I awake in a haze, a none-to-uncommon occurrence for me, but this was different. I fiercely ache, my vision is blurry and distorted, my lungs are on fire. My memories are jumbled fragments, racing around my skull as I attempt to remember the bridge between lying on the cold ground and waking to this physical misery. The only piece that remains static enough to interpret is the flooding of the room by a blue mist that invaded my lungs. I felt the blood erupting from my sternum, I could taste it on my tongue and barely held back by my lips. My eyelids grow heavy and my head bounces off the cement.


And now here I am.


My vision is still blurry but I catch a glimpse of a small silver tube in front of me. I slam my eyelids shut several times, each time my vision becomes slightly less clouded and the object slowly comes into focus. I crawl towards the metal tray that holds the small tube. My arms can barely support my weight, but they begin moving more quickly the closer I get. When I get within arm's reach, my neck suddenly snaps back. My hands instinctively reach for my neck and I feel a thick leather strap digging into my flesh. I frantically claw around the strap until my hands grasp a thick, steel chain. I immediately flip around and follow the chain which is affixed to the wall by a thick steel plate. I tug at the chain in a vain attempt to pull it from the wall, but it doesn't budge. I pull and I pull, as tears form in my eyes. But still, the chain doesn't budge. Disgusted, I throw the chain to the side and collapse on the floor, my jaw clenched as I fight to hold back tears. At the very moment I begin to break down, I remember the tube behind me. In one fluid motion I turn and lunge forward, pawing at the tray. I barely mange to get a fingertip on the tray, but I'm able to pull it in closer. Next to the tube is a folded yellow note. I grab it and unfold it, revealing the message 'You know how to make it stop.'

Make what stop?

I grab the tube and pull off the cap. Lipstick.

"Not happening."

I throw the tube of lipstick down at my feet and crumple up the note, tossing it as far as I can.

Suddenly, the screen in the corner of the room lights up, the light is blinding and the volume is deafening. I look up to see a familiar and unwelcome face: Jim Caedus. I look away and cover my ears, but it does no good, the sound of his latest oral abortion is piercing. His flaccid and poorly constructed sentences insult my intellect and the piercing volume is an assault on my eardrums. My hands clasp tightly over my ears as I rock back and forth, impatiently waiting for the end of this cretin's string of intellectually devoid words. Finally, to the mercy of everyone with the misfortune of viewing this garbage, his words end and he disappears from the screen. I let out a sigh of relief as I drop my hands, just in time for his face to pop back up on the screen. The same video begins to air, but this time it's somehow even louder.

"No. No fucking way."

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76 times. They've played it 76 times.

My eyes are swollen from the tears, my voice is horse from the screams.

They won't stop it. I've yelled, I've screamed, I've scratched, I've clawed. They won't stop that goddamn video.

I don't even bother covering my ears at this point. Each time I think the volume couldn't possibly get louder, yet each time I'm wrong. At this point I'm equally as concerned about irreparable hearing loss as I am my rapidly dying brain cells. Each viewing has shown me a new wrinkle to this malfunctioning manchild's molecular misalignment. Oh God, it's starting already.

The first viewing showed me the depths of his narcissism. He thinks he's the 'competition' that drew me out? I believe I proved that to be false when I wrapped by arms around his throat and watched the blood vessels in his forehead engorge as I choked away his utterly unremarkable title reign. Never have I seen more indifference than the day that Jim Caedus became the world champion. Eyes rolled and shoulders shrugged because the XWF lockerroom knew that they were entering a period where the face of the XWF was one of the most boring caricatures to have ever stepped foot in the door. The only thing he's capable of competing with is a white noise machine, to see which can more quickly cause heavy eyelids and uncontrollable yawning.

The twenty-third viewing showed me the definition of hypocrisy. He continues to bitch and whine about being cashed in on, forgetting that it was the only way he could ever beat Gabe Reno for the title. He continually tosses the word 'troll' at me, ignoring the fact that when I came back it was Caedus popping his head into every conversation and annoying the shit out of the entire roster. All I did was show up and show him up. He couldn't handle it, just like Reno couldn't. It took me less than a day to verbally castrate the stray dog and have him limping off with his tail between his legs. He could only muster the courage to peek his head out once in a great while, hoping I wouldn't notice, and as soon as I did he disappeared back into the shadows in fear of another verbal ass whooping.

The fortieth viewing showed me just how full of shit he is, claiming he would disembowel me. This coming from the same man who makes sad faces on the internet about cartoon shows. Awwwww--real fuckin' tough, guy.

I started to lose track of all the brainless rambling. He accused me of wanting to escape the steel cage match, as if I'm not supposed to go into the match with the intent to win? Does he expect me to beat him down and then have a seat with a glass of Kombucha and thumb through the pages of The New Yorker while he lays prone on the mat and realizes that all of the disjointed, halfhearted insults in the world couldn't save him from an ass beating, face-to-face?

There is one inescapable truth when it comes to Jim Caedus: He's fucking lazy. This is a man who dug through years of XWF footage to look up the Brick Squad, an act I haven't been associated with in years, only to botch it by claiming that Gator was a member of the group. If he's going to do his homework, he might as well do it right. He watches the leaked footage from my unlawful incarceration where it's revealed to the world that I'm a woman masquerading as a man, and what does he do? Proceeds to call me by my birth name yet flings around words like 'saclessly' and 'testosteroneless.' Aside from the stretch-marked penny whores that he has to barter with his SNAP card with, all women have a bit of a sack and testosterone deficiency. But he's too lazy to switch it up, he can't do anything new or inventive, he has to stick with calling me a queer and butchering the English language like those Thai ladyboys who tie his beard around their cocks and fuck the rat's nest until they explode into his more than willing mouth. See? I can do it too. He wants to talk about worthiness and being a warrior, yet look at the effort he put into his match against Doc and James Raven? He wanted to blame his partner for the loss but if anyone with a triple digit IQ watched the same match, they would've seen that Caedus got his ass kicked from pillar-to-post and he cost his team the win. He knew he was matched up against two superior talents so he threw in the towel early. And yet he's supposed to be some righteous hero? I never claimed to be one, I don't care to be one.

But, he's lazy. He's been caught with his hand in the cookie jar and instead of trying to stealthily retrieve it and make an excuse for himself, he's frozen in fear. He's caught, he knows he's in trouble, but he can't stop himself from spinning his tires and stammering, rehashing the same ol' bullshit that he trots out against every single other opponent he's had. It didn't work for Trax, it didn't work for the Kings, it didn't work Raven and Doc, it sure as fuck isn't going to work on me.

The 76th viewing has taught me the most important thing so far:

Jim Caedus doesn't have a prayer.

My jaw is clenched and I can feel my teeth grinding. The room doesn't bother me, the strap and chain don't bother me, even that hideous face isn't bothering me...

But the words. They won't stop. They're so loud.

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30 more. 30. Fucking. More.

I'm on the ground, the lipstick tube protruding from my shaking hands. The light shade of pink is smeared all over my face. Tears are streaming down my face as I silently weep and desperately apply coat after coat of the demeaning beauty product. I just want it to stop.

"Stop! Please! ...I did it! I did it! Just make it stop!

And finally, it stops.

An uncontrollable shriek escapes my mouth as I begin to sob. I hold the lipstick up to the door with a twisted smile on smeared, pink lips.

"Are you fucking happy now!? LET ME GO!"

I throw the half-used tube at the door and retreat into the fetal position, my chest heaves violently with each sob. I feel dehumanized and broken. I couldn't move.





"Lunchtimeeeeeeeeeeee"

My head shot up as the familiar voice called out to me from within my room. There was a woman in a torn blue dress with smeared makeup and unkempt hair, standing at the entrance of my room with a half eaten banana and a moldy bologna sandwich. She skipped toward me with a mischievous grin, and stopped just short of my crumpled body. She held out the disgusting sandwich, shaking it a bit to entice me.

"You better eat it, who knows when you'll get another chance."

She didn't have to tell me twice. I snatched the sandwich from her hands and ate the entire thing in three bites. It tasted awful but I was starving. I tried my best to keep it down but no sooner did I get the entire thing down did it come right back up, all over the dirty pajamas that clung to my filthy body.

"Puker huh? Hope you don't mind the smell because this resort's laundry services leave a little to be desired. That's why I only gave it three stars on Yelp. You know, that and the whole forced imprisonment thing but that's neither here nor there. Hi! I'm Rebecca and I am your roommate slash co-captive slash welcoming committee. Unfortunately I couldn't sneak in your welcome basket but I assure you it had a selection of gourmet cheeses and a bottle of the finest Cabernet."

"Who--Who are you?"

"REBECCA HELLOOOOO! ARE YOU DEAF LITTLE PUKEY GIRL!?" Her goddamned shrill voice was almost as loud as the television, I could almost feel the blood ready to pour from my eardrums.

"I fucking heard you. Where are we?" The prospect of finally getting some kind of answers excited me enough to rise to my knees and stare at her like a wide-eyed fawn.

"The Ritz-Carlton! Didn't the posh decor give it away?"

"Where. Are. We?"

"Oh I dunno...Rancho Cucamonga? Such a fun name to say, try it! Ran-choooo--" She leans in, playfully. Big mistake.

I wrap the chain around her neck and drag her down to the ground next to me. She has a big personality but she's twig-thin and no match for me physically. I mount her with the chain wrapped around her neck, but her calm demeanor startles me. She simply looks up at me with a smile and a wink.

"Ooh baby, I do love it when they're forward. Why don't you give mama some--" The tightening of the chain finally shuts her up as she squirms against the pressure. "Okay! Uncle! Uncle!"

"Why have you brought me here?"

"Oh honey, do I really look like the cloak and dagger type to you? I'm stuck in here, same as you. Well, not exactly the same but pretty close."

"What are we doing here?"

"We, my dear, are a valuable commodity. Strong independent women who happen to have our hymens intact."

"What?"

"Here pull down your pants, I'll show you." She says with a wink.

"I know what you fucking mean. We're sex slaves?"

"Hmmmmmm. Nah. We're slave-slaves that come with a deflowering fetish at no extra charge! Billy Mays would be so proud. Although to be honest I think I'd rather be packaged with a slap-chop but hey, I'm not in R&D."

"I'm nobodies fucking slave."

"No? Then why exactly do you look like a bottle of Pepto Bismol?" She sticks a finger out to point out the lipstick I have covering my face, I slap it away in disgust.

"It's how they get you, you know. They break you. You can be badass, tough-as-nails psycho chick one day, and the next you're a barefoot, muffin-making trophy wife for some pimply nerd that works in IT. These guys, they pay a purdy penny to get us to do whatever they want. Gotta give credit where it's due, the dweebs in lab coats that run this freakshow are prettttty damn good at getting us to mope around like zombies." She sticks her arms out and mockingly moans like the living dead."

"How do we get out?"

"Well I've been here for almost 6 years so I'm probably not the best person to ask. Dr. Ira is usually pretty helpful, why dontcha ask him? HEY IRA!" She yells out. I quickly stick my hand over her mouth.

"Are you fucking crazy?"

"A little" she mumbles through my hand.

"I'm getting out of this fucking place, and you're going to help me."

I unwrap the chain from her neck and unmount her. She sits up and rubs the red line on her neck where the chain was pressed against her skin.








"Oh, they're gonna love breaking you."

Current Universal Champion
(1x) X-Treme Champion