Post by cooltubesource on Nov 4, 2018 19:46:57 GMT -5
Presenting the Lacklan Saga Story of:
Ascension, Part II
The Greatest Gift
~~January 1st, 2017~~Most of the known world celebrates the passing of one year and the beginning of another in the moments leading up to January 1st, but things are somewhat different in Maine. Certainly, there are parties and revelries, promises to uphold new resolutions and nearly immediate abandonment of such promises, but there is a spark of electricity, something unseen and unheard but ultimately felt, that runs through the state. Often associated with that bitterly cold wind known as the Lacklan Mistral, the feeling of simultaneous dread and hope is due to one very special reason:
A birthday.
The main road leading out of Bangor and heading toward the Penescbott River was choked all day with cars being held up at the "border check" leading to the compound belonging to the eccentric Lacklan family. The booth manned by men in matching black coats dutifully checked every occupant of every car that come up that road, for both picture identification in triplicate and the official invitation to the birthday party. The bottleneck creating the long line was a headache to most, but not a member of the Lacklanland Border Patrol dared to face the wrath of the Lacklans; indeed, all to a man remembered the beatings that occurred after the Ashton Incident.
While one or two hopeful stowaways were firmly turned away by the guards, nearly everyone made it through the gates leading into the compound. There were a few "virgins" among the guests, those who had not curried enough favor or possessed enough stature to attend a Lacklan gala before this night, but most had navigated the streets of the compound at one time or another. The compound, both affectionately and fearfully referred to as "Lacklanland" by Mainite and Denizen alike, was a sprawling expanse of home-lined streets, a small town encased in a low protective wall. The Denizens were a mixture of the families who worked for the original Lacklans, Jack and Lorelai, the founders of a plastics manufacturer now sold off to the government, and the followers of their only son Jean-Paul, the professional wrestler who had garnered a rabid fan-base over a twenty year career.
The multitude of cars eventually make their way through Main Street and to Selena's Square, the gathering place of the Denizens for the lectures and sermons of the Lacklan family, situated at the base of Lacklan Manor itself. Stuffy men and women exit those cars, bundled up in long, thick coats against a cold Maine day filled with a spattering of rain, hats upon heads and earmuffs in place, making their way to the Manor where they must endure a second security check. Luckily for the Lacklanland Border Patrol, not a single man or woman was able so sneak past that first check.
No one wants a repeat of the Ashton Incident.
The innards of Lacklan Manor are a labyrinth of twisting halls and unmarked doors, a maze designed to confuse and confuddle any unwanted guest or intruder. But in the event of a gala, such as the birthday party on this day, an army of servants wearing black with purple stripes denoting rank are there to guide guests to and fro, to offer refreshment and delicacies, to point out the eclectic collection of artwork the Lacklans have brought together over the years. Veterans of the galas know to pay close attention to the most abstract of the artwork, and even pretend to understand it and point out apparent nuances to the virgins, for those are the artworks of the namesake of Selena's Square, the departed Selena Jurnagen.
Sarah Selena Lacklan looks upon the crowd with a touch of sadness in her red eyes. Blonde hair pulled back into a thick and elaborate braid to make her face seem even sharper than normal, pale skin dusted only with a hint of makeup other than that heavy-handed black eyeliner wings, Sarah's ruby lips are a thin line matching the impossible hue of her irises as she looks as the collection of dignitaries and celebrities gathered in the main room of the Manor. She sits lazily in a massive chair which could only be called a throne, a black and red affair with a high back and gold inlays all throughout, her pointed chin in the palm of her hand, a leg thrust over an armchair and kicking unconsciously. Her dress this day is a black and gold outfit, her bust again squished together by a taut corset, the small vial hanging in her cleavage from its silver chain.
"Yer not 'spossed to be sad on yer birthday, Sare."
The Blood Princess blinks and turns her eyes to the owner of the voice, a woman on her right. Dressed in a pleasingly tight leather skirt and stiletto heels, her best friend Samantha's face is turned down in concern, her face scrunched. Sarah looks her up and down for a moment, approving of her friend's chosen attire, then turns her eyes back to the crowd.
"I cannot help it, Sams. Happens every year."
She gestures towards the crowd with her free hand, the red flames against black nails a stark contrast to the moonlight pale skin.
"A party in my honor with men and women I do not care to know personally. Oh, certainly, I understand the importance of keeping up governmental relations with the Maine proper, but this is all just that proverbial dog and pony show. None of them care about me. Not really. And would be frightened to death of me if they knew the whole truth, besides! And the worst part?"
She drops her hand, her head shaking back and forth slightly on her long swan's neck.
"None of them understand the sadness and burden my birth represents."
Samantha moves in front of Sarah and drops to her knees, putting her face at her friend's chest level and looking up. Samantha's face is somewhat hawkish, with a strong nose and high cheekbones somewhat like her friend's, and dark eyes which force the attention.
"We've been through this, Sare. Its not yer fault yer momma died givin' birth to you. It's not anyone's fault. God decided it was time fer her to go to his side, so that's what she did, ya know? She gave everythin' for you, literally, yeah?"
Sarah nods, the sadness not leaving her face. Samantha sighs.
"C'mon, lets enjoy the party. While you've been sittin' here being Miss Doomy-Gloomy, I been checkin' it out. More than jus' dumb political people are here, you got some friends here, too."
Sarah raises an eyebrow.
"Who?"
Samantha shrugs.
"Some of the kids we grew up with. Some wrestlers." She gives her a conspiratory smile. "Some...Elders."
Both eyebrows raise this time.
"Really? Well! I would not want to be a rude host."
"Oh, 'course not."
Sarah leans forward, grabbing Samantha's head in both hands, and plants a kiss on her lips.
"I love you, Sams. Do you have some DRIVE on you?"
Samantha rolls her eyes as she pulls out a small red vial.
"'Course I do."
Opening the vial, she pours a red powder onto the palm of hand.
"Then let us do this party right."
"Embrace the Light."
And with that, both woman lean forward, index fingers pressed against the side of their noses to create a blockage, and snort the DRIVE.
* * * * * * * * * *
"Daddy issues."
...................
...................
Are you...slow...Miss Reaver? I do not mean any insult in my question. After all, any and all people can find a calling in life, even those who are mentally deficient. I simply ask because...well...you must be a complete moron.
Honestly, at what point in the past week have I shown the world that I have said daddy issues? Yes, I spoke of my father and his mission often in my previous promotional video, but I did so in obviously glowing terms. While his sickness has left him in a poor state, Father is strong, loving, courageous. He is the kind of father that any child would kill to have. "Daddy issues" carries the connotation that I hate him or lack attention. I do neither. Thus, my question:
Are...you...slow?
I do not think you are. Maybe not the brightest or most well-equipped in the cranial department, but not slow. Not like someone that pretends to be a super hero or anything. But definitely unable to handle complex concepts. And to think that I had assumed our mutual friend Kenzi always had good taste in associates.
Allow me a moment to break this down a little bit for you, dearie. In fact, if you would indulge me that moment, allow me to use language that one of your limited capabilities will understand:
Imma fuck you up.
U mad, bro?
Is that better? Is my message more understandable for you now?
Reality is this, dearie: Your career up to this point has been nothing but a practical lesson in how not to succeed. Certainly, I can be faulted in the experience department, as this is my official first match, but I grew up in this business, traveled the world to watch my father wrestle, trained with him, been mentored first by the greatest scholars money could buy and then by world champion wrestlers. Young I may be, inexperienced I am, but still the most dominant person that will be in that ring on Sunday.
Something I hope you understand is that I am, in every way possible, not only something you have never experienced before, but nothing you will ever be able to comprehend. I have already established that you lack brain power, and 'tis almost a pity knowing that you will never be able to appreciate the scope of what I represent. I am the match and the flame, born to raze the world, created to punish all for their sins. NO ONE is like me. NO ONE speaks or dresses like me. NO ONE moves like me.
You?
Bitch, please. A quick scroll of Twitter shows me at least twenty people who look and sound just like you. I am an entire world unto myself, whereas you are just some little fish, not even more than a tadpole, drowning in a sea of mediocrity. You paddle your arms, splashing water here and there, yet going nowhere. Play pretend in your little band, pose for a few more pictures. But please stop trying to be a wrestler. 'Tis embarrassing for the rest of us.
Twenty years my father wrestled, nineteen of them with me at his side, and he spent that time wading through the muck and mire that is this business, rutting through the mud like a boar looking for truffles. I will NOT do as he did. I will NOT dirty the hem of my skirts wading through the unending tide of feckless losers such as yourself. YOU are not worth my time.
There will be no pity for people like you, Miss Reaver. No hope of salvation. No guiding Light to the Path.
For people such as yourself, there will be naught but pain and terror, burning fires. I will NOT abide by mediocrity. I will NOT allow some self-absorbed, clueless twit to be even considered to be upon my level, much less somehow gain a victory over me.
I am going to crush you, Miss Reaver. And then, maybe if we are fortunate, the company will then put us in that singles match you so desire.
Where I will then crush you again.
And there is nothing you can do.
* * * * * * * * * *
The party was a whirlwind haze of alcohol, drugs, and barely restrained sexual tension, as any proper party should be. Oh certainly there were parts of the Manor filled with the stuffy aristocracy of the social and political elite, and the group waltz was performed dutifully by all in attendance, but the true excitement bubbled with tension under that surface, shook with such a vibration that even the staunchest owner of propriety eventually caved in to the darker treats Lacklanland had to offer.
The Blood Princess, fueled by DRIVE and desire, flitted back and forth among the party-goers like a humming bird, always in motion, never in one place for too long. She made a mixture of fake smiles and thinly-veiled threats to various socialites, hugged old friends she knew from childhood, talked shop with a plethora of wrestlers ranging in ages and experience from grizzled veterans like her father to young greenhorns like herself. She was kind to some, cold to others, vicious to seemingly random people, maybe even people she was nice to before. Such was the nature of the Princess of Pain.
The guest list for Sarah's 19th birthday party was as varied and surprising as Samantha had claimed. Kenzi made the party, even though her friend was obviously tired and jet-lagged; Sarah knew she had hosted a New Year's Party the night before in Los Angeles, but being on two different coasts for two different parties on the same day was part and parcel to the life of a movie star! Sarah was glad to see that Kenzi's nails were just as perfect as her own were: That was a good nail salon! The rest of the Elders were also there, and while it was nice to see Song and Orchid, not to mention Eyes, her real target was Blasted Monk. After dragging him into the nearest closet, she made sure he left the party with a new collection of hickies and bite marks in intimate places. She was rather thorough, after all. He, as always, had little more to say than, "Sure." Infuriating...but fun.
The First Citizen Skeeter was there, of course. The mountain man from Arkansas had done a wonderful job helping her father feel comfortable toward the end. Modern science had failed her father in his battle with cancer, the damnable disease starting in his skin and spreading over the years to infect his most vital of organs, but Skeeter's holistic remedies had helped ease the pain. Father had showed great care for Skeeter when he lost his beloved Strong Girl, but Sarah knew there was more to his presence in the Lacklanland Woods than simply wanting to pay back the masked man's kindness. Certainly, there was something more in Skeeter's eyes than the deep void of loss the Strong Girl's death caused, but she could not quite figure it out yet. But there was something.
Gifts aplenty were thrust upon her. Thoughtful gifts with red and black motifs, superficial cards from distant dignitaries, a handmade blanket from Stacy Sterling. Sarah hated that woman; always positive, always caring, the delusional super hero loved her unconditionally, regardless of how mean, rude, crude, crass, or offensive Sarah was to her. She even once had her kidnapped! And still! Stacy treated her as a sister, hand-stitched the blanket to say her family name in the most god-awful cutesy font possible, AND provided a box of her favorite cakepops. She loathed the woman! It just was not fair.
Unfortunately for the girl, sadness crept up on her throughout the night, the effects the of shot of DRIVE losing its hold. Yes, she had friends there, from her best friend Sams to the new wrestlers she was training with, to some of those dignitaries looking to curry favor with the woman who would soon replace Lord Lacklan, but there was a notable absence, an absence she could not help but take personally. Her father was that not there, of course, but that was excusable considering his condition. But her godparents? She did not know the details of their "time apart," but she knew it was bad: He was off in Europe writing his book, she was drinking her life away in Vegas. Neither of them made it. And Nikita...
Sarah threw a priceless vase at the all, the pottery shattering beyond repair, when she got the text from her Sensei.
Nikita Dolore:
Sorry, dearie.
Sorry, dearie.
Sorry. All Nikita had to say. The closest thing she had ever known to a mother, someone who had spent much time this past year teaching her how to be a woman, how to navigate the wrestling business, how to demand the respect of her peers, and the recluse could not be bothered to step onto the plane she had sent. Guests and servants alike went scurrying when Sarah went into that rage, kicking and screaming at anything in range, and it took the arms of her best friend to calm her down.
Well, her arms and the drinks in her hand. Skeeter's moonshine, a spirit with a hell of a kick, was quickly becoming famous and requests were being made for Skeeter to make more than just enough for himself and the Lacklans. The Princess of Pain experiences no hesitation in pounding back both offered glasses, glad to chase away her growing misery. Not even a rousing performance of "Happy Birthday!" from the crowd as servants brought in the massive cake were enough to lift her spirits and bring her out of the abyss.
Until a heavy clunking sound is heard, bringing conversations of every sort to a sudden halt.
Clunk.
Silence from the crowd.
Clunk.
Not a breath taken.
Clunk.
The sound of trumpets makes every party-goer jump in surprise, a fanfare filling the grand hall. A man in billowing robes holding a roll of parchment in fat fingers cries out for all to hear.
"The Pillar of Light...the Savior of Professional Wrestling...the Voice of God and Hammer of His will...Jean-Paul Lacklan."
The sea of party-goers all fall to hands and knees as one, the virgins in the crowd only slightly behind the more experienced, all but a handful of men and women touching their foreheads to the floor. Men and women in black coats spread throughout the crowd, forcing the crowd to split in twain like the Red Sea out of antiquity, as the Lord of the Manor enters the room.
Jean-Paul Lacklan is an imposing figure in every sense of the term: Tall and wide, the wrestler and bodybuilder's body straining a black suit to its breaking point, a purple time coming down from his massive neck the only relief of color. His mask, black to suit, covers his entire head, the dull sheen of the nearly opaque faceplate shining in surprising contrast with the generally dark room. The large man leans heavily on an ornately carved walking staff, his steps labored as he clunks his way through the room and to his daughter.
Coming to a halt before the duo of Sarah and her best friend, Lacklan raises a gloved hand, fingers flashing a few slow signals. The group of men in black jackets create a circle around the three figures and softly begin to encourage the guests to resume their conversations. The more experienced dignitaries are quick to rise to their feet and continue as if nothing had happened, with the virgins joining before too long, though the assortment of wrestlers are mostly confused by the display.
Sarah takes note of who bowed properly and who did not. Men and women without proper stature would be punished, though she certainly did not include any of the Elders in that group. And of course the First Citizen. But she marked a person or two who would need to be taught the appropriate amount of deference. Eventually she raises her eyes to the man towering over her and, taking her skirts in her hands, gives him one of her deep and well-practiced curtsies.
"Father. I had not anticipated your presence this night."
"I have a...gift...for you...Daughter..."
Lacklan's way of speaking is odd for the newcommer: His sentences have long pauses in odd places, as well as unusual emphasis on words and letters. In addition to the diction, his voice is hard to listen to, sounding as if it is being put through a mixer, a product of the hunk of metal in his throat that allows him to speak.
"But first..."
The masked gaze turns to the girl at Sarah's side, who still had her forehead pressed to the floor.
"Rise, Miss...Martin."
Samantha slowly gets to her feet, making sure to keep her eyes somewhat lowered, which was custom. But then Lacklan reaches forward with a gloved hand and, taking her chin in large fingers, forces her to look up into the faceplate of his mask.
"You have been...a great...boon...for my family. Accepted Sarah for...who she...is. Even after...the change. You have my...gratitude."
Tears well up in the brunette's eyes at the rare compliment from the Voice.
"Now, if you will...excuse us."
Samantha gives Lacklan a low bow after he releases her chin and, giving a smile to her friend, disappears into the crowd. Lacklan turns towards his daughter, allowing the silence to stretch for a moment.
"Walk with me."
Lacklan holds his arm out, Sarah practically skipping to interlace hers with his. The two walk for a few moments, the crowd always dispersing before them, the heavy clunking of Lacklan's steps creating an odd juxtaposition with Sarah's graceful gait.
"You have been...my...greatest...accomplishment, Daughter. You have...fought off the...trials...of not having your mother...and...grown into a...proper...Mistress for this Manor. You have exceeded all...goals and...expectations...I ever laid before you."
Lacklan stops their walk and turns his daughter to face him.
"You are...everything...I had ever...wanted. You are my...heir...in body and spirit. God's...grace...fills you, lifts you...above all others. And...when you touch down...when you...land...the world will...never be the same."
He pauses.
"I am...proud...of you for taking up...my sword...and bringing God's Light to the...world...whether or not they...deserve it. My time is...short...and I shall be at...His side...soon...but it brings me...joy...that I shall live to...to see you fight...to see your...plumage...alight. You are my...firebird."
Another pause.
"I love you...Daughter."
Eyes growing misty with an unmistakably red hue, Sarah cannot find a word to say. On a day featuring gifts given by dignitaries and politicians, friends and lovers, this was beyond reproach. Unfiltered, unadulterated, pure.
Her father's love was the greatest gift of all.
* * * * * * * * * *
This is EXACTLY why I was sad to see myself booked in the OBLIGATORY MULTI-PERSON MATCH!!!!!111!11!!!
At least Miss Reaver, as slow as she appears to be, is somewhat entertaining. But the two bags of skin in the ring next to us?
Sweet Mother Mary, what a waste of my time.
Can you explain yourself, Mister Hardy? You do realize, of course, that you have ME, yes? The daughter of a world champion. The protege of another. Royalty that, literally, sits on a throne. Kinda-sorta getting into Zen shit because of a Shaolin Monk with totes hawt abs. And that whole "born to change the world" schtick I have going on. And you waste my debut booking against Miss Derpa and two silent fucktards.
Looks like I am going to have to make some changes around here.
You see, Mister Hardy, I will not stand for this again. In me, you have a person capable of causing pain and terror on a level only fantasized about before. In me, you have someone with the resources and ambition to shatter every attendance record, every television rating, every buyrate. You have the hawt-damn Blood Princess, the Princess of Pain, someone who is looking to change this business, irrecoverably, and bring it in line with how God wishes to see it.
God does not want a sport filled with jokes and gimmicks. He DOES NOT want people dressed in painfully colorful outfits hawking sugar treats to children. He DOES NOT want crazed madmen so underdeveloped that they might as well be a throw-back to some random Boogeyman from the 1970's who hailed from PARTS UNKNOWN. He DOES NOT want bullshit matches like you decided to book this week.
However, while I have made it clear that I offer no pity or salvation to wrestlers as unnecessary as Misters Young or Skinner, I will allow you this mistake without hurting you. Father was ever the benevolent savior, ultimately wanting you to find the Path, and while it is instead my job to cast judgement and meter out pain, I am not wholly heartless. No...no...I shall allow you the opportunity to make amends to all the people who wish to see me shed blood and light shit on fire.
I shall walk into this match with a smile on my face. I shall crush all three of my opponents in a fashion which shows my dominance. I will snap bones if I am giving the opportunity, I shall tear tendons should the chance arise, and sweet Mother Mary will I choke and cut a bitch if I can, but I will win this contest no matter what. And the following show? I expect a challenge befitting my station.
Yes, I am young, Sir. Yes, I am untested in professional combat. But those things matter not. I AM, Sir. I AM the firestarter. I AM the bloodletter. I AM both the present and future of this business. And I WILL NOT abide by such a slight in booking going forward.
I am here to change this business, Sir. I will destroy an endless array of jobbers, every Skittleman and Wildman you may well employ, but I will not stop there. I will not stop at hitting Reaver so hard that I jump-start that addled brain of hers. I will drive through your entire roster, from gypsies to anarchists to dudes with really nice abs, and I will make all of them bow to the future Red Queen.
There is no stopping me, Mister Hardy. The fires of salvation are here.
I am the match.
-Sarah Selena Lacklan
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