"_Mr._ O'Connor."

::Mr. Jacobsma!? My God...I remember this day. This is eighth grade...it's nineteen ninety-motherfuckin' four! A great fuckin' year, I'm fourteen again!!::

Sure, I have yet to exchange virginity with Heather Harris in her bff's bathroom, lace my first leathers or behold the birth of professional wrestling's pinnacle, the XWF, but-

"_Mr. O'Connor_."

-it's nineteen ninety-four and everything in my life is more or less magnificent...minus the acne.

"_JIMMY_!"

"What?"

"Go outside and pick up trash."

"For what??"

"For talking."

"I wasn't talking."

"Yes, you were."

"I was _not_ talking, I swear to God!"

I really hadn't been. I mean, yes I've always had a mouth on me; I'd been diagnosed with ADD and hyperactivity with a 'script for Ritalin from first grade grub to grade seven scrub. But this time, goddammit, I actually had been deep in thought attempting to comprehend this course.

"Go outside please."

"Unbefuckinglievable," I mutter.

::I rise ignoring my friends Mark and Lucas, the _true_ conversing culprits, as the gayrods giggle like giddy girlfriends::

Yep, you both took numbers for nut-checks and deserve a heaping helping. I'll r.s.v.p. and fill those p.o.s a.s.a.p.

::Out the door I go...

It's funny feeling, in tandem, the gnarled knuckles of nostalgia knockin' at my noggin while heeding the heat of humiliation. My conscious dreamer soaks in the scene of my Monsoons alma mater, Mayfair Jr./Senior High School in Lakewood, CA. It feels good to be back::

Motherfucker...make _me_ pick up trash?

::By the time I've collected a small handful of wadded up papers, I'm positively pissed. I chuck it all in the Rubbermaid sitting smack dab in the middle of the junior high campus courtyard and before I know it, I'm producing a book of matches from my pocket, striking one, and dropping it in as well::

Fuck you Mr. J.

::I saunter back into class and take my seat.

Not thirty seconds expire before I see Mr. Savi from a neighboring classroom dash out holding a fire extinguisher. We all hop up and rush to the door to see the trash can, despite Savi's extinguishing, defiantly spouting flames up to a healthy height of ten feet::

Whoa...what the fuck was in there?

::Mr. Jacobsma, clearly disturbed, looks to the only kid it could've been. Moi::

"I didn't do that. I picked up trash like you told me and I threw it away, that's it."

::He continues to stare, unflinching::

"Mr. J, I didn't do that."

You think I'm crazy or something? I am NOT fucking crazy...

::...and I'm certainly not crazy for climbing into the school dumpsters after hours to light-::

What is that, old pep rally banners? Fuckin' paper with _paint_?

"Ooooh shit. You guys, you guys...check this shit out."

::Mark and Lucas watch as I take several seconds sparking pine needle tinder among the true fuel in one dumpster, then the other. I hop out and we enjoy the exhilaration from a distance. The moment we see the fire ain't gonna cease without some serious intervention, we take off laughing.

But it doesn't stop there like it didn't back then. I had a boner for burning shit now. A hunger I hadn't felt since before I'd destroyed my mom and dad's room. It was back...and I had every intention of feeding it.

So...I light the dead bushes lining the front of some poor fucker's private residence on my walk home. There must've been fifty eyewitnesses easing by in their rides but no one stopped. No one wanted to notice. No one wanted to get involved. And while I watch the flames sear stucco and reach for the rain gutters, I feel good because this is still a time in my life when all is well::

"Who's crazy now Mr. J?"

::Before my conscious dreamer can futilely attempt to point out the rhetorical nature of that question to my younger self, I'm torn from the bosom of better days and dropped, on my knees, to the desert floor in Phelan again as my trailer, pets and family are consumed in flames before my very eyes::

Why, goddammit, WHY!? Over and over and over and OVER...pain perpetually portrayed! Please, let it end... Let it FUCKING END!!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"Bob (on my) Main Vein"





-THURSDAY, JAN. 26, 10:55 PM, NORTH LONG BEACH, CA-

I can already feel the post-nightmare rage building within me as I slowly open my eyes. I guess I fell asleep sitting here in the passenger seat of George's black Ford F-450 Lariat.

"You were makin' some funny noises in your sleep, bro. You all right?"

"Yeah, I'm cool. Just...bad memories, GB."

"You sure you wanna do this? If that wetback is everything you describe maybe you should reconsider. I mean...is finding that fucker really worth your time and safety?"

I stifle a yawn and peer down East Heath Lane, fixing my gaze upon the house and it's unseen inhabitant that drew me here.

"I'm sure."

I'm sure and I mean it. In that house lives a mexican meth dealer and North Side Longo shot-caller named Anthony, the former source for the man who'd murdered me almost fourteen years ago, Henry Spade.

"I'm just gonna talk to this motherfucker. I need to know, George, I need closure."

'Closure indeed! You want blood!'

Is that not closure?

"Whatever you think is best, homie."

George had been kind enough and patient enough to roll me out here to fish for information regarding the whereabouts of Henry since his release from Kern County Federal Prison in 2015. I had fully expected the cocksucker to come to _me_ after serving his 12 year stretch for attempted murder and assault with a deadly weapon but no such luck. If he wasn't going to return to try and finish the job, giving me my window of opportunity for revenge, then by God _I'd_ hunt _him_ down and claim it. Unfortunately I'd come up empty handed thus far. No one seemed to know a goddamn thing. Anthony, on the other hand, had been not only Spade's business associate but his closest "friend".

Henry had sent messages to me through Anthony while awaiting trial; first bargains and promises of a payoff if I didn't testify, then, when I'd declined, threats towards me and my parents. Hell, the guy had responded, before the judge and jury no less, to my fingering of him in court as the culprit with an unbelievably unwise, "You're dead." It had sealed his guilty verdict. His mexican muchacho had then visited him several times following the trial to relay even more threats, so, if anyone knew where that fat fuck skinhead was it'd be Anthony, I was positive.

It was still a bit early though, I saw a few lit living rooms; neighbors still kicking around. I didn't want to approach and be seen by anyone who could later identify me if things went sour. Anthony wouldn't be eventually going to sleep but they would, so I had time to kill. Though my next opponent Nico had remained silent, one of two future opponents for Wednesday Warfare had already cut two promos on me. Cadryn, the sack o' shit who'd somehow managed to deliver my first near loss with nothing more than an unfunny -rant better suited to spill out the mouth of a 75 IQ teenager and a not-so-well-timed Wop Driver in the ring, had been a much needed kick in the pants awakening me from a temporary slump. And even though it was clear my retaining of the Television Title had upset the poor bastard, snatching his salad-tossing "Cereal Killer" smile and gimmick and switching it with a less cute, even less funny now-I'm-more-serious-with-dildo-chucks attitude, there was no fucking way I was going to drop my defenses and allow another jag-off to embarrass me.

"It's not quite time though, bro. Mind if I promo for my match on Warfare?"

"Be my guest Jimbo, handle yo' shit."

I ready my phone.

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

"In six days at Wednesday Night Warfare I've been scheduled to participate in a Triple Threat Elimination Match against newcomers Seraphina and Robert 'The Omega' Main. A Triple Threat _Elimination_ Match... Now that's a concept I can't help but love. Not only do I get two bodies to bombard at once but if I'm dominant enough I'll be pinning those same two bodies one after another in a single match. I couldn't be more pleased. Vincent Lane, I accept this offering of flesh with the utmost of respect and thanks; you definitely know what drives my deranged devices.

As for my opponents, I can't help but feel a slight pang of pity. Poor Seraphina seems too frightened to acknowledge her situation and Robert, despite an inspiring amount of courage and determination, is overestimating his abilities and underestimating my own."

'Learn 'em a thing or three.'

"First things first...Robert, I commend you on your gung-ho attitude, I truly do. If Nico LaVey were as contentious as you, we might have a little heat for our TV Title match on Savage."

'Actually, you just got a notification on him uploading a promo. You were right, he's a camper.'

About fucking time. I'll deal with him later... Back to Robert Main...

"Fuck man, if I'd shown the same spitfire nature as you leading up to my first defense against Cadryn, the match would've ended decisively in my favor, not a time limit draw. And Tiberius, that fucking idiot, wouldn't be wasting everyone's time _now_ with that whiny cliché clone title crap that's been run in literally every American promotion since Hall and Hick'."

'It's pretty fuckin' lame at this point. Probably ALREADY been run in the XWF with what, eighteen years of history?'

"You want a shot at my title, Robert? You've got it. You deserve it. If you're lucky, Mr. Lane may now update our duel as a Triple Threat Elimination Television Title Match. If not, you may have to wait another week or two _and_...by that time you never know. Anything can happen in the XWF. Dreams are made reality here and anyone at anytime could walk into a match a contender and walk out a champion. However, that doesn't change a thing for you. Keep up those efforts, keep grinding away, never give up...and there's no telling how far you'll rise in this company."

'Switch tracks, it's too sweet.'

"That's the good news, Bob. The _bad_ news is...you're facing 'the man they call Caedus', not some no-show nincompoop like Nami and not some still-green sapling scrub. You claim such a rich and colored history in the business but you don't seem to know the first thing about scouting an opponent. If you'd done your research you'd realize I'm a helluva lot more than just the XWF Television Champion; I'm a twenty year veteran who proved to the great Thomas Nixon that with age does _not_ come degradation but an overwhelming amount of experience and a bigger bag of tricks than should be allowed.

If you'd studied you also would've uncovered the fact that we share similar finishers. My finisher, the most dangerous move ever developed, was created in Japan, where we've _both_ competed by the way, in the seventies and popularized by one of my idols, Kenta Kobashi: the Burning Hammer. Your finisher you refer to as an inverted death valley driver, which I'm pretty sure is just the American coined term given to the one and only true Kobashi Burning Hammer...and it raises the question, shouldn't you have discovered that in Japan? You really don't pay attention do you? As for your secondary finisher, the _side_ death valley driver, that piece of shit might take the cake if it wasn't executed protecting the neck of your victim. Too bad we aren't two sprites battling it out in a grapple-engine wrestling cart from the late nineties, eh? All of that aside, I have to add that I don't like the fact you're using _my_ finisher Robert. There's only room for _one_ man in the XWF to wield The Burning Hammer and I intend to slam you neck first onto the mat with Katabasis to make my point."

'Pop goes the weirdly jeri-curled weasel.'

"As for our third opponent, you've more than amply admitted you know nothing of Seraphina. Bobby..._Bobby_...take some time away from oiling up those ratty black locks of yours and put it towards research. The woman is a pyromaniac. Have you not kept your ear to the grapevine? She may not be the outspoken opponent here but with pyros you can never be too careful...believe me. I won't be taking Seraphina with a grain of salt, I'll be watching my back with that crazy bitch and trying to take her out first before she gets the cute idea of dousing the two of us with lighter fluid and sparkin' us up. Shit would singe me, to put it mildly, but _you_ Bobby, with all that unnecessary product in your hair, you'll go up in flames like the late King of Pop in that Pepsi commercial."

'Hee hee hee...good times.'

"You'd better tone down the excitement and take this match a little more seriously. Fuckin' sharks and drowning, fuckin' lengthy diatribes on Seraphina and I experiencing losing consciousness at your hands..."

'Uh oh...'

"Robert, who the fuck do you think you're talking to? Huh!? Who the FUCK do you think I am!? I've experienced more in context with watching the world go black than you'd ever WANT to know, motherfucker! I've experienced DEATH, you rat-faced fuckin' dickhead, _DEATH_!! It took a man much larger and heavier than you to kill me and it STILL DIDN'T KEEP ME DOWN!! You wanna threaten me with blacking out!? You COCKSUCKER, I'll fuckin' RIP YOUR MOTHERFUCKIN' EYES OUTTA THEIR SOCKETS AND SHOW YOU THE MEANING OF DARKNESS!! I'LL FUCKIN' CRUSH THAT BALLOON FUCKIN' HEAD OF YOURS LIKE AN OVER-RIPE MELON AND JACK-OFF WITH THE JUICE THAT USED TO BE YOUR BRAINS!!"

'SHHHH!! You're waiting for people to go to sleep, remember!? You're not trying to wake up the whole goddamn neighborhood!!'

::I breathe...I compose::

"Enjoy your time in the tropics while you can, Robert, because once Savage Saturday Night has concluded you and Seraphina will be squaring off with a man who's been to Hell and back more times than he cares to count...and I'm coming for blood. You can wish and hope for victory, you can offer invocation to that stupid ass saintly statue and have faith all goddamn day...but when it comes to me and my revenge, neither God Almighty nor Satan himself can detour _my_ destructive nature. Fuck what you want. I'm Jim Caedus."
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(TBC)