The Two Liberties - in France

It would seem the Darker Power was trying to reassert itself, powerfully.

I somehow doubt they approved of my attempt at helping humanity.  I was to hurt humanity.  

I shall be on my guard now.  And humanity...whether in the CAL, the CSWA, or elsewhere.

Must be on theirs.

For at the end of that evening come September 14 I shall be the bearer of the standard of pain, of chaos, of wrath, of destruction.

Unto the ends of the earth will I carry this flag, against all comers in the tag team contest, and of course in that goddamned gauntlet match.  Even against my own brethren will I bear witness to this flag.

I shall shed any and all blood.  All's will taste equally sweet.

I must hurt humanity.

And I shall.


Scene I: Sioux Falls, ND - the Sioux Falls Arena, after Wildfire! - Wednesday, September 3, 2003

I departed the Sioux Falls Arena to go off on my own, in isolation, save for a few training dates lined up between Seamus and myself to prepare for the Tag Team Championship contest, and of course, for LMS.

As I entered the car that I had called for, I realized that it was time to purge my mind of all positive thoughts, to ensure that any semblance of mercy, comraderie, good will escapes my conscious/subconscious mind.

And it was time once again to leave the barren United States and return to Europe.

I would to there and on the way, mould and hammer together my war plan for that evening.  And for my journey I had two places in mind, each where men used two different tactics and ideologies to wage war and garner victory.  

There I would seek out the two liberties.

The use of the tactics of the two liberties shall be my ultimate strategy.  And I will need to heed the lessons of history once more for the battle that I would face on September 14.

For it would be war.  

And unlike all other wars in history.  This war would have a victor.  And it would not be Longshanks, it would not be Moonstar, it would not Kushner...no...nor Wright nor Finnegan.  

It would be -

I.

I must be brash.  I must show the bravado which helped take me to the near top of the MSWA and CSWA on two previous occassions, and which took me to the top of the tag team wrestling world, with Seamus.  I must yuke the arrogance of Goodlife, the coldness which led me to defeat Kushner all those years ago.

War will not pleasant, but the results will be golden.

I must tap into the legacy of the men whose name we bear with pride when we - TSM, Wright, Finnegan - go out into each and every arena to wage war against the hegemony of the status quo, for the sake of freedom.

Les Jacobins.

I thought long and hard about what and who these men who once were the scourge of Paris.  Their methods and rules of engagement presented one interpretation of how war must be won, and how liberty can flourish.

"C'est affreux mais nécessaire."  

"It is dreadful but necessary."

This would be my ralling cry.  

It too, was the firm belief of les Jacobins that the executions committed during the "Reign of Terror" were necessary to ensure the reign of freedom and that all threats to national security would be eliminated.

And so this September.  What I must do in that ring will be horrible, brutal things, and they shall be done to everyone and anyone who should have the unfortunate luck to face the Duke of Wessex.

But -

Necessary.

To France then.


Scene II: Paris, France - St. Jacques' Square - Thursday, September 4, 2003

I arrived after immediately leaving the United States, and landing at Charles Du Gaulle International.  Exhausted, my systems running merely on caffeine - and exhilirated.  To be at the heaart of it all, to be at the centre of the Jacobins' power base some twenty decades ago, where, to borrow a phrase I used at a recent Wildfire, the blood flowed more freely than wine.

The sights and sounds, the smells, bore witness to a life which has since vanished. The cobblestone streets remained unchanged since the late 18th century, when men like Louis XVI, Danton, and of course, the vaulted leader of les Jacobins, Maximillien du Robespierre walked the streets.

St. Jacques' Square was unique in its own way, not just because of its advanced age, or history.

For it was the centre of the Jacobin executions in Paris.

Where Mademoislle Guillotine would greet each visitor with a bloody kiss.

The wind seemed to carry the cries of anguish and agony from an age long past.

I smirked as I thought of the deeds that were once carried out in this place.  The innocent were slaughtered, yet for the good of the nation - the security of the nation, so that virtue, freedom, and liberty could thrive in their place.  

But at what price.

This liberty was blind to innocence or guilt - liberty was the paramount, penultimate to nothing.  How many countless thousands met their final end here.  

I cast my eyes down to the cobblestones.  Surely some traces of their blood must remain.  

I grinned again.  This was the liberty I must take with me back to the United States and into the ring of the immortals.

And I must be like the guillotine.  Swift, merciless, decisive.

Emotionless.

Murderous.

The bright Paris sun cast its glare down upon my cold thoughts as I wandered about the square, examining every nook and peering my head into the surrounding shops.  My thirst for blood could not be quenched at that moment.  Nor was my thirst for coffee, and the coffees of Paris were of course amongst the best in the world.

I stumbled upon a little café and was greeted by a French gentlemen, about 5'8", perhaps in his late fifties or so.  He had a content and welcoming smile, and he knew I was not Parisian the instant he spoke to me.

"Ah bonjour monsieur, bienvenue a Paris."

"Thank you sir...ah excuser moi...merci monsieur.  Une café, sil vous plais."

"Café, oui monsieur."

He went about preparing a fresh cup for me as I reached into my wallet to pull out a twenty euro note.  He spoke up as he poured the coffee into the cup.

"Vous etes Anglais, non?"

"Oui, c'est vrai."

"Ah, oui oui...you may speak English to me, it is no trouble."

I was relieved that his abililty to speak the English tongue was as fluent as his French.  My mind could not handle a foreign dialect with great ease.

"That's a relief.  Thank you monsieur."  I handed him my twenty euro note as he punched in the total on the register.

"So what brings you to Paris monsieur."

I shrugged my shoulders.  "Not sure if it'd be of interest to you."

He handed me my coffee and change.  "Oh you'd be surprised what interests me."

Okay, I'll bite.

"I'm studying liberty you might say.  And the history of the Jacobins."

His eyes brightened.  "Ahh, is that so...les Jacobins.  They were very cruel men."

I nodded my head.  "I know.  I think they have much to teach me."

"Do they indeed, monsieur.  The lessons of vice and destruction, perhaps?"

"Yes, actually...yes."

"You are a...unique one, monsieur."

I turned my back and motioned to walk out.  "So I've been told.  Merci beaucoup, monsieur."

"You know a few members of ma famille were executed by them in the Revolution, during the terror."

Now he had my attention.  

I turned around and gazed at him.

"Really."

He nodded yes, quietly.

"My apologies monsieur."

"None needed.  Let me show you something.  Come with me."

He beckoned to me to come behind the counter.  I narrowed my eyes and followed, unsure of what to expect.  He took an old lantern and lit it, and lifted a door leading down into a cellar.  I stayed close behind as we descended an old staircase into
the depths, underneath Paris.  

He held the lantern up to reveal a small storage shed, the floor, like St. Jacques' Square above, in cobblestone.  The air was cold and damp.  

A few steps more and he leaned down.  I knelt beside him.

I could make out a large, metallic object.

"This monsieur...is the blade of a guillotine."

I sat stunned.  I would have salivated at the thought earlier, but here it was.  

"Where...where did you get this?"  I managed.

"It has been in ma famille for these past two hundred years monsieur," he declared in his Parisian accent.  "For you see, I am a decendent of a generation of blacksmiths, of whose specialty was to develop and manufacture this cursed machines for the Court of France, and for les Jacobins during the Terror."

My eyes gazed in wonder still, like a child receiving a favourite, desired toy for Christmas.

"But still how did you end up with this?  Was it ever used to execute anyone?"

I cannot imagine how I must have sounded to him, but he answered regardless.

"Oui monsieur...it was used on a member of my family who was accused on orders by the Committee of Public Safety.  He was accused of being a monarchist traitor in favour of restoring the Bourbon monarchy.  The blade however did not operate properly and it was returned to us."

The thought.

A man.

Guilty of treason.

Executed on behalf of liberty.

Tate.

Moonstar.

Taranis.

Blackwell.

Napalm.

Constantine.

Longshanks.

I reached out to touch the blade and as I did so, I cut my hand.  

I was mezmorized watching the crimson emerge forth from my skin, and as it dripped from off the blade, slowly, methodically, onto the cobblestones.

My lesson in liberty, here, was complete.


Now I am to Belgium, in search of a Lancastrian relative of mine, who will in his own unique way, teach me the arts of war, and the second of the two liberties, and the knowledge that the price for liberty, for victory, is all too high.  But necessary.

"C'est affreux mais nécessaire."  



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Jacobins

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