(continues from and concludes backstory in "Heroes and Douchebags")


-2004-


"Fuckin' paintball? I thought we'd be joggin' or doin' pushups or some shit. We won't be havin' fun like this in boot, bro. What's the point?"

It'd been 7 days since the heated discussion my cousin Jeff and I'd had in which we'd decided to enlist over a beheading video. We'd spoken to Gunny Sergeant Peterson two days after that convo. Four days after that we and the 3 other hopeful recruits had been invited to Hollywood Paintball.

"Gunny did this last time too," my cousin Jeff replies. This was the recruiter's second attempted seduction with him, he had more knowledge in the way he worked. "Gets more people to sign up. Don't start being all negative again, dude, this shit is cool."

"I ain't bein' negative, I'm bein' honest."

And honestly, I've never been paintballing before now so there's an understandable amount of trepidation regarding the concept...especially given that the 29 others in attendance, counting recruits and my cousin, have obviously invested at some earlier point in the hobby, clad in full gear and armed with their own weapons. I myself am using one of two owned by my cousin and clad in the casual clothing I came in.

Cute.





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I ever so slowly and cautiously raise my head to peek over the hood of the rusted husk of a station wagon I chose to hide behind on my group's side in setting up. The start sounded only seconds ago and it's been completely silent since...

::SPLAT::

I take a hit to the thin pink line of my cro-mag forehead barely exposed above the top of the eye protection and below the extending brim of the dumbass cheap rented helmet I'm wearing. Motherfucker... Lesson learned: Don't be an idiot.

I'm not sure whether to be pissed at myself or the sunuvabitch that had the audacity to humiliate me so well. I guess it's my fault for bein' such a fool.

I wait outside the battle until Jeff eventually exits with the majority of the group. Pro-paintball bastards.




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Alright you sons o' bitches, I'll get serious with it.

Second round and this time I intend to play it smart. I choose my rl spawn site with my cousin and ten others behind a length of wall with windows spaced fifteen feet apart. I have a lot more fun taking shots at the enemy from a camping position. I tag 4.

From my left a team member approaches, hands up.

"Don't shoot, it's just me."

My cousin and I glance at him and nod, returning our attention to the enemy movement across the courtya-

::SPLAT SPLAT::

The fuck??

::SPLAT SPLAT::

Jeff and I regard our teammate who just shot us each twice.

"Fuck are you doin', asshole!?"

::SPLAT SPLAT SPLAT::

"He's not on our side, guys," exclaims one of our fellow recruits after popping the invader thrice.

My rage rises.

Ok...ok...it's like that? Gotcha.

At least I made it to the end of the battle this time... Lesson learned: Rules are meant to be bent/broken.





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I personally demand a rematch. Same map, same sides, same teams. No one declines.

Everything begins as before, this time, however, the opposing force surprises us, rushing our position and eliminating the largest pocket of us in short order...that is, with the exception of myself. I'd been sandwiched between my cousin Jeff and one of our fellow recruits in the onslaught and received no new shot. As the enemy moves on to take out our remaining teammates, I raise my arms with my fellows and follow them towards the exit, grumbling for effect. Oh, I can play dirty too.

The group of killed marches on out, I look to my right to see the opposing side celebrating as their half that pushed returns, laughing. Time to play.

I lower my arms and aim from my midsection.

::SPLAT SPLAT SPLAT SPLAT SPLAT SPLAT SPLAT SPLAT SPLAT SPLAT SPLAT SPLAT SPLAT SPLAT SPLAT SPLAT SPLAT SPLAT SPLAT SPLAT SPLAT SPLAT SPLAT SPLAT SPLAT SPLAT SPLAT::

At such close proximity, double tapping my index and middle fingers on the dual trigger and spraying swiftly, I paint the entire group before they've realized what's happening.

I twist to dodge a hurried shot in return by the final target, the invader from round 2 oddly enough, after I hit him twice in the chest.

"Stop firing, you're dead," I order.

"Dude, YOU'RE dead! You can't just come back in and shoot, gym rat" he shouts!

"I'm not dead, I never got _shot_. And there ain't no rule against pretending to be shot, either. I just took your whole team out by myself. How's it feel?"

"See what happens next game," another spits out.

"What next game? I'm 19 and 2 now. I win. None of you will rack that up before closing time."

I laugh and turn to leave as they curse, calling me whatever. Doesn't matter, I'm not listening and I already humiliated them all.

My team congratulates me once I've given them the skinny and 15 painted pricks rejoin us all on cue, pissed. I wink to the members of the opposite team that target me with eyes oozing spite.

A week later I'd find myself at MEPS in L.A., being given incorrect directions in context with a detox drink by one Corporal Ho (no, really) which would unfortunately conclude with a piss test taken hours later in a bizarrely privacy-void bathroom/testing office (I assumed to prevent tampering attempts) under the watchful eye of a heavyset black woman set behind the counter. Sheepishly I'd approached her holding my cup fulla electric green urine (the detox liquid along with everything it flushed out, hilariously enough) with nothing more to offer her than, "Uh...I'm sick?"

Appropriately she'd responded, "MmmmmmHM" as every American black woman should when bein' lied to. Needless to say, the Marines didn't recruit me and my cousin, bereft of his backup, declined to continue his enlistment.

It'd disappointed me at the time...I knew I would've racked up an impressive body count had I successfully become a sniper. However...what I'd learned in strategy would always stick with me.

Lesson learned: There's always a way to beat the odds...and I'm definitely good enough to figure it out.


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


"When Pigs Fly Fry"







-Tuesday May 30 2017 11:01 PM EST-

-JS Dorchin Arena, Raleigh, North Carolina-


Rousing from my musings in the center of the ring, an empty arena save for the camera crew, I adjust my emotionless gaze from the spotlights above to stare directly into the lens.

"Just a smidge over 24 hours and counting, a bit longer than the time it took BWP's dumbass to LOSE his newly won Xtreme Title via INTERFERENCE, before he and I meet here, between these very ropes, to determine who'll be walkin' into High Stakes II the XWF Universal Champion. Will it be the mumblin' moron Marine with a wild imagination and a lead tongue? Or will it be the very same man who refused to allow the shitty hand life dealt him to bust him, to keep him down, as he fought his way tooth and nail to the very top of the XWF in defiance? The question's rhetorical; no one with the half-assed hack's approach to both this business and Jim Caedus like BWP has shown has a snowcone's chance in Hell of dethroning he who'll be de-boning that very same sack o' squealin' punkass pissant pigshit.

I've shown you can't hold a Roman Candle to Caedus in the arena of disasterous donnybrooking, B. Now...one thing remains to be executed. It's time for a Caedus Rundown...

You're overflowing with inexplicable confidence in your abilities. By your own admission, you not only lack the stick-to-itivness to have ever made an actual commitment to this company but you've proudly, again by your own admission, shrugged off training for this match with me as your opponent. What was it you said? You've accrued maybe 6 months, give or take, since you first signed on with the XWF and you've had two recent matches? Kid, I'm 5 months and 10 days in, without stopping, edging closer to my first full 6 months without a single fuckin' break and 21 matches under my belt. Who the hell do you think's runnin' on all cylinders here and who, with a recent record of 1 dirty win and 1 clear loss, hasn't even started warmin' up? I've exhibited more loyalty, drive and determination than you ever will. You come back, lose your first match, LUCKILY win your second to dubiously attain the Xtreme Championship with a single phoned-in pos promo and the help of Chris Chaos, LOSE the Xtreme title less than 24 hours later and haven't been much of a "Marine charging right in" in context with your ridiculously undeserved title shot against me for the Universal strap. You started off pretty intensely but you lost half o' that by your second promo and it would seem after you popped your load on Savage, you immediately shriveled back to the 2 inch limpdick with no nuts you truly are. Fuckin' pathetic. You don't hold a QUARTER of what's required to bring it to me, motherfucker. You don't even have what it takes to grind through a single MONTH without fuckin' up. You really think you can just waltz back in here from wherever you were holed up, bitch and moan about the Marines for Memorial Day and expect to beat me? Take your ass to the VFW pool hall with that shit, , you can wish on a star all damn day and night; the Star Killer'll be the only one to respond and you damn sure ain't gonna like the answer. I'm gonna bend you over and boot you so fuckin' hard in the ass I'll send your entire skeletal system rocketing outta your mouth up into the rafters before pinning your floppy remains for the 3 count.

You believe your status as a formerly enlisted Marine with dead comrades means you have some sorta advantage over the rest of us. Over me. This ain't combat with your trusty M-16 at your side, soldier, and it ain't no shootin' gallery either. You're inundated with disadvantages, you ain't workin' with some secret recipe for success. Your hand-to-hand training, as much of it that's legal in the ring, ain't much different than my own. Add to that the fact I have 21 years experience with WRESTLING maneuvers and you find yourself outmatched regardless of size. Your intelligence and ability to think on your feet? Nearly non-existent. Your gung ho drive? More like stop and go city traffic. Your dedication of the match to fallen heroes? Futile. It wouldn't matter if the spirits of your departed jarheads converged on me en masse, I'd inhale like I'm takin' a fat hit, swallow the spectral sons o' bitches and fart 'em back out with such force it'll blow that beard clean off your face. You ain't the only one stomping around here with the thousand yard stare and a laundry list o' regrets. You hold no monopoly on the concept o' seekin' to honor those you left behind. And I can tell...I can smell it on you...that you're thinkin' you'll be absorbing all that tragedy related to your military past into energy enough to take me down. Unfortunately, you'll find, whether you pull from pain or not, that's MY bread and butter, bitch. My hellish history has been the very fuel with which I've catapulted to my current position. The same source that's kept me from fizzlin' out after Lethal Lottery 4 and five strenuous months, unlike you, stumbling twice in less than 30 days. The familiar furious fusion that'll be overpowering, out-maneuvering, out-classing and out-lasting your overbearing bitchass like all the others. Not to mention..._I_ hold the Uni Title, _I_ don't need to pin or submit to retain and _I_ don't need to follow the rules for the same. The odds against you are staggering no matter how you paint this.

You make too many mistakes and you refuse to learn from them. Not just in promo, in action. You have no sort of brag worthy win loss tally, you hold no precedent for domination or even majority consistency in victory, you don't even have the pride or the mind for this world. You're a butthurt and broken jag-off jarhead who not only disrespects the industry with your attitude of unjustified entitlement but with your disrespect for the Universal title and the man holding it. If you were to somehow, IMPOSSIBLY, snag my championship, you'd undoubtedly lose it in your first defense, and not through a mutual struggle, via your deflating in the wake of accomplishment like you did with the Xtreme strap. But that ain't gonna happen. Fuck that. After all I've been through to achieve what I have? With _you_ unable to get through a single week without some sort of failure to accompany you? You flounder with mistakes, I exploit them and I'll be capitalizing on each and every one you make tomorrow night.

Fuck Bearded War Pig. Fuck his dreams and desires. Fuck his consistency in inconsistency and his disregard for this business in which the rest of us devote our blood, sweat and tears. I'm Jim Caedus. The Big Dick Daddy. The clit-lickin', shit-kickin' Star Killer of the XWF. 2 time Federweight Champ. 2 time and current double champ. 3 time consecutive OTM honoree. Lethal Lottery 4 winner and former Mr. 24/7. Undefeated former XWF Television title holder. Current XWF Trio Tag titleist with the most powerful stable in the industry and UNIVERSAL CHAMPION. This is MY world. You wanted a war, Pig? You've got one. I'm gonna bayonet those guts from your belly with my cock and serve up chitlins to the country Carolina crowd at five bucks a plate. Pork. It's what's for dinner."
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