The Culling

Casanova English knows all too well what it takes to make a tough decision.

The Detective was building a larger portrait of a killer reading the diaries of English. He hasn’t slept in days, sucking back cigars, whiskey and week old stale pizza. Everything he read, he spoke aloud and recorded to keep an audio record in case somehow the journals are destroyed.


“I’ve come up to a particular entry I find interesting. English was the only one visiting his grandfather as his dementia progressed to dehablite him. Even his grandmother was drinking, unable to be at the bedside each day. They wouldn’t allow them to pursue assisted suicide -- some foramality about his grandad not being in the proper mental state to make the decision.”

The Detective flipped open the diary once again and cleared his throat.

The screech of the flat line has been ringing in my ears for days.

I couldn’t leave him like that. The only person in my life who I really looked up to. A man who worked so hard for his family even when it was falling apart due to the drug epidemic hitting small towns across Canada. I think that’s what started breaking down his mind early, all the trauma and stress. His daughter addicted to drugs, losing his son in a car accident… it takes a lot out of a person no matter how strong you are.

He was always there for me. Picking me up under age drinking and from school yard fights. Silent rides back to the safety of his home. A quiet acknowledgement of similarity. No judgement. It was what I needed in my late teens. Discipline would have turned me into a madman.

He couldn’t even grip my hand. He couldn’t lift his head, a machine was helping him breathe and they were getting close to removing the feeding tube. They needed my grandmother to make the decision. Needed her to finally pull the trigger and let the old man go. I was tired of waiting. His chest artificially inflating, falling with a wheeze.

I yanked the fucking thing from the wall so hard the electrical socket sparked and the whole fucking room went dark. Probably saved my ass from getting caught on camera leaving that wing of the hospital.

I had to do it.

Sometimes mercy looks a lot like murder.


The Detective stopped reading. It was there, in literally black and white. Casanova’s capacity to kill.

To cull the weak despite societal conventions.


I’ve always been overlooked and underappreciated.

It’s not anything new.

And it’s happening again. I’m not going to be part of any Top 10, Top 100, Top whatever the fuck in the industry for a simple fact. I don’t fit the mold. People keep my name out of their mouth and it’s starting to get hard to decipher if it’s ignorance or disrespect.

Voodoo has a warehouse set up for me. An old dusty wrestling ring in the center, a spotlight shining down in the middle of it, highlighting me and my newly won Warrior Rising Championship.

Outside the ring are several mannequins, Bash Daddy pushing the last one into place. Hundreds outside the ring to replicate the audience.

“Well here we are, one again a champion. A magnet for gold even when I don’t even need it. But this week I’ve got a booking I’m not particularly proud of. It reflects the lack of respect I have in this industry. It reflects a sickness in this sport to keep people like me down and silent.”

I put a cigarette between my lips and adjust my leather jacket and championship slug over my shoulder.

“I’m in a match with seven other assholes this company didn’t deem important enough for a tournament. I’m not even sure this even counts as an official title defense with the last two of us battling at the PPV for this championship. The graphics department hasn’t even taken the time to change the banner on the official website. Am I not pretty enough? Am I not putting enough asses in seats, is that it?”

I say gesturing at the fake crowd stacked outside the ring.

“Are you not fucking entertained? At the last Proving Ground I walked through Lil’ Petey like he was nothing. I humbled him in the center of the ring and sent a message to this entire roster that this warrior feeds on fucking blood. I sent him back to reevaluate shotty rap lyrics with less ability to read. And this week stepping into the ring with me again will be his worst mistake. See Petey I plan to put an explanation mark on the statement I started when I won this championship. You’’ll be lucky if you will be able to eat without a feeding tube, let alone spit rhymes.”

I pace around the ring like an animal. Kicking the ropes and smirking to calm down a little.

“Aaron Bolduc you kind of embody the disadvantage I was at in my youth. See city boys like you from the big city, the six, the big smoke, whatever you pretentious assholes call Toronto these days. You ate so much there was little left on the plates of families in rural Ontario. You got the hockey scholarships and they eyes on you. The top tier fitness training clinics and free rides. I never had those opportunities. Never had a dad to drive me to 5 am practice and actually build a work ethic inside of me. What I am saying is Bolduc people like you got a head start. Hell you barely had to grind on the indies before Project Honor thought your physique would look good on TV. Hell I barely get any prime time air in fear this whole company will be cancelled. I’ll tell you one thing, I am not letting people like you take another thing in life from me. I won’t be overlooked and if you this this match is going to be some cute introduction to the roster -- it isn’t frosh week bro. But if you want to be initiated come on out to Proving Ground and see if you can carry my fucking jock strap.”

“Don’t worry, I am not solely focused on your Aaron. No, I know there are others here trying to find a quick way to jump the line like Diana. I get it you come to America, you are a fresh pretty diverse face, marketable and talented. But if you thought you’re mommy and daddy disapproved of the violence back when you where a kid, the things I’ll do to you at proving ground will make hardcore porn look vanilla. People like you think they can come in here and not pay their dues. I’m going to drag you from rope to rope, snap one off and whip you with it til you apologize to your parents for thinking becoming a professional punching bag could provide a better life. Miss Universe Japan is going to scream so loud the fucking Starship Enterprise is going to hear."

“Speaking of fairy tale endings. We have Kayla. Came up homeless, struggling to find a way to succeed in this sport let along life. And maybe, just maybe I hope you see the ways of The Orphanage. That there is a home for you here too -- but I know it’s not that simple. People with a will like yours need to be broke down. Need to understand it can get worse. You have it all now, a contract with a rising promotion, a way to put a roof over you head -- but does it feel any different. Some people exist better with a little mania, with some dirt under their nails. Some people like to be held down in the grime so they can rise up and I see that in you Kayla. The constant need to take the hard way home. Well let me welcome you with open arms my child at Proving Ground. You want this opportunity, then come on. Shake hands with the devil, lets go to the final two and show these people what pain really looks like. It’s not me you have to worry about though is it? It’s everyone else. It’s the fact that in the pack, you start at the bottom, and no matter how hungry you are the six others in the ring are just as rabid -- myself not included. Because like you they all NEED this championship. The only reason I have it is because I want it, it’s a way to make a statement -- and I’d be selfish enough to melt this gold and leather down so no one gets the chance to hold this title again. I know you’d rather die in the ring than to go back to where you came from. Let's hope it doesn’t come down to that.”

I wink at the camera and look out at the crowd. Perking my ear as if I expect to hear something from the mannequins.

“Jay Crowley, don’t think I’ve forgotten about you. You are one of the few in this match with a worthy reputation of striking fear into people’s hearts around the world. People don’t often walk the walk, but you do Crowley. You have this dark aura around you I’m sure not even your own family could accept. I see carbon copies of you flash and vanish in a heartbeat. It’s all because of vulnerability. You come out here and you tell us you are a demon, you are otherworldly and people like you are their own worst enemy. How long does the charade really last? You talk to much, you do to much and eventually they start to see the pieces of you which are human. And me, I see that flesh peek out from the armor and I penetrate. I find a way not to make these people believe any less in you, but make you believe a little less in yourself. Is it a chop that stings too much? You try to muffle but let out a scream. Or it is my leg around your neck and your flailing until stillness takes over your body? There are so many ways to humble the darkness. Enough rounds with me and you’ll be reduced to a wrestler like Quid. Looking for an identity any chance he gets, only to fall short time and time again.”

“This brings us to John Blade, the money fight all the fans want to see. Hero vs villain live on PPV, or I am I reading from the fucking dirt sheets too early. The baby kissing, hand shaking, quick quipping good guy jacked up bodybuilder everyone loves. That star which comes around once every few decades and owners can strap a rocket to him and market him to the mother fucking moon and back. I know what the plan is for men like you John, the big matches, the limos and private plane rides. The Hollywood movie deals and super models. I get it. The fast time and the fucking high life and everyone sitting in the arena wants a chance to be a bit more like you. But it’s not sustainable. If you don’t let them down, they will let you down. I promise you that… life is a double edged blade… and I’ll use it to give you a little bit of color at Proving Ground.”

I hold the championship up and the heads of mannequins start to explode -- my cigarette accumulating ash and billowing smoke.


Red crimson splashes from them. The small explosions flow through the room like dominoes. Getting closer to the ring the red blood like matter starts to splatter over sections of English’s face. He holds the championship up, hanging over the ropes and making sure the championship is smeared in what looks like blood.

“This is a new era of this title. This upcoming fight isn’t a match it is fucking culling. If this company isn’t going to respect me the way I deserve. If you don’t have the decently to even make this upcoming match and official title defense, then let me know you what I think of this title, of this place. You need someone with guts, someone who will sterilize this division, and at Proving Ground, whether you like it or not, I don’t plan on leaving a second survivor. I’m coming to mark my territory.”

I lay the Warrior Rising Championship down in the middle of the ring and the camera pans down to focus on it. You can hear my pants unzip as a stream of yellow flows hitting the title washing away the blood reminiscent of Metallica's ReLoad album.