Lancaster's Inferno - Transition to Lower Hell
(Circle VI - the Heretics)

Scene I: Lincoln, NE - Wednesday, April 16, 2003

I had lost track of how many weeks my virtual exile from my wife and son had lasted thus far.  She refused to talk to me in person, but she did leave a message on my mobile, finally, after repeated calls.  Stephanie informed me that she had indeed heard my plea to her after Wildfire, but found my decision most unacceptable.  She declared that I still had a choice to change my mind at any time, but that her time with me as a manager and valet had ended.  She insinuated interest of moving back to England whilst I remained in America touring with the CSWA and the CAL, now that I bore the responsibility as World Tag Team champion.

This came as no surprise to me.  I had finished with her in that regard.  I had abandoned all hopes of ever hearing the name Stephanie Erin Lancaster of being uttered next to mine on my journeys to and from the ringside area.

I began to grow wearier by the day, and found myself in the grip of a nomadic phase.  No home, no love, no passion.

Wandering, lust, and loathing seized me.

I did my best to hide it whenever I was faced by autograph seekers, and when put on the stage of the public eye.  I was all smiles then, a true champion, trying my utmost to win over the hearts of the people with determination, strength and the odd mix of charm...not that I declare myself to be the ultimate purveyor of such traits, but I know that Seamus and I do pack a powerful punch together.  

On my own, I am left to brood with apathy.

I thought my trip to England would help ease these feelings, but that proved wrong.  I only found the gazing eyes of my father in his portrait in the Grand Library.  Even dead he had a way to display his contempt for my actions, for my traits.

Perhaps something more drastic was needed.

The issue was no longer between myself and my wife, or merely myself - I had to address God Himself.  And I would not rest until I had found peace and truth from the Almighty.  

Scene II: Lincoln, NE - Thursday, April 17, 2003

For these past few weeks I found myself staying in the Embassy Suites Hotel in downtown Lincoln, while I was not on tour
with the company.  It pained me to no end knowing that my wife and my baby boy were just a short drive away, but it might
as well have been a thousand miles away.

Stephanie had been at least good enough to send me a bag full of my belongings to my hotel room.  I sat dressed in a beige sports jacket, a white collared Oxford shirt, and beige Dockers khakis.  I had ordered an airport limosine to pick me up, and made my travel arrangements.

My destination was the holy of holies - Jerusalem.  With Good Friday fast approaching, I knew no better place to confront the Lord and hope that I could make sense of my life once again.

I had always been particularly religious, even as an obstreperous youth.  My Father and Mother took me to the Church of England's services every Sunday, and I was active in my chapel at both Oxford and Cambridge.

To say my faith had been shaken lately was an understatement.  I no longer prayed as often as I once did.  I was lost.

And thus I continue.

Slipping. Falling.

You are coming to Hell.  And I shall not stop until you are here.

...silence........................................

After a few moments, I convinced myself to call Seamus at his home just to let him know the ongoing developments in my life.  I did not want to drone on and on, so I made a point to make the conversation brief and to the point.

Seamus was stunned after informing him of my travel plans, but I assured him that he need not be worried.  Minutes after I hung up, I received a call telling me that my car had arrived for the airport and my Lear Jet that awaited.  It would take me to JFK in New York, then Charles de Gaulle, and finally, the Holy City.

I was surely a bit unnerved about my impulsive decision to fly to one of the world's trouble spots.  I pressed on.

The flight to New York did not take very long, two hours at best, given the skill of my captain.  He wished me the best, as I headed for the Concorde lounge in JFK International.

I recently heard that the Concorde service was going to be phased out.  A bloody shame, I did enjoy the dozen or so trips I had the privilege of taking.  There was no better way to fly in my opinion, but I could understand why they were phasing it out - there could not have been more than twenty other people in the lounge, awaiting departure.

After a period we were shown on board and departed.  I loved the feeling of being whisked away faster than the speed of sound.  The ETA was just shy of four hours, sure as hell beating the six or so that it would take normally to get to Paris.  And, like so many other times as of late, I was left to think and ponder the situation I had placed at my feet.

I settled back in my seat and closed my eyes.  Images and voices swirled.  Bitter ones with happy ones, hatred with love, malice with mercy, faithfulness with adultery.

Was I right to be feeling so utterly lost and miserable.  Maybe. Maybe not.  My career certainly gave me no grief, quite the contrary really.  I had never drinked so freely from the cup of success and popularity as I had these past few months.  I retired another title into history successfully, the MSWA Smokey Mountain Heritage Championship, and engraved my name as the first holder of the CSWA Great Plains Championship.  Steph was so proud of me on both occassions, but I doubt that she would have any similar feelings for me and Seamus' accomplishment.  

But that win over SeX did more than merely bolster my feelings for a few moments, it showed that I could be victorious without her by my side.  The fact that I reached higher and further than I ever had - in these three years or so - withoutt her, spoke volumes.  It made me grow more defiant, at least now.

I still long for her.  And my son.  I wonder if he's spoken yet, or...

I order another glass of the Dom Perignon as I shift myself in my seat, and turn on whatever film they happened to be playing. Ah, a fine choice, the film that won more Academy Awards than any other in history, Ben-Hur.

The scene shows the poor bastard chained to his oar in a Roman galley, while the Consul and commander of the ship, Arius, tests the young Jew.

Having been tormented for three years in other galley ships, Ben Hur is tormented yet again by Arius, a test of his spirit, and drive, passions which normally are dead within a galley slave.  Hur jumps and glares at the Roman, who knows no higher authority save for the Emperor himself.

I watch intently.

Arius' words resound in my mind as if he was speaking to me.

"You have the spirit to fight back, but the good sense to control it...Your eyes are full of hate, forty-one.  That's good. Hate keeps a man alive.  It gives him strength..."

Hatred...

Scene IV: Jerusalem, Israel  - Friday, April 18, 2003

I had never had any desire to travel to the Holy Land, but now that I am here, I feel as if I have been missing out for all thirty-two years of my life.

I am completely jet lagged, and exhausted, but still I press on.  I don a scarf I purchased from a street vendor in the Old City bazaar, to conceal my identity, and as a mark of respect for the land on which I trod.

The streets are bustling, but needless to say, the conflict has kept many tourists away, and for this I am glad.  I chose the right time to come.  I stand along the border of the Jewish and Muslim quarters of Jerusalem, on the Via Dolorosa, keenly watching holy men walk the stations of the Cross, the route Jesus Christ supposedly took on His way to Crucifixion.

I stand watching these men of God, shrowded in robes, with their leader baring the Cross, as they walk solemnly along their route.  

I lower my head for a moment, and close my eyes, absorbing my surroundings, the smells, the sounds.  Truly this was the Living City, and the centre of the world.  Here thousands of years of religion, of war, of history lived and breathed.  The ghosts of countless generations, Christian, Jewish, Muslim, Roman, haunt the streets, corners, and alleys.  Every brick lives and bares the mark of these centuries.  If I cannot find the truth here, I will be able to find it no where.

I was in the City of God, and God lived here.  The Church of the Holy Sepulchre, which was not far from where I stood, was my final destination.

The Church which marked Jesus' final resting place, for those three days, existed.  

I opened my eyes and followed the final monk in the procession, a giant of a man, towering over everybody, at about 6'7" or so. I slowed my pace not wanting to press upon the heels of this great man.

In what seemed like an eternal voyage, we reached the Church.  The robed men said a prayer, for which I simply listened.  They then gathered into the Church for the final procession and five stations of the Cross.  The Church was not particularly large, but I managed to make my way in too.

My eyes had never witnessed such magnificence, such grandeur, even in Wessex, Buckingham Palace - anywhere.  This was the Holy of Holies.  Rays of sunlight flooded the interior through stained glass.  Saints and images of holy men looked down at me, as if to gaze into my soul.  I felt weak, overcome by the sensations and sheer knowledge of where I stood, overwhelming me. Latin chant and incense wreaked havoc with the demons in my soul.

I mustered my concentration and gazed upon the exact spot where His tomb apparently was covered, under centuries of building and reconstruction.  The robed men knelt forward to touch and kiss it.  I had no such urge to do so though - my eyes beheld enough.

I felt the need to talk to one of these holy men, who made their way out slowly.  The tall man was last to leave as he was last to enter, and thus I proceeded after him.  I stepped outside into the bright Jerusalem sun but could not find him.  After looking, I found him standing in the shadows of a confined space not far from the Church.  

My footsteps echoed on the ground as I peered my head around to see him.  Only some light managed to penetrate the area, making him difficult to make out.  As I walked closer, I saw that he was not particularly old looking, perhaps not even thirty.  I approached him slowly, so not to surprise him.  He gazed at me with piercing blue eyes, a few locks of blond hair escaping from his hood.  A full brown beard encased his face, yet his eyes stood out.  They spoke to me.

My God.

My eyes grew wide with shock.  My heart raced as I shook my head in disbelief.  His only reaction was to stare.  I trembled.  I walked so that we stood only a foot or so apart.  I looked up at his face.  My voice escaped me.  I could only make out a word weakly...

"Youu..."

I reached up as slowly as I spoke, my hands shaking, and pulled off his hood.

Louis Bourbon..."The Absolutist" Leviathan...stood in front of me.

The only man on Earth I dared to think about murdering for what he did to me, my marriage, my life.  The man who I turned from nothing into an internationally recognized talent.  Now he was nothing, yet he bore the robe and protection of God as one of His holy men.

A small smile began to form on his lips.  My eyes became enraged.  I wished to reach up and slap him firmly across the face.  I resisted.

"You son of a bitch..."

He suddenly lunged forward with his hand and choked me against the wall.  My head hit the brick of the wall hard, stunning me, but I heard every word he muttered in low, deep French.

"Je vois le regard dans vos yeux.   Je l'ai vu beaucoup de fois.   Savez que Dieu vous a abandonné. Partez de cet endroit et ne retournez jamais. Il le commande.  Les bras ouverts de l'enfer vous attendent. Maintenant. Begone."

"I see the look in your eyes. I have seen it many times. Know that God gave up you. Leave this place and never return. He orders it.  The open arms of the Hell await you.  Now.  Begone."

He released his grip upon my neck and left me flat against the wall.  He raised his hood up and walked away to rejoin his group. I was left...

There was only one final thing to do.  Hate now kept me alive.

I returned to the small Church and stood sombrely.  I reached around my neck and pulled off the gold Cross which hung around my neck.  I looked at it quietly, and placed it on one of the altars.  I stared momentarily at it, turned my back, and left.

I shall never return again.