CAEDUS REWIND: When last we left Jim he'd been sitting in his friend's truck on a street in North Long Beach cutting a promo on Robert Main and awaiting the slumber of the nearby neighbors. He plans on paying a visit to an old acquaintance, Anthony, the North Side Longo shot-caller who'd been the meth dealer-distributor for and friend of the man who'd murdered Jim, Henry Eugene Spade. Jim hopes to gather information on Henry's whereabouts...













-FRIDAY JAN. 27, 1:01 AM, NORTH LONG BEACH, CA-



The neighboring houses in proximity have gone dark. The streets this far from the mains have gone silent. Even "The Monsoon Warrior" has tapered to a light drizzle, drooling from an agape mouth corner, snoring.

It's time to move.

I gently tug on the passenger handle and open the door quietly. The cabin light springs to life but I don't panic, I'd thought this through and accepted the expectations.

I slide my weight out so as not to cause too much movement and squeaking off the truck's suspension, especially given the next test of my friend George's sleeping depth.

I slowly close and rest the door against the framing before ever so softly applying enough pressure to actually shut it securely with, in the silence, a still-too-loud click. The slight motion noticeably nudges George and he stirs as the cabin light extinguishes. He shows no further signs of life other than the slow, repetitions of respiration. As I had hoped, his hibernation habits are heavy enough that I can slink away.

I remain beside the vehicle for a few moments to watch and listen; a prudent precaution in case I'd disturbed any incredibly _light_ sleepers. I notice nothing.

I cross from my side of East Heath Lane to the other in the darker section between the stretched blobs of the two nearest new LED street lights and I suddenly miss the bygone days with the good ol' orange glow street lights that still left something to the imagination for potential witnesses.

As swiftly as I can, rolling my feet from heels to toes as I do it, I cross the sidewalk in front of Anthony's house, reach over the wooden gate in the driveway, pull the string releasing the latch and step into the darkness of his backyard, closing and re-latching the gate behind me without a sound.

I creep beneath the kitchen window which casts a single beam of illumination, my back against the exterior wall of the house, and find my way to the back door.

With my fingernail I tap out the old Shave and a Haircut rhythm on the door's window glass as Anthony, for some reason, has always instructed his personal flock of customers to do at night.

I'd heard from several past Hispanic friends, co-workers and wrestling peers that the tune was considered offensive to them. The answers why had always relatively been the same but I'd never truly understood or accepted; it all seemed so contrived to me. It reminded me of an overly sensitive black guy demanding to know of black holes, "why the hole gotta be _black_!?" Why look for a reason to get angry, why create and invent? In my experience there was plenty to piss _me_ off in naturally occuring and sometimes seemingly _karmically_ contrived situations.

Maybe that's what Anthony was going for; keeping a separation of subconscious loathing between himself and his midnight customers. He wouldn't be the first dealer or dealer-distributor to look down upon the pop-in-anytime fiends who represented his lesser though more irritatingly continuous flow of cash.

Whatever his reason, I remain out of view from the window's field of vision save for my hair which I allow the chilling wind to catch and billow forward like blonde streamers. Anthony has been married since before I knew him but being a crystal dealer meant he got many offers for trade from local tweaker chicks; a little head, maybe a little pussy for a little meth. He bragged about how many bony bitches he broke. I'd let him think it was gonna happen again.

I see the shadow of fingers pull aside the thin white fabric curtain, I see the semi-circle silhouette of a head peeking out. I pull the hunting knife I'd snuck under George's radar free from my loose fit black Dickie's pants pocket and ready it in a forward filipino stance with my thumb on the spine of the six inch blade. I hear the lock click, the door handle twist.

Anthony steps halfway out. I launch forward, snatch his wifebeater with my left hand and power him quickly back into the kitchen. He crashes into the chair sitting at the small round kitchen table I push him onto, a large square of foil with about an ounce of pyramid-piled powder rocks and dust and empty gram bags scattering onto the floor.

He fights back swinging at my head, kicking his legs at my own. Since I've known him he's always been two inches shorter and healthily muscled. Since he's known me I'm now 50 pounds heavier, as bulked up as I've ever been and I'm now overpowering him. I take his stinging blows to the back and sides of my skull, I don't notice if he lands any feet, as I grip him by the throat with my left hand and pull him up for a headbutt to the forehead so hard I see black and an explosion of colors before my own eyes on impact.

Anthony is out. I'm shaking like a leaf with adrenaline and it feels like I can't control the volume of my breathing as I strain to listen for sounds throughout the house. City parking is shitty, there's always a 50/50 chance a neighbor or guest is in a spot you've designated as your own. Anthony's wife's vehicle, whatever it may be now, wasn't in the driveway but there was a car parked directly out front. The two also had a son, Anthony Jr., who'd been 16 in 2003. These days it was very possible for a 29 year old to still live at home. I was prepared to take action if I had-

My victim is already regaining consciousness, far too soon for my peace of mind. The best I can think to do is level the tip of the blade at Anthony's right eye and wait for shit to register in his foggy brain. If he jerks forward for an attack he'll impale himself and I'll have to finish the job before he starts screeching bloody murder. If he recognizes and understands the situation, he could give me a minute or two for questions before he inevitably tries to struggle free or fight back. There are a dozen other outcomes I can't possibly consider in the time I have before he fully comes to and makes a decision...

(TBC in Caedus v. Main v. Seraphina 3)
=================================







"Pit Eats Pup" or "Assed & Answered"





-MONDAY, JAN. 30, 2017, RIO DE JANEIRO, BRAZIL-

--Hotel 1900, R. Artur Bernardes, 29 - Catete, Rio de Janeiro, 10:34 GMT-2--





I stir from a Godsend restful slumber, chalking up the nightmareless-knockout to jetlag and the knockdown drag-out Nico LaVey and I had participated in at Savage Saturday Night in San Diego, CA. Nico might not have the best of records in the XWF but now I knew just how dangerous of an opponent he could be.

I found it funny how many members of the roster seemed to snub the XWF Television Title as the least of all straps in the promotion but I'd been witnessing and experiencing the strenuous conditions under which the champ is forced to compete. I'd not disagreed with him but now I'd come to realize with absolute certainty that Thomas Nixon had been 100% correct in his description as and of the holder of the TV Title. Nixon, Cadryn, Nico...these weren't schlubs, they were and are warriors all. The TV belt and it's status of contention were no joke; thus far...I'd survived.

I gaze lovingly at my championship on the pillow beside my own and revel in the display of late morning sunlight spearing through my window to reflect off it's gilded surface, scattering rays and golden spots of illumination on the walls. I'm still the champ...and as much as I hate to admit it, it _is_ a lovely fuckin' day in my life and Rio de Janeiro, Brazil.

I felt sorry for those in other promotions. They had no idea what they were missing out on in the XWF. The level of talent, the extreme atmosphere, the 24/7 Titles; there simply is no other federation like it. And the spirit portrayed and pushed from the people here...fully eclipsed our competition.

'Speaking of competition, that Robert Main is seriously chomping at the bit.'

Indeed. Robert, one of my two immediate threats at Wednesday Night Warfare, in my eyes represents what should be recognized by any and all newcomers as what needs to be done to catch the eye of the brass. Win or lose doesn't matter as much as the drive to power through anything. He has drive enough to rival any in the XWF. Heart, spirit, drive...three main ingredients included in the recipe for success in ANY business and life itself for that matter.

I like Robert.

'Me too, he's a spunky fucker.'

I also hate 'im; he's proving to be either willingly, and therefore sarcastically, ignorant to some very key points or, unfortunately, a bit on the slow side. Maybe he'd suffered one too many knocks on the head over in Japan. Maybe he'd taken a Benoit-level of brain damage from a slew of unprotected chair shots. Whatever the reason, "The Omega" had already dropped a third and lengthy promo on my ass. It all needed to be addressed.

I start my phone recording, opening up the shot with a zoom on my sparkling strap. Then, using my fingertips to first open the view, I reposition the phone to take in myself and the gorgeous, cloudless, azure summer sky through the window behind me...

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

"Robert that was a right clever promo you hit me with in 'Putting the Old Dog Down'. Got them deep double meanings and entry-level metaphors down pat, don't you? The sad man blowin' his dog's brains out routine? If you'd been determined to darken my disposition, if you'd really wanted me to emote, you should've just CG'd your ass into the '92 'Of Mice and Men' remake and sat with Cookie while his flea-bitten bff gets blasted in the background."

'(choke) Now _there's_ a tearjerker.'

"'Old dog'? I'm thirty-six, idiot, I'm in my prime...and _you're_ only eight years younger than I am you brainless fuckin' boob! 'Old dog'? Jeeeesus _Christ_, what did I tell you about researching and being aware? Fastest route to failure around here is skipping to a slaughter not knowing the opposition. You came to the wrong shop for generational genocide jag-off. Keep that corny crap up and you'll be learning a hard lesson with a wicked whippin' come Wednesday.

And speaking on unwise, mentally unfit nitwit, you asked if I've ever heard the saying 'it’s better to act dumb than open your mouth and take away all doubt'? Why yes I have, Robert, and ironically enough I'm seeing it's meaning in action every time _you_ try driving a point home. Are _you_ familiar with the phrase 'don't throw stones in a glass house'? It sounds like you got caught up believing in Nico's pompous propaganda and thought I was a moron. You should've stuck around and caught the closing act if you needed the truth lain out for you like 'simple arithmatic, A-B-C' ya dickheaded Dirk Diggler."

'Easy on the references, you're probably goin' _way_ over his head.'

"Calling me boring? Bubblin' out the same brew? Bro if you 'had a nickel for every time you heard those lines' you wouldn't be a billionaire, you'd be a dime short of five cents. You hear anyone else with a title strap around here or among the competition offering advice and encouragement to their own opponents? You should be thanking me, not jumpin' on my generosity like it's a sign of weakness you ungrateful ingrate. If you can't handle the professional and complimentary bits of conversation perhaps I should pump the brakes on inflating that swollen ego of yours and opt to pop it instead. If one of us is wavin' and waftin' old hat it's _you_ with those musty moral-of-the-story stabs, so put away great-granny's copy of Flipside Fortune Cookie Quotes Volume One, clean the wax and hair grease outta your ears and listen up. I'm neither old nor stupid and if I have to pound that into your thick head on Wednesday I'll have no choice but to do just that and kick your oil-slick ass right out the ring with a well placed Wrexus Plexus, punk."

'I love when you do that.'

"Are we really going to start attaching the adjective 'arrogant' to _my_ words and actions? Master Main, if I was so arrogant I wouldn't be accepting any and all challenges from the cheap seats to healthy hard-camera ringside. I'd be scoffing at you in response to your own and telling you do dream on. I definitely wouldn't be giving anyone but _myself_ any credit and I'd already be dumping on Chris Chaos's doorstep with Uni Title match demands. I think maybe _you_ think I'm boring and full of myself because of the way I articulate and voice my opinions. Well-spoken does not arrogance define. Don't hate me for possessing a unique personality and tendency towards voluptuous verbal viciousness. Just learn to read, stick your giant honker in a dictionary, look it all up and pretend you knew it in your next promo. For fucksake man, you can speak Portuguese but you keep up with me like a third-world fob takin' orders in ingles at Taco Bell."

'I said, _one chicken quesadilla with the pink sauce_ and _two classic gordita crunches_, cocksucker! Did we learn _nothing_ from our pseudo-Spanish-slash-American menu order orientation!?'

"IDK, D-I-C-K, the more I ponder your points the more it seems I'm still sparrin' with LeVay playin' Opposite Day. I'm sorry if you took my sincere sentiments as sarcasm. _You're_ going to be sorry soon in the squared-circle now that you're offending me by implying I lie. I dont lie and I don't need to. Lying may be more commonplace for a cad in our culture but it's more enjoyable for _me_ to tell the truth, whatever it may be. When I tell you you're an inspiration to the unsure, I mean it. When I say you display a spitfire attitude it's a _positive_ remark despite the word 'spit' in it."

'Yeah I think he had trouble with that one too.'

"When I warn you you're overestimating yourself and underestimating the reigning XWF Television Champion it means elevate your game, train and stop fuckin' up the same. I don't lie, I own who I am. I don't spackle on a false face and fuck around with the façade of flattery. I know somewhere along the way you got lost and came to the conclusion I've been condemning your credibility but LISTEN TO ME as I inform you: YOU ARE MISTAKEN and I'm LOSING PATIENCE with you you lil' turd! You're fluffin' up your feathers like a butt-hurt bird, droppin' droppings on my Datsun and I'm about ready to grab the air rifle and take aim. Don't make me hafta fry up some scrub squab, Bob. On second thought, fuck that. This is a Triple Threat Elimination Match in which we're entangled; by all means, fly your furry ass into the frying pan, pec' pubes first.

E_gads_ you're irritating with that elephantine ego of yours! Self-project much? You really believe your bombastically benign 'bombshells' and broken-record threats are gonna batter my fuckin' fishsticks on this field or any other? Guess again, bub. I wish I still had my Wolvie-claws, I'd give you such a spirited stabbing!"

'No. Hold it right there. Jog-on the '05 Jimmy Howlett/Jim Logan gimmick revival. You aren't Jim Justice or The Jobfather, you aren't "Outlaw Jr." James Cassidy or a Warlord with Sean Wiley. You aren't SIN. You aren't even James O'Conner anymore, _he_ finally died 6 months ago with-'

Don't you dare finish that statement.

'Don't _you_ dare go and get cute like you aren't who you are and shall _remain_ for the rest of your days! NEVER forget where _you_ come from and who _you_ are! You sound like an idiot and you look like a FOOL sitting there silently, now WHO are you!?'

"I'm Jim Caedus, Robert. I'm not one of those no-show shitheads who may as well have willingly let you waltz on in here feelin' like a legitimate winner. You take my talk of Thomas Nixon as bragging of my victory over him? If you knew who he is and what he's capable of there would be no misunderstanding you mental midget.

You call me lucky? It wasn't luck that won me this title and it ain't luck that's kept it around my waist through two much-more-punishing-than-you opponents. In Nixon's case it's called countering. In Cadryn's case it's called controlling the match long enough to kaput his contention. In Nico's case it's called strategizing, digging deep and damaging with decisive victory. In _your_ case it's called swatting a very obnoxious fly. Oh I'm sure you'll give me a hard time...and good gay LORD will you ever...but it won't be luck that snaps your neck like Prong, it'll be Katabasis. And if you have _any_ balls at _all_ in context with what _you_ think to be reality, why don't you put a stipulation on the line in our match with Seraphina like I've offered to allow you both a shot at my TV Title in said match? How about...if _I_ pin _you_, _you_ have to drop MY FINISHER from your repertoire while you wrestle here? Sound fair? Are you man enough, Main? Whether or not Mr. Lane decides to book our match with my title on the line is his business and I'll respect whatever decision he makes. However, none of that changes the fact that I'm more than willing to do so. All I'm asking is for _you_ to put one of your TWO finishers on the line. You can keep the Moon Light Drive but the Burning Hammer, by whatever wiki name _you_ call it, is MINE you schmuck! Think you can put me away and continue to claim? Good LUCK."

I feel that. Let it rise and close this second chapter.'

"Lucky, Robert? I'm lucky? Luck?? Fucking _LUCK_!? Was it LUCK that got me hooked on methamphetamine!? Was it LUCK that got me betrayed and beaten to death!? Was it LUCK that got me RAIDED and SHOT by the state-law-defiant DEA!? Was it LUCK that had me HOMELESS on the motherFUCKING STREETS BEGGING AND BREAKING LAWS FOR BREAD ENOUGH TO EAT!? FUCK WHAT YOU THINK YOU'RE CAPABLE OF AND FUCK _YOU_ IF YOU CANT FATHOM WHAT _TRUE TOUGHNESS_ IS!! You've NO IDEA what it means to _TRULY STRUGGLE_!! YOU DON'T KNOW TO WHAT DEPTHS _DETERMINATION_ WILL TAKE YOU IF YOU HAVEN'T HAD TO CRAWL INTO A DUMPSTER AND SHUT THE LID SO YOU DON'T FUCKIN' FREEZE TO DEATH!! YOU DON'T KNOW WHAT _STRENGTH_ IS UNTIL YOU'VE HAD TO GO HUNGRY TO KEEP A WIFE AND DAUGHTER AS HEALTHY AS YOU CAN HOPE FOR!! YOU DON'T KNOW THE DEFINITION OF THE WORD _DIGNITY_ UNTIL YOU'VE LOST IT SHITTING IN PLASTIC BAGS, PISSING IN PUBLIC AND HAVING NOTHING BUT YOUR ONLY CHANGE OF CLOTHES TO WIPE WITH!! And _COURAGE_...you wouldn't know courage if it was climbin' up your leg to invade Cocksville! You've never had to DENY the siren sweet song of SUICIDE telling you that stepping in front of a vehicle going the High Desert average of SIXTY-FIVE is a HELLUVA LOT EASIER than KNOWING you'll be homeless for the REST OF YOUR LIFE when the future seems to hold only that! Fucking luck? SunuvaBITCH, you speak of _LUCK_? You'd better PRAY _YOUR_ four leaves haven't been plucked clover-clean by the time you step up to this plate or the only Omega in the XWF will be the ENDING of YOUR CAREER! FUCK luck! ...I'm Jim Caedus.
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(TBC)