::I accept my triple stack yellow alligator, crunch it once between my molars into much smaller fragments and swallow it against the advice of halving it given to me by my 3 years younger cousin, Jeff.

We wait, along with the 7 other guys and gals in attendance for it to kick in. These are all newly Cypress High School alumni, all Jeff's friends. The only reason I'm here is because a month prior I'd suffered a bad breakup with one Kristy McEvilly and had needed to escape. At the first block party I'd been the only one old enough to buy alcohol and had been recognized by a few wrestling fans among the kids; it'd sealed my inclusion in the group from then on. At this point I can only remember the names in attendance to be my cousin Jeff, the Shannon who'd adowably stwuggled with hew awes, her unbelievably hot, spoiled rich, 5' 10" 120 lb, small C-cup, bubble-assed, doe-eyed, long tightly-curled hair brunette bff Kim, some other chick who would cause problems later and 4 dudes I'd never seen before or after. Kim had extended the invitation, much to my delight. She liked my muscles. Tee. Hee.

The year is 2001. The city is Cypress, CA. The month, time and hotel I simply cannot recall.

Some guy named Chavo (no, really) shows up from a second party, seemingly extended from the same class of alumnae elsewhere in the hotel, chugging a tall can and asking if anyone can feel it yet. He says he took his double stack 20 minutes ago. Several in the room warn him he'll get sick combining beer and E. On cue Chavo launches a thick stream of projectile vomit onto the wall next to where I'm leaning against. He quickly turns his head aiming it away from me, painting the wall in the process. Somehow I remain untouched so Chavo does too. Needless to say, he's booted back to his own party.

Roughly 40 minutes later, I'm in heaven rolling balls to Jesus Jeff's glow stick show, each stab and swirl superlatively executed in unison to the thumping bass of some beautifully crafted techno version of an ever-elusive yet always familiar-to-memory classical orchestrated piece I've never been able to successfully pin down and locate on any search engine.

At some point, when the majority has tired of dark room glow shows, we flick the lights back on, retire and split into small groups with ultra loving conversations while chewing on pacifiers.

Shortly thereafter the other chick I'd mentioned without a name has some sort of overly-dramatized "bad roll", sits up on the dresser, has each of us guys stand before her in succession with our noses touching hers so she can stare into our eyes to weirdly choose one of us to hook up with (though she'd claimed it calmed her down) while Shannon and Kim look on. The chick has me and one of the other dudes return for a second tie breaking stare, she chooses him, I don't care, she's annoying as fuck. She and he disappear, never to return. Two other guys depart for the second party followed by the final unnamed douche where they all most likely arrived at what must've been one huge bummer of a hetero sausage fest.

Shannon and Jeff, having hooked up in high school, split off leaving Kim and I to talk. She starts to cry over the fact that all us guys were giving that bitch attention and how she always did that. It never occurs to me how bizarre it is that her emotions have been elevated FAR above "normal" because mine have too and I immediately console her, sincerely concerned and empathetic. Her nose starts to run so I walk her into the bathroom for a kleenex.

We end up kissing for what seems in my memory to have been quite awhile. Jr. High bullshit, sucking face for thirty minutes or so, groping tits and ass. With Kim, it was amazing, I was already in love. She unzips my shin length baggy denim shorts and pulls me out at alarmingly-to-me only half chub. Later I'd discuss with Jeff and confirm that with amphetamine comes one of two involuntary sexual responses:

A. An unbelievable hard-on lasting for hours

or

B. A narcotic version of "whiskey dick" in which you're either trying to will your johnson to achieve full wood in futility or you're completely, and ironically, boned with no blood flow at all.

Kim is familiar with the phenomenon already and doesn't flinch before kneeling to spend the next 10 to 15 minutes getting me to pop one for her to swallow. My fetish. I'm definitely in love.

I return the favor gladly, proudly, having honed that particular talent starting with Heather and continuing with each next in line. She gives me a dose of my own medicine as she too attempts to get off amidst the euphoric waves of pure happiness and levels of numbness throughout her body. It takes probably 20 to 30 minutes (I still enjoy every second despite an incredibly tired tongue beginning somewhere in the first few minutes as numb and happy as _I_ am) as well as my right index and middle fingers, but Kim cums lifting her ass off the counter, quivering and mashing herself into my face. I'm absolutely I love.

I wash my face around my mouth as she walks back out into the room. By the time I join, Shannon and Jeff are lying together on the furthest of the two beds. Kim is lying on the closest and tells me to snuggle. I turn off the lights and spoon behind her.

We all remain that way in silence until falling asleep for the crash.

That...that was the moment I'd decided drugs were amazing. That's how it all began.

E would prove to be an extremely addictive substance that was extremely hard to get on a whim, at least back then, so the following day Jeff and I were joining our closest friend Ryan Olsen's girlfriend Michelle to snag some meth.

It began (and stuck with _them_) with lines snorted from CD case surfaces and grinding crystal into powder for bullets by the beach down in "Thousand Steps".

The good feeling inherent in E was present with meth and didn't include the effects of the narcotic cocktail E also possessed. Kim and I would end up finally fucking several times in sweaty, sexually charged, sprak-fueled fury but she ultimately chose another über rich kid like herself as a boyfriend and I would ultimately end up back in Long Beach kicking off a near two year binge during my lengthening gaps in being an active roster member for my, at that time, wrestling promotion...::
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~



"Narco-Neanderthal" Part 1 of 2
(continued from "Declining An Offer I Can't Refuse")



It's Sunday evening and my annoyance in having to stop and go in accordance with Zirado's unbelievably irritating church van has found me pulled into a rest stop area seeking an avenue through which to vent my rage. I'd catch up with the Cadryn clique later.

As I sat waiting, reminiscing, reviewing both my partner Buronan's and NOC's back and forth promos it had become apparent that I, Jim Caedus, was not as smart as I'd always thought myself to be. In a roomful of my kind with my background in darkness I knew I led the pack in brainpower...but as pertains to politics, general collegiate knowledge and even popular culture, I was an insect among giants in the XWF at least where many were concerned. It was a humbling epiphany to say the least.

At first I'd theorized that my lack of college education, my brain injury and my simultaneous lack of television and avoidance of social networking and pop culture to be the likely culprits but as I'd pressed further I knew it had been drugs and alcohol that had done me just as dirty as the rest. If I'd never raised my hand to Heather, if I'd refused to allow the massive blow to my self esteem to do anything more than roll off my back, if I'd kicked myself in the ass and gotten my head straight, I never would've thought my own life so unimportant as to allow, invite and finally force heavy substance abuse upon it. Instead...I'd drank, snorted, slammed, swallowed and smoked my brain to arrested development, stuck forever in my early 20s. I'd never grow up.. One aspect as an 80s baby that I shared with NOC, Zero and their "old skool" Gen X crowd.

'You should talk about it in promo. Owning yourself, by no Gen Y definition, and owning up are what you do best...besides brutally via verbally gutting your opponents of course.'

Agreed.

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

"It's a hard thing for a man to admit his shortcomings. A hard thing...

NOC, as the mouthpiece for your rookie of a client you've been guilty thus far of-" I raise my right fist and count down on my fingers in frame. "-trying to throw me off my game by pushing my hot button of being homeless, insulting me by defining me with your own personal ideas of what a 'rookie' is, attempting to _bribe_ me and finally 'hitting' me with your last promo intending to, what, overlook me, ignore me, try to make me look stupid?" I ball my four fingers back into a fist, my knuckles cracking. "You don't need to _try_, NOC. By comparison, in many ways, you do indeed eclipse me in intelligence, as does my partner in Buronan and most likely YOUR partner in Shaun Crowe. Yes, that makes me the dullard of this donnybrook and the Narco-Neanderthal in the match. Am I shaken to my core at this realization? Hardly. Am I angry as fuck that you were the one to LEAD me to this conclusion? Oh you better fuckin' believe it. As 'much' as you've 'done' in 'pursuit' of victory for your client in round 2 of the Lethal Lottery, you haven't been doing a very good job of pissing me off and it's been, well...pissing me off, as oxymoronic as that sounds. And now, as much as I thank you for showing me the pull chain to shine a light on my own dipshittery, you've successfully given my rage a rude awakening and I'm going to have to kill your client, sending you back to the buttfucking bath houses from whence you came to scout out the next new NOTHING you can lead off the lemming cliff into obscurity.

I thought I'd been so clever, leaving little traps here and there in my promos for you to pounce on, giving you the opportunity to TRULY get me riled up. You skipped over the few in my first. You ignored those among my second...even my calling an outclassed member of the 'competition' by the wrong name. Now I know all I did was make MYSELF look foolish. You ignored them because you knew you and your friends, your client...you're all smarter than I am and EXPECT me to look stupid. Well played, cocksucker, well played. Here's the catch though...I don't NEED to be the book-and-pop-smarter man in THIS matchup or any other. All I need to be is ME. Being me is what's kept me rolling at high speed on all cylinders. Being me is what's led me to such a successful outing in such a short span of time here. Being me is what has nabbed me the PRESTIGIOUS XWF Television and Federweight Titles. Being me is what's going to help Buronan and I advance to round 3 and lead me on personally to even greater accolades in this fine company. Being me...is too much me for men like you and your rook in Zero to handle.

I've got all the smarts I need, earned from the cringe worthy cliché term of 'the school of hard knocks'. It's now gonna be my Xtreme pleasure to enroll you in the 'new skool of fuck NOC'. Don't bother bringing an apple for the teacher, I've a mind to tear out yours, of the Adam's variety, stick my rock hard one-eye-to-the-sky in the hole and maintain that stiff upper prick for proper fucking until I've pumped that massive inviso melon of yours full of the sweet and salty semen of this salty homeless demon."

'Being invisible...does that mean people would finally see him _coming_ as a gooey wad of nut floatin' around in mid-air? ...Cool!'

"Xtreme Rookie Zero will unfortunately follow suit and before the thought ever crosses Crowe's mind, should he show, of reaching out for that tag and saving his partner from certain erasure, the deed will be done and I'll have educated your client on the definition of Katabasis. Buronan may claim to be riding my coattails to victory but I know he's savvy and skillful enough to pick up any slack I may incur and return or keep our sacs swingin' with momentum.

I'm tired of your look-how-clever-I-am metaphors and inside jokes, NOC. I'm tired of your adamant refusal to let go of the same silly shit premise and concepts that have attained your client Zero a big fat fucking ZERO in the XWF. I'm tired of your gimmickry and snippet promos. Most of all...I'm tired of you, NOC and quite honestly I've had it up to here with your bitchass. Hero? Never our god...Never Our Champion. Period. Fuck NOC and fuck Hero. I'm Jim Caedus, you know...YOUR God of Reality. Now get on your motherfucking knees and bow down in reverence, rookie. Worship. Pray. Die."
XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

'Hey...you just received a text from Buronan. Care to make a side trip to his base of operations? Like you mused before, you know where the Cady Clique is goin.'

I think, yes, it's time Buronan and I met face to face...

TBC