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JimCaedus · (07-29-2017)

::KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK::

"The Killing Blow"

-Friday July 28 2017 2 AM PST-

-Southeast Compton, Henry "Buddha" Spade Residence-

The front egress pulls slightly inward, the thump of some god awful techno mishmash momentarily released upon the quiet early morning neighborhood before the volume level is lowered...and an eye with an irrefutably sprack-induced dilated pupil peeks out.

Once "Buddha" has identified the source of the knock, a tweaker he's sold to a total of four times this week already, he opens the door further, revealing the full 6'9" 380 pound skinhead, ever so much resembling a larger, heavier, _meaner_ Bam Bam Bigelow.

"I fuckin' told you _last_ time that the NEXT time you come by you go to the _back_ door you piece of shit," he spits venomously.

The tweaker scratches at his elbow, twitching as he nervously mutters, "I'm sorry, B", after which he stands before Buddha silently with no follow up.

After several seconds elapse-

"Well? How much you want, motherfucker?"

The straightened end of a crowbar is shoved into the seam between back door and frame. Force is applied pulling back by one man's set of hands as the shoulder of another smashes into the obstruction. Wood splinters and gives way as the two tumble clumsily to the kitchen floor within.

Buddha's eyes widen at the crash.

"The fuck was that!?"

Customer forgotten, my murderer spins to spy the intruders from his position in the front room.

"'EY! Fuck are you doing in my house!?"

I take the opportunity slip in through the front door past tweaker #1 clutching my father's old Tennessee Thumper wood bat and I raise it, cock back for a swing...and hesitate.

Am I really gonna do this? I'm trying to change. Murder isn't exactly the action of a "good person".

Floorboards beneath shoddy carpeting creak beneath my weight and Buddha spins again out of paranoid instinct.

For the first time in fourteen plus years...our eyes meet. A montage of malevolent memories flashes before my mind's eye...and I do nothing.

Recognition washes over his visage, I can see it.

"Jimmy."

In spite of his massive size, the swiftness in which his right hand shoots out to wrap thick fingers around my throat is astonishing. He squeezes immediately with such pressure I involuntarily try to gag and find it impossible to do so, which only makes it worse. I can't breathe as his grip cinches down over my arteries.

I drop the bat to the floor with a muted clunk and...
.
.
.
.
.

I b e g i n t o b l a c k o u t...

I don't hear the crash of the glass coffee pot shattering over the back of Buddha's bare skull, I only notice the sudden relinquishing of his hand around my throat.

As my vision jars back into focus, I witness the huge fucker lay out tweaker #2 with a hard right hook before he advances on #3.

He'll kill us all. I gotta do it. Now!

Snatching the bat from the carpet, I swing as hard as I can, connecting with Buddha's already bloody back-of-the-head, the impact traveling through the wood to shock my palms painfully.

He drops. The thud is so fucking loud I can't imagine the nearest neighbors NOT hearing it.

Finish it! Now! While you can!

I bring the bat down onto his head like I'm chopping wood.

CRACK!

His body quivers uncontrollably.

For stomping you to death.

CRACK!

For the fucked up pop-eye.

CRACK!

For the brain damage.

CRACK!

For fourteen years of HELL.

CRACK!

For making mom and dad cry.

CRACK!

For me and everyone else this evil sack o' shit has victimzed.

CRACK!

CRACK!

CRACK!

CRUNCH!!

Buddha's cranium and face are now unrecognizable, misshapen. What appears to be a portion of his brain is protruding from a now open crevasse atop his skull.

He's dead. Instantly I feel an incredible weight lift from my shoulders. Worries I'd harbored for over a decade melt away. I notice I'm panting. I can't take my eyes off the corpse.

I jump as Robert, entering at some point, places his hand on my shoulder.

"Get the fuck outta here, homie. I got this."

I know this means they'll ransack for the purpose of misleading an investigation. Eventually Robert will see to it the tweakers would be eliminated as potential witnesses.

I take my leave.

Gotta get back home, clean up and handle my next and final target for revenge before handling his ass in the ring tomorrow night.

Bruce/ette Blingsteen...you're fuckin' dead...
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

-PRESENT-

"What's your name?"

"John Blaq."

I cock back and let loose with the lash, relishing as the leather lacerates the exposed dark "flesh" from the form hanging in chains before me. The John Blaq costume drops to the dirt beneath, leaving a less than imposing pale, pink braid-sportin' body behind.

"What's your name!?"

"Bruce......Bruce Blingsteen," he strains through teeth grinding against the pain.

A second time I let fly with the whip. Like layers of onion, the Blingsteen façade falls as well, revealing an even less intimidating, flat chested, pancake assed, tomboy lookin' kike-dyke in its place.

"What's your name!? Say it!"

She pants pathetically and stutters out.

"B- Bru...Brucette...Blingsteen."

I offer a lopsided smile and nearly laugh before unleashing the lash a third time, splitting the latest cowardly dodge in twain. It flutters to the floor.

At long last we see who's been hiding behind the ludicrously "elaborate" ruse...a scrawny, ugly, baby-dicked douchebag dripping with self-loathing and possessing of a single tat across his back:

PATH OF LEAST RESISTANCE

"Now...what's your name?"

"Troll...Troll Dick DeBitch."

"Yes. Yes it is."

I turn to face the lens.

"Anyone can rob recognizable material, ya V for Vendetta scene samplin' sack o' shit, so suck my Roots, hack.

It's funny...of all the personas you shoulda stuck with you were mistaken in castin' John Blaq aside. You've got the hip hop shit down, dickhead; all you do is sample everything that ain't yours 'cause you ain't got the talent in you to truly terrorize. I've seen enough now to know...you're THE most hackneyed, lazy, prideless pussy I've ever come across in this business. Devoid of creativity. Zero cred. Nil respect. Kid...you fuckin' suck at this. Do me a favor and pull a Chester Bennington, bitch, these balls'll remain blue until I'm jackin' off 'n jizzin' on your rigor-stiffened corpse, cocksucker.

Oh Lord, we sippin' on that syzurp now, or just straight cough syrup ya nutless fuckin' fake? Jesus junk-slammin' coked-up Christ, you try FAR too hard to look edgy and cool, clown, its unbelievably pathetic. Real motherfuckers like me can pick out posers like you as easily as we pull pussy at parties, punkass. You're all the same with the overcompensatory in-your-face, rehearsin'-in-the-mirror-for-hours "badassery", tryin' desperately to impress the big kids, destined for vomitin' and passin' out first on the floor after a single beer and a shot. Bet you're a virgin too, dork. No wonder you hate yourself and your life so much, which explains why you cycle through the personalities and faces faster than Micheal Graves. It's textbook psychology. Honestly, ho, the only way you'll ever silence that über-depressed voice inside tellin' you you ain't good enough, tough enough or cool enough is if you take your own life and I HIGHLY recommend it. I also recommend choosin' the messiest means possible; ain't no one gonna mourn you so go for the memorable shock value. I'd wager it's even easier than the eensy bit o' effort you put into donnybrookin' with your fabricated fisticuffs,

. What ever do I mean?

Let's begin with I'M in "so far over my head". You're right; so figuratively over the head, full shaft penetratin', ballsdeep up your ass with the verbal viciousness my one-eyed Willy's poppin' up outta your throat winkin' beside your uvula. You have any idea how many on the roster I've faced that eclipse your "skill" hands down? Raven. Doc. Dolly. Duke. Robbie. TRAX. You don't compare to any of them, let alone myself. To the contrary, the jaded joke jag-off who bit off more than he could chew would be you and you know it better than anyone with your performin'-part-time-due-to-lack-of-linguistic-and-physical-superiority, never-endin' easy-way-out shady shenanigans, Reeve-like-revolvin'-door-borderline-schizophrenic-façades and your half-ass habit o' baseless bullshit claims and critiques. "Heartbreaking"? What're you, a woman? Oh, right, that's what you're goin' for now...unless you switched up yet again like a bitch while I wasn't lookin'.

You DO realize I'm leadin' you around and the Caedus Effect has you dancin' on strings like a motherfuckin' marionette with your latest vag-havin' version o' lackluster, yeah? What'd I say? Was it, "I doubt we've seen the real you yet"? And what was it you did? Switched up appearances. I said it, you did it, I own you. Like I did with Cadryn, your every move is orcestrated by my words and ownership o' your feeble fuckin' mind, moron. Hey, at least this time you picked a persona you can relate to: a chick. And like most chicks, along with the crimson-oozin' clam and overabundance o' estrogen, you're incapable of speakin' the truth. For example...

Our cash-ins aren't comparable, queen. 1. I wasn't hidin' a dusty briefcase nor my identity. Fact. 2. Reno gave up against Steve Davids whereas I struggled, tired, tryin' to come at The Doc and Raven. Fact. 3. Beyond bein' unaware o' your 24/7 status, I damn sure wasn't pretendin' to be your bff like Reno was with me to avoid what he KNEW was comin'. As for your accusin' me of bein' butthurt, statin' what you did doesn't define the aforementioned, asshat. Nice try though. Impotent fuckin' imbecile. Butthurt's Bruce Blaq blushin' over gettin' called out on fakin' drug usage. Butthurt "to tears, literal tears" when Big Bad Big Dick Daddy slapped a thick, floppy cock 'cross 'is face blackenin' both 'is eyes and inspirin' the doofus to embark on a months-long quest givin' Caedus the kinda monopolizin' attention males who ARE interested in the opposite sex usually reserve for pussy hawkin'. Homo. I own you. You even play right into my apt accusations that all you do is spit shit the opposite o' reality at hand.

If a douche here is unjustifiably confident thinkin' he wins all arguments past, present and future it'd be the inexplicably arrogant anus with the Kobe Bryant shit eating grin sig on the official site. Kobe sucks by the way. And for the record, as of late its been Jim Caedus closin' down your comments in the halls while you lay ass up face down, runnin' outta material ALREADY 'cause you can't even handle part-time performin', pansyass panty waste. Probably why you tried to pass a Uni match and undoubtedly the strap itself to Gator, you can't keep up. Can't keep up with trollin' and takin on a handful o' matches in HOW MANY MONTHS while I've 34 contests under my belt after 7? Weak.

Weak like you tryin' your damndest to hurt my widdle feelings with all that "universally loved" popularity poppycock as if your desire to be universally _hated_ (path of least resistance) ain't the flipside to that coin, makin' you sound just as obsessed. I've been outspoken in the past...HERE...on my preference to have friends. Everyone knows it. Think I give a shit you just now figured that out and said it,

? Wroooong. With the exception of unpopular beat-ugly trolls like you who long ago realized people tend to dislike and ridicule you (therefore you chose to embrace it), ain't no one would wave off bein' well liked. 'Ey, I'll letcha in on a lil' secret, simpleton. Your few "friends" slam your ass in private conversation behind your back. You're referred to as a suck up, a waste o' time and a lazy, arrogant, angry, disloyal dick who can't be trusted. You bring nothin' to the table here, you take away. You're also an irritatin' loser who thinks backstage bullshit surpasses one's accolades and ability in the ring. Not surprising since 75% of every single word you've said has been backstage because you're unable to muster the effort and skill to do it consistently where and when it matters, motherfucker. You're a joke. No, really. Lemme explain, ya wet queef queer...

You self-project and lie like Chris Chaos, your confidence-negatin' insecurity and cowardice has you alterin' your appearance multiple times like the Reevolution's confused captain (and females while I'm at it), you stole your first fake name from John Black and you tire too easily like LJ Havok's here-he-comes-there-he-goes ass. Nothin' about you spells champion, talented nor threatening. It spells H-A-C-K. Your trash talk game? You sound too much like me, you literally use many o' the exact same insults and style quirks I do, yet, lo and behold, I do it better by far. B-T-W, genius, I _semi_-alliterate to give the viewer a break from the same ol' shit they hear elsewhere outta the less/not at all entertainin' cumdumpster craws from fuck-ups like you. Research works better if you actually read the definitions AND examples when you're lookin' shit up to make _me_ seem stupid and _you_ sound smart, you fuckin' idiot.

However, a dummy you are and shall remain, reject. It's your legacy, akin to that of another legacy you'll leave behind when your name's added to the books under the "Less Than 30 Day Uni Reigns" column because none o' this shit you're focusin' on even matters when we step foot in the cage and I crush you. My new era, the CAEDUS Era, record speaks for itself. I'm known as a streak ridin', ass charrin', back-to-back SOTM honored member o' the elite around here...and the latter came straight from the mouths of several legends. You? The majority o' the roster and ALL of the fan base forgot about Bruce/ette Blingsteen, they look forward to forgettin' about you again and you're known for nada but startin' shit outta the ring, expendin' energy for no rewardin' reason other than you hate yourself, thereby everyone else, and seek to over-saturate our lives with your bitter, miserable existence we all SINCERELY wish would cease with a plastic bag tied 'round your balloon head. You ain't worth me losin' my freedom for factually murderin' you, fond o' the concept as I am, but I'm more than willin' and able to fuck you up and take the XWF Universal Championship back, so that's what I'm gonna do. Whether you like it or not, you're done, dickhead. You don't have what it takes to top me in word warfare OR physical competition. When I've defeated you, leave. For good this time. The XWF doesn't need you, doesn't want you and doesn't care about you, Bruce/ette/whomever. And when the time comes that your deep depression leads to cuttin' your wrists in the bathtub like the feminine bitch you are, while the life runs outta you...

...remember my face...

...recall my smile...

Caedus. Killed. You."
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