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JimCaedus · (01-05-2022)

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CAEDUS REWIND: An Apex early Thanksgiving at the Main homestead saw some painful memories and accompanying regrets resurface in Jim Caedus. After sharing one such memory with his best friend and brother Robert Main, Jim decided it a good idea to traipse out into the woods and shoot on his next opponent Bam Miller. Before our antihero could conclude his vicious harangue however, he was attacked by a bear- the same that had attacked he and Robert's father Dewey back in December of 2017. The skirmish THIS time unfortunately led to a vulnerable Jim (no longer in possession of his super strength bestowing gold nugget) being overcome and slain all alone in the woods...

CONTINUING DIRECTLY FROM JIM CAEDUS'S "REGRETS P.2"
http://xwf99.com/showthread.php?tid=42283

"Dead...Again"

:: RECORD SCRATCH ::

That's right fam...dead AGAIN.

Been there done that. Not his first rodeo and every other dumbass idiom in context you can cough out.

Wait...

Fuck am I saying; I'm acting like dying once or twice 'round these parts is something shocking.

Probably a quarter of the XWF roster done did it once or more times too, and I'm talking just over the course of the last year for fucksake. And ah well, unfortunately for Jimmy his first death wasn't rockstar glamorous like an OD in a bathtub or a cinematic tour de force like being set ablaze in spectacular fashion for the fans. Nope...just the very real, cruel, cold-blooded and brutal retributive murder of a guy no one outside a handful of now long-defunct California state Indy feds would recognize.

For the benefit of the mass of new faces, allow me to explain...

Back in the year 2000 when some of you were still little kids (...fuck you) Jimmy Caedus had gotten himself entangled in alcohol and drug abuse. Not the best attempt fabrications of Charlie Nickles type of drug abuse mind you, _real_ drug abuse.

Three years and a long list of ONS and shattered relationships later, the addiction grew to include methamphetamine. Now normally something as, well, "trailer" as meth wouldn't be a substance Jimmy ever thought he'd try, let alone abuse, but he'd just been through a bad breakup with old pussy out in Downey, CA and amping up the experimentation was a welcome distraction provided by new pussy out in Cypress, CA, a suburb of Los Angeles in Orange County.

At the start of this particular journey, snorting was the desired method. Dub sacks of glass would be emptied out onto the most convenient and readily available "clean" flat surface, CD cases usually, then someone's Drivers License or ATM card would be used to crunch crystal and form lines of jagged fragments destined for nostrils via short lengths of scissored straws or tightly rolled dollar bills when straws weren't available and time was of the essence, which, let's be honest was whenever you had shit in your pocket.

However, after months of cranking bullets on the private beaches of "Thousand Steps", hyper horny fuck sessions with and without Michelle- forgot to mention new pussy's name earlier, my bad -and consistent sleepless nights spent bouncing from one locale populated by bizarre tweakers to the next in an effort to mooch when personal supplies were exhausted, Jimmy began to pine for the palms 🌴 of Long Beach.

Unceremoniously slipping outta Cypress, Jim returned home to Bomb Beach, California- Crip capital of the world, cuh -supremely excited to be able to get twacked alone and hog aaaaaaaaaall the glass he could buy to himself (I mean, wtf, he DID pay for it). Finding a hook-up was easy enough, he simply sought out the younger brother- Daniel -of one of his weed dealers at the time who was already knee-deep in it. Daniel would introduce Jim to his hook-up, one "Harold Spade", a skinhead standing close to seven feet tall and weighing over three hundred pounds who went by the name "Buddha".

Now, Buddha HATED Jim and his love of black culture. He thought Jim was a race traitor and an embarrassment... but he damn sure didn't refuse his money and he definitely made sure to sell him high quality for the first timer hook-em (which is usually never repeated): a fat ass dub weight rock of chalk.

Before Jim could finish asking for a mirror or CD case to make lines with and a straw with which to snort said lines, he was handed a pookie (or "oil burner" as the liquor store employees call them to justify sales).

First noting that the chalk tasted like green apples on the exhale, then experiencing the effects of methamphetamine multiplied via the smoking process, Jimmy was effectively and definitively hooked.

Now all he was was a fiend for the pookie.

His attendance in the indy promotions he was in dropped off so severely (along with his physical weight) that all but one let him go.

Months passed as he devolved in all ways possible. He no longer cared about anything other than getting spracked and when the mood struck, balling the fuck out of new new pussy in Jessica, a half Hispanic half Iranian meth-head sexpot (whom unfortunately was the sole female desire of Buddha, adding yet another layer of hatred for Jim). Eventually he grew tired of having to share what shit he could get with anyone else and withdrew to be a solitary smoker at home.

It was right around this time in late late 2002 that Jim's father and mother could no longer afford the in-home nursing care that his father required. Jim made the decision to pull back from wrestling and become his father's full-time caregiver during the long hours his mother was away.

When Jim ran out of fundage for more glass, he simply sold his valuables. When he had no more valuables to spare, he stooped to theft, burglary and armed robbery.

By January 2003, Buddha began ripping Jim off regularly by selling him mostly cut. That was okay, Jimmy just found a new connect' in response.

Buddha took notice. He didn't appreciate not being able to fuck Jim over on top of him being a "race traitor" and fucking his obsession, Jessica, whenever she was able to persuade Jim to share, so Buddha began calling Jimmy's house and leaving veiled threats on the answering machine.

Jimmy didn't appreciate that but he's also not a rat so he didn't call the cops.

Next thing ya know, someone burglarized Buddha's house while he was out doing whatever the fuck it is a Nazi does. Took his cash, took his shit, even took his heavy glass bong. Or so the word on the street went.

Was it Jimmy?

I'm shrugging.

Buddha never suspected Jim, no sir. See, in Buddha's eyes, Jimmy was just an all talk little white dude selling out his own race by adoring another and he didn't have the balls to do something like that. Especially not to him, considering he also perceived Jimmy to be a coward. Buddha made all this clear the next time he saw Jim on the street en route to wherever after asking him if he'd heard who did it. But he hadn't.

Less than a week later, someone did it again.

The next time Jimmy saw Buddha, the big nipplehead was asking for his help in welding bars for his windows. Jim considered this because it's in his nature to forgive and help those in need, trusting them to return the favor. It's a trait that's seen him betrayed more times than he can count throughout life. Some people call him an idiot...but that isn't the case. Jim knows what's going on. He gives people the option, chance after chance, to prove themselves good at heart. So he agreed to help and did.

Buddha gave him a dub of shit for his trouble. Minimum cut.

Two days later, Jim returned to Buddha's house thinking they could squash it all now and return to their previous business arrangement- minus the fucking over of course -and what does our antihero stumble onto? Why...Buddha gone and Jimmy's former smoking buddy Daniel using a crowbar to pop open those same bars Jim had just welded.

Daniel begged him not to say anything.

Jimmy isn't a rat, so he said nothing. He keeps people's dirty little secrets. He also cut ties with both Buddha and Daniel and began solely relying on an independent connection.

By April, everything seemed to have settled down and while Jim hadn't made the decision yet to quit meth entirely, he had learned a whole lot in the meantime about nursing care with his father and grew closer to him than he'd ever been. Jim had even struck a balance between feeding his addiction and resuming employment as an indy wrestler. He'd become a functional meth-head and it certainly felt better than what he HAD been doing.

He hadn't heard from Daniel in awhile so when he called, Jim answered. His old smoking buddy wanted to know if he wanted to kick it and catch up. Jim agreed.

When he arrived, Daniel told him to go around to the alley entrance. By the time Jim walked around the end of the street and into the back gate entrance in the alley Daniel wasn't there.

But Buddha was. He pulled up in his white Ford and Jim spread his arms in welcome when he hopped out.

Buddha! Bro, I haven't seen you in forEVER! Want a cigarette?

Buddha didn't answer as he walked up briskly and bent over to wrap his arms around Jim's waist in what Jimmy thought was going to be a bear hug. Still, it struck him as odd, so-

Perplexed smile. What're you doin' du-

Buddha lifted and flung Jimmy over his shaved head.

Jimmy landed on his own cranium and blacked out.

What happened next, according to the detectives and the doctors, began with strangulation, a lot of kicks and stomping to the ribs and chest and culminated in stomping Jimmy's face until his skull crunched and he ceased breathing for an estimated 7 minutes or more.

Biological- beyond clinical -death.

(//original short length feature specific to this story and content)

There's no pain.

There's no hot.

There's no cold.

There is no breathing nor the feeling of suffocation.

There isn't...anything.

Well, that's not entirely true. There is this space he, Jim, is currently in. A space without borders or landmarks for as far as he can see.

A space without sun, moon or source of light, merely faintly "illuminated", like dusk.

A space of supreme silence sans sensation of lacking the ability to hear.

He notes he feels neither weightless nor held by gravity.

He looks down at his feet, sensing he's standing on solid ground, to see nothing beneath them (just as endless a space below(?) him as before(?) him). In fact there are no feet.

No legs either.

He can see nothing of himself but it doesn't occur to him to question how he sees.

He doesn't panic.

He's calm.

He feels as though he's in a dream and despite not understanding it at all, somehow knows everything will be ok.

A life flashes before his 'eyes'...but not his past.

A future.

Children. Grandparents. Family. Financial and professional success. People he has yet to meet. Events he has yet to experience. The top of the Mountain. Gold. The Universe.

Then it's gone.

There are no words. There is no thought process. A feeling merely arises within him.

An unspoken question.

Another feeling arises.

Urgency.

Yet another feeling...and this time, it's conscious.

"Yes"

As fast it all goes ~~black~~ blank, Jimmy forgets.

WHAT HAPPENED NEXT
http://xwf99.com/showthread.php?tid=25940

(//please proceed to the previously unused in competition, now bolded white and colored text roleplay material near the bottom of the linked page above)

(//continuing that 👆 event...)

::I am _really_ confused.

I don't recall walking the rest of the way home, I'd already been at the 'home stretch' when my neighbor Julie caught me.

I don't remember using my keys to unlock the front double doors, if I locked them behind me, nor unlocking and closing the single door into the first floor of my family's house.

Casually I shuffle past my father sitting in the living room::

James- what the hell happened!? JIMMY!

(laughs) Whaddya mean?

::I waver in and out of recollection. I don't remember walking through the music room, down the hall and into my room.

I do remember climbing into my bed.

My mother scurries in, my father in tow::

Jimmy?? JIMMY!?

Huh?

Jim, what happened? Who did this to you?

What?

Your face!!

::I look to my parents, both have tears running down their cheeks. I don't get it. Parents worry too fuckin' much::

I don't know.

Yeah, what DID happen to my face...?

::I search my memory. It's like trying to whack a rusted clockworks into motion. I push through an invisible mass, powering against high high winds, and work back to an alley I walked into... Wait, I saw Buddha. Did he do this to me?::

I think Buddha did it.

DON'T go to sleep!

::My mother disappears down the hall, my father stays as I snuggle into my pillow and weakly pull the covers up over myself.

I'm so fucking tired...::

JAMES!! DON'T FALL ASLEEP!!

::I fade away::

When Jim next woke, it was in the same hospital in which he'd been born.

Now, he was reborn.

13 long years pass...

...Jim Caedus is finally found worthy and is signed to the greatest promotion in professional wrestling history, the simultaneous center of- and gateway to beyond -our universe: The XWF.

Mere months later he's claimed the Universal Championship for the first time.

By late December 2017, APEX has been formed and Jim is found celebrating Christmas with Drewski and the Mains before entering into battle at War Games.

Venturing out into the nearby woods with Robert's father Dewey in an effort to gather firewood, a very much not in hibernation boar grizzly bear attacked. Jim was fortunately able to fend him off with the aid of a mysterious item he'd acquired and kept on his person at all times; a gold nugget with the unexplained power to double Jim's strength.

FAST FORWARD to late November 2021 leading into Bad Medicine...

Jim returns to the home of the Main family to celebrate an early Thanksgiving and gets the bright idea to head out into those same woods to cut a promo on then opponent Bam Miller.

Inexplicably, alone and without his gold nugget, Jim is ambushed by a boar grizzly he believes to be the same cracked predator from years back, only this time...

(//original short length feature specific to this story and content)

The veil securing the dam bursts and the memory of Jim's first visit returns in a flood.

The sensations are all the same.

He doesn't panic.

He recalls what's to come and he's confident in his choice...
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Nothing happens.

No flash of a future.

No feeling of unspoken questions arise.

Comfort and confidence dissipate.

A new feeling arises.

...Dread...

...

TO BE CONTINUED

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Lol [Image: PSsqRZS.jpg]

Woooooooow.

Whole lotta discord in the XWF right now.

A clear and present conflict, coincidentally created when the period of time designated for wrestlers to promote their matches kicked off for me and my opponent.

Schism.

🤔 Hmmm...discord...conflict...Schism.

Well.

Ain't.

That.

all kinds 'a relevant.

So many distractions...so many opportunities for me to make the fatal error of dividin' my attention between buzzin' gnats and my opponent.

Fuck that. Not gonna happen.

I didn't saunter my psycho stubborn ass back up to my second Uni Title reign so I could fall apart and lose it in my first defense. I've got my sights set solidly on Schism, even though I know he'll quite possibly be involvin' more than just 'imself in 'is adventures, right "Meta" Marfy? Not to dismiss a potential red herring 'a course, 'cause...

Clearly in name alone my opponent is either a pretentious shady show-off or a true agent 'a chaos and I have no reason not to suspect every move he makes. Especially given a certain Legend's enthusiastic support over Schism's antics in the 24/7 Halls diggin' up old shit on Main, the date of our match, 1-12-22, and aaaaaall the junior college student level metaphor and mind games at play with this watered-down dollar store Alias lite in the mysterious Schizz.

Not sorry by the way Schism, for both noticing and makin' my presence known in those "sneaky" dealings 'a yours, I just had to dip my dick in.

Can you blame me?

There's just SO much chaos to handle from your camp.

Aw ta hell with the sarcasm...

Stop steepling what few fingers you've got left and cacklin' like a Bond villain before I bite the rest off, knock your chomps out and choke you on my cock while praisin' the smooth ride, ~~Blofeld~~ Blows-well; if y'been thinkin' I'm nervous or fallin' for your schemes, you're in for a ~~rude~~ lude awakening when I follow up on that last threat.

All the pressure, the mystique, the false leads, the mystery, the schism and chaos...it ain't shit to me. See, I don't think like most people do and that's where my opponents usually botch it with their strategies and assumptions. I'm fuckin' FRACTURED myself, Schism, and I got the gas to outlast you and anyone else lookin' to wear me out. I'm a former drug abusin' meth head shitbag with a brain injury and a ruthless streak who TWICE now has made it to the top 'a the mountain- what about that spells ill-equipped to tackle a little bit 'a clusterfuck?

Wanna know the best way to combat crazy and chaotic?

Crazier. Chaotic...ier.

Caedus.

I'm fuckin' nuts.

I'm chaos kryptonite: the impossible spawn of Helwig & Busey, bitch.

And don't get me wrong, you're clearly an intelligent man... But just like with the rest, tryta outsmart me and I'll combat brains with bludgeoning said brains free from fragile dome that homes 'em. Attempt to take my ass for a spin on a wild goose chase like Flynn and NK... Well, we all saw- regardless 'a the dubiosity in the match -how far that got them.

Y'can't out crafty the cracked, we're far too abstract to predict and control...and exactly like how I triggered a target into making an "unmolested choice" to face me on my terms, we have a way 'a makin' people play right into our hands while they convince themselves they're the maestro.

You strike me as that type. The type that assumes he's smarter and better than everyone else, thinkin' you're always two steps ahead and y'know what? That kinda arrogance deserves a beatdown, especially when I add in that you fucked with my bro Bob-O in some small way.

It's for those reasons that I'm announcing the type 'a stipulation I am for this match, Schizz.

Obviously the only Xbux you've got are what I threw back atcha after you tried to buy me off or throw me off (you evil genius you), so my desire for certain challengers to wager their wad is off the table as an addition here and that's perfectly fine... After all, I _DID_ say if ya can't pay I'd take it outta your asses physically. Therefore, you and I Schism, we're gonna have ourselves a Brawl For It All of sorts with a few very important changes:

#1 - No gloves. Minimal hand/knuckle wrapping.

#2 - We are both allowed to use our trademark strikes- me, my "Purgatory Punch" and you, your (fuck you for not comin' up with a better name or at least living up to the connotation with the name Schism, dipshit) "STRIKE!"

#3 - Rules #1 & #2 aside, we are otherwise restricted to the rules and regulations of fundamental boxing as adopted by the World Boxing Association. Any language specifying "glove" shall instead be applied to minimally wrapped bare hands

13 three minute Rounds, standard standing 10 count for the K-O and a KNOCKOUT is the goal here. None 'a that TKO shit. If my opponents can't defeat me in 13 Rounds/39 minutes then he, she, shim or It loses.

And this match type shall henceforth be known as a-

x$xGALLOWS BRAWLx$x

-in reference to Bob-O and our tag team finisher, "The Gallows". Nice little extra sting there for quite a few 'a you, ensuring Robert Main plays any sorta roll in you gettin' rolled.

I warned you pricks.

Now it's time to take a pounding and pay the piper, startin' with Schism.

You ain't scared, right bro?

You got what, two inches on me in height? I mean, we'd hafta officially measure but you're prob'ly lookin' at a slight reach advantage over me. You're a helluva lot lighter in the muscle than I am too, so you'll potentially have some lithe quickness for me to deal with as well. And hell, Schizz, according to what little official information I was able to dig up on you, you're "a brawler who will take extreme dives in hardcore matches" and your trademark maneuver is the "STRIKE!", a knuckles down upward swinging haymaker, so this kinda thing ain't _completely_ outta your realm anyway.

See? I ain't a total dick, just a dick-face Tweener bent on private justice.

Now, this is the part where I lay out what _I_ bring to the ~~table~~ tale 'a the tape:

- At 5' 9" I may be shorter than you but (with or without rules) I'm as accustomed to brawlin' with taller opponents as Charlie is to fuckin' up his own momentum.

- At 227 I may weigh more than you but this is cut muscle mass, motherfucker. My punch PSI breaks bones and K-Os and I'm pretty gotdamn speedy myself.

- I'm more than an experienced fighter, I'm a near 30 year veteran whether in or outta the ring and my outside win/loss record reads similar to that 'a my own in the XWF. For you- barring any conveniently timed revelation that you're some kinda pugilist savant (and I'd still kick your ass) -at best you're a "legit" unlicensed boxer, at meh some Fight Club cunt and at worst you're just some jag-off gettin' smacked around and/or runnin' into shit too often like some spastic drunk...which would explain you being seen with a "different injury to the face on any given day".

I-d-k, I guess we'll see what, if anything, you reveal about yourself through all this 'cause y'sure do seem to enjoy providing as little as possible for your opponents to analyze in an effort to size you up for in-ring competition and taking everything else about you into consideration that makes you a major pussy in my eyes.

Successfully spineless. Good for you.

And yet...

For as mysterious as you defensively tryta be, I'm nailin' you down here pretty well. You can claim to be Schism, seein' as you do what you can to cause or maintain a conflict and a divide...but you ain't done SHIT truly ingenious on the epic "STRIKE!" front have you? You ain't no supervillain, you ain't no mastermind, you ain't no titanic purveyor of chaos, you ain't even on some hardcore hippy protest shit.

All you are, all you've really done, is sneak around like a filthy fuckin' rat and/or the basest of trolls...the troll who doesn't even have the balls to be vocal about it with the rest 'a the crowd.

FYI, none 'a that lends credence to you bein' some kinda master fighter elsewhere, in case you intend to lie. Neither does the notion that if you ARE some kinda brilliant fighter or wrestler, you'd have proven it by now instead 'a possessin' the record you currently have.

Let's review, shall we?

You were signed to the promotion on the 18th of October and had your first match on Savage, November 13. You beat Marf- that's pretty much a gimme if y'got arms and legs 🤣 -but y'lost to Charlie that same night in the 2nd Round 'a the TV Title Number One Contender Tournament, meaning, officially that night is a loss.

0-1

Next, you and Marf were once again booked- and I'm startin' to sense some serious sexual tension here, from the promotional content love letters down to the sus Batman and Robin relationship -this time at Bad Medicine to become #1 Contender for the X-Treme Title...and you lost.

To Marf.

You lost to Marf.

That's like... that's like losin' to Marf.

I've seen 'im wrestle, I've twice whipped 'is ass, how do you lose to Marf?

I don't buy it.

Was that loss a low-key Charlie Nickles lyin' down for Rel Dixon moment? That what happened Schizz? Didja feel bad for costin' Marf the opportunity to lose to Charlie Nickles instead 'a you on Savage? Didja pity 'im so much you thought makin' a mockery outta winnin' a shot at the number two title in the XWF by "taking an extreme dive" for 'im was the right thing to do as -Schism-? Not very schismatic of you, that's more like a union between two men ain't it? Well, you either took a dive or you truly lost, either way that puts you at

0-2

Third and final match- until Warfare -ya catch a submission win over A Literal Gorilla. So, what I find interesting with this is the promotional content (along with the others of yours) because unless I'm mistaken, it kinda seems to me like you're bein' painted as a good guy fightin' bad guys. That can't be true though, that would completely negate a schism and your actions in: befriending a confirmed on camera murderer like Marf and supporting that Main hatin' mob by pullin' that shady shit to help the enemy get into Robert's head.

More lies and deception. Still, it was enough to see you defeat a legitimate ape in the ring so that places you at the staggering win loss tally of

1-2

No title reign to speak of, 1-2 and y'don't even live up to the name Schism. Your outta the ring antics in the XWF have been shady and villainous but really all you've accomplished is an inconvenient Dennis brand of Menace.

Yo, you fuckin' suck at this.

Ah well, that's okay, I'ma pound the life outta you anyway and this circle jerk 'a yours is gonna conclude with you covered in my jism, Schism. Then you and Meta Marfy can curl up and enjoy lappin' at my pineappley sweet skeet Caedus creampie served hot from each other's pouting ragged assholes.

Either that or I'll just bring on the schism myself when I split your fuckin' skull horizontally.

Challenger's choice.

XXXAXRXMXAXGXEXDXDXOXNXXXIXSXXXNXIXGXHXXX

Threaded Mode \| Linear Mode Soft Deadline Sewin' Up A Schism
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