Bellum et Pax et Monstrum

Jess St. Cloud’s Apartment Boston, MA Early July, 2024

Don lay awake in Jess’ bed, arms crossed behind his head. It was early morning, and dust particles floated in free space, illuminated by slats of soft light piercing through miniblinds. He’d just returned from the bathroom and tried his best not to stir his partner as she slept soundly on her side, her back to him. He watched the slow rise and fall of her body as she slept. He felt a sense of comfort, but his mind wandered.

He knew at his age he shouldn’t be concerned about what his Mother would think about such a dalliance, but it was ingrained and reinforced over the years. He couldn’t help it. Don also had the church to think about. It was never just about Don Winters anymore. There was a slice of him that missed the inherent selfishness of living on the road as a wrestler without any responsibility except getting his ass on the road to the next venue.

Over the last ten months, Don had ascended in ways he’d not thought possible since the halcyon days of fWo. He shivered to think that at one point those days were the highlight of his entire life. The out-of-the-blue phone call from Lindsay Troy, back into a wrestling career that has turned out more successful than anything prior to date. The church got major funding, a new location, and tens of thousands of followers. Meeting important religious figures across Europe. Being ordained the Priest-King of Christianity. Is this what fate is? The divine process of selection as ordained by God?

Not to mention Jess falling back into his life after 20 years apart. The revelation of Jerry potentially being his son. He reminded himself he would need to bring that up with Jess eventually. Eventually. What would change, really? Why is a 48-year-old man so afraid? He asked himself this question constantly. He just wanted to live in the moment. Let things be as they are. Don was content, he was happy. There was a sense he hadn’t allowed himself to feel this way in quite some time.

And yet.

As he drifted off back into sleep, he could hear the call of a Northern Cardinal outside the window. He subconsciously smiled at the sound. The light began to fade from his periphery and he was plunged into darkness. The thoughts of being happy and content fell away from his mind like the tide being pulled back out to sea. He was left threadbare in the darkness, nothing but the monsters in his head.

Doubt. Insecurity. Those monsters swirled and circled above like twin tempests. There was never any shelter from this storm, it was one that must be endured. Batten down the hatches as they might shout while out to sea. His eyes flitted quickly as he entered REM sleep. He never heard Jess slip out of bed to receive a phone call and return to him, resting her head and palm on his chest. She felt his own chest rise and fall rapidly as he dreamed.

She smiled. She felt a lot of the same things Don did, there was a hesitance to share that with him though. Jess had her own monsters to confront and wanted to be sure she could conquer them before committing herself totally. She constantly toyed with the idea of telling Don that Jerry was their son, but just as he was afraid to ask, she feared telling him the truth. So they remained in limbo over something they both understood to be true but left to hang in the balance.

It couldn’t be brought up now. Not after the war he had put himself through to beat STRONK. Don arrived unannounced in Boston fifteen hours later and hadn’t left her apartment since. He slept more often than not, but was engaging when awake and she was glad for his company. They had both found something they desperately needed:

Peace.

✟✞✟✞✟

The House of His Word and Light Winter’s Port, Guyana Mid-July, 2024

Mother Superior strode confidently through the inner cloister as she kept herself shaded from the searing midday heat. Behind her was a capricious group from the Sisters of Absolution, waddling along like ducklings in tow. Whenever Mother Superior stopped, they all did too, and craned their necks to and fro, looking in every direction, trying to see what she was seeing. Except for one. The others had secretly taken to calling her the Ugly Duckling because of her purple hair. The new arrival. The disruption. Mother Superior’s top secret pet project.

Only Mother Superior knew how she had arrived, why she had arrived, and who she really was. Early concerns that Don would have recognized her had been dismissed after the first time he saw her and didn’t bring it up. Mother Superior was confident he would have asked about her if he knew her.

“We simply must do something about that wretched hair,” Mother Superior sneered as she looked up and down at her newest acolyte, whom she insisted the children refer to as ‘Auntie Barb.’ The Sisters nodded in agreement, their heads bobbing up and down like pigeons strutting down a sidewalk.

“Yes Mother Superior,” Auntie Barb demurred.

“You look me in the eyes when I am speaking to you,” Mother Superior grabbed Auntie Barb by the chin and forced eye contact. “Do you understand me, girl?”

“Yes Mother Superior,” Auntie Barb replied, tears welling in her eyes as she stared into sharp gray ones. “I understand.”

The grip was released and she immediately dropped her head. She thought about the distant past and the man she had fallen in love with. A fleeting time when she had known peace amongst the cadre of warmongers she aligned herself with. They had both been surrounded by monsters they couldn’t quite overcome. She thought she had escaped, only to find herself in the clutches of another.

She absentmindedly fumbled her fingers through the rosary contained in her pocket and instantly felt a small sense of relief.

✟✞✟✞✟

The Chapel of His Word and Light Somewhere in Michigan Mid-July, 2024

Don hadn’t been home since St. Patrick’s Day, and he thought it felt good to be back. This is where he felt moored to himself, to God, to the fourteen. The summer tents had been restored as they were last year and there was some commotion as he had personally sent members from Winter’s Port here for the summer. He wanted to ensure the heart of His Word and Light remained strong.

He wandered the grounds, marveling at the work Lily Tiller had put in, planting red and purple Coneflowers and deep yellow Dahlias among the bright blue Hydrangeas and the same pink beach roses Don had insisted be planted in Winter’s Port. The area was beautifully landscaped now, the expertise and care that had gone into restoring it. Far beyond his own capabilities as a gardener.

As he entered through the front doors of the chapel, he could hear his own voice resounding through the air. Recordings of his sermons were playing through the sound system on a repeating loop. Father Don’s very own muzak system. He wasn’t sure what to make of the entire thing. Perhaps it was a little much and he resolved to speak with someone about it the next time an opportunity arose.

Don made his way through the nave, running his hand along the smooth backs of the cherry maple, taking in the crimson and white tapestries hung on the walls, and the newly installed stained glass windows of Jesus and the Virgin Mary. He felt a tinge of pride surge within him, these were the true fruits of his labors.

From there, he crossed into his quarters, the rectory, closing and locking the door behind him. He still craved privacy. The feeling invading his every thought since had parted with Jess two weeks prior. He could feel the mental fabric of his tapestry starting to fray at the edges, and with this intrinsic knowledge, he knew how he needed to handle his business.

Don was aware he hadn’t been seen on television since defeating STRONK at Tropical Turmoil. Mother Superior, members of the church, PRIME staff, and others had pushed him to keep himself in the loop. The Five Star Champion is someone who can’t possibly be forgotten about, they reminded him. Don paid them no mind. He wasn’t worried. Being the Five Star Champion was about professional wrestling in its purest sense. Not about selling products for the church, or cutting promos. He knew in his heart he was the best wrestler among his peers. Only Avalon, Farthington, or Youngblood could match his prowess.

Prester Don took in the spartan rectory before kneeling beside his bed and folding his hands in together in prayer. His head bowed, his voice low and true.

“Dear Lord, please help me fight off the war that is to come. I can feel it rising up in me once more and I plead with you to grant me the strength and clarity to prevail in your name. Please help me find peace and solace in your name. Please let me defeat and vanquish these monsters in your name. Help me protect the ones I love from myself. Amen.”

He gingerly stood, and drew the shades down and curtains in. The room sat in a charcoal darkness. He first removed his shirt, pulling it over his head. Don had mostly healed from his bout with STRONK, but some light bruising remained. Jess had done the best she could to help him heal. Physically it was enough. Mentally, well, he had a ways to go.

Don sat on the edge of the bed, removing his shoes, followed by his pants. He breathed heavily in the dark and began to rock himself back and forth, whispering to himself in rhythm. Everything began to pick up speed, the breathing, rocking, whispering until everything was a buzz, a murmur. He could feel the air around him getting thicker, his throat getting caught, but he couldn’t stop himself.

He was here to deprive himself. To get himself right. Don had found a method of self-flagellation. One that didn’t involve ripping into or beating his own flesh into submission. He found it through extreme fasting and examining his foibles and faults. Exposing them nakedly to God.

It was here that he sought personal Absolution.

When Don finally stopped rocking, he opened his eyes into the pitch black of the evening, he finally felt the creeping in. From his youth they were under the bed, behind closet doors, hanging on the wall, or drinking down another cheap bottle of Orloff on the falling-apart La-Z-Boy in the next room. As an adult they were in the needle and spoon, wearing a gas mask, pretending to be his friends. The monsters sprung eternal from the inky abyss before him.

He stared back.

✟✞✟✞✟

Unknown Location August 2024

I’m seated comfortably in a high-backed mahogany chair at the head of a long black tournai table. Fourteen identical chairs lined it, seven per side, each occupied by a confidant, a trusted advisor. The fourteen who had been with me since, well, I can scarcely remember. We’ll call it the beginning. Since the night Mother made a true impression on Daddy’s forehead.

I shake my head clear. There are better thoughts than these. More pressing thoughts. Joseph and Mary. Samuel and Miriam. Elizabeth and Luke. Delilah and Jacob. Gabriel and Leah. John and Abigail. Rachel and Matthew. Seven pairs inextricably linked to the other, glaring at their counterparts before turning to fix those glares on me.

“We demand changes!” One of them shouted at me, I wasn’t sure which. It didn’t matter any longer. They were all on the same wavelength for the first time in years. The rarity of how often the stars aligned for such a project to bear the fruits of its undertaking for them was admirable, in a sense. They had worked hard. They deserved this. I didn’t care.

“Feeding yourself on this bullshit!” I recognize Miriam’s tone and continue to avert my gaze. An air of nonchalance befitting a man of my stature. Instead, I decided to admire the silk and woolen tapestries adorning the walls of my great hall. They were inlaid with traces of silver and gilt metal. From Cyprus, if I recall. Anyway, they recount my many victories, both physical and mental, against thyself and thine enemy. I am but a humble servant of God, a king of the people. The king of Christianity.

My attention slowly falters and begins to shift back to that night. My terrified child's eyes stare at the fresh holes in my The Thing movie poster. Slowly walking to the door, pushing my fingertip through those holes and realizing it could have been me, too. I remember being cradled in Mother’s arms, bawling, not understanding the situation. The gravity of the lifetime to come had already begun to weigh me down at just nine years old. Monsters are always looking for someone to terrify. They are always at war with themselves. I know. I was raised by two of them until that night.

“Donovan! You must pay attention!” Samuel’s patience was wearing thin as my head ascended further into the clouds, catching an updraft and soaring gracefully like a carrion bird circling hungrily over a future food source. Waiting. Watching. Biding its time.

The games we create and play to pass the time in the Asylum. Is that where we-

“HEY GUYS!”

Fifteen heads shoot up simultaneously and begin looking around for the source of that voice. It’s loud, booming, as if echoing, encased in steel. I grit my teeth, ball my fists and slam them down on the tournai, but I’m quickly caught in its sheen, beautiful. Straight out of the Ardennes in Belgium they told me. I smiled politely and told them that I thought that was nice. However, it’s just another rapidly passing thought on a superhighway of them. Some are easier to untangle than others, I try to focus on those. I wonder if Paxton Ray feels the same way. About the thoughts, not the tournai. He’d like that, it’s nice.

It’s from the Ardennes in Belgium, you know.

“HEY GUYS!”

Fourteen heads search for the voice once more, but I am burrowed deep within a cocoon of my own preoccupations. Paxton Ray will never know this but I have spent considerable time praying for him and the safe return of his daughter. I pray for his soul because of his actions, he will likely not see Heaven, not if our God is a just God anyway. Is Paxton a monster? Yes. We are all though, it’s lurking within every single being walking the planet. God is with us, but the undercurrent of evil is there, looking for the opening, ready to seize the opportunity.

Paxton Ray? Well, the devil just rose right up through the cracks and took hold of that Louisiana boy and put him to work. And lord were those idle hands eager to work. I can’t forgive a man who paralyzed an innocent man, no matter the circumstances that led to it. I can sympathize with the plight of a father and his daughter, though I’ve never raised a child on my own.

“Donovan!” Fourteen voices shout at me in unison. I lazily cock my head in their direction. I don’t have time for this. Paxton Ray doesn’t have time for this. He’s too consumed by his unrighteous anger while I’m the glorious and grand leader of a church, no, all of Christendom (we’ve not yet told the Pope, no need to give him a casus belli just yet.). And Paxton? He’s fighting with pathetic little cultists who think they can predict Armageddon.

Not a single one of those heretical fools will feel the grace of rapture when that day does indeed come.

A man named Báthory stealing Paxton Ray’s daughter? Elizabeth, the Bloody Countess would be flattered at the act. Despicable, vile men always find their sort and Paxton Ray himself knows this. They’re the men he fits in best with, whether he would want to admit such things or not.

I’ve wondered if Paxton Ray is familiar with the meaning of Pax in latin.

Peace.

The absolute irony in that.

“HEY GUYS!”

That gosh darned voice again. Where is it coming from? Tinny, far away, yet so close. Almost recognizable. Peace, the state of mind I am attempting to find here, yet the interruptions continue aplenty.

Peace and monsters.

Fred Dick was laid to waste at Tropical Turmoil. He’s a monster. In turn, I dispatched a monster of my own in STRONK and a very different kind of monster in Lowell. I pray that Pax has found a measure of peace in his struggles. I pray for that because I need his focus on me. I need his focus on Father Five Star. I need him one hundred percent when I break him down to his knees and make him beg Prester Don for Absolution.

Crimes must be answered for. Sentences must be served.

Two men going to war over a piece of precious metal. As it has been since the dawn of man. It is my will that is iron forged in the fires by Jesus himself. I am the hero that will prevail. I’ve taken down Goliath and I stand alone on this hill. Paxton Ray will need to find every ounce of rage within him, and to still fall short.

The glory of God.

Paxton and I are both monsters of a making, forever at war, seeking a peace that lies only in the great fields of our dreams.

Only one of us can ascend. Only one of us can-

✟✞✟✞✟

The door to the room burst open. Mother Superior stood there with her newest charge, the purple-maned Auntie Barb, and two orderlies dressed all in white, menacingly holding batons in their hands, being slowly slapped into their palms.

“What in God’s name are you doing here Donovan!?” Mother Superior exclaimed with surprise.

Don slowly turned to face his Mother. He sat naked and cross-legged on the floor, torn pages of a Five Star Bible strewn about all around him. His face was pallid and sallow, his normally full and muscular jaw twisted a grin toward her. Don’s head cocked slightly and he raised an arm up over his head and turned it to face Mother.

“Put that thing away and get dressed!” she shouted at him in that motherly tone that was just shy of using his first and middle names in conjunction.

Don simply continued to smile. His eyes were manic. The puppet on his hand blankly smiled at Mother Superior with its own lifeless, beady black eyes. Auntie Barb watched on in confusion and fear, the orderlies ready to act. A real OK Corral stand-off as everyone waited on the other.

It was Donovan’s hand that made the first move.

“HEY GUYS! I’M PIOUS PENGUIN!”