I Can't Sleep at Night

V.O.W. Presents

A Casanova English Original

I Can't Sleep at Night

I don't sleep much anymore. Not sense
they tried to put me on medication again. Bi-polar disorder is what
they diagnosed me with, but the worlds got a million words for
“fucked up”. Tonight it is for a different reason though. Not
close from where I was born a few days ago an armed gun man went on a
killing spree ending the lives of three police officers. That was
disturbing enough. . . but then the emails. The internet blows up
like this is some apocalyptic start to the fucking revolution. A
revolution I have tried so hard to create trying so hard to avoid the
deaths of innocents. They tell me that I did this, that my teachings
had something to do with the warped minds of the youth.

“What the fuck are they talking
about?”

I say to myself whipping a few droplets
of sweat from my forehead. The city buzzed outside my cheap hotel
room window. It was a constant noise that I seemed to not notice
until now. I didn't tell anyone to start the revolution this way.
They went to your institutions, watched your media, got smothered by
your ideals. When someone does this, they kill they set the cause
back by decades. Killing for liberty is not the way, we have to
destroy the systems at the core. We need to exploit the true evil of
the world through their own devices. We have to let them fire the
first shot, we are the freedom fighters.

No matter how I swing it in my head
though the pain lingers. I can't help but feel somewhat responsible,
it's a burden shepherding the weak. The minds of the feeble must be
molded by me. This is my responsibility to fix this. To fix these
people, to mold them into the future of the world. To lead them to
the doors of the oppressors knock and take back what it rightfully
ours. Freedom can be won many ways, enlightenment can be achieved.

This week on Breakthrough I have the
perfect opportunity to shatter the ideals these “fans” hold in
their hearts. I will expose the world to the superficial ideals of
the main stream media. Matt Slater the ultimate pawn. If only he knew
it.

Sitting up on the edge of the bed I
reach in and grab a small metallic cylinder from the bedside table.
This is my solitude, everyone needs a vice. Insomnia has disturbed
me for many years. It crippled me, but it was also when I did my best
work. The problem with lack of sleep is you get delusional and you
start to see things that aren’t there. You become paranoid, and
well to be honest maybe it's part of what made Casanova English. I
unscrew the top of the sliver cylinder and the aroma of skunk fills
the cheap hotel room. Pulling a pack of papers from the same drawer I
pinch a bit of cannabis between my fingers and sprinkle it down the
center of a folded 1 and a ¼ inch cigarette paper. As I do this, the
thoughts of the recent shooting race through my head. I know it is
crazy to even think I could do anything to prevent it, or the crazy
fuck ever read anything I wrote, saw me on TV, or even knew my name.
The problem is I can't stop thinking of him. . . my student. The
thing that went wrong.

I tried to teach the revolution to one
man and it ended up too hard for him to handle. He viewed my
propaganda promotion as mere pranks. I molded him into the perfect
soldier for the revolution. We were going to take the power back. . .
and then things got fucked up.

“You really think that that poster of
Titan made a statement?”

He was referring to the mural which
hung over the city of Titan, a large mammoth of a man who I had just
lost to. Who I needed to destroy to show the people that they too
could slay the monsters that laid before them. I was hot off the
momentum of being the first IPW United States Champion. He took this
from me, he took my first accomplishment. He set me back in my road
to the revolution. The insanely large mural for the IPW PPV in L.A.
had the image of his face staring down at the world, looking at them
the same way he looked at me as he stomped out any flame that I tried
to ignite. Now the dark eyes that peered a hard unforgiving glance of
judgment were burning embers of flame as fire fighters rushed to make
sure the structure of the building it hung on was not compromised. It
was one of my proudest moments, and he was questioning me.
Questioning me after I took him under my wing, as I made him a man.

“You really think anyone gives a fuck
about that? We need to go bigger, we need to show the corporate
tyrants that they are the same as us. We are not the only ones
vulnerable.”

He was saying this to me! To me! Two
months prior to this I had him crying and puking right after he put a
gun with no bullets into his step dads mouth. I made him a man. I
molded him from a broken and fragile little child scared of his own
shadow into a warrior. Maybe I pushed him too far.

“Yes, look at them panic. They all
know who did it to. All they are missing is the evidence. See that's
the point we have to spread to word. We have to ignite the revolution
using their own means. The things they put in place will crumble.
This is a war of ideas.”

I remember how he shrugged it off, how
his eyes didn't look like they were following the conversation
anymore. The most dangerous thing you can do is teach a man to think
for himself.

“Well I have been working on
something. Something big. Something that will make you proud. I am
going to make sure I lay claim to The Revolution Cass.”

“What are you going to do?”

“Something bigger then you ever
have.”

I couldn't believe he was standing up
to me like this, and in ways I am proud of the monster I created. I
felt like Dr. Frankenstein. I stood up.

“You are going to do something bigger
then me? No one knows your fucking name Mark. I made you into
whatever the fuck you think you are and I am telling you to calm down
a few seconds. Where the fuck did the hostile attitude come from? I
am your mentor.”

“You were my mentor. Now student has
surpassed the teacher. It is all clear as day now. You are weak, and
you are meant to teach. Your not willing to take action on behalf of
equalization.”

“Cute”

I said with a smirk, but he took it as
an insult he grabbed me by the throat and pushed me to the wall. I
remained calm.

“You really want to do this Mark?”

I said through a half blocked windpipe.
I didn’t tense up, I didn't even raise my voice. Not that I
shouldn't of. Mark did have a minor military background. In other
words he wasn't a kitten.

“Yes, you need to stand with me or
get the fuck out of my way Casanova. You are not the leader this
cause deserves. They need someone who will actually stand for them.”

“How do you plan on that though guy?”

I said smirking. He tightened his grip
cutting off more oxygen to my brain, but to honest he could cut off
75% and I would still beat him in a IQ test.

“Well you always say it. The road to
the revolution needs to be paved in blood, so I won't preach it
anymore I will do. I will show these people just how out of control
they still are in this fucking corrupt political system. The state
protects no one. . .”

His vow of violence scared me to be
honest. Another psychopath with a personal vendetta sets the cause
back years and years, it forces us further into corruption. They use
the actions of these insane “freedom fighters” as a way to say
people who want change are crazy. This is what happens when someone
thinks outside the box. Then when you bring up a theory that is
abnormal you are thrown in a fucking cell. I just sat there looking
in his eyes for a few brief moments as he choked the life out of me.

I remember I was almost out before I
kicked his leg and pulled his shirt collar falling on my back and
bringing him down with all my weight. I tucked my head in an effort
to miss the edge of table on the way down. . . Mark didn't. The front
of his face smashed hard off the flat top of the wooden table.

He rolled on the ground choking as I
came to. I stood up and pulled a cigarette from my pocket, and
walked over calmly holding the back of my shoulders where wrestling
taught me to put the impact instead of my head whenever possible.
Standing over him I squinted my eyes and placed the cigarette in my
lips loosely. The image is carved in my head. The scene was gruesome,
he was moving around well even though completely disoriented at least
I didn't break the dweebs fucking neck, his nose was another story.
Where his nose was pretty much didn’t exist and he was fighting
hard to stop drowning in the blood. I helped him roll over.

“See, this is what happens. I try and
share some knowledge. I try to enlighten. I put an idea into your
feeble fucking mind. . .”

I remember pausing to light my smoke as
he shook his head wiping blood away with his bare hands.

“and you stupid fuckers can't
understand it. It is like it makes every brain cell in your body kill
itself in a civil war. You want to hurt people to change the way in
which people are condemned? Fuck you. Now every 12 year old kid
having a hard time getting a boner that sees a therapist is diagnosed
with an antisocial disorder and alienated because some idiot with the
same problem shot down some innocent people. See this is why we are
so corrupt, they use you as example to keep us under their control.
They use the media to show how thinking outside of society makes you
insane. When in fact it doesn't. Ideology can't be killed with guns,
idea's kill ideas.”

He was trying hard to get to his feet
by this point. I really did appropriate his effort. I did something
right in teaching him.

“You make it so hard to trust you
people. I am here to help to Shepard you. To lead you into a future
where you can be what you want to be. Where money doesn't matter, and
everyone gets to lick the big old sugar cube of power.”

I took a long drag on my cigarette and
blew the smoke down in his face just as he looked up at me kneeling.

“So this is an ultimatum. One, you
either go and think about how the shit you are about to do is
bullshit, you reevaluate everything I have taught you and you show up
at the PPV and support me as your very first on air appearance. Two,
you get the fuck out of my apartment, you go home and you put a
bullet in your head, because I will not let you destroy everything I
have worked towards.”

He wasn't a coward, but he wasn't my
friend. He looked me dead in the eyes through a crimson mask and a
missing nose he squeaked out a . . .

“Fuck you!”

I gargled back and mustered every piece
of mucus I could find in my nasal cavity knowing he won't have the
privilege of producing a monstrous loogie like this in a long time
and I planted square in the little fuckers forehead.

That was the last time I saw Mark until
the news broke.

I twist the end of my joint finishing
off the final touches. Hopefully this would help me sleep, hopefully
this would get the nightmares of Mark out of my fucking head. I
pulled a black shirt over my skin and put the rolled herb in my lips.
I walk out onto the cheap steel deck, the platform creaked under my
weight. I light the end of the spliff and inhale deep. I hold in my
lungs for a while before exhaling. Weed doesn't work that quick. Mark
rushes into my brain again.

The news broke of a man that attempted
a bombing a few days later, and I knew it was him. I knew that is was
Mark I could feel it in my stomach. The news didn't really get an
opportunity to identify the man. He had bandages over his face and he
tried to rush an officer outside of the LAPD before they put two
bullets in his chest. As he fell he pulled the detonation device and
blew himself into a million tiny pieces. That's not really how I
pictured the spread of ideas. There was no casualties, and the
investigation ran thin. So what did I do? I gathered up all his shit,
and I drove his piece of shit dodge neon that he lived out of when he
didn't leave out of my apartment to the woods and I light the thing
on fire. I burned every memory of Mark. To his mother, to anyone that
ever knew him Mark just fucking disappeared. No one knew his sin, and
no one knew that my first attempt at a pupil lead to the creation of
a god damn monster.

I took my fourth long drag from the
joint and now I was feeling better. Mark. . . I didn't ever ask his
last name. This is something that changed me. Now I can't trust these
people as easily anymore. I have to show them slowly, ease them into
the revolution and at Breakthrough I have the perfect opportunity to
do that. I got off to an amazing start with the defeat of Bobby
Backdoor. I exploited the parts of him that Carson already destroyed.
Carson's unintelligent banter on homosexuality did set me at unease
about him, but he's an intelligent athlete. I did figure him better
then that. That is all that he can exploit about Backdoor? Regardless
this week calls for a new opponent. I take another deep inhale of
smoke and blow it out slowly in perfect rings. I toss the roach off
the shitty steel platform they attempt to pass off as a luxury and
enter my hotel room.

I know it seems crazy to be doing this
to myself, to be tossing money at a shitty little hotel that doubles
as a habitat for the drug addicted. I like it, it reminds me what I
am fighting for. I am fighting to help these people get out of the
streets. I want to create a reality they don't have to fuck
themselves up to live in. Someday they will be strong, that day isn't
today, but one day.

I see the my camcorder on the table
on-top of the eight pieces of tile floor they pass off as a kitchen
area. That calming effect was setting in, but hopefully my passion
would perk me up. I spun the camera around and flicked the record
button on. I kicked a chair out and sat in front of the small glowing
red eye. I catch my reflection in the lens. I looked tired. I looked
like shit. Oh well, it is all part of the charm.

“I told you didn't I? I told you that
I would expose Bobby Backdoor's weaknesses and dispose of him on my
way to paving the revolution. I didn't take much pride in that
victory due to the damage already done by Carson, but none the less
Bobby fell victim. Now this week I face another poor little wounded
animal. . . Matt Slater.”

I let out a slight chuckle.

“Matt. . . you are just a funny guy
to me. You stand for truth, you stand for honor. Yet poor little Matt
and his poor little mask. . . I mean you fought for these fans Matt.
You walked for diseases, you donate to charity. See I think you are
terrified Matt. Terrified that these fans that you bleed for are
going to judge you. I feel like you know that these superficial VOW
wrestling fans are going to mock you. So what? Now what was poster
boy hero face of a company is some vigilante in a mask? Let's face
facts Matt, you are a little baby. I wouldn't doubt you have mere
blemishes on your pretty little face and this is all emotional. Poor
Matt is going though his own personal turmoil, his own little
frustration. Your 30, and the way you carry yourself is like a man
having a mid life crisis. Your not welcome here Matt, you are old
news. Iser has shown you that hasn't he? I mean you seem terrified to
make the next move. What kind of hero are you? You look more like
coward these days.”

“You are the next logical step. I
thought that this would be a future title bout. I pictured our names
in lights, but this edition of Breakthrough will be good enough. I
mean in your state of mind you are only half the man you typically
are, and me. I am a new breed. I am the future of not just wrestling
but the new world order. See Slater you are a false idol that must be
disposed of. You continue to brain wash these kids into thinking
hero’s like you will continue to fight for the right and moral,
and the truth is it isn't that easy. Hero’s come and die, hero's
get stomped out. Hero's get forgotten, and the only difference
between a hero and a villain is how the world sees them and how the
media manipulates the sheep that you think would take a bullet for
you just as quick as you would for them. That is why you keep you
mask on. Protection MY ASS! I have seen Matt Slater go through hell
and back. I know who you Matt. I have seen you work, and I have seen
the punishment you have taken, and I have seen the heart. . . and now
I see it disappearing. You just don't got it anymore, and maybe
allowing these fans to see your chard face would send poor little
Matt Slater over the God damn edge. Maybe that is what I will do,
maybe I will pull that mask off your face. I mean we all wear one
Matt, we all pretend to be things that we are not so lets see is they
still love you when they realize you aren’t pretty anymore! Then
when they cast their judging eyes on the man that used to be their
hero. When VOW sees that someone that they signed to be a franchise
player is wounded and they turn their back I will raise that mask I
ripped off your face and I will bash it into your already fragile
flesh. I will implant that hard plastic plate permanently into your
face in reverse. It wouldn't be the first time I disfigured a man.”

I smile at the camera picturing the
fans in silence as I destroy yet another false idol on my way the way
to their revolution.

“So Matt it's already to late, but
the least you can do is do yourself a favor. Stop your little pity
party! Then get Seth fucking Iser out of your head and start focusing
on Casanova English, or I will show you why I will not be ignored.
Welcome to The Revolution Matty!”

I laugh and shut off the camera with an
outstretched hand. I am not doubting that Matt Slater is going to
bring his A game, but the truth is that in his head he is no where
near where he needs to be. Right now Slater is vulnerable, he is
hurting. I need to expose that, and when I do I expose him to the
people as just another one of them, no prettier, no stronger, just a
littler richer.

I close my eyes. . . but I still can't
sleep at night.