Barbwire lover
Scene One | Off-Camera | 28th April 2023
Luna was not quite sure she fully understood, nor agreed with Alex’s approach to training at the best of times. At the worst of times, she definitely didn’t agree.
“Barbwire sucks, trust me on this. It cuts, it sticks, it hurts and you’ll be tasting blood and metal for weeks following. But the first time is always worse.”
“Okay, I get that, Lexi baby. I really do. I just don’t fully think wrapping my hands in barbwire and hitting things is really a good way to go about it.
The look of defeat on his face would almost be endearing if he wasn’t currently holding a spool of sharp barbs. Alex looked down at the barbwire he was holding in his hand, and nodded slowly. A slow point of realisation finally creeping across his face and mind, hours after the conversation first started. It would have been preferable if he had realised this before they’d bought the damn barbwire, but here they were.
“Maybe you’re right. Maybe… I’m just trying to help here, Lu.”
She smiled, gingerly taking the spool from him and placing it down on a table in their quaint little hotel room. She slipped her arms around his waist and pulled into him, laying her head against his chest. It was always a fine line to walk with him. The stoic man, who was always on the precipice of falling into the void from the strangest things.
“You know what would really help? Letting me, get ready for things, the way that I want to get ready for them. Okay, sugar?”
“Yes… Yes, you are right. I’m sorry, Lu. I’m sorry.”
She had not walked the line correctly. Alex had pulled away from her and turned towards the bathroom.
“I’m just going to take a shower.”
She smiled, and nodded as he closed the door behind him. Sighing heavily she turned and walked out onto the balcony. Staring out over the city. Most days were angelic. Most days were full of love, light and happiness. Not every day was perfect. Being on the road together, being in the same rooms all the time. Practically living together, after only really finding each other again. The rough days, were significantly rougher. And these sorts of days, she couldn’t blame anyone else. This was on them. Broken, and traumatised children.
She pulled her phone from her pocket, unlocking it. James had been keeping her updated, constantly, on how the bar was going, his opinion on Calaway, his opinion on Washington. Suggestions upon suggestions on how to deal with all the different types of matches that they may end up in. Raven was focused on the idea that it will definitely be a barbwire match. It seemed likely, but his hyper focus seemed to somewhat be his undoing as of late. James was far more attached to the street fight or parking lot brawl, but, that was more so because those were far more his wheelhouse. His and… Leon’s.
She hated that even now, all these years later, his ghost still followed them all. Almost killed her in an accident. Toxicity, both of them horrifically bad for each other. The arguments, the fighting, the ‘abuse’. Yet, they all used to be so close. And it made it hard sometimes to just simply forget about the good. With how few moments of good there was in the end, it should be easier than it is. However, she was just as melancholic as Alex was when it came to traumas of the heart, and traumas of the past.
How long did she stand there, staring into space? Staring off into the world, reminiscing the past? No matter how much she tried to think otherwise, they were perfect for each other. Her and Alex. Both teetering on emotional razor-blades. Both responding like despondent puppies when things weren’t quite in their own lens of correct. And then his arms around her waist, his chin on her shoulder. His chest, freshly washed pressed against her back. The smell of after shave, the lightness of fresh skin. His hands linked together over her stomach, holding her close.
“You’re going to kill it, Lu. I know it. I have immense faith in you, you know? I’m just a little bit… off kilter at times. I care, deeply, for you. And I don’t like seeing you hurt, sad. In pain or despondent. I just, want to help. And I don’t think fully, you know?”
“Where has that icy heart gone, Lexi? It’s nauseating the kindness and love.”
Sarcastic words, speaking of her acceptance. The warmth in her face, the warmth in his arms. She rested her head to the side, leaning her face against his. Her fingers placed over his, leaning back into him. It didn’t matter to her, what the match was. It didn’t even matter if she got hurt. All that mattered, was that he was proud of her. That’s all she wanted. Him happy, and proud. And if he was, all the problems of the past would simply dissolve away.
The past was never that easy to escape.
The Canonical Five
It was a strange sight. An empty parking lot, streetlights illuminating the darkened world. There was nary a soul in sight, empty spots all around. Yet there in the middle of one, almost in a spotlight, Luna Vanity. A heavy leather jacket, glittering in the illuminating light. Heavy studs covering the shoulders. On her face, a wide smile. Heavy thick purple eye shadow, her lipstick smeared across her face. Spots of red, looking the victim of a fight. A made-up victim.
“Morbidity is a fascination of mine. Typical, in the modern day really. Every alternative girl, every edgy punk, or every pick me girl with a fascination for the ‘different’ guy. Obsession with death, death and murder. A connection to the life after death, and we pretend that it is okay. That it is acceptable in the vein of curiosity. I’m not different, and I will never pretend to be. I love, who I am. I love, what I am. I love that even despite my vanity, I can see the beauty in the morbidity. And so, when we were announced for London as our finale. Well, there is three it could’ve have been. Morbid, in a tour severely lacking morbidity. The Ripper, the stripper and the Torso murderer. London’s three greatest killers that never got caught. That never even trickled into the depths of possibility. Date though the methods were, the truth is. We will never know the truth. Ripperologists, as they like to be referred to, they spend every waking moment of their dull lives, seeking answers to something that will never truly reveal itself. Yet in that, they find their own purpose. Their own success. Their own level of vanity. Superiority felt because they get to feel somewhat like they are contributing to the world. And whilst I appreciate that, it is just. A little bit sad, isn’t it? You see, lovers, there is always a level to the morbidity. Arguments about the canonical five of Jack the Ripper, compared to the potential canonical four of the Thames Torso Murderer, whether it was the same person, or not. Arguments about the semantics. Semantics, sweet angel. That is what the argument starts as, isn’t it? Semantics.”
“So, let us talk, semantics sweet Alexandra. You tag with someone, you fail to work on yourself, you fail to do what your task is, and someone else takes the fall for it. Semantics is refusing to take acknowledgement of your failures, and in turn blaming the person who did their best to carry you. Semantics, sweet darling. And I do not care for the semantics. No, all I care about, is people acknowledging their short-comings. The path to self love exists in their acknowledgement, Alexandra.”
She raised a hand above her head, and clicked her fingers, the light going off. ‘Insufferable, bitch, cow, maggot, filthy, whore, slut. The words bounce through the unending night, filling the air. ‘SILENCE.’
Another click, the light returning to the world. Luna sitting cross-legged on a stretcher, a long blade in hand, pressing the tip of it lightly against the tip of one of her fingers. Sitting upon her head, a crown of barbwire. On the ground, five body bags. Each appears to be filled with something.
“So, let us start on acceptance, Alexandra. There is but one fucking queen here in Sin City. No lousy tramp, flouncing her way in with delusions of grandeur will take that away from me. Short stumbles, yes. For in youth, for in inexperience, growing. Learning, development. All things a young queen needs. An experienced King consort, to guide the Broken Queen. No, Alexandra. There is but one Queen of this mucky, filthy, degenerate city. The Queen of The Conspiracy, Luna Vanity. The matron of fate, and the mother of destiny. A short-coming in my first defense, but nothing that can’t be rectified. The world saw a truth, and that was that it was simply Jessie Salco’s inventiveness that won. Jessie couldn’t keep me down, no woman can. Salco had to tie me up. Keep me off my feet in a way that denied me the right to put her down. But it’s okay, Calaway. I know you were heartbroken that I failed to keep my end of the deal. But it’s okay, Calaway. Because now, there is nothing to interfere with that which lays before us.”
“You, Calaway, will learn. You will learn the path we offer. The path we can give you. The path of The Conspiracy. Acceptance is what is required for progress, and in your acceptance, freedom from the traumas of the past. Freedom from the distortions of your reality. The broken can be made whole again, and in that, love. Love for yourself, love for all, angel. I want you to know this. I want you to see what I’m telling you. I just want you to accept, your own fault, in the collapse of the kingdom. The collapse, that Alex now has a chance to fix. A kingdom that he will rebuild on his back, blood and bone. For he does not resent you. Neither of us resent you, darling false queen. No, what we want is the best for you. But what is best, requires absolution. Requires redemption. Requires cleansing in blood. A grudge match, so they say. Yet I don’t hold a grudge against you, sweet false one. No, angel. I adore you. Truly, I do. A shining example of the success one can achieve. A shining example of the power that one can hold if they just have that belief in oneself. Yet where you are, and where you could be. Two ends of the world, and in that. A true understanding. So, Calaway. Like The Ripper, let me change you forever. Let me put your soul to peace, and give you a life free of the past. “
She flicks the blade up and out rapidly, pointing it out towards the light. A streak of blood shooting out following. A quick flow of blood ebbs from the fresh wound, trickling down her hand. Down onto the white skinny jeans. Onto the white sleeves of the jacket. Slowly she unfurls her legs, and leaps down. Kneeling next to one of the first five bags.
“Do you know much of Jack the Ripper, false queen? Let me tell you a little bit. I am, somewhat of an expert in the morbid, after all. There is what is known as the canonical five. I think it would have been fitting for them to have offered the fans five choices in stipulation, but alas. Not everyone puts these dots together. No, sweet one. We have the canonical five. Mary Ann Nichols, Annie Chapman, Elizabeth Stride, Catherine Eddows and Mary Jane Kelly. These five women, poor street workers of the time. They had their lives unfortunately cut short by a man who mutilated and defiled their corpses. Took the parts of them that make them whole, and denied them that. Took the parts of them, that they used to survive. Alcoholics, and prostitutes. The less dead, if you will. A favourite of the sick and depraved. Those people will not miss, but who the slightly different see as the targets of their ire. Sweet, beautiful women, but lost to time. Never with redemption found. Blood payment not taken. So blood, for blood, we will fight in their stead. Analogy, is something that Raven likes to talk about. And I think I can play my hand here. I can play the analogy of this situation.”
“The canonical five, four stipulations and a loser. Blood payment will be made, that is for certain. A London street fight, a place favoured by the blades. Life taking instruments of sharp nature, and quick to blood those who would stand against them. Our very own, Polly, if you will. The first, but not last. The victim to meet the blade, but would certainly not stem the flow. I’m partial to the idea of it, but. It lacks the required penance, I think we need. For this is a washing of sin, lover. We are offered the opportunity to absolve you of your mistakes, and in it, safety. Do you know what is interesting, about poor sweet Polly? She had five children. Symbolism would have us believe that means something. I’ll leave that to you, angel. But the woman who had her abdomen torn by the knife, she was denied the right to see her children come to hate her. ”
She smiles, as she lowers the zip of the bag. Inside a mannikin with a red smile painted on its face. The knife raised, and plunged down. Through the head of the mannikin. Paint, red paint, leaking from within. Leaking from the impact wound. A slight shrug of the shoulders, as she climbs to her feet, swaying slightly. Light headed. She moves to the next, and lifts the bag. Heaving it backwards to the stretcher. Lifting and placing it on the stretcher.
“The stretcher. Let’s call this one Annie. Annie lost a daughter. Another victim of marital collapse, alcohol abuse. Alcohol took their marriage from them, and denied them a daughter. So the stretcher, we’ll call that our Annie. To watch a loved one, taken away. Dead, alive, or unknown. None is a pretty sight. None is a pretty idea. I wouldn’t wish the thought of potential death on anyone. Especially not one I adore such as you. No, sweet Alexandra. I do not think the stretcher fitting. There is not enough hate, to deny us the life he hold so dearly. Broken though we may be, we are not victims of our mistakes. Our obsessions. Of our addictions. So, whilst I think there is potential in a stretcher.”
She grunts and grabs the edge of the stretcher pushing it out into the darkness. Into the world beyond. A victim forgotten to the darkness.
“I think we can do better, don’t you?”
This time, she grabbed two of the bags, and dragged them into the centre of the spotlight. She leaned down and lowered the zippers of both bags, inside another set of manikins. A clock painted on one, the other with a sad face.
“Catherine and Elizabeth. Perhaps the most interesting sequence. Elizabeth was left in a far better state than the previous two, and much better than the final two. Interrupted, is the assumed reason. A slash to the throat, and she was left to be found in the stable yard. A parking lot of its day, if you will. Poor sweet Elizabeth, she was almost denied being a victim of The Ripper. Yet, it was only the arrival of one Louis Diemschutz, that protected her sweet body from its inevitable defilement. A moment of reprieve, if you will. A reprieve not offered to our sweet Catherine. A woman found fifteen minutes after he release from prison. A woman found in such a heavily mutilated state, that it changed the trajectory of the investigation. The speed, the skill, the brutality. A man of knowledge this had to be. But beyond that, anger beyond belief. Angry at his previous denial.”
“The parking lot, it is very much a place of anger. Bad drivers, insufferable pedestrians. Accidents, blindness. People are filled with aggression in this place. Compartively, yes. It would make perfect sense for us to pay your redemption here, in a parking lot. But, I do not hold the anger Jack did. I do not hold the knowledge, skill and swift hand of the educated. No, I am but a simple woman. More akin to the victim than the killer. One bad decision away from a life not far different from those we now obsess over for details. Details of a grisly death, to justify. Justification is the way of our world, isn’t it, false one? We have to justify action to allow ourselves to understand. Yet in death, there is no understanding. In the brutality of Jack the Ripper, in the Torso murders, or even the modern day unknown in Jack the Stripper. Knowing who, offers us nothing. And so, we leave sweet Elizabeth and Catherine to their own. We leave them to be, in a world of their own darkness. But, let this analogy speak to she who would have denied me my time. Jessie, I know you’re listening. And I know you are watching. You were to be my Elizabeth. But the next time we meet, you will be my Catherine. Brutally destroyed, and in speed blisteringly unbelievable. I promise you that. No experience divide when retribution demands blood.”
She slowly raises her hand to her head, lifting the crown of barbwire from her head. Strands of hair falling and tearing out. A slight grimace, as she clicks her bloody fingers. The light going away once more. ‘Mongrel, bitch, pathetic. Failure, fake, nobody. Cunt, mongrel, mutt.' Multiple voices, washing over each other. The words echoing around the world of darkness once more. And then a scream. A scream of pain, a scream of fear. A woman’s scream. Another click, this time a quaint bedroom. On the bed a manikin with sections of its body removed. It’s entire form painted red. The body bag shredded and cast around the room.
Luna is sitting at the end of the bed, the barbwire resting lightly on her palms. One hand heavily bloodied. Spatters of blood all over her white clothing. The other hand pristine, without blemish.
“Mary Jane, the final victim. Perhaps the worst of the them. I’ll allow opinion to fall to that. But Mary Jane is the perfect analogy for the final stipulation choice, don’t you think? The most likely outcome, and the most brutal the murders. Mary Jane, last heard singing loudly at one in the morning. The next morning, upon rental collection, a grisly sight. Skin and body parts removed, and thrown through the room. Without rush, without danger. The first of the victims killed in doors, Jack the Ripper could take his time with her. Could take all the precautions he needed, and brutalise this woman beyond belief. Bleed her dry, and take that which he felt was his. Do you know why I think this is the best comparison, false queen? Because barbwire is not forgiving. It is not understanding. It is not with comprehension. Like this particular act of anger, and violence. Barbwire can drag out the suffering. It will cut, it will bleed, it will tear. It will remove flesh from bone if needs, and it will cut deep to deny your limbs their required sustenance. Barbwire is the choice of The Conspiracy, because barbwire is the way of enlightenment. The first time it cuts the skin, the first time it breaks flesh. The blood flows, and penance is paid.”
“So, I want you to be my Mary Jane, sweet Alexandra. Be the Mary Jane to my own Ripper love. When I place the crown of thorns upon your head, blood awash the face, and you get to see the love we have for you. When you are bleeding out, and ebbing between consciousness, I want you to know. What I must do, is not out of hatred. Is not out of resentment or blame. And you are to blame, let’s not forget that, sugar. You are to fucking blame. Yet I do not expect you to ever see that. Denial is our strongest distortion of reality. Delusion, and broken sight. It is all within reason, and I understand that. I understand the disparity between acceptance and denial. I was a broken, undeserving girl. He took me. He took my brother. He took all of us, and guided us to the light. Guided us to understanding that it is okay to be broken. It is okay to be unsure of yourself. But in failure, payment is made. Redemption is only founded through blood. If not your own, then that of those who are wronging you. Raven made an example of Bulldog. And so, if you will not accept your fault. I will make an example of you, Alexandra. You will be my Mary Jane.”
She smiles as she stands, slowly stepping around to where the head of the manikin is. She places the barbwire crown on its face, and leans down, placing a gentle kiss to it. The smile remains, her bloodied hand dragging a smear the crimson across his face. Giving her a half crimson mask of sorts.
“So, let me give you a little bit of warning, lover. I am here to show you, love. I am here to show you, where you can be. I am here to let you know that you are welcome in The Conspiracy. For in The Conspiracy, we were all kings and queens, on equal level, because of our vanity. Because of our self-love. Our desire to lift and raise others to our level. For ours is not the beaming lights, and the mansions on hills. No ours is the bickering squabbling masses. Fighting for a shred of dignity, acceptance and love. We are the Kings and Queens of the Broken, for the Broken are what give us the right to stand at the apex of what we do. Those who accept, are guided to a better place, but not by force. Not by a shepherd. Not by a flock. No, we are all our own, but rules must be followed. Blood for blood, blame for blame. And your own wars, are your own. I broke a cardinal rule, when I took his war for my own, and in it. Blood with be made. So I will take yours. I will take whatever you offer. I will take what you hand me, and I will bring you to rest. Street Fight, Stretcher, Parking Lot or Barbwire, it does not matter. For the canonical five, shall stay, five. For this Queen will not bow to the whims of a former. Ripper Queen? The only fucking ripper here, is Luna god damn Vanity, bitch.”
She smiles, raising both hands high above her head. The click of fingers and then…
Darkness.
Silence.
Nothing.