Post by English/Corpse on Nov 22, 2015 21:54:28 GMT -6
VoW Presents
A Casanova English Original
Assisted Suicide
People… I have seen the finale of
thousands of lives, man. Young, old, each one so sure of their
realness. You know that their sensory experience constituted a unique
individual with purpose and meaning. So certain that they were more
than biological puppet. The truth wills out, and everybody sees. Once
the strings are cut, all fall down.
–Rust Cohl
NOVEMBER 19TH
PRINCE EDWARD ISLAND, CANADA
News was still flooding out about the
details of the Paris terrorist attacks filling the small home Andrew
and his mother shared. Andrew scrubbed his hands in the kitchen sink
trying to get the grease off from a long work day at Wilson's Repair.
It was his first day back there in a long time, but Wilson always had
his door open to Andy. He was never late, he worked hard, and he
appreciated every hour he got. It wasn't difficult for him when the
shop was a ten minute walk from his front door. Being closer to home
he felt it was easier to keep an eye on his mother. He would slip up
often at lunch to catch her in her near comatose meditative
therapeutic ritual.
Miss Jones: It's awful what those
people did. I can't believe they just slaughtered all those
innocents.
Andy wiped his hands with an old dish
towel vigorously trying to get the remainder of dirt from his palm.
Andy: Yeah, it is pretty messed up.
France has been a target for a long time, I mean it's been a battle
for free speech there for the last year. You remember that Je Suis
Charlie or whatever it was. The guy that got killed for drawing
Mohammad.
Miss Jones: No. . . I don't recall.
Her memory wasn't comply intact, the
last decade to her might be a blur. You remember those commercials of
the frying egg? Your brain on drugs. Add intense unethical treatment,
and the memory can barely reach back into it's data bank.
Miss Jones: They killed someone over a
drawing?
Andy: Pretty well, they felt it
disgraced their God.
Miss Jones: That is just awful. I
thought the world progressed since I was young. I guess I was wrong
Andrew.
She grabbed his hands, placing them in
her smaller ones. They were cold, it sent a chill through his body.
The touch of his mother was a rarity; very few times does he recall
her cuddling him to slumber.
Miss Jones: I am sorry you were birthed
into such a horrendous world Andrew. Truly!
She leaned in and kissed his cheek
awkwardly, robotically. Like a predesigned gesture.
Andrew: Terror can't win if you aren't
afraid mom.
He says patting her shoulder lightly
like they where just horsing around. This new found affection his
mother was showing was difficult to comprehend. She never hurt him
directly, but she never offered comfort either. Andrew wished he
believed the words he spoke, but the truth is he was afraid. He was
always afraid, he had the right to be the way he grew up. With the
unstructured environment his mother offered. Cassidy was the fearless
one, the hero. Eventually that catches up, that weight becomes too
much. . . and as we have seen insanity ensues. Andrews mom was taken
back by her sons wisdom
Miss Jones: That is a beautiful way to
look at things Andrew! I am glad that I raised such a brave pair of
boys. When does your brother get back home?
Andy: He'll be back in North America in
about a week I think. I am not sure where VoW plans to hit next.
Hopefully somewhere in Canada I would like for him to stop off before
the next event. He has his big title defense against Valquist this
weekend. We should watch it together.
Miss Jones: That would be lovely
Andrew. Some mother and son bonding. I could make us something
delicious.
She obviously didn't understand the
brutality of a buried alive match. Maybe not in the sense of
violence, but the very idea of being buried alive is enough to make
some lose their lunch. Miss Jones zeros in on a speck of dirt on the
counter and like a hurricane she gusts across the kitchen to swipe it
away with a moist towelette.
Miss Jones: I think I am going to take
a bath Andrew. All this bad news has put me in a mood. Relaxing would
do me good.
Andy: Alright.
Andy said swinging the fridge open to
grab a cold post work beer. He twisted the top off and took a sip as
his mother trotted off cheerfully toward her bedroom.
The water gently rushed down filling
the bath slow. Naked she lay there her arms resting on the edge of
the cheap acrylic tub. Her eyes were tight closed as she reaches her
meditative state her lids burst open, her pupils almost taking over
her entire retina. Steam rises from the water and Miss Jones skin
sears red in response, but physically she feels nothing. She stares
forward lost in her mind, in her freedom, in her enlightenment. Her
peace always ends with the same destructive abruption. . . his face.
She comes from her meditation to the
boiling water just flowing over her knee caps. Miss Jones lets out a
light squeal feeling every bit of pain now; wincing a tear rolls down
the side of her face as she frantically reaches to twist the cold on
high. The relief is almost imminent as she expesses a sigh and sinks
a bit lower into the warm water; bubbles gently accumulated towering
towards her slightly wrinkled breasts. Time was catching up, it was
good she quit her habits. Beauty was a currency she was becoming
bankrupt in.
She was beginning to come to the dark
realization that spiritual peace may be an impossibility to her. A
secret she has buried deep, she shared with none of her sons. A
secret that made her turn to drugs. One that wasn't even forced out
in Casanova's unconventional treatment. She swallowed hard realizing
no matter what she can never force that memory from her mind. The way
he forced himself into her, tore, ripped. Not just physically, but
mentally as well. Being in the bath reminded her all to well of the
day it happened. The July summer afternoon she staggered home with
blood smeared upon her thigh, dirt ground into her back, her hair
covered in soil. 18, fresh, innocent, destroyed. That day she walked
upstairs to her bathroom and filled the bath, collapsing inside
painfully.
She attempted to drown herself as pink
tainted the water from her wounds, but when you're young the will to
survive is strong and instinctual. She tried to wash away the pain,
but she never could. They didn't catch him till 5 years later. He was
on vacation with his family in Quebec city when he raped a young
student who was out for her eighteenth birthday. She knew it was him,
she never forgot the face. . . she never will. Maybe, now she has the
will power. She slowly turned the water off leaning back allowing the
warmth up around her neck. She takes a huge gasp of air as she slowly
lowers her head underneath. Her long blonde locks float through the
water surrounding her face like tentacles as she squeezes her eyes
shut. The images of her life skim past her eyes as she try and hold
herself in the liquid tomb, trying to become one with it. The images
of being “treated” by Dr. Hemsing, the images of her crushing
pills, melting concoctions on spoons, going to prom, her first kiss,
teen pregnancy, Cassidy bursting from between her thighs painfully
glaring at her with the face of her abuser. She shook underwater
splashing lightly before giving in a breaking the surface ending the
torture. Without panic she takes her first gasp of air in about three
minutes.
She still can't do it. She still can't
get the memories out, she still can't escape her mind. She still
can't kill herself, not like that. Her eyes shifted to the edge of
the tub fixated on a three bladed razor that screamed one word as she
elegantly picked it up with two fingers pressing her thumb into it to
test the sharpness. . .
finality.
NOVEMBER 19TH
SHEFFIELD, ENGLAND
MOTORPOINT ARENA
I've been here before, a man perceived
as an icon on a respirator feeding him air like a feeble new born.
I'm that machine now, filling you full oxygen. Continuing your
survival through my mechanics, keeping you relevant so the few that
adore you can watch your last moments. Eventually that machine has
tot turn off, it has to offer its service to someone more in need,
someone more salvageable.
I understand you Valquist, as much as
you think I don't. I see through the smoke and mirrors, through
Chris, Isis, and you. I see a man who makes every word mean
something, because he knows one day it will be his last. Maybe, that
is why he drones on. He can leave those words to stand the test of
time, because deep down he knows his body won't. No, time has already
had it's way with Valquist.
That is the true enemy, not me.
I tossed my leather jacket over my
shoulders looking out into the rain outside that poured on the
reporters waiting to get a statement after my training session.
Lawrence shook his head beside me as he picked up my workout bag that
lay at my feet. I wasn't taking this match lightly. I had to hit the
ropes a few times before I got into the ring in a few days. This is
my first buried alive match, and this is finally my chance to place
myself in wrestling history. No one has taken the game over has
quickly as I, but at the same time I have to notice that glaring hole
in my game. Inexperience. That is how Matt Slater beat me last week,
he has that ring psychology. That ability to distract you while your
shoulders on the Matt. The ability to let your opponent believe they
are in control. That's something that takes years, something I have
been trying to cover up. It even showed against Heath, who has a few
years on me; and honestly that last win against Valquist wasn't the
cleanest. I have been criticized with people saying it was just
“luck”. Fuck the fans who think they know anything, two seconds
in this ring and they would realize luck has nothing to do with this
sport. . . ever. This win it has to be decisive, because it is the
one that will define me.
“God damn Vultures Mr. English. You
can't even get a training session in with these people flocking
around.”
“Must be a slow news day.”
I say smirking to L as he pushed the
door open for me to walk through. The limousine split a majority of
the gathering fans honking it's horn as it approached. Reporters
shoved their microphones in my face shouting all kinds of questions.
L creates a barrier around me with his lone mass, but I give in.
“Hold on, hold on. Calm down. I'll
answer a few questions. One second.”
I motion for L to pull my Championship
from the bag. He passes the World Visionary Championship to me and I
hoist it up where it belongs, over my shoulder the leather strap
meeting the same material on my coat like it was always meant to be.
“Let's get this organized and with
some civility please. I'll point you out. You ask your question. Got
it? Good. You, little red head in the blazer. What do you have on
that little medieval notepad of yours.”
The crowd laughs as the obviously shy,
inexperienced intern who knew nothing about wrestling shuffled her
few papers. I shook my head, waiting for her to gather her thoughts.
She poked the microphone toward her lips awkwardly.
“With the recent attacks in Paris is
there any fear in the VoW locker room? Or from higher management?”
A political question, maybe she wasn't
as dumb as she looked. If she knew nothing about the actual event ask
something relevant to everyone. Sure, I'll bite. Smart girl.
“ I wouldn’t say there is fear in
the locker room. I do have to say that VoW has increased security for
this event; mainly because it was an entertainment event that was the
major target in the Paris attacks. I wouldn't say anyone in the
locker room has showed fear. I have only seen compassion for those
involved. I would even like to see VoW do a show in Paris in the near
future as a protest to those that dare infringe on the basic human
rights of society.”
Some of the reporters clap in response.
Sometimes it doesn’t matter if you are the good guy or the bad guy.
There is a line never to be crossed in the name of power. I point a
finger rudely in the direction of a reporter in his 40's with a large
handle bar mustache.
“This is a huge match for VoW this
week. It is allowing the company to be seen on an international
level. Are you doubting yourself going into this match Mr. English? I
mean you did just lose to UK wrestling legend Matt Slater. You also
had a close call with Heath Williams the week before.”
“Trust me when I say I am ready for
this match. As for Williams close, but no cigar. His harassment
beyond the ring may land himself in some serious legal trouble if it
continues. He had his chance. He called me out, and I beat him. It's
simple as that and I won't buy into his jealously. As for Slater I am
not going to sit here and make excuses like everyone else does. I
have never been about that. I have been about action. Last week
Slater proved me wrong, he proved that he deserves to be a part of
this roster. He went toe to toe with me in his back yard and he
defended his honor. I respect that, but if he tries to target my
championship I can promise you there will be a very different
outcome. As for Valquist at Darkest Hour? Unlike Slater, I don't
believe that Valquist deserves to be a member of this roster. His
head got too big and I'll make sure it explodes. He walks around like
he is above me, but the man has never even come close to pinning my
shoulder to the mat. He paints me as the devil, and I'll make sure at
Darkest Hour the devil is what he sees.”
I smirk as L gets something on his blue
tooth he steps away slightly, as I point out another hungry reporter.
“Who would you consider the number
one contender? I mean if you lose you don't get another shot, if you
win Val is done. So who do you think takes that spot respectively?”
“You know there are people that have
been around since day. . .”
L grabs my shoulder forcing me through
the crowd to the limo. I follow with confusion, what came through on
that head set? L open the door to the limo for me and I cram inside
as he is on my tail. Reporters financially screech out my name as L
shuts them off with a slammed door.
“What the hell is going on? More
terrorist action in Europe?”
“Not quite. I just intercepted a
phone call from your brother Mr. English. It seems your mother has
attempted suicide a few hours ago.”
“Is she with our people?”
Lawrence looks at me with concern. If
she is at the hospital and they find out what we did to her, if she
talks to the right people the whole organization could crumble.
“I don't know. . . I haven't been
able to contact Miss Hemsing.”
I pull my cellphone from my pocket and
quickly speed dial Andy's number. I hope he was smart enough to
contact our people and not call 911. I knew I shouldn't of left him
with such monumental responsibility, especially when he doesn't fully
understand the gravity of the situation. This could cause a ripple
effect that could see my championship ripped from my grasp in the
mist of controversy.
“Hello.”
“Hey Cassidy! Look I don't know what
the fuck happened everything seemed fine. She was having a good day.
God, she seemed normal for once like she was beginning to act normal.
She said she was taking a bath and. . . I found her like that.”
“Who did you call?”
I ask frantically. I understand it
seems cruel for my focus to be on my own skin, but the revolution
needs me to main the wheel; for the time being.
“The number you left me. An ambulance
arrived shortly after, but when I asked the hospital if anyone was in
they never heard of anyone coming in.”
With our people, my heart stopped
racing.
“So where the hell did you have her
taken?”
“She went to the private facility
that treated her addiction. She is in good hands Andy. She is going
to be okay I can trust the people I have over there.”
“I really tried. . . I tired to keep
an eye on her. I mean I can't watch my fuckin' mother take a bath.
Pulling her from that pull of blood, it was horrible Cassidy.”
Failure was the only words that rang in
my ears, he had one job. My mother, she had failed me yet again. Not
living up the potential I ensured she had when she left my care. My
attempt to fix my family has only complicated the entire situation
and there I was preparing to cement myself amongst wrestling’s
elite. Here I was driving another opponent from the sport out of pure
intimidation, leaving them accepting my ascendance in disgust.
Violating the chance of accomplishing their dream.
“You will be fine Andy. I'm just
going to have to leave mom with Dr. Hemsing for a while.”
“What the fuck are you talking
about?”
“Well brother plain and simple you
have proven yourself to be an inadequate care taker. You care so
deeply about mothers health then I will make sure she is healthy. I
will have my team access her and treat her. I will have them get to
the bottom of this suicide attempt.”
“I can take care of her just fine.
Things were getting better.”
“They were until she tried to kill
herself Andrew. We need to react properly to these situations and
keep her out of danger. We need to protect her from herself. I will
talk to you when I get home.”
He was too upset to be angry with me,
to feel the true harshness of my words. Then he says it.
“Good luck with your match.”
I hang up, tossing my phone beside me.
This has to happen when I am away, when I am facing Valquist with my
dignity on the line. I have everything to lose, and that withered old
man with an already storied career makes it seem like his absence
would cause some negative effect in this company. Truth be told he
never belonged here, never understood what his own mantra meant. He
only knew how to say it, not how to live it. Maybe that is the
difference between Valquist and his brother. Maybe in the ashes of
Valquist, Isis shall rise. My family has held me back too many times,
and I will not allow them to do it this time. I lift my gaze to
Lawrence smirking, trying to lighten the mood. My regular driver
says.
“It's weird being in the back of one
of these for a change.”
He is lucky his occupation isn't court
jester. I turn my head away looking out the window at the rain drops
racing each other to the edge wishing that my mother had succeeded in
her attempt. Sadly, I get the feeling my suffering is
infinite.
NOVEMBER 20TH
SHEFFIELD, ENGLAND
LEOPOLD HOTEL
EARLY MORNING
I flipped open the laptop and waited
for it to load, I pulled open the bullshit complimentary coffee
packet every hotel gives you and tossed the grounds into the machine.
Cracking my neck from side to side I opened my jaw up and down. This
is the only time Audrey could find to talk with me via Skype. The
time difference was coming back to haunt me as Darkest Hour
approached. Yesterday I received the horrible news that my mother had
attempted suicide. She wasn't exactly every the embodiment of
physical health, never quite treated her body like a temple, but I
only recall her overdosing a few times in her long illustrious
history of illicit drug use. Gently I pulled the curtains open
grabbing a white v neck from the floor to slip on with yesterdays
jeans. I toss a cup under the machine to gather the coffee and sit
down in front of the laptop with a sigh opening Skype. Audrey pops
up on my screen quickly, she wears a black blazer with an elegant
blouse underneath. Nice of her to get dressed up for the meeting.
“Hello Mr. English. It is good to see
you. How has the tour been going?”
I laugh thinking of the loss I just
endured at the hands of Matt Slater, and the attack by Heath Williams
in the parking lot last week.
“It's been interesting my first time
over here that is for sure. It has had its ups and downs. How is my
mother doing? L told me she was stable last night when I was getting
ready for bed.”
“Yeah, she was stabilized last night.
When she awoke we began talking, we talked all night and match of the
morning.”
“So what is this a relapse?”
I ask taking a sip of my black coffee
letting the warmth fall down into my stomach. A welcoming sensation
to go with such a shit tasting brew.
“No she is not going back to
addiction. That was what we successfully treated. The issue that
truly exists was underlying the addiction.”
“What do you mean? What is the
problem?”
“Trauma. When she was raped it was
traumatic and her drug addiction began as a suicide attempt. . . it
just spiraled out of control. It gave her the ability to block the
images of the rape from her mind. Something she couldn't do in a
state of sobriety.”
I shake my head as Audrey looks at me
through technology with sadness in her eyes. I take another long gulp
from my coffee. She was lying, but my mother was good at that.
“That can't be true. She was an
addict before the rape happened. It was in response to her owing
money, I have told you the story before.”
“That wasn't the first time Mr.
English. The first time was when she was 18.”
“What? What do you mean? Who raped
her?”
I already knew the answer as a lump
formed in my throat.
“Your father.”
Dr. Audrey delivered the fatal shot
that nearly broke me. I stared forward wide eyed. It explained
everything. It explained why my mother and I could never form a
relationship. It explained why no one very talked of my father, it
explained why my uncle fought so hard for custody. It explains why he
took me in. Pity. Pity I could never understand. I pulled a cigarette
slowly from out of the package that rest on the counter beside the
laptop that burned out an image of Dr. Hemsing looking at me waiting
for a reaction. I place a coffin nail in my lips and drag a lighter
up slowly.
“What is his name?”
Audrey shakes her head and raises her
hands.
“No, doctor patient confidentiality.”
“I think we have reached far beyond
the blurry line of ethics by now Miss Hemsing.”
“Mr. English there are far bigger things
at play. I feel like you need to hear the name from your
mother in person when you arrive back here. You can't have it ringing
through your mind when you are representing this organization at
Darkest Hour. You do this, you get rid of Valquist and you leave
yourself with no opposition. You define yourself as the best there in
in VoW. You have to think of the big picture here. You need to focus
on the future and not the past Mr. English.”
My hand balled into a fist, but I
released the tension to pull the cigarette from my lips. I blow a
lung full of smoke into the eye of the webcam, screening out Dr.
Hemsing mortality.
“I know you're right. It's just some
pretty messed up news to get. That you are a product of a crime. Why
didn't she get an abortion?”
“She tried, but she figured maybe
something good would come out of this tragedy.”
“Boy was she wrong.”
I say smirking as I take yet another
drag.
“You are not a bad man Mr. English.
People just don't understand your motives, or your philosophy. You
are merely misunderstood like your mother.”
“No, I'm nothing like my mother
Audrey. I am no rabbit being chased down by a fox. I am no prey. I am
the predator. I'm a bad man Audrey. The world is going to see it at
Darkest Hour, what it takes to put a man down. To destroy a worthy
advisory. You know one of the last things my Uncle told Audrey? He
said “Cassidy, kiddo.” He always fucking called me kiddo, he said
“Anger isn't a bad thing. Anger is like clay, you can force it to
be any shape you like. We can't allow our anger to just be ignorant
rage, no we can morph it into ambition, into valance. We can use it
to fuel courage, but we can never let it consume us.” You know at
that point in his disease it was so impressive he got that out, and I
never forgot it Audrey. I think it's about time I honor his mantra.”
I exit Skype, closing my eyes and
sucking back another dry hit of stale smoke. I push it out through my
nostrils. I throw back another gulp of fuel and turn my head looking
out over the balcony at the sun beginning to rise. A new day, a new
nightmare. Another step toward finality. I rub my hand over my face
letting out a silent scream. I turn my attention to the side of the
bed, the World Visionary Championship catching the light of the
rising sun. I am not seasoned as a champion, never quite figured out
how to be prey. My defense was never that acclaimed, I was always the
aggressor. Can I do it? Can I do what no one else has? Defend that
championship and prove once and for all that this is where I belong.
I open the webcam on the laptop once
again and push my face close so the tip of my cigarette is all that
can be seen. I click record and slowly back away revealing myself to
the future viewers. I laugh as I swoop up the VoW Championship and
put it on my shoulder once again where it feels most comfortable.
“Here we go again LADIES AND
GENTLEMEN OUR MAIN EVENT OF THE EVENING. . . .”
I pause once again to puff from the dry
tobacco. I lean into the camera eyes blazing with anger.
“Round 2 Valquist vs Casanova English
for the World Visionary Championship. To be quite honest I didn't
expect to see you here again. I thought I was successful in revealing
you for the true fraud you are. I guess I must do it once more. How
this industry enjoys the notion of repetition, but you set out to set
that straight don't you. You still ignorantly believe that I don't
belong here, so you want to force me out of the title picture. If you
win I can never take another crack at MY championship as long as it
remains wrongfully in your possession. Clever. I can't stand people
like you, who believe that one battle defines an entire war. No, wars
consist of many battles. You want to go all in, because you simply
don't know how much more you have in the bank. How can you not
believe that I am better than you when I pinned you after you dealt
the final strike. You hit me with whirlwind and I managed to still
pin you. Last time we met in that ring I simply out lasted you. I
simply waited you out and your body couldn't keep up with the pace of
this youngster, despite his tar filled lungs. You think that I am
going to give you the opportunity to starve me off of the VoW Main
Event then you have another thing coming. I am the VoW Main Event. I
have forced this roster to be better and better each week. I drug the
performance out a life time out of that withered old hack Matt
Slater.”
I take a huge mouthful of coffee
finishing it off, I ash my cigarette into the now empty cup washing
the coffee down by swallowing smoke.
“Your brother even doubts your
ability to take me out, he thinks that he has risen as your reaper.
No, that is me. That reality will be faced when I put you 6 feet
below the ground and bury a sad unworthy legacy in the eyes of the
visionaries. You are a coward Valquist. You claim valiance, but in
defeat you abandon infinity. You give up on your mantra and you walk
away from the ring leaving it to a man you scream out is a fraud?
What kind of champion are you? You want to be looked as honorable by
putting your career on the line, but there is no dignity in death.
You already have the cyanide on your tongue, I am merely the glass of
water you swallow it with. I didn't do this to you. I didn't put a
gun to your head, no you gave me one and you begged me to pull the
trigger. I didn't tell you to put your whole legacy up on the line
for a shot at the World Visonary Championship. No you are the one
that cannot live up to his own standards and achieve his own
potential. Valquist is his own worst enemy. Your constant pursuit for
perfection, a thing that simply does not exist in this disgust that
is the modern world you have stumbled upon your own destruction.”
“You see this as a way out, you see
this as the chance to blame it all on me. Infinity City will not
curse your name for being a coward, now they will curse me for
cutting the wings of the angel they sent. They will dub me the
sinner, me the bad guy. They will put a purple hart on your chest and
call you a wounded hero. A veteran of a blood sport who lost to a
young ignorant child who did whatever it took to keep his name in
lights. You and I both know what this is, it is a funeral. . . and
you planned it yourself. Not many get the privilege of choosing their
own demise. I don't mind being the bad guy Valquist, the world needs
one in order to face reality. If I have to be the man to bury you I
will be, I just wish that you could accept that I am the future. I
didn't beat you with a low blow, with sand in your eyes at Armed and
Dangerous. I beat you by outlasting you. That is the massive
difference between us Valquist. I don't make excuses I call things
for what they are. You say vulture, I PROVE vulture.”
I aggressively throw my cigarette into
the empty coffee mug almost knocking the championship off my
shoulder. Shaking my head in laughter as I continue insulting the
very integrity of valiance. I crack my neck back and forth lifting my
lip in the right corner before continuing.
“I am a reaction. The reaction this
world needs and if I am required to bury you alive to continue down
my path of enlightenment then I will do it happily. I will be the
first person to claim this championship, the first person to claim it
twice, and the first person to defend this championship. That will
leave my greatness unquestioned no matter how much you refuse to
believe in in the wake of your end. Your entitlement hasn't drifted,
still you take me lightly. Still these people believe that you have
something tucked up your sleeve. I'm ready for it. Ready for Isis to
rise in your wake, ready for him to attempt to save his brother. I am
ready to watch the tears roll down the face Chris and I once and for
all destroy his hero. As I once again prove that full measures is
nothing but words spoken. They don't terrify, they don't inspire, and
at Darkest Hour they will fall upon deaf ears as I remain the World
Visionary Champion.”
“I didn't do this I am merely a
reaction to inadequacy. I am just the bringer of questions. I am
tired of seeing entitled bigots like Valquist prance around like this
industry owes it something, then try and piss on the ones with enough
courage to take something from it. With the ones with enough primal
instinct to rape it.”
I almost lose my tongue as I let the
word slip and I close my eyes pausing before I continue. Thinking
about how my mother situation has defined me. How I have been forged
in hate, the messiah of sin. I was never supposed to be here, but at
Darkest Hour I prove I deserve to be.
“This isn't where I want you to be,
or want anyone to be. You misunderstand me completely though I spell
it out blatant. I want competition, I want to elevate. I didn't want
to send all these people to their fate, I merely wanted to make VoW
all it can be. I want to see the hardest workers, the most
determined, the people willing to do anything to secure victory. I
want to see the real fighters of this world emerge. There is no room
for you in this company Valquist. The ones with too much entitlement
to be second best. People like you don’t believe in second. You
thought that this was going to be a walk in the park. You thought
this was some world you could devour, and I set out to prove you
wrong. People like you aren't around her for the betterment of VoW,
of cultivating competition. No that is not the mantra of the elitist.
You want to be the best, you want to lay ruin easily and move on
adding another accolade. That's why you have you career up isn't it?
You already proved once in a fluke win that you are “deserve” to
be World Champion. That's what you aim to do again, in one lighting
strike you can be the best and not have me around to ask the question
again.”
“That isn't how it works with me Val.
No, if I lose I find a way to make sure you suffer. I make sure I am
part of that championship falling from your possession so I can scoop
it up once more and ask the question “Does Valquist deserve his
spot on top?” The truth is you fear me, you don't want to be in
that ring with me ever again because I expose the truth. You are the
one who is overrated, not me. The estimations are about exact. I am
The Vision no matter what you refuse to believe. I'm not the
pinnacle? Sure, I'll entertain the possibility that is truth. If that
is the case I will offer the assumption that the pinnacle of this
industry doesn't beat himself by hitting his own finisher. That is
just. . . sad.”
I lean into the camera smiling friendly
before I lean back casually running my hands over the World Visionary
Championship.
“I will offer mercy. Giving your body
finality it deserve, and your name the infinity it truly does not.”
“Rest in Peace.”
DARKEST HOUR
SHEFFIELD ENGLAND
MOTORPOINT ARENA
I look down at my boots at the crowd
beyond the curtain screams in anticipation of the a main event.
People all packed in to see the last time Casanova English and
Valquist battle for the World Championship. Here in this foreign land
one man cements a legacy. One man defines who they are, one man truly
rises as the true Vision.
We don't get to select the pieces that
make us up biologically; or spiritually for that matter. We don't get
a choice of the hell we are born into. We don't get to define our
suffering. We are all born a product of something, all born a
reaction. A reaction is what Valquist has dubbed me, and I will take
the moniker with pride. I am a reaction, I am brought on by the
actions of others. Set out to make things right, whether you see it
in my perspective or not. Truth is there is no good, or evil. It's
all a mater of perspective. You have to take the worst parts of
yourself and turn then into something good. Turn them into something
productive.
Make your nightmare someone elses.
I didn't come to gain, I came to take.
I came not to bring answers, but to incite question. I know why I am
the way I am now. I understand that primal need to impose my will. I
got it from my father. I got it from a man who took what he wanted at
all costs. My mothers will to survive, to continue despite her best
efforts all these years. It has created a concoction this world
hasn't seen. I wasn't supposed to make it here, no. I am the missing
link. I am the glitch in your algorithm. I am a survived abortion.
Soon I make that all irrelevant. I pave over my past with a brighter
future. I become the champion these people never expected. Tonight. .
. tonight I truly separate myself from the heard. I defend the World
Visionary Championship. I grab that brass ring once and for all after
all the wars I have waged in this VoW ring cementing it as a
legitimate organization. Now my time begins, I will burn the past.
The name of my father will be unnecessary in my venture.
The Antichrist Asexual
The Modern Day Messiah.
I was forged in hate, in sin, in
disgust. I was born in filth, smeared through the mud, and I can
never truly will wash myself clean. I am the son of sex and drugs,
I'm rock and fuckin' roll. Tonight is the night Cassidy Jones is
rightfully aborted. Tonight he is murdered. Tonight I set my sights
on a man of revere, a man they build statues for. A man that is the
physical embodiment of morality, ethics, and perfection. A projection
of everything you should aspire to me. I set out to bury him, to make
history off his name and truly leave the past behind. This is my
enlightenment, my rebirth. Maybe Valquist has succeeded, he has given
me enlightenment. . . and I shall offer him infinity. My smoky stale
breath will be synonymous with his finality, and he shall recognize
it as the kiss of death.
I will not be defined by my mother, or
my father or
Valquist.
In the Darkest Hour my gospel begins.
“And Introducing the
World Visionary Champion. . . .”
CASANOVA
ENGLISH