#omni-x O//O my beloved

[hadal-heart]

i cant stop thinking abt them theyre so cute :DDDD love....

[lovcrs]

            If  I  could,  I'd  make  a  deal  with  God,  &&  I'd  get  him  to  swap  our                                            places,           Be  running  up  that  road,  Be  r u n n i n g  up  that  hill,  Be  running  up                                            that  building.

n  a  m  e. hana salvatore m  e  a  n  i  n  g. one n  i  c  k  n  a  m  e  s. han , petal

a  g  e.  20 / 20 d  o  b. 13th july d  o  d. 8th june

            depollute  me,  pretty  baby, suck  the  rot  right  out  of  my  bloodstream ...

g  e  n  d  e  r. nonbinary p  r  o  n  o  u  n  s. she / they r  o  m  a  n  t  i  c. omni romantic s  e  x  u  a  l. omni sexual / allo sexual monogamous polyamarous

smoking drinking recreational drugs o  c  u  p  a  t  i  o  n. student part time florist h  e  a  l  t  h. n/a a  l  l  e  r  g  i  e  s. bananas n/a

                  i  don’t  belong  &&  my  beloved  neither  do  you ...

p  a  r  e  n  t  s. unknown damon && elena salvatore ( a  d  o  p  t  e  d ) s  i  b  l  i  n  g  s. stefanie && octavia  c  h  i  l  d  r  e  n. n/a r  e  l  a  t  i  v  e  s.  unknown ( b  i  o  l o  g  i  c  a  l )

p  o  s  i  t  i  v  e.  empathetic , cheerful , caring , emotive n  e  g  a  t  i  v  e. secretive , reckless , stubborn v  i  r  t  u  e. charity s  i  n. greed

b  i  o  g  r  a  p  h  y.

hana was taken in by damon and elena salvatore when she was seventeen. it seemed odd to her, that a family would want to foster a child so close to eighteen, but she’s never been more grateful that they did. they gave her a home, and showed her what the meaning of family truly was. when they asked if they could adopt her, hana had never said yes quicker in her life

but despite her gratefulness to them, hana always felt unsure in her place in the family, worried they’d regret their decision. so she transformed herself from the quiet withdrawn kid to the perfect girl next door, hoping they’d never find enough fault to not want her anymore. 

after high school finished, hana attended the closest possible college, driving back several times during the week and staying in her home every few weekends. she claimed it was because home was quieter than her dorms, but for hana it was because her childhood home was a security blanket, and she was always seized with far too much panic at the idea of straying away from it for too long.

in the last year hana slowly began to distance herself more from her home and her family, exploring more and enjoying the college life she should have always been having. it was through this that hana met her partner- her future sire. their relationship was a whirlwind, and even now all hana can remember was the intense and addictive feeling she came to associate with falling in love. the other was a vampire, and when the offer to turn her was proposed, she agreed. hana had thought she’d found more family, another home, another person to belong to. ( and pledging eternity to each other?? that was the highest form of love she could think of ) 

having not told her family about her partner in the first place, hana certainly had no intention of telling them about her decision. 

when the night came for her to be turned, she told her parents she’d be going away for a while - a trip to do with her lecture , she hadn’t told them that she didn’t plan on coming back, that she wouldn’t be human even if she did. hana was too blinded by the idea of what love could be. 

alas the morning after her lover had fed her their blood, she awoke alone, with nothing but her daylight ring- the promise ring they had once given her , and a burning thirst. 

too ashamed of what she’d been wanting to do, hana hasn’t told anyone about her transition, or the fact that she’s dropped out of college. she’ll do anything she can to maintain the human facade that she believes everyone wants from her. 

[hieromonkcharbel]

Mary - Ostensorium of Christ!

O Mary, faithful adorer of God, show me how to make my life a continual prayer.

Meditation

1. In order to have even a slight understanding of Mary's prayer, we must try to penetrate the sanctuary of her intimate union with God. No one has ever lived in closer intimacy with Him. Let us reverently observe this intimacy from the viewpoint of the divine maternity. Who can imagine the secret communications between Mary and the Incarnate Word while she carried Him in her virginal womb? Although there was nothing to distinguish her from other women in the same condition, yet, in the secrecy of her heart she led a life of the closest possible union between God and a mere creature. "Omnis gloria ejus ab intus"; all her glory is from within (cf Psalm 44,14). All Mary's glory and grandeur were interior. In this true sanctuary which concealed the Holy of Holies, Mary, living ciborium of the Incarnate Word, was aflame with love, absorbed in adoration. Carrying within her the "burning furnace of charity", how could Mary not remain all inflamed by it! The more she was inflamed with love, the more she understood the mystery of love which was taking place within her. No one ever penetrated the secrets of Christ's heart as Mary did, or had a greater knowledge of the divinity of Christ and of His infinite grandeur. No one ever felt, as Mary did, the consuming need to give herself to Him, to lose herself in Him like a little drop in the immensity of the ocean. This was Mary's unceasing prayer: to adore perpetually the Word made Flesh within her; to unite herself closely with Christ; to be immersed in Him and completely transformed in Him by love; to join the infinite homage and praise which ascended continually from the heart of Christ to the Trinity, and to offer this praise unceasingly as the only homage worthy of the divine Majesty. Mary lived in adoration of her Jesus and, in union with Him, in adoration of the Trinity.

There is one moment in the day when we, too, can share in this prayer of Mary in a most excellent way: the moment of Holy Communion, when we receive Jesus, real and living, into our heart. How we need Mary to help us profit from this ineffable gift! She teaches us to submerge ourselves with her, in her and our Jesus, that we may be transformed in Him; she teaches us to unite ourselves to that adoration which ascends from the heart of Jesus to the Trinity, and she offers it with us to the Father, thus supplying for the deficiencies in our adoration.

2. Mary spent thirty years in Bethlehem and Nazareth in sweet family intimacy with Jesus. He was her centre of attraction, the object of her affections, her thoughts and solicitude. The life of Mary was centred on Him; she took care of Him, always seeking new ways of pleasing, serving and loving Him with the greatest devotion. Her will vibrated in unison with His; her heart beat in perfect harmony with His. She "shared the thoughts of Christ and His secret wishes, in such a way that it can be said that she lived the very life of her Son" (Pope St Pius X: Ad Diem Illum). Like Mary's life, her prayer was very Christocentric, and Christ bore it to the Blessed Trinity. It was really the mystery of the Incarnation which brought Mary into the fullness of the Trinitarian life. Her unique relations with the three divine Persons began when the Angel told her that she was to be the Mother of the Son of the Most High and would be so by the power of the Holy Spirit. She was, from that moment, the beloved Daughter of the Father, the Spouse of the Holy Spirit, and the Mother of the Word. These relations were not limited to the time when Mary carried within her the Incarnate Word, but were to continue throughout her whole life, throughout eternity. Thus Mary is the temple of the Trinity. "Nearer than all to Jesus Christ, although at a distance that is infinite," Mary is "the great 'praise of glory' of the Blessed Trinity" (St Elizabeth of the Trinity, Last Retreat, 15).

In Mary, we find the most perfect model for the souls aspiring to intimacy with God; at the same time, she is the surest guide for them. She leads us to Jesus and teaches us to concentrate all our affections on Him, to give ourselves entirely to Him, until we are completely lost and transformed in Him. Then, through Jesus, she guides us to the life of union with the Trinity. By reason of sanctifying grace, our soul is also a temple of the Trinity, and Mary teaches us how to abide in this temple as a perpetual adorer of the three divine Persons who dwell therein. "I do not need to make any effort," said Sister Elizabeth of the Trinity, "to enter into the mystery of the divine indwelling in the soul of our Lady; my soul seems to abide there habitually, in the same attitude that was hers: adoring the God hidden with me" (Letters). May it also be given to us to live, under Mary's direction, in this attitude of continual adoration of the Trinity dwelling within our soul.

Colloquy

"O Mary, I can imagine how you must have felt when, after the Incarnation, you had within you the Word made flesh, the Gift of God! In what silence, what adoring recollection, must you have withdrawn into the depths of your soul to embrace the God whose Mother you were! Your attitude, O Blessed Virgin, during the months preceding the Nativity of Jesus, seems to be the model for interior souls, for those whom God has chosen to live within, deep in the unfathomable abyss. What peace and recollection accompanied your every action! You made ordinary things divine, because through them all, you remained the adorer of the Gift of God" (cf St Elizabeth of the Trinity, Letters, First Retreat, 10).

"O Mary, you are the throne of God, the ostensorium of His love. You are the living monstrance of Jesus, and when I adore Jesus within you, it is as if I am really adoring the Blessed Sacrament exposed, adoratio in ostensorio, adoration in the monstrance. O Mary, all theology confirms your beautiful title: Ostensorium of Christ! Ostensorium of Christ at Bethlehem, at the Presentation, at Cana, on the Cross, in the Eucharist, in heaven. Yes, even in heaven. Do we not say: 'After this exile show us (ostende) Jesus, the Blessed Fruit of thy womb'? … O Mary, teach me to see and love Jesus as you see and love Him. Teach me to long for Him with your love, to give myself to Him, to be wholly His as you are, and to adore Him with your own sentiments. O sweet Mother, teach me how to find Jesus and to pray to Him; fill me with Jesus, transform me into Him. O Mary, show me how to contemplate the life, the work and the divinity of your Son. Be the way which leads me to Jesus, the bond which unites me to Him, and which, with Him and in Him, unites me to the Most Blessed Trinity"

[pamphletstoinspire]

THE CANTICLE OF CANTICLES - SOLOMON'S CANTICLE OF CANTICLES - From The Douay-Rheims Bible - Latin Vulgate

Chapter 4

INTRODUCTION.

This book is called the Canticle of Canticles, that is to say, the most excellent of all canticles: because it is full of high mysteries, relating to the happy union of Christ and his spouse; which is here begun by love; and is to be eternal in heaven. The spouse of Christ is the Church: more especially as to the happiest part of it, viz. perfect souls, every one of which is his beloved; but above all others, the immaculate and ever blessed Virgin mother. Ch. --- The bridegroom is Christ, as God and man. His praises and those of his spouse are recorded by various speakers. Solomon has given us three works; for beginners, the more advanced, and the perfect; as the philosophers teach ethics, physics, and metaphysics. All the holy Scriptures contain spiritual food, but they are not all fit for every person. Heb. v. 13. With what humility ought we not, therefore, to read this most perfect and mystical canticle, as the sentiments of spiritual love are expressed in the same words as that of worldlings, and we are more inclined to follow our own judgment and carnal notions! W. --- None, therefore, should dare to peruse this work, who has not mastered his passions, having his conversation in heaven. H. --- The Jews would not allow any ot read it before the age of thirty. Orig. and S. Jer. --- Some of the fathers and commentators have even asserted that the mystical sense is the only one which pertains to this book, (Theod. Durham. T.) and it is certainly the true and principal one, though allusion may be made to the marriage of Solomon with Pharao's daughter, (C. Bossuet. D.) or with a Tyrian princess, (c. iv. 8. and 3 K. xiii. 5.) or with Abisag. Rabbins. --- Grotius shews the corruption of his own heart in his impure comments, as Theodorus, of Mopsuestra, is blamed by the second Council of Const. iv. a. 68. The name of God never, indeed, occurs; as he is represented under the idea of the bridegroom, &c. and the piece is allegorical. It might be divided into seven scenes, or nights, as the marriage feast lasted so long. Gen. xxix. 22. During this time the bridegroom saw his spouse seldom, and with great reserve, (C.) as was the custom with the Lacedemonians. Plut. in Lyc. --- We might also refer all to six nights, or to the six ages of the Church, conformably to the system of De la Chetardie and Bishop Walmesley on the Apocalypse. --- I. Age. C. i. 2. marks the ascension of Christ, and the propagation of Christianity; v. 4. 5. persecutions; v. 6. 7. vocation of the Gentiles; v. 12. protection granted by Christ. II. C. ii. 3. peace under Constantine; v. 11. 17. troubles excited by Arius. III. C. iii. 1. irruption of barbarians; v. 4. does not overturn the Church; v. 6. they are converted; v. 11. and Christ is more glorified, as Apoc. xix. IV. C. iv. 5. the Latin and Greek Churches; v. 8. the Chaldees, lions, and Greeks, leopards, (Dan.) are converted; the Turks obtain dominion; v. 12. the Greek schismatics cut off: v. 16. the Church is persecuted, but protected. V. C. v. 2. Dew marks the cooling of charity, (S. Aug.) when Luther appeared; c. vi. 3. yet the Church triumphs, particularly after the Council of Trent. VI. C. vi. 9. after the sounding of the sixth trumpet, the Jews are converted, and adorn the Church, in spite of antichrist's power; v. 11. she addresses the synagogue, v. 12. C. viii. 2. obtains leave to go into the house of her mother, as the apostles were of Jewish extraction; v. 7. the constancy of the martyrs appears; (see Rondet.) v. 8-14. the Church pants for her speedy union with her beloved. We may justly admire her authority, in preserving this and the former work of the canon, notwithstanding the internal and external evidence, and the ill use made of them by infidels, which seemed to militate against them. The Prot. Chateillon styles this "a wicked book." Several passages may, no doubt, be abused by a corrupt heart: but what is there so holy, which may not be perverted? When we meditate on this canticle, we ought to remember the admonition given by the Church in the Mass: "Let hearts be on high;" and Oh! that all might answer with truth: "We have them to the Lord!"

The additional Notes in this Edition of the New Testament will be marked with the letter A. Such as are taken from various Interpreters and Commentators, will be marked as in the Old Testament. B. Bristow, C. Calmet, Ch. Challoner, D. Du Hamel, E. Estius, J. Jansenius, M. Menochius, Po. Polus, P. Pastorini, T. Tirinus, V. Bible de Vence, W. Worthington, Wi. Witham. — The names of other authors, who may be occasionally consulted, will be given at full length.

Verses are in English and Latin. HAYDOCK CATHOLIC BIBLE COMMENTARY

This Catholic commentary on the Old Testament, following the Douay-Rheims Bible text, was originally compiled by Catholic priest and biblical scholar Rev. George Leo Haydock (1774-1849). This transcription is based on Haydock's notes as they appear in the 1859 edition of Haydock's Catholic Family Bible and Commentary printed by Edward Dunigan and Brother, New York, New York.

TRANSCRIBER'S NOTES

Changes made to the original text for this transcription include the following:

Greek letters. The original text sometimes includes Greek expressions spelled out in Greek letters. In this transcription, those expressions have been transliterated from Greek letters to English letters, put in italics, and underlined. The following substitution scheme has been used: A for Alpha; B for Beta; G for Gamma; D for Delta; E for Epsilon; Z for Zeta; E for Eta; Th for Theta; I for Iota; K for Kappa; L for Lamda; M for Mu; N for Nu; X for Xi; O for Omicron; P for Pi; R for Rho; S for Sigma; T for Tau; U for Upsilon; Ph for Phi; Ch for Chi; Ps for Psi; O for Omega. For example, where the name, Jesus, is spelled out in the original text in Greek letters, Iota-eta-sigma-omicron-upsilon-sigma, it is transliterated in this transcription as, Iesous. Greek diacritical marks have not been represented in this transcription.

Footnotes. The original text indicates footnotes with special characters, including the astrisk (*) and printers' marks, such as the dagger mark, the double dagger mark, the section mark, the parallels mark, and the paragraph mark. In this transcription all these special characters have been replaced by numbers in square brackets, such as [1], [2], [3], etc.

Accent marks. The original text contains some English letters represented with accent marks. In this transcription, those letters have been rendered in this transcription without their accent marks.

Other special characters.

Solid horizontal lines of various lengths that appear in the original text have been represented as a series of consecutive hyphens of approximately the same length, such as ---.

Ligatures, single characters containing two letters united, in the original text in some Latin expressions have been represented in this transcription as separate letters. The ligature formed by uniting A and E is represented as Ae, that of a and e as ae, that of O and E as Oe, and that of o and e as oe.

Monetary sums in the original text represented with a preceding British pound sterling symbol (a stylized L, transected by a short horizontal line) are represented in this transcription with a following pound symbol, l.

The half symbol (1/2) and three-quarters symbol (3/4) in the original text have been represented in this transcription with their decimal equivalent, (.5) and (.75) respectively.

Unreadable text. Places where the transcriber's copy of the original text is unreadable have been indicated in this transcription by an empty set of square brackets, [].

Chapter 4

Christ sets forth the graces of his spouse: and declares his love for her.

[1] How beautiful art thou, my love, how beautiful art thou! thy eyes are doves' eyes, besides what is hid within. Thy hair is as flocks of goats, which Come up from mount Galaad.

SPONSUS. Quam pulchra es, amica mea! quam pulchra es! Oculi tui columbarum, absque eo quod intrinsecus latet. Capilli tui sicut greges caprarum quae ascenderunt de monte Galaad.

[2] Thy teeth as flocks of sheep, that are shorn which come up from the washing, all with twins, and there is none barren among them.

Dentes tui sicut greges tonsarum quae ascenderunt de lavacro; omnes gemellis foetibus, et sterilis non est inter eas.

[3] Thy lips are as a scarlet lace: and thy speech sweet. Thy cheeks are as a piece of a pomegranate, besides that which lieth hid within.

Sicut vitta coccinea labia tua, et eloquium tuum dulce. Sicut fragmen mali punici, ita genae tuae, absque eo quod intrinsecus latet.

[4] Thy neck, is as the tower of David, which is built with bulwarks: a thousand bucklers hang upon it, all the armour of valiant men.

Sicut turris David collum tuum, quae aedificata est cum propugnaculis; mille clypei pendant ex ea, omnis armatura fortium.

[5] Thy two breasts like two young roes that are twins, which feed among the lilies.

Duo ubera tua sicut duo hinnuli, capreae gemelli, qui pascuntur in liliis.

[6] Till the day break, and the shadows retire, I will go to the mountain of myrrh, and to the hill of frankincense.

Donec aspiret dies, et inclinentur umbrae, vadam ad montem myrrhae, et ad collem thuris.

[7] Thou art all fair, O my love, and there is not a spot in thee.

Tota pulchra es, amica mea, et macula non est in te.

[8] Come from Libanus, my spouse, come from Libanus, come: thou shalt be crowned from the top of Amana, from the top of Sanir and Hermon, from the dens of the lions, from the mountains of the leopards.

Veni de Libano, sponsa mea : veni de Libano, veni, coronaberis : de capite Amana, de vertice Sanir et Hermon, de cubilibus leonum, de montibus pardorum.

[9] Thou hast wounded my heart, my sister, my spouse, thou hast wounded my heart with one of thy eyes, and with one hair of thy neck.

Vulnerasti cor meum, soror mea, sponsa; vulnerasti cor meum in uno oculorum tuorum, et in uno crine colli tui.

[10] How beautiful are thy breasts, my sister, my spouse! thy breasts are more beautiful than wine, and the sweet smell of thy ointments above all aromatical spices.

Quam pulchrae sunt mammae tuae, soror mea sponsa! pulchriora sunt ubera tua vino, et odor unguentorum tuorum super omnia aromata.

[11] Thy lips, my spouse, are as a dropping honeycomb, honey and milk are under thy tongue; and the smell of thy garments, as the smell of frankincense.

Favus distillans labia tua, sponsa; mel et lac sub lingua tua : et odor vestimentorum tuorum sicut odor thuris.

[12] My sister, my spouse, is a garden enclosed, a garden enclosed, a fountain sealed up.

Hortus conclusus soror mea, sponsa, hortus conclusus, fons signatus.

[13] Thy plants are a paradise of pomegranates with the fruits of the orchard. Cypress with spikenard.

Emissiones tuae paradisus malorum punicorum, cum pomorum fructibus, cypri cum nardo.

[14] Spikenard and saffron, sweet cane and cinnamon, with all the trees of Libanus, myrrh and aloes with all the chief perfumes.

Nardus et crocus, fistula et cinnamomum, cum universis lignis Libani; myrrha et aloe, cum omnibus primis unguentis.

[15] The fountain of gardens: the well of living waters, which run with a strong stream from Libanus.

Fons hortorum, puteus aquarum viventium, quae fluunt impetu de Libano.

[16] Arise, O north wind, and come, O south wind, blow through my garden, and let the aromatical spices thereof flow.

SPONSA. Surge, aquilo, et veni, auster : perfla hortum meum, et fluant aromata illius.

Commentary:

Ver. 1. How. Christ again praises the beauty of his Church. W. --- The dialogue takes place in the country. H. --- From corporal beauty, which is often dangerous, and the portion of the most dissolute, we must raise our minds to spiritual advantages, which the Holy Ghost has here in view. --- Within. S. Amb. "besides thy taciturnity." Sept. "silence." Rabbins, &c. "hair." Prot. "within thy locks." But what renders this version of tsammathec (H.) suspicious is, that none of the ancients knew of it, and the hair is afterwards specified. C. vi. 4. Moreover, Isaias, (xlvii. 2.) uses it for (C.) "turpitude," (S. Jer.) or the parts which are usually "covered." Sept. H. --- Si qua latent, meliora putat. Met. 1500. --- All the glory of the king's daughter is within. Ps. xliv. 14. Modesty and silence are the best encomium. C. --- The Lord praises the intention, occupations and doctrine of the Church, the twins of faith and good works; the preaching of Christ's passion without shame, (v. 3.) and the administration of the sacraments, which, like the neck, unite the members to their head; so that they become invincible, (v. 4.) whether they be of Jewish or Gentile extraction, v. 5. W. --- Up. Heb. and Sept. "appear." Jerusalem was the highest part of the country; (H.) and coming up and down often means no more than coming or going. Jug. xi. 3. and xv. 11. C. --- The hair of goats in Lycia was beautifully curled. Ælian xvi. 30. --- Women used such false hair. Mart. xii. 45. --- Though the hair be only an ornament, it is not to be neglected; so the pious Christian will always treat with respect the ceremonies established chiefly for the instruction of the ignorant. C. --- Those simple and fervent souls, by their numbers, adorn the Church, as hair does the body. S. Greg. --- The external and internal perfections of the spouse deserve commendation. M.

Ver. 2. Them. Those who lay aside the old man, and receive baptism, are filled with grace, to bring forth the fruits of virtue. S. Aug. Doct. ii. 6. --- Pastors in particular, must lay aside worldly cares, and attend to their flocks. M.

Ver. 3. Scarlet. Preachers of the gospel (S. Greg.) must speak with elegance, and have their lips dyed with the blood of Christ, and purified with coals from the altar. C. --- So, if we may use the words of a living critic, who is sometimes accurate, "a commentator ought to study at the foot of his crucifix, and write with ink drawn from the heart of Jesus." H. --- Pomegranate. Plump and ruddy, representing the purity of the Church, and of virgins, who are its "flower," (S. Cyp.) and bring forth fruits of good works. S. Aug. de Virg.

Ver. 4. Bulwarks. Heb. Thalpiyoth, "at the height of the defiles," probably in Libanus, when David conquered Syria. Thalassar, Thelmela, &c. were such "heights." Bucklers, to be used in case of need, or for ornament. Thus the neck of the spouse was adorned with chains and pearls. The Church is this tower, the pillar of truth, 1 Tim. iii. Matt. xvi. 18. Apostles and prelates are her bucklers.

Ver. 5. Roes. This comparison does not seem happy: but exactitude is not required. C. --- Indeed if we were to take all in the literal sense, a very grotesque figure would arise, with a head like Carmel, a nose like a tower, &c. which shews that the tropological or allegorical sense must be adopted. D. --- The two Testaments given for our instruction, (c. i. 2.) or the charity towards God and our neighbour, may be meant. Theod.

Ver. 6. Retire. In the morning, (Sanct.) or rather the bridegroom takes his leave early, promising to return in the evening. C. ii. 17. C. --- Myrrh. To Calvary, where the fervent will pour forth their prayers, and learn mortification. C. --- Christ dwells in mortified and devout minds.

Ver. 7. Thee. All must be pure before they enter heaven, as the blessed Virgin was on earth, (W.) and the Church is still. Eph. v. 27. C. --- Before his departure, Christ heaps praises on her.

Ver. 8. Thou. Heb. "look from." --- Libanus. So Jerusalem is called, Zac. xi. 3. Ribera. M. --- Amana. Sept. "faith." By it and charity, we must do good. S. Aug. Ps. lxvii. Amanus separates Cilicia from Syria. --- Sanir is the name given by the Phenicians to Hermon, (Eusebius) beyond the Jordan. 1 Par. v. 23. --- Leopards. It is not fit for women to hunt such beasts. Ovid (Met. x. 10.) thus speaks of Venus: Nuda genu, vestemque ritu succincta Dianæ, &c. The Church leaves Jerusalem to preach the gospel without fear. M.

Ver. 9. Wounded. Symmachus, "given." Sept. Prot. "ravished." Mystic writers suppose, that the spouse had been guilty of some negligence; or, on the contrary, that her deportment was most enchanting, bent on God, and on good works. C. --- Sister. So Assuerus styles himself brother of Esther. xv. 12. Christ died for the unity of his Church. M.

Ver. 10. Spices. He returns her compliment. C. i. 2.

Ver. 11. Lips. Teachers who accommodate their instructions to the capacity of their audience, (C.) giving milk to children. Heb. v. 13. H. 1 Cor. iii. 2. --- In allusion, perhaps, to this passage, (C.) it was customary to give milk and honey to the new baptized. Tert. coron. --- Garments. Which were perfumed, (Gen. xxvii. 17. Ps. xliv. 9.) and imply good works, (2 Cor. v. 3. Rom. xiii. 14. C.) and the external service and prayers of the Church, which ascend like incense. Ps. cxl. 2. M.

Ver. 12. Up. She is perfectly chaste. Prov. v. 14. The Church excludes from her society all unbelievers and schismatics. The wicked serve to exercise the virtuous. Her pastors explain the Scriptures, the fountains of saving knowledge. C. --- Christ is also a fountain. Zac. xiii. 1. and Jo. vii. 37. M.

Ver. 13. Plants. The various orders of clergy and laity. --- Cyprus, (c. i. 13. C.) whence a healing oil is extracted. Theod. --- Prot. "camphire." H. --- Spikenard is twice mentioned, as it may be well mixed with cyprus and saffron. M.

Ver. 14. Cinnamon. Very rare. Ex. xxx. 23. --- Libanus, or "incense." Heb.

Ver. 15. Libanus. The law of the gospel was proclaimed by the apostles, who were Jews. They explained the pure doctrine of the Scriptures, and converted many.

Ver. 16. Wind. At different times. Let all nations be convinced of thy beauty. C. --- The holy Spirit enabled the apostles to convert the world. Nys. Rupert. - All temptations, whether proceeding from cruelty or deceit, "make constant souls more grateful to God." W.

[storiesbybrian]

Buddy’s Buddies, February, 2002

I kick Sam Zane in the belly. Then I grab him by the hair and sling him to the ground. These new lights are giving us a heavy sweat. Sam stinks. If I was a certain type of jerk, I could have him fined for not wearing deodorant. But he’s just a kid and everybody makes their mistakes. So I drop an elbow on his solar plexus and say, “Sam. They can smell your ass in the mezzanine, man.”

           “I know,” says. “They lost my luggage in Richmond. ‘Sgot my Speed Stick in-”

           I cut Sam off before he can finish, picking him up and whipping him into the ropes. When he bounces off, I’ll set him up for my big finishing move. The Olive Press. While he’s bounding tape to tape I have a second to think. It’s amazing how much thinking you can cram into a short period of time. I’ll be seeing Buddy today for the first time in three weeks. Things got pretty bad for me while he was away and I know he’ll be a sight for sore eyes.

           Sam comes back from the ropes, kicking up tiny clouds of powder with every stomp on the mat, and I bend forward and toss him over my back. Sam flips through the air and lands near the middle of the ring. When somebody lands hard on the mat, the apron around the ring’s supposed to ripple from the impact. But Sam, though he’s got potential, is a long way from being a great faller. He hardly even bounces.  

The small crowd boos, knowing that Sam was beat long ago and I’m just being sadistic. But that’s the way the American Wrestling League, and every other major professional wrestling body operates. In a non-marquee matchup, the bad guy drags out his match as a time filler, and he gets the crowd involved, taunting them, kicking his opponent while he’s down. One thing rednecks claim they can’t stomach is seeing a beaten man get abused further. Whether that’s true in real life, I’m not too sure. But their deepest moral indignations always come howling out at wrestling matches. I’ve gotten over 100 death threats for what I “done” to Buddy last month.  

           With Sam writhing around on the mat, the stray boos from the half-empty arena get louder. I taunt the folks in the stands, trying to give them their money’s worth. I start bellowing fake opera: “Oooooohhhh, Dio Mio!!!” Then I strut over to Sam and kick him a few times. My red, green and white patent leather boots catch the glare of the ring lights. The crowd noise picks up a little bit more. I cross my right leg in the air and tip over onto Sam, elbow first again. I say, “45 more seconds, kid.”

           I pull Sam up to his feet and smack him in the chest. He falls right back down and I strut around some more under the hot lights, trying to wring more life out of the crowd. A few half-empty soda cups fly past the ropes and into the ring. I kick them at Sam and fling my fingers from under my chin at the crowd. The front rows start screaming at me, telling me I suck, that I’m a dead man. I wag my tongue at them and press both of my hands downward, the sign for the Olive Press. Somebody tries to start a chant of “Grease-ball!  Grease-ball!” but it doesn’t catch on.

           I grab Sam by the hair and drag him over to one of the corners and sit him up on the top turnbuckle. He smells and it’s genuinely pissing me off. If I had a shot at the national syndicate at his age, the last thing I’d do is act unprofessionally. As Sam sits there in a tortured heap, I preen around the ring one last time, slicking my hair back and kissing the tips of my fingers like a proud chef. Then I stomp over to Sam and give him the Olive Press. The Olive Press is half Super-plex, half Gorilla Slam. I hoist Sam off the turnbuckle and then windmill him to the ground so hard we both bounce a few times before the referee comes over and counts him out. More powder gasps up from the mat.

           “That’s how you fall, son,” I say to Sam.

           The bell rings and the referee comes over to raise my arm. But we’ve got more in store for this small crowd. We want them to tell their friends that they really missed something today. So I growl and stick my thumb behind my front teeth and flick it at the referee. I shove him to the mat and kick him with my shining Italian boots. Then I pick Sam up and give him some more slaps across the chest. As I draw him close to throw him into the ropes for a clothesline, I say, “Hey asshole! Next time they lose your luggage, go out and buy some more goddamn Speed Stick!” And then I whip him bouncing into the ropes at the east end of the ring.  

             Buddy. He’s everybody’s port in the storm, the only man the rest of us can love openly without seeming like homos. “Hell,” he’d say. “Only difference between us and movie stars is we do our own damn stunts!” And that’s how he makes us feel.

And I’m his best friend. He appreciates my insights. After all, it was my idea how he could go to the Bahamas with his wife in the first place. I know it sounds selfish now, but if I thought that me “turning” on Buddy’d mean the kind of sacrifices I’ve had to make, I’m not sure I would’ve gone for it in the first place. But Buddy is my friend and his marriage was in trouble and maybe if I’d covered for him a few of those nights when he didn’t come home, he wouldn’t have needed to take Donna on vacation in the first place. So I guess it all evens out in the wash.

           I hold Sam in a headlock and gouge him in the eye. Suddenly the angry shouting from the stands turns into excited cheers. Buddy! Fans are running, stomping towards the southeast aisle of the arena. And there he is with Solomon Grande and Chief Mustang, charging towards the ring. I can see his ice blond locks shimmering, even in the darkness of the aisles. He’s even faster on his crutches than they are on foot, the fat goons. The crowd starts yelling, “Buh-Dee! Buh-Dee! Buh-Dee! Buh-Dee!” And like nobody else can, with his body swinging on those crutches, he acknowledges the love of his fans. “Whoo-Weeee!” he calls.  “Whoo-Weeee!” the crowd answers. And now they sound like a sellout at the Omni.  

           I get terrified, like I’m supposed to. I cast about for the referee to save me but he’s long gone. Then I act like me and Sam Zane are good friends, helping him up and draping an arm around him, trying to revive him. But he stays limp. Chief Mustang and Solomon Grande torpedo into the ring and tear Sam’s flaccid body away from my false embrace. The Chief prods a huge finger into my chest and I cower to the other side of the ring, pleading, “Oh no, signori, no mi piace, signori! NO MI PIACE!” Then I hear Buddy clear his throat into the ringside microphone.  

           “Hey!” he says. The crowd, who’s missed him almost as much as I have, goes even wilder. They chant his name, like they’re witnessing the second coming, which, in a way, I guess they are.  “Hey, Don Palermo!” He points one of his crutches at me. I shake my head wildly, trying to pretend this isn’t happening and that I’m somewhere far away and safe. That’s one of the tricks of the bad guy trade. We’re fakers. We’ll incur the wrath of the good guys, but rather than own up to it, we’ll try to hide, say that it can’t be. The good guy knows that it is and imbues his every action with the belief in the here and now. You can call it existential if you want. But that’s why the good guys are beloved and the bad guys reviled, even though we all wrestle, we all use the same violent moves. Our audience doesn’t want to retreat. They want to face the music. And the music is Buh-Dee.  

           “Hey, Don Palermo! Why don’t you try kickin’ somebody who ain’t already been put down? What kinda man are you, anyway? Twirlin’ your mustach-ee-o, singin’ that opera crap! Whatsa matta? You ‘fraid of a little Rock ‘n Roll?!”

           The frantic screams from the crowd get organized. “ROCK AND ROLL! ROCK AND ROLL!”

           I drop to my knees and lace my fingers in supplication, pleading, “No, Buddy, no!”

           “Yeah, boy, yeah! You used to be my friend. And then you sneak attacked me! You stabbed me in the back! Made me sorry I ever trusted you in the first place! Now I ain’t ashamed to tell you good people, that hurt me. It hurts to lose a friend. But brother, Buddy Flash is instant karma! Somebody hurts Buddy Flash, ohhhh, they gon’ get theirs, baby. So you! You, Don Palermo, I wanna show you somethin’!”

           Buddy raises one open hand and the crowd pitches down to a low rumble, craning to see Buddy’s visual aid. He grabs a couple of enlarged X-rays from the ringside table where they’d been waiting for him. Only Buddy Flash could get scientific with this crowd. He holds up one of the X-rays and says, “Yeah, people! Doctor Jorgenson says Buddy Flash is on the mend. The good doctor says I’ll be back in the ring come Thanksgiving! And Don Palermo? Brother, you are cordially invited.”

           And Buddy hurls the X-ray into the ring and skips on his crutches back up the aisle and through the tunnel to the locker room. Man he moves fast on those crutches. Solomon Grande and Chief Mustang shove me off my knees and wave bye bye to me. I curl up in the fetal position and tremble for a good two or three minutes. I put my thumb in my mouth and try to show the crowd that this babyish action is even more pathetic because it actually soothes me. They buy it, razzing me with a new sense of purpose.

             A few weeks earlier, we’d been in our locker room, showering after a tag team match. The floors were cream colored tile and we each had our own glass door and chrome dials with latches to control the water pressure and temperature. Not like back in Florida, but Buddy was still forlorn.

           “I dunno, brother!” he said. “I think Donna might be serious this time. Maybe she’s just been waitin’ until her half of the nut was more to her likin’.”

           “Well, Buddy,” I said. “One thing I know about married women. Their favorite anniversary present probably ain’t special shampoo.”

           “Well, she wasn’t the only one sufferin’ there, boy! Why you think I started shavin’ all over?”

           I didn’t know what to say.

           “Hey,” Buddy said. “You remember how dirty them showers down in Florida used to be?”

           Buddy was always making me laugh. “Yeah man! You were like to be dirtier after ‘n before. Huh huh huh huh!”

           “Those were some days, boy, I tell you!” Buddy hollered. “Back then, me ‘n Donna were inseparable. I hardly messed around at all down there.”

           I turned off the water and walked over to Buddy’s stall. I was still sweating from the match and the steam in the locker room. “Hey Buddy,” I said through the spray.

           “Ymmm?” he said.

           “Why don’t you take her off to the Bahamas? You remember what a good time I told you Tammy’s sister had with her husband down there?”

           He finished rinsing and turned off the water. He went and grabbed one of his ochre towels with the silver initials BF on it. His head was furled up in the towel so his voice was muffled but I could still hear him ask, “Huh?”

           “MaryAnne. My sister-in-law. Don’t you remember?”

           “Oh yeah,” Buddy said, wiping the ash blond hair out of his face and smiling at me. I could see the grid of scars he had on his forehead. Buddy cut himself plenty in the early days. The promoters loved to see his light hair get soaked with blood. “Nassau, right?”

           “How can Donna be mad at you in a tropical paradise? Making love under waterfalls…”

           “Spl-spl-spl-splt! Great idea, son,” Buddy said. He flicked on his blow dryer. “How the hell am I gonna take my goddamn wife down to the Bahamas and still do promos and matches five days a week?”

           “Well!” I shouted over the echoing blow dryer. “You never let me stay upset for this long! So gimme a little time and I’ll figure something out! OK?”

           “Whatever.”

             I watched “Circle in the Square” yesterday. “Circle in the Square” is a weekly talk show about wrestling developments hosted by Mad Mike McDonough and Sir Algernon Crawford, two of the most respected commentators in the business. Buddy’s and my grudge match was the lead story. They played the statements that we’d pre-taped a few days earlier. In Buddy’s it was all about what a dirty yellow dog I was, betraying him like ‘at and all. And mine was about how now everybody can see who the real man behind our operation’d always been and it’s about time to see the great Buddy Flash get knocked off his high horse. Oh, it was gonna be some match, alright.

I had mixed feelings about the segment where they interviewed fans. They asked a bunch of Flashbulbs (Buddy’s hardcore fans who travel to see him wrestle) what they thought about our feud. Boys and girls alike, they all had their hair dyed white-blonde. And they all said that it was obvious that I was jealous of the spotlight and not humble enough to play a supporting role to Buddy. I had to laugh because what could be further from the truth? In my role as the foe, I’m more supportive of Buddy than ever. But I’m also proud of the job Buddy and I are doing with this feud. We’re like shining examples to the other wrestlers out there, showing ‘em how you really galvanize the public. Our ratings are up past FCCW and are fast gaining on the IWA. So what if the fans get carried away and forget it’s fake? That’s the whole point.

The cameras were filming in Roanoke, Virginia. A high school football team said their team Thanksgiving meal was gonna be early so they could watch Buddy stomp me to death. One young lineman said he hoped that Buddy would “torture that no-good, yella-bellied traitor for quite a spell. Quite a spell.”

           The way we had it planned thus far, that’s exactly what Buddy was gonna do. We were choreographing a marathon of a match. Standard marquee dynamics. First Buddy would storm into the ring and I’d climb the cage to get away from him. After about five minutes of Buddy inspiring sheer terror in me, he’d get ahold of me and pummel me for a while. But then, just when things seemed to be all Buddy, I’d do something dirty and yank the momentum right out from under him. After a few minutes of me wearing him down, I’d put him in a submission hold. We hadn’t decided between the Boston Crabclaw and the Figure Four, but either way, Buddy’s job was just to grimace and writhe without giving up, a testament to, if not stoicism, then at least the epic pain threshold of a true hero. Just past the 20 minute mark, somebody was supposed to throw a rigged chair into the ring. It’d get busted up and then Buddy and I were supposed to rub wood chips in each other’s faces and gouge each other with splintered chair legs until I was to slip in a pool of my own blood. Then Buddy’d be upon me with his piece of the chair aimed at me like a stake. For a second, his face was supposed to be stamped with the blood lust. But then humanity would creep into his face and his eyes would unbug and his teeth would unbare. And this is where we need to decide what to do next.

           This won’t be the first “I Quit” match in the history of the American Wrestling League. But the concept, if it isn’t handled properly, can run counter to the whole point of professional wrestling. The thing about wrestling is that you have us characters with our “genuine” differences, and we settle them violently. A three-slap on the mat should satisfy any grievance the crowd has, whether it’s personal, romantic or political. Even at the height of the Cold War, when the bad guys were bald-headed Russians, evil-eyed Sultans, or those indomitably mean, bland Chinamen that everybody loved to fight, nobody ever wanted to see those guys get killed. Victory is no fun for the fans unless the loser’s around to wallow in humiliation, to concoct fantastic excuses and test the market to see if revenge is in the cards.

But with Buddy’s and my “I Quit” match, we’re toying with death. Neither of us likes the idea. Buddy put it best: “How’m I gonna beat you without killin’ you?” Nobody wants that. But we are definitely wratcheting the violence up several notches. And by all indications, this is only too fine with our audience. “Boy,” Buddy said one day at rehearsal, “they are howlin’ for your blood!”

“No friggin’ way,” Jerry Boone had said.

           “Now, Jerry,” Buddy said. “Quit starin’ out that window like General Patton or whoever and take your hands out from behind your back and sit down here at this big ol’desk o’ yours.”

           Mr. Boone came back to the desk. “Buddy,” he said. “I know you’re at the top of every poll we run here, but don’t come in here forgetting who’s in charge. Who’re you feuding with right now, Isis the Samurai?”

           “That’s right.”

           “Well,” Mr. Boone said, trying to sound crafty. He flipped open his cell phone and dangled it over the desk like a butterfly knife. “How’d you like to drop that and get into a thing with Colonel Slocumb?”

           “That faggot?!”

           Jerry looked calmly across his desk at us. Buddy had mispoken and now Mr. Boone thought he was in charge again.

“Mr. Boone,” I said. “I change my name from Kid Amore to Don Palermo.  Look at these sketches. I start acting like a mafioso. We plan a big match, Buddy kicks my ass, and that’s it. We figure the ratings boost’ll be worth the vacay.”

“Come on, Jerry. It’s only three weeks.”

“No.”

Buddy and I looked at one another and smiled. We still had our trump card to play. Buddy nodded for me to break the news to Mr. Boone. “What if we could guarantee that-”

Buddy jumped in, “We’re bringin’ Macon Tolliver in on this one!”

I smiled and Buddy slapped me five. “So waddya say, Jerry?”

Mr. Boone snapped his cell phone shut and took a look at my drawings of my new character.

           Buddy and I came up together through the Florida organization. Roughly half of the AWL’s superstars got their seasoning on the Everglade Circuit. The most creative, ambitious and professional of us paid our dues for five or six years and then moved up to the national syndicate. But as far back as anyone can remember, Macon Tolliver’s been the king of Florida wrestling.

           He worships Satan. Nobody knows how old he is. He wears a black velvet wizard’s cloak and has a way of gliding down the aisle for his matches while the PA system plays “Sympathy for the Devil” (how he could afford the rights to that song is another mystery). He spits green mist into the eyes of good guys and treats the bad guys as rivals for his own dark power, crippling them with ancient spells. All three major wrestling bodies, the AWL, IWA and FCCW issued invitations that’ve been standing for the last 25 years. But they all stipulated changes to Macon’s act so he stayed in Florida, putting the greatest show in wrestling on in union halls and high school gyms.  

           Buddy and I got to know Macon real well during Buddy’s four and my five years down in Florida. He said he saw something in us. He said Buddy was the embodiment of all that’s great about professional wrestling. He taught us most of what we know. But, unless you were a hardcore wrestling fan, you’d never have heard of him outside the state of Florida until a week before he and I Pearl-Harbored Buddy.  

           I was fighting some pushover. It was a quick match because I was a good guy. Buddy was watching from outside the ring, snapping the apron and leading the crowd in cheers. “Kid!” he’d call.

           “Ah-Mo-Ray!” the crowd would answer.

           “Kid!”

           “Ah-Mo-Ray!”

           But then, just before the match ended, a small commotion kicked up by the northwest aisle of the arena. I couldn’t see the aisle well from the mat but up on the video screens, sure enough, was Macon Tolliver floating towards the ring, hood pulled over his head like a Gregorian monk. Most of the fans had never seen him before but he had an effect on them anyway.

           Macon made it to the corner opposite Buddy and stood there silently, oblivious to any attention he was being paid. He stared hard at me. At first I noticed but then I went back, gave my guy the Olive Press and pinned him. Buddy helped me on with my robe and we left Macon standing there by the side of the ring.  

           The same thing happened at each of my non-marquee matches for the rest of the week. As the week progressed, Mad Mike McDonough and Sir Algernon Crawford “dug up” the identity of the mysterious stranger who had started showing up at Kid Amore’s matches. They filled the public in on Macon Tolliver’s dark mission in life, inspiring dread like a couple of real pros. If you knew Mike and Al, you could see how excited they were to finally have Macon in the AWL. They seemed to defame him with more vigor than they’d displayed in years.  

           Meanwhile, Macon built a stable of wrestlers, conjuring loyalty from the most savage characters in the League- Nehru the Cannibal, the Tanzanian Devil, Steppenwolf der Havocmeister and Moustafa the Anatolian Giant. Backstage, there were more wrestlers lined up to work with Macon Tolliver than there are movie stars for a Robert Altman movie.  

           I acknowledged Macon’s presence at my matches with a statement they’d play before commercials: “Lemme tell you people somethin’! If that Satanic freak wants to watch Kid Amore dismantle a coupla unworthies, he’s more than welcome. But let him buy a ticket like the rest of the Kid’s hard workin’ fans! I don’t know what makes that lilly-livered servant of evil think he’s so special that he deserves a ringside seat, but if he wants one so bad, let’s have him bring one of his non-English-speakin’, unpatriotic goons inside the ring for me to handle. ‘Cause baby, when you’re in the Press, you ain’t nothin’ but mush. ArrivederLa!”

           So, in short order, a match was set up with Steppenwolf der Havocmeister, master of the iron claw. Macon was in his corner, staring silently and intently from under his dark hood. Buddy was in my corner, helping the crowd taunt, “Ste-Fa-Nee! Ste-Fa-Nee!” I was winning the match and Steppenwolf der Havocmeister was almost ready to get the Olive Press. Buddy was pounding the outskirt of the ring, leading “Kid!”

           “Ah-Mo-Ray!”

           Suddenly, Macon started babbling. He had a mike in his cloak so everybody heard him. He was incanting something, “Cumis ego ipse oculis vidi in ampulla pendere.  Cumis ego ipse oculis vidi in ampulla pendere.” I’m not sure what that means but it sure did scare the shit out of the crowd. And that was before they’d all noticed Buddy. When they did, he was on his knees, clawing his own throat. His platinum hair was shaking frantically with every gasp for air. I ran over to the corner and reached out my hand to him. “Buddy!” I shouted.

           But then Steppenwolf der Havocmeister ran up and kneed me in the back. I fell to the ground and he started to stomp on me with his bulky jackboots. Finally, Macon shed his robe and slithered his fully tattooed body into the ring. The referee had the bell rung, signaling me winner by disqualification. The big roar from the crowd was frightenend and despairing. As soon as Macon kicked me, Buddy broke out of his choking spell. He sat on the concrete outside of the ring, trying to recover. The fans were urging him to run into the ring and help me.

           Macon had handcuffed me to the middle rope on the ring’s south end. He and Steppenwolf der Havocmeister methodically continued my beating. I was still conscious but barely. The crowd started chanting “Buh-Dee!  Buh-Dee!” to help him get his strength back so he could rescue me.  

           After a minute of heartbreaking grogginess, Buddy staged a full recovery. He was up and shaking his whole body with fury and juice from the crowd. He leapt up to the top of the apron and flipped over the ropes into the ring. The crowd went wild. Only Buddy could pick people up so quickly and only Macon could knock them back down. Buddy drop kicked Steppenwolf der Havocmeister and then squared off against Macon, light versus dark. Unlike most bad guys, Macon showed no fear. He shot out his fingers and spit his green mist into Buddy’s eyes.

           Once again, the great Buddy Flash sank to his knees incapacitated. And then the final blow. Macon unlocked my handcuff and led me to where Buddy was lying blind in the middle of the ring. I was furious. I turned to Macon and the crowd screamed for me to avenge my partner. I knelt down and took one of Buddy’s hands. But, to the audience’s ultimate horror, instead of helping him up, I laced one of my legs over Buddy’s arm and dropped to the mat, crushing my partner’s arm and taking the abrupt leap over to evil.

           “I don’t believe what I’m seeing,” Mad Mike McDonough wailed from his ringside broadcasting table. “In all my years as a commentator for the American Wrestling League, I have never seen a betrayal so treacherous, so cowardly, so disgusting. Fans, I am sick to my stomach right now over what has just transpired here in Louisville.”

             “‘Don Pulayermoe,’ that’s how it’s spelled” Jerry Boone reads, “‘You are one dead ginnee f***wad. I don’t know who let your ass into my cleen country of hours, but I promise you will never spred your filthy ginnee seed on our soil. See you on Thanksgiving, boy.’’”

           Mr. Boone holds the letter out across the desk to me. Buddy is chuckling, shaking his head slowly.

           “I don’t want to get my prints on it, Mr. Boone.”

           “Frank,” Mr. Boone says, getting up from his desk and turning towards the window. “I’m putting you on 24-hour guard.”

           “What?!” I yell.

           “Huh?” says Buddy.  

           “And another thing,” barks Mr. Boone. He turns around and plops both fists down on his desk. “Don’t either of you let me hear another word about your wives being seen together.”

           “Now, Mr. Boone…” I begin.

           “Now nothin’ boy!” Mr. Boone growls. He sits down. “You think our fans are stupid? How many of ‘em gotta see Donna and Tammy at the nail salon before this whole dang feud is blown? You two are supposed to hate each other, gol’dangit!”

           “But Buddy’s my best friend,” I say. “How am I supposed to deal with death threats and the like without-”

           “Just a second, Frank,” Buddy says assuredly. He leans across Mr. Boone’s desk and fiddles with the pile of hate mail. “Now, Jerry. I understand what you’re sayin’. And, obviously, Frank’s safety is priority numero uno. But you gotta understand somethin’, my man…”

           “Can it, Buddy,” Mr. Boone says. “This is as much your fault as anyone’s.  ‘It hurts to lose a friend?’ You think our fans pay to see your softer side? You’re too busy trying to show your range for the Hollywood people and Frank here’s getting blamed for it!”

           Mr. Boone pounds on the table with one hand and rubs his forehead with the other. It’s funny to watch him be bossy and worried at the same time.  “Look,” he sighs. “From now on, what with Frank’s security detail and the extra precautions we have to have outside the rehearsal gym, this thing is becoming a major pain in the you know what. Now, Frank, you’d be doin’ everybody a big favor if you just checked into a hotel in secret until the match. You know the League’ll reimburse you for it.”

           Now I have to walk around the room a little bit. “I dunno, Mr. Boone. I mean, I know this whole feud was my idea in the first place. But a man can only be so professional if he ain’t got the comforts of life outside the workplace. I mean, why do we do any of this in the first place? I didn’t mind losing my soda contract so much. You know the bad guy motto, ‘Better to be hated than doubted.’ But first you cut off all contact between Buddy and me, and now me and my family? I dunno, Mr. Boone. Especially after I did my part to help boost your ratings. Heck, I’m just doing my job.”

           Jerry Boone smiles benevolently and says, “Too well.” Then he lights his pipe.

             Thanksgiving is the AWL’s biggest night of the year. So ever since we made it big, our families have eaten our traditional Thanksgiving meal on Wednesday night so we don’t cramp up during our matches. We used to eat together. But, this year, they’re being kind enough to let me out of my hotel to eat Thanksgiving dinner with my immediate family on Wednesday at AWL headquarters about 30 miles from our home in Charlotte. Tammy and the kids pick me up from the hotel. They are not pleased.

           “Who ever heard of Thanksgiving dinner for five people?” she says in the car on the way over.

           “Yeah!” my daughter Marie chimes in from the back seat. “Doesn’t that trailer trash know wrestling’s fake?”

           “Marie…”

           I hate it when the kids use language like that. Since I first crossed over to the bad guys, Mr. Boone and I have been meeting to draw more lines for me to cross. Out of respect for my professionalism, he’s given me carte blanche but there are certain things I won’t do. I will spit on children. I won’t be racist.  I will grab my nuts and stick my tongue out at old ladies. I won’t moon anybody. I will say “redneck.” I won’t say “white trash.” Sometimes I realize what a crazy job I have and it makes me laugh.

           “Oh, you think this is funny?!” Tammy says.

           “I miss Uncle Buddy!” says Frank Jr.

           “Come on now, gang,” I say. “Y’all just need to change the way you’re looking at this. Now who’s hungry?”

           My wife and children grunt and look out the windows of the car. I see their scowls in my rearview mirror. I hope the AWL can cook.

             We get done late. The kids are all asleep in the car when we pull up to the hotel. There’s a big surprise waiting for me at the desk. It’s a message from “Blanton,” otherwise known as Buddy. The night clerk gives me a dirty look and points me to a courtesy phone.

           “Hey, brother. Donna and I just wanted to wish you and Tammy and the kids a happy one. Sorry we’ve been out of touch lately. You know what Jerry ‘Baboone’ says. So I’m just tryin’ to take the outer layers of the reality of our match more seriously. We ain’t getting’ any younger, you know. Anyway, I oughtta get back to all the brothers and sisters and cousins, even though they’re all the same, right? Just kiddin’! Any-hoo, I guess I’ll just see you tomorrow. Hey, after the match, maybe we can get together and I can finally show you the pictures from our trip. Later gator!”

           Tammy can tell by my face who it is. She touches my shoulder and gives me a look of understanding.  

           I put my arms around her and hold her tight. “You know I’d never let anybody hurt you and the kids, Tammy.”

           “I know, Frankie. I know.”

           She kisses me and goes back to the car and drives the kids home.

             The locker room’s a zoo. Security is doubled on my side. I hear Buddy’s pissed because it means less guards to keep the Flashbulb skanks out of his locker room.  

           Macon’s giving me a rubdown when I hear my theme song. Louis Prima.

           “Alright, kiddo,” he says, slapping me in the small of the back. “Let’s get this over with and go home.”

           “I hear that!” I shout. I stand up and clap my hands. Two attendants help me into my robe. It’s fashioned after a baggy pinstriped suit. I like the silky kerchief in the breast pocket. A third attendant carefully places the black fedora onto my head. Macon rolls his eyes and ducks his head back into his hood and nods it over his face. How he can see outta that thing, I’ll never know

           He pulls me aside for a moment. His voice creeps from under the hood. “Who do you hate?”

           “Buddy,” I say.

           “Who?” he asks, raising his voice a little.

           “Buddy!” I say.

           “Buddy who?”

           “Buddy Flash!” I stomp my feet a few times and spit on the floor. I’m ready. I’m totally in character.

           “Let’s go!”    

             We see the mess at the end of the tunnel. It’s small at first. Blurry studs of faces, bright snippets of the ring in the ropes in the cage, flashbulbs, press tables. We see bits. Going down the tunnel it gets clearer. The place is crazy. The Coliseum’s locker room tunnels are short so we have a longer path of exposure before the ring. The place is going wild. We exit the tunnel and get swallowed by the visual roar. The sudden switch from a low ceiling to an arena dome is like falling upwards for a second. A rush everytime. The floors are already densely littered, but nobody’s run out of things to throw at Macon and me.

           “Out of our way you 8 to 5 losers!” I say.

           The security guard in front of me gets hit in the face with the eraser end of a pencil. We try to speed up our pace to the ring. But traffic in the aisle is thick.  I’m focused on the wide patch of light in the cage. It’s automatic in there. The microphone dangles in the middle. All 16 ropes are white to highlight the blood. It sure is slow going in the aisle. The hatred is strong. Suddenly a big rockfaced lady jumps out in front of me. Just like Jack Ruby. She hauls off and drives a heavy brogan smack into my nuts. My eyes water. The scene blurs again. I double over.  Security shoves the big bitch aside and surrounds me. I feel Macon’s hand on my shoulder. But it gets yanked away and the crowd jumps on my guards’ backs. Too many people are surging. They’re trampling me. My bones are breaking. The noise is changing. I curl up best as I can. My balls are throbbing. Somebody kicks me in the neck. I can still make out the ring. I try to crawl that way, between a guard’s legs. He falls away and I’m unprotected.  More fans jump the aisle, raining down the blows. Security’s a memory. I keep crawling. Somebody spills hot coffee onto me. The anger is being satisfied. More big farmer shoes. Stilletos. I crawl a little further. The aisle collapses completely. I can’t see the ring. All I see is trash and spit. Fury. Tears. “Grease-ball! Grease-ball!” Deafening. My $20,000 robe is filthy tatters. Rotten teeth calling me names with lockjawed conviction. A micro-dump of coca-cola, popcorn, tobacco juice and broken airplane bottles. I feel one of my hands down the aisle. I reach it out along the sticky floor. Cheers for my destruction. The hand begs. The hand pleads. My lungs feel shred by busted ribs. I feel the burning holes when I breathe. They’re cheering. I stretch the hand out further. They’re getting their way. I extend. And then I hear his song. “Black Dog.” And it isn’t a snap and it isn’t a click and it doesn’t even feel all that sudden, but I realize that I’ve been reaching for Buddy. Buh-dee. My best friend. Doesn’t even wait for me to make it into the ring. And I don’t care if the PA system had his song set on a timer. I hear the crowd. I feel their joy. And I can’t wait another minute to get in the ring and tear that bullshit motherfucker apart.

           I throw my arms around two security guards’ necks and they whisk me the rest of the way down the aisle like a wounded soldier and hoist me into the ring. Not the dramatic entry we had planned but I’m here now. And I see him. He’d never enter the ring before me, so he’s hopping around, shaking hands, kissing babies, telling the camera that he’s number one and those folks know what it’s like to see Buddy Flash in action. At first he’s the same spectacle you see on television. But then he touches you. He points to your section and gives you a serious nod, in the midst of all this hoopla. And you just know he’s gonna fight his ass off for you and that all that shit you’ve been taking from your job and from your family and from your lodge, tonight they’re wrong, you’re right and you are gonna win, baby.

           So I get in there and I wait. My body aches but it’s just a few bruises.  Nothing I haven’t fought through before. I like these lights. “It’s been so long, but I’ve found out what people mean by down and out!” And then we’re in there together and Jerry Boone himself comes under the microphone. I’m not sure how I can tell but I just can that Mr. Boone’s tux is a rental. But I’m thinking about me. Clearly, finally. Oh, I’ll go by the script at first, but the next time that microphone worms into this cage, what’s Buddy gonna do? Whine to the fans that I’m not being fake enough? Now who’s trapped by the public?

           It isn’t like I didn’t do my share of carrousing with Buddy. But, unlike Mr. Flash, I was careful. Tammy never caught me and she never caught anything from me. Buddy, sometimes he acted like he wanted to get caught. He’d have Donna on the phone in the middle of it. He even had ‘em over to his house. And then there were those unwanted pets he gave her just before their anniversary. I covered for him as best as I could and nobody could blame me for his bumpy marriage. But fairness was never Buddy’s strong suit. Without ever saying a word, he was always trying to make me feel guilt commensurate with his own, like if he got caught, it wasn’t fair that I didn’t too. Oh, he never ratted me out, but he always seemed to skew the reciprocity. It seemed like every morning that the kids would ask what Uncle Buddy was doing on the couch, he’d wink at me and say, “Well, since your Daddy didn’t sleep at my house, I had to come all the way over here to see you little buzzards.” And Tammy would kiss me and glare at him and, instead of being glad that one of us made it, Buddy’d stew.

           Just before Jerry Boone is finished with his announcement, Buddy invokes good guy privelege and grabs the dangling mike. The crowd noise dims and Buddy takes a deep breath, getting ready for the long haul. “Palermo,” he says. “I don’t know how long it’s gon’ take, but I am gonna kick your fat guido ass!” We aren’t supposed to use profanity but the crowd really loves it.  

           The bell rings and we charge each other, locking arms and shoulders. Buddy rakes his arms through the tangle and stomps to make it seem like a violent move. I back up and then relock. “Aren’t you forgetting something?” Buddy whispers. I was supposed to cower into the corner. I actually had forgotten. “Hey,” Buddy says. “You okay?”

           I can’t wait any longer. I loose my right arm from the lock and hammer it down on Buddy’s back. Buddy falls to one knee with a great pounding noise. When he’s down there, I knee him in the face.

           “Goddamn, boy!” he says.  

I spit on him. Kick him in the ribs. Let him feel a little of the pain he’s caused me. I can’t believe how good it feels. I give him an elbow drop, a fake move.

“What the hell you doin’?”

“Shut up, Buddy!”

And I grab a fistful of his crinkly bleached hair and bang his head into the mat. With my other hand, I punch him in the face. I can’t remember when’s the last time I really hit somebody with a closed fist.  

“Wha?” Buddy says.

I keep working on him, slapping him, slamming him. I’ve lost my sense of the crowd. For all I know, they can tell that something’s wrong. But I don’t care. The only way they’re gonna start being fairer is if Buddy lets them down.

“Quit?” garbles Buddy.

I look in his eyes. They’re messed with blood and he’s trying to blink it away. His face is slicked so red I can see my own reflection, haloed by the ring lights. Buddy coughs and I let go of his head so he can turn and spit.

Suddenly, I get a blow to the back of my head and the crowd explodes. It was the toe from Buddy’s boot. It doesn’t hurt so much but it stuns me enough to knock me off of him. And now he’s up and kicking me some more.

“You wanna play like that, huh, boy?  Whoo-Weeee!” I have never heard a happier crowd. And it’s my pain that makes them cheer so loud. My pain and Buddy’s triumph. But Buddy doesn’t deserve to triumph. I do, no matter what the crowd believes. They don’t know. But they do. This is professional wrestling. They know. But they don’t care, don’t want to be reminded of my humanity. And that’s why Buddy must be destroyed.

But asshole though he may be, he’s still a stud. He drops an elbow on me and, the way he’s recovering his strength, you’d think he was coming back from a fake beating instead of a real one. Shaking, the whole bit.  

There’s Mad Mike and Sir Algernon. They own their tuxes. For tonight they have to wear newer, smaller headphones and wireless microphones instead of their usual bulky ones.

“Here comes Buddy!” Mad Mike announces.

I’m on the mat, looking up at Buddy, at the lights and the faint shadows of the cage they make on the mat, getting darker where they overlap. And now the chair comes sailing over the top of the cage and splinters on impact with the mat. Buddy isn’t sure whether to fetch his weapon or attend to me.

“Don’t you move, Frank!” he says and gives me another kick. He marches over to where the chair legs are. I get up and follow him, jumping on his back and hugging my arms around his neck. He straightens up and starts spinning around. Faster and faster. The red the white the brown the black. The shine and the shadow, they all swirl and I don’t hear a thing. Wrestling’s different from this. We’re slowing. Buddy’s choking. I hop off his back and wheel him around by his shoulder. His head is hanging. I hit him in the stomach. By reflex, I stomp my boot on impact. I’m not used to fighting. I run at him with my arm outstretched, giving him a clothesline. Buddy drops the chair leg.  

“It’s a bloody bloodbath in there!” says Sir Algernon.

Buddy writhes on the mat. I give my head a few good shakes but I still feel dizzy. Now I can give the crowd a good look. They’re confused. They aren’t exactly out of hate, but they don’t seem sure that expressing it would effect what they see here. This thing has degenerated from ballet to brawl and, seasoned as Buddy and I are, neither of us have been in a real fight in 20 years. Not knowing what else to do, I raise my hands and roar. Buddy looks up at me. He doesn’t understand what I’m doing. He’s coherent, but it doesn’t make any sense to him, as if this time is a real betrayal, as if he hasn’t betrayed me, the man who loved him best. He’s disgusted with me. And it works. I feel kinda bad. But I fight through that and fall to the mat and begin punching him some more.  

Buddy grabs me by the hair and pulls me down. He rolls over and gets on top of me, pinning my arms with his knees. We’re still close to the shards of the busted chair. Buddy grabs a piece and knocks the dull end of it across my head.  

“Come on, now Pilgrim,” he says. “Let’s see what you got stuffed with today!”

It comes as a surprise to me that the crowd is not excited about this turn in Buddy’s favor. Buddy continues to batter me with the chair piece. But it’s clear that his real moves don’t capture the crowd’s imagination the way his fake ones do.

“Buddy,” I say. “We’re losin’ ‘em. We gotta go back to the script, man.”

Buddy tosses the wood aside and smacks my face. “What did you say, boy? You wanna quit now? I hear the crowd just fine!”

Buddy rises to his feet. “YOU WANNA QUIT?!”

And now the crowd gets reinvolved. But Buddy’s still intact. And so am I.  I roll over onto my belly and my best friend drags me by the wrist over to the announcers’ table. He reaches his free arm out, and they hand him the microphone.