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Some Time Ago...

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The Shadow Pope
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OOC: So I have no intention on altering my RP style because I'm telling the story I want, but a few of the other judges and writers I respect said that they thought my first round posts were a bit long. So I'm going to put the flashbacks here for convenience sake.

SOME TIME AGO…

The front door opened and Eli stepped through.

“Hello?” he called out, but there was no response.

Eli closed the door and looked around: it had been over three years since he and his family had purchased this house in Warwick, New York, and at the age of thirty six had become a first – time homeowner for the simple reason that he wanted his daughter to have a nice place to grow up.

Six months of renovations and refittings made the place habitable for their needs: a fully functional recording studio in the basement meant that his wife, Angel, wouldn’t have to keep travelling to Los Angeles to record with her band. Plus, since they operated out of their home, the band could stay here for free while working.

He walked straight from the front door into the kitchen and made an immediate left turn, there was a light on just above an intercom, the light told him that there was some kind of recording taking place: caution was to be had when going downstairs. Yes, everything was soundproofed, but it makes more sense to give everyone full disclosure.

Particularly when the recording studio includes a bubbly, extroverted nine year old with a ton of friends.

Eli opened the basement door and quietly entered the studio.

“I don’t know why
I can’t get through this
I don’t know why
I never let go
Every night and day
It’s the same old chorus
Same old sh*t
That you already know”


He caught his wife’s eye through the soundproof glass – she didn’t return his smile.

That’s fine, she’s ‘in character’ right now.

The guitar player for the Garden, Mick Rodriguez, was at the sound board – slash – control booth. Years ago, he and Angel were an item. This might have caused friction in the band, or between him and Eli, but the issues they had were partly caused by his rampant alcoholism and partly exacerbated by their old manager.

Both of those issues have been taken care of, so there were no more problems.

”So fix me now
Just fix me now
Please fix me now.”


“How’s the session?” asked Eli.

“She’s battling,” replied Mick, “Still has a sore throat.”

Eli listened for another few seconds. “It doesn’t sound like it,” he observed.

Mick shrugged. “That’s why I said ‘battling.’”

“There’s a miles-wide pit
Deep inside my heart
And nobody can see
That it’s tearing me apart
And all I ever want—COUGH COUGH F'CK!”


Angel threw her headphones to the floor inside the recording pit.

“Calm down,” said Mick, through the intercom, “Take a break, we’ll come back to it.”

She closed her eyes and nodded, and exited the studio, obviously angry at herself.

“You sounded great in there,” said Eli, trying to help.

“Thanks,” said Angel, “unfortunately, you’re wrong.”

She reached for a thermal mug with a lid on it, and Eli knew what was in it before she even sipped: hot water, a regular Lipton teabag, a regular Earl Gray teabag, and plenty of ginger and honey. Every time Angel did vocals in a studio, she somehow got a sore throat.

Ironically, their last tour was fourteen months long and she was the only member of the entourage that didn’t get sick.

Finally, Angel hugged her husband and settled into his chest with a contented sigh.

“I missed you,” she said, the same as every other time he spent a night in the city, “How did things go?”

“Typical night at the bar,” replied Eli, as he kissed the top of her head, “except we were welcoming Cally back after she got hurt. Few idiots that I had to toss, but other than that it was just another night.”

“Good,” said Angel, “She looked like she was doing better?”

“She did,” said Eli. “Hey, where’s the kid? I called out for anyone when I got home but nobody answered.”

Angel tensed in his arms. “MJ’s in her room,” she said, “she was at her friend Jayne’s house earlier but called me, very upset, saying she wanted to come home. She didn’t talk to me about it and went straight to her room when we got here. I tried to get her to tell me what was bothering her but she insisted that everything was fine.”

“Okay,” said Eli, waiting.

“She then asked, in her next breath, when you were getting home.”

Translated subtext: Eli, go talk to your daughter.

“I’m on it,” said Eli.

He kissed her on top of the head again and let her out of his grasp. Eli bumped fists with Mick before turning around and going back upstairs. This was the dynamic they agreed on without ever having to discuss it: for the first four years of Mariella’s life, Angel had her on the tour bus and really took the lead on her care and raising. Ever since 2007, other than the isolated spots where Eli was on the road, he was taking the lead on parental issues, particularly when Angel was recording.

They were about as equal as any two parents could ever be when it comes to raising a child; the decision on who took the lead was almost wordlessly worked out every time.

Up the stairs to the second floor, Eli passed by a series of framed and hanging photographs, involving music industry types from the boys in Type O Negative to the boys in Killcode, to Alice Cooper to Rob Zombie, to Trent Reznor to Ozzy himself, all with Angel and MJ, or all three of them. Eli had a tendency to tap the picture of himself, the Garden, MJ, and the whole of Type O Negative, because it included the late, great, Peter Steel holding Mariella in his arms. She really did love her Uncle Pete.

At the top of the stairs, Eli turned right and knocked on his daughter’s bedroom door.

“MJ?” he asked, as he cracked the door and pushed it open.

“Hi Daddy,” said his daughter, distracted.

Eli peeked in and saw that she was drawing. Even at the tender age of nine, he was impressed by her artistic ability; give her a few hours and she could do photorealistic drawings of anyone you showed her a picture of. The only thing she was more talented at than drawing was mimicking the guitar playing of the greats.

Seriously: she won her third grade talent show with a cover of Dylan’s “All Along the Watchtower.” Her parents started the standing ovation.

Mariella Jade Flair was sitting at her desk, drawing with a sharpened pencil. On the bed next to her, her five year old calico cat Isis was soundly napping. It was a nice change, Isis was typically a terror.

“Mom told me there was a problem today at Jayne’s, do you want to talk about it?”

“No,” answered MJ, too quickly.

“Okay,” said Eli, “but you know we always talk about things in this family, right?”

She stopped drawing.

“Daddy,” she asked.

“Yes, sweetie?”

“You’re not taking advantage of Mommy, right?” asked MJ.

The question actually took him by surprise.

“What do you mean?” asked Eli.

“I was at Jayne’s house today,” continued MJ, “and her parents were both home and I heard her mom say to her dad that you didn’t have a job, and he said that that must mean you’re a loser and a freeloader and a gold digger and that you’re taking advantage of Mommy. I told Jayne her daddy was a liar, and she yelled at me and I said I wanted to go home.”

Eli took a deep breath. This was a conversation he wasn’t looking forward to.

“Now, MJ sweetie,” he said, “you know Daddy isn’t taking advantage of Mommy. You know Daddy was working real hard when you were just a baby to pay the bills and now that you’re a little older, it’s Mommy’s turn right?”

“I know,” said MJ, as she finally turned her head toward her father, “But Jayne’s daddy is the same age as you and he’s always at work, she told me. How come you’re not always at work?”

It was a good question.

Frankly, at this moment, Eli kind of wished his daughter asked him where babies come from.
 

User Poets

The Shadow Pope
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SOME TIME AGO…

“I’m serious,” said Eli, “I think we need to tell her the truth about my wrestling career and let her know exactly what I did to get us to this point.”

“I don’t doubt that she should know who her Daddy is,” agreed Angel, “and what he accomplished, but let’s be honest, Eli, your matches are scary. I don’t think they’re appropriate for her.”

Eli rolled his eyes and looked to the roof of their master bedroom. “I agree with you, Angel,” he assured, “and I think my most infamous matches are far too violent for her to see right now, but at the same time, if her friends are telling her that my retirement is a sign that I’m taking advantage of you, it makes sense to show her my matches so she knows exactly what I did and can make her own decision to defend the family to her friends, or keep it to herself. But it should be her choice.”

“I agree,” said Angel, “and that’s why we need to talk about things.”
 

User Poets

The Shadow Pope
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SOME TIME AGO…

“I’ve met her father,” said Angel, “and he’s a pretentious jackass. One of those banker types from the city with very archaic ideas over what the traditional gender roles in a relationship should be.”

Angel was leaning against the island in the middle of their kitchen, drying a pot. Eli was leaning against the opposite wall with his arms folded.

“It doesn’t change the fact that he’s technically correct,” replied Eli, “Your royalties are paying all the bills in one fell swoop, the money I’m getting from the bar wouldn’t have paid this place off in less than two years.”

“And as usual,” said Angel, “you’re forgetting about the fact that your hard work and your savings are what allowed us to be in this position to begin with. We can afford to let me indulge in music because of how hard you worked over the years.”

She put the pan back down on the island and hugged her husband.

“Even still,” replied Eli, hugging her back, “I want her to know what I’ve done. I know we talked about letting her see my matches, I know they still bother you to watch and we don’t want to upset her, but at the same time, she should have the opportunity to make up her own mind, right?”

Angel took a deep breath. She never enjoyed watching Eli’s matches, and to that end, has never actually seen some of his most legendary. Even with him standing there with her, even with him safe and healthy and relatively undamaged for the rest of his life, the thought of some of the most damaging matches he’s been in nearly put her into an anxiety attack.

“Okay then,” said Angel, “let’s go be parents.”

Eli took her by the hand and they walked in solidarity toward the stairs.
 

User Poets

The Shadow Pope
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SOME TIME AGO…

The DVD of the FWO Cyberslam 2009 spun down as the match they wanted to watch ended: it was ‘Total Elimination’ Eli Flair’s final match, against his close friend, ‘Triple X’ Sean Stevens.

What made this one special was that they watched it as a family. Eli Flair sat on the couch with his wife to his left and his daughter to his right. This was one of his tamer matches, but at the same time, one of his hardest hitting and most exciting to watch.

Even though it was three years ago, even though he did not suffer any serious injury, and even though, obviously, he was sitting with her in good health, Angel couldn’t help but to cover her eyes at Eli’s whip into the guardrail, as well as when Triple X was holding the chair and they both careened to the outside.

Mariella, on the other hand, was on the edge of her seat.

She was as into the match as if it was airing live, her body language actively showing that she was rooting for her dad to get the win over her uncle. Every cover, every almost – three – count, she was unconsciously smacking her knee with her hand.

When the bell rang, she jumped in the air and hugged her dad. She then argued with the DVD over the fact that the time had run out, and cheered the decision to go for a five minute overtime.

When the bell rang again, she was excited, but held fast since she knew what had just happened, and cheered at the sight of her aunt Ivy demanding that they keep going.

And when her uncle, Sean Stevens, finally got the three count, she had her hands over her mouth as if to silently say, ‘It can’t get any more than what it is, can it?’

“Wow,” she said, “That was really cool, Daddy. Were all of your matches like that?”

Eli took a deep breath. “Well………………..no, not exactly. Sometimes things happened.”

“Like what?” asked MJ.

“You know Daddy’s friend Deacon, right?”

She nodded.

“One time we were on the top rope and fell to the mat and went right through it.”

Her eyes grew wide.

“And one time,” continued Eli, “I wrestled a man outside in the middle of a thunderstorm downpour. That was fun. You remember your uncle Craig Miles, right?”

She nodded. For all the insanity the PROFESSIONAL had brought to the sport, he was always a class act with Eli’s family.

“That was his event,” he said.

“Can we watch some of those?” asked MJ, excited to see her dad in action.

Eli looked at Angel, who had a concerned but proud look on her face.

“I think we can arrange that,” he said.
 

User Poets

The Shadow Pope
Joined
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Some Time Ago...

Eli Flair sat in his study, his feet up on an ottoman, deeply engrossed in "Beyond Good and Evil" by Friedrich Nietzsche. 'Ich Tu dir Weh' by Rammstein was playing softly on the sound system across the room, and he sipped from a bottle of Brooklyn lager.

He had dropped out of school when he was fifteen; traditional education was lost on him but twenty years on the road with nothing but time in between gigs, shows, personal appearances, and everything else under the sun got him interested in reading the hard books and educating himself on things that interest him.

Burning lean tissue, as it's usually referred.

"Daddy?"

"I'm in here, princess."

Mariella Jade Flair pushed open the door and insinuated herself right onto her father's lap. He didn't mind.

"What's up, MJ?" he asked.

"You used to work for Mr. Merritt, right?" she asked.

"Yeah, I did," said Eli, "for a real long time. How come?"

"Was he nice to you?"

Now, Eli was intrigued. "He was a boss," he said, "As they go in the wrestling business, he was at least more upfront and fair than most, I never had to worry about some idiot running around with a gun backstage. How come?"

MJ adjusted her seat. "Mommy is currently yelling at Aunt Ivy downstairs about him. Mommy called him a... shallow, money - grubbing psycho ant whose only aim is the bottom line."

Psycho ant...? "Sycophant?" I asked her.

"That's it," said MJ. "Why did she say that?"

Eli hesitated. He knew why Angel had issues with Merritt, and while he respected them and understood where they came from, his own experiences were far different. "You know how Mommy likes to do her shows a certain way, right?"

"Right."

"And how she likes to say that she pays her own bills?" continued Eli, using the simple phrase that Angel came up with to explain to their daughter that Valerian's Garden doesn't have sponsored tours.

"Right."

"Mr. Merritt tried to make Mommy change the way she played her shows," finished Eli, "and Mommy didn't like that. They both said some mean things and they don't make music together anymore but I think they'll be friends again."

"Okay." That answer seemed to satisfy MJ. "Mommy and Aunt Ivy aren't going to have a fight, are they?"

"I doubt it," replied Eli, "Aunt Ivy likes to argue but they never get mean."

"Good," replied MJ, as she got down.

Eli gave her a hug. "I love you, little one," he said, "Go play, dinner will be ready soon."

She walked toward the door, when something absent - mindedly crossed Eli's mind.

"Hey, MJ?"

His daughter stopped and turned toward him.

"What were they arguing about?" he asked, curious.

"I don't know," said MJ, "Something about an ultra title."

She closed the door behind her, but Eli had lost all focus on his book as his daughter's words caught up to him.

Ivy.

Merritt.

Ultratitle.

This could be interesting.
 

User Poets

The Shadow Pope
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Some Time Ago...

"
You don't owe him anything," said Angel, with real venom in her voice. "He made a ton of money off you and never paid you what you were worth, so f**k him until the end of time."

It was a three way argument right now, and nobody was really sure who was on whose side. On one hand, Angel was telling Eli and Ivy that former CSWA commissioner Chad Merritt was the devil himself, translated into shamanistic terms, who was not to be trusted and who was looking for another big payday at the expense of the people she loved. She spoke from the point of view of a musician who split with CSE Recordings over a dispute over Merritt's completely innocent and unconscionable suggestion that if the band allowed sponsors on their tours they could all make more money. It could even be sponsors of Valerian's Garden's choosing, to let them keep their integrity.

"It's a tournament, kiddo - it's not for profit and it's not for keeps by any'a the people in charge. Merritt is teetering on officially telling us he's done with the business forever, and he wants to do something positive on the way out."

On another hand, Ivy McGinnis was stressing that this thing called the Ultratitle was bigger than Merritt's reach and vision, and that it had nothing to do with his old wrestling promotion, it had to do with an attempt to give back to the sport after so many years of success that was like a last ditch attempt at redemption.

"Can I say something?" asked Eli.

They both stopped and looked at him.

"McGinnis," said Eli. "Merritt doesn't care about the message, he cares about the dollars. Angel. Merritt is like twenty percent of the top brass for this thing."

Both women remained silent: a miracle, as far as Eli was concerned.

"Shouldn't the focus be on the fact that you won't be the one wrestling," said Eli, pointing at Ivy, "and that you won't be wrestling," he continued, pointing at Angel. "The fact remains, Merritt wants us involved and with the negative publicity he's gotten from the wrestling stuff the past few years, he can't afford to play favorites. Besides, while I treasure and value both your opinions, isn't this something that I should be deciding?"

They both looked at Eli.

This was probably a bad time, thought Eli, to tell them that he didn't like being stared at.
 

User Poets

The Shadow Pope
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Some Time Ago...

As soon as Eli Flair stepped through the security gate at La Guardia airport, he knew he was in trouble. The look on his wife's face said it all.

He'd seen that look before: when she answered the phone in late 2008 in their new house and found out - from a third party that even Eli had never met before - that he was returning to professional wrestling after eighteen months of retirement.

In that case, it was a three month stint in the resurrected FWO to help that promotion get back on its feet, culminated with a five star match against Sean Stevens that was ultimately futile, as the promotion closed before the end of the year.

"Well?" asked Angel, as she gave him a hug.

"Missed you too," replied Eli, sarcastically. He carried his one bag: travel light, was his motto.

Angel's eyes dropped. "I'm sorry, babe. I did miss you."

She rose up on her tiptoes and he ducked down and they kissed hello.

"Well," said Angel again, as they walked past baggage claim and into the chilly Queens air, "How'd it go?"

"It's official," said Eli, "I'm an active professional wrestler again, for a maximum of seven matches."

She was silent.

"It's a one shot," said Eli, "One last run and then it's done."

"You said that before," whispered Angel.

They stopped at the taxi stand and waved down a yellow cab.

"Yeah, I know," said Eli. "but this time it's different."

"You said that before, too," said Angel, as he held the door for her and she got inside the car. Eli gave the cab driver the address, and they were off.

"So what do you want me to say," asked Eli.

"I want you to promise me you won't get hurt," replied Angel.

"I promise," he said, "that I won't get hurt."

Her steel blue eyes met his soft gray pair, and looked right through them. "You said that a few months after we met, and then you and Troy Windham tore each other apart in a cage. Then you and Winters did the same with barbed f'king wire. Then you and Creed--"

She stopped talking and looked away from him, out the window. There really wasn't any need for her to go on any longer with her list.

"You're right," he said. "I can't promise that I won't get hurt. But what I can do is promise that it won't be like the last Ultratitle. There's no Dr. Frankenstein running this one, there won't be any cages or wire or ladders, and there won't be any insane stalkers carving anything into your arm."

Silence.

"I wish there was a way to make you understand, babes," said Eli, "but this is something that I have to do. This is something that I never got to finish."

They rode in silence, but they were both thinking the same thing.

'I wish there was a way for Eli Flair to make Angel understand.'


 

User Poets

The Shadow Pope
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Some time ago...



One bag.

That's all Eli Flair ever took with him on The Road. Even when Valerian's Garden toured, they stayed in four star hotels when they didn't have to make tracks in the bus, and were big enough to sell out the Garden, he still packed for The Road like he had to fit four other peoples' bags in addition to his own into his relatively tight Tracker.

Old habits, and things like that.

Of course, the way the Ultratitle was spread out to maximize media coverage between rounds, he would literally be gone for three days - four at most - and since McGinnis kept a studio apartment in Greensboro since the turn of the century, it wasn't like he was even going to be on his own. One bag was plenty.

It was probably better for his knees and ankles if he finally gave in with actual wrestling boots, but the heavy Demonia pair that he'd wrestled in since 2002 had gotten him this far, and the very facts of his life had long since turned him toward trusting his gut instead of his logic.

For years, Eli Flair had thrived in professional wrestling because his personal life was a mess. His last living relative - his mother - had died when he was fifteen and he would probably have ended up on the streets if his girlfriend Alicia hadn't come from a stable home and family that had all but adopted him.

She died when he was twenty three and barely at the start of his career, and he was lost. It took the efforts of her baby sister Ivy to keep him focused enough to function - he was family, after all - and with nothing to speak of to go home to, he simply stayed on the road. For two and a half years he went from town to town, sometimes without a break for weeks at a time.

Weeks? Months. McGinnis once told him that she tallied up his matches from January 1995 to May 1997, his entire first stint with the CSWA, and in those 29 months, he had a total of eighteen days off.

Eighteen.

Even after his first knee surgery and nine months of rehab and recovery, he hit the ground running and his total time off from June 1998 to September 11, 2001 ultimately tallied nine days, not counting another knee surgery and recovery.

The towers fell, he left New York to try and make sense of life, and he met Angel.

Angel.

She really was.

She was - quite literally - coming out of an abusive relationship the night they met, and the fact that she was singing in a band that had too much talent to waste, if only they could cut back the partying and put the work in, meant that she would understand his own road trips and the way he entertained a crowd.

And he nearly ruined it right at the start.

They had hit it off immediately - their first date started with him making her dinner in the apartment he had moved into in Hollywood - and lasted for three days. They finally had to say goodnight/good morning/whatever when he had to fly back East to do some promo work for CSWA Anniversary 2001.

'I've got a big match on New Year's,' he had said to her, 'Check it out, I think you'll like it.'

Sure. She'd like it. What he meant was that he thought she would appreciate his intensity and his work ethic as she had a similar set of character traits while singing.

He didn't mean 'watch me brutalize a man inside a cage, and then get the crap beaten out of me as a payment for my own sins.'

But that's what happened. And she stayed with him even though it meant she would have to deal with those nights when he wasn't sure how things would turn out.

Against Donaven Winters, wrapped up in barbed wire.

Against Villam Ender in the Asylum cage.

Against Deacon, of all people, when he went through the ring.

Against Nova in the Stairway to Hell.

Against Triple X Sean Stevens in what turned out to be his last match, she thought.

It wasn't fair, but when trapped between giving the fans a match to remember and protecting himself for the sake of the woman who loved him and the daughter who adored him, the fans won every time.

That's why Angel had every right to be angry, both times that Eli stepped back into the ring after his retirement: first for the FWO and now for the Ultratitle.

He knew he didn't deserve her.

As if on cue, the door to the bedroom swung open and there she was. Angel was wearing a plain black sports bra and black knee - length spandex, her typical faire when she was in the basement recording studio with the rest of the band working on material. Her bare feet soundlessly moved over the carpet towards the bed where Eli sat, next to his bag, looking at a picture of 'the whole family.'

The whole family included himself and Angel and their daughter Mariella. Sean Stevens and Ivy McGinnis-Stevens and their son Shannon Joseph Stevens, the other four musicians in Valerian's Garden, Randall Knox, Rosalyn Callasantos and both their mothers, and Mike Randalls.

Yes, Mike Randalls was there for Thanksgiving last year. Angel invited him as they had similar world views on ethics and spirituality and tried to get together several times a year to share ideas, and he never acknowledged the invite until he showed up.

"Packed?" asked Angel, sitting on the other side of his bag.

"Yeah," said Eli, "Two days of press to somehow say the sh*t I didn't say on the record, then a match with Vagabond to kick things off and see if I still know how t'wrestle."

"Listen--" said Angel.

"Don't," interrupted Eli, "You have every right to not like this. I mean, I haven't done this with any opponent I didn't trust like family in half a decade, as far as I know I could totally f'k this up and hurt myself tryin' to show I've still got it. I know all the reasons why this is a bad idea, the only thing I'm really holding onto is the hope that you'll understand why I have to do this."

Angel took his hand over his bag - symbolically, over his wrestling gear.

"You wouldn't be doing this if you didn't still have it," said Angel. "And I might not like it, but I have to respect it."

"Angel--"

"MJ wasn't even a year old," interrupted Angel, "and you let me take her with me on the road to Australia, New Zealant, Japan, China, Russia, and a ton of other countries whose names I can't even pronounce - for ten months - because you had to do your thing in the FWO and I had to do my thing anywhere I could play. You never tried to make me feel guilty because you knew I was doing what I needed to do. You deserve at least that consideration."

Eli didn't answer right away. Instead, he reached over his bag and embraced his wife.

"You also never left the stage bleeding," he pointed out, "at least when you were doing it right."

Angel, despite herself, laughed.

"Seven matches," said Eli, "at the most. One last thing to finish. Can you make it seven matches?"

"I made it through more than that," reminded Angel, "Do your thing, babes. Win, lose, or draw, I'll love you just the same."

With that, Eli felt the bag of rocks he was carrying drop from his back.

He could do this.

Seven more matches. That's all it would take.
 

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