HCA Florida Mercy Hospital
Thursday, April 1st, 2021
11:27 am

I felt the plain white protective sheet under me crinkle and rustle out loud. The examination room was plain, yet very familiar. It’s a place I’ve visited numerous times over the last five years. I felt like hospitals had become my second home. All the things I used to do before I was forced to retire from professional wrestling were gone. All the people I used to connect with or once called friends had become strangers. 

However, here I sat on this standard examination table with my line of vision stuck on my feet below me. There was nothing special about my feet or the shoes that I had on at the moment. They were the same shoes that I pretty much wore no matter where I was going or what I was doing. Regardless, I keep myself fixated on them and studied every single detail of them like they were a newly discovered ancient treasure. Glaring down at my shoes was boring, but it was also safe. Keeping my eyes on them didn’t have any unpleasant surprises. They were shoes, they were comfortable, and that was all there was to it.

The sound of my shoe tapping against the floor beneath me cut through the painstaking silence stuck to the walls of the room.
 
Raising my head into the air? Looking up from my feet and the plain white floor? That was much riskier than looking down at my shoes while acting like I was intoxicated and unable to hold my own head up. 

My foot started tapping a little faster.

Looking up meant facing and hearing the news that I might not want to hear.

“So...?” I asked in an even, yet nervous tone.

The simple question hung in the air like a deep three-pointer taken at the buzzer, stuck in the air in slow motion. I didn’t dare look up and face him, or anything else in the room. If I ignored everything and focused on the floor, then bad news couldn’t get to me.

At least, that’s why I tried to tell myself.

But every passing second without a response made my anxiety convulse inside of me. It made the knot in my stomach tighten and do back flips like it was the floor routine at the Summer Olympics. 

The foot started tapping a little bit harder now.

“Well…” The other voice inside the room began. I felt my body tense up and my breath got caught in my throat. “I’m certainly not surprised.”

Not surprised? Not surprised by what? Was that good news or bad news? Why, in a situation like this, did he choose to be fucking vague?!

“That doesn’t tell me anything, Doc.” I grumbled with anger in my voice. 

There wasn’t a verbal response. Just the sound of a metal chair being slid across the floor. I caught him rising to his feet out of the corner of my eye. Curiosity got the better of me and I glanced up momentarily to see him standing there. He was holding a folder in his hands and looking down at what happened to be x-ray images.

More dreadful silence screamed into my ears before he closed the folder, and then I felt his eyes probe in my direction.

“Are you sure that you even want to go back to doing this?” There was concern in his voice along with a hint of skepticism. 

It was clear he wondered about my mental state given how he asked the question. I kept my head down, but my voice was sharp and deadly.

“My mind is made up, I am not changing it. So, for the love of God, stop trying.” I announced with a bit of defiance. These were words I said to this man many times over the last few years. They had become involuntary answers at this point, triggered by his ‘I’m right and you’re not smart’ attitude.

I heard the sounds of him pulling a pair of Latex gloves onto his hands. I watched as he stepped closer to me and then my body became rigid at the feel of his touch on my neck.

“Seems counterproductive, in my opinion.” He said nonchalantly as his hand poked and prodded at my neck.

I bit my tongue. I didn’t ask for or need his opinion on my decision. I needed his opinion on my condition. I exhaled through my nostrils and spoke up again.

“What is the verdict?” It was more of a demand than a question.

He took a few steps back and pulled off the gloves from his hands. He tossed them into a nearby trash can and then I heard him hum to himself. Something normal for him as he thought about how to proceed. The noise just made me try to drown it out with the sound of my foot tapping feverishly on the floor.

“I can’t.” He answered in a flat tone. “Your neck has gotten worse more than it’s gotten better. I can’t in good conscience allow you to go back.”
 
The words shattered me like a baseball crashing through a glass window. My heart sank to my feet and the knot in my throat threatened to choke out what little life was left in my body after that bombshell. I closed my eyes and tried to control my breathing. I squeezed my eyelids together as tight as I could to keep the tears from revealing my vulnerability. The foot gave me away. It had a mind of its own at this point. It was the heartbeat of my anxiety coming to life.

“APRIL FOOLS!” He shouted at the top of his lungs.

My eyes bolted open as wide as saucers. I snapped my head to attention looking at him for the first time today. His hands raised high into the air and a shit-eating grin plastered on his face. He was amused by his humor, but I didn’t want to laugh. I wanted to murder him where he stood, but I kept repeating in my head that I needed him if I was going to get what I wanted.

“Just a little doctor humor.” He said in a passive-aggressive manner. The dude makes six figures a year but gets butthurt that he didn’t get a pity chuckle. “As far as I can tell, your neck has fused properly and all the rehab along with the work you’ve done has paid off nicely.”

“How long do you think I have?” I asked one of the questions I feared the most.

“In my professional opinion?” He once again started to hum out loud before continuing. “About three or four years, depending on how well you keep your neck protected and decide not to do something crazy.”

“So, I can?” I tried not to show my excitement until I got solid confirmation but the foot had no such plans of hiding my emotions.

“Yes.” He replied as he pulled a notepad out of his white lab coat pocket. “You’re cleared to return to active competition.” 

This was the day my life had begun all over again. Five long years of my life were taken away from me due to being thrown off of a 20-foot-high steel structure. To go crashing through the announcer’s table below while holding onto my then-wife. Just to protect her from taking all the damage.

After the cheating

The lies about the child being mine.

The divorce. 

The struggles with depression, addiction to painkillers, and alcohol. 

After hours upon hours of fighting to get myself to the point of hearing this good news, it was all worth it. I got to be a professional wrestler once again. But I didn’t want to be the same Jace Parker Davidson that I was before. 

I wanted to be better than before. I wanted everything I deserved, and more, which slipped through my fingers five years ago. This was the first step to greatness. The first step in proving this so-called expert wrong. 3 or 4 years? I was going to keep going until I died inside a wrestling ring doing what I loved. 

Being the most dominant force on two legs that this sport has ever seen. 

One solid stomp on the floor sealed it. 

I can still do this, I can still be as dominant as ever.

Long live the King of Everything.

-----

Motherfucker, you’re an impatient little bitch, aren’t you?

All of this crying and whining on Twitter about how I ‘chased you down’ or been ‘humping your leg’ for this match for years now. Dude, I’ve been away from wrestling for five long years and I waited all that time, and then the extra years that I’ve been back, to step into a one-on-one match against you.

You can wait a few weeks before you get my IMMEDIATE response to that verbal diarrhea you called a promo. 

I’ve been busy, really fucking busy. I ended 2022 with three Championship belts. I walked into Uprising and made two of their last three World Champions leave the company after a single boot to the back of the skull. I just defended one of my titles in a Lethal Lottery event. Meaning, I didn’t know who my opponent was until I walked out to the ring. I had my mystery opponent, the number #1 contender to my title at the next PPV as the referee, and a Steel Cage all to deal with. But still, I walked out there with my title belt still in my possession. I know you just recently won a belt again, so I don’t expect you to understand fully. 

Let me break it down, so that even you can comprehend it.

Three titles at once - Done.

Molly Hatchet - Beaten.

Griffin Hawkins - Made him pee his pants and ask for a hiatus.

Justin York - Beaten and embarrassed.

A handicap match situation in a Steel Cage for my title - Conquered.

Does this have to do with 2016? Yes, but it’s also got to do with so much more. I joined 4CW and was declared captain of team 4CW against HOW. I put on an ESPY-worthy performance and would have won War Games back-to-back years. If not for the fact that you got jealous and used every excuse in the book to screw me and our team out of that win. Back then? I was good, real good. I considered myself among some of the best out there, but at the time? The best out there had your name on that shortlist. Jason Cashe was a name to be feared and respected.

Things have changed on that front, dramatically. 

The Jason Cashe of the past was a man that only cared about fighting. He didn’t care who it was, where it was, or any kind of insignificant bullshit like that. Jason Cashe was a Hall of Famer and the Gatekeeper of 4CW. A federation that even though it had a horrible reputation, had one of the best rosters out there. 

It was one of the so-called ‘Big Three’ federations for a reason. 

After I broke my neck in 2016, I don’t know what to fuck happened that turned the Jason Cashe that took no prisoners into this marshmallow-soft motherfucker that we see today.

I came to you directly for a fight. Not just some wrestling match where I can just show I know more moves than you. I came to you for a fight that’s right up your alley, on your terms, and what did you do? 

You strutted out on Twitter and in promotional work like some goddamn peacock, talking about how I could stop ‘begging you’ for this match now that it’s been made official.  

Bitch, why are you lying?

Who are you trying to impress? I have been asking for this match since 2016. I went through the trouble of making a hitlist with your name near the very top of it since you’ve been ducking me for almost a decade. Even with all of that, it was still like pulling teeth getting you to agree to sign your name on the dotted line. 

For someone that you claimed ‘isn’t on your radar at all,’ you sure as fuck hemmed and hawed over the decision.

But you talk. You talk and you talk and you talk nonstop like you’re still that badass from 2016. The Dog’s bark is still there, but his bite leaves a lot to be desired. People used to say that Jason Cashe had that dog in him. Now, it just looks like all Jason Cashe happens to be is a domesticated little purse-riding poodle that can only run to the end of his leash and act threatening. 

We’re not buying it anymore. 

You decided to come at me talking about Twitter bullshit. Twitter? Restraining order this and people like me better than you that. You reached for everything from my tattoos, to Mike Best, all the way to a Cartoon Network joke. The same shit you were saying 7 whole ass years ago that wasn’t even effective at the time.

Tell me you’re grasping at straws without actually telling me you’re grasping at straws. 

Do you think I’ve run away from shit or that I’m ducking you somehow because I haven’t chirped back at you on YOUR schedule?

Have you smoked so much weed that you’ve forgotten you’ve quit every single federation you’ve ever joined? From HOW, 4CW, AW, OCW, and that spot in Japan. Even Mainstream I’m pretty sure. Yet, when it’s you? There’s always some excuse, some random itch in the back of your throat that has you wanting to skip out like you didn’t study for the big math test. 

I’m coming for you in this match because it’s the DPI and I’m all about putting my footprint all over this business. But you wanna hide behind a keyboard, flapping your gums about safe spaces while slapping your dick on the table like you’re still ‘that guy.’

Again, you’re the same man that quit being an owner of an LFL franchise and then the Head Coach of my LFL team because a little Greek girl decided to come into the same living space as you and you couldn’t handle it.

They make Pepto for those tummy aches, big guy.

You’re the same guy harping on how you don’t trust anyone and how your existence gets lonesome because you’re just an island unto himself.  

Shut the fuck up. 

Hey Cashe, I got Atara Themis to join my Roller Derby team. 

I guess that makes me sus in your eyes now, huh? I mean you already said you don’t consider me a friend but this? This undoubtedly has to put me in Villain territory with you. 

That’s the difference between me and you. 

I’m putting my name out there. I want to be known as one of the best wrestlers, the best fighters that have ever lived. I’m going out there and playing in the different sandboxes. You’re the one talking about being more well-known, liked, and respected when you got a whole fucking advisor handling all your booking details. You’re ‘exclusive’ to one place where you’re teamed with Kido, Thad, Buster Gloves, and others. 

But you got the nerve to call me protected?

I’d say Pot meet Kettle but we all know that the first term there would take your mind to the only thing that makes you relevant these days.

I don’t want my claim to fame to be known as the ‘weed guy’ or the guy that comes up with a name insult for Sloane Taylor’s eyebrows for every single day of a calendar year. 

Maybe if you shoveled the residual glitter bomb debris out of your bikini area. Just if you fucking spent more time preparing for this war than you did getting involved in your sisters’ relationships. You wouldn’t immediately insert your foot into your mouth the moment your lips part. 

Stop acting like you created full body tattoos or the term ‘Best Frenemy’ you pretentious waste of pre-cum.

You need to put down the grade school insults and knuckle the fuck up.

Because this is a war. 

This isn’t a wrestling match. This isn’t an exhibition. This isn’t just some mundane chore that you can fast forward past like washing your hole-filled underwear.

This is a Last Man Standing match that can only end in a parking lot of the arena. This a fight where we can go any and everywhere to battle. Where anything that isn’t nailed down is a weapon. 

No one is going to care about your Twitter insults when I punch you in your Adam’s Apple. No one is going to give a fuck about if you’re popular or not when I drag your face along that asphalt by your eyelids. There isn’t a Fanfic joke that you can rub your last two brain cells together and create that is going to help you when I bust you open. And then keep punching you until one of your eyes swells up and deforms like the beef curtains that The Bing Bong Twinzz crawled out of. 

I’m going to keep hitting you at speeds over 90mph until we are forced to exchange insurance information. I’m going to keep grinding my boot into your face like you’re the butt of a freshly-finished cigarette until one of two things happens.

The first is that you dig down somewhere deep into your gut past all the unprocessed British tea you’ve been sipping while vacationing with rich swinger couples and find that thing that made you dangerous back in the day.

Pinky up, fancy boy.

Or the second which is that you turn into another sniveling, blubbering mess that decides to not associate with me on social media. That refuses to face me in a match or a direct conversation. A soft skin that would rather go to all of my associates via DM to stir up an angry mob. A wannabe ‘great’ that weasels out of a fight against me, no matter how many times I grab his girlfriend’s ass.

It’s not like you don’t already refuse to ‘co-sign’ me because Lord knows, your former 4CW buddies might say bad things about you for being friends with the ‘pervert’ that none of them can keep their eyes off of.

I didn’t fight my way back from a broken neck just to be Twitter famous. I don’t put my health and well-being on the line every single time I step into the ring just to sit back and become a social media influencer. 

You don’t need to poll your friends list full of haters to come up with a novel filled with bullshit about me.

I’m happy to be vilified by the masses. I am proud to be the problem. It’s me, I want all of that smoke. I bring drama wherever I go because I don’t cater to everyone else’s status quo. I don’t tippy-toe on eggshells so that everyone’s ego can remain intact.

I kick the motherfucker door down then hold up a mirror to everyone’s faces. I force them to face all of their flaws, failures, and self-righteous horseshit. I put an expiration date on their backstage politicking and circle-jerk sessions. 

That noise you hear? It’s not a clock ticking down. It’s the sound of my boot-tapping, waiting, to put press your head into cement and ride you like a fucking skateboard to my next victim. 

You’re walking onto the battlefield armed with a basket of low-hanging fruit. Your plums before in your pants, cocksucker. You don’t need jabs and quips for this fight. You need heavy fucking artillery if you have any hopes of saving face here. You’re going to need to roll into that arena in a tank if you expect to not be laid up in your treehouse for months being nursed back to health by watermelon-flavored titties.

One of us will not leave that parking lot under our own power. 

And I have every intention of making you KNEEL before me while the whole world watches. And being the generous King that I am. I will give you a final moment to reflect on all the foolish words you’ve slung in my direction before I make sure your lights go completely out.

This boot is going to stop tapping. And when it does? It means one stomp will put you on dream street.

That means you need to accept your fate, Jason Cashe. 

Resist? And I’ll make sure they leave blue roses on your gravestone.

See you on Night One.

I’ll be the guy that you think stole everything from you but doing it so much better.