Post by leborddedieu on Aug 29, 2023 11:48:04 GMT -5
Gerald Giles was having a bad day.
Instead of sitting in his office with his comfy couch, being fed peeled grapes by J-Vexx (Jolie only let him call her that), while recording the next advertising spot for Anarchy, like he’s SUPPOSED to be doing instead of one of the Too High to Go To Journalism College Like HE Did Twins, Blaze and Highmore, he was “on location” for some dumb interview. And, hooo BOY, what a location it was.
“Heh man…you gotta quarter?”
Giles shivered in disgust as he pulled away from the homeless man. Disheveled and dirty, the man shrugged at Giles’ response and put his head down in his lap. Sitting against a wall, he was amongst a row of dwellings built from cardboard, milk crates, and other discarded bits of trash and debris. Giles shivered again, nearly vomiting in his mouth as the homeless man’s stench wafted to his nose, and pulled a handkerchief from his jacket’s top pocket to hold over his nose. Standing in the middle of the homeless encampment, Giles’ recently-washed suit stood out against the grays and browns of longtime filth like a freshly opened sponge placed atop a sink full of dishes following a busy dinner service. He did his best not to touch anything, or anyone, careful to not get the stench of The Poor on him.
“...alouette, gentille alouette…
Giles looks around as he hears a soft voice singing, the accent heavily French to go with the words, but he doesn’t see the singer.
“Hello?”
No change in the movement around him, however. He sees a few of the bums sitting against the walls of the alley, a few are placing some dice game…the dice no doubt stolen from some otherwise reputable merchant…off to one side, one of them was rubbing oil onto the dirty, gross feet of another, some were blankly staring at nothing.
“Is someone-”
“...alouette, gentille alouette…”
The singing repeats and Giles swivels his head around more, trying to find the source, but the scenery doesn’t change.
“...alouette, gentille alouette…”
He’s about to give up when the person rubbing oil on another’s feet turns their head to regard the OCW broadcaster. The person was wearing a wrap around their head, one of those conservative hijab deals, but the face underneath was not what he expected with their eyes met. Whereas everyone in the camp was dirty and scruffy, with eyes filled with dejection and postures slumping to the alleyway’s pavement, the person under the hijab was positively clean. The person, a woman, had bright white skin, skin so thin that it pulled against her sharp features to make her face look skeletal, with cheekbones so high and sharp that they looked as if they could cut him. Her eyes were a bright emerald, filled with awareness and light, and they nearly made his breath stop. Thin lips slightly curled in a half smile as she turned back to the man in front of her and returned to rubbing the oil into his feet.
“Je te plumerai la pieds!”
She squeezed the man’s feet with a gentle firmness before pushing herself up to her feet. Along with the scarf around her head, the woman wore a loose-fitting black dress, so flowing that it was nearly a cloak, which was spotted with dirt at the hem. Upon standing, she held out a long-fingered hand to the man.
“Rise…and be counted.”
The dirty man blinked several times in confusion, but after a moment, reached out to her. As gaunt as her face looked to Giles, she pulled the man to his feet with surprising strength, ultimately looking up at him once he was there.
“Do not let zee sins of zee world keep you down in Satan’s depths, mon enfant. Stand tall! Stand proud! Stand with zee strength and vigor of my husband, Il est ressuscité, and be zee shining light zee world needs, n-est’ce pas?”
It was a little difficult to understand the woman’s thick French accent, but the dirty man didn’t seem to have that problem. Instead, his dull eyes lit up with a bright shine and a smile came to his bearded face. Before long, he was wagging his head in agreement with the woman’s encouragement.
“Yes…yes, Ma’am. Yes…?”
His voice trailed off in confusion for a moment, but the woman smiled.
“You may call me ‘Mother.’”
The man nodded even more emphatically.
“Yes, Mother!”
Her emerald eyes gleamed even brighter than before as she squeezed his hands.
“Zen go, mon enfant! Shod your feet, freshly bathed in zee oils and love of God, and spread zee word, oui? Spread His Word!”
The man bounced with energy as he bend to pick up his shoes, a pair of old boots with holes in both heel and toe, and began to put them on.
“Yes, Mother! I’ll spread it everywhere, I promise. I’ll make you proud!”
Giles’ disbelieving stare followed the man as he began moving down the alley, already clasping the shoulders and backs of his fellow tenants of his tent city, shouting out praises for “God and Mother!”
“Like James zee Greater rushing to stand as tall as his brother John.”
Giles jumps in startlement, his arms wrapping around his chest, at the voice suddenly in his ear. The woman had stealthily appeared at his side, seemingly crossing the expanse of the alleyway while his gaze had followed the suddenly exalted bum, and now looked up at him with a shine in her eyes. He suddenly felt cold, as if the aura of some terrible snow beast emanated from the woman, and he found himself shivering in the warmth of the day.
“I…I take it you are-”
“Le Bord de Dieu.”
Her voice was as thin as her face, almost haggard, yet also possessed a thick haughtiness that seemed to fill Giles’ ears.
“And what…exactly…does that mean?”
She smiled after he asked this, her lips curling up high enough to almost touch her eyes. It was one of those smiles one would expect from the Cheshire Cat as he confounded Alice.
Or Smaug smelling fresh Hobbit flesh for the first time.
“I am zee Edge and zee Blade of God, mon enfant.”
“....right. So, I guess that means you’re a wrestler? Because Outlast Championship Wrestling sent me out to this…well…whatever this is…to ask you about your history and your match with Naddie the-”
“Non!”
Giles rears back from the sudden outburst from the woman.
“NON! Zis is NOT about my pedigree, mon enfant! Zis is not about I being zee Champion du Chaos or ‘er being zee Champion du Poids Léger! Zis is NOT about championships and accolades, or friends and enemies, or knowing zee subtleties of clotheslines and lariats, or headlocks and cravats from Sweden! Zis is NOT about my record in zis business, nor ‘ers. Zis, mon enfant…”
She pauses and Giles is nearly taken aback by the gleam in her eye, a gleam which read purely as zealotry.
“...zis is about God. Zis is about His mission, His vision, His message. Zis is about what He wants, about what He expects, about what lengths He wishes us to go to fulfill zat message and vision. Zis is about Salvation, oui?”
She begins to wave her arms as she talks, the oversized sleeves flapping as she did so.
“Zis woman I face, zis Nadea, ‘as already made zee first step. She of zee gutter, of zee slums, was born into and nurtured by sin, and ‘as risen up! Born into zee gutter, born into zee world of whores, drug-abusers, and le salopes, she was destined to be nothing more zan zat salope she began as, removing ‘er clothing for zee dregs and infidels of zee world. Mais! She was able to push past zat sin, to rise up in zee image of God and leave zat world behind. She was able to cast aside zee garment of sin as she did her garments of cloth, but for God instead of zee men at zee foot of her pole, and become more zan what ‘er family and community expected of her.
“And now! Et maintenant! She ‘as ze chance to do so again! Toss aside zee other sins of zee world she finds ‘erself diving into like un cochon rutting in ‘er own mud. She ‘as zee chance to rise above! To rise and be counted! To bask in zee light of God, to walk down zee Path of the Light! She has zee chance to be more zan zee everyday woman wrestler zat our sport, God’s favorite above zem all, has become: A woman obsessed over clothing and flair, obsessed with zee aesthetics to make zee mongrels and cows within zee crowd drool down zeir chins. She has zee chance to be MORE zan zee sickness that infects our business…she has zee chance to cast away ‘er dependencies on zee flesh and instead embrace zee warm trappings of God!”
Giles blinked…several times…as the wave of words flushed over him. The woman’s accent, as French as French could be, was difficult to follow at times…he never could understand why international people just couldn’t speak English properly…but he got the gist of it.
“So…you think you’re going to win, or…?”
Giles recoiled once again from the woman as the pale face shining bright from within the dark hijab scowled so hard that she seemed to take on the visage of a gargoyle.
“Victory, mon enfant! Victory is not simply zee winning for zee count of troi! Victory is not simply zee submission! Victory is not simply zee arm raised into zee air! Oui, we must have our 'ands raised, our fists into zee air, so as to reach toward God. But zee TRUE victory is changing zis business! In order to change zis business, to bring it from zee muck and mire it has found itself in, we must change zee companies, such as zee Outcast Championship Wrestling. And to change Outcast, we must change zee wrestlers like mon enfant Nadea. And I, as zee Voice of God, as His Edge and Blade, will do whatever it takes to achieve zat victory. I shall tear! I shall rip! I shall cut zee sin from Nadea. I shall put ‘er in so much pain that she will look up into zee lights of Charlottesville, with zee tears streaming from ‘er eyes like zee power of zee Penobscot River during a Lacklan Mistral, and she shall beg me for forgiven and release. I shall take all of ‘er sin, all of ‘er transgressions, all of ‘er mistakes, and turn zem into a ball of righteous fury so bright zat God Himself smiles down upon zee Outcast Championship Wrestling and blesses zem with His love. I shall show zem all what TRUE victory means, mon enfant.”
Her waving arms take in the alley around them, forcing Giles to take in the various bums, cretins, and transients. And, to his surprise, the men and women, all dirty and smelly from their odd existence, seemed…different. He saw the man the woman had talked to before, the one she had rubbed oil on his feet, moving down the alley, from person to person, and after each visit, everyone seemed to stand taller, sit straighter.
“Zis is zee true victory. Zee victory of zee righteous. Zee victory of zose who would stand. Who would rise. Who would be counted.”
She drew his attention back to her.
“My job, mon enfant, is to bring zis victory to wrestling, oui? To rebuild it in God’s vision. To change it. To baptize it in my fire and blood. Outcast Championship Wrestling is not zee first to feel zee falling of zee hammer. Nadea is not zee first to find ‘erself falling zee victim to L'étreinte de Dieu, holding ‘er head in ‘er hands, neck screaming from zee pain, and wishing for God’s forgiveness. I am zat forgiveness. I am zat hope. I shall make zem ALL rise and be counted.”
As Giles looks around the alley, at the hope seemingly restored to the warren of homeless, he could find himself believing it.