FSociety Wrestling (2017)

~~Wednesday, March 29th, 2017: Off Camera~~

Sarah Selena Lacklan bustles through the apartment she shares with Kenzi Grey, trying to get everything just right. The world premiere of Kenzi’s movie, All That Glitters, was tomorrow night, with the movie hitting theaters over the weekend, and there were still a thousand things to do. Kenzi had spent nearly every waking moment in the studio over the last week and a half, working 16 hour days, barely leaving enough time to sleep, work out, and eat. Sarah felt a pang of guilt over the fact that Kenzi had given up so much of her little free time to be with her, but it was not a large pang. She was selfish like that.

And what time they had spent together! Sarah had always been known for being a deviant, for being a trouble-maker. “Its kinda my thing,” she would say whenever someone brought it up, and she reveled in that aspect of her personality. Being the daughter of a cult leader, a “princess,” as she was treated, she had been able to get away with nearly anything she ever wanted from an early age. Her rattle fell to the ground and broke? Six more were ready to replace it. Her favorite dress was torn? The seamstress already had a new one made before she could even report it. She wanted to do something dangerous? Her protectors would be flogged, literally, if any harm befell her. She had even become sexually active at a young age, pursuing anything or one she felt was pretty. How many boys had she kissed? How many girls, for that matter? She had slept with several, had led a wild lifestyle, and had been enthralled with herself.

Sarah pauses in arranging an assortment of flowers on the dining table. Red roses with shots of purple and white lavender does not catch her eye as she thinks of the lifestyle she has led over the last few years, with the last year being exceedingly fast and hard. Drinking had never been a problem until recently, as her father had always allowed her a little wine with dinner. But ever since discovering hard liquor, stolen from her father’s own stores, things had changed. She had snuck drinks with her best friend Samantha, drinks which lead to her first girl-on-girl experience, as well as cigarettes from her guard. She would later sneak drinks with the woman who was supposed to be her Fairy Godmother, Zoe Chaos, the strongest ones being the special moonshine that the First Citizen, Skeeter, distilled out in Lacklanland forest.

But her life truly changed when she finally got her hands on DRIVE. She had just turned 18 when she found herself in her father’s study, snooping around, and discovered his stash of the red powder. Though she had never seen him use DRIVE, the drug that he had had scientists develop over the years, she instinctively knew what to do. Secreting it away in her robe, she held onto it until she was safely in her own room deep in the center of her floor of the manor. And, looking at herself in the mirror, with her red eyes and moonlight skin, she brought the powder to her nose and sniffed it with all her might.

Her world changed. Colors seemed brighter, as if she had always viewed the world through a gray filter before. She smelled food coming from the kitchens of Chez Jean-Paul deep in the innards of the Manor. She swore that she could SEE sounds. Her skin felt like it was on fire.

Thus was born the Firebird. The red and black. The revolution. That was the moment that, for the first time, she BELIEVED.

She WAS the Light.

She WAS God’s wrath.

Her thoughts come back to the present. Back to the flowers on the table. Red roses highlighted by a lavender which represented her. But these roses were not the red of the revolution. No...no...these were the red of love. She was deeply in love with Mackenzie Michaela Grey. Deep into the Feelz Zone. And it was scary.

Her thoughts do not stay on the present for long, however. She was tired, thoughts scattered. She had put in a lot of time into this project as well, lost herself in the role of Ambrosia as surely as Kenzi had lost herself in Caramel, the whole thing leading to their tension and fight, then to their tryst, and their break-up in the parking lot…

She shakes her head as she heads to the apartment’s kitchen. Nope! No thinking of that dreadful night. Think of something else. Think of how she got to Kenzi in the first place. Think of what lead her to her Dark Goddess.

The year of her Lord 2016 had been a wild ride, even for her. Convincing her father to wrestler again, to chase after the Ashtons and what they represented, had been for her benefit. This was his last moment to show her, his little girl, what it meant to be a wrestler, to show her what it meant to fight for something worth fighting for. He bled all throughout the state of Texas, taking her there every few weeks, showing with his body and spirit what was important about this sport. He personified what it meant to be a champion and earned himself another Hall of Fame induction.

It was there, in Classic Wrestling from Texas, that he found himself in the company of her favorite wrestler growing up, Nikita Dolore. Talk about God’s plan! She had studied Nikita since she was little, watching every match and promo she had in New Era Wrestling, watched her battles alongside and against Tony Millennium. She knew move for move, word for word. Something about the woman...well...she SANG to her. It seemed like Nikita had spoken directly to the little albino girl watching her television set in Maine. And for her and Father to not only work together but to become friends! Well...after a sort. The closest thing her father could garner to a friend.

She remembered bouncing up and down on her heels like she was little when the subject came up of Nikita coming on board for her training. Father had been training her for years but this was different. Father had allowed her to join him in their gym on her 14th birthday, had taught her the basics of lifting, focusing on the Big Five, and she fell in love with it, just like he had. Those moments in the gym together were as important as him teaching her to dance, or when sitting back to back to share their strength. He had initially been against her wrestling, of course. “This is not the life you want.” But she wanted it. Oh, she wanted it! To fly through the air like a bird! So he gave in. He taught her.

But the cancer limited him. He did what he could, taught her the basics, taught her psychology, how to think, how to handle herself. But Nikita? She was brought in for other things. Taught her how to handle herself as a woman in a male dominated sport. Taught her how to take down larger and stronger men. Taught her how to kick and how to make a man cry by attacking joints.

Sarah’s eyes mist with wetness, the red irises glistening brightly. If nothing else, she wished to make them proud. Her father and mentor did not always see eye-to-eye on things, and were grossly competitive with one another, but they meant the world to her. Her first championship, whenever it happened, would be dedicated to them. Her dying father and recluse of a mentor. She only hoped she won one fast enough, before it was too late for either of them to see it.

CWT’s closure brought Karnage Pro, a somewhat spiritual successor in Dallas. Father’s cancer struck hard during that time, limiting him even more, but important things happened there. She developed her relationship with her “sister” Stacy. She ran afoul of Chris Andrew and stole his blood. And she met Blasted Monk.

What was it that drew her to him? The cocky look on his face? The Kung Fu skills? The fact that he had the temerity to stand up to her father before he knocked his bitch-ass out? The rock hard abs?

Yeah. Probably those.

Lips painted ruby to match her eyes curl up in a smile as she thinks about that afterparty following the inaugural KCW event. Some people complained about it being at the only blood bar in Dallas, but that is what they get for letting Jean-Paul Lacklan’s 18-year-old goth daughter organize it! It was a fun night. Especially since Nikita had to drag her by her hair away from licking every single one of Monk’s abs in some dark corner of the bar and throw her into the waiting car. Great night!

Her relationship with Monk was rocky. The sex was great, of course, since they were both world class athletes. But there was something missing, something she could not put her finger on at the time. Luckily, even with their testy relationship, she met someone who instantaneously became her best friend: Kenzi Grey. The excitable girl had immediately grabbed her in her arms and said that they were going to be the best friends ever.

That had never happened to her before. Kenzi never looked at her red eyes or platinum color, or pale skin twice. Her odd coloring did not phase her. Her accent? The way she dressed, with the most expensive gowns she could find? Red and black gowns highlighted with actual diamond dust? The way she glided across the ground? The fact that she was accompanied by half a dozen hulking beasts in black military uniforms? Did not mean a thing to her.

Did she fall in love right that minute? It would be silly to say yes, but there was an emotional attraction at that very first moment that she did not understand or comprehend, one that would cause a lot of issues later down the line.

Her relationship with Monk was ill-fated from the beginning, with trust and commitment issues being something they could not get beyond. But, still, he was there for her on her birthday, just as was Kenzi and Song, and he was there to escort her to her very first match. But Kenzi was the one that was there for her emotionally. There to defend and praise her when things crumbled with him. There to be her partner in crime with The Blood Princess Bride. There to stand with her when she needed strength, to lie with her when she needed to be held. There to be the best friend she never thought she could have.

The scraping of keys in the lock at the front door brought her out of her thoughts for a final time. She glided across the floor to greet her Beloved, but the sight beyond the opening door made her eyes grow wide: Frick, one of the two members of her guard who had relocated to Hollywood with her, held Kenzi up by the shoulders, her caramel-skinned beauty looking like a zombie. Black eyes peeked out from heavy dark circles, her shoulders slumped, her entire countenance that of a person on their deathbed.

“My poor baby!”

Sarah’s Londoner accent is full of pure worry as she rushes toward the pair, her hulking guard half-dragging her partner over the thresh. A series of hand signals from Sarah, a nonverbal language crafted by her over the years as a way to always communicate with the legion of Denizens who had pledged themselves to her and her father’s care, delivered her instructions. Frick helped Mackenzie sit at the dining table, a sleek black structure made of hard oak. A second set of hand signals had Frick hanging up Kenzi’s coat and exited the room with a bow of his shaved head, off to the apartment he shared with Frack on a lower floor.

“You need to eat, Beloved.”

Sarah brings over a bowl of oatmeal, a scoop of Emma Benton’s Body-By-Benton Protein Powder mixed in. Vanilla flavor. Obviously. But Kenzi just sits and stares.

“Sweet Mother, you do not even know where you are right now.”

Sarah opens Kenzi’s mouth and puts a spoonful of oatmeal in, moving her jaw up and down to encourage chewing. While Kenzi’s mind is completely out of the moment, her body knows better and hungrily eats the oatmeal.. Spoon after spoon, Sarah feeds her the oatmeal entire bowl is gone. 80 grams of oatmeal with a scoop of whey protein; she cannot say how well Kenzi had eaten during the day, but at least she had 450 calories of complex carbs and complete protein in her.

Sarah takes Kenzi’s hands and leads her out of the room and to their bedroom. Leaving the nearly comatose woman sitting on the edge of their massive four-post bed, she slips into the restroom and draws her a bath, making sure to include a mixture of oils to sooth her. Before long, she has removed Kenzi’s clothes and gotten her into the bath, her long braids pulled up and tied off in a large bun, the water hot enough to fill the room full of steam. Kenzi is so tired that she does not even react to the water, or any part of the situation, and simply sits in the bathtub.

“This project has taken so much out of you, Beloved."

Sarah washes her partner through a combination of soft caresses and hard scrubs. Part of her mind laughs at the very idea that she, the Blood Princess, would ever be spending time washing someone. She was the one who was washed by servants! Indeed, a typical bathing experience in Lacklanland included her army of handmaidens washing her, drying her, and going through the equivalent of an entire Sephora of products for her hair and skin. But here she was, putting as much care and love into another person as she was possible.

“Never quite figured we would be here, huh, Mackenzie? But...well...here we are. I fell in love with you that night we sang and danced at my family home. And here we are, just a couple of months later, living together in Hollywood.”

The zombie living in Kenzi’s body is brought out the bath, dried, and led back to the bed. Sarah lets go for but a moment and Kenzi flops forward, her body slamming into the ocean of silks and satins that make up their bed. Sarah rolls her eyes in that exaggerated way of her as she ties to push Kenzi fully on the bed, actually needing to take a double fistful of what she called Kenzi’s “Black Booty!” in order to get leverage. Joining her on the bed, she struggles but finally succeeds in getting Kenzi’s robe off to reveal her long back, a back far more lean now than it was before she had started her 30-day transformation challenge with Emma Benton, and began to give her that massage she had promised.

“Where the magic happens,” she says to herself, with a giggle. The life they had lead over the last month, from their initial desperate sex sessions to what has become romps of heated passion, had truly been magical. They completed each other, belonged to each other. Their month together had thus far only been marred by that five or six days apart when they got into the fight over intimacy and equality. Had only…

Sarah pushed away the thoughts that wanted to wash over her. Pushed away the pain that filled her whenever she thought about that “one thing” that separated them, that kept them from being a complete union. This was not about Sarah’s feelings of inadequacy, this was about being the rock that Kenzi needed.

It did not take long for Kenzi to be completely asleep under Sarah’s hands, snoring softly.

The following day was typical for them: Pure chaos. A “double shot,” as they were calling it, when they needed to be in multiple states on the same day...sometimes even nearly at the same time. They had promised to be at the Proving Grounds show in Vegas that day, and so they were, flying over as soon as possible. Luckily for them, the show was held earlier than anticipated, as everyone, from talent to production staff, wanted to make the inaugural show a hit. It was a lot of fun for them in the stands, getting to hang out with their lovable lug of a friend Mason, as well as friends like Melissa and Lizzie, and everyone enjoyed the shows. Sarah giggled when Natasha got her hand crushed by a couple of the Callaghans, and giggled even more when Mister Vanilla himself, Aiden Marrow, won the title, but they enjoyed the show very much.

Back in Los Angeles and tired, but with no rest for the weary, the two were dolled up and ready to hit the red carpet. The two matched each other, though in a fashionably opposite way: Kenzi wore white while Sarah wore black, the red carpet premiere of All That Glitters not prepared for them. Not all of the cast was able to make it due to the crazy world their lived in, but most were there for the glitz and glamour. Some Sarah had not seen for weeks, their scenes finished ages ago, others just a few days prior with small re-shoots. She was happy to see them all, happy to be a part of this odd little group of friends. Katie Anderson was there, of course, the star of the movie, and while she and Sarah exchanged a hug, there was an odd tightness there. Their...adventure...a few weeks ago had been difficult for Sarah, and she suspected Katie knew it. But that was all in the past now, right?

She and Kenzi pretended to get jealous over each other with Dax, whose epic beard stole as many looks and pictures as the two of them did. Dax was a love interest for both of their characters in the movie and they often joked about whose husband he really was. See Arturo and his enviable hair was always a blast, as well as seeing Trixie and all the other girls.

Kenzi gave a small speech before the show, thanking everyone for their contributions and support, specifically mentioning Sarah and how she had become her muse. Sarah had to bite down on the inside of her mouth to not cry. Her wings were too damn on point to ruin them, damnit!

She beamed with pride as she held Kenzi’s hand as the movie started, could feel the electricity running through her lover. This was HER moment. But as the movie played, Sarah found certain parts difficult to watch. The movie was dark, of course, and quite Shakespearean in how few survived to see the final credits. But so much of themselves came out in their portrayals of Ambrosia and Caramel that part of her heart ache. There were issues, issues from the very start, which needed to be taken care of. And those issues might break them.

The afterparty was kept surprisingly short. Oh, certainly the cast and crew partied until the next morning or some such, but Sarah made sure Kenzi only put in a token appearance. She knew Kenzi was running on fumes, knew she could pass out at any moment. She they made their appearance, said their goodbyes, and were back in the car before anyone know what had happened. And as she had anticipated, Kenzi was lightly snoring before they even got home.

Employing both Frick and Frack to help her up to their room at their apartment, she got Kenzi in bed and sleeping soundly. And there, looking at her lover, she finally put voice to the thoughts which had been raging through here the past few days.

Sarah sits on the end of the bed she shares with Kenzi, sitting with legs crossed, wearing nothing but a thin slip. Red eyes blaze in the darkness as she stares down at her Beloved, her Dark Goddess, asleep on the bed before her. Also wearing a thin slip to fight the Southern California heat, the woman’s long braids are fanned out, making her look somewhat like the sea witch Ursula. The thought makes Sarah’s ruby lips perk up in a smile at just how goddamn FIERCE her lover was.

“It was hard watching the movie with you.”

Sarah’s voice is soft, a bare whisper in the dark so as not to wake her exhausted lover, the British eloquence and diction seeming like the sigh of a ghost.

“Sitting next to you and watching events that...well...art imitating life imitating art, I suppose.”

She pauses, licking her lips.

“When we first concocted The Blood Princess Bride...we were best friends. Nothing more. But by the time you started writing All That Glitters? There was...something...there. I noticed it before you did, of course. Hugs that lasted a touch too long. ‘Accidentally’ bumping into each other. I know for me, part of it was I was just so lonely. I needed...well...anything. I needed to be wanted, to have people NEED me. And you...well...you accepted me from the moment you met me. You never looked at my eyes in an odd way. Never did a double take at my coloring. Nothing. Not even when you first heard me start talking about flames and revolution.”

She shakes her head.

“I really was sorry about kissing you. We were...we were just SO PISSED at each other all that week. Every little thing. Every thing we could say about the other. Jealousy? Annoyance? Too much time together? I know now that sexual frustration was a big part of it for both of us. That relationship you had with Song…”

She shakes her head.

“I have promised never to lie to you. TruthZone, you know? But I lied to you then. I told you the next day when you asked what that was about. What me shoving my tongue down your throat was about. And I told you I didn’t know. That I was a mess. But I did know. I wanted you. I wanted you so GODDAMN bad.”

Her eyes start to shine with tears.

“But I couldn’t have you. And when you went away with Song? When you two had your Valentine’s trip? It was somewhat of a relief. No more shooting, no more getting in each other’s faces. No more...well...me trying to grape you. But then you broke up over the trip and I...I…”

A tear rolls down her cheek.

“I am ashamed of it...but I was so happy. So fucking happy. I am so ashamed of that, Ken. My best friend in the whole fucking world was crushed and hating life...and I was on Cloud fucking Nine because I finally had a chance.”

She scrubs at her eyes as a second tear falls.

“The week we got together was magical, Ken. Pure magic. But part of me is ashamed for seducing you. It was an emotional seduction, but seduction nonetheless.”

She laughs as another tear falls.

“You really do have zero d against me. ‘Only hands.’ Well, unexpected whip cream had your head between my legs fast enough. ‘No girlfriends.’ Pfffft. I saw the jealousy in your eyes with Katie.”

More tears.

“Watching the scenes with you and Katie were hard, love. I felt like we were right back in that hotel room. Or the car.”

Tears flow freely.

“Oh God, the car! Finding out what you had been saying to her the whole time? How you had been literally dreaming of fucking her as soon as possible? I...I almost jumped out of the car right then. That was so hard.”

A thick sniff as she scrubs away tears.

“My heart shattered when we broke up. God Ken...I *still* have nightmares of that night. Screaming at each other in that parking lot.”

She drops her head down, sobbing silently.

“And we are still not equal.”

She scrubs furiously at the tears.

“God...I cannot even say it out loud. What you will not allow me to give you. Sometimes it feels like everyone in the world knows when they see us together. ‘Oh look! There is Kenzi Grey and her sex-toy who is not good enough to return the favor.’”

She lets out a watery sigh as she looks at her lover.

“I love you, Mackenzie. With every ounce of my being. And I know you feel the same. But this is hard. I know we’ll get through it. I know we will figure out this block of yours. But...Sweet Mother...it is hard sometimes.”

Sarah rises from her place and retrieves an envelope with “Beloved” written in her find hand and the front. She sets it on Kenzi’s pillow next to her head, a bit of poetry that was inspired by their recent adventure at the spoken-word open mic night. It was not very good, Sarah knew, but it was heartfelt. She sighs again and lays down next to her lover. In her sleep, Kenzi wraps her arms around Sarah and murmurs “...mines…”

Sarah closes her eyes and tries to at least get a little sleep.



~~Saturday, April 15th, 2017: Camera: ON~~

So...yeah...talk about a whole lotta shit went down last week, huh? Like, holy fuck! Let’s talk about it!

-All That Glitters is making MAJOR BANK at the box office! Massive THANK YOU to any and all of my fans who have gone to see it. Supporting your local theater is big! And not only has it been a commercial success (super important considering that my woman is freakin’ broke ass!), it has also received critical acclaim. Not everyone is totes stellar in the movie (lookin’ at you, 15-year-old lesbian Grimes!), but all the stars, specficially Mackenzie and Katie, have gotten major nods from the community. And! AND! My ((SPOILER ALERT!!!!)) death scene is being considered for an award by the International Motion Picture Death Scene Association (IMPDSA). The membership was so moved by my l33t acting skillz that they are even thinking about me hosting the next banquet!

-Two big-ass singles wins this week! Damn straight! I told you all...I FUCKING TOLD YOU ALL...that by this time today I would have two big singles wins under my belt. Daisy “Paper Champion” Locke and ZOMG TEH LEGEND Drew Stevenson. I TOLD YOU ALL that there was nothing they could do to stop me. I TOLD YOU ALL that I am the goddamn RECKONING for this business. But did douchebag assholes like Drew listen? Oh no, no no. People like him must made grape jokes. Because he was going to grape me in the ring Cosby style. And when I brought up his utter goddamn trash to management? They through me the whole “bitch, chill, just a joke.”

Who the fuck is laughing now, Mister Hardy?! Where the fuck are the grape jokes now, Stevenson?!

Fucking nowhere. NOWHERE. Because I did exactly what I said I was going to do: Drop them into the Abyss. Drive them into the Abyss. STUFF THEM INTO THE GODDAMN ABYSS.

Because, as I told you all back when I debuted, that is what I do. I fuck people up.

Do not believe me? Here, check this out. From a vlog in January after TEHREAV and I had just fucked up that Skittles dude and the 80’s throwback:

“I am here to fuck people up.”

I told everybody then that I had one job. One thing in mind. One thing to do. Fuck people up. I was not here to make friends. I was not hear to have tea parties and wear pants to travel amongst a group of women in a coming of age story. I was not here to find any potential suitors. Yes, it is fitting and even ironic that I DID find those things. I found my Beloved. I found a tag partner whom I could learn from and look to as some sort of Big Sister. I found a small group of women relatively my age to talk with and help grow through in Cynthia, Lizzie, even Sam. But what has really happened these past four months?

I have fucked people up.

Oh sure, dipshits like Cassandra or Kate, those woefully ill-informed and gleefully ignorant peasant folk, those true plebeians, will look at my overall record at 5-2-1 and decry “YOU HAZ NO PERFECT RECORD!11!!1!!!11!” yet they will miss the point. Check this out:

Skittles Dude and 80’s throwback? Fucked up.

Dean Judas? Kicked out of his goddamn finish before the match got called a no contest due to interference by that lucha dude.

Rydell and Silver: Fucked up.

That 4-way tag match? I-10 Connection got fucked up before one of the Crane Boys snuck in a pin on one f them.

That 4-Way Hardcore match? I FUCKED THEM ALL UP until Cass snuck up on me after her HUGE ASS FUCKING NAP and pinned the gamer loser.

Dragonfruit and Vanilla? One got his licks in before the other got FUCKED UP by my partner.

Daisy Locke: FUCKED UP. Crushed her damn ankle! But more on that in a second!

Drew Stevenson: Powered out of one of his subs and then DROPPED HIM INTO THE GODDAMN ABYSS.

See the trend here? See what I have been doing? Exactly as I said I would do: Leave a trail of bodies in my wake. I told you all from the time I started that I was the flame, that I was the match, that I was the Firestarter.

And fires? I have started them.

From the very first moment I debuted in FSociety, in wrestling as a whole, I told you all that no one expects an angel to set the world on fire. But this platinum-haired, pale-skinned, red-eyed angel?

I have set the world on fire.

-So! FSociety is on its last gasp. The Inferno Network, for all of its hopes and dreams, is absolving before it is even starting. And that sucks. Why? Because I have done SHIT LOADS of media for it! Like...holy FUCK! Where ALL of the “champions” in this company had been sitting on their goddamn asses for three weeks, from Gregory to Ally (there is that name drop, you worthless sea hag!) to Hayden to the tag champs, every single one of you did JACK FUCKING SHIT going into the final card. I, on the other hand, did media after media after GODDAMN MEDIA for the fed, for Fucking Awesome, and for the Inferno Network as a whole. While you all were on vacation or falling off the face of the Earth or worrying about jobbing in some other fed, I was being the Inferno Hardcore Fucking Awesome Princess. I was smiling, putting everyone over, showing my legs, and having even MORE websites dedicated to my feet being created.

And yes they exist, Tyson! Just google my feet and you will be SHOCKED by how many picks come up.

And! Worthless Sea Hag! I was simply trying to give your half-sister some advice not to put up pics of your feet when you are 16. That’s all! Step off, ho!

N-E-Wayz!

Here we are at the last show. And some of you fans out there are probably, like, dafuq did I just read? Right? Right?! How did TEHREAV end up in a tag title match with Sir Chuckles of Chuckleston? And how did the Blood Princess end up in the FINAL FSociety World Championship match?

Check it out:

I told you all weeks ago that I would do ANYTHING to get what I want. I would do ANYTHING to fulfil my destiny. Now, a lot of people in this business say they will do anything, say nothing will hold them back, they will put their bodies on the line. Bitches, please: ANYONE in this business worth their salt will say and do those things. Anyone will fly through the air, will burst through tables, will bust out the thumbtacks, will use “friends” to get ahead. But will they do these things...will they fight for what they believe in...at any cost?

At ANY cost?

I will. And I have.

Melissa? I love you as a partner and a sister. You know this. And we both know that we do not agree with everything I do. We do not agree with the lengths I would go. You said it yourself that if I did something underhanded, or as I would say...strategic...as jump the champs from behind, then there would be no team.

Such is why we are no longer partners.

I went to Mister Night and told him that, as I had stated in other venues before, I agreed with him on his position that wrestlers ruin wrestling. People like the Paragon of Mediocrity and wastes of space like your old boytoy ruin what this business is supposed to be about. People like the goddamn paper champions waste our goddamn air, much less our ring. So I laid out a plan for him: I would destroy those paper champions, I would ruin them, and in return, he would have a glorious champion, a champion he could hang his name on.

You.

But...well...we both know that we cannot be together. We both know that, at some point in time, I will set someone on fire and ruin your trust as a partner. So I ended our partnership in that meeting with Mister Night. I then went out and crushed Daisy’s ankle and became the Chairwoman. I did not necessarily suggest that Chuckles become your partner, and that moron doesn’t even realize the easy battle I gave him, as Daisy’s ankle will be NOWHERE NEAR ready to go by the 23rd, but there it is.

Thank you for everything, Melissa. Thank you for the support. Thank you for the advice and Big Sister perspective. Thank you for helping me swallow my pride and work with you, even if I DO still feel slimy whenever I walk into a GrayFoote gym.

Thank you. And good luck.

Kill them for me.

The other thing that has everyone going “Whaaaaa?” like Jerry the Minion in Despicable Me?

Gregory vs. Lacklan.

How did that happen?

Simple:

I am the Firestarter. I am THE PERSON who deserves the title shot. I am THE PERSON who has done exactly what they said they would their entire stay in FSociety. I am THE PERSON who has carried this company for the last four months. THE PERSON doing all the interviews. THE PERSON doing all the hype. THE PERSON representing everything this business stands for. And when I pitched the idea to Mister Night? He nearly came in his goddamn pants at the thought of the Bloodletter, the Movie Star, taking down the champion and being the FINAL FSociety World Champion.

Hey, Champ! Is this rambling enough for you? Good fuck, you are going to listen to EVERY GODDAMN RAMBLING WORD AND YOU WILL LOVE IT!

And furthermore!

I-

……………………………

Wait…

…………………………

I...I um...I am getting a phone call. Every knows not to call this number unless its-

………………………

………………………

Oh...oh damn. Um...I need to take this. Um...Denizens, this is...um...Trump’s Favorite Princ-


~~Saturday, April 15th, 2017: Off Camera~~

Sarah looks at the phone in her hand, anxiety filling her in a way she had not felt in weeks. The feeling of dread, initially pushed away by a cocktail of DRIVE, amphetamines, and liquor, and by the wild lifestyle she had lived with Kenzi in recent weeks, assaulted her like a stake being driven through the heart. Her fingers trembled as she stared at the name calling, a name which had only reason to call.

First Citizen.

Those shaking fingers bring the phone to her head, hand trembling so bad as to make her entire head bob.

“Skeeter?”

“Littul Sistur.” The voice on the other end was a heavy Arkansas accent. Most people had difficulty understanding what the mountain man had to say, but she had understood him from the first day. “Ah’m sawrry to say but Ah has sum bad noos.”

Sarah’s body slumps, her mouth going dry.

“My father...is...is he…?”

She cannot even get the word out of her mouth. The reality of his condition, the inevitability of his cancer, had weighed down on her the last six months since he had told her. Her nightmares of this moment were fresh in her mind.

“Naw, Littul Sistur, not right yet. He’s still alive, Ah reckin, but just burly. He can’t stand up on his own, ner get outta bed, ner even really see good. Ah dun all Ah kin do fer ‘im. And he’s been a’callin fer ye. He needs ye, Littul Sistur. This hur...Ah reckin this hur mat be it.”

Sarah nods, not even coherent enough to realize that he could not see. Luckily, she gives voice to the nod.

“Of course. We...we will be there as soon as possible. We…”

The phone falls out of her hand as her body slumps forward to the ground, landing on her knees. She sees nothing, hears nothing.

“Babe? You okay in there?”

Kenzi walks into the room and sees her Princess on her knees. She runs over to her and drops to her knees before her. She takes Sarah's head in her hands and looks into her red eyes.

“Sar?!”

Sarah looks blankly at her, taking a few moments to realize where she is. Was she on the floor? How did she end up on the floor? She was sitting...

"Got a bad phone call during my vlog. I think Father is dying. We need to go. Now."

Each word delivered in a monotone catches Kenzi's attention better than the words themselves.

"Baby..." She hugs Sarah, kissing her cheek. "...I'll get everything packed, have Frick and Frack get the car."

Kenzi bounds to her feet and runs into the room dedicated to Sarah’s clothing. Sarah does not hear the frantic gathering of clothing and travel belongings, does not hear the slams and curses. Her mind can only fall back to memories of her father. The times they sat back to back, supporting each other. Training together. Reading together. Laughing and dancing. Celebrating birthdays. Shedding a tear on the birthday of her mother. Always together. And now…

“Everything is ready,” says Kenzi, as she comes back into the room. “I let everyone know online that we were heading to Maine and to text me if they need anything. Mel called-”

She notices that Sarah is still kneeling on the floor, still staring. Her face is whiter than anything she has ever seen before, and that was certainly saying something for the albino vampire child. She rushes over to Sarah and lends her a hand, helping her to her feet. She sits her back in the computer chair from which she had initially fell.

“I will get Frick and Frack working on the bags and will take care of transportation. You just...um...sit here? I guess?”

“Good...good…”

Sarah’s voice is as hollow and far gone as her face. Kenzi bites her lip and rubs Sarah’s shoulder, but then does not hesitate. She has Frick and Frack taking everything down to the car in short order, her fingers flashing across her phone to make sure that a plane is available. Being a legitimate star in Hollywood has its perks, at times. Before long, she has thrown one of Sarah’s long coats across her shoulders and was leading her down the elevator and to the waiting car.

Everything was a blur to Sarah for the next several hours. Sights and sounds flew by without recognition. The only reality to her was Kenzi’s hand clutching hers, an anchor of strength against the anxiety and worry which assaulted her. Her body and mind craved a hit of something, whether it be out of a bottle or a vial of red powder up her nose, anything to push away the thoughts going through her head. The images of nightmares living. The thought of the only man who mattered in her life, of the only family member she had ever had, being taken from her. Anything to push those thoughts away.

She does not notice being rushed through security. Does not notice boarding the airplane. Does not feel the take-off or the turbulence during the early-morning flight. Even touching down at Bangor International Airport did not help her focus on anything other than memories of her father. Memories of grand balls and galas. Memories of lessons on how to manipulate and control people. Memories of waiting in the lobby of the hospital during his treatments. Memories of when he told her the truth of his condition, that he only had months to live.

The cold air of her homeland finally brings her back to reality. That famous Maine chill strikes her face and makes her gasp, her body tingling. Red eyes look around to see Kenzi next to her, worry and concern etched on her dark face, along with Frick and Frack carrying their bags. She is outside the airport and heading towards a long black car, the license plate clear in its exempt status. She was home. A man in a black suit, hair cut short to match that of her other two bodyguards, opens the door for her, and she is soon driving away, Kenzi’s hand clutching hers tightly.

The scenery flies by in a bit of a blur as a light rain begins to fall. Part of her mind wanders and giggles about how today’s forecast in Hollywood was all sunshine and not a cloud in the sky. Back in her life of fantasy. Back in her life of love, lust, and wild adventures with Kenzi. But here in reality, here in the darkness of her homeland, it rained with misery. Scenery flashes by. The checkpoint manned by two guards who saluted her, leading into the compound, into Lacklanland. The green grass, a green so bright that no one in California would believe her, the lushness that could only happen in Maine after a cold, snowy winter. Past the lines of houses of people who had followed her father across his career, believing in his message of being God’s Voice. She could see some of them, a few in fields even in the mounting rain, dealing with crops or animals. Past the famous blueberry farm where they produced the brightest and sweetest fruits you could imagine. Down Main Street and all its shops, the spectre of the Manor large and daunting, the spire that was part of Selena’s Square, the gathering place of the Denizens, piercing into the sky.

Out of the car and walking through the garden, Sarah finds it hard to breath. Kenzi clutching her hand, nearly painfully, helps to keep her in the here-and-now. She barely noticed the bowing of peasants on a normal day, and today is even worse: She simply sees dark blobs on the edge of her vision moving somewhat. She has noticed that her guard increased from Frick and Frack to an entire unit, 12 in total. She is not surprised; after all, even in the safety of the Manor, the presence of the Blood Princess and her Consort demanded extra attention. She was proud of her guard, what with their pressed and lined uniforms, their silver pins of rank shining in even the deepest of gloom.

Through doors, across rooms, up stairs. She finally finds them stopped before the door leading to her father’s room. She turned to give instructions to the guard, but Kenzi raises a hand a gives a few signals, silently communicating to them to stay outside the room. When did she start learning the sign language she had created for them? Kenzi was so full of surprises. Kenzi offers her a smile and Sarah tries to return one, but does not think she succeeded. Turning and squeezing Kenzi’s hand, she opens the door.

The stench of death nearly overwhelms her. The dark room is lit by candlelight and the bright glow of medical equipment. The room is silent aside from a gentle hum from the equipment and the steady beep of a heart monitor. She sees Skeeter, the First Citizen, standing to the side of her father’s bed, his dark hair and beard as wild as ever. Getting closer, she sees that they have far more grey than the last time she saw him. And was that a patch over his right eye? Had he lost an eye?!

Her eyes turn to the figure on the bed, a white sheet covering the massive frame of the man she grew up with. She glides over to him, her eyes shining with wetness, as she looks down at him. No mask today, the red and purple burn scars covering every inch of his scalp and face out for all to see, only the black hunk of metal attached to his nose and mouth, wires trailing down to pierce his throat, covering part of his face. That hunk of metal had allowed him to talk in a fashion for the last few months, the cancer attacking every organ viciously, including his vocal chords. She reaches down to touch his face, her delicate porcelain fingers standing out bright against the burns. He was beautiful.

“Sarah?”

His voice is labored, even more so than it always has been. His had always been a strong and deep baritone, a voice that commanded and demanded, but the sickness had taken away so much of that. But he still sounded like an angel to her. She takes her hand and finds one of his.

"I am here, Father. As are my Beloved and the First Citizen."

Her voice sounds hollow to her own ears and her throat hurts. She does not recall speaking any words to anyone since getting Skeeter’s phone call the night before. How did she even get here? Her thoughts are interrupted as her father nods his head slowly.

"I...gave my...life...to my mission. I fought..." His voice trails off, but Sarah squeezes his hand, trying to hold onto him. He continues. "I...I fought for...what was worth...fighting for. Did...did I defeat...the Ashtons?"

The Ashtons? Texas? That was months ago. Did he know where and when he was? Looking into his eyes, she sees that they are milky, cloudy. The blue was hidden behind cataracts.

"Um...Father...you have not fought in months. But you did fight them in December."

"Did...did I win?"

She does not immediately respond. How to tell him? How to tell him how his final battle in the ring came to an end? And what did it matter now? So she settles on that.

"Does it matter?"

He chuckles softly.

"I...I suppose not. But...I did fight...for what mattered...for what was...worth...fighting for, did I not? I...I fought for her."

Sarah can feel her tears break free of her eyes and fall atop her father. “Her.” Nikita. The woman he had learned to love over the last year. Nikita did not return the love, of course, but that did not matter. That he could learn to love again after so long, after her own mother had died the day she was born, had been a wonderful lesson to learn, and had been one of the cornerstones of her own young career: Fight for what mattered.

"Sarah? I...was a...terrible friend. But I...I tried to...to be a good father...please forgive my...failings."

She sobs. She cannot help it. Tears fall freely. She wants to tell him that he was the most amazing father a daughter could ever hope for. He was strong and loving, giving her a side which he never gave the world. He was everything to her. But all she could give him were tears falling onto his face.

"Give...give her my love. Even...even if...she does not want it. Please."

"Of course."

It is all she can croak out, but it seems to be enough.

"Good...good...Light...Light be with you...Sarah."

He closes his eyes. Sarah’s mouth goes dry. The insensate beeping sound of the heart monitor turns to a single long whine.

“Father?”

Silence.

“Father?!”

She is pulled away by unseen hands as men and women in white rush in.

“DADDY?!”

Tears fall like the rain pelting outside as she flails her arms, hands turning to fists, fists connecting solidly with flesh. A male grunt is all she hears as she is taken from the room by Skeeter, her Wolf, Kenzi right behind them. Tears flow like the Penobscot River overflowing as she lays on the ground in the hall outside, Kenzi holding her, Skeeter standing by the door. By the time the man in white comes out, his face dour, to tell her that he was gone, she had no more tears left. It was fitting, part of her mind supposed, a part of her mind that was still aware of her surroundings. After all, there was not enough moisture in the world to give adequate tears for this truth:

Jean-Paul Lacklan had closed his eyes and embraced the Light.

Kenzi would later tell her that she was in shock, but Sarah felt calm as she walked away from that room of death. Felt calm as she brought out her phone to make a call. Kenzi would later tell her that she had paced frantically as she made the call, had said over and again, “please pick up please pick up please pick up please” as the phone rang. But Sarah felt calm as the voice on the other end answered.

“Kid?”

“Yes, Sensei. I have news. He...he…”

When did she end up on the ground? Why was she on her knees? She was crying again? She thought she had run out of tears.

“He is gone, Nikita.”

Kenzi would later tell her that those four words were wailed out, that she had nearly screamed hysterically into the phone, but she felt that they were calm. Collected. Royal, even.

Silence. The silence hurt. Her ears hurt. Her eyes. Her head. It was hard to breathe.

“I...I will be there tonight, dearie.”

Sarah thought she said something after that. Probably had a nice witticism for her trainer and matron figure. But she does not remember much after that. She knows hours went by, knows that the public had been informed, that the Lacklanland flag was being flown at half-mast. She knows that there are meetings to hold over the next few days, meetings to make big decisions. Service to prepare. She is sure she and members of the compound spoke of them. But everything seems in a blur.

She does not remember Nikita entering the compound. She does not remember the raven-haired beauty with the green eyes making the entrance that would leave all but Lacklan family members on their knees, but she was there. The Marchioness Dolore ranked only just below the Lacklan proper, though she loathed the title more than could be imagined, but she had earned it for both the training she had provided Sarah and for the maternal love she had imparted. She does remember seeing that Nikita’s face was more lined than the last time she saw, her eyes more sunken. Her solitude in Canada had difficult, it seemed.

She remembers little of the whirlwind day. At times it seemed like only moments since her vlog had been interrupted by Skeeter, others as if it had been days. But one final feeling and memory lodged itself into her brain for eternity:

As she laid on a couch in the Great Hall, Kenzi by her feet with a hand on her legs, she laid her head on Nikita’s lap, her platinum hair running down her legs, her sensei's hand stroking. She cannot know how long she cried, cannot know how many people she would drown in her tears, but for the death of her father, there would never be enough.


~~Wednesday, April 19th, 2017: On Camera~~


Deep within the labyrinth that was Lacklan Manor there stands a gymnasium. It is old, both in age and in philosophy, a building furnished simply with equipment that had been made at a time when things were meant to last. Racks of dumbbells ranging from 2.5 pounds to 130, power sleds and thick ropes, medicine balls and barbells. But what the FSociety camera finds with its lens is what any athlete both loves and fears, both looks forward to and dreads:

The power rack.

An open cage of death that pushes any and all through their paces, pressing them to add one more micro plate, one more rep. It is comforting in its safety and cold it its unforgiving nature. Squats, press, rows, deadlifts, overhead, all of the Big Five find their place here.

But at this moment? Resting on the sixth pin from the ground?

An empty bar.

“My name is Lacklan.”

The voice of Sarah Selena Lacklan comes from behind the camera. It is light and airy, the soft “ahhh” sounds of her A’s putting truth to the legend of her surprising Londoner accent. But even here, thus far a faceless voice, a voice without body, there is a profound sadness. The voice has found loss, a great loss.

“Those were the first words I spoke to this company, Tyson. Four words that I allowed to breath in silence, that I allowed to rest so that the world could feel their weight. I then told the story of my father, of the Savior of Professional Wrestling, the man who fought as God’s Voice to save as many people from the coming reckoning as he could. The man who did what he could, whatever he could, to drag people to the Path of Light. To save them. To save you. And as I said five months ago...as I say now...you are not worth it.”

Sarah walks into the frame. She is dressed for a workout, which means barely dressed at all. She is of a relatively lithe build, with no more than a decent bust, but with legs larger than that of many men. She wears a skin-tight black sports bra and matching shorts, each with red and orange flames, so tight as to see the curves and points of her femininity. Her bright white skin, the skin of the albino child so mocked and pointed at her entire life, stands out in sharp contrast to the attire, her equally bright platinum hair pulled up into a tight bun. Her eyes, the red tint affecting an even smaller percentage of her rare breed, blaze out from her eyes. Not a single line of makeup adorns her face, not an ounce of her warpaint.

“I know your kind, Tyson. Strong of body, sharp of wit, but slow to the take emotionally. Your kind has infected this business with needless and senseless bravado for generations. Your kind has caused the need for me, caused the need for God’s wrath. People like you, your kind, are why I am the Light Incarnate.”

She looks off camera for a moment, red eyes moving rapidly, as if searching all around.

“You see, Sir, I spent my entire life traveling around the world to watch my father destroy little boys like you. Oh, certainly, you are a full grown man, yes? Your body is filled out, your muscles large. I myself have made plenty of comments about your abs. But over this life of mine, over 15 years of traveling along with my father to learn from him, to bask in his holy glow, I watched your kind fall time and again. I watched my father drop your kind on their heads, make them cry out in pain and anguish, beg for forgiveness, and ultimately be sent into silence with the Knocker. And now it is my turn to follow my father’s path and to fulfill my own destiny.

“An interesting thing about this, though: This moment? Just a few days from now when you and I face for the FSociety Championship? It barely matters to me. Oh, winning this title, my first title, is momentous, certainly. After all, it will be my first, yes? Not just my first title...but my first World Title. The face of a company. The future and final FSociety champion. But in that proverbial grand scheme of things? When the history books recount my life and career? When wrestlers of the future study who and what I was, when they study the Revolution?”

Sarah shakes her head slowly.

“They will not remember you. The books? They will not even list your name. I highly doubt they will even mention the name of the company. Just a small footnote of when I won my first championship. One of many in a long career that changed the business.

“And change it shall, Sir. This is not like the hubris of a woman declaring the most desirable or the idiocy of the ongoing debate over the ownership of the term greatest of all time. No...no...my future was decreed by God himself. THAT is fact, Sir. THAT is reality. From the day I arrived I spoke of the Revolution, of hoisting the banner and the colors of the red and black. Hugo long ago taught us the colors of the revolution and I have embodied that, I have embraced it, though I imagine you and your kind are not well-read enough to understand the significance. I imagine very little of what I say and do is truly understood by you. Me and my ‘rambling’ promos which go nowhere. By all means, Sir, nod your head and smile, pretend to understand even a small portion of the words I use, and enjoy your blissful ignorance.”

Sarah turns and looks at the empty bar sitting on the rack. She walks over to it and places her hand upon it, the bar resting on pins that keep it just below the line of her shoulders.

“Do you know what this is, Tyson? This empty bar right here? It is more than just 45 pounds of metal. More than just three sets of knurling to dig into your hands and traps. It is a milestone...but only for those who do not understand the journey. A milestone...but only for those whom are short-sighted.”

She runs her hand over the bar, her bare hands touching those pebbles of knurling, fingers caressing the smooth sections of the metal.

“I was fourteen years old when my father let me come into this gym as more than just a spectator. From my oldest memories, I would come and sit here for voyeuristic pleasure, watching my father work and punish his body, and those of others, with a fervor and dedication that could only be called holy. My father was ever penitent and understood the importance of building your body as well as your mind and spirit. And on my fourteenth birthday he allowed me to join him. Father and daughter. Lifting together.”

A small smile comes to the naturally red lips.

“Many men think that they can do anything without training, without preparation. That needless and senseless bravado of which I spoke earlier. They grab plates and throw them onto the bar and prepare to squat or lift...and they fall. They are off balance, do not know how to stand, and are too sure of their own meager strength. But my father? A wise man. A man that understood the importance of this empty bar.”

She pats the bar.

“Most women, including me, start without the bar. The squat down with but their own weight, learning the balance, learning the form. And then they work up, adding dumbbells, until they are ready for the bar. Just an empty bar. But that first time they slip underneath it? The first time the knurling pieces their traps and weighs them down? It is painful. It is heavy. Their knees hurt as they break the pane below. They struggle on the way back up.

“But it is a myth, Sir. The empty bar? It is only a milestone for the meager. It is only something important for those that lack that foresight to see their whole lives and careers before them. For the empty bar? The 45 pounds? It is quickly passed and forgotten. Lifted for the first time on Monday, a new personal record, and then 50 pounds on Wednesday, two micro-plates on each side. What was, to some, the unbelievable goal of the empty bar, is just something gone in the blink of an eye for those with a true passion for glory. I, myself, barely smirked at this empty bar as I passed it by. And now? At nineteen with a full five years of lifting experience? It is not even a warm up. I slip under the bar for five reps, just to make sure my balance is right, just to make sure my mind is prepared. And then I add 25-pound plates. And then 45. And then up to 225. Nearly 100 pounds over my bodyweight. Almost.”

Sarah pats the bar again, turning back to the camera.

“To answer the question of your betrothed, ‘What does empty bar even mean?’ You, Tyson, are this empty bar.”

She turns back to it, running her hands over it again.

“You are not even a milestone. You are a figment of quality to lesson men and women, an imaginary boogeyman to those who do not know or understand their worth. But me? The Blood Princess? The progeny of wrestling’s salvation? You are not even a footnote, not even a name worth recording. Reality, Sir, is that you lost this match the moment it was signed into existence.”

She turns back to the camera.

“But for you? This match matters. After all, much to the chagrin of my detractors, the failed reporters and gamer girls, and even the gypsy women who ought to look into the mirror before they dare to give life advice, reality is that I have never lost. Oh, I have been unsuccessful in multi-person matches where I did not necessarily have to be involved in the finish. Oh, I had a match that was a draw. But as I have told people repeatedly, even the ‘legend’ that was the emerald, the next time my shoulders are pinned to the mat...it will be the first. While a win for me, a title victory for me, will be so minor in my revolution as to be barely remembered by posterity, a win for you would truly be momentous and memorable. The first time someone could actually defeat the Blood Princess.

“But I am prepared for you, Sir. Even in the darkness of my father’s passing, even in this time of mourning and living under the veil, I have kept up by training. I have lifted my weights, I have gone on my runs, I glided to and through the ropes of the ring within this very building. And I am bringing you my very best, Sir. I am not doing my usual routine of snorting a line of DRIVE and going off on some vlog like any 19-year-old might do. I am not going on half-cocked adventures where I get arrested. I am not engaging you on social media where you and your imbecilic circle can attack me with gifs and insults about the way I look. Gifs will not win this match for you, Sir. Mocking my voice or coloring or upbringing, which you personally have done from the moment we ran into each other online seven or eight months ago, will not win you the day. Nothing in your usual repertoire will win this match for you.”

She licks her lips, a small small coming to her face, her red eyes shining.

“I am coming for you, Tyson. I am coming for you, Empty Bar. So...gif me. Mock me. Bring every jest you have, every friend or family member you can gather online. Bring every weak insult. Bring every reference to an overweight journalist. Bring it all. You will need every bit of it, every part of your weaponry, every item within your arsenal. And in that proverbial end? It will not be enough. You will not be enough.

“Because...as I said in the very beginning...as I say now at the end...there is no salvation. No hope. I ascend to the Red Queen soon, I follow my father in a matter of moments. But in this moment? What matters to you? What matters to the end of your legacy?

“I am the firestarter. And I ride the flames.”

~~Friday, April 21st, 2017: Off Camera~~

The week of mourning in Lacklanland went faster than Sarah had ever dreamed was possible. While that first WRETCHED day had seemed to both fly by in a blur and yet last forever, the following days shot by with an impossible speed. She had gone on radio silence after her father’s death, had spent the day crying off-and-on with Kenzi and Nikita, and had Kenzi put out the notice of his passing. But the following day the fog of confusion and sadness somewhat lifted so that she could get a few things done. And there was so much to be done.

She spent most of that first day either in meetings with senior members of the Lacklanland staff, including the dreaded team of lawyers for the estate, making decisions she did not want to make but had been prepped for months in advance. Given six months to live eight months ago, her father had trained her on what to say and what to decide, so little was left as a surprise.

When not in meetings, she spent as much time as possible making physical contact with Kenzi, her hugs and squeezes of her hands helping keep her mind and thoughts where they should be. She even spent a good deal of time sitting with her in their favorite position, one holding the other from behind so that they could both see each other’s phone, but instead of playing their favorite game (Two Hawt Chicks Being Dumb on Twitter), she spent the time composing haiku in her lover’s honor. They were not good by any stretch of the imagination, but they carried her heart. The issue of intimacy between them, the thing that kept them unequal and sometimes brought her to tears, had been brought to the forefront the week before. They were far closer union than they had been even 10 days before, and Sarah would not give her up for the world.

A sweet surprise was waiting for her that Monday evening: Her “sister” Stacy Sterling flew in to spend time with her. Stacy had battled her father in Dallas the prior year and those matches had brought the two women close together. Most did not understand their Anna/Elsa routine, could not understand what they meant to each other, but the two understood each other perfectly. Having Stacy, Kenzi, and Nikita all there for her, her sister, lover, and matron figure, helped her tremendously.

Tuesday and Wednesday were days busy with training and preparing for the funeral on Friday. Her mind was split between the needs of being a world-class athlete and honoring her father along with making important decisions for the Lacklan Estate going forward, but her support group was there to carry her when she fell. Kenzi tweeted and blogged about the weirdness and oddity of living in Lacklanland, from the relative cold to the sheer awesomeness of having so many servants to take care of her every want or need. Nikita gritted her teeth any time a servant referred to her as “Marchioness Dolore,” but every bothersome grunt made Sarah smile. She wished Stacy luck in Dallas and would look forward to seeing her return with Adrien on Friday.

She finally started being herself socially by Thursday. She began to find her humor online, began to flirt with Mason and Mama Bae again, began to play her silly games with Kenzi again. There was a profound sadness within her, a hole that she felt could never be filled, but she knew her father would be disappointed if she did not endeavor to be her best at all times. She trained. She ate. She laughed when she could. She found time to make love with Kenzi to help them both grieve. She found time to be her.

Friday and the service came before she knew it. It was raining that morning...of course it was raining on a random April day in Maine...but it simply added to the mood. Men and women dressed in black arrived in droves, from high-ranking members of Maine’s political class, including Governor LePage, a man who many say got into office because her Jean-Paul Lacklan’s wealth and influence, to the relative aristocracy, to every single Denizen with the borders of Lacklanland.

Dressed in a black dress with red highlights, a black veil clipped into a platinum updo to cover her face, Sarah was every inch the Blood Princess and daughter of the patriarch being remembered. Kenzi was at her side the whole day, of course, dressed in her own black skirt and top, her long braids pulled back in a tail, a small tiara pressed into the top. She had fought the addition of tiara with much aplomb, but Sarah had insisted that her Consort look the part. Sarah was visited by every person in attendance, of course, accepting condolences and commiserations, but what truly caught her eye and tugged at her heart were the larger-than-life people there, her father’s peers.

Stacy Sterling and Adrien Cochrane were there, of course, supporting their “sis.” Stacy respected her father both as a warrior and a man, and that respect was a cornerstone of her and Sarah’s sisterhood.

Blasted Monk, her lover from the prior year, also made an appearance, though only for a moment. He respected her father greatly, had had words and a cigar with him on more than one occasion, but Sarah’s betrayal of his clansman Song forever put a wall between them. Sarah had blatantly lied to them both about her affections for Kenzi, who at the time had been Song’s girlfriend, but that had been a relationship worthy of discarding in Sarah’s mind. After all, she fought for what she wanted, fought for what mattered, and was willing to attain what she wanted at all costs.

Truly breathtaking for her was the contingent from Classic Wrestling from Texas, one of the companies her father had a Hall of Fame ring from. Johnny Bonecrusher, the Grumpy Cat of Wrestling, was there, sunglasses and all. He even reminded her that...yes...her father had hit him in the head with the Knocker on the first CWT show! But he wanted to make one thing PERFECTLY CLEAR: He respected her dastardly father.

Andrew Ashton, one of her father’s greatest rivals, was there. She and him had spent plenty of time over the last year trolling each other when they had the opportunity, and he did not waste the opportunity to ask, “Hey...your dad dead, yet?” Classy, as always. She hoped he never changed. He spent most of his time with his great friend, Nikita, the Marchioness Dolore cringing every time someone bowed to her or mentioned her title.

The Sons of Swag were there, surprising her with their unity. Dexter and Benny had “broken up,” as it were, over the rumor that Benny had slept with Dexter’s ex-wife Zoe Chaos. At this point Benny had neither confirmed nor denied the charge, which just exasperated the situation, and the two had even come to blows over it. But Skeeter, the First Citizen, her Wolf who had done his best to keep her father comfortable these past few months, stood between them, keeping the peace. She was proud of him, proud of them. One final ride for the Swag Brothers.

Others were there, faces she recognized from her childhood. Shane Donovan. Stevie Swing. Casanova. Shane Clemmons. Name after name, battle after battle. Men her father bled with, fought against, became family to. It was nearly overwhelming.

The service was provided over by Doctor Andrews, their family physician. Doctor Andrews had delivered her father, and her beside, and had, in true Shakespearean tragedy, put both her grandparents and now both her parents into the ground. He spoke at length of her father’s lengthy career, of his mission, of his fervent believe in God. The Lacklanland High Madrigal Choir sang beautiful hymns. The marching band played the anthem. It was beautiful.

And while his body was in a casket to be laid next to that of her mother, many of his wrestling belongings were set in a pile, set upon a stage to be looked at and pondered and wondered over. Various ring jackets and gear, gloves and pads. His original white mask, his final black affair which covered his entire head and protected his burned face.

The final moment had come. A few words from his daughter, the Blood Princess, she who was under the veil. Sarah turned to her beloved, her dark goddess Mackenzie, and asked an odd request:

“Record this, please. Let the world see.”

~~Friday, April 21st, 2017: On Camera, filmed from Kenzi Michaela Grey’s iPhone 7~~

Sarah Selena Lacklan approaches the pile of her father’s memorabilia. The short girl glides across the expanse of bright green grass away from the wall of darkness that was the guests and well-wishers. She looks upward into the heavens, the black mesh veil clinging to her face with wetness, and smirks: Like God himself shining down, the rain had stopped a while ago, the clouds beginning to part. This was her moment.

She approaches the microphone, her family physician stepping away, giving her her moment. She pulls down the microphone to be closer to her level, though it was still a touch too high, her height often annoying for moments such as this. She looks over the crowd, the crowd full of Denizens, state representatives, and wrestlers, and waits until she is sure every person in the crowd is waiting on her, focused on her.

“I had come here to read a haiku I had written for Father.”

Her voice is light, much of the sadness heard just a few days before seemingly gone, the flighty Sarah of old seeming to be standing before them.

“And written it I have. But sharing…”

She shakes her head.

“That I shall not do. This...this is for my father.”

Reaching into her coat, she pulls out an envelope. The word “Father” is written in red ink in her fine hand and, after a moment to regard it, she places it onto the pile of his belongings, in between the two masks which defined so much of his career. She returns to the microphone.

“This moment...this time...is about more than just mourning my father. It is about more than just mourning the Voice of God. A wise man, a man standing on this very green, once told a wrestling journalist to leave the dead for the dead. And so I...and we...shall. Leave the dead for the dead.”

She pauses, looking out over the group.

“My name is Sarah Selena Lacklan. You know me as the Blood Princess, the daughter of the Voice of God, the Mountain King. But the King? He is dead. Long live the King. And my ascension...it is now.”

Sarah takes her hands and pulls off the veil, fully revealing her impossibly red eyes blazing out from the dark wings painted out from her eyes, her high cheekbones standing strong and powerful in the murky light.

“My father raised me not to just be his daughter, not to just carry on the line of Lacklans, but to ascend to the throne of wrestling, to destroy all that failed to live up to God’s vision, to end the careers, dreams, and aspirations of those that fall short. And my time to do so? It is now. I cast off the silly dreams of childhood, cast off the mantle of baseless hope, and face the world as I was born and meant to be.”

Sarah turns to the pile of memorabilia.

“This moment? We say goodbye to what came before. We say goodbye to my father, to Jean-Paul Lacklan, to the Mountain King…”

She turns back to the crowd.

“...and we say hello to me. To the future and final FSociety World Champion. To the standard of excellence for this business from this moment forward. To the woman that the future will remember both with love and fear. To the force of reckoning, HIS reckoning, God’s wrath, that shall leave every bravado-filled man-child trembling and burning. To the Light Incarnate.”

She pauses, licking her lips, her eyes blazing.

“Raise the Fist.”

Though the Denizen’s were accustomed to a deep baritone making that command, and not the light and airy Londoner accent of the girl, fists by the hundreds were raised in unison, slamming into chests. Wrestlers and politicians alike look around in stunned silence, the control over the men and women in matching black unnerving even for those closest to her. Sarah smiles fully at the display, eyes blazing even more.

“My name is Lacklan. And I am the Red Queen. Bow on your own accord...or be forced to your knees...either way...the world shall bow. The flames...the flames...they come. NOW.”

~~FIN~~