To Watch Your World Burn
Jan 8, 2013 21:31:05 GMT -5
Post by Vinny on Jan 8, 2013 21:31:05 GMT -5
It towers over the surrounding area of wild grass and overgrowth, a towering monolith, a tribute to a bygone era. In its heyday, St. John the Revelator's Church had a pair of ornate Gothic spires that pierced the sky as they rose towards heaven. But today those spires have collapsed upon themselves under the weight disregard and disrepair. St. John the Revelator's has been abandoned for a long time and forgotten for longer still.
Inside, what paint remains attached to the walls is crumbling and peeling. Most of the pews are splintered and shattered; the stained glass windows are smashed and shards lie askew amongst the overgrowth that has crept inside of what were once the long aisles. The Stations of the Cross are barely recognizable under the dirt, grime and film that has caked on to them over the years. The baptismal font is cracked, but standing still, a host to a mildewy stagnant pool of no-longer-holy water.
Sunlight cascades through the remnants of the windows and the remains of the vaulted ceiling, casting long beams of lights and longer shadows. The dust motes float between the light and dark, appearing and disappearing, the sole inhabitants of the old church. A wind kicks up, blowing the scattered leaves and specks of snow through the air.
The sound of a heavy creaking door echoes from the bank of confessional booths along the right wall of the antechamber and through the empty space. Emerging from one of the booths is Malcolm Drake. Drake – attired in a black hoodie with white drawstrings, tattered and ripped jeans and a pair of black combat boots – skids across the tiled floor and into the center of the church. He pushes the matted strands of his hair off his brow and gazes up at the empty hole where the roof used to be.
Closing his eyes, Drake extends his arms out to sides, slowly spins himself in a circle and lets out a loud, bellowing scream that scatters the birds perched atop the roof. Drake's scream turns into a low rumbling laugh as he collapses into a cross-legged seat in the middle of the cross-aisles.
“When I was a boy,” Drake says in a slightly-louder-than-hushed tone, “my father used to take me to church. Not here. But a similar enough place. I was just a little, little boy. And he would dress me up in these cheap dress-up clothes that itched and pinched...”
Drake hugs his arms around his body and begins to squeeze as if trying to give himself a bearhug. He begins rocking back and forth.
“I couldn't BREATHE in those clothes. I HATED them. But every Sunday I would put them on. I would TRY to be a good, little boy and say my prayers and sit ssstill and be... shhhh... quiet... But I couldn't. I just couldn't. And my father... My... father... would get angrier and angrier. And in the car rides home he would YELL at me and he would say, 'MALCOLM, YOUR BEHAVIOR IN MASS TODAY WAS ABYSMAL!”
Drake pulls a hand away from his body to wag a finger at the air while shouting his imitation of his father. When he finishes the arm immediately returns to its clutch.
“I didn't even know what abysmal meant. Not literally. But I knew...”
Drake voices begins quivering and his rocking back-and-forth becomes more pronounced as his body shakes.
“...I knew what it would mean f-f-f-fffor ME. It meant I would be... punished.”
Abruptly, Drake stops twitching. He stops rocking. He stops moving altogether with the exception of the rise and fall of his shoulders with each inhalation and exhalation. Then, he pops up to his feet and with his back turned he begins slowly pacing the aisle towards the altar. His voice no longer ragged or frantic, he continues.
“And I think back on that now and on the hypocrisy of it all. We came to church to learn about love and forgiveness and wash ourselves clean of our iniquities and be bathed in...”
Drake stops. His head half-turned back over his shoulder.
“... purity.”
He spits onto the floor beside his feet, then begins walking forward again.
“You'll forgive me if I don't hold everything that CLAIMS to be PURE in such high regard. You'll forgive me that when I hear the word PURE I want to vomit and empty the bile of my stomach all over this PURITY. And you'll forgive me if I don't give a SH*T about the PURE title and its PURE tournament of disgusting PURITY.”
Drake's pacing brings him to the front of the church, before the main altar and a large statue of Jesus crucified on the cross. Considering the surroundings of the church, the statue has remained relatively in-tact. He pauses, looking the statue up and down once before sneering.
“But I didn't come here to find purity or forgiveness. I came here to try and find God. To try to find God... among men. But as you can see there is no God here. There is no. God. Anywhere. And there certainly won't be any God in Woodbridge, Connecticut on Saturday night when I crucify Alistair Mangold in the center of the ring.”
Drake walks away from the altar, rounding the corner back toward the bank of confessionals from which he emerged earlier. He runs a hand along the door of the closest confessional booth, giving it the once over.
“I'm not normally a man for confessions. I don't feel the need to make apologies for who I AM and what I DO. But some of youuu out there don't seem to like me very much, so let me do this for you one-time. I confess. I confess that I have sinful thoughts and VIOLENT intentions rattling around in my brain for Saturday night. I confess that I covet the spot on the card reserved for goody-two-shoes do-gooders like Alistair Mangold. I confess that what I plan to do to Mangold on Saturday night... won't be very Christian. And I confess that I don't give a damn about what anyone thinks of me or what I have to do; I am walking out of Woodbridge, Connecticut victorious with my hands stained in the blood of a so-called 'God'.”
Drake wrings his hands together staring down at them, before slowly raising his gaze and staring through the limp strands of his hair.
“That's quite the bombastic little nickname you've given yourself, Al. The 'God Among Men.' That's quite the boast. Tell me... what ridiculous moniker do you think they will bestow on the man who kills a God? Hmmm? 'Godkiller?' I don't mind the sound of that. But unlike youuu, AL, and unlike the other troglodytes in F.G.A. I'm not here for cutesy nicknames. I am here to do what I do best. What I love to do more than anything else in this world. I am here... to hurt people. To break bones. To crush spirits. To... erradicate. Inside and out.”
Drake grins before standing upright and shaking his hair out of his face.
“And for that there are certain... people who don't think I belong in this PURE wrestling tournament. People like Leon Corella who seems to think he's better than men like me and Dominic because he's spent more time in a singlet getting stretched by other 'better men' in singlets. Corella thinks that because he knows a few cute holds and a few neat moves that makes him better than Dominic. Better than ME. Hmmm. He says there's no place in a pure wrestling tournament for the likes of The Murder.”
Drake looks down at his feet with a smirk.
“Well maybe you're right, Corella. Maybe there is no place for us in this tournament. Maybe this tournament was designed by FRAUDS like you and Alistair Mangold to find a cheap way to weasel a victory over BETTER MEN THAN YOU... like Dominic and I. You close-minded sycophants like to live inside your little boxes and critique what 'real' wrestling is. REAL wrestling is my FIST... SHOVED down your tiny, little esophagus. Real wrestling is my foot CAVING IN your skull. You hide behind your little wall of 'purity' and say 'No! You're not allowed in our club! Real wrestlers only!'”
“Pathetic.”
The word twists in Drake's mouth into a scowl as he spits again onto the floor.
“Dominic and I, we don't WANT to be part of your little club. We don't WANT to be pure wrestlers in a pure wrestling tournament for a pure wrestling title. What we want... is to DEFILE your precious purity. We want to burn down this little shrine you've made to 'real wrestling' and PISS on the ashes. We want to watch your world burn to cinders until it's an empty husk just like this church.”
“We don't give a DAMN about being crowned the 'best pure wrestler in Frontier Grappling Arts.' We care about taking that away from youuu, Leon Corella, and you, Alistair Mangold, and from each and everyone else that holds that title in high regard. I am going to win this Pure wrestling tournament... and then I am going to defile your PRECIOUS little belt. And there is no man...”
Drake pauses, glancing back over his shoulder at the altar.
“Or GOD... that can stop me."
"Memento... mori.”
With that, Malcolm Drake stalks his way out the front door of the collapsing church and disappears from sight with his footsteps still echoing off the walls.
Inside, what paint remains attached to the walls is crumbling and peeling. Most of the pews are splintered and shattered; the stained glass windows are smashed and shards lie askew amongst the overgrowth that has crept inside of what were once the long aisles. The Stations of the Cross are barely recognizable under the dirt, grime and film that has caked on to them over the years. The baptismal font is cracked, but standing still, a host to a mildewy stagnant pool of no-longer-holy water.
Sunlight cascades through the remnants of the windows and the remains of the vaulted ceiling, casting long beams of lights and longer shadows. The dust motes float between the light and dark, appearing and disappearing, the sole inhabitants of the old church. A wind kicks up, blowing the scattered leaves and specks of snow through the air.
The sound of a heavy creaking door echoes from the bank of confessional booths along the right wall of the antechamber and through the empty space. Emerging from one of the booths is Malcolm Drake. Drake – attired in a black hoodie with white drawstrings, tattered and ripped jeans and a pair of black combat boots – skids across the tiled floor and into the center of the church. He pushes the matted strands of his hair off his brow and gazes up at the empty hole where the roof used to be.
Closing his eyes, Drake extends his arms out to sides, slowly spins himself in a circle and lets out a loud, bellowing scream that scatters the birds perched atop the roof. Drake's scream turns into a low rumbling laugh as he collapses into a cross-legged seat in the middle of the cross-aisles.
“When I was a boy,” Drake says in a slightly-louder-than-hushed tone, “my father used to take me to church. Not here. But a similar enough place. I was just a little, little boy. And he would dress me up in these cheap dress-up clothes that itched and pinched...”
Drake hugs his arms around his body and begins to squeeze as if trying to give himself a bearhug. He begins rocking back and forth.
“I couldn't BREATHE in those clothes. I HATED them. But every Sunday I would put them on. I would TRY to be a good, little boy and say my prayers and sit ssstill and be... shhhh... quiet... But I couldn't. I just couldn't. And my father... My... father... would get angrier and angrier. And in the car rides home he would YELL at me and he would say, 'MALCOLM, YOUR BEHAVIOR IN MASS TODAY WAS ABYSMAL!”
Drake pulls a hand away from his body to wag a finger at the air while shouting his imitation of his father. When he finishes the arm immediately returns to its clutch.
“I didn't even know what abysmal meant. Not literally. But I knew...”
Drake voices begins quivering and his rocking back-and-forth becomes more pronounced as his body shakes.
“...I knew what it would mean f-f-f-fffor ME. It meant I would be... punished.”
Abruptly, Drake stops twitching. He stops rocking. He stops moving altogether with the exception of the rise and fall of his shoulders with each inhalation and exhalation. Then, he pops up to his feet and with his back turned he begins slowly pacing the aisle towards the altar. His voice no longer ragged or frantic, he continues.
“And I think back on that now and on the hypocrisy of it all. We came to church to learn about love and forgiveness and wash ourselves clean of our iniquities and be bathed in...”
Drake stops. His head half-turned back over his shoulder.
“... purity.”
He spits onto the floor beside his feet, then begins walking forward again.
“You'll forgive me if I don't hold everything that CLAIMS to be PURE in such high regard. You'll forgive me that when I hear the word PURE I want to vomit and empty the bile of my stomach all over this PURITY. And you'll forgive me if I don't give a SH*T about the PURE title and its PURE tournament of disgusting PURITY.”
Drake's pacing brings him to the front of the church, before the main altar and a large statue of Jesus crucified on the cross. Considering the surroundings of the church, the statue has remained relatively in-tact. He pauses, looking the statue up and down once before sneering.
“But I didn't come here to find purity or forgiveness. I came here to try and find God. To try to find God... among men. But as you can see there is no God here. There is no. God. Anywhere. And there certainly won't be any God in Woodbridge, Connecticut on Saturday night when I crucify Alistair Mangold in the center of the ring.”
Drake walks away from the altar, rounding the corner back toward the bank of confessionals from which he emerged earlier. He runs a hand along the door of the closest confessional booth, giving it the once over.
“I'm not normally a man for confessions. I don't feel the need to make apologies for who I AM and what I DO. But some of youuu out there don't seem to like me very much, so let me do this for you one-time. I confess. I confess that I have sinful thoughts and VIOLENT intentions rattling around in my brain for Saturday night. I confess that I covet the spot on the card reserved for goody-two-shoes do-gooders like Alistair Mangold. I confess that what I plan to do to Mangold on Saturday night... won't be very Christian. And I confess that I don't give a damn about what anyone thinks of me or what I have to do; I am walking out of Woodbridge, Connecticut victorious with my hands stained in the blood of a so-called 'God'.”
Drake wrings his hands together staring down at them, before slowly raising his gaze and staring through the limp strands of his hair.
“That's quite the bombastic little nickname you've given yourself, Al. The 'God Among Men.' That's quite the boast. Tell me... what ridiculous moniker do you think they will bestow on the man who kills a God? Hmmm? 'Godkiller?' I don't mind the sound of that. But unlike youuu, AL, and unlike the other troglodytes in F.G.A. I'm not here for cutesy nicknames. I am here to do what I do best. What I love to do more than anything else in this world. I am here... to hurt people. To break bones. To crush spirits. To... erradicate. Inside and out.”
Drake grins before standing upright and shaking his hair out of his face.
“And for that there are certain... people who don't think I belong in this PURE wrestling tournament. People like Leon Corella who seems to think he's better than men like me and Dominic because he's spent more time in a singlet getting stretched by other 'better men' in singlets. Corella thinks that because he knows a few cute holds and a few neat moves that makes him better than Dominic. Better than ME. Hmmm. He says there's no place in a pure wrestling tournament for the likes of The Murder.”
Drake looks down at his feet with a smirk.
“Well maybe you're right, Corella. Maybe there is no place for us in this tournament. Maybe this tournament was designed by FRAUDS like you and Alistair Mangold to find a cheap way to weasel a victory over BETTER MEN THAN YOU... like Dominic and I. You close-minded sycophants like to live inside your little boxes and critique what 'real' wrestling is. REAL wrestling is my FIST... SHOVED down your tiny, little esophagus. Real wrestling is my foot CAVING IN your skull. You hide behind your little wall of 'purity' and say 'No! You're not allowed in our club! Real wrestlers only!'”
“Pathetic.”
The word twists in Drake's mouth into a scowl as he spits again onto the floor.
“Dominic and I, we don't WANT to be part of your little club. We don't WANT to be pure wrestlers in a pure wrestling tournament for a pure wrestling title. What we want... is to DEFILE your precious purity. We want to burn down this little shrine you've made to 'real wrestling' and PISS on the ashes. We want to watch your world burn to cinders until it's an empty husk just like this church.”
“We don't give a DAMN about being crowned the 'best pure wrestler in Frontier Grappling Arts.' We care about taking that away from youuu, Leon Corella, and you, Alistair Mangold, and from each and everyone else that holds that title in high regard. I am going to win this Pure wrestling tournament... and then I am going to defile your PRECIOUS little belt. And there is no man...”
Drake pauses, glancing back over his shoulder at the altar.
“Or GOD... that can stop me."
"Memento... mori.”
With that, Malcolm Drake stalks his way out the front door of the collapsing church and disappears from sight with his footsteps still echoing off the walls.