka Bandit 2.0.

Gamble’s got a grin on his face and a phone book in his hand. Max has that same smiling eye he had from during the Trust Fall, and thee Yolkulele -- a Bandit heirloom from the PIT days -- firmly in his grasp. Daytona, MY DIAMOND, MY ENFORCER, MY PUNISHER, MY NEW IAN, doesn’t have one menacing weapon of choice. No, the good Lord blessed him with two.

His mitts.

Lights.

Cancer.

Action~!

I wait, allowing the moment to build.

Tension.

Suspense.

It’s been some time since I’ve been able to address my old buddy Brandon in this way. I will savor it, knowing there might not be another.

You know.

Because I don’t kick dead horses.

“Brandon Crumblood.”

Ha.

“The... Diamond?”

I look around, a tad confused.

“What happened, Brando? Has rubbing elbows with old Hanlon given you a case of the retcons? No matter, me and mine will put the ‘last’ back in there for ya, ain’t that right Double Diamonde?”

I reach out and up and slap Daytona on his bare chest; bruising my palm on his chisel in the process. Of course it goes unsold.

“Consider it a parting gift from us to you.”

I snicker, as does the rest of the squad. Max even gives old Yolky an ominous strum.

“Brandon Crumblood. The Last Diamond. The Leaning Tower of Babel. The Furst Almasy winner. The thorn in my side. The thorn in my other side. The thorn in all my goddamn sides.”

A duplicitous yawn.

“Friend. Of. Mine.”

Yeah, my nose grew after I said it.

By like ten inches.

“We’ve been here before, haven’t we Brandon? The MAIN Event of Culture Shock. Then, it was the Almasy final, and the fate of the UNIVERSE hanging in the balance. Now, well, somehow the stakes feel even bigger, don’t they?”

I wait, but only for a second. It’s not like I was actually going to listen to what Brandon had to say, should he have actually been present to answer my question.

“It’s weird. It’s not even one on one for the title, for the chance to be the first Almasy winner... and yet...”

I snort. Then, with the old memory fresh in my mind, I fire off a charcoal coated loogie to properly vent my frustration and disgust.

“My guess is it’s because we weren’t sworn death rivals back then like we are now.”

Another snort. No, I’m not disgusted. I swear.

“Back then I just wanted to beat you, humiliate you, and move along, as opposed to now, and this deep yearning I have to clip your straps and use them to choke the life out of you.”

A nod from the collective. They know the score. They have been briefed.

Eggstensively.

“Maybe that’s just me though. Maybe you feel differently about it, but I doubt it.”

A shrug for the sake of common ground, lost incisors, and recurring headaches.

“Regardless, do you realize what that means, Brandon? It means you’ve done the impossible, and freed me from my sole obsession. It means for the first time in my PRIME career I want something more than to hold the UNIVERSE in the palm of my hands.”

I show my palms, and if you were wearing T-shades you too would be able to see the stigmata Brandon has inflicted upon me.

“While that might be good news for Cecilworth and Flambo, or even Mother Hen for that matter, well, it is not for you, Brandon.”

My head slowly shakes no.

“You have not freed me from obsessing over you.”

It’s a shame my obsession has also run over and into the lives of the pipe-hitters standing behind me, too. A big, manic, little shame.

Womp-womp.

“I have come to understand that one of us is going to have to perish before the other sees glory, or greatness, or redemption again. I have come to understand, Brandon, that one of us is going to have to take a trip on the Blue Bayou before the other is able to conquer the UNIVERSE again. Frankly, I should have known better. I should have realized that was the only way any of this was ever going to come to an end. That said, I’m going to finish it, Brandon, and I’m going to make you suffer on an unimaginable scale before doing so.”

No mercy.

“The last time I sat in this chair I told Cecilworth I was going to bury him, and I had him dead to rights, too. Then you made it so that didn’t happen.”

I seethe.

“You will live to regret making that decision, that I promise you. We are on the clock, friend of mine, but rest assured it is your days that are numbered. I will not stop. It will not stop. Not until it is over. Not until I have won.”

I turn my attention away from Brandon and towards the pack of jackals behind me. To my squad. I remove my T-shades, find their eyes and the blackness residing inside their souls. It’s the same blackness I have in mine.

There is a bond there.

One that I can trust and rely upon.

There is also zero doubt.

I turn back around, reshade, and hope my closing message rings loud and clear.

‘Violence begets violence, Brandon, don’t you forget it, and don’t you forget to apologize to your team for what you have done to them. Don't be a coward. Tell them you are sorry. Tell them it’s your fault they had to suffer.”

A beat.

“That it’s your fault that they won’t ever be the same again.”

Ha.

Pucker.

Kiss.

Goodbye.

---

Plan B Jay

“Just in case.” -- Jiles’ Journal, unknown date

I had a weird interaction today. A man I did not know approached me, needing my help with directions or something of that matter. I think that’s what it was. Truth be told I wasn’t really paying attention to what he was saying since he was... well, a large man.

Not Hessian large.

Nobody is.

Not Bobby large, either.

Nobody is.

But, he was quite imposing, and definitely large enough to stand behind should the situation call for it. He also had the aura of a seemingly simple minded individual, too. It almost felt like Bobby and Hessian had been merged together and I was interacting with their child. Anyway, it didn’t take long for me to make the decision that maybe this... I can’t even remember his name, might as well have been Freak Hess because of how big he was, but maybe Freak Hess could become the next eGG Bandit.

Vickie is great, but if she breaks a nail she’s worthless out there.

After Squad Goals, who knows if Tiny Tony or Shell for that matter are going to stick around the carton? Who knows what color Daytona’s hair will be post Night Two madhouse?

If I learned anything from ReVival 83, I need someone out there to watch my back, and I know first hand that it definitely helps if that person is close to seven feet tall and weighs over three hundred pounds.

So, I looked up at the large man, waaayyyyyy up at him, and responded, “I know.”

In reality, I didn’t know. Well, I knew he was right for me, but I had no clue what he was talking about. I could tell he was elated, though, which was a good thing. It’s hard to find people who want to be in my company.

Being so, as was I.

Albeit for very different reasons.