Post by LACKLAN on Oct 10, 2018 0:46:52 GMT -5
I assume this means you have noticed me, Mister Pierce.
You are on odd bird, Sir. This sport, as ordained by God, is meant to be filled with people, with warriors, who are hungry. Who wish to thrash one another. Who wish to destroy their enemies in such a way that it is clear who the better competitor is. Unfortunately, many of our peers find themselves distracted by pretty lights or some shiny bauble, and lose sight of that is important. They become the children who play online, or perhaps those who would rather spend their days dealing with the silly politics of the business. Yet you are neither one of these, which is why I am confused by you. You spend all of YOUR time ignoring the fact that you are a wrestler, or when you DO remember that you are a wrestler, you focus on the wrong match.
I understand that this might sound odd, but it is true, at least in my experience with you. Yes yes, I know that you have a long career and history of varying success, one filled with being vastly irrelevant for long stretches of time and then becoming a champion to everyone’s surprise. It is, as some might say, your thing. But in general, I have found that all you do is ignore what is important and somehow NOT get killed when you SHOULD. Is this ability of yours some sort of magic? Are you Elisha reborn, able to channel the occult to have bears tear apart children? Your inexplicable ability to not actually DO anything yet be a champion is on par with that of a Wylde!
Some hearing this may believe that I am perpetuating a lie or half-truth like some Dynamo, but, as always, I speak nothing but the truth. The Path of the Light DEMANDS the truth, DEMANDS to shine the light of truth in the darkness, to be the lighthouse of salvation for wayward drifters, so you can believe in full confidence that I am being truthful now. We have faced one another three times, Mister Pierce. Four, if you count when I hooked my legs around your neck and threw you over the top rope during the Melee. Let us ignore that one, for the sake of argument. Yes, let us ignore how I single-handedly ended your hopes and opportunity to face Wylde at WrestleStock and instead look at those three encounters of ours.
As I have spoken at length about, this business has a necessity of being focused on our matches, of producing the required promotional videos, of caring about who we face on a weekly basis. After all, if we were to simply ignore our regular opponents, and only decided to show up at the larger pay-per-view matches, that would be akin to only going to church at Christ’s Mass! And we ALL know how folly that is! It is important to be at church several times a week, to breathe in the word, to internalize it. And the same goes with God’s favorite sport. Invest yourself in your business, let God’s grace flow through you and into His vision, and the entire world will be brought up with you and into His glory. If not this, if you only paid attention when you “cared” to instead of all the time when you “should,” you would wind up like a Mathis or a MacLean, and no one wants that!
But that DOES seem to be what and who you are. The first time we met, you mentioned my name in passing while you passed off nostalgia as training and focus. The second time you AGAIN only mentioned my name in passing, preferring to focus on Rydell wanting your Cross Hemisphere title, and your upcoming defense with Lockheart. And the third time? AGAIN, just my name mentioned in passing, as you focused instead on pushing your desire to face Cotton in a match. All of these times wrapped up, of course, in your inane so-called reporting on issues of the day filled with wit so infantile that only toddlers giggle at it.
I will NOT stand for this insult, Mister Pierce. I will NOT stand for some part-time magician to take everything that I have done for this company and business and ignore it like some unsightly piece of rubbish. You MAY currently hold the Chaos Championship, but I AM the Champion of Chaos! Your victory over Necron is as much smoke-and-mirrors as your victory over Wallace at the Trios. You snuck in a victory over Necron after he had been emotionally exhausted by fighting me, just as you snuck in and pinned Mathis after Wallace had dispatched her. But those smoke and mirrors, just as with your brand of using name-dropping techniques and aloofness for promotional videos, will be no match for me on Monday.
I am the Champion of Chaos, Sir. I am the person who walked into hellfire and came out with the championship at Trios. I am the one who made the title and division the reason to watch the UGWC. While the world championship was nothing but a prop to be used as Wylde and Lockheart acted out their break-up drama on the airwaves with an assist from the Good Doctor, while the Cross-Hemisphere title was being tossed around like a heated potato in a child’s game, I was busy making THIS championship the MOST important thing in the business. Now, I would be remiss to say that you have not done at least DECENT with it since your win over Necron. After all, both Vaughn and Cotton have proven themselves to be strong challengers in their young careers, including championship victories against veterans, but they are not me.
No, Sir. They are not me.
While you have taken eight weeks off throughout the year, not even factoring in how many times you showed up physically but were absent mentally, I have spent every week fighting that good fight. While you have needed to pick your shots and otherwise avoid having to challenge or push yourself, I have been a force of change and adulation. While you are been laughed at and had people scratching their heads at how you possibly could have made your way to the winner’s pay window, everyone understands just how deadly and effective I am.
I have told numerous people that, if they wish to survive in the world I am building out of chaos, they need to evolve, to change. Gone are the days of resting on your laurels. Gone are the days of holding onto the dreams and successes of yesterday. Gone are the days of Dynamo lying her way into our hearts while she talks about spiking the “legendary” Travis Pierce on his head at WrestleStock three years ago. Gone are the days of Jet standing there and listing how many championships he has won in the past while simultaneously holding a win and loss record of under fifty person. Gone are the days of Necron believing that unending and rambling monologues of death and destruction and grape will overwhelm his opponent’s sensibilities. Gone are the days of someone ignoring this business and thinking they can excel against those who live and breathe it.
THAT is what happened last week, Mister Pierce. THAT is what happened when I, a truly focused Queen of Red, faced off against those who refuse to change. And the same thing is going to happen to you on Monday if you do not evolve. I promise you, dear Sir, that if you give me the same thing you gave Vaughn? You will lose. If you give me the same thing you gave Cotton? You will lose. If you give me the same thing you gave Necron...or Rydell...or Wallace...you will lose. If you hold onto the hope that names and references from the past will help you coast through another impossible win…
You
Will
Lose
That is what is coming on Monday, Sir. I am refreshed. I am healthy. I am rested. And I am focused on taking MY championship title back. I will NOT be waylaid by some mysterious force from a corrupt city. I will NOT be pushed to the side by the shenanigans of those who find wrestling secondary. I will NOT become another Mathis, Larry, or Ingalls.
I am the Champion of Chaos, the Queen of Red, and you will face me, for the first time, in ALL of my glory.
Long live the Queen.
"OFF WITH HIS HEAD!!!!!!!"
A screeching voice drives the hulking Redmaine from a moment of quiet reflection. Eyelids snap open, cold dark eyes catching light and shining, as pupils dilate and recede. As we pull back, as our gaze grows from the dead eyes of the large man and to his mask fashioned in the shape of a mythical land worm, we also see a bald head shining in the darkness and a body shaped as would an Adonis, hairless muscles bulging underneath large tattoos, with basketball-sized shoulders prominently displaying their own tattoos, vein-filled arms falling to his side. Redmaine learned much from his former master, the Voice of God himself, and hand created a body as chiseled as his master’s had been.
Redmaine is seated upon the floor in a dark room, his legs folded beneath him, his entire body the physical embodiment of prayer, or perhaps Zen. But his dark eyes are full of danger, ready to pronounce judgement on any who would bring dishonor to his adoptive house, as his moment of contemplation had been ruined.
"SEND HIM TO THE RACK!!!!!!"
The screechy voice again from a distance yet still invading the quiet space.
"Ava..."
His voice is low and dark, a hoarse baritone, as if his throat had been damaged a time or two. Or he spent time gargling rocks. Sharp rocks. Either way, it was garbled and muffled through the mask.
"What now…?"
The large man slowly rises to his feet. As his joints bend there are a few pops, a few cracks, and while the man doesn't groan or make any other audible form of protest, we can feel his body aching. Redmaine walks with a heavy limp in his right leg, though it fades as he gets the blood flowing, heading towards a light coming through a closed door. Hand wrapped in in leather proudly displaying the symbol of the Path of the Light Church, that of a cross residing within a glowing sun, grasp the door and the former terrorist opens the door, the light flooding our darkness, and we see what he sees:
Pandemonium.
The scene before us is difficult to comprehend, at least in this day and age. We see a courtyard, enclosed within what seems to be a large chapel of some sort, adorned with tapestries upon the walls, stained glass within the windows, and lush carpets along the floor. The colors are vibrant, reds and blues and purples, with gilded statues all around. The statues are marble, the pure and articulate product of master craftsmen, each of particular individuals. While newer viewers recognize the statue room from recent videos, those long-time viewers of the Lacklan Saga recognize faces in the marble, the enemies of the late King of the Mountain.
But oddly anachronistic furnishings are not the only thing that catches the eye, maybe not even in the top three. What dominates our eyes are the plethora of brightly-dressed people. There must be several hundred people crammed into the auditorium, and the colors! Bright oranges and greens, soft velvet fuchsias and lavenders, hats adorned with feathers of wild and exotic game, foppish capes and robes.
It might as well be England in the 12th century.
But the oddest sight above all is directly below Redmaine, down a massive carpeted staircase: A large throne. The throne, as gaudy and ornate as one could comprehend, sits upon a dais. Surrounding the dais is a group of people who are identical in dress and hairstyle, offering a severe contrast to the bright foppishness everywhere else. They all have short-cropped hair, pure black military dress, erect postures. Whereas the other inhabitants of the room offer some odd interpretation of European aristocracy decadence, this group offers feelings of unforgiving rigidness. The private security of the Lacklan family, and Redmaine’s primary charge on the grounds.
And upon that throne sitting on the dais? The source of that shrill voice which shook Redmaine from his reverie? Icy beauty incarnate, the Queen of Red herself:
Aveline Lacklan.
Her hair a bright platinum blonde beehive this day, adding to her frozen demeanor, a manic light in her eyes. In her hands is the lock on the heavy chain she had turned into a Chaos division talisman, the symbol of her rise and place within the UGWC. She was wearing one of her red dresses today, one of the ones which had a high neck that when up to her chin and had dozens and dozens of slashes of silver on her arms. Most did not realize the significance of those slashes of color, but he did. If the sleeves were removed, all of Ava’s scars would be sitting right where the silver relief was, an eternal reminder of her banishment from what was rightfully hers.
"BRING ME THE NEXT ONE!"
Her screeching command is immediately answered by movement. Two of his black-coated men drag a body forward, a fat and balding man, dropping him to his knees before the Queen of Red. Redmaine smirks beneath his mask, thinking of old times, of times when she was “The Lady of Dragons,” and had been the inspiration for his late master’s final tattoo, that of Ava herself, nude, her pale curves encircled by a dragon’s swirling body. Back on the platform, the man raises his head, his nose sniveling snot, his panicked eyes shedding tears.
"Pl-please, my Queen..." stammers the man on the floor. "I-I meant no harm! I-It was just a comment-"
"Did you or did you not," screams the woman upon the throne, her voice akin to that of a banshee "say that #BitchCoin was a bad investment?!"
The fear intensifies in the man's eyes.
"I did, but I didn't mean anything-"
"TAKE HIM TO THE BALL SMASHER!"
"Nooooo!"
The poor fool is dragged away by the black-clad men. The foppish people in the bright clothes all applaud and laugh at the spectacle. Redmaine shakes his head as he makes his way down the stairs. Men in matching uniforms give him the appropriate salute, right fist slammed into left pectoral, and Richard Vaughn, Ava’s latest supplicant, does his duty.
“Make way! Make way! Redmaine approaches!”
The large man can hear the foppish members of the “upper class” of Lacklanland whisper amongst themselves as he made his way to his Queen. He had never liked them. His late master brought all kinds of people to his cause, all different sorts to God’s vision of a world modeled on professional wrestling, but this group made his stomach queasy. They had appealed to Jean-Paul’s fine tastes and demand for delicacy and form, but they had auspiciously been absent after his death. They had been perfectly fine to see his daughter try to instil the “Reformist Movement,” but he and Ava had been able to stop that.
“Redmaine.”
The voice of the Queen stopped him in his tracks. She was beautiful to him, a true treasure. She had brought so much light and life into his master’s life, and he owed her much for that. Jean-Paul’s life had been dark for years, though he had tried to hide it from those who found solace in him. Redmaine was not there in the beginning, not when the man had a head full of bright hair and a fair face, but there were stories that he used to dance and write poetry. But after the death of the Oracle, who gave birth to his daughter, and the desertion of Marie, his second favorite consort, there had apparently not been much love left in his heart.
“My Queen.”
And then she had come. She had filled his life with a love that all had thought lost. His Lady of the Dragons. Even the daughter had loved her, for a time. But when her position had been threatened, the little ball of rage had struck and removed the threat. But Redmaine had stayed resolute. He always believed in the Path. Always believed in the Lacklan name and its message. And so he had done what he could to get messages to her. Done what he could to keep her sane while in a place of hell. And after, after she had escaped in the anguish of her husband’s death, he had been there to help her remember who she was and reclaim her rightful place.
“Speak your mind.”
Redmaine walked forward until he was within whispering distance of his Queen.
“You are not ready for Pierce.”
His Queen’s face falls from her smile to the cold anger of the executioner, but the masked man persisted in his garbled voice.
“You became Chaos champion by embracing your marital right. You defeated all of the opponents who stood before you because you bravely proclaimed yourself to be of the House of Lacklan. But now they know who you are. And I believe that you will need something...more...than these fops…”
He gestures to the mass of brightly-clad people behind him.
“...to succeed at your greatest endeavor. You need something...new.”
The Queen turned her gaze towards the aristocracy of her land, her gaze remaining cold, for many moments. When she finally looks back to him, she allows her face to crack a little and show her humor some.
“Ugh. There is NOTHING they can give me, other than the entertainment of watching them squirm. What idea do you have?”
Redmaine folded his arms before his chest and smiled under his mask.
Can’t breathe
Can’t breathe
Can’t breathe
Darkness
Can’t bre-
“PUSH!”
His voice
Demands
Pushes
What do I
“PUSH!”
How?
Why?
I-
I stomp my foot as hard as I can. I heard a muffled groan. I stomp again. AGAIN.
I can breathe. Sweet air. Thank you, Lord. Than-
I can’t breathe again
Too strong
Too-
I push this time. Use my legs. Push off. We fly back and to the ground. Another muffled oaf as I land on something soft. Hard. Both.
Laughing. Deep laughing.
“Good!”
I push off and roll to my knees. I look up and see Redmaine. My rock. My protector. Large pale muscles above his short pants, bulging and glistening in the sun. It is warm today in Maine, the air is clear, the grass is green. He is sitting on his rear, hands in the grass behind him, and there is mirth in his eyes.
“Now do me.”
I am tired. My muscles ache. But I feel wonderful. God’s greatest sport is wrestling, His model and hope for the world, and I am his Champion of Chaos. And Redmaine is right: I need something new to fight Pierce. I need something new. They are getting used to my tactics. Get used to the viciousness of the Queen. I must not fall into the trap of someone like Pierce. I must not allow myself to do the same thing over and again, to say the same thing over and again, to stay the same PERSON year after year like Pierce. I must GROW.
I get to my feet and groan as it hurts to breath. My body itches from being thrown to the grass earlier in this training session, though my ego does not. Redmaine is a master at this beautiful sport, already a successful champion before he came under my dear husband, Il est ressuscité. He and I have done this nearly every day for the last six several months, just he and I, each letting our skin touch, our bodies sweat, our love of God and this sport become one. But this is different. Because I NEED different.
Getting to our feet, Redmaine gives me his back. His is tall, though not TOO tall. He is no Necron, of a height of some demonic Philistine out of Samuel. But he IS a mountain of muscle. Just as men SHOULD be. None of this scrawny silliness like Pierce. No, Redmaine is a man, not a boy.
I approach him and grapple him from behind, giving myself a small leap for help. I clasp his head in my arms, one hand on each side of his chin. Normally, I would twist my arms in either direction with as much force as I could muster and snap his neck. The Embrace of God has done well for me throughout my time in UGWC. Many have fallen to me, their shoulders pressed to the mat and their eyes up into the lights, because of it.
Mathis
Lockheart
Vaughn
Payne
Rydell
Necron
Dynamo
Scott
MacLean
Somers
Name after name have felt the Embrace of God and been defeated. But it is not enough...not enough! Necron...shrugged it off! Mizore...kicked out! AND MORE. I need to evolve...to adapt...to grow…
Do not be stagnant like Pierce. Do not rely on the same bag of tricks for years and years. Do not let the dreams of yesterday determine tomorrow. GROW!
I move my right hand down and clasp his left arm. He is so strong. His skin is so warm. His skin touches mine and I am grateful for it. He empties my need for the flesh so that I can focus on the will of the spirit. My husband, Il est ressuscité, would thank him for it.
I take his wrist and pull back as I adjust my left arm onto the side of his neck, just as he taught me. I cop the back of his head, his skin smooth in my hands, as I squeeze and pull his arm into place. I feel him breathe hard in the cobra clutch. I feel the circulation cutting. And then I feel the air pushed from my lungs as I am slammed down to the ground, his great weight upon me, and I groan. That hurt.
Laughing.
The giant oaf is laughing as he lays atop me, my face full of his muscled and sweaty back.
“Again.”
He gets to his feet and I can breath again. Sweet air! I groan as I roll to my own feet. He gives me his back again and we replay our dance. We will do it again and again until I have the move perfected. He will not allow me to rest until I have mastered HIS move.
I will be ready for Pierce on Monday.
I will be ready for whatever poor soul finds me at Battleground.
I will be ready for the road to Horizons.
For with the Le Doux Sommeil de Dieu, with God’s Sweet Sleep, I shall show Pierce that I am far more than he his. I shall take what is mine. What I have made the focal point of this business. What I have made to be an honor to God Himself. I shall put Pierce to sleep and take my Chaos Championship back.
Because I am the Champion of Chaos.
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