Casanova English Vs. Sebastian Hawke

Murder filled the sky.

A flock of crows over head -- enduring the chilly winter air.

Intelligent animals with a bad reap for creating too much noise. Watch intersections --- observing the human species -- timing it perfect to drop a walnut to be cracked by the wheels of speeding cars before snatching it up again in the split second between yellow and green.

I heard a story about a little girl. She’d leave food out for the crows and in return they started to retrieve shiny objects and gifts for her approval.

Sometimes I worry I share too much characteristics with the crow -- the omen of death.

Some would think it’s no match for a hawk -- the humble crow -- but at Chaos I’ll make it known -- the symbol of death makes a fool of us all.

I stepped off the back deck back into the living room of my apartment. Ransom was sitting on the couch sipping on a freshly cracked can of Budweiser. After the years of sobriety he finally got to the point where he could have a few drinks and not spiral down a heroin relapse the next second.

He deserved it.

Since I told him he wouldn’t be coming to the ring with me for now, the training has been more intense. I felt like my lungs were about to explode as he ran shoulders into my chest while I tired to escape a corner turnbuckle. Still… I worried it wouldn’t mimic what I’d be up against at Chaos, the speed and flight of this kid they call Hawke.

“So, what about Voodoo?,” Ransom asked.

She was the only other person we took to Baltimore from the wrestling school in Canada that unfortunately burnt down… It took me a little while longer to get her visa worked out so she could come to the US. The risk of traveling with us was far too high anyway given the smoke damage to her lungs.

“In due time we will all be together in the ring Ransom. You two just aren’t ready yet, maybe the world isn’t ready for the reincarnation of The Orphanage.”

Ransom was getting tired of hearing that excuse, and with these strange videos airing of a man asking people to hold up their left hand in loyalty…. We may be losing ground in the cult revolution schtick.

“We should at least get her in for a few training sessions with you. Get you used to being in the ring with smaller opponents.”

He doesn’t realize I wanted them more as an entourage than anything, maybe he does and is still trying to work his way between the ropes. I need to make it clear I run this crew. I need to assert my authority again and that opportunity comes with Hawke this week. The chance to solidify my legacy here in Carnage with gold.

“I think you would be surprised how she could help you… let’s just say Voodoo isn’t just a name,” Ransom smirks and gulps his beer.

Slowly, he pulls a disgusting clump of hair from his pocket and dangles it near me.

I step back gagging.

“Man, what in the fuck is that.”

“Trust me,” he said, balling the hair clump up in his fist and shoving it back into his pocket.

“Let’s go see her in the morning.”

Ransom just sipped his beer smirking as I stared at him puzzled as to why he was hoarding some unknown hair.

Voodoo’s apartment was down a long alleyway, it was a simple steal door and Ransom knocked exactly six times before she swung the door open and she let us in.

“Welcome,” she said, gesturing to her home -- only lit by candles -- it complemented the tone of her caramel skin. Her dreadlocks floated as she walked down the hallway to her living room.

Skulls were affixed to the walls, shrunken heads hanging from the ceiling, tarot cards scattered on the coffee table along with three cups of tea for the three of us.

“I’m not going to lie, he is going to be skeptical, but I told him it’s much more than a fucking gimmick,” Ransom said winking at her.

“Ah, they are all skeptical until Voodoo works her magic. Come. Sit,” she said pointing to two rocking chairs facing a small light orange loveseat.

Smoldering incense smoke covered the whole apartment with a light fragrant haze.

“I’ve never been much of a um… spiritual man,” I said looking around the room at what I believe to be novelties.

“Oh, making a believer out of you is the least I can do for the man who saved my life.”

I may have dragged her from the burning building, but Ransom and I may have also omitted the detail that I also started the fire simply to prove a point and get him on with his life.

“Do you have it?” she asked Ransom.

“Yeah,” he stuffed his hand into his pocket and pulled out the clump of hair.

“Alright, whose hair is this?”

“Sebastian Hawke,” Ransom said laughing. “I snuck into the arena the other night… guys got so much of this shit it wasn’t terribly hard to collect.”

“That’s some weird stalker shit.”

Ransom shrugged as if he was just doing what he had to do and transferred the hair to V who pulled up a small voodoo doll and some pins. She slowly pinned the clump of hair to the top of the head of the tiny white fabric doll.

“What are you doing?”

“She’s trying to have an affect on the match Cass. Trust me, it has worked before. I have seen it, it’s what made her so proficient in the ring.”

V snatched the doll up and looked in its button eyes. It was surreal. This was the kind of crap Ransom was getting lost in while I was absent. He found a new religion -- some affinity for morbid magic.

Slowly she rolled her eyes in the back of her head so that all Ransom and I could see was white. She started chanting in some strange tongue I couldn’t understand. Then she would lift the doll with my opponents hair stuck to it far above her own head and….

THUD!

She’d slam it down has hard as he could, spinning it 180 degrees on the way so the doll landed directly on the top of its head. She dit it over and over.

THUD! THUD! THUD!

Slamming so hard the candle in the centre of the table flickers periodically -- almost going out on occasion.

“What the fuck is this crap man?”

“Look Cass, I didn’t think you’d be so against this. I mean it’s just visualization. You said it on Twitter you want that idiot Hawke to land on his neck. So this is her visualizing it, trying to make it a reality. Trying to put it out into the universe.”

I close my eyes. I buy into the shit. I needed it. Again I was up against someone dedicate to honing their craft. Someone who is at the top of their game after winning the Chaos Championship at the last Carnage event.

Hell -- what would it hurt? Hopefully Hawke.

I toned out V’s chanting and walked through the match in my head, hitting the ropes, chopping his chest, slamming him on the mat, him battling back, heading to the top rope. I kick the ropes at the last second send him tripping from the top rope. Hawke falls. Speeds like a torpedo into the ground right atop his crown. I life him up --- well -- we all know what happened next. What happened last week and the week before that. I leave him in choked out. Unconscious. Covered in drool, maybe blood… hopefully piss.

V stops chanting abruptly. She puts the doll down on the table. It’s silent. Sweat trickles down her forehead. Her eyes snap open and she’s gasping for air.

“I think it worked,” Ransom said.

I wasn’t sure what to think -- but I’ll take any chance to give myself an upper-hand.

Ever feel like you are being watched. I looked over my shoulder sliding the key into my apartment door.

Crows. All lined along the power line. It felt like each and everyone of them had their beady little eyes fixed on me.

I shut the door behind myself quickly. I finally got the apartment set up the way I want. A single brick wall was at the back of the living room a red leather couch in front of it. I slid my leather jacket off my shoulders and placed it on the coat rack. In the kitchen I grabbed the warm Wiser's Canadian whiskey from the cabinet and filled a crystal glass with ice half full. I added a bit of ginger ale to the top for flavour -- throw in a pre-sliced lime.

Back in the living room I flick on the already set-up camcorder and sit on the middle seat of the couch. I take a nice long sip off my whiskey and let out a satisfied sigh.

“It won’t be a question if you survive or give… I’ll have that whole crowd pleading ‘let that kid live.’”

I put my drink on the coffee table in front of me and slowly pulled a single cigarette from a pack of Marlboro Reds. I use it to point at the camera.

“It’s as simple as that Sebastian. It’s as simple as that, but please allow me to elaborate.”

I snug the cigarette in between my lips and keep talking mumbling slightly.

“See, the people like you are actually bad for society. Bad for this business. Bad for this world. You breed false hope. You birth nativity even. You want to write this cheesy little Disney story of defying your angry father and motivating the masses -- of becoming a role model and larger than life superstar and after all the hard work… oh.. you finally did it last week winning the Chaos Championship. It’s all too perfect isn’t it? All a bit too boring and happy.”

I pull a lighter up the tip of the cancer stick and ignite it. I blow three puffs of smoke toward the camera and pick up my drink with the same hand to take a sip.

“You make all these little boys and girls believe they can overcome. That they can too choose their own destiny… like there is no third world. Like there isn’t kids working in sweatshops knitting the logos into the sneakers you wear. You sell these Western kids a false positivity. You don’t talk about the reality of it all. The fact this industry was built on the back of steroids for generation after generation and no one single person in that audience care about the mental health repercussion because man Johnny could hit a fucking suplex. Hell, he smiles when he did it.”

“It’s part of the reason I have been leaving people unconscious in this ring. They need to be reminded this isn’t entertainment, this is a God damn bloodsport. Maybe if I leave a 22-year-old Sebastian Hawke paralyzed in the centre of this ring this sport will be seen in the brutal light it should be seen. I’ve been making statement after statement, Hawke. Last week Zach didn’t know what hit him.”

“I know what you are thinking. It can't happen this quick. It can’t end this abruptly. You just grasped destiny, became a champion in Carnage and there is no way you are going to let the new guy come in here and slaughter you like the lamb. You’ve got friends looking up to you, people you have made proud.”

“So maybe it isn’t only these fans that need a lesson that blind optimism doesn't mean a damn thing when a train is rolling down the tracks and your foot is stuck. It doesn’t matter how good of a person you think you are. It doesn’t matter that you wanted this more than anything. See I’m the reality in professional wrestling. I’m going to pluck that championship from you Hawke… but if I don’t there is something even worse I am going to take from you. Your spirit -- at least a part of it. And once you start losing a part of your pride, of your spirit… well that’s a degenerative disease. It doesn’t grow back quite the same way.”

“My goal isn’t to walk out Chaos Champion… I know Sebastian thinks that is unlikely. He’s worked so hard… if I plan to walk our champion I’ll have to leave him in the same state as my past opponents -- choking on their own saliva as they come to. I’m prepared to do that -- but just in case for one night you do end up being the better man Hawke. I plan on taking a part of you. I told you I would show you what a main event truly feels like. I’ll show this entire roster what the big match feeling truly is -- and no that’s not to say I am going to help you shine. It’s not that I respect you at all. That’s why I’ll keep kicking out. I’ll keep coming. Through the sweat. Through the blood. Through the pain.”

I take a few puffs off my cigarette and blow a big plume of smoke toward the camera. I take a minute to take another sip off my whiskey. I point once again at the camera with the burning ember while I talk.

“One of us is not walking out the same way… and me… well kiddo I’ve been to war before. I didn’t pop my first boner like you did when Carnage let them know they wanted to sign me… act like you have been here before for Christ sake. For a guy who held a championship for so long on the indy scene you’d think this is your first little league most improved trophy,” I said smirking, following the remark with a sip of whiskey.

“I know you don’t want to hear the bird puns, the flying jokes. But just like I told you earlier this week… Hawke is landing on his neck. I know, I know, you’ve said you have landed on your head many times before… as if I can’t tell the way you try and cut a promo.”

I take my half smoked cigarette and hold it up in the air -- ember point toward the ceiling.

“But all it takes is the right tweak, the right moment, the right vertebrae to shift for you to be wheelchair ridden and never in that ring again.”

I slowly move the cigarette down and flip it 180 just like V did with the doll.

“Careful what you put in writing… It might come back to haunt you.”

I crush the cigarette into the top of the coffee table -- compacting it slowly and twisting. I look up again letting my eyes meet the camera. I lean back and sip again. This time I point with one finger at the camera holding the crystal glass.

“Whether it is physical or mental Hawke I am clipping those wings. I am taking a part of you with me and I promise when we are done you’ll never be the same again. You’ll think about this match. It’ll keep you up at night. Even if you walk out the winner, you will always wonder what happened if this match lasted one second longer? Would my reign still be in tack? Would my career?”

“Hopefully you don’t have to find out. Hopefully you just accept your fate like the fallen ones before you. The Modern Day Messiah is writing a gospel -- the new Bible on wrestling.”

I finish the remainder of my drink and slam it down on the table -- hard and loud -- I lean in.

“I’m going to force you to tell a different story in that ring then the bubble gum bullshit you’ve been expecting these fans to chew on. If I walk out without the win I’m going to make you show them you have to scratch, claw, not give a goddamn inch. You have to fight and beat people better than you to have a chance at this world… but to be honest Hawke. I don’t think you have the creativity to expand that narrative.”

“This week if I don’t walk out Chaos Champion, I’ll at least leave no doubt in anyone's mind that I am a champion of Chaos. I hope you can live up the name sake too.”

I raise an eyebrow at my empty glass. I toss the ice around as if to say, ‘I need another.’

I get up and flick the camera off.

Another drink, another punch, another kick, another Divebomb.

It always takes more than one of everything to get me going.