Certified Killer, Boy.

They call the wrestling brand I’ll be competing on Proving Ground…

How fitting…

As if I haven’t thrown myself into every rendition of a combat company there is searching for uniqueness. As if I haven’t year over year proved myself in ounces of blood. I’ve given so many pounds of flesh I'm lucky to make fight weight.

I’ve got holes in my hands -- holes in my heart -- that old cliche of a modern day misunderstood saviour. And I’m here questioning… If I have anything in the tank -- and like an old Volvo I turn over and over, just in my sleep -- hungry -- thirsty -- angry -- no where to put any of it.

Project Honor. It’s different. It’s trying to legitimize this sport and who better to do it with a splash of reality better than me? Hell I haven’t even got around to scraping Bryan Williams blood out from underneath my fingernails. I’m here to seal up old wounds -- get some fresh ones -- turn this body into a road map of self destruction.

I’ve been chain smoking for days in one of the only tiny hotel rooms in Tokyo, Japan, which allow it… preparing for my first match ever in the country. I’ve mostly toured North America and Europe -- never picked up a contract for the true right of passage, getting my chest chopped by grizzled Japanese veterans most in the US never heard of. Maybe that’s why so many of my colleagues have a vendetta.

I’m here now.

That’s all that matters.

I suck on the cigarette slowly, feeling nicotine cake to my teeth and inner lips before adding to the clouded room.

“Trying to hotbox the fucking place?,” Bash Daddy asked, waving a hand in front of his face to clear a path to see me better.

Bash was still rough around the edges, but I was glad he was finding himself… no matter how much of that was grounded in BDSM -- and I do get tired of the closeted construction boys he decided was his type.

“Just trying to gas myself, get this shit over with once and for all,” I quipped.

His blue eyes glistened behind his leather mask, but they held pain more than anything. Years of drug abuse -- battling with who he was -- a family dissolved because of lack of acceptance. I started The Orphanage for people like him. Lost souls full of potential beaten down by the system -- but like 1776 -- truth is the only way you achieve peace is through violence.

Wrestling is just another arms race.

“From a fucking human chophouse to Tokyo, Japan for one of the biggest nights of Project Honor… you never know where you are going to end up,” Bash said continuing to wave the smoke away, as I exhaled replacing it.

“I’m tired of being criticized for wanting to help start ups. Aiding in establishing new trends, new ideas in this vanilla industry is all I ever wanted to do. But I am sick and tired of the failure. Innovation that lasts a month or two and leaves only ashs. I can do that right here, in this hotel room,” I said, knocking dead embers off my cigarette to the floor below.

“At least The Detective didn’t follow us here,” Bash said.

“Yeah, but we both know he will be waiting for us as soon as we land back in the West,” I sucked the last bit of life out of the cig and tossed it to the ground. I let it burn out slowly, not bothering to stomp it out.

“Do you think he will realize you left those tapes on purpose?”

“Fuck, if he hasn’t caught me by now… I don’t think he ever will.”

Voodoo found this secluded dojo. A large circle which looked like a hut, in the center she sat crossed legged with a Samurai sword on her lap. Her long dreads nearly dangled to her thighs.

She always came up with these strange concepts, grounded in black magic, which she thought would provide me a mental edge in my matches. She was a secret expert of psychology inside and out of the ring. Who am I to tell her she’s not a witch? The rituals have helped me in the past.

“Do you know the concept of seppuku? Essentially Samurai would voluntarily drive a sword into themselves then kneel to an enemy and be tortured,” Voodoo said as I knelt down in front of her.

“You want me to stab myself with that fucking thing?” I said looking down at the sharp surgical-like steel of the long blade.

“No, I’m going to teach you how to swallow it,” she said grinning, like it was some sort of kink -- but I heard her out.

“You are going to a place where some of the best talent with unique styles from all around the globe are converging… debuting on the biggest PPV of the company’s history. You have to learn to be calm under pressure, when this blade slides down your narrow esophagus you have no choice but to be calm, or be sliced from the inside out.”

My throat was already tightening looking at the sword -- catching my reflection in the side of it.

“What if I don’t have the will to die for this shit anymore?,” I said, knowing it wasn’t outside the realm of possibilities. I wasn’t proud of some of the things I did in the deathmatch company I was part of.

“Well, maybe we shouldn’t even be here in Tokyo. You and I both know though, if you don’t die in that ring… they’ll just find you in a ditch in the next few months.”

“You really think The Detective is getting that desperate?”

“No, not yet -- but I know you can push him there,” she said, pausing, running her hand along the sword and lifting it up. “If not him, someone else.”

She wasn’t wrong. I made some dangerous enemies inside and outside of the ring and the best thing for me to do is stay in the spotlight. Keep that pressure on myself and be part of the public discussion.

“Violence is in my blood and this is the best way to let it out. I think we all know that. Keeping myself in this metaphoric prison, keeps me from lashing out -- out there -- for the most part,” I point at the blade and put a cigarette between my lips.

“Well, show me how it’s done,” I said, lighting my cigarette.

Voodoo lifts the sword up, but remains sitting. She slowly, gently, glides the blade down her throat.

I’m back in the dojo. Bash has the camera recording as he slowly circles around me. I am in the center of the circular room, holding the blade in one hand, it pointing to the ground.

I lift it quickly, pointing it, bringing it close to the camera lens and Bash’s face.

“Did you think I would go down with the ship like I have every other time before? I know some people here in Project Honor are surprised to see me, see that I haven’t faded in obscurity once again and I am willing and able to put on matches outside of the deathmatch niche I was slowly, but surely carving out for myself. Well, here I am Project Honor… in the fucking flesh and ready to shed it.”

I smirk, lowering the blade back down to my side. I push the tip of it gently into the top of my dress shoe, spinning it slowly.

“I know I am not the only hungry new talent in this match, and that excites me. I know all four of us know we are better than an opening card match -- despite how credible Project Honor wants to think this event is. Each and everyone one of us is coming to prove something -- but right there is where the similarities end.”

I pull up a cute little Hello Kitty plush doll to the camera -- throw it up -- swing the blade swiftly and splatter fluff into the air which slowly floats down.

“Monsieur Minji, Puss in Boots, whatever you call yourself when you step between the ropes… I know you aren’t keen on opening matches, but if you think you are too cool of a kitten you’ll see how quickly I can gobble up pussy. I am not new to this game of cat and mouse. I don’t want to spend too much time nipping at you, but I can only hope Honor surrounds the ring with litter so there is a place for you to retreat when I kick the shit out of you.”

I shake my head looking at the decapitated stuffed animal.

“My first introduction to Japanese wrestling and this is who they could drum? A hometown hero who is so psychologically ill they think they are a goddamn house pet. An opponent I can strike fear in the heart of with a simple spray bottle of water. I get it, dropping you on your head will be tough when all you do is land on your feet -- so if I have to bag you up, find the nearest body of water and take care of you like they do the lame ones on Canadian farms I’ll gladly do what has to be done.”

I pick up a stack of 100 pound sterling and toss it into the air, slicing the blade through it once more spreading the cash like confetti.

“Quid… if only I knew more about this blank slate, but Project Honor can't seem to track down much history on you. No accomplishments, no background, not even a size advantage to offer up. Which makes me wonder, who the fuck paid you to step between the ropes. Is your name Quid because it only takes a couple bucks for you to do your job like your momma likely raised you to do and lie on your fucking back for true talents like me. It’ll only take you a few times to get on the wrong side of me and end up exactly where you came from -- a perfect description for a coroner's report -- found ‘somewhere in New England.’”

Then there is Bryan, I said it to myself and motioned for Voodoo.

“Bring it in.”

Voodoo gingerly carries a skittish chicken my way -- she was unable to find a rooster to better represent Bryan Williams -- but this is the best she can do. Voodoo hold the chicken’s neck out across a wooden black and I step forward, rolling the sleeves up on my purple dress shirt.

I life the blade up -- and bring it down, cutting the head of the chicken off clean. Blood runs down the side of the blade -- as the chicken sprints around the room, feathers furiously fluttering about until finally -- it all stops. I clean the blade slowly looking back at the camera.

“Unlike you Bryan I’ve been literally digging fingernails into my face and peeling away layers, trying to expose, trying to find who I am. Trying to dig into my own fucking skull to find purposed. People like you, embrace hiding, only become who they truly are underneath a mask when it’s fitting, donning a persona for the horrible things you do.”

Bash’s eyes shot to the ground, knowing he’s not at that stage yet. That he’s not able to tear off the leather mask and show the world who he truly is -- at least he wasn’t pretending to be a psychotic rooster.

“Maybe I am jealous, maybe being the shamelessly the sick individual I am is exhausting. I could blame who I am on my upbringing, I could listen close to hear voices coming from the mouths of roosters -- but the truth is… the real world. It’s scary enough. It’s where I come from, it’s where I live, it is where I thrive and Williams I will take you to that reality one day. See this match isn’t some gimmick bullshit like the past. There is no trying to nail each others fucking palms to the mat with a nail gun and call it a win.”

I open my free palm and examine the scar in the center left by Williams. The hole he put there with a nail gun and how he had the audacity to reach for it when he was done. Like I owed him some honor of a well fought fight. Like it isn’t what we are paid to do every night. Belittling me in the process.

“I may not have you one on one Williams like I want… but this isn’t some gimmick match, this time if you want to put me down you have to pin my shoulders to the mat or make me quit. And when I do beat you, you better not even think to extend a hand -- I’ll rip the god damn thing off from the wrist.”

“Williams I saw you step out from the shadows, expecting people to know who you are. Appearing on Proving Grounds to establish your name here. Unlike you I prefer to let these people get to know me in a meaningful way. You can talk all you want, add all the gimmicks you need, speak from the shadows like a creep and cut promo after promo after promo and none if it matter til you step through those ropes and prove you can go. Prove you are the man you said you were. Me… I’m not one to give myself introductions like you did Williams. See if I am good enough I’m of the mind others are going to let people know -- whether they like you or not.”

I lift the sword up above my head down and flip is around -- tilting the point pass my lips and slide down into my throat. I relax -- breath slow -- take ownership of the moment like Voodoo taught me. Control my emotions.

I start pulling it back up, I swear I can feel it cut into the sides of my esophagus slowly and as I yank it out, my throat tightens -- I have it out just in time -- but it slices the side of my mouth. Blood pours out of my mouth and down my throat as I look at the camera -- spitting the blood at it -- getting a few specks on the lens.

“Ah, a little nervousness never hurt anyone. A realization of failure, the taste of blood -- whatever you want to call it. I’d be lying if I told you these typically iron knees are shaking at the thought of the crowd packed into the Tokyo Dome. The rumble as feet hitting the ground. Being given the opportunity to set the pace of night two of Night of Honor. This isn’t something I’m taking lightly and with three other people in the ring I know anything can happen -- I’m prepared for it. I’m not looking past these opponents. I know Emmanuelle, Tara and Petey aren’t thinking of me yet -- but once this night is through -- Warrior Rising Championship or not -- I promise one thing -- no one is safe under the same roof as Casanova English. At Night of Honor, I show that locker room and all of Tokyo what a certified killer looks like."

I drop the sword letting it click against the ground. I place a cigarette between my bloody lips, light it and take a drag.

Bash simply flicks the camera off.


“Detective’s tape, #336. The mole pulled through, though Murderhaus was shut down and tapes destroyed, their leader killed in a bizarre inferno match… it seemed as if everything else was lost with Eddie Murder. But… I was given these tapes. I’ve labeled the The Murderhaus tapes. For some reason Karl said he could only provide the tapes on VHS… it took me a week and half to find a fucking player able to run the things -- but it appears Casanova English recorded some of the antics he and The Orphanage were up to while they were part of the roster of certified killers.”

The Detective pulled the first tape out, his hand shaking with excitement and nervousness as he slid it into the VCR.