Post by Deleted on May 17, 2021 12:02:30 GMT -5
Lester Parish began the day in front of a mirror. Voices lilted in the background of judging his every move and every moment of clarity. He focused, trying best to look powerful, but the last few weeks had worn into him physically. Mental fortitude stranded him on an island designed for the weary with all the sapping vampirism of Alcatraz. He was alone atop Little Big Horn as the world descended from every cardinal direction. The Hangmen loomed, and in their dominance, Parish saw himself fading into background.
Lester enters a room of shuffling feet held loosely to their pews. Each patron of his word, once attuned to his entrance in godly mystique, now looks upon him as chairperson of the PTA. Sure, he had power behind those booming words, but they lacked credibility -- even if he promised killing blows from the dais. The flock had turned. Residuals of his Abraham damask set a table he knew would welcome a greater, younger and more talented star to dinner. Lester just missed one factor in his calculation: He forgot to gage his own place amongst the new king’s court. Rage flows into their pews with the groaning rattle of a dying man. He was no longer in control.
Attendees slip away with other things on their minds. His fire had no fury. Large hands strangled an invisible foe with the blow-over weight of a strawman toppled against his useless energy. Bleating did no good. Complaining also had no discernible effect.
That’s when the lumpy shuffle of Lamarche hobbled behind him, those sinister steps of a mastermind in the foil wrapping of a mass-produced hamburger.
“Lester,” he says, prodding a man nearly a foot taller than him, “You have to move on from this pulpit work. You told them to move on, yet you seem attached to the starlight.”
“I’m not in the spotlight.”
“Exactly my point,” he says with an incriminating point. “But you gotta see that what we’re trying to change is more than your one-man show. This random vendetta… where does it end? You hop from promotion to promotion with a new name and fan-oriented outreach, but you’re no different. And these fans are too smart to fall for their own good.”
“It doesn’t matter. We have Byron--”
“We do,” Larmache says on his heels, “but do you believe it yet? I don’t. And neither does Action Wrestling.”
Lester squeezes his fist.
“Give me a chance to show there’s still something in my soul.”
Lamarache breaks into laughter.
“Frank Lowe and Corey Bull. I can match up against them!”
“Frank?” he says amidst laughter. “You are lost, Lester.”
Parish’s eyes narrow.
“You’re best hiding behind that old leather mask. Because you’re outta face, old man. These people smell it a mile away.”
“Then my only recourse is picking one of them and destroying them.”
“Oh, you want to demolish someone now. Well look the fuck at that!” Larmarche dances around him while hyping up a lyrical trance. “So here's what you’re going to do. Because this is a Colonnade mission. You remember that, right?”
“Bull is my target. We hold similar size in the ring, leaving Bathory to fend off the enigmatic power of Frank Lowe. We need to break them apart. Appeal to their oversized damsel tied to the train tracks, and by untying the bull so he turns on those yanking his leash.”
Lamarche smiles.
“Go idea,” he says with a quiet laugh. “Just don’t lose your head. Because these guys will kill you given the chance. But then again, Frank’s a dirty old bastard too. Should be fun to watch. Just don’t fuck it up for the rest of us.”
He watches Lamarche exit with clenched fists.
***
Lester enters a room of shuffling feet held loosely to their pews. Each patron of his word, once attuned to his entrance in godly mystique, now looks upon him as chairperson of the PTA. Sure, he had power behind those booming words, but they lacked credibility -- even if he promised killing blows from the dais. The flock had turned. Residuals of his Abraham damask set a table he knew would welcome a greater, younger and more talented star to dinner. Lester just missed one factor in his calculation: He forgot to gage his own place amongst the new king’s court. Rage flows into their pews with the groaning rattle of a dying man. He was no longer in control.
Attendees slip away with other things on their minds. His fire had no fury. Large hands strangled an invisible foe with the blow-over weight of a strawman toppled against his useless energy. Bleating did no good. Complaining also had no discernible effect.
That’s when the lumpy shuffle of Lamarche hobbled behind him, those sinister steps of a mastermind in the foil wrapping of a mass-produced hamburger.
“Lester,” he says, prodding a man nearly a foot taller than him, “You have to move on from this pulpit work. You told them to move on, yet you seem attached to the starlight.”
“I’m not in the spotlight.”
“Exactly my point,” he says with an incriminating point. “But you gotta see that what we’re trying to change is more than your one-man show. This random vendetta… where does it end? You hop from promotion to promotion with a new name and fan-oriented outreach, but you’re no different. And these fans are too smart to fall for their own good.”
“It doesn’t matter. We have Byron--”
“We do,” Larmache says on his heels, “but do you believe it yet? I don’t. And neither does Action Wrestling.”
Lester squeezes his fist.
“Give me a chance to show there’s still something in my soul.”
Lamarache breaks into laughter.
“Frank Lowe and Corey Bull. I can match up against them!”
“Frank?” he says amidst laughter. “You are lost, Lester.”
Parish’s eyes narrow.
“You’re best hiding behind that old leather mask. Because you’re outta face, old man. These people smell it a mile away.”
“Then my only recourse is picking one of them and destroying them.”
“Oh, you want to demolish someone now. Well look the fuck at that!” Larmarche dances around him while hyping up a lyrical trance. “So here's what you’re going to do. Because this is a Colonnade mission. You remember that, right?”
“Bull is my target. We hold similar size in the ring, leaving Bathory to fend off the enigmatic power of Frank Lowe. We need to break them apart. Appeal to their oversized damsel tied to the train tracks, and by untying the bull so he turns on those yanking his leash.”
Lamarche smiles.
“Go idea,” he says with a quiet laugh. “Just don’t lose your head. Because these guys will kill you given the chance. But then again, Frank’s a dirty old bastard too. Should be fun to watch. Just don’t fuck it up for the rest of us.”
He watches Lamarche exit with clenched fists.
***