-1996-


West Side Mafia is what we call ourselves, pathetically enough, as a trio crew "gaffin' whips" for what began as a promised source of income from J.R.'s supposedly Mexican Mafia member uncle and had continued simply as a source of joy ridin'. He hadn't really delivered on the monetary front but to be honest, at 16 it was brag worthy enough just to be stealin' cars.

A lot like standing there posted with a pistol. A silver Phoenix .25 to be exact. At least J.R. had provided a tool of terminal credibility tonight. I feel like God; the power of life and death in my right hand tucked beside my leg in the shadow cast by the orange-yellow glow of the nearest neighborhood crime light, eyes shifting about the location, corner of Reva and Faust in Lakewood, CA, wishing someone, anyone, would find it prudent to interfere, giving me reason to open fire. I want the chance to prove my dedication. The chance never comes.

Armin, our third, an American born Iranian, successfully accomplishes his role and starts the ignition, J.R. hissing at me from his position in response. In disappointment I waste little time crossing the 40 or so feet from the corner to the “new” car and hop in the backseat. Apparently unconcerned with creating a scene, Armin peels out and bends a right off Reva onto Woodruff Avenue.

He powers on the radio, twisting the knob to a level of volume much higher than my own comfort level wishes to allow but I remain silent as, for some reason, the solitary one of us paranoid or smart enough to want to avoid any attention at this early hour of the morning (around 3 am), the thumping bass of some hip hop track broadcast on Power 106 blasting into the silence of the otherwise peaceful residential area.

By the fourth or fifth intersection, the three of us now passing around a burning blunt, we come to a rolling stop on a red. I can't recall which of us it was who spied the patrol car ignoring the green at the cross street intersection to the left first but the feeling of dread I experienced, to this day, I most definitely remember.

Hilariously Armin decides to drop the music level to a whisper, as if the three of us don't realize it's already too late. With the exception of the patrol car itself we hadn't seen a single separate vehicle on the road since this all started...and that's more than enough, I figure, to define suspicious activity combined with Armin’s sudden “oh shit, a cop” reaction in turning down the radio.

Sure enough, red blinks to green, we pass through the intersection slowly, the lights hit with a “woop-woop” and we’re pulling over to the right.

I remain silent, petrified, in the back as J.R. criticizes Armin, questioning what exactly it is he thinks he's doing. He’s telling him to take off. On cue with the opening of the officer’s driver's side door, Armin does indeed gun it. I nearly shit my pants.

Reaching speeds upwards of 90, perhaps above, bending corners and punching straightaways, I find myself terrified at both the prospect of a spin-out, flip or collision death OR what seems to me to be a high possibility of arrest and conviction...'cause this cop ain't givin' up. A fucking cell in some juvenile facility...that'd put a nice damper on my dream of becoming a professional wrestler. I'll miss my tryout in July. Armin and J.R., however, seem to be overriding any fear they have with adrenaline, hooting, hollering and laughing as we zoom along with our pursuit close behind. I'm wondering when “backup” will arrive.

Armin signals left. He turns right onto Flora Vista. The ridiculous ruse doesn't work. I'm hoping he has a plan as he speeds up further. I jam my right foot beneath the passenger seat, my left onto the center console and raise my ass off the seat in a panic, twisting to stare at the head and spotlights behind. I shield my eyes from the piercing illumination, feeling very vulnerable and uncomfortable realizing my jittery silhouette is visible through the tint.

Armin manages to put some distance between us as he lays on the gas...and at this time it does appear he has a plan of action.

Moments later he's slowing in a less than safely drawn out manner and the front wheels of the vehicle jolt us to a stop at the curb when he veers to the right upon reaching his chosen destination: Caruthers Park in Bellflower, and instantly, he and J.R. release their seatbelts, throw open their doors, hopping free on a run. Cocksuckers. I follow suit.

It’s a humid night we discover, dashing onto the spread of grass, with a thick layer of fog hovering a good foot above it. Behind us we can hear the patrol car arrive at the abandoned vehicle. Armin and J.R. drop. Again, I follow suit, the three of us lying on our backs beneath the misty cover.

I recall my heart pounding in my chest, resounding in my ears, watching the sudden appearance and powerful beam of the officer’s mag-lite searching the surrounding area. I don't believe we’ll escape. To the contrary, I “know” we're about to be caught.

The shatter of a glass bottle and ne’er-do-well laughter sounds from further onto the park property. The officer, whom I finally discover to be a healthily thick female, jogs by not 5 feet away from my eyes towards the disturbance, thankfully not noticing my terrified ass through the much less opaque layer of fog in such close proximity.

We give it a good thirty seconds, waiting in the otherwise silent night for the weighted foot falls on grass to dim and as they do, the three of us pop up and jet back the way we came.

J.R. takes off at a dead run in the direction of wherever it is his home may be while Armin and I, seeing as I'm supposed to be spending the night, take our own opposite route. Once we’ve darted back into the “safety” of a neighborhood street, we slow to a walk, catching our breath, and finally allow the risk of elated laughter in our escape.

It's fun bein' a bastard. I can't wait until it pays off...
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~


"A Dick At Tippy Top"







-Thursday, April 27 2017, 9:29 PM PST-

-Casa de Caedus @ 5649 E Sorrento Drive, Naples Island, Long Beach, CA-



I rouse from my musings and take in the structure before me.

It's been a week of firsts. Cashing in on Reno following his match against Steve Davids on Savage saw me attain my first ever top title in 21 years and as far as I'm concerned, acquiring it in the top promotion in the business justifies the time spent earning it. It...and what it accompanies.

Jefferson Jackson had taken me aside to detail what I'd be raking in as the new XWF Universal Champion, first pertaining to a theoretical annual followed by my actual monthly...then handing me a check for an even $500,000, raising his free hand once to stifle vomiting. Five hundred thousand dollars. Five. Hundred. Fuckin'. Thousand. Dollars. I do believe that trumps the hell outta my $49,999.99 death beneficiary payout in October of 2011. Combined with my previous earnings as well as merchandise sales percentages for both Caedus and Ax3 items I found myself sittin' on a solid 3/4 of a million.

The money led me to experience my next first in the form of a house and not just my first independently purchased property...but a triumphant return to Long Beach, this time tucked away on none other than the exclusive Naples Island. $267,500 offered as a 10 percent down bumped up from a requested 5 I hoped would speed along the process. The sellers had seemed grateful enough, having recently dropped the overall asking price so they'd accepted the offer and handed me the keys, allowing me the luxury of inhabiting my soon-to-be-official base of operations while I waited for the paperwork to push through.

After spending hours familiarizing myself with the grounds and deciding the priority for redecorating had to be the carnival ass exterior, I'd checked in on the status of my impending match with Nate Higgers in Pittsburgh and discovered he'd uploaded his first promo. It didn't take long before I was prepping my phone for response, using the luxurious interior of my new digs as a backdrop.
...................................................................

"Nate, what the fuck is it with you and punctuality? I mean, I have an excuse; I've been one of, if not _the_, busiest names on the roster for awhile now and snagging _this_ prize here-" I step aside and allow the camera to catch the Universal Title already glistening above my mantle. "-has only intensified my hectic scheduling but what's your justification? For fucksake, you never came back at me in that house show promo back and forth, you had ammo right there to IMMEDIATELY launch days ago had you the drive or the confidence to do so. Instead...you offer up another plain plate of Higgers buttfucker brand buttered noodles, playin' at me like this is some kinda fuckin' snap contest on BET with no relevance attributed to a single word ploppin' outta that southern sac scrubber.

Could it be the reason you backed off like a bitch before the house show was because I crushed you? Is that also why you've decided to ignore the last salvos I slathered you with? Dumbfuck...tryin' to call me out on namin' my daughter Amethyst without realizing her parents are both Aquarian and she was _conceived on my birthday no less_, February 12th in 2011...fuckin' info is out there for all to see ya sumbitch cow-cum-dippin' shitkickin' cracker, research before comin' at me, you'll make fewer mistakes.

Mistakes like lame peeper jack-off promo premises ending with a shot of the target bitch not, in fact, within some domicile to be spied upon but apparently, according to the footage shown at the climax, on a beach. Lazy idiot. Nate, are you fuckin' up on purpose? S'fine with me...I have no problem adding a second victory over your ass and you're goddamn right I count the house show even if it ain't an official bout in the record books. Mr. Washington removing the rules only allows me to finally lay into you physically as I've wanted to do since you bombarded me in the Federweight Hall tryin' to capitalize on my being winded following Lethal Lottery 4. I'm gonna pull out every lice-littered pube from those nuts o' yours and use 'em to stitch your motherfuckin' mouth shut once and for all.

Don't come at me claimin' the ol' cliché criticism '(I) think (I'm) hot shit ever since (I) got the Uni Title'. First off, there ain't a man or woman among us who WOULDN'T think a bit more highly of his or herself, to put it mildly, in attaining the top tier title in the XWF. Second, how exactly is it you arrive to that conclusion to begin with? I've done nothing to rub it in despite the ample opportunity provided following Savage, Reno's sudden quitting and the laughable callin' out by The Kings. Matter of fact, I've been silent thus far on the matter until now. As to the fact of you perplexingly using that as a segue to piss out more irrelevant, invented and inarguably self-revealing homosexual fantasies, all I can say is you spend more time waxin' on about waxin' ass than the reach-around gang population you seem to 'hate' so much itself. Callin' me ugly...Christ alfuckinmighty, is that all you have left? You shoulda owned your inability to push your 'skill' into the ring instead of deciding you wanna prove my apt analyses of you false, Higgers, you need another two month break to think up another fifteen minutes worth of trash talk. Fuckin' ever-hack.

Nothin' changes with you Nate. From your inexplicably in-context-with-character in-depth knowledge and referencing of pop culture to your wildly homo-erotic insults and lame linguistic lashings peppered with poor and/or southern product namedrops seemingly thought up while running errands at Wal-Mart...it's becoming clear why it is you pop up for a short while and disappear; wielding so monotonous and niche-based one dimensional concepts isn't suited for the long term and they quickly lose their flavor, exposing you for the untalented and undeserving dickhead you really are.

As little as I now concern myself with your verbal ability, so too do I have confidence your already proven ineffectual in-ring repertoire will fall flat for the second time in my favor. I dont give a fuck if this is non-title or not, main event or not...every contest I'm in is treated with the respect it deserves and I'll be kickin' the closet-country-cocksucker outta your dimpled ass like my precious Universal Title depends on it. Fuck slackers and slackin' off. I'm Jim Caedus. I haven't failed to deliver thus far and I don't intend to now. And this...this is just round one you semen-slurpin' sack o' skeet-gurglin' goddamn gayrod. See you soon."
XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

TBC