The Res-Erection (Honey, I'm Home)
Apr 22, 2023 23:00:02 GMT -5
Ezra Gideon and Spencer Adams like this
Post by Jim Caedus on Apr 22, 2023 23:00:02 GMT -5
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CAEDUS REWIND: (strap in...) In late November 2021 while visiting with APEX comrade Robert Main and his family in Ohio just a few days before Thanksgiving, Jim Caedus (struggling emotionally and psychologically at the time over the status of an attempted reconciliation with his ex-- Holly Hudson --the mother of his then 1 year old daughter Elora and the still publicly unrevealed outcome of that debacle) had decided to take a walk into the bordering woods nearby to ruminate on his suffering alone. Upon arrival, distracted by his recollection of saving the father of Robert Main from an inexplicable grizzly bear attack years earlier at the same location in the dead of winter, he found himself face to face yet again with what appeared to be the same, damn grizzly. Unlike his first victorious encounter (armed with a magical golden nugget bestowing him with superhuman strength in time of need, cool huh?), this time (sans nugget, woops) Jim found the fight futile and fled, only to be quickly set upon by the bear and, for the second time in his life, was murdered. Jim's eternal soul found itself, also for the second time (initially he was given a choice to return to life and took it), in what was essentially the waiting room for Purgatory. Only, this go-round, it was to be for a long, long time. Meanwhile, back on Earth, his body somehow sprang back to animation 4 hours later. Back in Purgatory's "waiting room", Jim's soul confronted and destroyed it's captor- the "Guardian of the Schism" -and gained access to Purgatory proper while his body- inhabited by an unknown life force -continued on to compete in both the XWF and TPW until seemingly experiencing a mental breakdown in January of 2022, seeing "Jim" vanish from the business altogether......
---Naples Island, Long Beach, CA---
January 31st, 2023 / 11:58 PM PST
Save for the gentle, muted purr provided by the home's central heating, darkness and silence reign throughout the interior of the $2.7 million two story residence of none other than the infamous Jim Caedus.
The man himself lay on his back in his king-size bed sound asleep. His thickly built and chiseled muscular frame is bare, the bed sheet strategically covering his also bare bottom half and legendary bulge. His left arm is wrapped around the nude form of a long haired brunette white woman. She's positioned on her right side, her own left arm covering her breasts and draped across Jim's chest, head resting on his shoulder, lower half hidden beneath the sheet as well.
The vintage 90s combo CD player and LED alarm clock resting on the nightstand beside the bed reads 11:59-
-then hits 12 midnight.
Jim's eyes (formerly a piercing icy blue but clouded over since his death in 2021) open.
"What the...hell is...happening?"
The darkness of the bedroom is suddenly illuminated by a blindingly ethereal light, brighter than any terrestrial source, radiating slowly, purposefully, outward from the center of Jim's physical form. His face contorts in pain.
"No.. NO! It's not possible!"
The woman beside him wakes and rolls out of bed onto the floor with a thump, cursing in confused fear and shielding her eyes from the light which continues to expand until it consumes not only Jim's body but fills the whole of the room in bright white.
Outside Jim's house, the light stabs from the second floor master bedroom window like a beacon into the night, illuminating the entire neighborhood......before it finally begins to diminish.
The woman on the floor opens her eyes as the light becomes less intense, drawing back into the form of Caedus and disappearing altogether back into his center. She rises to her feet and switches on the lamp sitting on the nightstand nearest her.
Jim lay there, staring up at the flag above him on his bedroom ceiling, his chest rising as he draws in a deep breath.
"......Jim?"
He blinks his now cloudless icy blue eyes, exhales, and slowly sits up, twisting his head to acknowledge her.
"I'm... I'm back."
"Back? You never left- What...just happened? What was that crazy light?"
"Light?"
Realization crosses his visage.
"Who're you? What're you doing in my house?"
His tone is firm but bears no malice, simply sincerity in the question. The woman, on the other hand, doesn't take kindly to that and instantly seems to forget the bizarre event that just occurred in favor of sudden scorned feminine rage.
"Who am I?? WHO AM I?!"
She rises, storms over to the pile of her clothing tossed at some earlier point onto the floor and begins dressing swiftly.
"I don't know what the fuck is going on and I truly don't give a shit!"
Jim says nothing, silently watching her finish dressing. As she finishes and briskly walks to the door--
"Next time you think about hitting me up, don't. Just fuck yourSELF, asshole!"
Her footsteps echo through the hallway outside the master bedroom, down the stairs, fading down the ground floor hallway. Seconds later the front door slams.
Jim lies back down looking incredibly weary. Outwardly he seems at peace but his mind is a maelstrom of memories, events experienced beyond the border of mortality over the course of an approximate year in Earthly time. It doesn't take long before he closes his eyes, succumbing to an incorporeal lifetime spent without rest, and he drifts off to sleep...
---February 1st, 2023 / 2:47 PM---
Nearly 15 hours later, Jim finally stirs and breaks free his slumber. He lay in bed for a minute or so, stretching the groggy and foggy away before sitting up and rubbing his eyes. As he does so...
Flashes of images and sounds from the Afterlife hit his mind's eye in a staccato assault like war-borne trauma. Snippets from the ethereal plane he'd been taught in Sunday school as a child could never possibly be seen or recalled past the veil fencing off the spiritual from the physical. And yet, there they were.
He pulls his hands away from his eyes to open them, leaning back with his skull against the headboard, relieved to escape the vicious montage by distracting himself with the here and now, allowing his gaze to scan the opposite wall and empty shelving--
'Hold up,' he muses internally, 'empty shelving?'
Indeed, as he glances around the master bedroom he confirms the absence of, well, most everything that used to be here. What remains is the wall-mounted flat screen above the dresser, what little furniture, the flag above his bed and nothing more. He recalls the woman.
'Did she steal my- ?'
No; no, she couldn't have, he watched her leave with nothing but her own clothing. So...where were his things?
Flinging the sheet aside, Jim gets out of bed and heads to the dresser to remove a tight plain white T, black fabric boxers and a pair of baggy, dark blue Dickies calf-length shorts, finishing up with a pair of white tube socks and a pair of black DCs sitting outside the sliding walk-in closet doors. Once fully clothed he heads out of the bedroom.
Nothing. None of the framed art work that used to line the walls of the second story hallway.
'What the fuck...'
He descends the stairwell to the ground floor, down another bare hallway and into the living room. Again, nothing. All the photos and posters he'd had on display are gone. A career's worth of memories gone without a trace and naught but the meaningless remaining.
Was it the one who'd been living rent free in his mortal shell during his absence that was responsible for this?
He remembered a struggle, becoming aware of the Other in his body while trapped in the Afterlife, mentally attempting to dislodge him from across the plane in an effort to escape and return.
His thoughts are interrupted, ironically enough, by the deafening silence around him and he recalls--
'It's too quiet... Where's Chewie?'
Memories of his blonde haired Lhasa Apso, (Chewbacca) return in a flood.
'Where is that goddamn dog?'
The howling of the winter wind outside catches his attention. His gaze slides to the closed egress leading to the backyard. Whoever-- WHATever had been inhabiting his physical form better not had left the dog out back in this weather. Jim's clan of outdoor stray cats he'd been feeding and caring for always seemed able to adjust but Chewie hated the cold. Jim had always kept him indoors aside of summer.
"Chewie? ......... Chew-Chew? *whistles* Chewp? *whistles*"
The familiar sound of Chewie's unclipped "bear claws" pawing at the sliding glass door is heard.
Jim heads for the sliding door, parting the curtains--
--but Chewie isn't the culprit of the "pawing", it's the bare branches of the bush nearest the door scratching at the glass.
He opens the door, wincing at the sharp cutting frigid wind that slices through his single layer of clothing. His eyes scan the lush vegetation-heavy environment. Maybe Chewie had sought shelter amid the pampas grasses or bushes and trees.
"CHEWIEEE. *whistles* .......... Chew-"
The sight of multiple mounds of dirt peppering the landscape cuts short his call. He flicks his gaze to the cat crates and food dishes nearby beneath the extended eaves of his house.
...All empty. Empty and apparently had been for some time judging from the amount of windblown earth piling up in them. His eyes return to the dirt mounds, eight in total.
There were eight stray felines he'd been caring for... A pang of 'that better not be what I think it is' pricks at him. Worry sets in.
He slides the door closed, further disturbed, then remembers that out of the 10 rooms in his house, one had been given to Chewie to stay in whilst company not-too-fond of canines was visiting.
Briskly he makes his way through the living room and down the ground floor hallway to the last door nearest the stairwell. He turns the knob and opens the door.
"Chewie?"
...A few piles of petrified dogshit, an empty food bowl and dry water dish greet him. And there...just to the left of the door...skeletal remains and a pile of surrounding blonde dog fur atop a long dried former puddle of decay.
Jim's heart sinks.
"CHEWIE!?"
He kneels at the remains.
"Noooooooooo," sorrowfully escapes him, his voice wavering.
He wishes nothing more than to be able to pick up and hold, hug, the skeleton as he would a freshly passed pet...but Chewie isn't freshly passed...he's been gone for quite awhile.
Tears well in Jim's eyes as he plucks up a tuft of dog hair...
"My poor boy... Chewie...I'm so sorry," he chokes out from a tightening throat.
No matter what had been piloting his body, how could Holly have let this hap--
Holly.
How could he forget? Maybe she's asleep with--
ELORA!!
He rises and backs out of the room, jogging to and up the stairwell to the second story hallway. In his room, he can hear the ringtone on his smartphone blasting. A call. Ignoring it, he speeds up, literally dashing to the last door, his hand turning the knob only to find it locked.
He knocks......
The smartphone rings again.
Knocks again......
Still ringing.
Heart flopping in his chest in arrythmic fashion, he balls his fist and pounds as hard as he can, hearing the wood of the door start to splinter.
"HOLLY!!"
Ringing.
In light of the current situation, out of desperation, he takes a few steps back before launching forward with a shoulder block, crashing through the door--
8=======================================>
Frowning and extremely perplexed over the unfamiliar events playing out before his mind's eye--
'When did all that happen?'
--Jim finally catches himself staring vacantly into the studio lights, notices the camera and WGWF promo director giving him a "Hello??" look of annoyance, and snaps back to the here and now.
His clouded over icy blue eyes darken and emotion drains. He flicks his dead gaze to the lens.
"......
*sniff*
......
*sniff*
......
Can you smell it?
I can......
F
E
A
R
It gets my cock harder than the scent 'a sweet snatch. And like with slit, this dick'll dive deep and gape with the hate-fuckin'.
Hell with what anyone may insincerely say, clippin' courage an' plasterin' pride on the outside, actin' like they don't fear me or know me. By now, y'all know my name and if y'haven't taken time to research mine, it's the last mistake y'gonna make.
Don't needa feedja the ham sammich of 'I done this and I done that'; my rep and my mountain 'a accolades speak for themselves.
I'm infamous.
A killer.
Jack The Roster Ripper.
Entry number 13 on the list for this shit an' that spells bad luck for all 'a you.
Even you...'Mystery Entrant'.
Y'know, F-W-I-W, I got the funny feelin' I know you. Perhaps by another name in another life, but anyway... Can't remember the last time, if ever, I seen a mystery opponent walk away with the win. Not when I'm involved. That's simply because that card is for cunts ('sup cunt), I'm a prick...an' pricks pump cunts. This ain't a gunfight and it ain't no street fight where in either an ambush matters. Piss out in promo whatever you wish. By the time you stride into the light the mystery is over, surprise negated. By nature you chose to be a secret 'cause you ain't got what it takes to face your foes.
You're a coward.
You fear.
I feed on fear and right about now my stomach growl 'cause I'ma chow down on some pussy.
Yeah.
I'ma eat'cha.
But speakin' on sans nuts...
Mason.
So top heavy it'll be a cinch tippin' you over the top rope. Body buildin' ain't worth the trade-off fer shriveled testes an' the obligatory baby penis but at least they fit your preteen virgin trash talk to a T. Y'try too hard and talk too much, jag-off. So arrogant when yer claim t'fame is a single title reign from years ago in _IPW_? Legit, most entertainin' thing 'bout'cha is Cholo droppin' dildos on yer dome.
Hack.
Only a hack would claim- weeks ago -that Jim Caedus sucks. That's about as credible as Big Pun's masculinity as a Benson cuck. Or Damage earnin' 'is XWF and OCW accolades beyond anything other than transitional championing. Or Krow's assumption in 'is official bio that he's 'respected by all' (b-t-w sweetie, all prison prepared y'for is gettin' bent over an' owned by a big dawg. Me). Or Lexi Gold definin' a legitimate threat to legitimate threats. Or Brooke Blakely bein' capable 'a superstardom without the heavy liftin' of a partner like Junko.
Y'ain't a badass, Mason, yer an irritation. An itch. An itch only your down-low B-F is willin' to scratch.
Ain't that right, Cholo?
Yo, y'lived quite the privileged life so far '"making it big" as a runner-up. But that's all y'got: almost made it.
$5 million runner-up purse, Intercontinental Champ.
Second.
Best.
Yeah, y'got talent. Y'good. But you ain't Chris Page good. Y'ain't Raven good.
You.
Ain't.
Jim.
Caedus.
Good.
You may make it one day but not via whackin' off with Mason and damn sure not at MY expense. I been where yer at now multiple times but each time I ONLY stuck in the position long enough to use it as an immediate springboard t' the top belt. Like humiliatin' Gabe Reno. Like topplin' Alias (same night I nigh single-handedly stripped Flynn an' 'is partner 'a the Tag straps I might add). I don't jus' collect straps, I make history an' I do it with more than opponents as obstacles...I've had t'struggle with higher-ups fuckin' wit' me as well. Ask Page, he been there too. See, we seen as "problems". You, Cholo, you been coddled. Y'ain't gonna stand in the way of a man who tries harder, pushes farther, absorbs more punishment and WANTS. THIS. MORE. THAN. YOU. The measure 'a my will is alien to a teacher's pet, to a runner-up. I'll hurt'cha, Cholo. An' by hurt'cha I mean I'll gut'cha, wrap them intestine 'round yer throat and pull at both ends 'til yer head pops th'fuck off. Hell, I'll harden in the shower 'a crimson an' stroke-off with it.
An' on the subject 'a heads...
"Badmon".
Can't recall anyone in recent history I've come across with a cap quite as fat as yours an' that's sayin' an awful lot in THIS promotion an' THIS business. Y'definitely yer own personal STAN wit' that ridiculous entrance music an' demandin' errybody say yer name over an' over y'masturbatory twat. S'posed t'be a hero figure? What kinda example y'settin' for the kids, cocksucker, with all that self-centered attitude and...didn't I see some vid y'put out in th'past wit'cha fam askin' for money? Coulda sworn y'treated yer auntie like a parasite. Ain't no hero, that's a greedy asshat. Fam is fam, fuckhead, y'don't treat'cha fam like a burden. My fam is dead an' I'd kill t' have 'em back whether askin' fer money 'r not. How am I so vilified yet I'm more a hero than you?
You fake.
An' y'may have some fame but that's purely relative. Y'ain't made yer name in either the WGWF or the XWF an' those are pinnacle. Fuck where y'came from, you gonna see what competition REALLY is, asshole.
Segue on the WRONG places t' make a name...
Debonair.
N-G-L, I hate'cher surname, numbnuts. It's pretentious a-f an' that reminds me 'a the biggest hack in the biz, Corey Smith, which pisses me off an' makes me wanna kick between yer legs so hard I bullet yer balls up an' out th'top 'a yer skull.
T' th' point though... JIWC, IIW, FcW, RWF? Fuck 'em. Fuck 'em all. "The Kingdom"? L-O-L, that's a two inch dick in a court 'a clitoromegaly. Literally this business is FULLA flimsy phallus like you. Y'not special, y'typical.
Boilerplate.
'Nilla.
Nothin' to me.
Like the rest, y'got skills but those skills are MIDCARD where I come from. Y'chose the wrong time an' place to come outta retirement, Fred. Stay in yer lane 'a ludicrous arrogance, jackin' off to videos 'a you jackin' off, 'cause if y'cross inta MINE, this semi-trailer truck gonna splatter you like a deer in the headlights.
Roadkill reminds me...
Bane.
Despite th' fact I hate shit-kicker cowboys, I kinda like ya. Maybe it's the fact y'make me laugh when people refer t' you as bein' "so deep" with dipshit Tweets like 'bout not needin' to roar like a lion 'cause silence is the real warning'. Mac...that's some seriously "deep" dumbassery wit' the analogy. I get it, sure, but bruh, lions roar an' prey scatters. Y'wanna half-ass wit' verbal fire, cool, but don't make a comparison like that wit' this sport where loud talkin' is half th' paycheck an' push. Those people tonguin' yer brown-eye need a backhand and a Caedus brand boot up the ass.
So, y'go ahead and pussycat yer way through the Battle Royal, I'ma go ahead an' big game hunter a shell through that cranium before I toss you over the top rope, redneck.
Which brings me t' my final target.
Peter.
Vaughn.
Well. Well. Well.
I doubt'cha ever thought this day would come, Pete. Not wit' the lies y'been feedin' people in the wake 'a what happened when last we met.
Lemme clear the air.
Without my gettin' shafted by th'XWF brass and me losin' my mind over it, y'wouldn't ever 'ave been Uni Champ. Every last thing y'got nailed with by guys like Mark Flynn was the truth: if you'd faced an unfettered Jim Caedus you'da been crushed like everyone KNEW I was about to accomplish before I was handed my pink slip and ordered t' DO. THE. JOB. It literally took yer entire Exiles stable, 8 names on th' XWF roster, the ancillary administration an' Vinnie Lane HIMSELF- ALL 'a you IN. TANDEM. -to usher my ass outta th' way and see me meltdown mentally, ALLOWIN' you to beat me. Y'been hangin' yer cap on my cock like Charlie Nickles actin' like HE rid the promotion 'a me for over a YEAR. Y'weren't ANYTHING before that happened. Former OCW Champ? L-M-A-O. What was it y'said about my bullseye on you over the owner kickin' yer untrustworthy weak ass out?
Ah yes...
'I left on my own terms' or somethin' t' that effect?
Yeah, left on yer own terms like a rat desertin' a sinkin' ship seein' as it became it's own lil' private promotion closed to "outsiders" for a bit AFTER that. Who t-f gives up the top strap 'a their own accord? We call that 'I quit BEFORE you STRIP ME an' FIRE ME' you LYIN' ass sack 'a DOGSHIT.
Takes a monumental PUSSY not to own up t' th' truth, y'slimy smug sunuvabitch.
Truth like that, contrary t' what y'thought was a 'gotcha' moment.
Truth like it takin' an ARMY t' muscle ME outta yer way.
Truth like I MADE YOU t' th' level I may as well have jus' blown my load in yer cumdumpster of a mother an' CONCEIVED YOU MYSELF.
Yuuuuuuuup.
I'm yer daddy, Petey.
Daddy don't like how y'been tellin' tall tales like the mouthy fuck-muppet you are. Your status as "truly" tippy top tier is aaaaaaaaall thanks to ME.
Y
O
U
'
R
E
W
E
L
C
O
M
E
But from here on out, for War Games, it's MY ship, shithead; so get outta my way or drop to all fours, spread cheeks for the god 'a gonads and submit to YOUR dom. I don't care if we're CCPE mates. Matter 'a fact, that extends t' ANY 'a my fellow super stable members. When it's ANYONE against me in the ring, I'ma treat whomever as an enemy.
Nah...we ain't finished, Pete. Not by a long shot. And oh...there WILL be blood when I come t' collect everything you STOLE from me. But not t' worry...I'm not as stupid as all that, I'll deal wit' YOU when the appropriate time comes. I ain't gonna let my hatred for you an' seethin' rage over those events cloud my judgment nor distract me from my goal in this Battle Royal. I'ma be as sly an' surgical as ever, focused on avoidin' elimination like my last name Hickenbottom an' this is combo '95-'96.
It ain't an option...it's my only choice.
Much as I hate t' admit it, I know damn well what happened wit' the derailin' 'a my redemption in 2021 into '22 tainted my name as much if not more than any previous I experienced. I don't need to peruse the video hype an' promo packages 'a my opponents t' safely assume what they all sayin' about me, venomous hooks drippin' with inaccuracies and smoke blowin' insincerity I'm sure they hittin' me with: Jim Caedus is a has-been. Jim Caedus lost 'is step. Jim Caedus shouldn't be here. He gettin' handed shit. He sold out. His time is over.
Psh...
Outta place?
Wherever y'find ultimate, y'find Jim Caedus. The WGWF is EXACTLY where I belong.
Sold out?
Ain't even gonna dignify that wit' a response.
Handed shit?
I EARN every opportunity presented, whether workin' my way t' th' top or given th' chance to prove myself worthy an' I'll be doin' BOTH.
Lost my step? A has-been?
I ain't only not a has-been, I'm 43 years old and still in my prime wit' years- even a DECADE or more -t' go before y'all ever _potentially_ gonna see th' first inklings 'a me bein' a lesser contender. Each time th' critics and false prophets paint me like that I kick in th' door, guns blazin', droppin' stiffs an' provin' THIS:
I.
Am.
Apex.
An' I ain't talkin' the long dead stable.
I'm talkin' ME.
Time over?
It ain't over. Th' clock been reset. Now enterin' the NEW Caedus Era. My time
IS.
NOW.
Duck an' cover motherfuckers, 'cause I'd rather be feared than loved."
XXXNXEXWXXXCXAXEXDXUXSXXXEXRXAXXX
CAEDUS REWIND: (strap in...) In late November 2021 while visiting with APEX comrade Robert Main and his family in Ohio just a few days before Thanksgiving, Jim Caedus (struggling emotionally and psychologically at the time over the status of an attempted reconciliation with his ex-- Holly Hudson --the mother of his then 1 year old daughter Elora and the still publicly unrevealed outcome of that debacle) had decided to take a walk into the bordering woods nearby to ruminate on his suffering alone. Upon arrival, distracted by his recollection of saving the father of Robert Main from an inexplicable grizzly bear attack years earlier at the same location in the dead of winter, he found himself face to face yet again with what appeared to be the same, damn grizzly. Unlike his first victorious encounter (armed with a magical golden nugget bestowing him with superhuman strength in time of need, cool huh?), this time (sans nugget, woops) Jim found the fight futile and fled, only to be quickly set upon by the bear and, for the second time in his life, was murdered. Jim's eternal soul found itself, also for the second time (initially he was given a choice to return to life and took it), in what was essentially the waiting room for Purgatory. Only, this go-round, it was to be for a long, long time. Meanwhile, back on Earth, his body somehow sprang back to animation 4 hours later. Back in Purgatory's "waiting room", Jim's soul confronted and destroyed it's captor- the "Guardian of the Schism" -and gained access to Purgatory proper while his body- inhabited by an unknown life force -continued on to compete in both the XWF and TPW until seemingly experiencing a mental breakdown in January of 2022, seeing "Jim" vanish from the business altogether......
---Naples Island, Long Beach, CA---
January 31st, 2023 / 11:58 PM PST
Save for the gentle, muted purr provided by the home's central heating, darkness and silence reign throughout the interior of the $2.7 million two story residence of none other than the infamous Jim Caedus.
The man himself lay on his back in his king-size bed sound asleep. His thickly built and chiseled muscular frame is bare, the bed sheet strategically covering his also bare bottom half and legendary bulge. His left arm is wrapped around the nude form of a long haired brunette white woman. She's positioned on her right side, her own left arm covering her breasts and draped across Jim's chest, head resting on his shoulder, lower half hidden beneath the sheet as well.
The vintage 90s combo CD player and LED alarm clock resting on the nightstand beside the bed reads 11:59-
-then hits 12 midnight.
Jim's eyes (formerly a piercing icy blue but clouded over since his death in 2021) open.
"What the...hell is...happening?"
The darkness of the bedroom is suddenly illuminated by a blindingly ethereal light, brighter than any terrestrial source, radiating slowly, purposefully, outward from the center of Jim's physical form. His face contorts in pain.
"No.. NO! It's not possible!"
The woman beside him wakes and rolls out of bed onto the floor with a thump, cursing in confused fear and shielding her eyes from the light which continues to expand until it consumes not only Jim's body but fills the whole of the room in bright white.
Outside Jim's house, the light stabs from the second floor master bedroom window like a beacon into the night, illuminating the entire neighborhood......before it finally begins to diminish.
The woman on the floor opens her eyes as the light becomes less intense, drawing back into the form of Caedus and disappearing altogether back into his center. She rises to her feet and switches on the lamp sitting on the nightstand nearest her.
Jim lay there, staring up at the flag above him on his bedroom ceiling, his chest rising as he draws in a deep breath.
"......Jim?"
He blinks his now cloudless icy blue eyes, exhales, and slowly sits up, twisting his head to acknowledge her.
"I'm... I'm back."
"Back? You never left- What...just happened? What was that crazy light?"
"Light?"
Realization crosses his visage.
"Who're you? What're you doing in my house?"
His tone is firm but bears no malice, simply sincerity in the question. The woman, on the other hand, doesn't take kindly to that and instantly seems to forget the bizarre event that just occurred in favor of sudden scorned feminine rage.
"Who am I?? WHO AM I?!"
She rises, storms over to the pile of her clothing tossed at some earlier point onto the floor and begins dressing swiftly.
"I don't know what the fuck is going on and I truly don't give a shit!"
Jim says nothing, silently watching her finish dressing. As she finishes and briskly walks to the door--
"Next time you think about hitting me up, don't. Just fuck yourSELF, asshole!"
Her footsteps echo through the hallway outside the master bedroom, down the stairs, fading down the ground floor hallway. Seconds later the front door slams.
Jim lies back down looking incredibly weary. Outwardly he seems at peace but his mind is a maelstrom of memories, events experienced beyond the border of mortality over the course of an approximate year in Earthly time. It doesn't take long before he closes his eyes, succumbing to an incorporeal lifetime spent without rest, and he drifts off to sleep...
---February 1st, 2023 / 2:47 PM---
Nearly 15 hours later, Jim finally stirs and breaks free his slumber. He lay in bed for a minute or so, stretching the groggy and foggy away before sitting up and rubbing his eyes. As he does so...
Flashes of images and sounds from the Afterlife hit his mind's eye in a staccato assault like war-borne trauma. Snippets from the ethereal plane he'd been taught in Sunday school as a child could never possibly be seen or recalled past the veil fencing off the spiritual from the physical. And yet, there they were.
He pulls his hands away from his eyes to open them, leaning back with his skull against the headboard, relieved to escape the vicious montage by distracting himself with the here and now, allowing his gaze to scan the opposite wall and empty shelving--
'Hold up,' he muses internally, 'empty shelving?'
Indeed, as he glances around the master bedroom he confirms the absence of, well, most everything that used to be here. What remains is the wall-mounted flat screen above the dresser, what little furniture, the flag above his bed and nothing more. He recalls the woman.
'Did she steal my- ?'
No; no, she couldn't have, he watched her leave with nothing but her own clothing. So...where were his things?
Flinging the sheet aside, Jim gets out of bed and heads to the dresser to remove a tight plain white T, black fabric boxers and a pair of baggy, dark blue Dickies calf-length shorts, finishing up with a pair of white tube socks and a pair of black DCs sitting outside the sliding walk-in closet doors. Once fully clothed he heads out of the bedroom.
Nothing. None of the framed art work that used to line the walls of the second story hallway.
'What the fuck...'
He descends the stairwell to the ground floor, down another bare hallway and into the living room. Again, nothing. All the photos and posters he'd had on display are gone. A career's worth of memories gone without a trace and naught but the meaningless remaining.
Was it the one who'd been living rent free in his mortal shell during his absence that was responsible for this?
He remembered a struggle, becoming aware of the Other in his body while trapped in the Afterlife, mentally attempting to dislodge him from across the plane in an effort to escape and return.
His thoughts are interrupted, ironically enough, by the deafening silence around him and he recalls--
'It's too quiet... Where's Chewie?'
Memories of his blonde haired Lhasa Apso, (Chewbacca) return in a flood.
'Where is that goddamn dog?'
The howling of the winter wind outside catches his attention. His gaze slides to the closed egress leading to the backyard. Whoever-- WHATever had been inhabiting his physical form better not had left the dog out back in this weather. Jim's clan of outdoor stray cats he'd been feeding and caring for always seemed able to adjust but Chewie hated the cold. Jim had always kept him indoors aside of summer.
"Chewie? ......... Chew-Chew? *whistles* Chewp? *whistles*"
The familiar sound of Chewie's unclipped "bear claws" pawing at the sliding glass door is heard.
Jim heads for the sliding door, parting the curtains--
--but Chewie isn't the culprit of the "pawing", it's the bare branches of the bush nearest the door scratching at the glass.
He opens the door, wincing at the sharp cutting frigid wind that slices through his single layer of clothing. His eyes scan the lush vegetation-heavy environment. Maybe Chewie had sought shelter amid the pampas grasses or bushes and trees.
"CHEWIEEE. *whistles* .......... Chew-"
The sight of multiple mounds of dirt peppering the landscape cuts short his call. He flicks his gaze to the cat crates and food dishes nearby beneath the extended eaves of his house.
...All empty. Empty and apparently had been for some time judging from the amount of windblown earth piling up in them. His eyes return to the dirt mounds, eight in total.
There were eight stray felines he'd been caring for... A pang of 'that better not be what I think it is' pricks at him. Worry sets in.
He slides the door closed, further disturbed, then remembers that out of the 10 rooms in his house, one had been given to Chewie to stay in whilst company not-too-fond of canines was visiting.
Briskly he makes his way through the living room and down the ground floor hallway to the last door nearest the stairwell. He turns the knob and opens the door.
"Chewie?"
...A few piles of petrified dogshit, an empty food bowl and dry water dish greet him. And there...just to the left of the door...skeletal remains and a pile of surrounding blonde dog fur atop a long dried former puddle of decay.
Jim's heart sinks.
"CHEWIE!?"
He kneels at the remains.
"Noooooooooo," sorrowfully escapes him, his voice wavering.
He wishes nothing more than to be able to pick up and hold, hug, the skeleton as he would a freshly passed pet...but Chewie isn't freshly passed...he's been gone for quite awhile.
Tears well in Jim's eyes as he plucks up a tuft of dog hair...
"My poor boy... Chewie...I'm so sorry," he chokes out from a tightening throat.
No matter what had been piloting his body, how could Holly have let this hap--
Holly.
How could he forget? Maybe she's asleep with--
ELORA!!
He rises and backs out of the room, jogging to and up the stairwell to the second story hallway. In his room, he can hear the ringtone on his smartphone blasting. A call. Ignoring it, he speeds up, literally dashing to the last door, his hand turning the knob only to find it locked.
He knocks......
The smartphone rings again.
Knocks again......
Still ringing.
Heart flopping in his chest in arrythmic fashion, he balls his fist and pounds as hard as he can, hearing the wood of the door start to splinter.
"HOLLY!!"
Ringing.
In light of the current situation, out of desperation, he takes a few steps back before launching forward with a shoulder block, crashing through the door--
8=======================================>
Frowning and extremely perplexed over the unfamiliar events playing out before his mind's eye--
'When did all that happen?'
--Jim finally catches himself staring vacantly into the studio lights, notices the camera and WGWF promo director giving him a "Hello??" look of annoyance, and snaps back to the here and now.
His clouded over icy blue eyes darken and emotion drains. He flicks his dead gaze to the lens.
"......
*sniff*
......
*sniff*
......
Can you smell it?
I can......
F
E
A
R
It gets my cock harder than the scent 'a sweet snatch. And like with slit, this dick'll dive deep and gape with the hate-fuckin'.
Hell with what anyone may insincerely say, clippin' courage an' plasterin' pride on the outside, actin' like they don't fear me or know me. By now, y'all know my name and if y'haven't taken time to research mine, it's the last mistake y'gonna make.
Don't needa feedja the ham sammich of 'I done this and I done that'; my rep and my mountain 'a accolades speak for themselves.
I'm infamous.
A killer.
Jack The Roster Ripper.
Entry number 13 on the list for this shit an' that spells bad luck for all 'a you.
Even you...'Mystery Entrant'.
Y'know, F-W-I-W, I got the funny feelin' I know you. Perhaps by another name in another life, but anyway... Can't remember the last time, if ever, I seen a mystery opponent walk away with the win. Not when I'm involved. That's simply because that card is for cunts ('sup cunt), I'm a prick...an' pricks pump cunts. This ain't a gunfight and it ain't no street fight where in either an ambush matters. Piss out in promo whatever you wish. By the time you stride into the light the mystery is over, surprise negated. By nature you chose to be a secret 'cause you ain't got what it takes to face your foes.
You're a coward.
You fear.
I feed on fear and right about now my stomach growl 'cause I'ma chow down on some pussy.
Yeah.
I'ma eat'cha.
But speakin' on sans nuts...
Mason.
So top heavy it'll be a cinch tippin' you over the top rope. Body buildin' ain't worth the trade-off fer shriveled testes an' the obligatory baby penis but at least they fit your preteen virgin trash talk to a T. Y'try too hard and talk too much, jag-off. So arrogant when yer claim t'fame is a single title reign from years ago in _IPW_? Legit, most entertainin' thing 'bout'cha is Cholo droppin' dildos on yer dome.
Hack.
Only a hack would claim- weeks ago -that Jim Caedus sucks. That's about as credible as Big Pun's masculinity as a Benson cuck. Or Damage earnin' 'is XWF and OCW accolades beyond anything other than transitional championing. Or Krow's assumption in 'is official bio that he's 'respected by all' (b-t-w sweetie, all prison prepared y'for is gettin' bent over an' owned by a big dawg. Me). Or Lexi Gold definin' a legitimate threat to legitimate threats. Or Brooke Blakely bein' capable 'a superstardom without the heavy liftin' of a partner like Junko.
Y'ain't a badass, Mason, yer an irritation. An itch. An itch only your down-low B-F is willin' to scratch.
Ain't that right, Cholo?
Yo, y'lived quite the privileged life so far '"making it big" as a runner-up. But that's all y'got: almost made it.
$5 million runner-up purse, Intercontinental Champ.
Second.
Best.
Yeah, y'got talent. Y'good. But you ain't Chris Page good. Y'ain't Raven good.
You.
Ain't.
Jim.
Caedus.
Good.
You may make it one day but not via whackin' off with Mason and damn sure not at MY expense. I been where yer at now multiple times but each time I ONLY stuck in the position long enough to use it as an immediate springboard t' the top belt. Like humiliatin' Gabe Reno. Like topplin' Alias (same night I nigh single-handedly stripped Flynn an' 'is partner 'a the Tag straps I might add). I don't jus' collect straps, I make history an' I do it with more than opponents as obstacles...I've had t'struggle with higher-ups fuckin' wit' me as well. Ask Page, he been there too. See, we seen as "problems". You, Cholo, you been coddled. Y'ain't gonna stand in the way of a man who tries harder, pushes farther, absorbs more punishment and WANTS. THIS. MORE. THAN. YOU. The measure 'a my will is alien to a teacher's pet, to a runner-up. I'll hurt'cha, Cholo. An' by hurt'cha I mean I'll gut'cha, wrap them intestine 'round yer throat and pull at both ends 'til yer head pops th'fuck off. Hell, I'll harden in the shower 'a crimson an' stroke-off with it.
An' on the subject 'a heads...
"Badmon".
Can't recall anyone in recent history I've come across with a cap quite as fat as yours an' that's sayin' an awful lot in THIS promotion an' THIS business. Y'definitely yer own personal STAN wit' that ridiculous entrance music an' demandin' errybody say yer name over an' over y'masturbatory twat. S'posed t'be a hero figure? What kinda example y'settin' for the kids, cocksucker, with all that self-centered attitude and...didn't I see some vid y'put out in th'past wit'cha fam askin' for money? Coulda sworn y'treated yer auntie like a parasite. Ain't no hero, that's a greedy asshat. Fam is fam, fuckhead, y'don't treat'cha fam like a burden. My fam is dead an' I'd kill t' have 'em back whether askin' fer money 'r not. How am I so vilified yet I'm more a hero than you?
You fake.
An' y'may have some fame but that's purely relative. Y'ain't made yer name in either the WGWF or the XWF an' those are pinnacle. Fuck where y'came from, you gonna see what competition REALLY is, asshole.
Segue on the WRONG places t' make a name...
Debonair.
N-G-L, I hate'cher surname, numbnuts. It's pretentious a-f an' that reminds me 'a the biggest hack in the biz, Corey Smith, which pisses me off an' makes me wanna kick between yer legs so hard I bullet yer balls up an' out th'top 'a yer skull.
T' th' point though... JIWC, IIW, FcW, RWF? Fuck 'em. Fuck 'em all. "The Kingdom"? L-O-L, that's a two inch dick in a court 'a clitoromegaly. Literally this business is FULLA flimsy phallus like you. Y'not special, y'typical.
Boilerplate.
'Nilla.
Nothin' to me.
Like the rest, y'got skills but those skills are MIDCARD where I come from. Y'chose the wrong time an' place to come outta retirement, Fred. Stay in yer lane 'a ludicrous arrogance, jackin' off to videos 'a you jackin' off, 'cause if y'cross inta MINE, this semi-trailer truck gonna splatter you like a deer in the headlights.
Roadkill reminds me...
Bane.
Despite th' fact I hate shit-kicker cowboys, I kinda like ya. Maybe it's the fact y'make me laugh when people refer t' you as bein' "so deep" with dipshit Tweets like 'bout not needin' to roar like a lion 'cause silence is the real warning'. Mac...that's some seriously "deep" dumbassery wit' the analogy. I get it, sure, but bruh, lions roar an' prey scatters. Y'wanna half-ass wit' verbal fire, cool, but don't make a comparison like that wit' this sport where loud talkin' is half th' paycheck an' push. Those people tonguin' yer brown-eye need a backhand and a Caedus brand boot up the ass.
So, y'go ahead and pussycat yer way through the Battle Royal, I'ma go ahead an' big game hunter a shell through that cranium before I toss you over the top rope, redneck.
Which brings me t' my final target.
Peter.
Vaughn.
Well. Well. Well.
I doubt'cha ever thought this day would come, Pete. Not wit' the lies y'been feedin' people in the wake 'a what happened when last we met.
Lemme clear the air.
Without my gettin' shafted by th'XWF brass and me losin' my mind over it, y'wouldn't ever 'ave been Uni Champ. Every last thing y'got nailed with by guys like Mark Flynn was the truth: if you'd faced an unfettered Jim Caedus you'da been crushed like everyone KNEW I was about to accomplish before I was handed my pink slip and ordered t' DO. THE. JOB. It literally took yer entire Exiles stable, 8 names on th' XWF roster, the ancillary administration an' Vinnie Lane HIMSELF- ALL 'a you IN. TANDEM. -to usher my ass outta th' way and see me meltdown mentally, ALLOWIN' you to beat me. Y'been hangin' yer cap on my cock like Charlie Nickles actin' like HE rid the promotion 'a me for over a YEAR. Y'weren't ANYTHING before that happened. Former OCW Champ? L-M-A-O. What was it y'said about my bullseye on you over the owner kickin' yer untrustworthy weak ass out?
Ah yes...
'I left on my own terms' or somethin' t' that effect?
Yeah, left on yer own terms like a rat desertin' a sinkin' ship seein' as it became it's own lil' private promotion closed to "outsiders" for a bit AFTER that. Who t-f gives up the top strap 'a their own accord? We call that 'I quit BEFORE you STRIP ME an' FIRE ME' you LYIN' ass sack 'a DOGSHIT.
Takes a monumental PUSSY not to own up t' th' truth, y'slimy smug sunuvabitch.
Truth like that, contrary t' what y'thought was a 'gotcha' moment.
Truth like it takin' an ARMY t' muscle ME outta yer way.
Truth like I MADE YOU t' th' level I may as well have jus' blown my load in yer cumdumpster of a mother an' CONCEIVED YOU MYSELF.
Yuuuuuuuup.
I'm yer daddy, Petey.
Daddy don't like how y'been tellin' tall tales like the mouthy fuck-muppet you are. Your status as "truly" tippy top tier is aaaaaaaaall thanks to ME.
Y
O
U
'
R
E
W
E
L
C
O
M
E
But from here on out, for War Games, it's MY ship, shithead; so get outta my way or drop to all fours, spread cheeks for the god 'a gonads and submit to YOUR dom. I don't care if we're CCPE mates. Matter 'a fact, that extends t' ANY 'a my fellow super stable members. When it's ANYONE against me in the ring, I'ma treat whomever as an enemy.
Nah...we ain't finished, Pete. Not by a long shot. And oh...there WILL be blood when I come t' collect everything you STOLE from me. But not t' worry...I'm not as stupid as all that, I'll deal wit' YOU when the appropriate time comes. I ain't gonna let my hatred for you an' seethin' rage over those events cloud my judgment nor distract me from my goal in this Battle Royal. I'ma be as sly an' surgical as ever, focused on avoidin' elimination like my last name Hickenbottom an' this is combo '95-'96.
It ain't an option...it's my only choice.
Much as I hate t' admit it, I know damn well what happened wit' the derailin' 'a my redemption in 2021 into '22 tainted my name as much if not more than any previous I experienced. I don't need to peruse the video hype an' promo packages 'a my opponents t' safely assume what they all sayin' about me, venomous hooks drippin' with inaccuracies and smoke blowin' insincerity I'm sure they hittin' me with: Jim Caedus is a has-been. Jim Caedus lost 'is step. Jim Caedus shouldn't be here. He gettin' handed shit. He sold out. His time is over.
Psh...
Outta place?
Wherever y'find ultimate, y'find Jim Caedus. The WGWF is EXACTLY where I belong.
Sold out?
Ain't even gonna dignify that wit' a response.
Handed shit?
I EARN every opportunity presented, whether workin' my way t' th' top or given th' chance to prove myself worthy an' I'll be doin' BOTH.
Lost my step? A has-been?
I ain't only not a has-been, I'm 43 years old and still in my prime wit' years- even a DECADE or more -t' go before y'all ever _potentially_ gonna see th' first inklings 'a me bein' a lesser contender. Each time th' critics and false prophets paint me like that I kick in th' door, guns blazin', droppin' stiffs an' provin' THIS:
I.
Am.
Apex.
An' I ain't talkin' the long dead stable.
I'm talkin' ME.
Time over?
It ain't over. Th' clock been reset. Now enterin' the NEW Caedus Era. My time
IS.
NOW.
Duck an' cover motherfuckers, 'cause I'd rather be feared than loved."
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