Post by Jim Caedus on May 20, 2023 22:10:36 GMT -5
======€@£|)μ$======
CAEDUS REWIND: While Jim's body, inhabited by an unknown lifeforce, had reanimated after death and set about tearing Jim's personal and professional life asunder back in 2021, his spirit found itself trapped in "The Space", what was the waiting room for Purgatory in the afterlife. Confronted with an abstract being (revealed as the Guardian of the Schism) holding him captive in "The Space", Jim, seemingly powerless to fight back, tapped into the memories of his daughter along with the intense desire to return to her on Earth and unleashed an enraged expulsion of emotional energy, unwittingly destroying the Guardian.
CONTINUED DIRECTLY FROM "DEAD...AGAIN p.2"
adambarker1981.proboards.com/thread/16088/jim-caedus-backstory-2
-and without a sound, it detonates.
Jim's incorporeal form is battered in the blast, the sensation of swinging a thick metal pipe onto another slab of metal while bare-handed reverberating through him.
CAEDUS REWIND: While Jim's body, inhabited by an unknown lifeforce, had reanimated after death and set about tearing Jim's personal and professional life asunder back in 2021, his spirit found itself trapped in "The Space", what was the waiting room for Purgatory in the afterlife. Confronted with an abstract being (revealed as the Guardian of the Schism) holding him captive in "The Space", Jim, seemingly powerless to fight back, tapped into the memories of his daughter along with the intense desire to return to her on Earth and unleashed an enraged expulsion of emotional energy, unwittingly destroying the Guardian.
CONTINUED DIRECTLY FROM "DEAD...AGAIN p.2"
adambarker1981.proboards.com/thread/16088/jim-caedus-backstory-2
-and without a sound, it detonates.
Jim's incorporeal form is battered in the blast, the sensation of swinging a thick metal pipe onto another slab of metal while bare-handed reverberating through him.
The tremor in the space becomes a quake and Jim, a miniscule guppy in a violently shaken bottle of water-
The ingress.
Beyond.
Beyond.
-perceives the existence and appearance of his escape as the space pulses.
He conceives propelling himself forward...
...the space begins to fold...
...and as he closes the distance between his form and the-
He conceives propelling himself forward...
...the space begins to fold...
...and as he closes the distance between his form and the-
ingress
-the space collapses-
j
e
t
t
i
s
o
n
i
n
g
j
e
t
t
i
s
o
n
i
n
g
Jim
through the ingress.
"DEAD...AGAIN p.3"
~INGRESSUM~
The incorporeal by definition shouldn't be capable of falling victim to physical pain. It defies all logic of which we know and understand from within our tangible plane of existence.
And yet, as Jim's intangible form- his soul -is shot through the ingress exiting "The Space" en route to God knows where, he does indeed experience agony incomparable to any he'd suffered in life...including both deaths. An agony he can only, if challenged, describe as what it must feel like to be impossibly pushed through the eye of a needle: mind numbing, blinding torment as he feels stretched from crown of head to soles of feet, forcibly elongated to the point of snapping while accelerating through the pinhole ingress and beyond.
Had he teeth, he'd be clenching them til shattering.
He has no eyes but can perceive incredibly uncomfortable visual stimuli surrounding his spirit in violently jarring fashion, reminiscent of the room spinning while heavily intoxicated, a miasma of patterns and color assaulting the desire for blackness and peace as he speeds down the ethereal conduit.
A third sensation boards his torturous trek: white noise entering the ears he doesn't possess, assaulting his absent eardrums, pervading his void pate. At the very least, the inexplicable auditory serves to slightly distract him from the hell he's currently enduring.
And still now a fourth sensation enlists, what he perceives as phantom fingers and hands grasping him by the nonexistent shoulders, pulling him along ever forward, ever faster. The chaos has him wishing it would all just end, that he simply wink out of thought and consciousness.
Then, as if "seen" through closed eyelids, an illumination so bright before him, one final hammer of pain, a squeeze of pressure...and it's over.
Upright.
Standing upright.
No, not standing.
But upright.
Jim slowly opens his eyes- 'I- I can SEE!' -.......
......to behold a sight simultaneously so familiar...yet so utterly alien......
A globe.
A globe defying human scientific consesus for planetary structure. Upper hemisphere consisting of verdant fields, forests and cool crystal blue rivers with a dominating single centric mountain reaching nigh to the northern axis in a sapphire sky peppered with white cloud cover and ending quite literally at the hard definitive outer borders in the midst of a thick layer of a ghostly grey ring of mist halving the planetoid. Lower hemisphere, as if simply glued to the bottom of the upper "cap", composed of bleak, unwelcoming barren rock. Cruel crags surrounding the base of yet another singular dominant though _inverted_ mountain covered in ice and snow, stabbing downward nearly to the southern axis into an orange and honey topaz sky seemingly swirling with the gaseous cumulus belching from the fires of Hell itself.
And the globe itself, not spinning but stationary, hovering in...
Blackness.
No distant stars.
No other celestial bodies.
Not even a sun (yet the globe is illuminated).
The planetoid exists in nothingness.
In fact, he notices, so does Jim, "standing" motionless in nothingness like perched upon an invisible platform he can neither see nor feel beneath his feet.
A moment later-
Quite without warning, he's sucked towards the globe at extreme velocity. So fast the planetoid becomes a blur that swiftly overwhelms his entire field of vision as he rockets to the extreme middle and enters the ring of mist whereupon he decelerates instantly to alight safely on the outer rim of the upper hemisphere border.
"DEAD...AGAIN p.4"
~VIGILUM TERMINUS~
People.
Finally, people.
People milling about in the thick fog, some having quiet conversations with themselves or others, some silent. Still more run the gamut- bizarrely -between flesh and blood solid and...not. The latter appear at varying degrees of translucency, some of which look to be literal ghosts, mere outlines of human form, and those "ghosts" are all completely transfixed on standing/hovering stock still, gazing into/at nothing at all in particular regardless of whichever direction they're facing.
What Jim finds to be equally as odd is how miniscule every soul, whether corporeal or not, seems to be. None appear to possess the body structure type that we on Earth refer to as dwarf, yet the tallest among them fall short of his height by two meters or so at minimum.
"Thou art vast. Mine eyes hath ne'er before been cast upon thy like."
Jim turns to regard the feminine voice behind him.
"Thine spirit hath translated thy form unequaled to all but His."
"What Brooke' means is the power of your spirit has made you a giant here in Purgatory second only to Yahweh. And she's right, I've never seen a body so massive here myself. Kind of creepy 🙂"
Again Jim turns to regard, this time a second voice and this one belonging to a male.
"Dare not speaketh for me, Joseph, lest I casteth thou to the underbelly."
"Oh shut up, Brooklyn, you won't be doing anything to me. Your name means 'from the land of the broken', don't make me mirror that by snapping you in half 🙂" Joseph looks up to Jim, "She thinks she's someone of importance here, but really Yahweh gave her the assignment to distance Himself from her and her non-stop yakking about herself."
Ignoring his words, Brooklyn levels a finger at Jim.
"Thou mayest be vast but thine presence be unwelcome. Thou art not on mine list."
"List?"
"Thou art for the Guardian of the Schism. Return from whence thou hast unlawfully-"
"Jesus Christ with you and the olde tyme language, Brooklyn. Give it a rest 🙂"
"Blasphemer!"
"Yeah that's one of the reasons I'm still here. Remember, you stupid bimbo? 🙂"
"I'm going to kick your midget ass if you don't can-it, Joe, I promise."
"There's the real you."
"Both 'a ya shut the FUCK up!"
Jim's words in anger and frustration thunder throughout the immediate area, those of flesh and blood looking to him in shock and/or fear.
"Now what the fuck ya talkin' 'bout 'I ain't on your list', 'Brooklyn'?"
"You.. You are not supposed to be here."
"Yeah no SHIT I ain't s'posed t' be here, I should be back on Earth with my fuckin' daughter! So send me back if ya got the power!"
"I... I..."
"She doesn't have that power, stupid 🙂. She has no power. She's the guardian of THIS side of Purgatory but hasn't ever had to do a thing other than explain to the newly arrived spirits what to do here. Only Yahweh decides who enters and only the Guardian of the Schism has the responsibility to let the spirits in or not."
"The 'Guardian 'a the Schism'... Ya mean that big ass...thing...that was holdin' me captive earlier?"
"Weird looking beastie isn't it?"
"You mean wasn't it. Past tense. It's dead now."
Joseph's jaw drops. "...So that's how you got in here? You KILLED the Guardian??"
"I wasn't tryna kill it, it jus' happened. It wouldn't lemme go. I don't belong dead. I belong wit' my daughter."
"Well unfortunately you are dead. So-"
"You are an interloper.. A murderer!"
Jim and Joe glance back at Brooklyn.
"I'm going to tell the Lord Almighty on you and get promoted out of this b-s position."
"Over my already dead body, bitch. I'm Jim Caedus. Ask 'bout me."
She draws a previously unseen sword. "Then you die. Again."
SLAM!!
Jim brings him massive booted foot down on Brooklyn, naught but her head and arms, jutting out from beneath.
"The only thing that can stop me is me. Not Yahweh. Not Joseph. And certainly not Jim Cae-"
Jim grinds his boot, mashing her. Fragments of spirit illumination drift and dissolve into the ether.
"Dumb fuckin' cunt."
"Hoooo boy. You're in trouble 🙂"
"Whatever."
∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞
Jim breaks free the flashback of time spent in the afterlife, staring down from the balcony of his room in the Sanctuary, at the waves of the Atlantic Ocean crashing onto the beach of Kiawah Island in South Carolina.
Jim was happy to again be himself...but the memories of the horrors endured in the afterlife, his return (finding his home ransacked, pets dead, baby mama slain and daughter missing), a brush with suicide and the clusterfuck involved with his Phoenix disguise in TPW, mind control and all, was nearly too much mentally for him to handle. It'd been affecting his ability in the WGWF and seen him lose enough focus to end up with the short end of the stick and no World Heavyweight strap following his last match against Peter Vaughn.
He could place the blame on JMont...but he knew he should've been better than to allow someone to cost him his very first shot at top gold, especially given the absence of the competitory handicaps consistently slowing him down in TPW. He shudders recalling the breathing hindering mask and the flimsy three inch tall lifts in his boots. They'd proven impossible to overcome. He was glad to be rid of them and the promotion after stepping in to save Nova from the attack by Stanton's thugs.
He'd hoped Nova herself would leave the TPW given the situation and what he thought would blossom into a relationship...but she is, after all, more concerned with her American Championship and her bit of "fame" in that two-bit, low rent glorified indy promotion.
'Fuck it.'
He has better things to do than pine for that self-centered woman. He has a match to focus on. A battle to work his way from sudden midcard status back to where he belongs: the apex.
Without a second thought he pulls his phone from his pocket, activates the camera for video and presses record...
"Brooke Blakely.
Blonde 'Bombshell'.
Brooke Blakely.
OCW Paradigm Champ.
Brooke.
Blakely.
Fuck you.
How'd ya get that new strap anyway?
Gauntlet Match, right? Hooker, ya can't handle half the other wrestlers ya face, how'd ya manage to make it through a 5 person gauntlet? I'd love t' see fer myself but fer some reason OCW don't have it available. Must not 'a been worth a replay. Musta gotten lower ratings than all those awe inspirin' abortions (which is errything) This Is Awesome puts out.
Not surprisin' though; fer as much as ya run that formerly Scottie's snotty-clam suckin' mouth 'a yers lately 'bout how unstoppable y'are, y'ain't done much t' prove it an' ya deffo ain't nobody the fans 'r payin' good money t' see.
Why should they?
'Cause you Paradigm Champion? L-O-L, it may be ranked jus' under OCW's top strap but y'ain't even on the Top 5 out there. See...
Christ, Charlie Nickles is ranked!? Ya can't top Chuck the Cuck!? I've kicked 'is cock two 'r three times, ya can't oust 'is dumpy fatass from the Top 5??
Oh right, ya'd hafta be somewhat better than midcard meh considerin' ya can't compete wit' anyone definin' above average. Well, not alone t' be more specific. Ya had SYNN helpin' ya out in OCW an' ya USED t' be able t' ride JUNKO's coattails in TPW like ya did in the SEX Cup.
I know, I know, that kinda talk triggers ya, amirite? But hell, don't make it not so. I mean, ya may have gotten the pin on the Boomer Shooters but they didn't exactly try as opposed t' phonin' it in, let alone the fact they didn't even cut a promo fer the match. However, what happened agains' Young 'n GOATed? Let's watch...
Well whaddya know...if Junko hadn't held Raven back, ya never woulda gotten the pin on Cage. That's 1 point fer that 'servant'- as ya called 'er, ya whitebread bigot bitch -an' O fer yer 'No one can stop me but me' boilerplate THOT lookin' itty bitty butt-plugged stinky pinkiefinger pokin' pooper. Let's take a gander at what happened in the semifinals...
Hooooolyyyyyy SHIT...soon as Junko couldn't bail yer useless ass out, ya LOST. Two points for Souma, zilch fer Blakely. An' 'a course, AFTER that hilarious failure, ya decided t' attack JNK an' blame HER fer yer hack worthy halfassery. Let's go on an' fast forward t' the result 'a the grudge match 'tween you two at RetroMania...
An' there ya have it... That's three fer the actual talent 'a yer Dreamweavers team an' a big fat busted out bunghole brown-eye O-ring fer Brooke Blakely.
Fuckin' idiot.
Whiny ass, scapegoatin', excuse-slangin' LOSER.
Ya may be able t' best competitors like Serena Riot while she's hoppin' in 'n outta retirement but when it comes t' actual SERIOUS competition, you ain't SHIT.
An' ya wonder why neither Pete 'r I didn't pick ya fer our War Games teams?
Why the FUCK would we?? We wanna WIN, woman, we ain't got time nor spots t' waste on some slut who can't compete unless someone else helpin' 'er out 'r tippin' the scales in 'er favor firsthand. That match ain't elimination, it's ONE pin, KO or submission, how the hell we gonna depend on YOU!? Ya can't even own up t' yer own mistakes, motherfucker. Blamin' Junko fer you losin' yer g-f Scottie? How 'bout blamin' yerself fer switchin' from kind hearted insecure bubblehead t' sociopathic slattern an' scarin' 'er off? How 'bout facin' up t' the fact yer all over Twitter tossin' yer half naked body t' the public tryna harvest boners an' women-preferrin' wet slits behind Scottie's back? Or more apt, maybe it was because ya convinced 'er you were less about snatch an' more about salami when ya couldn't stop suckin' my an' Vaughn's DICKS leadin' up t' the draft...
I mean gotDAMN, dipshit, ya been nuzzlin' my nutsack before AN' after yer little bipolar buttfuckery...
Yer flattery means NOTHIN' t' me, 'specially since I know ya PROB'LY gonna be CONTRADICTIN' yer stick slobbin' words once yer promo hits fer this match when I take into account jus' how disloyal you've proven t' be t' ANYONE who shows ya any amount 'a friendship, positivity an' trust, twat.
Draft BROOKE BLAKELY!?
I'd rather dunk my balls in butterscotch an' dangle 'em over Bobby Bourbon's lame ass "diss rappin" rimjobbin' jaws hopin' 'e don't bite 'em faster than TK bit my trash talkin' style (yeah fuck ya both fer treatin' Nickles like a c-note while ya ignore the man you was beggin' t' be a B.O.B.er...ME. TROLOLOLOLOL).
Anyway, fuck THOSE hos, back t' the "can't make a ho a" house name hag at hand...
So whatcha got up yer female fist gaped pink pocket fer me, Flakely?
Gonna trash me fer my record out in Thunder Pro Wrestling? Tell ya what, when you can pretend t' be a luchadore strappin' a suffocatin' leather mask t' yer face wit' ankle snappin', balance breakin' lifts in yer boots an' still manage t' place runner-up or better in a Battle Royal an' pick two tons 'a smegma scented Aaron Warthog off th' mat wit'out someone in yer corner stackin' the deck fer ya, you go ahead an' hit me with that.
Gonna slam me fer losin' t' Vaughn? Go for it. That was my second match 'ere an' it was fer the World Heavyweight Championship...NOT TO MENTION- despite my OWNIN' the loss -it included a climax killin' cameo from "I gotta inject myself into errything 'cause I'm a whore fer attention" jag-off JMont. An' lest we forget, you was in that War Games team cap'n Battle Royal leadin' up t' the championship match an' LOST while I won. So be my guest...cut off yer nose t' spite yer face, fucko.
Or wait...gonna insult me fer some stupid shit from way back?
Newsflash, it ain't 2021 or any year prior, princess, that long ago gutless low hangin' fruit ain't got NO bearin' on the HERE an' the NOW. Do it?
Truth is, y'ain't got a thing recently substantial t' slap me wit', witch. Not in words an' ya DAMN sure ain't got shit t' show me in the ring.
So when ya say shit like:
on Twitter t' the vapid vacuous pussy peanut gallery, it's only settin' ya up fer lookin' even more so like the LOSER ya truly are. That snap at Junko definitively bitcha in the ass, the fuck ya think yer predictions 'a beatin' ME gonna wind up like?
I'm 27 years in this business wit' 32 championships, a mountain 'a accolades, HOF lists an' LEGACY proppin' me up. I'm a muthafuckin' warrior. A WINNER. Proven precious commodity REGARDLESS 'a how much HATE I receive from my "peers" in this business.
I'm JC, an' not that cocksucker Keeton-
JIM
FUCKIN'
CAEDUS,
C
U
N
T
I'm the LAST asshole ya wanna fuck wit'.
'No one can stop you but you'?
I'm gonna rip out yer ovaries an' gift 'em t' Scottie, skank."
XXXCXAXEXDXUXSXXGXOXNXNXAXXKXIXLXLXXYXOXUXXX
"DEAD...AGAIN p.3"
~INGRESSUM~
The incorporeal by definition shouldn't be capable of falling victim to physical pain. It defies all logic of which we know and understand from within our tangible plane of existence.
And yet, as Jim's intangible form- his soul -is shot through the ingress exiting "The Space" en route to God knows where, he does indeed experience agony incomparable to any he'd suffered in life...including both deaths. An agony he can only, if challenged, describe as what it must feel like to be impossibly pushed through the eye of a needle: mind numbing, blinding torment as he feels stretched from crown of head to soles of feet, forcibly elongated to the point of snapping while accelerating through the pinhole ingress and beyond.
Had he teeth, he'd be clenching them til shattering.
He has no eyes but can perceive incredibly uncomfortable visual stimuli surrounding his spirit in violently jarring fashion, reminiscent of the room spinning while heavily intoxicated, a miasma of patterns and color assaulting the desire for blackness and peace as he speeds down the ethereal conduit.
A third sensation boards his torturous trek: white noise entering the ears he doesn't possess, assaulting his absent eardrums, pervading his void pate. At the very least, the inexplicable auditory serves to slightly distract him from the hell he's currently enduring.
And still now a fourth sensation enlists, what he perceives as phantom fingers and hands grasping him by the nonexistent shoulders, pulling him along ever forward, ever faster. The chaos has him wishing it would all just end, that he simply wink out of thought and consciousness.
Then, as if "seen" through closed eyelids, an illumination so bright before him, one final hammer of pain, a squeeze of pressure...and it's over.
Upright.
Standing upright.
No, not standing.
But upright.
Jim slowly opens his eyes- 'I- I can SEE!' -.......
......to behold a sight simultaneously so familiar...yet so utterly alien......
A globe.
A globe defying human scientific consesus for planetary structure. Upper hemisphere consisting of verdant fields, forests and cool crystal blue rivers with a dominating single centric mountain reaching nigh to the northern axis in a sapphire sky peppered with white cloud cover and ending quite literally at the hard definitive outer borders in the midst of a thick layer of a ghostly grey ring of mist halving the planetoid. Lower hemisphere, as if simply glued to the bottom of the upper "cap", composed of bleak, unwelcoming barren rock. Cruel crags surrounding the base of yet another singular dominant though _inverted_ mountain covered in ice and snow, stabbing downward nearly to the southern axis into an orange and honey topaz sky seemingly swirling with the gaseous cumulus belching from the fires of Hell itself.
And the globe itself, not spinning but stationary, hovering in...
Blackness.
No distant stars.
No other celestial bodies.
Not even a sun (yet the globe is illuminated).
The planetoid exists in nothingness.
In fact, he notices, so does Jim, "standing" motionless in nothingness like perched upon an invisible platform he can neither see nor feel beneath his feet.
A moment later-
Quite without warning, he's sucked towards the globe at extreme velocity. So fast the planetoid becomes a blur that swiftly overwhelms his entire field of vision as he rockets to the extreme middle and enters the ring of mist whereupon he decelerates instantly to alight safely on the outer rim of the upper hemisphere border.
"DEAD...AGAIN p.4"
~VIGILUM TERMINUS~
People.
Finally, people.
People milling about in the thick fog, some having quiet conversations with themselves or others, some silent. Still more run the gamut- bizarrely -between flesh and blood solid and...not. The latter appear at varying degrees of translucency, some of which look to be literal ghosts, mere outlines of human form, and those "ghosts" are all completely transfixed on standing/hovering stock still, gazing into/at nothing at all in particular regardless of whichever direction they're facing.
What Jim finds to be equally as odd is how miniscule every soul, whether corporeal or not, seems to be. None appear to possess the body structure type that we on Earth refer to as dwarf, yet the tallest among them fall short of his height by two meters or so at minimum.
"Thou art vast. Mine eyes hath ne'er before been cast upon thy like."
Jim turns to regard the feminine voice behind him.
"Thine spirit hath translated thy form unequaled to all but His."
"What Brooke' means is the power of your spirit has made you a giant here in Purgatory second only to Yahweh. And she's right, I've never seen a body so massive here myself. Kind of creepy 🙂"
Again Jim turns to regard, this time a second voice and this one belonging to a male.
"Dare not speaketh for me, Joseph, lest I casteth thou to the underbelly."
"Oh shut up, Brooklyn, you won't be doing anything to me. Your name means 'from the land of the broken', don't make me mirror that by snapping you in half 🙂" Joseph looks up to Jim, "She thinks she's someone of importance here, but really Yahweh gave her the assignment to distance Himself from her and her non-stop yakking about herself."
Ignoring his words, Brooklyn levels a finger at Jim.
"Thou mayest be vast but thine presence be unwelcome. Thou art not on mine list."
"List?"
"Thou art for the Guardian of the Schism. Return from whence thou hast unlawfully-"
"Jesus Christ with you and the olde tyme language, Brooklyn. Give it a rest 🙂"
"Blasphemer!"
"Yeah that's one of the reasons I'm still here. Remember, you stupid bimbo? 🙂"
"I'm going to kick your midget ass if you don't can-it, Joe, I promise."
"There's the real you."
"Both 'a ya shut the FUCK up!"
Jim's words in anger and frustration thunder throughout the immediate area, those of flesh and blood looking to him in shock and/or fear.
"Now what the fuck ya talkin' 'bout 'I ain't on your list', 'Brooklyn'?"
"You.. You are not supposed to be here."
"Yeah no SHIT I ain't s'posed t' be here, I should be back on Earth with my fuckin' daughter! So send me back if ya got the power!"
"I... I..."
"She doesn't have that power, stupid 🙂. She has no power. She's the guardian of THIS side of Purgatory but hasn't ever had to do a thing other than explain to the newly arrived spirits what to do here. Only Yahweh decides who enters and only the Guardian of the Schism has the responsibility to let the spirits in or not."
"The 'Guardian 'a the Schism'... Ya mean that big ass...thing...that was holdin' me captive earlier?"
"Weird looking beastie isn't it?"
"You mean wasn't it. Past tense. It's dead now."
Joseph's jaw drops. "...So that's how you got in here? You KILLED the Guardian??"
"I wasn't tryna kill it, it jus' happened. It wouldn't lemme go. I don't belong dead. I belong wit' my daughter."
"Well unfortunately you are dead. So-"
"You are an interloper.. A murderer!"
Jim and Joe glance back at Brooklyn.
"I'm going to tell the Lord Almighty on you and get promoted out of this b-s position."
"Over my already dead body, bitch. I'm Jim Caedus. Ask 'bout me."
She draws a previously unseen sword. "Then you die. Again."
SLAM!!
Jim brings him massive booted foot down on Brooklyn, naught but her head and arms, jutting out from beneath.
"The only thing that can stop me is me. Not Yahweh. Not Joseph. And certainly not Jim Cae-"
Jim grinds his boot, mashing her. Fragments of spirit illumination drift and dissolve into the ether.
"Dumb fuckin' cunt."
"Hoooo boy. You're in trouble 🙂"
"Whatever."
∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞
Jim breaks free the flashback of time spent in the afterlife, staring down from the balcony of his room in the Sanctuary, at the waves of the Atlantic Ocean crashing onto the beach of Kiawah Island in South Carolina.
Jim was happy to again be himself...but the memories of the horrors endured in the afterlife, his return (finding his home ransacked, pets dead, baby mama slain and daughter missing), a brush with suicide and the clusterfuck involved with his Phoenix disguise in TPW, mind control and all, was nearly too much mentally for him to handle. It'd been affecting his ability in the WGWF and seen him lose enough focus to end up with the short end of the stick and no World Heavyweight strap following his last match against Peter Vaughn.
He could place the blame on JMont...but he knew he should've been better than to allow someone to cost him his very first shot at top gold, especially given the absence of the competitory handicaps consistently slowing him down in TPW. He shudders recalling the breathing hindering mask and the flimsy three inch tall lifts in his boots. They'd proven impossible to overcome. He was glad to be rid of them and the promotion after stepping in to save Nova from the attack by Stanton's thugs.
He'd hoped Nova herself would leave the TPW given the situation and what he thought would blossom into a relationship...but she is, after all, more concerned with her American Championship and her bit of "fame" in that two-bit, low rent glorified indy promotion.
'Fuck it.'
He has better things to do than pine for that self-centered woman. He has a match to focus on. A battle to work his way from sudden midcard status back to where he belongs: the apex.
Without a second thought he pulls his phone from his pocket, activates the camera for video and presses record...
"Brooke Blakely.
Blonde 'Bombshell'.
Brooke Blakely.
OCW Paradigm Champ.
Brooke.
Blakely.
Fuck you.
How'd ya get that new strap anyway?
Gauntlet Match, right? Hooker, ya can't handle half the other wrestlers ya face, how'd ya manage to make it through a 5 person gauntlet? I'd love t' see fer myself but fer some reason OCW don't have it available. Must not 'a been worth a replay. Musta gotten lower ratings than all those awe inspirin' abortions (which is errything) This Is Awesome puts out.
Not surprisin' though; fer as much as ya run that formerly Scottie's snotty-clam suckin' mouth 'a yers lately 'bout how unstoppable y'are, y'ain't done much t' prove it an' ya deffo ain't nobody the fans 'r payin' good money t' see.
Why should they?
'Cause you Paradigm Champion? L-O-L, it may be ranked jus' under OCW's top strap but y'ain't even on the Top 5 out there. See...
Christ, Charlie Nickles is ranked!? Ya can't top Chuck the Cuck!? I've kicked 'is cock two 'r three times, ya can't oust 'is dumpy fatass from the Top 5??
Oh right, ya'd hafta be somewhat better than midcard meh considerin' ya can't compete wit' anyone definin' above average. Well, not alone t' be more specific. Ya had SYNN helpin' ya out in OCW an' ya USED t' be able t' ride JUNKO's coattails in TPW like ya did in the SEX Cup.
I know, I know, that kinda talk triggers ya, amirite? But hell, don't make it not so. I mean, ya may have gotten the pin on the Boomer Shooters but they didn't exactly try as opposed t' phonin' it in, let alone the fact they didn't even cut a promo fer the match. However, what happened agains' Young 'n GOATed? Let's watch...
Well whaddya know...if Junko hadn't held Raven back, ya never woulda gotten the pin on Cage. That's 1 point fer that 'servant'- as ya called 'er, ya whitebread bigot bitch -an' O fer yer 'No one can stop me but me' boilerplate THOT lookin' itty bitty butt-plugged stinky pinkiefinger pokin' pooper. Let's take a gander at what happened in the semifinals...
Hooooolyyyyyy SHIT...soon as Junko couldn't bail yer useless ass out, ya LOST. Two points for Souma, zilch fer Blakely. An' 'a course, AFTER that hilarious failure, ya decided t' attack JNK an' blame HER fer yer hack worthy halfassery. Let's go on an' fast forward t' the result 'a the grudge match 'tween you two at RetroMania...
An' there ya have it... That's three fer the actual talent 'a yer Dreamweavers team an' a big fat busted out bunghole brown-eye O-ring fer Brooke Blakely.
Fuckin' idiot.
Whiny ass, scapegoatin', excuse-slangin' LOSER.
Ya may be able t' best competitors like Serena Riot while she's hoppin' in 'n outta retirement but when it comes t' actual SERIOUS competition, you ain't SHIT.
An' ya wonder why neither Pete 'r I didn't pick ya fer our War Games teams?
Why the FUCK would we?? We wanna WIN, woman, we ain't got time nor spots t' waste on some slut who can't compete unless someone else helpin' 'er out 'r tippin' the scales in 'er favor firsthand. That match ain't elimination, it's ONE pin, KO or submission, how the hell we gonna depend on YOU!? Ya can't even own up t' yer own mistakes, motherfucker. Blamin' Junko fer you losin' yer g-f Scottie? How 'bout blamin' yerself fer switchin' from kind hearted insecure bubblehead t' sociopathic slattern an' scarin' 'er off? How 'bout facin' up t' the fact yer all over Twitter tossin' yer half naked body t' the public tryna harvest boners an' women-preferrin' wet slits behind Scottie's back? Or more apt, maybe it was because ya convinced 'er you were less about snatch an' more about salami when ya couldn't stop suckin' my an' Vaughn's DICKS leadin' up t' the draft...
I mean gotDAMN, dipshit, ya been nuzzlin' my nutsack before AN' after yer little bipolar buttfuckery...
Yer flattery means NOTHIN' t' me, 'specially since I know ya PROB'LY gonna be CONTRADICTIN' yer stick slobbin' words once yer promo hits fer this match when I take into account jus' how disloyal you've proven t' be t' ANYONE who shows ya any amount 'a friendship, positivity an' trust, twat.
Draft BROOKE BLAKELY!?
I'd rather dunk my balls in butterscotch an' dangle 'em over Bobby Bourbon's lame ass "diss rappin" rimjobbin' jaws hopin' 'e don't bite 'em faster than TK bit my trash talkin' style (yeah fuck ya both fer treatin' Nickles like a c-note while ya ignore the man you was beggin' t' be a B.O.B.er...ME. TROLOLOLOLOL).
Anyway, fuck THOSE hos, back t' the "can't make a ho a" house name hag at hand...
So whatcha got up yer female fist gaped pink pocket fer me, Flakely?
Gonna trash me fer my record out in Thunder Pro Wrestling? Tell ya what, when you can pretend t' be a luchadore strappin' a suffocatin' leather mask t' yer face wit' ankle snappin', balance breakin' lifts in yer boots an' still manage t' place runner-up or better in a Battle Royal an' pick two tons 'a smegma scented Aaron Warthog off th' mat wit'out someone in yer corner stackin' the deck fer ya, you go ahead an' hit me with that.
Gonna slam me fer losin' t' Vaughn? Go for it. That was my second match 'ere an' it was fer the World Heavyweight Championship...NOT TO MENTION- despite my OWNIN' the loss -it included a climax killin' cameo from "I gotta inject myself into errything 'cause I'm a whore fer attention" jag-off JMont. An' lest we forget, you was in that War Games team cap'n Battle Royal leadin' up t' the championship match an' LOST while I won. So be my guest...cut off yer nose t' spite yer face, fucko.
Or wait...gonna insult me fer some stupid shit from way back?
Newsflash, it ain't 2021 or any year prior, princess, that long ago gutless low hangin' fruit ain't got NO bearin' on the HERE an' the NOW. Do it?
Truth is, y'ain't got a thing recently substantial t' slap me wit', witch. Not in words an' ya DAMN sure ain't got shit t' show me in the ring.
So when ya say shit like:
on Twitter t' the vapid vacuous pussy peanut gallery, it's only settin' ya up fer lookin' even more so like the LOSER ya truly are. That snap at Junko definitively bitcha in the ass, the fuck ya think yer predictions 'a beatin' ME gonna wind up like?
I'm 27 years in this business wit' 32 championships, a mountain 'a accolades, HOF lists an' LEGACY proppin' me up. I'm a muthafuckin' warrior. A WINNER. Proven precious commodity REGARDLESS 'a how much HATE I receive from my "peers" in this business.
I'm JC, an' not that cocksucker Keeton-
JIM
FUCKIN'
CAEDUS,
C
U
N
T
I'm the LAST asshole ya wanna fuck wit'.
'No one can stop you but you'?
I'm gonna rip out yer ovaries an' gift 'em t' Scottie, skank."
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