Pistols at Dawn Jun 11, 2016 22:43:13 GMT -6
Post by English/Corpse on Jun 11, 2016 22:43:13 GMT -6
A Casanova English Original
Pistols at Dawn
“The fight is won or lost far away from witnesses - behind the lines, in the gym, and out there on the road, long before I dance under those lights.”
PRINCE EDWARD ISLAND, CANADA
A Casanova English Original
Pistols at Dawn
“The fight is won or lost far away from witnesses - behind the lines, in the gym, and out there on the road, long before I dance under those lights.”
PRINCE EDWARD ISLAND, CANADA
An alien like insectoid arm reaches out over the linoleum slowly pulling itself out of the drawer up onto the smooth counter-top; a simple cockroach. The creature floats it's skinny fur lined legs beneath itself scurrying across a reflective surface that was so clean it directly reflected light. Everything else was shiny, brilliant . . .white. It was hospital quality sanitary, but here this little disgusting bacteria ridden insect has managed to find it's way here. Here in the sanitation this bug has managed to find peace and serenity. It didn't just survive; It found a way to strive. Every crumb a victory. His black beady little eyes float around the room; his antenna outstretched proudly until the phone book came down. “Gross.” Darla Jones says as she flips the book over to see the mangled corpse of her victim.
“Christ mom that was a big one.” Andy pushed a dish cloth from under the sink and wiped the spot where the insect has been disintegrated. Andy threw the cloth back into the silver sink as his mother slowly began to run the tap. Slowly soapy water filled up around a few dishes. He wanted to ask her, it's been days since the news came out about the riot in Bath. A riot in the very prison where Casanova's father was being held. In the riot there were two casualties a guard; and Dean MacDonald himself; his mothers rapist. There was no question that Cass had played a role in the murder. Andy and his mom didn't discuss it when they past the news paper stand. They didn't talk about it when the TV reported on the incident. They didn't even talk about it when Auntie called Darla and they had their first conversation in years. Andy had only heard one side of that conversation, and it was from his Aunt. It felt tense in that house. Andy didn't know how to ask. He didn't even discuss the rape with his mother in any sort of detail. “You hear from Casanova?” He asks trying to start the conversation; maybe he could steer it in that direction.
“No. I haven't.” She said cheerfully. “What do you want for supper tonight? Oh! I know. I'll head down and get some fresh seafood!” She was hesitantly changing the conversation away from her eldest son.
Andy was persistent though. “Yeah I haven't heard from him either. He has a pretty big match coming up at this PPV. I was thinking about flying out to see it.”
“Oh that's nice dear.” Darla said scrubbing hard at a stubborn pile of caked up ketchup.
“Well I was wondering if you wanted to come with it St. Paul.” Andy says.
“Oh dear! I would love to, but you know I don't have a passport. I don’t think that they would let me in with my past record.” She was making excuses. She didn't want to see her son. She didn't want to look into the eyes of a killer; not again. The man that took her innocents finally accomplished taking her sons as well. She thrust her eyes down and tried to focus on those pieces of glass in water. Something simple. She just wanted to drown out Andy and his inquiry.
Andy put his arm over his mothers shoulders looking out the window in front of the sink. The wind gently blew, but off in the distance over the flat green plains clouds of a dark gray accumulated. “Cass is pretty smart. I am sure he could get you to the event one way or another.” He could feel his mother tense up. So he drags his arm off her shoulders with a sigh, and struts backwards toward the kitchen table. It's quiet, a three second silence that seemed like it spanned a life time before Andy asks his voice cracking. “Do you think he is okay?”
Darla's looks up from the dishes she is washing and out the window looking to the field. Clouds darkened a black in the distance and she could swear she could hear thunder rumbling. She could feel the static of lighting. “No.” She says coldly as she just looks at the pending storm forming. “Some things you can never come back from son.” She knew that more than anyone. A sheet of rain pours across the field at rapid speed toward the house. She didn't have time to shut the window in front of her. She had no ambition to. She shut it lightly; slowly. . .only when the cool rush of rain splashed into the dirty dishwater.
BATH, ONTARIO CANADA
BATH, ONTARIO CANADA
A calloused finger gently scratched a strong jawline resting under a 5 o'clock shadow. The engine of the blacked out Cadillac came to a halt with the turn of a key. It didn't sound that pretty misfiring on one cylinder, but it's appearance was sleek and classy. The black reflected the scenery around it like it were glass; freshly polished. Detective Oliver Kuban let his grip off the wheel as he sighed looking at the massive jailhouse before him. He has been here before; but not as any form of authority. No, his undercover work in narcotics brought him here for a full one year stint. Oliver was 42 now, he had given a portion of his 20's and all of his 30's to undercover narcotics work that lead to the biggest drug seize in Canadian history. After all that work, after all that bloodshed they paid him and gave him the option of witness protection or working with internal affairs. After all he had cleaned out the Toronto Police Department of 12 internal crooked cops related to crime syndicates. Why not do internal affairs? He was already a fuckin' snitch right? That's what they spewed at him when they found out who he was. . . the criminals. . . the police. Fuckin' snitch. You are gonna die. The treats still rang in his ears, but here he was. He wasn't a runner. Oliver pulled a tiny bag of coke from the dash and flicked the bag embarrassingly.
“Shit.” Darting his bald head around in paranoia Oliver knocks some white onto the knuckle of his thumb, and shoves it up his nose. The drug soars through the nasal highway directly to his brain, and his eyes widen. Letting out a euphoric sigh Oliver opens the door of his Caddy with a creek smashing his dress shoes to the pavement below. He trotted forward with intent toward the crime scene.
No guards were allowed in the room. Two officers stand there over the first body the one that Kuban came here for. He would take a look at Dean MacDonald, but truth be told not one law official in that building gave a fuck about a serial rapist. This guy on the floor though. This guy was his brother. This guy was an officer of the law and he was stabbed six times in the kidney from the back; didn't see it coming. Oliver knew. . . you never did. “Lewis Connolly.” An Asian officer said shaking his head left to right in sorrow. “Was ah 27. Pretty young. It is a damn shame.”
Oliver keeled down now looking at the body a little closer. “Forensics already did everything they needed?”
“Yeah.” The larger officer replied. “Yeah they did all they need to. They just want your opinion.”
Oliver slides on a single black glove and un-tucks the beige blood stained uniform lifting it slightly to inspect the wounds beneath. They looked like they were done my something jagged. Not a knife. Something made. Probably a sharped toothbrush. Something made by one of the convicts inside. The question was as it always was with these types of cases. Did another guard set this up? Did they commit the crime to pin it on one of these life long criminals? Honestly it would have been all swept under the rug. I mean it didn't look that messed up. A convict with his throat slit, a guard stabbed. To Oliver it looked cut and dry. The guard walked up upon the wrong scene and paid the price. It wasn't that simple though. This happened in the middle of a riot. A riot that has absolutely no footage. All the tapes whipped clean. Someone wanted Lewis dead. The question was why? It seemed like an awful lot of trouble. “So the cameras are all wiped eh?” He shoots his eyes up to both the officers who nod confirming. “In the middle of a riot that was isolated. . . I mean as far as you know these are the only people that weren't down on the floor for the riot?” Once again they nod as Oliver sighs raising to his feet. The coke was just beginning to really hit and he tilted his head back toward the blinding ceiling light almost laughing. He controls it though, not getting lost in that rush. Not letting it get the best of him. He was good at that. “It had to be an inside job then. Someone had to want Oliver dead? There is no way someone could buy all this. Did either of you grab his address?”
The Asian officer presents a note pad. “Take it. It's your case. I took a few notes. I got some basic information like where he lives. His friends. . . basic shit.” He shrugs as he slaps his partner on the shoulders suggesting they should get some lunch.
Detective Oliver Kuban lets out another sigh looking the corpse of Lewis up and down. He walks up the hallway further to see the other body the guy he couldn't care about. When Dean got arrested Oliver was just getting his legs in the police world. Oliver peered into the room, the lights were off. He could see the shadow of the long haired man. He was leaned all the way back in his chair, his arms hung lazily by his side. His neck cut wide open. “Piece of shit.” Oliver scoffed and spit on the ground before turning around.
This one was complicated. That's what you get for yelling at the boss for not seeing any action in years. After coming out of narcotics Oliver had been behind a desk mostly. Occasionally looking into cops who pulled teenagers from their cars and beat the shit out of them for no reason. This gross misconduct cases the news stations live for these days. Oliver slowly walked toward the body of the deceased guard once more. After here the next place to investigate would be Lewis Connolly’s apartment.
THE ORPHANAGE HEADQUARTERS
ST. PAUL, MINNESOTA
THE ORPHANAGE HEADQUARTERS
ST. PAUL, MINNESOTA
“Just. . . fuck. . . leave me alone.” I slurred at Corpse. He had been grilling all night over my drinking; over getting more focused on this mach with that man child. Fuck him. . . fuck it all. I made my fucking money. I put my name in lights. I did what I set out to fucking do.
“Come on Cass. Let's just get you home and into bed.” Corpse wasn't talking in anger and frustration, but he was trying desperately to sound calm. He seemed fearful for my well being. My well being? I don't need a babysitter. I father all these orphans. I brought them in. I fed them, gave them shelter. Ungrateful.
“Get out of my office. I'm fine. I am stayin' here tonight.” I shakily pour another glass of whiskey and glare at the VoW World Championship beside it that rest on my desk. I didn't feel like a champion today; didn't want to play that role.
“You have been here the last three nights.” He paused with concern, my drunken ears barely noticing. “Cass; just let Lawrence take you to your old apartment. It might make you feel better. I mean that was the place this all this kicked off.” All this; the wrestling; The Orphanage. That was all up in my head long before I signed with VoW. It wasn't destiny. I willed it. I created my own fate. “That was the place that you called home your first few months with VoW. Might be nice to just try and start over. . .”
My anger wasn't there anymore as I let out a puff of exhausted hot air and shot a look I usually reserve for the ring directly toward my companion. “Shut the door. Get the fuck out of my office. You have no idea what it's like . . .” I sounded like a sad little teenage girl. You don't know how hard life can be. You don't understand what is is like to be me! Fuck, I sounded pathetic and I didn't need Corpse witnessing anymore of my decline. I slowly held the whiskey up to Corpse smirking. “Good night.” I sipped gently as he shook his head. His large hand almost pulled the door from it's frame as he slammed it shut. A deafening silence followed. I lived it for a while closing my eyes, tasting the brown release from the crystal glass. I savored it on my tongue letting the alcohol gently burn my taste buds before launching it down my throat like a seasoned porn actress.
I don't know how long I sat there and just poured glasses, but the whole bottle was need empty. Johnny Walker I had saved for a special occasion. I guess that occasion was my depression, my downfall. With my father gone. . . I could start new. I could define myself; but I didn't know how. I lost track of who I wanted to be in my mission to win this title. In my mission to end careers. Weed the strong from the week. In my mission to take. . . his life. I lifted the glass to take another sip, but it slipped through my fingers and bounced along the floor not breaking. “Fuck!” I said licking my lips as I used everything it took to lift my head. I wanted to drift off to slumber, but for some reason my body fought it. My eyelids flicking I pushed a cigarette between my lips. I slapped all over my person looking for a source of fire. I sighed when my search came up short; but from the corner of my eye a hand reached out and lit my smoke. I inhaled passionately; exhaling orgasmicly. “Jesus Christ thank you.” I said, before I realize I should be the only one in the room. My throat tightens. This is what I hated about getting fucked up. You get to the point where you can't defend yourself. Footsteps echoed behind me. “Who? Who are you?” I question.
The voice came like thunder. It shot up my spine and rattled me to the core. “Boy you thought you could get rid of me? We just fucking met.” He walked in front of me now; my father. It was the first time I truly saw him standing. His spine was board straight as he gnawed on the end of a cigar that protruded out of his mess of a beard. “I bite em' so that you get a little more of the flavor. Know what I mean boy?” Boy, he called me boy. Rage blossomed as I snickered sucking back on my own thinner stick of cancer. He wasn't dressed in the prison jump suit. Now in the afterlife he wore a full suit. This couldn’t be real. . . I watched him die. “I was inside your mom and now little Cassidy I am inside you. You weren’t even man enough to cut my throat yourself. Look at this!” He floats his head back exposing his open gash. I could see boney portions of his spine as he let his head fall further and further back. It turned my stomach, but I wouldn't let him know. After all he was just in my head. . . I wasn't that fucked up . . . he was just in my head. He flipped his head back with a sickening snap. The flesh and bone clanked back together. He laughed now as he paced the room. “You haven't been preforming too hot these days huh? I really messed with that head of yours. The way you do with your opponents. I saw you snapped against Constance last week. Anger gets the best of ya. Like father like son.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Snapped? Huh, she wanted to treat it like a title match. She wanted to put me in that position with my back against the wall. She was the one that wanted to see ego; she didn't want it to be a straight up wrestling match. No she wanted her time in the spotlight, to let it be known that we are the reflection of what champions should be. She wanted ego, and I gave her ego. She wants to push Casanova then she will get what's coming. I've never been too worried about wins and losses. Those are small battles compared to the much greater war father.” I said with a smile removing the cap from the liquor bottle. I placed my cigarette in my freehand blowing smoke in the direction of the apparition.
“Whatever you want to tell ya self.” He said pulling a lighter up to his cigar. He puffed on it a few times looking me up and down. “I can't believe something as pathetic and sad as you is from my loins. You are a coward. You take a DQ against Constance; you win against Iser on a technicality. You are no champion. You are not what a champion should be.”
“No shit.” I remark coldly. “You had me born a peasant; the child of a serial rapist. A survived abortion. . .” I shake my head before pouring my mouth full of liquor directly from the bottle. “I never was. I never was to represent what a champion should be; I represent what a champion can be. You don't need to be cut from the cloth, a member of the Illuminati, or part of the 1% to accomplish your dreams. The message just gets all fucked up in their little minds. I'm not a bad person.”
“Not a bad person . . .” He takes a few steps towards me, but I paid no attention fumbling for the glass on the floor. “What about that guard? He did nothing to you. He was a loyal subject setting me up perfectly in your little trap.”
“I needed to cover my tracks.” I say pulling the glass up in triumph. I poured some more Johnny Walker into it shaking slightly; not from fear, but from the liquor itself.
“Bullshit; you are a fucking coward.” His words stung my ear like someone had jabbed a blunt object into it and I lose my grip on the glass. This time when it falls and I fall with it. This time it smashes. My hand pushes into the shards to brace my impact and soon after the warm blood pushed through the webbing s of my fingers.
“He was collateral damage. I didn't want to do it, but I couldn't let them track it back to me. I couldn't let them know I killed you.” I turned my hand over and sighed. There was no pain only disappointment. Father didn't even mention my wound as I laid there examining it, slowly picking pieces of glass from the slightly torn flesh; stopping every few moments to take the cigarette from my mouth to exhale.
His laughter took over the whole room booming from each wall, closing in on me like a vice. “Don't flatter yourself now lil' Casanova.” He pulls the cigar from his lips licking the tar stain from it. “You couldn't kill me. No, you act all tough. I know the truth though kiddo. I took it to the grave with me. You don't have it in you.” He glared into my eyes knowing his words were turning into bullets. I stopped picking the glass from my hand. I get to my feet. I smirk taking a drag from the cigarette. I was going crazy. A voice in the back of my head kept telling me to go to bed. . . but I wasn't done with this conversation. I listen to dad's judgments with smoke gently flowing from between teeth that were now clenched. “Everything Ryder says about you is true. You are a coward. You surround yourself with minions. With little servants that you think can protect you. It's just because you fear them. You make them your allies so they can't jeopardize your power. In a way we are the same. I raped you of opportunity, and so you have raped them. Your allies, your enemies, your partners.”
I hated Ryder Blade. I hated him because of my father. I hated him because he got everything I wanted. He personified everything I hated. Everything I desperately didn't want this world to become. It was deeper than that though. I hated Ryder Blade because my father robbed me of a childhood. Here Ryder was parading out there in front of me every week living an extended childhood. You could see the bliss in his eyes when he fought. It wasn't a job to him. It was fun. . . and I fucking hated that. I don't have any idea what it's like. I've always done what I have HAD to do, not what I WANTED to do. Ryder got the world on a silver platter. So dumb and delusional he can't even realize how pathetic he is. That ignorant bliss; in a way I longed for it. In anger I snatch up the World Visionary Championship and slap it on my shoulder proudly stepping toward father. “Ryder has no idea who I am. Just like you had no idea who I am. You know I let the crown slip from my head before, I won’t let it happen again. You are the reason I am in this mess. The reason I started at the very bottom of society, but I am here now. On top and I have some fuckin' questions. You think I care what these people think about me? What they say about me? I'm my fathers son.” I stare at the apparition with fiery eyes. “I take what I want. I don't lay in wait like a polite little fucking puppet. I thank you for that dad I truly do. I see what I am. I will do whatever it take to keep control. I will do whatever it takes to protect my children. Everyone thinks I am getting weak. They think that I am losing my mind up here as champion. They think I have no where to go next. Oh, but I do. At Fate of the God's I'll leave Ryder Blade in the center of that ring bloody in his Sprintex tee. I'm not looking to pin him dad. No, I'm not coming for Ryder Blades win streak, or his title reign, or his career. I am coming for his soul. I am coming for his childhood.” I laugh to myself like a hysteric sociopath, smoke flew from my mouth almost as viciously as the words and spit. “I am going to claim it as my own. It's my turn to play. It's my turn to have fun. I'm not going to tell you I'm going to pin him father, I don't make paper promises. I will promise as I have with everyone else I have laid my sights on. . . once you encounter Casanova English. . . you'll never be the same again.” I looked at him focusing on the wound that I ordered be inflicted, the clean deep slice across his neck. “That is one thing you know about me isn't it dad?”
“I guess I did suffer the all mighty wrath.” He curled his lip up and looked me up and down scoffing. “King? VoW is your kingdom? You haven't pinned anyone to defend the championship. Do you know how sad that makes me? How pathetic it is you are a product of me. I of all people know how easy it is to pin someone down.” He was talking about mom and my blood started to warm. This time is was not the result of Johnny Walker. It was rage. I held the championship out with that bloody hand as if it would keep the illusion at bay. He snickered as he licked two chubby fingers and put the cigar out and quickly stuffed it into his breast pocket for a later date. An supernatural sign that he would be back. “You make me sick. I'm glad I left you behind to rot. You should have been an abortion.”
I felt myself fading, but before my knees hit the ground from exhaustion I cast the liquor bottle across the room directly at my father. It went right threw him as he disappeared and it shattered against the wall. My breathing was heavy. Too much Cass. Too much booze. Here I was on top of the world. I cackled into the air before putting my cigarette out on the floor of my office. I reach one hand out touching the championship. Here I am on top of the world. The blackness closed in around me as my breathing slowed and I drifted to sleep.
It's a long way down.
CASANOVA'S OLD APARTMENT
ST. PAUL, MINNESOTA
CASANOVA'S OLD APARTMENT
ST. PAUL, MINNESOTA
My eyes opened to a new day; one I wanted nothing to do with. The sun shining through my old familiar apartment window startled me. I hadn't expected to wake up there. My head stung, but not as much as my hand. I looked under the blanket at a bandaged up limb. It felt self inflicted. What happened last night? I had this dream. . . of. . . my father? I groaned, and just as I did a pill bottle lands on my stomach. It wasn't painful or jarring, but I let out a huff of air so loud it seemed I got punched.
“There, take two or three of those.” My eyes lifted to see the bright blue eyes of Alabama. I had spoke to her over the phone since the incident, but we hadn't met up in person again. Not since the night in the bar. Not since I asked her how to deal with it. “Corpse was worried about you ya know.” She said tilting her head to the side her blonde hair floated elegantly with the motion. It circled her face and it made me grin. “He said he was about to leave last night then he heard you talking to yourself. You were yelling. Breaking things. Cut your hand pretty bad, but you shouldn't need the hospital. Just make sure to change the bandage.” She smiled reassuringly pushing a glass of water into my hand.
I took the two pills fast praying they would work just as quick. “Thanks. So did Corpse call you?” She could hear the anger in my voice. I was Casanova English, I wasn't used to being picked up from a pile of vomit, blood, and piss. I was a World Champion. Maybe, it was time to start acting like one. Instead of a teen pop star unable to deal with the complexity of fame.
“Yeah, he was really worried and rightfully so. You did cut yourself pretty bad.” She let out a sigh. “I know this is difficult, but I am going to be here for you. Remember what we. . .” She paused, not wanting to take full ownership of the crime she committed years ago. “Remember what you did was for revenge, but it wasn't for your revenge. You were justice Casanova. You did what the system can't do, and you didn't do it for yourself. You did it for your mom. For your brother. You did it to make the world a better place. You are the sacrifice.” She put her hand on my leg and rubbed gently. It was soothing, nothing sexual. More of a nurturing feeling. Maybe, she felt so comfortable with me because I knew her secret.
“Yeah I know.” I said in agreement. I did it because it had to be done, because that man didn't deserve to breath the same air as everyone else. He needed to die so the rest of us could continue to live. At least that is what I will tell myself over and over again. Until I drink to much, and I see him again. . .
“You know you have a big match coming up English.” It was weird for Alabama to talk about wrestling, but maybe she saw how it was a form of therapy for me. Therapy that I had clearly not been attending in a full consciousness. I've been hearing that though month after month as the special flavor comes by to grace my pallet. “You have had a short fuse as Corpse as told me. You won't even talk to Audrey the doctor you guys have staffed. You need to remember how to focus the anger. Remember what won you that championship and the respect of your peers in such a short amount of time. Remember it and use it against Blade.” She smiled at me offering the only wisdom she could on my upcoming match. In a way it was good advice; in another way I wasn't even listening. I think I was still looking over my shoulder to see the towering image of my father once again. “I'm going to head to a hotel. I'll let you get some rest for today.” She lifted her hand now as she strutted toward the door with those long skinny legs jotting out from beneath a blue skirt. “If you need me Cass, just call. Get some rest.” She blew me a kiss and I swear I could feel it find my lips through the space between us. Alabama closed the door softly, and the pills starting to kick in. Pulling me back to sleep, to recovery.
I awoke several hours later swinging my legs off the bed in a revitalization. Whatever the fuck was in those pills Alabama gave me did the trick. I felt nearly reborn as I extended my arms into the air weary of my bandaged hand. You ever wake up and have no worries. It's like you forgot who you were the day before? Like this a new beginning. Then you see something that reminds you of the hell you created. The Visionary World Championship glared at me from the nightstand; I returned it's glance with the same metallic coldness. I grunted picking it up; every day it felt heavier and heavier in my hand. More a burden than a reward. It wasn't a belt, it was shackle. A shackle to this company, to these fans. Something I honestly needed to keep myself focused. A necessary evil, a welcomed curse. I pulled a plain black t-shirt over my body and slid into a pair of blue jeans. I drag the championship by my side toward the door and thrust it open. The apartment was just has I left it, the living room housed a single couch, a coffee table. The TV was gone. A thin layer of dust covered everything and I could feel a tickle in my nose. Luckily it stopped before turning to a sneeze. I walked along the living room and to the room where I would often cut my promos when first starting in VoW. I moaned gripping the knob and twisting.
To my amazement that old wooden chair was there, the camera was already set up ready to roll. Corpse must have left it out for me. Anything he could subtlety do to push me in the right direction. A pack of Marlboro’s lay beside the camcorder. I flicked it on and sat in the chair facing it. With the championship there on my shoulder, resting against dark cotton I stared into the camera for minutes without speaking. I just took regular breaths occasionally squinting as if I can see someone ever so often. “Oh hey!” I say with great enthusiasm “I didn't see you there. Well it seems we have reached that point again. That point where you all might see your nightmare finally come to an end. For nearly a year straight I have held this championship. I imagine by now you believe my smoke to be stale. Truth be told I am surprised I have made it this far. I have never been the greatest on the defense. I always thrived as the underdog. Hell, underestimation is a huge part of what got me here. VoW never made Casanova English like this, they found me the way I am. I could see the doubt as I ascended the ladder to the top of this company, and occasionally I'll still foolishly see it in the ring. . . and that is when I am most effective. No, I'm a much better hunter than target. Still I have managed to make due. I have managed to keep this championship one way. . . or another. Truthfully I was like a dog chasing a car, ambitious, but I didn't know what to do when I caught one.” I look around my small apartment where this all began. “From a peasant to a king. It's strange being that guy that went from rags to riches so to speak. I am human scum you know that? I don't think it's common knowledge to all these fans. I am that poverty ridden child who never had a chance. That kid you pissed on for going to the second hand store. Now I am all grown up and boy am I angry. That's why I decided to reside in the particular poor part of St. Paul. In a way I think I lost touch with my roots. With the fact that I am nothing.” I stop cold faced looking into the camera. I was nothing and I didn't know it at first. Not until I actually found out where I came from. This was a new beginning for me. “How is that for ego? People continually think that I have this massive ego, that I think I am the best wrestler that ever lived or something. You act like that is my fault. I don't believe I have some ungodly technical ability. Intelligence though, street smarts. . . . that's where I strive. My reputation is not based off the things I have said. It is based off of the things I have done. The things you have witnessed. Just like Constance saw last week. You want me to act like this is on the line?” I point to the title. “Then I will show you what I will do in order to defend it. Ryder, I know you want to poke holes in my credibility and poke away. I don't have cold hard statics to fall back on like you. Treating yourself like a baseball card with a batting average, boy then I'll rip you like one. Connie pushed me and I am proud of what I did. I am not ashamed of it like Ryder wants me to be. I'm not ashamed of the way I beat Iser either. You know what matters at the end of the day? I am still. . . The Man. I'm still what you want to be Ryder.”
I smile at the camera raising my eyebrow like I found a injured limb. “Back to my reputation. There is a hush when I walk into that locker room, and it's not because of the ego that I radiate. All these tall tales of the big bad wolf. . . I just implanted the seed. It grew in your mind and you all made me what I am. You made me The Messiah. You made me the hated. I show you people that you can rise above the so called restraints of upper society and you hate it because you are far too weak to follow me to destiny. Far too blind to join The Orphanage.” I flash a grin at the camera taking the VoW Championship off my shoulder and placing it on my lap. “When I came to VoW I was a blank canvas. You projected your hate on me when I started shattering your illusions and entering your nightmares by beating these oiled up Greek gods, and beautifully deadly princesses to a pulp. The hero’s in capes fell long ago; this is my kingdom of misfits now. My island of lost toys.”
I smile thinking as if this is my childhood, this is my chance to play with all the toys. I need to be more careful; I've broken so many. “Now Little Boy Blade I don't like you. I think you are smart enough to know that. You have been a pain in my. . . balls.” I laugh to myself rubbing my crotch from where Ryder got a cheap shot off weeks prior. “Ryder I am jealous of you. You are dead right about that. I always have been. Since I saw you, I have wanted to be you. Anyone who says they don't. . . they are a liar. I mean look at you. You are living a prolonged childhood. Partying it up and finding some way, some how to get it done each week. Now don't get too flattered just yet. We wouldn't want the Blade to blow. It has nothing to do with the wins. It has nothing to do with the title reign. It has nothing to do with the amounts of moist poontang you claim to swim in the juices of. No, it's that simple fact that you are having fun. It's the fact that ignorance is bliss.” I let out a huff like I came to a realization. It would be so much easier to be Ryder. To let the world consume me with it's ideology and branding. To become a perfect little corporate American soldier. I envied that so much as I gripped the title angrily. “You are enjoying life. It doesn't seem like you have faced the hardships I have faced Ryder. I shouldn't blame you for that, but I will. Ryder Blade is the personification of everything I set out to destroy and discredit. Ryder Blade is every wide eyed empty headed little jerk off that walks through those curtains and hopes that I drop this title. You projected that hero like image upon yourself. I mean you don't even hear the hatred most of these people have for you. Then again, maybe they are like me and just afraid to admit it. . . wanting that childhood. There comes a point where we all need to grow up though.”
“Ryder I know you are going to claim I haven't defended this title blah blah blah and try and make me out as some kind of paper champion, but the proof is in the pudding. I have established myself as the pinnacle of VoW. I have worked hard to make sure that people on this roster deserve to be here. That is why your wins don't impress me. It's not about how you win, it's about how you lose. It's about how you take a loss and turn it into something to make yourself better. That has been the cheif difference between me and everyone else Ryder. The fact that I am constant, that I am resilient. I'm not too worried about my statics that I run away after a loss. Look at V, at Star, Ziu, Valquist. They just want the money fight with Casanova English so they can cash their check and retire home because in reality they were never in it for anything but their own fucking glory. Gluttons and greedy heathens, and the king of them is you Blade.” I point to the camera, but it's just an excuse to snatch up the cigarettes beside it.
“People might think it's strange that I am not trying to delve deep into the mind of Ryder Blade like I did with Valquist and V. People seem confused, and Ryder and his crew seems to be baffled by the fact that I can't manipulate The Blade.” I notice the blood beginning to soak through the bandage on my right hand. I sake my head at the stain for a moment “Ryder thinks he won because I can't send his thoughts in a direction of self doubt. You all think this match he has me confused. Come on? You really think Ryder Blade is a thousand piece puzzel?” Pausing to stuff a cig between my lips I let the question sink in. “Why try and dig into a mind that barely exists? Why bother with it when I know I can beat him in that ring?” I smirk knowing that in not playing with Ryder's head; I have successfully played with Ryder's head. I lean back against the wooden chair bringing a flame to the cigarette. “Why would I try and attack Ryder verbally? Why would I attack him mentally? The kid loves attention. Why would I stroke his ego. Why would I lube the Blade up? I think this time round I prefer to go in dry. I want to hear him squeal. I'll have you staggering out of St. Paul like a Cosby Show extra.”
“Ryder you question my reign. You called me out at Fate of the God's and I left an open challenge on the table. . . for this title. . . . at Nothing Else Matters and you used the excuse of Matt Robinson to dodge me. Matt would of gladly stepped aside and allowed me to get my hands on you. You think I am paper? I called out anyone. . . anyone in the back and the only one that answered was a fresh faced lunatic.” I puff on the cigarette leaning my head side to side as if I am looking at Blade, as if I am examining him.
“My problem with you Ryder is you don't play one season and call yourself the greatest. Your going to have to stick around for 2 more years to get the reputation I have. You have 22 matches in total and I have 43. We can't even begin to compare based off statistics. I don't run when shit gets hard. I don't falter in miniscule failures. I stayed here on top through everything that was thrown at me. Aliens or shape shifters. . . what can you really do to surprise me now? You question my credibility and yet you have a fraction of the matches in that ring as I do. I mean you haven't beaten anyone that shocks me. You stayed in the shallows eating the plankton while I was up here battling sharks until I was the only one left. I'll wipe my ass with all 20 of your wins, because they mean shit to me. It's not the wins that impress me it's the losses. When I pin you, or choke you, or knock you unconscious. . . how you get up that's on you. When you reach the top and I kick you all the way back down to the bottom where you should of started. When I rob you of your dignity, of your image. When I take away the fact that you are cool. . .” I can't help but snicker at that superficial idea. What the hell was cool? “I'll give you control of your own density. When they all see you for the fraud they know you are how you react that is all on you.”
“I know what you are thinking. Why do I think The Blade would tuck his legs and vanish like the rest of them? The Blade never did that before. The Blade is here to stay BRAH! Sure. . . that's what they all thought, but let me drive something home to you Blade. 240 plus days you have had to prepare. 240 days you have been thinking about me. Watching me. Subconsciously stalking me. If you haven't been you are retarded. What I am saying is. . . I am barely thinking of you. Your just a blip on the map for me. So how is it going to feel when for 240 days you thought up every word every action. . . and just like that I destroy your dream? What happens when its all on you?”
“Why am I mentioning that? That it is all on you? Well because I see you Ryder.” I glare into the camera pushing fumes through my teeth and nostrils. The corner of my mouth rises as I flip the light cigarette around in my good hand. “You don't think I see. You don't think anyone sees. I know you want this championship but there is something more that you want. Something on the complete opposite of the spectrum of what I envy. You want to become a man. You want to transcend this child like state and become something more. Let me get one thing clear to you right now Little Boy Blade You are not a man and you never will be, at least not on my account. No, I plan on leaving you barely breathing. The only streak that is going to be relevant when you come to are the ones in your Sprintex logo underwear. When you come to #BladeTime is going to refer to your suicide attempt. See Blade you are coming into the match like it is any other, but it's not. I'm not just any opponent, and as I have established this is a battle of manhood. This is you coming to grips with reality one way or another. This is you confronting maturity. This is the puberty of Ryder Blade that we have witnessed, and your hoping those balls are going to drop at Fate of The Gods. It's a cute coming of age story that we have seen in this ring week after week, you slowly developing your skills. You establishing your craft. Going on big win streaks and title reigns, and it would all be so poetic if you could beat Casanova English and become the man you so desire. It's cute really, a beautiful fairy tale. Too bad this is the real world. You want to be a real man? Your not even a real boy. You are more plastic than Elskerinne's mannequins. You are the walking ideology of what it means to be cool. Well it's time to cash your reality check BRAH!” I smile thinking about the enjoyment I would have in the ring at Fate of The God's the way I would twist him like a play thing. The way I would try and break him. It set my teeth on edge. There I would find my child like bliss. I inhaled the smoke organically before screening the camera in a haze. “I told you I am The Vision. I have the sight. I see it in you Ryder you want to be a man. You want what I have and that would be an essential requirement to fill these boots. Well I'm sorry Blade, but you just aren't sharp enough to cut Cass off at the knees. No, Ryder I can promise you fame. I can promise you the money fight. I can promise you won't be forgotten. Beat me though. . . nah you aren't going to be made a man off MY hard work. No, I have let this slip from my fingers before to the undeserving. I'll promise you one thing, at Fate of the Gods when all your bravado is stripped away. . . when that bell rings in the arena I help build. . . when it is just you, I, and the roar of these fans. In that ring when talk becomes cheap. I promise I'll at least make you feel like a real boy. I'll even let you call me daddy.”
I laugh puffing at the cigarette before growing silent. I set there staring at the camera occasionally squinting just like how I started the promo. I don't know how long I sat there staring at the camera. The only thing that stopped me with the blood soaking through the bandage onto the World Championship. I rubbed my good hand through the blood over the championship putting my god given name. “Cassidy” I smirked at it before wiping it away with the bandage. Soon it was time to put my money where my mouth was. It was time to fire. It was Casanova English and Ryder Blade; pistols at dawn.
Detective Oliver Kuban's blacked out Caddy wasn't inconspicuous; and he didn't want it to be. Anyone who had anything to do with the murder would have been spooked by seeing it and not enter the premises. He looked over the file of Lewis Connolly over and over to see if he had any connections with organized crime. There has been more than one case Oliver has worked where it was someone within the FBI, or CIA cleaning up a loose end. Oliver had been here for the better part of the week keeping an eye on the apartment till a warrant went through. Normally it didn't take this long, but he did not care. He had enough cock to keep him alert for the next three years. He was knocking another bump onto the base of his thumb when someone knocked on the window beside him. “Fuck!” Oliver shouts tossing the coke onto the floor.
He turns to the face of that Asian cop he saw days earlier at the crime scene. “Hey.”
“You made me jump man. Jesus!” Oliver's heart was racing, probably the drugs more and anything else.
“Sorry sir, I just felt so bad the warrant was taking so long I thought I should bring it out to you.” He handed the warrant through the window and Oliver nodded thankfully. Good. He didn't notice the bag of coke on the passenger side floor. “You are welcome sir. Have a good night.”
“. . . and got it!” Oliver said to himself in triumph. He could of just broke the door down, but picking it was satisfying. It killed about 15 minutes. He liked doing things the old school way. The apartment of Lewis Connolly was clean and normal. A calendar of bikini models hung on the wall by a land line. His living room had at large TV and a couch. He had pictures of him and his sister, his brother, his mom. . . all that family jazz scattered throughout. The bathroom was clean. The kitchen was clean. It was so fucking unremarkable Oliver thought about plopping down on the freshly made bed for a nap. He was approaching that crash soon anyway.
There was this one door, to what seemed like an office. Oliver narrowed his eyes on it and tried the knob. Locked. Examining, looking between the door. Pad locked. With a sigh Oliver leans back and drives a foot through the door splintering it from the frame. The room is dark, no windows. Oliver floats his hand around the side of the wall looking for a source of light. “Got it. . . What.” The room now illuminated had a wall dedicated in tribute to some. . . wrestling. . . group. “What in the fuck?” Oliver is looking at cut out images of Winter Pine, Matt Robinson, StuFish.Pif, even Cera and Edward Myers from the beginnings. Oliver was confused at the shrine dedicated to the group. Oliver read out the words above the collage in big black letters “The Orphanage.” He shook his head trying to figure out what the connection could be, if there was one. Turning away from the image, but when he turned around there was an even bigger one image. Staring down at him with darkened eyes was the VoW World Champion Casanova English.