Post by Deleted on May 25, 2017 2:09:21 GMT -5
Presenting the Lacklan Saga Story Of:
To Save the World
To Save the World
The world is flat.
The sky is orange.
Grass is blue.
Clouds rain acid down upon the ground.
Fire shoots out every maw of animal great or small whenever they breath.
Water is poison to all who stop at pools to quench their thirst.
Courtney Leinart puts on shoes worth more than $2 and puts up a pic that isn’t in shitty resolution.
Mackenzie stops being a jelly belly over every single damn wink or witticism.
Oh...wait...shit. I forgot to start this off with that cool movie voice dude saying “In a world…” My bad!
Let’s try that again….
“In a world where it is Opposite Day everyday, a bunch of unlikely shit will happen. It is ONLY in this world where Kate Bass would ever defeat Sarah Selena Lacklan.”
There we go! Much better!
Get the point? The concept thudding into your fivehead? The ONLY way you could ever beat me, dearie, is in a world in which gravity works backwards and pushes you towards less dense objects. In a world where geeks who barely exercise defeat world class athletes. In a world where dogs are better than cats. In a world where The Lord of the Rings trilogy is not an overrated piece of shit. In a world where Star Trek is better than Star Wars.
IN A WORLD THAT DOES NOT FUCKING EXIST.
THAT is reality, dearie. The REAL world? Clouds drop water. Grass is green. Jelly belly GFs are jelly belly. The Force whoops logic’s ass.
AND WEAKLING GAMERS GET DESTROYED BY FIGHTERS.
See, this is not a place where you get to use Star Wars titles to talk about how you are a new hope or that this is the clone wars. This is not where you get to make a comparison to you being Rinoa Heartlilly and I am the Sorceress Ultimecia. This is not a story of you being the Sailor Moon to my Queen Beryl. No matter how hard you try, you will never...EVER...be better than me. You will never...EVER...be able to defeat me. You will never...EVER...be anything more than some half-trained, unfocused, distracted, addled child obsessed with how many hits they get on some cam stream.
This...is goddamn...PROFESSIONAL WRESTLING. This is NOT a fantasy world where you get to run around in an avatar as some badass dark elf who has left the Underdark and dual-wields scimitars with the blessing of Mielikki but secretly has the favor of Lloth. This is NOT a fantasy world where you get to sit behind a keyboard with a headset and send forth your Zurg Rush which is TOTALLY the bullshit tactic you would take. This...IS...NOT...a fantasy world where you get to bust out a nude mod and have a Nord three-way with Mariano and Paige. This it the REAL WORLD, dearie, a world where bullshitters like you have to eventually pay that proverbial piper. And good God...sweet Mother Mary...I AM THAT PIPER.
I am DONE with you and your games. DONE with you blasting away when you see an opening and then scurrying away into the darkness like a little child who thinks that they can hide under the covers and not be seen. DONE with wastes of space like you making our business look like a goddamn joke. DONE WITH YOU.
I have said before but shall repeat for clarity: I am not in LAW because it is my home. I am not in LAW because of my Beloved. I am not in LAW because of Kate and Guilty pleasure. I am not in LAW because of Mama Bae’s unending but completely understandable desire for me. I am not in LAW because of the Bombshells and Courtney’s l337 skilz at gluing glitter to K-Mart shoes and calling them Atwood.
I am in LAW to end your fucking career.
I want you to remember this, dearie:
You asked for this.
You asked for the overwhelming, bloody, embarrassing, and life-altering asskicking I am going to give you.
YOU called ME out in Fucking Awesome and you can argue semantics over that all you wish.
YOU demanded that I sign into LAW so that we could have our match and then did your best to twist words and perceptions to make it seem like I was challenging you to some fictitious match.
YOU DEMANDED THIS GODDAMN ASSKICKING I AM GOING TO GIVE YOU.
So relish in it, dearie. Love it. Embrace it. Taste it. Feel it.
The fires...they will burn...
The blood...it will flow…
Your skin...will be pealed off...strip by strip…
THAT is the real world, dearie. The world where you defeat me? It is a nightmare. A dreamscape of unbelievable pain. But I will save our world from such a falsehood. I will save our world from a reality so thin, so unlikely, that it would collapse under its own weight of impossibility. I will save the world from the terror that would be you being taken seriously by anything more than 12-year-old girls with a bad case of acne and 46-year-old male virgins in their basements.
I will save the world from a fate worse than death.
I will save the world from you.
In the words of Melville himself:
To the last...I grapple with thee…
From Hell's heart...I stab at thee…
For hate's sake...I spit my last breath at thee...
And my hate for you...my hate for what you represent...my hate for all that you stand for…
It overflows.
And by God...when my hate overflows...when it fuels my kicks into your face...when it fuels me to drive you into the Abyss…
My God…
Sweet Mother…
My hate?
It will be...beautiful.
“You will never be good enough.”
The man in the white mask stares down at little blonde girl. The girl wears clothes too big for her and the giant upon the throne frightens her, the giant in black and purple and wearing that mask.
“You will always be an embarrassment.”
His raspy voice is painful to listen to. The little girl shutters in the face of the disdain filling the voice, cringes in pain at the embarrassment.
“Begone from my sight, girl with the rat eyes.”
The little girl's as eyes close in shame at the spiteful words. She feels that shame through her body...down to her toes...through her very soul.
“You are not my daughter.”
Rat’s eyes snap open.
“FATHER!”
The word is screamed out but is quickly drowned by the screams of Sarah Selena Lacklan, the night terror ripping out sorrow and horror as if heartbreak had turned manifest and ripped it out of her through her mouth. The normally angelic voice pierces the darkness of her Hollywood apartment, pierces the quiet, and finds not ears, finds no solace or help. Red eyes open but seeing nothing, her throat grows coarse as she sits up in her soft bed filled with red and purple silks, as the thin sheets fall away from her exposed bosom.
The scream ends, but she cannot breath. Sweat pours down her pale face, stinging her eyes, as her entire body heaves in a shocked and sudden need for air. Her head turns left and right, platinum hair flying free from its loose braid, those red eyes searching for her rock, for her Beloved. But those eyes search in vain; indeed, Kenzi is not there, her side of the bed empty. Part of Sarah’s mind understands that Kenzi had already gone to work, that her lover was at the CTN Studios working on her next project with that blasted Cassandra woman, but the terror in her does not let her think. It only lets her feel.
Feel alone.
She scrambles, thin fingers ripping off those silken sheets, legs turning, small feet touching the floor. Her body, nude to fight off the heat which always threatens to overwhelm the woman born and raised in Maine, runs for the table used for computer work for the couple. Fingers lacquered black with red and orange flames, lacquer done just three days before in preparation for their trip to the United Kingdom as part of her “Fight the World Across the World” engagement, pull open her drawer. Her notebook is there, the black and purple journal she uses to document her relationship with her girlfriend, but her hand moves past it. Her hand shakes as it does so, shakes as it skips past the most concrete part of her Beloved available, and instead grasps one of the dozens of small vials placed within the drawer.
The hand with the lacquered nails pulls out the vial and immediately pulls of the black rubber stopper. This is not a time to bring the vial to her eye and compare the color of the powder with that of her eyes, not a time to ponder if her father had created the color of the drug to match the rare iris of his daughter. This was not a time to gently sniff the powder, to let the lavender scent puff slightly into her nose, to embrace it wholly as one would a fine glass of wine before quaffing. This was not a time to be delicate.
Sarah pours the DRIVE onto the palm of her hand and carelessly tosses the vial to the ground, not even hearing the crash of glass that the maid would have to sweep later. She places one thing finger to one nostril as she brings the palmful of DRIVE to her nose and snorts it in its entirety in one go.
“FUUUUUUUUCK!”
She slams her fists down onto the table as the drug shoots into her system in search of blood and brain, the pain intense, blinding. Her legs, normally strong with muscle built from years lifting weights with her father, shake and give way, dumping her into the computer chair, her head falling into her hands. She grips her platinum hair in a painfully tight grip as she squeezes her eyes shut. Her bare feet drum on the hardwood floor in a fast roll.
But then?
Light.
The pain...gone.
The anxiety from her dream...burned away like a morning cloud forced to face the sun.
The drug, DRIVE, has settled in her, casting its spell of duality: Her pulse spikes, her heart thumping fast, beads of sweat breaking across her brow; and yet, calmness. Serenity. Clarity. She can hear the cars of early-morning commuters far down below on the street. She can feel a soft breeze coming through the cracks of their window. And as she opens her eyes, the red eyes wide and bright, it seems to her that her sight is sharper, that lines are straighter, that colors are brighter.
She is DRIVEN.
And she BELIEVES.
“Not my father…”
Her voice is angelic. Light and airy, a Londoner accent gifted to her by the mother who gave herself in order to birth her daughter, her voice seems always on the edge of breaking out into song.
“Father loved me...Father was proud of me...and when he passed...when he passed…”
She would forever remember the last words of her departed father Jean-Paul:
“Light be with you...Sarah.”
Much like the words her mother had spoken to her father as she died in his arms, “Have faith,” they were a lesson to be passed down through the years, a parental guide for her to always go back to in times of need or pain.
Have faith.
Light be with you.
Setting her feet, Sarah stands up out of the chair and glides over to her window. Her movements were as graceful as her voice, always seeming to be on the precipice of a dance. She was known for skipping or sashaying wherever she went, known for the balance and control of her body ingrained in her by years of classic dance and, though she would only say this with a smile, her time as a cheerleader in high school. She stands before the window wearing nothing but a thin pair of black and red panties, skin as pale as a ghost covering a body full of a surprising amount of muscle, but she has no fear of being seen. The apartment she shares with Kenzi was quite high up and though they had several complaint about their “antics” out on their balcony this view only lead down into the street.
“Early for me.”
Her whispered voice is loud to her DRIVE-enhanced hearing, nearly startling herself. Her remark is correct, of course; indeed, with the sun still at least an hour away from peeking past the horizon, her day typically did not begin for a while still.
“No way I am I going back to sleep!”
No need to fall into slumber. No need to experience dreams of her self-doubt and anxiety manifesting itself in the form of her disfigured father.
“Fuck it. Time to train.”
Before long, the world-trotting wrestler is dressed for her run: A pair of black shorts with red and orange flames which barely cover her ass, that famous “squat booty” she has been sculpting with deadlifts and squats since she was 14, a Moore Muscle Massacre tank top, and running shoes. Headphones in and an eclectic mix of death metal, piano-fronted symphonic pieces, and a few of Kenzi’s “baby makers,” she is running down the street towards GrayFoote L.A. She still felt like she had to take multiple showers whenever she left the gym (“The stench of Sasha and Malone mediocrity is THICK!”), but it was home to her tag team partner Melissa Reeves and she was always welcome.
This narrator shall spare the details of the Red Queen’s workout. But any who understand sports know well what she does: The weight of the world on her shoulders to bring down and back up with squats, plates clanking heavily to the floor with deadlifts nearly three times her body weight, and kick after kick into the long back. Though, it should be noted, she has spent extra time working on her arms, a body part she never really worked before. As has been suggested to her, the power of her “sick right hook” would increase if she did so. And she was already seeing dividends: Jack Tillman, up-and-coming competitor in both the States and Japan, got KO’d by her just a few days before in Cambridgeshire.
She works and toils, a sweaty and cursing mess. The staff are kind to her, hoping not to bring the wrath of her infamous temper down upon them as “The Incident” had occurred the prior week, and everyone breathed a sigh of relief after she had left.
Lunch with Kenzi at the CircleTV studios was a treat for both of the lovers. Sarah brought chicken sandwiches and wine, purchased by one of her bodyguards, of course, and they enjoyed a candlelit meal locked away in Kenzi’s office. Kenzi was working on her newest project, Silent, but Deadly, starring DARC’s Rayven Hardy and Redemption’s Gavin Grimes, but Sarah was no longer taking part in the movie. Her role was always going to be small, one of the protagonists friends who were murdered by the mime, but Sarah and the movie’s author, Cass Baumer, had reached a point of no return in their hatred for one another. In order to keep the peace, at least for the movie, Sarah had stepped down and away.
This did not, of course, let Kenzi off the hook for their usual post-lunch lovemaking. A smirk and a growl from Sarah meant the Red Queen was atop her lover in a flash, her teeth sinking deep into dark neck meat, Kenzi doing her best not to moan loud enough for anyone walking by her office to know what was going on. Unfortunately for her modesty and embarrassment, everyone in the studio knew well of the habits of their boss and her strange red-eyed lover; indeed, though Kenzi tried to hide it with scarfs and tall collars when working, everyone knew that the two had a fetish for biting and many giggled over it. Even here, the legend of “the Vampire from Lacklanland” grew.
The rest of Sarah’s day meant dealing with Lacklanland issues via Skype. Back home and showered, Sarah had been dressed by her handmaiden in one of her most impressive gowns, a black and silver number with tiny red rubies highlighting her bosom. The handmaiden had tied her hair back in an elaborate braid and painted her face to befit her importance to her estate: Black wings, red lips, a light brush of blush to make her high cheekbones pop. She was the picture of serene beauty when the meetings began.
As the sole heir to the Lacklan estate, a religious community in Maine affectionately called “Lacklanland” by the locals, she was charged with always being abreast of decisions to be made in her home on the Right Coast. Before he had succumbed to the cancer, her father had made it clear that, should she decide to follow through on her risky plan to move to Hollywood in order to make her relationship with Kenzi Grey ironclad, she would need to hold these meetings at least twice a week, no matter what, especially since his end was so near. And so she does, honoring both her father’s wishes and the community his preaching had created.
The Denizens, those who lived within the grounds owned by her family for three generations, believed wholeheartedly in what her father preached. Believed that God had a plan for the world and that wrestling was His favorite, and thus holy, sport. They believed that her father, Jean-Paul, was His Voice. They believed that his Consort Selena, her mother and from whence her middle name had come, was an angel by the One Lord God.
And they believed in her.
They believed in the Blood Princess who ascended to the Red Queen following her father’s death.
They believed that SHE was the reckoning of which her father preached. They believed that she WAS the Light.
And, with her second hit of DRIVE coursing through her system, she believed, too.
Meetings adjourned and decisions made, she did not bother to change into modern clothing. Instead, she found herself sitting at her grand piano, the very first thing she and Kenzi bought when she moved into the apartment the week the two of them decided to stop fighting their feelings and attraction for each other and just be together, and began to play. Being born into a wealthy family, a family in possession of “old” money which included, of all things, a gold mine on a small Pacific island, she had been trained in piano, voice, and dance by masters since she was a little girl. The finest tutors money could buy taught her literature, science, history, art, and journalism. And while she was less than talented at biology and equations, she excelled in her academics as well as she did for her chosen sports of bodybuilding, running, and swimming.
Lithe fingers fly across the keys in a tempo faster than she usually plays, but this piece was different from what she typically liked to play; indeed, this was no Beethoven. But it meant the world to her.
“If I ever leave this world alive…
I’ll thank you for everything you did in my life…”
The angelic voice lifts into the air with the weight of a cloud. This was the song she sang to Kenzi the first time she had visited her in Lacklanland. Sarah desperately wanted Kenzi then, wanted more than anything else to pronounce her desire for her, her desire to be with her, even if only for a date, but she did not. Kenzi had only been her best friend at the time, and had recently had her messy breakup with Song, and Sarah knew she would have ruined any chance she had if she gave into her desire that night.
“If I ever leave this world alive…
I’ll come back down and sit beside your feet tonight…”
She sang this song to her to tell her. To tell her that Kenzi had changed her life by accepting her as she was from the moment they met. Sarah’s plump lips curl into a smile as she remembers that first day they met, when each had been dating a member of the Elders: Kenzi had grabbed her by the shoulders, looked dead into her red eyes without a flinch, and said “We are going to be the best friends EVER!” And she had meant it. Actually MEANT IT. And that had changed her life. Along with that, the visit to Lacklanland had shown Sarah something she had never imagined:
She was not just attracted to Kenzi Grey…
She was in love with her.
“Wherever I am you’ll always be…
More than just a memory…”
“If I ever leave this world alive.”
Sarah’s fingers pull away from the keyboard and she turns on the piano bench. Kenzi is in front of her, her purse over one shoulder and her work back over the other, her black braids pulled back in a thick tail to deal with the heat. And the look in her dark eyes is a mixture of lust, love, and appreciation. Sarah leaps off the bench to embrace her lover, their lips crushing into one another, each now complete, no longer two halfs missing each other. They were Yin and Yang, Darkness and Light. Empty when apart and complete when together.
Never ones to miss a chance of a romantic evening in with just the two of them, Kenzi was quickly showered and freshened, sliding into her own blue gown, the one Sarah had tailored for her to make her seem a princess. Their evening was filled with singing and dancing, both slow songs that got their blood boiling and fast songs which made them both fall over with giggles over Sarah’s complete inability for urban dancing. Their evening included talking strategy for their upcoming matches, including reviewing the tape of their recent victory in England, and figuring out their travel plans. Sarah’s “Fight the World Across the World” mentality, the desire to fight everyone, everywhere, was exhausting and a logistical nightmare if they did not take the time to plan.
Their evening ended as so many do: Passion. They were everything for one another. They were the air they breathed, the water they drank. And their intimacy meant two bodies lathered in sweat, the bed destroyed, sheets everywhere, and two very pleased women. And four whispered words from Kenzi as her lips were pressed close to Sarah’s ears, for words which nearly started the entire process over again:
“I love you, Selena.”
Only Kenzi called her that. Only Kenzi would be allowed to. And that name, whispered in the mixture of passion, love, and...yes...desperation...that Sarah’s own did when she said, “I love you, Mackenzie,” made her heart ache with rapture.
There would be no sleep for Sarah this night. A third hit of DRIVE in her system, done in secret when Kenzi had slipped away to “prepare” for their lovemaking, was still very fresh in her system. The battle of spiked blood pressure and serenity, a mixture akin to boiling ice or liquid fire, kept her awake. Kept her away from her dreams. Kept her away from her nightmares.
Her hand shaking from being DRIVEN so heavily in one day, she picks up her phone and silently leaves the room, slipping into the room next to their bedroom, the “throne room.” The room only featured one item: The Blood Princess Throne, flown in from Lacklanland at Kenzi’s request their first week together in the apartment. While it had been used for various...scenarios...the two enjoyed, it also had a purpose this night.
Sarah sits in the throne, her back straight, her chin lifted. Even without a stitch of clothing, she was regalia personified. Lifting up her phone and pressing a few buttons, she turns on the camera and positions the phone so that only her face is seen.
Time for a touch of intimacy with Kate Bass.
There are so many misconceptions in this life. You yourself have one about me, Kate. I imagine that you have many...but there is one which stands out...one which...well...irks me.
That I give a damn about you.
See...I could not care any less about your personal life if I tried. And believe you me...I have tried. I have actually challenged myself to care about you less...but I failed! Apparently it IS impossible to divide by zero! Like, I totally get that you think that Mackenzie and I spend our days obsessing over you and your family, I totally get that you think Mackenzie and I are using one of our walls to create some elaborate revenge strategy that involves convoluted break ins and escapes with rocket skates. I totally get that you think Mackenzie and I are buying up all of your used cosplay outfits and underwear off pantieswornbydirtyhoes.com and are burning them in effigy.
But you are wrong.
Allow me to repeat:
This is not about Greys and Cornets
This is not about Lacklans and Basses.
This is about Right and Wrong
Light and Darkness.
People who actually DO things and people who push a button on their computer and think that that is how you change the world.
This past week I spent time in London for a match this week. I landed the night the bombing happened in Manchester. I was moved by that famous British “stiff upper lip” ideal; indeed, I truly got to see them “keep calm and carry on.” Mackenzie and I spent that night and the next day visiting hospitals, visiting children and weeping parents. The presence of a true Queen and her Consort brought the Light to their eyes.
And while some asked if maybe we should cancel the show, if we should allow the Darkness to overcome, I was one of the voices that said, “Nay! Let us show the world that we shall fight!” And not only did all of the proceeds for my Please Shit Up tshirts go to charities helping with the bombing victims and their families, so too did the wages for my match. As well as both a sizable donation from my coffers in Lacklanland to assist in rebuilding efforts.
I was moved, Kate. And I did something.
You?
You?!
Held a stream. And posted a pic of you in a bathing suit for National Swimsuit Day.
A STREAM.
AND A PIC OF YOU AS FATHOM KIANI.
Oh, proceeds were donated. Wonderful. I applaud you for that. But this is a microcosm of what this thing between us is really about.
I *do*.
You *pretend*.
I live life. I fly around the world and fight the world. I take on all comers and never back down. I push myself to the point of breaking in order to experience everything that God’s creation has to offer. Hell, this match tomorrow between you and I? It will be my *FIFTH* this week.
And you?
You live behind a computer screen and “experience” life through a filter. You are as bad as any internet troll that throws shade and runs screaming from the Light in fear of being burned. Hell, just this week I had some random dude comment on something which had nothing to do with him and he ran away when I challenged him to a match, only accepting it on the second open invitation. And even then, he went into radio silence because he could not face the reality of who and what I am. Hell, later that evening, I called out Cass Baumer, whom is someone you are absolutely designed to get along with, to a singles match in ANY fed...and she balked. She ran. She was a coward and, as I told her to her face for everyone to see, a goddamn pussy.
I hide from no one.
I run from no one.
And that is the supreme difference between us, that battle I likened last week to Sith and Jedi.
I am reality.
You are fantasy.
I am a warrior.
You are a pretender.
I actually DO THINGS.
You live through an avatar.
And as I said this before...this is not about you versus me. Nothing personal, interpersonal, or familial. This is about the honor of my business, of God’s favorite business. This is about not letting someone just go through the motions, defeating equally talentless hacks in companies no one gives a flying fuck about in order to become that multi-time champion you crow about.
Congratulations, Kate!
Queen of the Mediocrity!
Congratulations, Kate!
A dwarf standing tall in Hobbiton!
Congratulations, Kate!
The champion of the scrawny and meek!
A moment of finality, if I may.
It occurs to me that all of this work I have done this week, all of the words I have spoken, may well be for naught. I worry that you have spent so little time focusing and training on things which actually matter in life that you may well have lost cognitive ability. It may well be that you are no brighter or capable than Landon after being lobotomized by Doctor Zaius on the Planet of the Apes.
It may well be that absolutely ZERO PERCENT of my prose is understood by you.
I will not apologize...only pity...and attempt to empathise. As such, allow me to translate my words into a form of expression you will intimately understand.
I am the Cloud to your Sephiroth.
The Link to your Gannondorf.
The Inuyasha to your Naraku.
The Superman to your Luthor.
The Stark to your Mandarin.
And if you are right? If I am Gollum? Then that makes you the One Ring. And though it may have cost Gollum his life, he destroyed the One Ring. And I will gladly throw myself into the lake of fire within Mount Doom if it means ending what you represent.
I am the one who saves the world from the delusional madman.
I am who...and what...ends you.
Raise the colors.
Hoist the banner.
The red!
The black!
Gotta burn in that revolution.
~~FIN~~