I: New York City, New York: a motel, one week prior to Line One

One Half

Loneliness...

It had been a long time since Seamus Finnegan truly understood the meaning of the word. Four years, to be exact - four years since the day he'd been reunited by 
chance with the love of his former life before he left his home and took on a life of pain and torture lasting 18 years. Not that the 21 years that preceded this departure 
were any less torturous; his father Rory, who'd often come home from the pub at all hours of the night, with the stench of liquor and sex, the latter of which was not 
with Seamus' mother but rather, with whichever cheap tart happened to catch his eyes through the beer goggles that night. He'd come home at all hours after engaging 
in such activities, and would then proceed to physically and verbally abuse his wife, and any of the children who dared get out of bed to find out what the hell was 
going on.

The last four years had been four of the best years of his entire life - and while these last four years were not free from the pain and agony of ambulance rides to the 
emergency room, at least he had a wife and a son to come home to.

Home...what was home?

Metallica once sang that "Where I lay my head is home", but here in this cheap motel room, it felt like the furthest thing from a home. Far from heaven, but not quite 
hell. Somewhere in between - purgatory, perhaps?

The emptiness he felt in his heart was only matched by the emptiness of the whiskey bottle he held in his hand. Yet for all the alcohol he'd consumed that sleepless night 
before, he felt no ill effects. There was no dulling or numbing of the pain that burned inside his soul...

In times like these, there was only one way Seamus knew how to heal the pain - or at least, put a "spiritual band aid" on to cover the wound...

He knew what he had to do, where he had to go.

It's time.

He got up off of his motel bed and headed out for a near by Church.

---

II: New York City, New York: Trump International Hotel and Tower

The Other

Loneliness...

Marissah is off in Wessex attending to matters at the Estate, including a visit with Hëlius Andros to get that commissioned painting of the two of us dressed in our 
wedding garb.  I hate hanging around this bloody condominium by myself, although time alone is nice.

What can I do?

I look around.  This condo is palatial.  Trump doesn't fool around when he builds.  I've grown accustomed to it yet it's still striking.  The floor to ceiling window 
overlooking the city and park, the gold taps, marble bathroom floor.  Luxury has been a part of my entire life, save for that year I lived on the streets of London.

I look at myself now and look at myself then, and I can't really believe I did that, yet I did.  I slept in garbage dumpsters, ate scraps, consumed alcohol more than I
ever did water.  On some cold nights I wondered why nobody had found me yet, only to find out that my Father did not allow a search for me.  When I did come 
home I was greeted with contempt and lambasted for my youthful stupidity.

I don't know whether to thank him or damn him.  Recently it's been the latter, but his ruthlessness is something I am glad he endowed me with.  I'll need it.

I pull away from the window and sit myself down in a chair near to the TV.  I have no clue what to do with myself.

Perhaps I should blast some Rammstein.  I sometimes get out "Du Hast," the music myself and the other Jacobins used as our entrance music.  Those were good days.

I've had enough of thinking about Finnegan and my ex-wife over these past few months.  I do not want to end up sitting here wasting this whole afternoon away 
thinking about those and this lovely barbed-wire rope match.  Should be painful.  But I'm confident.  I have no reason not to be.

I think it's time to buy some scotch and spend a few thousand dollars.  That's always fun.

I get changed.  Down to my Jaguar and off I go to window-shop along Fifth Avenue.  Maybe I'll buy Finnegan a, "Sorry I had to End Your Career and Cripple Your
Neck You Miserable Piece of Shit" card.  'Tis the season, after all.

---

Intersection

I am labouring at this traffic light.  I loath pauses.  I crave speed. 

And I adore coincidences like this.  I turn my head and notice a Church at the corner.  Enter Seamus, who opens the doors slowly, and steps inside.

'Tis good to be in the house of the Lord.  I've nay been in one in such a long time.  'Tis empty and that suits me all the more, for I need one on one time with the One who sustains me and always has through such trying times, whether it was with Eamon, me Da' Rory, or Rebecca, and now this, the biggest match of me career.  I'm nay Catholic but I've entered a Catholic Church.  'Tis fine with me.  'Tis quiet, alone, and solitary.  I need to pray for guidance now -  for what, I'm nay entirely sure...perhaps seeking absolution for what I've done to myself these last 18 years of my life - after all, it was the Lord himself who said our body was like a temple - and my temple had been laying in ruins for years...Absolution - and forgiveness, for what I have to do - what I KNOW I have to do.

I haven't entered a Church for years.  And I am disturbed to do so now.  But He who Sustains Me, my Dark Lord, he'll understand why I must do so.  Anything, anything, to strike at my foe.  The light turns green finally and I turn down the street I did not intend to go on, and find a place, and park.  The sky is grey, the air is grippingly cold.  It swallows me whole and goes down inside me and through my bones, and chills my blood.  My scarf blows wildly about for a moment as I cross the street and approach the stairs to the Church.

And so I pray: "Father, ye know I'm nay perfect, far from it - I know it and ye know it - and I know the path I walk right now is a path that leads straight through hell, but ye and I both know why I must walk this path - what purpose my journey serves, and what the ultimate end game of my mission will be - so Father, forgive me for the bloodshed I am about to unleash...Forgive me for the bones I must break...forgive me...for I know not what I do."

I take a deep breathe and brace myself.  I open the door.  The imagery immediately seizes me.  The Crucifix.  The Altar.  The imagery of the Saints and Angels on the stained glass.  It sickens me.  I turn my head and swallow heavily.  I draw on the one who sustains my soul and brace myself.  Seamus sits in the pew, head hung low.  He hasn't seen or heard me yet.  I allow him to sit there.  I want him to continue this charade in his mind.  I fold my arms and just watch.  I can only imagine what he is thinking, or praying.  It won't do him any damn good.  I've learned that.

"Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death - I will fear nay evil - and I will fear nay avarice - for I know that yer with me - forgive me for what I must do...AMEN."

I hang my head low, wipe my forehead, my eyes...everything is blurry, but yet so clear...I know what I must do...how I must do it...why I must do it.  The time is coming - it is already at hand...

It's time to end this.  I take a few steps forward.  My steps echo throughout.  He doesn't lift his head until I get closer to his pew.  I can smell the scotch on his body from here.  The miserable bastard.  He in his fleece jacket, t-shirt, and jeans.  I in my Christian Dior overcoat and Hugo Boss custom made tailored suit.

"Who are you talking to Seamus."

That voice...I know that voice...I know it all too well.  "Someone ye used to know - but seem to have forgotten about."

I laugh.  "He forgot me.  He does not even exist in my life anymore.  He is fiction.  You ground yourself on the imaginings of a fool.  I thought you wiser once Finnegan.  But it is now that I am wiser."

"Wiser??? Ye call this wiser??? Ye've allowed some other force to poison yer mind - I hardly call that wiser. Madness, more like it...insanity...but then, perhaps as the old saying goes, lad - it takes one to know one."

I nod.  "At least you are cognizant of that.  There is no madness between us now Finnegan.  Just harmony.  Beauty.  What is coming so soon will be the most beautiful thing I have ever beheld.  And I want to thank you for helping to make it happen.  I would shake your hand actually," I smile at him.  "But you reek of cheap scotch.  You poor man."  I shake my head out of loathing and disgust.

"Aye, yer not wrong there, lad - it WILL be a thing of beauty, to see yer crimson blood splashed across the ring...to hear the sound of yer bones snapping in half...the sound of yer screams will be sweeter than the sweetest angel choirs in heaven - oh aye, tis a beautiful thought...but all that's fine and good, but all it does is scratches the surface..."

Seamus stares a cold, intense stare straight through the eyes of his former friend.  "I fear nothing, lad...I certainly don't fear ye...or yer master."

Lancaster returns the stare with equal intensity.  "You know nothing of my master nor what he is capable of, or what I am capable of through him.  Be glad I do not give you a sampling here and now, for it is only the police who are restraining me, not any words of yours.  And as much as you do not know my master, you do not know me.  Fear it.  Fear what you do not know.  Fear what you will become once I taste your blood and leave you crippled.  I will let my actions speak louder than my words though, much like your whore of an ex-wife, the mother of your child, who I've disposed of now.  Don't worry Finnegan.  She won't be there.  This will be you and I.  Life versus limb."

"Yer wrong there, lad - I know yer master...I know him all too well as once he too consumed my soul - Balor of the Eye of Evil, he knighted me - yet somehow I broke free of his demonic clutches - it's not too late for ye, lad...not now, it isn't...but once we step inside that ring, surrounded by barbed wire - yer life and limbs are in MY hands...yer destiny lies with me, lad, written in blood."

I walk right up to Seamus who stands up and confronts me.

"In blood?  In blood?"

I withdraw my Swiss army knife which accompanies me and pull out the blade.  I hold my hand up and puncture my palm ever so slightly.  I hold it right up to Finnegan's face as the water of life and death trickles down slowly.

"I'll see you in a week.  And I can't wait."

"Aye...ye and me...both."








Only the dead have seen the end of war.  --Plato