Before I broke chains. Before Death Row. Before C.J. Thorpe existed.
I was just Joey Cade.
I remember a morning in a freezing garage, when my dad, big George Cade, stood before me—a titan of toughness, his wisdom as sharp as the cold. The clang of tools, the scent of oil, it was our battleground, where he molded me with firm hands and firmer words.
“You’re a Cade,” he’d thunder, his voice cutting through the chill, “and that means you’re somebody.”
Those moments weren’t just about teaching me to fix machines; they were lessons in becoming unbreakable, in understanding the power of a name. He was stern, relentless, but it was his way of showing his unwavering love, his belief in me to face any adversity with unwavering resolve.
I may not bear his name any longer, but I bear his legacy. I’m somebody because of that legacy.
Then there’s you, Victor Doom.
A ghost of a man, a shadow left in the void of a father’s absence. He gives no part of his legacy, doesn’t even acknowledge you as his creation. You embody the very essence of a nobody, unseen and unloved, a stark reminder of the gutless cunt Harold Attano.
Ah, Harold, that piece of shit who thinks because he was Zeus’s bitch that he’s somebody.
But he ain’t nothing. He calls himself Nobody for a reason.
You and he are cut from the same cloth, Vic—nobodies trying to claw your way into significance, into being remembered.
Your very existence irks me. It brings forth a rage, a disdain for nobodies who remind me of Harold’s pitiful attempts to rub elbows with people that matter. I hate nobodies, despise them for the weakness they represent, for the space they take up in a world that should belong to those of us with legacy, with purpose.
When we step in the ring, Vic, it’s not just about the match. See, I fight not just to win, but to obliterate the memory of every Harold Attano, every Victor Doom, every nobody who thinks they can step into the light and be seen as my equal.
You’ll be my example, Vic, the proof of what happens when a nobody tries to challenge a legacy. I will dismantle you, break you down until all that’s left is the echo of your insignificance, a reminder to all that nobodies should remain in the darkness where they belong.
And when it’s all said and done, when the name you claim is as empty as your relationship with your creator, you’ll finally understand the gulf between us.
I’m C.J. Thorpe, a Cade, molded by legacy, hardened by challenges, and destined for greatness.
You’re Victor Doom, a nobody, a forgotten machine of a greater man.
And my dad taught me how to handle machines.
Your dad threw you out.
Remember this, Vic: you stepped into the ring as a nobody, and you’ll leave as less than that—a cautionary tale, a footnote.
Because in my world, just like your pops factory, you’re just another defective machine to be discarded.