Post by LACKLAN on Jun 22, 2019 19:16:42 GMT -5
Do you smile down upon me, husband? Do you clap the back of the Father, shake the hand of the Prince of Peace, embrace the warmth of the Spirit, all in happiness over what I am doing? Of what I have done? Over what I will continue to do? In your name. In His. In mine. For the fate of the world.
Do you smile?
SLAM!
The woman with the platinum hair slams the bar into the rack with authority. She breathes deeply, her eyes shut against the dizziness of exertion, and rests her weight with one hand on a guiding rack at her knees. After several moments, she opens her eyes to reveal emeralds wrapped in fires.
I am not you. I know that. But I hope I still bring that smile to your face, as rare as it ever was. Mary has told me before that you used to laugh often. You even used to tell jokes and quibbles! But then losing Selena soured you. And how it must have hurt when Mary disappeared after. Oh, for you to see them all now, husband! The Convergence draws near! The entire House united!
The woman steps away from the rack, green eyes moving back and forth over the bar and weights. Her eyes shone brightly against a face covered in white paint, tiny lines of sweat breaking streaks down from her hairline to her chin, and dripping to the floor. Her nose was crooked after having been broken severely several weeks ago, and her breathing came in and out with a slight nasal sound and rumble. She reaches up and places her hands upon the bar, thin fingers feeling the knurling, the tiny pocks and marks which help to attain grip...and which bury themselves into the necks of those with poor technique.
I remember the first time you brought me in here. Its dark. Dank. The smell of decades of musk. I couldn’t even lift the naked bar! You had to have me start with tiny little dumbells. Even Sarah could lift more than me and she was fifteen! Oh, my apologies: It was Sarha at the time. Silly nonsense. Do you smile down upon her? Do you approve of what she is doing? What she has become? She lives her life as if she is biting her thumb towards the Path of the Light Church. Homosexual. Interracial. But everyone says you accepted her. You accepted Kenzi. Did you? Is there purity and God’s love in their union? Its hard to see...so hard...but I am trying.
She runs her hands along the bar, feeling the metal go from the pocked knurling to the smooth metal. She wore little, just a black sports bra and tights which contrasted with the pale skin exposed on her arms, the great multitude of scars shining with the sweat. Behind her, Redmaine stands in a corner, leaning leisurely against a wall, his large arms folded before him and the dark eyes above his mask on her.
I feel the eyes of the world upon me, husband. I hear their pleas. I didn’t, before. When I was...when I...when I was not clear in my head, I couldn’t hear them. I couldn’t hear their cries. I paid their pain no heed. But I know better now. Redmaine, who held your lessons close, helped bring me home. Helped bring me back to your people. To our people. And now, because of his faith and strength, we rise. We stand. We bring the world what it deserves.
Do you smile at the dominance our House brings? Do you smile at all the victories? The titles? The records? The influence? We are changing the world, husband. We are giving it the reality that God has always wished. Your son...my God, husband, you have a SON! He is the mountain of puroresu. Your daughter...the only child you knew...shares your spirit, shares the need to travel and never put down roots, and excels wherever she goes. Your youngest...a world champion. And me...your chosen...changing the world.
She turns her head and looks about the room. Dark and dank, the gym in the basement below the manor in main was always cold, regardless of the time of year. Several benches, two power racks, four trees of weights, a few mats on the floor. A room of cold reality for those who endeavored towards easy victory or quick progress.
Everything you taught me is true, husband. This world...this business...it is filled with those who would hold up mediocrity into the air as if it were worth celebration. They raise up their voices with “I am good enough!” and wish for others to embrace them. They take their minor victories over the Salvatores of the world and rush to their rooms to write to their parents, hoping for a pat upon the head, or a good natured clap on the back. Those people are fools, just as you always said. And since you fell, since you ascended to the Creator’s side, I have picked up your sword and rammed it into the chest of mediocrity itself.
Every day, I look out at the landscape and see those people begging and pleading for “good enough” to be greatness, and even worse, I see leaches and flees sucking the life from others in their attempts to live off greatness. Even this week, I find myself seeing something of a sludge of humanity again suckling at true greatness, at our House, though he does not know of it. Oh, I I am sure that Dave Rydell is well aware of his own middling skill set. I am sure that he is able to look into the mirror...are at his reflection in the bottom of yet another empty glass...and see his own inability to be more than a coinflip champion. I am sure he is able to understand just how much he holds back those he keeps close. How much he rubs off onto them and lowers their abilities.
Oh, and DOES he, husband! The power of our House is unmatched and unstoppable, but his association with Angie has given her the black mark of normalcy. By herself, our World Champion is witty and funny, kind and giving, original and varied. Well, when she bothers to show up to work, anyway. Certainly a lesson she needs to learn! But when saddled with him as her partner? Things change and we receive the same thing over and over, ad nauseum.
Ten times! Ten times the two have teamed together as “Team Angell.”
Ten times! Ten times they have given us the same thing every time and wondered why their fall from grace as cooperative champions was so abrupt and immediately forgotten.
Ten times! Angelica entertains us...and then we all press the fast forward button as Dave speaks...until we get to the same UGWC backdrop in the same room in the same Chicago building for Synergy to hear the same set of final words before the same match they always wrestle. Angelica speaks a few words...and then Dave tries to put us to sleep...and then Angie finishes it off and the two come out. Over and again, no change, no evolution. Even when the fates found their duo teamed with me, the same thing occurred.
And now for an eleventh time, they no doubt look to bore the audience with the same thing they always do. I cannot confirm, though I have heard a few rumors, that the amount of people tuning into those final comments from them on Synergy is the same as those who enjoyed Travis Roberts’ Eastern nonsense videos leading into the Melee. Dave Rydell’s audience of zero tunes in yet again.
Her eyes once again focus on the bar in front her of her and her hands grip the knurling. She breathes in deep and then lunges forward, lowering her head, until she is directly underneath the bar. She sets her feet underneath her and presses upward, the bar resting on her shoulders, the knurling in the center digging into the traps on either side of her neck, and takes two steps backward, clearing the rack.
“Last set, my Queen.”
The woman with the face paint gives a nod.
I change the world, husband. In this new world, sycophants like Dave Rydell will no longer be able to suck the creativity and drive from Angie Vaughn. Broken old men like Travis Roberts and Jet Somers will not be able to relive their glory by trying to leech off what I bring to the world. Amateur puppet masters like Ichabod and Hastings will find no purchase in their shenanigans. Because at WrestleStock, everything ends. Everything changes. Everything is finished.
Do you smile down upon me, husband?
Do you smile?
SLAM!
The woman with the platinum hair slams the bar into the rack with authority. She breathes deeply, her eyes shut against the dizziness of exertion, and rests her weight with one hand on a guiding rack at her knees. After several moments, she opens her eyes to reveal emeralds wrapped in fires.
I am not you. I know that. But I hope I still bring that smile to your face, as rare as it ever was. Mary has told me before that you used to laugh often. You even used to tell jokes and quibbles! But then losing Selena soured you. And how it must have hurt when Mary disappeared after. Oh, for you to see them all now, husband! The Convergence draws near! The entire House united!
The woman steps away from the rack, green eyes moving back and forth over the bar and weights. Her eyes shone brightly against a face covered in white paint, tiny lines of sweat breaking streaks down from her hairline to her chin, and dripping to the floor. Her nose was crooked after having been broken severely several weeks ago, and her breathing came in and out with a slight nasal sound and rumble. She reaches up and places her hands upon the bar, thin fingers feeling the knurling, the tiny pocks and marks which help to attain grip...and which bury themselves into the necks of those with poor technique.
I remember the first time you brought me in here. Its dark. Dank. The smell of decades of musk. I couldn’t even lift the naked bar! You had to have me start with tiny little dumbells. Even Sarah could lift more than me and she was fifteen! Oh, my apologies: It was Sarha at the time. Silly nonsense. Do you smile down upon her? Do you approve of what she is doing? What she has become? She lives her life as if she is biting her thumb towards the Path of the Light Church. Homosexual. Interracial. But everyone says you accepted her. You accepted Kenzi. Did you? Is there purity and God’s love in their union? Its hard to see...so hard...but I am trying.
She runs her hands along the bar, feeling the metal go from the pocked knurling to the smooth metal. She wore little, just a black sports bra and tights which contrasted with the pale skin exposed on her arms, the great multitude of scars shining with the sweat. Behind her, Redmaine stands in a corner, leaning leisurely against a wall, his large arms folded before him and the dark eyes above his mask on her.
I feel the eyes of the world upon me, husband. I hear their pleas. I didn’t, before. When I was...when I...when I was not clear in my head, I couldn’t hear them. I couldn’t hear their cries. I paid their pain no heed. But I know better now. Redmaine, who held your lessons close, helped bring me home. Helped bring me back to your people. To our people. And now, because of his faith and strength, we rise. We stand. We bring the world what it deserves.
Do you smile at the dominance our House brings? Do you smile at all the victories? The titles? The records? The influence? We are changing the world, husband. We are giving it the reality that God has always wished. Your son...my God, husband, you have a SON! He is the mountain of puroresu. Your daughter...the only child you knew...shares your spirit, shares the need to travel and never put down roots, and excels wherever she goes. Your youngest...a world champion. And me...your chosen...changing the world.
She turns her head and looks about the room. Dark and dank, the gym in the basement below the manor in main was always cold, regardless of the time of year. Several benches, two power racks, four trees of weights, a few mats on the floor. A room of cold reality for those who endeavored towards easy victory or quick progress.
Everything you taught me is true, husband. This world...this business...it is filled with those who would hold up mediocrity into the air as if it were worth celebration. They raise up their voices with “I am good enough!” and wish for others to embrace them. They take their minor victories over the Salvatores of the world and rush to their rooms to write to their parents, hoping for a pat upon the head, or a good natured clap on the back. Those people are fools, just as you always said. And since you fell, since you ascended to the Creator’s side, I have picked up your sword and rammed it into the chest of mediocrity itself.
Every day, I look out at the landscape and see those people begging and pleading for “good enough” to be greatness, and even worse, I see leaches and flees sucking the life from others in their attempts to live off greatness. Even this week, I find myself seeing something of a sludge of humanity again suckling at true greatness, at our House, though he does not know of it. Oh, I I am sure that Dave Rydell is well aware of his own middling skill set. I am sure that he is able to look into the mirror...are at his reflection in the bottom of yet another empty glass...and see his own inability to be more than a coinflip champion. I am sure he is able to understand just how much he holds back those he keeps close. How much he rubs off onto them and lowers their abilities.
Oh, and DOES he, husband! The power of our House is unmatched and unstoppable, but his association with Angie has given her the black mark of normalcy. By herself, our World Champion is witty and funny, kind and giving, original and varied. Well, when she bothers to show up to work, anyway. Certainly a lesson she needs to learn! But when saddled with him as her partner? Things change and we receive the same thing over and over, ad nauseum.
Ten times! Ten times the two have teamed together as “Team Angell.”
Ten times! Ten times they have given us the same thing every time and wondered why their fall from grace as cooperative champions was so abrupt and immediately forgotten.
Ten times! Angelica entertains us...and then we all press the fast forward button as Dave speaks...until we get to the same UGWC backdrop in the same room in the same Chicago building for Synergy to hear the same set of final words before the same match they always wrestle. Angelica speaks a few words...and then Dave tries to put us to sleep...and then Angie finishes it off and the two come out. Over and again, no change, no evolution. Even when the fates found their duo teamed with me, the same thing occurred.
And now for an eleventh time, they no doubt look to bore the audience with the same thing they always do. I cannot confirm, though I have heard a few rumors, that the amount of people tuning into those final comments from them on Synergy is the same as those who enjoyed Travis Roberts’ Eastern nonsense videos leading into the Melee. Dave Rydell’s audience of zero tunes in yet again.
Her eyes once again focus on the bar in front her of her and her hands grip the knurling. She breathes in deep and then lunges forward, lowering her head, until she is directly underneath the bar. She sets her feet underneath her and presses upward, the bar resting on her shoulders, the knurling in the center digging into the traps on either side of her neck, and takes two steps backward, clearing the rack.
“Last set, my Queen.”
The woman with the face paint gives a nod.
I change the world, husband. In this new world, sycophants like Dave Rydell will no longer be able to suck the creativity and drive from Angie Vaughn. Broken old men like Travis Roberts and Jet Somers will not be able to relive their glory by trying to leech off what I bring to the world. Amateur puppet masters like Ichabod and Hastings will find no purchase in their shenanigans. Because at WrestleStock, everything ends. Everything changes. Everything is finished.
Do you smile down upon me, husband?
x2
