Pop calls out to me.

"I need you to hold on dad."

"Jimmyyyyy."

Fuckin' guy hates Jericho so much he can't wait another 10 minutes for the show to end before I switch it over to Impact?

"Ten more minutes, I'll be right in!"

He doesn't call out a third time, thank Christ.

The date is Friday October 30th, 2009. As both a wrestling fan and competitor, while not performing for my then current, much smaller promotion, I enjoy scouting the big dogs. Unfortunately it isn't an XWF block on right now, it's the slowly imploding competition in first the WWE followed by TNA.

It's been a solid 6 years of acting as my father's full time caretaker, every single day off spent at home in Long Beach with him following the amputation of his right leg below the knee due to diabetic complications. What my mother can't do with her 9-5 job and after hours extra curricular activities I take care of. I cook for him and feed him. I bathe him. I dress him. I change his bandages and clean his gangrenous wounds. I help him learn how to walk with his prosthetic leg and exercise. He despises being in a wheelchair, trapped. We've become quite close by this time, discovering a father/son relationship that hadn't existed before. I love my dad...but some days the routines get old and I lose patience.

This is one of those days. Earlier that morning while helping him go to the bathroom he'd stated he felt like he was going to die today. I'd cruelly responded, "Well fuckin' get on with it!" I hadn't apologized but I'd calmed down for the remainder of the day. Pop, however, had spent that time in sadness until getting angry and angrier still as soon as Smackdown had started. He was a super mark. Cheered the faces, ravenously cursed out the heels and at times got so enraged I or my mother would have to tell him to calm down.

The broadcast ends with heel Jericho up to no good and I'm impressed in my father's silence as he's usually now muttering to himself for the close. I switch to TNA and I get up, exit my room, saunter down the hall and enter pop's room.

He's on his best behavior, still quiet as a mouse, when I grab his remote and switch to TNA.

"There. See? No big deal."

I turn to see him fast asleep in his wheelchair and I laugh.

"Dad, wake up, shows starting."

He remains fast asleep.


(mood music)

I laugh again. "Dad. Wake up or you'll miss it."

Still asleep. I get louder.

"Hey, wake up pop."

How are you sleeping so hard without snoring?

I shake him...he doesn't respond. What the fuck? Wake up old man, this is ridiculous. I shake him harder.

He remains quiet.

"Dad? ................... _Dad_?"

I notice his eyes aren't fully closed but resting 3/4 of the way shut. I kneel and align my eyes with his.

"DAD! .........._DAD_!"

I slap him across the face. Hard.

No response.

"_DAD_!!!!! DAD WAKE UP!!"

I check under his nose.

No breath.

"No. No, no, no, no, no, no, no, no. No. _NO_! _DAD WAKE UP_!!"

No response...

I take a seat on the edge of the bed unable to take my eyes off my father as I try to make sense of something I can't believe or understand.

I sit there for a full two minutes or so gathering my wits. Wasting precious time.

I rise and redundantly check for a pulse. He feels not warm enough to the touch.

Jesus Christ! This isn't real, this isn't happening, this CAN'T be happening!

I run out to the living room and grab the cordless.

9

1

1

When dispatch picks up I lose it, the tears falling, my voice wavering.

"My dad's dead!"

The woman on the other end asks me to calm down and asks for details. I don't have many to give.

She tells me she's sending an ambulance. While we wait she begins instructing me on what to do. She has me roll my father into the hallway. She tells me to get him out of the chair and onto his back on the floor, being mindful of his head.

I pull his legs with my left arm looped around them and I push his chair with my right hand. Pop's butt hits the carpet, his head slams to the floor with a thud.

"_FUCK_!!"

Dispatch tells me it's ok, calm down. She tells me to give him chest compressions. I do. He doesn't start breathing. He remains unresponsive with his mouth open.

"It's not working!"

I can't believe how swiftly the emergency response team shows up banging on the security door. I hop up and let them in as I backpedal flacidly onto the couch. I'm told to wait outside so I exit the house.

I call Mom, trying to control the shaking and sobbing.

"Hello?"

"Mom? It's dad...I think he's dead."

"James, are you messing with me? Stop it. .............................. Really?"

Of course she doesn't believe me. At this point in time I'm a well-known liar. I can't stop the sobbing from being heard now and I croak out:

"Yes really."

Silence on my mother's end of the line for thirty seconds.............................................

She sighs in heartbreak as the news sets in. She utters a single word-

"Don..."

-then hangs up.

I can't find the strength to walk so I crumble onto the front lawn and sit.

He'd told me he felt like he was going to die today.
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I'd told him to get on with it.

He'd asked for a sandwich at lunch.
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I'd told him to get it himself.

He'd felt something about to happen and called out. He'd called out a second time as the massive cardial infarction hit him like a freight train. He'd wanted help.
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I'd told him to wait...when he had no more time to wait. The last words he'd heard were not of caring and love, they were of irritation.
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I'd let him die and sit there, dead, for ten minutes. All alone. Scared. Facing an eternity of nothing.

I killed my own father.

I killed my own father.

I killed my own father.

I killed my own father.

I killed my own father.

I KILLED MY OWN FATHER!!!!!

My head swims as the relentless tears swell my eyes up to the point I can no longer see clearly.

I deserve to die. Kill me God. Don't make me have to deal with this. Kill me please. My poor mom...my poor dad. He doesn't deserve to live?? _I_ don't deserve to live!! Give him back you MOTHERFUCKER!! GIVE HIM BACK!! Everything he's gone through since losing his job and THIS IS WHAT YOU DO TO HIM!? YOU COCKSUCKER!! I FUCKING HATE YOU GOD!! I FUCKING HATE YOU!! I FUCKING HATE _ME_!!! FUCKING KILL ME LIKE I DESERVE!! NOW!! FUCKING KILL ME YOU FUCKING COWARD!! TAKE ME AND LET HIM GO!!

Mom finally pulls up. She walks over and I rise, embracing her tightly as she breaks down. I can't even be a man for my own mother and I just get worse. We hold eachother in the night. My father's voice echoes in my ears. Times spent flash before my eyes.

Dad laughing.
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Dad crying.
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Dad celebrating a Lakers victory.
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Dad eating an In-n-Out burger.
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Watching "The Professional" in the theater with him.
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Dad teaching me how to swim.
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Dad playing jazz.
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Dad dead.
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"I love you son," I hear him say.
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I let my own dad die. I killed him. I'm the worst son to curse a father. I let him down. I let mom down. I let everyone down. I deserve all the Hell I ever suffered and no one can tell me any different. I'm a waste of life...while the good snuff out the shit like me persists...


TBC
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"Patricide and Proving Ground"





-Monday March 6, 2017, DoubleTree Suites, Anaheim, CA, 3:00 PM PST-


I awake at the stroke of 3. Savage had been extra brutal and demanded I spend most of Sunday recuperating. My nightmare...had been even worse. Had it not been for my phone's set alarm blasting Sublime's track "Doin Time" I may have remained comatose throughout Monday into Tuesday reliving yet another of my hellish memories.

Luckily, now conscious I'm able to absorb the pain and the guilt, mold it into fuel and strength of will. I'd been fond of doing so since the first round of Lethal Lottery IV, mining malice for victory, after a short discussion with Han Solo at the dojo of one of the men I now found myself preparing to square off with in round 3...the XWF Hart Champion Robbie Bourbon himself.

Tomorrow I'll be leaving Anaheim for the next Savage venue locale. Tonight, I'll take advantage of all available amenities provided by the booking the brass had afforded me as if it's my last taste of the good life.

Ignoring the gathering crowd of young and middle aged women...and a few men...I spend an hour and a half at the second floor heated pool, 45 minutes monopolized with push-up and crunch sets, 45 minutes doing laps.

I shower.

Toweling off in the warmth of my suite, ass naked, I gather my dirty clothing, stuffing the Bourben Men T and khaki knee length Dickies shorts I'd been wearing for four weeks plus into my duffel bag before removing the set of clean clothes I'd lifted Sunday from a local Wal-Mart: one skin tight plain white T in a pack of six, always my first choice, one of three gloriously comfy black boxer shorts, new navy blue knee length Dickies shorts and a pair of new ankle socks out of a pack of six like the Ts. I tie the laces of my years old Red Wing boots, realizing I need to steal some new footwear at some point if I want to keep my socks as clean as possible for the near future.

I brush my freshly shampooed and perfectly conditioned golden locks (middle finger) and tie them up into a samurai style bun before leaving my gold on the bed and exiting my suite.

I head downstairs to dine, choosing to remain in the building and patronize the hotel's Agio Ristorante. While I wait for my order to be taken, I view my new partner Trax's first round 3 LL promo, raising my right eyebrow by the time he utters his final words.

'Bit rough around the edges, that one. Be careful in how you respond, the two of you need to be a cooperative tandem if you intend to take down the likes of Robbie and Scully and advance to the fourth round.'

I ain't walkin' on egg shells for anyone. Trax can posture if he pleases but he knows damn well the importance of working _with_ me rather than against me as much as anyone. I'll say what _needs_ to be said.

My musings are interrupted as my waiter arrives. I place my order: baby hearts of romaine salad, pan-seared bone-in chicken breast and the veggie risotto with a large glass of milk to drink. I go ahead and wait for the nigh immediate delivery of the salad and drink before prepping my phone for promo at the table.

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

"If I said I expected to make it to the third round of Lethal Lottery IV I'd be lying. Plain and simple. Instead, I'll offer my thanks and gratitude to my round one and two partners for gelling enough with a psychotic shithead like me to ensure victory. To be entering round 3 is as much an honor as teaming with the two of you was, as much an honor as being nominated for OTM accolades, as much an honor as my opportunities at the TV and Federweight Titles and as much an honor as it is currently to be teaming with yet another big dog in this the pinnacle of professional wrestling promotions."

I take a few bites of salad.

"Trax. I appreciate the words of respect and acknowledgment for what I've managed to accomplish in just over two months in the XWF. In turn, I tip my figurative hat to you in mutual respect for all that _you_ have attained. You are indeed a name and face in this business never to be taken lightly and you've earned that position. Now...in response to your nudge and passive threat over your theorizing a possibility that I'd ever cost us the opportunity to move forward to the fourth round, allow me to assure you... I'm not here in the XWF to fail. I'm here for victory and to turn my life around and there ain't a goddamn thing that's gonna stop me. I may have tripped up a few times here and there, as everyone does from time to time, but I've maintained my level of bone breaking consistency throughout and I shall _continue_ to do so. I've known what it is to drop the ball in life, to let others down, and I don't intend to EVER repeat. At this point I could levy a passive threat of my own, stating I fear no one and insinuating that if _you_ should somehow lose this match for us I'll be splitting more than hairs in reaction. Instead, I'll reaffirm you have nothing to worry about in Jim Caedus. I spoke to you backstage, we should already be well on our way to cohesion and I advise that instead of testing _eachother_ we need to focus on the task at hand. We have our work cut out for us Traxster, as super-powered and confident as you may be. I didn't get to where I am now by overlooking and underestimating, I got here by taking my opponents seriously. Only an idiot enters battle with his ass showing, especially when his opponents are more than capable of wedging a foot up in it."

Several more forkfulls of salad.

"Speaking of our opponents... Scully. Scully, like Trax and Robbie you've gained more than enough in the XWF to earn credibility in bragging rights. I don't care what failings you've suffered through, even if they are MASSIVE fuck ups, they don't compare to having held the XWF Universal Title and I don't fool myself into believing otherwise. That being said, I don't like you. Strike that, I _hate_ you and I fucking hate Brits; tea drinkin', tea bag twats with your pretentious accents, shitty fuckin' food, majority mouthfuls of teeth worse than my own and unjustified attitude of 'civility' and superiority over the rest of the world acting as if your cuntfull country hasn't been guilty of some truly heinous and _continuous_ crimes against humanity throughout history. From the dregs on up to the royal ass family you bastards per capita truly are terrible people. It takes a SINGLE name drop to paint the picture and spotlight a fellow Brit _knighted_ by your country, KNIGHTED, the late charity chick fuckin' pedophile in Sir Jimmy Savile who sexually assaulted over 200 KIDS under the age of 18...kids as young as EIGHT, motherfucker. Thats the legacy you bring to the table, fuck crumpets you cockney cocksucker. Never should've saved your asses in WW2. It's well known you Brits have no spine in context with your fellow man and further still pertaining to beasts with the precedent of locking bears in small cages and 'hunting' them through the bars. Fuckin' pussies...and I thought _I_ was a dirty fighter, your people put me to shame in that aspect. Such a crushing weight of karmic comeuppance accrued...its gonna be a pleasure to take on the responsibility of beating the ever living shit outta your narrow ass for all the suffering and extinction your people have perpetrated. Fuck the Beatles, "All You Need Is" a morphine drip and a full staff of surgeons when Trax and I are finished with you, bitch. And before you open your limey limp-dick prick-tip dip of a trap and try tearing down either the noble Irish, Americans or _both_...I don't give a shit. I'm Jim Caedus, dickhead, I don't truly identify with any _thing_ or any _one_ other than Jim fucking Caedus. Still, I absolutely look forward to your response. Please do piss me off more-so than I already am, shoot back like you got a shriveled pair and see what happens. I don't think you're fully aware of exactly who it is you face and why would you be? You're hardly ever around and you definitely wouldn't notice a lowly, as Trax might say, 'new booty' like me despite how active I've been on XWF broadcast television since January. I'm going to enjoy acquainting you with my in-ring ability once we all hit the ring."

I shovel the remainder of the salad into my maw and push the plate aside. I take a swig of dairy, the atmosphere of silverware clinks on plates and buzzing conversations breaking the silence.

"Last but definitely not least...Robbie motherfuckin' Bourbon. It ain't exactly Cadryn and Graves having to square off but as far as I'm concerned I wish the two of us didn't have to knuckle-up already. Not out of fear which, by the way, would be warranted; I refuse to echo the denigration of your peers in that you were at one time apparently deserving of the moniker King of Jobbers and it damn sure wouldn't occur to me to disrespect the XWF Hart Title or the man attached to it, being myself a man proud of the XWF Television Championship which garners more sneers and criticism than any other strap here. I recognize not only your skill out of the ring but your undeniable in-ring ability. I know you're a dangerous man, just as I know Scully isn't simply a piece of shit buttfucking Brit but a phenomenal athlete as well. No Rob, it isn't fear that has me wishing the brackets had ended up a bit differently in context with my and Trax's opposition, it's friendship...and a pretty one-sided friendship at that. Which, quite frankly, will make this easier than it _wouldn't_ have been had you ever truly extended a hand in sincere camaraderie. You've kept me at arm's length backstage and I'd always assumed it meant I made you uncomfortable and why wouldn't I? You represent the light hearted side of existence and I represent the shit, the harsh realities, the dark, the downers, the druggies and the depressed. 'Man of the People' my ass, that's a majority handle, you stand for the weak minority. You're the mouthpiece for those who haven't suffered _enough_, the LUCKY ones. You rep life, I rep death. Publicly you've proven my earliest support on the roster and professionally you've been just as supportive. Privately, I may as well have been suckin' your dick as often as my lips have been on your ass cheeks in contrast with the few times you've actually deigned to give _me_ the time of day. Perhaps Trax speaks the truth...when all's said and done you really only look out for you while you toss crumbs my way like the charity case you obviously see me to be. I ain't no charity case pal and I ain't afraid to put what little of a platonic relationship we have aside for now in pursuit of choking you out to advance to round four. I, ma'am, am alive, ma'am, and I strive, ma'am, to thrive, ma'am, lookin' to eat the whole pie, ma'am, and makin' you wish you would die, ma'am. But I dont need to spoof your rhyme game to bring it to you Robbie and you know it. I don't need to and don't _want_ to take the Brandon Moore route and cut on the beautiful Blue or target your weight or your hair color. All I need to do is compare your size to that of the man who murdered my ass, cut and paste his face over yours and believe it's Henry Spade I'm about to unleash my fury upon in the ring. Right now, in my mind, you represent the man I want to fucking KILL, Robbie...and I'll do whatever it takes to get some modicum of revenge by ensuring Trax and I kick you and Scully outta the tourney in the process. I refuse to accept anything less...REFUSE, Robbie...and no amount of poetry, fantastical scenarios or quick wit quips are gonna derail us. Chop it up with Axe Mannix man on Xanax. I'm reality, . Ain't NO ONE gonna find Waldo when he's in five separate pieces sans identifiable features. Invite Cyberjaw and Diamondback to the fireside, I'll burn down your fuckin' dojo with those two dopes inside and jack off to the stench of burning hair and meat. Bring forth the new grey, I'll be airing my own live-alien autopsy playin' Operation with his innards while he squirms. The Bourbon Men as a whole or one by one can phone in all the lackluster impressions and insults they want, I'll rape their asses in retort. Call down 'Christ' himself, I'll cut his fucking hippy head off slowly and get hard listening to his voice switch from healthy to an agonized rasp before severing the spinal cord and his final gurgled gasp. Same goes for you, Robbie. The more you come at me the more I prove to be the true Hulk in the XWF. The madder I get, the harsher I get and when pressured, I'll linguistically pound your bitchass into the concrete before you know what fuckin' hit you. Pull out that pathetic and spotless fresh-from-the-box little blade in my face, I'll show you what a REAL arsenal is, asshole, dirty blades with knicks and stains earned as a man who's had to enact less than savory actions to keep his family and himself from starvation. Hit me hard with some bullshit about how I could've done this, how I should've done that to prevent the tortures we suffered, how you see me as the loser in out of ring life that I am. You haven't the first clue about how nigh impossible it is to turn things around in the high desert no matter WHAT avenues you explore. You haven't an INKLING what it means to fight for your life, sitting there in your comfy little man cave full of collectibles you've been able to accumulate and keep in mint condition living so softly. I wouldn't even give a shit if what Graves said was true and you HAVE realistically faced death as well. What does accidental mean to me, a man who was MURDERED!? It only means I trump you in tribulation. Period. This is probably gonna get ugly and I for one can't wait. Bring it Bob, it's only the beginning."

The waiter sets the vegetable risotto and pan-seared chicken breast before me and I dig in hungrily as he removes my empty salad plate. I continue to promo as I fork the entire chicken breast and tear off a chunk with my teeth much to the chagrin of the nearest diners, speaking around the chewing.

"I fully realize I'm among giants in this match, my first true exposure to some of the biggest names in this fine promotion. I know I face staggering odds as never before. I know this is my opportunity, my first step onto the true proving ground of the XWF and by Lucifer's low-hangin' nutsac I'll NOT allow this chance at stardom to pass me by. The same determination I've shown in competing on EVERY SINGLE CARD AND EVENT OFFERED is what'll push me to overcome in round 3 and continue to redefine force of will with an explosive facial to those who doubt me. This isn't a game to me, boys, this is my LIFE. This is ALL I HAVE and I'll be DAMNED if I let you take it away from me. Fuck an underdog. I'm Jim Caedus and I will NOT be denied. Trax, my dude, my brother...it's time to fucking kill."
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TBC