::My one-time seventh grade chum Matt Eagan slides a Vans shoebox out from the shadows beneath his bed. He picks his prized and oft flaunted Satanic Bible from off the lid, sets it aside and opens the box. I see a small collection of Hustler trading cards atop an unmarked VHS tape I know to be a facial cumpilation he snuck and stole from his father. I spy mini bottles of multiple liquor brands, a half empty pack of Marlboro Reds, a lighter and a nickel bag of mid-grade bud; the same shitty strain he'd given me for my first experience with weed a week earlier. I also notice a crumpled up brown paper bag. Matt snatches the lighter and the bag, opening it, to reveal three M-80s::

"Dude," he exclaims, "ever put firecrackers up a cat's ass?"

::Not entirely comfortable with this line of thinking I simply shake my head no::

"Well these are M-80s. BOOM! It's gonna be funny as fuck man, you're gonna love it! C'mon," he invites as he heads out of his room with the bag.

::It's November of 1993 in Lakewood, CA and I vividly remember this afternoon as it swirls about my rem-state mind's eye::

"That dumbass old bitch next to us has three cats and they keep spraying piss all over the front door. Smell it?" He asks while regarding the now ajar entrance he stands beside, sniffing.

"Yeah I smell it," I say as I join him.

"Fuckin' lil' rats. Come on man!"

::We head outside. I notice, as I had during our walk from school, a continued absence of vehicles in every driveway along the residential street and my heart sinks. No adults to stop what Matt must be intending to do::

No wonder he's always fucking around, there's never anyone to stop him.

"Kitty-kiiiittyyyy."

::I jump on the opportunity presented to lighten the mood and I laugh. Anything to attempt to halt my feeling of dread::

"That's how she calls them, dude. Kitty-kitty-kiiiittyyyyyyy."

::He's calling for the cats pretty loudly. I look around at the houses on either side of the street. There has to be other people present, other kids from school...but no curtains shift, no faces appear. If the old lady he mentioned is home, not even SHE seems to notice::

Fuck. God, do something.

::God did nothing and it wasn't the first or last time.

I had no particular love of cats, or dogs for that matter, at that age. I hadn't grown up in that type of environment and I'd had many moments of mayhem in my younger years towards the non-human lives that crossed my path. I'd grown out of that by age eight following my baptism. Now at thirteen I'd had years of serious Mormon brainwashing under my belt as well as a very sincere attitude of defending the defenseless, whether or not I liked who or what the victim may be. And as I watch a male feline trotting over happily, to receive what he most likely assumed via a routine of love and care to be scratches and pets, I see a helpless future victim incapable of identifying the danger ahead.

So what is it I do as Matt pins the struggling cat between his husky thighs face down? I fear. I fear losing a friend. I fear making waves. I allow distractions of possible outcomes and cowardice to prevent me from doing what I know is right; saving that helpless animal.

What do I do as Matt forcibly inserts half an M-80 into the now howling cat's anus? Nothing.

Matt, giggling, lights the fuse and releases the cat who speedily dashes up and over a brick wall to the "safety" of his elderly owner's backyard.

The M-80 blows a few seconds later. The boom is tremendous and I flinch::

"BOOM motherfucker! Let's check it out!" Matt pulls himself up to peek over the wall. "Oh shit!" He starts laughing. "Jimmy look!"

"I don't wanna look dude, let's go back inside," I decline while rechecking each house's windows nervously.

"Pussy! Come on dude!"

::I force myself to oblige and I slowly, mindful of being seen, pull myself up as well. What I see, as my eyes dart around locating pieces all over the back lawn, turns my stomach. I drop back down while Matt continues to find humor in his carnage. Curiosity, morbid curiosity, had compelled me to look but it hadn't been what killed that cat::

"Why'd you do that, Matt?"

::He drops down, still chuckling::

"Because I fuckin' hate cats dude, haha, why do you think?"

I think it's pussy to hurt or kill something that can't fight back, that's what I think.

::But that's not what I say. What I say is-::

"That wasn't right dude. That was fucked up."

"Huh? Dude, you helped me and Travis take that Eric's wallet at lunch today. You don't think that was fucked up?"

"Yeah it was. That's why I'm the one who gave it back to him. You shouldn't do this kinda shit man."

"Shut the fuck up dude, you sound like a dick right now. Maybe Travis and Astin were right, you're a pussy ass."

::Combined with my rising anger over the cat, that insult pushes me over the cliff of calm and collected::

"Get the fuck outta here, I don't wanna babysit you anymore. Your mom can pick you up somewhere else," he finishes as he makes for his front door.

::The distractions melt away.

The fear fizzles.

In my mind, I bellow like a barbarian. On the outside, I silently rush Matt and pepper his back with punches. I'm a year into my Shizukana-Do training but, unfortunately, it's still too fresh to play a part in this and Matt and I end up simply devolving into a whirlwind of untrained fists as kids normally do. He winds up losing his balance and we both fall, him backwards, me forward on top of him. He lands on a sprinkler head in the upper back region and the fight leaves him as a scream escapes his lungs.

For a split second I feel sorry...but flashes of what's left of that poor cat are already monopolizing my vision and instead...I start hammering at his face like a chimpanzee beating an intruding chimp to death::

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~



"Opening Statements"





I awake from my slumber to recall that I'm on my second first-class flight in as many weeks, a three hours plus straight shot from Dallas to Los Angeles. Judging by the time on my phone we've got about ten minutes left before landing.

'Home...we're goin' home.'

The brass had given me the option of catching a days later departure but I'd opted to head back to California immediately and they'd booked me an hour later. It felt good to be treated like a human being again.

I move on from my musings and glance out the window to my left, taking in the skyborne scenery. I couldn't wait to arrive at LAX. Sure, Savage Saturday Night would take place further down the state in San Diego but I'd be spending my week in Long Beach staying in the downtown condo of one of my oldest friends in life and the business: "The Monsoon Warrior" George Bartlett.

I was sure my next opponent would be happy to return home too, albeit upstate in San Francisco. The moment I'd accepted his challenge he'd been booked as my second title defense for the XWF Television Championship. I hadn't been as familiar with the man as I'd been with my previous opponents, so to spend my time wisely I did what I always did: scouted and researched...it'd been nearly as time consuming as studying up for Thomas Nixon had been and I'd needed to mentally recharge in the aftermath.

'Ha! "Mentally recharge"? You might as well say you were just resting your eyes! You fell asleep, fucker!'

Now refreshed and ready, I feel the sudden urge to stab a large sewing needle up into my brain.

'I'll be good, I'll be good, I promise!'

May I continue?

'By all means. (AHEM)-'

Did I just mentally clear my throat?

'-Nico LaVey, long lost heir to the LaVey family fortune and legacy...The Church of Satan.'

Satanists. Fucking Satanists. I fucking hate...... Oh _fuck_ this cutesy comedic cocksuckery! Fuck mincing words, I despise Satanists. Period.

'You know what to do then.'

I ready my phone for a promo.

........................................


"Nico, one question. Why? Why is it you now see fit to challenge me? Obviously you want a shot at my title but the same can be said for every single scrub skating off the starting line here. The glaring difference is you've been here longer than they, longer than I, yet only recently did you feel the nagging need to knuckle-up with me.

We both know why you did it. You're an opportunist who thinks he's going to capitalize on my stumbling over that cocksucking speed-bump in Cadryn Tiberius. After all, if you wanted me so badly it would've been _you_ in that match, not him. You think I've already lost my edge and even though you tower over and outweigh me like you have since I _got_ here, _now_ is when you've identified what you see as a moment of weakness, an opening, so you pounce. I'm sure you'll say that makes you smart. I'll agree but log an apt addition and define you by a proper label: opportunistic coward. A fuckin' pussy."

'Big ol', beat up, bushy fuckin' pussy.'

"And before you try to claim you haven't been around or paying attention, as a pussy will do, _you_ were among those to accept Drezdin's 15k challenge as was I, so save it."

'Oops.'

"However, Ive been opting in for every card, accepting all challenges I see, regardless of who the competition is. You? You simply slime your way in at your strategic convenience to steal from who you think is an easy target. I'm no mark, motherfucker, and I've dumped distractions that've slowed me down. You're in deep shit."

'You fucked up now, chico!'

"I deny and hide from no one. I may be an opportunist as well but I'm not a pussy like you and I don't give a fuck if you're bigger than I am; the vast majority of my opponents in and out of the ring always are. All it does is make a fight or match that much more fun for me."

'We dig the whole Gravy and Goliath- Wait, that ain't it. Fucking Cadryn! We dig the whole _Davey_ and Goliath gig.'

::DING::

"Ladies and Gentlemen, as we begin our descent-"

"I guess this hefty harangue is on hold for now and I guess now is when you start rehearsing your insightful arguments. Correct, I know all about the propaganda. You poke holes and expose? So do I. In the words of the righteous Robbie Bourbon himself, I'm surgical and I slice. I slice when and where appropriate. I don't make many mistakes but when I do, they're negligible. You? You've accidentally hacked into your own arteries without having to say anything other than, 'Hey Jim, wanna go 1-on-1?'"

'Ouch.'

"Keep the faith, you fugazi-sired fuck-up. I eagerly await your angry cross-examination, just don't fool yourself into thinking I haven't already submitted irrefutable evidence. But fuck you and fugace. I'm Jim Caedus."