Post by LACKLAN on Feb 2, 2018 9:37:21 GMT -5
“What is wrong with me?!”
The raspy screech of La Bord de Dieu, the blade and edge of God. The girl paces within her abandoned warehouse, dirty feet falling to the cement floor and echoing through the empty chamber. Those dirty feet walk twenty-three steps across the floor, spin on the right heel, and then walk twenty-three steps the other direction. Her clothes, little more than brown rags with ends tapered with tears, swish around her hips with every moment, the top occasionally showing the lines of scars along her arms.
“First, I allow myself to be taken off my feet by that tremor! Then, I beat that idiot girl up so bad that the referee nearly stopped the match. But then! THEN! I let that SAME idiot girl lock me in that horrid move!”
She pauses in her pacing and, hands clutching her back, she stretches backward, a grimace of pain contorting her face. She growls as she shakes out her body, hands taking a moment to massage the painful area.
“Blasted!”
She throws her arms up into the air and turns her eyes to the stuffed chicken propped up against the wall.
“Damn it all to hell, JEM!”
She snarls at the zombie chicken and her dark eyes light up.
“There is something wrong, JEM. Something missing. I am not...well...I am not ME! What is it? What is so different this time?”
She takes several more steps and then jams her fist into one of the walls.
“I slept for too long. L'Enfant Démon kept me away for too long. But I am still the Ultraviolent! I am still ME! I will not let that wretched child have her victory! I will not let her keep the world that belongs to ME!”
Another slammed fist into the wall. The chickens off to the side in their makeshift pen scramble at the sudden noise. The woman becoming known as Bordy in some very cool circles spins and stalks the other direction.
“Three years, JEM. THREE! Three YEARS I spent in that room because of the petulance of that wretched child. But I will NOT allow her to win! I will NOT allow her to take away everything I am and was. No matter how much she wishes, no matter how much she prays, she will NOT erase what I created! She will NOT be able to take away what belongs to me!”
She suddenly falls to the floor on her rump and laughs, eyes shut hard, her hands holding her stomach as she laughs and laughs. Tears sneak out of the clenched corners of her eyes and she gasps for breath.
“Oh...oh...poor l’Enfant Démon...You cannot ignore the truth by sticking your head in the sand!”
She opens her eyes and looks around, confusion clear on her face.
“Why am I on the ground?”
She looks over at the stuffed chicken.
“Why am I on the ground, JEM? ANSWER ME!”
Her eyes clench as she screams at the zombie chicken, her pale face turning red.
“ANSWER ME!”
Calmness returns to her face as she looks around again, taking in the drab darkness of the warehouse..
“This place is terrible. Really does need a woman’s touch. Hmmmmmm….”
A dirty finger scratches an equally dirty chin.
“Hmmmm….if I was as simpleminded and addled as everyone else...perhaps if I was as bland and boring as the Hunchback...where would I go to furnish this place?”
Dark eyes go wide.
“That’s it! The mall!”
Her head turns back to the chicken.
“We move, JEM! To the mall we go!”
The fat man moves around the ring slowly at first, but sudden jerky movements bring him to every corner of the famed squared circle. His hands are before him, sausage-like fingers spread out so that he can see small bits of whatever is in front of him, and he moves around with an odd combination of fluid grace and thick sludge. His black leather coat is long enough to brush the top of the mat whenever he swoops a little low, though the groaning protest of his knees do not allow him to go down far, and his shaggy brown hair, far more salt than pepper these days, shakes as he moves.
“Is this strictly necessary?”
A croaking voice rises from behind him, a voice which seems to be coming from the land beyond itself. The fat man does not bother looking at the owner of that voice, the old man with the skeletal face, and instead focuses on his movements.
“Yes. I saw it in a show about a detective once.”
He moves around with his hands before his face, fingers moving now and again in wiggles and waggles.
“Helps me think.”
The aged voice gives out a long and suffering sigh.
“And what, pray tell, is it helping you think about.”
“She was here.”
He moves around, swooping and rising, his footfalls heavy on the bouncy mat beneath him.
“She fought here. A few times, I think. In this corner…”
He swoops out of one and to another.
“...and this corner. She fought...scratched...punched...maybe even bled. Lost and won, I think.”
He stops and nods to himself.
“Yes. She was here.”
“We know that!”
The aged voice snaps in equal anger and exasperation.
“We have her on film! Literally! Where is she NOW!”
The fat man lets his hands fall to his sides.
“Beats me, Doc.”
The skeletal psychiatrist groans.
“Why am I even here? You said that you HAD her!”
“I do. Well, not exactly. But I will. Soon.”
The fat man looks around the empty arena, taking in the signs, the seats.
“You get out...you escape...and then you go back to wrestling? Why? Because of him? Because of her?”
“That is my area. You’re just detective.”
The fat man looks back at the doctor, his tired grey blue eyes taking in the angry face of his compatriot.
“Are you ever happy, Doc? Ever smile?”
“Do you?”
The fat man shakes his head slowly.
“Not since Z died. Not even once.”
He turns back to the empty arena.
“‘Synergy.’ Interesting. Have you talked to the kid? About Ava?”
The skeletal man shakes his head, the small wire-rimmed glasses shaking slightly against his nose.
“Not about my missing patient, no. Other things, yet. But not about this. I am sure she knows, though. Keeps close eyes on this company.”
The fat man nods.
“Yeah, she knows. And knowing her, she's probably plotting something. Just surprised she hasn’t talked to you about it.”
He looks back to the doctor.
“I’ll pick Ava up after her match on Monday. After that?”
He shrugs.
“We’ll see how much she remembers.”
Le Bord de Dieu skips lightly down the path of an outdoor mall with a smile on her face. Freshly bathed and wearing a large yellow sun hat, the woman looks far more decent than we have ever seen. New clothes adorn her body, a yellow sundress covered in white flowers, but does nothing to hide the collection of scars running up and down her arms. In this light, we are afforded a better view of them than anything thus far given to us in the dark and musty confines of her warehouse:
The rows of scars on each arm are a perfect match for their twin on the other side, though the scars themselves are mismatched. Some are perfectly straight, as if a surgeon had delicately and diligently worked on her arms under the bright light of a sterile room. Others, though, are rough and ragged, as if a meth addict had taken to her with a dull and rusty razor in the middle of a particularly pitiful down. Regardless of shape, they are all the same length, two inches across, and rise up her arms on both sides from wrist to the top of her shoulder.
“A-are we there, yet?”
An exasperated voice from behind Bordy makes her stop in her tracks and turn.
“What was that, Jet?”
A young man, really not much more than a boy, with the unkempt hair of a soccer mom, holds several boxes stacked well above his head and with two bags hanging down from the crook of his elbows. What little of his face could be seen behind the boxes was flushed and sweating, and his arms were shaking from the effort of carrying everything.
“Um...uh...are we at your car yet? And...um...my name isn’t Jet. Its Ot-”
“YOU ARE MY FUCKING BAG BOY AND BAG BOY’S ARE NAMED JET SO YOUR NAME IS FUCKING JET YOU GOT THAT?!”
The poo bag boy shakes in fright as the woman turns into a torrent of raving madness. The pretty face scrunches into anger, the dark eyes filling with fury. The dress flares around her as if lifted by some unseen energy emanating from her. In his eyes, she seems to grow taller and taller until she seemed to tower above him. He nodded his head in the middle of his fright and Bordy immediately stopped being Galadriel with the One Ring being offered to her and back to, like, Samwise before he and Frodo got all up in each other.
“Wonderful to hear!”
She spins and begins skipping down the walkway again but comes to a halt in front of an internet cafe. She slips through the doors and looks at the rows and rows of fat, greasy losers probably named Alan, or Killian, and hopped up on Mountain Dew and Slim Jims.
“Hmmmm….I wonder…”
The French woman skips over to the closest computer and, without pause, pushes the fat kid out of the chair and onto the ground. The kid, probably one of Rydell’s three fans, looks up at her with tears already forming in his eyes. But one look of murderous intent from the Frenchwoman gets the kid scurrying for the safety of mommy’s covers.
Bordy settles in the chair and, with her patented search and peck method on the keyboard, brings up her pages. Her bank account and associated #BitchCoin investments (“As up today as I get Vinny every night” -Roxy Cotton, Spokeperson/Founder), yet another e-mail to ignore from UGWC, another solicitation for sex from Donovan, a fourth attempt from Gabriel to request she help him find a personality, and then-
“THERE IT IS!”
“Yes...yes...THIS! THIS shall be my path...to VICTORY!”
And so Bordy sets to writing the single greatest and most effective strategy in the history of the wrestling business:
Writing a blog.
((
Editor’s Note:
Please note that this blog has been pain-stakingly translated from its original French so that the UGWC audience can read it. While Ms. de Dieu, or whatever her real name is, has been served with the petition signed by nearly half of the wrestling community, she has yet to comply with changing her public and social media communications from French to English. In fact, she personally communicated with me to not only tell me that she would NOT stop using French, but also that she used “the real version and not that stupid and lazy Canadian shit that Angie uses!”
I hope that everyone understands the difficulty therin of this translation.
Thank you for your time.
Dexter Vines
Sports Entertainment Executive
))
Hello!
I am the Blade of God! The Edge of God! The in-between! The Ultraviolet! And I am here to make sure that everyone understands these three facts:
One: That, for the love of all that is holy, the announcer in United Global Wrestling Coalition stop referring to me as some sort of rookie! I am older than nearly everyone here! And I am the Ultraviolet! I was the Ultraviolet Champion before most of the ACTUAL rookies were entering HIGH SCHOOL! Just because I am new HERE does NOT mean that I am new to the business! Yes, I have been...gone...for a while, but saying that I am a rookie is like Gabriel throwing Maggie’s FSW championship in the trash! IT MAKES NO SENSE AND ONLY SOME KIND OF IDIOT WOULD THINK THAT JUST BECAUSE SOMETHING DOESN’T HAPPEN WHERE THEY ARE MEANS THAT IT IS NOT WORTHWHILE.
READ THE APPLICATIONS!!!!
Two: I am going to make Angie Vaughn’s debut in this company as painful, sad, and embarrassing as every single time she has ever faced someone named Tolson. You see, when I came back from being away, I found that this business had been flooded with sinners of all and every kind. Sinners like Magdalena who flaunt their homosexual relationships with the audacity of Sodom. Sinners like Lucy who covet that which belongs to others and stalks in the darkness, looking for an opportunity to take and steal. Sinners like that Ashley woman whose glutony cost me a victory in my own debut! But the worst sinner of them all? The WORST OF THEM ALL?!
Angie Vaughn.
Now, I know that everyone is wondering why I would think that sweet little Angie would be the worst sinner of the entire group. She is a believer in God, which I commend. She is true to Him. She says her prayers, thanks Him for her successes, asks Him for strength to help her get past her failures.
So why is she the biggest sinner I have seen since I left my little room?
Because she sits in the middle of a group of lesbians and does NOTHING TO HELP THEM.
She KNOWS that the people around her sin every day.
She KNOWS that the people around her break every commandment with glee.
She KNOWS that her little Cool Kid friends are going to Hell.
Yet she does nothing to save them.
THAT is why she has failed to do more than win an opening match or two in Rose City Wrestling.
THAT is why she has failed to do anything worth of note in Ladies All Star Wrestling.
THAT is why she has failed to defeat Voidstar in Alianza Del Campeonato Mexicano.
Because God hates her for her refusal to do as He wills and spread His word.
Every day...every DAY...she sits with her little friends and laughs at their quips and bits. Every DAY she enjoys the loves and lives of sinners. And while it is true that Jesus walked among the lepers and infidels, he did so in order to show them love and bring them to God.
But this Angie woman?
She does not do the work of Jesus.
She does the work of Lucifer.
And such is why she fails at everything that matters. Such is why she has found herself homeless...again. Such is why she has failed in nearly every important match she has ever had.
She is a coward. She is afraid to do the work of God because it is hard. It is hard to look into the eyes of her closest friends and, instead of blessing their wedding, tell them that they are going to Hell. It is hard to look at your friends in relationships replete in premarital sex and tell them that they are going against the will of God and that they need to repent before they are naught but ash. It is hard to look at the mirror and see the ugliness in your own soul.
Brave people do those things. Brave people like me. Brave people like that lovely Rain woman over in Hybrid.
But not cowards like Angie Vaughn.
So I am going to enjoy this debut match of hers. I am going to enjoy beating her with the fury of God’s righteousness. I am going to enjoy watching her lay on the mat and cry the tears of the sinner at the end of their rope.
And if Angie happens to be reading this, allow me this personal message:
God loves all Men. But He hates you.
Three: I am officially taking applications for a personal assistant. Please email all serious applications to <thatfrenchchick@ugwc>
L'Enfant Démon stirs.
We cannot see L'Enfant Démon. Not really. L'Enfant Démon is there, in front of us, but our minds cannot fully process what the eyes tell them they see. L'Enfant Démon is a being of light, bright whiteness, a sheet of snow. So bright that our lying eyes hurt, ache, cry out in pain. Yet angry, with fires as red as rubies, with a soul which blares to life with all the choking smoke of Smaug’s fury at Laketown. Many have faced that fury, faced that downpour of molten rage, and lived lives forever changed.
L'Enfant Démon seems to be carefree at times, carefree when in the company of its friends. L'Enfant Démon laughs. Hugs. Cries tears of utter joy. L'Enfant Démon shivers when it’s mate, it’s lover, is in the room. Indeed, its friends bring it comfort and belonging, but La Déesse Sombre holds a special place in its heart. La Déesse Sombre brings it love and belonging. La Déesse Sombre brings softness, both to its curves and heart. La Déesse Sombre completes L'Enfant Démon.
But the joy and love within L'Enfant Démon fades when it’s friends leave. The chatting ends. The joy ends. The love ends. Those desires for it’s mate, those internal feelings which make it seem normal, human, are swallowed by the cold fury when La Déesse Sombre leaves. Alone, L'Enfant Démon is no longer human. Gone, is its decency. Gone, is its care. Gone, is its understanding.
Now alone. L'Enfant Démon stands from its chair and takes a few shaky steps towards a window. The red fury within the creature springs out from its mouth, thick smoke rising into the air with a puff, ash falling to its feet. L'Enfant Démon looks out the window and onto a calm level of blue, the unseen sun shining brightly off the reflective surface, only the occasional wave moving the vessel currently housing L'Enfant Démon.
With fury and anger, L'Enfant Démon waits. Left to its devices, L'Enfant Démon cannot help but be itself. Cannot help but plot and plan. Cannot help but be the puppeteer it was born and bred to be. And so it does. L'Enfant Démon pulls string. L'Enfant Démon makes people dance. L'Enfant Démon forces unwitting people to play her game.
L'Enfant Démon smiles.
Everyone was playing their part.
“Notre chemin a divergé sur une route
Vous avez choisi un destin plus sombre pour semer”
Le Bord de Dieu sings softly to herself as she skulks down a dark hallway. The woman’s hair is pulled up into a tight bow, pulled away from her face to give us better view than ever of a beauty marred with lines and dark eyes tinged with madness. She wears an outfit of black, pulled tight around her body, the small curves of her muscle seen pushing out.
“Les choses que j'espère, le rêve raté
A finalement eu, le meilleur de moi”
Her voice rises and falls through the song she had recently learned even as her body slips around a corner. She does not skip and jump as she might elsewhere. This is not her home, this is not her abandoned warehouse. This is not some mall under the cheerful winter sun. This is a place of darkness. A place of pain. A place of death. She stops suddenly and a smirk comes to her lips.
“Appropriate, I suppose.”
She looks around the hallway she is in, eyes taking in fine art on the walls and a lush carpet of deep red under her feet.
“No bell tower to be the siren’s call for the Hunchback, but…”
She moves again, her singing of “(I wanna be the one) To Watch You Die” falling to hums and the occasional pale whistle. More and more corners she turns, truly in the belly of a labrynthe, but she seems to know exactly where she is going, seems to be quite familiar with the hallway maze. Her fingers touch the walls, those surprisingly clean nails scratching at the dark pain, and a sudden giggle comes from her.
“They are quite alike. The Hunchback and L'Enfant Démon. They would hate to hear that...because all of the little children hate to hear the truth...but they are. Each one is so steeped in sin that it changes everything about them. L'Enfant Démon is wretched to look at...horrid to listen to...and the Hunchback is no better.”
Another corner turned and Bordy smiles widely as she sees the large double doors at the end of the hall. She takes a step towards them but then shudders in utter revulsion.
“My God! I can FEEL your sin from here!”
She shakes out her entire body, limbs flailing loosely.
“Just like that Magdalena girl, the Hunchback. A woman so steeped in sin that it contorts her entire body. Oh, she hides it. She hides it! She hides it with ink in her hair! She hides it with ink on her skin! She hides it with lenses! She tries to be beautiful on the outside in order to mask how ugly she is at her core. But she cannot! No! No! She cannot hide how terrible of a person she is on the inside! Not from me!”
She takes a step forward, but it is clearly difficult for her.
“I go away for a few years and THIS is what happens to this business. Filled with sluts like the Hunchback! Filled with...WOMEN...who are carnal...with other WOMEN?!”
She shakes her head as she takes more steps towards the set of double doors.
“And to take such PRIDE in it! The horror! It truly is like Gamorrah. Nothing but sinful fornefication. Nothing but thumbing the eye of God with what is NOT supposed to be. Oh, but they paid for their sins. They paid dearly! And now each one of those infidels burns in the Lake of Fire for all eternity. And so will the Hunchback! She is Gamorrah and I the wrath of God. I am His Blade! His Edge! His Ultraviolet!”
She stops as she finds herself before the doors. Those clean fingers touch the door and retract immediately, a hiss of pain coming from her lips.
“Ahh! The sin is so strong that it burns my skin! Just like when I fought the Hunchback last week! Her stench was so strong that I was nearly overwhelmed! Her sin is so strong, so ugly and vile, that I nearly puke just by being near her! But I will overcome the sin. I will be stronger than the sinner. Both here AND in the ring. I am strong!”
She places her hands on the door, her arms jerking with the desire to let go, but she pushes forward. One of the doors gives way a few inches and she smiles. She pushes more until one is open enough for her to slip through.
“I will overcome both the Hunchback AND L'Enfant Démon! They are twins in sin...so much alike...both so young an vile...and I shall overcome them BOTH!”
Into the room she goes, her light footfalls guiding her in the darkness as suredly as they did in the maze of corridors.
“I was not victorious last week...but I know why. Oh yes, I know why. I am missing something...missing someone...but that shall change. The Hunchback shall not. Oh, she is happy in her sin. But so is the pig in its sty. So is the baby in its soiled diaper. But neither are for long. The pig is not happy when the butcher comes to clean it. The baby cries when it begins to chaff and turn red. No! No! They are not happy then! And neither will the Hunchback! She will not be happy forever in this sinful place she has found. None of those slutty lesbians ever are, not for long. They turn on one another, cheat on one another, fuck everything around them. They cannot help it. It is in their nature. They are slutty sinners. They do not know what love means.”
She stops suddenly as she reaches a wall and her dark eyes turn up. Bright teeth flash as she smiles. On the wall, as if in a place of reverence, is a sledgehammer, pinned and held in place. She reaches up and touches it, her body shivering, and she lets out a small moan.
“...this is what love means…”
Fingers caress the handle.
“They think that they understand love. They think that what they have is what God intended. But they do not. What they do...from posting their silly pictures to the Satan-inspired acts they perform in elevators...is not love. Just the temporary relief and release of urges passed down by Adam’s choice. They think that what they have is real...but it is not. Just like how they think their careers are more than just tiny flashes in a pan. This...this...is real…”
The shining of a bright tear appears and makes its way down her cheek.
“...even in death…”
She turns away from the hammer and focuses on the table underneath it. Surrounded by a jar of fresh lavenders is a grey and white mask, a mask full of contours and rough edges, which has seemed to have been broken and rebuild more than once. Her fingers touch the mask, nails following the cracks, and she picks it up with both hands. She holds it gently as she brings it to her face. She leans forward and presses her forehead to that of the mask and closes her eyes as more tears fall. A loud sob rips from her, a painful boom in the lonely room, and her body shakes.
“I am back, Husband.”
Even her whispers are loud in this place.
“And I promise...I PROMISE...that I WILL fulfill your dream. No one can stop me. Not anymore. I have what I was missing. I have you. And I cannot wait to watch them die.”
She turns the mask around and places it on her face, tightening the strap around her head to secure it.
“Chassez les ravages et laissez glisser les chiens de guerre.”
x2
2013, '18, '23 
2013 
