Fiddler's Green

The Yellow Pages

“I’m happy for him. I’m really, really, really, really, really happy for him. I am. I am happy for him. Mental note, snorting Viagra and gargling BlueChew to get a raging erection in order to match my raging mental state is not a good idea.” -- Jiles’ Journal, June 13th, 2026

Sigh.

The show -- Rev 89 -- is almost over.

Almost.

Currently, somebody versus somebody else is happening in the LAME EVENT.

Go... whomever!

As for me, King COOL, the Philadelphia AND COOLYMPUS native, well, I’m posted up inside the warm and cozy confines of the Carton. I’ve already changed out of my ring gear and into street clothes; an EB tracker sans the jacket. My hair, of course, remains FOREVER Alfy, and the new core memory I unlocked of Tiny Tony Two Books rolling me up like a Philly is the topic at hand.

“I get it. I do. A loss is a loss and more importantly a loss to a Bandit gets etched in yolk. I know that. I wrote the damn rulebook.” Well, dictated. “To my point, sometimes you need to lose in order to win, and this was one of those times. Besides, it was the only way he was ever going to come home. If I cut him down then what good is he to me? None. I don’t need a corpse under the ring at 2300. I need a Grin.”

As for Vickie, well, she’s inside the Carton with me. She is distraught. She looks like she just jumped off a bridge, and by just jumped I mean a bus hit her and the impact sent her flying off a bridge. “LOSE TO WIN!!!!!” She shrieks, nay bemoans, and the paint on the walls begins to slowly peel. “WHAT DOES THAT EVEN MEAN!!!!”

Yeah, no need for a question mark since it wasn’t a question.

I take a second before calmly responding to her, “You’ll see.” That answer obviously isn’t good enough and my Valkyrie continues to stew. So, I raise my hands, open up my palms as if to say pump the breaks, and further plead with her. “Just wait. Just wait. It’ll make sense.”

As for the third piece of the omelettle, a one Mr. Big Ian Salt, my trusty shield, my living-walking-breathing fable, my devoted Eggsecutioner and the tallest tree inside the eGG Bandit’s camp, well, he’s out and about putting jabroni marks in their proper place should they even consider slandering my good name.

“Stupid mark.” -- Big Ian, while patrolling the concession stands for people who left early thinking Jiles/Gamble was the MAIN EVENT

You know who you are.

Everyone.

Anyway, all of this is to say that Ian is not here, and as you might have surmised from my lovely conversation, Team Jiles has had quite the night. More so me than Vick, since I was the one who ate most of the shit that Tony left in my hands while she just picked the corn out of it.

Ha.

Oh well.

I guess you could say I came up... a little... short.

Speaking of corn.

“Wait.” Vickie, of course confused, she’s still reeling from getting hit by a bus remember, further prods, “What did you mean by come home?”

I smile. Wide. Proud. Much like one does when a best laid plan comes together. “Well my lovely little Valkyrie disease, what I mean is no one else gives a shit. It’s just me. I’m the only one who cares about his triumph-- and about the fact that he’s proven himself.”

The irony.

Vickie, my lovely darling, continues on with her spell of confusion. To be fair, I’m not helping very much. “Okay. You lost me. Proven himself to who?”

Ah, the million dollar question.

“Not to me or you, that’s for sure. No, Tony needed to prove to himself that he’s not wasting his time, Vickie. That he’s still got a dog in the fight. That’s why he’s been walking around with his dick out, pissing into the wind for the past couple of months. Tonight, opportunity knocked and he answered. Yeah, it sucks that it was at my expense, but I’m not playing games here-- I’m playing the board.”

Chess as opposed to checkers.

“Ask yourself this, Vick, what have I gained by losing to him?” Poor Vickie. Try as she might, and the look on her face says it all, but she just doesn’t get it. She will though. Very soon.

KNOCK-KNOCK.

My love’s jaw goes agape, and if the circumstances were any different I would be telling a different story from this point forward. However, they are not. As such, I know it’s not Big Ian out there because when he knocks on a door it gets knocked the fuck down.

So.

That means...

...Bobby Dean, covered in rashes, doubling as the Koolaid Man?

“Hey, Jiles! Are you in there? I didn’t beat on you too badly, did I? Ha.”

Ha.

Classic Grin.

My damsel in distress is astonished. She can’t believe it. Tony got the better of me less than a half an hour ago, and now he’s knocking on the door to the eGG Den. The gaul, The balls. The nerve. The disrespect...

…The Grin

“The door is open, friend of mine. Please, come back in.” Tony reenters the Carton like he never left it. Vickie stares a hole through him that goes all the way to Manhattan. I move to greet him, and we shake hands like a couple of old military men covertly meeting in the middle jungle after not seeing each other for a while. Our eyes meet, and in a moment, all is forgiven. The slate is wiped clean. “Welcome back, Two Books. Sorry to tell you this, but we still have a job to do.”

Gamble nods. He immediately knows the score. He knows that last time wasn’t good enough-- not clean enough.

Not Bandit enough.

“What time does the boat leave for Philly?”

Truth be told, losing to Tony was always part of my master plan..................

Say Maude, let’s take a peak behind the curtain.

Truth be told, I can’t beat Brandon by myself. Not even in my own backyard. Not even with the threat of losing my priceless hair hanging over me like a guillotine blade.

GASP.

Sadly, it is true. Inside the wrestling ring, one on one, The Next to Last Zirconium has got me pegged.

Both literally and figuratively.

Sure, I’ll still cripple that crumb bum and live to two-step across COOLYMPUS about it, but for whatever reason I can’t seem to pin his shoulders to the mat. Not by myself anyway.

Truth be told, I need help.

A lot of it.

Truth be told, I’m going to need Tony Gamble, and the rest of the eGG Bandits by my side if I am going to beat Brandon Crumblood at UltraJiles.

Yeah, sucks, but I realized it some time after Squad Goals. One day, as I sat in my chair like I like to do, starching my collar, reflecting back on all that had come to pass; it hit me. My team had won, it was great, and I had finally slayed the proverbial beast. However, for some reason or another, the same bald-headed monkey I thought I had euthanized remained clinging to life on my back. More importantly, the question I thought would go away after my little trip to the vet did not.

...can you beat Brandon Crumblood?

I hadn’t been able to twice before, and the only reason I was able to this last go around was because I picked a better team than his. Basically, at Culture Shock, I didn’t beat Brandon, rather I outsmarted his pigeon sized, effeminate brain.

Ha.

At UJ, I’ll have no choice. I have to beat Brandon Youngblood the man. I have to either pin his shoulders to the mat, or throw him off a bridge and into the Schuylkill fucking river. Regardless of which happens, I’m going to need help doing both.

And now I have some.

More.

---

The USS Bandit

“Hoist the colors high.” -- Jiles’ Journal, June 24th, 2026

Many vessels traverse the Delaware River every day of the year. From big to small, and from commercial to Below Deck. Today however, one vessel has the right away. One vessel, who was born of war, and turmoil, and mayhem, leads the way before any and all.

Daddy’s home.

Fuck your couch, TAL.

HA.

The sun shines.

The birds chirp.

The clouds are sparse.

The breeze is at our backs.

Today, more so than any other, is a good day to be a Bandit.

For once, it’s sunny in Philadelphia, and boy do I have the shades for it.

Ha.

Out at the bow, Big Ian, and his monstrous, baritone voice starts the call to arms.

“The king and his men stole the queen from her bed and bound her in her bones...”

Big Ian is joined by forgotten shovel and PRIME Hall of Famer, Ian Hess, and the current below the boat starts to shift from the combined bass in their voices.

“The seas be ours, beyond the powers, where we will, we rule.”

One by one, out from The Gallows, we begin to spill out.

Dean.

Gamble.

Avalon.

Martin.

Doozer.

CBD.

Lazer.

Then me.

In unison.

“Yo... Ho! All hands, hoist the colors high! Heave ho...”

One by one we march, until all have joined both Big Ian’s at the front of the ship. Then, like a team, like a unit, like we were all put on this Earth for this moment in time, hand over hand, we begin to hoist, and the Black Flag of the Bandit begins to rise.

“Crumbs and beggars, never shall we die.”

As we all hoist, and as the Carton once again becomes whole, and as the USS Bandit cruises like a scud missile through the Delaware ready to make impact at 2300 Crumb Bum Arena, the words from the sailor's hymn start to ring true.

We’re heading to Fiddler’s Green, and someone is losing a pelt.

Ha.

“Yo ho! All HANDS! HOIST THE COLORS HIGH! HEAVE HO! CRUMBS AND BUMMERS! NEVER SHALL WE DIE!”

Behind us, in the overhead drone shot that has three bridges in it, Lincoln Financial Stadium can be seen on fire.

No, not literally.

But you get the point.

“The bell has been raised, from its watery grave, do you hear its sepulchral tone? We are a call to all, pay heed to the squall, and turn your sail toward home.”

Home.

Ha.

“Yo, ho....”

I look up, surrounded by the only people I believe in. The sail is raised, and it’s up like an adolescent's search history. I, for the first time in a while, am eggsactly where I belong. I look over at both of the Ian's, both of whom would dig a hole for me at a moment’s notice. Then I look at Bobby, who is covered in rashes because he got his bits confused. No matter. I still love him no matter what. Then at Doozer, and Zeb, and CBD.

Then Tony.

My brethren.

There till the end.

We are all here to raise the flag.

It’s all hands on deck.

After all, it’s not every day we get a new member in the carton.

Ha.

---

The Ivory Tower

“This is it. The end. After this, one of us gets to be better than the other for the rest of our lives. Don’t fuck it up. You aren’t going to grow that hair back, and the last thing anyone needs to know is that you wear a wig. Talk about a heat killer. Good thing no one outside of Cecilworth reads my journal entries.” -- Jiles’ Journal, June 25th, 2026

This is it.

The final countdown.

The team is in place.

Same goes for the fern, the hair, the collar, and the shades.

I am as ready as I’ll ever be,

Like I would ever let that crumb shave my head.

Ha.

Lights.

Cancer!

ACTION~! Time begins to pass, and the seriousness of silence takes over. Still, I wait. I hate Brandon Crumblood, yes, but I am in no rush. Plus, I don't have much to say that he doesn't already know to be true. There's no time for pleasantries, or gaffes. Or spilled teeth. "Mother Hen won't be able to save you, Brandon. You might think she is your friend, but I assure you, she is aware of the rules just like every Bandit ever is aware of the rules. Just like you will be after Saturday night." I hate Brandon so much I think TAB should have won, that's how much I hate him. However, he has earned his stripes. His respect. He has defamed and dethroned me whenever the chance arose, I wish I could shit in his hands like Tiny Tony did mine. I can't. Not yet, "I can't wait to welcome you with open arms, even if I have to drive you around in golf cart every other weekend out of the year." Weekend at Brandon's. "This ends, Brandon. One way or the other, it ends at YouJay. You and I both know I'm never going to let you shave my head, alive anyway, and you and I both know Coral would never accept you into the Bandits-- no matter what his Captain says." Coral would never accept Brandon because he wouldn't ever want to see him humiliated like that, and I don't blame him. Ha. "Still, now that the end of the road is near, and the next chapter for both of us awaits, allow me a second or two to be sentimental." I nervously gulp, as I'm about to traverse unfamiliar ground. "For years, your name alone was enough to make my blood boil. Yours was the shadow I could never shake, the ruthless competitor who anticipated my every move and turned my grandest plans into broken dreams. You've pushed me to the brink of exhaustion, and annihilation. You've broken me. Exposed me. Left me for dead. You exposed my flaws without mercy. I viewed you as a villain, a bitter rival, whose sole purpose was to stand in the way of my success." My head shakes with disappointment, mainly because Brandon has done exactly that. "However, true competition has a strange way of stripping away illusion, doesn't it, Brandon? It makes you look in the mirror and answer the questions you don't want to. That question being, can I actually beat you? Cam I finish this once and for all? Is it possible, or am I just... dreaming?" My voice shakes from the apprehension. "I guess the fun in all of this is we're going to find out, aren't we? That after all this time, after all the blud and sweat and severed horse heads, after all the Randyplexes and new and old Diamonds, after all the pulled teeth and lowered singlet straps, after all the kicks and slaps and disrespect, after all the video montages and in ring vomits, finally, we're going to get our end."

I spit.

It's disgusting in nature, and has some weight to it.

"One that we both can sign off on."

Not to beat a dead horse, but...

"You said a long time ago that you were going to teach me a lesson. You were going to make me know what it means to be humble. For PRIME, you said, you were going to make sure I never got my way. Well, that was almost five years ago, Brando. Newsflash, you have failed. Miserably. Turns out I have had my way with PRIME, and frankly, if we're being honest, you're to blame, aren't you, friend of mine?"

I snarl.

As does the rest of the gang.

Yes, they are all here, just like they will be on Saturday night.

"Well, this is your last chance, Brandon. After UJ one of us will live a little bit taller than the other. For forever. Escaping your fate will not be easy. You will be a visitor for the first time in a long time. No one is going to cheer for you. No one is going to care what happens to you."

Outside of Nick and Dick.

"You will be behind enemy lines, Brandon. Not even Lindsay Troy will be your friend. She can't afford to play favorites. Not here. Not now. Not with us."

Aka, once a Bandit, always a Bandit.

Ha,

"You will not know comfort, or be able to relax. It's my house, Brandon. It's my show. It's my MAIN EVENT, and the people are going home happy whether you like it or not. Rest assured the atmosphere you are walking into will be as dire as it gets. No friends. No escape. No room to run. No surrender. Not that you would, but just so we're clear on the terms."

I wink.

It goes unnoticed under the mirror-tint.

"It's been real, Brandon. Sure, it's been fun, too. On Saturday night though, for me and mine, I get the feeling it's going to be both."

Pucker.

Kiss.

Goodbye.