Rubicon Part IX - The Wolf and the Lamb

[The Sky King]

"I am the desires most profane, The pestilence cursing thousands.”

=27th May 2011
12:09pm=

Luck was sat on a long, wooden bench to the east of his house, near the edge of the rocky outcropping leading up to his house and overlooking Las Vegas. Despite the sun blazing down to his right, and scorching almost every nerve under his skin, he sat quite comfortably, overlooking the concrete and steel of the majestic jewel in the crown of Nevada. Beside him sat Ava, his young stepsister, her legs dangling over the seat of the bench and swaying in the air. Luck sat with his hands on his knees and an oddly-neutral expression on his face. In contrast, Avas mouth was hanging open in shock. In the few moments of silence between brother and sister, Luck reached into the breast pocket of his ruby-red dress shirt, pulling out…a lollipop. He tore off the wrapper, sticking it into his mouth and sucking on it like a child would. After a few, ravenous sucks, he took it out, keeping a calm, blank gaze ahead. For the first time in several days, he felt calm. Around his stepsister, he had become a curious, immature puppy, and as such the darkness that once smothered his heart and mind simply ceased to be. While it did not stop him regarding his opponents as nothing more than blood-filled bags, it stopped him from truly going over the edge. Despite his best attempts to only form a relationship to turn daughter against mother, he felt a legitimate connection with his sister. A connection that allowed him to speak his mind on the matter of wrestling.

"A disgusting, vile reprehensible being. A person without morals or boundaries. A person who is simply using the fans to boost his own morale without any respect for them. A man who is a modern-day Knights Templar, a man who pretends to do good when he is, in fact, committing evil acts and forcing the people he sees as unholy to suffer humiliation at his pious hands. A man who is hanging on to the federation simply to deal out his own sick, twisted brand of justice upon those who he feels to be unworthy." ranted Luck calmly, quickly sticking the lollipop into his mouth before letting loose a calm sigh.

“…So, that’s what Oblivions like?” asked Ava, her mouth agape.

“Indeed it is.” Replied Luck, his voice half-muffled by the lollipop. “He is not a very nice man. Not very nice at all. As I said, all we did was call him out. We didn’t expect him to appear and take vengeance on us so rashly. He made it so we lost our titles. His own support and legendary status also made it so that the management could not and did not interfere. Me and Dave were left hanging in limbo without a hope. The management didn’t care, they love dancing to Oblivions tune. We are two brave men, ready to launch an insurrextion against that hypocritical thug who believes that he is doing what is right, and instead he feels the need to crush what we loved and desired. Of course, that is why we did what we had to Annette and Cole, to prevent him from hurting what we love by hurting what he loves. It sounds complicated and heinous, but I can assure you that Annette is alright, and we are treating her very well indeed. Women and children will not be harmed in this war.”

Ava turned her head, looking over Las Vegas. She didn’t understand some of Lucks more intellectual words, but she understood the basic purpose of his message. “So..what happens this week? It’s the title-thingy, isn’t it?”

“Indeed. Six men fighting for a shot at the World Championship. Thankfully, there is no Oblivion in sight, and we have already got him cornered by keeping Annette close to us. So this week, it is all I am focusing on.” Replied Luck, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a second lollipop, handing it to Ava. His plan was beginning to work wonders: Turn mother against daughter. Turn one fan against Oblivion. All for the sake of boosting his morale. Ava took the lollipop gratefully, uttering a quick ‘Thanks’ and not realising her brothers true motives. "It will be a great thing to win, a great honor to hold. Simply outlast five other men who have all the tactical prowess of a wet paper bag, and I get to have a chance at the World Championship any time I want. It is a chance I simply cannot let slip from my grasp."

“So..will you win?” she asked, unwrapping the strawberry lollipop. Luck gave an actual, albeit small, smile.

“I plan to, sis. I plan to. The five other men in there are…well, they are not tough opponents.” Replied Luck.

“What about Jack Bull? He’s beaten you before..” she added. Luck felt his heart almost go haywire with rage. He stopped for a moment, closing his eyes and smelling the fresh, crisp Nevada air, allowing it to calm down the iron fist pounding his ribcage before opening them.

“Indeed, he has. Three times. Four, counting the Tag Team match. A lot of people count him as my rival, but I would rather not be associated to such a disgusting, filthy plebeian such as him. He has such growing delusions of grandeur that Xplode himself has even began to train him. Can you believe it? I couldn’t when a friend of a friend told me..I was almost in shock. In Bull sits an ego so big that it could outgrow Canis Majoris by the end of the year, and he’s only feeding it by believing that he is somehow on the level with legends of the business..yet all he is and ever can be is a pup staring up at the entrance to the den of the alpha male.” Muttered Luck darkly, sitting back into the bench. "He masks his cowardice and his lack of talent well by grasping a microphone and spewing profanities into it like some kind of ill-educated heathen. That man is not a rival, he is simply someone who has irritated me several times and has claimed lucky wins over me. Nothing to be too afraid of, my dear."

“Canis Majoris?” asked Ava.

“Largest known star in the universe. Soon to be outdone by the Bulls ego.” Answered Luck. “I can’t wait to step into that ring and do something horrible to him. I hope to hit him so hard that he splits in half, bursting like some kind of ripe pimple. I hope. He’ll probably do something cowardly and gutless like getting himself eliminated before I can clasp my hands around his throat. I’ve lost to him before, but the game is over. I’m not the same man he faced way back when. This time, he doesn’t have his little drunken redneck inbred friend to help save his soul, nor will his new mentor be able to stand up and help him, lest he wants poor little Annette to suffer a punishment. Bull believes he sees all and knows all, he believes that a victory is certain because he has beaten me before, and I am clearly the only worthy contender in that match. Sadly for Bull…It’s not about winning. It’s about hurting people, plain and simple, and I absolutely cannot wait to annihilate him and leave the legacy of Bull in flames. The son of a…gun..won’t know what hit him!”

“I believe you can finally beat him..” replied Ava quietly. Luck smiled, throwing his head back and looking at the pale afternoon sky.

“Mithras, God of Midnight, here where the great bull dies…Look on thy children of darkness, oh take my sacrifice.” Recited Luck from memory.


“What’s that?” asked Ava.

“A poem. A Song to Mithras by Rudyard Kipling. I always recite it before a match..gets the blood pumping. I plan to recite it before I sacrifice Bull.” Replied Luck.

“..I guess...at least Bull you’ve faced a lot…what about the big guy you’ve faced? Cross?” asked Ava. Luck laughed.

“Yeah. He was all bark and no bite. He stood there, thinking that his size could beat me alone, but he was wrong, and instead of the win he so thought was certain, he walked out humiliated by earning a draw with me. I smiled so much that day..” mused Luck. “Of course, all Cross does nowadays is use that size as an excuse to constantly cry for shots at the World Championship, when brighter stars are already beginning to smother the paltry glow he emits.”

“Doesn’t he hurt you, though?” asked Ava somewhat childishly. "I mean, he's so big and he looks so powerful--"

“He does, but you do have to remember that I am much faster than him. I’ve seen trees that are more mobile than Cross. All he can do is hit, or maybe throw in a little power game. The man creaks when he walks. Smashing him in this Battle Royal is going to be easy: Agility and power, the one-two punch. Get above him, fly through the air, slam an elbow into that bearded jaw of his once or twice and then he’s down on the floor.” Replied Luck. “Despite being the most physically imposing, he is easily one of the least threatening in this match. Any wrestler worth their weight in salt would know that Cross is nothing more than a brute. Any Roman would be able to strike down that barbarian, even the rat-like frumentarii would be able to slay him without so much as breaking a sweat.”

“..Huh..I guess!” exclaimed Ava cheerfully. Luck blinked, looking straight ahead and taking the lollipop out of his mouth. He felt like an emperor looking over Rome. He felt more confident and powerful than ever before. Shedding his emotions and turning himself into a goalless, nigh-on emotionless shell wasn’t a loss nor was it a hindrance: It brought great rewards. He knew the odds were against him in this match, but he didn’t really care. As long as he could just hurt one person and maybe even put them in the hospital, without any regard for their friends, family or physical wellbeing, then that would be as good as a victory for Luck.

No mercy for heathens. And speaking of heathens, a new face popped in Lucks mind. A small, toothy, sadistic grin peered across his face, reminiscent to a Cheshire Cat deep in thoughts about dismembering the Queen of Hearts.

“Brother, is everything alright?” asked Ava, somewhat cautiously. Luck quickly wiped the grin from his face. The plan would be void if Ava was fearful of her brother and more comfortable in supporting Oblivion or any of his opponents for the coming match.

“Oh yes, I was just thinking about how easy it will be to decimate one of the other opponents in the match. His name is Warrior. Pretty unfitting when you look at the man himself.” Replied Luck.

“Warrior? …I’ve seen him. He hurt Ambrose!” exclaimed Ava. Luck didn’t really care. He knew about the rivalry between the two, but they could literally stab eachother and Luck still wouldn’t give a fuck about their business. All Luck cared was that Warrior stood before him in this Battle Royal.

“Well, he truly isn’t worth discussing as a wrestler. He is pretty much like every single other goddamn generic slob who has entered the ring. In fact, no, Warrior is worse. Warrior is a man still depending on past glories to light up his name, despite not having done anything of note in the past few years. All he’s done recently is gathered up a posse of the weakest possible individuals in his war against Ambrose, and both of us know that will be doomed to failure. Aside from that, he really isn’t noteworthy at all. He charges at people, tackles them, and that’s about it. Oh, and maybe he lifts them up and suplexes them. Trust me, dear sister, Warrior is nothing to worry about. In this match, he will be chewed up and spit out. Warrior is nought but an old Legionnaire, respectable in old battles, but now is about as useful as wet tissue paper. The only reason he’s still clinging on is because no-ones stepped up to the put him down. No-one has ever believed him to be worth the time.” Spat Luck. He rubbed his eyes, clasping his slick hands together and leaning over, looking down at the sands beneath his leather sandals.

“..Eh, he isn’t.” interjected Ava.

“Of course not. When you get past a certain age, you should leave the ring with your pride intact and simply bow out before your legacy can be tarnished. Sadly for Warrior, he is just too brain-damaged to remind himself of that fact. Warriors legacy, impressive as it may be, now counts for absolutely nothing. He will be humiliated in this match, and he will continue to be humiliated for as long as he continues to walk into that ring with his nose thrust up into the air.” Muttered Luck.

“..He kinda is pathetic. He just attacks people behind their back..and he kinda depends on his posse..” chuckled Ava.

“Exactly. He is nothing but weak.” Replied Luck confidently. “Speaking of people who need to depend on others..What are your thoughts on Scorpion?”

Ava shivered, her young age still dictating that such mysterious and enigmatic individuals will scare her, despite them being all smoke and mirrors.

“He’s…scary!” exclaimed Ava. Luck gave a small laugh.

“No he isn’t. He’s a façade. Smoke and mirrors. Absolutely nothing about him is scary…What is scary about him?” asked Luck.

“He’s dark, he’s creepy, his whole..prayer thing—“

“That’s not scary. It’s an act by a weak man trying to find his strength within an occupation that is simply too difficult for him.” Interrupted Luck. “He depends on his dark façade in order to scare people and make him seem more intimidating, when in fact he isn’t. The most intimidating thing about him is that greasy hair and stubble that he refuses to watch. He prays, so what? Religion has long been a crutch for people who cannot stomach the world anymore, or for those who have been so shocked and otherwise changed that they can find no other path to go on. It isn’t scary, it’s a sign of weakness, no matter whether he prays to God, Allah, Buddha, whoever! His mask is slipping, and even he can feel the noose tightening around his neck as the original shock his image and action provides is slowly worn away into nothing more than a common novelty.”

“…I guess..” muttered Ava quietly.

“Don’t guess: Know. In that ring, all Scorpion can do is follow the will of his God and unleash little more than sadism upon his opponents. Now, before this match, that could possibly be dangerous, but now he must surely know that another man who uses a technique of fighting similar to him is standing opposite him in that ring. He isn’t the only man going out there to destroy, and what makes it worse for him is that he is doing it for God, I’m doing it for me, my friends and family. I fight for something I know is true, he fights for something that isn’t visible. He fights for something that is unsure. I fight for reality, not some invisible man in the sky. Ironic that he is actually quite intelligent, too.” Replied Luck. “Scratch away the darkness, the pangs of intelligence and the prayers and all you have is a scared, sad little goth kid with a superiority complex. He knows that the person who stands across the ring has long since read about and embraced the ideals of the very people who placed Jesus of Nazareth on the cross. He doesn’t scare me…but I sure as hell better scare him. I won’t think twice about sending him to the same fate as his saviour.” Spat Luck. Ava shivered slightly, but nodded.

“I….see..” she muttered, still unconfident about Lucks words. Luck simply smiled.

“Don’t worry. Once the World Championship is snatched away from him, you will see him for who he truly is. In fact, he might even turn out like the…final opponent, Dia—“

“Hey! It’s Uncle Zack!” piped up Ava, interrupting him as she spun her head around. Luck twisted his head around, noticing Zack jogging towards the bench quickly. He skidded to a halt behind the bench, digging his trainers in the sand before standing up straight.

“Hey, guys, Ivys here.” He said. Luck nodded, turning his head to Ava. He felt the emotional grip she held on his heart starting to wither away. The world began to turn grey in his cold, barren eyes.

“I am afraid we must temporarily part ways.” Said Luck soothingly. Ava hopped off the bench, yawning. Luck slowly pulled himself up, cracking his back and following her as she walked around the bench to Zack.

“What were you going to say about Diabolik?” asked Ava. Luck stopped and simply smiled.

“My dear sister, he is simply not worth talking about. He is nothing in this match. Nothing more than filler and easy prey.” Said Luck with an almost sadistic glee in his voice, squatting down beside her.

“..Bro, can I come visit again?” she asked. Luck nodded.

“Of course.” Replied Luck, feeling the leash that kept him from cursing and writhing in the sands like an enraged madman slowly unhook from around his neck, his violent thoughts about his opponents starting to fill his head. "In fact, I recommend that you do."

“Will you win?” she asked.

“We shall see. I cannot make any promises albeit for one: When I eliminate my first opponent, When I strip everything away that makes him human, When I embarrass him beyond belief…I will jab my thumb at my heart. That will be the sign that your brother is fighting for you, dear baby sister.” Said Luck soothingly, keeping the enraged feelings suppressed. Ava nodded, smiling.

“I’ll be watching!” she piped cheerfully.

“Good, because remember: Your brother is going to be a champion. Simple as that.” Reassured Luck. Ava nodded, pecking his cheek once more before taking Zacks hand. Zack nodded at Luck before turning around, leading Ava towards the mansion. Luck watched, arms folded as both of them became nothing more than silhouettes blacked out by the sun. “Sie das Morgenrot im Osten, Ava.”

Rome wasn’t built in a day, nor was it built on good and pure actions alone. Some people might see Luck as a vile, reprehensible human being for turning daughter against mother for the sake of giving him the morale boost that comes naturally for someone knowing that a member of their family legitimately supports their every step.

For Luck, it was just another day in the office. And yet, despite his greatest attempts to avoid gaining an emotional connection to his newly-uncovered stepsister, he felt his mind unravel as she walked into the distance. Thoughts slipped away, as did emotions once more, leaving nothing more than a shell containing thoughts about six men, battling in a dusty Coliseum for the amusement of a gawping emperor and the thousands of baying inbred citizens. He felt the anger swill in the pit of his stomach once again, seeing the gaping maw of Jack Bull, deformed into a vapid grin, as well as seeing the greasy locks of Scorpion and Warrior sway in the wind as they strutted about, believing they were the best. He felt zero feelings towards Brett Cross and Diabolik, the two men who were nothing more than Hunnic barbarians to Luck, despite the former beating him once.

Luck stopped in his tracks, clutching the side of his temple. He felt a certain pain unfold within it. The pain of humiliation still burning, a pain he knew would be etched deeper if he lost this match without seriously injuring or actually killing an opponent.

He let out a deep breath, the darkness overcoming him once more. His skin began to sweat and turn clammy, his stomach filling with ice as nothing more than pure hatred filled his body as his thoughts darted over the five men he would face in the Coliseum, locked in a battle where he knew that the odds were against him, as well as the fans. He felt the anger and the rage begin to wash over him. His sister was the only thing keeping this feelings hidden, since he wanted her to support him and give him something to be proud of, knowing that at least one Hetfield would be truly supporting him. Now that he knew that she was supporting him, he clenched his fist, biting the knuckle as his abdomen shuddered violently, a vein pulsing in his temple. The rage was coming in thick and fist. He saw all five men unfold in his head. He saw Hettus stranded in the forest.

Humiliation swelled in his stomach. He shut his eyes tightly. A tear beaded in the corner of his right eye. He wanted to destroy all five of them so badly that it physically pained him at this point..but he also wanted to show them just how much he wanted to physically annihilate them. He wanted to send a message, but he wanted it to be something that felt a lot more raw and natural to him than picking up a microphone and slandering his opponents.

He fell to one knee, continuing to bite into his fist, mulling over the decision. He knew what to do. He was going to record not a message, but a stark warning to his five opponents. He was going to show that he didn't need to thump a Bible, he was going to show that he didn't need to be trained by a legend, he was going to show that he didn't necessarily need a posse at his side and at his back to help him, he was going to show that he didn't need his cultural heritage to help give him feelings of pride and power, he was going to show that he didn't need to swing a blind chair like a madman just to score a victory in a match.

He pulled his fist, the knuckles now red and raw, from his mouth, letting loose a guttural gasp and opening his eyes, storming up to his feet. He needed this. He needed to unleash his feelings of anger and humiliation upon his opponents. He needed to show them just how much he had transcended the very basic ideals of human, that he had transcended the very moral boundaries that held most others in check.

He grasped his shirt, pulling it off to reveal his chiselled chest and abdomen glistening with sweat. He gave an angry snort, storming towards the mansion. Without his young sister there to quell his anger and force his heart to decide between anger and genuine affection, he felt such forces give way to a void within his heart. The void formed by humiliation over the past months, and now it was time to pay it back before they stepped into that ring. He was going to steal the shot at the Championship and repay all debts in full.

If this match was a war, then he was going to fire the first fucking shot.