Post by Deleted on Feb 8, 2015 3:19:35 GMT -5
“Violence is a sin…no matter how you justify it. The Pentecostal realize, however, that sin for the sake of purging sin, is a necessity-“
“Fire with fire”
“Yes. Exactly. It does not come without price, however, I do this to myself to repent for my transgressions against my ultimate lord.”
The words flowed through the speakers as memories through a mind, endlessly churning about within their confines. His eyes were lite by the faces…times past and long forgotten by all that were present…save for him. Every word uttered in those oh so important months were seared into the very fabric of his mind…the very flesh of it. His first promotion against another wrestler, two as a matter of fact. Both newly minted within his federation, a no one as he himself was. That was put to the test, again, and again. No one stood against him that wasn’t defeated in the name of his ultimate goal and one day…one glorious day…it was achieved. The tower of sin crumbled at its very foundations and all that was kept alive within, all the weeds leeching life from the occupants, were left smoldering. Where they always should have been. Bishop watched as the last of the video played before him, the room as black as pitch around him. The screen shut off automatically upon the last line of audio, and not a sound was heard from the emptiness that now enveloped him.
Standing up from the desk he was sitting at, Bishop walks to the door. His pace shows no sign of sway or hesitation, his path had been laid a thousand times from his desk to the door, the darkness almost being welcomed. His room had ceased existing as a place of rest, of releasing all that the day afflicts on oneself. It had become a place of injury, sad stories told through misty eyes, and death weighing heavily upon all. His task was done, and free from the bounds of mission Bishop lay…the sheer mass of infinite possibilities at his feet. Yet here he found himself. Back to creation, back to the laying of the concrete foundation that he would build his fortress of righteousness upon. True righteousness, not the faux morals that dime ministers bring to those desperate enough to seek false salvation.
He stood at the door now, pausing but for a moment as he opened it. The light of the hallway greeting his face as he squinted his eyes. Various guards and attendees were roaming the hallowed ground, each keeping to their own business. No eyes swayed as Bishop glided among them, they were too dutiful to waiver when much had to be done. Too much. Not again would Bishop take the risks of reciprocation from wrestlers contacting his church. He was not a father, nor a pastor, but this ground…this hallowed ground was something more sacred that any human bounds of attachment. The wooden floor gave way to concrete, the concrete to soil, the soil to the hottest of lava. So much was given to this world and his purpose was to see it honored…to see it earned and kept only by those who lived without sin. As if such a thing existed. The thoughts clouded his mind as he travel down the hallways, a maze of emptiness the further from the epicenter of the remodeling one moved. Reaching a stairwell, Bishop moved down…beneath the streets, beneath the world above him. Light was once again a luxury as he turned a dial on a small oil lamp. Baring enough oil to keep the light on, the lamp waivered and sputtered shadows upon the walls. Warriors and monsters danced upon the walls as the flame cackled its cry. A veritable deluge of imagination could distract one from purpose, however, Bishop was far too hardened to be sway by the dance of shadows.
Turning from squared to rounded, the stair case no longer held the façade of youth as the original structure became apparent. A wrought iron spiral, steps sharp enough to cut even the toughest skin if stepped upon wrong, and paint that had long faded. This was the sight that met Bishop as his walk continued, coming to a head at the foot of the staircase. Walls turned from mortar to that of a mine shaft as his journey reached its final leg, the epitome of its existence.
He walked, realizing within himself the amount of focus he would need to become what his new arena, this new threat to salvation, would require. He would need to be what he had lost, and for that…a new beginning was in order. Long overdue and postponed, the general that he had become rested his troops outside of the war they waged. Resupplied he would march himself, the solider, the word, and the sword of The Lord unto the battlefield until his very last breath. He need to be what the rest of them could not. It was time for the world to once again see the price for every sin, and no better demonstration would be given. No worse would be the price the slime of sin would pay than the price he would dole to the masses. The stage mattered not, only the success.
Walking to the end of the cave, Bishop kneeled to match the height of a small outlet scratched into the wall. A few feet back, and the size of a child. A doll was on the floor, eyes missing and hair torn out. Its dress lifted above its head and nailed through where the eyes should have been…where they once were. Crayons scattered the floor, a trail of tattered colors leading to the back of the cave. A clay wall, hard to the unmotivated touch adorned the back wall. Mostly smooth, the eyes of an onlooker could not avoid the eerie centerpiece: The Pentecostal Cross, scratched crudely into the back of the wall. Small fingernails were sticking from the clay, encased and forever lost to whomever they belonged to. Bishop felt his neck, the crudeness of the etching reminding him of his repentance. The marks that made him different from the rest of The Pentecostal. The scars of skin long removed and blood since flown. Only his face lay untouched, his face…and the remainder that would soon be attended to. Kneeling before the cross, Bishop brings his hand to his face, moving to each shoulder before centering it upon his chest.
“Oh Lord of lords…do bless me, your blade, that the blood may drip dry those who stand against you. That the club may beat from this Earth the creatures of Sin. May the weeds of filth burn from this, your Earth gifted to us…since ruined.”
Bishop opened his eyes, the clay scratches flickering in the oil light. Bishop reaches for the lamp, bringing it closer to the cross as he moves his fingers through the grooves within it. Breathing deeply the chilled air of the cave, Bishop’s expression grows colder as well, each moment drawing him to a place deep within himself. Turning around, Bishop hangs the oil lamp in a root protruding from the ceiling. The weight of the lamp causes the root to buckled, but only just. Swinging back and forth the cave turns from lite to void of light in moments. Each movement Bishop made was made to look like photographs, the strobe effects taking hold on the cavern. A ping is heard…the only sound save for the breathing of the only inhabitant, the only inhabitant allowed with the depths. It was only recently discovered by the church members, and the caves end formed many questions to many wondering eyes. The ping once again rang through the cave, as a miniscule red light is seen in the darkness. The turning on of a camera, a system Bishop had planned to use for minor security…now set to higher purpose.
The view from the lens was ever changing, as the light was still swinging merely feet ahead of it. From blinding light pointed directly at it, to Bishop illuminated in front of it. Now facing the camera, Bishop’s head was down, his dreadlocks cascading over his face, casting shadow creases over his skin. Simply kneeling…simply breathing, Bishop stared to the grown. Second turned to eerie minutes as Bishop finally looks up to the light swinging above him. Bringing a hand to steady it, Bishop makes cease the swinging of the lights. Pulling from his pocket a bladed crucifix, Bishop looks finally at the camera lens. His eyes appearing black as pitch in the waning light. Closing them slowly, Bishop moves the blade to the dorsal side of his left hand. Piercing skin, Bishop’s is unflinching in his composure as the blade moves along his tensing muscle and ligament in his hand, cutting not deep enough to restrict mobility, but deep enough still to form an ocean of red. The symbol of his church cut into his hand, Bishop moves to do the same to his right. This cut more crude, as the hand holding said blade is still pouring its life from the now exposed veins. Dropping the blade upon finishing cutting, Bishop holds the tops of his hands towards the camera, opening his eyes as he breathes quickly and deeply. His forearms became road maps of dark lines falling endlessly to the ground.
“One…for…every…sin.”
Bishop says through pained and labored breathes, not once has breaking flesh ever made him wince, his brother saw to that. Pain after the fact, however, is in the mind. Focus was needed to move past it…to ignore it completely.
“My sins…compiled just as every soul upon this Earth.”
Bishop says to the camera, his voice becoming steadier as he thinks on words, not the pain boiling from his hands.
“My repentance, seen before you, for everything I do to end the slime…the filth.”
The root breaks more, causing the light to twitch as the oil shifted within the lamp. The brightness flickered, and for a moment…just a moment…Bishop was only a ghost in the already ghastly cavern. His blood had pooled upon the dirt floor, each drop now causing slight splashes to be heard on the camera as some semblance of clotting began to occur on his hands. Bishop readies himself to begin, readies himself to unleash. His hands condense to two outstretched fingers, dripping into the pool of blood on the ground and mixing it with the dirt and the mud. The memories and the stains of whatever inhabited his tunnel before him. Moving his hand from the ground to his face, Bishop draws his now signature cross over his face, mud caking to his skin as the excess falls to the ground.
“My name is not my own. Nor is any aspect of the old me, for I was reborn into the being you see before you. Made luminous by The Lord’s purpose, his plan for Sin upon Earth. This Earth…that I mix myself with…was not more than a gift. Do…”
Bishop pauses to shake his head.
“…ANY of you feel that sentiment? Do you even hold the capability to understand the depth of that charge? Created from his will, and squandered by his only children. Destroyed, ravaged, cut far too deep for repair…all this and more our world must suffer through as we do what in our own wake? Celebrate with our Sin? In the age of Noah, mankind showed Our Lord their desired ways, the unmalleable and unconditional contempt they had for life and love. A flood wiped clean the slate that is this plain, and now…in this…this age of violence and false glorification he sends another force. Weapons in the form of disciples, The Pentecostal, borne of hate for the weeds that grow from the fodder of Sin. Sin in all forms…sin in all words uttered in vain of The Lord.”
The mud began to run down his face, leaving bloody trails down his cheeks down from the design. Bishop figure was growing darker…darker…as the light continued to rock, ever so slightly back and forth.
“This world you live in, viewers of this testament. Is a glorification of Sin, of ever ideal this world is being destroyed with. I am the sword that will strike down the weeds that grip at the heart of this world. One victim fallen, one tower destroyed and now a larger specimen stands before me. I begin this journey as my last, considered a new object to be destroyed and broken, new meat to be slaughtered. I wonder, what will be the reaction to the contrary illusion taking shape to become to all too literally reality? When all you can view is the look of anguish, of shame…the view from your back. What then will you spew to those underlings unintelligent enough to listen?”
The root tears from the ground, moving the lamp down inches as the swinging increases drastically. The almost methodical breathing of Bishop matches the swings as once again his position moves from dark to light…from luminescence…to void.
“Now, I assume you are not here to revisit your ideals, nor to attempt to reform them. You are all lost, and when fire peels your flesh from your bones in the caves of Hell you will know my words stand true…I fight violence in the only way it will respond. Fire with fire so to speak. I am a weapon and am The Lord’s to be used as such.”
“Joey.”
“I once met a person…so enthralled with their own past that they failed to see the present. Failed to fear the future. YOUR fear, YOUR future…too far to see from the slime oozing from your lips every time you spew your filth. Sin…lust, greed…envy…all that you thrive in. All that you worship, are what hath brought my wrath down upon you. I hold something that this world of wrestling is a stranger to. I do not enter for victory. Achieving victory sends only the message of why I am there, it is the experience that I crave. The moments in the ring where the power of The Lord brings me above the filth and mire you crawl through. You are not living a life, Joey, you are suffering an existence. One that should have been ended at birth before it could further infect the world around it. I meek and dole, unequal laws unto a savage race, and only your braggadocio can dilute your mind into thinking it can achieve anything but a collapse. The light of The Lord knows no shadow, and no equal. No buzz achieved on this Earth shares its high, and when it envelopes you…You will know not of defeat.”
Bishop closes his eyes, and a grin forms upon his face before fading away with the swinging light.
“I can feel your response already. A complete disagreement, for ‘how can the light of The Lord beat anything when you don’t believe in it?’ Perhaps you feel religion is pushing ideals on a ‘free mind,’ perhaps poor mother and father were too weak to survive a world taking vengeance upon them for bringing a child into this mess…Whatever your reasoning is….whatever you force yourself to believe as you prepare for a victory that will never come…let these words ring true. You are naught but a breathing cesspool of mire, weeds grow from you, slime oozes and you feed upon all that you excrete because that is what makes you. That…will be your undoing. If only you walk away from this with one question in your mind, let it be this: When the weeds wither around you, and around your neck they wrap…Will I be there, in the corners of your mind, when all you desire is air…and all you find is nothing?”
As if waiting for the word to pass Bishop’s lips, the root collapses under the weight of the lamp, crashing to the floor as the oil splashing into the blood drying upon the floor. The oil ignites, burning the blood and causing smoke to fill the barely light cavern, casting a ghoulish look upon Bishop as his gaze stay upon the camera. Unflinching and unwavering in its poise. Bishop looks down at the fire, as if to see not a flame, but a symbol for all he opposed. His dreadlocks once again fall over his face, almost fully hiding it from the camera as the only light is the flame. Looking back to the camera, Bishop leans forward, touching the tips of his dreads unto the flame. The ends singe and burn, smoke coming from them as a smile forms over his face. His arms moved to the walls as he scratches down to the ground, clay falling from the walls as his right hand moved to his pocket. A light, battery operate and incredibly dim is turned on, and place over the mud Bishop moves to smite the flames. A yellow light now shone on Bishop, unflinching and holding not much more merit that the fire. His dreads smoke, leaving dancing shadows around his face as his smile faded away.
“Perhaps the biggest mystery of The Lord, is that hypocrisy lays not as a sin, but as a weakness of character. I wonder, foolishly I admit, how long of a time would pass before I saw hypocrisy rear its masked face before me, and it did. In a most shining fashion."
‘A statement that no man or woman will come between my dreams for me and my family’
“Did saying that make you feel, Zak? Were you feeling strong and powerful, a father protecting a cub?”
“Your family. If for some reason you were distracted by your preening about, and were absent for the beginning…We are ALL The Lord’s children. Your FAMILY is your opponent on the mat, your enemy on the sidewalk, and every criminal you see on television. You fight for your child? You fight to provide and protect life coming into this world? You are a fool and deserve everything that child could go through. Do not mistake my intent, however, I do not mean harm. I mean to live. To thrive. To be the best human that child can go through for only existing in a world you inhabit is hell enough for me to desire on a human. You glorify the violence, you get paid to spill blood upon the rubber and plastic. From that spawns underground circuits, from that, death matches in backyards. Blood and flesh ripped apart in honor of a sport you love. All the while someone’s BABY, sits crying in the corner. Flesh exposed in the outfit she was forced to wear by a family that feigned affection. Forced to distract the hungry masses awaiting the matches, until the time only viewing her will not be enough. Until the time when this death match crowd decides to touch, to feel her. Whether she desires it or not.”
Bishop closes his eyes, as if to digest the words rather that say them.
“I trust even a mind as feeble as your own as assume the ending to that all too common tale. A tale that reached the ears of our leaders, and a tale that is partly why we are here. All of that, blood and…lustful sinning…all…of…it. Spawned from an idea that the ‘sport’ you participate in, that you crave victory in is just and right. A BABY lost to death and torment, and all for the imitation of what you do to ‘protect’ your own.”
“Does that make you feel, Zak? Do you now see the hypocrisy?”
“I am not you, Zak. I provide for the entire family of The Lord, not the dogmatic view of a singular infantile presence. I could become victorious a thousand times, listen to your simple, and frankly boring rants about your fists and the preferable result of them…a thousand times. I could win a thousand fortunes and still my goal would not be victory over your ability, your prowess, your skill. No…my victory is over what is inside of you, down to your soul.”
“Also I heard the voice of the Lord, saying, Whom shall I send, and who will go for us? Then said I, Here am I; send me. Isaac, 6-8. Its words…never more fitting than in this moment. I am sent. We are sent. All sent by The Lord to do his work. To eliminate sin upon this Earth. Fire with fire, cuts for Sins, and blood for blood I live my life to serve The one. What do you serve if not yourselves? What is that if not a sin?”
“What is your hope but a fleeting dream?”
“Fire with fire”
“Yes. Exactly. It does not come without price, however, I do this to myself to repent for my transgressions against my ultimate lord.”
The words flowed through the speakers as memories through a mind, endlessly churning about within their confines. His eyes were lite by the faces…times past and long forgotten by all that were present…save for him. Every word uttered in those oh so important months were seared into the very fabric of his mind…the very flesh of it. His first promotion against another wrestler, two as a matter of fact. Both newly minted within his federation, a no one as he himself was. That was put to the test, again, and again. No one stood against him that wasn’t defeated in the name of his ultimate goal and one day…one glorious day…it was achieved. The tower of sin crumbled at its very foundations and all that was kept alive within, all the weeds leeching life from the occupants, were left smoldering. Where they always should have been. Bishop watched as the last of the video played before him, the room as black as pitch around him. The screen shut off automatically upon the last line of audio, and not a sound was heard from the emptiness that now enveloped him.
Standing up from the desk he was sitting at, Bishop walks to the door. His pace shows no sign of sway or hesitation, his path had been laid a thousand times from his desk to the door, the darkness almost being welcomed. His room had ceased existing as a place of rest, of releasing all that the day afflicts on oneself. It had become a place of injury, sad stories told through misty eyes, and death weighing heavily upon all. His task was done, and free from the bounds of mission Bishop lay…the sheer mass of infinite possibilities at his feet. Yet here he found himself. Back to creation, back to the laying of the concrete foundation that he would build his fortress of righteousness upon. True righteousness, not the faux morals that dime ministers bring to those desperate enough to seek false salvation.
He stood at the door now, pausing but for a moment as he opened it. The light of the hallway greeting his face as he squinted his eyes. Various guards and attendees were roaming the hallowed ground, each keeping to their own business. No eyes swayed as Bishop glided among them, they were too dutiful to waiver when much had to be done. Too much. Not again would Bishop take the risks of reciprocation from wrestlers contacting his church. He was not a father, nor a pastor, but this ground…this hallowed ground was something more sacred that any human bounds of attachment. The wooden floor gave way to concrete, the concrete to soil, the soil to the hottest of lava. So much was given to this world and his purpose was to see it honored…to see it earned and kept only by those who lived without sin. As if such a thing existed. The thoughts clouded his mind as he travel down the hallways, a maze of emptiness the further from the epicenter of the remodeling one moved. Reaching a stairwell, Bishop moved down…beneath the streets, beneath the world above him. Light was once again a luxury as he turned a dial on a small oil lamp. Baring enough oil to keep the light on, the lamp waivered and sputtered shadows upon the walls. Warriors and monsters danced upon the walls as the flame cackled its cry. A veritable deluge of imagination could distract one from purpose, however, Bishop was far too hardened to be sway by the dance of shadows.
Turning from squared to rounded, the stair case no longer held the façade of youth as the original structure became apparent. A wrought iron spiral, steps sharp enough to cut even the toughest skin if stepped upon wrong, and paint that had long faded. This was the sight that met Bishop as his walk continued, coming to a head at the foot of the staircase. Walls turned from mortar to that of a mine shaft as his journey reached its final leg, the epitome of its existence.
He walked, realizing within himself the amount of focus he would need to become what his new arena, this new threat to salvation, would require. He would need to be what he had lost, and for that…a new beginning was in order. Long overdue and postponed, the general that he had become rested his troops outside of the war they waged. Resupplied he would march himself, the solider, the word, and the sword of The Lord unto the battlefield until his very last breath. He need to be what the rest of them could not. It was time for the world to once again see the price for every sin, and no better demonstration would be given. No worse would be the price the slime of sin would pay than the price he would dole to the masses. The stage mattered not, only the success.
Walking to the end of the cave, Bishop kneeled to match the height of a small outlet scratched into the wall. A few feet back, and the size of a child. A doll was on the floor, eyes missing and hair torn out. Its dress lifted above its head and nailed through where the eyes should have been…where they once were. Crayons scattered the floor, a trail of tattered colors leading to the back of the cave. A clay wall, hard to the unmotivated touch adorned the back wall. Mostly smooth, the eyes of an onlooker could not avoid the eerie centerpiece: The Pentecostal Cross, scratched crudely into the back of the wall. Small fingernails were sticking from the clay, encased and forever lost to whomever they belonged to. Bishop felt his neck, the crudeness of the etching reminding him of his repentance. The marks that made him different from the rest of The Pentecostal. The scars of skin long removed and blood since flown. Only his face lay untouched, his face…and the remainder that would soon be attended to. Kneeling before the cross, Bishop brings his hand to his face, moving to each shoulder before centering it upon his chest.
“Oh Lord of lords…do bless me, your blade, that the blood may drip dry those who stand against you. That the club may beat from this Earth the creatures of Sin. May the weeds of filth burn from this, your Earth gifted to us…since ruined.”
Bishop opened his eyes, the clay scratches flickering in the oil light. Bishop reaches for the lamp, bringing it closer to the cross as he moves his fingers through the grooves within it. Breathing deeply the chilled air of the cave, Bishop’s expression grows colder as well, each moment drawing him to a place deep within himself. Turning around, Bishop hangs the oil lamp in a root protruding from the ceiling. The weight of the lamp causes the root to buckled, but only just. Swinging back and forth the cave turns from lite to void of light in moments. Each movement Bishop made was made to look like photographs, the strobe effects taking hold on the cavern. A ping is heard…the only sound save for the breathing of the only inhabitant, the only inhabitant allowed with the depths. It was only recently discovered by the church members, and the caves end formed many questions to many wondering eyes. The ping once again rang through the cave, as a miniscule red light is seen in the darkness. The turning on of a camera, a system Bishop had planned to use for minor security…now set to higher purpose.
The view from the lens was ever changing, as the light was still swinging merely feet ahead of it. From blinding light pointed directly at it, to Bishop illuminated in front of it. Now facing the camera, Bishop’s head was down, his dreadlocks cascading over his face, casting shadow creases over his skin. Simply kneeling…simply breathing, Bishop stared to the grown. Second turned to eerie minutes as Bishop finally looks up to the light swinging above him. Bringing a hand to steady it, Bishop makes cease the swinging of the lights. Pulling from his pocket a bladed crucifix, Bishop looks finally at the camera lens. His eyes appearing black as pitch in the waning light. Closing them slowly, Bishop moves the blade to the dorsal side of his left hand. Piercing skin, Bishop’s is unflinching in his composure as the blade moves along his tensing muscle and ligament in his hand, cutting not deep enough to restrict mobility, but deep enough still to form an ocean of red. The symbol of his church cut into his hand, Bishop moves to do the same to his right. This cut more crude, as the hand holding said blade is still pouring its life from the now exposed veins. Dropping the blade upon finishing cutting, Bishop holds the tops of his hands towards the camera, opening his eyes as he breathes quickly and deeply. His forearms became road maps of dark lines falling endlessly to the ground.
“One…for…every…sin.”
Bishop says through pained and labored breathes, not once has breaking flesh ever made him wince, his brother saw to that. Pain after the fact, however, is in the mind. Focus was needed to move past it…to ignore it completely.
“My sins…compiled just as every soul upon this Earth.”
Bishop says to the camera, his voice becoming steadier as he thinks on words, not the pain boiling from his hands.
“My repentance, seen before you, for everything I do to end the slime…the filth.”
The root breaks more, causing the light to twitch as the oil shifted within the lamp. The brightness flickered, and for a moment…just a moment…Bishop was only a ghost in the already ghastly cavern. His blood had pooled upon the dirt floor, each drop now causing slight splashes to be heard on the camera as some semblance of clotting began to occur on his hands. Bishop readies himself to begin, readies himself to unleash. His hands condense to two outstretched fingers, dripping into the pool of blood on the ground and mixing it with the dirt and the mud. The memories and the stains of whatever inhabited his tunnel before him. Moving his hand from the ground to his face, Bishop draws his now signature cross over his face, mud caking to his skin as the excess falls to the ground.
“My name is not my own. Nor is any aspect of the old me, for I was reborn into the being you see before you. Made luminous by The Lord’s purpose, his plan for Sin upon Earth. This Earth…that I mix myself with…was not more than a gift. Do…”
Bishop pauses to shake his head.
“…ANY of you feel that sentiment? Do you even hold the capability to understand the depth of that charge? Created from his will, and squandered by his only children. Destroyed, ravaged, cut far too deep for repair…all this and more our world must suffer through as we do what in our own wake? Celebrate with our Sin? In the age of Noah, mankind showed Our Lord their desired ways, the unmalleable and unconditional contempt they had for life and love. A flood wiped clean the slate that is this plain, and now…in this…this age of violence and false glorification he sends another force. Weapons in the form of disciples, The Pentecostal, borne of hate for the weeds that grow from the fodder of Sin. Sin in all forms…sin in all words uttered in vain of The Lord.”
The mud began to run down his face, leaving bloody trails down his cheeks down from the design. Bishop figure was growing darker…darker…as the light continued to rock, ever so slightly back and forth.
“This world you live in, viewers of this testament. Is a glorification of Sin, of ever ideal this world is being destroyed with. I am the sword that will strike down the weeds that grip at the heart of this world. One victim fallen, one tower destroyed and now a larger specimen stands before me. I begin this journey as my last, considered a new object to be destroyed and broken, new meat to be slaughtered. I wonder, what will be the reaction to the contrary illusion taking shape to become to all too literally reality? When all you can view is the look of anguish, of shame…the view from your back. What then will you spew to those underlings unintelligent enough to listen?”
The root tears from the ground, moving the lamp down inches as the swinging increases drastically. The almost methodical breathing of Bishop matches the swings as once again his position moves from dark to light…from luminescence…to void.
“Now, I assume you are not here to revisit your ideals, nor to attempt to reform them. You are all lost, and when fire peels your flesh from your bones in the caves of Hell you will know my words stand true…I fight violence in the only way it will respond. Fire with fire so to speak. I am a weapon and am The Lord’s to be used as such.”
“Joey.”
“I once met a person…so enthralled with their own past that they failed to see the present. Failed to fear the future. YOUR fear, YOUR future…too far to see from the slime oozing from your lips every time you spew your filth. Sin…lust, greed…envy…all that you thrive in. All that you worship, are what hath brought my wrath down upon you. I hold something that this world of wrestling is a stranger to. I do not enter for victory. Achieving victory sends only the message of why I am there, it is the experience that I crave. The moments in the ring where the power of The Lord brings me above the filth and mire you crawl through. You are not living a life, Joey, you are suffering an existence. One that should have been ended at birth before it could further infect the world around it. I meek and dole, unequal laws unto a savage race, and only your braggadocio can dilute your mind into thinking it can achieve anything but a collapse. The light of The Lord knows no shadow, and no equal. No buzz achieved on this Earth shares its high, and when it envelopes you…You will know not of defeat.”
Bishop closes his eyes, and a grin forms upon his face before fading away with the swinging light.
“I can feel your response already. A complete disagreement, for ‘how can the light of The Lord beat anything when you don’t believe in it?’ Perhaps you feel religion is pushing ideals on a ‘free mind,’ perhaps poor mother and father were too weak to survive a world taking vengeance upon them for bringing a child into this mess…Whatever your reasoning is….whatever you force yourself to believe as you prepare for a victory that will never come…let these words ring true. You are naught but a breathing cesspool of mire, weeds grow from you, slime oozes and you feed upon all that you excrete because that is what makes you. That…will be your undoing. If only you walk away from this with one question in your mind, let it be this: When the weeds wither around you, and around your neck they wrap…Will I be there, in the corners of your mind, when all you desire is air…and all you find is nothing?”
As if waiting for the word to pass Bishop’s lips, the root collapses under the weight of the lamp, crashing to the floor as the oil splashing into the blood drying upon the floor. The oil ignites, burning the blood and causing smoke to fill the barely light cavern, casting a ghoulish look upon Bishop as his gaze stay upon the camera. Unflinching and unwavering in its poise. Bishop looks down at the fire, as if to see not a flame, but a symbol for all he opposed. His dreadlocks once again fall over his face, almost fully hiding it from the camera as the only light is the flame. Looking back to the camera, Bishop leans forward, touching the tips of his dreads unto the flame. The ends singe and burn, smoke coming from them as a smile forms over his face. His arms moved to the walls as he scratches down to the ground, clay falling from the walls as his right hand moved to his pocket. A light, battery operate and incredibly dim is turned on, and place over the mud Bishop moves to smite the flames. A yellow light now shone on Bishop, unflinching and holding not much more merit that the fire. His dreads smoke, leaving dancing shadows around his face as his smile faded away.
“Perhaps the biggest mystery of The Lord, is that hypocrisy lays not as a sin, but as a weakness of character. I wonder, foolishly I admit, how long of a time would pass before I saw hypocrisy rear its masked face before me, and it did. In a most shining fashion."
‘A statement that no man or woman will come between my dreams for me and my family’
“Did saying that make you feel, Zak? Were you feeling strong and powerful, a father protecting a cub?”
“Your family. If for some reason you were distracted by your preening about, and were absent for the beginning…We are ALL The Lord’s children. Your FAMILY is your opponent on the mat, your enemy on the sidewalk, and every criminal you see on television. You fight for your child? You fight to provide and protect life coming into this world? You are a fool and deserve everything that child could go through. Do not mistake my intent, however, I do not mean harm. I mean to live. To thrive. To be the best human that child can go through for only existing in a world you inhabit is hell enough for me to desire on a human. You glorify the violence, you get paid to spill blood upon the rubber and plastic. From that spawns underground circuits, from that, death matches in backyards. Blood and flesh ripped apart in honor of a sport you love. All the while someone’s BABY, sits crying in the corner. Flesh exposed in the outfit she was forced to wear by a family that feigned affection. Forced to distract the hungry masses awaiting the matches, until the time only viewing her will not be enough. Until the time when this death match crowd decides to touch, to feel her. Whether she desires it or not.”
Bishop closes his eyes, as if to digest the words rather that say them.
“I trust even a mind as feeble as your own as assume the ending to that all too common tale. A tale that reached the ears of our leaders, and a tale that is partly why we are here. All of that, blood and…lustful sinning…all…of…it. Spawned from an idea that the ‘sport’ you participate in, that you crave victory in is just and right. A BABY lost to death and torment, and all for the imitation of what you do to ‘protect’ your own.”
“Does that make you feel, Zak? Do you now see the hypocrisy?”
“I am not you, Zak. I provide for the entire family of The Lord, not the dogmatic view of a singular infantile presence. I could become victorious a thousand times, listen to your simple, and frankly boring rants about your fists and the preferable result of them…a thousand times. I could win a thousand fortunes and still my goal would not be victory over your ability, your prowess, your skill. No…my victory is over what is inside of you, down to your soul.”
“Also I heard the voice of the Lord, saying, Whom shall I send, and who will go for us? Then said I, Here am I; send me. Isaac, 6-8. Its words…never more fitting than in this moment. I am sent. We are sent. All sent by The Lord to do his work. To eliminate sin upon this Earth. Fire with fire, cuts for Sins, and blood for blood I live my life to serve The one. What do you serve if not yourselves? What is that if not a sin?”
“What is your hope but a fleeting dream?”
