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JimCaedus · (07-24-2017)

"S'up Ben?"

Ben Savage. Younger brother of Fred. Mr. Cory Matthews himself. I had a lot to tell him about my first sexual conquest with my first D-T-F recently made ex girlfriend at the time, Heather Harris.

Ben and I had been friends-on-the-set since the filming of Clifford (starring Martin Short) after the other extras had snubbed his segue into hanging out. It was a common reaction from background child actors integrating with the not-yet-famous feature players like Ben was in Clifford, simply starting out, to treat them with jealousy disguised in spite. I never identified with that attitude, I'd always looked beyond the status to the person, whom, in this case, was just a kid a helluva lot better off than the rest of us though obviously kept far from others his age. Lonely. A lonely kid whose big brother was still ridin' the wave o' The Wonder Years, hoggin' all the spotlight. For my three days on location Ben and I played one on one basketball, Gameboy and generally jaw-jackin' whatever topics we came up with at that age.

By the time Boy Meets World came around it took one moment of Ben double-taking at my face on the classroom set to recognize me, and through three seasons and several episodes our on-set friendship continued, even including interacting and conversing with Danielle Fishel (yeah, Topanga my bros) over the fact that she and I both wore a Mormon CTR ring. However, on this date, about a year before first lacing up a pair of wrestling boots...

-1995 / Boy Meets World season 3 "My Best Friend's Girl" episode filming-

Rider Strong steeples his brows, incredulous, looking as if a peon peasant like me has no business approaching the two of them.

"Who's he," he inquires of Ben?

Ass. I'm standing right here.

Instead of voicing my distaste over "Shawn's" lack of manners, I simply await Ben's dropping of my name and his explanation. I'd never run across Rider before now, oddly enough, but I assumed he'd warm up to me all the same.

Ben stares at me silently, quizzically, before- "Never met him before."

And with that, the two return to the conversation I'd apparently interrupted as I'd walked up, a discussion on their favorite 80s new wave tracks.

Never met me before? You fuckin' LIAR.

I don't speak, however, I merely flush red, turn and awkwardly walk away. It feels as if they're watching me, ridiculing me, while I do it.

Never met me before? Fuckin' _never met me_!? THIS is what I get for bein' your friend when no one else would, you fuckin' prick!?

As I return to the rest of the background child actor flock I'm too angry and embarrassed to mention what'd happened, especially given the fact a fellow member of the Children of the World choir (in my opinion an unattracive girl) named Heather Herbon (currently crushing on me) has been made aware of my friendship with Ben, _believes_ me and is undoubtedly awaiting some form of report, knowing where and why I'd departed our corral.

Thankfully she, myself and one other designated for specialty roles in this episode are summoned to the makeup trailer (before any inquisition can begin) where we find ourselves transformed into and clothed in the guise of mimes. An hour or two later, rehearsal begins...

To Be Continued...
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"Body Bag Blingsteen"

-Saturday July 22 2017, Time Unknown-

-Undisclosed Location-

Henry
Eugene
"Buddha"
Spade.

6 foot 9, 380 pounds. Scumbag. Skinhead. Meth and weed dealer. Convicted for the agg-assault and attempted murder of yours truly in 2003. Released from a 12 year stretch in 2015.

Starting this year, I've attempted to locate the current whereabouts of my killer for the purposes of revenge, four in the know suffering by my hands to attain it. The fourth (the traitor true perpetrator of the burglaries he'd framed me and I was murdered for) had finally given me what I needed. Southeast Compton. Motherfucker actually had the balls to return to my old stompin' grounds. I'd decided it was time.

Close friend and SOS (Sons of Samoa) member Robert "RIP Rida" Ropati had gifted me the use of his section 8 hovel to formulate a plan and had even coerced a pack of local tweakers to help out on the promise of free shit.

Unfortunately, at the moment, said sprackers are busy smokin' bowls in the garage so I find it prudent to get the jump on my opponent for Savage and promo.

I set up in Robert's room...

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

"Bruce Blingsteen...your name makes me wanna waterboard your wimp wigga ass with acetone before lobbin' a lit match in your mouth. Your _actions_, however, inspire me to stomp that skull o' yours 'til your brain's lobes liquify and squirt out your fuckin' ears, nostrils and ocular cavities. I'm glad you had fun disruptin' my run and play actin' like you're a champ. I'm stoked you had the balls to take it to 1 winded man abandoned by his own ill-assigned teammate, grounded by 2 o' the best in the business deliverin' no less than 3 finishers. I'm thrilled you knew what it'd take for a fake like you to overcome Caedus. I'm enthused you had it in you to humiliate me. ...And now...I'm overjoyed your tarnishing o' the title is swiftly approachin' it's end.

You did a bang-up job jizzin' all over the gold like Maddox, avoidin' all-comers these past few weeks, weavin' around like Parkinson's McFly on meth, auctionin' off title shots only to ignore each and every bid then belch out bullshit to the tune o' YOU were bein' ducked, dick. And you, in your infinite "innocence", with precedent, would (if I wasn't sayin' so at least) probably push "no pay, no play", wouldn't you? As if anyone on the roster is dense enough to shell out their xbux BEFORE said match and trust a shady, shifty, shithead like you to honor the agreement after all the affirmative you've shown in the trustworthy column. That ain't all though, is it? You never _had_ any intention o' voluntarily facin' ANYONE with the capability o' kickin' your asshole inside out, as if that's news. Very reminiscent o' the Chris Chaos I witnessed my first few months here; a man fond o' incitin' and bullyin' the boys he thinks he's better than, devoid o' that which makes a true champion: the fortitude to take on _all_ challengers at the drop of a hat, regardless o' skill.

Honor.

Courage.

Credibility.

That ain't you, Bruce. Not by a long shot. You ain't tough, talented or telltale of a future HOFer. You ain't creative, catastrophic or clever. You ain't special. For all intents and purposes you ain't _shit_ but a run-o'-the-mill, textbook cowardly-cad-character gimmick without the decency to, at the very least, provide the rest of us and the fans with a reasonable amount o' content in the way o' vignettes. For fucksake, what you DO offer up ain't even all that entertainin', I-M-O. I expected somethin' more from a man so seemingly focused on fuckin' up my first reign. I thought perhaps you'd been savin' somethin' spectacular to secure a potential Blingsteen Era (and I was lookin' forward to furiously flattenin' that) but alas, you've remained as inconsistent as ever, wastin' everybody's time trollin' the halls, cock-blockin' in company meetings and smoke-blowin' backstage post shows...and uh, asshole, when you were John Blaq you were a helluva lot better at it. As you are now..." My left side upper lip rises in a disgusted sneer. "...in every way, shape and form you're the vaginally discharged after-birth o' what you once were, which....wasn't much to begin with if I'm bein' honest. It isn't inconceivable in the slightest to believe your p.o.s. blaq-facin' four-banger bitchass is putterin' to a halt at the side o' the XWF highway, tank exclusively expellin' fumes, dash displayin' an empty gas gauge. It's evident in your inability to put forth any effort in your brand as you steadily collect the champ-status simoleons, parasitically pullin' pinnacle paychecks like a loser fraudulently feedin' offa government cheese while still livin' rent free with 'is parents.

P
U
S
S
Y

You're fuckin' pathetic...and ever since Paulie's announcement of our impendin' title match on the July 29 edition o' Savage, naming _himself_ the special guest referee after a promise o' NO INTERFERENCE...you've been less fulla piss and vinegar, more so just straight pissin' all over those pubic pink beaded braids I'm sure you have danglin' in your freeballin' FUBU's,

. What happened? May we all take that as your admission of immediate future defeat? The fuck am I askin' your permission for? You ain't shit, we DO all take that as you realizin' Caedus gonna kill you. Gotta make the fans happy, right? What was it they were chantin' the night I caved your cranium in with ten chair shots?"

::Piped in playback::

KILL BRUCE BLING-STEEN (clap clap clap-clap-clap)

KILL BRUCE BLING-STEEN (clap clap clap-clap-clap)

KILL BRUCE BLING-STEEN (clap clap clap-clap-clap)

::End playback::

My eyes narrow as my lips stretch taut to form a cruel shit-eating grin.

"Oh that's right, they wanted me to kill a punkass pissant pipsqueak heeb hack. This, The Caedus Era, may have it's share o' detractors (such as the legendary Jon Brown) but you've managed to gain me more support than I've ever had before with your half-assed harassment of all that is pristine in the XWF. Faces I never thought I'd hear utter my name outside o' squarin' off with me have done so in support o' smashin' a studiogangster-suburbanite-Semite-sack-o'-sufganiyah and I aims to please, ya potato pancake eatin' prick. Not just for the masses...but for Caedus.

Why so confident you ask?

Well, as much as I would've preferred retainin' the XWF Universal Championship (especially considering you had it melted down like Kama with the urn into that corn cob kernel shuckin' wanna-be-gangsta grill, gayrod) you forced upon me a time to rest; a break I've needed since Lethal Lottery 4 (after which I STILL managed to attain the Uni Title, F-Y-I). Now I'm feelin' like 50 pair o' perky titties looks lined up: faaaaaaaanfuckintastic. That ain't good news for you, Bruce....holy SHIT that ain't good news. I made it through _High Stakes II_ retainin' the title against Thaddeus Duke and Chris Chaos at the same time, ON A QUARTER TANK. The FUCK you think I'm gonna do to you now that this lil' pitstop has refueled and reenergized me, motherfucker? Better call the Brick Squad, squid-headed James Franco-as-Riff Raff-lookin', lay-away-Wal-Mart-merchandisin', male-bathhouse-habitual-bukkake-bullseyin', b-boy-wannabein', blown-out-by-bbc-bunghole-havin', rigid-rod-receivin'-

.

Yeah that's right, I know aaaaaall about your lil' clique and I wish you WOULD bring 'em back, bitch. Gator especially since he seems to be headin' back anyway. Bring 'im. See what happens. I'm no longer at the bottom rung anticipatin' WHEN I get to contend with legends, I'm ready to go as a main event monarch. No line, no wait. I WANT the best this business has to offer to oppose me. I'm countin' the days 'til I'm honored with the opportunity to perform in singles combat against the likes of James Raven, The Doc, Theo Pryce, John Samuels, John Madison...you and your crew o' cocksuckers don't scare me. No one does. Promise o' no interference or not, I don't give a Crimson Dong rubber-wrapped shit WHO shows up to the party, I'm not leavin' the ring in Hollywood without MY XWF Universal Championship LEGITIMATELY back where it belongs...in. My. Hands. And ain't no one gonna stop me from accomplishin' that. I refuse to allow the gold and MY NAME to be drug through the mud any further. Fuck that. And now that I know my limitations...it'll never happen again.

I'm not quite sure what it was you thought was gonna happen with all this, whether you mistook my obvious strugglin' as a heraldin' o' my washin' out or you actually deluded your dimebag dipshit dumbass into believin' you still have what it takes to compete on a top tier level, if you ever could...but you'd be mistaken in either case. Matter o' fact, unless you were headin' into this with the preconception of it representin' your last hurrah in the XWF you'd be gettin' the goddamn gong. You embarrassed me, humiliated me...no one gets away with that. No one. I'm gonna grab you by the dome, snap-flap your body like a wet towel with such force your innards and bones shoot out your asshole en masse then staple your skin to my wall next to NOCMM's invisible fuckin' head where it'll aid in grossin' out the sluts enough I won't need to lie to get 'em the fuck outta my house post-nut. O' course, the more violence-inclined cunts'll start splashin' again and that'll undoubtedly lead to reenactin' your rape usin' your hide as the ho's costume but that's neither here nor there. What matters is I'm takin' that title if I hafta devour you like an order o' cream cheese rangoons from Panda Express then shit out what doesn't digest: cartilage, bone, teeth and a solid gold Uni Grill.

The XWF UNIVERSAL CHAMPIONSHIP...fuck are you gonna do to defend it? If you've any intention o' retainin' you'd better load up with somethin' a helluva lot more hardcore than downin' a drink and breakin' glass, "gangsta". I ain't JT Washington, world-star, I'll grind you up with the linguistic fisticuffs before I concave your fourteen year old boy-lookin' chest with Wrexus Plexus, dislocate your cock-pocket jaw with a Purgatory Punch and splatter that nose with Point Blank. Resort to a ten second snippet and a lackluster physical offensive, I'll kill you. Fire back assbackwards like you always do then fuck up in the squared circle, I'll kill you. Refuse to put forth effort and treat me like I WON'T kill you and I'll kill you. Truth be told, if you don't bring your if-it-exists-at-all A-game to this contest

I
'
L
L

F
U
C
K
I
N
'

K
I
L
L

Y
O
U

Period. Unfortunately, even if you DO take this as seriously as you should, you're in for the fight o' your apparently incredibly forgettable career. Fuck your reply is what I'm sayin'. I'm Jim Caedus. Still The Star Killer extraordinaire. You're a boney lil' bitch who hides behind guise like a gutless pink twink toothpick. From nobody John Blaq to who-the-fuck-is Bruce Blingsteen and STILL I doubt you've revealed who you TRULY are beneath the multiple façades. This coming Saturday night on Savage I'm gonna treat the fans to a little exploratory surgery and peel away the Blingsteen bullshit. I'm not just removin' that Lil' Pump look-alike suit though. I'm gonna beat the shit outta you like a gimp in a burlap sack, hammerin' away at your head, 'til EMS cuts you out of it and you're carted outta that arena on a stretcher with a face lookin' like that poor kid Amare Stover's.

Domino, motherfucker."
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