Post by Deleted on Oct 4, 2017 23:05:43 GMT -5
~~September, 2013~~
Jean-Paul Lacklan slowly walked through the front door of his mansion, his steps heavy and labored. The massive man, dressed in his brilliant white cloak and with his hood thrown back to show a head full of burn scars across his hairless head, walked with steps full of pain and weariness. His labored step included a right knee which he could barely lift, legs with so much muscle that it was hard to walk on a normal day, but this was no normal day.
This was a day of victory.
Into the Temple of Whollyness at the Burning Man Festival he had walked, his Sin Wrestling World Championship in hand, and out he had walked, still champion, and his enemy, The Nazi, set aflame. Victory was his. But the cost...was great.
“-AND ANOTHER THING!”
Lacklan did not bother turning around as the ball of rage burst by him in a swirl of red and black lace and satin. His daughter had been in a fury since the end of that terrible match, had been pushing and bullying the servants and followers with every breath or movement. He did not blame her, of course. His daughter deserved her rage. She had been mistreated by a wrestler over the weekend, by one of his greatest rivals, and she was demanding to be taught to fight. He fought that demand. He pushed against it. The life of a wrestler, the life of the road and pain and late nights, was not something for his heir, but she was determined. Perhaps Nikita could help him? Perhaps she could teach certain things he could not?
“THE NEXT TIME ONE OF YOU SO MUCH AS BREATHS WRONG IN MY PRESENCE, SO HELP ME GOD, I WILL HAND YOU FROM THE JEW’S CROSS”
The servants scattered in her rage as Lacklan closed the tall door to the manor. She was not boasting, of course. She would actually hang them from the cross that he had built with his own hands to hang Stevie Swing from. She had watched him, with great delight, slam a crown of thorns into the head of an unbeliever, and he was sure she lusted to do something similar. He could not help but smile at that thought.
Slowly he walked in the hall, a team of servants running to remove his bright while cloak and bring refreshment. A new series of guards replaced those that had arrived with them, the newest recruits taking over, as usual, within the safety of Lacklan Manor. And Lacklan’s blue-grey eyes noticed that one of those guards looked at his daughter with a certain...something...in his own dark eyes.
“Jacob Hargrave.”
Lacklan’s voice sounded as tired and worn as he felt. It hurt to talk at times. Still, the boy heard him and, after snapping a salute of right fist to left side of his chest to his superior, he marched over to his Savior and bowed low at the waist.
“My Lord.”
Lacklan lightly touched him on his forehead with his gloved hands, providing a moment of intimacy few others would receive. The boy looked up and, which tall in his own right, still had to crane his neck to take in the massive man.
“A question, guardsman.”
Lacklan’s technique of asking a question and making a demand at the same time as effective as always, the boy giving him a nod.
“What is my daughter to you?”
The boy is silent for a moment, his eyes going wide.
“My Lord...um...the Blood Princess...she...um…”
Lacklan puts a hand up to silence the boy.
“Not the Blood Princess, boy. My daughter. Sarah.”
Jacob’s eyes turn away from the Savior and find Sarah, the center of a tornado of action, rage, and people running in fear, and he could not help but smile.
“She is my SareBear.”
“And what are you to her?”
The question makes the boy’s face fall.
“A memory.”
Lacklan shakes his head.
“If one does not fight the sea, one shall never tame it. At the same time, if one only fights the sea, one will never learn to obey it.”
He claps a large gloved hand on the boy’s shoulder before moving off.
“The Kingdom needs both, boy. Fight...and obey. The Revolution needs both.”
As he moves off towards the solace of his quarters, where his wounds would be attended to in greater detail than they had been at the festival, he does not see the eyes of the boy darken. He does not see eyes filled with friendship turn to lust, desire, and anger.
The Ballad of JayBird and SareBear, Part IV: A Memory
...Jesus loves me…
...this I see…
...this I see…
The voice of Sarah Lacklan rings through the church as if a choir of angels had come down themselves to sing. The albino sits at the piano on the stage, dressed in a fine brown gown that covers all of her skin, including the black veil pinned to her platinum up-do and down in front her face. Lithe fingers wearing white gloves glittering with tiny emeralds press down on the keys with slow motions, the song filling their air a discordant ballad.
...He blessed me with…
...my family…
...my family…
The eyes are shut behind that veil, but they wish to tear at that word “family.” Her father. Her Beloved. Her CoolKids. Her voice rings out strong, a voice trained from an early age by the finest coaches money could buy, the notes from the piano played by fingers trained with the same level of expertise.
...a love so strong…
...a love so deep…
...a love so deep…
She wants to weep for those she loved deeply. Wants to ruin the perfect eyeliner wings painted on her face by one of her handmaidens with tears of love and sadness for her father, with devotion for her Beloved, with gratitude for her friends.
...that only He…
...could give…
...to me...
...could give…
...to me...
“Not quite how we sing it for service.”
Sarah turns at the voice and sees Reverend Dr. Virgil Jones, the Senior Pastor at the Calvary Baptist church. She gave him a small shrug of her shoulders and grin beneath the veil.
“It is how I learned it. I have found that most of the faster or more jovial hymns and songs are better when played slowly.”
The pastor gives his own shrug.
“A matter of preference, Miss.”
“Missus,” she corrects. The reverend gives her a small bow of his head.
“And what do I owe the honor of this visit, Missus? Here to take over another sermon?”
Sarah gives an inward sigh and one of her patented Eyerolls of Exaggeration +5.
“I DO apologize for that, Sir. In fact, I was hoping that you would accept a small donation. Perhaps a new foyer or cross.”
The man blinks at her.
“I beg your pardon?”
“I wish to donate, Sir, as a showing of faith. I know that God does not need money or symbols, but I am sure His buildings would appreciate it.”
The reverend gives her a slow nod.
“I suppose. But where would such a young woman such as yourself have that kind of money to donate?”
Sarah freezes for a moment, unsure of how much to divulge, but the reverend takes care of that worry himself.
“Grey-Lacklan. I had not realized at first that you had a hyphenated name. Married...sort of...to television star Kenzi Grey. Daughter of the late Jean-Paul Lacklan, founder of the so-called ‘Path of the Light’ Cavalry Baptist Church in Maine.”
Sarah smiles at him. He WAS intelligent. She spreads her skirts wide with her hands and gives him a deep and well-practiced curtsy.
“The Vampire of Lacklanland, at your service.”
Her smile only widened as she saw the grimace on his face as she came back up to her full height.
“Yes. So I have heard.” He shakes his head. “I am sorry for your loss. I may not...agree...with every interpretation of the Word that your father seemed to have, he was still a good Christian. At times.”
This makes Sarah raise an eyebrow behind the veil.
“At times?”
“Well, there is the bit about hating and crucifying Jews, to start.”
“Oh, that!” She steps down from the dais and takes a step towards him, dismissing the all-too-accurate depiction of how Jews were treated on the compound. “But the pishest of poshes. Now, about that donation, I-”
“Why are you here?”
The question stops her mid-step.
“I have already said! I wish to apologize for supplanting you a month ago.”
The reverend shakes his head.
“A phone call would have sufficed. You are here for a reason.” He motions to the large cross and picture of Jesus behind the podium, a depiction of the Christ being followed by children in a crowd. “When people come to the Lord’s house, the come for a reason. Tell me, Missus, what do you do for a living.”
Sarah blinks in confusion.
“Pardon?”
“Your occupation.”
She shrugs.
“Rich white girl.”
It is the reverend’s turn for an eyeroll.
“I mean besides that. What fills your day?”
“Ohhhh! Training and travel, mostly. I am professional wrestler. I beat up people. For money.”
The reverend raises his eyebrow.
“For money?”
Sarah shrugs.
“Well, technically, yes. No one knows that I funnel it all into various charities, but I do still collect a paycheck with my name on it. Usually from the Winner’s Window.”
“And so you are here to pray for God to help you win?”
Sarah snorts.
“Of course not! I am supremely confident in the abilities He has provided for me. In fact, I am so sure of my victory this coming Monday that I have already picked out the tattoo I am going to get to commemorate my first World Championship!”
Another shake of the head from the reverend.
“Tattoos. Same sex marriage. Arrogance. Not the greatest traits for a daughter in Christ.”
Sarah stands up straight, her chin slightly raised, and puts her hands behind her back, the Red Queen in full stature.
“We shall have to agree to disagree on the subject of my marriage for the time being, Sir, but I can attest that nothing as beautiful as the relationship I have with my wife could be anything BUT blessed by Him. As for arrogance? Well...if you faced the men that I am facing on Monday, you would be equally so.”
“Any why do you say that?”
“Well, reality is neither of the three are as equipped to win this match as much as I. And without even going into how God Himself created me to be genetically superior to them, they do not match up in any carnal form. For instance, one of the men I face is named Rydell. Now, taking away any jokes I have made before about possibly being related to another Rydell I know who is, on her best day, merely the greatest form of mediocrity, this man STILL is nothing but a child living in a man’s body.”
“And what makes you say that? Why the disparage?”
Sarah giggles at this, the sound as strange as always coming from the polarizing figure.
“For starters, he makes a terrible argument. You see, the two of us found ourselves going into this large match where the singular winner would receive a boon. And the manchild, in true manchild fashion, actually told me that not only did he not have any idea who I was, despite the fact that I won one of their annual tournaments and had been winning matches regularly in his company, but he was not going to bother looking me up! This is akin to an ostrich burying their head into the dirt in order to hide from predators or trouble! And mind you, this would not be such an issue if he was some glorious champion of unspeakable repute, but reality, regardless of how one may wish to shape it to their liking, is that he is not. In my time in the company, the man has only won three matches, and that included allowing Magdalena Lockheart to drag him to a victory which he otherwise would not have had.
“Additionally, his argument of ‘I don’t know who you are and refuse to look into it’ was supported by a demand that we show him respect. And if there is anything more childish than ‘do what I say and not as I do,’ I do not know what it is. After all, true leaders like Jesus both told AND modeled the way and in doing so inspired great effort and dedication from their followers. And while MY own team at the most recent large event came in with those proverbial guns blazing, his OWN team came only half-cocked and he was down to just himself and one other man very quickly. So not only does his own lackadaisical and hypocritical approach to this business hurt himself, he hurts others, as well. One could only imagine the success the people chosen by him would have achieved if they had instead been under my, and therefore God’s, purview.”
“Teams, you say. How did yours fare in this...big event?”
Sarah’s posture slumps somewhat.
“Not as well as I would hope. While my own Beloved was there for me, my anchor and light of my life, the newness of the company, and perhaps her own enthusiasm to make me proud, had her defeated before long. And despite most excellent team building exercises and scenarios, the remainder of my team did not fare well, and that includes one of the tria I must face. I am actually quite saddened by Somer’s performance in that event. Indeed, I had expected better out of him.”
“How so?”
“Well, for starters, for someone who was able to land on my hotel-laden Boardwalk and Park Place over and again as he did, and not curl up into a ball of wailing tears, you would think he would be able to last longer in a submission hold!”
The reverend blinks.
“What?”
Sarah waves a dismissive hand.
“You had to be there. Anyway, the issue I have found with him, at least in so far as that match was concerned, is that, regardless of where his body was going in, his mind clearly wasn’t where it needed to be. Sure, he got spiked on his head by the Serpent, but to cry uncle before a submission move is even firmly applied is an embarrassment! And you would FIGURE that a fellow tag team champion would be better in a freakin’ TAG MATCH, but alas, that was not the case. Though I suppose that I should have known better about where his head was. After all, since my debut in the company at Massive Melee, which included him losing in the championship match, he has rarely wrestled for the company, with only two wins to his credit. And while one of those was indeed that tag team championship he has actually yet to defend after over a month, his only other win was in a tag match where he actually had nothing to do with the finish.
“One thing that is funny about Somers is that he was my first round pick for that large tag match...but was actually my fourth choice. Due to the nature of a draft, all of the people I wanted BEFORE him were inconveniently taken. My first choice was the aforementioned Magdalena Lockheart, as much for the fuckery of messing with a particular person’s head as how much I trust her skills. My second was a man after my own heart named Ichabod. Alas, he was gone as well. And then! Oh! Third choice! Darkness himself in Deimos. And then HE was gone. So, my best bet going forward after that was the old champion. But, as I should have seen over the last two months, an old man without his mind in the right place.
“He stands little chance against me either, Sir. Champion he may be, he is not thinking clearly and his is not driven or focused. I am. I fight the world across the world, picking and getting into fights to honor my father and to bring His grace to the world. I fight alongside my Beloved and my circle of dear friends, fighters all, and we brook little nonsense. So while he may be successful in his time, I am devastating in mine. I am faster, smarter, and more driven. And I dare say that if there was ever a time where our respective champion tag teams would face? The appropriately named Team Kickass would continue to be a dominant force in that style of wrestling.”
The reverend chews on the flow of words and finally brings up a specific one.
“What is this about a Serpent?”
Sarah scowls underneath the veil.
“A man I see.”
She chews the bottom of her lip.
“Gabriel Baal is a successful man with plenty of future promise. He has proven to be nearly untouchable in my time with the company. The winner of that large battle royal I spoke of. Stood tall at the end of the festival which featured my tournament victory and he became champion. Successfully defended it in what some would deem demanding fashion. I have seen him wheel and deal and maneuver people as would a master in front of a chess board. But unfortunately for him, the Queen’s Gambit is declined.”
The reverend shakes his head.
“You use a lot of riddles.”
Sarah smirks at this.
“You have no idea. Most of my opponents, and employers, have zero idea what I am actually saying and just make shit up and pretend that I said it!”
She moves her hands onto her hips as she goes on.
“The truth about Mister Baal is that he is a master of deception but only for those who are used to a crude game. I, as you might well know from your own associations with the Path of the Light, am not a crude player. I grew up watching the fine slicing and dicing of politics and social order, just as a master chef breaks down a fowl. What mother’s milk I lost due to the One Lord God taking her to be with him was replaced with lessons in manipulation and control from my father. Indeed, Baal reminds me much of him, though only if my father had a quarter of his own intelligence and guile.
“See, Baal may well have been champion, and a deserving one at that, but his disadvantage against me is as stark as that of Rydell and Somers. Twice now, Baal and I have faced one another. The first time, with what might well be his equal at his side, he was unable to defeat me, and that was WITH a jester as my own partner. And while he was victorious the second time we faced, it was in a situation where he and that possible equal faced me 2-on-1. History has shown us that, even with his possible equal as a weapon, he can only defeat me when he has an advantage in numbers. If we were to stand face to face right now, or at least face to chest, given his far greater height, he would end up far into the Abyss, either driven or sunk. And that, despite his vast experience and expertise, might well happen when we face on Monday.”
She shrugs.
“Truth be told, my own prediction is that I am going to wrap up Rydell into the Abyss’ embrace and choke him out with the Hail Mary before either Somers or Baal can come to his aid, but I would not be overly shocked if it were Baal himself that learned firsthand just how devastating my superior genetics are.”
Silence falls between the two and Sarah moves to gather her purse.
“Well then, I suppose I should go. My wife-”
“Why are you here?”
She stops, a look of annoyance on the pale face behind the veil.
“Sir, this is the third time you have asked and-”
The reverend ticks off fingers as he cuts her off.
“You did not come here to talk about a donation. You did not come here to talk about your work. You did not come here to pray, as you know well that you do not need stone walls. You want something. Why are you here?”
Silence. Finally, after a stretch of time which seemed far closer to hours than moments, Sarah reaches up to her hair and unpins the veil. She takes it down and shows a face which, while painted in its usual perfection, has lines in the whites of her eyes which match the red of her irises.
“Guidance from my pastor.”
The reverend gives a small nod.
“What is the question?”
The albino takes a moment.
“I am not saying I was...because I was not...but if I were...raped…”
She stumbles over the word.
“...and my rapist was my oldest fr-”
She pauses, her chin setting in anger, her eyes threatening to tear.
“...my oldest friend...whose fault is that? Mine?”
The pastor does not hesitate.
“It is never your fault, Missus.” He shakes his head. “There is evil in the world. We are born with it. Even since the Fall of Adam and Eve. We are his sons and her daughters, so we carry with us their sin. Some would say it is the devil’s work, but that isn’t quite right. God gives us a choice. Good or evil. Free will.”
Sarah nods her head.
“Thank you, Sir.”
She turns to leave but is stopped a final time by his voice.
“One more question, Missus. What if you do not win your match? What if God instead decides to humble you and bless another?”
Sarah smirks as she pauses to clip the veil back into place to cover the puffy eyes of many tears and little sleep.
“I always have a Plan B, Sir.”
She smiles widely as she walks toward the door.
“I won’t stop until I’m legend.”
~~FIN~~