-Friday, November 6 2009-
(concluding backstory from "Patricide and Proving Ground" and "Cut Throat Thru 3 Chins")




A week had gone by with the highest of hopes following my fault in my father's death and the ensuing EMT resuscitation and removal of my father's living (therefore in my mind _vibrant_) physical form on Friday night October the 30th.

On the 31st we'd been informed that while he _had_ been revived he was now in a coma with zero traceable brain activity. A vegetable by medical standards and an empty vessel by theological reckoning. That hadn't deterred my belief that he'd fully recover and I'd have my father back. I refused to ponder and pray otherwise.

And so, at my request in response to my mother's doubt, she and I had spent 3 hours at a time each afternoon visiting pop in his room at Lakewood Regional Medical Center visiting upon his comatose ears selections of his favorite jazz musicians, recordings of his own tenor sax performances, reading from a stack of Father's Day cards, speaking to him directly (general chatter) and the three of us holding hands for benediction.

I "knew" that all it would take was time. I'd tell him before we left-

"I need you to hold on pop... I love you."

By Thursday I'd managed to raise my mother's spirits, convincing her that Don wouldn't be absent long. She was no stranger to self-delusion, she'd been convincing herself to the validity and enabling of my transparent drug related lies for more than a decade after all and despite the wall of disbelief she'd built 'round her heart, she'd still allowed a glimmer of hope to grow and blossom through a crack in said wall.

Today, the 6th of November, a Friday, our hopes had taken a haymaker in the form of a single call and solitary statement given by the center:

"A decision needs to be made regarding Donald's remaining on life support."

The fuck was that supposed to mean? You don't put stock in the soul and settle in for a road of whatever length to recovery by losing hope in seven days.

My mother explains there's been no brain activity whatsoever even during our visits to lead the nurses and doctor to believe my father will recover.

"I don't give a shit. They want a reaction, I'll give it to 'em. I'm waking him up TODAY!"

She maintains a modicum of positive vibes.

The drive to the center, however, is spent in silence as we both prepare ourselves for a stand-off with staff and loss.



It comes in the form of a frank discussion upon arrival weighing costs to benefits of continuing, as I paraphrase, to waste our time on a foolish pursuit. For the first time in my life I take the reigns as the man of the family, not allowing my mother a word in response.

"Don't talk to her, you talk to ME. Don't be filling her head with bullshit about costs and benefits, this is my father's _life_. Life is priceless...whether you detached assholes forgot or not I couldn't care less and if you pull the plug on him...I swear to fucking Christ there's gonna be a big problem."

"No, you misunderstand," the doctor says. "We can't and won't remove your father from life support without your say so. I understand this is a sensitive subject, it's a big decision and I apologize if I sound less than sympathetic. We have counselors on staff if you wish to meet with one and discuss-"

"Man fuck discussion! I don't need to discuss anything with you or anyone! We ain't pulling the plug!"

I storm off with purpose leaving my mother behind.

The moment I walk into my father's room I lean down to speak into his ear.

"Dad I need you to hear me. They want us to take you off life support. You have to wake up."

The rhythmic beep of his heart monitor breaks the otherwise static atmosphere. His chest continues to pump involuntarily, lungs filling with sterilized oxygen, his eyes open as they had been since day one in the center. I keep my mouth next to his ear as if my words truly do have the power of pure spiritual smelling salts.

"They said you're brain dead...but I know you're in there. You have to fight. You have to show them."

I don't stop there...he needs contact. I lean over the bed, embracing my father.

"Dad...I'm sorry for not coming when you called. I'm sorry for what I said to you. I'm sorry for all the times we fought, for everything I ever yelled at you in spite, it was all lies. You aren't a burden. You're my dad and I need you. Please................I love you. I love you so much dad. Please wake up......"

I'm careful to use the bed to push off as I stand back straight. I look to my father....
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
......and I notice his eyes have welled with tears. Before I can react, they cascade down his cheeks.

He heard me!! He fuckin' heard me!! Tears of love, of comatose frustration!!

I lean back down swiftly.

"Dad you're doing it, wake up!"

I picture him in a luminescent form of his spiritual self amidst the darkness within his shell. I visualize seeing through his eyes, seeing me, hearing me...I see him caught, very much aware, very much alive, but unable to move...as if in a dream. I see him fighting.

I can feel the emotion overwhelming me and my own eyes begin releasing their salty baggage.

"You can do it dad, you're tough, you can do it. Do it for mom. Do it for me. Do it for yourself. You have so much more to live for. You have to meet my future kids. You have to be grandpa."

I visualize him swimming up to an ever rising surface.

"Dad come ON! DO IT!"

I turn at the sound of my mother's footsteps entering the room.

"Mom he cried! I was speaking to him and hugging him. He heard me! He's in there!"

The nurse who'd been following her enters. She'd heard what I'd claimed and backhands my positivity stating coldly the opens eyes of coma patients always water up, it's a natural reaction to the lack of blinking.

"You fucking LIAR! You just want us to unplug him you FUCKING BITCH!!!"

I glance out into the reception area to see several pairs of eyes staring in at me, judging me, watching me lose it with tears streaming, eyes puffing, nose reddened.

"Fuck are you looking at!?"

The nurse tells my mother if I don't leave she'll call for security to remove me.

"Fuck you you fuckin' gook bitch!!"

I find myself out front (of my own volition) watching my mother walk up gravely. She hugs me as I stand there still steaming.

"Jimmy...my insurance won't cover this. If there'd just been any sign..."

My tears once again burst free and I don't care.

"But he DID give a sign!"

"They showed me the readout...there's been no brain activity."

"That's fuckin' SCIENCE! Dad's spirit is still in there and THEY CAN'T MEASURE THAT!"

I can feel the warmth of my mother's own tears soaking into the sleeve of my thin Split zipper hoodie.

"And we need to let him go. We need to let him free."

"_What_??"

"Please Jimmy, I can't-" She starts sobbing. "I can't make this decision. I just can't."

My heart sinks...not just sinks. Shrinks. Shrivels. The maelstrom of emotions dies down... I can't believe what I'm hearing. Am I wrong about this? Was the nurse right? I don't know what to think. I don't have _time_ to think.

I do the only thing I can manage to do for my mother.

I nod.

The car ride home I'm paralyzed with an ache that has never subsided since.

I can picture them powering down the monitors...

I can see them switching off life support, removing the feeding and oxygen tubes...

Dad...

My heart leaps with urgency.

He's dying. He needs me to save him.

I can visualize his mind's eye watching as it all takes place. My mother giving the ok and leaving. The staff removing his one tether to the mortal plane and abandoning him alone. For the second time in a week, dying...alone...with no help...

Dad!

My heart leaps a second time. Time is of the essence, we can turn around and-

I look to my mother. I've never seen her so upset...not even at her own father's funeral. Instead of acting on my inner turmoil I internalize it further...I force myself quiet. I wrestle the feeling into place where it's poison spreads.

I can see through my father's eyes as his vision dims...... I'm letting him die. Again.

We're told 3 hours later that he's passed away.

I killed my own father. Twice.

I shut down.

My father's services are spent without words. I cry silently. I ignore compassion. I refuse to look anyone in the eye. I allow myself to suffer as I should.

My mother tearfully takes me aside and shatters me.

"I really missed his smile today. ...That...twinkle in his eye. Like Christmas morning."

No evil in this world compares to my actions. I ignored my father the first time. He died. I filled his head full of love and then I finished the job despite his fighting back and pulled the plug on him.

I killed my father twice.

I quit my activity. I halt everything, including cutting my hair.

I spend the next four months binge drinking.

Every day.

Wake up.

Walk to store.

Silently purchase 12 pack.

Walk home.

Imbibe as fast as possible all 12 cans in less than an hour.

Stumble back to store.

Another 12 pack.

Stumble back home.

Crush 12 pack.

Listen to a single sad song on loop for two hours straight and cry.

Manage to find my way inside and sleep until the following morning.

Repeat.

I whittle down my bank account.

I lose track of days.

I lose track of time.

I lose track of life.

I killed my own father twice.

There is no hoping for redemption, no removal of guilt. I don't deserve to live. I don't deserve happiness. I hope I die.

My mother's health begins to wane as she watches her and her husband's son kill himself in depression. I won't ever see her smile again like she used to. I robbed her of her husband. I robbed her of family. Of comfort. Of happiness.

I killed my own father. I killed my own father. I killed my own father.

I killed my own father...

Twice.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"Of Guilt and Gutting"





-Tuesday, March 14 2017, 7:30 PM Local -

-Maksimir Park, Bukovacka, Zagreb, Croatia-




I allow the anger and the frustration...the volatile venom...to absorb into the only semblance of a soul I have left after years of guilt and heartbreak.

I charge.

I feel the power I draw from negativity fill me beyond max capacity.

As I retreat from recollection my eyes focus upon the illuminated settled waters and serene night setting of Maksimir Park, the nocturnal wildlife surrounding me providing a soothing soundtrack of insect and avian chirps.

I'd spent the majority of the day here taking solace in nature and what the disturbingly alien world of Croatia outside park limits couldn't provide: peace and quiet.

Earlier I'd viewed the promos released by both Scully and Robbie since my latest upload...and they'd oddly enough actually set me at ease. While Scully had given what I assume to be his laughably best attempt at trash talk, stumbling through the promo as I've come to realize is just his brand of lesser-than, he'd only bolsted my confidence. And Robbie? Robbie had obviously taken hits to both his own confidence and pride; the evidence had practically leapt out of the screen. Even if they drop more promos following my shooting this and before I'm able to upload, I've got them.

'Now is the time to strike and finish these two off.'

I ready my phone for promo without a second thought.

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

"And so it comes to this, the end to our war of words with one final coffin nail driven straight and true in the form of Jim Caedus. The man who bitch-slapped Bourbon off the pedestal of parlor tricks and punchlines. The man who drew back the curtain on the inferior mind of one Anthony Scully. The man who shall enter the ring in round 3 with Trax and together shall unleash the greatest and most righteous ravaging Robbie and Scully have ever suffered in the XWF. I no longer need to resort to bells and whistles. I need no longer out-rhyme, out-trash and out-class the competition...I've done that already. All I need do from here on out is speak the truth and level the two of you with one catastrophic coup de grace of reality.

Scully. Using my labeling of you a joke as a segue into grade school yo' momma jokes? You're not immature you're just flacid and pathetic. Desperate. Frantically playing to the wrong crowd. Your promos haven't hurt my feelings, they've lifted my spirits. My promo sure did piss YOU off though didn't it. And you act as if you accomplished something. You've accomplished nothing but a solidifying of my words that you are indeed a hack and you vindicate my now strengthening sense of impending victory. Oh, are you and your friends laughing at me Scully? A room full of poking fun at the man who continues to kick the asses of all who cross his path isn't something that concerns me beyond all the absence of self preservation, it amuses me. Yes, laugh. Laugh at my holding of two titles and seeminy unstoppable momentum. Laugh at my eclipsing of your legend, guffaw as I, on a weekly basis, redefine what quality is in comparison to the lack thereof those like you possess. Let the laughter of you and your comrades follow you to the emergency room where you're headed, Scully. Believe I'll be laughing at each and every one of them I haven't _already_ destroyed once I get them in the ring as well. You've proven you're either unwilling or incapable of putting forth the effort needed to put a man like me with a mind like mine away in promo and, naturally, you'll fall short in combat against me as well. You lack imagination and the ability not only to think on your feet but to effectively counter. The same mistakes that led you to your previous failures in the XWF are leading you definitively towards a common thread you'll soon share with a smattering of names here...defeat at the hands of Jim Caedus.

You admit to your own inability towards comprehension over my way with words that leaves you dizzy in my wake. Yes Scully, trifecta twatage. A twat trifecta. My betting that you fall under the 'winning' category of being a twat by rattling off three key point frontrunners as colorfully as I could: 1. S(k)ully/giving head = You suck dick at this. 2. Scully/Special Agent = You are a bitch. 3. Scully/not Gene as I misspoke, but who gives a fuck in comparison to your own multiple fuck ups anyway, Vin Scully, iconic announcer, retired, nearly 90 = dead career, soon to be dead body, your future forecast in no uncertain terms. Now as a foreign swine you can't be faulted for either my mistake nor knowledge of an American sports announcer...but the rest? The overall theme? You say you searched and came up with nothing. Are you saying you actually Google searched 'trifecta twatage' and not simply trifecta? Are you that incompetent? Is this all really too complex for you, you motherfuckin' imbecile? Do my words demand too much from such a limited mind? Have you the capability of abstract thought? You run off and ask an admitted super stoner in the Pride of High Times McBride _anything_ not revolving around guns, bud, the Irish and whiskey and you're surprised he has no answer for your already weed-weakened mind then you go on record to try and counter the ignorance of two by insulting _me_? I may have made a mistake you yourself didn't catch in your brilliance...AND owned up to it like a fuckin' rock star...but you...you for the second time have shown how incomparably unintelligent you truly are. Fuck did I say about smoking too much weed Anthony? You've effectively rendered yourself . Need further proof?

You spoke, at great length wasting so much of your air time, on the notion that at five foot nine and two hundred thirty pounds I'm obese. One name, one serving of stats. Chavo Guerrero Jr. 5'9" 215 lbs. We all know how obese Chavo is, right? The fat fuck can barely fit between the ring ropes right? Oh shit...no, wait...Chavo is perfectly fit and a well chiseled mound of Mexican muscle. Much like myself with fifteen extra pounds of Scull' crushing muscle. You're a wrestler but you're unfamiliar with height and weight in relation to muscle mass? Jesus Christ, Scully, I said it before and I'll say it again, you must really be trying hard to fuck this all up for you and Robbie. You've got to be the dumbest motherfucker I've ever seen in my TWENTY PLUS YEARS in the business. You and Robbie both refer to me like I've not been around the block when I've actually been around longer than the both of you. Of course, taking into account the massive egos in context, neither of you have ever been able to look past your own impotent selves have you? Scully, when I'm overpowering you in the ring, tossing you about like the frail prick you are, you'll learn how sorely mistaken you've been. Your ignorance and hilariously uneducated background will cost you when this full score slaughterhouse dispatches you with authority.

Your guitar strumming and infantile lyrical assault was embarrassing. Your confusing crystal with crack is cliché and corny. I highly recommend you kill yourself to avoid any further humiliation. You aren't even worthy of a poetic parry and retort and neither is Robbie for that matter with his much much lower than standard blank shot of verse that he drooled out in slack jawed stroke victim style of half-hearted hackery. I've weakened and psyched him out to one last lame dipshit's ditch effort and as for you, well, you have no talent for the game in the first place and have proven that point by showing I hit you so hard you reverted to a childlike state of flavorless and futile insults. I commend the courage stupidity in the vein of not giving up, boys...but that won't stop either Trax or I from demolishing your dickhead duo in Zagreb. As you've both shown loss of stamina and absence of dragging weary depths for dropping bombs in context so shall you both tire in the match, fail to dig deep and discover what you'll need to defeat us.

If my promo fried your mind and frazzled your brain then you've admitted that you can neither out-wit me nor keep up with me, Scully. That's what mental warfare is all about, asshole. You aren't the first to fall to my verbal fisticuffs and you won't be the last. I guarantee it. I'm a psychotic, outside of the box criminal genius. If you can't match me in mindscape how can you hope to fell me in a fight? As I've proven, I'm more powerful, I'm swift on my feet, I've a mind for counters and mind games, I've twenty years of in-ring experience and I absolutely out-perform you. No matter how many witness what I do, none seem to be prepared for just how difficult a riddle I am to solve when the time comes to face off. Good. Let the bloodletting commence and continue on into the far future. Caedus is a conundrum you cannot overcome. Not in promo, not in the ring. You haven't gone , you've been and it's clear to me now the status you enjoy is one of sympathy bestowed by those who feel sorry for a fuck up like you. I don't feel sorry for you, Scully. I feel spite and disgust over the fact that YOU are THE Scully of the XWF. Such a disappointment.

Robbie Bourbon. Yes, Bob, I'm aware of my contract and aware that some in the XWF can see 'dreams broadcast' by the promotion and have been aware since Nixon himself explained to me why Cadryn was impossibly pulling from the same bag back in early January. This is a realm of simultaneous magick and reality, anything is possible. The logic voiding and the lazy can see what others cannot. I, unfortunately, being rooted in reality, can NOT see into the minds of my opponents as others on the roster as well have been unable to see what happens to me off camera or in my head and before you argue, there exists precedent with past goings on pertaining to me that no one has voiced or pointed out. Good show, you neither gained a point nor gave one up. I hope your stalemate debate was worth it but that's apparently the best you can shoot for against me, Bob; a draw. You sure as fuck didnt bury me in insults like I did you. You definitely didn't beat me out with a beatbox beat down and you surely came up short in all ways defining a true Robbie Bourbon kill. I've defied my lingering underdog status yet again and handed you your massive ass on a tv tray. Your pissant penchant for misfire will serve me and my tag partner well when we shrug off what you execute in just-not-good-enough fashion combat-wise and return fire with hollow points of irrefutable finishers.

You haven't been scouting shit, Bob. More lies, more distractions and pitiful attempts to warp the truth. What you said about maneuvers and all that jazz was nothing more than a less energetic and creative version of what you say to all your other opponents. Not only have you further proven that I've drained you of all that makes you you but you wasted what little time you had left to come down on me hard.

Furthermore, I already said you've done a bang up job of basically ignoring me all this time and in your cowardly final day first shot of perhaps two promos, possibly climaxing with a deadline bombing of your own, you ADMIT that you've been ignoring me in pursuit of trying to tear me down for 'blowing up your voicemail'. Yeah, I have. And? Do I sound embarrassed or ashamed? Of course not, I'm not the cocksucker phony fake sack o' shit who flaunts two faces, one of professional courtesy and the other of private jeaousy, fear and douchebaggery. I'm myself and that's about it. The boys may see a lighter side backstage but as I've stated before, even miserable bastards like myself get lonely. I'm still Jim Caedus through and through. It doesn't bother me to admit the truth, it empowers me. You? You hide from the truth until you unwittingly bring it to light trying to humiliate me. Well thank you, dumbfuck, thank you for doing nothing other than prove beyond a shadow of a doubt that I'm an honest man and you're a gutless chickenshit who wasn't keeping me at arm's length for any reason other than outta FEAR in having to eventually face me. You may be gifted in comedy but how many of the names representing notches in my win column can say the same? How many of them can say it led them to victory over me? Comedy doesn't work against me Bob and you know it doesn't. You wanna pull from private conversation? Let's go ahead and mention your doubts of defeating me because 'Caedus is (your) kryptonite'. You further elaborate by stating that my reality and trash talk is the perfect counter to your sense of humor. You said it. You've shown it. Now everybody knows it. As for the content of my words that you aired, yes, for the most part true even if you embellished for effect. Yes, I'm a humble man who's been suffering from low self esteem for most of my life. Has it held me back here? I think not. In less than 3 months my accruing the two titles over my shoulders, my twin OTM honors, my continued presence in the Lottery and my winning of the Jane Federweight Scramble can attest to that. Are my issues truth? Seeing as those with actual hearts on the roster and among the brass have countered all my self-loathing and self-doubt with compliments and corrections of talent time and again I'd say the odds are I simply over think things in private time and overlook my qualities. What you need to be thinking hard on is how far I'll be going tomorrow in justifying them as I've been doing so since day one. You need to be wondering if Caedus is your kryptonite will it prove to be so in the ring. It will Bob. Fuck what you can do to me, this is gonna come down to what _I_ can do to _you_. I can defeat you. You know it, I know it and now...so does everyone else. Although, I'm fairly certain several of them could see it evidenced in my first and second promos. I _am_ your weakness, Robbie. I _am_ your end.

You think it fazes me to be called out on being a sincere and genuine guy who enjoys conversing with my rostermates? Bro, we're ALL familiar. I've been doing that since I got here as wel. Tell the people something they DON'T know, numbnuts. How much of an asshole are you looking to appear? You call it dickriding, I call it cordiality and respect. If it isn't appreciated, no problem, consider it over and done with. I'm sure there might be a few egos out there a bit pissed off at your fat ass for costing them their needed dosage of honest boosting. You wanna raise that quip of starting a pool to real stakes? How about you put that same 15k xbux on the line you were gonna offer up should anyone defeat my newcomer ass in that gauntlet you tried to have sanctioned? No, I won't be making the same wager, I'll be abstaining. I don't put my ass on the line by claiming I'm going to undeniably win. YOU'RE the man so sure of victory are you not? Put your money where your mouth is motherfucker. I deserve it just for showing that not even the great _Robbie Bourbon_ can withstand the Caedus assault without flinching. Oh and by the way...Thomas Nixon, Graves and Tiberius all top you in most attention given. I know it's a tall and impossible order but get the fuck over yourself. You don't mean that much to _anyone_.

You haven't taught me anything Bob, you just never met me before the XWF. This talent and natural ability of mine to paint pictures in pain, incinerate with insults, traumatize with trash talk, vex with violence, even my talent for spittin' venom in verse...they've all been present since '96 when I first laced up the boots. It's now 2017 and you see how those talents have flourished. Have I been struggling or have I been surprising as a competitor? Have I been demolished or have I been demolishing as the Television Champion? Have I been ignored or have I been impressing as a talent? Have I been a joke or have I been a shot to the jaw? You're wrong, Robbie. You've been wrong since I first told you how awesome it is that you do what you do. I was wrong in telling you you were the best, at the time, that I'd ever seen. You took it to heart and thought that meant I'm less than you. You fucked up. I'm more than you. More than you could ever be. You'll always be the jester of one liners, regardless of titles, and I'll always be the crippler king holding court by comparison. Trax can handle Scully, I've got YOUR number. Fuck Robbie Bourbon. I'm Jim Motherfucking Caedus and by the conclusion of our match in round 3, you won't ever forget it."
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