"Cut Throat Thru 3 Chins"
(continued from "Patricide and Proving Ground")





-Thursday March 9, 2017, Northwest Central Long Beach, CA-



I pull the rental up to 5551 Lemon Avenue, the soundtrack of the tires rolling to a stop on the pitted asphalt and the crunch of stray gravel, thin, fallen branches and seedpods beneath the vehicle's weight snapping all too familiar.

This...this was the last place I'd considered home. Not in a figurative way like (though still as powerful as) my new home in the XWF but the location in which I'm rooted with strong psychological and nostalgic bonds. The place my family had fled to in the wake of my murder at the hands of Henry Eugene Spade by mid 2003. The room where I'd finally ended my addiction to methamphetamine cold turkey. The territory where I'd enjoyed and suffered the final 7 years of my first mammalian pet's life (a grey and white male feline rescue affectionately named Stripe after the gremlin.). The ceiling, four walls and foundation representing all traumatic transitions from family complete to pieces at my feet. The domicile wherein I'd nursed my father and heard his final words.

Home.

Memories flood my waking mind's eye...

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
(continued from backstory in "Patricide and Proving Ground")

-Friday October 30th, 2009-

I'll never be truly happy again; no matter how pleased at any given moment I may appear to be. The hefty ball and chain of guilt now clasped 'round my neck will henceforth droop my shoulders, drop my chin and crush me from within.

These are the thoughts already eating away at my soul and mental health like hydrochloric acid through flesh as my mother and I hold eachother in tears.

It occurs to me, like a driven spike through the skull...what am I supposed to tell her? That her little sunshine had turned his back on his own father...on her husband? I won't...I CAN'T...

NO. You WILL tell her. You've spent the last seventeen years of your life lying to everyone you fucking pussy. NO MORE LIES!! I'M SICK OF IT!! DO YOU HEAR ME!? ...Honesty from now on. Like a fucking MAN. HONESTY.

I gather my courage...steady my voice...and ready for parental disownership...

"...Mom?"

Before she can reply, the crash of wheels (belonging to a stretcher I can't recall seeing the emergency response team bring in) hitting the frame of the open security door sounds and my mother and I turn to see my father being removed from the house. There's no sheet covering my father's face, however, instead is attached a manual breathing apparatus being pumped by one of the team.

"Dad?? DAD???"

I tap one of the team on the back.

"Is he alive??"

How can he be alive, he's been dead for fifteen minutes...

And you were dead for seven. Like father-

-like son.

I'm told he's been resuscitated and now being taken to the same hospital in Lakewood (as my mother has told me a thousand times in passing on the road) where I'd been born.

That has to be a good sign. I...I can't believe this!! My mother and I break down once more, embracing now in tears of joy.

Now tell her what happened.

No...no that's unnecessary now. Pop is alive. These men didn't just save his life...they saved _me_. She doesn't need to know, it's irrelevant.

It's a LIE.

It's an omission. No more lies.

"Jimmy??"

TBC
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"Ohhh shit, that IS you my nigga! Big Jiiiiiiim!"

The voice of an old a-bit-more-than-acquaintance, verified Mac Mafia associate, rips me from recollection and wrassles me back to reality.

I try my best but all I can muster is a half-hearted and distracted response.

"Kevin Jr., what's up my dude?"

"Chillin' cu'. 'Ey, you still wrestle? You look like it my nig'."

"You still don't watch?"

"My nigga I'm hustlin', ain't got time to watch no -tickle."

"-tickle, that's a good one. Actually haven't heard that one before. Also can't believe you seem to forget you've told me drunk that you sodomized a cellmate you shit-frosted-choco-dick-tip-sniffin'-spook."

He laughs.

"You still got them jokes cu', I should blast your cracker ass. You lucky I love you Jim. I gotta be out my nig', I catch you again."

Thank fucking Christ...I'm not in the mood right now to converse. As Kevin Jr. departs I turn my attention back across the street to my old hom-

::BVVVVVVVVVV::

My phone vibrates in my pocket and I pull it free, struggling in the seated position.

'Text notification from......Trax??'

Have I seen Bourbon's response to my promo... Unfortunately no, I've been busy tongue-lashing the Federweight Title back from a dipshit stuffed animal and pulling off another upset retaining the Television Title, this time against the merciless McBride.

I activate my data and connect to the official site.

'Ruthless and Cutthroat.'

Better wipe my ass, I think I shat a little.

I watch...............................

'Here we go...another cartoon character who can inexplicably see into your dreams, memories and hear your inner monologue. Desperate and dirty. Needs all the ammo he can scrounge up on you champ.'

By the time I've finished I don't want to reply, I want to stalk. Hunt. Prey. Catch this plump gazelle munchin' away during his routine 23 out of 24 hours snackfest and take him down. Bite into his nose but not to suffocate, to remove it.

'Not even Bourbon is worth the stretch. Just do what you were made to do before you hit the ring and do what you were made to do. Kill.'

I don't bother checking for prying eyes or eavesdropping ears, I merely zombie-up and ready my phone for promo.

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

"Good job Rob, there you are ALREADY in your fallback 'I-got-no-creative-setting' dojo donut shop promo position; I'm a lot better with the stumble factor than I thought. Comfort food in the face of impeding annihilation, I get it. But lemme get this straight: I extend to you the courtesy of not traversing the trash talk avenues of your past competition, I give you the benefit of brutal honesty in context with your backstage actions...and you respond with those words? You act as if I should be lapping at your anus even as an opponent? You insult my late wife? You impossibly pull from a dream and disrespect my fallen father? The dead father bit, really? Fuck is this, rehash of the Ray and Paul 'waaa-waaa, my daddy's dead' shtick? Desperate, Rob. Pathetic. Telltale of a man who knows he's been cornered. You may have taken my words as harsh, or rather, unwanted EXPOSURE, but they ARE the truth.

Don't lie to these people, pressing statements referring to 'after all you've done for me'. What'd you do Bob? Try to cram me into that Caedus 15k xbux All-Comers Gauntlet Match before I'd even been here a full three weeks? Refuse to open your dressing room door 19 times outta 20 that I knocked? Decide against co-opping a crushing Bourbon/Caedus promo at the dojo in favor of each doing his own thing then tossing me into your ring with your trainees so I could babysit the lil' bitches while you hogged all the limelight? Sure, there was a moment there, and I'm grateful, on one of those man-cave promos of yours in which you actually spent a minute or two talking me up without the responsibility to do so. Kinda like how I've been dropping your name in promo for almost 3 months. But now...I think you've got it severely twisted, cocksucker.

New question: what the FUCK did I do for YOU, Bob? Shower you with hero worship before anyone even knew my name AND after? Consistently give you outspoken support? Offer more respect to your class of clowns and your woman than anyone ever had? Show my friendship through approving 99% of every single promo of yours from the point of my arrival to the present? Nominate you equally for OTM accolades? Put on one of YOUR shirts in a show of solidarity? Put in a little more promo work than you against Cadryn and Killjoy then tag YOU into the match and let YOU take the victory and glory? Start off my war of words in round 3 by continuing to show respect to you and your woman by refusing to target your obesity and her aesthetic offerings? I fuckin' called her beautiful. You called Holly an ugnaw. You pissed on my father's memory.

Yeah, I don't blame you...if I was you having to face me, I'd wanna swing as wildly and wickedly as possible too knowing desperation is my only miniscule chance at victory. Now I get to retort in kind, the way I do, and decimate your dumpy ass. You got jokes, but you ain't got the talent for donnybrook douchebaggery like I do. You can keep the comedy, pussy, I'm comfortable being a crippler...especially of Xtremely egomaniacal show-off thick shitsticks like you. So Rob...I take a clean shot, you take a dirty shit. Alright you blubbery blimp, I'll bounce back if you want it. Daddy issues? Fuck YOU talkin' 'bout son? You the dick with daddy issues, 'cause you didn't HAVE one. Momma Bourbons a hooker, a room of 10 took 'er, pumped that pig fulla semen flipped 'er over and shook 'er. Queefed Rob out, 9 months-cookin' cream pie, face only mom could love, the apple asshole of her eye. Raised Rob like a , daughter makin' it big. Talkin' shit on my wife? You fuck a man in a wig. Homo. Oh no! Let's go, Bobby gettin' ready. Pull out your 3 inches, I'll pull out my machete. Enough to cut through even your 3 foot thick neck. Where'd all your jokes go? You already got wrecked! Blue's panties is wet over Caedus and bet I'll be fuckin' Blue's ass on your grave in a sweat. Next up is Ma Bourbon, power drivin' her snatch, with no rubber, and hey, Robbie, this is the catch: fuck pullin' out, makin' Robbie part 2, then I'll barbecue HIM like I'm doin' to YOU. That's right lard ass DANCE, poppin' lead at your hooves, while I stitch a huge coat from Blue's clitoral hood. Manhandling you, sir, you can't handle me, sir, Caedus kills while you, sir, are a flabby disaster. You wanted it here, bitch, now _I_ got the conch, keep stuffin' your face just make sure that you watch, I drop rocks of reality, crossin' your eyes, crush your Piggy fat head like I'm Lord of the Flies. Fuck 'im up, Jimmy, fuck 'im up! Did. Blew his big ass up, his cunt, mom and our kid. Toe to toe, fatso, I shine brighter than you. And you KNOW that I'm speaking the gods honest truth. Truffle shuffle, Chunk. What you got next punk? Gonna snatch some more lines from Shakespeare like a chump? Lay into my wife and mom, I don't give a fuck. You ain't toppin' me tubby, you're shit outta luck. You surround yourself with that lame fantasy 'cause you ain't got the game to face psychos like me. You hate me 'cause you're fat and I'm too fuckin' cute and like it or not, sloppy, Blue knows it too. So now in round 3 I'll drop you from the rafters, like Owen, except YOUR fat ass gonna splatter. Redhead lives don't matter, you bitter fat , I'll feed Blue my jizz while you're feeding the maggots.

Feast on my asshole with your rotten rhymes, Robbie, I'd have thought it was clear in round one you'd have recognized what true vicious verse is all about. Of course not, you're an immense imbecile. Delusional. Foolish. Fat. Ignorant. Naive. Fat. Confused...confused over being outdone by the Television Champion as the Hart Champion. Perplexed...perplexed pertaining to a perfect peeling from the pinnacle as a 'punchline powerhouse'. Mistaken...mistaken about your 'awesome' abilities falling flacidly to fury. Vexed...vexed like anyone's best guess as to what manner of clusterfuck coitus goes on between you and Blue, both being classified under gender, not hometown, as 'parts unknown'.

Your Bourbon Bitches have a problem with my threats levied knowing full well they'd be insulting me even if I hadn't? Fuck 'em. Fuck all your cartoony sack o' shit shenanigans. That ain't Jesus, that's some jag-off in a robe and sandals. Cyberjaw the man with the cybernetic jaw? Bullshit. Jaw's just wired in place 'cause I fuckin' broke it. And fuck what looks to be your little brother in D-bag too, I'll beat the halfling outta his ass and wear his O-ring to rule them all while I tear the rest of your one-note charicatures to shreds. You're all Z-list entertainers and you're lucky I don't just rip up my contract, dip outta the XWF, toss my freedom aside and murder the lot of you for what you've said, Robbie. I should b&e your hovel, cram that Batman poster down your throat, cut open your chest, crack the cage, pull your fuckin' heart out and chow down while any unpumped crimson squirts out the left and right ventricles.

Lemme guess, you're thinking you'd be able to fight me off, right? You'd kick my ass, correct? You think because I'm shorter, because I'm lighter, by comparison I may as well consider myself wiry and weak, easily overcome. You'd walk away victorious in that theoretical just like you will in round 3, right? Wrong. I'd bash your brains in with a baseball bat, Bob. Trax and I will defeat you, dickhead. End of story.

I'm not afraid of you. I don't give a shit how much bigger you are. Rings, rules and refs lend you protection against me, don't you understand that? I've taken plenty of giants down out of the ring. I've taken plenty down IN the ring. I'm not your average massively muscled little man, I'll boot your ass into orbit for reentry into Croatia then beat you clean in round 3 no matter how much effort it takes, no matter how many Robbiebombs you inflict. I. Don't. Give. Up. I. Don't. Stay. Down. Period. Or haven't you been paying attention?

You find my reanimation after murder dubious? I think you just refuse to believe it was my own spiritual force of will that woke me the fuck up in that alleyway. Not God, not Jesus, not a team of EMTs. Me. Not like you having to be rescued from an arctic drowning and hypothermia you pathetic pussy. Serves you right for huntin' seals for food on thin ice you ursa major motherfucker. And here you are, back on thin ice about to crash through once more to a watery grave by thinking you can intimidate me and shock me into dropping the ball. In fact, you're drowning already.

All because YOU refuse to accept reality you insist I've not already been killed and am in fact being killed by YOU? Dude, you have no idea who you're questioning, I'm not playing a part, I'm playing ME. I have strength you'll never approach an understanding of, I'm not talking unscrewing pickle jar lids for your cunt. With one punch I'll turn that pouty red pussy of yours into a fuckin' top and bottom harelip; we'll be watching you in advertisements soliciting 50 cents a day while the Sarah McLachlan track 'In the Eyes of the Ignorant' plays on. Go eat somethin' and shut the fuck up before I pound all five bills of your fat ass into change.

You doubt a FRACTION of my weaponry and my past pertaining to, just because all you've got is that puny pig-sticker and a drawer full of silverware? You ain't tricking me into unveiling possible evidence of foul play on camera, I don't pick my teeth and clean my toenails with my steel points like you, I use them. I'm reality, Robbie, not an actor, not some smartass smark dork like you. I actually have precedent and reason to fear public self-incrimination. Judging from your happily overfed ass I highly doubt you've EVER had to fight for anything except leftovers with that emo walrus cow Blue. You've never had to fight for survival like me. Well...you will now.

You ARE a hypocrite, you ARE high but you ain't holy. Wholly outmatched? Yes. Wholly outgunned? Yes. Wholly FUCKED in the Lottery? Yes. You can cease frantically trying to suck up to Trax by the way bitch, he's MY partner now and in his own paraphrased words, there is no friendship in the XWF when it comes to competing in that ring. He's not gonna give a fuck about what you both pulled off in round 2, he'll be working with me to pull off ejecting you and Scully from round 3.

Considering I AM strong enough to deadlift even YOUR despicable amount of weight in the gym but would have to struggle with your body, awkward height as well, I don't think you'll be able to feel the impact of Katabasis and that's unfortunate. The downward momentum of someone so heavy would undoubtedly pulverize the neck to powder and force your head clean off on impact like you deserve. I CAN Wrexus Plexus your lungs clean outta your torso though, even through your 8 inch thick layer of pinniped insulation. I CAN knock you the fuck out with a Purgatory Punch and have you suffering involuntary facial twitches the rest of your life. I CAN Equal Ground to your skull wearing these steel toe boots and leave you stuttering for the remainder of the decade you've got left before keeling over from a cholesterol induced stroke. I CAN take a shit on your grave and wipe my ass with the floral edible arrangements left behind in affection, but that's beside the point. I COULD lock on with Hold Your Breath, even if I couldn't possibly body lock a fatbody fuck like you, and choke you the fuck out for the win but I'm not stupid enough to put myself in the position to suffer a legit squash should you fall to your back. I'd literally die. Not even YOU can haul your OWN quarter-ton ass off a flat surface, that's why you roll outta bed each morning aiming your stems down, crossing your salami fingers and hoping your feet don't finally snap off at the ankles when you hit the carpet. That's why even when spending millions of imaginary dollars to reinforce your entire dojo you dropped an equal amount on reinforcing the toilet you use and the immediate foundation beneath. Fuckin' rocket down through to the earth's core if you hadn't."

'Don't give this prick an awesome idea for a promo like that, he has no shame nor dignity and will hop on that faster than a plate of poutine. Probably draw up the core as Hell, have a chat with Satan and add HIM to the Bourbon Man roster; imagine the antics between Lucy and Christ. He's obviously starving for backup and cute set-ups since you haymakered him with a dash of truth.'

Oh, I'm sure, since he can somehow hear everything, I'll have now inspired manipulated him into pulling some sorta ace outta that length of king size bed sheet he calls a sleeve. I got him to voluntarily invite the type of insults he's brandished a knife over in response haven't I? He's weak-minded; no different from any of the others I've forced to take cues from my words in combat. It's my talent. Or rather...curse; but goddamn if I won't use it to my advantage.

"The point is, pudgy, I'm more than capable of defeating you even though I know it'll be THE most difficult trial, THE most TOWERING stacked mountain of _shit_ I've ever taken on in the XWF. The fact that I'm confident in my abilities doesn't mean I'm oblivious to the fact that you're more than capable of defeating me as well. I know you are. You know you are. That's the difference between us; I have no problem with being honest while you'll have everyone hear you claim without a shadow of a doubt you'll be defeating Trax and I in that ring and never admit the truth: that you know damn well you pulled what you pulled out of TERROR as a pre-emptive strike on me because you know I'll tear you apart in promo and outlast you in the ring where it REALLY counts. You know your partner won't be much help in this, to put it mildly, just as Trax has made abundantly clear. You know Trax himself can drop you easier than I can with his finisher in the ring. You know you're facing the odds as much as anyone and you're worried yours run longer. You won't get me to slip up or back down, Robbie. If you'd truly treated me like a friend you WOULD'VE been successful in knockin' me for a loop with that promo...but you didn't. All you did was use me just enough in promo and in opt-in meetings to make yourself look good, look compassionate, to our peers on the roster and the brass in the back. You're phony, fucker, that's all. Don't be a bitch, own it. Or do you choose to go down in the third round STILL grasping at the tatters of the fantasy world you've built around yourself like a pillow fort, ? What other choice do you have, right? Being yourself is no where NEAR as stimulating as being the Big Bad Big Bad of Big Bad Gimmicks. Fuck gimmicks. I'm Jim Caedus. That's all I have to be."
XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

The security door to the home that used to be my own swings open with a thick caucasian arm attached. A porcine redheaded coward pops his head out.

"I heard all those fucked up threats of physical violence and murder you said asshole. The cops are on the way, I suggest you leave."

Even though he rhymed it, Robbie wouldn't know what it means to truly scare someone into calling the cops if he murdered a fuckin' buffet singlehanded. Enough of this shit.

I start up the rental and peel out.

TBC