"Behold, I will cast her into a bed, and them that commit adultery with her into great tribulation, except they repent of their deeds. And I will kill her children with death; and all the churches shall know that I am he which searcheth the reins and hearts: and I will give unto every one of you according to your works." (Revelation 2:22-23)
Dark Horse Towers, Los Angeles, CA. Days after Havoc and days before Road to Ruin Senester finds himself preparing to address a few individuals. One of which he has never before. The spring has brought the rose garden into full bloom. An immaculate beauty amidst the corporate stone, steel and glass of the towers. He hadn’t been there in some time come to think of it. Affairs had kept him busy in all departments, particularly HWA. A struggling 2014 for the company now turned around. His thoughts turned to Butch Parker and his family. Parker’s departure after losing the World Title had been an eyesore for the company. Fans after all loved him, but in Senester’s eyes not enough to fight for him when HWA was under attack outside the ring with the government, this time joined by national networks poised to abandon the professional wrestling juggernaut. He had just saw Wisdom interview on the View. That paltry show of cackling old hens attempting to contemplate the mundane and inconsequential events of society. However, a small part of it inspired him.
(Senester): Little Evina, my how you’ve grown. You don’t know me, but you will, and I of course know you. As I understand it children are fond of bedtime stories, and right now I’d like nothing more than to share a short story with you.
Senester holds the book up showing the cover…
(Senester): It’s called.. “The Little Rampant Lion.”
He clears his throat and opens the book to the opening page.
(Senester): There was a stench in the air. Earthy. Metallic. Faint traces of dead, wizened flesh and dried blood. Such was the smell in this jungle. Home to all manner of beasts, but there…in the clearing a lone cub. Staggering as he quickly grows accustomed to his legs beneath him. Nostrils flared smelling, sensing the elements around him. His ears perked listening to the sounds of the jungle. Everything from the rustling leaves, to the march of ants and of great beasts waging war in the distance, and he was alone. A funny thing instinct…it wills the body into motion challenging the mind which might offer pause. There was no time for exploration, no time to take it all in one small piece at a time he had to act now. This is what his instincts told him in the jungle. His first few years he was looked over. Nourished and fed. Protected, when curiosity got the better of him. This was his life in the first few years. As time passed and he watched and listened in awe to the ruckus of the elder beasts he knew that he was weak, and needed quickly to be strong on his own. When he was hungry…he needed to learn to hunt so he could become independent. He would be attacked. He would be tested. There was no more protection and he would have little time to lick his wounds, for other creatures lurking in the shadows are ever watchful of their own prey and he must be equally vigilant. The cub grew quickly into a young lion. His feral drive forced the elder beasts to take notice as one by one the creatures of the jungle fell to the might of his paw. It was not long until he had to face them. Those spoken of in legend. The raging shadows he had once only glanced from afar through the trees. How the years had been kind to him. Physically fit, and a dominating presence, he had even managed at times to command his own pride. Young cubs and lions young and old gathered round him. Then it happened. Once more he stood in the same clearing. The same patch of jungle from his earliest memory, not wobbly of leg, but stout. His roar was pronounced, and across from him his rival of equal measure. Together they shook the floor of the jungle. They tussled on branches and leaves. They filled the air with ferocious sounds. They bit, clawed and bled one another, and in the end…he was king. Beneath him lied the shell of a beast that once was. Stillness took him in triumph and once more he absorbed the elements around him. Turning his head, deep in the shadows were a pair of eyes. Large inquisitive orbs that dare not make themselves known much further…swiftly disappearing into the shadows. It hit him. It hit him harder than the war he had just waged…those peering eyes were once his. The cub he was grew to a lion, and then to a king. Over the years that followed, he had long forgotten what it was like to be but a cub. Other great challenges were in his wake and hadn’t always remained king, but he had always been a rampant lion.
Things changed however, and the rampant lion’s jungle was invaded. A hunter was placed within it. A poacher that would strip him of all he ever was. The lion had been defeated before. There was little a space on his massive frame that had gone uninjured. He had been humiliated before, deceived, left infuriated beyond reason, but for every time he was down he arose. A testament to his physical prowess, and his legacy. In that jungle clearing when he faced the hunter, this vile poacher who came to him as any other creature before had, and the rampant lion was defeated. The peering eyes of the jungle saw defeat but such was not the case. The poacher took his prize from the king. More than anything he had come for one thing, and one thing only and now in the palm of his hands was the lion’s spirit. Humbled he lay at the poacher’s feet. His body had betrayed him, as had his mind that made him believe he was something he had been proven not to be. The poacher stood, bellowing into the jungle his proclamation to the throne and all the creatures watched him…all except one. Our lion backed into the trees. The leaves barely making a sound as they brushed across his tattered flesh. Carefully he withdrew into the shadows, his paws selective of each step as not to make a sound. Suddenly he was a cub again, diminished in the shadows, only his eyes did not peek through the leaves to see the greater beasts…they turned away and left the jungle never to return again.
Senester closes the book and places it on the bed. He lets out a deep sigh.
(Senester): That is where the story should have ended, this is where your futile war should have ended, but you just had to write a new chapter…didn’t you Butch? You people with your everlastings and your nauseating happy endings. This is the Hardcore Wrestling Alliance, not the wonderful world of Disney. Fairytale endings do not happen here. Your decade of dominance has come to an end, and this refurbished bit of self-confidence of yours will be short lived. Once upon a time you were just another name on the roster. It made no difference to me if you won, lost, stayed or left, but once you won the world title from Thane Givens success changed you. The women took notice and you played the field with ICE, Blush, Callisto, and Wisdom. As champion you had arrived in the upper echelon of the industry, and the wrestling world saw you face off with everyone from Buff Bridges, to Maniac, to Michael Dredge and you thought you had done it all yourself. “The One Man Tartan Army” is what you called yourself. Rather than giving glory to God you decided to raise yourself up. I had to put you back in your place.
Senester watches some archived footage on the screen from January 2006.
(Senester): You remember that night don’t you Butch? It’s the night you showed the world that beneath the hard exterior, your insides are as malleable as clay. Wearing your emotions on your sleeve, your truth broke the image of a man who had it all together when you loaded a gun and tried to kill me. I broke you down with a few simple gestures and you reacted like a petulant child…a weak cub, fumbling around the wild jungle…not a rampant lion who ruled it.
Senester thinks back to that eventful night…
Back in Dark Horse Towers nearly 40 minutes after the assassination attempt of Butch Parker. Senester is sitting in the medical lab as the doctor grabs a pair of medical tongs to extract the bullet lodged in the side of his neck.
(Doctor): Your x-rays indicate that the bullet did in fact hit an artery. Not a major one but an artery none-the-less.
(Senester): Just get it out
(Doctor): Well that’s the problem. It’s still a delicate procedure. This bullet may have some jagged abrasions on it that could cut other vessels.
Senester looks the doctor in the eyes, his face still fuming with the rage of a wakened demon.
(Doctor): I’m going to give you a mild sedative before we begin and…
Senester snatches the tongs from the tray and sticks them into his neck as the doctor draws back in shock.
(Doctor): You can’t just…
Senester grimaces as he digs into his neck, the muscles in his neck and shoulders tighten as he clasps down on the bullet and slowly pulls it from his neck. He holds it up to his face looking at it as blood oozed down from his neck. He takes the bloody bullet and puts it in his pocket and throws the tongs aside before looking over at the doctor.
(Senester): Stitch it
(Doctor): Yes sir…right away.
The doctor cleans up the wound and starts carefully stitch it up. He puts his sutures down and takes a close looks to see that everything is in order.
(Senester): Are you done
(Doctor): Yes Sir…but…
Senester jumps off the table and makes his way to the door. He grabs the handle and doesn’t even look back.
(Senester): But what?
(Doctor): Nothing sir, have a good night.
Senester leaves the room. He walks down the hall blood starting to dry on his neck. He clothes still stained with it. He makes his way to the elevator and looks at the digital clock inside that reads 11:19p.m. He reaches the 46th floor and exits taking the bridge across to the North Tower in route to his room. After nearly 15 minutes he reaches his room and goes inside. A fire has been lit at his request, his bath is drawn and he starts to remove his clothes as he turns on the television.
(TV):….live here at the Kodak theatre where just an hour ago the wrestling promotion known as the HWA held an awards ceremony that came to a tragic end. ABC7 was there with this exclusive footage found in a video camera at the scene. What you are about to see is actual footage recorded by the suspects in this crime. This footage is of a graphic nature…
Senester looks on at the footage as Nightmare and AC James rant about things and a seemingly reluctant Juliet is in the backseat. He watches as they finish talking and the car plunges into the crowd knocking dozens of people over, sending some flying into the streets and onto the sidewalk.
(TV): All three suspects have been taken into custody as you can see from our own ABC7 footage. Not long before this incident LAPD officers were inside in a lockdown situation after an apparent assassination attempt on the CEO/Owner and wrestler himself of HWA…Senester. Our cameras were not allowed in the theatre but inside sources report that the altercation was brought to an abrupt end with the capture and arrest of the suspect Mr. Butch Parker. No word yet on the condition of Senester however…
He cuts the TV off and finishes undressing, making his way into the grand bathroom where his large whirlpool tub awaits, steaming and bubbling with the hint of sandalwood and eucalyptus oil in the air. He slides in and rests his head back as he stretches out as if her were in a bed. He relaxed into a meditative state where he remains for nearly an hour. He then gets out of the tub, dries and throws on a robe as he makes his way to his bed and slides in, sitting up on the large pillows, the lights are all out except the fire still crackling across the room. He sits and stares at it as he plays the night over in his head.
(Senester): Oh Parker! What a triumph you must think you have over me now. Certainly you are to remark that you missed on purpose, which isn’t true. You meant to strike me between the eyes and failed. When you peered down the scope of that rifle your hands began to quiver in fear. The confidence you had going in, telling yourself that you could do it, that you could pull this off quickly vanished when the moment of absolution arrived. You shook then having for the first time considered the consequences of your actions and it overwhelmed you. But even the worst thing that you imagined I could do to you is so above the line to the depths that I will take you. You’re temporary moment of insanity has already cost you much more than you think. So much more than you know. People make mistakes Parker, and this is one I’m glad you did because now…you belong to me!
At the same time Butch was dealing with his own aftermath…
Butch Parker sits in an interrogation room of the Los Angeles Police Department, his hands cuffed behind his back. A smearing of dried blood decorates his mouth from the punches delivered from Buff Bridges and Senester earlier in the evening. His expression is devoid of any emotion whatsoever. A moment later, two LAPD detectives enter the room, in their full regatta, a beige file bulging with paper is held under the arm of one of the officers. The two men, both quite big in bulk, middle-aged, walk towards Butch and one of them takes a seat at a table separating himself from Butch. The other officer leans his weight against the wall and sips on a polystyrene cup of coffee. The seated detective lays the large file onto the table and stares over at Butch who gazes straight back.
(Detective 1#): Well Mr. Parker, for some unfathomable reason, we have received word that Mr. Senester has opted to take no further action and no charges will be pressed against you, however, before you get your hopes up...
(Butch Parker): What?
(Detective 1#):...you will be informed within the next few weeks regarding criminal proceedings filed by the state of Californian, and you will be subject to deportation based on the investigation of the International Affairs office.
(Butch Parker): I might be getting kicked out of the country? But the small charges already on my record were wiped off nearly eight years ago!
The second detective joins in the conversation for the first time, taking a step towards the desk. He places his palms flat on the table and he peers at Butch.
(Detective 2#): And you think that because you don't come from this country or because you're a wrestler on seven figures a year, you are exempt from the laws and regulations that millions of others abide by?
Butch does not reply with any sort of speech, but stares into the eyes of the officer, forcefully enough for the officer to break eye contact with him.
(Butch Parker): Well if that's all there is to say about, you can do me a favor and get these fuking cuffs off, I've got things I need to do.
The second officer abides with Butch's request as his counterpart watches Butch closely, his hand steady on the Glock 35 holstered at his hip. Butch massages his wrists, getting used to not having the cuffs encaging them.
(Detective 2#): You've got a weird accent, Parker, where you from? England?
Butch turns his head slowly towards the other officer as his partner grins.
(Butch Parker): Scotland, you big bald fuk.
(Detective 2#): You wrestlers are all the same, wearing those skimpy tights and staging your moves just to get a feel of another man's balls, hmmph, ######s.
A sneaky grin crawls over Butch's face.
(Butch Parker): You'd fit right in then, wouldn't you?
The officer then let's loose with a hard punch that barely even phases Butch, who grabs the man's arm and shoves up behind his back before ramming his head into the opposing wall. The other officer draws his gun and aims the barrel at Butch, who burns a menacing stare that is so powerful, the man lowers his weapon.
(Butch Parker): Am I under arrest?
(Detective 1#): No, not yet.
(Butch Parker): Then this is finished.
Butch storms out of the room as the officer calls after him, but he is ignored. As Butch exits the police station, he smirks, and begins walking down the street.
(Butch Parker): You can assume all you want Senester, that I claim to have deliberately missed the target, but in some ways you are right. The look of hatred and anger on your face said it all. The same feeling I had in my gut when you banished me to the commentary booth, the same feeling when you sent me into exile. How did it feel, God? How did it feel to know that death was ready to escort you from those big black gates you hide behind?
Butch's face transitions to one of seriousness.
(Butch Parker): You may be a sick, demented man, Senester. And you may think that by sparing your life, you have all the ammunition you need to make me suffer, to squeeze every cubic metre of oxygen from my lungs. You may have killed of Spawn, but you will not kill me. My body has been broken many times before, but I got up every single time and I'm still standing here, I'm still walking the dark roads I've walked for nearly thirty years. And if you think you're precious Horde can help you, then I pity every one of you. Your pathetic Dark Messenger, for all his accolades, for all his "abilities", he has not beat me yet, where as I have broken him. I broke him twice. In fact, if it weren't for I, there would be no Dark Messenger. I have seen more with my own two eyes than you think Senester. I see through your Messenger's mask and see the shadow, empty shell of man who has lost himself. I see your weakness too, Senester. The moment you accepted a groveling, stinking, wretched creature back into your "Kingdom". You should have taken a blade to his throat while you had the chance, Senester, but you didn't. You felt sorry for him and in need of someone else to nurture whilst your Dark Angel continues to twist the truth to make his own little fantasy world that little more believable. Buff, you and I, we've battled many times in the past; some for titles, some for glory, some for power. Now, it's a just a matter of time before we duel again, this time for what? You're World Championship that you hold so close to your chest because you're scared someone like me will soon reclaim what is his? Superiority? Are the Dark Angel's wings beginning to wilt? Are the feathers starting to fall? You may have won Ring Master, you may have been the Most Valuable Player for HWA in 2005, but you're fading, Buff, and as the Angel fades, the Lion grows stronger and bolder, his roar louder. And when the Messenger's spirit and mind are finally broken beyond repair and the Dark Angel fades into obscurity, you'll stand alone, Senester. You'll stand by yourself, a single solitary soldier, as I have done my entire life. But I am not a single solitary soldier. I am an army. And this army will march upon your Kingdom and break down the gates. And when all the dust settles and the battle is finally over, it will be me who stands tall, stands alone, and you...will belong to me!
Butch continues to walk down the darkened street before veering sharply into an alleyway and out of sight as the scene fades to black. Senester cuts the footage off and gets back to the present.
(Senester): You’ve always been an intriguing man Butch. One day you’re trying break down those gates, and another day you’re willingly walking into them. You oppose me, then stand beside me for your own self-interests, time and time again. Your career has been built on doing any and everything to remain at the top in the name of your greater goods. You’ve painted yourself the martyr, the hero and leader in the war against God, the man of sacrifice in your “deals with the devil.” Take credit and give credit Butch. Take credit for doing what you want to do. The men you’ve willingly crippled and killed, and offered pathetic apologies after the fact. Give credit to God, for I have made all things possible in your life. You once and often pose the question of why I was or am so fixated upon you. I told you years ago in those four words…then…now and forevermore… “you belong to me!” It’s that simple Butch Parker.
Did you really think just a few years back that I was going to allow you to fade away in retirement? I broke your spirit, your love and even need of competition but I hadn’t broken it. I brought you back and set before you a new challenge. A different kind of threat in Michael James. Buff Bridges once faced you in a war of competitive egos. Michael Dredge faced you to prove himself to me and solidify his legacy. Other just wanted to beat you. Then I set before you Michael James. His ego needed no coaxing. His abilities and legacy in the industry had already been built. He didn’t need to beat you, he had nothing to prove to himself, the industry, or the fans in the traditional sense. His goal was to pull back the veil you created over your career. To unveil the core of your legacy. Without God, without my divine intervention, my guiding hand, my grace, my forgiveness, my mercy, even my wrath…Butch Parker is nothing. Glory be to God for every accomplishment you have ever made since stepping foot in my kingdom. I am the architect of your career, your championships, your wins, and your loses. I am he who provided you wealth, designed your marriage, and blessed the birth of your child. I am the hand that groomed the cub and made him a lion Butch Parker. I gave you jaws of death, and a mighty roar. These are not makings of your own.
An image of Butch Parker is now on the screen and Senester stares into those infamous emerald eyes.
(Senester): I love you Butch Parker. I love all my children, but I cannot abide defiance. It’s never too late to enter the kingdom of God and accept me as your lord and savior. It is never too late to kneel before me and give thanks. Your spirit is a plaything, but I can damn or save your soul…remember that. Think of Buff Bridges…hanging on in hopes of returning to former glory so his son might see his father at his best, and not a man in video he’ll never know. Make your plans for Road to Ruin, but allow me full disclosure. I would have Wisdom attend. While you may make your demands of her, you and I both know she’s a woman. Weak of will, and apt to react to her emotions with reckless abandon. Thus, my plans for her. I want her to see the main event first hand. I want her to watch her future take form. I want her to see the glistening green of your eyes, lose their light. I want you to look at her, and think of her and your daughter knowing your soul is mine and neither of them can bring you joy…only I, only God can put the light back. Knowing you won’t trust my assurances, this time tomorrow you’ll have at your door a contract that I’ve signed. It is a simple paragraph. No small print, no hidden text, and signed by me. Wisdom will attend the ppv, in that you have no choice, she is contractually obligated. However, this contract provides you with the peace of mind you undoubtedly are seeking in whatever feeble attempts you may have at keeping her safe. There is no need for extreme measures Butch, I nor Michael James, or even the concession stand vendors will touch her. She has been instrumental in your and by putting herself in this prominent spot, she has every right to see it through, and the wrestling world itself deserves it. Your Sword of Damocles has been sharpened Butch and at Road to Ruin after you submit inside your own den, it will cut out your tongue so only the word of God may form upon your lips. I want to see Wisdom watch her lion enter the ring, and carry a destroyed cub home with her knowing the weight of her contribution to the concluding loss in his war against God. Oh…and I’ll be sure to send Evina an autographed copy of the book.
Senester smiles, looking once again to the storybook on his desk. He opens it and starts reading it again as the scene fades to black.
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