Full Circle, Part I: "It was from behind!"

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A great sigh. Painful. Shuddering. But still a sigh. Of relief. Of tensions releasing. Of knotted muscles loosening.

Of peace.

This was God’s will. He was His Voice and His Hammer.

And the Hammer needed to fall. The world BEGGED for it to fall. The world-

“This is intolerable, Father! Ab-so-lute-ly in-tol-er-ab-le!”

Grey blue eyes open in a field of white. The eyes of Jean-Paul Lacklan are tired behind his alabaster mask. They feel sunken, as if they too carried the great weight that his knees had endured over the last twenty years. They ached as they rolled in their sockets, an uncontrollable action from his youth when he would listen to false preachers of Atheism, Agnosticism, and every other “-ism” that was not the Truth of God. They rolled in both an outward and inner feeling of annoyance and resignation, both for the words of infidels and the childish wailing of a girl too old for such a tone.

“What is it now, Daughter?”

His voice is low and harsh, as if his daily routine included gargling sharp rocks along with his prayers, and it hurt his throat to speak. The cancer, starting in his skin and diving deep into the center of his body, is affecting everything now. Hard to breathe. Hard to speak. Hard to live. But still, he fought on. For God. For the sport of professional wrestling. And for his family, which included the single object of his loins, the one and only child to carry his blood, who was as childish now as she was when she was little.

“The heat! Sweet Mother Mary, THE HEAT!”

Lacklan turns his head away from the corner he faces and takes in his surroundings. The Voice of God is shirtless, wearing nothing but his wrestling tights, his bulging muscles shining with a slick of sweat. Texas was hot, even in the best of conditions, and just a few days before May meant a hot day, indeed. Ninety degrees was not sweltering by any means for the locals, not when they would see well north of one hundred as Summer came to pass, but the Mainites were different.

Or Lacklanlanders, I suppose

It is difficult for the large man to hold down the laughter in that thought. The shenanigans of his daughter...the wailing child before him...was becoming unto legend, somehow convincing people by the droves that the Path of the Light Church compound that they had built around their Maine home was, in and of itself, sovereign land. Yes, his dealings with Governor LePage had secured them certain tax rights, as they deserved for being a religious institute, but his daughter’s silliness was just that: Silliness.

“Oh God! Oh God! I am become death!”

He suppresses the laughter and sigh, dying to come forth from his mouth, as the entirety of his surroundings come to him. He is in the hall of a small venue, an armory, playing host to a wrestling event. Half a dozen of his soldiers, his Minions, stood on guard, ready to protect their savior at a moment’s notice. And half a dozen more were waving large fans at his daughter...his “vampire” daughter...who was sweltering in the heat.

“Oh! Oh! My immortal skin! It will burn in this heat!”

Sarah is, as usual, wearing far too much makeup and has her form pulled tight into a dress and corset that fit FAR too snugly for his liking, and is laying upon the ground in the center of the soldiers. With bright skin and hair due to her albinism, his teenage daughter seemed the ghostly imitation of his dearly departed Beloved. Her coloring was his...his own hair had been stark white by the time he was ten...but her face was purely Selena’s. If dusted white, of course.

“Oh! How am I to live eternal if I am to waste away in this blasted pit of the Devil’s anus?!”

He had hoped that Ava’s influence would help push away this vampire phase of hers, but there had not been any progress, as of yet. But Ava...his recently wedded Lady of Dragons...would just give him a small smile and tell him to be patient. He missed her. Missed her touch. She was not on this outing, this debut show for a new company, but she would be for others. She would be-

“Oh! Mortal Father! How will I ever enjoy the sweet taste of virgin blood again if I am to turn to ash today?!”

This time the large man does sigh. Tired. Resigned. He pushes himself up to his feet and groans as he does so. He feels every bit of his forty amd more years, every bit of damage that over twenty years of wrestling around the world leaves. His head swims with pain as he stands, the constant reminder of the sickness deep within him, the sickness that controversial and experimental drugs were keeping at bay. But days like this, days when he pushed his body further than he should, remind him that the sickness was just the wine behind held back by the cork of drugs. The bottle would burst someday.

“What does the Path say about adversity?”

He walks towards his daughter as he asks the question, and her face comes into full view. She was so beautiful, though he wished she would not hide it behind the “war paint.” Lips red with paint, black surrounding her eyes and stretching out into thin lines to her temple. Her eyes snap open as he stands over her, the guards parting without a world for him, and the red orbs blaze at him. Dr. Andrews had assumed that her eyes would change color, much like how many children have blue that turns green, but the “red” eyes of the newborn had stayed with the young adult. It was unsettling to many...the ghostly “Vampire of Lacklanland”...but they were still the eyes of his dutiful daughter.

“‘Stand strong against the tide of the Enemy,’” she quotes to him in an imitation of his own voice. She was surprisingly good at that. He had caught her ordering wine under the guise of Jenna more than once. He gives her a nod and extends his hand down to her. She reaches up to him and he takes her hand in his, completely engulfing it. With a small grunt, he pulls her from the ground and up into the air, and she giggles as she is flung up onto his shoulder. She was a small woman, barely over five feet, but she had been lifting weights with him for three years, and the legs atop his shoulder were strong. Thick. Like his.

“And what does the Path say about the infidels?”

“Bugs go squish!”

Not exactly the Word, but her interpretation was sound. He had crushed Child Lee but an hour ago, beating the man senseless. He had worn white handwraps, now stained red with his blood, and he was thinking of keeping them for the collection. Mementos were important.

“Then let us squish more bugs, Daughter.”

She claps her hands as he sets her down upon the ground. He holds his hand out and one of the guard is there in an instant, handing him his gear. Behind him, his daughter leans against him, her back pressing into his. She had done that since she was young. They never spoke of it, but they both seemed to enjoy the strength they gave to one another in quiet moments. He would be writing a sermon, or perhaps a letter to someone, and she would be painting, or writing a haiku, and they would lean against one another. They do so now as he rewraps his hands with the blood-stained cloth. Before long, his boots are back on and the Knocker is in his hand.

“Who is feeling the hammer fall?”

He smiles at question while he looks at the head of the old sledgehammer. He was the Voice of God, the Hammer of His will, the Light Incarnate.

“It does not even matter.”

Long strides, accompanied by his daughter’s graceful skips, were followed by the clunking footsteps of his men. They passed attendants too busy dealing with the very first show for Classic Wrestling from Texas to notice the intent in their steps. They find themselves at the entrance to the ramp unimpeded.

“I will face the winner of this match soon enough. Why is it important to watch?”

He looks down at his daughter when he hears her sigh.

“...engaging epic eyeroll…”

She proceeds to roll her eyes so hard that her entire head moves with them, but then answers him.

“Know your opponent better than they know themselves. We watch, study, take notes. Take advantage of shortcomings that they didn’t even know existed.”

She looks up at him and the smugness on her face is undeniable.

“I know my lessons, Father. I am ready.”

He reaches down and cups her chin, holding it with a mixture of force and gentleness, as he would a small bird.

“There are always more lessons, Daughter. The Path of the Light demands it. Demands truth. And...God loves a little style.”

With that, he lets go of her chin, turns, and breaks into a run toward the ring. He was not a fast man, instead focusing on crafting the body of an Adonis, but he surprised people. He slides into the ring as the referee holds the arm of the victor into the air, positions himself behind him, and blasts the man in the back of the head with the Knocker. The man...a short and burly man named Bonecrusher...went down from the impact, and he turns his attention to kicking his defeated man in the head. Mark Storm was a waste, of course, always had been, and he quickly turned his attention to Bonecrusher, who was holding his head from the strike of the Knocker. Before long, the ring was full of men jostling for position, perhaps the entire debut roster, caught up in the chaos he had created. The unfortunately named Davarius Stubbs, the little person "field manager," was alone in trying to restore order.

God abhorred chaos. He loved order. But Jean-Paul Lacklan understood that he could use chaos to create God’s order.

And as the bedlam reached its peak, he looks back at the entrance of the ramp and sees the red eyes blazing out of the black hooded robe his daughter wore when people outside the family were around. He sees hunger in her eyes. Desire.

His vision, the purpose of the Path of the Light Church, was to create an ultimate, universal, unified World’s Champion to be a bastion of rightiousness for the world. He had always thought it was to be him. But now he understands. His job was to lay the foundation, to use the chaos to create order. So that Sarah Selena Lacklan could burn it all to the ground.

God’s Chosen

His little Firestarter.

---

---

Red eyes in a field of porcelain.

Sarah gasps as she awakes from the dreams of years ago. Her eyes move lazily in her skull, the dullness of drink weighing them down, as if the hummingbird was slowed as it was forced to fly in rain. But the eyes do move, they do see. She sits upon the ground, her black dress a sharp contrast to the light dusting of snow, the bottle of Cabernet, now emptied, several feet away from her. Bits of green rise out of the white, the last remnants of the fall’s color having their struggle against winter's first powder, along with a handful of stone markers jutting into the air.

“My apologies, Father. I dozed off there for a minute.”

Her high Londoner voice is as thick as the dullness in her eyes, the words coming out in a slight slur. She reaches up and places gloved hands underneath the black lace veil on her face and presses hard, forcing herself to focus on the moment. She shakes her head as she takes her hands away and then reaches up and behind her. Her hands run along the edge of one of the markers, her back pressed against, with a gentleness belying affection.

“Thank you for your strength. I miss it, so.”

Sarah nestles back, adjusting her bottom on the cold ground and her back against the hard tombstone.

“What am I going to do, Father?”

She shakes her head slowly, conscious enough of her inebriated state to not make her senses spin.

“A sister. A SISTER! Who has been LYING TO ME FOR YEARS!”

She screams at the end and stomps her feet, her thick boots lined with warming fur slamming into the ground and scattering the light snow.

“Oh, I can hear my Beloved already. ‘Babe, it’s not like that!’ Please. If Angelica is going to admit that she’s been lying for sixteen months, then EVERYTHING she says is suspect! Sixteen months? Why not the entire two years and more we’ve known each other?! Did she know who I was when we met in Hawaii for LAW? Did she ALWAYS know?! Sixteen months. Phaw! I bet that lying whore of a mother told her sixteen YEARS ago!”

She reaches over, picks up the empty bottle, and throws it with a grunt.

“I’m not going to let her take what I have, Father. I will NOT accept an interloper. How long has she been scheming? How long has she been TAKING? All the time getting to know me...getting close to me...asking about you. All the time getting close to Kenzi. To Sidney. To Ava. All the time slipping into the House of Lacklan. Why? Because she wants it all? Because she wants what is mine? Because she wants my LIFE?!”

She looks around for something else to throw, and curses when she cannot find anything. Resigned, she crosses her arms under her breasts and slumps against the stone.

“Its all I have dreamed about. Constant dreams. Of Angelica, slithering her way into my good graces. Of Angelica, with horns and a split tongue, ingratiating herself. Of Angelica, with subtle movements, pushing me out of the estate and becoming the hero of the people. Of Angelica, with cunning and guile, making everyone think that the ditzy blonde with the kitties is who she really is. Of Angelica, with a smile of victory, opening her arms wide for…”

She suddenly trembles upon the ground, every part of her body quivering with the intensity of her hands on a particularly bad day.

“SHE WILL NOT TAKE KENZI FROM ME!”

Her throat burns from the scream and her eyes glisten. She slams her eyes shut, her face contorting with pain, and focuses on slowing her breathing. Eventually, her heart slows and her chest moves with a more controlled pace.

“We’re arguing, you know.”

She opens her eyes again and they contain petulance.

“She wants me to forgive Angelica. She believes her, believes the sixteen month timeline. But she does not see! She does not understand! She does not see Angelica for the snake that she is! She does not understand her for the LACKLAN that she is! And so we are fighting. She’s so mad at me that she even cut me off before going on this ridiculous Scientology excursion of hers! I’m so blocked up that I feel like I’m going to BURST at even the SIGHT of her next week!”

Sarah’s face flushes to a light pink as she realizes she is telling her departed father about her marital bed. She clears her throat and moves on.

“But I have faith, Father. I have faith that she will see my sister in the right light. I have faith that she will see how she and that whore mother of hers have been conspiring all this time. I have faith that she will find the Light and see all of the truth that it brings. Hell, I even have faith that she’ll see Roxanne for the guttertrash she is! I have faith that she will see EVERYONE for who they REALLY are! I have faith that she will see that we must do what we must. That we must break Angelica and everyone who would be foolish enough to stand with her.”

She smiles as she gently rubs the back of her head against the tombstone.

“I am going to enjoy it, Father. I am going to enjoy ruining EVERYTHING she thinks she can use to steal my life. I’m going to break her spirit, her body, her EVERYTHING. Even people barely associated with her? They’ll feel the hammer fall. Every thread will get cut, just like you always preached.”

Her smile grows as she closes her eyes.

“I’m cutting a thread in a couple of days. A tenuous connection, yes. A frayed thread, yes. But still something to sever. Something to slice. And I will cut it so deftly that the streets will run with his blood. Just as you would have.”

She giggles softly as she continues to gently rub the back of her head against the stone.

“Let me tell you about Konrad Raab. He’s an older warrior, not unlike you, once upon a time. Strong. So strong! The entire business dismisses his surprising strength because of him having an odd way of speaking. But considering that I am a Mainite...or perhaps a Lacklanlander...who speaks with a Londoner accent...and spent two years making up words with-”

Pain flashes across her face.

“-with my sister-”

Her face relaxes and regains much of its previous serenity.

“-I am not so foolish as to dismiss his skills for such a petty observation. I would rather break down his actual faults and weaknesses, would rather analyze why he is the way he is, and not eat from the low fruit of his language. Indeed, far deeper does the House of Lacklan go than those we wish to bring salvation.”

She opens her eyes, the red orbs still dull from too much drink, but thoughtfulness dominates her sharp features.

“Konrad Raab, despite his strength...and admirable tenacity...is an abject failure.”

She chews on the inside of her lip, the dimple on the right side of her cheek showing itself.

“I say this, not necessarily because he has an abysmal record in the company we both share...though his record IS abysmal...but because he has a terrible take on something. A ‘shitty take,’ if you will, which is something I have had to deal with from the moment I turned pro. He has gone out of his way to say that I am...of all things...lazy.”

She turns her head to the side and begins lightly chewing on the other side.

“Its an odd thing, Father. Much like yourself, the spirit of the freelancer flies within me. From the moment I began in the business, I knew that I would need to travel. To fly. To spread the truth of the Path on my wings. But so does Konrad Raab. The man has traveled the world! Japan! Europe! All throughout the United States! Company after company, from fighting alongside Johnny Bonecrusher...he’s still mad about that shot from the Knocker all those years ago, by the way, as silly as that is...to rutting in the gutter of Sin City alongside Smelly Kate, to being in that one terrible place with that woman who shows her unmentionables on Twitter...Kenzi likes her...he has been everywhere. Between he and his brother...a twin who conveniently looks nothing like him, but that is a whole different story...he has traveled this world over and again more than most of the Coalition roster combined, yet he somehow finds the gall to call ME lazy for not being in the company full time.”

She shakes her head.

“Silly, that. Over fifty years old, filled with legendary stamina for l' ébats amoureux, yet as insanely dull-witted in wrestling comprehension as any member of Ooley’s practically nameless cronies from years ago. He should understand the importance of growth. The importance of becoming well-rounded. The importance of rest. Yes! He has fought within the Coalition nearly non-stop since his debut after No Holds Barred last year, but what has his tenacity earned him? What has all of that strength, both of body and supposedly of his character, earned him? Not victory. Not accolades. Not influence. Not even the grudging respect of his peers! All it has is given him the second worst record of any full-time employee of the Coalition in their nine years of business.”

She shakes her head again and her eyes narrow with focus.

“And that is no boast, Father! That is no joke! It is bad enough that all of Konrad’s tenacity, all of his ending pluck has only carried him to victory less than twenty-nine percent of the time...pathetic as that is...but there was a stretch in there where he lost ten matches in a row! TEN! I once quipped to Kem Dynamo that, after she dropped four straight, that I would literally KILL myself if I couldn’t get a win after all of that, and Konrad has bested Kem’s worst efforts two and a half times over! How DO you lose SO MANY matches in a row without finding ANY kind of success? How do you toil, day after day, with all of that tenacity and STILL come up with the SAME thing you did before?!”

Her voice grows in intensity as she latches on to the line of thought.

“Literally only ONE man has done WORSE than Konrad...at least insofar as being a full-time worker, as I mentioned before...and that was Enigma when he dropped a whopping thirteen back when I was barely a teenager! The two of them had the same issues, of course...being that they are basically the people you keep on the roster so that new people can win their debut match, or so that Pierce and Deimos can break up their own massive losing streaks every now and again...and they approach the business with the same mindless intensity and tactics. Train the same way, every day, without change. Konrad in particular literally does the same thing every time: Trains with someone, gives a small glimpse of his boring life with a vanilla cast who somehow all sound the same, and then busts out a ‘Good guys win because bad guys are mean’ shoot on YouTube that is so mindnumbingly dull that it somehow LOSES viewers every time someone loads it up!

“Again and again, its the same thing from him. Oh sure, there are people around us who are all set to praise him for the fact that he has grown...and he has...but the problem THERE is that, for ALL of his growth, all he has done is gone from forgettable loser getting taken down by literally the ENTIRE 2018 roster at some point to doing ‘okay’ at Battleground! Seriously, outside of that upset over a Jet Somers that no one was taking seriously any more than a year a half ago, Konrad’s successes are being put through a table by Vain, getting his ass beat by my Beloved, and getting to the middle of Battleground. That’s it! Someday, when Donovan puts together the Essentials Collection for Konrad, its just going to be him reaching the pinnacle of average with crushing defeats bookending Battleground. And the senile old man thinks that he can beat ME?!”

Sarah rolls her eyes and the sharpness begins to return to them, her rant sobering her senses.

“The man is so caught up in the false narrative of my ‘laziness,’ all because I took a break from the Coalition in order to recharge my freelancing batteries...and get my shit together...that he has completely missed that my year has been INSANE. I have, to date, wrestled FORTY-ONE times across four companies! Mr You’re Lazy is so caught up in how ‘mean’ I am that he doesn't realize that, across those forty-one matches, fourteen of which have been for the Coalition, I have won a STAGGERING thirty-four of them, and have only actually been pinned myself twice in all of that, which includes winning THREE tournaments and FOUR Championships! While he tirelessly pitches that I am ‘lazy,’ he has missed that I have accomplished more in the last ten months than he has in the last ten years!

“Now, I’m sure that if, given light of this information, he would tow that ‘within the context of the Coalition’ mentality, but even then, he’s a moron. After I got hurt, I spent nearly every single fucking Monday in Chicago, being a constant reminder and specter to this company of the woman who beat Lucy Wylde clean in the middle. I was a constant reminder of the power and influence I wrought. When I returned, I immediately took a championship, defeated HIM in a defense, and continued to fight in matches FAR above his station, all while being nowhere near one hundred percent. And even when I left to clear my head, I was STILL here every fucking week in support and defense of my Beloved...and my lying sister and her guttertrash friend Roxanne. The reality, no matter WHAT idiotic narrative Konrad’s underdeveloped mind wishes to spread, is that I, Sarah Selena Grey-Lacklan, have been at the CENTER of this company from the moment I stepped foot inside of it!”

With a grunt, she pushes herself to her feet and begins to pace in small lines, her thick boots kicking up the light snow.

“Seriously, what the FUCK is this moron even THINKING by keeping my name in his mouth week after fucking week?! Does he think it gets him points from the crowd of cowards and infidels who despise me? Does he think he will get spillover sales of his merch by connecting my name to his? Does he think that, finally, people will think of him as more than just someone to fill out the card so that Hide can stay above .500 on the year if he associates himself with me and my peers enough? Is THAT why he attached himself to Angelica? Is THAT why he found her an ally in Battleground? So that he could elevate himself to the level of being in the World’s Champion’s ring without having to ever actually do the work to develop to that level? Because FUCK, that was a stupid mistake!”

Her lines grow in length as she continues, the stretches of disturbed snow widening, and her arms begin to wave in the air for emphasis as she talks to the tombstone.

“The REALITY of Konrad Raab being in the same ring as THE World’s Champion is that he, the man with the second longest losing streak is going to stand face to face with the person who is currently in the longest winning streak in Coalition history...EVER!”

She begins to extend her finger as she speaks.

“5’2” Mafia versus Roberts and Deimos. WITH Roberts against Zane and the Cutie. Zane at Grand Slam. The Captain’s Match. Smelly, Stupid Kate. Outlast. The Outlast Championship Round. Against Slebby and Rydell. Against the Scoundrel and Zane. With my Beloved again against Gabby and Pierce. Putting Roxy fucking DOWN and ENDING her fake bullshit.”

She whirls and stamps her foot while holding out her outstretched hands.

“Eleven GODDAMN wins in a ROW, Konrad! ELEVEN! Literally NO ONE has won THAT many matches in a row in a Coalition ring...EVER. Not Donovan. Not Tyvola. Not Prescott. Not Jet. Not Baal. Not Angelica. Not even my Beloved. NO FUCKING ONE BUT ME. Just lazy and mean Sarah who has TIRELESSLY killed herself in the fucking gym DAY AFTER FUCKING DAY to get her body back, to get her legs stronger than before! And THAT is why he deserves this match. His stupid fucking blind eyes to the TRUTH. To the LIGHT. Teaming with Angelica? Keeping my name in his mouth? Calling THE most CONSISTENTLY EXCELLENT Entertainment Professional there has EVER been LAZY?!”

She circles around to the front of the tombstone, rushes forward suddenly, and slips to her knees, her dress flying behind her. She finds her eyes at the level of the name on the tombstone, the name of her father, he who is risen.

“I’m going to make him bleed, Father. I am going to make him hurt. I am going to make every single of one of those losses across the years feel like but a preparation for his gravest mistake. All of those losses, all of those failures, all God’s plan to make him face the Firestarter in the main event of Synergy so that there can be no excuses and just simple reality. I am going to cut him open so bad that, forever more, the business will think of it as the ‘Raab Scale.’ I am going to smash his face, break his face, RIP INTO HIS FACE, with such glee and anger that small children in the crowd, small children wearing their ‘Obvs’ t-shirts made from the flesh of lies, cry and cower into their mother’s bosom. I am going to make the very SIGHT of Konrad Raab’s face make grown men puke their souls out onto the ground. He will be so bloody, so hurt, so RUINED, that even Ichabod will pull me aside and ask me to cool it.

“I am going to hold the mirror up for him, Father. I am going to make him stand there and see the truth. He will have to stand in the Light, be bathed in it, bask in it, be refreshed in it. He will have to look in the mirror, see his ruined face, see his mediocre greatness laid bare before the true might that is the World’s Champion, and realize that, yes, this IS what he deserves. This IS what he has earned. This IS everything that he and I are. He is the fly buzzing by, annoying and harmless, who is swatted quickly and brutally when attention is turned toward him. And when he looks in the mirror? When he sees what has become of him? When he has to go home, face his wife, face his children, face his Supreme Jersey Wrestling rejects, face his trainer, face his brother, face his SHAME at being NOTHING, I hope...I pray...that he does not blame me.”

She licks her lips as her eyes read the name of her father.

“I hope he blames Angelica.”

She gives the grave a nod.

"Because this is all about her, Father. All about what I am going to do to her, and those who stand at her side. I am the World's Champion! I am the beacon of Light! And I will NOT suffer the inanity of one such as Raab going on and on about me without suffering the consequences! All pigeons find their roost, and his are going come find their succor in the form of blood and pain in front of the world."

Her face softens for a moment.

"The House of Lacklan will stand strong, Father. I will finish what you started. I will bring Kenzi to the Light. I will care for Ava, find her the help she needs. I will break Angelica and put her in her place. And when the time is right, when the world can rebuild itself in the image of what is right, I will do what I must to continue the House..."

Her eyes slip over to the tombstone next to her father's, this one older and worn down by the cold erosion of time.

"...even if it kills me..."

Her eyes return to her father's tombstone.

"I have spent much of the last two years playing games. Being distracted. But no longer. My eyes are open, Father. I see the Light. I AM the Light."

She breathes out slowly again and her face softens.

"Mind if I take your back, again? Spend a little more time with you and Mumsie before I head back? Ava needs me...we have been spending a lot of time together the last week or so...but she can wait a little while longer."

She rises her to her feet, circles around the tombstone, presses her back to the stone, and slides downwards until she sits upon the ground once more. She breathes out slowly, red eyes taking in the early winter morning of the graveyard attached to her family's home.

"Fuck, I miss Mackenzie."

She breathes out slowly and closes her eyes.