Post by lacklan on May 14, 2017 23:59:16 GMT
A scream pierces the air following the expletive, causing men and women in business attire scurrying for safety from the keen of the banshee. A ball of red and black bursts into our sight, a woman with platinum blonde hair wearing a black bodysuit covered in red flames. The suit is tight, hiding little of her shape beneath its thin material, and the curves of the short woman bounce as she angrily stalks the halls a sports arena in San Jose, California. The girl’s face, with high cheekbones and a pointed chin, is as pale as her hair, but she has eyes with impossibly red irises blazing out in contrast. She fumbles with her gloves as she takes her angry steps, luscious lips painted to match her eyes thinning as she pulls them off finger by finger. She sees the door she seeks and, not taking a moment to slow, lifts up her foot and kicks open the door, the poor wood swinging open and slamming into the wall.
She enters the private dressing room she had insisted on to be a part of this large tournament and the people in the room snap to attention. Six men with pale skin and dark hair cut short wear matching black uniforms, silver pins denoting their military rank, are joined by a pretty woman wearing a black dress with red streaks in relief. The retinue for the Red Queen of Lacklanland know better than to show even a moment of inattention with the mood their charge was in. The woman in the black and red dress, the Red Queen’s handmaiden, immediately brings out a cold pad and presses it to a quickly-forming bruise on the Queen’s forehead.
“No one say a Light-damned word!”
The seething whisper from Sarah sounds oddly angelic. Her Londoner accent is light and airy even in the worst of times, and having just suffered a count-out defeat at the hands of Honey as certainly the worst of times. Sarah takes the cold press from her handmaiden and closes her red eyes with a sigh.
“Everyone out.”
No one in the room hesitates. The men slam their right hands into their chests, fingers curled into fists, and the woman gives a deep curtsy. In short order, Sarah is alone in the room, alone with her cold press. She hears a high pitched chime and makes her way over to a small table purse rests, a black and red affair glittering with diamond dust. She fishes out her cellphone.
Kenzi: You okay, baby?
Sarah sighs again and sets down the compress so that she can let lithe fingers fly over the keyboard.
Sarah: I will be. Just need a minute, k?
She sets her phone on the table and goes into her purse again, this time pulling out a small vial with a black stopper. She holds it up to her eyes, the red powder held within matching her irises. Taking it in two hands, she pulls the stopper and pours out the fine powder onto her palm. She brings it to her nose and gently sniffs it, smelling it, enjoying its scent. She then places one finger, the nail lacquered black with a red flame, to her nose and snorts the powder in one large sniff.
“FUCK!”
The exclamation splits the air as the vial falls from her hand and shatters upon the floor. Her eyes close tightly and she slams her fist down onto the table as the drug shoots through her body, into her sinuses, up to her brain. Her head falls into her hands, her fingers turning to claws that pull at silky platinum hair, her body trembling. But then the euphoria hits. The DRIVE does its job. Eyes pop open, the red strong and clear, and she can see the world better than she could just a moment before. Colors were brighter, lines were straighter. At moments like this, she felt that she could FEEL sounds. Her breathing slows even as her heart begins to raise, pumping blood throughout her body at an alarming rate. The duality of Sarah, of the Lacklans as a bloodline, becomes flesh as her skin turns to fire, her brow sweating, but serenity finding her.
Sarah picks up her phone and carries it over to a ledge, finding a space to make it eye-level, though that is not hard as she is only a couple of inches taller than five feet. She presses a few buttons on the phone and sets it to record.
* * * * * * * * * *
My name is Lacklan.
There are those within this company who know my name. There are those who realize how important it is to be weary of it. How important it is to run from it. To hide from it. Even tonight, I fought a woman who ran from me, hid from me, did whatever she could to avoid my weapons. And only in a moment of desperation, only in a moment of success or defeat with no other options, was she able to take me to the ground and escape. But even then? Even then...only for a few seconds. Only for a count-out. Only for what is little more than a pyrrhic victory.
But I do not cry. I do not complain. I do not make excuses. I fight.
The world! Oh, the world will I fight! I fight the world across the world, traveling everywhere, fighting everyone. Every style. Even reason. Every way. I do not run from a challenge, do not run from a fight.
I am, in a word, defiant.
I defy this business because this business has defied God. The Creator loves this business, loves the true sport of fighting. His business! His sport! And it has been defiled by feckless morons nearly from its inception. Gone! Gone are the days of when two competitors faced one another in a match of strength, agility, and wits. Gone! Gone are the days when the greater fighter won and was applauded.
In years past, the enemy of God were those who treated this business like some entertainment medium. Men who would twist their mustaches like so many Simon Legree’s and put a marketing department in charge of creating characters...gimmicks...for their warriors, stripping them of their fighting spirit in favor of a catchphrase they could place upon a t-shirt or mug. But now? In the modern age? The enemy...The Enemy...is social media.
This business is full of Social Media Warriors, men and women alike who think that a wrestler’s worth is determined by their ability to talk shit within 140 characters and put up pictures of their ass.
Pathetic.
Your ability to be a warrior in this world is NOT determined by your master of hashtags and pictures of your goddamn tits. No matter how many people hit that little like button or repost things, no matter how many people cream their pants over something posted on a Friday, it is completely irrelevant.
What is relevant?
Fighting.
GODDAMN FIGHTING.
And me? I fight the world across the world.
There are people in this business, in this very company, who could only dream of doing what I do. Have I won every match? Of course not. Silly, that. But I turn down no challenges, I run from no fight. I set fires everywhere I go, leave the impression of a chick NO ONE should fuck with, because I WILL back up what I have to say.
Some people speak of throwing bombs.
I AM the bomb.
This company decided that their own roster was not enough. They decided that their everyday people could simply not measure up. They decided that they have people on their roster who, no matter how many matches they have hear or how many times they may press that little “at” button on their phones, just are not worthy of being on their largest show to date. So they placed out the call for true warriors, for true fighters, to fill their ranks and bring those all-important eyeballs onto their company.
Thus they have received the Firestarter.
We do not know each other, Synn, at least not intimately. We run in similar circles. We know similar people. And I believe that, should we so desire, we could even be friends. A pleasant thought, yes? Tea parties and travelling pants?
I shall have none of it.
I am here to fight, Synn. I am here to fight any who dare to stand up to me, dare to look into these eyes.
Will you cower? Will you wither? Will you run and hide as Honey did tonight? Will you stare into the face of God’s Reckoning and tremble in fear?
I hope not. I hope that you bring me your best. I hope that you try to light me on fire, to press me to my limits, to break me.
I will not ask you to hold back. I will not worry about whether or not we could be close friends. There are those in this business who worry about such things, who let their knees knock in worry over fighting close friends, and who offer up that excuse of friendship in order to slow their fists.
I will not offer up that excuse. No matter who stands against me, I shall bring down the Hammer of God with all swiftness and power. I will fight Melissa. I will fight Stacy. I will fight Sam. Hell, if I decide to stay in this company, I would gladly like the opportunity to kick the everloving shit out of Heidi!
Because that is what I do, Synn.
I.
Fuck.
People.
Up.
I was born to do it, dearie. I was born to kick their heads off, to drive them into the Abyss, to set them on fire. And I shall do so to you over and over and OVER AGAIN until you are nothing but a puddle of bloody goo on the mat.
Nothing is going to stop me, nothing is going to slow me. I am the red, Synn. The black. The revolution. And there is nothing I will not do in order to see God’s vision brought to fruition. I will hurt the ones I love just as easily and thoroughly as those I hate.
Which category will you fall into?
Love?
Hate?
Does not matter.
I will fulfill my destiny at any cost, Synn.
Ride the flames.