-2001-

-Squid Music, Stanton, CA-


"Hey Spank', those two ri' there," I slur out.

I wave an unsteady finger at two guys roughly our age I've never seen before. Both are considerably less imposing and muscular than we are; gangly even. Easy pickins. But then, that's the point of these drunken boxing matches our mutual bud Nick Cowie enjoys shooting with his camcorder, to show off. To impress the party bitches and get laid.

"Them," he asks? "Oh shit, we'll kill 'um, Jim-Jam."

It's important to point out that Spank', rather, _Spanky_, lesser known as Brandon, was even shorter than I am and nearly as stocky/swollen. Drummer at the time for the garage band Void, he and I had struck a fast friendship during my first attended block party in Cypress as I'd escaped the depression setting in in the wake of a bad breakup with one Kristie McEvilly. It began with a drinking contest and devolved to a boxing match. I'd knocked him down. No one knocked Spanky down. Second round it was MY ass hittin' the grass. Until my murder in 2003 and never again in a street fight following, no one knocked ME down. An instant mutual respect had been reached and from then on, wherever the two of us ended up at the same time it was inevitable a fight would ensue with one of us egging the other on to kick the shit out of whomever ended up on the wrong side of our shenanigans. Squid Music, a consistent venue for Void's performances, provided something even better: simultaneous team drunken boxing matches, a crowd of ever-down opponents and a slew of sluts itchin' to triple kiss on cam, cheer and get nailed at the end of the night.

I smile stupidly.

"Yeah, I know we'll kill."

"Well get 'um over!"

I'm heavily buzzing but able to hoof it on over to the duo I picked out, standing and sipping from held cans of Bud Light by a pack of parked cars around the back of the building. The two seem embroiled in a flirting session with two dirty pieces of ass Spanky, I and every other member of our group save for the soon-to-come-outta-the-closet Christian had already passed around. They eye me warily as I walk up, Nick behind me documenting it all.

"'Ey, we should boxsh. You both, me 'n my frien'."

They exchange looks of confusion.

"No thanks, man," replies one.

"We're jus' chillin' bro, it's cool," adds the other.

The girls know what's up and take a few steps back as Spanky joins me.

"Whuddup," Spank' asks the targets? "Tha's whu we DO here, doo'. You can't chill here if you don't get down. My band is playing tonigh'."

"Uhh..ok, but no, guys, what the fuck? We don't wanna fight. We got no problem with you," one wards us off with.

"For real," says the other.

Spanky laughs. "You _bitches_!"

"Don' be pussies," I poke. "These hos aren' gonna fuck you if you don' fight, am I right Amber," I query the rail thin methhead of the chick duo?

"Shut up Jimmy," Amber retorts. I laugh.

"See? Did she say no?"

Spanky starts losing his patience and approaches the two targets, shoving the one on the right in the Ambiguous shirt hard. He stumbles backward, spills his Bud Light.

Quickly the guy is back and in Spanky's face.

"What the hell man!?"

"Dude, can you control your friend? We don't wanna fight," the unscathed of the two requests.

"Shut the fuck up!" I shove the guy harder than Spanky had the other, purposely trying to one-up him.

He actually hits the ground. Moments later he's in my face.

"Fuck you motherfucker! What the fuck is your problem!?"

We got 'em.

"Go, Spank'!"

On my word, Spanky unleashes his usual flurry of rights and lefts, his opponent wrapping his arms around his own head in defense.

On my side, I make an attempt at a headbutt, my favorite opening maneuver in a fight, and miss, catching a crudely wide swung right to the left ear as my opponent backs off. I charge in and more fall into him, forcing him to the ground, than "take him down". Once he's on his back, however, it's a forgone conclusion. I smack away his defending arms with my left and pound away with my right fist.

As always, a large group gathers around to rowdily view the event.

The fight takes less than a minute before both are screaming for us to stop and, as per the rules, that's game. Applause. Spanky and I stand and, much to the suprise of our victims, extend our hands to help them to their feet.

"You guys are cool with us. No har' feelins," Spank' states.

"You took a pounding, now le's pound some beers."

Relieved the fight is over, buzzing and willing to overlook the attack, the two accept the invitation, smiling to the camera Nick clutches. Spank' claps me on the back.

"Wur off th'chain, Jim!"

"Hell yeah!"

Nothin' like kickin' ass to bring friends closer together.

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


"Kompetition Killers"







-Friday July 7 2017 EVENING-

-Caedus Castle, Naples Island, Long Beach, CA-


The white noise provided via Vanessa's soft, rhythmic rem state respiration has a knack for lulling me into the most peaceful of slumbers, the scent of her freshly showered form (hell, even that of her sticky with sweat) further pulling me down into the depths of dreamland, most especially following an hour or two of intimacy.

Normally.

Tonight I find it impossible to rest, my mind a maelstrom of musings, memories, matters past, to come and constant formulation of strategies.

Some time ago, TRAX and I had both signed on and allied up for the XWF Tag Team Tournament Gaybe Lincoln had announced, still flush from our past victory as a tag team in the Lethal Lottery Tournament that had seen our duo advance over none other than former Hart Champion Motherfucker Robbie Bourbon and heavily ridiculed XWF staple Scully.

Since then, TRAX and I had experienced a less than desirable outcome in the eight man tag pitting Ax3 against The Kings by way of a shafting from shifty-eyed shithead extraordinaire and former Meh Era Universal Champion Christine Chaos. Worse, the following week had seen me abandoned mid-match by the same sack o' hack, experiencing destruction at the hands of Doc and Raven, culminating in the cash-in of one Bruce Blingsteen to relieve me of my Uni Champ strap...for now.

As devastating as all that was, I refused to cow to the quieted voice calling it quits in the back of my mind, ironically enough, as I pressed on toward my revenge, a release of rage, upon Chaos on Warfare in Independence, Missouri for an I Quit match.

Momentum.

I need more momentum. My once nearly untarnished tally now sullied, the turn-around in life for which I've been battling so hard has been disrupted. Crushing Chris Chaos isn't enough, the pegs I've dropped require more. They require reaming of a teaming, the stinging of Blingsteen and the wresting away of the XWF Universal Title back into my capable hands.

Redemption.

And it continues in the first round of the XWF Tag Team Tournament with TRAX. The pseudo-legendary Guppy Parsh and Scully await. TRAX awaits.

I've gotta fuckin' promo.

As carefully as I can, trying ever so hard not to disturb the sleeping, nude, exotic beauty beside me on the king size slathered in silk sheets, I rise from bed, butt-naked, pulling on a pair of boxers from the dresser and a robe, I exit the room.

Perfectly set hardwood floors resist creaking as I make my way down the hallway to my studio room, customized and furnished for future promo shoots. I'm about to break it in.

It doesn't take me long to set up, I'd familiarized myself with the equipment the day I'd made the purchase. In minutes, I'm ready to shoot.

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

"Wow. Guppy motherfuckin' Parsh. Talk about a surprise entrant in the tourney, I had no idea they'd take your class clown cheeky chime in, your reminder to everyone you're still alive and "relevant", as an opt in. I mean, after your extremely disappointin' droppin' of the Trip Tag Titles rooted either in fear of Ax3 or simply bein' too fuckin' lazy (or too arrogant) to find two new partners, I, and I'm sure several others, assumed you a member of a now antiquated era, too timid to participate in the new order. And...much to my chagrin, you are. Judgin' from your adorable lil' vignettes you sure as shit ain't lookin' to make any kinda kickass comeback and I don't blame you. Your material ain't up to snuff anymore, it ain't too sharp, Parsh. Point in fact, it fuckin' sucks...and that pisses me off.

Have you any idea what your friends and colleagues have to say 'bout you backstage? I've spent the last near seven months hearin' the hype o' the hysterically hilarious Guppy Parsh and I've gotta say...at present, it's absolute horseshit. You call what you released earlier in the week, comedy? Bro...you didn't even succeed in makin' me crack a smile. The fuck? You can triumphantly troll Gabe Reno in defense of Thomas Nixon's sexuality on the promotion's official online site rumors section but you can't hit me and TRAX with somethin' semi decent? What a fuckin' letdown. Hell, even your second and third...I expected a lot more from THE G.P. You don't even talk shit, you just make the same tired jokes and metaphors 'bout and rapists that you have since purchasin' that costume and swan divinin' sanity out the second story window.

What gives, Gupp'? Takin' into consideration you've braggin' rights relatin' to roundly reamin' Uni Champs, indeed impressive, like Boss Lane (how the HELL did you beat Boss Lane, by the way?) it's only logical to assume you have the ability to bring it. Or...is THIS what you've _always_ done? This is it? This is the great Guppy gusto? Shit-" I interlace my fingers and crack all ten knuckles. "-you ain't addin' me and TRAX to that list, limpdick lipstick 'n leotard-wearin' wuss. I'll kick your fuckin' teeth down your throat and the guano gushin' outta that Batmanhole'll have more bite than you ever did, dickhead. Corny ass Cartman-Coon episode ejaculatin' loser.

If you DO talk trash, what's the problem? Is it that you're well aware of who TRAX and I are and you don't wish to give us any ammo to spin back and bludgeon you with? That's it, isn't it? You don't wanna make us, ME, angry...you know the formerly homeless Hulk'll hammer Batman into the semantic sidewalk, break you like Bane and smash your ass clean through the ring on Savage. Don't deny it...

What _I_ can't deny is that you were, and are, absolutely correct in your assumptions about your "violated consent". Take a moment to ice down your bruised bunghole while I momentarily spit nicely at you. You ARE Guppy Parsh. We very much DO want you back on the active roster, you do the XWF credit, kid. Alright, that's enough o' that, 'cause look how you've been handlin' that knowledge...pissin' and moanin'. You've had a full week to come at TRAXUS but you've squandered it waxin' weakly like the wilted warrior you now are...reminds me of the Legendary Luca settlin' for color commentary. For fucksake, I'm just now recoverin' from a major hit over hectic schedules and a massive boost in responsibilities, I was intendin' to drop two or three thrashin' promos but, as is becomin' par for the course in my life, I got bum-rushed by bad luck last night instead. I've HAD IT with this unbalanced level o' buttfuckery! If I hafta start promoing while I'm doin' EVERYTHING else I do outta the ring, goddammit, that's what I'm gonna do. If I've no choice but to drop down for multiple reps of 50 pushups when I'm at the grow site, I will...I am NOT willin' to allow myself to meltdown and miss out on the success and stature I've only STARTED suppin' on! Ain't it a BITCH that for NOW I'm stuck lookin' like a fuckin' LIAR, Doc callin' me a fuck up (I'm gonna jam those words up your geriatric asshole for that, Dic, don't you doubt it), with ONE chance to save face for this war of words and guess what? I. Ain't. Givin'. Up. Gupp'. I REFUSE to let the likes o' you and that TRUE fuck up Scully scoot me off to the showers. Fuck havin' one shot at this, I'm STILL bringin' it better than the two o' you eunuchs and by crunchy crispy cracker crust Christ, TRAX and I are gonna beat the bejeezus outta you bitches in the ring like our lives depend on it, leavin' you both to phone whatever hairy hole it is you slide into at home sayin', "You were right baby, it's over. I'm a pussy; I got plucked, fucked and shut the fuck down. I got raped."

Speakin' o' penetration without approval... You've got a raw spot for rapists, Batbitch? Will that get you gung ho? Well here I am, the roster's resident rectal ripper. The cornholin' Comedian jizzin' Ms. Jupiter into Silk Spectre's snatch. The man who's gonna bend you over, spread your batcheeks and chisel 'is name, WITH handle, on the inner linin' o' your anus with 'is cock- and Guppy, I ain't abbreviatin' the "Big Dick Daddy", you're takin' it viciously verbatim. You earned it. Sneaky schemin' spineless sack o' shit snake...

I know you thought your cowardice would pay off, pissant. I know it was in alignment with your strategy here; that bein': bombard the XWF airwaves and opponents with footage o' you skippin' around in your Dark Knight tights, flingin' half-false flattery, playin' to our "egos", tryin' to throw us off-balance with your severe lack o' linguistic lashing then surprise us in the ring with wholly opposite opposition. Tryin' to perplex us gets the Wrexus Plexus, it's a punkass strat, jag-off. It deserves a deadline dickin'. You got no figurative balls and you're lucky I haven't been able to speak before now. You _literally_ won't have a set once I've ground your sac into the mat with the heel o' my boot, Bruce Gayne, grapes popped like pin-stickin' your putrifyin' methane-bloated Batcorpse, showerin' in the viscous visceral detonation. Gold-brickin' sumbitch.

I love how you brought Nixon into it, B-T-W. That's right, , "psych me out" usin' a friend as opposition like T-Nix has been my B-F-F for seven months and _not_ essentially ignorin' me in public the majority o' the time. As if 'is appearance ain't a clear indication 'e ain't been a bud for real to begin with and I'll be so deeply distraught over that epiphany. What a brilliant ploy, pussy, I'm ever so sunk 'n jealous. No, not Nixon. No. Stop. Please. Stop.

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I wouldn't give a shit if _Main and Graves_ burst out of a cake in cameo, costumed cocksucker, you can't faze me with that textbook mindgame jackassery, it's a fuckin' insult and now...I have no choice but to kill a caped crusader. I thought I was gonna be gettin' Christian Bale Bat trilogy outta you...you and Scully ain't shit but that miscarriaged Clooney and O'Donnell debacle. And while I'm on the subject of Scullmeister...

That soft-touch strategy becomes ever so obvious with YOUR very un-Scully addition to the donnybrookin', bitch-made Brummie motherfucker. Think I don't recall how you came at me in the Lottery, limey, with that stupid ass autistic-acoustic assault (your remedial rendition o' Jimmy Cracked Corn)? You had subpar pokes 'n parries for days, dick, so W-T-F with the weakass words _this_ match? Danny Imperial last in line to teach you a lesson, is that it? Did he permanently push you off your game? Douchebag ain't even here anymore, is he? And you're cryin' your cunny juice out over _him_? Whinin' about Danny, whinin' about Dolly... When exactly you gonna stop pitchin' a bitch? Kick rocks if you can't handle clean and swerved defeats, dipshit, I just suffered three major losses in a row, culminatin' with the loss of my Universal Championship, shithead, you hear me servin' up a piss party, poof?

But, no, of _course_ this ain't about all that, is it? I mean, YES, you WERE sobbin' 'bout gettin' your colon kicked around...but the sudden drawin' in o' your already itty bitty dick, like an infant on ice, ain't due to defeat. You're fappin' out that flacid fuckstickery because Batshit told you to, ya twat tool. What a nutless slave you are, it's pathetic. "Uh, yessuh massa Gayne, I's gon' do whateva y'all tell me to do, mhm. Wan' me lick yuh balls fo' yuh, suh? Toss yuh salad?" If you're playin' the part, punk, do me a favor and wipe my ass with one o' those warm, wet towels once I've finished shittin' on your shenanigans.

You and Gupp' seem a bit butthurt over TRAX aptly labelin' you light work. Can you blame 'im? Look how you two present yourselves, it's ludicrous. And what were your words exactly, Scull'?

"Fuck Trax with Gilmours!"

Fuck TRAX with Gilmour's......_what_ exactly? No, fuck that, I know goddamn well what you were incoherently ekin' out, idiot, but the fact you COULDN'T cough up a completed crack to the jaw from the GET-GO should show you EXACTLY why your current standing with the company is little more than a runnin' gag, ya soused simpleton.

You claim the XWF is a scandal. Go fuck yourself with Gilly's dick, dumbass, how the hell is the XWF a scandal?

"People like me who work hard, receive shit. That's what I got, a big pile of shit! I earnt my way to success, when all the doubters were against me, I prevailed. I entered a gauntlet with crap odds and I won it. I defeated Gilly and Soldier in a triple threat to book my place against Loverboy Vinnie Lane.. I beat him to become the XWF Universal Champion... That was this time last year... Now I just get screwed over."

Ok, first of all, asshat, "hard work" isn't defined by disappearin' and reappearin' after a free for all loss announcin' your retirement, that kinda crap cuts your credibility to zilch. And exactly how many cards were you optin' into leadin' up to the Lottery, loser? I was on every Savage and Warfare leadin' up to and DURIN' the damn thing...THAT'S workin' hard, half-ass. Second, no matter what you put into a match it doesn't mean your opponent(s) are gonna lie down for a pin. Where'd that attitude of entitlement come from, ? The fuck you think we're here for, fluffin' you and your career? We're ALL here to win, we ALL suffer defeat...and if you happen to be bested by the competition, you don't bitch (unless you're Chaos or Bx3), you don't run away and you definitely don't QUIT. You dust yourself off and try again like Aaliyah said. Third, XWF ain't no scandal, scumbag. Watch your fuckin' mouth talkin' about my home or I'll rip that tongue out and toss my own salad with it before sewin' it back on so you can tell me what my ass tastes like. Last...you beat Soldier? _Really_...Unknown Soldier? And you can't find the balls to bring it to TRAXUS? Hell's the matter with you? Maybe you SHOULD leave. FYI...I don't give a shit WHAT you think woulda happened had Dolly not gotten involved, I told you before like I'll tell you again, this isn't just the XWF it's professional wrestling. More motherfuckers have kicked outta apparently inevitable pins an instant before the three than can be counted, cunt, and I'm one of 'em. I built my ongoin' legacy on upsets so who are you tryin' to convince, yourself? Hey...anytime you wanna go one-on-one we'll see who the better man is. I'll crack your cranium and bash your brains so fuckin' hard you'll involuntarily drop your accent.

Slam all the bullshit, gimmicky geek gayrod "superhero stew" you can muster, moron, maybe it'll allow you to actually walk away under your own power like pcp after TRAX and I give you another match outcome to complain about. Better yet, fill that syringe up with bleach and slam THAT, the effect would make the most entertainin' vignette YOU'VE ever released, hands down. The fuck's all that about anyway? I'll tell you right now, you no-nut numbskulls magically acquire and unleash superpowers in the ring, the homie TRAX is gonna hafta burn the both o' you down with his own expertly handled abilities himself. As for me, I don't need powers, I've got enough natural genetic and seasoned ability to kill superfreaks and stars alike. Don't believe me? See what happens, hacks.

Fuck two twats that think they're gonna shit out a victory with weak words and dubious skills. Fuck Batshit and bobbin'-on-his-rod Robin. I'm Jim Caedus, my tag partner is Carlos TRAX Johnson. Together we've proven good enough to erase, to kill the competition...and we will again tomorrow night. This ain't a joke to TRAXUS, we ain't whinin' 'bout a bout, we WANTED to take on this tourney, our sights set on tearin' tag titles from the hands o' The Kings. We're here for a FIGHT, fuck-ups. Beyond a tag battle, as far as I, The Star Killer, am concerned...as much as my enemies wish it weren't the case... Caedus. Is. Back."
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