Come Bury A Villain

I’ll admit I had been back to the the brothel – back to Rachel as I continue to scout the locations of the first wrestling shows I’ve ever run with Combat Unlimited: Lethal Trials – but I can’t take my eye off the ball because I was forced into some passion project my a vengeful money hungry crooked agent.

I just wasn’t sure what was more distracting – starting a business or the beautiful seductress sucking up my time and more outside of Vegas.

All this fucking traveling was killing me, taking a bigger toll on the body than any of the ringwork – but before I went to Mexico for Proving Ground I needed to stop by Florida – Fort Lauderdale to be exact.

I took Bash Daddy with me, left Voodoo to do paperwork once again and finalize signings for CU:LT while I prepare for my match and Project Honor and upcoming match against Myojin at supershow. I might be biting off more than I can chew, but what else is a carnivore to do.

Bash and I found a seedy hotel in Florida I could rent all the rooms out in, a cheap pool with a touch of green from not having enough chlorine sit still – undisturbed. I’m shirtless, sitting on a long beach chair – the championship around my waist – aviators on and a cigarette hanging out of my mouth.

“This really isn’t you,” Bash said, shaking his head. “I mean I get the concept here – but you are really breaking from the brand.”

“That’s kind of the fucking point, this is the bullshit image many wrestlers have put out throughout the years – jet flying – all that bullshit I heard from somewhere. You get this strap and it goes to your head, that’s the narrative these people are so used to.”

“I hope the special effects don’t look like shit,” Bash says, flicking on the camera to focus on me.

“Oh, sorry,” I say, pretending I was busy tanning in the sun, “I didn’t see you there. I was busy laying the lap of luxury, laying up since I am running the ‘easy’ division around Project Honor. That’s how some of you seem to think. I know I am not the most popular man in any lockeroom but I do have ears to the ground – I do hear what you are saying in dressing rooms in Project Honor and elsewhere… but don’t say I didn’t fucking warn you folks.”

I suck on my cigarette bringing my championship up to my shoulder now – checking my reflection and exaggeratedly fixing my hair.

“I said once I wrap you in that triangle choke I am going to put a hold on this division twice as hard and that’s exactly what happened…. I put down the Drip Daddy so bad he’s on a retirement tour and now Grip Daddy has ruled the roost for the past year or so. And I can’t help but feel like some of you… some of you want me to feel bad… some of you want me to consider dropping this title… I’ve heard the rumors, I’ve seen the chatter.”

“Truth be told I could give a fuck, it’s not my fault I am the strongest and longest reigning champion here at Project Honor it was a booking mistake I am making these asshole pay for week after week after week – and you know what’s funny… that’s writing the checks from the top of Project Honor right down to the fucking janitor because everyone from politicians to his Goddamn granny pay good money to see if I am going to get my head kicking in and get this title finally freed from pure deadlock.”

I take a few sharp drags off my cigarette and throw it at the camera exhaling. It wasn’t even half done and I pull out another and light it showing clearly money is no object for Casanova English – the overgrown grass of the shitty hotel a dead give away the film location is pure shit. I don’t even flinch at the gun shots in the background, the three hours we’ve been in this cesspool for Bash and I quickly grew accustomed.

“I don’t feel bad at all truth be told. This is exactly what I said I was going to do. Iron sharpens iron, how diamonds are made and all that bullshit someone else said before me but never actually backed up. See I wanted to create a new standard in this company and I did – the only thing I failed at was not becoming a double champion and leaving this division behind. So maybe I am to blame – maybe this is where I belong whether you or I like it. I’m willing to put this to the test – see despite this all right here… this facade I put on for you just now – I will be real…”

I pluck the glasses off my face and toss them to the ground, step on them and take a long drag off my cancer stick.

“I have been beaten in this company on more than one occasion, all it takes is one bad day in this business and you all know full well I am not perfect. So here is the thing, if I slip up, if I lose this title not only will I not ask for a rematch I’ll never challenge for the Warrior Rising Championship again.”

I hold the title up looking at it then putting it back at home on my shoulder, blowing a puff of smoke in its direction.

“Maybe Giovanni get it done at Proving Ground. Maybe he finally breaks the stranglehold and gives this division the fresh air the critics claim it needs… but if he doesn’t just know the door is open… I’m not limiting myself just to facing people on this roster… you think you have what it takes… well by all means contact my bosses… they know for better or worse I am a fighting champion. Hell, if you want to come and fight me in a one off and try to leave this belt vacant… come on,,, step on up if you think what it takes to bury a villain.”

I walk up to the diving board, it creeks as I stand on it threatening to not hold my weight. I dive off with perfect form, as I hit the water the camera cuts to one underneath the water with an effect to make the water look blood red with the sun shining trying to break the surface. I float right down to the camera and pick up the Warrior Rising Championship I let sink to the bottom.

Bash is earning his money as a cameraman as I stand outside a building, grotesque images litter the outside of a building framed like movie posters, a mangled woman in a wheelchair – legs twisted, arms fragile. Another poster of a man dying in the arms of a demon. Words in neon up above read ‘Vincent Castiglia Gallery & Custom Tattoo.’

Bash keeps filming my my back as i toss the cigarette into a puddle near by and walk indie the building. My appearance would be shocking to some, my make up done in stitches to highlight the faint scars from facial reconstruction after death matches. I’m dressed in a straight jacket – unhooked and arms free – but the woman at the counter with a horn permanently embedded in her forehead just asks me if I have an appointment.

“No, I actually paid for some studio time in the first booth.”

“Oh, Mr. English,” she said, getting up from behind the reception desk. “Right this way.”

She walks Bash and I to a room and opens the door politely. At least I dressed correctly – the white sterile walls reminded me of a padded room. A canvas was already set up for us and the receptionist left us to our own devices. There was a small paint brush and board, but no paint – I’d have to provide a little color myself.

“Giovanna the artist himself, well being a man of culture into the art of hardcore wrestling I am hoping you are familiar with Vincent Castiglia. A painter who opened this shop here in Florida just this year. For anymore not as cultured as my opponent let me enlighten you. Castigila paints with human blood… I know that probably jogged your memory from some drunken night your buddies brought it up. I thought visiting here would be perfect to prepare for our match. I think you’ve seen me do this before, but I decided I should paint you something.”

I nod to Bash who uses everything he has to crack me between the center of the eyes with all he has like a freight train loaded to the brim with pent up frustration.

“Fuck,” I said shaking the stars out of my skull. “Again.”

Bash hits me again in the forehead right between the eyes – maybe breaking my nose, but for sure opening me up. I smile, dipping my finger into the nearly gushing wound and start to make a pretty picture.

“If you want to truly turn a match into a work of art well you couldn’t have hoped for a better person to duet with, but I can promise you one thing Giovanni the red we leave on that canvas at Proving Ground won’t be mine. I have said and proved that time and time again. I see you have this pretty little life mapped out, your legal team and your beautiful muse to inspire the artist, how cute is that. I know more than anyone how important it is to have a team around you, but at the end of the day this is something you are going to have to do all by yourself. I’ll make sure you feel like the tortured artist you claim to be. Artists put all of themselves into their work, some literally sacrifice parts of themselves – Van Gogh cutting off his ear and all that shit your high school arts teacher told you. I can see you are willing to push it that far. I can see that desire for fame, gold, the money that comes with. Everyone thinks these material objects can change your life – you get swept into the sick game of creating something original just so you can buy the latest copy of a copy of a copy to scream ‘look at my social status.’ That’s how I know you aren’t a true artist, you are just another bullshit spotlight chasing entertainer. And I was put in this very position I am to weed out frauds like you.”

I dip my finger into the cut on my face, wincing, then continue painting.

“I’ve seen a million brooding misunderstood artists make their way through this business and I wouldn’t worry about that too much. Come the end of Proving Ground, after I cut off oxygen to your tiny little brain… well people will just have a hard time understanding you generally.”

I smirk flipping the painting over to show Bash. It’s two stick figures painted in my blood, one on the ground with it’s head cracked open with an arrow reading ‘Giovanni’. Another stick figure stand int over the body smoking a cigarette a championship in his hand and an arrow pointing that read ‘English.’


Rachel puked again for the fourth morning in a row so now she was pissing on a goddamn stick again.

It wouldn’t be the first time she had to decide she wasn’t ready and when she pulled the stick up after flicking the urine off she sighed at the positive result.

But this time she felt a little different.

She had a sneaky suspicion who the father was… for a second she thought about keeping it.

Rachel shook her head, picked up a pack of smokes off the bathroom and lit one up, panties still at her ankles.