The Res-Erection P.2 / Best Served Cold
May 6, 2023 21:42:37 GMT -5
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"Cholo" Giovanni Santana, Real Untamed Demon, and 1 more like this
Post by Jim Caedus on May 6, 2023 21:42:37 GMT -5
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Continued directly from The Res-Erection
adambarker1981.proboards.com/post/90833
'Holly!'
Maybe she's asleep with--
'ELORA!! How could I forget??'
Jim 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 arrhythmic 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--
The room is freezing and neither Holly nor Elora can be seen.
Jim's eyes scan among the latter's toys; a spoiled girl's mix of stuffed animals, Cocomelon brand vehicles and figures, assorted shapes of colored blocks, large puzzle pieces and electronic toddler light and sound devices strewn across the wooden floor and soft foam ABC learning playmats, all coated with a thick layer of dust bearing the appearance of remaining untouched for who knows how long.
Chilling wind blasts him in the face, stray strands of his long blonde hair swaying back and forth across his vision. His icy blues shoot to the window directly across from him, double-pane shattered, above the queen-size bed. The bed itself next catches his attention: askew pink comforter, sheets and blanket all exhibiting brownish stains of varying size and shape. Spatters, pooling, drops--
'Oh God, no..'
Nearly tripping several times on a handful of toys, Jim hastily winds his way over to get a closer look.
It's then that he can't help but spot the unmistakably familiar sight of a pair of Holly's orange leggings, oddly filthy and loose fitting around her nearly non-existent leg as if she'd lost an alarming amount of weight since last he'd seen her. It forms an inverted V, knee pointed up, the rest of her hidden behind the mattress within the three foot clearance between bed and wall.
Gulping hard, Jim-- avoiding crawling over the assuredly _blood_stained mattress --begins circling around the end of the bed apprehensively as an intense sense of dread takes hold despite positive hope for something-- ANYTHING --other than the obvious impossibly clinging to the outskirts of doom in his mind.
The sounds of the world around him, the ringtone, the wind, seem to retreat.
He doesn't need to complete his circumvention of the bed (but does so anyway) before being able to gaze down upon the truth...
Holly's skeletal form lies motionless on the floor, left leg bent upward, right leg extended straight, left arm laying across her torso, right arm disappearing beneath the raised bedframe. She's fully clothed (though every stitch of said is clearly discolored due to rotting in place), her sweater possessing a plethora of dark bloodstains indicating the source was most likely provided by head wounds. The proximal phalanges on her index, middle, ring and pinkie fingers of her left hand are all fractured nearly in half. Her skull (still with scant fragments of seemingly mummified scalp flesh stubbornly clutching to a bit of brunette hair) shows multiple linear fractures as well as depressed fractures to the forehead, nasal cavity and left orbital. The vertebrae beneath her skull also display major fractures.
Holly was beaten and her neck broken.
Jim vomits, the rank liquid splashing onto Holly's shoes and leggings, plastering them against her bones beneath, before he places a hand over his mouth and spurts the rest between his fingers, making a mess down his T shirt.
He feels faint and kneels before tottering back onto his butt a mere foot away from her shoes, spreading his legs so as not to touch her.
He and Holly had, long before his death, fallen out of love. Jim had allowed her to move back in to keep Elora closer to him. The conception of their daughter had been the result of a drunken night reliving happy moments... But despite these facts, it was those happy moments that flooded his mind's eye, filling his heart with an ache the sort he hadn't felt since finding his own father dead and learning of his mother passing in his absence. He was no longer in love with Holly but he never-- EVER --expected or desired anything like this to happen to her. The memories force his eyes to overflow with tears so quickly he doesn't realize he's crying before the collar of his shirt dampens and starts absorbing the cold rushing in from the broken window. He doesn't bother to wipe the tears away, just stares at Holly's open skeletal mouth, her death gape in agony and terror at what he could only imagine was realization that her life was ending as she lie paralyzed on the floor before lack of oxygen blacked her out into oblivion.
Maybe it had simply slackened at the point of winking out. Such ugly visions of Holly's final seconds of life, the minutes following erasure, play out in his head. The loss of control, of animation, the disrespect and humiliation inherent in death.
He forces himself to think on the extreme opposite end of the spectrum.
The laughter shared.
The good times...
Darkness returns.
Any possible cooperative parenting future, Elora enjoying the benefits of having both biological parents...gone.
His U-turn to positive distraction hadn't worked out as he'd hoped.
In a sudden fit of despair and rage, Jim slams his right fist against the wall, leaving an indentation.
'WHO THE FUCK DID THIS TO THE MOTHER OF MY CHILD!?'
Instantly the rage is replaced with a horrific hypothetical...
What if..."HE" had been responsible!? Rather, The One piloting his body? How ELSE could her body have been left here to rot??
Oh GOD...to Holly it would have been HIM murdering her!!
What if ELORA had witnes--
His eye catches a bundle just beside Holly's skull beneath the bed frame in the darkness.
"No, no, PLEASE GOD NO!! JESUS FUCKING CHRIST, NO!!!"
In a show of strength, Jim leans forward and powers the bed out of the way, shoving it before flipping it over to discover--
--a small pile of Holly's clothing she must have lazily dropped at some point prior to her death.
Relief mixes with the existing emotions plaguing him for a fraction of a second before the question arises in his mind:
'WHERE'S ELORA!?'
"ELORAAAA!? WHERE ARE YOU BABY," he screams brainlessly!?
'Stupid. IF she were in the house, there's no way she'd be alive.
Right??
STOP IT! DON'T THINK LIKE THAT!'
Jim rises, ripping the closet door nearly off it's hinges.
No Elora.
A blur of movement, he speedily moves to check every. Single. Room in the house in record time...
No Elora.
EXTREME panic hits, the tears continue to flow as sobbing and gagging assaults him.
The garage. His '86 Mercedes SEL 420.
A swift trip to his room, smartphone once more ringing, to grab the keys then back to the garage to check it and the Mercedes (the "Millennium Muthafalcon").
No Elora.
He tears out into the backyard, calling her, checking every bush, every possible nook and cranny nature holds...
No Elora.
"ELORAAAAAAAAAAA!!!"
He screams her name at such a volume, with such bestial intensity, he feels as if his throat might split lengthwise, drown himself in blood. He wished it would.
'She's gone. My sweet little sunshine. Gone.'
He'd endured and succeeded in escaping the afterlife solely for her.
His emotions suddenly screech to a halt. He switches off. His face goes slack. The tears cease as his heart dies.
For what seems like ten minutes he stands there allowing the freezing to seep in, waiting as if God Himself will appear and scream 'PSYCH' before plopping his reason for living into his arms.
Finally, he turns slowly...
Now unable to find the energy to walk any faster than a snail's pace, he eventually reenters his house.
'Elora is gone. Holly is gone. My animals are gone. My career is gone. Everything...my entire life is gone. I...have...nothing.'
As if on autopilot, Jim heads for the garage a second time, pauses, then detours down the hallway, up the stairs and into his bedroom. He snatches his smartphone, no longer ringing, and returns downstairs, entering the garage.
He steps to the tool area, taking a moment to find what he's looking for and plucking it up.
Setting his phone aside for a moment, he takes the chosen item in his hands and begins preparing it as he'd learned in Boy Scouts, a lesson his Assistant Scoutmaster had warned was simply for trivial information purposes and NEVER to be used practically.
He finishes the noose in less than 120 seconds, checking the wrap to ensure it'll work as required before slinging the free end over one of the rafter beams above and tying it off securely to a barbell stacked with 350 pounds in bumper plates.
He takes his phone, ascends a four foot stepladder, slips the noose over his head then quickly sets up an account on Twitter desktop, Following a slew of XWFers and a handful of TPW accounts.
He wanted everyone he knew to watch.
He'd seen while in the afterlife what The One in his body had done with his career in XWF and TPW, how all including his former friends had so easily turned their backs on him. He hoped they'd enjoy viewing his end. He knew Vinnie Lane would.
He navigates to the option for live feed, thumb hovering over--
The notification for an incoming call from an unknown number pops up.
'FUCK!'
He taps answer.
"Who is this an' whaddayoo want?"
"Jim. It's me."
That voice, so familia--
'Holy shit. It can't be.'
"......Page?"
"Yeah man."
Why the fuck would one of his worst enemies in the XWF be calling him? He and Page had been bitter rivals... How'd he get his number? Had...The One been in contact with him?
"Where've you been?"
"Eternity. 'Bout t' head back."
"What's that mean?"
"I'm killing myself. Gonna live stream it."
"Sick sense of humor, Jim."
"Not a joke. Nothin' t' live for. My daughter is gone, my career is over. Gotta go."
"Hold on, Jim, don't do anything stupi-"
He hangs up, moves to tap live--
Incoming call.
'SUNUVABITCH!'
Answers.
"Fuckin' WHAT, Chris!?"
"...Your story isn't over, brother."
"................................."
Why were Page's words so immediately impactful? Jim had already given up. He wanted to die. Didn't he?
Yes.
He did.
So why did someone-- his enemy no less --seeming to care give him pause?
"Still there?"
"............yeah."
"I've got a proposition for you. Hear me out..."
8===================================>
--PRESENT--
Clouded over glacial blue eyes survey the now empty and spotless room Holly and Elora had shared; toys and bed gone, baby mama and daughter missing, window replaced.
A bittersweet smile rests upon Jim's face. Life is so much easier, simpler, without the mouthy whore and that obnoxious little brat inundating it and his personal freedom. He isn't exactly sure where they'd both gone but it's a relief to have the house all to himself. A pseudo "family" would be a distraction he couldn't afford; he had War Games and-- even better --the snatching of the World Heavyweight Championship from Peter Vaughn to attend to.
Comeuppance.
At the moment he can't recall HOW he'd ended up aligned with Page and CCPE but he doesn't really care about the foggy details, he's earned his way to the potential peak in record time and has no intention of squandering the opportunity.
First things first, he has a promo to shoot before packing for his nearby stay in L.A. and Brawl at the Crypto.com Arena.
Closing the door behind himself, he makes for his personal promo studio three doors down, enters, then switches on lights and camera.
"I know what some say 'bout me in whispers, within earshot or loudly t' any who'd listen. I know what others think t' themselves from th' safety 'a their inner monologue.
They say 'Jim Caedus? He crazy'.
I ain't arguin' with th' notion.
How can I?
Got a rep that encompasses not only domination an' legendary status, but that stigma of meltdown. Where those 'a you wit' clipped nuts will take a backstage politics ass peggin' from whoever wit' "professionalism" and mannered silence...like Spinal Tap I twist th' volume to 11 an' unleash verbal salvos 'cause I ain't ashamed nor afraid 'a justifiably defendin' m'self against wrongs committed.
T-B-H, I don't WANNA argue.
I ain't givin' a fuck what peoples' opinions 'a me are, long as they unnerstand that-- paraphrasin' Kenshiro in Fist 'a the North Star --'no one loves or hates' (or WORKS harder) 'with more passion than a madman'.
Prob'ly why th' thought 'a me personally chewin' through Vaughn's throat an' thirstily gorgin' on th' arterial spurts makes me harder than nuclear pasta.
Look it up y'ignorant shit.
An' while yer at it, Vaughnsy, prepare t' look up at ol' papa Jim from th' mat post match, raisin' what USED t' be YOUR Heavyweight strap high fer th' world t' see. Ready yerself for th' view of erasin', the knowledge it's over.
Yeah.
Terminally, you goin'-- like Owen --down fer th' count and I ain't talkin' fellatin' th' vampiric purple puppet from Sesame Street, Pete.
Scream for me, baby.
Shout t' th' rafters from whence you dropped, it ain't gonna stop. That grip 'round yer heart won't be internal massage, it's gonna be me 'bout t' rip it from yer chest like 'Kano Wins.
Fatality.'
Oh I know, ya gonna put on a front 'a bravery in promo, maybe even emulate me as ya done before
B
I
T
C
H
wit' th' kinda half-assin' clap-baccin' buttfuckery The Mechanic loves t' overcompensate wit'.
The Mechanic, b-t-w? From janitor t' mechanic, that's more levelin' sideways than levelin' UP, ain't it? L-O-L, keep shootin' fer th'stars gutter, geek.
Fuck's that s'posed t' be anyway, that janitor an' mechanic crap. Don't tell me yer callin' yerself The Mechanic like th' Jason Statham assassin, it's yer desperate attempts t' relate t' th' people. Yeah cuz, THAT'S what they're thinkin', "cool, Peter Vaughn plumbin' snakes flushed tampons like I do! Sweet, P-V gets 'is hands dirty an' screws vehicle-uneducated females outta they money over-chargin' fer parts an' labor just like ME!"
G-T-F-O, asshat, y'ain't no bluecollar cuck 'a th' people, yer a professional wrestler. 'Five Time World Champ' Peter Vaughn. Only thing ya got in common wit' anyone are people relatin' t' you like, "Peter's a lowdown LYIN' limp-dick piece 'a shit. Just. Like. Me."
'Cause you full of 'em; lies.
Ain'tcha.
Whadja say 'bout me weeks ago?
Oh right, 'I took (Jim) down, removing the championship that he had stolen from ALIAS.'
That what happened?
Fer th' record, yet again, ya didnt take me down, douchebag, no more than th' "finger poke 'a doom" "takes down" anyone. As crazy as I am, big difference 'tween crazy Caedus an' "mind completely gone" God 'a Gonads honorin' 'is last match wit' a pink slip in 'is pocket. I did th' job an' that's exactly why ya received so much abuse from yer opponents from then on. But yo, I covered that last time and I ain't the one known t' be a liar, am I.
As fer th' Alias thing, I guess ya forgot how I apologized t' th' man on camera prior t' pullin' my CASH-IN that way, which, was by order 'a the brass who fer some reason didn't want me t' use it as an announcement fer a challenge. Jus' like they ordered me t' do it that way when I cashed in on Reno. Tickles 'em t' see it done like that I guess. Not that that don't invalidate whatcha said, it IS always a bit of a steal wit' a cash-in...but hey, hell wouldja call what YOU did? At least I made it clear I DIDN'T wanna 'steal' the strap. You on the other hand made NO qualms 'bout gettin' the Uni HANDED t' you like ya did, didja? Nah, you was happy A-F wit'cher act 'a piracy, Captain Hooker.
Or should I call y' Peter Sham? Either way, ya livin' a fantasy outta Neverland, TWINKerbell.
Don't matter how much ya protest an' twist th' truth like ya prob'ly gonna do in response t' my words last go 'round; all ya got is yer incredibly flawed P-O-V on events that stack up as facts on MY side 'a th' line.
Tweakin' things like, 'I wonder, how much does Caedus blame me for what happened to him? Is it as much as I blame him for the scorn and derision he brought to me?'
Y- 🤣 You- 🤣🤣🤣 You jus' don't get it, do ya Pete? Jesus CHRIST, ya think it's all 'bout YOU, don'tcha ya egotistical fuckin' Hindenburg-head hack an' a half. Oh, the humanity... that's a crash 'n burn. Do I gotta problem wit' how ya ran yer cocky cumslut skeet-suckin' mouth 'bout me afterward?
Yes.
Do I fault'cha fer so enthusiastically actin' th' TOOL by proxy fer th' heads 'a th' federation t' dismantle my career?
Yep. Fa sho, ya coulda been a REAL man an' declined whatcha shoulda KNOWN woulda been-- was and IS --seen as a bullshit victory.
But do I 'blame you' yerself fer what happened t' me?
What sense would that make? It was ateam gang effort t' oust me. If I were t' blame anyone singly it'd be Vinnie Lane 'imself but hell, even HE don't got what it takes t' make me CHOOSE t' abandon my mountain, like ya prob'ly still claimin' ya did out in OCW, dickhead. He did what 'e HAD t' do which was fire me an' even THAT wouldn'ta been enough wit'out half the pussy-ass active roster nippin' at my heels 'cause I woulda taken th' low-class route 'a squattin' otherwise. Like I said before, it took an ARMY.
Get th' fuck over y'self, young lady, you ain't NOTHIN' but the buttpirate who gladly accepted stolen property.
Which segues neatly into yer next numbskull notion 'a blamin' ME fer what happened t' YOU. S'cuse me?? Muhfucker that's like runnin' up in someone house, gettin' yer balls blown off an' blamin' THEM fer yer neuterin'.
I'm sorry, my bad. That ain't right, metaphorically accusin' you 'a losin' sum'in y'ain't got: nuts.
Anyway...
Blame yerSELF fer whatcha received beyond MY Universal Championship, shithead. GodDAMN I hate people that can't take responsibility fer their own actions. Ain't THATTA bitch.
But speakin' 'a bitchin', what was it ya said next? Ah, that's right...'I've had to live with that for a year, Jimmy. And you know what? I've gotten over it.'
Oh ya got over it? That why ya brought it up? 'Cause you over it?
S-T-F-U, Petey. Y'ain't over it. If ya were, ya wouldn't hafta mention it. Yer not th' type t' get over sitches that upset'cha, clearly even after more than a YEAR has elapsed wit' you talkin' th' entire time.
Let's take a look at exhibit A: th' current subject 'a "beatin'" me. Nope, still cryin'.
Now let's take a gander at exhibit B: whatcha did in th' wake 'a losin' th' TPW International Title t' good ol' Page. Errybody here know what Vaughn did? If not, I'll fill ya in... Peter took it upon 'imself t' attack th' owner 'a th' promotion, Mr. Terry Marshall. Yeah, ya heard me. An' as an aside, SOMEHOW, inexPLICABLY, sister Vaughn still has 'is job. Why th' fuck most errything aboutcha is so far fuckin' fetched, P-V? How exactly does one physically assault the boss an' NOT get fired/banned? Y'ain't no mega draw, an' if ya were, TPW would be a billion dollar company gone public on th' stock market. But that ain't th' point I'm tryna make so we'll brush that t' th' side fer now and add that y'ALSO decided t' damage TPW property in yer pathetic temper tantrum by takin' an axe t' th' TPW sign.
It's funny...I'M th' one they say is a problem, I'M th' one wit' th' meltdown stigma but it's YOU who truly earns that. All I do is raise m'voice in protest t' shit that ain't right, YOU th' one who goes apeshit physically violent on non-competin' people an' inanimate objects. I seen toddlers wit' more restraint than you, jag-off.
Yet here you are, livin' th' good life wit' no strikes against ya an' I'M th' one tryna rebuild 'is broken career.
Time th' shoe was on th' other foot. Time fer Peter Vaughn t' get stripped of everything 'e 'as. Time fer this two-bit bunghole t' take a lesson in comprehendin' reality.
Which reminds me...I can't resist...whatcha say 'bout Krow wit' a K?
'Then there's Krow.
Who the fuck is Krow?
Why do they spell their name like that? It's Crow. CROW.
Damn lack of education in our learning systems nowadays.'
Pete... shouldn't ya have SPELLED that shit out? I mean, it ain't like we all typin' words fer people t' read, right? We SPEAKIN' in promo, ya podunk pretentious Texan twat. TROLOLOLOLOL, who th' fuck you criticizin' over education ya dumbfuck Slow White dizzy Disney dipshit?
'Damn lack of education in our learning systems nowadays', amirite?
🤣🤣🤣
Remedial jackass.
I know though: what's all this got t' do wit' how ya perform in th' ring? I mean, I may slam dunk debate'cher ass like th' shark I am puttin' a pro-bono amateur attorney t' sleep wit' a choke hold but does it really apply via physicality?
Of course it does. It all matters.
You've proven ya got no hold on reality. You've displayed a supreme lack of intelligence. You've outed yerself as an asshole who'll lose self-control in th' worst ways. You've shown that ya don't grasp exactly who it is ya been fuckin' wit' for the past year plus. An' wit' ME, Pete, those are all flaws I'll spot as mistakes made in our match an' ya better believe I'ma capitalize on 'em.
Lemme lay it out, since ya need things HANDED t' ya.
1- That absence of intelligence. It means yer more likely t' do sum'in stupid like piss me off in th' match, an' one 'a th' differences between us is that I focus my anger for th' advantage as opposed t' spazzin' out like you.
Which leads t'--
2- Yer lack 'a self-control. That bears potential t' manifest itself if YOU get pissed off in th' match (an' believe me, I'ma TRYTA make ya mad). An' shouldja get angry, that sans self-control gonna lead right back t' number 1 wit' that sans smarts enough t' know when t' pull back instead 'a goin' off takin' a risk; a risk that I'ma ream that rusty musky brown-eye over in response.
An' that brings us t'--
3- Only an idiot would give ME an openin' I'll thrust into an' gape like there's no tomorrow. 'Cause ya truly DON'T know who th' fuck I am, Vaughn. If ya did, ya'd be FAR more cautious an' self-aware than ya HAVE been since FIRST fuckin' wit' me lo so long ago. I'm th' dead-end fer competition, cocksucker. There may be some seen as better than me but even THEY don't wanna tangle. Ask Corey Smith 'bout how 'e tried t' play sick t' get outta th' match in which I TOOK 'is Xtreme Title in XWF.
Finally that steers towards--
4- Ya got no grasp on reality. Ya lie, ya whine, ya paint things inaccurately an' fail t' realize what's truly what wit' me in any way resemblin' th' truth. Ya had NO HOPE 'a defeatin' me last time wit'out th' intervention 'a many. NOW whatcha gonna do?
Ya can't see me.
You're beyond fucked, Pete...
...you're a deadman."
XCXAXEXDXUXSXXGXOXNXNXAXXKXIXLXLXXYXOXUX
Continued directly from The Res-Erection
adambarker1981.proboards.com/post/90833
'Holly!'
Maybe she's asleep with--
'ELORA!! How could I forget??'
Jim 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 arrhythmic 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--
The room is freezing and neither Holly nor Elora can be seen.
Jim's eyes scan among the latter's toys; a spoiled girl's mix of stuffed animals, Cocomelon brand vehicles and figures, assorted shapes of colored blocks, large puzzle pieces and electronic toddler light and sound devices strewn across the wooden floor and soft foam ABC learning playmats, all coated with a thick layer of dust bearing the appearance of remaining untouched for who knows how long.
Chilling wind blasts him in the face, stray strands of his long blonde hair swaying back and forth across his vision. His icy blues shoot to the window directly across from him, double-pane shattered, above the queen-size bed. The bed itself next catches his attention: askew pink comforter, sheets and blanket all exhibiting brownish stains of varying size and shape. Spatters, pooling, drops--
'Oh God, no..'
Nearly tripping several times on a handful of toys, Jim hastily winds his way over to get a closer look.
It's then that he can't help but spot the unmistakably familiar sight of a pair of Holly's orange leggings, oddly filthy and loose fitting around her nearly non-existent leg as if she'd lost an alarming amount of weight since last he'd seen her. It forms an inverted V, knee pointed up, the rest of her hidden behind the mattress within the three foot clearance between bed and wall.
Gulping hard, Jim-- avoiding crawling over the assuredly _blood_stained mattress --begins circling around the end of the bed apprehensively as an intense sense of dread takes hold despite positive hope for something-- ANYTHING --other than the obvious impossibly clinging to the outskirts of doom in his mind.
The sounds of the world around him, the ringtone, the wind, seem to retreat.
He doesn't need to complete his circumvention of the bed (but does so anyway) before being able to gaze down upon the truth...
Holly's skeletal form lies motionless on the floor, left leg bent upward, right leg extended straight, left arm laying across her torso, right arm disappearing beneath the raised bedframe. She's fully clothed (though every stitch of said is clearly discolored due to rotting in place), her sweater possessing a plethora of dark bloodstains indicating the source was most likely provided by head wounds. The proximal phalanges on her index, middle, ring and pinkie fingers of her left hand are all fractured nearly in half. Her skull (still with scant fragments of seemingly mummified scalp flesh stubbornly clutching to a bit of brunette hair) shows multiple linear fractures as well as depressed fractures to the forehead, nasal cavity and left orbital. The vertebrae beneath her skull also display major fractures.
Holly was beaten and her neck broken.
Jim vomits, the rank liquid splashing onto Holly's shoes and leggings, plastering them against her bones beneath, before he places a hand over his mouth and spurts the rest between his fingers, making a mess down his T shirt.
He feels faint and kneels before tottering back onto his butt a mere foot away from her shoes, spreading his legs so as not to touch her.
He and Holly had, long before his death, fallen out of love. Jim had allowed her to move back in to keep Elora closer to him. The conception of their daughter had been the result of a drunken night reliving happy moments... But despite these facts, it was those happy moments that flooded his mind's eye, filling his heart with an ache the sort he hadn't felt since finding his own father dead and learning of his mother passing in his absence. He was no longer in love with Holly but he never-- EVER --expected or desired anything like this to happen to her. The memories force his eyes to overflow with tears so quickly he doesn't realize he's crying before the collar of his shirt dampens and starts absorbing the cold rushing in from the broken window. He doesn't bother to wipe the tears away, just stares at Holly's open skeletal mouth, her death gape in agony and terror at what he could only imagine was realization that her life was ending as she lie paralyzed on the floor before lack of oxygen blacked her out into oblivion.
Maybe it had simply slackened at the point of winking out. Such ugly visions of Holly's final seconds of life, the minutes following erasure, play out in his head. The loss of control, of animation, the disrespect and humiliation inherent in death.
He forces himself to think on the extreme opposite end of the spectrum.
The laughter shared.
The good times...
Darkness returns.
Any possible cooperative parenting future, Elora enjoying the benefits of having both biological parents...gone.
His U-turn to positive distraction hadn't worked out as he'd hoped.
In a sudden fit of despair and rage, Jim slams his right fist against the wall, leaving an indentation.
'WHO THE FUCK DID THIS TO THE MOTHER OF MY CHILD!?'
Instantly the rage is replaced with a horrific hypothetical...
What if..."HE" had been responsible!? Rather, The One piloting his body? How ELSE could her body have been left here to rot??
Oh GOD...to Holly it would have been HIM murdering her!!
What if ELORA had witnes--
His eye catches a bundle just beside Holly's skull beneath the bed frame in the darkness.
"No, no, PLEASE GOD NO!! JESUS FUCKING CHRIST, NO!!!"
In a show of strength, Jim leans forward and powers the bed out of the way, shoving it before flipping it over to discover--
--a small pile of Holly's clothing she must have lazily dropped at some point prior to her death.
Relief mixes with the existing emotions plaguing him for a fraction of a second before the question arises in his mind:
'WHERE'S ELORA!?'
"ELORAAAA!? WHERE ARE YOU BABY," he screams brainlessly!?
'Stupid. IF she were in the house, there's no way she'd be alive.
Right??
STOP IT! DON'T THINK LIKE THAT!'
Jim rises, ripping the closet door nearly off it's hinges.
No Elora.
A blur of movement, he speedily moves to check every. Single. Room in the house in record time...
No Elora.
EXTREME panic hits, the tears continue to flow as sobbing and gagging assaults him.
The garage. His '86 Mercedes SEL 420.
A swift trip to his room, smartphone once more ringing, to grab the keys then back to the garage to check it and the Mercedes (the "Millennium Muthafalcon").
No Elora.
He tears out into the backyard, calling her, checking every bush, every possible nook and cranny nature holds...
No Elora.
"ELORAAAAAAAAAAA!!!"
He screams her name at such a volume, with such bestial intensity, he feels as if his throat might split lengthwise, drown himself in blood. He wished it would.
'She's gone. My sweet little sunshine. Gone.'
He'd endured and succeeded in escaping the afterlife solely for her.
His emotions suddenly screech to a halt. He switches off. His face goes slack. The tears cease as his heart dies.
For what seems like ten minutes he stands there allowing the freezing to seep in, waiting as if God Himself will appear and scream 'PSYCH' before plopping his reason for living into his arms.
Finally, he turns slowly...
Now unable to find the energy to walk any faster than a snail's pace, he eventually reenters his house.
'Elora is gone. Holly is gone. My animals are gone. My career is gone. Everything...my entire life is gone. I...have...nothing.'
As if on autopilot, Jim heads for the garage a second time, pauses, then detours down the hallway, up the stairs and into his bedroom. He snatches his smartphone, no longer ringing, and returns downstairs, entering the garage.
He steps to the tool area, taking a moment to find what he's looking for and plucking it up.
Setting his phone aside for a moment, he takes the chosen item in his hands and begins preparing it as he'd learned in Boy Scouts, a lesson his Assistant Scoutmaster had warned was simply for trivial information purposes and NEVER to be used practically.
He finishes the noose in less than 120 seconds, checking the wrap to ensure it'll work as required before slinging the free end over one of the rafter beams above and tying it off securely to a barbell stacked with 350 pounds in bumper plates.
He takes his phone, ascends a four foot stepladder, slips the noose over his head then quickly sets up an account on Twitter desktop, Following a slew of XWFers and a handful of TPW accounts.
He wanted everyone he knew to watch.
He'd seen while in the afterlife what The One in his body had done with his career in XWF and TPW, how all including his former friends had so easily turned their backs on him. He hoped they'd enjoy viewing his end. He knew Vinnie Lane would.
He navigates to the option for live feed, thumb hovering over--
The notification for an incoming call from an unknown number pops up.
'FUCK!'
He taps answer.
"Who is this an' whaddayoo want?"
"Jim. It's me."
That voice, so familia--
'Holy shit. It can't be.'
"......Page?"
"Yeah man."
Why the fuck would one of his worst enemies in the XWF be calling him? He and Page had been bitter rivals... How'd he get his number? Had...The One been in contact with him?
"Where've you been?"
"Eternity. 'Bout t' head back."
"What's that mean?"
"I'm killing myself. Gonna live stream it."
"Sick sense of humor, Jim."
"Not a joke. Nothin' t' live for. My daughter is gone, my career is over. Gotta go."
"Hold on, Jim, don't do anything stupi-"
He hangs up, moves to tap live--
Incoming call.
'SUNUVABITCH!'
Answers.
"Fuckin' WHAT, Chris!?"
"...Your story isn't over, brother."
"................................."
Why were Page's words so immediately impactful? Jim had already given up. He wanted to die. Didn't he?
Yes.
He did.
So why did someone-- his enemy no less --seeming to care give him pause?
"Still there?"
"............yeah."
"I've got a proposition for you. Hear me out..."
8===================================>
--PRESENT--
Clouded over glacial blue eyes survey the now empty and spotless room Holly and Elora had shared; toys and bed gone, baby mama and daughter missing, window replaced.
A bittersweet smile rests upon Jim's face. Life is so much easier, simpler, without the mouthy whore and that obnoxious little brat inundating it and his personal freedom. He isn't exactly sure where they'd both gone but it's a relief to have the house all to himself. A pseudo "family" would be a distraction he couldn't afford; he had War Games and-- even better --the snatching of the World Heavyweight Championship from Peter Vaughn to attend to.
Comeuppance.
At the moment he can't recall HOW he'd ended up aligned with Page and CCPE but he doesn't really care about the foggy details, he's earned his way to the potential peak in record time and has no intention of squandering the opportunity.
First things first, he has a promo to shoot before packing for his nearby stay in L.A. and Brawl at the Crypto.com Arena.
Closing the door behind himself, he makes for his personal promo studio three doors down, enters, then switches on lights and camera.
"I know what some say 'bout me in whispers, within earshot or loudly t' any who'd listen. I know what others think t' themselves from th' safety 'a their inner monologue.
They say 'Jim Caedus? He crazy'.
I ain't arguin' with th' notion.
How can I?
Got a rep that encompasses not only domination an' legendary status, but that stigma of meltdown. Where those 'a you wit' clipped nuts will take a backstage politics ass peggin' from whoever wit' "professionalism" and mannered silence...like Spinal Tap I twist th' volume to 11 an' unleash verbal salvos 'cause I ain't ashamed nor afraid 'a justifiably defendin' m'self against wrongs committed.
T-B-H, I don't WANNA argue.
I ain't givin' a fuck what peoples' opinions 'a me are, long as they unnerstand that-- paraphrasin' Kenshiro in Fist 'a the North Star --'no one loves or hates' (or WORKS harder) 'with more passion than a madman'.
Prob'ly why th' thought 'a me personally chewin' through Vaughn's throat an' thirstily gorgin' on th' arterial spurts makes me harder than nuclear pasta.
Look it up y'ignorant shit.
An' while yer at it, Vaughnsy, prepare t' look up at ol' papa Jim from th' mat post match, raisin' what USED t' be YOUR Heavyweight strap high fer th' world t' see. Ready yerself for th' view of erasin', the knowledge it's over.
Yeah.
Terminally, you goin'-- like Owen --down fer th' count and I ain't talkin' fellatin' th' vampiric purple puppet from Sesame Street, Pete.
Scream for me, baby.
Shout t' th' rafters from whence you dropped, it ain't gonna stop. That grip 'round yer heart won't be internal massage, it's gonna be me 'bout t' rip it from yer chest like 'Kano Wins.
Fatality.'
Oh I know, ya gonna put on a front 'a bravery in promo, maybe even emulate me as ya done before
B
I
T
C
H
wit' th' kinda half-assin' clap-baccin' buttfuckery The Mechanic loves t' overcompensate wit'.
The Mechanic, b-t-w? From janitor t' mechanic, that's more levelin' sideways than levelin' UP, ain't it? L-O-L, keep shootin' fer th'
Fuck's that s'posed t' be anyway, that janitor an' mechanic crap. Don't tell me yer callin' yerself The Mechanic like th' Jason Statham assassin, it's yer desperate attempts t' relate t' th' people. Yeah cuz, THAT'S what they're thinkin', "cool, Peter Vaughn plumbin' snakes flushed tampons like I do! Sweet, P-V gets 'is hands dirty an' screws vehicle-uneducated females outta they money over-chargin' fer parts an' labor just like ME!"
G-T-F-O, asshat, y'ain't no bluecollar cuck 'a th' people, yer a professional wrestler. 'Five Time World Champ' Peter Vaughn. Only thing ya got in common wit' anyone are people relatin' t' you like, "Peter's a lowdown LYIN' limp-dick piece 'a shit. Just. Like. Me."
'Cause you full of 'em; lies.
Ain'tcha.
Whadja say 'bout me weeks ago?
Oh right, 'I took (Jim) down, removing the championship that he had stolen from ALIAS.'
That what happened?
Fer th' record, yet again, ya didnt take me down, douchebag, no more than th' "finger poke 'a doom" "takes down" anyone. As crazy as I am, big difference 'tween crazy Caedus an' "mind completely gone" God 'a Gonads honorin' 'is last match wit' a pink slip in 'is pocket. I did th' job an' that's exactly why ya received so much abuse from yer opponents from then on. But yo, I covered that last time and I ain't the one known t' be a liar, am I.
As fer th' Alias thing, I guess ya forgot how I apologized t' th' man on camera prior t' pullin' my CASH-IN that way, which, was by order 'a the brass who fer some reason didn't want me t' use it as an announcement fer a challenge. Jus' like they ordered me t' do it that way when I cashed in on Reno. Tickles 'em t' see it done like that I guess. Not that that don't invalidate whatcha said, it IS always a bit of a steal wit' a cash-in...but hey, hell wouldja call what YOU did? At least I made it clear I DIDN'T wanna 'steal' the strap. You on the other hand made NO qualms 'bout gettin' the Uni HANDED t' you like ya did, didja? Nah, you was happy A-F wit'cher act 'a piracy, Captain Hooker.
Or should I call y' Peter Sham? Either way, ya livin' a fantasy outta Neverland, TWINKerbell.
Don't matter how much ya protest an' twist th' truth like ya prob'ly gonna do in response t' my words last go 'round; all ya got is yer incredibly flawed P-O-V on events that stack up as facts on MY side 'a th' line.
Tweakin' things like, 'I wonder, how much does Caedus blame me for what happened to him? Is it as much as I blame him for the scorn and derision he brought to me?'
Y- 🤣 You- 🤣🤣🤣 You jus' don't get it, do ya Pete? Jesus CHRIST, ya think it's all 'bout YOU, don'tcha ya egotistical fuckin' Hindenburg-head hack an' a half. Oh, the humanity... that's a crash 'n burn. Do I gotta problem wit' how ya ran yer cocky cumslut skeet-suckin' mouth 'bout me afterward?
Yes.
Do I fault'cha fer so enthusiastically actin' th' TOOL by proxy fer th' heads 'a th' federation t' dismantle my career?
Yep. Fa sho, ya coulda been a REAL man an' declined whatcha shoulda KNOWN woulda been-- was and IS --seen as a bullshit victory.
But do I 'blame you' yerself fer what happened t' me?
What sense would that make? It was a
Get th' fuck over y'self, young lady, you ain't NOTHIN' but the buttpirate who gladly accepted stolen property.
Which segues neatly into yer next numbskull notion 'a blamin' ME fer what happened t' YOU. S'cuse me?? Muhfucker that's like runnin' up in someone house, gettin' yer balls blown off an' blamin' THEM fer yer neuterin'.
I'm sorry, my bad. That ain't right, metaphorically accusin' you 'a losin' sum'in y'ain't got: nuts.
Anyway...
Blame yerSELF fer whatcha received beyond MY Universal Championship, shithead. GodDAMN I hate people that can't take responsibility fer their own actions. Ain't THATTA bitch.
But speakin' 'a bitchin', what was it ya said next? Ah, that's right...'I've had to live with that for a year, Jimmy. And you know what? I've gotten over it.'
Oh ya got over it? That why ya brought it up? 'Cause you over it?
S-T-F-U, Petey. Y'ain't over it. If ya were, ya wouldn't hafta mention it. Yer not th' type t' get over sitches that upset'cha, clearly even after more than a YEAR has elapsed wit' you talkin' th' entire time.
Let's take a look at exhibit A: th' current subject 'a "beatin'" me. Nope, still cryin'.
Now let's take a gander at exhibit B: whatcha did in th' wake 'a losin' th' TPW International Title t' good ol' Page. Errybody here know what Vaughn did? If not, I'll fill ya in... Peter took it upon 'imself t' attack th' owner 'a th' promotion, Mr. Terry Marshall. Yeah, ya heard me. An' as an aside, SOMEHOW, inexPLICABLY, sister Vaughn still has 'is job. Why th' fuck most errything aboutcha is so far fuckin' fetched, P-V? How exactly does one physically assault the boss an' NOT get fired/banned? Y'ain't no mega draw, an' if ya were, TPW would be a billion dollar company gone public on th' stock market. But that ain't th' point I'm tryna make so we'll brush that t' th' side fer now and add that y'ALSO decided t' damage TPW property in yer pathetic temper tantrum by takin' an axe t' th' TPW sign.
It's funny...I'M th' one they say is a problem, I'M th' one wit' th' meltdown stigma but it's YOU who truly earns that. All I do is raise m'voice in protest t' shit that ain't right, YOU th' one who goes apeshit physically violent on non-competin' people an' inanimate objects. I seen toddlers wit' more restraint than you, jag-off.
Yet here you are, livin' th' good life wit' no strikes against ya an' I'M th' one tryna rebuild 'is broken career.
Time th' shoe was on th' other foot. Time fer Peter Vaughn t' get stripped of everything 'e 'as. Time fer this two-bit bunghole t' take a lesson in comprehendin' reality.
Which reminds me...I can't resist...whatcha say 'bout Krow wit' a K?
'Then there's Krow.
Who the fuck is Krow?
Why do they spell their name like that? It's Crow. CROW.
Damn lack of education in our learning systems nowadays.'
Pete... shouldn't ya have SPELLED that shit out? I mean, it ain't like we all typin' words fer people t' read, right? We SPEAKIN' in promo, ya podunk pretentious Texan twat. TROLOLOLOLOL, who th' fuck you criticizin' over education ya dumbfuck Slow White dizzy Disney dipshit?
'Damn lack of education in our learning systems nowadays', amirite?
🤣🤣🤣
Remedial jackass.
I know though: what's all this got t' do wit' how ya perform in th' ring? I mean, I may slam dunk debate'cher ass like th' shark I am puttin' a pro-bono amateur attorney t' sleep wit' a choke hold but does it really apply via physicality?
Of course it does. It all matters.
You've proven ya got no hold on reality. You've displayed a supreme lack of intelligence. You've outed yerself as an asshole who'll lose self-control in th' worst ways. You've shown that ya don't grasp exactly who it is ya been fuckin' wit' for the past year plus. An' wit' ME, Pete, those are all flaws I'll spot as mistakes made in our match an' ya better believe I'ma capitalize on 'em.
Lemme lay it out, since ya need things HANDED t' ya.
1- That absence of intelligence. It means yer more likely t' do sum'in stupid like piss me off in th' match, an' one 'a th' differences between us is that I focus my anger for th' advantage as opposed t' spazzin' out like you.
Which leads t'--
2- Yer lack 'a self-control. That bears potential t' manifest itself if YOU get pissed off in th' match (an' believe me, I'ma TRYTA make ya mad). An' shouldja get angry, that sans self-control gonna lead right back t' number 1 wit' that sans smarts enough t' know when t' pull back instead 'a goin' off takin' a risk; a risk that I'ma ream that rusty musky brown-eye over in response.
An' that brings us t'--
3- Only an idiot would give ME an openin' I'll thrust into an' gape like there's no tomorrow. 'Cause ya truly DON'T know who th' fuck I am, Vaughn. If ya did, ya'd be FAR more cautious an' self-aware than ya HAVE been since FIRST fuckin' wit' me lo so long ago. I'm th' dead-end fer competition, cocksucker. There may be some seen as better than me but even THEY don't wanna tangle. Ask Corey Smith 'bout how 'e tried t' play sick t' get outta th' match in which I TOOK 'is Xtreme Title in XWF.
Finally that steers towards--
4- Ya got no grasp on reality. Ya lie, ya whine, ya paint things inaccurately an' fail t' realize what's truly what wit' me in any way resemblin' th' truth. Ya had NO HOPE 'a defeatin' me last time wit'out th' intervention 'a many. NOW whatcha gonna do?
Ya can't see me.
You're beyond fucked, Pete...
...you're a deadman."
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