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Confession & Perfection; Azrael/Grace Joint RP I, Battlelines
Topic Started: Jun 2 2016, 02:57 PM (37 Views)
Azrael Goeren
The MegaStar
I am not well.

Azrael Goeren feels restrained in this box, he spreads his legs out so they touch each side of his containment. A futile attempt to fend off the claustrophobia. He loosens his collar and breathes loud, short, agitated breaths.

You sound extremely anxious.

Ja, you could say that. It’s just been a long time since I’ve been in one of these.

That’s normal.

It is?

Oh yes, most people go quite a long time without confessing. Usually in a moment of turmoil or stress does it provoke them back into the Church.

With my line of work, those two usually walk hand in hand.

What do you do for a living?

I’d rather not say.

I’m bound by God not to reveal anything you tell me in Confession.

It’s not that. It’s just I’d prefer to remain anonymous. For your own sake, vater.

Whatever makes you most comfortable.

Is it hot in here? Do they have AC in these rooms? I know a guy who can put in AC for super cheap. Works for the Boston Mafia at night but man does he do some good duct work during the day. Just don’t ask him for help moving a couch. Lazy couch Nazi!

My son?

Ja, vater?

You seem to be stalling.

Nein, nein. I’m merely trying to help. Help. Heh...help.

How long has it been since your last confession?

What month is it?

June.

Let’s see. One plus...carry the two...subtract the denominator...about 25 years.

Oh my.

Pretty bad, huh? That’s pretty fucking bad, right?

Language.

Fuck. I’m sorry. Shit! I did it again! Fuck! Okay, start a Hail Mary Tab, this might take awhile.

Located in the heart of Boston, the Cathedral of the Holy Cross Catholic Church is nearly 150 years old and is decorated with stunning architecture and Gothic style buttresses. The church is quiet now, only maintained by a single priest who dutifully watches over the overnight patrons who come in to peacefully pray in the middle of the night. Azrael stumbled into the church only a few minutes ago and quickly made his way to the back confessional booths, only stopping momentarily in the vestibule for a dab of holy water to his forehead.

I used to go to church every Sunday, can you believe that?

I can.

I even took my stage name from the Bible.

You’re an entertainer?

Hah! Ja, I guess you could say that.

Seems to me that most entertainers could use a little church now and then.

My parents used to take me. Said it was good for me to get a Catholic upbringing in the Communist state. I was such a young boy, I had no idea what words like “communism” or “totalitarianism” or “persecution” meant. I just knew that every Sunday while my friends were off playing soccer or fishing, I had to go to church and deal with them making fun of me when I got back.

Kids can be cruel. Especially with what they don’t understand.

I didn’t understand much of it either. We never had grandiose buildings like this to house our faith. Our church was barely two stories and was situated next to the train tracks. The windows would rattle and the priest would have to scream when a restock train drove by. Its funny what you can remember, even after all of these years.

Seems you remember it fondly.

Not really. No offense to you, vater...but it was clear that I never learned anything from Church. I just enjoyed the time I spent with my parents. Before they...passed.

I’m sorry to hear that.

Ja. So am I. I often wonder what my life would have been like if they survived. Maybe I’d be a sheep farmer somewhere in the old country. I always liked sheep and I’m pretty good at giving haircuts, so that probably would have worked out for me. I guess I’ll never know. I became extremely bitter after they passed. After that drunk driver took them from me. I was angry. Violent…

Not well?

Not well. Exactly!

You used the same words a few moments ago.

I guess I did.

What happened to you? What brought you to this House of God tonight?

Azrael scans around the confessional booth, squinting past the screen grate where the priest sits. He gives a shrug of his shoulders and a sigh.

Boredom, I suppose. Idle hands, ja?

I don’t believe that.

I didn’t come here for salvation, that’s for sure. And if you really want me to confess my sins, you’re going to be here for a LONG time. You’ll definitely need a sleeping bag and at least a dozen Pop Tarts.

You are free to do what you wish, my son. I’m just here to help. Nothing you’ve done in your past cannot be forgiven by God.

Do you think God forgives people like me? I mean, seriously.

No matter what you’ve done, you can be forgiven. God is always watching.

Watching, huh? Was he watching when I was snorting fire ants out of a hooker’s vagina? Cause that is going to be a super-awkward conversation with St. Peter when I get to those pearly gates.

I don’t think…

Or was he watching me when I broke a man’s back by tossing him off a ladder and forced him to use a colostomy bag for the rest of his life? Or maybe when I kidnapped a 12 year old child and threatened to stab him in the heart with a broken piece of glass in front of his own father?

The priest goes silent, lowering his head slightly. The movement does not go unnoticed.

Unnerving, ja vater? Your silence doesn’t fill me with too much confidence in my salvation. No, wait. I’ve got the best one yet. How about when I gave up my custody rights and abandoned my daughter knowing full well what a depraved lunatic her mother was? I had a chance to spare her a life of abuse and misery that day, instead all I could think about was how much of a hassle she would be to my career. TO MY FUCKING CAREER.

Goeren angrily pounds on the inside of the confessional booth and lets out a sickeningly pained groan.

I watched from those courthouse steps as my daughter was put in the back seat of a station wagon and screamed and cried for me to come get her. She knew. She fucking knew. Even though she was young, she knew what type of life I was dooming her to. I couldn’t even look her in the eyes. I left the courthouse and spent the next 12 hours in a crack house, fighting with some guy named Steve over the last hit and a bag of Fritos.

Azrael slides his head back against the wooden frame of the confessional booth, staring up at the ceiling.

So tell me, vater...does the Good Lord forgive people like me? Or would he prefer we just burn in Hell?

The priest clears his throat, clearly processing what Azrael just blurted out at him.

I think the more pertinent question is whether you want to be forgiven.

Vas?

It seems like you are trying to punish yourself for everything you’ve done. That’s not up to you. That’s up to Him. Until that time comes, the only thing you can do is ask for forgiveness and do what you can to rectify those you have wronged.

I’m trying.

What’s that, my son?

I’m trying, vater. I really am. I had this idea, something that could possibly bring my daughter and I together. I want to show her that I can protect her. I couldn’t then, but I can now. And for the rest of her life. I want to show her that it's not too late for us to work together. That I’ve changed.

That’s a good start.

Tell that to her. She wasn’t too happy with this idea, but anything is worth a try.

And let us not grow weary of doing good, for in due season we will reap, if we do not give up.

Galatians 6:9.

I think you remember more of those Sunday masses than you let on, my son.

Nein, I just always liked the number combinations on that one.

Actions always speak louder than words. Remember that. Show her what she needs to see and you may find your salvation yet.

Good advice, vater.

Silence.

This actually feels pretty good! Do you mind if I confess more to you? I’ve got a few things I’ve always wanted to get out in the open.

Go right ahead. That's what I'm here for.

Strap yourself in, vater. Things are about to get weird.

**********************

Across town, Grace Goeren sits outside of the Venu Nightclub on Warrenton Street. The rhythmic thumping of latino and house music echoes into the night air as Grace stretches her legs out into the street, her back against the stone facade of the building. People step over her outstretched legs, giving her annoyed glances as they head towards idling taxi clubs to take them home for the night.

Grace is just getting started.

She whips out a small pocket mirror and glances at her reflection, letting out a disgusted sound at what she sees. Her face is an absolute fucking mess, courtesy of NOTHING at last Battlelines. Getting to her feet, Grace re-enters the club. A doorman tries in vain to stop her without seeing her wristband, but she casually flips him off and gives him the “jerk off” motion with her right hand.

Its funny how these clubs bend to the will of the glamorous.

A few months ago, she was the same nobody weakling she had been for the first 18 years of her life. Now? Everyone wants a piece of Grace Goeren. The hottest name in professional wrestling. Future World Champion. The future. The Real Megastar. Mr. Gates has taken her so far with his wisdom and knowledge, but she’s the one who has grabbed the bull by the balls and demanded the attention of everyone in the industry.

She walks towards the bathroom, spotting her entourage congregate at one of the blue velvet booths. They wave over at her, inviting her back into the party but she simply walks on by, focused solely on getting to her destination. Truth be told, she barely knows any of their names. Hot muscle guy. Stupid brunette girl. Dude in a suit. She met them all earlier tonight and they’ve been living off her credit cards ever since.

She’s got plenty of money these days.

It’ll never run out.

Not here for a long time, just for a good time.

Grace finally pushes into the bathroom and stops dead in her tracks. She knew that she wasn’t going to be alone in here, but the ladies room is SWARMING with bimbos, cunts and twats. Grace feels sick to her stomach, knowing that she has to share the enclosed breathing space with these things. One of the blonde bimbos glances up from doing her makeup in the mirror and gives Grace a shocked look, no doubt reacting to the multiple open wounds and bandages on her face.

Don’t kill this bitch. Not here.

Suppressing her urges, Grace finds a mirror and a sink open at the far end of the room and quickly occupies it. She dumps the contents of her Fendi handbag into the sink and starts digging through her makeup, glancing up at her face in the mirror.

Are people looking at her because she’s the biggest star of EWA?

That’s it, right?

Gotta be.

They’re not judging her.

She didn’t do this to herself.

It was NOTHING. He did this to her. She got the last laugh though. She advanced. That fucker still fucked up her fucking face though.

Or...did she do this? After hearing that she was being forced into having her son of a bitch father as a tag-team partner at this Battlelines? A Battlelines that also has her competing later in the night against Philip Donovan to advance in the Path of the Warrior Tournament.

No. NOTHING did this. She didn’t do this to herself. No. No. It was his fault. And her father’s.

Never her fault.

Going to work, Grace leans closer to the mirror and starts trying to apply foundation and eyeliner. Are they talking about her? Whispering about her behind her back? Don’t they know who she is? These dumb fucking cunts. She can hear the voices. Sure, everyone in here may look like they are just minding their own business and getting ready for a few more drinks out in the club, but Grace KNOWS differently.

They’re looking at her.

She HATES when people do that, unless she’s in front of an EWA crowd.

Grace starts applying more and more makeup to her face, turning on the water to wash her hands clean of makeup base. The water naturally soaks her $4,000 handbag and all of its makeup contents, but Grace doesn’t seem to care.

Stop looking at me.

Stop.

Stop.

I’m better now.


Beautiful Grace.

UGLY.

Look at your face. So fucking ugly. Look at your scars. You can’t get rid of them. They run too deep.


Stop.

Leaning in even closer to the mirror, Grace’s hands are shaking violently. She tries to adjust one of the bandages on her cheek, only to see the blood underneath it slowly seep through as she reopened a cut.

Stop the bleeding. More makeup. Hide. Hide it.

Slathering more makeup on over the scar, Grace tries her best to minimize it but ends up just making it more noticeable. She can’t seem to get rid of it, no matter how hard she tries.

Everyone is watching. Make them stop.

She’s doing her best. She is the best. The best.

Stop it.

She grabs hold of one of the small bandages that closes a cut over her right eye and rips it off, causing several sutures to pop loose and a dark red stream of blood to ooze out. She watches as the blood drip down across her eye, then her cheek, then her chin and down into the sink below.

Some of the other women in the bathroom have started to take notice and have backed their way out of the bathroom.

Grace furiously grabs hold of more of the bandages and rips them off, causing her wounds to reopen as her face becomes streaked with lines of blood from the dripping wounds. She starts panting heavily, grabbing the makeup base again and trying to cover it all up but instead just creating a mess of smeared blood and makeup across her face.

She finally notices the silence.

She glances around the room, seeing that all of those other dumb twats have finally left.

She’s alone. Just like she wanted.

Grace lets out a deep breath and glances up at herself in the mirror. Her face is a mangled mess, the continuous drubbing of the house music now accompanied by the slow drip-drip-drip of blood falling down into the sink from her face.

She smiles at the other person who looks back at her in the mirror.

Grace is beautiful.

**********************

I don’t expect you to understand my reasoning for asking Frau Vandervort to make this match. I’m sure that one little act has put her on your shit list, if she wasn’t there for some imaginary slight already.

But don’t blame her for this. She was just granting me a favor, felt like it was the least she could do after taking the EWA World Heavyweight Championship away from me.

So, like I said...I don’t expect you to understand why I asked for this opportunity for you and I to team up against El Chupacabra.

You can’t see the forest for the trees, as it were.

All you know is that you have to wrestle another match on the same night you have to wrestle Donovan in the Quarterfinals with a man you hate Knowing you, you’ll add this to your conspiracy theory about how the EWA higher-ups are out to get you. That you’re being fucked with because you’re too damn good.

I know that’s how you think because that’s how I thought for a very long time.

You know what that line of thinking gets you?

Regrets & Enemies.

I’m doing this for a reason, Grace. I’m doing this because you and I need to end this. Not by spilling blood or breaking bones, but I need to show you just what we can do together instead of being at each other’s throats.

Call it altruistic or foolish if you have to, but if there is even the slimmest chance I can show you my true intentions in this match, then I’d be a fool to pass up the opportunity to do so.

I watched your match against NOTHING and that schwein-ficker Gates has you rapidly approaching the point of no return faster than even I thought was possible. There is no time to waste because if you keep following him and listening to the lies he’s been filling your head with, then I’m fairly certain you will die in that ring.

Did you hear that, Grace? You will die there.

That’s not me being melodramatic, that’s the truth. People like Gates are users, the same people who took advantage of you when I wasn’t there to fight them off.

I’m here now and you have my word I will fight off every single son of a bitch who dares put a hand on you until I can prove to you that I’m not going to abandon you ever again.

We have an incredibly tough task ahead of us, Grace. I wanted El Chupacabra to be our opponents because I knew that they would not go easy on us. They are young, hungry and a threat to everyone in the tag-team division. I want them to be a threat to us. I need them to be.

Together, you and I can beat them, but only by working as a team. I want to show you that Gates’ way is not the only way. You can be a better person and still have a career if that’s what you really want. If you want to step away from all of this, that’s perfectly fine too.

But whatever you do, do it because it's what you really want.

This world is yours, Grace.

I just want to be a small part of it.


**********************

Ooooookay, so I obviously didn’t take the news too well when your little slut Vandervort told me I had to team with you.

It is amazing to me just how many of the bitches in EWA you manage to convince to do your dirty work for you. First Jada now Stacy. At least Sinnocence got the fuck beaten out of her and is long gone now.

I gotta admit though, when word got back to me that she dumped your ass last week, I had a whole newfound respect for that cunt. She knew when to toss that hand grenade out of the car before it went off, huh? Good thing you didn’t knock her up, you would have had another life to ruin and I know how much that messes up your day.

So here am I. Forced to team with a man who I cannot possibly hate any more than I already do.

And why?

You’ve always got an angle, so what’s it going to be this time?

What type of sick game are you playing at?

Well this chica aint playing.

I didn’t even bother to do any research on the two Lucha-fucks we are supposed to be fighting. Yeah I know, they don’t wear masks. Still Lucha-fucks. Still idiots. Still douchebags. Still not any of my concern.

You know what I am focused on? Philip Donovan. He’s the only thing in the world I care about going into Battlelines. I did what everyone and their mother said was impossible when I pinned NOTHING. I still think he’s an old creepy emo fuck-goblin, but at least he takes this business seriously.

Unlike Donovan. The whole world is supposed to point and laugh along with this idiot and his talk show and jerk off about what a cool dudester he is. Please. He literally is a professional wrestling morning show disc jockey. He’s a walking, talking human muppet who wants the world to know he’s the coolest son of a bitch hanging outside of the junior high school. All the wacky sound effects, free giveaways and hilarious impersonations are not going to save his ass when he has to step foot into the ring with me.

Because I’ve seen his schtick before. I see it in the man that I’m forced to team with and everyone else who thinks our sport is something to enjoy rather than to suffer for.

The world is not funny.

It's horrifyingly cruel.

My father and mother taught me that.

Get used to it Philip because this hah-hah-larious attitude of yours is about to get a shocking dose of reality from the meanest bitch who ever laced up a pair of boots.

Anyone who wants to spend their days laughing and hyping themselves up like they’re some Elvis Duran on steroids is more than welcome to do so. But do it out of earshot and out of my sightline. How you made it this deep into the tournament I’ll never understand, but this Cinderella story of yours ends with you being carted out of Boston on a stretcher and your career being put in jeopardy.

Hope the jokes are worth it, cutey.

And back to my father, I don’t care about our tag match in the slightest. I’ll go down to the ring and stand in your corner against those two whoever-the-fucks, but I’m not helping in any way. Don’t tag me in. Don’t talk to me. Don’t look at me.

Just win the match so I can collect my share of the purse.

And then fuck off and die.


**********************

A priest walks into a bar.

He stops at his favorite stool, just before last call.

The Boston townie bar is still populated with a few locals, but is otherwise wrapping up for the night. The bartender walks over to the priest and gives him a knowing nod.


How you doing tonight, Sam? You look like you could use a drink.

The priest shakes his head solemnly.

Vinnie? After the confession I just heard, make it a double.

That bad?

You ever heard of something called the “Alabama Hot Pocket”?

Can’t say that I have.

I wish I could say the same. By God, I wish I could say the same...
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