How to Manage Madness

    Morality. It's more of a statement then a word, but more or a question than a statement. That big question that looms over the heads of most “ordinary” individuals. Are you a good person? How many people ask themselves that in the run of a day not realizing that it is all relative. Good; evil it is all subjective. Based on the circumstances. To the blind eye it might seem heinous that 6 members of a west side street gang are beating on a middle aged white man in a prison. . . sure. You could draw that conclusion; but you would be judging a book by it's cover We should first add in a little context so you can begin to understand. What happens when that man is a rapist? When that man killed a 16 year old girl in cold blood? Is it wrong then? The question get deeper. It gets more complicated than what is on the surface. If you ask me we're all just pieces of shit. . . we just getting flushed a different times.

    Dean's eyes were finally able to open after the beating taken last week; it wouldn't help him though. He was beyond fighting back. He already felt useless, and ashamed. He already felt disgusting and used like the women he left in the street with blood warming their thighs and tears cooling their cheeks. All Dean could see was shadows as he crawled around to the sound of laughter on the floor of his jail cell like a staving dog. He just wanted it to be over for all this to end. “Just fucking kill me you cowards.”

    They just laugh at him until one larger-than life voice shouts out. “Those are not the orders. Lighten up Deany boy! We are here to have fun. You just sit back, relax, and enjoy!” The cackling echoed off the walls once more before a sharp kick popped up nailing Dean dead in the kidney. He rolled over now; his bare ass skinning across the concrete floor as he clawed his way to a wall in desperation. A puddle of piss formed around his knees as he looked up pleading before the large African American dropped his trousers. Dean knew what was going to happen next. What has been happening day after day for the past week. He was done with begging, with asking them to stop. He just opened his mouth proudly, like he wanted it.

    He knew the torture was far from over. He knew the darkness inside his son. He put the poison in his veins.


    I sat in the chair my mother had frequented for months while the good doctor attempted to determine why she was so adamant in taking her own life. It was in this chair all of the revelations came into the light. I looked across the long wood desk at Audrey who smiled elegantly, but I wasn't paying much attention to her. I was looking past her out the window to the outside world. The wind pushed rain droplets onto the glass harshly. They splattered on the window, having not chance to drip and race down. I take my focus from the window and bring my gaze to Audrey letting out a sigh. “You know there is not something exactly right with me Audrey. There is no need to sugar coat it. I know that the world has weaved it's way into my head and corrupted my mind like everyone else.” It's funny I used to think I had it beat. That I was special and different. I was able to block out the horrors of the world. Hell I had the thick war torn skin to endure it. That has changed now. “I don't think I am that special that dominate ideology has manged to find a crack in my skull and leak it's way inside. I grew up poor white trash. I grew up in a cesspool of crime and degeneration. I statistically speaking should just be another junkie. I have always defied my upbringing. I became intelligent. I immersed myself in knowledge and not just the stuff you get from a book. No I paid attention to the street because it was essential for survival. I have lived the life that so many of these young neglected Americans have and I am still hated. It's funny really.” Audrey just sat there leaning back calmly letting me talk. She didn't get many patients that ironed out their own problems in front of her. “I thought that I could just walk away from my past. I could just walk away from Cassidy Jones. I could leave him at the Toronto Sun still writing shitty articles and I could become Casanova English. A while new entity really. Now I am not that naive. You can't just walk away from your past, it will chase you down. It will follow you. It'll run you over just to back up and do it all over again. No we can't run from our past, we have to bury it. I have to once and for all bury Cassidy Jones. . . and Doctor that has to be done through burying another.” I look at Audrey, study her for a moment. She is in her late 40's by now, but she looked much older. The world had beat the hell out of her. She dedicated her life to helping others, or so she thought only to have her own daughter become addicted to the very pills she helped manufacture. It's a mixed up world. “What would you do if you caught the person that gave your daughter the pills that lead to her addiction; or the heroine that lead to her death. If you could do anything to them what would it be? Honestly.”

    She just looks blank swallowing hard. She doesn't want to admit it; she defiantly does not want to encourage it. She chokes on her pride and she spews out what I want to hear. “I would kill him.” She straightens the sleeves on her blue blouse as he reestablishes eye contact with someone who was slowly realizing may be a sociopath.

    I shake my head and smirk raising my eyebrows at Dr. Hemsing. I've been ripping my hair out thinking of my father. You know when this whole adventure began for me I thought it was my way of becoming a man. It was my way of fully discovering what it means to be a man when I never had a father figure in my life to help guide this rage and emotion into something constructive. No, I had to figure that out on my own. Judging by the hardware I hold that everyone seems to be eying up I did a good job. I didn't think my daddy or mommy issues steamed this deep and would have this psychological impact on me. I try and act like everything is smooth in paradise on camera, but the truth sneaks through if you are paying attention. I am slipping. I am atop the mountain and I am slipping. I am only realizing now how far there is to fall. I need to forcefully carve my father out of my mind. I have to put him to rest so I can be reborn. So I can fully realize my potential I must rid myself of the distraction. I have put my family back together. I fixed my mother, I put her back with Andy. It may have been unconventional but I did what I said I would do. Now I have come to the root. The very core of all our suffering and there is only one thing left to do now, and it's what I do best. Soon it will be time to pull the trigger. Time to end his misery, my families, and my own.


    You can smell the pine as you walked through the door to the old bar they call Back Alley. I would guess because of the sleazy location. I'm guessing they named it before we got so creative with the homosexual jokes. Blues music flowed from the cheap 90's speakers located in each corner. Back Alley with filled with bickers mostly who eyed me as I walked by looking for my “friend”. I straighten my suit and look around down the left side of the long pine bar, then the right. A sharp whistle grabs my ear and I slowly turn in it's direction. There she is smirking at me taking a sip of some cocktail I don't recognize. Alabama. I had never met her in person, but for some reason I have found a deep connection. I have watched tape after tape, read story after story. I talked to her on the phone for hours on end. I have witnessed what she has sounded like at her best, and at her worst. She was a manipulator, and an extraordinary actress. When I was working for the Sun as a journalist I had come across the case of the Michigan Warlock Cult. It was all centered around this 43 year old whack job named Colby Lou Bernardo he was an immigrant from France who relocated to the states. Anyway, he fell in love with the young 18 year old Alabama. See Mr. Bernardo didn't have it right all up in his head to say the least, but man could he cook the fuck out of meth; as the story goes. Anyway 43 year old goes to this high school party, gets all these kids wrecked on his crystal and boom, he basically has a race of little slaves. At his side was his queen.

    He had these teenagers convinced that he was some warlock that had these special powers. He died his hair white, he got white contacts. He started to only respond to the moniker “White Wizard”. Stuck in a permanent state of D&D. This all came to a grand conclusion when he told his subjects they needed to free themselves of the brainwashing. They needed to leave this planet for eternal peace, and they would return with vengeance one day along with Jesus and the 4 horseman. . . sounded logical. Logical enough for these kids to drink the Koolaid. Literally, blue raspberry Koolaid spiked with poison. Alabama didn't drink it, she left. She escaped. The White Wizard told her his plan every step of the way. She was scared, and manipulated, traumatized. Now she was the only one left to tell the story, the face of America's surviving innocents. That is the story the paper wrote, the story your mom and dad ate up to sleep at night. That sure as hell wasn't the story I was writing. I didn't publish it, not because I didn't have enough proof. No, for a second I saw things Alabama’s way. I remember what it was like to be 18 wanting to see what it was like for the world to burn, besides she has done nothing but behave since being let out of prison on a slack 1 year sentence, probation, and mental heath service. She knew how to play the game. She ate the system from the inside out. There were some funny connections between Alabama and all the other students of The Michigan Warlock Cult. No time for all that now. “Well Alabama it is nice to meet you face to face after all these years.” I reach my hand out and she gently places it in mine enticing me to kiss it. I oblige, and take a seat. “It must be rather strange me reaching out after so many years.”

    “Oh love, I am much use to the rather strange.” She assures sipping sexually from her straw.

    “I'm not here to pry any more details from you about the Michigan Warlock Cult. I am not trying to bring you to the light anymore.”

    “Well good, but ever since you presented me your little paper I have established a rather robust legal council should things go South.” She was confident, she wasn't afraid of me. She never was. She was the victim, or at least she played that role so well anyone would believe it. I would come out as some prick that harassed a lady who made a mistake and it just trying to continue on with her existence.

    “It's a long story.” I pull a cigarette from my pocket, place it in my lips, and light it. It's a quick motion as I want to continue. “ I have learned some things about my past. Some unfortunate things and it has caused me to develop some strange feelings. There is action that must take place, but I need to know how it should be done.” I take two sharp puffs and blow a big smoke ring into the bar.

    “Well what's your sickness?” She asks bluntly, not even giving a second to silence.

    How do you explain to someone you are a functioning sociopath, I guess it takes one to know one. “I don't have a sickness.”

    She smirked plucking the cigarette from my finger tips spinning it around in her fingers until she elegantly glides it to those beautiful blood red lips. “My dear. . .” She said inhaling past that vulgar mouth, pulling the smoke past her thin throat and into her lungs. Her breast fluffed out gently. I could watch it like a trail as her muscles flexed with the motions. She exhaled a cloud in my face as she stated ignorantly. . . “We're all sick.”

    I don't know why I believe she can help me, but Alabama is the only person I have ever known able to make insanity. . . beautiful. She hid it beneath bright blue eyes and a glowing smile. She was innocents, even in her 30's she still looked 18 fresh and new. It was disturbing the darkness that was I knew was stashed beneath skin deep desire.

    There is this ancient technique I am sure you have heard of it before. When you are bit by a snake and poison courses through your veins with intent to annihilate your biological functions someone can actually place their mouth every so gently over the the wound and suck the venom out before the damage is done. Who better than someone who has been bit before? Someone who has learned to live with poison in her veins? Then again, maybe she is the venomous snake herself. It's a risk I'll take to watch him bleed.



 



    This is where their mother had grown up, her child hood home that now belonged to her brother's widow. Andy stood there in front yard breathing heavy from the jog there. He hadn’t told his mother that he was going to stop up here. If she knew she would only want to tag along. Sweat powered from Andrew's forehead down onto the Under Armor short sleeve shirt that hugged his athletic build snug. He ran his hands through his hair, swallowed hard, and begin to stride toward. The farmhouse stared down at him more intensely as he approached. Andy almost just swung the door open from instinct, but he was weary to startle Mary. He raps on the door a few times and it's not long before he can her his aunt hurrying toward the door.

    “Oh Andrew what a delight. It's been months since I have seen you. Don't mind the mess.” In the years since his Uncle's passing Mary had developed a hording problem. She never did get rid of anything that was his. His coat still hung in the closet, his shoes still rested at the door like he was still home and comfortable. Giving you the sick impression he was upstairs napping, or taking a shit. She never intended it to be that way; or to give off that impression. Mary just knew the second she put all those worldly tangible items away that really meant he was gone. She didn’t have the courage to visit a lot in those final moments; no one but Casanova really did. She never gave up hope, she always thought he would be coming home. She believed that he would wake up and be cured one day. The false hope that faith presents can be tragic.

    These worldly items that sat creepily rested and neat was one of the reasons that Andy didn't visit very often. “Yeah I am sorry that I haven't had the chance to come up and visit. I was out for a jog and I thought I should stop in.” Andrew kicked off his running shoes and walked into the large dinning room. A crystal chandelier hung over the table elegantly. It was the most expensive item in the house. It was something that Mary always wanted and come hell or high water Andy's Uncle was going to give it to her. It seemed simple, but Mary liked crystal, and diamonds, and gold. Not that she was greedy; she appreciated the beauty rather then the value.

    “Would you like a coffee or anything Andy? I have tea, water, orange juice?” Mary says.

    “Yeah a coffee would be great.” Andy pulls a chair out and exhales deeply trying to figure out how he is going to ask the question.

    It's not long before Mary is back in the room with a red mug of coffee. Andy takes a sip and leans back in her chair as his aunty takes a seat on the other side of the table holding her flower pattern coffee mug with two small frail hands; as if she was incapable of lifting it to her lips with the effort of one. “So how have you been Andrew? I know that Cassidy has taken this wrestling thing to the moon so I hear.” She cracked a smile. Obviously she didn't watch the violence her nephew took part in. In a way she tried to stay distant. The Jones Family was toxic. She salvaged the best part in their uncle, but he was gone now and these people who look more like ruins have been left in his absence.

    “You know I have been good. Living with mom and taking care of her now.” Andy says rubbing a little sweat from his face. He takes a gulp of coffee.

    “Is she doing better now? I know it has been a long hard battle for your mother dear.” She sounded sincere, but Andrew knew the reality. He knew that his Aunt Mary hated his mother. After all she was the one that caved in the whole family.

    Aunt Mary raised Andrew though they were never really close. Mary wasn't close with anyone but her best friend Audrey and her cousins. “Yeah she is doing amazing. There was some snags here and there, but now she is fully recovered I think.” He takes a small pause and another sip of coffee. “Then again is an addict ever really recovered?”

    “I like to think it is possible my Dear.” Mary sat her mug down, and placed a hand on Andy's wrist for comfort.

    He lifted his head to make eye contact with his Aunt's soft soul, she didn't stay away because she was bitter. She was just not strong; she rusted easy. Probably the same reason she didn't visit Andy's Uncle after her forgot her name. “We both know that the drugs were not the main reason for her struggles.” He takes sip of his coffee again, as Aunt Mary removes her hand from his wrist. “We all know it revolves around Casanova; the whole fucking world does. I know the circumstances of his birth.” Andy shakes his head in disappointed “Why didn't you tell us? Why didn't you tell him?”

    Her face changed from a smile, but it wasn't sadness that replaced it. It was a void. Aunt Mary just stared blank at Andy. “To protect you. To protect him.” She shakes her head now letting out a sigh. “Cassidy always had their strange aura about him. If he wanted something he would do whatever it took to accomplish it. It wasn't even that he was a hard worker. He just knew how to manipulate. It could have been the environment he grew up in, or the role he took on as man of the house at an early age.” She swallowed hard. “He had this genius about him, but your Uncle and I knew that he could focus that in terrible ways. If he knew who his father was, or what his father did. We knew he would hunt him down; he would kill himself trying to find his father.”

    “That's what I am worried about Mary.” Andrew stands up and begins stretching his legs awkwardly, casually even to begin his run home. “Now he knows. . . I don't know why everyone thinks they were protecting Cassidy. He never needed to be saved; he never wanted to be.” Slowly Andy was beginning to understand his brother. He is slowly finding out what makes him tick, and the resentment he held toward him and his success was voided.

    He already found him, it was too late. For years all Mary did was delay destiny, delay fate. Not Casanova's. . . his fathers.


    “Do you want me to watch your back this week? You do remember when Heath jumped you and Matt in a parking lot like some deranged lunatic don't you?”

    “I will give him the benefit of the doubt this week Corpse. Long term Heath is something I don't have to worry myself with anyway. He has that noggin' of his all racked over the break up with Tyron and his struggle with establishing a clear mind.” I respond looking out the window at the passing streetlights. Lawrence drove the limo through the streets of Chicago slowly making our way to the hotel.

    “You know last time you faced off it seemed like he was pretty close to beating you.” I shook my head and let out a snicker at Corpse.

    “Robinson had it under control. I needed Robinson to pick up that win, he proved that The Orphanage was a cohesive unit that night is the way I look at it. Almost gets absolutely nothing done in this business.” I rub my hand over the gold I bled for. It rested on my lap where it was almost developing a groove

    “How was the meeting with your father?” Corpse knew too much already, but he was essential piece to the plan anyway.

    “Oh you know, the usual. Just lifting the poor bastards spirits. You have got in contact with Stu regarding my next visit?” I ask, I need his tech savvy skill if I am going to pull off this plan.

    “Yeah I have been in contact and he will be on location. Are you sure you want to go through with this?” Corpse asks tentatively. He knows what he would want to do, he just doesn't know he would have the balls to commit to it.

    “I am sure. I have it under control. Just like I have Heath under control this week. I'm not going to let him beat me.” That is what I thought about Kincaid, but he put me down in a hail marry that I didn't see coming. “I know Heath Williams, I have seen people like him. I have dealt with people like him. Hell him and I even have our similarities. At this point with is sobriety battle, he is in a far worse position than I. Trust me Softcore Heath has nothing on me Corpse. After I make a fool out of him it is back on track with Ryder. I smeared his face into that cake, and that was very very light for what I have planned for that arrogant little fuck. Don't be worried about this whole thing with my father. It's about to come to a close then it's back on track like I just said. I'll be fully devoted to the ring and continue the dominance of The Orphanage.” To be honest Heath Williams was the perfect opponent this week, not underestimating him, but he is also distracted. He is focused on something else and in a way that evens the playing field. I can deal with Daddy and have Heath calling me by that name come Breakthrough.

    I nodded my head in confidence at Corpse; but he could see through it. He could see I was battling inside my head with the thoughts out taking a mans life. I want to tell you I am concrete, that I am unshakable, but there are somethings you just can't turn back from. That is why I reached out to Alabama. . . she understands how to manage madness. How to use it when necessary and when to hide it. I was literally seeing them all as sheep, not just the fans. Everyone, my father the head of the heard and more and more I think is any of it worth it? Does The Orphanage serve a purpose, or it is just another regimen with the same ideals of the old world, just doctored up with a more fancy definition directly derived from my vocal cords. There Corpse sat, his eyes wide looking at me with concern. Worried of my well being. Worried that the Sheppard my fall and he will have no idea where to flock.

    Fucking sheep.



    I stood in the center of the larger arena. This isn't were VoW would be preforming, but to me it held a special significance. You could feel the aura of the building, the champions that had walked through the door. I inhaled my cigarette deeply and exhaled into the arena. I placed the camera on the banister and stepped back. I blow a cloud in it's direction as the so called scene opens. “Heath Williams the last thing I need to do for you is explain who I am. I can envision the room of my images with my eyes cut out, or your face plastered over mine as I hoist the World Visionaries Championship. I want to call it unhealthy, but maybe it's good to recognize your obsessions. Maybe, just maybe I can be the one that helps with this whole sobriety thing. See I can see it in your eyes already. I could see it when you attacked me in a parking lot in the UK. Getting in the ring with me is the biggest high you have encountered in a long long time. I gave you that first rush like it was a freshman boner. So you know, facing me might be a good thing. No amount of dank in the known universe is going to open your cranium like being in the ring with Casanova English. I mean that in more way than one Mr. Hardcore.”

    I pace around my dress shoes obnoxiously snapping against the concrete floor or the arena, complementing my full suit. The Visionaries World Championship hung sung to my shoulder as toxic fumes of synthetic tobacco swirled around it. “You say that you walk into a place and you target one guy, there is one guy that is the standard that manages to somehow outshine the rest. I wonder how Ryder would feel hearing that statement. The little shit is probably too busy picking frosting out of his teeth. A very soft punishment if you ask me. Heath you aren't reveling anything here I don't already know. I know there is a target strapped around my waist. I understand that people like you are going to line up as they have been to challenge attempting to make a name off of mine. It's not happening, you just don't got the grit for it Heath. Not anymore. People look at you and they see a lunatic, a badass. I see a joke. Now I understand you say some things for comic relief, but that isn't what I am referring to here. I am referring to you as a person, as a fully functional being. You are a joke. You are so afraid to be alone. You don't have Tyron anymore and you don't know where that leaves you. You captured the I4NI Championship and it' still not good enough. You need to have what is mine you narcissists. Without the support of Tyron you are lost, you turn to drugs for guidance. You can't even appreciate what you have. You want to swim outside your stream and into the ocean where the great white lay and wait with your scent of blood floating though the salt stained water.” I flick off the ash of my cigarette and strut a little closer to the camera.

    “I admire the spunk and determination to give everything you have into tearing me down. I see the risks you are willing to take to put me down and prove that you're the better man, but sometimes all that effort is for nothing, and I hope you are the type of man to accept that. Valquist couldn’t, Star couldn't, V couldn't. . . What happens when you finally come to the realization that you are not good enough. You have dedicated your entire life to the sport, and still you are not as good as Casanova English.”

    “Actually Heath you should move here. You and this city have all kinds of similarities. Chicago is beautiful, it has entertainment, it has economic promise. . . but what flourishes. . . crime. One of the most crime stricken cities in the United States with all of the opportunity to be an amazing city. . . with all the opportunity to help dreams. Yet it lends itself to crime of an organized nature, corruption, and greed. It gets swallowed up in its own vices, never to fully discover it's potential. It's funny really, and to me is has no excuse. Just as you don't for not beating me the first time around, I mean. . . sometimes you just have to admit it. You are good, but you are not good enough. Maybe if you were able to focus, but the truth is Heath Tyron has already got into your head.” I point to my temple with the light cigarette still dangling from between my fingers.

    “Let me just explain here. What is the point of being sober?” I had the same question about insanity it's why I talked to Alabama and why she has been consulting me of sorts as I go about ridding the world or my father. “I mean in reality you have got the job done perfectly effectively up till this point. Sure you haven't beaten me, and you don't have the privilege of hoisting this World Visionaries Championship, but I mean put it all into perspective you melodramatic little fuck. Take a look at your journey here. You went from a fairly successful tag wrestler with Tyron into an established singles wrestler. I mean you beat Tyler Storm and you captured the I4NI Championship. A belt that honestly seems like it was made for you. Still you aren't happy. What is it with this generation of people that cannot leave well enough alone and appreciate what they have? There has to be negative spin to everything so everyone feels sorry for you. Anyway, long story short Tyron is jealous. He couldn't get the job done with you and establish yourself as the dominate tag team in VoW and now he has subconsciously concluded that you carried his lard ass to the top and he doesn't want to face reality. Now Heath, the thing is Tyron is smarter than you. He has messed with your head, he has you more worried about being sober than beating the World Champion. Come on, you know the rush off that would be far more stimulating than the most rare of exotic designer drug on the blackened market. If something isn't broke don't fix it. Especially before the biggest match of your life kid. You worry about Casanova and then, you deal with your pudgy little problem.”

    “In all honesty I wish you the best in sobriety, if you really need a hand reach out to The Orphanage. I do have a method that is very effective in treating mental illness and addiction.” I flash a sinister grin at the camera, but they had no idea that I was referring to what transpired with my mother over the last year. “Heath you need to be happy with what you have. You are a champion, sure it's not the biggest prize in VoW, but at least it something. At least you can wake up every day and tell yourself it wasn't for nothing. That is a cute little thing to remember at the end of that day when you wake up and look up at the bright ceiling lights. I know you will do whatever it takes to get this championship, and Heath I have no plans on allowing it to fall from my grasp any time soon so we are going to be in each others lives for a very very long time it would seem. A long time until it comes to that final moment, where I have no other choice but to put you down. You either got too old, got too boring, got too aggressive, or simply wouldn't stop humping my leg. Whatever it is I know that Heath Williams will be another career not that I want to end, but I have to end. I serve that necessary function. You want to be nothing but the best, I respect that. When that is unobtainable, when I send you back to whatever butt fuck hole in the wall you crawled out from that is on you. You came hunting for English, you got in my way. You did this to yourself like every man and woman that came before you attempting to claim my glory. See I take a lot out of people, you can argue it all you want, but look at the last person that gave it their all against me. Kincaid, he brought it and he beat me and now what? His career is a shell of what it was. Already he lost to Katie, and who knows the next time we will see him in a VoW ring. See I play the long game Heath. I don't simply target people as the benchmark.” I take three sharp puffs and expel them with laughter. “That is sad and pathetic. I become the benchmark, I establish it and I depict that each and every week through constancy. There is a reason I have been in this position for so long Williams and I will show that to you again at Breakthrough.”

    “I know you aren't stupid, crazy, addicted, but not stupid. You understand that this is a trial run, that this could get you to bigger and better things. Just don't complain when your choking because you bit off way more then you can naw on.” I bite at the camera and shake my head sarcastically pushing smoke between my teeth. I smirk fixing my hair and propping the championship back up properly “You know I decided to come to this arena for a specific reason. I came here because it is a mecca of championship teams. I am no NBA fan, but I know the history of how well the Chicago Bulls have done historically. I am much more of a hockey fan given my Canadian heritage. One of the teams I loath the most is the Blackhawks. I hate them because not only are they a dynasty team, and members of the original six, but over the past few years they have been unstoppable. You know you are doing something right when you are one of the most loved and hated teams in the league. They have been unstoppable for the past few years, that is until this year. St Louis eliminated them in the first round to the disbelief of many fans. I came here because this building is fresh with the ghost of failure. See at Fate of the Gods after this battle with Heath I will be facing Ryder Blade. Both of us have these crazy records, bout of us are performers. Both of us are the center of attention and the question is. . . is there room for the two of us at the top? One of us will have out pride filled with the feeling of failure, and one of us is going to have to live with that. That's the question can you Ryder? Can you Heath when you finally get the chance to compete for this championship? It hangs on my shoulder like an omen. Even the mysterious mannequin lover was too scared to reach out and touch it. We can roll around in this ring over and over, but it comes down to that elimination game 7 eventually. One of us won't be coming back. . . there is one thing to know for sure. The Modern Day Messiah will always rise again.”

I toss my cigarette on the ground and stomp it out with my foot before looking up the rafters at the championship banners that hang proudly around the arena. This city full of potential had it's pieces of hope within its pits of despair. I'm growing to like it here. It was raw, uneven. . . and real. Maybe I should be the one to move here.



    My ears seemed to perk up with every breath he took like he was insulting me. Like every piece of air that escaped his evil lungs was a derogatory comment on my existence. I wanted to climb over the table and bite into the side of his cheek. I wanted to disfigure him, he looked too much like me. He looked too much like a mirror. This is what I would become, a sick bitter evil old fuck rotting all alone. He didn't blink much as he glared at me with hate nearly equivalent to what I had manifested for him. “How have you been?” He grunts at me smirking with the side of his mouth. “I know, I know my forms of torture have been rather generic and boring. I have just been busy with so many other things. I do have a reputation to maintain. I am guessing you have put two and two together on that one though haven't you?” I lean in close to him, so close he could bite me, he could headbutt me, but he just sits still as I whisper in his ear with hot air. “I have eyes, and ears. . . everywhere.” I laugh slightly before slither back into my seat.

    Clearly father had no interest in speaking with me. How could I blame him? I've had him beaten, I have had him humiliated. I have caused him to be alone, cut him off socially from the rest of the prison. He became everyone fuck doll, and was to be used as such. The place where remorse usually sits, that's been washed away. “You always knew you were going to die here.” I raise my eye brows leaning in once again. “You just never imagined it would be like this. You never imaged that your own son would hunt you down and take back the childhood you robbed him. See now Dean, now you are my toy. You are my play thing. I am going to use you for MY pleasure. Does that sound familiar?” There was shame in his eyes before he blinked hard and shot them to the ground. Maybe there were others, maybe he was the father of other abominations all over the globe. “You are doctor Frankenstein and I have come back to destroy your world. This abomination you intended to leave in the gutter as blood between a woman’s thighs manged to survive off the scum you left behind and now I am here in the form of the reaper to relieve you of your existence.”

    “I am a little unconventional though Dean. I don't want to do it myself. I want you to do it. I want to see you admit defeat Dean.” I pull it out of my pocket, a dark gray glock. I gently slide it in his direction. His fingers twitch wanting to grab for it. I nod. “Go ahead. This is your chance. This is your chance to wipe the slate clean. This is your chance to walk away from it all. You can end your pain and mine.” He slowly picked up the glock with a moist palm and put the gun barrel into his mouth. I smiled wide with approval as he placed it hand on the trigger. Suddenly his expression changes and he twists the weapon in my direction. His hands shake as I raise mine shocked. I hold my hands up, and he does it. He proves that I am his boy once again. The level of guts. The will to not give up. . .

    He pulls the trigger.

    “BANG!”

    “BANG!” I slam my hand against the table again.

    “BANG BANNNGGG! HAHAHAHAHAHA” I laugh, and I laugh until tears pour out of my eyes and he frantically clicks the trigger over and over to the side of his head with the expression of complete exhaustion. It's not loaded, in times of intensity you lose focus of the details, you jump the gun. Horrible pun. I stop laughing, snapping my gaze sharply to my fathers beat red broken face. He holds the gun out once more pointing in my direction and I push a cigarette between my lips. I light the cigarette calmly and slide it gently into the barrel of the gun my dad holds out still in my direction. Smoke floats from it's tip.

    It's funny I had seen the look before. In the face of every opponent, even Heath Williams. They were so convinced that the gun was loaded. That all they had to do was pull the trigger. Yeah, I have witnessed that look week in and week out. The same one that hung off my fathers face as he let the weight of the gun drag his hand down smashing it on the table. He was so convinced that my day had come, that his suffering would be over and this would be his last act of defiance. He nor Heath would be that lucky.