Heroes and Heathens

Another one bites the dust, another legend beneath my boot. It’s what I do, I’m the dose of reality this industry needs. The old relics have faded, their joints aren’t well oiled and it’s far too easy to pop a leg off.

We have steroid ridden monsters without an ounce of charisma to sustain themselves in the limelight. And now… now I head to the final show of Carnage Wrestling facing a character plucked from a comic book, a Saturday morning watered down cartoon rendering of a superhero.

I get it, you want a villain, you want unhinged, you want some Health Ledger shit… driving my mind to delusions in the process of unmasking a fraud to say hey… ‘he’s just like you.’

The Avenger… the problem is in the name itself… the self-centeredness of it all. The idea that the world, someone did something wrong to you and you had to become something new, something fake, you had to invent a purpose and exact punishment on the things you feel are wrong in the world.

Well whether they like it or not, I’m the voice of the cockroach crawling, the broken man on the street holding his finger to the trigger wondering if he should cash it all in and rob the next bank. I’m a man put in this position out of desperation, here because I have to be, not because I want to.

Now, at Totality, I’ll show you all who I truly am, how sick this industry can make people, how far some of them will go and then it’ll be clear as glass…

This ain’t no place for a fucking hero.

Voodoo splashed water on her face in front of her bathroom mirror in her poorly lit apartment. She needed that sometimes to come back from mediation. She was still lingering on the footage detective Burns showed her weeks ago.

English pulling Voodoo from the burning church turned into a training camp. Her lifeless body slung over his shoulder as Ransom pulled up to drive them away from the blaze. She didn’t tell Casanova. She didn’t tell Ransom. She hadn’t decided what to do.

Voodoo pulled her cell from her pocket and sighed before dialing the detective’s number.

“Hello, Burns… what do you need? A face to face with Casanova English?”

Burns' excitement rang from the phone, but what he was saying was inaudible.

“I’ll see what I can do.”


I stood atop the roof of a tall Baltimore building, a signature cigarette hung between my lips as I looked out over the city and harbour. Ransom is rolling the camera doing a nice side profile of my face as I blow a plume of smoke out over the city. I snap my face toward the camera.

“I’ve already lost to a villain plucked from a fantasy world and this week I have to battle off a man who thinks he is a hero, is there anything more dangerous. I mean we have all been there, thinking our path in life is the only righteous one, that the ends do indeed justify the means… but I can speak from experience and that isn’t always the case.”

I tap the ash off the end of my cigarette letting it slowly float over the edge of the building and trickle slowly to the ground below.

“Now, Avenger, we’ll call you that, sure. I’m not going to go through the motions of trying to figure out who is behind the mask when I can rip it off your face in the centre of the ring at Totality. But I doubt anyone is going to recognize you, because you are average. Average just like the people in the stands. I mean I could make the choice too. I could pull the spandex in just a little bit tighter, I could put a mask on, I could reframe my entire message to appeal to these weak minded men, women and children. I could put a big fucking C on my chest and skate by on my charisma.”

I toss my cigarette to the ground abruptly and let it burn there for a moment.

“But that’s not who I am is it Avenger? I am not one of the superhero disciples you are scouring the wrestling industry for, hell, I might even be the ultimate villain. I am the real this cartoon industry needs. I am here to make it legitimate, to make it a real combat sport, not some bullshit you toss on Monday night for your kids mouth to hang agape until they fall into a deep slumber. No, I am the one that makes you shut off the TV. I’m the one talking about word politics which sails over your feeble mind. I want to get the right people watching this sport, I want to give the angry, the disenfranchised hope… not keep feeding this bubble gum ass crowd.”

I stop on the cigarette hard and twist.

“See the world wants to see it, on the last night of Carnage they want to see he hero put down the villain, they want to see Canova English shut up once and for all -- but it won’t happen. Stories in my ring don’t get written like that. See I know The Avenger is a Baltimore boy, I know he has this hometown crowd, this community he represents. I know I'll be outnumbered, wannabees covered in green and black and chanting for you to hit the Infinite Crisis… but you want to know what the true crisis is? It’s the illusion you and your supporters are living with Avenger. The idea that a hero has to look like you, that you have to put on some fucking costume to exact change in the world, reinforcing the idea that the regular version of yourself isn’t enough.”

I shake my head then spread my arms out gesturing at the city below, leather jacket hung over my shoulders.

“You might be the champion of this town, but I can promise you when we face even if you mange to pull a win off... after that bell rings they won’t be talking about the Avenger and where he is going to pop up next. They are going to wonder where the hell Casanova English is going to deliver six star matches once again. See I don’t think you represent the grit under this city’s nail. I don’t think this city needs a hero, it needs a fucking real one. It needs to be indoctrinated with the new gospel. It needs to be saved, it must hear the word of The Modern Day Messiah… and just in case I am having trouble getting through… I know exactly how to get through to people like you avenger. See there is no multiverse, there is one universe in wrestling… and I am the centre of it.”

I walk over to a large lever, a huge spotlight beside it, I look at the camera and smirk as I flick the switch and the batman-like light superimposes two words across the Baltimore night sky…


Ransom snaps the camera off.


You could hear the wheels of Burns’ sedan chew up the gravel as he shifted into park and looked through the windshield at an old rundown warehouse. He was already sweating, pit stains forming on his dress shirt.

He looked down at the Google maps app on his iPhone 8.

“Well, this is the place,” he said.

Burns knocked on the steal door and silence followed. He was about to turn around when Voodoo swung the door open.

“Come in,” she said gesturing for Burns to follow.

She lead him to a small room, Ransom stood on the other side of the room. Voodoo pulls a chair out for Burns to sit on, and she walked to the other side of the table to sit down.

“I’ve spoken to Mr. English,” she said and Burns heart rate starts going up right away.

“He explained the concept of the rebirth, why him I and Ransom have some to Baltimore. He told me the fire wasn’t an accident, but he had no idea I was inside… and well... It was fate we found each other Burns. Do you believe in fate?”

“Yes,” he said, swallowing hard.

The door behind him opened up and he refused to turn around keeping an eye on Voodoo the entire time as English circled around the table to take her spot.

English whistles pulling a single Marlboro from a pack.

“Oh, how rude of me,” he said. “Would you like one?”

English holds the pack out for Burns to take one, but he just shakes his head.

“Suit yourself,” English said, putting a cigarette between his lips and lighting it.

"Now, I know all about who hired you, why you have been tracking me down and I thought the message I sent last month would have been enough for the both of you to understand, but I guess I haven’t made myself clear.”

English leans closer to Burns, smoke billowing in the detective’s direction.

“There is nothing for you to find here, I am a pro-wrestler, not some manipulative mastermind who could have orchestrated the assassination of a prophylactic serial rapist and killer. Don’t you know, this is all fake,” English laughs and winks at Burns who doesn’t seem the least bit amused.

“You tell your friend if he wants answers from me he can come get them himself, but if he keeps sending you after me… we’ll I’ll just come to him.”

English says before lunging toward Burns to get him to jump, but out of character of the meek detective he swings his jittery hands up and scratches Casanova along the cheek, setting the former Chaos Champion back.

“What the fuck,” English said. “Get him out of here.”

Ransom walked around the table and picked Burns up by the back of his neck, dragged him through the warehouse until he tossed him right back through the door he entered in. Burns skids across the ground letting out an oof.

Ransom looked down casting a shadow on the man. He didn’t say anything, the look was warning enough -- but Burns didn’t plan on coming back. He finally got what he needed, what the man calling the shots wanted.

Burns got back into his car and shut the door. He breathed heavily as he pulled a toothpick from his dashboard and started to pull some of the already drying blood from under his nails onto a small napkin he gently folded.