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JimCaedus · (01-06-2018)

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(Continued from "Headshot")

Carpintero Avenue was always my route of choice walking home from my now alma mater Mayfair High in Lakewood, California to my mom's then place of employment a block down where I'd wait patiently in the inexplicably-there mini-apartment at the back of the building getting faded and watching afternoon TV until quitting time and the ride back home to Northwest Long Beach. I chose Carpintero because, even amidst the overall extremely clean and well-off surrounding community, that particular street was always especially peaceful and I enjoyed walking in silence after "being on" all goddamn day at school...and usually, that was exactly how it went down.

The time is now-

--February•Sophomore Year--

Nearing the lefthand corner of the fourth neighborhood side street in, Spruce, I can't help but jump, startled, as a large ball of grey fur comes clumsily crashing through the hedge, spazzing out across the corner house's lawn and tripping over the 3 inch high decorative "fencing" bordering both sides of the front walkway.

It's a cat.

A cat with a plastic bag tied firmly around it's head and neck.

I recall my first thought being something along the lines of, "stupid cat, how the hell did you get into that mess!?" before my heart lurches, I slough off my single strap hung backpack and dart out to nab the kitty.

I struggle to rip my fingertips through the plastic around its neck while the cat fights to free itself from under my left arm, kicking its hind claws into my side, poking holes in the fabric of my shirt, raking my left forearm with its front paws.

I finally succeed, cursing, and remove the bag, the terrified animal kicking off of me and out of my grasp to zip away across Carpintero and onto the lawn of a house across the way where it remains staring at me, eyes wide.

The obvious hits me when an unfamiliar brunette kid, striking me as younger than I, comes dashing around the hedge corner along Spruce then pauses to catch his breath bending over with his palms on his knees, huffing.

I see him spy and stare at the cat, his expression of entertainment morphing to one of shocked disappointment.

"It got out of the bag, dude," he calls over his shoulder as a second kid, dirty blonde, rounds the hedge to join him, even more breathless!

Instant horror is surpassed by an already old friend, rage, who catches up to and leaves horror in the dust as it breaks the finish line tape with a hollered, "Did you fuckin' do that!?"

The brunette straightens, "So?"

"What the fuck is _wrong_ with you!?"

"What man, it's just a stupid cat," his friend replies with a lilt of perplexed justification as if there truly is nothing wrong.

"Go away and mind your own business," the brunette adds before taking a few hurried steps into the street towards the cat.

I've already snatched my backpack from the sidewalk by a strap with my left hand before advancing quickly enough to catch him in the middle of Carpintero and using my forward momentum to swing my backpack with all my might just as he pauses to look both ways.

He's turning to look right at me as the edges and corners of 4 thick books and my large three-ring folder wrapped in a tough Jansport casing slam into his right shoulder blade and shoulder. A sound like cracking a giant knuckle CRUNCH-POPS loudly right before I hear the flapping of pages and my backpacks contents spilling free from the not-fully-closed-now-forced-open zipper onto the pavement.

The brunette drops too, slowly lowering himself to the street, his right arm and the ball of his shoulder grotesquely jutting away from where it should be, a raucous wail now emerging from the kid's throat before tears begin cascading down his cheeks.

Frantically I stoop to gather my books, folder, loose papers and stationary back into my pack.

"Mr. Peterson!! Mr. Peterson!!" I look to see the brunette's friend is running back around the hedge presumably to his fallen comrade's house and father and pick up the pace.

"Hey! I'm calling the police," I hear an elderly woman's voice ring out from somewhere nearby!

By the time I've scooped everything awkwardly back into my pack, heavy footsteps paired with lighter clap out and I turn to see an adult with the brunette's returning friend.

I'm off in a flash, running as fast as I can (I was always extremely swift) down Carpintero before veering to the opposite side onto the sidewalk where I continue my mad dash.

"You motherfucking punk, if I catch you I'll break your neck!!"

I take the next first right turn onto a side street, cross diagonally and speed on to wind my way through the neighborhood in the hopes his father doesn't hop in their car or truck and chase me down.

As my heart and labored respiration pound in my ears, the only thing I can hear is my own inner voice asking-

How am _I_ the bad guy!?

**************************

"Boycott Caedus"

--CASTLE CAEDUS•FRIDAY--

::We catch Jim perusing the XWF's official online site, specifically his unanswered vignette entitled "Headshot", expression cast in deadpan concentration. Once the video ends he nods in satisfaction then looks over the list of Likes, majority dominated as usual by his fans. His cold blue eyes scan the names on-screen for several seconds before he suddenly flinches, frowning in confusion::

"Something wrong, Jim?"

"You're goddamn right something's wrong, Floyd."

::Jim doesn't elaborate, he merely continues scanning the names::

"Were you going to specify or...?"

"Right there, in the Likes listing!"

::Our Floyd-pov steps around behind Jim to get a better shot at the screen::

"Ok what am I looking for here?"

"Nah dawg, it ain't what's there, it's what _ain't_ there..."

"I'm afraid I don't follow, Jim."

"Neither of my Apex brothers liked my attack on War Pig! I mean, they very well might after seeing this but still...the hell? Actually, come to think of it that's not really what bothers me; what _does_ is I can't remember the last time I've gotten less roster and viewer approval for one of my promos. Don't get me wrong here, I don't _expect_ anything and I'm exceedingly grateful for what I do receive but this is unusual... If it weren't for my boy Super Gilly and, classily enough, BDub himself, there wouldn't be a single show of support among my peers."

"Well, you have been on a bit of a douchebag streak lately."

::Jim spins in his swivel chair to look just past the lens at Floyd himself with incredulous flare::

"_What_?? My ASS."

"Think about it; you just had that Twitter tiff with the 4CW for one thing."

"In defense of a friend for fucksake! Did I enter that debate completely informed before shootin' off my mouth in mistaken sweeping fashion, no, but goddammit my heart was in the right place, was it not?"

"You got pretty harsh with some of your replies, Jim. Probably added some new names to your list of enemies in the business."

"Okay, A. I was gettin' attacked en masse and had no choice but to hit back. I'm Jim Caedus, not a submissive slave to politics, authority's cuck or a simple-minded conformist. B. Big deal, I've been collecting enemies for 21 years just for the crime o' bein' me, what's a few more matter at this point? C. Last time I checked I'm under contract with the XWF, not 4CW and D. I APOLOGIZED...and for the record, I'm gettin' a little tired o' bein' the only guy around man enough to do so only to be condemned anyway."

"Jim, I'm your friend, so I'll pay you the compliment of being blunt: you get dickier than most and inspire a lot of hate in the process."

"I'm also _nicer_ than most and most of the _time_ at that. That don't count for shit now?"

"People tend to remember the negative. Like how you tore into Imperial-"

"That was in reaction to HIS disrespect. You noticing a trend here? The fact I never initiate, I merely react? I take what comes and I react, period. Now, if some people don't like my reactions, keep it impersonal and don't engage me. Simple."

"Alright, case in point, this "Headshot" promo of yours."

"Again, in _reaction_...to dominating Pig's attention at War Games and since-"

"Yeah but Jim, overkill."

"He's been pokin' at me since I left his stable!"

::We hear Floyd sigh off-camera::

"Look, I won't say you aren't swinging from an arguable stance about reacting but the thing rubbing people wrong is the way you go about it. You're supposed to be a hero. That's not very heroic."

::Jim extends his arms outward, palms up in exasperation::

"............I am who I am. Call me anti-hero, vigilante at worst...but I damn sure ain't no villain. And I damn sure ain't apologizing for bein' me. I'm a good person."

"I'm not disagreeing with you, I'm just telling you what I think the issue i-"

::THUMP...THUMP-THUMP...THUMP::

"The fuck...?" Jim pops up from his chair, heads out of the master bedroom, then down the hallway to the front door and squints through the peephole. "The FUCK!?" He unlocks and flings it open, taking several steps forward aggressively.

::From behind Jim, through Floyd-view, we see around a hundred picketers standing on his front lawn, many of them clutching unlaunched eggs, most of them jutting homemade wrestler mark signs to the heavens. Jim turns to survey the mess from the four eggs while Floyd's lens takes in several signs bearing such gems as-

Caedus Kill Urself

Can anyone understand this asshole?

Ponytail Faggit

Not As Advertized

Your a fuk-Up! Remember that one?

and of the course the always classic-

Lulz! Ur mom is dead!::

"Jesus, can't anyone spell anymore?"

"Someone's definitely cleanin' this up with his tongue or-"

"Uh oooh, Jim Caedus is triggeeeeered."

"Fuck you troll!"

"_Troll_!? What!?"

"A fucking TROLL, that's what you are, dickhead!"

"Motherfucker I EAT trolls!"

"You are what you eat." Laughter from several picketers. Jim flushes red, staring daggers at the culprit who nervously begins backing away.

"Then call me Bearded War Pig, I'm about to swallow a bitch whole."

"Jiiiim-"

::Jim advances, several larger picketers, taller even than he himself (standing a mere 5 foot 9), converge to block his path::

"You're a PUSSY, Caedus, you ain't no hero. Dude's like 80 pounds lighter than you, probably can't even fight."

"Probably shouldn't be talkin' SHIT, then! Kick a dragon in the ass, he's gonna fry up nuts over the audacity!"

"You aren't an animal, man, you should know better" some chick whips out from the crowd.

"You're right, easy fix." Jim punks at the taller of his large roadblocks, who flinches.

"Jim..."

::The guy instantly sees red as he flushes the same::

"COME ON!!"

::He swings. Hard. The crowd gasps. Jim's head snaps to the right then just as quickly snaps right back. He works his tongue through his mouth then spits blood onto his attacker's shirt front::

"......"

::Jim cracks a wicked lopsided grin beneath narrowed eyes as he balls his right fist-

-but he doesn't swing::

"That it?" He holds the guy's stare, unblinking, for several seconds awaiting further action. The guy stands tall but flinches, his eyelids involuntarily fluttering for a fraction of a second. Jim catches it. "Then get the fuck off my property." Again, several seconds pass while Jim, zombied-up, awaits defiance, his dead-eyed gaze remaining fixed. "All of you." He breaks the stare to pan around those picketers nearest. "Now."

::The crowd begins to break up, Jim's attacker among the first to turn and walk away. As the mob thins we can see the immediate vicinity of the street clogged with picketer vehicles, many of Jim's actual neighbors watching from their open doorways or front windows.

Caedus remains standing as the scene plays out, every single picketer having finally departed minutes later.

Jim eyes a few of the snooping neighbors...then turns to the lens, his dead-eyed gaze gone, replaced by calm::

"I have nothin' to apologize for beyond what I've already apologized for. I can't be anything other than Jim Caedus and that ain't ever gonna change. Love me, like me, hate me...no worries. Shit's gonna be what its gonna be.

As far as War Pig goes, wherever he is and it damn sure ain't hypin' the match...

I didn't start this, Joshua.

You did.

You.

Tell you what I _will_ do though..."

::He walks up to and past our Floyd-view heading for his open front door, adding-::

"...finish it."

::Floyd-view remains on a scattering of picketers' signs littering the front lawn as Jim returns inside::

"And that don't make me a bad guy."

::We hear the door close::

::STATIC::

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