The Wrath of Saint Grace

Battlelines 38, II

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  • Grace Goeren
    Grace Goeren

    This is a war zone.

    Lifeless bodies strewn about like rag dolls littering nearly every available space on the floor.

    A ravaged wasteland of twisted limbs and contorted faces, the disgusting odors that accompany scenes like this hanging putridly in the stale air.

    Alice holds a purple bandanna to her mouth, trying to block out the rancid smell as she steps over a prone torso.  A brown leather satchel rests over her right shoulder as she clutches it close with her free hand, trying not to stumble as she climbs over a body.

    A normal person would not be able to handle moments like these.

    To bear witness to such gruesome sights such as this would drive a normal person insane.  Luckily for Alice and the dominant personality inside her known as Divine, she already lives in a world of madness.  The mangled horror in front of her doesn’t turn her stomach or sicken her in any way.  

    She is here on a holy pilgrimage.

    Blessings be upon her.

    She moves through the noxious environment, her boots crunching glass each time she steps.  Aside from the broken glass, the room is dark and as quiet as the grave.  The only signs of illumination are from the slivers of sunlight that have managed to sneak past the heavy black curtains nearby.  

    Alice kneels down next to a body and turns it over, examining the face.  She exhales loudly as she looks down at bruised and swollen visage before resting it back onto its original position on the floor.

    Not her.

    Thank Grace.

    She’s here somewhere.

    She must be.

    From somewhere far across the room, a low and guttural groan can be heard.  A male voice.  Something stirring, something alive.  Something begging for God to help him.  Alice pays it no mind.  She is here to find her savior, any other poor soul who has found themselves in this purgatory is no concern of hers.

    Alice stands back up and delicately takes another step forward, only to go ankle deep inside a hole filled with liquid.  She braces her large frame on a nearby wall, nearly tumbling head first into the pile of bodies in front of her.  She pulls her foot out and hears the rhythmic “drip drip drip” of fluid rolling off her boot and onto the wooden grain of the torn up floor.

    Ignoring this recent pitfall, Alice persists and moves deeper inside the room.  She looks about her in a hopeless, desperate state…until she spots a raised platform with a foot and a half worth of padding on top of it.  

    Along with the body of a woman.

    Alice’s hands go numb as she pockets the bandanna and moves swiftly to the side of the woman that she has zeroed in on.  She notices a glass nearby, halfway filled with liquid and stained with a foggy white smear.  She kneels down next to the platform and pulls the body over to get a better look.

    Grace Goeren’s lifeless face stares back at her.  Makeup smeared.  Dried blood running out the side of her lips and down her chin.

    She’s found her.

    At last.

    Praise Grace.

    Now for the resurrection.

    With one swift motion, Alice snatches the half-filled glass and dumps the remaining liquid right over Grace’s face.


    Sitting upright with the speed of a eightball snorting cheetah, Grace’s bloodshot eyes pop open as she grabs Alice by the collar, frothing at the mouth.


    Forgive me, Mistress Grace.

    With a mighty slap of her huge paw, Alice nearly knocks Grace into the next county as Grace’s head violently snaps to the side.  Alice slowly stands and makes her way over to the curtains and pulls them open, allowing a barrage of sunlight to fill the room and reveal that the penthouse suite here at the Four Seasons Hotel in Boston has been completely and utterly demolished, smashed and defiled in every possible way imaginable.

    The second that light fills the room, the bodies that looked like they were plucked straight out of a Tarantino movie start to come to life, pulling pillows up over their faces to hide the daylight.  The pile of bodies are in various stages of undress, some fully nude while others still have the dignity of pants on.  At least at this time, God only knows what happened to them all last night.  The young and the beautiful of the Boston night scene, the usual vapid entourage that Grace Goeren associates with in her free time, make up the tantric mass here today.

    The comparison to a war zone is still not that far fetched.  Broken wine and liquor bottles everywhere, someone’s 9MM handgun in front of the smashed LED television, lines of coke on the glass coffee table, prescription pill bottles emptied…it’s the remnants of a party befitting a Goeren.  Apple not falling far from the tree and whatnot.

    Alice turns back towards Grace, completely ignoring the people on the floor as she steps on and over them, her arms folded across her broad chest.

    It’s time to rise, Mistress Grace.  You have much to do today.

    Grace, who is still recovering from the thunderous slap her all-too devoted follower just provided her, groggily pulls herself up and rests back on her hands.

    You fuckin’ salty-ass bitch trash…how the fuck did you find me?

    It wasn’t hard.  Whenever you want to…what do you call it…”blow off steam” you usually visit one of these…

    Alice waves her hand dismissively through the thick air.

    …establishments.  I simply called around this morning and figured the hotel that had the most exhausted sounding front desk staff probably was a safe bet and…voila.  Here you are, Mistress Grace.

    Uggghhh…leave me the fuck alone.  Go fist-fuck a bunny or whatever it is you retards do.

    You talkin’ to me baby?

    A ripped and toned twentysomething sits up next to Grace, putting a hand on her naked back.  Seemingly pulled out of a GQ photo shoot, he wearily smiles over at Alice and gives her a wave.

    Yo, the maid is here…we should…

    A violent and sickening headbutt from Grace knocks her sex toy from last night back into oblivion as Grace rubs the part of her head where their skulls made contact.


    Charming friends you seemed to have made last night, Mistress Grace.  But it’s time to leave.  We must be productive today!  First things first, we need to clean you up.  Cleanliness is next to godliness, after all.

    I’ve got an idea…why don’t you respect your God Queen’s privacy and kindly go fuck yourself!  I wanted to get away for a reason, dumb shit!  It ain’t always about the fuckin’ Sisterhood of Traveling Wrestling Singlets ya’ fuckin’ know!

    I’m not sure I understand what you mean, Mistress Grace.

    Nothin’…it’s…it’s nothing.  I just wanted to be fucking alone instead of always having all of you people around me 24/7…doing those fucking PR shitrags that Shawna has me do or those public training seshes or…

    Would you like me to leave you alone?

    Grace rubs her forehead again and then moves her hands to her temples, rubbing them slowly.

    Just get me some CLEAN water and a fistful of aspirin, okay?  Fuuuuuuuuccckk, this headache sucks!

    It probably did not help that you just headbutted your previous night’s sexual partner.

    Yeah…probably not.

    Ever the dutiful and obedient servant to the God Queen, Alice retrieves a bottle of water from her satchel along with a fully-stocked bottle of meds.  She counts out the medically recommended dosage before Grace grabs the bottle from her and chugs down a mouthful of pills and washes them down with water.

    I know what I can take, god damn it…what’s that stupid-ass bag you got there?  

    It’s my “God Queen Hangover” bag.  I prepared it several weeks ago in case of emergency.

    You’ve got a hospital bag prepped for my hangovers?

    I’ve got many bags prepared, my God Queen.  One in case you are arrested, one in case you flee the country, one in…

    Right, right.  I got it.  Uggghhh…okay…listen.  You win.  We can get out of here, but I’m gonna need some privacy, okay?  I’m gonna grab a quick shower and then we can go train or do yoga or shake-weight the day away.  Mmkay?

    Yes, Mistress Grace.  Thank you.  I’ll be outside.

    Alice moves towards the door, stopping momentarily to stare into the bathroom before turning back to Grace.

    I would recommend removing the bottles of champagne and ice from the tub before showering, Mistress Grace.  Also, there appears to be a rubber phallus attached to the bathroom mirror that will make it difficult to…

    Just fucking leave, already!  Bye Felicia!  Bye!

    Mistress Grace?

    Fuckin’ kill me.  Just kill me.  Strap me down to the gurney and force me to watch Sahara matches until the day I die.  Just kill me…WHAT DO YOU WANT, ALICE?!

    Did I do something to upset you?

    Yeah, you dunktanked my ass and won’t leave me the fuck alone and…

    I mean last night.  You came home from shopping with Ms. Jackson and then you stormed out of the house.  I just wanted to make sure I did not upset you in any way.  If I did, I humbly subject myself to any punishment you find appropriate for my transgressions.

    Grace goes quiet for a moment and lowers her head, ever so slightly.  Her gaze is fixated on the blanket draped over her body, waving Alice off dejectedly.

    Nah, it aint you.  It ain’t you.  I needed to get away.  I just needed…nevermind.  It’s nothing, yeah?  I’ll be downstairs in 15 minutes, okay?

    Yes, Mistress Grace.

    Alice exits the room without another word but does not take her eyes off Grace until the door closes.  Grace remains sitting up in bed, clutching the blanket to her body and saying nothing.  She reaches over to the nightstand next to the torn up bed and retrieves her phone, going through her messages…and then to her voicemails.

    She stops at one particular saved voicemail, as she has done a hundred times since it was left for her.  

    And…for the hundredth time…she plays it back again.

    I don’t blame you for letting this go to voicemail.  Just don’t delete this until you hear me out.  We need to talk, Grace…we need to talk…


    So you chicas caught me at kind of a weird time.

    I ain’t exactly in the talkative mood lately, so that’s a good sign for you two insecure cunt waffles.

    But just because I got some a visit from good ol’ Dr. Ama the last 24 hours doesn’t mean that I’m shook up.

    Nah, if anything…it’s just made me realize that everything I’ve been doing and saying these last few weeks have been totes on the 100.

    See, sometimes you need to be reminded of something…or in this case…someone from your past to see just how far you’ve come.

    Now I ain’t expecting either of you to start tossing the verbal blowjobs at me just cause I’ve made myself into something amazing after coming from the gutter.  I ain’t like that.  I don’t expect total subjugation from the fuckers who are dumb enough to step into the ring with me.

    Come on, I’m not that arrogant.

    The only thing I expect you idiots to do is to bleed and cry and piss yourself.  

    Maybe for Jane to fork over her half of my tag-team titles as a peace offering too.  But I definitely don’t expect either of you to worship at the altar of Grace and heap praises on me.

    Mojave and Lagrima are nobody’s sycophants, right?

    Cool word, huh?  I looked it up.  I also looked up the word “onomatopoeia” but I don’t think that applies to the shit I’m telling you two about right now.

    Point I’m trying to make is I don’t expect either of you to make this easy for me and that’s totally chill.  Nothing in my life has ever been easy and nothing in EWA has ever been handed to me.  I know that’s not the official “story” that EWA execs keep pushing in their media guides and shit at every show, but that’s the real and honest to Grace truth.

    They want everyone backstage and the neckbeard fans to believe that I just stole everything I’ve ever gotten.

    But you can’t deny talent and you can’t deny success.  Both of which I got shooting out of every pore in my body.  

    Is it luck to position yourself in championship match after championship match?

    Is it just good fortune to find yourself as the youngest World champion in professional wrestling history?  That history goes back over 100 years to when Abe Lincoln was wrestling bears and shit so…yeah…I’d say that’s pretty fucking impressive.

    So you two gullible cock gobblers can say or do whatever you want up until Battlelines.  You both can put me down and pretend that I didn’t work for where I am today.  Overconfidence is an ugly, ugly thing my little babies.  And whether or not I have Alice attached at my hip doesn’t matter in the grand scheme of things.

    Because I’m always positioning myself to have the upper hand, no matter the situation.

    So bring all of y’all tag team partners down to the ring witcha.  It don’t matter to me.  Spend all of the remaining days you got left planning and strategizing because that makes my night so much more fun.

    In the end?  It doesn’t matter for you Jane or for you Moe.

    What I do is the only thing that matters.

    And I’ve decided to take that night to show the world just how far beneath me both of your teams really are.  I’ll take those titles soon enough, but at Battlelines?

    Shit, I’m just gonna have me some fun.  No luck involved…just good old fashioned bones breaking and the sounds of your squeals.



    Check it out gang, an onomatopoeia!

    Fuck, is there anything I can’t do?

    See you soon, darlings.


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