Post by English/Corpse on Mar 26, 2016 12:57:27 GMT -6
VoW Presents
A Casanova English Original
Plastic Man
[by Meagan Beauchemin Bloody Cigarette, Anyone?]
A Casanova English Original
Plastic Man
[by Meagan Beauchemin Bloody Cigarette, Anyone?]
“Pain can be endured and defeated only if it is embraced. Denied or feared, it grows in perception if not in reality. The best response to terror is righteous anger, confidence in ultimate justice, a refusal to be intimidated.”
― Dean Koontz, Velocity
MARCH 21ST
MILLHAVEN INSTITUTION
BATH, ONTARIO
MILLHAVEN INSTITUTION
BATH, ONTARIO
I keep having this dream where I am still alive. At least that is what it feels like. I haven't been feeling like myself. What the fuck is happening to me? Corpse was right all along, I am falling apart. My game is becoming weak. . . I lost to Kincaid. I called out the entire roster at the start of Breakthrough 42 and went on to lose the Main Event to the number one contender for the Zero Gravity Championship. I've never been the one to make excuses as a win is a win, and Kincaid got the better of me that one night. I will admit that, but I'll be back for him. You don't just beat Casanova English and continue on with your career; I am no stepping stone. That's what the woman who answered my challenge believes. The little enigma thinks she can use me to sky rocket herself here in VoW. To be honest why wouldn’t she think so? She witnessed the loss first hand. Yeah, Corpse was right. I helped him. I pulled him up from the gutter and the grime and I gave him purpose and meaning. He was just trying to help me maintain mine. How could I think I was focused? How could I be after all I have learned over the past few months? It's got me bitter. It's got me unfocused. It's got me going crazy. To make matters worse I have her to deal with Elskerinne. . . the mystery. I have no other choice but to solve it. It's one thing to lose to a seasoned veteran like Slater a month or so ago. . . but if she is able to beat me at the PPV after answering my open challenge I would look like a paper champion. There was only one way to get the monkey off my back; but I wasn't ready for that yet. Mom didn't have time to teach me table manners, I still play with my food. That's what I was doing back here.
Father looked at me with a sense of wonder I didn't expect. Then again when you're in a maximum security prison and you are plucked from your room in the dead of night and placed into a private all white private questioning booth with a man sitting across from you that isn't on your visitor list. I can see it in his eyes, he thinks he's not showing it. He has that convicted criminal bravado, you know what I mean? That cocked grin that says “I fucking killed someone”. Only he doesn't know what I know. The old sick fuck doesn’t even see me coming. “Hello Mr. MacDonald, sounds like a fucking farmer. You a farmer Dean?” He looks at me tilting his head like it's some monumental testosterone shift. “Ah, not too talkative. Well truth is I already know. I know everything about you Dean. I know that your mother lives in a quaint little patch of real estate in BC still living out her last years mightily on her own. I know you worked finance for fifteen years traveling all over North America. I know the names of each and every one of the people you got convicted of raping. . . and maybe a few that weren’t reported. When I sat across from you a few weeks ago. . . you asked me who I am. I am someone who has taken my time to learn these things about you; to study about you. Fuck Dean, I've spent late nights just drawing up what I thought your ugly mug might look like in my brain. Why would anyone waste such a monumental amount of time on a piece of shit like you? It must be important. . . so Dean. . . why don't you take a shot in the dark at who I am.”
A light hung over the center of the table; the kind you would shine in the face of a criminal during interrogation. I could feel the heat off it as I leaned in towards my father. He lifted his head with confidence and laughed before responding to my flurry of emotion. “Probably a kid of one of those whores. Wouldn't be the first time that tracked me down.” His eyes shifted around the room. He talked with confidence, but I could smell the fear. I see the uncertainly in the way his hand shook slightly. Sure, others may have tracked him down. They may have met him in the visitor room. . . but I could see it. No one had the power to pluck him from bed in the middle of night and place him in a room with no sign of a single guard. He was aware I had power, there was no need to pull my dick out and measure. He talked with a rasp now, his throat drying. “I am paying for what I did. You know. . . It's already been done. There is nothing worse you can do now.” I slide him a bottle of water from across the wooden table and lean back in my seat.
“I don't think you are Dean.” I say shaking my head from side to side. “You are right though. I am a son of one of those “whores” as you delicately put it. You raped my mother. You destroyed her life, you sent her into a downward spiral of drug addiction and self loathing.” I slide a pack of cigarettes from my pocket, placing it on the table top.
“You know what I did was terrible, but you can't blame me for your mother addiction.” He tries to protest and sound polite at the same time. It's strange how the baddest of men are cowards when brought into the light. Why couldn't he be truthful? Why couldn't he admit that he enjoyed every second of it? Why can't he admit that is what he thinks about when he's behind another man in the showers? What a fucking coward.
I smirk glaring at him. I study every feature of his face. The wrinkles and the cracks. I looked just like him. It was like looking into the future and I fucking hated it. I wanted to reach out, dig my nails in and begin to pull the flesh from bone. He made me sick. I was the products of this? How? His long gray hair latched to the side of his face as he began to gently sweat. I can detect the fear; but I see no trace of shame. I see no trace of regret. This guy given one day of freedom would pounce on the first fresh pussy he smelt. “My mother was 18 when you raped her. She was a good student. She was popular. If she didn't keep her assault a horrible secret for so many years, maybe she could of become a productive part of society.” I point at him my finger inches away from his face. I flip it out like it's a switch blade and he filches back thinking I am going to strike. “You took that chance away. You took her innocents, and you destroyed her life.” I look around the room and laugh popping a cigarette in between my lips. “Nah, I don't really think you are fucking paying for it.”
“So what?” Deans eyes shoot back and forth like darts, but then focus in on me. “You came here to rough me up teach me a lesson? You're gonna beat on an ol' man and that's gonna make it all better?” He stops to chuckle a moment to himself. “I promise you kid. It ain't gonna make the darkness disappear.” He was right kicking the shit out of him likely wouldn't make me feel better. I want to see him suffer; but daddy doesn't know I am a little more creative than that.
I stand up now scraping the chair against the floor and walk in behind him. He jumps near out of his shackles as I slap my hands on his shoulders. “Now I am insulted you think I am so juvenile.” I pull up a live flame brushing it dangerously close to his ear before it reaches the tip top of my cigarette. A couple sharp puffs blowing the second hand smoke past my father as I walk in front of him. “I came to send you a message Dean. I can see it in your eyes; I don't want to hear otherwise.” I bash the ash off the end of my cigarette letting it hit the table. “You take pride in your work. You sit there in that cell with a sick sense of pride. You know your victims think about you everyday. How could they not after you've been so up close and personal with them. See you're a different kind of ill Dean. You regret getting caught, but not in the same sense as anyone else.” See I know. I know it all too well. In that ring; outside that ring I have left people for dead. Winning the VoW Championship I ended a career. A few months ago I buried a man alive. I have no regret. I take pride in my victims. I breath them in. I consume them. No, I knew he felt the same sick satisfaction. He just felt it in a different way. “You honestly believe what you did wasn't wrong. After all how could it be. . . it made you. . . feel.” I know this because I am the same, that's what brought me to the ring. That's what brought me to the stage. It allows me to feel. It allows me to show who I really am out there in the center of a ring; open in front of all these judging eyes. It allows me to show them despite my imperfection and past I can be the best there is. The peasant has become king. “I know this Dean, because I have that same gene running though my veins. I battle psychosis as well. I've just learned to take that madness and turn it into something. I've learned to use it to motivate. I have learned to disguise it as genius.”
He ran his his eyes up and down my body. “Well I am so fucking proud of you.” He lifts his wrists to wipe the bead of perspiration about to detach itself from his hairline. Arrogantly I strut toward him. “I hope you didn't just come by to offer wisdom. I'm far beyond using that to my advantage kid. Like I said I am sorry but. . .” He stops speaking as I pull the key out jamming it into the cuffs unlocking them. He looks at me confused in his bright orange jumpsuit. “What?”
He didn't try to get up he just sat there in wonder. “Oh, you are no danger to me. Trust me Dean I am not the one who should feel threatened here.” I suck on my cigarette and widen my eyes. “Jesus how rude of me.” I sit back down in the chair facing dean and push a cigarette toward his face. He's reluctant, but he plucks it from my fingertip and places it in his mouth hungrily. Probably the first he has had in a long while. Politely I push a flame toward Dean allowing him to ignite his vice. Sadly, another disgusting thing we have in common. “Dean, you will never forget me. I want you to know that right now. You may not fully understand who I am; but when it's all done I can promise you that you will never forget. We are going on a little journey. You and I are going to meet on a regular basis. It's really going to help me deal with a few things. I know that seems a little selfish, but eh you have left behind some pretty monumental damage Mr. MacDonald.” Dean sits there just puffing on his cancer stick, enjoying every little puff. He blows huge clouds in front of his face, the light cuts through the smog defining its density. “Have you ever felt alone Dean. Fuck, look at where you are at. Of course you felt alone. I bet it was hard those first couple of years. It'd take a while fir you to make friends and secure some protection around here. I hear that they don't take very kindly to guys who sexually prey on young woman in prison. I bet you have had your fair share of anal fissures. I bet you've laid awake with shiv under your bed praying to God that you don't get gutted in your sleep.”
“You don't know a fucking thing about how it works here.” He protests sucking back on my generosity like it was owed. I wanted to snatch the cigarette from his lips and insert it into his retina, but I restrain the urge.
“Maybe not, but I know how the world works. I know how the world works to the point of getting you alone in this room. Doesn’t that worry you? It should? I wouldn't think you were this dumb, you did commit a lot of crimes without getting caught. Who knows. . . if you had of killed that little girl in the spring and the ground had thawed. You could of dug deeper so the foxes didn't disturb her.” I hear him swallow as I went over the details of his crime. “See Dean, I can see how it would of took you a while to make friends in here. Your story got so public. A coward who fucked and killed a kid. I brought you here for a reason. I want you to know Dean. . . I fucking own you. For the next little while you won't be able to close your eyes without seeing my face. Every bit of pain, of humiliation, I want you to think of me. You asked who I am? I'm the devil. I am your pain. I'm revenge.” I lean across the table now whispering in his ear. He has the chance to attack, to do something. He doesn't. Once again disappointed by dad. “I'm coming back for the soul you took.” I clap my hands and a guard opens the door. Dean turns his head to see three large white males entering the room. I don't take my eyes off of Dean. I want to see every reaction; every bit of confusion. “These are your friends am right?” His jaw drops as he pulls the cigarette from his lips. “Yeah I am right. We have John.” John was a large man about six foot five and was nearing three hundred pounds. Surprisingly he had no tattoos, his skin was completely clean aside from the scars up and down his arms and who knows where else. “Donny.” Donny was small and skinny, his head was shaved to the scalp and a small swastika took residence just under his left eye. “. . . and of course Karl.” Karl was short and stocky, it was easy to tell he was of Irish decent from the Celtic ink proudly sported on his hands. “These friends of yours are going to help answer the question you asked. Who the fuck am I? Yeah, they are going to help. See I don't just want to break you down physically Dean. . . that is just boring. Anyone can best someone physically on any given night; it's called luck. I want to do what you did. I want to leave a lasting impression. I want to burn it into your brain forever. See these people aren't your friends anymore Dean. I own them. I say jump and they murder their way to the top of this prison to jump off. I have the access to the outside, to the porn, to the cigarettes, food. It's just sad how materialistic the world is. Too bad people aren’t driven more primal like you and I huh.” I spin around and skip up the the biggest bastard of them all. “John is it?” I squeeze his arm sarcastically. “Strong lad. Why don't you lead things off?”
John begins to approach Dean who doesn't leave his chair. He was paralyzed by what he was witnessing. “What in the fuck? John you can't be serious.” John doesn’t respond he just pulls the cigarette from Deans lips and places it in front of him. “You can't be ser. . .” John cracks Dean at medium speed dead in the forehead; snapping dads head back.
“What was that?” He hit him on the hardest point of his head. “Hit him in the mouth.”
“Come on.” John protests. He doesn't argue further. . . after all I paid him well. John winds back and cracks my dad across the face. A tooth flies from his mouth and skips across the tile floor.
“That is what I am talking about. Now don't forget what we talked about." My father lifts his head; blood drooling from his mouth like a pathetic slob. “Make sure his eyes are swollen shut. It'll be a good reminder for him to forget what he saw.” I slap John on the arm and nod to the rest of the group. It's amazing what some men will do for some booze and tobacco. My eyes close involuntarily thinking about the genetics I have inherited from my father. I know what it is like to have behavioral instincts I can't fully fathom. For me it manifests into anger, it causes me to be violent. It's a release that is required, or who knows what might happen. See I don't find the mannequin thing strange, creepy, or unique. I understand where Elskerinne is coming from, maybe she doesn't see it exactly the same way as me. I fantasize about ripping bodies apart too. I struggle with the idea of being a whole human. I enjoy manipulation. My father would experience this first hand. He would be my doll, my project, my mannequin. I'll dress him up like a bitch. I'll leave my imprint on him. I'll fucking consume him. I slam the door firmly behind me as another “friend” of dads begins to tee off.
MARCH 25TH
TORONTO, ONTARIO
SIMMONS STEAK HOUSE
TORONTO, ONTARIO
SIMMONS STEAK HOUSE
I don't care what anyone else says I love this city. I love how you can blend in, it has a sense of anonymity. Where I was born doesn't have that. I only got to move here when my journalism career began to take off. Here is where I reinvented myself. I left the old me behind and let the concrete jungle consume me. It was a beautiful thing. It was a simpler time. One where I had no true purpose. Words are only so beautiful, only imaginary. It's action that speaks to the masses I have learned that now. It's one thing to hear you are willing to bleed; it's another to see you bleed. At Breakthrough Kincaid made me look like an idiot. I want to say that I underestimated him. I want to say I wasn't prepared. I really, really do, but truth be told is I thought I was. I thought I had him beat. I studied him, and. . . I must of let this shit get to me. I must be off my game. Now that plans are in motion to remove my father I can refocus. Maybe it wasn't even about that anymore. Maybe, I just needed to talk to someone. It sounds so sappy in my head, but the truth is I need to let someone in. I need to let out some of this anger that has built up. I created The Orphanage as a new family. . . but I wasn't utilizing it effectively. I hardly communicated with anyone over the past few months other then needing them to run errands. That isn't what this is about. I asked my father if he felt lonely. I've felt lonely. That's why I plucked Corpse from the gutter and made him my ally. That is why I got him sober. I keep telling him it was for his benefit, but it was for mine. Despite me being a recluse lately; humans are social animals. It's just some of us constitute different things as socialization. Nothing Else Matters is my chance to get back on track, but first I needed to get things off my chest; finally.
“Scotch; neat.” I say to the waitress as she hands Corpse another Keith's. Corpse loved Canada. Any time I am coming up here he begs to tag along like a needy puppy. Corpse loudly thew his cutlery on top of his plate finishing off his last bite of beef. He rubbed his stomach and let out a sigh reaching down to undo his belt.
“Thanks boss, what a damn good meal. I can’t remember the last time I had a hunk of cow that good.” Corpse rubbed his face and beard with a napkin before slamming it on the plate. He washed the final bite down with a swig of the Canadian brew.
The sexy brunette waitress with the short black skirt slid my scotch across the table and pulled away my colleges plate in nearly the same motion. “First off Corpse. I wanted to tell you that over the past few months I have been treating you quite unfair. See you where here with me since day one, none of this would exist if you were not so successful as a pilot project.” He smirks nodding at me as I continue. “You know I brought you here to discuss what has been going on with me. You saw my loss to Kincaid, and you were very much on my case in regards to the “win” over Iser.” I take a sip of the aged liquor, pausing for a moment to let it rest on my pallet for flavor. “This week I have Elskerinne a woman you probably know is undefeated in her short time with VoW.”
“Yeah it's that thing with your father. It has you all tore up.” Corpse says, almost asserting it. “It has you messed up Cass. I am glad you are finally willing to see that. You know all the things I was saying . . . I was just trying to help.”
“Yeah I know. That’s neither here nor there. The point is you have paid your dues. You have been completely loyal to me. You've been on the receiving end of some of my bad days and you still show up for work.” I take another drink of the amber scotch. “My father is in prison now. He is serving out quite a lengthy sentence.”
“For what?” Corpse gripped the neck of his beer bottle lifting it to his mouth.
“He did something terrible to my mother. Something unforgivable. We can leave it at that. The point is; I have let it get to me. It's all I think about.” I was vibrating with anger. How could I let that man effect me? How could I let him toss me off my game? Just when the hungry wolves scratch at my door; seeing this as the opportune time to capture my head. I continue, taking a short pause for a drink of scotch to calm my nerves. “I dream about it. I just keep thinking over and over in my head that all my struggles in life are because of that piece of shit. I know it sounds cliché, but I can't have him breathing the same air as me.” I lift up my glass holding it to the light glaring though the brown liquor. I smile placing it back down before continuing. “I feel like I am fucking suffocating. I can't focus on my matches. I haven't had a steady opponent since Valquist. I don't know who the fuck is coming next. I don't look like a champion. I sure as fuck don't feel like a champion. There is only one thing left to do. There is only one way to fix this Corpse.” CRACK! I swiftly grab up my fork and intensely slam it down into the table causing it to drive deep into the wood. The fork stands there upright as the table next to us leaps at the noise. I turn to them smirking, before leaning in closer to Corpse so only he can hear. “I need to get rid of him. I need to do this to allow the true birth of Casanova English. Finally I can realize my full potential.”
It might seem sick to an outsider that his eyes would light up at my outburst of emotion, but Corpse has been waiting for this day since he joined my organization. He needs me to open up, to talk to him. He needs to see that I am human too. We are all born the same hunks of decaying flesh, it's our actions that define us. You need to brush the rust off that a past life left behind and expose the new and pure metal. Corpse was a soldier now, he was a servant. A member of the army bringing forth a revolution. A line up of mentally ill, drug addicted, socially awkward misfits who have somehow taken the world by storm. It was his new family; his blood. VoW has been a playground for The Orphanage and Corpse knew how much it meant to retain the power from within. He looked me up and down for a moment before responding. “Just tell me what I have to do.”
MARCH 27TH
ABANDON WAREHOUSE
WINDSOR, ONTARIO
ABANDON WAREHOUSE
WINDSOR, ONTARIO
We are all just plastic. We all start out as mannequins and the word dresses us up, convinces us what is cool. Tells us what is acceptable. It's a funny metaphor I have been rolling around in my brain considering my opponent. You know for the longest time I thought I made it through unscathed. I thought I saw all the delusions. I didn't think this world had the opportunity to make it's mark, but it did. I am a product of my fathers sin. I am a product of my mothers negligence. I'm just like all of you. Plastic and so fucking impressionable. Worse part if; like all you sheep. I was oblivious to it all. I was ignorant to the fact that I am as much a slave to this world as you. I am trying to make a difference though. I am trying to stand up, and to this point I honestly have done a pretty good job. If I don't say so myself. I can handle the loss to Matt Slater a few months ago, I can handle winning on a technicality against Iser. Hell I can even give credit where credit is do and handle my loss to Kincaid. Elskerinne. . . that is a different story. She is undefeated, she has taken the heads of Matt and Winter. Now she has her sights set on me. What message would it send if I was to lose to Elskerinne? She would have defeated every member of The Orphanage setting up a full take over for Chaos. Potentially creating a window for me to lose this championship. The paranoia was starting to kick in; but I was allowing it to trigger much to quick. I have the riddle solved.
I snapped the light on in the warehouse. It was like a stage from a cheesy modern day horror flick. The floor was lined with plastic and in the center there was a pure white nude male mannequin standing with his arms flexed. Along the white walls that framed the image I have set up were black shadow like figures meant to represent an audience. I flicked the camera on. As I walk into frame the sound of my feet on the floor audible much before I am visible. I pull up a wooden stool beside the plastic man. I slap the World Visionary Championship that hangs over my shoulder like a proud monument to my accomplishments in a world and industry that has been rather non-accepting of my rise to fame. I wore a simple plain white tee tonight, my leather jacket hung from the side of the stool. I spoke in disappointment. “There is something I need to fully address before I get into the meat of it all. I think you idiots can pay attention long enough to finally get a slice of the picture See Elskerinne said my little “crew” runs around creating Chaos with no direction. Well. .. take a hard look at who your Champion is. If I didn't have direction how in the hell did I get here? I have spelled out what The Orphanage is time and time again, yet still you cannot listen. One more time I will try and drive it into a thick skull. I have spelled it out time and time again. It's not from a lack of explanation on my part; it is the lack of understanding on your part. What you don't understand is I have the vision. . . and I am not talking about the championship. At Nothing Else Matters it is just a side dish. What I mean is I take the time to understand, to view perspective. I take the time to see you; to examine you. People don't like what I say so they dismiss me, they get angry and ultimately that becomes their downfall. Their sheer ignorance. Now, I thought you had an open mind Elskerinne. I see the way you think, the way you play and tinker. You think your a grand mystery, but I see you.”
I open my eyes wide before continuing on. “People reach out for this medium because it produces a sense of fantasy; I am reality. I came I here and I really fucked with your illusion. I don't look like I belong here, I don't act like I belong here. . . but somehow I am at the top of the mountain It eats these fans alive almost as much as it eats that locker room alive. I am here to take the control back. I am here to show you need not be a bronzed god to achieve your goals. You need hard work, you need faith. I am the sad reminder to all these lazy brainwashed fucks that they are their own worst enemy. I walked into this sport to conquer it, and that is what I have been doing since day one. I am here to spread the message of The Orphanage, to preach of a revolution. I am the anti-establishment and I have become the face of this corporation. I use it to my advantage, to preach my cause of inequality and inaction on the part of these brainwashed drones that tune into this program week after week in hopes of living their life viciously through others action. I am a dose of reality, I am Casanova English. The Orphanage is here to tear away the ideology and brainwashing of the men and woman you falsely deem heroes. So does that spell it out? Does that make it clear? We are here to force action, to ignite response from the otherwise cowardly. I am here to push you, to make you better. I am here to weed out the weak from the strong. I am here to make sure others deserve to be. I'm not scared to lose, to be defeated. I embrace competition. . . but I haven't been living up to my own standard. . . and it has effectively disturbed the VoW world order.” I stand up looking at the plastic man beside my running my hands over his false face. “It is my responsibility to correct it. It is the position I have thrust myself into. I am the one who decides who survives and what is left of them. That's been my function long before I was awarded this Championship. Elskerinne you have effectively assassinated Winter Pine and Matt Robinson. So I can see why it seems logical to answer my challenge, and to be honest I have to applaud you. I called out the entire roster, I offered this championship. Not one person dare to take me up on the offer. Here even at my weakest point in my career, it seems you are all still fearful. You are all too scared to reach for this title. You are smart enough to understand I sleep with one eye open. Poor Elskerinne, you just don't understand. You haven't been around long enough to fully understand what I am capable of. If there is one thing that makes me better it is a loss. It drives me to refocus, to reestablish my dominance. You have the audacity to question the function of The Orphanage. . . then tell me that I do nothing? Darling, you should of just accepted you fate. You should just march down that ramp way like a proper sacrifice, but we all know you are too ignorant for that.”
I pull a cigarette from the pocket of my jacket that hang off the stool. I slide it between my lips, and mumble on. “You know I find it almost insulting you don’t want a shot at this championship. I have spent years building it up and bringing it prestige. You think its a sign of respect to not target it, but in reality it makes me angry. I dangled what everyone wants right out there in front of them and the only person with a enough balls that steps up only wants a shot at MY credibility. Now, now, now my porcelain loving princess you have made this personal. You want to make your name off of mine. It's got nothing to do with the notoriety of winning a championship. It's the notoriety that comes with beating Casanova English. You want to do what Kincaid pulled off. You want these fans chanting your name because your better. . . not because you are champion. Well Nothing Else Matters won't be that day.”
I pull a lighter up the the cigarette and take a long drag before blowing the toxic aftermath into the face of my mannequin friend. “I know that this mannequin thing runs much deeper than some sexual fetish. Most things we don't truly ourselves understand manifest as such. Anything confusing we dump into the pile of sexual arousal because it houses the majority of our socially forbidden thoughts. Trust me I know what it is like to have unnatural thoughts. I understand how the mind can force you to do twisted, strange things that you yourself don't understand; a certain sinister urge.” I reach out and move the arm of the mannequin down from it's flexing position. “These things they are so much simpler then real people; or are they? After all both are so easy to manipulate. So easy to do whatever you want with. Both are naive, dressed up by the big corporate machine. Both define the status quo. I think we all start out like this. As. . . canvas.” I run my hand in the face of the male model. I take a few sharp puffs and blow it into the face of the plastic man once more. “Some of us are born with it, others get these strange character quirks from their personal experience, but in reality it truly doesn’t matter how these feeling developed. What is important is that they are there; so in turn what we need to learn is to cope with it. You learn to adapt to it. You embrace it. . . and you use it to your advantage. Up to this point you have done that very effectively. You have thrown people off with your erratic and unique personality. . . a beautiful reminder that you don't need to be “normal” to be loved. I envy that. . . I really do. You've accomplished in three matches what I have tried to accomplish for two years. You showed these people you don’t need to be so cookie cutter to be successful. I like to think I paved the way for you; but I won't claim that. Not yet anyway, not until we are across from one another in that squared circle at Nothing Else Matters.” I smile tapping the ash off my cigarette letting it hit the plastic lining the concrete floor. “ Elskerinne? That is Norwegian for mistress. How fitting, on a night the Championship is a side dish we will feast, and my dear Elskerinne we will dance under those lights.” She reminded me of V, how fitting on this anniversary that I would be facing such a personality. She had the heart of a professional, but the nativity of an amateur.
I walk off stage and grab a baseball bat. “I don't need some strange gimmick to be relevant. The funny thing is Elskerinne that you are messed up. You think you are strange, and unique. You think you are sick, somehow offsetting. You think that these people won't really accept you because of your quirkiness I see it in your glass eyes Elskerinne. I'll be truthful with you, we are both broken humans. Maybe I shouldn't speak for you. Maybe you are under the illusion that you are just fine like most of the populace. The truth is you are in the wrong spot at the wrong time. I respect you answering my challenge, but I have to make an example out of you. Don't worry. It's not for nothing. You're just another sacrifice for the cause. See you think we are sick. The ones in the ring ripping one another apart. . . but lets be honest the audience. . . they are the sick ones. They are going to watch a naive little deer walk into the road and get hit by a speeding locomotive just reigning momentum. Of course these people are going to love you. You live with your fetish out there in the light. You remind then it's okay for them go go home and watch brutal BDSM and have a successful business career. It's so fucking poetic. You and I; were hardly the ones who need help.”
I lift up the baseball bat and crush the skull of the plastic man. The false brains of the mannequin spray out all over the room as I lift the bat up and repeatedly slam it back down again and again into the head of the mannequin. I can't stop it's exhilarating, the championship has gone flying. The plastic man has become my mother. My father. My brother. Kincaid. Iser. Ryder Blade. Elskerinne. Ryan Omega. The images of the ones that stand, and have stood in my way. The cigarette hangs out my mouth loosely before catching the air and flying away; I continue to turn the mannequins head into mush. The fake blood splashes the walls lining the fake audience, but it's hard to see to the naked eye on the black shadows. I let out a sigh throwing the bat high up in the air. Look at them, the people on the wall. . . covered in blood and they can't even see it. I walk toward the camera puffing exhaustively on my cigarette from the rage. “I don't love mannequins. I am not from parts unknown. I am not 7'0 feet tall and 300 pounds of pure muscle. I'm not out here pretending not to be human. I can be beaten; I think that has been evident over the past month. I am determined, I am the preacher for the abused, the neglected. I am rags to fucking riches. You're all just scared, you are all just intimidated. Afraid that your life is a lie. That promise of glory, of redemption? That's all bullshit. There is no forgiveness. It's kill or be killed. All these unique different little snowflakes you love so much; they all eventually melt into the same mass. Then they just evaporate into thin air under the heat of the sun. I'm sorry darling. . . I'm about to inhale you”
It was a mess, a bloody fucking mess and I breathed heavy and hard. Sweat poured down my face mixing with the cherry red fake blood. I was tired. It felt good. It felt natural. I pushed a crimson smeared hand into my pants pocket and pulled out a lighter. I grabbed my leather jacket off the floor where it landed in the madness. I dug a single Marlboro from the breast; my thumb staining the filter pink as I light the end and inhaled deep. I push the smoke so far down in my lungs it burns. I kicked the camera off as a pool begin to form around it. It was a nightmare in the white room, specks splattered everywhere. I pushed my hand through my hair and continued to puff on the cigarette tip toeing around the room, almost tap dancing. I sucked on the cancer stick one more time before tossing it in the pool of red just to watch it float. It remained above for a while resting in the thick fluid, but slowly it began to soak up the faux blood and eventually it became part of the crimson mass almost indistinguishable poking just above the surface. Then my eye catches it, the blood caked World Visionary Championship. I observed as the liquid filled in the cracks of the VoW logo. Finally I plucked it up from the mess; the muck. I pulled it out of the liquid it was submerged. I slapped it right on my shoulder. It smeared my white shirt, but I wore it as proudly as I did when it were clean. After all a knight in shining armor is only a warrior who never had his metal tested. It seemed much more me caked with fake flesh.
I keep having this dream where I am still alive. Now it's time to wake up; embrace the darkness. After all I was born in it. Elerkshire, the mannequin, the void . . . I will leave my imprint. I will become born again. With her blood I will remind these hungry cowardly hyena whose scraps they feed off of.