"Witness Testimony"





-DOWNTOWN LONG BEACH, CA, 10:10 PM-


I'd spent the remnants of Monday, the entirety of Tuesday and the lion's share of Wednesday alongside my friend "The Monsoon Warrior" George Bartlett.

With twelve years of completely-turning-his-back-on-wrestling retirement under his belt George had lost nearly a third of his marketable muscle and now resembled the slimmed down versions of all those in our business who call it quits and mean it. One thing he hadn't lost was that unmistakably and spot-on Danny Glover face. It went without saying the first words I'd uttered, with proper voice mimicry, in his presence were, "I'm gettin' too old for this shit." He'd responded appropriately, also in vocal character, with "Fuck you Riggs!"

It'd been seventeen years since I'd last been here. With the return of Hollywood film crews and Hollywood money over the last several years, as evidenced by moments in films like the opening scenes at the Port of Long Beach in 22 Jump Street for example, Downtown Long Beach had changed dramatically. Everything seemed cleaner, updated...better. I'd heard the area had not that long ago gone through an all-too-swift-then-over medical marijuana rennaissance period as well, with so many street front dispensaries not a single patient had had to travel more than half a mile for medicine.

'It must've been glorious.'

I wouldn't know, I'd been in the High Desert pursuing my own dream for a dispensary with a mid to large-scale perpetual grow from late twenty-eleven to late twenty-thirteen, funded partially by a sixty-thousand dollar death beneficiary payout, partially from grow profits and partially by the checks I'd been receiving while employed by the last wrestling promotion I'd been under contract with. A combination of getting shot in the right leg during a federally legal though state illegal raid and the county of San Bernardino's heavy-handed and victorious efforts to crush and ban all clinics had seen to the death of that dream.

'And how.'

George hadn't been aware of the majority of the tortures I'd gone through. We'd suffered a falling out in two thousand and I'd kept myself away from the rest of my old clique once I'd waded through the waters of meth addiction from two thousand two until my murder in two thousand three. I'd been ashamed to see any of them during and since.

It'd taken George and I more than forty-eight hours to catch up properly on a personal level as we visited local gyms, patronized new-to-me restaurants and took in the sights.

It was now Wednesday evening and I'd been spending hours familiarizing and fascinating him with my new home the XWF and my exploits therein thus far. For the first time in twelve years he said he felt like making a return, though we both knew he most likely would not. He hadn't even been perusing the business on television anymore. Five minutes ago, for shits, I'd pulled up the first promo "The Cereal Killer" had released since our time limit draw on the last episode of Savage. George had rolled his eyes and urged me to cut a short response video.

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

"Cadryn, you didn't beat shit. If having me in the ring at less than one hundred percent isn't enough of an advantage for you to capitalize on, nothing will be...because you'll never catch me in that condition again. On top of that, you made the rookie mistake of not watching the clock. Shit, if anyone other than me deserves the TV Title it's Nipsey fuckin' Russell; _he_ did more to end that match than you did. Now stop nipping at my nutsac before I knock your left eye lazy like I did to Hickenbottom, bitch."

"Fuck the rumors, that was all my homeboy Jimbo."

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

I give George a run-down of my next match and opponent once I've ended my response. Again, hungry for more of my brand of verbal bashing, he pushes me to promo using the backdrop of Downtown Long Beach lights seen behind me from his three thousand a month condo's fifth floor balcony.

'And we're more than happy to oblige.'

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

"Your Honor...Ladies and Gentlemen of the jury...is not Nico LaVey a pussy? As well spoken as the man is, as large as he is and as interested as he seemed on the 18th to take me down for the TV Title...does not his current absence smack of spineless? Is he, in fact, reflecting on his record representing only two wins in ten matches and justifiably second guessing himself? Has he found my opening statements to be far too apt to argue with? As my own eyewitness I testify under oath: yes.

I don't discount the possibility that the man has seen a serious threat in Jim Caedus and switched gears from scavenger to, what we call in multiplayer FPS franchises like CS, a fucking 'camper' awaiting his convenient last minute ambush. But I ask you...in either example is that not a pussy in action?

I would address this less-than-man directly...

Ms. LaVey, long lost child of he who looks inexplicably like 80s Ming,-"

'Max Von Sydow like a motherfucker!'

"-at this point do you honestly believe playing the pussy panty-waste-waiting-game-of-the-gutless to be the best decision? We both know a no-show won't go so...that must be the case, yes? I truly hope. Otherwise, you're in for a near death experience.

At this point, how has it not become apparent to you that your twenty percent success rate denotes a much needed change in tactics both in and out of the ring? Or is it, in fact, acceptable to you to spray-and-pray and hope for a hit despite an eighty percent failure rate? We aren't amidst an amateur game of Battleship, shithead, and we aren't two gang members doin' drive-bys. We're supposed to be warriors, contenders, competitors...but _you_...you fall far from that mark.

Like all Satanists you lack the courage and conviction to prey on anyone or anything other than the defenseless and weak-minded. Black cats, black sheep and babies don't hit back. And don't bother letting loose with a list of your past opponents. I'm not judging them, I judge you. I've personally witnessed Satanists and their ways since junior high school. One, my one-time friend Matt, I beat the ever living shit out of after he so gloriously snuffed one of those oh so hard to kill and dangerous domestic cats people fear, read about and spin spooky yarns of 'round roarin' campfires. Another, Franklin Phelps, just used the concept to score goth gash. The only Satanist I ever saw with any balls was a kid named Devin Haas. He wore a dress to senior picture day. Still...in context he doesn't exactly speak volumes for your philosophical legacy, even if you do both shop in the same clothing section, ."

'Careful...don't leave him any ammo to argue with. There _have_ been some famous Satanists who've caused havoc.'

"Sure, there are a few _barely_ contradictory examples. Richard Ramirez was a self-professed Satanist serial killer for instance. A Satanist who snuck up on the likes of children and elderly ladies."

'Pussy.'

"But as nightmarish as 'The Night Stalker' was, his streak ended when every day, normal, neighborhood knights beat his ass into the asphalt. You're less ballsy than Ricky and I'm a helluva lot more punishing than the average man. How then would you wager our match will play out and end with _you_ sneaking silently about, afraid to confront my now obviously awake and well-armed ass? Katabasis, Nico, Katabasis. Or, perhaps I'll seek a submission with Hold Your Breath. Maybe I'll simply just knock you the fuck out with my Purgatory Punch. The world is my oyster when I'm facing a cowardly clam with no pearls. And like the rubbery meat of the mollusk, I'll whip you into chowder, chew you up and spit you out before moving on to my after match mint, motherfucker. But fuck a bivalve bitch like you and fuck campers. I'm Jim motherfuckin' Caedus."