(Ab)Use Your Illusion: Psalm 5: Unbound, Unbent, Unbroken

"Justice for my sister and the children." 

"If you want justice you've come to the wrong place." 

"I disagree. I want to bring those you have wronged me to justice and all those who've wronged me are right here..." 

Unbound, Unbent, Unbroken – March – Two Thousand and Fifteen 

"We work in the dark -- we do what we can -- we give what we have. Our doubt is our passion and our passion is our task. The rest is the madness of art." 

So here we are Lifer. The final chapter in this little squabble. The final chapter in this series. These are always an interesting thing, don’t you think? There have been some truly great ones in the medium of film. Take Star Wars for example. A daring opening, a dark and captivating middle and a grand finale like none ever seen before. Of course, you can ignore the prequels. Nothing like driving a wonderful idea into the ground. You’d know about that, wouldn’t you? Or you could take Christopher Nolan’s great accomplishment with his Dark Knight Trilogy. Each film built, one after another to an amazing finale. But I feel our series will not end this way.

Nor will it be a masterpiece of a series like The Godfather. It will not have the amusing taglines and quotes of American Pie. And it will not have the direction of Spielberg like his Indiana Jones movies. It won’t even have the musical power of Metallica’s three Unforgiven songs. It won’t fly off the shelves like The Hunger Games series. I have a feeling it will be more like Police Academy. Amusing at first, a few standout moments, one guy making amusing noises and gargling… Then it just won’t be funny anymore. It will be painful to watch. And the whole fucking world will be glad that it is over.

It will not hold the legacy of Andreas Lasiewicz’s series of matches with Lavindil Rayne during my tenure in the Global Division of Wrestling. Nor will it go down in folklore like the trilogy between Cuchulain and “The Gambit”. It will not be like the bloodthirsty wars between “The Morning Star” and Jason Redfield. And nor will it be a wrestling master class like the triple whammy that was between “The Polish Spirit” and “The British Bombshell” Glory Braddock. You can go further back and look at my European classics with Harabec Weathers, further back to my storied history in Japan when I teamed with The Silver Sealed Legend himself, Silver, against the team of The Great Gendo and Hitachi Hiroshima. Nor will it be like those four violent encounters that I had with your former partner and master, Christum Furor.

I may have lost the occasion match in those epic encounters, but it was always myself that stood tall at the end of the day. And what has become of those valiant foes? Those that dared to tread where sane men dared not. Not just once, but several times. Lavindil vanished without a trace, probably dead in a gutter from indulging in his many vices, some of which would even put Christian Kane to shame. Cuchulain retired and fled to his home nation, weary of battle and torment, just unable to continue at the high level he once competed at. Redfield did what he always did and hid under a rock, cowering behind his beer bottle like a scared child, only re-emerging recently when the coast was clear. He is a mere shell of what he was once. Glory Braddock lost her mind, her talent and all the credibility she once had. Now she believes she is the legitimate daughter of a worthless harpy who is half her age, and works tirelessly to aid this supposed royalty in her quest for mediocrity. Her father would be ashamed.

I kicked his arse too. The first ever man to do so. I was a mere boy, he was a legend. Thus the reason why I never receive a positive reaction on the southern coast of England. Over twenty years later they still remember that bout.

But what of Harabec Weathers? He and his brother Caanon retired ungracefully after our series of matches, the most notable a dog collar match that still leaves scars on the former’s throat. Gendo and Hitachi? One is confided to a wheelchair, the other scattered to the sea in the form of ashes. As for Christum Furor, we all know what happened to him.

These matches are well remembered. The blood, the sweat, their tears are all remembered. But these opponents, they have faded away with the sands of time. Just like you will. But our match, this final match in our bloodthirsty series will not be remembered as fondly as the rest. Oh no, Lifer… It will not.

No… It won’t be sung about for years to come. It will simply be forgotten. Not because of the daring moves, the excessive violence and the awe inspiring technical ability shown by one such as myself, but because:

1. The final result is fully expected.
2. It will be a complete and total whitewash.

Like the English cricket team winning every single match against India back in two thousand and eleven to win the Pataudi Trophy. Like Australia not losing a match in ‘Zero Six’ to reclaim The Ashes from England. Like New Zealand’s All Blacks destroying the French Rugby team. The Australian football team’s thirty one to nothing victory over American Samoa. Phil “The Power” Taylor defeating Dennis Priestly six to nil. The Detroit Red Wings completing their infamous clean sweep in fifty-five. Every time you have faced me, you have failed. The War Games match, TLC, Battle without Honor or Humanity. Those matches are remembered, those matches had it all. But this one, the stretcher match coming at Repetition of Hatred. It will be one that people will be quick to forget.

They will not wish to remember me beating you.
They will not wish to remember me driving your head into the mat.
They will not wish to remember me gorging your eyes.
They will not wish to remember me making you cry.
They will not wish to remember me breaking your soul.
They will not wish to remember me throwing you around like a ball.
They will not wish to remember me snapping your arm.
They will not wish to remember me causing you harm.
They will not wish to remember me dislocating your leg.
They will not wish to remember me making you beg.
They will not wish to remember me letting you bleed.
They will not wish to remember me making you plead.
They will not wish to remember me crashing you through a table.
They will not wish to remember me rendering you disabled.
They will not wish to remember me not giving you a chance.
They will not wish to remember me spearing you like a lance.
They will not wish to remember me ramming your face into the post.
They will not wish to remember me using fire, turning you like a roast.
They will not wish to remember me splitting your head.
They will not wish to remember me wheeling you out… dead.

It is set in stone, Lifer… And there is nothing you can do to change that. You will fade into the night like so many others that have attempted to usurp me. You will find yourself in the same halls as those you have fallen every time they have faced me.

Pathetic.

And yet that still will not stop you ranting away nonsensically on twitter, over and over and over again spouting off the same boring diatribes that nobody in their right mind will ever pay heed to. Everybody knows you are a mindless, deluded fool that even your former team mates and peers despised. You have never made sense in your entire pathetic life, and you take others words and attempt to twist them into complements for yourself… Seeing as no other is willing to dole them out for you. You don’t deserve them.

You are in so need for attention that you constantly bring me up on twitter, needlessly distracting yourself from preparing for this match so you can argue and rant with anyone and everyone about what is coming up this week. You have tried to make allies of those that couldn’t even cut it in our company. Begged for assistance from those that are afr too fearful of our roster that they will tuck tail and run. You are alone. Truly alone. Even your fucking wife as deserted you.

That is the reality of the situation you are in.

But will you even show up? That is another question. Will you beg your supposed captors to hide you away? Quoting medical grounds? Citing you are unfit to compete… Because you know what is going to happen. You know for a fact that I will notI have never backed down from a fight in my entire life. When Jessica Corey Snr died… I still made my match. When I was broken hearted…

And guess what… I won every single fucking one of them!

My loyalty to the company stands. My loyalty to my friends stands. My loyalty to my family stands.

Unbound, Unbent, Unbroken.

The opposite of you.

You will be bound to that stretcher.

You will be bent so far that your bones break and your body shatters.

You will… be broken




That smell. That same warm, inviting smell. Intoxicating. Invigorating. It pulled him in again and again. Not this again was the thought that crossed his troubled mind. The memory, that lingering memory of that scent, the sweetest of sweet, haunted him once more. The scent was faint beneath the other smells. It swam below moss, below mud and water. It crept warmly and solemnly beneath fire and ash, beneath cooked meat and stale ale. Beneath rotting reeds and rotting men. His talons sunk into the soft ground, scrapping cold soil and torn grass and hurling it behind him. I do not need this, rang his mind, over and over and over again. He pecked at the ground, unearthing a coin, rich in silver that displayed his mirror image on the tailed side. He glared at it for a moment, a fleeting moment that seemed to last an age. His golden yellow eyes observed every detail, every crack, every scratch as he pecked down to create yet more. Why do I always leave the coin behind?

red roses too.  

I see them bloom,  

for me and you.  

And I think to myself, 

what a wonderful world.  

To the river’s edge he went, lapping up a cool drink of the tainted water before lifting his head to shake the excess water, red and murky from his smooth metallic feathers. The sky above was grey, growing darker and darker as day turned to nightfall. The clouds were thick was discoloured, unnatural even, parting only with the flashes of emerald lightning that violently illuminated the heavens, coming down in bolts that engulfed the tall oak trees below in a kaleidoscope of colour. He clawed his way along the riverbank, crimson and putrid brown water and full of floating things. Dead things. Eyeless fish, horses, wolves and cattle. Sheep and goats, pigs and cats, dogs and rodents. All dead. All eyeless, blind and dead and rotting. But there were humans too, so many of them. Men, women, children. Even new-borns. They clogged the shallows, some still moving, even twitching as the water pushed them, others washed up on the banks. One drifted by, rich fluid oozing from a broken nose. Another was stranded on a rock, their bowels emptied into the flowing water. All of them blinded, all of them eyeless, all of them dead.

And clouds of white.  

The bright blessed day,  

The dark sacred night.  

And I think to myself,  

What a wonderful world.  

The vultures swooped down, twisted and disturbed creatures, feathers flying and skin rotting and they were blinded too, screaming at him in their eternal darkness and pissing blood. The wails, the screams, the cries. All of them deafening and silent at the same time. Nothing here makes sense. None of it.The scent was stronger now. He listened to the shriek of angry vultures as they descended upon the carrion, the whirr of wings and sound of running, crimson water. Somewhere far off he could hear horses and the calls of the living, but they were not what mattered. They could be anything, he knew. But they were not everything. The smell, the scent, THAT scent. Only the scent mattered. There it was, and now he saw it too, something pale and white and motionless drifting further down the river, turning where it brushed against a snag. The reeds bowed down before it, like a peasant to royalty.

So pretty in the sky.  

Are also on the faces,  

Of people going by,  

I see friends shaking hands.  

Saying, "How do you do?"  

They're really saying,  

"I love you".  

His one wing took flight and he landed down heavily in the murk, splashing around noisily through the shallows before throwing himself into the deeper water, his talons clawing away. The current was strong but he was stronger. He hovered over the water, single wing flapping ferociously. The river smells were rich and wet, but those were not the smells that pulled him. His talons gripped a white arm, the scent of cold blood at its strongest. He shook it to make it move, but there was only death and blood and wet ashes in her mouth. By now he was tiring, and it was all he could do to claw at the arm and pull the body back to shore. As he dragged it up the muddy bank before stopping to shake the crimson water from his feathers. The white woman lay face down in the mud, her flesh wrinkled and pale, cold blood trickling from her nose. Her tongue had been ripped out, her dark curls straggly and knotted yet her eyes were left intact. He shook to wake her, going as far as peeling back her eyelids to see if that would have any effect. An eye of crystal. An eye of jade. But it did nothing. She never wakes. She never, ever wakes. Why won’t you just fucking wake up?

I watch them grow,  

They'll learn much more,  

Than I'll ever know.  

And I think to myself,  

What a wonderful world.  

The sound of horses turned his head. Men. Or what used to be men. Clad in steel, skin like burnt rubber, faces without features. They were coming from down the valley. He was so focused on the scent that he had ignored all other smells, rancid as they were, all together. They grew louder. The horses were winged, great black creatures with cuts and scars and exposed bone, each with a single eye, a deathly pale. Their featureless riders had great horns protruding from their foreheads, curled like a rams. In their hands they wielded three pronged spears, all of them bar one. This one lead the throng, a brilliant feminine figure in white, golden curls cascading down like a waterfall. She bore a shield, emblazoned with a sigil of a red flower on a bed of satin and in the other hand was a scythe. He slunk away, abandoning his prize in the mud where he had dragged it, and flew. Shame took hold of him. Don’t leave! Don’t you fucking dare leave her like this!

What a wonderful world.  

It was at that moment, like clockwork, that he awoke. It was the same vivid dream every single night. Every single time he closed his eyes to slumber, either out of choice or exhaustion. It had been the same every night he had spent in this chair, a brown leather recliner. He had it placed next to Anastasia’s bedside so he could always be there, sat by her side to gaze upon her masked and wired up. He had been here since she was admitted, refusing to leave the grounds of the hospital at all. Day after day he had waited; night after night he had waited. He felt as if he had sprung roots that had sunk deep into his throne as if it was soil, twisting and turning, holding him down like great chains so he could never take flight again. His only company at this late hour was the slow beeping of the monitor and the soft breath of the sleeping Asteria at the other side of the room. Ana’s young love had curled up onto a makeshift bed at the other side of the room, herself refusing to leave her side as he did. He didn’t know her that well and couldn’t recall meeting her beforehand, though it was entirely possible, but he had grown an appreciation for the Dane in their mutual silence. She was a determined one, and had shown a great dedication for the Songbird for staying. Young love, was the thought that passed his mind, though it was one way beyond their years. It was rare for either of them to leave the room at all, maybe once, twice a day? But never at the same time. One always stayed in constant vigil. He stroked the curls from Ana’s forehead, begging within for anything, everything, a miracle even. She should not have slept this long he thought. None of this makes sense. There had been no signs of improvement since the unprovoked attack from Zack Lifer, not even one.

He forced himself to stand wearily, cracking his knees as he did so. He stretched himself out, reaching for the heavens as he tried to regain some feeling in his tired, old body. He looked through the darkness of the room; the only illumination was a small lamp by Ana’s bed that chased away the shadows. She had always been terrified of the dark, even at her age she couldn’t sleep in the pitch black. Now it was all she did, it mattered not if there was no light. But at the very least, Andreas did not want her to open her eyes to darkness. If she opened them at all. That fear had been growing within him more and more each day.

Fear… he was the one who dished it out. And now he was feeling it. Strange.

He took a sip of water from a plastic cup by her bedside, wetting the dryness of his maw. He stroked her hair one last time, before pouring the remaining fluid into the plant pot on the bedside cabinet. A red, red rose rested there in bloom and it gave him a strange sense of warmth. In this place of illness and death it seemed to be the only thing truly alive. He turned from it, fumbling into his pockets in search of his cigarettes and there they were, crumpled and torn, loose tobacco floating to the ground like autumn leaves. A moment of peace. She is not alone, she is well looked after.

He exited the room, through corridors and automatic doors. The visitors lounge was mostly barren, though he saw his beloved resting with flickering eyelids in the far corner, a warm knitted blanket pulled up to her throat to comfort her. He kissed her forehead gently, so not to wake her and she smiled sweetly in her slumber, the slightest inaudible murmur emitting from those delightful full lips. It had pained him that he had been so distant from her this past month, though he meant not to. His every thought, every movement and every prayer had been focused on Anastasia’s recovery. But she had not grumbled, she had not complained, she had only supported him every step of the way in his near silent vigil. It only made him love her more.

As he carried on through the near endless hallways of this supposed mecca of healing and life, his thoughts drifted from rebirth to death, from salvation to vengeance. In a brief break from his quest he had contacted the higher powers of EXODUS Pro with an offer they simply could not refuse. And they did not, not like they had a choice in the matter at all. He would face Zack Lifer. He would punish Zack Lifer. He would be the judge, jury and executioner for his crimes. It would all be in his hands… as would his blood.

There were many questions that danced and waltzed through his conflicted mind. Why had they let Zack Lifer out of police custody? What had drawn him to the (R)Evolution show that night? What had urged him on to attack the most innocent party in all of this mess? He had this strange and unnerving feeling that Lifer was merely a pawn in this chess game of life and death, being manipulated to act out the malicious wills of some higher power. If Lifer knew the truth, he shrouded it far too well, and he was not the kind of person known for being able to keep a secret. Even when Andreas was aiding Lifer in his preparation for his battle with Chuck Matthews, it had been an impossible struggle to keep the man-child silent about their plans, nigh on infuriating ‘The Morning Star’. Funny how things had worked out. With Andreas’ guidance, Lifer had beaten Matthews. Now it seemed the shoe was on the other foot and Matthews had guided Lifer to face Andreas. Chuck’s guidance and financial backing hadn’t helped Christum Furor though, and he knew it would not help the ‘New Iron Saint’ in his battle with Lasiewicz. Lifer was merely a pawn, albeit a suicidal pawn with razor sharp teeth, a set of bloody claws and a loose tongue.

As he reached the chilled night of the outside world, he slid past a reveller with a broken nose; crimson fluid oozing from the nostrils as they foolishly tilted their head upwards, choking on their own life force as they closed their eyes tightly. It was probable that this creature had bit off more than they could chew considering the shining bruise that was developing around one of their closed eyes. As he inhaled the toxic haze of dancing smoke, he smiled wickedly at the mere thought of committing such an act to his sworn enemy. Vengeance will be had.

As his thoughts took another weird and wonderful turn, he wondered how Lifer would have been treated at Blackthorn Asylum. It was just that he was taken away to such an establishment, but the place itself gave him chills. His own sister had been treated there, and the results he had seen there were troubling, and far from beneficial. Yet his hands were tied on the matter. Once you go in, you cannot go out, not without their say so. The unusual painted figure of Ramsay Bodoch had referred to the place as the ‘Hotel California’, and he found the term quite fitting. You can check out anytime you like, but you can never leave, rang the song in his mind. Fitting how it also represented the wrestling industry.

As he inhaled once more, a fleet of bikers drove past the hospital doors, cycles black as night with great white wings painted upon the sides, single headlights illuminating the path before them. Their faces turned to Andreas, all of them masked by pitch black helmets as they burned rubber, thick smoke spinning from their wheels as they disappeared into the darkness leaving only tire marks upon the ground, the only evidence that they had ever been there. One drunken reveller being aided towards the doors was so shocked of the tires screech that they had unwillingly shit in their pants, and they hurriedly attempted to cover their shame as they were carried forth. The beating he would hand out this coming Monday night would undoubtedly make Zack Lifer shit himself. Fair retribution, he thought. Though he wished he could commit such an act with his own motorcycle. Not with the sound of screeching tires, however. More so by simply running him down. He would certainly need a stretcher for that one.

As he took another deep toke upon his cancerous cigarette, he looked up to the heavens for answers. He had prayed nigh on every night for a miracle, to no avail. Even a meeting with his old friend Padre Jorge had not eased his spirits, especially when Jorge referred to him by the Saint’s name that the old priests in Vatican City had christened him with. He had offered council and guidance, but Andreas was far from the mood to listen. Even when the Padre had offered to officiate his wedding, it had barely raised a smile to his lips. Heather had been understanding in his reluctance to set plans forth for their happy day. The time will come. Soon, I promise, he had told her. I promise… I promise…I promise… the words rang through his mind over and over again as a bolt of lightning lit up the sky.

Emerald…

That dream. That same dream that crept up and engulfed his mind night after night. He was witnessing it right now, right now in the reality of it all. Not a dream… An OMEN! He threw down his cigarette and made a sprint for the door. Through corridor after corridor he ran, through automatic doors and beyond. His pace quickened, his heartbeat quickened, his fear quickened. On all fours he ran, like a beast, so fast and furious he almost took flight knocking down anything and anyone that stood in his way. How could I have been so fucking stupid?

Before he could reach the door handle of Ana’s ward, the door burst open. The screams, the terrible screams that rang out pierced his very soul, ripping it apart and throwing it to the wayside. Heather had tears in her eyes, thick clear water cascading down her heart shaped face. In her arms was Asteria, a thick black waterfall flowing down as she wailed away uncontrollably. Heather looked to him, trying to say something, anything. But she couldn’t. Words would not come out. The world became a blur.

He staggered into the room, his legs turning to water as he held onto the wall for support, his breath leaving him as his eye glazed over, further blurring his vision. The bed was surrounded, vultures in white crowding around the body. One of them turned, eyes squinted so much he didn’t look like he had them at all. He tried to explain, but Andreas could not hear the words. He could hear nothing at all. He pushed him out of the way. Then another. Then another. He broke through their ranks like a knife through butter until he got to his prize. There she lay, eyes finally open. One crystal. One jade. Both lifeless.

He let out a roar, a deafening animalistic roar that made the very roar shake in violence. The birds took flight as he screamed GET OUT! GET OUT! GET OUT! He fell to the cold, tiled floor with a crash, flesh hitting stone. He crawled desperately to her bedside, pulling himself up with the aid of the bedsheets, tearing at them as he did so. Her eyes, her mother’s eyes wide open but unseeing. Tears flowed down his, not the red that he was accustomed to, but clear and salty. Natural tears. My child… my beautiful child… No one should suffer this. No one.

His eyes were diverted to the flower by the corpse’s bedside. It had wilted and died along with her, petals crinkling and falling to the dried up soil. A hand, soft and cream scooped them up. His tear filled eyes followed them skywards. A floral dress, blonde locks cascading over the shoulders, a weak smile and bright eyes. Oh happy day she said.

What a wonderful world.