Panhandling

[Jimmy The Lock]

It has been nearly four years since we last saw James Chambers. After an extended hiatus that all but spelled out retirement for the now 39 year old multiple time World Champion, an offer to return to the ring one final time to shut the gaping bullshit receptacle of a mouth belonging to the ever delusional yet easily forgettable Rico Casteel has lured him back to the ring. Jimmy has elected to live a quiet life in the interim, also taking some time away from his company and other side ventures to relax and recharge after many trying years inside and out of the ring. Presently, Chambers, has moved camp and now maintains a residence in Colorado Springs, Colorado, where he has finally captured peace of mind---

"SON OF A BITCH!"

....Or not.

In any case, the present day Chambers household is a modest dwelling, the walls plastered with photos of James from the very beginning of his career to his most recent contests, photos of family, photos with former opponents turned friends, photos of every fond moment held dear to his heart. A large trophy case, adorned with belts, awards (including the most recent APW Hall Of Fame trophy)honors, plaques and medals. And yes, as heard earlier to complement such a classy setting, a quite vulgar soundtrack of raging obscenities spewed by an angry black man who has yet to level up on Flappy Bird.

A knock comes at the door.

The heavy footsteps of a man on edge echo throughout the hallway, and James comes into view, making a beeline for the front door. Despite his current mood, the former champ and Hall of Famer looks none worse the wear; despite scarce gray speckles in his beard that show his age and the well defined hard lines in his forehead that tell the story of a long career, he's in prime physical condition, appearing to even have slimmed down a bit. Stomping toward the door, he wheels it back so hard that he nearly snatches it off the hinges.

"On the damn web site it says 45 minutes to an how long does it take cook a pizza you id--, OH HELL NAW!"

"Don't you dare slam that door on ME, Chambers!"

Clearly the guest is not a Pizza Hut food delivery as desired, and that distinctive, familiar tone leads us to believe that our visitor is none other than...

"What the hell do you want Craig T. Nelson?"

That's right.

None other than James's former mentor and Coach (pun intended) in the early days, Craig T Nelson arrives, clearly not on a social visit, as the last time these two saw each other....

Las Vegas, 2012

"Ha ha! UNO, biotch! draw four, and have a nice day."

James leans over the card table and with both arms sweeps a mountain of cash into his arms. He begins to pull it towards himself, but Craig quickly clutches his forearm.

"Not so fast, double or nothing."

"Are you hooked on dope? That WAS double or nothing you crazy old bastard!"

"Triple or nothing."

"No."

"Yes."

"Blow me."

James grabs the money, begins stuffing it into his pockets and goes to walk away.

"Hey, you! STOP."

People begin giving looks.

"What the hell is wrong with you? You're causing a scene!"

"GIVE ME MY MONEY BACK!"

"You crazy fu--"

Seeing that Craig has every intention of not taking this loss, James turns and attempts a hasty exit.

"Hey, Somebody stop that BLACK guy!"

ALL eyes fall on James. Just then, Hotel security intervenes.

"Excuse me sir, is there a problem?"

"No, this crazy old man here has lost his mind. Look, I'm James Chambers, here's my id--"

James reaches for his wallet...

"HE'S GOT A GUN!"

The security guard quickly draws and tazes James. He falls to the ground in a heap, twitching and foaming at the mouth, as Craig T. Nelson dives on the floor snatching the fallen money. A severely stunned James is dragged away in handcuffs, drooling while shouting incoherently.

"DAMN YOU CRAIG T. NELSON! GODDAMN YOU TO HELL!!!!"


Return to present day.

"Heh, you aren't still upset about that are you?"

"Hell no! Why would I be upset about sixteen stitches on my head and twin electric burns across my ass and pissing with a stutter for six months? Beat it Coach."

James goes to slam the door, but Craig puts his arm out.

"You need to see this."

Craig hands James a photo of Biff Riboflavin, James's former protege and most loyal friend. The two had a falling out of sorts once James decided to leave the sport, a decision with which young Biff disagreed, James ended up making some statements that hurt Biff very deeply, the most hurtful being "Santa is not real." Biff proclaimed "I wish I could quit you, Jimmy." And left tearfully.

As seen in the photo, Biff clearly having fell on hard times, has since taken to panhandling in downtown boulder.

"I'm no expert, but you two need each other. You both have a bond, a weird, disturbing bond that gives me the creeps, but a bond nonetheless. You two feed off of each other, and make each other better. It wouldn't be right for you to go into your last match without him Jimmy. You know I'm right."

"You're right, Craig T. Nelson, I have to go find him."

"That's the spirit, kid."

March 7th, 2014.

Downtown Boulder, Colorado.

A crowd of twentysomething college hipsters crowded in a circle on a street corner, clamoring about. What the fuss is about is not quite clear. As we get closer, we see a young haggard man, blue eyes and sporting an unkempt white blond beard and shaggy hair of the same color juggling pots, baking sheets and mixing bowls. A closer look shows that the young man is Biff, in all his "panhandling" glory. A late model silver Sedan pulls up to the curb, and out steps James.

"High School Dropout musical, beat it. I need to talk to my friend."

One of the kids pokes his chest out and steps up.

"Hey man, why you comin' with the negative vibes for? We're not going anyw--"

James holds up a bag of weed and tosses it down the block. True to form, the youngins scatter, fighting over the narcotics in a roving cloud of dust, looney tunes style. With all distractions removed, James nervously approaches Biff.

"Hey man, how you doing?"

"Leave me alone Jimmy. You've ruined my life once, I'm not gonna let it happen again. First you tell me Santa isn't real, then I find out there's no Easter Bunny. And there's even word going around that all cats aren't girls and all dogs aren't boys! What do you even want, anyway?"

"Biff I'm going back, I'm going back to APW. March 29th, Rasslemania, Toronto, Canada. I need you there with me buddy. Every moment in my career, through the good times and the bad, you were there every step of the way. Out of all those times if I never needed you, I need you now. I can't do it without you."

Biff shrugs, and begins to stroke the hair on his chin, as if deep in thought.

"I don't know, Jimmy. I just don't know. It would take an awful lot---"

James whips out a box of Fruit Rollups from his coat.

"Jimmy, we're back!"

An emotional Biff embraces his mentor in a tight hug. A compressed James, through labored breathing says

"Biff..I love you man....but we're kind of crossing swords right now."

March 9th, 2014
James Chambers Road To Rasslemania Blog
APW.com

Rasslemania 2014, the big show. Many of the biggest moments in APW History have gone down there. This is the grand finale, and the stage is set. CJ Gates, Biggs, Hurricane Jeff, Sally Talfourd, Level One, Jason Cashe, Isamu Suzuki my buddy Johnny Rebel, all legends. Men and women who've lived and died in the ring. I love them all, I'm glad they're back and am utterly delighted and honored to have watched them perform over the years. I say all that to say this:

I'm STILL the best motherfucker on this card.

It's been a long time coming and now I'm back to talk my shit. As if you didn't know.

But in case you don't know:

For you viewers that aren't familiar with the name James Chambers, it is only right that in all fairness I make you aware of who I am and exactly what it is I do. I brought what you know as APW Asylum out of the dark ages when it was IWC. I killed ants with sledgehammers, blew apart that brittle old glass ceiling with dynamite, and extinguished embers with waterfalls. In other words, I obliterated the competition by a wide margin. I cut through the bullshit and politics, spoke my mind, talked the most shit, and most importantly whipped the most ass. I did and said what the fuck I felt and never cared about what anyone else thought. What you see is what you get with me and the fans love me for it. So, in summation new viewer, if you're into dipshit tough guys who wear cut off shirts, make the typical late 80's shitty Kickboxer ripoff B-film protagonist threats I.e (ur gunna kiss mah boots, you're going to be picking up your teeth,ima make u tickle my butt with a feather u homo, ur a doody hed etc. etc.) then change the channel.

SPEAKING OF....

Rico, Rico, Rico.

I'd be lying if I said I didn't want this match, you know?

However, we both want this for different reasons, for you, you're a desperate dime-a-dozen, moderately talented gatekeeper seeking validity and chasing the false hope of a fake legacy that doesn't exist. You think beating me is going to put you in the upper echelon of greats in the APW's storied history, but in reality, 100 victories over me won't change the fact that you're replaceable.

Big, bad, monster mash shitheel grunge monster powerhouse with an attitude that runs through competition with ease?

Nah, no thanks, I've seen this movie before.

However, you're not (that) dumb you recognize this, and you want people to see more than that, which is indeed noble in essence to want to break the mold of the stereotype, but the reality is, it's not going to happen. At the end of the day, you're an average kid who did OK.

Meanwhile, my reason for wanting this match?

To continue to shit on your life more and more.

These last few years have been hard on you haven't they? Those cheap toilet water vodka bottles lying all around the shithole of desolate squalor not fit for the lowest form of human life you call home, sleeping by your recently disconnected phone dreaming of a call from Reginald awarding you a match against me. Cutout pictures of your head pasted onto pictures of mine wearing the APW Heavyweight Championship I GAVE you.

Face it, you LOVE my shit.

You lose sleep over me, you couldn't keep my name out of your mouth months after I was gone to save your life, and you're still spewing the same bullshit you were talking three years ago that got you NOWHERE. So far the only improvements I can see is that you're now the "King Of Madness".

Original bro. Did you know I was the "Wicked Waywardly Wizard of Warfare of Wyoming"? Not as groundbreaking as King Of Madness, but I digress.

I knew exactly what would happen when I left APW three years ago. I knew people would say I was running from Rico Casteel, they would say that I was scared, and you know what else?

I didn't give a fuck.

I left APW because I was tired, beat up burned out and dog ass tired. At the time of my departure, in two years, out of 730 days, I spent 713 of them in the ring, getting hit with chairs, being thrown into steel steps, leaping off things, diving through tables and knocking into shit. I lived, slept, and breathed this sport, and I dare anyone to call into question my dedication to the brand. I just realized I was tired, and made the decision to step away. With that decision however, I had an ulterior motive, a bit of a chess move so to speak; Rico thought he was going to get me at a low point and capitalize on the opportunity, and I hustled him.

I just couldn't give you the satisfaction of beating me at my worst. So, I opted to give you a consolation prize, a moral victory with a twist; the victory being the belt, and the twist being your knowledge that I stepped aside but not really being sure whether or not you could have beaten me that night. You were 90 percent sure, but it's the lingering 10 percent that's built up all this doubt and exposed just how strong the butthurt is with you. Meanwhile, I was off living the life, enjoying my family and friends and healing. So yes, I can confirm your assumptions that your worthless ass WAS THE FURTHEST THING FROM MY MIND.

Quite the mindfuck, isn't it?

Believe it or not, no matter what you tell yourself, I gain nothing from beating you. It's just another body on my resume, business as usual, another day at the office. It may look good, but won't stand out in the long run when people look back at my prestigious career.

If you're too dumb to understand, let me break it down even further for you.

I'm doing this for the lulz.

Nothing more, nothing less.

I could care less if I never got to smack your stupid oversized mongoloid cranium around a wrestling ring ever again, but I'm doing this to show that even with a gift wrapped Heavyweight title, pre-packaged limelight and the blueprint on how to run the show written by Yours Truly laid on your front doorstep with a pretty pink bow on it that you still can't beat me.

With a three year absence, you can't beat me.

As much as I'm on your mind, you can't beat me.

Without having set foot in a ring much less an arena in less than three years and still being more relevant than you, earning an APW Hall of Fame nod, you can't beat me.

With me not even checking for you or giving a shit about anything you've done, YOU CAN'T BEAT ME.

In a month of Sundays on a leap year, YOU WILL NEVER BEAT ME.

Did I mention you can't beat me?

However, for your meteoric rise from feeble pathetic curtain jerking wannabe to egomaniacal delusional douchebag piece of shit alot of the blame falls on me. I admit all this steam you've got in your chest is my fault. I let my guard down with you, at one point Rico, I thought you were a standup dude. I though you were a good guy, respected you even. Through all the tag matches and traveling we did from show to show, we got to know each other. I thought we were cool. Little did I know you were fake and bitchmade as they come, taking my kindness for weakness and trying to exploit it as fear.

Hell, as much time as you've spent living in the past you had to know it would come back and haunt you. Or maybe you're just living in the past you want to live in, and block out the other opportunities you had to step up and take my belt.

But we don't want to remember those times, do we?

It seems much more logical to blame other people for our missed opportunities, mishaps and slipups, doesn't it?

It's better to play the victim and act as if you were on the receiving end of a raw deal from the powers that be, right?

WRONG.

You had your chance, Rico. Way before you and I ever crossed paths in a ring you could have been the man. You had the same opportunities I did, you started in the trenches on those same IWC cards doing the same type of dirty work I was doing.

The difference is, I ASCENDED. I accepted nothing less than the greatest achievement a man could reach in that company, and ASCENDED to that honor. I became the man, ASCENDED to become the face of Asylum, ASCENDED to become a legend, and eventually ASCENDED to the Hall Of Fame. Meanwhile, you having the same capabilities as I opted to dickride CJ Gates around and play in the minor leagues with the Suicidal Title instead.

So instead of saying that I ran, say YOU ran...out of time. Say that it's your fault for not making your jump to the big time sooner. I robbed you of nothing; you shortchanged yourself by sitting idly by with your thumb up your ass and talking shit on the sidelines. I did what I felt where you did what you could. I let my voice be heard no matter what, you mumbled under your breath praying nobody would hear. You hate me for being what you should have been, and you can't blame THAT shit on Reginald. Bitterness never prospers Rico.

All that tough guy shit sounds scary in front of a camera, I'm glad I could teach you something, even if you do it terribly.

I never, EVER, underestimated your abilities. I just know mine will forever exceed yours no matter how well you progress.

As far as Rasslemania, Well, I'm glad you could make it, it's just too bad you won't make it.

The time is here, either you conquer your demons, try to quell your insecurities prove to yourself that you're a man and seize the moment, or shut the fuck up forever.

Let the healing begin.