Journal Entry--4th of January, 2010
I remember the gavel slammed on August thirteenth two-thousand-eight. I can still hear that final knock, as if death himself stood at my door. Seventy-five to life, never to wrestle, never to fuck, fight, or fly again. No more fast cars, fine wines, and good cigars. I could go on forever, but in short, no living. I was to become a walking zombie, but then something happened that made me feel like taking a little note. Something happened today that made me fell like, hell, singing a high chorus note… Something, aw hell, maybe I should start a little before today, start where it really began...
‘Diary of a Psycho’--16th of September, 2009
"Former Multi-millionaire, multi-champion professional wrestler James Caine served his first night in prison last night." the female reporter's voice crackled over the television set, high in the corner wall.
The numbers on his shirt were his new name, seven-seven-seven-four-two-zero. Ironic that was the backward equivalent of his old asylum number years ago. By now James was used to the numbers. The reporters had it all wrong, but that's the media. James was really on day thirty-two. He had finished his quarantine in Jackson and thus was transferred to a bigger hole in a farther away place to be forgotten about. They called it Marquette State Penitentiary; he called it greed, and destruction.
He walked into the recreation area, and sat in a far corner to just stare at the wall and reflect on fate, while the television occasionally spattered, spit, and cursed his name. He smiled inwardly to himself knowing full-well that the day he died, thousands upon thousands would attend the funeral despite the derogations and slanders. Fate it seemed would work its way into Caine’s life one final time, one year later.
‘Diary of a Psycho’--21st of September, 2009
James was eating his lunch in the cafeteria, as far away from the other inmates as possible. He was minding his own business, doing his best not to lose control and start beating on anyone he could find. He was really starting to entertain the idea when a man, calling himself Victor Brownson, approached him and stuck his hand into James’ food. James didn’t even cast the man a glance, and simply brushed the hand away, and continued eating.
“I wiped my ass with that hand son.” Victor said in the most intimidating voice he could, but James paid him no mind, and continued eating. James really didn’t give two shits about this imbecile. “Hey! You hear me, or you just plain stupid?” James continued to eat.
Victor’s skinny little bitch-boy spoke up, “I think he’s retarded, hey…I know this guy.”
“That so,” Victor replied.
“Yeah he got sent here for being too stupid.”
The inmates around Victor all laughed heartily, even Victor shared a chuckle, but James still continued eating.
When James still did nothing Victor became obviously angered. “You’re startin to piss me off shit-nugget. Am I gonna have to knock your teeth in to get a rise outta you, or would you rather I just shove my big, black snake up your purty white-” Victor’s mouth slammed shut as James rammed his now empty food tray into his bottom jaw with a sickening crack. Almost like Lightning James kicked in the bitch’s kneecap, and then stomped on Victor’s foot. Victor brought his toe up to clutch it in pain. When Victor brought his head back to a normal position James drove his left fist beneath the rib cage of the large black male, doubling him over, and without a second’s passing tore the man’s larynx from his neck with his right fist. James stood over the skinny white man laying on the floor holding his knee, raised an eyebrow and stomped a foot onto the bitch’s lower mandible, crushing it near to dust, when everything went black for the insane one.
Journal Entry--17thof December 2009
I was sitting in solitary today when they came for me.
“Hey! You got a visitor, yeah, you, four-two-zero.” The guard yelled to me from behind the small barred window.
I stood lazily, tired from the sleepless night in my singular holding cell. Solitary, I believe they called it, but I didn’t even know what day it was so maybe I didn’t give a shit what they called it.
The large steel door swung open and I had to squint. My unshaven face itched something awful and my muscles were sore from the combination of endless workouts and eventually exhausted passing out on the cold concrete floor.
They shackled my hands and led me to the visitor area. The light shining through the windows burned my eyes, causing shooting pains through my head. I attempted to scratch my face, but my hand was quickly slapped away.
“What day is it?” I asked in a raspy tone.
“The seventeenth of December.”
“Two thousand nine,” a second guard added.
“Damn…Anyone got a smoke?” I asked, and the first guard held one up before putting it in my mouth.
As I stopped to let him light it he looked to the other guard, who was scowling, and shrugged, “He’s James Caine.”
They shoved me into a small cube like room with a large glass window, and a phone. A steel chair sat on my side of the glass, while the other side had a much cozier looking leather chair. Hell everything on the other side of the glass was better. The walls were painted blue, whereas my side was a dingy white. I think it was supposed to be some sort of a mind fuck, but I was smarter than even I knew, not to mention I really didn’t give a flying rat fuck.
I sat and finished my smoke while I waited; wondering if this was some ass jock, but at least I could itch my face and my head had somewhat stopped hurting.
I was about to leave when the door to the other side opened and in he walked, my own flesh and blood nephew. Jonathon James Alexander Caine. He looked like me, only younger, and clean shaven, not to mention he was on the colorful side of the glass. He sat down, and I stood up, he grabbed his phone, I grabbed mine.
“James… you look like shit.”
“And you look like a homo. What are you doing here?”
“Well if you’re just going to insult me, I can leave.” He said and stood, but then I sat down, and he retook his seat.
“What do you want? Say your peace, say it fast, and be on your damn way.”
“In short…I want you out of here and back in a wrestling ring. And I can get it…but you’ve got to want it, “he said with a smirk, and I could’ve sworn my asshole puckered.
“…” I tried to speak but was completely confounded.
He took my silence as his cue, “I’ve reopened Anarchy, and January is our first pay per view. I’ve arranged all the paperwork, signed sealed and dealed. You sign it, and you get one match, inside these walls. If you win, you get your freedom under my custody. You lose….well…. you get nothing.”
“I’m flattered you would try and do this for me, and in doing-so attempt to recreate my childhood. But I still don’t see why I should give a shit.”
“James…you’re the best I know. You’re the best anyone I talk to knows…You can win this, and help me put AW back where it belongs…ON TOP.”
“Who am I facing?”
“…we don’t know yet.”
I sat back in my chair and stomped out my cigarette. I thought good and hard about it before I sat back forward and gave my response. “I’ll sign, but I decide the type of match.”
“I knew you would say that… which I why I just lied to you.”
I stared at Alex, “What?”
“We do know your opponent…Ben Morrigan. I’ll be back in seven days to collect your match stipulations, and have you sign the contract.” He said as he stood up and left me to sit and ponder…What the hell just happened?