Post by Angel Blake on Nov 13, 2023 0:15:42 GMT
Flames dance atop their candelabras as you make your way down the corridor of the Lord God’s cathedral. Your eyes dart from right to left trying to make out the wondrous images framed along the walls.
God conquering would be usurpers one after the other after the other after the other…
You scoff to yourself as your foot falls echo off the ancient stone beneath your feet. He’s no God, you mutter. A phrase that has been said by countless others who tried their hand at proving otherwise.
You’re different, you think to yourself as your fingertips trace the mortar between the brick laid walls. You’re not just anyone. You’re not just another simple human wrestler in a long line of false futures.
You’re a Goddess.
A true Goddess unlike the man with the painted face. You’ve been everywhere. You’ve done everything. You’ve breathed literal life into the business of professional wrestling with only a few simple words, exactly as depicted in the Old Testament.
You don’t care what they call him. You don’t care about his stories, his accomplishments or the many warnings you received the moment this match was announced. You don’t care who he thinks he is or what anyone has to say about him.
You don’t even care what Tara Fenix said to you in the days leading up to this match.
She may know you almost as well as your husband does but she doesn’t know everything about you. Not yet. So even her warnings fell on deaf ears.
You finally reach the end of the corridor. Two large oak doors block your path. Upon them is a single image etched into the wood. It’s him.
God.
You snort with disapproval. The audacity of this man to proclaim himself on your level. There is no other God before the Goddess. There is no one before you, you think and it is with this confidence you throw the large doors open to reveal the ornate nave of his cathedral.
Pews as white as ivory line the way to the raised sanctuary. At its center sits the throne of bones you’ve heard so much about. Two skulls at the front of each arm rest. It’s all so tacky it makes you laugh, the noise reverberating throughout the nave. You march forward, determined to look this God in the eyes and tell him exactly how little you think of him.
God conquering would be usurpers one after the other after the other after the other…
You scoff to yourself as your foot falls echo off the ancient stone beneath your feet. He’s no God, you mutter. A phrase that has been said by countless others who tried their hand at proving otherwise.
You’re different, you think to yourself as your fingertips trace the mortar between the brick laid walls. You’re not just anyone. You’re not just another simple human wrestler in a long line of false futures.
You’re a Goddess.
A true Goddess unlike the man with the painted face. You’ve been everywhere. You’ve done everything. You’ve breathed literal life into the business of professional wrestling with only a few simple words, exactly as depicted in the Old Testament.
You don’t care what they call him. You don’t care about his stories, his accomplishments or the many warnings you received the moment this match was announced. You don’t care who he thinks he is or what anyone has to say about him.
You don’t even care what Tara Fenix said to you in the days leading up to this match.
She may know you almost as well as your husband does but she doesn’t know everything about you. Not yet. So even her warnings fell on deaf ears.
You finally reach the end of the corridor. Two large oak doors block your path. Upon them is a single image etched into the wood. It’s him.
God.
You snort with disapproval. The audacity of this man to proclaim himself on your level. There is no other God before the Goddess. There is no one before you, you think and it is with this confidence you throw the large doors open to reveal the ornate nave of his cathedral.
Pews as white as ivory line the way to the raised sanctuary. At its center sits the throne of bones you’ve heard so much about. Two skulls at the front of each arm rest. It’s all so tacky it makes you laugh, the noise reverberating throughout the nave. You march forward, determined to look this God in the eyes and tell him exactly how little you think of him.
”Atara and James, The Ravens…”
You pause to look for the source of his voice but it isn’t immediately apparent. It’s as if he spoke from inside of your head. His voice didn’t echo like your laughter did. For a moment the thought sends a chill down your spine but your resolve returns and you carry on toward his throne.
”Tara tells me I should be worried about you two…”
And she isn’t wrong, you think to yourself. The two of you are professional wrestling legends. Wait, no, you’re professional wrestling GODS. And if this blithering idiot was half as smart as Tara said he was he’d just hand over those Tag Team Titles now.
”She tells me you’re cut from the same cloth as us. That you’re among the elite in the pantheon of professional wrestling. That if there were a way to truly rank the best in the world from top to bottom it would be James and Atara alternating the one and two spot…”
At least Tara has one thing right, you think. Smartly not even ranking herself as an equal to the two of you. Good girl. She knows her place. And soon her beloved will know his.
”She tells me I need to be careful. She tells me that Sabin and I are in for the fight of our lives. She tells me that this could be the end of our historic Tag Team Championship reign…”
There is no “could” about it. You and James will be the end and you will carry those titles higher than anyone could imagine, you think as you reach the three steps that lead to his throne.
”She piqued my curiosity to say the least. It isn’t often that Tara heaps praise on my opponents. It’s even less often she warns me about them…”
No amount of warning could ever prepare this so-called God, you scoff as you look at his throne. You march up the three steps to get an even closer look. The bones probably aren’t even real, you think as you slowly walk around. Just another prop to make another pretender more interesting in the eyes of the viewing audience.
”I’m going to be honest with you Atara, James, after all, Sabin tells me we’re family…”
They’re family. He’s just some painted up jackass you tolerate.
”I’m not impressed…”
What!? Bwahahahahahahaha! Like you care if he’s impressed! He’s the one that dresses like the lead singer of a Swedish death metal band while calling himself God! He isn’t God! He isn’t even close! But he’s going to come close to the Goddess and when he does he will finally look upon true greatness.
”I waded into the deep waters of the professional wrestling ocean at Tara’s behest. I faced some of the so-called greats that social media holds in the highest of regard. Each and everyone of them have disappointed me at best and wasted my time at worst…”
Who exactly is he comparing you to? You aren’t just another face in the crowd. You’re at the head of the crowd. A woman so commanding that two simple words bring the world to a stop. This God needs to be careful.
”So what makes you two different?”
Does he want an itemized list of examples? You could go in alphabetical order if that helps as well. You laugh, you’re so unlike anyone he has ever faced that it’s insulting he’s even comparing you to them.
”Is it the accolades? The accomplishments? The proverbial laundry list of legendary opponents you’ve defeated? Is it all the companies you’ve worked for and all the wonderful things you’ve done with your time in this business? What exactly is it that makes you so different than every other blowhard who has come into MY company, stepped into MY ring and failed to even match up against the IWF’s most mediocre of athletes?”
“Accolades? Check the record books. There is only one other person in this company who even comes close to me…”
“Accomplishments? Tara and I have a summer home dedicated to displaying all our accomplishments, some I can’t even remember because there are so many…”
“The opponents? You’ve wrestled and beaten people I have never heard of and I have wrestled and beaten people you’ve never heard of. Comparing our wins and losses would be utterly pointless. An empty dialogue on who beat the better opponent…”
“Nothing separates you from the nameless masses who smear MY company’s good name, too afraid to step through those ropes because they know I would make them eat their words. Except, you did step through those ropes. You took the plunge, came to IWF and so far you’ve shown that you belong. For that fact alone I give you my congratulations…”
You seethe with anger at his backhanded compliments, his oversimplification of your history. He doesn’t know what he’s talking about and you’re going to prove it in just a few days.
”You are different from the rest in that regard. I will give you that, Atara, James but the hubris to take your chances in MY company isn’t going to be enough to dethrone Sabin and I…”
“Take a moment, take several…”
“Forget what social media has taught you about me and MY company…”
“Look, actually look…”
“Watch…”
“Listen…”
“Once you have you will have discovered something the rest of this roster already knows…”
“I am not a gimmick…”
“I am not an act…”
“I am not a man playing pretend…”
“I AM GOD OF PROFESSIONAL WRESTLING…”
“GOD OF IWF…”
“GOD.”
You laugh as you shake your head. He thinks far too highly of himself. Slowly you begin to drop down, your backside brushing against the cushion of his throne. There is only one God and she is a Goddess. Tuesday you will take his place as your own.
”It’s not a moniker…”
“Or a catchphrase…”
“It’s not something I casually throw on merchandise…”
“It’s a fact…”
Facts are just strongly worded opinions unless reality proves you right. It won’t prove him right. You’ve already taken his throne, your hands resting upon those skulls. Next you’re going to take everything else, you think. You’re going to take his titles, his station and finally his company. Then we’ll see who the God around here really is.
”It’s Survival of the Fittest…”
His pale painted face suddenly flashes before your own. That awful, terrible grin spread unnaturally from cheek to cheek. You stifle a scream as his talons grip your throat and then-
”There is none more fit than I.”
Well howdy there pardner.