Post by Jim Caedus on Jun 3, 2023 22:17:20 GMT -5
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----------------------------WEEKS AGO------------------------------
A fist raises to a cherry oak front door.
But not just any fist; a fist that's dropped more teeth than tweak, KOd more combatants than Carnera and cleanly snatched more legitimate straps than all of Team Vaughn COMBINED.
Yeah that's right, fam... It's
Jim
Fuckin'
Caedus
And we find our hero here in the suburbs of North Las Vegas, Nevada- last known whereabouts of his current target -'cause ol' Jim's got a War Games gang to gather, starting with APEX brother-in-arms Robert Main...
KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK
Why not call the Mainiac, you ask? Tried that, with no less than 51 voice mails and 118 texts on Bob-O's phone over the past 48 hours. No response.
Why not ring the doorbell?
Fuck off, that's why.
KNOCK!
KNOCK!!
KNOCK!!!
He turns from the door, pensive, mentally flipping through what he's gonna say. He has no idea why Main would ignore his calls and texts but he tends to assume the worst.
The door opens behind him, he spins and slaps on a jovial grin-
"BOB-OOOOOooooh shit..."
"Knockin' on my door like the goddamn police- Who the FUCK'S Bob Main!?"
"He used t' live here, ma'am."
"FUCK that got to do with me!?"
"Wouldja happen t' know where 'e went? Like a forwardin' addre-"
SLAM!!
"Guess not."
"We know where tuh find yuh friend."
Jim turns to see two men- of the mobster variety -approach from a Mercedes S600 at the curb.
Uh oh.
"You're Jim Caedus, right?"
"Who?"
"Dat's cute. Get 'n duh car."
"If this about that Pappalardo shit from 6 years ago-"
"Nah, Pappalardo's no longuh wit'us. Now everyting he owned, we own. Including yuh unpaid debt."
"Oh fer fucksake... When exactly do debts end wit' you people?"
"When yuh dead. Get in."
A simple gesture to the holstered pistol (open carry state) at the Italian's side informs our hero any further difficulty may likely result in a bullet. He reluctantly complies...
------------------------53 MINUTES LATER--------------------------
GIUSEPPE'S MEATS & RISTORANTE, PRIMM, NV
Jim is forcibly seated at a backroom table across from an empty chair, his armed chaperones taking position behind and to either side of him. Moments later an archetypal Italian mob boss standing what looks to be 3'5" saunters in from the swinging double doors of the kitchen followed closely by no less than four much taller archetypal Italian mob boss underlings.
The younger of the four hurries to place a stack of phone books on the seat across from Jim, helping the diminutive Don to ascend and sit at a height slightly higher than Jim's own line of sight.
At this point the four underlings each take a seat behind the table, two to the left and two to the right of the dapper dwarf, all five making sure to pin our hero with looks clearly meant to intimidate.
Jim, on the other hand, is trying hard- VERY hard -not to giggle, much less smile at the midget mafioso before him.
Staff quickly exit the kitchen carrying a plate of pasta, bread, and a bottle of wine, setting it all down in front of the boss before bustling back to the kitchen.
The boss pops the cork, pours himself a sippy cup (but a damn FINE sippy cup, ya gotta give him that) of red wine, sets the bottle back onto the table and levels Jim with his best interpretation of a tough guy glare.
"Let's get to it. Tuh my immediate right is my unduhboss "Comico" Marco Nondivertente. He also moonlights as a stand-up comedian."
"Oh yeah? Let's hear a joke, Marco."
"Knock knock."
"Heh. Who's there?"
Marco pulls a revolver and aims it point blank at Jim's face. "Laugh."
Jim offers a forced guffaw with terrified wide eyes.
"Hilarious!"
Marco nods, satisfied, with a slight smile and puts the piece away.
"He kills 'em everytime wit' dat one. Tuh my immediate left, my Consigliere Macaroni Zotico."
"Yer...name is _Macaroni_?"
Macaroni impossibly pulls a shotgun from his odd choice of ten-gallon hat and levels it at Jim's face. "Gotta problem wit' dat? If yuh do it's okay. I respect yuh and love yuh."
"Not at all, it's adorable sir. An' I...love...you...too?"
Macaroni blushes, sliding the shotgun impossibly back beneath the ten-gallon.
"Macaroni's what we southern Sicilians call a confused, kindly hick from duh north. He runs our beef business situated in Texas. Tuh HIS immediate left is my hitman, known only as "il Emarginata" wit' duh feminized "a" at duh end 'cause he sleeps wit' incredibly masculine women wit' clitorises bigguh than his dick."
"I slip duh long barrel pistol from it's hideaway safely ensconced down duh front 'uh my slacks 'cause it poses no threat tuh my miniature salami. I point it at duh forehead 'uh duh man across duh table from me. He undoubtedly has a much larger penis than I do so I hate him and pray he gives me a reason tuh unload."
Jim throws his hands up. "I didn't even SAY anything this time!"
"What have I told yuh 'bout narratin' for yuhself yuh idiot?"
"I apologize tuh duh boss an' slide my pistol back down my slacks wishin' I wasn't sittin' so I could slide it firmly up my ass where it feels so much bettuh."
The boss sighs and rubs his forehead in frustration.
"Anyway, tuh Marco's right is "Wop" Johnny Salvadoregno. He fetches duh coffee."
Johnny hastily pulls his own pistol- albeit backwards -and points the grip at Jim, the barrel leveled at his own face. "And I fetch one HELLUVA newspapuh too!"
"Shaddup Johnny. As fuh me, I'm Don "Piccolo" Pietro Violenza," he states as Johnny pockets his pistol and he himself produces his own, sticking it in Jim's face. "I've got an offuh yuh can't refuse."
"I'm ALL ears."
"You're tuh kidnap James Raven, Chris Page and his wife Candace. They're gonna sign WGWF an' duh Velvet Rabbit ovuh tuh ME. Yuh know, so's we can go legitimate."
"Ironic as fuck but simple enough. May I put a team t'gether t' help me?"
"Do yuh vouch for 'em?"
"Do I vouch fer Robert Main, Lycana, Dolly Waters an' Nova Skye unless otherwise replaced by I'ma assume someone like Spencer Adams? Yes. Yes I do."
"Then if yuh fail, they die along wit'yuh. AND yuh families."
"That's fair."
"Bring duh targets back here on duh Saturday before War Games."
"Ya got it, Don "Piccolo"."
"Get started. You'll find yuh friend Main in Ohio."
----------------------------PRESENT DAY-------------------------------
Spruce Pine, NC
Ah, Smithmore Castle.
Who'da thunk they'd discover an elegant 15,000 square foot royal estate owned by Scottish "Lord" sat upon a mountaintop and surrounded by 100 private acres of woodland, available for booking in similar pedestrian fashion as an Airbnb, located deep in the podunkery of North Carolina?
Jim Caedus would.
Well, not really. Jim had only caught the place while undergoing his usual braggart douchebag "most expensive hotels" Google search and found the price tag of near $3,000 a night for he and his War Games team more than suitable for a show-off.
We currently find our favorite endearing dickhead in the Starlight Bar enjoying a luxury bartender-insulting bottle of Bud Light, sitting across from a member of the staff embroiled in a board game infamous for abstract strategy. Jim fingertips one of his pieces and jumps several of his opponent's in sequence to end up on the opposite end of the board.
"King me."
"The game is chess, sir, we've been over this repeatedly in the last half hour. How many times must I remind you?"
"How many times mus' I remindja I don't know chess?"
The bartender chimes in from out of frame. "Charles, leave the dullard alone and king him."
"Giving these people a hard time, hoss?"
Jim's eyes shoot to the bar entrance as his teammates walk in, an overjoyed smile cutting across his handsome visage as Charles sighs in relief and takes his leave.
"Eeeeeeeeeeeeey!! THERE'S my army! I'd like t' thank y'all fer arrivin' at the same time in the interest 'a savin' word count."
Spencer leans in to Main. "What's he on about?"
Main shrugs. "Just smile and nod."
Jim stands and meets them all halfway, offering Main and Spencer a dap each.
"Myyyyy brothers."
He turns to Dolly- "WHUTTUP LIL' SIS!?" -before palming her head on both sides and headbutting her.
Hard.
CRACK!!
Jim regains consciousness a few seconds later, picking himself up off the floor while Dolly stands unfazed.
"Jesus H. Concussion Christ..."
Laughs. "Howdy big bro."
Turning finally to Lycana, jest falling away, Jim grabs her right hand and lifts it to his lips, kissing it. He releases as she allows her hand to hover a moment, meeting his gaze.
"Good t' see ya Tavvy..."
"Hey Jimmy..."
Their eyes remain locked.
"Get a room," Spencer lobs.
"Which reminds me," Jim replies, "Bob-O, I setcha up in the Monarch Room, Spence' you've got the Duke, Dolly yer in the Grand Tower View Jr. Suite 'cause, well, under 18 an' all-"
"Huh? Hold yer horses-"
Clapping a hand over her mouth. "SHH," he continues in whisper, "got a discount by tellin' 'em yer a minor." He removes his hand and musses her hair. "Don't grow up too fast, _LIL_ sis," he adds loudly. "An' Ly, gotchoo the Carradine View Room...but'cha can stay wit' me in the Royal Tower View Suite if..ya know.. if ya want company..."
"Jimmy..."
Knowing where that's headed, he changes the subject quickly.
"So really, only thing lef' t' do now is have a couple drinks, catcha bite t' eat courtesy 'a the in-house gourmet chef, discuss our War Games strategy an', oh yeah, I been strong-armed inta helpin' the Violenza crime family kidnap Chris Page, 'is wife Candace an' James Raven so as t' force 'em t' sign WGWF an' the Velvet Rabbit over t' the mob. Told 'em I'd be needin' assistance an' name-dropped you all, so they're gonna kills us if we don't pull it off. Also our families."
Silence...as four pair of eyes stare Jim down in disbelief.
Jim suddenly starts 🤣 and they all start 🤣 and a good time is had by all. Finally the hilarity subsides. Jim wipes his laughy tears and continues...
"Nah fer real though. They're gonna kill us all an' our families."
"Son of a BITCH!" Main tackles Jim and starts choking him.
"Of course," Ly murmurs.
"Two types 'a people in this world: the real...an' the fake.
The genuine asskickers like Team Caedus are the kinda cervix slammin' stars an' sack severin' starlets one can count on t' deliver. T' separate the wheat from the chaff in the ring.
Then ya got the latter...the faux.
Enter Cholo an' Outcast.
Firstly y'got the unimpressive Peter's-dick-ridin' pendejo runnin' that Vaughn-cock-magnet 'e calls a mouth 'a his on Twitter ironically callin' MY gang misfits while believin' 'e fits in 'is team.
Isn't 'at cute? He thinks he's people. He don't realize he's jus' the brayin' burro 'a the group. The jackass. The white knightin' hero tricked inta bein' a beatdown buffer an' sacrificial lamb fer a pack 'a villains.
Fuckin' dipshit.
Yer a tool, Cholo.
'Cause whatcha bringin' t' the table? A short career comprised of a single defense IC reign? A supershow win? Yer habit 'a distraction by bitches (as a backed-up sperm brain incel no less), booze an' parties leadin' t' NUMEROUS losses via failin' t' pay attention an' KNOW. YOUR. ENEMIES? Many multi-opponent match failures?
Mhm.
Get the point, puto?
You ain't elite, you the least...among us ALL. An' that includes MAC. Quite an accomplishment, asswipe.
Gonna take a lot more than pretendin' t' be gran hombre, pito pequeño, t' compete wit' us. I don't care who ya THINK y'are...yer still the FUCK-UP who failed in the West Coast Rumble, failed in the recent Battle Royal, in SPLAT's Calamity Chamber-
-ho, you ain't HALF the man I am in experience an' accolades.
Deluded cunt.
I'ma hafta knock that monochromatic clown wig right off that swollen cabeza y'fuckin' nothin'.
Anyway, secondly ya got Outcast...
In the process 'a researchin' that tryin'-too-hard-to-be-edgy jag-off, I found 'e was jus' a piss-drunk deadbeat dad too busy takin' shots, snortin' lines an' poppin' pills t' ever make tippy-top outside 'a the confines of 'is comfort zone in OCW. Which ain't tippy-top by any means in comparison t' REAL promotions that are recognized as provin' grounds in this business, like WGWF an' XWF.
Outcast, the junkie alcoholic who failed as a husband an' father. The BEYOND irresponsible asshole who forfeited control over 'is own personal life an' fucked 'imself AND 'is family over multiple times is who Vaughn trusts t' deliver. An undisciplined, unreliable clusterfuck of a "man".
I'm curious...how's an athlete pump 'imself fulla so much alcohol an' illegal brain addlin' substances yet achieve three times OCW Champ when there're SO MANY in-context examples 'a FAILS in the business provin' the contrary?
Here's how...
That's right. Her competin' in the business aside, we all know Veronica Strader was basically tied to the administrative in OCW...an' Outcast was 'er boyfriend ballin' 'is way t' the top behind the scenes 'til it spilled out fer all t' see. Don't tell me it ain't valid, WHO RUNS that promotion _NOW_?
Outcast, yer best was in OCW an' yer accomplishments came about by bangin' a bitch wit' bigger nuts than yers.
Yer NOTHIN' wit'out an IN, ya desperate-fer-success sack-'a-SHIT. I FOUGHT my way t' the top in HOSTILE environments like XWF an' I did so in FOUR MONTHS wit' a trail 'a titles an' conquered tournaments behind me.
THAT'S success.
THAT'S proven.
THAT
IS
ELITE.
You?
Yer a fuckboi fer the "boss's daughter", y'system swervin' cuck.
Wit' yer lack 'a self control combined wit' yer constructed accolades, y'ain't no legitimate threat t' the REAL here.
Shoulda stayed killed-by-yer-son dead, dickhead. Me an' my team didn't hafta drop trou' fer what we've accrued. We earned our accolades. An' now, ya gonna learn what t-f happens when gash ain't ensurin' booked wins.
Yer dead.
Again.
Second level 'a horsesassery that comprises Team Vaughn...
The hacks.
Mac Bane an' Mark Flynn.
Some say I use the word 'hack' too often.
Really?
Wit' so many massive egos- cultivated mostly in remedial yards where the "competition" is laughable, the shoot holds little t' no value an' the direction 'a careers falls less on who's better an' more on promotion "creative" -'hack' is EXACTLY what needs t' be levied.
Take Mac, who after how Vaugh an' Flynn treated 'im months ago, has ZERO reason t' support 'em like he is...
...spineless mutt...
...ain't "just business"...
Good GOD is 'e a TERRIBLE choice t' draft. Wit' 'is small pond successes- laughably PROVEN irrelevant here -an' inability t' rise t' victory where WGWF gold is involved- even ONCE -since LAST YEAR...Mac is clearly the "well shit, ain't no one else sayin' yes" draft pick.
That's whatcha get wit' an incompetent who has no true braggin' rights an' can't earn any.
Yer a joke Mac.
My team ain't five JMonts ya pigshit shovelin' peckerwood, so I hope yer comin' wit' a helluva lot more than what I seen before wit'cher weak ring ability an' penchant fer jackin'-off yer opponents while "trash-talkin'" 'em.
Hack.
Which brings me t' Flynn.
Now obviously Flynn ain't as low as Bane talent wise.
HOWEVER...
Mark...w-t-f happened t' you? I used t' think y'were sum'in special.
I was wrong.
Yer inconsistent wit' periodic success broken up by uneventful half-assery an' absences.
In WGWF, whatcha achieved since signin'?
RECENTLY?
In ONE month I debuted t' success in the Battle Royal wit' THREE eliminations, fought fer the World, an' now I'm captainin' War Games.
You?
Nada.
'Cept when y'lost t' Vaughn.
What happened next?
Y'became 'is personal cumslut.
Woooooooooow...
Ya absolute if-ya-can't-beat-'em-join-'em PUSSY-ASS embarrasin' nutless gimp LOSER.
I've beaten y'too Mark, where's MY slutty sidekick!? HUH!? Drop t' all fours and spread fer Jimmy y'filthy fuckin' skank, NOW!! Get on yer knees, open that mouth, stick out yer tongue, take my big dick's fat load then get that ass on the street an' make me some cash, BITCH!!
When you were ON y'couldn't beat me an' Main nor Lycana. Y'ain't on...not here where it counts. Come War Games...KING 'a the midcarders gettin' gaped by this ACE in 'is hole. Sendja back t'XWF bowlegged an' bleedin', you
HAS-BEEN HACK
And finally...the facts.
Peter Vaughn is considered one 'a the best in the business. An' why not? Much like my risin' from obscurity in the lesser known territories t' immediately rocket t' stardom in XWF in 2017, Vaughn exploded onto the scene an' soon became a household name, albeit mostly through 'is own prolific self-suckin' on social media. Regardless, he managed t' snatch 4 top belts in a year's time.
Impressive?
Not really.
Not when researchin' jus' how fast 'e loses 'em.
Ain't that right Vaughn?
Poor prejac Peter, good fer a quickie then quickly goes limp, but'cha think y'can stop ME!?
Ya carry out yer professional life focused merely on ends y'desire an' disregard means to sustain 'em. Y'never bothered t'improve, to raise yer talent t'the level required to hold those championships should legit contenders challenge ya.
I toppled Alias.
Y'failed.
Y'failed t'stop Strader's slut Outcast in OCW.
Y'failed t'stop Page in TPW.
Y'failed t'stop ME wit'out JMont HERE.
Paper champ. Transitional beyond gimmies. Ace Sky? Where'dja be wit'out enhancement talent defenses y'overhyped ham'n'egger? Wit'out majority weak talent pools an' reigns extended via promotion closure like TPW? Wit'out coattails an' handouts like XWF y'politickin' parasite? Wit'out JMont?
Wit'out all that yer nothin'.
With it, yer jus' a constant flash in the pan.
Y'KNOW how truly lackin' y'are in legitimacy yet y'unjustifiably self-hype on Twitter.
"Elite"?
Yer FACIN' elite...an' lies won't save ya.
Y'blow smoke up y'own brown-eye actin' superior t'ME motherfucker...none outside yer circle agree. I'ma rip out'cher spine an' peg y'wit' it...y'don't need it...then bury y'in that cage.
K-Y-S while y'can, cocksucker.
Yer a stiff anyway.
Facts."
.
----------------------------WEEKS AGO------------------------------
A fist raises to a cherry oak front door.
But not just any fist; a fist that's dropped more teeth than tweak, KOd more combatants than Carnera and cleanly snatched more legitimate straps than all of Team Vaughn COMBINED.
Yeah that's right, fam... It's
Jim
Fuckin'
Caedus
And we find our hero here in the suburbs of North Las Vegas, Nevada- last known whereabouts of his current target -'cause ol' Jim's got a War Games gang to gather, starting with APEX brother-in-arms Robert Main...
KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK
Why not call the Mainiac, you ask? Tried that, with no less than 51 voice mails and 118 texts on Bob-O's phone over the past 48 hours. No response.
Why not ring the doorbell?
Fuck off, that's why.
KNOCK!
KNOCK!!
KNOCK!!!
He turns from the door, pensive, mentally flipping through what he's gonna say. He has no idea why Main would ignore his calls and texts but he tends to assume the worst.
The door opens behind him, he spins and slaps on a jovial grin-
"BOB-OOOOOooooh shit..."
"Knockin' on my door like the goddamn police- Who the FUCK'S Bob Main!?"
"He used t' live here, ma'am."
"FUCK that got to do with me!?"
"Wouldja happen t' know where 'e went? Like a forwardin' addre-"
SLAM!!
"Guess not."
"We know where tuh find yuh friend."
Jim turns to see two men- of the mobster variety -approach from a Mercedes S600 at the curb.
Uh oh.
"You're Jim Caedus, right?"
"Who?"
"Dat's cute. Get 'n duh car."
"If this about that Pappalardo shit from 6 years ago-"
"Nah, Pappalardo's no longuh wit'us. Now everyting he owned, we own. Including yuh unpaid debt."
"Oh fer fucksake... When exactly do debts end wit' you people?"
"When yuh dead. Get in."
A simple gesture to the holstered pistol (open carry state) at the Italian's side informs our hero any further difficulty may likely result in a bullet. He reluctantly complies...
------------------------53 MINUTES LATER--------------------------
GIUSEPPE'S MEATS & RISTORANTE, PRIMM, NV
Jim is forcibly seated at a backroom table across from an empty chair, his armed chaperones taking position behind and to either side of him. Moments later an archetypal Italian mob boss standing what looks to be 3'5" saunters in from the swinging double doors of the kitchen followed closely by no less than four much taller archetypal Italian mob boss underlings.
The younger of the four hurries to place a stack of phone books on the seat across from Jim, helping the diminutive Don to ascend and sit at a height slightly higher than Jim's own line of sight.
At this point the four underlings each take a seat behind the table, two to the left and two to the right of the dapper dwarf, all five making sure to pin our hero with looks clearly meant to intimidate.
Jim, on the other hand, is trying hard- VERY hard -not to giggle, much less smile at the midget mafioso before him.
Staff quickly exit the kitchen carrying a plate of pasta, bread, and a bottle of wine, setting it all down in front of the boss before bustling back to the kitchen.
The boss pops the cork, pours himself a sippy cup (but a damn FINE sippy cup, ya gotta give him that) of red wine, sets the bottle back onto the table and levels Jim with his best interpretation of a tough guy glare.
"Let's get to it. Tuh my immediate right is my unduhboss "Comico" Marco Nondivertente. He also moonlights as a stand-up comedian."
"Oh yeah? Let's hear a joke, Marco."
"Knock knock."
"Heh. Who's there?"
Marco pulls a revolver and aims it point blank at Jim's face. "Laugh."
Jim offers a forced guffaw with terrified wide eyes.
"Hilarious!"
Marco nods, satisfied, with a slight smile and puts the piece away.
"He kills 'em everytime wit' dat one. Tuh my immediate left, my Consigliere Macaroni Zotico."
"Yer...name is _Macaroni_?"
Macaroni impossibly pulls a shotgun from his odd choice of ten-gallon hat and levels it at Jim's face. "Gotta problem wit' dat? If yuh do it's okay. I respect yuh and love yuh."
"Not at all, it's adorable sir. An' I...love...you...too?"
Macaroni blushes, sliding the shotgun impossibly back beneath the ten-gallon.
"Macaroni's what we southern Sicilians call a confused, kindly hick from duh north. He runs our beef business situated in Texas. Tuh HIS immediate left is my hitman, known only as "il Emarginata" wit' duh feminized "a" at duh end 'cause he sleeps wit' incredibly masculine women wit' clitorises bigguh than his dick."
"I slip duh long barrel pistol from it's hideaway safely ensconced down duh front 'uh my slacks 'cause it poses no threat tuh my miniature salami. I point it at duh forehead 'uh duh man across duh table from me. He undoubtedly has a much larger penis than I do so I hate him and pray he gives me a reason tuh unload."
Jim throws his hands up. "I didn't even SAY anything this time!"
"What have I told yuh 'bout narratin' for yuhself yuh idiot?"
"I apologize tuh duh boss an' slide my pistol back down my slacks wishin' I wasn't sittin' so I could slide it firmly up my ass where it feels so much bettuh."
The boss sighs and rubs his forehead in frustration.
"Anyway, tuh Marco's right is "Wop" Johnny Salvadoregno. He fetches duh coffee."
Johnny hastily pulls his own pistol- albeit backwards -and points the grip at Jim, the barrel leveled at his own face. "And I fetch one HELLUVA newspapuh too!"
"Shaddup Johnny. As fuh me, I'm Don "Piccolo" Pietro Violenza," he states as Johnny pockets his pistol and he himself produces his own, sticking it in Jim's face. "I've got an offuh yuh can't refuse."
"I'm ALL ears."
"You're tuh kidnap James Raven, Chris Page and his wife Candace. They're gonna sign WGWF an' duh Velvet Rabbit ovuh tuh ME. Yuh know, so's we can go legitimate."
"Ironic as fuck but simple enough. May I put a team t'gether t' help me?"
"Do yuh vouch for 'em?"
"Do I vouch fer Robert Main, Lycana, Dolly Waters an' Nova Skye unless otherwise replaced by I'ma assume someone like Spencer Adams? Yes. Yes I do."
"Then if yuh fail, they die along wit'yuh. AND yuh families."
"That's fair."
"Bring duh targets back here on duh Saturday before War Games."
"Ya got it, Don "Piccolo"."
"Get started. You'll find yuh friend Main in Ohio."
----------------------------PRESENT DAY-------------------------------
Spruce Pine, NC
Ah, Smithmore Castle.
Who'da thunk they'd discover an elegant 15,000 square foot royal estate owned by Scottish "Lord" sat upon a mountaintop and surrounded by 100 private acres of woodland, available for booking in similar pedestrian fashion as an Airbnb, located deep in the podunkery of North Carolina?
Jim Caedus would.
Well, not really. Jim had only caught the place while undergoing his usual braggart douchebag "most expensive hotels" Google search and found the price tag of near $3,000 a night for he and his War Games team more than suitable for a show-off.
We currently find our favorite endearing dickhead in the Starlight Bar enjoying a luxury bartender-insulting bottle of Bud Light, sitting across from a member of the staff embroiled in a board game infamous for abstract strategy. Jim fingertips one of his pieces and jumps several of his opponent's in sequence to end up on the opposite end of the board.
"King me."
"The game is chess, sir, we've been over this repeatedly in the last half hour. How many times must I remind you?"
"How many times mus' I remindja I don't know chess?"
The bartender chimes in from out of frame. "Charles, leave the dullard alone and king him."
"Giving these people a hard time, hoss?"
Jim's eyes shoot to the bar entrance as his teammates walk in, an overjoyed smile cutting across his handsome visage as Charles sighs in relief and takes his leave.
"Eeeeeeeeeeeeey!! THERE'S my army! I'd like t' thank y'all fer arrivin' at the same time in the interest 'a savin' word count."
Spencer leans in to Main. "What's he on about?"
Main shrugs. "Just smile and nod."
Jim stands and meets them all halfway, offering Main and Spencer a dap each.
"Myyyyy brothers."
He turns to Dolly- "WHUTTUP LIL' SIS!?" -before palming her head on both sides and headbutting her.
Hard.
CRACK!!
Jim regains consciousness a few seconds later, picking himself up off the floor while Dolly stands unfazed.
"Jesus H. Concussion Christ..."
Laughs. "Howdy big bro."
Turning finally to Lycana, jest falling away, Jim grabs her right hand and lifts it to his lips, kissing it. He releases as she allows her hand to hover a moment, meeting his gaze.
"Good t' see ya Tavvy..."
"Hey Jimmy..."
Their eyes remain locked.
"Get a room," Spencer lobs.
"Which reminds me," Jim replies, "Bob-O, I setcha up in the Monarch Room, Spence' you've got the Duke, Dolly yer in the Grand Tower View Jr. Suite 'cause, well, under 18 an' all-"
"Huh? Hold yer horses-"
Clapping a hand over her mouth. "SHH," he continues in whisper, "got a discount by tellin' 'em yer a minor." He removes his hand and musses her hair. "Don't grow up too fast, _LIL_ sis," he adds loudly. "An' Ly, gotchoo the Carradine View Room...but'cha can stay wit' me in the Royal Tower View Suite if..ya know.. if ya want company..."
"Jimmy..."
Knowing where that's headed, he changes the subject quickly.
"So really, only thing lef' t' do now is have a couple drinks, catcha bite t' eat courtesy 'a the in-house gourmet chef, discuss our War Games strategy an', oh yeah, I been strong-armed inta helpin' the Violenza crime family kidnap Chris Page, 'is wife Candace an' James Raven so as t' force 'em t' sign WGWF an' the Velvet Rabbit over t' the mob. Told 'em I'd be needin' assistance an' name-dropped you all, so they're gonna kills us if we don't pull it off. Also our families."
Silence...as four pair of eyes stare Jim down in disbelief.
Jim suddenly starts 🤣 and they all start 🤣 and a good time is had by all. Finally the hilarity subsides. Jim wipes his laughy tears and continues...
"Nah fer real though. They're gonna kill us all an' our families."
"Son of a BITCH!" Main tackles Jim and starts choking him.
"Of course," Ly murmurs.
"Two types 'a people in this world: the real...an' the fake.
The genuine asskickers like Team Caedus are the kinda cervix slammin' stars an' sack severin' starlets one can count on t' deliver. T' separate the wheat from the chaff in the ring.
Then ya got the latter...the faux.
Enter Cholo an' Outcast.
Firstly y'got the unimpressive Peter's-dick-ridin' pendejo runnin' that Vaughn-cock-magnet 'e calls a mouth 'a his on Twitter ironically callin' MY gang misfits while believin' 'e fits in 'is team.
Isn't 'at cute? He thinks he's people. He don't realize he's jus' the brayin' burro 'a the group. The jackass. The white knightin' hero tricked inta bein' a beatdown buffer an' sacrificial lamb fer a pack 'a villains.
Fuckin' dipshit.
Yer a tool, Cholo.
'Cause whatcha bringin' t' the table? A short career comprised of a single defense IC reign? A supershow win? Yer habit 'a distraction by bitches (as a backed-up sperm brain incel no less), booze an' parties leadin' t' NUMEROUS losses via failin' t' pay attention an' KNOW. YOUR. ENEMIES? Many multi-opponent match failures?
Mhm.
Get the point, puto?
You ain't elite, you the least...among us ALL. An' that includes MAC. Quite an accomplishment, asswipe.
Gonna take a lot more than pretendin' t' be gran hombre, pito pequeño, t' compete wit' us. I don't care who ya THINK y'are...yer still the FUCK-UP who failed in the West Coast Rumble, failed in the recent Battle Royal, in SPLAT's Calamity Chamber-
-ho, you ain't HALF the man I am in experience an' accolades.
Deluded cunt.
I'ma hafta knock that monochromatic clown wig right off that swollen cabeza y'fuckin' nothin'.
Anyway, secondly ya got Outcast...
In the process 'a researchin' that tryin'-too-hard-to-be-edgy jag-off, I found 'e was jus' a piss-drunk deadbeat dad too busy takin' shots, snortin' lines an' poppin' pills t' ever make tippy-top outside 'a the confines of 'is comfort zone in OCW. Which ain't tippy-top by any means in comparison t' REAL promotions that are recognized as provin' grounds in this business, like WGWF an' XWF.
Outcast, the junkie alcoholic who failed as a husband an' father. The BEYOND irresponsible asshole who forfeited control over 'is own personal life an' fucked 'imself AND 'is family over multiple times is who Vaughn trusts t' deliver. An undisciplined, unreliable clusterfuck of a "man".
I'm curious...how's an athlete pump 'imself fulla so much alcohol an' illegal brain addlin' substances yet achieve three times OCW Champ when there're SO MANY in-context examples 'a FAILS in the business provin' the contrary?
Here's how...
That's right. Her competin' in the business aside, we all know Veronica Strader was basically tied to the administrative in OCW...an' Outcast was 'er boyfriend ballin' 'is way t' the top behind the scenes 'til it spilled out fer all t' see. Don't tell me it ain't valid, WHO RUNS that promotion _NOW_?
Outcast, yer best was in OCW an' yer accomplishments came about by bangin' a bitch wit' bigger nuts than yers.
Yer NOTHIN' wit'out an IN, ya desperate-fer-success sack-'a-SHIT. I FOUGHT my way t' the top in HOSTILE environments like XWF an' I did so in FOUR MONTHS wit' a trail 'a titles an' conquered tournaments behind me.
THAT'S success.
THAT'S proven.
THAT
IS
ELITE.
You?
Yer a fuckboi fer the "boss's daughter", y'system swervin' cuck.
Wit' yer lack 'a self control combined wit' yer constructed accolades, y'ain't no legitimate threat t' the REAL here.
Shoulda stayed killed-by-yer-son dead, dickhead. Me an' my team didn't hafta drop trou' fer what we've accrued. We earned our accolades. An' now, ya gonna learn what t-f happens when gash ain't ensurin' booked wins.
Yer dead.
Again.
Second level 'a horsesassery that comprises Team Vaughn...
The hacks.
Mac Bane an' Mark Flynn.
Some say I use the word 'hack' too often.
Really?
Wit' so many massive egos- cultivated mostly in remedial yards where the "competition" is laughable, the shoot holds little t' no value an' the direction 'a careers falls less on who's better an' more on promotion "creative" -'hack' is EXACTLY what needs t' be levied.
Take Mac, who after how Vaugh an' Flynn treated 'im months ago, has ZERO reason t' support 'em like he is...
...spineless mutt...
...ain't "just business"...
Good GOD is 'e a TERRIBLE choice t' draft. Wit' 'is small pond successes- laughably PROVEN irrelevant here -an' inability t' rise t' victory where WGWF gold is involved- even ONCE -since LAST YEAR...Mac is clearly the "well shit, ain't no one else sayin' yes" draft pick.
That's whatcha get wit' an incompetent who has no true braggin' rights an' can't earn any.
Yer a joke Mac.
My team ain't five JMonts ya pigshit shovelin' peckerwood, so I hope yer comin' wit' a helluva lot more than what I seen before wit'cher weak ring ability an' penchant fer jackin'-off yer opponents while "trash-talkin'" 'em.
Hack.
Which brings me t' Flynn.
Now obviously Flynn ain't as low as Bane talent wise.
HOWEVER...
Mark...w-t-f happened t' you? I used t' think y'were sum'in special.
I was wrong.
Yer inconsistent wit' periodic success broken up by uneventful half-assery an' absences.
In WGWF, whatcha achieved since signin'?
RECENTLY?
In ONE month I debuted t' success in the Battle Royal wit' THREE eliminations, fought fer the World, an' now I'm captainin' War Games.
You?
Nada.
'Cept when y'lost t' Vaughn.
What happened next?
Y'became 'is personal cumslut.
Woooooooooow...
Ya absolute if-ya-can't-beat-'em-join-'em PUSSY-ASS embarrasin' nutless gimp LOSER.
I've beaten y'too Mark, where's MY slutty sidekick!? HUH!? Drop t' all fours and spread fer Jimmy y'filthy fuckin' skank, NOW!! Get on yer knees, open that mouth, stick out yer tongue, take my big dick's fat load then get that ass on the street an' make me some cash, BITCH!!
When you were ON y'couldn't beat me an' Main nor Lycana. Y'ain't on...not here where it counts. Come War Games...KING 'a the midcarders gettin' gaped by this ACE in 'is hole. Sendja back t'XWF bowlegged an' bleedin', you
HAS-BEEN HACK
And finally...the facts.
Peter Vaughn is considered one 'a the best in the business. An' why not? Much like my risin' from obscurity in the lesser known territories t' immediately rocket t' stardom in XWF in 2017, Vaughn exploded onto the scene an' soon became a household name, albeit mostly through 'is own prolific self-suckin' on social media. Regardless, he managed t' snatch 4 top belts in a year's time.
Impressive?
Not really.
Not when researchin' jus' how fast 'e loses 'em.
Ain't that right Vaughn?
Poor prejac Peter, good fer a quickie then quickly goes limp, but'cha think y'can stop ME!?
Ya carry out yer professional life focused merely on ends y'desire an' disregard means to sustain 'em. Y'never bothered t'improve, to raise yer talent t'the level required to hold those championships should legit contenders challenge ya.
I toppled Alias.
Y'failed.
Y'failed t'stop Strader's slut Outcast in OCW.
Y'failed t'stop Page in TPW.
Y'failed t'stop ME wit'out JMont HERE.
Paper champ. Transitional beyond gimmies. Ace Sky? Where'dja be wit'out enhancement talent defenses y'overhyped ham'n'egger? Wit'out majority weak talent pools an' reigns extended via promotion closure like TPW? Wit'out coattails an' handouts like XWF y'politickin' parasite? Wit'out JMont?
Wit'out all that yer nothin'.
With it, yer jus' a constant flash in the pan.
Y'KNOW how truly lackin' y'are in legitimacy yet y'unjustifiably self-hype on Twitter.
"Elite"?
Yer FACIN' elite...an' lies won't save ya.
Y'blow smoke up y'own brown-eye actin' superior t'ME motherfucker...none outside yer circle agree. I'ma rip out'cher spine an' peg y'wit' it...y'don't need it...then bury y'in that cage.
K-Y-S while y'can, cocksucker.
Yer a stiff anyway.
Facts."